Hi, hi, hi! Let me know if any links are weird! I hope this makes is easier to navigate my blog! :)
KO-FI!!!
- Someone on tumblr gave me the idea to make a ko-fi (thank you, you know who you are!!) so that ppl can support me outside of writing. NOBODY is obligated to do so, but i also take commission payment through Ko-fi!
COMMISSIONS/RULES!!!
- as of now, I am only taking commissions!! No fic requests unless it's related to any of the fics I've written on my page. Sorry, I promise its only temporary.
DC
- Batfam
- Superfam
INVINCIBLE
- Definitely NOT Invincible (Yandere Graysons x reader)(Platonic): Pt.1, Pt.2, Pt.3, Pt.4, Pt.5, ...
Im going to make this as quick as possible. Hi, im a friend of the author of this account. There's no easy way to say this, but the author of this account passed away in October of 2025. She had been suffering from late-stage breast cancer for quite some time, doing chemo, and surgeries which is why this account has been inactive for so long.
I apologize that it took this long to make public, I had some trouble getting hold of the passwords and accounts she left for me.
I understand the author may have been in the middle of writing for some commissions during this time. If you had a commission that was incomplete, please send a message to this account. I will work with you to refund you. Please note that It was never the author's intention to ghost you or try to steal your money; she had been hospitalized months before she passed. I understand this may be frustrating regarding money, but please send a message, and once I figure out how to get access to her finances, I will send a refund.
Regardless, on her behalf, I want to thank all of you for supporting her work, her passion, and giving her something to do while she was sick. She loved writing so much. I will be leaving her works up as per her wish, as well as this account.
Can one commission for the dark werewolf Au of the batfam
Yes, you totally can! I'm super sorry about not updating my fics as of now. I'm super swamped with summer college classes, work, commissions, and taking care of my family. Ill probably be updating the invincible fic soon, but as of now im mostly only doing commissions!
Thank you all for sticking by and showing so much support! It means a lot to me, especially when my life is kinda a mess rn!
This was a wonderful 23k-word commission for @galaxypillar! Thank you for your patience and your support! I hope you all like this.
BTW, the reader is trans and uses she/he pronouns. I am not trans, and I could never understand the struggles and experiences of trans people. This was my first time writing a trans reader or a reader with any other pronouns other than she/her. i want to do this properly in the future so please, let me know any tips, tricks, things I did wrong, or need to consider!
That's all!
For the first seven years of your life, the world was small but enough. You had your mother, whose warmth seemed to fill every corner of your little apartment, and though money was always tight, she never let you feel like anything was missing. Your life was simple but safe, filled with laughter and bedtime stories. Your mother worked hard, her love more than enough to make up for anything you lacked, and you never thought to question why your father wasnât in your life. You didn't care, you had your mother, and that was enough.Â
But everything changed the day you lost her.
The day itself was blurred in your memory, pieced together only from fragments and what you overheard from police officers and neighbors. Your mother had been at work, like any other day. But this time, a villain struck, an attack so sudden and senseless. The next thing you know she was justâgone, and there was nothing left for you. No goodbye, no explanations, just an emptiness that felt like it swallowed you whole.
Suddenly, you were alone in a world that had once been filled with warmth and safety. And with that came a new fear, one you hadnât known before: the fear of being put into Gothamâs foster care system. Youâd heard stories from other kids at school, stories about children who went in and never came out, about how it was worse than anything else Gotham could throw at you. You lay awake at night, terrified that your life was about to become something even darker than the nightmare you were living.
And then, out of nowhere, a twist of fate arrived. Gothamâs social services had identified a paternal match, and it wasnât just any match â it was Bruce Wayne, Gothamâs most famous billionaire. The knowledge left you in shock. Bruce Wayne, the man known for adopting so many children, the one with a heart big enough to open his home to anyone in needâwas your father? A flicker of hope bloomed inside you. Perhaps, despite the loss, you might find a family again. Perhaps, this new family could fill the emptiness left by your motherâs death.
The day you arrived at Wayne Manor felt surreal. The mansion loomed large and imposing, its vast halls stretching endlessly. Everything about it seemed to emphasize just how small you were, how out of place you felt. Bruce was there to meet you, his face a mask of neutrality. He welcomed you politely, but his eyes never softened, never gave away anything beyond a sense of obligation. You told yourself it was nerves, that maybe he needed time to adjust to this new arrangement, just like you did.
But the days passed, and your attempts to connect with your newfound family were met with cold indifference.
Dick, the oldest, was the most polite of all, but he kept a certain distance, always on his way somewhere, always too busy to spend time with you. Jason barely acknowledged you at all, his expression always guarded, as if you were nothing more than a nuisance. Tim, on the other hand, would give you short, distracted answers when you tried to talk, his eyes flickering back to whatever he was working on, never bothering to really listen. Cass was quiet, and while she wasnât mean, she simply seemed to act like you werenât there. And Damian⊠Damian made it clear that he didnât think you belonged there. Heâd look at you with narrowed eyes, muttering under his breath about you being an âintruder.â
And then there was Bruce. Any hope you had of bonding with him faded as the days went on. He barely looked at you, his interactions brief and distant. If he was in the room, he seemed to glance right past you, treating you like an afterthought, a mere shadow in his world. The warmth youâd seen in his interactions with the others, that spark of fatherly affection, was nowhere to be found when it came to you.
The only person who showed you any real kindness was Alfred, the family butler. Heâd sit with you in the evenings, gently coaxing you into conversation, his comforting presence a balm to your aching heart. Sometimes, after a particularly difficult day, youâd curl up in his arms, seeking the solace you could no longer find anywhere else. Heâd hold you, whispering kind words, doing his best to fill the void your mother had left.
Still, the loneliness gnawed at you, an ever-present ache you couldnât shake. Youâd watch your father and your siblings from afar, their laughter and camaraderie feeling like a cruel reminder of everything you couldnât have. You tried to join them, to share in their jokes, their stories, but your attempts were always brushed off or ignored.
You began spending more and more time in solitude, wandering the halls of the manor, searching for something to anchor you, something to make you feel like you belonged. But each room only reminded you of how out of place you were, how you were nothing more than a stranger in a house that should have been your home.
At night, youâd lie awake, tears staining your pillow as memories of your mother washed over you. You longed for her voice, her touch, the gentle words that made you feel safe and loved. In those moments, the weight of grief felt unbearable, a crushing loneliness that made you want to scream, to break the silence that filled every corner of the manor.
But even as you tried to mourn, anger began to simmer beneath the surface. You couldnât understand why your mother had to die, why a villain had chosen to destroy the one person who mattered most to you. And as your family continued to ignore you, that anger grew. It wasnât just about the villain whoâd taken her life â it was about the family that was supposed to be there for you, that was supposed to care for you, but instead treated you like a ghost.
The desire for justice â or maybe even revenge â took root. You didnât want anyone else to suffer the way you had, to feel the loss and isolation that had become your daily reality.Â
Your resolve hardened each day from the depths of your grief and frustration. Becoming a hero, a vigilante, wasnât about glory or titles for you. You didnât care about the flashy costumes or names. This wasnât some childish fantasy of becoming famous or being lauded as Gothamâs next savior. No, it was something far more personal, something that simmered like a quiet, steady fire in your chest. You wanted every villain locked away, every criminal in Gotham put behind bars so no one else would ever suffer like you did. You were determined to rid Gotham of the cruelty that had stolen your mother from you, to make the streets safer so that no one else would face the emptiness that plagued your nights.
The problem was, you were only eleven. You didnât have the strength, the skill, or the training. Every attempt to gain it from the family was met with that same dismissive coldness. They saw you as nothing more than a child, someone who didnât understand the dangers of their world. But they didnât know how much you understood, how vividly you remembered the night your world shattered.
As you tried to find a way, small clues began to piece themselves together in your mind, painting a picture you hadnât seen before. Bruceâs frequent late-night âbusiness trips,â often announced at the last minute, struck you as odd. Youâd see him leave in his sharp suits, only to catch glimpses of him returning late at night, disheveled and, occasionally, sporting bruises that didnât match the polished billionaire image he so carefully maintained.
Your siblings were no less mysterious. Dick would often leave for days at a time, returning with injuries he tried to laugh off, though his tired eyes said otherwise. Once, youâd overheard Tim muttering to himself about patrol routes, something you hadnât thought much of at the time, but now wondered about. Cass and Damian were quieter, yet youâd noticed that Damian had more than a few martial arts books hidden in his room, alongside weaponry you knew a kid his age shouldnât have access to.
They were always so secretive, shutting conversations down the moment you asked a question that poked too close to the truth. But the final piece came one evening when you couldnât sleep and found yourself wandering the mansion late at night.
The night you stumbled upon the entrance to the Batcave was like something out of a dreamâor a nightmare, depending on how you looked at it. You had been wandering the manorâs halls, sleepless and restless, drawn by some inexplicable pull toward the lower levels of the house. Your fingers trailed along the walls as you walked, taking in every shadowed corner, every faint noise. It was late, the mansion utterly silent, and you half-expected to bump into one of your siblings or even Bruce himself on patrol somewhere in the city. But no one came, and you continued alone, your curiosity getting the better of you.
And thatâs when you noticed the clock.
It was an old, broken grandfather clock, set in a dusty alcove and seemingly forgotten. Youâd walked by it a hundred times before, but tonight, it felt different. Something about it was⊠wrong. The hands of the clock were stuck, frozen at a peculiar timeâ10:48. Strange, you thought, but you shook it off, chalking it up to another quirk of the manorâs decor. Still, something about it wouldnât let go of your attention, a nagging feeling in the back of your mind that urged you closer.
On a whim, you reached out, pressing your fingers against the clockâs worn, wooden frame. To your surprise, the clock shifted slightly under your touch, revealing a hidden mechanism. Your heart skipped a beat as you gently pushed the clock face inward, and with a faint click, the entire structure swung forward, revealing a dark, narrow passageway leading downward.
A chill ran down your spine as you peered into the darkness. You knew this wasnât something you were supposed to find, something that was meant to stay hidden from you. But that only made it more tempting. Your heart pounded with a mixture of fear and excitement as you stepped inside, closing the clock behind you as you began to descend.
The air grew colder as you went deeper, the silence almost oppressive, save for the faint hum of machinery somewhere below. Your footsteps echoed softly, and with each step, the realization of where you were headed became clearer. Youâd heard rumors, pieced together bits of conversations you werenât supposed to hear, but nothing had prepared you for the sight that awaited you.
At the bottom of the passage, the narrow staircase opened up into a vast, dimly lit cavern. Monitors and computer screens lined the walls, casting an eerie blue glow across the space. Gadgets, weapons, and vehicles were neatly arranged in various alcoves, a testament to the precision and orderliness that Bruce Wayne demanded. And in the center of it all was the Batmobile, sleek and imposing, a silent reminder of everything your family did in the shadows.
Your father was Batman. And that meant everyone else â Dick, Jason, Tim, Cass, and even Damian â were a part of it too.
After discovering that Bruce Wayneâyour fatherâwas Batman, the hero and symbol of Gothamâs strength, a world of possibilities opened up before you. The realization that your entire family had alter egos, each of them fighting for justice in their own way, filled you with a sense of urgency and purpose. They didnât know how serious you were about this, how much you wanted to join their mission, to rid Gotham of the very villains who'd stolen your motherâs life. Maybe, you thought, if you could be a part of this, if you could stand beside them, then Bruce would finally see you as more than just his âunwanted daughter.â Maybe heâd finally acknowledge you, maybe heâd finally see your worth.
For days, you plotted, considering every possible way to bring up the topic, to show him that you were serious. This wasnât some fleeting desire; this was a calling. If he could just see how determined you were, he might understand. After all, hadnât he trained your siblings when they were young? Hadnât he believed in them, trusted them enough to let them fight beside him?
The opportunity finally came one night, when you caught Bruce heading toward the hidden grandfather clock after a long night out. Youâd waited in the shadows for hours, holding your breath, every nerve in your body on edge. When he entered the secret passage, you slipped in behind him, taking each step with cautious determination until you reached the cave. The low hum of the Batcomputer filled the space, casting a faint, eerie glow over the room. Bruce hadnât noticed you yet, his back turned as he began to remove his cowl, the familiar figure of Batman transforming back into your distant, unreadable father.
Summoning every ounce of courage, you stepped forward, your voice trembling but steady as you called out, âTrain me.â
Bruce turned slowly, his eyes narrowing as they fixed on you, surprise flickering across his face before it hardened back into that impenetrable mask. âWhat are you doing here?â he demanded, his tone cold and unwelcoming, but you didnât flinch.
âI know who you are,â you said, voice steadying. âI know who all of you are. And I want to be part of this. I want to help put these villains away for good.â
Bruceâs expression darkened, a shadow passing over his features as he regarded you in silence. After a long pause, he let out a slow exhale, as if disappointed. âNo,â he said, his tone final, his gaze unwavering. âThis isnât a game, and youâre not ready for this.â
Your heart sank, but you didnât let it show. âIâm not a child, Bruce. I understand the risks,â you argued, stepping closer, desperately trying to convey your resolve. âI need to do this. If youâd just give me a chance, I canââ
âNo.â His voice was firm, steely, leaving no room for argument. He turned away, as though dismissing the conversation altogether, as though you were no more than a passing annoyance. The coldness in his eyes, the sheer indifference, made your chest tighten, a sharp pang of rejection piercing through you. He didnât even give you an explanation, just that single, hard ânoâ as if that was all you deserved.
But you werenât ready to give up that easily. This was too important. For the next few days, you tried to approach the others, each sibling one by one. Maybe theyâd understand better than Bruce; maybe theyâd recognize that this wasnât some childish whim.
You started with Dick. He was the oldest, after all, and youâd always seen a certain kindness in him, a willingness to give people a chance. He had a way of making everyone feel included, like they belonged. But when you finally caught him in the hall and explained your desire to train, his expression softened with pity, the same way youâd look at a child asking for something impossible.
â(Y/N), youâre⊠really brave for wanting to do this,â he said, his voice gentle. âBut this life⊠itâs not easy, and youâre still young. You donât want to rush into something like this.â His tone was warm, almost brotherly, but he was missing the point. You werenât asking for easy. You were ready for whatever it took.
âPlease, Dick,â you pressed. âI know what Iâm getting into. Just give me a chance to prove it.â
But he only shook his head, his gaze kind but unyielding. âIâm sorry, (Y/N). But the answer is no.â
Disheartened but undeterred, you moved on to Jason. Maybe heâd understand; he was rough around the edges, not one for formalities. If anyone would appreciate your determination, it would be him. But when you brought it up, he only laughedâa sharp, bitter laugh that made you flinch.
âWhat, you think this is some kind of club?â he scoffed. âThis isnât for people who want to play hero. Trust me, kid, you donât want this life.â The dismissiveness in his voice stung, a harsh reminder that he didnât see you as a peer, or even as family, but as some naĂŻve child poking her nose where it didnât belong.
You tried Tim next, cornering him in the library while he worked on his laptop. He barely looked up when you spoke, his fingers never pausing on the keyboard. â(Y/N), this isnât something you can just jump into,â he said in a monotone voice. âItâs dangerous, and itâs⊠well, complicated. Youâre not ready for something like this.â He glanced at you briefly before returning his attention to the screen, and that was itâthe conversation was over before it had even begun.
Cass was the least harsh, offering you a quiet, understanding look when you brought it up to her. But even she refused, shaking her head softly, her silence saying more than words ever could. She, too, thought you were too young, too unprepared.
Damian, predictably, was the most dismissive. When you managed to ask him during a rare quiet moment, he simply scoffed, his lips curling into a smirk. âYou? A vigilante?â He didnât even bother hiding his disdain. âYou wouldnât last a night.â
Each rejection was like a punch to the gut, but the worst was the frustrationâthe sense that they were all talking down to you, looking at you as if you were some clueless child who didnât understand the world. They couldnât see the fire inside you, the sheer drive pushing you forward. They didnât understand the grief, the emptiness that fueled your desire, the need to make a difference, to bring justice to a city that had taken everything from you.
Days turned into weeks, and your persistence began to turn into frustration. Every attempt, every argument, every plea was met with the same dismissive responses, the same ânoâ repeated like a mantra, as if they were trying to beat the will out of you through sheer denial. But with every rejection, your resolve only grew stronger. Youâd do it on your own if you had to, but youâd make them seeâone way or another.
They thought they could protect you by keeping you away, that their refusal would dissuade you. But they didnât know you well enough to understand that their rejection was only making you more determined, that each ânoâ was pushing you closer to a path they couldnât control. If they wouldnât train you, if they wouldnât see you as someone capable, then youâd prove them wrong, no matter the cost.
The opportunity to make a difference, to protect Gotham, was slipping through your fingers, but you were prepared to seize it by any means necessary.
As the days turned into weeks, frustration gnawed at you, a relentless, unyielding ache. The Batfamilyâs constant refusal to let you in, to train you, to even consider your desire for justice was suffocating. Each rejection from them felt like a door slamming shut, and yet your resolve burned brighter with every dismissive glance, every cold ânoâ they threw your way. They thought they could keep you safe by denying you the skills to fight, by holding you back. But they didnât realize that every ânoâ was pushing you further away, closer to a path they couldnât control.
So, if they wouldnât train you, youâd find someone who would. Youâd learn from someone who didnât see you as just a child or as an outsider. You didnât care who it wasâyou just needed someone willing to show you how to fight, how to protect yourself, and how to finally be a force of justice in Gotham. Gotham was a city teeming with darkness, and somewhere in that darkness, you knew there was someone whoâd see your potential.
And that someone came one night, when you were out alone, frustration and anger churning within you. Youâd snuck out of Wayne Manor under the cover of darkness, slipping past the staff and making your way into the cityâs underbelly. It was reckless, maybe even dangerous, but you didnât care. The streets were quieter than usual, the night air heavy and thick with the familiar weight of Gothamâs crime-riddled tension. You walked through back alleys and shadowed streets, trying to think, trying to calm the storm inside you, but the darkness only seemed to deepen the ache.
Then, you heard itâthe unmistakable sound of fists colliding with flesh, low grunts of pain, and the shuffling of bodies struggling in a fight.
You crept forward, curiosity tugging at you as you moved quietly toward the sound. There, in a dimly lit alley, was a figure you recognized immediately. Azrael. He was a towering presence, draped in his dark, imposing armor, his movements swift and precise as he took down his opponent with brutal efficiency. The man before himâa thug, someone you recognized from the news as a low-level criminalâwas nearly unconscious, his face bruised and bloody, barely able to stand. Azrael struck again, his fist slamming into the manâs stomach with a force that made you wince.
You knew Azrael by reputation. Gothamâs citizens called him the Angel of Vengeance, a ruthless, unpredictable anti-hero who walked a fine line between justice and violence. He was both feared and revered, his methods harsh enough to unsettle even the most hardened of Gothamâs criminals. The Batfamily had worked with him before, reluctantly, but there had also been times when they clashed, when he took things too far. You knew he wasnât someone they trusted fully, but that didnât matter to you. Azrael was strong, he was relentless, and he knew how to fight. If anyone could teach you, it was him.
Fear coursed through your veins as you took a step closer, your heart pounding. You werenât sure if heâd help you or simply turn you away like the others, but you were willing to take that risk. Youâd come too far to turn back now.
Azraelâs movements stilled as he became aware of your presence, his gaze flickering to where you stood, half-hidden in the shadows. His eyes, fierce and intense, locked onto yours, and you felt a shiver run down your spine. There was something dangerous about his gaze, something that made you want to look away, to shrink back into the darkness. But you forced yourself to stand your ground, holding his stare, even as fear twisted in your stomach.
For a moment, he simply watched you, the alley silent save for the faint, labored breathing of the man at his feet. Then, with a low, almost amused tone, he spoke.
âAnd what,â he drawled, his voice cold and laced with curiosity, âdoes a child want with someone like me?â
His words cut, sharper than any blade, but you didnât falter. You met his gaze with defiance, the frustration and anger boiling within you lending you strength. âIâm not a child,â you replied, your voice steady. âI know who you are, Azrael. I know what you do.â You swallowed, forcing yourself to keep your voice calm. âI want you to teach me. I want you to show me how to fight, how to stop people like⊠like him.â You pointed to the criminal, crumpled and defeated, his blood staining the ground.
Azrael raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable beneath his mask. âYou have no idea what youâre asking,â he replied, his tone dismissive. âThis isnât a game, and you arenât ready for the path I walk.â
His words echoed Bruceâs rejection, a harsh reminder of how everyone around you seemed to think you were weak, incapable, just a child reaching for something you couldnât grasp. But you werenât about to back down. Not now. You lifted your chin, squaring your shoulders as you met his gaze head-on.
âI donât care,â you said, your voice filled with a conviction you hadnât known you possessed. âI know what I want, and I know what Iâm willing to do to get it. The Batfamily⊠they wonât help me. They think Iâm too young, that I donât understand the risks. But I do.â Your voice wavered slightly, but you forced yourself to continue. âIâve already lost someone I loved because of Gothamâs criminals. I wonât stand by and let it happen again.â
For a long, agonizing moment, Azrael said nothing, simply watching you with that same piercing gaze. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, each beat echoing in the silence of the alley. Just when you thought he was going to turn you away, he took a step closer, his presence almost overwhelming.
âSo, the Bat has denied you,â he mused, his tone soft but laced with dark amusement. âAnd now you come to me, desperate for someone willing to break his rules.â He tilted his head, studying you intently.Â
You gaped at him, stunned. How the hell did he know who you were? How did he know about your connection to the Bats? Youâd been so careful to keep your intentions hidden, sneaking around the manor, watching from the shadows, careful to cover your tracks. But here Azrael was, staring down at you with a knowing, almost amused glint in his eyes.
He continued to regard you with that intense gaze, the smallest smirk pulling at the edges of his mouth. âYouâre not as invisible as you think,â he said, his voice dark and almost mocking. âIâve been watching the Bat and his brood for a long time. I know each of them, their strengths and their weaknesses. And youâŠâ He let his words hang in the air, the weight of them pressing down on you like a lead blanket.
You swallowed, forcing yourself to stand firm despite the fear flickering through you. âSo you know who I am,â you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. âThen you know Iâm serious. Iâm not here to play games, and Iâm not here because I want their approval.â
Azrael chuckled softly, a low, dangerous sound that sent a chill down your spine. âI know exactly who you are, child. The daughter of the Bat, denied by her own blood, seeking the power theyâve withheld from her.â His eyes gleamed with a twisted amusement as he continued, âYou think youâre ready for this life? For the darkness that comes with it?â
You nodded, refusing to let him see the doubt creeping into your heart. âI donât care about the darkness,â you said firmly. âI just want to stop themâthe villains who prey on this city. The ones who took my mother, the ones who keep hurting people. Iâll do whatever it takes.â
Azraelâs smirk faded, his expression turning serious. âVery well,â he said after a long pause. âBut understand this: I am not like the Bat. I wonât coddle you, and I wonât save you if you fall. The path I offer is ruthless, unforgiving. If youâre truly ready to abandon everything you know, to fight without mercy, then Iâll train you. But if youâre seeking their love, their approvalâŠâ He leaned in close, his voice a low, threatening whisper. âYou wonât find it here.â
You took a shaky breath, feeling the weight of his words settle over you. But as the fear stirred within you, so did something elseâa spark of defiance, a fierce determination that refused to let you back down. You didnât care if they loved you, if they approved. You were done seeking acceptance from those who refused to see your worth. This wasnât about them anymore; it was about you, about fulfilling the purpose you felt burning inside you.
âI donât need anyoneâs approval,â you said, your voice hard and unwavering. âI just need the power to make a difference. If that means learning from you, then so be it.â
For a moment, Azrael said nothing, his gaze boring into you as if trying to measure the truth of your words. Finally, he straightened, giving a single, approving nod.
âThen let us begin.â
Training with Azrael was a grueling, relentless journey that stretched over the years, carrying you through the entirety of your adolescence. The first few months were a brutal awakening. Azrael didnât go easy on you simply because you were young, or because youâd never fought like this before. He was cold, unmoved by the bruises and cuts that covered your skin by the end of each night, indifferent to the fact that you were only eleven. If you struggled to keep up, he didnât slow down. If you were injured, he didnât offer you a hand. Every slip, every failure, was your own to bear, and Azraelâs sharp words reminded you that this was the reality of the path youâd chosen.
But you didnât care. This was the life youâd decided to live, and no amount of pain or exhaustion was going to change that. Gotham was unforgiving, and if you wanted to make any difference, you had to be just as ruthless, just as relentless. Every bruise, every cut, every aching muscle became a badge of honor, proof that you were getting stronger. And through it all, that burning desire for justice kept you going, the memory of your motherâs face propelling you forward.
What hurt more than the bruises or broken bones, though, was returning to Wayne Manor each night, bruised and battered, only to be met with indifference. No one noticed the way you winced when you sat down or the way you limped through the halls. They didnât see the black eyes, the swollen knuckles, or the way your arm hung awkwardly from a poorly healed fracture. In a family full of vigilantes, it should have been impossible for these things to go unnoticed. But they didnât care enough to see it.
Youâd sit at the dinner table, exhaustion tugging at your eyelids, every muscle aching from the punishment Azrael had put you through, and they would barely spare you a glance. Theyâd talk among themselves, laugh, share stories of the nightâs patrols, while you sat there, a shadow in your own family, barely noticed. There were nights when you were so worn out, youâd nearly fall asleep at the table, your head nodding forward before you caught yourself, but not a single one of them asked if you were okay.
The only person who seemed to notice was Alfred. His eyes, sharp and observant, had picked up on the bruises and the cuts early on, though heâd kept his silence, watching you carefully. It wasnât until a particularly rough nightâone that left you limping, your left arm in a makeshift slingâthat he finally confronted you. Youâd just slipped in through the back entrance, hoping to make it to your room before anyone noticed, but Alfred was waiting.
He didnât say a word at first, just looked at you, his gaze filled with a sadness you couldnât quite understand. Then, gently, he asked, âMiss (Y/N), what are you doing to yourself?â
You wanted to brush him off, to tell him that it was none of his business, that you were fine. But something in his voice, in the kindness and concern that radiated from him, made you pause. For the first time, someone was looking at you, really looking at you, and it made the walls youâd built around yourself crumble, if only a little.
So you told him the truth. You explained everythingâyour training with Azrael, your desire to make a difference, to protect Gotham from the very villains whoâd taken your mother from you. You expected him to lecture you, to try and talk you out of it, just like Bruce and the others had done. But he didnât. He only looked at you with a deep, understanding sadness, a quiet resignation that spoke volumes.
Alfred nodded, his expression softening. âI understand,â he said quietly, his voice steady and calm. âIâve seen this path before. Every one of themâMaster Bruce, Master Dick, Master Jason⊠they all chose this life in their own way. I know better than to try and dissuade you.â He paused, then added, almost hesitantly, âBut allow me the privilege of tending to your injuries. If youâre determined to do this, the least I can do is make sure you donât face it alone.â
You hadnât expected that. But the relief that washed over you at his offer, the warmth of having someone in your corner, was overwhelming. You agreed, and from that night on, whenever you returned home bruised and battered, youâd find Alfred waiting, his medical supplies ready. Heâd patch you up, his hands gentle, his words calm and reassuring. He didnât ask for details, didnât pry into your training or push you to stop. He simply cared, in the quiet, steady way only Alfred could.
Years passed, each one filled with Azraelâs brutal training. By the time you reached fifteen, youâd transformed. The once-awkward stances and clumsy punches had become fluid, precise. Your body was stronger, leaner, every movement a testament to the grueling hours youâd put in. Azraelâs methods hadnât softened; if anything, theyâd become more intense, pushing you to your limits and then beyond. But now, you could keep up. You could take the hits, dish them out just as fiercely, and stand your ground.
And soon, it wasnât just training anymore. At fifteen, Azrael took you out into the streets, into the very world youâd been preparing for. The first time you suited up, adrenaline thrummed through your veins, your heart pounding as you followed him into the cityâs underbelly. Gothamâs streets were dark, filled with whispers of danger lurking around every corner, but you werenât afraid. Not anymore.
Azraelâs presence beside you was both a comfort and a reminder of the hard-won strength youâd gained. You moved through alleys, sticking to the shadows, your senses heightened, every instinct honed to a razorâs edge. When the first thug stumbled into your path, you didnât hesitate. Every lesson, every bruise, every night of training came flooding back as you fought, your movements precise, controlled. Azrael watched, silent and approving, as you took down your opponent with a ruthless efficiency that surprised even you.
The fight left you breathless, exhilarated, and for the first time, you felt like you were truly making a difference. This was what youâd been waiting forâreal justice, real action. You didnât need the Batfamilyâs approval; you didnât need their validation. You had Azraelâs respect, and more importantly, you had your own.
Night after night, you went out with Azrael, each outing sharpening your skills, solidifying your resolve. You became a fixture in Gothamâs shadows, a presence that went unseen, unnoticed by the family that still sat, oblivious, in their mansion. And in those moments, you realized that you didnât need them to see you. You didnât need them to care.
You had found your purpose, and that was enough.
Fighting alongside Azrael changed thingsânot just for you, but for him as well. From the very first patrol, your presence seemed to stir something in him, though neither of you acknowledged it. Azrael was still as unyielding as ever, your training growing even harsher, more relentless, his standards higher now that he knew you could hold your own. Every mistake was met with a fierce rebuke, every slip punished with more drills, more hours of sparring that left you aching and bruised. But there were new moments, subtle ones, that spoke of something shifting between you.
At first, he barely reacted to the injuries you sustained in battle, the bruises and cuts you wore as badges of pride. He would give a passing glance, a critical look, and sometimes a disapproving shake of his head if he thought youâd taken a hit you could have avoided. But over time, Azraelâs indifference softened. When you returned from a fight with a gash on your arm or blood trickling down your temple, heâd sometimes reach out, his fingers brushing over the wound with a gentleness that surprised you. He never said anything, but his eyes held a flicker of concern, a reminder that there was more to him than the cold, ruthless mask he wore.
After a particularly brutal night, when you returned with a deep cut on your shoulder, he wordlessly guided you to sit on an old crate in a forgotten alleyway, his gloved hands working quickly to bandage the wound. His touch was rough but careful, and he barely spoke as he tended to you, his focus solely on ensuring the wound was clean and secure. When he finished, he simply looked at you, his gaze softer than youâd ever seen, before giving a brief nod and turning away, resuming his stoic stance. Yet, something unspoken lingered in the air between you, a sense of understanding that transcended words.
Azrael even began to secretly watch as you made your way back to Wayne Manor after patrols, his eyes tracking your form as you slipped through the shadows. Heâd stand in the distance, silent and unseen, until he was sure youâd reached the manor safely. He knew the mansion was filled with people who should have been looking out for you, people who should have noticed the injuries you returned with each night. But they never did, and so he kept watch instead, never letting himself rest until he saw you slip through the manorâs back entrance.
On patrols, he found himself glancing over his shoulder, a habit he couldnât shake, his gaze searching for the familiar flash of your shadowed figure keeping pace beside him. When you were close, heâd relax, his shoulders easing slightly, the familiar rhythm of your footsteps a comfort in the silence. He grew accustomed to the sound of your voice, the sharp wit and sarcasm that youâd wield even in the middle of a fight. Your quips became a constant, a reminder that you were still there, that he wasnât fighting alone in the darkness. Heâd never admit it, but in some way, youâd become his partner.
One night, as the two of you worked your way through a group of thugs, he caught himself hesitating, his focus momentarily breaking as he looked over to make sure you were holding your own. It was a split-second distraction, but it was enough to remind him of something he hadnât felt in a long timeâworry. Real, genuine worry that something might happen to you, that he might lose you. And he hated it, hated the vulnerability that your presence stirred within him. But he couldnât deny that it was there.
As the months passed, his concern for you grew harder to ignore. Youâd laugh off your injuries, shrugging them away as if they didnât matter, but Azraelâs eyes would linger on the bruises that marred your skin, on the cuts youâd acquired in your pursuit of justice. Heâd bite back comments, his instincts screaming to tell you to be more careful, but he knew that would be hypocritical, coming from someone whoâd taught you to be relentless.
He couldnât help itâthere was something about the way you fought, the way you stood your ground, that reminded him of the fire that had once driven him. He couldnât deny that he was proud, in his own way, of how far youâd come, of the strength you wielded despite everything youâd faced.
But pride was dangerous. Attachment was dangerous. Azrael reminded himself of this every night, yet the habit of watching your back, of ensuring your safety, had rooted itself too deeply. The idea of you getting hurt, of you disappearing from his side, was something he couldnât bear to dwell on. You were his partner now, in ways he hadnât intended, hadnât planned, but there was no turning back.
And so, in the silent shadows of Gotham, the two of you continued your patrols, bound by a shared purpose, an unspoken understanding. You became a fixture in his life, just as he had in yours, two warriors fighting a relentless war in the darkness. Though Azrael would never say it aloud, the sound of your voice, your sarcastic quips, and the mere presence of you by his side had become something he relied on, something he couldnât imagine patrolling without.
In the end, it wasnât just you who had changed. Slowly, unknowingly, Azrael had changed too. And as he watched you move through the shadows, his silent protectorâs gaze trailing after you each night, he knew he would do whatever it took to keep you safe, to make sure you kept coming back.
Over the years, your presence as Azraelâs partner had grown harder to conceal. The Bats were a perceptive and deeply paranoid bunch, always attuned to the slightest shift in Gothamâs underworld. Whispers of Azraelâs ânew recruitâ had started circulating, and although you and Azrael kept a low profile, rumors had a way of reaching them. You knew it was only a matter of time before they began digging, their suspicions honing in on the identity of the young vigilante shadowing Gothamâs Angel of Vengeance.
Azrael had done his part to safeguard your anonymity, constructing layers of secrecy around your identity, and ensuring you wore gear that obscured your features, masking your voice and movements just enough. Heâd drilled you in maintaining a calm, controlled demeanor, never allowing your expressions to slip. But even with all his precautions, you knew a confrontation with the Bats was inevitable. The city was only so big, and sooner or later, youâd cross paths with them.
And it happened one night, after you and Azrael had finished taking down the last of Falconeâs goons in a deserted warehouse on the cityâs outskirts. The fight had been brutal, but youâd emerged victorious, the thugs left groaning and beaten on the cold cement floor. You were catching your breath, wiping a smear of blood from your cheek, when you heard itâthe unmistakable thud of boots hitting the ground a few yards away, the familiar sound of vigilantes landing with precision and purpose.
You rolled your eyes, exchanging a glance with Azrael. Of course. It was only a matter of time before they showed up. You turned to face them, your stance casual but ready, every muscle tensed for the inevitable tension that would fill the air. A faint smirk tugged at your lips as you took in the sight of them: Batman, flanked by Nightwing and Red Hood, their dark figures cast in the shadows.
The silence was thick, each side sizing the other up, assessing, waiting. You felt the weight of their scrutiny, their eyes flicking between you and Azrael, clearly suspicious. They knew heâd been working with someone young, but you wondered if they suspected anything deeperâif theyâd looked past the armor and caught some glimpse of you, some trace of familiarity. You kept your expression hidden, face covered by your gear, thankful for every layer of secrecy Azrael had drilled into you. They couldnât know. They couldnât.
After a tense silence, Batman stepped forward, his voice low and edged with warning. âThis stops now. Gotham has enough vigilantes without adding⊠whatever this is,â he said, casting a dark look toward Azrael. âBoth of you need to leave the city, or youâll be escorted to Arkham.â
Azrael scoffed, unperturbed. âYour threats are as hollow as ever, Batman. My partner and I donât need your permission to be here.â
You resisted the urge to laugh, watching as JasonâRed Hoodâcrossed his arms, his eyes narrowing. âSo, whatâs your deal, then?â he demanded, voice dripping with suspicion. âWhy are you two lurking around our city, doing what we do but not half as clean?â
You knew he was baiting you, trying to get a reaction, trying to piece together the puzzle of who you were. But you only shrugged, meeting his gaze without a flicker of fear. âOur motives arenât your business. Weâre just here to get the job done, the way it needs to be done,â you replied, your voice cool, almost bored.
They didnât know who you were; that much was clear from the way they spoke, the way they circled you both like hunters stalking prey. All they saw was a masked figure, young and apparently reckless, partnered with Gothamâs most unpredictable anti-hero. They couldnât see the truth hidden beneath the armor, the person theyâd dismissed and overlooked, now standing toe-to-toe with them.
Nightwing stepped forward, his gaze fixed on you, his expression a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. âYou know this path only leads one way,â he said, his voice softer, almost as if he were trying to reach out. âYouâre youngâyou donât have to do this. You could leave this all behind.â
You met his gaze, your jaw set. âI know exactly where this path leads,â you replied evenly. âAnd Iâm here because no one else is willing to do what needs to be done.â
Your words drew a glare from Batman, and you could feel the tension rising, the unspoken judgment heavy in the air. They thought they had the moral high ground, thought they were the only ones who understood what Gotham needed. But they hadnât been there when your mother was killed, hadnât felt the weight of that loss, the anger that still simmered in your heart. They didnât know the lengths youâd go to for justice.
Youâd killed before, after all. You remembered the first time clearly, the weight of that choice pressing on you as you looked down at the blood on your hands. It had been a serial rapist, a monster hiding behind a thin veneer of humanity, one whoâd escaped justice too many times. You hadnât wanted to kill, not at first. Azrael had left that choice in your hands, knowing that everyoneâs morals were their own, knowing that it was a line you had to decide to cross on your own. Heâd taught you the techniques, but the decision was yours.
When the moment had come, when the man lay before you, youâd felt something cold and sure settle over you, a calm unlike anything youâd ever experienced. You didnât feel guilty as you wiped the blood off your hands afterward. Shaken, yes, but not guilty. This man had preyed on innocent lives, and youâd simply done what needed to be done, an act of final justice that the system would never have delivered. And after that, it had become easier. You didnât kill indiscriminately, only those who truly deserved it, the monsters who would only keep hurting others if left alive.
But Batman didnât know that. Nightwing didnât know that. They saw you as just another vigilante, perhaps a misguided kid in over her head. And if you were lucky, thatâs all theyâd ever see.
Batmanâs voice cut through your thoughts, hard and unyielding. âThe people of Gotham donât need killers,â he said, his gaze piercing. âWeâve had enough of that. If you continue down this path, youâll end up like every other criminal in this city.â
Azrael stepped forward, his presence a silent but powerful force beside you. âYou donât decide what Gotham needs, Batman. My partner and I are here because you refuse to see the truth. Your methods allow these monsters to keep coming back, to hurt more people. Weâre just doing what youâre too blinded by your own morals to do.â
For a moment, the silence was so thick it was almost suffocating, the weight of Azraelâs words hanging in the air like a challenge. You glanced between them, wondering if the Batfamily would push further, if theyâd try to unmask you, to pry deeper into who you were. But they didnât. They only stared, a mixture of frustration and disgust flickering in their eyes.
Batmanâs jaw clenched, and he nodded once, a silent gesture to his sons. âLeave Gotham,â he said, his voice low, final. âOr next time, weâll bring you both in.â
You met his gaze, unflinching. âTry if you can.â
With that, you and Azrael turned, melting back into the shadows, leaving the Bats behind. You felt the tension bleed out of your body as you stepped away from their scrutiny, your heart still pounding from the encounter. But even as the adrenaline faded, you knew this wouldnât be the last time. The Bats would be watching, their eyes always on Gothamâs shadows, waiting for you to slip, waiting for the opportunity to end what they couldnât control.
But that didnât matter. You were no longer bound by their rules, their narrow view of justice. You had a purpose, a strength that theyâd refused to see, and with Azrael by your side, youâd do what they never could.
Let them watch. Let them try. You had no intention of stopping.
But of course, everything goes to shit.
It was supposed to be a routine night, a normal autumn evening with the air cool and crisp, leaves falling in lazy spirals around Wayne Manor. Youâd prepared to head out on patrol, excitement and anticipation humming under your skin, but Azrael had cut those plans short, his tone sharp and unyielding as he demanded you stay home. Heâd called it a âtraining break,â telling you to catch up on schoolwork, to prioritize rest. Youâd huffed in annoyance, itching for a night in the cityâs shadows, but Azrael had rarely given commands so firmly. Reluctantly, you agreed, figuring it was only one night. Besides, he wouldnât be in Gotham either; he had his own business to attend to outside the city, matters you werenât privy to and knew better than to ask about.
It didnât concern you. After all, the Bats had everything under control. You knew theyâd be out that night, chasing down some mysterious new villain. Rumors had spread across the city about a figure whoâd been making people vanish, one by one, disappearing without a trace. A âdoomsday deviceâ was the word on everyoneâs lips, whispered through the underworld with the kind of fear Gothamâs criminals didnât often feel. But as dangerous as it sounded, the Batfamily had dealt with these threats before, conquered worse odds. Youâd seen it yourself. Theyâd be fine. They always were.
But then, they werenât.
One day passed, and the manorâs emptiness began to gnaw at you. The Bats should have returned by now, or at the very least, Bruce would have checked in, his usual commands and admonishments filling the quiet halls of Wayne Manor. But there was nothingâno word, no message, no updates on the villainâs capture. The entire city fell eerily silent about their whereabouts. At first, you brushed it off as paranoia, telling yourself theyâd just gone dark to gain the upper hand, that this was some intricate plan of Bruceâs. Theyâd be back any moment, probably annoyed that youâd even worried.
But then another day passed, and that silence turned into dread.
You scoured every news source, every back alley contact, searching for any sign of them, any whisper of their location. But the villain was nowhere to be found, and neither were they. No bodies, no traces, just an agonizing, suffocating absence. You told yourself you didnât care, that theyâd ignored you for years, that their lives werenât your responsibility. But the lie cracked, shattered under the weight of the fear pressing down on your chest.
You cared. You cared more than you wanted to admit, and the idea that they might be gone, that they might never return⊠it was a pain you hadnât prepared for. You knew the Batfamily was all you had left, even if they didnât see you that way.
Desperation clawed at you, and you pushed yourself to the limit, combing the city for any sign of them, using every resource at your disposal. When Azrael returned, his own worry palpable despite his usual stoicism, the two of you worked tirelessly, searching every inch of Gotham for clues. Night after night, you combed the streets, delving into places youâd never dared to enter, but it was like chasing shadows, like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. They were gone, swallowed by the darkness, and it felt like the city was mocking you with its silence.
Finally, in a last act of desperation, you did something youâd never thought youâd doâyou reached out to Oracle. You found your way to her, revealing your identity, setting aside the secrecy youâd worked so hard to maintain. Barbara Gordon was Gothamâs hidden eyes and ears, the information broker for every hero in the city, and if anyone could help, it would be her.
When you stepped into her darkened hideout, her eyes widened as she saw you, recognition dawning on her face as you removed your mask. There was a flicker of shock, of disbelief, but it quickly melted into a deep, quiet understanding. She didnât ask questions, didnât demand answers. She simply listened as you poured out everythingâthe Batfamilyâs disappearance, the villain with the âdoomsday device,â the empty mansion that had once felt like a cage but now felt like a grave.
Barbara tried everything, exhausting every contact, every source of information. You watched as she worked, her fingers moving over her keyboard with a determined urgency, her eyes flickering across her screens as she searched every corner of Gotham and beyond. But even Oracle, with all her resources and her brilliance, could find nothing. The Batfamily had vanished as if theyâd never existed, and all that remained was a haunting silence.
And now, on top of that crushing failure, you were left with the impossible task of explaining their absence to the world. Bruce Wayne, Gothamâs most infamous billionaire, and all his children had vanished without a trace. You spent countless hours fabricating a story, weaving together excuses and alibis to cover their tracks, to keep the world from asking too many questions. A sudden family vacation? A business trip gone wrong? Every explanation felt thin, feeble against the reality of what had happened. You knew it wouldnât hold forever, but it was all you could do to keep the curious at bay.
The manor felt like a mausoleum, empty and cold, every echo reminding you of the lives that had once filled its halls. The days turned into weeks, each one stretching out longer than the last, and the hope of seeing them again grew fainter with each passing moment. It was a slow, suffocating realization that they might truly be gone, and you were left to fill the void theyâd left behind.
Through it all, Azrael stayed by your side, his presence a steady anchor in the whirlwind of grief and desperation. He didnât offer empty reassurances, didnât pretend to know what had happened to them. But he was there, silently supporting you as you navigated the nightmare unfolding around you. He helped you cover their tracks, keeping the questions at bay as best he could, his loyalty to you unwavering even as the weight of the cityâs suspicion grew heavier.
When you made the choice to step into the Batfamilyâs absence, it was less a decision and more a necessity, a duty that fell to you when they vanished. Gotham needed its protectors, and with Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, Cass, and Damian all gone, the city had spiraled into chaos faster than you could have anticipated. You were freshly graduated, barely eighteen, but the weight of Gothamâs safety had landed squarely on your shoulders, and there was no time to hesitate.
The nights were long, grueling. Crime rates surged as the cityâs criminals sensed weakness, smelling blood in the absence of their most feared vigilantes. You and Azrael fought tirelessly, your bodies and minds stretched to their limits as you did your best to make up for the void left by the Batfamily. You learned quickly that Gotham was unforgiving in its demands, that the city would take everything from you if you let it. But with Azrael, Barbara as Oracle, and Alfredâs quiet support, you managed to scrape by, each of you covering as many corners of Gotham as you could.
Oracle worked around the clock, feeding you intel and watching over you, her presence a comforting reminder that you werenât alone. Alfred tended to your wounds night after night, patching you up with a care that never faltered, despite his aging hands and weary heart. Azrael remained your rock, his quiet intensity and relentless determination pushing you forward even on the nights when exhaustion made your vision blur.
But despite the combined efforts of the four of you, it was a losing game. No single person could replace the Batfamilyâs six. You moved from one crisis to the next, barely holding the line, and every night left you drained, physically and mentally. The weight of the cityâs survival lay heavy on your shoulders, and as the months turned into years, that weight only grew, the toll on your body and mind deepening with every sleepless night.
Then, almost four years after their disappearance, something changed. Allies began to emerge, people you never would have expected stepping forward to help. The first to join you was a fire manipulator named Farley. He was a gruff, unassuming man with a hardened exterior and a chip on his shoulder, but his fierce loyalty and willingness to throw himself into the flames, quite literally, made him an invaluable addition. He was a street fighter through and through, rough around the edges, but his fire manipulation skills gave you the edge you desperately needed. Farley became the first comrade you allowed into your small circle, and though you were hesitant to trust at first, his commitment to the fight was unwavering.
Not long after, another figure stepped out of the shadowsâa woman named Prudence Wood. She was a former League of Assassins member, a defector who had once fought beside Tim and who knew the intricacies of the Leagueâs training and techniques. Prudenceâs arrival felt like a gift. Her quiet strength, her knowledge of deadly techniques, and her shared connection with the Batfamily made her feel like a piece of their legacy had returned, albeit in a different form. She became a steady presence in the team, her skills complementing your own, and she brought a calm, almost meditative energy that helped ground you during the toughest nights.
The last to join your team was perhaps the most unusual. He was a half-demon, half-human being from the depths of Hell itself, seeking redemption for sins you could barely fathom. His name was Belial, and his origins were shrouded in mystery and shadow. His powers were as unsettling as they were useful, his connection to dark magic giving you access to abilities that no Batfamily member had ever wielded. At first, youâd been wary of him, his otherworldly nature a stark contrast to the grounded reality of your mission. But as time passed, Belialâs commitment to his redemption and his fierce loyalty to the team won you over. He was a powerful ally, and you knew that with him at your side, Gothamâs worst threats had met their match.
Together, you forged a new team, an unconventional collection of souls united by purpose and resilience. Farleyâs fire manipulation, Prudenceâs lethal training, and Belialâs dark magic brought a new strength to your nightly battles, a power that made Gothamâs criminals think twice. Each of them brought something unique to the table, skills and perspectives that enriched your own and made the team stronger as a whole. And despite the grim circumstances that had brought you together, you found yourself growing close to each of them, a bond forming that you hadnât felt since the Batfamilyâs disappearance.
Over the next three years, you and your new allies became a force to be reckoned with. You shared countless nights under Gothamâs starless sky, your lives intertwined by shared battles and quiet conversations in hidden corners of the city. Farleyâs gruff humor, Prudenceâs quiet wisdom, and Belialâs strange, dark insights became a source of comfort in the constant chaos. They were more than comradesâthey were family, in a way you hadnât expected. And though the Batfamily was still missing, their legacy lived on through you and your team.
Over time, as the years passed and the hope of their return grew dimmer with each empty night, you began to make peace with the idea that the Batfamily was gone. There was a hollow ache in accepting that they were likely never coming back, that whatever had claimed them had done so completely, without leaving even a whisper of their presence behind. The search, the desperate late nights combing through every corner of Gotham for any sign of them, had faded into memory, the sharp edges of grief dulled by time.
It was a slow, agonizing process, coming to terms with their deaths. Youâd spent years hoping for their return, clinging to the possibility that one day, Bruce would walk back into Wayne Manor, that Dick would flash that easy smile, that Jason would saunter in with his familiar swagger, or that Tim, Cass, and Damian would each look at you with something other than cold dismissal. For so long, youâd carried a sliver of hope that maybe, if they returned, things would be different. Maybe theyâd finally see you, finally accept you as one of them, as family.
But that dream was gone, buried under the weight of the years that had passed. You made peace with the knowledge that they would never return, that the family youâd once hoped would love you was gone forever. They had died without ever truly knowing you, without ever sharing the bond youâd yearned for. It was a grief of its ownâa quiet mourning not just for their lives, but for the connection youâd never had, the family that could have been but never was.
You didnât resent them anymore. That, too, had faded, the anger youâd once felt dissolving into a bittersweet acceptance. In the end, theyâd all chosen their paths, and you had chosen yours. You couldnât change the past, couldnât rewrite the years youâd spent as an outsider looking in. Instead, you carried their memory with you, honoring them not as the family youâd longed for, but as Gothamâs protectors, as the legacy theyâd left behind.
And in their absence, you had found a new family. Azrael, Alfred, Barbra, Farley, Prudence, and Belialâeach of them had become a part of you, filling the empty spaces that the Batfamily had left behind. You hadnât expected it, hadnât thought youâd ever find people who understood you, who stood beside you with the same fierce loyalty youâd once hoped for from Bruce and the others. But somehow, in the darkness of Gotham, you had built a new bond, one forged through battles and shared purpose, one that went deeper than blood.
With each passing year, the memories of the Batfamily became less a source of pain and more a quiet strength. Youâd come to terms with their deaths, with the family that never was, and you let that peace settle over you like a quiet, comforting weight. You fought for them, for the city theyâd left behind, and for the family you had found in their absence.
And each night, as you and your new allies stepped into the shadows to protect Gotham, you carried the memory of the Batfamily with youânot as ghosts haunting your past, but as part of the legacy you had chosen to uphold, a legacy you honored in your own way, with a new family by your side.
Life had finally found a rhythm. You had a home in Gothamâs shadows, a family forged from loyalty and trust, and a love you hadnât dared to dream of. At twenty-five, you were a seasoned fighter, a sharp mind, and an equal among your allies. The Batfamily was gone, and in the seven years since their disappearance, youâd built something meaningful in their absence. Gotham had remained under watch, protected by you, Azrael, Farley, Prudence, and, of course, Belial. Belial, with his piercing gaze, blond hair, and that quietly intense smile, had woven himself into your life, your heart. Though his half-demon nature had initially caused Azrael to bristle, his love and loyalty had proven themselves time and again. You and Belial had been inseparable, partners on and off the field, weathering Gothamâs dark nights together. Five years with him had taught you a love youâd never known, one deepened by battle and softened by quiet moments stolen between missions.
And on this particular day, life was as settled as it could be. You and Belial were nestled in the Batcave, sifting through case files with the comfortable ease that came from years of partnership. He sat beside you, close enough that his warmth seeped into your side, his hand occasionally brushing yours as he reached for a file or leaned over to read your notes. The hum of the Batcaveâs machinery was a familiar backdrop, a steady reminder of the legacy you carried on with your team.
But that quiet moment was shattered in an instant.
Without warning, a portal tore open in the middle of the Batcave, swirling with shades of blue and purple, casting eerie shadows across the walls. The air rippled with an unnatural energy, a hum that sent every nerve in your body on edge. You and Belial exchanged a glance, both of you immediately rising, instincts kicking in as you moved into a defensive stance. You reached for a weapon, your fingers wrapping around its familiar grip, as your heart pounded with a mixture of fear and readiness.
Belialâs hand brushed yours, his gaze intense as he murmured, âStay close. We donât know whatâs coming through.â
Nodding, you pressed a button on the console to alert your allies, sending a silent distress signal that would bring everyone to your location. The portal twisted and writhed, growing brighter, until the air itself seemed to crackle with tension. You braced yourself, every muscle taut, ready to face whatever threat was emerging from the other side.
But nothing could have prepared you for what stepped out.
The first figure to appear was unmistakable. Tall, dark, clad in the iconic silhouette of Gothamâs legendary vigilante. Your father. Bruce Wayne. Batman. His face was as you remembered it, hardened and intense, his eyes sharp as they swept over the Batcave. For a brief, breathless moment, his gaze locked onto yours, a flicker of surprise and something unreadable flashing across his face.
Your mind spun, reeling from the impossible reality before you. Bruce Wayne was here, in the flesh, standing in the very cave youâd assumed heâd never return to. And then, one by one, the others stepped through. Dick, with his familiar, confident stance. Jason, tense and wary. Tim, his eyes calculating, scanning every detail of the scene. Cass, silent as a shadow, and Damian, gaze fierce as ever.
They all fell into defensive stances, mirroring Bruceâs position as they took in the sight of you and Belial, their expressions a mixture of suspicion, confusion, andâthough they tried to mask itâdiscomfort.
âWhatââ Bruce started, his voice a low rumble filled with authority and barely veiled surprise. âWho are you?â
His words struck a nerve, a surge of anger and disbelief surging through you. After all these years, after everything youâd done to protect Gotham in their absence, he didnât even recognize you.
âWho am I?â you echoed, your voice steady but edged with the weight of seven yearsâ worth of pain, frustration, and resilience. âIâm the one whoâs been keeping this city safe since you disappeared. Iâm the one who stepped up when you all left.â
Their expressions shifted, flickers of recognition and confusion mingling as they processed your words. You could see the realization beginning to dawn in their eyes, a faint glimmer of understanding that perhaps theyâd missed something important in your life all those years ago.
Bruceâs gaze settled on you, his brow furrowing as he took in your stance, your confidence, the strength that had been hard-won over countless nights spent protecting Gotham. There was a pause, a beat of silence, before he spoke again, his tone low, measured.
â(Y/N)?â he asked, almost as though he couldnât believe it. The name sounded foreign on his lips, a reminder of the years heâd spent without you, the years heâd spent not knowing the person youâd become.
âYes, Bruce,â you replied, using his name deliberately, the formality almost a barrier between you. âItâs me.â
His face flickered with something unreadableâguilt, perhaps, or regretâbut it was buried beneath his stoic mask. The others looked between you and him, expressions ranging from shock to disbelief. Damian, the youngest, had a look of barely masked surprise, while Tim seemed to be calculating, piecing together the years that had passed in their absence. Jasonâs gaze was darker, wary as he glanced at Belial, his hand instinctively shifting closer to his weapon.
Belial, by your side, shifted slightly, his fingers tightening around the handle of his own weapon, his eyes trained on the Batfamily with the same intensity they regarded him. You felt his presence like a steady anchor, his loyalty a silent reassurance that no matter what happened next, you wouldnât face it alone.
âSo,â you said, your tone sharper than you intended, as you looked each of them in the eye. âSeven years gone without a word, without any trace. And now you all just⊠come back, through a portal, like nothing happened?â
Bruce straightened, his jaw tightening as he replied, âIt wasnât our choice. We didnât want to leave.â He glanced at the portal behind him, as if the memories of wherever theyâd been still haunted him. âWe were pulled into another dimensionâa place we couldnât escape from until now.â
His words settled in, a quiet revelation that explained the years of silence, the absence that had left a scar youâd learned to live with. But even so, the years hadnât erased the bitterness, the feeling of abandonment that had lingered in the shadowed corners of your heart.
âAnd in your absence, we took care of Gotham,â you replied, gesturing to the Batcave around you, to the files and tech youâd been using to keep the city safe. âWe kept the legacy going. We fought for this city every night. You were gone, but Gotham didnât fall apart, because we didnât let it.â
Nightwing looked at you, his expression softening as he took in the person youâd become, someone who had clearly filled the role theyâd left behind. âYou⊠you really stepped up, didnât you?â
You gave a tight nod. âWe didnât have a choice.â
As the silence settled between you all, Bruceâs gaze drifted to Belial, his expression guarded. âAnd who is he?â
Belial held his ground, meeting Bruceâs gaze with calm defiance. âIâm her partner. Belial.â His voice was steady, and there was a subtle edge to it, a challenge in the way he looked at Bruce, at all of them. He shifted slightly closer to you, a protective instinct that hadnât dulled in all the years youâd been together.
Bruceâs eyes narrowed, and you could see the silent tension brewing between him and Belial, an unspoken judgment lingering in his gaze. Azrael had never fully accepted your relationship with Belial, and you knew Bruce would likely follow suit. But that didnât matter to youânot anymore. Belial was your partner, your equal, someone whoâd stood by you through the darkest of nights when your own family had been nowhere to be found.
After a beat of silence, you spoke up, your voice steady and unyielding. âYou might be back, but things have changed. I have a team now. Weâve been holding Gotham together while you were gone, and weâll continue to protect it with or without you.â
The Batfamily exchanged glances, each of them processing the reality of your words, the truth of the world theyâd returned to. You saw the mixture of shock, guilt, and maybe even a glimmer of respect in their eyes as they looked at you, at the life youâd built in their absence.
They might have been your blood, the family youâd once longed to belong to, but now you knew where you stood. You had a family of your own, one youâd built through trust, loyalty, and love. And if the Batfamily wanted to return to Gotham, they would have to understand that they were stepping into your world now.
It struck you as you looked each of them overâthey hadnât aged. Bruceâs face was still as you remembered it, only a few years older than the day heâd disappeared. Dickâs familiar grin was there, though now softened with an edge of experience. Jason looked as he always had, the same fierce determination in his eyes, and Timâs face was only slightly sharper, not worn by the years you had endured. Even Damian, who had been so young when he left, had only grown by a few inches, looking no older than sixteen. They looked as if only a few years had passed, as if theyâd merely been gone on an extended mission.
Meanwhile, you stood before them as an adult, a full-grown woman of twenty-five, your face etched with the hard-won experience of seven relentless years. The weight of Gothamâs burden had left its marksâyour gaze was steadier, sharper, and your stance carried the strength and weariness of someone who had spent nearly a decade fighting to keep the city from falling apart. You had grown into yourself, each year stretching the distance between you and the family youâd once longed for.
The contrast was jarring, and as their eyes took in the person youâd become. They hadnât been there to watch you grow, hadnât seen the countless battles, the nights spent in Gothamâs brutal streets. Theyâd vanished when you were barely eighteen, fresh out of high school, and now you stood before them as a seasoned vigilante, a protector of Gotham with years of hard experience under your belt.
Bruceâs gaze lingered on you the longest, a hint of regret buried deep in his expression, though his stoic mask remained in place. Perhaps he was realizing the years heâd missed, the memories heâd forfeited, the child heâd left behind now standing before him as a stranger.
You squared your shoulders, lifting your chin as you met his gaze without a hint of the insecurity that had once plagued you. âYou donât get to come back and expect everything to be the same,â you said, your voice steady. âSeven years have passed for us. Weâve lived through each of those days, weâve fought through them. While you were gone, the city was in chaos. I fixed that. We fixed that.â
Dickâs eyes softened as he took you in, his expression tinged with something you couldnât quite placeâpride, maybe, mixed with sadness. âI⊠I didnât realize,â he murmured, glancing at the others as if only now fully understanding the weight of what theyâd missed.
Jason looked you over, a slight frown creasing his brow. âSeven years⊠and you took over?â he asked, a faint hint of skepticism in his voice, but it wasnât derisive, merely⊠unsure, as if he couldnât fully grasp the idea of the little girl heâd ignored now standing in the role heâd once held.
You nodded, unflinching. âYes. We took over.â You glanced at Belial, who stood beside you, his protective gaze fixed on the Batfamily, his presence a reminder that the life youâd built was real, solid, no longer tied to their approval or acceptance.
Tim looked at you, his eyes calculating, piecing together the years theyâd lost and the family youâd built in their place. âYou⊠really became a vigilante?â
âNot alone,â you admitted, gesturing toward Belial. âI had help. People who chose to stay, who chose to fight for Gotham even when everything seemed lost.â You spoke with pride, with conviction, knowing that every ally who had joined your side had done so not because of blood or obligation but because they believed in the mission youâd carried on in the Batfamilyâs absence.
Bruceâs expression darkened, his gaze flickering to Belial. âAnd heâs part of that?â he asked, his tone laced with a judgment that grated against you, a reminder of the familyâs former refusal to see you, to accept your choices.
âYes,â you replied firmly, your voice hardening as you met his gaze. âBelial is part of this. Heâs been by my side, helping me protect Gotham while you were gone,â you added, reaching for Belialâs hand and lacing your fingers with his, a small but defiant gesture. âA demon.â Bruce says skeptically. âHeâs my partner. My choice.â You glower.
The reaction was immediate. Bruceâs jaw clenched, his expression stony as he took in the sight of you and Belial standing together, side by side, as equals. Jasonâs eyes narrowed, glancing between you and Belial with a wary intensity, while Damianâs brows drew together, the faintest trace of confusion and surprise in his gaze. But you didnât care what they thought anymore. Belial was yours, your partner in every sense, and if they couldnât accept that, it was their problem, not yours.
After a long silence, Bruce finally spoke, his voice quieter but no less firm. âWe didnât choose to leave you behind, (Y/N). The years that passed⊠they werenât ours to live.â
You felt a pang in your chest, the faintest echo of the pain that had once torn through you, but you buried it, letting the resolve youâd built over the years take hold. âMaybe not,â you said, voice steady. âBut those years are gone. I lived them. I grew up without you. And nowâŠâ You glanced around the Batcave, the familiar surroundings now a testament to everything you had overcome, everything you had protected. âNow, Gotham is my responsibility. Ours. If youâre back, youâll have to accept that.â
The Batfamily exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them. You could see the struggle in their eyes, the difficulty of reconciling the image of the child theyâd left behind with the adult standing before them now, someone they didnât know, someone theyâd never had the chance to understand.
Dick stepped forward, his gaze filled with something close to admiration, tinged with regret. âYou really stepped up,â he said quietly, a faint, bittersweet smile on his lips. âWe couldnât have asked for anyone better.â
You managed a nod, the praise unexpected but appreciated, a sign that at least one of them saw what you had become, what you had done in their place. Bruce held your gaze, the faintest flicker of emotion in his eyesâa silent acknowledgment of the person youâd become, of the strength he hadnât seen in you all those years ago. âThen weâll have to find a way to work together,â he said, the words measured but tinged with the unspoken weight of the years youâd both lived separately.
You didnât respond right away, instead glancing at Belial, his hand still wrapped in yours, his steady presence a reminder of the family youâd built without them. Youâd make room for them if they proved themselves, if they understood that Gotham no longer belonged to them alone. But you would do so on your terms, not theirs.
âMaybe,â you said after a long pause, your voice calm, steady. âBut things wonât go back to the way they were. Gothamâs changed. Iâve changed. And if you want to be a part of this city again, youâll have to accept that.â
As they stood before you, silent and contemplative, you knew they felt the shift, understood that the years hadnât just changed youâtheyâd transformed Gotham itself, and now, if they wanted to protect it, theyâd have to learn to do so in a city you had saved, in a world that was yours to command.
The tension in the Batcave was already thick, a charged silence stretching between you and the newly returned vigilanties. But that silence was shattered as the secret entrance swung open, and your team flooded in, responding to the emergency signal youâd sent out when the portal first appeared.
Azrael entered first, his intense gaze scanning the room, his hand already reaching for his weapon as he took in the unfamiliar figures. Prudence followed, her stance guarded but fluid, her eyes narrowing as they locked onto the intruders, her body ready to strike. Farley was last, his fists igniting with flickers of flame as he took up a position beside Azrael, a fierce, almost feral look in his eyes. Each of them was prepared for a fight, but they paused when they heard you shout.
âHold!â you called, your voice echoing through the cavern as you raised a hand, stepping between your team and the Batfamily. âItâs⊠not what it looks like.â You looked at each of them in turn, silently urging them to trust you, to stand down.
Prudenceâs eyes shifted to Tim, recognition flickering in her gaze as she took him in, and you saw the surprise reflected in Timâs face as he looked back at her. Their eyes met for a long, lingering moment, a silent acknowledgment of their shared history, and a faint, bittersweet smile tugged at the corner of Prudenceâs mouth. But as Timâs gaze slid from Prudence to Azrael, you felt the weight of everyoneâs attention shift.
The room went quiet again as they all stared at Azrael, suspicion and unease flickering across the Batfamilyâs faces. Azrael met their gazes head-on, his expression a defiant mask, his posture unyielding. He hadnât wavered in his commitment to you, to Gotham, but you could sense the animosity radiating from the Batfamily, a history that hadnât faded despite the years that had passed.
Bruceâs voice broke the silence, his tone hard, edged with years of mistrust. âWhat is he doing here?â
You felt the weight of his question settle over you, a reminder of the complex, uneasy relationship between Azrael and the Batfamily. You knew they saw him as a loose cannon, someone who operated outside their carefully crafted code, someone who had once clashed with them over his ruthless approach to justice. But to you, Azrael was something else entirely. He was the one who had trained you, who had stood by you when no one else would, who had become your mentor and your closest ally in a world that had left you to fend for yourself.
Steeling yourself, you met Bruceâs gaze, your voice firm and unwavering. âHeâs with me,â you said, leaving no room for argument. âAzrael has been here for me from the beginning. He trained me when you all were gone, he fought by my side when Gotham was falling apart. Heâs helped me in more ways than I can even begin to explain.â
The Batfamily exchanged glances, their wariness only growing as they processed your words. Jasonâs gaze darkened, his eyes narrowing as he looked Azrael over. âSo, while we were gone, you decided to bring him into the family?â he asked, his tone sharp, as if the very idea was an insult.
You held your ground, squaring your shoulders. âYes, Jason. I did. Because when you all disappeared, I had no one else. Azrael believed in me when no one else did. He trained me, supported me. Heâs part of this teamâmy team.â
Azrael remained silent, but you felt his steady presence beside you, a quiet but powerful reminder of the bond youâd forged over the years. He didnât need to defend himself to them; heâd proven his loyalty to you a hundred times over, in ways they would never understand. And though his expression remained stoic, you could see a faint flicker of something in his eyesâpride, perhaps, or maybe a quiet satisfaction that youâd chosen to defend him, to stand by him despite the Batfamilyâs obvious disapproval.
Tim shifted uncomfortably, glancing between you and Azrael, his brows furrowing as he tried to reconcile the person he remembered with the person youâd become. âYou⊠really went to him for help?â he asked, his tone softer, almost hesitant, as if he couldnât quite believe it.
You nodded, your gaze steady. âI didnât have a choice, Tim. When you all vanished, Gotham didnât wait. Crime surged, people were dying, and I had to step up. Azrael was the only one who was there for me. He taught me what I needed to know, helped me become strong enough to protect the city.â You glanced at Azrael, a faint, grateful smile tugging at your lips. âHeâs family.â
Bruceâs expression hardened, a mixture of disbelief and frustration flickering in his eyes. âAzraelâs methods have always been⊠extreme,â he said, his tone laced with the judgment that had kept you at armâs length for so many years. âHeâs notââ
âHeâs not you,â you interrupted, meeting his gaze with a defiance you hadnât shown him before. âAnd maybe thatâs what Gotham needed. Maybe thatâs what I needed. I had to grow up fast, Bruce. I didnât have time to sit around and wait for you all to come back. Azrael gave me the strength to protect this city, to carry on when everything felt like it was falling apart.â
The Batfamily fell silent, their eyes flicking between you and Azrael, the unspoken tension hanging thick in the air. Prudence stepped closer to you, her hand brushing your shoulder in a silent show of support, while Farley stood beside Azrael, a hint of defiance in his stance as he faced the Batfamily.
It was clear that they didnât understand, that they couldnât grasp the loyalty, the bond, that had grown between you and Azrael over the years. They saw him as a weapon, a force they couldnât control, but to you, he was familyâa mentor, a partner in every way that mattered. Heâd filled the role theyâd left empty, and heâd done so without question, without expecting anything in return.
Bruceâs gaze shifted to Azrael, his expression unreadable as he took in the man who had stepped into his place, who had shaped the person youâd become. âSo, you trained her,â he said, his voice a low murmur that held both accusation and reluctant acknowledgment.
Azrael met his gaze, his own eyes steady, unyielding. âI did,â he replied simply, his tone calm but resolute. âBecause she needed someone who was willing to believe in her potential, someone who didnât see her as a child.â He glanced at you, his expression softening in a way that was rare for him. âSheâs proven herself, time and again. Sheâs more than capable, and I would trust her with my life.â
The weight of Azraelâs words hung in the air, a testament to the bond youâd forged, to the trust that had carried you through the darkest years. For a moment, the Batfamily seemed to falter, a flicker of uncertainty crossing their faces as they absorbed the reality of the person youâd become, the family youâd built in their absence.
Nightwing broke the silence, his tone softer, filled with a hesitant respect. âIt sounds like you did good,â he said quietly, his gaze steady as he looked at you. âEven if we donât fully understand it⊠you kept Gotham safe. You stepped up.â
You nodded, your voice steady as you replied, âI did what had to be done. And Iâm not the person I was when you left. Azrael is part of my family now, and if you want to be a part of my life, youâll have to accept that.â
The Batfamily exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them. You could see the struggle in their eyes, the tension of reconciling their memories of you with the person youâd become, the life youâd built without them. But for the first time, they seemed to understand that they werenât stepping back into the family theyâd left behindâthey were stepping into a new world, one where you held the reins, one where you defined the rules.
Bruce gave a slow nod, his gaze lingering on you before shifting to Azrael, a silent acknowledgment that carried the weight of years of history and judgment. âThen weâll have to find a way to work together,â he said, his voice quieter, less certain, but laced with an acceptance he hadnât shown before.
You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle over you, the recognition of a new beginning, a tentative bridge between the family youâd once lost and the family youâd found in their absence. It wouldnât be easy, you knew. The past wouldnât vanish overnight, and the tension between the Batfamily and Azrael was still palpable. But for the first time, there was a glimmer of hope, a possibility of blending the old with the new.
As the Batfamily stood before you, taking in the person youâd become and the team that surrounded you, something unspoken simmered beneath the surface, a puzzle they were only beginning to piece together. You could see it in their eyes, the glances they exchanged, the faint looks of suspicion they cast your way. Something about you, your stance, the quiet confidence you exuded, was triggering old memories. Memories of nights spent chasing shadows, hunting down an enigmatic young partner who had fought by Azraelâs side years agoâa partner whose identity they had never been able to uncover.
In those days, you had operated under their radar, your true identity carefully concealed as you trained under Azraelâs brutal mentorship. Youâd learned to mask your movements, to cover your tracks so meticulously that even the Batfamily, with all their resources, hadnât managed to pin you down. Theyâd called you many things over the yearsâa ghost, an enigma, the young shadow who had stood by Azraelâs side with a fierce loyalty that they couldnât understand. To them, you had been a mystery, someone they couldnât fully control or predict, and theyâd spent countless nights trying to bring you in, to discover who you were and what drove you.
But now, as they took you in, realization began to dawn in their eyes, piece by agonizing piece. Tim was the first to falter, his eyes narrowing as he looked you over, his sharp mind already piecing together details that others might have missed. The stance, the controlled posture, the barely visible scars tracing your armsâfamiliar but unplaceable until now. You saw the flash of recognition in his gaze, the widening of his eyes as he finally made the connection.
âWait⊠you wereâŠâ Timâs voice trailed off, disbelief flickering across his face as he glanced between you and Azrael. âYou were his partner?â
You held his gaze, neither confirming nor denying, letting the weight of your silence speak for itself. The truth hung heavy in the air, the realization settling over them like a slow-building storm. The enigma theyâd spent years hunting, the partner who had been a constant thorn in their side, had been you all along. The person they had tried so hard to track down, to bring to justice or at least understand, had been right under their noses, living in the same house, watching them as they went about their missions, unknowing of the life you were leading in secret.
Jasonâs expression shifted, a mixture of shock and irritation twisting his features as he looked at you, then at Azrael. âAre you kidding me?â he muttered, his tone sharp, almost incredulous. âAll those years, we were chasing you? We were trying to figure out who this âmystery vigilanteâ was, and it was you?â
You shrugged, allowing a faint, almost amused smile to cross your lips. âYou never really gave me much of a choice. I had to work in the shadows, away from you all. Azrael⊠he was the only one who believed in me enough to let me fight.â
Bruceâs face tightened, a flash of something that looked like betrayal flickering across his features. He had dedicated nights, weeks, perhaps months, to tracking you and Azrael, believing the two of you to be rogue elements disrupting the carefully maintained order heâd established in Gotham. Heâd sent teams after you, had pulled strings to uncover your identity, always coming up empty-handed. And now, standing in front of him, was the very enigma he had hunted, the daughter he had left behind.
âYou,â he said slowly, his voice tinged with a mix of anger and disbelief. âYou were the one working with Azrael. You were the one we were hunting down.â
Your heart clenched at the hint of hurt in his tone, but you pushed it aside, refusing to let his reaction shake you. âYes, I was,â you replied, meeting his gaze with unwavering resolve. âBecause while you were gone, I didnât have anyone else. I didnât have the luxury of waiting around, hoping youâd come back. Gotham was falling apart, and someone had to step up. Azrael gave me that chance.â
Nightwing, usually the peacekeeper, ran a hand through his hair, looking at you with a strange blend of admiration and disbelief. âAll this time,â he murmured, a faint, rueful smile tugging at his lips. âWe thought you were some kind of vigilante ghost⊠and it was you, hiding right under our noses.â
Damian, who had once viewed you as an outsider in the family, stared at you with a newfound respect mingling with suspicion. âYou really fought with Azrael all these years?â he asked, his tone quieter, almost reluctant to admit that he was impressed.
You nodded, a faint smile playing at your lips as you glanced at Azrael, who stood tall and unwavering beside you. âEvery night. We kept Gotham safe, fought the battles you werenât there to fight. And yes, we made decisions you might not agree with. But we did what we had to.â
The Batfamily exchanged glances, their expressions a mixture of confusion, disbelief, and a slow, reluctant respect. The person theyâd dismissed as a child, the person theyâd ignored and brushed aside, had been the very vigilante theyâd spent years hunting. And now, they had no choice but to acknowledge the reality of who youâd become, of the life youâd led without them.
Bruceâs gaze shifted to Azrael, the tension between them palpable, a reminder of the long-standing animosity that had simmered beneath the surface for years. âAnd you encouraged this?â he asked, his tone hard, accusatory. âYou brought my daughter into a life of violence and danger, knowing what it would cost her?â
Azrael met Bruceâs gaze unflinchingly, his voice calm, unyielding. âI didnât âbringâ her into anything,â he replied. â(Y/N) made her own choice, and I respected it. I trained her, yes. I taught her to survive, to protect herself. Because she had the strength, the determination, and the will that none of you ever saw. I simply gave her the tools to become who she already was.â
The words hung in the air, heavy with the truth that the Batfamily hadnât wanted to see. You had been left alone, a child in need of guidance, and when they hadnât been there, Azrael had stepped in, offering you the mentorship and support they had denied. He hadnât forced you into this life; heâd simply recognized the fire within you, the desire to make a difference, and had given you the chance to prove yourself.
Jasonâs face softened, a reluctant acknowledgment flickering in his eyes as he looked at you. âGuess you did good, then,â he said, a hint of grudging respect in his tone. âYou kept Gotham safe. You kept⊠us safe, even when you didnât have to.â
Tim nodded, his gaze shifting between you and Azrael, a mixture of regret and admiration in his eyes. âWe underestimated you,â he admitted, his voice quiet. âI⊠I underestimated you. I thought you were just a kid, someone who didnât understand what this life takes. But youâve proven us all wrong.â
You felt a flicker of satisfaction at their words, a sense of closure that had been a long time coming. You had spent years in the shadows, fighting alongside Azrael, working tirelessly to protect the city they had left behind. And now, standing before them, you knew that they finally saw you for who you wereâa fighter, a protector, someone who had risen from the ashes of abandonment to become a force in her own right.
Bruceâs gaze softened, the faintest glimmer of remorse in his eyes as he looked at you, truly seeing you for the first time. âYou kept Gotham safe,â he said, his voice low, almost reverent. âAnd you kept⊠my legacy alive. I should have seen it sooner.â
You met his gaze, a mixture of emotions swirling within youâbitterness, pride, and a quiet acceptance. âMaybe you should have,â you replied, your voice steady, but softened by the years of distance and pain that had settled into something like peace. âBut that doesnât matter now. I did what I had to do, and I donât regret any of it.â
The Batfamily looked at you, no longer with the wary suspicion theyâd once held, but with something deeperâa reluctant admiration, an acknowledgment of the strength youâd earned through blood, sweat, and unrelenting resilience. They finally understood that you were no longer the child theyâd left behind but a warrior in your own right, someone who had carved her own path in the shadowed streets of Gotham.
And as you stood there, flanked by Azrael, Belial, and your team, you knew that you had proven yourself, not only to them but to yourself. You were no longer the enigma they had hunted, the partner theyâd misunderstood. You were a force of your own, a protector of Gotham, and the family youâd chosen stood beside you, ready to defend the city theyâd fought to keep safe.
âSo,â Dick broke the silence, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced between the Batcomputer and the war table, his tone uncertain. âWhat exactly are we supposed to do now?â
You exhaled hard, dragging a hand down your face. It felt like youâd aged another seven years in the last ten minutes. Your brain was already churning with logistics and impossibilities: Gothamâs legal system, Bruceâs estate, the sudden reappearance of not just one billionaire but six high-profile individualsâmost of whom had been declared legally dead. Not to mention the return of Batman and his entire team of vigilantes after nearly a decade of silence.
This was a mess.
A mess you were now responsible for.
Your gaze drifted to Dick, who now looked almost exactly your ageâmaybe younger by a few months. That alone made your head spin. You were once a teenager desperate for his attention, for any sibling-like bond he might throw your way. Now you were his peer, even more seasoned in some areas. Older. Harder. And definitely more tired.
You pinched the bridge of your nose and muttered, âIâllâ Iâll get Alfred down here. Heâll help figure this mess out. Heâs better at this.â
Before you could move toward the comms, Bruce raised a hand. âHold up.â
You turned to face him, but your patience was already razor-thin. âNo. Iâm going to stop you right here,â you said, voice flat and sharp. âYouâve been gone for seven years, Bruce. Seven. Gotham is not the same place you left. The streets are different. The alliances are different. Hell, even the laws are different.â
Bruceâs jaw tightened, but he didnât interrupt, letting you speak.
âYou canât just pop back in and pick up where you left off. None of you can. Youâll need helpâand timeâintegrating back into this world.â You folded your arms, leveling your gaze across the room. âYouâve missed everything.â
âI assume that means we wonât be able to patrol,â Tim said quietly, though it was clearly more statement than question.
You nodded. âNo, not yet. Not for a while. We need to get your civilian identities sorted first. Bruce Wayneâs reappearance alone is going to break the internet. The public thinks you're dead. Your assets are frozen, your accounts legally inactive. Youâre going to need new paperwork, a proper reentry strategy. And even then, weâll have to be careful.â
Bruce nodded, stoic as ever, but at least receptive. You could see him already calculating, that old strategist brain whirring behind his eyes.
Damian, however, made a sharp noise of denial, stepping forward with narrowed eyes. âThatâs ridiculous. Iâm ready. Iâve always been ready. Iâm not going to sit on the sidelines like some weak civilian while Gotham bleeds.â
âDamian,â you said, tone calm but firm, âyou donât know this Gotham anymore. None of you do. You were gone long enough for people to move on. For new threats to rise. New dynamics. You canât just walk back in and expect the city to fall back in line. Itâs not going to work like that.â
Jason scoffed under his breath. âSheâs not wrong.â
âI know Iâm not wrong,â you shot back. âAnd trust me, Iâd love nothing more than to hand the reins back to someone else and get a vacation for once. But we donât have that luxury. The world kept spinning without you. Gotham changed. I changed.â
You looked at Bruce, gaze softening just a littleânot out of pity, but out of truth. âI want you back in the field. I do. But we have to do it right. Or itâll fall apart faster than it did the first time.â
Bruce studied you, his eyes sharp but no longer combative. âThen weâll do it your way,â he said finally.
That caught even you off guard. You blinked, feeling the weight of the moment settle in your chest.
âAlfredâs coming down,â you said after a pause, your voice quieter. âHeâll help. He always does.â
And in your heart, you hoped that maybeâjust maybeâAlfred could help you make sense of the fact that the past had just walked through a portal into your present⊠and now you were the one holding the cityâs future.
Alfred arrived faster than youâd ever seen him move, a rare urgency in his normally composed steps. The usual quiet dignity he carried was frayed around the edges, replaced by something rawer, deeper. You didnât need to ask whyâAlfred had never truly recovered from losing Bruce and the others. He had held the manor together after their disappearance, held you together in your early days with Azrael, but youâd seen the cracks in his composure over the years. The empty places at the dinner table. The faint pause every time he passed by their old rooms. He hadnât just lost the family he servedâheâd lost the children he raised. His boys. His girl.
And now they stood before him, alive and flesh and real.
The moment Alfred stepped into the Batcave and laid eyes on Bruce, his posture broke. The tray of supplies he carried was lowered carefully to the floor, forgotten entirely as his expression trembled.
âOh⊠oh, my boyâŠâ Alfred whispered, voice catching, cracking under the weight of a thousand unsaid things.
âAlfred,â Bruce said softly, and it was the most human youâd heard him sound in⊠maybe ever.
They crossed the space like the ground itself didnât matter. The hug was tight, not stoic, not brief. Bruce clung to Alfred like a son who had finally come home, and Alfredâs eyes closed as he held him, silent tears running down his face.
You watched it for only a moment before your throat tightened.
You turned away.
They needed that moment. They belonged in it. You didnât. You were part of this place, but not that part. That was their story, their bond. The reunion of a family shattered and stitched back together by time and fate. You were just the one who'd kept the lights on while they were gone.
You walked back to where Prudence and Farley stood off to the side. Their expressions were mixedâsurprise, discomfort, maybe a little awe.
You gave them a small, tired smile. âYou guys can leave if you want. I get it. This⊠isnât really your moment.â
Farley didnât even hesitate. âThank God,â he muttered, already making his way toward the exit with the hurried gait of someone who desperately wanted to escape the emotional gravity in the room. âYou know I donât do the whole âgroup hug and cryâ thing. This is all you.â
You snorted despite the ache in your chest.
You turned to Prudence, who hadn't moved. She stood still, arms crossed, her gaze trained on the Batfamily with an unreadable expression. When you met her eyes, she only raised an eyebrow.
âYou staying?â
Her eyes flicked briefly to Tim, who was quietly speaking with Cass on the other side of the room. âWeâve got history,â she said simply, and you could see itâher curiosity, her caution, and maybe⊠hope. She wasn't a sentimental person, not really, but you knew Tim had meant something to her once.
âAlright,â you murmured. âJust⊠donât stab anyone unless they stab first.â
âNo promises,â she said dryly.
You chuckled and turned to Azrael, who stood in his usual silent place behind you like a wall of conviction. He hadnât moved an inch since the moment the Bats returned, but you felt his gaze on you, watchful as always.
âYou could leave too,â you offered gently, though you already knew the answer.
Azrael didnât speak, just gave you a lookâa long, unwavering stare that said more than any words. Iâm not leaving you.
You gave him a tired nod, your shoulders relaxing just slightly. âDidnât think so.â
And then there was Belial. Of course, you and he lived in the manor now. You slept in what was once one of the guest wings, made it your home. The idea of suddenly having to explain thatâto a freshly returned Bruce Wayneâwas⊠daunting, to say the least.
âI suppose,â you muttered under your breath, glancing between the tender reunions and the mess they were about to leave in your lap, âweâll have to tell them about us at some point.â
Belial, who had appeared silently at your side like a devilish shadow, raised a brow. âYou mean the part where we live together?âÂ
You blinked at him.
ââŠYes.â
He smirked, leaning closer until only you could hear. âLetâs save the second part for dinner, shall we?â
You couldnât help but laugh, quiet and bitter-sweet. This was a mess. The storm of emotion had finally started to settle. The reunions were completeâor at least, the most intense parts of them. Alfred was still lingering near Bruce, fussing over him in the way only he could: equal parts doting and chastising, hands on Bruceâs shoulders like he couldnât quite believe he was real. Cass had tucked herself under Alfredâs arm like a child too afraid to admit she missed home. Dick had hugged everyone twice, Jason had begrudgingly allowed it once, and even Damian had accepted a tight, silent embrace from Alfred that left him looking a little shell-shocked.
You waited at the edge of it all, hands in your pockets, awkward and unsure. This wasnât your moment, but you were the one who had to take charge again. The emotional wave had crested, and now everyone was looking around, uncertain, raw, and⊠hungry.
You cleared your throat softly and stepped forward, your voice a bit too loud in the quiet that followed. âYour rooms are, umâtheyâre still yours. We didnât touch them.â
Everyone looked at you. You felt their eyes, and suddenly you were a teenager again, small and trying too hard, your words clumsy on your tongue.
You pressed on.
âRight. So, um⊠dinner. Weâre all quite starving, right?â
âYeah,â Dick said, rubbing his stomach with a sheepish grin. âYeah, definitely. Jet lag across dimensions, who knew.â
You nodded too fast, grateful for the humor. âRight. Itâs a bit late, I knowâI can order takeout. If thatâs okay?â
Bruce nodded. âThatâs fine.â
âYeahâsure,â Jason added, arms crossed, but not in his usual defensive way. Just tired. Worn.
âAny preferences?â you asked, pulling out your phone, thumb hovering over your delivery apps.
Tim perked up. âUhhh⊠is that Mexican place near Fifth Street still open? The one with the hole in the wall?â
You blinked. âYeahâyeah, itâs still there. We can get that.â
âCool,â he murmured, relaxing for the first time since stepping through the portal.
âCoolâŠâ You echoed, feeling the silence stretch again as you placed the order.
Then Dick, who had never been good with silence, chuckled softly, looking you over as if seeing you for the first time all over again. âSo⊠youâve grown.â
You froze.
Oh god. So you were doing this. Small talk about how much older you looked. Fantastic.
âWell, yes,â you said dryly, giving him a deadpan look as your fingers tapped out the order on your phone. âTime does that.â
Jason smirked. âYouâve got his sarcasm now, too,â he muttered, nodding toward Bruce.
âIâve had a lot of time to practice.â
Belial chuckled under his breath beside you, and you elbowed him lightly in the ribs before glancing back up at them. They were all watching you againâbut this time it felt different. Not like they were seeing a stranger. Like they were trying to piece together who you were now, instead of remembering who you were then.
âFoodâll be here in twenty-five,â you said quietly. âWe can eat in the dining room, if thatâs okay. Or the cave. Whichever.â
Bruce nodded again. âDining roomâs fine.â
Alfred smiled at you warmly, placing a hand on your shoulder as he passed, heading up to set the table like no time had passed at all. And maybe, for a few precious moments, that would be true.
You exhaled slowly, trying to brace yourself for the second waveâthe real conversations. The hard ones. The identity talk, the Gotham logistics, the life youâd lived without them.
But for now? Dinner was enough. A quiet meal in a house that was both haunted and alive again.
And maybeâjust maybeâit wasnât such a bad place to start.
One by one, they all began to file out of the Batcave. Quietly, thoughtfully, some casting glances back over their shoulders as if still trying to convince themselves that they were truly home. Bruce lingered a moment longer with Alfred, speaking in hushed tones, while Dick and Cass headed up the stairs together. Jason muttered something about needing a real shower and maybe a bottle of something strong. Tim and Prudence exchanged a brief look before he followed the others, and even Damian trailed off eventually, his steps slower, less confident than youâd ever seen them.
You let them go.
They needed timeâtime to clean up, to settle in, to wander the rooms of a manor that had become something entirely new while they were gone. You didnât begrudge them that. They had lost years too, years in another world, in another time. Years they couldnât get back. You could give them the space to breathe. After all, youâd had seven years of figuring this out on your own. They were only just now waking up.
With a soft exhale, you turned and headed upstairs with Belial, your pace slowing once you reached the living room. It was dimly lit, warm in a way the cave wasnât, and after the night youâd had, it felt like the only place in the world you could melt into.
You collapsed onto the couch, limbs heavy, your body finally giving in to the emotional exhaustion.
Belial followed, sitting beside you as he watched you closely. His hand found yours, fingers gently threading through yours with practiced ease.
âYou okay, darling?â he asked softly, his voice the grounding warmth youâd come to rely on.
You stared ahead for a moment, eyes fixed on nothing, before admitting quietly, â...IâI donât know.â
âThatâs okay,â he said, rubbing his thumb across your knuckles. âThis⊠this is a lot.â
You turned your head to look at him, a tired smile barely tugging at your lips. âWell, at least this means we finally get to have that vacation.â You leaned your head against his shoulder with a tired sigh. âGive or take a couple of months.â
He chuckled, the sound low and warm as he brushed a kiss against the top of your head. âWe should probably focus on patrol tonight first.â
âYeah⊠probably,â you murmured, eyes already drooping. âBut I am gonna start planning the itinerary. Itâs only fair.â
âOh, absolutely,â he grinned. âBali or Cancun?â
âBali, for sure,â you said instantly. âCancunâs nice, but I want waterfalls. Peace. Quiet.â
He smirked. âSo you want the opposite of Gotham.â
âExactly.â
You both sat there in comfortable silence, the only sound the soft ticking of the manorâs antique grandfather clock. For a fleeting moment, everything felt stable againâchaos held at bay, ghosts tucked into bedrooms, and the future wide open.
Maybe, just maybe⊠youâd finally get to live in it.
Dinner was⊠awkward, to say the least.
Everyone sat around the grand dining table, most of them in freshly changed clothes, hair damp from hot showers, the weight of yearsâmissing yearsâstill hanging around their shoulders like lead. You sat at one end of the table with Belial beside you, his hand resting on your thigh under the table in quiet reassurance. Azrael, of course, sat silently a few chairs away, more imposing than ever despite being out of his armor. Prudence lounged with one arm slung over her chair, watching everything with the silent poise of a bored cat.
Youâd expected the dinner talk to revolve around themâwhere theyâd been, what they remembered, how the hell they got back. But once the food had been passed around, and the chewing had dulled the immediate tension, the questions⊠started falling on you.
âSo,â Dick said around a bite of rice and grilled chicken, âdid you ever go to college?â
You blinked, caught mid-sip of water. âUh⊠no, I didnât.â
He paused. âOh. Right, I guess⊠with everything going on, that wouldâve been hard.â
You gave a small shrug. âYeah, Gotham kinda took precedence.â
Jason snorted. âNo kidding.â
Tim leaned forward, his elbows on the table. âWhat about your civilian life? What⊠what did you do for work? I meanâbefore everyone knew about you as a vigilante.â
âI didnât really have a civilian life,â you admitted. âIt wasnât safe at first. Once I started working with Azrael⊠things got busy.â
You felt the room shift slightly. The moment you said his name, their expressions changedâespecially Bruce. You glanced his way, catching the subtle twitch in his jaw. He was grinding his teeth.
Weird.
Dick gave a short laugh, trying to ease the tension. âSo waitâyou really started training with him? Azrael? When?â
You glanced toward Azrael, who was calmly cutting his food like the questions didnât involve him at all.
âI was eleven,â you answered.
The silence that followed was palpable.
âEleven,â Bruce repeated, voice quiet and sharp. His eyes flicked to Azrael for a half-second before looking back to you. âYou were eleven when he started training you?â
âHe didnât start me,â you corrected, gently but firmly. âI asked him to. I begged him to.âÂ
Bruceâs jaw was tight again. You could tell he didnât like it. That he was angry. At Azrael. At you. At himself. You didnât know.
âSo,â Tim cut in, trying to reroute the tension, âyour team. Whoâs on it?â
Ah. Right. The team.
Belial arched a brow beside you like he knew exactly where this was about to go. You shifted slightly in your seat.
âWell, thereâs Prudence,â you gestured to her, who gave a small salute with her fork, âFarleyâheâs a fire manipulator. Azrael, of course. And Belial.â
You could feel Bruce tense before he spoke.
âYou have metas. In Gotham?â
Here it comes.
âI do,â you said, voice steady.
Bruce sat up straighter, his fork resting on his plate. âWe had a ruleââ
âAnd I repealed it,â you interrupted, not unkindly, but firmly. âThat rule was outdated. I get why you made it. But Gotham changed. We changed. I only work with metas who prove themselves trustworthy. Farleyâs been with me for years. Heâs never crossed a line.â
âMetas complicate things,â Bruce said coolly.
âSo do traumatized orphans in capes,â Belial muttered under his breath, earning a sudden cough from Dick and a choked laugh from Jason.
You tried very hard not to smile. âBelial.â
âWhat?â he said, totally unapologetic.
Damian scowled across the table. âSo what is he, then?â He gestured at Belial with his fork. âSome kind of meta?â
Belial grinned, far too pleased with the attention. âHalf-demon, technically.â
Cassâs eyes widened slightly. Tim looked like he wanted to say something, but no words formed. Jason just raised a brow.
Bruce? Bruce looked like he was going to fall through the floor. Or combust.
You cleared your throat. âHeâs also a better medic than most ER doctors and speaks six languages. I think that earns him some points.â
âSeven,â Belial corrected.
âRight. Seven.â
Bruce leaned back slightly, and while he said nothing, you could see the storm brewing behind his eyes. He was trying to parse it all. You. Azrael. A half-demon.
They were perceptive. You knew that much before they ever came backâhyper-observant, trained to spot patterns, shifts, tells, tension. You had no doubt that by now, after only a few hours, every single one of them had already clocked your relationship with Belial.
You hadnât exactly been subtle. The quiet conversations, the protective glances, the way his hand had barely left yours since the moment the portal opened. Even now, during dinner, his thigh rested against yours beneath the table, his arm draped comfortably along the back of your chair. Not possessiveâpresent. Familiar. The kind of closeness that only came from years of love and war alike.
Bruce hadnât said anything, but you didnât need him to. You could feel it in the way he glanced at Belial when he thought you werenât looking, the slight bristle to his shoulders every time Belial so much as spoke. He hadnât figured out why it got under his skin yetâwhether it was the demon blood, the sarcasm, or just the simple fact that someone like him had managed to find a place at your sideâbut whatever it was, it made his jaw clench like clockwork.
Dick⊠well, Dickâs smile hadnât reached his eyes since youâd confirmed the relationship. He was trying, youâd give him that. But there was something tight in his expression, something protective and disapproving in the older-brother-you-never-had kind of way. He didnât like it, not one bit. But he knew he had no say in it.
Jason had already given Belial the once-over three separate times, and would probably make it four before dessert. Tim was even worseâhe hadnât said anything directly, but he was watching everything, every exchange, every word. Calculating. Cataloguing. Making some damn file in that brain of his.
And Damian⊠Damian just didnât like people. He hadnât said a single thing about Belial that wasnât laced with vague disdain. That was probably the most normal reaction of the bunch, to be honest.
âSo⊠you live here?â Dick finally asked, fork half-suspended in the air as he looked across the table at Belial, trying for casual. Failing.
Ah. Theyâd either overheard earlier, or Alfred had gotten to them.
You cleared your throat, stiffening just slightly. âErâyes, he does.â
A beat of silence.
âYou two areâŠ?â Jason asked, tone dry, a brow raised.
You exhaled slowly through your nose. âIâm twenty-five, not sixteen. Yes, weâre together.â
âRight, right,â Tim said quickly, offering a smile that was more awkward than reassuring. âThatâs⊠nice.â
You resisted the urge to rest your head on the table.
âSo how did you two meet?â Dick asked, too casually again, his grin a little too tight. âWas it on one of those rogue mission arcs? Some dramatic rooftop rescue?â
You opened your mouth, unprepared for how to explain that particular chapterâbut thankfully, Belial beat you to it.
âWe met on a mission actually,â he said smoothly, setting his glass down. âAbout six years ago. A smuggling ring that turned out to be running ancient cursed artifacts. She got there first and punched a guy through a wall. I was⊠impressed.â
Jason blinked. âThat tracks.â
Belial smiled, unbothered by the scrutiny. âWe ended up working together more after that. One thing led to another.â
You leaned back in your chair, letting his voice take over, letting him answer their questions with the ease only he could manage. His voice was calm, steady, almost charming in the way he navigated their probing without ever giving too much, but always enough.
You needed the break.
The day had been longâtoo long. Your emotions had whiplashed in every direction, and you were starting to feel it in your bones. The walls of your childhood home didnât feel like yours tonight. The chairs at the table were full of people youâd mourned and outgrown, now suddenly back and sitting across from you like no time had passed.
So you let Belial take the wheel. You reached for your drink and let his steady voice wrap around you like a buffer, talking about a mission in Prague, a rooftop stakeout in the Narrows, how you made fun of him the first time you saw him trying to disguise his horns under a beanie. You could hear them asking questions, laughing lightly, filling in gaps they hadnât known existed.
You didnât answer. You just sat there quietly, Belialâs arm brushing your back every so often, and thought about how strange it wasâbeing surrounded by the people you once begged to see you⊠while the only one who truly had was the one they didnât understand.
Dinner ended with the clink of silverware and the quiet scrape of chairs being pushed back. No one said much. Everyone exchanged small, stiff goodnights and retreated into the house, the air heavy with something unspokenâsomething you could feel gathering behind every look.
You knew that air. It was the kind that came before somethingâa confession, a conversation, a plea.
Prudence was the first to leave, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze before murmuring, âCall me if you need an excuse to escape.â You gave her a ghost of a smile.
Azrael left not long after, giving you a simple nod, nothing more. You didnât need words between you and him. There never really had been.
You lingered behind with Belial near the hallway, the soft lighting of the manor casting long shadows across the marble.
âIâll meet you in our room,â you said, quietly, your voice low enough not to carry. You didnât look at him because you didnât want to see the worry in his eyes.
He didnât argue. He rarely did when it mattered. âCall me if you need me,â he murmured, voice brushing soft and certain against your ear. His hand lingered at the small of your back for a beat too long. And then he was gone.
You stood there alone for a breath. Then two.
And then came the footsteps.
You didnât have to turn to know it was them.
â(Y/N),â Dick said first, his voice tentative. Almost gentle.
âDick,â you replied, keeping your tone neutral. You turned slowly, facing himâand the rest. Theyâd stayed behind, just as you expected. Bruce stood in the corner, silent as ever. Tim shifted awkwardly near the mantle. Jason leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Damian stood further back, face hard to read. Cass was the only one who didnât look away when you met her eyes.
âYouâWeâWeâre so sorry,â Dick began again, the words spilling out awkwardly, his hands gesturing helplessly like he didnât know how to hold them.
You blinked, thrown. âDick⊠it wasnât your fault you guys disappearedââ
âNo,â he said quickly, cutting you off with a shake of his head. âNo, not that. Weâreâweâre sorry about everything else.â
You stiffened.
âWe didnât realize,â he continued, his voice cracking just slightly. âNot until we were gone. Not until we came back andâand saw all of it. We missed everything. We didnât just disappear from Gotham. We disappeared from you.â
You looked down, throat tight.
âDickââ
âHeâs right,â Tim said quietly, stepping forward. âWe didnât treat you well. Before the portal. Before any of this. We didnât make space for you. We didnât try. And you⊠you didnât deserve that.â
Your chest tightened, the words twisting like something sharp. It wasnât anything you hadnât already told yourself. Youâd grieved it years ago. Accepted it. Let it harden and then soften again, buried somewhere deep. But hearing them say itâfinallyâwas something else entirely.
âNo,â you said softly, meeting their eyes. âNo, I didnât.â
There was a long silence.
Then Jason, voice lower than usual, said, âWe want to be part of your life. We know we havenât earned it. We know we donât deserve it. But if youâll let us⊠weâd like to try.â
Your breath caught in your throat. You werenât sure what to say.
Youâd already made peace with your place in this family. You werenât angry anymoreânot really. The bitter, adolescent version of yourself that had once screamed at locked doors and cold shoulders was long gone. You had outgrown her. You had survived without them. Found people who stayed. Built something real, even if it looked nothing like the blood family you once hoped for.
This was all making your head spin.
âWe know itâs not fair to ask,â Tim added quickly.
âItâs not,â you said, a little sharper than you meant to. But no one flinched.
âBut weâre asking anyway,â Dick murmured. âNot as penance. Not to ease our guilt. But because⊠youâre ours. You always were. And we didnât see it until it was too late. Pleaseâlet us be in your life. In whatever way youâre willing to have us.â
You looked at each of them then. Really looked. At the older versions of the people who once walked past you in hallways like you didnât exist. At the ones who had dismissed you, forgotten you, avoided you. They were standing here now, not asking for forgiveness, but for a chance.
âYou all feel this way?â you asked, quietly.
âYes,â came Bruceâs voice at last. Low. Steady. And unlike anything youâd ever heard from him.
You sighed, long and slow. You felt older than your years. Worn thin by the weight of too many nights spent waiting for words like this. Words that had never come. Words that didnât change the pastâbut maybe, just maybe, could rewrite a little of the future.
Maybe a younger you would have said no. Would have lashed out. Thrown every memory back in their faces.
But you were 25 now.
There was no anger left in you.
Just the cautious ember of something new, something healing.
ââŠOkay,â you said at last, your voice small but firm. âBut you donât get to walk back in and pretend nothing happened.â
âWe wonât,â Dick promised.
âGood.â You paused, then gave the smallest of smiles. âIâll let you know when youâve earned movie night.â
Jason huffed a breath of a laugh. Tim smiled. Damian muttered something in Arabic that sounded vaguely annoyed, but not unkind. Bruce⊠Bruce looked like a man who had been holding his breath for seven years and had finally exhaled.
And in that moment, you realizedâthis wasnât you giving them your trust again.
This was them earning it.
It was awkward at first. Beyond awkward, honestly.
You were 25 nowâolder than Tim, older than Damian, just barely older than Dickâand it showed. Not in the way you carried yourself necessarily, but in your eyes, your routine, the way you moved through life with a rhythm they hadn't learned yet. They had disappeared while you were still a teenager, trying to earn a place in a home that never quite made space for you. Now they were back, dropped into a timeline that had long since moved on, into your version of Gotham.
The initial weeks were stiff, tentative. You didnât know what to do with them. They didnât know what to do with you. You were the head of the house now, the leader in the field, the one who made the patrol schedules and signed off on tactical decisions. They deferred to you in the caveâand you could tell it made them feel weird. Out of place. Lesser, almost. But there was no way around it.
You had a routine. A life. And adding them to the mix, no matter how well-meaning, disrupted the balance you and your team had built.
At first, most of your conversations were case-based. Tactical. Logistics. Youâd speak in mission briefings, work together at the Batcomputer in the cave, assign roles for com duty while you and your team took to the streets. They werenât allowed to patrol yet, not until Bruce and Alfred were sure they were cleared physically, mentally, legallyâand that left most of them with energy they didnât know where to place. So they helped. Cass took com duty often, seemingly content to listen in on your teamâs chatter. Tim and Jason got invested in casework. Dick bounced between trying to be helpful and trying not to step on your toes.
It was tense. Tolerable, but off.
But slowly, painfully slowly, that began to shift.
The first dinners were quiet. Then not as quiet. The silences filled with someone asking for the mashed potatoes, a joke from Jason that made Damian roll his eyes. You trained with Dick and Jason more frequentlyâJason in the early mornings, often unspoken but companionable, and Dick in the late afternoons, his laughter easing the awkward air between you.
You still flinched, sometimes, when he called you âkid,â and he always looked guilty afterward. But he stopped saying it. You both adjusted.
Then came Damian. He'd barely spoken to you the first few daysâgrunts, narrowed eyes, suspicion. That was his love language, you supposed. But when Alfred mentioned Titus in passing, you caught the way Damianâs posture shifted. How his hands stilled. You didnât say anything at first. You waited until later, pulling him aside.
âI thought you might want to visit him,â youâd said quietly, offering him a ride to the small grave on the edge of the property. You didnât expect him to say yes. But he had.
It was a quiet visit. Damian didnât cry. He stood still, hands in fists at his sides, jaw clenched until it trembled. You didnât speakâjust knelt beside the headstone and let him exist. It was oddly civil. Oddly peaceful.
After that, he didn't avoid you anymore.
Then came the hard partâreintroducing them to the public.
You and Alfred worked tirelessly to sort out the legal mess that came with the sudden return of Bruce Wayne and his entire family from the dead. Media outlets swarmed. Conspiracies cropped up overnight. You held a press conference, coordinated cover stories, danced around timelines. It was exhausting. But somehow, you and Alfred pulled it off.
And after the smoke cleared, something finally started to settle.
You started doing coffee dates with Cass and Tim. Cass was quiet, as always, but being with her was easy. She didnât expect you to fill silence, just shared it with you like it was sacred. Tim came too, even though he hated coffee. He drank hot chocolate and stared at your black espresso like it personally offended him.
You helped him apply to Gotham U. Something heâd wanted to do before the portal took him away. You sat next to him through forms, essays, mock interviewsâhelped him find something normal to hold onto. He never said thank you, not directly. But heâd started texting you cat memes, so⊠that was something.
Bruce remained the strangest presence in your life.
Not cold. Not harsh. Just⊠odd. He hovered, like a satelliteâon the edge of rooms, the edge of moments. There were soft gestures: a cup of tea left by your notes in the cave. A hand briefly on your shoulder after a long patrol. A glance that lingered just a second too long before he looked away.
It was like he wanted to say something. Reach for something.
But didnât know how.
And maybe you didnât either.
But you were trying. You all were.
The walls hadnât fully come down. There were still boundaries. Wounds that hadnât yet scabbed. But the awkwardness was softening. The edges were dulling. And for the first time since the portal opened, it didnât feel like they were ghosts in your house.
It felt like family.
A new version of it.
One slowly finding its rhythm again.
It started slowlyâtoo slowly, like everything else since their return.
At first, no one said anything. But you saw the looks exchanged between them when Prudence casually called you âheâ during a debrief, or when Belial switched between âsheâ and âheâ depending on how you carried yourself that day. It wasnât said with confusion or disdainâjust quiet observation. Question without words. Uneasy curiosity. They were a perceptive group, and youâd known this conversation was coming. Youâd just hoped it could come later. Maybe not at all.
But the thing about avoiding things in the Batfamily was⊠they always caught up to you.
The longer it went unspoken, the heavier it felt. You could feel it in the space between momentsâwhen Timâs brows knit together during a mission recap, when Damianâs eyes narrowed, thoughtful and unreadable, or when Jason paused like he was about to say something, then didnât. Even Bruce had taken to glancing at you sideways, like he wanted to ask but didnât know how.
You knew that look. You used to wear it on your face every morning in the mirror.
So, finally, one night after patrolâafter everyone was tired and a little too full from dinner, lingering in the living room like people who didnât quite want to say goodnightâyou cleared your throat and stood in front of the fireplace.
âI, uhâŠâ You swallowed. Your hands flexed uselessly at your sides. Belial, who had been reading on the couch nearby, gently set his book down and looked up. That was all the cue you needed.
âI need to talk to you guys about something. Something⊠that I guess youâve been wondering about.â
The room shifted. Subtle. Quiet. But attentive.
Tim tilted his head. Dick straightened slightly. Bruce didnât move, but you felt his focus lock in like a spotlight. Even Cass turned to face you fully, her eyes soft.
You took a slow breath.
âOver the past seven years, Iâve⊠grown a lot. Learned a lot about myself. Andâone of the things I had to confront was my identity. My gender.â
The room didnât react, but you could feel the tension build behind every quiet breath.
You pushed forward. âIt was something I struggled with since I was a kid. Something I didnât have the words for, not really. After you all disappeared, it got worse. I didnât feel right in myself. I didnât feel like âgirlâ or âwomanâ fit me all the time. But I didnât feel like a guy either. It was confusing. Exhausting. Like I was walking around in skin that didnât always belong to me.â
Your hands were trembling. You clenched them to stop it.
âIt wasnât until Belial sat me down one nightâjust made me talk through itâthat I realized⊠Iâm trans. Not just one thing or the other. Some days I feel more feminine. Other days I feel more masculine. Sometimes neither. It took me so long to even say that out loud, but when I didâŠâ
You smiled faintly. âMy teamâBelial, Prudence, Farley, Azraelâthey accepted me. They just⊠accepted me.â
That part still warmed something deep in your chest. Youâd been so afraid of Azraelâs reaction the most, knowing his faith, his rigid sense of right and wrong. But he hadnât flinched. Had simply placed a hand on your shoulder and said, "Your soul is the same. Thatâs all that matters."
So when your family started hearing your team refer to you with both âheâ and âshe,â sometimes fluidly within the same sentence, you knew it had made them look at each other. Wondering. Confused. Cautious.
Now they had their answer.
You cleared your throat, arms folding across your chestânot defensive, just bracing. âIâm telling you now not because I need anything from you. Iâve lived this way for years. Iâm okay. But⊠I know youâre noticing. I figured you deserved the truth.â
Silence.
Then:
âSo⊠do you prefer âheâ or âsheâ?â Tim asked gently, his voice hesitant but not unkind.
âDepends,â you said with a small smile. âSome days one. Some days the other. Iâm okay with both.â
Dick blinked. âHow do we know which one to use?â
âIâll let you know. Or youâll probably just⊠pick it up. Itâs not that hard.â
Jason grunted. âRight. Makes sense.â He looked at you for a beat longer, then added, âYouâre still you. So whatever.â
Cass offered you a quiet nod, eyes kind. âStill proud of you.â
And then Damianâwho had been quiet the whole time, arms crossed, expression unreadableâspoke.
âI assumed.â
You raised a brow. âYou did?â
He shrugged. âTt. The way you move shifts depending on the day. Clothing choices. The team uses different pronouns around you, yet you never correct them. Only meant one thing.â He paused. âIt changes nothing.â
You blinked. âThanks, Damian.â
He scowled. âI didnât say I like you. I said it changes nothing.â
You smiled.
Then finally, Bruce looked up. He hadnât spoken once through the whole thing. His gaze met yours, quiet, steady, unreadable as always.
But then he noddedâjust onceâand said, âThank you for trusting us with that.â
It wasnât emotional. It wasnât flowery.
But it was enough.
And maybeâjust maybeâthat was all you needed.
And after that conversationâafter youâd finally spoken your truth aloud and they'd listenedâthings only got better.
It didnât happen all at once. The change was gradual, like the slow thaw of winter into spring. But it did happen. And that was more than youâd dared to hope for when they first returned through that swirling portal.
The tension that once hovered in the manor halls like fog began to lift. It wasnât just them treating you differently anymoreâthey were trying with your people too. And that meant more than you could say.
They tried with Belial. Really tried.
It started slowâlittle conversations in the cave, shared mission planning, tech banter. But surprisingly, it was Tim who connected with him first. Maybe it was their shared love of overly complex magical theory and obscure historical tomes. Maybe it was the way Belial once beat him at chess and then insisted on a rematch every other week. Or maybe it was that Tim, of all of them, saw how Belial looked at you, like you hung stars in his sky.
Whatever it was, Tim came around fast. And once he did, the others started to ease up too.
Jason would never admit it, but he appreciated how Belial knew when to shut up and when to throw down. Dick started including him in team recaps and even let him pick the music once or twice on movie nights. And Bruce⊠well. Bruce was still Bruce. But there were fewer stares and more quiet nods. More acceptance in the silence.
And Damian?
You expected that to take the longest. But then Belial showed up one day with a gift.
A puppy.
Well. A hellhound puppy.
Tiny, slightly see-through, glowing faintly red around the paws, with smoke curling off its nose when it sneezed. Belial placed it calmly in Damianâs arms and said, âHeâs yours. I made him bite-proof.â
You had never seen Damian look that soft. Or that confused.
Bruce and Alfred were not thrilled at firstâBruce stared down the hound like it might set the curtains ablaze, and Alfred spent the first week side-eying it like it might try to eat the furniture. But the little beast was⊠undeniably cute. It followed Damian everywhere, napped beside him during study breaks, and barked at people who stood too close to his tea.
Andâmost importantlyâit made Damian smile.
So that was that. The dog stayed.
You didnât say anything when you found Alfred sneaking it treats. Or when Bruce started calling it âthe creatureâ instead of âthe abomination.â
Progress.
And life?
Life started to look up for you.
The manor no longer felt like a house full of ghosts. It felt like home. There were movie nights every Friday, where Belial always brought the best snacks, and Dick refused to let anyone pick horror because âwe already live in Gotham, thanks.â
There were patrol nights again tooâat first with your team, with the Batfamily on coms, guiding, learning the new rhythm of the city. But soon, they were back in the field with you. Bruce at your side once more. Jason covering your flank. Cass gliding silently above. It felt like the city was whole again.
You even had family outings now. Picnics in the garden. Trips to the local fair. A disastrous attempt at an escape room where Damian nearly broke the door, and Prudence solved the puzzle in ten minutes just to end the suffering. Belial got banned from two amusement parks in one weekend for âunintentionally summoning low-tier demons.â
It became normal. Your normal.
Two families, one patchwork tapestry. Yours. Entirely yours.
And as the year carried on, through laughter, late nights, and soft, strange moments of peaceâyou started to believe something you hadnât in a long, long time.
That you were allowed to be happy.
That thisâchaotic, complicated, healingâthis was family.
GUYSSS!!! I"M BACK!!!! First I want to start by saying all of my series' are getting updated soon! Right now I'm just finishing one last commission that accidentally turned into like 15,000+ words. Anyways-guys we're so back.
Also, thank you to everyone for the kind words and for wishing me and my dog well. It truly means a lot! On that note, commissions are still open (shameless self plug)! Another thing, I do have a ko-fi if anyone wants to donate since a few people have asked. Thank you to everyone who has donated, even a donation of just 50 cents means a lot.
Okay, ending this off with its great to be back. Expect updates on my fics!! And FUCK healthcare in America. Even the pet insurance is crazy.
Definitely NOT Invincible (Yandere Invincible & Reader)
Pt.5
Guys, I'm cooked. Anyways, thank you for all the kind words!!! Also Y/n's cooked too...anyways! Enjoy!
ALSO!! EVERYONE THANK @oof-spoof!! THIS SERIES IS NOW BASICALLY DEDICATED TO THEM!!! Thank you @oof-spoof for supporting me!
The group fell into a heavy silence, the weight of your words sinking in as if the world itself had pressed down on your shoulders. It wasnât just about stopping Omni-Man and Invincible or sending that crucial tip to the Guardians of the Globeâit was about surviving long enough to make any of it matter.
The irrefutable fact lingered in the back of everyoneâs mind, unspoken but looming: you might be killed again.
Your stomach churned at the thought, the memory of your fatherâs hand crushing your skull replaying in vivid, excruciating detail. The sound, the pressure, the blinding painâit haunted you in ways you couldnât even articulate. And if not that, then what? Would it be a more horrific death this time? Burned alive? Torn apart?
You looked around the table, the same realization written on the faces of your friends. Hallie was biting her lip, staring blankly at the table as her fingers drummed nervously. Connorâs jaw was clenched, his fists curled tightly on his lap. Weston was silent, his expression unreadable, but his tired eyes betrayed him.
Finally, Weston broke the silence. âIâll figure out how to send the tip,â he said, his voice quiet but resolute. His gaze shifted between each of you before landing back on his hands. âYou guys focus on keeping our⊠other obligation in check.â
Shit. Youâd completely forgotten about the Demogorgons. Those damn things hadnât been on your radar for the past few days, but they were still out there, roaming the town, lurking in shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Judging by the groans and sighs from Connor and Hallie, theyâd forgotten too.
âEveryone still has their things, right?â you asked, already mentally cataloging what you had at home.
Hallie sat up straighter, brushing her hair out of her face. âGot my pump action and bolt action in my trunk and in my closet,â she said, her voice steadier than her posture.
Connor leaned back, rubbing his temples. âGot ammo and a G-48, Haymitch's axe, and the machete,â he listed off, his tone bordering on exhaustion.
âI still have the smoke bombs and my dadâs rifle he thinks he sold,â Weston added, his voice low but firm.
You nodded, storing the information away. âGood. Weâll need all that and more.â
The silence that followed was thick with understanding. Youâd fought these monsters before. Youâd survived the impossible. But this time, it wasnât just about survival. It was about holding the line, balancing the dual threats of the Demogorgons and the looming Viltrumite takeover.
"I say we prepare for the worst," you finally say, your voice cutting through the silence. "Stock up on ammo when you can, supplies, canned food, and whatever else weâll need. We have to be ready in case everything goes to shit again, in case⊠in case what we do doesnât workâ"
âDonât.â Connorâs voice cuts you off, sharp and sudden. âDonât say that, (Y/n).â
You flinch at the rawness in his voice, the sheer force of his words.
âConnorââ you start, but he barrels forward, his frustration spilling over like a dam breaking.
âIt has to work!â he says, his voice trembling. âIt has to, or elseââ He looks away, jaw tight, his hands clenching into fists. âOr else that means we fought for nothing. That means all those people who diedâwho are going to dieâdied for nothing. That means we came back for nothing.â
His words hang in the air, raw and painful. You feel them hit you like a punch to the gut.
Your lips press together tightly as you try to find somethingâanythingâto say. Connor was always the "strong" one of the group, the silent type, the brash one who rarely let anyone see how deeply he felt things. He was the backbone, the shoulder everyone else could lean on when things got tough. Seeing him like this, unraveling, hurts more than you want to admit.
âIâmâIâm sorry, Connor,â you finally manage, your voice barely above a whisper.
âNo, Iâm sorry,â he mutters, his eyes watery as he scrubs at his face with the back of his hand. His voice cracks slightly as he continues, âYouâyouâre just doing what you always do, trying to keep us alive. Iâm sorry.â
âPlease donât apologize, Con,â you say quickly, leaning forward slightly, trying to catch his gaze. âIâI get it. Really, I do.â
The tension around the table is palpable. Hallie and Weston exchange uneasy glances, their worry for Connor evident in the grim lines of their faces.
âConnor,â Hallie starts gently, her voice low and careful, ânobodyâs saying what happened before will happen again, butââ
âI know,â he cuts her off, his voice quieter now, almost resigned. He lets out a shaky breath and sinks back in his seat, rubbing a hand over his face. âI know. But we have to consider the high chance it will.â
The stakes couldnât be higher, and the thought of failingâof going through all of it againâwas unbearable.
But you didnât have a choice.
You glanced at each of them in turn, taking in their tired faces, the fear lingering in their eyes. They were your family, your only anchor in a world that felt increasingly impossible to navigate.
âWeâll make it work,â you say softly, your voice steady despite the storm inside you. âI donât know how yet, but we will.â
You donât know if they believe you, and honestly, youâre not even sure if you believe yourself.Â
Westonâs hand comes to rest on Connorâs shoulder, rubbing little circles in that gentle, soothing way he always did to calm the group down. It was such a Weston thing to doâhe had always been physical with his care and affection, expressing his love in small touches and gestures that reminded you all you werenât alone. You see Connorâs shoulders relax just slightly under Westonâs touch, though the tension doesnât completely leave him.
You shift closer, moving to sit beside Connor, offering your silent presence as support. Across the table, Hallie slides her water bottle toward him, her brow furrowed in worry. âHere,â she says softly. Her voice doesnât waver, but her eyes betray the depth of her concern. Connor takes the bottle with a small, muttered âthanks,â and sips from it, his gaze distant.
The weight of the moment settles over all of you, thick and suffocating. No one says anything for a while, and for a brief moment, the only sound is the distant hum of chatter from other tables in the courtyard.
Then the lunch bell rings, cutting through the stillness like a knife, signaling itâs time to go back to class. The sound sends a jolt through you, and you see the same dread reflected in everyoneâs faces. None of you want to go. Yet, there was nothing you could do.
You all stand reluctantly, gathering your things in silence. Before you split up, you squeeze Connorâs shoulder gently, hoping it conveys what you canât find the words to say. He offers a faint smile.
You walk into the crowded hallway, your mind scrambling as you try to recall your next class. What was it? You swear you knew just minutes ago, but now the information is gone, like a wisp of smoke slipping through your fingers.
You glance around desperately, hoping to recognize a familiar face, someone who might share the class with you. But the sea of students around you is a blur of faces you barely recognize. Who the hell are these people? You donât remember their names, their voices, their stories. Theyâre strangers, even though you know you should know them.
Panic creeps up your spine as you weave through the hall, your breathing growing shallow. Youâre losing it. Youâre losing yourself, and thereâs nothing you can do to stop it. The realization claws at you, sharp and unrelenting.
You hate this. You hate what this world, what this second chance, has reduced you to. What itâs reduced all of you to.
Your hands tremble as you tighten your grip on your bag, willing the shaking to stop, but it doesnât. You pass classrooms, peeking inside, hoping something will clickâa desk, a teacher, a face. But nothing does.
The hallways start growing emptier as students file into their classrooms, the bustling energy fading into a deafening quiet. You glance around, the panic tightening in your chest. Where the hell were you supposed to go?
Your mind scrambles, trying to latch onto somethingâanythingâthat will tell you your next class. The answer eludes you, slipping through your fingers like sand. You fumble with your phone, attempting to log into your student portal. At least that would show your schedule, right?
Except the password isnât auto-saved. Of course, it isnât.
You sit there staring at the login screen, willing your brain to remember your credentials, but nothing comes. Itâs just another blank void. Great. Now you canât even see your schedule, let alone your grades. Not that grades should be at the top of your concerns right now, but still, the thought gnaws at the back of your mind. Youâre so screwed.
You lean against a row of lockers, the cold metal biting into your back as you let out a frustrated sigh. What the hell do I do now? Asking the front desk for help is out of the question. Itâs the middle of the school year, and no one forgets their schedule this far in. It would raise questions. And why couldnât you just look it up yourself? The idea of facing that judgment makes you cringe.
No, you canât do that.
Instead, you resign yourself to staying in a random, empty hallway, slumping down against the wall. The quiet envelops you, a brief respite from the overwhelming noise in your head. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the silence settle around you. God, you didnât realize how much your eyes were burning, how much your body ached.
The idea of just staying here, hidden and still, is so tempting. Maybe you could just chill here for a while. Yeah, that sounded nice. Just a little break.
You donât realize how much time passes as you sit there, your mind drifting between the chaos of your thoughts and the exhaustion weighing you down. For a brief moment, you feel the smallest sliver of peace.
Until a voice shatters it.
âPlaying hooky, (Y/n)?â
Your stomach drops. No. Not him. Not now.
Markâs voice carries that unmistakable mix of smugness and sharpness, the tone that always made you want to squirm. âTch, Mom and Dad are not going to be happy. Especially after the last meeting your counselor had about your little habit of skipping classes.â
You open your eyes, and there he is, standing over you with a smirk that makes you want to curl in on yourself. His eyes bore into yours, sharp and calculating, as if heâs dissecting you piece by piece.
âW-what? When didâoh shit,â you stammer, the memory hitting you like a brick. Heâs talking about the meeting. Youâd skipped a bunch of classes last semester to deal with the Demogorgons. Sure, you kept your grades up, but that didnât stop the school from calling your mom. And to say she was upset was an understatement.
Markâs smirk widens as he watches the realization dawn on your face. âAh, there it is,â he says mockingly, leaning against the wall. âIâm sure Mom will love hearing about this. You know how she feels about second chances.â
You glare at him, the panic in your chest now mixed with frustration. âMark, Iâlook, just donât. Please.â
His expression softens, but only slightly. Thereâs still that edge to his voice, that unnerving mix of concern and menace. âDonât what? Tell her? Youâre not making this easy, you know. Skipping class, hiding out like this⊠Itâs like you want her to freak out.â
âI justââ You falter, your words failing you. The exhaustion, the stress, the sheer overwhelming nature of everythingâitâs all too much. You canât think of a good excuse, and Markâs gaze feels like itâs cutting through every lie you might try to tell.
He crouches down, leveling his eyes with yours. âWhatâs going on with you, (Y/n)?â he asks, his voice softer now but no less piercing. âYouâve been off. I know youâre not telling me everything.â
You look away, unable to meet his gaze.
Markâs words linger in the air like a trap, waiting for you to fall in. âAre you depressed or something? Maybe itâs a boy? I donât know, (Y/n), but somethingâs off. I know it is,â he says, his tone dripping with faux concern. âJust tell me. Tell your big brother, and I can make it go away.â
The irony of it all hits you like a freight train, and you canât help itâyou huff, then giggle, and then it all spirals out of control. A laugh bubbles out of you, wild and uncontainable, quickly escalating into full-blown hysterics. Youâre wheezing now, clutching your sides, and you know you must look insane. Maybe you are. How could you not be?
Itâs funny, really. The idea that he, Mark, could fix your problems. That he could âmake it go away.â Itâs laughable because a massive chunk of your problems is sitting right in front of you, watching you unravel with that same calculating smirk. How utterly absurd.
Your laughter devolves into choked breaths as your chest tightens painfully. The tears come next, hot and relentless, spilling down your cheeks. Youâre sobbing now, loud and ugly, your body shaking uncontrollably.
Markâs expression shifts, surprise flickering in his eyes. Then something darker takes holdâsomething intrigued, almost amused. He wasnât expecting this, but oh, was he glad. He leans in closer, his lips curling into a softer smile. There was something seriously wrong with you. He knew it now. And that knowledge only made him more eager to figure out what had happened to his weak, adorable little sister.
âOh, (Y/n),â he coos, his voice deceptively sweet as he cups your cheek with his large, warm hand. His thumb brushes against your tear-streaked skin, wiping away the evidence of your breakdown. His touch is firm but gentle, an unnerving mix of comfort and control.
You try to flinch away, your instincts screaming at you to get out of his grasp, but your body betrays you. Exhausted and overwhelmed, you slump into his hand, your head tilting slightly as if seeking solace. You hate it. You hate yourself for it. But youâre only human, and his warmth feels like the only anchor keeping you from completely spiraling.
âSt-stop this,â you choke out between sobs, your voice barely audible. âPuh-please.â
Mark tilts his head, his expression almost mockingly innocent. âStop what, (Y/n)?â he asks softly, his voice laced with feigned confusion.
âThis,â you gasp, your voice trembling. âThisâwhat youâyouâre doing. Please, itâit isnât fair.â
His hand doesnât move from your cheek, and his thumb continues its slow, deliberate motion, wiping away fresh tears as they fall. His smile softens further, but his eyes remain sharp, predatory.
âFair?â he echoes, as if tasting the word. âOh, (Y/n). Life isnât fair. You know that.â His voice drops lower, almost a whisper. âBut you donât have to worry about that. You donât have to worry about anything. Thatâs what Iâm here for.â
You shake your head weakly, your sobs growing quieter but no less intense. âYouââ
He interrupts you gently, his voice soothing but utterly condescending. âShh. Just let me take care of you.â
The words send a chill down your spine, the weight of his intent pressing down on you. You know thereâs no escaping him now, not when heâs latched onto you like this. Not when heâs decided youâre his problem to solve, his little sister to protectâeven if it means breaking you further in the process.
Markâs gaze lingers on your trembling form, his hand still cradling your cheek. He studies you with a mix of curiosity and calculation, the wheels turning in his mind as he contemplates your place in all of this. Maybe he could make something useful out of you. Maybe you could be shaped into something worthy of the Viltrumite cause.
But as he takes in your tear-streaked face, the way your body shakes beneath his touch, he doubts it. Youâre too weak. Too small. Too soft.
Itâs almost pathetic how fragile you are, how human you are.
Still, the thought lingersâwhat if? What if you could prove yourself? What if, against all odds, you showed even the slightest potential? Perhaps then he could convince their father to keep you after the takeover. It would be difficult, of course. Nolan had little patience for weakness, and you were the embodiment of everything the Viltrumite race despised. But if you somehow managed to prove your worth, there was a chance.
Markâs lips curve into a faint smile, the thought of sparing you for his motherâs sake bringing him a strange sense of satisfaction. You werenât ideal offspring, no, far from it. But you were her daughter. Debbie would appreciate having you around, heâs sure of it, especially when their father inevitably takes her away from Earth to shield her from the chaos of their conquest.
âYouâre lucky, you know,â Mark murmurs, his voice low and smooth. His thumb pauses for a moment, pressing lightly against your cheekbone as his eyes bore into yours. âIf it werenât for Mom, I wouldnât even consider giving you a chance. But maybe⊠maybe youâll surprise us.â
You blink at him, your chest tightening as his words sink in. âA-a chance? Mark, what are youââ
He cuts you off, his smile widening slightly, but thereâs no warmth in it. âYouâll see,â he says cryptically, pulling his hand away and standing to his full height. His shadow looms over you, and for a brief moment, you feel like youâre shrinking under his gaze.
âJust remember, (Y/n),â he adds, his tone shifting to something colder, more deliberate. âThis world isnât kind to people like you. But youâre lucky to have me. Iâll make sure you donât get left behind.â
The words feel like a promise and a threat all at once, leaving you frozen in place as he turns and walks away, his presence lingering long after heâs gone.
Youâre left alone in the empty hallway, your breaths shaky and uneven, the weight of his intentions pressing down on you like a vice. Lucky, he said. But you donât feel lucky. You feel trapped. And no amount of tears can wash that feeling away.
You sit there, slumped against the wall, trying to process what the hell Mark was talking about. âIf it werenât for Mom?â What does that even mean? Why would she have anything to do with whether Mark decided to âgive you a chance?â What kind of chance was he even talking about?
Your mind spirals as you try to make sense of his cryptic words, the unease clawing at your insides. The idea that your mother somehow factored into whatever twisted plans Mark had for you only made the knot in your stomach tighten. What was he planning? What did he mean by not getting left behind?
Your thoughts race, one question bleeding into the next as panic wells up inside you. You canât piece it together. You donât have enough information. But the way he looked at youâthe cold calculation behind his eyes, the way his words felt like a threat wrapped in false careâit makes your skin crawl.
You bury your face in your hands, your breathing shallow as your mind loops through the interaction. What the hell is going on?
Meanwhile, Mark is on his way out of the school building, his phone already in hand. He dials the familiar number, his expression cool and composed. The phone rings only twice before the unmistakable voice of his father, Nolan, answers.
âWhat is it?â Omni-Manâs voice is gruff, direct, as always.
Mark leans against the wall outside, his tone calm but tinged with a quiet urgency. âItâs about (Y/n),â he begins, cutting straight to the point. âThereâs something off with her. More than usual.â
On the other end of the line, Nolan sighs. His voice is bored, disinterested. âMark, your sister has always been like this. Emotional and a bit erratic. Itâs nothing new.â
Mark clenches his jaw but keeps his tone steady. âNo, Dad, this is different. Sheâs acting weirdâlike, really weird. Comeâon, Iâm sure youâve noticed how sheâs stopped constantly asking to go out with us? Or how everytime she looks at one of us, her heart rate always increases, hell, I could smell the adrenaline rush that gets triggered.â
Nolanâs silence stretches for a moment. âDad, why is she having a fight or flight, fear response triggered, huh?â
âOf course Iâve noticed, Mark,â Omni-man sighs out. âIf itâs worth worrying about, Iâll handle it. But until then, sheâs justâŠâ He pauses, and Mark can practically see the look on his fatherâs face. âSheâs still a human.â
Mark exhales sharply, but he doesnât argue. He knows better than to push Nolan when heâs like this. âFine,â he says, his voice tight. âBut if I find out something important, Iâll let you know.â
âDo that,â Nolan replies curtly, and the line goes dead.
Mark slips his phone back into his pocket, his expression unreadable. Heâs not entirely satisfied with his fatherâs response, but heâs also not surprised. Nolan has never had much patience for what he considers âmundane human nonsense.â If (Y/n)âs behavior didnât involve anything worthy of the Viltrumite cause, it simply wasnât a priority to him.
Still, Mark canât shake the feeling that thereâs more to this than his father realizes. And if Nolan wonât take it seriously, then Mark will.
With Bared Teeth & Prayers (Yandere Batfam X Neglected Reader) (Dark!!! Werewolf AU) (PT. 2)
Hi guys, Iâm alive. Iâve just been sick and then found out that my dogâs cancer spread and the surgery costs $3,000 which is insane. Anyways, Iâve been working irl so I completely forgot about this account. Sorry pookiesđ€đ.
If anyone wants to know Iâm still taking commissions, and if my price doesnât work for you Iâm sure I can lower it!! Honestly, Iâll write for whatever price Iâm lowkey desperate.đđ
The next morning, you wake up in panic, shit, you slept in. You rush out the manor forgoing breakfast, almost eating shit on the sidewalk in your rush. You hop onto your bike, pedaling as if death itself was chasing you, huffing and puffing. Thankfully you make it to school on time, if only just on time.
You fall into your seat just as the bell rings, letting the top half of your body crumple over the desk.
âLooks like somebody had a rough morning.â The familiar voice of one of your best friends.
âFuck off Quinn.â You huff out tiredly.
âFine, then I guess this extra black coffee I got at Gloriaâs is going to waste then.â She said teasingly.
How is it that she always has impeccable intuition about these things?
You groaned sitting up, giving Quinn a tired look.
âYikes, I was gonna make another smartass joke but you look like youâre about to keel over.â She said worriedly, handing over the extra coffee.
âHa ha, yeah I feel like I'm about to keel over. Thanks for the coffee by the way.â You said dryly.
âDonât sweat it girl, butâuh, what the hell happened.â
âToo much dude, too much. It's so much bullshit I don't even know where to start.â
âIm guessing its aboutââ
âDing, ding, ding, you got it.â
âShitâŠhow bad? Theyâre not gonna⊠you knowâŠâ Quinn stutters off.
âKill me? Eat me?âÂ
She nodded.
You massage your forehead, a headache forming between your eyebrows. âI'll be so for real right now, I don't even know.â
âDamn, I don't even know what to say to that.â Quinn grimaces.
âItâd be weird if you did.â You joked giving her a sardonic smile.âWell if theyâre gonna kill me, I hope they do it before finals.â
âYouâve got issues (Y/n).â
âIâm aware.â
Just then the chatter in the class started to pipe down as your history teacher, Mr. Lechliter, made his way into the room. However, something wasnât right; his usually neat hair was in disarray and you could smell that he was profusely sweating. He was nervous, which was completely out of character. Sure Mr. Lechliter was awkward at times but he was normally confident and loud around the class, something was going on.Â
âGood morning, class,â Mr. Lechliter began, but his voice was shaky, not at all the usual booming tone he used to command the room. âI-uh, hope youâre all ready to jump into⊠um, well, history.â He swallowed hard, glancing around as if searching for somethingâor someoneâoutside the door.
You look at Quinn with a raised eyebrow. What the hell is happening right now?
âWe, um, actually have two guests whoâll be auditing a couple of classes today so we all want you guys on your best behavior. For our sakes and yours.â He said fidgeting with his paperweight globe, however, it was what he whispered under his breath that had you worried. What the fuck did he mean by that?!
âThese guest speakers are one of the school's top sponsors so I truly cannot express the need we have for you all to behave and be on task, understand?â Mr. Lechliter spoke gravely.
The class let out a scattered âYesâ whilst others nodded. Now it was the class's turn to start getting nervous, the energy in the room now becoming quite grim. Seeing the classâs cooperation, Mr. Lechliter let out a shaky smile and nodded back at the class in approval. You sipped your coffee nervously in tandem.
âGood. Now, without further adieu, please welcome the esteemed Bruce Wayne and his son, CEO of Wayne Enterprises, Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne.â
And in walked your worst nightmare as you choked on your coffee. A hesitant applause began as a couple of heads turned your way, including the scrutinizing eyes of Bruce Wayne and Tim Drake.
âJesus Christ (Y/n), are you good?â Quinn whispered, patting your back.
âDoes it look like I'm good, Quinn?â You whisper-yell back.
âSorry, dumb question.â
âI legitimately can't do this right now.â You groan out quietly.
Timâs sharp, calculating gaze landed on you, and for a split second, his lips twitched upward in what looked disturbingly close to satisfaction. Bruce, however, kept his gaze steady, stoic, making his way to the front of the class like he owned every square inch of the roomâand maybe, in a way, he did.
Bruce stepped forward, greeting Mr. Lechliter with a firm handshake before addressing the class. âGood morning,â he said, his voice carrying a smooth authority. âItâs always a pleasure to see the next generation of Gothamâs finest minds, and today, weâre here to discuss some unique opportunities with Wayne Enterprisesâpartnerships, scholarships, and mentorship programs that may be of interest to you in your future studies.â
Meanwhile, Timâs gaze remained fixed on you, a silent warning lingering behind his polite smile. You swallowed hard, avoiding eye contact, hoping that blending in might somehow make you invisible. But Tim had no intention of letting you off the hook. He leaned slightly closer to Bruce, murmuring something that made Bruceâs eyes flicker in your direction, his expression unreadable.
Quinn leaned over, her voice barely a whisper. â(Y/n), what the hell is going on? They keep looking at you.â
âTrust me, I wish I knew,â you muttered back, managing to take a sip of coffee without choking this time. âTheyâre just here to make my life a living nightmare, apparently.â
As Bruce and Tim began their presentation, outlining all the âwonderful opportunitiesâ that a connection to Wayne Enterprises could bring, you couldnât help but feel trapped. Every line, every subtle glance, seemed like a reminder that escape from their influence was impossible. They were inescapable, even here, in the one place you thought you could breathe.
When they finally wrapped up their presentation, Bruce offered to answer questions, his gaze settling on you for the briefest moment, as if daring you to speak up. You just nervously looked away, its fine, theyâve said their piece and will be leaving soon.
But of course life doesn't ever go the way that you want.
The relief that had started to settle in evaporated as Bruce and Tim made no move to leave. Instead, they took seats at the back of the classroom, settling in with that same poised, assessing presence that dominated every room they entered. Bruce folded his hands in his lap, his gaze steady and inscrutable, while Tim casually crossed his arms, his eyes tracking every studentâs reaction, but always coming back to you.
You swallowed hard, glancing at Quinn, who was now just as unsettled as you were. âAre they⊠staying?â she whispered, her brows knitting together in worry.
âLooks like it,â you muttered, barely moving your lips.
Mr. Lechliter, visibly tense under the weight of their scrutiny, resumed his lesson with all the grace of a man on the edge of a breakdown. Every time he stumbled over his words or glanced nervously at Bruce, the room felt as if it held its breath.
âThis, um, particular era in historyâŠâ Mr. Lechliter began, stammering slightly as he struggled to keep his usual confident tone. âItâs a time when alliances shifted often, and there wasâŠconstant jockeying for powerâŠâ
Bruce and Tim watched, expressions neutral, but you knew better than to believe their act. They werenât here for any genuine interest in educational standards; they were here as a reminder, a warning that the Wayne influence extended beyond the manor walls.
You focused on your notebook, pen tapping anxiously against the paper as you tried to tune them out and take frantic notes. But it was impossible to ignore the cold prickle at the back of your neck. Every glance felt like a needle, each second stretching longer than the last.
Mr. Lechliterâs lecture painstakingly continued on for another thirty minutes before class started coming to an end.
The bell finally rang as you shot up out of your seat and practically sprinted out the door. You head to your locker, feeling the many starters of students and teachers bore into you. Another thing was that everyone kinda knew that the Wayneâs didn't like you, it was very obvious. Which meant the media had a field day, letting the entirety of Gotham know how much the famous pack hated you. So now your business was also aired out to the entire world to know. Wonderful, am I right?
You shove your unneeded books into your (tbh, very cutely) decorated locker, while grabbing the science textbook you needed for your next class, AP Biology. This class was the absolute bane of your existence. Not only was the content hard, the teacher was also absolutely nuts. You walk over to your Bio class, clutching your books like a lifeline. âPlease, dont be here too.â You pray to yourself. Thankfully, this class was normal, well, as normal as it could get. The other two classes you have before lunch ended the same way, Wayneless.Â
As your fourth class comes to an end your stomach starts to growl. Youâd be embarrassed, but everyone else in your class was in a similar starved state. When the lunch bell goes off, youâre excitedly grabbing your things and making your way down. Fucking finally it was lunchtime. You made your way to the quickly growing lunchline
Your friends were already sitting at your usual table as you made your way over and slammed your lunch tray on the table.
âIm gonna kill myself.â
âI can't even say anything about that.â One of your other friends Daniel says.
You groaned holding your head in your hands, your headache becoming more prevalent as you turn to look at him.
âMan all I did was ask to leave, and now this shit? I can't even right now.â
âYou finally asked to leave, huh? I'm guessing it didn't go well.â Daniel asks.
âNope, but when does anything ever go right in my life.â
Just as you finish talking, the noisy cafeteria falls abruptly silent. The usual clatter of trays and chatter of students fades, replaced by an almost eerie quiet. You and your friends exchange confused glances before turning to see whatâor whoâcould possibly have silenced a room full of teenagers. But in the pit of your stomach, you already have an idea.
Sure enough, walking through the entrance are Bruce Wayne and Tim Drake-Wayne, looking completely out of place in their immaculate suits and composed expressions. Their powerful, calculating gazes sweep across the crowd, searching for someone, before both of their eyes zero in on you and your table. Instinctively, you tense up, your shoulders hunching as if to make yourself smaller, and you feel the flush of embarrassment heat your cheeks under their scrutiny.
Their focused stares make you flinch, and you quickly look away, facing your friends once more. âSee what I mean?â you mutter under your breath, trying to keep your voice steady. âItâs like the universe is out to get me.â
Daniel raises an eyebrow, glancing between you and the Waynes, a flicker of worry passing over his face. "What are they doing here? This isnât normal, right?â
âNo, itâs definitely not,â you reply, trying to keep your tone casual even as your heart races. âTheyâre here to make a point.â
You further slump into the table, arms cradling your head as the cafeteria slowly starts to go back to its normal noise level. Both Tim and Bruce take a seat at a table opposite to where youâre sitting, which gives them a perfect view of your table. Great.
âGuys talk to me. Anythingâtalk about anything please.â You beg quietly.
Quinn leans in, glancing nervously at the Waynes across the cafeteria. âUh, did you hear about Chief Keef performing soon? Apparently, heâll be in Gotham.â
Daniel nods, catching on to your plea for distraction. âYeah, yeah, I heard he's gonna bring another artist on stage. Mauve Travis or something if weâre lucky?.â
You smile weakly, grateful for the distraction, even if your heartâs still pounding. You try to focus on what theyâre saying, but you can feel Timâs gaze on you like a laser, scrutinizing, watching every movement. You pretend not to notice, grabbing a fry from your tray and nodding along to whatever Daniel and Quinn are saying, forcing yourself to join in with a half-hearted laugh here and there.
Quinn suddenly brings up a story from her last weekend, trying her best to lighten the mood. âOkay, get thisâI tried to impress this guy by pretending to know how to skate, but instead, I ended up flat on my face in front of, like, everyone. Mortifying, but he did buy me a smoothie as a consolation prize.â
You chuckle, letting the story pull you out of your anxious thoughts. âI mean, sounds like it kind of worked. You got a free smoothie, right?â
Quinn laughs, rolling her eyes. âOnly because he felt bad, but hey, Iâll take pity smoothies.â
The laughter at your table grows, the lighthearted moment almost making you forget the ominous presence of Bruce and Tim nearby. But just as youâre starting to relax, you catch a glimpse of Timâs amused smirk from the corner of your eye. His eyes donât leave you, as if he knows exactly how unsettling his presence is and heâs reveling in it.
âI think he liked you,â Daniel teases Quinn, keeping the conversation going to help ease your nerves.
âLiked my bruised ego, maybe,â she snorts. âAnyway, what about you, (Y/n)? Got any secret admirers?â
You shake your head, grateful theyâre keeping the focus off your current predicament. âNope, unless you count the cadaver frog I accidentally dropped on my lab partner. He, uh-didnât look at me the same after that.â
Your friends burst out laughing, and for a brief, blessed moment, you almost feel normal again. But when you glance back, Bruceâs eyes are still on you, cool and unyielding.
âHereâs to hoping theyâre gone after lunch,â Daniel mutters, catching your uneasy glance.
âWhat good has hoping ever done me?â You sigh, picking at your food.
The tension in the cafeteria never fully fades. Despite the attempts from Quinn and Daniel to keep the conversation going, the presence of Bruce and Tim just continues to overwhelm you. Every so often, your eyes flit toward them, only to find them still seated, still watching, and their expressions betraying nothing of their true intent. It feels like theyâre waiting for you to make a move, to react in some way that would justify their unsettling attention.
Lunch drags on in this uncomfortable limbo until, at last, the bell rings, signaling the end of the break. Your friends gather their things, offering small words of encouragement or supportive smiles, though they too look wary of the Waynesâ lingering presence.
âIâll see you both in Chem. Hopefully Mr. Domzalski isn't still in a bad mood from what happened yesterday.â You say.
âYou mean from when you and Daniel set fire to one of his textbooks?â Quinn questions sardonically.
You and Daniel offer her a sheepish, guilty smile.Â
âHeyâit was an accident!â he exclaims, feigning offense.
âYeah, what he said! We followed all the instructions to a T!â You defend as well.
âSure, whatever you both say. I'm just surprised he didn't automatically fail you two.â Quinn says fondly.
âItâs âcause weâre somehow his favorites? Don't ask me how or why though.â You respond.
As you and Daniel chuckle, the lightheartedness helps lift some of the weight that had been hanging over your head. The relief is short-lived, though, as you feel a prickle on the back of your neckâa feeling thatâs become all too familiar lately.
You glance back to see Bruce and Tim still watching, and for a moment, something in Bruceâs gaze changes. You canât quite read it, but it feels sharper, like heâs calculating, considering something he hasnât said. You swallow, gripping your bag tighter as your friends move to head toward class, unaware of the silent tension hanging around you like a cloud.
You head to your APA Algebra II class alone, without the usual buffer of Daniel or Quinnâs lighthearted banter to ease the tension. The classroom is quiet, a different atmosphere from the lively lunch period, and youâre able to slip into your seat undisturbed, hoping that the math problems ahead will give you a welcome distraction.
As the class moves on, you find yourself lost in equations, the numbers and formulas acting as a temporary refuge from everything else. You keep your head down, concentrating on the work, grateful for the momentary peace that academics bring.
When the bell rings, signaling the end of Math, you gather your things and head to APA Chemistry, where youâd finally reunite with Daniel and Quinn. When you arrive in APA Chemistry, the atmosphere is surprisingly relaxed. Mr. Domzalski hasnât arrived yet, so everyoneâs just hanging out, chatting about weekend plans, or joking around. You plop down next to Daniel, whoâs already doodling on his notebook, and give Quinn a tired smile. Itâs nice to have a few minutes to unwind before the usual controlled chaos of Mr. Domzalskiâs class kicks in.
Then, the door swings open, and you freeze as Mr. Domzalski steps in with Tim Drake following close behind. Your stomach twists, and you have to swallow down a groan. Thankfully, Bruce is nowhere to be seen. Small blessings, you suppose; better not to question it too much. You look at your friends, trying to convey your annoyance with a single tired look as Mr. Domzalski beams with a sort of overdone excitement that sets you on edge.
âEveryone, Iâd like you to welcome a special guest,â he says, practically brimming with enthusiasm. âTim Drake-Wayne, CEO of Wayne Enterprises, is here to observe our class today.â
You sink lower in your chair, stifling a grumble. Great, just great. This whole thing was growing stale fast. You try to ignore the interested murmurs spreading through the class as everyone stares at Tim, who stands there with that same polite, professional smile heâs been flashing all day. You avoid eye contact, focusing instead on the edge of your desk as Mr. Domzalski continues.
âNow,â Mr. Domzalski goes on, shifting his focus to the lab materials, âbefore we dive into todayâs lesson, letâs review what went wrong in yesterdayâs lab.â
He shoots a pointed look in your direction, his smile still in place, but thereâs a glint in his eyes that tells you heâs not exactly thrilled. âFor those who might need a reminder,â he continues, not-so-subtly side-eyeing you and Daniel, âimproper handling of materials led to one of my textbooks, which I cherish dearly, being set on fire.â
The class erupts into quiet snickers, and Daniel coughs into his hand, trying to disguise his laughter. You roll your eyes, but a smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth. Even Timâs eyes change a bit, as if interested.
Mr. Domzalski clears his throat, regaining the classâs attention. âLetâs aim for a little more caution today, shall we?â
The lab for the day was going to be more complex than usual. Mr. Domzalski, with a edge of nervousness in his tone, began rattling off the new, more complicated instructions. His gaze flicked to you and Daniel more than once, lingering just long enough to make his message clear: Please donât mess up.
You slouched slightly in your seat, already feeling the weight of the unspoken pressure. It wasnât lost on you how much was riding on this lab going smoothlyânot just for your grade, but for Mr. Domzalski himself. With Tim Drake-Wayne, CEO of Wayne Enterprises and a member of one of Gothamâs most powerful packs, observing, any mishap could very well put your teacherâs job on the line.
Next to you, Daniel caught your eye, his lips twitching into a wry smirk. He leaned in, whispering, âFeel like weâre walking on eggshells today, huh?â
âMore like a minefield,â you muttered back, eyeing the lab equipment warily. The setup looked far more intricate than usualâbeakers and flasks stacked alongside pipettes, Bunsen burners, and an array of unfamiliar chemicals. It was a recipe for disaster, and you had no intention of being the one to set it off.
Tim, seated at the back of the room, watched the proceedings with his usual cool detachment. His presence was like a weight pressing down on the room, amplifying every minor sound and movement. You could practically feel his gaze on you, even when you werenât looking his way.
âAlright, everyone,â Mr. Domzalski said, clapping his hands to gather the classâs attention. âRemember to follow the instructions precisely as theyâre written. This is a delicate experiment, and precision is key. Any deviation couldâwell, letâs just say we donât want any surprises today.â
The pointed glance he sent your way at the word âsurprisesâ made you cringe internally. You shot Daniel a look. He seemed to get the message, giving you a small nod before turning his focus to the materials in front of him.
With a deep breath, you adjusted your goggles and got to work, determined not to give anyoneâespecially Timâa reason to criticize.
The lab was rough from the very start. No matter how tightly you adjusted your goggles, they kept fogging up, obscuring your vision at the worst possible moments. You constantly had to pause to wipe them off, and each time, you felt Tim's Gaze flicker towards you. Daniel, meanwhile, was no better. He almost tipped over a vial of some unpronounceable chemical twice, and each time, you barely managed to steady it before disaster struck.
âBro you have to lock in.â you said under your breath.
âI'm tryingâfuck. My hands are too shaky.â Daniel whispered back, nervous as he tried held out his hands for you to see. He carefully set the vial down, only for his elbow to nudge another piece of equipment. You caught it just in time, your heart leaping into your throat.
The instructions seemed to come at lightning speed, Mr. Domzalski rattling off steps faster than you could write them down. Each new instruction layered on top of the last until your head was spinning with measurements, temperatures, and reaction times. You were doing your best to keep upâyou think you were doing it rightâbut the constant noise and movement around you made it feel like everything was closing in.
You glanced at the flask on your workstation, bubbling faintly as it was supposed to, and double-checked the temperature. It seemed fine. Probably fine. Hopefully fine. But the nagging thought that you mightâve missed a step wouldnât go away.
Behind you, Timâs silent observation was like a shadow, adding another layer of stress to the already chaotic atmosphere. Every time you caught sight of him out of the corner of your eye, you swore his expression was unreadable, yet somehow judgmental.
âI think this is right,â you muttered, glancing at the next step in the instructions and adjusting your setup.
ââThinkâ isnât reassuring, (Y/n),â Daniel replied, he was nervous. âDonât blow us up, okay?â
âNot funny,â you snapped, though your lips twitched in a half-smile despite the stress. âJust keep stirring before we mess up the timing.â
The rest of the lab dragged on in a haze of nervous energy and frantic adjustments. Your hands trembled slightly as you measured out the final chemical, careful not to let even a drop spill. When you finally completed the experiment, the mixture in the beaker turned the correct pale blue color, and you let out a shaky breath of relief.
âSee?â Daniel said, flashing you a grin. âWe nailed it.â
You gave him a tired look. âBarely.â
As Mr. Domzalski approached to check your work, you held your breath, praying there wasnât some detail youâd overlooked. When he gave a curt nod of approval, you finally relaxed, though your nerves still felt frayed. Even then, you could feel Timâs eyes on you, as if silently appraising every moment of your struggle.
The lab was over, but the stress lingered like a heavy weight on your shoulders. You packed up your materials with shaky hands, grateful to escape the pressure of both the experiment and the unrelenting scrutiny.
As the class wrapped up, Mr. Domzalski passed by your station, his sharp eyes flicking over the completed experiment. The pale blue liquid in the beaker must have been just right because, instead of his usual critical remarks, he gave a subtle nod and a quiet, âGood work.â The words werenât overly enthusiastic, but coming from himâand especially with Tim Drake watchingâit was as close to praise as you could get.
You felt a weight lift off your shoulders, and you let out a long sigh of relief. You and Daniel exchanged a look, his triumphant grin mirrored by the faintest smile you allowed yourself. Youâd passed. Somehow, despite the foggy goggles, Danielâs near-disasters, and the relentless pressure, youâd made it through the lab unscathed.
As you finished cleaning up, Mr. Domzalski gave you a brief, silent glance of thanks. It wasnât much, but you knew what it meant: he was grateful you hadnât turned todayâs experiment into another headline-worthy incident. You nodded subtly back, grateful that the ordeal was over.
With the last of your equipment put away, you grabbed your bag and escaped the lab as quickly as possible, the weight of Timâs lingering gaze finally lifting as you stepped into the hallway. Quinn was waiting by the door, chatting with Daniel, who was still buzzing with post-lab adrenaline.
âWell, looks like you didnât burn down the school,â Quinn teased, grinning as she fell into step with you.
âYeah, yeah,â you muttered, rolling your eyes but smiling despite yourself. âWeâre still alive, so I guess thatâs a win.â
âHey give us more credit.â Daniel chimed in, earning a laugh from both you and Quinn.
As the three of you headed for the stairs, you said goodbye to Daniel, who was heading to a different class. âSee you later, guys.â he said, waving as he turned down another hallway.
You and Quinn made your way toward the gym for your seventh period, the final class of the day. The familiar chatter and clang of lockers greeted you as you stepped into the changing area. Gym wasnât exactly your favorite class, but after the stress of the lab, it was almost a relief to have something physical to focus on instead of the constant mental strain.
âThink theyâll leave you alone for the day?â Quinn asked as you pulled on your gym shoes.
âI hope so,â you replied, your voice weary. âI canât handle any more of this. Itâs like they canât even wait to-toâŠyou know.â
Quinn grimaces. âYeah, I know.â But she smiles back at you, as if tying to make you perk up. âWell, at least weâre doing dodgeball today, you should blow off some steam.â
You huff, amused. âMm, maybe nailing Farah in the head with a dodgeball would do me some good.â
âStraight on bitch, that girl needs to be humbled.â Quinn says.
You chuckled, shaking your head. âAt this point, Iâll take any excuse to hit something.â
The two of you stepped into the gym, the sound of sneakers squeaking on polished floors and the buzz of students warming up filling the air. It wasnât the easiest day, but at least the end was finally in sight.
The day finally winds down as you head to the locker rooms to change. The smell of sweat and disinfectant fills the air as you and the other students shuffle to your lockers, exchanging the occasional half-hearted quip about how much of a drill sergeant Coach Walker was today. You change quickly, eager to escape the lingering humidity of the gym, and sling your bag over your shoulder just as the dismissal bell rings.
Joining the tide of students heading toward the front exit, you fall into step with Quinn, chatting idly about homework and plans for the weekend. The sprawling line of cars in the pick-up area is already forming, parents eager to whisk their kids away from the chaos of the school day.
Daniel spots you both as he weaves through the crowd toward his momâs car, parked conveniently near the front of the line. âGuess thatâs my ride,â he calls, swatting your shoulder playfully. âTry not to miss me too much tomorrow, I've got a doc's appointment.â
You laugh, shaking your head. âYeah, yeah, you wish asshole.â
âLater!â he shouts, hopping into the passenger seat of his momâs car as it pulls away. You and Quinn wave after him before continuing toward the pick-up zone.
âAlfred here today?â Quinn asks, glancing around at the cars idling nearby.
âProbably not,â you reply with a shrug. âHavenât heard from him, so itâs probably just me and the bike today.â
Quinn nods, her attention already shifting to a car pulling up in the distance. âLooks like my dadâs almost here.â
You glance toward the pickup area and spot the familiar vehicle inching closer. âCool. Guess Iâll see you tomorrow, then.â
âYep. Donât get mugged on the way home,â she jokes, smirking as she adjusts her backpack.
âGee, thanks for the vote of confidence,â you reply with a laugh. With a quick goodbye, you head toward the bike rack to unlock your trusty two-wheeler.
The quietness of the parking lot is a stark contrast to the noisy chaos of the day. You crouch down, fiddling with the combination lock on your bike, when a hulking shadow falls over you. The sudden shift in light is enough to make your instincts bristle, but you stay focused on the lock, rolling your eyes at the interruption.
âBro, if youâre lookinâ to mug me,â you say without looking up, your tone flat and unamused, âyou should know Iâm skint broke. Try some other bitch.â
The air around you seems to thicken with tension, and you feel the unmistakable weight of someoneâs gaze boring into you. Itâs enough to make you pause mid-turn on the lock, your breath catching as a low, familiar voice responds.
âI sure hope youâre not talking to me?â Comes your father, Bruceâs, deep voice.
Your head snaps up, and your breath catches in your throat as you realize itâs not some wannabe punk standing over you.
You pale instantly, the color draining from your face as you meet his icy blue eyes. His expression is unreadable, but the weight of his gaze is suffocating. The sheer presence of himâimposing, cold, and unnervingly silentâmakes your stomach churn with dread. Your heart pounds in your chest as you scramble for words, your brain tripping over itself in panic.
âOhâuh, Mr. WayneâI didnâtâI mean, I thoughtâŠâ you stammer, trying to cobble together an explanation and an apology all at once. Your hands fumble with the lock on your bike, suddenly feeling clumsy under his scrutiny. âIâumâsorry! I thoughtâuhâsomeone elseââ
He raises an eyebrow, the tiniest shift in his expression, but itâs enough to make you flinch. You straighten up, clutching your bike for dear life, feeling small and utterly exposed under his towering figure.
âI see,â he says finally, his voice calm but laced with that undercurrent of authority that makes it clear heâs not just seeing. Heâs assessing.
âI didnât realize it was you,â you blurt, trying to salvage whatâs left of your dignity. âI thought it was, uh, someone else. Someone trying toâumâmug me?â The excuse sounds weak even to your own ears, and you wince inwardly at how ridiculous it must sound.
Bruceâs gaze doesnât waver. âDo you make a habit of mouthing off to strangers you assume are threats?â he asks, his tone deceptively mild.
âN-no, sir,â you stammer, shaking your head quickly. âI justâI didnât mean anything by it. Itâs been a long day, and I wasnât thinkingââ
He holds up a hand, cutting off your rambling. âEnough,â he says, âIâm here to pick you up. Alfredâs occupied.â
Your mouth opens, then closes, as you try to process his words. You hadnât even considered the possibility that Bruce might be the one picking you up today. Of course, the thought of him going out of his way to do so hadnât even crossed your mind, it wasnât like he ever went out of his way for you before.
âOh,â you manage after an awkward pause. âRight. Thanks.â
You still have your conversation from the previous day in mind.
âCome on,â he says, turning without another word. âWeâre leaving.â
You hastily shove your bike into the back of his sleek black car, your movements hurried and uncoordinated under the pressure of his presence. Sliding into the back seat, you notice Tim sitting in the front passenger seat, looking at you through the rear mirror. You avert your gaze, clasping your hands tightly in your lap, trying not to fidget as the engine purrs to life. The air inside the car is thick with silence, broken only by the occasional click of the turn signal as Bruce maneuvers through traffic.
You steal a glance at him, his expression as stoic and unreadable as ever. Despite the tension knotting your stomach, you force yourself to speak. âIâuh, thanks for picking me up,â you mumble, staring out the window.
Bruce doesnât respond immediately, his eyes fixed on the road. When he finally speaks, his tone is even but firm. âWeâll talk when we get home.â
Your throat tightens when you see Tim's glee filled smile, as if a cat had just caught a canary. You nod mutely, knowing thereâs no point in arguing. Whatever he has to say, itâs not going to be pleasant.
[Hope you guys liked the chapter!! I'm sorry for the delay and the ghosting, more fics will be updated trust!! Also thank you to all the people who were checking on me, I really appreciate it!!]
Hey everyone!! I hope youâre all safe and well. I just wanted to let yall know why I disappeared for a bit! You guys were so sweet with checking in on me, I really appreciate itđ«”đ„°.
So basically I caught the meanest, and I mean meanest, strain of STREP. Like I was dying. Iâm still recovering a bit, Iâve always had a weak ass immune system, but expect an update to my Werewolf AU, Invincible fic, and the Jason fic!!
GUYS THIS COMMENT FROM @silken-moons ON THE WEREWOLF AU HAS ME LOCKED IN.
silken-moons:
Wait....so what happened to Kon or Conner in this au ? Was he the one eaten since he was basically half human and kryptonian too assuming lex is human in this au too.
I am more than happy to elaborate.
Lex is a half-human half-werewolf hybrid like the reader. So Conner would be half-kryptonian and only a fourth werewolf. When Clark finds out about his existence heâs pissed (at first). Superman doesnât hesitate before finding Luthor and melting his skull in with his laser vision. Itâs quite the graphic scene, Conner unfortunately being there to witness it all.
Conner is pressed back into some crevice in Luthor's office, doing his best to calm his heart beat, stave off his on-coming panic attack, and pray that Superman wonât kill him. Clark of course finds him curled in on himself, hyperventilating, tears streaming down his teenage face.
Conner is blubbering, he thinks, trying to communicate some type of garbled âpleaseâ and âIâm sorryâ and âdonât hurt me pleaseâ. Superman just critically eyes him before knocking the clone out. Now, in the beginning he was just planning on taking the clone to the Watch Tower to interrogate him and then kill him. Perhaps Jon would like the extra meat?
But after watching the clone wake up alone in one of the containment units, crying quietly to himself as he rocked back and forth, he started to feel a little bad. He thought back onto the way the clone had practically begged him for mercy through his own panic attack. He's read Lex Luthor's files on "Superboy", how this clone had no flight, was not invulnerable, and couldn't even throw out half of Clark's strength.
This clone was no threat, no, in fact he was a gift. Another Kryptonian (even if the clone was only half with human DNA in his mix). And even better, the clone boy had no ill intentions towards the JL, hell, the boy looked afraid that anyone even considered the idea. No, no, no, this boy, his boy, was so sweet.
From the way he leaned into Clarks palm when he caressed the sleeping boys face, to the way he clung to Clark and his approval like a touch starved puppy, Clark couldn't help himself. The only problem now was getting his Wife and Son on the same page. He knew werewolf customs, he knew what it meant for Conner (a name his new son had previously picked out).
It would probably be easier to convince Jon considering the poor kid's been wanting a sibling for a long time now (Jon is 8 right now, but still all the same crazy). Lois might take a bit more time, considering pack bonds and the human part of Conner. So with a heavy heart, he kisses his new baby goodnight, as he flies home for he night. Yes, its been a couple of weeks since Connors arrival and he still hasn't told his family. he plans to amend that today.
He expects growling and demands for flesh. he expects outrage from his wife, or even a calm cool collected "bring him to me". What he gets instead are demands from Lois to see Conner, her new son. Clark blinks in surprise before he's fumbling with his phone, opening up his camera role where has has a million new pictures of Conner. Lois only grabs his phone, cooing over the pictures with adoration in her eyes. Well, Clark is pleasantly surprised.
"You're not mad are you Lois?" Clark asks gently.
"Oh I'm not mad Smallville, I'm livid." She all but growls, a smile still etched on her face as she continues scrolling. "You knew about him for weeks, and didn't even bother letting me know. I had a son for weeks, and he's been by himself."
Clark winces. "I know Lois, I know. I just-I was just afraid that you wouldn't want him the way I do. That you'd rip him open, hell, even I considered it in the beginning!"
Lois looks up from his phone, a knowing smile, a soft one, on her face. "I know farm boy, I know. But its important that you remember we don't always kill and eat the weak. Sometimes, its nice to have something that you can love and take care of, something that relies on you and only you."
"is that what you have planned for Connor?"
"Of course. He's our son now, and after everything he's been through, its out job to keep him and Jon safe. Until he can prove himself capable, he's not leaving the den."
A content grin makes its way onto Clarks face. Oh how he loved his wife. "I wouldn't have it any other way Lois. I'll bring him here tomorrow. Now, lets go let our other little rascal know."
Lois smirks. "I agree. Lord knows he's been waiting to have a-"
"-I have a new brother!" Comes the familiar voice of Jon Kent, cutting his mother off in his excitement.
Clark raises his eyebrow fondly, feigning exasperation. "Did you listen in on our conversation Jonathan Samuel Lane-Kent?"
"Of course I did! Well-I didn't mean to, but I couldn't help it! You said I have a brother and I wanna see him!" Jon all but whines.
"Well honey, dad said he'd bring him home tomorrow okay."
"Really!?"
"You betcha. But Jon, you have to be gentle with him okay? He doesn't know werewolf or Kryptonian customs okay?" His dad says.
"Okay, I promise i'll be gentle." Jon swears, nodding up and down.
Lois sighs fondly. "And its important to know that he is part human, do you know what that means?"
"Mhm! It means that he's not allowed out the den or the house, and that its our job to protect him 'cause he's weak." Jon repeats from his memory.
"Good job Jon! You're going to be the best brother, I just know you are." His mom says.
Jon preens under the praise.
He can't wait to meet his new brother!
~~~~~
The next day arrives slower than anyone would have liked.
The morning sunlight filters through the sky as Clark flies Conner to him penthouse in Metropolis, cradling the boy carefully as he slumbers. Conner stirs in his arms, eyes fluttering open, a brief panic flashing in them until he meets Clarkâs calm gaze.
âWhere-where are we?â Conner mumbles, clutching at Clarkâs shirt with a grip that feels hesitant, almost reluctant.
âWeâre going home,â Clark replies, a small smile on his face. âYour new home. Your familyâs waiting for you, Conner.â
Connerâs eyes widen, his mouth opening as if to protest, but the words die on his lips. His gaze shifts away, and he nods mutely, not quite daring to believe that this âfamilyâ will truly accept him. Heâs felt so disposable for so long; he almost canât imagine what itâs like to be wanted.
The penthouse doors open, and Lois stands there, her sharp gaze softening the instant she sees Conner. She steps forward, reaching out a hand in a silent invitation. Conner hesitates, clinging to Clark a little tighter, and Clark gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
âItâs okay, Conner,â he murmurs. âI'm here for you.â
With a slow, tentative step, Conner reaches out, letting Lois pull him into a gentle hug. Her arms are firm around him, warm but unyielding, a silent promise of protection, though he senses the fierce strength just below the surface. She smooths his hair with surprising gentleness, her voice soft as she whispers, âWelcome home, Conner.â
Conner relaxes, allowing himself to take a deep, shuddering breath. This feels strange. He's never really had a home before. Luthor's compound was last place he felt safe, let alone a place he'd call home. And that word, that feeling-safe. He isnât sure he's ever felt it outside Superman, sorry, his Dad's arms.
And isn't that a crazy thing, he has a Dad now. Superman, Clark Kent was his Dad.
Jon, standing just a few steps away, is practically vibrating with excitement. When Lois finally releases Conner, Jon bounds over, a wide grin on his face.
âHi! Iâm Jon, your brother!â He pauses, then adds, almost reverently, âIâll keep you safe, I promise.â
Conner blinks in surprise, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks as he mumbles, âI-thank you, Jon.â
Lois places a hand on Jonâs shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze. âRemember what we talked about, Jon. Connerâs still adjusting. Be patient with him.â
Jon nods enthusiastically, but thereâs a possessive glint in his eyes as he looks at Conner, a silent vow to protect his new brother from anythingâor anyoneâthat might threaten him. Conner notices this look, a strange chill running down his spine, but he says nothing.
As the day unfolds, Conner tries to settle into this new life, though it feels almost too good to be true. Lois and Clark are attentive, constantly ensuring heâs comfortable, while Jon barely leaves his side, eager to show him every corner of the penthouse, as if staking his claim. Meals are filled with warmth and laughter, and yet Conner canât shake the feeling of being watched, almost obsessively.
That night, as Conner lies in the bed theyâve prepared for him, he hears the soft creak of footsteps outside his door. It opens quietly, and Clark steps inside, his face illuminated by the moonlight streaming in through the window. He walks over to the bed, looking down at Conner with an intense, unreadable expression.
âYouâre part of this family now, Conner,â Clark says quietly, brushing a hand over Connerâs forehead in a strangely tender gesture. âNothing will take you from us. Not anyone. Youâre ours, do you understand?â
Conner nods, his throat tightening, unable to find words. Clarkâs gaze softens, and he leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to Connerâs forehead before turning and leaving the room, leaving Conner alone with a flurry of conflicted feelings. For the first time in his life, he feels wanted, cherished, trapped, as though heâs become a prized possession in a family he can never escape.
But, maybe, a small voice inside him whispers, he doesnât want to escape at all.
Well folks, here's more lore on relationships outside of the Batfam. Let me know chat, am I cooking? New chap, out soon!
When you say the love interest might be worse, does that mean "being mean to reader" wise or "being possessive over the reader" wise?
ERMMM...both I'd say. The love interest for the Werewolf AU is Jon Kent. He's about the same age as the reader and older than Damian by one year (From the time-skip space mission that he went on that aged him). But bro, this boy is fucking nuts.
Yes, Kryptonians aren't werewolves in this universe, but Lois Lane is. And a strong one at that, coming from a military family and all that jazz. So Jon Lane Kent is literally one of the strongest beings on earth, being half-kryptonian and half-werewolf.
Now i know what youre thinking.
But wouldn't Jon also be outcasted from werewolf society/wouldn't the bats not like him cause he's a half-blood?
WRONG!!! Yes, Jon is a half-blooded werewolf, but the other half is Kryptonian, one of the strongest species in the universe. If anything, his breeding makes him a very respected figure and the Bats definitely find him worthy. He and Damian are still the best of friends.
Now Jon's relationship with (Y/n). Yikes. Funnily enough, it was (Y/n) who started crushing on Jon first. She'd see him around the manor often, and she'd watch as he interacted with the Waynes or messed around with Damian. From what she could see, he seemed nicer than her family, so maybe she could be friends with him right? Plus, he's super cute!
And of course, this doesn't end well. I mean, this is a dark au. First off, Superman doesn't quite see humans as equals. Werewolves, they have his respect, and all the other races too. Yes, Clark Kent's adoptive parents were humans, and yes he loved them, but they were weak. Fragile even. And he made sure to instill that teaching in Jon as well.
Did Jon love his grandparents? Absolutely, but that meant that Ma and Pa stayed confined to Smallville and their house. They were too weak, they needed to be protected.
Lois also helped push Werewolf culture onto him as well. Weaker werewolves and humans were subservient to the stronger, and if necessary, could be killed and eaten. Jon didn't quite get the eating part, finding it quite gross actually, until he had his first taste of flesh. And, yikes, the boy was hooked.
In his mind, humans were either things to be taken care of (like pets) or food.
What's even more scary is that he's sweet around his family and friends, but those he deems as lesser? Well, let's just hope you don't catch him in a bad mood or piss him off. Which is why when weak, pitiful, abandoned (Y/n) Wayne comes up to him, he's insulted.
Why on earth did you even think you were worthy of talking to him?
Yes, he's seen you watching them, lurking around the manor, keeping your distance. It was quite annoying actually, he could practically hear your heart leaping out of its chest every time you saw him. He knew your intentions, trying to make friends with him.
He just looked down at you, eyes pooling with something nobody could explain, whilst you smiled at him and made small talk. Or tried to make small talk.
"Damian, should I snap her neck? Or is your family still insistent on the old laws?" Jon says.
You freeze, eyes widening in fear. Ah...you've made a severe lapse in judgment.
So much for a new friend.
"You know what? How 'bout I just go?" You quip nervously before trying to run off.
It's too bad Damian grabs you by the back of your shirt, basically choking you in the process. You let out a strangled noise as your body loses balance and lurches backward. When Damian lets go, your having a mad coughing fit, trying to get as much air as you could into your lungs.
Damian only makes an annoyed sound while Jon watches, a sick type of glee in his eyes. "When the time comes friend, you may feast with us. Now (Y/n), apologize to Jon."
You do not even have to think twice about that. "I'm sorry-I'm sorry! I shouldn't have approached you, I'm sorry." And at this point, you're crying. (reader is 14 when this happens)
And god doesn't that make Jon smile. He wouldn't deny, that you were pretty (I mean, you do have half of Bruce Wayne's DNA). But as much as he'd consider coveting you, you weren't worth that honor, no, he'd much rather taste your sweet, sweet flesh. (He could practically smell it wafting off you).
But alas, he'd have to wait.
But of course, in normal yandere fashion, he goes from wanting to eat you to wanting to eat you. The obsession starts to change around (Y/n)'s 16th birthday party that the Waynes throw. It's customary that all children do some public ball or whatever, so this was yours. Jon and his family are there obviously, and you're there as well, looking as miserable and tired as usual (and still somehow being the most beautiful thing in the building). However, he sees you light up in a way he's never seen you do before when your (what he's guessing) friends show up. They're human. They're weak, like you.
Seeing you interact with them, hearing you talk normally(super-hearing, duh) without fear, watching the way you laughed...He realizes he wants. And he wants bad.
Looks like you've got a new problem now.
Anyways, this is all I got!! I don't want to spoil the story more than I already have, but yeah, say hello to "absolutely bonkers Jon Kent". Hope you enjoyed!!!
HEY GUYS!!! Someone on Tumblr gave me the great idea of creating a ko-fi so that ppl could pay/ask for commissions through there or simply support my writing/my dog. My ko-fi is https://ko-fi.com/solelifauna.
Thank you everyone for your love and support for my writing!! New chapters coming out soon!!
Definitely NOT Invincible (Yandere Invincible & Reader)
Pt.4
Where (Y/n) becomes an A to C student. It's not her fault tho! Blame it on the trauma.
ALSO, THANK YOU TO @oof-spoof FOR PRACTICALLY FUNDING THE INVINCIBLE SERIES!!! EVERYONE GIVE THEM SOME LOVE!!!
Mark grabbed the keys, sliding into the driverâs seat without a word, and you followed suit, exhaustion settling deep into your bones as you slumped into the passenger seat. As you buckled your seatbelt, he turned the ignition, the radio flicking on as he scrolled through channels until he landed on the familiar one, 96.5. The quiet drive began, with Markâs fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel in time with the music, a rhythm that seemed at odds with the tense atmosphere filling the car.
You stared out the window, letting the passing scenery blur before you. Houses and shops you once thought would stand forever flew past, their vibrant facades a painful reminder of all youâd lose in the next five months. This town, this lifeâit was doomed.
Markâs fingers slowed, and his eyes flicked toward you, his voice slipping in smoothly through the silence. âYou seem a bit⊠off,â he said, his tone deceptively casual. âStayed up late or something?â
You forced yourself to meet his gaze, masking the churn of emotions beneath a neutral expression. âJust tired,â you replied shortly, hoping that would be enough.
He gave a low hum, a hint of amusement lacing his tone. âYou sure?â he asked, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as they scanned your face. âYouâve been acting different lately. Jumpy, kind of⊠paranoid, maybe?â
The subtle accusation prickled at your nerves, and you tore your gaze away from him, fixing your eyes back on the road. âItâs just school,â you muttered. âAnd the tests. No big deal.â
But Markâs voice didnât lose that sharp edge. âRight,â he said, drawing out the word, as if savoring the slight tension in your voice. âBecause thatâs totally you. Ignoring me and Dad, breaking down in the arms of your friends you see in school everyday, and sitting at the dining table like a vegetable for hours.â
You tightened your grip on your seatbelt, willing yourself to stay calm. âMaybe I just need sometime to myself,â you replied, forcing yourself to sound nonchalant.
Mark didnât respond right away, but you felt his gaze linger, heavy and assessing. You were painfully aware of his scrutiny, and each second under his gaze felt like it stretched into eternity. Then, he leaned back, lips curling in a faint smirk.
âWhatever it is,â he said softly, almost a whisper, but there was a chill behind his words that sent a shiver down your spine. âIâll find out, (Y/n).â
The words hung in the air, charged with unspoken promises. You could feel his eyes on you, searching, prying, as if he were peeling back the layers of your mind to uncover whatever secrets you kept hidden. You forced yourself to look straight ahead, but his words echoed in your mind, sinking in like a thorn you couldnât dislodge.
As you pulled up to the school, you felt as though you could barely breathe. Mark turned off the car, watching you with that same intense, unnerving gaze. âDonât go doing anything youâll regret,â he added, his tone light, almost playful, but the underlying menace was unmistakable.
With a tight nod, you opened the car door and stepped out, feeling his gaze bore into your back as you walked toward the school entrance. The hollow ache in your chest grew heavier, the knowledge that your own brother was already suspicious clawing at you. You had five months left before everything fell apartâand now, Mark was already starting to close in.
The moment you stepped out of the car, you quickened your pace, your feet carrying you across the parking lot toward the school entrance where Hallie, Connor, and Weston were waiting. You could feel Markâs gaze burning into your back, heavy with suspicion, his presence like a dark cloud that followed you no matter how fast you walked. You forced yourself to keep your head down, ignoring the instinct to turn around and see if he was still watching.
As you neared your friends, a breath of relief slipped from your lips. Hallie caught your eye, giving you a small, knowing nod, and Weston nudged Connor, who was hunched over his phone. They could see the strain in your expression, the tension lingering around you, and immediately closed the distance, creating a small, protective circle.
âEverything okay?â Hallie asked quietly, her voice low but filled with concern. You managed a quick nod, brushing it off as best as you could.
âItâs⊠fine,â you said, though the slight tremor in your voice betrayed you.
They didnât press further, but you could tell they were already on edge. They knew you well enough to sense when something was wrong, and your silence said plenty.
A few feet behind you, Mark had come to a stop, his arms folded as he leaned against the side of the car, watching you with that same unsettling intensity. He made no effort to hide it, his gaze fixed, sharp, studying your every move. A casual onlooker might not notice the tension in his stance, but you could feel it, the way he observed you with the quiet patience of someone biding their time.
Then, in a calculated move, Mark shifted his attention to a group of boys loitering by the side of the buildingâhis so-called friends. They were loud, boisterous, and clearly thrilled to see him approach, clapping him on the shoulder and making crude jokes, the type he always pretended to enjoy. But you knew him too well; you saw the way he tolerated their company with a thinly veiled disdain, a quiet irritation masked by a charming grin.
One of the boys slapped Mark on the back, laughing too loudly at something Mark hadnât even responded to. Mark flashed a smirk, humoring them, but his gaze darted back to you, subtle but piercing, as if ensuring you knew he was still watching. He laughed at some joke, a hollow sound, but his eyes never lost that calculated look, a hunter keeping track of his prey while biding his time.
Your shoulders tensed. Even surrounded by his friends, he seemed hyper-focused on you, as though he could sense your discomfort. You knew he was letting you go for now, but his patience wouldnât last forever. Mark was never one to let things go unchecked, and with each passing second, his suspicion was sharpening, honing in on you.
Connorâs hand brushed against your arm, bringing you back to the present. âYou good?â he asked, his voice a murmur, keeping it low so no one else could hear.
You forced yourself to breathe, nodding again. âLetâs get inside.â
Together, you and your friends made your way into the school, the familiar hum of voices and shuffling footsteps drowning out the tension outside. But even as the walls closed around you, shielding you from Markâs stare, you couldnât shake the feeling that heâd already set his sights on you, and he wouldnât stop until heâd unraveled every secret you fought so hard to hide.
As you made your way through the bustling hallway, you leaned in close to Hallie, whispering, âWe need to talk. Later.â
She nodded in agreement before heading off to her first class, Weston following in tandem.Â
With that, you and Conner head to your first class, nerves jolting and wired. For some reason your fight-or-flight was kicking in, pumping needless adrenaline through your body (it seemed like your body was always in fight or flight mode, never really stopping or calming down).Â
As you and Connor slipped into your seats, you forced yourself to look as composed as possible, even as your insides churned with anxiety. The entire classroom felt distant, almost surreal, as if you were watching it all through a fog. Your hands clenched the edge of your desk, a small attempt to ground yourself, to stop the insistent rush of adrenaline flooding your veins.
It was almost maddening, this constant state of vigilance, like your body couldnât accept that, for now at least, you were safe. You knew Mark was out there somewhere, probably already listening with his enhanced hearing, his sharp ears tuned in for the slightest slip-up. He could be in any room, any hallway, eavesdropping without you even realizing it.
Soon, your math teacher, Mrs. Barnes entered, her heels clacking against the linoleum floor, as she began to set up for the dayâs lesson. You took a shaky breath, forcing your focus on her as she scrawled equations across the whiteboard, her voice drifting around you as she launched into a review of yesterdayâs formulas.
But as you tried to listen, to grasp the material, you hit a wallâa terrifying, absolute void where your memories of math should have been. The numbers blurred, sliding off your mind like water, and no matter how hard you focused, the information simply wouldnât stick.
Panicking slightly, you scanned the board, hoping that maybe a familiar formula or concept would spark something. But it was like staring at a foreign language. The frustration gnawed at you, each failed attempt to remember only heightening your sense of dread. You looked over at Connor, your pulse racing, and found him already watching you, a look of shared panic in his eyes.
You could tell he was struggling too. He shook his head slightly, his mouth set in a grim line. He leaned down, pulling out his notebook and scribbling something quickly. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he slid it over to you.
Do you remember any of this?
You hesitated, your hand trembling as you wrote back.Â
Nothing. I canât remember a single thing. Itâs likeâŠ
You couldnât bring yourself to finish the sentence. It was as if everything youâd learned hereâthe academic knowledge, the normal parts of lifeâhad simply been erased. Your mind was so conditioned to survive, to fight and endure, that it had discarded everything else. In a terrifying way, you were no longer the student you once were. Youâd been reshaped entirely by the trauma of the last life.
Connor swallowed, looking down at the note. You watched as he took in the implications, his face growing paler with every passing second. Mrs. Barnes continued her lesson, unaware of the silent panic that rippled between you and Connor. The words she wrote on the board may as well have been gibberish. You didnât even recognize half the terms she was using anymore, the definitions blurred or completely forgotten.
You turned your gaze to your textbook, flipping the pages with trembling fingers, hoping that something, anything, would stick. But all you could focus on was the sensation of being cornered, of being hunted. Your mind kept flitting back to those dark days in the resistance, to the endless battles, to the snap decisions youâd made just to stay alive. It was like your brain had rewired itself, discarding anything that didnât serve the immediate need to survive.
Connor nudged you, snapping you out of your spiraling thoughts, and he quickly scribbled another note.
This is bad. What are we supposed to do if we canât even remember the basics?
You tried to take a calming breath, but it came out shaky. He was right. You were barely keeping up this façade of normalcy as it was. If you couldnât handle school, youâd stand out even more. Mark would notice. Your parents would notice. Teachers would start asking questions. People would wonder what had happened to you.
Weâll figure something out, you wrote back, though even you werenât convinced.
It seems like youâve said that same sentence too many times though with no real solutions.
But before you could come up with a more reassuring answer, Mrs. Barnes turned toward your row, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the classroom. Your heart skipped a beat, and you quickly shifted your gaze to the board, hoping she hadnât noticed the exchange.
âConnor, (Y/n). Is there something youâd like to share with the class?â she asked, her tone pointed.
You straightened in your seat, forcing a tight smile. âNo, maâam. Justâtrying to catch up.â
She held your gaze for a moment longer than you liked, suspicion flickering in her eyes, but eventually she turned back to the board, resuming her explanation. You exchanged a glance with Connor, both of you silently relieved.
But the relief was short-lived. The void in your mind loomed larger, a terrifying reminder of the life youâd left behindâand the life you couldnât fully return to. It was becoming painfully clear that you werenât just out of practice or distracted, no, something fundamental had changed inside you. You were something else entirely now, someone forged in battle and scarred by the horrors of survival.
The lesson droned on. You could only hope that whatever pieces of your old self remained would be enough to keep everyone safe, long enough to figure out how to stop the coming shit show.
Finally, the bell rings, a sharp burst of sound cutting through your thoughts, you quickly gather your things, grateful for the temporary reprieve from your spiraling thoughts. You and Connor exchange a brief, tense look before parting ways. You both have too much to figure out, too many gaps to fill, but thereâs no time now.
Your next class, Entry Biology, is in another part of the building, tucked into a quieter wing. The halls are buzzing with students, their voices overlapping in casual conversations that feel alien to you, like a language you no longer fully understand. You keep your gaze down, trying to blend in as best as you can, making your way through the sea of faces and finding your classroom near the end of the corridor.
You step inside, spotting a seat at the back of the room. With no assigned seating, you slip into it, hoping itâll give you some measure of privacy. As you set your bag down, you canât remember if this was your usual seat or not. The details of your day-to-day routine from this life feel like a distant memory, blurring with the harsh reality of your previous one. If someone had taken this seat before, theyâd just have to ask you to move. For now, youâre hoping theyâll leave you alone.
The room gradually fills with students, but no one seems to notice or care that youâre there. You breathe a small sigh of relief, your mind still reeling from the earlier realization that your memory has turned selectively barren. Biology⊠you struggle to recall the basic concepts, things that should be easy.
Mitosis? Ecosystems? Even the Cell Cycle feels slippery in your mind. The memories just wonât solidify. Your mind instinctively drifts back to the knowledge that does stick, but itâs all survival tactics, the hollow echo of combat drills, the weight of loss, and the survival instincts that you canât shake.
Your teacher, Mr. Halloway, enters the room, adjusting his glasses as he sets down his materials on the desk. Heâs a calm, unassuming presence with an easygoing manner that normally might have put you at ease. But today, you find it hard to focus, the anxiety lingering from earlier gnawing at you as he begins writing on the board.
âAlright, class, today weâre going to dive into cell structures and the basics of cell function,â he says, the chalk scratching faintly as he writes. âLetâs start with the organellesâthings like the mitochondria, nucleus, and chloroplasts in plant cells.â
Okay! You knew about the Mitochondria: powerhouse of the cell.
You stare at the board, the words and diagrams meaningless in your mind, like someone dumped them there without context. Thereâs a flicker of recognition, but it feels shallow, inaccessible. You remember how cells look under a microscope, how textbooks diagram them out with labeled parts, but the function of each organelle slips through your grasp. Your heart sinks as you realize it isnât just mathâyou really donât remember anything.
You fish your phone out of your bag, concealing it beneath the desk, and quickly type a message to Your group chat.
(Y/n): Canât remember anything from class feels like my brainâs wiped
A few seconds pass before Westonâs reply comes in.
Westy My Bestie: Same here
Canât remember jack shit
Halligator: This is bad
Geometry is my best subject and now i can't even remember simple theorems
    Ppl r gonna get sus
You read their responses, your grip on the phone tightening. At least youâre not alone in this, but it doesnât ease the gnawing anxiety that your memories are failing you. The bell signaling the end of class is a lifeline, and youâre the first one out the door, weaving through the crowded hallway with your thoughts spinning.
The final bell rings for lunch, and you let out a breath you didnât realize youâd been holding. Your last two classes so far, AP Human Geography and English I, had been easier to handle, but that gnawing feeling of something missing never left.
Geography was more about concepts, patterns of human behavior, and interactions rather than memorized facts, so you managed to piece together enough to get by. English, luckily, was more focused on analysis than strict recall, so your rusty memory didnât hinder you as much. But the underlying dread still weighed on you, a nagging reminder that anything concrete, anything involving details you should remember, seemed out of reach.
You step into the hallway, the crowd surging around you, and immediately spot Weston waiting outside his classroom. He raises a hand in greeting, a familiar face amid the chaos, and together, you head toward the cafeteria. The lineâs already growing, students chatting and joking around.. You scan the serving trays, landing on the dayâs special: some sort of chicken sandwich with fries and a bag of chips.
A smile tugs at your lips despite the morning youâve had; after living off scraps and rations in your past life, a hot mealâeven a school cafeteria oneâwas a blessing. The memory of tearing open a ration pack, forcing down tasteless blocks of compressed food, flashes through your mind, and youâre struck by how strange it feels to have choices again.
Once youâve paid for your food, you and Weston make your way through the bustling cafeteria and out into the open-air courtyard. Itâs refreshing to be outside, where the air feels less claustrophobic and you can catch glimpses of the autumn leaves turning golden, the first hints of fall in the cool breeze. You spot Connor and Hallie already sitting at your usual table, near the far edge of the courtyard, both of them eating like they havenât seen food in days.
"Hey," you greet them, sliding into the seat beside Connor while Weston sits across from you. You unwrap your sandwich, taking a hesitant bite. The flavors hit your taste buds, far better than anything youâd had during the rebellion. It was still a cafeteria meal, but right now, it might as well have been gourmet.
Hallie looks up from her sandwich, barely swallowing before launching into conversation. "God, you guys have no idea how weird todayâs been." She glances around, ensuring no oneâs within earshot before she continues. "I feel like Iâm flunking every single class. I donât remember anything useful."
Connor nods in agreement, his expression grim. âSame here. Itâs like my brainâs refusing to do anything academic. Anything beyond survival skills⊠itâs just blank.â
Weston, whoâs been munching on his fries, glances up, his face thoughtful. "Maybe itâs some kind of psychological thing? Like, weâre all for sure traumatized and now that weâre back, weâre struggling to fit in? Doesnât the brain forget non-vital info under extreme stress or something?"
You nod, considering his theory, but it doesnât offer much comfort. If this was some side effect of trauma, it was leaving you dangerously exposed.Â
"It makes sense," you admit, trying to keep your voice steady. "But itâs going to be hard to keep up the act if we canât remember even basic things. Especially withâŠâ Your voice trails off, not wanting to say his name out loud.
But Connor catches your drift. âMark,â he mutters, a tense silence settling over the group. âHeâs been watching you, hasnât he?â
"Yeah," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. "He knows somethingâs up. He hasnât figured out what, but heâs⊠suspicious."
Hallieâs eyes narrow, and her jaw clenches as she takes a sharp breath. "We need a plan, and fast. Itâs one thing to keep low in class, but Mark? Heâs not just anybody. If he thinks thereâs something to find out, heâll find it."
Your stomach twists as you think back to his words from that morning: âWhatever it is, Iâll find out, (Y/n).â You remembered the look in his eyes, the way he seemed to study you, his gaze cold and calculating, false care in his voice, like you were nothing more than a puzzle to be solved.
"Maybe," Weston says slowly, breaking the silence, "we could take a more passive approach. You know, let him think heâs figured you out. Act dumb or, like, make mistakes on purpose. Lead him onto a false answer."
Connor raises an eyebrow, considering it. "Might work, but itâs risky. If he thinks heâs being played, he wonât hold back.
You nod at Weston, âI think its worth a shot. Weâre all screwed either way, so what's the harm?â
After your statement, everyone falls into a comfortable silence; most likely retreating into their own minds.
You continue eating in silence, the sounds of laughter and conversations around you feeling distant, like a world youâre no longer part of. Each bite you take tastes more and more hollow.
Finally, Connor breaks the silence again. âWe need to figure out how weâre going to warn the Guardians. Without tipping off Mark or Omni-Man.â
You nod, your mind already spinning with ideas and doubts.Â
âWe have to get a message to them somehow. We could use anonymous tips, maybe? Something that wonât trace back to us?â Hallie shoots out.
Weston shrugs. âAnonymous tips work in movies, sure, but this is real life. Theyâll get curious, and then the government and Guardians will find out it was us. Plus, Omni-man and Invincible are two highly respected and trusted heroes, there's no guarantee theyâd even believe the warning we send.â
âWeston has a point,â You say. âBut, it doesn't matter. If they believe us or not, at least theyâll have the thought in the back of their minds. Even if it comes back to us, at least the Guardians will know.â
Because in a world where the clock is ticking, and survival is the only optionâthereâs no time left to be selfish over your own lives.
Also I imagine reader just saying "fuck it" and on a school day, since the reader is from a different school they can't see the reader just get out of Gotham đ
YESSS!!! My glorious king Duke Thomas will be in this fic!!! He'll come in the later chapters (ch 5-7 ish) but dw, he's a VERY integral character to the plot.
jacobvanloon
blakekathryn
theartofmadeline