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marcyvamp1re-blog · 2 months ago

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Pt.3 SILLLY LITTLE BAT.

pairings ⸺ Yandere! Platonic! Batfamily x Anti-hero! Fem!reader.

sinopsis ⸺ There are only memories, fragments of a past that, like shadows, will haunt you until your last breath, whispers of what was and will never be. Gotham cries out for a guardian, a soul to face the darkness, to challenge fate in its shadowy alleys.

But tell me, who will rise to protect you, traveler of scars and broken dreams? Who will watch over your light when the world swallows your hopes?

In the eternal night, amidst the echo of fear and longing, there is only one path: to confront the monsters and become the hero this city needs, even if the price is the forgetting of oneself.

warnings ⸺ Dark Themes, Dead, Religion, murdering,Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, Discrimination, Street Fights, Gaslight, Violence, Blood, LGBT Content, Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Implicit Sexual Content, Mental Illness, Addiction, Torture, Corruption, Isolation, Trauma, Phobias, Paranoia, Manipulation.

Chapter guide! Pt.1 Pt2. Pt.4

A/N — English is not my first language—Spanish is— Here is the continuation of the other parts. There will be a few more parts but you should know that we will soon reach the end, but there are still things to clarify and so on. I don't know if you would like me to do another Batfam yandere series in the future or similar. Send me your ideas if you want :3

They are upset because I left

Where they never included me.

The car moved slowly under the gray sky of Gotham, as if the universe itself understood the weight of the pain you carried in your small figure. Commissioner Gordon, with his firm hands on the wheel, cast furtive glances at the rearview mirror, where he saw you curled up in the back seat. Wrapped in an old blanket, the same one you had hugged for days, your face was hidden among the folds, but the silent tears that fell could not be disguised. There were no words that Gordon could offer to heal the recent wound of losing your mother, but his empathy, though silent, was there, wrapping around you like the coat that couldn't quite warm you.

In your lap, a small Batman doll rested, pressed against your chest, as if that fabric toy could protect you from the world that had just destroyed your innocence. Your eyes, still swollen and red, looked out the window without seeing, watching the city that seemed so distant, so foreign.

"You will be loved and cherished," Gordon whispered, breaking the silence that had weighed like fog in the car. "Bruce Wayne... he will take care of you, I promise."

But you didn't respond immediately. The name Wayne felt strange, distant, as if he spoke of someone living in a story, not in your reality. You looked up, your eyes meeting Gordon’s for a second in the rearview mirror.

"And if they don't want me...?" you murmured, insecurity clouding your childish voice. "I don't know them, Commissioner... and they don't know me. What if they leave me in an orphanage? Mama always told me those places aren't nice."

Gordon swallowed hard, understanding the depth of your fear. "You were just a child, but you had already learned that love was not a guarantee." The world had taught you that cruel lesson too soon.

"The Waynes..." he began, searching for the right words, "are good people. You might not understand it at first, but I assure you they have suffered too. Bruce..." he paused, recalling the losses that man had faced. "He understands what it is to lose someone. He will do everything he can to make you feel safe, to help you find a home again."

But you kept looking at the doll in your hands, your fingers squeezing it tightly, as if it were the only stable thing in a world crumbling around you.

The silence grew heavy, uncomfortable, as if the words wanted to come out but didn’t know how. Again, Gordon spoke, his voice low, almost afraid to break the stillness.

"And/y/n... what was your mom like?" he asked softly, not taking his eyes off the road, as if by doing so, he could give you space to be honest, to not feel pressured.

You fell silent for a long moment, your small fingers nervously playing with the edges of the blanket. The world outside the car seemed a reflection of what you felt inside: cloudy, cold, distant.

Finally, you exhaled, as if gathering the courage to speak. Your voice came out shaky at first, filled with a mix of sadness and a hard-to-accept truth.

"My mom..." you murmured, not taking your eyes off the window. "She wasn't a good person, but... she wasn't a villain either."

Gordon nodded slowly, without interrupting you. He knew things were rarely black or white, that life had that cruel ability to mix the two.

"She... told me she grew up in an orphanage. She never had anything that was really hers." You paused, your eyes glassy as you recalled details that now seemed more painful than ever. "Well, except for me."

"Gordon felt a knot form in his throat." He knew that loss was a terrible burden to bear, but there was something more in your words, something suggesting that, amidst it all, there had also been love. An imperfect love, but real.

"She always dreamed of having a little house..." you continued, and for the first time, a faint smile appeared on your face, though it was tinged with melancholy. "A house with a garden, lots of Barbie dolls, and a little dog. She didn't need more. She just wanted something that was hers."

You stopped for a moment, as if the simple act of recalling those dreams your mother had hurt you. You knew she would never have them. That the world had been cruel to her, denying her even the small things she wished for so fervently.

"But... she never got it. We were always moving around, fleeing, searching for something better. And now... she doesn’t even have that."

The car seemed to shrink, the air denser. Gordon felt a wave of compassion for that woman who, though perhaps not perfect, had dreamed of something so simple, so human, and yet had not achieved it.

"I'm so sorry, Y/n," he murmured.

"Commissioner, what if... what if I can't forget her?" you asked, almost in a whisper. "What if I can't stop thinking about Mom?"

The silence in the car became heavy, almost tangible. Gordon wanted to tell you that you didn't have to forget, that it was natural to carry that pain. But the words didn't come, and instead, only a long sigh escaped his lips.

"It's not about forgetting, Y/n," he finally said, his voice low but firm. "It's about moving forward, even though it hurts. Your mother would want you to find happiness again, even though it may not seem possible now. And I’m sure Bruce will do everything in his power to help you."

The car turned onto the long, dark road leading to Wayne Manor. The trees formed a tunnel of shadows, as if the road were wrapped in the same mourning you carried within. The mansion, with its imposing grandeur, appeared in the distance, its walls as high as the secrets it held. "You were so small in the face of the immensity of this new life that awaited you."

"We're almost there," Gordon said softly, as he slowed down. "The wind outside whispered through the trees, like an echo of everything you had lost."

You didn’t know it at that moment, but that house would be full of stories, some broken, others in the process of healing. And although you felt like a stranger in a strange land now, Gordon hoped that, one day, that place would become your refuge.

The car stopped in front of the enormous gates. Gordon looked at you one last time before getting out. In his eyes, you could see a mix of sadness and hope, an empathy that went beyond words.

"You are not alone, Y/n," he said, his voice now firmer. "You will never be alone again."

You remained silent, gazing at the mansion as you clung to the blanket and the Batman doll. The weight of the world still rested on your small shoulders, but for the first time, there might have been a glimmer of relief in knowing that someone, even if he was a strange and distant man, was waiting for you inside."

And in that moment, although you still felt the burning pain of your loss, a ray of hope began to break through the shadows of your heart.

Y/n was sitting in the BatCafé, that corner of the city where the tables wobbled and conversations were woven into murmurs, as if the place knew how to keep secrets that even you wouldn’t dare to share aloud. The walls, a mossy green, were filled with stories that no one had asked for. She looked at her lukewarm latte as one looks at a future that hasn’t quite arrived, a liquid mockery evaporating before it could warm her hands. It had barely been a month since she left her family home, but she already felt that independence was more of a myth than a fulfilled dream. At first, the heroism of having thrown herself into the world had filled her with pride, but now reality lurked like a treacherous chill seeping through the cracks, and the fact that she was waiting for her potential roommate didn’t help matters.

“Well, at least the rent will be cheaper,” she told herself, or rather to the coffee, as if the dark liquid could reply with something sensible.

Sharing an apartment was, for Y/n, the only way out. Her salary barely covered survival, but only if she fed on fresh air and broken dreams. And there she was, waiting for someone named Pamela Isley, who, according to the ad, didn’t even seem to be from this planet. "I hope she’s not one of those people with invisible cats," she thought. Of course, the alternatives weren’t very promising: people who collected Batman figurines or guys who made friends with cockroaches in the kitchen. She had seen it all; after all, her apartment was in one of the most dangerous areas of Gotham, and she knew it all too well.

You were born in that area. One could say the neighborhood chose you before you had a chance to choose it. You didn’t remember exactly which apartment; in that hive of broken windows and half-painted bricks, all the floors seemed like a blurry copy of the previous one, each with the same square footage and an air of silent resignation. In the end, it didn’t matter, because in a way, everything was the same. Dust in the corners, worn tiles, cracks in the walls that seemed to form a map of some invisible and secret city, a place that only you could decipher if you stopped to observe long enough.

It was an unpretentious place, where people rarely smiled, but neither did they let themselves be trampled. There was something in the air, a kind of poorly disguised pride, as if every neighbor, every stray dog, knew that surviving there wasn’t a matter of luck but of will. Heroes didn’t exist in that corner of the world, but villains didn’t dare impose their law without facing some gaze that, without saying anything, said it all. It was rough terrain, where kindness camouflaged behind growls and complaints, and malice grew tired before it could fully settle.

And yet, you loved it. It was absurd, but you loved it with that devotion reserved for things you don’t choose, for roots that sink into your chest without asking for permission. The place was filled with memories you didn’t ask for, stories you never wanted to hear but that seeped into your skin. Tales of people who vanished in alleyways, of broken promises around the corner, of loves that drowned in factory smoke. And yet, those same tales were like echoes that held you, reminding you that you were born there, in that half-hell where life was always a fight but never a complete defeat.

The clock in the BatCafé struck six ten when the door opened. What happened next was hard to explain, like when you dream and you don’t know if it’s the pillow or the universe holding you. Pamela Isley walked in, and it was as if the wind, that autumn wind that brings memories, had gently pushed her in. Y/n looked up, and the first thing she noticed was her hair, a red that was out of this world, more fire than pigment, more nature than dye. The roots tangled as if they were living branches, and for a moment, Y/n wondered if the sun had made a mistake and was shining only on her.

Pamela walked as if she had a pact with the earth. Her steps were slow but firm, as if her feet waited for the ground to respond before settling. She wore a jacket that was impossible to describe without sounding crazy: green vines and small buds peeking out, as if at any moment the plants would grow over her. "Where does this woman come from?" Y/n thought, feeling something beyond mere curiosity. There was something she couldn’t deny, an attraction that felt unsettling, like those waves that, without warning, sweep you away when you think you can still touch the bottom.

Pamela approached the table with a calculated calm, a calm only nature or time can sculpt. And then she smiled. In that smile, Y/n felt something familiar yet strange, as if she were facing a younger version of her mother, but instead of being terrifying, it was comforting. What was happening?

“Y/n L/n?” Pamela said, her voice reminiscent of the whisper of dry leaves underfoot.

“Yes, that’s me,” Y/n answered, trying to make her voice sound normal, even though everything inside her felt out of place.

Pamela sat down across from her, crossing her legs with an almost feline elegance. The BatCafé seemed to conspire around them; the air smelled of wet earth and freshly brewed coffee, a strange mix, like the combination of what was about to be born and what had already died.

“I didn’t expect you to be…” Y/n began, not knowing exactly how to finish the sentence. She wasn’t even sure what she was expecting.

“Strange?” Pamela completed, with a playful smile that left Y/n with a sense of defeat and fascination in equal parts.

“Something like that,” Y/n replied, looking at Pamela’s hands. Her long, slender fingers were covered in small green spots, as if she had just planted a forest with her own hands. There was something almost magical about her, as if every part of her being was connected to the earth in a way that Y/n couldn’t quite understand. And there, amid that confusion, was the fine thread of attraction.

Pamela let her gaze fall on her own latte, turning it between her hands as if it were about to reveal some hidden secret in the foam.

“So, what do you do? I mean… aside from, you know… looking like you walked out of a Tim Burton movie,” Y/n said, attempting a bit of humor to ease the tension she felt in her stomach.

Pamela glanced at her and laughed softly, a laugh that felt like an unexpected breeze on a hot day.

“I’m… a caretaker. Of plants.” She paused, gauging Y/n’s reaction. “And other things.”

“Other things?” Y/n asked, intrigued but also amused by the way Pamela toyed with the mystery.

“Yes, like people who don’t know how to water a plant without drowning it,” she replied, arching an eyebrow mischievously.

The response made Y/n laugh, a laugh she hadn’t expected, as if Pamela had found a way to touch something deep within her, something that hadn’t bloomed in a long time. And without being able to help it, she felt drawn, not just by the way Pamela moved, spoke, or even by the air of mystery surrounding her, but because there was something more, something familiar, something that reminded her of her mother, but without the shadows of authority and judgment. It was like a wild, free version of what had once been security.

“So… are you going to save my cactus or criticize it?” Y/n said, trying to sound casual while feeling that her heart had started playing a game of chess with her emotions.

Pamela smiled again, and this time it was a different smile, one that seemed to carry a promise.

“It depends. Would you let me stay to try?” Pamela said, with a playful seriousness that left Y/n unsure whether the question was about the cactus or something much larger.

Y/n blinked, trying to process the phrase, but deep down she knew that any answer would sound awkward. Pamela’s question hung in the air between them like a leaf falling slowly, right at the perfect point where it was neither entirely a joke nor completely serious. And there she was, caught in that space, wondering whether she should laugh or just blush.

“Well… you can try,” she finally said, trying to hide the warmth creeping up her face. “But I can’t promise the cactus will survive. I’m something like… a serial plant killer... When I was younger, I had time to care for them as they deserved, with help from… from my father. But now work consumes me a lot, and the truth is I’ve neglected them too much… they must feel the same way I felt when… sorry, I talk too much about myself, don’t I?”

Pamela raised an eyebrow, with a smile that seemed to say more than either of them dared to voice at that moment.

“Oh, no, keep talking about yourself; I’m used to it. I have very… eccentric friends, to be honest.” She leaned a bit closer, as if about to share a secret. “Though I prefer not to work under threats, so don’t look at me like I’m going to be your next plant murder victim. But I doubt a little scared bat can kill even a fly.”

Y/n laughed nervously, surprised at how easy Pamela made everything. She, who had always been clumsy with conversations and glances, felt like the words flowed with Pamela in a way she didn’t quite understand but didn’t want to question either.

“...Little Bat?” Y/n asked, with a clumsy and blushing smile as her fingers nervously toyed with the edge of her cup.

Pamela let out a low giggle, that laugh that always seemed to carry the sound of dry leaves being trampled in autumn. With a gentle gesture, she pointed to her clothes.

“Is it that obvious?” she said with a half-smile, raising a playful eyebrow as she leaned a little forward.

She wore a dark fur coat, enormous, with a wide fall that, under the dim light of the BatCafé, seemed to have the precise shape of bat wings extending. The high, well-fitted black boots completed the image of a figure that seemed to have emerged from the very shadows. And for a moment, Y/n didn’t know whether to laugh or get lost in that air of mystery that Pamela seemed to wear like a second coat.

“Well…” Y/n diverted her gaze with a shy smile, “it’s not like you’re hiding it much.”

Pamela smiled with that touch of mischief that characterized her.

“Does it bother you? I’m sorry, it’s just… I’ve been fascinated by bats since I was little.” she asked, her voice low and slow, as if measuring every word, as if the world were a delicate plant that required to be touched with the tips of her fingers.

Y/n let out a small nervous laugh, feeling the heat rising to her cheeks again.

“No, not at all. I think it’s…” she hesitated for a second, searching for the right word, unsure how to avoid the obvious, “I think it suits you well.”

Pamela watched her for a moment, and then, with that look that always seemed to go beyond what words said, added:

“You’re turning red, you know?”

Y/n’s eyes widened a bit more, surprised by Pamela’s directness, but all she could do was laugh at herself.

“Well, it’s just that, I’m not really used to… this.”

“This?” Pamela repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Sharing coffee with someone or bats?”

“Both,” Y/n admitted, shrugging, which provoked another smile from Pamela. “I always wanted one as a pet… but I have a vegan little brother who’s very… spooky… so I’ve always been afraid he’d steal it from me or accuse me of having exotic pets.”

Pamela settled into the chair, not taking her eyes off Y/n.

“But you’ll get used to it,” she paused, letting her words float calmly.

Y/n felt a shiver run down her spine, a mix of nerves and a spark of something she couldn’t quite define. Pamela’s dark coat and relaxed smile were a disconcerting yet strangely familiar contrast, as if they had always been there, waiting for her. And suddenly, all she could do was wonder how soon that would happen… getting used to it.

“Although I can’t promise my apartment isn’t… a battlefield,” Y/n said, trying to sound confident, but noticing the slight tremor in her voice.

Pamela looked at her intently for a moment, with that mix of flirtation and something deeper, something that seemed impossible to decipher completely. Then she relaxed in the chair, as if the game had just begun.

“A battlefield, huh?” she said, playing with the spoon of her coffee. “Well, I like challenges. And chaotic places have their own charm if you know where to look.” Pamela let the phrase slide smoothly, like someone throwing a stone into a lake and waiting for the ripples.

Y/n couldn’t shake the feeling that every word Pamela spoke carried a double meaning, but far from making her feel uncomfortable, it sparked something akin to contained laughter, as if they were sharing a private joke that she was just beginning to access.

“Don’t you have plants at home?” Pamela suddenly asked, as if the question had sprung from the foam of her coffee.

“Well, there are a couple of cacti… and a fern that I think hates me,” Y/n replied. “But I always forget to water them. Or I overwater them. Seriously, it’s like plants come to me already doomed.”

Pamela smiled, one of those slow smiles that seem to grow little by little, like a sprout deciding when the perfect moment to emerge into the light is.

“It’s not just about water, Y/n,” she said, with that voice that seemed to carry the calm of the wind and the weight of centuries of nature. “Plants need attention. Patience. Sometimes they just want to know you’re there, even if you don’t say anything.” She paused, letting Y/n’s gaze get lost in her eyes. “Sometimes, like people.”

Y/n felt a little shiver. It wasn’t what Pamela was saying, but how she was saying it. There was something in her voice that disarmed her, as if every word had been calculated to penetrate a defense that Y/n hadn’t even realized she had up. And then, almost without thinking, she let slip a truth she rarely shared.

“I’m not very good with people.” The confession came out of her mouth before she could stop it. She said it without drama, almost as if she were talking about the weather. But something in Pamela changed, barely perceptible, like a leaf moving without the wind touching it.

“Really?” Pamela asked softly, but without an ounce of pity. Just curiosity.

Y/n looked down for a moment, fiddling with the edge of her cup, before daring to continue.

“I grew up in a huge house, but… empty. My father… well, he was busy with his things. Business, parties, the usual. Shrugging it off, wanting to downplay it, even though inside she knew it wasn’t something that could easily fade away. Alfred, the butler, raised me. And yes, he was amazing. But it was always just him and no one else. It’s not the same as having… friends.”

Pamela listened in silence, but not in that awkward way where people listen just to see how you respond afterward. No, there was something in her attention that enveloped Y/n, as if she were giving her space to bare herself without fear of being judged.

“You never had friends,” Pamela asserted more than asked.

Y/n shook her head.

“Until now,” Pamela said, with that same softness that seemed to have become her trademark, and something in Y/n’s chest stirred, as if she had just heard the most important thing in the world.

There was a moment of silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a silence that somehow connected them. And then Pamela broke the spell, with a mischievous smile that lit everything up again.

“So… are you going to let me be your first friend, or would you rather keep killing plants?”

Y/n couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her lips, a sincere and liberating laugh, as if something inside her had broken an invisible chain. After all, it was clear that Pamela wasn’t just another person passing through her life. There was something different about her, something that made the air feel lighter, that made the future seem less uncertain.

“Well, if you can survive the cactus…” Y/n said, leaving the sentence unfinished, but knowing Pamela would understand.

And then, for the first time in a long time, Y/n felt that everything might be okay. That maybe, just maybe, Pamela Isley wasn’t just a roommate, but the first person in a long time with whom she could imagine a less lonely future. She was already caught in that web, and the worst, or perhaps the best part, was that she didn’t care at all.

Bruce Wayne was sitting in the mansion's garden on a gray afternoon that seemed to drag memories along like the wind drags fallen leaves. In his hands, a cup of black coffee, still steaming, its strong and bitter aroma mingling with the scent of damp earth after the rain. In front of him, on a small wrought-iron table, rested a piece of dark chocolate cake topped with melting strawberry ice cream, forming a pink puddle around it. But he found no pleasure in the view. It was more of a bitter symbol of a routine he once believed unbreakable.

In the garden, where the wilted flowers swayed gently, a little girl flitted about with contagious energy, as if the chill of the afternoon did not exist for her. Her laughter, so innocent and pure, filled the air, breaking the sepulchral silence that seemed to reign in that old home for a moment. She wore a pink dress with small white dots, an 80s style that would have been charming in another time but now seemed out of place with the scene. Her patent leather shoes shone as she ran back and forth, chasing her dolls.

In her small hands, she held action figures, one of the Batman her father portrayed and another of the Joker, his eternal rival. The girl, no older than six, organized her battles with adorable seriousness. In a high-pitched, mischievous voice, she brought the characters to life, staging an epic duel between hero and villain.

“You won’t defeat me this time, Batman!” she exclaimed, raising the Joker figure with a malevolent laugh.

“I will stop you! I always do...” she replied with her other hand, giving voice to Batman, but with a childlike touch that contrasted with the darkness of the character.

Bruce watched the scene with a mix of tenderness and pain. He knew she wasn’t really there, that this vision was nothing more than a distant echo of what never was. Y/n, his little Y/n, had vanished months ago. And he… he had never given her the love she deserved, always wrapped in his own shadows, in his endless struggle to protect a city that never rested.

The air felt thick, heavy with nostalgia and regret. The girl continued to play, laughing, talking to her dolls, oblivious to the weight of the years, to the loss. And Bruce, although he knew it was an illusion, couldn’t look away; he couldn’t stop imagining what it would have been like to give her what he never knew how to offer. What it would have been like to see her grow, to laugh more, to run through those gardens with the carefree spirit only childhood allows.

Suddenly, the sound of soft footsteps interrupted the daydream. Alfred appeared at the garden entrance, always elegant, always with that air of discretion and understanding that only he possessed. He approached slowly, placing a hand on Bruce’s shoulder as if he understood the pain that kept him trapped in that scene.

“Mr. Wayne” he said in a low voice, filled with compassion, “it’s time to come back.”

Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, letting Alfred’s words seep into his consciousness. He knew what they meant. He knew that girl, in her 80s dress and her dolls, was nothing but an idealized memory, a distorted reflection of what never was. Because Y/n wasn’t like that. She didn’t like those old dresses; she had always preferred the fashion of the 2000s, with its vibrant colors and comfortable clothes. And she never enjoyed the chocolate cake now sitting in front of him. She liked carrot cake, simple and sweet, but he had never paid attention to those details when he still could.

How did he know those little details about his daughter? Bruce often wondered. It wasn’t because he had learned them by being close, because proximity had been a luxury he never allowed himself. No, those small fragments of her life he had discovered in the album that Alfred kept with an almost reverential discretion. That album was more than just an object; it was a silent refuge where Alfred had archived what the big house, always filled with shadows and echoes of footsteps that never came, had refused to hold.

The day the children learned of the album’s existence marked the beginning of a chaos he still remembered with a mix of exasperation and a contained smile. They had decided, like little conspirators, that treasure belonged to them. A kind of all-out battle had ensued in the mansion, something that over time acquired the quality of family legends.

Bruce, standing in the study, could still see the sparkle in Damian’s eyes, the intensity, the almost playful fury with which he had taken that assault as a personal mission. Damian, with his perpetual impatience, had been the fiercest of all. He vividly remembered how his youngest son had burst into the room wielding two katanas, with the cold precision of a millennia-old warrior, even though his hands were still too small to fully grasp the handles.

“It’s mine!” Damian shouted, with that mix of stubbornness and vulnerability that only the youngest possess, as if he could cut not only the air but the very uncomfortable silence that always floated between them.

“It belongs to all of us, Damian” Bruce had tried to intervene, with that authoritative voice that, curiously, never managed to control his own children as he did with the chaos of the city.

But Damian wasn’t listening. For him, the album was not just an object; it was a relic, a bridge to something he felt but couldn’t name. His sister Y/n, so distant in daily life, was closer in those pages than in any superficial conversation they had ever had. She was his sister, but not enough. He wanted those photos, those notes that Alfred had kept, he wanted to understand what it was about her that slipped away from him daily.

Bruce watched from the threshold, not really intervening. He let the chaos unfold, as if it were necessary. The children fought, but it wasn’t just for the album. They fought for something deeper, a kind of silent reclamation of what they had never been able to have: time, connection, perhaps even love. Alfred, from a corner, merely smiled with that quiet wisdom, knowing that those battles of childish katanas, of shouts and disputes over photos and notes, were actually the way they tried to find each other in a house full of absences.

Bruce sighed, remembering. Alfred had always known more than he did, always understood those invisible things that Bruce, no matter how much he wanted to, could never quite grasp. And so it was that he himself, at the end of it all, also ended up snooping in that album, with a silent curiosity he would never admit. There, in those carefully tended pages, he found his daughter. Or at least, he found the idea of her, the pieces of a life he hadn’t shared but that, somehow, had always been present in those photos, in those little notes that Alfred, more of a father than he was, had kept with such love.

“She won’t come back, Alfred... I lost her... maybe forever... ” Bruce murmured, his voice barely audible, as if admitting it aloud would make her absence more real—“and I… I was never there for her as I should have been.”

The old butler sighed, his tired eyes filled with infinite patience.

“It’s never too late to remember, sir. It’s never too late to honor her memory in the right way.”

Bruce opened his eyes, looking again at the scene, but this time more clearly. The girl had disappeared.

The wind blew gently through the Wayne mansion's garden, carrying away the murmur of the dry leaves. Bruce remained motionless, as if the weight of the years, of the mistakes, had turned him into another statue in that landscape. The aroma of coffee had dissipated, and the cake before him remained untouched. Y/n’s figure still floated in his mind, her laughter like a distant echo that wouldn’t fade but also wouldn’t console him.

Alfred, with the patience only a father at heart could have, stood by his side, his firm hand on Bruce’s shoulder, as if in that gesture he could transmit strength to face the pain that gnawed at him.

“Mr. Wayne” Alfred began, his voice soft but laden with meaning, “the kids have gone looking for Y/n again.”

Bruce closed his eyes, allowing those words to sink into his consciousness. He knew all the Robins and Batgirls had been following leads, searching for answers in the darkest corners of Gotham, but the emptiness he felt remained overwhelming. They had failed so many times… what did another attempt matter? The city, always hungry for its heroes, seemed more a trap than a cause.

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Alfred” Bruce replied, his voice rough, worn down by years of struggle. “None of this will change what happened. Y/n… is gone.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Alfred interjected, this time with a firmer tone, “Y/n is still out there. And as long as there’s a single chance to find her, you cannot allow yourself to give up.”

Silence stretched between them. Bruce’s gaze remained fixed on some point in the garden, lost in thought. But Alfred, with his usual insight, knew he needed more than empty words to awaken him.

“There’s something else,” Alfred added, taking a breath, “a new figure appeared last night during a robbery in the East District. They call her Kerosene. The White Bat. She was seen taking out a group of assailants in seconds.”

Bruce didn’t react. Kerosene. The city had always generated figures willing to fill the void he had left every time he stepped away, every time Gotham lost the light of its vigilante. But this time, he didn’t feel the urgency to learn more. What did it matter? He repeated to himself. Gotham already had its heroes.

“I don’t care” he murmured, his voice empty, as cold as the air surrounding the garden—“Let others deal with Gotham. Kerosene, the Joker, or whoever… the city doesn’t need me anymore.”

Alfred tightened his grip on Bruce’s shoulder, almost like a father refusing to see his son give up. He stepped forward, and this time his voice was lower but more incisive.

“This isn’t about Gotham, sir,” he said with an intensity Bruce hadn’t expected—“It’s about Y/n.”

Bruce lifted his gaze, his eyes finally meeting Alfred’s, as if those words had ignited a spark within him.

“If you don’t want to protect this city, do it for her ” Alfred continued—“Because you will find her, sir. I’m sure of it. And when you do… how would you want her to find you? Destroyed? Defeated? No. You need to be ready, you need to be strong, for her. Wherever she is, Y/n is still waiting for her father.”

Bruce felt the pain in his chest intensify, a constant reminder of his failure, but Alfred was right. Y/n was somewhere out there. Alive or not, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that as long as he didn’t find her, he couldn’t give up.

“The kids have done everything they can to find her,” Alfred said, softening his tone—“They’re still at it. Every day they search for new leads, explore new corners of Gotham… but there’s only one man who can put everything in order. There’s only one father who can bring her back.”

The air tensed between them, and for the first time in a long time, Bruce felt a slight tremor inside. He remembered the moment he decided to become Batman, driven by the guilt and pain of losing his parents. Now, that same guilt, that same pain, called to him again, but this time, it wasn’t for Gotham. It was for Y/n. His daughter.

“Tell me, Alfred, who is this Kerosene?” Bruce murmured, finally reacting to the information Alfred had given him.

“Yes, sir. Her abilities are astonishing, according to reports. Agile, fast… but her true identity remains a mystery. Some say she’s just another vigilante trying to fill the void you left. But the important thing is that she is acting with lethal precision.”

Bruce stood slowly, leaving the cup of coffee on the table, already cold and forgotten. He looked at the empty garden, but this time, with a new determination blooming in his chest.

“If this Kerosene is connected… if there’s any link to Y/n, I will find out,” he said, his voice firmer, closer to the one Alfred had known for so many years—“And if not… then I’ll find her myself.”

Alfred nodded, a mix of relief and satisfaction reflected on his face. He had managed to awaken the man Gotham needed, but more than that, he had awakened the father Y/n deserved.

“ Very well, sir,he replied with a slight smile, always the unwavering servant—“The Batcave is ready for your return.”

Bruce turned toward the mansion, but not before glancing once more at the garden, where Y/n’s figure, so real in his mind, faded like morning mist.

Wherever you are, I will find you.

Richard “Dick” Grayson knocked forcefully on the old apartment door, the echo resonating in the narrow hallway of the building, where dust gathered in the corners like forgotten memories and the lights flickered as if trying to perform one last dance before going out. Beside him, Barbara Gordon, the commissioner's daughter, crossed her arms, staring at the door with an intensity that could have splintered the wood.

Jason Todd, restless to his left, kept his gaze fixed on the doorknob, his body tense, as if each passing second brought him one step closer to breaking through that wooden barrier. Above, on the roof, Red Robin, The Spoiler, and Batgirl waited, shadows in a world that seemed to ignore their pounding hearts, ready to act.

“I don’t know why we always have to deal with the worst specimens of humanity,” Barbara murmured, adjusting her coat as she shot a sidelong glance at Dick, who seemed to have a plan in mind.

“Because we’re lucky,” Jason replied, sarcasm lacing his words, a crooked smile on his lips that didn’t quite fit the situation. “And when I say ‘lucky,’ I mean we’re carrying someone else's karma because we… are screwed.”

Dick knocked on the door again, this time with more force. The echo reverberated through the hallways, a declaration of intent.

“We should break it down. You know it’s not going to open just from a gentle knock,” Jason said, stepping forward, his intention clear and palpable.

“Calm down, Jason. Not all problems are solved with violence,” Barbara retorted, though a part of her knew that idea faded every time they found themselves in a situation like this.

“Sure, as if we have another option. Do you want me to schedule a tea date instead of kicking down the door?” Jason frowned, the tension palpable.

Finally, a sound came from behind the door. Chains, the metallic echo of locks being unlatched with a maddening slowness, as if someone on the other side knew that every second of wait was boiling the blood of the three standing before the door. At last, the door opened just enough to reveal a face: the landlord. A short man with small eyes and a slimy smile that seemed to ooze like dirty oil through his yellowed teeth.

“What do you want?” he asked in a thick voice, looking at Dick with suspicion, but his gaze soon dropped to Barbara, lingering unpleasantly on her figure, and then to Jason, who had already tensed the muscles in his jaw.

“We’re looking for Y/n Wayne L/n,” Dick said, trying to maintain his composure, the heat of anger threatening to overflow. “We know she lives here. And we know you know where she is.”

The man let out a laugh under his breath, a rusty squeak that resonated like a heavy joke.

“Ah, the pretty girl… yeah, yeah. And who are you all, huh?” he asked, his slimy tone sending chills that seemed to crawl over Dick's skin.

“It’s none of your concern. We just want to know where she is,” Barbara said, her voice firm and resolute, although the tension in her body betrayed her impatience.

The landlord tilted his head, like a cat playing with its prey, and smiled with a disturbing mischief.

“Well, if you haven’t found her in five months, maybe you don’t want to know,” he said, letting the words drop like stones in a pond, creating ripples of discomfort.

“I warn you, this isn’t a game,” Jason interjected, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t make me remind you what can happen when a man plays with fire.”

The man shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned, although the glint in his eyes betrayed him.

Jason's hand rested near his belt, right where he kept his gun, and although he hadn’t drawn the weapon yet, the threat was clear.

The landlord noticed but instead of being scared, he wore a repugnant smile, like a predator that had just spotted a wounded prey. His gaze shifted back to Barbara, and then, without the slightest respect, murmured something that made Dick’s fists clench.

“Ah, Y/n... yeah, I remember her. She came around when she had just turned eighteen. Good material, if you catch my drift. She looked innocent, but... those are the most interesting ones, right?” The man's gaze darkened, scanning Barbara again, as if evaluating merchandise.

“Say that again,” Jason growled, drawing his gun in a motion so quick that the landlord barely had time to blink before feeling the cold barrel pressed against his forehead. “And I swear I’ll blow your brains out right here.”

The words hung in the air, sharp, loaded with contempt and a lust that twisted like a snake inside him.

The man let out a cynical chuckle, relishing the moment.

“The last time I saw pretty Y/n was a while back. I don’t know what she’s up to now, but I kept some pictures of her and her friend.” His tone was defiant, almost mocking.

Rage was bubbling in Jason. His fists were clenched, a deadly spark in his eyes.

“What did you say?” His voice trembled between anger and control, like a string about to snap.

The landlord, feeling invincible, continued. “I don’t know if they’re lesbians, but seeing them together was quite the spectacle. Both of them were hot, you know?”

Jason could no longer hold back. The anger erupted like a volcano.

“Shut up!” he shouted, and the sound echoed like a gunshot in the tense silence that had invaded the room.

Before the landlord could react, Jason pulled his gun, aiming with precision.

“I’m going to give you one chance. Tell me where Y/n is. Now.”

The man’s laughter faded, his eyes widening in shock. “Wait, wait, there’s no need to…”

“WHERE?!” Jason's voice thundered, firm and filled with rage, like a storm rumbling in the atmosphere.

The tension became palpable, the air thick with promises of violence.

“Alright, alright!” the landlord stammered, but Jason’s voice turned even colder.

“I’m not going to ask again.”

“She just left for work at night and that’s it…” he started to say, but Jason could no longer hear. The man had photos of Y/n. Compromising, crude, and that simple mention ignited hell in his chest.

In an instant, the sound of an explosion resonated in the hallway, and the man fell to the ground, his silly smile erased by the terror that had overtaken his face. Blood gushed forth in a dark torrent, staining the floor and nearby walls.

Barbara covered her mouth in shock, while Dick stood frozen, stunned.

“Jason!” she exclaimed, but the image of the landlord lying on the ground with his vacant stare was etched in her mind.

Jason holstered the weapon, his breath rapid and uncontrolled. He had crossed a line, and in that moment, he realized there was no turning back. Anger had found a way to break free, but at a terrible cost.

“I won’t let anyone hurt Y/n again,” he murmured, his eyes filled with determination. No one else would stand in his way to find her, no matter the price he had to pay.

The room was saturated with the echo of the gunshot, and the silence grew heavy, almost palpable. Barbara took a deep breath, the anger sparking in her eyes as she looked at Jason, who still seemed dazed by the act he had committed.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she said, her voice contained but sharp as a blade. “That’s why we didn’t bring Damian along, because he would have gone off just the same, but in a much more reckless way.” Her gaze fixed on the corpse, lying in a pool of blood, a scene that could have come from the mind of a disturbed artist.

Jason, with his chest heaving and jaw clenched, simply shrugged.

“I couldn’t just stand by. He knew something, and I wasn’t about to let it slip away.” The fervor in his voice didn’t hide the confusion that was beginning to seep in, like the cold of the night creeping through the windows.

Barbara didn’t respond, but the silence that filled the room grew even denser when the others entered, alarmed by the gunshot. Tim, Stephanie, and Cass arrived, their expressions filled with concern that quickly transformed into indignation.

“What happened here?” Tim asked, his eyes widening at the scene. Blood slid across the floor like a dark river, and the landlord’s body faded beneath the flickering light.

“Are you crazy, Jason?!” Steph exclaimed, disbelief palpable in her voice.

Cass crouched down, her expression grave as she looked at the fallen man. She didn’t need to speak to convey her disapproval; every glance said more than a thousand words.

“It doesn’t matter how we got here,” Dick intervened, his authoritative tone trying to restore order. “We need answers. Let’s investigate.”

With a determined movement, Barbara approached the body, while Jason still breathed irregularly, as if the weight of his actions began to settle on him. Barbara looked around; the apartment was a dusty and sad place, filled with shadows that seemed to whisper secrets.

As the others searched, Tim found a series of photos pinned to the walls, each one showing Y/n and other women from the area, frozen laughter in time, trapped between moments that should have been happy. However, there was something unsettling about the way they were arranged, a disorder that seemed a declaration of possession.

“Look at this,” Tim said, pointing to the images. There was Y/n, always smiling, but next to her was a figure that couldn’t be ignored. The silhouette of Pamela Isley, better known as Poison Ivy, stood beside her, her red hair like a fire that seemed to consume the sadness of the place.

“Pamela…” Cass murmured, her voice almost a whisper. “She’s been in Arkham for three months.”

Barbara moved closer, examining the photos more closely. “This is more complicated than we thought. Ivy has been involved, and that changes everything.”

Jason, still trying to comprehend the chaos he had unleashed, ran a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll find Y/n. I don’t care what I have to do.”

Barbara looked at him, her expression one of challenge but also understanding. “We can’t do this recklessly. We have to be smart. Silent.”

The group nodded, realizing that the road ahead would be filled with dangers, but also promises of redemption. They were all willing to kill for Y/n, but they had to do it quietly, like shadows slipping through the streets at night.

“Listen, we’re going to find her,” Dick said, his voice resonating like a mantra. “No matter how many doors we have to break down, how many truths we have to drag into the light.”

And so, in the echo of the silence that followed the violence, the five united in a tacit pact, intertwining their destinies in the search for Y/n. Each lost in their thoughts, each remembering that shadows sometimes have the power to conceal not only secrets but also the light that clings to hope.

The shadows stretched as they moved away from the apartment, leaving behind the vestige of a dead man and the echo of trapped laughter. The search had begun, and Y/n’s fate hung in the balance, a thread of light in the darkness that promised to bloom amid the ruins of despair.

The city lights flickered in the distance, like lost stars in the asphalt.

The tears of Y/n fell onto the slippery ground, forming puddles that blended with the blood, a dark ruby staining every part of her thin body, as if sins were being tattooed onto her skin. The humidity of the place smelled of iron and fear, of broken promises and a destiny she had chosen but didn’t quite know how to accept.

“It doesn’t feel good, little one?” said the Doctor, his voice a bitter whisper echoing off the damp walls of the room. He, with his dirty blonde hair falling messily over his forehead, wore a white coat that looked more like a rag than a symbol of authority. A cynical smile spread across his lips, revealing teeth that seemed sharper than the fate he had designed for her. “Bathing in the blood of enemies, isn’t it an exquisite pleasure?”

Y/n, her gaze lost at a point on the floor, nodded slowly, as if each movement cost her an eternity. The blood, warm and sticky, slid between her fingers, a sensory experience that drowned her in contradictions. On one hand, there was a dark delight in the power that image conferred upon her, a power she had learned to wield. But on the other hand, there was an abyss of pain threatening to consume her.

“It’s…” she whispered, barely able to form words. Her voice trembled like a leaf in autumn, indecision etched in her features. Guilt suffocated her, and each tear that fell was a reminder of what she had lost, of what she had left behind.

“What is it?” asked the Doctor, leaning toward her, his eyes lit by a glow that was not exactly compassion, but rather a cruel satisfaction. His gaze seemed to pierce through the layers of her being, scrutinizing the dark corners of her soul. “Is it pleasure you feel, or is it fear?”

Y/n recoiled, feeling her skin burn under his gaze. The Doctor’s words tangled in her mind, forming a knot that seemed impossible to untie. Her voice, almost a cry for help, resonated in the air.

“I don’t know! I don’t know if it’s pleasure or pain.” The words shot out like arrows, but only managed to embed their tips in the empty air, finding no destination. She trembled, caught between repulsion and the desire to free herself from the invisible chains that kept her anchored in that place.

The Doctor let out a cold laugh, as if he were enjoying the spectacle unfolding before him. With a careless gesture, he threw another bucket of blood onto the floor, creating a small puddle that slid toward Y/n.

“That is the beauty of your situation, my dear. You have been chosen to cleanse Gotham of the scum, and along the way, you will discover that pain and pleasure are two sides of the same coin.”

“Chosen?” replied Y/n, her voice shaking with the fierce mix of disbelief and rage. “Chosen for what? To be your puppet?”

The Doctor stepped closer, letting the distance between them fade. His presence was oppressive, like a shadow that swallowed light.

“You are not a puppet, Kerosene” he said, pronouncing her name as if caressing it. “You are the spark that can ignite the revolution. The tears that fall now are the ashes of the old you, and it’s time you embrace what awaits you.”

Y/n felt the air grow dense, as if the Doctor’s words were trying to envelop her, to convince her. But there was a truth in his voice, an echo of what she had longed for deep within her being. Hadn’t she been searching for purpose, a place to belong?

“No… I don’t want to be what you’ve made me.” she said, though her voice sounded more hesitant than determined. It was as if reality slipped around her, like the slippery ground she stood on.

“Of course you do, Y/n.” He smiled, and there was something unsettling in that smile, something that made her feel she was on the brink of a revelation. “Your pain is the echo of the city, and you, little one, can be its savior.”

The Doctor’s words resonated in her mind, and Y/n felt herself teetering on the edge of the abyss, the possibility of becoming Kerosene, the force of vengeance and power. She fought against the idea, but there was a part of her that was beginning to awaken, to open like a flower in the desert.

“So, what do I have to do?” she asked, finally facing the reality that surrounded her. The tears, instead of being a sign of weakness, now seemed a recognition of her new identity.

The Doctor looked at her with a mix of satisfaction and complicity, like a teacher who sees the spark of greatness in his student.

“First, you must accept that the past does not define your future. The blood that surrounds you is only the first step toward freedom. Become what you have always been. Your destiny is to burn, and in doing so, illuminate others.”

Y/n felt the weight of her decision slowly fading away. By accepting her destiny, she had found a new way to free herself, a purpose that shone like fire.

“Then I will do it.” she said, her voice now firm and resonant, as if she were finally embracing the darkness that had always dwelled within her. “I will be Kerosene.”

The Doctor smiled, and in that smile lay a world of possibilities. Together, they could shake the foundations of Gotham.

“That’s right, my dear Kerosene.” He stepped back, allowing his figure to fade into the shadows..“And remember, every decision you make will be a step toward glory or toward downfall. The line is thin, and you are destined to cross it.”

“What about them?” Y/n asked, pointing to the shadows surrounding her, referring to the Waynes who remained silent in their luxurious prison of silence. “Where is Batman?”

The Doctor paused, his gaze turning serious and contemplative.

“Since your appearance, the Waynes have become shadows of what they once were. Batman has vanished, as if fear has locked him in his own game. They don’t want you to know the truth, and I wonder if, deep down, he fears what you are capable of.”

“Fears?” repeated Y/n, incredulity splattering her voice like a rain of dead stars. “Why?”

“Because the truth is that there is no longer space for the good in this city.” The Doctor stepped closer, his tone low but filled with fervor. “Soon you will go after the Court of Owls. We will expose those monsters in the streets, as they deserve, and they will have no one to defend them. Not even their beloved bat.”

A chill ran down Y/n's spine. The idea of stepping out into the night, of facing the villains who had ravaged her city, filled her with a strange power. She remembered Pamela, laughing amidst the shadows, her voice like an echo urging her to fight.

“I will not be their puppet. I do not want to be a pawn in a bigger game.” The words erupted from her with the force of an approaching storm, and the vision of Pamela dancing among the flowers filled her with a sudden sweetness.

“You will not be a pawn, Kerosene.” The Doctor smiled, and in his eyes was an air of admiration. “You are the queen in this game. Your vengeance will not only bring down those villains, but it will also seek the man behind the mask of Batman. We need to end him.”

“End him?” The question hung in the air like a trembling whisper. Her heart stopped for an instant, remembering the nights spent with Batman, the unspoken words, the caresses of an absent father.

“Yes. Because he, like them, has become a legend that needs to fall.”

Y/n felt the darkness looming over her, a shadow whispering promises of power and pain. But there was something more, a spark igniting within her, a fire burning with the strength of a new dawn.

“Then I will do it.” said Y/n, her voice resonating with a clarity that surprised her. “I will expose the Court of Owls and make my father see.”

The Doctor watched Y/n with palpable satisfaction, as if he had finally ignited a spark deep within her being. With a gesture of his hand, he made the invisible shackles that kept her trapped fade away. In that moment, a strange freedom slipped over her skin, a freedom laden with dark responsibility.

“Come, Kerosene.” he said, his voice now a hypnotic chant rising among the shadows. “There is something you need to see.”

He led her through a labyrinth of damp hallways, each step resonating like an echo of past decisions. The walls seemed to whisper forgotten secrets, tales of those who had fallen into the abyss before her. As they advanced, the light of day faded, and the gloom became an accomplice to their thoughts.

Finally, they reached the balcony of the building, a place where time had stopped its march. The Doctor gently pushed Y/n toward the railing, forcing her to look out over the vast expanse of Gotham that stretched before them. The city was a canvas of flickering lights and deep shadows, a portrait of intertwined chaos and order.

“Look, little one.” the Doctor whispered, his voice wrapping around her like a veil of mystery. “This is your city, a monster that feeds on the secrets you hold in your chest. The blood that stains your skin is a symbol of the struggle that lies ahead.”

Y/n leaned over the edge of the balcony, feeling the cold wind caress her bare skin. The city glimmered like a sea of dying stars, each light a story, each shadow a whisper of betrayal. The vision enveloped her, and for a moment, she felt like a spectator of her own destiny.

Her bare skin, still stained with blood, prickled at the chill of Gotham, a freezing breeze sneaking through the cracks of crumbling buildings, as if the city itself reminded her that she was alive, that darkness embraced her with its mantle of forgetfulness and despair. Each small contact of the air made her more aware of her vulnerability, and at the same time, of the power that blossomed from within her. It was a reminder that, amidst chaos, she was the spark of a new flame.

The puddles of blood that had stained her skin, silent witnesses to her transformation, shone like a dark ruby under the dim light of the moon. In that moment, each drop was an echo of past decisions, a symbol of the life she had left behind. And yet, in her mind, the Doctor's words echoed: “You are the spark that can ignite the revolution.” The irony of her state wrapped her in a sweet and bitter confusion; deep down, her nakedness felt like a release.

The city stretched before her, a vast ocean of twinkling lights and lurking shadows. Gotham, in its complexity, seemed to breathe, a living being pulsing with stories of pain and longing. The streetlights flickered as if about to go out, and Y/n felt that each flicker was a whisper calling her, a reminder that she was destined to be part of something much larger than herself.

As she gazed at the horizon, her mind filled with images: the faces of those she had lost, those she had loved, and those she had to confront. Her heart wrestled between the desire for vengeance and the longing for redemption.

“What do you see?” asked the Doctor, his eyes shining with an unsettling intensity.

“I see…” Y/n began, but the words slipped away like sand through her fingers. The city was a labyrinth of emotions, a stage where pain and pleasure intertwined in a macabre dance. It was a reflection of her own internal struggle, her desire for vengeance and her yearning for redemption.

“I see a sea of shadows, a stage where illusions collapse like houses of cards.” she finally replied, her voice echoing. “Each light, a hope; each shadow, a whisper of unhappiness.”

“Perfect.” The Doctor smiled, his face illuminated by an almost fraternal satisfaction. “Gotham is a mirror, and you are the light that can break the darkness. You must be able to see beyond what shines.”

The Doctor’s words resonated in her mind, tearing through the veil of confusion that enveloped her. In that instant, Y/n understood that every tear shed had fed the city, that every drop of blood on her hands was an echo of what she had lost. And yet, vengeance offered her a new purpose, a path into the unknown.

“The city cries for change, for a fire to purify it” she whispered, her voice gaining strength in the night breeze. “And I… I am that fire.”

“That’s right, dear.” The Doctor nodded, a mix of pride and malice in his expression. “The fire that will purify Gotham and, in its wake, consume everything that stands in your way.”

Y/n felt the air fill with electricity, a palpable current connecting her to the city, to its pain and desire. Deep within her, something began to change. She was no longer just a puppet; she was no longer merely the shadow of her past. She was Kerosene, the spark that would ignite the flame of change.

“But, Doctor, what about those who love the darkness?” she asked, her voice now an echo of what she had learned. “What if they cling to their shadow?”

The Doctor stepped closer to her, his penetrating gaze filled with complicity.

“Darkness is a possessive lover, but there is always a price to pay. The truth is that they cannot hold onto it forever. And when the fire burns, only those ready to be reborn will be saved.”

Y/n felt a mixture of anguish and determination. The city before her became a symbol of her internal struggle, a stage where light and shadow intertwined in an eternal game. Every street, every building, every corner whispered her name in a song of warning and challenge.

“And when the fire consumes everything in its path, will there be anything left of me?” she asked, her voice trembling with the fragility of a leaf in the wind.

The Doctor smiled, a smile that seemed to mock the questions still dancing in her mind.

“Perhaps, dear Kerosene, you will find yourself in the act of burning. Or maybe, you will fade into the ash. That is the enigma of transformation: in the fire, death is merely the prelude to a new beginning.”

As she gazed at the city, Y/n felt her identity fragment and fuse, in an endless cycle of creation and destruction. The image of Gotham before her became a metaphor for the human soul, a reflection of the struggles everyone faced in the darkness. The city, with its chaos and its heartbreaking beauty, enveloped her like a hug.

With one last look at the flickering lights and lurking shadows, Y/n stepped back, a firm decision rising within her.

“There’s no turning back now” she murmured, her voice an echo of her new reality. “I will be the fire that illuminates this eternal night.”

The Doctor, with a gesture of approval, retreated into the shadows, leaving her alone in her revelation. As the city spread before her, a mantle of mystery and power, Y/n knew that the true journey was just beginning. The line between fire and ash was thin, and in her chest burned the certainty that by crossing it, nothing would ever be the same.

“So be it, Kerosene” she said to herself as the wind enveloped her in secret whispers. “Let the fire speak in your name and let the night receive your lament.”

And looking at Gotham, she understood that, in the end, her destiny was not merely to be a spectator, but an unstoppable force, a storm that would unleash chaos. And so, with her heart beating to the rhythm of the city, she prepared to embrace her truth, her fire.

☆

A/N — Here is the long-awaited third part of this series. Thank you for all the support and love you have given me. I decided to make this part longer (at the cost of not being able to include the last image :( ) so that you can enjoy it more.

I was reading your comments where you were asking if Y/n and the Doctor would have a romance (which horrifies me a bit :d, but it gave me an idea) or if he performed a lobotomy on her. Well, that will be answered in the next part or in a headcanon, whatever you ask me.

By the way, in the tag list, there are some users I couldn't add, sorry about that 😔. I really appreciate your understanding and patience. Your enthusiasm keeps me motivated to keep creating and sharing these stories. I hope you find this installment engaging and that it brings you the excitement and emotions you’ve come to expect from the series. Enjoy!

Don't hesitate to ask me anything if you want.

take a bath!

Tag list! ◇ — @amber-content @toast-on-dandelioms @feral-childs-word @sweetconnoisseurgardener @victoria1676 @toasted-cat18 @nosyrobin @beeaskewwrites @yandere-enthusiast @telltaletoad @dhanyasri @vanessa-boo @m3vl0vesu @jellypotato66 @midnightgrimoire @cherryxxxxyoongi @imnotdumbimstupif @plsfckmedxddy @h0neysiba @mybones537 @erikasurfer @sheepintherain @pix-stuff @yan-rai @uniquecutie-puffs @arlandvery @theblonde777 @alishii

@maicenitas @ti-girl1226 @vanilliona @chickenwings435 @thedramabrotherss @bat1212 @imnotdumbimstupif @somebodyrandom-613 @aelxr @jsprien213 @sheepintherain @lovebug-apple @zenychwan @starsdotalk @holylonelyponyeatingmacaron @misdollface @clementinesyummy @bunbunboysworld @lunaluz432 @kiarst @meowmeeps @adeptusxia0 @mettatons-number-1fan @fairygardenprincesss @nervousalpacalady @mottysith

Inspiration: @acid-ixx with his Again & Again series, @gotham-daydreams ' work, @i-cant-sing's work and @klemen-tine's work, be sure to check them out!

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plutosunshine · 3 months ago

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Warning! Lilith in the houses.

Lilith represents our dark side and shows what we should be warned about. This article will warn you and help you be aware of your dark sides.

Lilith in the 1st house

Of course, the 1st house is about the person and their self-expression. Therefore, Lilith in the 1st house often intensifies how a person expresses themselves. They might possess a magnetic or enigmatic presence that draws others in, often without them realizing why. The intensity of self-expression can be played out as unwanted attention and too much focus on one's appearance. One may think others perceive them as superficial or don't take them too seriously. Also, be careful with over-focusing on your appearance since it may lead to anxiety, eating disorders, etc. Of course, this is the extreme case, but there is a tendency to unhealthily be overly conscious about the body.

This placement can signify a struggle with darker impulses or hidden desires. It can lead to inner conflicts since these impulses are often not considered good in society. Be careful with your dark thoughts and impulses, which can lead to trouble.

There is a strong desire for independence and a rejection of societal norms or expectations. This rebellious streak can manifest in various aspects of life, including appearance, behavior, and personal choices. The 1st house is a house of Aries, so we can't deny the rebellious side. Of course, it is not bad; just be sure you don't cross the line.

There may be an ongoing battle with your identity, as Lilith challenges you to constantly redefine yourself. This is a reminder to engage in self-reflection, knowing that you are on your personal journey and are fully supported.

Embracing your darker side can be a catalyst for significant personal growth. By acknowledging and integrating these hidden aspects, you can cultivate a more holistic and authentic sense of self, instilling a sense of hope and motivation.

Lilith in the 2nd house

Lilith in the 2nd house can manifest as a deep-seated fear or obsession with financial security. This placement might lead to a tumultuous relationship with money, characterized by periods of extreme wealth and sudden losses.

Power struggles related to resources may exist, either within personal relationships or through external circumstances. This can create a sense of mistrust or betrayal regarding financial matters.

This obsession with money may even lead to taboo ways of earning money. Be careful with dangerous thoughts about that since it may lead you into trouble.

Individuals with this placement might have issues of self-worth and personal values. They can tend to derive self-esteem from material possessions, leading to an unfulfilled or empty feeling despite external appearances of success.

This position can also reflect a rebellion against traditional value systems, causing internal conflict and feeling out of sync with societal norms. Be careful with this tendency.

The most important thing here is to stabilize your self-esteem. Having a healthy one, this placement won't bring any trouble.

Lilith in the 2nd house can bring out possessive tendencies, not just towards material possessions but also in relationships. A fear of losing what one owns might lead to controlling behaviors. Be careful not to turn your relationships into obsessive and controlling.

Jealousy can be a significant issue, causing tension and conflict both in personal and professional relationships.

Lilith in the 3rd house

Lilith in the 3rd house can manifest as some communication difficulties. This can include a tendency to speak harshly or bluntly, often leading to misunderstandings or conflicts. Your words may cause some trouble and gossip, so be careful.

Also, there might be a fear of expressing oneself fully, leading to repression of thoughts and feelings, which can later explode in destructive ways. Try to express your feelings more, especially through your words. Also, you need to choose your words carefully. Word is your weapon, so you can protect yourself and others. Be careful not to cause issues, gossip, and misunderstandings.

This placement can indicate intense and challenging relationships with siblings or within the immediate environment, including neighbors and classmates. There may be power struggles, jealousy, or betrayal involving brothers and sisters or others I mentioned. You need to learn how to handle these issues with grace and care, not to hurt others' feelings, and not to let others hurt you.

This may manifest as total distrust in any interactions. Don’t fall into these patterns, but try to understand the roots of the problem.

This placement often brings a restless mind, prone to anxiety and overthinking. There can be an obsession with seeking hidden truths or uncovering secrets, which can lead to mental exhaustion.

The constant need for mental stimulation can result in a lack of focus, making it difficult to complete tasks or maintain long-term commitments. These are typical third-house issues.

Lilith in the 4th house

Deep, intense, and sometimes challenging relationships with family members might exist. You may feel misunderstood or suppressed by your family at times. Your family may be your weak point. You need to be aware of the dangerous influence of your family members (if it exists).

Individuals with this placement might struggle with suppressed emotions. They may find it challenging to express their true feelings, leading to internal conflict. Of course, your emotions and feelings don't go anywhere; they can kill you from the inside. So, find ways to express your internal self.

There's also a strong drive for emotional independence and self-sufficiency. These individuals often seek to break free from familial expectations or traditions that feel restrictive, empowering them to take control of their emotional journey.

They might often feel like outsiders within their own family or home environment. This can create a lifelong quest to find a place they truly belong. Be cautious, as this quest can lead to places that are not good for you. Stay aware and cautious in your search for belonging.

These individuals often desire to create a home environment that reflects their unique identity and values, which may differ significantly from their upbringing.

A complex relationship with the mother or maternal figure could exist. This relationship can be a source of both deep connection and profound challenge. Be careful, and don't let this affect your emotional world too much.

People with Lilith in the 4th house have a unique approach to nurturing others. They are drawn to non-traditional forms of caregiving and family structures, which can be a source of empowerment and confidence in their ability to nurture.

There's a profound need to explore and understand one's inner life and emotional landscape. This journey can lead to significant personal growth and transformation. You may use any tool, whether psychology, astrology, etc.

Lilith in the 5th house

Individuals with Lilith in the 5th house often possess a powerful and sometimes unconventional creative drive. They might be drawn to art forms that are provocative, dark, or that challenge societal norms. Also, there can be a strong need to express oneself authentically, even if it goes against the grain. This placement can inspire one to create works that reflect deep personal truths and inner turmoil.

There is often a magnetic, almost taboo allure to romantic relationships. Individuals with this placement might attract intense and passionate partners or find themselves drawn to forbidden or unconventional love affairs. However, be cautious since this can lead to some issues in your personal life.

Also, romantic relationships can be a battleground for power dynamics. There might be control, secrecy, or manipulation issues that need to be addressed. Overall, the relationship area may be the area you should be warned about. Just be careful with the mentioned tendencies.

We can't skip one of the main areas of the 5th house—children. The relationship with one's children (of course, if you have them) can be profound and intense. There may be a strong desire to instill a sense of independence and self-awareness in one's children, but there are also potential conflicts around control and freedom.

There can be a desire for intense and sometimes risky pleasures. Activities that provide a sense of liberation and push boundaries can be particularly appealing. It is alright, but be careful since it can become too much.

Your hidden or repressed desires might emerge, leading to explorations of pleasure that are unconventional or socially frowned upon.

Lilith in the 5th house encourages you to integrate and embrace the shadow aspects of your personality. This is crucial to express yourself and not suppress your creativity and uniqueness. It involves acknowledging and expressing parts of yourself that are often hidden or denied.

Lilith in the 6th house

Individuals with Lilith in the 6th house often feel confined by traditional work environments and rigid routines. There can be a strong desire to break free from monotonous tasks and seek more meaningful or unconventional work. This can become a challenging experience if you have personal planets in Virgo or the 6th house. It can create inner conflict where you want to set up a routine but rebel against yourself. This never-ending circle is overwhelming.

Despite the rebellion against routine, there can be an obsession with efficiency and perfection in certain areas. This duality can create internal tension and stress.

Conflicts with authority figures or difficulty conforming to workplace norms may arise. This placement can lead to power struggles or a refusal to submit to others' control, which can go to extremes, so be careful.

Lilith in the 6th house can indicate repressed health issues or unconventional approaches to wellness. There might be a tendency to avoid traditional medical advice or seek alternative healing methods. Be careful with your health; don't skip checkups. Also, stress influences your health more than it does with others.

Emotional and psychological issues can manifest as physical ailments. Understanding the connection between mental and physical health is crucial for individuals with this placement.

Lilith in the 6th house may lead to a desire to serve others in unconventional ways. This could involve advocating for marginalized groups, engaging in taboo subjects, or working in fields challenging societal norms.

Setting boundaries when helping others might be difficult, leading to feelings of being exploited or unappreciated. It's important to find a balance between service and self-care. Learning to put yourself first would help.

Lilith in the 7th house

Individuals with Lilith in the 7th house often attract or are drawn to intense, transformative relationships. These connections may be passionate and magnetic and usually involve a power struggle. A sense of raw, unfiltered emotion can make relationships both exhilarating and exhausting. Be aware of the tendency to have co-dependent relationships. Your connections may quickly become toxic if you are not careful.

Lilith's influence can bring to the surface deep-seated fears of betrayal, rejection, or abandonment. These fears may stem from past relationships or be unconsciously expected. This can lead to a fear of being fully vulnerable, resulting in trust issues or a tendency to keep partners at arm's length.

The relationships in a person's life are often mirrors, reflecting the unresolved issues and shadow aspects of their personality. Lilith here forces the individual to confront their own fears, insecurities, and darker desires through their interactions with others. This can be painful (especially with trust issues) but ultimately transformative.

Individuals with Lilith in the 7th house may feel a rejection or discomfort with traditional relationship dynamics. This placement can indicate a need to challenge or subvert conventional expectations around marriage, partnership, and roles within these relationships. You may find yourself drawn to unconventional partnerships or struggle with societal norms in relationships.

Power struggles can be a prominent theme in relationships. Whether one feels overpowered by a partner or seeks to dominate, there's often tension around control. The individual may need to find balance and equality in their relationships.

Lilith in the 8th house

Lilith in the 8th house is often associated with a powerful, magnetic sexuality. This placement can indicate an individual who experiences deep, primal desires that might sometimes feel overwhelming. There’s a strong connection to the raw, instinctual side of sexuality, which can be both liberating and challenging. This person may seek out intense, transformative sexual experiences that push boundaries or explore taboos. Be careful, and don’t go to extremes since this side of you may cause trouble.

The 8th house is the area of transformation, and Lilith here often indicates a need for deep shadow work. The individual is called to confront the darker aspects of their psyche, including fears, obsessions, and repressed emotions. This process, though difficult, is essential for personal growth and empowerment. Through facing these shadows, the person can undergo profound transformation and healing. If you ignore this deep desire to transform and heal, the universe will remind you, but in a challenging manner.

Power dynamics are a significant theme with Lilith in the 8th house. The individual may experience power struggles in intimate relationships, particularly around control, dominance, and submission. This can manifest in a fear of being controlled by others or an intense desire to control situations and people, especially in shared resources or deep emotional bonds. These tendencies can make a relationship toxic and co-dependent, so be careful with them.

The 8th house also rules themes of loss and betrayal. With Lilith here, there may be a deep-seated fear of betrayal, particularly in intimate relationships. This fear can lead to issues with trust, and the individual may either avoid deep connections or become overly possessive and protective of those they care about.

The 8th house rules shared resources, and Lilith’s influence can bring financial power and control issues. Challenges around inheritance shared finances, or debts may often involve intense emotions or power struggles. The individual might need to learn to navigate these situations with integrity and self-awareness.

Lilith in the 9th house

Lilith in the 9th house often leads to an innate distrust or outright rejection of traditional belief systems, whether religious, cultural, or philosophical. This can cause friction with family, community, or society, particularly if the individual was raised in a strict or dogmatic environment. Your challenge lies in navigating these conflicts without alienating yourself or others completely.

Individuals with this placement demonstrate remarkable courage in their resistance to authority figures, particularly those in educational, religious, or philosophical contexts. They bravely challenge teachers, mentors, or spiritual leaders, which can lead to isolation or conflict. Your challenge here is learning how to express dissent in a way that is constructive rather than destructive, harnessing your courage to bring about positive change.

Because Lilith in the 9th house pushes the individual towards unconventional or alternative beliefs, there can be a sense of not fitting in anywhere. However, it's important to remember that your unique perspective is valuable and can contribute to the diversity of thought. Your challenge is finding or creating a space where your unique perspective is not just accepted, but celebrated, and where you can connect with like-minded individuals who appreciate your individuality.

The constant questioning of beliefs and philosophies can lead to an ongoing identity crisis, where the individual struggles to define who they are and what they believe in. This struggle with commitment is a common experience for those with Lilith in the 9th house, and it's important to remember that it's okay to have fluid and ever-evolving beliefs. Your challenge is in accepting this and finding peace in the journey of self-discovery.

Lilith in the 9th house often leads to deep questioning of societal moral codes and ethics. The individual may struggle with the relative nature of morality, feeling conflicted about what is right or wrong, especially when traditional ethics seem hypocritical or arbitrary. Your challenge is developing a personal moral compass that feels authentic while navigating the complexities of ethical dilemmas.

Lilith in the 9th house often drives a person to search constantly for a deeper meaning in life. This can result in failing to fully arrive at a satisfactory understanding of one's purpose. Your challenge here is to embrace the journey itself as the purpose, finding meaning in the exploration rather than in a fixed destination.

Lilith in the 10th house

Since the 10th house is about public image, individuals with Lilith in the 10th house often feel a strong tension between who they truly are and what society expects them to be. They might resist conforming to traditional career paths or societal roles, feeling that these expectations suppress their true nature. The challenge lies in balancing your desire to be authentic with navigating societal norms and expectations, especially in your professional life.

Lilith’s presence in the 10th house can lead to situations where your reputation is questioned, misunderstood, or even maligned. You might be judged or criticized for not fitting into conventional molds, leading to potential conflicts with authority figures or the public. The challenge is learning to manage and protect your reputation without compromising your authenticity.

Lilith in the 10th house often strongly resists authority figures, particularly in the workplace. These individuals may need help accepting hierarchical structures or traditional career advancement paths, leading to conflicts with bosses, managers, or other authority figures. The challenge is finding a way to work within or around these structures without sacrificing your need for independence and self-expression.

Individuals with this placement may need help finding a truly fulfilling career, as they might resist conventional roles or be drawn to professions that are off the beaten path. There can be a constant tension between the desire for success and the need to do work that aligns with their values and passions. The challenge is to carve out a career path that allows them to express their unique talents and perspectives while still achieving their goals. It’s crucial to do so. Otherwise, you will feel unsatisfied and unhappy.

Lilith’s energy can sometimes attract controversy, particularly in the public sphere. People with this placement might be embroiled in scandals or situations where their integrity or character is questioned. This can be particularly challenging if they feel unfairly targeted or misrepresented. The challenge here is to remain steadfast in their truth and manage such situations with grace and resilience. I know it can be challenging, considering that most cases can be unfair. Still, it would help if you found this force in yourself that will allow you to go ahead without any hesitation.

The 10th house is often associated with achievement and success. Lilith’s presence here can amplify fears of failure or not living up to one’s potential. This fear may be one of the most significant for people with this placement. These individuals might feel intense pressure to succeed, leading to perfectionism or a fear of taking risks. The challenge is to redefine success on your own terms and to embrace the possibility of failure as a natural part of growth and learning.

Lilith in the 11th house

One of the primary challenges is a persistent sense of alienation or needing to fit in with social groups or communities. These individuals often feel different from those around them, leading to a sense of being an outsider, even in groups where they would otherwise share common interests or goals.

This placement can bring a deep fear of rejection or exclusion from social circles. The individual might be hypersensitive to being judged by others, leading to a reluctance to fully engage in group activities or to open up to new friendships. The challenge is learning to navigate these fears while still seeking meaningful connections. Be careful not to reject and push away people around you who are ready to be with you.

Lilith in the 11th house can also manifest as power struggles within friendships or social groups. The individual might find themselves in situations of competition, jealousy, or manipulation among friends. Alternatively, they may need to exert control or influence within their social circles, which can create tension. The challenge is to develop healthier dynamics where mutual respect and equality prevail.

Lilith in the 11th house often challenges collective ideals or societal norms. These individuals might feel disconnected from mainstream values or ideologies, leading them to reject or rebel against the prevailing social order. While this can be empowering, it can also create isolation if they struggle to find like-minded individuals or groups that share their alternative views. However, this rejection can also be a source of empowerment, allowing you to forge your own path and stand by your beliefs. It's a delicate balance, but one that can lead to a strong sense of self and purpose.

Individuals with Lilith in the 11th house may face challenges in pursuing their personal aspirations, particularly when those goals conflict with social expectations or the goals of the groups they belong to. They might feel torn between following their own path and meeting the expectations of others, leading to frustration or a sense of being held back. The challenge is to pursue your dreams while navigating the social dynamics that come with collective endeavors.

This placement can bring a fear of social failure, where the individual worries that their dreams or aspirations will not be accepted or supported by their social circles. However, it's important to remember that there are always people who will support and encourage you, even if they don't share your exact vision. This fear can lead to hesitation in sharing their goals with others or in seeking support for their ambitions. The challenge is to overcome this fear and to find the courage to pursue their goals, even if it means going against the grain. Remember, you're not alone in this journey.

Lilith in the 12th house

Lilith in the 12th house often indicates unresolved trauma or emotional wounds that have been buried deep within the unconscious. These wounds can stem from early childhood experiences, past lives, or inherited family karma. The challenge is that repressed emotions can manifest in subtle, insidious ways, leading to self-sabotage, irrational fears, or unexplained anxiety. However, this also presents an opportunity for growth and healing as you work to identify and address the source of your discomfort.

The 12th house is associated with the unknown. Lilith's presence here can amplify fears about life's mysterious and unseen aspects. This could manifest as a fear of losing control, fear of the spiritual or mystical realms, or even fear of one's own hidden desires and impulses. The key to overcoming these fears is self-awareness, as it allows you to confront these fears rather than allow them to fester in the background of the psyche, influencing thoughts and behaviors in unconscious ways.

The 12th house is associated with solitude and confinement, and Lilith in this position can lead to a tendency toward isolation, either self-imposed or circumstantial. The individual may withdraw from the world, feeling misunderstood, or overwhelmed by their inner turmoil. This isolation can be both a source of suffering and a necessary step for deep introspection and healing. However, the challenge lies in finding a balance between necessary solitude and unhealthy isolation that leads to feelings of loneliness and disconnect. By maintaining a balance, you can avoid unnecessary isolation that only makes you feel worse.

People with Lilith in the 12th house may struggle to form deep, meaningful connections with others. Their inner world can be so intense and private that they find it hard to open up or trust. You need to look at the whole chart, but with this placement, trust issues may exist.

Lilith in the 12th house can indicate a tendency to repress specific desires, needs, or aspects of the personality that the individual finds difficult to accept. These could be sexual desires, ambitions, or any part of the self that feels too threatening to acknowledge consciously. The 12th house is always about hidden deep traumas, so you can feel overwhelmed trying to process them. This repression can lead to inner conflict, guilt, or internal fragmentation. Your challenge is to bring these shadow aspects into the light, integrating them healthily and consciously.

The 12th house is often associated with self-undoing, and Lilith's influence here can manifest as self-sabotage or the presence of hidden enemies, both internal and external. These enemies might be negative thought patterns, addictions, or destructive behaviors undermining the individual's success or happiness. Your challenge here is to become aware of these sabotaging influences, whether they originate within or are projected onto others, and to develop strategies for overcoming them.

Lilith in the 12th house can heighten psychic sensitivity, making the individual more attuned to subtle energies and more susceptible to being overwhelmed. They may experience vivid dreams, premonitions, or strong intuition, but they might struggle to make sense of these experiences or feel overwhelmed by the intensity of their perceptions. This returns us to the fear of the spiritual world mentioned above. The challenge is to ground yourself and develop practices that help you manage and harness your psychic abilities in a healthy way.

The 12th house is connected to the process of release and forgiveness. Still, Lilith's influence here can make it challenging for the individual to let go of past hurts, grudges, or unresolved emotions. They may hold onto pain, either consciously or unconsciously, which can prevent them from moving forward in life. The challenge is to work through these feelings, whether through therapy, spiritual practices, or self-reflection, to achieve a sense of peace.

#astrology #astro #natal chart #astro observations #birth chart #Lilith #Lilith in the houses #shadow work #astro article

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obsessedwhyyes · 3 months ago

Text

A Sound Hypothesis

Part 1 of The Scientific Method series.

Summary: Inexperienced in the ways of love, you often find yourself labelled an overthinker. But then again, you are a scientist. When your incredibly beautiful travelling companion proposes a night you'll never forget, suddenly you're left wondering, are you really ready for this? Ever the scientist, you propose an experiment, and get more than you bargained for.

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 4762 Pairing: Astarion x Fem!Reader Content: Act 1, smut with plot, inexperienced nerd reader, making out, oral sex (giving and receiving), hand job, cock worship, blowjob and handjob instruction (ie. Astarion teaches you how to pleasure him).

A/N: Can't believe this got to nearly 5k words, good lord. Actual smut comes in half way through, but it's still rather spicy before then. Also, writing handjobs is hard.

The events of the night prior felt like a dream, yet you remembered each moment vividly.

“I’m beginning to like the whole package, honestly,” he had purred, “and you clearly like me too, so I was thinking…”

You looked into his eyes as he gazed confidently, hungrily into yours. There was only him in this moment. Well, him and the quickened pulse of your heart pounding in your ears. You were certain he could hear it.

“We could take an evening to ourselves. Get to know each other a little more intimately.”

But you were struck with a hit of nerves then. You had lived a sheltered life before your abduction. A wizard and a scholar, your pursuits had been in the sciences and that of perfecting your craft, rather than in stolen moments of lust with beautiful strangers. Not to say you hadn’t experienced a few stolen kisses, however. But to give oneself entirely to another - that was a very different, much more intimidating affair. Yet there was no denying the spark that flickered between the two of you as you spent your days and evenings together, and that spark ignited a growing ache within you that lingered each night you retreated to your bedroll.

“I want to, Astarion. Gods, I really want to, but I’m…”

You hesitated and tore your eyes from him; fiddled with your fingers for a moment.

“You’ve never done this before,” he finished, causing you to look up suddenly from your busying hands.

“I had my suspicions. I’d have already bedded you twice over otherwise.”

You could only laugh, not only at the sheer audacity of his remark, but because of course he knew. Gods, he could probably smell the inexperience on you from a mile away.

“It’s your decision, of course. Should you wish to keep things light between us, we’ll end our evenings together as friends. If you decide you want a little more, however–”

He stepped closer to you - close enough to feel his cool breath on your skin and smell the freshness of his cologne.

“I’ll give you a night you’ll never forget.”

He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his hand lingering delicately where your neck meets the line of your jaw. He was playing you like a fiddle, and you knew it. But gods, if his tune wasn’t a siren’s song in the night. You wanted nothing more than to dance to it.

And then he kissed you.

Gods, the way he kissed you.

There was need, yes; a hunger not unknown to you even in your limited experience. But it was a hunger wrapped in a velvet blanket of familiarity, as though he had known your lips as long as his own. He was certainly skilled, there was no denying that.

The chill of the night air felt like a splash of cold water to your senses once his lips left yours, and you found yourself mourning the loss of his touch.

“Think about it,” he had said that night, before retreating back to his tent.

–

And here you are, wrapped in your bedroll, thinking about it. Ceaselessly.

About his voice, laced with the sweetest honey, speaking promises of nights wanton and dripping with ecstasy. About his smile, teasing and rakish, and the feel of his lips against yours which you missed like home.

You think about the times you let him feed from you; the gentle way he held you, one hand cradling your head. The soft, pleasured noises that would rumble from his chest as he grazed over the soft flesh of your throat - and sunk his teeth into it. Then, greedy, he would begin to pull you close, your chest flush against his own. Every time he fed, it was as though the gates holding back the flood of every primal vampiric instinct within him were unleashed at the taste of you; the ambrosia that is your life essence which you willingly gift to him. And every time he fed, before you reached the point of no return, you would break him out of his trance - a simple series of taps on his shoulder - and he would release you from his predatorial embrace.

It was in those moments, you would see the look in his eyes: ravenous, pupils blown, boring down into you as you lay there beneath him, vulnerable. Your gazes would linger and gods, how you imagined what it would feel like to be entangled with him; for him to take his pleasure from you.

No, you tell yourself. This has been going so fast. Your time together has been so short in the grand scheme of things yet, with the threat of ceremorphosis looming over you, your time on this mortal plane may be fleeting. One might argue that now is surely the time to experience that which you have not… isn’t it?

But what if this isn’t what you actually want and this aching need within you is simply a manifestation of the stress your increasingly bizarre situation has brought you? It is not unknown for one to develop bouts of hypersexuality in times of stress, or so you have read in books detailing such occurrences.

Suddenly, an idea presents itself. A scientist such as yourself requires a chance to gather all available evidence before coming to a conclusion. A little experimentation, perhaps. Then, you’ll know for certain if your attraction runs deeper than you give your body credit for. Your honed mind will not be governed by a set of primitive bodily urges - you’re better than that. You won’t allow it.

For now, sleep beckons. Tomorrow, you shall put your idea into practice.

–

The next day passes as swiftly as you had hoped. You’re eager to welcome the night. You and your companions had seemingly settled into a predictable routine when it came to your evening endeavours: your fellow wizard and friendly rival, Gale, would slave over the cook pot with the limited items you had procured over your journey, while the Blade of Frontiers himself regaled your group with stories of his adventures, punctuated with commentary from your remaining companions, ranging from crude to complimentary. Food would be eaten and domestic duties fulfilled, after which, everyone would begin their journeys to their bedrolls. Well, everyone bar you and Astarion. As the resident elves, you require far less rest than that of your travelling companions. It was in these moments, where the camp lay dormant and the two of you sit against a fallen log by the campfire, that you had developed something resembling a rapport with Astarion. You have become rather fond of your night time talks.

Tonight, however, you have plans beyond repartee.

You feel emboldened by your plan. Where before, you were thrown into territory unknown, unprepared and anxious, now you have the comfort of scientific method on your side. You know exactly what to say - you’ve thought of every possibility after all.

Sitting side-by-side, you turn to him, determined.

“I was thinking about your little proposition last night.”

“Were you now?” Astarion replies with a smirk on his lips and a gleam in his eyes.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself just yet. I always imagined that the first time I, um…”

“Did the horizontal dance with an esteemed companion? Engaged in amorous congress? Fucked?”

“Had sex,” you quickly correct, halting his attempts to fluster you further. “I always imagined the first time I had sex would be under slightly less unusual circumstances. We’ve been under nothing but stress ever since we got off that damned Nautiloid. I can’t tell if this desire I’m feeling is because I truly want to spend the night with you, or because my body just wants a distraction.”

“Is that such a bad thing? We’ve worms in our brains and danger is lurking around every corner. Our time is short, darling. If I can provide our dear leader a little respite in these tumultuous times; offer up my services in her time of need, that sounds like time well spent, does it not?”

He shuffles closer to you, resting his arm behind you on the log which you both lean against.

“Besides,” he continues, his voice low and close to your ear, “you’ve been so good to me, offering up your neck for me to savour. It’s only fitting that I offer you a little distraction in return.”

“I don’t want to just… use you as a distraction, Astarion. Gods, I offered you my blood because I wanted to help you, not because I expected a favour.”

For a fleeting moment, his expression shifts. And just as quickly, his smirk returns, embodying a practised sultriness that has surely wrapped many a soul around his fingers.

“No,” you continue, “if I have sex, it will be because it’s something I truly want to do; that I’m ready for. Not just a fanciful distraction. I hope you feel the same.”

That expression again, barely noticeable. You can’t quite decipher it.

“So, darling,” he purrs, “what do you suggest?”

“I was wondering if I could kiss you.”

“Ha! Can’t get enough, eh?”

“I just think that, with a little more evidence, I might be able to see if this is something I’m truly ready for; to discern whether this desire is real, or simply a physical response to this gods-awful situation we find ourselves in.”

He laughs, seemingly amused by your reasoning, and your heart flutters at the sound. Unexpected.

“Gods, are you always such an overthinker?”

“I just think it would help me come to a decision.”

“Is that what this is then? Your little experiment?”

“I’m nothing if not a scientist,” you tease back.

“Alright, my dear. Your terms are acceptable. A kiss, for scientific reasons, of course.”

Of course, you say to yourself. That… is what this is, isn’t it? Simple evidence gathering?

You have no time to consider this as Astarion places a finger under your chin, lifting your gaze fully to his, and suddenly, you hear your pulse pounding loudly in your ears once more. Gods, his eyes are beautiful.

An easy smile, a tilt of his head, and he presses his lips to yours, delicate and familiar. He’s gentle, at first: his lips linger on yours a moment before kissing you again, a tender sensation. As you close your eyes and immerse yourself in the feeling, the world around you quietens. No longer do you hear the crackling of the fire as it dies, the chirps of insects, or the rustle of leaves in the breeze.

At this moment, all you know is him.

You succumb to the coolness of his touch, the smoothness of his skin, the freshness of his scent - sensations so overwhelming that your body responds of its own accord, letting free a soft moan into his mouth.

As though in response, Astarion’s hand lowers from your cheek and trails from your neck, your shoulder, to your waist, as though committing each dip of your body to memory, before pulling you closer to him. Your hands, in return, plant themselves against his chest. His body feels hard and angular against the softness of your own.

As his tongue seeks permission to dance with yours, there is a hunger; a fieriness that threatens to engulf you. The kiss deepens, and you realise with a start that your legs have entangled themselves with his.

Pull yourself together, your mind screams. You’re meant to be in control of your body, not the other way around.

Or so you think, when suddenly, Astarion’s hand moves to your arse - the cheeky sod - and he skillfully, seamlessly rolls you onto his lap, taking advantage of your entangled legs, purposefully positioning you so that you’re straddling him.

Shit.

You gasp. You had forgotten to breathe. He notices and, gods, the smug look on his face. He knows he’s taken you off guard, and worse still…

He knows the effect he’s having on you.

The wall you had carefully constructed between your mind and body begins to collapse, brick by brick. As you kiss, the final fragments fall away, and everything that was once separated threatens to come together in a powerful, unified surge of desire if not for the final threads of your self-restraint.

His body desires this as much as yours, it would seem. As you straddle him, his hands caressing you as they drag up and down your back, you notice a distinct hardness digging into you, oh so close to your core. It takes more willpower than you’ve ever known to not grind into that hardness, seeking the release which you ache for. You are a tautly drawn bow, the tension between your mental focus and physical yearning almost unbearable.

Noticing how stiff you become, Astarion retreats from your lips, tilting his head in playful curiosity.

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours, darling?”

“I… I…” You barely recognise your own voice as it strains to come out of you.

The bowstring snaps.

You yield.

Your mind and body merge into a mess of lust and desire, and you kiss him hard and greedily. He returns the enthusiasm in kind, releasing a groan into your mouth as he does so. You want this. You want him.

Astarion pulls himself from your lips and turns his attentions to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses where, other nights, he had sunk his fangs. As he does so, you hear his voice, husky in lust.

“You know, if you still need a little more “experimentation,” I have a couple more ideas for you…”

His voice gives you goosebumps.

“... I’m particularly skilled with my tongue, after all.”

You nod.

“Your tent or mine?”

–

As you’re pushed against the bedroll within the privacy of your tent, you’re overwhelmed by a desire to feel every inch of Astarion’s cool, hard body on yours. It was such a primal need, to be enveloped by him; an urge beyond anything you’ve experienced, causing you to wrap your arms greedily behind his neck as you kiss each other, pulling him closer, but never close enough. His hips grind against you slowly, deliberately, granting you a brief, delicious friction which sends shivers up your body and fuels the incredible ache between your legs.

Astarion sits back up on his knees, admiring the mess of you, a smile on his pretty lips. You can only imagine the state you must be in: hair wild, eyes wide and hungry, clothes dishevelled. But your appearance is a distant notion in the back of your mind as Astarion lifts the hem of your skirt and removes your undergarments, sopping wet from your arousal.

You feel vulnerable, exposed to him like this, your desire on full display in front of the very man who you spent nights dreaming about. While his lustful gaze lights a flush of red across your cheeks, it doesn’t cause you to recoil; instead, you find yourself emboldened as he lowers himself between your legs, holding your gaze with eyes hungry and hooded.

He drags his lips up your thighs, leaving kisses so teasing that brings forth the neediest of sounds from your chest. When he reaches your core, he slides a tongue up the slit of you, agonisingly slowly, painfully gently.

Head rolling back, you anticipate the feeling of his tongue within you, but then…

He diverts his attention back to your thighs.

Bastard.

“Astarion..!”

“Eager little pup, aren’t you? Don’t you worry, darling - you’ll get what you desire. Once I have my fun with you, of course.”

He shifts, propping your legs over his shoulders as he grants you an audacious glance and grazes his tongue over you once more, sending a wave of tingles radiating across your body.

You begin to pout at his teasing action, and–

His tongue enters you.

He glides it firmly from your entrance to your clit, lapping you up in one motion, releasing the most wondrous groan, as though the nectar of your arousal is sweeter than any honey.

And so, like a man starved, he devours you, gauging quickly the sensations you prefer, alternating skillfully between firm strokes of his tongue, and the most teasing of flickers across your clit.

Your back arches, and you can do nothing but grasp at the edges of your bedroll as he works at you, leaving you in a state so blissful that you don’t notice the wanton sounds being cried from your lips.

“Easy, love,” he purrs, the loss of his tongue against you causing you to whimper. “As much as I enjoy hearing those delectable sounds of yours, let’s not wake the others, hm?”

You can only cover your mouth with your hands in a feeble attempt to hush yourself as he continues his ministrations. As your eyes meet and the pleasant ache in your core begins to swell into an all-encompassing warmth across your body, you wonder if this is what it feels to be revered as a deity would, your every sensation treated with the kind of awe that only a god might know.

It is when he enters you with his fingers - first one, then two, thrusting in rhythm with his tongue - that the warmth, now an inferno, reaches its peak. It surges through you like a divine crescendo, each wave of your climax a new blessing that floods your senses with a celestial rapture, singing his name like the sweetest hymn.

He caresses your thighs as he brings you down slowly from your high, grounding you.

As you return once again to this mortal plane, the lingering euphoria elicits a fit of giggles from you.

“Well,” Astarion smiles in return, removing himself from the home he has made between your legs, “you certainly seemed to enjoy yourself.”

“I did. I really did. Thank you.”

As you both sit yourselves upright once more, he presses another kiss to your lips. You taste yourself on him.

“I hope our little experiment was very informative for you,” he says with a wink. His words are teasing, but spoken with a gentleness that surprises you.

The truth is, you do have one more idea.

“Can I, um… Can I do the same for you?”

“What?” He says a little too quickly. Noticing this, he brushes his hair back with his hand to a more presentable condition, regains his composure, and continues. “I mean, you don’t have to. To see you squirm under my touch, that’s pleasure enough for me.”

“I want to make you feel good too.”

“You want to?”

That same indecipherable expression. A man with as many notches on his bedpost as he claims must have had some less than favourable conquests every now and then… Perhaps he’s had some bad experiences when receiving too? You suddenly find yourself cursing your lack of experience in these matters. You’re not exactly brimming with social expertise either.

“I probably won’t be the best - not as good as you - but I want to try. I always find that the best way to develop one’s skills is to practise under the guidance of a trusted expert. So… could you teach me how to make you feel good?”

Your gazes linger for a moment as he seems to assess your resolve.

Seemingly satisfied, he smirks, a well-practised aura of sultriness fitting back into place once more. All traces of that mysterious expression dissipate before your eyes.

“Well, darling, if you’re so eager to please me, who am I to stop you?”

You slide up to sit next to him as he begins to unlace his trousers, and suddenly you find yourself unsure of where to look. You’ve a scholar’s knowledge of the physical form; men’s anatomy is no stranger to you from an analytical perspective. And yes, you’ve fantasised about Astarion’s… parts before, as much as you have tried to deceive yourself into believing it was nothing more than a passing, intrusive thought. Yet, now that you’re here, about to perform the most intimate of acts to your beautiful travelling companion for the first time, you become bashful. You can’t quite believe the situation you’ve gotten yourself into tonight.

Yet, as he lowers his trousers and underwear to his thighs, revealing himself to you, all thoughts of bashfulness, of anxiety, cease to be for a moment.

“Hells, Astarion.” You look upon his hardened member with disbelief, measuring its girth against your arm. “How is that going to fit inside me, exactly?”

A slip of the tongue.

He grins, very pleased with himself. “Getting ahead of ourselves, are we?”

… And there returns that familiar flush of heat to your cheeks. Shit.

His chuckling lets you know that he has, in fact, noticed your embarrassment.

Seeking to swiftly change the subject to the much more pressing matter at hand, you ask, “can I touch you?”

In wordless agreement, Astarion guides your hand to his cock, which glistens slightly from the beads of precum elicited from the head. As you hold it, his hand remains over yours, coaxing you to move up and down the shaft.

His cock isn’t warm as you would imagine a regular man’s to be, owing to his vampiric nature, but you note its hardness; the way it pulses beneath your touch; the way his foreskin glides over the head so seamlessly. You squeeze him, fascinated.

“Gently, love. Like this.” He demonstrates by applying a light pressure to your hand and twisting ever so slightly as you both reach the tip, then loosening his grip as he slides you back down his length. You repeat the motion, tentatively. Gods, you hope you're doing this right. He made you feel incredible. You want him to feel incredible too. But oh, what if you hurt him, what if you–

“A-ah…”

The softest sigh of pleasure from your companion interrupts your thoughts. It sends wonderful shivers throughout your body. You find yourself eager to coax more of those little sounds from him.

A newfound confidence flares within you, and you gradually increase your pace, up and down and up and down the shaft, squeezing and twisting lightly as your beautiful instructor taught. In a sudden bout of curiosity, you glide your thumb over the head on your way back down and–

“Ah!”

There it is again. That most delicious sound.

“Exactly like that, darling. Exactly like that.”

He removes his hand from yours as you continue to pump him - you are a fast learner, it would seem - and moves it to reach your cheek, turning you to face him. As he leans his forehead against yours, you notice his breathing has become heavier, just ever so slightly. Instinctively, your breathing begins to match his, and you feel an intensity in the air that gives you goosebumps. Then he kisses you, and it is hungry. Ravenous. Greedy. His hand moves from your cheek to the back of your head, gripping your hair lightly, pressing your lips firmly against his.

As you continue to pleasure him, you find yourself becoming greedy too.

You want to taste him.

Between gasps for air, you ask him, “can I use my mouth on you? The way you did for me?”

“Mmhm,” he says into your kiss. It feels almost a shame to remove yourself from his lips, but you have greater plans yet.

You both reposition yourselves. He turns to lie himself back on the bedroll, and you crawl down his body to position yourself between his legs. So close to his cock, you find yourself admiring it, taking in every detail: the thick vein on the underside of the shaft, the way the head throbs a colour darker than the rest, eager for release.

You're overwhelmed with a primal desire - a need - to please, to give.

To worship.

“Gods, it's beautiful,” you think aloud.

“I know,” he remarks confidently in return. You roll your eyes at his arrogance, but in this moment, in your eyes, even you can't deny that his cock is perfection. Your mouth waters at what is to come.

You hold his member delicately, like a jewel most precious, planting kisses up his length. A soft sound escapes from Astarion’s lips and suddenly you are emboldened, determined to gift him with bliss as he had gifted you. To do so, however, you would need a little instruction.

“Tell me how to please you,” you plead, and you feel him twitch at your words.

“You are eager,” he purrs, propping himself up with his hands to gaze down at you. You notice a shiver and a sigh, ever so slight, when you trail a line of wetness from base to tip with your tongue.

“In that case,” he continues, brushing a strand of hair from your face, granting him a better view of you, “lick your lips and hold it at the base. Then I want you to get to know it a little, so to speak. Use your mouth around the head and start slowly - there's no point in rushing in, eh?”

You obey, shaking off the lingering feelings of bashfulness at the directness of his words, and wrap your lips around him. Out of curiosity, you swirl a flattened tongue around the head and gods, his skin is so smooth, still slightly salty from precum. His cock twitches and you hear him gasp above you - he’s especially sensitive there, it would seem.

Where are his other sensitive spots, you wonder.

Time to experiment. You are nothing if not a scientist.

You bob your head and relax your jaw to the best of your abilities, taking in just a little bit more of him each time your mouth glides up and down, keeping your tongue flat against him to flick against the sensitive tip each time you glide back up the length. The sounds he makes - oh, those sounds. His moans are like velvet, a soft, deep timbre that caresses your senses and makes your loins ache once more. Every murmur seeps into your being, igniting your senses and fuelling your need to explore every inch of him. You continue your journey down and down his length, savouring the taste and the texture and–

You gag as his cock touches your throat.

Astarion recomposes himself. “Easy, darling. Use your hand where your mouth can’t reach.”

“Like this?” Your hand pumps the shaft in rhythm with the motions of your mouth and tongue, and Astarion’s head rolls back for a moment.

“Like that,” he exhales heavily, “and suck gently.”

There’s a certain sense of empowerment, unravelling him like this. You relish in every moan that escapes his lips, every twitch and pulse of his cock as you attend to him. The lewd, wet sounds emitted as your hollowed cheeks suck his length. His hand finds its way to your hair, fingers weaving through the strands with a gentle authority, pushing you hard enough to guide you to an ever-quickening rhythm, but gentle enough not to force himself down your throat.

“Use your other hand,” he says between breaths, “hold the balls softly.”

You do as he says, giving them the gentlest of squeezes as you attend to him, and his breaths grow deeper, uneven. You sense the rising tension in him, a tide gathering strength beneath the surface.

He gives one final instruction.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes meet with a stormy intensity and, as you pump up and down with your lips and fingers at a dizzying pace, the intensity seems to surge through him with the force of an ocean swell, powerful and all-encompassing.

With a tremor and a groan so delicious that you find yourself moaning instinctively in response, his cum fills your mouth. Your eyes water, taken by surprise by the force of his release, but you do your best to swallow each wave, releasing him with a wet pop as his climax subsides.

Some moments pass and, in the afterglow, the tent is filled with a comfortable, profound stillness, and only the sounds of heavy breathing - yours and his - as you both return to your senses.

“Did you just..?” He asks, breaking the silence.

“I did,” you reply with a grin, showing him your tongue to reveal that not a drop went to waste.

He laughs warmly, and your heart flutters.

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” He kisses you deeply as he sits up, seemingly undeterred by the taste of himself.

“I think I’ve gathered enough evidence to consider your proposition,” you say teasingly.

“Tomorrow night then, darling?”

Bastard.

But yes, you think to yourself. Tomorrow night. You’re ready.

Part 2, An Empirical Study, can be found here!

Masterlist can be found here.

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion smut #astarion fanfiction #bg3 fanfiction #astarion ancunin #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction

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