A Beginnerโs Guide To Selling Your Soul (Prologue)
Pairing: Batfamily x Neglected!Civilian!AFAB!Reader (Familial) | OC x Civilian!AFAB!Reader (Romantic)
Summary: Y/N makes a desperate little love-me-back pact with a demon, only to discover the fine print says โmonthly murder requiredโ and โfamily issues not included.โ
Content Warning: AFAB Reader, Emotional Neglect/Neglected!Reader, Social Anxiety, Occult Rituals, Demon Summoning, Demons/Devil, Manipulation, Coercion, Future Obsession, Human Sacrifice, Explicit Violence, Dark Humor, Dark Themes, Obsession, Yandere,
WARNING: Some of the content moving forward may be unsuitable for specific audiences. Please read at your own discretion.
A/N: Idk, I had an idea, and it, like, took over my brain so completely. I'm really, really excited about this fanfic
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Prologue | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter
Y/N knew dinner was dead before the soup course.
Not in the way movies do it. No slammed silverware, no shouting under chandeliers worth more than her whole building. Dinner at Wayne Manor died quietly, politely, under soft amber lights and the old-house smell of lemon oil and antique wood. Money lived in the walls here, so old it did not bother to announce itself. It died somewhere between Alfred setting a bowl of tomato bisque in front of her with a kind, distant 'Miss Y/N,' and Bruce checking his phone under the table, careful and practiced, like he believed no one noticed unless he wanted them to.
Y/N noticed. Y/N always noticed.
She noticed Dick leaning slightly toward Tim when Tim muttered something under his breath, both of them sharing one of those tiny, familiar smiles that held history. She noticed Jason arriving late and still getting a look from Alfred that was more exasperated affection than reprimand, noticed the way Damianโs shoulders relaxed by a millimeter when Bruce asked him about some art restoration thing at school, noticed Alfred remembering that Jason liked extra cracked pepper without Jason asking, that Timโs coffee appeared like a ritual offering before dessert, that Dick got the good chair near the hearth because his knee had been bothering him even though nobody said that part out loud.
She noticed that her water glass stayed empty for eight minutes.
It wasnโt Alfred being cruel. That might have been easier. Cruelty had teeth. You could point to cruelty and say, There. See? Thatโs where it bit me. This was softer, slipperier, a velvet glove closing slowly around her throat. Alfred was polite. Alfred had invited her. Alfred had even sounded pleased when he called, in his crisp old-fashioned way, asking whether she might โjoin the family for dinner this evening, if her schedule allowed.โ For three entire minutes afterward, Y/N had stood barefoot in her kitchen in a sleep shirt, holding her phone to her chest like it had warmed itself into a living thing.
Family dinner. He said family dinner.
She curled her hair. Not too much. Just enough to look like she cared, not enough to look desperate. There was a math to being unwanted. Too casual and you looked ungrateful. Too dressed up and you looked like you were begging. She picked a soft black sweater that made her feel pretty but not loud, gold hoops, lip gloss, jeans without holes. Bruce was the kind of father you did not know how to disappoint until you already had.
Now she sat between an empty chair and a stretch of table wide enough to feel like a joke. She smiled when no one looked at her. She smiled harder when they did.
โSo, Y/N,โ Dick said after a lull stretched thin and shiny across the table. He looked at her with the bright, practiced warmth of someone who could charm a locked door into opening. โHowโs, uh, your place?โ
Her place. Not work, not life, not her. Just the spot she existed in when they forgot to text back.
โItโs good,โ she said, and her voice came out too cheerful, as a sticker slapped over cracked glass. โStill has the worldโs most haunted radiator. It screams at three in the morning, so honestly, I respect the commitment.โ
Jason snorted into his drink, almost against his will. It was small, barely a sound, but it hit her like sugar.
She turned toward him too fast. โRight? Like, if Iโm gonna be terrorized by a heating system, at least be theatrical about it.โ
โGotham landlords are their own Rogueโs Gallery,โ Jason said.
Y/N grinned. โMine once told me black mold was โdiscoloration.โโ
Tim looked up from his plate, mouth twitching. โThatโs insane.โ
โI know. I was like, babe, thatโs discoloration from the spores.โ
There it was, for half a breath, the tiny golden thing she had been chasing all night. Dick laughed. Tim smiled. Jason shook his head, almost amused. Even Damian made a quiet huff that could have been disdain or a laugh hiding under a tiny assassin cloak.
Then Bruceโs phone vibrated against the table.
The sound was soft, barely audible, but the whole room moved around it. Bruce glanced down. Dickโs attention shifted. Timโs eyes flicked toward Bruce like a bird catching a change in pressure. Jason leaned back. Damian went still. Alfred appeared from nowhere with the eerie precision of a man summoned by emotional withdrawal.
Whatever warmth had opened toward her closed again.
Bruce stood. โExcuse me.โ
No one asked where he was going. No one asked what was wrong. No one asked why the family dinner Alfred invited her to could be interrupted so easily. They just adjusted, seamless and silent, like this was a dance they learned years before she found the ballroom.
Itโs fine. Itโs literally fine. People have lives. Heโs busy. Heโs Bruce Wayne. What did you expect, a dad montage? Get real.
โMore potatoes, Master Jason?โ Alfred asked.
Y/N looked down at her plate. Her food had gone cold in delicate, expensive little shapes. She pressed her fork into a carrot until it split clean in two.
She did it three more times.
She asked Tim about some new tech thing she barely understood, and he answered politely for maybe thirty seconds before Dick jumped in with a correction that turned into a conversation she couldnโt enter without sounding like sheโd Googled the concept in the bathroom. She asked Damian about med school, and he stared at her like sheโd tried to pet a wild falcon with barbecue sauce on her fingers before saying, โAdequate.โ She asked Jason if heโd read anything good lately, and something shuttered in his face so fast she wondered what sheโd stepped on, what wire sheโd clipped, what invisible bruise she had pressed her thumb into without meaning to.
By dessert, she stopped trying.
Alfred served crรจme brรปlรฉe because of course he did, because this familyโs emotional constipation came with caramelized sugar and antique spoons. He set everyoneโs dish down in an order he probably didnโt think about, the same way he probably didnโt think about breathing. Bruceโs place, though Bruce still hadnโt returned. Damian. Dick. Tim. Jason. Then her.
โThank you, Alfred,โ she said.
โYouโre quite welcome, miss.โ
He was kind. He was always kind. That made it worse.
When she left, Bruce still wasnโt back. Dick gave her a one-armed hug that smelled like expensive cologne and cold air, already looking over her shoulder when he pulled away. Tim said, โGood seeing you,โ like theyโd bumped into each other at a dentistโs office. Damian inclined his head with princely menace. Jason walked her to the door, which almost made her stupid heart do something humiliating, until he said, โDrive safe,โ and nothing else.
Y/N smiled. โAlways do.โ
โYou absolutely donโt,โ Jason said, and there was another flicker there, another almost-warmth, another match struck in a windstorm.
She wanted to cup her hands around it. Wanted to say, you noticed? You noticed something about me? Instead, she winked because her personality apparently had the survival instincts of a raccoon in a dumpster. โAllegedly.โ
Jasonโs mouth twitched again.
Then Alfred was behind him, asking whether heโd seen where Damian left his scarf, and Jason turned away.
By the time she got into her car, her face hurt from smiling.
The drive back to her apartment blurred under Gotham rain, the city smeared neon and oil-slick through her windshield. Her phone sat in the cupholder, silent and black. No missed calls. No texts. Not even a pity โthanks for comingโ from Dick, who sent heart emojis to baristas and probably apologized to furniture when he bumped into it. The manor disappeared behind her in the rearview mirror, huge and lit and untouchable on its hill, and Y/N laughed once, sharp and ugly, because if she didnโt laugh, she was going to make a sound she couldnโt take back.
Her apartment greeted her with the radiator screaming, like the idea of heat had personally wounded it. The hallway smelled like damp carpet and someoneโs weed pen. Her neighborโs dog barked twice, then gave up. She locked the door, slid the chain into place, and stood there with her keys still in her hand, rain cooling on her sweater, hair frizzing around her face in sad little spirals.
For half a second, she thought the lights flickered in time with the radiatorโs wail, but when she blinked, everything was steady again, probably just tired eyes and cheap bulbs. Still, a chill ran up her spine that had nothing to do with the weather, and the thin hairs on her arms prickled. She dropped her purse.
It hit the floor with a soft, pathetic thud. That was what did it. Not Bruce leaving. Not Alfred forgetting her water. Not the way the boys formed a whole weather system around each other while she sat outside it with a spoon in her hand. Her purse falling was the final betrayal, spilling lip gloss, receipts, a half-empty pack of gum, and her emergency mini deodorant across the floor like even her belongings had given up on structure.
โOh, my God,โ she whispered, and the smile finally broke.
She sank down beside the door, back against peeling paint, and cried with one hand over her mouth, like someone might hear and report back that Bruce Wayneโs grown daughter was being embarrassing in a walk-up apartment with a cursed radiator and unpaid parking tickets on the fridge. The tears came hot and furious, dragging mascara into the corners of her eyes, making her nose run, making her feel seventeen and five and twenty-seven all at once.
Why donโt they love me?
The thought was so blunt it felt childish, which made her cry harder. She hated herself for it. She hated the little greedy creature in her chest that still wanted a seat at the table, still wanted Bruce to remember her favorite dessert, still wanted Jason to tease her on purpose and Dick to call just because and Tim to send her weird memes at two in the morning and Damian to tolerate her in the specific way he tolerated people he secretly cared about.
She wanted too much. She always did.
She cried until the radiator stopped screaming, like even it had gotten uncomfortable. Then she wiped her face with the sleeve of her nice black sweater, crawled across the floor to collect the guts of her purse, and found the little brown paper package she had forgotten about.
It had arrived three days ago, tucked between bills and a glossy flyer for a gym she would rather haunt than join. Her name was written on the label in purple marker with a little crescent moon over the Y. Inside was the ritual kit sheโd bought at two in the morning from an Etsy shop called Witching You Well, after half a bottle of cheap wine and a doomscrolling spiral that started with โhow to make your family value you emotionallyโ and ended somewhere around โfull moon attraction spell no experience needed.โ
The listing had promised warmth, attention, open-hearted bonds, and gentle energetic magnetism.
It had also promised โbeginner-friendly.โ
She stared at the package through swollen eyes.
โNo,โ she said to the empty apartment. โAbsolutely not.โ
The apartment said nothing. Traitor.
She showered. She changed into an oversized T-shirt and shorts. She ordered Taco Bell because if the night was going to be humiliating, it might as well involve nacho cheese. Then she sat cross-legged on her living room floor beneath the window, watching the full moon hang over Gotham as a coin dropped into dirty water, and read the instructions printed on thick cream paper.
Her Taco Bell bag sat beside her, warm and fragrant and deeply unspiritual. Crunchwrap Supreme. Baja Blast. Cinnamon twists because she had impulse-control issues and a rewards account.
โThis is so stupid,โ she muttered.
The kit looked stupid too, but in a committed way. Little glass jars of herbs. A packet of graveyard soil with a sticker that said ethically sourced, which raised several questions. Tiny animal bones wrapped in red thread. A black anointed candle that smelled like myrrh, smoke, and someoneโs aggressive crystal shop. A piece of white chalk. A folded square of velvet. A warning card that said intention matters most in a font that felt judgmental.
โI am a grown woman,โ she told herself. โI pay taxes. I have dental insurance. I should not be drawing a circle on my floor because my emotionally unavailable billionaire father has the paternal instincts of a rock.โ
Y/N looks over to her pet rock. โSorry, Rocky.โ
The pet rock stared back, one of the googly eyes peeling.
Still, she pushed the coffee table aside.
The chalk dragged across the hardwood in pale, dusty arcs. She followed the diagram, tongue caught between her teeth, pausing every few minutes to take a bite of crunchwrap. Grief made her hungry. Taco Bell was basically a weighted blanket for her stomach. She placed the herbs at the compass points. She sprinkled graveyard soil in a careful ring, trying not to think about whose graveyard or how anyone ethically sourced dirt from it. The bones clicked softly when she laid them down, small and delicate as broken punctuation.
The candle stood in the center.
Y/N lit it with a pink lighter shaped like a tiny frog.
For a moment, nothing happened.
The flame fluttered. Rain tapped the window. Somewhere below, a car alarm bleated twice and gave up, very Gotham of it. Y/N stared at the circle, then at the instructions, then at her Baja Blast, sweating condensation onto the floor.
โCool,โ she said. โSo Iโm mentally ill.โ
The candle flame snapped blue.
The room temperature dropped so fast her breath fogged. Just for a moment, Y/N hesitated, expecting nothing more than a little warmth, maybe a sense of comfort, maybe her phone buzzing with a kind word from someone she loved. That was all she meant for this silly ritual to do: draw love closer, soften hearts, close a gap. But as the shadows beneath the furniture lengthened, not like darkness falling but like something stretching awake, she realized with a lash of panic that whatever was happening was far stranger and rawer than she had expected. The chalk lines on the floor began to glow, faint at first, then brighter, a sickly white-gold that pulsed in time with something deep below the building. The herbs blackened without burning. The graveyard soil shivered. The animal bones lifted half an inch off the floor and began to tremble.
Y/Nโs heart climbed into her throat while wearing tap shoes.
โNope,โ she whispered. โNope, nope, nope. We are not doing this. Return to sender.โ
Not cracked. Not broke. Opened, like the hardwood had been a lid and something underneath had fingers. Heat roared up, wet and sulfurous, carrying the stink of smoke, iron, and ancient flowers left too long in funeral water. The chalk circle became a mouth of light. Behind it, impossibly far down, something red and black moved in layers: wings or curtains, teeth or stairs, eyes blinking open in the dark like city lights seen from an airplane.
Y/N screamed, scrambled backward, and slammed into the couch hard enough to knock a throw pillow onto her head.
A hand rose from the circle.
It was elegant, long-fingered, black-clawed, wearing three gold rings and one friendship bracelet that said SLAY in pastel beads.
She stopped screaming, confused.
The hand gripped the edge of the glowing circle. A figure pulled himself up off the floor with the lazy grace of someone climbing out of a pool at a resort where everyone else was damned. He was tall, beautiful in a deeply upsetting way, with dark red skin polished by firelight, black horns sweeping back through glossy hair, and eyes like molten pennies. He wore a black suit with no shirt under the jacket because, apparently, hell had a dress code, and it was โclub promoter at the apocalypse.โ His smile was slow, sharp, and amused.
Y/N pressed herself against the couch. โAre you the Etsy witch?โ
The demon looked around her apartment, nostrils flaring delicately. โNo.โ
โOkay.โ Her voice pitched higher. โCool. Hate that.โ
His gaze drifted to the Taco Bell bag.
Y/N followed his eyes and immediately grabbed it. โDonโt.โ
โYou summoned me with an offering.โ
โI summoned, allegedly, good vibes.โ
โYou opened the Third Gate.โ
โI bought a beginner-friendly affection ritual from Witching You Well!โ
The demonโs smile widened. โMmm. That one.โ
โThat one?โ Y/N demanded. โWhat does that mean? Why did you say it like sheโs messy?โ
He stepped fully into her living room, and the circle closed beneath him with a soft, obscene sigh, leaving her hardwood floor perfectly intact except for the glowing chalk and one scorch mark vaguely shaped like Florida. He moved like gravity liked him better than it liked other people. The candle flame bent toward him. The shadows did too.
โYou asked to be adored,โ he said.
Her mouth opened, then closed. Her face burned. 'I asked for help.'
โYou asked for longing. Attachment. Devotion. Attention so deep it becomes hunger.โ
โNo, I asked for people to be nicer to me.โ
โYou wrote your petition in purple gel pen with a crying cat sticker on it.โ
โThatโs between me and God.โ
Y/N glared at him through drying tears, fear and embarrassment tangling into something hot enough to stand on. โLook, Iโm not doing whatever this is. Iโm having a bad night. Iโm lonely. Iโm probably dehydrated. My family sucks emotionally and I made a weird little floor circle about it. Thatโs all.โ
The demon tilted his head, studying her with a softness that wasnโt soft at all. โYour family.โ
โYeah,โ she said, quieter. โMy family.โ
He stepped closer, and every instinct in her body told her to run, but there was nowhere to run inside a one-bedroom apartment with a laundry basket blocking the hallway. He crouched in front of her, resting his elbows on his knees, all that infernal elegance lowered to eye level. His expression was almost tender. That made it worse.
โYou want them to look at you,โ he said.
โYou want them to feel the room change when you leave it. You want your name to taste important in their mouths. You want to stop being an optional chair at a table already full.โ
Her eyes stung again. โShut up.โ
โAnd you would make a deal for it.โ
The silence after that had weight.
She looked away first. The apartment felt too small. Every cheap lamp, thrifted blanket, and half-dead plant watched her like a trial. She thought of Bruce standing up from dinner without touching her shoulder. Alfred served everyone in the order love had taught his hands. Jason almost laughed, then turned away. Her phone has no messages. Her life, full of people she could forgive and forgive and forgive until there was nothing left but a smiling bruise.
โWhatโs the deal?โ she asked.
A contract appeared in his hand, unrolling in a long ribbon of black parchment covered in red script that shifted when she tried to read it. The air smelled suddenly like burnt sugar.
โSimple,โ he said. โFrom this night forward, those who meet you will be drawn to you. Fascinated. Devoted. Protective. The shape will vary. Love, friendship, obsession, worship. Human hearts are sloppy instruments.โ
Y/Nโs stomach twisted. โObsessed?โ
โA word with bad publicity.โ
โThat is literally a red flag word.โ
โYou summoned a demon.โ
She rubbed both hands over her face. โWill this finally get my family to like me?โ
The demonโs smile did not move, but something in it sharpened.
โAgree,โ he said, โand youโll never have to feel invisible again.โ
She stared at the contract. It shimmered in the air, terrible and beautiful, each letter curling like a tiny hook. Her whole body hummed with terror. Her mind screamed that this was insane, that she should throw the candle out the window, that she should call someone. Except who would she call? Bruce?ย
Hey, Dad, sorry to bother you during whatever secretive, emotionally unavailable, rich guy thing you are doing, but I opened hell in my living room because I wanted you to ask me about my day.
She laughed once. It cracked halfway through.
โWhat do I have to do?โ she asked.
โA small monthly offering.โ
โThat sounds suspiciously vague.โ
โMost sacred things do.โ
His eyes glinted. โNo.โ
Y/N stared at him, then at the Taco Bell bag still clutched in her hand. โIs this about the Taco Bell? Because honestly, I can do once a month. Crunchwrap, Baja Blast, maybe a Doritos Locos Taco if hell is feeling fancy.โ
The demonโs gaze dropped to the cup.
He plucked the Baja Blast from beside her before she could stop him, pierced the lid with the straw in one smooth motion, and took a sip. His expression changed, just slightly.
Y/N gasped. โThat is mine.โ
โThis is radioactive.โ
โIt tastes like a melted prophecy.โ
Y/N pointed at him. โYou are already the worst man Iโve ever met, and Iโve been to family court.โ
The demon lifted the contract. โDo you agree?โ
She should have said no. Later, she would replay that moment until it wore thin at the edges. The glowing chalk. The candle flame. The demonโs mouth on her straw. The ache in her chest, sitting there like a starving dog. She would tell herself she had been manipulated. She would tell herself she was tired. She would tell herself a lot of things that were true and not enough.
But in that moment, all she could see was the manor dining room and all those faces turned away from her.
The contract curled around her finger like something alive. A bead of blood welled from her skin, bright and sudden. She flinched, but the parchment drank it before it could fall.
โI agree,โ she whispered.
For one second, the world vanished.
Then the apartment slammed back into place around her, louder than before. Rain. Radiator. Her own breathing. The demon stood and stretched as if theyโd finished a boring meeting.
โExcellent,โ he said.
Y/N looked down at her finger. No cut. No blood. โSoโฆthatโs it?โ
He took another sip of her Baja Blast.
Y/Nโs eyes narrowed. โWhat?โ
โThe enchantment applies to those you meet from this point forward.โ
โNew souls. New encounters. New threads.โ
โNo.โ She stood too fast, dizzy with it. โNo, no, thatโs not what I asked for.โ
The demon looked at her with polite interest. โIsnโt it?โ
โI specifically said my family.โ
He tilted his head. โDid you say, in exact contractual language, that you wished the spell to retroactively affect known biological, legal, emotional, and household relations currently existing in your life?โ
โI said my family like a normal person!โ
โNormal people do not open the Third Gate with grave dirt and fast food.โ
โDonโt flip this on me!โ Her voice rose, hot and shaking. โYou knew what I meant.โ
โMeaning is a door. Language is the key. You brought a spoon.โ
โYes,โ he said, and smiled. โYou were.โ
That smile scraped something raw inside her.
Y/N stepped toward him, fists clenched, fear burning off in the face of something much bigger and meaner. โThatโs not fair.โ
โYou were imprecise.โ
โI mentioned my family!โ
โYou should have spoken up better.โ He leaned down slightly, voice velvet over a blade. โI couldnโt hear you. Youโre so shy.โ
For a moment, Y/N went perfectly still.
The smile came first, automatic and awful, spreading across her mouth while her eyes went glossy and furious. It was the expression people always misunderstood, the one that made them think she was fine, joking, or too soft to make a scene. The demon watched it arrive like a collector admiring a rare knife.
โYouโre a dick,โ she said softly.
His eyebrows lifted. โThere she is.โ
โNo, actually, shut up. I bought this ritual from an Etsy witch called Witching You Well. There was not supposed to be a demon. There was supposed to be Taco Bell and sadness. Maybe DoorDash some ice cream later and cry into it while I watched CaseOh play some indie horror game. That was the plan. That was the vibe.โ
โThe vibe,โ he repeated, tasting the word.
โYes, the vibe! Not hell! Not a contract! Not whatever manipulative Hot Topic Hades nonsense youโre doing in my living room!โ
He considered this. โHot Topic Hades.โ
โDonโt you dare enjoy that.โ
โI donโt enjoy things. I consume them.โ
โYouโre literally drinking my Baja Blast.โ
He looked at the cup. โA regrettable exception.โ
โGive me my Taco Bell back!โ
He glanced at the bag. โThe offering was accepted.โ
โI used points to redeem that, you evil leather asshole!โ
โYour sacrifice honors the pact.โ
โMy sacrifice was five dollars and emotional damage!โ
โSpeaking of sacrifice,โ he said lightly, โthe monthly offering is due every full moon.โ
Y/N froze again, anger snagging on the word.
Slowly, she said, โOffering.โ
Her pulse began to pound.
โYou said small,โ she said.
โIt is small. In the cosmic sense.โ
โWhy did you say it like that?โ
The demonโs smile returned, slow as a door closing. โHuman sacrifice. Once a month.โ
Y/N stared at him, waiting for the punchline, waiting for the universe to remember it was supposed to be absurd, not monstrous. The rain tapped the window. The candle smoked silently in the circle. Somewhere outside, a siren wailed and faded into Gothamโs endless throat.
โNo, I didnโt agree to that part.โ
โYou agreed to the deal.โ
โI agreed to Taco Bell!โ
โYou assumed Taco Bell.โ
โBecause you were holding my Taco Bell!โ
She dragged both hands through her hair, backing away from him. Her thoughts scattered, slammed into each other, and reformed badly. Human sacrifice. Once a month. Soul. Family still will not love me. New people. Obsessed. Hell. Baja Blast. Fuck, fuck, fuck.ย
For a terrible, suspended moment, she couldnโt breathe. The words ricocheted through her skull, too big to fit, crowding out everything else. Her mouth tasted like metal. She pressed her back against the wall, palms shaking, staring at the demon and then at her own hands, as if some mark would bloom there, proof that sheโd ruined everything.
The sick horror unfurled slowly, crawling up her spine: this wasnโt a joke or a nightmare, and there was no way to wake up unchanged. Guilt landed somewhere under her ribs and rooted deep, hard, cold, and permanent.
She felt it ripple beneath her skin: regret, shame, the wild and useless wish to go back just five minutes and choose anything else. The silence pressed around her, thick as blood, and she flinched from her own reflection in the window, afraid suddenly of what sheโd let herself become.
"No," she said again, but now it came out smaller. "No, I cannot. I am not killing people. I am not. I am a lot of things. I am annoying, I am clingy, I am bad at texting back when I am sad, I once lied to a dentist about flossing, but I am not that."
The demonโs expression didnโt change.
โIf you fail,โ he said, โyour soul returns with me.โ
Her skin went cold. โReturns?โ
โYou opened the gate. You signed the contract. You carry my mark now.โ
She looked down at herself wildly. โWhere?โ
โIn the tender architecture of your being.โ
โI hate when my soul is legally binding.โ
โA month passes quickly, Y/N.โ
The sound of her name in his mouth made the room feel wrong.
She swallowed hard. โUndo it.โ
โIโll leave a bad review. TikTok can ruin businesses in a day now.โ
That made him laugh. It was a beautiful sound, which felt deeply unfair.
โHumanity,โ he murmured. โTiny, doomed, obsessed with ratings.โ
Y/Nโs eyes burned. โMy family still wonโt love me.โ
For the first time, the demon said nothing. His face stilled, eyes catching the city light in a way that made her think of old keys and locked doors. There was a flicker of something hungry in his expression, as if her words, her raw grief, were a page in a book he had been waiting to read for a very long time.
That silence was worse than every joke. It made the truth stand there naked between them. She had sold something she hadnโt understood for a wish that wouldnโt even work. The grief of it moved through her slowly, almost politely, before widening into panic.
โTake it back,โ she whispered.
He finished the Baja Blast with one long sip, the straw rattling at the bottom of the cup.
โRude,โ she said, voice breaking.
The demon set the empty cup on her coffee table. Then he reached into the Taco Bell bag, pulled out her Crunchwrap, and took a bite.
Y/N made a sound of pure betrayed violence. โAre you kidding me?โ
โI invented choking.โ
โOf course you did, you arrogant basement bitchโ
He walked backward toward the fading chalk circle, still eating her Crunchwrap. The shadows gathered around him like a coat being lifted onto his shoulders.
Y/N lunged forward, not because she had a plan, but because he had her food and her soul, and apparently that was where her survival instincts drew the line. โGive it back!โ
The circle flashed once, red and white and hungry, then went dark.
Y/N stumbled into empty air and nearly ate shit on her own rug. Silence crashed down around her. The candle was a dead black stub. The herbs were ash. The bones had turned to dust. The graveyard soil was gone. Her Taco Bell bag lay limp and violated on the floor, one cinnamon twist crushed beneath the demonโs polished shoe print.
For a few seconds, she just stood there, breathing hard.
Then she picked up the empty Baja Blast cup.
Her smile came back, shaky and wild, dragging itself across her face like a glitch. Her eyes filled, but the tears did not fall. They hovered there, hot and useless, while the room settled into its cheap, familiar shapes. Couch. Window. Rain. Radiator. Scorch mark shaped like Florida. Her life was the same, and it was completely ruined.ย
The word barely made it out before the panic hit.
She dropped to her knees in the middle of the dead ritual circle, hands braced against the chalk-stained floor, breath coming too fast. The apartment seemed to lean inward. The walls knew. The moon knew. Hell knew. Somewhere beneath her skin, something warm pulsed once, like a signature drying.
Y/N flinched so hard she slapped a hand over her mouth.
For one insane second, she thought it would be Bruce. She thought the deal had worked anyway, that some loophole had cracked open, that her father would text Are you home safe? And the whole world would rearrange itself around those four words.
She crawled to the couch and grabbed her phone.
A notification glowed on the screen.
Then she started laughing.
It wasnโt happy. It wasnโt sane. It bubbled up through the wreckage of her like a curse wearing lip gloss, louder and wetter until she was laughing and crying at the same time, sitting in chalk dust with hellโs scorch mark on her floor and no Crunchwrap and a soul apparently on layaway.
Outside her door, in the hallway, a soft paper bag thumped against the mat.
She had ordered ice cream.
Y/N wiped her face with both hands, stood on trembling legs, and walked to the door. She undid the chain. Opened it a crack.
The hallway was empty except for the delivery bag and a little plastic spoon tucked neatly into the receipt.
On the receipt, beneath her order, someone had written in black ink:
Y/N stared at the smiley face.
Very slowly, she shut the door.
A/N: I am SOOOO excited about this!!!
AO3 has the prettier formatting if you guys prefer reading the fanfiction in full! Link found here -> AO3 Link
Prologue | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter
MC (Y/N) Wayne: 27 yrs, Female, Biological Daughter to Bruce Wayne, Works in Human Resources, Average Civilian,
Bruce Wayne: 51 yrs, Male, Also known as Batman, Father to Y/N, Damian, Dick, Tim, and Jason, CEO of Wayne Enterprises
Alfred Pennyworth: 70 yrs, Male, Former British spy turned Butler
Dick Grayson: 30 yrs, Male, Adopted Son to Bruce Wayne, Also known as Nightwing, Cop
Jason Todd: 26 yrs, Male, Adopted Son to Bruce Wayne, Also known as Red Hood, No day job
Tim Drake: 24 yrs, Male, Adopted Son to Bruce Wayne. Also known as Red Robin, Tech Lead for Wayne Enterprises
Damian Wayne: 20 yrs, Male, Biological Son to Bruce Wayne, Also known as Robin, Student in college (Medical)
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