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Survival in game - Cho Hyun-ju

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Angst

Simon Ghost Riley

Trauma

OPLA

Zoro x Reader

Summary — Roronoa Zoro never truly understood what home meant, until he met you. Between diverging paths, inevitable goodbyes, and the distance imposed by the sea, he learns that home is not a place you return to, but someone you always find your way back to.

You and Zoro were lying together, your naked bodies joined.

You closed your eyes, wishing—if only for one selfish instant—that time would stop right there.

Not because of the touch itself, but because of the rare quiet that existed when you were together.

Zoro kept one firm hand wrapped around your waist, the other resting on your thigh, as if that simple gesture were enough to make sure you were still there.

You knew that moment had an expiration date.

His world did not allow permanence.

He was a pirate hunter. Blood debts did not wait.

You wanted to go with him.

You wanted to say you would find a way.

But you couldn’t.

Your village needed you—you were one of the few warriors. If you left, the village would be left defenseless.

And you would not abandon your home like that.

Zoro understood.

He always did, even when it hurt.

He didn’t try to convince you.

Didn’t argue.

He accepted it in silence, because to him, respect meant exactly that.

You fell asleep together, as if sleep itself could delay the inevitable.

But morning came.

When you woke up, Zoro was already dressed, yet he remained lying beside you, admiring you in the few minutes you still had together, until he felt you stir.

Your eyes met.

Nothing needed to be said.

You buried your face in his neck, breathing deeply, feeling the weight of that moment. Tears gathered, burning, but you didn’t let them fall. Zoro didn’t ask you to be strong. He simply stayed there.

At the port, the wind carried the scent of salt and farewell.

You didn’t want to let him go.

But you knew you had to.

Zoro raised his hand and touched your face with unusual care, as if that gesture demanded more attention than any fight. He looked at you deeply—not like someone saying goodbye, but like someone carving a destiny into memory.

— I know the way back.

You nodded, a fragile smile appearing even as silent tears finally slipped down.

— I know… you always come back to me.

He wiped away each tear with his thumb, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. Then he held your face and rested his forehead against yours before pressing his lips to yours in a calm, steady kiss—a wordless promise.

When he left, you stayed there.

And your mind returned to the beginning.

To the day you met by chance.

Two opposite paths.

Two lives that were never meant to cross.

And yet, it was there that something inside Zoro—something he had kept empty by choice—began to fill, effortlessly, without warning.

---

You entered the bar almost on impulse.

It wasn’t a place you usually went to, but lately the routine of the village felt unbearably heavy. Identical days, identical responsibilities. You needed to feel something different, and alcohol helped quiet the thoughts that insisted on returning.

You sat on a stool at the counter, ordering a simple drink.

You were too distracted to notice when someone took the seat beside you.

You only noticed his presence when a glass was slid in front of you.

You turned your head and, for a second, forgot how to breathe.

The man beside you had a presence that was impossible to ignore. Relaxed posture, attentive gaze, scars that didn’t ask for explanation. Handsome in a rough, almost dangerous way. It made you uneasy.

— You look like you need this more than I do — he said, his voice low and deep. — Whatever’s troubling your mind… it doesn’t seem small.

You blinked, surprised, and carefully took the glass.

— Thank you — you murmured, feeling your face warm slightly.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable.

You watched him out of the corner of your eye for a few seconds before speaking:

— You’re not from here.

He shrugged, simply.

— Just passing through.

That should have ended the conversation.

But it didn’t.

You talked about small things—the village, the weather, vague stories that didn’t demand details. It was strange how natural everything felt, as if the conversation were merely resuming something that already existed.

When you said you needed to leave, he felt something he hadn’t expected: discomfort. A quiet resistance in his chest.

He wanted to ask your name.

Wanted to say anything to make you stay.

He didn’t.

You left through the door before he decided.

The streets were dark. The village was small, and the streetlights failed more often than they worked. The alcohol made your steps lighter—you weren’t used to drinking.

That’s when you saw them.

Two men blocking your path. Familiar faces. Worse reputations.

Meanwhile, back at the bar, Zoro stared at the empty glass in front of him, irritated with himself.

He stood abruptly, tossed a few bills onto the counter, and left—telling himself he only wanted to know your name. Nothing more.

When he heard noises coming from a nearby street, he considered ignoring them and continuing his search. But his conscience wouldn’t allow it. He changed direction.

He turned the corner and the world stopped.

And that’s how he found you.

Fast, precise movements. You took down one of the men—twice your size—with a sharp strike. The other tried to react. A grave mistake. In seconds, both were on the ground.

Zoro stood frozen, watching, his heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with danger.

When you twisted one of their hands against the ground, your voice was firm, unwavering:

— I’ll teach you never to try to touch anyone with those filthy hands again.

There was a crack. A scream.

Zoro felt his face heat—rare for him. His heart pounded far too hard.

It wasn’t just attraction.

It was admiration.

You turned then, noticing his presence. Your eyes met.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Zoro took a deep breath, one corner of his mouth lifting in a faint smile.

— …I should’ve asked your name.

You looked at him, still breathless, and smiled.

And there, in that poorly lit street, Zoro understood that something inside him—something he had kept empty by choice—had just been filled without asking permission.

He was in love.

---

You knew, with a certainty that tightened your chest, that after so much time beside Roronoa Zoro, you couldn’t bear to stay away from him much longer.

Distance wasn’t silence—it was constant noise. His absence echoed in every detail of the day, in every restless night.

And deep down, you also knew you had never wanted to stay in that village forever.

Since childhood, you dreamed of the vastness of the world, of endless seas, of paths that didn’t always lead back to the same place. But being the strongest warrior on the island turned that dream into something almost forbidden. You weren’t just someone from there—you were necessary. Always necessary.

To protect.

To decide.

To stay.

Even leaving for a few days became a risk for everyone.

So if you wanted to leave—if you wanted to finally go meet Zoro and the world he crossed—you would have to teach others to take your place.

That’s how you gathered ten students.

Ten people willing to train, to fail, to bleed if necessary, so the island would no longer depend solely on you.

The training was exhausting.

— Straight posture — you said, placing a hand on one young man’s shoulder and forcing him to align. — If you drop your guard now, there won’t be a second chance.

He tried again. Failed.

You sighed, controlling your impatience.

— Watch the opponent’s shoulders, not the weapon — you explained more calmly. — The body always reveals the next move before the strike.

You corrected and demanded, but never diminished them.

Because you knew—they would only learn by failing, the same way you had.

The days passed the same.

Training at dawn. Training at dusk.

A tired body, aching muscles, a mind always alert.

And still, what exhausted you most wasn’t physical—it was the constant weight of being everyone’s support. The feeling that if you failed or left too soon, everything would collapse.

At night, when you were finally alone, exhaustion came paired with longing.

Zoro appeared in your thoughts without permission.

His blunt way. The comfortable silence. His steady presence.

Thinking of him hurt, because it made everything around you feel too small. The village felt narrower. The days, longer. Being far from him felt like fighting without a sword—possible, but wrong.

That was why you kept going.

Every correction, every fall, every small step forward from your students brought you closer to something greater.

Over time, they began to take on small responsibilities:

• standing watch,

• training on their own,

• protecting one another without relying on you.

Nothing grand.

But enough.

They were still your students. The lessons continued every day.

But for the first time, you felt something different in your chest.

Not relief.

Hope.

You were still there—but you were no longer the only thing holding everything up.

And as you watched your students train without your direct intervention, you thought of Zoro again.

This time, without pain.

With promise.

You were tired. Exhausted.

But finally, closer to the path that led to him.

---

Roronoa Zoro had always believed he didn’t have a home.

That was before you.

Before, home was a useless concept—places were temporary, people too.

Now he knew: home was where you were.

The island didn’t matter. The port didn’t matter. The name of the place didn’t matter. If you were there, that was where he belonged.

And that was why, every time he went out to hunt pirates, something in him resisted.

Not fear.

Desire.

He wanted you beside him. Wanted to share the silence, the danger, the road. Not because you needed protection—but because the world felt more right when you fought side by side.

Distance made him slip back into old habits.

Zoro started drinking more than he should.

Not enough to lose reason—he would never allow that.

But enough to dull the edge of longing, as if alcohol could soften absence.

Sleeping became another battle.

Sleep was light, broken. Hard ribs, cold ground, interrupted dreams.

Nothing like when you slept curled against him, breathing softly, and the world felt—if only for a few hours—finally quiet.

He passed through villages like yours—narrow streets, dim lights, simple people.

And all he could think about was you.

If you were eating properly.

If you were sleeping.

If you smiled the way you did when he was there.

When he joined the Straw Hat Pirates, something changed.

He was still Zoro—direct, closed off, focused.

But he no longer felt so alone.

Having crewmates around, hearing laughter on deck, sharing battles he didn’t have to face alone—it all made him steadier. More whole.

The crew didn’t replace you, but it kept him standing until he could return.

At night, lying on the deck, he stared at the star-filled sky and thought that maybe you were looking at the same stars at that very moment.

The thought didn’t lessen the longing.

But it made it bearable.

Every day, he watched the ship’s course.

Each island passed. Each mile conquered.

The path always led to you.

And that kept him steady.

Once, someone commented on how he was always staring at the horizon, as if waiting for something.

Zoro didn’t answer right away.

Then he murmured, simple and final:

— There’s someone waiting for me.

And for the first time in his life,

he was certain he would return home.

---

Watching her students train among themselves was when something finally shifted inside you.

Their movements were firm.

Precise.

There was no more hesitation in their strikes, no more glances seeking your approval at every step. They corrected themselves, protected one another, learned from their own mistakes. You recognized everything you had taught them—discipline, reading the opponent, responsibility.

Your hard work was there, alive, breathing without your intervention.

And for the first time in a long while, you felt at peace.

You had always been necessary. There was always someone calling your name, someone depending on your strength, someone expecting you to fix things. Being the island’s pillar had become a silent prison.

But now… now they were ready.

Independent.

You were no longer the only line between safety and chaos.

And that meant you could finally choose for yourself.

Your chest tightened as the thought formed clearly.

Now you could go.

Now you could see him.

The idea of Roronoa Zoro wasn’t just longing—it was a deep, almost physical pull. Being far from him had always made everything feel misplaced, incomplete, as if you were living in the wrong place.

With him, you didn’t need to be strong all the time.

You closed your eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, feeling something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

Certainty.

Wherever he was…

that was where you would feel at home.

---

The crew had just docked at another island when Zoro stepped away from the deck without a word.

He found an old public phone, leaning against the wall of a building worn by salt and time.

He stood there for a few seconds before dialing.

Fighting was easy. Cutting down enemies too.

But talking to you… that always disarmed him.

The ring echoed once.

Twice.

His heart raced in a way no battle ever had.

— Hello?

Your voice crossed the line and Zoro closed his eyes for a moment, as if grounding himself.

— …My love.

On the other end, the world stopped.

— Z-Zoro? — your voice broke. — Is it really you? I… I missed you so much.

He tightened his grip on the phone.

— It’s me. I missed you too. Every day.

A brief pause.

— How are you?

— I’m fine… — you took a breath. — I’d be better with you. But I’m fine.

That drew from him a faint, almost imperceptible smile.

— I’m relieved to hear that. — Silence. — I called because… I have something to tell you.

— Funny — you said, trying to sound light. — I do too. But go on.

He inhaled deeply, as direct as ever:

— I became a pirate.

Silence on the other end.

— …A pirate? — you asked, confused. — Didn’t you… hunt pirates?

— I did. — he replied plainly. — But I met someone who made me see the world differently.

Your heart clenched.

— Someone…?

Your voice was low, uncertain, and Zoro immediately heard the weight of it.

He frowned, as if you were right in front of him.

— Hey. — he said firmly. — That’s not what you think.

— Zoro…

— It’s the captain. — he interrupted. — Luffy. He gave me a different purpose. Joining the crew… it just happened naturally.

You let out the breath you’d been holding.

— You scared me.

— Why? — he asked, genuinely confused.

Then he understood.

— …You thought I’d found someone else?

His tone hardened—not with anger, but conviction.

— Listen to me carefully. — he said slowly. — I only have eyes for you. Always have. You’re the only one in my life.

On the other end, your tears finally fell.

— That just gives me more courage to tell you then… — your voice trembled, but something new lived in it. — I can finally leave the village.

His world stopped.

— …What? — Zoro straightened. — Are you serious?

— I’ve never been more serious. — you replied. — While you were gone, I trained others. The warriors are stronger now. There are enough people to protect the village.

A pause.

— I can go with you now, Zoro. Where I always wanted to be.

He ran a hand over his face, letting out a quiet, disbelieving laugh.

— You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that. — his voice was heavy, sincere. — These months away from you were torture. I think about you all the time.

Then he said it plainly:

— Pack your things.

— Zoro—

— This ship is changing course now. — he stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. — I’m coming to get you.

On the other end of the line, you smiled through tears.

And for the first time in a long while,

his path didn’t feel like just a journey.

It felt like going home.

---

When you saw the unfamiliar ship approaching the port, something inside you simply knew.

It wasn’t logic.

It was instinct.

Your heart raced, air caught in your lungs, and before you realized it, your feet were already moving. You ran toward the pier, the sound of waves mixing with your uneven breathing.

When the ship docked…

when you saw him…

The tears came before you could stop them—hot, free, carrying everything that had been waiting, longing, and love. A smile spread at the same time, unstoppable, as if the world had finally settled into the right place.

Zoro stepped off the ship and the instant his eyes met yours, everything else ceased to exist.

He walked fast—almost running—toward you.

You did the same.

The impact of the embrace was strong, urgent. You clung to him like someone finding solid ground after being adrift too long, your face buried in his chest, feeling his heart beating just as fast as yours.

— I told you I’d come — he murmured, his voice low, steady, full of promise. — I’d turn the world upside down just to find you.

You laughed through tears, holding him tighter.

— I never doubted it.

You held his face between your fingers, rising onto your toes. Zoro leaned down at the same time, meeting you halfway, as if he knew exactly where he belonged.

The kiss was intense.

Deep.

Filled with accumulated longing.

There was no port, no people, no noise—only the two of you, bound by something that had never broken, even with distance.

— So it’s true you have a girlfriend! — Monkey D. Luffy’s loud voice broke the moment, making you start slightly.

Zoro didn’t pull away.

Didn’t let go.

— Yeah. I do. — he answered without taking his eyes off you, his hand firm at your waist, his gaze overflowing with a love that was simple, intense, unquestionable.

You met the Straw Hats soon after—easy laughter, obvious loyalty, an energy that made sense around him. Seeing Zoro among such good friends warmed your chest in a new way.

And there, beside the crew…

beside him…

You knew the adventures ahead would be incredible. But above all, you knew one thing with absolute certainty:

All you needed…

was to be together.

Taglist Opla:

Sanji x reader!Selectively mute

I’ll be posting more OPLA fanfics soon! If you want to be tagged, just let me know in the comments 💙

You were a healthy and extremely talkative child. Your father used to joke that you talked more than a parrot.

— You’re going to lose your voice like that — he would say, leaning against the doorframe, watching you talk to your toys as if they were real people.

— But I’m their spokesperson — you would reply, serious, as if it were obvious.

He laughed. A light, sincere laugh.

— Then you speak for both of us — he said. — I like listening.

At night, when the house grew quiet, you would lie beside him on the couch. You told made-up stories, mixed dreams with the day’s events. Your father never interrupted. Never told you to be quiet. Never got annoyed.

He listened.

That happiness lasted until his death — and until your mother met someone else.

Your stepfather was a Navy sergeant. From the beginning, he nurtured a hatred toward you that he never bothered to hide. You didn’t understand why. You never disrespected him, never provoked him. Still, he seemed to despise every sound that came out of your mouth, every step you took inside the house.

— Shut up! — he shouted once. — I don’t know what I was thinking, marrying a woman who already came with baggage. Annoying kid.

The shove came next. Your body was thrown against a glass table, which shattered on impact.

— Don’t let me know you exist in this house… or I’ll kill you.

From that day on, any sound was reason enough for aggression. You didn’t even have to speak: a sneeze, a poorly timed step, even just being seen was enough. Your mother never intervened. Over time, she began acting as if you weren’t there. She locked you in your room during the day, looked away when the abuse happened, pretended not to hear.

The house stopped being a shelter. It became a place of fear.

You grew quieter and quieter. First out of caution, then out of habit. Soon, you were moving without being noticed. People passed by you as if you didn’t exist. You learned to hide in the shadows, to occupy spaces without leaving traces. You never said a word. You were like a ghost trapped in that house.

One night, you left your room in absolute silence. Everything seemed asleep, and you didn’t want to risk crossing paths with him. You were starving — your last meal had been the day before. It was already past ten at night, and your stomach growled too loudly for your own comfort.

In the kitchen, you searched for anything you could eat. That was when you saw the fruit.

It had an irregular oval shape and unusual colors, blending purple and deep blue. You had never seen anything like it. When you held it, it felt as though the air around you had changed, vibrating almost imperceptibly. The texture was strange, unlike anything you had ever touched.

Then you heard a sound — someone getting up.

Without thinking, you bit into the fruit.

The sound of the bite echoed inside your head, repeating over and over, as if you were trapped in a closed space. A sudden dizziness hit you. The taste was awful, but hunger spoke louder. You ate everything quickly, threw the stem in the trash, and returned to your room before you could be seen.

Nothing seemed different… until the next day.

Your bedroom door was nearly ripped off its hinges. You jumped up, instinctively backing into a corner, keeping your distance. Your eyes fixed on the floor.

— Idiot girl! — he roared. — Did you eat my Akuma no Mi?!

He grabbed your arm hard enough to force a cry of pain from you.

— Do you have any idea what you’ve done? That was my chance to level up in the Navy!

He threw you away. You hit the floor, and the kicks followed. Relentless. No restraint, no pause. Your body was treated like a punching bag.

Then, in the middle of the pain, a kick stronger than the others landed — and something answered.

An invisible blast exploded through the air.

A silent but devastating wave hurled your stepfather against the wall. The impact was strong enough to crack it. He collapsed, unconscious.

You remained frozen. In shock. Not understanding what you had done — or how.

That same day, at sixteen years old, you were thrown out of the house.

From sixteen to eighteen, you lived alone. You survived by stealing food, sleeping wherever you could. Your ability to move without making a sound saved your life more than once. You also learned sign language, though you had never used it with anyone.

Until then, you had always been alone.

And the silence that was once forced upon you became your means of survival.

The day you met the Straw Hats was a day deeply etched into your memory.

You watched them from a distance, as you always did.

The tall blond man stood in front of a market stall, examining the food with unusual attention. He touched the fruit, smelled the bread, lightly pressed the peels to feel their texture. He didn’t buy on impulse. He chose.

A real cook.

When he put some fruit into the basket and paid, your stomach growled far too loudly for your liking. That was your chance.

You approached without making a sound. Your movement was light, trained. Your fingers were already wrapping around an apple when, suddenly, your wrist was grabbed.

— Hey, little thief.

You turned immediately.

The orange-haired woman was staring at you with a sharp half-smile, like someone who had seen that trick many times before. The apple was now raised in her hand.

— Sanji — she said, tossing the name into the air — pay more attention. They were stealing from you. If it were money, I’d charge interest for the loss.

The blond man turned, confused at first… until he looked at you.

And then his expression changed.

You were pretty, yes — he noticed that — but that wasn’t what made him stop. It was something else. Your tense shoulders. The way you avoided eye contact. And, most of all, the hunger. A cook recognized that without effort. Especially one who had been there himself.

— Easy, Nami — he said, his voice low and calm. — It’s just an apple.

He stepped a little closer, slowly, respecting the space you seemed to need.

— You’re hungry, aren’t you… sweetheart?

You didn’t answer. You just handed the apple back in silence. You didn’t want trouble. You didn’t want explanations. You just wanted to eat.

Sanji blinked a few times, surprised — not by the refusal, but by the careful way you returned the fruit.

— No, no — he waved his hand away. — Keep it. Actually… how about something better, hm?

You immediately looked around. Invitations like that never ended well. You had already learned that.

— I’m a cook — he continued, pointing to himself with a half-smile. — And modesty aside, the best.

Nami crossed her arms, clearly annoyed.

— You’re crazy — she muttered. — Inviting a stranger like that…

But then she looked at you more closely. Too thin. Light dark circles. Defensive posture.

She sighed.

— Come on — she said, more dry than angry. — He cooks well. You won’t regret it.

Suspicious, you followed them.

Until you saw the ship.

The Jolly Roger fluttered on the mast.

You stopped.

Pirates were never a good thing.

— Yes, we’re pirates — Sanji said, noticing your hesitation — but we’re not the bad kind. Relax.

He walked up the gangplank without insisting further.

— If you don’t want to come aboard, that’s fine — he added, glancing back over his shoulder. — Wait here. I’ll make something for you.

The redhead stayed with you. Nami. You had heard the name before.

You stood there in silence, each of you in a corner. To your surprise, she didn’t try to make conversation. She just stayed. You appreciated that.

The silence was broken when a boy appeared out of nowhere, wearing a straw hat and carrying an impossible-to-ignore energy.

— Hi! We have a visitor? — He smiled far too widely. — I’m Luffy! And you are…?

You immediately lowered your gaze, your fingers clutching the hem of your clothes.

— What are you doing out here? — he asked, completely unfazed by your lack of response.

— She didn’t want to come in, we’re waiting for the cook to bring her food — Nami replied.

— Food?! — his eyes lit up. — I got here at just the right time!

Shortly after, Sanji returned with a steaming plate.

The smell made your mouth water instantly. You couldn’t remember the last time you had seen a complete meal.

He placed the plate in your hands carefully.

Luffy stretched out his arm to grab a piece — and received a sharp slap.

— No — Sanji said, serious for a rare moment. — That’s hers. There’s more upstairs. Deal with it.

You ate slowly at first, almost asking permission with each bite. Then, when you realized no one was going to take it away, you ate eagerly. Every flavor seemed better than the last. It was, without a doubt, the best food you had ever tasted.

Sanji watched in silence.

There was something about you that charmed him effortlessly: the excessive care, the shy way you thanked with your eyes, the quiet sweetness of someone who had never been given space to exist.

The smile that appeared on his face wasn’t exaggerated or theatrical.

It was simple.

Satisfied.

You joined the crew almost without realizing it, the way everything with Monkey D. Luffy happened: simple, direct, and full of sincerity, with a smile too open, as if the decision had been made even before it was said.

— Then stay with us! — Luffy said simply. — Everyone needs a place to go.

You blinked, surprised, and instinctively looked around, as if searching for an invisible trap.

— The food is good — he continued, pointing his thumb toward the ship. — We’re nice. And you seem nice too!

No one had ever put something like that into such easy words.

You blinked again. There were no invasive questions, no demands. Just a direct, honest invitation. You nodded slowly, still unsure, and that was enough.

— Great! — Luffy smiled even wider. — Then it’s settled!

And that was it. No ceremony. No conditions.

Gradually, you met the rest of the crew.

They quickly realized that you didn’t speak. Not because anyone commented on it, but because you never answered out loud. And to your surprise, no one pressured you. No one tried to “fix” your silence.

Roronoa Zoro was the easiest to understand. Always quiet, always keeping to himself. You spent long periods on the deck, sitting near each other, without exchanging a single word. Sometimes he dozed off. Sometimes you watched the sea. It was… comfortable. A silence that didn’t weigh.

Usopp, on the other hand, talked for both of you.

— Have I ever told you about the time I fought a giant fish the size of an island?!

You listened attentively, tilting your head slightly. He gestured, exaggerated details, dramatized everything. You were almost certain that half of it was exaggerated — maybe more than half — but you never contradicted him.

When he asked, — You believe me, right?

You nodded.

And that seemed to make him absurdly happy.

Nami was the one who grew closest to you at first. She quickly noticed that you had practically nothing besides worn clothes, far too old for someone your age.

— You can’t walk around the ship like that — she said, tossing a set of clean clothes in your direction. — We’ll find something better later.

She was suspicious at first, always keeping an eye on you, especially near money or maps. But she was also careful. She taught you where to store your things, where not to step when the sea was rough, and how to manage on board.

— You may not talk — she commented once — but you pay attention to everything. That’s rare.

Her eyes said more than any words. Nami looked away, a little embarrassed.

You liked her after that.

Luffy remained loud as ever. Running around the ship, shouting, laughing too loudly. Sometimes his energy was too much for you — but, curiously, it was also contagious. It was hard not to smile when he smiled.

And then there was Sanji.

You spent much of your time in the kitchen with him. Not because he insisted, but because you always ended up there. Always.

He talked while he cooked, commenting on seasonings, on the right timing, on dishes he wanted you to try. Sometimes you just watched. Other times, you helped in silence, passing ingredients, washing utensils.

— The secret is in the timing — he said, stirring a pot. — Some things can’t be rushed.

You liked listening to him talk. About recipes, about flavors, about food as if it were something almost sacred. Sometimes you responded with small gestures, a more attentive look, a slight tilt of the head.

Other times, you simply stayed in silence.

And it wasn’t strange.

Sanji never tried to force you to speak. Never commented on it. He just included you naturally, as if your presence there were obvious.

You spent a lot of time alone. You had several hiding spots scattered around the ship — corners only you knew. Places where you could breathe when anxiety pressed too hard to be near other people. When the world got too loud.

But whenever you left those hiding spots, almost without realizing it, your steps always led you to the same place.

The kitchen.

Sanji always noticed when you appeared. He never commented. He just placed a cup of tea near you or slid a plate in your direction.

And without realizing exactly when it happened, you understood:

You trusted them.

The Straw Hats.

And, especially, him.

You didn’t speak. You barely reacted.

Over time, the Straw Hat crew learned to respect that. No one tried to pry words out of you anymore, no one pressured you with questions. Your silence stopped being strange and became just… yours.

Sanji, however, never tried to force you into anything.

He began to understand you in other ways, through small gestures, the way your shoulders hunched, the way you always chose the quietest corners of the ship. He was the first to notice how you avoided overly noisy places… and how tense you became whenever someone shouted.

The crew was gathered on deck that night. It was supposed to be fun — an improvised party of sorts. There were drinks, laughter, loud music.

You were only there because Nami had insisted, and you didn’t want to disappoint her.

At first, you tried. You stayed there quietly, your hands clasped in front of you.

But the noise soon began to make you dizzy.

The clinking of glasses mixed with voices, the music seemed too loud, everything overlapped. Still, what bothered you most were Luffy’s shouts.

He was always loud — and you usually didn’t mind — but that night it felt like too much.

— AAAAAAH! THIS PARTY IS AWESOME! MORE FOOD! MORE MEAT! — Luffy shouted, raising his arms.

Your body reacted before you could think. Your shoulders tensed, your breathing grew shallow, and you felt the urge to disappear.

No one seemed to notice.

No one… except Sanji.

He was watching you from the other side of the deck, his usual smile softening when he met your unsettled gaze.

— Sweetheart — he said, approaching carefully — want to help me prepare more appetizers? Luffy already devoured everything.

There was no pressure in his voice. Just an exit.

You nodded almost immediately, relieved, and stood to follow him to the kitchen.

It wasn’t the only time.

On another afternoon, you went to the kitchen just to get a glass of water. You tried to make a bit more noise when entering, as you had been trying to do around the crew, but still no one noticed your presence.

— I already told you I can beat you! — Roronoa Zoro provoked, his voice dripping with mockery.

— I don’t need a sword to be something, moss-head — Sanji snapped back.

— I can break you even without them.

Their voices were too loud. Their postures too tense.

They were so involved in the argument that they didn’t notice you… You gave up on the water.

As you set the glass back down, it slipped from your fingers and shattered on the floor.

The sound of glass breaking cut through the air.

Both turned at the same time.

Your shoulders were rigid, your eyes frightened. Your mind, foggy. You immediately crouched to gather the shards, not even thinking you might cut yourself.

— Hey, hey, hey! — Sanji reached you in an instant.

He held your trembling hands gently.

When he touched you, your first thought was that you had given him another reason to be angry.

But Sanji didn’t look angry.

Your fingers moved quickly, repeatedly, in frantic apology signs.

Sanji didn’t understand the signs… but he understood you.

— It’s okay, dear — he said softly, completely different from seconds before. — It’s just a glass. I’ll clean this up, alright? You’re going to hurt yourself.

He guided you away from the shards with care, positioning himself in front of you like a silent shield.

From that day on, Sanji was more careful.

He avoided arguing with Zoro near you. He scolded the crew whenever voices started to rise too much around you.

And whenever something like that happened, he noticed something else: you stopped eating.

So he prepared light meals and placed them in front of you carefully. He sat nearby, but never too close. He didn’t invade your space. He just stayed there.

Present.

As the days passed, Sanji began to realize something clearly: if he truly wanted to communicate with you — for real, without improvisation or assumptions — he would need to learn your language.

When the ship docked at an island to restock, he took the first opportunity. Between ingredients and kitchen utensils, he also bought a simple book, worn at the edges, about sign language. He didn’t tell anyone. He just kept it with him.

From then on, every free moment was devoted to it. At night, after cleaning the kitchen. Early in the morning, before starting meal prep. His hands moved slowly, repeating gestures, making mistakes, turning pages, trying again. He took it seriously, the same way he took everything that truly mattered.

Until one day, you went to one of your favorite hiding spots on the ship. A quiet, secluded corner where you usually went when you needed to breathe without feeling the world pressing on your senses.

But you weren’t alone.

Sanji was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, a book resting on his legs. His eyes were focused on the pages, and his hands moved in the air, carefully copying the signs, as if afraid of making mistakes even in empty space.

You stopped.

Your chest tightened in an unexpected way. Your eyes burned before you could stop it. No one had ever done something like that for you.

The soft sound of your sniffle broke the silence.

Sanji immediately lifted his head, startled, and jumped to his feet when he saw you there, hurriedly wiping away tears.

— Dear? — his voice came out gentle, but full of concern. — Did something happen?

You shook your head no, pulling out the notepad you always carried with you since joining the crew. Your hands trembled slightly as you wrote.

“Are you learning sign language?”

He read the paper.

And smiled.

Not that exaggerated, flirtatious smile. It was small, sincere, almost shy.

Then, a bit awkwardly, he raised his hands and made a few signs, slowly, carefully so you would understand.

“I want to talk to you in your language.”

You understood.

And that’s when the tears really came.

— H-hey… hey — Sanji panicked immediately. — Did I do something wrong?

Impulsively, he pulled you into a hug, only realizing afterward that he might be invading your space. But you didn’t pull away.

On the contrary.

You stayed there, motionless, your face hidden against his chest. You didn’t hug him back… but you didn’t push him away either. And that was enough.

Sanji held you carefully, as if you might break, one hand on your back, the other keeping you close while your body trembled with long-contained sobs.

He didn’t say anything. He just stayed.

When you finally calmed down, he pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, his eyes full of quiet affection.

— Can you help me with some signs, dear? — he asked with a sweet smile. — I get confused sometimes.

You nodded, wiping your face.

You sat side by side on the floor.

You showed the signs, slowly and patiently. He repeated them, made mistakes, laughed softly at himself, tried again. Sometimes your fingers brushed by accident, and you looked away, shy, your heart racing.

And there, in that quiet corner of the ship, you spent the entire day studying together.

You and Sanji became inseparable in a natural, almost silent way. It wasn’t planned — it just happened. Wherever one was, the other soon appeared. You orbited each other as if by instinct.

Sanji was your safe harbor.

Most of the time, conversations were like this: he talked about life, about the sea, about recipes, about dreams, and you listened attentively, sitting far too close to be coincidence. Sometimes you replied with simple signs, sometimes with a nod or a small, shy smile. For him, that already said everything.

But there was one different day.

A day when the silence weighed more than usual.

You were together in the kitchen after dinner. The ship was calm, the sound of waves hitting the hull creating a steady, soothing background. Sanji was cleaning the counter, and you were sitting at the table, turning a cup between your fingers, clearly restless.

He had noticed all day that you were different, but hadn’t had the chance to talk to you about it.

— Dear… — he said carefully, not getting too close. — Are you okay?

You hesitated. Your chest tightened. Your hands tensed on your lap.

He noticed the reluctance and gently made you feel confident enough to sign what was troubling you.

You told him.

About your stepfather.

About the shouting.

About the abuse.

About the constant fear of existing.

About the mother who turned away.

Each sign felt torn from you.

Sanji clenched his hands too tightly.

Inside, rage boiled. The urge to cross oceans just to find that man and make him pay was almost uncontrollable. Thinking that someone so sweet, so careful, had gone through that stirred something dark inside him.

But he took a deep breath.

Because in that moment, more than vengeance, you needed support.

He approached slowly and knelt in front of you, bringing himself to your level. His eyes were serious, but filled with something firm and protective.

— I understand more than you imagine — he said softly. — I didn’t grow up in a kind home either.

He didn’t go into details. He didn’t need to — that moment was about you.

Sanji extended his hand, offering without demanding. You hesitated, but eventually placed yours over his, still unsure.

The grip was gentle.

— You don’t have to carry this alone anymore — he continued, his voice firm, almost a vow. — You have me now. And you have the crew.

He smiled faintly.

— Here… no one is going to hurt you. I promise.

Your chest ached in a different way this time. Not painful — just tight, warm, full of something you didn’t remember ever feeling before.

Safety.

You didn’t cry. You just took a deep breath.

And Sanji stayed there with you.

As he always did.

You had stopped at that island just to restock. Quick. Quiet. Without drawing attention.

But, as always, Monkey D. Luffy seemed to have a natural talent for the opposite.

It didn’t take long for the Navy to notice the crew’s presence.

The first shot echoed too loudly. Then came shouted orders, hurried footsteps, weapons being raised. In seconds, chaos erupted.

The crew reacted immediately.

Zoro charged with his swords. Luffy laughed while dodging bullets. Nami shouted instructions, while Usopp tried to cover the flanks.

You, however, stood still.

The noise was overwhelming.

Explosions. Shouts. Metal against metal. Everything blended together, invading your senses all at once. Your body froze, shoulders rigid, breathing shallow. You just watched — until your eyes found him.

Sanji was caught off guard. A well-placed blow sent him crashing to the ground with enough force to knock the air from his lungs.

— Sanji! — someone shouted, but the sound reached you from too far away.

The soldier who had knocked him down didn’t stop.

You saw it.

You saw Sanji try to get up, still dazed. You saw the enemy raise his weapon again. You saw him defenseless for a second that felt far too long.

Something inside you snapped.

Fear was swallowed by something else. Something old. Silent. Dormant.

The world began to grow… quiet.

The sound of explosions, gunfire, shouting — everything was drawn into you, as if the air around you were absorbing every noise. The ground vibrated beneath your feet. The atmosphere seemed to tremble.

Everyone felt it.

— What is that…? — Nami murmured, a shiver running down her spine.

Then, all at once, it exploded.

A massive sound wave spread across the battlefield, invisible but devastating. Soldiers were thrown like rag dolls, weapons flew, bodies slammed into the ground without resistance.

Silence.

You didn’t wait.

You ran to Sanji, kneeling beside him, pulling his arm over your shoulders to help him up. He was still dazed, but conscious.

— Heh… — he let out a weak laugh. — I knew you had something hidden in there…

There was no time for more. The crew regrouped quickly and fled together, running back to the ship before reinforcements could arrive.

When they finally set sail, your heart was still pounding too fast in your chest.

— Did you guys know she could do that? — Nami asked, still incredulous.

Everyone shook their heads.

On deck, as the ship pulled away from the island, you were still trembling. The crew commented, asked questions, tried to understand. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Your entire attention was on Sanji.

You helped him lie down and ran to the first aid kit. Your hands moved too fast, almost frantically, as you cleaned wounds, disinfected cuts, wrapped bandages.

— I didn’t pass out, you know — he murmured, eyes still closed. — I just… needed a second.

You kept tending to him, your eyes shining dangerously.

— Dear… — he opened his eyes and looked at you. — It’s okay. Just a few scratches.

You shook your head, no.

Your hands signed firmly, and you finally held his gaze.

“You’re hurt.”

Sanji’s heart skipped.

You always avoided eye contact. Always.

— But I’ll be fine — he said softly. — Especially with the most beautiful nurse taking care of me.

You didn’t react to the flirt. You kept cleaning the wounds, too focused, too worried.

When you finished, you turned to put the supplies away. That was when he sat up, hissing in pain, and caught your hands, drawing your attention back.

— You did that… for me? — he asked seriously.

You nodded.

“I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

Sanji cupped your face with extreme care, as if you were something far too precious to touch without permission. His eyes were red, his lips slightly trembling.

— I think I feel much safer knowing I have a heroine around.

You let out a small, shy laugh — tiny, but real.

— That’s how I like it — he murmured, enchanted. — I prefer it when you smile like that.

The silence between you changed. It became full.

Sanji studied every detail of your face, as if memorizing it. Then, hands still trembling slightly, he made a sign you recognized.

“May I kiss you?”

You nodded, shy.

He leaned in slowly, touching his lips to yours with care. The kiss was sweet, calm, unhurried. A caress. A silent promise.

When he pulled away, he left a soft peck.

— I love you, dear — he said, smiling with feeling.

Your heart beat far too fast.

— I… love you — you whispered.

The voice came out low, trembling, like something fragile that hadn’t been used in years.

Sanji froze.

— You spoke… — his eyes widened with emotion before he pulled you into a tight hug. — You spoke!

You curled against him, wrapping your arms around his body awkwardly, but willingly.

— Your voice… — he murmured, emotional. — It’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. I swear.

After that day, you started dating.

You didn’t speak often — in fact, it took a month before he heard your voice again. At first, only with him. Always softly. Always when you truly needed to.

And no one ever pressured you.

But every time your voice appeared, even just a little, the crew smiled.

And Sanji…

CAPÍTULO 1 > CAPÍTULO 2 > CAPÍTULO 3 > CAPÍTULO 4 > CAPÍTULO 5

Series!materialist

Eis o final desta história — o momento em que nossa Jinx finalmente se vinga. É quando S/N fica para trás e apenas Jinx permanece, inteira e irreversível.

I truly hope you enjoy the final chapter as much as you enjoyed the previous ones. I read every comment, every message, and you have no idea how much that motivated me to keep writing, refining each scene and thinking through every detail to always give you my best.

Thank you for following this journey all the way to the end.💕

And if you’d like to suggest new stories, I’ll be happy to write them — not only in the DC universe, but in many other universes as well.

The Batcave was strangely silent.

For once, Gotham demanded nothing from him.

No alarms.

No imminent crises.

None of the children were present.

Just Bruce… and the weight of everything he avoided thinking about.

He sat in front of the monitors, posture impeccable as always. His body was still. But his fingers moved—turning, distracted, almost obsessively, the bracelet around his wrist.

Your bracelet.

The only thing you didn’t take when you “died.”

The one you left behind without a word.

Without an explanation.

Without forgiveness.

Bruce stared at his reflection on the computer screen and felt something rare rise in his chest—not anger, not fear.

Guilt.

Dense. Persistent.

He ran the calculations, as he always did.

How many times had he raised his voice when he should have listened?

How many times had he mistaken silence for strength, when it was nothing but abandonment?

How many times had he treated a broken child like a problem to be solved instead of someone who needed to be loved?

You never asked for much.

Never asked for anything out loud.

And still… he failed.

Failed as a man.

Failed as a guardian.

Failed as a father.

Bruce clenched the bracelet too tightly, the metal biting into his skin, as if he deserved to feel something physical to balance what burned inside him.

Now you were alive.

Now… was it too late?

The question ate at him.

Was redemption even possible after so much silence?

After letting you grow up believing you were unwanted?

Soft footsteps pulled him from his thoughts.

Alfred rose from the platform, a cup of coffee in his hands, steam curling slowly upward. He observed Bruce for a moment before approaching—just as he always did when he knew the problem couldn’t be solved with strategy.

—Master Bruce, — he said gently. — You’ve been here for hours.

Bruce didn’t answer right away.

Alfred placed the cup within reach.

—What troubles you?

— Nothing, —  Bruce replied too automatically. — Just… assessing Gotham.

Alfred was not fooled. He never was.

— Assessing Gotham does not usually make you grip objects as though you’re trying not to break them.

The silence that followed was heavy.

Alfred exhaled quietly and, for the first time that night, allowed the formality to slip.

— I carry regrets about her as well, sir,— he said, voice steady but tired. — I saw the signs. I saw when she closed herself off. When she needed someone to stand by her. — He looked away briefly. — And I wasn’t there for her. — Bruce closed his eyes. — I should have insisted, — Alfred continued. — I should have defended her more, supported her more. But I trusted too much that you would know when to act… and because of that, I failed her.

Bruce took a deep breath, slow and measured, as if rearranging something inside himself to avoid losing control.

— I didn’t know, — he admitted at last. His voice was low. — I thought disciplining her meant I was protecting her.

He opened his eyes.

— I was wrong.

Alfred met his gaze, serious.

— Then do not repeat the mistake, Master Bruce, — he said firmly. — Do not give up on her now. Not when she’s still alive.

Bruce was silent for several seconds. Then he nodded once.

— I won’t give up, — he said, not as a grand promise, but as a final decision. — Not again.

He knew you might never forgive him.

Knew you might never come home.

But if there was even the smallest chance…

If you allowed it…

He would finally be the father he should have always been.

You made your final preparations with a calm that did not match the chaos inside you.

The bomb rested on the workbench, its metal casing slowly turning beneath your fingers as you guided the brush with near-obsessive care. The paint flowed smoothly, precisely. Each stroke too clean. Too controlled.

As if keeping it perfect might keep your mind from falling apart.

It didn’t work.

Memories came in waves—the mansion too large, voices too cold, silences that hurt more than shouting ever could.

Your eyes flickered for a second, and the brush slipped.

You inhaled deeply, forcing the air in. Out.

Your thoughts hardened. Sharpened. Cold.

The big day is coming, sweetheart…

A cinematic revenge.

The Joker’s voice echoed in your head as if he were standing right behind you, leaning in to whisper against your ear.

It brought relief.

A wrong kind of comfort—but comfort nonetheless.

A promise of an ending.

A clean cut from the girl who once begged for scraps of affection.

And yet…

Something weighed on you. An uncomfortable, persistent sensation.

Not fear.

Not regret.

More like a thread caught in your chest, tugging slowly—reminding you that you still felt something, even when you didn’t want to.

You set the brush down harder than intended.

“Damn it…”

You needed to leave. Walk. Breathe something that wasn’t thick with irreversible decisions.

You pulled up your hood and stepped outside—

And fate, as always, decided to laugh at you.

The roar of a motorcycle shattered the quiet and stopped directly in front of you.

You lifted your gaze slowly, already irritated, already prepared to strike if necessary.

The red was impossible to ignore.

Jason dismounted, pulling off his helmet with a sharp motion. His eyes swept over you—assessing, worried, frustrated—before locking onto your face.

— So, — he asked, voice rough, — did you finally get your head straight… or are you still stuck on these destructive ideas?

You didn’t answer. Just stared back, eyes dull, too empty.

Jason sighed, dragging a hand down his face.

It hurt more than he’d ever admit—seeing you like this. Knowing that of all Gotham’s monsters, it was the Joker who had given you shelter.

And deep down, he hated how much he understood that.

— You know… —  his voice faltered for a second, — if you wanted to come back to the manor, Bruce would still take you in.

His jaw tightened.

— So why don’t you come back?

You laughed. Short. Humorless.

— Come back to what? — you snapped. — To the place where I only existed when it was convenient? Where I was always the problem, never the daughter?

You stepped closer, glaring at him.

— Stay out of my life.

Jason clenched his fists.

— Stop acting like a spoiled kid, — he shot back, harsher than he meant. — Apologize, swallow your pride, and come home.

The word apologize exploded inside you.

— Apologize?! — Your voice rose, shaking with rage. — I’m the one who needs to apologize?!

Something inside you locked into place. Cold. Final.

— If I still had any doubts, — you said quietly, — you just erased them.

Jason opened his mouth to respond—

But you didn’t wait.

— You haven’t changed. None of you ever did.

You turned and walked away, steps firm, resolute.

You didn’t look back.

You didn’t need to.

You knew Jason wouldn’t stop you. He never knew how.

Behind you, Jason slammed his fist into his helmet, breath heavy.

— Idiot…— he muttered to himself.

He knew it.

He had just destroyed whatever chance remained of you coming home.

And you, moving forward without looking back, felt the weight of that decision settle into place.

There was no turning back now.

___

It was a high-society gala.

Crystals hung from the ceiling, warm light reflecting off expensive dresses and tailored suits. Only the names that mattered in Gotham were there—investors, politicians, magnates begging for a seat at the Wayne table.

Bruce Wayne was there with his four sons.

Out of obligation.

Dick wore his perfectly rehearsed social smile as he spoke with a woman near the dance floor, effortless charm in place, eyes far too alert for someone who was supposedly relaxed.

Tim barely participated in the event—he was in executive mode, negotiating, calculating, observing, always just a few steps from Bruce, as if his father’s presence were a silent anchor.

Jason occupied a couch set slightly apart, a drink in hand, jaw tight. He counted the minimum minutes of courtesy before he could leave without causing an incident.

Damian leaned against one of the columns, arms crossed, sharp and irritated gaze fixed on nothing in particular. The entire affair struck him as an offensive waste of time.

Classical music filled the ballroom.

Glasses clinked.

Low laughter.

Empty conversations.

Everything was normal.

Too normal.

The first impact came without warning.

The windows exploded.

Bombs tore through the glass in rapid succession, detonating midair before hitting the floor. The shockwave ripped through the room, flames climbing the curtains, shards slicing through the air like blades. The sound was deafening.

Screams.

Absolute panic.

The elegant ballroom turned into hell within seconds.

— Out! — Bruce shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. — Evacuate now!

Dick was already moving, pulling civilians away from the fire.

Jason dropped his drink and drew his hidden weapon before he even thought.

Tim was already analyzing the explosion pattern, eyes scanning for possible routes.

Damian surged forward on pure instinct, searching for the point of origin.

The bats scattered, disappearing into smoke and debris to suit up.

When they returned…

The place was unrecognizable.

Charred floor.

Destroyed furniture.

The distant wail of sirens echoing outside.

Then—

A blue blur dropped from above.

Damian barely had time to react.

The kick struck his face with surgical precision, snapping his head sideways before slamming him violently into the floor. The impact echoed, sharp and brutal.

— Ngh!

Before he could get up, another blow. And another.

Jinx was on top of him—movements fast, erratic, yet terrifyingly effective. There was no hesitation, only rage channeled into every strike.

— I warned you, — she said, her voice warped by adrenaline, almost sing-song. — That I’d come back.

Damian tried to counter, but she anticipated it, shifting her weight to keep him pinned, knee pressing into his chest.

—And that it wouldn’t be to talk.

Her fist came down again.

— Damian! — Dick shouted, rushing forward.

Bruce felt his blood run cold.

— Y/N! — he called, authority laced with something broken.

She didn’t even turn her head.

As if the name no longer belonged to her.

Before anyone could reach them, the metallic sound of weapons being cocked echoed through the ruined ballroom.

Figures emerged from the shadows. Many of them. All armed.

Gunfire sliced through the air, forcing Dick and Jason back. Jason responded instantly—fire for fire—a dangerous grin spreading across his face.

— Great, — he growled. — Now it’s a real party.

Tim moved into cover, activating his communicator.

— They’re surrounding us, — he said quickly. — This was planned. A perfect distraction.

Bruce stayed still for a second longer than usual.

His gaze locked on you.

Not as Batman.

As a father.

Then the mask snapped back into place.

— Contain the armed targets, — Batman ordered, his voice firm, cutting through the chaos. — I’ll help Damian.

Jinx retreated only as much as necessary, springing backward with unnatural lightness. It wasn’t a withdrawal—it was calculation. She landed outside immediate reach, already shifting her angle, eyes gleaming not with madness, but with cold intent. Watching. Assessing. Choosing.

— Too late for that.

The voice emerged from the shadows, dripping with delight. Torn suit. Smeared makeup. A knife spinning between fingers like a natural extension of his hand.

—You’re mine, Batsy.

The Joker lunged, knife raised, the strike deliberately too high. Batman dodged, countering with precise punches to the torso and face. The impact was real—the Joker felt it—but he smiled anyway, retreating just enough to draw Bruce exactly where he wanted him.

A short psshht hiss cut through the air.

Spray—straight into the visor.

Batman faltered for a split second, sensors lagging, vision blurring too much to ignore. That was all the Joker needed.

He went in knee-first, striking low, followed by a sharp elbow to the side of Bruce’s head.

Batman tried to respond, but the knife came first.

The blade drove into his shoulder—precise, efficient, without theatrics.

The impact forced Batman back—and then Dick appeared, kicking the Joker hard enough to send him crashing into the wreckage of a table.

The laughter came anyway, echoing through the hall.

Meanwhile—

You felt a hand grab your arm before you saw who it was.

Jason.

He pulled you away from Damian with controlled force, placing himself between the two of you, weapon lowered, stance defensive—not offensive.

— Don’t make me hurt you… — he muttered tensely. — Not you.

You didn’t answer with words.

You twisted instantly, using his own movement to close the distance. The punch came heavy and direct, aimed at his jaw. Jason barely got his arm up in time, but the impact still sent him stumbling back two steps.

He shook his head, surprised.

— Damn… — he let out a short laugh. — You really got better, kid.

You advanced again without pause. Feinted high, then swept low with a kick aimed at his knee. Jason recoiled on instinct, nearly slipping on the debris.

— I’m not that useless girl you remember, — you said, your mockery sharp. —The world wouldn’t let me stay that way.

Jason clenched his teeth, adjusting his stance—serious now.

— Then stop fighting like someone trying to prove something, — he said. — And start fighting to win.

You smirked.

— That’s exactly what I’m doing.

In the background, Jinx had already repositioned again, using the chaos the Joker created to close routes and isolate targets. Nothing was random. Every step, every dirty blow, every distraction had purpose.

And Batman realized—too late to ignore it:

They weren’t causing chaos.

They were controlling it.

The center of the ballroom became a war zone.

Fire still licked the curtains, the ceiling groaned under the weight of destruction, and the screams faded one by one as panic gave way to the heavy silence of carnage.

— She’s perfect, Batsy — the voice was sickeningly sweet. — Broken just the right way. You should be grateful.

— Shut up,— Batman snarled.

— Or what? — The Joker stepped closer. — You’ll hit me? Lock me up again? Or pretend, once more, that you don’t see what you created?”

The world seemed to shrink.

— She needed you, — he continued, quieter. — And you turned your back. I just did what you didn’t have the courage to do.

Batman moved.

The punch was sharp. Precise. Unrestrained.

The Joker fell, laughing.

— See?” he coughed. — Always so violent when it’s too late.

He got back up, unsteady, still smiling.

— Tell her, Batsy.— Green eyes turned toward you. — Tell her you love her. Maybe it’ll work… or maybe it’s just another pretty lie.

Something broke.

Batman punched him.

It wasn’t calculated—it was impulse, accumulated rage, a second where the line between control and collapse snapped. The Joker’s body flew backward, too light, almost theatrical…

Too much.

He didn’t see the beam.

The floor was already compromised. Cracked. Unstable.

Wrong weight.

Wrong angle.

Everything perfectly aligned for the worst.

The structure gave way with a dry, cruel crack.

The beam pierced the Joker’s body without warning, without spectacle. A dull, grotesque sound of flesh being torn—no joke, no laughter to soften the horror.

Just impact.

Just a body being stopped.

Silence.

For one second—only one—no one moved.

Batman looked down.

At the still body. At the blood spreading too fast. At the mistake that couldn’t be undone.

— No… the word slipped from his lips like a faulty reflex, far too small for what had happened.

You felt the air leave your lungs.

The world pulled away, as if someone had turned the volume knob almost to zero. Everything became muffled, distant, unreal—as if you were submerged, watching through murky water.

He didn’t get up.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t smile.

— No…— Now it was you.

Your feet moved on their own, betraying all logic. You dropped to your knees beside him, hands trembling as you pulled at him gently, as if there were still time.

As if this could all be another act.

— Hey… — your voice came out weak, broken, far too small. — Get up.

His eyes opened just enough to meet yours. The green that once burned bright was dull now, lost. Blood flowed unhurriedly, staining the floor, the suit, your hands.

— Hey… don’t cry… — His voice was low, faltering, yet still carried that familiar crooked tone. — It’s okay…

He struggled to breathe.

— I’m going to die… but it’ll be for you. — A crooked smile formed, stained red. — So it’s okay… you’re perfect.

In his insane way, that was love.

A sick, twisted love—but real.

He didn’t care about dying for you. His daughter.

His eyes lost focus. His breathing faltered.

And then… nothing.

His chest didn’t rise again.

Something inside you shattered all at once.

It wasn’t a scream.

It wasn’t tears.

It was a violent, sudden emptiness, expanding too fast to fit inside your body.

You wiped the tears from your face with the back of your hand, as if the gesture might organize the chaos inside you. Then you slowly lifted your head.

Batman stood there.

Still. Hands shaking. The weight of what he’d done written in his silence.

– I... —Bruce tried, his voice breaking. — I didn’t mean—

He had broken his most sacred rule.

The one he swore he would never cross.

He hated the Joker…

But he should never have killed him.

You didn’t let him finish.

What followed was no longer dialogue.

The gunshot cracked through the air, far too loud, ripping through the silence like a command.

You stood, blue hair smeared with dust and soot, holding the machine gun with dangerous familiarity. The shot into the air wasn’t a warning—it was an announcement. The Joker’s men understood immediately, retreating like obedient shadows as all attention turned to you.

Your smile was crooked. Vibrant. Unstable.

— Funny…— your voice was clear, almost too cheerful for the scene. — I spent years imagining this moment. Every training session, every broken bone, every sleepless night… all for this. — You tilted your head, eyes shining with pain and exhilaration. — You finally see me. Shame it costs your lives, huh?

Bruce stepped closer—wounded, burdened by years and guilt. His suit was torn, blood seeping slowly, but he didn’t stop. He never did.

— All these years… — he began quietly. — I wondered how you live with this.— His eyes searched yours. — A shattered soul, trapped in something that never should’ve been this way.

You tilted the weapon—but didn’t fire.

— I blame myself every day for what happened to you, — he continued. — I was wrong. In how I raised you. In what I failed to be. If I could go back

— But you can’t, — you cut in, your voice faltering for a heartbeat before hardening again. — I used to be a child with dreams, you know? — Your fingers trembled slightly on the trigger. — And now I wonder… how did that little girl turn into this?

The smile returned—wider, emptier.

— But it ends today.

You raised the gun.

— Don’t do this, —  Tim stepped forward, hands open. — You can be better. This is the Joker speaking through you.

You rolled your eyes, laughing softly.

— Better? — The laugh was bitter. — I don’t even know what that means anymore. Manipulated or not… this ends now.

— You’re exactly what I always thought,— Damian’s voice cut through the air, cold, judging.

Something snapped inside you.

The hatred surged fast, hot, pulsing through your veins like poison. Any trace of hesitation evaporated.

Your finger squeezed the trigger—

BANG.

The bullet grazed past, slicing the air beside your face. Your blue hair whipped as you ducked on instinct, eyes now dull, stripped of light.

— Jinx! — Jason shouted, harsher than desperate, regret hitting him the instant the name left his mouth. You’re not Jinx. You’re Y/N.

You laughed. A short, broken laugh that started loud and died too quickly.

— Well, look at that…— you said theatrically. — You finally got my name right.

The laughter stopped.

Slowly, you turned your head.

The weapon still raised, your gaze torn between duty and despair.

— Remember who you are!

You said nothing.

The machine gun answered.

The first shot was loud. The second faster. Then chaos. You moved as you fired, body light, almost dancing through the wreckage. Every bullet found flesh. Every impact came with a heavy, final sound.

You saw everything.

You knew exactly where you hit.

And you kept going anyway.

The ballroom became a hell of echoes and collapsing bodies. One by one, they hit the floor like broken dolls. Your eyes burned, vision blurring. You wanted to pretend you felt nothing—

But you did.

You felt too much.

Something was still there, aching, begging you to stop.

But stopping now would be worse.

When the magazine emptied, silence fell again.

The weapon slipped from your hand, clattering to the floor with a hollow metallic sound.

You stepped down from the structure almost without realizing, walking through the bodies until you stopped in front of Bruce.

He was still breathing. Weak. Uneven. His eyes locked on yours—there was no hatred there. There never had been.

— My daughter…his voice was faint. — I ask your forgiveness… for everything. For making you feel unwanted. For making you hate yourself. For being negligent… for never being the father you deserved.— His breathing stuttered. — For never telling you… that I love you.

The words you’d dreamed of hearing your entire life arrived too late.

Your heart was empty. Your soul distant.

And still, tears fell without permission.

— Why didn’t you say that when it mattered? — your voice came out low, broken. — Now… it doesn’t mean anything.

His breathing quickened.

Then stopped.

The impact was silent. You felt light, blood everywhere—on the floor, on you—your mind drifting far away.

A heavy thud echoed behind you.

When you turned, Jon Kent had landed. His face broke as he took in the bodies on the ground. His gaze lingered—on Jason, on Damian, on Bruce—before slowly lifting to you.

You looked smaller now. Fragile. Exhausted.

— This is me, Superboy, — you asked quietly. — Are you still going to stay by my side?

He walked toward you, each step heavy, echoing through the ruined hall.

You closed your eyes, bracing for the worst.

Instead, you were pulled into a firm, unwavering embrace.

— I told you I’d do whatever it takes for us to stay together, — his voice was low but steady. — I don’t care if you are chaos. — He held you tighter. — You’re the only real thing in my life.”

Sirens wailed outside, drawing closer and closer, slicing through the night like belated omens. Jon didn’t hesitate — he wrapped you in a firm hold, the momentum coming the instant the ground fell too far away. The air tore around the two of you, and then you rose, too fast to be followed, vanishing into Gotham’s sky like smoke scattered by the wind.

Taglist

Warnings: All characters depicted are of legal age. There is suggestive content, but no explicit description of sexual acts. Themes include psychological violence, urban chaos, and moral conflict.

CHAPTER 1 > CHAPTER 2 > CHAPTER 3 > CHAPTER 4 > CHAPTER 5 (COMPLETE)

series!materialist

The attack began differently.

Not with sirens.

Not with explosions.

It began with music.

A small speaker forgotten in the middle of the square—cheap, far too colorful—was playing something upbeat, childish, out of place. People walked past it laughing, ignoring it. Gotham was used to things that were strange enough not to stop for something so small.

Then came the confetti.

Green. Purple. Blue.

They rained down from the tops of buildings as if someone had decided to celebrate something. Some hit the ground and… hissed. Others popped, opening small clouds of colored smoke. It wasn’t the Joker’s gas. Not exactly.

It was lighter.

More erratic.

Made to confuse, not to kill.

People began to run when they realized something was wrong—too late, of course. The ground was already marked with hastily painted scribbles: crooked smiles, X’s over eyes, electric little stick figures holding weapons far too big for their bodies.

— This is the Joker’s work! — someone shouted.

And it was.

But not only that.

The first explosions came like choked laughter. Short. Off-beat. Nothing symmetrical. Nothing clean. Store windows shattered, light poles fell, cars spun out of control. Everything felt… improvised.

As if someone had built it all with their own hands.

And with far too many feelings.

In the middle of the chaos, a giant screen—one no one remembered ever seeing there before—flickered on.

Static.

Then an image.

A figure sat with her legs swinging in the air. The framing was crooked, unstable, as if the camera were taped in place. Two long braids fell over her shoulders. The smile was far too wide.

— Hiiiii, Gotham… — the voice sang, sweet and cracked at the same time. — Do you remember me?

The Joker’s symbol appeared for a second. Painted over. Scratched out. As if someone had dragged paint across it in anger.

— He loves jokes, — the voice continued. — I do too. But he likes proving points.

She tilted her head.

— I just like seeing what happens when everyone stops pretending.

Another blast.

A secondary building partially collapsed—calculated. Not enough to kill. Enough to scare.

— You’re always saying some things bring bad luck, — her voice faltered for a second. — People. Ideas… children.

Silence.

Only the crackle of fire.

— So I decided to run a test.

The camera moved far too close to her face now. Her eyes gleamed—not with fun, but with something emptier.

— If I’m the bad luck… — she smiled. — Let’s see how much damage I can cause just by existing.

The transmission cut abruptly.

Where the screen had been, only a symbol remained, painted on the concrete behind her:

the Joker’s smile… split in half.

Over it, in vibrant blue paint, a word written crookedly, as if in a rush:

JINX

Jon had been in Gotham only a short time.

But for him, it was already too long—if he was honest with himself.

After Y/N’s death, his friendship with Damian hadn’t just cooled—it cracked. He knew it. Damian was at fault. Maybe not entirely. But enough. And it ate at him.

Y/N had been everything to him.

And losing her under the influence of his own friend had broken something that never healed.

Still, he was there.

Called by Damian.

But not only by him—because they said they needed to tell him something important.

Something had felt wrong since the moment he set foot in the city.

He heard the explosions.

The chaos.

When he arrived, it was already over.

The place felt like the echo of a carefully planned catastrophe. Destroyed buildings. Blast marks far too precise to be random. People injured—but alive.

It hadn’t been meant to kill.

It had been meant to show intent.

— This wasn’t a normal attack… — Jon murmured.

He moved through the wreckage, feeling a strange pressure in his chest—the same sensation as when something buried tries to wake up.

Then he heard it.

A light sound. Carefree.

Metal spinning between fingers.

— Well look at that… a hero. — the voice came from above, bored. — You got here fast.

Jon looked up.

A girl sat on the edge of a broken building, framed by the colored smoke still rising. Too many weapons hung from her body—far too big for someone her size—but she carried them as if they were extensions of herself.

Her hair was absurdly long, tied into heavy braids.

The light behind her kept him from seeing her face.

Jon took a step forward.

— You caused all this? — he asked carefully.

She tilted her head.

— “Caused” is such an ugly word. — she laughed softly. — I prefer organized.

He didn’t recognize her.

But something inside him did.

She leapt down with unnatural ease, landing just a few meters from him. Too close.

Their eyes met.

The world faltered for a second.

Her relaxed posture wavered.

Jon’s breath caught with it.

He blinked, trying to shake the absurd feeling that he was looking at a ghost.

She was still there.

— Y/N… — the name slipped out in a whisper. — This… this can’t be real.

She didn’t answer.

Jon took a step forward, dazed.

— Who are you? — his voice trembled. — Why do you… look like someone I lost?

The silence weighed heavy.

Then she laughed.

Not happy.

Nervous. Broken.

— Oh, great. — she rubbed her face. — Now I’m hallucinating people.

He didn’t think. Seeing the face he dreamed of every day, his body moved on its own. He stepped in and pulled her into an embrace that was too tight, too desperate—as if letting go would make her disappear again. He held her like someone trying to prove something is solid.

— You’re still… — he said into her hair. — You’re still here. I thought—

That was too much.

Inside her, something shattered.

Memories collided. Old voices. Laughter. Guilt. Chaos. All tangled together.

But unlike before… she didn’t freeze.

She pushed him away.

Not with brute force.

With decision.

Jon stepped back, startled.

— Don’t do that. — she said quickly, her voice unstable but firm. — Don’t start.

— Y/N—

— No. — she cut him off. — Don’t call me that. That girl died. — her tone went flat. — You’re not talking to her

She turned and ran.

Running from him.

Running from the past.

Running from what she still felt.

— Wait! — Jon reacted on instinct.

In seconds, his super-speed put him in front of her—in a narrow alley.

He grabbed her wrist, pulling her back.

— Please, don’t run from me again. — his voice hurt. — I know I failed. I know I didn’t protect you back then. But I don’t want to lose you… not again.

She was trembling.

— Jon… — she looked away. — I’m not that person anymore. I can’t go back. I only bring chaos. You’re… too good for me. Too right.

He shook his head without thinking.

— Right or wrong doesn’t matter. — he said firmly. — I don’t care what you became. I care that you’re here.

He stepped closer.

— I lost you once. — his voice dropped. — I won’t lose you again.

She closed her eyes.

Because for the first time since becoming Jinx,

something inside her didn’t want to explode.

And that…

was the most frightening thing of all.

__

The hideout was far too quiet.

Not a calm silence.

A warped one—stretched, full of echoes that didn’t exist.

You lay atop the wooden structure supporting part of the ceiling, legs dangling into empty space, slowly swinging. Your gaze was fixed on the beams above, without truly seeing them. Your fingers spun a metal capsule—click, click, click—the repetitive sound trying to keep your head together.

It wasn’t working.

Images kept returning.

Familiar eyes.

A voice saying your name as if it still had the right.

You turned with irritation, the metal slipping from your hand and clanging against the floor.

— Tsk… — you muttered, rubbing your face.

Across the room, seated far too casually for someone surrounded by explosives and dismantled weapons, the Joker watched in silence. He never interrupted when you exploded—only when you grew too quiet.

And now…

Now you were far too quiet.

— What happened? — he finally asked, almost casually, as if commenting on the weather.

You let out a long, exaggerated sigh and sat up abruptly, bracing your hands behind you.

— I saw someone today.

The words hung in the air.

You hopped down from the structure with effortless grace, landing on the table beside him in a fluid, unplanned motion. You crouched there—too close, too restless.

— Someone important.

The Joker raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

— Important how? — he asked. — The kind that makes you forget to breathe?

You opened your mouth to answer…

And closed it.

Your eyes drifted away.

Your jaw tightened.

— You’re hesitating. — he observed, his voice soft, almost curious.

— No. — you replied quickly. — I just—

The sentence died before it was born.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on you with full attention—the kind that always came before the most dangerous words.

— Everyone betrayed you. Everyone. — A short pause. — You can only trust me.

You took a deep breath, your chest rising too fast.

Your fingers clenched the fabric of your clothes, as if that could hold in what was slipping away.

— I need to know if I can trust you, Jinx…

The words echoed in your head.

A short laugh escaped you. Not funny at all.

— Funny… — you murmured, swinging your legs on the table. — You always say that like you’re doing me a favor.

The Joker tilted his head, curious.

— Then why do you look so… shaken?

Silence.

You looked away, staring at nothing.

— He shouldn’t have been there. — you said, almost in a whisper.

The Joker frowned for a single second. Just one. Too fast for anyone who didn’t know you both so well.

— “He”?

You jumped off the table and began pacing, restless. Your hands moved on their own—gesturing, grabbing at the air.

— He looked at me like I was still… — your voice faltered, teeth grinding. — Like I wasn’t broken. Like none of this had happened.

— And that scared you? — the Joker asked calmly.

— No! — you replied too fast. — I mean… maybe.

You stopped walking.

The Joker approached slowly, stopping in front of you, leaning down to your height.

— People from the past have that problem, sweetie. — he said with a crooked smile. — They see ghosts. They don’t see who you really are now.

You swallowed.

— He tried to hold me. — your voice dropped. — Like he could… pull me back.

The Joker lifted a hand, lightly tilting your chin so you had to look at him.

— And did you let him?

Your breathing turned uneven.

— No. — you answered. — I ran.

— Good girl. — he smiled, satisfied. — Because that world died with you. They didn’t want you when they still could.

His voice hardened.

— Now they don’t have that right.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

— But it hurts. — you admitted, almost angry at yourself. — Like something inside me still remembers.

The Joker rested his forehead against yours.

— It hurts because you’re alive. — he whispered. — And being alive means feeling.

He pulled back slightly, meeting your eyes.

— But feeling doesn’t mean going back.

You opened your eyes. They shone—not with tears, but with conflict.

— What if I want to? — the question escaped before you could stop it.

The silence fell heavy.

His smile didn’t vanish.

But it changed.

— Wanting isn’t the same as needing. — he replied with dangerous gentleness. — And you don’t need him.

He brushed his thumb beneath your eye, wiping away a tear you hadn’t noticed.

— You survived without him. You flourished without him.

You breathed deeply.

The chaos inside you stirred.

— I’m Jinx… — you murmured, as if reminding yourself.

— Exactly. — he confirmed. — And Jinx belongs to no one but herself.

A pause.

— And to me, while I’m here to protect you.

You looked away, jaw clenched.

— He’ll come looking for me again. — you said.

The Joker chuckled softly.

— Then we’ll make sure that next time… — he stood, theatrical. — He understands who you are now.

You clenched your fists.

— I don’t want to hurt him. — you said, almost in challenge.

The Joker studied you for a long moment.

— Then don’t. — he replied. — Just don’t let him hurt you by coming back to life inside you.

You fell silent.

Deep down, you knew the cruel truth:

Jon wasn’t the enemy.

He was the memory of who you used to be.

__

Now Gotham knew who you were.

Not just a name scribbled on walls or signed in calculated explosions—but a face. A presence. The girl who appeared on the screen at the heart of the city, smiling as if chaos were a personal game.

Gotham recognized her.

The daughter everyone believed had been murdered by the Joker had returned.

Alive.

Broken.

And, to collective horror, on the wrong side of the line.

The media wouldn’t stop. Rumors spread like wildfire: brainwashing, Stockholm syndrome, another Wayne tragedy. Every version tried to explain the unexplainable—because it was easier to believe you’d been taken than to accept you’d chosen.

That was certainly giving Bruce Wayne an extra headache.

The carefully crafted image of the loving father, the billionaire who “took in” a lost child, was unraveling in public. No matter how many interviews he gave or foundations he funded, the silent question lingered over everything: how did he let this happen?

But Gotham wasn’t the only thing changing.

There was Jon.

He was everywhere you went.

Of course, you didn’t go out much now—not like before. Circumstances demanded caution, shadows, broken routes. Still, when you decided to simply walk—feel the city under your feet, hear Gotham’s distant hum—he appeared.

Always far enough not to invade.

Close enough for you to notice.

You saw him reflected in shop windows, standing atop distant rooftops, leaning against lampposts with his arms crossed, pretending to watch anything else. He never called your name. Never tried to grab you by force.

Jon was waiting.

Waiting for you to decide.

Waiting for you to take the first step.

He didn’t want to cross boundaries you didn’t yet know existed. So he settled for this—for now: a constant, silent shadow following you without asking for anything in return.

And you knew.

You knew he was there.

You knew he saw you.

You knew that if you called… he would come.

Right now, you were walking through a narrow alley, your hood pulled low, nearly hiding your face. The distant noise of the city felt muted, as if Gotham itself were breathing softly around you.

Then you heard it.

The landing behind you. Controlled. Far too familiar.

You didn’t turn right away. You just sighed, tired. Your body ached—not from injuries, but from something much harder to rip out. You knew you had to make him understand. Once and for all.

There was no more “us.”

— Stop following me everywhere I go. — your voice came out dry when you finally stopped, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, head slightly tilted.

— I just want to talk. — Jon replied.

That was enough for you to turn fully and walk toward him, your steps far too steady for someone about to break.

— Jon, accept this. — you said plainly. — You and I are too different now. You’re not the kind of person who’d be happy by my side.

You took a deep breath, forcing the words out.

— I don’t need a hero. I need someone who’ll fight with me. Get their hands dirty with me. Kill for me. Die for me if it comes to that. — your eyes flashed with something dangerous. — You’re too good for that. Your heart is too pure.

— I can be that person. — he answered without hesitation. — We can try. We can be like we were before.

You let out a short, humorless laugh.

— We don’t have time to go back.

You stepped closer, meeting his eyes. You were saying this to protect him—and it hurt more than any explosion.

— Why won’t you just let me go?

He took a second before answering.

— Because I don’t want to. — his voice dropped. — I know maybe I should… but I can’t.

He swallowed.

— I’ve already paid the price of separation once. I’m not paying it again.

You closed your eyes briefly, gathering strength.

— This is the last time we talk. — you said, far firmer than you felt. — Go your way.

You turned and took a few steps… until you felt his hand close around yours.

The touch was warm. Trembling.

— Please… — his voice came in a broken whisper. — Don’t leave me here while you forget me, because I can’t do the same.

You tried to pull away. Tried to be strong.

But when you looked at him—

The tear-filled eyes. The clenched jaw holding back a sob. His hands shaking as they held yours, as if letting go would drop him into the void—

You didn’t even notice when your body moved.

When the distance vanished.

You only felt his lips on yours.

The kiss was intense, urgent, almost desperate—nothing delicate, nothing restrained. It was years of absence, guilt, and unsaid words crashing together at once.

You had never kissed like that.

It felt… too right.

As if, for a second, the world was exactly where it should be. You couldn’t let go of him. And he clung to you as if his life depended on it.

There was nostalgia there.

But also something new.

A rawer, more conscious, more dangerous passion.

You barely noticed when you were already in a room.

The world seemed to fold in on itself between one step and the next, between a stolen kiss and another that never ended.

You kissed him like someone trying to remember who she is.

He kissed you like someone who had finally found the right place to stay.

He led you to where he was sleeping while staying in Gotham. And now that you’d tasted again the lips you’d longed for for years, you couldn’t stop.

You didn’t want to.

— You don’t know what you’re getting into… — you murmured between kisses, your voice low, almost a warning you didn’t intend to follow.

His hands held you firmly—not to trap you, but as if he were afraid you’d vanish again. As if letting go for even a second would make fate cruel once more.

— I know exactly. — he replied without hesitation. — And even so… I’m staying.

His forehead rested against yours for a moment.

— I dedicate my life to you. Even if you consume me completely. — his voice was pure conviction. — Even if nothing of who I was remains. You’re a blessing my destiny gave me.

There was something almost religious in the way he looked at you. Not blind worship—conscious choice. He was ready to throw away everything he’d learned, every carefully drawn line… if it meant waking up beside you.

You smiled—crooked. Dangerous.

— Even if I pull you close… — you whispered. — Even if I make you mine. Even if I curse you to never leave… — your fingers brushed his face. — In the end, you’d still smile at me, wouldn’t you?

He didn’t step back.

Didn’t hesitate.

— I would. — he answered simply. — Because if I’m going to lose myself… let it be in you.

And he smiled—truly.

The moon broke through the clouds at the window, bathing the room in pale light, enough for him to look into your eyes as if this were the only moment that mattered.

— So let me… — he murmured. — Let me take you away from all this. Even if it’s just for now.

His arms wrapped around you.

— In this moment wrapped in darkness… let me be the place where you rest.

And you let him.

The night passed like a warm, slow delirium. Every touch made you feel more alive than you had in months—maybe years. There was no rush. No escape. Just the two of you, discovering each other again, losing yourselves willingly, as if every shared breath erased the line between right and wrong.

You didn’t lose yourselves to flee—

but because there, together, it made sense.

You became drunk on each other.

He was fascinated.

You felt dangerously at home.

Under the moonlight that watched in silence, he leaned to your ear, his voice rough, heavy with something final:

— A paradise without you would be hell.

He breathed in deeply.

— And any hell where I hold you becomes paradise.

You looked at him, senses blurred, heart beating off-rhythm.

— I choose you. — he finished. — Whatever the ending… there’s no turning back.

And you understood.

It wasn’t a promise.

It wasn’t salvation.

It was a choice.

Taglist

CHAPTER 1 > CHAPTER 2 > CHAPTER 3 > CHAPTER 4 > CHAPTER 5 (COMPLETE) series!materialist

— Again! — you shouted, forcing yourself up from the floor after being slammed against the mat for the third time in a row. The impact still vibrated in your bones. The air burned in your lungs. Every muscle begged for mercy. But you didn’t stop.

— Brat, that’s enough. You can barely stay on your feet— the trainer began, his voice firm, seasoned. One of the best in the world. You had sought him out precisely because of that.

— No! — you snarled. — Again.

He studied you for a few seconds. Not with pity. With curiosity. Then he shook his head and smirked.

— You’re hopeless… — he assumed his fighting stance once more. — Let’s go.

And you fell again. And you got up again. Because falling was never what broke you.

Day after day, the nights grew longer. You spent hours hunched over the workbench, hands stained with grease, paint, and gunpowder. Your body exhausted, your mind on fire. Sleep came — heavy, insistent — but rage was stronger.

Every piece fitted together was a name echoing in your head. Every bolt tightened, a look that ignored you. Every circuit closed, a word that called you a mistake.

Now you stared at the nearly finished machine gun. Big. Loud. Excessive. Perfect.

With the brush, the final paint details were applied with almost ritual care.

— Pow Pow Minigun — the name slipped from your lips, your masterpiece.

You were sitting on the floor, focused on the last strokes of paint, when you felt the familiar touch behind you.

Joker sat on a chair, legs crossed, braiding your hair with an almost absurd calm. Agile, precise fingers. Years of repeating the same gesture had made him surprisingly good at it.

— You know… — he began, humming softly — no one ever had patience with you before, did they?

You didn’t answer. But you didn’t move away.

— Always in a rush to judge you. To decide what you were before you even finished speaking. — He gently tugged a strand. — But I waited. I watched.

He tilted his head, studying your weapon.

— Beautiful. Loud. Excessive. — he chuckled softly. — Just like you.

You tightened your grip on the brush.

— Tomorrow we’re doing another attack, — he continued, his voice far too sweet for what he was saying. — And this time… you’ll really show yourself.

Silence.

— You’re strong now, Jinx. — He spoke your name like a title, not an insult. — Exactly how you always should’ve been.

Something tightened in your chest. Doubt. Fear. A remnant of something old.

— And if… — your voice came out lower than you meant. — What if it’s still not enough?

He stopped braiding for a second. Leaned forward, bringing his face close to your ear. His jaw tightened.

He paused — short, calculated. Then, as if commenting on something trivial, he said:

— Do you think they still cry over you?

The brush froze.

For one second — just one — images tore through your mind like shards of glass: glances that never lingered, silences heavy with contempt, the word Jinx whispered like a sentence. Then nothing. Just the comfortable emptiness you had learned to call strength.

You clenched the brush harder, paint dripping down your fingers.

— Oh, sweet thing… — Joker smiled at your shiver and whispered. — Doubt is just the last piece of them trying to survive inside you.

He resumed braiding.

— Exercise your doubts. Stretch them. Break them. — he laughed softly. — Be what they’re afraid to call by name.

Your eyes darkened.

— They called me Jinx… — you murmured.

— Then be it. — he replied without hesitation. — Because bad luck always wins in the end. No one controls chaos… they just learn how to dance with it.

You stood up slowly, turned, and faced him. He saw something different there. Not raw anger.

Conviction.

— I’ll show them. — your voice no longer trembled.

His smile widened, proud, almost… genuine.

— That’s my girl. — He touched your chin lightly with two fingers. — And don’t worry.

He tilted his head, eyes gleaming.

— While they pretend you never existed… I’ll never abandon you.

You etched those words deep into your mind — and then you showed them. Not with words. With an explosion.

Deliveries to Bruce Wayne never stopped. Too many boxes. Too many labels. Too many sponsors trying to buy access to the Wayne name.

Damian held one of them with visible disdain as he walked down toward the Batcave. The weight wasn’t much, but the annoyance was. He hated that kind of task — banal, mundane.

Bruce stood beside Tim and Alfred, focused on a monitor.

— Father, another delivery. — Damian began, already preparing his irritated tone. — It must be another sponsor—

The sentence died in the air.

The box exploded in his hands.

The impact threw him backward like a rag doll. The shockwave tore through the cave, knocking over equipment, throwing everyone to the ground. The sound echoed against the stone walls — violent, deafening.

Damian hit the floor hard, the air ripped from his lungs.

For a second, everything was ringing.

— Fuck… — he muttered, trying to move as pain spread through his body.

Tim, dazed after also being thrown by the blast, was the first to react. He staggered over and grabbed Damian by the arm, forcing him to sit up.

— Stay still. — he said quickly, eyes already assessing injuries. — Breathe.

Thick smoke began to rise from the blast site. Green and purple, dense, heavy with that unmistakable chemical stench. Joker gas — but not exactly. There was something different about it.

Slowly, the smoke cleared.

At the center of the wreckage, too intact to be coincidence, lay a single card.

Silence.

Bruce was the first to approach. He didn’t run. He didn’t speak. He simply watched, shoulders rigid, jaw locked.

The card was already open.

““Every insult you ever called me, I kept. I waited. And now I’ll show you what it’s like to be defined by words thrown to the wind.” — Jinx

The name fell into the cave like a gunshot.

— It can’t be… — Tim murmured, more to himself than to the others.

Damian exhaled sharply, the word stabbing through him — he remembered calling only one person by it.

Bruce slowly lifted his gaze.

— Is it her? — he asked, his voice dangerously low.

Damian’s stomach twisted.

— It has to be. — he said flatly. — I used to call her that… always.

The silence that followed was crushing.

— My daughter… — Bruce said at last, his voice faltering in a way almost imperceptible. — She’s alive.

Alfred knelt carefully and picked up the card. His fingers trembled slightly as he felt the paper.

— It’s her handwriting, sir. — he confirmed, swallowing hard. — I would recognize it anywhere.

Before anyone could respond, every monitor in the Batcave lit up at once.

Black screen. White text.

Crime Alley N° ———

Nothing else. No explicit threat. No deadline. No explanation.

They exchanged glances.

Tim stared at the screens, the code blinking before his eyes like a personal affront. This shouldn’t have been possible.

The Batcave’s system was fragmented, shielded in layers, each access protected by protocols even he didn’t dare underestimate. It wasn’t something you broke into with brute force — it demanded patience, intelligence, creativity… and time.

— This makes no sense… — he muttered, fingers flying across the keyboard in a near-desperate attempt to trace the breach.

You had gone through everything. Not just opened a gap — understood the system like a genius.

Soon after, the cave filled. Dick. Jason. All summoned in a rush.

— This doesn’t make sense. — Dick said, pacing. — She died. Everyone said she—

— They never found a body. — Jason interrupted quietly. — They never found anything.

Dick stopped.

— So… — he took a deep breath. — Then she could be alive.

There was hope in his voice. And guilt. So much guilt.

He remembered every declined invitation, every postponed promise, every “later” that never came. You always waiting, always smiling, always understanding — until the day you simply… disappeared.

— She seems different. — Tim said, staring at the card again. — This isn’t a cry for help. It’s… a warning.

Bruce and Damian remained silent.

Bruce relived every cold word, every averted glance, every time he chose Gotham over you — every time he prioritized only his other children. Never you. His little girl.

Damian remembered with cruel clarity every insult, every sharp comment, every time he tried to hurt you just to avoid admitting how much your existence unsettled him.

Both had grown more violent since your “death.” Not for justice. For guilt.

Jason clenched his fists. He had never been kind to you — because pushing you away was easier than admitting how much he saw himself in that silent loneliness. He projected onto you everything he hated about himself.

Tim looked exhausted. Deep circles under his eyes, fingers trembling slightly. Since the day you died, he drowned himself in work, sleepless nights, too much caffeine.

The coffee. The coffee you prepared carefully. That he poured out without even tasting.

Dick was torn between fear and relief. He still saw you as the child who ran to him with too many stories and open arms — and that he had been too immature to hold.

Alfred bore the cruelest weight. He remembered your face that day. The way you left the Batcave in silence. And him… not following. Not defending you. Not stopping the harsh words. Not doing anything.

They were all afraid. But they would go to Crime Alley.

Because alive or not, broken or not, this was the consequence of their choices. And if there was still any chance…

They would bring the bluebird back to the nest. Even if it was too late to ask for forgiveness.

Crime Alley never truly slept. It just pretended.

Flickering lights. Pavement wet with something no one bothered to identify. Air heavy with that old smell of gunpowder, rust, and sin Gotham never seemed able to wash away.

They arrived separately. A tactical error? Maybe. An emotional one? Definitely.

Bruce was the first to step in, the cowl covering half his face — but not the weight in his chest. Each step echoed like an ancient judgment that refused to be silenced.

— Spread out. — he ordered quietly.

No one replied. Everyone obeyed.

Tim was already tapped into local systems, forcing signals, searching for cameras, any digital trace. Nothing. Absolute silence. Too clean.

— This isn’t normal… — he murmured. — It’s like someone wiped the entire place on purpose.

Damian frowned. His instincts screamed. Not immediate danger — anticipation. Like seconds before a blow you know is coming… but not from where.

— This isn’t an attack. — he said. — It’s an invitation.

The answer came before Bruce could respond.

A metallic sound. Slow. Intentional.

Clack.

A lamp at the end of the alley flickered on by itself, blinking twice before steadying. It revealed an old warehouse door, rusted, marked with layered graffiti — childish symbols, crooked laughter, drawings that seemed… far too familiar.

Dick’s stomach dropped.

— I remember this… — he whispered. — She used to draw like that when she was a kid.

The gate creaked before anyone touched it. Opening on its own. Too inviting.

Silence.

Then a voice echoed from inside. Sing-song. Carefree. Almost cheerful.

— Took you long enough, you know?

The sound of a chair spinning. Metal scraping against concrete.

Bruce’s heart missed a beat.

That’s when they saw you.

You were slouched in the chair like nothing there mattered. Legs spread, posture far too relaxed for someone holding a weapon.

But it wasn’t just a weapon. It was yours. Handmade. Built with rage. Built with too much time and no one to stop you.

The metal was uneven, alive — exposed wires twisted like nerves, small gears turning slowly, hissing, breathing. Paint covered it in loud colors — childish scribbles, crooked smiles, broken symbols that only made sense inside your head.

Your finger rested on the trigger like it had been born there.

Your hair, now absurdly long, nearly touched the floor. Two heavy braids swayed slowly whenever you moved, like pendulums counting a time only you could hear.

— Y/N.

Batman’s deep voice cut through the warehouse.

You tilted your head, curious. A crooked smile bloomed, slow, wrong.

— Ooooh… — you hummed. — Look at that… My guests are here.

You tapped your heel against the floor, spinning the chair slightly.

— You have no idea how much I missed you.

Dick took a step forward, eyes locked on you.

— You… look different, Bluebird. — his voice wavered. — But… I’m glad you’re alive.

You laughed. Of course he was glad. Dick was always glad afterward. Always arrived once the worst was already over.

— Different? — you repeated, savoring the word. — Such a polite way to say “broken.”

The laugh burst out too loud, cracked.

— Save the sympathy, Nightwing. — you tapped the gun against your leg. Tock. — You were always great at illusions. Don’t try to fool me now.

Damian stepped forward half a pace, rigid.

— Y/N, this is ridiculous. End this nonsense and come home.

The smile vanished.

— Stop calling me that. — your voice sharpened, almost childish… then hardened completely. — That girl is dead.

You lifted your chin.

— What’s left is Jinx.

— She’s completely lost it… — Jason muttered.

You turned too fast.

— Hey! — you aimed the weapon, excited in a sick way. — Watch it, big guy. My fuse is short…

Tim swallowed hard.

Batman stayed firm, as if control was all he had left.

— You need to get out of this. — he said. — The hatred, the obsession, the madness. Don’t live trapped in the past.

You tilted your head, confused — like he was speaking another language.

Your head started to ache. He still didn’t understand. Never did. Never would.

You pressed a hand to your temple.

— Shut up!

The laughter came before the presence.

— Hahahaha… well look at that, bats! Long time no see!

Joker stepped out of the shadows like he had always belonged there.

Instantly, everyone shifted into combat stance.

— Don’t go near her. — Jason growled.

Joker ignored him. He always did.

He walked up to you, ran his fingers through your long braids with almost obscene care, smiling proudly.

— Well, well… — he sang. — My sweet thing grew up so nicely.

— Sweet thing? — Tim whispered, incredulous.

The clown strolled toward Batman, carefree.

And then you stood.

Right behind him. Silent.

There was never fear in his eyes when he approached Batman — self-preservation had never been his strength — but now he had another guarantee. You stood behind him like an armed ghost.

— So, Batsy… — Joker spread his arms. — Have you met my masterpiece? Admit it, I outdid myself.

Batman snarled and lunged—

BANG.

The shot hit the ground inches from his foot.

Everything froze.

You grinned far too wide.

— That was just a warning! — you sang. — Wanna play? Then start with me.

You pressed the barrel to your own temple.

— And the little monsters that live in here.

Joker clapped, laughing hysterically.

— I warned you! — he said theatrically. — If you want to measure strength, friendly advice — Jinx is a girl with impeccable aim.

You tilted your head, eyes shining.

— I don’t miss.

— Y/N, look at me. — Jason said, forcing steadiness. — He’s using you.

You turned slowly.

— And you didn’t? — you asked, far too sweet.

Silence. He didn’t answer.

— Coward. — you whispered.

Jason tried again:

— He just wants a trigger-happy lackey with good aim.

You laughed.

— Funny… — you pointed the gun at all of them. — Because you always did the same thing.

You walked toward Batman. The man who had once been your father.

Joker stepped aside, delighted as he watched.

The height difference was absurd — but you didn’t feel smaller. You felt sharp.

— You put me on that panel to test if I was useful. — you said quietly. — Not as a daughter. — As a tool.

— That’s not true. — Bruce answered too quickly.

You burst out laughing.

— It is! — you shouted. — And when I failed, you proved everything right!

— I never said you were a mistake.

— No. — you nodded. — I was a responsibility.

The word burned.

— Not daughter. — you corrected. — Not family. — Responsibility.

You stepped closer.

— So celebrate, Wayne. — you smiled. — Because now the only one responsible for what I am…

You raised the weapon.

— Is me.

Batman opened his mouth. You didn’t hear him. It was already too late.

— You created Batman to save Gotham. — you whispered, for his ears only. — But you created me to learn how to survive alone.

A crooked smile.

— And you know the best part? — you smiled again. — I learned perfectly.

The silence that followed your words was too heavy to breathe.

The gun was still raised. Steady now. No tremor. No rush.

Batman took half a step forward.

— Y/N… — he began.

You tilted your head.

— No. — you cut him off simply. — Now you listen.

Your finger slipped off the trigger. Slow. Controlled.

— I didn’t come to kill anyone today. — you said, almost bored. — Conversation. Curiosity. Closure.

You looked at them one by one.

Dick. Tim. Jason. Damian.

— Enjoy it. — your smile was small. Wrong. — Because it’s the last time.

Joker clicked his tongue, amused.

— They grow up so fast, don’t they?

You raised your hand. He fell silent.

Everyone saw it. You never took your eyes off them.

— Next time we meet… — your voice came from the dark. — It won’t be a family talk.

Click.

A device activated on the floor. Alarms began to scream.

— It’ll be a reckoning.

Explosions echoed in the distance — not close to them, but close enough to matter. Far enough that you were already gone.

When the smoke settled…

You had vanished.

Only one thing remained.

On the ground, between Batman’s feet, a small hand-painted metal piece.

A bomb.

And then they finally understood: You weren’t playing.

And next time… There would be no return.

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CHAPTER 1 > CHAPTER 2 > CHAPTER 3 > CHAPTER 4 > CHAPTER 5 (COMPLETE)

Headcanon > Materialist

You prepared yourself for all these years. And it wasn’t just for revenge. It was for proof.

The Joker was the first piece of the puzzle, the first to teach you that the world is not kind, and that kindness is just a trap meant to keep you caged. He taught you to laugh at fear, to dance in the smoke, to turn destruction into a kind of art.

But you wanted more. You wanted to be unstoppable.

So you left. You traveled, learned from the best—people who made chaos look like a game of chess, people with no mercy who called it discipline. You learned to turn rage into precision. To turn pain into power. Because revenge was fuel, and skill was power.

And you weren’t there to play.

You knew how strong the family of bats was. Almost unbeatable. And if you wanted to face them, you had to be ready for the worst.

Now, you were back.

The name “Jinx” was no longer an accusation. It was a title.

And the word still cracked through your mind like an electric spark. But now it wasn’t just a painful memory. It was a promise.

You tried to convince yourself that you were strong, tried to convince yourself that you were the kind of person born for this—but deep down, the truth was crueler. You were trained to believe you didn’t deserve to be saved. And slowly, you began to accept that.

At first, the change was almost imperceptible. You started smiling when you thought about chaos. A small smile, as if something inside you whispered: “Now you finally have a place in the world.”

And that scared you. Because it was a lie that made you feel alive.

Then you started hearing voices. Not the voices of real people. But a presence. An idea. A laugh.

Inside your head.

A faster voice. Sharper. More entertaining.

It laughed at everything you tried to hold on to. It laughed at your father. It laughed at your brothers. It laughed at the “love” you thought you had. It laughed because it knew you were never truly loved.

And little by little, your mind began to accept that as absolute truth.

You started seeing “kindness” as weakness. And weakness was something you could no longer afford to be. Because if you were weak, you would die. And you had already died once.

__

The Joker was sitting in an old chair, with the posture of someone who knew exactly how much power he held. You were perched on the arm of the chair, your leg draped over his thighs, your gaze fixed on nothing—like someone waiting for an answer from the world.

He tilted his head, smiling with that expression that always looked like a joke. — They’re not ready to get burned by you, sweetheart — he said, as if talking about a show. —They all fell like raindrops.

He leaned closer, slowly, and you felt the air change. —We deserve more than scraps, Jinx,— he continued, his voice smooth, almost paternal. — They always betray us. They would never understand us.

You felt your throat tighten. Because part of you wanted to believe him. A part that still wanted to be saved.

He placed a hand under your chin and lifted your face, as if examining a rare piece. —But I will never abandon you,— he whispered, a crooked smile on his lips. —We’ll show them.

And in that moment, you clung to his words as if they were a rope thrown into the middle of the sea. You felt stupid for believing. But the need was stronger than the fear.

You didn’t have paternal love. You didn’t have protection. You didn’t have anyone to hold you.

So you rested your head against the clown’s chest. And he let out a low, satisfied laugh.

As if he had won. As if he had gotten what he wanted.

__

The Joker’s presence was still alive inside you. He didn’t need to be physically by your side for you to feel the weight of what he had planted.

His words echoed in your mind like a mantra: “They always betray us.” “I will never abandon you.” “We’ll show them.”

And you believed it. Because believing was the only way not to feel empty.

Your life became a sequence of calculated decisions, perfect steps, planned explosions. You became a weapon. You became Jinx.

But despite everything, there was still a part of you that was just a girl. A girl who once believed she could be loved.

And that part, no matter how hard you tried to bury it, never disappeared. It just went quiet. Like a virus waiting for the right moment.

And then, after years, you finally opened the drawer you had been avoiding. Not out of fear—fear was no longer part of you—but because that small, forgotten object belonged to a version of you that no longer existed.

The phone was cold in your hand, the dull screen coated in a thin layer of dust. You had gone two and a half years without touching it. Two and a half years focused on surviving, gaining power, sharpening skills, building weapons, learning to strike before being struck. On becoming Jinx.

There was no time for longing. No space. Revenge took up everything.

When you turned it on, it vibrated almost aggressively, as if it had been holding its breath for years. A flood of notifications exploded across the screen. Messages, missed calls, dates you recognized and others that seemed to belong to another life.

But it was one name that made your chest ache in a different way.

913 messages. All from the same number. One for every day since your fake death.

Your heart raced when you read the contact saved there, untouched, as if time had stopped:

“Super baby♡”

Jon Kent.

Your first love. The boy who gave you your first kiss, who listened to you without rushing, who never rolled his eyes when you talked too much, who never looked at you like you were a mistake that needed fixing. The only one who didn’t just say he understood you—but actually tried.

You met him because of Damian.

At first, you avoided Jon. You were afraid of getting close and provoking even more anger from your brother, afraid of being the spark for more rejection. But Jon never saw it that way.

Whenever you passed by the room where they were, it was your name he called first. You could almost picture him with an overly bright smile, shining eyes, as if he had invisible ears and a tail wagging every time he saw you.

And that… that disarmed you.

For the first time, you weren’t invisible.

You grew closer little by little. Shy conversations, quiet laughter, comfortable silences.

And Jon—always Jon—defended you.

You remembered clearly the day you overheard that conversation, hidden in the hallway, your heart too tight to breathe.

—Don’t talk to her. She’s disturbing.— Damian’s voice was hard, sharp. —You know you’re talking about your sister, right? —Jon replied, genuinely shocked. — I know exactly who she is. If even her mother didn’t want her, there’s a reason. She only brings jinx.

Jinx. The word that followed you like a curse throughout your childhood. The word that hurt—and that, ironically, you would later turn into armor.

But at that moment… you were just a girl trying to exist.

—I disagree with you, —Jon said firmly. — Her mother abandoned her when she was a baby. That says nothing about her, only that that woman was too irresponsible to deal with her own choices. Blaming a baby for that is cowardly.

You had never had anyone defend you like that. Never someone who chose to stand by your side without asking for anything in return.

It broke you inside—and stitched you back together at the same time.

After that, Damian never insulted you in front of him again.

At fourteen, you exchanged numbers. Messages almost every day, conversations far too long for teenagers pretending not to care that much.

On your fifteenth birthday, it happened… your first kiss. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t planned. It was just the two of you, in the middle of innocence, trying to understand what that feeling was doing to you.

And for the first time, you felt there was someone in the world who wanted you completely.

You weren’t surprised to be alone. But somewhere deep down, there was still a small, stubborn flame of hope.

Maybe your father would remember. Maybe he would want to spend the day with you.

You found him in the office, surrounded by papers, his face tired and distant as always. — Dad… — you called.

He didn’t look up.

—Dad, could you go out with me today? Maybe to the mall… or the park… I just wanted to spend some time with you and.. — I’m busy.

The words fell dry and cold.

—I know, but I thought since today is my birthda... — Don’t think, — he cut you off again. — The world doesn’t revolve around you. I’m not stopping my work because you ‘thought’ of something.

Your eyes burned. But you didn’t cry there.

—Okay… sorry.

You left. And even as your heart broke, he didn’t look at you. He didn’t even follow you with his eyes. As if you were an inconvenience. As if your existence were a flaw he wanted to erase.

You went back to your room and locked the door. Collapsed onto the bed and cried until your chest hurt, until hope slowly faded away.

Then a soft knock on the window made you flinch.

Jon.

You opened the window, trying to wipe your face quickly. — Happy birthday! — he said, smiling, but when he saw your face, something in him broke. — What happened? — He touched your face gently. — Why you crying? — His hands brushed away the traces of tears.

You didn’t answer. Fresh tears started falling.

And then you asked, your voice trembling: — You remembered…? — Your voice came out weak. — My birthday?

He hugged you tightly, like he was protecting you from the whole world. — Of course I did. How could I forget your birthday, dear? — He held you with such tenderness you felt your heart might burst —What happened? Was it Damian? Did he say something?

You shook your head, your face buried in his chest. —It’s not that… can we not talk about it right now?

You let yourself stay there. Just for a moment. Just in the arms of someone who chose you.

— Of course. Whatever you want.

Those simple words made you feel… important. He didn’t just listen to you—he accepted you. He made you feel like you could choose. He made you feel like you had value.

He pulled back and wiped your tears with his thumb. Smiled at you gently.

— Today is your birthday. So it should be a happy day. I brought you a gift.

It was the first gift of your life.

You opened the wrapping carefully. A necklace. Simple. Beautiful. With your initial. — I made it,he explained nervously. — I know you like meaningful, handmade things, so I tried to do something with my own effort. I’m not as good as you, but I studied a lot…

You smiled like never before. — It’s perfect — your voice faltered. — Will you put it on me?”

He blushed.

He was speechless. — Really? You liked it?

You just nodded, and he fastened the chain around your neck, his warm hands sending shivers through you. You were so close you could feel his breath.

You turned slowly, and your eyes met. Jon was flushed. Both of you were breathless, as if the air had vanished from the room.

He spoke softly, like he was revealing something sacred: — You’re beautiful.

You felt the world stop.

And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, your lips touched. It was simple. It was sweet. It was inexperienced.

But it was perfect.

Your first kiss wasn’t an explosion. It was a beginning.

Now, years later, you read every message.

Disbelief: "They’re saying you’re dead. That’s a lie, right?”

Pain: “Please answer me. Tell me you’re okay.”

Grief: “Please come back. I love you.”

And the ordinary, everyday messages: “They changed my math teacher today. I didn’t like him. He’s impatient.” “You’d be surprised if you knew how broken Damian is since you left. We all are.”

You laughed out loud, involuntarily. What a joke. The Waynes, always manipulating everything.

But deep down, that message surprised you. Damian… cared about your death. And somehow, that was even crueler.

You kept reading. And with every line, you realized how much he thought about you. Every day. He wrote every single day.

You touched the necklace around your neck lost in thought

You wanted to go to him. You wanted to throw yourself into his arms. You wanted to say you were alive.

But you couldn’t. Not yet

Because if you appeared, everything you had built—every ounce of pain, every piece of revenge—would collapse. Because the world would never let you have something pure without demanding a price.

And as you stared at the name “Super baby♡,” a thought began to grow inside you. A thought that wasn’t yours. A thought with the Joker’s laughter.

“They won’t save you.”

And for some reason, that made you smile.

Because, finally, you understood: You didn’t need to be saved. You needed to be feared.

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Batfam x neglected Jinx!reader

Summary — They treated you as something small, defective, doomed to fail. So when everything collapsed, you stopped trying to prove them wrong. You accepted it. And in accepting it, you transformed. The jinx they threw at you like a curse became the one thing they could never take from you: your identity.

Chapters 🦇 Complete

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

Headcanons 🦇

Some Batfam x Neglected Jinx!Reader Headcanons That Help Understand the Feelings Behind the First Chapter

Materialist

• Jinx was never a villain by choice. She was a sweet child who only wanted to be loved. Instead, she was met with contempt. When the family began calling her “Jinx,” it wasn’t just an insult — it was the construction of who she would become. The word turned into identity. In the future, those same wounds became fuel: power, respect, and fear. Jinx learned to love chaos not out of pleasure, but as a defense mechanism.

• When Damian joined the family, Jinx believed she would finally have someone close to her. They were similar in age, and she imagined a friendship would grow from that. What she received, however, was disdain. Damian was the one who hurt her the most — and, paradoxically, the one who could have saved her. Every time he called her “Jinx,” without realizing it, he was naming a weapon. And although he felt a twinge of guilt with each insult, his harshness came from his inability to cope with the idea of sharing the title of biological son with someone else.

• Her mother’s abandonment and, later, the family’s rejection were decisive in shaping her. Jinx never felt like she belonged. From infancy, she was associated with harsh words: guilt, bad luck, mistake. This narrative imposed from the very beginning didn’t just mark her — it gave birth to the Jinx persona, built from pain and exclusion.

• Each member of the family represents a different form of rejection.

Dick is indirect rejection. Not out of cruelty, but priority. He likes her, he cares — just never enough to put her first. With him, Jinx learns that even affection can leave her in second place, always the leftover option.

Jason rejection through mirroring. He sees himself in her, and that deeply unsettles him. He doesn’t hate her for what she’s done, but for what she represents. Jinx is the reflection of everything he tries to deny in himself, and that makes her presence unbearable.

Tim is rejection through insufficiency. He isn’t cruel, he doesn’t raise his voice, he doesn’t attack. He simply doesn’t care enough. His indifference is silent and devastating — the kind that makes her believe she is nothing, that her existence carries no weight at all.

Damian is rejection spoken aloud. He doesn’t just feel it — he verbalizes it. Every hateful thought turns into words, said without filter, without care. With him, Jinx learns that contempt can be declared, direct, and cutting.

Alfred represents rejection by omission. He truly loves her, but he doesn’t confront anyone when she is hurt. He doesn’t assert himself, doesn’t intervene, doesn’t defend her. This makes her believe that even when someone loves her, that love may never be strong enough to protect her.

Bruce is rejection by choice. He doesn’t hit her, doesn’t yell, doesn’t cast her out — but he doesn’t choose her either. His distance is deliberate. And it leads her to think that maybe she needs to try harder to deserve love. What Jinx learns, too late, is that love is not earned through merit.

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