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shadooww · 1 day ago

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Sick Days with: Housewardens

One where you're sick and they're trying their best to care for you

Riddle Rosehearts

The first sneeze earns you a sharp glance, like you just admitted you’d committed tax fraud. The second sneeze, however, is when his world starts to end.. Riddle immediately concludes you’re deathly ill. Forget that sneezes can come from dust or pollen—he is already imagining pneumonia, bronchitis, scarlet fever, and illnesses that haven’t existed since the medieval era. He starts reciting medical jargon he only half understands, and you’re stuck listening to him spiral while still holding a crumpled tissue.

He brings a medical kit that looks like it could be used to perform battlefield triage. Bandages, antiseptic sprays, a thermometer, multiple hot water bottles, four types of lozenges, and—very suspiciously—a scalpel. You are afraid to ask why he has a scalpel. He insists it’s “for emergencies,” though the way his hands shake when you cough makes you doubt he could hold it steady enough to slice butter, let alone anything else.

He starts saying things like, “I’ll call a healer—no, a surgeon—”. You try to tell him it’s just a cold, but he glares at you like you’re minimizing a capital offense. He cannot fathom a world in which he underestimates the seriousness of your sniffles. If anything, he’d rather prepare for your funeral and be wrong.

Riddle has memorized every rule about illness. He quotes them at you while physically tucking you into bed, hands trembling as though you’re made of glass. Every cough makes him double down, tugging the blankets tighter, smoothing the sheets, fussing with the pillows. At some point, you’re swaddled so tightly you can’t move your arms. You point this out. He insists immobilization is “for your own good.”

Riddle decides tea is the solution to all things. Chamomile for rest, ginger for nausea, peppermint for congestion. The problem is that his hands shake every single time you cough or sniffle. Which means every time he brings you a cup of tea, at least some of it ends up on the saucer, the tray, the blanket, or—worst case—directly on you. He apologizes profusely, panics harder, then attempts to make another cup, repeating the cycle until you’re sitting in bed surrounded by half-spilled mugs.

He doesn’t leave. Not for classes, not for food, not even to use the bathroom until you beg him to. He insists someone must “stand guard” to ensure you stay properly rested. You tell him you’re not planning to run a marathon while sick. He ignores you and continues sitting stiffly in a chair by your bed, book in hand, occasionally dozing off and jerking awake the moment you shift in the blankets.

He would never admit how much it terrifies him, but his eyes keep darting to you like he’s waiting for the Grim Reaper to materialize at your bedside.

When you finally start to look a little better, Riddle visibly deflates with relief—but he still insists you remain in bed another full twenty-four hours “just in case.” He’s pale, exhausted, and clearly more worn out than you, but refuses to rest himself until he’s confident you’re back to perfect health. And even then, you catch him sneaking in at night to check your breathing, like a he's scard you will stop existing if he looks away.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona refuses to acknowledge the words “worried” or “caretaker” exist in his vocabulary. If anyone suggests he’s looking after you, he’ll snort and roll over, acting like you’re the one imagining things. In his head, this is all about convenience. According to him, he’s not climbing into bed to check your temperature or make sure you’re not sweating bullets—he’s doing it because you are hogging the comfortable blanket and if you’re going to be pathetic and contagious, then clearly he deserves to be pathetic and contagious too. He announces this while already plopping into bed and stealing half your pillow.

He won’t tuck you in or fuss, but he will grumble, shove at your hip, and say, “Move over, herbivore.” When you protest that he’s going to catch whatever you have, he just scoffs and throws an arm over you, muttering that he's immune to “stupid little colds.” He smells faintly like sun-warmed grass and the faint spice of his cologne, and the warmth radiating from him is way more comforting than any blanket. Not that he’ll ever admit that’s the point.

Leona insists he doesn’t do caretaking. That he doesn’t fetch water, doesn’t prepare tea, doesn’t fluff pillows. But if anyone else dares to try—whether it’s Ruggie bringing soup or another dormmate checking in—Leona sits up like a guard dog and growls, “I’ve got it handled.”

He will show up with a plate of sliced fruit like he’s doing you the biggest favor in the world. He also eats at least two slices for every one he gives you. If you complain, he tells you you’re “too slow” and you should’ve grabbed the mango before he did. When he finally passes you a slice, though, he holds it up to your lips like feeding you is the most normal thing in the world, then pretends he’s not secretly waiting to see you eat it.

When you’re asleep, his mask slips completely. He’ll shift closer, propping his head on his arm and watching you like he’s making sure you’re still breathing. If your face scrunches up in discomfort, his fingers wander into your hair, stroking slowly and rhythmically until your features relax again. He’d never admit it while you’re awake—if you teased him about it, he’d deny it so hard you’d think you hallucinated the whole thing—but it’s the one thing that gives away how much he actually cares.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul has no real frame of reference for land-dweller colds. He knows human bodies are fragile, but he didn’t realize they were this fragile. The first sneeze makes him flinch; the second has him wringing his hands and whispering, “What if you never recover and it’s my fault??” He cycles through guilt, panic, and sheer horror in the span of thirty seconds, eyes darting to you like you’re about to keel over. Meanwhile, you’re just trying to reach for a tissue.

Azul convinces himself that your cold is not a cold at all but a rare land-dweller illness that’s about to rob him of his most precious person. He reads symptoms off a medical text he clearly hasn’t finished, occasionally stopping mid-sentence with a horrified gasp. “It says here prolonged congestion could be a sign of… of…” He refuses to say the word. Instead, he clamps the book shut and starts pacing, mumbling about worst-case scenarios.

He is genuinely ready to mobilize an entire medical unit. Three doctors, a nurse, and at least one sorcerer. Possibly two. He starts writing out a contract to ensure priority service. You sneeze again mid-monologue, and he rips the page in half and starts a new draft, voice wobbling. “We can’t waste time, what if this turns rare? What if it mutates?” You try to remind him it’s literally just a cold, but he’s already halfway through calculating how much it’ll cost to build a private infirmary.

Azul pulls out a thermometer like it’s a holy relic and insists on checking your temperature every five minutes. He records each number in a notebook, frowning with every fraction of a degree change. “Your fever went from 37.2 to 37.3… that’s an increase. That’s significant.” He looks on the verge of fainting every time he writes something down, as though the mere act of cataloguing your condition is proof you’re deteriorating. You tell him to stop, he insists he can’t—someone has to keep an accurate log “in case of medical emergencies.”

Azul tries to bring you soup. Emphasis on tries. He spends twenty minutes fussing over the bowl, making sure it’s the perfect temperature, stirring it nervously until it’s lukewarm at best. When he finally hands it to you, he hovers so close you feel like you’re under a microscope. “Does it taste all right? Not too salty? Not too hot? Not too cold? What if it upsets your stomach?” You end up patting his back and reassuring him that the soup is fine, while he wrings his hands and mutters that maybe he should have asked Jade to cook instead.

Azul never leaves your side. He claims it’s to “monitor your condition” but really he’s just catastrophizing in real time. He sits at the edge of the bed wringing his gloved hands, eyes flicking to you every few seconds, waiting for you to stop breathing. The circles under his eyes deepen because he’s too afraid to sleep. If you so much as shift, he leans in instantly with a strangled, “Are you all right? Should I fetch someone?” You have to repeatedly reassure him that yes, you’re fine, and no, you don’t need a full surgical team.

When you finally start to recover, Azul looks like he has been the one ill. He’s pale, exhausted, and emotionally drained from keeping vigil at your bedside. He tries to brush it off, acting like it was “only natural” for him to take notes, hover, and plan for your funeral just in case. If you tease him about how he screamed when you sneezed, his face flushes and he insists you must have been delirious from fever.

Kalim Al-Asim

He comes barreling into your room with more blankets than the average textile shop. Twelve at minimum. He drapes them all on you at once like he’s preparing you for hibernation, absolutely convinced he’s helping. The result is that you’re buried alive under a colorful mountain of woven fabrics. Only your nose is visible, poking out like a survivor waving a white flag. You try to protest that you can’t breathe—he just beams and tucks the edges tighter. “Warmth cures everything!” he insists, while you quietly suffocate.

Kalim firmly believes the cure to illness is food.He brings enough food to cater a wedding banquet. Plates of fruit, steaming bowls of soup, bread, rice, pastries, five kinds of juice—you name it, he’s stacked it on your nightstand until it looks like a buffet line. “Sick people need to eat more!” he says proudly, shoving a plate into your hands before piling three more bowls in your lap. You try to argue that your stomach can’t handle this much food, but he’s already halfway through ladling more stew.

He’s so focused on you that he forgets basic self-care. He keeps checking if you’ve eaten, if you’re warm, if you’re comfortable—but he never once stops to drink water or grab a bite for himself. His eyes get a little glassy, his movements sluggish, and finally, mid-sentence, he just tips over and passes out beside you. You jolt in alarm, thinking he’s caught your cold, but no—he just forgot to eat dinner because he was too busy making sure you ate four full ones.

Once he’s out cold, Kalim becomes the coziest little heater in existence. He curls up against you instinctively, wrapping his arms around you and nestling his head on your shoulder. Even asleep, he fusses—he shifts blankets higher over your chest, or tucks his knees against yours to keep you warm. His body heat is ridiculous; he’s like a living hot water bottle.

When he does wake up, it’s with a jolt of panic. “Did you get worse while I was asleep?!” he blurts, eyes wide. He immediately presses his forehead against yours to check your temperature. He repeats the gesture every ten minutes, more for his peace of mind than any real accuracy.

When night falls, he refuses to leave. He curls up right beside you again, arms protectively snug around your waist, and stays half-awake all night. Every time you stir or cough, he murmurs something reassuring and strokes your back until you settle again. His determination to keep watch means he’s the one who ends up looking exhausted in the morning, but if you try to tell him to rest, he just grins and says, “I’ll sleep when you’re better!”

By the time you’ve recovered, Kalim looks like the one who’s been through a war—dark circles under his eyes, slightly hoarse voice, hair sticking up from staying awake too much. He waves it off with a smile, saying it was “worth it” if you’re healthy again. And then, right before you can scold him for neglecting himself, he cheerfully plops another bowl into your lap. “One more bowl of soup! Just in case!”

Vil Schoenheit

The very first thing out of his mouth when he sees you sick is a flat, “Darling, you look atrocious.” Which, translated from Vil-language, really means: you’re pale, your nose is red, you look fragile and i am absolutely terrified. He says it like a critique, but the way his hands tremble slightly as he brushes your hair out of your face gives him away. He isn’t used to feeling powerless, and watching you in bed with a fever makes him feel like the world is suddenly off-balance.

Naturally, Vil does not trust ordinary medicine. No, he goes straight into apothecary mode, brewing you something incredibly effective. The potion works miracles; your fever drops within an hour. Unfortunately, it tastes exactly like you scooped up dirt from the garden, sprinkled some crushed aspirin on top, and blended it into a smoothie. You choke it down while Vil watches you with narrowed eyes, already lecturing you about the importance of prevention over treatment.

He scolds you constantly. “How could you let yourself get this run-down? Honestly, do you know what stress and fatigue do to your skin? To your immune system? To your future?” And yet, even as he’s lecturing, he’s adjusting your blanket so you don’t get chilled, fluffing your pillow, and silently swapping the cool cloth on your forehead. The words may sting, but the hands betraying him are gentle.

At some point, when your fever breaks and you drift in and out of sleep, you wake to find Vil carefully applying moisturizer to your hands. He 's telling you that hydration is essential for recovery, but the truth is that fussing over little things helps him feel like he’s doing something useful when he can’t control the illness itself. You’re barely conscious, but the soft press of lotion into your skin feels oddly comforting.

Vil is a perfectionist, which extends even into caretaking. He sets an alarm for every thirty minutes to check your temperature, make sure you’re hydrated, and fluff your pillow. By the time the second night rolls around, he’s exhausted, but refuses to leave your side. Eventually, you catch him dozing off in a chair beside your bed, posture still elegant, hair untouched by sleep, hand loosely holding yours as though making sure you don’t slip away while he rests. It’s the one unguarded glimpse of how much he really love you.

Idia Shroud

When you text him that you're sick, the door creaks open slightly, a glowing blue flame of hair slips through the gap, and you hear the most hesitant: “…are you… still alive?” He looks like a raccoon caught raiding trash, torn between curiosity and terror, except the “trash” in this case is your bed and the very real threat of germs.

Five minutes later, he returns kitted out like he’s entering Chernobyl. Face mask, rubber gloves, possibly even a rain poncho because “droplet precautions.” He stands planted in the doorway, dramatically muttering: “Oh no. You’re contagious. I’m next. This is it. The end. My immune system is literally NPC-tier. If I go down, there’s no respawn.” He makes a big show of not crossing the threshold, but his hair flickers nervously every time you cough.

Eventually, pity (and guilt) overrides fear. He rolls into your room with a wheeled cart like some kind of half-baked nurse, stacked with snacks, bottled water, vitamin gummies, and exactly one (1) wet washcloth. He refuses to admit how much thought he put into stocking the “supply cart,” but it’s basically his way of saying he’s worried sick without having to say it.

Then you whimper. And instantly Idia gives in. All his protective gear hits the floor in record time because he cannot stand to see you in distress. Gloves gone. Mask ripped off. He practically dives into bed beside you, mumbling something like, “Screw it, take me too.” The fear of germs evaporates the second he registers you need him, and suddenly this socially-avoidant gremlin is your biggest source of comfort.

Once curled up next to you, he defaults to what he knows: gaming. He brings his handheld and sits quietly, pixels flickering in the dark, while you doze beside him. He tries to play it cool—“I’m just here because my room’s lagging and I needed…uh, better wifi”—but in reality, he’s monitoring every twitch.

He pretends to grumble when you lean on him, saying things like “Ugh, don’t use me as a pillow,” but the tips of his hair go soft pink, and he doesn’t move an inch. In fact, he tilts ever so slightly to support your weight better. He may act like he’s doing you a reluctant favor, but the truth is he’ll stay glued there as long as you want, controller in one hand, your fevered body pressed against him on the other, guarding your rest like the most anxious watchdog in the world.

Malleus Draconia

You sneeze just once. And Malleus’ expression shifts from mild curiosity to solemn despair, like he’s just witnessed the tragic fall of a hero in an ancient ballad. “You sneezed. Is this… death?” he whispers, voice trembling with unshakable gravitas. He genuinely believes human bodies are that fragile.

Of course, he tries to help. Unfortunately, his knowledge of “remedies” comes exclusively from fae traditions and half-remembered tales Lilia told him. He arrives with a steaming cup of liquid that looks suspiciously green and smells like a wet battery. “This draught has been passed down through generations,” he assures you solemnly, “it will purge all weakness from your body.”

You laugh nervously and tell him there’s no way you’re drinking it, and his face falls like you just refused the crown of Briar Valley itself. “You mock my people’s cure?” he asks, deeply, deeply offended. You end up sipping it just to soothe his pride, instantly regretting it when your tongue goes numb.

Still determined to “nurse” you, he begins bringing gifts. Human remedies? Absolutely not. Instead, you are offered:

A perfectly ripe dragonfruit.

Several logs of firewood, because “warmth is vital to recovery.”

A large, jagged “sacred rock” that he insists must go under your pillow to ward off “malevolent spirits of illness.”

Your room quickly turns into something between a farmer’s market and a survivalist's campsite. But Malleus is so proud of his contributions that you don’t have the heart to tell him Advil would’ve sufficed.

At night, he stations himself at your bedside like a knight keeping watch over a monarch. His back is ramrod straight, his gaze fixed, and he looks ready to battle Death itself should it try to collect you prematurely. When you stir or whimper, his hand instantly reaches for yours, cool and careful, stroking your hair or brushing your forehead with infinite gentleness.

For someone so fearsome, his touch is startlingly delicate. He murmurs reassurances in that deep, rich voice: “Rest easy, my treasure. I shall not allow illness to take you from me.” You drift off feeling like you’re being guarded by both a dragon and a devoted lover.

What he doesn’t realize is how endearing all this is to you. Yes, he may wildly overestimate the lethality of a common cold. Yes, he may have nearly poisoned you with battery-acid tea. But the sight of this great prince keeping vigil at your bedside, stroking your head with reverence and whispering like you’re the most precious thing in his world, is more healing than any medicine could ever be. And when your fever finally breaks, you wake to find him still there, still watching, still ready to fight the common cold with all the fury of a fae prince.

wrote to comfort myself because i got sick twice in the same month 😔

Masterlist

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shadooww · 1 day ago

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Malleus’s daughter is born without wings and horns.

Whispers in halls spoke of tainted bloodline and power.

Weakness and an end to the Draconian line.

The King of Briar Valley paid no heed to such gossip.

Those who tried to voice their dismay?

Met with the fury of a dragon enraged.

Malleus Draconia’s daughter was born on a day of spring.

Bringing with her sunshine and laughter in a once cold, desolate palace.

She might not have been born with the wings or horns of a dragon.

“Papa, I want to fly with you!”

But she didn’t need them, for he would be her wings and her magic.

He would be enough for the both of them.

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shadooww · 1 day ago

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Dick: Jason, let go of (name)

Jason: *holding you tightly* no.

Tim: release your partner, you’ve held them captive for approximately 4 hours. They need to walk, they’re highly capable of doing that without you squeezing the life out of them.

Jason: they’re my emotional support partner.

Damian: more like ragdoll.

Dick: (name) are you okay sweetie?

You: I don’t know why you’re making a big deal out of this, I like being held.

Tim: oh no they’re going to develop the habit of having Jason hold them now!

Dick: Jason we’ve told you this would happen if you keep spoiling them?!

Jason: and?! I’d spoil them even more!

You: yay!

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shadooww · 1 day ago

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FROM OBSCURITY 02

yandere ! batfam x neglected ! reader. a "the summer hikaru died" au.

cw ; body horror , death , implied angst , grammatical errors , etc.

w.c ; ~1.7k

taglist @1abi @bat1212 @tinytacocollection @soriansick @shqyou @pinkluv29 @gluttonousriceflour @time-shardz @ciatin @lorkai @theartisticweirdo @electricgg @just-a-spider-in-gotham @natllo @shinning-stars @aetheriis @estarosa34 @briri @rofantasia @urwifeyyy2 @cupid73 @kruli890 @cheshire-kitsune

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radically and abruptly starting to live

there was a promise on the precipice of existence when "you" woke up. a smile on your lips and your hands clutching your backpack. the promise was simple. to live, to live with them.

Alfred blinked, his eyes slightly wide as you greeted him with a big smile, “morning Alfred! Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

Summer break was over, which meant a new school year was ready to begin. You had your backpack slung over your shoulder, and a pancake hanging from your fingers.

“Its- it is a beautiful day, Miss L/n… are you already heading out to school?”

“You bet! Got tons of people to greet, you know? MUWAH! See ya after school, Alfred!”

You made an over-exaggerated kiss sound as you blew him a kiss and gave a big, toothy smile and wave at him as you headed for the front doors of the manor. To say that Alfred was surprised would be an understatement. Usually during the school year and even during the summer, your greetings were always quiet, almost nonexistent at times as you would give him a polite nod, a gentle smile, and sad eyes that tried to look happy. Your shoulders hunched and your whole body caving in itself as you would scurry for the front doors in hopes of not running into anyone.

But this time…

He recounted the summer, though truthfully that didn’t really help as he couldn’t remember much of you being present. The Joker seemingly deciding to be more active during the past three months so he was more present in the Batcave then around you much like everyone else.

Maybe you had made some new friends over the summer break?

He smiled softly at the thought as he watched you open the door and practically skip outside while devouring the rest of your pancake, engulfing it almost as you closed the door behind you.

“You’re in a good mood.”

Despite being a few months older than you, Damian was in the same grade as you were. Usually he would be getting a ride with Alfred, but due to certain circumstances that they decided not to tell you about, Dick would be driving him today.

“Dami!”

He stepped back when you threw your arms around him, your forearms locking together at the wrists behind his neck as you practically threw yourself at him, “you’re right! I am in a good mood! A great one in fact! Isn’t today beautiful? I mean, the sun is bright, the skies are clear, there won’t be nay rain-“

“G – get off me!”

He rested his hands on your sides and pushed at you, causing you to untangle yourself from him as he looked you over. His eyes narrowed as he saw that you were basically vibrating with excitement.

“You’re being weird.”

“Weird? Am not.”

“And don’t call me Dami.”

“Whatever you say D-A-M-I.”

He glared at you, his fist clenching, but just as he took a step towards you, a car honked making you both look over. Dick.

He sent you one last, nasty side eye before shouldering his own backpack and walking towards the car. You waved to him as he walked to the back door of the car, opened it, and sat inside. And before you could walk over to your bicycle, the passenger window rolled down.

“Hey!”

Heya, Dickie!”

You could see the way he blinked in surprise, momentarily caught off guard before he plastered on that same award winning smile you were used to seeing on TV, “why don’t you hop in? We’re going to the same place.”

You acted like you were thinking it over. Your eyes closing as you brought a hand to your chin so you could stroke an imaginary beard.

‘P please’

You smiled before opening your eyes again, “sure!”

You bounded over to the car and swung the door open when you pulled on the door handle, “move over, Dami! We’re riding together!”

You watched the way his face scrunched before sliding over allowing you to sit behind the passenger seat. Your eyes trailed around for a moment, completely taken with the interior and being in Dick Grayson’s car.

“Seatbelts you two.”

You glanced at Damian who had his arms crossed over his chest, refusing to move as you shrugged and reached for your own seatbelt.

The ride was quiet, but you could feel Dick glance back at you through the rearview mirror every once and awhile.

And the traffic was relatively light, so the drive to the prep school was quick.

“No fights, and no skipping either.”

You waved goodbye to Dick but noticed Damian stay behind as you stepped out of the car and shut the door.

“Hmm, wonder what they’re talking about…,” you narrowed your eyes. Was your display this morning really that off? You thought back to last school year, and shrugged.

“Wow! Look at you arriving on time! And in a car no less! What? Your bike get stolen again?”

Your grin returned as a girl threw her arm over your shoulders and hung off your right side and another looped her arms around your left elbow. Avery and Sarah. Two of your best friends. Two girls who stuck with you throughout the entirety of middle school and high school.

“Guess my big brother felt generous today. And nah, my bike wasn’t stolen this time. If it was, then I would so be out there trying to find it right about now.”

You heard a scoff and a door close loudly, “we are not your older brothers, your just a charity case cause your father doesn’t want you.”

Sarah snapped at Damian, “shut it, prick!”

Avery pulled you along, sending her own glare towards the boy as she dragged you towards the front gates of the school, and truthfully you let the comment slide right off you as you glanced behind you and raised your free arm, “see ya in class, Dami!”

You didn’t miss the way his brow furrow or how Dick tilted his head at you as he got out of the driver’s seat and leaned his forearms against the roof of the car.

“God, I hate that family. Why did your stupid dad leave you there anyway…”

“Who knows,” you said with a laugh.

Avery shook her head as tugged you close, “enough about those stuck up assholes, how was your summer girl? We haven’t heard from you at all for the past three months!”

“Yeah,” Sarah quipped, “we thought you died!”

“Died, huh,” you said with a chuckle. You stared ahead, your stare blank as you got a little lost in thought.

Silence hung heavy in the air within the abandoned building. Small pieces of wood splinters cracked slowly and fell far. Water droplets fell lightly from broken pipes. A spider scaled a far wall. Grass, freshly sprung from the small cracks of the foundation, waved uselessly from the wind coming from the broken windows. At the very bottom that was about eight stories deep, darkness encroached the entire expanse. And a dead body failed to rot.

A strange substance flitted about the body, it made incisions, cuts, and gashes as it made almost surgical slits in the chest. It rove a slimy tendril across the ribs before diving in-between the gaps to squish the organs in its grasp. Blood soaked the weird substance. Weird. Tastes weird. And that wasn’t all. The intestines felt like sludge, the lungs felt like deflated air bags, thin too and easy to tear. The heart was ripped. But maybe its reparable? Some of the substance stuck out from the gash in the chest and slapped against the body’s sternum and slowly inched its way up. It ran across cracked lips, stuck through the nose and felt the airway, played with the eyelids and pushed the eyeballs so they would look in lopsided directions before going to the ears, cleaning out the wax and diving straight to the brain.

The thing, whatever it was, stopped holding the hand that was raised and slowly infiltrated the body through the large cut on the chest like how a deer would be cut open in the stomach. Once inside the body, it slowly began to “stitch” up the cut it made while also repairing the shattered bones and ruptured organs.

“Please.”

The word echoed loud when it took hold of the brain. Memories flooded inside it’s being as it moved a fingertip. Lips twitched, eyes fluttered, a breath was taken.

“Please live a good life with them. A life that should have happened. And go on many adventures with them.”

The wish was simple, pure even. Kind almost. Whispered from lips that wished to die sometimes.

“You” woke up. Your body stretched as you yawned loudly.

“Mnann, what a nap!”

You gripped your backpack close to your chest as you stood up. Your muscles and bones groaning in protest as you raised a free hand and gently patted your face. Memories flooded into you.

“To live a life with them, huh?”

…

“I can do that… since that’s your wish and all.”

You shouldered the backpack and looked around before looking up. A whistle escaping your puckered lips, “woah, you fell far, huh? Big oof.”

You looked to the right and spotted a staircase.

“Bingo!”

Making it back to the Wayne manor you found that summer break was already over, and it took you three months to fix the body you occupied, the good news though? No one noticed you were gone and with the new school year right around the weekend meant that it would be easier to fulfil that wish. That dream.

To abruptly and radically live. With and for them.

“I wouldn’t say I died,” you said sheepishly as you forced yourself to stop remembering that first hectic day of “coming” back.

“It sure felt like it,” Avery said with a pout, Sarah following after as they walked you to your first class.

“Sorry,” you said, “I’ll try not to ghost next time.”

“We’re just messing with ya.”

“Totally!”

Sarah bumped your hip as you three made it to your desks, which were all situated around each other. Damian walked in a moment later and took his own seat. His eyes glancing at you for a moment, and when your eyes met? He didn’t bother to hide his glare. That didn’t stop you from smiling at him.

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shadooww · 1 day ago

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You: …*soaked wet through and holding something small within your coat as it wriggled*

Damian: …*drenched to the bone, hiding something within his coat as it writhed*

You: what do you have?

Damian: nothing. What do you have?

You: nothing.

*The thing in his coat barks and whimpers while the thing your carrying within your coat lets out a small squeak*

You: you’ve impulsively adopted another animal didn’t you?

Damian: the bastard owner left the dog chained to a fence. Besides you’ve done the same thing!

You: the little guy was thin as twigs, abandoned in a Soddy cardboard box! does your dad know?

Damian: no, does father know?

You: no.

Damian: then this is our blood pact.

You: I guess so.

Damian: snitch and they won’t find your body.

You: snitch and I’ll take all of your weaponry and sell them at the highest bidder.

Damian: deal.

You: deal.

Dick: they have a weird way of making deals with one another into silence.

Jason: ‘blood pact’ is a bit dramatic don’t you think.

Tim: it’s Damian he thinks being caught having a snack at 3am is warrant of a blood pact, never less bringing in the 15th abandoned animal of the week.

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shadooww · 1 day ago

Note

I beg you on my knees that one of the pokemon be a lucario🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏😔🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏, he can read minds, like reader and lucario staring at each other and wondering how much the batfam is delululu

The fact that I read this and immediately imagined Lucario saying it to Drampa while the two of them tried to burn down Wayne Manor in revenge (they were just playing 🥺)

It would definitely be interesting to see trainer!reader with a Lucario! Though that would also leave me with the option of deciding whether I want trainer!reader to have some aura abilities as well, it wouldn’t be that hard to explain (and I don’t want to give away too many spoilers <3)

But if we also add other Pokémon with similar abilities, they’d be just like Lucario: upset with the Batfam’s behavior, but way more alert and protective whenever trainer!reader’s emotions shift.

They only want the best for their trainer.

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shadooww · 1 day ago

Note

TRINKETS. Pokemon wear clothing all the time, Pikachu is a perfect example. Maybe they all have bracelets or something connecting themed clothes (Zubat pattern bandannas shvhvfhvdy)

I’ve been looking into different media where Pokémon wear some kind of clothing or accessories, mainly in the anime (like during contests and the Kalos Queen stuff), Cosplay Pikachu, Pokémon Café Mix, and Pokémon Unite.

Maybe a specific detail that makes trainer!reader’s Pokémon stand out? Bracelets are a great idea! And if trainer!reader has a Mega Evolution, then several of her Pokémon would definitely have something like a collar or bracelet!

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shadooww · 1 day ago

Note

I saw the ask about a Lucario and I raise it with Absol. It got called to the manor because the yandere vibes were so concerning it thought there was a natural disaster it had to warn them about. Only to find out the true danger was the family themselves.

Well, the fact that trainer!reader is in Gotham is already more than enough for Absol’s instincts to be on high alert every single day.

In general, Absol would be constantly on edge whenever the batfam is nearby. It doesn’t trust any of them, not even Alfred.

It’s a good moment to remember that Absol is a Pokémon who was cast out of society due to a misunderstanding of how its powers worked. Absol definitely wouldn’t want trainer!reader to go through something similar, especially not at the hands of people who are supposed to be her family.

I had already planned to include an Absol (I adore them), so this is the perfect time to bring it up!

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shadooww · 2 days ago

Note

Idk but Leo gives me the kind of vibe that he would eventually marry his highschool sweetheart cause he’s a romantic like his dad, what if in like his last year of highschool he finally introduces his girlfriend he’d been dating since like foreverrr (not that long but you get the gist) and she’s an absolute goth baddie ( she’s an absolute sweetheart) How would mark and reader react? Especially just finding out that Leo has had a girlfriend all this time(plot twist reader knew but she was waiting for mark to figure it out on his own) also Leo still gets grounded for keeping his lovely girlfriend a secret.

OMG yes. Leo is so the type to fall in love with a girl in sophomore year, hold her hand one time at a school carnival, and then be like “that’s my wife.” 😭 He makes fun of his dad for being such a cornball with reader, but Leo is literally exactly the same with his girlfriend.

Mark squinted at the figure standing in the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of lemonade like she lived there.

She wore head-to-toe black. Lace sleeves, combat boots with a very cool skeleton shoelace that Mark may have to ask about later, a couple sliver rings on her fingers. Her eyeliner was sharp like he had seen you do a few times, and her v-shaped bangs were pinned back with a tiny raven skull clip.

“Oh. Hey, Dad,” Leo said, like he’d been caught shoplifting instead of… whatever this was. “You’re home early.”

“I… yeah,” Mark said slowly, eyes bouncing between Leo and the girl who was now sipping the lemonade that Leo just poured. “Who’s this?”

The girl turned and smiled sweetly. “Hi, Mr. Grayson. I’m Lilith.”

“…Like the demon?”

Leo coughed and quickly waved his hands. “It’s her preferred name. Her real name’s Maryanne.”

Mark opened his mouth, paused, then blinked rapidly. “Okay. Sure. That’s… great. This is great.. My preferred name is Mark.. but my real name is Marcus..”

Lilith laughed while Leo groaned and ran a hand down his face.

The front door opened, and you strolled in holding two boxes of pizza. “Pizza night!” you called happily. “And I know what you're going to say. “Oh my god is that Pineapple on that pizza?” and the answer is yes! It was on sale so you either eat it or eat the other one.” You said dramatically.

You stopped when you saw Mark standing stiffly in the kitchen, Lilith perched by the sink, and Leo looking like he was about to pass out.

“Uh,” Leo said, voice cracking like he was thirteen again. “Mom, I guess… it’s time you meet my girlfriend?”

You blinked. “Leo, sweetie, I already knew you two were dating.”

“…HUH?” he gawked. “How?!”

You gestured at his phone, still lying face-up on the counter. “Your lock screen is literally her face. I was hoping you were dating, or that would just mean that you’re creepy.”

Mark made a noise, something choked between panic from the fact his son was dating and a laugh from what yo usaid.

Lilith just laughed and smiled towards Mark, “Would it help if I said I really like your son and that we've been dating since Sophomore year?”

Mark stared at her, then turned to you and whispered, “Is this my karma for saying I’d be chill when he started dating? Because I am not chill.”

You patted his back. “Just be happy their over 16 and don't have a kid yet..”

“Oh my God.” Leo whispered. “Can we eat before you ground me?”

“Oh, you’re absolutely still grounded,” you said with a small smirk.

“For what?!”

“For hiding your beautiful girlfriend from your father and I. Your poor father almost had a heart attack.”

Lilith looked delighted. “Aww. You think I’m beautiful?”

“I..-” Mark started, but gave up and slowly grabbed a slice of pizza.

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shadooww · 2 days ago

Text

Webs of Pain. chapter three: a redheaded fool

summary | crimson silk has an encounter with batman, it doesn't end well. you still fight for the penguin. roy harper wishes he would know what to do with a six-year-old and a spider he very much recognizes as his best friend's sister.

pairing | platonic batfam x spider!batsis!reader. roy harper x reader (nothing in this chapter tho). platonic! lian harper x reader

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female. literal death, experimentation, consequences of being brought back to life. reader has a severe depression and many scars of what joker and scarecrow did to her. mentions of torture because she has a backstory of how did she end up like that.

reader has fangs, is quite literally half spider while looking completely human. there is an age gap between roy and her, despite anything not happening in this chapter i put the tag anyways. he is very much a flirt

reader is beaten up two times in this but she quickly gains territory :D

word count | 4.3k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) i plan on making this a series. please vote <3

this is NOT a yandere series, but it has dark themes that you already saw on warnings.

bruce is 45. dick is 26. cass is 22. jason is 21. reader is 21. tim and steph are 19. duke is 18. damian is 14. roy is 29

taglist | @fanficeatsandenjoys @p1nkh3artz @oliemolliever @totallynotuseful @astraeasworld @lettucel0ver @lorosette @diseasedclitoris @c4xcocoa @wisefuncherryblossom @1abi @fennecspage @cxcilla @oliviaewl @shqyou @tuabuelaenvinagrexd @mei-simp @ihavenomuse @iminlovewithjasontodd @dr7girl @uhhellnogetoffpleasenowty @astro-girly4 @ren1sawesome @wpdarlingpan @strabunny @tiffyisme3760 @hanbee41 @jsi8d8f9foewnsn @notfuntimes @iglb12 @po55um @coffeemin @nisarelle @mazixxss @chiizuluvr @bbmgirll @homeless-clown @jjoppees @frogwizard13 @jeshomie @amandjslpz @marinefreaakk @invinciblewaffles @krys0210 @snake-in-a-flower-crown

previous. next.

YOU NEVER COULD ESCAPE THE REALITY.

Not even in the Narrows, much less in Crime Alley. While you were kind of appreciated around—more often with the teenagers and children than with adults—they also didn’t know how or when to keep their mouths shut about you.

The only brother of yours that entered your area, the only one doomed like you, and they had told him almost everything you keep quiet about.

Jason.

Of course it was Jason. He was the only one who walked Crime Alley without flinching. The only one who didn't try to “fix” you with lectures or data or therapy or silence. He just showed up. And because he showed up, they spoke. The kids, the teens, the old woman who smoked outside her window with a baseball bat always within reach. They told him about Silky. Crimson Silk. The Spider-Woman of Crime Alley. The protector. The myth with venom in her teeth.

And if Jason knew… that meant the others did too.

And if Tim knew…

Steph and Cass did too, because there were no secrets Tim didn’t tell them. Then Barbara, because Oracle knew things like the city knew rot. And Dick.

You prayed they hadn't told Damian. You prayed Duke hadn’t heard. You couldn’t take the look on their faces—the betrayal, the pity, the guilt. You’d spent months learning how to live with what you’d become. You didn’t need to see it in their eyes again. You didn’t need to be reminded that you had once been someone else. That you had once been their sister.

That you had once been alive.

You still loved them all—of course you did. They were your family. You were raised with them for more years than you had with your biological parents. You’d fought beside them, bled beside them. But that was then. That was when you were Dragonfly. Bruce’s protégé. Gotham’s smile in a mask. His little sunshine girl.

Your body aches with the memory of it.

Now, in the cold air of Gotham’s midyear night, you’re perched on a slanted rooftop with knees bent too far forward to be human. You're still. Watching. Waiting. The dull throb of hunger sits behind your ribs, alongside a webbing itch inside your wrist you haven't quite learned to ignore.

Your scarf is wrapped tight across your mouth and nose—red, silky, threaded with old bloodstains and newer repairs. Beneath it, the metal half-mask clings to your cheekbones, distorting your voice, keeping your breath even. A makeshift muzzle for the voice that had long since grown cold. You didn’t talk when you didn’t have to. What was the point? Words never stopped Crane’s needles or Joker’s laughter. Never stopped the serum in your veins.

You're on patrol. Not because you believe in justice anymore. Not the way Bruce taught it. But because something inside you can’t stop.

The city was thick tonight. Humid. Smelled like rust and rising smoke, like something was about to happen.

You launch forward. Web lines shoot from your wrists and stick to old concrete. Swing. Arc. Land. The rooftops blur beneath you. A feral rhythm pulses in your blood—the city’s heartbeat and your own, matching for once. You crouch low as you land on a roof overlooking the tram lines. The movement is too smooth. Too spiderlike.

And then—

That itch in the base of your skull. No, not an itch—a scream. Your spider sense flared so suddenly that your knees buckled.

You ducked instinctively, back arching, and something whistled through the air right above your head.

A line.

You twisted mid-air, fell back-first into a roll and rebounded off the next rooftop in a single bound. Knees dug into the ledge, fangs partially out from the adrenaline. You panted once, slow and even.

Across from you, in the thick hush of the night, plastered in semi-shadow—

Stands Batman. Tall. Broad. Covered in armor matte as midnight. Cape hanging like a shadow draped from his shoulders. The white of his eyeslits reflect nothing. He doesn’t move.

But you can feel him thinking.

Your stomach knots.

You tilt your head. Your body shifts into a crouch that’s too low, too animal. “Really?” your voice was low, muffled by the scarf. “You came yourself?”

“Silk,” he says, like he already knew. “Stand down.”

You don’t answer. You press your palm to your web shooter. Clench your fingers.

He steps forward. One step.

You shoot. The web strikes his forearm, pulls, and he stumbles—but barely. He slices through it with a sharp twist of his gauntlet.

“Didn’t want to do it like this,” he mutters.

Too bad.

You launch.

The fight doesn’t begin with punches. It begins with weight and will. He tries to catch you mid-air, but you twist your spine like water, like air, and slam both feet into his chest. He skids back. Not much. But enough.

He grabs your ankle mid-spin. You click your heel into his wrist, dislodging the grip. You flip backward, land on all fours. You spring again.

Fist meets gauntlet.

Your punch lands—cracks the reinforced armor at his side. He grunts, surprised by the force.

He hits back. He kicked you backward, and you slid, claws digging into the rooftop.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice deeper than memory, modulated and metallic.

“You don’t get to decide that,” you spat, your fangs pushing down from your upper gums, venom itching

The air splits.

His punch collides with your shoulder, rattling through bone. You stumble. Regain balance. Slide under his next swing, and uppercut him straight in the solar plexus.

He folds slightly.

“You're not just enhanced,” he mutters. “You’re unstable.”

You snarl. “And you’re still a coward.”

His gaze narrows.

Another punch. Another dodge.

He tries to restrain. You try to kill.

Webs fly. Miss. He grapples forward, fist slamming into your gut—but you barely feel it. You're already moving. You slash your claws out, aiming low, slicing across the kevlar at his thigh.

He responds by sweeping your legs from under you. You hit the roof. Hard. For a split second, the wind leaves your lungs. But you're already twisting away from the baton coming down. You shoot a line of web to the side of the chimney, yank yourself across the rooftop, and flip back upright.

A punch cracked the air between you. Then another. You ducked, slid beneath his leg, elbowed his knee from the side. He dropped, but just for a second before grabbing you by the arm and flinging you into the chimney behind you. Brick burst. You hit hard, shoulder first—but your body rebounded with that impossible flexibility, legs wrapping around his neck, flipping him forward.

The scarf ripped off.

It flew into the night like a fallen flag, twisting in the wind.

You didn’t have time to care.

He came at you again, faster this time. This was Bruce at full. No hesitation now. You punched. Kicked. Slashed with your claws. He deflected, jabbed, brought his knee to your side. Your ribs cracked, but your regeneration lit up instantly, bones stitching in seconds.

Then, his fist connected with your jaw.

The metal mask cracked at the hinge.

Another blow. You staggered.

And the mask flew off your face.

It hit the ground like a broken memory.

Your head was still bowed—just for a second. Blood dripped from your nose. Your lip was split. Your hair was matted to your face, sweat and blood painting your features in blotches of red.

Then you lifted your gaze. Clicked your jaw back into place. Looked him right in the eye.

Your eyes weren’t the same anymore. Not really. Still your color, yes—but sharper, ringed with something inhuman. Dilated from the dark. Wide like prey, glowing like predator.

And Bruce Wayne sees you.

Your bloody nose. Your split lip. The bruises already healing. The venom in your stare. And underneath all that—

You.

The daughter he buried. The child he mourned. The legacy he failed.

“What’s the matter?” you whisper, your voice hoarse and broken, the edge of your words laced in bitter amusement. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

His mouth opens slightly. No words come out. The look on his face—God, that look—was all you needed. The way his mouth parted slightly, the way his body froze like a man caught in his own worst nightmare.

You hit him. Hard. Once, twice, three times. No restraint. No hesitation.

You punched him across the face so violently it echoed. Your claws ripped into his gauntlet, through the Kevlar. You kicked him across the rooftop, blood finally spattering his chin. He didn’t block. Didn’t counter.

“Fight back,” you snarled.

He didn’t.

��Fight back!”

He exhales, body shuddering. You feel the armor crack, the wet resistance of blood. His hand goes to your wrist—gentle, still.

"Y/N . . ." he says it like a prayer.

You rip your hand back.

“Don’t say my name like that,” you hiss. “You buried a casket. You gave up. You all did.”

He doesn’t argue. Just looks at you with those eyes. Too human. Too hurt. You stumble back, suddenly shaking. Your shoulder’s bleeding from his earlier blow with a batarang. Your hands are red. His blood, yours. You can’t tell the difference.

He’s kneeling.

You crouch low again, trembling.

He says softly, “You’re alive. You’re… alive.”

“Crane sent a tape,” you hissed. “He sent you my screams, and you stopped looking.”

“I didn’t stop.”

“You did,” you snapped. “Because you always stop. When it’s too hard. When it’s too dark. You stopped with Jason. You stopped with me.”

His jaw twitched. You kept going.

“I was screaming for you. Every day. Begging you to come. I believed in you. I waited for you.”

Tears burned in your eyes now, but you didn’t let them fall.

“And you never came.”

“I didn’t know you were still alive.”

“Then you shouldn’t have trained me to survive.”

You stepped back finally. Your hands trembled. Your claws were dripping. His blood. Your blood. The city’s rot clung to your lungs.

The wind cut cold between you both.

And Bruce… still said nothing. He just looked at you.

You hated how broken he looked. Like he still loved you. Like he hadn’t given up hope. Like he had never, not even for a second, stopped calling you his daughter.

You backed away.

“Don’t follow me,” you said quietly, hoarse.

“Y/N—”

“Don’t follow me. Don’t send them. Don’t send Jason.”

His eyes flickered.

“I mean it,” you growled. “Next time, I won’t hold back.”

You turned. You ran. Swung away into the velvet blackness of the Narrows, the wind screaming against your half-healed lips, the blood on your claws not dry yet.

And still—your heart broke with every swing.

Because you had held back.

You always would.

Because he was still your father.

You don’t remember landing.

You remember swinging.

You only remember the rage that wouldn’t let your joints settle. The way your hands refused to stop bleeding. You were still sticky with his blood—Bruce’s—and yours, too. Your mask had vanished into the Gotham wind. The metal half-plate cracked and left behind. Your scarf fluttered somewhere on the other rooftop like a rag left from war.

You didn’t stop swinging.

Not even once.

The city blurred beneath you, web-lines latching to the skeletons of half-finished towers and the rusted bones of forgotten neighborhoods. You didn’t see the Narrows pass under you, or the kids tucked in makeshift tents. Didn’t see the cracked sidewalk you fixed last week, or the stray cat waiting on your window.

The neon of the Iceberg Lounge stabs through your vision like a migraine—too clean, too polished, too fake. You landed with a sickening crunch onto the gravel lot behind the Iceberg Lounge. Your knees didn’t even bend. You hit the ground like something out of a nightmare, your spine too strong to break under the weight of that fall.

There are guards outside.

Two. Both of them thick-necked, dressed in cheap suits and ugly sunglasses, like someone told them they were cool in the nineties and they never got the memo. But neither of them moves to stop you.

Not even when they see your face. No mask. No scarf. Blood smeared down your jaw and neck, splattered across your chest like war paint. Knuckles split. Eyes wild.

You see them glance at each other—brief, unsure—but no one raises a hand. You don’t look at them again. You don’t have to.

The inside of the club is as stupidly grand as always. Blue glass. Chandelier light. That synth jazz on a loop that makes your ears twitch. Bodies moving slow and sluggish, expensive perfume clogging your nostrils. Laughter sharp as a blade. Not yours.

You walk past the bar. Past the dancers. Past the men in corner booths talking quiet over whiskey and war stories. And nobody stops you.

Because even the ones who don’t believe the stories have heard enough not to try.

You don’t knock when you reach the throne room. You just shove the doors open, hard enough that one slams against the wall and leaves a dent.

The guards inside raise weapons. One of them even flips off the safety.

“Put it down,” Penguin says lazily, without even looking up.

He’s seated on that stupid frozen throne like he’s royalty. Rings on every finger. A cigar smoldering between his teeth. The cane rests across his knees, but he doesn’t bother lifting it.

His gaze drifts up to meet yours, and something in his expression sharpens when he sees your face.

“Well, well,” he says, voice gravel and delight, “my little venomous darling returns. You’ve had quite the evening, haven’t you?”

“I want the next fight,” you say. Your voice is rough, cracked at the edges.

“You don’t look like you’ve recovered from the last one. You’re not even wearing a mask tonight. That’s bold. Or suicidal. I can never tell with you.”

“I said I want it,” you repeat. Your claws flex, blood dripping from your fingers to the floor.

He smiles.

“Of course. Of course,” he drawls, waving one gloved hand. “But you know, sweetheart… we’ll have to talk about the terms again later. That kind of performance earns you bonus points. And I’m a generous man. One more tick on your lovely little list toward dear Scarecrow. We're getting close now.”

You don’t answer.

He gestures to the pit. “Let’s make it a show.”

You don’t wait for the lights. Don’t wait for the crowd to settle. You launch a web from your wrist, fast, clean, sharp—one shot to the top railing, one swing down. You flip once, land in the middle of the ring with both feet and no flair.

There’s a hum of anticipation in the air. The spectators are lining up already.

Penguin always draws a crowd when metas are involved.

And the thing they bring out for you—he’s a meta all right.

Big. Dressed in all black. Arms as thick as your torso. Skin shimmered with a kind of leather-like resistance, like a rhino’s hide. The eyes are too bright, too animal. Like something bred in a lab and left too long in the dark.

He steps into the ring with a low growl and cracks his neck.

You don’t flinch. Your fingers twitch, but you don’t activate your shooters yet. You want this up close. You want the bruises.

The fight starts with a bell, but you move before it finishes ringing.

You slam into him like a bullet. Your knee collides with his gut, and you hear the breath punch out of him. You spin, claws flashing, dragging across his shoulder. Not deep—but it makes him stumble.

He’s not slow. That’s the problem. Big guys usually are. But this one? He recovers fast.

His elbow snaps forward, and you duck just in time, slipping under and jabbing your claws into the meat of his thigh. He roars.

“Metahuman,” you mutter under your breath, sidestepping his second blow, “but barely.”

He grabs for your ankle. You backflip, landing on the ropes, crouched like a beast. The crowd yells. Somewhere up top, Oswald is laughing. You don’t care.

You leap again. This time, he catches you. His palm slams into your ribs. The exact place Bruce hit you.

He throws you across the ring. You hit the ground hard. Roll twice. Blood smears from your mouth.

Your regeneration kicked in instantly—but you pushed it down.

Let the pain stay. Let it hurt.

You forced your system not to heal.

You lie there for a second, cheek pressed to the mat, and everything goes quiet. Too quiet. He grabbed your arm and twisted. You heard your bone snap. And you laughed. Quiet. A little breath of madness. He looked startled for the first time.

Bruce’s face flashes in your head.

Your own voice, younger—back when you wore yellow, back when your smile was a gift given every day—laughing, shouting across rooftops with all of your siblings, even those not quite adopted.

Dragonfly.

She was so fast. So bright. So proud of every bruise. She used to smile under her domino mask. She used to wake up in Wayne Manor and sneak cookies at night. She used to believe that Bruce could fix everything if he just had enough time.

She was his.

And then: screaming. The tape Crane sent. Your own voice again. But not laughing. Begging. Begging for help. For your dad.

“I waited for you,” you whisper to no one.

The meta punches you in the ribs again. You don’t move. A second punch to the jaw. Your lip splits deeper. Another to the back. You’re limp now. Blood fills your mouth.

You hear people shouting. The crowd. Cheers. Roars. But your head is somewhere else.

You're still that girl, strapped to the table, praying for Bruce’s shadow to cross the light above you. And he never did.

Another hit. You see white. Pain. Not sharp, but deep. Saturated. Your bones ache. Your claws twitch but don’t rise.

Then—

Something catches your eye. Up in his throne, Oswald Cobblepot spun a small square of paper between his fingers. A yellowed, burned scrap with hand-drawn markings. A map. Your map.

Crane’s map.

You blink.

Once. Twice.

You remember.

You remember why you’re here.

You’re not a daughter right now. You’re not Dragonfly. You’re not even Crimson Silk.

You are vengeance. You are purpose.

You moved faster than light.

Your bones realign as you stand. Your healing kicks in like fire. Your claws stretch out, long and gleaming. Your lip is still split. Your eyes are glassy—but this time not from dissociation.

From focus.

The meta charges. You let him. At the last second, you spin, flip backward, and web his ankle mid-run. He slams face-first into the ring post. The crowd gasps.

You web again—two quick shots to the chest, and yank.

He’s down. You pounce.

Your claws dig into his arm—muscle tearing beneath you. He screams now, and you don’t stop. One slice across his chest. Another across his thigh. You webbed his mouth shut mid-breath.

You kicked his leg so hard his knee turned sideways. He fell hard. And you stayed on him, breathing heavy, your face bruised and wet, your arms trembling, but your body still crouched like a spider over its prey.

You look up, and Oswald meets your gaze. He grins.

You crawl out of the ring without words. Every step up the stairs is agony.

You don’t care. Nothing is more important than that.

Because you're closer. You’re going to find Crane. And when you do—

You’ll make him wish you stayed dead.

Roy Harper knew two things for certain: his kid could out-stubborn him, and soap suds always found a way to sneak up his arms no matter how careful he was.

“Daddy,” Lian said from the kitchen counter, legs swinging back and forth like she was keeping rhythm with her own thoughts, “do you think spiders wear capes?”

Roy snorted. “If they did, they'd get caught in their own webs.”

Lian grinned, her two front teeth slightly uneven. She had an apple clutched in both hands, half-finished, juice trailing down her wrist in the way Roy had warned her about a dozen times already. But he didn’t stop her. He liked seeing her like this—barefoot, messy, and a little wild.

She glanced toward the window, her nose scrunching thoughtfully. “Silky doesn’t wear a cape.”

“Silky?” Roy asked, rinsing a plate. “That your imaginary friend?”

The name didn’t register immediately. But Lian had mentioned her before—some vigilante she swore was covered in white and black, who swung on webs like she was born in the air. He’d brushed it off at the time. Kids always had stories, especially when they grew up with a hero for a dad.

“Nooo,” she giggled, rolling her eyes. “She’s real, Daddy. She’s the spider lady. The one that helped Miguel’s mom last week! The one that made a giant web so the fire truck could reach the building. You never listen.”

Roy blinked, lowering the dish. He turned, bracing his hip against the sink, one brow raised. “Spider lady, huh?”

Lian nodded, solemn now. “They call her Crimson Silk. But all the kids call her Silky. Miguel says she’s got eyes like a cat and actual webs that come fron her wrist. But I think she’s nice. She gives Mrs. Lu fresh bread and helped Sophie get her shoe off the lamppost once.”

Roy hummed low in his throat, tossing the towel over his shoulder.

“She’s cool, Daddy,” Lian insisted. “She talks to cats and doesn’t like loud noises.”

The description tickled something in the back of Roy’s brain, but he shrugged it off. Gotham was full of weirdos and vigilantes—most of whom he didn’t bother cataloging unless they aimed something sharp at his daughter or blew up half a building.

Still, Silky stuck with him.

“Hey,” he said, pointing with a fork. “You see her, don’t chase her down. I don’t care if she’s handing out free cookies.”

“I won’t,” she sighed, just as a flash of movement caught her attention through the small window above the counter.

Her entire face lit up.

“Daddy!” she gasped, voice barely a whisper, but full of awe. “It’s her! It’s Silky! Daddy, look!”

Roy turned instantly, nearly dropping a plate.

Across the alley, two rooftops over, hanging upside down from a splatter of webbing that clung to a rusted vent, was… something. Someone.

A shadow. Slender. Draped in crimson threading that looked soaked through, like blood glinting under the moon. The shape swayed slightly in the wind, suspended from a single wrist by a thick cord of webbing. Her body was curled inward, almost fetal, but balanced like a predator in sleep. The other hand hung low, claws twitching. Her hair spilled down from under a hood, too dark to see color clearly. What the dim streetlights did catch was the shape of her.

Compact. Defined. Human… but not quite.

He squinted. Not a cape. No emblem. Just scarlet silk clinging like skin, streaked with black and deeper red. Her head twitched slightly, as if she was listening to something inside her own skull.

Roy narrowed his eyes. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Go talk to her!” Lian beamed, bouncing in place. “She always listens to kids!”

“No way,” he said. “I don’t go charging into mysterious spider-women on rooftops while I’m holding a dish rag.”

“Pleaaase?”

He smirked. That did it.

“You stay here,” he said, tossing the rag onto the counter. “Don’t open the door for anyone. Not even me, unless I knock three times like this.” He tapped her hand in a rhythm. “Three knocks. Got it?”

Lian nodded. “Got it.”

“And no cookies ‘til I’m back.”

“Daaaad!”

He grabbed his jacket, pushing it on his arms. Roy took the stairs two at a time. His apartment was on the third floor, right across from the rooftop access. It wasn’t the fanciest place in Gotham, but it was home. Had been since Lian was two. Close enough to the Narrows that vigilantes were a dime a dozen, but far enough away that the explosions came with a delay.

He kicked open the door to the roof and stepped out into the cool night air, hands braced at his belt like he was still Red Arrow, still twenty, still invincible.

Across from him, just five meters of alley air between their buildings, the figure still hung.

She moved now.

Twitched.

Then turned.

Her knees bent and flipped her up in one fluid motion, muscles coiling like rope. She landed on her own rooftop, crouched like an insect, one hand on the edge, the other steadying her web-line.

Roy whistled low.

“You always sneak around rooftops dressed like murder, or is tonight a special occasion?”

She didn’t reply. Didn’t move.

He raised a brow. “That’s a hell of a get-up. You take commissions, sweetheart?”

She stood slowly, the light finally catching her from the left. Her silhouette gleamed, faintly reflective in some parts, matte in others. Built like a dancer. Moved like a killer.

Her head tilted. Then she moved—fast.

A backflip, casual and fluid, sending her further back into her rooftop before she perched on the raised ledge with ease, one leg drawn up, the other dangling. Her fingers curled around the stone lip. Her head cocked to the side again.

Roy blinked. Something about that posture was familiar.

His grin faded a notch. “Alright. I know that flip. Dickie used to pull them when he thought no one was looking. And I’ve seen that twist in the air—”

And then she looked up. Right at him. Full face in moonlight.

Roy froze.

You didn’t flinch as he looked at you. You were tired, exhausted even, but your body didn’t allow weakness. The bruises had faded to dull shadows, but the blood hadn’t fully cleaned from your cheek. Your eyes were heavy-lidded. Sad.

“Hi, Roy.”

He took a step back like the wind had been knocked out of him.

“I thought—everyone thought—Jason said you were—” He blinked hard. “God. Y/N. You were dead.”

You shrugged one shoulder. “Not enough, apparently.”

He swallowed, glancing over you now—really looking.

You were wrecked. Bruises on your face. Blood on your nose and lips. Claw marks on your knuckles. Your suit was torn. Webs still clung to your hips like a second skin. Your shoulders drooped with exhaustion.

And yet, you still looked dangerous. Still looked alive.

“You should come in,” Roy said gently. “You’re bleeding all over the skyline.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

You opened your mouth, but the dizziness hit you again. With a single web, your body forced itself to the other edge. The next thing you knew, he was by your side, arms around your waist before you could fall.

“You’re not fine,” he muttered. “You’re not even half fine. Let me help, okay?”

You didn’t fight. You were too tired to.

He helped you climb back down into the apartment, one arm tight around your waist, your claws retracted just enough not to slice open his jacket. You moved like a ghost, like a broken marionette that had forgotten how to stand upright.

And when you stepped through his door—

Lian gasped again.

“Silky!”

You glanced at her and offered the smallest smile, sure that you didn't look your prettiest. “Hi, kid.”

She beamed.

“You talked! Daddy, she talked! I knew she was nice!”

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shadooww · 2 days ago

Text

oh baby!

pairing: dick grayson x reader

word count: like 2.0k

synopsis: you're about to enter your parent era!

warnings: MDNI (18+), AFAB!reader, reader is a speedester and wally west is her twin, suggestive dialogue, swearing, unplanned pregnancy, pregnancy cravings, batfamily chaos, mention of alcohol, lots of fluff, proofread once #sorry.

a/n: this balances out the dick grayson angst i wrote yesterday. what a slay.

“Oh, baby. Literally.”

You reach over and slap Wally’s arm.

“Shut up!” You hiss. “You’re my brother and are supposed to be supportive by default!”

“Sorry! It’s just weird that I’m witnessing the consequences of my twin being intimate with my best friend.”

Wally’s smart comment earns him a scowl and a swat to the head. This morning, you woke up feeling queasy in the stomach. This sensation, however, was different than your typical ailments that came in cycles during the year. Maybe metahuman pregnancies are different than normal ones. Whatever the reason, the six pregnancy tests that you took weren’t needed to confirm what you already knew was the truth.

Now, you’re crumpled on your bathroom floor and surrounded by positive tests, tattered cardboard, and your brother who’s slung a stiff arm over your shoulders.

“I don’t even know why you’re here,” you sniff, a few tears now falling down your face. “This apartment belongs to Dick and I, so God forbid I find out that he gave you the spare key.”

Wally tenses. “I vibrated through the door. Sorry. But your boyfriend left his Xbox controller at my place and I didn’t feel like waiting for him to show up. Anyways, it’s good I showed up when I did, right? The bloodcurdling scream you let out was a little bit terrifying.”

A hefty sigh escapes your lips and you bury your head in your hands.

“I cannot believe that the future father of my baby is playing Xbox games!” you cry out.

“Shit, no, sorry, don’t worry about that,” Wally says, attempting to console you.

“We’re only in our early twenties, Wally! I was taking my birth control and he was still using protection so what the fuck happ–”

“Alright!” Wally interjects before he hears more unsolicited information about your sex life. “Things like this happen. It’ll be ok. Pretty sure the answer’s no, but have you told Dick yet?”

Mind you, it took him six months to accept that Dick had feelings for you when he drunkenly (and publicly) broke down in front of him at a dingy bar and confessed that he loved his sister. Wally wanted to punch him in the face, but feared that would only further motivate his friend. So, he put his opinions aside and begrudgingly told Dick that if you got hurt, he’d ‘reverse flash’ him. Dick, not calling any bluff, knew that Wally wasn’t above a vibrating hand to the heart.

“No! He’s away on a mission. What was I supposed to do? Text him pictures of these positive tests and be like, ‘hey! you’re gonna be a dad, btw!’ NO! That’s NOT what I’m supposed to do!” You blubber.

Wally internally grimaces. Literally anyone else would have been better at calming you. His awkward and disorganized self is not offering up any services that are of use to you.

“Ok, ok! He’s coming back soon, right? You can tell him then. Or I can. But I think that would make him mad. So you should definitely tell him,” Wally offers.

He hears you mumble out several words, each more incoherent than the last. He doesn’t blame you though. Hell, if he were the one pregnant, he would’ve probably reacted on a much worse caliber.

“Dick’s actually supposed to be coming back tonight. Bruce wants to have a dinner at the mansion. I’ll tell him after” you finally grumble out.

The words taste bitter on your tongue. “Dick” and “baby” should not belong in the same sentence. Yet, here you are.

“Ok, perfect! Just know that Dick’s never been nonchalant about anything, especially things pertaining to you,” Wally states. He’s a bit too cheery for your liking.

“Wally.”

“Yes?”

“Can you get me a triple cheeseburger from that place in Texas? Well done, double cheese, and add bacon. I want a side of onion rings and chili fries too. Then, go to New York and get me a large triple meat stuffed crust pizza with a side of breadsticks from that little corner shop.”

“So I’m assuming this baby will have our speed considering you just found out you’re pregnant today and have the appetite of three speedesters combined. Anything else?”

“I also want a full red velvet crepe cake from France and freshly churned chocolate gelato from Italy. The gelato needs to be freshly churned. I’ll know if it’s not.”

Wally decides to scrap his comment about you being a glutton. He helps you off the floor, gives you a quick side hug, and rushes out the door.

He’s gone before you can yell and tell him that the Xbox controller’s still in his hand.

***

“Hey, you alright?

You feel a gentle nudge against your thigh and snap out of your trance and look at Dick.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “Just tired from… training.”

Dick gives your leg a gentle squeeze and redirects his attention to the multitude of different conversations being hashed out at the dinner table. On one side of the table, Jason’s alluding to the possibility that he acquired more illegal weaponry, Damian’s chastising everyone, and Tim’s grunting about missing security footage. On the other side, Steph’s complimenting Alfred’s cooking, Duke’s talking about his light sensitivity, and Cass is indulging herself in a discussion about martial arts with Bruce.

Overstimulating to say the least.

“Hey!” Jason yells out your name. “You like the food, right? This is your third plate!”

“Quiet, Todd! She’s a speedster and thus has an advanced metabolism and severely heightened appetite!” Damian groans.

Then like clockwork, all the conversations come to a halt. You surmise that it’s because you’ve said maybe two words the entire dinner and people are being courteous by letting you throw in your two cents about whatever.

“Yeah, Alfred, dinner’s phenomenal. Thank you!” You voice.

Alfred nods from the corner, where he’s occupied himself with adjusting a crooked frame. “Glad to hear, Miss. It’s always a pleasure when you join us. Oh! That reminds me, I have something for you!”

Everyone watches as Alfred scurries out of the dining room and makes his way towards the kitchen. You wonder if he’s potentially bringing you a dessert. Dessert sounds good right about now, especially if he’s made it in house.

However, your face pales when he comes back proudly presenting a bulbous bottle of red wine. Three words run through your head: alcohol, baby, no.

“I had this specially doctored for you, Miss. I know speedsters don’t get to enjoy the pleasures such drinks because of their physiology, and I believe that everyone deserves to indulge once in awhile,” Alfred proudly states.

All eyes are on you. Given your panic stricken face at a table full of detectives, you bet that people have already come up with five different hypotheses as to why a bottle of wine has you so up in arms. You pray that nobody’s correctly guessed the truth.

“Oh, this is nice, but NO! Sorry!” You blurt out.

You cringe at how the last part of your sentence sounded harsher than intended. Alfred’s face falls, but he quickly recomposes himself.

“Babe…” Dick murmurs, clearly concerned by your sudden outburst.

“No worries, Miss. I’ll give it to Master Dick for your later enjoyment,” Alfred softly smiles.

You thread your hands through your hair. “No, sorry! I don’t mean to be a bitch. Shit, wait sorry I didn’t mean to swear at the dinner table! It’s just that–”

Dick places hand on your face, gently turning your view to him.

“Are you seriously alright?” He asks.

You take a deep breath. Your brain usually works fast, and you’re even quicker with your words. Now, you’ve been reduced to a bumbling mess of bones and nerves. You’ve already given reasonable cause for suspicion. If someone at this table doesn’t find out about your pregnancy tonight, they definitely will tomorrow.

“This is a safe space. If someone hurt you…” Bruce begins.

Your eyes grow wide. The last thing you want is the entire family going on a prowl for an entity that doesn’t even exist.

“No no no!” You stammer. “Nobody’s hurt me!”

“Then why are you behaving like this?” Damian questions.

“Were you pirating movies and accidentally downloaded a virus for the fourth time?” Tim asks.

Your mouth goes dry. Well, now’s a better time than ever.

“I’m… I’m pregnant. Dick’s obviously the father,” you admit, jutting a thumb over at your boyfriend.

A fork drops. A knife scrapes against the plate. Steph lets out a tiny gasp, and everyone–even Bruce–looks at least a little shocked.

“Are you positive?” Dick finally asks.

“Positive times six,” you sigh.

A few beats of silence pass. Ultimately, Damian’s the first one to speak up.

“You did have a certain glow to you when you walked in.”

Jason throws a wadded up napkin at his head.

“You’re literally just saying that because you want to be all mysterious and right, dipshit.”

“Language,” Bruce scolds.

Several other voices chime in, but all you can focus on is the look in Dick’s eyes. Amazement and admiration paints his face, and he’s fighting the smile that’s about to break out any second. The past handful of hours have been filled with worry, planning on how to raise a speedster, and odd cravings. So, seeing the comforting look on Dick’s face sparks a small warmth across your chest.

“I’ll do whatever you want to do,” Dick says.

You squeeze his hand. Suddenly, you don’t feel so alone.

***

“And that’s why Wally was the first one to find out I was pregnant,” you finish.

Dick lets out a small hum. He was quick to get the both of you out of the mansion a few minutes after your announcement. You’re now both laying on the bed as you unravel the day’s events to him.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Dick states.

You slap his arm. If anyone’s going to be self-deprecating, it’s not him. “Dick. It’s alright, honey. I would’ve freaked out regardless.”

Your boyfriend gathers you in his arms and kisses your head. His right hand drifts to your stomach.

“You’re great. The baby’s going to be great. If it’s not already clear, I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

“I can’t wait until the baby’s speed kicks in and they’re running around the house,” you snort.

Dick clears his throat. It’s a little obvious he didn’t give too much thought to the metahuman factor.

“Like I said, every step of the way.”

***

Epilogue

“So she’s pregnant,” Tim slowly says, like he’s testing the words.

“Well yeah, she told us pretty loud and clear,” Steph retorts.

“Old man, how do you feel about becoming a grandpa? And Alfred, how do you feel about becoming a great grandpa?” Jason shouts.

Bruce, usually composed and calm, toys with a glass of whiskey and stares into the fire. “I knew that they’d have a family some day, but not so soon.”

Damian shrugs. “Grayson is extremely touchy with her. This should be a surprise to no one.”

“Gross. Don’t say that,” Duke tsks, shaking his head.

A loud crash interrupts the family from continuing their bickering. People jerk their heads towards a broken vase and a discombobulated Wally West.

“How did you even get in here?” Bruce inquires.

Wally picks himself up and dusts off his pants. “Improve your defense on your house and maybe get a butler who isn’t so nice.”

“And you’re here because…?” Damian begins.

“Uh, sis texted me and said that I could donate an Xbox to this family,” Wally answers, motioning towards a bulky brown backpack in his hands.

“Do not tell me Dick was still playing video games,” Cass signs.

“Ok, then I won’t. Anyways, here’s a free Xbox! Enjoy you guys!”

Before the mass can grill Wally any further, he bolts out of the house.

“Miss always eats a lot, but tonight she ate even more than usual at an accelerated pace. I assume the child will be a speedster," Alfred contemplates. “I’ll save this bottle for when she needs it in the toddler stage.”

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