✧･ﾟLunara･ﾟ✧

Nothing here

[pellucid-constellations]

Source Material (2)

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: You had always been a reader—always drawn to worlds outside of your own. Always seeking more. This world, Azriel's world, was trying to teach you something; you were sure of it. Or, maybe, it was where you were always meant to be.

Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: Confusion, self-harm in desperation/confusion, angst, reference to psychosis and related symptoms

a/n: Sorryyy this took so long I wanted it out sooner but life was happening! I hope you enjoy :) Promise romance will come along in time and there are some hints of something already ;) This is def slow burn though which I think is crucial for this trope okay I'm blabbing love you bye <3

Read Part One Here

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

You were alone in a room you had once read about. 

Well, maybe you hadn’t read about this room exactly, but you’d read about this house, how it was alive and had agency and had magic. You’d read about the magic that blanketed the entire world, the land of Prythian, and what a magnificent read it had been. You could vaguely remember the stage of life you had been in. You could picture the covers. There was an audiobook downloaded on your phone for one of them—maybe the second—because you’d been on a road trip and you couldn’t put the series down. 

The characters had looked a bit different in your mind. Rhysand was more built than you had initially imagined, more imposing and less lean. Azriel was… well, he was more of everything. His shoulders were broader, his jaw sharp and defined. He was frightening, in every sense of the word, but you could also remember how he moved when you were panicked. How he held your head in his hand and spoke low when he asked you questions. Your skull gave a dull throb as you thought back on your run-in with the wall, and you threw a sidelong glance at the disruption in the paint by the window. 

That had been real then. There was evidence that you had been there. Your head ached because you had done something to it. You reached your hand up to brush along your hair and had the absent thought to pinch yourself, even though you’d already experienced pain in this strange state, and so the theory that you were dreaming was squashed. You hadn’t been too attached to that one, anyway; everything had been too vivid, too coherent for it to be a figment of a dream. 

But that still left psychosis, or maybe a coma. You figured there was a difference between normal dreaming and medically induced dreaming. Given the long duration of typical comas, there were many opportunities for something like this to occur. But you had somewhat of a hard time believing a dream—even a comatose one—could be so clear. Most of your knowledge of comas was from fiction, so what you believed was also not a very reliable source. You cursed yourself for not delving further into the medical textbooks in the campus library when you were on shift.

Frustration nipped at your chest when logic and sense continued to evade you, so you huffed, slapped your palms on the bed, and gave in to the nonsensical. You slid from the bed, finally doing so without watchful eyes, and meandered around the room. You’d taken it in from the bed, mostly, but there was still the chance that you’d go to open a drawer and it would be a cardboard cutout of a desk rather than the real deal. You sighed from your nose when you opened four drawers, and all of them were, unfortunately, very real. 

To your continued disappointment, the room was rather empty save for the furniture and the pictures on the wall. It made sense that a flighty stranger would be placed in a barren guest room, but you were hoping for a little more context. For that, you walked over to the window and tried to make sense of something there. 

Your breath caught in your throat at the view. You remembered from the books that the House was built into the side of a mountain, but it was surreal to see the plummet. No rock face or landing was keeping this building up, and the sky seemed… endless, clouds and strange-looking birds flying past the walls as if the house were part of the environment, and you supposed it was. 

Velaris—the name was dropped into your memory. You peered down and could see speckles of a city, the city, but were too far up to make anything out. The passing clouds were another deterrent, and you gave up with the window after another beat. You turned, and in the vaguest reflection, you startled.

Your hand moved up before you willed it to, tracing over the shell of your ear and then slamming back down to your side. But that wasn’t enough time to properly assess, so you found your ear again, moving it in every direction it would manage, pulling closer to the window to find the point you were sure you were feeling. It was getting you nowhere, the bright sunlight washing out your reflection.

There was a mirror in this room. You remembered how it had made you panic. You spun on your heel, fingers still running over your cartilage, but you looked across the room and found nothing. The wall held a suspicious space where a picture, or a mirror, might hang, and you searched your thoughts for what you had seen before. 

Yes, there had been a mirror, and you could picture yourself in it—a blurry image of yourself, tainted by panic. Your limbs had seemed longer. Your skin had seemed to glow.

But then you had bashed your head into the wall, and thus, your mirror privileges were taken away. 

You turned back to the window and searched for the outline of your ear. 

“Um, hello.” 

You gasped, maybe yelped, your back connecting with the wall as you registered that another person had entered the room. You could hear their blood running in their veins and exactly how fast their heart beat; that didn’t seem normal. You ignored it as you took in the effervescent woman before you. 

Her hair was golden and sleek, falling in waves along her back and covering her shoulders. She wore casual clothes that seemed out of place on her, a plain shirt tucked into a flowing, draping skirt—not actually casual, not by your standards, but in comparison to what you knew this setting to be, it was quite lax. 

This had to be Mor. She clasped her hands together in front of her waist and tipped onto the balls of her feet. 

“I’m Mor,” she smiled, and you felt the muscle in your eye twitch. “I know… Well, I know that you have been through a lot, and I didn’t think you’d want to talk to those two buffoons any longer. I heard they didn’t even introduce themselves when you woke up. It’s no wonder you… well—” 

Mor seemed to wince at herself, words trailing off. Her head lopped to the side, and you snatched your hand to your side, realizing that you were still clutching the high point of your ear—which was undoubtedly pointed. 

“Tried to bash my head in?” you offered. You sounded insane, voice twinkling and light. Was that your voice? It had to be. Perhaps you were depersonalizing along with your psychotic break. 

Mor grimaced. “Right. That’s what I meant.” She nodded to the bed, taking a hesitant seat on the edge. “Would you mind talking with me for a little? I just want to know more about where you came from. We don’t—none of us want to hurt you, but the circumstances of your… appearance have been strange.”

Of course they didn’t want to hurt you; you figured that wasn’t their way. You had stopped reading the series a few years ago, too inundated with work and school and trying to figure your life out, but from what you’d heard, the cast of this novel had been acquainted with unexplained figures appearing in their home. You weren’t sure where you were in their timeline, however. That thought struck you as you slowly stepped towards the bed and sat too far away from Mor. 

“The men in here before,” you started, once again giving in and leaning into the crazy. “They mentioned something about me landing in the library?” 

Mor perked up, obviously eager to have a conversation going. “Yes. We have a library further down the mountain. There have been reports from the priestesses there that a creature living in the depths has been unsettled over the last few days, today being the most unruly. One went down to see if she could speak to him—rather brave for a priestess—and she saw you. You were, well, unclothed. And unconscious. She called for us then. You only woke up that first time when Rhysand and Azriel were in the room. Unfortunately.” 

Bryaxis—that was the creature. You also knew of the library, and the priestesses, and were able to pinpoint somewhere in your mind that Cassian, who you had not yet met, was terrified of the very creature living just beneath this house. But you couldn’t say any of that. Couldn’t paint yourself suspicious with too much information.

Of course, if you were imagining this all, that wouldn’t really matter. Unless, of course, you chose to punish yourself in this wild fever dream. That would definitely be something your brain did. 

You shook the spiralling thoughts away. 

“How long was I out?” you asked, because that was neutral. 

“About a day and a half. Rhys had tried to—wait, are you aware of… where you are?” 

“Um, Velaris?” you offered, the name sounding bulky as it came out of your mouth. 

Mor paused. Her expression twitched. 

Wrong answer. Wrong answer. You should have said no. You should have said Night Court, or even Prythian, or anything other than the only secret city in the book.

But could you keep your origins a secret? 

You felt a hysterical laugh build at the base of your throat, and the thought to ask the year drifted through your mind because, at least then, maybe you could know where in this delirious fantasy delusion your brain had dropped you off at, but you didn’t know how time was quantified here. You hadn’t the slightest frame of reference, and you couldn’t exactly ask, “Mor, remind me, have you yet killed the King of Hybern, or are we in book two?” and expect to be trusted. 

You kept your mouth shut as Mor processes the two words you have spoken. 

“Yes,” she eventually replied, the ghost of a confused smile on her face. “Are you from here? A citizen? Or, um—” 

She was having trouble finding words. In the books, you remembered Mor as confident, sure of herself, and casually intimidating. Right now, she was none of those things, and it was because of you. 

And you had a decision to make. 

You could lie, but you’d never been a very good liar, and your lack of context would make it difficult to fit into the time. One wrong move and this would all be over, your fate most likely ending with Azriel’s blade to your throat out of fear you were infiltrating their lands, and you weren’t exactly sure what would happen if you died in this strange figment of your recollection. If you were hallucinating, or even dreaming as a comatose, there could be repercussions. 

You were taking too long to answer. Mor’s expression had gone from hesitant to wary, and you were still mulling over your options. Still considering the impossible as if you weren’t already experiencing it. 

“I’m not from here,” you landed on. You stared down at the lithe stretch of your fingers and then tucked them beneath your thighs. “I think my home is very, very far away.” 

“You think?” Mor pressed. 

“I’m not exactly sure where it would be in relation to here. I don’t think I could show you on a map. Or a globe. Do you have planets here?” 

“Do we have planets?” 

“Right. That feels like a ridiculous question. I’m not quite sure how to explain any of this.” 

“Perhaps it should be done all at once.”

~~

It took a few moments for Azriel and Rhysand to return to the room. You had half a mind to ask for the rest of the inner circle to join, simply to get more explaining out of the way, but you still hadn’t decided how much you were planning to share—how much you wanted them to know that you knew.

You startled when Azriel's wings displaced the air in the room. You heard them before you saw them, the sheer size creating a presence that body alone couldn’t replicate. So far, your reflection and the ethereal, larger-than-life qualities of the fae were the most jarring to come to terms with, but you had yet to leave this room, so there were surely other feats you would need to overcome. Unless your brain shook itself loose from this state before then. 

When you jumped, Azriel seemed to as well. His feet moved in a small, unsteady pattern, his wings pressing into his back. He had kept his eyes down upon entering, but you must have made a sound, a gasp, and he looked at you with a pinched expression. You tried to avert your gaze, but it got caught on the shadows again. He was so huge, his wings hooked and towering, the inky wisps taking up even more space. 

Rhysand had also joined the group, though you found it much easier for your eyes to pass over his form as he settled against the window. 

“I apologize for scaring you earlier,” Rhysand offered, a sincere hand over his heart. He didn’t need to apologize; you had scared yourself. The lack of reflective surfaces in the room was a testament to that. “We hadn’t meant to. Truly.” 

You shook your head but didn’t reply. Struggled to reply. This felt insane. 

“Mor said you aren’t from here?” Rhysand posed. 

“I’m not,” you said, taciturn from lack of direction. You hadn’t made up your mind. Hadn’t made sense of your brain and why it was taking you on this strange trip. You could give in, or you could give way to reason and see yourself back to reality from pure spite. 

To your dismay, being curt only got you more pressing, gentle looks. Rhysand was looking at you with a tender caution, and that was confusing because before, it was only suspicion. Before, he had stayed by the door and observed you like an animal. 

Was this your brain digging in?

The High Lord met you on the bed, sitting on the corner and giving you space, but coming down to your level. "I realize that you may have been through a lot, so I’ll give you some information first, okay?” he enticed. Azriel was still standing by the window, every muscle in his body seemingly on edge. You threw him a glance before nodding at Rhys. “You know you are in Velaris—Mor told me that. And she was also gracious enough to share our names, I’ve heard.” 

Mor snorted, crossing her arms as she stood beside Azriel. 

Rhysand lowered his brows from the look he threw her. “I am the High Lord of this court. You were discovered in my library. The library is not open to the public, so since you arrived there, seemingly by a magical occurrence, my inner circle and I have had many questions.” 

“Why don’t you just look into my mind and answer your questions?” you shouted into your thoughts. “Mind-reading would be the clearest solution, since I’m already going insane.” 

“I don’t know how I ended up there,” you said instead, digging your fingers into the plush material of the bed. “I wasn’t feeling well, I passed out, and then I woke up here. I don’t—I don’t even know what your library looks like.” 

A partial lie. You had read about the contents of the library and had a general description floating in your mind, but you could only remember the vaguest outline of the space. 

Azriel was next to speak. “What do you mean—not feeling well?” 

That was simpler to answer; you could handle that. Maybe Azriel was a doctor, and this was reality seeping through. “It was like a pain in my stomach, but more like an excruciating pulling. Something was… strange inside of me. I thought maybe my appendix, but now that I’m thinking back, I’m sure that couldn’t have been it. I got up to get help, but I barely made it to the door before I was out. That’s all I remember before I woke up in this room.” 

“Appendix?” Mor murmured as Rhysand paused, let the word simmer in the space, and then leaned his elbows on his knees.

Anxiety spiked as he sat there, contemplating. Your fingers felt glued to the bed, the back of your neck prickling. You gnawed on the inside of your cheek as silence ticked past, and then you were screaming again. You were tired of screaming. 

A slinking feeling had inched its way into your mind, rolling along the edges and searching for a weak point. You thrashed back on the bed, pushing yourself against the headboard even though the threat wasn’t physical. The feeling flattened against the surface of your mind, expanding in rolling darkness, and prickled pain across your vision. You held your head in your hands but felt no relief. 

“Rhys,” Azriel said, his voice low and strained. “It is not working.” 

“Working?” you breathed out, clutching then at your chest. “What’s—” 

“Let me—” 

“Rhys.” Azriel snapped when you let out another shout. His voice was calm, a measured calm, when he said, “We can ask her. We don’t need to resort to this yet.” 

“We tried asking,” Rhysand countered. Your mind was still being invaded. Invaded, but nothing gleaned. Something ached, and something else was a sharp crack.

“I don’t—” you started and failed. “You can ask me. Ask me!” 

Shit. Shit. What was this? Were you being lobotomized in real time, unable to find your way back to the present before you were deemed really and truly unfixable? Something in your head knocked, but you were unable to answer with the pressing pain. Unable to even make sense of a knock in your mind. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t—” 

Mor’s hesitant tone was cut off. Rhysand gritted out, “We don’t have the luxury of waiting for a lie. She wasn’t telling us everything. If she’s working with them—for him—we need to—” 

“Need to what?” Azriel spat out, his voice sounding closer. The pain lessened, but the fog in your mind remained. 

“Azriel, I don’t want to hurt her, but—” 

“And so you won’t.” 

A long, pointed pause. 

The High Lord spoke once more. “We can’t take any chances.” 

“You haven’t given her a chance.” 

“No fae has that strong a barrier in their mind without having secrets. We cannot afford secrets.” 

“I can’t—” 

Your whimper cut Azriel off, the pain building again, and you couldn’t take it. It seemed never-ending. If you could drop whatever barrier they were talking about, you would, but without even the slightest knowledge of what it was, Rhysand would never stop his assault. You cracked your eyes open despite the light blistering your vision, tears brimming from the discomfort. 

“I won’t lie,” you promised, heaving out breaths before the pain could take over again. “I won’t. I promise. Please don’t do that again. Please. I don’t know—I didn’t make a barrier.” 

Azriel was nearly on the bed, his knees brushing along the mattress where he stood. You would have been startled by the proximity, but the throbbing in your head had lowered the threshold for shock. Still, the hulking Illyrian dwarfed you where you sat, shadows pooling along your lap. If you extended your hand, you could have grabbed his. 

The thought quickly extinguished from your mind. 

“Are you working for the uprising?” 

That threw you. You shook the lingering murkiness from your mind and squinted into the room to find Rhysand, the shadow from Azriel helping immensely. “I don’t know anything about an uprising.” 

It didn’t ring a single bell from the books. Maybe it was from one of the newer series you hadn’t read yet? Or a novella? An uprising seemed much too poignant for a novella. 

An ache was returning in your brain, and so you panicked. “I swear. I swear! I don’t even know how I’m here! I live in New York! I’m getting my master’s degree, and my student loans barely cover my rent! My upstairs neighbor got a tiny dog that keeps me awake half the night, and I swear I’m hallucinating all of this from chronic lack of sleep, so I’m probably shouting this into a void, but that hurts so bad and I’m begging you to believe me. I know I sound crazy. I just—” 

You paused. Took in the room. The pain had ceased, but the looks you were getting weren’t much better. You thought back to the source material these characters came from, and said what you thought might make sense. 

“I’m human. I’m not—I’m not supposed to be here. I got so scared when I saw myself because I don’t look like that. I’m not from here, and I meant that. I need to go home. Through a portal or some magic object or through that creature in the library maybe. And I don’t know what uprising you’re talking about because I come from a place where the most exciting things that happen are on my phone so I need to get back home because I have experienced more pain and fear in the last hour than I have in my entire life.” 

The room stayed silent. 

Azriel’s hands were limp at his sides.

[pellucid-constellations]

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[pellucid-constellations]

Source Material (2)

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: You had always been a reader—always drawn to worlds outside of your own. Always seeking more. This world, Azriel's world, was trying to teach you something; you were sure of it. Or, maybe, it was where you were always meant to be.

Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: Confusion, self-harm in desperation/confusion, angst, reference to psychosis and related symptoms

a/n: Sorryyy this took so long I wanted it out sooner but life was happening! I hope you enjoy :) Promise romance will come along in time and there are some hints of something already ;) This is def slow burn though which I think is crucial for this trope okay I'm blabbing love you bye <3

Read Part One Here

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

You were alone in a room you had once read about. 

Well, maybe you hadn’t read about this room exactly, but you’d read about this house, how it was alive and had agency and had magic. You’d read about the magic that blanketed the entire world, the land of Prythian, and what a magnificent read it had been. You could vaguely remember the stage of life you had been in. You could picture the covers. There was an audiobook downloaded on your phone for one of them—maybe the second—because you’d been on a road trip and you couldn’t put the series down. 

The characters had looked a bit different in your mind. Rhysand was more built than you had initially imagined, more imposing and less lean. Azriel was… well, he was more of everything. His shoulders were broader, his jaw sharp and defined. He was frightening, in every sense of the word, but you could also remember how he moved when you were panicked. How he held your head in his hand and spoke low when he asked you questions. Your skull gave a dull throb as you thought back on your run-in with the wall, and you threw a sidelong glance at the disruption in the paint by the window. 

That had been real then. There was evidence that you had been there. Your head ached because you had done something to it. You reached your hand up to brush along your hair and had the absent thought to pinch yourself, even though you’d already experienced pain in this strange state, and so the theory that you were dreaming was squashed. You hadn’t been too attached to that one, anyway; everything had been too vivid, too coherent for it to be a figment of a dream. 

But that still left psychosis, or maybe a coma. You figured there was a difference between normal dreaming and medically induced dreaming. Given the long duration of typical comas, there were many opportunities for something like this to occur. But you had somewhat of a hard time believing a dream—even a comatose one—could be so clear. Most of your knowledge of comas was from fiction, so what you believed was also not a very reliable source. You cursed yourself for not delving further into the medical textbooks in the campus library when you were on shift.

Frustration nipped at your chest when logic and sense continued to evade you, so you huffed, slapped your palms on the bed, and gave in to the nonsensical. You slid from the bed, finally doing so without watchful eyes, and meandered around the room. You’d taken it in from the bed, mostly, but there was still the chance that you’d go to open a drawer and it would be a cardboard cutout of a desk rather than the real deal. You sighed from your nose when you opened four drawers, and all of them were, unfortunately, very real. 

To your continued disappointment, the room was rather empty save for the furniture and the pictures on the wall. It made sense that a flighty stranger would be placed in a barren guest room, but you were hoping for a little more context. For that, you walked over to the window and tried to make sense of something there. 

Your breath caught in your throat at the view. You remembered from the books that the House was built into the side of a mountain, but it was surreal to see the plummet. No rock face or landing was keeping this building up, and the sky seemed… endless, clouds and strange-looking birds flying past the walls as if the house were part of the environment, and you supposed it was. 

Velaris—the name was dropped into your memory. You peered down and could see speckles of a city, the city, but were too far up to make anything out. The passing clouds were another deterrent, and you gave up with the window after another beat. You turned, and in the vaguest reflection, you startled.

Your hand moved up before you willed it to, tracing over the shell of your ear and then slamming back down to your side. But that wasn’t enough time to properly assess, so you found your ear again, moving it in every direction it would manage, pulling closer to the window to find the point you were sure you were feeling. It was getting you nowhere, the bright sunlight washing out your reflection.

There was a mirror in this room. You remembered how it had made you panic. You spun on your heel, fingers still running over your cartilage, but you looked across the room and found nothing. The wall held a suspicious space where a picture, or a mirror, might hang, and you searched your thoughts for what you had seen before. 

Yes, there had been a mirror, and you could picture yourself in it—a blurry image of yourself, tainted by panic. Your limbs had seemed longer. Your skin had seemed to glow.

But then you had bashed your head into the wall, and thus, your mirror privileges were taken away. 

You turned back to the window and searched for the outline of your ear. 

“Um, hello.” 

You gasped, maybe yelped, your back connecting with the wall as you registered that another person had entered the room. You could hear their blood running in their veins and exactly how fast their heart beat; that didn’t seem normal. You ignored it as you took in the effervescent woman before you. 

Her hair was golden and sleek, falling in waves along her back and covering her shoulders. She wore casual clothes that seemed out of place on her, a plain shirt tucked into a flowing, draping skirt—not actually casual, not by your standards, but in comparison to what you knew this setting to be, it was quite lax. 

This had to be Mor. She clasped her hands together in front of her waist and tipped onto the balls of her feet. 

“I’m Mor,” she smiled, and you felt the muscle in your eye twitch. “I know… Well, I know that you have been through a lot, and I didn’t think you’d want to talk to those two buffoons any longer. I heard they didn’t even introduce themselves when you woke up. It’s no wonder you… well—” 

Mor seemed to wince at herself, words trailing off. Her head lopped to the side, and you snatched your hand to your side, realizing that you were still clutching the high point of your ear—which was undoubtedly pointed. 

“Tried to bash my head in?” you offered. You sounded insane, voice twinkling and light. Was that your voice? It had to be. Perhaps you were depersonalizing along with your psychotic break. 

Mor grimaced. “Right. That’s what I meant.” She nodded to the bed, taking a hesitant seat on the edge. “Would you mind talking with me for a little? I just want to know more about where you came from. We don’t—none of us want to hurt you, but the circumstances of your… appearance have been strange.”

Of course they didn’t want to hurt you; you figured that wasn’t their way. You had stopped reading the series a few years ago, too inundated with work and school and trying to figure your life out, but from what you’d heard, the cast of this novel had been acquainted with unexplained figures appearing in their home. You weren’t sure where you were in their timeline, however. That thought struck you as you slowly stepped towards the bed and sat too far away from Mor. 

“The men in here before,” you started, once again giving in and leaning into the crazy. “They mentioned something about me landing in the library?” 

Mor perked up, obviously eager to have a conversation going. “Yes. We have a library further down the mountain. There have been reports from the priestesses there that a creature living in the depths has been unsettled over the last few days, today being the most unruly. One went down to see if she could speak to him—rather brave for a priestess—and she saw you. You were, well, unclothed. And unconscious. She called for us then. You only woke up that first time when Rhysand and Azriel were in the room. Unfortunately.” 

Bryaxis—that was the creature. You also knew of the library, and the priestesses, and were able to pinpoint somewhere in your mind that Cassian, who you had not yet met, was terrified of the very creature living just beneath this house. But you couldn’t say any of that. Couldn’t paint yourself suspicious with too much information.

Of course, if you were imagining this all, that wouldn’t really matter. Unless, of course, you chose to punish yourself in this wild fever dream. That would definitely be something your brain did. 

You shook the spiralling thoughts away. 

“How long was I out?” you asked, because that was neutral. 

“About a day and a half. Rhys had tried to—wait, are you aware of… where you are?” 

“Um, Velaris?” you offered, the name sounding bulky as it came out of your mouth. 

Mor paused. Her expression twitched. 

Wrong answer. Wrong answer. You should have said no. You should have said Night Court, or even Prythian, or anything other than the only secret city in the book.

But could you keep your origins a secret? 

You felt a hysterical laugh build at the base of your throat, and the thought to ask the year drifted through your mind because, at least then, maybe you could know where in this delirious fantasy delusion your brain had dropped you off at, but you didn’t know how time was quantified here. You hadn’t the slightest frame of reference, and you couldn’t exactly ask, “Mor, remind me, have you yet killed the King of Hybern, or are we in book two?” and expect to be trusted. 

You kept your mouth shut as Mor processes the two words you have spoken. 

“Yes,” she eventually replied, the ghost of a confused smile on her face. “Are you from here? A citizen? Or, um—” 

She was having trouble finding words. In the books, you remembered Mor as confident, sure of herself, and casually intimidating. Right now, she was none of those things, and it was because of you. 

And you had a decision to make. 

You could lie, but you’d never been a very good liar, and your lack of context would make it difficult to fit into the time. One wrong move and this would all be over, your fate most likely ending with Azriel’s blade to your throat out of fear you were infiltrating their lands, and you weren’t exactly sure what would happen if you died in this strange figment of your recollection. If you were hallucinating, or even dreaming as a comatose, there could be repercussions. 

You were taking too long to answer. Mor’s expression had gone from hesitant to wary, and you were still mulling over your options. Still considering the impossible as if you weren’t already experiencing it. 

“I’m not from here,” you landed on. You stared down at the lithe stretch of your fingers and then tucked them beneath your thighs. “I think my home is very, very far away.” 

“You think?” Mor pressed. 

“I’m not exactly sure where it would be in relation to here. I don’t think I could show you on a map. Or a globe. Do you have planets here?” 

“Do we have planets?” 

“Right. That feels like a ridiculous question. I’m not quite sure how to explain any of this.” 

“Perhaps it should be done all at once.”

~~

It took a few moments for Azriel and Rhysand to return to the room. You had half a mind to ask for the rest of the inner circle to join, simply to get more explaining out of the way, but you still hadn’t decided how much you were planning to share—how much you wanted them to know that you knew.

You startled when Azriel's wings displaced the air in the room. You heard them before you saw them, the sheer size creating a presence that body alone couldn’t replicate. So far, your reflection and the ethereal, larger-than-life qualities of the fae were the most jarring to come to terms with, but you had yet to leave this room, so there were surely other feats you would need to overcome. Unless your brain shook itself loose from this state before then. 

When you jumped, Azriel seemed to as well. His feet moved in a small, unsteady pattern, his wings pressing into his back. He had kept his eyes down upon entering, but you must have made a sound, a gasp, and he looked at you with a pinched expression. You tried to avert your gaze, but it got caught on the shadows again. He was so huge, his wings hooked and towering, the inky wisps taking up even more space. 

Rhysand had also joined the group, though you found it much easier for your eyes to pass over his form as he settled against the window. 

“I apologize for scaring you earlier,” Rhysand offered, a sincere hand over his heart. He didn’t need to apologize; you had scared yourself. The lack of reflective surfaces in the room was a testament to that. “We hadn’t meant to. Truly.” 

You shook your head but didn’t reply. Struggled to reply. This felt insane. 

“Mor said you aren’t from here?” Rhysand posed. 

“I’m not,” you said, taciturn from lack of direction. You hadn’t made up your mind. Hadn’t made sense of your brain and why it was taking you on this strange trip. You could give in, or you could give way to reason and see yourself back to reality from pure spite. 

To your dismay, being curt only got you more pressing, gentle looks. Rhysand was looking at you with a tender caution, and that was confusing because before, it was only suspicion. Before, he had stayed by the door and observed you like an animal. 

Was this your brain digging in?

The High Lord met you on the bed, sitting on the corner and giving you space, but coming down to your level. "I realize that you may have been through a lot, so I’ll give you some information first, okay?” he enticed. Azriel was still standing by the window, every muscle in his body seemingly on edge. You threw him a glance before nodding at Rhys. “You know you are in Velaris—Mor told me that. And she was also gracious enough to share our names, I’ve heard.” 

Mor snorted, crossing her arms as she stood beside Azriel. 

Rhysand lowered his brows from the look he threw her. “I am the High Lord of this court. You were discovered in my library. The library is not open to the public, so since you arrived there, seemingly by a magical occurrence, my inner circle and I have had many questions.” 

“Why don’t you just look into my mind and answer your questions?” you shouted into your thoughts. “Mind-reading would be the clearest solution, since I’m already going insane.” 

“I don’t know how I ended up there,” you said instead, digging your fingers into the plush material of the bed. “I wasn’t feeling well, I passed out, and then I woke up here. I don’t—I don’t even know what your library looks like.” 

A partial lie. You had read about the contents of the library and had a general description floating in your mind, but you could only remember the vaguest outline of the space. 

Azriel was next to speak. “What do you mean—not feeling well?” 

That was simpler to answer; you could handle that. Maybe Azriel was a doctor, and this was reality seeping through. “It was like a pain in my stomach, but more like an excruciating pulling. Something was… strange inside of me. I thought maybe my appendix, but now that I’m thinking back, I’m sure that couldn’t have been it. I got up to get help, but I barely made it to the door before I was out. That’s all I remember before I woke up in this room.” 

“Appendix?” Mor murmured as Rhysand paused, let the word simmer in the space, and then leaned his elbows on his knees.

Anxiety spiked as he sat there, contemplating. Your fingers felt glued to the bed, the back of your neck prickling. You gnawed on the inside of your cheek as silence ticked past, and then you were screaming again. You were tired of screaming. 

A slinking feeling had inched its way into your mind, rolling along the edges and searching for a weak point. You thrashed back on the bed, pushing yourself against the headboard even though the threat wasn’t physical. The feeling flattened against the surface of your mind, expanding in rolling darkness, and prickled pain across your vision. You held your head in your hands but felt no relief. 

“Rhys,” Azriel said, his voice low and strained. “It is not working.” 

“Working?” you breathed out, clutching then at your chest. “What’s—” 

“Let me—” 

“Rhys.” Azriel snapped when you let out another shout. His voice was calm, a measured calm, when he said, “We can ask her. We don’t need to resort to this yet.” 

“We tried asking,” Rhysand countered. Your mind was still being invaded. Invaded, but nothing gleaned. Something ached, and something else was a sharp crack.

“I don’t—” you started and failed. “You can ask me. Ask me!” 

Shit. Shit. What was this? Were you being lobotomized in real time, unable to find your way back to the present before you were deemed really and truly unfixable? Something in your head knocked, but you were unable to answer with the pressing pain. Unable to even make sense of a knock in your mind. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t—” 

Mor’s hesitant tone was cut off. Rhysand gritted out, “We don’t have the luxury of waiting for a lie. She wasn’t telling us everything. If she’s working with them—for him—we need to—” 

“Need to what?” Azriel spat out, his voice sounding closer. The pain lessened, but the fog in your mind remained. 

“Azriel, I don’t want to hurt her, but—” 

“And so you won’t.” 

A long, pointed pause. 

The High Lord spoke once more. “We can’t take any chances.” 

“You haven’t given her a chance.” 

“No fae has that strong a barrier in their mind without having secrets. We cannot afford secrets.” 

“I can’t—” 

Your whimper cut Azriel off, the pain building again, and you couldn’t take it. It seemed never-ending. If you could drop whatever barrier they were talking about, you would, but without even the slightest knowledge of what it was, Rhysand would never stop his assault. You cracked your eyes open despite the light blistering your vision, tears brimming from the discomfort. 

“I won’t lie,” you promised, heaving out breaths before the pain could take over again. “I won’t. I promise. Please don’t do that again. Please. I don’t know—I didn’t make a barrier.” 

Azriel was nearly on the bed, his knees brushing along the mattress where he stood. You would have been startled by the proximity, but the throbbing in your head had lowered the threshold for shock. Still, the hulking Illyrian dwarfed you where you sat, shadows pooling along your lap. If you extended your hand, you could have grabbed his. 

The thought quickly extinguished from your mind. 

“Are you working for the uprising?” 

That threw you. You shook the lingering murkiness from your mind and squinted into the room to find Rhysand, the shadow from Azriel helping immensely. “I don’t know anything about an uprising.” 

It didn’t ring a single bell from the books. Maybe it was from one of the newer series you hadn’t read yet? Or a novella? An uprising seemed much too poignant for a novella. 

An ache was returning in your brain, and so you panicked. “I swear. I swear! I don’t even know how I’m here! I live in New York! I’m getting my master’s degree, and my student loans barely cover my rent! My upstairs neighbor got a tiny dog that keeps me awake half the night, and I swear I’m hallucinating all of this from chronic lack of sleep, so I’m probably shouting this into a void, but that hurts so bad and I’m begging you to believe me. I know I sound crazy. I just—” 

You paused. Took in the room. The pain had ceased, but the looks you were getting weren’t much better. You thought back to the source material these characters came from, and said what you thought might make sense. 

“I’m human. I’m not—I’m not supposed to be here. I got so scared when I saw myself because I don’t look like that. I’m not from here, and I meant that. I need to go home. Through a portal or some magic object or through that creature in the library maybe. And I don’t know what uprising you’re talking about because I come from a place where the most exciting things that happen are on my phone so I need to get back home because I have experienced more pain and fear in the last hour than I have in my entire life.” 

The room stayed silent. 

Azriel’s hands were limp at his sides.

[cowboyballads]

beak boy beak boy

just figuring out helmet cowl things

[depsidase]

[spcncershybrid]

senses | cregan

[SPOILERS FOR S3 EP 1]

—pairing: cregan stark x velaryon!wife!reader

—summary: feeling the death of your twin brother, cregan comforts you and makes a promise. 

—warnings: reader is pregnant, canon death, death of a twin, descriptions of wounds (?), if i missed any lmk in comments

—notes: merged this with another req i got w a similar premise, and ngl i don’t remember how long between jace’s visit to winterfell and tbotg so i made it a few months. lwk hate the ending of this :((

—word count: 1K

—reqs are open, read pinned before requesting!

The cold crisp air of Winterfell made you shiver as you pulled the furs over your body. The sun shining through the room, Cregan’s firm hand on your stomach rubbing it. The peaceful morning doing nothing for your restless eyes.

“You rest well.” He asked as he felt you move.

“You watched me all night, you tell me.” You said turning to face him.

Cregan let out a gruff laugh. “Our little dragon wolf kept you up but you managed to sleep.”

He helped you sit up a sinking feeling flowing through your body.

“Something feels off,” You said, placing a hand on your bump.

“With the babe?” He placed his hands over yours.

You shook your head sitting up. “You know when you have those moments where you feel something bad is going to happen.”

“Such as?” 

“I don’t know. But I feel as if something is going to happen to Jace.” You whispered looking out the window into the foggy air.

Cregan shifted to sit up beside you.

“Don’t dwell on it. If it gets worse later you know where to find me.”

“Just rest.” Cregan gave a soft kiss on the side of your head making you nod.

He stood up getting ready for the day.You watched as he put on the various furs and his sword.

Throughout the day the feeling kept creeping up at random moments. These were the moments you wish you still lived on Dragonstone.

Anytime you felt uneasy you'd go to your mother or twin brother Jace. You could go to Cregan but nothing beats the comfort of being in a safe space.

You held the cloak closer to your body keeping a hand rested over your bump. 

You watched as Cregan sat at the table looking over war plans. Winterfell isn't deep within the war just yet but he wanted to be ready.

Jace was here not so long ago to fully secure Cregan’s allegiance to your mother. It was an easy decision given the fact you've been wed for months.

Sitting by the window you looked over the snowy skies. 

The hair on your neck raised as you turned to face him. A sharp pain creeping through your back as you sucked in a breath.

“You alright?” Cregan said, putting down the paper.

You held back a sob as the pain began to spread. A heat running through your chest and neck.

The metallic taste of blood filling invading your mouth.

Outside your dragon shrieked, sensing your discomfort.

In three strides Cregan was by your side crouching down grabbing your hand.

“Something's wrong.” You whispered eyes glossed over with tears.

“Shall I get the maester?” He stood up but you caught his arm before he could leave.

“Stay. Our child is fine.” You said your eyes filled with tears that were threatening to spill.

“What happened?”

“I don't feel him. I don't feel Jace.” Your voice cracked as you looked up at him.

“He is safe and protected in Dragonstone. Nothing could happen to him.” He let a nervous laugh slip.

His attempts to comfort you remained unsuccessful as tears began flowing down your cheeks.

You shook your head profusely, your throat aching as you continued crying.

“He’s dead.” You managed to choke out as Cregan pulled you in for a hug.

He moved to sit in the chair slipping you onto his lap. A hand firmly gliding up and down your back as your cries tired you out.

He carried you to your shared bedchambers and covered you up. His teeth caught his bottom lip as he stared at your tear stained face.

Cregan let out a sigh as he ran a hand over his face. He hoped you were wrong.

In a week's time Cregan stood on top of the wall watching beyond it.

“Lord Stark. A letter from Her Grace, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen.” A voice caught his attention.

He nodded, sticking out his hand, and grabbed the piece of parchment.

The red seal of House Targaryen staring back at him made him tense up.

Her elegant handwriting made his breath hitch as he skimmed the words.

Prince Jacaerys Velaryon has died. A ceremony will be held on Dragonstone.

He cursed under his breath, heavy footsteps walking towards the hoist. Once he was back on the ground he came to find you.

He found you in one of the rooms laughing and talking with your ladies maids.

“Cregan! The ladies and I were thinking of a mix of northern and valyrian names for the babe.” Your bright smile practically lit up the room as you looked at him.

Your eyes traced his form dropping to the piece of parchment in his grip. When you looked up he was already staring at you.

Your heart sank as you stood up. Walking to the window looking out, the breeze doing nothing to calm you.

“May you ladies excuse us? I would love to hear the names another time.” Cregan said, opening the door.

One by one they all filed out leaving you both alone. The weight of something you both already knew lingered in the air.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” You asked not even turning to look at him.

“There was a battle over The Gullet. Jacaerys went to fight and died at sea. Both Jace and Vermax are gone.”

“How?”

“She didn’t say.”

A pang of guilt flooded Cregan’s chest as you clutched the windowsill. He walked up behind you and placed his hands over yours.

He knew how close you both were and you haven’t been able to visit home in a few months. The last time you saw him was months ago before you were even pregnant.

That was when you both were informed of Luke’s death. You only flew back when Rhaenyra found the cloak.

“I want them gone. Every single Green.” You whispered leaning back into his chest.

Cregan laid a hand on your stomach running it up and down. He didn’t know what other way to sooth you other than to hold you close.

He did care for Jacaerys. When he came to Winterfell they spent a lot of time together but that bond was nothing compared to the one you had.

“We have to go.”

“Agreed.”

“Promise me something.” You placed your hand on his and tapped it.

He hummed leaning his head on your shoulder.

“When you are called to fight, make no hesitations. Fight for my mother and now my claim to the throne. Avenge my brother.” You said.

“I will not hesitate."

spcncershybrid, 2026. I do not condone my work to be copied, fed into ai, or translated and do not claim it as your own, thank you. Feedback is welcome!

[suigenerisisadiva]

AGORA HILLS

Pairing: Wally West x Batsis!Reader

Summary: You and Wally West have spent six months loving each other in secret, built on years of quiet pining, stolen glances, and almosts. But as the world keeps pulling you apart in public, the strain of hiding something so real begins to crack… until one late-night confession changes everything.

CW: Making out, use of y/n, swearing, hidden relationships, I'm sourcing like a million different timelines so it may be confusing but it's just to show the progression of hero life (young justice, as well as Titans okay), Bruce being a good dad and tryna set his daughter up

WC: 2.6k

⤷ Part of my 4K event <3

"Baby, can you call me back? I miss you, It's so lonely in my mansion"

🎧 -> Agora Hills by Doja Cat

Wally West doesn’t fall in love all at once.

He slips into it slowly, like something he doesn’t realise he’s already drowning in.

It starts when you’re younger, two kids orbiting the same world, always in the same rooms, always laughing a little too easily around each other. You were never hard to be around.

That was the problem. You made everything feel lighter, easier, like the weight of being who you were didn’t matter as much when he was standing next to you.

At first, you’re just his friend.

His favourite person to spar with, to joke with, to sit beside at Mount Justice at ridiculous hours of the night when neither of you can sleep. He memorises your habits without meaning to—the way you tilt your head when you’re listening, the way you smile when you’re trying not to laugh.

Then one day, after several years, something shifts.

At the Titans Tower, over pizza and crappy movies, you laugh at something he says, and it lingers a second too long. Your hand brushes his, and instead of pulling away, you stay. He notices everything all at once—the way you look in your suit, the talent and skill you possess, your virtues, the way people gravitate toward you, the way he himself does. (ik it's mad cringe but stay w me now)

And suddenly, being around you isn’t just easy. He never really clocked that you both had gotten older. He never internalised the feelings he had for you, and how they matured into something greater now that you've both aged.

It’s dangerous.

Because now he wants more.

He doesn’t say anything. He can’t.

You’re you—Bruce Wayne’s daughter, little sister of his closest friends, and said friends who would literally smite him if they knew of his crush on you, you're the girl everyone watches, the girl who belongs to a world far more complicated than his.

So he does what he’s always done best (not really, but alas).

He waits, and he watches, and he flops.

Hard.

Dick notices first. Of course he does. One look at Wally across the room, staring at you like you’ve hung the stars yourself, and he’s already smirking. Jason catches on next, less amused, more suspicious. Roy takes one look and immediately decides it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen.

None of them say anything to you. But Wally knows they know.

It doesn’t matter.

Because you don’t.

Until you do.

It happens late one night at the Watchtower, when everything is quiet and the world feels far away. You’re sitting close, closer than usual, talking about nothing, about everything. He doesn’t plan it. He doesn’t think. His hand brushes yours, and this time, he doesn’t pull away. You don’t either.

Your fingers curl into his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He looks at you, breath caught somewhere in his chest, and for a second, he thinks he imagined it.

But then you smile, soft and certain, and just like that—

Everything changes.

After a good conversation about what you two are now, and six months later, Wally is absolutely gone for you.

And it’s becoming a problem. Not because you don’t feel the same. Oh no, you reciprocate just as much

But because no one else knows.

The training facility at the WatchTower is loud with energy, filled with younger heroes running drills, sparring, testing limits. It’s the kind of session where everyone’s watching everyone else, measuring, learning, competing.

You’re in the centre of it.

And you’re destroying everyone.

Not in a showy way—nothing flashy or over-the-top—but precise, controlled, efficient. Every movement is deliberate. Every strike lands exactly where it should. You move like you’ve done this your entire life, like it’s second nature.

Because it is.

Wally isn’t supposed to be staring. He’s supposed to be focusing on his own training, running laps, helping where needed. Instead, he’s leaning against the wall, completely locked in on you.

Kon notices first, following Wally’s line of sight. Then Cassie. Then Bart, who grins immediately, elbowing Kon like he’s just discovered something hilarious.

“Dude,” Bart mutters, not even trying to be subtle. “He’s gone.”

Kon smirks. “That’s not a crush, that’s a full-blown situation.”

Cassie folds her arms, watching the way Wally doesn’t even blink as you take someone down and offer them a hand up right after. “Does she know?”

“Probably not,” Bart says. “But she probably will.”

Wally doesn’t hear them. He just sees you.

The way you push your hair back, the way you laugh with someone after a match, the way you carry yourself like you don’t even realise how incredible you are.

And Goodness—

He wants to tell everyone.

Later, at the Watchtower, the feeling only gets worse.

You’re leaning against the console, talking, relaxed, comfortable. Roy’s standing too close, smirking in that way he always does when he’s messing around.

“C’mon,” Roy says, nudging your shoulder lightly. “You’re telling me no one’s locked that down yet? That’s crazy.”

You roll your eyes, amused. “Maybe I’m just selective.”

“Ouch,” he grins. “Guess I didn’t make the cut.”

“You never had a chance.” (reference to my future 4k fic heheheheh)

Wally watches the whole thing from across the room, jaw tightening.

He knows Roy isn’t serious. He knows it’s just how he is—flirting for the sake of it, pushing buttons, having fun. It still bothers him more than it should.

Because Roy gets to do this. Stand close to you. Joke with you. Exist next to you without it being a secret.

Wally looks away, running a hand through his hair, frustrated in a way he can’t quite shake.

He wants that, he wants you.

It doesn’t help when he sees you on TV.

You’re sitting beside Vicki Vale, composed, elegant, every bit the Wayne the world expects you to be. The interview is light at first—charity work, appearances, your role in the public eye.

Then it shifts.

Vicki smiles, tilting her head slightly. “So, Miss Wayne, anyone special with you tonight?”

Wally’s heart stops, just for a second. You don’t hesitate, instead you smile, effortless.

“It’s just me,” you say. “That’s special enough.”

The moment passes.

But Wally doesn’t move, because he knows why you said it, doesn't mean it doesn't still hurt. But it's not like you don't feel it too, you feel it more than you let on.

At dinner that night, the manor is full, everyone scattered around the table, conversation flowing easily.

Bruce brings it up casually, like it’s just another topic.

“So, sweetheart,” he says, setting his glass down, “the boy you met last week at the gala in Municiberg—Tony. What did you think of him?”

You pause, already knowing where this conversation was heading.

“…he seems nice, Daddy. Why?”

Tim doesn’t even look up. “He’s asking because you’re a Wayne and still a single bitch.”

You kick him under the table.

“Language,” Bruce says mildly, though there’s no real bite to it. Then he looks back at you, softer. “You know I just want the best for you darling. I’d hate for you to be lonely. The rest of your siblings all have someone.”

Jason adds in "Ugh even Damian, how'd he find a girlfriend before you?"

"Nika is not my girlfriend"

"Sure buddy"

You force a small smile.

“Yeah. I know, Dad.”

But your chest feels tight, because you’re not lonely.

Not really. You just can’t say why.

You find Dinah later. Ironically, you told her before your own father.

She’s leaning against the counter in the Queen Penthouse kitchen, arms crossed, watching you with that knowing look she always has.

“You’re thinking too loud,” she says.

You huff a quiet laugh. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only if you know what to look for.”

You lean beside her, staring at nothing in particular.

“…I love him.” It slips out before you can stop it.

Dinah doesn’t react, doesn’t make a big deal out of it. Just nods.

“I figured.”

“I just—” you exhale, frustrated. “I don’t want to hide him. I hate it. But I also don’t want everything to blow up the second we go public.”

“You’re waiting for perfect timing,” she says.

“…yeah.”

Dinah smiles slightly. “That doesn’t exist baby.”

"I don't want to hurt Dick, and I hate lying to my dad and my family about him. But people talk Dinah."

"They always have, you can't stop it." She reminds you

"S'not fair" You mumble.

Wally finds Barry. Of course he does.

Barry’s halfway through something when Wally shows up, pacing slightly, energy restless.

“Okay,” Barry says, already clocking it. “What’s wrong.”

Wally runs a hand through his hair. “I’m tired.”

“Of?”

“Not being able to say she’s mine.”

Barry softens immediately.

“…that bad, huh?”

Wally laughs quietly. “Yeah. That bad.”

He looks down, shaking his head.

“I’ve wanted her for so long, Barry. And now I have her—and I still can’t… have her.”

Barry nods slowly.

“Sounds like you already know what you want to do.”

“…yeah.”

Wally exhales.

“I just don’t know if she’s ready.”

That night—

You call him.

Or try to.

He doesn’t pick up the first time.

So you leave a message, voice soft, tired, honest in a way you only are with him.

“Baby, can you call me back? I miss you… I'm lonely.”

It’s quiet after that.

Too quiet.

And somewhere down the hall—

Alfred hears everything.

-

It starts before you even walk into the room.

Which, in hindsight, is already a bad sign.

The Batcave is quieter than usual, but not empty, Dick’s leaning against one of the consoles, Jason’s sprawled in a chair like he owns the place, Tim’s typing away with that focused intensity that means he’s absolutely listening to everything, and Steph is perched nearby, scrolling through something on her phone.

Duke’s there too, arms folded, watching the others like he’s waiting for something to happen.

“…I’m telling you,” Steph says, lowering her phone slightly. “She’s been weird lately.”

Jason huffs. “She’s always weird.”

“Not like this,” Steph insists. “Like—smiling at her phone weird.”

Tim doesn’t look up. “Technically, that indicates external stimulation.”

“…she has a life, Tim,” Dick says.

“Not one we know about,” Tim replies.

That gets a pause.

Jason leans forward slightly. “…you think she’s got a guy?”

Steph gasps like this is the most exciting thing she’s heard all week. “Oh my god, she does.”

Duke raises a brow. “You’re jumping.”

“I’m not jumping, I’m connecting dots,” Steph says. “She’s been leaving the room to take calls, she’s been dodging questions, and she literally ignored Roy flirting with her last week.”

Jason narrows his eyes. “She ignored Roy?”

“Exactly.”

“That’s suspicious.”

Dick exhales, rubbing his face. “…or she just didn’t feel like entertaining him.”

“No,” Steph says firmly. “No, something’s up.”

Tim finally pauses his typing, looking up slowly.

“…if she is hiding something,” he says, “it would have to be significant enough to warrant concealment from all of us.”

Jason leans back. “So… a relationship.”

Silence.

They all think about it.

Then—

“…no way,” Dick mutters.

Steph grins. “Oh, there is absolutely a way.”

By the time you walk into the manor dining room the next morning, the energy is already off.

You feel it immediately.

The way conversations pause for just a second too long. The way Steph is smiling like she knows something. The way Jason is watching you like you’re about to confess to a crime. You narrow your eyes as you take your seat.

“…why are you all looking at me like that.”

“No reason,” Dick says too quickly.

“Just observing,” Tim adds.

“Admiring,” Steph corrects.

Jason smirks. “Waiting.”

You blink.

“…for what.”

“No idea,” Duke says, though he doesn’t look convinced.

You reach for your coffee slowly. “You’re all being weird.”

“Are we?” Steph hums.

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

You stare at her. “I hate you.”

“Love you too.”

Your father hasn’t said anything yet. That’s what really sets you on edge.

He’s at the head of the table, composed as ever, reading something on his tablet like none of this concerns him—but you know better.

He’s listening.

And then—

Alfred clears his throat.

It’s soft and polite, but it cuts through the room like a blade.

“I do hope,” he begins, setting down a plate in front of you, “that your late-night phone conversations are not interfering with your rest, Miss.”

Everything stops.

Your hand freezes halfway to your cup.

“…I’m sorry?”

Steph’s eyes go wide.

Tim’s head snaps up.

Dick goes completely still.

Alfred smiles pleasantly, like he hasn’t just detonated a bomb in the middle of breakfast.

“I happened to overhear a rather… affectionate exchange last evening.” (alfred in his snitching era)

Your heart drops.

Straight to the floor.

“No,” you say immediately. “No, you didn’t—”

“‘Baby, can you call me back? I'm so loneyl’” Jason recites, grinning like he’s just been handed the best material of his life.

You whip your head toward him. “YOU WERE LISTENING?”

“I wasn’t,” he says. “But I am now.”

“Oh my god.”

Tim’s already typing something, eyes narrowed. “Timestamp?”

“Tim!” you snap.

Dick runs a hand through his hair, staring at you like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle in real time.

“…you have a boyfriend.”

It’s not a question.

Steph gasps again, practically vibrating. “YOU HAVE A BOYFRIEND?”

“I don’t—”

“You said ‘baby,’” Duke points out.

“That could be anyone—”

“You said ‘I'm lonley",’” Tim adds.

“…so?!”

Jason leans forward, eyes sharp now. “How long.” You stand up abruptly, chair scraping loudly.

“I’m not doing this.”

Bruce finally speaks. “Sit.”

You stop, because when he uses that tone—

You sit. Slowly.

“…I’d like an explanation.” Your mind is racing, heart pounding, every possible outcome flashing through your head at once.

“…it’s not that serious,” you try.

Jason laughs. “Six months, calling someone ‘baby,’ and it’s not serious?” Your stomach drops.

“…how do you know it’s six months.”

Tim doesn’t look up. “You’ve been acting differently for like twenty-four weeks.”

You stare at him.

“…I hate you.”

“Noted.”

Bruce’s gaze hasn’t left you.

“…who is it.”

There’s no point lying, not anymore, not with all of them looking at you like this.

You swallow.

“…Wally.”

Silence.

Then—

Jason stands up so fast his chair nearly falls over, Dick grabs his arm immediately. “Nope. Sit down.”

“I’m calm,” Jason says.

“You are not calm.”

Steph is staring at you like you’ve just revealed the plot twist of the century. “Wally? As in Wally West?”

You nod weakly. Damian is yet to say anything but his expression is nothing but good.

Tim leans back slowly. “…that tracks.”

Duke exhales. “Okay. Yeah. I see it.”

Jason points at you. “He’s dead.”

“He’s not—”

“He’s breathing now,” Jason corrects. “That’s temporary.”

Bruce’s voice cuts through again.

“…how long.”

“…six months.”

That does it.

Dick lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Six months? You hid this for six months?”

Bruce exhales slowly, processing.

Then—

“Call him.”

Your eyes widen. “What?”

“Now.”

Wally answers on the first ring.

“Hey, baby—”

“Hi,” you cut in quickly. “You’re on speaker.”

There’s a pause.

“…what.”

“Hi, Wally,” Dick says.

“Hello, Wallace,” Bruce adds.

“…oh my god,” Wally breathes.

You close your eyes. “They know.”

“…yeah, I gathered.”

A beat.

Then—

“…I’m coming over.”

-

The news spreads faster than either of you expect, because of course it does.

Your family knows and that’s already too many people.

And then somehow—

The hero world starts catching on. It’s subtle at first. A glance here. A comment there.

Bart figures it out in about three seconds.

“WAIT—” he says loudly in the middle of the Watchtower. “YOU TWO ARE A THING?”

Kon blinks. “Oh.”

Cassie crosses her arms, smirking. “Took you long enough.”

Roy laughs. “I knew it!”

Wally groans. “Of course you did.”

Dick just shakes his head. “You weren’t subtle.”

“…we thought we were,” you say.

“You were not,” Tim replies.

And then—

You post.

It’s not a full reveal, not a statement.

Just a picture.

Your hand in his, fingers intertwined, the background is blurred, but anyone who knows you knows

The caption is simple.

boyfriend <3.

The internet explodes.

upcoming tracks: cry for me - jason todd

a/n: hope you all enjoyed <33

[nyukaart]

Hi gang I'm starting to really like Garth (aqualad/tempest) IS THERE ANY COMICS YOU GUYS RECOMMEND PLSPLSOLS HES SO CUTE I WANT MORE OF HIM

[nyukaart]

The way I now give comic recs for Garth is really funny.. the student has become the sensei ..

[sagrogostuff]

[shanicetjn]

Red Thread

I got massively carried away-

Slightly inspired by this song from MeloMance.

Completed - 22 October 2025

[januariat]

mr. wayne...

[l13]

we get it bro!!😭😭

[shadowsingerspriestess]

Nesta: I can’t make everyone like me, I am not Gwyn

Cassian: Not everyone likes Gwyn

Nesta: What?

Azriel: Who the fuck doesn’t like Gwyn?

Cassian: I don’t know, I was just -

Azriel: Give us the names

Nesta: NOW

[januariat]

had to make a superbat version

[kankuroplease]

My bug man should’ve been a dad js 🐝

[kankuroplease]

Late nights and ninken onesies ✨

[froggibus]

— Wally West comforts you

-> gn! reader, sad! reader, hurt/comfort

“Dick,” you sniffle, throwing open his apartment door. “I’m sad.” 

You’re halfway through Dick’s living room when you find that the man laying on his couch is not, in fact, Dick. Silly you for assuming otherwise. 

Wally West’s head pops up, red hair bouncing. “Huh?”

You cringe, spinning on your heel to leave when he’s suddenly in front of you. He takes you in, from your wet eyes to the pout on your lips. 

“Why are you sad?”

“Where’s Dick?” Your voice breaks. 

Wally says nothing, pulling you into his chest. You freeze, entirely confused by the warm set of arms currently wrapped around you.

You and Wally have never been close—at least not in the way you were close to Dick. You've never talked about your feelings with him, never spent more than a few minutes alone with him and yet, here you are.

Slowly, you peel your arms away from your sides and wrap them around him, letting your face rest in the cologne-heavy fabric of his t-shirt.

"You don't have to tell my why you're sad," he says quietly. "But I'm here."

And he means it.

dc masterlist | navigation

thanks for reading & have a wonderful weekend /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡

[whispershell]

𐙚˙⋆.♡ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐲 𝐭𝐲𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐥𝐮̈𝐝𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧

.ᐟ 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: richard "dick" grayson x f!reader + your son.

.ᐟ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐞: dick grayson has faced supervillains, aliens, and identity crises. but nothing could have prepared him for becoming thomas grayson's father.

.ᐟ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: fluff・established relationship・no physical description is given for the reader・for writing purposes, i named your baby thomas grayson・english is not my language.

.ᐟ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1,8k.

dick grayson had always been someone who knew how to adapt and handle whatever life threw at him. he was an acrobat, after all he knew how to walk a tightrope. he had been the first robin, the leader of the titans, and had even worn the mantle of batman for a time. but nothing, absolutely nothing, had prepared him for thomas grayson, your son.

sitting at the kitchen table with an extra-strong mug of coffee, dick watched him carefully. tomtom — as everyone affectionately called him — was now nine months old. he had dick's blue eyes, but his nose and little mouth were entirely yours. he was a chubby baby, with delicious rolls on his arms and legs, little feet that looked like dinner rolls, and a pair of round cheeks that were impossible to resist squishing.

tomtom sat on his play mat wearing nothing but a green onesie and a diaper, his messy hair proof that he'd had a wonderful night's sleep. he was playing with shape blocks, visibly frustrated that the triangle wouldn't fit into the circle.

at some point, he stopped playing and looked at his father, his tiny brows furrowing as he brought one of the blocks to his mouth. dick recognized that expression immediately "are you staring at me, prince?" tomtom's frown deepened. he smacked the block against the floor and let out a loud, indignant "bah!"

"oh, don't you 'bah' me, young man." dick smiled at him. tomtom did not smile back. instead, he returned to his toys with a quiet little, "eh tah pah."

life with your son was a battlefield. tomtom had a lot of personality, and dick had learned to pick his battles. bath time, for example, always started peacefully. you carried him toward the bathroom while singing some silly song about getting clean and smelling nice. tomtom loved it. he slapped his little hands against the water, splashing you, played with his rubber duck, and delivered lengthy speeches made entirely of "ah gah bah teh" that sounded incredibly important.

the trouble came afterward. dick would carry him back to the nursery wrapped in a frog-hooded towel. tomtom tolerated everything until dick finished drying him off and laid him on the changing table. then the tiny menace transformed into an escaping octopus "easy there, champ. it's just your diaper. we'll be done in a second."

tomtom immediately began grunting and protesting. his chubby legs kicked wildly through the air while dick kept his hands around him, knowing his son could already roll over.

dick grayson, who had fought countless villains throughout gotham, felt genuinely challenged by a nine-month-old baby. he moved quickly, treating the diaper like a military operation, trying to secure it while holding down his son's flailing legs.

but tomtom was faster. a warm stream suddenly hit dick square in the chest, soaking his shirt. there was a long moment of silence. then "you just peed on me, young man?"

tomtom stared back serenely. his chin was lifted proudly, and he sucked on his thumb as if absolutely nothing unusual had happened. dick sighed heavily, looking from the wet stain on his shirt to his son. "i fight crime at night, but during the day i lose to a toothless baby."

you appeared in the doorway, struggling not to laugh "well, he does have excellent aim." dick narrowed his eyes at you and finished fastening the diaper. once tomtom was dressed and smelling wonderfully baby-like again, dick scooped him up and handed him to you, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. "i'm going to shower and wash this shirt since mr. pee-pants here apparently decided it was the perfect target."

one ordinary afternoon, dick decided to do some minor maintenance on his gear while tomtom played nearby. nothing major, just checking a few settings. his son seemed completely occupied with a little picture book he'd received as a gift. dick underestimated him.

it took only a minute of distraction for tomtom to grab one of nightwing's escrima sticks with both chubby hands and shove one end straight into his mouth. his eyes sparkled as though he'd discovered the greatest treasure in the world. "no, no, no..." dick immediately snatched it away.

tomtom froze. his little hands remained suspended exactly where they had been. slowly, his face changed. his eyebrows knitted together, his eyes widened, his lips pushed out into a dramatic pout "ah tah teh," he said indignantly.

the sound started soft but gradually grew louder, until suddenly "AH BAH TAH PAH GAH!" his tiny body stiffened with outrage. his little hands smacked against the padded floor while his legs kicked furiously. it was a complete scolding. a full lecture delivered in the language of babies, dick could only imagine what it meant.

holding the escrima stick, he stared in stunned silence. he'd been yelled at by plenty of people before, never had he felt so thoroughly reprimanded as he did now by an angry nine-month-old. "sorry?" he offered weakly. then he tried distraction. a giraffe teether, a toy guitar, several other toys. tomtom threw every single one onto the floor.

but none of that compared to the wooden spoon incident.

it was a peaceful evening. the breeze drifting through the apartment windows in blüdhaven felt pleasant. both of you had the night off. an upbeat song played loudly through the apartment while you danced around the kitchen with tomtom in your arms.

the baby laughed and squealed happily as dick prepared dinner. at one point, you stopped beside him, showing tomtom what his father was cooking while taking a sip of your soda.

tomtom reached toward dick. dick pretended to nibble on his chubby little hand, the resulting baby laughter was immediate and explosive. then tomtom spotted it. the wooden spoon resting on the counter.

he reached for it, opening and closing his fingers. "you want the spoon, sweetheart?" you said. "ah!" he replied excitedly and you handed it to him. tomtom examined it carefully before flashing a toothless grin.

he waved it over his head, pressed the end against your cheek, and happily chewed on the handle. for several glorious minutes, there was peace. then dick needed the spoon.

he approached with a relaxed smile, foolishly believing he could simply take it back. "come on, sweetheart. time to give daddy his spoon back." he reached for the handle.

tomtom immediately pulled it closer and frowned, releasing a warning sound. dick tried again. this time, a battle cry erupted from the baby's tiny mouth. in one swift, determined motion… the wooden spoon swung through the air in a perfect arc and landed squarely against dick's forehead.

thunk.

silence.

only the music continued playing in the background. you turned around with tomtom still in your arms, covering your mouth to keep from laughing. dick stood frozen. his forehead throbbed faintly as he stared at the two of you.

tomtom clutched the spoon like a royal scepter. an offended king who had personally delivered justice. his brows were furrowed, his little chest rose and fell with quick breaths. "he..." dick said weakly "he hit me. with a spoon."

you finally managed to compose yourself. adopting your best serious expression, you gently removed the spoon from tomtom's hand and placed it back on the counter "thomas grayson, we do not hit daddy. that hurts." you tried your best to sound stern in a way the baby might understand.

dick looked at his son. the chubby cheeks, the downcast eyes. he took a deep breath and fought back a laugh. he knew that if he laughed, he'd only encourage the behavior.

after a few moments, he held out his arms and took tomtom from you. dick kissed his little belly and blew raspberries against it. "you've got quite the temper, don't you, son? i think you got that from your dad."

perhaps bedtime was the worst battlefield of all. tomtom fought sleep as though it were his archenemy. his eyes would turn red, his eyelids grew heavy, but he refused to surrender.

he cried, kicked, delivered angry speeches to the ceiling with tiny fists clenched tight. yet dick continued rocking him gently, humming songs he remembered his mother singing to him. memories so old they sometimes felt like dreams.

when sleep finally won, tomtom melted against his father's chest. his little body relaxed, his breathing steadied, his face softened, and he became the most peaceful thing in the world.

those were the moments dick loved most. because it still amazed him. he and the love of his life had created this perfect little boy. tomtom was the result of your love, the perfect combination of both of you.

whenever dick looked at him, he could see pieces of each of you reflected back. and he loved that. loved knowing that a piece of your love existed in the world, growing healthy, happy, and cherished.

dick carried him to the crib and carefully laid him down on the soft mattress, tucking a warm blanket around him. tomtom sucked peacefully on his pacifier. it was hard to believe that only minutes earlier he'd been waging war against sleep itself.

dick lingered beside the crib for several minutes, watching over him. occasionally, he brushed a fingertip across one of those round cheeks.

dick grayson was many things. an acrobat, a hero, a leader, a symbol of hope for a chaotic city. he had learned how to fall and get back up, how to fight, how to trust others. but none of it compared to being a father.

now he finally understood bruce in a way he never had before. he understood the fear. and he understood the love. he understood that being a father wasn't about perfection, it was about showing up. every single night.

when dick returned to your bedroom, you were already in bed waiting for him. he climbed in beside you and immediately pulled you close. your head settled against his strong chest while his fingers gently stroked your hair.

"did he fall asleep?" you asked softly. dick answered with a quiet hum. you lifted your head to look at him, his blue eyes were wet. "sweetheart... are you crying?" you cupped his cheek gently.

dick hadn't even realized it. "it's just..." his voice caught "he's so small. and i... i love him so much. so much. i can't even explain it. it's the kind of love that fills my entire heart. and i'm so scared of getting it wrong, darling..."

you smiled and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. "dick, you're not going to get it wrong. you're the best father he could ever have, and we both love you." dick wasn't sure he was the best father in the world. but every time he looked at thomas grayson, he became absolutely certain of one thing: he would spend the rest of his life trying to be. every time tomtom cried because the world was unfair and sleep was a tyrant, dick would be there. he would always be there.

© all rights reserved | please do not translate, repost or publish my works without permission. they’re personal to me, and i hope you’ll respect that.