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[iwrite0]

If you can't tell, I have family issues, expect more parents - child tropes and comfort.

IT'S SO SELF INSERT IT'S INSANE BUT IT HEALS LITTLE PARTS OF ME OKAY 😭

[iwrite0]

"You work too hard"

Caleb Xia a MC! Reader

Masterlist and taglist

Requests are open

The clock blinked 2:12 AM in soft, accusatory red digits.

Your eyes stung from the blue glow of the laptop, fingers paused mid-keystroke, trembling slightly from the caffeine and sheer exhaustion. You’d told yourself—just one more hour, just one more report, just one more damn thing—until hours slipped like sand through your hands.

You barely noticed when the door creaked open. But you felt him—Caleb’s presence was like gravity, heavy and calm, standing behind you long enough for silence to become a weight on your shoulders.

“You're still at it?” he asked quietly, voice a low hum, dangerous in the way thunder warned of the storm.

You didn’t look back. “Deadlines don’t wait, Caleb.”

You heard the shift in his breath before the sound of your laptop lid snapping shut made you flinch.

“Neither does your body,” he said. “Or your sanity.”

You turned around fast, frustration bubbling up. “I’m fine. I’m just tired, and I’ll sleep when—”

Caleb stepped forward, closing the space between you in two long strides. “You’ve been ‘just tired’ for a week. You’re running on fumes and espresso, pips.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he caught your chin between his fingers, tipping your face up to meet his eyes.

“You forget I know you,” he whispered, softer now, his thumb brushing beneath your eye. “I know what it looks like when you're lying to everyone... and when you're lying to yourself.”

Something in you cracked open.

Not enough to cry.

Just enough to fall into him.

He caught you instantly, hands slipping to your waist, grounding you with that familiar, unshakable strength. He didn’t say anything for a long minute, just held you close, letting your forehead rest against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear.

“Let me take care of you for a little while,” he murmured, lips against your temple.

You nodded, barely audible. “Please.”

That was all it took.

In the next breath, he scooped you up—laptop forgotten, deadlines be damned—and carried you to the bedroom like it was a promise. He laid you down gently on the mattress, but the look in his eyes as he hovered over you?

Not so gentle.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” he said as his hands slid beneath the hem of your shirt. “You don’t have to break yourself to prove anything.”

His touch was reverent, but purposeful—calloused hands tracing fire over your skin, lips following the trail like a prayer. The kiss he pressed to your collarbone wasn’t rushed, but full of intent.

“I want you soft,” he breathed, tugging your shirt over your head. “I want you to melt for me.”

Your breath hitched as his fingers found your thighs, pulling you closer. “You’ve been so tense. Let me undo you.”

“Caleb—”

He kissed you like an answer. Like a vow. His mouth was warm and sweet, but demanding. You couldn’t think anymore—not about work, or pressure, or exhaustion—just him. His weight, his heat, his voice in your ear as he slowly, carefully, thoroughly reminded you how to feel.

When you finally unraveled in his arms, there was nothing left but the rise and fall of your breath, and the way he pulled you close after—arms wrapped around your waist like you were the most important deadline he’d ever meet.

NSFW Below the cut

The room had quieted, but not stilled. Caleb’s body above yours radiated heat like a fire just beginning to catch. You lay there, your shirt somewhere on the floor, his mouth tracing the line of your jaw with the kind of focus that made your stomach flutter.

“You’ve been burning yourself out,” he murmured, voice rougher now, darker. “Now you’re mine. No distractions. No excuses.”

He tilted your chin up, forcing your eyes to his, and held you there like a tether. “Say it,” he breathed.

“…I’m yours.”

The words fell from your lips shaky but real—and the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes nearly made your thighs clench.

“Good.” He kissed you again, deeper this time, his tongue sweeping against yours slowly, like he had all the time in the world to unravel you. His hands moved with the same intention—one sliding up your side to palm your breast through your bra, the other tracing slow circles on your hip, grounding and possessive.

You gasped as his thumb brushed over your nipple. “Caleb—”

“Shh, I know, I know pips” he soothed, then leaned down to press a warm kiss to the swell of your chest. “I know exactly what you need.”

He undid your bra with one practiced flick and discarded it like it offended him. His lips followed instantly, wrapping around your nipple while his hand continued its slow descent. You arched into him, the friction of his mouth and his hand enough to make you gasp again—but he didn’t speed up. If anything, he slowed down.

“No rushing,” he said between kisses. “Not tonight.”

Your breath hitched when he slipped his fingers into your waistband and tugged your bottoms down your thighs. You were bare to him now, laid out and soft under his gaze, but he looked at you like you were something sacred.

“Touch me,” you whispered, voice raw with need.

His eyes darkened. “I am touching you,” he said, low and pointed, his fingers sliding between your thighs now, teasing over your folds—just enough pressure to make you whimper.

“But I want—”

He cut you off with a sharp kiss, biting your lower lip gently before pulling back.

“You don’t tell me what you want tonight,” he said softly, pressing one finger inside you in one slow, deep motion that made your hips jerk. “You take what I give you.”

Your head dropped back against the pillow, a broken sound spilling from your throat.

He watched every twitch of your body, curling his fingers just right, lips back on your breast as you gasped and writhed under his touch. He built you up carefully, deliberately—like you were a song he knew by heart, one he was determined to play from start to finish with no wrong notes.

And when he finally slid his cock between your legs, thick and hard and slow as he thrusted into you, he rested his forehead rested against yours.

“You feel so good,” he whispered, voice shaking now. “So fucking good for me.”

Your hands gripped his shoulders, legs wrapping around his waist instinctively as he started to move—slow, deep thrusts that had you clawing at his back for more, even as he held you down.

He didn't let you rush. Every time you bucked your hips or begged for faster, he pinned your wrists down beside your head, kissed you until your breath caught, and reminded you:

“You’ve given me control, baby. Let me take care of you.”

And he did. He fucked you like worship, like discipline, like medicine.

You he finally le you cum you were trembling under him with a sob in your throat. And he didn’t stop—not until he followed you over the edge, burying his face in your neck and moaning your name like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

After, you lay tangled in his arms, his breath soft against your shoulder.

[iwrite0]

It's been a hot minute since I've written smut

We're about to change that

[iwrite0]

Smoke Signals

Batman/Bruce Wayne x Adopted! Reader

Masterlist

The quiet hum of the manor at 2 AM was usually a comfort—a rare kind of stillness Bruce Wayne had come to appreciate after years of chaos. It meant everyone was safe. It meant peace.

But tonight, something was off.

Faint, acrid. A scent barely detectable to most, but unmistakable to him. Not Alfred’s occasional pipe tobacco, nor the faint burn of machinery from the cave. No, this was sharper. Artificial. A blend of stale smoke and something chemical. Foreign.

He followed it through the darkened corridors like a shadow through his own home, instincts sharpening with every step.

It led him to your door—ajar, spilling a sliver of golden hallway light onto the floor.

Bruce pushed it open with silent precision, and what he saw made something cold settle in his chest.

You were perched on the windowsill, legs tucked up to your chest, hoodie sleeves pulled down over trembling hands. The soft orange glow of the embers in your fingers flickered once before you panicked—snuffing it out against the ledge, breath catching as if you’d been caught stealing from a place you no longer believed you had a right to.

The smoke curled into the air, slow and spiraling like a ghost.

“Kid?” Bruce’s voice was quiet—careful—but it still made you flinch.

Your head whipped around, eyes wide, a spark of something old flickering in them. Fear? Shame? Whatever it was, he hadn’t seen it in you for months. Not since those first fragile weeks after the adoption papers were signed, when your nightmares still came nightly and your trust was paper-thin.

“Bruce…” you croaked. Your voice was hoarse, your throat dry. Tired. Like your soul had been sandpapered down.

That's when he knew something was wrong, you were calling him Bruce again. Not "Dad" not "Old man"

You only ever did that when you were upset about something, or at him.

He stepped into the room, arms at his sides, no judgment in his posture, only concern. The hallway light softened the hard angles of his face, revealing something rare: vulnerability.

“What are you doing?” he asked gently, nodding to the now-dead joint on the sill. His voice wasn’t angry. Not yet. But it was tight. Heavy.

You hesitated, then shrugged, your gaze dropping to your knees. “Couldn’t sleep.”

His brow furrowed. “And this is how you're dealing with it now? You didn’t come to me. You didn’t say anything.”

You stayed quiet, fingers curling around your sleeves. “Didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“Like what?”

You exhaled slowly, smoke still faint in your lungs. “Still broken.”

The words hung there like smoke in the air—unwanted, choking, but impossible to ignore.

Bruce walked over and knelt in front of you. No cape, no cowl, just Bruce. The man, not the myth.

“You’re not broken,” he said firmly. “Struggling doesn’t mean you’ve failed.”

You scoffed, but it was bitter. “I was doing better. Thought I was past all of this. Past needing…this,” you nodded toward the window, where the smoke had already vanished into the night.

Bruce’s jaw clenched. “Healing isn’t a straight line.”

“I didn’t want to disappoint you,” you whispered. “You gave me all this. A home. A name. You fought for me when no one else would. And now I’m just here—smoking out the window like I’m back on the street again. Like nothing changed.”

Bruce was quiet for a beat. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, but laced with intensity.

“You think one bad night changes what you mean to me?” He placed a hand on your shoulder—firm, grounding. “You think a joint at 2 AM undoes everything we’ve built? You’ve come so far, and none of that disappears because you hit a rough patch.”

Your eyes stung. You looked away.

“I wanted to be stronger.”

“You are strong,” he said, voice rising just enough to cut through the haze in your mind. “Strong enough to survive everything that happened to you. Strong enough to stay. Strong enough to keep trying, even now.”

He squeezed your shoulder gently.

“But you don’t have to be strong alone. Not anymore. Not here.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, your chest loosened just enough to breathe. Really breathe.

But Bruce was right, healing wasn't a straight line and after a couple days you felt that weight in your chest. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Your chest wouldn’t stop clenching. The high was supposed to make it easier—quiet the buzzing, dull the shadows creeping at the edge of your vision. But instead, everything was louder. Too loud.

You were panicking and you knew it, but you couldn’t stop it. Not this time.

The walls of the manor felt too big. The air too tight. Your skin too loose. Like everything inside you was trying to crawl out and scream.

Your legs moved on autopilot. Down the hall. Past the portraits. Past the memory of a time where you thought you were healing.

You didn’t knock.

You pushed open Bruce’s door, your breath ragged, voice breaking before it even left your throat.

“Dad-”

He looked up instantly from the armchair, the book in his lap forgotten. One look at you—eyes glassy, pupils uneven, wrapped in your own hoodie like a shield—and he was already on his feet.

His voice was calm, but there was a sharpness beneath it. Not anger. Alertness. “Hey, what wrong kid?”

You didn’t answer with words. You walked to him, unsteady on your feet, and then just stopped.

Frozen.

Your voice cracked like dry wood. “I—I messed up again.”

His face didn’t change. Not disappointment. Not shock. Just soft understanding. The kind that says, You’re still safe here.

“I got high and I panicked and I—I didn’t know where else to go. I thought I could handle it this time and I—” Your voice crumbled. Your hands were fists at your sides. “I can’t do it. I can’t—I don’t know how to stop running from it.”

Bruce stepped closer, slowly. "You're not running. You came to me. That’s not running.”

You looked up at him eyes red from your high, and the crying.

Then his expression cracked, at this sight of you. A sight you try so hard to hide. His jaw trembled. Not many people got to see that side of Bruce Wayne.

Without another word, he pulled you into him.

His arms wrapped around you the way they used to—one across your shoulders, the other over your head, his chin resting gently atop your hair. Not squeezing. Not restraining. Just holding. Like a shelter.

You melted into his chest with a gasp that was half a sob. Your knees buckled and he shifted immediately, guiding you down with him as he sank to the floor beside the bed, holding you in his lap like he had when you were smaller and so much more afraid of being loved.

He didn’t ask you to explain. He didn’t demand answers. He just held you.

“It’s okay now,” he murmured, low and steady against your ear. “You’re not alone. You’re not in that place anymore. You’re right here, and I’ve got you.”

You gripped the front of his shirt like a lifeline, knuckles white. “I don’t want to be like this.”

“You won’t be,” he whispered. “This isn’t forever. It’s just a hard moment. And we get through those together.”

You nodded against him, tears sliding down your cheeks silently.

For a long time, he just held you, breathing with you until your heartbeat started to slow. Until your fingers unclenched. Until the high faded and all that was left was a warm, steady heartbeat beneath your cheek.

Safe.

Home.

You weren’t a lost kid anymore. But even when you slipped, Bruce never stopped being someone who would find you again.

Bruce Wayne / Batman Tag List

@crispysharkarcade

Join tag list here!

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Rage and Redemption: Part 17

Batman x daughter reader

Summer: Batman finds you, but also finds out that Joker had turn you to hate him

Rating: some light cursing, slight angst between Jason and Batman, Dick being a sweetheart

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 18

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Bruce’s shadow loomed at the broken window like a judgment passed by God Himself.

Even with years of discipline etched into every breath he took, he couldn’t stop his heart from skipping when he saw you—alive, clinging to Jason like he was your last anchor to the world. Your face was tear-stained, your body small and trembling. His eyes, usually cold behind the cowl, softened with a fierce, aching relief.

Jason’s posture shifted, instinctive and defensive. He didn’t draw his weapons, but he didn’t need to.

“Batman,” Jason said as he rose to his feet, slow and deliberate. “What a surprise. Just the guy we were talking about.” His voice was laced with sarcasm, but the tension underneath was real. “What brings you slumming it in my part of town?”

Bruce didn’t answer right away. His eyes were locked on you.

“Bruce Wayne contacted me,” he said finally, voice like gravel over steel. “He said you were missing.”

His gaze flicked briefly to Jason before returning to you. “I’ve been looking for you for days.”

He stepped forward, just a half-step, but it was enough to send you shrinking further behind Jason’s frame. The rejection hit Bruce like a body blow. You were afraid of him.

His jaw tightened as he turned back to Jason, his voice dropping an octave. “What happened?”

Jason met his stare head-on, his own features hardening. “The Joker had her,” he said simply, though the words burned like acid. “And I got to her just in time.”

Bruce’s fists clenched at his sides, his gloves creaking with pressure. “Is she hurt?”

“She’s alive,” Jason replied. “Shaken up, but alive.”

Bruce closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, the Batman mask had fully returned, emotion tucked behind stone walls.

A gust of wind swept through the broken window—and then, in a blur of blue and black, Nightwing dropped into the room.

Dick Grayson, agile, radiant, and visibly relieved, crossed the room like a bullet. “There you are!” he exclaimed, full of breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He kneeled down before you, “Are you okay?”

You stared at him, uncertain. The mask, the voice, the kindness—something in your chest stirred. Like you knew him. Like you should remember him

“Do… do I know you?” Your voice trembled, small against the sounds of the crumbling apartment. You were still hiding behind Jason, your eyes locked on the masked man kneeling in front of you.

“Yes, you do,” he said, too quickly, too earnestly.

You blinked. “I do?”

His eyes widened behind the mask. “I mean! Yes — you do!” he rushed, stumbling over his own words. “I'm—uh—Nightwing. That’s who I am. Nightwing.”

Jason let out a quiet snort behind you.

Nightwing shot a sharp glare at Jason. “Anyway, yes, I’m Nightwing. And you, missy, have some very worried people at home looking for you.”

You blinked, surprised. “Worried? They were worried... about me?”

Nightwing’s eyes softened. “ “Believe me, they were—are. More than you know.”

You felt a small flicker inside, not anger or sadness, but something warmer. It was strange… comforting, even, to know someone cared.

Nightwing smiled softly, as if reading your thoughts. “Dick Grayson and Mr. Wayne have been practically begging us to find you. I mean, they were on their knees, really. Telling us how much trouble they felt, how worried they were. Dick was telling us how much he blamed himself, cause if he hadn't climbed through that window—"

“Nightwing,” Bruce interjected, his voice as low and dangerous as the Gotham skyline. “I'm sure Mr. Wayne would appreciate it if you brought her home. She’s been through enough.”

Nightwing nodded, the playfulness gone. “You’re right.” He scooped you up with ease, your body resting against him.

You clutched the fabric of his suit as he turned toward the window. “Am I going… home?” you asked, your voice hollow with uncertainty.

“Yeah,” Dick smiles. “You are.”

But as Nightwing moved toward the fire escape, your eyes stayed locked with Bruce’s—small, hurt, searching. You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t have to.

The silence cut deeper than any scream.

As soon as you and Dick were gone, the apartment felt colder. Emptier. Bruce stared after you for a long beat before turning to Jason.

“What happened?” His voice was quieter now. Not Batman’s gravel—but Bruce Wayne’s grief.

Jason looked at him, then crossed the room slowly, standing in front of the man who had once been his mentor. “What happened?” Jason repeated bitterly. “That little girl was nearly killed by the Joker. That’s what happened. She’s terrified,” Jason continued, quieter now. “Not just because of the Joker. Because of you. Because that psychopath twisted her around and told her lies. Lies that… honestly, are too damn close to the truth.”

Bruce stepped closer. “What lies?”

Jason met his eyes with a weight that only someone who had died and come back could carry. “She thinks you let her parents die. That you let the fire burn. That you stood there and did nothing.”

Bruce’s breath hitched.

“She thinks you didn’t save them because you didn’t want to,” Jason continued. “Because maybe... you’re not so different from the Joker after all.”

The words hung between them like a noose.

Bruce turned away, staring out the window. The night pressed in around him, suffocating.

“She blames me…” he whispered. Not as Batman. As Bruce. The man who had failed too many times to count.

A long silence.

Then finally, Bruce whispered, “Where is the Joker now?”

Jason’s face darkened. “Gone. Slipped away before I could end it. But I swear—I'll find him.”

The silence returned. Not quite forgiveness, but not quite war either.

“Thank you,” Bruce said after a long pause. “For protecting her.”

Jason shrugged, a shadow of a grin tugging at his mouth. “Just next time… maybe send a heads up before adopting another Robin.”

Bruce’s gaze shifted toward the cityscape. “She’s not another Robin,” he said quietly.

Jason blinked. The smirk faded. “Then what is she?”

Bruce turned back toward him, his voice steady now.

“…She’s my daughter.”

And for the first time that night, Jason Todd had no comeback.

Part 18

[iwrite0]

Life is great

Rage and Redemption: Part 16

Batman x adopted reader x Red hood

Summery: Jason takes you back to his apartment and you confess your hate to batman

Rating: angst, Jason tries to comfort

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 17

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A couple hours ago, Red Hood crouched on a rusted fire escape outside a crumbling apartment complex in Gotham’s East End. The metal groaned under his boots as he slid open the warped window with a screech that sliced the silence. He ducked inside like a shadow, silent and swift. The floorboards moaned beneath his weight as he stepped down, scanning the room through the crimson visor of his helmet.

The apartment was dim, lit only by the fractured glow of a nearby neon sign bleeding pink and blue into the peeling wallpaper. It smelled of old smoke and older takeout, like time had stopped somewhere in the late ‘90s and refused to move on. The air hung heavy, thick with memories better left untouched.

“Okay, kid,” Red Hood said, looking down at you. His voice was low but not unkind, rough in the way gravel sounds under boots. “Welcome to my castle.”

You didn’t respond. Just like back at the factory. Or on the rooftop. Or during the ride through Gotham’s maze of alleys and shadows. You sat down slowly on the couch he gestured to. It was an ancient, threadbare thing that groaned as if resenting the weight of one more secret.

“Yeah,” Jason muttered, peeling off his gloves as he squatted in front of you. “Not much, but it’s home.” There was pride in his tone. Sad, stubborn pride. The kind that didn’t come from comfort but from surviving something that should’ve broken you.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Alright, kid. I’ve played nice. Now it’s your turn. Your folks gotta be flipping out by now. Just tell me where you live. I’ll drop you off, no questions, no weird small talk.”

But you didn’t speak. You sat with your hands tucked beneath your thighs, fidgeting with the hem of your skirt, eyes fixed on the stained floorboards like they held the secrets of the universe.

Jason exhaled, dragging a hand down his helmet. “Man, I am so not built for this,” he muttered.

He tried again.

“How about we make it fun, huh?” He lifted his hands, miming an airplane. “You tell me where you live, I Batman-grapple us over there, make it a whole adventure. Sound good?”

You clenched your hands at the word Batman. But still said nothing.

You just stared through him like he was smoke. It wasn’t defiance. It was fear. Deep, old, and unmoving.

He dropped his arms with a sigh. “Okay, fine. You win.” He stood up. “I’ll take you to the GCPD then. They’ve got warm lights and people trained to handle stuff like—”

“No!” You were on your feet in a blink, arms wrapped tight around his waist, face buried against the rigid armor of his suit.

You suddenly jump up and wrap your arms around his waist, eyes closed tightly. You can feel his muscles tense under the fabric of his costume, the armor uninviting yet somehow comforting against your trembling body.

"Uh...okay," Red Hood says, clearly caught off guard by the sudden display of affection. He pats you awkwardly on the back. "So...is that a 'yes'? Great! So lets just... get... you...over... there–Kid, come on. I can't carry you like this," he says, trying to gently peel your arms from around him.

You tighten your grip, shaking your head vigorously. "No, no, no," you whimper into his costume, the fear of being taken to the police gripping your soul like a vice.

"Kid, come on, the police are... fine people," Red Hood tries to reassure you, his voice gentle despite his dislike to the boys in blue. "They'll help find your folks."

But the mere mention of the police sends a shiver down your spine. You shake your head more vigorously. It wasn't entirely clear, even to you, why you didn't want to go to the police. You were always told, even by your own parents, to go to the police if you're in trouble. But being left alone with random people, who supposedly can help you, seems to much of a risk to take. Especially when the Joker was out there with his goons, or maybe it was being found by...him.

You can't trust any strangers, even if they seem friendly.

"No," you whisper, your voice muffled against his chest. "No police."

Red Hood sighs in annoyance, his grip on you tightening slightly. "Look, I get it, you're scared. But you can't stay here. You need to go home."

You just hold him harder, closing your eyes tighter, hoping that he will just let it go and not take you to the police. The thought of being taken away from him, even if he's a stranger, is terrifying.

Red Hood tries to rub his face with his free hand, his frustration growing as he tries to figure out what to do next. But his helmet is still on, so he takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling beneath you.

"Alright, alright," he says finally, his voice softer than before. "I won't take you to the police.”

You look up at him, hope flickering in your eyes. "Promise?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

Red Hood nods solemnly, his eyes meeting yours. "I promise," he says. "But you have to tell me where home is."

"I can't," you finally manage to croak out, the fear still thick in your voice.

Red Hood's eyes narrow slightly, his gaze searching your tear-stained face. "Why not?"

You shrink away from his gaze, clutching at the fabric of his costume. "Because…” you start, your voice trembling, “because if you know, he'll find me."

Red Hood's eyes widen. "The Joker," he murmurs, understanding dawning on his face. "You're scared he'll come for you if you go home."

But Red Hood’s eyes widen when you shake your head, a puzzled look crossing his face. “Not the Joker?” he asks, his voice tinged with confusion. “Then who are you scared of?”

You’re quiet for a moment, your grip on his waist tighten slightly. Your eyes scan the room, waiting for darkness to attack. Finally, you lean in, your voice a trembling whisper, "Batman."

Red Hood's eyes go wide with surprise, his hand stilling on your back. "Batman?" he repeats, his voice a mix of confusion and disbelief. "Why would you be scared of Batman?"

You clutch at him harder, your eyes darting around the room as if expecting the Dark Knight to emerge from the shadows at any moment. "You are like him. Superheros. But he... he…” tears choke your words. You weren’t sure how to explain the fear that had been planted in your heart, what the Joker said about him.

“Kid.” Red Hood’s voice is gentle now, his arms coming around you in a reassuring embrace. He's trying to be comforting, but his confusion pulls him in to know more. “It’s okay. Take a deep breath. What about Batman?”

You lean into him, feeling the warmth of his body despite the cold, hard armor. “He... he’s why I lost my mommy and daddy to the fire.” The words come out in a rush, the pain and fear still raw. “The Joker said it was all his fault. That he’s the reason bad things happen in Gotham.”

Red Hood’s gaze hardens as he listens to your trembling confession. The Joker’s twisted words had found a home in your mind, a festering wound that had grown into a deep-seated fear of the very hero who had saved your life. He strokes your hair, his heart aching for the pain you’ve suffered, the innocence lost in the shadow of the Clown Prince of Crime’s madness.

“Kid,” he says, his voice a soothing balm, “Batman isn’t the reason for the bad things in Gotham. He’s the one trying to stop them. He's out there trying to save people. The Joker’s just a... a master of lies.”

“But he didn’t save my mommy and daddy,” you whisper, your voice cracking with the weight of your words. The memory of that fateful night is still a fresh wound, and the mention of Batman’s name feels like salt in your soul.

Red Hood’s expression softens, his hand pausing in its comforting motion. He looks at you with a mix of pity and resolve. “I know he couldn’t save everyone, but he’s not the enemy,” he says gently. “You can trust him.”

“No!” You shout, your eyes snapping to meet his, your voice filled with a sudden ferocity. “He didn’t save them! He killed my daddy! I hate him! I hate Batman!” You push away from him, the anger burning through your fear.

Red Hood’s eyes widen, his grip on you loosening. “Kid, Batman didn’t kill your parents. Batman never kills, trust me, I know.”

“He did! He let daddy and mommy die in the fire!” You shout, the tears coming in full force now, your fists clenching the fabric of his costume. The room feels like it’s closing in around you, the walls whispering of the night that changed everything.

Red Hood’s jaw tightens, his eyes flashing with a fiery determination. “The Joker’s the one you should hate, not Batman,” he says firmly, his voice a steady anchor in the storm of emotions. “He’s the one who started the fire, who hurt so many people. Batman’s the one who tries to save us from monsters like him.”

Yet again, your voice rang out through the dilapidated room, fueled by a rage so intense it could've burned the very fabric of reality. "No! He's a bad man! I hate him!" Your fists balled up, pounding against the unyielding armor of the Red Hood's chest plate, each hit echoing in the air like a declaration of war.

"Hey, hey kid!" Red Hood's firm grip caught your wrists mid-air, his eyes meeting yours with a fierce determination that didn't quite match the softness in his voice. He held you at bay, his thumbs brushing gently against your palms, calming your rage with a touch that spoke more than his words ever could. "You're safe here. Trust me, okay? I’m not asking you to trust Batman, I’m asking you to trust me."

You paused, looking into the eyes behind the red helmet.

"You're scared, and that's okay," Red Hood said, his voice gentle. "I get scared too. I get scared because I'm just like you."

He slowly lets go of your wrists, his hands moving to his helmet, which he carefully removes. For the first time, you see the face of the man who saved you tonight. His hair black, besides the front pieces that are a stark white, his eyes are filled with a pain that mirrors your own. The scars on his cheeks stand out against his flushed skin, a silent testament to his own tragic past.

"I'm not just some guy in a helmet, with really cool backflips," he says, his voice filled with a vulnerability that's starkly at odds with his tough exterior. "I'm Jason. And I know what it's like to lose everything to the Joker."

You stare at him, your fists slowly unclenching. His eyes, filled with a kind of pain you thought only you knew, bore into yours, and for a moment, the world around you feels a little less scary.

"Jason," you murmur, the name sounding faintly familiar, echoing through the smoke-filled corridors of your memory. But you shake your head, focusing on right here and now.

"But I just hate him so much," you say, your voice still filled with the heat of your anger. "He just stood there watching it all happen. He could've saved them. He could've stopped it."

Red Hood, now revealed to be Jason, sighs heavily, his grip on your wrists loosening until his hands are fully open. "Kid, he can't save everyone. Believe me, I know. But he's out there trying to make sure no one else goes through what we have. And sometimes he can’t do that for everyone.”

You lower your head and murmur, “like my mommy and daddy,” the words barely audible to anyone but yourself. Jason’s eyes soften, mistaking your words for acceptance, for understanding the harsh reality of Gotham’s streets. But in your heart, the anger is a wildfire, untamed and growing stronger by the second. Batman didn’t even try to save them, didn’t do anything to prevent the Joker’s twisted games.

“Okay,” he says, his voice a mix of understanding and acceptance, “How about we get you home. Where do you live?”

You look up at Jason, the man who'd been your savior, and finally, after what feels like an eternity of silence, you whisper the words that had been a secret for so long. "Wayne Manor."

Jason's eyes widen in surprise. "The Wayne Manor?" he repeats, his voice barely above a murmur. "But... but that's..."

You nod, your voice small but steady. "Yes. That's where I live. With Bruce Wayne… my dad.”

Jason’s eyes went wide with shock, the revelation hitting him like a punch to the gut. "Your dad is Bruce Wayne?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re the daughter… of Bruce Wayne?”

“Yes, she is.”

Jason and you turn to the window with a start, the shadowy figure of Batman looming large in the frame..

"Batman," you murmur, your eyes widening with fear at the stoic figure.

Part 17

[iwrite0]

Losing my mind

PLEASE BRO

Can't wait for chapter 16 😔

Rage and Redemption: Part 15

Batman x daughter reader

Summary: Batman and Nightwing look for you at the burned down factory

Warning: mentions of burned bodies(but no details)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 16

Hours later, the warehouse was nothing more than a smoldering skeleton of its former self, the flames having exhausted their fury and leaving only ash and ruin in their wake. The acrid smell of burned chemicals and melted metal lingered in the air, a grim reminder of the chaos that had unfolded within its walls. Batman stood at the edge of the crime scene, his cape fluttering in the breeze, his eyes hidden behind the cold, unyielding mask. The flashing lights of the police cars painted the area in stark relief, a stark contrast to the darkness that had once reigned supreme here.

“Batman, do you think…do you think she…” Nightwing trails off, his voice heavy with the weight of his question. He stares at the devastation, his gaze lost in the flickering shadows.

Batman's jaw clenches beneath his mask. “We’ll see.” Batman’s voice is a gruff promise, a declaration of war against the chaos that had claimed so much.

“Batman,” Commissioner Gordern breaks both their silent contemplation, his voice thick with grief and exhaustion. “We found another body.” The Dark Knight’s gaze snaps to the commissioner, his eyes piercing through the murky air.

Batman nods, his stride purposeful as he heads towards the makeshift morgue that had been set up near by. Nightwing and Gorden follow him to the new addition to the small group of covered bodys. The tension is palpable, a silent understanding of the gravity of what they might find under the sheet.

The medical examiner looks up at their approach, her face a mask of professional detachment. She nods at Gordon, a silent question in her eyes. The commissioner nods solemnly, and she pulls back the sheet, revealing the charred remains of what was once a human being.

“As far as we can tell,” She says, her voice a soft whisper in the stillness of the night, “It’s a male, probably in his mid-thirties, probably one of Jokers own men by pieces of plastic on his face. Probably a mask.”

Batman’s shoulders secretly slumped with relief at the revelation that the body wasn’t the you.

“And is he like the others?” Gordern’s voice was gruff, his eyes not leaving the lifeless form on the gurney.

She nods, “Multiple gun bullets, similar to what we've seen with the others. same caliber as before. And it also looks like the reason of death.”

“You think Joker turned on his own men?” Nightwing asks, his voice tinged with anger as he glances over at the body.

Batman's gaze sharpens, his eyes scanning the scene. "No," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble of contemplation. “This isn’t his style. He enjoys the theatrics of the kill. This is too… clean.”

The examiner raises an eyebrow, “No offense, Batman, but the Joker's always been a wild card. I wouldn’t put it past him to turn on his own if he thought it would serve his twisted purpose." Her words hang in the air, a reminder of the unpredictable nature of the madness they are facing.

But Batman's thoughts were already racing ahead, his mind piecing together the puzzle that was the Joker's MO. He knew the Joker's chaotic nature all too well, but something about this crime scene was off. The way the body was laid out, the absence of the Joker’s signature grin painted in blood, it didn’t fit.

Without a word, Batman turned around, going back to the burned down warehouse. Nightwing was there with him walking with him, “What are you thinking?” Nightwing asked, his eyes searching for answers in the Dark Knight’s unreadable gaze.

“Do you think she was here?” Nightwing’s question was a whisper, almost lost in the symphony of crackling flames and distant sirens.

Batman makes a sudden stop, surprising Nightwing. His gaze falls to the ground, where the toe of his boot has nudged something small and plastic. His heart skips a beat as he recognizes it—a charred, twisted toy, the remnants of what was once a happy child's plaything. The sight of it sends a cold shiver down his spine, a stark reminder of the innocence lost to the Joker's madness.

He crouches down, gently picking up the toy, his gauntleted hand enveloping its scorched form. The plastic feels brittle, almost disintegrating under his touch.

“What’s a toy doing here?” Nightwing asks, his voice a whisper in the smoky air.

Batman’s eyes narrow as he looks over the charred plastic in his hand, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. He pulls another toy from under a board, this one a small doll, its fabric melted and disfigured by the heat. He holds it up, the flimsy plastic limbs dangling limply. The doll’s once bright eyes are now just hollow sockets, a grim mirror of the horrors that have unfolded here tonight.

"There’s more," Nightwing says, his voice a solemn echo in the wreckage. His gaze to a pile of debris, where more twisted remnants of toys peek out like the bones of a long-forgotten creature.

“Bruce,” Nightwing mutters, his eyes on the doll, his voice a mix of horror and disbelief.

Batman nods, his jaw set as he places the doll down. "The Joker's been known to leave gifts like these," he says, his voice low and measured. "But it's not his style to leave them like… this."

The air is thick with the stench of burnt plastic and charred wood, but there's something else—something faintly familiar. Then Batman picks up a shard of glass, its edges a jagged smile in the moonlight. "This isn't just any acid," he murmurs, holding it up to his nose. "It's… pickles?"

Nightwing snatches the piece, his eyes widening as he sniffs. The smell of pickles is unmistakable, even through the acrid stench of the fire. "Bruce…” Dick breaths out, “When I sneaked into the thewindow at school, I-I… I gave her a pickles.” His voice is tight, his grip on the shard like a lifeline to sanity. “She must have still had it in her bag.”

Batman's gaze sharpens, his eyes scanning the warehouse as if he could see through the layers of soot and ash. "Joker had her, he brought her here.”

“But where is she? Is she…?” Dick’s voice trailed off, his fear palpable in the smoky air. The gravity of the situation weighed on them like a heavy cloak, the realization that the girl’s presence in the warehouse was undeniable.

“No, a body would have been found.” Batman’s voice is a lifeline in the sea of doubt.

“He still has her then?” Nightmare’s eyes searched the destruction as if he could will the you to appear through sheer force of hope.

Batman looks back to the dead bodies of the Joker's men, all killed by a precise shotter. Couldn’t have been the Joker’s work. He’s sloppier than this, more dramatic. This was somome else. Someone who wasn’t a afriad to kill and was very, very good at it. His mind races through the possibilities of who could have done this, who would dare to cross paths with the Joker and leave such a clean scene.

“I think I know who did this,” he says to Nightwing, his voice low and tight.

Nightwing's eyes widen. "Who?”

Part 16

[iwrite0]

Sylus Qin x Reader

Overworked

Masterlist

Requests are open!

The fluorescent lights of your office hummed with a low, persistent buzz, a sterile backdrop to your solitary vigil. Sylus had set this room up for you—a quiet haven tucked away in the corner of the facility, equipped with everything you said you needed. At the time, you’d been grateful. Now, it felt more like a gilded cage.

The cursor on your screen blinked in time with your heartbeat—irregular, strained. Reports spilled across your desk in chaotic layers. You didn’t even know how long you’d been sitting there. Hours, easily. Maybe more. Your coffee had gone cold long ago, untouched since the last time you tried to remember what hunger felt like. The words in front of you blurred, melting into meaningless lines of data and responsibility. The back of your neck ached from leaning forward, your shoulders locked in a permanent hunch.

Outside, the N109 Zone was more quiet that usual.

A knock broke the silence.

You jumped.

Your throat was dry. “Come in,” you rasped.

The door opened quietly, and there he was, standing in the threshold like he had always belonged there, even in this moment of your unraveling. His expression, usually unreadable clinical, cool, shifted as he took you in.

The circles beneath your eyes. The tremor in your hands. The screen’s glow against your too-pale skin.

“Still here,” he said, his voice low, velvet-smooth, but not without bite. “I should’ve known.”

You looked away, ashamed.

He stepped inside without waiting for permission, the door closing behind him with a gentle click. The scent of him—clean ozone, a trace of something darker and magnetic—cut through the sterile air like a memory of warmth.

You tried to muster a smile. “Just a few more things,” you murmured. “I’m almost done.”

“Don’t lie,” he said quietly.

That startled you more than his entrance. There was no sharpness in the words—only certainty. Truth. The kind of statement that didn’t leave room for argument, not because it was cold… but because it was carefully honest. Because it was him.

Sylus moved closer, his steps deliberate, each one echoing in the silence like a metronome. He didn’t sit. Didn’t crouch. He simply stood beside your desk and looked down at you with that piercing gaze, but this time it wasn’t dissecting you. It was reading you. Seeing you.

“You look like you haven’t rested in days,” he said. His tone was clinical, but the concern behind it was unmistakable.

You shrugged, exhaustion pinning you down like gravity. “I just need to get through this. It’s due by morning.”

“And if you collapse before then?” he asked. “Who finishes it then?”

He reached for your coffee mug. He looked down at the cold contents, then placed it aside like it personally offended him.

“When did you last eat?” he asked.

“I… don’t know.”

Sylus’s jaw ticked.

“That’s what I thought.”

He reached forward without a word, closed your laptop.

“Hey—!” you protested weakly, reaching for it, but his hand intercepted yours mid-motion, catching your wrist gently, fingers closing around it with controlled strength. Not to hurt. Just to stop you. Just enough to make you look at him.

“No,” he said simply.

There was something in his eyes then, fierce, unwavering. A force of will so intense you felt your resistance waver before you even understood what was happening.

“You’ve done more than enough tonight,” he said, voice softening. “You’re not a machine. You don’t have to keep punishing yourself for not being one.”

“But the deadline—”

“I’ll handle it.”

You blinked at him.

“I’m not letting you break yourself over this,” he continued, his voice quieter now, more intimate. “I didn’t make you this little office to watch you waste away here and unravel.”

A long pause.

“Come with me. Now.”

There was no edge to his command—only something undeniable. The way Sylus always was: powerful, protective, absolute.

Still, your instinct resisted. You opened your mouth to protest again, but the words dissolved when his fingers slipped from your wrist to your hand. This time, he held it.

Not like a doctor. Not like a commander.

Like the man who had been quietly watching you destroy yourself and decided for the entirety of the you 'day off'

His hands were warm and steady.

“Come with me,” he said again, more gently this time. “Let me take care of you. Let me be here.”

Your breath caught.

He didn’t ask twice. He didn’t plead.

He just waited. Held your hand like it mattered. Like you mattered.

And maybe that’s what made you nod, slowly, allowing yourself to rise. The moment you stood, your knees wobbled, and he was already there, a firm hand at your waist, grounding you. Not making a show of it. Just there. Reliable. Like he always had been, in his own silent way.

You walked out the room together, his pace slow enough to match yours, his presence a shield against the cold corridors and buzzing silence.

Outside, the night felt different. Less like a wall. More like a possibility.

With Sylus at your side, you didn’t have to hold everything anymore. Not tonight.

And for the first time in far too long, you allowed yourself to breathe.

[iwrite0]

New to Being Loved

Denki Kaminari x Reader

Masterlist

Request are open!

Being in a relationship was a completely foreign universe, like trying to learn an entirely new language made out of feelings, timing, and mysterious things like; knowing where to put your hands during a hug.

And doing it all with someone like Denki who was effortlessly charming, so affectionate, and somehow managed to make everything look easy, made it feel like you were constantly trying to keep up.

Sometimes you felt like a scared little rabbit trying to tiptoe your way through something so big and delicate.

You were sitting next to him on the common room couch, barely an inch of space between you, his thigh brushing yours every now and then. You wanted to scoot closer, wanted to just lean your head against his shoulder and stay there for a while. But the moment you even thought about doing it, your brain flooded you with what ifs.

What if he doesn’t like that? What if he moves away? What if he’s just being nice and doesn’t actually like you that much? What if—

“Your internal monologue is screaming again, isn’t it?” Denki said with a little laugh, breaking your spiral in the gentlest way.

You blinked up at him. You hadn’t even realized he’d reached for your hand, or that your fingers were now interlocked, resting in his lap. His thumb rubbed soft, lazy circles against your skin like it was second nature.

“I know that look,” he grinned. “It’s like… puppy-eyes meets impending doom. Super adorable, by the way.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “That’s so embarrassing.”

Denki scooted a little closer okay, a lot closer.. and nudged your shoulder with his own. “It’s not. I think it’s cute. And I like knowing what’s going on in your head, even if it’s a little jumbled in there.”

You hesitated. mumbling though your hands “I’m just scared I’ll mess something up. With us. I… don’t really know how to do this. Relationships. I’ve never—like, I’m bad at asking for stuff. Affection. Kissing. Everything.”

Denki was quiet for a moment. Not in a bad way. Not like he was pulling away or unsure. It was the kind of quiet where he was listening.

Then, he gently squeezed his hand your thigh. “You’re doing everything right, you know that?”

Your face heated up instantly. “I—what?”

You peeked at him between your fingers. “Even when it’s just me panicking about wanting to cuddle you?”

He blinked. Then blinked again. “Wait. You want to cuddle me?”

You nodded, you could feel of warm your face was getting

Denki looked like he’d just been handed a million volts of joy. “Why didn’t you say anything?! You know I’m a total cuddle monster. I live for this stuff!”

“I dunno…” you murmured slowly moving your hands back down. “I guess I just thought maybe you’d think I was clingy or weird or… bad at it?”

“Bad at cuddling?” He looked genuinely confused. “What does that even mean?”

You huffed, half-laughing. “Like, if I don’t know how to sit or where to put my arms or if I squish you by accident or—”

“Okay okay okay,” he cut you off, giggling. “C’mere.”

And before you could process what was happening, Denki had gently pulled you into his arms, guiding you to lie against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your cheek pressed right above his heart again, steady and warm.

He was radiating so much comfort it was honestly unfair.

“This,” he murmured into your hair, “is literally the opposite of ‘bad.’ This is top-tier cuddling. Elite. S-tier snuggles.”

You let out a shaky breath, wrapping your arms around him and allowing yourself to melt into it just a little more.

“…Okay. This is nice,” you whispered.

“Told you,” he grinned, resting his chin atop your head. “Also, not to totally change the topic but… you know kissing’s not a competition, right?”

You stiffened and he must’ve felt it, because he immediately rubbed your back in soft circles. “I only bring it up because you get all quiet whenever people joke about kissing and… I don’t know, I just wanna make sure you’re okay.”

You still felt tense but comfortable enought to respond "I'm just.. scared that I'll suck at it."

“Then we’ll be two disasters learning together,” he said with a cheeky grin. “And I promise, I’ll still want to kiss you. A lot. Like, probably annoyingly often.”

You giggled despite yourself. “you don’t have to do anything until you’re ready. I’m not going anywhere. You can take all the time you need, okay?”

You nodded, heart fluttering somewhere between melting and exploding.

“Okay,” you breathed.

And as the two of you sat together—hands still entwined, your head tucked beneath his chin, his arms holding you close like you were the most precious thing in the world—you realized something even more comforting than the hug itself:

You didn’t have to be perfect.

You just had to be loved. And Denki Kaminari had that part covered.

[iwrite0]

"Cost of Care"

Bruce Wayne / Batman x Adopted Child Reader

Warnings; Mentions of past child neglect and abuse Medical trauma and experiences with Type 1 Diabetes Self-harm and internalized guilt/self-hatred Gentle but emotional conversations about trauma and worth Comfort, unconditional love, and healing Both Dexcom and traditional test strips are used.

This is soooo self insert, I have issues man but hopefully this helps me and someone else who might need it. My parental issues kicking my ass today.

This is platonic if you can't tell, just parent kid dynamic stuff, don't be weird.

Masterlist

No sirens blaring from the city. No alarms triggered by Gotham’s rogues. Just the low hum of the computers and the steady echo of Bruce’s boots against the concrete.

And yet, his mind wasn't on Gotham’s chaos.

It was on you.

You, the child he'd brought into his home with eyes that never quite met his.

You, with your carefully logged blood sugar numbers and trembling hands during insulin injections.

You, who had come from too many places that only saw your diagnosis—Type 1 Diabetes—as a price tag.

Bruce had seen the file before even meeting you. Dozens of foster placements. “Returned” repeatedly.

“Multiple failed placements.”

“Emotional withdrawal.

“Requires daily insulin injections, continuous glucose monitoring, regular endocrinology visits.”

The last few lines are what killed him.

“Sweet kid. But too expensive.”

“Financial burden cited as main reason for placement return.”

It made Bruce sick. Not because of your condition, but because of the way the system had made you believe you were less because of it.

When he met you in person, you barely looked up. When he brought you to the manor, you refused to unpack.

At your first doctors appointment with him, he chose to sit in the room with you. That's when he saw. Scars. Thin and deliberate.

But he didn't say anything. He knew it was too soon and that it'd only make you hide even more.

Still, he made a habit to check in on you every few hours, even if it was just walking by whatever room you were in. But it wasn't just you two in the manor.

It was Jason who said something first.

He walked into the study one evening, shoulders squared and mouth already twitching with irritation. “Bruce.”

Bruce didn’t look up from the files. “What is it?”

“I found a stash of juice boxes under the new kid’s bed,” Jason said bluntly. “Like... a lot. Some were expired. There were also test strips."

Bruce’s jaw tightened.

Jason kept going. “They’re hiding food. Medical supplies. That’s not normal. And they barely flinch when I talk to them, but when Alfred raised his voice earlier? They go still like a statue. Like they’re waiting to get hit.”

That last part hit Bruce like a gut punch.

“They’re scared,” Jason said, tone softening for once. “Not just of you. Of needing anything. They look at the fridge like it’s a crime scene. And Bruce...” He paused, hesitant now.

"I- I thought I saw them trying to hurt themselves"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Dick came by the next day.

He crouched in the Batcave beside Bruce, eyes flicking over the surveillance feed. The screen showed you sitting quietly on the back lawn, knees to your chest.

“Are you sure you’re doing okay?” Dick asked carefully.

Bruce didn’t answer at first.

“I mean... adopting a kid with a chronic illness?” Dick continued. “I’m proud of you, don’t get me wrong. But that’s a lot. Trauma, medical care, supplies—”

“They’re not a case file,” Bruce interrupted, voice firm but calm. “They’re a child. My child. They just need a chance. Not to be told they’re too much again.”

Dick nodded slowly, gaze softening as he looked back at the screen. “…They remind me of me. When you first brought me here. Except quieter.”

“They’ve been told that their life costs too much to love,” Bruce murmured. “We’re going to unteach that.”

It was late when he found you again—hunched over in your room, knees tucked to your chest, the juice box on the nightstand half-drunk and your Dexcom meter beeping softly. You looked like you’d shrunk into yourself, trying to disappear under the blanket you brought from the last group home.

Bruce crouched beside the bed.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You flinched, eyes wide, like a deer caught in headlights. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t want to bother you. I thought I’d wait it out. I know the juice is expensive and I already—”

"Hey now, we have plenty of juice for this exact reason. Its alright, just sit tight and I'll go get you another one okay? I'll be right back I promise"

And true to his word he came right back, strawberry juice in hand. He sat next to you watching in a way that you didn't feel his eyes, just to make sure the shaking stoped.

But the healing didn’t come overnight. There were rough patches. Nighttime panic attacks when your site alarm woke you and you panicked, thinking Bruce would get mad. Moments where you'd skip meals. Times you stood too long in the mini medicine fridge he had gotten for you, staring at the insulin pens as if they would disappear.

But Bruce was patient.

He hired a trauma-informed therapist. He let you sit in on calls with your endocrinologist. He explained your CGM trends like a detective solving a case, showing you that your body wasn’t wrong—it just needed attention.

A few days later, Jason tossed a glucose tab packet at you during patrol prep. “Your sugar’s 78. You’re trending down. Don’t be dumb.”

You blinked.

“…That’s his way of saying he cares,” Dick translated as he adjusted himself.

You blinked again. “…Oh.”

Jason rolled his eyes but walked past you, gently knocking his fist against your shoulder. “You pass out on me and I swear to God I’m carrying you like a backpack for the rest of your life.”

You smiled.

And Bruce, watching from the Batcomputer, finally let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

You're still healing. Some days are harder. But the guilt doesn't live as loud in your chest anymore. And when your Dexcom beeps, you don’t hide. You ask. You treat. You take care of yourself.

[iwrite0]

My last day off before I get busy

Mon - Wed

Next week

Mon - Thur

August? Oh fawk no

All of August I work 7am-8pm

So I'm enjoying my time off right now by writing,

Feel free to request and I'll do as many as I can :3

[iwrite0]

Masterlist!

Taglist ~ google form

No matter how many i may have i try to keep my request always open so feel free to ask! I keep(try to) things gender neutral.

Triger warnings in red! I don't write heavy stuff to romanticize or glamorize serious issues. I try to write these thing with the grace and respect they deserve as most the time I have personal experiences with said issues. These thing are written for people who seek comfort and need somewhere to turn

NSFW content will be disclosed before the cut, I understand that younger people may read my things and want to avoid any mishaps in reading things you don't wanna see

DC

Batman / Bruce Wayne

Adopted! Child ~ Closing off, opening up,

TW Self-harm, trauma, PTSD/nightmares, emotional dysregulation, references to childhood abuse/neglect, disordered eating, internalized shame.

Adopted! Child ~ type 1 diabetic

Mentions of past child neglect and abuse Medical trauma and experiences with Type 1 Diabetes and internalized guilt/self-hatred

Love and Deepspace

Sylus Qin

Overworked

Caleb Xia

Over worked ~ Smut after the cut

My Hero Academia

Shouta Aizawa

Sick/hurt comfort!

+Hizashi Yamada, Platonic! kid ~ self harm comfort

Platonic! Student kicked out ~ TW runaway/kicked out, abuse and sh(sorta)

Platonic! Student kicked out part 2

Platonic! kid having nightmares ~ ~ Tw: nightmares, mentioned abuse and panic attacks

Hyper-Empath battle comfort

Katsuki Bakugou

Period comfort!

Family abuse comfort, runaway!

Childhood best friend, but more than that ~ transfer student!

Sick comfort! ~ Slight trigger warning for: passing out

Seeing your scars ~ Mentions of past self harm

Seeing past wounds from others ~ TW: implied domestic abuse

Stress & music

Eating disorder comfort

Diabetic! reader

Eijiro Kirishima

Self harm comfort

Injury after a battle

Denki Kaminari

Nightmare comfort

New to being loved

Tenya Iida

testing anxiety

unhealthy habits ~ TW: CBD, insomnia, prescription meds

Izuku Midoriya

Panic attacks ~ TW; panic attack and mentions of prescription drugs

Toya Todoroki / Dabi

Platonic sibling ~ finding him?

Group headcanons

Mha/bnha exams

[iwrite0]

Splinters and Shadows

Batman / Bruce Wayne x Adopted! Child Reader

Warnings: Self-harm (non-graphic but clearly referenced), trauma, PTSD/nightmares, emotional dysregulation, references to childhood abuse/neglect, mention of disordered eating, internalized shame, recovery themes, slow-burn emotional healing.

As always, requests are open!

Masterlist

The crash echoed through the hallway like a gunshot.

Bruce winced as the sound of shattering glass rang out from your room. It was the third time this week.

Another broken lamp? Maybe the framed photo Alfred had put on your nightstand—a small gesture of normalcy. It didn’t matter. What mattered was what had caused it.

He didn’t rush. That never helped. You were like a cornered animal when panicked—sharp and fast and terrified.

When he reached your door, it was already cracked open. A flickering bedside lamp revealed you curled in the far corner of the room, your knees drawn up to your chest, fists tight in the fabric of your oversized T-shirt. His shirt.

You’d taken it from the laundry a few nights ago, though you never admitted to it.

There were shards of glass across the floor, glittering like ice in the lamplight. Bruce stepped carefully inside. You didn’t look up.

“I told you not to come in here,” you muttered, voice hoarse. Your eyes were red-rimmed, cheeks stained with tears, your chest rising in shallow, frantic breaths. “I don’t need you.”

Bruce crouched a few feet away, not yet closing the distance. “You’re having the nightmares again.”

“I said go away.”

You sprang to your feet in a blink, grabbing the nearest object and hurling it at him. It hit his shoulder with a harmless thump. You were angry, but not aiming to injure. Not really.

Bruce didn’t move.

You snatched a pillow next. This one you launched with a shout, your voice breaking midway. “You don’t get to act like you care! You’re just another—another liar like the rest of them!”

This time he caught the pillow midair. Still, he didn’t flinch. He simply set it down beside him and looked at you—really looked at you. Past the fire in your eyes. Past the fear. To the trembling hands you tried to hide behind clenched fists.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he said quietly.

Something inside you crumbled.

With a strangled sob, you stumbled forward. Not to attack this time. Your hands hit his chest, but there was no strength behind them. You collapsed against him, and he caught you effortlessly, arms wrapping around you with the kind of solid certainty you had never been given before.

“I hate you,” you whimpered. “I hate this. I hate this place.”

“I know,” he whispered, resting his chin gently atop your head. “It’s okay.”

You stayed like that for a long time, shaking in his arms. One hand clung to the front of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you from disappearing into the dark. He didn’t try to rock you or hush you—he just was. Still, quiet, a living anchor.

Eventually, your breathing slowed. You didn’t pull away, even as your body sagged against him with exhaustion. “Why do you even try?” you asked, voice muffled.

He considered his answer for a moment before replying. “Because someone should’ve. A long time ago.”

You said nothing. But your fingers curled tighter into his shirt.

Later, when he laid you gently back on your bed, you grumbled something unintelligible and turned your face to the wall. But you didn’t kick him out. You didn’t throw anything else. You let him sit beside you until you drifted off again, breath soft and slow.

Bruce stayed a few minutes longer, watching the even rise and fall of your back. In the morning, you'd go back to glares and muttered curses. Maybe you'd break something else. Maybe you'd shove him away.

The next morning light spilled through your window in lazy golden rays, dust motes dancing where they hit the air. Everything about the room looked calm. Still. Normal.

Except for the shattered glass swept into a corner, and the faint, crumpled dent in the pillow Bruce had sat on hours ago.

You were already dressed when Bruce knocked on your door if you could even call it that. The hoodie you wore was two sizes too big, sleeves pulled down past your wrists, hood drawn low like a shield. The same one you'd worn every day this week. You were hunched over the desk, chewing a pen cap and pretending to be interested in your book

You didn’t look up.

Bruce didn’t enter right away.

When he finally did, he kept a careful distance, stopping just a few steps inside the room. “Alfred’s making pancakes. Thought you might want some.”

“I don’t.” Your voice was cold, distant. “I’m not hungry.”

“You didn’t eat dinner either.”

You slammed the pen down. “Why do you even care? You’re not my dad.”

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp or angry—it was… disappointed. Quiet. Heavy in the worst way.

“I’m not trying to replace anyone,” Bruce said calmly, voice even.

“But I am your guardian. And whether you like it or not, that means I do care. A lot.”

You scoffed, finally turning toward him with narrowed eyes. “Yeah? That why you let me cry all over you like a pathetic little kid last night?”

There it was. The test.

That familiar bitterness, thick with shame and self-loathing. You were trying to push him—hard—because if he backed off, if he got tired of you, if he walked away now, it’d prove what you already believed about the world: that no one stayed. That people only cared when it was easy.

But Bruce didn’t flinch. He just looked at you, quiet and steady as stone.

“You weren’t pathetic,” he said softly. “You were scared. And I’m glad you came to me.”

You blinked, thrown off by the lack of anger. “You’re not mad?”

“I’m not mad,” he confirmed. “But I am setting a line.”

Your arms crossed, instantly defensive. “What, you gonna start grounding me for throwing stuff?”

“No,” Bruce said. “But I am not going to let you hurt me—or yourself. If you’re angry, you can be angry. You can yell, or walk away, or tell me to leave. But we’re done throwing things at people. You can be mad at me without breaking things or breaking trust.”

You looked away. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“I know,” Bruce said. “But it’s what you’ve got. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Something in your chest twisted. A knot. Something tight, tangled, terrified. You bit the inside of your cheek and muttered, “I hate you.”

Bruce nodded slowly. “Okay. You can hate me. I’ll still be here when you’re ready.”

He turned and left you to sit with your own thoughts, the faint scent of pancakes drifting in from the hallway.

And even though your stomach growled, even though you would sit up here another twenty minutes pretending you didn’t care, your hoodie sleeve brushed your face—and you realized it smelled like him.

That stupid shirt you’d cried into.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

But later that morning, you wandered into the kitchen without a word and sat at the far end of the breakfast bar. Bruce didn’t say anything. Just passed you the syrup.

You didn’t look at him.

But you made yourself a plate.

The days had been quiet.

Too quiet.

You hadn’t thrown anything all week. No shouting. No shoving. No glares sharp enough to cut glass. At first, Bruce hoped it might mean progress. That maybe you were finally settling in. That the nightly visits and the shared silences were helping.

But he knew better.

You weren’t better. You were just silent. And silence could be dangerous.

You spent most of your time holed up in your room or the corner of the library, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands even as summer crept in. You skipped meals again. Mumbled that you “weren’t hungry.” Skated past check-ins with practiced dodges.

Bruce noticed it all. The signs were familiar. Too familiar.

Still, he didn’t press—afraid of pushing too hard, of sending you retreating further behind the walls you’d so carefully rebuilt. Instead, he offered space. Gentle invitations. A soft knock here, a cup of tea left on your nightstand there.

But what he didn’t see—what he missed—was the spiral.

The quiet self-hate that slithered into your head at night. The anger you turned inward because there was no one left to lash out at. The way your hands shook so badly one morning and you were so desperate to make it stop for just a moment. You reached for the sharpest thing you could find.

Just something. Anything to make the storm stop.

You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal.

You told yourself it was a one-time thing.

But when Bruce knocked one evening and asked—really asked—if you were okay, your whole body locked up.

You couldn’t lie.

But you couldn’t tell the truth either.

So you stared at the floor and muttered, “I’m fine.”

He looked at you for a long time. Then nodded.

And left you alone again.

It was a stupid thing that gave it away.

You left your hoodie in the laundry basket by accident.

Bruce had made a habit of walking past your room every time he was about to leave just to check on you, and even if you weren't in there he'd sit and wait for you before telling you he was heading out.

It was strange, but it was his way of making sure you knew he wasn't there. Making sure you didn't feel left abandoned and in the dark. Again.

He was on his way to the cave making his usual stop by your room and saw it draped over the edge. He wouldn’t have even looked twice, except there was something dark on the inside of the sleeve. Something that stopped him cold.

Blood.

It wasn’t a little.

It wasn’t a scratch.

Bruce lifted the fabric and found the faint but unmistakable pattern of gauze stained through, stuck to the inside seam like you’d tried to bandage it yourself. Hidden. Covered.

His heart dropped.

You found him there when you came back, hoodie in his lap, eyes cast down, a tension in his jaw so tight it looked carved from stone.

You froze.

Your breath hitched in your throat, and your heart slammed into your ribs like it was trying to escape. “Don’t—” you rasped. “Don’t say anything.”

Bruce didn’t.

Not for a long while. You stood there, frozen with guilt, sham, and fear.

Then finally, quietly, without looking at you: “How long?”

You couldn’t answer.

That same shame bubbled up, thick and sharp.

Your throat closed. Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms. “It’s not like it matters,” you spat, anger bubbling up just to cover the panic.

“It’s mine. My body. You don’t—you can’t—”

“I can’t let you hurt yourself,” Bruce said, his voice low and rough, the words trembling under control. “Not when I promised to protect you.”

“I didn’t ask for you to promise anything!” you shouted, tears springing to your eyes before you could stop them. “I didn’t ask to be saved. I didn’t ask to be brought here. And I sure as hell didn’t ask for you to care!”

“I know,” Bruce whispered. And then, softer: “But I do.”

You turned away sharply, scrubbing at your face with your sleeve. “I didn’t want you to find out. You’re gonna send me away now, right? Back to a home. Or a hospital. Or… or something.”

Bruce stood up slowly. Walked toward you—but didn’t touch. Not yet. “I’m not sending you anywhere.”

“I- I broke the rule.”

He looked at you, really looked at you. His voice didn’t waver.

“Then we make a new rule. Together.”

You shook your head, choking back a sob.

“You don’t get it—I didn’t do it because I wanted to. I just—I didn’t know what else to do. I was scared. I’m always scared. And I didn’t want to bother you again—”

“You are not a bother,” he said firmly, finally stepping close enough to rest a hand on your shoulder—light, careful, but solid.

You tensed… and then melted, folding into his arms with a sound halfway between a sob and a gasp. You gripped the back of his shirt with shaking hands. It was like your body had been waiting for this—for someone to stay, even now.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Bruce exhaled against your hair. “You don’t have to be sorry. You’re hurting. But you don’t have to face that alone.”

You didn’t reply. Just clung to him like the floor had dropped out beneath you, and he was the only thing left to hold on to.

[iwrite0]

I have NAWT been into DC Comics for a WHILE but in light of that fandom resurfacing for me I may or may not be writing something

As always requests are open and feel free to request as much as you'd like!

[iwrite0]

Rage and Redemption Part 13

Bruce Wayne/Batman x reader (12)daughter

Summery: Bruce searches for you

Rating: swearing, slight angst

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 14 coming

The Batmobile's engine purred like a caged panther, the sleek black beast sliding into the narrow alleyway with the grace of a predator stalking its prey. Batman's eyes scanned the surroundings through the thick veil of shadows that clung to the dumpsters and fire escapes. The walls of the alley were plastered with graffiti, a visual cacophony that whispered of Gotham's chaotic soul. His gloved hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, the muscles in his arms flexing beneath the Kevlar.

The bat computer beeped insistently, the red light of the tracker on the dashboard blinking with a frantic rhythm. It had locked onto the signal from the your phone’s tracker he installed.

Finally, he comes to stop. The air was thick with the smells of rotting garbage and rain-dampened concrete as the Batmobile’s door lifted upwards. His boots hit the ground with a silent thud, the sound absorbed by the shadows that clung to him like a second skin. He was a specter of justice in the night, a silent guardian that no one saw coming until it was too late.

He looked down down the alley, but you were nowhere to be seen. He comes around the car, taking quiet strides into the dark and eerie alleyway.

His search comes to a halt when, peering down to the cement floor, he finds the very thing he was tracking. Your phone layed sad on the rough ground, broken and alone.

“Master Bruce, any luck in finding her?” Alfred’s voice crackled through the communicator in his mask, his concern clear despite the static.

Batman ignored the question, his gaze fixed on the phone. His mind raced, calculating the odds and potential scenarios. What happened to you? Did you get kidnapped? Was it a trap? The alley was silent, the only sound the distant wail of a siren, a mournful cry that seemed to resonate with his own fears. He took a deep breath, pushing aside the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He couldn't afford to let you down.

He scanned the alley with a sharp, practiced eye, his senses on high alert. The shadows danced and whispered secrets, but none revealed your whereabouts. His eyes searched the ground, the cracked asphalt holding no answers, the grime and filth hiding any clue that might lead him to you.

Batman's fists tightened, the fabric of his gloves creaking under the pressure. He could feel the rage building in his chest, a volcano ready to erupt.

“Master Bruce?” Alfred’s voice crackled over the comms, interrupting the oppressive silence.

“Trails gone cold. I found her phone but she’s not here,” Batman said into the communicator, his voice tight with tension. The smell of the alley was thick and suffocating, a cloying mix of garbage and despair.

The line was silent for a moment before Alfred spoke again, his voice a beacon of calm in the chaos. "Keep searching, Master Bruce. You will find her."

Batman nodded, though Alfred couldn't see the gesture, the words a silent mantra in his head.

He turned and headed back to the car, his mind racing with scenarios, each more dire than the last. As he approached the sleek, black beast, he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. A figure, huddled in the shadows of a nearby dumpster, stared at him with wide, desperate eyes. It was a man, ragged and worn, his clothes little more than tattered rags clinging to his skeletal frame. He looked like he hadn't seen a kind face in years, let alone the Dark Knight himself.

As Batman stepped closer, the man bolted, his frail body moving with surprising speed. Bruce's instincts kicked in, and he sprinted after him, his cape fluttering behind him like a storm cloud on the horizon.

The man was fast, but not fast enough. Within moments, Batman had him pinned against the cold, damp bricks of the alley. "Tell me what you know," Batman growled, his voice a thunderclap in the narrow space. The man trembled, his eyes darting from side to side like a cornered animal.

"I didn't do anything!" he squealed, his voice high-pitched and desperate. "I swear to God, I didn't do it!"

Batman's grip tightened on the man's collar, his eyes boring into the soul of the trembling wreck before him. "A girl, a twelve year old girl came by this way. Did you see her?" he repeated, his voice low and menacing.

The man's silence was deafening, his eyes wide with terror.

“Did you?” He repeated, shake the man slightly.

“Yes! Yes! I did, but I didn’t do anything to her, I swear!” The man’s voice was a desperate squeak, his eyes wide with fear. “It was another man! He took her, dragged her into his car—that crazy, purple car of his! Please, you gotta believe me, I didn’t do nothin’!”

Batman’s grip tightened on the man, his eyes narrowed. “Where did he take her?”

The homeless man swallowed hard, his eyes darting back and forth. “I-I don’t know, I swear! He just drove off!”

“Which direction?” Batman’s demanded voice vibrated around them.

The homeless man, trembling under the Dark Knight’s unrelenting gaze, pointed with a trembling hand. “That way! He went down the street and turned right at the end, then… then I don’t know!”

Without a second thought, Batman released him and sprinted to the Batmobile, his boots pounding against the cracked pavement. The sleek, black beast of a car purred to life, the engine rumbling like a waking dragon. He jumped warm vehicle, and the cockpit lit up around him like a fortress of technology and steel.

“Alfred, I’ve got a lead on the her whereabouts. A witness spotted her being taken by a man in a purple car, heading west from the alleyway. I’m on it now,” Batman barked into the communicator as he peeled out of the alleyway, the Batmobile’s tires screeching in protest against the pavement. The GPS on the dashboard flickered to life, a red line snaking through the city grid, pointing to a dilapidated industrial area that could be any one of the this mysterious man’s hideouts.

Part 14 coming

I have no idea what I'm doing, LOL. I'm just surprised at how much this is stretching.

[iwrite0]

Rage and Redemption Part 1

Batman X reader(girl, age 12)

Summery: In a explosion, your apartment building catches fire. Batman is able to save you, but only you.

Rating: parents death, batman comfort

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13

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"Daddy!" you screamed into the smoke-filled hallway, your voice hoarse and trembling. The walls around you groaned and cracked like ancient bones under immense pressure. Suddenly, a blast of heat and light tore through the apartment complex, knocking you off your feet and sending a fresh wave of panic through your chest. The explosion was deafening, a monstrous roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the world.

As the dust settled, the Joker's laughter echoed through the shattered remnants of your home. You coughed violently, the acrid smoke burning your lungs and eyes. The flames had painted the night in hellish hues, turning everything into a twisted, fiery dance of destruction. Your heart raced, pounding against your ribcage like a caged animal desperate to escape the inferno.

"Daddy--" you croaked out the words, your voice barely audible above the cacophony of fire and chaos. "Help!" But the only reply was the hungry crackle of the flames as they consumed your home, your memories, your sense of safety. The heat washed over you like a living wave, scorching your skin and stealing the breath from your lungs. You stumbled through the hallway, the floor hot to the touch, each step a battle against the smoke that choked you.

And then, like a dark angel emerging from the flames, Batman appeared before you. His cape billowed in the fiery wind, his eyes hidden behind the cold, unyielding mask. "Kid," he bellowed, his voice a commanding presence amidst the roar of the blaze. He reached out a gloved hand and wrapped it around your wrist, pulling you to your feet with surprising gentleness. "You've got to get out of here. Now."

He lifted you effortlessly, your legs dangling as he sprinted through the flaming corridor. The air was thick with smoke, making it almost impossible to see, but he moved with a grace that suggested he'd done this before. You clung to him, your eyes tightly shut, tears streaming down your cheeks. His embrace was firm yet comforting, a stark contrast to the fiery hell that raged around you. The heat grew more intense, the smoke more suffocating, but he didn't waver.

With a final burst of speed, Batman crashed through the shattered remnants of a window, coving both you and him with his cape to shield from the flying glass. The night air was a cold slap against your burning skin, a brief reprieve from the relentless heat.

You felt the ground solid beneath your feet as he landed with a thud. His boots crunched on the gravel, and you heard the distant wail of sirens growing closer. He set you down gently, his hand lingering on your shoulder.

"M..my parents!" you choked out through your coughs, the reality of the situation sinking in like a cold, hard stone. "They're still in there!"

"Stay here," Batman said firmly, his voice cutting through the chaos like a knife. "I'll-"

But before he could finish, the building erupted in an even more cataclysmic explosion. The shockwave rushing over you like a tidal wave of pure power. The ground trembled, and for a moment, you felt weightless, your stomach lurching as the world around you was obliterated by a wall of fire and debris. The roar was so intense it was as if the earth itself had opened its maw and swallowed the apartment complex whole.

You screamed, a raw, primal sound that clawed its way out of your throat. "No!" you sobbed, trying to run back into the fiery maw. You had to save your parents, had to find them. But Batman was there, his arms like steel bars around your waist, holding you back.

You thrashed, desperation giving you a momentary burst of strength, but he held firm. "You can't," he shouted over the cacophony. "It's too late!" His voice was a mix of urgency and sadness, a stark contrast to the cold, emotionless exterior he'd maintained thus far.

But you couldn't accept it. "Let me go! Let me go!" you screamed, your fists pounding against his chest plate. The heat from the flames washed over you, but the fire in your soul was far hotter.

With surprising tenderness, Batman pulled you into a firm embrace, his cape wrapping around you like a shield. You felt the warmth of his chest against your cheek, the steady beat of his heart a comforting rhythm amidst the chaos. "You're safe," he murmured, his voice low and soothing. You could feel the vibrations of his words through his chest, the fabric of his suit scorched but protecting you from the raging inferno.

You pushed against him, tears streaming down your face, eyes searching the flaming wreckage for any sign of your parents. "You have to save them, please," you begged, your voice cracking with despair. The fire was a living creature, a beast that had devoured everything you knew and loved.

But Batman's grip was unyielding. He simply held you, his arms a cage of protection that kept you from running back into the inferno. You felt the tremble in his muscles, the tension in his body as he watched the flaming ruins, his jaw clenched in a silent battle of his own. The explosion had been so close, so powerful, that it had taken everything he had to get you out.

The sirens grew louder, a symphony of hope and despair. Fire trucks and police cars screeched to a halt, their lights painting the night in a frenetic dance of red and blue. The sound of rushing water and the shouts of emergency responders filled the air as hose lines were deployed, a futile attempt to tame the beast that had been the Joker's handiwork.

But amidst the chaos, you heard it - the Joker's laugh, a distant echo carried on the wind. It was a sound that sent shivers down your spine, a macabre reminder of the madness that had brought you to this moment. You paused, your heart skipping a beat, as the reality of what had happened crashed over you like a wave.

The world around you seemed to fade away, the screams of the injured and the clanging of metal becoming a distant hum. All that was left was the pain, a searing emptiness that threatened to consume you.

A surge of anger coursed through your veins, and you tightened your grip around Batman's waist. The Joker. He'd taken everything from you. Your home, your family, your sense of security. The maniacal laughter grew louder in your head, taunting you, a haunting echo of the horror that had just unfolded. You clung to the Dark Knight, not for comfort now, but for vengeance.

Part 2

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