cherry-amores-blog

[cherry-amores-blog]

Title: “Come Home”

❥︎Pairing: !Platonic Dad Dick Grayson/Nightwing & Reader

❥︎ ︎Content Warnings: !None

❥︎ ︎Summary: You ran away from home.

❥︎Author notes: If you like this work and would want to see more, my requests are open.

The fight with your dad had been loud, sharp, and unresolved. Neither of you had backed down. Neither of you had said sorry.

You’d gone to bed angry that night—face turned to the wall, chest tight with the kind of frustration that had nowhere to go. You didn’t cry, but it was a close thing. And sometime after midnight, when the silence in the apartment became unbearable, you grabbed your bag, slipped out the window, and disappeared into the dark.

You hadn’t meant to stay gone.

But one day turned into two. Two turned into three.

And now, it had been nearly five.

No calls. No texts. Not because you wanted to punish him, but because you didn’t know what to say. You didn’t even know why you’d left, not exactly. Everything had just felt so heavy, and you’d needed to breathe.

You didn’t know that every night since, Dick had been sleeping on the couch with his phone clutched in one hand and your hoodie balled up in the other. You didn’t know he’d barely eaten, barely slept, too afraid that if he did, he’d miss the moment you finally came home.

And then… he heard it.

The unmistakable soft thud of your bedroom window closing.

Dick sat bolt upright, heartbeat spiking, vision blurry with sleep. But the moment he registered what he’d heard, he was on his feet and moving, barefoot, breath caught in his chest, like any sudden movement might scare you away again.

He stopped in the doorway to your room.

You stood there in the dark, facing away from him. Your shoulders were trembling. Your knees were scraped raw, like you’d tripped more than once. Mud streaked your jeans, and your eyes were red, even though you refused to look at him just yet.

The sight knocked the wind right out of him.

His voice cracked as it came out. “Where were you?”

You flinched, not at the words, but the pain in them.

“I…” Your voice was small. “I just needed to get away. I wasn’t thinking.”

He stepped closer, slow like he was afraid you’d vanish again.

“You’ve been gone for days,” he whispered, throat tightening. “Days. I didn’t know if you were-” He couldn’t finish it. Just shook his head and let out a shaky breath.

You turned, finally facing him.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

And then you stumbled forward.

Dick caught you without hesitation.

His hands came up, one cradling the back of your head, the other pressing your face to his chest in a firm, protective hold. His arms wrapped around you like he could shield you from the world or from himself and every mistake he thought he’d made.

“I was so scared,” he muttered, voice low and rough in your ear. “You’re all I’ve got, you know that?”

You nodded against him, crying now, arms tight around his ribs.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered again. “I didn’t know what to do. We fought, and I didn’t know how to fix it, and I just-”

“Shh,” he murmured, pressing a quick, solid kiss to the top of your head. “You’re here. That’s what matters.”

He held you for a long minute, just standing there in your room, like he could anchor both of you back to reality through the silence alone.

Then, he slowly pulled back just enough to look down at your legs.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, voice soft but steady. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You nodded again, letting him guide you over to sit on the edge of your bed. He crouched down in front of you, grabbing the first aid kit from your nightstand drawer like he’d done it a hundred times before. You winced as he dabbed gently at your scraped knees with antiseptic, but he didn’t say anything—just worked in quiet focus, like patching you up was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

When he finished, he sat back on his heels and looked up at you.

“I’m sorry, too,” he said. “For the fight. For not listening. For letting it get that bad.”

You bit your lip, tears slipping down your cheek again. “I didn’t mean to leave forever.”

“I know,” he said, reaching up again, this time to gently pull your head back against his chest.

“Just… promise me you’ll come to me next time. No matter how mad you are. No matter how bad it feels. Just come home.”

You nodded against him, breathing in the familiar scent of his jacket, the feel of his heartbeat under your cheek.

“I promise.”

And this time, you meant it.

[cherry-amores-blog]

Title: "Captain Dad"

❥︎Pairing: !Platonic Father Figure Steve Rogers/Captain America & Reader

❥︎Content Warnings: !None

❥︎Summary: You accidentally called him Dad.

❥︎Author notes: If you like this work and would want to see more, my requests are open.

You hadn’t meant to say it.

It slipped out somewhere between a groggy yawn and a distracted nod as you left the common room, backpack slung over one shoulder and coffee in hand.

“Bye, Dad-I mean, Steve.”

You froze. He froze. The others on the couch blinked.

You’d recovered quickly, muttered something about sleep deprivation and walked off fast. Steve had just chuckled, brushing it off with the ease of someone used to being mistaken for something he’s not.

But later that night, when he was sitting alone in the gym, wrapping his hands in gauze out of muscle memory more than necessity, the moment came back.

Bye, Dad.

The words echoed with something warm. Strange. Not bad.

He’d never had kids. Never thought about having them, really. The world had changed too fast and too violently for dreams like that. And yet now, the idea wouldn’t leave him alone.

The next morning, Steve was the one who texted you first.

“Meet me in the gym at 0700. We’ll work on that left hook. —Steve”

You blinked at the message. You hadn’t asked for extra training, but okay.

He was already there when you arrived, stretching on the mat with that tight crew-cut focus, hair a little damp, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“You’re early,” you mumbled.

He grinned. “You’re late.”

And just like that, a new rhythm formed. Every other day turned into every day. Steve critiqued your form, corrected your stance, but never shouted. He asked about your classes, your diet, your sleep. At some point he started tossing you a protein bar after every session. Once he even handed you a small med kit with your name labeled neatly on the side.

“I noticed you keep forgetting to restock Band-Aids,” he said with a shrug.

You didn’t question it. But the others did.

The first time Tony noticed, he looked up from his tablet and muttered, “Since when is Rogers the designated parent?”

Natasha didn’t even glance up. “Since someone called him dad and it short-circuited his frontal lobe.”

Tony’s head snapped up. “Wait, what?”

Natasha smirked. “You weren’t there. It was adorable.”

Tony wheeled his chair around. “Oh my God. This makes so much sense. I thought Steve was just overachieving with the mentoring stuff again, but no — he’s emotionally compromised.”

“Don’t poke the bear,” Natasha warned.

But Tony didn’t listen.

The confrontation came on a quiet Tuesday. You had just left for a mission briefing, and Steve was still wiping down the training mat. Tony walked in, arms crossed.

“So, Dad,” he began casually. “You want to tell me when you legally adopted the kid or is this still a secret?”

Steve gave him a flat look. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m not starting. I’m just asking. I mean, you’re coaching them, scolding them when they don’t hydrate, bringing them snacks, Rogers.”

Steve sighed, but didn’t deny it.

Tony raised an eyebrow. “So it is about the slip-up, huh?”

Steve’s jaw ticked. “They didn’t mean to say it.”

“But you’re still keeping an extra eye out,” Tony said, voice quiet now.

Silence.

Steve glanced down at the towel in his hands. “I don’t know,” he admitted after a beat. “It was just a word. But they looked at me like it meant something. And I guess… maybe it meant something to me too.”

Tony didn’t tease after that. He just nodded.

“Okay. Just don’t be weird about it.”

Steve smiled faintly. “I’ll try.”

You never brought it up again. Neither did he.

But the next time you were exhausted and bruised and quietly curled up on the common room couch, Steve dropped a blanket over your shoulders without a word.

You didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need you to.

Later

You overheard Tony mutter as you and Steve passed, “There goes Captain America — full-time Avenger, part-time dad.”

Steve didn’t argue.

[cherry-amores-blog]

Title: Nachos and patience

❥︎Pairing: !Platonic Billy Batson/Captain Marvel & Reader

❥︎ ︎Content Warnings: !None

❥︎ ︎Summary: You're a member of Young Justice, and after a mission gone sideways, your mentor shows up to comfort you, although you doubt he'd understand because technically, he's just a kid.

❥︎Author notes: If you like this work and would want to see more, my requests are open.

You were curled up on the lounge sofa, knees tucked to your chest, arms wrapped around yourself like they were the only thing holding you together.

It had been two days since the mission.

You kept replaying it—frame by frame—over and over in your mind. The moment things spiraled. The scream. The blood. The way it ended, not with triumph, but with sirens and stretchers. People had gotten hurt. Civilians. Because of you. Or at least that’s how it felt.

You hadn’t told anyone the full story. You didn’t want to. Not even your teammates, who’d been with you. Not even Miss Martian, who could’ve gently peeled it from your thoughts if she’d wanted to.

And definitely not your mentor.

Captain Marvel. The grown man with lightning in his fists and joy in his laugh. The one who always made everything feel lighter.

You couldn’t imagine telling him what happened. He wouldn’t understand—not really. He was, technically, a kid. He hadn’t seen what you’d seen. Not up close. Not this.

But when the Zeta Tube activated and you heard that familiar voice—

"Recognized: Captain Marvel. B-zero-three."

You felt something in your chest tighten.

You didn’t move when he walked in. Just kept your eyes on the floor, face hidden behind your arms. You heard his footsteps pause, heard the faint clink of a plate in his hand as he stood there for a moment, watching you.

Then, slowly, he lowered himself into the seat next to you.

“I brought nachos,” he said softly, like he wasn’t sure if you’d want to hear his voice. “Figured you might be hungry.”

You didn’t look up.

“I’m not,” you muttered, voice hoarse.

“Cool. More for me,” he replied, but didn’t touch them. Just let the plate sit between you, the smell of cheese and jalapeños oddly grounding.

Silence stretched out.

“I heard it was bad,” he said eventually, carefully. “The mission.”

You flinched.

“Everyone’s okay now,” he added quickly. “Your team said you did what you could. That it wasn’t your fault.”

“Of course they’d say that,” you muttered. “They’re supposed to.”

He didn’t argue.

“I just-I don’t want to talk about it,” you whispered. “Not with you.”

There was a pause. Then, quiet and curious, “Why not me?”

You swallowed. “Because... you wouldn’t get it.”

Another pause. This one heavier.

“You think I wouldn’t understand what it feels like when something goes wrong,” he said.

You kept your gaze locked on your knees.

“I know you’re technically a kid,” you said, voice cracking. “And I know you’ve seen stuff. But I—this is different. I saw people hurt. Civilians. I froze and... I didn’t know what to do. And now I can’t stop seeing it, and I can’t sleep, and every time I think about putting the suit back on, I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

It all came tumbling out. You hadn’t meant to say it. But there it was—raw and awful and real.

Captain Marvel didn’t say anything right away. When you finally glanced over at him, his expression wasn’t confused or dismissive.

It was gentle.

Understanding.

Wiser than it should have been.

“I know what it’s like,” he said, voice quiet and low. “To make a choice that doesn’t go the way you thought it would. To carry that with you, even when everyone says it wasn’t your fault.”

You blinked at him, startled by the shift in his tone.

“I’ve seen people get hurt too,” he continued, eyes distant. “People I couldn’t save. I’ve stood in the middle of a fight and realized too late that someone got caught in the crossfire. It... doesn’t go away easy.”

Your throat tightened. “But you’re always smiling. You act like-like none of this ever touches you.”

He offered a small, sad smile. “That’s kind of the point. People look at me and expect hope. Sometimes it’s easier to smile than to show how heavy it really is.”

Silence settled between you again-different this time. Warmer. Softer.

Then he nudged the plate closer. “Still not hungry?”

You hesitated. Then slowly reached for a nacho and took the smallest bite.

He beamed, just a little.

You didn’t feel better. Not really. But the edge wasn’t quite as sharp now. The weight on your shoulders, just a little lighter.

And for the first time since the mission, you felt like maybe-just maybe-you weren’t carrying it alone.

[cherry-amores-blog]

Title: “Where You’ve Been”

❥︎Pairing: !Platonic Dad Jason Todd/Red Hood & Reader

❥︎ ︎Content Warnings: !None

❥︎ ︎Summary: You ran away from home.

❥︎Author notes: If you like this work and would want to see more, my requests are open.

Jason wasn’t the best when it came to emotions.

He tried-God, he tried, but it was like speaking a language he was never taught. There was always a gap between what he meant to say and what actually came out. That gap felt even wider with you. And you, well… you felt things deeply. Loudly, sometimes. Quietly, when it was worse.

You were an emotional kid, always had been. Jason used to tell himself that was a good thing, that it meant you were still soft in a world that tried to make people hard. But when things spiraled-when the tears came or the silence set in, he never knew what to do with it. He always felt like he was one step behind.

This time had been one of the harder ones.

Something happened, you wouldn’t say what. You just went quiet. Shut down. He noticed, of course. He always noticed. But instead of pushing, instead of being there, he gave you space. Too much of it.

He thought you needed time to cool off. Instead, you ran.

And when he woke up the next morning to an empty bed and a wide-open window, Jason felt something tear straight through his chest.

You were gone.

No note. No messages. No tracks. And for days, there was nothing but the crushing silence of your absence and the sound of his own thoughts-every one of them worse than the last.

He barely slept. Barely ate. When he wasn’t searching, he was pacing or parked in front of the door, hoping somehow, you'd just...walk through it. Like nothing happened.

He was sleeping on the couch again that night, if you could call it sleeping. It was more like passing out from exhaustion. Then-

Click.

The sound of your bedroom window sliding shut jolted him awake instantly. His heart leapt into his throat.

He didn’t even stop to think. He was up and moving before he’d fully processed it.

When he got to your room, the light from the hallway spilled across the floor, casting you in its glow.

There you were.

Backpack hanging off one shoulder. Hair messy. Clothes wrinkled and slightly damp from the rain. You froze when you saw him standing in the doorway.

Jason’s chest rose and fell, his jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Every part of him wanted to yell—to scream, Where the hell have you been? Do you know what you put me through?

But he didn’t.

He closed his eyes, breathed in deep, and forced himself to remember what mattered most.

His voice came out low, steady—hoarse from too many sleepless nights.

“Are you hurt?”

Your eyes filled with tears so quickly it was like someone flipped a switch. The second the question left his lips, you dropped your bag and ran straight into his arms.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” you choked out, voice cracking and trembling as you collapsed against his chest. “I didn’t mean to-I didn’t think-I just-I didn’t know what else to do-”

Your words fell over themselves in a panic, but Jason caught all of them. Or maybe it was enough that he caught you.

His arms wrapped around you instantly, tightly, almost too tightly—but you didn’t care. You burrowed into his jacket like it could protect you from every bad thing in the world.

Jason let out a shaky breath, one hand pressed protectively against the back of your head. He pressed a firm kiss into your hair, his lips lingering there like a promise.

“You’re home,” he murmured. “That’s all I care about right now.”

You nodded frantically against his chest, still crying, still whispering apologies he didn’t need.

“I should’ve been there,” he added quietly, guilt sitting heavy in his voice. “You shouldn’t have felt like you had to go through it alone.”

“I just…” Your voice cracked. “I didn’t know if you’d care.”

Jason pulled back just enough to look at you, hands still cupping your shoulders. His eyes were red-rimmed but fierce.

“I always care,” he said. “Even when I don’t say it right. Even when I screw it up.”

You sniffled and gave a weak nod.

He wiped a tear off your cheek with his thumb, then pulled you in again, slower this time. Softer. Like he was scared you might vanish again if he let go too quickly.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said. “Not alone. Not like that. Next time… talk to me. I don’t care how messy it is. Just let me be there.”

“I will,” you whispered. “I promise.”

He kissed the top of your head again, this time closing his eyes.

And for the first time in days, both of you could finally breathe.

[cherry-amores-blog]

Title: “Just Give Me a Second, Dad”

❥︎Pairing: !Platonic Father Figure Bruce Banner/Hulk & Reader

❥︎ ︎Content Warnings: !None

❥︎ ︎Summary: You accidentally called him “Dad” + (!Bonus Scene under the cut). You got in trouble and he offered to talk to you.

❥︎Author notes: If you like this work and would want to see more, my requests are open. Currently, I have more works with a similar plot to this, including Wanda Maximoff, Matt Murdock, Wade Wilson, and Hank McCoy. (Reader accidentally calls them Mom/Dad), most will be published soon if you're interested.

It happened mid-task, when your brain was more focused on what was in your hands than what was coming out of your mouth.

Bruce was trying to get your attention, something simple, probably a question but you waved him off with a distracted, “Just give me a second, dad.”

Silence.

You both froze.

You hadn’t even realized what you’d said until it echoed in your head a beat later. By then, Bruce had already cleared his throat, his posture stiff and awkward. “Right,” he mumbled, almost like he was trying to pretend it didn’t happen. “I’ll, uh… be in the other room. Just come find me when you’re done.”

And then he was gone.

You buried your face in your hands and groaned.

When you finally worked up the nerve to join him, Bruce was pretending nothing had happened. You didn’t buy it for a second. His shoulders were a little too tense, his hands too still. You were the one to break the silence.

“I-I’m sorry,” you blurted. “That was an accident. I didn’t mean it like that.”

He looked at you, expression unreadable. Then he nodded slowly. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

You could tell he meant it but the air between you shifted after that. Not in a bad way. Just… warmer.

At first, the change was subtle. He started giving you quiet encouragements, thumbs up when you did something right, a soft “It’s alright, you’ll get it next time,” when you didn’t. He made an effort to back you up in team meetings, offered praise more freely, gave you space when you needed it but never too far away.

You were the youngest on the team. And maybe that made it easier for him to justify the way he started to quietly step into a role he’d never meant to fill. He began taking responsibility for you, not officially, but it showed.

When you made a mistake, he volunteered to talk to you before anyone else could. If you were struggling, it was Bruce who checked in. And once, after you’d messed something up badly and were dreading the fallout, he sighed and said, “I figured it should come from me. Since you… already see me as a father figure.”

You groaned so loud he flinched.

“I don’t,” you insisted weakly. “It was one time.”

He just raised an eyebrow. “Twice, actually.”

You were halfway through denying it when you accidentally said it again.

You gave up after that.

Eventually, it just became a quiet understanding. He never insisted on the label, never asked you to say it—but he was there. And that, really, was what mattered.

-

The mission had gone sideways.

It wasn’t entirely your fault—but it wasn’t not your fault either. A misjudged call, a moment of hesitation. You’d panicked when things didn’t go according to plan, and that split-second of doubt had cost the team a clean extraction. No one got hurt, thankfully. But it was messy. Too messy.

You’d barely stepped off the quinjet before Steve’s voice rang out sharp and cold: “We’re going to have a talk. Briefing room. Ten minutes.”

And then, the worst part-Bruce’s quiet, even voice: “I’ll handle it.”

You watched him step forward before you could even speak in your defense. Your stomach twisted. He was going to be the one to give you the post-mission scolding? Somehow that was worse than a yelling match with Tony or a lecture from Steve.

He didn’t say anything as he led you down the hall. Just walked, silent and calm, hands in his pockets. When he finally spoke, it was behind closed doors.

“You okay?” he asked, not looking at you.

You blinked. “I thought you were going to yell at me.”

“I said I was going to handle it,” Bruce said softly. “Didn’t say I was going to yell.”

You stood there awkwardly, arms crossed, unable to meet his eyes. “I know I messed up.”

“Tell me what happened.” His tone was gentle.

You recounted everything. How the target had moved unexpectedly. How you weren’t sure whether to follow protocol or adjust. How you'd hesitated, because you weren’t sure, and no one had been answering on comms. How you made a decision and stuck to it, even if it was the wrong one.

Bruce listened without interrupting. Not even a sigh. Just quiet, steady presence.

When you were done, you braced yourself for judgment.

But instead, Bruce nodded slowly. “That’s… fair. You trusted your instincts. They weren’t perfect, but they weren’t reckless either.”

You frowned. “So I’m not getting benched?”

He winced. “That’s not really up to me.”

He didn’t say anything else, just turned and left the room. You stayed behind, wondering what expression he wore when he walked into the team briefing.

Bruce folded his arms as he stood in front of the others, calm and composed.

“I spoke to them,” he said simply.

Steve raised a brow. “And?”

“And they made a judgment call in a high-pressure situation. It didn’t go as planned, but it wasn’t insubordination or carelessness.” He didn’t raise his voice—he didn’t need to. The weight of his words always came from how he said them. “They’re young. They need guidance, not punishment.”

Tony scoffed. “They’re not a kid.”

Bruce looked at him. Really looked at him. “They’re still figuring this out. And unless you’d like them to learn by being shouted at or benched indefinitely, maybe let someone teach them.”

Steve’s mouth pressed into a hard line. “They’ll be off the next mission. They need time to train. Nothing personal.”

Bruce nodded once. “Fine. But they’ll be working with me until then.”

There was a beat of silence. No one challenged him.

Later, you were curled on a bench outside Stark Tower, hoodie pulled over your head, chewing your nails, when Bruce sat down beside you and offered you a wrapped paper bag.

“Tacos,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

“I figured you deserved something. For not getting kicked off the team. And for surviving your first real mess-up.”

You took the bag slowly. “…Thanks.”

You ate in silence for a while, the city buzzing around you. After a bit, Bruce leaned back on the bench and let out a breath.

“I wasn’t supposed to be anyone’s anything,” he said quietly. “I… can’t have kids. Biologically, I mean. It’s not possible.”

You froze mid-bite.

“So,” he continued, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud, “when someone starts looking at me like I’m the safe one—like I’m the adult in the room… it matters. More than I usually let on.”

You didn’t know what to say. So you passed him a taco. Bruce smiled and took it.

“You’re still benched,” he added after a beat. “But you’ll be with me in the lab this week. We’ve got work to do.”

“…Is it boring work?”

“Mind-numbingly,” he said. “But I’ll let you use the centrifuge.”

Your face lit up. “Deal.”

And maybe he didn’t need to hear you say it again. Maybe once or twice was enough.

But when you leaned your head against his shoulder a minute later, and he didn’t move away—he figured that said plenty.

[cherry-amores-blog]

Title: “Unspoken”

❥︎Pairing: !Platonic Father Figure Matt Murdock/Daredevil & Reader

❥︎ ︎Content Warnings: !None

❥ ︎Summary: You accidentally called him “Dad” + (!Bonus Scene under the cut). You're doing homework in his office.

❥︎Author notes: If you like this work and would want to see more, my requests are open. Currently, I have more works with a similar plot to this, including Wanda Maximoff, Bruce Banner, Wade Wilson, and Hank McCoy. (Reader accidentally calls them Mom/Dad), most will be published soon if you're interested.

You hadn’t meant to say it.

It slipped out somewhere between filing papers and ranting about a frustrating case. You were tired, overwhelmed, and Matt had asked you a question you barely registered. You responded without thinking—something about needing “a minute, Dad.”

The moment the word left your mouth, Matt froze.

The file he’d been holding slipped from his hand and hit the desk with a soft thud. You both stared at each other—well, you stared at him. He gave a small nod, subtle and composed, and bent down to pick up the folder like nothing had happened.

Neither of you acknowledged it.

And neither of you ever brought it up.

It wasn’t that he ignored it, exactly. He just… didn’t want to embarrass you. You could tell—he wasn’t someone who pressed when he didn’t need to. But something about him shifted after that day.

You were just an intern when you met him. Your local vigilante had been the one to recommend Nelson & Murdock, though you never figured out how he knew about them. Still, Matt took you in without hesitation—quiet, patient, careful in the way he guided you.

Even before the slip, he’d had a protective streak. He sent you home early when he thought you were too tired. Handed you leftovers. “client casserole diplomacy,” he called it. If anyone spoke down to you, he had your back without question. But after that accidental “dad,” something subtle deepened.

He started nagging you more, about sleep, about not skipping meals. He never framed it directly, but you could tell. You were his responsibility now.

He never asked for that role. Never claimed it.

But he took it anyway.

He didn’t change overnight, Matt wasn’t suddenly soft or overbearing. But you noticed. The way his tone warmed when you spoke. How his brow creased when you were upset. How he knew when you were lying about being fine.

It stayed unspoken between you. That one word-accidental, awkward, intimate-lingering quietly in the foundation of your relationship.

And though he never brought it up, Matt carried the knowledge with him like a quiet vow.

If anything happened to you… it’d be on him.

_

It was well past closing hours at Nelson & Murdock, the kind of quiet that felt thick and sacred. The overhead lights had been turned off, leaving only the soft glow of your desk lamp illuminating a patch of the cluttered conference table.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

Technically, Matt had told you to go home two hours ago—something about making sure you got rest and not overextending yourself. You’d nodded, smiled, even packed up your things like you were leaving. But the weight of an unfinished essay and the lack of Wi-Fi in your apartment had dragged you back into your chair the second he left for court.

You were halfway through a paragraph—chewing on your pencil, hoodie pulled over your head, shoes kicked off—when the door creaked open again.

Your heart dropped.

You hadn’t heard him come back.

You froze as Matt’s cane tapped gently along the hallway tile. He walked in slowly, brows slightly furrowed—curious, not angry. The cane hit something soft. He paused. Tilted his head. Then crouched down, his fingers brushing against the strap of your school bag lying near the doorway.

The breath caught in your throat. You hadn’t meant to leave it out.

“…You’re still here?” His voice was mild, more puzzled than anything. “And… that isn’t one of our files?”

You winced and sat up straighter. “I didn’t mean to stay. I just… needed to finish this assignment. It’s due at midnight, and the Wi-Fi at my place is trash, and I thought I’d be quick—”

Matt walked forward slowly, tracking the sound of your voice. “Is that why your heart’s going a mile a minute?”

You swallowed. “I didn’t mean to lie.”

There was a pause. His expression softened. He leaned his hip against the edge of the table, cane tapping once before resting beside him.

“You thought I’d be mad?”

“…I wasn’t supposed to be here.”

“That’s not the same thing.” He turned his head slightly, listening again. “You’re writing something?”

You hesitated, then pushed the notebook toward him instinctively before realizing the gesture was pointless. “Yeah. Comparative politics. Not exactly riveting stuff.”

Matt gave a small hum. “You don’t sound like you believe that.”

You smiled weakly. “Maybe I like boring.”

He reached over carefully, fingers ghosting across the page until they landed on the spiral edge. “Well, I’m not going to lecture you,” he said after a moment. “But next time, tell me. I could’ve left the lights on for you.”

“…You’re not mad?”

“Only that you think I’d kick you out for doing your homework.” His voice was quiet now, almost amused. “Come on. I’ve been leaving soup containers in your bag all week. We’re way past mad."

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, the tightness in your shoulders easing a little.

Matt straightened, cane back in hand. “Finish up what you need to. I’ll lock up after you.”

You blinked. “Wait-you’re staying?”

He shrugged. “Can’t let you out-study me in my own office.”

And just like that, the moment passed.

Like always, Matt didn’t make a big deal out of it.

But later, when you looked down, you realized your school bag wasn’t where you left it.

He’d set it neatly by the coat rack—zipped shut, tucked out of the way.

[cherry-amores-blog]

Title: You called me Mom

❥︎Pairing: !Platonic Mother Figure Wanda Maximoff/Scarlet Witch & Reader

❥︎ ︎Content Warnings: !Briefly mentions manipulation.

❥︎ ︎Summary: You accidentally called her “Mom”.

❥︎Author notes: If you like this work and would want to see more, my requests are open. Currently, I have more works with a similar plot to this, including Matt Murdock, Bruce Banner, Wade Wilson, and Hank McCoy. (Reader accidentally calls them Mom/Dad), most will be published soon if you're interested.

The moment the word left your mouth, Wanda felt it-not just heard it. Like something deep in her heart shifted and clicked into place.

It wasn’t loud. You were tired, distracted, halfway through thanking her for something simple. “Thanks, Mom-” you said, then immediately froze, eyes wide with panic.

Your mouth opened again, stammering an apology. “I didn’t mean-I wasn’t thinking-I’m sorry-”

But Wanda just smiled, soft and sure, and waved a hand like she was brushing your worry aside. “There’s nothing to be sorry for,” she said gently.

Then she reached out and cupped your face with both hands, tilting your chin just enough to make you meet her eyes. “Look at me,” she said, her voice quiet but commanding. “It’s okay.”

And somehow… it was.

From that moment on, she treated you as hers.

There wasn’t a conversation about it—no sit-down talk or tearful heart-to-heart. She simply decided. You were one of hers now, and she acted like it had always been that way.

She checked in on you constantly, sent you messages to remind you to eat, made sure you got enough sleep, and hugged you like she was grounding herself every time she saw you. She brought you things, too, little gifts, snacks, books she thought you’d like. She remembered everything.

And when she wanted something?

She weaponized your own words with all the charm of a practiced manipulator.

“I thought I was like a mother to you,” she’d say sweetly, holding up some absurdly tedious task she wanted your help with. “But I guess I was mistaken?”

You always caved.

And she always kissed your temple after you gave in, murmuring, “Thank you, sweetheart,” like you’d just done something heroic.

But it wasn’t just games. Wanda protected you fiercely. She looked at you like your safety was personal to her. She defended you in arguments, stood beside you when no one else would, and when you were hurting, she didn’t offer solutions—she simply held you, arms wrapped around you like a shield, as if she could carry your pain for you.

You never meant to call her "Mom."

But she never let you forget that you had.

And she never stopped living up to it.

[cherry-amores-blog]

Title: “The D-Word”

❥︎Pairing: !Platonic Father Figure Wade Wilson/Deadpool & Reader

❥︎Content Warnings: !Briefly mentions bruising and blood under the cut.

❥︎Summary: You accidentally called him Dad and know he's as obnoxious as ever.

❥︎Author notes: If you like this work and would want to see more, my requests are open. Currently, I have more works with a similar plot to this, including Matt Murdock, Bruce Banner, Wanda Maximoff, and Hank McCoy. (Reader accidentally calls them Mom/Dad), most will be published soon if you're interested.

In your defense, Wade had been talking nonstop for ten minutes-something about glitter grenades, lost tacos, and the inherent betrayal of almond milk. You were elbows-deep in some field kit that desperately needed reorganizing, and when he asked for the fifth time if you were listening, you snapped.

“Just give me a second, Dad!”

Dead silence.

You blinked, realizing what you said.

Wade, meanwhile, froze with the slow, dramatic precision of a cartoon character in mid-fall. His head swiveled toward you inch by inch, wide-eyed behind the mask.

“Did…” he said slowly, voice thick with exaggerated awe, “did my child just acknowledge me?”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “I didn’t mean that. It was an accident. I meant-dude. Or Dead-Deadpool. I was going to say Dead-”

“Dadpool?” he offered, clasping his hands over his heart. “You shouldn’t have! I mean, it’s true, I’ve raised you with violence and sarcasm and questionable morals-but to hear it out loud? Truly, I am blessed.”

You tried to escape. He followed.

“You hear that, world?” he shouted to no one. “My offspring has spoken!”

From that moment on, it became a running joke. You were never safe.

In public? “Ah yes, my child and I will take the combo meal-extra fries for my sweet little disappointment.”

In private? “As your father, I’m legally obligated to annoy you until one of us dies, and I’ve already died once, so good luck, kid.”

He made up stories about your childhood that never happened. “Remember when you were five and tried to sell me on Craigslist?” “You were such a cute baby-always crying when I left the room. Or maybe that was me.”

It was stupid. It was exhausting. And annoyingly-it was kind of… comforting.

Because underneath all the drama and jokes and bad parenting impressions, he never let up on being there.

When you needed backup, he showed up. When you had a bad mission, he brought you takeout and dumb movies. When someone made you cry, they disappeared for a suspiciously long vacation.

He never said he cared—not seriously. But he didn’t have to.

Then there was that one night.

It had been a bad one. A mission gone sideways. You came back with blood on your hands that wasn’t yours, and bruises that were. You barely made it through the door before your legs gave out.

Wade caught you.

He didn’t make a joke. Didn’t even say anything.

He just lowered you to the floor and held you against him, his arms strong and still for once. The mask stayed on, but you knew he wasn’t smiling.

“I’m fine,” you muttered.

“You’re not,” he said quietly. “But you will be.”

You stayed like that for a while, curled against him, not talking.

And then, softly, like the word was asking permission to exist,

“Do you really see me like that?” he asked. “As… your dad?”

You hesitated. Then nodded.

“…Yeah. I think I do.”

Wade let out a slow breath. One of his hands gently patted the back of your head. “Guess that means I gotta start setting a better example.”

You blinked up at him. “Please don’t.”

He grinned under the mask and ruffled your hair.

But even after that moment passed, things were never quite the same. He still joked, still teased, still acted like your chaos guardian angel—but sometimes, when he thought you weren’t looking, he watched you like he was trying to memorize your every move.

And every time you accidentally said "dad" again and it happened more than once, he didn’t laugh anymore.

He just responded, soft and quick, “Yeah, kid?”

And this time, he meant it.

[cherry-amores-blog]

Title: Sunshine

❥︎Pairing: !Platonic Harvey Dent/Two-Face & !Daughter Reader

❥︎Content Warnings: !Briefly implied past abuse

❥︎Summary: Harvey discovers that he had a kid in the system. After discovering that they have been mistreated, he takes them in but struggles to adapt to a domestic life.

❥︎Author notes: (Repost from a former account + bonus scene) Also, if you like this work and would want to see more, my requests are open.

Nothing could have really prepared Harvey for the moment he found out he had a kid. He just couldn’t grasp the concept. He learned from your mother, a brief fling, that you were the product of a one-night stand.

She told him about you and how she had to give you up to the foster system. She felt guilty but couldn’t take care of you herself. Against his better judgment, he looked into it and found it hard to believe you weren’t his.

The timelines matched up perfectly, and you looked so much like him—more than you resembled your mother.

He couldn’t believe she hadn’t told him sooner or that she put you there. He had seen how corrupt the system was; putting a little girl in that situation felt wrong.

Tracking you down was tougher than it should have been. Apparently, you were a runaway, which left a bad taste in his mouth when he learned. 

Eventually, he managed to get to you after calling in a few favors, but that was the easy part. Now he had a kid to take care of, and he had no idea how to do that. After all, he didn’t have a good role model—his old man had been terrible to him.

It was late, and both of you were in one of his warehouses. You were a timid little thing sitting in front of his desk with a cheap coloring book and some crayons. He had one of his men buy it for you earlier, not wanting you to get bored.

This wasn’t a good place for you, and you must be tired by now, but he kept you with him anyway as he tried to finish up his work.

He tried to resist smoking but caved. This was a lot, and he was stressed. He pulled out a cigarette and shooed you away to the other side of the room. “Go over there, m’gonna smoke. I don’t want you inhaling it.”

You set your book and crayons down before moving across the room and curling up on one of the couches with your back towards him.

He tried to focus on his work, but his gaze kept drifting back to you. You had bruises on the side of your face, your eye swollen and purple. It was almost ironic because the discoloration on just one side really did make you look like him.

When he finished, you were fast asleep and snoring lightly. He got up from his desk and walked over to you. Unsure of what to do, he eventually decided not to wake you. It was late, and you were exhausted. He picked you up and carried you out of the office.

His men were waiting outside, but none of them said anything. They knew better than that.

Eventually, he put you in the car and buckled you up, even taking off his suit jacket and tossing it over you. It was a cold night, and your clothes weren’t made for the weather-not to mention they were torn and the wrong size. He made a mental note to buy you some new ones later, something expensive and frilly-good clothes for a little girl.

Harvey wasn’t the only one who felt paternal towards you; Two-Face was feeling similar, but he was more protective than anything. He already knew he was going to be strict with you—he wouldn’t let you go out, monitor your wardrobe to keep you from wearing anything revealing, and definitely wouldn’t let you date. You’d be better off without it. “Wouldn’t want you to wind up like your mother,” he’d say.

It was a strange thing when Harvey found himself doing more domestic things, like he didn’t realize his hands were capable of it. 

He tucked you in for bed and found himself checking in on you an hour or two later, making sure you were actually sleeping. Nights like those Harvey would tidy up your room a bit and press a kiss to the crown of your head.

 Two-Face didn’t do those things but that didn't mean he wasn't ‘caring’ in his own way. 

There was a thing most parents did to their newborns, they put their hand in front of their noses to make sure they're still breathing or he had a hand on your back and felt as your chest rose and fell. He wasn't sure what possessed him to do this, but it provided some type of reassurance for him.  

Of course there were other things that domesticated them slightly, between combing your hair in the mornings and making breakfast for two. 

You were such a good kid, a quiet kid. Most of the time, he'd put a coloring book or a puzzle in front of you, and it would keep you busy for a while. 

The only thing he could do without is how anxious he got with you, what if he got caught and went to jail, you'd be back in the system or if someone used you to get to him. If that ever happened, Two-Face would deal with it personally.