k-howlett

[k-howlett]

Updates:

I'm back! Yes I will be returning to writing, and submissions are still open!

Sorry for the hiatus, uni + work is slammed so I've been in a very long burn out.

I would like to say thank you to all of the love on my stories, it means the world to me, AND I am starting to draw again. I want to open up about my dc OC and hopefully if any of you are interested, I would love to make a story/fan-art utilising our characters and make friends within this space. (Obviously, 18+ required as I am now 22---Happy late birthday to me).

With love and light,

always,

-Lark

[k-howlett]

H(ear)tline Prologue | Bruce Wayne [Batman] xF!Angel:reader

TW: Possible religious insensitivity, Fallen Angel, Canon-breaking OOC, eventual smut(not in this specific installment)

Rating: Gender Specific (Female Reader), Eventual Smut (Teen+/mature), SFW (Prologue), eventual fluff

A/N:

Thank you so much for your continued patience! I am unfortunately knee deep in moving. Breaking and Entering is on Hiatus at the moment because of my inability to appeal a report (I've been too busy to check my email and missed the 24 hour deadline. Thank you so much(/s) to whoever FALSELY reported my artistry and now cost me hours of setbacks. I don't know if I can repost and change the tag but I did file a complaint with tumblr admin and am awaiting a resolution), in the mean time, please enjoy this concept I came up with half-awake whilst packing boxes!

With love and healing,

-Lark

𓂋

𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢

Bruce Wayne was not one for religion. If there was a God, the creator must’ve had a particular disdain for Gotham City and everything in it. The place was a living hell, overrun with the likes of Scarecrow, Bane, Joker, Penguin—an endless parade of villains. It felt as though God had abandoned him, leaving the city to rot.

When a group of young people stopped him on the street, offering free Bibles, Bruce briefly considered lashing out, tearing into their beliefs with the cynicism that years in Gotham had sharpened. But he held back. Despite his doubts, he couldn’t deny the comfort religion provided to those who believed. He recalled attending Sunday school as a child, his mother’s gentle voice praising the beauty of the world around them, her unshakeable faith even in the face of Gotham’s darkness. In her final moments, she had reached out to God. Who was he to strip these kids of that same hope?

Wordlessly, he accepted the leather-bound Bible. It was crafted with care, though the materials were clearly cheap—the gold lettering was already flaking. He considered tossing it when he got home, or maybe donating it to a shelter. He might not believe in God, but he knew that his own moral compass had been shaped by something greater than himself. Not everyone had that foundation; maybe some people really did need saving.

He sighed as he carried the Bible to his office. The last thing he needed was for anyone to think he’d found religion. He had a carefully curated, morally ambiguous playboy persona to maintain. What if the media thought he was turning over a new leaf? What if they took it as a sign he was ready to settle down? The thought of more women throwing themselves at him—especially devout ones—made him shudder.

He tucked the Bible under his arm, the gold lettering pressed tightly against his side. Maybe someone would mistake it for a journal. A glance at his watch made him scowl—somehow, the walk from the coffee shop to the office had eaten up more time than expected. Lucius would undoubtedly have something to say about it later; they had a meeting, and now he was going to be late—again.

Dragging a hand down his face, Bruce felt the exhaustion deep in his bones. The late nights and early mornings were catching up with him, eroding his focus, fraying the edges of his mind. For a moment, bitterness welled up—a rare flicker of resignation. Did it even make a difference? Gotham’s streets were never truly free of crime. Petty theft, gang violence, the constant churn of the underworld—it never stopped. And the ones he managed to lock up? They always found a way out. Arkham was a revolving door, a sick joke of a prison.

For a fleeting second, he entertained the idea of quitting. The notion of a full night’s sleep was almost unimaginable, but his body ached for it. Was there really no reprieve? After all these years, the despair felt like it was swallowing him whole. Gotham was a sinkhole, and he was drowning in it.

But he shook off the thought, setting his jaw with grim resolve. He would not break, and he would not allow himself the luxury of weakness. He’d let his body rot from the inside out if that’s what it took to see his mission through. It wasn’t just an obligation; it was a promise. And though no one would blame him if he walked away, though they might even understand, he wouldn’t bow down and admit defeat. He’d fought for fifteen years—he could fight for fifteen more.

𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢

Bruce tossed the Bible onto his desk and sank into his leather chair, his eyes heavy as they flicked to the desktop screen. Logging in, he was greeted by a flood of emails—requests for meetings from the legal branch, shareholders bickering over stock distributions, and the usual complaints from board members about his lack of attention to this year’s Gala preparations.

His assistant had already informed him of the missed meeting, explaining that Lucius had been pulled into another matter. The issues were piling up, and for a brief moment, his hand trembled as he reached for the mouse. Wayne Enterprises was his father’s legacy, and Batman was his—but right now, the mission would have to wait. He needed to get this under control, and fast.

Four hours of back-to-back phone calls and troubleshooting. Bruce was now lying under his desk, trying to replace a faulty cable. The entire office was down, and with IT swamped, he had no choice but to handle it himself. He needed to review the quarterly reports before the bonuses were announced, and he knew the company had been slacking—summer interns flooding in and Tim away at college had left him without the structure he relied on.

When he finally sat up from the floor, his head collided with the corner of the desk, sending a sharp pain through his skull. The Bible tumbled from the desk, hitting him squarely on the head before flopping open on the ground, a business card slipping out.

Bruce picked it up, squinting at the bold print: "1-800-ANGEL." He frowned. What kind of absurd, erotic phone service was this? The card was nearly blank, save for a single line:

"May you find your faith."

Real funny, he thought, for a number probably meant to fleece desperate souls. They probably charged by the minute. Bruce rolled his eyes, dismissing it as yet another scam targeting the gullible.

Bruce thumbed the card, skepticism tightening his grip. Surely, no one was desperate enough to actually call. He wondered about the legitimacy of the number, and after settling back into his chair, he opened a new tab. Thankfully, the replacement cable had done its job, and his screen blinked to life. He typed in the number, but nothing came up—not even a link to some sketchy website. He tried the motto next, but all he found were articles on religion and local church recommendations. He raised an eyebrow. For a scam, they were doing a remarkably poor job of marketing it.

Picking up the Bible again, he considered the possibility that the kids handing them out might have been given faulty copies. But as he inspected it, the Bible seemed legitimate enough. He cross-referenced it with an online version to be sure, but everything checked out. The only oddity was the card. Flipping through the pages, he eventually found a strange marking on the back cover, stamped with the words "ales et lux."

"Wings and light?" he muttered, dropping the Bible back onto the desk.

Curiosity gnawed at him. Without hesitation, he dialed the number. Whatever this was, he intended to get to the bottom of it. Maybe he’d caught it early enough—he could pull a few strings with the FBI and shut it down before it preyed on anyone vulnerable. But as the line connected, the voice on the other end made him stop cold.

“So you’ve received the calling card of heaven. We’re so glad you have found your faith. Please note this card is for one-time use. For inquiries about time of death, press 1. For prayers and answers, press 2. For information on Christian denominations and healing, press 3. For nondenominational options, press 4. For Native, Inuit, Norse, and Pagan beliefs, press 5. Unsure what category your beliefs fall under? Press star for a list. For all other healing-related questions, press 6.”

Bruce’s scowl deepened as he listened to the automated menu. The damn phone hadn’t even rung—this had to be some kind of twisted scam. He was about to hang up when the final option made his breath catch.

“And finally, to speak to your angel, press 0.”

His angel? A guardian angel? He doubted he had one. If he did, they’d done a piss-poor job watching over him. The loss of his parents, Jason Todd, and Alfred—the man who had been the closest thing to a father he had left—proved that. Anger flickered in his chest. He wanted to speak to this so-called angel, to confront them, to demand answers for the pain he’d endured. What kind of angel lets their charge suffer like this?

He pressed zero, the cold, rational part of him momentarily overridden by the seething anger and hurt simmering beneath the surface—the hurt little boy he’d buried deep inside threatening to unleash all that unprocessed trauma.

He wasn’t expecting such a soft voice to greet him, nor the surprising calm that washed over his mind as it did.

“Bruce? You really called.” The voice on the other end was feminine, light, almost breathless, as if she had been waiting for this moment.

“...Who the hell are you?” His voice was sharp, defensive.

“Well, my official title doesn’t really have an accurate translation in mortal language, but I’m more or less your protector.”

“Protector?!” He growled, the word scraping out like a curse. “You couldn’t even protect me from a goddamn paper cut, let alone a laundry list of loss. You didn’t protect anything—I protect this city, I protect people. You’re not even real! You’re probably just some credit card scammer, phishing for my personal data. That’s what this is, isn’t it? Data mining. Your entire operation is fraudulent at best, and—”

He cut himself off, his voice shaking with anger. It wasn’t just fury at this supposed "protector"—it was fury at the years of pain, at the endless nights spent fighting a war that never seemed to end, at the world for daring to keep spinning while he bled in the dark. How dare anyone call themselves his protector when every person he’d ever loved had been torn away from him? How dare they try to soothe him with some ethereal nonsense when he was the one in the trenches, the one facing down Gotham’s nightmares every single night?

The silence on the other end of the line was almost unbearable, but he wouldn’t back down. He’d heard enough lies in his lifetime to know when someone was trying to sell him false hope.

“…It doesn’t work like that,” the voice finally replied, a hint of sadness woven into its softness. “I can’t interfere with your life in the way you think. Those losses… they were unfortunate, and I know they fuel the anguish that haunts your mind, but my role isn’t to shield you from pain. My job is to keep you alive. Every close call, every moment when death was just a breath away—that was my divine interference. I won’t let you die, Bruce. Not until the time is right and your body is ready to rest.”

Bruce clenched his jaw, anger and disbelief warring within him. He wanted to tear into her, to lash out at the absurdity of it all. This so-called protector, claiming to watch over him, to keep him alive—where was she when his parents were murdered in front of him? Where was she when Jason died, or when he stood over Alfred’s grave, feeling the weight of yet another life lost because of him?

“Don’t patronize me,” he spat, his voice low and dangerous. “You think I need your protection? You think those near-deaths were some divine favor? I’ve survived because I’ve fought, because I’ve clawed my way out of every hellhole Gotham’s thrown me into. You had nothing to do with it.”

He could almost hear her smile through the phone, a soft, resigned sound that seemed to fill the silence between them.

“You’ve fought harder than anyone should ever have to, Bruce. You’re the purest soul I’ve ever had the privilege of encountering. No matter how much you try to front or deflect, it’s clear you care. You care more than anyone else. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have taken in those kids, or dressed up like a bat to fight crime night after night. You’re like Sisyphus, eternally pushing a boulder uphill. And while you may not want praise or acknowledgment, you need to know—despite everything, you are a good person. You’re a good man. And in many ways, you’re the closest thing to God’s image I’ve ever seen.”

Bruce’s breath caught, anger and disbelief momentarily overshadowed by the weight of her words. How could she claim to know him so well, to understand his pain and sacrifice? Yet, the very notion of being compared to something divine—despite how hollow it felt—struck a chord deep within him.

“Spare me the sermon,” he growled, trying to regain his composure. “You think you can soothe me with this celestial rhetoric? I don’t need your validation. I need results. I need to keep this city safe, and I need to know that those I care about are protected. Save your platitudes for someone who believes in them.”

There was a pause on the other end, as if she was choosing her words carefully. “I’m not here to validate you, Bruce. I’m here to remind you that even in the darkest moments, you have a purpose. And while you may see yourself as a flawed instrument of justice, remember that even in your struggle, there’s a reflection of something greater—a beacon of hope for others, whether you realize it or not.”

Bruce didn’t respond, his mind a storm of conflicting emotions. The rational part of him dismissed her words as manipulative flattery, but a flicker of vulnerability, long suppressed, threatened to break through. He forced himself to focus, pushing those thoughts aside.

“Enough of this,” he said, his voice cold and final. “If you’re really here to help, then stay out of my way. I’ll handle things my way.”

He hung up the phone, the echo of her voice lingering in his mind. As he turned his attention back to the stack of paperwork and problems awaiting him, he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that perhaps, in some twisted way, she had touched a part of him he had long buried.

𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢

Bruce landed another punch on the goon, watching as they crumpled to the ground. Fighting at the docks was his least favorite—slippery surfaces and treacherous footing made it harder to maintain his balance. He glanced at the wall, the dim streetlight casting an eerie glow on the dilapidated brick.

In the periphery of his vision, he thought he saw the shadow of wings, a fleeting, phantom-like presence. When he snapped around, though, all he saw were the goons he had already beaten. They lay scattered and unconscious, bloodied and bruised. A quick scan of the area revealed the familiar wreckage of a confrontation: discarded weapons and broken crates.

On the ground, a few feet away from a goon he didn’t remember hitting, lay a gun glinting in the faint light. Next to it was a single white feather. The goon in question had no visible injuries, no sign of the kind of violence Bruce had just inflicted on the others. There were no swollen bruises, no blood—nothing to suggest that they had been involved in the scuffle.

Bruce frowned, his mind racing. He hadn't hit this one, nor had he seen anything out of the ordinary during the fight. The feather seemed out of place, its presence unsettling. It wasn’t like anything he had come across before—an odd detail in an otherwise straightforward altercation.

His instincts, honed by years of vigilant observation, told him this was no mere coincidence. There was something strange here, something beyond the usual street brawls and petty crime. The feather could mean something, or someone, had intervened. And if that was the case, Bruce needed to understand why.

He crouched down to examine the feather and the gun more closely. His eyes narrowed, scanning for any other anomalies or signs that could explain the goon’s sudden unconsciousness. Whatever the cause, Bruce knew he couldn’t ignore it. Not with the pattern of oddities and divine encounters that had begun to surface recently.

He straightened up, the feather clenched in his hand, his mind already shifting gears. There was more at play here than just a fight—something, or someone, was influencing events from the shadows. And as always, it was up to him to uncover the truth.

˚₊‧𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢 𓏲𝄢‧₊˚

Approx. Word Count: ~2,746

pt I: Coming Soon(?)

This is a soft-launch of this series, if you guys would like more parts, please let me know in the comments <3 It helps motivate me to write!

//Series Tag List: Available Upon Request!

Status Page 2024: Here

[k-howlett]

Prey | Jason Todd X gn!reader [PLATONIC]

TW: Character Death (Jason Todd), Mentions of hospital Equipment, Smoking & Drinking, light catholic mockery

Rating: Teen+, Implied Violence, Mild Descriptions of Gore, Smoking & Alcohol Use, Gender Nonspecific, Angst (With A Happy Ending)

A/N:

A songfic to hopefully get you guys excited for my(@/k-howlett) September Playlist Challenge (Which will be a 30 day writing activity (Songfics) that you’re all welcome to participate in! I will drop the list of songs and characters (specific to my account) sometime this month!)

Thank you for the continued love on my series (Breaking and Entering), I am very much in a DC mood as a convention is coming up soon, though I have a residual rush of Deadpool and Wolverine overload so expect lots of superhero fanfics in the coming weeks!!

as always,

with love and healing

-Lark(ly)

♬⋆.˚

prey - the neighbourhood

⇄ ◁◁ I I ▷▷ ↻

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

As long as,

you notice,

I’m hoping,

That you’ll keep your heart open

(keep your heart open)

I’ll keep mine open too

(I’ll keep mine open too)

♬⋆.˚

“They say some secret society runs the upper echelons of Gotham, y’know?” Y/N chimes in from where they lay on the roof of a beat-up Cadillac shell. The windows are busted out, and the paint is worn thin by Gotham’s relentless weather.

Jason tilts his head back, his expression a mix of amusement and skepticism. “Like the Illuminati? You gettin’ into conspiracies again, Y/NN?” His lanky frame is propped up against the car’s torn-off panel, his eyes flicking from the dark sky to Y/N’s silhouette, illuminated by the cold moonlight.

They were waiting for the fireworks to start, a rare spectacle that both of them, despite their tough exteriors, had always looked forward to.

“No, not the Illuminati. It’s much worse,” they insist, leaning over the roof to peer down at him, their face earnest, almost grave. The two of them, alley kids by definition, had always found solace in each other at the Gotham City scrap-yard. It was near the docks and dodgy as hell, but neither seemed to mind. They knew how to be careful—the needles that littered the ground were easy to avoid if you paid attention, and the dilapidated buildings surrounding the chain-link fences were just part of the landscape, nothing more.

Jason’s grin widens, that trademark smirk of his playing at the corners of his mouth. “Uh-huh. And I suppose you think the moon landing was fake too?”

“Oh, c’mon! Is it really that hard to believe? Think about it. The rich get rich, and the poor get poorer. Ain’t that what the saying is? Someone’s gotta be corrupt at the top, pullin’ the strings. How do you think Joker breaks out all the time? Or how GCPD’s incompetence hasn’t been talked about outside this city? Hm? And they say it’s hard to leave, too! Once you’re here, you’re stuck, ’cause they don’t want people like us to be free. To be like them,” they argue, their city accent thick with conviction, as if they’ve spent hours turning this theory over in their mind.

Jason chuckles, a low, throaty sound that vibrates through the night air. “You’ve been spending too much time listening to the old timers down at the docks. Next thing you know, you’ll be telling me the Bat’s in on it too.”

Y/N rolls their eyes, exasperated but not defeated. “Ah, whateva. One day you’ll see. Just how fucked this place truly is.” They cross their arms behind their head and lie back down as the first burst of fireworks lights up the sky.

For a moment, the world is silent, save for the crackle of fireworks high above. New Year’s Eve in Gotham was a strange paradox—celebratory and bleak all at once. The fireworks painted the night in bright colors, but the streets below remained as grim as ever. Jason glances over at Y/N, their face softening in the glow of the display. He couldn’t help but admire their fire, their passion for things he often brushed off with a laugh.

There was a time when Jason himself had that kind of fire, the belief that something better was possible, even in a place like Gotham. But as they lay there together, watching the fireworks, a small part of him wondered if Y/N was right. Maybe Gotham was more than just a city—it was a trap, a cage, and no matter how hard you fought, you were bound to lose.

But for now, he lets the thought slip away, pushing it down with all the other doubts and fears that plagued him. Tonight was about the fireworks, about the rare moments of peace they found in this chaotic city. He wouldn’t let anything ruin that.

As the final burst of light faded from the sky, Y/N nudged Jason’s shoulder. “Next year’s gonna be better. You’ll see.”

Jason looked at them, his smirk softer now, almost wistful. “Yeah… we’ll see.”

♬⋆.˚

If you don’t ask,

I won’t tell

Just know that,

Just know that

It all hurts,

it all hurts just the same

♬⋆.˚

Y/N sits at the base of the headstone, laughter spilling out in bitter, uneven bursts. The years had worn them down, every laugh wracking their frame with a painful shake.

“You know, it’s comical, really,” they mutter, voice dripping with venom. “You ditch me, go play house with your new family, and now look where you’ve wound up.” They take a deep drag from the cigarette, the smoke curling from their cracked lips into a wry smile. “Look what they fuckin’ did to you,” they say, exhaling slowly. “What a cruel joke.”

Jason’s eyes narrow, his stance tense as he watches them. He expected something—anger, maybe even tears—but this? It cuts deeper than he’d anticipated. “Hey, cut that shit out,” he snaps, his tone edged with irritation. “Not here.”

“What, smoking outside?” Y/N laughs, the sound quickly turning into a hacking cough.

Jason steps closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. “It’s disrespectful, Y/N. Knock it off.”

They grind the cigarette into the concrete, but not before taking one last drag. “You don’t mind, do ya, pal?” they sneer. “I mean, it’s not like you’re even really six feet under.”

Jason’s jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He crouches down beside them, his voice cold but tinged with something darker—pain, maybe, or regret. “Yeah, I do mind. This place is for people to rest, not for you to play out your bullshit. You used to hate smoking—your old man would blow that crap in your face, and you’d go ballistic. Where’s that Y/N, huh?”

“Don’t tell me how to process my emotions, Todd,” they spit, their voice raw with anger. “What’s it matter now, huh? Why show up after all this time? You’ve been prowling around the streets of Gotham for what, a year? And now you want to make a grand entrance? What’s your angle? You gonna pretend you’re not the same lowlife Mafia bosses we used to mock?”Their eyes bore into him, full of accusation and pain.

Jason’s jaw tightens, his eyes cold and hard. He takes a step forward, his voice a gravelly snarl. “You think I wanted this? To become the monster we used to laugh about? Gotham doesn’t give a damn about redemption. It chews you up and spits you out. I had to adapt, or die trying.”

He leans in, his gaze intense. “You’re pissed off? Good. You’ve got every right to be. But don’t act like you know a damn thing about what I’ve been through. You think you’re the only one who’s lost?”

Jason steps back, his voice unwavering and edged with steel. “Go ahead, hate me. But don’t act like you don’t understand. Gotham changes everyone. Even you.”

Y/N’s eyes flash with defiance. “I changed because I lost you, so don’t get it twisted. Gotham’s not the reason you’re like this. You’re on some vendetta trip. I’ve seen the headlines—throwing the Bat into a brick wall in front of the little bird? Talk about a temper. I thought I had a short fuse.”

They let out a bitter chuckle, the amusement in their voice sharp. “Guess I underestimated you. Always thought you had more control. But now? You’re just another angry soul tearing through Gotham like it’s personal. Maybe it is.”

Jason’s gaze hardens, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “You think you know what this is? You think you’ve got me all figured out? You don’t have a clue what I’ve been through or why I do what I do.”

Y/N’s smile fades, replaced by a look of steely resolve. “Maybe not. But don’t kid yourself into thinking you’re the only one who’s suffered. We all deal with our pain in different ways. You’re just louder about it.”

Jason turns away slightly, the tension palpable. “Maybe so. But at least I’m fighting to make a difference. Even if it means getting my hands dirty.”

♬⋆.˚

something is wrong,

I can’t explain

Everything changed when the birds came,

You’ll never know,

What they might do,

If they catch you too early

♬⋆.˚

“So, what was it like then?” Y/N asks softly, holding a beer bottle, their legs dangling off the edge of the rooftop.

Jason exhales sharply, his gaze fixed on the city below. “Shitty,” he responds with blunt honesty.

Y/N nods, their voice carrying a dry tone. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Jason’s expression turns somber, his voice carrying the weight of his regret. “For the record, I would’ve come sooner. If I’d known… if I hadn’t been so damn ashamed, I would’ve found you first.”

Y/N looks away, a hard edge to their voice. “But you didn’t.”

Jason’s shoulders slump slightly, a resigned acceptance in his tone. “No, I didn’t.”

A moment of silence stretches between them, heavy with unspoken words. The city lights below seem to fade into the background, irrelevant compared to their shared pain.

♬⋆.˚

we need to fly ourselves,

before someone else,

tells us how

something is off,

I feel like prey,

I feel like praying

♬⋆.˚

“You keep a rosary in your car? Since when?” Jason’s disbelief is evident as he looks at the symbol.

Y/N’s voice drops to a softer, almost defensive tone. “Since your funeral service,” they reply, the memory clearly still raw.

Jason’s eyes widen in surprise. “Seriously? You’re not messing with me?”

Y/N shrugs, their expression a mix of resignation and irritation. “Yeah, seriously. The church preys on people when they’re down… and I was down.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “So you turned to Catholicism?”

Y/N’s gaze is steady but weary. “God doesn’t come looking for you. You go looking for Him.”

Jason’s face shows a mixture of skepticism and cynicism. “Wow, they really did a number on you. You’re all in, huh?”

Y/N’s patience wears thin. “Can we just drop it? I don’t want to get into this with you.”

Jason’s tone turns more challenging. “Oh, come on. You really think if there was a God, He’d let this city of sinners last?”

Y/N’s eyes meet his, a flicker of wry humor in their gaze. “Maybe He’s trying to flood it. That’s why it rains all the time.” They lock eyes, the serious moment breaking into shared laughter. The tension easing ever so slightly.

♬⋆.˚

so, so I’ll probably,

take you aside

And tell you whats on my mind,

But you, you’ll just keep it inside,

probably tell me that you’re alright

♬⋆.˚

“What the hell happened to you!?” Y/N’s voice is filled with shock and concern as they watch Jason stumble through the door, bloodied and barely conscious.

Jason collapses against the wall, gasping for breath. “You remember when we were kids?” he rasps, wincing in pain.

“Yeah, I remember,” Y/N replies tersely, their hands already working to remove his torn and blood-soaked clothes. “I lived through it.”

Jason coughs, cringing as Y/N begins to clean the gash on his side. “Remember how you used to say Gotham was run by some secret cabal?”

“I didn’t say that” Y/N corrects sharply, applying pressure to the wound. “I said the upper echelons were corrupt.”

Jason grimaces, his face contorted with pain. “Well, you were right.”

Y/N’s hands still for a moment, their eyes meeting his with a mix of disbelief and concern. “Yeah?”

Jason nods weakly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah…”

Y/N’s expression shifts from anger to a deep sadness, their gaze lingering on Jason’s battered form. They finish tending to his wounds with a gentler touch, their emotions raw and conflicted. The weight of his admission hangs heavy in the air, the reality of Gotham’s corruption and its toll on Jason becoming painfully clear.

“And?” Y/N prompts, their tone a mix of frustration and curiosity as they continue tending to Jason’s injuries.

Jason winces, his voice strained. “And that’s all.”

Y/N’s eyebrows raise in disbelief. “You givin’ me my ‘I told you so’ moment?”

Jason nods weakly, a small, pained smile playing at his lips. “Mmhm.”

Y/N’s expression shifts to a wry grin, a hint of triumph in their voice despite the grim circumstances. “Ha! Well, I guess that makes me right then. I told you so!”

Jason lets out a strained chuckle, his eyes showing a flicker of reluctant admiration. “Yeah, yeah. You were right. Just… don’t let it go to your head.”

♬⋆.˚

if I run,

If I run away, I’ll never know

What you want

And if you go then I’ll never grow,

I’m undone,

let me slip,

let me slide

♬⋆.˚

“You’re teaming up with the Bat to track down John Wycliffe—who’s at the heart of Gotham’s corruption and causing problems in neighbouring cities—and subsequently the entire court of owls—and you don’t even know if you’re coming back?” Y/N exclaims, their hands gesturing in frustration. “Why? I just got you back—”

“I have to, Y/N,” Jason replies, his tone firm but strained.

“You don’t have to,” Y/N argues, their voice filled with desperation. “You don’t owe Gotham anything. This place is falling apart—it can burn for all I care. We could leave, get out of here. Just come with me. Please.”

Jason’s expression is resolute. “I can’t. This is bigger than me. I have to see it through.”

Y/N’s voice cracks as they struggle to keep their composure. “Don’t do this. Not again. I can’t handle losing you a second time.”

Jason looks at Y/N with a mix of sorrow and determination. “I need to do this. It’s not just about Gotham—it’s about making sure things don’t get worse.” Jason gives a final glance over his shoulder, a grim acknowledgment of their concern, before disappearing into the night.

♬⋆.˚

Something is off, I can’t explain

You know what I mean,

don’t you?

Something I saw,

Or something I did,

It made me like this,

could you help me?

♬⋆.˚

“Bruce,” Y/N says with a formal, measured tone.

“Y/N,” Bruce acknowledges with a slight tilt of his head, his demeanor guarded.

“Are you still banning me from seeing him?” Y/N’s question is direct, their voice carrying a note of frustration barely masked by formality.

Bruce’s gaze remains steady. “Are you going to be calm this time? He needs rest, not another argument.”

Y/N takes a deep breath, their expression composed but tense. “I’m completely calm.”

Bruce studies them for a moment, assessing their sincerity. “Good. He’s in there. You can see him now.”

Bruce steps aside, allowing Y/N to enter the room. The tension between them lingers as Y/N walks past, their shoulders tense with a mix of worry and determination.

“I don’t want to fight,” Y/N says softly as they enter, hands raised in a gesture of peace.

Jason, looking exhausted with an IV drip attached, raises his hands in a similar gesture. “Yeah, I don’t want to fight.”

Y/N gestures to where Bruce had previously been “I heard you took a bullet for him. Quite the change from when you were on the news trying to kill him.”

Jason winces, but his expression remains guarded. “Yeah, well… it wasn’t on purpose.”

Y/N raises an eyebrow. “Not from what I’ve heard. Seems like you’ve grown a soft spot for your messed-up hero family.” Y/N glances at him and the card on the table from Dick—His older adoptive brother.

Jason manages a tired smile. “Maybe just a bit.”

Y/N picks up the card and looks it over. “That makes you part of the team too, you know.”

“A hero? Not quite,” Jason says, shaking his head.

“More like an anti-hero,” Y/N replies with a smirk. “But definitely not a lowlife mafia boss or a villain.”

Jason chuckles, a weary but genuine smile on his face. “Yeah, guess you’re right.”

“Get some sleep,” Y/N says, adjusting the blinds to block out the sunlight. “I’ll be here when you wake up. Though, with your track record, who knows if you’ll be here after you do.”

Jason groans. “Can you cut it out? I nearly died, Y/N.”

“You did die,” Y/N says gently. “But you’re here now.”

They share a brief laugh. Jason pulls a pillow over his head to shield himself from the light as Y/N makes the room more comfortable, tugging on the blinds to hide the rare Gotham sunshine.

“I’m glad you made it out this time, Jay.”

♬⋆.˚

I don’t want to fight,

I don’t want to fight,

I don’t want to fight

♬⋆.˚ ♬⋆.˚ ♬⋆.˚ ♬⋆.˚

Approx. Word Count: 2,806

J.T. One-Shot (Songfic)

♬⋆.˚ ♬⋆.˚ ♬⋆.˚ ♬⋆.˚

Status Page: Here

Prompt/Character Requests: Open

[k-howlett]

Breaking and Entering | Bruce Wayne(Batman) Xgn!reader pt II

TW: Character Death (Jason Todd), Grief, and eventual age-gap relationship (Bruce is mid-late 40s, reader is 17, soon to be 18)

Rating: Gender Nonspecific, General Audience, SFW

A/N:

Thank you so much for all the love on pt I, I’m so happy to get back into the swing of things.

as always,

with love and healing,

-Lark(ly)

⊹₊⟡⋆ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⊹₊⟡⋆

“I thought you weren’t going to show,” Y/N said as their footsteps crunched softly against the fall leaves. Still in their school uniform, they carried a backpack lazily slung over one shoulder. Jason Todd’s jacket hung loosely around them, its weight a small comfort against Gotham’s persistent gloom.

Bruce’s blue eyes flicked up from where he stood, his gaze sweeping over them. His tall, broad frame dwarfed theirs as he finally spoke. “I told you I’d come.”

“You said you’d consider it. Thats usually code for ‘go fuck yourself’ but in a polite way” they quipped, a playful edge in their voice as they leaned closer to him.

Bruce rolled his eyes, feigning annoyance, and gently nudged them away. “In my case, it means ‘I don’t want to make a promise I can’t keep and stretch myself too thin,’” he countered, his tone firm but with a subtle warmth.

Y/N’s eyes drifted to the lilac-colored box in Bruce’s hands, wrapped carefully with a white bow on top. “What’s with the box?” they asked, curiosity piqued.

Bruce handed it to them with a slight nod. “You were right. Titus completely demolished your shoes.”

“Seriously?” They raised an eyebrow, half-amused.

“Mmhm. And Alfred’s rose bush,” Bruce added, rubbing his temples as if the memory itself was a headache.

“Oh… no, that one was definitely me,” Y/N admitted, a bit sheepish.

Bruce looked at them incredulously. “You flattened Alfred’s roses?”

“I, uh, fell off the fence,” they mumbled.

“You climbed my fence?” Bruce’s tone shifted slightly, the disbelief clear in his voice.

“How else do you think I got in? I certainly didn’t just waltz through the front gate,” they said with a small grin, carefully peeling back the paper to reveal a New Balance box. “You got me... dad shoes?”

Bruce’s expression remained neutral, but there was a slight arch to his brow. “Dad shoes?”

“Yeah, you know, the stereotypical dad shoes. The kind you’d wear golfing.”

“I don’t golf in sneakers,” Bruce replied, his tone matter-of-fact.

“People do,” they quipped, opening the box to get a better look at the shoes.

“These have excellent arch support,” Bruce pointed out, his voice firm but with an undertone of practicality.

Y/N glanced up at him, a hint of disbelief in their eyes. “Titus ate my Converse, and instead of just replacing them with another pair, you got me... these?”

“They’re durable and better for your knees,” Bruce said, his gaze steady, as if daring them to argue with his logic.

They paused, holding one of the shoes, with a smile. “So, you care about my knee health?”

Bruce met their gaze, his expression unreadable, but his tone was calm. “You’ll thank me when you’re older.”

“I’ll thank you now,” they say with a smile, holding up the shoes. “I think these are pretty neat, even if they’re a little… dated.”

“Dated?” Bruce scoffs, his tone slightly indignant. “They’re the top brand on the S&P.”*

“They’re kinda retro, Wayne.”

“Retro?” Bruce repeats, narrowing his eyes. “How old do you think I am?”

“...When’s your birthday?”

“I’m not disclosing that,” Bruce replies, his tone firm.

“Why not?” they press, amused by his sudden defensiveness.

“Because I don’t do birthdays. And I have a feeling you’d try to surprise me at the office, and I’d rather avoid the attention.”

“You flatter yourself,” they tease, sitting down to try on the shoes.

“You mentioned your birthday is coming up,” Bruce says, slipping the comment in with calculated nonchalance.

“My birthday? You want to know mine but won’t share yours?” they challenge, eyebrows raised.

“Just making conversation,” he replies smoothly, a slight smirk tugging at his lips.

“Uh-huh. Well, can we pick a different topic?” they shift their tone, tugging at the laces. “I haven’t celebrated in four years, and I’m not about to start now.”

Bruce pauses, his smirk fading as he meets their gaze. “Fair enough,” he says, the respect in his voice mingling with a hint of understanding. “But if you change your mind, I’m here.”

“You want to celebrate my 18th birthday with me?” they ask, glancing up at him as they tie the right shoe.

“Turning 18 is a milestone,” Bruce states with quiet authority. “Jason never got that chance.”

They shoot him a sharp look. “You’re really going to bring up my best friend—right in front of his grave—to guilt me into celebrating?” There hand gestures at the imposing concrete headstone, as its eye -to-eye with them.

Bruce’s gaze remains steady, unfazed. “It’s not guilt, Y/N. It’s perspective. Life is fragile, and not everyone gets to see their milestones.”

“Mine are limited, and so are yours,” they fire back, a hint of defiance in their tone.

“That’s exactly why they matter,” Bruce responds, his voice calm but firm, emphasizing each word as if it were a lesson.

“Oh yeah? Then why are you so evasive about your birthday, hm?” Y/N asked, their curiosity piqued.

Bruce’s expression remained inscrutable, though a flicker of annoyance flashed in his eyes. “It’s not evasiveness,” he said firmly. “I just don’t see the point in making a fuss over my birthday.”

“That’s a double standard,” Y/N countered, a hint of exasperation in their voice. “For someone so keen on celebrating life, you’re reluctant to acknowledge your own significance.”

“It’s different, Y/N,” Bruce replied, his tone carrying a hint of finality.

“It’s not different,” they shot back, shaking their head. “It’s a matter of acknowledging what’s important. If I’m going to celebrate my milestones, then you should too.”

Bruce sighed, his frustration evident. “Tell you what,” he said reluctantly, “we’ll celebrate yours when it comes around.”

“And?” Y/N prompted, expecting a bit more.

“That’s it,” Bruce said firmly, as if he’d made a decision that should settle the matter.

“That’s not it,” Y/N laughed, a playful glint in their eye. “If I celebrate mine, you’re going to have to celebrate yours.”

“You’re a pain—almost worse than my kids,” Bruce muttered, though there was a trace of affection in his voice.

“They like to celebrate?” Y/N asked, intrigued.

“Dick does,” Bruce admitted. “But no, I meant your stubbornness.”

“Thank you!” Y/N grinned, clearly pleased.

“That’s not a compliment,” Bruce hummed, though a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, betraying the partial admiration he felt for their persistence.

Y/N finished tying the other shoe and looked down with a playful frown. “I look like I have clown feet,” they complained.

Bruce regarded them with a mix of amusement and practicality. “It’s not about the appearance; it’s about the support,” he said, offering his hand.

Taking his hand, Y/N let him pull them up. Standing a bit taller now with the shoes, they grinned up at him. “So, you got these so I’d be in line with your neck vein?” they teased.

Bruce’s lips twitched slightly, betraying a hint of amusement. “Haha, Very funny, Y/N. I got these because you were headed towards flatfoot. Converse aren’t exactly known for their support.”

“Converse are not terrible shoes,” Y/N countered, still playfully defensive.

“Says who?” Bruce asked, raising an eyebrow.

“2014 Tumblr,” Y/N replied with a smirk.

Bruce looked puzzled. “I don’t even know what that is, nor do I want to,” he said with a hint of dismissive amusement. “You know you might actually appreciate the comfort once you’ve broken them in.”

“I do appreciate them. I just like giving you a hard time,” Y/N hummed with a playful smile.

Bruce huffed dryly, a trace of amusement flickering in his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure you do, kid.”

Y/N bent down to collect the New Balance box and the wrapping paper, carefully shoving it into the large pocket of their bag. As they straightened up, a thought crossed their mind. “You took off work for this?” they asked, a hint of surprise in their voice.

Bruce crossed his arms, his expression neutral but his tone a little more serious. “I can make time when it matters.”

Y/N’s expression softens, and they gently grab Bruce’s hand as they both gaze down at the name etched in stone. “It means a lot,” they say quietly, their voice barely above a whisper.

Bruce’s grip tightens slightly, his thumb brushing over the back of their hand. “I know,” he replies, his tone even, though the weight behind his words is unmistakable.

They stand together in silence, the world around them muted by the gravity of their grief. Y/N’s voice trembles as they speak again, “He was my friend.”

“He is,” Bruce responds without hesitation, his eyes still fixed on the grave, the words carrying a quiet, unwavering conviction.

Y/N’s voice falters, thick with emotion. “He was your son.”

Bruce’s expression doesn’t waver, but there’s a slight softening in his eyes. “He always will be,” he says, his voice steady, as if stating an unchangeable fact.

Tears well up in Y/N’s eyes, and they blink rapidly, trying to hold them back. “I miss him,” they admit, their voice breaking.

Bruce pulls them into his side, wrapping an arm around their shoulders with a strength that’s both protective and comforting. “I know,” he says, his voice low, the words carrying the weight of shared sorrow. “I miss him too.”

Y/N leans into him, their tears starting to fall as the grief they’ve been holding back overwhelms them. “It never goes away,” they sob, their words muffled against his chest.

Bruce tightens his hold on them, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles against their back. “No, it doesn’t,” he agrees, his voice calm and measured, though there’s a depth of feeling beneath it that only someone who knows him well would recognize. “But we learn to live with it.”

They stand there for a long moment, Bruce’s presence solid and unwavering, offering them the quiet strength they need. In the silence, there’s a sense of understanding—an unspoken bond.

₊‧⁺ ⊹₊⟡⋆

Damian Wayne prided himself on his situational awareness and keen observation. Lately, his father had been behaving differently—disappearing for hours on Fridays, far more secretive than usual. Damian couldn’t ignore the shift and was determined to get to the bottom of it.

“Why are we following Bruce around again?” Tim asked, trailing beside Damian and Dick.

“Yeah, I thought you called me for backup over an emergency, Damian,” Dick added, crossing his arms as he followed his younger brothers.

“It *is* an emergency!” Damian hissed, his tone sharp. “Father’s acting weird. And I intend to get to the bottom of it.”

“Weird how? Bruce has always been suspicious and dodgy,” Tim pointed out, raising an eyebrow at Damian.

“It’s different this time!” Damian insisted, his frustration evident.

“Okay, little man, no need to get testy.” Dick ruffled Damian’s hair, a habitual gesture that never failed to annoy him.

“Don’t do that, Grayson,” Damian snapped, swatting Dick’s hand away. There was a significant age gap between them, and Damian always felt the need to assert himself as more than just the youngest.

“Shut up, shut up! They’re right there!” Damian whispered urgently, ducking behind a nearby tombstone.

“Oh hey—Is that Y/N?” Tim asked, squinting at the figures standing in the cemetery. One was unmistakably their father, and the other, a teenager who was familiar to him.

“When you said emergency, I wasn’t expecting lukewarm gossip, Damian,” Dick hummed, leaning casually against the fence, though his eyes betrayed a more serious curiosity.

“Who the hell is Y/N, and why is Father hanging out with them?” Damian growled, narrowing his eyes at the sight.

“I just told you, Y/N Y/L/N, they attend GA with us, they’re two grades above me,” Tim explained, though he knew it wouldn’t satisfy Damian’s questions.

“That doesn’t answer the ‘why,’ Drake,” Damian snapped, his frustration bubbling over.

“Oh wait, whoa whoa—Y/N Y/L/N? Jay’s friend?” Dick’s expression shifted as realization dawned on him.

“Well, that would explain the atmosphere,” Tim said quietly, gesturing to the graveyard.

Damian frowned. He had never met Jason Todd, and the family tragedy surrounding him was something he still struggled to fully grasp. “So?”

“So, the anniversary of his death is coming up,” Dick said, his tone more somber. “They’re probably in mourning.”

Damian’s expression faltered, his usual bravado dimming slightly. The weight of what Dick said hung heavily in the air.

Tim stood silently for a moment, then, without a word, started walking through the fence to join Bruce and Y/N. Dick, catching Tim’s intent, followed, but paused when Damian grabbed his wrist.

“Grayson, where are you going? Where’s he going?” Damian demanded, his voice tinged with confusion.

“We’re already here, Damian. Might as well pay our respects too,” Dick said gently, looking down at his youngest brother.

“He was our brother,” Dick added softly, the words carrying a gravity that Damian couldn’t ignore. “You’re welcome to stay out here if it makes you uncomfortable. But the family is in there.”

Damian hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. “Alfred’s not,” he said indignantly, trying to regain some control of the situation.

“But he would be if he were here,” Dick replied, his voice gentle but firm. “We all mourn in our own way, Damian. You don’t have to go in if you’re not ready.”

Damian’s gaze flicked between Dick and the figures at the gravesite, his usual resolve shaken. After a moment, he released Dick’s wrist, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

“Fine,” Damian muttered, his voice quieter now. “But don’t expect me to get all emotional.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Dick said with a small smile, giving Damian a reassuring pat on the back before following Tim through the fence.

Damian lingered for a moment longer, his eyes narrowing as he watched his brothers join Bruce and Y/N. Then, with a deep breath, he steeled himself and followed, his steps slower, more deliberate. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, but for the first time, he didn’t feel the need to fight it.

After all, as much as he hated to admit it, maybe he was starting to understand what it meant to be part of this family.

Tim stepped up beside Y/N, his presence calm and reassuring. He gave them a soft nod of acknowledgment, his eyes flickering with understanding as he noticed the tears and the way they leaned against his father. Tim didn’t need words to convey his support; his silent companionship was enough.

Dick moved to stand beside Bruce, resting a hand on the older man’s shoulder. A shared look of understanding passed between them, one that spoke volumes without a single word. This moment was heavy, but they had each other, and that made all the difference.

Finally, Damian squeezed between Dick and Bruce, his small frame nestling close to his father’s side. His sharp eyes narrowed slightly at Y/N’s closeness, a flicker of something protective crossing his face. He discreetly clung to Bruce’s sleeve, a silent claim of territory that only someone as observant as Damian would make.

Y/N’s gaze shifted to the Wayne siblings, their eyes widening a fraction in surprise to see all of them here. The sight of the entire brood gathered around Jason’s grave added a weight to the moment that they hadn’t expected.

Pennyworth’s steps were light as he approached, his presence as impeccable as ever. Despite his age, Alfred carried himself with a dignity and grace that belied his years. He stood behind the five, a steady pillar of support. “I don’t suppose any of you brought an offering?” he teased lightly, his tone gentle yet playful.

Bruce’s normally stoic eyes softened, a rare warmth bubbling up from his chest as he glanced at Alfred. “Figured that’s your department,” he responded, a hint of affection in his voice.

“White lilies, daffodils, and forget-me-nots,” Alfred announced, setting the beautifully bound bouquet in front of the grave with care. His selection was thoughtful, each flower chosen with intention and meaning.

“It’s quite beautiful… A shame they’ll wither,” Y/N said softly, their voice tinged with melancholy.

“All things wither with time, dear. That doesn’t make them any less meaningful,” Alfred replied with gentle wisdom, his tone reassuring.

Y/N shot Bruce a look, a mix of surprise and familiarity in their eyes. “Someone gave me an eerily similar speech,” they remarked, their lips quirking into a small, knowing smile.

“I did. My wisdom comes from somewhere,” Bruce acknowledged, his voice carrying the weight of years of experience.

Alfred gave a wink and a nod, his expression warm to Y/N before his attention shifts to Dick. “I didn’t expect you to be here, Master Richard,” he said, his tone affectionate.

“Ah, I left Blüdhaven in good hands for the night,” Dick replied with a smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Wouldn’t miss a reunion for the world.”

Bruce’s gaze swept over his family, the people who had become his anchors in this world of shadows and loss. In moments like this, he was reminded of what he fought for—what they all fought for. The past could never be undone, but standing here together, they honored it, even as they looked toward the future.

And for a moment, in the quiet of the cemetery, with the scent of flowers lingering in the air and the presence of loved ones all around, the Wayne family found a fleeting sense of peace.

⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆

*(Please note New Balance is not actually on the S&P because its not publicly traded, I just thought it was a comical interaction)

⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆

Approx. Word Count: 2,917

pt I - pt II - pt III (coming soon)

//Series Tag List: Available Upon Request!

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More About The Blog: ♡

Status Page (2024): Here

[k-howlett]

STATUS PAGE '25

Prompt/Character Requests: Open (slots available. 5)

1: open

2: open

3: open

4: open

5: open

⟡⋆˙Head-Canon's ⋆˙⟡ (Coming Soon)

⋆˙⟡Previous Series⟡⋆˙ (On Hold While I fight With Admin)

Breaking and Entering (Bruce Wayne/Batman x NB!reader) ♡ ♡♡

This is currently on Hiatus due to someone being oh so lovely (/s ) and reporting the piece for "harm to minors". Which is absolutely fucking crazy considering this is an EVENTUAL age-gap relationship with the series taking place over the course of 9 years and Bruce and Reader don't "fall in love" or get together until they are 47 and 26. This actually has pissed me off severely and if my first chapter does NOT get reinstated you will have to find me on AO3 because this is actually so offensive to me that I don't even want to finish the story now. I would NEVER advocate for age-gaps when one party is a minor (no matter how close to 18 they are) because of my OWN trauma. So the fact that someone read it and was like "this is weird" is INSANE when NOTHING was even REMOTELY flirty or romantic nor will it be until reader is 26. Sorry to those of you that are disappointed, but this is literally why we can't have nice things.

⟡⋆˙Current Series⋆˙⟡

H(ear)tlines | Bruce Wayne/Batman x F!Angel:reader prologue

⟡⋆˙Previous One-Shot⋆˙⟡ Prey | Jason Todd

⟡⋆˙Current One-Shot⋆˙⟡ Match Point!| Damian Wayne x GN!reader (coming soon)

//Tag List Character Masterlist (Coming Soon)

September Playlist (Songfic 30 Days Challenge) (Coming Soon)

^ #/ khowls_songfic_challenge ^

Schedule for Sept. 2024:

Songfics: Cocoon | Logan Howlett (Wolverine) x Reader, Conversation | Dick Grayson (Nightwing) x Reader, Good Luck, Babe | Hermione Granger x F!Reader, Fine Line | Draco Malfoy x M!Reader, The Sink | Sherlock Holmes x GN!Reader, She Is | Temperance Brennan x F!reader

H(ear)tlines | Bruce Wayne/Batman x F!Angel:reader pt I (depends on demand)

Bruce Wayne Analysis +character perma-tag list

[k-howlett]

Your Friendly Neighbourhood Fanfic Enthusiast

⊹₊⟡⋆ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⊹₊⟡⋆

Name: Lark | Karot | Mav

Pronouns: she/her

Age: 21.

Prompt/Character Requests: Open (ask submissions)

*please note; not all story requests can be fulfilled but there will be updates on how many slots I can take at a time located on the Status Page (Here) as well as the schedule for the month

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Rules:

(Reposts) when reposting please give credit, especially if its being put on a masterlist of sorts

(//Tag lists) please see below information on how I run tag lists, do not flood my asks with taglist questions please and thank you! <3

(Characters) All Characters are based off of a multitude of sources, therefore they could seem OOC, but I try to operate based on how I think a character is at their core breakdown (Will release a personal analysis of each character I write for and why I write them the way I do as a part of the CHARACTER tag list) (This will make more sense when my blog has more fanfics to build into a masterlist)

(Prompts) I'd love to be nominated for challenges and such during the holidays! I love detailed prompt requests, however, smutt is a whole other beast of literature and requires gender specific pronouns. I can write implied scenes for general audience, but for more intricate pieces, I am completely limited to my own anatomy and what I understand the human body to operate as; therefore I will have to ask that you keep your prompts GA if you are looking for neutral terms. I also will NOT write incest! This rule is bent a little bit, as I will do adjacent non-blood related sibling dynamics (example: their mom marries your dad). I will NOT stray from character integrity, meaning if you request a prompt that doesn't align with the character (loyal character!xcheating prompt) I will not grant the request because I believe it is not true to their nature.

Please just be mindful and respectful in understanding some of my work may have themes (example: age-gaps) that are a way for me to work through some trauma I have and may not necessarily align with what you're comfortable with. All my works will have a rating system and trigger warnings to accommodate.

(Mutuals) I would love to be friends with you guys! I do have a discord, I will only give it out once the friendship is established and I will keep my other socials private as I have little siblings on those platforms

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//Tag List CHARACTER Request Masterlist: Coming Soon

This functions SEPARATELY from story tag lists, where you would be getting tagged purely for that specific fanfic until it is completed

*Note that character tag lists will be released when fanfics correlating to the character are posted

Example: (for characters with more than one series, one shot, or headcannon) A post will be made and you can request from that page (comments) to be put on the CHARACTER TAG LIST which includes all future works for that specific character until removal request (PM or Ask)

//Tag List STORY Requests are fulfilled within comment sections of ongoing stories (not available for one-shots or headcannons)

Status Page for current stories: link at top*

all completed works will be available on the masterlists (coming soon)

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Characters I Write For:

*please note this is based off of characters I know in depth enough to be able to write for, not necessarily a reflection on my favourite characters

⊹₊⟡⋆DC⊹₊⟡⋆

(Batfam)

Batman | Bruce Wayne

Catwoman | Selina Kyle

Nightwing | Robin | Dick Grayson

Red Hood | Jason Todd

Red Robin | Tim Drake

Robin | Batman | Damian Wayne

⊹₊⟡⋆Harry Potter⊹₊⟡⋆

(original series)

Hermione Granger

Draco Malfoy

Lucius Malfoy

Severus Snape

⊹₊⟡⋆Marvel⊹₊⟡⋆

(Assorted)

Doctor Strange | Stephen Strange

Loki Laufeyson (Pre-TV Show)

Spider-Man 2099 | Miguel O'hara

Venom | Riot | Symbiote Host Reader

Wolverine | James Logan Howlett

⊹₊⟡⋆Miscellaneous⊹₊⟡⋆

(Assorted)

Carlisle Cullen (Twilight)

Coriolanus Snow (Hunger Games)

Christopher Wilde (Starstruck (2010))

Dean Winchester (Supernatural)

Hunter (Owl House)

Kylo Ren / Ben Solo (Star Wars)

Sherlock Holmes (BBC Version)

Temperance Brennan (Bones)

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Additional Information:

yes platonic and romantic pairings

I write:

Smutt WITH PLOT (female reader only) 🫧

Songfic🎵

fluff ☁️

hurt/comfort ☔️

angst 🌧️

angst with a happy ending 🌦️

gender nonspecific AND gender specific labels

GN! <gender neutral reader>, MLM<men love men>, WLW<women love women>, FW! <for women>, FM! <for men>

no gender bent characters

I DO NOT do ship pairings (this is an xreader focused blog)

Master Lists: coming soon

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