Dc X Male Reader - Blog Posts

New ideaaaa~ I'm starting Hannibal rn and I got the idea of Hannibal characters x male reader who can't feel pain (congenital analgesia). Like at all. Like any kind of pain, not just physical. Like I'm thinking will Graham (is that how you spell it?) x male reader and Hannibal x male reader too. Maybe they compete? Idk. Or maybe a Hannibal x Jeffery Dahmer male reader

So here's some ideas for the Hannibal fanfic. I was thinking maybe he's a cop or one of the people on site during the investigations in Hannibal (only on ep 3 guys give me time lol) and he catches their attention maybe by like cutting himself on something deep and doesn't even notice. Like at all. Or they here about him from some gossiping cops about how he was shot in the shoulder or leg and didn't even notice and kept on running after a criminal or robber or something and was on temp leave and is coming back soon or maybe he's one of wills students thing and he hears gossip from students about his lack of pain or something.

Cod ideas are maybe he was a soldier who literally came back from a mission with like 4 bullets in his legs or something and was on temp medical leave and price hears about him when they team up with the mcs squad on mission and they overheard something about the story and him coming back soon and as for getting him on price's team maybe the mc was talking about moving teams when he gets back (I'm thinking the mc prefers a team that can handle him not being able to feel pain and looks out for him or maybe the mc is a perfectionist and the fact that someone even got shot that many times before someone helped him or killed the enemy or something is bad to him so he's disappointed in his team for allowing that to happen to him or something idk how to explain it. He's looking for a better team that can effectively use his inability to feel pain well and also make sure he doesn't get too hurt with something like getting shot 4 times or something idk)

We could also use him for a cod x male reader fic too or avengers or dc

I like the painless version better tho it's unique

I'm only on ep one rn so I haven't thought of a plot start yet.

I prefer long fics and series so if you use this (for anything rather) let me know

Art not mine, found on Pinterest

I was thinking he'd look something like this, maybe heavy scars on his body tho

One of the sorts

He'd work with any fanfic tho so I really wanna see some x male reader or oc who can't feel pain

Actually maybe using the art from one of the previous posts would match too

You guessed it guys. Another idea. I just got black myth: wukong (great game btw been wanting to play it) and I thought of what about a various marvel or DC (or bnha) x male sun wukong reader. Like he's a mischievous easygoing blunt monkey man cuz honestly despite him being a monkey in the game he be looking great. And he used the staff and can shape shift into literally anything and I guess see the dead or something and control clouds and stuff. Heck you can do a monster poly tf 141 au x him too (like maybe he's an experiment or something or made half monkey or maybe he's a guy who found the staff artifact and became sun wukong overnight or maybe he was buried in ice and discovered by the Russians deep in the tundra or permafrost and they put a collar on him forcing him to be a mercenary or they had him in a tube and the tf 141 was sent to recover him or something idk) also I feel like he'd be a power bottom or a switch. This probably isn't one of my best ideas and I kinda just somewhat thought this one out. Ooo also god of war x him would work to or even record of Ragnarok x him because honestly I love Buddha from that show and Jack and Hermes and other characters or even jjk x him like he's a spirit or casted from wherever he's from (don't know enough about sun wukong) and the energy blast alerted everyone and he meets gojo because of that or sukuna goes wild in Yuji trying to go find him or some sorcerers uncovered his shrine somewhere and they're sent out all beat up and gojo is sent or something

Here's a gif of the man because why not

Anyone know any batfamily x male reader or male oc that isn't a sibling reader like he isn't related to them at all

Preferably long fics with chapters and stuff

Bro I need a frickin fanfic (preferably story) where the male reader or oc is a power bottom biker boy who drives something like a Yamaha r1 or a BMWS1000RR or some other hot modern bike and is a adrenaline junkie and stuff and slowly builds up harem of powerful men for himself and he starts by pulling up next to starks limo at a red light or something and immediately catches his heart or something and because of this he ends up eventually after a while of 'hanging' with stark he meets the rest of the avengers just for the other guys to fall for him too because honestly it'd be a trip. I mean who doesn't want to get on your knees for a biker boy, I definitely would 😂 (guys don't judge, a girls gotta simp)

Edit: and if he has a superpower, it should be like dumb luck. Like the kind that makes birds show up outta nowhere to take a bullet for him or something or no matter what he comes out unscathed. Like to the point powers malfunction when directed at him or something dumb will happen to keep him safe, which is why he's an adrenaline junkie. No one knows his power tho, not even himself. He just thinks it's normal. This also could work in a bnha fic

Edit 2: oh and a foreign accent like idk which but you choose.

Edit 3: I feel like he'd listen to artists like slen, sxmpra, BVDLVD, Freddie dredd, ghostemane, mac Miller, $uicideboy$, bones, d4vd, red leather, witchz, 1nonly, etc just for like the aesthetic or something (guys I listen to these guys but I don't look or act it at all. It's a guilty pleasure lol and I feel badass to some of the songs for the beat alone. This or he'd listen to heavy dubstep, trap, phonk, etc) and I'm thinking big dawgs by hanumankind would fit him perfectly

Actually this can apply to any fandom with hot guys. I'd die for a cod one where he meets them in a country they've got a mission in by pulling up next to them on his bike or he owns a bike shop or he's their neighbor or a DC one cuz Batman's reaction would be funny or jokers if his plans never work when the MC is involved because of his luck

Pic not mine, probably found on Pinterest. Credit to them but this is how I'd think he looked

The comedian.

I had a lot more planned for this but the platform I was using kept crashing. Please enjoy and comments are appreciated. Y/n is a journalist who investigates criminals.

Y/n swore he'd leave Gotham one day. Move back to his no name town and leave his journaling career behind. Whether he'd make it back alive was a whole different story. He left work after dark, being behind on a group project. He was required to meet the deadline on time. His boss made it clear that if he failed to do so, it would cost him his job. One y/n couldn't afford to lose. Bidding the janitor farewell as he left. Dreading the walk back to his apartment. The air cold and unwelcoming. It was a short walk but Gotham's reputation wasn't for nothing. It was dangerous even in the day time. And if the wealthiest family in Gotham could be murdered in a back alley, it could be anyone. He kept his head down, hands in his pockets. Avoiding the large groups of men gathering in the street. Whatever they were doing was non of his business. Making his way through the safest route to home. A dingy, poorly lit back alley reeking of piss and week old trash. Quickly dodging the smelly puddles and broken glass, noting the foot steps following him.

Y/n was sweating up a storm knowing he wasn't far from his apartment. He could run but anyone knowing where he lived would invite even more trouble. Taking a deep breath turning to face whoever was following him. His courage died at the sight. He was met with a tall imposing man. His broad shoulders and thick arms showcasing his strong muscles. Black hair greasy and unwashed. But he definitely wasn't the common junkie y/n was used to seeing. The sinking feeling in the pit of Y/n's stomach only grew when the man didn't immediately demand his wallet or even his watch. This wasn't a random mugging. Y/n took a step back, his legs felt like jelly. The stranger rasped out a rough chuckle. The click of the man's pocket knife had y/n turning on his heel and into a dead sprint. It wasn't his first rodeo. He had spent too much of his time running for his life in this awful city. But this was the first time someone targeted him specifically. His wallet yes but never his life. Scrabbling around the corner and towards the front of his apartment complex. The man slid and slammed into a abandoned trash can. He recovered too quickly for y/n comfort but it gave him enough time to book it up the small set of stairs. Y/n ripped the door key from his coat pocket and blindly jammed it into the door.

Looking back at the man who was charging full speed at him. A yelp of fear leaped from his throat as he yanked his key free from the now open door and shot inside. Slamming the door closed behind him the second humanly possible. The automatic lock saving his life. Having no time to relax as a loud bang rang through the quiet building as his attacker slammed against the door. "You can hide in there forever! I'll be waiting! Do you hear me, you crossed the wrong man this time!" Y/n slid down the door frozen in fear as he listened. Panting from sprint. Nausea suddenly hit him like a train holding onto his own knees for dear life waiting for it to pass. A sudden thump near the stairs could have scared him to death if his heart was any weaker. Seeing his floor mate standing by the stairs, a wooden bat clutched tightly in his hand. His brows knitted together and a frown etched into his face. The worried look in his eyes pulled at y/n's heart stings. He would have thought Jack was angry with him if he didn't know any better. He must've woken the poor man slamming the door. His dark brown hair that y/n was used to seeing combed and styled laid flat from sleep. His bangs grown out from the lack of maintenance were brushed away from his face. Dark circles under his eyes induced by stress were exaggerated by his warm green eyes. Neither of them said a word simply waiting. Y/n was the first to interrupt the silence. Rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry about that, I'll be quieter next time." Jack gave him a bewildered look. They had been floor mates for sometime. Though they had never really spoken much besides a greeting in the halls when they passed each other and light conversation in the lobby y/n had developed a childish crush on the man. The straight, married man with a baby on the way. After another moment of silence Jack finally spoke. His curiosity laced with worry. "What was that about?" A simple question but one y/n couldn't answer. Replaying the whole thing over in his head

trying to make sense of it. With heavy sigh he shook his head. "I was just attacked by a man welding a knife." Laughing nervously trying to avoid the gravity of the whole situation. Jack tensed up upon hearing the news. The souring company was enough to get y/n moving. Peeling himself off the floor brushing past Jack with a quiet good night and went straight into his apartment. Tossing his shoes in a corner and flopping onto his uncomfortable bed. Going straight to sleep. Jack followed him up the stairs the bat held loosely in his non dominant hand. Y/n's shoulders slumped and and his head low as he slipped soundlessly into his apartment. Jack stood staring at the door longer then he'd like to admit. He blew his chance to speak with y/n again.

But given the circumstance he doubted much would come from his effort anyways. Jack ran his hand through his hair for the hundredth time that night. He had been going over a overwhelming amount of unpaid bills. His career as comedian was failing miserably. He was struggling with booking but that wasn't the problem, no one laughed. Not once. He needed to find some way to make ends meat. Regardless of how. The following week was quite for Y/n. He would go to work, rush home, eat dinner alone, and sleep. The endless cycle of his life. It wasn't until Saturday when Y/n had come home late again did that change. No sooner did Y/n pop his leftover chicken fried rice in the microwave was there someone knocking on his door. Turning his head towards the noise he face scrunched in confusion. He had no plans and no friends. Who was knocking on his door?

Glancing lovingly at his food before heading for the door. Dodging the squeaky floor boards as he went. Looking through the peephole. And to his surprise and horror it was Jack and he was bleeding. Quickly unlocking multiple locks on his door before swinging it open. As confused as Y/n was he could just leave him to deal with whatever happened by himself. "Go to the bathroom and wait for me." Y/n pointed to his bathroom next to his bedroom. His voice calm but firm. And that's exactly what Jack did. His hands holding his nose as blood seeped through his fingers. Y/n hastily walk into his kitchen grabbing the pair of scissors off the microwave along with a couple soft wash cloths a drawer. With limited space he had to get a bit creative with storage. In the bathroom he saw Jack sitting on his toilet lid looking at the floor.

Turning the sink on hot as he began his inspecting Jack's wounds waiting for the water to heat up. Open cuts and bruising on both his knuckle. A solid bruise on his left cheek and a nasty cut across the bridge of his nose. Y/n grabbed his med kit from under the sink. Checking the water temp before dropping the plug in sink leaving him with a basin of water to work with. Y/n turned to look at Jack meeting his eyes. Taking note of how red they were. Thankfully the wound on his nose had stopped bleeding. Leaving behind a clean cut that would no doubt scar. Nodding to himself as he opened his med kit. He might be a little rusty but he could handle this. First applying the hand sanitizer to prevent cross contamination. Submerging one of the cloths in the sink then ringing the excess "I'm going to be as gentle as I can but this is going to hurt. Hold onto something okay."

He soften his voice trying to be comforting. Jack nodded in return bracing himself. Y/n held onto Jack's jaw to prevent him from moving as he cleaned the blood from his face. Careful around the open wound on his nose. The blood cleaned from his face Y/n noticed how red and warm Jack's cheeks had become. He hoped that it wasn't a fever. Setting the now stained red cloth down, replacing it with the clean one. Soaking up the lukewarm water ringing out the excess. He turned back to his floor mate, knowing the worst part was next. Cleaning the actual cut. "Jack, I need you to close your eyes for me okay. I'll be quick." He listened without question and closed his eyes. But the secoed the cloth made contact with his skin one of Jack's hands shot out grabbing a hold of his hip. The feeling of his thin fingers holding onto him

was kinda cute if he was honest. He was quick to lessen how much he had to irritate the wound. Applying some antiseptic balm to the wound before cutting some self adhering bandage to size. Carefully placing it on the wound. Jack's grip tighten during the bandaging process. "All done." He couldn't help but frown. He felt horrible for causing him more pain.

"I'm going to wash your knuckles and then you can go get changed." Jack answer with a simple okay. Admittedly a little breathless. Y/n let the water out of the sink before flip on the water back on. Grabbing Jack's hands holding them under the lukewarm water washing the blood and grime down the drain. Apologizing for any pain or discomfort was feeling. Applying the balm to his knuckles before grabbing a roll of gauze. Wrapping it around slowly, making sure it wasn't too tight as he went. Trying to ignore the way Jack was looking him. Tying off the last hand with a relieved sigh. It had taken a hour but he was finished. Y/n guided him out of the bathroom and into his bedroom.

Leaving him standing by the bed as he walked to his dresser. Fishing through his shirt until he found one that looked like it would fit. They may share almost identical height Jack was much thinner. The lack of nutrients and proper care was obvious. Grabbing a cream long sleeve and black sweats that hadn't fit in years. Turning to see Jack inspecting his room. It wasn't much to look at really. A stiff mattress and half eaten dresser, small end table and a window that didn't open with a old sheet tacked over it to block out the sun. But it was something. "It's not much but if you're comfortable with it, you can wear these and I'll wash the ones you're wearing." Y/n place the clothes on the bed and walked out. On the hunt for some pain medication.

Jack watched him leave before looking at the clothes. His face still on fire from his own embarrassment. His heart still racing from the bathroom. The gentleness, the feeling of his hands on his skin, the warmth they left behind. Brushing away his thoughts before they had a chance to spiral. He began talking off his shoes sitting them in the same corner as the other ones before talking off his blooded clothes and dressing in the fresh ones. They smelt like Y/n and were decently baggy. But they were comfortable. And after the night he had that's all he could ask for. A knock on the door frame announced y/n's return who was holding up a bottle of ibuprofen and a glass of water. "If you want to, you can stay and watch some TV. Jack stood speechless for a moment. Y/n's smile faded a bit worried he might have overstepped. He quickly added "You don't have to of course." Jack picked up his dirty clothes off the floor before answering. " I'd love to."

Don't forget to drink water and eat something.

Jon: *unbuttoning shirt* god it’s so hot in here…

Wonderboy!reader: I know that, but why are you unbuttoning my shirt?

High school au where the batboys are teenagers of age 15-18. Damian being 15, Tim being 16, Jason being 17, and dick being 18. You, the reader are their childhood friend. You are aren’t popular like the boys who are the rich boys of the Gotham academy. You are just a simple student who’s not known, so you don’t hang out with the boys at school much. You are almost 16, being in the middle of the age of Damian and Tim. You are closest to the two youngest of the brothers, dick and Jason are not close with you, but they think they are.

Dick is the type of guy who always waved at you despite being surrounded by his peers which make them stare at you intensely.

Jason is the type of guy to ask you if you need to ride even though he rejects people that ask to ride his motorcycle.

Tim is the type of guy who ask if you understand the work or need help. Always suggesting a tutoring session together at the manor. When really he sees it as a study date.

Damian who always give you small gifts, he knows you hate attention just like him. So he gives you small meaningful gifts just so you can still tell he cares for you.

Even if you don’t want their attention at the school, it’s bad enough that these batboys can’t help but love their childhood best friend.

Burning from the Inside

Yan! Batfamily x neglected! male! meta! Reader

Chapter one: Enter the Manor

Summary: The first few months of living in the manor and your impressions of the inhabitants. Word Count: 2805 Reading Time: 11:14 (mins:secs) Notes: Uh yeah this was meant to be maybe like 1000 words max. Oopsies 😬. I thought I’d do an honorable mention of @sitepathos and their series Gold to Mold bc while the influence may not be obvious, that story was one of my main influences to finally write the story in my head. Also any OOC behavior can be chalked up to the characters being emotionally inept (Bruce), not fully capable of raising a child that’s not Robin (Bruce again), or deal with their own emotional baggage of not being Robin anymore (dick). Also it’s important to note that I do look through the interactions with my fic and block profiles that only use she/her or say “cis girl”. The idea of being used as a tool for someone else’s gratification makes me uncomfortable and this is my blog, I do what I want. No current release date for the second chapter, it’ll get done when it gets done I guess.. 🤷‍♂️😓 Warnings: written in first person, talks of a young child (11) dealing with depression but the word isn’t used. Aggressive behavior from an adult to a child, and neglect from a parental figure.

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The first week in the manor was actually rather.. nice. The car Alfred had taken you to the manor in was a shiny black, the interior coated in an oil-like black leather that made noise when you moved on it. There’d been a bag of fast food waiting for you in the back seat of the car when Alfred ushered you in. You’d devoured the meal hastily- not out of any sort of food deprivation or malnutrition, but because it never seemed like you could sate your appetite. No matter what, you were always a little hungry, a little more ravenous than the other boys your age. He’d talked sparingly as he drove, rarely talking his eyes off the road. It seemed like he understood. Unlike the cops and the foster families and the social workers, Alfred didn’t say “I’m sorry” or “that must hurt”. He didn’t really say anything about it at all. 

He’d asked you what your favorite color was, what style of decoration you’d want for your room, if you enjoyed your current clothes and style or if you’d rather have something else, and other similar questions. It was slow going, moving your mouth to form answers. Since the house fire, you’d grown to be unlike your past self, retracting into your shell like a snail, and barely speaking unless absolutely necessary. He didn’t seem to mind silence, though. It made a knot in your shoulders, that you never noticed, come loose.

The ride wasn’t very long, or maybe it was, you didn’t pay much attention to the time. It didn’t feel like a long ride. You’d spent the majority of it resting your head on the car door and staring out the window, watching buildings and trees pass by. The squat, brick buildings of mom-and-pop businesses of the town you’d been moved to gradually gave way to towering skyscrapers and bustling streets, although that eventually fell away to a thinned forest and big houses that stood proud among manicured lawns. The houses faded away too, leaving miles of sprawling woods the only thing to look at. Watching the trees pass by was a rather calming experience, your heartbeat slow and steady in your chest. You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling that ever-present heat under your skin settle, like a cat laying in the sun. It never left, like a permanent fever, but it could calm down, it could go dormant for the moment. 

The car rolled to a stop and you opened your eyes. A mansion stood alone in the middle of the woods, a driveway leading up to it and ending in a roundabout with a fountain in the middle. The front of the house was framed by well-loved hedges and flower beds which bloomed with brilliant white and red flowers. The house- mansion- itself was a deep red brick, the stone worn by weather, and framed by snow-white columns of marble. It was imposing, looming over the surrounding trees. Alfred stepped out of the car and moved around to the side, opening the door for you.

“Master yn, we have arrived.” He said with that same kind, elegant manner he’d greeted you with, back at the social worker’s office. 

As you climbed out of the car, Alfred moved back to the trunk and opened it, grabbing your singular bag of belongings before closing the trunk. He walked to the pristine marble stairs that led up to the tall mahogany  doors, the gravel crunching under his shiny black shoes. You followed loosely behind him, looking around at the outside of the house. The thought hadn’t quite managed to break through the fog that always seemed to cloud your mind nowadays, but it suddenly dawned on you that this isn’t exactly a normal foster family. You hurried to the door when Alfred held it open for you, stopping only for a moment to glance down at the outdoor mat resting outside the door. It was black with a gold logo printed onto it; the logo looked like a highly stylized W with an E beside it. An unsettled feeling rested in your stomach at the sight of it and you couldn’t quite grasp why. 

Entering the mansion, you were struck with the smell of cleaner and, very faintly, cologne. It smelled like an expensive store, the kind of place you and your mom would walk past on the way to your usual shopping area. The entryway had an open doorway that offered a small glimpse into the rest of the manor. A grand staircase ran down the side of the wall, the room entirely lit by a chandelier hanging from the high vaulted ceiling. Alfred moves past you, closing the door behind you both, and talks while gesturing for you to follow him up the grand staircase.

He’d taken you down a long hall that was lined with closed doors, explaining where everything was located whilst walking.

“Now, Master Bruce’s bedroom is.. further down the hall.”

You must’ve given him a curious look as you both arrived at your new room. Alfred opened the door for you, allowing you to enter in front of him.

“He wishes to give you space during this time.”

Your stomach churned at those words. They were perfectly designed, like what a PR team would tell their talent to say after screwing up massively. It left a sour taste in your mouth and you couldn’t quite meet Alfred’s gaze after hearing that. You looked around the room as Alfred set down your bag on the bed. It was much larger than anywhere you’d lived before, considering both foster homes and your real home. 

Despite the size, though, the room was bare of any decoration. A single twin bed laid under the brightness of the single window in the room, only blinds blocking the sunlight. Along the far right wall stood a sturdy wooden dresser and mirror. The walls were a blank white wallpaper and the floor was the same shiny deep-colored wood as the hallway outside. There was no side table for the bed, no carpet despite how cold the floor would definitely get, no posters or paintings, just the bare necessities. It was the picture of utilitarian. Alfred spoke up, clearing his throat as if he was embarrassed.

“Unfortunately, we were unable to source more furniture before your arrival.” He said with the same elegance as everything else he’d said, despite his expression figuratively shouting how upset he was about what he was saying. 

It intrigued you more than it should’ve. You shrugged and went to the window, pulling down one of the blinds to look outside.

“It’s fine.”

It’s not. You didn’t turn to look back at Alfred as you spoke, nor did you look back when you heard his fancy dress shoes shuffle against the floor. You heard the door creak.

“I’ll let you settle in, sir.”

You heard the door shut behind Alfred as he left. The minute you were alone, you fell back into the bed, staring up at the ceiling. 

The first few weeks had been rather boring, admittedly. You’d often stay in your room for days at a time, only wandering out to explore the house when you got bored of staring at the ceiling. You’d stroll up and down the halls, discovering the library, the private study that Bruce Wayne used, the various staff quarters, and more guest bedrooms than you thought was possible. None of it really excited you, though. A numbness had invaded your mind and made you into a living ghost, something human in name only. You no longer looked in mirrors and spoke very little, if at all. Not like there were very many people to talk to.

Bruce Wayne was as elusive as rain in the desert. He flitted about the manor, only ever coming home very late at night and leaving in the morning. You didn’t really want to know what he was doing so late in the evening, but you figured you’d find out about it someday. Secrets between you and your mom didn’t last very long, so most family secrets should be the same. 

The very few times you interacted with Bruce Wayne, he seemed distracted or discomforted by your presence, like he was seeing your mother, not you. If you happened to be in the kitchen when he came in, he’d stare at you for a long moment before attempting some sort of small talk. When you didn’t respond, he’d just leave. After the first three days, he avoided you completely. Maybe it was because you were both orphans or maybe there was just something unsettling about you, but Bruce Wayne didn’t want you in his house. Maybe he saw the same in-humanness that the foster families saw. Whatever was wrong with you was palpable, apparently.

Bruce Wayne wasn’t the only person in the manor who avoided you. 

Richard Grayson was, according to google, an orphan Bruce Wayne took in. Grayson didn’t care for your presence either. He was eighteen and seemed to be genuinely disgusted by you. Maybe he saw something too. Or maybe he was just a dick. The first incident with Grayson happened not too long after you moved in. You’d been wandering towards the direction of the kitchen when the front door burst open. He’d stood in the doorway, framed by the light around him, like an action figure in a commercial, all stoic and proud. You stopped to look at him and he looked back, like two animals spooked by the other’s existence. He’d scowled and glared down at you, crossing his arms as he approached. The rude dick left the door open behind him. 

“What are you, another one of Bruce’s new bratty orphans?” His words dripped with anger and annoyance, like you were ruining something just by the virtue of being here. He scoffed before you could even respond and stomped off. 

Luckily for you, though, Grayson didn’t live in the manor. He had his own apartment he’d disappear to for weeks. It was bliss, not having him around constantly. Living with Bruce Wayne already had your blood pressure high and your fuse short, but having someone as outright about their dislike of you- over something that you didn’t even understand- that made your blood boil. You had to physically stop yourself from launching yourself at Grayson every time he looked at you like you were a cockroach. 

But there were redeeming inhabitants in the manor. One of which was Alfred. He never forced you to talk if you didn’t feel like it, which you often didn’t. When you crawled out of your room for food once a day, he’d prepare a meal for you whilst telling you a story. You enjoyed his stories; the stories reminded you of your mother.

“Once, when I was in the SAS,” He’d begin, chopping vegetables into fine little cubes and tossing them into a pan. He’d grab fresh herbs from somewhere and begin chopping those as well.

“There were two new recruits.” He focused on what he was doing as you rested your head on your palm and stood leaning on the dinner table. “And they thought they were just the sneakiest men in the platoon.”

Once the herbs were diced, he’d add them to the sizzling pan, and stir the concoction. The action sent a flurry of floral scents in the air, filling the kitchen with an inviting aroma. 

Alfred continued whilst stirring the contents of the pan. “So the rest of us had dared them; said ‘if you’re really that good at sneaking around, then sneak up to one of the rabbits on base and put a ribbon on it.’”

“And by god, they did.” Alfred chuckled to himself as he turned off the burner and continued to stir, reaching over to the spice rack and picking out multiple bottles and sprinkling the contents into the pan. “They snuck out of the barracks that night and went out into the woods without any of us knowing.”

He gestured for you to sit at the bar and grabbed a plate from a cabinet, snatching a fork from an adjacent drawer. “By the time we all woke up and began our own duties, there were about twelve rabbits running around the base with little ribbon bow ties tied around their necks!”

Laughing softly to himself, Alfred scooped out the cooked vegetable stir-fry onto the plate and brought it over to you along with the fork. He’d sat with you as you ate, talking about other stories from his time in the SAS and his time working for Martha and Thomas Wayne. His genuine kindness made it almost worth it to be living in the manor.

The other inhabitant who didn't mind you being in the manor- and even seemed to like you being around- was Jason Todd. You’d met him while wandering around the manor like you often did. You’d just found the library for the first time when he popped up out of nowhere, appearing from behind a plush seat like a character from a horror movie. He’d bounded over to you like an excited puppy and began speaking a mile a minute. At first he’d put on this hyper-masculine deep voice that didn’t match his face or his age at all.

“Hey! Who are you?” He’d looked down his nose at you and you quickly realized that he, despite already being the same height as you, had stood on his tiptoes specifically so he could look down his nose at you. 

Fixing him with the same blank stare you’d used on everyone, you answered simply. That numbness you’d grown accustomed to made it hard to put energy into your voice. “(Y/N).”

He blinked once, then twice, and then the facade broke. His voice softened into what you assumed was its normal state and he slowly lowered himself to his usual height. Tilting this way and that, he examined you with an almost-suspicious expression. 

“Oh.” He suddenly light up with recognition. “You must be the other kid B took in. I’m Jason.” He pointed to himself with a prideful smile. “How come I haven’t seen you around?” The question was innocently curious, only prying on accident. 

You stared blankly, no response leaving your lips as you stood still. He tilted his head and frowned, shrugging as he looked away, feigning disinterest.

“Strong and silent type, huh?” He nodded to himself as he said the words, still looking at some random book on the bookshelf. “I can work with that.”

And he did.

Jason’s friendship was unlike your relationship with Alfred. In the fogginess of apathy- depression, you realized- he cut through the clouds like a lighthouse. He’d follow you around when you left your room, finding you every time like he had a compass implanted in his head or something, and it exclusively led to you. You’d be just wandering, sometimes taking paths you already walked before, sometimes carving completely new wear patterns in the carpet, and he’d sidle right up next to you and begin talking.

Just like Alfred, he did the talking for the two of you, but he was different. Jason would pause occasionally after cracking a joke, glancing at you to see if you laughed, smiling if he saw you reacted at all. It was like he understood you in a way Alfred didn’t, like he’d been in your shoes before. Sometimes while walking through the halls of the manor, he’d take your hand and lead you to some unspecified place. Occasionally it was the library, but most of the time it was places you’d never gone before, like the rooftop, the garden, and the theater room. 

Eventually, you learned through his one-sided conversations that Jason was only two years older than you at 13, and that he’d lived in crime alley. You didn’t really know where that was, but it sounded like a rough place to live. After a few months of being Jason’s unofficial sidekick, you began talking again. He never made a big deal out of it, but you could see his eyes light up when he finally got a response, even if they were one-worded at best. He’d cracked the hardened shell of emptiness that formed around your heart. The constant rejection by Wayne and Grayson didn’t help, neither did the gentle approach from Alfred, if you were being honest, but Jason had cracked it. He’d pulled you out of a ship you didn’t know had already sunk. And the first embers of happiness began to spark up again once more, even if it was faint. For the first time in a really long time, you had a friend.

And you had all the time in the world to get to know each other better. 

Burning from the Inside

Yan! Batfamily x neglected! male! meta! Reader

Prologue: House Fire

Summary: A look back in your memories of a simpler time, and how it stopped being so simple. Word Count: 1463 Reading Time: 6:09 (mins:secs) Notes: I've wanted to write a batfam fic for a while but couldn't think of an interesting spin for the reader, that is until I read a oneshot about an Ice! meta reader that I can't seem to find again (😞) and my third eye opened. This reader is low-key inspired by an oc of mine, who I actually have a pinterest board for, but I've done my best to keep y/n fairly blank for people to project onto. It may or may not come up later in the story (haven't decided) but I'm imagining y/n as a trans man and as an unreliable narrator with memory issues so. First chapter is queued to go up in a week! Warnings: written in first person, anger issues (on reader's side), descriptions of a parent dying, lots of mentions of fire, reader being tossed around in the foster system. Please comment if you think I've missed a warning!

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Rage burned under your skin constantly. When you were young, still kind and innocent, it was easier to control, it didn’t burn quite as hot. You still had a temper- your mother would end up dragging you home from school after many arguments on the playground getting too loud, but it never felt so much like drowning before. 

You were never certain of where your rage came from until an event when you were seven. The memory, clear as glass, would replay every night for that week. Whilst playing  in the front yard, you had noticed a car pull up. It was shiny and silver, that you remembered. But the woman who exited the car was more blurred by time degrading the memory. She’d smiled at you as she walked up to the front door, knocking politely without acknowledging you any more. She’d excitedly talked to your mother, giving your mom a piece of paper before your mother blew up. You’d never seen her so angry before. She’d screamed at the woman, scaring her into running back to her shiny car. 

The woman had driven off in a frenzy, the wheels kicking up dead leaves which showered over you in a confetti spray of autumn colors. Your mom had walked over and scooped you into a tight hug before pulling you inside. You didn’t play outside alone much after that. Your childhood had been normal beyond the odd moments like that.

You used to get ice cream with your mom after a particularly hard day at school, walking in the park as you shared a styrofoam bowl of slowly melting ice cream with her. You held onto that memory with an iron grip. She’d also take you to various garage sales and thrift stores, allowing you to buy the occasional toy or plushie every once in a while. It was only when you were older that you realized how tight of a budget you two had been on. You don’t worry about money much anymore. Maybe to someone who’d grown up richer your childhood sounded awful, but to you it was the golden years of your life. You’d never realized how much you valued your life in your small city with your mom, living in your tiny house at the edge of the city limits, until it was suddenly ripped away.

You’d been sitting in class, scribbling away at the margins of your notebook as the teacher droned on and on. Math was your least favorite subject since the teacher had the most monotonous voice ever. You’d only glanced out the window for a moment, staring at the birds in the trees, when the teacher was interrupted by a knock at the door. You watched as your math teacher walked to the door and opened it for an officer. Something like this would usually become the talk of the lunch period, concerned hushed voices slowly graduating into whispery gossiping over the course of a meal. So you’d watched intently as the officer spoke in a low, almost inaudible, tone to the teacher, who turned and locked eyes with you specifically. Your heart began to race as your teacher gestured for you- not another student, not anyone else- to come over. Your heartbeat had pounded in your ears as you got up, already hearing the concerned “what’s going on”s and “is everything okay”s from your classmates. Your teacher had an expression on their face that you couldn’t quite grasp in the moment. Later on, however, you’d later categorize it as something between sorrow and despair. It wasn’t the last time you saw that expression that day.

The officer had gently guided you into the hall where an administrator was waiting. Your worry shapeshifted into nervousness. You couldn’t remember doing anything horrible that’d warrant a police officer being there. Nervous that you’d be expelled over something you couldn’t remember, you began rambling apologies to the administrator, grasping at every single wrong thing you could remember doing. The man had just smiled and looked down at you with something akin to pity- the memory of that pitying expression made your skin crawl- and stopped your rambling with a single gesture. Then, the cop spoke. And the world you’d known shattered into bits.

The words came in bits and pieces as your brain struggled to adjust to this new reality you’d been thrown into. 

Your mother. House fire. The cop was sorry.

That was the thing that always stuck out to you. The apologies from people; as if they’d been the ones to start the fire. It still felt like molten sugar on a burn wound when people responded with “I’m so sorry for your loss”, even so many years later. It seemed like this one tragedy had suddenly changed everyone’s perception of you, reshaping you into the poor boy who was orphaned at the age of 11. 

That week (maybe it was a month, the specifics were hazy) turned into a blur as the world seemed to spin faster and faster around you. Suddenly, you were pulled from school and talking to social workers who had their own shiny cars, you were passed from adult to adult in a frantic bid for control over the situation your small city’s government found itself in. You remembered dizzy days in a guidance counselor’s office, then being rushed to a group home, then to a foster family, then another foster family further away, and again and again. Each time you were re-homed like a bad gift, you found yourself further and further from your little home town you’d loved. You don’t remember anything beyond the crushing weight of your mother being gone.

The only clear memory you have of that time was when a foster family took pity on you and drove you back home, to town. They brought you to the burnt-out remains of your old home. Neither member of the couple could hold you back when you ran towards the charred skeleton of the house. You remember crying and sobbing as hands pulled you away from the remains of the house, your own hands tightly grasping the one thing you’d managed to grab- a small book. You’d been shoved back into the car whilst hugging the book to your chest. Later, when you’d managed the courage to read that plain black book, you’d found that it was your mother’s journal. 

Maybe it was the fact that things had slowed to a more comprehensible speed, or maybe it was because you had something of your mother’s now, but you remembered more from this time period. In fact, you even remembered the foster family you’d been staying with when it happened. They were a sweet couple with a daughter not much younger than you. They’d given you your space, acting unsure and awkward whenever they interacted with you. They’d almost seemed relieved when the social worker came to retrieve you once again, as if having a grieving little boy in their house was equivalent to living with a nuclear bomb. The social worker didn’t need to prompt you at all to gather up your very few belongings and get in her car. You’d leaned your head against the window as she talked about your new home, barely paying attention. She’d talked about how “they” (you didn’t remember who “they” were. Maybe it was the police) had tried to find your father but had been unable, until he came forward himself. That deep anger flared up, flames licking at the bones of your rib cage as you kept it in. So he waltzes out of your life before you’re even born, ignores your existence for 11 whole years, and then struts back in as if nothing happened? The thought made you want to hit something. Someone. It made you want to hurt him. You’d clenched your fist and gritted your teeth as you tuned out the rest of the social worker’s speech.

Then, sooner than you’d wanted, you were in a hallway in one of the many community centers you’d been in, standing across from an elderly man wearing a suit. The fire that made you want to scream and bite and claw like a feral dog was quenched for a minute. Surely this couldn’t be your father, he was far too old. You couldn’t punch him- he’d fall over and die! You simply stood still as the man walked forward and gave a little bow. His voice was posh and his accent was clearly British, not unlike the period dramas your mom used to watch. 

“You, young man, must be (Y/N). Pleasure to meet you, my name is Alfred Pennyworth.”

He’d never know, but with that simple introduction, Alfred Pennyworth changed your world a second time.

Clark, lamenting the fact that he couldn’t go near the priest without getting sick to lois and wondering if he’s actually been possessed this entire time: Lois I Gifgifddfduicgvhhoj *existential sobbing*

The priest who collects shiny green rocks and puts them in his pockets: ooh shiny green rock, score!