#x diabetic reader

[housepartyy]

Hello, would you write Paige x diabetic Girlfriend Reader? Reader is a pro Golfer, she has a Tournament but her Diabetes is acting Up cause she forgot to eat and Paige is taking Care of her? X

UNDER PAR

Pairing: gf!Paige Bueckers x diabetic!professional golfer!fem!reader

word count: 1.8k

synopsis: During one of the most important tournaments of your life, The U.S. Women's Classic, you forget to take the most important thing seriously: your health. Luckily, your girlfriend doesn't.

authors note: Hi hi! thank you guys so so so much for the amount of love on my past two fics, especially Whats In my Bag? special thank you to this anon for the request (which are open btw!!) I hope I brought your vision to life! I am not familiar with the professional golf scene at all, nor am I (or anybody in my close family) diabetic so I really tried my best + the help of Google. If anything in here is incorrect or a misrepresentation, please let me know and I will fix it immediately! Also... whats the opinion on writings for ppl outside of PB? I am so down to write if that's what u guys want! I love you guys SO SO bad and cannot thank you enough. Hope y'all love this!!

You have felt your fair share of pressure in your life. From hard class loads during school, parental expectations, to even media scrutinization once you went pro in golf. You always welcomed the pressure into your life, often repeating to yourself what your coach had told you so many times.

“Pressure can either make diamonds or dust, and I fucking hate dust.”

But it didn't make the terrible feeling in your gut any better. You often got stuck in your own head and needed someone to pull you out of it. Your parents, your close friends, but once your girlfriend started attending tournaments, that role belonged to her only.

She took the role seriously too, always showing up at least an hour early so she could watch your entire warm-up. She masked it as just being impressed with your work ethic as a professional golfer, but you knew she was worried about your medical condition just as much.

You were diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes when you were ten years old after having symptoms of extreme fatigue and weight loss. You had always hated your diabetes. You hated stopping to check your blood sugar, hated carrying supplies everywhere, hated that your body sometimes demanded attention when you wanted to focus on literally anything else.

You didn't wear an insulin pump, instead opting for a shot of insulin multiple times a day, and the only reason Paige found out you had diabetes was the first time you stayed over at her house.

You had been official with Paige for a little over six months, and she had finally convinced you to stay over. You had always been hesitant, making up excuse after excuse as to why you couldn't that night. But she had made an offer that you couldn't resist.

She had invited you over and doordashed the two of food. One thing led to another and you ended up falling asleep with Paige. You woke up hours later, your heart racing and your skin damp with sweat.

You immediately knew your blood sugar had crashed.

You tried to get the heavy arm off your waist as quickly as possible, your hands visibly shaking as you reached for your purse. You grabbed your glucometer and a test strip before stumbling toward the kitchen. After you flipped the overhead lightswitch on, you pricked your finger and put a dot of blood onto the test strip.

You sucked on the pad of your finger as you waited for the meter to measure. The letters LO flashed across the screen, making you let out a quiet sigh. You quietly rummaged through Paige's cabinets and fridge before ultimately deciding on a tablespoon of honey.

As you were pouring the sticky substance out onto the spoon, you heard the sound of feet shuffling from room to room.

“Babe? You still here? I’on know where you are…”

You felt your heart break a little at the underlying desperate tone in Paige's voice but you couldn't bring yourself to respond, instead putting your undivided attention on getting your blood sugar up. As you stuck the spoon in your mouth, you saw Paige's silhouette out of the corner of your eye. The blonde's hair was sticking up in every direction, clearly dented from sleep.

Her eyes squinted against the kitchen light, a sliver of bare stomach exposed beneath her shirt. She clearly was confused by the sight in her kitchen, rubbing her eyes as if she was seeing a mirage.

“Baby? What’r’ya doin’? Thought you left…”

She came up in front of you, wrapping her hands around your waist and burrowing her hands in your neck. You took the spoon out of your mouth and gently ran your nails over her back,

“I'm sorry, I just had to get up ‘cause my blood sugar was low.”

You mumbled, immediately startled by the way Paige's head shot up. Her blue eyes immediately scanned your face, hands, and posture as if she was searching for any sign that something was wrong.

“You ok? Whaddya need? You want me to run to the store?”

“No… Paige im all good, i just didnt wanna worry you”

“No babe… you're never worryin’ me. Just tryna make sure you're ok.”

The first thing you noticed when you stepped onto the practice green was the noise. Not actual noise. The crowd was still sparse, the tournament grounds quiet in the early morning hours.

It was the noise in your own head. Every missed putt from the last month. Every sports commentator who had picked somebody else to win.

Every expectation that came with being one of the best golfers in the world. You rolled your shoulders back and adjusted the brim of your visor. Your stomach twisted, not from hunger. Well, not entirely from hunger, you hadn't eaten before leaving the hotel that morning.

The thought of food had made you feel nauseous, which was stupid. You knew better than anyone how important it was to eat before a round. You let out a breath and rolled your shoulders.

It's just another tournament

You told yourself as you grabbed your club to warm up your drivers. You listened as your trainer reminded you of your form, technique and the mistakes you make often. 

"You're rushing your backswing again."

You let out a sigh.

"I've hit six balls."

"And you've rushed all six."

Your trainer crossed her arms.

"Slow down. Stop trying to win the tournament on the driving range."

You were receptive to the corrections, your undivided attention on preparing for the tournament. You adjusted the visor on your head to try and block out some of the

beating California sun. You saw your trainer looking over the schedule, a furrow in her brow.

“What time am I on the course?”

You asked, peering over her shoulder at the flimsy paper schedule.

“Eleven-thirty to two. The worst time ever. This sun is hell compared to Dallas, and I thought that was bad enough.”

You agreed with her, shielding your eyes as you stared at her. You knew the timing for the course was less than ideal. You didn't eat before you left this morning, too nervous that you were afraid you were going to be sick to your stomach.

You weren't able to eat during the tournament, which meant you were going to have your first true meal of the day at three pm. If everything was on time.

This was the worst day to have a bad day. You had just finished hole six and were scoring terribly. You didn't understand why you were making the most simple of mistakes, holes that should be a walk in the park for you were making you want to pull each strand of hair on your head out.

You picked at the nonexistent dirt beneath your nails, your eyes focused. You felt your hands involuntarily shake, which you had previously chalked up to nerves for such a big tournament, It was the fucking U.S. Womens Open for gods sakes, but you thought an energy gel wouldn't hurt. You thumbed through your golf caddy, looking in the usual pocket they sat in before cursing to yourself.

You didn't restock before coming to California.

You tried not to freak out as you got your trainers' attention.

“Hey, do you have a gel?”

She felt around her pockets before shaking her head,

“No, are you low?”

You shrugged, looking for your meter and a test strip.

“I dunno, should I test? My hands are shaky but it could just be nerves… I just dont want to fuck everybody up..”

Your trainer nodded understandingly, looking towards the hole and trying to assess if you had time to test before you were up.

“I’d say… do this hole and then test. Your girlfriend here? Could she grab you somethin’?”

You looked toward the crowd and tried to spot the blonde ponytail you'd become so accustomed to seeing. You knew she had a Nike shoot yesterday, promising you over the phone,

“Baby I swear to God I'll be there. I’ll drive the plane myself if I have to… this is a big fuckin’ deal!”

After you finished the seventh hole–which had gone about as well as the previous six– your trainer guided you toward a nearby first aid tent. You looked toward the crowd, trying to see Paige through the hot, blinding sun. Before you knew it, you saw her blonde ponytail trying to get closer. She flashed the credential badge she loved so much.

It makes me feel important, baby. Can you blame me?

Her blue eyes, usually bright and easygoing, looked stormy as she hurried toward you.

“Hey mama… what's goin’ on? You've been lookin’ weird out there. You feelin’ ok? Where the fuck is the med?”

She gently rubbed your palm, her eyes flitting between your face and the surrounding area for the medic. Her hand suddenly left yours as she fumbled around in her pocket, pulling out an raspberry lemonade energy gel.

Your favorite flavor.

You felt your heart warm at the simple gesture, trying to reach for the packet to tear into it. When Paige noticed your shaking hands, she lightly tapped them away and tore the perforation with her teeth. The sweet, sticky substance touched your lips as she held it up gently.

“C’mon mama, open up ok? I know you dont wanna eat but its gonna make you feel better.”

You took the packet with a nod, swallowing the gel with controlled ease. When you looked back down, you were met with Paige's furrowed brows staring up at you from her squatted position. Her hand lightly caressing your leg as she tried to mentally survey how you were feeling. You tried taking deep breaths as you felt your eyes sting with tear.

“I just…”

Your voice cracked

“This is like the biggest fucking tournament of my life and i’ve been playing like shit and now I have to stop because of this.”

You laughed bitterly.

“Like why cant I just have one normal moment!”

You let out a huff as you quickly wiped the tears daring to fall from your eyes. As quickly as the anger came, it left and left you feeling embarrassed. There were far bigger problems in the world than a bad round of golf, but that didn't stop disappointing from settling heavily in your chest.

“Hey. Hey.”

She squeezed your hand.

“Don't do that.” 

“You’re gonna take a minute, your gonna get your sugar up, and then your gonna go back out there and kick ass.”

She tilted her head.

“Right?”

You let out a wet laugh, nodding to her. You took a breath before standing up, Paige followed your lead and immediately pulled you into her chest.

“You got this mama, ok? I didn't get all jetlagged for nothin’ right? Golf can wait ten minutes. You can’t.”

[iwrite0]

"Cost of Care"

Bruce Wayne / Batman x Adopted Child Reader

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

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

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

Masterlist

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

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

It was on you.

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

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

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

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

“Multiple failed placements.”

“Emotional withdrawal.

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

The last few lines are what killed him.

“Sweet kid. But too expensive.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was Jason who said something first.

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

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

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

Bruce’s jaw tightened.

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

That last part hit Bruce like a gut punch.

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

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

The silence that followed was deafening.

Dick came by the next day.

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

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

Bruce didn’t answer at first.

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

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

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

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

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

Bruce crouched beside the bed.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

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

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

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

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

But Bruce was patient.

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

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

You blinked.

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

You blinked again. “…Oh.”

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

You smiled.

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

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

[wellsblvd]

— Are You Gonna Kiss Me, or What?

🎵 synopsis. Mike’s normal, utterly boring day is pleasantly interrupted by a diabetic whirlwind.

🎵 warnings. Finger pricking. Foul language.

🎵 author’s note. Shoutout to @paxamillius for writing this with me and for helping me write a realistic diabetic character.

🎵 tracklist. <Track One.> <Track Two.> <Track Three.>

—— 👾

mike shook his head, re-reading the sequence of numbers written in small, practised handwriting. a small smile pulled at his lips. despite having already memorized the number and how to spell your name, he kept glancing down at the slip of paper and running his thumb over the now-smudging pen ink.

with abby already asleep, mike debates if he should call or not. he doesn’t want to wake abby, but he really wants nothing more than to keep talking with the woman that (quite literally) fell into his arms.

mike exhaled. as long as he was quiet he supposed he could stay up and talk to her- y/n. y/n l/n.

slowly mike dialed her phone number; already imagining her voice from the other line.

the line didn’t ring twice before she picked up. “hello?” she answered, her voice having that smile that mike swears made the sun shine a little brighter.

“uh, hi. this- this is y/n, right? it’s-“ mike started, tripping over his words.

“mike! mike schmidt from the mall, yeah?”

another smile: wider this time though. mike beamed. “yeah, that’s me. mike from the mall.”

——👾; 6 hours earlier

the world was spinning, blurring. y/n cursed herself once again for her forgetfulness- she had a tendency to completely ignore her health until something like this happens.

y/n’s blood sugar was extremely low. she knew she needed something fast acting: juice, fruit snacks, soda… a slushie even. but with the way y/n could function, ordering something for herself would be out of the question.

maybe walking blindly into someone will help, was y/n’s rationale. so she carefully walked the best she could to someone, occasionally slamming into a bench or counter.

y/n’s head was spinning. she cursed her pancreas for failing to do it’s one and only job.

"oh dear lord," y/n mumbled. her legs struggled to keep her upright, let alone get her anywhere. her vision was fuzzy and the edges faded in and out, black dots swimming in her line of sight. y/n cursed herself- yet again- for being as careless as she was.

getting a few weird stares and several people backing away from y/n, someone finally approached her.

"are you drunk?" a blob- man?- asked . "ma'am, consumption of alcohol and being under the influence is not permitted inside of the mall, so i'm going to have to-"

"nononono, ‘m notdrunk…" y/n's words were sloppy and rushed. Hoping and praying he believed her, she wobbled a little bit on her feet.

Her body was trembling from the adrenaline and her legs desperately threatened to come out from underneath her. "im… diabetic," she paused, swallowing. "imhaving a hypoglycemia episode." sweat trickled down the back of her neck, making her wince at the feeling. "i need… i need food, like, now, beforeipassout, andgo intoa coma" y/n took a deep breath.

the man looked around. y/n was getting weaker by the second. her legs still felt like toothpicks and jello, with nothing left to support her. "i need… i need to sit…” y/n tried to stay on her feet, but her legs went slack and she was suddenly falling.

An arm wrapped around her waist. “No,” he mumbled quietly. “You gotta show me what to get you.” The man asked. He hoisted y/n in the air, shifting her weight and carrying her bridal style to the food court. “Alright… we got… pretzels, pizza, slushies, popcor-“

"slushies." y/n answered, a barely audible sound.

he nodded.

the man cut in front of the small line at a vendor and carefully set her in a chair. "i need two red slushies, the biggest size you have. please." he pulls out his wallet and slams a few crumpled dollar bills on the counter.

the worker stared at him for a second. "mike, you work here but you have to go to the back of the li-" the woman started.

"I’m sorry, Wendy but it's a medical emergency, she's diabetic and is really close to going into a coma, so im gonna need you to hurry,” mike rushed out, sneaking a glance back at y/n. She was pale and very clammy. It was obvious that she’d pass out soon.

Wendy followed Mike’s gaze and swallowed nervously. Then she turned on her heels and got to work.

y/n had her head in her arms, resting it on the table. she felt like shit. I wish i knew his name, she thought to herself. heat flashed through her body and her hands shook furiously, she felt like she had just run a marathon but hadn't moved an inch. she tried to distract herself from how horrible she felt, what had she done to get this low? Ah that's right. she had overcorrected for a stubborn high, then guess the amount of insulin for a giant drink, which she then proceeded to spill. Shit! she hadn't eaten anything to make up for the insulin she had given.

the man came back with two huge red slushies and says: “please drink this." he sets one down in front of her, and y/n pulls it towards herself and takes a sip.

mike- focused on making sure that the woman was alright- finally registered the whispers and snickers of passerby.

“Come with me," he murmurs. Mike gently grasps her again, handing her the second slushie. "Hold on to those for me, please.” Mike carries her into a small, office-looking room. He carefully sets y/n down against a wall, and he sinks down the wall beside her. Mike holds his hand out for his slushie and waits until y/n hands it to him.

"Uh… wait, i think that's the one i drank out of." She took the drink out of his hands and placed the other one in it. "No, actually this is the one i didn't drink out of. Here switch me again."

"Please just drink the slushie," he sighed.

After about 10 minuets y/n’s blood sugar started to come back up. it was hovering in the 40-50 range which was better than what it had been but still way too low for y/n to drive home. “Hey can you check something for me?" she asked, her vision still a little swirly and her hands still shaking.

Now y/n was able to read Mike’s nametag- which thankfully had a large font. “Hi Mike,” she added with a smile.

Mike smiled back at her, eyes softening slightly at her smile- it lit up her face. “What do you need me to do? Oh and, uh, what’s your name?”

"My name is y/n, but I need you to check something on my insulin pump, my vision is still a little...weird." She motioned towards her eyes. Unable to see small things with her current impaired eyesight, it would be quite a struggle to do it herself. She pulled out the small device. Turning it on she opened it up and turned the screen towards him. "That really little number down at the bottom."

Mike takes the device and squints at the tiny numbers. "It says... 10.7 u. Is that good or bad?" he blinks.

"Oh my god,” y/n groaned. “The one time i decide to pre-bolus, this happens. 10.7 units of unnecessary insulin. Sorry for interrupting and everything. I really should've been better about it." y/n shook her head.

"Hey as long as you're okay then it's totally fine. We can spend as long as you need to in here. I don't really have anywhere i need to be and this is a lot more eventful than what I normally do anyway… I’m not really complaining." Mike glances at his watch.

After a while of waiting and periodic finger pokes y/n's blood sugar returned to a safe enough number to drive home. They had sat talking to each other the entire time. y/n learned about Abby and about Garrett, and how his mom died and dad left.

"Well, I should get going. Thank you so much for everything, Mike." y/n smiles and smiles at him. A smile that just… lights up her face. Her eyes crinkle and a dimple appeared on her right cheek. Mike swears he almost swoons- he’s never had a (pretty) girl look at him like that.

Before she gets up, y/n tilts Mike’s head towards her and she places a delicate kiss on his cheek.

Mike swallows. He knows he’s probably overthinking it, just a simple thank you he reasons. So why did y/n’s eyes dart to his lips before getting up and heading for the door?

y/n has her stuff packed up before Mike realizes it. He watches her pick up her empty cup and toss it into the trash can. But before she leaves-

"Can I- uh," Mike stops y/n, voice breathless. "Is there any chance i can get your phone number? Just, uhm, in case you....y-know... need something again."

So Mike watches y/n write down her name and telephone number on a piece of paper. He watches the way a flush appeared on the apples of her cheeks. Mike watches her offer the paper to him and delights in the way she smiles again. But this time her smile is more bashful, more shy. Mike thinks it’s adorable.

“Thank you,” Mike murmurs, taking the paper. Her fingers brushed his and the flush darkens.

“I should be thanking you, Mike,” y/n says.

Mike can’t think of what to say next. He just stands there, falling further and further into y/n’s eyes. Slowly, cautiously, Mike reaches a hand out to y/n’s waist. She closes the space between them, letting herself be pulled into Mike’s arms.

Her hands wrap around Mike’s back in an embrace, but still looking at him, waiting for his next move.

“Mike?”

“Hm?”

“Are you gonna kiss me, or what?”

Mike leans down and presses his lips to y/n’s, tasting the flavor of the slushie on her lips. He feels y/n sigh against his lips, like she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

All too soon, y/n pulled away. “You should get back to work,” she whispers.

“Yeah,” Mike whisperes back.

“Call me, Mike.”

“I will,” he murmurs, lips still tender from their kiss.

——👾; present time

“I’m free this weekend- if, y’know, you want to go get dinner or something. Abby can come too if you want,” y/n says over the phone.

In all honesty, Mike’s surprised y/n remembers Abby, even though they only talked about six hours ago. “Sure! Where do you-“ Mike swallows, “where do you want to go?” He doesn’t want to go anywhere too expensive even though he wish he could. He just couldn’t afford that.

“I’m okay with anything, homestly. Abby can pick if she comes.”

Mike smiles. “I’ll talk to her about it.” He knows Abby would say yes.

The phone crackles as the two fall into momentary silence.

“I’m glad you called,” y/n admits.

”I’m glad I called, too,” Mike replies.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’d felt this happy. In fact, Mike doesn’t think he’s ever been this happy. Ever. So as he sat there, talking to y/n, Mike told himself that she was good. Good for him, for Abby. This had to be the start of something better; a change in his life, perhaps.

Even later, when Mike was getting ready to sleep, he fell asleep thinking of her.

[iwrite0]

Katsuki Bakugo X Type 1 Diabetic! Reader

Is this like, a hella self insert? Absolutely. but..

there's no but. I just needed this and thought I'd share.

A/N; incase you don't know a Dexcom is about the size of a quarter and a half that tells you your blood sugar levels though an app or a small electronic pod

REQUEST ARE OPEN!

masterlist

Honestly, even getting into U.A. felt like a war. A constant, uphill battle where you had to prove your strength twice over—once against your peers, and once against the quiet skepticism in every adult’s eyes. Like you weren’t just trying to be a hero. You were trying to convince the world that someone with Type 1 diabetes could be one.

It wasn’t enough to have the power, the skills, the drive. You had to show you could manage your body, your numbers, your entire damn life like a well-oiled machine. That you wouldn’t be a liability on the battlefield. That your condition didn’t define you.

So, when you got accepted into U.A., when you stepped into the shining halls of Class 1-A, you made yourself a promise. Only the people who needed to know would know. Teachers, nurses, support staff. That was it. You didn’t want pity. You didn’t want the whispered “Are you okay?”s or the sideways glances when you pulled out your insulin pen. You didn’t want to be someone people worried about before they respected.

You wanted your classmates to see you as strong. Capable. Normal.

And that meant hiding the Dexcom sensor under compression sleeves. Tucking insulin pens in the hidden folds of your bag. Silencing alarms before they had the chance to betray you. Even when you started dating the loudest, brashest, most brutally honest guy in your class—Katsuki Bakugou—you kept it quiet. You didn’t want him to see you as fragile, didn’t want to invite the fierce protective instincts you knew he’d have. You wanted him to love you, not feel obligated to babysit your condition.

The week had been hell.

Extra drills. Quirk testing. Combat simulations that pushed you beyond the edge. It was the perfect storm—intense physical strain, fluctuating adrenaline, erratic blood sugars. Highs that made you nauseous and foggy. Lows that made your limbs feel like they didn’t belong to you.

Now, walking back to the dorms, it hit. Hard.

Your vision blurred at the edges, greying out like static closing in. Your forehead was slick with cold sweat, and your steps faltered. The floor seemed to rise unevenly beneath you. You just needed to get to your room. Just a few more steps. Juice box. Bed. You could deal with it alone, like always.

But Katsuki’s voice cut through the fog like a lightning bolt.

“Hey, dummy. What’s with you?”

You tried to wave him off, keep your voice light. “Just tired, Katsu.”

But the panic started crawling up your spine before the words even finished leaving your mouth.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The alarm from your phone screamed through the quiet corridor, a piercing, repetitive sound that ripped your carefully built mask to shreds.

No. Not here. Not like this.

Your hands trembled as you fumbled for your phone, trying desperately to silence the alert. Your fingers weren’t cooperating—numb, uncoordinated, clumsy. The screen blurred in your vision. You couldn’t see the buttons, couldn’t press anything. Just stop it, just shut it off—

“What the hell is that noise?” Katsuki stepped closer, narrowing his eyes, trying to peek at your phone.

“Nothing!” you gasped, trying to twist away, your heart racing—not from fear of him, but from the shame curling in your gut. “It’s just—my phone!”

You turned to retreat, to make a break for your room before he could see what the screen said. But your knees buckled. The hallway tilted. You slammed against the wall, your shoulder catching the brunt of the fall with a sickening thud.

Katsuki was on you in an instant.

“Hey—” his voice was sharp, but the moment his eyes locked onto yours, the anger melted into panic. He grabbed your arm, steadying you, and that’s when he saw it.

The Dexcom. The screen.

“55.”

He froze.

“What the hell—what does that mean? Fifty-five what?”

You couldn’t answer. Your mouth was dry. The words wouldn’t form.

“It’s… my blood sugar,” you finally whispered, so low it barely registered. “I- I'm diabetic.”

It was the first time you’d ever said it out loud around him.

And gods, the shame that came with it.

Tears welled in your eyes—not just from the crash, not just from the adrenaline, but from the fear of what he might say. What he might think. That he’d look at you different now. That the image he had of you—strong, sharp, reliable—would be replaced with something smaller. Weaker.

But he didn’t shout. He didn’t scoff or sneer or accuse.

He stared at the number, then at you—your pale skin, your trembling hands—and everything in him shifted.

The confession hung in the air, a raw, exposed truth. Tears welled in your eyes, not just from the terrifying low, but from the shame and fear of finally being found out.

Katsuki didn't explode. He didn't yell. Not at you. He just stared at the screen, then at your ashen face, the realization dawning on him. He scooped you up, surprisingly gentle. He moved you Infront of him. He yelled over his shoulder for someone to bring him some juice. You could barely focus enough to hear his voice tremor. He cradled you, pulling you close, his warmth a surprising comfort against your trembling body.

The following second where blurry, someone ran over with a juice box that Katsuki practically ripped open, bringing it toward your face.

“Drink.”

You tried. You really did. Your hands shook so violently that he took over, holding it to your lips, helping you sip. The juice tasted artificial and too sweet, but it was a lifeline. After a minute, you could breathe again. Your hands stopped spasming. The floor steadied. You could think.

After a few minutes the sugar hit you blood stream, the dizziness subsided, and the tremors eased.

70, Still low. But better.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, voice low, hoarse. He pulled you into his arms before you could answer. You felt his hand on the back of your head, the other gripping your waist like you might vanish. “Of all people—you didn’t think I should know?”

You pressed your face into his chest, your voice a broken sob. “I didn’t want to be a burden. I didn’t want you to treat me different. I’ve always taken care of it. I just wanted you to see me—not the disease.”

He pulled back enough to meet your eyes, his expression somewhere between furious and devastated.

“You think I care about that?” His voice cracked. “You think I’d ever see you as weak because of something like this? You think I’d want you suffering in silence, hiding from me, when I could’ve helped you?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

He carried you the rest of the way to your dorm, gently this time, like he was afraid you’d break apart again.

“Next time, you tell me. You hear me?” he said as he tucked you into your bed, still holding your hand like a lifeline. “You don’t do this alone anymore. Not while I’m here. Not when I care about you this damn much.”

And for the first time, maybe ever, you believed it.

[iwrite0]

Smoke Signals

Batman/Bruce Wayne x Adopted! Reader

Masterlist

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

But tonight, something was off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes stung. You looked away.

“I wanted to be stronger.”

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

He squeezed your shoulder gently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t knock.

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

“Dad-”

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

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

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

Frozen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Without another word, he pulled you into him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Safe.

Home.

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

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