viktateapot

[viktateapot]

I'm glad that the foreign community has accepted me so well. I'm very happy. Drink your tea, and I'll kiss you 🍵💋

[viktateapot]

"WERE YOU STARING?"

Dick Grayson:

The air in the loft was thick with the scent of sandalwood and the promise of rain. Dick had just gotten back from patrol, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to his skin, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. As usual, you greeted him with open arms and a knowing smile.

“Hey there, Hotshot,” you whispered, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face. "Long night?"

He chuckled, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it haphazardly onto the nearby chair. "You have no idea, Dove. Gotham’s finest were feeling particularly… rambunctious tonight."

He began to unbutton his shirt, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he caught your gaze. You were used to this routine. After long patrols he enjoyed the relief of freedom.

You openly admired his body. There was no point in hiding it and he was always happy to show off.

You’d become a connoisseur of his form, tracing the lines of muscle and curve etched into his body from his years of dedication, discipline, and pure hard work.

"How goes it, My Love?" you asked, your eyes tracing his torso.

He smirked, pausing in his undressing. "As always, to what do I owe the delight in your gaze, My Love?"

You knew that you'd earned his admiration. You supported him in all of his endeavors. All the sleepless nights and wounds. You earned this moment to look freely.

"Are you going to keep asking me that, when you already know the answer?" you teased, leaning into him with a kiss.

He grinned, nuzzling his face in your neck. "Never," he said, his voice husky. "I will never get tired of knowing what you find so fascinating."

You traced a line down his abs.

"You're a work of art, Dick Grayson," you whispered, "and I refuse to not appreciate art that's so beautiful and raw."

He was pleased by your words.

He slowly pushed away, continuing to undress as he walked further into the bedroom.

You were unable to resist following him. The soft light illuminated the curves of his back, his shoulders and the raw emotion and vulnerability.

He turned to see you still staring, and gave his signature grin.

"What's the matter, Flower? See something you like?"

"Everything, my love," you responded.

He laughed and reached for you with a kiss.

"Let me tell you a secret," he whispered between kisses. "You're my favorite thing to look at."

"As am I in your's," you whispered.

His eyes were full of lust.

"You always make me feel so special, you're so raw, open and honest."

And you are mine" You whisper, grabbing his hand and leading him towards the bed.

The night was only beginning, filled with touches, kisses and all that you two had to give. He was all that you wanted.

Jason Todd:

The Gotham skyline was a jagged, brutal silhouette against the bruised twilight sky. You found Jason perched on the rooftop of one of his safehouses, a cigarette burning between his fingers, his gaze fixed on the city below. He was shirtless, of course. It seemed to be his default state. The scars that tattooed his skin were even more prominent in the fading light, a dark and intricate roadmap of his life.

You climbed the fire escape, your boots clanging against the metal steps. He didn't acknowledge your arrival, but you knew he was aware of you. He always was.

“Hey, Jaybird,” you said softly, approaching him. “Beautiful night, isn't it?”

He scoffed, exhaling a plume of smoke. "Beautiful for the rats and the cockroaches, maybe. Not for anyone with a functioning brain."

You smiled, sitting down beside him on the edge of the roof. “You’re such a romantic,” you teased, nudging him with your elbow.

He grunted, but didn't object to your presence. He enjoyed this. And you also did. A moment of peace and quiet.

The wind whipped around you, carrying the scent of rain and the distant sounds of the city. It was a volatile, dangerous symphony, but it was also strangely comforting. It was home.

You allowed your gaze to roam over his body, taking in the hard lines of his muscles, the intricate patterns of his scars. He was a walking work of art, a testament to the pain and resilience of the human spirit.

"You know," you said, tracing a finger along one of the larger scars on his shoulder, "these are starting to tell a whole story, Jaybird.”

He tensed slightly, his jaw tightening. "What story is that, Lovebug?" he asked, his voice rough.

"The story of a survivor," you said, your voice soft. "A warrior. A man who has been through hell and back, and still manages to keep fighting."

He snorted, but you saw a flicker of something in his eyes, a hint of vulnerability that he rarely showed.

"Sounds like a load of bullshit, Flower," he said, trying to brush it off. "Just a bunch of old wounds."

You shook your head, looking up at him with genuine affection. "They're more than that, Hotshot," you said. "They're proof of your strength. Your courage. Your refusal to give up.”

He was beginning to feel vulnerable.

You let your gaze wander over his chest.

You began to tracing him. "May I?"

He nodded.

"These battle stories are interesting to gaze," you said. "It's like looking at history. Are you going to add more to that book, so that I always have something to look at?"

He smirked, tracing the inside of your hands.

"As long as you love to stare, there will always be a story to you. Every day it'll change, as the book of Jason Todds history continues."

"I'll always have a lot to look at," you whispered, "because everything that makes you and you is wonderful."

He cupped your cheek.

"As are you, My Love."

Tim Drake:

The Clocktower was Tim's domain, a chaotic blend of high-tech equipment, discarded energy drink cans, and half-eaten takeout containers. You navigated the cluttered space with ease, your footsteps familiar on the creaking floorboards. Tim was usually engrossed in his work, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he hunted down the latest threat to Gotham.

Tonight, however, he was taking a rare break. You found him sprawled on the ancient couch, his laptop precariously balanced on his stomach, a soft glow illuminating his face. He was shirtless, his toned torso surprisingly well-defined for someone who spent most of his time glued to a screen.

You smirked. So this is what he did when he took a break? Admiring his chest after he saved the city? No one would question that.

"Working hard, Redbird?" you asked, approaching him.

He startled slightly, snapping his laptop shut. "Hey," he said, his cheeks flushing a faint pink. "Didn't see you there."

You raised an eyebrow, taking in his disheveled appearance. "Obviously," you said, your voice teasing. "Were you expecting me?"

He shrugged, running a hand through his tousled hair. "Just… catching up on some research," he said, avoiding your gaze.

You laughed, perching on the edge of the couch. "Sure you were, Sugar," you said, your eyes tracing the lines of his abs. "That's why you're only wearing jeans."

His flush deepened, his gaze flitting nervously around the room. Tim, the master detective, always looked a little frazzled when put on the spot.

You were always so open.

You loved looking at him. He always worked so hard.

You leaned closer, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. "You know you can relax around me, right, Hotshot?" you murmured. "You don't have to pretend to be something you're not."

He sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "I know," he said, his voice softer. "It's just… habit."

"Well, break it," you said, trailing your fingers down his chest. "Let loose, Little Bird. Enjoy the moment."

He looked at you, his eyes searching yours. You could see the questions swirling behind them, the calculations and analyses that were always running through his mind.

It had been a bit since you’d seen each other.

Ever since you were both married and he was busy.

You reached out and took his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. "Hey," you said, squeezing his hand gently. "It's okay, Firefly. Just… be yourself."

He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. When he opened them again, you saw a flicker of something new, something softer, something more vulnerable.

He smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile that made your chest ache. "Okay," he said. "Okay, I can do that."

He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you.

"You mean so much to me" he whispered.

"Always and forever" you responded.

"Will you promise to look at me everyday forever?" he asked

You smiled, a few years ago he would have been so flustered by such a question, but now there was freedom and calm.

"I promise I’ll never look away" you said.

You brought him in for a kiss as you both looked at your rings.

Damian Wayne:

Damian's room was, as always, an unsettling mix of meticulously organized discipline and underlying chaos. Katana racks lined the walls, interspersed with stacks of ancient texts. The scent of sandalwood incense hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint odor of cleaning solvents. It was a sanctuary that was all his own.

You decided to see what he was doing. You knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

You walk in to see him looking at you.

The first thing you saw that Damian shirtless, cradling a fluffy white cat against his chest. The second, was the stern expression of his face. The third, was the beautiful cat in his arms, completely calm.

"I require absolute silence," he stated, his voice clipped. "I am attempting to achieve a state of focused meditation, and my test has been interrupted."

You raised an eyebrow, taking in the unusual scene. "Meditating with a cat?" you asked, trying to suppress a smile. "That's a new one, Hotshot."

He glared at you, his eyes narrowed. "There is a perfectly logical explanation for this, and it does not require your infantile commentary."

"Oh really?" you asked, stepping closer. "Pray tell, Little Bird. What's the explanation?"

He shifted slightly, cradling the cat protectively. "Pennyworth has been… agitated as of late. I am attempting to soothe her."

"Pennyworth?" you repeated, incredulous. "You named a cat Pennyworth? That's almost as ridiculous as Batman keeping Alfred in the Batcave to do chores. But where are my manners? Come here, Pennyworth, lets’ see if you're actually a nice cat.”

As you drew closer, Damian grew increasingly flustered. He averted his gaze, trying to regain his composure. But there was something new in his eyes, a hint of uncertainty that he rarely allowed to surface.

That's why you liked to mess with him.

"Are you going to stare with that blank, lifeless gaze? Or are you going to tell me more stories?" you asked

He looked away and stared at a corner.

"Are you blushing?" you teased.

He turned away.

"Damian are you oka-"

You are interrupted by his meowing.

"As you can see, he requires silence, so I can continue meditating and focus on myself. And for you to stop staring," he said

“As a woman?”

"Because his form is absolutely perfect, and the lines on his chest are as eloquent as Ovid?”

His face turns as red as a tomato.

“Are you ok?" you ask him.

He doesn’t respond.

You’ve broken him.

“Okay, I'll let you cuddle your cat," you said to him

"And I'll make you all the time for a night," he stated

You laughed.

"I have things to work on."

"You’re fine," you said

He doesn’t respond.

"Alright. Just be here," you said

“Good."

"There isn’t anything wrong.”

He still doesn’t respond.

He just looks with his cat.

“Have a lot of energy here, to solve this."

Now he says.

“You don’t have to hide things anymore”, you tell him with a touch on his head. “Don’t try so hard to be like everyone else.”

"Now what will the rest of do?" he says and shows the corner of his smiling lips.

“Nothing more to do. All set."

That’s why you love him.

HE HASN'T BEEN HERE FOR A LONG TIME

Conner Kent:

The Kent farm was a sanctuary. The smell of earth and freshly cut hay hung heavy in the air, a balm to the soul. The endless expanse of the Kansas sky was a breathtaking canvas of blue and gold.

The porch was where you found Conner, usually. Today, he was shirtless, chopping wood with a rhythmic efficiency that was both mesmerizing and slightly intimidating. Sunlight glinted off the sweat that slicked his skin, highlighting the hard lines of his muscles.

You’ve always loved that he’s a super hero and a farm boy at the same time.

You leaned on the porch railing, taking in the sight. He was a force of nature, a testament to the raw power that flowed through his veins. But he was also… sweet. Kind. Endearingly awkward.

"Hey, Superboy," you said softly, breaking the silence. "Need some help with that, Country Boy?"

He stopped chopping, turning to face you, a smile spreading across his face. You made him feel good about who he is.

"Hey," he said, his voice warm. "What are you doing out here? I thought you were working on that project with Starfire."

You shrugged, pushing away from the railing. "It can wait," you said, strolling towards him. "I needed a break. And frankly, I needed to admire the view."

He chuckled, flexing his bicep playfully. "Oh yeah? What view is that?"

You didn’t have to say anything.

He understood.

You gestured at his torso. "This view," you said, unable to suppress a grin. "The one that seems to be getting more impressive by the day. You look so happy these days.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. That means I’m doing something right" you say. "The way the sunlight hits the sweat, is a beautiful sight, You look perfect doing every, what’s your secret?”

He shook his head, a look of feigned exasperation on his face. "You know, I'm starting to think you have a thing for superheroes, Angel" he said.

"Only one in particular," you said, stepping closer to him. "The one who happens to be standing right in front of me."

He reached for you, his arms wrapping around you. "You always did have a knack for flattery, Sugar" he murmured, kissing your hair.

He has an arm bigger than your torso.

As a person, everything he is a superhero with a heart of gold.

He began to chuckle and walked away, to get back to his work.

That was the man that the heart yearned for, a man capable of saving the world.

And that’s why he was doing this.

He could be here instead of being a superhero.

That’s the problem, he thought. He does want to be that farm boy. He also wanted you.

You needed him to be a superhero.

What’s more important?

[viktateapot]

Thinking about Bat-mom who has such a soft spot for animals, and whenever Damien wants to get another pet she's just like "hell yeah".

(Very much me because I would totally just hangout with Alfred the Cat and Titus whenever and let them sleep on the bed <3)

THE WAYNE WILDLIFE SANCTUARY

BRUCE WAYNE X READER

The manor was quiet, an unusual occurrence considering the chaotic lives lived within its walls. Bruce was in the Cave, as always, consumed by his relentless crusade. Damian was likely holed up in his room, perfecting some obscure martial art or plotting world domination. And Alfred… well, Alfred was likely somewhere, subtly orchestrating the entire operation like the puppet master he truly was.

You loved the tranquility. It gave you a chance to catch up on some reading, tend to your miniature indoor garden, and, most importantly, spend quality time with the manor's resident animal companions.

Alfred the Cat, a sleek black feline with eyes that held an uncanny intelligence, was curled up on the windowsill, basking in the afternoon sun. He stretched languidly as you approached, purring contentedly. You gently stroked his fur, feeling the soft vibrations beneath your fingertips.

"Such a handsome fellow, aren't you, Alfie?" you murmured, earning a slow blink of approval. "You're the most sensible member of this household, I swear."

Titus, the massive Great Dane, lumbered into the room, his tail wagging with enough force to knock over a small vase. He nudged your hand with his wet nose, pleading for attention. You laughed, scratching him behind the ears.

"And you, my gentle giant," you said, "are the sweetest. Always happy to see me, even when I'm covered in mud from the garden."

Titus let out a soft woof, as if to say, "Mud is of no consequence when affection is involved."

You adored animals. They were uncomplicated, loyal, and endlessly entertaining. They brought a much-needed sense of levity to the otherwise grim atmosphere of Wayne Manor. And you made it your personal mission to shower them with love and attention.

One afternoon, as you were enjoying a peaceful tea party with Alfred and Titus (complete with miniature saucers of milk for the former and a pile of dog biscuits for the latter), Damian strode into the room, his expression serious.

"I require a falcon," he announced, his voice leaving no room for argument.

You nearly choked on your tea. "A falcon?" you repeated, incredulous. "Damian, we live in a manor, not a medieval castle. Where would you even keep a falcon?"

"That is irrelevant," he said, his jaw set. "A falcon is a noble creature, a symbol of strength and cunning. It would be a valuable addition to my training."

You exchanged a knowing glance with Alfred the Cat, who merely yawned and stretched, unfazed by the sudden turn of events. Titus, however, perked up his ears, sensing an opportunity for new companionship.

You sighed, knowing that arguing with Damian was usually a futile exercise. But a falcon? That was a bit much, even for you.

"Damian, I appreciate your… enthusiasm," you said, trying to sound diplomatic. "But I don't think a falcon is a practical pet for us. We already have Alfred and Titus, and Bruce is barely tolerant of them as it is."

Damian’s eyes narrowed. "Father is irrelevant," he said, his voice cold. "I will acquire a falcon, regardless of his opinion."

And that’s when it hit you.

You paused, considering. You knew you had to play this carefully. "Hold on there, Demon Spawn," you said. "What if we talked to Bruce?"

"He would never permit it."

“And that’s where I come in, love. I’ll convince him!”

The next day, Bruce was in the study.

You found Bruce in his study, surrounded by stacks of files and surveillance equipment. He looked exhausted, his face etched with fatigue.

"Bruce," you said softly, approaching him. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm rather preoccupied, darling."

"It's about Damian," you said, and he visibly tensed.

"What has he done now?" he asked, his voice weary.

"He wants a falcon," you said, bracing yourself for his reaction.

Bruce’s face remained impassive. "A falcon," he repeated flatly. "Of course he does."

"I know it sounds… unconventional," you said, "but I think it could be good for him. It would teach him responsibility, patience…"

"He already is responsible and patient!"

"But more importantly," you continued, "it would give him a connection to nature. Something outside of his training, outside of Gotham. It would teach him compassion."

Bruce looked at you, his expression softening slightly. He knew how much you valued animals, how much you believed in their power to heal and connect.

"I still don't think it's a good idea," he said, his voice hesitant. "Falcons require specialized care. And frankly, I don't want a bird of prey flying around the manor."

You smiled, knowing that you were getting through to him. "I promise, I'll take care of everything," you said. "I'll research falconry, build a suitable aviary, and ensure that the bird is properly trained. You won't have to lift a finger, My Love."

Bruce hesitated for a moment longer, then sighed in defeat. "Alright," he said. "Fine. He can have a falcon."

You squealed with delight, throwing your arms around him. "Thank you, Bruce!" you exclaimed. "You won't regret this, Sweetheart!"

That afternoon, you told Damian.

Damian was not there.

You found him in the training room.

He stood with his back to you, the sound of his bo staff rhythmically striking a training dummy.

"It is done," you announced. "He said you can have your bird."

His head did not move.

"Are you not happy, demon spawn?"

He finally turned, his black mask accentuating his glaring eyes.

"Of course I am," he stated. "But I need to name it."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I need a name that encompasses its elegance and precision."

He smiled. "I’ve already taken that into consideration. I’ve ordered it, and it’s on its way. Be ready to meet…”

“And who might the name be?” Damian asked, impatiently.

“Ozymandias. An eloquent name for such a beautiful bird, don’t you think?”

Damian looked at you, impressed.

And so, the Wayne Wildlife Sanctuary grew by one. Ozymandias, a majestic peregrine falcon, took up residence in a custom-built aviary on the manor grounds. You, of course, took on the responsibility of caring for him, learning the intricacies of falconry and showering him with affection.

Damian, however, was a surprising case. While he maintained a stoic distance in public, you often caught him gazing at Ozymandias with a soft expression, his hand outstretched towards the bird.

Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, you would find him in the aviary, whispering softly to the falcon, sharing his thoughts and feelings in a way he rarely did with anyone else.

You knew that underneath his prickly exterior, Damian had a deep capacity for love and compassion. And you were grateful that Ozymandias had given him a new outlet for those emotions.

Of course, Bruce wasn't always thrilled about the ever-expanding menagerie. But he tolerated it, because he knew how happy it made you and Damian. And because, deep down, he had a soft spot for the animals himself.

After all, even the Batman couldn't resist the charms of a purring cat, a wagging tail, and a majestic falcon soaring through the sky. With you around, Wayne Manor wasn't just a symbol of darkness and justice, it was a haven for all creatures, great and small, a testament to the power of love and compassion in the most unexpected places.

[viktateapot]

SCARS AND SOFT SPOTS

DAMIAN WAYNE X READER (AMAZON)

The med bay of the Watchtower was sterile and efficient, a stark contrast to the chaos of the battlefield. You sat on the edge of the bio-bed, your arm wrapped in a high-tech bandage that was slowly knitting the tissue back together. You were grateful for the League's advanced technology, but you couldn't shake the feeling of vulnerability.

Wonder Woman was pacing back and forth, her brow furrowed with worry. "Are you certain you are alright, Asteria? That wound looked… significant."

"I'm fine, Mother," you reassured her, forcing a smile. "It's just a scratch. Thanks to the technology here, it will heal very soon."

Diana sighed, her expression softening slightly. "I know you are strong, my daughter. But you must be more careful. You are too valuable to risk needlessly."

You knew that her concern came from a place of love, but it still felt stifling. You were a member of the Justice League, not some fragile flower. You were meant to protect, to fight.

Damian entered the med bay, his face unreadable. He stood stiffly by the doorway, avoiding your gaze.

Wonder Woman turned to him, her eyes blazing. "Damian Wayne," she said, her voice dripping with barely contained fury. "I want an explanation. Now."

Damian straightened his posture, meeting her gaze unflinchingly. "The mission was successful," he said, his voice flat. "The AI was neutralized. Metropolis is safe."

"That is not the point!" Wonder Woman retorted. "The point is that Asteria was injured. You were responsible for her safety, and you failed."

Damian’s jaw tightened. "I did not fail. I prevented the situation from escalating further. Her injury was a consequence of her own actions."

You bristled at his words. "My actions? I was trying to help!"

"By throwing yourself recklessly into danger?" he scoffed. "That is not help. That is stupidity. Tactics consist of thinking, not making rash decisions.

"Enough!" Wonder Woman exclaimed, silencing you both. "This is not a debate. Damian, your behavior was unacceptable. You will apologize to Asteria, and you will accept responsibility for your part in what happened."

Damian hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly nodded. "Very well," he said, his voice grudging. He turned to you, his expression still unyielding. "Asteria, I apologize for my… harsh words. I was concerned for your well-being."

It was a less-than-sincere apology, but you could sense a flicker of genuine concern beneath his stoicism. "Thank you, Damian," you said, your voice softer.

Wonder Woman relaxed slightly, but her gaze remained fixed on Damian. "Furthermore," she said, "you will accompany Asteria back to Themyscira. You will assist with her healing and you will learn from her about Amazonian tactics. Perhaps a lesson in humility is in order."

Damian’s eyes widened in disbelief. "Themyscira? Mother Diana, that is unnecessary. I have responsibilities in Gotham."

"Your responsibilities will wait," Wonder Woman said, her voice brooking no argument. "This is not a request, Damian. It is an order."

She turned to you, her expression softening. "Go, my daughter. Rest. Heal. And perhaps… learn something new about your… companion."

You smiled, nodding. "I will, Mother."

Wonder Woman swept out of the med bay, leaving you and Damian alone. The silence was thick with tension, the air charged with unspoken emotions.

Damian scowled. "This is ridiculous," he muttered. "I do not need to go to Themyscira. I have nothing to learn from you."

"Oh, I don't know, Robin," you said, a playful glint in your eyes. "I think you could learn a lot from me. Especially about… humility."

Damian glared at you. "Do not mock me, Amazonia," he said, his voice low.

"I'm not mocking you," you said, your voice softer. "I'm just saying… maybe this trip will be good for you. Maybe it will help you… open up a little."

Damian looked away, his expression unreadable. "I do notrequire opening up," he said, his voice clipped. "I am perfectly content as I am."

You sighed, stepping closer to him. "I know you are, Damian," you said. "But sometimes… it's okay to let people in. It's okay to show your vulnerability. It doesn't make you weak."

He looked at you, his eyes searching yours. "Vulnerability is a liability," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

"Maybe," you said. "But it's also what makes us human. What makes us… strong."

He didn't respond, his expression closed off once again. You knew that he was struggling, that he was fighting against his own emotions.

You reached out and took his hand, squeezing it gently. "Come on, Damian," you said. "Let's go to Themyscira. Let's see what we can learn from each other."

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Very well," he said, his voice grudging. "But do not expect me to enjoy it."

You smiled, knowing that beneath his stoicism, he was curious. He was intrigued. And maybe, just maybe, he was starting to care for you too.

As you walked out of the med bay, hand in hand, you knew that this trip to Themyscira would be more than just a lesson in tactics. It would be a journey of self-discovery, a chance for both of you to confront your fears, to embrace your vulnerabilities, and to finally open your hearts to each other.

And you had a feeling that somewhere along the way, despite all of their bickering and their clashing personalities, they would find something truly special. The journey to the Amazon island will not be what he expects, and perhaps what he wants.

My comment: The idea was given to me by

I love you, my dear

[viktateapot]

Hi!!! I hope your having a wonderful day/night. Can you maybe do either a one shot or headcanons about Jason Todd dating a fem! Metal singer! Reader? Thank you!

METAL QUEEN🎸

JASON TODD X READER (METAL SINGER)

It was a rare night off for Jason. No gang wars, no rogue metahumans, no sudden emergencies requiring the Red Hood's particular brand of "justice." He was actually relaxing. Or at least, trying to. His idea of relaxation involved cleaning his guns and brooding in his apartment, the flickering neon sign from the liquor store across the street casting a lurid glow across his face.

He was missing you though.

His phone buzzed on the coffee table. It was a text from you.

Songbird: "Ugh. Rehearsals from hell. Need beer. Your place?"

Jason grinned. That was more like it.

Jason: "Come on over. I'll even try to be charming."

A few minutes later, you were bursting through the door, a whirlwind of black leather and ripped fishnets. Your band t-shirt, a tribute to some obscure punk band Jason had never heard of, was stained with sweat.

"God, what a night," you groaned, throwing your guitar case onto the floor with a thud. "The drummer was late, the bassist forgot his amp, and the singer kept trying to rewrite my lyrics."

Jason chuckled, grabbing you a beer from the fridge. "Sounds rough, Angel."

You took a long swig of the beer, sighing in relief. "Tell me about it. I swear, sometimes I want to quit the whole damn thing and become a librarian."

"You? A librarian?" Jason laughed. "I can't see it, Honey."

"Hey, a girl can dream," you said, flopping onto the couch beside him. "Besides, rock and roll's a young man's game. I'm practically ancient."

Jason rolled his eyes. "Please. You're just getting started, Moonshine."

You smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder. "Thanks, Jaybird. You always know what to say."

He wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer. He loved the way you felt in his arms, the way your scent of cigarettes and cheap perfume filled his senses.

"So," you said, looking up at him with a mischievous glint in your eyes. "What are you doing tonight? Any bad guys to shoot?"

Jason shrugged. "Nah. Just hanging out. Thinking about how awesome you are, Firefly."

You laughed, punching him playfully in the arm. "Smooth, Jaybird. Real smooth."

He leaned in and kissed you, his lips lingering on yours. You tasted like beer and rebellion, a combination he found incredibly intoxicating.

"You know," you said, pulling away slightly. "I've been thinking about writing a new song. Something...darker. Something with some real teeth."

Jason grinned. "Sounds like my kind of song, Starling."

"Yeah," you said, your eyes sparkling. "Maybe I'll write about a vigilante who dresses up like a Red Hood and shoots criminals in the face."

Jason chuckled. "Sounds like a real crowd-pleaser, Sweetheart."

"Oh, it will be," you said. "Especially when I reveal that he's actually a big softie underneath all that leather and weaponry."

Jason snorted. "I am not a softie, love."

"Oh really?" you said, raising an eyebrow. "Then why did you spend two hours last night trying to fix my broken guitar pedal?"

Jason glared at you. "That was a matter of principle. I can't stand to see good equipment go to waste, darling."

"Sure, Jaybird," you said, giggling. "Whatever you say."

You reached for your guitar case, pulling out your beat-up black Fender Telecaster. You started strumming a few chords, testing the tuning.

"What do you think?" you asked, playing a riff that was both haunting and explosive.

Jason listened intently, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Sounds good," he said. "But it needs more...rage, My heart."

"Rage, huh?" you said, smirking. "I can do rage, Sweet Pea."

You started to play again, this time with more intensity, more passion. The music filled the room, a raw, visceral expression of pain and anger.

Jason watched you, mesmerized. He loved the way you looked when you were playing, your face contorted in concentration, your body swaying to the rhythm. You were a force of nature, a hurricane of sound and fury.

He knew that you understood him in a way that no one else ever could. Y

ou saw the darkness inside him, the pain that he tried so hard to hide. And you loved him anyway.

You stopped playing, looking at him expectantly. "Well?" you said. "What do you think now, Sugar?"

Jason grinned. "Now that's a goddamn song, gorgeous. That's something real."

He reached out and took your hand, pulling you closer. He kissed you again, his lips meeting yours in a passionate embrace.

"I love you, Angel," he said, his voice husky.

"I love you too, Jaybird," you said, smiling. "Now, how about we forget about the music for a while and just...relax?"

Jason grinned, pulling you down onto the couch. "Sounds like a plan, lovely."

He was finally relaxing. And as long as he was with you, it didn't matter what the rest of the world was doing. It was as perfect as it could get.

[viktateapot]

Thinking about Dick with a roommate who he leaves Haley with while he's away on missions, coming back to see his roommate(and crush) cuddled up with Haley in his bed

A SURGE OF AFFECTION, BUT NOT FOR HIM

DICK GRAYSON X READER

The mission in Markovia had stretched longer than anticipated. Dick had been wrestling with rogue metahumans and navigating political minefields for what felt like an eternity. All he wanted was to get back to Blüdhaven, to his ridiculously messy apartment, and, more importantly, to you.

He slipped in through the window, his usual entrance, feeling a pang of guilt for not calling ahead. He just wanted to surprise you, to see your smile light up the room. He missed it terribly.

The apartment was silent, bathed in the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the blinds. He tiptoed toward his room, intending to shower before seeking you out. That's when he saw it.

His door was ajar, and a sliver of light spilled into the hallway. He pushed it open wider, his heart skipping a beat. And there you were.

Curled up in his bed, nestled amongst the pillows, was Haley, his beloved pitbull, who was essentially his second-in-command, and you, sound asleep.

Haley, usually a bundle of restless energy (even with three legs), was sprawled across your chest, her one front paw resting protectively on your arm. You were snuggled up against her, your hair fanned out on the pillow, your expression serene and peaceful. It was a sight that made his breath catch in his throat.

He stood there, frozen, a strange mix of emotions churning inside him. Relief that you were safe and sound, a rush of warmth at the sight of you caring for Haley, and an undeniable pang of… something else. Something that had been brewing beneath the surface for months.

He’d been trying to ignore the way his heart fluttered whenever you were near, the way his mind lingered on your laugh, the way he found himself making excuses to spend time with you outside of their shared living space. He had been denying what was so obvious to him now.

He knew this wasn't just friendship anymore. The way he cared for you was different. More intense. He'd catch himself just staring at you, unable to look away.

Dick couldn't tear his gaze away. He knew he should leave, let you both sleep, but he was rooted to the spot, captivated by the scene before him. The gentle rise and fall of your chest, the soft snores emanating from Haley, the peaceful atmosphere that enveloped the room.

He debated waking you, but the thought of disturbing such a perfect moment held him back. He'd never seen you so relaxed, so at peace. He wanted to savor it. Especially knowing how much Haley had been through and how hard she usually found it to relax. Seeing you both together like this was special.

He tiptoed further into the room, wanting to be as silent as he could possibly be. He was now standing right next to his bed and looked at you both once more. He noticed the faint scars on Haley's body, a stark reminder of her past, and his heart ached for her. Knowing you were able to offer her the comfort she deserved was something he was very grateful for.

He moved to get a soft blanket from his drawer and gently draped it over you and Haley, careful not to wake either of you. You stirred slightly, burrowing deeper into the pillows, and Dick's heart swelled with affection.

He decided to sleep on the couch tonight. It was the least he could do. But he couldn't resist one last look.

He leaned down, his hand hovering over your cheek, then brushed a stray strand of hair away from your face. Your skin was soft and warm, and he longed to linger there, to feel the delicate curve of your cheek beneath his fingertips. The same longing he felt when he saw you bonding with Haley.

He pulled back, a sigh escaping his lips. He had a feeling this was going to be a long night. Filled with the constant reminder that he was falling even harder for you.

He quietly retreated from the room, closing the door behind him, and made his way to the living room. He sank onto the couch, his mind racing.

He couldn't ignore his feelings any longer. He was hopelessly, undeniably in love with you. But what was he going to do about it?

He knew confessing his feelings could change everything. What if you didn't feel the same way? What if it ruined their friendship, their living situation? The thought was unbearable. The way he treasured your friendship felt so valuable, he was afraid to risk it.

But he also couldn't bear the thought of continuing to suppress his feelings, of living a life where he was constantly longing for something he couldn't have. The worst part would be watching you fall in love with someone else.

He sighed again, running a hand through his hair. He needed a plan. He needed to figure out how to tell you how he felt without risking everything they had. A declaration of love seemed way too forward, but how else was he supposed to convey his feelings.

He spent the next few hours tossing and turning on the couch, his mind consumed with thoughts of you. He replayed every conversation they'd ever had, searching for clues, for signs that you might feel the same way. Maybe he was just projecting?

As the first rays of dawn crept through the windows, Dick finally drifted off to sleep, his mind still buzzing with questions and uncertainties.

He knew one thing for sure: he was going to do everything in his power to win you over. He just had to figure out how.

When you woke up the next morning, it was to the comforting weight of Haley pressed against you. She yawned, stretching her three legs languidly, then looked up at you with her big, soulful, blue eyes.

You smiled, scratching her behind the ears. "Good morning, buddy," you murmured. "Did you have a good sleep?" You knew how much she loved being cuddled and made sure she felt loved and safe.

You noticed you were not in your bed and your eyes opened immediately. You were in Dicks bed and you knew why. A nightmare and Haley was always a comfort. But that's not what made you embarrassed. You knew about Dicks crush on you and you were scared.

You got out of the bed slowly and quietly and started to make your way out of the room. You stopped when you noticed Dick on the couch.

He was fast asleep, his face relaxed and peaceful. He looked vulnerable, unguarded. The sight made your heart ache.

You quietly left the room, closing the door softly behind you. You went to make him some coffee and breakfast, hoping it would be a good start to his day. Perhaps it would give you both some space to figure out what to do.

[viktateapot]

I kiss you from Russia, my dear. 💋

You're as beautiful as your ff. I love you 💋

uUn!&’JAMZLMSKSJWBAKANANZ ONE OF MY FAV WRITERS SAYINGWTHIS TO MwE IMGONNA EXPLODE ISNWKSMKD 💞💋💋🩷💋💓💖💖💓🩷💞💋💋💓💖💋❤️💖💞💓🩷💋❤️THNAK YIOU!!!!! ❤️💋🩷💓💋❤️💞💖💋💋🩷

[viktateapot]

Hi hi!

Firstly, I just want to say, you write so well. Damn the fluff got me wanting to squeal and kick my feet like a little kid. If you ever played the sims 4, they have the ‘moodlet’ drink items you can buy to basically get a shot of happiness. Yeah this is what your blog is in terms of writing. I thrive off the comfort. 10/10, would recommend.

Is it possible to request maybe something for the bats? I have the ever-so-lovely, chronic fatigue syndrome. I don’t see it really get written about much. Tad bit sad, but fair enough.

That said, absolutely zero pressure from me! You already write amazing content, and I’m more than happy to just froth at the mouth at each post lol. Cheers, have a great day! Many thanks!

Ps, make sure to drink plenty of water and stretch! Stiff joints and muscles are killers.

I don't think it's normal to have foam coming out of your mouth. See a doctor 😶

HEADACHES (Batboys)

Dick Grayson:

The sunlight streaming through the window felt like a physical weight, pressing down on you, amplifying the throbbing in your head. You groaned and rolled over, burying your face in the pillows, trying to shut out the world.

Another day, another flare-up. Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, your constant companion, was making its presence known with a vengeance. The fatigue was all-consuming, a leaden cloak that dragged at your limbs, making even the simplest tasks feel insurmountable.

It wasn't just tiredness. It was an utter depletion of energy, a feeling of being completely drained, of having nothing left to give. It was like running a marathon with a broken leg, pushing yourself to the limit, only to collapse in a heap of exhaustion.

The pain was relentless, a dull ache that permeated every muscle, every joint. Your head throbbed, your throat was scratchy, and your skin felt like it was on fire. It was a symphony of discomfort, a constant reminder of your body's betrayal.

And the brain fog? It was like wading through treacle, your thoughts slow and sluggish, your memory unreliable, your ability to concentrate nonexistent. It made even simple conversation a struggle, leaving you feeling frustrated and inadequate.

You knew what you needed to do: rest. Stay in bed, conserve your energy, and wait for the storm to pass. But the thought of spending another day confined to your room, watching the world go by outside your window, filled you with despair.

You longed for normalcy, for the ability to do the things you loved, to pursue your passions, to live your life to the fullest. But CFS had stolen all that from you, leaving you feeling trapped and isolated.

You heard a soft knock on the door. "Hey, buttercup? You awake?" It was Dick, his voice gentle and concerned.

You groaned again, not wanting to face him. You hated it when he saw you like this, weak and vulnerable. You wanted him to see you as the strong, independent woman you used to be, not as a shadow of your former self.

"Come in," you mumbled, your voice hoarse.

The door opened and Dick walked in, his brow furrowed with concern. He took one look at you and his expression softened.

"Rough morning, huh?" he asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

You nodded, tears welling up in your eyes. "It's just… never-ending," you whispered. "I’m always tired, and what’s worse is that sometimes I can’t stop being tired. I just want to feel normal again."

He reached out and gently stroked your hair, his touch soothing and familiar. "I know, Sweetheart," he said, his voice filled with compassion. "I know it's tough."

He took your hand and squeezed it tight. "But you're not alone," he said. "I'm here for you, always. And I'm not going anywhere."

He stayed with you for hours, just holding your hand, talking softly, and listening to your complaints. He didn't try to fix anything, didn't offer platitudes or empty promises. He simply provided comfort, support, and unwavering understanding.

He knew that CFS wasn't something he could solve, wasn't something he could magically make disappear. He understood that it was a chronic condition, a part of your life that you had to manage, not something you could simply overcome.

And he was willing to be there with you, to help you manage, to support you through the tough times, to celebrate the small victories.

He brought you tea, read you your favorite books, and even put on a cheesy movie to distract you from the pain.

As the afternoon wore on, the throbbing in your head began to subside, the aches in your muscles began to ease, and the brain fog began to clear.

It wasn't a cure, but it was a start. It was a reminder that even in the midst of the darkness, there was still light, there was still hope, and there was still love.

He knew that there were good days, and there were bad days. He knew to take things as they came. So for all the support and relief he brought you when you needed him to, you needed to bring him what you could. For both of you.

You took a deep breath and smiled at Dick, your heart filled with gratitude. “Thank you, moonlight,” you said, your voice soft. “For always knowing just what to do."

He smiled back, his eyes shining with love. “Anytime, buttercup,” he said. “Anytime.”

“I love you, Dick.” You whispered quietly, so afraid of the weight and the pain coming back at any minute.

“I love you too, buttercup.” He held you a little tighter, and the world seemed a lot less overwhelming, a lot kinder.

Because with Dick by your side, you knew that you could face anything, even the challenges of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Because he was more than just a boyfriend, he was your partner, your caregiver, and your unwavering source of love and support.

Jason Todd:

Gotham General was a symphony of misery. The fluorescent lights buzzed relentlessly, amplifying the throbbing in your temples. The linoleum floor, perpetually sticky and stained, seemed to cling to your shoes with a malevolent intent. You hated hospitals. Always had, always would.

You were here for routine bloodwork, a necessary evil in the management of your chronic fatigue. Dr. Leslie Thompkins, a kind and compassionate woman who understood the complexities of your illness, insisted on regular monitoring. You appreciated her concern, even if the prospect of another needle prick made you want to crawl back under the covers and hibernate for the next decade.

As you waited for your name to be called, you felt the familiar wave of exhaustion wash over you. The fatigue wasn't just physical; it was a bone-deep weariness that seeped into your soul. It stole your joy, your ambition, your ability to simply enjoy a sunny day without the crushing weight of your own body holding you back.

You leaned your head against the cool plastic of the waiting room chair, closing your eyes, trying to block out the cacophony of sounds. A sudden, jarring shout pierced through your defenses. You flinched, your body tensing with a jolt of adrenaline.

"What do you mean, 'we can't do anything more'?" the voice roared. It was a voice you recognized instantly, a voice that usually sent shivers down your spine for entirely different reasons. Jason.

You opened your eyes, your gaze drawn to the source of the commotion. Jason stood at the nurses' station, his shoulders rigid, his jaw clenched. He was dressed in civilian clothes, but the unmistakable intensity in his eyes betrayed the vigilante lurking beneath the surface.

You watched as he argued with the nurse, his voice escalating with each passing second. He was clearly agitated, his frustration palpable. You didn't know what was going on, but you knew that he was hurting.

You pushed yourself to your feet, ignoring the protesting ache in your muscles. You knew you shouldn't interfere, knew that you needed to conserve your energy. But you couldn't stand by and watch him self-destruct.

"Jay," you said softly, your voice barely audible above the din of the hospital.

He turned, his gaze locking with yours. His expression softened slightly, the anger momentarily receding. "Ghost," he murmured, his voice still rough around the edges. "What are you doing here?"

"Routine checkup," you replied, your voice steadier now. "What's wrong?"

He hesitated, his eyes darting around the waiting room. He seemed reluctant to discuss the situation in such a public setting. "It's… complicated," he said finally.

You took his hand, your fingers intertwining with his. "Come on," you said gently. "Let's go somewhere quieter."

You led him out of the waiting room, down a deserted hallway, until you found a small, secluded alcove. You sat down on a nearby bench, pulling him down beside you.

"Talk to me, Jay," you said, your voice soft but firm. "What's going on?"

He sighed, running a hand through his unruly black hair. "It's a friend," he said finally. "He's… sick. And they're saying they can't do anything else for him."

You understood instantly. You knew the helplessness, the frustration, the sheer terror of watching someone you care about suffer, knowing that you're powerless to stop it.

"I'm sorry, Jay," you said, squeezing his hand. "That's… that's awful."

He nodded, his gaze fixed on the floor. "I don't know what to do, Ghost. I feel like I should be able to fix it, to make it better. But I can't."

You knew that feeling all too well. The crushing weight of helplessness, the constant reminder that you couldn't control your own body, let alone anyone else's.

"You can't always fix things, Jay," you said gently. "Sometimes, all you can do is be there for them. To offer your support, your love, your strength."

He looked up at you, his eyes filled with pain and confusion. "But that's not enough, Ghost. It's not enough to just sit by and watch him die."

"No," you said, shaking your head. "It's not. But it's the best you can do. And sometimes, that's all anyone can ask for."

You sat in silence for a few moments, the weight of the situation pressing down on you both. You knew that nothing you could say would truly ease his pain. But you hoped that your presence, your understanding, would offer him some small measure of comfort.

He leaned his head against your shoulder, his body trembling slightly. You wrapped your arm around him, holding him close, offering him the solace you so often sought yourself.

"Thanks, Ghost," he whispered, his voice muffled against your hair. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

You smiled, a small, sad smile. "You'd probably blow something up," you said teasingly.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that eased the tension in your body. "Probably," he admitted.

You stayed there for a long time, holding each other in the quiet alcove, sharing the burden of grief and helplessness. You knew that the road ahead would be difficult, for both of you. But you also knew that you wouldn't have to face it alone. You had each other, and that was enough.

"Hey," he said, pulling back slightly. "How about we ditch this place and go grab some pizza? My treat."

You smiled, a genuine smile that reached your eyes. "Sounds like a plan, Red."

Tim Drake:

The Gotham Museum of Art was surprisingly empty for a Saturday afternoon. You wandered through the halls, your footsteps echoing softly against the polished floors, your gaze drawn to the masterpieces that adorned the walls.

Art was a lifeline for you, a source of inspiration and solace that transcended the limitations of your physical body. You could lose yourself in the brushstrokes, the colors, the stories that the artists had poured into their creations.

Today, however, even the art seemed to fade into a dull haze. The fatigue had taken hold with a vengeance, stealing your focus, your energy, your ability to truly appreciate the beauty that surrounded you.

You found a bench in front of a Monet painting, sinking onto it with a sigh. The soft colors of the Impressionist landscape offered a brief respite from the exhaustion, but it wasn't enough to fully lift your spirits.

A familiar figure approached, his presence a beacon of warmth and familiarity. Tim, dressed in civilian clothes, his dark hair neatly styled, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Hey, Comet," he said, his voice soft and welcoming. "Fancy seeing you here."

He sat down beside you, his gaze sweeping over your face. "Everything okay? You look a little… drained."

You managed a weak smile. "Just a bad day, Birdie. Nothing I can't handle."

He frowned, his brow furrowed with concern. "Are you sure? We could go somewhere else. Grab some coffee, maybe?"

You shook your head. "No, it's okay. I just need to… recharge for a bit."

He didn't push you. He simply sat there, his presence a silent offering of support. He knew that you valued your independence, that you hated feeling like a burden. He respected your boundaries, but he also made sure you knew that he was there, ready to help whenever you needed it.

After a few moments of silence, he spoke, his voice thoughtful. "You know, there's a new exhibit on the second floor. Renaissance portraits. I thought you might enjoy it."

You hesitated, weighing the pros and cons. You knew that walking to the second floor would be a challenge, that it would likely drain what little energy you had left. But you also knew that seeing the exhibit would bring you joy, that it would offer a brief escape from the fatigue.

"Okay," you said finally, your voice barely audible. "Let's go."

He smiled, his eyes lighting up with excitement. He stood up, offering you his hand. "Here," he said. "Let me help you."

You took his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. His touch was gentle but firm, offering you the support you needed without making you feel weak or helpless.

He walked beside you, his pace slow and steady, matching your own. He didn't rush you, didn't push you to go faster than you were comfortable with. He simply stayed by your side, offering his strength when you needed it.

As you reached the second floor, you felt the fatigue begin to creep back in. Your muscles ached, your head throbbed, and your vision blurred. You leaned heavily on Tim, struggling to keep your balance.

He noticed your distress, his expression shifting to one of concern. "Are you sure you want to do this, Comet?" he asked gently. "We can always turn back."

You hesitated, your pride warring with your physical limitations. You wanted to see the exhibit, but you also knew that you were pushing yourself too hard.

"Actually…" you began, your voice trembling slightly.

Before you could finish, Tim scooped you up into his arms, his movements surprisingly swift and graceful. You gasped, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck.

"Tim!" you exclaimed, your face flushing with embarrassment. "What are you doing? Put me down!"

He chuckled, his gaze locking with yours. "Relax, Comet," he said, his voice soft and teasing. "I've got you. Besides," he added with a wink, "it's a lot easier than watching you struggle."

He carried you through the exhibit, his arms strong and steady, his eyes fixed on you. You felt a strange mix of embarrassment and gratitude. You hated feeling weak, but you also appreciated his thoughtfulness, his willingness to go above and beyond to make you comfortable.

As you gazed at the Renaissance portraits, the beauty of the art seemed to amplify, enhanced by Tim's presence, his unwavering support. You knew that your illness would always be a part of your life, but you also knew that you weren't alone. You had Tim, and he would always be there to carry you, both literally and figuratively, through whatever challenges you faced. He was borrowing his energy to share with you.

Damian Wayne:

The Gotham Botanical Gardens were a riot of color and fragrance, a vibrant oasis in the heart of the grim city. You loved spending time there, wandering through the lush foliage, breathing in the sweet scent of the flowers, forgetting, for a few precious moments, the limitations of your body.

You had been particularly drawn to the rose garden that afternoon, the velvety petals and delicate blooms seeming to possess an almost otherworldly beauty. The scent was intoxicating, and you found yourself inhaling deeply, trying to capture the essence of their perfection.

Unfortunately, your chronic fatigue was a persistent companion, always lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce at the slightest provocation. You had pushed yourself too hard that morning, eager to escape the confines of your apartment, and now, your energy reserves were rapidly dwindling.

Your legs began to ache, your head throbbed, and your vision blurred. You knew you had to sit down, had to rest, or risk a full-blown crash.

You stumbled slightly, your hand reaching out to steady yourself against a nearby trellis. A figure emerged from behind the roses, his eyes narrowed, his expression a mixture of concern and annoyance.

Damian Wayne. The brooding assassin turned vigilante, the son of Batman, the most unlikely of friends.

"Are you unwell, Finch?" he asked, his voice sharp and demanding.

You straightened up, trying to hide your discomfort. "I'm fine, Demon Brat. Just… admiring the roses."

He raised an eyebrow, his gaze skeptical. "You appear to be in distress. Your complexion is pallid, and your movements are labored."

You sighed, knowing there was no point in trying to deceive him. Damian was nothing if not observant, and he had a knack for seeing through your carefully constructed facade.

"Okay, fine," you admitted. "I'm a little tired. Happy now?"

He scowled. "You should have informed me of your limitations before embarking on this ill-advised walk."

You rolled your eyes. "It's not your responsibility to babysit me, Damian."

He crossed his arms over his chest, his expression defiant. "As your friend, it is my duty to ensure your well-being."

You couldn't help but smile at his earnestness, at his unwavering sense of responsibility. Despite his gruff exterior, Damian was fiercely loyal and deeply caring.

"Alright, fine," you said, relenting. "You can babysit me. But only for a little while."

He nodded, his expression softening slightly. He took your arm, guiding you to a nearby bench. "Sit," he commanded.

You sat down, gratefully sinking onto the cool metal. Damian stood in front of you, his gaze fixed on your face, assessing your condition.

"I shall remain here until you have regained your strength," he declared.

You chuckled, shaking your head. "You don't have to do that, Damian. I'll be fine."

He ignored your protests, his expression resolute. "I insist. It is my obligation."

You sighed, knowing there was no point in arguing with him. Damian was nothing if not stubborn, and he would not budge from his position.

You closed your eyes, trying to relax, trying to ignore the ache in your body. Damian stood beside you, a silent sentinel, his presence a comforting weight against the fatigue.

After a few minutes of silence, he spoke, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Do you require anything, Finch? Water? A snack? Perhaps a back rub?"

You opened your eyes, surprised by his thoughtfulness. "A back rub?" you asked, raising an eyebrow. "Since when are you a masseuse, Damian?"

He shrugged, his cheeks flushing slightly. "I have learned various techniques throughout my training," he said, his voice defensive. "Massage being among them."

You smiled, amused by his awkwardness. "Thanks, Damian," you said. "But I'm okay. Just… being here with you is enough."

He nodded, his expression softening. He reached for your hand, his fingers interlacing with yours. "I am glad to be of assistance, Finch."

You sat in silence for a long time, the warmth of his hand a comforting presence against the chill of the afternoon. The fatigue began to lift, replaced by a fragile sense of peace. Damian's presence was a balm to your weary soul, a reminder that you were loved, that you were valued, that you were not alone.

As the sun began to set, casting a golden glow over the rose garden, you felt a surge of gratitude for his unwavering support. Despite his gruff exterior, Damian was a true friend, a loyal companion, and a constant source of strength.

[viktateapot]

heyy can u do smth with a tall reader?

like she isn't nescerssery taller than the bat boy, but someone who's like 5'11 or 6'0 tall? Like some insecurity or stuff, please :)

HEIGHT DIFFERENCE (Batboys)

Dick Grayson:

The rooftop offered a perfect view of Blüdhaven, the city lights twinkling like fallen stars against the inky canvas of the night sky. You loved this spot, loved the sense of peace and solitude it provided. It was a place where you could escape from the noise and chaos of the world, a place where you could just… be.

Tonight, however, your peace was shattered by a familiar wave of self-consciousness. You were leaning against the edge of the roof, gazing out at the city, when you caught a glimpse of your reflection in a nearby window.

You saw a tall, imposing figure, a woman who seemed to take up too much space, who seemed out of place in a world that celebrated petite and delicate femininity.

You sighed and turned away, feeling a familiar pang of insecurity. You had always been taller than most of the people around you, a fact that had often made you feel awkward and out of sync.

Even now, dating Dick Grayson, you sometimes struggled with your height. He was, admittedly, a bit shorter than you, a fact that you were acutely aware of, especially when you were out in public.

You knew he didn't care about your height. He had told you countless times that he loved you just the way you were. But you couldn't shake the feeling that you were somehow… too much. Too tall, too strong, too imposing.

“Hey for your thoughts, buttercup?”

You jumped, startled by the sudden sound of Dick’s voice. He materialized out of the shadows, a mischievous grin on his face.

You forced a smile. “Just thinking,” you said, trying to sound casual.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “About what?” he pressed, walking over to you and taking your hand.

You hesitated, unsure whether to confide in him. You didn’t want to burden him with your insecurities, didn’t want him to think you were being dramatic.

But he looked at you, his blue eyes filled with concern, and you knew you couldn’t keep it from him.

“I was just thinking about my height,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I was just thinking about how much space I take up.”

He frowned, his grip tightening on your hand. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice laced with confusion.

You shrugged. “I just… I sometimes feel like I’m too tall,” you said. “Like I’m out of place, like I’m not feminine enough.”

He stared at you, his expression a mixture of disbelief and sadness. “What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice incredulous. “You’re one of the most beautiful, graceful women I’ve ever met. Your height is one of the things I love about you. You’re so powerful. So strong. You take up exactly the right amount of space.”

He stepped closer to you, wrapping his arms around you. “Don’t ever let anyone make you feel bad about your height, or about any other part of yourself,” he said, his voice sincere. “You’re perfect just the way you are.”

He kissed you, his lips warm and tender against yours. You leaned into the embrace, feeling a wave of relief wash over you.

It was true. He loved you for who you were, height and all. He saw your beauty, your strength, your grace. He appreciated your height as something you embraced.

You realized that your insecurities were just that: insecurities. They were based on societal standards, on unrealistic expectations, on a fear of not being good enough.

They weren’t based on reality. They weren’t based on what Dick actually thought of you.

You smiled and pulled away from the embrace, letting the night air fill your lungs. The city stretched out before you, lights flickering like promises waiting to be kept. Dick’s hand stayed in yours, grounding you, reminding you that you weren’t “too much” — you were exactly enough.

“You know,” he said with a smirk, “if you ever start feeling insecure again, I can always bring you up here and we can measure ourselves against the tallest building in Blüdhaven. I’m pretty sure you still come up short.”

You laughed, the sound spilling out freely, surprising even yourself. For the first time in a while, the weight on your shoulders felt lighter. You looked at him — his messy hair, the bandage on his cheek, the way his eyes softened when he saw you — and realized that his love wasn’t just words. It was in the way he showed up for you, over and over again.

Maybe you’d always be tall. Maybe you’d always have moments where you felt awkward about it. But here, on this rooftop, with Dick by your side and the city buzzing below, you decided that was okay. Because in his eyes, you weren’t too tall. You were just right.

And maybe — just maybe — you could start seeing yourself that way too.

Jason Todd:

The air in Jason’s safehouse always reeked of gunpowder, motor oil, and stale coffee. It was a far cry from the pristine elegance of Wayne Manor, but it was his, a sanctuary from the world, a space where he could be himself. You, however, found it a little bit stifling.

You were perched on the edge of a rickety stool, watching him clean his guns with a practiced hand. You were just… there. As usual. You hated it how he never said anything. Dick and Tim would be so sweet, and Damian would at least have something to say, even if it wasn't nice. With Jason, it was always radio silence.

Jason, however, was a closed book, a master of concealing his emotions, a man who rarely let anyone get close. But in your case, he didn't seem to mind it. If anything, the man seemed to enjoy your presence.

Except you worried. What if he didn't actually want you here? What if he was just too much of a jerk to actually tell you to scram?

"Penny for your thoughts, Doll," Jason said gruffly, not glancing up from his task. He could always feel your presence, even with his head down.

You sighed, drawing your legs up closer to your body, hoping to somehow shrink into a smaller version of yourself. "Just thinking. About stuff."

He raised an eyebrow, finally looking up at you. "Stuff, huh? Real specific."

You bit your lip, hesitating. "Okay, fine. I was thinking about… our height difference."

He scoffed and turned back to his guns. "You think you're too good for me? Is that it?"

You glared at him. "No! That's not what I meant. It's just… well, I'm pretty tall, and you're…"

He finished his sentence for you, tone harsh. "What? Shorter? Is that a problem, Jumbo?"

You scowled. "There you go being a jerk again." But still, you knew that he wasn't being entirely genuine.

“No, it isn't,” you insisted. “I just… I worry that maybe you find it… unattractive. Like I’m some sort of Amazonian or something.”

He stopped cleaning his gun and stared at you, his expression unreadable. "You think I care about that shit?"

You shrugged, feeling awkward and exposed. "I don't know. Do you?"

He sighed and set down the gun, walking over to you and standing directly in front of you. He knew you were probably already as high up as you could get, but when he got close like that, the insecurity always seemed to get a bit worse.

"Look, Princess," he said, his voice surprisingly soft. "I've seen some messed-up things in my life. I've been through hell and back. A little height difference ain't gonna scare me."

He reached out and gently took your hand, his calloused fingers brushing against your skin. "I like you, Tall Drink of Water. I like everything about you. Your height, your strength, your smart mouth. All of it. So stop worrying about what other people think, and just be yourself."

He squeezed your hand and stepped back, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Now, are you gonna keep sulking in the corner, or are you gonna help me finish cleaning these guns?"

You smiled, feeling a wave of relief wash over you. He liked you — not despite the things you thought were flaws, but because of them. Jason Todd didn’t do fake compliments or sugarcoating. If he said he liked something, he meant it.

“Fine,” you said, sliding off the stool and walking over to the table. “But if I accidentally mess something up, that’s on you for trusting me with your precious arsenal.”

He smirked, handing you a cleaning cloth. “Please. You’d have to try pretty hard to do worse than Roy did that one time.”

You laughed, the tension between you finally breaking, and took the cloth from him. The two of you worked side by side, the silence now feeling less like a wall and more like a quiet understanding.

Every so often, Jason would glance at you out of the corner of his eye, and you caught him once — the tiniest, most reluctant smile tugging at his lips before he quickly looked away.

Maybe his safehouse still smelled like gunpowder and motor oil. Maybe it was nothing like Wayne Manor. But as you stood there, your hands brushing every now and then while you cleaned weapons with the Red Hood himself, you realized it didn’t matter.

Because here, in this cramped, messy, dangerous little space, you didn’t feel too tall. You didn’t feel out of place.

You felt like you belonged.

Tim Drake:

The Batcave was Tim's domain, a high-tech haven filled with computers, gadgets, and an endless stream of data. It was a place of logic, of analysis, of strategic planning. It was not, however, a place where you expected to confront your deepest insecurities.

You were standing next to Tim as he worked, reviewing security footage from a recent bank robbery. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

You tried not to fidget, tried to avoid drawing attention to yourself. But you couldn't help but feel out of place, like a clumsy giant in a room designed for precision and efficiency.

You knew Tim didn't mind your presence. He actually seemed to appreciate your quiet companionship, the way you could sit for hours without interrupting his train of thought.

But you couldn't shake the feeling that you were somehow… too much. Too tall, too imposing, too different from the women you saw in magazines and movies. You just wanted someone to think of you as "cute" without thinking of your height first.

"Something on your mind, sweet?" Tim asked, his voice surprisingly gentle. He had a knack for sensing your moods, for knowing when something was bothering you, even when you tried to hide it.

You hesitated, unsure whether to confide in him. You knew he was busy, knew he had a city to protect. You didn't want to distract him with your silly insecurities.

But he looked at you, his blue eyes filled with genuine concern, and you knew you couldn't lie.

"It's just… I was thinking about my height," you said, your voice barely audible.

He paused his work and turned to face you, his expression thoughtful. "What about it?"

You shrugged, feeling awkward and exposed. "I don't know," you said. "I just sometimes feel like I'm too tall. Like I'm not… feminine enough."

He studied you for a moment, his gaze assessing, analytical. It was a look you were used to, a look that usually preceded some brilliant deduction or strategic maneuver. But this time, it felt different, more personal.

"That's… illogical," he said finally, tilting his head slightly.

You frowned. "Illogical?"

He nodded. "Yes. Your height is simply a physical characteristic, like hair color or eye color. It has no bearing on your femininity."

You rolled your eyes. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one who has to shop in the 'tall' section of the store."

He smiled, a hint of amusement playing on his lips. "True," he said. "But I also don't have to worry about reaching high shelves. There are advantages to being tall, you know."

You chuckled, feeling a bit lighter despite yourself. “Yeah, well, high shelves aren’t exactly the stuff of fairy tales.”

Tim leaned back in his chair, folding his arms as he studied you. “Maybe not,” he said, “but you’re thinking about this the wrong way. You’re tall, yes. But that doesn’t make you less feminine. It just makes you… you. And frankly, I like you exactly the way you are.”

Your cheeks warmed. “You really mean that?”

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t waste my time saying it,” he replied, deadpan. “I don’t do pointless flattery, Skylark.”

You rolled your eyes again, but this time with a smile tugging at your lips. “Of course you don’t.”

He turned back to his computer, but not before reaching out to squeeze your hand briefly — a quiet, reassuring gesture that meant more than you wanted to admit.

The screens lit up the Batcave in a pale glow as the sound of typing resumed, but the heavy knot in your chest had loosened. Tim’s words still echoed in your mind: It just makes you… you.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

Damian Wayne:

Damian's training room was a sanctuary, a place where he could hone his skills, perfect his techniques, and unleash his inner warrior. It was a place of discipline, of precision, of unwavering focus. You? You mostly got in the way.

He tried to ignore your presence, to block you out, to pretend you weren't there, looming large in the doorway as he practiced his swordplay.

But he couldn't. You were too… noticeable. Too tall, too imposing, too… distracting.

It wasn't that he disliked your presence. In fact, he found a strange sort of comfort in your silent observation, your unwavering support. But he would never admit it, never allow himself to be vulnerable.

You, on the other hand, were acutely aware of the power dynamics at play. He was a highly trained assassin, a master strategist, a force to be reckoned with. You, well, you were tall.

And sometimes, you wondered if that was all he saw. Did he see you as a woman, as a partner, or just as some sort of oversized bodyguard?

He’d never say anything outright mean, just curt remarks that, knowing his usual disposition, you knew were supposed to be affectionate. Calling you "Amazonian" might have been offensive coming from someone else, but from Damian? It was practically a love letter.

You felt it every time you were doing something with him. All those things, even the ones that you wouldn't mention to anyone. Did he see your body the same way you did?

The thing was: you did not like it.

One afternoon, as Damian was practicing his archery, you decided to confront your insecurities head-on. You knew it was a risky move, knew it could backfire spectacularly. But you couldn't keep it bottled up any longer.

"Damian," you said, your voice trembling slightly. "Can I ask you something?"

He paused his training and turned to face you, his expression guarded. "What is it?"

You hesitated, unsure how to phrase your question. "Do you… do you ever think about my height?"

He raised an eyebrow, clearly confused. "What do you mean?"

You sighed, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up your neck. "I mean… do you ever think I'm too tall? Do you ever wish I was shorter?"

He stared at you for a long moment, his green eyes sharp and unreadable, like he was dissecting your words the same way he’d analyze an opponent’s stance. Then, slowly, he lowered his bow.

“That,” he said finally, “is a ridiculous question.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He stepped closer, his movements deliberate, each step radiating the quiet confidence of someone who’d already decided the outcome of the conversation. “You are who you are. Your height is part of that. Why would I wish for you to be… less?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. “I just… sometimes I feel like I’m not—”

“Stop.” His tone was sharp, but not unkind. “I have fought alongside warriors twice my size and felled enemies twice yours. Your stature is not a flaw, it is an advantage. And I…” He paused, almost as if weighing whether to admit the next part. “…I happen to find it impressive.”

Your breath caught. “Impressive?”

His lips quirked in the barest hint of a smirk. “Intimidating, when you wish it to be. Commanding, without effort. You enter a room and people take notice. Including me.”

You felt heat rise in your cheeks, but not from embarrassment this time.

He turned back to his bow, nocking another arrow with the same precision as before. “If you doubt yourself again, I suggest you remember that I, Damian Wayne, do not waste my time with anyone who is not extraordinary.”

It was the closest thing to a love confession you’d ever get from him — and it was more than enough.

[viktateapot]

I'm finishing another ff on request. Please wait 💋

[viktateapot]

Ok picture this, Bat-mom who used to be lower class and had to be very careful with money. Even now, when she's married to Bruce, she still doesn't like spending money, opting for the cheapest options possible. The only acception in her mind is donating to charities and organizations that help the people. But Bruce being Bruce, obviously spoils her

(Low-key me because I still wouldn't be able to get behind spending insane amounts of money things I don't necessarily need.)

A RICH LIFE

"Alfred, are you certain this is the best price we could get for organic kale?" You peered over the butler's shoulder, scrutinizing the grocery receipt with a practiced eye.

Alfred, ever the epitome of composure, simply adjusted his spectacles and gave you a small, knowing smile. "Madam, I assure you, I have scoured every local market and purveyor. This price is, indeed, the most advantageous."

You sighed dramatically. "It's just… five dollars a bunch! Back in my day, you could get a whole head of lettuce for that!"

Alfred chuckled softly. "Ah, but you're not in 'your day' anymore, madam. And besides, Mr. Wayne insists on only the finest, most ethically sourced ingredients for his… athletic pursuits."

You rolled your eyes, a fond smile playing on your lips. "Athletic pursuits, indeed. He just likes his green smoothies, bless his heart."

This was your life now. Married to a billionaire, living in a mansion, and still obsessing over the price of kale. Old habits died hard, especially when those habits were rooted in a lifetime of carefully managing scarce resources.

You'd come from nothing, working tirelessly to make ends meet, scrimping and saving for every little luxury. Even now, surrounded by unimaginable wealth, you couldn't shake the ingrained instinct to pinch pennies and look for a bargain.

Bruce, bless his soul, was both amused and exasperated by your frugality. He found it endearing, a testament to your down-to-earth nature. But he also wanted to give you the world, to shower you with all the things you'd never had.

He tried. He really did. But you were a formidable opponent, armed with a steely resolve and a stubborn refusal to be "spoiled."

He'd surprise you with diamond earrings, and you'd promptly donate them to the local orphanage. He'd whisk you away for a romantic weekend in Paris, and you'd spend the entire time volunteering at a homeless shelter. He'd try to buy you a fleet of designer cars, and you'd insist on driving your trusty old hatchback, "Betsy," which sputtered and coughed but always got you where you needed to go.

"Sweet Pea," he'd say, his voice laced with mock exasperation, "are you trying to drive me insane? I have the means to give you anything your heart desires. Why do you always resist?"

"Because, Moonlight," you'd reply, gently cupping his face in your hands, "my heart desires something that money can't buy. It desires to see those resources used to help people who truly need it. It desires to make a real difference in the world."

He'd sigh and pull you close, burying his face in your hair. "You're too good for me, you know that?"

"Nonsense," you'd say, kissing his cheek. "We're a team. We balance each other out. You keep me grounded, and I… well, I try to keep you from buying the entire city."

And it was true. You were a team. He admired your strength, your compassion, your unwavering commitment to social justice. You admired his intelligence, his determination, his hidden tenderness.

You were the anchor that kept him grounded in reality, the voice of reason that reminded him of the importance of giving back. He was the protector, the provider, the one who made sure you always had everything you needed.

One afternoon, you were sorting through a pile of old clothes, deciding what to donate. You found a faded, well-worn denim jacket that you'd had since high school. It was patched and mended, but it held a special place in your heart.

As you were admiring the jacket, Bruce walked in, carrying several shopping bags. You immediately recognized the logos: Dolce & Gabbana, Dior, Valentino.

"Uh oh," you said, raising an eyebrow. "What did you do now, Wayne?"

He grinned sheepishly. "I may have gone a little overboard at the boutique."

You sighed and shook your head, but you couldn't help but smile. It was so typical of him.

He held up a silk scarf, its colors vibrant and luxurious. "I saw this and thought of you. It matches your eyes perfectly."

You took the

scarf, admiring its beauty. "It's gorgeous, Bruce. But I don't need it."

"I know," he said, "But I wanted to get it for you. Just because."

He stepped closer and gently wrapped the scarf around your neck, his fingers brushing against your skin. "You look beautiful, Buttercup," he whispered, his eyes filled with love.

You blushed, your heart fluttering at his words. "You're impossible," you said.

"And you're stubborn," he retorted, grinning. "But that's why I love you."

He pulled you close and kissed you, his lips warm and tender against yours. You melted into his embrace, forgetting about the clothes, the money, the extravagant lifestyle.

It was just you and him, two souls connected by a love that transcended wealth and status.

When you finally broke apart, you looked at him, your eyes shining. "Thank you, Bruce," you said. "For everything."

He smiled and squeezed your hand. "You're welcome, My Dearest. But there's one thing you can do for me."

"What's that?" you asked.

He pointed to the denim jacket in your hand. "Promise me you'll keep that," he said. "I like seeing you in it. It reminds me of who you are."

You smiled and held the jacket close to your heart. "I promise, My Moonlight," you said. "I'll never get rid of it."

Because it was a piece of your history. A reminder of where you came from, and how far you'd come. It was a symbol of your strength, your resilience, and your unwavering commitment to staying true to yourself, no matter how much your life changed.

It was a reminder that, even surrounded by wealth and luxury, you were still the same woman who cared about the price of kale, who volunteered at the soup kitchen, and who loved her husband with all her heart. And that was a treasure worth more than all the diamonds in the world.

[viktateapot]

it's me again!!! now i bring a cute one, my mom always say im like her shadow,i just like being close, like, when she's doing dishes or something i just stick around and hold her arm to be close. So i was thinking of bayboys (plus bruce if you could!) with a reader that is glued to them !!!!

kisses from Brazilllll

I think it happens in my life sometimes too 😚

SHADOW (Batboys)

Dick Grayson:

Dick's apartment in Blüdhaven was a kaleidoscope of chaos and color. Surfboards leaned against walls adorned with circus memorabilia, and a half-finished painting usually sat on the easel in the corner. It was a far cry from the sterile atmosphere of Wayne Manor, and yet, you found yourself drawn to it, drawn to him.

You weren't exactly sure what it was. Maybe it was the way he lit up a room with his smile, or the easy warmth that radiated from him. Maybe it was simply the fact that he made you feel safe and loved, something that had been in short supply in your life.

Whatever it was, you couldn't help but gravitate toward him, like a moth to a flame. When he was home, you were usually right there with him, sitting on the couch, or helping him with whatever project he was working on.

He’d often find you just… there. Like now, as he was doing a quick apartment cleaning after taking patrol, he turned and found you hanging onto his arm, looking up at him with those big, hopeful eyes of yours.

"Hey there, Shadow," he chuckled, carefully extricating his arm. "Gotta clean up this pigsty, alright? Wanna help?"

And that was the beauty of it. He never asked why you were there, he just accepted it. He treated it like the most normal thing in the world.

It wasn't just his apartment, though. Even when he was out on patrol as Nightwing, you found ways to stay close. You’d hack into the Bat-Computer to keep track of his movements, sometimes even offering intel or support from the safety of the Cave.

He didn’t like that as much. “{(Y/N)}, patrol can be dangerous. Promise me you’ll stay safe at home.”

“Promise.” You’d agree, smiling sweetly. But he knew. He knew you’d find a way to stay as close as humanly possible, which is what always made him smile fondly whenever he looked over his shoulder and saw your familiar silhouette in the digital shadows.

This behavior sometimes made him nervous. He knew you had your own life, your own dreams, your own aspirations. He didn't want you to put them on hold for him. He wanted you to be your own person. But at the same time, he liked that you sought him out for comfort and solace. He liked knowing that he was someone you felt safe with.

He knew, better than anyone, the loneliness that could seep into your bones, the isolation that came from living a life in the shadows. He wanted to be your light, just as much as you were his.

So, he learned to accept it, to embrace it, to even relish it. He let you be his shadow, knowing that it wasn't a sign of weakness, but a sign of love.

That night, as he crawled into bed after a long night of fighting crime, he found you already there, curled up under the covers, waiting for him.

He smiled and climbed in next to you, pulling you close. "Hey," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "How was your day?"

"It was good," you whispered, snuggling closer. "I missed you."

He chuckled and held you tight, basking in your warmth. "I missed you too, Shadow," he said. "I always do."

Jason Todd:

Jason's world was a chaotic mess of guns, motorcycles, and underground dealings. He operated on the fringes of society, a vigilante with a score to settle and a whole lot of pent-up anger. He wasn't exactly known for his warm and fuzzy demeanor, so your constant presence was… jarring.

You'd find him in his safehouse, cleaning his weapons, and you'd just… be there. Maybe you'd offer him a beer, or just sit in silence, reading a book.

He’d always scowl. “What are you doing, Shadow?”

“Just hanging out,” was always your breezy reply, unfazed by his glare.

You'd accompany him on his nightly patrols through Gotham's underbelly, riding pillion on his motorcycle, clinging to him tight as he weaved through the streets.

He hated that. “You know this is dangerous, righ

t? I don’t wanna get you killed.” He’d growl, turning to glance at you.

“I can handle it,” you’d say confidently, even though your hands trembled and every hair on your body was screaming at you to jump off. “I’m here to make sure you don’t get killed.”

He scoffed. “I don’t need babysitting.” But you saw the flicker of something else in his eyes, something softer. He wanted you close. He wasn't used to anyone wanting to stick around when things got ugly, and he was terrified of chasing you away.

He wouldn't admit it, of course. Jason was too guarded, too damaged to openly express his feelings. But you could sense it, a subtle shift in his demeanor, a slight softening of his gaze.

You knew he had a hard time letting people in. You knew he'd been hurt, betrayed, and abandoned more times than you could count. You knew he was afraid of getting close to anyone again.

But you weren't going anywhere. You were determined to break through his walls, to show him that he was worthy of love and trust.

You had your own reasons for being so attached to Jason. Maybe it was because he was broken, and you wanted to help him heal. Or maybe it was because you were just as broken, and you saw a kindred spirit in him.

Either way, you were drawn to him, to his darkness, to his pain. You wanted to be his anchor, his safe harbor, the one person he could always count on.

One night, after a particularly brutal confrontation with a group of thugs, Jason found himself sitting alone in his safehouse, nursing a beer and staring at the wall.

You walked over and sat down next to him, not saying a word. You just reached out and took his hand, squeezing it tight.

He looked at you, his eyes filled with pain and exhaustion. He didn't say anything, but you knew he was grateful for your presence.

“You know,” you said softly, “You don’t have to do this alone.”

He scoffed. “Yes, I do. It’s the only way.”

“No, it’s not.” You looked him in the eye, squeezing his hand. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Let me help.”

He looked at you for a long time, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he sighed and leaned his head against your shoulder. “Thanks,” he mumbled. “I appreciate it, Shadow.”

Tim Drake:

Tim was a creature of habit. He thrived on routine, on logic, on data. He was the master planner, the strategist, the one who always had a contingency for every possible scenario. Your presence threw a wrench into his perfectly calibrated world, a constant variable he couldn't quite account for.

He'd be in the Batcave, hunched over the computer, analyzing crime patterns, and you'd be… there. Maybe you’d bring him a snack, or just sit quietly, watching him work.

He would always look over, that frown forming on his face. "{(Y/N)}, I need to focus. Can you go somewhere else?"

"Nope," you'd say. "Just hanging out."

He wasn’t exactly receptive to it, always scolding you for distracting him when he was deeply immersed in a project or case.

“You know, I really need to concentrate, this is very important stuff!”

“I know, I know,” you’d reply, nodding in agreement. “But I’m sure you can handle it. You always do.”

And somehow, he always did. He would adapt, adjust, and reconfigure his focus to accommodate your presence.

It was a constant push and pull, a delicate dance between your need for closeness and his need for space. But beneath the surface of his annoyance, you sensed a growing affection.

He wouldn't openly admit it, of course. Tim was too analytical, too reserved to express his emotions so easily. But he’d sneak glances at you from across the room, always making sure you were comfortable and safe. You noticed the little things; the extra coffee he’d make for you in the morning, the way he always angled the computer screen so you could see what he was working on, the constant explanations of the details of each case.

You had quickly grown fond of all his little habits. The way he bit his lip when he was really focused, his love for coffee, his way of pacing around the room when he

hese little details that made him the Tim you loved.

"I like being near you," you confessed one afternoon, as he was hunched over the Bat-Computer, trying to decipher a cryptic message.

He glanced up, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "Really? Even when I'm being a workaholic?"

You smiled and leaned over to kiss his cheek. "Especially when you're being a workaholic."

He chuckled and shook his head, but his cheeks were flushed. "You're a strange one, {(Y/N)}," he murmured, turning back to the computer.

But as he typed, a small smile played on his lips.

That night, you were in the Cave as he was going over patrol footage when you came up behind him and wrapped your arms around his neck.

“I love you,” you mumbled into his hair.

He smiled and put his hands over yours. “I love you too, Shadow,” he said, turning back to his work. But his smile never faded, the warmth radiating off of him as if he were a miniature sun.

Damian Wayne:

Damian operated on a different plane. His dedication and stoicism often left everyone in the Manor intimidated by him, but not you. You were the one who dared to follow him around, asking questions, and disrupting his training. He'd often scoff and tell you to leave, but he never truly meant it. You were too stubborn, too insistent, and maybe, just maybe, he enjoyed the company.

He was a whirlwind of discipline and intensity, a tiny ball of fury constantly striving for perfection. Your presence, however, added a dimension of unexpected warmth, an unexpected softness in his rigid world.

You would watch him train from the sidelines, your eyes shining with admiration. You would follow him on his nightly patrols, silently observing him as he fought crime with unmatched skill and ferocity. He would never outwardly express his gratitude for your unwavering support, but you saw it in the subtle ways he would try to protect you from danger, always ensuring your safety above his own.

He wasn’t exactly touchy feely, so instead you knew to learn his rhythms. When he was restless, he appreciated you sitting beside him as he sharpened his blade. When he was bored, he appreciated you challenging him to a sparring match. And when he was just plain tired, he seemed to appreciate you braiding his hair, the rhythmic motions helping him sleep.

But one night, after a particularly grueling patrol, Damian returned to the Batcave, battered and bruised. He tried to dismiss his injuries, but you could see the pain etched on his face. Without a word, you grabbed the first aid kit and started tending to his wounds.

"I do not require your assistance," he said gruffly, trying to pull away.

"Yes, you do," you replied, your voice firm. "Now hold still."

He looked at you, his eyes narrowed, but he relented, allowing you to clean and bandage his injuries. As you worked, he remained silent, his gaze fixed on your face.

"Thank you," he finally mumbled when you were finished.

"You're welcome," you said softly, meeting his gaze. "I'm always here for you, Damian."

He nodded, his expression softening. He couldn't deny the bond that had formed between you, a bond built on trust, loyalty, and unspoken affection.

From that day forward, he would allow you to be his constant companion, his silent confidante, his unwavering support. He would tolerate your presence during his training sessions, knowing that you would push him to be better, stronger, more disciplined. He wouldn’t always be outwardly grateful, but if you ever turned your attention elsewhere, you knew he would hunt you down like prey, so he could have you back near his side.

He would let you join him on his patrols, knowing that you would always have his back, always be ready to defend him against any threat.

And he would always be there for you, too, ready to protect you, to support you, to love you, in his own silent, understated way.

He knew you were his shadow, his constant companion, and you were his silent oath, always there for each other, a bond that could n

ever be broken.

Bruce Wayne:

Bruce Wayne was an enigma, a man shrouded in mystery and grief. He was the Batman, the protector of Gotham, a symbol of hope in a city drowning in darkness. He was also a solitary figure, a man who had closed himself off from the world, afraid of letting anyone get too close. You were the only one who seemed to break through those barriers.

He worked relentlessly, driven by a sense of duty, a need to atone for the mistakes of the past. You, you just needed to sit and work near him, always having a case to do near him. Be it writing up a report for work, or some other form of documentation.

He would frown at the sight of you near his desk in the Batcave. "{(Y/N)}, this is not a safe place for you. You should be upstairs, resting."

You would simply shake your head and smile, a serene expression on your face. "I'm fine, Bruce. I just like being near you."

He would sigh and turn back to his work, unable to resist your gentle presence. You were his anchor, the one thing that kept him grounded in the storm that was his life.

He didn't need you to fight his battles, to solve his mysteries, or to soothe his grief. All he needed was your presence, your unwavering support, your silent understanding.

You were the one who brought a sense of normalcy to his chaotic world, a reminder that there was more to life than just fighting crime. You were the one who saw the man behind the mask, the wounded soul beneath the armor.

One evening, after a particularly difficult case, Bruce returned to Wayne Manor, exhausted and defeated. He didn't speak, didn't make eye contact, just headed straight for the study, the weight of Gotham pressing down on him.

You followed him in, your heart aching at his pain. You didn't say anything, you just sat down on the couch, picked up a book, and started to read.

He sat down at his desk, his gaze fixed on some distant point. The silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the rustling of pages.

After a while, he stood up and walked over to the window, staring out at the city below. His silhouette was framed by the moonlight, a stark reminder of his isolation.

You stood up and walked over to him, placing a hand on his back. He didn't flinch, didn't pull away, just leaned into your touch, finding solace in your presence.

"It's okay, Bruce," you whispered, your voice filled with compassion. "You did everything you could."

He turned to you, his eyes

He turned to you, his eyes filled with a deep sadness. "Did I?" he murmured, his voice raw with doubt. "It never feels like enough."

You looked at him, your heart breaking at his pain. You knew he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. You knew he blamed himself for everything that happened in Gotham.

"It is enough," you said, your voice firm. "You're enough, Bruce. You do more for this city than anyone will ever know."

He looked at you, his gaze searching, as if trying to find some truth in your words. He wanted to believe you, he wanted to believe that he was making a difference, that his sacrifices were worth it.

But the doubt still lingered, a dark cloud hanging over his soul.

You stepped closer to him, your hand still resting on his back. You wanted to reach out to him, to hold him, to tell him everything was going to be okay. But you knew he wouldn't welcome such a display of affection. Bruce was a man who kept his emotions tightly guarded, afraid of letting anyone see his vulnerability.

But in this moment, you saw a flicker of something else in his eyes, a longing for connection, a desire for comfort.

You decided to take a chance.

You raised your hand and gently cupped his cheek, your fingers brushing against his stubble. He flinched at first, but then he relaxed, allowing you to cradle his face in your hands.

"You're not alone, Bruce," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "I'm here. I'm always here."

He looked at you, his eyes filled with gratitude and a hint of something else, something you couldn't quite decipher.

He leaned closer, his gaze fixed on your lips. You held your breath, your heart pounding in your chest.

You didn't know what was happening. You didn't know if he was going to kiss you. But you knew that you wanted him to.

You wanted to feel his touch, to taste his lips, to lose yourself in his embrace.

He closed the distance between you, his lips brushing against yours. It was a tentative kiss, a hesitant exploration.

You responded without hesitation, opening your mouth slightly, inviting him to deepen the kiss.

He accepted the invitation, pressing his lips against yours with more force, more passion.

The kiss was slow, gentle, and incredibly tender. It was a kiss that spoke volumes, a kiss that conveyed all the unspoken feelings that had been simmering between you for so long.

When the kiss finally ended, you broke apart, gasping for breath.

[viktateapot]

Hii I love your fics!

Can you do a fic w batboys where the reader has excema and like kinda severe, it bleeds and itches sooo much

EDEMA (Batboys)

Dick Grayson:

You hated summer.

Most people relished the warm weather, the long days, the freedom to wear fewer clothes. You dreaded it. The heat exacerbated your eczema, turning your skin into a battlefield of itching, inflammation, and bleeding. The soft cotton of your clothes felt like sandpaper against your raw skin.

Tonight, it was particularly bad. You lay curled up in bed, the sheets scratching against your arms, the familiar itch a constant, maddening torment. You desperately tried not to scratch, knowing it would only make things worse, but the urge was almost unbearable.

Tears welled in your eyes. It felt unfair. Unfair that your body was betraying you, that you couldn't enjoy the simple things everyone else took for granted.

Suddenly, you heard a soft tap on your window.

You knew who it was. Dick.

You hesitated. You didn't want him to see you like this. You were usually so careful to hide your eczema, to keep it under wraps (literally). But you also desperately needed comfort.

With a sigh, you got out of bed and opened the window. Dick climbed in, his usual cheerful grin faltering when he saw your face.

"Hey, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice instantly softening.

You turned away, ashamed. "It's just... my eczema is really bad tonight."

He gently turned you back to face him, his blue eyes full of concern. He looked at your arms, red and inflamed, with scratches marring the surface.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, reaching out to carefully touch your arm. You flinched, expecting pain, but his touch was surprisingly gentle.

"Don't," you said, pulling away. "You'll get germs."

Dick smiled sadly. "I'm a superhero, you know. I can handle a few germs."

He took your hand and led you back to the bed. "Let's get you comfortable," he said, pulling out a small tube of cream from his pocket. "Alfred gave me some special stuff for this."

You watched as he carefully applied the cream to your arms, his touch light and soothing. The cream was cool and calming, offering instant relief from the itching.

As he worked, he told you about his day, about a group of street performers he'd seen in Blüdhaven, about a stray dog he'd almost adopted. His stories were simple, but they were enough to distract you from the discomfort.

When he was finished, he pulled you close and wrapped his arms around you. You leaned into him, burying your face in his chest. The scent of his cologne was comforting and familiar.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice muffled.

"Anytime," he said, holding you tighter. "Just remember, you're not alone in this. I'm here for you, always."

He stayed with you for hours, holding you, talking softly, and just being there. As the night wore on, the itching subsided, and you finally drifted off to sleep, feeling safe and comforted in his arms.

You woke up the next morning, the sun streaming through the window. Your skin still felt sensitive, but it was better than it had been the night before. Dick was gone, but he'd left a note on your bedside table. "Thinking of you. - D."

You smiled, feeling grateful for his presence in your life. He was your star in the night, your source of comfort and light when everything else felt dark. And you knew, with certainty, that you could always count on him to be there, no matter how bad things got.

Jason Todd:

Your hands were a mess.

Raw, cracked, and bleeding, they throbbed with a dull ache that never seemed to go away. You'd tried everything – creams, lotions, gloves, special soaps – but nothing seemed to work. Your eczema was stubborn, a constant reminder of your body's imperfection.

You were in the kitchen, trying to make a sandwich, but your hands were too shaky and sore to hold the knife properly. You cursed under your breath, frustration boiling over.

"Having a little trouble there, sweetheart?"

You jumped, startled by the voice. Jason.

He leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. You hated when he caught you at your worst.

"Just leave me alone, Jason," you said, turning away.

"Nah, I don't think I will," he said, pushing off the doorframe and walking towards you. "Looks like you need some help."

You glared at him. "I don't need your help."

"Sure you don't," he said, grabbing the knife from your hand. "Let me guess, eczema acting up again?"

You didn't answer, but he already knew. He'd seen your hands like this before.

He started making the sandwich, his movements quick and efficient. He didn't say anything, but you could feel his eyes on you, assessing the damage.

When he was finished, he handed you the sandwich. "Here," he said. "Eat something."

You took the sandwich, but you didn't eat it. You were too ashamed.

"Look," Jason said, his voice softening slightly. "I know it sucks. I get it."

You looked up at him, surprised. "You do?"

He nodded. "I've got my own demons, remember? Scars that run deeper than skin."

He reached out and gently took your hand in his. You flinched, but he held on tight. His touch was surprisingly gentle, considering his usual gruff demeanor.

"Don't be ashamed," he said, looking you in the eye. "It's not your fault. It's just... a part of you."

He let go of your hand and turned to the sink. He grabbed a bottle of antiseptic and a bandage.

"Let's clean those up," he said, his voice low.

You watched as he carefully cleaned your wounds, his movements precise and deliberate. He didn't say anything, but you could feel his concern, his empathy.

When he was finished, he wrapped your hands in bandages. "There," he said. "Good as new."

You looked down at your bandaged hands, feeling a strange sense of comfort. It wasn't a cure, but it was something. It was a sign that someone cared, that someone understood.

"Thank you," you said softly.

Jason shrugged. "Don't mention it," he said, turning away. "Just... take care of yourself, okay?"

He walked out of the kitchen, leaving you alone with your sandwich and your bandaged hands.

You sat down at the table and took a bite of the sandwich. It tasted better than you expected.

Maybe, you thought, even a rough guy like Jason Todd could show a little bit of care. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to get you through another day.

Tim Drake:

You were buried in books.

Researching eczema, trying to understand its complexities, searching for any new treatments or remedies that might offer some relief. It was a never-ending quest, a constant struggle to regain control over your own body.

You felt a shadow fall over you. You looked up to see Tim standing there, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Still at it?" he asked, gesturing to the pile of books on your desk.

You sighed. "It's just... I'm so tired of this. I feel like I'm constantly fighting a losing battle."

Tim sat down next to you, pulling up a chair. "I know it's tough," he said. "But you're not alone."

You smiled sadly. "Easy for you to say. You don't have to deal with this every day."

"No, but I want to understand," he said, picking up one of the books. He started flipping through the pages, his eyes scanning the text.

You watched him, feeling a mixture of gratitude and exasperation. He was always so eager to help, but sometimes his intense focus could be a bit overwhelming.

"Look, Tim," you said. "I appreciate your efforts, but you don't have to do this. It's just... a skin condition. There's no magic cure."

Tim looked up from the book, his eyes serious. "But there might be a better way to manage it," he said. "A more scientific approach."

He started asking you questions about your symptoms, your triggers, your treatments. He listened intently, taking notes on a small notepad.

You answered his questions as best you could, feeling a bit like you were being interrogated. But you also knew that he was genuinely trying to help, that he was using his intellect to try to solve your problem.

After a while, he closed the notepad and looked at you thoughtfully. "Okay," he said. "I think I have a plan."

You raised an eyebrow. "A plan?"

He nodded. "Based on my research and your feedback, I think we can optimize your treatment regimen and minimize your exposure to triggers."

He proceeded to outline his plan, which involved tracking your diet, monitoring your skin's moisture levels, adjusting your medication, and creating a hypoallergenic environment in your bedroom.

You listened, feeling both impressed and slightly overwhelmed. It was all so... technical.

"Tim," you said. "I don't know if I can keep up with all of this."

"I'll help you," he said, his eyes shining with determination. "We'll do it together."

And he did. He spent hours researching the best creams and lotions, testing different fabrics for your clothes, and even installing an air purifier in your bedroom.

He was meticulous, precise, and incredibly supportive. He tracked your progress, adjusted the plan as needed, and celebrated every small victory.

Slowly but surely, your eczema began to improve. The itching lessened, the inflammation subsided, and your skin started to heal.

It wasn't a miracle cure, but it was a significant improvement. And it was all thanks to Tim's dedication and scientific approach.

One evening, you were sitting on your bed, reading a book. Tim came in, carrying a cup of herbal tea.

"How's your skin feeling today?" he asked.

"Much better," you said, smiling. "Thanks to you."

He sat down next to you and handed you the tea. "I'm just glad I could help," he said. "I hate seeing you in pain."

You took a sip of the tea, feeling grateful for his presence in your life. He was your scientist, your problem-solver, your source of knowledge and support.

"You know," you said. "You're not just a Red Robin. You're also a Red Healer."

He chuckled, his cheeks flushing slightly. "Just trying to use my skills for good," he said.

You leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "You're the best," you said.

And you meant it. With Tim by your side, you knew you could face anything, even the challenges of eczema. Because he was more than just a boyfriend, he was your partner in science and in life.

Damian Wayne:

You were hiding in the bathroom.

The itch was unbearable, a fire raging beneath your skin. You'd scratched until you bled, until your arms were raw and throbbing. You couldn't stand the thought of anyone seeing you like this, especially Damian.

You heard a knock on the door. "Darling, what are you doing?" It was Damian.

You didn't answer.

"Darling, open the door," he demanded, his voice growing impatient.

You still didn't answer.

He started banging on the door. "Darling! I know you are in there! Open this door immediately!"

You sighed and opened the door, bracing yourself for his judgment.

Damian stepped into the bathroom, his eyes narrowed. He took one look at your arms and his expression softened slightly.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice less harsh than usual.

You turned away, ashamed. "It's nothing," you mumbled. "Just... my eczema."

He grabbed your arm and turned you back to face him. He examined your wounds, his eyes filled with concern.

"You cannot continue to do this to yourself," he said, his voice stern. "You are causing unnecessary damage."

You shrugged. "It's not like I can help it," you said. "It itches."

"There are ways to alleviate the itching without resorting to self-mutilation," he said.

You rolled your eyes. "Easy for you to say. You don't know what it's like."

"Perhaps not," he said. "But I am not devoid of empathy. I can see that you are suffering."

He turned to the sink and started running water. "Come," he said. "We must clean these wounds."

You hesitated, but you knew he wouldn't take no for an answer. You followed him to the sink and watched as he gently washed your arms with soap and water.

His touch was surprisingly gentle, considering his usual gruff demeano r. He was careful not to scrub too hard, and he made sure to use a mild, fragrance-free soap.

When he was finished, he dried your arms with a soft towel and applied a thick layer of cream.

"This is a prescription-grade emollient," he said. "It will help to moisturize your skin and reduce the itching."

You watched as he massaged the cream into your skin, his movements slow and deliberate. It felt soothing, calming.

"Thank you," you said softly.

He didn't answer, but you could see a hint of a smile on his face.

He finished applying the cream and wrapped your arms in bandages. "This will prevent you from scratching," he said. "At least for a while."

You looked down at your bandaged arms, feeling a strange sense of comfort. It wasn't a cure, but it was something. It was a sign that Damian cared, that he was willing to help, even if he didn't fully understand what you were going through.

"You know," you said. "You're not as cold-hearted as you seem."

He raised an eyebrow. "I am merely being practical," he said. "It is illogical to allow yourself to suffer needlessly."

You chuckled. "Sure, Damian," you said. "Whatever you say."

He glared at you. "Do not mock me, darling."

"I'm not mocking you," you said. "I'm just saying... thank you."

He looked away, his cheeks flushing slightly. "You are welcome," he said.

He stayed with you for the rest of the evening, keeping you company, making sure you didn't scratch.

He even read to you, choosing a passage from Sun Tzu's "The Art of War." It wasn't exactly a soothing bedtime story, but it was oddly comforting, knowing that he was trying to distract you, to keep your mind off the itch.

As you drifted off to sleep, you felt grateful for Damian's presence in your life. He might be stubborn, demanding, and often infuriating, but he was also loyal, protective, and surprisingly kind. And even though he would never admit it, you knew that he cared about you deeply.

[viktateapot]

YOUR MAKEUP (Batboys)

Dick Grayson:

You were applying your makeup, creating a sparkling, star-studded look with highlighted eyelashes and shimmering highlighter. It was party night, and you were going to blow everyone away with your appearance! Dick usually went for simplicity when it came to his appearance, so you knew he might have some doubts about your efforts, even though he loved everything that sparkled.

You heard someone approaching, and he came and stood next to you. "I swear, it seems like it took a lot of things," he said, "and yet it ends up being so... small."

You rolled your eyes. "Well, I don't think that's what I'm going to tell, and that's what we're going to tell."

His eyes lit up. "Tell me about it?"

"Oh, come on," you said, mocking him, "you'd slip out of it anyway - what do you have to do?"

You paused before deciding that it wasn't in his nature to let the situation go so easily.

"You're not thinking about it." I'm firing everyone and everything halfway through."

"I guess I'll do it."

And it was at that moment that he shone on you, and from then on you had already kissed him. When you stopped, he chuckled, saying, "What did you do? It was just a test."

"You can try again next time." - you finished.

Suddenly. This time he became serious - spoke more confidently and with more meaning.

"I don't think you're in a circus. "You should go now, shouldn't you?"

You weren't sure why, but you decided to listen to what he was saying. At the same time, things turned out to be very fun. "This is what I'm going to see."

"Well, what can I say? If it's made your life better, I'm proud of you."

He turned and walked over to the nearest table. He swung around and leaned back in one of his party chairs to chat.

"Hey! Are you going to do it or what? How would we go about it?"

His teeth were grinding. "Well, okay."

And he chuckled - it was very funny.

You took his hand and pulled him closer so that you could finish painting him.

His face was like a stone, even though you were making it. You didn't know if he had the opportunity or something like that, so you had a full priority: to make sure he didn't fall and hurt both of you.

"Well, it seems like something has to be put into me and my personality to make me look good."

There was such a lull that you decided to just keep quiet.

Finally, it's time to get out the hand mirror and pull it as far as we can. His ears moved like any other dog's, just at the moment when something needed to be discovered. "And that's going to happen?" he asked, to be really careful.

"Everything has to go well together; just know it so that you're just right. Surprisingly, you probably shouldn't think about it so much."

Without saying anything in response, he touched your hand and said, "Let's go, because we're going to have a moment soon, and that's how it happened. As a result, it will be everything."

And you finally knew that no matter what situation you faced, you would find a way to deal with it, and everything would be fine.

Jason Todd:

You enthusiastically apply your makeup, creating a sparkling, star-studded look with generous eyelashes and iridescent highlights. It was your night, and you were going to get everyone's attention! Jason would be discreet about makeup, so you realized that he might be a little skeptical about your attempts, even though you loved everything sparkling.

"Wait, wait, Jason. You're going to ruin my makeup!" - you say, trying to push Jason away when he tries to steal a kiss on the neck. He seemed to appreciate public displays of affection, although they always came at the most inconvenient times.

"I just wanted to make sure you looked better than everyone you're going to cover and scare tonight," Jason says before stopping to look at your body smugly.

"Well, I appreciate it, but I'm doing fine so far, so you only have to be calm," you explain.

Jason's eyes light up. "Well, you know what, I'm feeling pretty calm right now," he says. "What's the catch?"

You raise your eyebrows in surprise, but return to your mirror. "Why would that be?"

"I don't want to sound too forward, but I think there's something I think you should add to your look."

Before you can respond, he steps forward and starts capturing all the eyeliner you have on your face. "Well, at least I know what your face should look like now that I'm going to have some fun with you."

"I think that's a bit rude, Jason." You shouldn't touch anything in these things with you, isn't that right?"

Jason rolls his eyes. "Don't start, isn't that right?"

You spend the most time trying to capture his face, and the two of you make a few offerings, but he swears that everything is fine as it goes forward. You apply light strokes to his face, and then, on the darker side, you apply thicker charcoal strokes to his eyes.

Eventually, you finish your personal touches and offer him a hand mirror. Jason examines his reflection, and his face goes from shock to laughter.

"Okay," Jason responds, "am I the same Mr. Tough they've seen and heard in this town?"

"Just what you are, if you'll let me add it," you instruct, patting his shoulder. "Make them what they should be."

His eyes light up at the idea, and he leans in closer to touch you. "I'll take your advice, and you won't have to apologize," Jason says. "Thank you for not touching."

"It's not a big deal, Jason. I'll just ask you not to do it again, and there won't be any problems," you reply, taking his hand. "Well, let's get to work."

You confidently assert that it will definitely be good and cool, and everyone will have to work hard on it.

Tim Drake:

You diligently apply your makeup, creating a sparkling, star-studded look with greasy eyelashes and iridescent highlights. It was your party day, and you were going to get everyone's attention! Tim tended to be restrained in makeup, so you knew that he might be a little skeptical about your attempts, even though he loves everything that glows.

"Why do you have a gay flag painted in front of your eyes?" Tim asked from behind. You roll your eyes. He's going to make it difficult.

"It's not like that, Tim," you assure him.

"And what should I think it is?" he asked.

"And, how, you just have to draw your image. What should be on your account."

Next, he waits for the moment, and then he lets you know how he feels: "How is it all?"

"It won't be easy," you replied. "I look good, and I don't want to be accused."

You're going to prove your point.

"It can't be that I'm setting up in this way. Everything should be about your image, and you only need to know about it."

"It's all in perfect order." Tim replies. "I watch and memorize."

You spend most of your time trying to get his attention, and there are a few antics that happen all the time, but he manages to stay calm. You apply light strokes on it, and in this darker image they become larger with charcoal.

In the end, you complete your own personal touches, and in order to make it better, you hand him a hand mirror. Tim studies his reflection, and first there is a slight misunderstanding associated with his face, then laughter.

"Try to make everything look like this. I need to look the way I am, if only for that matter," you explain.

"And what do you want to achieve with this?" Tim asks.

"There's no need to ask." "you're humming it." "No matter what, you have to do whatever you need to do."

When you say that, you're trying to take a stand. You are sure that everything will be your way. That's his style, and there's nothing more to worry about.

"Well, in that case, I'll try my best too," says Tim, trying to hug you from behind. "Thank you for not being like that."

"It won't always be like this." you whisper to him. "Well, in that case, are we leaving?"

He agrees.

"We're already on our way. Whatever happens, we'll handle it to the fullest," you pour all the devotion you have to say into him.

"Well, in that case, there's no need to do that," is all he has to say. - "We should probably start and try to fix things."

You're good together, and what you're going to get is on the horizon.

You're sure that everything will end up the way you planned. Maybe it wasn't just a coincidence this time. But things didn't turn out the way you hoped. And when someone is in love, they don't need to fix anything.

"You shouldn't have done that." is what he ends up saying. "I guess I'm not going to make excuses or do something bad. I just want everything to be the way you thought it would be."

Damian Wayne:

You were sitting in front of the mirror, carefully applying silver eyeshadow to your eyelids. The glitter shimmered under the light, like tiny stars. You loved creating bold and unique makeup looks, and today you were inspired by a photo from a festival where a girl had an incredibly beautiful look with white stars around her eyes.

You bit your lip slightly, focusing on making the white lines of the stars even. You were almost finished when you felt someone behind you.

"What are you doing?" - This sharp, slightly irritated voice could only belong to one person. Damian.

You didn't turn around, continuing to apply shimmering powder to your cheeks. "I'm getting ready," you replied with a grin, knowing how Damian felt about such things. He considered it a foolish waste of time.

"Why are you doing this?" He stepped closer, and you could see his reflection in the mirror. He frowned, examining your face. "It's pointless."

"Maybe," you shrugged, finishing with the highlighter. "But I like it. It's fun and... creative."

He continued to stand with his arms crossed, and you could feel him assessing your makeup. "It's strange," he finally said.

You turned to him, smiling. "It's strange, but it's beautiful, isn't it?"

He didn't respond, but his gaze lingered on your eyes. Suddenly, a crazy idea came to your mind.

"You know what?" You said, putting down the brush. "Let me put makeup on you, too."

"What?" Damian looked offended. "I won't wear makeup."

"Why not?" You stepped closer to him, looking into his eyes. "It could be fun. And you'd look... interesting."

"I'm Robin," he straightened up, as if to remind you of his seriousness. "I have more important things to do."

"But you don't have a mission right now," you smirked. "And I'm sure Batman wouldn't mind if you relaxed a little."

You took his hand and pulled him to a chair in front of the mirror. Damian resisted, but you were surprisingly strong.

"Okay, okay," he grumbled as he sat down. "But only a little. And make it quick."

You laughed. "Of course, Commander."

You looked at his face carefully. He had dark circles under his eyes, like you did, but not from mascara, but from lack of sleep and constant exercise. You decided that the makeup in the photo would look good on him.

You picked up a brush and applied some dark eyeshadow under his eyes. Damian flinched at the touch.

"Relax," you said softly. "I'm not going to mess you up."

He continued to frown, but he stayed still. You carefully applied the eyeshadow, trying to make it look natural.

"What are you doing?" he asked as you picked up a highlighter.

"I'm highlighting your beautiful features," you replied with a smile, applying a touch of gloss to his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose.

When you were done, you stepped back to admire your work. Damian sat still, like a statue.

"Well?" he asked, not looking at himself in the mirror.

"Take a look for yourself," you pointed to the reflection.

Damian slowly turned his head. His eyes widened in surprise. He didn't recognize himself. The dark shadows emphasized his piercing gaze, and the glow of the highlighter made his skin look fresher and younger.

"I..." he stammered, unable to find the right words. "It's... not bad."

You laughed. "I told you so."

Damian continued to stare at himself in the mirror, as if trying to figure out what he was feeling. He was used to being serious and reserved, but there was something new in his reflection - something softer and more human.

"Maybe," he said quietly, "makeup isn't such a silly thing."

You smiled, glad that you could change his mind a little.

"You look amazing," you said, stepping closer to him and placing your hand on his shoulder.

Damian looked at you in the mirror. There was something in his eyes that you hadn't seen before. Tenderness. Gratitude. And maybe even a little... admiration.

"Thank you," he whispered.

And at that moment, you realized that this strange, unexpected makeup experience wasn't just about glitter and highlighters. It was about seeing each other in a new way. About breaking down barriers and just being together. And perhaps, it was even more beautiful than any makeup.

[viktateapot]

This is damn cool! 🥹 Not so long ago, you had literally 300 readers. This is amazing. I love you and kiss you 💋

[viktateapot]

CAT AND BIRD

DAMIAN WAYNE X READER (CAT GIRL)

Your cat girl was pissing him off. And he, Damien Wayne, knew it. He knew that every smirk, every cocky look was a challenge that he couldn't help but respond to. And he liked it, even though he would never admit it.

"You like playing with fire, Cat," Damian growled, pinning you against the wall. You could feel his body trembling with suppressed desire.

You ran your fingers over his mask, down to his lips. "You like to burn, Robin," you whispered back, feeling him inhale your scent.

He hated that you reminded him so much of his father's Catwoman. Independent, bold, and dangerous. But it was precisely that that drew him to you like a magnet.

"Are you going to remain silent, little bird?"

A playful light lit up in Damian's eyes. He loved this chase, this game of cat and mouse that you always seemed to initiate.

"What, little bird?"

He leaned closer, their faces inches apart. His voice was a dangerous whisper. "Watch your tongue, cat. It might get bitten." He caught your hand in his, pressing it against his chest. "And I don't mind. Maybe you should check your vocabulary while you're at it."

"Well, I don't know, Robin, but I think I'm the only one biting here."

Damian's grip on your hand tightened slightly, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. "Is that so?" He pressed his forehead against yours, his breath coming in short pants. "I can bite back, little catgirl. Don't forget that." His other hand moved to your waist, pulling you against him.

"Well, I'm the cat here, and you're just a birdie, Robin."

A soft chuckle escaped his throat, the sound dark and intoxicating. "Keep telling yourself that, cat." His lips were almost touching your ear when he whispered, "Cats have claws. Birds have wings. And I can fly anywhere I want."

"You don't have wings, idiot. You only have a cape."

His hand on your waist tightened, and he pulled you even closer, if that was possible. "You forget who you're talking to, cat." His voice was low and dangerous. "I may not have wings, but I can still fly higher than any bird."

He watched your reaction closely, his eyes burning with a wild intensity. When you didn't respond, he leaned closer, his lips almost touching yours. "And right now, I'm not flying anywhere. I'm staying here with this annoying cat girl who won't shut up."

"That sounds like a strange threat." You touched the edge of his mask.

His body tensed at your touch. He liked it when you touched his mask, as if you were trying to reveal him without actually taking it off. He chuckled. "It should be like this." He gently grabbed your wrist with his hand, his thumb sliding over your pulse point.

His thumb continued to gently stroke your wrist, making your pulse race. He leaned even closer, his voice dropping to a soft rumble. "Do you know what your problem is, little cat?" He didn't wait for an answer. "You talk too much. And you touch too much."

He let out a soft, mocking chuckle, his warm breath brushing against your lips. "And here I thought cats were quiet hunters. You look more like a chatty kitten." His grip on your wrist tightened for a fraction of a second, but not enough to cause pain.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck and laughed softly. "And you look like an annoying little chicken."

His body shook with silent laughter, his arms wrapping around you as you nuzzled into his neck. The sudden display of affection caught him off guard, but he didn't push you away. "Fuck you," he whispered with a faint grin, his fingers playing with your hair.

You made a purring sound.

His heart skipped a beat, and he couldn't help but feel annoyed that it was somehow arousing him. His hands automatically tightened in your hair, pulling you closer to his neck. "Stop making those sounds..." He sounded genuinely irritated, but his body was pressed against yours.

He swallowed and, as you continued to "purr" against his neck, his hands gripped your hair harder than he intended, and before he could think about it, he buried his face in the curve of your neck, mimicking your actions. "Shut up"

"What's the matter, Monsieur Wayne? Don't you like it?" You purred in response.

All pretense of irritability vanished, and a real shiver ran down his spine. He pressed even closer to you, his lips almost touching your neck. "Damn..." he muttered against your skin. "Either stop making those sounds or consider yourself bitten." His teeth lightly grazed your neck.

"Meow..."

His control broke. His hands suddenly gripped your hips, lifting you and wrapping your legs around his waist. He pinned you against the nearest wall, his lips crashing into yours in a sudden, fierce kiss. His teeth lightly scraped your lower lip, mimicking his recent threat. "Shut up..."

The kiss was hard, demanding, and you responded with equal fervor. All the words, all the smirks, all the cat-and-mouse games, disappeared in an instant, leaving only a primal desire.

His hands squeezed your hips harder, pressing you against him so that there was almost no air between you. You could feel his heat, his hunger, and it ignited a flame within you.

You ran your fingers through his hair, tugging on it and allowing him to dominate you in a way that made your legs tremble.

He growled into your mouth as you tugged on his hair, deepening the kiss. One of his hands slid up and tangled in your hair, mimicking your actions, while the other gripped your thigh possessively. He broke the kiss only to leave a trail of biting kisses down your neck, leaving his marks on you.

"Mm... You know that sex on the roof is not the best option, birdie."

*He paused mid-kiss, his teeth gently scraping against your pulse point. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest.* "Then suggest something better, kitten. Because right now, I'm two seconds away from fucking you right here against this wall." *His hand squeezed your thigh warningly.*

You looked at him, a challenge in your eyes. "There's an abandoned warehouse a few blocks from here. I'm sure we could find something interesting to do there."

Damian's eyes gleamed, a predatory glint taking over. "Lead the way, cat. I have a feeling this night is about to get a lot more interesting."

With that, he jumped off the rooftop, you wrapped tightly in his arms. In the next moment, they disappeared into the night, ready to find more ways to dominate each other.

[viktateapot]

𐔌 ⋮ “Smells Like Home”

“I told you it was hot you dummie”

Blüdhaven Loft – 5:42 PM

Dick’s key turned in the lock with more exhaustion than usual.

His shift had been long. Wet. Loud. He was still half-damp from chasing someone through an alley and fully emotionally drained from mediating a fight between a couple who used traffic cones as weapons.

All he wanted was food. A shower. And—

“Oh,” he breathed, stepping into the apartment. “That smells like heaven.”

The warm, thick scent of cinnamon and brown sugar wrapped around him like a weighted blanket.

He dropped his bag. Kicked off his boots. Called out, “princess?”

“In the kitchen!”

He followed the sound—and paused in the doorway.

There she was.

Hair up. One of his old GCPD shirts hanging loose on her frame. Flour dusted across her cheek. Biting her lip as she peeked into the oven.

She looked like home.

And the tray on the counter?

Perfect, gooey cinnamon rolls. Still steaming. Glazed just enough to glisten.

His stomach growled. Loudly.

You turned and smiled. “Hi, officer.”

He groaned, walked straight into her arms, and buried his face in her neck. “Marry me.”

“You say that every time I bake.”

“And I’ll keep saying it.”

“You’re supposed to wait,” you scolded, swatting his hand as he reached for one.

“I just got home,” he whined. “Let me steal one like a little raccoon in peace.”

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s hot.”

“So am I.”

You snorted.

Then let him take one anyway.

He blew on it dramatically. Bit in. Immediately regretted everything.

“Hot-hot-hot—oh my god—worth it,” he mumbled through the pain.

You laughed and pressed a cool glass of water into his hand.

“Idiot,” she said fondly.

“Your idiot,” he corrected.

She leaned up and kissed him, sugar still on his lips.

“Always.”

🔖 𓂃⋆.˚:taglist!!: @simpingmyassoff @shootingstargirl2001 , @dreamerwhofell , @gothamwing , @amiratheangel , @virtaideen , @asterwriter221 , @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore , @supahnohvaa , @vivian-555 , @piatosniathenie , @sonyboos (if you want to be added comment down below!!)

A/N: I finally post more about my glorious amazing king even tho it's pretty short (┬┬﹏┬┬)(┬┬﹏┬┬)