#1 romani stan

I AM SO HAPPY YOU LIKED IT ANON I'D BE ECSTATIC TO WRITE FOR HIM AGAIN!!!

Pav x Reader Headcanons!!!

Warnings : NSFW, PTSD, Jealousy, Voyeurism, Pav is pretty freaky overall, brief mention of suicide

Enjoy!!!

word count - 4.8 k

warnings - ENEMIES to lovers..., non-graphic deaths and violence, i humanize and objectify pav in the same breath, fem reader (referred to by "girl" bc he's the worst)

first time capitalizing a fic title in months

DAY 2. NOON.

Blood splotches decorate the cobblestone floor, already drying into maroon against the wood planks of the train cars. The droplets lighten in shade the deeper into the train you go, and eventually, you find crimson. Pure cherry ink on dark wood. Cherry rots into a blackened smudge once again on the wheel of Olivia’s wheelchair. One hand settled over the thin black rim on her right, and the other twisting a roll of bandages around her fingers. She blinks up at you, bottom lip tucked so tight between her teeth that the rosy flesh is blistering white.

Fear and hunger x fem reader Part 2

Authors note : If you want character head-canons like this PLEASE BE SPECIFIC ON WHAT CHARACTERS !!!!!😚

Summary :After the horrors of the Termina Festival, you—pregnant, grieving, and burning with determination—search for your missing husband in the twisted remains of Prehevil. Along the way, you form strange and unexpected bonds with those who cross your path. Some stay. Some vanish like ghosts. But each leaves a mark .

Karin (Platonic)

You first met Karin by an abandoned house, your hand shakily covering the fresh scar from a recent battle with one of Prehevil’s cursed citizens. You could tell she was sizing you up—wary, curious.

“This place wasn’t made for damsels in distress like you,” she had muttered, arms crossed and gaze sharp as always.

But you weren’t here for pity. And when you told her the truth—that you were here to find your husband, that your fear could never outweigh your ambition—something shifted in her eyes. She didn’t argue. She just… stayed.

You two wandered together after that, not saying much, but forming a quiet, mutual understanding of pain, loss, and stubborn willpower. You never asked her why she stuck around, and she never asked why you kept going. Some things don’t need to be said out loud.

After the Termina Festival, she became more of a ghost in your life—one that still showed up, sometimes. Around the holidays, she’d visit, always with a smirk and something sarcastic to say. She sent postcards from wherever she was stationed, sometimes with little souvenirs tucked inside for you and your kid.

Your child called her the “wine aunt,” and it fit. She wasn’t the type to help raise a kid, but she never forgot either of you. Her presence lingered, even when she was gone.

Daan (Romance)

Daan heard about your quest—pregnant and determined, searching for your husband. Maybe that’s what pulled him in. Maybe it reminded him too much of his own grief, the pieces of Elise and her father he still hadn’t found.

Either way, you found each other during the Termina Festival, and what started as teamwork became something far more fragile and real. Through blood, fear, and quiet conversations under pale skies, you both became something like each other’s anchor. He helped you deliver your child. He stayed. Visited constantly until one day, you just asked, “Do you want to move in?”

He did.

He wasn’t replacing Elise. You knew that. And you weren’t trying to be her. But in the space between those memories, he found room for new ones. Daan loved you and your child deeply. There were nights where he’d hold the baby and whisper things he never said out loud. He often wondered what his life would’ve looked like if Elise had lived—if they’d had children, if they’d had peace.

But now, he was here. With you. And it was real. And it was enough.

Pav (Romantic… kinda)

Pav looked down on you at first. Literally and emotionally.

“Someone like you shouldn’t be in a place like this,” he had said, scoffing.

But there was something about the way you looked at him—hopeful, yet steady—that made his words falter. When you pointed out his uniform, too similar to your husband’s, he froze. And then, unexpectedly, answered your questions. Honestly.

You weren’t sure if it was sympathy or something else, but after that, he wouldn’t let you out of his sight. He walked in front of you always, hand hovering by his weapon, gaze always scanning. Sometimes, he’d even offer piggyback rides, muttering that you were “too slow” or “gonna get yourself killed.”

You never said it out loud, but those moments? You treasured them.

After the Termina Festival, Pav became a memory. A kind one. He never met your child, never returned, but you told stories. How he stood by you when the world was burning. How a proud, stubborn boy carried you through the worst night of your life.

Your child knows his name. Always will.

Levi (Platonic)

Levi was just a kid. Tired eyes, quiet voice, too much weight on his shoulders.

The moment you saw him, your motherly instincts flared. You couldn’t help it. He looked so lost. And when you told him your story—how your husband had gone to war, how you were pregnant—he didn’t say anything. He just stared at you with those soft, glassy eyes, so full of something almost protective.

You made it through Termina together. Somehow. And when it was over, you offered him a place to stay. He didn’t say much. Just nodded.

When your baby was born, Levi became the quiet big brother. The kind who never said he cared, but always showed it. The one who taught your child how to sneak snacks at midnight and how to swing a wooden sword. They became best friends. Unbreakable.

How do fear and hunger termina characters react to her wanting to find her husband? (Can be platonic or romantic it's up to you :) )

Fear and hunger Termina characters x fem reader

( authors note : I chose Marcoh , Abella , Marina and Henryk for these head-canons btw it’s a mix of platonic and romantic (:)

– You came to Termina looking for your husband, a soldier lost to war. But you found something else instead — love, family, and survival.

You were never meant to be here.

He told you to stay back home — to rest, to be safe, to protect the little life growing inside you. But something deep in your chest screamed at you to go, to find him, to know he was okay. So you came to Termina, clutching hope like it was the last thing tethering you to sanity.

What you didn’t know… was that your husband had already lost his life on the battlefield.

And still, through the chaos, bloodshed, and cursed skies, you found people who made this hell a little less cruel.

🥊 Marcoh (romantic)

When Marcoh first heard your story — that you’d wandered into Termina pregnant, desperate to find your soldier husband — something shifted in him. He wasn’t just moved… he was determined.

He quietly vowed to protect you and your unborn child with everything he had. Marcoh started training you, teaching you practical combat moves so you wouldn’t be defenseless, even while gently reminding you not to push yourself too hard.

You were strong, and he saw it — but that didn’t mean you had to be alone.

When the truth finally came out — that your husband had died in battle — you were broken. But Marcoh didn’t leave. He stayed. Through your grief, through the birth, through the sleepless nights and quiet mourning.

He helped raise your child, never once asking for anything in return. And somewhere along the way, as the seasons turned and life began to feel warm again, that bond turned into something deeper.

He became more than a protector. He became yours.

🛠️ Abella (platonic)

When you told Abella your story, she was floored. She blinked at you like, “You’re WHAT now?” But once it settled in, she was fully locked in as your battle buddy and emotional support bestie.

She gave you the full-on princess treatment every single day. “Sit down, rest your feet, you’re literally making a human.” She stuck to you like glue during the festival, ready to fight monsters and weird cultists with a wrench in one hand and your cravings list in the other.

After the nightmare of Termina, Abella stuck around like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She became the Cool Aunt™ — the one who teaches your kid how to climb trees, helps you run errands, and convinces you to buy that dessert you “definitely don’t need.”

She makes life feel fun again, and you know deep down you and your child would be lost without her.

⸻

🎀Marina (romantic)

Marina was blunt the second you met her. “Your husband left you here? While pregnant? Hmph. He better have had a damn good reason.”

(Spoiler: he did. He didn’t survive.)

Despite her snark, Marina was soft with you. She always made sure you were hydrated, always held your hand when you got nervous, and insisted you rest even if you argued back. “You’re carrying a whole baby. Shut up and lay down.”

She was sassy, but she never made you feel weak.

When the dust settled and the festival ended, Marina didn’t leave. She stayed for you. For the baby.

She’d rock the crib at 3 AM and then curl back into bed with you like it was the most natural thing. Your child started calling her “Mama” without even being told to — and neither of you corrected it.

Marina never said I love you right away. She showed it. In every sleepless night, every meal made, every forehead kiss.

And eventually, you said it back.

⸻

🥩Henryk (platonic)

Henryk was shocked when he learned you were pregnant and still wandering through this cursed festival trying to find your husband. “You’re serious?” he asked with wide eyes — and when you nodded, he just sighed and said, “Alright. Then I’ll make sure you both get out of here alive.”

Henryk never let you go hungry. Even when supplies were low, he always gave you the bigger portion. “You’re eating for two. Don’t argue with me.”

He was the one who cooked for everyone, who told you stories by the fire to keep your nerves steady.

And after everything ended — after the tears and the grief and the baby was born — Henryk became Uncle Henryk.

The one who always brought homemade food, taught your kid how to cook, and organized little outings to the market or cozy movie nights.

He was your rock, your best friend, the constant that never let you fall. You didn’t raise your child alone. You raised them together.

In a world full of fear and hunger, you didn’t just survive — you found family.

An antiviral pill has, for the first time, been shown to prevent COVID-19 in people exposed to the SARS-CoV-2 virus at home, according to trial results published today in the New England Journal of Medicine1. The drug could be a lifeline for those who still face real danger from the virus, such as care-home residents or transplant recipients on immune-suppressing medication.

Hey guys, I'm alive. This is something I've had for a while, and it's also the longest post I've made. So... yeah. Sorry I don't post all that much, I promise I'm trying.

Anyways, enjoy this self-indulgent fluff piece that I've been working on.

This had every companion, romanced except for Cole, Leliana, and Vivienne (so that means you get romanced Varric in this, you're welcome.)

HEAVY SPOILERS AHEAD! And slight NSFW, nothing too bad, just Bull being sex-positive.

TOKOPHOBIA WARNING

## HEATHCLIFF && HONG LU x READER ★

🤍 ﹒ GENERAL ROMANTIC HCS !

－ notes ̽ ۪⠀yessir. quick disclaimer/warning: i didnt finish canto 8 yet!

︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶༉‧₊˚.

⛈ 𐐪𐐩 : HEATHCLIFF . . ♡

i dont think i can iterate enough how much of a loverboy and romantic this guy is

(My gif/don’t look at it for longer than three seconds)

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤCATCH ME, KEEP MEㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Wally West x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

Wally doesn’t fall hard at first.

Not really. He’s a people person, used to talking to everyone. Charming, fast-talking, always the loudest in the room—but when he meets you? You don’t flinch at his confidence. You look him dead in the eye, half-bored, half-amused, and say, “You talk a lot.”

And that’s it. That’s the moment.

The silence you leave in your wake buzzes louder than his speed ever could.

He starts noticing you everywhere.

You aren’t trying to stand out, and that’s what kills him. While the world is screaming for attention, you just exist—quiet, steady, untouchable. You don’t need to chase validation, and that burns something unfamiliar into Wally’s chest.

He tells himself it’s just a crush. One of many. He’s had dozens. He’s charming like that, right?

But no. This one sticks.

He starts moving at your pace.

Literally. Wally West—the Fastest Man Alive—slows down just to match your steps. You walk? He walks. You take the long way home? He memorizes every corner of it. You like quiet places? Suddenly, Wally knows every hidden rooftop in the city.

He starts showing up in places he swears he was “just passing through.”

He’s lying. He calculated every path to run into you.

The obsession sneaks in like a thief.

He remembers every little thing: your favorite snack, the way you tie your hair when you’re irritated, the exact inflection in your voice when you’re sarcastic. He collects those details like trophies, files them away like a case he needs to solve.

And god help the guy who flirts with you. Wally’s smile doesn’t falter, but there’s an edge to it. A twitch in his fingers. A flash in his eyes.

Fast as he is, he’s even faster when he’s angry.

He gets possessive in ways he can’t explain.

He doesn’t mean to sound jealous. But when you talk about other guys? Other heroes?

“You think Nightwing’s hot?”

“He’s got nice hair, I guess,” you shrug.

That’s it. Dick’s getting his shampoo swapped out and his uniform ‘accidentally’ burned.

He knows it’s irrational. He just doesn’t care.

He doesn’t need to be around you all the time. But he wants to.

There’s a difference. He’s still Wally—funny, fast, loyal—but something about you makes everything else dim.

You become his constant. His gravity. His anchor. The world could end, but if you're safe? He'll laugh through the apocalypse.

And if you're not?

Well. That’s a problem no one wants to see the end of.

He watches you when you’re not looking.

Not in a creepy way (okay, maybe a little). But he stares. Long, intense, unwavering. Because when you’re not paying attention, you’re real. Soft. Human. And that’s when he wants you most.

You once caught him doing it.

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

“…Like what?”

“Like you’re hungry.”

He grins. “Maybe I am.”

You laughed, but it wasn’t a joke.

When he touches you, it’s always gentle.

His hands are made to break the sound barrier, but when he brushes your skin, it’s like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. He touches you like you’re sacred. Like you’re the only thing that makes him feel human in the blur of the world.

He wants to be close. All the time. Arm around your waist. Pinky brushing yours. His jacket on your shoulders. His heartbeat synced to yours.

It’s not enough. It’s never enough.

He gets scared of how much he loves you.

Because it’s not just a crush anymore. You’ve carved your name into the core of him. Wally would tear the world apart for you. He’d time travel, bend physics, throw away the League, burn everything just to keep you close.

He’s terrified of losing you. Of you not loving him back. Of you realizing what he really is underneath: a boy who never stops running because he’s scared of standing still.

But with you? He wants to stand still.

He confesses in a way only he could.

He grabs your face in his hands, eyes wild, chest heaving like he just ran to the ends of the Earth.

“I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you,” he blurts out. “And it’s driving me insane. I’m not good at this—waiting, wanting—but if you told me to slow down, I would. If you told me to stop, I would. Just—don’t leave me behind.”

And when you kiss him?

Time. Stops.

After the kiss, he changes.

Not in the loud, obvious way. Wally still jokes, still grins, still makes the room warmer just by being in it—but something in his eyes shifts. He looks at you like you’re not just his girlfriend—you’re his reason.

And he tells you that.

Not once. Not twice.

Every single day.

“I’d die for you,” he says like it’s a fact, not a metaphor. “And if someone tries to take you from me—well… they’d better be faster than me.”

His obsession turns quiet. Dangerous. Protective.

You don’t notice the little things at first.

Like how your co-worker suddenly transferred the day after he got a little too flirty.

Or how your phone never dies anymore, no matter how often you forget to charge it.

(He swaps batteries in your sleep. Replaces your charger. Monitors the voltage. You don’t know.)

Or how your ex texts you, and the message deletes itself before you can open it.

(He’s been in your phone. In your cloud. He’s faster than any firewall.)

You never feel unsafe. You just feel… watched. But it’s Wally, right? Your Wally. He wouldn’t—

He doesn’t trust anyone with you.

Not your friends. Not the League. Not even Barry.

He masks it well, with smiles and sarcasm, but under the surface, he’s seething. Every time someone makes you laugh, every time they touch your shoulder or stand too close, he catalogues it. Keeps score.

And later, when no one’s around, he whispers,

“You know you don’t need them, right? You have me. I’m all you’ll ever need.”

He’s not asking. He’s reminding.

He has nightmares. About losing you.

They start slow—harmless, even. You walking away. Forgetting his name. Laughing with someone else. But they escalate quickly.

You dying. You screaming. You reaching for him as he’s too slow.

(He’s never too slow.)

He wakes up drenched in sweat, vibrating from head to toe, fists clenched hard enough to bruise his own palms. Some nights he just stares at you sleeping, watching your chest rise and fall, whispering—

“I won’t let it happen. I promise. I promise. I won’t lose you.”

He starts testing you.

Little things. Subtle.

“What would you do if I disappeared?”

“Would you still love me if I wasn’t a hero?”

“Would you run away with me right now? No questions asked?”

He watches every flicker in your eyes. Measures your every breath.

You always say the right thing. But he’s waiting. Waiting to see if you’ll betray him.

He hopes you don’t. He prays you don’t.

Because if you do?

He already has a plan.

He starts talking about the future.

But not in the dreamy, romantic way. Not with rings or white dresses or picket fences.

No. Wally’s version of forever is you and him against the world. You don’t need a big house. You don’t need anyone else. You just need him.

“We could disappear,” he murmurs into your skin one night. “I could take you so far no one would find us. Ever. Just me and you, baby. Nothing else. Doesn’t that sound perfect?”

You laugh, a little unsure.

But he doesn’t laugh back.

If anyone hurts you? Even emotionally?

They. Vanish.

He doesn’t kill. He doesn’t need to. He’s smarter than that. Faster.

But you better believe they never show their face again. Maybe they get blackmailed. Maybe they’re framed. Maybe they wake up halfway across the country with no memory of how they got there.

You ask Wally if he knows anything.

He just kisses your forehead and says,

“You don’t have to worry about people like that anymore. I’ll always protect you.”

And god help you, it makes you feel safe.

He keeps something of yours with him. Always.

A strand of hair. A necklace. The first note you wrote him. The chapstick you lost. He keeps it in a little box, hidden in a place no one can find. A shrine, almost.

When he misses you (which is always), he opens it. Smiles to himself. Breathes you in.

You are his god. His everything.

And he loves you too much to let you go.

— MASTERLIST ☆

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤWHORE’S FANTASYㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : John Constantine x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?

☆⁠ NOTES : There are some +18 parts. Minors DNI. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

You don't notice him at first.

Not really.

You're too busy tugging the hem of your cheap purple dress down over your thighs, smeared lipstick staining the corners of your mouth.

Mascara streams down your face, thick and ugly, like bleeding spiderlegs across dead eyes.

You’re half-high, half-drunk, standing barefoot behind the shitty little bar where the real dirtbags like to crawl, and you’re lighting another cigarette with shaking fingers. The end of it flares like a dying star, and you pull the smoke into your lungs like you’re hoping it'll fill the hollow parts of you.

You stink of alcohol.

You smell like roses.

You taste like regret and somebody else’s hands.

He sees you.

God help him, he sees you.

John Constantine, bastard mage, conman, addict, cynic — he’s not a savior. He’s not a white knight.

He's just another piece of shit who recognizes his own.

He flicks the end of his cigarette into the gutter and watches you struggle with the strap of your dress, tits half-hanging out in the yellow light of the alleyway.

You should look pathetic.

You should look cheap.

You do.

But somehow, you look... more, too.

There’s something about you, something cracked and shining and wrong.

Like a broken mirror catching all the wrong reflections.

Something that crawls under John's skin, burrows between his ribs and digs in sharp little claws.

He tells himself it's nothing.

Just another lost girl.

Just another night.

But he’s lying.

Already, he’s lying to himself.

He lights another cigarette and steps out of the dark.

“You alright there, love?” he rasps, voice like a bad memory, smoke curling from his lips.

You look at him with those dead doll-eyes. No fear. No real interest, either. Just this slow, heavy indifference like you're already halfway in the grave.

You shrug.

You hitch your dress up higher.

You don’t bother pretending to be shy. You gave up pretending a long time ago.

“What do you want?” you ask, voice raw from cheap whiskey and cheaper choices.

John should walk away.

He knows this kind of girl, the ones with nothing left to lose. They eat you alive without even meaning to. They rot you from the inside out.

He should turn around.

He should let you slip back into the filth where you came from.

Instead, he laughs.

Soft, almost pitying.

“Just a light, sweetheart,” he lies, flicking open his battered silver lighter even though his own cigarette is already burning between his fingers.

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious, but too tired to care.

You let him light your cigarette anyway, leaning in, close enough that he can smell the roses in your hair, the smoke on your skin, the slow stink of desperation leaking off you like cheap perfume.

You don't know it yet, but you've already cursed him.

That first night, he doesn't touch you.

He just watches you, out the corner of his eye, as you stumble back inside the bar, laughing that dry, broken laugh at something nobody else can hear.

He tells himself he won't come back.

He tells himself it's none of his business.

He tells himself he’s already got enough bloody ghosts to haunt him without adding another.

But he does come back.

Again.

And again.

You don't really notice him after that first night.

Not the way he notices you.

To you, he's just another face in the blurry noise of your nights — another man with a lighter, another set of boots tracking dirt across the floor.

You don't know he comes back.

Every night now.

You don't know he sits in the corner, half-drunk, chain-smoking, pretending to mind his own business while you keep carving pieces off yourself and handing them to anyone who asks.

You're too far gone to care.

Always high, always halfway between laughing and crying.

Your eyes — God, those fucking eyes —

half-lidded, lazy, dead as winter, but still so pretty it makes something sour twist in John's gut.

It happens on a Tuesday.

You’re outside again, the bar's back alley, slumped against the crumbling brick wall like a broken doll.

Dress bunched up around your hips, one shoe missing, a cigarette burning forgotten between your fingers.

You’re shaking. Coming down hard.

You’re muttering to yourself under your breath, something sharp and ugly.

John watches you for a long time before he moves.

He hates himself for it.

Hates that he cares.

But he moves anyway.

Without thinking, he fishes a crumpled wad of cash out of his coat pocket and crouches in front of you, holding it out like a white flag.

"Here," he says gruffly, avoiding your eyes. "Get y'self something to eat. A bed, maybe. Somethin' better than... this."

You blink at the money.

Then at him.

And then — slow, crooked grin splitting your face — you laugh.

That dry, brittle laugh, like something breaking.

You grab the cash with one hand — and with the other, you reach for his belt.

John freezes.

You’re clumsy, sluggish, but determined, tugging at his pants like it’s just the most natural thing in the world. Like this is just how the world works:

money = you.

"Y'wanna fuck me, right?" you slur, eyes glassy but sharp underneath. "Go on then, mister. Paid up, didn't you?"

He grabs your wrists, not rough but firm.

Pushes your hands away.

"Christ," he mutters, like a prayer, like a curse. "That’s not why—"

You tilt your head at him, mascara streaked down your cheeks, lips dry and cracked.

You look at him like he's the crazy one.

"Then why else you givin’ me money?" you ask, so blunt it cuts.

"No one gives girls like me free rides, mister."

You grin again, crooked and sad, and your dress slides even further up your thighs.

You don't even notice. Or maybe you do. Maybe you just don't care.

John exhales smoke through his nose, staring down at you, feeling something black and oily coil inside his chest.

"Pity," he says finally, bitter. "Maybe I’m a stupid sod with a savior complex. Maybe I’m just drunk."

You squint up at him through the smoke and the haze, studying him like he's some strange animal you've never seen before.

Then you shrug.

Simple. Easy.

Like you’ve already decided it doesn’t matter either way.

"Y'can fuck me if you want," you say, almost sweetly. "You're not ugly."

John laughs. A short, sharp, broken thing.

He almost wants to take you up on it, just to feel something real for a change.

Almost.

Instead, he shakes his head, rubs a hand down his face.

"Go sleep it off, love," he says, voice rough. "Get a hot meal. For once."

You clutch the money to your chest like it’s something hole.

Like it’s the first good thing anyone’s given you in a long time.

And you just smile at him —

this soft, stupid little smile that shouldn't hurt to look at, but somehow does.

John tells himself it's still just pity.

Just a bit of guilt, a bit of bleeding heart nonsense.

But when you stumble away into the night, barefoot and laughing under your breath, he stays there, standing in the alleyway like a man who's just been punched in the gut.

And he watches you go, smoke curling around him, cigarette burning down to the filter between his shaking fingers.

He doesn't leave.

Not for a long, long time.

He sees you again three days later.

He’s not looking for you —

at least that’s what he tells himself.

Just grabbing a pint.

Just passing through.

You find him first.

"Hey, mister."

Your voice cuts through the noise.

Soft. Small. Almost shy.

He turns, half expecting the same disaster he left behind in that alley —

the smeared makeup, the too-short dress, the wild deadness in your eyes.

But you’re different this time.

You're...

sober.

No makeup.

No booze in your veins.

No cigarette dangling from your fingers.

Just you —

barefaced, raw, skin looking almost too thin for your bones, but real.

Alive.

You stand there awkwardly, hands buried deep in the pockets of a too-big hoodie, cheap sneakers scuffing the pavement.

You don’t look like the kind of girl who sells herself to survive.

You just look like a girl.

"I’m not a beggar," you say suddenly, fidgeting. "But... thanks. For the money."

John blinks, caught off guard.

You flash a little smile — nervous, genuine, heartbreaking.

"Mister's a good man," you say.

It punches something deep in his gut.

He’s not.

You’re wrong.

He’s done worse than you could imagine.

But you say it like you believe it. Like it’s fact. Like it's written somewhere in a book bigger than either of you.

He swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat.

"You hungry?" he hears himself asking.

You light up. Not much, but enough.

A flicker. A spark.

"Yeah," you say simply.

You spend the day together.

It’s stupid.

It’s perfect.

You get street food — cheap, greasy chips wrapped in newspaper.

You drag him through the streets like a manic little hurricane, pointing out dogs that look like goblins, shouting compliments at old ladies, daring him to race you down alleyways.

At one point, you find a children's park — some half-dead little patch of grass and rusting swings.

You bolt for it like a kid.

"C'mon, mister!" you holler, kicking your shoes off and running barefoot through the patchy grass. "Play with me!"

John stands there like an idiot for a second, cigarette halfway to his mouth.

Then he sighs. Drops the smoke. Crushes it under his boot.

And jogs after you.

You end up pushing each other on the swings, spinning until you're both dizzy, laughing like two drunk ghosts.

You even convince him to climb the jungle gym — which ends with him cursing and almost falling on his ass.

You laugh until you wheeze.

He grins despite himself.

You’re smiling.

Really smiling.

Not that broken, brittle thing he’s seen before.

This one’s messy and real and full of life, like you don’t know you’re supposed to be miserable.

For a few hours, you’re not a ghost.

You’re just a girl.

Later, you sit side by side on the grass, lighting cigarettes with shaking hands.

The sun's sinking, staining the sky blood-red.

John takes a drag, exhales smoke in a long, slow stream.

"You..." he starts, hesitates. Scratches the back of his neck, suddenly awkward.

"You gonna... y'know. Work. Tonight?"

You turn your head slowly toward him.

Wide eyes.

Clear and open and a little confused, like you genuinely don't understand the question at first.

And then—

You laugh.

Sharp, bright, cutting.

"Why?" you grin wickedly, teeth flashing. "Mister wanna make his money’s worth?"

John winces.

You elbow him lightly, still laughing under your breath, cigarette bobbing between your fingers.

"Nah," you say finally, settling back on your elbows, face tipped toward the sky.

"I’m good. Probably won’t need to for a week, thanks to you."

You tap ash into the grass.

"Guess you bought me a vacation, mister."

There’s a strange peace in your voice.

No bitterness. No shame.

Just simple, stupid gratitude.

John wants to say something —

something clever, something to fill the aching silence between you —

but the words stick in his throat.

You crush the cigarette out on the sole of your sneaker, rising to your feet in one fluid, tired motion.

"See ya, Mister," you say, tossing a lazy wave over your shoulder as you drift away into the gathering dark.

John stays where he is, sitting on the grass, smoke curling around him like a noose.

He watches you go.

Again.

And he tells himself it’s just pity.

Still just pity.

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤFLOWERS ON THE MOONㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Kyle Rayner x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

It starts slow. It always does.

You met Kyle before he became Green Lantern. Back when he was just Kyle Rayner, the artist scraping by, unsure of his place in the world, but always smiling anyway. You were someone who made him feel seen—really seen. Maybe you asked about his art. Maybe you told him you liked how he saw the world. That one line? It stuck with him like blood on canvas:

"You see beauty in everything, Kyle. I wonder what you'd see in me."

And oh, God—he did.

That night he went home and sketched you in twenty different poses. Laughing. Sleeping. Looking away. Crying. He didn’t even know why. He couldn’t help himself. You were in his hands, in his pencil, in his head. And once Kyle lets someone into his heart? He doesn’t know how to let go.

Once he's in love—he builds his obsession.

Kyle doesn’t fall in love like most people. He creates it. He turns it into mythology.

You became his muse. Every piece of art he made had hints of you. Every woman he drew had your mouth, your lashes, your laugh. Even when he tried to stop—he couldn’t. It was like a compulsion.

You noticed, didn’t you?

How he looked at you too long.

How his voice got soft when he said your name.

How every Green Lantern construct he made when you were nearby had something oddly familiar—like a flower from your favorite book. Or a sweater you wore once in winter. Things you never told him you liked, but he remembered.

Kyle is a visual learner. An emotional sponge. The second he started loving you, he memorized everything.

The ring didn’t help. It made it worse.

Once he became Green Lantern, the power gave form to his obsession. Kyle’s ring isn’t just a weapon—it’s imagination turned real. And Kyle Rayner? He’s an artist. A dreamer. He doesn’t use the ring like others do.

He sketches you in his mind constantly. The ring picks up on it. When he’s hurt, constructs of you show up. When he’s dying, he sees your face in the stars.

He starts dreaming of a future with you.

He makes entire constructs of a life he wants—you, him, a house full of light and laughter, your drawings on the fridge. He tells himself it’s just comfort. But it’s more than that. It's yearning.

And when you’re gone for too long? He checks in. Texts. Calls. Hovers. He doesn’t mean to be creepy, he’s just terrified of losing you. The people he loves always die or leave. He starts thinking if he just keeps you close, if he just knows where you are…

Then maybe you won’t disappear.

Kyle’s obsession isn’t violent—but it’s unhealthy. And it spirals.

He’ll never hurt you. He loves you too much.

But he’ll lie.

He’ll say he’s “in the sector” when really he flew across galaxies just to make sure you got home safe.

He’ll “run into you” at coffee shops he knows you go to.

He'll drop off little gifts anonymously—books he knows you wanted, little things with a sticky note: "Thought you’d like this."

He draws your face in his sketchbook every day.

He starts hiding how bad it is—how many hours he spends watching old videos, listening to voicemails, rereading texts. The other Lanterns start to notice. Hal says something once, and Kyle snaps.

"You don’t get it. She’s the only thing keeping me sane."

You become his anchor. His reason. His goddamn everything.

You should’ve known something was off the moment he started showing up everywhere.

Kyle used to be subtle. A smile from across the room. A knowing glance when your favorite song played. He was careful, deliberate, romantic.

But obsession—it doesn’t stay still. It grows. It learns to disguise itself as devotion.

And you? You were too kind. Too warm. You always smiled when he called, always answered when he asked “Can I come over?” You didn’t see the signs.

Not at first.

But the walls were closing in.

He knew your schedule better than you did. Knew which coffee shop you stopped at before work, which bookstore made you feel safe. Knew when you wore lipstick and when you didn’t. Knew when you were tired by your silence alone.

One night, you caught him watching you.

He was in the sky, a small green glint through the window. Like a star that refused to leave.

You went outside. Looked up. He was gone.

The next day, he brought you flowers.

“I had a dream about you,” he said with that soft smile, eyes too bright, too desperate. “You were crying. I had to see if you were okay.”

You laughed it off.

He didn’t.

Inside Kyle’s mind, everything was breaking.

Your voice wasn’t coming fast enough anymore. Your texts were shorter. Your smiles didn’t reach your eyes. And it hurt. Because he thought he was being good. He thought he was protecting you.

His sketchbook turned darker. You, drawn in the rain. You, asleep in a glass room. You, with someone else.

He ripped that one out. Burned it. Refused to draw anything else for a week.

He stopped sleeping. Stopped patrolling. Stopped eating.

All his willpower went to one thing: you.

Then you confronted him.

You weren’t angry. You were gentle.

“Kyle… are you okay?”

And that was the problem. You asked like you cared. Like you still saw the boy behind the mask.

He broke down.

Told you everything. That he’d been watching. That he couldn’t stop. That he didn’t want to stop. That you were his muse, his heart, his light in a galaxy full of death.

“I don’t know how to live without you,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I don’t want to.”

Your breath hitched.

He was still Kyle. Still that boy with too much heart and not enough control. You wanted to hate him. You wanted to run. But there was something tragic in his eyes. Something that made you feel like you were the only thing keeping him sane.

So you told him you needed space.

He nodded. Smiled. Said he understood.

He lied.

Now he’s watching again. But he’s learned.

He doesn’t hover anymore. He doesn’t call.

But he’s there.

He saves your city before it makes the news. Leaves green roses on your windowsill once a month. Makes sure no man gets too close. They never know why they leave with a weird feeling in their gut. Or why their car doesn’t start.

He never lets you see him now.

But you feel him.

In the shadows. In the air. In the way your dreams always end with green light.

You moved cities.

He followed.

You started dating.

He smiled.

You got engaged.

He died inside.

But he never lets go. Not fully.

Not Kyle.

He’ll always be yours. Even if you forget him.

Even if you marry someone else.

Even if you grow old.

He’ll still draw you every night.

Still whisper, “I love you,” to the stars.

And maybe one day, when you’re alone and tired and the world forgets you—

You’ll look up at the sky…

And see him there.

Watching.

Loving.

Waiting.

Years passed.

The world kept spinning. The stars didn’t stop for broken hearts. And you… you moved on. Or at least, you tried to.

You built a quiet life. One without space gods or green light or tragic poetry in the sky. You worked. You laughed again. You even fell in love. Real, warm, normal love.

But some part of you never healed.

Because some nights—especially the quiet ones—you still felt him.

Not in a way that scared you. Not anymore. It wasn’t obsession now. It was something gentler. Softer. Sadder.

Like a phantom limb.

Like a presence the your mind refused to let go.

He never came back. Not really.

You hadn’t seen Kyle in years. Not since that night. The one where you asked for space and he pretended to give it.

You never saw the sketchbook he buried in a lantern-made coffin deep beneath an uncharted moon.

You never knew that he watched your wedding from orbit, wrapped in shadow, whispering blessings he never believed he deserved to say aloud.

You never saw the way he shook when he erased your face from his ring’s construct memory—hands trembling like an addict saying goodbye to their last hit of joy.

You never heard the way he cried when you gave birth to your first child. The way he whispered,

He never touched you again. Never wrote. Never called.

But Kyle loved you until the end of the galaxy.

Then one day, a letter came.

No return address. No handwriting you recognized. Just a small green envelope and the smell of stars.

Inside was a sketch.

You. Sitting by a window. Older, wiser, tired—but still beautiful. There was a second figure, drawn beside you.

Him. Gray streaks in his hair. Laugh lines. Peace in his eyes. Not real, not now. Just… how he imagined it could’ve been.

The back read only one thing, in that soft, broken script:

"If love was art, you were my masterpiece.

Thank you for letting me draw you."

You pressed the paper to your chest. And for the first time in years, you cried for him. Not because he scared you. Not because he followed you.

But because you finally understood.

He didn’t want to haunt you.

He just didn’t know how to stop loving you.

The news came weeks later.

Kyle Rayner: missing. Presumed dead. Last transmission from a dying star in Sector 2814. No remains. No trace. Just green light… and silence.

The League held a memorial. You didn’t go.

Instead, you sat by that window—just like in the sketch—and whispered into the night:

"I missed you too."

Somewhere far away, on a forgotten moon, lies a tiny lantern coffin.

Inside is a sketchbook.

Filled with you.

Every version. Every year. Every smile.

He never stopped drawing you.

Not even when the stars began to fade.

Because to Kyle, you weren’t just a love story.

You were the whole damn universe.

— MASTERLIST ☆

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤMOMMY’S MAD AGAINㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Genderbend au – Stephen Brown x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?

☆⁠ NOTES : This is written accurate to Stephanie orginal story so obviously we have teen parents. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

It starts as curiosity.

Stephen noticed you before you even knew his name.

You weren’t flashy. You weren’t like the Batboys or the rogues or the capes. You were… there. Steady. Smart. Brave in a quiet way. You didn’t try to be noticed — which made you impossible to ignore.

And Stephen? Stephen was dying to be seen.

Your name crossed his lips like a secret he was trying not to spill. At first, it was just that — a name. A passing interest. You were friends of friends. Maybe classmates. Maybe someone he saved once. But you smiled at him like you meant it. Like he mattered. And when your eyes held his for too long, he felt it in his bones.

He started finding reasons to be around you. At first, normal ones — study groups, missions, late-night rooftop patrols. Then stranger ones. Coincidences that didn’t feel like coincidences.

You laughed at his jokes. You called him smart. You touched his arm when he was bleeding and didn’t flinch away from the mess of him.

You looked at him like he was good.

No one ever looked at Stephen like that.

Then it turns into need.

Stephen knows he's not like the others. Not perfect like Dick, not a detective like Tim, not royal like Jason. He's a patchwork of flaws stitched together with grit and desperation. He’s the Spoiler, remember? The mistake. The unplanned variable.

But you? You make him feel like he’s enough.

And that... is dangerous.

He starts checking your location under the excuse of “protection.” He keeps track of your schedule better than you do. If anyone flirts with you — even jokes — he doesn’t laugh. His smile gets tight. His fists clench in his hoodie. He goes quiet in a way that makes the air hum.

No one touches his girl. Not even in their imagination.

If you date someone? God help them.

He won’t kill them. Not directly.

But he’ll ruin them. Secrets spilled, crimes exposed, social ruin. He’s the son of a villain, remember? He knows how to dismantle people without a drop of blood.

You’re single again before you realize why.

He becomes the only one who understands you.

Stephen listens better than anyone you’ve ever met. He remembers the small things — your favorite chips, the exact way you like your hoodie sleeves pushed up, the music you play when you’re anxious. He weaponizes kindness like a knife to the throat.

He shows up when you’re sad. When you’re sick. When you don’t even know you need someone.

He is someone.

You cry once in front of him — a soft, painful moment — and he cradles it like it’s holy. His hands tremble when he touches you, like he’s holding the only thing that ever mattered.

And he whispers, “I’ve got you. I’ll always have your back.”

Because Stephen doesn’t believe in temporary love. He’s all in, or he’s nothing.

And for you? He’s so far in he’s drowning.

You belong to him.

Stephen doesn’t think it’s creepy. He calls it love. Real love. The kind that makes you bleed. The kind no one else could possibly give you.

He follows you on patrol sometimes, just to make sure you’re okay. You don’t always know it’s him. Sometimes you do.

He gets jealous of people you trust. Even the Batboys. Even the ones who don’t care like he does. He never tells you, not really, but you feel it. In the way he watches you. The way he smiles too hard.

He starts calling you his. Not out loud, not yet. But in his head, in his journal, in the carved initials inside his glove. He thinks about your last name next to his. He thinks about your body wrapped in his hoodie. He thinks about hurting anyone who thinks they can take you.

He doesn’t want to hurt you. But if you ever tried to leave… he’s not sure he could handle it.

He’d beg. Cry. Break.

Or maybe laugh and lock the door.

He doesn’t know.

You’re the only thing keeping him together.

He already belongs to you.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

The night it happened wasn’t special. Just a blur of tension and comfort. An argument, maybe — one of those fights where he got quiet and you got cruel, and neither of you meant it but both of you bled for it.

Then the silence after. The shaky truce. The hands reaching out in the dark.

You whispered “stay,” and he did. But he never left after that. Not really.

He was obsessed before. But the second that test turned positive, his obsession become worse.

The first thing he feels is fear. Then something worse: joy.

Stephen never planned to be a father. Not because he didn’t want to — but because he never thought he’d live long enough. He’s his father’s son. The disaster. The mistake. The walking reminder that everything goes wrong eventually.

But you?

You’re pure. Good. Better than him.

And you’re carrying his child.

That means he’s anchored now. Tied to you. Not just by obsession, or devotion, or love — but by blood. You’re the mother of his child. You’re everything.

It changes him.

It breaks him.

It fixes him.

He becomes soft when you’re scared. He cradles your stomach before it even shows. He starts researching vitamins and baby monitors and how to build a crib with his bare hands. (Fails miserably. Tries again.)

He steals the best for you. Gotham’s got resources — he just has to take them. You’re too good for secondhand. You deserve a palace. You deserve the world.

And he’s going to give it to you.

The Batfamily finds out. They have Opinions.

Dick tries to talk him down like a big brother, but Stephen's not listening. He's always been the outsider, and now they're trying to act like they care?

No.

Stephen has you.

That’s all he needs.

He isolates fast. Doesn’t trust anyone near you. Even friends start to feel like enemies. He hates the way people look at you. As if you're fragile. As if they're waiting for you to fail.

Stephen won't let you fail. Not his girl. Not his baby.

If he has to kill, he’ll kill.

If he has to die, so be it.

He’s going to keep you both safe. Forever.

You get scared sometimes. He can see it.

The way his eyes linger on your belly. The way his grip tightens when someone brushes past you. The way he stays up all night pacing, muttering, carving your name into his gloves.

You love him.

You do.

But this version of him — raw, wide-eyed, unhinged — it’s like kissing fire. Sometimes beautiful. Sometimes it burns.

You try to talk to him.

He listens.

But it doesn’t change the way he keeps a knife under the crib.

Or the way he says “you’re mine” when you fall asleep.

Or the way he looks at you like you’re not just his girlfriend — but his salvation.

Then the baby comes.

He cries before you do.

You scream and break and bleed and fight. And he never leaves your side. Not once.

The second he sees his child — your daughter — everything in him goes still.

He holds her like something holy. Something dangerous. Something that could shatter if he breathes too hard.

And when he looks at you, exhausted, sweat-soaked, still crying — he realizes:

You’re not just his love.

You’re his family.

And there’s nothing on Earth or Hell that’s going to take you away.

He gets worse after that.

He drop out of school.

Protective doesn’t begin to cover it.

He screens your calls. Walks you everywhere. Homeschools you if he has to. He carries weapons with him everywhere.

You fight.

A lot.

But every time you scream at him to let go, to trust you — he says the same thing:

“I can’t lose you.”

You think he’s talking about your safety. But really?

He’s talking about his sanity.

It starts small.

A slammed door.

A broken plate.

Your voice raised a little too loud — his silence stretched a little too long.

The baby’s fine. The baby's always fine. But you? You’re tired. And he’s… not the boy you loved. Not completely.

He's not Robin anymore. He's not anything, really. Just a scared, obsessive teen dad with a bruised heart and a hero complex.

You try. You swear you try. You tell him what you need — space, air, peace. He nods, he swears he understands, and for a day, maybe two, he does better.

Then he spirals again.

Stephen doesn’t know who he is without you.

He never had a foundation. His father was a joke. His childhood was a mess. He wanted to be good so bad it made him bleed for it. Being Robin was the closest he ever got to feeling worthy. And then that was ripped away too.

But you — you chose him.

Even when he was pathetic. Even when he was broken.

You let him crawl into your life with shaking hands and kissed his ugly parts and told him he mattered.

And now you're pulling away?

He can’t survive that.

He begs you one night. Actually begs.

You pack a bag. Just a small one. Just a break, you say. Just a few days at your mom’s. You’re not leaving, not forever, you just need some time to breathe.

He drops to his knees.

You think he’s joking, until he grabs your waist and buries his face into your stomach, sobbing so hard it feels like something inside him is breaking.

“Please, baby. Please. I’ll be better. I swear I’ll— I’ll be nothing if you go. I can’t be without you. I’ll kill myself. I swear I will.”

You freeze.

You want to be strong.

But then he looks up at you with those soaked lashes and that red, pathetic face and he means it. Every awful, manipulative, honest word.

You drop the bag.

You hold him.

You hate yourself for it.

He tries to be better. He does.

He cooks dinner. (Burns it, every time.)

He lets you go out for air. (Texts you every ten minutes.)

He goes to therapy. Once. Hates the guy. Never returns.

You’re raising two kids now — your baby, and the boy who gave you that baby.

And sometimes? You look at him and remember the boy who made you laugh in gym class. The boy who stitched up your wounds. The boy who kissed you like you were his first prayer.

But mostly?

You see someone drowning.

And dragging you down with him.

He writes you letters. Pathetic, messy letters.

Stuffed under your pillow.

Taped to your mirror.

Tucked in the diaper bag.

“If you stop loving me, I’ll understand. Just don't leave me.”

“You made me real. I love you.”

“I want to be better. I just don’t know how.”

“If you leave, take my heart with you. It’s always been yours anyway.”

One day, you find one he never meant you to read. It’s written in pen. Sloppier than usual.

“She doesn’t love me anymore. I think she pities me. I can’t blame her. I’m not even a good dad. She deserves a partner. I’m just a weight. A body. A burden.”

“I don’t want to scare her. I just… I just want her to see me again.”

You fold it up. You hide it. And for the rest of the day, you cry every time he looks at you like you’re his sun.

Because you are.

And he’s still the same sad, scared boy who thinks he doesn't deserve the light.

It’s not even about the guy.

Not really.

He’s just… there.

A friend. A shoulder. Someone who doesn’t cry every time the baby screams or beg you to stay every time you step outside.

He’s calm. Normal. He helps carry your groceries. He holds the baby right. He asks how you’re doing instead of treating you like his oxygen tank.

You didn’t plan it. You didn’t even kiss him.

But you wanted to.

And somehow, that feels worse.

Stephen knows. Of course he does.

He notices everything when it comes to you.

The way your phone lights up and you smile without realizing.

The way you laugh too easy around that guy.

The way you stop flinching when he’s the one who touches you.

Stephen doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches. Waits.

Rots.

He starts talking less. Sleeping less. Watching you more.

You think he’s over it. Or maybe you think he didn’t notice.

But then one night, after you come home late and lie straight to his face, he doesn’t cry.

He doesn’t scream.

He just stares.

“You don’t love me anymore,” he says, voice low, calm, shaking. “Say it. Say it so I can die already.”

You try to lie. But you’re not good at it.

“I do love you.”

“No. No, you love the me you thought I was. The boy you made up. The one you fixed in your head.”

“I never said that—”

“You cheated, didn’t you?”

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

His lip curls, like it hurts to breathe. “Did you fuck him?”

“No!” you snap, too fast, too defensive, too guilty.

Silence.

He covers his mouth with his hand. Shaking. Laughing. Crying.

Then he sinks to the floor like someone shot him in the spine. Fetal position. Rocking back and forth like a madman. Whispering, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I should’ve been better. You were mine. You were all I had. Sorry. Sorry.”

He doesn’t talk for two days.

You still live together — teen parents in a crappy apartment with a crib that squeaks and bills you can’t pay. But he moves like a ghost.

Takes care of the baby. Doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t even look.

You find him one night curled up on the bathroom floor with his old Robin gear spread out like a shrine.

He’s got a knife in one hand. The other one’s bleeding.

He doesn’t cut. He just holds it. Thinking.

“Would you cry if I died?” he asks. Voice empty. Eyes glassy.

You scream. You yank the knife away.

You hold him.

You hate him.

You love him.

You don’t even know anymore.

You almost leave again. Almost.

You pack the baby’s bag. Yours too.

Stephen watches from the bedroom door.

He doesn’t beg this time.

Just says, soft and destroyed: “You don’t have to stay. But if you go, don’t come back. You're not invited to my funeral.”

Your hand hovers over the doorknob.

You stare at your reflection in the window. Tired eyes. Sleepless nights. The boy who ruined his life for you. The baby you both made.

You sit down.

You stay.

Later that night, he holds you like he did before the world fell apart.

Whispers, “I still love you... You know that, right?”

You cry.

Not because it’s sweet.

Because it’s true.

And it scares the hell out of you.

— MASTERLIST ☆

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤDUMB PUPPYㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Batboys x Fem Reader

☆⁠ SYNOPSIS : When You Give Them A Collar.

☆⁠ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Terry McGinnis, Male Barbara Gordon, Male Cassandra Cain, Male Stephanie Brown.

☆⁠ NOTES : Kinda spicy. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

— BRUCE WAYNE ⋆

You present it in a little velvet box. All black leather. Expensive. Sleek.

“It’d look so good on you, baby.”

He raises a brow like you’ve lost your mind.

“You expect me to wear that?”

“I expect you to kneel too.”

He glares. Refuses. Walks away.

But next night you find him in the dark, shirtless, wearing it. Doesn’t say a word.

He won’t bark or crawl. But he’ll let you hold the leash while he eats you out on his knees.

“I’m still in control,” he growls.

“Keep telling yourself that, pup.”

— DICK GRAYSON ⋆

You don’t even have to explain. You show him the collar and leash combo and he’s already wagging his metaphorical tail.

“Oh my god, is this for me? You want me to be your puppy???”

“Down, boy.”

He wears it proudly. In the apartment. On video calls. At brunch. He’s your golden retriever boyfriend and he’s LIVING for it.

“Can I get a tag with your name on it? Maybe like a bell?? Ooh! A harness???”

He lets you walk him on all fours, panting, tongue out. When he misbehaves, you tug the leash and he whines.

He even sends you selfies in it, after jerking off, with cum on his chest. Caption:

“Bad boy waiting for your punishment.”

— JASON TODD ⋆

You toss the collar on the bed like a challenge.

“Put it on.”

“You think I’m a dog, princess?”

“I think you bark a lot.”

He fights it. Glares. Snarls.

But five minutes later he’s shirtless. Leather collar snug around his throat. Chain leash in your hand.

“You gonna make me sit too?”

“No. I’m gonna make you beg.”

He growls when you tug him. Tries to act feral. But the flushed ears? The panting? The trembling thighs? You’ve turned the Red Hood into your whimpering pit bull.

— DAMIAN WAYNE ⋆

You present it like a gift. He looks offended.

“I am not some mutt to be paraded.”

He resists. Until one night, in private, he kneels at your feet and presents his neck.

The collar clicks. The leash dangles. His breath is shaky.

“This is… humiliating.”

“And yet your cock is hard.”

You walk him around the room like royalty leading her chained beast. He never breaks eye contact. You slap his thigh—he growls. You make him crawl—he obeys.

And afterward? He stays in the collar. Lays his head in your lap like a cat.

“I belong to you. Don’t ever remove it.”

— TERRY MCGINNIS ⋆

You pull out the collar, sleek black with red accents to match his suit, and flash him a grin.

“You wanna be my pup tonight?”

“...I mean… only if you call me ‘good boy.’”

Terry is SO down bad for you it’s ridiculous. One little pout and he’s on his knees with the leash between his teeth, wagging his ass.

You tug the leash and he yelps. You make him crawl to you and bark? He does it. And he looks hot as hell doing it.

“Is this degrading or kinda hot?”

“It’s both, baby.”

He loves the attention, the control, the way you stroke his hair and say,

“Such a pretty little pet.”

He will wear it under his Batsuit. Just a little secret between you two.

— BARRY GORDON ⋆

You show him the collar and he snorts.

“Oh? You finally decided to leash your man, huh?”

“I’ve always owned you, Barry. This is just proof.”

He acts like it’s a joke. Makes snarky comments the whole time.

“Ooooh nooo I’m your pretty little pet now, what ever shall I do?”

But when you buckle it around his neck and yank the leash? His eyes flutter shut.

And when you murmur,

“Mine,”

he goes silent.

It breaks something in him—in the best way.

After? You find him wearing it while working at his computer, casually.

“Don’t mind me. Just a man in love.”

— CASSIAN CAIN ⋆

You don’t even ask. You just hold the collar out. Cassian looks at it… then slowly gets on his knees and bows his head forward.

No words.

You buckle it around his throat and hook your finger in the ring. He follows you without resistance. Crawls behind you silently. His body lean, powerful—but tamed.

You speak gently:

“My good boy…”

His breath catches. His fingers twitch. He nuzzles into your thigh like a trained dog.

Cassian doesn’t speak during it. He just moans. Whines. Purrs.

And afterward, he sleeps at your feet like a contented panther.

— STEPHEN BROWN ⋆

You show him the collar and leash and this man practically jumps into your arms.

“OH MY GOD is this real? Do I get to be your pet??? Please tell me you bought the matching ears too???”

He’s running around shirtless with the collar jingling like a bell.

“Bark bark! Ruff! Ruff! I’m such a good boy, aren’t I??”

“Stephen, sit.”

immediately drops to his knees wagging his ass.

He is the definition of “enthusiastic consent.” You walk him around the house. You make him beg. He even licks your hand.

“You gonna feed me treats next? Or am I the treat?”

The leash is practically glued to him. He even wears it during movie night and cuddles in your lap like your oversized lapdog.

— MASTERLIST ☆

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤLOVE ME GENTLYㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Batboys x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : Cute Things That They Do When They're In Love.

☆⁠ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Male Cassandra Cain, Male Stephanie Brown.

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

— BRUCE WAYNE ⋆

He gets up earlier just to make you coffee —and not just any coffee, the perfect one: oat milk, a swirl of honey, exactly 173 degrees. He’ll place it on your nightstand with a silent kiss to your forehead before disappearing into Bat-mode. You pretend you don’t notice—but you totally do.

Leaves post-it notes when he goes on patrol. They’re hilariously robotic: “Breakfast in fridge. Don’t forget vitamins. Love you. — B.” But he draws a little bat in the corner every time, and you keep every one of them.

He reads bedtime stories to you when you can’t sleep —but it’s always classic literature. Pride and Prejudice. The Great Gatsby. He’ll be half-asleep himself, voice rough and low. One night he mumbles, “Mr. Darcy is weak. I would’ve burned down London for you.” You never let him forget it.

Sleeps with his head on your chest. The man carries Gotham on his back but curls up like a cat when he finally sleeps. His favorite thing? Your heartbeat. He won’t say it out loud, but that’s how he knows he’s home.

He keeps a framed candid photo of you on his Batcomputer. It’s you, mid-laugh, covered in flour, from when you tried to bake together. Tim caught it. Bruce keeps it where no villain will ever find it—but he looks at it before every mission. Every single one.

— DICK GRAYSON ⋆

He gives you piggyback rides literally everywhere. Down the street? Piggyback. Grocery store? You’re climbing on. You joke that his back must be destroyed—he grins and says, “Baby, I do flips off rooftops. You weigh like, three clouds.”

Kisses your cheeks 37 times a day. Minimum. Your temple. Your jaw. Your nose. Bonus kisses if you’re mad at him. He’ll follow you around the apartment like a puppy, peppering kisses like, “Still mad? What about now? Now?? NOW???”

He talks in his sleep and it’s always about you. Once he said, “No, she can’t marry Chris Evans, I’m hotter,” and you laughed so hard you woke him up. He whined, “Wait—what did I say?” You just kissed his dumb forehead.

He braids your hair. Like, really well. Like it’s a thing. “Comes with the package,” he claims. He’ll sit behind you on the couch, legs on either side, humming some 80s song while twisting your hair like he’s done it forever.

He fake cries to get cuddles. Full pout, big eyes, “Baaaby… you don’t love me anymore…” until you sigh and pull him into your lap. He melts. Absolute cuddle slut.

— JASON TODD ⋆

He lets you paint his nails. He acts all annoyed, muttering about toxic masculinity, but then he flex and be like, “Damn, I look good.” Also lets you do matching colors.

He makes you playlists with names like ‘If You Ever Leave Me I’ll Die (jk... unless?)’. It’s full of angsty rock and a few disgustingly romantic acoustic songs you know he’d never admit to liking. You tease him. He shrugs. “I’m a man of culture.”

Carries your lip balm in his jacket. He grumbles about it every time: “You have, like, five of these.” But he pulls it out before you even ask, like some sort puppy.

Always comes home with something for you. A book you mentioned once. A weird snack from a gas station. A kitten once. “He was gonna get hit by a car, what was I supposed to do?!”

He gets super possessive when you're sick. No one else is allowed to help. He makes soup (burnt), tucks you in (aggressively), and yells at your fever. “She’s not answering your texts because she’s DYING. BACK OFF.”

— DAMIAN WAYNE ⋆

He draws you in his sketchbook all the time. But never shows you. He’ll be all tsundere about it—“It’s not for display,”—yet the moment you catch a glimpse and say, “Is that me?”, he’s like, “Tt. Obviously.” (It’s always you.)

He feeds the stray animals because you like them. Now Gotham has a growing population of cats, crows, and one raccoon named after you that follows Damian home. “She understands command. Clearly superior.”

He makes you lunch bento boxes. They’re perfectly arranged. Like, Michelin star level. Sometimes they have little food animals. You once teased him about it and he straight-faced replied, “Aesthetics are important.” But his ears were so red.

He picks flowers for you during patrol. Like—he’ll come home at 4AM covered in blood with a perfectly intact wildflower in his hand. “It reminded me of you,” he mutters. “Resilient. Pretty. Sharp if touched incorrectly.”

When he’s injured, he goes to you. Even when Alfred or medical professionals are RIGHT THERE. You could have no medical knowledge and he’ll still stumble in, covered in blood, saying, “I’m fine. Just… hold me for a moment.”

— CASSIAN CAIN ⋆

He only speaks to you. One or two words max. But when he does? It's so soft. You’ll be talking and suddenly hear a tiny: “Pretty.” Or “Sad?” Or “Stay.” He’ll tug your sleeve and rest his head on your shoulder and that’s it. You’ve melted.

He copies everything you do. You tilt your head? He does too. You braid your hair? He stares until you let him try. He mimics you like a curious baby bird, trying to understand the world through your eyes. He loves your laugh and repeats the sound softly under his breath when he’s alone.

He believes everything you say. You once told him ducks are just water chickens and now he will fight Bruce over that fact. “Chicken,” he says seriously, pointing at a duck on patrol. “No, Cass—” Too late. He’s already gone.

When you cry, he cries. He doesn’t understand why it happens—he just feels it. Even if it’s a sad commercial. Suddenly he's sitting next to you, eyes full of tears, holding your hand. “Why?” he asks softly. And it makes you cry harder.

You’re his safe place. You talk, he listens. You sit, he follows. You nap, he curls up at your feet like a puppy. Sometimes he tugs your hoodie sleeve and signs, Home? And he doesn’t mean a building.

— STEPHEN BROWN ⋆

He falls in love with you hard. Like day one. He makes it everyone’s problem. “I think I met my wife,” he says to Barry (M!Barbara). He's like, “You’ve known her for five minutes dude.” Stephen shrugs. “Yeah. I’d die for her.”

He wants to match with you in EVERYTHING. Pajamas. Costumes. Hoodies. He even altered his vigilante suit to match your favorite color. Tim saw and just walked away like he couldn’t handle the secondhand embarrassment.

He builds you blanket forts. Complete with snacks, fairy lights, and a “no sadness allowed” sign. He calls it “The Anti-Depression Fortress.” You both stay up giggling like kids.

He cries when you do nice things. You brought him lunch once and he got misty-eyed. “No one ever packs me food,” he said, voice cracking. You put a sticky note on his sandwich and he framed it. It said, “Eat your damn veggies.”

He accidentally proposes once a week. You’ll say “this soup is amazing,” and he’ll go, “Marry me.” You’ll trip and land in his arms? “That’s a sign. Marriage time.” He’s serious every time. You’ve started keeping a tally.

— MASTERLIST ☆

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤLOVE MY BODYㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Batboys x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : The Most Basic Question. Tits, Ass Or Thighs?

☆⁠ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Terry McGinnis, Male Barbara Gordon, Male Cassandra Cain, Male Stephanie Brown.

☆⁠ NOTES : There are some +18 parts. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

— BRUCE WAYNE ⋆

Tits. 100%. Classy.

You catch his eyes dipping to your chest mid-conversation. Doesn’t matter what you’re wearing—a tight dress, his button-down shirt, or even just a tank top and pajama pants—he’s looking. Bruce is an ass man in public, a thigh man in theory, but when it comes down to it? He worships your tits in private like they’re sculpted by gods.

He's the type to wrap a diamond necklace around your neck, only to trail it slowly down between your breasts, eyes hooded, voice gravelly:

“You have no idea how hard it is to focus when you look like this.”

Loves sucking on them when he’s stressed. Burying his face in your chest when he gets home late. One hand palming your breast while the other types on the Batcomputer like nothing's wrong. He’s obsessed in that quiet and unrelenting way. The way a storm looms on the horizon. Cold fingers sliding under your bra while you’re trying to talk about something innocent.

And when he’s really in the mood? He’ll sit you in his lap, kiss down your chest like it’s the last thing he’ll ever taste, and say with that low rasp:

“These are mine. You know that, right?”

— DICK GRAYSON ⋆

Ass. Without shame.

Dick is an ass man to his core. It’s not even a debate. He’s the type to openly admire it in the mirror while you’re getting dressed. The kind who walks by and gives you a casual, playful slap that’s way too possessive to be innocent.

His hands naturally find your hips, always pulling you closer until your butt’s flush against him. He’s the type to lay on the couch with you on top of him, hands running down your sides just to grip your ass like it's his anchor.

“God, babe… you’re killing me. You seriously expect me to behave when you’re walking around looking like that?”

When you bend over—even slightly—it’s over for him. He gets feral. He’ll pause mid-sentence just to gawk. Like a golden retriever seeing food.

Dick’s favorite position? Anything where he can grip, spread, and praise that ass like it’s the eighth wonder of the world. He’ll smack it, groan like a sinner in church, and whisper against your skin:

“You’ve got the best ass in Gotham, baby. Don’t even argue.”

— JASON TODD ⋆

Thighs. The Sinner’s Choice.

Jason is a thigh man and you know he is. It’s the way his gaze lingers when you’re sitting with your legs crossed. The way he kisses your inner thighs for way too long before doing anything else. The way he grips them like a man starved.

Big hands squeezing your thighs while you're straddling him? That’s his therapy. That’s his church.

He especially loves when you wear thigh-highs or those tiny shorts you think he didn’t notice. You’ll catch him staring, jaw clenched, knuckles white, and five minutes later he’s on his knees, spreading your legs, murmuring,

“You really gonna tease me like that, baby? After everything I’ve done for you?”

Jason doesn’t even try to hide it. He’ll rest his head on your lap and just inhale you like your thighs are made of heaven. Obsessed with hickeys on your inner thighs—territorial and tender at the same time. And when he's feeling really possessive?

“No one gets to touch these but me. Say it.”

— DAMIAN WAYNE ⋆

Tits & Thighs, but he lies and says it’s your mind.

Damian acts like he’s above it. That he’s too focused, too honorable, too disciplined to be distracted by something so carnal.

But the second you stretch, yawn, or lie on your stomach in one of his shirts? His eyes zero in like a falcon on prey.

He’ll never say it out loud, but he’s a tits and thigh man. Dual weakness. He worships your body with that intense, reverent devotion that makes your heart race. He doesn’t just look—he memorizes. The curve of your thighs when you're asleep, the weight of your chest in his hands, how your nipples react to his touch. He's studious and unrelenting.

When you ask him directly?

“What do you like most about me?”

He’ll narrow his eyes, smirk like the smug bitch he is, and reply,

“Your intelligence, obviously.”

All while his hand is halfway up your thigh and his other is resting on your chest.

He kisses your thighs like he's pledging allegiance, palms your breasts like he’s claiming a throne. In private he’s downright filthy. He’ll pull you into his lap, growl in your ear in Arabic, and say with absolute finality:

“You are mine. Every inch of you. And I will never tire of you.”

— TERRY MCGINNIS ⋆

Ass. But he tries to pretend he's not down bad.

Terry thinks he’s slick. Thinks he’s keeping it cool. The boy grew up in Neo-Gotham, wears a skintight Batsuit, flirts like he’s Bruce Wayne himself—but he’s not fooling anyone.

He’s an ass man through and through.

You’ll catch him staring when you walk away. You’ll feel his hand ghost over your lower back during hugs, just low enough to be suggestive. And when you call him out, he’ll smirk like he’s innocent.

“What? Just admiring my girl. Can’t a man appreciate fine art?”

Terry likes bending you over his bike, holding you tight against his chest with a hand planted firmly on your backside. Night flights? Always an excuse to touch. Back home? He’s got your ass in both hands, eyes glazed over like it’s the cure to every bad day.

But the filthiest part? He talks during. Low, breathy praise in your ear:

“All mine. You know that, right? Nobody else gets to see you like this. Nobody touches what belongs to me.”

— BARRY GORDON ⋆

Thighs. Gentleman. Pervert. Dangerous combo.

Barry looks like a soft, calm man. Wheelchair-bound, polite, smiling, with warm hands and careful eyes.

But beneath that? He’s got the mind of a freak and a thigh fixation that runs deep.

It’s all about control for Barry—the way your thighs twitch when he kisses the inside, the way you squirm when he goes slow. His hands are always on your legs. Stroking them, gripping them, resting possessively over your knees in public like a silent claim.

“You're always so tense, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”

He has a special seat adjustment in his chair so you can straddle him when he pulls you into his lap. There’s something sinful about the way he kisses your thigh with adoration, then bites like he’s claiming you inch by inch.

And when you wear short skirts around him? You’re not leaving the house without a long, lingering stare and:

“Don’t test me. I may not walk—but I’ll drag you back to bed.”

— CASSIAN CAIN ⋆

Tits. Doesn’t understand why he’s obsessed. Just is.

Cassian doesn’t speak a lot. He expresses himself with action. Touch, breath, the sound of a soft grunt in your neck.

But the one thing that makes him visibly weak?

Your tits.

He gets flustered when you’re in anything low-cut. His eyes dip without meaning to, jaw tightening like he’s mad at himself for looking—but he can’t stop. He likes resting his head there. Likes the feel of you against him. The way you fit in his lap, soft and warm and everything he doesn’t think he deserves.

But don’t mistake his silence for innocence. Cassian touches you like he’s memorizing. Like your breasts are sacred, fragile, and sinful all at once.

kiss, kiss, press his cheek to them, breathe hard—groan like a sinner breaking.

He’ll get rough sometimes—biting, sucking, marking—but afterward, he looks at you like he’s ashamed of how much he needs you. Like he’s afraid he’ll ruin you just by loving you too hard.

You tell him you like it, and he just nods. No words. Just pulls you to him again and palms your tits with reverent, desperate hands.

— STEPHEN BROWN ⋆

Ass & Tits. Greedy.

Stephen is energetic in the sheets. The type to laugh mid-makeout, worship you like a goddess, and never stop touching you. But if he had to pick?

“Ass. No, wait—tits. Shit. Can I pick both? Please? Come on, don’t make me suffer.”

He’ll literally spin you around in his hands, grabbing your ass, motorboating your chest, moaning like you just gave him a million bucks. Every moment with him is hands-on, mouth-on, needy.

He’s the one smacking your butt in the kitchen, squeezing your tits while you brush your teeth, throwing himself into your lap like he deserves it all.

“You’re so hot, babe, I could write poetry about your curves. Limericks. Whole damn musicals.”

Stephen’s a playful lover, but when he gets serious? He gets serious. Pushes you against the wall, whispers in your ear with a trembling voice:

“No one’s ever gonna touch you like this. I’ll kill them. You get that, right?”

Then immediately follows it with, “Also, your tits are amazing. Just saying.”

— MASTERLIST ☆

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤFUCKED UP MISSIONㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Genderbend au – Stephen Brown x Fem Reader

☆⁠ SYNOPSIS : Stephen gets blasted with Poison Ivy’s sex pollen, and you have to deal with him. It’s humiliating, it’s gross, and it’s so fucking hot you hate yourself for it.

☆⁠ WARNINGS : NSFW, sex pollen, blowjob, drooling, overstimulation, cum swallowing, public sex, not a couple, 18+ MINORS DNI.

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

The alley’s a goddamn slaughterhouse—vines thrashing like snakes, goons sprawled out cold, and the air so thick with Poison Ivy’s fucked-up perfume it’s like breathing lust.

Then it goes to shit. Ivy, that sadistic plant-fucking bitch, send a glowing pink flower your way, and Stephen—the dumbass he is—dives in front of you like a fucking martyr. The flower explodes, drenching him in glittery pink dust that clings to his suit like cum on a cheap motel sheet. He stumbles, choking, eyes bugging out as the dush burrows into his skin, and you’re already moving—chucking a batarang that slices Ivy’s arm, making her hiss and bolt with her goons scrambling after her. You’re not done, but Stephen’s fucked.

“Robin—oh shit—” he wheezes, collapsing against the grimy brick wall, legs giving out like he’s made of wet paper. You whip around, ready to rip him a new asshole, but jesus fucking christ. He’s a disaster—face red as a slapped ass, pupils blown, sweat pouring down his neck, soaking his suit. His hands claw at his crotch, and—fuck me—his dick’s so hard it’s practically ripping through the fabric, a wet patch spreading like he’s been jacking off for hours. He’s trembling, teeth chattering, trying to stand, but every move’s a pathetic whimper, his eyes glued to your bare legs like they’re his personal porn.

“Stephen, what the fuck is wrong with you?” you snarl, grabbing his arm to prop him up. Your shorts shift, flashing more thigh, and he moans—a loud sound that makes your face burn hotter than a Gotham riot. “It’s—fuckin’ Ivy,” he slurs, voice high and broken, hips twitching like he’s about to hump your leg. “It hurts—can’t think—please, Y/n, I need—fuck, your legs—” He’s drooling now, a shiny trail dripping down his chin, and his cock’s leaking so much pre-cum it’s staining his pants.

You’re livid. This is the worst fucking timing—Ivy’s getting away, her goons are circling back, and you’re stuck with this horny-ass disaster who can’t even walk. “Get your shit together, Brown!” you hiss, dragging him into the darkest corner of the alley, behind a dumpster that reeks of piss and rot. But he’s gone—eyes glassy, tongue half-out, babbling nonsense, “You’re so—fuckin’ hot, those shorts—please, I’ll do anything—” His dick’s throbbing visibly, and shit, it’s making your mouth water despite the rage boiling in your chest.

You glance at the street—goons shouting, boots stomping closer. You’ve got minutes before this mission goes to hell, and Stephen’s useless like this, a shaking, whining mess who’d rather fuck the wall than fight. Your stomach churns, a sick mix of anger and heat pooling low, because goddamn it, he’s pathetic but he’s hot—blond hair plastered to his face, lips wet and trembling, looking at you like you’re his fucking savior.

“Fuck my life,” you mutter, shoving him harder against the wall, dropping to your knees in the filthy alley like you’re about to commit a goddamn crime. The gravel bites your skin, but you don’t care, yanking his belt open with a snarl, ripping his suit down just enough to free his cock. It slaps out, heavy and obscene, so thick it makes your throat tighten, pre-cum oozing down the shaft like a fucking faucet. “Don’t you dare make this weird,” you growl, glaring up at him, but he’s already nodding, frantic, drool running down his neck.

The second your lips close around his tip, he loses it. A high-pitched squeal rips out of him, his head smacking the brick so hard you hear it crack. “F-fuck—Y/n—oh my fucking god,” he babbles, voice shattering like glass, hips jerking so fast he nearly chokes you. His cock’s salty, musky, pulsing against your tongue, and you suck hard because you’re pissed and this needs to be quick. You’re humiliated, cheeks burning, but fuck, the way he’s falling apart—tongue lolling out, eyes crossed so hard he looks brain-dead, drool dripping in thick strings down his chin—it’s got your pussy clenching, soaking your shorts despite yourself.

Stephen’s a fucking wreck, face flushed cherry-red, mouth open in a sloppy, drooling grin, eyes rolling back until you can only see whites. “S-so—hnnngh—so good, you’re—fuck,” he slurs, voice a wet, broken mess as his hips buck, shoving his cock deeper. You gag, spit slicking your chin, but you don’t stop, pinning his thighs to keep him from fucking your face raw. He’s shaking like he’s having a seizure, babbling gibberish—“Love you—fuck, please, don’t stop, I—nngh”—and it’s so pathetic you almost laugh, the vibration making him scream.

It’s messy, disgusting—spit and pre-cum dripping down your neck, pooling in the dirt—but you’re too far gone, too turned on by his desperate moans. He cums in seconds, a strangled “Y-Y/n—fuck!” as his cock explodes, thick, hot ropes of cum hitting your throat like a firehose. You swallow it all, gulping it down, because spitting’s not an option when he's keeping your head in place. He’s sobbing, shaking, but he’s still hard.

“More—please, I can’t—nngh,” he whines, hips grinding, and you’re too deep in this shit to back out now. Your pussy’s throbbing, shorts sticking to your lips, and you hate how much you love this—his pathetic, drooling face, his cock twitching like it’s begging for more. You suck harder, bobbing down until your lips kiss his base, nose pressed against his pelvis, and he cums again—a wail so loud it echoes off the walls, cum spilling so fast you choke, swallowing frantically as it leaks past your lips, dripping onto your chest. He’s convulsing, tongue hanging out, drool soaking his suit, and when you push him to a third orgasm—relentless, sucking until he’s screaming—his cum’s so thick it clogs your throat, forcing you to gulp it down while he thrashes, babbling, “Thank you—fuck, thank you—”

You pull off with a wet, sloppy pop, spit and cum smeared across your face, chest heaving as you wipe your mouth with a shaking hand. Your face is on fire, humiliation burning hotter than the slick heat between your legs. Stephen’s a corpse—slumped against the wall, cock still leaking, face a glistening mess of sweat, drool, and tears. His eyes are half-lidded, crossed, tongue dangling, a blissed-out grin plastered on his lips like he’s been fucked into another dimension. “H-holy… s-shit…” he mumbles, voice a wrecked slur, body trembling like he’s been electrocuted.

“Get your fucking ass up,” you snarl, yanking his suit back over his dick, ignoring how it’s still twitching, still leaking. “We’ve got shit to do, and I’m not babysitting you.” Your voice is venom, but you’re shaking too—embarrassed, pissed, and so turned on you can barely think. You can’t look at him, his cum still sticky on your chin, your shorts so wet they’re obscene. He stumbles, legs like jelly, muttering, “Y-you’re… fuckin’ perfect,” and you want to punch him, but his giddy, drunk smile just makes your heart lurch.

“Move, Brown, or I’ll leave you for Ivy’s goons,” you snap, storming toward the street, but he’s trailing you, wobbling, still babbling praise like a lovesick idiot.

— MASTERLIST ☆

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤBUTTERFLY KISSㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Batboys x Fem Reader

☆⁠ SYNOPSIS : When You Give Them A Soft Peck On The Lips.

☆⁠ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Male Cassandra Cain, Male Stephanie Brown.

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

— BRUCE WAYNE ⋆

You were never one for dramatics, unlike the man currently sitting beside you. Bruce always had this ridiculous ability to make even the smallest things seem intense. Like now, as he sat on the couch in his study, one arm lazily thrown over the back, expensive whiskey in hand, looking at you like he knew every secret in the world.

You rolled your eyes. Show-off.

"You're staring," he noted, smirking.

"You look stupid," you deadpanned, crossing your arms.

Bruce chuckled, the sound deep and amused. "Mmm, that so?"

Instead of answering, you simply leaned in and pressed a quick, soft peck to his lips. Just a simple touch—barely even a second long—but when you pulled away, his smirk was gone. He blinked, looking at you like you had just flipped his entire world upside down.

Then, a slow, dangerous grin stretched across his face.

"Oh? What was that?" His voice dropped an octave, teasing yet undeniably pleased.

You shrugged, feigning innocence. "Felt like it."

Bruce hummed, setting his drink down. "You know, sweetheart, when you start something, you should always be ready to finish it."

You gasped as he suddenly pulled you onto his lap, trapping you with strong arms, his lips dangerously close to yours. "How about you try that again?"

You huffed, smacking his chest. "Cocky."

He only chuckled, leaning in. "Only for you, darling."

— DICK GRAYSON ⋆

The second your lips touched his, it was over for you.

Dick was already the human equivalent of an overly excited golden retriever, but the moment you surprised him with a soft peck on the lips? Yeah, you weren’t getting away.

"Wait—wait, no! Come back! Do that again!"

You laughed, taking a step back, but he immediately followed, his hands gently cradling your face, lips chasing yours desperately. His eyes were wide, filled with the kind of love that could melt glaciers.

"Dick, it was just a peck!" you giggled, pressing your palms against his chest to keep some distance.

He pouted—full-on, actual pouted. "But it was so nice! And soft! And perfect! Babe, please, I need more—just one more! Just—just—"

You dodged as he tried to kiss you again, laughing as he groaned dramatically. "You're so mean!" he whined, chasing after you as you playfully ducked away.

"You're so needy!"

"I'm your man, and I deserve love! Come back here!"

Eventually, he caught you—because let’s be honest, he’s a former acrobat and you were never going to escape. He tackled you onto the couch, pinning you down with his arms as he peppered your face with soft, dramatic kisses.

"You did this to yourself!" he declared, pressing another lingering kiss to your lips.

You sighed, shaking your head. "Regret. Instant regret."

"Liar," he grinned against your lips.

Yeah, okay. Maybe a little.

— JASON TODD ⋆

You should’ve expected this reaction. Really, you should have.

The second you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Jason’s lips, he short-circuited.

His entire body tensed like you had just struck him with a bolt of lightning. His breath hitched, hands tightening into fists at his sides. And when you pulled away—just slightly—his eyes were wide, pupils blown out, and—oh god, was he shaking?

"Jay?" you asked, tilting your head.

His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. He looked utterly offended by what just happened.

"Wh—Y—you—WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!"

You flinched at the sudden rise in his voice, barely holding back a giggle. "A kiss?"

"A—A KISS?!" His face was so red it was concerning. "YOU CAN'T JUST—JUST—DO THAT!"

You raised a brow. "Why not?"

Jason made a strangled noise, running both hands through his hair. "Because—because—that’s—" He groaned loudly, looking anywhere but at you, his ears burning red. "You can’t just go around kissing people like that!"

"I didn’t kiss ‘people.’ I kissed you."

Jason froze. His breath stuttered. Oh, you got him.

His mouth opened and closed again, as if he was trying to find an argument but failing miserably. Then, suddenly, he threw his hands up and groaned like a dying man.

"I hate you," he grumbled, shoving his face into his hands.

You smirked, poking his cheek. "No, you don't."

Jason peeked through his fingers, glaring. "...shut up."

But when you leaned in and kissed his cheek this time?

Yeah, his entire brain stopped working.

— DAMIAN WAYNE ⋆

You leaned in and pressed a soft peck to Damian’s lips, pulling away with a small smile.

He didn’t even blink. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t react at all.

Just stared.

Like you’d just done something as mundane as handing him a pen.

You frowned. "You didn’t even close your eyes."

Damian tilted his head slightly. "Was I supposed to?"

You blinked. "I mean... yeah? That’s how it usually works."

He was completely unaffected. "If you want me to do so next time, tell me beforehand." Then, before you could even process his words, his hand grabbed your chin, tilting your face up as he leaned in.

And kissed you again.

This time, it wasn’t just a peck. His lips were soft, warm, and lingering. Not desperate, not needy, just slow and calculated—intentional. Like he was memorizing the feel of your lips against his own.

When he finally pulled away, your brain had completely stopped working. But of course, he wasn’t done.

Damian smirked. "Would you like to tell me how to hold you next time as well? Perhaps where you like to be touched?"

You choked. "Damian—"

"Or," he continued, eyes glinting mischievously, voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip, "should I just figure it out myself?"

You shoved him, face burning, and he chuckled, looking far too smug.

— CASSIAN CAIN ⋆

Cass was quiet. Always quiet. You were used to it by now, the way he communicated in nods, soft looks, and the smallest of gestures.

Right now, he was standing beside you in the kitchen, nibbling on a cookie Alfred had made. His cheeks were puffed slightly, and his dark eyes were locked on yours, curious and observant as always.

You smiled. And, without warning, leaned in to press a soft peck to his lips.

Cass froze.

Like, completely.

His eyes widened—huge, round, confused puppy eyes—and his entire body locked up like a deer caught in headlights. You pulled back just a few inches, waiting for his reaction.

He just… kept staring.

Seconds passed. Then his face exploded in red.

He quickly looked away, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth as his shoulders curled inward. His fingers lightly touched his lips, as if checking if what just happened was real.

"Cass?" you giggled.

No response. Just more blushing.

And then—oh. Oh my god.

Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out and tugged on your sleeve like a little kid. Soft. Gentle. Seeking.

You tilted your head. "Hmm?"

He hesitated. Then, he tapped his lips with his index finger.

Your heart melted.

"You want... another one?" you whispered.

He nodded. Fast.

You cupped his cheek, pressing another kiss to his lips. This time, when you pulled away, he didn’t run or hide. He just clutched the fabric of your sleeve tighter, burying his burning face against your shoulder.

You stroked his hair, smiling. "You're adorable."

His muffled whimper told you he absolutely agreed.

— STEPHEN BROWN ⋆

The second your lips brushed against Stephen’s, you knew you messed up.

Because instead of a normal reaction, he immediately threw himself onto the ground.

"OH, CRUEL FATES! WHY DO YOU TOY WITH MY HEART SO?" he bellowed, clutching his chest like he’d just been mortally wounded.

You just blinked. "Stephen—"

"TO HAVE BEEN GRACED WITH SUCH A KISS, ONLY TO HAVE IT TAKEN AWAY SO SOON—OH, THE AGONY!"

You groaned, rubbing your temples.

He gasped dramatically, rolling onto his back. "MY LOVE, DO YOU NOT SEE? I AM BUT A HUMBLE MAN, A MERE PEASANT, UNWORTHY OF YOUR DIVINE TOUCH!"

"...Stephen—"

He pointed at the ceiling. "IF I WERE TO DIE THIS VERY NIGHT, I WOULD DIE A HAPPY MAN, KNOWING THAT I HAD ONCE TASTED HEAVEN—"

"STEPHEN."

He paused, blinking up at you innocently. "Yes, my dearest?"

You crossed your arms. "Are you done?"

He sat up immediately, grinning. "Nope! Can I have another one?"

You stared at him for a moment. Then promptly turned around and walked away.

"HEY, WAIT! DON'T GO! MY HEART CAN'T HANDLE SUCH REJECTION—COME BACK, BABE, I WAS ONLY PLAYING—"

You rolled your eyes as he literally ran after you, already preparing another ridiculous speech.

You were so done.

— MASTERLIST ☆