#1 romani stan

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 ☆

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤHER ANGELㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Genderbend au – Cassian Cain x Fem Reader

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

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

It starts with stillness.

You didn’t notice him at first—because he didn’t want to be noticed. Cassian doesn’t speak, doesn’t make a sound. But he watches.

You were kind. Not loud. Not a threat. That’s what first made him pause. People are noise to him, always broadcasting their intent with every heartbeat and twitch. But you? You didn’t broadcast danger. You didn’t make yourself bigger. You were quiet in a way that didn’t mean violence.

So, he lingered.

He’s not supposed to get attached.

Batman said so. Oracle said so. They all said so. Cassian nods when they speak, but he doesn’t follow unless it feels right in his bones.

And you feel right.

He starts following you when he’s off patrol. Silently. No footsteps. He memorizes your routine like it’s a mission. When you laugh, he flinches. When you cry, his hands clench. He doesn’t understand either, but he feels it. He doesn’t know if it’s protectiveness or something else. But it burns.

He watches more than he should.

Through windows. Across rooftops. In your shadow like he belongs there. You never feel unsafe—because he never lets you. Any time danger comes close, it’s gone before you even notice. A man following you home? He disappears. A mugger across the street? Out cold in the alley.

You start to joke with your friends. “It’s like I’ve got a guardian angel.”

Cassian hears that. He feels that. His heart does something strange and awful and warm.

He starts leaving things for you. A lost scarf. A fixed bike chain. A cup of tea from your favorite shop on a cold morning. He watches your eyes light up. You smile. You whisper, “Thank you.”

He mouths it back, even though you can’t see him.

“...Welcome.”

He doesn’t know what to call it.

He doesn’t understand what this is. But every move you make is written on your body, and he reads it like scripture. You’re beautiful, but not in the way people usually mean. You’re good. You’re real. You walk like someone who carries her own pain and doesn’t let it harden her.

Cassian is soft around you in a way he’s never been. He wants to be near. Wants to be allowed to be near. He doesn’t know how to ask.

So he stares.

You catch him one day. Rooftop. Rain. His black suit blending into the night like he’s part of it. But he doesn’t leave. He lets you see him. For the first time. You stare at each other for a long time. You don’t run. You don’t scream. You step forward.

And Cassian... he doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. You speak—soft, confused, kind.

“Are you the one watching me?”

He nods. Once. Like a silent prayer.

You should be scared. But you aren’t.

After that, he’s around more.

Not close. Not yet. But close enough that you could talk if you wanted. And you do. You start talking to him, even when he doesn’t answer. You tell him about your day. About your cat. Your classes. Your fears. Your hopes. He listens like it’s sacred.

And slowly... very slowly... he starts to answer. With signs. With the barest movements. A tilt of the head. A hand lifted in answer. One night, he writes something in the dust on your windowsill.

“SAFE?”

You nod.

He taps his chest. Then yours. Then nods.

“Safe.”

Cassian doesn’t sleep. Not really.

But when he does, he dreams of you. Not in a twisted way. Not violent. Just with you. Holding your hand. Sitting beside you. He dreams about what it might be like to speak—to tell you what you mean.

He wants to be close, but he doesn’t understand how. You smell sweet. Like flowers. But he’s scared he’ll ruin that. That the same hands that kill could never touch you without staining you.

He loves you. But he doesn’t know that’s what it is. It feels like need. Like obsession. But tender. Careful.

He’s learning.

Eventually, he touches your hand.

It takes months. Maybe a year. But one day, after you patch up a cut on his arm in silence, he just... touches your hand. Light. Hesitant. And you don’t pull away.

You say, “I missed you.”

He doesn’t say anything. But his eyes are glassy. His lip trembles.

He doesn’t talk. But if he could, he’d scream I miss you even when I’m right here. I want to be near you forever. I want to be your shadow. I want to be enough for you to love me back.

Instead, he leans his forehead against your shoulder.

And you hold him.

Cassian is obsessed.

Not in a way that hurts you. In a way that worships. In a way that learns. He doesn’t know what a boyfriend is. What a partner is. What love is. But he learns for you. Slowly. Clumsily. Lovingly.

Because even though he’s been trained to kill, to move in silence, to never ask for anything—he wants you.

And when you kiss his forehead for the first time?

He cries.

Silent. Still.

But he cries.

It begins, as always, in silence.

He is on your balcony again—half in shadow, half soaked in moonlight. The wind plays with the hem of his black cloak, but his body is still. That same tilt of the head when he watches you like you’re the only thing in the world that makes sense.

You never flinch anymore.

You don’t look surprised.

You open the window like it’s the most normal thing in the world and smile.

“Hey, angel,” you whisper.

And God—if he had a heart that worked like anyone else’s, it might stop.

He doesn’t understand why you call him that.

He doesn’t look like an angel. He’s bloodied most nights. His knuckles are bruised, dried cuts line his jaw. His hands, no matter how much he washes them, remember violence. Remember pain.

But when you say it—“angel”—your eyes go soft. Your smile goes tender.

“Mine,” you sometimes say, brushing back a strand of his hair. “My shadow. My angel.”

And he leans into your touch like it’s air, like it’s light, like it’s grace.

He still doesn’t talk. You’ve stopped expecting him to. You’ve learned his silence has weight, has texture. It’s how he tells you things.

Sometimes, he brings gifts. Not flowers or chocolates—he wouldn’t even know where to buy them. No, he brings you buttons. Trinkets. A ribbon from someone who bothered you. A feather from a rare bird. A kitten once, curled in his coat, half-dead. You cried when you held it. He just stared at you the whole time.

The kitten sleeps in your bed now. You named her Moon.

You whispered, “She’s like you. Quiet. Soft when she wants to be. But deadly.”

Cassian tilted his head. Then nodded.

He doesn’t know what school is.

You were talking once—rambling about your day while cleaning his cuts, your voice low and casual.

“Class was boring today,” you said, wiping at the gash on his shoulder. “Professor wouldn't stop talking about stupid wars—like, who cares how Napoleon died?”

You expected the usual blank silence.

Instead, he looked at you. Blinked.

Then lifted one hand. Tilted it side to side. Question.

“What?” you asked, laughing. “You don’t know who Napoleon is?”

He tilted his head again. Shrugged.

“Wait… Do you know what school is?”

Nothing. No reaction.

You stopped everything. Looked him in the eyes. “…do you know how to read?”

He looked down. Then slowly, pulled something from his belt. A folded, dirty slip of paper. It had a single word written in his jagged, childlike handwriting.

SAFE.

Your chest ached. You looked at him and saw not a vigilante, not a ghost in the night, not even a weapon.

You saw a boy.

Someone who’d never been given a childhood.

Someone who knew how to kill but not how to write his name.

You touched his hand, gentle. Like always.

“Do you want me to teach you?”

He blinked. Then nodded. Not once. Not sharp.

Slow. Like the word mattered. Like you mattered.

You start with his palm.

You don’t use pens or paper at first. No pressure. No rules. Just touch.

You trace letters into his skin with your fingertip. His hand twitches every time. He’s not used to gentleness lasting this long.

“This is A,” you whisper, dragging your finger down, then across. “Now B…”

He watches your lips when you speak. Like they hold truth.

Like he can taste knowledge just by watching you.

You guide his hand next. Hold his finger. Drag it across your open palm to form shaky letters.

He frowns when he messes up. You kiss his brow and say, “It’s okay. Try again.”

You’ve never seen him so focused. Not even in a fight.

You make flashcards next.

Simple words. Safe. Home. Name. Yours. Mine.

He stares at “Mine” for a long time.

He taps it. Then points at himself. Then at you. Then signs you with the softest hand against his heart.

Your breath catches.

He mouths something. It’s silent. You can’t hear it. But you know.

Mine.

You don’t correct him.

Your balcony becomes a classroom.

Every night, you sit with your legs crossed, flashcards in hand, and he crouches next to you like a child soaking up your light. You tell him stories—your childhood, your friends, what your teachers are like, how you used to be scared of the dark until now.

“Not anymore,” you murmur, glancing at him. “Because now I have you.”

He doesn’t smile. But he closes his eyes like your words are warmth.

One night, you wake up and find something under your pillow. A folded paper. On it, in shaky writing:

“You = Safe”

“Me = Angel”

“Mine”

You keep it in your diary.

You still haven’t kissed him. You don’t touch him unless he touches you first. You don’t ask him to stay, but you never ask him to leave. He’s not your boyfriend. He wouldn’t understand the word. But you’ve never felt more seen.

He’s learning. And every time he writes something new, he brings it to you like a child bringing a drawing to their favorite person in the world. And every time, you say the same thing:

“Perfect.”

Because to you, he is.

Cassian doesn’t understand the world.

But he understands you.

And that’s all he’s ever needed.

To watch you, to learn you, to protect you like something sacred.

He may never say it aloud.

But every step he takes, every breath he draws near you, every clumsy letter he writes in your palm—

Whispers it.

I am yours.

It happens slowly. Like dusk bleeding into night.

No lightning moment. No dramatic turning point.

Just quiet devotion blooming into something deeper.

Cassian is still silent. Still follows you in the shadows like your personal moon. Still crouches on your balcony, waiting for a look, a touch, a word from you to exist again.

But something’s shifted. You feel it.

Maybe it’s in the way he lingers longer now. Or how he watches your lips not just to learn—but to memorize. Maybe it’s in the way he holds onto every scrap of paper you write on, like holy relics, like prayers.

He started sleeping curled up by your window once. You found him there at 3AM, arm wrapped around the kitten. Shirt torn. Blood dried on his cheek.

You ran to him. He didn’t flinch.

He opened his eyes—and smiled.

Just barely. Just for you.

He starts practicing. Alone.

You don’t know this. He never tells you. But when you sleep, he stays near your fire escape. He stares at the flashcards you gave him, mouthing the letters, the words, again and again. His lips shape your name in the dark—like a secret prayer, like the answer to every question he’s never asked.

You = Safe.

You = Light.

You = Home.

One day, you catch him trying to write a sentence.

You don’t laugh. You don’t mock the messy letters or the misspelled words. You sit down next to him, and smile softly, like you always do.

You help him fix it. Guide his hand, one slow letter at a time.

By the end, it says:

“You are my safe.”

He stares at the page like it’s magic. Like he made something beautiful and didn’t know he could.

Your hands cradle his face. Your thumbs brush his cheeks.

“You’re learning so fast,” you whisper. “I’m so proud of you.”

His breath catches.

He wants to say something.

It rises in his throat like a scream he’s buried for years.

But nothing comes.

Not yet.

It happens on a rainy evening.

You were pacing, talking fast about something that upset you. School stress, maybe. A rude stranger. The weight of being alive that day.

Cassian stood by your window, watching. Silent. Still. But tense.

He didn’t know how to help. He only knew how to fight.

You noticed. You stopped.

“I’m okay,” you said softly, walking up to him. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you have to fix it. Just you being here… It helps.”

You reached up, brushing back his hair with your fingers.

“My angel.”

That word again. Yours, not his.

But he wanted it.

He wanted it to be his word, too.

You turned away. He didn’t move.

Then—quietly—barely a whisper:

“…Y/N.”

You froze.

The word was broken. Heavy. Like glass under bare feet.

But it was real.

You turned.

He looked terrified. Like he’d done something wrong.

You smiled. Your eyes filled with tears.

You walked back to him slowly, hands trembling as you reached up and cupped his cheeks.

“Say it again,” you breathed.

His lips parted.

He hesitated.

Then—

“…Y/N.”

And this time, it wasn’t about the word.

It was about you.

You kissed him.

Soft. Gentle. Like a secret between only you and the night.

His hands hovered in the air before settling on your waist. He didn’t press. Didn’t move.

He just held you.

Like that was the miracle.

That night, you taught him a new word.

"Love."

He traced it in your palm again and again.

And when you fell asleep curled in his arms, he whispered it once. Into your hair. Into the quiet.

“…Love.”

He may not understand the world.

But he understands you.

And now—

He’s learning how to say it.

You still don’t know his name.

You never ask.

Not because you’re not curious—

But because you know he doesn’t know how to give it.

He doesn’t know what names are supposed to mean. He wasn’t given one with love. His name was forged in fists, shaped in silence, beaten into bone. It's not a name he wears—it’s a weight.

And yet—

He says your name like it’s sacred.

Like it’s the only sound in the universe he wants in his mouth.

Sometimes whispered into your pillow when you’re not looking.

Sometimes scrawled onto paper over and over again in shaky letters.

You find them.

Little scraps folded in your books, tucked in your drawers:

Just your name.

Written with devotion.

Childlike. Obsessive. Sweet.

You call him angel, still.

Sometimes shadow. Sometimes pretty boy in a half-teasing tone that always makes his ears pink.

One day, you ask him softly, brushing your lips across his cheek:

“…What do I call you?”

He tilts his head. Blinks slowly. Thinks hard. Like the question is in another language.

You try again.

“Do you have a name?”

His brows furrow. He shrinks a little—just a little.

You cup his cheek and whisper, “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me.”

But then, one night, wrapped in your sheets, skin pressed to yours, after you taught him how to touch—

He gives it to you.

Not because you asked.

Because he wanted to.

Because for the first time in his life, it felt safe.

“…Cassian.”

Your breath catches.

“Cassian,” you repeat, voice warm. “That’s beautiful.”

He looks away.

“Just like everything else about you.”

And he doesn’t say anything—but his fingers curl around your wrist and his lips press to your neck, and you know he’s trying to say thank you without words.

He doesn’t know how to kiss properly.

The first time he tried to kiss you, he just pressed his forehead to yours, trembling, lost. You smiled, took his face in your hands, and showed him. Patient. Gentle. Lips brushing lips like butterfly wings. Again. And again.

He’s a fast learner.

And he’s hungry.

Not lustful—devoted. Starving to worship. To memorize every sound you make. He touches like you're a secret language he was born to learn.

Teaching him gets intimate.

You write words on his chest with your finger.

Safe. Love. You.

He trembles when your nails drag down his ribs.

You take his hand and guide it along your thigh, your collarbone, whispering body parts like vocabulary.

He mouths them in return—quietly, obediently.

“Shoulder.”

“Neck.”

“Hip.”

“…Y/N.”

“No, Cassian,” you giggle softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “That’s me, not a body part.”

He just stares, wide-eyed. Then kisses your shoulder in apology.

He worships you.

It’s in how he kneels between your thighs like you’re holy.

How he tugs your shirt up just to rest his cheek on your stomach.

How he breathes you in. Touches you like you’ll disappear.

He never wants to go further unless you guide him.

You do.

Slowly.

You teach him how to make love like you taught him how to speak—

With your hands. Your eyes. Your patience.

He follows every breath. Every arch. Every sound.

He writes love on your back in kisses.

One night, after, he lays there in silence, watching your fingers trace letters onto his palm again.

He mouths them carefully:

“B-e-l-o-n-g.”

And then, looking straight into your eyes—

He spells the last word:

“T-o Y-o-u.”

And you smile, pulling him close, your lips brushing his ear as you whisper:

“Yes, Angel. Always.”

— MASTERLIST ☆

Pairing: Adult Damian Wayne x Fem Reader

Headcanon: how would he be when he's obsessed?

Note: Notes: English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

Damian doesn’t fall in love; he descends into it with the same calculated intensity he approaches a fight. It begins innocuously—a mission gone awry, your paths crossing in Gotham’s shadowed streets. You’re a private investigator, clever enough to evade trouble yet stubborn enough to find it anyway. The first time he saves you, it isn’t out of compassion. It’s practicality. You’re in his way, a civilian caught in the web of crime and darkness that Gotham weaves around its inhabitants.

But something about you clings to him after that night. Maybe it’s the way your eyes, so defiant, didn’t flinch when he loomed over you in the Bat suit. Maybe it’s the sharpness of your tongue when you told him you didn’t need his help. For Damian, who grew up in shadows and blood, your fire is intoxicating. You aren’t a mission or a tool; you’re a puzzle, one that he can’t put down.

Damian begins to watch you. Not out of lust—not at first—but out of necessity, he tells himself. You’re reckless, and Gotham devours the reckless. He starts with the basics: tracking your movements, hacking into your phone, listening to your calls. He justifies it as protection. It’s his duty to keep you safe. After all, you wouldn’t last a week in Gotham without his silent interventions.

But it doesn’t stop there. He learns your habits—the café you frequent, the books you read, the way you twist your hair when you’re lost in thought. He doesn’t realize when protection turns into possession. All he knows is that the idea of you existing outside his control fills him with unease.

For Damian, love isn’t soft or tender. It’s consuming, an ache that claws at his chest. He’s never been good at moderation. Raised by the League of Assassins and tempered by the Bat, he only knows how to want completely or not at all. And he wants you.

It starts small—fleeting glimpses of a shadow that seems too deliberate, too familiar. You convince yourself it’s paranoia. Gotham does that to people. But then there are the gifts. A book you mentioned in passing appears on your doorstep. A necklace you admired once in a shop window finds its way into your apartment.

He tailors his interactions with you, ensuring he always appears just when you need him most. It’s a slow burn, one he orchestrates with the precision of a symphony.

But in the quiet moments, his thoughts spiral. He imagines you—laid out beneath him, vulnerable and bare, trembling as he whispers that you belong to him. He dreams of your gasps, your pleas, your moans as he claims you in ways no one else ever could. And these fantasies? They become impossible to ignore.

It’s why he starts leaving little reminders of himself in your life. His scent lingers on the gifts he leaves, his hands brushing against yours just a moment too long during your brief encounters. He needs you to feel him, even when he isn’t there.

And then there are the rescues. Every time you’re in danger, Batman is there. Too quickly, too conveniently. You’re not sure whether to feel grateful or unnerved. The way he looks at you, even through the cowl, sends shivers down your spine. His gaze lingers a moment too long, his touch steadying you when you falter but holding on just a bit too tightly.

Damian doesn’t believe in limits—not when it comes to you. When a petty criminal threatens your life, he snaps. The Bat code—his father’s code—is forgotten. He breaks the man’s arm without hesitation, the crack of bone echoing in the alley. He would’ve done more if you hadn’t screamed his name.

That’s when you realize something is deeply wrong. Batman isn’t supposed to lose control. But Damian doesn’t care. He tells you it was necessary, that Gotham doesn’t follow rules, and neither can he when it comes to you. His voice is calm, but his eyes burn with something you can’t name.

One night, you find yourself in danger again—a gang cornering you in a dark alley. By now, you expect him to come, and he does. He’s a shadow in the night, a whirlwind of brutal efficiency. But this time, when the last thug is down, he doesn’t leave. Instead, he steps toward you, towering over you in his suit, his green eyes glowing behind the mask.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous.

You snap back, angry at his audacity. “I can take care of myself!”

He’s on you in an instant, his gloved hand gripping your arm—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to show you he’s in control. “No, you can’t,” he snarls. “You’re reckless. Foolish. You don’t understand how fragile you are.”

The tension crackles like a live wire. He’s close—too close. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, the intensity of his gaze burning into yours. And then it happens: his lips crash against yours, rough and possessive, stealing the breath from your lungs.

It’s not a kiss born of tenderness but of desperation, of need. His hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against him as he devours you like a man starved. When he pulls back, his eyes are wild, his voice trembling with barely restrained desire.

“You drive me insane,” he admits, his words raw and honest. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

After that night, Damian’s control unravels. He stops holding back, his obsession consuming him entirely. He starts appearing at your apartment unannounced, stepping out of the shadows like he belongs there. And in his mind, he does.

His touches grow bolder. A hand on your lower back as he guides you through a crowd, fingers brushing against your thigh as you sit together. He delights in the way you shiver under his touch, even if you won’t admit how much you like it.

But it’s not enough. He wants all of you—your body, your mind, your heart. He begins orchestrating moments where you’ll need him: sabotaging your car so he can give you a ride, pulling strings to ensure no one else can get close to you. He wants you dependent on him, tethered to him in every possible way.

And when he finally has you—when you’re beneath him, his name a broken whisper on your lips—he feels whole for the first time in his life. He takes his time, mapping every inch of your body, leaving bruises and bites as proof of his claim. His voice is dark and velvety as he whispers in your ear, “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

He begins isolating you, subtly at first. Friends cancel plans, your phone malfunctions, and job opportunities slip through your fingers. He doesn’t trust anyone else with you—not Gotham, not its people, and certainly not your own judgment.

When you confront him, his response is chilling in its sincerity.

“Everything I’ve done is to protect you,” he says. “You think you’re safe on your own? Gotham doesn’t care about you. But I do. I always will.”

You try to leave, but Damian is always a step ahead. He knows your every move, every thought before you act on it. He doesn’t hurt you—not physically. His control is far more insidious. He makes you doubt yourself, your reality.

Eventually, you stop fighting. It’s easier that way. Damian doesn’t celebrate your surrender, but you see the satisfaction in the way his shoulders relax, the ghost of a smile on his lips when you stop flinching at his touch.

In his mind, he’s saved you. You’re safe in the gilded cage he’s built for you, even if you don’t see it that way. He tells himself you’ll come to understand, that one day you’ll thank him for his unwavering devotion.

And in the quiet moments, when his arms are around you and his voice is soft in your ear, you almost believe him.

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤCOLD SHOULDERㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Batboys x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : When You Give Them the Cold Shoulder.

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

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

— BRUCE WAYNE ⋆

Bruce doesn’t do well with emotional games—he’s a man of logic, deduction, and shadows. So when you stop talking to him, no good morning kiss, no sarcastic remark about the news over coffee, no goodbye as he leaves for a mission—you can feel the shift.

He notices instantly.

He doesn’t say anything at first. That’s the terrifying part. He just looks at you. Like he’s dissecting you. Like you’re a crime scene.

“Something wrong?” he asks, voice even, mask already half on.

You shrug and walk away.

Bruce is bothered, but he doesn’t chase. Not yet. He waits, watches. You don’t text him that night. You don’t check in. You leave the mansion before he wakes up.

By day three, you find your favorite flowers at your doorstep. A small envelope. His handwriting:

“I’m not good at this. But I care. Whatever I did—talk to me.”

He doesn’t beg. Bruce doesn’t beg. But his apology is in the way the manor seems colder without him trying to sit beside you. It’s in the quiet presence at the edge of your room, waiting for you to just look at him.

When you finally crack, he just opens his arms and says quietly, “Next time… yell at me. Don’t shut me out. I can’t fix what I don’t see.”

— DICK GRAYSON ⋆

Dick panics the second he realizes you’re giving him the cold shoulder. You’re usually so warm, so expressive—and now you’re cold? Quiet? Passive-aggressively sipping your drink and not laughing at his dumb joke?

He’s spiraling.

“Wait, what’d I do? Babe—babe, I know that look. That’s the ‘you’re dead to me’ look—what’d I do?”

You don’t answer.

He physically follows you around the apartment like a lost puppy. Tries to “accidentally” run into you in the kitchen. Holds up his phone like:

“Look. This meme? That I sent? You didn’t even react. You always react.”

By the end of the day, he’s crawling into bed beside you like a kicked dog, poking your shoulder.

“Listen. I know I messed up. I probably messed up bad. Just tell me, okay? I’ll make it up to you. Dinner, flowers, matching onesies, whatever you want. Please just talk to me again—I’m going crazy over here.”

Dick’s the kind of guy who feels the silence like a scream. He doesn’t stop until you finally crack and yell at him—and he just sighs in relief. “Thank God. You’re talking. Yell at me all you want, babe, just talk.”

— JASON TODD ⋆

Jason is... not the most emotionally mature guy in the room. So when you go quiet on him? He clocks it right away.

His first instinct is: “The hell is her problem?”

His second: “What did I do?”

His third: “…Okay, fine. Two can play that game.”

So now it’s a Cold War.

You ignore him? He ignores you harder. You roll your eyes? He scoffs. You sleep with your back to him? He “accidentally” hogs the blanket.

But here’s the thing: Jason’s bluffing. He’s miserable. He’s sitting on the fire escape chain-smoking because he’s too stubborn to just apologize first. He types out ten different “hey princess…” texts and deletes them all.

When you finally call him out—maybe you explode, maybe you just break down and say why you’re mad—Jason goes quiet. Real quiet.

Then he sighs. Pulls you into a hug.

“…I’m sorry, okay?” he mumbles into your hair. “I’m not good at the soft shit. But I love you. Don’t shut me out like that. It makes me… fuckin’ mad.”

Next time? He apologizes faster. Still grumpy about it. But faster.

— DAMIAN WAYNE ⋆

Damian refuses to acknowledge the cold shoulder at first.

You ignore him? Fine. He acts like he doesn’t care.

You roll your eyes? “Tt.”

You don’t respond to his usual sarcastic quips? “Clearly you’ve lost your sense of humor.”

But after a day or two? The cracks show.

He brings you your favorite tea and doesn’t say anything about it. Sits in your space and watches you out of the corner of his eye like a stray cat too proud to beg for food.

By day three, he’s visibly tense. The only sign of his growing unease is the way he overworks in the training room and snaps at everyone else.

Finally, he corners you. Not aggressively—but intensely. Arms crossed, lips thin, standing in your doorway like an angry little kitten.

“What did I do?” he asks, voice flat. “You’re angry. I can tell.”

He’s blunt. He doesn’t beg. But there’s a desperation in the way he hovers. When you finally tell him what hurt you, his jaw clenches. His apology is awkward but sincere.

“…I did not intend to hurt you. That was not my aim. But I apologize nonetheless.”

And then, softer: “Please don’t shut me out again. It’s… difficult to function when you are upset with me.”

Damian shows love through action. So after that? He acts. Flowers from your favorite place in the city. A sketch of you he drew at 3 a.m. A stubborn but heartfelt vow to “do better.”

Even if he still tts.

— BARRY GORDON ⋆

Barry is used to being in control—so when you go silent on him, it throws him hard.

He notices right away. And at first? He’s cocky. Teasing.

“Oh, we’re mad? What, you jealous of Supergirl again?”

You glare.

“…That was a joke.”

But when you don’t laugh—or worse, don’t even look at him—Barry starts pacing. Literally.

He’ll spend all night analyzing the conversation that led to this.

“Was it the mission? Did I interrupt you? Did I mansplain something again? God, I did, didn’t I?”

He’ll call. Text. Show up at your window. Tap the glass like a wet cat.

When you finally let him in, he talks a mile a minute.

“Okay, okay, I know I’m a jackass. I was being flirty at the gala, but that was just protocol! Diplomacy, babe! I love you!”

If you stay cold even then, he’ll finally drop the charm. Get real quiet.

“…Just tell me how to fix it. Please. I’ll do anything. Even sit through Titanic again.”

You do not want to know how fast he hugs you once you cave. Barry loves loud, but he hurts quiet.

— STEPHEN BROWN ⋆

Stephen is devastated.

He thrives off your attention. Your warmth. Your laughter. So when you suddenly go cold on him, he spirals.

First step: Denial.

“Ha ha… you’re just messing with me, right?”

You aren’t.

Second step: Drama.

“Okay, okay, is this about the glitter incident? Because in my defense, I thought it was washable—”

Still silence.

Third step: Crybaby.

He lays on the floor. Arm draped over his face.

“God is punishing me.”

Stephen texts you like:

💔

why have u forsaken me

[voice memo of him singing “All By Myself” into a fan]

Eventually, though, the jokes fade. He gets quiet. You find him on the fire escape, legs dangling, hoodie over his head.

“…I hate this,” he mutters when you finally approach. “Not knowing what I did. Not being able to fix it. You not… being you with me.”

He sniffs, trying to play it off.

“I know I’m a dumbass sometimes. But I swear I love you. Like, a lot. Like, "I’d let you kick me" love you.”

Once you forgive him? He clings.

“Never do that again,” he whispers into your neck. “Cold Shoulder You is my least favorite version.”

Also, you catch him journaling later:

“Today I almost died. Emotionally. Y/n was mad. But I survived. Barely.”

— CASSIAN CAIN ⋆

“…”

He doesn’t know what to do.

Cassian isn’t just a man of few words. He’s a man of zero words when it comes to emotional conflict.

So when you go cold—when your body shifts slightly away, when your eyes don’t meet his—he notices immediately.

It hits him like a blow. He feels it in the air.

And he panics. Internally. But outside, he’s just still.

He brings you small things. Your favorite candy on the counter. A neatly folded blanket on your side of the couch. No words. Just… presence.

He’ll sit nearby but not touch you. He doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

Eventually, he hands you a note. Folded. With his childish, naive handwriting:

“I did not mean to hurt you. Please tell me how to fix it.”

When you do finally speak, even if it’s angry or tearful or sharp—he listens. Soaks it in. His head bowed, his expression focused, like every syllable is precious.

He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t justify. Just nods with teary eyes.

And later that night, he says it for real. Quiet. Low.

“…sorry.”

Cassian doesn’t need words to show he loves you—but when he does speak, he means it with his entire soul.

— TERRY MCGINNIS ⋆

Terry’s first thought when you start giving him the cold shoulder is: “Oh god. Not again.”

Because he’s used to things going wrong. He’s used to messing things up. He has that subconscious fear that everything good in his life is temporary, especially you.

So when you stop responding to his texts, or start leaving the room when he walks in, he goes into lowkey panic mode—but tries to play it cool.

He’ll hover. Try to act casual. Lean on your doorway like he isn’t dying inside.

“You good?” he asks.

You nod.

“…Right. That’s convincing.”

He won’t push. He’s too scared you’ll say it’s over.

But one night, he shows up at your place in the Batsuit. Mask off, hair a mess, eyes tired.

“You don’t have to forgive me right away. But just tell me what I did. Please.”

There’s a vulnerability in Terry that breaks your heart. Once you finally talk, he holds your face like you’re glass.

“I’ll fix it. I swear to God, I’ll fix it.”

— MASTERLIST ☆

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤSWEET BUNNYㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Yandere Batboys x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How Would They Be With A Timid And Shy Darling?

☆⁠ CHARACTERS : Terry McGinnis, Male Barbara Gordon, Male Cassandra Cain, Male Stephanie Brown.

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

— TERRY MCGINNIS ⋆

Terry didn’t mean to be so intense at first. Really. He’s not stupid. He knows how someone like you reacts to pressure—flinching, avoiding eye contact, your voice shrinking to a whisper. You’re like a rabbit, all soft eyes and delicate limbs, startled by shadows and loud sounds. The first time he met you, he spoke too fast and you nodded like a malfunctioning bobblehead. He realized then… he kind of liked it. A lot.

He starts showing up at your classes. Your job. The coffee shop you go to every Sunday. At first, you think it’s coincidence. Terry’s good at playing it cool—until he’s not.

“Did you eat today?” he asks, appearing behind you like a bat out of hell, making you squeak and clutch your bag like it’s a shield. He loves the way you mumble and look down, like saying “yes” to him is some sacred act. It makes him want to crush you to his chest and snarl at anyone who looks.

He gets pissed if people speak over you. He’ll bark, “Let her talk,” and you’ll freeze, eyes wide. But then he turns to you with a gentler voice, like you’re a bird on his palm. “Go on, sweetheart.”

Terry’s love becomes possessive, protective, territorial. He walks you home, no questions asked. He memorizes your schedule and makes sure no one bothers you. And when you shyly thank him, face burning, his ears go red. “Don’t thank me. You’re mine.”

You start finding little gifts in your locker. Silently. No notes. Just a protein bar if you skipped lunch. A plushie he swears he didn’t win at the arcade for you (he did). A hoodie you’ll drown in. All smelling like him.

He dreams of you clinging to him like a koala and calling him “T-Terry…” in a shaky voice. He won’t admit it, but he fantasizes about you crying and needing him—and only him.

— BARRY GORDON ⋆

Barry’s a talker. You’re not. That’s exactly why he’s obsessed.

You’re his little mystery. His shy angel. The girl who can’t meet his eyes for longer than three seconds before darting away, cheeks aflame. He’s addicted to pulling those reactions out of you—those nervous laughs, the way your fingers twist in your sleeves, the way your eyes widen when he compliments you in public.

“God, you’re cute when you’re nervous,” he whispers once, just to see what happens. You nearly trip over your own feet. He has to bite his fist not to squeal. He wants to eat you. Wrap you in his arms and whisper dirty things until you melt.

He texts you every day—paragraphs. He wants to know everything. He asks if you’re okay, if you ate, what music you like, what book you’re reading. He’ll tell you about his day too. He gets a little panicky if you take too long to respond. “Sorry if I’m being too much!” he types. He’s not. He knows he’s not. You like it. Right?

When you stammer his name—“B-Barry…”—he physically twitches. The first time you gently touched his arm, he couldn’t sleep for three days.

When you’re scared or overwhelmed, Barry talks you through it like a therapist. “Breathe with me, sunshine. In, out. That’s it. You’re safe. You’re with me.”