My name is Tea, otherwise known as, Marshie. I am an avid fanfic enthusiast and writer of fanfics. I have many different interests and fandoms as you will see on this blog. I mainly just write whatever I feel like at the moment. There will be some mentions of NSFW and 18+ content on this blog as well. Content and trigger warnings will be provided as needed on these types of fics.
My ask box is closed unless stated otherwise. I have way too many asks and headcanons to write at the moment so I had to close my ask box. Thank you for understanding.
Who I will write for: Batboys, Bucky Barnes, Bob Reynolds, Steve Rogers, Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Fred and George Weasley, The Marauders, Ron Weasley.
Good Girl, You Did So Good | Soft Dom! Jason Todd x Fem! Reader
suggestive content, mdni
Jason’s dominance has never been about power; it’s always been about safety. He doesn’t want to overwhelm you, he wants to steady you, to be the anchor you can melt into. He can undo you with nothing but your name in that low, steady voice, the one that feels like it’s holding you together even when you’re already falling apart. He guides more than he commands, murmuring soft instructions that sound less like orders and more like promises he fully intends to keep. “C’mere, baby.” “Breathe with me.” “Eyes up.” Every word is a hand at the small of your back, nudging you gently toward the calm of his voice.
He’s gentle but firm, carrying that perfect mix of I won’t let anything hurt you and you’re going to listen when I tell you to slow down. You test him once, and he only sighs, smiling into your hair like he knows you too well to take it seriously. “You done, sweetheart?” He never needs to raise his voice. The calm he keeps it in does all the work for him.
And he praises everything. “There you go.” “That’s it, baby, just like that.” “You’re doing so good for me.” The words come out rough and reverent every time, as if he means every syllable because he genuinely does. Even when he’s taking control, his touch always asks first: a hand at your jaw, a thumb brushing your lower lip, the quietest, “You good?” before anything continues.
Most of Jason’s dominant moments aren’t about heat at all, they’re born from worry. When you overwork yourself, when you haven’t slept, when he can see the spiral starting behind your eyes, that’s when he steps in. “Hey. Enough. You need rest. I’ve got you.” Somehow it never sounds like an order. It sounds like permission to finally stop pushing.
Grounding is where he shines. His weight pressed against you, his voice warm and low in your ear, his palm steady over your heartbeat, he can pull you back to earth with nothing but a breath. Even if you’re shaking apart, he’s right there murmuring, “Breathe, doll. In through your nose… there you go.”
Reassurance is his love language. He doesn’t want control for control’s sake; he wants you to trust that you can let go with him, that you don’t have to hold yourself up all the time. And when you once asked him what he gets out of being the steady one, he gave you that rare soft smile, the boyish one that never quite reaches his scars. “You don’t get it, sweetheart,” he said quietly. “It’s not about control. It’s about taking care of what’s mine.”
thoughts/hcs on batboys shielding you from strobe lights at a concert
for context: my friends and i went to a multi-act concert last night and one band had horrible lights and my friends werent near me and my sunglasses were awful so i just sat there and took it
have a good weekend <3
Hey, I’ve Got You, Just Look At Me | Batboys x Reader
when strobe lights start flashing and they instinctively shield you
Thank you for the ask, anon! I hope you enjoy! This was really fun to write.
Dick Grayson
- He’s the first to notice. Always.
One second you’re smiling up at the stage, the next your body language shifts, shoulders tense, your eyes dart, your breathing falters.
- Before the first strobe even hits full blast, Dick’s hand is on your back.
- He moves like he’s done this a hundred times, spins you toward him, gently cups your face, shielding your eyes with one hand while using the other to guide you out of the flashing lights.
- His voice goes soft and low, the way it does when he’s calming civilians after a mission.
“You’re safe. Don’t worry about the crowd, I’ve got you.”
- Once you’re outside, he’ll stand behind you, hands rubbing slow circles over your shoulders until you can breathe again.
He never makes you feel like a burden, just safe.
- Later, he’ll joke softly, “Guess I’m your human sunglasses now,” but his hand won’t leave yours the rest of the night.
Jason Todd
- Jason doesn’t even think.
The second those strobe lights start flashing, his whole body goes into protective mode.
He steps in front of you, broad shoulders blocking as much light as possible, arm automatically coming around your waist.
- “Hey, look at me, yeah?”
His tone shifts instantly, from teasing and relaxed to gentle.
He’ll use his hand to cover your eyes, thumb tracing lightly against your cheek.
- You can hear the rough edge of worry in his voice, even as he tries to keep it calm.
“It’s alright, baby. We’re gonna get out of here, okay? Just hold on.”
- He moves through the crowd like it’s second nature, guiding you, shielding your head when people push past, never once letting go.
Outside, once the noise fades, he tips your chin up to check your eyes, murmuring,
“You should’ve told me, sweetheart.”, and you whisper back, “Didn’t wanna ruin the night.” He huffs a laugh, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You are the night. The concert can wait.”
Tim Drake
- He’d known beforehand. You’d mentioned sensitivity to lights once in passing, and he filed it away.
- So when the concert starts, Tim’s already standing a little closer, between you and the stage, scanning the lighting rig like he’s analyzing enemy tech.
- When the first strobe hits, his jacket’s off in half a second.
He lifts it up, wrapping it loosely around your head and shoulders, whispering,
“It’s okay, it’s just a light cue. We’re gonna move toward the back.”
- He keeps a steady hand at the small of your back, murmuring quiet reassurances every few steps so you can focus on his voice.
- Once you’re out of the flashing area, he offers you water and that soft, steady gaze he gets when he’s grounding himself for you.
“You’re alright. You did everything right. Want to stay out here, or head home?”
- You never have to explain twice with him, he’s already built an entire mental plan to keep you safe before you even finish the sentence.
Damian Wayne
- Damian doesn’t say anything at first, he just moves.
You flinch as the strobe hits, and in one smooth motion, he steps in front of you, arm curving protectively around your shoulders, cloak-style.
- He turns slightly, positioning his body between you and the lights, his hand coming up to cup your face and block your vision.
“Keep your eyes closed, beloved. Breathe with me.”
- His voice is low, almost a growl, the kind that makes people instinctively move out of his way. He’ll guide you calmly but firmly through the crowd until you’re somewhere dimmer, quieter.
- Once you’re safe, he’ll remove his jacket and drape it over you like armor.
There’s no teasing, no embarrassment, just quiet respect.
“You needn’t apologize,” he says when you start to.
“Your comfort is not an inconvenience. It’s my responsibility.”
- Later, when you tease him about how fast he reacted, he simply smirks.
“You think I wouldn’t defend you from light itself?”
Bruce Wayne
Because of course he noticed the moment your eyes squinted at the first flicker. Just one quiet word: “Come on.” And suddenly you’re in a quiet VIP box with dim lighting, a blanket, and noise-cancelling headphones that appeared from somewhere.
Damian Wayne x Scarlet Witch! Reader | First Kisses and Relationship Headcanons
First Kiss Headcanons
- Damian pretends he has everything under control, but the truth is he thinks about kissing you way more than he should. Every time your magic flares soft pink around him, he forgets how to breathe.
- The kiss happens after a mission, the kind where both of you should’ve died but didn’t. You’re standing so close your chaos aura brushes his armor, and he snaps,
“Do not frighten me like that again.”
- You laugh gently, brushing dust off his cheek. The touch is so tender he freezes. You whisper, “You could’ve died too, Dami.”
- That does it. He cups your jaw firmly but carefully, eyes scanning your face like he’s memorizing every detail.
“I will not lose you,” he says softly, and then he kisses you.
- The kiss is slow but intense, controlled but burning underneath. Your magic flickers outward in soft red sparks that float around you both.
- When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathless. He whispers, almost embarrassed,
“I… hope that was acceptable.”
You kiss him again before he can start overthinking.
- He pretends he initiated it with full strategic planning, but everyone knows it was pure emotion, especially the way he keeps touching his lips afterward like he can still feel you there.
Fluffy Relationship Headcanons
- Damian acts like he’s stoic, but he becomes a complete softie for you in tiny, secret ways. He always stands one step closer than necessary, his hand brushing yours like a silent question.
- You like to conjure tiny floating red orbs to entertain Titus. Damian watches with hidden amusement, pretending he’s reading while actually admiring you the whole time.
- Sometimes your magic reacts to how much you love him, warm spirals of red drifting around his shoulders when he hugs you. He won’t admit it, but he feels safest wrapped in your aura.
- Damian draws you all the time: your eyes, your hands, the way your magic curls around your fingers. He locks the sketchbook immediately if you walk into the room.
- When you can’t sleep, he lets you curl into him while he reads. His voice is low and soothing as he reads aloud, one hand stroking through your hair.
- He secretly loves when you steal his hoodies. He always pretends to complain, “Beloved, you have your own clothes.”, but the way his cheeks soften gives him away.
- The first time you conjure a little spell just to give him a warm kiss on the cheek from afar, he stops mid-training session, blushes violently, and mutters,
“…unfair.”
You do it more after that.
- He is incredibly protective, but not possessive. He walks beside you with that silent “touch them and you die” confidence, fingers brushing yours like a promise.
- When you get overwhelmed by your magic, Damian sits with you quietly, grounding you with small touches. He never tries to suppress your power, only to make sure you never feel alone with it.
- Dick once caught you two napping on the couch, Damian curled against you with his head on your shoulder, your magic swirling around you like a soft red blanket. Damian threatened him for the photo. Dick kept it anyway.
hiiii!!! i absolutely love all your posts like hello?? why are all of them amazing???
anyways can i request a fic when the batboys have their "when you know you know" moment with the reader like they just know they've met the love of their life and they are never leaving and everything in their life finally makes sense?
thank you, i hope you have a awesome week ahead!! :))
When You Know, You Know | Batboys x Reader
Thank you for the ask and for your kind words, anon! I hope you enjoy!
Dick Grayson
It happens in the middle of laughter one of those nights where you’re both too tired to be awake but too happy to sleep. You’re sitting cross-legged on his kitchen counter at 2 a.m., eating cereal straight from the box while Dick tries to tell a story he can’t get through without cracking himself up. And somewhere between your snort and the way you try to catch the piece of cereal you dropped, he just… stops. The world goes quiet. His eyes trace the smile lines on your face, the softness in your voice when you tease him, the way the fridge light turns your skin golden. And it clicks, no fanfare, no thunderclap, just warmth. Just rightness. He leans against the counter, watching you talk, heart thudding like it’s finally keeping the right rhythm. Oh. It’s you. Later, he’ll tell Wally about it, shrugging with that familiar grin as he says, “I didn’t fall. I just… landed exactly where I was supposed to.”
Jason Todd
For Jason, it happens in silence, when you’re not looking. He never thought “peace” would be something he’d get to keep, not after everything he’s lived through: death, rage, rebuilding himself out of broken pieces. But then there’s you. You’re beside him on the fire escape with a blanket draped over both your shoulders, city lights reflected in your eyes. You’re not talking; you’re just there, breathing, present. And somehow that silence isn’t heavy. It’s full. It’s calm. You tilt your head back to look at the stars and smile, and something inside his chest finally uncoils. The noise that’s lived in him for years, the static, the fight, the guilt… it fades. It’s like the world exhales for the first time, and so does he. This is what home feels like. He doesn’t say a word; he just takes your hand, brushing his thumb over your knuckles, thinking, I’m not losing this. Not again. Not ever.
Tim Drake
With Tim, it happens when you steady him. You can see the spiral before he does, the way he’s typing too fast, muttering half-finished sentences about cases and data and people who “don’t understand.” You step in front of his desk and gently close his laptop. “Tim,” you murmur, soft but certain, “breathe.” He looks up, startled, and then your hand is on his wrist. The room goes still. He inhales. You don’t lecture him, don’t try to fix anything; you just stay with him until the tension drains out of his shoulders and he can hear his heartbeat again. And that’s when it hits. You don’t pull him out of his world, you enter it. You see him exhausted and overworked and you don’t leave. The part of him that always expects people to give up goes quiet. She’s not going anywhere. She’s mine, and I’m hers, and I don’t have to explain a damn thing. He doesn’t say it aloud. He just leans forward, rests his forehead against yours, and whispers, “You make it all make sense.”
Damian Wayne
For Damian, it happens in the middle of chaos. He’s bleeding and you’re furious shouting on a rooftop, your voice sharp with fear and his sharp with stubborn pride. “You could’ve died, Damian!” “And yet, I didn’t!” You throw your hands up and pace, cape torn behind him, jaw set. But when you turn back, your eyes aren’t angry, they’re terrified. Not of him. For him. And that’s when it hits. You’re shaking, voice cracking as you step closer and cup his face despite the blood. “You can’t keep doing this like your life doesn’t matter.” Damian, who has carried legacy and perfection like armor, just… stops. No one’s ever said it like that before. Like he matters, not his name, not his lineage, him. His throat tightens, and for once, the words don’t come. This is what love is, fierce, unrelenting, human. He exhales shakily and brings his hands up over yours. “It matters to you.” “Of course it does.” “…Then I’ll try.” In that small, breaking promise, he knows.
Batboys x Fem! Reader | Social Media AU! Fan Edits
Dick Grayson
Dick’s edit always looks like a sun-kissed memory, soft lighting, warm gold tones, and those POV moments where he can’t stop looking at you instead of the camera. Fans lose it over the clip of him lifting you during a TikTok challenge, the blurry gym footage where he wraps his arms around your waist like it’s second nature, and the intimate video of you tracing the faint acrobat scars on his back while he tries not to melt. Every transition hits right as he grins and leans in to kiss your cheek. The text overlays read like love notes, “he looks at her like she hung the moon”, “dick grayson boyfriend behavior compilation”, and the comments are just people collectively sobbing over how his eyes soften whenever you speak. It’s the kind of edit that screams: this man is done for.
Jason Todd
Jason’s edits are pure chaos and devotion wrapped in heavy contrast and red-black aesthetics. The audio hits slow and gritty as the first clip shows him pushing a camera away from your face with that “touch her and die” expression. Fans eat up the moment he drapes his jacket over your shoulders at a concert, the viral video where he throws you over his shoulder like you’re weightless, and that club clip where he glares at someone off-camera with murder in his eyes. But the edit always ends soft, slow-mo of him kissing your temple like you’re the only thing that calms him down. Text overlays like “he says he’s not jealous but 👀” and “touch her and die.” have the comments screaming about how he’s not toxic, just insanely protective. Jason Todd: the man, the myth, the chaotic simp.
Tim Drake
Tim’s edits feel like late-night whispers and soft blue aesthetics, paired with music that makes everything look like a dream. Fans love the clip where he’s typing something important but keeps smiling because you’re talking off-camera, and they collectively combust over the shot of you wearing his hoodie while curled up on his lap. There’s a blurry 3am clip of him wrapping a blanket around you while half-asleep, and footage of him pushing his glasses up just to look at you like you’re some rare, perfect discovery. People especially adore the event clip where he rests his head on your shoulder without even realizing cameras are around. The overlays, “he loves her in a quiet way” and “the boy who chose her every time”, perfectly capture that soft-obsession romance his fans swear he embodies.
Damian Wayne
Damian’s edits always have a dark green and black palette, layered with poetic text and surprisingly tender moments he tries (and fails) to hide. The clips start with him offering you his coat while pretending it’s not because he’s worried, then cut to paparazzi footage of him opening the car door for you like a gentleman raised on honor. Fans replay the moment you brush his hair out of his face and he actually blushes, and the clip of him calmly feeding Titus while you lean against his shoulder is considered sacred. But what always sends viewers feral is the rare video of him smiling genuinely, softly at you. Overlays like “he acts cold but she is his softness” and “her knight in black armor.” have the comments screaming in all caps because Damian Wayne? Smiling? For a girl? Unheard of.
Bruce Wayne
Bruce’s edits look straight out of a million-dollar commercial, grayscale, expensive slow-mo, paparazzi shots stitched into something almost cinematic. The first clip is always him placing a steady hand on your lower back while guiding you past reporters, followed by that moment he shrugs off his suit jacket the second you shiver. There’s footage from a charity gala where he whispers something that makes you laugh, and fans swoon at the under-the-table hand-holding that cameras weren’t supposed to catch. But the shot that breaks the internet every time is at a press conference: you glance at him, and he looks back like you’re the only person in the entire room. The overlays, “the billionaire who only softens for her” and “protective but subtle.”, perfectly match the comment section insisting he’s “husband-coded” and that Bruce Wayne in love hits different.
Damian approaches No Nut November with the same intensity he applies to sword drills and meditation routines, to him, it’s simply another exercise in discipline. “A month? That is nothing,” he says with unshakable confidence, and he means it. He sails through the days without flinching or even acknowledging the challenge, acting almost irritated when you tease him because he genuinely forgets he’s participating. He wears his success like a badge of superiority… right up until December 1st arrives. The clock hits midnight, and suddenly he’s dragging you off with all the pent-up restraint of a man who absolutely did not forget after all. Longest lasting, zero struggle, zero fun. A menace in every way.
Bruce Wayne
Bruce treats No Nut November the same way he treats League asceticism, monk vows, and the general emotional repression that comes with being Gotham’s most brooding billionaire. It’s child’s play to him. He can get through the entire month with the same dead-eyed, board-meeting focus he uses when listening to quarterly earnings reports. When you try to tempt him, he only smirks in that infuriating “you’re adorable for trying” way that makes it worse. He’s unshakeable right up until the moment the calendar flips, and then December 1st becomes a whole different kind of problem for both of you.
Tim Drake
Tim starts No Nut November with confidence, enthusiasm, and an entire spreadsheet to track moods, triggers, and progress. Day 1 goes fine. Day 2 brings mild irritation. By Day 3 he’s avoiding direct eye contact with you like you’re a living landmine. Day 4 has him flustered beyond belief, hoodie up, headphones on, desperately burying himself in multitasking with fourteen open tabs just to stay distracted. By Day 5, when you softly say, “Tim?” he chokes on air and practically begs you not to look at him… and fails twelve seconds later. He lasts longer than expected but still spectacularly crashes.
Dick Grayson
Dick enters No Nut November with the bright, fearless optimism of a golden retriever in gym shorts. Day 1, he beams confidently. Day 2, he’s fidgeting like you put him in time-out. By Day 3, all you have to do is stretch, once, lightly, and he folds like origami under a ceiling fan. The moment he loses, he becomes tragically dramatic about it, insisting it’s absolutely your fault. “You KNOW what you were doing!” he groans, as if he wasn’t already halfway undone by just the way you walked into the room. He goes down early and without a single regret.
Jason Todd
Jason has only two possible modes during NNN, and they are violently opposite. In Mode One, immediate failure, you so much as breathe near him and he’s toast. One step too close, one look too long, and he’s already muttering, “You knew exactly what you were doing.” In Mode Two, spite mode, it all starts with Dick saying something stupid like, “Bet you can’t last a week.” Suddenly Jason’s stubborn streak activates like a superpower, and he becomes iron-willed, avoiding you entirely like you’re a weapon designed for his downfall. If he makes it to the end, he’s smug and triumphant… right up until midnight hits and all that restraint snaps at once. He’s either unbeatable or hilariously weak. No in-between.
Bucky’s dominance never comes from raising his voice, it’s the opposite. It’s the calm, low command that slips into his tone whenever you push just a little too far. The second you tease him, he steps closer, his presence alone enough to shut down the room around you. “Come here,” he murmurs, eyes steady on yours. When you hesitate, even for a breath, his jaw tightens and his voice drops to something dark and soft. “Sweetheart… don’t make me ask twice.” The moment you move toward him, he guides you in with a hand at the small of your back, pulling you flush against him like you belong there. “Good girl,” he hums against your ear, approval rolling off him in waves. “See? Listening looks good on you.”
Hands Behind Your Back
Bucky loves control in the most effortless way, the kind where he doesn’t force, he guides. When you reach for him without permission, he catches both of your wrists in one hand, holding them with a firmness that steals your breath. “Not yet,” he says, stepping into your space. He moves your hands behind your back, his metal fingers locking around your wrists in a hold you know you could slip out of… but you don’t. “There,” he praises, eyes flicking over your face like he’s memorizing every reaction. “Look at me.” When you meet his gaze, his expression softens into something proud and possessive. “That’s my girl.”
Use Your Words
Bucky refuses to let you get away with silent begging. When you tug on his shirt or reach for him without speaking, he catches your chin between his fingers and lifts your face until you have no choice but to look at him. “No games,” he says, voice velvet-wrapped steel. You try again, shy and flustered, but he just shakes his head slowly, thumb brushing your lip. “You know what I want to hear.” The moment you whisper what you need, something shifts in him, heat, hunger, satisfaction all flickering through his eyes. His voice drops to a murmur meant only for you. “Good girl. That’s it. Use your words for me.”
If You Want My Attention, You Come to Me
When you try to play hard to get, walking past him, ignoring him, pretending not to want him, Bucky doesn’t chase. He blocks your path instead, stepping in front of you with that slow, deliberate dominance that sends your stomach flipping. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, voice silky but firm. You mutter something about being busy, and he gives you a look that says he can see straight through you. His hands find your waist, guiding you backward until your shoulders brush the wall. His face is inches from yours, breath soft against your lips. “If you want my attention,” he murmurs, voice dripping command, “you come to me. Understand?” And when you nod, he smiles like he knew you would.
Say Please
Bucky makes you ask properly, always. When you reach for him, when you ask for something, when you need him closer, he just arches a brow and waits. “Ask correctly,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. You roll your eyes. You sigh. You try to argue. But he only steps closer, voice dropping to that tone that melts the air around you. “No,” he murmurs, gaze fixed on your lips. “Say please.” The moment the word leaves your mouth, he hums in approval, hand sliding to your jaw in a touch both firm and gentle. “Good girl,” he whispers, satisfaction warm and addictive. “Now you can have what you want.”
I Don’t Need to Hold You Down. You Stay Because You Want To.
Bucky loves crowding you with his body, not pinning you, not trapping you, just standing close enough that the world narrows to him. When he boxes you in against the counter with his hands braced on either side of you, you expect him to grab your wrists or hold you still. Instead, he steps back an inch, eyes heavy with heat, and challenges, “If you want me… come get me.” You barely think before you move toward him, like gravity itself pulls you back into his orbit. His smirk is slow and wicked as he strokes his knuckle along your jaw. “See?” he murmurs. “I don’t need to hold you down. You stay exactly where I want you because you want to.”
Look at Me When You’re Being Good
Bucky’s favorite thing in the world is when you follow his instructions perfectly. When he finds you waiting exactly where he told you to, still, patient, eyes soft, something in him softens and sharpens at the same time. He crooks a finger, calling you forward with effortless authority. “Come here.” When you stop in front of him, he tilts your chin up with his thumb, guiding your gaze to his. “Look at me when you’re being good,” he murmurs, voice low and warm. The pride in his eyes could melt steel. “There she is,” he whispers, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “My girl.”
Everyone Can See You’re Mine | Jason Todd x Reader
The music was loud, lights flashing across the living room, and somehow you’d gotten pulled into a conversation with someone from work. Jason stayed close, but you didn’t notice at first, too busy laughing and gesturing.
Then you felt it: a firm hand pressing to the small of your back, guiding you just slightly closer to him. He leaned in, voice low enough that only you could hear over the music.
“Keep your eyes on me,” he murmured, a teasing warning in his tone.
You rolled your eyes, smiling, but he didn’t let go. His thumb brushed lightly along your side, subtle enough no one else would notice, but enough to make your stomach flip.
The guy you were talking to said something, trying to make you laugh again, and Jason’s other hand found your wrist. Not forceful, just possessive. “Cute, but you’re with me,” he said softly, jaw brushing the top of your hair. You bit your lip to hide a laugh.
He didn’t smirk, didn’t grin like usual. Just that low, steady gaze, the one that made everyone in the room feel like they weren’t supposed to look at you. “You’re mine, and everyone can see it,” he whispered, voice warm and grounding.
When you finally turned to him, he leaned close, just enough for your foreheads to touch. The world faded, the music, the lights, the crowd, and you were just there, pressed against Jason, safe, claimed, and completely aware of it. He pressed a quick kiss to your temple, hand still resting possessively on your back, murmuring, “Don’t worry about anyone else tonight. You’re with me.” And somehow, that was all you needed.
Jason touches you like he’s learning you by heart, slow, intentional, and with a warmth that makes your breath catch. In bed, when the lights are low and the world feels far away, his hands become the softest form of longing. His palms skim your sides in unhurried paths, fingers tracing the curve of your waist or the soft line of your ribs as though they’re his favorite places to rest. Every gentle stroke feels like a silent confession he’s too shy to speak. He doesn’t grope or grab, he explores. His touch is reverent, almost fragile, like he’s savoring every inch of closeness he’s lucky enough to have. And when you shift under him, when you gasp or let out the smallest sound, he pauses, not to stop, but to smirk against your skin. A low, quiet “You like that?” slips from him, half-tease, half-hum, before his hand resumes its lazy, devastating path.
Jason Loving You on His Chest
Jason pretends it’s about comfort, that he just likes having you close, but the truth is, having you sprawled across his chest sends a slow-burning warmth through him that he can’t hide. Your breath ghosts over his collarbone, your fingers absentmindedly brushing his skin or tugging at the edge of his shirt, and every tiny shift you make drives him insane in the softest way. His hands find you without thinking: one resting at the small of your back, the other tracing invisible shapes on your spine with a tenderness he never shows anyone else. When you nuzzle closer or sigh contentedly, his chest rises with a quiet, shaky breath he hopes you don’t notice. Sometimes he dips his head to press a kiss to your forehead, slow, lingering, full of unspoken things. Other times, his voice drops to a low rumble as he murmurs, “Stay right here… don’t go.” And the way he holds you tighter tells you everything he won’t say out loud: that being beneath your weight, surrounded by your warmth, might be the safest he’s ever felt.
Jason’s gone for the night, and when you crawl into bed, something’s waiting on your pillow, your round, plush Red Hood. He’s wearing one of Jason’s fingerless gloves like a blanket, smelling faintly of his cologne.
There’s a note under it:
“He’s got attitude, but he’ll hold you till I get back. , J.”
You smile, hugging the plush tight. When Jason finally comes home at 3 a.m., he finds you asleep with the chubby little Fatson plush tucked under your chin.
He grins quietly, brushing your hair aside and murmuring, “Glad he’s pulling his weight.”
You wake up and the Fatson plush is gone. Again. You stumble into the kitchen to find Jason at the counter, mug in one hand, your plush in the other. He’s got it propped up against his bicep like a tiny sidekick. “Jay,” you sigh, “why are you holding him hostage?” Jason glances down at the plush. “He said he needed caffeine.” You raise a brow. “He doesn’t even have a mouth.” Jason takes a sip of coffee, totally unbothered. “Didn’t stop me.” You cross your arms, pretending to glare. “Give him back.” He smirks, hooks an arm around your waist, and pulls you in. “Fine. Trade you…plush for a kiss.”
You wake up in the middle of the night and find Jason sitting at the edge of the bed, shoulders tense, the Fatson plush resting on his knee. His thumb traces the little vinyl helmet absently. “Hey,” you whisper. “Couldn’t sleep?” He shakes his head. “Didn’t wanna wake you.” You just pat the spot beside you. “Then bring him over.” Jason chuckles softly but climbs back in, setting the plush between you both. You tuck your head against his chest. “See? He’s good luck.” Jason kisses your hair, voice low and rough with affection. “Maybe he is. Still think the real thing’s cuter, though.”
- He’s hopelessly impressed by you, even when he pretends he’s not. Dick watches you slip out of his apartment window like it’s your natural habitat, one foot on the sill, suit clinging to you, mask half-up in that playful way that drives him crazy. He goes, “Careful out there, sweetheart,” but he’s leaning on his elbows, chin propped in his hand, obviously admiring the view. When you swing back in later, landing right beside him with your typical spider-grace, he gives you that boyish smile that melts half of Gotham. “Miss me?” you tease. He grins wider. “Always.”
- He could watch you web-swing for hours, and honestly? He has. Nightwing will never admit how often he stops mid-patrol just to look up and watch you arc through the skyline, silhouetted against neon lights and moon glow. He’ll pretend it’s tactical, saying things like, “I’m checking your route,” or “I’m making sure your grip technique is safe.” But then you drop down on a webline, hanging upside down to kiss his cheek, and his whole face lights up like a lovestruck puppy. “You gotta warn me when you do that,” he laughs, even though he very clearly loves it.
- He’s obsessed with your spider-sense, even though it exposes him constantly. You catch everything the keys he tosses too casually, the villain sneaking up behind you two, the snack he tries to steal off your plate. And every time, Dick just stares at you with that half-smile, half-scandalized expression. “You are cheating,” he’ll whine dramatically. When you tug him out of danger a second before a trap goes off, he presses a hand over his heart and gives you a breathless grin. “Okay, fine. It’s hot. But still cheating.”
- He treats your webs like your own personal way of flirting with him. When you lazily flick a web at him across the living room to pull him closer, he pretends to be offended by crossing his arms, making dramatic noises of protest. But he always steps right into your space, letting you reel him in like you’re the only person he wants to be close to. “You know,” he murmurs with a smirk, fingers slipping around your waist, “you could just ask me to come here.” But he secretly loves it, he loves that little spark of ownership and playfulness only you two share.
- He absolutely melts when you save him, even though he plays it off with jokes. Dick can handle himself, but when you swoop in and pull him away from danger, he gets this soft, subtle look in his eyes that only shows when he’s genuinely moved. “You’re gonna make me look bad,” he teases breathlessly once everything calms down, but his hands linger on your arms, thumbs brushing your skin. And later, when the city finally quiets and it’s just the two of you on a rooftop, he pulls you gently into his side. His voice drops, tender. “Thanks for having my back, spider-girl.” And he means it in the way he means everything with you, even more deeply.
You always know when Sir Jason is about to appear, not because of the clank of armor, but because of the quiet hush that falls over the courtyard, like even the wind knows better than to interrupt him. He spots you from across the stone archways, exhaustion written into the bruised shadows under his eyes, but the second your gaze meets his, that rare, boyish smirk tugs at his mouth. It’s the kind he only ever gives you. He doesn’t bow like the other knights, he dips his head just slightly, enough to be respectful but not enough to hide the warmth in his eyes. “My lady,” he murmurs, voice rough from training, “you look like trouble today.” He says it like it’s a blessing. Like he’d fight entire kingdoms for that trouble.
Hidden in the Castle Shadows
Jason hates court functions, absolutely despises them, but when you tug him by the gauntlet into some dim corridor to escape the crowd, he follows without hesitation. His back hits the stone wall with a soft thud as you hide beside him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his armor. “You’re going to get me executed,” he whispers with a grin that contradicts every single word. You hear footsteps in the hall, but Jason shifts, placing an arm in front of you as if shielding you from a sword instead of nosy nobles. And when the danger passes, he looks down at you with that slow, melting fondness the kind that says he’d rather be caught sneaking around with you than honored at the king’s table.
The Knight Who Fights Harder When You Watch
He pretends he doesn’t notice when you sneak out to watch him train, but he always fights harder when you’re there every swing sharper, every parry precise. And afterward, when he’s sweating and breathing hard, he drags his glove off with his teeth and smears away the dirt on your cheek with his thumb. “You shouldn’t be out here,” he says, but his touch is gentle, reverent, ruining the scolding entirely. Then he offers you his water, his cloak, his entire heart without saying a word. Jason Todd is a knight first, yes but with you, he softens in ways that should be impossible for a man who’s survived a war.
His Midnight Window Visits
When night falls, he’s even worse. He taps on your window with a smirk, fresh from patrol, hair mussed by the wind. “Couldn’t sleep,” he lies because he could, he just prefers to sleep knowing you’re safe. He sits on the edge of your bed, armor discarded, worn tunic clinging to him, and lets out a sigh that sounds like surrender. “You’re the quiet I fight for,” he admits into the darkness, like the confession burns on the way out. When you lace your fingers with his, he squeezes lightly, like he can finally breathe again. Jason’s never been good at saying he loves you, but his entire body does.
A Warrior’s Hands, a Lover’s Devotion
In battle he’s terrifying, a red-eyed fury tearing through the chaos, blade flashing wherever danger approaches you. But after, when you’re trembling from the adrenaline, he drops his sword and cups your face with both hands, gloves cold against your skin. “You’re safe,” he repeats, like a mantra, like a prayer he’s been chanting inside his own head the entire fight. His forehead touches yours, armor dented and splattered, and he laughs a shaky, relieved sound. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.” But the truth is, he’d follow you into every nightmare, every battlefield, every fate the world tries to throw at you because Jason Todd is your knight in more than just title.
Don’t Be Afraid to Touch Me | Batboys x Rogue-Powered! Male Reader
Thank you for the ask, @aline1701. This was sent through my DM’s not my ask box.
Dick Grayson
Dick treats you like you’re made of starlight, not danger. He never flinches from your powers, if anything, he’s too comfortable, constantly reminding you he grew up doing trapeze acts with no net, so a guy who can accidentally knock him out with a touch doesn’t scare him. He’s endlessly patient when you tense up at accidental contact, always meeting you with that soft, reassuring smile that makes your chest feel too warm. He loves your gloves, weirdly enough says they’re part of your “mysterious hero aesthetic.” But every once in a while he’ll brush his knuckles over the leather like he’s imagining what your real touch would feel like. He never pushes. Never asks. Just lets you decide the pace, and the first time you willingly take one glove off with him, Dick looks at you like you handed him something holy.
Jason Todd
Jason understands the fear of being “too much”, too dangerous, too volatile, too unpredictable, so he doesn’t treat your mutation like a curse. He gets it on a visceral level: being touched can hurt people, and people can be afraid of you for reasons you never asked for. Jason doesn’t dance around it; he makes sure you know he trusts you. When you sit beside him, careful and stiff, he nudges your shoulder with his own, armored plates clinking, reminding you that he isn’t breakable. He’s the one who buys you reinforced gloves and deadpans that they’re “hot as hell,” because he knows you’ll never feel attractive when you’re busy feeling dangerous. And when you finally let him hold your bare hand, just for a heartbeat, Jason’s entire expression softens in a way he’d shoot someone for pointing out.
Tim Drake
Tim studies your mutation like it’s a puzzle piece he wants to understand, not solve. He memorizes your limits, observes how you react to different kinds of contact, and makes sure he never makes you feel like an experiment. He asks permission for everything, a touch to your wrist, taking your glove off to treat a wound, always giving you space to say no. With you, his affection is slow, intentional, measured. Tim’s the one who sits close but not close enough to overwhelm you, typing quietly beside you on long nights. And when you admit you’re scared of hurting him, Tim just gives this tiny, soft smile and murmurs, “I trust you more than I trust gravity.” It flusters you enough that you almost forget how careful you’re supposed to be.
Damian Wayne
Damian is blunt, unbothered, and absolutely refuses to treat your mutation as something tragic. When you warn him that your touch can steal memories or strength, he simply shrugs and says, “Then I shall not make careless contact.” His confidence is intimidating, he acts like he’s already adjusted to the concept of never touching you skin-to-skin. But beneath that calm acceptance is a fierce protectiveness; he watches how others react to you, and anyone who shows fear or disgust earns a death glare that could curdle blood. Damian is the first to call you strong, not cursed. When you glove up before a mission, he wordlessly helps secure the buckles on your wrists, fingers lingering just long enough to let you know he wishes he could touch you more freely. And when you finally trust him with a brief, bare touch, he doesn’t tremble or gasp, he simply meets your eyes and says, “I am honored.”
Tim Drake Cumming Too Fast The First Time You Have Sex
suggestive content, mdni
The first time you and Tim finally have sex, he’s trying so hard to be the picture of calm competence, all steady breaths, gentle hands, and overthinking every micro-movement like he’s disarming a bomb instead of touching the person he’s desperately in love with. He’s been imagining this way too long, building it up in that overactive brain of his, and the real thing hits him like a shock straight to the spine. He gets overwhelmed embarrassingly quickly, the combination of nerves, anticipation, and the way you look at him short-circuiting every ounce of self-control he swore he had. When he finishes way sooner than he meant to, he freezes, cheeks going scarlet, eyes wide with that “I’ve just ruined everything forever” panic he’s famous for. He immediately starts apologizing, rapid-fire, breathless, tripping over every word, until you cup his face and tell him it’s okay. And the relief that flashes through him? It’s almost sweet. He melts instantly, leaning into you like you’ve just saved him from a fate worse than death, whispering something shy and soft about how he wants a second chance… and how he definitely won’t be that quick again. He’s still flushed, still embarrassed, but the way he pulls you close after says he’s more determined than ever to make it unforgettable next time.
