I was already on board with his sweet wholesome open-to-love-and-nurturing heart but I was fully unprepared for getting to that last tweet and seeing how off the hook HOT dude is
earlier this week Twitter user ppuccin0 tweeted about a fashion article that advised against tops with large floral patterns, saying the wearer was in danger of looking like a "ロマンティックおばさん," or a "romantic auntie." the tweet went viral with many agreeing that a "romantic auntie" sounded like a very nice thing to aspire to be, and some even posted illustrations or photos tagged with the trend
illustration by Toyota Yuu (author of Cherry Magic)
illustration by 141shkw/Sora Midori (author of Beautiful Curse)
photos by Takinami Yukari (author of Motokare Mania and Watashi-tachi wa Mutsuu Ren'ai ga Shitai or "We Want A Painless Romance")
illustration by m:m (mangaka of Matataki no End Roll)
illustration by ooinuai (mangaka of Onikui Kitan)
illustration by ma2 (mangaka of The Reason We Fall In Love)
could you do one where reader finds out weird secrets or like dangerous things about the boys?
Like for example, jason forgot to tell his gf about the all-blades, or Tim with his spleen
I love your writing!
˖ ֹ੭୧ IM SORRY, YOU WHAT? ⊹ ࣪ ⑅
ˋ°•*⁀➷ reader discovers the absolutely unhinged things the Batboys forgot to mention !
ˋ°•*⁀➷CHARACTERS: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Aged up!Damian Wayne
NOTES: this is acc funny, might just be me but... 😜
BRUCE WAYNE:
It started with a drawer.
You’d been living with Bruce for a few months now—something he referred to as “merging logistics,” because apparently millionaires couldn’t just say “moving in.” His bedroom was massive. His closet? A mausoleum of black suits. And his nightstand?
Mostly empty.
Except for one manila folder tucked in the back corner. You wouldn’t have opened it—swear you wouldn’t have—but the tab said your name.
Which is how you found a full autopsy report.
For Bruce Wayne.
And a sticky note that read: Lazarus Pit side effects still present. Mild psychosis? Monitor closely.
You stared at the paper.
Then stared at the man snoring beside you.
And then you poked him. Hard.
Bruce blinked awake with a grunt. “What’s wrong?”
You held up the file. “Care to explain why your medical history includes the words ‘deceased for 72 hours’?”
He blinked. “Ah.”
“‘Ah’?! That’s all you’ve got?!”
Bruce sighed, sitting up slowly. “It was a few years ago. Omega beam. Complicated resurrection. Time travel was involved.”
You stared. “YOU TIME TRAVELED BACK FROM THE DEAD AND NEVER BROUGHT IT UP?!”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“You keep this next to your reading glasses, Bruce.”
“…For convenience.”
You stared at him. Your voice was flat. “You were dead, babe.”
“Only for a little while.”
“Are you hearing yourself?!”
He reached for you, completely calm. “I got better.”
You slapped a pillow at him. “That’s NOT A NORMAL SENTENCE.”
DICK GRAYSON:
It started with a laptop crash.
Dick had been in the middle of transferring old files when his screen went black, and you, being the tech-savvy partner that you are, offered to help. Easy fix—just needed to reboot in safe mode. While you waited, his auto-recovery tab popped open and loaded all his open documents.
One of them caught your eye:
“Contingency Plan: Nightwing Compromised”
– Subfolder: “In Case of Mind Control / Doppelgängers / Body-Snatching Demons”
You blinked.
Then clicked.
And then promptly dropped the laptop.
Because in the document was a detailed, color-coded plan for how to neutralize himself. Including the exact spot on his spine where a pressure point would paralyze him “without causing permanent damage (hopefully).”
Dick came back from the kitchen with two mugs of tea, whistling like a Disney prince. “Got chamomile for you, baby—oh! You fixed it already?”
You turned the screen toward him, voice calm in the way that meant you were two seconds from a breakdown. “Care to explain why your personal files include ‘How To Kill Me: A Step-by-Step Guide’?”
He froze. “Ah.”
“Don’t you ‘ah’ me.”
“It’s a just in case file!”
“Dick. There’s a diagram.”
“I color-coded it so it wouldn’t be scary—”
“THERE IS A SECTION LABELED ‘PHASE FOUR: BURY ME IN BLÜDHAVEN WITH EXTRA SALT JUST TO BE SAFE.’”
Dick winced. “To ward off necromancy.”
You stood up. “I’m calling Barbara.”
“Don’t! She helped write it.”
“EXCUSE ME?!”
“Look, sweetie—this is standard Bat protocol. Everyone has one.”
“EVERYONE HAS A PERSONALIZED ‘IN CASE OF POSSESSION’ FOLDER?!”
“…Tim’s has footnotes.”
“Oh my god.”
Dick gave you puppy eyes. “I’m just trying to be responsible.”
“You labeled one of the steps ‘if I go feral again.’ AGAIN.”
He at least had the decency to look sheepish. “Only happened once.”
You stared at him.
He grinned. “Still want the tea?”
You stared harder.
“…I’ll drink both.”
JASON TODD:
It started in the closet.
Not a metaphor—Jason’s literal weapons closet. You were helping him organize his gear after a mission (read: watching him take his shirt off while you handed him ammo boxes), when you noticed something glinting in the back.
Two massive, ancient-looking swords.
Not sleek katanas. Not custom-forged modern blades.
No. These were glowing, humming slightly, and radiating serious “I belong in a cursed tomb” energy.
You blinked. “What the hell are those?”
Jason didn’t even look up. “All-Blades.”
“Cool name. What do they do?”
“They only manifest when I’m trying to protect the innocent.”
“…Excuse me?”
He straightened up, towel over his shoulder, and finally looked at you. “They’re mystical. Soul-bonded. Can only be summoned under righteous circumstances.”
You stared. “So you’re telling me—you summon glowing swords with your moral compass?”
Jason shrugged. “Basically.”
“You’re not magic.”
“Apparently I’m just that good.”
You stepped closer, jaw slack. “You forgot to tell me you're a literal sword-conjuring mystic vigilante?”
He blinked. “I thought it came up.”
“Jason. You have soul-swords.”
“You’ve seen me get shot in the face. I thought this wouldn’t be a big deal.”
“This is so much weirder than bullets!”
“They only work if I’m, like, pure of heart in the moment. Which is why I don’t bring them out around the others. Too much judgment in the air.”
You ran a hand down your face. “So let me get this straight. You, Jason Todd, the walking embodiment of ‘I’m fine, it’s just a flesh wound’, can pull magical blades out of the ether if you believe hard enough in justice?”
Jason smirked. “Hot, right?”
“YES. ALSO WHAT THE HELL.”
He casually summoned one right in front of you—blade bursting from the air like a lightning bolt, still humming with holy fire. You screamed and ducked.
Jason just laughed. “Told you they’re righteous.”
You looked up from the floor. “I am rethinking everything.”
He offered you his hand, smug as hell. “Still wanna marry me?”
“…Yes. But I’ll be adding this to the vows.”
TIM DRAKE:
It happened on a random Tuesday, which, frankly, should’ve been your first red flag. Because nothing good ever happens to a Bat on a Tuesday.
You were helping Tim look for a misplaced USB drive—one he’d casually mentioned “probably had a few prototype schematics and maybe a virus containment protocol or two.” Y’know. Normal things.
After twenty minutes of searching his nightmare-coded desktop folders, you found something mislabeled as “tax_stuff_final_FINALv2.pdf.”
It was not taxes.
It was a full medical file.
Tim’s.
And under the section labeled Organ Inventory, there it was:
Spleen – REMOVED
Cause: Complications following internal trauma. See incident report #R-27B.
Note: Non-essential. Cleared for active duty.
Your heart dropped. “Tim?”
He was sitting across the room on the floor, surrounded by cables, sipping his fourth coffee like it was oxygen. “Yeah?”
“When were you gonna tell me you don’t have a spleen?”
He didn’t even look up. “I still have a pancreas, if that helps.”
“That’s not—Tim. Be serious.”
He sighed and stood, stretching like a cat. “It was years ago. I handled it.”
“You ‘handled’ losing an organ?”
“Well, it’s not like I lost it in a poker game.”
You stared at him. “What happened?”
He hesitated. His eyes flicked to the window—checking for bugs. Then the door. Then you.
He crossed the room in three strides and gently closed your laptop. “This file’s encrypted for a reason.”
“Encrypted and hidden under fake taxes.”
He rested his hands on your hips, voice soft. “It was one of the early League missions. I got hurt. Bad. There wasn’t time to get me to a hospital, and the field medic we had was...creative.”
“Jesus, Tim—”
“I lived. Bruce got me to someone afterward to clean it up, but the spleen was a lost cause.”
You pressed your forehead against his. “That’s not the kind of thing you just forget to mention.”
“I didn’t forget. I just didn’t want you to look at me like I might break.”
Your heart cracked open like an egg. “I’d never think that.”
“I know. But sometimes... it’s easier not to say anything. Especially when there’s nothing left to fix.”
You slid your arms around his waist and held him tight, grounding him. “Next time? Tell me. Even if it’s about your spleen.”
He smiled into your hair. “Deal. But only if you promise not to Google ‘can you live without a—’”
“I already did.”
“You little shit.”
AGEDUP!DAMIAN WAYNE:
There were many things you’d come to accept about dating Damian Wayne.
He preferred Arabic coffee over literally anything.
He sometimes said “beloved” like it was an insult.
He’d once beaten a chess grandmaster in six moves and called it “adequate.”
But nothing—nothing—prepared you for the tiger thing.
It started when you were going through his sketchbook. He’d left it out by accident (a rare slip), and you, in a moment of loving curiosity, peeked. You were expecting moody rooftop drawings, maybe a few dramatic portraits of his latest sword.
Instead?
Page after page of tigers.
Realistic ones. Fighting ones. Bleeding ones.
One of them was labeled:
"Talia – Subject 47: Final Rend."
And below that:
“Not the tiger’s fault.”
You sat on the edge of the bed, heart thudding. “Damian?”
He stepped into the room, towel over his shoulder, hair still damp from training. “Yes?”
You held up the book. “Did you… fight a tiger?”
He stilled. A pause. A blink. “Which sketch?”
“That’s not the important part—WHY DID YOU FIGHT A TIGER?”
He sighed. Deeply. Anciently. “It was part of my early training. I was nine.”
“Nine?!”
He folded his arms. “They weren’t meant to kill. Merely test survival instincts.”
“They?! There was more than one?!”
Damian looked slightly put out. “It was only two.”
You gaped. “Only—do you hear yourself? What kind of Charles Dickens, feral jungle child origin is this?!”
He moved toward you, taking the sketchbook gently, almost protectively. “It was a League assessment. I passed. End of story.”
“End of story?! You have a scar shaped like a paw print on your ribs, Dami! I thought it was from some mercenary mission, not—Shere Khan’s vengeance arc!”
He tilted his head. “Would it make you feel better to know I didn’t kill it?”
“…Honestly, yes?”
“I named him Asim. He was retired from the trials after I broke his fang.”
You blinked. “I’m sorry—did you just casually tell me you broke a tiger’s tooth and then named him?”
“He visits the mountain shrine sometimes. We understand each other.”
You slumped against the headboard, eyes wide. “I need to go lie down.”
“You’re already lying down.”
“Then I need to go lie farther.”
Damian sat beside you and, after a beat, rested a careful hand on your knee. “You are not required to understand all of me. Only to know that the boy who survived those things is not the man who loves you now.”
You looked at him. Really looked.
No nine-year-old should’ve been put in a cage with a predator.
No child should’ve had to earn affection by surviving.
You reached for his hand and laced your fingers with his. “I love all of you, you dramatic tiger-befriending cryptid.”
Can I request for roman godfrey with an ABSOLUTE gremlin of an s/o? Like they have looked him straight in the eyes and said 'I'm gonna impregnate you' without blinking.
A/N: Omg, giving Roman his very own chaos demon of a partner sounds so fun!!! I hope reader is the type of partner you imagined for him!<3
His Favorite Mess (Roman Godfrey X Reader)
Summary: Roman Godfrey is flawless, confident, and effortlessly cool. You’re chaotic, clumsy, and always saying the wrong thing. But somehow, he’s with you—and after that kiss, you’re starting to believe that he’s serious about you.
Warnings: None really—she’s a little embarrassing, but in a totally relatable way. There are a few self-deprecating and mildly dark humored jokes, but nothing too serious. Honestly, she and Roman are really cute together, if I do say so myself.
Word Count: 1,452
I still don’t know how this happened. And I swear I’m not being dramatic—okay, maybe a little—but seriously, how did he end up with me?
Roman Godfrey.
The guy who looks like he stepped straight out of a Calvin Klein fever dream and somehow ended up in our grimy Pennsylvania high school. The one with a jawline that could’ve been carved by angels, and eyes so sharp they could pin you in place if he stared too long.
Roman Godfrey, the king of the school—effortlessly cool, maddeningly arrogant, with perfect hair that somehow always looks windblown in the best way.
And then there’s me.
The girl who trips over air. Who once spilled an entire smoothie down her shirt and tried to play it off by pretending it was a new tie-dye trend. The one with a laugh that turns heads for all the wrong reasons and a brain-to-mouth filter that’s... let’s just say, deeply unreliable. I’m basically the human version of a dropped ice cream cone—melty, chaotic, and kind of sad if you stare too long.
There is no logical universe in which Roman Godfrey and I coexist in a romantic storyline. And yet here we are, walking through the crowded halls of Hemlock High like it’s no big deal. Like I’m not dying inside every time someone looks at us and whispers behind their hands. Like I’m not completely losing my mind over the fact that I actually get to call him my boyfriend.
I try to act normal. Which, for me, means don’t trip, don’t walk into a locker, and don’t blurt out the first unfiltered thought that pops into my head. Basically, don’t be me.
My shoulder brushes his arm again—fifth time in a minute—and I feel every atom in my body light up like I touched a power line. Roman doesn’t even flinch. He just walks like he owns the place (which, to be fair, he kind of does) and throws a glance at me like I’m the only thing worth looking at.
“You know everyone’s staring, right?” I whisper, ducking my head and pretending to fix my backpack strap. Even though it’s perfectly fine. Even though I’ve adjusted it three times already, but hey—gotta look busy while spiraling.
Roman shrugs, annoyingly unbothered. “Let them.”
Okay. Cool. Confident. Love that for him. I, on the other hand, am vibrating like someone dropped Mentos in my bloodstream.
I glance up at him, wide-eyed. “Is confidence something you’re born with, or like… a demon pact? Because I’d consider it.”
He smirks, eyes twinkling. “I’ll tell you what—I’ll give you some of mine, but only if you stop with the whole bag-fix charade. It’s not fooling anyone.”
I almost trip over my own foot because walking and talking is apparently too advanced for me. Roman catches my elbow, casual and smooth, like he’s done it a hundred times, like it’s a reflex now. Like he expects it.
“See?” I mutter, cheeks flaming. “Disaster. Walking disaster.”
“I like that about you,” he says, lips twitching like he’s trying not to laugh. “Kind of endearing, actually.”
“Endearing?” I echo, blinking like he just spoke Elvish. “That’s... generous. Most people go with ‘feral’ or ‘why are you like this?’ But sure. Endearing. I’ll take it.”
That makes him laugh. An actual laugh. Like a real one, not one of his sarcastic little exhales he gives when someone says something mildly amusing.
“You are kind of feral,” he agrees, grinning. “But it’s working for you.”
I try to respond. I really do. But all that comes out is a panicked squeak, which sounds horrifyingly similar to a dying squirrel. I immediately want to shrivel up and die.
Roman’s grin deepens, and before I can recover, he steps in front of me.
One smooth movement and I’m backed up against the lockers. I freeze. He’s close now. Really close. One hand braces next to my head, the other casually brushing my sleeve, his body angled toward mine in a way that makes my thoughts scatter like marbles on tile.
I forget how to breathe.
“You’re so weird sometimes,” he says softly, green eyes locked on mine.
My stomach sinks. “Yeah,” I mumble, looking away. “I know. I—I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be—”
He cuts me off, leaning in closer, and his voice drops to a low, teasing murmur. “Didn’t say it was a bad thing, babe.”
My heart stutters. “Oh?”
His grin turns sly—wicked. “Weird girls,” he says, gaze dropping slowly to my lips, “are usually freaks in the best way.”
I make a sound. Not a word. Not even close. It’s somewhere between a nervous giggle and the noise you imagine a microwave makes when it’s about to explode. I can feel the heat crawling up my neck, straight to my ears.
“Freaks?” I manage to croak. “Like... clowns? Or... carnival people?”
Oh god. That’s it. He thinks I belong in a tent, juggling flaming pins next to a bearded lady. Bye-bye, sexy boyfriend.
Roman huffs out a laugh, the kind that makes my stomach turn itself inside out. “No, not that kind of freak,” he says, dragging the word out, voice dipped in that slow, suggestive tone that makes my knees threaten to give up on life. “The fun kind.”
My eyes go wide. My mouth opens. My brain says, Don’t say it, but my mouth is already five steps ahead.
“Ohhh. Sex freak.”
Silence. Heavy, loaded silence.
Oh my god, I want to dive onto concrete.
Roman blinks. Then bursts into laughter. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just genuinely entertained. “Relax,” he says, still grinning. “I’m just saying I like you. The way you are. Weird. Messy.” He tilts his head slightly. “Chaotic gremlin energy and all.”
“I—I’m not a gremlin,” I sputter.
Roman raises an eyebrow. “I watched you eat a Pop-Tart off the floor yesterday.”
“It was wrapped! Also, five-second rule!”
"You're ridiculous," he says, rolling his eyes as he leans in even closer.
Now I’m pinned between him and the lockers. The air feels thick, charged and way too hot for this many fluorescent lights. His face is just inches from mine, those unfairly beautiful eyes locked on mine like he’s sizing me up—and apparently, enjoying the view.
“You’re cute when you’re flustered,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my skin.
Cute? Cute?! I am seconds from combusting. My internal organs are doing somersaults. My brain is making dial-up noises. My soul is already drafting its goodbye note.
God, he’s so hot. I’m going to die. This is how I go. Death by jawline. RIP me.
And then—
He kisses me.
It’s not soft. It’s not tentative. It’s the kind of kiss that makes the world blur. That says I know exactly what this does to you. His mouth crashes into mine like he’s been holding back all day, and I swear I forgot my own name for a second. One hand slides from the locker to my waist, pulling me in like he needs me closer. I gasp, and he takes that as permission—his tongue brushing mine, slow and deliberate and so hot I nearly melt on the spot.
I kissed him back, fingers tangling in the collar of his shirt, dragging him closer. His other hand finds the side of my neck, thumb brushing beneath my jaw like he’s memorizing the way I fall apart under him.
Time stretches and melts—there’s no hallway. No whispers. No fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
There’s just us. And for a few perfect seconds, I’m not the weird girl or the mess or the one who never fits in. I’m just… his.
When he finally pulls back, I’m breathless and dizzy, still clinging to his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. Roman looks just as winded, but his grin is cocky and soft all at once.
“Still think you don’t belong with me?” he asks, voice low, smug.
I blink at him. “You literally called me a gremlin two seconds ago.”
“Yeah,” he says, that stupid perfect smirk playing at his lips, “and then I kissed you anyway.”
I raise an eyebrow, still trying to steady myself. “You have suspiciously low standards.”
He leans in, presses a kiss to my cheek, and murmurs, “Nah. You’re hot, and I like chaos.”
Without missing a beat, he wraps an arm around my shoulders, cool as ever, leading us away from the lockers like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just melt every internal organ I have.
People are still whispering. Still staring. But I don’t care anymore.
Let them talk.
Roman Godfrey is mine.
And somehow—against all logic, reason, and cosmic order—I’m his.
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