#soft and cuddly reminders that the love was real. that it was gentle and healing and warm once

[thebutchprinxe]

my happy lil crew

[hyperesthesias]

How the Batch Comforts You with Your Chronic Pain

SUMMARY: Some Soft headcanons on how The Batch Boys™️ would take care of you on a flare day.

CONTENT: Gender Neutral ; No ailment is specified in particular, besides chronic pain ; brief allusion to cannabis ; SFW.

NOTES: I love our Boys! <3 They would take very good care of you when you're hurting. I really enjoyed writing this, I may continue writing for the chronic pain/disabled SW community. We don't get a lot of recognition and it's been therapeutic to write some visibility for us!

Enjoy, loves! 💖

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Crosshair

Is the protective one.

Seriously. He will fight anyone who comes near you while you're trying to rest. If you need your space, consider your space locked down just for you.

He can see exactly what is bothering you and where. Which makes him perfect at back massages. He also has impeccable taste in lotions and oils, from having rough hands himself, so you have a selection to choose from!

These massages can be strictly platonic, or very sensual! Whichever you prefer. He's very respectful of your space and needs. He gets it, he needs a lot of space and has a lot of boundaries himself.

Gives you lots of words of reassurance. Chronic pain can take a toll on the mental health, and he can see that, too. He gives you quiet whispers of comfort. No one else can hear them, they're just for you.

He's also perfect to lean against. You can sit right in front of him, leaned back against his chest with your full weight and he'll support you.

He thinks it's cute when you fall asleep like that. 💖

Echo

He draws a bath for you. Puts some Epsom salts in, along with some healing tinctures. It's so comforting and relaxing. You're able to float there, buoyant and without any pressure on trigger points or joints.

If you want him to join, he's more than happy to! All of his prosthetics are completely waterproof so there's no concern. He likes taking baths, too, it relieves pressure from his connective joints. But if you prefer to be alone, he's more than happy to put your clothes and towels on the counter and wait outside for you.

He makes you a pain relieving concoction: a tea and a lotion. He's studied many alternative remedies to help with his own struggles, he's got a whole notebook full of ideas. It helps. It's soothing, and it's nice to have the quiet company as you both sip your tea together. He also has an herb you can smoke, too, but that's entirely up to you. ;)

When you're feeling a bit more mobile, or if you're feeling stiff, he has a gentle stretch routine he would practice in his recovery. It helps wake the joints up and lubricate the bones a bit. It's simple, nothing strenuous, and it soothes some of the aches. He's right there to support you if you lose your balance or can't continue.

He's very empathetic, someone you can trust with how you feel. You know he gets it, and he's always very compassionate.

Hunter

He can sense when you're going to have a flare the day before.

He has a whole game plan on how to help you.

It's a little excessive.

Once he chills out though, he realises all he needs to do is listen. He's a great listener.

You both come to an understanding that you have similar physical experiences. He didn't really consider it before, but he realises he has a degree of chronic pain, too. It was all he'd ever known and he didn't know anyone else who was different like him, too. It's a very personal, bonding experience between the both of you.

This makes him easy to talk to. You're able to get a lot off your chest on how your illness affects you, how it makes you feel. It's not something you get to talk about often in a safe setting, he just sits and listens.

He doesn't judge you if you cry.

He lets you borrow his most prized possession: his fuzzy blanket. He bought it for himself after an assignment on Naboo. It's soft, silky, so warm and cuddly. Nothing about it itches or tickles or scratches. It's the only thing that doesn't cause pain against your skin.

He's determined to buy you one next time they're on Naboo.

Tech

This man has the lo down on every symptom you have. Literally. Like a whole ass binder full of every piece of knowledge on your particular ailment. You're practically better off consulting him than a doctor (which, let's be real, would probably be for the better anyway).

He knows he can get real clinical. He also knows you've probably had a lot of that in your life already -- like he and the other clones. He knows how tiring it can be, to be looked at like an object or an experiment instead of a living, breathing being.

So his most sensitive side comes out when you're having a flare. He speaks quietly and deliberately, he tries not to touch you, he reminds you to take your medicine on time. He even has it in a little pill box with a glass of water or juice for you.

He's very thoughtful. He anticipates everything you need. He has a heating pad ready, ice packs in the freezer, he even makes you a nutritional drink for you to sip on if you're not up to eating.

Is secretly a cuddle bug. At night when you're preparing to go to sleep, he wraps you in the blanket you're sharing and puts his arm around you. You fit perfectly against his chest, a snug little spoon. He gives you a kiss on the head and wishes you sweet dreams, mesh'la. 💖

Wrecker

Oh, Wrecker. He's the gentlest of them all. So tender. He knows he can be super loud, so he does his best to whisper. It's a loud whisper, but still. You appreciate it. Sound can be hard to process through the pain.

He is PREPARED. Like he has a whole ass kit ready for your flare days. He keeps it for you, special.

At the end of the day, he just wants to be useful. He knows he's not usually equipped to handle sensitive situations like this, so he does the absolute best he can to learn and do what he can.

He is the best person to marathon TV shows with. Complete with hilarious commentary.

This man would do anything to make you laugh. He loves laughing with you.

It helps take away the pain. Takes your mind off of everything. His sense of humour is the perfect balance between just dark enough, and wholesome.

OBVIOUSLY a huge cuddle bug, too. A very gentle cuddle bug. He knows his strength, and he knows when to be tender.

He likes playing with your hair, stroking your scalp -- it calms you both and brings you both some comfort.

💖

[batfoonery]

BatPets Headcanons

In honor of the Most Glorious and Beloved Bitewing (and Ace and Titus and Alfred the Cat and Goliath and Batcow.....) I wanted to share my thoughts on what pets the batfam has and should have.

Dick

Ahhhhhhh Bitewing! Our new beloved! We've only just gotten you but if you get whooshed away by bad writers I already know I will RIOT.

It actually makes perfect sense for Dick to take in a stray pup. His bro-son has the attitude and personality of a cat, so he already had that covered. And I can't see him paying high prices for a designer breed (bless him) so it's stray/shelter or nothing.

That being said, he also needs a young dog. Some people are made with the disposition to take in the older dogs with older dog needs, but Dick loves deeply and I can't see that he'd deal well with the shorter timeframe of taking in older dogs. So. Younger dogs, that he can go running with in the morning and play with in the park and nap with on the couch.

Jason

My man has taste, and also had a doggo as a kid. He's got a soft spot for all of Gotham's forgotten strays. I see him as being a pitbull kind of guy, but like. Also mastiffs. Anything big and menacing looking, but they always turn out to be utter marshmallows.

Totally the type to name his big scary dog Tinkerbell or Baby or something mushy like that. Likewise, Kori and Artemis (and probably Roy) all collect cutesy costumes and collars and leashes. Has the most cutsey giant dog.

The kind of dog that he can trust to take care of kids. If he's particularly concerned about a kid out on the street he can drop the dog off to stand guard until the kid's parent shows up. The dog is real gentle with the lil human, but scares off potential kidnappers.

Cass

The first of our exotics keepers! I feel like Cass would really appreciate betta fish. The way the swim and flit through the water, fins seeming to dance as they moved.... like tulle, like dancing.

She probably has several tanks. The first one she got was from Petsmart or PetCo or whatever. It irked her because she knows they don't tend to treat the fish well, but the local petshop's fish were all extremely sickly looking. After that she's hooked, for lack of a better word, and Bruce ends up learning way more than he ever needed to learn about importing fish (and paying for imported fish).

She's meticulous about their care. They've all got nice big clean tanks, and a companion to help keep them clean (different ones according to temperaments, snails for the easier going ones and shrimp for the more aggressive boys). They've got live plants and decorations to hide under, each tank a different theme to show off the fish. Has lowkey been considering getting a female for one of her favorite easy going boys (the first one, who has become a very soothing companion) because he's getting older and she'd like to be able to carry a part of him on.

Tim

His companion is an emotional support animal, with papers from his doctor and everything. Seems like he should be a dog person, but instead has a very big Turkish Angora. Her name is Mrs. Tuffles and he got her from a breed-specific rescue.

She's good for him because she disrupts his work and also helps provide a soothing presence when he has a panic attack. At night if he isn't in bed at a certain time she lays on top of whatever he's working on. If he's panicking she lays on his lap or chest and purrs (the added weight, the feeling and sounds of the purrs, held disrupt tension). She's a cuddly cat, and it tricks him into sleeping in in the mornings.

When he finds out that cats purr on a wavelength that encourages healing, and that there's evidence that they sit on humans and purr in attempts to heal/help them, he bursts into tears and startles the cat, who had been draped over his shoulders.

Steph

Got a bunny because she thought it would be an easy pet. She was very very wrong. It was from one of the neighbors in her building, because the mom of the kid who brought it home didn't want it anymore. It's a cute little lop, grey and brown.

She quickly discovers that bunnies are super dirty, and they absolutely stink. It bites her for the first week (and Tim and Jason and everyone else that isn't Damian, who somehow tricks it into loving him) and she seriously considers taking it to the shelter. But she doesn't. By week three, he's snuggling up on her feet and in her lap, and she decides that maybe he isn't so bad after all.

He didn't have a name when she got him, so she call him Mi-Mi. She doesn't tell Damian, but it's totally named after him because he reminds her of the way Damian had been when she'd first met him and the progression of their friendship over time.

Duke

Seems like a bird type of dude. Probably has a Cockatiel or two. They're very sassy birbs, and there's no way he doesn't enjoy that. One of them repeats words, and has picked up swears from Jason. It swears at Bruce every time he comes in Duke's room. Everyone except Bruce finds it funny.

The other one "dances" whenever it hears music coming from Cass's room. They're both very active and curious, he's contantly having to buy toys for them to rip apart. One of them nipped Damian's ear once, and Duke has never seen Damian look more offended in his life. It was probably the first pet that Damian hadn't been able to Disney-Princess.

They've probably got a dumb name pair. Tom and Jerry, Chip and Dale, etc. Personally I think he'd get a kick out of naming them Batman and Robin, just to fuck with Bruce. He probably then teaches the one who talks (Batman) to say dumb things like "I am the night! I work alone!" etc etc.

Damian

Has all the animal companions. Not pets. That makes them beneath him, which probably opposes his fundamental beliefs. This is my reminder to yall that Ra's started out as an eco-terrorist. Putting aside what he is or is not now, I like to believe that Damian was raised with a deep respect for nature and animals, he probably sees humans as just one particularly terrible animal species.

He has a wide array of companions as is. I'm good with them all, although I wish they'd bring back his dragon friend. :( I love the dragon friend.

I think he'd be the type to have axolotls too. They've got an interesting mythological basis and fit into the dragon theme. Plus the short story "The Axolotl" by Cortazar is a fascinating piece of mystical realism and I could see that he'd be intrigued by the species. They're endangered in the wild because of habitat destruction and invasion of foreign species that prey on them, but are easily bred in captivity. So I could see he'd keep at least one breeding pair, with the intent to someday bully Bruce into funding a project to save their natural habitat.

Barbara

Doesn't have her own pets, because she doesn't want the responsibility on top of everything else she does.

But her apartment always has furry/feathered friends in it because she's constantly petsitting for the others when they have to go do hero stuff. She's basically like a step-mom for everyone else's pets. She's learned how to take care of tanks and whatnot as well, mostly for Cass. The axolotls are gross and she refuses to touch those tanks, but the bettas are kinda like cute grumpy old men. She likes to tease Bruce by telling him his grand-fish take after him.

Always has a variety of pet snacks with her. She is determined to be the overall favorite human to all the bat-pets. Competition is fierce between her and Dami, but she has an edge because Robin the Cockatiel seems to prefer her.

[luninosity]

*wanders by* Look what I worked on today...

Warnings for…NOT actual self-harm, but Jason spotting a scar on one of Colby’s hands, a scar he doesn’t know the story of, and briefly considering that possibility. (The actual story is much more of a cooking-related accident!) Plus general warnings for brief mention of Colby’s Awful Exes and family, & related emotional abuse.

#

“How’s this?” Jason waited, fingers resting over Colby’s hands in his. The hotel room wrapped comfort around them; it’d begun as nondescript, but had welcomed Colby’s rainbow cascade of scarves and Jason’s tidy unpacking. It was their home now, for these next two weeks of filming on location. “Helping?”

 “Very much helping, thank you.” Colby obediently didn’t move, holding both hands out. They were sitting on the bed, having changed into pajama pants and t-shirts—Colby’d borrowed one of Jason’s shirts, too large but in a cuddly flattering way—and the day had been long. They’d been filming into the evening, because Jill had wanted the specific light, dwindling away as Colby’s young and brilliant magician character got imprisoned and bound by iron and tortured, refusing to give up and lead the villains to Jason’s hero.

 The chains and cuffs had been fake, of course. Hollywood movie-making magic. A vast leap from real iron.

 But that didn’t mean they were soft or forgiving. They’d had hard edges, angled in spots, heavy, with no real padding. He’d had to struggle against them. He’d had to kneel while the villains shoved his hands to the floor and—cautiously, weight judged for performance—stepped upon them, pretending to shatter bones. The floor, and the impact, hadn’t been soft either.

 The bruises and scrapes and cuts were all too real. Colby winced as Jason spread healing salve across a tender spot. “Ow. Sorry, sorry, I know you’re being careful, I’m not complaining.”

 “Tell me if it’s hurting too much.” He tapped a finger over the back of Colby’s wrist. “And don’t apologize for it. Are you sure you don’t want me to get the medical people to check you out?”

 “They did, right after. I know you know; you were there. It’s fine, it’s not—ow—serious. It’ll heal.”

 “Might need some wrapping, though.” Jason eyed the bruises, the nicks. They shuffled purple and red across Colby’s skin, shame-faced. He didn’t like them existing, though he knew they weren’t anyone’s fault. “Just for tonight, to keep all this on. Not too tight.”

 “Whatever you think works best,” Colby agreed. “You’d know better than I would, as far as stunts and injuries. Ow, oh, drat, that one hurts a bit more.”

 That one was probably the worst, Jason judged: scraped raw, layers exposed, across Colby’s left wrist. The edge of that cuff had been both rough and sharp. And obviously his touch hadn’t been careful enough. “Shit. Sorry. Love you. Is the numbing part working, at all? It’s supposed to be helping.”

 “Oh yes,” Colby said, obligingly. “It’s already better. Thank you for doing this.”

 Jason sighed.

 “It’s true,” Colby protested. “I honestly do feel better. I’d tell you if not.” Hair tumbling to his shoulders in loose dark waves—not a wig, but extensions, left in for fantastical mystical effect—he was elfin and pretty and earnest, wearing Jason’s too-large shirt, eyes huge and blue and searching Jason’s face.

 “I know you would. But I also want to know if it’s not helping enough, okay?”

 “Yes,” Colby said meekly. “I’ll say so if it’s not working, I promise.”

 “Okay, then. Just checking.” He tried to make his touch as gentle as possible. He tried to be as soothing as he could: a protective bulk, not a threatening one. Hands offering care, not more harm. Weight and breadth positioned harmlessly on the bed, no demands.

 He knew Colby trusted him. He felt a small glow of pride that Colby did: enough to admit to being in pain, to wanting care. He loved Colby and would care for Colby with all his heart, all his strength, all his soul; not a question, not ever.

 He still hated seeing Colby in pain. Always had, always would.

 That’d be true for anyone he loved, of course. He’d had some discussions with their therapist about that, about grief and loss and Charlie and Jason’s own desperate need to save people, to be strong. He knew that about himself. But it was worse, it was the worst it could be, when the person in pain was Colby.

 Colby was the other half of his heart. The brightest piece of his life, the piece that’d dived in and reminded him how to swim and that he liked baking, the piece that’d made him laugh and drawn him into whimsical chattering conversations about wizards and dragons and romance and coffee. The piece that liked pink shirts with sequins on the sleeves, and anchovies on pizza, and history and stories and words that could steal an audience’s breath away.

 And Colby had been hurt before, so very badly, for so very long. Inside and out, physical and emotional bruises, day after day. Jason hadn’t been there then, hadn’t known him for the worst of it. But he knew now, at least as much as anyone could, after the fact.

 He’d seen Colby flinch from an unexpected touch, get wide-eyed at a large body hugging too tightly at a convention, and—the scariest of all—go silent and someplace else, someplace not present, at a drift of familiar cologne and a flash-flood of memory in the air. He knew what Colby had told him, which was enough to make Jason carefully store up a lot of emotions and then go down to the gym and beat the hell out of a punching bag for long enough to get his reactions under control.

 He knew about Colby’s family, too. The layers of those bruises—not physical, but emotional, a slow brutal evisceration of Colby’s sense of self and self-worth—went back decades. They were working on it; their therapist said that Jason being here, not leaving, not making Colby earn any crumb of affection, was the exact best thing he could do. Jason hoped so.

 He wished he could do more. He wished he could fight all of Colby’s demons. Like his character in this film, raising a sword. Lifting a shield. Fighting for a cause.

 He knew Colby’s hands pretty well, by now. He knew the way those slim graceful fingers felt in his, on his body—in his body, and oh that was always fun, Colby teasing him open and stroking him and pressing inside him. He knew Colby’s gestures on and off camera, the weight and shape of his palms, the backs of his hands, the old scars from period-piece swordfighting lessons and some small-scale stunt work, comedy pratfalls and in-role clumsiness. He knew about the short jagged line on the outside of Colby’s little finger on the right hand, from hopping a fence while filming a scene for that high-school coming-of-age comedy.

 He knew he didn’t know every smallest detail—he didn’t have a photographic memory—but he had a decent idea of Colby’s hands, he thought.

 Which was why his fingers slowed and came to a stop, as they felt something—as his gaze landed on something—that he didn’t recognize.

 Thin. White. Just above the heel of Colby’s left hand, across his palm. Long-healed—no texture at all, only noticeable if someone was paying extremely close attention, but enough to’ve left a line. Liam, Jason thought first, with a shock of anger like scarlet blood—but no, this was older than a handful of years, older than any injuries at Colby’s ex’s hands. Clearly so.

 Colby hadn’t seemed to notice—he’d been looking at Jason’s other hand, which had scooped up more salve—but he noticed the pause now. His eyes came up to find Jason’s, huge and flower-blue.

 Jason turned Colby’s hand more upward. Touched the line, very very lightly. His fingers shook.

 “Oh,” Colby said, soft with love, wry in the way of someone realizing, “no, it’s not what you’re thinking, and don’t say you weren’t thinking of at least two possibilities. It’s not either of those. I, er…well, I was about eleven years old and I’d been trying to prepare dinner for myself and I had absolutely nonexistent knife skills with regard to chopping carrots. And my father’s chef kept his knives very sharp.”

 “You were making dinner…for yourself?” He touched Colby’s palm again, traced the scar above the heel. It had plainly been a clean cut, straight, but deep enough to leave a mark once healed.

 Colby did that familiar nose-scrunch at him, the one that meant you won’t like this story. “You won’t like this story. But it wasn’t that bad.”

 “Tell me? If you want,” he amended. Not an order, not a demand. The freckle near Colby’s collarbone winked at him, playing peek-a-boo with the loose neck of Jason’s shirt.

 “Oh, of course. It’s hardly a secret.” Colby wiggled salve-smeared fingers at him. “So we were living in Paris then—Dad having been appointed as an ambassador and all, you know…”

 The storied instrument of his voice became, for an instant, more American than anything else, on the word Dad; Howard Kent personified the type of United States politician who embodied privilege, money, and self-interest above everything, including his marriage and his son.

 “…and my parents, being, er, my parents, did tend to do things like go on holiday without remembering that I existed, which meant the staff also generally forgot I existed, or took their cues from my parents, or assumed someone else had made some arrangements somewhere. So I was eleven and a bit, and I’d got used to making sandwiches and things, but I thought perhaps I’d try to cook, because I was trying to learn, you know, so I wouldn’t have to bother anyone.”

 Jason opened his mouth. Shut it.

 Colby lifted both eyebrows, inviting and amused. “Yes, go on, say it.”

 “You know everything I’m gonna say.”

 “I do. It’s all right; I’ve got you now.” Colby leaned against him, on the bed: easy contact, unremarkable, except for how it was remarkable, it was a marvel, given everything Jason knew.

 He wanted to cry for the boy Colby’d been, precocious and shy and so very alone.

 He held Colby’s hand. “I’m here. I’m always here. I’ll chop all your carrots if you need me to.”

 “You would, if I asked, wouldn’t you? Well, in any case, I managed to slice my hand open, as you might expect under the circumstances, and then I very nearly passed out from the sheer shock of it, and then after a few minutes I pulled myself together and found a first-aid kit and tried to patch it up, though it didn’t work terribly well because I was trying to do it one-handed.”

 “Jesus, Colby.” He could’ve demanded, why didn’t you call someone, a member of the security team, the household staff, a doctor, an emergency number, your parents? He didn’t.

 He knew why Colby wouldn’t. Not causing a fuss, not giving anyone a reason to disapprove or to not want him, not believing anyone would come or answer or care…

  His heart cracked open and bled more. Like younger Colby, huddled on a kitchen floor with a first-aid kit. “What happened?”