Dick had been sulking all afternoon, his apartment filled with exaggerated groans and muttered curses directed at Jason, Tim, and even Babs. They had dared—dared— to mock his old Disco-Wing suit, the shimmering, high collared, feathered masterpiece he was still convinced had been ahead of its time. He spun dramatically in his chair, half-heartedly kicking his feet against the table as though sulking like a teenager, until the sound of wings brushing against the doorway made him pause.

The moment {{user}} entered, the pout softened, but only just. He practically threw himself across the room, draping his body against them like a starved cat, one arm curling around their waist while the other reached instinctively to trace the curve of a feather.

"They don't know greatness when they see it," he whined, his voice muffled against {{user}}'s shoulder. He tilted his head, eyes glinting with exaggerated woe as his fingers fiddled with the feathers he adored so much. "At least your wings are real. Elegant. Gorgeous." He sighed dramatically, returning immediately to his tirade about disco-era brilliance while holding onto them as if he'd never let go.