weirdly me

loverboy!jason who has an attitude all day until he sees your face, then immediately dissolves into soft smiles and gentle hands.

loverboy!jason who you affectionately call ‘puppy’ because he’s like a big cuddly dog. it makes him melt every time. he’ll deny it out loud, but he knows it’s true.

loverboy!jason who uses his mercenary money to pay for anything you want. even if you protest, he’ll give you a stern look and open his wallet anyway.

“baby, my money’s not worth anything,” he assures you as he hands the cashier a couple bills. “yours is. keep it, you hear me? sock it away for a rainy day. you can blow my money all you want, sweetheart — it doesn’t bother me.”

loverboy!jason who gets genuinely giddy when you kiss him out of nowhere.

loverboy!jason who has anxieties about how long this will last. you’ve long since quelled his doubts about whether you should be with someone like him, but his fear of abandonment still comes back to bite. it’s always soothed by a good cuddle session though and a few sweet kisses.

loverboy!jason who gets gently upset with you if you don’t take care of yourself, especially once he’s started taking care of himself too.

“you have a headache?” he sighs through the phone whilst fidgeting with a socket wrench. you’d called when he was in the middle of working on his bike and blasting the clash in his garage. “have you had any water today? a cup? y’need more than that, baby, we talked about this. i bought you that water bottle for a reason. have you eaten? what about those snacks i got you? baby, you’re killing me here. fill up your water bottle and grab a snack, then go for a walk. wear a sweater. i know— yes, i love you, too. bye, baby.”

loverboy!jason who loves flopping down on top of you on your bed after coming back from patrol. his hands find the dip of your waist, his face the crook of your neck. your scent, warmth, the softness of your skin lulls him to sleep in just a couple minutes.

loverboy!jason who thinks you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him and loves you accordingly.

At first Bruce was relieved, seeing his son do normal teenager things like ignore everyone around him with his face in his phone was a good bit of normalcy in both their lives.

The novelty ran it's course pretty quickly.

"you're the one i need"

tw! none i can think of lwk

i love this and i love you. ty nonnie.

ethan:

ok like trust, this man will do anythinggg for you. mkay? mkay.

but, he says no when you ask.

he wore makeup once alr

by Leonard Cohen

pairing: Bruce Wayne x teacher!reader ~ 1.8k

summary: when Damian Wayne gets in trouble in your class, once again, you call in his father who just so happens to be the handsome billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne

warnings: grumpy Damian (which none of us are surprised about), mentions about panties and cleavage, intimate touching, overprotective Bruce 😝

next ->

You'd be lying if you didn't admit that Damain Wayne was a problem child.

Of course, you had plenty of proof that aided that conclusion: the fact that he was involved in almost every fight that took place at Wayne Academy, his lack of effort in class despite knowing he was smart, his grumpy attitude throughout all hours of the day, etc. He was a troublemaker at his very core.

you notice it while you’re sitting on the couch together, your legs tucked under you and his stretched out across the coffee table.

the hair tie.

your hair tie.

it’s looped twice around dick’s wrist, snug against the faint white lines from old escrima grips. pink. a little stretched out. unmistakably yours.

you squint at it. then at him.

“why are you wearing my hair tie?”

he doesn’t even look up from whatever he’s fiddling with. just hums, absentminded, like this is the least strange thing in the world.

“am i?”

you grab his wrist gently and lift it. “dick. that’s mine.”

now he looks at you. really looks. that stupidly fond smile sneaks onto his face before he can stop it.

“yeah,” he says, like it explains everything.

“…okay,” you say slowly. “can i have it back?”

he pulls his wrist out of your hand with exaggerated care, tucking it closer to his chest. defensive. dramatic.

“no.”

you blink. “no?”

“nope.”

you stare at him. “why?”

he shrugs, too casual, eyes flicking away for half a second. “you always lose them.”

“that is not true.”

“last week,” he says immediately, “you left one in the batmobile, one in the shower, and one on the kitchen counter.”

you open your mouth, then close it. “…okay but that doesn’t mean you get to keep it.”

he grins wider. “it kind of does.”

you reach for his wrist again, and he dodges easily, laughing as he leans back against the couch.

“dick.”

“it’s practical,” he insists. “what if you need one later? boom. i’m prepared.”

“you are literally hoarding my hair accessories.”

“i’m safeguarding them,” he corrects. “important difference.”

you huff and cross your arms. “you could at least admit you just like wearing it.”

that makes him pause.

his smile softens, just a little. “maybe.”

your expression melts despite yourself.

“…why?” you ask, quieter now.

he rubs his thumb over the hair tie without thinking about it. “i don’t know. reminds me of you. feels like i’ve got you with me, even when you’re not around.”

your chest does that annoying warm thing.

you sigh, defeated. “you’re impossible.”

he leans in and presses a quick kiss to your temple. “and yet,” he says, “still your boyfriend.”

you shake your head, smiling. “fine. you can keep it.”

his eyes light up. “really?”

“but if i need it,” you warn, “i’m taking it back.”

he nods solemnly. “deal.”

then, after a beat, he adds, “i might need a backup though.”

you groan. “dick.”

he just laughs, wrist still proudly decorated with your hair tie.

©luvlypresley2026 - do not translate or copy in any way. ˗ˏˋ ✉ - @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @malewifefckr, @batmilani, @justanormalpersin, @pinkprincess-bunny, @batslilwhore, @j-blackout8, @foivetimesacharm, @vanillakirstein, @ablondehoe

"you're the one i need"

tw! none i can think of lwk

i love this and i love you. ty nonnie.

ethan:

ok like trust, this man will do anythinggg for you. mkay? mkay.

but, he says no when you ask.

he wore makeup once alr

sum! (HC) how the boys would react seeing their s/o in a star wars shirt

tw! nerds

ok so this is based off the fact i was wearin a star wars shirt today (same one as in the picture) n did think abt them n how absolutley FERAL they would go. btw yall r fake why r their like no ethan fanfics, finest in the show n everyone writes/reqs benny...

ETHAN:

-absolutely feral.

-remember that scene in aladdin where genie's eyes pop out and tongue is on the ground? HIM. HIM WALKING IN SCHOOL TO SEE THAT.

bf!jason who's super big on forehead kisses. they're easy access and a great non sexual way to show you he cares.

you who always mysteriously end up in bed by night even when you fall asleep on the couch.

bf!jason who gets mad when you bring it up but is always touching you in some way, especially if he's jealous. on the couch? his knee's bumping yours. at a restaurant and someone looks your way? his hand's gripping your thigh. walking and he thinks someone stared at you too long? hand on your ass. yeah... it's a little overkill but you love it.

bf!jason who despite his rough exterior is soft with you. he always walks you on the inside of the sidewalk, puts a hand on your lower back in public, guides you through crowds—you get it.

bf!jason who's not without his more... suggestive, quirks. he loves pinning you to the couch or bed just to kiss you. he loves biting your lip during kisses and pretending he didn't.

“fuck no. what in the absolute hell are you wearing, babe?” jason barks the minute you step outside. his hands have found their way out of his thick puffer coat’s pockets, snowflakes catching and melting on his black gloves as points to your attire.

you shrug, eyes already teary from the chill, “a coat? i wore it all the time back home.” you grab jason’s arm, pulling yourself into his warmth, “c’mon, i wanna get food before gotham decides to get colder. duke said freeze went berserk last year, i’m not jinxing it.

jason rolls his eyes at you, your sorry excuse for a coat, and the mention of mr. freeze, “we can get food after you come back out here in something built for the weather.”

you go to argue, but jason cuts you off with a tsk and an expression you would go as far to call snooty, “seriously. what the fuck were you thinking? we’ve already got five inches of snow and single digit temps through the night…and you come out here wearing a fuckin’ raincoat.”

“it’s not a raincoat, you ass!” by this point your fighting not to shiver in front of him. damn this gotham cold, and damn your gothamite boyfriend. it’s not your fault you underestimated how bad this shitty city’s winter could be.

jason looks at you for a long second. really looks. the way your shoulders are creeping up toward your ears, the way your nose is already running, the way you’re trying to pretend you’re not thirty seconds from becoming a human popsicle. his jaw tightens, “you’re literally vibrating.” he says flatly.

“i am not!” you immediately shiver. like, full body. teeth chattering and all.

he just stares at you. “fuck. i cannot believe you.” he’s glaring down at you, no hatred in it, just actual, jason todd, disappointment.

“you’re my girl, i can’t have you frozen in this city in the name of soup and hot chocolate.” and with that, he’s shrugging off that black puffer of his, exposing the obvious extra layers underneath it. you’re embarrassed he’s actually dressed for the weather. gloves, beanie, hoodie, thick sweater, and a thermal longsleeve. damn him to hell.

he’s shoving you into the (actual) coat before he even starts muttering, “wear this. you’re fucking crazy. actually fucking insane, babe.”

he doesn’t even wait for your permission. he just grabs your shoulders and turns you, shoves you forward a step, then swings the puffer around you.

it’s immediately too big. it swallows your frame, the hem hitting mid-thigh, the sleeves hanging past your hands.

but it’s also warm. so warm that is causes you to make a small, traitorous sound in your throat.

jason stops, slowly looks down at you, and squints.

“did you just fuckin’ purr?”

“no.” you lie.

he snorts and starts tugging the zipper up himself because of course his control freak psyche has taken the reigns. his fingers are quick and practiced even in gloves, like he’s stripping a gun instead of zipping up his girlfriend.

“unbelievable,” he mutters. “you come to gotham, walk out into a blizzard in a glorified windbreaker, and the second you’re too proud to admit defeat, you’re all, ‘oh, actually this is fine.’”

you burrow into the coat on instinct. it smells like his soap and cologne and a little like the metal of a gun, “this is really warm.”

“yeah. because it’s a real coat. that’s what they do.” he presses two fingers to your forehead like he’s checking for a fever, expression sardonic. “you got hypothermia already, baby? brain gone?”

you swat his hand. “be nice, todd. i just didn’t think it’d be that bad.”

he gives you a look. the kind that says he’s deciding whether to roast you alive, lecture you, or pick you up and carry you back inside your apartment.

he settles for the lecture, roasting hidden within.

“you’re in gotham city.” he says flatly. “winter here isn’t cute. it’s not a little chilly. gotham is actively trying to kill us all at all times. weather included, and sometimes with a guy in a cryo suit.”

“i already said duke told me about freeze—”

“yeah, and you still dressed like a—what the fuck is it called—uber outfits mannequin.”

you glare, “first of all, it’s urban outfitters. and second, i’m fine now.” you throw up your arms, puffer sleeves still covering your hands, “so can we…go? or are you going to starve me?”

“god forbid i starve you for five seconds to prevent you from becoming a human icicle.” he huffs, but holds his hand out for you to grab, “come on, let’s get food.”

you hum, both happy to win and happy he’s finally letting you live down walking out in basically a raincoat.

“i’m getting you actual winter clothes after this, you little fucking embarrassment.” he pulls you closer, guiding you through the snowy sidewalk. “walkin’ out here like it’s fifty out and not fifteen.”

he’s lucky he’s cute. and that you’re still too cold to move your arms away from the heat of your body. still, you let him be disgruntled about your poor taste in appropriate winter attire. it’s nice that he cares so much.

besides, he’ll end up paying for the, no doubt, hideous (weather-friendly) gear. might as well listen to him complain. you’ll get it right next year.

maybe.

WRITER’S NOTE

← ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ⋮ ⌞ dick grayson ✘ reader ⌝ .ᐟ .ᐟ

ᨳ includes ⋮ domestic fluff, established relationship

Dick Grayson buys you food almost every day. At first you think it’s just Dick being sweet, something small and mundane he does without thinking—like holding open doors or kissing your forehead when he walks by. But no. He really means it. It’s as if he’s convinced you simply won’t eat unless he’s the one putting something in your hands.

Some mornings it’s a croissant still warm from the bakery, sometimes a bagel you mentioned liking once in passing, always bought because he refuses to risk poisoning you with whatever disaster he’d create in a kitchen.

On days where exhaustion clings to you like a second skin, he shows up with soup—or noodles, or something soft and quiet you don’t have to think about while eating. After patrols, he brings you tea; after nightmares, milkshakes. He acts like feeding you is part of his nightly crime-fighting routine, like Gotham will fall apart if you skip a meal.

Dick Grayson asks you the most random things. Not the usual getting-to-know-you questions normal people ask when they’re trying to flirt or bond.

No.

Dick will point at a plant you’ve walked past a thousand times, a streetlight pole, a rock sitting on the edge of a rooftop, and quietly murmur, “Do you like that?”

You’ll blink at him, trying to figure out what cosmic significance this singular chunk of concrete suddenly holds, and just when he starts to retract the question—“Never mind, that was dumb”—you hum a soft, “Mhm,” because somehow you know he just wants to understand the way your mind moves through the world.

Dick Grayson likes putting his escrima sticks next to your shoes when he comes into your apartment.

It’s not something he says out loud or even acknowledges, but you see it every time—two polished blue sticks laid neatly beside your worn sneakers or your soft slippers.

It makes him feel like he belongs there, like there’s space carved out for him in a different way that the circus trailer’s or Wayne Manor were. One night he hands you a paint pen and asks you to sign one. You write your name out carefully, and you catch the way he looks at it afterward—like you autographed a piece of his ribcage.

Dick Grayson has you as his wallpaper on everything. Not in the cute, “oh, that’s my partner” way most people do it—no. Dick Grayson commits.

Your face lights up his laptop every time he opens it. Your smile greets him on his phone when he checks the time. He’s got a photo of you taped right beside the little rack where he keeps his suit, tucked between a grappling hook and a spare set of gauntlets, like you’re his own personal patron saint of not doing anything reckless. And there’s another tucked into his wallet—assuming he hasn’t lost that week’s wallet—worn at the corners because he checks it more than he should.

You’ve caught him more than once just… staring at one of the pictures. Zoned out, soft-eyed, looking like one of those big, dopey dogs that sit with their chin on their owner’s knee as if the sun rises and sets on them.

The first time you teased him about it, he tried to deny it—tried. But Dick has this problem where his blush shoots straight up to his ears and gives him away instantly.

And the truth is… he doesn’t even care if it’s embarrassing.

He likes having you everywhere. Close, constant, familiar. Something warm to look at before he goes out, something grounding when he comes back in bruised and exhausted, something soft to fall asleep next to when he’s crashed on your couch and you’re shaking him awake with that half-scolding, half-laughing voice he pretends not to adore.

Dick Grayson’s hands always twitch when he wants to touch you.

It’s ridiculous, really. It’s not like he’s a very still person in general but when he really wants to be his body does usually listen to him. This is a man who can hold perfectly still while a psychopath waves a knife an inch from his throat, who can balance on a wire thinner than your pinky without shifting so much as a breath—and yet when it comes to you, his fingers can’t stay calm.

They jump at the hem of his shirt, curl, uncurl, hover near you like they’re magnetized. The first time you touch him, really touch him—a casual brush of your knee against his under a restaurant table—he jumps so hard the silverware rattles. He tries to play it off. You try not to laugh. Neither of you succeeds.

Dick Grayson likes not talking about feelings.

That sounds bad—he knows. And Dick is working on it, truly, honestly, in the shaky, halting way only someone who grew up swallowing every emotion can. But god… he loves those quiet moments where he doesn’t have to be good with feelings, doesn’t have to name or explain anything.

He loves sitting near you—close enough that your knee brushes his, close enough that he can feel the rise and fall of your breath—and just letting his brain go blissfully blank. No acrobatic mental dodge, no defensive wall, no fortress he has to build brick-by-brick to feel safe.

Just you.

Just breathing.

And the knowledge that you won’t push, won’t pry, won’t kick down the doors he isn’t ready to open.

You’ll wait. You always wait.

And because of that—because your silence feels like permission rather than pressure—he finds himself wanting to speak more than ever.

But not yet.

For now, he’s content to exist beside you, emotions unspoken, heart unguarded, mind finally, finally quiet.

Dick Grayson hates a movie date. Genuinely, the silence and the forced stillness drive him insane — if it’s at home, fine, he can lie on you like some oversized cat and call it cinema, but this early in your relationship he’s convinced a real date means taking you somewhere out in the world. Fancy restaurants were his first attempt, and god, he tried. He wore the suit, he opened the doors, he let the waiter pronounce all the French words so he didn’t have to — and still, he could see it. The way you pushed expensive food around your plate with that polite grimace, trying to pretend you didn’t hate it.

So he scrapped that whole plan and went feral with relief the second he discovered carnival dates. The fair becomes his battleground and you’re the prize every single booth wants to steal from him. He shows off shamelessly — knocking down towers of bottles in one hit, absolutely obliterating the pull-up bar challenge, winning you every single plush in a five-mile radius. He insists your collection needs to be “properly diversified,” as if you’re running a museum of stuffed animals.

He only stops when you eventually kick him out of your own bed at 3:00am because, “Dick, you can’t sit on the plushies, they are our children,” and he stands there in the dark hallway looking personally betrayed by the rules of parenthood.

Dick Grayson loves walking you home.

Takes the long route every single time, even when it’s cold or Gotham smells like rain and old concrete, because stretching those minutes with you feels like stealing time from the universe.

If he gets to walk you home, that means you enjoyed being with him, that means there’s a next date, and Dick lets himself be embarrassingly, hopelessly giddy about it. He talks softer, laughs easier, practically skips under the streetlights with his hands stuffed in his pockets so he doesn’t accidentally reach for yours too soon.

And when you glance up at him, smiling in that small way you do, he thinks the long route is still never long enough.