Jason shuffled under the weight of your comforter. Your bed was queen-sized, and the sheets were soft against his skin. He struggled to fit properly and resisted the urge to buy you a new bed.
Actually, no, that was exactly what he was going to do.
He cursed as his feet hit the footboard. He was curled up on the side, his face buried in your hair and both muscular arms holding your smaller frame snug against his chest, like you were the most precious thing he’d ever held.
The both of you had been asleep, with Jason waking up frequently. He found it easier to sleep next to you, yet even your soft presence couldn't keep the nightmares at bay forever.
He sighed into your hair and nuzzled against your cheek. He had abandoned sleep a while ago. He was content to watch your chest rise and fall, a delicate comfort in his hazardous life.
Jason moved the arm that was under you so he could grab his phone. His arm halted mid-air, and he let out an undignified snort.
Around his bicep, a light pink ribbon was tied up into a flawless bow.
He nudged you, not concerned if you woke — it was 9 a.m., after all, and the two of you had gone to bed early.
You groaned, your nose scrunching up in a way that made him want to kiss you.
“No,” you grumbled and rolled to the other side where he couldn’t probe you further.
He snickered. “Oh, come on,” he said, pulling you back.
“You had no problem makin’ my muscles pretty while I slept.”
You gave him a sleepy grin at that.
“’Cause you’re the prettiest,” you muttered.
“People fear me, you know.” You turned in his arms so you were facing him. One hand went to his hair, and you let your fingers tangle in the soft locks.
“They fear your pretty eyes, your pretty biceps, your pretty hair—”
“Jesus,” he muttered like you were the bane of his existence, yet his head leans into your touch impulsively.
“I think he was also pretty.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’m the only one you’re allowed to call pretty.”
You grinned. “My baby likes being called pretty,” you cooed as if you were talking to a child.
“Shut up,” he grumbled, though you could see how his lips reluctantly formed into your favorite expression.
One of your hands roamed his bicep. You felt every vein and scar and let out a dreamy sigh.
I just watched Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile and like omg?!? I used to think it was a meme movie, but it was beautiful. Here were some things I liked:
-Reflection of how minorities are treated: Seen as dangerous until we prove ourselves or have some special talent that people like
-Life under capitalism: Feeling pressure to monetize your talent. Even being scorned by those you love because you refuse to monetize it
-How unfair capitalism is: Because of Lyle’s talent, he was able to leave the zoo life and get to live comfortably with humans and even go on vacation with them. His talent, which happens entirely at random, got him a life no other crocodile could’ve even gotten close to. This happens very often under capitalism, people with talents get to be rich while those that work hard are still left in poverty. It’s not the talented person’s fault, but it’s still an unfair system.
Also Lyle was so cute, I was squealing every other second bc I just wanted to hug him and squish him
This year, Dick had a very original idea on how to decorate the Christmas tree.
Tags/CW: Dick Grayson x fem! Reader, fluff, cuties in love, loads of kissing, estab! relationship, Dick being himself and a perfect bf, comfort. This goes out to all my holiday working sweethearts <3 (2.7k words)
12 Days to X-mas with Strawb | Day 1
Holiday season is the bane of your existence.
No, literally.
Whereas last year you had been spared of extra hours at the office that employed you, despite the never ending line of coworkers taking time off, the clothing store you're working at this year around, has cursed your working consistency by adding you on the double shift time tables.
You work for twelve hours a day instead of eight, and on weekend mornings.
By the time you come home to Dick, each and every night, you’re a mess. Always tired, hungry, moody.
Dick has tried to pick up the slack in that way he does — quiet, unobtrusive, like he’s afraid if he pushes too hard you’ll just fold in on yourself and disappear.
Some nights he meets you at the door with take-out because he knows you clearly didn’t get a lunch break. Other nights he’s in sweatpants, hair tied back, sleeves pushed up, cleaning something he swears he didn’t make messy in the first place. Once he even tried to draw you a bath, except he forgot bubble bath expands and nearly flooded the hallway. He’d stood there with his hands on his hips, sheepish, like, “Okay, yeah, my bad. Science is wild.” And the ‘Lmao’ after is an actual word he says.
But, despite the kindness and thoughtfulness in his actions, nothing really touches the bone-deep exhaustion eating at you.
Tonight is one of the bad nights. The real bad ones.
You barely get the key in the lock before your fingers slip. Twice. By the time the door opens, your bag feels like it’s filled with rocks, your shoulders scream, and that hollow ache in your chest —the one built from twelve-hour shifts, entitled customers, and forced cheer through endless repeats of Christmas songs— is so loud it’s practically echoing.
Haley is the first to greet you. With a playful soft bark, she launches herself at your feet.
You barely manage to drag the door open before she barrels toward you like she’s been waiting all day for this exact second. Her nails skitter on the floor, tail whapping so fast it’s basically a threat for nearby objects, and then she’s pressing her snout against your shin with this soft little “mmfff!” that somehow hits you harder than any customer who spent ten minutes arguing over a coupon.
“Hey, baby…” you whisper, dropping a hand to her head.
Except your hand is shaking, and she notices. Dogs always notice everything apparently. Haley immediately sits, leaning all her weight against your leg in that grounding puppy way she has, like she’s trying to keep you upright by sheer doggo determination.
And honestly? Good. Because you’re not entirely confident your knees still work.
You step inside —or try to— and then you stop dead in your tracks.
The lights are… low? Warm? Definitely not how you’re used to seeing your apartment at night. Something flickering glows from the far side of the room. A soft gold blur. Not harsh fairy lights, not white LEDs — something deeper. Warmer. Almost… magical? Cozy?
Taking a look around, you realise everything that was neat this morning is adorned with strobing Christmas lights and extravagant decorations. But before your brain registers what you’re seeing, Dick’s voice slips out from the living room.
“—that your momma?” His tone is light. And a little guilty. Like someone caught mid-crime.
You blink, toes still half-in, half-out of your shoes.
“Dick?”
He appears around the corner, hair a little messy, sweater sleeves pushed up, cheeks flushed like he’s been running around. Which yeah. He definitely has.
And behind him, you catch a flash of red ribbon. Garlands. Maybe a bow?
He smiles —that soft, lopsided one that always makes your chest wobble —and doesn’t give you a chance to process any of it. He just crosses the room, stopping in front of you with his hands hovering, like he wants to touch you but he’s not sure which part of you hurts the most.
“Hey,” he says, voice quieting as he looks at your face. “Rough day?”
You let out a laugh that’s not really a laugh, but rather the sigh that escapes you when your shoulders shrug absentmindedly. It sounds like someone dropped a glass ornament and it cracked but didn’t shatter. “You have no idea.”
His eyes soften. “Then good thing I had… uh… a plan.”
“A… plan?” you echo, dazed.
He gestures behind him, and you follow the movement — garland draped over the bookshelf, tiny flickering candles on timers lining the windowsill, a warm red-and-gold glow spilling across the room.
“Okay pretty,” he announces “Shoes off. Bag on the hook. Hug and kissy kiss first. Then the grand reveal.”
You blink at him, not even looking around yet to lay your eyes at the tree, or rather the corner it’s at. “Dick. Did you—did you do all this today?”
His ears turn a little pink. “Had some help,” he admits, jerking his chin toward Haley. “She supervised.”
Haley barks proudly, as if confirming she was, in fact, the apartment’s Christmasifying project manager. Your chest tightens in a different way now —softer, heavier, painfully warm. Awwwww
“Dick, baaabyy” you breathe, pouting.
“Yeah, I decorated the house, so what?” Dick smiles and his hands are already around you, already hungry to pull you in.
He finally lets his hands settle on your waist, thumbs brushing small circles, grounding you in a way that makes your eyes sting.
“You looked exhausted last night,” he murmurs. “And I know you hate Christmas right now. So I thought… maybe I could make home the one place where it doesn’t suck.”
You swallow hard and oh fuck, maybe the Gotham winter cold got to you, because your throat is tingling. “You didn’t have to—”
Dick cuts you off with a tiny shake of his head. “I wanted to.” Then, softer, “Let me take care of you for a minute, okay?”
He makes a silly face at you before puckering his lips and closing his eyes, delving straight into your little bubble of space like a man on a mission to collect his mandatory ‘welcome home’ peck.
You huff out something between a laugh and a sigh — mostly because he’s ridiculous, but also because the tension in your chest finally cracks enough to let some of the warmth in. You lean in and give him the softest kiss, more exhale than contact.
He hums. Like a satisfied little creature.
“Okay,” he whispers, forehead resting against yours. “Now you’re ready.”
“For what?” you ask, even though you’re already half-dreading the answer.
He pulls back just enough to wiggle his eyebrows. “Ive run you a bath! And it’s not the disaster it was last time.”
“The bar is on the floor, babe.”
“And yet,” he says proudly, “I have stepped over it.”
You huff, head tipping forward until your forehead lands against his shoulder. God, you’re tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind of tired that makes your eyes sting and your jaw ache. You feel his hands slide up and down your back, slow and steady, like he’s trying to coax the tension out of your spine.
“Bath sounds good,” you mumble into his shirt. “Everything hurts.”
“I know.” His voice softens instantly. “That’s why I’m trying to get you into the tub before you collapse on top of Haley’s toys again.”
“That was one time.”
“You screamed like you were dying,” he reminds you, kissing your hair. “It was a rubber penguin.”
“It was sharp.”
“It was literally round.”
You smack his chest halfheartedly, and he laughs, so wholeheartedly it hurts you deep in your lower stomach. How did you ever manage to land someone like him in the first place?
His hands come up to cradle your jaw, thumbs brushing the heat of your cheeks.
“Let me take care of you tonight,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “I want to gain boyfriend bonus points by rubbing your feet!”
“You’re heaven incarnated, Dick!” You nod to yourself affirmatively, too tired to argue —too tired to notice the soft glow coming from the corner of the room, too tired to question why it smells faintly like pine and cinnamon.
Dick probably lit a few candles before you came home.
Ughhhhh you love him too much.
Dick pulls back from you slightly, —and if you could suggest, he seems eerily surprised?—eyes shining with some secret ridiculous pride he’s clearly dying to reveal, despite trying so hard to hold in; unbeknownst to you, for your sake.
“Bath first,” he says firmly, guiding your hand into his. “Come on. Clothes off, hot water, maybe I’ll even wash your hair if you promise not to fall asleep mid-rinse again.”
“That was also one time.”
“You drooled on me.”
“I’ve had a shitty month I—”
He snorts, pressing a kiss to your plush cheek. “C’mon, sweetheart.”
Seriously? Can a promise of heaven actually be better than having Dick Grayson pepper you with kisses to melt your exhaustion away?
He starts leading you toward the hallway, and you let him —because the bath sounds like heaven, because the exhaustion is eating you alive, because he’s warm and silly and so stubbornly gentle it knocks the breath right out of you. Because the thought of him rubbing the knots on your feet doesn't sound half bad either.
And still —even as you’re walking away— you don’t notice the tree.
Not yet. Not the glow. Not the three colored garland. Not the upside-down silhouette hanging from the ceiling like a festive bat adorned with flickering lights.
Dick catches your blank, tired expression and bites his lip, barely containing the manic sparkle in his eyes.
_____
When you’re out of the bathtub —skin warm and loose, limbs practically jelly, perfectly massaged from head to toe by your boyfriend’s wonderful fingers— wrapped in the fluffiest robe known to mankind and Dick’s ridiculously oversized Christmas pajamas, yes, the ones with the tiny cartoon batmans wearing Santa hats, hair swaddled in a towel turban, you feel almost human again.
Almost.
Dick plops you on the couch with more care than anyone has ever plopped anything fragile ever, tucking a white, snowflake patterned, velvety blanket around you like he’s swaddling a burrito.
“You stay,” he orders gently, pointing a finger at the top of your nose —the boops you with the tip of it— like you’re Haley. “I’ll get you something to drink.”
You offer him a lazy salute. “Yessir.”
He rolls his eyes —but in reality? He’s smiling like an idiot. You sink deeper into the cushions of the couch, warmth humming under your skin, and grab your phone. Muscle memory opens your favorite food app before you even register doing it. Your thumb scrolls without thinking, eyes scanning photos you’re too tired to actually process.
All you know is you are starving. And everything looks good. Fabulous. Delish, as Steph would say. Even the weird fusion place that once tried to sell sushi lasagna by offering 50% off on the dish.
Dick returns with a mug of something steaming —probably tea, though with him it could also be hot chocolate with eight marshmallows and three cinnamon sticks— but you’re too focused on the screen to notice.
He spares a glance at the tree behind him, and that’s actually when you hear him; A sharp inhale, like he’s been waiting for something. Like he stepped on something sharp.
Have you seriously not seen the tree yet? He worked so hard to execute the idea! It’s unfair!
Dick’s standing there frozen, mug in hand, staring at you with a look that is equal parts pride, anticipation, and mild disbelief. Honestly? He’s puzzling you.
“What?” you ask, blinking at him.
“Nothing,” he says quickly —suspiciously quickly. Huh? “Just… uh… surprised.”
“By what?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks like he’s holding in a laugh.
“By how cute you look right now,” he lies terribly.
You squint at him. “Dick.”
But before he can dig the hole deeper, the lights from the tree flicker in another frequency than they did before and Haley suddenly trots into the room, her tail wagging at festive speed.
She stops in front of you, sits, and then — with the solemnity of a messenger owl delivering vital intelligence —she lifts her head toward the ceiling as she makes a run for the tree.
Yours and Dick’s eyes follow her snout automatically. And yes! Okay— oh yes, definitely! You finally saw it.
The glow.
The impossible cascade of red, blue, and gold.
The entire tree —hanging upside down from the ceiling like the world’s merriest bat — dripping garland and twinkling lights with the dramatic flair of a Broadway-style chandelier.
You stare. You blink rapidly. You stare again.
“Dick!?.”
He beams. “Hi yes! That’s me.”
“What—why—How—”
He bounces once. Actually bounces.
“Okay, okay. Before you panic, there’s a reason—”
“Our tree is upside down!”
Haley barks as if to say finally, she sees it. Dick places the mug down at the coffee table, hands raised in surrender.
“I can explain.”
“Oh, please do.” You laugh.
“With diagrams?”
“No.”
“With interpretive dance?” He shakes his head at you, waving his arms around as if some imaginary song is playing in the background.
“Dick—”
“Okay, okay!” he laughs, sitting beside you, eyes sparkling with unholy delight. “Short version: I didn’t want Haley eating the ornaments and chewing the tree. So I improvised.”
You stare at him, stunned into silence by the sheer Dick Graysonness of it all.
Well now that you’re looking at the tree again, really looking at it, it’s not bad! A little unusual, yes sure, but it’s kind of pretty; it fits the aesthetic of a non conventional Christmas too.
“Long version: I saw it on Pinterest and I hate when people are more creative and funnier than me.” Dick says next, pursing his lips to the side of his face “And,” he continues, reaching behind him with dramatic flourish, “you still need to place the topper”
“Im not sure there can be a topper for this tree babe, a downer maybe!?”
“Downer, yes whatever, you’re placing it!”
You stare at him, mouth open. His grin grows like your disbelief is fertilizer.
“Dick,” you say slowly, dragging your eyes to the base of the tree in the ceiling “is the tree nailed to the ceiling!?”
He sucks in a sharp breath through his nose. “I— well yeah kinda…I would say… a spirited artistic vision of a Christmas tree needed a few sacrifices.”
You drag a hand down your face, thinking your landlord is going to kill you “You’re insane.”
“Correct.” He chirps and finally plucks something from behind the pillow on the other side of the couch, triumphant. “And behold!”
He reveals a Superman figurine like it’s the fucking Excalibur on the stone.
Of course. Of course he would,
You bury your face in your hands. “Oh my god.”
He leans close, voice warm and smug and so insanely proud “C’mon, pretty. Wanna help Superman save Christmas?”
You shake your head, but your chest feels warm, melting, stupidly soft. He’s ridiculous, catastrophically, cosmically ridiculous, but he did this for you. To make you smile after a brutal month. To give you something so absurd you couldn’t not laugh.
You actually love him more than just ‘too much’
He nudges your thigh with his knee, softly and in turn you sigh, exaggerated. Dramatic, though he can tell you’re faking it. “Fiiiine.”
His whole face lights up. “YES!”
“But,” you add, pointing at him, “if this thing falls and crushes us—”
“I’ll die happy.”
“If Haley starts chewing Superman—”
“She won’t win. It’s coated in resin!”
“And if the landlord sees this—”
“Oh,” he says, with the confidence of a man lying through his teeth, “the landlord does not need to know.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “You’re unbelievable.”
He leans in and kisses all over your cheek like rapid fire, warm lips that are stupidly sweet.
“You love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
Dick gives you that proud, tight lined smile that hides his lips into his mouth, with his eyes squeezed shut, as if to show you he doesn’t think there’s one, singular, unfortunate thing about loving him and wiggles the Superman figure at you. “Downer time, babeyyyy.”
And honestly?
You start laughing; the kind of laugh that shakes the exhaustion right off your bones. And at the sound of it, Dick knows he fulfilled his purpose tonight!
“Fine,” you say again, grabbing Superman from his hands. “Let’s save Christmas, Grayson.”
His squeal is unholy.
~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work //
A/N: you don’t know this, but Dick used to be the literal love of my life LMAO and writing for him after so many years has healed a certain part of me.
Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but if you you liked this you can let me know in the comments <3
Who else felt like the FNAF 2 movie was an allegory for SA victims? Especially the “You’re mine and mine alone” mentality, bc a lot of victims feel like their body isn’t theirs anymore or their life is controlled by the harm that the rapist did to them?
Spoilers below:
Even the differences in the way the siblings reacted to the trauma, one feeling like they needed to become exactly what was expected of them, and the other one completely changing into something else. It all mirrors the way SA victims cope with their trauma… some will internalize it and feel like their only “purpose” was to be used and that it was their fault, while some will try to start a brand new life and understand that they didn’t deserve it.
It’s late at night so I know I’m missing some details but you get the point!
baratheonpilled
dededos
blakekathryn
2087
vaporwave
kaledo-art
andulkaphoto
