# drabble .ᐟ⸝⸝ crack fic ⸝⸝ established relationship ⸝⸝ dick grayson has a huge ass ⸝⸝ teasing ⸝⸝ sfw ⸝⸝ dc masterlist
the sun was beating down hard on the quiet stretch of beach you’d managed to snag for the day. no villains, no patrols—just a shitload of sand, waves, and your boyfriend—dick—trying to get comfortable in the swim trunks you’d bought him.
they were definitely a size too small. definitely on purpose. the dark blue fabric clung to his hips and thighs, and it did wonders for that ass. all that acrobatic training over the years had paid off in ways you never got tired of gawking at. and he never got tired of showing it off.
dick stood there adjusting the waistband in an attempt to loosen the fit before realizing he wasn’t the problem. dick glanced over at you with a raised eyebrow. “babe. seriously?” he sighed. his voice had that familiar drawl—half amused and half resigned. “these things are cutting off my circulation. you really couldn’t find my actual size?”
you leaned back on your towel, sunglasses low on your nose, and let your eyes wander freely. “they look good on you. really good. perfect fit, if you ask me.”
he snorted, turning a little so you got the full view, then shook his head with a crooked grin. “yeah, i bet. you picked these on purpose, didn’t you? just so you could stare at my ass all afternoon.”
“guilty,” you admitted shamelessly, not even trying to hide that cheeky smile on your lips. you sat up and reached out, running a hand over the tight fabric when he came close enough for you to do so. “can you blame me? it’s right there. looking all… impressive.”
dick laughed under his breath, dropping down onto the towel beside you. sand stuck to his legs as he stretched out with a groan. “you’re trouble, you know that? i thought we were coming out here to relax. not so you could dress me up like i’m part of the scenery.”
he was grinning though, the kind of easy and warm smile he got when he was somewhat—no, scratch that—when he was one hundred percent enjoying the back-and-forth. you gave his ass a light squeeze. “relaxing includes appreciating the view. and this view is excellent. come on, you wear wayyy tighter stuff on patrol. you know, that nightwing suit of yours. really leaves nothing to the imagination.”
“hey, that suit helps me move around. it’s tight for… movement purposes. tighter stuff has utility pockets,” he shot back, nudging your shoulder with his. his tone stayed light and teasing. “these? these are just… tight. makes it harder to move. you know, one wrong move away from a wardrobe malfunction.”
you leaned into him, tracing a finger along the waistband. “worth it. you fill them out way too well to hide under baggy shorts.”
dick exhaled a quiet chuckle and wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you against his side. the sun warmed his skin. “you’re not gonna let me live this down, are you?” he pressed a quick kiss to your temple, voice dropping a bit. “fine. stare all you want. just remember payback’s coming next time we go shopping for you. might just pick out the wrong size on purpose.”
he settled back, content despite the tight swimsuit, one hand resting lazily on your hip. the waves kept rolling in splashes against the shore while you stayed tangled up together under the hot sun.
“Baby, do you want this comb? It says it’s for curly hair?” The Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, the cart wheels make an itchy squeak with every step. You didn’t notice the question until he stopped walking, halting in front of the hair section. You turn around to look at Dick, holding the comb in his hands like it’s a treasure. Fuck. It is the perfect comb. But one glance at the price tag makes your stomach drop.
“No… it.. it doesn’t seem that good”
He frowns. “Don’t be silly, it’s the same one I saw in those videos”
Videos? He watched-? You glance at the comb again, dumbfounded. “Huh?”
He grins that easy smile of his. “Had to do some research for my girl.”
A surge of warmth spreads across your face. Damn him. You force yourself to look away from his warm gaze to the comb in his hands. The question burns in your throat. “You… you seriously watched those videos?”
“Well yeah.” He shrugs. He says it like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “If you want it I’ll get it”
You hesitate. “Thank you, really. But…” you step closer, staring at the comb for another moment. Your fingertips brush his as you take it, making your heart flutter. “I really don’t want it.”
He stares in your eyes. His gaze softens. “Doesn’t look that way” He takes your hand in his, brushing over your knuckles gently and intertwining them into his. “I’ve got it, baby. It’s just a comb”
Guilt begins to gnaw at you. “Are you sure?”
“Yea I’m sure. It’ll make it easier for me to style them”
You press a soft kiss to his cheek, just the barest press of lips against his soft skin. “Thank you”.
He smiles, his eyes crinkling around the corners. “Don’t mention it. Hey - isn’t your gel empty?”
You nod.
“Let’s see then”, he turns his head to look at the rows. With his free hand he picks up a gel tube, inspecting it. “Is sulfate bad? I think I remember something like that...“ he sidesteps with you down the aisle “Oh - strong grip. Sounds promising.”
You watch him. You can’t help it. He picks them out with so much care it makes your heart clench.
“This one looks good. Or we can get your usual” He flashes you a grin “Or we’ll just get both”
another self indulgent curlyhair!reader because way more people liked it than I thought. still struggling with dickie 😭
A/N : whenever i write for dick i think about how i could not take his name seriously in a relationship,, so many things could be misinterpreted, food for thought
INTERACTIONS AND REBLOGS ENCOURAGED!
You didn’t expect him to take it well.
But you didn’t expect him to smile either.
Not a real one—no. This one was strained, hollow in all feeling. It was the kind he wore when he hated the person across from him. You’d seen that smile before, at galas, at press conferences, at funerals where the cameras were always watching. It was the face he wore when he couldn’t afford to express how he really felt.
But now it was aimed at you.
He tilts his head just slightly, eyes raking over your face like he’s trying to find the lie in it. Like the words you just spoke were a bad joke you hadn’t finished delivering. His lips twitch at the corners, almost curving into a laugh but the sound never comes. It dies in his throat.
“…That can’t be right.” The words are soft. His voice barely lifts. “You’re joking.”
It isn't really a question.
Theres a twitch under his left eye, a sharp, involuntary movement that betrays his well composed mask. His stance shifts, weight rocking from heel to toe as if trying to distract himself. His hands remain shoved deep in the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders tense, fists curled tight. He stalled, and the sound is startlingly loud. You say nothing. Words would only make it worse. Instead, you offer the smallest motion, a slow, deliberate shake of your head. It’s as if you’re standing before a wild animal, something that would bare its teeth at you if startled. The air feels thin, ready to shatter.
You might’ve laughed, once. Compared it to placating a caged lion. But there’s no space for humour here. Not with the way he’s watching you like he’s trying to memorise the moment of your betrayal.
He laughs again, short and bitter. His gaze drops to the floor, then drags its way back to you like it hurts him.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” you manage, though your voice is paper-thin.
The stillness that follows isn’t silence—it’s pressure. It folds over the room, sinks into the walls, curls around your spine like smoke. Your bones hurt from the pressure of it. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. There’s something pulling tight in his jaw, coiling tightly.
“You’re just overwhelmed,” he says, voice softer now, coaxing. “Work’s been rough, classes too. I should’ve noticed sooner. I should’ve done more. Just… let me fix it, okay?”
He takes a step toward you.
You step back.
And that’s when his face changes. Just barely. Something small flickers out behind his eyes. Something fragile and sharp and wrong.
The begging starts two days later.
Voicemails and dozens of texts, flowers you never ordered dropped outside your door. The messages start sweet, pleading almost. He sounds like he’s been crying, but you don’t trust it.
“Baby, I haven’t slept—please just talk to me. I can’t sleep, call me and I’ll come over and we can talk. I need to see you.”
“I love you. I know you haven’t stopped loving me—“
“I can fix this if you just let—“
You stop answering. You block his number after a scroll through all the messages. But then, he starts showing up. Dick never knocks. Just stands outside the door, the same way he used to when showing up at ungodly hours of the night. Through the peephole, you can see him, fists clenched, hair a mess, talking to the door like it’s you. Like if he says the right thing, if he means it hard enough, the door will open. You will open.
You don’t, despite that it keeps happening. And you refuse to open the door.
You’re afraid of what will happen when you do.
The third week is the quietest. No messages. No flowers. No man behind the door. Silence blooms, strange and heavy, thick in the air. You think, for a moment, that he had finally given up.
And then—you come home one night and your apartment isn’t how you left it.
It’s nothing obvious. The air just feels off. The curtains are closed,you always leave them open. A glass has moved on your kitchen counter. Your throat tightens. Something curls in your gut.
“I thought we were past this.”
You freeze.
Dick steps out of the shadows of your hallway like he never left. His clothes are rumpled, his eyes dark and rimmed with exhaustion. No smile now. Just a steady calm that hums like a fuse about to blow.
“I waited,” he says, voice calm and careful, as though each word is weighed before it leaves him. “I gave you space. I let you ignore me. I was patient.”
You try to speak but nothing comes out of your parted lips. He takes three steps toward you and the distance you so carefully built collapses.
“Why are you running from me?” he asks, the words unravelling now. “After everything I’ve done for you—everything I was for you—how could you just throw me away?”
His hand reaches for you. You flinch.
It stops mid-air.
And for a second, he looks at that hesitation like it’s a wound. Like you’ve driven a knife into his heart. And then something snaps.
“You don’t get to do this to me,” he spits, voice splintering. “You don’t get to throw me away like some stranger. I’ve bled for you. Given you everything and you think you can just—what? Move on?”
His hand slams into the wall just inches from your head with a violent, abrupt crack—the sound sharp enough that it rattles through your skull. He breathes hard through clenched teeth, chest rising and falling, his eyes not fixed on you but the damage he created, and even he seems startled by the force. The shift comes fast, unsettlingly fast. His face tightens, brows knighting with an awful, familiar tenderness that feels wrong. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, coaxing, the edges trembling with barely restrained panic. His eyes shimmer, not the familiar, playful glint you’re used to, but with a quiet devastation behind them that you don’t recognise, that looks like they belong to a stranger. You’ve never seen him unravel like this. In this moment, your heart hammering, back pressed against the wall, you realise you don’t know what he’ll do next.
Your breath stutters.
“…I didn’t want to scare you,” he murmurs, voice shaking. “I didn’t want it to be like this.”
He leans in, forehead resting gently against yours. His arms cage you in, soft at first, but firm. His breath is hot and uneven against your lips.
“But you weren’t listening,” he whispers. “And I need you to listen.”
You’re shaking. He doesn’t pull away. Maybe he doesn’t feel it. Maybe he just doesn’t care.
And when he kisses you, it’s all teeth and desperation, raw need seeping into the touch. It feels more like a punishment than affection. His lips bruise against yours, breaths shaky and uneven. There’s no softness in it, just feverish desperation, like he’s trying to consume all the memories of you leaving. You twist, try to lean back and do something to escape his grasp, but his hands only clamp tighter around your arms, holding you like you’ll vanish if he does.
He doesn’t leave that night.
Instead, he stays. He winds himself around you in the dark, body pressed to yours so tightly you can feel every breath he takes. His voice is low in your ear, almost tender if not for the edge creeping into it. He whispers your name over and over, soft and almost reverent. He tells you how this—this—is better. Just you and him, alone, exactly the way it’s supposed to be.
And you lie still, heart hammering, in the arms of a stranger.
♡ 𖥻 old dog, new tricks ──── dilf!dick grayson x younger!reader.
┆PARING .ᐟ dilf!dick grayson x fem!reader
┆ SUMMARY .ᐟ you’ve just stepped into the vigilante life, sharp-eyed and guided by a strong moral compass. you’re holding your own pretty well, right up until you get swept into nightwing’s maze of mentorship, mixed signals, and some unexpected emotions.
┆WARNINGS .ᐟ complex feelings. part I of III. romantic tension. dilf!dick grayson x younger!reader. fem!reader is a new vigilante. age gap. dom!dick grayson. fem!reader is in her twenties. silver fox!dick grayson. alternative universe. future batfamily. sfw-ish. college student! reader.
PART I ──── ❛❛OLD DOG, NEW TRICKS.❞
CHAPTER SUMMARY ──── You're an idiot in a homemade suit. But in a good way. He guess.
They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.
But at forty-four, Dick Grayson was still proving people wrong, still swinging across Blüdhaven rooftops long after most would’ve hung up the mask. Nightwing had become a legend, one of the most respected heroes around. Richard Grayson, meanwhile, had turned his name and fortune into something that actually mattered, funding schools, shelters, and youth centers all over New Jersey. He'd built a better state piece by piece, even if it meant his own back ached every other night.
He still kept up the Grayson grin, the one the tabloids called effortless, the one that made gala photographers hover like moths. He’d been invited to more charity dinners and police fundraisers than he could count, shaking hands, trading easy laughter. The charm was muscle memory now, a leftover part of the acrobat, all balance and performance.
But underneath, something had gone quieter.
The playboy thing was a rumor he’d let live, because it kept people from asking what really mattered. No one looked too closely at a man who smiled that easily. They didn’t see the bruises fading beneath the cufflinks, or the way his eyes sometimes drifted toward the exit when the music started to feel too loud.
He played the part, but the truth was simple.
Dick Grayson didn’t really know how to stop performing.
There was gray in his hair now, something his brothers never stopped teasing him for, and mornings came with a few too many sore joints. He had lived longer than he ever expected, and he was happier than he’d once believed possible. Dick told himself he didn’t need anything more than that quiet life: the bachelor apartment, his nights as Nightwing, and the rhythm he’d settled into as a middle-aged, single man who never stayed lonely for very long.
He dated easily. Always had.
There were girlfriends who lasted weeks, some a few months — women who liked his charm, his smile, the way he listened like their words mattered. He was good company, generous with his time, careful never to promise more than he could give. They came into his life softly and left the same way, no explosions, no broken plates. Just the mutual understanding that Dick was passing through, not putting roots down.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t commit.
It was that commitment, real commitment, felt heavier now, like something he’d already spent most of his life carrying in other forms. The city. The suit. The people who depended on him without ever knowing his name.
So he smiled, flirted, showed up when invited, and went home alone when it was over.
And most nights, that was enough.
Until it wasn’t.
Until you showed up.
Poor thing, barely in your twenties, with eyes bright and heart louder than your footsteps. You came charging into Blüdhaven’s underworld with duct-taped armor and too much courage for your own good. And of course, Nightwing found you before anyone else did. He landed in front of you with the kind of tired grace that only comes with age and experience.
His gaze swept over your homemade gear, the determination on your face.
“Go home, kid,” he said, voice low but not unkind. “and don’t ever do that again.”
And God, he thought that would be the last time he saw you. It should have been. But Blüdhaven had a way of dragging people back in and, a week later, there you were again, this time with better gear and a stubborn set to your jaw.
“Didn’t I tell you to go home?” he asked, dropping down beside you on a rooftop.
You didn’t flinch. “You did. I didn't listen.”
That look in your eyes, sharp and reckless, reminded him too much of himself at your age. And that’s what bothered him most. He saw the same hunger, the same need to matter.
So instead of turning you away again, he sighed and said, “Fine. If you're going to do this, you’ll do it right. But you listen to me. And when I say run, you run. Deal?”
You smiled, small but triumphant. “Deal.”
He never planned to take you under his wing.
You were raw energy in a stitched-together suit, stubborn as hell, full of the kind of fire he hadn’t seen since he was your age. The kind that burned bright and fast and didn’t understand how permanent scars could be.
And at first, you were a distraction. Someone to keep from getting killed. But then you became something else. A mirror. A reminder of the version of himself he’d buried under years of responsibility and loss. You laughed too loudly. You cracked jokes in the middle of fights. You cared deeply about people.
You reminded him what it was like to believe that saving a single person could still matter. And for a man who’d spent half his life measuring victories in body counts and broken bones, that was a kind of salvation he hadn’t expected. You made him feel the age in his bones, not because you were younger, but because you still looked at the world like it could be better.
That belief was contagious.
Dangerous, even.
He started showing you how to move through the dark without getting lost in it. You started showing him that there was still something left in the light worth chasing. Sometimes he caught himself watching you work a lead or pull a crowd together, that spark in your eyes when things clicked and he’d feel something shift in his chest.
Not desire, not nostalgia, but something quieter and harder to name. It was like standing at the edge of a high wire again — the same old fear, the same thrill, the same whisper in the back of his mind: just don’t fall this time.
The others noticed, of course.
Tim asked if he was “mentoring” again, the quotation marks audible. Barbara just laughed, told him to stop pretending he didn’t like having someone challenge him again. Damian judged him for it, said he was always taking in strays out of pity, just like their father.
And they were all right, in their own way.
The rookie wasn’t his replacement or his project. You were proof that the work still mattered, that the idea of Nightwing could outlive the man wearing the mask. Maybe that was what staying meant. Not clinging, not performing, but passing something on, like belief, skill, hope.
The important things that outlast bruises and broken ribs.
Weeks went by.
He told himself it was just mentorship. Just training. That was all.
But when you smiled like that, for a second, it felt like something he shouldn’t be feeling at all, something he pushed down fast. He’d been a teacher before, but never someone who had to remind himself, every other night, that some lines weren’t meant to be crossed.
He didn’t know, deep down, what you meant to him.
And Dick didn’t try to name it anymore.
He’d had enough labels in his life. Robin, Nightwing, partner, leader, brother, son.
This wasn’t any of those.
He didn’t know what you meant to him.
The sparring room echoed with the rhythm of movement, the soft thud of bare feet and the quick rush of breath. Dick moved like water, smooth and precise, each motion the product of years of practice. You mirrored him, clumsy but determined, sweat already running down your neck.
“Keep your guard up,” he said, voice firm.
You adjusted, and he nodded once before stepping in. The next few exchanges came fast until your forearm met his with a sharp smack that stung your bones. He grinned despite himself.
“Better,” he said.
You lunged again, and this time he let you get close before catching your wrist mid-strike. The momentum pulled you both forward — the space between you vanished for a heartbeat. His grip was firm and the sound of your breathing filled the room.
He released you right away, taking two steps back, forcing a calm into his posture that he didn’t quite feel.
“Balance,” he said, gesturing for you to reset. “Don’t let your opponent control it. You decide where the fight goes.”
You nodded, cheeks flushed, and reset your stance. He could see it in your eyes — the focus, the hunger to learn — and it hit him again how young you were, how much you still had to lose. The next round went cleaner. You blocked one of his kicks, pivoted neatly, and for the first time, knocked him slightly off-center. He laughed, a surprised sound that made the air between you lighter.
“Not bad,” he said, rubbing at his shoulder. “You’re starting to get it.”
He meant the technique, but part of him knew there was more underneath, something he had to keep in check. So he grabbed his water bottle, tossed you one, and said with a practiced ease, “That’s enough for tonight. Go cool down.”
He waited until you’d left the mat before letting his mask drop, the easy smile fading into something heavier, the weight of knowing he was teaching you to fight the darkness, while fighting a different kind inside himself.
You became a parasite in his mind, slowly and stubbornly. Your clumsy footsteps echoed across rooftops as you followed him, like a reckless, awkward excuse for an adult sidekick, your stupid joke earning nothing but a long sigh and an eye roll beneath the domino mask. And somehow, the most infuriating thing of all was your love for people, that constant, exhausting need to be good to them. Sometimes you reminded him of the big guy in blue, saving dogs and cats with earnest, bright eyes, believing a little too much in everyone.
You weren’t in this to brood on rooftops or because you enjoyed the violence. You were just a college kid who wanted to make a difference, to matter. And, honestly, that was kind of admirable. Even when you showed up at his apartment with your arm completely wrecked, asking for a glass of water. And maybe a first-aid kit. You didn’t want to sound greedy.
You fumbled your way through his window.
“Hey, Mr. Nightwing,” you said, breathless and awkward, “I think I broke my arm.”
The next thing you knew, you were on the floor.
Your arm was seriously messed up. Dick had been shirtless, midway through push-ups, and now he was already at your side.
“Jesus—what the hell happened to you?” he muttered with a heavy sigh, hauling you up like you weighed nothing.
Your eyes went wide as he effortlessly maneuvered you onto the couch, hands firm and practiced, already assessing the damage like this was just another night gone wrong.
He crouched in front of you, eyes sharp now, all humor gone. His fingers hovered near your arm.
“Don’t move,” he said, already standing again. “Actually—don’t breathe.”
You opened your mouth to apologize. He shot you a look that shut you up instantly.
The apartment smelled like detergent, metal and sweat. Dick disappeared into the bathroom and came back with a first-aid kit that looked suspiciously overused.
“So,” he said, kneeling again. He glanced up at you. “Care to explain how you managed this?”
You shrugged with your good shoulder. Bad idea. White-hot pain lanced up your arm and you hissed, biting back a sound.
“Yeah,” he muttered, unimpressed. “That checks out.”
He worked quickly, efficiently, wrapping and bracing with practiced ease. You watched him from under your lashes, how focused he was, how gentle despite the blunt way he handled you. It was almost embarrassing, how easy it was for him, how hard you’d tried to be something you weren’t ready to be.
“You can’t keep doing this,” he said quietly, not looking at you. “Showing up half-dead like it’s no big deal.”
You swallowed. “Someone’s gotta help.”
That finally made him look up. His expression softened, just a fraction, like something in your words hit too close to home.
“Yeah,” he sighed. “I know.”
He stepped back, crossing his arms. You clocked it immediately, the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw set like he was reminding himself of something important.
“I’m not always going to be here to help you—,” he said and stopped. “You’re not invincible.”
You tilted your head, studying him. “Neither are you.”
That landed harder than you meant it to.
The room went quiet. Not awkward, but charged. Like the air itself had weight now.
Dick looked at you for a long second.
“You make it hard,” he muttered.
You blinked. “To…?”
He can’t do that right now.
“Forget it,” he warned gently, already turning away to put the kit back. Boundaries snapped into place like armor. “Get some sleep. You’re staying here tonight.”
You smiled to yourself, sinking deeper into the couch.
“See?” you said lightly. “Good decision-maker.”
He paused at the doorway, shook his head, and, so quietly you almost missed it, said, “You’re going to get yourself killed, kid.”
“Don’t ‘kid’ me. I’m a grown woman.”
“You’re wearing anime-themed socks.”
“I’m a college senior.”
“With Attack on Titan socks.”
Silence.
“So you know Attack on Titan?”
Dick turned off the living room lights without another word.
Sometimes he thought telling you his secret identity had been a terrible, objectively irresponsible decision. But then you’d sit on his couch, feet kicked up, socks on full display, arguing half-dead on his living room and he’d admit, quietly, that he kind of liked having you in his life.
Exactly like this. Loud and ridiculous.
Idiot included.
┆NOTES .ᐟ : that felt very gen z on milennial crime. next part? it's up to you babes! love you.
damian wayne showing you affection for the first time
all was quiet in the wayne manor. bruce had gone to bed early, dick was out with wally, jason was brooding alone somewhere and all the others were doing something else. DAMIAN WAYNE couldn’t bring himself to care about the rest of his family. for his eyes only focused on you.
the way you pouted when you focused, the gentle swish of your hair when you turned to look at him with that too-bright smile. that same smile that he thought about every single day since he first saw it. now, you were lying in his bed, cuddled up to him as he sat there like a rock.
“dami, im cold.” you whisper to him, trying not to break the comfortable silence that you found yourselves floating in. he felt you shiver against him and he pulled the duvet up to cover you.
“better, qalbī?” he murmurs, burying his head into the crook of your neck. warm breath tickles you sensitive skin as his eyelashes graze your neck. “i don’t think i tell you that i love you enough. i do love you, don’t ever forget that.”
your heart stutters. “you… you love me?” you shift to look at him, eyes darting from his eyes to his lips. he looks so beautiful like this. cuddles up in his green bedsheets, hair tousled from your hands running through it and playing with it.
damian just nods and hums a small ‘mhm’ while planting featherlight kisses on your shoulder. shyness isn’t a thing damian experiences at all, but now he just feels sappy.
as the sun dips below the horizon, revealing the sparkling stars in the sky, damian comes to terms with the simple fact that he can love. all of these years where he’s deemed it impossible seem silly now, the fact that one person can make him feel like he can do anything is foreign.
“i love you, dami.” you whisper to him, the words dripping from your tongue like a spell to break a curse.
