#nightwing drabble

[lacedwithpoetry]

────★ Dick Grayson Gilmore

Dick Grayson was on the edge of his seat.

Metaphorically, and quite literally—the couch cushion was half-sunken beneath the weight of his body, one knee propped up, elbow draped over the backrest like he was about to give a TED Talk on Stars Hollow dynamics. The glow of the laptop screen flickered across his cheekbones, casting soft light on a face far too sculpted for the humble realm of Gilmore Girls, and yet here he was—enthralled.

You had introduced him to the show a month ago with the vague disclaimer of “it’s just cozy background noise,” and yet somewhere between Chilton uniforms and Luke’s diner, Dick had become invested. Not in a passive, humoring-you way. No, this man had opinions now. Emotional stakes. He’d picked favorites and enemies. He cared.

And, perhaps most unsettlingly, he had realized with something like cosmic horror and smug clarity—

He was Lorelai Gilmore.

All fast-talking charm and emotionally layered rebellion. All self-made sweetness with a complicated relationship to authority and a deep, desperate love for the people who annoyed him most. Except, of course, this version of Lorelai had washboard abs you could do laundry on and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass.

Still. The point stood.

“I think Dean is like… perfect if they were in the 1800s,” you declared, your head against his thigh, popcorn in hand, scrolling your phone absentmindedly between impassioned commentary. “But c’mon, Rory was way too good for him. That’s why I like Jess. He’s a breath of fresh air. She’s too goody-goody. She needs someone who actually helps her live her life.”

Dick nodded solemnly, eyes still on the screen. “Completely agree.”

There was a beat of silence as you turned your head to stare up at him in disbelief.

“Wait, really?”

“Absolutely,” he said, like it was the most obvious truth in the world. “Dean’s a golden retriever. But like, the kind that sheds all over your furniture and gets weirdly jealous of your friends.”

You burst out laughing. “Oh my God.”

“And Jess—” Dick shrugged, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “He’s a pain. But he listens. He sees her. Rory’s used to being adored, but Jess challenges her. Makes her ask for what she wants. That’s a big deal.”

You blinked up at him, popcorn halfway to your mouth, stunned into silence by the sudden psychoanalysis.

“…Have you been watching extra episodes without me?”

He looked faintly guilty, like a man caught in an affair. “No,” he lied, then immediately folded. “Okay—maybe just the Thanksgiving one. And the one where Emily invites Rory’s boyfriend to dinner. And the one where—”

“You’re obsessed.”

He gave a helpless smile. “A little.”

You sat up slowly, shifting until your knees touched his. “So,” you murmured, dragging out the words, “do you feel closer to me now that you’ve seen inside the female psyche?”

“I feel like I am the female psyche,” he said, deadly serious. “I am Lorelai Gilmore.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Really? You?”

“I make bad choices in men, I talk fast when I’m emotional, and I use sarcasm to hide my deep-rooted abandonment issues.”

You stared.

“…Holy shit.”

“I know.”

You laughed, leaning forward to press a kiss to his jaw—warm, soft, your smile brushing against his skin. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m Lorelai,” he corrected, lips twitching. “With better arms.”

The episode played on, forgotten for a moment. Your laptop screen glowed faintly in the background while you curled into him, your laughter quieting into the rhythm of his heartbeat, the weight of his arm draping around your shoulder.

Somewhere in the distance, Lorelai made another bad dating decision. And Dick winced in sympathy, muttering, “I’d never let her marry Christopher.”

You snorted. “No. You’d marry Luke.”

He paused, considering it.

“…Honestly? Yeah.”

And somehow, that felt like the happiest ending either of you could imagine.

[fromdove]

“you’re bleeding on my bath mat.”

“technically,” dick says, biting back a wince, “we bought that bath mat.”

you glare at him. he’s sitting shirtless on the closed toilet lid like it’s a throne, hair damp with sweat and blood, black suit unzipped and pooling around his waist. his lip is split, knuckles scraped, and he’s got the nerve to be smiling.

“that doesn’t make it better.”

“no, but it makes it ours.”

you mutter something unflattering under your breath as you kneel beside him with the first-aid kit. “what happened?”

“some guy had a knife.”

“and you didn’t?”

“i had... optimism.”

“idiot,” you sigh, tilting his face toward the light. the cut on his cheekbone is shallow but angry. he winces anyway. you try not to think about how pretty he still looks like this, bloodied and cocky, grinning like he won a prizefight instead of nearly getting gutted in an alley.

“you worry too much,” he murmurs.

“you bleed too much.”

“fair point.”

he stays still as you clean the wound, but his eyes never leave your face. there’s a softness there that doesn’t match the bruises. like he’s memorizing your every frown. every sigh.

“you gonna kiss it better?” he asks, voice low and teasing.

“i’m gonna disinfect it,” you reply, deadpan. “if you’re lucky.”

he groans when the antiseptic hits, the sound dramatic enough to make you pause.

“you’re the worst nurse,” he complains, slouching dramatically. “i came here for comfort.”

“you came here for sympathy and post-fight cuddles.”

“and pancakes.”

“you’re not getting pancakes.”

“...you’re so mean to me.”

you set the bottle down and look at him. his lashes are dark and damp, his lip swollen, cheekbone starting to swell. and still—he looks at you like you’re gravity.

“you’re lucky i like you,” you say, softening despite yourself.

“you love me.”

you lean in, slow and careful, and kiss the corner of his mouth—right where it doesn’t hurt. he exhales against your lips like he’s been holding his breath since he climbed through your window. your hands find his jaw, cradling him gently. his own fingers twitch like he wants to touch you back, but he doesn’t move.

“you’re bleeding on me,” you whisper when you pull back.

“technically,” dick grins, lips brushing yours again, “we’re even now.”

and then he kisses you properly—bruised mouth and all.

[adddddiiii]

Thinking about sleepy Dick Grayson...

The warmth of his arms wrapped around you felt like home, the kind of safety you never thought you'd find in a person.

His chest pressed against your back as he buried his face into the crook of your neck, his breath soft and even against your skin.

"You're so warm," he murmured sleepily, his voice muffled by your hair.

You chuckled quietly and wiggled a little to adjust your position. His grip instantly tightened.

"Nope. This is a no-escape zone."

"Oh, is that right?" You turned your head just enough to catch his lopsided grin.

"Mm-hmm."

You couldn't help but smile and lean back into him. His legs tangled with yours, locking you both into a cozy pretzel of limbs.

"Goodnight, pretty."

[0107nw]

⇒ soulmate!dick grayson x cat girl!reader

summary: short drabble (soon to be written fic) in which your shared soul mark is the inability to lie to one another. lots of teasing ensues!

genre: soulmate!au, “rivals” to lovers

warnings: none for the drabble!

a/n: did i abandon my haikyuu blog for dc? yeah…. yeah 😞😞😞

currently unedited || masterlist

you’d been by catwoman’s side for years now, starting from when you were just ten years old. like the dynamic duo of gotham, selina had taken you under her supervision, minus your family dying in a tragic circus accident of course.

your first meeting with batman’s boy wonder was quite eventful, a game of cat and mouse - or a cat toying with a bird. you took great pleasure in out pacing robin as he tried to catch you.

As kids you two were honest with each other, through the back and forth’s or the rare occasions when your mentors would work together - thus forcing you two to work together.

uttering a lie to one another would never have even crossed your minds, what better way to voice your disdain than by voicing it to the person causing such strong negative emotions?

unfortunately for the two of you, that honesty did not could not stop in your adulthood.

now no longer “robin” or “catgirl”, the two of you have adopted your own personas, no matter how close or distant it was from your titles as sidekicks.

kitty was the name you settled for, seeing as selina refused to step down as catwoman, and your genius younger self decided she was too grown to be catgirl during her teenage years, you were now stuck with something more or less the same.

and dick grayson - nightwing, was loving it.

it was supposed to be a quick swipe, get into the gallery, grab a few of the paintings stored away in the back and get out. of course, the ever so righteous nightwing couldn’t allow that to happen.

“here kitty-kitty, why don’t you drop the paintings and indulge in a little treat?” he’d tease, a smirk present on his face, a grimace present on yours.

“i’d love to, but this kitty’s a little busy.”

you furrowed your brows as you registered your own response.

… of course he’d use your silly soulmate mark against you.

“cute, are you gonna keep being honest with me, or are you just feeling nice?”

you push past him, hands tightly grasping the duffle bag filled with small pieces, you didn’t get why he would be so eager to bust you for something so trivial - you’d been transparent about what would happen to the paintings anyways.

your time as a petty criminal was long over, ever since selina had taken you in, and you’d formed a deep appreciation for the arts over the years. the prints you stole would always be donated to spaces you knew would love and appreciate the art given to them. unless of course, you were covering for selina.

kind of like the art worlds own robin hood - though nightwing would disagree with that.

“come on, pretty. y’know i’m just teasing -”

“don’t you have actual criminals to stop, or am i just lucky.” your sarcasm was enough to gain a small chuckle from him, he began following you as you made your way back out of the building.

dick sped up his pace, manoeuvring his body so that he’d be in front of you now. hands moving to grasp your shoulders and stop your own movement, you rolled your eyes puffing up your cheeks in annoyance as he fumbled your plans. again.

with a coo, dick grabbed your chin, pulling you closer to leave a peck on them as you continued to pout. “awh, is my cute little soulmate sad she can’t steal a few paintings?”

“yes. and she’s also annoyed that her annoying boyfriend keeps using their soulmate bond against her. stop asking me questions! i need to get these to selina.”

“i’m sure bruce can keep her busy a little longer, gimme those paintings, i’ll leave them in the back, and you and i can spend the rest of the night cuddled up at my place.”

you rolled your eyes at him, nudging his hands off of your shoulders and continuing to the rooftop. behind you, you heard his own signal of annoyance. you smirked at his huff.

he once again moved himself to block your path, you dropped your smirk and looked up at him with a judgemental glare.

“why is it that batman let’s selina get away with stealing, but the second she gets me to do her dirty work, im getting chased down by gotham’s resident goody two shoes?”

“because selina’s his fiance and has him wrapped around her finger, and you’re my girlfriend, double standards i know - but everyone’s a critic.” he shrugged, before grabbing at the bag in your hands. giving your nose a quick boop before turning to make his way back into the building.

“hey- give that back! and are you suggesting that you’re not as whipped for me as bruce is for selina? i thought we were meant to be soulmates.”

“of course i’m as pathetically desperate as he is, whenever im around you i feel like a wet dog whining for attention. do you know how much self control it’s taking to grab this bag off of you?”

you hummed, satisfied with his answer - and the use of the soulmate bond to get said answer out of him. you swayed your hips as you walked up to him, pressing a palm to his chest while the other dragged down his arm.

you could hear his breath hitch, almost hear him purr as you plucked the bag from his hands, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

“then i’m sure bats will understand why you couldn’t get the bag back, hm?” you stepped away from him, a grin in place of the smug expression you had moments ago. “i’ll see you at home, love you!”

you jumped off the roof, making your way back to selina with the goods secured.

“hey uh… bruce?”

he heard his mentor sigh on the other end of the comms. bruce knew all too well the struggles of being bonded to the cats of gotham.

[ivysangel]

"IF IT'S FUCK ME, THEN WE HAVIN' SEX" - MDNI [hate sex, hair pulling, licking]

You yank the back of his head up from the crook of your neck, red-hot anger radiating off of you in waves as you scowl at the man above you. If Dick wasn't such a good lay, you'd have cut him out of your life a long time ago when you'd broken up with him after he screwed you over the first time. Unfortunately, you had a nasty habit of thinking with the thing between your legs instead of your brain, hence why you were the poster girl for fury and rage despite being close to your third orgasm of the night.

"Poster girl for fury and rage," but the sweet, high-pitched sounds coming from between your lips say otherwise. The way your muscles twitch every time his hands roam and squeeze your body in any capacity...You were a liar, weak in the knees for a man you hated, handing out pussy to someone you'd wished death upon frequently. You made yourself sick but not sick enough to stop.

His hips move back and forth, cock sliding in and out of you with ease and coated from tip to ball in your slick. He holds your legs up, keeping them wide open, and his head tilts down, fighting against the grip you have on his scalp to watch the way you take him with no resistance. 

You tug again, this time in response to him hitting the soft, sensitive spot deep in your cunt. Brows furrowed and mouth falling open with every moan that slips past your lips, your feigned hard demeanor softens with every stroke of his cock. You lose yourself in the sensations, very quickly becoming the picture of pleasure as the friction of his hips grinding against your own sends shivers up your spine.

Dick's blue eyes take you in, trapped beneath him once again despite the string of insults and curses you had yelled in his face just a little over two hours ago. He had let it slide, though. Brushing off your words because you're pretty when you're angry, and he knew you'd let him in. You're predictable like that, always quick to drop your pants for him in between fights, even when you say you hate him.

He leans down into your neck again, breathing in your scent, nose brushing against your face as he trails up and down your jaw, leaving soft kisses along your neck and cheek in sync with his strokes. A thin shin of sweat sits on top of your body, making you stick to him like glue, and he licks a strip up from your neck to your ear, tasting the saltiness of your skin. Your jaw goes slack, and you whimper, feeling like that one action has pushed you right into the deep end.

"Oh, but it's fuck me, huh?" He mumbles into your ear, nipping at the lobe and rolling his hips into yours in a way that makes your back arch. Even with closed eyes, you know he's smiling; the lilt in his voice is evident even with his words so jumbled. You'd tell him to go fuck himself, but it was too late now; you were committed to coming.

"Shut the fuck up," you pant, on the brink of your orgasm, chest tightening as you feel your brain start to go foggy once again; the promise of ecstasy on the horizon.

"Uh-huh," he grunts, bucking his hips harshly, eliciting another tug at his hair. "That's what I thought."

[pinkhoodi]

6:53 PM

confess my love — The air was quiet, still, filled with peace, not even disaster can ruin it.

Two lovers, laid on the couch and humming to what the record player is currently playing. A certain song plays and it has you bring your head up from Dick’s chest, your vision aligns with Dick’s half open eyes. He goes in and out of sleep, his lashes flutter but you can still hear him sing low to the love song.

As you shift your upper body closer to his chin, he mumbles something but incoherently. You ask him if he’s sleepy but he continues to mumble, you make out the words of “perfect” “y/n” “love you”. The last few words perked your attention and you sat up on his chest.

Either Dick was dreaming or did he really confess his love…in his sleep?

You poke his cheek and he groans as a response. You did it again and he lightly pushes your hand away, you find enjoyment watching your boyfriend groan in his sleep.

“Dick?” He hums to respond. You question yourself if you should ask if he really said “I love you” or were you just hearing things. Though, the words you heard him say loop as your eyes follow every small action Dick performs in his sleep.

Now his cheeks are dusted with a light red, seeming as if you painted them yourself. You watch as he continues to mumble to himself and those words, well phrase is spoken again, “I love you y/n”.

Your cheeks warm up and the only thing you could do is kiss him after hearing it. You dip down to his soft lips, a small smile appears as you admire his lips. Full, perfectly shaped, a shade of pink that brings a sense of youth, and soft as a cloud. His luscious lips bring a certain invitation to place more than kisses.

You place a light kiss and he kisses back, lazily though as he still hums and mumbles. You place another on the corner of his mouth and he hums again. Except this hum sounds accompanied with satisfaction, added on is the lazy smile that appears on his face.

You feel your body being pulled back into his chest and he has you rested there after you kiss him, as if he never wants to lose physical contact. The music continues to play and the loop of Dick saying “I love you y/n” continues to play in your head. Even if he was supposedly “dreaming”.

© 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟥 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗁𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗂. 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍��� 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽

[olailamajnoon]

Dick on the phone, at 3 pm in the afternoon: Forgive me father for I have sinned.

Bruce, just woken up, squinting at the alarm clock: Dick it's 3 pm. what is this.

Dick, tearfully: My confession! I couldn't sleep, Bruce. I was the one who drove my hamster to suicide! I didn't feed him malt cookies like I was supposed to! He climbed on the exercise wheel and didn't stop running until he died.

Dick: *continues sobbing*

Bruce: okay so first of all.

Bruce: I'm not a priest.

Bruce: And second of all. Animals don't commit suicide.

Dick: Mari did!

Bruce: You named your male hamster after your mother...?

Dick: NOT THE POINT, BRUCE!

Dick: but yes.

Bruce, sighing: There's so much to unpack here I don't know where to start.

Dick: I killed him, Bruce. I should have died along with him!

Bruce:...

Bruce: It's possible that you've associated your hamster's death with the trauma of your parents' death, possibly because of shared names, and you've displaced your survivor's guilt from the first onto the second.

Dick:...

Dick: So what should I do.

Bruce: In my experience, the best way to deal with survivor's guilt is to save as many people as you can, possibly people in the same situation as the loved ones you have lost, hoping that the heroic nature of your deeds lets you sleep at night.

Dick: And what if that doesn't work?

Bruce: Then you drink. Get shitfaced drunk every time you feel a pang. Or you can pray to a nonexistent god and an uncaring universe.

Dick:...

Dick: If I come over, will you break out the good whiskey.

Bruce: I thought you'd never ask.

[ahqkas]

you’re not sure how you ended up here—in DICK GRAYSON’S bed, with his hands on your waist, and the weight of his body leaning just enough against yours to make your pulse race. it had started with a quiet moment, a teasing comment, and then a look that lingered a little too long. one thing led to another, and now you’re tangled up with him, your heart pounding in sync with the rhythm of his lips moving against yours.

his bed smells like him ( faintly like clean linen, with a hint of whatever cologne he uses, something warm and grounding ). the scent wraps around you, mixing with the heat of his skin and the way his breath hitches when you tug him closer. his hands trail up your sides, calloused fingertips brushing over fabric and skin as if he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

you gasp against his mouth when his teeth graze your bottom lip, the sound soft and involuntary, and you feel him smile against you. “what?” he murmurs, voice low and husky, the kind of tone that sends shivers down the valley of your spine. his lips barely leave yours as he speaks, like he can’t stand the distance even for a second.

“nothing,” you manage but the way your voice wavers betrays you.

“liar,” he breathes out, his lips tugging into a smirk and pressing against the curve of your jaw as he moves lower, leaving a trail of warm, slow kisses down your neck. his hands slide up up cradle your face for a moment, tilting your head so he can reach a spot just beneath your ear that has you clinging to him.

your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, tugging lightly as if to pull him closer. he shifts, the mattress dipping under the added weight and his knee brushes yours, caging you in but never making you feel trapped. his touch is firm but careful. he’s holding back, letting you guide how far things go.

when he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes are dark with something between want and adoration. “you’re gonna kill me there,” he whispers and his thumb brushes against the apple of your cheek in a such tender movement it makes your heart ache.

[hhoneylemon]

dick grayson x reader who sees him as art

he prefers to sleep like this.

completely exposed to you, muscles and flesh and scars laid in front of you like candy. clad in underwear, face frustrated in his sleep, like he’s still fighting even in his most peaceful moments.

your hand runs up his arm, carefully feeling his muscles. he’s a light sleeper and you don’t want to wake him, especially not when this is one of his rare nights off from patrolling. a soft breath escapes him, muscles tensing beneath your touch, though he relaxes just as fast.

moonlight illuminates him in all of the best ways. the contours of muscle and the curves of his body are highlighted, the way his back arches against the mattress exposing the lines of his spine.

your hand moves from his bicep to his back, tracing his spinal cord. at his vertebrae, your finger runs over each rigid bump while carefully tracing each. dick then stirs, a low ‘hmm’ softly sounding from his pillow.

“honey? what are you doing?”

his head lifts just so, gaze landing on your face. his eyes are barely open, eyebrows furrowed as if protecting himself from the faint moonlight.

“admiring you.”

you whisper in response, finger running back down his spine. he shudders and drops his face back into his pillow. then, his arm moves from supporting the underside of his pillow to wrapping around your waist. he pulls you closer, leg entwining with yours as his face moves to the edge of his pillow. a kiss is placed to the junction between your neck and shoulder.

“sleep, please. i’ll see you in the morning.”

you only agree because he’s on the verge of falling asleep again. his eyes close again, content filling his mind and heart. you quietly sigh into the air before snuggling closer beside him.

maybe you could try again while he cooked breakfast in the morning.

A/N: i love dick… i miss writing for him :( i kinda lost motivation but it’s coming back now, trust!! i’ll be back on the grind soon

masterlist

[superbat-love]

Bruce: Legend has it that this house is haunted.

Officer: Stop joking around, Mr. Wayne. We have a warrant to search the premises for illegal activities.

Bruce: It’s probably the ghosts causing trouble again. You’d be doing me a favor if you arrested them, officer.

Officer: Mr. Wayne, this is a serious matter!

Bruce: Did you know that if you stand in front of this mirror and chant someone’s name, they’ll appear behind you?

Officer: [sighs] Like Bloody Mary?

Bruce: Bloody Clark!

Clark: [suddenly appears behind them, wrapped in a blanket, eyes glowing red] Hey! That wasn’t nice.

Dick: [hanging upside down from the ceiling] Hi, Clark!

Officer: [screams and faints]

Bruce: You’re late. I called you two seconds ago.

Clark: I’d have gotten here sooner if you didn’t cuss at me while I was asleep!

Dick: Do you need my help getting rid of the body?

[killakalx]

18+ content, roleplay (technically), slight breeding kink, short n sweet srry… buttt it’s inspired by this twt link :)

You aren't sure what you expected when you asked to fuck your boyfriend in his suit. at first, the appeal was his looks; somehow, Dick Grayson's perfect physic looks better in skin tight elastic than with nothing at all. but he's different. meaner. almost as if you're nothing more than another delinquient for him to deal with.

Dick—Nightwing—has you pinned on your back, legs closed and folded effortlessly against your chest, gloved hands gripping your thighs. by now tears have welled in your eyes as you weakly paw at his grasp for the third time. "D—ick," you choke out and gasp when his momentum fails to falter, "Dick, I wanna..”

“not my name, doll,” he almost snickers before groaning when you pulse at the name. and without a second to spare, his weight is pressed into you while keeping himself elevated, then he’s pummeling into your sore pussy— if you could hear yourself you’d think you were in a damn porno.

“oh, my god- Nightwing!” your own cry rings out through your body as you curl into yourself, turning away from his almost condescending in humiliation. a wave of pride pangs through his entire being and Dick moans, raven black hair hanging over his cowl when his gaze falls to your cunt.

God, he could keep you here forever. it’s not his usual thing; limiting the closeness between you two, making you beg and cry for a little kiss, not smothering you against his own body. but it’s hard for you not to be shy when you realize your boyfriend is the Nightwing, the same one that bludhaven women just wish were in their bed right now—and that alone makes it much harder for him to not feed is insatiable ego. “little louder and i just might give it to ya,” Dick teases, “c’mon, tell Nightwing what you need.”

“…cum,” you whine pathetically, “wan’ be filled up..” your tummy tightens again when his thumb massages your clit, smooth latex material of his glove making you flinch in pleasure. his fingers dig into your soft thighs as his pace quickens and you sigh, all dreamy and drawn out and debauched. Dick groans when slick gushes out your cunt and around his cock, and his free hand kneads your bouncing tits together before he can even think rationally of it.

“dirty girl,” Dick comments from deep within his throat, “fucking you nice and full isn’t enough? tell me you need it, my pretty slut.” your body shivers and you follow through with no thought. who are you to deny your protector?

“I need it, baby,” you beg, “need you to cum so bad.” your nimble hands wrap around his wrist and you keen at him, pouting and whimpering like you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself without him. “please, Nightwing? ‘been a good girl, just for you.”

“fuckin’ hell,” Dick groans, “take it then, pretty baby.”

[lacedwithpoetry]

────★ THINKING ABOUT… DICK GRAYSON, who doesn’t realize how much he truly loves tan lines.

୭˚. ᵎᵎ contains… Dick Grayson x tanned reader

୭˚. ᵎᵎ warnings… contains mentions to sex at the end.

 The pool is quiet at night. Just the occasional ripple from your legs, a soft splash when you push off the wall. The stars overhead are sharp and clear, but he isn’t looking at the sky. He hasn’t looked anywhere but you for the last twenty minutes.

You climb out of the water first, squeezing the ends of your hair and stepping lightly across the stone tiles.

“Gonna stay in all night?” you tease, glancing over your shoulder at him.

He’s still in the shallow end, forearms braced on the edge, chin tilted up. His grin is slow.

“Thinking about it.”

But really, he’s just not ready to get up yet. Because the pool light is behind you — and the way it’s catching on the droplets on your thighs, the barely-there coverage of your black bikini bottoms, and the little glint of moonlight against your lower back is—

God.

His stomach clenches.

He follows after you eventually, grabbing a towel and running it through his hair with both hands. When he looks up, you’ve turned slightly to face him, drying off your legs, hip cocked out, talking about something light — maybe your favorite pool snack as a kid, or how chlorine reminds you of summer camp.

He doesn’t hear a word of it.

Because the moonlight hits just right — and that’s when he sees it.

The shape.

The sharp cut of sun against skin. A perfect line, clean and curved, hugging the dip of your waist. A color difference so distinct it looks intentional.

His eyes trace it.

You pause mid-sentence.

“…Dick?”

He blinks up. “Yeah?”

“You good?”

He nods slowly. But his gaze drops again — this time lingering openly at the tan line where your bikini had clearly shielded your skin earlier that week. The outline is so precise.

That line.

That little strip of untouched skin against golden bronze—

It’s killing him.

“You got sunburned?” he asks softly, voice a little rough.

You glance down at yourself, then shrug. “Nah, just tanned weird. That was from the beach with Babs the other day.”

He steps closer. Drops the towel.

“What?” you laugh.

He doesn’t answer.

He just places both hands on your hips, thumbs resting right at the edge of the line. He strokes the contrast slowly, then leans in to press a kiss right to the border — where soft, pale skin meets deep gold.

“Dick?”

“You don’t know what this is doing to me,” he murmurs, lips brushing over your hip.

You shiver.

“I didn’t even know I liked this,” he admits, another kiss lower, slower. “But fuck—this is driving me insane.”

“Because of my tan line?” you say breathlessly, half-laughing, half-melting as his hands start to smooth down your thighs.

“Because you look like you’ve been branded by the sun, and I wasn’t there to do it,” he growls. “You look like something sacred.”

“Dick—”

He hooks his thumbs in your bikini bottoms and looks up at you with blown pupils and flushed cheeks.

“Gonna let me leave my marks now?” he asks, voice low and thick. “Even it out a little?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Because you’re already nodding, already reaching for him, already backing up toward the lounge chair with your hands tangled in his wet curls.

And when he finally presses you down and pulls that bikini off — he doesn’t fuck you fast.

He worships every last sun-kissed inch of you.

Including the parts only he gets to see.

[fromdove]

“Are you making… Oreo brownies?”

You’re in the zone. Full concentration. Headphones in. Sleeves rolled up. Spoon carving its path through a thick swirl of glossy cocoa and sugar and crushed Oreos. The bowl is warm from your own body heat, the scent is, of course, delicious, and you're already composing the victory text you’re going to send Steph. Something smug. Something bold. Something with at least four exclamation marks.

And then.

You flinch like you've just been struck by lightning. The spoon slips from your hand and lands in the bowl with a dramatic clatter, launching a perfect arc of brownie batter across your forearm and onto your sleeve.

You rip your headphones out. “Jesus Christ,” you shout, heart lurching. You spin around so fast you almost step on your own foot. “Dick!”

You didn’t hear the front door. You definitely didn’t hear footsteps.

But you do hear his voice. Right behind you. Where you didn’t even realize he was.

You’re clutching your chest when he smiles.

“They look delicious. I’m absolutely starving.”

You scowl, hand still pressed over your thudding heart. “Can you make some noise when you enter a house? You’re not Batman.”

He has the nerve to lean forward towards you. his hand against the counter behind you like he didn’t just knock five years off your life. His hair is damp, curls sticking to his forehead in soft, sweaty pieces. His suit is peeled halfway down and tied around his waist like a towel.

“Hi,” he says, with an innocent shrug and an added grin for effect. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t mean to—? You—!” You sputter, motioning wildly at the bowl. “You made me mess up my batter!”

“You’re welcome,” he says, is he kidding?.

You blink. “You’re home.”

“I noticed.”

“You didn’t text.”

“I was going to. But then I realized I liked the element of surprise better. more romantic”

You squint suspiciously. “that’s not romantic. that’s deeply annoying. I have brownie batter on my shirt now. you also could've given me a heart condition.”

He gasps. “Sorry, sergeant. Next time I’ll throw a rock through your window to let you know I’m coming.”

You don’t appreciate his tone of sarcasm. Not one bit. “Oh, fantastic. Your charming knack for breaking things really completes my day. Like you haven’t already wrecked enough. Just try not to break anything too expensive, alright? Because last time—”

He flicks your forehead before you can finish your sentence, His grin turns soft at the edges, curling deeper into his cheeks until his dimples show.

You hate that your face warms under the kitchen lights.

Damn his stupid perfect face.

You glance him over. He’s bruised. One big purple smear curling over his ribs and another blooming just above his hip. There’s a shallow scrape at his side, not quite bleeding, but still raw. He shifts his weight and you catch the faintest limp. He smells like gotham air and sweat and faint cologne, and honestly, it should be disgusting.

On anybody else, it would be, but not on him.

You cross your arms. “You’re bleeding. And you’re standing within blood-spatter distance of my brownies. I swear to God, if you get any blood on my batter…”

His eyes sparkle like that’s not even a threat. “Might improve the flavor. A little Grayson glaze.”

You groan. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You really don’t.

“Also, I’m not bleeding,” he says, before you can threaten him again, gesturing loosely to his side, his grin faltering slightly. “It’s a superficial scrape. Barely leaking.”

“Dick.”

“I mean it. No drip risk. This is a sterile environment.”

“You are not a sterile environment. Look at you.”

He walks forward, hands raised in surrender. “I washed my hands. Rinsed. Lathered. I’m FDA-approved.”

“That is not how an FDA-approved person looks.” You give him a look. “And the limp?”

He hesitates. Looks down at his own legs like he has to double-check. Then nods once, very seriously. “Stylized walking.”

You deadpan. “Stylized walking.”

He nods, serious. “It’s called commitment to the bit. It’s my swagger.”

You reach for the spatula again.

“I’m going. I’m going.” He’s already retreating. “Message received. No bleeding near brownies. But I missed you. So. Had to say hi.”

You sigh. “Hi.”

He beams. “See? Worth it.”

You point toward the hallway with your spatula. “Shower. Go.”

He doesn’t move right away. Instead, he leans in just a little. Closer. He squints at your face.

“You have a little flour on your cheek.”

You start to lift your hand, but he stops you.

“No, wait. Let me.”

He blows gently against your cheek. Not enough to actually do anything. But enough to make you a blushing mess. You’re very aware of how close he is. How warm. How smug.

“Shower, Grayson,” you say through your teeth.

He groans like you’ve wounded him. “I nearly died for this country.”

“You were in Blüdhaven.”

“Details.”

He trudges off with the dramatic weight of a man being sent to exile. “No applause. No gratitude. No patriotic cookies. What has this world come to?”

You hear the bathroom door close behind him, then the water start a minute later.

You glance at the clock.

He’s never been under five minutes early before.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

When he reappears, he's wearing the soft cotton combo that makes you feel... things. That navy t-shirt hugs his torso a little too tightly, like it’s clinging for dear life, and the grey sweatpants hang low enough to show off the waistband of his Calvin Kleins. His hair is towel-dried and flopping into his eyes like he styled it to look that effortlessly perfect, even though you know he didn’t.

His socks squeak softly against the kitchen floor as he walks.

He leans against a wall. No greeting this time. Just, “That pan is calling to me.”

You don’t give in. “Tell it to call back later. They’re not ready.”

“I think I deserve one.”

“Mm. Did you get shot tonight?”

“No.”

“Stabbed?”

“Nope.”

“Thrown off a roof?”

He pauses. “...Briefly.”

You glare at him with a look that very clearly does not say yes.

He starts walking toward the counter anyway. apparently your silence was enough permission for him.

“They smell heavenly,” he says, in a tone just shy of reverent. “there's no harm in one slice.”

“I baked them for tomorrow.”

“I live in the now. tomorrow’s just a trap to keep us from eating brownies today.”

You shift your body to block the cooling rack, hands on your hips. “You want one, you ask nicely.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What are we, six?”

“Six-year-olds don’t track blood from fighting criminals into my kitchen. You want a brownie? use your manners.”

He doesn’t answer right away. just looks at you. then steps closer.

His hands find your waist, fingers warm as they slide just beneath the hem of your hoodie. The contact sends a slow chill up your spine. He dips his head, smile curling at one side like he already knows what he’s doing to you. Which he probably (most definitely) does. Unfortunately.

“Please,” he murmurs, voice low and syrupy. he tilts his head and grins, inching closer until he’s barely two centimeters away.

You blink up at him, trying not to visibly short-circuit. this boy. your face is warming fast, your heartbeat louder than it has any right to be, and all you can think is: rude. so fucking rude.

He closes the space between you.

Soft, sure, stupidly confident. he’s known all along you’d let him. His mouth brushes yours once, featherlight, then again with more purpose. He kisses like he knows what he’s doing. Dick knows exactly where and how you melt. And then, just to be mean, he makes it worse. This boy has not been taught manners.

Your fingers catch in the fabric of his t-shirt, curled there, maybe you’re anchoring yourself in a way. His hands settle more firmly on your waist, thumbs tracing small, lazy circles against your skin underneath the hoodie.

He grins against your mouth when you let out a tiny, involuntary sound. you know he heard it. you know he's going to let you know he noticed it. you feel his smirk. Mr. Raised-by-Gotham’s-Greatest-Detective notices everything.

You pull back, breathing a little too shallow, noses still brushing, eyes barely open.

“Convincing,” you whisper, lips still tingling.

He smiles, a little smug. “I’m motivated.”

You sigh like you’re over it. (you are not over it.)

Scooping a gooey, still-molten corner from the edge of the pan, you hold it up. He opens his mouth like you’re feeding royalty. One bite in and he actually groans, head tipping back like this is the first thing he’s enjoyed in years.

You don’t comment. you try not to think about it. but your brain is screaming.

Sweatpants. Forearms. Post-fight glow. Groaning over brownies.

totally unfair. ridiculous, even. weren’t you supposed to be the sensible girlfriend? the one with self-control? not this hopeless brownie supplier who apparently crumbles the second he so much as breathes and gets turned on just watching him eat oreo brownies. the same brownies he’d rather kiss you over than say please for.

But… it’s him. somehow, everything he does is hot. even this. stupidly, ridiculously sexy.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, eyes closed. “I’d sell my soul for this.”

“You say that every time.”

He straightens, eyes bright. “Yeah, but I mean it more every time.”

You roll your eyes but your thumb reaches up instinctively, wiping a smear of chocolate from the corner of his mouth. His lips are soft under your touch. And stupidly inviting. And yeah, you absolutely think about kissing him again. just for a second. just to see if he’d groan again for something that wasn’t food.

“Next time,” you murmur, “come home with fewer bruises.”

He leans in and kisses your cheek, slow and warm.

“Only if you save me the gooey edge.”

You glance at the tray, pretending to weigh your options. “Hm. You got lucky. I was gonna give it to Steph.”

He gasps, full betrayal in his eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would.”

He wraps his arms around you from behind, pulling you against him with no shame at all. “Betrayal. Treason. Actual emotional cheating.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

He nuzzles into your neck, not even pretending to be sorry. “Isn’t that your thing?”

© fromdove— All rights reserved. Reposting, translation, or modification of these works is strictly prohibited, regardless of whether credit is given.

∿　 　 . `💭` ㆍ

[imheretoreadafic]

There is an absurd amount of juice boxes in the Watchtower.

At first, they thought J'onn was the one purchasing and stashing them. It made sense. They're good for when you have low blood sugar, are dehydrated or lost blood. They're also tasty! And everyone knows how much J'onn likes sugary drinks and snacks.

But when Clark asks J'onn where he buys them, he gives him an odd look and says, "I do not purchase those."

Everyone interrogates him about who it is, but the alien is nothing but a man of his word and apparently promised whoever purchased them he wouldn't tell. It becomes a whole thing, obviously, because they won't let it go.

Bets are made about who the Juice Giver is. The younger members ask the Juice Giver for good luck before going on missions, and the older members are trying their absolute hardest to figure it out.

Then, Nightwing joins temporarily for a global wide meta human and alien kidnapping ring and is loopy from blood loss after being stabbed and stitched up. Batman is by his side in the medical area, cooing softly to him. Then, he pulls a juice box out of his belt.

Wally, who was also injured and is getting patched up on the cot next to them, gasps at the recognizable juice box brand. "YOURE THE JUICE GIVER!!" He literally screams, making Nightwing jump.

Batman's eyes widen, and he goes to shush him, but it's too late. Everyone with super hearing is busting through the door, and everyone else is following them. He sighs and resigns himself to the following chaos while helping his kid not stab himself in the eye with his straw.

[bats-and-the-birds]

I am thinking about the batkids and their rooms at the manor.

When Dick was first brought to the manor, Alfred put wooden letters that spelled out his name on the outside of the door to his room. He wanted the boy to feel like he belonged, and denoting the room as his seemed like the best way. At first, they spelled out "Richard", and were painted in red, green, and yellow -- the colors that his parents had worn for their circus act, that didn't have any other meaning yet. Dick pried them off the door and threw them away. He didn't want to accept that this was permanent yet. There were new letters on the door a few days later, blue this time, and spelling out "Dick" instead. Those letters got pried off much the same and shoved in a drawer, and they didn't get put back until a year later. He was too short to put them in the same place, so they ended up crooked, and Alfred found it too endearing to fix.

When he left the manor years later, he considered ripping the letters off the door and throwing them in the foyer on his way out. But he left them, and there they remained, crooked as ever.

Jason got his own letters when it became clear he wasn't going anywhere. He helped Alfred put them up on his bedroom door, standing on a step stool to make sure they got in the right place. His were evenly spaced and neatly aligned, and he refused to tell anyone that he cried over them that night. He'd spent months wondering if he'd ever live up to his predecessor, not just as Robin, but in the family as well. And now he had his own letters, just like Dick's, and they weren't going anywhere.

And they didn't. Even after he died. Bruce and Alfred both considered taking the name down to make walking past that empty room less painful, but in the end, they didn't dare touch the letters, just like they didn't touch anything else in the room. Years later, Jason would sneak into the manor through his old bedroom window and find his school uniforms still hanging in the closet, his textbooks on his desk, an open novel on his nightstand, and, of course, the letters still on the door, more of an epitaph than the one on his actual tombstone.

Tim fought for his name on a bedroom door. It took a while, but he trained, and he learned, and he forced himself into the role that he knew he could fill. Part of him thought that no matter how good and useful he made himself as Robin, he'd never really fill the role that the two before him did. He thought there might not be room for him after Jason's death, but he did it. He was older than the other two when Alfred finally put the letters up on his door, but he did it.

Later, when he left in search of Bruce, he didn't think for a second of taking his name down off his door. He'd earned it.

Damian's name got put up practically as soon as he got to the manor. He didn't think much of having his name on a door. If anything, it irked him a bit, being lumped in with the others, but it would have annoyed him more if he didn't get his own name. For a while, his name on the door, marking it as his from the hallway, was the only reason you could tell it wasn't the guest room that it had previously been. He had no photographs, had arrived with no personal affects.

That changed, eventually. As he gained friends, he also gained photos of them. He put up sketches and watercolor paintings of his animals. A dog bed got put on the floor for Titus. But the letters had been there from the beginning, and he grew to appreciate them eventually. His room, with the name on the door, was safe, and he liked it there.

Cass's letters showed up without much fanfare. They were simply there when she exited her room one day. "Cassandra" in black wooden letters that matched all of her new siblings'. She ran her fingers over them with reverence. She'd never been allowed to leave a mark before. Her life was predicated on being a shadow, but there was her name, in big letters, somewhere where other people could see it.

Steph had a room. She didn't want to admit it, but when she crashed at the manor, it was always in the same room. Her name was put up, and she took it down, and it was put up again, and she took it down again until it became something of a game between her and Alfred. If Steph was staying at the manor and Alfred didn't find a wooden S in a random cupboard, then have to search the house for the rest of her name, then he knew she was in a bad mood, and he usually made her favorite cookies and left them outside of the door with her name still firmly in place.

Duke's letters were waiting for him when he moved in. His name in bright yellow letters that matched his suit already in place. Of course it was, it's tradition at this point, and he's part of the family now. He had bounced around for a while now, and the letters on his door made him feel...calmer. It was a sense of permanence, and one he could learn to enjoy.

Barbara didn't need a room. She had her own room, in her own house, but Alfred still offered to mark out a space for her. She declined. When she did stay over, it was either in the cave or Dick's room, she didn't need her own. Still, that didn't mean her mark wasn't left somewhere. There was a study downstairs with a desk that she sometimes did her homework on as a child if she was staying over for the night. Now, the desk held a computer that was wired into the Batcomputer's network, a photo of her and her father, and, of course, tiny wooden letters affixed to the side that spelled out 'Barbara'.

[ivysangel]

Dick Grayson's not big on keeping physical mementos of you around his apartment on the off-chance his identity might be compromised. He figures it best to leave you with all of the important stuff; that way, he doesn't have to worry about accidentally putting you in danger.

Scrapbooks, ticket stubs, jewelry, photobooth flics, etc., all of it stays tucked away in your little apartment on the other side of town, away from the enemies of his alter-ego Nightwing, ready for him to rifle through when he comes to visit. 

Everything is always in your possession; it's "non-negotiable," he says until you remind him of his exception to the rule. The one singular photo he keeps under a stack of boxers in his underwear drawer. 

It's a picture of you, lips puckered and wrapped around the tip of his cock. Your cheeks are hollowed as you make eye contact with the lens, and your eyes are lit up and filled with a childish kind of glee despite the lewd act you're engaging in.

The glossy sheen of the picture is foggy now, covered in fingerprints from all the times he'd held it in his hands late at night when he was alone. He says he'd just been "reminiscing" and insists that he keeps it because he thinks you look pretty, but you know him well enough to know better.

He'll text you in the middle of the night, "I miss you," and you know that at that moment, his cock is in his hand, coated in pre-cum as he tugs at it, longing for it to be inside of you instead.

And you always have half a mind to tell him to come over and get the real thing, that he doesn't have to substitute it with memories when you're right there and waiting; that he can bring that damn camera so you can, at the very least, provide him with some new pics.