Congratulations on Your New Improvements
dick grayson x reader
Summary: You knew Dick Grayson when you were kids, back when he was Robin and you were the journalistâs daughter sneaking after stories you werenât supposed to. He was awkward, gangly, more earnest than smooth, and you had a crush anyway. Then you left Gotham, and life moved on. Years later, youâre back in the city with a press badge of your own, chasing leads and running headfirst into trouble. Except this time, itâs not Robin who finds you, Itâs Nightwing. Taller. Broader. Unfairly charming.
Content Warnings: 18+, MDNI, childhood Friends to strangers to Lovers, Slow Burn, Explicit sexual content (PIV sex, fingering, oral implications, dirty talk, praise kink, light begging), Overstimulation / multiple orgasms, Sexual tension, grinding, dry humping, ruined panties, Banter & Flirting, Dirty Talk & Praise Kink
word count: 16k notes â not proofread. first time writing for dick !!!!
â reblogs comments & likes are appreciated
The first thing you learn about Gotham at night is that it never shuts up. The city hums, rattles, and groans. A low, constant sound, like the world grinding its teeth. Youâd grown up listening to it through your bedroom window, lullabied by sirens and laughter that never sounded quite right, but it feels different when youâre actually in it, sneakers scuffing against wet pavement as you trail after your dad.
You shouldnât be here. You know it.Â
Your dad said he was going to meet a source and youâd been told, ordered, not to follow. But curiosity eats at you the way the Gotham chill eats at skin, and when you saw him grab his notebook and duck out the door, you slipped out ten minutes later, coat too thin and pulse thrumming with the thrill of doing something forbidden.
Youâre close enough to keep his hat in sight, not close enough to hear the scribbles of his pen. He cuts down a side street, one you recognize from whispered family arguments: Crime Alley. A place name said like a warning, a curse, a story that ends badly every time.
You think youâll just watch. Stay hidden. Go home before he ever notices.
And then a car door slams. Men step out, shadows too broad, voices too low. The scrape of a gun being drawn is so distinct it punches the air out of your lungs. Youâre frozen before you can even think to run.
âHey,â one of them snaps, âwhoâs the guy with the notebook?â
Your dad. They move faster than you thought men that big could, and your father stumbles back against a wall, palms up, words coming out too fast for you to catch. You canât look away. You donât even notice that youâve crept closer, feet dragging you toward him like gravity.
Then a hand grabs you from behind. A sharp yank, and youâre pulled into the gap between two crumbling brick buildings. You suck in a breath to scream, but a gloved hand clamps over your mouth.
âDonât,â a voice hisses. Young. Annoyed. And weirdly⌠theatrical?
You blink up at the figure in the dim light. Red tunic, green gloves, a cape that swishes against your legs. A mask. The only thing you can really see are his eyes, impossibly blue, narrowed like youâve just ruined his entire night.
Robin. Holy crap. Robin has his hand over your mouth.Â
When he finally lets go, you gasp, âWhat the hell?â
âAre you trying to get yourself killed?â he cuts in, voice cracking with the force of it. âFollowing a bunch of mobsters into Crime Alley? Real smart.â
Your heart is still jackhammering, but indignation flares hotter than fear. âI wasnât! I was justââ
âYou were just about to blow his cover,â he snaps, jerking his head toward the street. Your dadâs voice drifts faintly over the noise; heâs still talking, still buying time. âDo you have any idea what happens if they see you? Youâd be leverage. A liability. Deadweight.â
âWow.â You cross your arms, trying to hide the way your hands are still shaking. âThanks for the vote of confidence. I didnât know Batmanâs sidekick was such a charmer.â
His shoulders stiffen. âYouâre lucky I even noticed you before they did.â
You tilt your chin up, eyeing him fully now. Heâs shorter than you thought heâd be. Still taller than you, but not by much. Younger, too. His jaw hasnât settled into itself yet, his voice has that awkward in-between crack, and his boots squeak when he shifts his weight. Heâs a kid. A crime-fighting, cape-wearing kid.
âYouâre⌠smaller than I expected,â you blurt before you can stop yourself.
His head whips toward you, affronted. âExcuse me?â
âNothing.â You bite back a grin, heat bubbling up despite the danger. âItâs just, everyone always makes you sound⌠I donât know. Taller. Broodier.â
He glares. âIâm not here to live up to your expectations.â
You canât help it. You laugh, a nervous little sound muffled against your sleeve. âOkay, sorry, donât get your tights in a twist boy wonder.â
His scowl only deepens, and then a crackle from his comm has him turning his head. A manâs voice, Batman, you realize with a shiver, low and commanding. Robin mutters something back, sharp and clipped, before his gaze settles on you again.
âGo home,â he says, more tired than angry this time. âThis isnât a game.â
âBut my dadâŚâ You hesitate. Your dad is still out there, talking fast, and you canât tell if heâs winning or losing.
âYour dadâs fine,â Robin adds quickly, softer now. âBatmanâs got him. But if you stay, youâll make it worse.âÂ
You study him for a beat, and beneath the impatience, you catch it: the edge of worry. Not just about the mission. About you. Something inside you twists.
âFine,â you mutter. âBut only because youâre bossy.â
He doesnât dignify that with an answer. He just takes your wrist and tugs you down a different alley, cape brushing your arm as he half-drags you back toward the safer streets. He doesnât let go until the noise has faded and the streetlamps burn steady again.
When you reach the corner near your house, he finally stops. Folds his arms. âYouâre gonna stay put this time?â
âYes, mom,â you shoot back, rolling your eyes. For the first time, he cracks a smile. Just a twitch of his mouth, quick and bright, before he shakes his head like he canât believe you.
âUnbelievable,â he mutters. âYouâre lucky youâre not grounded for life.â
And then heâs gone, a flash of cape against the skyline.
You stand there on your street corner, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with mobsters, and think, So Robin is shorter than expected. Bossier. Maybe even kind of annoying.
But alsoâŚhe might just be the most interesting person youâve ever met.
-
The second time you see him, itâs by accident. At least, thatâs what you tell yourself. You werenât looking for him. You swear you werenât. You were only out walking because your apartment felt suffocating and Gotham, for all its broken glass and shadows, still felt like it might offer air. But when you cut down Burnside Avenue, past the flickering neon of the diner, he drops from the fire escape two feet in front of you. The cape swishes. The boots hit concrete.
âSeriously?â he mutters. âWhat are you doing out here again?â
You nearly jump out of your sneakers. âOh my god! Do you always sneak up on people like that?â
âYeah, itâs kind of my thing.â Heâs glaring, but it doesnât land right. His mouth is tight, sure, but his voice sounds more like a boy caught between annoyance andâŚsomething else. Worry, maybe. âYou donât learn, do you? Crime Alley ring any bells?â
You cross your arms. âI wasnât in Crime Alley. I was, like, three blocks over.â
âThatâs not the point.â He sighs, the sound way too old for his age. âGothamâs not safe for late-night strolls.â
You almost tell him itâs not safe in daylight either, but then you catch it; the way his shoulders hunch, like the weight of protecting a whole city has been shoved into bones that havenât even finished growing. And suddenly you donât feel like arguing. Instead, you shrug, pretending casual. âYou always hang around diners waiting for girls to wander by?â
His mask tilts toward you, eyes narrowing. Then, to your surprise, he huffs a laugh. Itâs short, almost embarrassed. âYou think I was waiting for you?â
âWell, were you?â
âNo.â Too fast. âI meanâŚno.â
But later, when you climb the fire escape to your roof and find him sitting there, swinging his legs like he owns the place, you realize you donât actually believe him.
-
The roof of your building isnât glamorous. Tar paper bubbled from rain, rust stains streaking down the side of the water tank, the occasional pigeon that refuses to be intimidated by you. But when you push the heavy door open and step out, the air feels different. Gothamâs hum is still there, sirens, horns, the buzz of neon, but up here it doesnât press as hard against your ribs.
And more often than not lately, heâs already there. Robin sits cross-legged on the ledge, or sprawled on his back with one arm thrown over his eyes, cape fanned around him like he doesnât care how ridiculous it looks. Sometimes he drops down a few seconds after you arrive, startling you with the scrape of boots on metal. Either way, it starts to feel like a routine: your door creaking, his head lifting, both of you pretending not to be waiting for each other.
âBusy night?â you ask one evening, sliding down to sit a safe distance away.
âBusier than yours,â he deadpans. âYou know, most people spend their nights doing homework. Watching TV. Not scaling fire escapes.â
âHomework doesnât come with a view.â You tilt your head at the skyline. Gotham glitters in a way that almost tricks you into thinking itâs beautiful.
He snorts, but when you glance sideways, you catch the corner of his mouth twitching like heâs trying not to smile. Thatâs how it always goes. You jab at him, he pretends heâs above it, and somewhere in between, you both soften.
-
Over time, the conversations stretch longer. You tell him about your dad, how heâs never home, how he burns through notebooks and cups of stale coffee like theyâre oxygen. How youâre not sure if you admire him or resent him, and how sometimes it feels like Gotham chews your family as much as it does everyone else.
Robin doesnât laugh, doesnât brush it off. He just sits there, chin in his gloved hand, listening like every word is weighty. When you finish, he nods once, sharp and certain, like heâs filing it away as important.
And then, in quieter moments, he lets pieces of himself slip through. Not many, always measured, always cautious, but enough. How Batman trains him until his bones ache. How his armor never feels like it fits, how the bruises bloom in places no one ever sees. How sometimes he doesnât know if heâs saving Gotham or if Gotham is slowly eating him alive.
His voice is always lower when he says those things, almost lost to the hum of the city. Like heâs afraid of being overheard by shadows.
You never tell him, but thatâs when the crush starts. Not the giggling, diary-scrawled kind your friends whisper about. This is quieter. He isnât even cute, not really. His ears stick out, his voice still cracks if he laughs too hard, his nose looks like itâs been broken once already. But he carries himself like every problem in Gotham belongs to him, and when he looks at you, you feel like you matter in a way the city never lets you.
-
Some nights you talk about nothing at all. Pizza debates that spiral into full-blown arguments.
âNew Trioniâs is better than Angeloâs. Donât argue with me, Iâm right.â
âYouâre so wrong,â he shoots back, mock-offended. âTrioniâs slices flop over like wet paper. Angeloâs can hold its shape when you fold it.â
âWho folds their pizza?â you demand, eyes wide.
âReal Gothamites,â he says with all the gravitas of someone whoâs fourteen and just learning what the word âgravitasâ means.
The bickering lasts twenty minutes, ending with you scribbling âTRIONIâS > ANGELOâSâ on the back of your notebook and holding it up in his face until he swats at you.
Other nights, you complain about teachers. Yours, who you swear has made it their personal mission to fail you, and his, who he canât talk about too much but still slips through in hints. âItâs like⌠training disguised as lessons. Fail and you do push-ups until your arms give out.â
You tell him thatâs got to be child abuse. He rolls his eyes. âItâs Gotham.â
-
It happens on a night when Gotham feels especially sharp. The air smells like rain on copper pipes, and somewhere far off a siren wails, long and low. Youâd promised yourself you wouldnât sneak out again, but promises donât hold much weight in this city. Youâd only been a few blocks from home when the shouting started. Two guys fighting over a busted radio, the kind of thing you shouldâve ignored. Youâd frozen, pulse climbing, when one of them noticed you watching.
It doesnât take long. Heavy footsteps. A hand grabbing too close to your arm. And then heâs there. Robin drops from the fire escape like a shadow snapping into place. A blur of red, green, and anger. His boot catches the guyâs chest, sends him sprawling. The other one bolts.
âYou again,â he grits out as he drags you behind him, voice cracking just enough to remind you heâs not much older than you.
You mean to thank him, but the words catch when you see him stumble. Just a hitch, a fraction of a limp as he turns. His arm is tight against his side, hand flexing like heâs trying not to use it.
âAre you hurt?â you blurt.
âIâm fine.â He tries for firm, but itâs more defensive than convincing.
âYouâre bleeding,â you insist, catching the dark smear seeping through his tunic.
âI said Iâm fine.â
âYouâre not.â Your voice sharpens, louder than you mean it to. âAnd youâre not going back out there until you let me look.â
He stares at you, eyes unreadable behind the mask, like heâs calculating the odds of you actually tackling him if he refuses. Finally, with a long, theatrical sigh, he mutters, âFine. Five minutes.â
-
Your apartment is embarrassingly small. Peeling wallpaper. A couch with stuffing trying to claw its way out of the seams. The bathroomâs worse, barely enough room for the sink, the tub, and both of you crammed inside.
âSit,â you order, tugging at his wrist until he perches awkwardly on the closed toilet lid, cape spilling over the floor like dark water.
âThis is unnecessary,â he says, though his voice wobbles when you press a towel against his ribs.
âUnnecessary is bleeding out in a back alley,â you snap, trying to hold your hands steady. The towel comes away red. Too red. âGod, do you even know how to take care of yourself?â
His eyes flick up at you then, sharp, defensive, but thereâs something softer underneath. Something that makes your stomach twist.
âYou sound like him,â he mutters.
âBatman?â
He doesnât answer, but the silence is enough. You grab the first aid kit from under the sink, bandages, alcohol wipes, the kind of things your dad keeps for paper cuts and clumsy accidents, not vigilantes. Still, you make it work.
âHold still,â you warn, tearing open an alcohol pad.
âI am still.â
âYouâre fidgeting.â
âYouâre bossy.â
âBetter bossy than dead.â
That finally earns you the tiniest smile, quick and crooked, gone almost before you register it.
Youâre close now, too close. Kneeling in front of him, hands braced against his side as you patch what you can. The smell of leather and sweat clings to his tunic, the faintest hint of smoke in his hair. His breathing evens under your touch, like heâs not used to anyone bothering to fix him up.
When you look up, his eyes are already on you. The mask gleams under the bathroomâs weak light, distorting him into something untouchable. And suddenly it feels wrong. Wrong to be this close to someone whose face you canât really see.
âYou ever get tired of it?â you ask quietly. âThe mask?â
His shoulders tense. He looks away, down at the cracked tiles. For a second you think he wonât answer. Then his hands lift, hesitant and slow.
The domino comes off.
You freeze. Itâs not some hardened soldier under there. Not a myth. Just a boy. Hair damp and stubborn where sweatâs plastered it to his forehead. Eyes too big, too tired, too human. A face you recognize from posters years agoâthe acrobat from Halyâs Circus.
ââŚyouâre Dick Grayson,â you breathe, the name spilling out before you can stop it.
His chin tips up, defensive. âYou gonna tell anyone?â
âOf course not.â The words fall out fast, desperate to close the space between you. âIâd never.â
He studies you, eyes searching your face like heâs bracing for betrayal. Whatever he sees must be enough, because his shoulders ease, his breath lets out slow. âI shouldnât have told you,â he mutters. âBatman would kill me if he knew.â
You nudge his knee with yours, a tiny grin tugging at your lips despite the tight knot in your chest. âGuess itâs a good thing Batman doesnât know everything.â
For the first time, he laughs. Really laughs. Itâs uneven, boyish, and it shoots straight through you, leaving you dizzy. And in that cramped little bathroom, with the hum of the city seeping through the cracked window and the smell of antiseptic sharp in the air, you realize this isnât just Robin anymore. It isnât just Dick Grayson either. Itâs both.
And it feels like a secret only you get to keep.
-
The day you find out youâre leaving, it doesnât feel real. Your dad doesnât sit you down or soften it, he just mutters over cold coffee and half-packed files, âItâs not safe anymore. Weâre going. End of discussion.â
Thatâs all you get. No details, no vote. By nightfall, cardboard boxes are stacked in the living room, your whole life folded and taped shut. Gotham shrinks to the size of a trunk and a suitcase. You donât cry. Not right away. But when the apartment gets quiet, when your dad slams another box closed and the walls echo hollow, you slip out the window and climb.
The roof is empty at first. No cape on the ledge, no boy dangling his boots. Just the hum of the city below, as if it doesnât care youâre about to vanish. You wrap your arms around yourself and stare out at the skyline, hoping, willing, heâll show.
And then, like he always does, he drops into place beside you. âYou werenât gonna say goodbye?â he asks, voice soft under the gravel.
Your throat goes tight. âI didnât know how.â
He doesnât say anything. Just sits there, mask half-lit by the flicker of a neon sign, waiting.
So you talk. About how your dadâs stories finally drew the wrong kind of attention. About how Gotham feels like itâs about to spit your family out after chewing through you all so thoroughly there will be nothing left, and this time thereâs no choice but to run. About how much you hate leaving; not the apartment, not even the city, but this. These nights. This secret. Him.
He listens like he always does, quiet and intent, the kind of quiet that means heâs holding every word.
Finally, you look at him and whisper, âI donât want to forget this.â
Something flickers in his expression, too quick to name. He shifts, pulling the domino mask off and turning it in his hands until the edges press little crescents into his palms.
âThen donât,â he says simply. âDonât forget me.â
Your heart lodges in your throat. You want to tell him you wonât, that you couldnât if you tried. You want to tell him that the crush youâve been burying is bigger than you can hold, that youâre leaving with a piece of yourself you didnât know youâd given away. But youâre fourteen, and the words are too big, too heavy.
So instead you nod, fiercely, until the tears blur the skyline. âI wonât.â
For a moment, you swear he leans like he might say something else. Might ask you to stay, might admit he doesnât want to forget either. But then your dadâs voice calls up from the street, sharp and impatient, and the moment shatters.
You stand. He stays seated, mask still in his hands, like he canât quite put it back on. You want to hug him, to make the promise tangible, but youâre not sure if thatâs allowed, so you just hold his gaze for one more beat and whisper, âGoodbye, Dick.â
âGoodbye,â he echoes, voice raw around the edges.
You donât look back as you climb down the fire escape, suitcase handle cutting into your palm. The car door slams, your dad starts the engine, and Gotham begins to slide past the windows like a dream smearing at the edges.
But when you finally let yourself glance back, there he is, perched on the rooftop, cape trailing behind him, mask dangling loose in his hands.
A boy too small for the weight he carries, silhouetted against a city that will never stop asking more. Watching you leave like itâs the last thing heâll ever let himself do.
And then the car turns the corner, and heâs gone.
-
Youâd always told yourself you werenât keeping tabs, not really. But the truth is you couldnât help it. Gothamâs headlines are hard to ignore. Batman never vanished; heâs a permanent fixture in the background of every crisis, every scandal, every blurred photograph of a cape against a floodlight.
Robin was there too, at least for a while. But not your Robin. This one was smaller, sharper, someone elseâs kid in colors that werenât his. The news never explained the swap. Gotham doesnât explain anything.
As for Dick Grayson? You never let yourself look too hard. Some nights in Metropolis, youâd type his name into a search bar, just to hover over the letters. Circus boy, ward of Bruce Wayne, rumored dropout. Then youâd slam the laptop closed before the results could load. It felt like breaking some unspoken promise, like trespassing on a secret that had only ever been yours.
So you let him fade into the background of your memory. Or tried to. Life went on. You grew up. Metropolis U gave you a degree youâre still not sure you earned. You dated a little, kissed boys who didnât make your chest ache the way rooftop laughter once did. You told yourself you were moving forward, not circling back. And yet, here you are. Returning to Gotham with a job at the paper, retracing your fatherâs path like a shadow.
Your dad isnât with you this time. Heâs staying behind, insisting heâs too old for Gothamâs grind. So itâs just you and your boxes, your byline, and the faint echo of footsteps on tar paper that you never really forgot.
You pause on the corner outside your new apartment, suitcase wheels caught on a crack in the sidewalk. Gotham breathes heavy around you; neon flicker, taxi horn, the muffled thump of bass from a club down the street.
You wonder, not for the first time, if youâll see him. And just as quickly, you remind yourself: probably not. Gotham eats people. It chews them up, spits them out, and even the ones who survive donât always stick around.
Still, when you climb the steps and let yourself into the dim little apartment, you canât help glancing out the window at the rooflines beyond. Half of you expects to see a flash of cape, the silhouette of a boy you once knew.
But the skyline is empty.
-
By now, Gotham has settled into your bones again. Itâs been months since you unpacked your last box, months since you stopped flinching at the way the city exhales smoke and sirens instead of air. The novelty wore off fast. Gotham is like that; she lets you think sheâs offering something new, then reminds you it was always just grit and rot under the paint.
Your nights taste like coffee grounds and exhaustion, your mornings like stale bagels eaten while jogging across crosswalks. The newsroom smells of burnt ink and anxiety, and it clings to you even when you leave.
So when your editor sent you chasing whispers across the river, you didnât think twice. BlĂźdhaven, heâd said, a smuggling ring near the docks. Gothamâs smaller, meaner cousin, the kind of place your dad used to warn you about but still sent you to buy fireworks from when you were twelve.
Youâd told yourself you could handle it. Gotham-born, seasoned on backstreets and rooftops, no stranger to shadows. Youâve always been too curious for your own good.
Turns out curiosity doesnât count for much when the alley closes in on you.
-
BlĂźdhaven smells worse than Gotham. Like saltwater left too long in a rusty bucket, sharp and sour all at once. The alley is narrow, brick pressing close on either side, graffiti bleeding into one another under the yellow smear of a streetlamp. Youâd only meant to skirt the block, maybe snap a photo of the cargo crates stacked like crooked teeth along the waterline. Instead, youâve got three men cutting you off, their boots heavy, their breath reeking of stale beer.
The wall is cold against your back.
âWhere you think youâre going, sweetheart?â one asks, voice slick. Heâs taller than you, bulkier too, the kind of man whoâs never been told no in a way that stuck.
Your pulse kicks hard. Your mind tries to measure exits, two steps left, maybe a sprint to the chain-link, but theyâre already tightening the circle. The sound of their shoes on wet concrete echoes too loud, too final.
Your hand clamps around your notebook, knuckles white. For one mad second you consider swinging it like a weapon. And then the air splits.
He comes from above. A shadow drops out of the night, suit a streak of ink, boots hitting the first manâs chest with a crack that rattles the brick. The impact sends him sprawling, air rushing out of his lungs in a howl. The second man barely has time to register movement before a blur of blue arcs through the dim. The escrima stick connects with his jaw, a clean, efficient crack that folds him sideways.
The third curses, steel flashing as he pulls a knife, but itâs useless. The stranger moves faster, duck, twist, wrist locked and wrenched. The blade clatters uselessly to the ground. A sharp elbow, a spin, and the man collapses onto the damp concrete, groaning. It takes less than a minute. You donât breathe until itâs over. Then theres silence.
The three men groan in a heap, nursing their bruises, and youâre left standing in the mouth of the alley with your notebook pressed to your chest like a shield.
He straightens. Under the weak streetlight, he looks unreal. Black and blue armor clings to broad shoulders, the stylized bird spreading across his chest in sharp, gleaming lines. He spins one escrima stick in his hand like it weighs nothing, the move so casual itâs showy. The mask gleams, eyes whited out, hiding everything but the shape of his mouth, the curve of his jaw.
And then he turns to you.
âStill canât stay out of trouble, huh?â The voice hits first. Familiar enough to send a jolt through you. Itâs smoother now, deeper, no trace of the cracks it used to have, but you know it. You know it like you know your own pulse.
Your knees nearly give. âI-what?â
He steps closer, head cocked, smirk curling at his mouth like heâs been waiting years to use it. Except thereâs nothing boyish about him anymore. His shoulders fill the armor like it was built for him, lines sleek and lethal. His movements hum with confidence, a looseness earned from years of knowing exactly what he can do and knowing everyone else is a step behind.
The mask hides half his face, but what it doesnât hide is worse. The jawline is sharper, cut like someone sculpted it with glass. His mouth is curved in a smile thatâs both infuriating and magnetic. His body radiates energy, command, like he could take on the whole block if you dared him.
Your brain scrambles. This isnât the boy you knew. This isnât the awkward kid who smudged ink into your margins and laughed too hard at your jokes. For a second youâre convinced youâve conjured him out of memory. That your exhaustion and the shadows stitched together a hallucination just to taunt you.
And then, like he knows you need proof, he lifts his hands and peels the mask away.
The world tilts.
ââŚDick?â Itâs his eyes that betray him. Blue. Bright. The exact shade youâd memorized years ago under the moonlight on your roof. But steadier now. Sharper. Older.
âHi.â His grin spreads slow, deliberate, every inch of it self-satisfied. âMiss me?â
You forget how to breathe. Because thisâŚthis is really not the boy you left. Not your awkward crush with too-big ears and a voice that squeaked mid-laugh. Not the kid who leaned stiffly when you first bumped his shoulder.
This is a man. Heâs taller, towering over you in a way that makes the brick wall at your back feel unnecessary. Every inch of him looks carved, built, honed. His arms ripple with muscle that wasnât there before, his chest fills the blue emblem like it was made to draw the eye. His hair is longer, darker, his mouth sharper, the grin edged with confidence you donât know how to stand against.
He looks like someone who walked out of a fantasy you never wouldâve dared to put on paper.
You blink once. Twice. Three times. Your brain refuses to reconcile the two images; the scowling boy with smudged gloves and this unfairly gorgeous man standing in front of you. âWhat⌠what happened to you?â The words fly out, strangled, mortifying. Heat floods your face before you can stop it.
His eyebrow arches. He tucks the mask into his belt, casual. âPuberty?â
It should be funny. And it is funny. The corner of your mouth twitches in betrayal, a laugh half-born and dying in your throat. But your chest is twisting, hard, because you can still see him underneath it all. Still see the boy who leaned too far forward on ledges, who let his laugh crack when he forgot to control it. The boy who told you secrets in the dark and asked you not to forget.
And now here he is, all swagger and charm and jawlines that should be illegal. Handsome in a way that would be arrogance if he couldnât back it up with every move he just made. Your pulse is hammering, and the spiral is real. What do you do with a crush that was built on personality, on earnestness and laughter and responsibility, when it comes packaged now in a body like this? When itâs sharpened into something magnetic, commanding, impossible to look away from?
You stare at him, dazed, like youâre trying to catch up to reality. âYou⌠you were not this good-looking when we were kids.â
His grin only widens, cocky and warm all at once. âSo you were paying attention.â
You want the ground to open up and swallow you whole. Because Gotham didnât just chew Dick Grayson up and spit him back out. It reforged him into something you are absolutely not ready for.
For a few stunned seconds after he speaks, you stand there and do nothing but hear your heart in your ears. The alley is wet and ringing; distant gulls, a siren far-off, the tinny drip-drip of a faulty gutter. One of the guys on the ground groans, rolls over, thinks better of it, and stays facedown. The streetlamp above you flickers like itâs chewing glass.
âOkay,â you manage finally, voice rasped thin. âOkay.â
âYeah,â he says, softer now. He tips his head, searches your face like heâs tracing the years there. Then, practical as a tide, he tucks the mask back over his eyes. The Nightwing look clicks into place with a finality that makes your stomach dip. âWalk with me,â he adds. âThis blockâs loud for all the wrong reasons.â
He offers a hand. Warm leather. Callused palm. The glove creaks when you take it, and you try very hard not to catalog the new details; how much larger his hand feels than it used to, how steady it is, the easy strength under the restraint. He doesnât tug so much as guide, falling into step beside you like your bodies remember the distance theyâve always kept.
You exit the alley into air that smells like engine oil and salt-stung wood. The docks breathe: winches clicking, a forklift grumbling, water slapping pilings in a thawed rhythm. Nightwing angles you toward the brighter avenue, keeping himself between you and the shadows without making a show of it. His presence folds around you the way his cape used to on rooftops; same instinct, different body.
âYouâre really here,â you say, because itâs the only sentence that keeps starting in your brain.
âSo are you,â he answers. âThought I was hallucinating when I saw you in that alley. Journalism, huh?â
âIt runs in the family,â you say, apologetic and defiant all at once.
He hums. âI noticed.â
âYou noticed?â
âHard to miss,â he says, like itâs obvious. âBylines. Two pieces on the housing ordinance, a profile on the Jackson Street food pantry, a fire that shouldnât have spread as fast as it did. Your ledes are cleaner. Fewer adverbs.â
You blink at him. âYou⌠read them?â
He shrugs one shoulder. The motion makes the blue stripe arc over muscle in a way that should be illegal. âI keep an eye on Gotham. And people who used to live on rooftops with me.â
It takes a few steps to realize your face is doing the warm thing again. You look away, huff out a laugh like you can steam the heat into the BlĂźdhaven night. âStill a critic.â
âStill right,â he says, and thereâs the grin; quick, bright, and edged with something fond. âYou got sharper.â
âMeaning?â
âMeaning,â he says, tilting his chin, âyouâre not the kid who followed trouble because it glittered. You followed it in there because you had a plan. You clocked their shoes before their faces. You kept your notebook hand free. You put your back to a wall.â
You glance up at him. âYou saw all that in, what, thirty seconds?â
âTen,â he says, entirely too pleased with himself. âGive or take.â
The walk bleeds you out toward the waterfront road. Nightwing crosses you behind a stack of palettes with the same unthinking choreography he used to have on rooftops. One hand light against your elbow, a check for traffic, the quick tilt of his head as his comm crackles something at him you canât hear. He answers it without breaking stride, then flicks the channel off and comes back to you like youâre the station he meant to tune to all along.
âYour dad?â he asks after a beat.
âBack in Metropolis,â you say. âHe says heâs retired. I give it six months.â
His mouth pulls wry. âRetirement never sticks.â
âDoes it for you?â The question flies out before you can leash it. You mean it to be casual; it lands heavier, threaded with too many years, too many unsent searches of his name at one a.m.
He doesnât flinch. âDidnât for me,â he says. âI needed⌠different air. A city I could learn without being measured against a cape that walks like thunder.â
âBlĂźdhaven,â you say. âGotham left out in the rain.â
He huffs a laugh. âSomething like that.â Then he glances at you from under the curve of the mask, gravity sliding back in. âIt grows on you if you let it. Like mold. Or a stray.â
âRomantic,â you deadpan.
âHey, I never promised romance,â he lies very badly, because even his walk is a little romantic now, loose-hipped and careful in the dark, shoulder brushing yours when the sidewalk narrows, the night clicking into place around him like itâs learned the shape of his stride.
You pass a shuttered bait shop with a neon marlin blinking. A stray cat watches you from a garbage can lid, eyes pearls in the lamplight. Your shoes squeak; his steps donât make sound at all. Every few yards he scans the roofs with that lifted chin. You remember the gesture, how it used to be smaller on a smaller body, and you picture the mental map overlaid on what your eyes see: viable fire escapes, plausible ambushes, routes-out stitched in blue light.
âHow long were you on that roof?â you ask. âBefore you dropped in.â
He contemplates the question like it has a proper answer. âLong enough to count three sets of footsteps and a knife. Not long enough to forgive you later if youâd been stubborn enough to run.â
âI wasnât going to run,â you start, then hedge, âfor long.â
He barks a laugh. It slides into something softer before itâs done. âYouâre⌠different,â he says, the word careful, as if heâs testing the edges to make sure it wonât cut.
âOlder,â you offer.
âThat, yeah.â The corner of his mouth tugs. âBut itâs not just that. You walk like you own your space now, not like youâre renting it. You look people in the eye longer. You⌠speak headline and copy without thinking.â He flicks his gaze over you, deliberate enough that you feel seen rather than scanned. âYou still donât fold your pizza, I bet.â
âI will die on that hill,â you say gravely.
âYou will die incorrect,â he returns, equally grave, and a piece of rooftop-laughter that you thought youâd boxed up somewhere years ago shakes itself awake and trots between you like it never left.
âOkay, Mr. Puberty,â you say, putting a hand to your chest as if to ward off the unfairness. âSince weâre making observations, what exactly are you eating to look like you could bench-press a yacht?â
âProtein bars and spite,â he says, deadpan. âMostly spite.â
You trip on a cracked tile and he catches you without thinking, a warm bracket at your elbow and the lightest pressure of his other hand at your hip to steady you. It lasts half a blink, then heâs gone again, space restored, the afterimage of touch ringing in your nerves like a bell. The alley stench loosens for a second, and you catch the smell of him beneath leather and city: clean soap, ozone, summer heat trapped in fabric that moves like skin.
âThanks,â you say belatedly, and hope he canât see the flush doing somersaults up your throat.
âOccupational hazard,â he says lightly. âSaving journalists who donât fold their pizza.â
âI saved the notebook,â you argue, brandishing it. âThat counts as self-preservation.â
His eyes crinkle. âGod, I missed that.â
You were not prepared for those words. They land like a warm hand on your sternum, like the exact right weight after too many years of empty space. You swallow once, twice. The docks open into a long, bleak avenue where the streetlights flock in nervous clusters. He steers you toward the brighter end.
âI kept tabs,â you admit, voice tucking itself small. âNot⌠really. Not like a creep. Just⌠Batman was always there, and then there was a Robin who wasnât my Robin, and I didnâtâŚâ You shake your head, chase off the tangle. âSometimes I typed your name and closed the laptop before the results could load. It felt wrong, like prying at something that was mine because you gave it to me.â
He walks a few slow steps without answering. The night stretches, thin and elastic. When he finally speaks, itâs soft, the timbre reaching you beneath the noise. âIâm glad you didnât,â he says. âGo looking, I mean. Part of me⌠needed to earn being found.â
You glance up. His expression is harder to read with the mask back on, but the mouth, older now, yes, and built for trouble, goes gentle in the corners. He kicks at a pebble; it skitters into the gutter. âThe leaving was messy,â he says. âI had to be more than a shadow to a shadow.â
âAnd now youâre a bird,â you say. âBlue suits you.â
âFigures youâd appreciate the re-branding,â he says lightly, then, âyours does too, though.â
âWhat?â
âThe re-brand. It suits you,â he says, and thereâs a smile in his voice now that didnât exist when he was fourteen. âYou grew up into your name. Your bylines. Your whole⌠thing. It looks good on you.â
You stare at him, cheeks doing that heat thing again. âMy⌠thing.â
âYour spine,â he clarifies, and the tease bumps to the side to let the truth through. âYou always had one. It just⌠fits you better now.â
The ridiculous urge to cry chooses that exact moment to crest, so you let out a little choking laugh instead and look at a billboard for a discount mattress warehouse like itâs fascinating art. âYouâve gotten complimentary in your old age,â you mutter.
âItâs the protein bars,â he says, solemn, and you trip into laughter that tastes like your rooftop nights, cold air, the city in your lungs, the right person at your shoulder. A night bus sways past; he slow-blinks away the wind grit. You fall quiet for a block, footsteps scuffing in sync. Somewhere inland, someoneâs playing a radio too loud. It spills a chorus that means nothing and everything past the brick and rebar.
âYouâre staying?â he asks eventually. âGotham, I mean. Not a six-month and run?â
âIâm staying,â you say, and feel the words set in your body like a foundation finally poured. âWhen I told my dad, he said itâs my turn to decide what Gotham is to me.â
He nods, thoughtful. âBlĂźdhavenâs an extension of the same storm. We share weather fronts.â His mouth twists, fond and rueful. âIâll be around.â
âYou always are,â you say before you can help it.
He glances sidelong, and the grin that takes his face then is uncomplicatedly pleased. It should be arrogant; somehow it just looks like sunlight found a gap in the boards. You wonder how many people get to see that one and decide maybe you donât want to know.
A woman behind a plexiglass window sells cigarettes and bus passes. The night wind lifts the edges of the taped notices, makes them whisper. You stop under the awning, the two of you edged into the white noise of the fluorescents, and the city swivels into a gentler key.
âI can call you a car,â he says. âOr,â He hesitates, then crooks two fingers. From somewhere you donât see, a motorcycle growls to life, a sleek, low thing that rolls obediently out of the gloom to settle at the curb like a well-trained animal. He pats the seat with absent affection. âI can take you back.â
You stare. âDid you name it? Like the Nightcycle or something equally as lame?â
âI absolutely did not,â he lies, horrendously, then swings a leg over and steadies the bike with a boot. Up close, heâs too much again; too many lines and angles that werenât there the last time you catalogued him, too much easy strength, too much blue. âHelmet,â he says, offering one out. Itâs heavier than you expect; when you take it, your fingers brush, leather over skin, static jumping.
You hesitate. âAre you going to drive like a responsible citizen?â
He gives you a look that is eighty percent angel, twenty percent criminal. âDefine responsible.â
âAlive when we get there.â
âDeal.â
You settle onto the bike behind him with the kind of care that admits you are about to do a reckless thing on purpose. Your knees fit against his hips like thereâs only one way to sit; your hands find the line of his jacket and pause, hovering. He reaches back without looking, takes your wrists, and draws your arms around his waist until your palms meet. The gesture is matter-of-fact and wildly intimate. You can feel him laughing, silent and low, at your ear.
âStill bossy,â you say, because your voice needs somewhere to put the tremor.
âI remember you like being told what to do,â he says, and then, so quick and soft you almost miss it, âSometimes.â
It shouldnât hit the way it does. It shouldnât make heat pool low in your stomach, shouldnât make your pulse trip against your throat, shouldnât leave you wondering if the helmetâs padding is enough to hide the color climbing up your cheeks. But it does.
You laugh, helpless, a little breathless, because if you donât laugh, you might actually whimper. The sound crackles in your throat and goes thin in the rush of the night air. You can feel the vibration of the engine through your thighs, the leather of his jacket under your hands, the solid line of his body in front of you, and now, layered over all of that, his words, humming through your nerves in a way that feels dangerously good.
He glances back once, eyes catching yours over his shoulder, mask bright in the streetlight. The look is quick, but itâs enough. He knows what he said. He knows how it landed. And then the bike glides into the street, smooth and certain, as if nothing in the world has shifted, even though everything inside you just did.
The city rushes at you, neon and shadow blurring into ribbons. You clutch harder without meaning to, breath hitching, and he adjusts his posture just enough to shield you from the first hard push of wind. The shift presses your chest closer to his back, your knees locking tighter against his hips.
Your chin bumps the back of his shoulder. Thereâs damp salt there, leather warmed by body heat, and the sound of him breathing, steady, rhythmic, the same cadence you used to fall asleep to on rooftops when he kept watch.
The bike thrums beneath you, vibration rolling up through your thighs, settling into your stomach, buzzing in places you donât want to admit are suddenly very awake. Every curve of the road asks you to lean with him, to trust the drop of his weight and the strength in his shoulders, and every time you do, you feel him there under your hands; solid, certain, unshakable.
He doesnât go fast. He goes sure. The kind of riding that says I know this grid with my eyes shut and my hands tied, and I am choosing to bring you home. But the steadiness only makes it worse; it gives you time to notice everything.
The way his body heat seeps into you through layers of leather. The flex of muscle when he shifts gears, the ripple of his stomach under your forearm as he leans into a turn. The casual way his hand adjusts the throttle, so close you imagine what it would feel like if he used that grip on you.
At a light, he puts a boot down, head turning just enough that you catch the angle of his jaw beneath the mask. He checks on you without a word. You donât know if he can see the flush burning under your helmet, but you feel seen all the same, and it does nothing to calm the pounding in your chest.
When the light changes, he rolls forward, and you press into him again, tighter this time, because the vibration and the closeness are unraveling you inch by inch. Small things, all of them, his steadiness, his quiet, the way his body seems to know yours is there and adjusts like it belongs pressed against him.
They add up to something you donât let yourself name yet, but you feel it everywhere.
The bike growls to a halt a block from your building. The engine cuts, and in the sudden hush the night feels sharp, like the air itself is watching. The silence rings in your ears after miles of vibration. He doesnât move right away. He reaches back instead, gloved fingers brushing over yours where theyâre still hooked around his waist. A silent reminder: you can let go now.
You donât. Not immediately. Your fingers unclasp a second too late, reluctant to surrender the heat of him, the solid line of his body. He feels it, he has to, and yet he doesnât call you out, just slides his hands free of the handlebars with a kind of deliberate patience.
He swings one leg over and plants his boots on the ground, bracing the bike steady with practiced ease. Then, before you can fumble an exit, he turns and holds a hand out. âCareful,â he says. His voice is rougher than you remember, steady but edged with something lower, something weightier. âItâs a little taller than you think.â
You could protest. Tell him youâve managed steps taller than this since kindergarten. But the way heâs standing there, broad and sure, palm open, the easy invitation of it, undoes you in a way stairs never could.
You take it. His hand is warm through the leather, steady as you swing your leg back over the bike. You slide down too close, body brushing his chest for the briefest moment. The contact snaps across you like static. You feel the give of his armor under your shoulder, the heat rolling off him in a wave, the faint tang of leather and sweat that clings to him.
It should be over in an instant. Just a hand-off. But his grip lingers, a fraction longer than necessary, fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around yours. Enough that you notice. Enough that your breath catches, shallow and sharp, before you tug back.
Youâre on your own two feet now, the pavement gritty beneath your shoes, but your body is still buzzing from the bike, from him. Your pulse is thudding in your ears, your palms hot where his gloves touched.
âStill trouble,â he says at last, because he canât help himself.
âStill bossy,â you volley back, because you canât either. But this time, it doesnât feel like banter tossed across a rooftop. It feels like a line pulled taut between you, humming with something youâve both pretended not to hear for years.
He studies you for another long, unapologetic moment. His voice, when it comes, slips a layer down. âYou grew up, you know.â
You swallow. âSo did you.â
âYeah,â he says, and it sounds like heâs acknowledging an ocean and a bridge and a lot of half-built scaffolding. His mouth curves, not the cocky smirk he used in the alley, but something older, carved from relief and surprise and the joy of recognizing someone in a crowd. âFeels like we shouldâŚâ He gestures, uselessly, as if the city might supply the word.
âPizza,â you say, because the universe clearly wants callbacks. âSo I can prove youâre wrong.â
âYou wonât,â he says immediately, but his eyes go bright, pleased, like you just handed him the right answer to a test he wanted you to enjoy taking.
He reaches into a belt pouch, produces a small black rectangle youâd charitably call a phone if phones werenât usually made by people not afraid of the apocalypse. He toggles it awake, thumbs something in. When he looks up, heâs all business again, but the softened corners remain. âSame roofline,â he says. âDifferent skyline. You call, I land.â
âIs that your way of giving me your number?â you ask, amused and a little breathless.
âItâs my way of saying I read your ledes and I donât want to do that from far away anymore,â he says, and thatâs it. Thatâs the line that carves through every defense like they were drawn in chalk.
âOkay,â you say, because a bigger word would crack your throat right now. âNightwing?â
âMmm?â
âThanks for the rescue.â
He dips his head once, like you just pinned a medal on him he didnât expect to care about. âAnytime, Trouble.â
He fits the mask better on his face, swings onto the bike, and then heâs gone, blurring back into the dark with a roar that falls away quick, swallowed by BlĂźdhavenâs wet lungs. You stand there in the sodium light, hair mussed by a wind youâll be thinking about for hours, hands stupidly empty of leather and heat, and you try to file this under something. Reunion. Whiplash. Beginning again.
The city exhales. Somewhere a gull laughs like it knows something. You look down at your notebook; rain freckles have started to drink through the top page. On instinct, you flip to a clean sheet, jot three words at the top: Familiar. Stranger. Home.
-
You fall into a new rhythm without meaning to. It starts with accidents, running into him on rooftops, in alleys, when your investigations overlap his patrols. But it stops feeling accidental when he begins showing up at your office at the end of your shift, leaning against the wall like he belongs there. When he texts pizza? before youâve even decided if youâre hungry. When you start leaving your fire escape window cracked, because somehow you know heâll be there.
It isnât dating. Not really. But it also isnât not.
He has made it clear, in every way except saying it out loud over the past few months, that he wants to be in your life. And you? You havenât decided if youâre brave enough to admit that you want him in yours just as badly.
-
The first time he picks you up after work in his civilian clothes, it knocks you sideways. Youâre shuffling out of the newsroom with ink on your fingers, hair pulled back in a half-hearted bun, when you see him leaning against a lamppost. No mask. No armor. Just Dick Grayson in jeans, forearms bare, sunglasses tucked into the collar of his shirt.
He waves like itâs the most normal thing in the world, like he hasnât just shattered the delicate line youâd kept between âhim at nightâ and âhim in the day.â
âWhat are you doing here?â you demand, adjusting the strap of your bag.
âPicking you up.â He shrugs, casual, like the ground didnât just shift. âWhat, youâd rather take the bus?â
âIâm perfectly capable of taking the bus.â
âSure,â he says, grin tugging at his mouth. âBut whereâs the fun in that?â
Itâs disorienting, walking beside him in broad daylight. You keep expecting people to notice, to point, to whisper NightwingâŚbut no one looks twice. They just see Dick Grayson, easy in his own skin, fitting himself into your day like heâs been there all along.
And when he slings a leg over the motorcycle and offers you the helmet with that cocky tilt of his head, you donât argue. Not really.
-
The rhythm builds. Some nights itâs him dropping by your apartment, sprawled on your couch in a t-shirt while you rant about deadlines. Some nights itâs you stitching him up again, fingers brushing skin thatâs too warm, too scarred, your pulse thundering at the contact.
âYouâre staring,â he says once, voice sly, eyes glinting.
âIâm working,â you snap, fumbling with the gauze.
âYouâre staring,â he repeats, softer this time.
You donât deny it. You canât. Because sometimes it hits you out of nowhere, the sheer physicality of him. The breadth of his shoulders when he leans against your counter. The casual way he tosses his escrima sticks onto your table, muscles flexing as if theyâre part of the furniture. The way his laugh curls low in his chest now, rich enough to make your skin prickle.
Youâd had a crush on him once, built on personality and laughter and the relief of being seen. But now that crush is packaged in arms and jawlines and a body that moves like it knows exactly how much power it hasâŚand you donât know what to do with that.
You catch yourself looking more often than you should. He catches you every time. And the worst part is, he doesnât seem to mind.
-
Pizza becomes your running joke. Trioniâs booth, sticky varnish under your elbows, slices steaming on paper plates. He folds his, smirking at you the whole time, waiting for your inevitable groan of horror.
âYouâre not going to win me over,â you say, waving your floppy slice at him.
âYouâll cave eventually,â he counters, leaning back in the booth, grin sharp and pleased. âI can be very persuasive when I need to be.â
âNot this time.â
He doesnât break eye contact as he takes a slow bite of his folded slice, chewing like heâs proving a point. Itâs ridiculous. Itâs infuriating. Itâs so goddamn attractive you want to scream.
âStop looking at me like that,â you mutter.
âLike what?â
âLike you know something I donât.â
He smirks. âMaybe I do.â
You throw a napkin at him. He laughs, catches it easily, and the sound rings through you like a struck bell.
-
He hadnât planned to follow you. He hadnât. His patrol had taken him toward the Narrows, toward the docks, a dozen other places that needed him more than one crowded strip of nightlife where you were laughing too loud in a dress that glittered like youâd stolen the stars.
But the second he spotted you, he stopped. You were walking in the middle of your pack of friends, arm hooked through one of theirs, head thrown back in a laugh that made your hair slip down your shoulders. Your dress caught every scrap of neon, sequins winking like Morse code, and for a second it was all he could see. Sparkling. Distracting. You, right there, alive and incandescent. He told himself to keep moving. To stick to patrol.Â
He didnât. He slipped into the shadows above instead, tracking you from rooftop to rooftop, his body humming with an uneasy mix of irritation and awe. You shouldnât be out here this late, drunk and stumbling. Gotham eats people like that alive. And yet seeing you bright and unguarded, cheeks flushed, smile wide, it does something to him. Like heâs watching a life he doesnât belong to but canât look away from.
Then he hears it.
âWait, wait, wait,â one of your friends slurs, catching your arm as you teeter on the curb. âYou had a crush on Robin? Little Robin? Short shorts and all?â The words hit like a sucker punch. His boots still on the ledge, heart lurching up into his throat.
You groan, dramatic. âDonât say it like that.â
Laughter erupts, loud and merciless. âI mean, Batman was literally right there,â another says. âBroody, mysterious, tall. And you went for the kid in green?â
âListen,â you argue, slurring but determined, your hands slicing through the air as you stumble forward with them. âIt wasnât even because he was, like⌠hot.â
Dick goes still. Breath locked. Not hot. Not Batman. Not Superman. But⌠him. His fingers curl tight around the edge of the roof until the stone bites through the gloves. The city noise fades under the thunder of his pulse.
Your friends donât let up. âYou were in Metropolis for years! What about Superman? Have you seen him? Gorgeous. Dimples. Arms. Literal sunshine.â
âThatâs not the point!â you insist, cutting them off with a shout, your heels clicking unevenly against the pavement. âRobin, he was⌠earnest, okay? Thoughtful. Responsible. He listened. HeâŚâ Your voice softens. Fragile and fierce at the same time. âHe made me feel like I mattered.â
The words gut him. Because he remembers. He remembers every night on rooftops, every time you sat beside him with your knees pressed together, every secret you whispered into the dark because you trusted him to hold it. He remembers the way you looked at him like he was more than Batmanâs shadow. Like he was enough.Â
Heâs gripping the ledge so hard he thinks it might crack under his hand.
Your friends are howling again, teasing, âGod, you really do have a type. Whatâs next, Green Lantern?â But heâs not listening anymore. Heâs locked on you, on the way your laughter shakes loose and dizzy into the night, on the memory of the boy he used to be, the boy who never believed anyone would pick him.
And here you are, years later, admitting you had. He doesnât care that youâre drunk. Doesnât care that you might not remember this tomorrow. Because he will. Heâll remember the conviction in your voice, the way you doubled down, the way you said he made you feel like you mattered.
Up on the ledge, hidden in shadow, Dick feels it burn through him. A match struck in the dark. And he knows heâs not letting you run from this. Next time his eyes linger, next time his hand presses at the small of your back, next time his voice drops lower than it should, you wonât get to brush it off as banter. You wonât get to hide behind excuses. Because you said it. You chose him. You always had. And he thinks you still might. And God help him, heâs not about to let you pretend otherwise.
-
The problem with Dick Grayson isnât that he doesnât know how to look at you. Itâs that he does. He knows exactly how long to let his eyes linger before you catch him. He knows how to tilt his head so it looks like heâs teasing when it feels like something else. He knows when to let his gaze soften, how to press just enough warmth into it to make you think about things you shouldnât, not when youâre supposed to be friends.
And this morning, as youâre face-planted into the couch cushions in a tiny, sparkly black dress, head throbbing, stomach rolling, the last thing you need is for Dick Grayson to be looking at you.
Unfortunately, he is.
âRough night?â His voice is bright, smug, like sunshine filtered through something wicked.
You groan into the cushions. âGo away.â
âNo can do.â You hear his boots cross the floor, the quiet shift of weight as he crouches beside the couch. âI figured youâd need a little⌠moral support. Or maybe electrolytes.â
âI need you to shut up,â you mutter.
He laughs low, warm, and irritatingly fond. âYou look like roadkill.â
You lift your head just enough to glare at him. Heâs crouched at your side, forearms resting on his knees, hair damp from a shower, dressed down in a t-shirt that clings a little too well. His eyes take you in shamelessly; your hair a mess, mascara smudged, sparkly dress creased from sleep.
âYouâre not cute. Donât look at me,â you mumble, shoving your face back into the couch.
âToo late.â He leans his chin into his palm. âItâs seared into my brain now. You, draped over a sofa like a tragic starlet.â
âKill me.â
âNah.â His grin sharpens. âNot when you give me material like this.â You donât remember how he got in your apartment. You donât remember much, actually, past stumbling in the door last night and half-collapsing onto the couch. But you do remember the way your friends had teased you on the walk home. Robin. Batman. Superman. And your stubborn, drunken insistence that it had always been Robin.
Heat flushes through you even now, a full-body cringe. God, what if youâd said too much? What if someone had recorded it? What ifâ
âYou snore,â Dick says, breaking into your spiral.
Your head snaps up. âI do not.â
âLike a chainsaw.â He smirks, infuriatingly pleased. âItâs cute, though. Endearing.â
You throw a pillow at him. He catches it one-handed, effortless, then tosses it back onto your stomach, knocking the breath out of you. âJerk,â you wheeze.
âRoadkill,â he volleys back like he is affirming his earlier statement. The banter is easy, familiar, but thereâs an edge to it today. You feel it in the way his eyes keep tracking over you, softer than they should be. In the way he hasnât moved from his crouch, too close, knees brushing the couch.
You shift, meaning to sit up, but your limbs betray you. Instead you flop sideways, head landing on the pillow, legs still dangling over the armrest, knees bent awkwardly on the floor. Your dress rides higher, glitter catching in the sunlight slanting through the blinds. His gaze flickers, quick and sharp, before snapping back to your face.
âYouâre staring,â you accuse.
âYouâre imagining,â he shoots back. But his voice is a shade too low, and it twists something in your stomach.
You try to change the subject. âSo what, you just decided to drop by and harass me while Iâm defenseless?â
âDefenseless, huh?â He leans in, close enough that you smell his soap and the faint tang of leather clinging to him. âFunny. Last night, you didnât sound very defenseless.â
Your heart stutters. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
His smile turns slow, wicked. âOh, nothing. Just that youâve got⌠interesting taste.â
It hits you like a bucket of ice water. Oh. Oh, no. He heard. He had to have heard.
âShut up,â you say quickly, too quickly, your cheeks blazing.
âRobin, huh?â he presses, voice feather-light but edged with something deeper. âNot Batman. Not Superman. Me.â
You bury your face in your hands. âIâm never drinking again.â
His laughter curls low in his chest. He nudges your knee with his hand, playful. âRelax. Iâm flattered.â
âThat makes one of us,â you groan, wishing the couch would swallow you.
But when you peek at him through your fingers, his eyes arenât just amused. Theyâre intense, sharp, gleaming with the memory of your drunken confession. Heâs not going to let you forget it.
The comedy of errors continues when you try to sit up. Your foot catches on the armrest, your heel slips, and you pitch forward, straight into his chest. He catches you easily, an arm banding around your waist, the other braced on the couch. Suddenly youâre nose-to-nose, his grin right there, his heartbeat loud against your palm where itâs landed on his chest.
âCareful,â he murmurs.
âI hate you,â you whisper, breathless.
âLiar,â he says softly, âYou have a crush on me.â And it feels like a strike.
For a second, neither of you moves. The air between you hums, heavy, loaded. His eyes flick down to your mouth before darting back up. You feel it, every millimeter, like a live wire under your skin.
âHad,â you whisper. His eyes followed the shape of your lips as they formed around the word.Â
âHave.â He says again, voice more firm this time. Your gaze traces his lips this time.
Your head tilts closer, like instinct, like your body is done pretending it doesnât want him. His arm is still locked firm around your waist, holding you steady, keeping you pressed against the heat of his chest. Your palm flattens against him, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat, the give of muscle under cotton, the impossible warmth of him seeping straight through your skin.
He doesnât pull away. Just looks at you, steady, unblinking, eyes so blue they feel like they could cut you open if you let them. His breath brushes your mouth, warm, uneven. You can taste coffee and something darker on it, and your lips part without permission, every nerve in your body straining toward the last millimeter of space.
The air thickens, heavy as syrup. His fingers at your waist flex, just once, enough to draw you an inch closer. His chest rises against yours, and you feel the faintest shiver where his nose grazes your cheek, his forehead brushing yours, testing the contact without closing it.
You donât think. Your hand slides higher on his chest, tracing over the solid line of his collarbone, up the curve of his shoulder, fingers brushing the back of his neck. His hair is still damp from his shower, soft and warm under your touch. He exhales raggedly, his whole body tightening like heâs holding back a wave.
Because the problem with you isnât that you donât want Dick Grayson. Itâs that you do.
âYouâre not fooling me,â he says, voice low, rougher now that your lips are so close you can taste the warmth of his breath. âNot with that look on your face. Not with your hand all over me.â
Your fingers twitch against his chest, traitorous, pressing into solid muscle as though proving his point. Heat curls low in your stomach, sharp and insistent, and you hate that he can read it so easily.
âYou donât know what youâre talking about,â you manage, though your voice shakes.
His eyes darken, his thumb tracing slow circles into your hip where his hand grips you. âSay it again. Say you donât still want me. Say it while youâre this close.â
You canât. The words lodge in your throat, choking on the truth youâve been dodging for weeks. His smirk softens, just barely, eyes narrowing in satisfaction as he leans in until your noses brush, your pulse stuttering wildly under his stare.
âHad,â you whisper again, desperate, as if repeating it might make it true.
âFinish the sentence if you mean it, sweetheart.â The words vibrate out of him, certain and unshakable. His gaze dips to your mouth again, slower this time, deliberate, and the sound you make is soft, caught halfway between a breath and a plea, and it has his jaw flexing tight like heâs fighting himself.
âDickâŚâ His name leaves your mouth broken, trembling, and he shudders like youâve just lit a match against his skin.
His forehead tips to yours, contact so small but devastating, heat bleeding from him into you. âYou can lie all you want, Trouble,â he murmurs, his breath ghosting across your lips, âbut you donât let someone this close unless you want it.â
Your head tilts, your lips part, your palm sliding up to his collarbone in a silent answer. For one perfect, electric second, the whole world narrows to the inch of air left between your mouths, heat, and his heartbeat under your hand.
Your lips brush his, so faint itâs almost not contact, just the ghost of it, but the shock of it rattles you down to your toes. His breath shudders out, shaky and hot, and when you lean in that last fraction, his mouth finally meets yours. It isnât clean. It isnât careful. His teeth catch your bottom lip, tugging just enough to make your stomach flip and a whimper catch in your throat. The sound seems to break something in him, because suddenly his arm around your waist tightens, dragging you fully into his lap.
You straddle him before you realize youâve moved, dress riding high on your thighs, his heat pressed solid between your legs. His hands slide down, big and certain, cupping your ass through sequined fabric, pulling you flush against the thick line of him. The spark between you roars into fire.
He kisses you like heâs been waiting years for it, messy, hungry, devouring. Your palms splay across his chest, clutching at the muscle under his shirt, your fingers curling into the warm skin at the nape of his neck. His tongue slides against yours, slow at first, then harder, deeper, until youâre gasping into his mouth, moving against him without meaning to.
His hands squeeze, firm and sure, guiding you into him, hips arching up to meet yours. The friction makes your head spin, your pulse pounding everywhere at once. He tastes like wine and want, and the low sound he makes into your mouth vibrates all the way down your spine.
For a breathless stretch of moments, thereâs no Gotham, no rain, no history. Just this. Just you and Dick, tangled up, finally giving in, kissing each other like youâll never get enough.
Your lips part beneath his, and he takes the invitation greedily, kissing you deeper, tongue stroking against yours with a hunger that has your head spinning. Itâs clumsy in places, teeth clicking, mouths chasing, but that only makes it worse, better. It feels alive, electric, like every ounce of restraint youâve both held onto has finally gone up in flames.
You rock into him, desperate for more friction, and he groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating into your mouth. His hands tighten on your ass, dragging you down against him, grinding you into the thick, unmistakable weight straining against his sweats. The pressure makes your breath hitch, your body clenching around the ache building low in your belly.
You clutch at him harder, fingers fisting into his t-shirt until the fabric rides up, exposing hot skin. You smooth your palms over his stomach, the ridges of muscle flexing under your touch, and he shudders, biting your lip again as though to punish you for it. You moan into him, nails digging lightly into his sides, and he hisses through his teeth, kissing you harder, like he can pour every ounce of his want straight into your mouth.
The kiss tips sideways, and suddenly youâre gasping, laughing into him when his stubble grazes your jaw. He doesnât let up. His lips trail fire down the line of your throat, teeth scraping lightly over the delicate skin there before sucking hard enough to make your toes curl. You arch into him, dress shifting higher, sequins scratching his hips where your thighs cage him in.
âDick,â His name rips out of you, broken and desperate, and his mouth is back on yours before you can say more, swallowing the sound like it belongs to him.
Your hips roll against him, helpless, chasing the friction, and he meets you halfway, thrusting up into you in short, sharp motions that make you whimper into his mouth. His tongue tangles with yours again, messy and wet, and your vision sparks at the edges. His hands are everywhere, palming your ass, sliding up your spine, threading into your hair to tug your head back so he can kiss you deeper, rougher.
Youâre dizzy with him, his taste, his weight, the sheer size of him under you. Every breath you drag in is filled with him, every nerve alight with the demand to get closer, closer, until thereâs nothing left between you at all.
When you finally break for air, your foreheads slam together, both of you panting like youâve run miles. His lips are swollen, glistening, his pupils blown wide, his chest heaving under your palms. He looks wild. Starved. Perfect. And then heâs pulling you back down, kissing you again, hungrier than before, open-mouthed, filthy, like heâs making up for every year he didnât.
Your body canât stop moving against him, chasing every drag of friction. The sequined dress has ridden high on your thighs, hem bunched at your waist as you straddle him. His hands are greedy now, sliding over bare skin, thumbs digging into the soft bare curve of your ass like heâs waited his whole life to touch you here. He drags you down harder, grinding you over him, and the blunt thickness straining his sweats makes you gasp into his mouth.
Heâs huge. You knew he was, the outline impossible not to notice whenever he sprawled careless in those pants, but feeling it pressed solid against you, hot and heavy even through layers, makes your stomach twist and your core clench with want. You rock down on him harder, helpless, and the sound he makes is low, guttural, and almost pained. It shoots straight between your legs.
âFuck,â he groans against your lips, kissing you harder, tongue driving deep like heâs trying to drown himself in you. His hips surge up in answer, rutting against you, the thick head of him catching just right against the soaked center of your panties. Your cry muffles into his mouth, nails scraping down his chest until you find skin, dragging up his shirt until itâs bunched under his arms.
His abs are hot and hard under your palms, slick with sweat, muscles flexing as he thrusts up into you. You break from his mouth to gasp down his throat, and heâs on you instantly, lips latching to your jaw, your neck, sucking and biting bruises into your skin like he wants to mark every inch he can reach.
âSay it,â he rasps against your throat, his teeth grazing your pulse. His hands knead your ass, grinding you down over him, the thick bulge in his sweats perfectly aligned with your clit. âSay you still want me.â
You canât speak, not with the way heâs rolling his hips, relentless, the pressure building sharp and unbearable. You whimper his name instead, broken and needy, and he groans like the sound undoes him.
âFuckâyeah, you do,â he breathes, pulling you down harder, guiding you to rock over him faster. The sequins of your dress scratch at his bare stomach, your panties soaked through, clinging to your folds as you grind over the obscene bulk of him. Each pass drags his thickness right against your clit, each grind shooting sparks down your spine until youâre gasping against his mouth, trembling in his lap. âSheâs honest with me, even if your mouth wonât be,â he pants.Â
He kisses you senseless again, filthy and wet, tongues clashing, teeth tugging, his hips never stopping. You roll against him desperately, chasing it, chasing him, your thighs trembling where they cage him in. His cock strains against the thin cotton, massive, the outline pressed hot and unyielding against your swollen pussy, and all you can think is how good it would feel inside you.
His hand slides up your spine, into your hair, yanking your head back just enough to bite at your throat again, his breath ragged. âThatta girl. Keep grinding, Trouble. Wanna feel you cum all over me.â
The words hit harder than anything. You moan brokenly, hips stuttering against him, the rhythm sloppy but desperate, pleasure winding sharp and tight in your belly. His hands hold you steady, dragging you over him in rough, perfect circles until youâre shuddering, mouth open against his, every nerve screaming as you teeter on the edge.
And he doesnât stop. He doesnât let you run. He keeps you pressed to him, grinding against the thick, straining length of his cock until youâre shaking apart in his lap, soaking through your panties, every pulse of your orgasm spilling hot and messy against him.
He kisses you through it, swallowing your cries, biting your lip until you can barely breathe. When you finally slump forward, wrecked and trembling, his hands are still on you, still firm, still wanting. And heâs still hard, throbbing against you, sweatpants damp with your release, the sheer size of him twitching under you like a promise.Â
His mouth breaks from yours only to press wet, biting kisses down your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, muttering against your skin like he canât stop himself. âFeel how wet you are,â he growls, his voice rough and ruined. One hand slips lower, his long fingers sliding under the edge of your ruined panties. You whimper as his knuckles brush your slick folds, every inch of you drenched and swollen. His groan vibrates against your neck when he feels just how soaked you are.
âFuck, TroubleâŚâ His middle finger drags up through your wetness, slow, obscene, parting you until he finds your clit. You jolt hard against him, crying out, and he swallows the sound in another bruising kiss. His finger circles you once, twice, then dips lower, pressing inside with a stretch that makes your whole body seize. Heâs so much bigger than your own hand, so much deeper, curling at the knuckle just right until your thighs clamp tight around him.
âLook at you,â he rasps, pumping in and out, his thumb pressing cruel circles to your clit. âSoaked for me. Always were, werenât you?â
You canât answer. You can only grind helplessly into his hand, your hips jerking against him, your mouth open and gasping against his. He slips a second finger in beside the first, the stretch sharp, delicious, filling you in a way that makes you sob into his mouth. His thumb works you mercilessly, dragging another wave of pleasure out of your trembling body.
Then he pulls his fingers out, sudden, leaving you clenching around nothing. You whine at the loss, but before you can protest, he shoves his slick fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean. His eyes lock on yours as he groans low in his throat, tasting you, devouring you.
âYouâre so sweet, baby,â he murmurs, voice dark and reverent. âCould live on this.â
Your whole body shudders. You surge forward, kissing him hard, tasting yourself on his tongue, swallowing his groan as his hands drag at your hips again. But itâs not enough. The thick weight straining his sweats is pressed solid against your soaked panties, and you need moreâyou need him.
âDick,â you gasp against his mouth, clawing at the waistband of his sweats. âOut. Now.â
His laugh is harsh, breathless, wrecked. âNow whoâs bossy.â But he obeys, shoving his sweats down just enough for his cock to spring free, thick and heavy and already slick at the tip.
Your breath catches. Even soft heâd been obscene; hard, heâs devastating. Long, flushed dark, veins ridging the shaft, the broad head flushed and dripping precum. Your cunt clenches just looking at him, your thighs shaking with the need to feel it.
âFuck,â he mutters, wrapping a hand around the base, stroking once, slow, groaning through gritted teeth. âBeen dying to feel you on me.â
You grind down against him, soaking panties dragging over the thick length of him, smearing wetness across his cock. The slide makes you both groan, your clit catching against his head with every pass.
He curses again, gripping your hips so hard you know heâll leave bruises, guiding you to rock on him. His cock drags along your soaked center, fat and hot, the head bumping your clit with every grind. You can feel the pressure of him catching against your entrance, the blunt head pushing at your soaked panties, teasing what you both want.
âYou feel that?â he groans, eyes wild, forehead pressed to yours as his cock slides thick and heavy under you. âSo wet youâre gonna ruin me. Gonna let me in, Trouble? Let me split you open on this cock?â
Your moan is answer enough. You grind harder, desperate, the head of him pushing your panties aside just enough to catch against your opening, stretching you slightly before slipping away again. He groans raggedly, pumping his cock once against your soaked fabric, precum smearing across the sequined dress bunched at your waist.
âGonna make you feel so good,â he pants, kissing you hard, messy, teeth clashing. âGonna bury this cock so deep you wonât be able to say my name without cumming.â His hands slide down, fingers curling under the edge of your panties, tugging at the damp fabric. âThese coming off, or can I rip âem?â
âRip,â you gasp, dizzy, desperate. And he does. The lace tears with a sharp sound, shredded by his long fingers like itâs nothing, the ruined fabric dragged aside as he growls into your mouth. The sudden cool air against your bare cunt makes you shiver, but then his cock is there, thick and hot and real, dragging through your soaked folds, smearing your slick up his length.
âFuck,â His voice breaks, guttural. âYouâre dripping. Been dreaming about this for so long sweetheart, about feeling you like this.â Your hips jerk forward, chasing it, and the broad head of him catches at your entrance. He holds you still with hands locked bruisingly tight on your ass, forcing you to feel it, just the heavy pressure of him nudging in, stretching you wide, parting you slow.
The stretch steals your breath. Heâs so big your body fights to take him, and the sting makes you gasp into his mouth. But underneath is heat, thick, overwhelming heat, like your whole bodyâs been waiting for this exact moment.
âChrist,â he groans, forehead slamming to yours, sweat dripping down his temple. âSo tight. Gonna ruin me.â
You claw at his shoulders, nails biting through cotton, panting. âMoreâŚplease, Dick.â
He whines softly, and then he thrusts, hard. The thick length of him drives into you, slow enough to split you open, deep enough to make you cry out. Your walls seize around him, clenching helplessly, trying to adjust as inch after inch slides into your body. The stretch burns, pleasure laced sharp through pain, but heâs groaning against your mouth, kissing you through it, muttering ragged curses into your skin.
âTaking meâŚfuck, youâre taking all of me so well,â he grits out, his hips jerking up, forcing the last thick inch inside. His cock bottoms out deep, the blunt head pressed right against your cervix, so deep it makes your vision blur. You sob against his mouth, your body clutching him, trembling. The fullness is as unbearable as it is addictive; like heâs rewired you from the inside out.
âLook at you,â he pants, dragging back an inch only to slam forward again, grinding deep. âMy pretty girl. So good for me.â
You moan brokenly, your hips rocking without thought, meeting him. The friction is devastating; bare, raw, his cock dragging against every swollen inch of you. Slick gushes down his shaft, wetting the base of him, smearing against his stomach where your dress is bunched. His rhythm builds fast, messy. Years of wanting crashing into each thrust, hips snapping up into you hard enough to jolt the couch under you. You cling to him, legs trembling around his waist, your cunt gripping him so tight he groans with every stroke.
âOh baby,â he whines, mouth crushed to your jaw, teeth scraping. âYouâre so fucking wet, gonna make me cum so deep inside you.â
You can only gasp, moan, sob against him, every thrust lighting you up. His hands cup your ass, dragging you down onto his cock harder, grinding you into him until your clit rubs against the base, sparks exploding in your belly. Youâre close again; too close, the pressure building sharp and fast. You roll your hips against him, desperate, and he feels it, feels the way your walls flutter and clench around him.
âGonna cum?â he rasps, voice breaking, his cock driving into you relentlessly. âGonna soak me like a good girl? Let me have it, câmon.â Your body shatters. Pleasure rips through you, hot and unbearable, your cunt clamping down on him as you scream his name into his mouth. Slick gushes around him, soaking him, dripping down your thighs, and he curses, rutting into you harder, chasing his own end.
His rhythm falls apart, hips slamming up into you in ragged, desperate thrusts, his cock throbbing inside you with every grind. His forehead presses to yours, sweat dripping, breath coming in short, broken gasps. âGod, you feel so good,â he groans, the words spilling without thought, low and raw against your mouth. âSo tight around me, so wet for me. Fuck, sweetheart, youâre perfect. Perfect.â
Each word is a strike, praise so filthy and reverent your whole body shivers around him. You moan into his mouth, clutching at his shoulders, rolling against him, your cunt clenching tighter every time he speaks. He thrusts deep, almost to the hilt, then stops, shaking with restraint, his cock swelling thick inside you. His voice cracks when he mutters, âI canâtâŚIâm gonna cum. Please. Please, let meâŚinside you, I want to.â
The sound of him begging makes your breath catch, your walls fluttering around him. You feel him shaking under you, his control frayed to nothing, but still he doesnât let go, doesnât cross the line until you give him the word. His mouth crashes to yours, messy and frantic, his tongue tangling with yours as he whispers against your lips, âSay yes. Tell me I can. Please, Trouble, I need it. Need to fill you up.â
The plea wrecks you. Heat coils sharp in your stomach, the pressure unbearable. You tighten around him, nails raking down his back, and gasp, âYes, yes, Dick, cum inside me, please!â The sound he makes is broken, guttural, like youâve torn the air from his lungs. His hips jerk up violently, his whole body locking under you as he buries himself deep, cock swelling as his release rips through him.Â
âFuck, oh, fuck, thank you,â he gasps, his voice sick with praise, chanting it against your mouth as he spills inside you. Thick heat floods your cunt in heavy pulses, and the sensation drags your orgasm out all over again; you clench down hard, milking him, crying into his kiss as he moans your name like prayer.
He holds you down on him, grinding up into you, desperate to push every drop deeper. âSo goodâŚso good for me, fuck, youâre perfect. Taking all of it, all of me.â
You collapse against his chest, trembling, both of you panting hard, still joined, his cock still twitching inside you as his release drips hot between your thighs. His forehead presses to yours, his voice wrecked, almost breaking.Â
His forehead presses to yours, both of you still trembling, breaths dragging in uneven gasps. His voice is wrecked, almost breaking.
âYears,â he whispers, softer now but still aching, still desperate. âWasted years not feeling you like this.â
Your chest tightens, words lost somewhere in your throat. So you kiss him instead, messy, deep, your lips swollen and clumsy. He kisses you back with equal fervor, but slower now, as if he wants to savor, to commit the taste of you to memory. His cock is still sheathed deep inside you, twitching faintly as he softens, but neither of you makes a move to part.
You shift against him, and his hands instantly tighten on your hips, keeping you down, keeping him buried inside. His laugh is low, roughened by exhaustion and bliss. âDonât even think about it. Not letting you go yet.â
You groan against his chest. âYouâre heavy.â
âGood,â he mutters, dropping his lips to the damp slope of your shoulder. âMeans youâll stay put.â He breathes you in, deep, reverent. âDo you have any idea how long Iâve wanted you?â
You pull back just enough to search his face. His eyes are glassy, unguarded in a way youâve never seen. âHow long?â you ask quietly, brushing his long dark hair out of his face.
He swallows, thumb brushing slow along your cheek, still cupping your face as if youâre fragile. âSince fourteen,â he admits, voice soft, bare. âSince the first night you sat on that roof and talked to me like I wasnât just Robin. Like I was⌠a person.â His jaw flexes, like saying it out loud costs him something. âI never stopped, even when you left. Even when you came back and seemed distracted by my face.â
Your breath catches. The weight of it hits you hard, heavy and bright all at once, knocking your chest open. You donât have to think. You know, suddenly, fiercely, that youâre falling in love with him. Not just the boy who once unmasked for you, not just the man currently buried inside you, but all of him.
âDickâŚâ you whisper, cupping his jaw, thumb brushing over the rough stubble there. âYouâre ridiculous.â
His lips twitch, a crooked grin breaking the tension. âWhat, because Iâve been in love with you since I was a scrawny circus kid?â
âBecause,â you correct softly, rolling your eyes even as your chest aches, âI liked you when you were gangly and angry at the world, and awkward with your kindness. Thatâs what got me.â Your thumb brushes the edge of his jaw. âNot⌠all this.â
His smile gentles, the teasing melting into something shy, almost boyish. âDoesnât hurt, though, right? The face.â
You huff a laugh, shaking your head, but it comes out tender instead of sharp. âNo. It doesnât hurt.â
âGood because you,â he says, kissing your forehead, your nose, the corner of your mouth in quick, playful succession, âare stuck with me now. So remember that when I get on your nerves.â
You sigh, pretending exasperation, but you canât stop smiling. âGuess I am.â
-
You stay like that for a while, tangled and warm, the storm outside softening into a steady patter. His thumb strokes along your cheekbone, lazy, reverent, like he canât quite believe youâre real. Eventually, though, the ache in your thighs reminds you both of reality. You shift, wincing slightly, and he feels it immediately.
âHey,â he murmurs, kissing your temple, âdonât move. Iâve got you.â
You make a soft noise of protest when he finally pulls out, the stretch easing but leaving you empty in a way that makes your chest squeeze. Heat spills between your thighs, sticky and messy, but heâs already tucking you back against the cushions, murmuring, âStay,â before disappearing down the hall.
When he comes back, heâs barefoot, carrying a damp towel and a glass of water, his hair even messier from running a hand through it. âLift,â he says gently, and when you blink at him, dazed, he smiles. âCâmon. Let me take care of you.â
You do, cheeks warming as he crouches between your knees, wiping you clean with careful, unhurried motions. His hands are steady, reverent, as though the act itself is holy. He kisses the inside of your thigh when heâs done, soft and fleeting, before standing to hand you the water.
You take a sip, your throat dry, then glance at him over the rim of the glass. âYou always this bossy after sex?â
âBack to bossy again?â His brows lift in mock offense as he sinks back onto the couch beside you. âBut, please. Iâm efficient. Thereâs a big difference.â
You laugh, weak but real, tucking yourself into his side. âYou were efficient at fourteen too. Efficiently broody. Efficiently avoiding eye contact.â
He groans, dropping his head back against the cushions. âGod. Donât remind me.â Then, softer, with a smile that curves like memory, he adds, âAnd somehow you still liked me.â His face warms with a smile as he says it, looking more boyish than youâve seen him look, like the thought of you having felt something for him all these years makes him giddy.
âI didnât like you because of the brooding,â you tease, tilting up to meet his gaze. âI liked you because you couldnât hide how good you were. Not from me.â
His eyes soften, his hand smoothing gently over your hip. âYouâve always seen too much.â
âAnd youâve always pretended it bothered you,â you shoot back, but your smile is quiet, your chest aching.
He presses his lips to your hair, lingering there. âNever bothered me,â he admits into the crown of your head. âIt scared me. Thatâs different.â
His lips linger in your hair, warm and steady, until your eyes slip closed. The storm outside has softened to a drizzle, a steady hush against the glass, and the room feels like itâs holding its breath with you. You set the glass of water aside, curling instinctively into him. His arm comes around your shoulders without hesitation, hand smoothing slow circles over your arm. Itâs grounding, the weight of him, the heat of his body still seeping into yours.
âYou should sleep,â he murmurs against your temple.
âSo should you,â you mumble back, your voice heavy with exhaustion.
âNot tired,â he lies, and you can feel the smile pressed into your hair.
âYouâre full of it,â you whisper, but the fight is already gone from you. Your head sinks against his chest, ear over his heartbeat. Itâs steady, strong, the sound you didnât know youâd missed all these years until now.
He shifts, adjusting you both, and before you realize it, youâre stretched across the couch together, tangled under the throw blanket. His hand stays at your hip, fingers curled there like an anchor, as if heâs afraid youâll slip away in the night.
You reach up, tracing lazy circles over his chest. âDick?â
âMmm?â
âI think,â you murmur, words already blurring at the edges of sleep, âI might be falling in love with you.â
He stills, then exhales slow, his lips brushing your hair. âGood,â he whispers. âBecause Iâve been in love with you for half my life.â
Your throat tightens, but your body relaxes, the truth settling into you like warmth. You smile against him, soft and certain. Outside, Gotham exhales under the rain. Inside, you let yourself drift, safe in the arms of the boy you once knew, the man youâre choosing now.
-
The city looks different from up here. It always does, under his arm.
Youâre sitting on the ledge of a BlĂźdhaven rooftop, legs dangling over the streetlights, the night air cool against your bare skin. Dickâs beside you, mask pushed up into his hair, the blue symbol catching the glow of the skyline. His hands are warm where they rest on your hips, steadying you like you might slip, even though you both know you never would with him here. Both his thighs bracket yours.Â
âDĂŠjĂ vu,â you murmur, glancing at him over your shoulder.
His grin tilts sideways, boyish and wicked all at once. âExcept this time I get to kiss you instead of lecture you.â
âMm,â you hum, leaning back into his chest. âNot sure which one youâre worse at.â
He gasps, mock wounded, then dips his head to mouth at your neck. âHarsh. And here I was thinking Iâve improved since the green tights days.â
âYou have,â you say, fighting a smile. âMarginally.â
âMarginally?â He nips lightly at your skin, enough to make you squirm. âYou wound me.â
âYouâll live,â you tease, twisting in his hold until youâre facing him. His hands slide automatically to your waist, thumbs stroking slow against the fabric of your jacket, and his eyes soften in a way that makes your stomach flip.
âYou know what hasnât changed?â he says quietly.
âWhat?â
âYou.â His smile curves, tender under the tease. âYou still sneak out when you shouldnât. Still get yourself into trouble. Still make me chase after you.â
You snort. âAdmit it. You like it.â
âLike it?â He laughs low, kissing you once, quick and sure. âI live for it.â
The kiss deepens, sweet and unhurried, the city buzzing around you, forgotten. When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his voice soft enough for only you to hear. âFeels like weâve been waiting years for this,â he murmurs.
âMaybe we have.â You smile, brushing your thumb along his jaw. âWorth it, though.â
He grins, eyes bright as the city lights. âDefinitely worth it.â
And when he kisses you again, laughing into your mouth, the rooftop doesnât feel like a hiding place anymore. It feels like home.













