Fanfic Reader

“—and that brings us to the Q3 deliverables,” your boss continued, oblivious.

You forced a nod, trying to keep your face neutral while Dick slowly lowered himself into a full split on the floor, then rolled into a smooth back handspring. He landed silently, shot you a cheeky wink, and immediately launched into a series of pushups on your kitchen counter.

Your cheeks burned. You muted your microphone for a second and hissed under your breath, “Dick, I swear—”

He blew you a kiss, walked over to the door of the room, and did a one-armed pull-up on the doorframe, shirtless back muscles rippling. The audacity.

You unmuted just in time to answer a question about timelines. Your voice was steady, but your leg was bouncing under the desk. Dick noticed and grinned wider. He dropped down and started doing slow, deliberate push-ups right in your line of sight, counting them out silently while maintaining eye contact with you.

One… two… three…

You were going to kill him.

After the meeting dragged on for another fifteen agonising minutes, you finally closed your laptop with a sigh of relief. The second the camera turned off, you spun in your chair.

“Dick Grayson, I am going to murder you.”

He was mid-handstand again, grinning upside down. “But you looked so cute trying to stay professional. I couldn’t help it.”

You stood up, crossing the room. He flipped down gracefully and caught you around the waist before you could swat him.

“You’re impossible,” you grumbled, but you were smiling despite yourself. His skin was warm from the exercise, and he smelled like citrus soap and that faint scent of sweat that always made your brain a little fuzzy.

“I was lonely,” he said, nuzzling into your neck. “You’ve been in meetings all morning. I missed my favourite coworker.”

“You’re not my coworker,” you laughed, letting him pull you closer. His hands slid under your work blouse, palms warm against your bare back. “You’re my very distracting boyfriend who almost made me blush on camera.”

Dick’s grin turned mischievous. “Almost? Damn. I’ll have to try harder next time.”

You swatted his chest, but he just laughed and lifted you effortlessly, spinning you once before setting you on the kitchen counter. He stepped between your legs, hands resting on your thighs.

“I’m serious,” you said, poking his chest. “I have another meeting in thirty minutes. Behave.”

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Thirty minutes is plenty of time for me to behave… or misbehave. Your choice.”

You shivered at the low tone in his voice. His hands slid higher on your thighs, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just under the hem of your skirt. The touch was teasing, affectionate, full of promise.

“You’re going to be the death of my productivity,” you murmured, but you were already tilting your head to give him better access to your neck.

He kissed the spot just below your ear, soft and lingering. “Worth it.”

For the next twenty minutes, Dick was the perfect distraction — sweet kisses, gentle touches, whispered compliments that made your cheeks warm. He never pushed too far, always checking in with soft eyes and a playful smile. When your next meeting reminder pinged, he groaned dramatically but stepped back, hands raised in surrender.

“Fine, fine. Go be responsible. I’ll be here, waiting patiently.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Patiently?”

He grinned. “Mostly patiently.”

You kissed him one last time — quick and sweet — and returned to your desk. The rest of the day passed in a blur of meetings, but every so often you’d catch Dick doing something ridiculous in the background just to make you smile: juggling oranges, balancing on one hand while reading a book, or doing slow, dramatic somersaults across the living room.

By the time you finally closed your laptop for the day, you were exhausted but happy. Dick was waiting on the couch, arms open.

“Come here,” he said softly.

You crawled into his lap, letting him wrap you up in a warm hug. He kissed the top of your head, then your temple, then your lips — slow and sweet, like he’d been saving it all day.

“I love you,” he murmured against your mouth. “Even when you have to work and I have to be patient.”

You smiled, nuzzling into his neck. “I love you too. My very distracting, very acrobatic boyfriend.”

He chuckled, hands stroking your back. “I’ll take that title.”

The two of you stayed like that for a long time — tangled together on the couch, the city humming far below, the afternoon light turning golden through the windows.

Dick Grayson might be the golden boy of the Titans team, the charming Wayne boy, the hero who saved everyone else.

But with you, he was just Dick — the man who did handstands in the living room to make you laugh, who waited patiently when you had to work, and who loved you with a bright, unwavering joy that never dimmed.

And you?

You were exactly where you wanted to be.

With your favorite distraction.

The bright camera flashes shuttered rhythmically. Pop, pop, flash. The blinding bursts of light bounced off the polished marble floors of the Wayne Foundation Gala, a constant reminder that in Gotham, privacy was a luxury even the grandest fortunes couldn't entirely buy. It was something you and Dick Grayson had been dealing with since you were both children.

As the eldest adopted son of Bruce Wayne, Dick was Gotham’s golden boy—blessed with a devastating smile, effortless charm, and the kind of liquid-gold wealth that made high society look normal. You were his mirror image under a different family crest. Born into old Gotham money, wrapped in silk, and taught how to navigate the complex social hierarchies of a charity gala before you were old enough to speak, you were the city’s darling.

It was an unspoken law of the universe that two children raised under the suffocating weight of such massive legacies would either become bitter rivals, competing for the scraps of the spotlight, or inseparable confidants. You both chose the latter. You had traded stolen hors d'oeuvres under grand banquet tables at eight, shared a mutual, silent loathing for classical piano lessons at twelve, and protected each other's deepest vulnerabilities as the years grew heavier and the city outside grew darker.

Tonight, you stood near the edge of the sprawling ballroom, where the heavy velvet drapes offered a modicum of shade from the oppressive glare of the chandeliers. A crystal flute of champagne rested loosely between your fingers, the amber bubbles rising and popping unnoticed while you politely nodded along to whatever Mayor Hill’s wife was saying. Your family’s name carried just as much weight in this metropolis as the Waynes', which meant your entire life had been a carefully curated series of choreographed public appearances, impeccably tailored outfits, and the suffocating expectation of absolute perfection. One wrong look, one slouch of the shoulders, and the tabloids would dissect it by morning.

"Oh, look at you. You know, you and Richard would look so good together if you two finally made it official,” Mrs. Hill sighed, her eyes darting past your shoulder with a knowing, matchmaking gleam that every high-society matron seemed to weaponize. She tapped her manicured fingers against her fan, leaning in closer. "Speak of the devil. You two truly are the crown jewels of this city's youth. It is simply a matter of time."

Before you could even begin to turn, a warm hand settled on the small of your back, the heat of his palm cutting straight through the fine fabric of your evening wear. The familiar, comforting scent of sandalwood and expensive cologne washed over you, instantly lowering your guard. Dick effortlessly slid into the empty space beside you, his broad shoulder brushing yours in a familiar, comforting gesture. He looked maddeningly handsome in his tailored midnight-blue tuxedo, a single, stray lock of dark hair falling perfectly across his forehead in a way that looked entirely accidental but was devastatingly effective.

"Mrs. Hill, you're looking lovely as always," Dick Grayson’s voice was smooth, dripping with that trademark Romani charm that Gotham couldn't get enough of. It was a cadence that could disarm a room in seconds, a perfect blend of high-society polish and genuine warmth. "Mind if I steal my favourite dance partner? I promise to return them in one piece, though I might try to hoard them for the rest of the evening."

"Oh, Richard, go right ahead!" Mrs. Hill gushed, waving her hand dismissively as a sly smile broke across her face. "We were just saying how absolutely darling you two look together. Honestly, it’s a crime you haven’t made it official yet. The press would have a field day, and quite frankly, you would make the most beautiful couple this city has seen in a generation."

You offered a practiced, polite smile, the kind you had perfected in front of bedroom mirrors by the age of twelve— pleasant but utterly vacant of your true thoughts. "You're too kind, Mrs. Hill, but Dick and I are just—"

"The best of friends," Dick finished smoothly, cutting in with a flawless sense of timing that kept the conversation light. He flashed his trademark smile, the one that usually left even the toughest political reporters completely tongue-tied, and wrapped a casual arm around your waist. With a subtle pressure, he drew you just a fraction closer against his side, letting your hip rest against his. "I’d hate to ruin a good thing by forcing her to put up with me full-time. I'm afraid my charm wears off after the third hour."

Mrs. Hill let out a delighted, tittering laugh, completely enchanted by the display. "Oh, nonsense! True love always starts as friendship. Mark my words, children, it's inevitable. You can't fight a match written in the stars." With a final, knowing wink that suggested she knew far more than she was letting on, she drifted back into the swirling sea of silk and diamonds on the ballroom floor.

The moment her cloying perfume faded from the air and she was safely out of earshot, the polite, rigid posture you both held melted away. You let out a small, dramatic groan, letting your head drop against the steady expanse of Dick's shoulder for a brief second.

“If I have to hear one more socialite tell us we'd make 'the most beautiful babies’ for one more second, I'm going to fake a medical emergency,” you muttered into the fabric of his lapel, your voice a hushed, exasperated whisper. “I mean it, Dick. I’ll fake an allergy to the caviar and demand an ambulance.”

Dick let out a low laugh, a rich sound that vibrated right through his chest and against your side. His hand remained comfortably resting on the small of your back, his long fingers splaying over your waist as he began to guide you away from the crowded center of the room and toward a quieter area of the Gala.

"Oh, come on. Mrs. Hill means well," he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a wicked, playful glint as he looked down at you. "She’s just obsessed with the idea of a grand Gotham dynasty. It’s the ultimate high-society sport." He paused, a slow, roguish grin spreading across his lips as he leaned down slightly. "And to be fair... we would make beautiful babies," Dick murmured, his voice dropping into a low, smooth purr right against the shell of your ear, sending a sudden shiver straight down your spine.

You froze in your tracks, your heart giving a violent, erratic thump against your ribs before you recovered and playfully shoved his chest. “Shut up, Grayson!" you laughed, though you could feel heat rushing to your cheeks, something that had very little to do with the stuffiness of the crowded ballroom. "Don't let the media hear you say that, or the Gotham Gazette will have our wedding registry published by tomorrow morning. They’ll have us married off at Wayne Manor before the weekend."

Dick didn't even stumble from the shove. He just absorbed the hit with that effortless, athletic grace of his, a soft, amused chuckle echoing in his throat. His hand slid seamlessly from your waist down to your hand, his long, calloused fingers lacing through yours with practiced ease. He squeezed your hand gently, a reassuring, familiar gesture that instantly relaxed you, as he led you toward the ornate, glass terrace doors.

"Let them print it," Dick murmured, his voice softening as he pulled you into the shadowed alcove near the exit. His thumb did a slow swipe across the back of your knuckles, his touch entirely too warm. "Think of the perks, Y/N. We’d get a great discount on a blender, and Bruce would probably finally buy us that ridiculously overpriced espresso machine we've been eyeing for the penthouse. We could spin it into a charitable tax write-off."

"You're entirely ridiculous," you sighed, letting out a soft breath as the cool night air began to bleed through the cracks of the terrace doors.

Yet, despite the exasperated words, the smile pulling at your lips was entirely genuine now. The stiff, suffocating mask you had been forced to wear all evening had completely evaporated the moment he stepped into your space. It always did. No matter how bright the camera flashes were, or how heavy the expectations of your families became, Dick was the only person who could make you feel like yourself in a room full of strangers.

"It’s part of my charm," he replied smoothly, pulling open the heavy glass door and guiding you out onto the sprawling stone terrace.

The transition from the stifling, perfume-heavy air of the ballroom to the crisp, cool Gotham night was instantaneous. The distant hum of the city’s traffic and the faint lapping of the river below replaced the classical orchestra with a peaceful sort of quiet. Out here, the paparazzi's flashes were nothing but a faint, ambient glow behind the tinted glass.

You walked over to the balustrade, resting your hands against the cool stone. You closed your eyes for a brief second, letting the breeze wash over your face and soothe the burning heat on your cheeks his comment had left behind.

Dick leaned against the balustrade next to you, mirroring your posture but keeping his body turned slightly in your direction, his shoulder brushing against yours. He reached up, his fingers working to loosen the silk bowtie at his collar. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his dress shirt, taking a deep, unhurried breath of the cool air.

For over a decade, you had been each other’s safe harbour in a city built on quicksand. When his world had shattered as a boy, you were one of the few who didn't look at him with pitiful charity or morbid curiosity. When your own family's scandals had threatened to crush you under the weight of public scrutiny, Dick had been the one to drag you out of your house in the dead of night, forcing you to eat greasy diner food in your finest clothes until you laughed so hard your ribs ached.

"Seriously, though," Dick said, his voice dropping into a softer, more grounded register. The playful billionaire facade he put on for the likes of Mrs. Hill faded completely. He stepped up beside you, leaning his forearms against the stone railing and looking out over the manicured lawns of Wayne Manor and looming city ahead. "They're not entirely wrong, you know," he said quietly, his gaze shifting from the distant city skyline back to your face.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden drop in his tone. "About what? Mrs. Hill's terrifying obsession with our future lineage?" You tried to keep your voice light, but your heart was still racing against your ribs.

"About us," Dick murmured as he shifted, his body completely blocking out the glowing warmth of the ballroom doors behind him, creating a small, intensely private corner just for the two of you on the dark terrace. He reached out, his hand wrapping around yours where it rested on the cool stone. His fingers laced through yours, his thumb tracing a slow circle over the back of your knuckles.

"We've been playing this game since we were teenagers," Dick continued, his brilliant blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the cool night air feel suddenly very warm. "Every time someone says we'd make a good couple, we laugh it off. We tell them we’re just friends, or like family. But..." He paused, his grip tightening as he gathered the courage to finally say what he’d always wanted to say to you. "Every time they say it, I find myself wishing I didn't have to lie about it."

Your breath hitched in your throat. The ambient noise of the gala—the live orchestra, the clinking of glasses, the low roar of conversation—all of it faded into static. "Dick..."

"I'm serious," he said, taking half-step closer until the faint, clean scent of his cologne enveloped you completely. "I know everything about you, and you know the worst parts of me. You've been my anchor in this city for as long as I can remember. I don't want to be just your childhood friend anymore. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life pretending that’s all we are."

The sheer honesty in his voice was staggering. Dick Grayson, the man who could charm the entire world with a flash of his teeth, was standing before you entirely stripped of his armour. There was no playboy performance left in his eyes. Only the raw, terrifying honesty of the boy who had once promised you, in a diner booth at three in the morning, that he would never let this city swallow you whole. 

"Dick," you whispered, your voice trembling slightly as your eyes darted down to his lips, then back to his eyes. "Do you have any idea what you're saying? If we cross that line..."

"I don't want to keep pretending anymore," he interrupted gently. He took another step closer, his chest nearly brushing against yours, effectively trapping you between his broad frame and the cold stone of the balustrade. The warmth radiating from him was a sharp contrast to the biting breeze. Slowly, Dick lifted his free hand, his long, calloused fingers brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. His fingertips lingered on your jawline, his knuckles lightly brushing against your cheekbone in an agonizingly tender gesture.

"I’ve spent half my life pretending to be exactly who people want me to be," Dick murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to lock with yours. "I put on the tuxedo, I smile for the cameras, I play the charming, carefree son. But the one lie I’m utterly exhausted of telling is the one where I pretend I don’t look at you and see my entire world. Every time someone looks at us and says we belong together, I don't see a society joke anymore. I just see what I want. I see you."

A breathy, stunned laugh escaped your lips, your hands instinctively rising to rest against his chest, clutching the fine fabric of his tuxedo jacket just to keep yourself anchored. "You're insane, Grayson. You choose a Wayne Enterprises gala, surrounded by three hundred of the nosiest people in the tri-state area, to tell me this?"

"Hey, I've always had a flair for the dramatic," he teased softly, though the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth was entirely tender, a private expression reserved only for you when the rest of the world was locked outside. His thumb traced a slow, soothing path along your cheekbone. "But I mean it. I’m done waiting for the 'right time.' There is no right time in a city like this. There’s just us. Right here, right now."

"So, what do you say?" Dick whispered, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of hope and his signature, playful charm. "Want to give Gotham society something real to talk about?"

Looking at him—the golden boy who had always held your hand through the madness of your worlds—the answer was suddenly the easiest thing in the world. Your hands tightened their grip on the lapels of his tuxedo, holding him close.

"You're sure about this?" you asked, giving him one last chance to take back his words. "There's no going back from this, Grayson."

"I don't want to go back," he murmured, his face tilting down toward yours as you squeezed his hand back. "I've been moving toward you my entire life."

When his lips finally met yours, it was slow and gentle, a dam breaking after years of carefully maintained boundaries. He tasted like champagne and mint, his hands shifting from your jaw to wrap securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. 

When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was shallow, but a brilliant, genuine smile lit up his face in the moonlight as he stared down at you.

"You're going to ruin my reputation," you whispered, another breathless laugh breaking through your shock.

"I think I'm improving it," Dick countered, his voice dropping into a low, affectionate purr.

He leaned down and kissed you again. This time, it was deep, possessive, and filled with the fierce intensity of years of unspoken longing. His arms tightened securely around your waist to pull you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly until your toes barely brushed the marble floor. Your hands slid up his chest, tangling in the soft, dark hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as the last of your defences completely dissolved. Every shared glance across a crowded ballroom and every midnight escape to a greasy-spoon diner converged into the rhythm of his lips against yours.

When he finally allowed you to breathe, his eyes crinkled at the corners with that signature, devastating charm. "Well," he whispered, his chest heaving slightly against yours. "The paparazzi are definitely going to notice we've been gone for twenty minutes."

You let out a soft laugh, wrapping your arms securely around his neck and feeling lighter than you had in years. "Let them notice. For once, let's give them exactly what they want to talk about."

The clock had long since ticked past midnight, and still you couldn’t sleep. The manor was quiet, but your heart wasn’t—it kept skipping in restless anticipation. Word had finally come in earlier that day: Dick was coming back.

It had been months this time. Too many nights with unanswered calls, too many days wondering if he was even still out there—breathing, fighting, smiling that easy smile you missed more than anything. You reminded yourself over and over that this was the life you both chose.

The two of you started out in Gotham as kids, side by side. Over the years you each grew into your own vigilante personas. You stayed central, keeping close to Gotham, while Dick—Nightwing—always seemed to be pulled further and further away. Blüdhaven. Other cities. Sometimes even off-world, like this last mission.

You hated those missions most of all. They left you with nothing but silence, and in that silence your mind always went to the worst places. The worry kept you awake more nights than you could count.

You loved him. You had for years, since the two of you were teenagers. But you never told him. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you couldn’t risk losing him as a friend. Your friendship with him was the most important thing in your life, and you weren’t sure you could survive wrecking it. Yet, the longer he remained gone, the longer you regretted not saying anything.

The sound of tires crunching against the wet gravel outside had you on your feet and jolted out of your thoughts. You didn’t think, you just ran straight of the door, the cold drizzle instantly causing your clothes to cling to your skin.

And there he was.

Dick stood at the edge of the drive, dropping his duffel from his shoulder. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his clothes damp from the rain but everything about him was the same as you remembered. His blue eyes instantly softened the moment they found you. 

He barely had time to drop his bag before you collided with him, arms wrapping around his neck.

“Easy, I just got—” he started, but his voice cracked, and his arms crushed you back against him.

“You’re late,” you mumbled into his shoulder, trying to sound teasing but choking on the lump in your throat.

“I know,” he whispered, holding on like he never wanted to let go. “I’m sorry.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear was enough to undo you, reminding you of every fear, every sleepless night you’d spent waiting. You pulled back just enough to see him, rain dripping down your cheeks and mixing with the tears you hadn’t realized had spilled over. 

His thumb brushed your cheek. “I missed you.”

The words tumbled out before you could stop them. “I love you.”

His eyes widened.

You knew you should’ve stopped talking, but once those words came out so did everything else. 

“I’ve loved you for years, Dick. Every time you left on a mission, I told myself I could handle it, but I couldn’t. I hate waiting, because every night I worried maybe you wouldn’t come back. And I never said anything because I didn’t want to ruin our friendship. But God, I can’t keep pretending anymore. Not after all these nights wondering if I’d ever see you again—”

Before you could continue, Dick’s lips were on yours, cutting you off. You froze for a solid second in shock before melting into him. The kiss was everything—hungry, desperate, tender all at once. His lips were warm, and it felt like coming home. His arms wrapped around you as if he could make up for every second lost, every mile of distance that had stretched between you.

You felt dazed when the two of you finally pulled apart for air. For a moment you could only stare at him in shock, your chest heaving, and then he exhaled a shaky laugh as if he still couldn’t believe this moment was real. His hands came up to cradle your face, gentle but trembling.

“You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed to hear that,” He breathed.

Your breath hitched. “You—”

“I love you,” he cut in, firm and certain. “I’ve been in love with you since we were kids. I thought I was doing the noble thing by keeping quiet—because let’s face it, my life’s a mess—but…” His smile was soft, a little self-deprecating. “Turns out I was just being a coward.”

“Dick—”

You didn’t get to finish. His lips crashed into yours, pouring out the years of unspoken feelings he’d been holding back.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and clinging to each other, he rested his forehead against yours. His voice was low, almost reverent. “I’m not letting you doubt it again. Not ever. You’re it for me.”

Your chest swelled, relief and joy tangling until you could hardly tell one from the other. You smiled through the tears welling in your eyes. “Good. Because you’re it for me too.”

He kissed you again, softer this time but unable to get enough of your lips now that he tasted them.

“God, we’ve been such idiots.”

A laugh broke free from your chest—wet and shaky, but real. “The biggest idiots.”

He grinned, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face. “All this time, all those nights I wanted to tell you…” He shook his head, almost incredulous. “Guess I should’ve just said it when we were sixteen.”

“Sixteen?” you scoffed lightly, nudging him with your shoulder even as you stayed pressed close. “Do you know how awkward we were back then?”

“Speak for yourself.” His smirk softened into something warmer, his thumb sweeping over your cheekbone. “But I knew even then. And I know now, without a doubt.”

You leaned into his touch, your smile trembling. “Better late than never.”

“Exactly.” He kissed the tip of your nose, playful despite the rain still pouring down around you. “And I promise, I’m not going anywhere without making sure you know how much I love you. Now, Let me take you inside,” he murmured. “You’re freezing.”

You almost laughed, because he was just as soaked, his clothes nearly see through as they clung to him. Still, you nodded, letting him lace his fingers with yours. The simple contact was grounding, his hand warm despite the cold rain.

And as he led you toward the door, the storm still pouring down around you, you realized something: it didn’t matter how many missions took him away, how many sleepless nights you spent waiting. Because now, at last, he knew. You both knew. And there was no going back.

KO teaches WB the basics, while letting him develop his own style/helps him improve it

SDW teaches everything he knows, tho SB later abandons in favor of a more violent approach