Nightwing x reader
Summary: you accidently called Nightwing a "good boy". In your defense, you're used to working with dogs..not people!
“C’mon,” you sigh, crouched halfway under the Batmobile while Dick attempts to hand you a wrench that is very obviously the wrong size. “Not that one. The— yeah, there you go. Good boy.”
Silence.
You slide out from beneath the car slowly, confused as to why Dick stopped talking.
Nightwing is frozen.
One knee bent where he’d been crouching, blue eyes blown wide behind the domino mask, wrench still dangling from his fingers like his brain has temporarily disconnected from his motor functions.
Bruce asks, “What exploded?” knowing that the only time his kids were quiet was if someone fucked up.
Dick clears his throat.
Then immediately chokes on absolutely nothing.
“You okay there?” you ask carefully.
“Fantastic,” he says instantly, voice cracking straight through the middle of the word.
Oh no.
Oh no.
Jason, seated nearby cleaning one of his guns, looks up with the slow delight of a man witnessing the beginning of a natural disaster.
“…Did she just call you a good boy?”
Dick points at him violently. “Don’t.”
“OH my God,” Jason breathes, eyes shining. “OH, this is bad.”
“It was a joke,” you say quickly.
Dick nods too fast. “Totally. Obviously. Completely normal joke. Happens all the time.”
“Right,” you agree.
“Totally unaffected.”
“Clearly.”
Dick stands up so abruptly he slams his head directly into the underside of the Batmobile. CLANG.
There’s a beat.
“…Fantastic recovery,” Jason starts.
Dick, still folded in half from the impact, gives a weak thumbs up.
The problem should’ve ended there, and it would've given any normal circumstance. But you work with vigilantes, so your normal is pretty different from most people's.
Nightwing proceeds to lose every remaining shred of composure over the next three weeks.
Not in obvious ways, but Dick Grayson’s problem is that he’s trying very hard to act normal. Which makes him one thousand times worse.
Because suddenly he’s everywhere.
You mention being hungry once? Dick appears holding your favorite takeout sheepishly. You casually say your phone’s about to die? Charger lands in your lap before you finish the sentence. You offhandedly mention liking a sweater in a store window? Three days later it mysteriously appears folded on your bed in Titans Tower with no note except a sticky tab reading:
'saw this :) '
Which would already be suspicious enough. Except every single act of service is followed by this unbearable look on his face. It's that wide-eyed look of hope.
Like he’s waiting for something.
You don’t understand it until the fourth week.
It’s movie night at the Tower. Everyone’s there.
Garfield is upside down on the couch, and Kory is attempting to explain why alien horror films are scientifically inaccurate and this is not how her people act. Tim is asleep sitting upright somehow. Jason’s eating cereal directly from the box with a serving spoon.
Dick walks in carrying snacks for everyone.
“You remembered the chocolate-covered pretzels?” you ask.
Dick brightens instantly. “Yeah.”
You grin. “Aw. Good boy.”
Dick stops moving entirely.
The bowl of popcorn slips from his hands.
Jason drops dead onto the floor laughing before the popcorn even hits the ground.
“Oh my GOD,” he wheezes. “HE LIKES IT.”
“I do not—”
“You practically wagged your tail!”
“I DID NOT WAG ANYTHING.”
Kory tilts her head thoughtfully. “Actually, your posture did become notably more eager.”
Dick looks like he wants the earth to open beneath him.
Garfield is crying laughing into a throw pillow.
Tim wakes up just long enough to mumble, “Knew it,” before immediately falling back asleep.
And you stare at Dick, who is now aggressively avoiding eye contact while turning the color of a fire hydrant. He is suddenly very interested in cleaning up popcorn one kernel at a time, as he mutters, “It’s not my fault,” under his breath like a man on trial.
Oh.
Oh, this is hilarious.
“You know,” you say slowly, “this explains a lot.”
Dick points a popcorn kernel at you accusingly. “You explain a lot.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It made sense in my head.”
Jason is still dying on the carpet. “He’s so pathetic. This is the best day of my life.”
“Jason,” Dick snaps.
“No, no, keep going,” Jason says delightedly. “Maybe he’ll do a trick. Wanna fetch, good boy?”
Dick throws popcorn at his head.
Jason throws it back.
Garfield joins in.
Within thirty seconds, a full-scale food fight erupts across Titans Tower.
Kory starts launching popcorn, and Tim wakes up again solely to throw an M&M directly at Jason’s forehead before passing out for a second time. Someone knocks over an entire soda.
In the middle of the chaos, Dick grabs your wrist and pulls you backward out of the war zone.
“Come on,” he says, laughing despite himself.
You stumble after him into the hallway, both of you breathless.
The noise from the living room muffles behind the closing door, and suddenly it’s quieter.
Dick’s still holding your wrist ridiculously tight.
You look up at him, amused. “You know they’re never letting you live this down.”
“I know,” he groans.
“You’re kind of making it worse.”
“I know.”
“You literally dropped the popcorn.”
“In my defense,” he says solemnly, “you treated me like a dog!”
You laugh. Dick looks at you for a second too long. Then a fond expression sneaks onto his face before he can stop it. And there it is again, that look of hope.
Like he’s waiting.
You raise an eyebrow.
Dick immediately looks away. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“You know what.”
You absolutely do.
Which is why you grin and lean slightly closer.
“Good boy.”
Dick Grayson actually, physically malfunctions.
His head drops against the wall with a quiet thud.
“Oh, you are NEVER surviving this,” you inform him cheerfully.
From the other room, Jason’s voice echoes
“DID HE SHORT-CIRCUIT AGAIN? CYBORG! ARE YOU SURE YOU'RE THE HUMANOID?”
A/n: men yearn to be lap dogs and I know it
