#jtk nightwing

[jasontoddkissr]

dick grayson x reader .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦇 ݁˖ ݁𖥔 . fluff

wc: 1K

The first thing you notice when Dick Grayson walks into a room is that he doesn’t just occupy space. He commands it. Not in the way people with power do, with barking orders or carved authority. No. He moves like the room was built for him, like every ceiling and doorway is perfectly proportioned to his shoulders, every eye drawn, inexorably, to the tilt of his head, the playful lift of his eyebrow.

It’s ridiculous. And dangerous.

He smiles, debonair and effortless, teeth catching the light just so, and the world goes soft for a fraction of a second. You’ve seen it happen. You’ve seen civilians freeze mid-step, caught in the orbit of that grin. You’ve watched strangers stumble over their words in his presence. You’ve watched them try and fail to look away.

But he’s not looking at them.

He’s looking at you.

And not in the glancing, polite way most people reserve for those they notice in passing. No. Dick Grayson’s eyes, those beautiful blue eyes that could charm the city into nonsense, are devoted to you. Always have been, always will be. The way he looks at you when you’re not looking — hands resting casually on the counter, hair falling just so over your shoulder, lips caught mid-smile — is the kind of adoration that’s loud even in silence.

It isn’t subtle.

Everyone knows. The Titans know. Bruce knows. Even strangers in a room can notice it, if they look closely enough; Dick Grayson’s attention follows you like gravity, tethering him to your orbit. He talks about you openly, casually, as if the small, ordinary things you do are extraordinary. “She made the most ridiculous thing happen today,” he’ll say in passing, or “You should have seen how she handled that,” with that crooked grin that makes everyone else roll their eyes. He doesn’t hide it. He doesn’t need to. He’s yours, entirely, and he’s not afraid to show it.

He ignores the others who flirt, who flash a smile or a wink in the chaos of the city. Maybe he'll nod politely, but he doesn’t pause. Doesn’t falter. You’ve seen him deflect compliments so smoothly it’s like they don’t exist. You’ve seen him in a crowded room, surrounded by friends or coworkers, let his hand linger on yours for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary, and the faint curl of his lips says more than words ever could.

And oh, how he loves you.

Dick Grayson doesn’t do half-measures. He doesn’t do tentative glances or whispered “maybe”s. He adores you loudly, fiercely, with that dangerous kind of sincerity that makes your chest ache and your stomach twist. He’s serious in a way that leaves no room for question. He doesn’t test you; he doesn’t chase you; he simply claims you in the corners of his life that are soft, quiet, or public, and you notice. You notice that he’s read every book by your favorite author, quietly, without a word, just so he can follow your excitement when you talk about them. You notice the smirk when he recreates a story the two of you shared in front of someone else, just so you’ll roll your eyes, just so he can see it. You notice when he saves the best seat, the warmest blanket, the first cup of coffee for you, and says nothing at all because actions speak louder than words.

It’s all a performance and none of it is. He’s charismatic without thinking. But the way he’s yours? That’s entirely deliberate.

Sometimes, when the city is quiet and the two of you are alone in the apartment, he’ll lean against the doorway, head tilted, smile softened by shadows, and just watch. Not expectant, not urgent. Just watching. You’ll ask what he’s thinking. He won’t say. Maybe he’ll joke. Maybe he’ll grin wider. But his eyes and the way they hold you will say enough.

You are his. Every move, every heartbeat, every reckless acrobatic spin through Gotham, it all comes back to you. You are the gravity he can’t escape. The quiet he chases in a world that never stops screaming. The one he doesn’t just love, but the one he worships.

When he’s on patrol, he’s talking about you without speaking your name. The comm crackles with a warning: armed, dangerous, unpredictable. Dick groans, vaulting over a rooftop, fingers gripping the edge. “She’ll kill me if I let this suit get blood on it again,” he mutters under his breath, and you can practically hear your voice lecturing him about dark washes and detergent ratios. He imagines the glare you’d give him if he didn’t make it home in one piece, and it keeps him careful — keeps him tethered in a way no one else could. Even out here, risking everything, you’re his compass.

And when he’s back? When the suit is shed, when Gotham quiets and the adrenaline fades, he finds you. Not because he wants to tell you what happened. Not because he wants praise or attention. He finds you because you’re home. You’re his. And in your presence, he softens. The charm, the grin, the magnetic pull? He reserves that for the city. For you, there’s only honesty. Warmth. The way his hands find yours like they’ve always known the shape. The way he laughs like the sound is just for you. The way he holds you close, careful but unrestrained, as if the world outside these walls could burn and he wouldn’t notice, as long as you’re there.

Dick Grayson loves loudly, yes. Charismatically, unashamedly, with all the flash and flare the world sees. But he loves quietly too, with a devotion that isn’t performance. With eyes that only see you when no one is watching. With hands that hold on like you’re fragile, though he knows you aren’t.

And you? You’ve learned to let it be enough. To lean into it, to rest in the gravity of him. To allow yourself to be adored so loudly, so completely, that the rest of the city — its chaos, its danger, its indifferent chaos — fades into shadow.

Because with Dick Grayson, charisma is dangerous. But adoration? Adoration is eternal. And you’ve got the front row seat.

[jasontoddkissr]

dick grayson x reader .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦇 ݁˖ ݁𖥔 . fluff

wc: 0.6k

Morning always finds him first.

You learn this slowly, over time, the way you learn the habits of someone you love without meaning to. The way the apartment never quite feels empty when you wake up alone. The way the quiet hums, like it’s holding a secret.

Today, it’s coffee.

The smell reaches you before consciousness does: warm and dark and comforting, threading through your dreams until you surface, blinking into pale morning light. The clock insists it’s early. Too early. Earlier still for someone who didn’t come home until the sky had already begun to soften at the edges.

You know, without checking, that Dick is awake.

He’s in the kitchen when you find him, bathed in dawn like the day itself has decided he belongs to it. Barefoot. Hair still damp, curling where it hasn’t yet been tamed by gravity. He’s wearing your college sweatshirt, stretched slightly at the shoulders, sleeves pushed up like he rolled them there absentmindedly.

There’s a mug waiting on the counter.

Your mug.

Steam curls upward like a quiet offering.

“Hey,” you murmur, voice still wrapped in sleep.

He turns, and the smile he gives you is soft in a way that feels almost private. Like it’s meant just for you, like he hasn’t used it on anyone else yet today. “Morning.”

You watch him for a second too long. The faint shadows beneath his eyes. The way he moves carefully, like he’s cataloguing aches and choosing to ignore them. You know what his nights look like. You know what it costs him to keep the city safe while the rest of the world sleeps.

And still — coffee.

“You didn’t have to,” you say, though you take the mug when he presses it into your hands. It’s perfect. He always gets it right.

“I wanted to,” he replies, like the answer is obvious.

You sip. The warmth settles into you, loosening something in your chest you didn’t realise was tight. Dick watches you like this is the best part of his morning. Like the whole night was just a prelude to this moment.

“You’re tired,” you say gently.

He shrugs, easy, familiar. “Comes with the job.”

You step closer, rest your forehead against his sternum. His heart beats steady beneath your cheek, a quiet constant. His arms come around you without thought, fitting like they’ve always known where to go.

“I worry about you,” you admit.

“I know,” he says, kissing the crown of your head. “But I like doing this. I like… starting the day with you. Makes everything feel lighter.”

You close your eyes. He smells like soap and rain and the night air that never quite leaves him. Like motion and warmth and home.

He sways slightly, almost imperceptibly, and you realise he’s fighting sleep. Not because he can’t rest, but because he doesn’t want to yet. Because this moment matters more than exhaustion.

“Dick,” you whisper, smiling despite yourself, “you’re going to fall asleep standing up.”

“Mm. Worth it.”

You laugh quietly and guide him toward the bedroom, fingers laced through his. The sun follows you both down the hall, slow and patient, like it knows it isn’t in a rush.

He sits on the edge of the bed, blinking like he’s surprised to find himself there. You set the mug on the nightstand and press a kiss to his temple.

“I’ll be right here,” you promise.

His eyes soften, lids heavy. “You always are.”

He lies back, already halfway gone, breath evening out as if sleep has been waiting politely just out of sight. You curl beside him, one hand resting over his heart, feeling the steady proof of him.

Outside, the city wakes. Inside, Dick Grayson finally rests.

And when you drift back toward sleep yourself, wrapped in morning light and the quiet aftermath of love, you think — absently, fondly — that tomorrow, somehow, he’ll still beat you to the coffee.

[jasontoddkissr]

dick grayson x fem ballerina!reader .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦇 ݁˖ ݁𖥔 . fluff

wc: 1.1K

Most nights in Blüdhaven are restless.

The city breathes in static — sirens splitting the dark, engines snarling at intersections, arguments echoing up alleyways like ghosts that refuse to dissipate. The air always feels charged, like something is about to break.

But sometimes the city exhales.

On those nights, when crime pauses like it’s considering mercy, Dick Grayson finds his feet carrying him somewhere softer.

Somewhere lit from within.

He doesn’t remember the first time clearly — only that he’d been mid-swing, grappling line taut against the skyline, when music drifted up from below. Piano. Sharp. Repetitive. Eight bars played over and over with relentless patience.

He’d glanced down.

And there you were.

Alone in a third-floor studio, bathed in fluorescent light that turned the rest of the world into shadow. The mirrors caught you from every angle — one body becoming infinite reflections, endless versions of you moving in perfect synchronisation.

He missed his landing that night.

Had to recover mid-roll on the rooftop because he’d forgotten, for one reckless second, to be Nightwing.

Now it’s ritual.

He lands silently on the fire escape across from your window, boots barely whispering against rusted metal. The city air cools the sweat beneath his suit. Below, headlights slide across asphalt like liquid gold. Above, the sky hangs heavy and low.

Inside, you are already moving.

No audience.

No applause.

Just a speaker on the windowsill, wires coiled loosely, spilling out recorded piano — clean, seamless, looping without breath.

Beneath it —

You.

Your breathing is the real rhythm. Measured inhales. Controlled exhales. The faint catch when a turn tests your balance.

And the sound of your pointe shoes.

A precise tap of blocks against polished floor.

Sharp. Intentional.

When you rise en pointe, there’s the slightest scrape of satin before you find perfect vertical stillness. When you descend, it’s controlled. Block to wood. Tap. Shift. Again. Again. Again.

You move like water that has learned the shape of its riverbed — fluid, yes, but guided by something unyielding. There is nothing accidental about you. Every inch is intention.

You are not fragile, you are formidable.

It hits him somewhere old and deeply earned.

He grew up trusting rope and gravity and the split second before a catch. He knows what repetition costs. He knows what it means to rehearse until your palms blister and your muscles tremble and still go back up for another pass because perfection is not a destination — it is a chase.

Watching you feels like watching another version of himself.

Another child molded by discipline into something luminous.

He always stays just out of sight.

The angle of the building helps. The darkness. The matte blue and black of his suit swallowing what little light reaches the fire escape. He is shadow layered over shadow.

Sometimes he leans forward, forearms resting loosely on his knees, chin tilted toward the window like he’s in the front row of a private performance.

Sometimes he imagines stepping inside.

Not as Nightwing.

Just as Dick.

He imagines pushing open the studio door, the soft creak of hinges announcing him. Imagines the way your head would turn: quick, alert, instinctively defensive in the way dancers are when someone enters their space uninvited.

Would your eyes widen?

Would fear flash across your face?

The thought makes something tight curl in his chest; he doesn’t want you to look at him and see threat. He wants — selfishly — for you to look at him and see recognition.

In his mind, he doesn’t speak.

He simply moves.

He imagines stepping behind you as you prepare for a lift that isn’t there. Imagines placing his hands at your waist — steady, grounded — and feeling the immediate adjustment in your posture. The way dancers instinctively center themselves when they trust the support behind them.

He knows how to lift.

He grew up flying.

He imagines spinning you just once, slow enough that the world blurs and it’s just the two of you balanced at the axis of it.

Inside, you falter on a landing.

Just barely.

A slight roll of your ankle, a flash of frustration across your face before you smooth it away. You reset. You try again.

He notices everything.

The subtle tightening in your shoulders tonight. The extra half-second you hold your balance before releasing. The way your jaw sets when a sequence refuses to cooperate.

You are relentless.

It is the most beautiful thing about you.

You stop to kneel, adjusting the ribbons of your shoe with practiced efficiency. Fingers moving quickly. Precise. You flex your foot, wince, and then stand again.

Again. Always again.

The city passes beneath you unnoticed. Cars glide by. A train rattles somewhere distant. A couple laughs on the sidewalk.

But up here, in this pocket of light and repetition, time feels suspended.

A car turns the corner below, headlights sweeping upward in a sudden bright arc.

For a heartbeat, light cuts across the fire escape.

Across him.

He stills.

Inside, you turn toward the window to reset your starting position.

His pulse stutters.

Your gaze drifts outward, unfocused, as if you’re looking past the city rather than into it. For one suspended second, it feels like you might see him. Like the thin veil between your worlds might tear open.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t dare breathe.

After a moment, you turn back to the mirror.

He exhales slowly.

Some nights, he stays until you leave. Watches as exhaustion finally claims you. Watches you collapse onto the floor in a graceless sprawl, staring at the ceiling before dragging yourself upright with quiet determination.

Watches you pull on an oversized sweater, hair falling loose from its pins.

Watches you switch off the lights one by one.

When the studio goes dark, he remains.

Just a little longer.

Like the absence of you is something he has to adjust to.

He tells himself it’s harmless.

Just admiration.

Just curiosity.

But that’s a lie he’s grown tired of repeating.

The truth is simpler.

He feels closer to you here — in silence, in shadow — than he does to most people in daylight.

You don’t know his name. You’ve never heard his voice. And yet he feels like he understands you in a language that bypasses introductions.

Two bodies shaped by discipline.

Two lives built around balance.

Two performers who learned early how to make hard things look effortless.

One night, he thinks, maybe he’ll let you see him.

Not as a silhouette behind glass.

Not as a myth perched in the dark.

Just a man standing beneath a streetlight, waiting after rehearsal like anyone else.

He imagines you stepping out into the night air, bag slung over your shoulder. He imagines saying something simple. Something real.

“You’re incredible.”

Or maybe—

“Hi.”

And he hopes — fiercely, quietly —

That when that night comes,

You won’t be afraid.

Maybe you'll look at him the way he’s been looking at you for months.

Like something worth watching.

[jasontoddkissr]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦇 ݁˖ ݁𖥔 . Dick Grayson • Nightwing

early morning (fluff)

settled down (fluff)

third-floor window (fluff)