Runway Walk
"Let me see your runway walk, make your heels click, make the runway talk, c'mon."
A/N: The way... I got carried away with this word count. Can ya'll tell I've been holding back when it comes to Dick Grayson? Thanks to a fellow creator here for helping my creative flow with scrumptious fan art. You know who you are.
Warnings: Door-Knocking Time Pressure Smut™, Canon Violence Mentioned, Porn WITH a Plot, Fingering, Clothing Kink (Suit & Costume Removal), Desk Sex, Switchy Energy, Slight Powerplay, Emotional Tension, Dick Grayson Being Hot, Reader Being Sarcastic, Past History, Smut, Etc.
Synopsis: With twenty minutes to curtain call, a locked dressing room door, and a desk sturdy enough to ruin, you're about to discover there's nothing more dangerous than a man in a suit… especially when you designed it to come off.
Dick Grayson x Fem!Stylist!Reader
WC: 2.7k
The auction was hidden beneath the illusion of extravagance. Above ground, it was a high-profile Gotham fashion event—glittering with elite influencers, foreign investors, and too many champagne flutes balanced on too-thin fingers.
But below the stage, behind mirrored walls and beneath silken drapes, was the truth: a rotating selection of stolen tech, rare weapons, smuggled magic, and “exclusive clientele” that were, apparently, too powerful to touch. And right at the center of it all was you and Dick Grayson. You and him. And the walk that would undo everything.
The first time you saw Dick again after months of silence… He was ten minutes late, annoyingly calm, and wearing the wrong pants.
"Let me guess," you said, not even glancing up from the rack of hand-stitched blazers. "You stopped to rescue a cat from a burning building. Or flirt with a barista. Or maybe both?"
He laughed, that familiar sound that used to rattle your self-control. “You forgot ‘stop a black-market weapons deal in the Diamond District,’” he said, easing into the dressing area with the kind of grace that should’ve been illegal. “But yeah, the cat was cuter.”
You finally turned to look at him. Mistake number one. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, probably on purpose, and his smile had that particular tilt to it: a mix of charm and apology. And those damn eyes. Ocean-blue and too damn knowing. They flicked to your hands, your mouth, your outfit—absorbing everything like he always did.
“What?” you snapped, folding your arms. “Forget what I look like when I’m not yelling at you?”
“No,” he said, stepping closer. “That’s actually my favorite version.” You held his stare for two seconds longer than you meant to. Then you turned back to the rack. “You’re here to play runway model, not walk memory lane. Get your ass into the fitted pants before I change my mind.” He whistled low. “Still mad I ghosted, huh?”
“I’m not mad,” you said sweetly. “I just find it fascinating how a grown man can leap across rooftops, dodge bullets, and still somehow be deathly allergic to returning a text.” He winced slightly. Not enough to satisfy you, but enough to keep the fire burning.
"Look, I didn’t want to drag you into the mess," he said, softer now. "There were things I couldn’t explain, and I figured it was safer—" You cut him off with a wave. “Don’t care. Don’t want to hear it. You walked away, remember? Just like you always do.”
His smile faltered, then faded entirely. “…You always watch me leave,” he said, almost under his breath. You hated that it hit you. Right where he knew it would. And then he smirked again—pivoting, as always, from vulnerability back to charm. “So what do you think?” he asked, striking a pose in his current pants — the wrong pants, mind you. “Do I pull these off?”
“Not even a little,” you said flatly, snatching the correct pair from the hanger. “Put these on. And try not to break Gotham’s collective brain when you hit that runway.” He took the pants, brushed your fingers on purpose, and leaned just a little closer. “If I do,” he murmured, “you’ll take the credit, right? Since you’re the one dressing me to kill.”
You pretended his words didn't make you shiver, but now wasn't the time.
You stood at the edge of the bustling prep area, clipboard in hand, headset buzzing with last-minute changes. But none of it mattered. Because when Dick Grayson stepped onto that runway, tailored midnight-blue suit hugging every line, eyes cutting through the crowd like headlights, the world paused. It was straight out of a movie.
He moved like he owned the moment. Like the spotlight was just another streetlight to dance under. Nothing in your training prepared you for the sight of him. Every step is fluid, lethal, and smooth as silk. He wasn’t a model; he was a weapon, and he was wearing your design.
You swallowed hard. Goddamn him…
It was a slow burn of motion and magnetism, his body sculpted by shadow and spotlight. The suit— your suit—fits like sin itself. It's a dark navy with obsidian threading, subtle enough for the naked eye but glimmering under a flash. Cut low at the chest, hugging the lines of his torso, a whisper of rebellion against traditional formality. And he’s looking at you. Not the crowd, not the buyers, not the high rollers holding hidden paddles for illegal bids. But you.
As he walks—no, prowls—down the runway, his gaze never strays. Every step was a conversation: Do you see me now? Did you miss this? Are you still pretending you don’t want it?
Your breath catches, your heart racing as if going into a heart attack. The world blurs around the edges. That was until—chaos struck. Just as he reaches the end of the walk, the lights flicker once. A coded signal. You know it immediately; the auction is beginning.
“You didn’t tell me they were selling an energy core designed by WayneTech,” you hiss, dragging him into a side hallway behind a curtain of velvet. His back hits the wall. You’re close, too close, but you don’t back off, rather inching in. He exhales, lips twitching. “Was gonna tell you after the encore.”
“Dick.”
“Hey,” he says, voice lowering. “It’s not like I planned for them to use a fashion show as a front. But now that I’m here… we improvise.” You glare at him in silence. He doesn’t flinch; his eyes slowly flick to your lips. “I saw you watching me,” he says softly. You scoff, but your voice wavers with little confidence. “You were strutting like a damn peacock.”
“And you liked it.”
“…Shut up.”
His smile turns devilish. “You always get like this when you’re turned on and mad at me.” You shove his chest, not hard, but enough to let him know you're not playing. Except your hands don’t leave his suit, and his don’t leave your waist. For a moment, everything stills. Again. What is up with this? Then he leans in, mouth brushing your ear.
“I only have a few minutes before I have to intercept a buyer in the west wing,” he murmurs. “But if you don’t want to wait anymore…”
You inhale sharply. "Don't tease me," you whisper. "Not unless you mean it." His voice drops. The flirty edge disappears, and what replaces it? A raw and unfiltered longing. “I’ve always meant it,” he says. “You just never let me prove it.”
His hands slowly slide around your waist until your back hits the wall, too. There’s no air between you now. Only months of missed calls and unspoken confessions, but you want to kiss those pink lips. You want to take his damn suit off piece by piece— you designed it, after all.
He leans in again, mouth brushing yours, and stops. “Say the word,” he murmurs. “And I’ll forget the mission for one night. Just one.” Your hand's fist is in his lapels. You hate him, but, god, you need him.
BZZZZZT.
His earpiece crackles. Oracle’s voice, cutting in sharply. “Nightwing, buyers’s on the move. You have sixty seconds.” His forehead drops to yours. Frustrated and desperate. “Damn it,” he sighs.
You close your eyes. Try to calm the fire in your blood and the thrill that sent a heartbeat to your core. “…Go,” you whisper. “But you better come back.” His fingers skim your cheek. “Always,” he promises. And just like always, he walks away. But this time? You follow him with your eyes. And when he turns back, just before vanishing into the dark… He’s still watching you.
…
There are exactly twenty minutes until you're supposed to walk onstage and take your bow as the head designer. Which makes this —him— the worst idea. But when Dick Grayson slams the dressing room door behind him and shoves his earpiece deep into his jacket pocket, you know the decision's already been made. He’s out of breath with his cheeks flushed and hair tousled. “That’s it,” he pants. “I’m done pretending I can focus on anything else tonight.”
“You intercepted the buyer?” you ask, stepping back just enough so he couldn't hear your heart rattling within your chest. “Yeah,” he nods. “Swapped the intel. Knocked out two guards. Didn’t get shot. High score.”
“And your reward is barging into my dressing room?”
His smirk goes crooked, and his head tilts. “No. My reward is you looking at me like you’re two seconds from tearing this suit off with your teeth.” You blink and then scoff. “You’re delusional.” He closes the space between you in three long strides. “Then make me hallucinate harder.”
It's exciting, hands in hair, mouths crashing excitedly together. The heat between you is like fabric and friction and fire. His suit jacket—your suit jacket— rustles under your fingers, the tailored lines warping as you grab him and pull. “You're wrinkling my masterpiece,” you mutter against his mouth with a hiss. “Good,” he growls. “Maybe you'll have to make me another one.”
His hands are everywhere. Gliding under your shirt, gripping your waist, then up to your throat, not choking, just holding—possessive, reverent, but lost. When he backs you into the mirror, you gasp, and he drinks in the sound of oxygen. But the moment he reaches behind his neck and tugs hard at something hidden under the collar, you pull back.
And immediately burst into laughter. Because under the elegant suit? The Nightwing suit… is still on. “Tactical layering?” you snort, head dropping. “Seriously?” He groans. “I didn’t have time to take it off.”
“You never have time, Dick. Not to call, not to stay, and apparently not to remove your ridiculous birdsuit.”
“Hey,” he says, mock-offended, breath still shallow. “This is iconic.”
“It’s clingy.”
“So are you.”
“Oh, shut up.”
You hook your fingers under the utility belt and drag it down, peeling the skintight suit from underneath the runway outfit. It's an awkward, tangled mess of Kevlar, spandex, and silk lining. “God, there are too many zippers,” you mutter, shoving one sleeve down.
“Bet you say that to all the vigilantes.”
“Only the hot ones.”
He huffs out a laugh, and then you're both quiet, staring at each other, the tension thick with want and everything unspoken. His voice drops. “You don’t have to pretend this is just a quickie, y'know.”
“Then stop acting like it has to be.”
He kisses you again, but slower this time, a little deeper. His fingers trail up your sides, under your shirt, sliding fabric away from your skin. “I want all of you,” he whispers against your jaw. “Not just this. Not just tonight.”
“Then prove it,” you breathe, undoing his suit pants. “Right now. Before they call my name.” He pauses for a moment before flashing a toothy grin.
“Oh. So this is what it's like to date a designer.”
“I’m not dating you.”
“You’re definitely about to fuck me.”
“Semantics.”
The next five minutes are a blur of kisses too hot to be gentle, fingers fumbling with fabric, and you swearing every time a perfectly placed seam rips. His mouth is everywhere—throat, collarbones, behind your ear, whispering things that should not be this tender when he's pressed between your thighs like a man possessed.
“I knew this suit was dangerous,” you pant, rolling your hips against him. “You designed a weapon,” he groans, breath-catching. “I’m just… following instructions,” an excuse hidden behind smiling cheeks.
The desk creaks, another light flickers, and your hair is a mess. His gloves are somewhere on the floor. And through it all, the two of you move together like this has been coming for years. Because it has. This isn’t just a release; it's a reunion of sorts. It's: You left. It's: I still waited. It's: This isn’t over when the zipper comes up.
"How fast can you come?" he mutters, breath hot against your collarbone, as he hikes your leg up onto his hip. You arch toward him. “You offering to set a record?” He grins something sharp and teasing, but there’s heat in his eyes. Not just lust, but aching… and maybe yearning.
His hands slide over your thighs, palms rough from training but gentle now. His fingers barely brush the seam of your panties, and you jolt with just the slightest twitch of your hips. He smiles against your throat—a wicked, reverent thing. "There it is," he murmurs. "Still know every little switch that flips you." Your panties are pushed aside, and he exhales sharply as his fingers stroke over your puffy, slick folds—almost in awe. As if golden gates had just parted for him, and all his desires lay in his wake. “Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re soaked.”
"You're late," you hiss before getting cut off with a kiss. Your teeth clash as tongues tangle in slippery heat. He slides two digits inside you without warning, and your breath stutters against his mouth. You can feel the desperation in his touch and the urgency in his movements.
His fingers slide inside you, curling to hit that spot deep within that makes you see stars. You moan, your hips bucking against his hand. His hand almost went numb as it basked in the silken warmth of your cunt as its nectar coated his palm. His forearm shifted beneath your weight, every stroke caressing a new inch. Every few pumps—his fingers take a new shape to stretch you out. Every second is being savored. "You gonna let me fuck you on this desk?" he says, voice thick. "Or should I put you on your knees first?" You bite his lower lip. “I’ll decide,” you whisper, pulling him in by the lapels.
He’s thick and hot in your hand when you reach for him. His cock is heavy, flushed, and already leaking at the tip. There's a slight purple hue, like his balls would bust if he didn't have you here and now. He groans low when you stroke him, your thumb circling his head, dragging down the length. His hips twitch against your touch. He chuckles—almost instinctively —as his nerves short-circuit, his eyes twitching. “Bossy,” he murmurs. “Always had a thing for your hands.”
“You're not exactly subtle yourself,” you smirk, squeezing a little harder. Causing him to suck in a breath. His hand tightens around your thigh. His thumb circles your clit, his fingers pumping in and out of you in a rhythm that’s driving you wild. You can feel the orgasm building, the pressure coiling tight in your abdomen. Shivers scale your spine, your head slamming back against the mirror as hushed, yet pornographic moans crawl from your lips.
"You gonna sit up here and look pretty, then?" he rasps, stepping between your legs and lining himself up against your entrance. The head of his cock teases at your slick, not yet pushing in—just pressing, waiting. You glance at the clock, and there's seven minutes ‘til curtain. “Hurry,” you breathe.
“You don’t tell me twice.”
He rasps, sinking into you slowly enough to make you claw at the desk, his hips grinding against yours, messy and hungry. There's a slight pop from the ring of muscle, blanketing him in a new warmth. It's thick and deep, stretching you full. You both groan at once. Your hands scramble for purchase at the edge of the desk, the lapels of his suit jacket—anything as he buries himself to the hilt. Makeup products clatter loudly on the floor, yet fall silent between the labored gasps you share. His hands are everywhere. Gripping your thighs, shoving fabric aside, palming your ass hard enough to leave bruises, desperately parting anything in his way.
“Oh my god—” you gasp, causing him to still with his cock pulsing inside you. “Too much?” he murmurs, voice hoarse, lips brushing your cheek with a gentleness. “No,” you breathe, digging your nails into his back. “Move.” He obeys. The pace starts rough and frantic, almost the kind of thrust born from months of unresolved tension. The desk rattles beneath you, your back arching with each push. His hands grip your hips, then your waist, and then one rises to cradle the back of your head as he leans in to kiss you through it. It's like he doesn't know what to do, yet he does it all so well at once. The silk lining of his jacket burns against your bare skin, sliding rough where your body’s slick and trembling.
“You feel so fucking good,” he growls against your mouth. You moan, dragging your nails down his spine. “Bet you say that to all your stylists.”
“Only the ones who fuck me like they own me.” You clench around him—hard, juices sputtering—and he gasps. “Shit. Don’t do that or I’ll—”
“Already close?” You tease, sweat beading at your temples. “Grayson, I expected better.”
He pulls out almost completely, letting the tip of his cock rest against the rim, then slams back in hard enough to jolt a moan from your throat. “Keep talking,” he pants, “and I’ll bend you over the chair next.” His thrusts are slow and deep, just to tease, but hungry. His lips find your throat, ghosting over your pulse. Your chest, where one hand cups your breast, mouth latching to a nipple as he rolls his hips against you, every movement built to ruin you. You groan, clinging to one another. “Say it,” he whispers. “Tell me you still want me.”
“Fuck, Dick—”
“Say it.”
You kiss him instead—all teeth and tongue and breathless confession. “I wanted this every night you left.”
His forehead drops to yours. “Never again.” You’re so close. And he knows it. He can feel it in the way your legs lock around him. The way your velvety ridges contract around his cock. The way your pussy kisses every vein, caressing him like he never left. His jaw tightened, truly trying his best to remain quiet.
Yet, the desk thuds against the wall with every frantic thrust, papers scattering, a mug crashing to the floor. It's a riot of noise. Panting, gasping, the cascading sound of skin colliding—and Dick’s voice, low and rough in your ear: "You gonna come for me right here, baby? Gonna soak my cock while half of Gotham waits for your big debut?" At this point, you're driven back against the mirror with each pummel of his pelvis. There was a tension and risk bleeding in every frantic breath that made it impossible to think. The door rattled once, perhaps someone brushing past or trying to enter. You stiffened upon instinct, but Dick's pearly whites beamed against your neck. "You make the prettiest fucking mess, y'know that?" Oh, this fucker. He's trying to embarrass you.
The rhythmic rocking of his hips begins to take a new shape, purely focusing on making you cum. Wet strings of arousal strung to his pelvis, his cock absolutely smothered in combined juices. He could practically taste it. He wished he could take his time with you—spread you open and suck on that clit ‘til you’re limp and shaking, pleading and praising him. But none of that mattered, not as he watched his dick disappear and return wetter than the last.
Just as your orgasm builds and tenses, he reaches between you, rubbing your clit in tight, expert circles. “Come for me,” he breathes. “I want to feel you lose it. Right here. Right now.” He grows frantic as his hips stutter when slamming into yours with desperate but bruising force, and you cling to him, your legs trembling, your climax burning so close you can't form words. Dick buries his face in your shoulder, "Cum for me. Fuck, please — let go — I need to feel you lose it on me," He says, voice ragged.
That mind-numbing restraint snaps within. A sudden heat unfurls within as your body lurches forward into him. Your guttural groan is muffled by his shoulder as you cling to him—pulsing around his cock. He follows with a broken sound, knees nearly buckling and hips still rolling as he spills into you. He purposefully nuzzled himself—hoping he could view it drip out later. His dick felt raw.
Now, it's just silence and sweat and eyes boring deeply into one another. You slide your fingers through his hair, still trying to come down. “…You ruined my underwear,” you whisper. He smiles against your skin. “You ruined me.”
A knock. “Designer to the stage in three minutes!” You both groan. His head drops against your shoulder, and you bite back a laugh. “I have to go,” you whisper. He pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes. “Can I see you after?”
“Not this time.” He presses one more kiss, softer than all the rest—to the corner of your mouth. “Break a leg,” he murmurs. You adjust your shirt, and he zips up before you toss him his wrinkled suit jacket. He catches it midair, grinning as he helps you fix your clothes, pressing soft kisses to your jaw as he zips you up and tucks himself back into the damn suit.
You both look wrecked. Perfect. And as he slips out the back door—one last look over his shoulder, he says, “You're still the best thing I’ve ever worn.” You smile, smitten, before calling out to him. "I know you'll be watching, and you better stay close. Because next time? I'm on top."
A/N: Feel free to leave comments and suggestions! This is my first DC related post.... woooo Dick Grayson the man you are.
MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚