ᯓ➤ paint me like your remembering me⋆˚࿔🎨 ˚⊹
← ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ⋮ ⌞ dick grayson ✘ artist! reader ⌝ .ᐟ .ᐟ
ᨳ includes ⋮ domestic fluff, established relationship, non-sexual nudity, you paint him, dick being a lil shi, wally west mention
The protest dissolves before it ever finds its footing, cut cleanly in half by another burst of Dick’s giggles. They’re bright and unrepentant, the kind that bubble up from his chest and spill everywhere, leaving you defenseless in their wake.
“Babe,” he hums, words lazy and amused as he tips his head back against the arm of the loveseat, feet kicking once in the air like he can’t quite contain himself. “Is this blanket supposed to be, like, one of those fancy fur coats models wear?”
You don’t answer right away. You’re too busy fumbling with the paper in your hands — thick, expensive stock Dick insisted on because presentation matters, even if the only audience is the two of you. You try to pin it straight against the board, but your focus keeps slipping, dragged inexorably back to him.
Dick, stretched out on your old loveseat, utterly unbothered by the fact that it creaks faintly beneath him, or that the fire crackling nearby has left a sheen of warmth on his skin. He’s flushed — maybe from the heat, maybe from the way your attention keeps snagging on him when he notices — and the effect is devastatingly human. Too real. Too close.
The white, impossibly soft blanket is draped over him with careless intention, pooled across his middle and tucked between his legs, rising just enough to brush beneath his cheek where his arms are folded. It looks less like modesty and more like a promise of comfort, a domestic afterthought meant for someone who belongs here.
The firelight paints him in soft golds and shadows, turning the room into something smaller, quieter—a place where laughter lingers and time forgets to move. And you think, distantly, that you are never going to get any work done tonight.
Not with him teasing you like that.
“Pick a pose and stay still,” you huff, the words meant to sound firm but slipping out far too gentle, far too shy. Whatever authority you intended evaporates on contact, and Dick’s smile only grows, slow and knowing.
He tilts his head, cheek pressing deeper into the white fur of the blanket as if testing just how comfortable he can get away with being. Firelight dances in his eyes, all mischief and warmth, a quiet challenge wrapped in affection.
“How about you come over here,” he murmurs, voice low and coaxing, lashes fluttering as he looks up at you–completely on purpose you're sure, “and pick one for me?”
You nearly stick your thumb on one of the pins.
It happens so fast it’s almost comical—your hand jerking back, fingers flailing as you attempt to catch it midair like some kind of overanimated cartoon character. The pin clatters to the floor anyway, skidding just out of reach.
He laughs in that unguarded, boyish way you haven’t heard in a while—loud, bright, completely helpless. It pours out of him as he watches you crouch down a second later, fumbling for the pin with an indignant little huff. His shoulders shake, head tipping back as if the sight alone has undone him.
It truly isn’t that funny.
And yet he’s still cackling like a madman by the time you finally get the paper pinned straight, turning away from you to bury his face into the cushions as if that might spare you the embarrassment. As if hiding his laughter somehow makes it kinder.
You don’t say a word when you walk over to him.
Not a sound. Not a sigh. Just quiet footsteps across the floor — close enough, eventually, that he can smell you. That’s when it seems to register. The laughter dies off mid-breath, replaced by a soft, startled stillness as he turns and looks up at you.
Up close, the evidence of patrol is impossible to ignore. The careful bandages you’d wrapped around his thighs and abdomen peek out from beneath the blanket, clean but still new. There’s a small cut on his cheek, already starting to scab, and bruising blooming dark and violet along his ribs and wrists—marks you catalogued earlier with quiet frustration and practiced care.
You’d been insistent. No arguments. He was resting for the rest of the night.
A warm bath where you washed him gently, steam curling around the two of you. Clean clothes. Bed. Sleep.
And that was exactly what you did.
Except—Dick has always had this need to give something back. To prove he’s okay. To prove he’s still himself. And for once, reluctantly, you’d agreed.
Because when he looks at you like this—soft, flushed, wrapped in warmth and trust—how could you possibly resist?
He looks up at you with those wide blue eyes—the kind of blue you’ve never been able to name. It’s like the color shifts on him, reshaping itself to fit the moment. Years ago, they were lighter, softer. Now they’re deeper, richer—a shade so complex you know you’d never be able to mix it right on a palette, no matter how long you tried.
You force yourself to look away before you get lost in them.
Two fingers catch the edge of the blanket, tugging at it gently, almost hesitant. “We…” You clear your throat, steadying yourself. “We can get rid of this, yeah?”
Dick glances down at the blanket, then back up at you. The flush on his cheeks deepens, red blooming warmer and more vivid like it’s been invited. He feels a little ridiculous—you’ve seen him bare more times than either of you could count. There’s nothing unfamiliar about this, nothing new about intimacy between you. And it’s not that he thinks himself unattractive.
Everything you touch, everything you make space for, feels beautiful.
And standing there under your gaze, wrapped in quiet and firelight and trust, he suddenly feels like something fragile you’re choosing to keep.
“I thought the fancy ladies you paint usually have fabric on them,” Dick mumbles, voice deliberately casual—an attempt at absentmindedness that doesn’t quite land. You can hear the nerves tucked beneath it, the way he’s trying to sound unaffected and failing beautifully.
“They do,” you hum in response, the answer easy, unguarded. Your mind flickers briefly through memories of past portraits—soft curves, veiled faces, fabric that emphasizes rather than hides. “But that fabric was mostly for anonymity. For the auction. For the sale.”
You glance back at him then, letting the words settle before adding, quieter but certain, “I’m not selling you. You’re mine.”
The difference is everywhere, really.
It’s why you’re using thick stock paper instead of canvas. Why you reached for a simple paint set instead of the carefully curated tubes you usually line up with near-reverence. Dick has watched you work before—watched the way you disappear into it, how precise and serious you become. Those are the moments when even he goes quiet, limiting himself to soft questions and half-formed jokes, like he doesn’t want to disturb something sacred.
But that isn’t what you want tonight.
Tonight, you want him relaxed. Warm. Talking. Laughing. You want his voice filling the room, not hushed by awe or caution. So you make this different— ighter, looser—stripping the ritual away until it’s just you, him, firelight, and the simple act of looking at someone you love and choosing to see them fully.
Dick nods after a moment, small and deliberate, giving permission without needing to say it out loud. He lets the blanket slip from his body as you take it from him, your movements careful, unhurried. You fold the fabric neatly in your hands, but your eyes never leave him—tracing familiar lines as if you’re memorizing them all over again.
He’s revealed the same way he always is with you: gently. Without spectacle. Without fear.
Firelight skims over his skin, catching on every curve and bruise and quiet strength he carries so effortlessly. The marks of patrol don’t detract from him—they only make him more real, more him. Someone lived-in. Someone loved.
The thought hits you all at once, sharp and tender.
You could paint him a thousand times and still not get it right. Still feel the ache to try again. To beg the world—or whatever higher gods that listen—to let him be made by your hands once more, just so you could relearn him from the beginning.
You set the blanket aside and step back just enough to give yourself room to breathe—to look—even though every instinct pulls you closer instead. You move back to where you set up your supplies, a mere five feet away from his spot on the love seat.
You take your time, a red watercolor pencil poised between your fingers. You let yourself feel its familiar weight, the way it anchors you, steadies the swell of feeling threatening to crest too high, too fast.
Not rigid—just there. Shoulders loose, chin angled ever so slightly, like he’s waiting for guidance he already trusts you to give. There’s something reverent in that kind of stillness. Something sacred in the way he offers it so freely. Dick watches you from beneath his lashes, expression open and soft, like the act of being seen by you is something he’s already accepted without fear.
“Whatever I want?” he murmurs, testing the edges of the moment.
“However you want,” you reply, voice just as quiet, just as sure.
Dick adjusts his legs from the crossed pose he’s seen in so many paintings to something looser — one resting over the other, knees bent gently, a posture that feels less posed and like how he looks when he lazes around the apartment. Comfortable. Thoughtless.
Dick reaches for the blanket where you left it, bunching it lazily before tucking it beneath his head. One arm curls above it, cheek pressed into the fabric just enough that Dick can still look at you without lifting himself too much. The other hand stretches out in front of him, fingers brushing the seam of the loveseat like he’s grounding himself there.
The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s appreciative. The kind that settles only when someone feels safe enough to truly relax.
Dick coughs anyway, like he can’t help himself.
A cocky grin pulls at his mouth — undercut immediately by the warmth still blooming across his cheeks. “So,” he says lightly, “can you make my cock look a little bigger? You know. For when I show Wally.”
Your brows knit together as you glance up at him. “You are not showing Wally.”
He laughs, unbothered. “Why? He’s seen me change a million times. Probably seen me naked more than anyone besides you.”
You huff softly, rebalancing the pencil in your grip, grounding yourself again. “That’s how Wally sees you,” you say, calm but firm. “This is how I see you. He doesn’t get to see that.”
Then, barely under his breath — low, amused, unmistakably pleased — Dick murmurs, “Possessive.”
But you don’t deny it either.
The first brushstroke is tentative.
Not because you don’t know what you’re doing — you do — but because the act of beginning feels intimate in a way that has nothing to do with skin. You map him gently, translating warmth and life into a shape you can understand, letting the firelight guide your hand. Every line feels like a conversation you’ve had before, one you never get tired of repeating.
Dick exhales slowly, a quiet sound, barely there. His mouth quirks when he realizes you’ve started, that your blushing and a smile tugs at the corner of his lips like he can’t quite help it.
“Going good?” he asks, voice low, careful not to break whatever this is.
You hum in response, eyes never leaving the page. “Perfect,” you murmur, and you mean more than just the pose.
The room settles into a comfortable rhythm—the soft scratch of brush on paper, the crackle of the fire, Dick’s breathing evening out as the minutes pass. He shifts once, barely perceptible, then stills again when you glance up at him, his expression sheepish and apologetic.
You smile without looking. “You’re doing great.”
And he is. Not because he’s still, or beautiful, or patient — but because he’s here. Because he lets himself be seen.
“It must be weird,” he murmurs, filling the quiet again like he always does. His legs have started to cool where they’re furthest from the fireplace, skin tightening just a little — and yet, every time you so much as glance his way, he feels warm again. Like attention alone is enough to carry heat.
“What must be weird?” you ask without looking up.
“You usually draw women,” Dick says, casual on the surface, conversational in the way people get when they’re trying not to sound like something matters.
“No,” you shrug, absentminded, pencil moving with quiet confidence. “I’m comfortable drawing men too.”
The change in him is immediate.
His body goes rigid—not with tension exactly, but alertness—a stiffness even the steady warmth of the fire can’t quite reach.
It took you five weeks to say you were comfortable drawing cars.
Three weeks to say the same about dogs—even after Damian pointed out, as nice as he could sound, that your anatomy for them was always flawless.
So if you’re comfortable drawing men…
Dick’s thoughts spiral despite himself. Who were they? Were they models? Were they unclothed? Not that he’d get bitchy about it—he’s not like that—but he’d at least prefer to be there if you were alone in a studio with another man's naked body. And why wouldn’t you show him the paintings? You always show him the paintings. That’s suspicious, right? Not that he’s accusing you of anything. He’s just—
“I drew you all the time when you were Robin,” you say softly.
The shyness in your voice gives you away before the words do. You lift the board just enough to hide behind it, pretending very hard to adjust your grip, to check a line that doesn’t need checking.
The tension drains out of him all at once, replaced by something warmer—heavier like a blanket instead of a ache—something that settles in his chest and makes it ache just a little. He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease. He never even knew you drew him before. He just lies there, quiet, letting the meaning of it sit with him.
You weren’t learning with every stroke.
You were remembering him.
“…Can I see them later?” Dick whispers after a moment.
The question is careful. Earnest. Like he already knows the answer but hopes tone alone might sway you.
The word lands clean and final.
Dick pouts immediately, shifting as if to sit up — only to yelp softly when an eraser bounces off his shoulder and lands uselessly beside him.
“Don’t babe me,” you snap, though it lacks any real bite. Your voice wobbles just enough to betray you, and he catches it instantly.
He collapses back onto the loveseat with a grin, defeated but pleased, eyes bright and affectionate. There’s something smug in the way he settles again, like he’s already filed this away as a victory for later—not because he’ll ever see the drawings, but because the refusal itself feels intimate.
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