Finally finished this piece after months of reworking. Far from perfect, but I’m glad it’s done. Inspired by the amazing Bruno Redondo, Dan Mora, and especially Dexter Soy.
you slide your card toward the register like it’s nothing, like you didn’t spend the last hour watching dick grayson smile at you across dinner and pretending your knees weren’t weak.
he notices immediately. of course he does. this man has the reflexes of a cat and the dramatic instincts of a theatre kid raised by ninjas.
“hey— hey, hey, hold on.” he’s already halfway out of his chair, eyes wide, voice half-laughing like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “what do you think you’re doing?”
you blink. “...paying?”
dick presses a hand to his chest like you’ve wounded him. “paying? you? for me?” he shakes his head slowly, lips twitching. “that’s cute. wrong, but cute.”
you try not to smile, because he’s being ridiculous, standing there in his leather jacket, hair falling into his eyes like he was crafted to be your weakness. “i just thought I could take this one.”
“no, no, sweetheart.” he steps closer, resting his palms on the counter beside your hand. you can feel the warmth of him, the way he crowds in without being pushy. “that’s my job.”
you raise a brow. “your job?”
his grin softens just enough to make your heart stutter. “yeah. my job. i asked you out. i pay. that’s the rule.”
“that’s not a real rule.” you argue.
“it is in the dick grayson handbook,” he counters, tapping the imaginary badge on his chest. “chapter one: be a gentleman. chapter two: do unnecessary flips. chapter three: pay for dates.”
you snort. “i swear you make half of this up.”
he leans in, lowering his voice like it’s a secret just for you. “only the parts meant to make you smile.”
your cheeks warm and he definitely catches it. His eyes flicker in that smug soft boy way, not arrogant, just unbearably fond.
dick nudges your card back toward you with two fingers, slow and deliberate. “look… i know you can pay. you’re capable, you’re independent, you scare the hell out of me in the best way.” he pauses, blue eyes bright, honest. “but let me treat you tonight. i want to.”
you swallow. “you really don’t like when i try to pay, huh?”
he huffs a laugh, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “i like that you try. i like that you’re thoughtful. but it also makes me wanna wrap you up in my arms and say ‘nope, not happening’ every single time.”
“possessive much?” you tease.
“only when it comes to you,” he shoots back, grinning like it’s the most natural truth in the world.
he takes your card, sets it back in your bag, and presses the tiniest kiss to your forehead before you can argue. “let me do this one. consider it… an investment in more nights like this.”
you look up at him, fighting a smile. “and what do i owe in return?”
dick shrugs lightly, looping his fingers with yours as he hands his card to the cashier. “just keep showing up.”
and the way he says it. Soft, earnest, like you’re the best thing to happen to his week...yeah.
SUMMARY: Dick Grayson—acrobat, vigilante, master of grace—manages to break his nose on your bedframe in his eagerness to fuck you.
WARNINGS: established relationship, sexually suggestive content, horny couple and horny ramblings, wandering hands, injury, blood
WORD COUNT: 3.2k
READ ON AO3
Your entire body is humming.
Dick's fingers are interlaced with yours and your skin feels like fire— a steady insistent heat that has now settled low in your stomach. You're floating as you enter your building's elevator, untethered from gravity, from sense, from anything that isn't the boy pulling you inside.
Your fingers separate as his hands find your waist, and he presses closer, closer, until there's no space left between you at all. His mouth finds yours immediately.
It's giggly and breathless and imperfect, more sensation than technique. Your fingers tangle in his hair as you smile against his mouth, and you feel his answering grin, the slight scrape of teeth against your bottom lip that makes your stomach flip.
Dick's reaches blindly for the door close button, unwilling to break your frantic kissing, and you're about to dissolve into him completely when—
"Wait! Hold the elevator, please!"
Dick tenses, his movement uncertain as he pulls away from your embrace. His gaze flickers from you to the panel of buttons, and there' a split second where you watch him weigh his options— a specific brand of mischief dancing at the corners of his mouth.
You know exactly which button he's considering.
"Dick," you warn, pushing lightly at his chest.
You'd be more inclined to indulge in your more selfish tendencies if your building’s elevator wasn't notoriously hard to catch. It would be downright cruel to ignore the plead.
Dick sighs, but he's already reaching for the door open button. "I know, I know."
And even as he steps back with exaggerated reluctance, you know the protest is all performance. He would've held the door anyway. You find the act overwhelmingly endearing— the pretense of being dragged into doing the right thing when kindness is his baseline.
Dick manages to steal one more kiss before the stranger rushes in, smoothing his hair as he stands straight.
"Thank you so, so much," they say and you smile, nodding, unable to give them any real attention at all. You're trying your best to look like a normal person who definitely wasn't just seconds away from doing something extremely inadvisable in a semi-public space.
You and Dick stand side by side now, and your hands are next to each other but no longer touching. A careful inch of space that feels infinitely charged. You're so aware of his presence that it borders on painful.
A sense of giddiness sings through your bloodstream, and your cheeks are beginning to ache from the effort of containing your smile. The ghost of his mouth is burning against your lips. You can still taste him perfectly.
But despite practically inhaling him a few moments prior, you can't bring yourself to look at him now. Can't bring yourself to glance sideways because you know that if you do, you'll combust. You'll reach for him. You'll forget entirely about the stranger politely looking at their phone.
You watch the numbers climb as the elevator continues its descent.
3... 4... 5...
In a few short minutes, Dick's mouth will be on you again. The thought makes heat pool low in your belly.
You bounce slightly on your heels, restless, trying to channel this energy somewhere that isn't directly into Dick Grayson's orbit.
His hand swings next to yours. You could easily interlace your fingers, fall into that natural pattern you've worn into your lives. But Dick hasn't reached for you yet—something he does instinctively. It makes you wonder if he's basking in this too. This strange secrecy of domesticity. A performance of restraint for sixty seconds.
You shift slightly, moving your arm until you can feel his fingers next to yours. Your chest tightens as you risk a glance his way.
He's already looking at you. A barely restrained grin pulls at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes—god, his eyes—drop to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting yours again.
Desire coils low in your stomach. Tight and insistent and completely overwhelming.
His index finger extends slowly, dragging across the back of your hand. It's featherlight. More intimate than anything else that's happened tonight. Your breath catches and you tighten your lips, trying desperately to maintain composure.
But god, all you want to do is jump his bones.
You're staring at him now. Can't look away, really. His finger trails up your wrist, your forearm, drawing invisible patterns on your skin, and you feel it everywhere—in your chest, your throat, the base of your spine.
The elevator dings.
Your floor.
Dick's hand immediately tangles with yours, and he's moving, pulling you forward with barely contained urgency. "Have a good night!" he sings over his shoulder, all charm and ease.
You manage to parrot a breathless repetition of his words as you stumble after him, and you catch the stranger's knowing smirk as the doors close.
Then you're in the hallway and Dick is kissing you—unabashed, hungry, teenager-desperate. Your back hits the wall and you laugh against his mouth, hands in his hair, pulling him closer even as you're trying to move toward your apartment.
"C'mon," you breathe between kisses, but he's not listening, lips trailing down your jaw to your neck.
When you finally reach your door, you fumble for your keys with shaking hands. Dick is immediately behind you, his body pressed against your back, mouth finding your shoulder, your neck, anywhere there's exposed skin. His fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, splaying against your stomach, and the heat of his palms against your bare skin makes you gasp.
"You're not helping," you say, trying for scolding but landing somewhere around breathless.
"That's because I'm not trying to help," he murmurs.
He kisses behind your ear, takes your earlobe between his teeth, and your whole body responds—arching back into him, your hand stilling on the doorknob.
"Dick..."
"Mmhmm?" His tongue traces the shell of your ear.
You manage to shove the door open.
Inside, everything happens in fragments. Kissing. His shirt coming off. Yours following. A trail of clothing leading to your bedroom. You're ahead of him, naked before he's managed his pants, and you settle on the bed, pushing yourself back until you're leaning on your hands.
The position is deliberate, calculated to drive him insane—back arched slightly, legs falling open just enough to be inviting, watching him through your lashes.
Dick pauses in the doorway, hands frozen on his belt buckle. His eyes drag over you hungrily. Everything in his body language screams that he wants to devour you, and the sight alone makes you feel bold— sexy. Unbelievably desirable.
And totally, completely, drenched.
"You just gonna stand there?" you ask, letting your voice drop lower. You put your weight on one hand, the other drifting down your stomach. "Should I start without you?"
That gets him moving. His eyes flash dark and he fumbles with his belt, yanking it free. "Don't you dare."
You smirk and let your hand drift even lower. "Or what?"
"Or I'll—" He's struggling with his button now, fingers clumsy with urgency. You bite your lip to keep from laughing. "Jesus, why are pants so—"
"Need help?"
The offer is innocent but your tone isn't.
"No, I just—" He gets the button open, shoves his pants down, and begins to kick his shoes off. "These fucking laces—"
You open your mouth to tease him when it happens.
His foot catches. His eyes widen. There's a split second where you both realize what's about to happen, where time seems to slow down enough for you to register the trajectory, and then—
The sickening crack of his face meeting your bedframe.
"Oh, fuck—" You're scrambling off the bed, dropping to your knees beside him. The carpet burns slightly against your bare skin. "Dick?"
Your hands hover over him, unsure where to touch. He groans—muffled, pained—and rolls onto his back. Blood is already streaming from his nose.
"Oh my god, are you okay?"
You automatically scan the scene even as your heart pounds: he's caught most of the blood with his hands cupped over his face, but some has escaped, decorating your rug in abstract, blooming shapes.
"No," he says, nasal and thick. "Definitely not okay."
You help him sit up, gentle hands on his shoulders, and he cradles his nose with both palms.
"And maybe my dignity," Dick groans faintly, "If you can find it anywhere."
Dick is sitting on the edge of the bed when you return, shirtless and hunched over slightly, one hand holding a wad of tissues to his nose.
You're wearing his shirt now, and you've pulled on a fresh pair of underwear. The ones from before were already soaked through before disaster struck—and you're trying very hard not to think about how this is absolutely not how the night was supposed to go.
The blood has soaked through the white fabric pressed to his face. The sight is jarring, even to your blood-seasoned eyes, but the speed of the spread doesn't raise any concerns. Just the normal profuse bleeding of a normal hurt nose. Dick seems more inconvenienced than pained.
He looks up at the sound of your footsteps and his shoulders relax, posture straightening slightly. His eyes catch on what you're carrying. He raises a brow.
"...Pizza rolls?"
You tilt the bag, examining it in all its frozen glory, and bite back a laugh as you wrap it in a thin cloth. "What? I don't have an ice machine, remember?"
The corner of Dick's mouth curves upward, the expression slightly obstructed by the blood-stained tissue. "You bought some cold packs a week ago."
He's right. You’d bought them specifically for moments like these—the inevitable injuries that come with your lives, the sprains and bruises and apparently sex-related bloody noses.
"I know, but I keep forgetting to put them in the freezer," you admit with a sheepish shrug, walking closer. It's not your fault that your lives are so busy.
"I need to get you an ice maker, then," Dick says.
"For what?"
"Emergencies. Drinks."
You tilt your head. "And all of your future horny-fail wipe-outs?"
He tsks, shaking his head, but his eyes gleam with mirth even as he winces slightly at the movement. "Too soon, babe. Too soon."
You bite back a smile, the muscles in your cheeks aching from the effort, and close the distance between you, stopping just in front of where he sits. He pulls the tissue away from his face, examining it briefly.
"Still bleeding?" you ask.
Dick shakes his head carefully. "Nope, thank god."
He tosses the wad of tissue onto the bedside table. It lands half on the wood, half on his phone screen, and you grimace slightly at the mess but don't comment. You've both dealt with worse. Blood and bodily fluids stopped being squeamish territory a long time ago.
You take in the sight of him—hair disheveled, nose already swelling, dried blood crusted at his nostrils and smeared across his fingers. Still as handsome as ever.
He reaches out and wraps a hand around one of your wrists, tugging gently. When you resist, he makes a sound of complaint—somewhere between a whine and a grumble, like an upset dog who's been denied his favorite spot on the couch.
He tugs again. "Come closer."
"No."
"Why nooot?"
"Because you need to keep your head level."
"My head is level."
"It won't be if I'm closer." You raise an eyebrow, waiting for protest.
Dick's eyes gleam with something mischievous. He won't even bother lying. You both know he'll tilt his head back to look at you the second you got close enough, injury be damned.
"Please?" He tugs again, more insistent, and you feel your resolve cracking. "I'm injured and in need of comfort."
He wins—as he always does—and you let him pull you close enough that he can wrap his hands around the backs of your thighs. His palms are warm through the fabric of his shirt, fingers spreading possessively, and something in your chest goes soft.
You raise the bag of pizza rolls, holding it carefully as you try to find the best angle to press it against his swollen nose.
Catching his expression, you pause.
He's looking at the bag again, nose wrinkling slightly before he winces at the motion. "And you're sure that's all we have?"
"Yes."
"One hundred percent?"
"What's the difference? It's frozen and big."
He doesn't say anything, and you know he's just drawing it out for the fun of it. You roll your eyes affectionately. "You expect me to pull a bag of ice from my ass, or something?"
He laughs, the sound immediately followed by a wince. "Ow. Don't make me laugh." But he's grinning despite the pain. "Wouldn't that'd be a neat trick, though."
You're so over him right now. Affectionately, but still. You narrow your eyes. "Do you want the pizza rolls or not? They're getting soggy."
A dramatic sigh leaves him. "Fine. Roll me."
His stupid words make you snort—an inelegant sound you'd be embarrassed about if it were anyone else. "You're such a loser. C'mere."
Thumb pressed gently against his chin, you tilt his head downward into a better position. Your other hand brings the bag to rest against the bridge of his nose.
Dick is still looking at you through his lashes. You can only imagine the slight strain there must be in his eyes to look so directly upward despite the downward tilt of his head. But he seems determined to keep his gaze on your face, unwilling to look away even for comfort.
Something in your chest shimmers with warmth.
You ignore his gaze on purpose, wanting to bask in it a little longer—the idea that the man you're in love with enjoys simply gazing at you, even when there are more important matters at hand.
But you start to feel too exposed, almost nervous under the weight of his attention. "You're staring at me."
"Can't help it," he murmurs, running his hands up and down your thighs in slow, soothing strokes. "My pretty girlfriend—being so sweet to me, using her pizza rolls."
You shake your head, but his words sink into your bloodstream anyway, warming you from the inside out. This is different from the heat earlier—less urgent, more tender.
"And the bag is unopened," you say softly, playing up the tragedy. "So I'm basically sacrificing them for you."
"Oh, sacrificing, huh?" There's amusement in his voice. "Liar. You're just gonna put them back in the freezer."
"Uh, no. They're gonna be all soggy and wet, so they won't freeze the same again. I'll have to throw them away."
You're being serious, and from his expression, he knows it. He's amused all the same.
"Well, I'm so sorry for inconveniencing you with my bleeding nose."
"Apology accepted." You grin, unable to help yourself.
You gently lift the bag to peer at his nose, the skin now slightly pink from the cold. Your free hand cups his cheek, thumb dragging along the line of his cheekbone.
"It's totally broken, isn't it?"
He tightens his mouth and gives a small nod. "Oh yeah, no question."
You frown, something sweet and aching blooming in your chest. Poor sweet, pathetic man. You press the bag back against his nose and Dick grimaces as a few rolls shift, redistributing their weight.
"Sorry," you say softly. "I think they're thawing."
"Hmm. You think?" There's no real bite to it, just teasing.
You roll your eyes affectionately, applying slight pressure to hold the bag steady. It shifts again—barely, a minuscule movement—and Dick lets out an exaggerated whimper.
"Ouch."
"Oh please, that didn't hurt. You're such a faker."
You've seen him take hits that would hospitalize a normal person. Watched him shrug off injuries that make your stomach turn. But here, now, with just the two of you, he turns into this—soft and needy and dramatic about the smallest discomforts.
You love it.
Dick grins, unapologetic, and reaches a hand to hold the bag against his nose. The other grabs your wrist, pulling your hand away from his cheek, and he guides it to his lips to press a soft kiss to your palm.
"Why are you being so sassy to me, hm?" you ask.
"Because I was so excited to fuck my beautiful girlfriend, and instead I broke my nose on her bedframe."
The words send heat curling through your stomach—a reminder of where this night was supposed to go. You laugh, opening your mouth to respond, when you find yourself thinking about how he'd bought the frame just last week.
He'd been very enthusiastic about having bedposts, for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with aesthetics and everything to do with other nights. Silk ties and murmured praise and—
"What is it?" Dick asks, watching your expression shift.
You shake your head, trying to dismiss it, but the image of him begins to replay in your mind. His widening eyes, the split second of realization, the sound of impact. Fighting back your laugher, you attempt to distract yourself by running your fingers through his hair.
His face falls, unamused. "You're thinking about me falling, aren't you?"
Your chest is tight with barely contained glee, eyes almost prickling with tears. "I'm sorry! It was just so funny."
"I'm glad my pain amuses you," he mutters, but he's biting back a smile.
The laughter breaks free now, spilling out of you. "And you, of all people. So much for those quick, agile reflexes, huh?"
Dick pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue, looking away as he shakes his head. "You're so mean, you know that? A real bully, laughing in the face of a wounded man."
"You love me."
"I love you," he agrees without hesitation, and your laugh turns soft.
Your fingers are still in his hair, gentle and soothing, and his eyes have gone half-lidded from the attention.
"Are you sure you don't want to go to the doctor?" you ask quietly.
"I've had worse."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I'm giving."
He removes the bag from his nose, setting it on the covers beside him, and you immediately start to protest. "You should—"
"C'mere," he says, hands reaching for your hips, pulling you forward.
You resist, hands now bracing against his shoulders. "Dick, you're hurt—"
"Yeah, my nose." He looks almost offended that you're protesting. "Not my lap. Sit."
There's something so affectionate in his insistence, so earnest in his need to have you close, that you let him pull you down, settling carefully onto his thighs as his arms immediately wrap around your waist.
He tries to bury his face against your neck—instinct, muscle memory—but pulls back with a wince when his nose makes contact with your skin.
"Okay, maybe not that," he mutters, and you chuckle softly, fingers carding through his hair once more.
"Yeah, maybe not."
You sit like that for a moment, in the quiet of your bedroom, Dick's hands tracing patterns on your lower back through his shirt. The pizza rolls slowly thaw beside you.
"You know," Dick says eventually, his voice slightly muffled. "I still think that bedframe was a good investment."
You grin and begin to imagine all the ways you can use it.
AUTHORS NOTE: this started off as smut but then i was like lol imagine he tripped and then i was sucked in my by love for silly, goofy couples. hes just so boyfriend to me asdfgj
as always, thank you for reading and please lmk if you enjoyed <3 i operate entirely on positive reinforcement like a dog with treats hehehe
