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♪ BABY, COULD I BE MORE OBVIOUS?

༯ synopsis. fwb dick who gets jealous when your ex tries to get back with you.

warnings. 18+. dick grayson x fem! reader. fwb. neighbors au. he’s jealous and a little insecure. smut. p in v.

dick grayson lives in the apartment next to yours and introduced himself by helping you carry boxes up three flights of stairs without being asked. you’d told him he didn’t have to and he’d just shrugged and picked up two more. by the time you’d gotten everything up he knew your name, your old neighborhood, and that you took your coffee black, and you knew he was annoyingly charming and had a smile that did something inconvenient to your chest.

that was six months ago. somewhere between then and now the friday night bar visits became a standing thing, the easy conversation became something you looked forward to all week, and the line between neighbors and friends and something else entirely got blurry in a way neither of you has bothered to address.

it works. you like that it works.

it’s a friday night. the night you spend with dick unpacking your entire week and then drink to it.

you’re on your way back from the bathroom when you see him. your ex, standing near the bar like he belongs there, and your whole body does that involuntary thing before your brain has even caught up. he spots you before you can redirect. the smile that never quite reaches his eyes. the way he steps into your space too easily, like the last year didn’t happen.

you laugh at something he says because it’s reflex, because it’s easier, your shoulders drawing in without you meaning for them to. he presses his number into your hand with a casualness that makes your skin feel wrong and you smile your most noncommittal smile and walk away.

you slide back into the booth and dick is already looking at you.

he has very blue eyes and a very irritating habit of seeing straight through you with them.

“who was that,” he says.

“my ex.” you reach for your drink. “it’s fine.”

his jaw does something quiet and controlled. “he give you his number?”

“dick—”

“he gave you his number.”

“it wasn’t like that—”

“cool. cool,” he says, and picks up his drink, and smiles the smile that’s all surface, and you know exactly what that smile means.

the walk home is three blocks and dick spends all of them somewhere else entirely.

normally he fills every silence — some joke, some completely unnecessary observation about whatever you’re passing. tonight his hands are in his pockets and his eyes are forward and he says nothing.

“you’re doing that thing,” you say.

“what thing.”

“the thing where you pretend you’re fine.”

“i’m fine.”

“richard.”

“i’m tired,” he says. “it’s been a long week, angel.”

you both know that’s not it.

you make it as far as the hallway outside your apartments before you stop.

he’s already reaching for his keys and something about the set of his shoulders, the careful performance of it, makes you reach out and catch his arm.

he turns.

you kiss him.

it takes him exactly one second and then his keys hit the floor and his hands are on your face and he’s kissing you back with something desperate and unguarded that he’s been keeping very carefully under wraps all evening. a low groan muffled against your mouth, his fingers curling into your jaw, walking you back against the wall without breaking it.

when he pulls back he’s breathing harder than usual.

he looks at you for a moment. then he bends and picks up his keys and opens his door and picks you up like it’s nothing, carrying you inside, kicking the door shut behind him.

later he has you underneath him and there’s nothing easy about it tonight.

he pushes in slow and the stretch of him makes your breath stutter, thick and girthy, the flushed red tip of him pressing through your plushy folds and sinking into your gummy walls inch by inch until you’ve taken all of him and your walls are fluttering around the fullness of it.

his jaw is tight. his eyes on your face.

“why do you want him back,” he says. low and rough.

“i don’t—”

he snaps his hips forward and the words evaporate entirely.

“hm?” he pulls back and drives in again, his cock dragging against your walls, you feel, oh, so full and overwhelmed all at once. “why him.”

“dick i’m not—i—”

your eyes shut. the pleasure too much, the words bleeding into a moan.

“eyes on me,” he says quietly.

you open them.

and that’s when you see it. something vulnerable in his expression, unguarded and unusual, the kind of thing he’d never let you see if he were thinking straight. something that’s been sitting underneath all of this for a long time.

“why do you want him,” he murmurs, hips rolling and pressing deep, the head of his cock nudging that soft spot inside you that makes your toes curl, “when you have me.”

it’s not cocky. it’s almost like he’s desperate to hear the answer. desperate to hear you say he’s enough. that what you have with each other is enough.

heat builds low in your belly, your body sensitive from the drag of him, your walls clenching greedily around his girth every time he pulls back.

your mouth opens. what comes out is a garbled mess of his name and something that isn’t words at all.

“yeah,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours. “that’s what i thought.”

something releases in him after that. his pace picks up and you stop trying to think at all, hands gripping his shoulders, your slick walls taking him over and over until the heat that’s been building low in your belly crests and you come apart underneath him with a broken sound, clenching tight around him. he follows shortly after, hips stuttering, a low groan muffled into your throat as he spills into the condom, his whole body shuddering through it.

afterward he’s on his back and you’re tucked against his side.

“i can make carbonara from scratch. i remember how you take your coffee. i’ve sat through every terrible film you’ve picked on a friday night without a single complaint.” he’s quiet for a second. “i’ve been your boyfriend for six months. you just haven’t called me that yet.

you look at him.

“maybe i should,” you say quietly.

he’s very still for a moment. then his hand finds yours and laces with you. warm and calloused and big.

“it was nothing,” you say. “tonight. with him. i don’t want him back. i never did.”

the breath that leaves him is slow. like he’s been holding it since the bar.

“obviously i don’t want him,” you say. “i want you. i’ve wanted you for a while.”

he turns his head to look at you. really look.

“yeah?” he says softly.

“yeah,” you say.

he brings your hand up and presses his lips to your knuckles, and settles back against the pillow.

the city hums outside. the lamp stays on.

“friday nights,” he says eventually. “same booth.”

“same booth,” you agree.

“except now i’m going to hold your hand across the table and if your ex shows up again i’m going to be very annoying about it.”

you laugh softly and his mouth tilts into a smile.

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