patched up ✮⋆˙
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pairing: dick grayson x fem!reader
warnings: marking (hickeys, scratching), protected pinv
word count: 1.7k
a/n: guess who’s back again
Blüdhaven at night is, as much as you deign to admit it, beautiful. The billboards and neon signs adorn the sky in a way that makes you understand why it’s called a nighttime city. But you’re not naïve; you know the pretty lights cast shadows, and that within those shadows is where crime lurks. Which is, you imagine, why you have a vigilante in your apartment tracking blood through the window.
You can tell the night had been tough. He smells of iron, sweat, and dirt beneath his usual nighttime cologne (a change from his Dick Grayson daytime one, because of course, vigilantes have to think about these things). A bruise is already forming on his cheek, and there is a mysterious rip in the calf of his suit. You dare not mention any of this. The much larger problem - the reason he’s shirtless - is taking most of your attention anyway.
Dick sits on the side of your bed with the top half of his suit peeled off, pooling in his lap, his mask resting atop it. He looks nonchalant, almost serene, one hand on his hip, fingers splayed over the soft gauze on his flank which had, about an hour ago, been “caressed” (his words) by the knife of some street thug. It wasn’t a proper stab wound - you certainly aren’t equipped to deal with an injury of that calibre - just a cut, but it had been deep, and had stained the bathtub and the floor tiles. He had only winced in pain once, when you put on the antiseptic, and he had barely even grimaced through the stitches he walked you through. You, however, know better. His curls are plastered to his forehead with sweat and his jaw is clenched tight.
Dick’s eyes train on you as you wander between the bedroom and bathroom to pick a few things out of the first-aid kit. You return with a fresh roll of gauze and some medical tape. It is, most likely, an unnecessary extra layer of protection: the bleeding has already stopped, and isn’t seeping through the layer you had just put on. But Dick, ever stubborn, is like to flip and jump and turn and, in doing so, rip open the wound, and you figure any extra protection is welcome. You kneel down at the foot of your bed and carefully dress the wound one final time, glancing up at Dick as you do so. He regards your work through thick, heavy lashes.
“It doesn’t hurt?” You mutter as you stick down the tape. He smiles.
“Of course it hurts. I’m just being brave about it.”
You give a small chuckle, and he seems pleased with himself. You finish up, making sure the gauze is on thick and secure, and then stand, wiping your hands.
“All done,” you say. Immediately, Dick flops backward onto your shared bed and starts fake-snoring. “Uh-uh, not so fast. Meds.”
“I’m fine, I just want to sleep.”
“It takes two seconds to swallow some pills, you don’t even have to move.” You go to the kitchen and get a glass of water before he has time to protest, then pick up the pain meds from the bathroom and sit yourself beside him on the edge of the bed. He shuffles up onto the pillows and takes the water from your hand, almost pouting. You offer the pills to him, but he doesn’t reach for them; instead, he grins before opening his mouth. You have half a mind to spit on him, but the image of his blood on the bathroom tiles is fresh in your mind, so you roll his eyes and toss the meds in his mouth. He takes a sip of water and swallows them, then wiggles further down onto the pillows, reaching his arm around you to trace your thigh with his thumb.
“You’re a great nurse. Blüdhaven General has nothing on you.”
“It has patience, for one. Resources, for another.”
“And the blinding hospital lights. You’re much easier on the eyes.”
“Are you delirious from blood loss or trying to flirt?”
Without warning, he puts his other arm - the one more severely bandaged - on your stomach and pulls you on top of him. You fall with a yelp, landing with your head on his chest, a laugh escaping your lips.
“Is that a good idea when you’re hurt?” you say amidst laughter.
“It feels like a good idea,” he mutters before kissing you softly. You part your lips slightly and feel his tongue slide into your mouth, then pull away, shaking your head.
“I’m not that easy. You said you wanted to sleep.”
“With you. It was implied.”
“It was not.”
“Well, I’m spelling it out for you now.” He sits up properly, looking at you with bright eyes. “We don’t have to, I’m just…I’m not too hurt. And making you feel good, it’ll make me feel better.”
You give him a once-over; none of his bandages are bleeding, and he’s had the same blasé charm about him since he came through the window. Besides, he’s giving you puppy eyes, and goddamnit, you’re not actually his doctor, and you suppose it can’t hurt.
So you digress, and you stand and take his face in your hands and bend down to kiss him. You feel him smile against you, his eyes contentedly half-open. He wraps his arms around your waist and kisses you with devoted hunger. You slide your arms around his neck and climb on top of him, straddling him. You feel him through the half of his costume that he still has on, and adjust yourself so he’s creating friction against him. He moans into you as he reaches under your pajamas to take them off, before liberating himself from his black-and-blue spandex (a skill you’ve both perfected over time).
His hands work quickly, and soon enough he’s leaving sloppy kisses along your jaw while you rock against his lap, his shaft teasing your entrance. He uses a hand to trace softly up and down your spine, whilst with the other he reaches into the drawer of the bedside table and pulls out a condom, hastily putting it on. You rest your head on his shoulder as he moves down your neck, kissing and sucking and biting your collarbone in a way certain to leave a mark. You like when he does this; he’s not often territorial or excessively jealous, but there’s something particularly intoxicating about these moments where he’s a little bit rougher, a little bit more desperate, that just makes you dizzy, especially when his arm and abdomen are wrapped in bandages. You sigh as he continues his trail, taking you by the hand and lifting your arm to leave kisses down your forearm and in the crook of your elbow. He kisses down to your risk, and then cocks his head to the side and looks up at you through heavy lashes, damp curls brushing his eyelids, and you damn near come then and there.
“Pretty boy,” you mutter, and you feel him smile against your skin.
“Pretty girl,” he says, then readjusts himself so the two of you are face-to-face, resting his forehead against yours. “You ready?” he whispers, and you hum an agreement. He sighs as he slides himself inside of you, one hand guiding him in, the other caressing your shoulder. You wrap your arms around him as you grind up and down on him, slowly and gently at first. His head lolls back and he smiles an open, dazzling smile as you ride him, and he looks like the happiest man in the world.
You speed up, building a rhythm as you roll your hips up and down on him. Dick, despite his injuries, is mobile as ever, or is at least doing a good job to act like he is, thrusting into you ever so often and running his hands over you, your thighs, your hair, brushing his thumb over your cheeks while he looks at your flushed face all lovesick and dopey.
He groans as you dig your nails into his shoulders while you grind on him, moving your hair off your neck and running a finger down your chest and stomach until he lands at your thighs. He’s slow and gentle and deliberate, pressing small circles onto your clit, drawing out soft moans from you. He doesn’t speed up: he likes to relish your pleasure, make sure you feel every second of it.
He kisses you while he stimulates you, and you can tell he’s trying to hold back. He’s soft, but you can feel the carnal desire underneath it all. Nevermind that he’s hurt: you want all of him, everything that he can give you. You gnaw on his bottom lip as he pulls away from the kiss, and he lets out a ragged sigh.
“I want you,” you breathe.
“You have me.”
“More of you.”
You assume he takes that as a challenge. You’re glad: you’d hoped he would. He kisses you deeper, thrusts harder, fingers you until you’re a mess, hot and sweaty. You forget that he’s in pain, and you forget the time, and you almost forget where you are, just staring at his pretty perfect face; the way his eyes flutter closed and his lips part when you move together, and the way he watches your face when he’s making you croon his name.
“I’m close,” he breathes against your lips, open-mouthed and gasping. You kiss his cheek then move to his neck, nipping and biting as he grips a handful of your hair and lets out ragged moans. You’re close too, running a hand up his abs and chest whilst the other grips his bicep; you want to be as close to him as you can, feel every inch of him besides the several that are inside of you. He thrusts into you, and hits you at just the right place, and you bury your face in his neck as you come, raking your fingernails down his back as ecstasy spasms through you, which seems to do the trick for him too, and you feel him twitch and hear him whimper as he orgasms.
You hold each other tight, breathing heavily for a while, until Dick pulls away and gazes at you, pure adoration in his eyes, and lets out a breathless laugh. “I should get stabbed more often,” he says, his voice slightly hoarse.
“Hilarious,” you say, climbing off him and trekking to the bathroom.
“Shower?” he calls.
“A quick one.”
“Wait for me!”
