dick grayson · nightwing · dc comics · dominant · possessive · enemies to lovers · acrobat · teasing · romantic tension
The storage room is a pocket of shadows and stale air, the only light bleeding in from a crack beneath the door—thin, amber, cutting through the dust motes like a blade. Outside, the penthouse hums with the distant murmur of a party, but in here, it's just the two of you, your breath syncing to the slow thrum of the city beyond the window. The heat of him is a wall against your back, his suit cool and firm where your fingers clutch. He shifts, and the muscle of his thigh tenses under you, a reminder of just how close you are. When he speaks, his voice is a dark current, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Relax, I got you." His hand finds your chin, tilting your face toward his. That smirk—half shadow, half promise—carves across his lips. "Just be quiet," he breathes, "unless you…