CALL IT WHAT YOU WANT - Nightwing (Dick) x Reader
𖦹 SUMMARY . . When he doesn't show up at work, forcing you into Nightwing’s penthouse and asking him what was wrong should’ve been the end. But between the teasing, the tension, and that damn private elevator… you’re not sure which is more dangerous—his enemies, or the way he’s looking at you.
𖦹 WORD COUNT . . 7.4k (sorry guys, atp I should write a damn book)
𖦹 WARNINGS . . Smut (18+), Enemies to Friends to lovers tension, Flirting / sexual tension, Light injury description (bandaging), Mild language, Teasing banter, elevator smut, explicit content, fingering, p-in-v, etc
𖦹 A/N . . I don’t even know where to start. I am so incredibly grateful for every single one of you who’s shown love to my last two fics — the Harry Potter and Draco one. You guys have no idea how happy that made me. Seriously, thank you for the likes, reblogs, and comments. 💕
So… naturally, I decided to throw Nightwing into the mix. Not just because I’ve been seeing way too many edits of him on my FYP (and maybe losing my mind a little 👀), but because you’ve all given me so much love and support that I wanted to make this one for you.
My usual posting schedule is Saturdays and Sundays (sometimes I’ll surprise-drop something on a random Tuesday), but for now, please enjoy this 7.4k word descent into Nightwing chaos because I simply cannot stop thinking about this man.
Love you all, and thank you again. This one’s for you. ❤️ Divider Creds - @enchanthings-a
Another peaceful night in the city.
The streets were calm, the skies were clear, and for once, the world wasn’t falling apart. Which could only mean one thing: Cupcake Wednesday. Your personal tradition, or, as Dick Grayson used to call it, your “world-famous cupcake night.”
Every Wednesday like clockwork, he’d show up at your door uninvited, somehow always smelling like danger and aftershave, stealing the batter before it hit the oven and throwing sprinkles at your head when he thought your frosting skills were “mid.”
But that was before. Before his new girlfriend. Before he got all distant and weird and stopped showing up. So now? More cupcakes for you.
You were halfway through spooning batter into the last tray when the doorbell rang.
You blinked and glanced at the clock. It’s so… early. You weren’t expecting anyone, especially not on a night like this. You quickly pulled off your oven mitts and wiped your hands down the front of your apron.
“Coming!” you called, speed-walking to the door.
You peeked through the peephole—
Dick Grayson. On your doorstep.
You open the door halfway, still clutching the oven mitt in one hand.
“Hey, cutie,” he says, leaning against the frame like he owns the place, voice smooth, that infuriating grin tugging at his lips.
Ah. There it is. The flirting. Which could only mean one thing.
Your eyes narrow. “You broke up with her.”
Dick just shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like she wasn’t his excuse for disappearing these past few weeks.
Instead, you drop your hand and shake your head, stepping aside. “When are you ever going to find someone to settle down with?”
“Are the cupcakes done?” he asks, already walking past you, completely ignoring your question.
You sigh. “No. I was just about to put them in the oven before you came along and ruined my night.”
He turns to face you, mock-offended. “Ruin? Please. You love me.”
You roll your eyes, grabbing the tray and opening the oven. “You’re a headache.”
He leans against the counter, watching you work. There’s something familiar in the way he settles in your space, like he never left.
“So?” you say, tossing a quick glance over your shoulder. “What happened?”
“Hm?” He pretends not to hear you.
“You and Little Miss Perfect.”
You raise a brow. “I liked you better when you were quiet and out fighting bad guys.”
He smirks. “And I liked you better when your mouth was busy frosting cupcakes.”
You scoff, slamming the oven shut and setting the timer. “Good thing we don’t like each other.”
You both fall quiet, the warm scent of vanilla slowly filling the kitchen.
“Why’d you break up?” you ask again, softer this time, without the edge.
Dick stares at the wall like it has all the answers. He exhales through his nose.
You pause. “Are you sure it’s not because you weren’t good in bed?”
He finally turns his head, glaring at you, jaw tight, eyes sharp.
“I’m very good in bed, sweetheart.”
You bite back your grin. “Mhm. That’s not what she said.”
“Do you want a demonstration?”
You choke on your own spit, swatting his arm with the oven mitt. “You’re unbelievable.”
“No,” he says, grin widening, “I’m very believable. Especially when you’re on top.”
You roll your eyes, turning back toward the kitchen. Dick is still watching you like he’s two seconds from starting trouble, which, with him, meant it was already happening.
You huff, grabbing the dish towel and wiping down the counter, trying to ignore the way his eyes follow you around the room.
He’s quiet for a beat too long. That should’ve been your warning.
Next thing you know, he’s at your side, arms wrapping around your waist like it’s the most casual thing in the world.
Before you can stop him, he’s tossing you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing, then plopping you down on the couch with a bounce.
“Admit it,” he grins, hovering above you, “you missed me.”
“I missed having extra cupcakes. Now get off—ah! DICK!”
He starts tickling you, hands merciless as you squirm beneath him, shrieking with laughter.
“NEVER—STOP—I SWEAR TO GOD—”
You’re breathless, your face hurting from smiling too hard. And then—
You shove at his chest. “Get off! You’re going to make them burn, you psychopath.”
He rolls off you dramatically, sprawled across the couch like he just survived war. You dart toward the oven, grabbing your mitts and pulling the cupcakes out before they get too dark.
As you place the tray down and close the oven, you hear his voice again—quieter this time.
“We broke up because she found out I’m Nightwing.”
Turn around slowly, towel still in hand.
He leans back on his elbows, eyes flicking to yours. “It means she thought I was too dangerous. That one night I wouldn’t come home. That maybe the next mission would be my last.” He pauses. “She didn’t sign up for that kind of life.”
You stare at him for a moment, the scent of fresh cupcakes filling the silence between you.
“…So instead of trying to talk it through, you ghosted her and showed up here to steal my food?”
He shrugs. “I liked the view better here.”
You snort. “Unbelievable.”
“But I’m still very good in bed.”
You set the tray of warm cupcakes on the counter, the scent of vanilla and buttercream filling the air like a promise.
“So,” you say, grabbing two plates, “you gonna eat one like a civilized guest or just lick the frosting off and run like last time?”
“Tempting,” he says with a sly smile, already reaching for the one with the most icing. “But I’m feeling generous tonight.”
He hands you a cupcake first. You raise an eyebrow, surprised by the sudden manners, but before you can thank him—
The shrill sound of his comm slices through the air.
He taps the earpiece in his left ear, the playfulness on his face gone in an instant. “Go ahead.”
You can barely hear the voice crackling through the line, but it’s serious. You catch fragments. “Hostile… South Sector… taken… Gotham PD compromised…”
“Copy that,” he says, voice low. “On my way.”
You cross your arms, staring at him as he grabs his gear from beside the door—like he always does. Like this is routine.
“Don’t tell me you’re leaving mid-cupcake again.”
He turns to face you, and for a split second, he’s not Nightwing. He’s just Dick. Tired, heavy-eyed, but still trying to act like he’s got it all handled.
“You said that last week.”
“And the week before that,” he mutters, zipping up his suit. The black and electric blue shift under the kitchen light, making him look less like a man and more like a shadow about to disappear.
You take a step forward, your voice quieter. “Is it bad?”
He hesitates. That’s how you know it is.
“They took an entire precinct hostage. Might be a trap.”
You swallow hard. “And you’re going anyway.”
“That’s kind of the gig.”
He starts toward the window—always the window—but then stops. Turns back to look at you.
You roll your eyes. “I won’t.”
But the truth is, you always do.
He smirks faintly, then vanishes into the night, leaving behind the lingering scent of frosting, danger, and things unsaid.
You settle back on the couch, half-watching the movie flickering on your TV. Your cupcake-night apron still hangs limply on a kitchen chair, the oven warmth lingering in the air, the cupcakes untouched. But your head’s already somewhere else.
The city feels colder tonight.
Your phone pings — location sharing.
Dick is here. Outside your house.
But he’s been there for a while… and he hasn’t knocked.
You toss off your blanket and head for the door, figuring maybe he forgot what house number you were in, though that’s impossible.
The moment you step outside, the chill nips at your skin.
There he is, standing under the weak glow of the streetlight.
A wicked idea strikes — you’ll sneak up on him.
But before you can, you freeze. He’s on the phone. His tone is low, but sharp, each word clipped like it costs him to say it.
“No, we can’t get back together.” He rakes a hand through his hair, tension rolling off him. “You know why. You tried to kill someone I care about. Thank God I found out about your little plan.”
Your stomach knots. You don’t know the full story — you don’t need to. His ex wasn’t just toxic. She was dangerous. And she’d tried to hurt… someone he loves.
A pause. Then, colder: “Jail’s not that bad. You’ll like it.”
The call ends. He stays there, still as stone, eyes closed for a beat like he’s trying to reset his entire mind.
“I know you’re here,” he says suddenly.
Your heart drops straight to your ass.
You step out from behind the wall, deadpan: “Well, yeah… this is my house, of course.”
You tried to sound casual, but it came out rushed and awkward. He turned to look at you, eyes unreadable.
You looked at him again, really looked. His face was tense, his jaw tight, eyes darker than usual. His whole body felt… guarded. And despite the cocky little smirk he kept giving you when you caught him staring, there was something different in him now. Off.
Your gaze dropped to a wound. It was bleeding.
"You're hurt" you said arms crossed.
He looked at his wound and shrugged, "I'm not sure what you're talking about," he said, voice casual.
“Can we please do something about that?” you asked, pointing at the wound, then stepping closer before he could brush you off again.
He didn’t move at first. Just looked at you.
You scoffed. “You’re not fine. You’re stubborn. That’s not the same thing.”
His lip twitched like he wanted to say something smart, but instead, he just looked away, nodding once before walking inside your house without another word.
You stood there, confused and a little stunned. But eventually, you followed, heart annoyingly pounding the whole way.
You opened the door, letting him in first. The second he stepped inside, he toed off his boots like he’d done this a hundred times before. Like he lived here. Which he didn’t. Obviously.
He sat on your couch, already unzipping the top of his suit like it wasn’t skin-tight. You tried not to stare. You really tried.
“Bathroom’s still in the same place, right?” he asked, looking up at you.
“You’ve been here like twice.”
“Three times,” he corrected. “Once for cupcakes, once for movie night, and that one time you said you’d help dye my hair to throw off the villains.”
“That was your dumb idea,” you muttered, heading to grab the first aid kit anyway.
You came back and knelt beside him, opening the kit and grabbing some gauze. He leaned back casually, like none of this mattered.
“Take off your shirt,” you said flatly.
His eyebrows rose. “A little forward, don’t you think?”
You didn’t even flinch. “I could just let you bleed out. Up to you.”
With a little dramatic sigh, he tugged his shirt off and tossed it aside.
Your eyes scanned the wound—it was worse than you thought. Clean but deep.
“What happened?” you asked quietly.
“Sharp end of a railing.”
“Is that what you told the captain?”
Your hands moved gently, dabbing at the blood. You felt his eyes on you the entire time, but you didn’t look up until you were mostly done.
“You didn’t tell anyone what she did, did you?” you asked finally.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.
“Because then I’d have to explain why I ever dated her in the first place,” he said, voice flat. “And the truth is, I saw the red flags. I just ignored them.”
You nodded slowly, applying the last bit of gauze, then taping it down.
“Well,” you said, finally meeting his eyes. “Good thing you’ve got people now who’ll stab her for you if she ever comes back.”
He laughed, low and soft. “I’d pay to see that.”
You stood, gathering the used materials. “Just let me know when. I’ll bring the knives.”
As you turned to walk to the kitchen, he called out, “Can I tell you something?.”
The next morning came fast.
You were tired, still sore from the mission, and your brain wouldn’t stop replaying everything, from the way he bled without flinching to the way he said “you tried to kill someone I care about.” You didn’t ask who. You probably should have. But instead, you let him crash on your couch, and by the time you came out of the shower, he was gone.
Still, you had work. Superhero or not, bills existed. And lucky you, your day job happened to be at the same law firm where Dick worked, except he was a senior associate and you were… well, the not senior one. He was respected, sharp, always in a fitted suit like he walked out of a magazine. And somehow, even after long nights chasing criminals, he always made it in before everyone else.
Whispers followed you down the hall like smoke.
“Do you think he got fired? No way—right?”
“I heard he was in some kind of fight—”
You rolled your eyes, hugging your to-go coffee tighter. “Ugh. Gossip,” you muttered under your breath. You were too tired for the rumor mill.
As you made it to your desk, a familiar voice popped up right behind you.
You turned and found Lyra, one of the other paralegals, leaning on the cubicle wall like a nosy sitcom neighbor. You raised an eyebrow. “No, I haven’t. What’s wrong?”
“Dick’s not here,” she said, eyes wide like it was breaking news. “Didn’t show up. No email, no heads-up, nothing.”
You blinked. “Wait, seriously?”
“Mmhm.” She nodded. “Grayson lives and breathes this place. He’s usually in here before the janitors.”
“Maybe he’s sick?” you offered weakly, sliding your bag off your shoulder.
Lyra scoffed like you just said the moon was made of cheese. “Sick? That man’s immune system is healthier than kale. You know it. I bet he’s somewhere doing weird ex-military brooding shit.”
You couldn’t help the snort that escaped.
She grinned, dropped a green Jolly Rancher on your desk like it was currency, and turned on her heel.
You shook your head, chewing on her words as you pulled out your phone. Your stomach was already twisting with worry.
You opened a text thread and typed:
hey, you okay? you didn’t show up to work. just checking in.
You hovered for a second before pressing send. Then you stared at the screen like it might spit out answers.
You bit the inside of your cheek, anxiety creeping in like fog. Maybe he was sick. Or tired. Or laying low after the mission. Or maybe—
A soft ding interrupted your spiral.
Two words. Cold. Clipped.
You typed, then deleted. Then typed again.
Fine like “I’m busy” or fine like “leave me alone”?
You sighed, tossed your phone in your desk drawer, and tried to focus, but something was definitely wrong. And you weren’t going to be able to let it go.
You shouldn’t be worried.
After all, it’s not like you and Dick were friends.
You saw him on Wednesdays because of the damn cupcakes you brought into the breakroom, and even that was just routine at this point.
You’d barely speak at work outside of dry professional exchanges or the occasional sarcastic remark over paperwork. You weren’t enemies. But you weren’t exactly on “let me check on you when you miss work” terms either.
Flirty… adversaries? Work nemesis with a side of unresolved tension?
Honestly, you didn’t know.
All you did know was that something felt off. Deep in your gut.
You tossed your phone into your purse, stood up from your desk, and made your way toward Lyra’s cubicle. She was scrolling on her phone, feet kicked up, already halfway tuned out of the day.
“Hey,” you said, trying to sound casual. “Tell the boss I had a family emergency. I’m sorry—I’ll be in tomorrow.”
She raised a brow, then gave you a playful salute. “You’re lucky he likes you. Go.”
You gave her a weak smile, turned on your heel, and speed-walked toward the elevators like your life depended on it.
Back in your car, you scrolled up through your texts with Dick until you found the one time—months ago—when he’d sent you his address after a late-night debrief. “Just in case you get lost,” he’d said.
You copied the address and dropped it into your maps app.
“Head left, then merge onto Blüdhaven Parkway.”
You followed the directions in silence, your mind racing louder than the engine. This was probably a bad idea. He clearly didn’t want company. He barely texted you back. But something about that two-word reply—
—it didn’t sit right with you.
Twenty minutes later, your GPS chirped again.
“Take a slight right onto Valmont Avenue.”
You looked up, surprised.
This neighborhood wasn’t just “nice.” It was exclusive.
Private buildings with tall glass windows. Sculpted greenery. High security. The kind of place where the mailroom looked like an art gallery and the lobby had 24-hour concierge.
You shouldn’t have been surprised. Dick Grayson had money. He didn’t flaunt it, but it was there. Every custom-fit suit, every wristwatch that didn’t belong to this tax bracket, it all made sense now.
Your GPS spoke one last time:
“Arrived. Destination is on your left.”
You pulled up in front of a sleek glass building with dark accents and no visible numbers. Just an all-black awning, tinted windows, and a valet station. The kind of place where people didn’t buzz to get in. They were let in.
You turned off the ignition, staring up at it. It felt… out of place. Like a secret tower.
Then you grabbed your bag, stepped out of the car, and headed toward the entrance.
You cleared your throat as you approached the front desk. The woman at the concierge looked like she hadn’t blinked since 9AM.
“Hi,” you began, offering your most polite smile. “I’m here to check on someone. Dick Grayson? He lives here.”
Her face remained neutral. “Is Mr. Grayson expecting you?”
You gave a breathy laugh. “Not exactly, but—he wasn’t at work today, which is weird for him, so I just wanted to check in. Make sure he’s okay.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed just slightly.
“I’m sorry, but if your name isn’t on the guest list or resident file, I can’t let you through. Mr. Grayson has strict privacy settings.”
You blinked. “Right. Of course.”
So this was what rejection felt like at the fancy end of town.
You were just about to turn around, stomach twisting with regret, when a familiar voice spoke behind you:
You turned around and there he was.
Dick Grayson. In the flesh.
Hair damp like he just showered, black hoodie slung lazily over his shoulder, jaw sharp, expression unreadable. He looked at you only once before wrapping his hand gently around your wrist, not roughly, not tightly, just enough to guide you.
“Come on,” he said simply.
No hi. No “thanks for coming.” Just those three words and then silence.
You didn’t say anything. Mostly because your brain had left your body the second his fingers touched your skin.
He led you to the elevator, swiped a keycard, and pressed the button that said 12.
The doors slid shut behind you.
Inside, the elevator was ridiculous. Glossy black floor. Plush seat tucked into the corner. Mirrors on all sides and even the ceiling. Your reflection stared back at you from every angle, looking like a woman who’d broken into someone’s mansion on instinct and regret.
Dick stood next to you, quiet. The air between you was heavy and charged, and somehow the silence felt louder with all those mirrors watching.
Then—because your mouth didn’t know how to behave—
You’d told yourself just shut up and ride the elevator. But no. Of course not.
His head turned, just slightly, his eyes flicking to yours in the reflection.
“No,” he said, voice low. “I’m not mad.”
“…But you shouldn’t have come.”
Your chest tightened. Your first instinct was to defend yourself, I was just worried. You didn’t show up. You never don’t show up. But something about his tone kept you quiet.
It wasn’t an apartment. It was a penthouse.
Floor-to-ceiling windows cast the whole place in gold light. The skyline of Blüdhaven stretched beyond the glass, busy and alive, but the inside felt eerily still. Dark wood floors, modern furniture, everything neat—but not cold. Lived in, but perfectly curated. The kind of home that said money without having to scream it.
He walked ahead, not looking back. You followed slowly, still drinking it all in.
“Take off your shoes,” he said without turning. “I just cleaned.”
You blinked. That was… domestic.
You kicked your shoes off by the door.
“I’m guessing you’re not here to talk about cupcakes,” he added dryly, walking toward the kitchen.
You hovered awkwardly behind him. “No. I’m here because you missed work. And because you said ‘I’m fine’ with a period, which is code for you’re lying.”
He let out a small exhale, almost a laugh.
Then he finally turned to face you—leaning against the counter, arms crossed, hoodie still unzipped halfway.
His voice dropped just a little:
“So what now, huh?” he said. “You checked in. You saw I’m alive. Want me to prove it? Want me to spin in a circle or something?”
You couldn’t tell if he was teasing. You couldn’t tell what he was doing.
But that tension again, the one from the elevator, from the workplace glances, from the cupcake Wednesdays, it was coiling between you two like a wire pulled tight.
And you suddenly realized…
You still didn’t know what you wanted from him.
But now you were in his space.
Then you blurted again, “Something happened yesterday. Between you and the captain. And your ex.”
That got his attention. His eyes flicked to you, sharp and unreadable.
“What happened to, ‘I was just about to leave,’ huh? You stalker,” he said, voice low and teasing, but laced with something heavier.
“I’m not a stalker!” you defended quickly, scoffing.
“Really. Then what are you?” he asked, stepping closer.
You tried to hold your ground, but he kept closing the space between you, one slow step at a time, until your back hit the cool wall with a soft thud. You swallowed hard.
“We’re friends?” you offered weakly. “Buddies? Coworkers… or whatever. I don’t know, but I’m glad you’re okay. Alive. And I think I should go now—”
He blinked. “Did you just—?”
He smirked and finally stepped back, giving you breathing room. Just enough to inhale without choking on your own awkward.
“My ex,” he said, exhaling like it left a bitter taste in his mouth, “was a villain. She pretended not to know I was Nightwing, played the sweet, innocent girlfriend routine. Told me she didn’t want to lose her ‘baby’ to a dangerous lifestyle.”
He made a face like he’d just bitten into a lemon. “Anyway… she goes on this trip with her father, says it’s a family emergency. I go over to her place to feed her fish.”
“You… fed her fish?” you echoed.
“Yes. Because apparently I’m stupid and romantic,” he muttered. “Anyway, I got suspicious. Something about her story didn’t sit right. So I poked around a bit.”
Your heart started beating faster. You didn’t know where this was going, but it didn’t feel good.
“And I find this room. Hidden behind her closet. Like, actual villain-level cliché. I open the door…”
He paused. His expression turned darker. More serious.
“And I find pictures. Everywhere.”
You tilted your head. “Of you?”
He looked at you. Dead in the eye.
You blinked. “Wait. Me—?”
“She had surveillance shots. Mission footage. A few from work. Even one from that bakery you go to on Fridays.”
You stepped back, the wall reminding you there was nowhere else to go.
“She was planning something,” he said. “Something big. I don’t know exactly what yet, but whatever it was — you were the target.”
You just stood there. Breath caught in your throat. Not sure what to say.
He brought you water and gently tugged you to sit down on the couch.
“It’s not that serious anymore,” he said, setting the glass into your hands. “She was the one who initiated the mission last night. That’s why Captain was so pissed.”
You took a long sip, trying to swallow both the water and the lump in your throat. His eyes were already on you, watching, measuring, and then he sighed.
“Maybe I should’ve listened when you said you didn’t trust her.”
You choked. Hard. Water went the wrong way and suddenly you were sputtering.
“Shit—hey,” he said, quick to grab some napkins as he took the cup from your hands. “You come into my place one time and already you’re trying to leave your DNA everywhere?”
You smacked his arm lightly between coughs, and he chuckled.
“I did trust her,” you managed, clearing your throat, “I trust all the girls you date.”
You stared at him now. Your face unreadable, but your voice? It wavered.
“Go on,” he said, his voice softer now.
And that’s when you noticed. He was kneeling in front of you. One hand braced on your thigh, the other still holding the half-full water glass. His proximity was starting to feel suffocating—or maybe intoxicating. Either way, your body went warm.
“I think I should go home,” you said abruptly, pushing gently at his shoulder. He let you.
“I’ll walk you down,” he offered, standing and grabbing your bag for you. You didn’t argue. You just needed space.
The two of you stepped into the elevator.
The second the doors slid shut, you were surrounded. Not by him, but by his reflection. All the mirrors showed him, every angle of him. And he was looking at you.
You shifted your weight, avoiding his gaze, pretending to dig through your bag for something—anything.
Then the elevator stopped.
A robotic voice echoed overhead:
“We’re sorry. The elevators are currently down. We apologize for the inconvenience.”
You looked up at him, eyes wide.
“Dick. What does that mean??”
He was already tapping the emergency button. Nothing. He pulled out his communicator, static.
Your stomach flipped. “Stuck stuck??”
You turned slowly, dread in your chest. Every wall was mirrored. You couldn’t look at him without seeing all of him.
And worse, now you couldn’t escape him either.
His voice broke through your panic. “Relax. We’ve been through worse.”
You laughed dryly, trying to ignore the way his reflection was stalking toward yours in the mirrored glass. “Yeah, but ‘worse’ didn’t usually involve you standing that close to me in a box full of mirrors.”
He smirked, eyes flicking to your reflection then back to you. “Is that what’s bothering you?”
You sighed, avoiding the question entirely as you sank onto the tiny couch built into the elevator wall. “How long is it gonna take for help to arrive?” you muttered, eyes fixed on the glowing elevator panel.
Dick didn’t answer right away. Instead, he crouched down in front of you again—seriously, what was this man’s obsession with kneeling like he’s about to propose?
You looked down at him, and something in his face had shifted. The teasing glint in his eye had faded just slightly, replaced with something more serious. Something unreadable.
“There’s something going on, love,” he said softly.
The nickname landed differently this time. It wasn’t playful. It wasn’t sarcastic. It was… real. Heavy. Like something had changed…and you didn’t like change. You never had.
“Nothings wrong,” you said too quickly. “I mean… being stuck in an elevator with my crush isn’t the worst thing in the world—”
You froze. You felt your soul leave your body. Did you say that out loud?
Dick blinked, then tilted his head. “Your crush?”
You stared at anything that wasn’t him—unfortunately, all you saw was a full panoramic view of your own mortified face in the elevator mirrors. “I meant—friend. Friend. Obviously. I panic in enclosed spaces and say weird things.”
“Mmhm,” he hummed, unconvinced.
And then, like the universe truly had it out for your self-control, his hand slid back onto your thigh.
You flinched. Your heart? Fully betraying you. Thundering. Melting. Screaming.
“I’m pretty sure I heard crush,” he said again, his voice lower now. Rougher. Since when was his voice that deep? Since when did it feel like that?
You swallowed, fighting every instinct not to run face-first into the elevator doors.
“I think you need to get your hearing checked,” you shot back, forcing a dry laugh.
He smiled—smirked actually—and leaned in just a little closer. His thumb moved in a small circle over the fabric of your pants, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
“Okay then,” he murmured. “If you’re not going to tell me about that, at least tell me what’s bothering you.”
Your breath caught. He was serious. This time, there was no teasing, no smug grin. Just genuine concern in those blue eyes that never stopped watching you.
“Come on,” he whispered. “You’ve been tense since yesterday. What is it?”
“What are we?” you asked, voice barely more than a breath.
Dick looked up at you, his eyes searching. “What do you think we are?”
His thumbs were drifting closer, brushing slow circles over your skin. Your pulse pounded in your ears—loud, insistent, like a warning or a promise.
“I don’t know,” you whispered. “I just… I don’t think friends do what we’re doing right now.”
You finally met his gaze. It was a mistake.
Because the look in his eyes?
That was not friendly. That was not innocent. That was a storm waiting to break.
“If we’re not friends,” he said, voice dropping, “then what are we?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
He tilted his head, mock confusion playing on his face, but the heat in his expression betrayed him.
“I don’t,” he murmured. “Enlighten me.”
The air in the elevator had changed—it was thick now, charged with something unspeakable. Your breath hitched. His voice was low. Teasing. Dangerous.
You didn’t trust your own mouth, didn’t trust your body to stay neutral. Everything inside you was screaming.
But his hand was already sliding closer—dangerously close. Your thighs tensed, your chest rising and falling fast.
“Why not?” he asked, and it was soft. Almost innocent.
But there was nothing innocent about the way he was looking at you now.
You could get up and slap the elevator emergency button again just to make the walls move and give your body any excuse to cool off.
But instead, you whispered, “Because if you keep touching me like that, I’m not gonna be able to stop.”
His expression flickered—surprise, desire, something darker—and he leaned in, just enough for his forehead to brush yours. That damn hand still hadn’t moved.
“Then don’t stop,” he breathed.
His answer takes you by surprise, even though you'd hoped for it. His closeness is overwhelming. You can feel his breath on your face, the heat radiating off of him. The air between you is thick with tension.
Your heart is pounding in your chest, your mind racing. But the look in his eyes, the dark desire in his voice...it's intoxicating.
Wordlessly, you reach up, your hand tracing the outline of his jaw, your fingers trailing over his lips.
You stared at him, heartbeat hammering in your throat.
You reached up and grabbed his face, pulling him in.
The kiss started slow. Hesitant. You half-expected him to pull away.
Instead, the hand that wasn’t resting on your thigh slid around your back, firm and certain, tugging you closer until your chest pressed against his. The heat between your bodies sparked something primal in you, something raw.
You pulled back just enough to breathe, lips parted, heart racing.
He stared at you with eyes that could burn a hole through concrete.
“You taste so sweet,” he murmured, voice thick like honey.
Your breath caught as his hand on your thigh drifted lower, fingers teasing the hem of your bottoms like he was testing a boundary he already knew you’d let him cross.
“Maybe,” you whispered, not even sure what you were answering.
He smiled—slow, smug, devastating—before pulling you into another kiss, deeper this time, hungrier. His mouth moved against yours like he’d been waiting for this longer than either of you would ever admit.
And holy shit—he kissed like a man who knew exactly what he was doing. Confident, precise, every movement coaxing more out of you. Your fingers slipped into his hair, gripping tight as your body leaned into him without hesitation.
Your back hit the elevator wall and you barely noticed.
Because all you could feel was him. His hands. His mouth. His body between your knees. And the terrifying, thrilling realization that this—whatever this was—was no longer a game.
You gasped between kisses, trying to ground yourself. “This is—this is insane, we’re literally stuck in an elevator—”
He kisses a trail along your jaw, then your neck, pressing you into the wall. His grip on your thigh tightens, possessive.
"Does it really matter where we are?" he whispers against your skin, his breath hot and heavy.
His hand slides up your side, fingers slipping under the edge of your shirt, leaving a trail of fire across your bare skin.
The way he said it—soft, low, laced with heat—sent a pulse straight to your core.
Your thighs instinctively squeezed around his waist, and he took the invitation with zero hesitation, letting his hands explore more boldly now. His hand teased the edge of your bottoms, dragging lazy circles against your skin, maddeningly slow.
“Dick,” you breathed, warning or plea—you weren’t even sure.
“Hm?” he hummed against your collarbone, now pressing gentle kisses along the line of your neck, tasting you like a secret.
Your head tipped back, eyes fluttering open—
—and that’s when you caught it.
One whole wall of the elevator was reflecting this exact moment: your legs around him, his body slotted perfectly between yours, the way his mouth moved against your skin like it belonged there.
He noticed. “What is it?”
You blinked, trying to find words, but your eyes drifted back to the mirror—and so did his.
The two of you locked eyes through the reflection.
“Oh,” he said, voice dipping again. “That’s what’s got you all shy now.”
“I’m not shy,” you lied, face flushed, body still burning.
“Mhm,” he teased, leaning in closer but keeping his eyes on yours in the mirror. “So you don’t mind watching me touch you like this?”
His hand slipped beneath the waistband of your bottoms—barely—and you twitched, biting your lip hard to keep from moaning.
He watched your reaction in the mirror, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He liked this. The way your body was responding. The way you were trying and failing to hold back.
His fingers traced lazy circles on your skin, so close to where you wanted them to be. Teasing. Torturing.
"Look at you," he murmured, his voice low and gravelly in your ear. "You're so sensitive already."
You could barely breathe, let alone speak. But the way your body responded—the arch of your back, the tilt of your hips—it was answer enough.
Dick’s lips brushed your ear. “You know, I’ve always liked mirrors.”
“Of course you do,” you muttered.
He chuckled, but it was dark and rough and sent shivers down your spine.
The comm in the corner crackled suddenly—“Help is on the way. Please remain calm.”
He looked up. Then back at you.
“Guess we’re on a timer now,” he said, cocky as hell, and leaned in for another kiss—this one messier, deeper, full of promises he clearly meant to keep.
He then looked at you, eye contact heavy before tugging on your shirt. “Can I?” He asked.
You nodded slowly, starting to think if this is a good idea, but that completely vanished when he tugged your shirt off, and started leaving wet kisses on your chest.
Your whole body felt warm, you wanted—no—you needed more.
He then took your bra off in such a hurry you didn’t even notice it was off. Your boobs—now being exposed in front of him.
They were hard. You were wet. So much happening in such short time.
He let go of you bra as you watch it drop on the floor near your shirt. He pulled his other hand back around to the front of you body and all together with both hands he grabbed under your boobs and squeezed while starting to pinch on your nipples.
You could feel the warmth of your pussy start to increase, uncomfortably so.
This man was about to ruin you. Right here. Right now.
Your head was laid back against the wall and positioned perfectly for him to nestle his face into your neck.
As he leaned into you, he squeezed your nipples harder and started to move his face lower to where he was eye level with your breasts.
He then slowly opened his soft lips and met each nipple with them, sucking on each of them one at a time, while simultaneously rubbing the other one that was not in his mouth and pinching on it.
You were becoming weaker by the second.
You then pressed the entirety of your body and weight against the wall.
Had he put his fingers inside of you, you would have completely made a mess, and most likely would have completed your orgasm right there.
As you were getting lost in the feeling, the sound of the elevator letting you know that help is 10 minutes away. You watched yourself in the mirrors, watching his actions.
As he was pulling away from your breasts he gave them both one more bite on each nipple as you let out a moan.
He then hooked the waistband of your pants with his fingers, as you pulled, tugged and shimmied them over your hips and onto the ground. You were still sitting on the couch in the elevator as he went back to kneeling before you.
He then licked and kissed your inner thigh, leaving a trail of warm wetness on your skin. You squirmed and cooed as he got closer to your crotch, only to have you switch legs and start from the bottom again.
After what felt like years, he reached his destination and kissed your pussy against your underwear.
“D-Fuck, don’t tease me,” you pleaded as he withdrew his mouth. He then looked up at you, admiring you with a sly grin on his face.
“We have 10 minutes, isn’t that plenty of time?,” he asked. He then paused to plant kisses on your upper thighs and your lower stomach. “And I plan on making this last. Now, just relax, please.”
He stood up to kiss you and rubbed your pussy with the palm of his hand. Your panties were not wet anymore, they were all but soaked through. He then pressed two fingers in between your lower lips, eliciting a hungry moan. Your tongue slid into his mouth as your hands found his hard cock. You cupped his balls and stroked the shaft through his pants as he continued to finger you through your underwear.
He then broke the kiss and moved his hand under your front pantyline. His fingers moving over to your clit and dipped into your moist sex.
“What if the maintenance saw you now?” He nibbled on your earlobe, fingers still exploring between your legs. “Would they know how naughty you are, begging for me to fuck your wet pussy?”
“No… I- hope not…” you bucked a little against his fingers, trying to increase the friction.
You trailed off bitting your lip. Your hips moving faster against his fingers. As you gripped the couch with one hand while groping his stiff package with the other.
You pulled his t-shirt over his head. Taking the hint, he grabbed your underwear and pulled them down over your feet.
You’re now completely naked, perched on a couch inside an elevator, with your legs spread. You reached in and pulled his dick out of his boxers, stroking it slowly but with a firm grip.
“I want you to fuck me,” you said before stopping yourself. “Right here.”
He didn’t have to be asked again. Already slick and lubricated, his thick cock easily slid inside your warm, welcoming cunt. You let out a gasp as his dick probed the depths of your pussy, pressing towards your cervix.
You and him stayed like that for a few seconds, enjoying the moment, before he withdrew himself nearly completely. Then pushing into you again.
You put your arms around him and pulled him into you again. His rhythm increased steadily, much to your delight.
“Y-yes,” you moaned with each thrust, “Yes… just like that…”
You bucked into him as he entered you over and over again, his pelvic bone pushing against your clit. After a few minutes, maybe seconds, you were so so..close to an orgasm, and as if he noticed, he started rubbing your clit between thrusts to send you over the edge.
“YES… YES!” You were starting to get louder, loud enough for anyone on the other side of this elevator could hear. “Keep going… Keep going!”
“Cum for me, love,” he growled, driving his dick into you with new force. “Cum on my cock.”
“OH… OH GOD… D-DICK!” You felt your pussy clench down on his member as an orgasm overtook you. You then wrapped your legs and arms around him, holding him tight and pulling him in deeper.
You had just cum, but now you were suddenly focused on getting him off.
He continued to thrust. His voice now strained. “Your pussy feels so fucking good, love.” His bare cock pressed deep into your receptive cunt.
“Yeah, love. Shit, you’re going to make me cum,” he warned.
“Cum.” You were whispering at first. You then repeated yourself, louder this time.
He then let out a primal moan thrusting his cock as deep as it could go. You felt his balls throbbed as he pulled out then climaxing.
He then pressed his face to you, this time penetrating your mouth with his tongue. You accepted it eagerly; your tongues danced together in your mouth.
“You’re dangerous,” you whispered against him, breath shallow. “You know that?”
He smirked, brushing his nose against yours. “You say that like it’s not what turns you on.”
The elevator gave a sudden ding.
He froze, forehead resting against yours, both of you panting like you’d just run for your lives.
“Saved by the bell,” you said weakly, trying to collect yourself.
He grinned, smug as hell. “For now.”
Then he whispered against your lips, “But when I get you alone again... you’re not leaving until you scream it.”