tropes: close proximity, mirrors everywhere, “don’t look at me like that”, teasing x flustered, who’s in control?, slow burn → tension snap, dom x sub
warnings: explicit content, smut, finger!ng, eating (lara) out
The studio was supposed to be empty. That’s why you stayed.
Late nights meant quiet; no distractions, no wandering eyes, just the sound of your shoes against the floor and the faint echo of music bouncing off mirrored walls. You liked it that way. Controlled. Predictable.
So when the door clicked open behind you, your entire rhythm broke. You turned. Lara Raj stepped in like she owned the place. Of course she did.
“Didn’t know anyone else was here,” she said casually, dropping her bag by the wall, already tying her hair up without waiting for a response.
“You’re early,” you replied.
“Or you’re late.”
You scoffed, turning back to the mirror. “I booked this slot.”
“So did I,” she said, stepping closer. “Guess we’re sharing.”
Great. Out of everyone, it had to be her. Lara was… a problem. Not because she was loud or annoying. No, that would’ve been easier to deal with. Lara was quiet in her own way. Confident. The kind of person who didn’t need attention because she was attention. And she knew it. The music started again, low and steady, and you tried to focus. Tried. Because Lara moved. And suddenly, focusing became impossible. She danced like the music belonged to her every step precise, every movement controlled but fluid, like she was barely trying and still doing everything perfectly.
You looked away. You didn’t. You looked again. Bad idea. Your eyes met hers in the mirror. She didn’t look away.
Instead, she smirked. “You keep staring,” she said.
“I’m not.”
“Mm,” she hummed, unconvinced.
You forced your gaze forward. “Focus on your own practice.”
“I am,” she replied smoothly. “You’re just in my space.”
“You came into mine.”
“And you didn’t leave.”
Your jaw tightened. She stepped closer. Too close. You shifted to the side, trying to create distance, but she followed, adjusting her position like it was part of the choreography. Your arms brushed. You froze. She didn’t.
Her breath ghosted against your ear as she leaned in, her body heat seeping through the thin fabric of your leotard. "Maybe you like it,'' Lara murmured, her voice a low vibration that sent a shiver racing down your spine. You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering in your throat, but you didn't pull away. Couldn't, really. Her presence pinned you like an invisible force, her hip pressing firmly against yours in what could pass for a dance hold but it wasn't.
You tried to step back, to reclaim your space, but her hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist with a grip that was deceptively gentle yet unyielding. ''Where are you going?'' she asked, her dark eyes locking onto yours, challenging. The music swelled, a sultry beat that matched the tension coiling in your core. Your free hand came up instinctively, pushing at her shoulder, but she caught that too, twisting your arms behind your back in one fluid motion. It was effortless for her, like she'd choreographed this dominance long before stepping into the studio.
''Lara, stop,'' you whispered, but your voice cracked, betraying the heat pooling between your thighs. She chuckled softly, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. ''You don't mean that. Your body's telling a different story.'' To prove it, she shifted her weight, her thigh sliding between your legs, pressing up against your pussy through the tight spandex. You gasped, the friction igniting a spark that made your clit throb.
She released your wrists but didn't give you room to escape instead, her hands slid to your hips, fingers digging in as she guided you into a slow grind against her leg. The mirror reflected it all: your flushed cheeks, her smug expression, the way your breasts heaved with each shallow breath. ''Dance with me,'' she commanded, not a request. You hesitated, but her nails scraped lightly over your skin, urging you forward. Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up, hips rolling tentatively against the pressure of her thigh.
That's when she took it further. One hand trailed up your side, cupping your breast through the fabric, thumb circling your hardening nipple until it peaked painfully. ''Good girl,'' she purred, pinching just hard enough to make you whimper. The sound echoed in the empty studio, amplifying your vulnerability. You wanted to protest, to assert the control you craved in every other part of your life, but here, under her gaze, it melted away. Replaced by a needy ache that had your pussy clenching around nothing.
Lara spun you suddenly, your back pressing against her front, her arms banding around your waist like a vice. She rocked into you from behind, her own curves molding to yours; firm breasts against your shoulder blades, the heat of her core grinding against your ass. ''Feel that?'' she whispered, her free hand dipping lower, slipping under the hem of your leotard to trace the edge of your panties. ''You're soaking through already.'' Her fingers found the damp spot, rubbing slow circles over your clit that made your knees buckle.
You gripped the barre for support, knuckles white, as she worked you with expert precision. No rush, just deliberate strokes that built the pressure until you were panting, hips bucking back into her touch. 'Please,' you breathed, not even sure what you were begging for more, less, release. She nipped at your neck, teeth grazing the skin. ''Please what? Use your words.''
''More,'' you admitted, voice barely audible over the music. Satisfied, she pushed your panties aside, two fingers sliding through your slick folds, coating themselves before plunging deep into your pussy. You cried out, the stretch filling you just right, her thumb pressing your clit in rhythm. She fucked you like that, steady and unrelenting, her other hand kneading your breast, rolling the nipple between her fingers.
The mirror showed everything: your legs spreading wider, her hand disappearing between your thighs, the way your pussy gripped her fingers with each thrust. Lara's breath grew ragged against your skin, her own arousal evident in the way she rutted against you. ''Cum for me,'' she ordered, curling her fingers inside you to hit that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. The orgasm crashed over you hard, your walls pulsing around her as you soaked her hand, a muffled moan escaping your lips.
But she didn't stop. Pulling her fingers free, she brought them to your mouth. ''Taste yourself.'' You did, sucking obediently, the tangy flavor mixing with your racing heartbeat. Lara turned you to face her then, pushing you down until your knees hit the cool floor. She stepped back, shedding her top in one smooth motion, revealing full breasts with dark nipples already stiff. Her hand went to her waistband, shoving down her leggings to expose her shaved pussy, glistening with need.
''Eat me out,'' she said, threading fingers through your hair and guiding your face forward. You leaned in, tongue flicking out to lap at her clit, savoring the salty sweetness. She moaned, hips canting to fuck your mouth, her grip tightening as you sucked and licked with growing fervor. Your hands roamed her thighs, feeling the muscles tense under your touch, but she controlled the pace, using your hair like reins.
When she came, it was with a sharp gasp, her juices flooding your tongue as she ground against your face. She held you there until she trembled through the aftershocks, then pulled you up for a bruising kiss, tasting herself on your lips. ''This slot's ours now,''she declared, her eyes gleaming with promise. ''Every night.''
You nodded, spent and sated, already craving the next time she'd shatter your control.
The infirmary felt suffocating. Not because of the sterile scent or the quiet hum of the machines, but because of him. Because Dick hadn’t moved from your bedside since you woke up, hadn’t let go of you, hadn’t even thought to take care of himself.
The dark circles under his eyes were deeper now, his exhaustion evident in every slow blink, every sluggish movement. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days—like the weight of the world had settled onto his shoulders and refused to let go, like Atlas doomed to carry the heavens without rest, his burden as endless as his guilt.
“Gray…” you murmured, your voice still rough from disuse. Your fingers brushed over the back of his hand, drawing his attention. “You need to get some sleep.”
He scoffed lightly, shaking his head as if that was the most ridiculous thing you could have suggested. “I’m fine.”
“You look like hell,” you countered, watching as his lips pressed into a thin line. “And this bed sucks.” You shifted against the stiff mattress, wincing slightly to sell your point. “I feel gross. I need a shower.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion flickering across his face. “You’re still weak.”
“I’ll be fine.”
His response was immediate, firm. “You’re not walking.”
Before you could protest, he was already moving, arms sliding under you with ease. Your breath hitched as he lifted you as if you weighed nothing, his warmth immediately surrounding you.
“Gray—”
“I said you’re not walking,” he murmured, voice unwavering.
You exhaled, knowing better than to argue with him when he was like this. Instead, you leaned your head against his shoulder, letting him carry you through the hallways to his quarters—the same place you’d been staying with him. The tension in his body was palpable, his grip on you firm but gentle, like he was afraid you’d slip away again.
You tried to lighten the mood. “So… are you planning to carry me into the shower too?”
His gaze flicked down to you, unimpressed. "I'm still mad at you, you know that, right?"
Inside his quarters, he set you down carefully on the edge of the bed, hovering like a worried mother hen as you pushed yourself up. The moment you were steady, he hesitated, as if torn between giving you space and staying close. You squeezed his arm before making your way to the bathroom, letting him know you were okay.
The warm water helped wash away the remnants of blood, battle, the grime, the sweat, the exhaustion clinging to your skin. By the time you stepped out, towel-drying your hair, you felt marginally better. You slipped into one of his shirts—soft, oversized, smelling like him—and returned to the bedroom to find him sitting on the bed, a fresh bottle in his hands.
You frowned. “Seriously?”
His grip tightened slightly around the bottle, but he didn’t meet your eyes. “Just one.”
“No,” you said firmly, walking over and plucking it from his hands before he could argue. “You need sleep, not this.”
His jaw tensed, but he didn’t resist as you set the bottle aside and nudged him toward the pillows. He let out a heavy breath, rubbing a hand over his face before finally relenting, settling into bed. You climbed in beside him, shifting closer until your bodies aligned, your head tucked under his chin.
The moment you did, his arms locked around you, pulling you against him as if afraid you’d disappear. His face pressed into your hair, his breathing slow but uneven, his hold unyielding. You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into the warmth of him, his presence, his scent.
“Sleep,” you murmured against his chest.
He tensed slightly, then exhaled, his fingers tracing slow patterns against your back. “I can’t.”
You pulled back slightly to look up at him. His gaze was distant, haunted.
“Every time I close my eyes,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper, “I see it. You died. The way your eyes—” His breath hitched, and he shook his head, swallowing hard. “I lost you.”
His voice was so raw, so broken, that it cracked something inside you. Without hesitation, you shifted, moving above him, gently guiding his head against your chest, your arms wrapping around him as he had done for you before. He didn’t resist—just let himself sink into you, his body finally releasing some of the tension it had been holding. The steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his ear seemed to soothe him, grounding him in something real, something alive.
Your fingers threaded through his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. “I was scared too,” you admitted softly. “Watching you fight Slade, knowing there was nothing I could do… I couldn’t imagine a world without you, Gray. Without Richard Grayson. Without Nightwing.”
His arms tightened around your waist.
“I’m expendable,” you continued, your voice steady but gentle. “But you’re not. More lives would have been lost if—”
“Stop.” His voice was muffled against you, but firm. He shifted, burrowing further against you, his breath warm against your skin. “You’re not expendable. You’re—” He exhaled shakily. “I can’t imagine a world without you either.”
The room was quiet after that, save for the steady rhythm of your breathing. You continued running your fingers through his hair, grounding both of you in the moment. His body slowly relaxed beneath you, exhaustion creeping in.
And then, as if the thought had been weighing on you all night, you spoke. “I’m ready.”
A low hum vibrated against your skin as he shifted slightly, not quite lifting his head. “Mmm?”
“To go all the way,” you clarified. "You know...Sex."
That got his attention. He pulled back just enough to squint up at you, sleep-heavy but alert. “You’re only saying that because you’re drained right now.”
You rolled your eyes. “No, I’m saying that because I almost died.” He winced. “And it put things into perspective.”
His gaze softened, his fingers brushing slow, aimless patterns over your ribs. “I get that,” he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion. “And believe me, I feel the same. But I don’t want you making this choice because of fear.”
“It’s not fear,” you insisted. “It’s clarity.”
He hummed again, skeptical but not dismissive. His fingers trailed just beneath the hem of his shirt draped over you, warm against your skin. “Still… sleep on it,” he said, voice softer now, heavier. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
You sighed, about to argue again, but he silenced you with a kiss—first to your forehead, then your nose, then finally, your lips. It was soft, lingering, filled with quiet understanding.
“Sleep,” he murmured against you, and this time, it was an order.
He shifted, tucking himself against you once more, his head beneath your chin, his arms holding you close.
