Don’t Pretend You’re Not Watching
Pairing: Patrick Zweig as Nightwing x Reader
Rating: Explicit (NSFW, 18+)
Warnings: Sexual content, mild exhibitionism, light dom/sub energy, swearing, unprotected sex, Patrick being Patrick
y'all, this is my first fic, so be nice!
You shouldn’t be watching him.
You know it. You really know it.
But there he is—on the rooftop across from your apartment, silhouetted against the Gotham skyline like a damn movie still. Lean, all muscle and smugness, his Nightwing suit clinging to every arrogant line of his body like it was sewn on in hell and kissed by the devil.
And he knows you’re watching. Of course he does.
He turns his head just slightly, mouth curled up in that signature half-smirk. The kind that says I caught you. The kind that makes your thighs press together on instinct.
“You could at least say hi,” he calls, voice low and teasing as he drops from the ledge like gravity means nothing to him.
Two seconds later, he’s in your apartment.
You don’t even hear the window slide open.
“You’re such a stalker,” he purrs as he lands behind you, breath warm on your neck. “Not that I blame you.”
“You literally stood on that roof for ten minutes posing.”
“And you kept watching for ten minutes. So who’s really the problem here?”
He’s in front of you before you can answer, gloved fingers lifting your chin. That mask does nothing to hide the hunger in his eyes.
“You want me to take it off?”
You nod, breath caught in your throat.
“No,” he grins, cocky as hell. “Not yet. I want you to fuck me while I’m still him.”
Then he’s kissing you—rough, hot, consuming. His tongue slides past your lips like he owns your mouth, like he’s been waiting all night for this exact moment. Hands gripping your waist, pushing you back until you feel the cool press of your table against your spine.
“Clothes. Off. Now,” he growls, peeling off his gloves and pushing your shirt over your head with one smooth motion. “Unless you want me to rip them.”
You can’t think, can’t breathe—only react. By the time you’re bare, he’s stripped down to the waist, the top half of his suit hanging from his hips, muscles cut and flexing under dim light. He’s beautiful and wild and way too confident.
He spins you around, palms flat on the table.
“Hands there,” he orders. “Don’t move.”
You feel him drop to his knees behind you, hot breath ghosting across the inside of your thighs. And then—
“Oh my god—Patrick,” you gasp as his tongue flicks against your clit, slow at first, then faster, deeper, like he’s memorizing every sound you make.
“You taste better than victory,” he groans into you. “Better than winning. And you know how much I love to win.”
You’re shaking by the time he stands, chest pressed to your back, his cock hard and heavy against your skin.
“You want me to fuck you in the suit?” he murmurs. “Mask on. You, bent over like this, begging for me?”
You nod, frantic, and he slides into you in one smooth thrust that knocks the breath out of your lungs.
He’s big. Thick. And god, he knows it.
“Look at you,” he pants, thrusts deep and punishing. “Taking me so good. So fucking good.”
His hand snakes around your front, fingers circling your clit, in perfect rhythm with his hips.
“Say my name,” he demands, voice hoarse.
“Patrick,” you whimper.
“No,” he growls. “Say it.”
“…Nightwing.”
He groans like you just gave him the winning point in a final match.
“Good girl.”
And then you’re falling apart—clenching around him, gasping his name, and he’s right behind you, cursing into your shoulder as he spills inside you, gripping your waist like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.
Silence stretches between you in the aftermath. His breath is still ragged when he speaks again.
“You’re gonna watch me again tomorrow, aren’t you?”
You don’t answer.
He smirks against your skin.
“I’ll make it worth it.”
