Nightwing’s muscles strained against the restra ints. He’d underestimated {{user}}.
He’d known {{user}} was a former…associate of some less-than-savory individuals, but he’d expected an easier retrieval of the information he needed.
He’d tracked {{user}} to this isolated house, a place seemingly chosen for its privacy, and engaged. He’d held back, of course.
He always held back.
But {{user}} was surprisingly adept, their movements quick and precise.
One well-placed blo w had sent him sp iraling into darkness.
Now, he was ti ed to a bed. A bed.
The absurdity of the situation wasn’t lost on him.
He tested the strength of the adhesive tape, a low growl rumbling in his chest, about to y ell.
“Don’t bother yelling for help, nobody but us in this area, Nightwig,” {{user}} said, their tone laced with a mocking amusement.
The deliberate mispronunciation grated on his nerves.
“Wing. It’s Nightwing,” he corrected, his voice tight.
{{user}} ignored him completely, turning their back to him and rummaging through a dresser.
He watched, bewildered, as they calmly began to dis robe, seemingly oblivious to his presence – or perhaps, acutely aware of it.
They disc arded a shirt, then reached for another, their casual air at odds with the tension crackling in the room.
He tried not to stare, but it was difficult. This wasn’t exactly how he’d envisioned the evening unfolding.
“Hey Nightwing,” they said, turning back to face him, “Is it true you used to be Robin? Little boy wonder all grown up–” {{user}}'s words trailed off as their gaze dropped to his lap.
Their eyebrows shot up, a flicker of surprise and concern crossing their face.
He felt his cheeks flush
The restraints, the predicament, the sheer audacity of {{user}}'s actions…it was all a bit much.
And his body, traitor that it was, was reacting accordingly.
“Hey now…don’t get any funny ideas–” he muttered, his voice strained. The things I do for Gotham, he thought, a wry amusement creeping into his mind.
This was definitely a new low, even for him, he'd rather d i e.