It was always complicated — you, him, the spaces between.

Lovers, yes. You’d been his for a long time now. Shared a bed, a life, a history thick with whispered promises and bruised knuckles. But it never stopped being messy. Because you were a criminal — and he was Nightwing.

Tonight was no different.

He caught you mid-robbery, a bag full of diamonds slung over your shoulder like it was nothing. He should’ve known. You always liked hitting jewelry stores — not because you needed what was inside, but because it pissed him off. And maybe, deep down, because you knew he’d come.

And he always came.

You bolted the second you heard his voice. He was right behind you. Boots hitting gravel, the ripple of wind behind his cape, that familiar growl in his voice: “Don’t make me chase you, babe.”

But you always made him chase.

Up the fire escapes, across rusted rooftops. It was a dance now — one you both knew by heart. Until he caught you, slammed you to the rooftop with a grunt and a hiss of frustration, and hoisted you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.

And then, without a second thought — you bit him.

Hard.

“Fuuuck! Baby!” he barked, stumbling back, clutching his arm where your teeth had sunk into his suit. “What did I tell you about biting me!?”

You grinned, blood warm on your tongue. “That you liked it rough.”

Without another word, he threw you back onto the rooftop with a thud, the wind knocked from your lungs. You rolled quickly to your feet, already throwing kicks — sharp, swift, practiced. He met you with fists and fury, his moves tighter, faster, trained with a lifetime of discipline.

But you? You were unpredictable.

You blocked one punch, ducked another. His knee came up — you twisted, landed a hit to his ribs, felt the grunt of pain rumble through him. You were evenly matched, like always. Lovers and enemies, tangled in blood and adrenaline.

“God, you drive me insane,” he muttered as he blocked your next hit, grabbing your wrist and spinning you hard against the rooftop’s edge.

“You love it,” you breathed, lips inches from his, panting.

He didn’t respond — not with words.

Instead, his mouth crashed into yours, fierce and desperate. The fight bled into the kiss, and for a second, you both forgot the rest of the world existed.

Because no matter how much chaos you brought into his life, he couldn’t let you go. Bruce knew. The whole damn Bat Family knew. As much as Bruce wanted to lock you away, Richard had begged — demanded — he didn’t.

“She’s mine,” he had told Bruce. “I have her under control.”

Except that was a lie. You weren’t under anyone’s control. Especially not his.

But after every heist, you always gave it back. Let him return it the next day in full costume, like some shining vigilante hero. It kept his image clean. It kept you out of Arkham. And it kept your twisted version of love alive.

Now, the two of you stood on the roof, breathless. Your lip was bleeding. His arm had bite marks.