by Te and Jack
November 22, 2003
Disclaimers: Not even close to ours. Not by a long-shot.
Spoilers: Vague ones for the comics. Jack thinks this takes place some time ahead of current comics continuity (Nightwing #87/Batman #620 as of this writing), let's say at least 6 months into the future, giving Dick's hair time to finish growing back out.
Summary: When Gotham gives you architecture like that, it must be used.
Ratings Note: NC-17.
Authors' Note: Te isn't sure how this happened. Jack is just hoping it will.
Acknowledgments: To various people for audiencing along the long, slow, obsessive way, including Livia and the Spike.
Feedback makes us smile. E-mail Te at firstname.lastname@example.org, or leave a comment in Jack's journal: http://buggery.livejournal.com Either or both is fine. g
Dick catches the bank robber's wrist, clutching, spinning and twisting until he can feel the shudder of a dislocated shoulder vibrating through their point of contact.
Shoves the man away with a blow to the back of the head before the inevitable scream is fully choked-off, and turns to the next.
Catches a punch to the jaw and curses to himself -- he really should've ducked that one, and, dammit, he would have. He always does.
But right now he's in Gotham, better judgment be damned, and Batman -- Bruce -- is a moving, deadly presence at his back, doubtlessly cataloguing every fucking move all of them are making, and so, of course, he had to catch a punch with his face. Inevitable, really.
Dick doesn't bother to hold back a snarl as he drops back to catch himself on one hand and kicks out hard.
The thug hits the high-for-Gotham barrier around the edge of the roof and bounces neatly back into Dick's own punch.
When he turns, there are two unconscious men sprawled almost artistically to the left and the right, and Batman is choking the last to weak and listless stillness.
He hasn't said a word to Batman yet, not since the old, familiar shared look of let's do this when they'd wound up on the same rooftop watching the robbers start to argue about the division of spoils on the other rooftop.
He doesn't say anything now -- just helps Batman package the thugs up and lower them to the alley below.
Tosses the bags of stolen goods down next to them, and yeah, now is about the time when he could say something -- when he probably should, just to retain his rep as the mostly-sane one, but...
And it's not like they have nothing to say to each other, it's just that he really should've gone ahead and gotten that doctorate in psychology, because fuck if he knows how to talk to the man. He closes his eyes for a moment. Funny how the Babs in his head talks to him more than the real one, these days.
Still, he can at least make himself available.
He sits on a handy gargoyle -- and yeah, there are reasons to appreciate Gotham -- and gives Bruce as open a look as he can manage.
And Bruce is... looking at him.
Fuck. "It wasn't a hard punch."
"That wasn't --"
And Bruce actually bites his lip, and starts to turn away, and. "Don't."
It's easy, nearly reflexive to reach out, to pull the man in and the first kiss to his bruising cheek is such a physical shock that he almost can't feel it.
A moment to readjust sensation and -- yes. Heat through the suits. Both of them. And Bruce's hand in his hair, not mussing it so much as feeling it, learning the length of it, and Dick feels every brush as another night that he hasn't been in Gotham, another fucking month.
And then the kissing gets harder, and Bruce's mouth is the same as his hands, as the obsessively toughened balls of his feet -- bruising and necessary. Everywhere but Dick's lips. He groans at the empty air in his mouth and Bruce tugs hard on his ponytail, kissing and biting his jaw, making it harder to escape.
If he even wanted to.
"Fuck. Oh fuck this is so sick -- "
And Bruce pulls away.
"I will KILL you if you stop."
This time. But that part doesn't have to be said.
Body-memory he can feel, double exposure, another night, another fucking Gotham-special gargoyle, and himself, fifteen years old and leaning on the thing, bracing himself on trembling hands.
Another alley below, seven jewel thieves thoroughly beaten and carefully tied, but not before they'd landed some really good punches and kicks, leaving him sore all over and stoned on adrenaline, feeling the bruises come up on his skin beneath the Robin suit like localized sunrises.
It had been time, past time, for Dick to turn around and paste a smile on his face for Batman, looming somewhere behind him, waiting, but his arms didn't remember how to work.
He'd managed to force a smile anyway, just as Bruce was resting a hand on his shoulder.
And the suit had been slick -- all the suits are -- and that hand had slid right down his back, over more than one of the bruises and it's hard to stay in the present.
Because Bruce is right on him now, yeah, but then...
Then he'd been hissing and arching, because Bruce's hand was even warmer than his own skin.
Even through the gauntlet.
And then the hand had been on his ass, and the part of him that could've moved, could've called a halt to things, had been gone before he could blink.
Because Bruce's hand had... shifted.
And he knows exactly what's on his face right now, and Bruce is never more there than when they're sharing a memory neither of them can put into perspective, but.
There's a vicious and annoying part of his own mind that's insistent: remember this. All of it.
The scent of winter-coming in the air and the way he'd been sore and exhausted in one moment and rock-hard in the next, pushing back and wanting, because fuck, sometimes it seemed like he'd been waiting forever (even then), sometimes it had seemed like the fucking Robin suit would strangle him.
That he'd like that, because it'd almost be like being touched by --
"Bruce," he'd moaned, and his voice hadn't cracked, but it had been a near thing. Adolescence had nothing on that want.
Bruce, who had frozen so hard and fast that Dick could feel it where he wasn't being touched, all the blood in his body trapped and pounding in his dick like it was going to kill him. He'd had no idea what to do or say.
And when he had turned around, half-falling on the damned gargoyle, Bruce was already several feet away, one hand balled into a fist and his face even more closed than that.
"Go home. Let Alfred take care. Of the bruises."
And he was gone, still faster than Dick could follow, still smoother, even though he'd known all the moves back then.
Dick swallows around the spiked mace of feeling crawling up the back of his throat and shakes it off as best he can.
Bruce is there above him, showing nothing but pure Batman face. Silent, and silent, and still managing to tell him that this is a case closed a decade ago.
But he's not going to let it go. He's not fifteen anymore, going home alone to pine and yearn and jerk off until he can sleep is no longer age-appropriate. He still remembers the articles and police reports and the medical examiner's photos of the escaped-con thug who'd crossed Batman's path later that night, and damned if they're going to deal with this that way, either.
"There's no excuse for running this time."
The narrowing of the eye-slits says different.
Dick just continues, "Unless you're going to tell me you don't want this," and he slides his free hand up to cup the codpiece of the Batsuit, where he can tell, even if maybe nobody else could, the difference between the world's best groin guard and the even harder flesh behind it. He doesn't need to add, unless you're going to lie.
Batman takes a shallow breath, visibly trying to think his way out of this like it's one of Crane's or Nygma's traps, and Dick can almost laugh.
"Barbara --" the deep voice begins, stuck somewhere between Batman at his most stoic and Bruce at his most lost.
"--Knows," Dick says, and then cuts that thought off before it can go anywhere.
And God, he can feel him. So fucking close, and everything he'd never wanted to want.
And it's honest, and it's open, and it's so Bruce that his face hurts with wanting to wince, but -- "No. Not this time." And he squeezes, exactly as much as it takes to make Bruce feel it.
"You said --" And Bruce can't seem to repeat it, can't force the word "sick" through his clenched teeth.
A flash of something a lot like hate, even if Dick doesn't know who it's for. He feels himself smile. "Oh, it's sick that it's taken us being back in this position to bring us back here --" and he squeezes, again, and earns an actual gasp for a second before it's choked off "-- and there's a whole long discussion or thirty we're going to have about this later, in however many years it takes you to be ready to talk, but right now?" He lets go, shifts his hand up to wrap around the back of the cowl. "Just come back down here."
For a long moment he's sure Bruce won't, that this is going to end the same way it did last time, only without him winding up back at Wayne Manor with Alfred to minister to his bruises, physical and otherwise.
Then Batman's full weight is on him, pressing him into the gargoyle like it's not spiked, horned stone. And it's like it's Dick's first kiss, instead of just their first kiss, and it's like they've been doing this forever, so hot and wet and perfect it doesn't register at first that they are kissing. His legs twine around Batman's waist, feet shifting the cape that's fallen over them both. The hand still wrapped in his ponytail is pulling again, pulling him back in an even crazier arch over the gargoyle.
Batman's other hand finds its way back to his ass, and he mirrors it with his own, running gauntleted fingers along where he knows the Batsuit goes from full to merely excellent protection, squeezing hard enough to be felt through the different thicknesses of armor.
Batman groans and breaks the kiss, attacking his throat with sucking bites and kisses. It's quiet, but more noise than an opponent has forced out of him in years.
So good. Beyond all the heat and the wet and the pain, and Dick's trying to be quiet, too, if only because he doesn't want to miss a single sound Bruce makes. He uses his leg-hold and his hands on cowl and trunks and the still-yanking grip in his hair, flexes further back over the gargoyle's spread wings to press his pounding erection flush to Bruce's.
There's so many layers of protection between them they shouldn't be able to feel a thing; but they do. They both do.
And Bruce gasps, once, mouth closing on Dick's chin and hands tightening in his hair, on his ass.
Teeth on his collarbone, hot breath insinuating into the tiny space between the top of his suit and his bare skin underneath. He wants to be naked, but a part of him doesn't know if that will -- if it could -- make it better.
Dick finds the almost imperceptible curve of Bruce's ear under the cowl, locks his own teeth around it. He's rewarded with another groan.
Bruce's hips are moving in counterpoint to his, finding his rhythm effortlessly and rocking him back against unyielding stone again. Dick's bent back over the gargoyle in a way normal people couldn't without bones being broken. He might come just like this, in his pants like a teenager, necking and dry-humping.
He's not a teenager anymore, though. The fact that this is actually happening is the surest proof of that.
He knows the fastenings on the Batsuit, better than anyone except Harold and Batman himself; he's worn it. Conditioning your body to privation only goes so far, and so there's a well-hidden and well-protected fly that doesn't require time-consuming or compromising undressing. Dick has it open faster than he can pick a lock, and feels the full-body wince when he shifts his own hips back to move the restricting cup out of the way.
But Bruce doesn't try to stop him.
Just plunges back in his mouth tongue-first, hungry but in no hurry. There's no reason why Bruce should know the fastenings on the latest iteration of the Nightwing suit, but he does, or he's just learning as he goes, gloved and blind.
No one has instincts like Bruce.
The flexible panel that allows Nightwing freedom of movement Batman can only aspire to springs aside, and a hard hand under his bared ass pulls him up to meet Bruce's thrust. Hot skin on skin, and Dick's too close to the edge of orgasm with the first glancing slide of Bruce's erection along his own. He wraps one gauntleted hand around them both.
And Bruce... shakes. Once, but all over, and Dick knows he has about three seconds to put the train back on the rails before Bruce is gone, dick flapping in the breeze and all.
Bites back a laugh, because it really isn't all that funny, considering. "I want more. Than this." And he doesn't just mean that he wants a coupling more intimate and less like a high-school back-seat grope, but that much he could have said with just his body.
There's no pause for thought before the hand unwinds from his ponytail, cups the side of his face. Then it seems like he waits forever for the slight, curt nod, though it's probably only seconds. It's an answer, maybe more of one than Bruce realizes he's giving.
Dick rolls out from under the weight, the touch, the heat and the cape. He re-fastens his suit, not shivering against the cold and not-- He forces himself to look at Bruce.
And maybe there's a little bit of Bruce around the eyes, and in the not-quite-loose set of his mouth, but.
That just makes it easier to leave.
He has his line-launcher aimed when Bruce says, "Dick. Wait." It's Bruce's voice; a request, not an order. He turns back.
Bruce is standing in front of the gargoyle, arms crossed, cape furled around him.
Dick holsters the line-launcher and takes up his own defensive posture, hands on his hips. Their best communication has always been nonverbal, and he doesn't object to that, he's just tired of settling for it.
They're meters apart on the rooftop, and further, until Bruce starts walking towards him, long strides swallowing the distance between them. Three meters; two; one. He can see Bruce steeling himself to speak, jaw working.
"I want that, too."
The cowl's still on, but the real mask, the one that's all in the muscles of his face, is gone, so Dick can live with the fact that the words aren't much.
"Okay," he says, and lets it be a question. An invitation.
The last few feet separating them fall behind the cape. Bruce reaches out, takes Dick's hands in his own, and leans in. It's his own question and invitation, Dick thinks, meeting the offered kiss open-mouthed. It's sweet but fleeting, and when their lips part Bruce whispers, "Come home with me."
And some part of Dick saw that coming, but not enough. Not enough to prepare. He feels himself stiffen all over.
Forces himself to relax.
"I. All right. For now."
Bruce half-turns, looks in the direction of where Dick knows the Batmobile is parked several streets away. There's no fucking way-- "I'll. Meet you there," he says.
Slaloming the motorcycle through Gotham's labyrinthine streets takes just enough concentration to keep him from having to think too much about what he's doing. What they're doing.
He uses the console to let Oracle know to reroute anything routine to Batgirl -- Tim's in for the night at Brentwood, studying -- the comlink would be easier, especially while he's driving, but then he'd have to actually talk to her.
He knows better than to think Batman is ever not on call.
The Batmobile's already parked when he decelerates through the end of the tunnel. Maybe he overcompensated just a little trying not to drive recklessly fast over here. The thought would be worth a smile if he wasn't so...
Bruce emerges from the driver's side door as Dick's swinging his leg over the bike, cowl already pushed back, leaving his face bare. The look in his eyes is hungry, and still open, and Dick wants to be fucked on the hood of the Batmobile, bent over and watching Bruce's reflection in the tinted windshield.
It's a thought he's had before, familiar as a nemesis, and that just makes it seem stranger to think it again, now. When everything's about to be different, or more the same than ever.
He pulls his hand away from the car's finish, and looks up to find Bruce watching him. And it isn't that the hunger is in any way lessened by the humor of a shared joke, it's just... leavened.
No one's basic humanity could ever be more surprising than Bruce's.
"Your bedroom," Dick says, and Bruce leads the way.
They leave their costumes in the Cave, some boundaries still being inviolable. It's newly weird to strip down together now, something they acknowledge with matched smirks of wry self-consciousness. There's a wardrobe stocked with workout clothes and robes. Alfred's away at Brentwood, there's no one upstairs, but they were both raised in this house; there's no question of their going naked through the halls of Wayne Manor.
Bruce has dozens of identical silk robes, black on grey brocade. Several are always kept down here. He pulls one on, and so does Dick.
The walk to the master suite is silent and almost comfortable. There's an equally direct route that leads past Dick's old room on the way there, but neither of them so much as blink turning the other way.
Sense memory hits him again the moment the door opens: this space that smells purely of Bruce, not the faintest hint of guano or high-octane or old blood, where once a boy snuck in to bury his face in pristine white sheets and yank frantically at his too-long-neglected erection until he'd stained them.
He won't find a flicker of shared amusement in Bruce's eyes for that. Alfred has a proper respect for confidences.
Who lets the robe slip from his shoulders as soon as the door closes. The brief strangeness from downstairs is back in full force, because they've seen each other naked hundreds, thousands of times, but never like this. Bruce is all broad shoulders and purposeful musculature, and just hard enough to point at Dick.
Dick's licking his lips before he realizes it, and yeah, he does want a taste, come to think. Bruce moves in first, though, sliding his hands into Dick's robe, sliding it open and off. And looking's a good thing, but it's got nothing on the smooth heat of skin-to-skin contact. He reaches up, tilts Bruce's head down for a kiss.
And this is.
It's nothing he expected.
Because the noise Bruce is making isn't so much loud as constant, moaning softly into his mouth, and it's the subtlest form of aggression.
Dick can't not swallow every sound, can't stop himself from reaching out and stroking his way over every muscle, every livid scar, just to get more.
"God, Bruce --"
Hands on his ass, pulling him in, and it's not that he doesn't want exactly that, it's just.
Maybe this is what it's always like when you finally get what you wanted?
This same disconnect of things expected and wanted and things completely surprising.
Because even knowing Bruce wanted him is nothing to having Bruce taking him.
And every kiss is a declaration, of both intent and belief, and Dick can't breathe and can't remember why he wants to.
Stumble-walks them back to the bed, and it's almost better that there's no grace in this, that neither of them seem to have any left, but then Bruce rolls beneath him like a wave of heat and muscle, and that good, good angle is gone, but, fuck.
He never wants to stop sliding all over Bruce, feeling him as a series of mind-burning points of contact -- friction and slickness and heat.
It's the first sound Bruce has tried to cut off, and Dick thinks it has more to do with it being recognizable language than anything else. "Tell me."
And for a moment Bruce closes his eyes, and it's queerly -- young. A child's denial of an ugly, visual truth. But when he opens his eyes again, they blaze.
"I want you."
And it should be obvious, or even silly, but. It's nothing but the truth, and a half-dozen indifferently terrifying things besides. It's Bruce, and the way hunger's pouring off him in a wash Dick can almost taste.
His belly seizes on it, twists, and it's something like being sick, but mostly it's just the pound of his own cock, naked and ready in a way he doesn't think his mind will ever be.
He doesn't have words.
He straddles Bruce, instead, rocking them together, and he thinks that if they can just lose themselves in this, then...
He feels like a coward.
It's everything he asked for, if not what he wanted, and now he's going to punk out?
He growls to himself and bites his way down Bruce's chest, less because it's something he's always wanted to do -- it is -- than because he wants to force himself into this.
This taste of sweat and skin and the perverse caress of smooth scar tissue against his tongue.
Bruce's hands are in his hair, finally just pulling out the damned tie, and Dick takes a moment to shake it all loose, liking the way it fans out over Bruce's abdomen.
Liking it more when the muscles jump and twitch and flex while he watches.
And he has no idea what he wanted to say, but for once, for fucking once it's not important. Or at least not as important as --
Bruce in his mouth, in his mouth, and he's drooling like a virgin, because, fuck, this is right. This is exactly what he wanted, taste of him both uniquely Bruce and simply male, weight and thickness and he knows he's groaning, knows this is probably the technical nadir of all blowjobs.
Knows he's not going to stop.
And the first thrust makes it even better.
And the second thrust makes him jet pre-come all over the sheets, because, fuck, deep.
He swallows in something between reflex and panic and Bruce doesn't pause, maybe can't.
Bruce fucks his way into his throat like it's exactly what he's been wanting to do for years, like he knows...
Dick looks up and Bruce is watching him, knife-blue eyes wide and vulnerable and still so hungry.
And he wants to ask what he can do, what else he can do, but he knows that hunger is always going to be there, no matter what.
And, fuck, he wants.
Pulls off just as slow as he wants to, and then forgets that plan because teasing the head of Bruce's cock is the best game in the world.
Salty and slick and just soft enough that he has to make his kisses hard, and he can't even look at Bruce anymore, it's too intense, but the image of him squeezing his eyes shut and throwing his head back against the pillow is burned into his mind, anyway.
Bruce groans loud enough to make him shiver.
I love you, he doesn't say.
Bruce's hands, carded through his hair.
Always, always --
And Bruce pulls him the rest of the way off and snakes his free hand down to yank on his balls. "More. I want --"
Because fuck, that's awful, and yeah, he could've just said "no, I don't want to come yet," and Dick could've said "hey, it's not like this is the only time."
But. He doesn't really believe that. Even now.
And the kiss leads into a roll, leads into being pressed down to the mattress with Bruce, God, all over him.
Still almost enough broader, taller, bigger than Dick to fucking surround him, and that's wonderful, but.
Naked, skin, has to get his legs up and --
And whatever he was going to say is swallowed in the next kiss, and the next. Bruce's hands hard on his shoulders and Bruce's eyes wide open.
Drinking him in.
"Fuck me," he says, and he can't decide if it's better or worse that it doesn't come out as desperate and lost as it did in all the fantasies, but it makes Bruce flare like there's a sun under his skin.
Makes his hand tremble on Dick's chest, holding him down, holding him there like he thinks Dick will try to move.
Classy little bottle of lubricant that's all about Bruce and nothing to do with Batman, and the first slow finger makes him flex and arch, but yes, yes, they can talk with their bodies, because Bruce doesn't even ask.
Two fingers without a pause, up and thick and hard and in, and it's not that he needs any help keeping his leg up, but it's so good to have Bruce's free hand cupping the back of his thigh that he has to push back, writhe all over the sheets, and he doesn't have to look because he can feel Bruce watching.
Hard, deep thrust and his body doesn't know whether or not it's pain, but -- "More, Bruce, God don't stop --"
And Dick's eyes fly open and Bruce is there, right there, like Dick has fallen into a three-dimensional world for the first time, and he has to touch.
Reach up and just... not pull him down, not move him at all, just pet his mouth into a snarl, a smile --
Bruce sucks his fingers in and his eyes are still open, unblinking with silent demand. Know this. See this. And for a moment Dick can almost believe that he can say everything he hasn't, that he can do it with more than just his desperate body.
And he has to turn his head, and that makes Bruce stop, one hand working with steady practicality inside him and the other sliding out from under his thigh to catch him by the chin.
Bruce forces his face back up.
Doesn't say anything -- can't say anything with Dick's fingers in his mouth.
And then he pushes his fingers into Dick's mouth.
Bracing himself on his knees and fucking him with both hands, and Dick throws his leg up, pushing down on Bruce's shoulder with his foot, and God, the stretch. Bruce bites his fingers and just holds them between his teeth, still staring.
Still moving, and Dick wants to swallow his fingers, flexes around the fingers in his ass and moans and shakes and wants.
Briefly harder bite and Bruce lets his fingers go, licking at the tips for a moment that makes Dick bite, makes him reach back for the headboard and hold on, because this is going to shake him apart.
Not a question, and Dick's eyes roll back in his head even as his body arches itself off the bed.
Slow slide out and Dick bites hard enough to taste blood, chokes at the first hot, blunt push.
And Bruce tugs on the fingers in Dick's mouth, and letting them go is just another excuse to cry out, to yell, especially with spit-slick fingers sliding up and down the outside of his leg.
Especially with Bruce screwing his way in, fucking his way in, and --
"Fucking blink, man," and Dick laughs at himself.
Laughs harder when Bruce does, once, with obvious deliberation, and then it's just another groan.
Wiry curls against his ass and endless scarred muscle everywhere he can reach, everywhere he can see, and he gets a better grip on the headboard just so he can slam himself back the instant Bruce is almost all the way out.
Savage little growl and Bruce is tightening his hold, rocking in fast and hard, and Dick isn't even close to being able to hold in the sounds, even if he wanted to.
Right now he wants to shout the whole fucking manor down around them, wants Bruce to force every scream, every needy little wail right out of his body, just like --
That. Can't even call it speech. Just something between an exhale and a groan and --
"Fuck me --"
And Dick loses all desire to climb Bruce like a lust-addled monkey -- gymnast is far, far too much to ask for right now -- because, fuck, hard.
So deep that all that comes out is air, and the barest edge of a whimper. He can't feel anything but Bruce's cock in his ass and Bruce's gaze on him like weights on his chest.
Or. Maybe he can feel it, but it's all about Bruce right now.
The brush of Bruce's palm on his thigh, the sharp bite of teeth on his ankle, and Bruce, Bruce moving. Hips snapping and rolling and grinding and there's a brief, absurd image of taking the man to one of Dick's favorite clubs, utterly burnt away by the slick-sticky hand on his throat.
"Bruce, I need you, fuck, I need you --"
And Dick bites his lip hard, but he won't look away. Not from this. Not now.
This is... this is everything, and right now the only thing he wants more than to be pretzeled up and fucked senseless is to do it again.
And Bruce clutches his thigh hard with one hand and his hip with the other and just... lets go.
Every thrust harder, faster than the last, and Dick feels like he should be on display, that someone should see this, if only because he can't quite believe it, fantasies flashing through his mind on endless loop.
Bruce, hip deep in him while he scrabbled for purchase on a gargoyle.
Bruce, swallowing him down in grim, implacable silence while Dick tried not to beg.
Bruce in him, just like --
Now, barely pulling out at all before driving back in again. And again, and his mouth is open now, more of those killing little groans escaping with every thrust, more pressure, and, fuck, sweat pattering onto Dick's chest from Bruce's own.
"Come, Bruce. Come in me..."
And Bruce gasps like Dick's punched him, forces Dick's other leg up from where he'd had it braced on the bed, up around his waist, and the rhythm is staggered, rough. Something that should be pathetic, but just feels incredible, ratcheting him up and bringing him down, and he reaches for his own cock just in time for Bruce to drop the leg from his shoulder and smack Dick's hand aside.
No explanation, no words left for either of them, even when Bruce pulls out.
Even when he pushes Dick over onto his belly and yanks him up on his knees by the hips.
Burning slide in and Dick's almost sobbing now, pressing his face to the pillow and begging, needing, and Bruce doesn't stop.
Grabs a handful of his hair and pulls, and Dick screams to the headboard and grabs two fistfuls of the sheets and.
Everything he had left, maybe everything he is, because Bruce has him.
And Bruce isn't letting go.
"You don't. You don't know how badly --" Cut off by a helpless, hurt-sounding moan and Bruce yanks on his hair and squeezes his hip hard enough to leave fingerprints and slams back in.
One last time.
Coming hard, and shaking his way through it, silent except for a series of gasps that drive Dick higher, get him so close --
And then Bruce collapses, bracing himself on his own quick hands and managing to only actually remove a scant handful of the hair on Dick's head.
It would be funny if his cock wasn't so hard he can't see.
"Bruce. Fuck, you have to touch me."
And Bruce is on him, sliding down for a better position and tugging Dick's knees down flat to the bed.
And licking his way up like something out of the world's best anatomy lesson. Quads, fuck, glutes, up and up to the obliques, and Dick can't stop humping the mattress. He feels so young and he feels like the most beautiful creature on the planet, something made for sex, something that's supposed to feel just like this --
Staked out on the rack of his own need.
"Bruce..." And it's less a word than a sound forced beyond his thick tongue and bitten lips.
Bruce brushes the hair off the back of his neck and kisses him there, slow and maddening and purposeful. Slides his hands up to twine with Dick's own.
Bites his way to Dick's ear. "I want. I want you in me, Dick."
Dick manages not to lose it right then, barely, by forcing himself not to think of what comes next. There's no way he's not going to give Bruce what he wants. What he asked for, and that has him needing to squeeze himself, hard, clench every muscle he has to hold on to what's left of his control.
And there's no amount of control that could have made him pull out from under Bruce's perfect, blanketing weight, as good as he always knew it would be, but he rides the inevitability of it, untangling their limbs.
Pushes Bruce down to the mattress with a hand on his back, leaning into it until the breath groans out of the man. Crawls backwards down the bed.
Grips him by the backs of his knees and spreads him. And it's all there, his softened but still twitching cock, his heavy swinging balls, the red pucker of his ass standing out against pale skin and dark hair like something out of Dick's best nightmares, his flexing back marked with scars that still haven't known his tongue.
Laid out like a feast of his fantasies.
He licks one long line from the underslung curve of Bruce's sac up through his cleft. Maps textures -- suede-soft, crisp-haired, yielding-tender, oil-smooth -- and then he veers away from the arch of Bruce's spine to bite at scars on either side.
He moans against a mouthful of muscle, because Bruce sounds almost broken.
And Bruce is on the verge of begging, he can hear it in his voice, and Dick doesn't want to hear that, ever.
"Lube," he grates out, his own voice strained and strange.
Bruce reaches back blind, pours the right amount unerringly over Dick's hand, rises up on his knees.
Fuck, Bruce is tight. Dick's fingers slide in slickly and he's so hard it feels like he'll break and he's not going to be able to do this right.
"Just. Do it." It's a growl, hungry and low and Bruce and he rubs his lube-wet hand once down his cock and pushes in.
And Bruce is too tight but he's pushing back hard, and Dick just fucks his way in, short, hard, hard strokes, and Bruce is shaking. So hot and still so tight Dick almost can't move, and this wouldn't work at all without all his strength and Bruce's working in counterpoint.
He can feel Bruce trying to relax around him, but he can't stop shoving in, angling for Bruce's prostate and hitting it, making him tighten even more. He's still thrusting back into every stroke.
Dick feels his orgasm coming again, and is still surprised when it slams into him, stealing his breath and drawing his clenching hands down from Bruce's shoulders to his ass, clawing red crisscrosses through the raised white scars.
Bruce tightens around him again. Again.
There's no post-orgasmic drain, not even the muscle-deep tiredness of a good workout; Dick is wired, thrumming with energy.
He's still hard. He eases out of Bruce's ass, slow enough that they're both hissing, hands holding Bruce's hips like he might try to move.
Slides one around and Bruce is. Hard. Again.
Pulls him over onto his back, and feels like he'll fall into the dilated black of Bruce's eyes and never find his way out again.
Looking up at him like he wants to say something he's too breathless to get out, but Dick doesn't need the words. They're in every line of Bruce's body now, and maybe in his own, too, he thinks:
I want more.
Like it's always going to be there now. Like it hasn't always been there before tonight.
Like their best communication is always going to be nonverbal, and changing everything isn't going to change anything at all.
So when he puts his shoulders to the backs of Bruce's calves and pushes into him again, it's bruising, brutal, even though Bruce is finally relaxed enough that Dick slides in almost easily.
He can almost get lost in the pure physicality of it. Almost.
Wraps his hands around Bruce's biceps, fingertips pressed to ridges of sinew, loving that he can barely span the breadth of the man's arms. That the muscle is so unyielding he might as well be gripping stone.
Clamps his teeth onto a nipple, rides out the rise of Bruce's chest into the bite, working it into his rhythm.
And it's not like having Bruce under him like this isn't something he's fantasized about for what sometimes seems like his whole life, almost as much as he's always wanted Bruce to take him, but somehow he never pictured them being able to do this as equals.
So this isn't actually like he'd imagined; it's too mutual, it's too intense and there's too much control. But the truth at the base of every fantasy is still there:
They want this. And maybe it won't wreck everything, after all.
Bruce's fingers thread back into his hair, stroking sweat-damp strands away from where they'd stuck to his face, cupping his skull.
He looks up through the swinging veil of hair that's escaped Bruce's ministrations, watching Bruce's eyes watch him, watching his tongue wet his lips, watching his throat work as he swallows.
Stretches forward on a down-stroke, knowing he can't quite reach past Bruce's collarbone in this position, and Bruce curls up, abs flexing, to meet him for a messy, toothy kiss.
It's long and hungry, and Dick's undulating to hold it without slackening the roll of his hips. It's eventually going to do serious damage to his spine, but he needs this, needs the way they're both straining for it as much as the kiss itself.
But he can't hold it, and ducking his head to rub his cheek along Bruce's, to refasten his mouth to the thickly-corded neck, is almost as good.
Sucks just lightly enough not to leave a mark. Stops sucking and digs in with his teeth when Bruce growls.
And now he feels his erection starting to subside; but he's not ready for this to be over. He brings one of Bruce's hands to his mouth, sucking his fingers and licking them wet. "In me."
Bruce's fingers are so big, broad and callused and entirely too good at this, sliding back into him, and he's still loose and slick enough that they'd have gone in easily if Bruce hadn't started with two, pushing him open.
He moans into Bruce's shoulder, bites it, shifts his weight so he can brace himself on one knee and hook the other leg over Bruce's arm. And feeling smug that he can do that is probably at least as good as what it gets him: Bruce's fingers in deep.
Dick shoves back against them and bites down hard when Bruce comes back with three. Muffles a shout in that broad shoulder when they jab into just the right spot.
He's hard now, oh yeah.
Rocks up to meet the next thrust from Bruce's hand and slams back into him, putting as much into it as his leg will let him, which is close enough to enough that it doesn't matter.
And the sound Bruce makes is all vowels and growl. So Dick does it again.
Keeping his leg raised is too much of a distraction, so he tucks his foot behind Bruce's flexing arm, loving the stretch, loving how he can feel Bruce's muscles work against his Achilles tendon like a violinist's bow.
Teamwork. This is what they've always been best at.
Which thought is a laugh waiting to happen, or at least a smirk, but it's too good to hold on to the humor, all perfect rhythm like some kind of flesh machinery, and he has nothing like control over the sounds he's making.
It's a little like when he's gunning a motorcycle down a long straightaway, going so fast and smooth he feels like he'll just take off and fly, and he just keeps the revving the engine.
It's the moment when he first lets go of the trapeze, swinging free into empty space in a move that only makes sense when you think about it -- and Dick never does.
It's Bruce, right here, in him and around him and his.
And Dick just keeps licking and nipping Bruce's arm and shoulder and neck, and just keeps snapping his hips between Bruce's ass and Bruce's hand.
The rhythm's perfect, so perfect. Almost too perfect, and he tries shifting out of it, tries to ramp it down just a little, or speed out of it, because right now it's so good it's scary.
Bruce won't let him.
Forces Dick to stay in tempo with the obdurate motions of his own hips and hand.
And that's so Bruce that Dick swallows a laugh and just goes with it, throws himself into the rhythm Bruce is holding so insistently until he's outdoing him in vigor at least.
Impaling himself on Bruce's fingers. Stabbing into Bruce so hard the mattress creaks under his ass before Dick pulls back to do it all again.
He lifts his face away from Bruce's shoulder, his head away from Bruce's fingers in his hair, back arching, and his breath catches at the expression on Bruce's face. Somewhere between a smile and a snarl, between satiation and hunger.
Bruce's eyes bore into his like he's reflecting that same primal look back; and maybe he is. But there's more there, too.
Bruce's hands tighten on his shoulders: come here.
He stretches forward to tease Bruce's mouth open, licking at his lips until they're kissing, sweet and sensuous this time, and it doesn't clash with their rhythm at all. Wraps his arms around the back of Bruce's neck and just...
Savors it. He can't imagine any comfortable, companionable cuddle after this ends, so he's going to take as much of it as he can now, while it's still possible.
Strokes the damp curls at Bruce's nape with just the most sensitive part of his fingertips, learning the feel of him.
Tries to slow the kiss down even more, and Bruce's free hand slides back into his hair, combing through the strands, caressing at the roots. The other is still working wonderfully in his ass; Dick flexes his ankle against Bruce's triceps in appreciation.
And he does his best to catalogue the tastes and textures of Bruce's mouth, working his way methodically from one side to the other, but he keeps getting distracted by Bruce's tongue playing with his own.
Bruce, playful. He can go with that. Smiles into the kiss.
And it's not like they're not still fucking, or that the rhythm is losing any of its intensity, but it's nothing he feels a need to escape, any more. Instead it's so comfortable he can almost relax into it.
So good he never wants this to end.
Bruce's hand disentangles from his hair, drifts down over his temple, traces the curve of his eyelid inward, curves down alongside his nose, and Dick turns into the touch, breaking their kiss briefly. Opens his eyes and has no idea when he'd closed them, because he never wants to forget the way Bruce looks right now.
Staring up at him, lips parted, face flushed, eyes intent and faraway all at once.
Stroking Dick's cheekbones, his eyebrows, fingers framing his --
And suddenly Dick knows exactly what Bruce is doing, what he's seeing. The mask he left down in the Cave, or. It's hard to tell, Bruce's hands are shaking just slightly and slipping in sweat, but it feels like he's sketching a smaller mask. Robin's mask.
And it's maybe the sickest thing possible that that should be what finally pushes him groaning over the edge again, but it does.
He's still moaning through the aftershocks when Bruce's hand freezes on his face, squeezes just enough that Dick starts to worry about bruises, and he's pulsing against Dick's belly, adding a thicker wetness to the sweat-soaked skin.
Bruce's other hand slips out of his ass.
Dick eases his leg down and back, moves his own hands to the bed and some of his weight to them. Lets his head hang down, his hair falling into something like a screen between them.
Stares at Bruce's chest, following sweat droplets with his eyes as they inch through the forest of dark hairs, watching a tiny muscle tic above one nipple shift the landscape of skin around it.
He knows what's coming. This can't happen again, Bruce will say.
And Dick has no energy left to argue.
He shuts his eyes so tight he sees stars.
Bruce's hand is still on his face, still stroking him, and it's not soothing at all. Or.
It probably should be soothing, and maybe even would be if they weren't exactly who they are, or. God, he really can't think.
And when Bruce finally does move his hand, it's almost instinct to pull away, just like it is to freeze when Bruce catches him by the wrist.
No longer hungry, but still hard, demanding in its own Bruce way.
Dick blinks once, again. Pulls on something like his game face. Looks up through his hair, not quite up to tossing it over his shoulder. Not here.
And Bruce... fuck. He's working for it, Dick can see him working for it, for the control and his own game face. The old, familiar bitterness is a pathetic lump in his belly. Tired, yeah. "It's okay."
Vehement enough to make him jump and blink a little more. "Okay..." This is exactly where that body communication could do them some good.
He really should ask Tim what grunts and signals he's worked out for all those times when he actually wants to talk to Bruce about feelings. Fuck knows he never figured it out.
Twists his hand free and kneels up, sitting on his heels and smiling ruefully. "Maybe if we tried this in another language."
Not even a hesitation, but he's just a little too wrung out to be, precisely, surprised. "I know. What are you going to do about it."
"Ya ne znayu." The barest hint of a smile.
Russian. Jesus. "That's fair." Dick scrubs his hands back through his hair, half-searching for the tie. Bruce tosses it to him without looking away from his eyes. It's damp with sweat and for a gut-roiling moment he wants to lick it. Something like a silent whimper from his balls.
Dick raises an eyebrow.
"I could say it in Romany."
Trapped between sick and sweet, but he remembers the first morning he'd woken up for school to find Bruce already dressed and in the study, laboriously teaching himself the language. "Don't."
"You know, I'm suddenly really getting this, Bruce. The... the fucking difficulty. I used to think... I don't know what I used to think."
"That I didn't want this. That I didn't think about it the same way you did. That --"
Dick puts a hand up. "Yeah, okay. That." Shakes his head. "I think I get it now."
"I wish you didn't."
"I get that, too."
"I want you to stay. I want you here, in Gotham."
And for a moment he can picture it. Alfred magically making all of his favorite foods appear, like it was just an extended holiday visit. The Gotham criminal element not knowing what hit them, because Batman, Robin, Oracle, and Nightwing? They could make it work. They had made it work, professionally and even (mostly) personally, for years. And suddenly it's not so painful to think about. Or not...
It was always easier when Barbara was the disembodied voice of Oracle, or his friend Babs, but no more than that.
And he could have Bruce, every dawn, in this bed. Dick swallows hard. "I don't think I can. Do that."
And Bruce actually laughs. "I think you'd wind up killing me."
And what does it say about him that the smile on Bruce's face hurts to look at?
Bruce sits up and reaches out, fingers gentle on his face and not gentle at all on his chest and belly, tracing patterns in sweat and come that probably aren't random in the least. "What do you want to do?"
Dick catches his hand and holds it against his stomach, squeezes hard. "Try this conversation again after about eight years of therapy?"
"The doctors probably wouldn't have anything good to say about the mask. I've given it some thought."
And Dick laughs so hard he chokes on it. "Fuck, don't. Don't do that."
Another rueful little smile. "I don't think I have any idea how to... how to be Bruce here. With you."
"I don't think I know how to handle you trying. Fuck, that sounds --"
"True." And Bruce shifts his hand under Dick's just enough to squeeze his fingers. "I haven't exactly given you the chance to get used to it."
"You could always try to ease me into things. Glare at me at least one hour a day. Disappear at random intervals."
"Refuse to have sex with you?"
Tempting to push Bruce's hand down, sore or not. "No."
The smile this time is easier to take. Narrower, more intent. "All right..."
And for a long stretch of seconds they just stare at each other, and somehow, somehow that makes it easier. Dick nods, and Bruce nods back, and he can move. Drop Bruce's hand and jump down off the bed, wincing at the jolt of it and effortlessly, reflexively cataloguing the flash in Bruce's eyes.
It's not a victory anymore so much as just... one more bit of truth.
Between them and binding them.
He can live with that.
Dick grabs a robe off the floor and walks out of the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.
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