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 leytelj@gmail.com, or
leave a comment in Jack's journal. 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.

In Bludhaven.

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...

It's Bruce.

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.

Almost.

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.

Squeezed.

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.

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.

"Batman --"

"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.

Almost all.

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*.

Silence.

And God, he can *feel* him. So fucking close, and
everything he'd never wanted to want.

"Dick. Please."

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.

"Stop."

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.

Batman.

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.

Bruce.

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*.

"Dick --"

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*.

"Oh --"

"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 moment.

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.

"God, Bruce..."

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 --

"*Dick* --"

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 --"

"Yeah."

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 --

"*Bruce* --"

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.

Wanting him.

Hard, *deep* thrust and his body doesn't know whether or
not it's pain, but -- "More, Bruce, God don't stop --"

"So beautiful..."

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.

"Now."

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...

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.

Gives up.

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.

"Dick."

He moans against a mouthful of muscle, because Bruce
sounds almost *broken*.

"*Fuck* me."

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.

"Bruce --"

"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 goes.

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."

"*No*."

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."

"Te amo."

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.

"That, too."

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."

"Dick --"

"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.

end.