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Description
time pulls a face when i'm next to you (Bruce/Dick, NC-17)

The Bat-Cave is filled with all sorts of ambient sound, such as the humming of the air-vents as they cycle cold, clean air into the sprawling cavern, or the beeps and intonations of the computer as it runs through a never-ending battery of diagnostics and tests for various family members. There's also the occasional screeching of bats, of course, and it's only thanks to Alfred that the place isn't entirely covered by their smell (and guano), but rather the mild pleasantness of mingled citrus and eucalyptus.

But for Dick, who grew up around noise, noise, noise – Zitka the elephant's trumpeting, the cheer of circus crowds, the clamour of metal as the tent went up in each town, the circus train's roaring – the Cave is quiet in a way that's entirely distracting. It's hard to sit or stand still, to not keep moving around and flit between the panels of dim artificial fluorescence that light up the Cave.

Except right now Bruce is talking to him, finally actually talking to him; not just humouring Dick's questions and comments, or shutting him down altogether, and – the Cave has never been home, exactly, even if the place houses all of their superhero toys and memorabilia, but there's something terribly intimate about being there alone with Bruce, like this.

Alone with Bruce, and also Alan Wayne's bones, admittedly, but still. They're talking. It's nice.

"I have to go. I have a lead to follow up on."

... At least, right up till the point that Bruce decides sharing time is over, and turns away. Away from the examining table holding the remains, away from the harsh glare of the operating lamps that overlook them, and away from Dick, who is having absolutely none of this.

So he says with a cheeky grin, when Bruce makes to remove his surgical gloves, "What, no goodbye kiss?"

The other man stops short, and glances back with a raised eyebrow. Given that Dick had fully expected to be ignored at worst, and deflected at best ("you know the way out, Dick"), it's promising enough to have him biting his lip, and contemplate his next move.

Because Bruce is looking awfully tasty, for someone who's only recently been stabbed, thrown off a skyscraper, and caught in an explosion. Or maybe it's the scruffy, bandaged thing he's got going on.

Or – or maybe it's just the fact that Dick's going out of town for a while, and wants something visceral to remember the man by, something more than the comfortable space between them. Something like the ripple of Bruce's broad muscles under his – or the soft edges of scars, souvenirs collected over years behind cape and cowl – or the salty sweat trailing down his nape, remnants of earlier exertions – or the thrumming beats of his heart, evidence of his mortality. Everything.

There's nothing for it but for Dick to make his move. To take a leap. To step forward, and counter the bland curiosity in that arched brow with a confident little smirk of his own.

"I'm hurt, partner," he says, snaking a hand over the band of exposed skin between Bruce's rib bandages and pyjama pants. "I'm going away for a few weeks, maybe more, and that's all you've got for me?"

Never mind that he was ready to up and walk out some ten minutes before, thanks to Bruce's stubborn inability to listen or talk. But Bruce had opened up to Dick, finally, and they were okay again. Not particularly functional, but – okay enough that he doesn't hesitate in letting his fingers drift beneath fabric, down the steep V of Bruce's pelvis.

"You've been away for longer."

Yes, but — "Not the point, Bruce."

"Isn't it." Bruce's eyes are narrowed and dark, his head ever so slightly tilted. There's an intensity there that's usually reserved for whatever case Batman's currently working on. For a crime scene. For things like the skull he was examining earlier.

The attention gives Dick the courage to reach up with his other hand, and wind it around Bruce's neck. To bring their mouths close, and get that goodbye kiss one way or other. To lick those pursed lips and suck that warm, rough tongue, to –

– To be pushed up against the edge of the examining table, apparently, and, wow, Dick is definitely not complaining, not if it means having Bruce slide his large hands up Dick's shirt and bite down on his bottom lip. For barely a second, though, before he licks his way down Dick's jaw and throat, stubble dragging angrily over skin.

"Poor effort, boss," Dick says, squeezing a hip to indicate his disapproval at the lack of a proper kiss. "I'm not – ah!" -- a gasp, as sharp teeth graze his pulse. That hot mouth moves on to suck at his neck, while those gloved hands continue smoothing over the naked skin under his shirt, and Dick clearly doesn't know what he's on about because it feels so, very, very good.

"Alright –" His groin throbs in agreement, even before he catches his breath enough to finish the sentence – " so maybe that's not a – a bad alternative."

Nor can he stifle a strangled sound as Bruce's hand disappears into the back of his trousers, teasing over the cleft of his ass. Only for a torturously brief moment, before it moves back up and around to map the flat planes of his stomach, stroking along the raised edges of Dick's many scars.

Dick shivers, feeling the hair on his skin rise up at the lingering touches. Bruce is – terribly good at this. Knows it too, if that satisfied growl means anything, and it really is time for Dick to even the score because no way in hell is he going to let that pass.

"You're such a bastard," he complains, but it comes out much too breathless to be taken seriously, and Bruce pauses over his throat to let out a short laugh. Dick can feel those lips, those wicked lovely lips, lifting into a smirk over his bare skin.

"I'm Batman." Except it's velvety and warm over the line of Dick's neck, more like Brucie Wayne, the self-assured lilt of a man who knows exactly how to get society debs undressed and willing in his bed with barely a word.

Dick gulps, and doesn't quite manage to laugh it off.

He's so done with idleness, and while one of his hands clings to Bruce's nape, its mate still lingers in Bruce's waistband, over the severe jut of a hipbone. Dick glides his fingertips sideways and lower, past a trail of thickening hair and down between warm thighs. That wins him a very satisfying hitch of breath – and then a choked groan, hot and rumbling over his collarbone, when his hand curls firmly around the hardening flesh. There's a thrill in having made Bruce react that much.

But Bruce is barely started on Dick's body, apparently, and Dick can't help squirming when one of his nipples gets pinched, and the other licked, in close succession. A stuttered "B-Bruce," falls out of his mouth before he can stop it, but how is he expected to have conscious thought when Bruce's lips are sucking and biting him like that? And, oh god, he's still wearing those damn gloves; the insistent rub of harsh latex over a nub has Dick throwing his head back to moan, just a little.

Screw goodbye kisses, this is – "Much better," he gasps, as lust snakes a burning column through him. He wants this, needs this so much – but all he can do is claw at Bruce's shoulder with his free hand, while the other twists harshly on Bruce's cock.

Bruce grunts, a deep, guttural sound that's all Dick's effect on him, and it's close enough to Batman's gravelly tone, close enough to fantasies Dick has spent too many nights getting off on (in a dark, filthy alleyway, Nightwing pressed down onto the hood of the Bat-mobile by heavy Kevlar, gauntlets ghosting over his bare skin, that heavy black cape enveloping and devouring them both while Batman fucks him hard –), that the pooled desire in his belly flares up, making him dizzy, drawing blood away from his head and sending it all south to his loins. But just as Dick thinks, vaguely, that he's going to need to take an unwanted break to undo his trousers, his hands are shoved away and Bruce gets down onto his knees.

"Oh god," Dick whimpers, trembling in anticipation, as Bruce makes quick work of the clasps on his trousers, yanking them and his boxer briefs down in one quick motion. It's almost obscene when Dick's filled cock springs free in front of Bruce's mouth, and fuck, if he wasn't painfully hard already –

When he looks down, it's to find Bruce's eyes locked on him from under flickering eyelashes, even as the man laves a stripe of saliva up Dick's swollen erection, dragging along beads of pre-come. Dick bucks, all kinds of noise coming out of his mouth, but Bruce merely presses down on a hipbone, warning him to stay in place – and licks a few more times before blowing humid air all over Dick's cock, and closing his mouth around it.

Dick is ridiculously proud of himself for not losing it then and there, because, god, nothing comes close to that sight, or that warm wetness. He just pants desperately as Bruce's gloved fingers hold his hips down, keeping him from thrusting back like his body wants to because, damn it, he's never been as strong as Batman. The only thing he can do is brace against the table, and sink his nails into Bruce's scalp. The hair there is silkier and shorter than what he clutched at moments earlier, not nearly as good a substitute, but Bruce's tongue is doing entirely too wonderful things like – oh, oh. Things that blaze fire through him, igniting every nerve in his body, and never mind that the Cave is usually on the nippy side because all of a sudden it's blistering.

Each brush of tongue, each huff of hot breath sends Dick's back arching further back as pleasure soars through him. The surgical lights glare harshly in his eyes, forcing him turn his head aside, but holy blow jobs, Batman, this is definitely not too shabby as far as goodbyes go. Sure, maybe Dick didn't get to finish what his hands started, but they're too busy clutching Bruce's hair and the table, anyway, and he can – he can wait. Yes. Though –

"We really should –" he has to pause between words to pull in ragged breaths, to spare a glance at contents of the examining table behind him – "we should cover your great, great-grandpa up at least –"

Bruce merely stares up at him, like he's a GCPD rookie who's particularly slow on the uptake – Bones are inanimate objects, Dick – and Dick just wails and hopes that he doesn't accidentally knock over or into Alan Wayne's remains.

At least, until Bruce noisily pulls out, presses a rough, moist kiss to the head of his cock, and then swallows him entirely. Coherent thought goes right out the window, along with most of Dick's brain.

"Bruce, Bruce, fuck, that's –" He tries to tell him how good it feels, but all that follows is a lengthy moan of approval that echoes through the Cave. Words aren't the only thing failing him; his knees buckle and Bruce has to shove him back up and keep him there. How he's going to explain the finger-shaped bruises, he hasn't a clue, but he doesn't care, either. Because that sticky mouth is sliding back to suck him again, like nothing else matters – like – like pulling away to tongue the sensitive corona of Dick's cock, tracing circles around it, is the only important thing in the world. Not the case, not Batman, not anyone else. Only Dick.

As much as he wants to watch, Dick's eyes have long since given up functioning, and fallen shut. He struggles to open them again, and his earlier trail of thought returns to him in a blurry fragment, along with the surreal and incredibly arousing vision that is Bruce hollowing his cheeks around Dick's erection. Something about… waiting. All Dick knows is that he won't have to do that for very long because after another torturously long, spine-melting suckle Bruce is pulling him back in deep too deep and then he's fucking Bruce's throat; he's fucking Bruce's throat, so wet so hot so tight, and there's a scrape of teeth against his dick and oh fuck he's –

"Gonna come," he rasps, "Bruce, st-stop, I'm gonna –" He yanks on the raven strands entwined in his fist, a warning, but Bruce doesn't push off. He simply looks up through heavy-lidded eyes, and taps Dick's thigh – giving permission – and Dick comes violently, arching off the examining table completely with a wordless shout.

He has a vague recollection of hearing Bruce swallow, hard, before he finds himself enveloped by strong arms. Dick's laboured breathing is the lone sound filling the Cave, as he recovers in the embrace of that broad, muscled body. Too spent to do anything else, because it feels he's the one who's been opened up on that examining table, peeled apart, then sewn back together, tenderly, cell by cell, several times over; here in the heart of this strange, lonely subterranea that's neither home nor base, but entirely the temple of Bruce's life-long obsession.

When Dick presses his ear against Bruce's taped chest, he hears the sound of a second heart, beating fast. Fast, but nowhere near the racing of his own. It reminds him to take care of the bulge pressed against his naked thighs.

Bruce's ribcage rises, as he readies to speak, but with some effort, Dick pushes off. Under the bright surgical lights, Bruce's cheeks are ruddy with the rush of blood, sweat adding a glistening sheen to the angular lines of his nose and jaw. His eyes are almost black, pupils blown, and completely focused on Dick.

For a man whose mind is always split between at least ten different things, having his full attention is exhilarating. Addicting. Dick shudders as he returns that steely gaze.

He hooks his arm around Bruce's warm neck, and before words can form, reaches up to slide his other thumb into the other man's mouth. The lips covering the digit are swollen and red and smeared with fluid, so Bruce's tongue doesn't have to swirl much around it to get it moist. His piercing gaze tracks Dick's face the whole while.

When Dick leans in to replace his thumb with his mouth, he can taste himself along with the clean minty flavour that's completely Bruce – and, god, he can taste himself. In Bruce's mouth.

The realisation has Dick shivering a little as he kisses Bruce, filthy and full of teeth now, while his hand slips back to Bruce's waistband, gliding all the way down the juncture between hips and thighs. With his wet thumb, Dick traces the tip of Bruce's throbbing cock, greedily swallowing up the groan it pulls out of Bruce.

It occurs to him then – out of nowhere, as such thoughts often appear – that he probably looks ridiculous; shirt a mess, trousers pooled at his ankles, covered in perspiration and totally flushed; in the middle of the Bat-Cave of all places. Batman would not be impressed. But Dick's riding the high of his earlier orgasm, and he's got Bruce warm against him and twitching in his fist, and it's like he often tells the old man, anyway – dignity is overrated. Most especially when there are sexy times to be had. Besides, Bruce needs to unwind, and that's a task Dick can diligently put himself to.

He yanks his mouth away with a loud smack, and stops to gently fondle Bruce's balls. The hand around Bruce's neck squeezes, massaging the knotted muscle there. "Relax, partner."

Bruce closes his eyes in nothing like his expression of pain, and Dick just wants to smother those crinkles around them with kisses. "It's fine."

Even if Bruce's voice hadn't sounded coarse, like his throat hadn't been vigorously fucked mere minutes before, Dick knows better than to believe him. He only smiles, easy and sensual, and leans back into re-capture those lips; brushes his tongue feather-light to make his way past teeth and over soft palate. Nudges his thigh between Bruce's, forcing the other to widen his stance.

His palm, when he slides it up, is slick with sweat and pre-come as he strokes it hungrily over Bruce's erection, the callous-hardened ridges rubbing hotly inwards. Latex-clad fingers lightly palm his ass, encouraging him, but his partner remains terribly still, otherwise. Dick can feel Bruce's chest clenching, trying to control his reactions. Trying to control the situation, because, damn him, he still can't bring himself to let go, not here, not now, not even with Dick. Not even like this.

That won't do at all.

Dick delves deeper into Bruce's mouth, relishing the rough slide of their tongues even as he pumps the heated cock in his hand with more urgency. It's enough to loosen Bruce's hips a little, but it takes a few deft flicks of Dick's wrist before Bruce starts properly thrusting against him, and that's when Dick breaks the kiss again, wanting – needing – to hear the low growls he's provoking.

Bruce's lips slide across his jaw, exhaling a steamy puff of breath. "Satisfied?"

Dick smirks into the hollow of Bruce's throat, nipping at the salty sweat that has trickled down the unshaven skin there.

"There's room for improvement," he says huskily, lightly scraping a fingernail over Bruce's sensitive glans.

Bruce grips tight on the backs Dick's thighs, pulling them even closer together. "Hn."

There's a hitch in that deep grunt that makes Dick's heart catch, and he tilts his head back to look at the other man. Blood's rushed to his face and he's breathing heavily, but he returns Dick's gaze head-on. The way his mouth is parted, opening and closing ever so slightly more each time Dick brushes over his balls – it's beautifully unguarded for Bruce, and as un-Batman as can anything be. Dick can't resist stealing another quick kiss, his stomach fluttering the whole time.

Then he ducks his face back into Bruce's nape, taking up the unspoken challenge. His hand grips a little tighter around Bruce, and twists more on each upstroke, stopping to delicately thumb the cockhead on its way back down. His efforts earn him an incoherent murmur, and the dig of gloved nails in his thighs as Bruce pushes into his fist; further glorious symptoms of Batman's impeccable control slipping away.

Bruce like this, unravelling under his hand, gets under Dick's skin like nothing else. Crawls right into him, down to his toes, quickening his blood and dragging his deepest needs and desires up through his body. Makes them rise to his throat and try to escape; all of them foolish thoughts that Dick can never, ever speak out loud – You're my best friend – or – Let's go steady, or –

"Love you."

... Or that.

He can feel Bruce's protest, vibrating in that broad chest, before he hears it. "Dick –"

"Love you so much," he insists. His voice is hoarse, muffled against a tensed shoulder.

The first time was a slip; this is stupidity. Dick throws himself into it as fervently as he would leap without a safety net, punctuating each of his words with a meaningful squeeze. "Not Batman. Not Brucie. You."

Because Dick was the circus kid falling for the imperfect, deeply flawed man behind the cape, the cowl, the billion-dollar fortune. If Raya was his first crush and Babs his second… Bruce was (is) his first love. It's not like they're anything resembling together, but –- they'd be so good, if they were.

Bruce inhales, short and sharp, his hips stuttering without volition into Dick's fist. This time, when he calls Dick's name, it's soft and gasped into his ear. Like a secret to keep close, or a prayer; his voice halfway between high society silk and Batman's throaty growl. He doesn't last much longer before he shudders, hard, and comes all over Dick's hand.

It's done, they're both done, but Dick doesn't pull away. He just stays leaned into Bruce, immersed in the heady scent and taste of sweat and sex and spicy aftershave. He just listens to their heaving breaths, echoing in the vast cavern of the cave; just caresses the softening flesh in his hand, all gentleness now. They don't have many quiet moments like this, not anymore, and... he misses it.

Eventually, a sigh, warm and quiet in his ear, makes him grin and lift his head.

"I'd say that was a much better try at saying goodbye." He nuzzles Bruce's neck, letting stubble prickle his cheek. "Up for round three, big boy?"

Dick is already thinking about it. About Bruce spinning him round to bend him forwards onto cool steel of the table, opening him up with thick, slicked fingers – minus gloves, Dick has to draw the line at cadaver bacteria up his ass – before moving on to fuck him. Thoroughly, and preferably into oblivion. They'd have to shift great-great grandpa Wayne's bones, of course, but. Yes.

All he gets, though, is a huff. A laugh. Barely noticeable, maybe, but Dick can always tell. And god help him, but the man is even more achingly handsome when he's flushed in afterglow. Mouth still a smeared crimson mess, but not quite pursed into its usual frown; hair clammy and clumped around forehead and nape; pyjama pants hanging low over the swell of his hipbones and sorely, wonderfully, in need of a change. All of it, because of Dick.

And Dick – is really going to miss it, miss this, while he's back with the Circus. Whatever this is, at any rate, this nameless arrangement that neither of them has ever properly addressed.

"Don't you have a plane to catch?" The tone is gruff, but Bruce's arms are still wrapped firmly around him.

"Yeah," Dick agrees ruefully, elbowing damp bangs out of his eyes. He does need to get going. While Bruce has a case to overwork himself on, but Dick has already spoken his peace about that particular matter.

He licks his hand clean -- and even if he didn't enjoy the taste, the subsequent twitch in Bruce's crotch is so worth it –- before reaching down to pull up his trousers, finally trusting himself to stand up on his own. A heavy bicep slides off him, as he does so, but stops short when Dick clasps the heel of his palm to the escaping wrist.

The Bruce Wayne mask is sliding back into place. Never mind that the man still has flecks of Dick's semen on his face; his jaw is set again, and his brows are back to furrowing in their usual half-frown. But there's an uncommon softness around his eyes, still, and Bruce's gaze upon Dick is intent. Filled with all the affection he can never, will never express.

"Take care of yourself, Dick."

If Dick's returning smile, sunny as it always is, carries more self-satisfaction than usual – well, surely no one can blame him. Especially not when Bruce's fingers curl over his, just a little. "Don't I always, boss?"

The answer is forestalled by the soft press of lips against his – the asked-for goodbye kiss, long and thorough and sweet. It leaves Dick wishing his flight was delayed, or cancelled altogether.

When they break apart, Bruce peels the surgical gloves off his long, thick fingers, and tosses them into a nearby autoclave bin. His mouth, still bruised and sticky, curves into a smirk. "Not as well as I do."

Description
time pulls a face when i'm next to you (Bruce/Dick, NC-17)

The Bat-Cave is filled with all sorts of ambient sound, such as the humming of the air-vents as they cycle cold, clean air into the sprawling cavern, or the beeps and intonations of the computer as it runs through a never-ending battery of diagnostics and tests for various family members. There's also the occasional screeching of bats, of course, and it's only thanks to Alfred that the place isn't entirely covered by their smell (and guano), but rather the mild pleasantness of mingled citrus and eucalyptus.

But for Dick, who grew up around noise, noise, noise – Zitka the elephant's trumpeting, the cheer of circus crowds, the clamour of metal as the tent went up in each town, the circus train's roaring – the Cave is quiet in a way that's entirely distracting. It's hard to sit or stand still, to not keep moving around and flit between the panels of dim artificial fluorescence that light up the Cave.

Except right now Bruce is talking to him, finally actually talking to him; not just humouring Dick's questions and comments, or shutting him down altogether, and – the Cave has never been home, exactly, even if the place houses all of their superhero toys and memorabilia, but there's something terribly intimate about being there alone with Bruce, like this.

Alone with Bruce, and also Alan Wayne's bones, admittedly, but still. They're talking. It's nice.

"I have to go. I have a lead to follow up on."

... At least, right up till the point that Bruce decides sharing time is over, and turns away. Away from the examining table holding the remains, away from the harsh glare of the operating lamps that overlook them, and away from Dick, who is having absolutely none of this.

So he says with a cheeky grin, when Bruce makes to remove his surgical gloves, "What, no goodbye kiss?"

The other man stops short, and glances back with a raised eyebrow. Given that Dick had fully expected to be ignored at worst, and deflected at best ("you know the way out, Dick"), it's promising enough to have him biting his lip, and contemplate his next move.

Because Bruce is looking awfully tasty, for someone who's only recently been stabbed, thrown off a skyscraper, and caught in an explosion. Or maybe it's the scruffy, bandaged thing he's got going on.

Or – or maybe it's just the fact that Dick's going out of town for a while, and wants something visceral to remember the man by, something more than the comfortable space between them. Something like the ripple of Bruce's broad muscles under his – or the soft edges of scars, souvenirs collected over years behind cape and cowl – or the salty sweat trailing down his nape, remnants of earlier exertions – or the thrumming beats of his heart, evidence of his mortality. Everything.

There's nothing for it but for Dick to make his move. To take a leap. To step forward, and counter the bland curiosity in that arched brow with a confident little smirk of his own.

"I'm hurt, partner," he says, snaking a hand over the band of exposed skin between Bruce's rib bandages and pyjama pants. "I'm going away for a few weeks, maybe more, and that's all you've got for me?"

Never mind that he was ready to up and walk out some ten minutes before, thanks to Bruce's stubborn inability to listen or talk. But Bruce had opened up to Dick, finally, and they were okay again. Not particularly functional, but – okay enough that he doesn't hesitate in letting his fingers drift beneath fabric, down the steep V of Bruce's pelvis.

"You've been away for longer."

Yes, but — "Not the point, Bruce."

"Isn't it." Bruce's eyes are narrowed and dark, his head ever so slightly tilted. There's an intensity there that's usually reserved for whatever case Batman's currently working on. For a crime scene. For things like the skull he was examining earlier.

The attention gives Dick the courage to reach up with his other hand, and wind it around Bruce's neck. To bring their mouths close, and get that goodbye kiss one way or other. To lick those pursed lips and suck that warm, rough tongue, to –

– To be pushed up against the edge of the examining table, apparently, and, wow, Dick is definitely not complaining, not if it means having Bruce slide his large hands up Dick's shirt and bite down on his bottom lip. For barely a second, though, before he licks his way down Dick's jaw and throat, stubble dragging angrily over skin.

"Poor effort, boss," Dick says, squeezing a hip to indicate his disapproval at the lack of a proper kiss. "I'm not – ah!" -- a gasp, as sharp teeth graze his pulse. That hot mouth moves on to suck at his neck, while those gloved hands continue smoothing over the naked skin under his shirt, and Dick clearly doesn't know what he's on about because it feels so, very, very good.

"Alright –" His groin throbs in agreement, even before he catches his breath enough to finish the sentence – " so maybe that's not a – a bad alternative."

Nor can he stifle a strangled sound as Bruce's hand disappears into the back of his trousers, teasing over the cleft of his ass. Only for a torturously brief moment, before it moves back up and around to map the flat planes of his stomach, stroking along the raised edges of Dick's many scars.

Dick shivers, feeling the hair on his skin rise up at the lingering touches. Bruce is – terribly good at this. Knows it too, if that satisfied growl means anything, and it really is time for Dick to even the score because no way in hell is he going to let that pass.

"You're such a bastard," he complains, but it comes out much too breathless to be taken seriously, and Bruce pauses over his throat to let out a short laugh. Dick can feel those lips, those wicked lovely lips, lifting into a smirk over his bare skin.

"I'm Batman." Except it's velvety and warm over the line of Dick's neck, more like Brucie Wayne, the self-assured lilt of a man who knows exactly how to get society debs undressed and willing in his bed with barely a word.

Dick gulps, and doesn't quite manage to laugh it off.

He's so done with idleness, and while one of his hands clings to Bruce's nape, its mate still lingers in Bruce's waistband, over the severe jut of a hipbone. Dick glides his fingertips sideways and lower, past a trail of thickening hair and down between warm thighs. That wins him a very satisfying hitch of breath – and then a choked groan, hot and rumbling over his collarbone, when his hand curls firmly around the hardening flesh. There's a thrill in having made Bruce react that much.

But Bruce is barely started on Dick's body, apparently, and Dick can't help squirming when one of his nipples gets pinched, and the other licked, in close succession. A stuttered "B-Bruce," falls out of his mouth before he can stop it, but how is he expected to have conscious thought when Bruce's lips are sucking and biting him like that? And, oh god, he's still wearing those damn gloves; the insistent rub of harsh latex over a nub has Dick throwing his head back to moan, just a little.

Screw goodbye kisses, this is – "Much better," he gasps, as lust snakes a burning column through him. He wants this, needs this so much – but all he can do is claw at Bruce's shoulder with his free hand, while the other twists harshly on Bruce's cock.

Bruce grunts, a deep, guttural sound that's all Dick's effect on him, and it's close enough to Batman's gravelly tone, close enough to fantasies Dick has spent too many nights getting off on (in a dark, filthy alleyway, Nightwing pressed down onto the hood of the Bat-mobile by heavy Kevlar, gauntlets ghosting over his bare skin, that heavy black cape enveloping and devouring them both while Batman fucks him hard –), that the pooled desire in his belly flares up, making him dizzy, drawing blood away from his head and sending it all south to his loins. But just as Dick thinks, vaguely, that he's going to need to take an unwanted break to undo his trousers, his hands are shoved away and Bruce gets down onto his knees.

"Oh god," Dick whimpers, trembling in anticipation, as Bruce makes quick work of the clasps on his trousers, yanking them and his boxer briefs down in one quick motion. It's almost obscene when Dick's filled cock springs free in front of Bruce's mouth, and fuck, if he wasn't painfully hard already –

When he looks down, it's to find Bruce's eyes locked on him from under flickering eyelashes, even as the man laves a stripe of saliva up Dick's swollen erection, dragging along beads of pre-come. Dick bucks, all kinds of noise coming out of his mouth, but Bruce merely presses down on a hipbone, warning him to stay in place – and licks a few more times before blowing humid air all over Dick's cock, and closing his mouth around it.

Dick is ridiculously proud of himself for not losing it then and there, because, god, nothing comes close to that sight, or that warm wetness. He just pants desperately as Bruce's gloved fingers hold his hips down, keeping him from thrusting back like his body wants to because, damn it, he's never been as strong as Batman. The only thing he can do is brace against the table, and sink his nails into Bruce's scalp. The hair there is silkier and shorter than what he clutched at moments earlier, not nearly as good a substitute, but Bruce's tongue is doing entirely too wonderful things like – oh, oh. Things that blaze fire through him, igniting every nerve in his body, and never mind that the Cave is usually on the nippy side because all of a sudden it's blistering.

Each brush of tongue, each huff of hot breath sends Dick's back arching further back as pleasure soars through him. The surgical lights glare harshly in his eyes, forcing him turn his head aside, but holy blow jobs, Batman, this is definitely not too shabby as far as goodbyes go. Sure, maybe Dick didn't get to finish what his hands started, but they're too busy clutching Bruce's hair and the table, anyway, and he can – he can wait. Yes. Though –

"We really should –" he has to pause between words to pull in ragged breaths, to spare a glance at contents of the examining table behind him – "we should cover your great, great-grandpa up at least –"

Bruce merely stares up at him, like he's a GCPD rookie who's particularly slow on the uptake – Bones are inanimate objects, Dick – and Dick just wails and hopes that he doesn't accidentally knock over or into Alan Wayne's remains.

At least, until Bruce noisily pulls out, presses a rough, moist kiss to the head of his cock, and then swallows him entirely. Coherent thought goes right out the window, along with most of Dick's brain.

"Bruce, Bruce, fuck, that's –" He tries to tell him how good it feels, but all that follows is a lengthy moan of approval that echoes through the Cave. Words aren't the only thing failing him; his knees buckle and Bruce has to shove him back up and keep him there. How he's going to explain the finger-shaped bruises, he hasn't a clue, but he doesn't care, either. Because that sticky mouth is sliding back to suck him again, like nothing else matters – like – like pulling away to tongue the sensitive corona of Dick's cock, tracing circles around it, is the only important thing in the world. Not the case, not Batman, not anyone else. Only Dick.

As much as he wants to watch, Dick's eyes have long since given up functioning, and fallen shut. He struggles to open them again, and his earlier trail of thought returns to him in a blurry fragment, along with the surreal and incredibly arousing vision that is Bruce hollowing his cheeks around Dick's erection. Something about… waiting. All Dick knows is that he won't have to do that for very long because after another torturously long, spine-melting suckle Bruce is pulling him back in deep too deep and then he's fucking Bruce's throat; he's fucking Bruce's throat, so wet so hot so tight, and there's a scrape of teeth against his dick and oh fuck he's –

"Gonna come," he rasps, "Bruce, st-stop, I'm gonna –" He yanks on the raven strands entwined in his fist, a warning, but Bruce doesn't push off. He simply looks up through heavy-lidded eyes, and taps Dick's thigh – giving permission – and Dick comes violently, arching off the examining table completely with a wordless shout.

He has a vague recollection of hearing Bruce swallow, hard, before he finds himself enveloped by strong arms. Dick's laboured breathing is the lone sound filling the Cave, as he recovers in the embrace of that broad, muscled body. Too spent to do anything else, because it feels he's the one who's been opened up on that examining table, peeled apart, then sewn back together, tenderly, cell by cell, several times over; here in the heart of this strange, lonely subterranea that's neither home nor base, but entirely the temple of Bruce's life-long obsession.

When Dick presses his ear against Bruce's taped chest, he hears the sound of a second heart, beating fast. Fast, but nowhere near the racing of his own. It reminds him to take care of the bulge pressed against his naked thighs.

Bruce's ribcage rises, as he readies to speak, but with some effort, Dick pushes off. Under the bright surgical lights, Bruce's cheeks are ruddy with the rush of blood, sweat adding a glistening sheen to the angular lines of his nose and jaw. His eyes are almost black, pupils blown, and completely focused on Dick.

For a man whose mind is always split between at least ten different things, having his full attention is exhilarating. Addicting. Dick shudders as he returns that steely gaze.

He hooks his arm around Bruce's warm neck, and before words can form, reaches up to slide his other thumb into the other man's mouth. The lips covering the digit are swollen and red and smeared with fluid, so Bruce's tongue doesn't have to swirl much around it to get it moist. His piercing gaze tracks Dick's face the whole while.

When Dick leans in to replace his thumb with his mouth, he can taste himself along with the clean minty flavour that's completely Bruce – and, god, he can taste himself. In Bruce's mouth.

The realisation has Dick shivering a little as he kisses Bruce, filthy and full of teeth now, while his hand slips back to Bruce's waistband, gliding all the way down the juncture between hips and thighs. With his wet thumb, Dick traces the tip of Bruce's throbbing cock, greedily swallowing up the groan it pulls out of Bruce.

It occurs to him then – out of nowhere, as such thoughts often appear – that he probably looks ridiculous; shirt a mess, trousers pooled at his ankles, covered in perspiration and totally flushed; in the middle of the Bat-Cave of all places. Batman would not be impressed. But Dick's riding the high of his earlier orgasm, and he's got Bruce warm against him and twitching in his fist, and it's like he often tells the old man, anyway – dignity is overrated. Most especially when there are sexy times to be had. Besides, Bruce needs to unwind, and that's a task Dick can diligently put himself to.

He yanks his mouth away with a loud smack, and stops to gently fondle Bruce's balls. The hand around Bruce's neck squeezes, massaging the knotted muscle there. "Relax, partner."

Bruce closes his eyes in nothing like his expression of pain, and Dick just wants to smother those crinkles around them with kisses. "It's fine."

Even if Bruce's voice hadn't sounded coarse, like his throat hadn't been vigorously fucked mere minutes before, Dick knows better than to believe him. He only smiles, easy and sensual, and leans back into re-capture those lips; brushes his tongue feather-light to make his way past teeth and over soft palate. Nudges his thigh between Bruce's, forcing the other to widen his stance.

His palm, when he slides it up, is slick with sweat and pre-come as he strokes it hungrily over Bruce's erection, the callous-hardened ridges rubbing hotly inwards. Latex-clad fingers lightly palm his ass, encouraging him, but his partner remains terribly still, otherwise. Dick can feel Bruce's chest clenching, trying to control his reactions. Trying to control the situation, because, damn him, he still can't bring himself to let go, not here, not now, not even with Dick. Not even like this.

That won't do at all.

Dick delves deeper into Bruce's mouth, relishing the rough slide of their tongues even as he pumps the heated cock in his hand with more urgency. It's enough to loosen Bruce's hips a little, but it takes a few deft flicks of Dick's wrist before Bruce starts properly thrusting against him, and that's when Dick breaks the kiss again, wanting – needing – to hear the low growls he's provoking.

Bruce's lips slide across his jaw, exhaling a steamy puff of breath. "Satisfied?"

Dick smirks into the hollow of Bruce's throat, nipping at the salty sweat that has trickled down the unshaven skin there.

"There's room for improvement," he says huskily, lightly scraping a fingernail over Bruce's sensitive glans.

Bruce grips tight on the backs Dick's thighs, pulling them even closer together. "Hn."

There's a hitch in that deep grunt that makes Dick's heart catch, and he tilts his head back to look at the other man. Blood's rushed to his face and he's breathing heavily, but he returns Dick's gaze head-on. The way his mouth is parted, opening and closing ever so slightly more each time Dick brushes over his balls – it's beautifully unguarded for Bruce, and as un-Batman as can anything be. Dick can't resist stealing another quick kiss, his stomach fluttering the whole time.

Then he ducks his face back into Bruce's nape, taking up the unspoken challenge. His hand grips a little tighter around Bruce, and twists more on each upstroke, stopping to delicately thumb the cockhead on its way back down. His efforts earn him an incoherent murmur, and the dig of gloved nails in his thighs as Bruce pushes into his fist; further glorious symptoms of Batman's impeccable control slipping away.

Bruce like this, unravelling under his hand, gets under Dick's skin like nothing else. Crawls right into him, down to his toes, quickening his blood and dragging his deepest needs and desires up through his body. Makes them rise to his throat and try to escape; all of them foolish thoughts that Dick can never, ever speak out loud – You're my best friend – or – Let's go steady, or –

"Love you."

... Or that.

He can feel Bruce's protest, vibrating in that broad chest, before he hears it. "Dick –"

"Love you so much," he insists. His voice is hoarse, muffled against a tensed shoulder.

The first time was a slip; this is stupidity. Dick throws himself into it as fervently as he would leap without a safety net, punctuating each of his words with a meaningful squeeze. "Not Batman. Not Brucie. You."

Because Dick was the circus kid falling for the imperfect, deeply flawed man behind the cape, the cowl, the billion-dollar fortune. If Raya was his first crush and Babs his second… Bruce was (is) his first love. It's not like they're anything resembling together, but –- they'd be so good, if they were.

Bruce inhales, short and sharp, his hips stuttering without volition into Dick's fist. This time, when he calls Dick's name, it's soft and gasped into his ear. Like a secret to keep close, or a prayer; his voice halfway between high society silk and Batman's throaty growl. He doesn't last much longer before he shudders, hard, and comes all over Dick's hand.

It's done, they're both done, but Dick doesn't pull away. He just stays leaned into Bruce, immersed in the heady scent and taste of sweat and sex and spicy aftershave. He just listens to their heaving breaths, echoing in the vast cavern of the cave; just caresses the softening flesh in his hand, all gentleness now. They don't have many quiet moments like this, not anymore, and... he misses it.

Eventually, a sigh, warm and quiet in his ear, makes him grin and lift his head.

"I'd say that was a much better try at saying goodbye." He nuzzles Bruce's neck, letting stubble prickle his cheek. "Up for round three, big boy?"

Dick is already thinking about it. About Bruce spinning him round to bend him forwards onto cool steel of the table, opening him up with thick, slicked fingers – minus gloves, Dick has to draw the line at cadaver bacteria up his ass – before moving on to fuck him. Thoroughly, and preferably into oblivion. They'd have to shift great-great grandpa Wayne's bones, of course, but. Yes.

All he gets, though, is a huff. A laugh. Barely noticeable, maybe, but Dick can always tell. And god help him, but the man is even more achingly handsome when he's flushed in afterglow. Mouth still a smeared crimson mess, but not quite pursed into its usual frown; hair clammy and clumped around forehead and nape; pyjama pants hanging low over the swell of his hipbones and sorely, wonderfully, in need of a change. All of it, because of Dick.

And Dick – is really going to miss it, miss this, while he's back with the Circus. Whatever this is, at any rate, this nameless arrangement that neither of them has ever properly addressed.

"Don't you have a plane to catch?" The tone is gruff, but Bruce's arms are still wrapped firmly around him.

"Yeah," Dick agrees ruefully, elbowing damp bangs out of his eyes. He does need to get going. While Bruce has a case to overwork himself on, but Dick has already spoken his peace about that particular matter.

He licks his hand clean -- and even if he didn't enjoy the taste, the subsequent twitch in Bruce's crotch is so worth it –- before reaching down to pull up his trousers, finally trusting himself to stand up on his own. A heavy bicep slides off him, as he does so, but stops short when Dick clasps the heel of his palm to the escaping wrist.

The Bruce Wayne mask is sliding back into place. Never mind that the man still has flecks of Dick's semen on his face; his jaw is set again, and his brows are back to furrowing in their usual half-frown. But there's an uncommon softness around his eyes, still, and Bruce's gaze upon Dick is intent. Filled with all the affection he can never, will never express.

"Take care of yourself, Dick."

If Dick's returning smile, sunny as it always is, carries more self-satisfaction than usual – well, surely no one can blame him. Especially not when Bruce's fingers curl over his, just a little. "Don't I always, boss?"

The answer is forestalled by the soft press of lips against his – the asked-for goodbye kiss, long and thorough and sweet. It leaves Dick wishing his flight was delayed, or cancelled altogether.

When they break apart, Bruce peels the surgical gloves off his long, thick fingers, and tosses them into a nearby autoclave bin. His mouth, still bruised and sticky, curves into a smirk. "Not as well as I do."