Suits
Title: Suits
Pairing: Bruce!Bats/Dick!Bats
Summary: Bruce and Dick both have specific reactions to the Batsuit. Weird sexual tension ensues. (The 1st part is set before Dick ever becomes Batman, obviously, the 2nd part is set after Bruce's return from his presumed death.)
Genre: Humor, slash.
Words: 5,601
Warnings: Slightly NSFW. I actually feel like I should apologize for how NOT porny it is. XD All my Bruce/Dick fics seem to be exercises in sexual repression, idk what's wrong with me.
Notes: Gift exchange fic for the always amazing epigenetics. Her fics and Bruce/Dick posts totally brighten up my fandom life, so I hope she'll accept this humble offering! The prompt was: "I'd love to see some Batman x Batman action -- kind of like this.
Or basically both of them having an argument and then making-out/having sexy times, in their Batsuits. 8D"
For some reason, I had a hard time getting Bruce and Dick to fight (which is so weird, considering they're so good at it in canon XD), so I made them fight. Hope that's all right!
PS.: I legit believe that this would be Dick's initial reaction to wearing the cowl. So. >.>
When Dick tries on the Batsuit for the first time, he knows he's in trouble. And it's not the kind of trouble that "putting on the Batsuit" would imply.
He can feel the heat surge through his body. When he tries to draw a breath, it comes out shallow and fast, and it's not because of the form-fitting, Kevlar-enforced armor clutching his torso. He sees himself in the mirror, wearing that cowl, wearing these colors, and his blood starts pounding in his veins.
He hasn't expected it, but there's no way around it: stepping into Batman's skin makes him uncontrollably horny.
And there's nothing he can do about it.
This … this isn't good.
It's not the power that the suit exudes, and it's not the sheer excellence of it. It's something else; it's what it means, and specifically, what it means to him. It means excitement, it means adventure. Trust and friendship, too. But there's more; there's reverence, adolation, devotion, and beneath all that, desire. As a kid, he had looked up to the man wearing this. As a teen, he had fantasized about what was underneath it. And now, he's in it, and the result is powerful. Putting on Batman's cowl is intimidating all in itself, but it's even more intimidating to be reminded of how far his erotic obsession with the man behind it apparently goes.
Dressing up as someone who turns you on is always a bad idea. It had been a bad idea when Dick had tried to go as Superman for Halloween at fourteen, and it still is a bad idea today -
"How is it?"
Dick doesn't answer. He swallows, hard.
The Batman staring back at him in the mirror looks mightily uncomfortable, which is not a good look for Batman.
Now. How to never face Bruce?
"Dick?" He drawls, from the control panels on the podium, sounding cool and distant. "My readings say you're sweating profusely, is something wrong with the fabric?"
Dick is too mature and experienced to get a full-on boner, but he can feel that familiar, insistent tug in the muscles of his inner thighs. His skin seems to be boiling. His nipples are hardening. He tries to control his breathing, at least; the fact that Bruce is now probably monitoring his pulse does not make it better in the slightest.
He manages to squeeze out a mumbled, unenthusiastic "It's fine …"
"It better be." Dick can tell that he's not in a good mood. "I fitted it especially for your build, and the material is lighter, too." He sounds very morose relating those facts. Having Nightwing try on the suit for eventualities uncomfortably reminds them both of his mortality, and Dick knows that Bruce loves that exactly as much as he does, not to mention that he's very possessive about things that are his, and especially this.
So he cannot under any circumstances find out that wearing his costume makes Dick want to fondle himself. He cannot possibly have a positive reaction to that. This is something important, it's business, it's about suits and succession (a thought that makes Dick's heart plummet down a bottomless pit), and even though Dick doesn't want the mantle, he so badly wants to be taken seriously.
Now the Batman in the mirror looks intimidated. Again, not what the Dark Knight is supposed to represent. Dick wonders if Bruce sees the same thing he does, but he doesn't dare to turn and check.
Bruce doesn't improve things one bit as he barks, "Show me some moves."
Usually, when someone asks Dick Grayson to bust out some moves, they'd need an elk tranquilizer to get him to stop. But right now, all he musters is a sourly, "What kind?"
"Start with the Batusi, and work your way up from there," the actual Bat snarls at him.
"Are you serious?!"
"Voice," Bruce reproaches him.
Dick clears his throat, and gives him his best Batman drawl, something he's perfected over the years, but had never expected to use in an even remotely professional context.
"Are you serious," he repeats huskily.
"No." He hears the impatient click of Bruce's pen, followed by a rattling sigh. He's been tense and snippy ever since they've started this exercise, a testament to how little he likes it, and Dick wonders once again if he's thought this thing through.
"Do it, Dick," he growls, before he adds a very grumpy "Please."
Dick has no choice but to comply. He whirls around, punches a couple of invisible goons, throws himself into a few unmotivated roundhouse kicks, and tries to scowl the entire time, which is the easiest part. The boots weigh down on his feet. He finds it difficult to do a flip with the heavy cape trailing behind him. Since he's a pro, it probably doesn't look terrible, but he feels inadequate, pathetic. There's a reason why he's made his own hero identity so different from his mentor's. He cannot do what Bruce does, he cannot be him, and he doesn't want to, either. He feels like he's sixth in line at the auditions for Batman On Ice, and he can already sense he's starting to resent Bruce for making him do this.
And throughout all this, he has that unmistakeable feeling of tingly pressure building in his groin. It's so odd how wearing the Batsuit makes his confidence shrink, while simultaneously making something grow beneath his codpiece. It's such a horrible, horrible combination of sensations.
He finishes his awkward dance before he's even out of breath. He looks up at the podium, but all he can make out against the flickering screens is the man's dark, massive outline, as if he was molded entirely out of shadows.
When he hears his voice, it cuts like a shard of ice. "What was that?"
It's a good thing that when Dick blushes, it starts at the ears. They're pressed firmly against his head by the cowl, so Bruce doesn't see them turn beet red. He'd expected to hear this, but it still crushes him. He's always wanted to be with Batman, but he'd never wanted to be him, so it shouldn't matter. But it makes him realize, again, how much he longs to hear Bruce telling him he was making him proud.
He shrugs petulantly, which is probably the first time someone's ever made this gesture in a Batman suit, trick-or-treating children excepted.
"Dick." Bruce's voice remains stern. "Have you ever observed me in the field?"
Okay, that's it.
"Seriously?!" He hisses, like a wounded cat. "Are you seriously asking me that?!"
As if. As if anyone had ever absorbed Batman's every move with more ferocity than he had. (Well, maybe Tim; Tim was pretty hard to beat in that regard.)
"Voice," Bruce repeats stubbornly.
"No. Stop it!"
He stomps over to the podium, but what he sees makes all the fight go out of him. What he sees is Batman. Bruce is in his own suit, and he's wearing it like he was born in it, which Batman arguably was. He's looming over Dick like a large predator, cape flowing behind him like liquid darkness. He has the visor on, the slits in his mask shining coldly, impersonally. Even the impatient head-tilt he's doing looks commanding with his pointy ears.
No-one else could ever be that, not like he is.
And Bruce probably knows it, too. Yet, he's still giving it a shot, because he knows he won't be around forever. And that's the part that Dick hates the most.
The larger Bat observes the lighter Bat slouch in front of him, and his hard mouth turns into a frown. With a majestic swoop of his cape, he jumps off the podium, and hits the ground in front of Dick.
"Perhaps if we tried some hand-to-hand combat," he suggests gruffly, strong hands flexing in his gloves.
Dick looks him up and down, and his face follows his ears in getting really, really hot. Please don't start wrestling me now.
"… please don't start wrestling me now."
"Why not?" Bruce makes no attempt at hiding his impatience. He strides towards Dick, and they're almost touching now, and Dick wants to budge but he can't, because he's trapped in a Batsuit and Batman doesn't budge.
"Why are you being so difficult," Bruce growls, shielded eyes glowing dangerously. Dick can feel his hot, furious breath graze his face. He's equal parts aggravated, embarrassed, and turned on. It would be so hot if they kissed right n -
No. Bad. Down.
"Because I hate it," He flat-out says, instead. "This is … it's not mine, it's yours, can't you see that?"
Bruce's eyes aren't visible, but Dick is 100% sure that he's glaring. "It's yours now," he insists harshly. "I've changed it especially for you."
"I - " A croak escapes his throat. He can feel sweat trickle down the insides of his thighs. The feel, smell and stiffness of the suit suddenly seem so much more pronounced. "I - wait, are you saying this is one of … you wore this?"
"Yes." Bruce seems puzzled and annoyed by his question. "I wore this when I was younger, probably while we went on patrol together, why?"
Dick groans.
"Something's wrong," Bruce determines.
And then, he starts feeling him up.
"What are you doing," Dick inquires, mortified, as Bruce slides his hands underneath the cape to give his shoulders and arms a firm squeeze. Next, he runs his fingers over the symbol on his chest, then rests them on his abs, feeling the ripples of his muscles through the dark fabric.
"You're hot," he mutters.
"…what?"
It's not like he hasn't heard that before, but the context is usually extremely different. And now, Bruce kneels down in front of him to examine the fit of the belt and codpiece.
Dick breathes out a sigh.
Yep. Now he's definitely springing a boner.
"The body heat sensors," Batman speculates between his legs. "Something must be off, you're burning up in there. You shouldn't be. That little … whatever you just did couldn't have been that extraneous, I'm not sure what went wrong - "
Dick knows what went wrong. Hearing his mentor say body heat sensors shouldn't be this arousing, is what went wrong. He's finding it harder and harder to breathe. The fact that Bruce is completely professional about it somehow makes it worse. If this keeps up, Dick is going to desecrate the Batsuit in ways that Bruce probably hasn't anticipated.
"Open your legs for me," his mentor now demands, and Dick knows he needs to do something drastic to distract him.
"Sure," he hisses.
And with a small growl of his own, he swiftly slams his knee into the bigger man's shoulder to throw him off balance. Before Bruce has time to react (and he's fast to react, Dick knows, he's really fast), he dives after him, and then he does open his legs, but only to lock them around Bruce's throat and force him on his back.
Seeing his surprised face peek up at him from between his thighs is delicious.
"What's this now," Bruce asks.
"I'm fighting," Dick explains. "That's what you wanted, wasn't it?" He leans down to him with his best menacing Batman grin. "You're welcome."
Bruce wrestles his arms free from underneath him, and for a short moment, Dick gets caught up in the idea that he's now going to feel up his legs and ass, turning this into something entirely different. But then, he sees Bruce flash him that dark, deranged shark smile before he grabs him, and hurls him headfirst into a pile of mattresses.
"Good."
He's already back on his feet when Dick spins around to face him. They stare at each other, one second, two, three. Then, their armored bodies fly at each other as they both move at the same time.
He's sparred with Bruce countless times. Dick can recall these lessons with ease, they're imprinted in his mind, sessions of intense physical exertion, spiked by brutally repressed sexual desire that could only ever be quenched afterwards, when he was alone again, in the dark deep hours of night. It's like a dance, and he's never had a dancing partner he'd liked better.
But this is different. Dick's mind is racing as he tries to accommodate his new rags into his fighting style, working hard to avoid and counter Bruce's focused, hard-hitting punches. He knows that Bruce never swings to actually hurt him, but he also knows what his fists can do, and that even one single hit could be devastating. Being Batman is a completely different beast from being fierce, nimble little Robin, or graceful, acrobatic Nightwing. And yet, he finds that, even if the cowl irritates his vision and the cape drapes heavily from his shoulders, his light-footedness still works to his advantage. He realizes that he can do everything he does as Nightwing, if he does it about 20% less.
And he understands that it's not about becoming Bruce. That it's not about imitating him. If he ever wants to become Batman (and he still doesn't, but it's a fascinating thing to discover), he needs to make Batman his own, not the other way around. It seems as if realizing that causes the ground beneath his boots to become firm again, as he can feel his confidence return.
And he can tell from the way Bruce intensifies his efforts that he notices it, too. It makes sense. He did want him to fight; it doesn't mean he wants him to win.
They're circling each other. Even though they're both essentially dressed as the same, there's notable differences; Bruce's suit is darker, bulkier, more accommodating for his heavy build and aggressive-looking. Dick's is slimmer and lighter, less serious somehow, as if there's an unspoken hierarchy between them, even now that they're playing the same part.
"This isn't easy for me, either," Bruce suddenly tells him, "I don't want this for you, you know that."
It's probably the truth, but it's also very sly of him. He's obviously trying to distract Dick, maybe destroy his confidence while he's at it, by mentioning, again, how he doesn't even want him for this.
"That means I'm not the only one you're doing this with, am I?" Dick replies, before dropping down on his hands to kick Bruce's legs out from underneath him.
"You're not," Bruce confirms, avoiding his attack by a hair. "There's others."
Dick shoots up and glares at him. Something about the way Bruce refuses to show him his eyes drives him crazy; and additionally, he's been fighting with an erection for at least ten minutes now. It's strange how Bruce locks in on his insecurities so easily, yet seems completely oblivious to how badly Dick wants to fuck him.
"Who?" He growls.
He doesn't even want to feel jealous and territorial about it. He doesn't want the job. It's just his desire to be the favorite rearing its stupid head again, and Bruce knows it. The reply is typical. "You'll know when you need to know," he says, diving away from the foot speeding in his direction. And then, "That was a good voice."
Dick can't take it anymore. Dodging his kick, Bruce presents him his back for all of two seconds, and Dick leaps after him with a furious roar. He throws his arms around his waist, trips him, and fells him on the spot. This is actually a move that he's perfected in his Robin days; he can only imagine how weird that looks when Batman does it.
Not that he cares.
A second later, he's got the bigger man pinned underneath him on the mat. Hopefully, Bruce will mistake his heavy panting for a sign of exertion, or something. He huffs underneath him, his body rolling up against Dick's as he struggles to get free, and it coaxes a little gasp from the younger man's throat. A drop of sweat rolls down his cheek.
"Well?" he teases him breathlessly, "How's it feel to get your ass handed to you by Batman?"
His pulse skips as he says it. It feels wrong, somehow, as if he's an impostor, a little boy trying on a big man's coat, but it's just as thrilling, too.
Below him, the other Bat grunts indignantly. "I don't know. Be sure to tell me."
Before Dick can respond, the larger man pushes up against him and topples him. A dark gauntlet closes around his neck, slams him into the mat, and then he finds himself buried beneath Bruce's weight, his warm, gasping mouth right in front of his face.
It's the only part of him that's soft and vulnerable. Dick contemplates another attack, but he's very distracted by the strong scent of leather, Nomex and fresh sweat, the friction of their bodies rubbing together, and the proximity of their lips.
Well. At least he's got confirmation how protected his crotch is in this thing, because Bruce doesn't seem to feel his throbbing erection, even though it's pretty much poking him right in the abs by now. His smug grin looks so clueless. It's maddening, and reassuring at the same time.
How easy it'd be to lick across his masked face now.
Bruce finally opens his visor and presents his eyes, blue and piercing, and they look content. "That wasn't bad," he says generously.
Dick snorts. "I'll best you next time," he promises.
The older man tilts his head. "Will you?"
He sounds more playful now, and for a second, Dick isn't sure if they're flirting or not. Moments like these have been piling up lately, and he doesn't know what to make of it. One thing's for sure, it's strange how much of their time together is dedicated to throwing each other on their backs, yet somehow they never take the next logical step.
It weirdly occurs to him that Bruce could also have an erection now, and he wouldn't even be able to tell, unless he'd grind into him really hard.
The thought of grinding on his mentor's theoretical boner shames him, so he deflects. He bares him his teeth in a vicious smile. "Yes, I will," he promises, and then he utilizes his Bat voice one last time to growl-hiss at him, "And it'll be when you least expect it!"
It was meant to make him smile, but it doesn't. The triumphant grin slips off his lips, and something - What? Doubt? Intrigue? Attraction? - flickers in his eyes, and then he suddenly looks uncomfortable, which is still not a great look for Batman.
Their bodies press into each other one last time, while Bruce shifts his weight to dismount him. Then, the moment is gone.
"That'll be all for now, Dick," he says, followed by a dry cough that seems weird in a man this healthy. All the playfulness has left him - which isn't unusual, since Bruce's reservoir for playfulness is not that deep to begin with - but somehow, his professionalism seems slightly forced now. By the time Dick sits up, blinking, he's already turned away.
"You can go hit the showers," Bruce informs him, while he strides towards the exit in a very stiff-legged manner. For a second, it almost looks like he's using his cape to shield his crotch. "I'll head into the study and … re-wire the body heat sensors."
"Don't you, uh, need the suit for that?" Dick calls after him, in his normal voice now.
"No!" Bruce booms, seemingly in a hurry to get away from him. "I'll … do it in my mind. It's fine. We're fine. Everything's fine!"
"I don't even - "
The door slams shut.
"… want this," Dick finishes, muttering, forlorn and horny on his training mat.
He peeks down.
Now. How does one masturbate in this thing?
---
When Bruce sees Dick in action as Batman for the first time, he knows he's in trouble. And it's not the kind of trouble that "seeing Batman in action" would probably imply.
It doesn't hit him right away. When they reunite, Damian is in a Robin suit, which is irritating, Dick is in grave peril, which is more than irritating, they are surrounded by assassins, and Gotham is facing destruction once more. So there's a lot to get through. And afterwards, he's preoccupied with processing the insanity he's encountered in his time away, both mentally and physically, then compressing it to find back to a base-line of dogged functionality that he can operate on. There's a city to be rebuild, there are preparations to be made, precautions to be arranged. He can't rest, idle, or linger.
Amongst all that, he sometimes feels restless, over-stimulated, and undersexed, and he can't pinpoint why. But he puts that all the way down at the bottom of his priority list.
It doesn't hit him right away, but it does eventually catch up with him, when he finds himself in bed during the early hours of dawn, with luxurious 10 minutes to spare to tend to his needs.
He stretches out on his back, but it doesn't bring relaxation; every muscle in his body is tense, aching for something. He closes his eyes, tries to feel the soft, soothing reality of being in his actual bed (every moment that isn't strife tends to feel surreal to him), tries to focus on the reality of his own calloused fingers digging into his hard, swollen flesh, and prays that today's crisis won't start early.
When Dick comes to him in these moments, he only comes in white-hot flashes.
He's never allowed himself to picture him in full, because the assumption is that he will never have him in full, or at all. The only thing his mind lets through, and only when he nears completion, are splinters, sharp and soaring hot. A flutter of beautifully curved lips, smiling at him; a look from generous, bright blue eyes; a flying strand of wild black hair; hard, toned muscles flexing underneath a thin layer of fabric. By the time he brings himself to imagine those lips parting to receive his cock, or those strong legs wrapping around his head, he's usually already panting hard, spilling into his fist.
After that, he usually falls down a deep pit of guilt and despair for about a minute, then it's back to business.
But since he's seen him as Batman, things have become different. Since he's seen him as Batman, things have escalated. He can clearly sense that now, and his cock appears to grow even harder between his fingers, as if in confirmation.
Dick has always brought out a creepy, possessive side in him, one that he doesn't like, one that he works hard to keep in check. The Batsuit has always been what he'd channeled his darkest desires into. And the combination of both is borderline fatal for his soundness of mind.
He's long been attracted to him; he's never been this attracted to him, and he knows why.
Seeing how strong he was. Seeing how good he was, even when he'd been badly hurt. Seeing how effortless he seemed at doing something that was all effort, all the time. It'd finally made him realize that Dick isn't a boy in need of his protection anymore. He is a man, more than that, he is his equal, probably has been for a long time, and Bruce has failed to see it, but he sees it now. They're equals, and there's nothing to keep them apart anymore, except -
Except -
His breath gets caught in his throat and his arousal spikes when he realizes he can't think of anything, the barrier is gone, an avalanche of suppressed images floods his mind, and he's drowning in them, moaning hoarsely, while he finishes himself off with fervent strokes.
He lies completely still afterwards, and he can feel the familiar, numb feeling of guilt course through his stomach. But it washes away quickly, and it leaves no trace.
---
"You've been following me."
Bruce gazes up at the Bat that's perched above him, observing him from the shadows. From where he stands, he can see that his face looks cold, pale, and stern. But then, Batman smiles, and the eerie illusion of facing a younger, lighter version of himself fades away.
"I wondered when you'd notice," Batman says light-heartedly, and it becomes incredibly apparent that this is Dick, even if Bruce hadn't known already.
"I noticed four blocks ago." He hears himself sounding gruff, standoffish. Some of it is his usual demeanor when he's on patrol, and some of it is the strangeness of interacting with the man he's torridly jerked off to only a few hours prior. But he's familiar with that feeling. "Where's Robin?"
"Sent him home early. He wasn't psyched about it, but I wasn't sure how to pitch I'm gonna creepily stalk the other Batman for a few hours to him, so …"
"Why did you?" He can't say he dislikes it; but he's curious. "Stalk me?"
In the faint light of the moon, he can see Dick chew on his lip. "You'll probably think it's stupid."
Bruce frowns at him. He crosses his heavy arms over his chest. No Batman should involve himself in silly games like these. "Tell me," he growls.
He's always taken aback by how easily that warm, sunny smile seems to come to Dick. It should clash with the cape and cowl he's wearing, but it doesn't, because he owns it like Bruce owns his scowl. It makes his heart ache to see it.
"I just like to see that you're really back," Dick says softly.
It hits him in a lot of places at once, flustering him. "Hrm. You think that's a good use of your time?"
He can see Dick's face fall, even if it's only half-visible. "It's a quiet night. Told you you'd think it's stupid."
It's not stupid. It's a beautiful sentiment. It's completely undeserving of reproach. Bruce doesn't know why he couldn't have said that instead.
It's just that he thought he'd give it a few more days before he approached Dick about this … or approached him at all.
Too late for that now.
"My," Dick says, lips twitching, when Bruce climbs the ledge to join him on the higher roof. "What are people going to think when they see the two of us together?"
"What they're supposed to think," Bruce replies earnestly. "That we can be everywhere at once if we want to."
Dick lowers his head with a chuckle, contrite, like he's wanted a different answer. "Right."
"That's - " Bruce licks his lips. "That wasn't what I came up here to say."
"Then what?" Dick steps up to him. "What were you going to say?"
He tilts his head to one side with a faint smile that's somehow still very warm, and Bruce suddenly wonders if it's always been like this, if he's been flirting with him, if they had been flirting, all this time, and he hadn't allowed himself to identify that correctly, which is extremely weak for a genius detective.
The inviting smile falters when Dick gets a closer look at him, and Bruce realizes that he probably looks intensely grim and brooding at the moment, which isn't exactly what he's trying to communicate.
"It's something bad, isn't it." Dick bites his lip again, reminding Bruce how full, pouty and generally hypnotizing they are.
It's difficult to do this up close. He'd be more comfortable if they had this talk on the old church's roof instead, heads facing out to the nightly city, conversing across two gargoyles. Something like that.
Grappling himself up there now would be cowardly, however.
"I - " He starts, but all he can think of saying would either be a very long, probably meandering outpouring encompassing their entire time together, every conflict they've ever had, every conflicting emotion he's ever had, a short discourse about the nature of power balances and responsibility, an entire chapter on "I hurt the ones I love", a possibly humiliating confession of how much he'd missed him while he was gone, and between three or fifty prickly apologies for a multitude of things … or something short-form and stupid, like You're beautiful. Let's touch mouths.
Batman asks him, "Batman?" And he's starting to sound concerned.
So in the end, he says it in the only way he knows how. "I wanted to say that I'm proud of you. That I'm grateful."
Dick breathes out a soft sigh.
Bruce can't see his eyes, but he can see color flush his cheeks. That eagerness has persevered through the years, through pain and rejection and loss. It serves as a reminder that he doesn't say that often, and that Dick probably remembers every time, better than he does.
It makes him feel worse.
And he decides that he can't go there. Not now, not yet. He can't burden the boy with himself now, too. He's done too much of that already.
He's going to wrap this up, and save the rest for the next time he lies awake alone in his bed.
"And I was wrong about you." He's slowly finding back to his firm, authoritative voice, tip-toeing away from the edge he'd been about to hurl them both over. "You are good at this."
"Mmh." It's the kind of words Dick would usually drink in eagerly, but he shows little to no reaction. It's humbling; perhaps it wasn't necessary to say it, perhaps Dick has grown into this role so fully and thoroughly that he doesn't need his old mentor to confirm it. He seems to listen, but his attention seems focused on something else. He's observing Bruce as if he's trying to study his body language through the bulky suit.
After a while, he clicks his tongue. "Thank you," he says dryly. "You know … there's still one thing I never really seem to nail, though. Maybe you could help me with it."
Bruce frowns at him. "What - "
He can see a small flicker of pure panic cross Dick's cowled features, followed by a manic grin, and then he sees stars for a short moment, when the younger man moves, and tackle-hugs him to the ground.
He even holds on to Bruce's neck to prevent him from banging his head as they go down, as if he'd need it, as if he needed protection, or care.
And it feels good.
And he doesn't fight back.
Once he's on top of him, Dick covers them both in his cape, molding them into the dark, turning them almost invisible for a glorious moment in time.
He'd never known how cozy it was under here.
"You know, here's the thing," Dick whispers, eyes glowing at him, and Bruce can feel the hotness of his breath against his skin, "For Batman, I'm still way too approachable."
And he kisses him so hard that their teeth conk together.
Before he can even think, he's responding, with so much force that it's embarrassing, clutching at Dick's face with gloved hands, tugging and sucking on his lips like a man drowning, and he can hear him laugh into his kiss, huskily, breathlessly, and that sets him off even worse.
The air grows hot underneath their solid cover made of Kevlar. Their lips are soft, hot and wet, but their armored bodies and faces are cold. It feels incredibly intimate, and deeply impersonal at the same time. It's driving him crazy.
They'll have to go someplace else.
They'll have to talk earnestly about this, too.
But not right now.
Right now, Dick still has him in a leglock. His leglock is notoriously strong; Bruce knows how to break it, but he doesn't care to at the moment. He looks up at him, still stunned, and watches that fearless, victorious smile spread across his face, and it almost makes him believe that things could be beautiful and simple.
"Told you," Dick says, and even though Bruce can barely feel it, he knows that he's gently patting his growing erection through the suit, "I'd get you when you least expect it."
Pairing: Bruce!Bats/Dick!Bats
Summary: Bruce and Dick both have specific reactions to the Batsuit. Weird sexual tension ensues. (The 1st part is set before Dick ever becomes Batman, obviously, the 2nd part is set after Bruce's return from his presumed death.)
Genre: Humor, slash.
Words: 5,601
Warnings: Slightly NSFW. I actually feel like I should apologize for how NOT porny it is. XD All my Bruce/Dick fics seem to be exercises in sexual repression, idk what's wrong with me.
Notes: Gift exchange fic for the always amazing epigenetics. Her fics and Bruce/Dick posts totally brighten up my fandom life, so I hope she'll accept this humble offering! The prompt was: "I'd love to see some Batman x Batman action -- kind of like this.
Or basically both of them having an argument and then making-out/having sexy times, in their Batsuits. 8D"
For some reason, I had a hard time getting Bruce and Dick to fight (which is so weird, considering they're so good at it in canon XD), so I made them fight. Hope that's all right!
PS.: I legit believe that this would be Dick's initial reaction to wearing the cowl. So. >.>
When Dick tries on the Batsuit for the first time, he knows he's in trouble. And it's not the kind of trouble that "putting on the Batsuit" would imply.
He can feel the heat surge through his body. When he tries to draw a breath, it comes out shallow and fast, and it's not because of the form-fitting, Kevlar-enforced armor clutching his torso. He sees himself in the mirror, wearing that cowl, wearing these colors, and his blood starts pounding in his veins.
He hasn't expected it, but there's no way around it: stepping into Batman's skin makes him uncontrollably horny.
And there's nothing he can do about it.
This … this isn't good.
It's not the power that the suit exudes, and it's not the sheer excellence of it. It's something else; it's what it means, and specifically, what it means to him. It means excitement, it means adventure. Trust and friendship, too. But there's more; there's reverence, adolation, devotion, and beneath all that, desire. As a kid, he had looked up to the man wearing this. As a teen, he had fantasized about what was underneath it. And now, he's in it, and the result is powerful. Putting on Batman's cowl is intimidating all in itself, but it's even more intimidating to be reminded of how far his erotic obsession with the man behind it apparently goes.
Dressing up as someone who turns you on is always a bad idea. It had been a bad idea when Dick had tried to go as Superman for Halloween at fourteen, and it still is a bad idea today -
"How is it?"
Dick doesn't answer. He swallows, hard.
The Batman staring back at him in the mirror looks mightily uncomfortable, which is not a good look for Batman.
Now. How to never face Bruce?
"Dick?" He drawls, from the control panels on the podium, sounding cool and distant. "My readings say you're sweating profusely, is something wrong with the fabric?"
Dick is too mature and experienced to get a full-on boner, but he can feel that familiar, insistent tug in the muscles of his inner thighs. His skin seems to be boiling. His nipples are hardening. He tries to control his breathing, at least; the fact that Bruce is now probably monitoring his pulse does not make it better in the slightest.
He manages to squeeze out a mumbled, unenthusiastic "It's fine …"
"It better be." Dick can tell that he's not in a good mood. "I fitted it especially for your build, and the material is lighter, too." He sounds very morose relating those facts. Having Nightwing try on the suit for eventualities uncomfortably reminds them both of his mortality, and Dick knows that Bruce loves that exactly as much as he does, not to mention that he's very possessive about things that are his, and especially this.
So he cannot under any circumstances find out that wearing his costume makes Dick want to fondle himself. He cannot possibly have a positive reaction to that. This is something important, it's business, it's about suits and succession (a thought that makes Dick's heart plummet down a bottomless pit), and even though Dick doesn't want the mantle, he so badly wants to be taken seriously.
Now the Batman in the mirror looks intimidated. Again, not what the Dark Knight is supposed to represent. Dick wonders if Bruce sees the same thing he does, but he doesn't dare to turn and check.
Bruce doesn't improve things one bit as he barks, "Show me some moves."
Usually, when someone asks Dick Grayson to bust out some moves, they'd need an elk tranquilizer to get him to stop. But right now, all he musters is a sourly, "What kind?"
"Start with the Batusi, and work your way up from there," the actual Bat snarls at him.
"Are you serious?!"
"Voice," Bruce reproaches him.
Dick clears his throat, and gives him his best Batman drawl, something he's perfected over the years, but had never expected to use in an even remotely professional context.
"Are you serious," he repeats huskily.
"No." He hears the impatient click of Bruce's pen, followed by a rattling sigh. He's been tense and snippy ever since they've started this exercise, a testament to how little he likes it, and Dick wonders once again if he's thought this thing through.
"Do it, Dick," he growls, before he adds a very grumpy "Please."
Dick has no choice but to comply. He whirls around, punches a couple of invisible goons, throws himself into a few unmotivated roundhouse kicks, and tries to scowl the entire time, which is the easiest part. The boots weigh down on his feet. He finds it difficult to do a flip with the heavy cape trailing behind him. Since he's a pro, it probably doesn't look terrible, but he feels inadequate, pathetic. There's a reason why he's made his own hero identity so different from his mentor's. He cannot do what Bruce does, he cannot be him, and he doesn't want to, either. He feels like he's sixth in line at the auditions for Batman On Ice, and he can already sense he's starting to resent Bruce for making him do this.
And throughout all this, he has that unmistakeable feeling of tingly pressure building in his groin. It's so odd how wearing the Batsuit makes his confidence shrink, while simultaneously making something grow beneath his codpiece. It's such a horrible, horrible combination of sensations.
He finishes his awkward dance before he's even out of breath. He looks up at the podium, but all he can make out against the flickering screens is the man's dark, massive outline, as if he was molded entirely out of shadows.
When he hears his voice, it cuts like a shard of ice. "What was that?"
It's a good thing that when Dick blushes, it starts at the ears. They're pressed firmly against his head by the cowl, so Bruce doesn't see them turn beet red. He'd expected to hear this, but it still crushes him. He's always wanted to be with Batman, but he'd never wanted to be him, so it shouldn't matter. But it makes him realize, again, how much he longs to hear Bruce telling him he was making him proud.
He shrugs petulantly, which is probably the first time someone's ever made this gesture in a Batman suit, trick-or-treating children excepted.
"Dick." Bruce's voice remains stern. "Have you ever observed me in the field?"
Okay, that's it.
"Seriously?!" He hisses, like a wounded cat. "Are you seriously asking me that?!"
As if. As if anyone had ever absorbed Batman's every move with more ferocity than he had. (Well, maybe Tim; Tim was pretty hard to beat in that regard.)
"Voice," Bruce repeats stubbornly.
"No. Stop it!"
He stomps over to the podium, but what he sees makes all the fight go out of him. What he sees is Batman. Bruce is in his own suit, and he's wearing it like he was born in it, which Batman arguably was. He's looming over Dick like a large predator, cape flowing behind him like liquid darkness. He has the visor on, the slits in his mask shining coldly, impersonally. Even the impatient head-tilt he's doing looks commanding with his pointy ears.
No-one else could ever be that, not like he is.
And Bruce probably knows it, too. Yet, he's still giving it a shot, because he knows he won't be around forever. And that's the part that Dick hates the most.
The larger Bat observes the lighter Bat slouch in front of him, and his hard mouth turns into a frown. With a majestic swoop of his cape, he jumps off the podium, and hits the ground in front of Dick.
"Perhaps if we tried some hand-to-hand combat," he suggests gruffly, strong hands flexing in his gloves.
Dick looks him up and down, and his face follows his ears in getting really, really hot. Please don't start wrestling me now.
"… please don't start wrestling me now."
"Why not?" Bruce makes no attempt at hiding his impatience. He strides towards Dick, and they're almost touching now, and Dick wants to budge but he can't, because he's trapped in a Batsuit and Batman doesn't budge.
"Why are you being so difficult," Bruce growls, shielded eyes glowing dangerously. Dick can feel his hot, furious breath graze his face. He's equal parts aggravated, embarrassed, and turned on. It would be so hot if they kissed right n -
No. Bad. Down.
"Because I hate it," He flat-out says, instead. "This is … it's not mine, it's yours, can't you see that?"
Bruce's eyes aren't visible, but Dick is 100% sure that he's glaring. "It's yours now," he insists harshly. "I've changed it especially for you."
"I - " A croak escapes his throat. He can feel sweat trickle down the insides of his thighs. The feel, smell and stiffness of the suit suddenly seem so much more pronounced. "I - wait, are you saying this is one of … you wore this?"
"Yes." Bruce seems puzzled and annoyed by his question. "I wore this when I was younger, probably while we went on patrol together, why?"
Dick groans.
"Something's wrong," Bruce determines.
And then, he starts feeling him up.
"What are you doing," Dick inquires, mortified, as Bruce slides his hands underneath the cape to give his shoulders and arms a firm squeeze. Next, he runs his fingers over the symbol on his chest, then rests them on his abs, feeling the ripples of his muscles through the dark fabric.
"You're hot," he mutters.
"…what?"
It's not like he hasn't heard that before, but the context is usually extremely different. And now, Bruce kneels down in front of him to examine the fit of the belt and codpiece.
Dick breathes out a sigh.
Yep. Now he's definitely springing a boner.
"The body heat sensors," Batman speculates between his legs. "Something must be off, you're burning up in there. You shouldn't be. That little … whatever you just did couldn't have been that extraneous, I'm not sure what went wrong - "
Dick knows what went wrong. Hearing his mentor say body heat sensors shouldn't be this arousing, is what went wrong. He's finding it harder and harder to breathe. The fact that Bruce is completely professional about it somehow makes it worse. If this keeps up, Dick is going to desecrate the Batsuit in ways that Bruce probably hasn't anticipated.
"Open your legs for me," his mentor now demands, and Dick knows he needs to do something drastic to distract him.
"Sure," he hisses.
And with a small growl of his own, he swiftly slams his knee into the bigger man's shoulder to throw him off balance. Before Bruce has time to react (and he's fast to react, Dick knows, he's really fast), he dives after him, and then he does open his legs, but only to lock them around Bruce's throat and force him on his back.
Seeing his surprised face peek up at him from between his thighs is delicious.
"What's this now," Bruce asks.
"I'm fighting," Dick explains. "That's what you wanted, wasn't it?" He leans down to him with his best menacing Batman grin. "You're welcome."
Bruce wrestles his arms free from underneath him, and for a short moment, Dick gets caught up in the idea that he's now going to feel up his legs and ass, turning this into something entirely different. But then, he sees Bruce flash him that dark, deranged shark smile before he grabs him, and hurls him headfirst into a pile of mattresses.
"Good."
He's already back on his feet when Dick spins around to face him. They stare at each other, one second, two, three. Then, their armored bodies fly at each other as they both move at the same time.
He's sparred with Bruce countless times. Dick can recall these lessons with ease, they're imprinted in his mind, sessions of intense physical exertion, spiked by brutally repressed sexual desire that could only ever be quenched afterwards, when he was alone again, in the dark deep hours of night. It's like a dance, and he's never had a dancing partner he'd liked better.
But this is different. Dick's mind is racing as he tries to accommodate his new rags into his fighting style, working hard to avoid and counter Bruce's focused, hard-hitting punches. He knows that Bruce never swings to actually hurt him, but he also knows what his fists can do, and that even one single hit could be devastating. Being Batman is a completely different beast from being fierce, nimble little Robin, or graceful, acrobatic Nightwing. And yet, he finds that, even if the cowl irritates his vision and the cape drapes heavily from his shoulders, his light-footedness still works to his advantage. He realizes that he can do everything he does as Nightwing, if he does it about 20% less.
And he understands that it's not about becoming Bruce. That it's not about imitating him. If he ever wants to become Batman (and he still doesn't, but it's a fascinating thing to discover), he needs to make Batman his own, not the other way around. It seems as if realizing that causes the ground beneath his boots to become firm again, as he can feel his confidence return.
And he can tell from the way Bruce intensifies his efforts that he notices it, too. It makes sense. He did want him to fight; it doesn't mean he wants him to win.
They're circling each other. Even though they're both essentially dressed as the same, there's notable differences; Bruce's suit is darker, bulkier, more accommodating for his heavy build and aggressive-looking. Dick's is slimmer and lighter, less serious somehow, as if there's an unspoken hierarchy between them, even now that they're playing the same part.
"This isn't easy for me, either," Bruce suddenly tells him, "I don't want this for you, you know that."
It's probably the truth, but it's also very sly of him. He's obviously trying to distract Dick, maybe destroy his confidence while he's at it, by mentioning, again, how he doesn't even want him for this.
"That means I'm not the only one you're doing this with, am I?" Dick replies, before dropping down on his hands to kick Bruce's legs out from underneath him.
"You're not," Bruce confirms, avoiding his attack by a hair. "There's others."
Dick shoots up and glares at him. Something about the way Bruce refuses to show him his eyes drives him crazy; and additionally, he's been fighting with an erection for at least ten minutes now. It's strange how Bruce locks in on his insecurities so easily, yet seems completely oblivious to how badly Dick wants to fuck him.
"Who?" He growls.
He doesn't even want to feel jealous and territorial about it. He doesn't want the job. It's just his desire to be the favorite rearing its stupid head again, and Bruce knows it. The reply is typical. "You'll know when you need to know," he says, diving away from the foot speeding in his direction. And then, "That was a good voice."
Dick can't take it anymore. Dodging his kick, Bruce presents him his back for all of two seconds, and Dick leaps after him with a furious roar. He throws his arms around his waist, trips him, and fells him on the spot. This is actually a move that he's perfected in his Robin days; he can only imagine how weird that looks when Batman does it.
Not that he cares.
A second later, he's got the bigger man pinned underneath him on the mat. Hopefully, Bruce will mistake his heavy panting for a sign of exertion, or something. He huffs underneath him, his body rolling up against Dick's as he struggles to get free, and it coaxes a little gasp from the younger man's throat. A drop of sweat rolls down his cheek.
"Well?" he teases him breathlessly, "How's it feel to get your ass handed to you by Batman?"
His pulse skips as he says it. It feels wrong, somehow, as if he's an impostor, a little boy trying on a big man's coat, but it's just as thrilling, too.
Below him, the other Bat grunts indignantly. "I don't know. Be sure to tell me."
Before Dick can respond, the larger man pushes up against him and topples him. A dark gauntlet closes around his neck, slams him into the mat, and then he finds himself buried beneath Bruce's weight, his warm, gasping mouth right in front of his face.
It's the only part of him that's soft and vulnerable. Dick contemplates another attack, but he's very distracted by the strong scent of leather, Nomex and fresh sweat, the friction of their bodies rubbing together, and the proximity of their lips.
Well. At least he's got confirmation how protected his crotch is in this thing, because Bruce doesn't seem to feel his throbbing erection, even though it's pretty much poking him right in the abs by now. His smug grin looks so clueless. It's maddening, and reassuring at the same time.
How easy it'd be to lick across his masked face now.
Bruce finally opens his visor and presents his eyes, blue and piercing, and they look content. "That wasn't bad," he says generously.
Dick snorts. "I'll best you next time," he promises.
The older man tilts his head. "Will you?"
He sounds more playful now, and for a second, Dick isn't sure if they're flirting or not. Moments like these have been piling up lately, and he doesn't know what to make of it. One thing's for sure, it's strange how much of their time together is dedicated to throwing each other on their backs, yet somehow they never take the next logical step.
It weirdly occurs to him that Bruce could also have an erection now, and he wouldn't even be able to tell, unless he'd grind into him really hard.
The thought of grinding on his mentor's theoretical boner shames him, so he deflects. He bares him his teeth in a vicious smile. "Yes, I will," he promises, and then he utilizes his Bat voice one last time to growl-hiss at him, "And it'll be when you least expect it!"
It was meant to make him smile, but it doesn't. The triumphant grin slips off his lips, and something - What? Doubt? Intrigue? Attraction? - flickers in his eyes, and then he suddenly looks uncomfortable, which is still not a great look for Batman.
Their bodies press into each other one last time, while Bruce shifts his weight to dismount him. Then, the moment is gone.
"That'll be all for now, Dick," he says, followed by a dry cough that seems weird in a man this healthy. All the playfulness has left him - which isn't unusual, since Bruce's reservoir for playfulness is not that deep to begin with - but somehow, his professionalism seems slightly forced now. By the time Dick sits up, blinking, he's already turned away.
"You can go hit the showers," Bruce informs him, while he strides towards the exit in a very stiff-legged manner. For a second, it almost looks like he's using his cape to shield his crotch. "I'll head into the study and … re-wire the body heat sensors."
"Don't you, uh, need the suit for that?" Dick calls after him, in his normal voice now.
"No!" Bruce booms, seemingly in a hurry to get away from him. "I'll … do it in my mind. It's fine. We're fine. Everything's fine!"
"I don't even - "
The door slams shut.
"… want this," Dick finishes, muttering, forlorn and horny on his training mat.
He peeks down.
Now. How does one masturbate in this thing?
---
When Bruce sees Dick in action as Batman for the first time, he knows he's in trouble. And it's not the kind of trouble that "seeing Batman in action" would probably imply.
It doesn't hit him right away. When they reunite, Damian is in a Robin suit, which is irritating, Dick is in grave peril, which is more than irritating, they are surrounded by assassins, and Gotham is facing destruction once more. So there's a lot to get through. And afterwards, he's preoccupied with processing the insanity he's encountered in his time away, both mentally and physically, then compressing it to find back to a base-line of dogged functionality that he can operate on. There's a city to be rebuild, there are preparations to be made, precautions to be arranged. He can't rest, idle, or linger.
Amongst all that, he sometimes feels restless, over-stimulated, and undersexed, and he can't pinpoint why. But he puts that all the way down at the bottom of his priority list.
It doesn't hit him right away, but it does eventually catch up with him, when he finds himself in bed during the early hours of dawn, with luxurious 10 minutes to spare to tend to his needs.
He stretches out on his back, but it doesn't bring relaxation; every muscle in his body is tense, aching for something. He closes his eyes, tries to feel the soft, soothing reality of being in his actual bed (every moment that isn't strife tends to feel surreal to him), tries to focus on the reality of his own calloused fingers digging into his hard, swollen flesh, and prays that today's crisis won't start early.
When Dick comes to him in these moments, he only comes in white-hot flashes.
He's never allowed himself to picture him in full, because the assumption is that he will never have him in full, or at all. The only thing his mind lets through, and only when he nears completion, are splinters, sharp and soaring hot. A flutter of beautifully curved lips, smiling at him; a look from generous, bright blue eyes; a flying strand of wild black hair; hard, toned muscles flexing underneath a thin layer of fabric. By the time he brings himself to imagine those lips parting to receive his cock, or those strong legs wrapping around his head, he's usually already panting hard, spilling into his fist.
After that, he usually falls down a deep pit of guilt and despair for about a minute, then it's back to business.
But since he's seen him as Batman, things have become different. Since he's seen him as Batman, things have escalated. He can clearly sense that now, and his cock appears to grow even harder between his fingers, as if in confirmation.
Dick has always brought out a creepy, possessive side in him, one that he doesn't like, one that he works hard to keep in check. The Batsuit has always been what he'd channeled his darkest desires into. And the combination of both is borderline fatal for his soundness of mind.
He's long been attracted to him; he's never been this attracted to him, and he knows why.
Seeing how strong he was. Seeing how good he was, even when he'd been badly hurt. Seeing how effortless he seemed at doing something that was all effort, all the time. It'd finally made him realize that Dick isn't a boy in need of his protection anymore. He is a man, more than that, he is his equal, probably has been for a long time, and Bruce has failed to see it, but he sees it now. They're equals, and there's nothing to keep them apart anymore, except -
Except -
His breath gets caught in his throat and his arousal spikes when he realizes he can't think of anything, the barrier is gone, an avalanche of suppressed images floods his mind, and he's drowning in them, moaning hoarsely, while he finishes himself off with fervent strokes.
He lies completely still afterwards, and he can feel the familiar, numb feeling of guilt course through his stomach. But it washes away quickly, and it leaves no trace.
---
"You've been following me."
Bruce gazes up at the Bat that's perched above him, observing him from the shadows. From where he stands, he can see that his face looks cold, pale, and stern. But then, Batman smiles, and the eerie illusion of facing a younger, lighter version of himself fades away.
"I wondered when you'd notice," Batman says light-heartedly, and it becomes incredibly apparent that this is Dick, even if Bruce hadn't known already.
"I noticed four blocks ago." He hears himself sounding gruff, standoffish. Some of it is his usual demeanor when he's on patrol, and some of it is the strangeness of interacting with the man he's torridly jerked off to only a few hours prior. But he's familiar with that feeling. "Where's Robin?"
"Sent him home early. He wasn't psyched about it, but I wasn't sure how to pitch I'm gonna creepily stalk the other Batman for a few hours to him, so …"
"Why did you?" He can't say he dislikes it; but he's curious. "Stalk me?"
In the faint light of the moon, he can see Dick chew on his lip. "You'll probably think it's stupid."
Bruce frowns at him. He crosses his heavy arms over his chest. No Batman should involve himself in silly games like these. "Tell me," he growls.
He's always taken aback by how easily that warm, sunny smile seems to come to Dick. It should clash with the cape and cowl he's wearing, but it doesn't, because he owns it like Bruce owns his scowl. It makes his heart ache to see it.
"I just like to see that you're really back," Dick says softly.
It hits him in a lot of places at once, flustering him. "Hrm. You think that's a good use of your time?"
He can see Dick's face fall, even if it's only half-visible. "It's a quiet night. Told you you'd think it's stupid."
It's not stupid. It's a beautiful sentiment. It's completely undeserving of reproach. Bruce doesn't know why he couldn't have said that instead.
It's just that he thought he'd give it a few more days before he approached Dick about this … or approached him at all.
Too late for that now.
"My," Dick says, lips twitching, when Bruce climbs the ledge to join him on the higher roof. "What are people going to think when they see the two of us together?"
"What they're supposed to think," Bruce replies earnestly. "That we can be everywhere at once if we want to."
Dick lowers his head with a chuckle, contrite, like he's wanted a different answer. "Right."
"That's - " Bruce licks his lips. "That wasn't what I came up here to say."
"Then what?" Dick steps up to him. "What were you going to say?"
He tilts his head to one side with a faint smile that's somehow still very warm, and Bruce suddenly wonders if it's always been like this, if he's been flirting with him, if they had been flirting, all this time, and he hadn't allowed himself to identify that correctly, which is extremely weak for a genius detective.
The inviting smile falters when Dick gets a closer look at him, and Bruce realizes that he probably looks intensely grim and brooding at the moment, which isn't exactly what he's trying to communicate.
"It's something bad, isn't it." Dick bites his lip again, reminding Bruce how full, pouty and generally hypnotizing they are.
It's difficult to do this up close. He'd be more comfortable if they had this talk on the old church's roof instead, heads facing out to the nightly city, conversing across two gargoyles. Something like that.
Grappling himself up there now would be cowardly, however.
"I - " He starts, but all he can think of saying would either be a very long, probably meandering outpouring encompassing their entire time together, every conflict they've ever had, every conflicting emotion he's ever had, a short discourse about the nature of power balances and responsibility, an entire chapter on "I hurt the ones I love", a possibly humiliating confession of how much he'd missed him while he was gone, and between three or fifty prickly apologies for a multitude of things … or something short-form and stupid, like You're beautiful. Let's touch mouths.
Batman asks him, "Batman?" And he's starting to sound concerned.
So in the end, he says it in the only way he knows how. "I wanted to say that I'm proud of you. That I'm grateful."
Dick breathes out a soft sigh.
Bruce can't see his eyes, but he can see color flush his cheeks. That eagerness has persevered through the years, through pain and rejection and loss. It serves as a reminder that he doesn't say that often, and that Dick probably remembers every time, better than he does.
It makes him feel worse.
And he decides that he can't go there. Not now, not yet. He can't burden the boy with himself now, too. He's done too much of that already.
He's going to wrap this up, and save the rest for the next time he lies awake alone in his bed.
"And I was wrong about you." He's slowly finding back to his firm, authoritative voice, tip-toeing away from the edge he'd been about to hurl them both over. "You are good at this."
"Mmh." It's the kind of words Dick would usually drink in eagerly, but he shows little to no reaction. It's humbling; perhaps it wasn't necessary to say it, perhaps Dick has grown into this role so fully and thoroughly that he doesn't need his old mentor to confirm it. He seems to listen, but his attention seems focused on something else. He's observing Bruce as if he's trying to study his body language through the bulky suit.
After a while, he clicks his tongue. "Thank you," he says dryly. "You know … there's still one thing I never really seem to nail, though. Maybe you could help me with it."
Bruce frowns at him. "What - "
He can see a small flicker of pure panic cross Dick's cowled features, followed by a manic grin, and then he sees stars for a short moment, when the younger man moves, and tackle-hugs him to the ground.
He even holds on to Bruce's neck to prevent him from banging his head as they go down, as if he'd need it, as if he needed protection, or care.
And it feels good.
And he doesn't fight back.
Once he's on top of him, Dick covers them both in his cape, molding them into the dark, turning them almost invisible for a glorious moment in time.
He'd never known how cozy it was under here.
"You know, here's the thing," Dick whispers, eyes glowing at him, and Bruce can feel the hotness of his breath against his skin, "For Batman, I'm still way too approachable."
And he kisses him so hard that their teeth conk together.
Before he can even think, he's responding, with so much force that it's embarrassing, clutching at Dick's face with gloved hands, tugging and sucking on his lips like a man drowning, and he can hear him laugh into his kiss, huskily, breathlessly, and that sets him off even worse.
The air grows hot underneath their solid cover made of Kevlar. Their lips are soft, hot and wet, but their armored bodies and faces are cold. It feels incredibly intimate, and deeply impersonal at the same time. It's driving him crazy.
They'll have to go someplace else.
They'll have to talk earnestly about this, too.
But not right now.
Right now, Dick still has him in a leglock. His leglock is notoriously strong; Bruce knows how to break it, but he doesn't care to at the moment. He looks up at him, still stunned, and watches that fearless, victorious smile spread across his face, and it almost makes him believe that things could be beautiful and simple.
"Told you," Dick says, and even though Bruce can barely feel it, he knows that he's gently patting his growing erection through the suit, "I'd get you when you least expect it."