Notes: Well, I don't even know what's going on in the comic book these days, so it's safe to say that any resemblance between my interpretation of events and DC's is strictly coincidental. Thanks to Wonder!Sandy for the quick beta.

Warnings/Summary: PWP, totally. Warnings might destroy what little element of surprise still possible.

 

by Lachesis

 

Bruce watches Dick’s apartment for hours, waits until the young man comes home and then follows the shadow of Dick’s body; glimpses him through the windows as he moves through the apartment, eating dinner over the kitchen sink, his shower steaming up the bathroom window.  The bedroom light is the last to be snapped off and Bruce waits another hour.

Bruce is silent, but he’s not entirely certain he hasn’t been detected.  Recently, he’s begun to realize that Dick has a strange ability to make him uncertain, and he steels himself to not show it.  No shift in the paradigm here, no way.  He is completely in control and he always will be.  Power in their relationship is one of life’s consistencies.  Like gravity.  Like inertia.  And there’s as much chance of his giving it up as his giving up the suit.  This is what he tells himself as he slips in through the bedroom window.

He’s not wearing the suit now.  It’s important that Dick understand these things should be kept entirely separate.  He eases across the wide planks of the hardwood floor, neatly avoiding the debris that is indicative of Dick’s creative cleaning habits.  Dick tried to explain the merits of sniff-testing to Alfred once and Bruce had the singularly disturbing experience of watching Alfred’s eyes roll like the marbled eyes of a panicked horse.  At least he put the uniform away.

Bruce stands next to Dick’s bed.  Dick is soundly asleep, sheet pushed down to his waist, one hand, fingers curled toward his palm, on his chest, the other, under the sheet curled around his sex.  There is a lingering scent of spunk and sweat.  Dick’s mouth is open and he’s snoring lightly.

Bruce places one gloved hand over those generous lips.  Blue eyes snap open, their gazes lock and then Dick’s struggling, fighting, but Bruce taught him how to fight and Bruce is still bigger, stronger, and prepared.  Handcuffs snap tightly around strong wrists and the rung of the headboard, effectively trapping Dick’s hands above his head, his fingers wrapping around the bar.  Dick is really struggling now, body twisting and arching to throw Bruce off him, but Bruce has all the advantages now.

“Son of a bitch!” Dick hisses and the muscles in his powerful legs tense to kick.

“Language,” Bruce murmurs automatically , as he pins down Dick’s legs.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Dick demands.  Bruce takes in the sight of him, cheeks in full color, chest heaving, and eyes eloquent with ferocity.  Bruce settles all his weight onto Dick’s body, clamps one hand over that panting mouth, pinches his nostrils shut.  Bruce notes with some annoyance that Dick actually appears to be panicking.

“Do you want me to hurt you?” he asks, his voice low and cold.  He feels the shudder that runs the length of Dick’s body.

A frantic shake of Dick’s head, a muffled sob.

“Then be still,” Bruce growls, enunciating carefully, and to his relief, Dick’s body slumps beneath him.  Good, neither of them need the bruises.  Bruce lets go of Dick’s mouth and nose and the younger man gulps in air. 

Bruce removes his gloves.

He runs his hands over every silky inch of Dick’s body that he can reach while Dick trembles with the effort not to struggle.  He splays a hand on Dick’s hipbone, as if Bruce can soak in the heat of him.  He touches his lips to the vein on Dick’s neck, feeling the fluttering course of blood under that fragile skin.  He pinches Dick’s nipples and muffles Dick’s cries with his own mouth.  He could make a feast of Dick’s mouth, he thinks, chewing on that pouty lower lip, tongue running over those teeth, stroking the soft, ridged palate. 

He pulls back for a moment to catch his breath, lets his hips do a slow grind against Dick’s.  Dick’s eyes are watching him, wide and dark.  Bruce almost succumbs to the urge to bury his cock in that mouth, make those pressure- bruised lips pull his orgasm from him, but Bruce doesn’t trust those sharp white teeth or the defiance still glinting in Dick’s eyes.

He manages to slide his own pants down far enough to free his cock.  He gives into temptation for a moment, pressing into Dick’s belly, feeling the body beneath him begin to squirm again, helplessly.  His cock is pulsing with his heartbeat and he feels like he’s been dripping precum since he eased in through the window. 

He grabs Dick’s ankles, brings his legs up and over his shoulders quickly enough to get a startled ‘oof’ out of the younger man and then he’s sliding into that fantastic, tight heat, Dick’s groan like a song in his ears.  He hesitates now, trying to control his own breathing, listening to Dick panting beneath him.  He tries to meet Dick’s gaze, but Dick’s eyes are squeezed shut and he pulls at the handcuffs.

Bruce runs his tongue along the tendon standing out against the side of Dick’s neck and then he sinks his teeth into the muscle connecting shoulder and neck.  He feels Dick gasp and buck beneath him and growls low in his throat, hips thrusting, and, oh God, that's so good.  Rocking into the cradle of Dick’s body, and Dick practically bent double and shuddering from the force of his thrusts, soft, strangled whimpers being pulled from his throat.

Bruce wants this to last, but he’s already begun the spiral towards release and he’s groaning against Dick’s neck, cock spasming into that perfect ass.

He falls to the side, breathing hard, barely conscious. 

He hears the whisper of flesh against cotton as Dick stretches out his legs.  He hears the metallic clink of the handcuffs as they hit the floor.

“Bruce?” Dick asks, voice hoarse.

“Mmm?” he manages to reply.  He feels warm lips press against his temple and he lifts the dead weight of his hand to rub the evidence of Dick’s release into his stomach and chest.

“Thanks.  That was perfect.”

“Mmm.”

“Bruce?”

“Mm?”

“Do you think next time you could wear the suit?”

Bruce doesn’t answer immediately.  Dick knows him too well.  Must know him better than to ask that of him, but Dick has always been a little on the malicious side of mischievous.

“I’ll wear the suit if you move back home,” he finally answers.  Dick’s lips are blood warm against the corner of his mouth.

“I am home, Bruce,” Dick says and although he kisses him gently, it stings, whiplash sharp.  Bruce wonders, briefly, when he lost control of this situation, or if he ever had it.      

end.

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