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The hand is searingly hot. Her fingers are tingling, the noose around her neck tightening, and then finally, finally—she snaps back into her body, and she feels—
—her hand in his.
Well. Fuck.
Fuck.
This changes everything.
He’s speaking. It takes a second for her sluggish brain to interpret his words, the echo of his voice from the past layering on top of his voice at present and creating simultaneous—and thus disorienting—sensations of déjà vu and jamais vu.
“—re you okay?”
His tone and features hint at concern, but she can feel the edge of suspicion he tries so hard to hide. His hand tightens on her shoulder as she neglects to respond, instead continuing to gape at him. Then, a sudden wave of clarity crashing into her, she intensifies her own grip in turn.
“Of course it’s you,” she says, half-bewilderment, half-contempt. “It was always you.”
And it was, wasn’t it? It was always him. At that gala, so many years ago, Marvin picking on him for being poor, for having an accent, for not having parents because Bruce had fostered but never adopted Dick. It had been him on the rooftop, him in class trying to befriend her, trying to best her, him at graduation, him, him, him—
Everything clicks neatly and yet clumsily into place, like a puzzle she’d never realized she’d been missing pieces to. Implications and conflicts are created and resolved almost all at once as her brain recontextualizes years of thoughts, feelings, and memories in an instant.
His mouth is so expressive. It twists, tasting all sorts of words and feelings before settling on nonchalance, but the jig is already up. In fact, it had never even started. “It’s me?” he parrots, overzealous in his attempt to feign obliviousness. Is he doing it on purpose? Does he want her to know? “Me what?”
Yes, it’s obvious from the way his free hand slides down and then off her arm that he knows he’s caught. Still, he tugs gently at their still-entwined hands, casually feeling out exactly how trapped he is.
That won’t do.
Quick as a viper, she crushes his hand in hers, refusing to let go. He tilts his head, and she knows then that the only reason she’s succeeded is because, for some reason, he wants her to. “Dick,” she says, no-nonsense, and this time his lips actively form into a grimace. He’s a terrible actor. How has she never noticed? Still, she doesn’t allow him the space to audition with another shitty take on this particular scene. “Try not to insult my intelligence for once in your small-minded life.”
Now that she knows it’s him under there, it’s unnerving to see the obvious differences between Dick Grayson and Nightwing. It’s like his body has swapped heads, complete with a different personality and posture. No. That’s not quite right. Same personality, same traits, just with different emphases depending on which part he’s playing. Egomania and kindness and bravery but in italics, in bold, and underlined for good measure, just so that no one will ever connect any dots.
Disheveled black hair brushes his forehead as his head cocks further to the side, begging for something without words. Drop it, the jut of his chin seems to say, the mask’s eyes glowing white and otherworldly. While you still can, drop it. Forget it. Don’t acknowledge that you know. Just let me go.
Ah, so that’s what this feeling is: panic. He’s trying—and mostly succeeding—at suppressing it. In fact, he’s so nearly convinced himself that he’s not panicking that even her hunch almost fails to perceive the emotion.
Too bad she’s never been one to let sleeping bats lie.
“You—you never fucking told me,” she says with abrupt lucidity, riding the sudden wave of unbuoyed fury.
No, not sudden.
Always there. Always simmering, just under the surface. She’d always blamed them, Batman and Nightwing, for what had happened to him, to Robin, but now—
Dick jolts. She catalogues his reaction for further weaponization. “I don’t—”
“He was your brother,” she continues, and the rage is so potent, she feels it from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. “You had to have known that—that we were friends, but you—none of you—ever said—” Something hot and wet hits her cheek, and for a moment she’s confused, but then she tastes salt and realizes they’re just tears. Bitter, frustrated, sad tears, plopping down her cheeks in an unprecedented storm. “I thought—” she chokes on the words, her hand slackening its grip on his. “—all this time, I was hoping he’d—I don’t know, escaped? Left without telling me? But—but he’s dead. And no one ever—”
He twists his wrist until he’s able to squeeze her hand, his shoulders sagging, head bowing. “I…” he trails off. “I know,” he settles on. “And I’m sorry.” He releases a shaky breath. “The next Robin asked what he should tell you. After—when you met him for the first time. He said ‘this girl knows I’m not him. How couldn’t she? What should I say?’ But…”
But heroes and gods can never die.
“Exactly,” says Dick, and she realizes she’s accidentally spoken it aloud.
“But you weren’t,” she says it suddenly. “You never were. You were only children.”
Dick swallows. “We—”
“No,” she argues, shaking her head, “Jason was. You should’ve—warned him or—or—”
“We knew what we were getting into.”
“You knew. Jason was—he was only—” she trails off. Fifteen. He’d only been fifteen when he died. And Dick and everyone else had known that she and Jason were friends, and Dick had known her, gone to school with her, but he’d never said anything, ever. He’d never mentioned it as Dick Grayson, nor as Nightwing, nor as her friend, the first Robin she’d ever met, who’d told her bad jokes and made her laugh, who’d told her she was no one’s puppet and that if she was so unhappy, she should do something about it. Advice that had led to her fighting her parents at every turn, until the stakes had been too high and her parents, unwilling to pay the price of her obedience, had disowned her. A thousand minor skirmishes between them and her, all ending in concessions and reparations until, abruptly, they’d arrived at the point of no return.
And how ironic that the boy who’d told her to resist in the first place had also been the young man who’d triggered their ultimatum.
Because it’d also been Dick who’d laughed and said “my bad” in the least remorseful manner he could manage, who had pretended not to recognize her at Finnigan’s earlier, who had never really apologized for ruining her life.
“I regret it every day of my life, Branwen,” Dick says, and his honesty sings through the connection, she feels it, but—
She ignores it.
“But you kept it from me!” she shouts, yanking her hand from his so that she can shove at his chest. Perhaps he hadn’t been expecting it, or perhaps he thinks he deserves it; either way, he uncharacteristically staggers.
They stand there like that for a long moment that seems to stretch into eternity, both their chests heaving, and she is angry. Angry that he still dares to wear that stupid fucking mask in front of her, angry that she can’t see his eyes, angry that he’s lied to her, kept secrets from her, hurt her.
Another wave of clarity. She exhales. Takes a deep breath. Exhales again. She knows what she needs to do. She knows how to make things right. “I’m putting you under arrest,” she informs him, eyes narrowed.
“Arre—for what?!” he cries, throwing up his hands. “Branwen, I’m sorry but—”
“Last I checked,” she sneers, “vigilantism is still a crime.”
That mouth of his wrenches to the side in displeasure, and he shakes his head in apparent disbelief. “Branwen—”
“You know, it’s really funny,” she confides, “that you pretended you didn’t know me earlier, Grayson, but now you can’t seem to stop saying my name.”
“I didn’t recog—”
Liar, liar, liar.
She can’t take it anymore. “Get on your knees.”
A brief stalemate, an attrition of wills, and then—
“You’re not a police officer, Branwen,” he says, voice low, a warning. Still, he falls to his knees, like he’s been anticipating the order, like he wants to abide by her rules for once in his fucking life.
She smirks. “You’re right,” she concedes, because she’s not and she’s never claimed to be. “Which is why I’m putting you under a citizen’s arrest.”
His mouth drops open and then shuts almost as quickly. She can’t help but stare at it. She’s been staring at it, all night. “I just saved your life,” he reminds her, as though she might have forgotten. His delivery is part incredulity, part reverence, relishing in her obstinacy even as he condemns it.
She shakes her head, jerking her chin towards Vinny and Vomit Shoes. “You just beat two men unconscious, unprovoked. It’s not looking so great for you, Grayson. Shame. Orange is not your color.”
“You know,” he says, leaning forward, breath lingering between them in a cloud of white in the chilly Halloween air, “I don’t remember getting a thank you.”
“I’m sure Tony would love to thank you,” she agrees, deadpan. “You know, for threatening him.”
A soundless laugh. Has she struck a nerve yet? “You—you’re really something, Branwen,” he says, all sarcasm, tone hard and flat.
Oh, she’ll show him something all right. “Put your hands where I can see them,” she commands, and her surprise is cursory when again he complies.
The glow of his mask’s eyes is almost ungodly, scorching through her the way his hands and thoughts had not so long ago. “I don’t know how you’ve managed to make his death all about you,” he says it like he’s truly in awe. “It’s fucking incre—”
She doesn’t even register that she’s slapped him until after it’s happened, the crack of her hand across his cheek echoing down the alleyway and into the night. She withdraws, breath catching in her throat as she awaits his reaction.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he turns back to face her. She can’t read his expression under the mask. She hates it, hates this, hates him.
Liar, liar, liar. It plays on an endless loop in her head.
“Branwen,” he growls her name the way he might a threat. “Not h—”
Quick as lightning, she reaches for his mask, wanting—needing—to see his eyes.
He catches her wrist—of course he does—and it’s like she’s flipped a switch. In a single, fluid moment, he’s risen to his feet, extracted his grapnel gun, and jerked her closer to him. They stand there, waging a war fought purely in the silence of their gazes. One heartbeat, two—she blinks. Hard-won victory acknowledged, he secures her against him with an arm at her waist and fires a line into the night.
She’s hauled unceremoniously off her feet, shrieking in his ear. The suddenness of the action has her very nearly strangling him in an effort not to fall, and through that contact, she catches flashes of amusement and something she’s too cowardly to name.
They forgo landing on the rooftop altogether in favor of crashing into it as a sprawling mess of limbs. Dick’s still a little tipsy and most likely unused to carrying an extra person, but it probably doesn’t help that she’s coiled around him like a snake, or a particularly obtrusive vine. At first, she’d anchored herself to him because she didn’t trust him not to drop her; now that they’ve reached their apparent destination, she does it because she refuses to be stranded up here. He wouldn’t be the first Robin to do that to her.
Jason.
Her heart aches. How blind had she been? How ignorant? And now that she knows, there’s part of her that feels like it had always known. Known that Jason was Robin, known that Robin really was dead. She’d rebelled against that part, insisted and persisted until she’d convinced herself that Robin—her Robin—was alive. How could she have thought that? How could she have thought he would run off without telling her? Why had she never investigated further, considered other possibilities?
Because you’re a terrible person, that same part of her whispers insidiously. Because you tricked yourself into thinking you cared in the first place. You’re a terrible person who comes from terrible people, and you have never cared about anyone as much as you care about yourself.
Dick more or less pries her off him, grunting as she tightens her hold. “I—Bra—Jesus, I never thought I’d have to say this, but get off.”
She promptly extricates herself, sniffing primly. “Don’t flatter yourself, I just don’t trust you not to—” she cuts herself off. Too revealing.
“Not to leave you here?” He quirks a questioning brow at her, holstering the grapnel gun. “I’m not that big of an asshole.”
“No,” she concedes, “but you are that big of a dick.”
“I think the words you were looking for are ‘you have a big dick’,” he says, then seems to remember who he’s talking to. “I mean—” He coughs. “I—you know what, whatever. Come on.” And with that, he snatches her wrist once more.
He leads her to a door, typing in a code on a pad to the right of the frame. A hidden panel clicks open, and out comes a ray of blue light which moves swiftly up his face before concluding that, yes, the man with half his features covered is, in fact, Nightwing. What kind of janky fucking—
“Safe house?” she mumbles as he tugs her across the threshold.
He doesn’t reply, continuing to pull her further into the sparse apartment.
It’s only once they’ve reached a small living space with a single armchair, an old TV, and a rattling radiator—him swinging her none too gingerly into the cushions—that he takes off the mask.
The resulting whiplash is unexpected. There’s something very wrong about seeing him like this, god and mortal all at once. The contradiction between them—Nightwing and Dick—is even more noticeable. The harsh lines of bags under his eyes speak of exhaustion, but the chiseled form of his body—shown off in tight-fitting spandex—is free of any such earthly weaknesses. Even the sardonic twist of his lips is different, eased into something more approachable by the rich blue of Dick’s eyes.
Worst of all, the vulnerability implied by him existing like this, Dick’s face on Nightwing’s body, makes it significantly harder to be mad at him.
She hates it.
Almost asks him to put his mask back on.
But—
“How did you know?” he asks, and something in his voice sounds jagged. The hand clutching his domino mask does so with so much force, she’s surprised she doesn’t hear it crack.
Well, she’s absolutely not going to tell him about her powers, so the only real solution is— “Yourassisthesame.”
His brows shoot up. “I didn’t catch that. What did you say?”
“Isaidyouhavethesameass.”
This time he blinks at her. Slowly. Owlishly. When he speaks, his tone indicates that he suspects she’s become unhinged. “I literally don’t understand what you’re saying, and that’s impressive because I speak five languages fluently.”
Her scowl deepens. “I said,” she enunciates, aware that her words are about to have severe consequences, “you have. The same. Ass.”
“The same—” his lips shape into an O of understanding. A beat. Two. He erupts like coke with mentos, laughter gushing out of him. “I didn’t know you were looking,” he manages to choke out between guffaws. “I would’ve posed.”
She glares. “You’re always posing. That’s kind of the problem. I probably wouldn’t have known at all if you weren’t such an attention whore.”
He lifts a shoulder as though to say, I can’t help who I am. “There’s a million little details that give us away,” he says. “Batman has expensive tech out the ass and he started his run not too long after Bruce returned to Gotham. I’m shocked more people haven’t figured it out, to be honest.”
“Plus,” she drags out the S, “Jason.”
His features close off. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Jason. That’s—we never made an announcement for Robin. The next Robin was—people didn’t really question the transition between the two of them. They were close enough to the same age that I don’t think hardly anyone other than Joker noticed, and that was only because—” he cuts himself off, as though realizing he’s just revealed way too much.
She props an elbow on her knee, leaning forward to peer at him with narrowed eyes. “No, please, continue.”
He shakes his head, pushing off the wall. “No. I’ve already said too much.”
“You haven’t said enough,” she counters, leaping to her feet. “You owe me.”
He winces. “I can’t. Not about—”
“If owing me isn’t enough, don’t you think you owe him?”
His gloved palm scrubs down his face. “Branwen, it’s not going to happen,” he says sternly. “This isn’t about me. It’s not about us. It’s about protecting the people I care about.”
“…Meaning the rest of your family is also involved in this bullshit. I’m guessing Tim replaced Jason and now the eleven-year-old is Robin? Jesus, talk about child endangerment. Does he even care about any of you? I bet—”
“Branwen.” Her name is a knife, the edge of his voice poised to cut.
She scoffs, taking a step towards him. “Do you think I’m fucking afraid of you, Grayson?” she hisses. “I’m going to ruin you; you know that right? Everyone thinks Jason died alone doing charity work, but you probably fucking staged it because it’s easier to explain that than why a child wearing spandex was shot in the chest by some fucking costumed supervillain. Dawn was fucking right, you all covered it up and—”
Bang!
His hand smashes into the drywall, leaving a hole in its wake, and then he steps into the ring with her. “Fuck. You,” he says. “I’ve tried being nice. I’ve asked you to stop pushing. I’ve apologized. Knowing how he died won’t change anything. It won’t bring him back. It won’t—” his voice cracks, but he plows forward regardless. “I’m done playing games, Branwen. You won. Is that what you want to hear? Or do you want to hear that I blame myself? That it was my fault? That I should’ve told you, but I didn’t? Or maybe you’re still holding onto the Academy. I fucked up. Is that what you want? I hurt you, I humiliated you, and then I was a complete asshole about it. I didn’t apologize. I didn’t even try. But I am sorry. I’m sorry I embarrassed you. But everyone thought it was funny. No one ever thought anything of it. Everyone knew you and Casey had never really even spoken. It was just a prank.”
“My parents didn’t think it was very funny,” she says darkly, matching his step forward with one of her own. “It’s why they disowned me, you know.” She advances another step, unable to help herself, somehow looking down her nose at him even though she has to raise her chin slightly to meet his gaze. “They disowned me because of you. It was never just a stupid prank. It ruined my life, and you didn’t fucking care!”
He runs his tongue over his teeth. “Forgive me,” he says, “for not being a fucking mind reader.”
She snarls. “You didn’t have to be a mind reader, you just had to not be a dick!”
He leans forward. “It’s in the name, sweetheart.”
Her fury simmers over like an unwatched pot, and she lunges.
It’s her next course of action, however, that surprises them both.
Her hands, angry balls that they are, unfurl, the claws of her fingernails finding purchase in his unruly hair as she yanks him down to meet her, lips colliding with his, and it hurts, their teeth clanging in a way that has her instantly withdrawing to make sure she hasn’t chipped anything.
His chest is heaving, lapis lazuli eyes wide, pupils blown.
She parts her lips to apologize to him for once, unsure how to explain the feelings that are brewing in her chest, but then she realizes—
They’re not just hers.
Her fingers are still tangled in his hair, and he feels the same.
It’s—it’s lust, pure and simple. A skittering feeling that travels up her spine, eliciting a shiver of arousal. He wants to shut her up, and not by exchanging barbs and shouting until they’re blue in the face. He wants to use his mouth, his fingers, his tongue—
She blushes.
But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t act.
Maybe—no. She hasn’t misread him. She knows she didn’t. Her hunches are, after all, always right. But maybe he has more self-control. Maybe he doesn’t want to act on…whatever this is.
Her hands fall to her sides, her foot lifting to step away but—
“Fuck it,” he mumbles, and then his hands are on her waist and his mouth against hers.
She makes a noise of surprise that he promptly swallows, and then they’re moving, his body crowding hers until she’s pressed against the wall right next to where he’d smashed a hole into it only a few minutes prior. He’s not gentle as he backs her against it, her head smacking painfully against drywall, but he swallows that noise too, his left hand capturing her right and pinning it next to the damaged section of the wall while his other slips down to her thigh, encouraging her to wrap the leg around his waist. She makes a pitiful noise in the back of her throat and in response, he squeezes her ass.
All the while, he kisses her, mouth prying and coaxing and manipulating hers until he’s finally opened her up to him. Then, he sucks her tongue into his mouth. She moans, her free hand scrabbling for the nape of his neck to regain some semblance of control. Her nails scrape at the exposed skin under the collar of his suit, and he groans. She takes it for encouragement, goes for his hair again, but he wrenches his mouth from hers.
She makes to protest, but before she can get the words out, he’s attached those ridiculously beautiful lips to her neck, sucking bruises into the delicate skin there.
No. This won’t do. She doesn’t—she needs—she tugs sharply at his hair, drawing him back to her mouth as though she has him on a leash, and he obliges.
Fuck. Fuck. He likes it. Likes being in control just as much as he likes being controlled. She can feel it.
Her leg tightens, jerking his hips into hers.
He moans, fingers kneading at her ass, grip on her wrist tightening like a vice, his mouth disconnecting from hers to pant out a harsh breath that could be her name or an oath. Coming from his mouth, they sound the same.
Dick seems to have read her mind, because his lips catch her collar bone and then the shell of her ear as he leans in to murmur, “I’d really like eat you out until the only thing you can say is my name and what you want from me in a single word, but I’d also really like your permission before I do.”
“You—” his mouth is too fucking distracting, wet kisses at her throat causing her to lose her train of thought. “What does—?”
He snickers, hand leaving her ass to travel up the back of her shirt instead. Even through spandex, his hand is warm, palms large. She wants to feel his bare skin on hers. “Yes or no, Branwen?”
She licks her lips. His eyes track the motion with the precision of a hawk. The next pass of her tongue is deliberately slow and hopefully sensual. Finally, she replies, voice breathier than she’d thought it would be. “Yes.”
His answering grin is decidedly filthy. “Good,” he says, fingers finding the button of her pants and popping it in no time at all. He slides them down her legs in a single motion along with her underwear, then leans in, hot breath fanning over her navel.
“No,” she says suddenly, and he freezes, blinking up at her in alarm. He rocks back on his heels, probably about to stand, but her next words stop him. “Take off your fucking suit, Grayson. I don’t know where those gloves have been.”
He blinks, and then a surprised laugh bursts out of him. He looks down sheepishly, as though he’d forgotten he was encased in spandex. “Sure you do,” he says, fingers plucking at a hidden zipper located at the back of his neck. “It was only an hour ago, wasn’t it, that I saved you? You know, maybe we’ve got this backwards.” He pulls and the skin-tight suit falls to the floor leaving him completely naked. Of course. “Maybe,” he says leeringly, eyes trailing up and down her body in shameless perusal even though he’s wearing less clothes than her, “you should be on your knees for me.”
She scoffs, looking down her nose at him. “Are you kidding? I’m the one doing you a favor here. You should be begging.”
The slow grin that eases over his lips is sinful. “Who said I wouldn’t be?” he asks, dropping to his knees and stroking up her calf. His hand hooks around the bend of her knee, and he edges closer still, leaving lingering kisses up her thigh until she takes the initiative and settles her leg over his shoulder for balance, her hands in his hair.
“Then beg,” she hisses, yanking him to where she wants him most.
They both moan at first contact, her lips parting unconsciously as his mouth opens against her clit, sucking gently.
“Fuck,” she gasps as his tongue swirls through her folds, and to avoid his inevitably snarky response, tugs at his hair again. He hums against her, and the feedback loop is unreal, his feelings of pleasure and hers entwined, nearly indistinguishable.
In her distraction, her grip slackens, and he takes the opportunity to place a smirking kiss against her thigh. “That’s the idea, yes,” he says. “Fuck, you look so good like this.”
“Above you?” she asks. “Yeah, I already knew you liked it. You practically came when I told you to get on your knees earlier.”
He shrugs helplessly, her leg moving with the action. She wobbles slightly, her left hand slipping to catch his shoulder to steady herself. “What can I say,” he intones dryly, leaving another open-mouthed kiss on her clit. “I like being put in my place.”
She shudders. “Too bad I didn’t have handcuffs,” she tries to pass it off as a joke.
His eyes lock with hers and he goes taut. “I do.”
She stills too. A spike of arousal that has nothing to do with his ministrations jolts through her. Slowly, deliberately, she delivers a command. “Then go get them.”
His hands don’t fumble or shake as he grabs his utility belt, withdrawing a set of standard-issue police handcuffs from one of the pouches. He gives her a considering look from under sooty lashes, then withdraws a condom from another pouch.
She cackles. “Jesus, how often to do you fuck as Nightwing?”
He ignores her taunt, attention on the first part of her sentence instead. “Still not the name I want you to scream, sweetheart,” he says, dropping the square packet on the floor next to her foot. The handcuffs, however, he passes to her. “As the lady requested.”
Branwen raises them up for inspection. “The key?” she checks. He drops it into her waiting hand, and she tucks it into her bra for safe keeping. “Safe word?” she asks next, gesturing for him to raise his hands.
His smirk is near-lethal. “Callipygian.”
What the—
“You really don’t know? Since you’re so focused on it, you really should learn better words to describe my ass.”
She blinks at him, then twirls her finger wordlessly, daring him to turn around, to which he readily acquiesces with the confidence of someone who knows they’re hot. In all fairness, it is a nice ass, just as sculpted and tan as the rest of him. But she’s not about to tell him that. “You’re a dumbass,” she says, shaking her head even though he can’t see her. “What’d you fucking Google that shit?”
He lifts a helpless shoulder, and she clicks the handcuffs into place on his wrists. Almost immediately, he whirls around, mouth meeting hers once more in a desperate kiss. And fuck, he really does like being told what to do, his cock hard and ready for her already.
She ignores it for now, choosing instead to meet his kiss blow for blow, her teeth nipping at his lower lip incessantly until he allows her entrance to his mouth. She presses on his shoulders until he’s kneeling once more, chasing the kiss almost all the way down. Dick’s the one to break it, and it’s only by accident, his kneecaps landing none too gently on the rough carpet and causing him to release a grunt. Unconcerned about whether he’s comfortable, she settles her leg on his shoulder once more, hooking him into her, spreading herself for him to tend to at his leisure.
And it is at his leisure. This time, he’s far more teasing, reassured that she won’t turn him away at any given moment. His lips dance around where she wants him most, tongue trailing from her entrance only to stop just short of her clit.
“You’re a real brat,” she tells him, digging her heel into his back to spur him on.
It doesn’t. In lieu of doing what she wants, his tongue maps the perimeter of her clit, and Dick hums all the while.
After five minutes, she’s at her wit’s end. It’s not enough. It’s like he’s trying to punish her. “I swear to fucking God, Grayson, if you don’t—”
He withdraws entirely, licking his lips absently. “Well, if you’re going to be like that,” he says, “then why should I give you what you want at all?”
“Wh—”
His teeth pass over his full bottom lip. “Maybe I’m not giving you what you need,” he says, voice tinged with contemplation. Something flashes in his eyes, and she opens her mouth to insult him again, but is stopped by the feeling of his tongue plunging directly into her.
“Fuck,” she hisses lowly, leaning fully into the wall. It isn’t what she’d wanted, but it’s so fucking good she doesn't care. His tongue is warm, and when he retreats back up to her clit, his hot mouth finally encasing the sensitive nub to suck at it in earnest, she can’t help the whine she releases.
He hums in return, redoubling his efforts, and her hips roll to meet him, hand in his hair and the other clenching at the side of his neck. She’s struck with a vision—whether it’s hers or his, she couldn’t say—of her hand sliding around to cup his throat and then squeezing, choking him until his vision starts to darken around the edges, his world narrowing until she’s all he sees.
She gives in, feeling his Adam’s apple bob once—twice—before she’s got his life in her hands, her fingers twitching against his skin as he pushes his tongue into her again in retribution. There’s a feeling coiling in the pit of her stomach, some horrific cross between butterflies and a noose, something that feels like anticipation and dread all at once. His teeth graze her clit, his tongue descending back to her entrance, and he sucks at her like she’s the best thing he’s ever tasted and—
The noose snaps, a shudder teasing its way up her spine and then back down again. She moans loudly, her hand clenching at his throat perhaps a little too aggressively this time, but she can feel that he likes it, and she moans again, fisting at his hair.
He leaves soft kisses in his wake, ones she ignores in her haste to recover her faculties enough to meet his lips with hers. She practically pushes him to the ground until he’s sitting, then throws herself in his lap, bearing her mouth down against his as she chases the high.
He pulls away after a long few minutes, chin glistening despite her best efforts. “Well,” he says, “that was disappointing.”
“Disa—?” She never gets to finish her inquiry, for his hands raise, clamping around her hips as he flips their positions, putting her back to the rough carpet.
She whimpers. “How the—” she manages between the push and pull of his mouth against hers, stealing the breath from her lungs.
“Lockpick,” he replies, hitching one of her legs and then the other around his hips once more.
“Where—”
He snatches her wrists in one of his hands, locking them in place above her head and then grinds his hips into hers slowly, torturously. “Trade secret, sweetheart.”
“Y-you—” her thoughts dissolve into static as he swivels his hips. “You—” she tries again, but he brings his fingers to her chest, her breasts still covered by her shirt and encased in a bra. Disregarding the barrier, he pinches at her nipple, and she whines in pleasure at the dulled sensation. “Keep—” He’s still trying to fight her, trying to prevent her from finishing the thought, his hand shoving her shirt up and then dragging down her bra cup until his fingers are tweaking at bare flesh instead. “A lock—fuck!” she swears loudly, hips jerking into his as he sucks her nipple into his mouth. She struggles against his hands, wanting very badly to rake her nails down his spine until he has as many marks as she does.
He releases her with a wet pop, his smirk showing off the deep indents of his dimples. It’s entirely too insolent for her taste. She throws her weight up and to the right, trying to flip him on his back, but he doesn’t so much as stutter in her intended direction. Instead, he laughs. “That was cute,” he says, ducking to kiss at her lips again. “But you won’t win like that.”
“Win?” she asks derisively. “This was never a competition, Grayson. You were never even a contender.”
He hums low in his throat. “Then how come I’ve got you right where I want you?” he asks.
And she scowls. “Because I let you,” she answers.
He chuckles, circling her clit with his thumb again, and no matter how hard she tries, she can’t stop her hips from spasming. He laughs harder, his free hand straining to reach the condom he’d tossed beside her before. “Keep telling yourself that,” he drawls, and she hears a tell-tale click, only then registering the cool steel around her own wrists.
“How—”
“Trade secret, sweetheart,” he says again, peeling himself from her to open the condom.
Obstinately, she tries to sit up, only to find that she can’t. “What—” She tilts her head back as far as she can and sees that he’s strung the handcuffs around a protruding pipe at the bottom of the radiator. “Really?” she sneers at him, incredulous. She throws her head back in a mockery of defeat. “Fuck you.”
He quirks a brow. “That would be the idea, yes,” he says as he finishes rolling the condom down his length. He considers her for a long moment. Branwen wonders what she looks like; probably a mess, her hair in disarray, lips as kiss-swollen as his. Her chest is rising and falling rapidly as she tries to catch her breath, beads of sweat racing their way down her exposed skin.
“Then what are you waiting for,” she challenges, spreading her legs to accommodate his body. “I seem to recall you saying I would be begging.”
He requires no further invitation, settling himself between her thighs like it’s where he belongs, his fingers dipping against her entrance until one is inside her. He’s gentle, searching around inside her for the spot that he knows will make her see God.
She doesn’t want gentle. It’s not enough.
“What, are you fucking afraid?” she demands, bearing her hips down against his hand. “Can’t even fucking finger me well, huh? Can’t finger, won’t fuck…What can you do, Grayson, huh?”
The noise he makes is that of indignation. “Forgive me for not ravaging you,” he says, “but the only screaming I want to hear is you pleading for more.” As though to punctuate his point, he fits another of his gorgeous fingers into her, immediately hooking them against her in a way that has her gasping. He smirks. “Sweetheart, just you wait,” he coos, pumping against the spot once more, and her thighs squeeze around his hips as she tries to lock his hand in place. “I’ll take care of you.”
Two fingers melt into three, her hips lifting in time with the drawn-out thrusts until she can’t see or hear or feel anything other than the steady movements of his hand. The noose is tightening again in her core, promising relief if only she should submit. Her mouth falls open, head tipping back, and she’s there but then—
He retreats, wet fingers drawing teasing figure eights on the flesh of her inner thigh.
The sound she makes is incensed, pure and simple. “I—” she starts. “You—”
Dick smothers a smile, his twitching lips the only indication she’s got with her hands bound like this that he’s doing this on purpose and is—in fact—deriving pleasure from tormenting her.
She jerks at the handcuffs, feeling cold metal bite into her wrists. “You,” she repeats, the threat barely contained within the lone word.
He doesn't say anything, just plunges all three fingers back inside her at once, his palm grinding against her clit as he maintains impudent eye contact. It takes less time for the noose to tighten, and at the first dip of his head, his lips brushing the side of her neck, she almost loses it but—
He backs away again.
She very nearly weeps in frustration. “I swear to God, Richard, if you don—”
Without warning, his fingers sink into her once more. “What did you call me,” he growls, and there’s less control, less finesse, in his movements this time. In time with the thrusts of his fingers, his hips grind against her thigh, the hard length of him impossible to ignore.
She tries for snarky. “Ric—” She cries out as his free hand, which had been clamped around her waist, raises to pinch at her nipple in warning.
“You know what you have to say,” he warns her, halting once more. This time, he leaves his fingers inside her, and it’s the lack of friction while being so full that causes her to break.
“Fuck! Dick! Fuck!” she sobs, and he takes the invitation for what it is, spreading her legs wider as he guides himself inside her.
The noose tightens sharply, and she has to fight her body not to immediately climax.
“Fuck, that’s good,” he groans, watching as he slides inside her all too easily. “So pretty like this, fuck, wish you could see, Branwen. All you had to say, that’s all you have to say, and I’ll give it to you, you know that, right?”
She’s too far gone to register that he’s been building up to this terrible fucking pun all along. “Dick, move.” She tries to demand it, but her voice is too near to a cry for it to be effective. He’s in control of this encounter now, and she can’t bring herself to care much.
The first thrust rocks her back roughly against the carpet. She can’t say that she’s thinking about rug burn, but he obviously is, because after that, he switches to circling his hips instead, never leaving her body, instead searching around inside of her once more for the spot his fingers had so cleverly sought out earlier. His mouth attaches itself to her breast, sucking bruises into the thin skin there while his left plays with the one unattended. The rope of the noose is ready to snap, her vision tunneling as her breaths become gasping but—but it’s his hand on her throat, squeezing that does it for her, kicking the stool out from under her and—
She cums, releasing a string of swears and pleas and his name, which passes for both.
His forehead presses against hers, breath lingering on her lips before he steals another kiss, hips still swiveling, refusing to pause even while she repeats his name, this time in warning. “One more,” she vaguely hears him say, his hands seemingly everywhere. “Just one more.”
She keens, hips lifting as another orgasm rocks through her, and with a long groan, he shudders too, muscles convulsing until he goes pliant against her, panting.
It takes a long time for him to untangle himself, but eventually he does, leaving her cold as he regards her with an expression that is equal parts satisfaction and dread, like she’s a particularly challenging puzzle that he’s always wanted to solve, but now that he has, the solution seems unfulfilling.
“This changes nothing,” she says after a drawn-out pause.
His hand slips into the cup of her bra to retrieve the key he’d given her. She jerks at the action, and his brow raises in amusement. “Sure,” he agrees.
Liar, liar, liar.
The cuffs release with a click! and she rubs absentmindedly at her wrists.
Wordlessly, he scoops up his suit and the domino mask, heading down the hallway.
She lies there on the floor for perhaps too long, expecting him to return at any second, but he never does. For some reason, she’s disappointed. Why is she disappointed? She should feel ashamed, but all she feels is—
She scrabbles for her underwear and pants, dragging them hastily up her legs and then tugging back on her shirt and jacket. She more or less stumbles into her shoes, finally managing to jam them on her feet with a cry of frustration.
Fuck.
Fuck!
She can’t believe—this can’t—won’t—she can’t, she won’t—
The door to the bathroom is open when she passes by.
He left.
He left.
She’s not surprised, but that same unwelcome feeling of disappointment claws at the pit of her stomach, this time catching something vital.
She chokes on a sob, racing through the safe house, her feet leading her back to the rooftop in no time flat. She casts around frantically for a fire escape, nearly smashing into potted plants and dumb tchotchkes in her bid to escape as she descends the steps two at a time.
It’s nearly dawn, the wary sun peeking out from behind the tops of the monolithic skyscrapers that haunt Gotham like wayward gods, judging her every move.
When she reaches the end of the fire escape, she doesn’t bother to lower the ladder. Instead, she lets herself drop that final story down until she has pavement underfoot.
Then—and only then—does she let herself cry.
Ten minutes later, dressed in a fresh pair of clothes, Dick finishes checking in with Tim at the Batcomputer, apologizing for missing multiple welfare calls. He exits the Cave, hand lingering on the button that will bring him back to the safe house proper, back to Branwen. He fidgets for only a moment before resolutely pulling the proverbial trigger.
His hands are tight balls at his sides as he heads back to the living room. Should he buy her breakfast? Should he apologize again? Should he kick her out, give her his phone number? She knows he’s Nightwing. That’s a dangerous position to abandon her in. No. He needs to salvage this. He needs to make out—make up—with her.
He rounds the corner, the invitation for a ride on his motorcycle and a good meal at the diner a few blocks away poised on his lips—
But she’s gone.
