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Batfic: "Seven Night"
3jane wrote in batfic
Seven Night
by Jane St Clair

Fandom: DCU (Batman)
Pairing: Bruce/Dick
Chronology: post-Nightwing #100
Rating: smutty
Disclaimer: of DC. I always wonder whether this isn't more or less what Bob Kane had in mind.

Written for buggery's amusement.

Title resultant from a Bartlett's search. Quotation follows story.


Dick's a little surprised that, given all the places in the universe he could have gone, he's stayed with Bruce. Two months he's been off his feet, aching and bleeding and periodically banging his head against the wall, and yet he's still in the house.

Which isn't quite the same as being with Bruce -- it's a big house, they use Alfred as an intermediary, and they both tend to lurk -- but. Same house. Same city.

Same bed he slept in when he was Robin. Different sheets. (Different bed. Different house. Wayne Manor was destroyed. Rebuilt.) Same view.

When he was Robin, things were a lot less complicated. No less psychosexually fucked, but less complicated. Bruce and Bruce's psychoses were over there. Dick and his issues were over here. Just the two of them, beating the crap out of ugly things every night until they almost felt better. Coming home at four in the morning when even the ugly things had gone to bed and staggering like dead men through the house.

He remembers standing in the front hall with no lights on and Bruce hugging him from behind.

It's so wrong that the biggest heart-kick he can remember since he left is Bruce whispering, "I missed you."

He was trying to explain the why of Jason, but still.

It felt so good.

And. In this house, Bruce is inescapable. Dick's seen Batman a fair amount over the years. You can't wear a cape and *not* deal with Batman. But he doesn't see Bruce much, and when he does, it's the very public Bruce who throws charity bashes and politely requests that his former ward show up. There isn't any way to like that version of Bruce, but Bruce didn't create that guy for Dick to like.

Private Bruce who wears black most of the time and wanders from room to room, touching things.

The Bruce he remembers used to finger Dick's hair when they watched TV. Maybe a year of that before he very consciously stopped.

They played slow-motion games of hide-and-seek that went on all day, with Dick burrowing into dark edges of the house and Bruce wandering in to find him. Hours before he'd pick Dick up, throw him over his shoulder, and carry him to bed.

Bruce still wanders the house. Dick wonders who he's looking for.

Jason's dead. Tim's gone to Bludhaven. Barbara's crippled. Steph is dead. Cass is gone to Bludhaven.

He's not really surprised when Bruce finds him. He didn't think he was hiding, but. When he looks up from his book and finds Bruce looming over him, there really isn't much doubt in his mind.

He tenses before he realizes he's waiting for Bruce to pick him up. He could do it; Bruce has fifty pounds on him, even now, and he can lift inhuman things without a sound. But Dick's almost sure, given his still-healing leg, that it'll hurt. And he isn't sure where they'd go. Dick's already on his bed.

They could go to Bruce's bed. They never quite did before, but he remembers days it was a near thing.

Bruce folds himself into a chair and watches Dick read.

Actually. Dick used to do that. He'd find Bruce and sit on the floor near him and *stare* until Bruce gave up reading and paid attention to him.

Dick keeps time by his own heartbeat. He's sure he lasts at least four minutes before the book closes and he looks up.

"Fine. Come here." Just like he's the adult now.

The bed shifts downward silently when Bruce settles on its edge. Flows a little around his weight while Bruce traces a hand over Dick's leg, climbing up to the hip all over the black-bruised healing places.

Dick says, "No. Come here."

And. At six inches' range, Bruce has the intensity Dick remembers. Warmer than Batman. Darker than he remembers Bruce's eyes being.

Dick drops his head against Bruce's shoulder and hugs him one-handed.

Big arms around his back. Mouth in his hair.

Dick remembers when they used to be friends. How much he loved it.

He squirms forward. Hip to hip and when he leans in again his face is closer to Bruce's. Enough he can kiss the side of Bruce's face.

Closed eyes. All that night-pale skin.

Bruce has eye-lines he doesn't remember.

He presses his mouth to those, too. Skin beside the eyes, skin under the cheekbone. Skin in front of the ear. Skin over the pulse-point on his jaw.

Very thin skin inside Bruce's mouth when Bruce turns toward him.

He forgets: that Bruce is like this, that Bruce is this quiet when he's out of the public eye.

That in the years of their fighting, Bruce has never denied that he loves him.

Dick guides them just enough to make sure Bruce stays on his uninjured side. Big hand against his one hip and one on his back, and Bruce kisses so slowly. Like he isn't actually starving. Someone trained that into him, early; part of a caste system that Dick only encountered at its edges.

He's such a fucking gentleman.

Dick pushes him. Away and then down on the bed. Back to the mattress, body pinned by Dick's across him.

Kisses him like that. Hands on either side of Bruce's head. Soft and then a little less delicate. Dick's teeth grind blunt edges against skin where Bruce's shirt opens at the neck. Just making the point.

He isn't as fragile as Bruce thinks he is. He wasn't ever.

Hands and aching knees over Bruce. Sitting on him.

The next time one of those hands reaches his face, he's going to bite it.

Bruce grins at him.

He doesn't actually say it. But Dick knows.

He has a very white smile of his own. Back in the day, Bruce paid for his teeth to look this good. He holds his grin steady while he peels off his shirt.

It's not even quite all the way off before fingers catch his nipple and pinch. Twist.


And wasn't that a show. Shirtless Dick writhing in Bruce's lap. Sensitive boy-nipples and isn't it just


It's really good. He loves it.

He has absolutely no shame. Arches back as hard as he can when Bruce drags the hand down his body. Bucks his hips forward when fingers catch in his waistband.

Bruce's tug brings the sweats down to his thighs, leaving him bare, and all he can do is thrust.

Bared-white teeth flash at him again.

Dick snags Bruce's wrist when it comes back up. Drags the hand up to his mouth and bites it. Hard.



Out of his mouth and he pushes it down to his cock, takes a nipple in his free hand and pinches it himself. Rides it. Hand on his cock, hot pleasure-twist running from his nipple down to it. Bruce hard underneath him.



Bruce's hand tightens on his cock. Still and sharp enough to make Dick pause.

Bruce reaches up. Takes Dick's hand and pulls it down, wraps it with his other one around his aching cock. Both Bruce's hands go up to Dick's chest. Pinch and twist.


Bruce knows how much he loves it.

It's enough of a reason to go with it. Sweats around his thighs, bare ass against Bruce's soft-black perfect trousers. Nipples aching perfect, they hurt. And both hands on his cock.

One of those times when it isn't just going to stop. When it's going to build in him, twist in his belly, and he's going to come so fucking hard.

White on Bruce's perfect black shirt.

He can shut his eyes. Trust Bruce to ease him onto his side. Breathe while Bruce kisses him from hairline to chest. Warm mouth on his bruised/aching nipple. Mouth on his while Bruce unbuttons and strips his own shirt off. Slides out of his slacks and pulls Dick's sweats away and deals with socks and underwear and the details of watches and light artillery.

Bruce's chest against him is fucking huge.

Big guy. Massive, scarred muscle-layers that Dick isn't ever going to match, but. It's not his body.

His body has its own damage. It whimpers a little when Bruce hitches Dick's knee onto his hip. The back-twist needed for him to get an arm around Bruce's neck doesn't ease until Bruce slips an arm under Dick and holds him there.

He's slack and kissing, only half-hard while Bruce fucks against him. Leaning into the smear of Bruce's mouth over his face.

And. There's no way they can fuck hard enough like this for Bruce to come, but Dick can lick a hand and slide it in between them. Two sets of belly scars and one slick hand wrapped around Bruce's cock.

Skin-slide and spit and both of them growl a little while Bruce fucks into his grip.

Arm around his shoulders tightens, crushes Dick against Bruce's mouth while he comes.

He's going to have new bruises from this.

It eases. Bruce lets him breathe again. Lets his own muscles go slack. A few seconds with their foreheads together, then Bruce eases the grip further and rolls onto his back. Just this one big hand resting fisted against the side of Dick's face.

He remembers resting like this years ago, when Bruce was teaching him to spar. Hours-long sessions that left him wiped and sprawled on the mats. And Bruce would go down beside him, probably not exhausted but keeping him company.

Just one hand on him, sometimes. Because neither of them's ready to leave yet.




The quotation. Maybe a bit over the top, but whatever. The entropy gods have spoken, and they declared it appropriate:

Nowadays men cannot love seven night but they must have all their desires: that love may not endure by reason; for where they be soon accorded and hasty, heat soon it cooleth. Right so fareth love nowadays, soon hot soon cold: this is no stability. But the old love was not so.
-- Thomas Malory

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Oh, so beautiful and sweet and aching. You make it seem almost... healthy. Well, not actually, but-- Like it could have been, or might still be. I really loved the flashes of Dick's childhood. I feel like a pervert saying that, but his childhood experiences of Bruce are beautiful.

I hereby adore your icon. It's very ... expressive.

[Deranged howling] It's canon! Canon!

Okay, possibly a little out of context.

Oh, my, lovely and painful and HOT.

Oh, the sweet gods of porn have spoken to you, and out came HONEY. It's gorgeous and perfect and achingly right, and the quote is beautiful.



(and oh my god your icon)

Because it's really *not* all in our heads. *grin*

Where to begin? You always get it just right. Dick remembering how he used to "sit on the floor near him and *stare* until Bruce gave up reading and paid attention to him. Perfect characterization. And the details - noticing the extra eyelines on Bruce's face, acknowledging how difficult their closeness has always been, yet how necessary too.

Coming home at four in the morning when even the ugly things had gone to bed

Great line, and so true.

That in the years of their fighting, Bruce has never denied that he loves him.

Aw. That's so Bruce. Always silent about the important things.

I'm glad you've found your muse in Korea!

But should it disturb me that my muse looks like Batman?

Not at all. Doesn't everyone's?

So hot and heartwarming.


One of the great things about fanfic is how writers can take all this *stuff* interspersed between the fight scenes and distill it into something rich and rare and bittersweet and fine. You've definetely done that here.

I think it was Eddie Izzard who observed that you can't really have car chases in fiction. It's just not all that thrilling. Same goes with fights. We have to get our kicks in other ways.

Oh, that's nice. I like best the background--that they would play "slow-motion games of hide-and-seek", that Bruce would carry him to bed, that Dick would come and find him and just watch him, sometimes, when he wanted attention. And, of course, the lines about Bruce being "such a gentleman" were perfect.

Oh yeah. *This* is why I'm digging through the batfic archives.

Dick remembers when they used to be friends.

Oh, ow. Ow. So pretty, and so damaged, and so -- "psychosexually fucked" sums it up rather well. And hot, and pretty, and ow.

His body has its own damage. ::whimpers:: You make me choke up. In a good way.

*is pleased*

Thank you.

>>Just one hand on him, sometimes. Because neither of them's ready to leave yet.

This was one of the most poignant bits of fiction I've ever read in any fandom. Thank you for sharing this.

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