Equilibrium

by Domenika Marzione

This here be PORN. And not of the heterosexual type. If this squicks you? Don't read it. If this offends you? Tough noogies and go read the First Amendment. Except if you're DC Comics.

I arrive to find him hunched over the keyboard, face too close to the monitor as he swivels his head from screen to the notes on the table next to him. Plotting, planning, trying to make sense of a mission gone wrong. No acknowledgement, no smile, no greeting even though it's impossible that he could have missed my arrival. While I understand his distraction -- Roy will be released from the hospital tomorrow or the next day, out of action for at least a week -- I am... displeased. I wanted Dick; I got Nightwing in jeans and a t-shirt. This was not what I was fantasizing about during the endless meeting with the World Health Organization. This is not the vision that buoyed my thoughts as my patience and good humor were threatened with drowning under the waves of diplomatic bureaucracy.

I place warm hands on his shoulders and squeeze and am rewarded by a sigh of pleasure and relief, a breathy rumble that vibrates through me and I press the heels of my hands in hard, just to hear that noise again. It comes out part whisper, part whimper, part moan and his head falls forward and I run my thumbs up the back of his neck and he fairly purrs and the relief has turned to something like need. But we have been here before and diplomat though I may be I have lost him at far more advanced points of our negotiations. I am not above forcing the matter, however, and tonight I am in no mood to acquiesce to Dick's need to brood over all of the elements that are out of his control. He is not the only one feeling small tonight, but I don't plan on letting that feeling consume me. Or us.

Still rubbing shoulder muscles taut with strain, I bend down to kiss the back of his neck, that spot on his spine where I can almost feel the vertebrate. A startled cry and it's all I can do to shift out of the way as his head snaps back.

"Hi," he says and looks up at me and smiles. He had no voice yesterday, spending it all out in the field the day before, and it has returned today smoky and low.

He reaches up and I bend down and I smile as I kiss him because I have won; I have gotten Dick and retired Nightwing for the evening. I can tell by the way his eyes sparkle as I close in -- Nightwing's hooded gaze, shuttered and opaque, is not there. I can tell by the way his fingertips trace the contours of my head as he pulls me closer and I gloat against his lips.

The kiss is our shorthand, our greetings expressed without words. "How was your day?" asked and answered in full, from my morning with the Malaysian ambassador who pretended not to understand my accented English to Dick's afternoon phone call with Bruce that left him too upset to eat lunch.

The fingers that combed through my hair are now at the back of my neck, keeping me close. The other hand has found my elbow, bringing me around as it pulls him toward me, swiveling on the chair until we are facing each other. Only then does he let the kiss break. I feel his breath against my lips and on my nose as he pulls back just enough to look into my eyes and let me see the fire in his.

My suit jacket was left on the back of the first chair I passed, the vest undone and the tie already loosened before I found him, and I feel slightly rakish as I watch him look me over. I am half bent over him and half standing, one arm braced on the edge of the desk and the other still in his grasp, somewhere between looming and possessed. His thumb follows some obscure pattern against the inside of my elbow and the hand on my neck slides to my face, fingertips ghosting over my tattoo almost reverently and slipping gently down my cheek. I part my lips to say something and am stopped by a finger against them.

"Shhh," he murmurs, that low voice rolling through me like a wave, and pulls me to him once again. Another kiss, another conversation, and I am prepared when he pulls away once more, kisses me sweetly, and whispers.

"Kneel."

His palm against my cheek as I comply, cool against my flushed skin, his hand sliding along my arm to hold my hand as I settle between his knees with an obedience that is anything but blind. I have followed this man for as long as I care to remember, heeded his barked commands in the field and his murmured encouragements in bed, and his power over me is complete because I surrendered it voluntarily.

He releases my hand, letting his drop to his thigh, fingers splayed against the denim. With the other he cups my chin, forcing me to look up at him. I turn my head slightly so that I can kiss his palm; it is my sign that I want this and want him, a sign unnecessary to my mind and crucial to his. That I would suddenly decide to stop or to bridle at his wishes seems unarguably cruel to me, and I catch and release the surge of my frustration at those who have done enough damage to make it a concern to him. A long heartbeat until I can sense him relax, the tension now purely sexual. I smile at him and hope it conveys my desires as well as my happiness; from the way his eyes narrow, I can see that it does. He lets his hand fall to his side, content now to wait for my next move. I can feel the intentness of his gaze as I edge forward; Dick has so many different shades of impatience and I have agreed to be painted with all of them.

Close enough now that I can feel my breath reflected back at me by unyielding denim, a material that still, in the private part of my mind that marvels at the oddity of surface worlders, intrigues me. Too heavy and uncompromising to be of interest to Atlanteans, too rough to be comfortable the first few times I had worn it on land, I had dismissed it as just another peculiarity until I saw Dick take down an over--playful Changeling wearing nothing but a pair of Levis. Now, despite the fact that it is only Dick's inherent gracefulness that allows the act of removing the jeans of a seated man to be anything but awkward and clumsy, I am almost appreciative.

But we are not at that stage yet. My hands are down at his bare feet and ankles, fingertips tracing over skin in a pattern that could be a spell and would be enough to draw Dick's attention away from anything else if I weren't also brushing the insides of his thighs, tracing the seams with the tip of my nose with just enough pressure that the not-quite-involuntary wiggling of his toes ceases. With my eyes so close to his hands I can see the conscious will he's exerting to keep them where they are, splayed and digging in just enough that I know that he'd really rather move them, use them to guide me to where he'd really like my attention to be. But he won't, not yet, partly because he trusts me to know what he needs (and when to deny it) and partly because self-control has been bred into his bones and the challenge to both of us is to make him forget it.

Bludhaven is not a quiet city and Dick does not live on a quiet block. But as I bring my hands up his calves with a just-firm-enough touch and I leave his thighs for their apex, there is no other noise in this world but for his breathing and mine. Dick is inhaling through his mouth and exhaling through his nose in what would sound like deeply measured breaths to anyone with normal hearing. But I hear the tiny hitches and look up at him, chin grazing against his groin, to let him see my smile and know that I know. Skin flushed, lips slightly parted, jaw set, eyes narrowing as he fights his natural inclination to make so much noise. I love to hear him; Dick is a riotous cacophony of cries, whimpers, and moans in his pleasure, never silent and never shy about sharing what he's feeling and what he wants me to feel. Sometimes I let the stream of words wash over me, more often I soak them in; it had never dawned on me how arousing it could be to listen to these not-quite-thoughts. And yet the times like these, when he fights his own inclinations, I don't know where the self-imposed silences come from and I have not yet summoned the will to ask; there is undoubtedly a reason for it and I am always afraid to destroy the mood by asking what it is.

I move my chin again, nuzzling while keeping my nose from the zipper, feeling the burn of my skin on denim and ruing that the thickness of the material prevents Dick from feeling any friction, only contact. But for now that is enough and Dick spreads his legs slightly farther apart and allows himself one guttural grunt as I find an angle where I can use teeth to rake lightly over the surface.

My hands are warm and sensitized from running over his jeans and I slide them down to his ankles so that I can soothe them against bare skin, but I can only ruck his jeans up so far and must settle for small circles and patterns that seem to do nothing more than tease us both. I can feel my own arousal course through me, slowly and inexorably, exactly like a rising tide, banked only by patience and my concentration on my chosen task.

I press a kiss to his groin and can feel his heat under my lips. Looking up, I watch his head snap up on contact, eyes suddenly alert. I pull back a little to reach for the button of his jeans. Without a word, he pushes my hands away, undoing button and zipper himself before grabbing the chair's armrest and raising himself slightly. It is a deceptively smooth maneuver considering the chair's wheels and the bare floor, but he holds himself still and steady as I raise myself off of my haunches to peel away both pants and underwear, an act that is more careful than seductive. When they are near enough to his knees that he can sit again, he does and I let them go, using a caress of his now-bare legs to push them down the rest of the way over his heels and then toss them off to the side. Any other time, Dick would take the opportunity to tease me about forgetting my obsession with neatness, but now he sits silently and watches me intently, seemingly not even breaking eye contact when he pulls his t-shirt over his head and tosses it in the same general direction as the rest of his clothes.

There is something commanding in his anticipation, something not quite regal but absolutely in control. There is no vulnerability to his nakedness; Dick is a beautiful man and knows it. He is unashamed of his body and its desires and reactions and there is an extraordinarily powerful attractiveness in that. So he waits, more predator than prey, for me to make my move.

I settle back between his knees, letting my hands roam without purpose over his legs. I am still fully dressed and while my clothes are not encumbrances, they are unwanted, so I shake my hands at my sides to encourage my cuffs farther away from my wrists. I don't have to look to know Dick is watching my hands; he is marvelously predictable and I try to encourage his fascination, bringing my hands to his knees with the mildest of wrist flourishes and sliding them in to the edge of his thighs, pushing his legs that much farther apart as I lean in. I kiss his thigh just past my fingertips and feel him start, a quick flexing of quadriceps that is as much of a reward as I'm going to get from him right now. I smile against his skin, the tip of my tongue tracing where my lips had been a moment before.

Dick has exceptionally soft skin, an unintentional benefit of so much time spent in a Kevlar bodysuit. It smells faintly of the lotion he uses to get in and out of his costume, some concoction of Alfred's that prevents chafing and rashes, and more faintly of the soap he washes it away with. Once upon a time, Dick joked about him being my sodium--free diet and it is true, to an extent. His skin, his kisses, his semen taste different because he is not Atlantean, but his flavor is not at all unpleasant even though it is still foreign to my senses after all this time.

I sense his arousal with every breath and nuzzle his thigh with my nose as I lick my dry lips. I turn toward his groin, close enough that he can feel my exhalations against his erection, but do not touch despite my wish to and his need for me to. I pass it by and repeat my actions against the other thigh, finally bringing my hands to the top of his legs, rubbing them toward me in a silent exhortation for Dick to shift forward in the chair.

He does, sliding far enough into a slouch to allow me access without compromising his balance. I drag my lips against his thigh, not pulling away as I had before, until I reach the point where leg meets torso. It is hot and damp and I nibble lightly there, tongue soothing where my teeth had been. Dick's thighs first come together and then move apart in a spasm and I hold my hands against the insides of his thighs with gentle pressure until I feel the tension in his legs relax. I slide my hands inward, cupping and rubbing where I am not kissing and tonguing. I can hear and feel Dick's breathing change, shorter and harsher and still he makes no other sound. A hand on the back of my head, stroking gently, is the only indication that I am not yet where Dick would have me be, but he does not direct me, not yet.

The line between anticipation and teasing is not that fine and I finally take him in hand, tracing my thumb over the slick tip by my ear and sliding the palm of my hand along the length. I continue my attentions to his testicles until the fingers in my hair start to flex and then curl and finally pull gently. I shake my head once and the pressure ceases, but he still maintains a firm grip even as his fingers relax.

We know each other's bodies intimately and thoroughly, did so even before we became lovers. Since that point, I have become versed in when enough becomes too much and before it does, I still my hand and pull my head back slightly, just enough to let his erection slide slowly between my cheek and hand. I exult in the hiss I hear from above me even I pause, the tip at my lips, my tongue flicking out to taste and maybe even to tease. No matter how many times I've performed this act for Dick, there is a murmur of nervousness and novelty in the pit of my stomach that never quite goes away. It is different on land, governed by gravity, than in the ocean's deep and despite my awareness of the irrationality of my fear, I worry that I will somehow forget to compensate for that.

Perhaps sensing my hesitation, Dick's hand behind my head gently forces me to look up. I am met by a gaze that would be almost frightening in its intensity if there were even the merest hint of coldness in it. Instead, Dick's eyes smolder and I feel warmed by the love and lust I see in them. Buoyed, I breathe out and feel something like triumph at the almost-but-not-quite tightening of fingers in my hair.

I can lose myself in the pure mechanics of the act, surrendering as completely as he does to the rhythm I set. Our tastes are not identical and I acquiesce to his desires rather than projecting my own upon him. I know what Dick wants me to do and I can comply or not as whim suits; I know what he needs and I will provide it without hesitation. Dick has a history of choosing lovers stronger than him and I am no exception. While we are equals in our hearts and in our minds, my physical strength being... tamed... has an especial effect on him. It is not about submission or any misplaced sense of inadequacy. Instead, it is something closer to Dick's own fearlessness. He loves me neither in spite of nor because of the danger I could present. And yet if the courage is in transcending that fear of my strength, then the arousal comes from the reminder that the danger has not been eliminated.

He takes his hand away from my head as he approaches climax; I hear it clap forcefully onto the armrest. I am holding his hips, partly to make sure he doesn't buck and partly to make sure he doesn't fall off the chair if he does. My thumbs are rubbing against his hip bone and I know the sensation is one he's trying to intensify; he growls just a little when I stop, but it quickly doesn't matter and he comes with a shout that echoes loudly in the silence we have created. He sags back in the chair as he gasps for breath and I feel as much as see his heels touch down from where his feet had arched. I don't look up until I've let him go, but I catch a glimpse of him in his recumbent glory -- head thrown back, eyes closed, arms splayed -- before he pulls himself together and looks down at me, sated and yet almost predatory at the same time.

I lick my lips and breathe deeply from my mouth as he leans forward to cup my chin. I am flushed and sweat--soaked; I imagine my shirt is sticking to me as my costume might and I feel overheated and more than a little aroused. Dick runs a hand along my sweat--slippery face and kisses first my forehead, then the tip of my nose, and then finally my lips. If he tastes himself, I don't know and I don't think he cares. Beautiful blue eyes so close to mine and they sparkle with something between mischief and desire.

"I want to watch you," he says, that low, smoky voice making it sound almost like a growl.

I shudder and nod and take his proffered hands to help me stand. It's all the help he's going to give me; as soon as I'm steady he drops my hands and leans back, arms draped over the armrests and legs parted just enough. He looks thoroughly debauched and yet totally in control and I know it's not going to take much effort on my part.

I ignore the tickling edges of vest and tie as I undo first belt buckle and then slacks, leaving them splayed against my hips. My eyes are on Dick's face, watching him watch me. I free myself from boxers and shirttails and he looks almost majestic in his expectance. I could end this quickly and efficiently, but I don't, my natural reluctance to show off overwhelmed by the force of Dick's aura of anticipation and want. I let my eyes travel up and down his body, always returning to his face. He is watching me intently, not like a judge or a student, but with something that I finally recognize as being close to awe and that's when I topple over the edge and come. I close my eyes and open them a moment later to see Dick standing before me, his own eyes bright.

He kisses me again, holding my face in his hands and whispering "thank you" against my lips. I smile weakly and lean my head forward, my forehead to his. He slips his arms around me and holds me for I don't know how long, until my skin starts to feel the prickle of being trapped in sweaty clothing and I twitch involuntarily.

Without a word, Dick pulls away, just enough to start undressing me. Tie, vest, shirt, and undershirt are tossed over my shoulder and I have enough strength to whimper in mild protest; we both know I'm the one who is going to be picking them up later. With great gentleness -- and complete disregard for the strewn clothes -- he continues his task until I am as naked as he is, at which point he takes my hand and leads me off to the bathroom and the shower.

Later on, we lie in bed together, entwined in a way that has everything to do with intimacy and nothing to do with sex. Here, in this little world of our own making, there are no international incidents threatening to boil over, no injured friends and teammates, no oppressing sense of failure that we cannot save the world through sheer force of will. There is as much power in obeying a command as giving one and Dick and I trust each other enough to do both. In this small space we cannot dwell on our own powerlessness because here, now, we are not powerless.


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