Title: Not the Right Gloves
Fandom: DC Millerverse
Word count: 1630
Notes: Sex is involved. It's a bit twisted.
Summary: Dick lets his fantasy get carried away with him.
Other/setting info: Set in Millerverse, somewhere between All-Star Batman & Robin and Dark Knight Strikes Again. Dick was fired recently-ish and just taken in by Luthor.
Fic written on pornday. There is a gloves theme this Pornday!
Thanks to kaichan for the beta. And the cut/title/summary suggestions.
Not the Right Gloves
Dick knows Luthor only took him in to use him. It's Luthor, he doesn't act simply out of compassion, or, most likely, out of pity. He has a bigger scheme going on that will exploit Dick, somehow.
Dick doesn't care. Bruce did the same thing. He was a test and he didn't pass, he was never good enough. Maybe he'll be good enough for whatever Luthor wants to use him for, maybe not. He was promised a way to get back at Bruce, and at this point, it's better than nothing. And if he figures out how he could get back at him, maybe he'll also figure out a way to get Bruce to want him back.
Even though Dick is mostly aware of the situation, it takes him a while to realise that he's living off Luthor. It's obvious, of course, and he'd been living off Bruce forever, but it had just been living with his... guardian. After some time spent on the street and getting showers by breaking into people's houses when they were out, it's not like he's been taken in by a new guardian. Luthor does act in a parental manner sometimes (rarely) but other than that, their relationship is very blurry, at best.
Eventually, Dick just goes with it and makes sugar daddy jokes silently to himself every time he's given rolls of bills for his personal expenses.
It's around that time that he becomes more comfortable about the entire situation. He'd been going with the flow before, and weirdly, acknowledging that he's being kept is what he needed to accept everything entirely. He doesn't consider Luthor's place (or the place where he keeps Dick and a million servants) "home", but it's the closest thing to home he has right now. It's still Luthor's place and not theirs or anything like that (he's being kept, right) but he has his room. He's not an intruder anymore.
It's also when hanging around there doesn't feel awkward anymore. He's not feeling like he has to erase himself and stay in the background. He'd been avoiding the kitchen when someone else was in, for example; he stops doing this. Sometimes, Luthor's employees throw him inquisitive looks and he hears them muttering and spreading rumours about why he's here.
It's fine. If they think he's Luthor's toyboy, they won't think about it more than this. He doesn't know how Luthor learned about who he was, but he wants the secret not to spread, as much as possible. It would hurt Bruce and... he can't. Not that way.
He'd also been avoiding jerking off when Luthor was in, and... just didn't masturbate much at all because it felt wrong. It wasn't his place, wasn't his bed... but it is, now.
The first few adrenaline rushes weren't sexual at all. He was waking his body up, which felt nice and he'd missed it, but he wasn't enjoying it to the extent he used to.
The first time he gets that really good, sexual rush, he lets it die and doesn't do anything about it. He repeats the same lack of reaction the next few times, until he wakes up gasping, still feeling Batman's hold on his upper arms, his hand pressing against the back of his neck --
He thinks about Batman when he jerks off, fast and hard, and it takes forty seconds before he's coming silently. He only feels bad about it a few minutes after he's done cleaning himself up, after the rush is completely gone. Not because he masturbated -- it's a mystery how he could handle doing so that rarely without getting blue balls -- but because he did so thinking about Batman. He's not supposed to think about Batman anymore. His brain tells him everything is wrong about it but he can't hide that his body loved it.
And like he always has, the solution he comes up with is to bury himself in denial.
The thing about denial is that it's hard to remain in it if you're acting on the feelings you're supposed to be in denial about, and he can't make himself stop thinking about Batman when he touches himself again, like he did before.
He hates himself every time he comes fantasising about Batman; he's being masochistic and he knows it; he doesn't stop. How bad he feels about it doesn't outweigh how much he desires it, and for the few seconds he convinces himself this is something he could have, he believes it's worth it. It's -- Dick never took any drugs, but the comparison probably applies; he's doing something he knows isn't good for him ultimately because he's getting addicted to a moment of fantastic feeling. He's been thinking about Batman while jerking off for too long, and even if he'd managed to stop for a while, doing it once again made him... relapse. It is just like a drug. And when it's not good enough anymore, he wants more of it.
Hence the gauntlets.
They're not the same, exactly, but they're hard and rough enough against his skin.
He doesn't put any lube on his hand and curls the hard, armoured fingers around his cock. He's on his knees and forearms, leaning his forehead against the bed. He's had this fantasy thousands of times: Batman taking him from behind, not touching him in any way other than his hand on his shaft, fully-clothed.
It hurts in just the right way and it feels better and more wrong when he starts thrusting in his own fist, the way he knows he couldn't help himself doing if it was really Batman touching him. Batman wouldn't let him move like that and would take control of the situation, he can hear the man telling him -- ordering him to stay still, because he's told him to do just that many times, even if the context was never the right one.
He pushes his foreskin back with his thumb, teases the head of his cock around the slit in a way that would hurt most guys but makes him shiver and moan because it's a touch Batman would give him.
He moves his head back, just a little, enough for him to put his hand under it so he can slip two fingers in his mouth. Leather and armour he has to nibble on, he has to taste, bite, not nearly hard enough to hurt. He licks between his fingers, never stopping the thrusts in his fist, and then he pushes the fingers deeper in his mouth, nearly gagging himself and sucking hard, low whimpers escaping from between his closed lips. He's not choking but the fingers are too far in for him to swallow and his spit spreads over the gauntlet, until some falls on the mattress.
He tightens his fist and it hurts, and makes his cock twitch in an interesting way, not bringing any of his arousal down. His eyes are closed and he slows down -- he makes himself slow down and bites at his fingers again.
Please, and he can't hear himself anymore, not well --
He -- Batman wouldn't like that and --
He moans and stops moving, pushes his head back with his own fingers deep in his mouth. Batman could hold him that way. Or pin him down to make him stop moving if he couldn't stop himself.
He stops --
He pulls his fingers out of his mouth and balances on his shoulder, cheek against the mattress now, his knees still under him, his ass up and exposed. Would he feel exposed if Batman was really there? Probably, but he would still do it, he would listen and do anything Batman wanted him to do.
He lets out a soft cry and pushes into his fist when he presses a wet finger inside himself, not nearly wet enough.
The friction makes him want to go slow and get used to it but Batman wouldn't let him, so he pushes in all the way and just has the time to catch his breath again before he pulls out and --
In again without pausing enough and -- that was nearly a hiss. He's loud, but not enough for the sounds to reach through to another room. He's just louder than usual.
If he was on his back, he could be reaching even further in, he'd have enough leeway to be able to push two fingers and there's no way this would be a good idea, no way it wouldn't hurt too much -- but he wants it anyway, he's craving for it because even if Batman would make it hurt, he would be touching him in that way. He would be loving him.
He moves away from the intrusion and into his fist with a pained whimper -- nearly a sob -- when the saliva is nearly entirely gone, dried out.
Don't move *away*.
A sob, this time, "I'm trying -- I'm --"
If you don't want it, I'll *stop*.
"No! No, Batman, please --" Small, needy moans and mumbled words.
Yes, now, always. He does it and crooks his finger to press against his prostate, not needing anything more to come all over the sheets and on the gauntlet.
Dick slumps on the bed, panting, catching his breath, and removes his finger too fast. He doesn't clean himself, simply wiping the sheet quickly, tired, his mind elsewhere.
He doesn't remove the gloves even when he's aware again, when he gets hit by what he's just done and by the emotional down that comes with it. He curls himself on his side and weeps quietly, making himself fall asleep before he can think about it too much.