Dick hadn't meant for this.

That could be applied to some many damn things in his life. For one of Batman's boys, Dick wasn't that great at the whole 'being in control thing'. And no more thinking of Batman.

The evening had started out with a completely different set of intentions. Good intentions. He was checking up on Tim. Because it was Hallowe'en. And Hallowe'en and the Bat family never got along.

Tim had been at the tower, with the other Titans. There'd been a party. One with a dress code: civilian clothes only. Because it was Hallowe'en and they wore costumes all year 'round. Dick was willing to bet Victor only went along with it because it was Gar's idea.

Gar was on the right track though. Gar had good intentions.

Dick really hoped Gar was handling this evening a lot better than Dick was.

Dick was currently handling his way into a pair of very tight pants. And no more thinking about Gar.

Dick pressed his open mouth against a narrow jaw, his tongue against a speeding pulse. The smell of boy's deodorant and cheap candy and paper streamers crawled up his nose and strangled his brain. "Ngh, your hips," moaned Dick, feeling the younger body press against him, arching as Dick slid a hand down the back of those painted-on jeans. "Where did you learn… learn to dance? Like that?"

And then Dick buried his free hand in soft hair – God, did it even come that soft? Was it real at all? – that smelt like strawberries along the length and sweat at the scalp. He licked a hot line from collar bone to that soft bump behind the ear, earning a jolt, and the sexiest gasp he'd ever heard.

"Iggy. Iggy Pop, on mrph-" Dick pulled the kitted jumper up and off, exposing that young skin, those thin shoulders, dotted with freckles the colour of cinnamon. "MTV," a gasp a Dick lowered his head and bit at a small, hard nipple, "when he was young."

You're young, Dick doesn't say. But he's thinking it, as much as he doesn't want to. Those fine, pale hands find their way into dick's own hair. He's glad he didn't cut it shorter, he's glad that those beautiful hands curl into fists, tugging sharply. Dick moans as a hot mouth covers his own.

It's wet, and messy, and so damn enthusiastic. Dick's kneading pert, young ass, and tilting that damn pleading face back and back, towering over… he slides his hand round to the front, earning a whimper, and tears open the fly to those sexy dangerous jeans. He cups the kid – oh god, so wrong – through his underwear.

Dick really wants to look, to see if it's as hot as it feels, but he's petrified he's going to see cartoon characters on those tight satin boxers, or Bat logos, or the Super shield or something. And that's another thing he going to stop thinking about right now.

He can still hear the noises of the party, down the hall. He's sure his absence has been noticed, but he doesn't really care. Dick slides his rough fingers inside the satin boxers, rough enough that he's almost sure he can hear the material rip. It's… damp. And hot. And when he flexes his fingers the kid just arches against him, making this hot little mewling sound.

And then there's this movement of legs that Dick doesn't quite understand, but there's one long toned leg wrapped around his thigh, and the underside of a knee hooked over his hip, and a heel digging into his lower back. His hand spasms in surprise, and hot needy teenager-arousal thrusts kinda helplessly against the planes of Dick's stomach.

Dick growls, and buries his face in that little canyon of soft flesh created between that long naked neck, and the arm thrown around Dick's own shoulder. He bites, and licks, and scratches the stubble on his chin against the soft flesh, smirking when he hears the thud of a head that's not his own – for once, dear God it's about time – head smacking back against the wall.

The skin is so warm, it could be Kori, but it isn't. And the eyes are so unfocused, the flush to stark against pale skin that it could be Barbara, but it isn't. And Dick isn't going to think about either of them. It's… it's not… it's not right, it's not even sane. There are a thousand things this isn't, and every single one of them is perfect.

Jesus, so young. He's locked guys up for this, punching harder than he thought he could and feeling so damn righteous…

Dick disentangles his fingers from that fistful of hair that's got to be silk or something equally impractical, moves it down to grab at a hip that's half covered by torn underwear and mostly naked and teasing. He hears a gasp, and flicks his wrist, jerking his other hand roughly, workshopping it into a moan.

Dick smiles, the flash of teeth. "You- you like that."

Thin face pressed against Dick's neck, nodding as if it was a question. "Ungh." And then another soft little groan, a growl, drawn out as Dick snaps his hand back and forth, jerking so hard-

"You like it rough."


-harder than he'd jerk himself but God – he just – hips arching and pressing against Dick and his own erection is pressing against that firm ass and the hard folds of denim and just-

"You… God you're so hot."

"'m gonna- gonna… God, just don't stop."

-it's as if he has this perfect body made of butter and honey and warm like bread just out of the oven arching and humping against him and just-



-just giving it all. Giving it up. To Dick-

"God you-"

"Unh… Oh ge-Unnngh."

-and he wants to watch this, wants to see it, that sweet hidden face opening up, exploding-

"Oh fuck."

"God yes. Uhn. Oh fuck. Ohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuck."

-the white noise of sex and puberty and hormones, and soft hair tickling the side of Dick's face as he buries his mouth in that soft-firm dip of flesh, biting/sucking/marking-

"God, you… so damn-"

"Hot. Godyoufeel. So hot."

-and Dick's thrusting his hips, dry humping through his clothes, and someone else's clothes, and god it's painful in the most beautiful way. Softening erection pressing against his stomach over and over again, slicked by come and sweat and causing whimpers of maybe-pain and maybe-

"You're so… Just seeing you – dancing like that. Wanted you."

"Ngh. It... God, you'rehurting. Don'tstop."

-Dick can smell sex flooding off of them, can smell his own sweat and this wonderful new tang, can feel it seeping into his skin. He's going to be stained from this, going to reek of it for every second of the rest of his life. And that's-

"So hot."

"God, you're-"

-Dick thrusts harder, brutal, grunting from the force and hearing these little moans, and sharp hitches of breath. He's still fully dressed but he's fucking them through the wall, he can feel the arm wrapped around his neck shaking, vibrating from the effort to hold the attached body, riding against Dick's thrusts, fucking them so hard it's like time's stopped-

"Oh you're- I'm gonna-"

"Harder, pleaseharder."

-And Dick's body is shuddering, and he feels the hot splash of a second load of come arcing against his stomach, and part of his brain is warning him that he's with a human and they've been known to break, and the rest is just melting out of his ears every time he breaths in because he's coming in his pants and pinning this poor boy to the wall and-

"Oh shit, you're-"

"Unh, ahdon'tstop. Nightwing."

-and when the roaring and the static across his brain has healed there's a pair of freaky golden irises, regarding him from heavy lidded eyes. Dick swallows, and takes a step back, opening some space. The kid clambers down, liquid and unsteady. He's almost a full head shorter than Dick, his jeans pulled and stretched, his underwear – Green Lantern, oh god – torn, and his limp cock flushed, beautiful.

He tugs off Dick's cotton tee, uses it to clean himself up, and then hands it back. Dick watches as those fine hands that were buried in his hair re-fasten the fly of his jeans, and with the jumper back on you can hardly see where they've been molested.

Bart flicks him a smile – stated, smug, so verysexywrong – and saunters out of the room, back towards the party in this shitty-smooth way that makes Dick lick his lips, because…


Because everyone's going to take one look at Bart, and know what's happened.

Because Bart is Tim's friend, and Dick just about humped him through solid matter.

Because he's got a shirt soiled with someone else's genetic code, and nothing clean to change into.

Because Tim is going to fucking kill him.

And then clone him back to life.

And then Jay is going to kill him.

And then Wally.

And then they're going to bring Max Mercury back from the fucking dead or wherever the hell he fucked off to, and Max is going to kill him.

And really, Dick's still young, he's got most of his life in front of him, he's too pretty to die.

So Dick reaches out, and grabs Bart by the back of the jumper, and hauls him back to the unlit room, spinning him around, finding his mouth.

"You think you can walk away from my like that? You think I'm going to let you?"

And Bart grabs Dick's hair with both hands and kisses him back like there's no oxygen in the world and someone just discovered that Nightwing is an acceptable substitute.

Because tomorrow he'll be a day older, and have that bit less life to miss out on.

Feeling the young, hot body – so freakishly warm, so goddamned willing – against his own, maybe… maybe it'd be worth it.

And he could get fucking anyone to kiss this boy and explain how clearly he'd been seduced.

Or he could always plead insanity, because he's a Bat, and it's not like anyone'd argue against that.

He'd really started out with the best intentions.

It's just that Hallowe'en always fucked with the Bat family.

Who could blame Dick for fucking back?