Video Symbiosis -- Showtime NC-17
By SKH
Rated NC-17 for adult situations and language
Nightwing/Oracle post NML-timeline
All characters owned by DC Comics. No profit is realized from creation of stories based on these characters.
It's only canon until someone changes it. Departures from established Bat-canon are minor. I've added a couple of details and aspects I thought were nice and would fit well. And Batman drank Earl Grey long before Picard was a twinkle in a writer's eye
Third person POV. Comments and feedback are welcome to SKHwrite@aol.com Part of a small series. Thanks, and please enjoy. ___________________________________________________________________
The window slid shut without a sound, as soundlessly as the shadowy form that had just passed through it into the darkened apartment. Shades were drawn, curtains closed and Nightwing safely removed the bat-shaped mask from his eyes. Home. Another mildly eventful night patrolling the urban wastes of Gotham City's ugly step-sister, Blüdhaven had yielded bits of information for an ongoing investigation into the corruption and organized crime that pulsed through the city's diseased heart.
He moved quietly through the darkness toward the kitchen, removing his gauntlets as he reached his target destination. The light from the refrigerator illuminated his form briefly as he retrieved a bottle of water, revealing a face bathed in sheen of perspiration. He shut the refrigerator door, passed the cold bottle across his forehead, down his cheek and around to the back of his neck before cracking it open, pulling a long, breathless draught that left the liter-bottle half empty. He cast a cursory glance around the apartment, took another long drink, draining the rest of the bottle. Satisfied that everything was as he'd left it several hours ago he began the mental transition from a tireless masked vigilante to a slightly fatigued young man. A young man living alone.
As Dick Grayson dropped the empty bottle into a bin reserved for recycling he smiled and chuckled softly to himself, thinking about what would be greeting his mentor and former partner, Batman, as he returned to the Cave -- probably about this time -- from his own night's work. A mug of hot Earl Grey tea. A sandwich -- he imagined grilled Monterey Jack on sourdough bread -- on a china plate with a white linen napkin bearing Bruce Wayne's monogram, all served on a silver platter. Dick sighed quietly, sat down on a chair in the kitchen and pulled off his boots. He was hungry, but was suddenly too tired to rummage through the freezer or cabinets to find something edible. He gathered his boots and gauntlets and rose to leave the kitchen, stopping as an afterthought to grab another bottle of water from the 'fridge before padding softly to his bedroom, closing the door on the tiny red "eyes" situated strategically throughout his apartment. Sensors for the security cameras he'd installed.
He was a young man living alone, sixty miles from those he could call "family." Sixty miles, but only a nanosecond from contact with them, if necessary. An electronic security blanket -- ok, system -- naggingly suggested by his mentor, configured and administered by Oracle, the de facto data broker to a good deal of the global superhero community. Oracle, a "super" genius of computer technology and information procurement. Oracle, manager of secret operatives, a "Charlie" with her own set of "Angels," busting crime vicariously from behind a wall of monitors, within a nest of super-computers. To Dick, though, Oracle was just "Babs" -- Barbara Gordon, formerly Batgirl, as he himself was formerly Robin, the first Robin, partner of the Batman. In another lifetime it seemed, Dick and Babs had traveled in tandem through the Gotham night skies, stopping occasionally to kick a little crime-butt. Barbara Gordon now ruled her techno-empire from a wheelchair, compliments of a madman in whiteface and green hair, the unintended and inopportune victim of the Joker's insane, perpetual vendetta against Batman and all those close to him. Babs! "Better check the e-mail before I jump into the shower," Dick thought.
Already minus gloves, boots and now peeling out of his black and blue costume shirt, Dick sat on the edge of his bed and opened up his laptop computer, already and always linked to one of Oracle's servers. He clicked on the Oracle-icon, an eerie floating head image not unlike the "wizard of Oz." He chortled "pay no attention to the 'girl' behind the curtain," as his e-mail interface appeared onscreen. One message from Tim, "...can I borrow that videotape of..." One message from Alfred "please do NOT forget you have a fitting tomorrow for your new tuxedo for the Wayne Foundation Gala... yada-yada...take care 'Sawdust'..." Now THAT elicited a mile-wide grin. Alfred, major-domo to the Bruce Wayne household, and Dick's and Bruce's surrogate mother-figure, diggingly-but-lovingly called Dick "Sawdust" -- a reminder of Dick's circus heritage and of his less-than-formal living habits -- "excuse me, Master Dick, but do you have sawdust on your feet that you think you can leave every article of clothing you own on the floor?" Just the thought caused Dick's toes to wiggle unconsciously to memory threads of running barefoot through the sawdust on the floor of the Haly Brothers circus tent as a small child.
The last message was from Roy Harper, AKA Arsenal, a fellow Titan, reminding "Uncle Nightwing" of Roy's daughter's fourth birthday party at the Titan's tower -- Lian wants a Poké-thing computer game. "Screw that!" Dick thought. He already had Lian's gift, a small, hand-carved and meticulously decorated elephant, "Elinore," his old friend from his circus days. On the nights when Dick had trouble sleeping -- usually from disturbing dreams that plagued him when he was overworked and under-rested -- he had begun crafting a tiny, resin-carved circus, actually only three figures so far, and only one of those was complete. He figured that by the time Lian graduated from high school he might actually have recreated his entire circus for her. It was pleasant therapy for the nightmares and the results were a lot better than some silly "gotta catch 'em all" TV marketing junk. It was a small legacy he planned for the daughter of one of his oldest friends, a bright and affectionate child who was developing a quick wit and beguiling charm. "...like her Dad," he winced. Roy was one friend who took great care to press every button he knew Dick possessed, with the never-ending mission to crack Nightwing's "Bat-trained" stolid reserve.
"Just three messages, that's gotta be a record. I must be slipping somewhere," noting with mild disappointment the absence of an e-mail from Babs, who usually left him at least one daily message, whether it was light and personal or containing critical information he'd requested. "Oh well, guess I'd better hit the showers," he thought, moving toward the bathroom, pausing briefly to skin out of the final part of his costume -- the black leggings -- in a quick and fluid motion, before proceeding to his destination. He didn't notice the red flashing sensor light on his laptop, indicating an active video comlink.
"Hey, there you are, finally!" Babs called out over the vidlink -- to an empty room. She remotely panned the tiny video camera embedded in Dick's laptop, surveying his bedroom. "Ooh, paydirt!" she thought, "He usually logs on from the sofa." After having checked the other video feeds from his apartment-wide security system, which had displayed only darkened, empty rooms, she boosted the audio, anticipating where he might be, out of camera-range. She detected the hiss of running water, and panning the camera in the direction of the master bathroom, caught sight of steam beginning to drift out of the doorway. She also noticed his discarded costume's parts and pieces dropped where he'd removed them. "That's Alfred's boy, alright," she wryly noted.
At that moment, a whine and groan from the old apartment building's plumbing announced the conclusion of Dick's shower. "I gotta get Clancy to take a look at that," he thought, painfully. He grabbed a towel and vigorously dried his hair, then blotted the rest of his sculpted, muscular body dry. Before exiting the bathroom he wrapped the bath towel around his waist and walked out into his bedroom.
Dick immediately saw the red sensor light, felt a quickening in the center of his chest for just a moment, then he casually turned away from its direction -- not out of modesty, but to shield the perfectly wicked smile that had begun to spread across his lips. For just an instant he might well have been, once again, high above a net-free center ring, mentally preparing for a well-rehearsed, but very dangerous, high-wire stunt, anticipating the startled gasps yet to escape the throats of his audience. His audience. "Showtime, Dickie, Thrills and Chills, guaranteed to keep the people coming back for more!" Oh, he was going to love this!
Regaining his composure, he stepped into his performance persona. Moving across the room with unaffected grace bordering on feline, he paused at the small shelf-stereo on the opposite side of his bed from the laptop, selected a CD and inserted it into the player. It was a mixed selection pressed from several favorites, slow and moving tracks by various artists. Passionate music. Fuck music. "Like that ever happens here" the thought brushed absently across his mind. But circumstantial frustration was not going to mar his performance. He had his audience to think about, and that's precisely what he began to do. Musical score engaged, Dick turned off the overhead light in the bedroom, leaving just the bedside lamp on, its light casting across the bed in a warm, almost golden, spotlight. Fortunately the laptop was positioned well enough to afford the tiny vidcam a good perspective of the center of his bed. He didn't have to touch it, to disturb the screen saver that hid any indication that his audience was "there" other than the light that verified the active video link.
Dick stood at the side of his bed -- his body at three-quarter view to the camera -- and reached up, combing both hands through his dark hair, transferring the slight trace of the oil that had been on his hands to his hair, not slicking it down, but merely adding to its natural luster. The simultaneous stretch of his upper body showcased the defined gymnast-physique, a body that many would envy, that many would covet -- in more ways than one. He exhaled slowly as he lowered his arms. Taking up the bottle of massage oil, he lowered himself to sit upon the bed and began misting short sprays of the oil onto his legs, rubbing it firmly and quickly into his skin. He positioned himself in the center of the bed, first kneeling, then sitting back on his heels, toes pointed back, not curled under. He was ready to begin.
Chapter Three
On the other end of the vidlink, eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. Breath paused for just a moment, then resumed slowly and deeply. A slight flush to the face. As if in sudden afterthought, quiet fingers deftly keyed a brief command string, "record to disk." Dick's audience was ready to observe.
Chapter Four
Spraying a fragrant mist of oil across his chest and abdomen in two quick bursts, Dick began to languorously rub the oil into his skin, moving his flattened palms in slow circles from his collar bones down, stopping to rub just the pads of his index fingers around and over his nipples, feeling them rise from flat, satiny smoothness into hard pebbles. He closed his eyes and dropped his head back slightly, exposing his throat. His hands moved down along his rippled belly, "six-pack abs" that would draw envy from a professional body-builder. Those powerful muscles pulled his body through the impossible torques and twists of his nightly flights across Blüdhaven's skyline. Those muscles now surrendered a ticklish shudder as his hands stroked across them with a silky grace. The strong hands pushed lower, massaging the mist of oil down into the cabled muscles and ligaments of his groin, left and right, simultaneously, slowly, and his knees parted even further, balancing his center of gravity. His hands smoothed out to stroke the tops of his thighs, thick and powerful, the muscular engines of his acrobatic propulsion, source of his speed and motion-control.
Dick paused only to find the oil and pumped the mist thrice into his hand. The bottle dropped silently as he spread the oil to both hands, readying himself for the next phase of his self-pleasure. He had been semi-erect when he'd stepped out of the shower, a pleasant congestion that had swung heavily against his thighs as he'd walked into his bedroom. Fully and achingly erect now, he smiled at what effect the intimate sight of his body was having on his audience.
Chapter Five
The effect was dilated pupils, darkening the eyes to nearly black. Pulse quickened somewhat, respiration a little faster, perhaps slightly ragged -- caught, then controlled to measured breaths. Dick's silent audience watched on.
Chapter Six
Not wasting any motion, Dick grasped his aching erection with both hands, a sharp intake of breath signaled his pleasurable reaction to his touch. For a moment he just held himself firmly, enjoying the pulsing throb of his hardness. His knees spread just a little more widely, and Dick began a slow bend backward, his thigh, back and abdominal muscles controlling his descent until his shoulders touched, then rested on the mattress, his body positioned into a graceful arch of perfect musculature. It might seem an improbable posture to most people, but Dick was a lifelong practitioner of yoga, and was actually comfortable in the position, aware of how it opened up his pelvis to increased blood flow.
In position now, Dick began moving both hands up and down his eight-inch length in slow, soft strokes. His eyes remained closed, lips slightly open. His tongue snaked across them once, twice, moistening them against the deep breaths his lungs drew. One hand slipped down to cup beneath his balls, holding them close to his body. The other hand continued the slow stroking of his member. Dick now began to experience a tickling sensation in his abdomen, like the result of a whispering touch to the back of his neck, sending a soft, electric shiver down his spine. He moved his hips gently, bucking up into his grip, slowly fucking his fist. The hand cupping his balls moved lower, pressed the tender flesh there, sending a warm burst of sensation through his crotch, abdomen and spine. His hips moved a little more resolutely.
The hand on his shaft moved up to the head of his cock, pausing to rub the sensitive underside of the head. He grasped the base of his cock firmly with one hand and began to massage the head, moist with clear fluid, with the other hand, gently pulling the foreskin back and forth. His hand dropped to milk the shaft and more clear fluid wept from the tip. His hand returned to the head of his cock, moving around it in circles, bringing a low moan from his throat. His breathing less controlled now, Dick moved both hands back to his cock and pumped his hips, thrusting himself through his hands, fucking them steadily.
Chapter Seven
Rapt eyes concentrated on the monitor display, unblinking, never moving from the image of the oh-so-beautiful young man caught in the throes of self-pleasure. Lips parted and breath drew deep, faster-than-regular. Hands unconsciously opened and closed, as Dick's audience continued to watch his perfect performance.
Chapter Eight
Dick was thoroughly enjoying himself now, lost in the blur of erotic pleasure, faintly aware that he was still being watched. The little red light glowed on. A more intense red light burned behind Dick's closed eyes as he intensified his act. Leaving one hand to stroke his member, he dropped the other hand along his hip and reached under his arched back. He pressed his spread-open hand into his lower back, enjoying the rise and fall of his hips and the electric play of nerves clustered there. He moved his hand down over the roundness of his moving ass, to the furrow between the muscled globes, and pressed two oil-slick fingers into the opening there. He moaned loudly as his fingers moved across his sensitive prostate gland, and pumped his hips faster from the keen pleasure of it. He had discovered this little treasure a few years before, during the intense sessions of lovemaking with Kory, who delighted him, and herself, by putting her strong, golden fingers everywhere imaginable, with equally delightful results.
Dick found his rhythm now, fucking steadily forward into his fist and backward onto his fingers, his hips arched into the air, shoulders pressed to the mattress. His breaths came in deep, open-mouthed gasps now. "Oh god oh god oh god oh god…" his murmur escaped between ragged breaths as he quickened the thrusting double fuck of self-gratification. Electricity seemed to shoot up his spine and back down again, straight to his balls, as they tightened into a single mass, preparing to drive his ejaculation out of his body. He was at the apex of his act now, in his mind he had released the bar at the critical moment of his outswing and propelled through the deadly quadruple somersault, spinning, tucking, rolling through the air. He came, not with a shout, but with a glorious burst of laughter as golden and welcome as the sunrise after a storm, his features not contorted with passion, but relaxed with joyous release and perfect happiness. He sank back into the bed, letting himself become boneless, taking in deep, cleansing lungfulls of air.
Dick's smile could only be described as beatific, as he listened to the imaginary rush of applause in his mind. "Bravo, Dickie, not bad at all" he whispered to himself. He turned his head slightly, drowsy eyes glanced at his laptop in time to see the little red light go black, extinguished. He closed his eyes and smiled again, unfolded the legs tucked beneath him and relaxed, drifting into a dreamless, satisfied slumber.
Epilogue
In Oracle's lair, the dark-gloved hand touched the keyboard, terminating the vidlink. Another quick key command verified the video file had been saved to its intended destination.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Barbara rolled her chair back into the computer center and glanced around in vague confusion, eyes landing on the now-dark monitor that, several minutes before, she had begun to watch when a perimeter alert in her security system drew her attention -- and presence -- away. "Batman?" she called out, "…Where'd you go?" She wrinkled her nose in a scowl, "Damn, I hate it when he disappears like that!"
End