#don’t ask me how long I’ve been workshopping this fic pls 🥴

[ferritins]

SWEETER KIND OF PAIN | D. GRAYSON

SUMMARY: the first clue that something is wrong happens when you walk through the door to find that Dick is a) still in his Nightwing uniform and b) touchy, even for him.

WARNINGS/NOTES: dubcon non-s*xual physical touch (cuddle pollen).

The first clue that something is wrong is when you walk through the door to find that Dick is a) still in his Nightwing uniform and b) touchy.

Touchy is an understatement.

Dick’s hands are everywhere; palming the handle of your hipbone over your pyjama shorts, smoothing over the wings of your shoulder blades, sweeping up the length of your sides, and sit e, he’s always been tactile with you, but this is a lot, even for him.

The near-desperation and intensity of the way he’s seeking your skin gives you pause.

“Dickie, hold up.” You say, voice soft but hands braced firm on his shoulders.

Dick visibly shudders as he withdraws his hands from where they’re perched on your hips, something desolate creeping into his expression.

“Sorry, I’m sorry—“

“Hey, don’t apologise. This is just… a lot, even for you, and I need to know what’s up so I know how to help.”

“Cuddle pollen. Ivy tagged me earlier.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” You say, empathy a heavy stone on your sternum.

Dick has described to you before the gnawing, hollow cold of cuddle pollen, the ache of skin hunger; touch starvation, dialled up to twenty. Just hearing it described sent goosebumps down your back; to think that Dick is experiencing that now stops up your throat.

“Come on.” You say, taking his hand in yours and heading to your bedroom. “Let’s get you out of your suit, then we can cuddle.”

Dick clings to your hand like a lifeline. His hands return to your hips, long fingers sweeping under your pyjama shirt on the search for skin as you unzip your his suit at the neck.

He groans, full-throated, as you push his suit down to his hips, revelling in your touch, the sound making your ears hot.

You tug his pyjama shirt over his head, and help him tug down the legs of his suit til he’s just in his boxers.

The brief loss of contact sets him to shivering.

You wince, sympathetic.

As soon as you’re under your duvet, bare legs tangled with Dick’s, his body goes slack with relief, two hundred pounds of muscle and sinew pressing into you like he wants to work himself subdermal, live inside of you.

One hand slips under your shirt, pushing it up to smooth over the soft expanse of your belly; the other sweeps long, slow, proprietary strokes over your thigh where it’s thrown over his.

“You’re so soft, baby, feel so good.” He mutters into your neck, pressing butterfly kisses into the delicate skin. You’re not entirely sure he even knows what he’s saying, most likely endorphin drunk.

“.”Flatterer.” You laugh. “Is this helping?”

You valiantly ignore the way your voice quavers at the end of your question as his fingers catch on your waistband before sweeping back up over your belly.

“Yeah.” Dick sighs. “Thank you.”

Cocooned in warm blankets, held by someone you love; it’s no wonder that you find yourself fighting sleep.

Tomorrow, you’ll need to talk, to assuage his misplaced guilt, and set some boundaries for the next time something like this occurs.

For tonight though — touching and being touched, able to give intimacy and comfort in a way deeper than mere sensuality — you’re happy just to be here, to hold Dick close.