
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/14140824.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Batman_-_All_Media_Types
  Relationship:
      Dick_Grayson/Damian_Wayne
  Character:
      Dick_Grayson, Damian_Wayne, Duke_Thomas, Jason_Todd, Bruce_Wayne, Talia
      al_Ghul
  Additional Tags:
      Hurt/Comfort, Crying, Daddy_Kink, Anal_Sex, Comfort_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-03-29 Words: 3113
****** Veil ******
by lacemonster
Summary
     Angsty comfort porn based off of Batman #33 (2016/Rebirth).
     On their way to Khadym to find Bruce, Dick and Damian camp out in the
     desert. When night falls, Damian makes the mistake of assuming Dick
     is asleep.
Notes
     This is based off Batman #33, where Damian breaks down and cries when
     he realizes that Bruce is going to face off against Talia. It was
     such a sweet, vulnerable moment for Damian and I loved that Dick was
     there to comfort him. I loved the moment so much that I really wanted
     to write more of Dick comforting Damian. Eventually, I wrote this—but
     it was really short and I couldn't tell how I felt about it, so I
     didn't post it.
     But then I recently was reminded of its existence and decided to
     revisit it last night. Since I edited/added things very late at
     night, I have no idea if this story is polished or not—but fuck it,
     I'm just going to post it.
     Since this story is incredibly self-indulgent, I can't imagine going
     back to this story to fix it, so I would prefer to not receive any
     constructive criticism. Unless there's a noticeable typo, please keep
     your critique to yourself, thank you.
See the end of the work for more notes
Eyes squeezed shut, face pressed hard against Dick’s chest, Damian’s world
became this warm, enveloping blackness. He saw nothing, only felt the
blanketing embrace of Dick’s body wrapped around him.
Dick always knew exactly what to say, what to do.
Damian hated him for it.
Didn't he realize that he was only making things worse?
It was difficult to breathe. Dick’s arms seemed to constrict him, laced to
wrest every breath, every sob. But Damian couldn't give in. He breathed hard
against Dick’s chest, feeling each exhale warm the seemingly nonexistent space
between them, each sigh seeming to interlock with the fibers of Dick’s shirt.
Damian fought it so hard that he could feel his lungs twisting, his eyes
burning. The occasional pathetic sound crept up his throat, choking him,
filling the tent louder than Dick’s lulling, as if his body was screaming, you
can't stop this. This is going to happen. You're not as strong as you once
were.
“It’s okay. I've got you,” Dick whispered.
As if his words were a spell, Damian choked out his first sob, a shudder
running through his body, his shoulders heaving. He felt the next one, swelling
and swelling and swelling inside his chest, threatening to burst, to break—
Stop.
You're making it worse.
It was Dick’s fault.
Not just because he had been keeping a hawk’s eye trained on Damian ever since
his first episode in the parlor. Not just because of the way he gently handled
Damian like he was something fragile that would break at any given moment, like
he was waiting and wanting him to fall apart. Not even because he had kept
prodding Damian over the past hour, trying to figure out what's wrong when
Damian made the mistake of assuming he was asleep next to him.
No.
It was Dick’s fault because he had made Damian this way.
Damian had been tossed from Mother to Father to Dick, and this only ever
happened so frequently under one of their guidances. Damian had his moments of
weakness under Mother’s tutelage, yes, but he was smaller then, he was pushed
harder. With Father, their time together had been too brief for tears. And then
Dick entered the picture. Damian was never like this until he encountered
Dick’s insisting gentleness. The strength of Dick’s emotions had infected
Damian somehow. Dick had allowed him to—no, he nurtured this weakness inside of
Damian. He made him this way.
Damian could feel his grief, thick in his throat. And with that was anger.
Anger that prickled hot on his cheeks. Anger at Dick, for pushing and pushing
and pushing, instead of leaving well enough alone. Anger at himself, for not
being able to control the emotions that welled up inside him. He tried to
compress it inside of himself. Tried to box it all up—but it kept spilling,
spilling. His body shook. His chest twisted.
How many nights had Damian spent alone with cold sand below him and the vast,
endless night above him, after performing far more heinous acts that never made
him shed a tear?
Now look at him.
Crying over nothing.
Pathetic.
“I’m right here,” came Dick’s gentle whisper, and Damian wondered if that was
the problem.
A string of sounds. Inhale. His voice breaking. A stutter of breath. Like an
orchestra that couldn't quite pick up the right timing and had to restart again
and again.
Damian tried to wall it off. Tried to seal it up. But even so, he could feel
the tears forming at the corners of his eyes.
He focused on Dick’s shirt, which now seemed burning hot. Damian's head was
spinning, each inhale bringing in Dick’s scent.
He wasn't pushing Dick off of him anymore. He could feel himself tilting,
collapsing, against him. His small hands dug into Dick’s back, small arms
barely able to hug around the man’s body, the fabric bunching in his hands, as
if struggling to hold onto purchase.
Dick only seemed to encourage this. He rubbed circles over Damian’s shoulders,
his spine, the small of his back. The motion soothing.
“That’s right. I have you, baby.”
Gasps that shook and stuttered through his frame. Tears touching against
cotton. His face, burning hot, everything hot when the night was supposed to be
at its coldest—
Dick’s lips pressed against the top of his head, the gentle noise drowning into
the mix of Damian’s restrained and failed-to-restrain sounds. Damian held Dick
tighter, crumbling faster and faster now. Two heavy consecutive sobs. His
throat stung, felt ready to burst. Worse, Damian felt something pulling at him,
this dull desire that allowed him to lean into Dick’s body, his hands
tightening.
He wanted it.
He wanted Dick’s embrace, his kisses, his soothing voice.
He wanted to break down into nothing more than a mess, to completely fall apart
and crumble.
He wanted to be weak.
Wanted Dick to hold him like he used to, back in the nights where he taught him
to be this way.
 
The first time Damian saw Dick cry, it was the first time he had seen any man
cry.
Infants and children cry, of course. But there was a point and time, around the
reach of independence, where crying no longer served its purpose. It was meant
to phase out with maturity.
Damian had heard of it in stories, of course. Long tragic tales of heroes and
their lost loves or fallen countries. Famous last words spoken with grief in
their voices and stars in their eyes. Fantasy. And if not a fantasy, then
spurred by some higher, grandeur reason—a grief so great that only a king or
warrior of such godly power could be swayed.
And of course, he had witnessed grown men screaming in terror and pain until
tears rolled down their cheeks. Had seen men so sick and fallen that their eyes
leaked. He knew it was possible, of course. But those were the reactions of the
body.
Boys grieve. Men don't.
Seeing Dick cry had turned his world upside down.
At first, Damian didn't register what he was seeing. They had returned from
patrol. Dick was in a chair, was supposed to be pulling off his boots when he
suddenly stopped short. The laces still hung in his grasp. Damian had looked
over from taking off his cape when he heard Dick’s sharp breath.
He had watched Dick sit there, his head bowed forward, cowl pulled to his
shoulders to reveal his darkly shadowed face. And yet, Damian saw it. Saw it
right there, on his cheek, then his jaw, before it fell to the floor.
It left him stunned.
“Batman doesn't cry,” he said.
There was no emotion to his tone. He stared at Dick cautiously, not knowing
what to make of him. Dick looked up at once, dark eyelashes wet. Somehow, the
glassiness of his eyes made the blues irises stronger, more vibrant. Damian
couldn’t stop staring.
Dick’s expression tightened for a flicker of a moment, his mouth a thin
line—slowly, he nodded.
“Yes, he does. He did.” A black glove swiped across his face. He went back to
undoing the boot. “You just never had the chance to see it.”
 
Before they were in a desert tent, they were in the parlor. And they weren't
alone.
“Man, this is messed up.”
“It’s your fault. You pulled that ‘you’re Robin’ shit.”
“You mean it’s Bruce’s fault.”
“Well, yeah. But if he kills us, I'm blaming you.”
“How was I supposed to know he was going to cry? I never even realized he could
cry...”
“Look, our protective gear is in the cave. It's not too late—”
“Shut up, Todd, or I'll actually kill you! I'll kill both of you!” Damian said,
rising from the bench. Dick’s arm quickly snatched forward, yanking Damian
back. Damian was forced to comply, practically falling back onto the seat. He
didn’t fight back—mostly because he could barely focus as it was. Duke and
Jason were nothing but blurry splotches in his vision and his anger wasn’t
helping him regain his self-control.
“Can you guys give us a minute?” Dick said, the slightest edge to his voice.
“You want to be left alone with him?”
Todd, always on the defensive. Damian gritted his teeth, wanting to yank the
nearest object off the shelf behind him and toss it at his dumb face.
“Sorry. We can go—no big deal, right?” Duke said pointedly.
“Yeah. No big deal,” Jason said, a bit quieter.
The sympathy only made Damian that much angrier. He let out a shaky breath,
hearing their footsteps disappear.
Dick’s hands scrubbed over his shoulders. Damian shrugged him off. Even so,
Dick reached for him, hand cupping Damian’s face. Damian stared downwards,
where their knees touched, the materials of the fabrics blurring out of focus.
His heart pulsed, clenching tightly, but he steeled his jaw.
“Don't focus on them,” Dick said gently. “Just focus on me. It’s just you and
me.”
Damian squeezed his eyes and said nothing.
“Damian,” Dick said, almost sighing.
“Stop,” he bit back.
“Why do you think this is your fault?”
“You're making it worse.”
“I'm not—I’m not trying to. I'm trying to help.”
Damian was determined to not give in. He remained stubbornly silent, save for
the sniffs and choked breaths. He reached up to rub his wet nose with the back
of his hand. Disgusting. Pathetic.
“It’s not your fault,” Dick tried again.
“It is.”
“How?”
“She'll kill him.”
“She’s not going to kill him.”
“She’ll try. She won’t stop trying until she does.”
“That is not your fault—”
“It is!” Damian said, turning on Dick. Damian’s anger gave him just enough push
to face Dick eye to eye without falling apart. “She never would have hated him
this much if it wasn't for me!”
Dick didn't say anything, just looked at Damian closely. The brief wave of
courage quickly subsided—Damian started to crumble again, hot tears rising to
the surface, face burning up. Dick was there instantly, thumbs wiping at the
corners of his eyes. Damian kept his gaze averted, still trembling.
“That’s not true. You know that's not true,” Dick said, voice softer. Damian
listened, wanting to believe him just as much as he wanted to hold onto his
guilt. “He doesn't think that way. He loves you.”
“Then why do I have to hear it from you?”
Dick went quiet for a moment. The thumb that stroked Damian’s face did not
still, the only indication that Dick was present and listening. Damian let him
think.
“It hurts to see the people you love in pain. Sometimes you just…” Dick trailed
off, his voice distant. Then started again with more conviction. “Sometimes
people would rather just hold everything inside, so they can spare everyone
around them. When you love someone, it makes you want to be less vulnerable so
you don't hurt the ones around you.”
Dick forced Damian’s chin up. Damian tried to look at him but anytime he held
his gaze for a few seconds at a time, he could see the deep empathy in Dick’s
gaze, and it made Damian’s chest tighten. Still, he swallowed and managed to
contain himself, just long enough for Dick to get a few more words in.
“You know you can always cry in front of me, right?”
 
The first time Damian cried in front of Dick, Dick didn't scold him like he
expected him to.
Instead, Dick pulled away the hands that blocked his face, trying to get them
to look eye to eye.
When Damian saw Dick’s face, he could feel himself start to cry harder.
It was as if when he looked at Dick’s face, he saw a mirror of his own, and all
the shame and misery became twofold.
Tears were a sign of weakness. That was what Damian had been taught his whole
life.
So why did Dick look so sad?
Had Damian’s crying caused that?
 
“It’s okay, baby.”
Dick’s voice was a gentle whisper, but there was a firmness to his words, a
genuinity so strong that Damian didn't even have to trust Dick’s words. He just
knew. He could it feel it in his core—it’s okay.
Damian was just barely listening. He was too focused on the intense heat inside
of him.
“Daddy’s got you.”
Kisses on his cheeks, the corners of his eyes, as if tears were meant to be
kissed. As if letting one get away, letting one slip by, was a worse sin than
crying to begin with. As if it was something to be treasured.
“I'm never going to leave you,” Dick whispered, breath hot against his ear and
neck, and he moved deep, deeper inside of Damian.
Damian held tight. His hands slipped underneath the soft fabric of Dick’s
shirt, blunt fingernails digging into warm flesh, knuckles weighed down by the
layers and layers of covers on top of them. The tent was black, the blankets a
cocoon. A small sanctuary in an otherwise vast and empty desert.
He was stretched to the brink, Dick filling every corner inside of him. His
body ached—but it was a good sort of ache. His throat and chest and eyes were
sore from crying. His body was strained from accepting Dick inside of him,
thighs stretched wide to accommodate him.
Dick’s arms were wrapped around him, his body covering him. Inside. Outside.
Dick was everywhere all at once, consuming him.
Damian had calmed somewhat. The gross, damn near wailing, cries had left him as
soon as Dick had pushed inside of him. Now, his body was exhausted, his crying
reduced to tears rolling from his puffy eyes, his voice reduced to the
occasional shuddering sigh or sniff. But there was something soothing in the
exhaustion—there was relief in the way that all the pent-up sorrow had been
expelled from his body. He could heal.
Damian knew he must have looked like a mess. Face flushed, eyes wet. It would
have been humiliating. But Dick wouldn't be able to see him. The moon was
tucked away, the night was dark, and their bodies were too closely intertwined.
Everything was fine. All Damian had to do was just focus on the comfort of
Dick’s embrace. Dick didn't move, except in forms of caressing or kissing. Body
parts moved through the darkness. Large, callused hands down his body, stroking
and rubbing and massaging, down Damian’s sides, his hips, his thighs.
It felt good to be wanted.
It's not your fault.
Dick stayed deep inside of Damian and did not thrust, did not push, simply
held. Damian focused on the warmth inside of him, feeling his shaky nerves and
racing heart begin to calm down. Dick’s cock occasionally pulsed or twitched
inside of him, and Damian’s head would go fuzzy each time. His own cock was
stiff, pressed between their bodies.
Dick could move. If he wanted to. Damian wouldn't stop him.
But this was perfect enough. To simply be held, to have their bodies joined as
one.
It was nice to just stop for a moment.
Everything had been fast. The news of his father. The panicked scramble to
chase their trail. It made Damian so anxious that he couldn't even sleep—until
all the fear, the terror, consumed him.
No.
Don't think about that now.
Daddy’s got you.
In the pitch darkness, Damian’s mind drifted, sorting through memories. He
thought of the morning sun in Wayne manor, the light haloing behind Dick’s
form, long arms outstretched.
Come here, baby.
And Damian would go to him, each time. The rising sun would warm Dick’s skin.
And Damian would just forget. Forget about what was weak, what was strong,
because none of that compared to the indulgence of being in Dick’s arms. Who
could ever resist?
Snapping him out of his thoughts was a soft breath. Damian’s eyes snapped open.
He couldn't see, not in this absolute darkness, but that didn't mean he
couldn't sense. He felt the subtle uneven rise and fall of Dick’s body on top
of his own. Felt the hitch of his breath as it fanned against the hollow of his
neck.
Damian swallowed. This had to have been difficult for Dick. Damian would have
been happy to stay like this—but he suddenly decided he want Dick to feel good
too. More than that, he wanted to feel more.
Damian wished there was a way to see Dick’s face without Dick having to see
his—Damian liked seeing him, as flustering as it was. Liked seeing his
handsome, mature face lost in pleasure—because of him. It made him feel
powerful, in a way.
He positioned himself under Dick’s body, his legs wrapping tighter around
Dick’s frame. Hooking him in, not letting him go. His blunt nails dug deep into
Dick’s back.
Dick groaned softly. Damian could feel Dick’s cock responding inside of
him—swelling. Pulsing.
Damian wanted to tell him that it was okay. That he was okay. But it was too
embarrassing. The thought of it made his face hot, his voice silent. Instead he
moved his hips, trying to get Dick to go on. Go on.
Then he heard it again.
That breath. Starting—then stopping halfway.
At that, Damian stilled, tucking away his own grief.
It couldn't have been.
But, then again…
Grayson had always been a fool.
I'm never going to leave you.
Damian’s gaze lowered.
He remembered, maybe realized, why they were both in that desert.
For each other. For him.
One or the other. Both.
And it was strange, to go from the role of the supported to the supporter.
Stranger still, when Damian tried to filter through his memories to see if this
had ever happened before. But Dick, even when his empathy was at his greatest,
was just a paused look and deep blue eyes filled with intense sorrow. Nothing
like this.
They never cried together.
Sometimes you just...
Hesitantly at first, heart beating as if he was anticipating that he might do
something wrong, Damian softened his grip. Hands moving up and down hardened
muscles and scars.
“I'm sorry,” Dick said. Damian could feel, hear, the kisses on his face and
head. Almost apologetic. “I don't want you to hurt.”
Damian struggled with that one for a moment.
“It doesn't,” he insisted. “Not anymore.”
 
Eyes squeezed shut, face pressed hard against Dick’s chest.
Damian could feel the tremors running down his body. His face hot, his gasps
shortening.
He felt the tension, pulling and pulling and pulling inside of him—
A sharp intake of breath, the tension snapped.
And he finally, finally, broke.
 
End Notes
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     I also made a DickDami discord chat! If you would like to join,
     please private message me on tumblr or twitter to receive the link.
     Thanks to everyone in the chat who encouraged me to post!
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