The kiss started as a joke. A breathless, whispered “we’ve got ten minutes” kind of joke, as the city lights streaked past the windows and the Batmobile’s engine hummed like a purring beast beneath you. But somewhere between your fingers tangling in his hair and his gloved hand cupping your jaw, Dick stopped thinking like Nightwing on a mission and started thinking like a boy in love.

Everything else faded. The mission. The time.

Now you’re in Richard’s lap, fingers in his hair, his mouth on yours like he’s been starved for weeks instead of just a few hours—his brain short-circuiting with every soft sound you made against his mouth. His heartbeat thudded louder than the rain tapping against the windshield.

Your body warm against his. His hands on your hips. Your lips on his neck. The sharp inhale he gave when you said his name—and then it hit him. A tiny, horrible realization crept through the haze: The comms. The damn comms.

Richard froze. “… Oh, no.”

You blinked at him, lips kiss-swollen, a little dazed. He reached up—too fast—reaching for his ear to kill the line.

Too late.

“So... Dick,” came Tim’s voice through the now-muted line. “Having a good night?”

Richard groaned, burying his burning face in your shoulder.

“Was that a moan or a ‘mission accomplished,’ Big Bird?” Jason. Of course.

“At least mute before second base, Dick,” Damian added dryly, as if this was a regular occurrence.

Bruce didn’t say anything. Which somehow made it worse.

“If you are quite finished, Master Grayson, I suggest you relocate before the Batmobile becomes... biologically compromised.” Alfred.

“I’m never showing my face in the Cave again,” Richard muttered against your neck. You were still laughing. And honestly? He’d suffer infinite Batfam roastings if it meant hearing you laugh like that again.