Good Bits 7: Jump before I get around you
by Te
December 10, 2007

Disclaimers: Nothing here is mine.

Spoilers/Timeline: No real spoilers, set sometime between
Tim's sixteenth birthday and War Drums.

Summary: ... look, it's a Good Bit. A little chatspam, a lot of
porn.

Ratings Note/Warnings: Sexual content some readers may
find to be disturbing.

Author's Note: See summary.

Acknowledgments: Much love to Pixie, Petra and Mildred for
audiencing and encouragement. Jack made me actually
edit.

*

Pixie: ...............*gets images of Timmy in spike-heeled boots.*
Te: Maybe a corset.
Pixie: Mmmm and glitter!
Pixie: There has to be glitter.
Pixie: In the spikey hair.

Te: Tim all casually sitting down in the Cave, typing his report...
Pixie: oh dear.
Te: Idly kicking one foot...
Pixie: Rubbing one calf with his toe...
Te: "How long were you planning on wearing that...?"
 
"Hm... oh." Tim looks down at himself and smirks. "Well, I've already
been in it for six hours. It's not getting any more uncomfortable."
 
"Hmm."

Te: Maybe... okay the corset laces up, and so do the little...spanky pants.
Te: Tim: *type type type*
 
*idly scratch a spot on his neck where glitter and sweat has made an itchy place*
 
*type type type*

Te: But yes. Bruce has finished his own reports, and has already showered and
he has no reason to still be in the Cave... So Bruce is kind of... puttering.
Readjusting trophies, wiping microscopic specks of dust off the Case...
Pixie: ahahahaahhah!!!
Pixie: oh dear god.
Pixie: I can FEEL the timmy eyebrow
Te: Tim: *type type type*

Bruce: "You... did well tonight."
 
Tim raises an eyebrow and then smirks a little more.
"Sometimes I find it... disturbing."
 
"'It...?'"
 
"Undercover work." Tim waves a hand. "I'm not telling you
anything you don't already know."

"Hmm."
 
Tim sits back and eyes the screen. There's not much more
he can add, but he always likes to be... polished. He smiles
to himself and crosses his legs. It's more comfortable --
marginally -- to do it *at* the knee, as opposed to trying to
rest an ankle on his knee.
 
"You could consider... trying me, Tim."
 
Does Bruce... want something in particular? Tim frowns.
"Trying you...?"
 
"I don't know everything you do about... being undercover."

Tim frowns, rewrites, and deploys a few strategic semi-
colons. "I was learning from you before we even... met.
Heh."
 
"Were you."
 
And that... Bruce definitely wants to talk. Tim's not sure how
he feels about that -- it's rarely a comfortable sort of thing to
do -- but... Bruce wants to talk. Tim spins around in the
chair, leans back, and steeples his fingers. "Do you
remember me from all of those awful parties, Bruce...?"
 
Bruce leans back against the beam and crosses his arms over
his chest. "Do you really need to ask...? Hindsight has much
to say about the small, quiet, watchful boy sitting near WE's
largest local rival."
 
Tim looks down and smiles a little more. "'Brucie' was a
masterwork. Most of the time."

"I'll give him your regards. Tiger."
 
Tim chokes out a laugh. Bruce -- Brucie -- had called him
that at the *last* party they both had to attend. Also
'Tommy.' "Rarr, rarr. But I'm being serious. Once I knew you
were Batman, I was *sure* I'd be able to see it -- unable
*not* to see it -- every time I saw you. And then..." Tim
frowns and thinks about it.
 
"And then...?"
 
"Were you awkward in your body as a teenager...? Is that
where Brucie's fumbling comes from? I mean, it's difficult to
imagine --"
 
"I was quite small for my age until I hit my teens," Bruce
says and seems to stare into the distance for a moment. "I
was positive -- for some time -- that I would take after my
mother more than my father. When I did begin to fill out...
it was a surprise."

"You didn't have anyone to measure your thigh bones and
growth hormone levels."
 
Bruce inclines his head.
 
Tim nods back. "You taught me to use... everything at my
disposal. Including all moments of awkwardness,
gracelessness --"

"Repressed exhibitionism...?"
 
Tim smiles ruefully. "Towards the end of my time of *only*
watching, I could get very close to you, to Jason --"
 
"Some of the photos were... startling."
 
Tim grins. "It was easy to imagine being seen -- *discovered*.
I... had dreams."
 
Bruce narrows his eyes and tilts his head. "Not nightmares."
 
"Of the knight and his squire...? Never."

"Hmm. Jason's reaction to the term 'squire' would probably
have been... less than wholly positive, Tim."
 
Jason. Really. "But illuminating, just the same. I... Bruce, is
there something... you're not saying?"
 
"Often," Bruce says, and raises an eyebrow in...
 
It's invitation to a very particular sort of challenge. The sort
of thing which belongs to lazy dawns in the manor while his
parents traveled the world, Sherlock Holmes films and a boy
he barely remembers living in. Tim isn't sure what has
brought this *out* of Bruce, but... he swallows. "I've missed
this. I -- I know it's not..." Tim shakes his head. "Never
mind."
 
"If you'd rather I didn't..."
 
"No, that's not what I mean. I --" There's sweat beneath the
elbow-length fingerless gloves. They're really more like
sheaths -- Tim flexes his forearms. "Sometimes I enjoy
being... seen."

"By me, Tim...?"
 
Tim raises his own eyebrow. "That can't possibly be a
surprise, at this late date."
 
"Perhaps you overestimate the... translucency of your
motivations."
 
And that -- hm. Tim rolls his ankle and listens to the quiet
creak of the boots. "You're wondering why I didn't protest
more for this particular mission...?"
 
There's a smile behind Bruce's eyes. "Among other things."
 
That... makes sense. Dick is never more likely to show
irritation with Bruce in *his* presence than when something
reminds him of all those times when *he* had to go some
particularly... frilly sort of undercover. Tim nods. "This is
rather different than those occasions when I've had to
pretend to be female, Bruce."
 
"Hm. I wouldn't have thought you'd find *that* costume so
much more... palatable."
 
"No...?" That *is* something of a surprise. "You know I
tended toward the flamboyant when I was going undercover
with Young Justice."
 
"Never quite this much, Tim," Bruce says, and the shift in his
posture is minute, but still manages to smack of purest
skepticism.
 
Tim shrugs lightly. "Once one finds oneself in a mesh shirt
and a fur-trimmed cape, glitter and leather lose some of
their... mystery."
 
"Hm. Enough to keep you from changing once the mission
was complete...?"
 
Tim nods toward the console. "You know I prefer to write
my reports while the details are still fresh --"
 
"It *wouldn't* have taken you that long to change, Tim."
 
Touché. And yet. "Am I making *you* uncomfortable,
Bruce?"
 
Bruce's smile is a narrow, precise sort of thing that seems to
only heighten the skepticism of his pose. "You could consider
thinking of it as..." He nods toward Tim's legs -- no, higher
than that. "Sympathy."

Heh. "One can grow accustomed to just about anything,
Bruce," Tim says, uncrossing and recrossing his legs mostly
because he can.

The smile is sort of... edging around Bruce's mouth, neither
quite touching nor missing it entirely. "Perhaps it's time to
redesign your uniform."

Sometimes Tim can't help thinking about what it would've
been like to wear the Robin suit with the shorts. And
shuddering. This time he keeps it back somewhere behind
his own smile. "It hardly ever feels like it's strangling me,
anymore."

"Hm. We can't have that," Bruce says, and stands up
straight, moving away from the beam and away from Tim.

Conversation over...? The regret isn't as much of a surprise
as Tim would like it to be. The regret... is itself. It was never
going to be easy to simply *be* with Bruce, and it was never
supposed to be. That isn't what any of this is about.

Tim turns back to the report and reads it over one more time
before saving and filing it where it belongs. It's time to get
out of these clothes, shower, dry his hair to deniability, and
get himself home. He turns around again --

And Bruce is *right* there, generally looking precisely like
someone who shouldn't be able to *exist* as silently as he
does, much less to move that way. He's holding... a makeup
kit.

Tim opens his mouth -- closes it again, thinks -- "Am I
smudged...?"

Bruce drops into a slow and nearly casual crouch -- "Hardly.
You're always quite careful."

Tim nods and does his best to express *question* with his
body.

Bruce opens the kit and sets it on the floor between them.
"You chose a rather subtle theme for your makeup,
considering the rest of your ensemble."

"There's such a thing as too much, even for..." Tim gestures
at himself.

Bruce looks at him from under his lashes, a variety of smile
that misses coy by several miles, but flies directly through
'impaling.' "You mustn't think I doubt your judgment, Tim."

Oh -- really. "Never that --"

"After all, in retrospect I think you were quite right to shave
your legs rather than simply going with the stockings."

"It seemed," Tim says, and resists the urge to stroke his
own thigh to look for stubble which he knows from
experience won't appear for another forty-eight to seventy-
two hours, "the thing to do."

"Mm. Still, you did have other choices."

"With regards to the makeup."

"Just so," Bruce says, removing an eyeliner pencil from the
kit and holding it between them.

The gesture invites Tim to take it for himself. The look in
Bruce's eyes... does not. Tim curls his fingers around the
seat of the chair, nods, and rolls his eyes up just enough
that he'll be able to keep from blinking.

The touch of the pencil is slightly less gentle than his body
had expected, but this is solely due to the fact that he is
not -- yet -- fully accustomed to this particular protocol. Once
Tim has accepted it, the feel tells him that Bruce is drawing
a rather thick line, slowly and steadily.

Tim knows, of course, that Bruce has a great deal of
experience in this sort of thing -- Dick has already told him
that Bruce had nearly always applied his makeup, with Alfred
offering suggestions and guidance, and he sincerely doubts
that Jason had done this for himself -- but there's something
rather shockingly intimate about it, just the same.

Bruce has never done *his* makeup. Bruce had never been
there for anything other than to give Tim the assignments in
question and -- very occasionally; not tonight -- to approve
the final look before Tim leaves. This --

"Bruce..."

"Mm," Bruce says, and moves to Tim's upper lid.

"This is... I mean to say..." Tim swallows and fights back the
urge to blink until Bruce pulls the pencil away. And presses
the pad of his thumb against Tim's chin.

When Tim looks, Bruce's expression is nearly blank, neither
asking any questions nor offering any suggestions. It's
frustrating right up until Tim realizes -- with that inner *bolt*
of absolute surety -- that Bruce is trying very, very hard to
neither guide nor... spook. Which is exactly as amusing as it
should be, on top of that familiar shivery feeling of knowing
that he has absolute control over just how *this* particular
encounter with Bruce goes -- even though he has no real
idea of how those controls work.

Well. Perhaps *some* idea. "Don't... don't mind me, Bruce.
Your technique is... different than mine."

"Hm. You prefer a somewhat feathered approach," he says,
and reaches up to just below the eye he hasn't re-bordered
yet. He -- doesn't quite touch.

Tim nods, slowly. "It's easier to get precisely the line shape I
want, that way. I... keep going."

Bruce -- there's no real way he could meet Tim's eyes more
than he already is, but that doesn't change the feel. It's a
question.

Tim nods again, looks up, and Bruce sets to work. Steady
again, sure, and the skin around Tim's eyes quickly begins to
feel heavier than it should. This sort of makeup perhaps
demands the narrow look, heavy-lidded, suggestive --

Bruce pulls out the brush for the blush, next, and chooses a
darker color than the one Tim is already wearing. The touch,
here, is light, but Tim knows the effect must be pretty
dramatic, perhaps leaving him looking gaunt. Starved to
some variety of high-maintenance perfection. And Bruce
closes the kit.

"Not the lipstick...?"

"You already chose the color I would have," Bruce says, not
meeting Tim's eyes anymore.

Which -- isn't quite what Tim wants. "Mascara?"

"Still quite perfect," and Bruce stands, starts to turn -- stops.
And turns back and offers Tim his hand.

Tim takes it and stands, remembering to adjust his stance to
compensate for the heels on the boots. The extra height
makes it difficult not to look up -- hardly very much at all --
and try to meet Bruce's eyes again, but Bruce is still not
looking at him, and so Tim restrains himself. There's a sense
of something fragile here, moreso than their usual tenuous
grip on comfortable civility.

Differently so. Parallel to...? Tim isn't sure, and in the end
it's easier to slip his hand away from Bruce's own than to try
to quantify it. Bruce is looking toward the mirrors, and that's
enough of a message.

Tim walks there, and the clothes are -- something rather
stronger than just a reminder. While they don't quite demand
a looseness in the shoulders and a certain ambiguous twist
to the hips, they certainly suggest that something of the kind
wouldn't be unwelcome.

The boots demand precision and balance, and the whole
makes him stalk as much as walk until he can see himself in
the mirrors. He stops, arms akimbo, hipshot, and *then*
takes himself in.

There's a moment of sharp amusement, of course -- if he
ever really wants his father to go back into a coma, he could
always try coming home like *this* -- and it's followed by
that sense of thrill -- he's *ready* for that portion of the
street which was his own tonight. He was prepared those
feelings. What he wasn't prepared for...

He was right about the sort of difference Bruce's adjustments
would make to his appearance, but the effect is a little
extreme. He looks older and younger, this way, the
ambiguity gaining a knife-edge that wouldn't have really fit
the character he'd designed for the assignment.

The rather open-*ended* assignment, now that he considers
it. Perhaps Bruce had been thinking of a different sort of
character, entirely. Less glitter, more *shine*...?

"Thoughts...?"

Bruce is standing *just* out of range of the mirrors relative
to Tim's position, judging by the sound. The familiar
frustration doesn't come, however -- Bruce's voice is full of
open curiosity, and that underlying *thing* which has been
there since, Tim realizes, Bruce had come back from patrol
to find Tim here. Tim bites the inside of his lip. "I look
dangerous."

"You don't approve...?"

"Well, I..." Smiling makes his eyes appear even narrower,
turning his expression into something which glints, and
perhaps ought to include sharper teeth. "Wow."

There's a quiet half-sound which is probably the whisper of
fabric shifting -- Bruce shifting. Moving closer...? Tim doesn't
turn around, and, after a moment, Bruce says, "tell me."

"I was going to say something about how I've gotten a great
deal of mileage out of looking mostly harmless, but I have
to admit there's something to this."

"You think you look harmless on a day to day basis."

And that tone was very, very dry. But -- "I'd go so far as to
say innocuous, Bruce."

"Would you."

The urge to laugh is making his lips peel back into a grin --
positively malevolent with the makeup. "Fluffy...?"

"Hmm. We could do something about your hair."

Tim looks down -- away from the image in the mirror which
is making things like the staff taped against his spine -- and
the knife below it -- far too tempting for the moment. He
doesn't want to spar in these boots. Much. "Bruce, do you
think it was a mistake for me to *try* to look harmless
tonight...?"

"It would be more accurate to say that I hadn't expected
you to go that route. It would've been more cautious -- for
your ankles -- if you hadn't spent quite so much time
wobbling on those heels."

Tim laughs quietly and turns away from the mirrors. As it
happens, Bruce is standing only *just* far enough away for
him to have been outside of the mirror's range. Staying
close.

Tim shows off the hip-twisting totter he'd practiced for an
hour earlier in the evening and closes more of the distance
between them. "It's excellent exercise for the calves."

"Dick said something of the sort about the high-wire we
used to have. Before Dick nearly gave Alfred a coronary
infarction pretending to be inebriated -- he'd replaced the
contents of a bottle of Macphails with iced tea."

A mention of Dick doesn't have quite the same degree of
*spice* as a mention of Jason, but... but. It's still there, still
*something*. He'd very much like to know how to encourage
it beyond the general way he plans to encourage all of this.
He -- he wants to *know*. "Does all of this mean that the
next time I have to be female I'll get to be a femme fatale...?"

"Have you been studying the Catwoman footage that
thoroughly, Tim?"

He knows, now, exactly what this smile looks like to Bruce.
"I would never dream of suggesting I could do so as
thoroughly as you."

Bruce's smile -- fades as he puts his hands in his pockets. It
still narrows his eyes, but Tim feels... a little cheated. He
walks closer and reaches for Bruce's wrist. "You were going
to --"

"Reach out," Bruce says, and takes a step back, graceful and
deliberate.

Ah -- ah. "I wasn't planning to object," Tim says, perfectly
honestly --

"You weren't planning, at all," and the fascinating thing --

The smile hasn't left Bruce's eyes, or faded anymore than it
already had. If they're not quite talking about what Tim
thinks they're dancing around, then Tim would've expected
something rather more serious. Darker, more forbidding.
Perhaps... "I am now."

"Are you." A moment's tension visible beneath the material
of Bruce's loose, casual Bruce Wayne shirt, released and --
he takes another step back.

Tim could blame nearly everything on the clothes, on the
image-intensive sense of himself as someone who could do
this. Most of all, he could blame this on the moment, but he
doesn't need to.

They are, technically, supposed to be honest with each other,
and Tim wants to *know*.

He stands straight, widens his eyes, and takes two steps
closer. "Bruce."

"What do you plan to do when I stop backing away...?"

"I had a few interrogatory statements I've been saving for
the right time," Tim says, tilting his head and tugging on the
corset laces, just to see... there. Bruce, of course, didn't
have to shift in order to be able to see exactly what Tim was
doing. The fact that he chose to do so -- while less
important than the fact that Bruce is still smiling -- is
certainly... interesting.

"Did you think you'd get answers, Tim?"

"If it turned out to *be* the right time -- yes. You do have a
sense for that sort of thing."

"I also have a sense that -- what do you expect from this?"

Tim tilts his head the other way. "Is it really the right time
for me to answer that question?"

"Hmm. Not yet," Bruce says, tugging his hands out of his
pockets and crossing his arms over his chest.

The pose and expression are everything Tim had looked for
years ago and hadn't been able to find, more so when Bruce
tilts his chin up just enough that the shadows take all of his
face save for the admirably straight line of his jaw.

"Robin," and it's a grating thing, rough and sharp and
absolutely designed to yank every bit of casual out of Tim's
own stance. It's -- difficult to resist, moreso because he
knows, with all of himself, that at least some part of Bruce
doesn't want him to resist it, at all.

It's been a very long time since Batman has seemed so very
*safe*, and yes, that's *difficult* to resist. But not
impossible, Tim thinks, and walks that last step closer,
resting his hand on Bruce's chest. His hand isn't large enough
to cover the bat which -- technically -- isn't there, but he has
every hope that the message goes through. If not... "Bruce."

"You don't have to do this," he says, still rough and low,
and... Tim thinks that might be the best warning Bruce has
given to date. Does he really want this sort of association for
*that* voice? He's put a lot of time and energy into avoiding
just that, editing fantasy, learning to dream lucidly...

"I don't have to do anything," Tim says, and curls the hand
he has on Bruce's chest into a claw, fingers slipping between
the buttons of the shirt. No t-shirt beneath it, and there's a
certain urge to pause at the feel of one of Bruce's more
alarming scars which *aren't* below the waist, but -- no.
Tim tugs enough to ease the button free, and moves to do
the same with the buttons above and below it.

He still can't see Bruce's face, but the lesson here -- such as
it is -- is that it's not especially necessary, as opposed to
desirable. Bruce's chest is warm, roughly interesting with hair,
frighteningly smooth with scar tissue. Tim has never really
seen the appeal of having his own scars kissed or teased,
but, at the moment, he thinks he might understand more
why such things tend to happen. He moves to the next
buttons --

And Bruce's hand is on his back, settled just above where
the staff is taped. Does he want... no, he's just pulling Tim
closer, making it necessary for Tim to fold his arms between
them in order to get Bruce's shirt off. Bruce, when he
checks, is still facing forward, staring, perhaps, into the
middle distance.

The impression is of stoic endurance of the advances of a
reckless Robin. Tim curls his tongue against his teeth against
the urge to snort. "I think it's time for you to tell me how
much of this has to do with what I'm wearing, Bruce."

Bruce sighs, relaxing minutely all over. For a long moment,
Tim's sure that's the only answer he's going to get, but --
"Perhaps you should think of it as a question of how you
were wearing it," and when Bruce ducks his head out of the
shadow, there's a paradoxically icy sort of *blaze* behind his
eyes --

("Good. Again.") -- "Ah," Tim says -- gasps, lightly -- and
shoves his hand down until the last two buttons on Bruce's
shirt snap against the leather of his glove. They hit the
ground with an irrelevant patter and his fingertips are
between Bruce's skin and the waistband of his pants.

"You... intimated that you had more than one question,"
Bruce says, and presses hard enough against Tim's back
that Tim has to work not to be crushed against him.

He doesn't want that -- yet. And --

"I think it's time," and Bruce's eyes are so -- very. Tim curls
his fingers and scratches his way up Bruce's abdomen, and
catches himself staring at the way the flesh jumps under his
touch.

It's neither more nor less fascinating than the possibilities
inherent to that invitation. *Bruce* had brought up both
Dick *and* Jason. The *freedom* there -- *here*... Tim
takes a breath and pushes back against Bruce's hand. After
a -- moment, Bruce lets him put a few more inches between
them. Tim takes advantage of them by reaching up to push
the shirt back off Bruce's shoulders and then stroking his
way down Bruce's chest with both hands. Warm, living skin
on his fingertips, blank pressure where the gloves are still
blocking him -- there's a question. "Would you prefer it if I
were wearing gauntlets, Bruce?"

Bruce's lips part for a moment, just long enough to make the
flare behind his eyes blinding, needful -- "Not tonight. Tim."

His own mouth is open. He wants -- he wants to know if
taking what he wants on a moment to moment basis will
distract him from his goals, but, of course, to answer that
question he'd have to know what his goals *are*. Tim
smiles and shakes his head --

Bruce's eyes narrow just that slightest bit *more*. "What are
you thinking?"

Is he lacking in translucency again? Tim meets Bruce's eyes
and forces himself to keep doing it, as opposed to looking
away again and again -- oh. It feels... Bruce hasn't even
*done* anything else, and it feels -- he shakes his head
again --

"Hm. Have I missed a cue...?"

"Dick," Tim says -- blurts, almost. He's blushing, and there's
only so much the makeup can hide. Better, by far, to scratch
his way back down Bruce's chest and abdomen to his
waistband, curl his fingers under, tug, push down close to
the *heat* -- tell the truth. "Dick makes me feel this way --"

There's a moment where he could've taken hold of himself --
it's the so-careful brush of Bruce's fingertips over his cheek --
and then those fingers are on the back of his neck, Bruce's
palm cupping, holding, tilting --

The kiss is slow, deep -- and entirely lacking in a sense of
amusement. Perhaps this is something Bruce can't joke
about, or perhaps it's more that Tim had asked -- begged --
for something just this serious. Bruce's fingers curl lightly
against his scalp, Bruce's tongue is something to
*encompass*, and Tim catches himself wishing his mouth
were a smaller, tighter place. He wants to hold on to this
kiss, and this moment of it before it changes to something
he either can or *can't* control.

Right now, it's something shared by the two of them,
something that puts them on far more equal footing than
even the heels which are allowing Bruce not to strain his
neck. Yes, Tim thinks, and surprises himself with a moan --

Bruce pulls back and the end of the moan sprawls and
echoes in the air of the -- Cave --

"Come upstairs with me, Tim," he says, and there's so much
in the way he says Tim's name that it's difficult to parse the
actual sentence --

Except, of course, for the way that Tim is already slipping
his fingers out of Bruce's pants and turning for the stairs.
He can *feel* Bruce at his back, and that's enough -- more
than -- to make Tim stalk the way the makeup and
everything else demands, quick and some small-bodied
variety of inexorable. He looks back over his shoulder --

And Bruce is still standing where Tim had left him, bare from
the waist up and watching, watching -- "Don't stop," he says,
and Tim acknowledges it with a roll of his shoulders as he
turns back around.

And walks.

The strange thing --

There are any number of strange things, here, but, at the
moment, the one which is nagging at him is walking through
the manor like *this*. In a way, it feels just like those few
times when he's been here in uniform -- half violation of
something sacrosanct and half *answer* to that same level
of purity. Tim curls his hands into fists and moves to the
kitchen.

He's not hungry or thirsty, but there's something needful in
reaching up to pull a glass off the shelf, filling it with water
and drinking it down. There's something he *requires* in
stopping here, in marking his territory even with something
so fleeting as lipstick on a glass.

He leaves it in the sink and moves back toward the upper
staircase, pausing at the newel post to think of all the times
he'd never slid down the banister, all the times he'd stopped,
right here, just to marvel at where he was, and who he was
becoming.

He lifts his hand. He'd managed to chip his nail polish in the
brief fight tonight. The hand itself is what he's made it, hard
and strong, roughened -- Bruce.

Behind him again. Watching again.

Wondering, perhaps, if Tim had changed his mind.

"Touch me," Tim says, and deliberately doesn't bite his lip at
the feel of Bruce's hands sliding under his arms, up his
chest -- pulling him back until his shoulders are pressed
against Bruce. He wants to moan, out loud. He wants an
excuse -- and Bruce gives him one when a single motion
leads to the snap and release of the laces on his corset.

He'd cut them. He'd --

A twist, and Bruce is holding the knife horizontally in front
of Tim's face. Tim reaches out and takes the blade between
his teeth, and resists the need to let his knees buckle when
Bruce catches Tim's nipple and squeezes --

And rips the corset back and off. Tim pants around the knife,
squeezes his eyes shut --

"Tim. Please."

Tim opens his eyes and starts up the stairs. He's no longer
steady enough to take it at a run in these boots, and that's --
perfect. After a few steps he takes the knife from between
his teeth and lets it hang from his fingers, tap against his
bare thigh, cool and promising.

Maybe he'll ask Bruce to... no, he doesn't want to plan this
in any way save on the fly, if he can at all manage it. He
wants the immediacy, the *moments* -- as sweet as Bruce's
presence behind him, and the sense that this won't end even
if Tim's legs give out on him entirely and he winds up in a
sprawl on the stairs --

He wants that, too. Some other time. The hall is quiet and
more warmly lit than brightly, but Tim's body knows the
way --

All of the times when he hadn't left his room for Bruce's own.
All of the ghosts of desire and confusion, fear and
frustration -- not all of the ghosts look like *him*.

Tim curls his fingers against the door jamb, but doesn't
pause on his way into Bruce's bedroom, or when he reaches
the bed. He sets his knees down on the duvet and crawls
on, slow and carefully, not turning over until he reaches the
head.

There's a bit more of a stretch than his body was anticipating
when he pulls his knees up -- the heels on the boots really
are *just* that high -- but it puts a thrum under his skin,
something singing high and sharp beyond the edge of
actual hearing. Tim dances the knife over his knuckles, back
and forth, and watches Bruce watch him.

Watches Bruce *want* -- and the singing thing is louder,
heavier, thrumming under his skin, and Tim fists his free
hand in the duvet to keep from grabbing at himself. He
can't make himself close his mouth. "Bruce, there's so
much --"

"Yes," Bruce says. "Ask. Demand -- Tim."

All of his questions feel so *small* right now, distracting
curiosities not worth the time -- Tim shakes his head and
spins the knife into his hand -- and realizes, belatedly, that
it's one of the knives Bruce had made especially for him,
twin to the one still taped to his back. "I -- too much. Bruce,
just --"

And Bruce bends down enough to place his palm against the
duvet, never looking away from Tim's eyes -- Tim feels them
widening, feels his toes trying to curl in the boots, feels
himself snarling --

"It wasn't supposed to be *like* this -- I."

Bruce pauses, then crawls onto the bed himself, moving
closer, closer -- Close enough to touch, finally, but Tim can't
let go of the knife or the bit of the duvet he's still clutching.
Tim opens his mouth wider, gulps air, and wonders if this is
what panic feels like. It's been so long since he's tasted
anything sharper than the familiarity of terror, but now his
heart is pounding and his skin is prickling with fresh sweat.

And when Bruce cups the backs of Tim's thighs and spreads
them wider, pushes them *up*, a cry falls out of Tim's mouth
that doesn't have any words Tim can find within himself.

Bruce, and the ache in his trapped penis, the tightening in
his balls and the base of his spine --

"And this, Tim? Does Dick make you feel like this?"

Yes. No. Something sweeter, more familiar, *easier*, if only
from long practice --

"Because Jason... made me feel just like this," Bruce says,
sliding his hands up the backs of Tim's thighs to his rear,
lifting him into a simple arch --

"Strip me," Tim says, and it's not enough, it's not enough of
what he'd *meant*, but a part of him shudders itself to
something like calm when Bruce nods and sets him back
down on the bed, and that same part reels in gratitude when
Bruce opens his hand for the knife.

It's okay, Tim thinks, I'm only giving up *one* of my
weapons, and he gasps on a laugh, and gasps again when
Bruce turns the knife on the laces of his shorts. They're too
tight to *give* much when the top lace parts, but his penis
wants him to know that every little bit helps. Every -- slice,
though there's nothing stopping Bruce from using his fingers
to loosen it the rest of the way. It's something else to be
grateful for -- Tim doesn't think he could really take having
Bruce's touch *there* muffled by leather, and --

He has a free hand. He wraps it around Bruce's forearm and
just -- takes a moment. Steadies himself. Something --
something. Everything when the last bit of lace is snapped
and Tim can push himself back up into an arch, grit his teeth
against the *time* consumed by Bruce pulling the shorts off
slowly, even though -- given the vagaries of sweat and
leather -- it's more efficient than if he had tried to jerk them
off.

Less painful -- does he want that? This particular moment is
dangerous, ambiguous, too full of *question*. Better when
the shorts are finally off and he can breathe, stretch, flex,
bend his knee back and plant the platformed toe of the
boot -- lightly -- against Bruce's shoulder.

Bruce exhales.

Tim... what does he look like right now, exactly? He doesn't
feel especially dangerous -- is that what Bruce wants?

"*Ask*."

He'd done it again, looked away from Bruce's eyes -- there
are answers there. The problem -- if it could be considered
one -- is that there are quite a few of them. Tim wets his
lower lip with his tongue and slides the boot down Bruce's
chest.

"Tim --"

"How do you want me. I -- It occurs to me that you have --
we have -- options."

"No," Bruce says, quiet and *sure*, and wraps his fist around
Tim's ankle. The boots are just thin enough that the heat of
his hand is a tangible tease -- more of one when Tim tests
the grip by rotating his foot.

"You -- seem quite positive. Bruce, I -- touch my *skin* --"

Bruce responds by pushing Tim's leg up straight -- and
sliding his palm down over the calf to the back of Tim's knee.
Tim's slick with sweat there, rapidly getting that way
everywhere --

And Bruce applies pressure to the bundle of nerves there,
enough to make Tim *kick*, whine high in his throat. His
hair is *damp* with sweat, falling out of the carefully styled
spikes. The head of his penis is wet with pre-come, a drop
connecting it to his abdomen -- Tim closes his eyes again --

"Don't."

Tim opens his eyes, twists -- *fights* away from Bruce's
touch, rolls up onto his knees -- kiss, yes, and this is
another moment he wants to keep: the matter-of-fact
welcome of Bruce's mouth, the faint rasp of Bruce's stubble
against Tim's hands and the gloves, the feel of Bruce's hands
settling on his hips, sliding down to his thighs to spread
them, then back up so he can lift Tim onto his lap --
snapping the moment into another.

Bruce's erection, hot and hard against his own, twitching
when Tim moans, when Tim lets go of Bruce's face and
wraps his arms around Bruce's neck, holds on, tighter,
more, snapping --

Bruce's tongue in his mouth, stabbing and tasting, testing --
Tim has to *keep* this, and the strain of holding on against
his need to move, his need for more -- Tim feels himself
shaking and decides to go with it, to let his body just *react*
everywhere Bruce isn't holding him still, suck Bruce's tongue,
bite it and Bruce's lip --

Reach back and *catch* Bruce's wrist when those hands start
sliding up toward his knife. It's not that he has the power or
leverage to *stop* Bruce, but --

"My mistake," Bruce says, and ducks his head enough to lick
a stripe along the line of Tim's jaw. "Forgive me."

And that -- is asking for a lot more than precisely belongs in
*this* moment. It's enough to make the next breath Tim
takes somewhat calming -- more when Bruce's hands are
back on his hips. Tim loosens his grip on Bruce's neck, flexes
his shoulders, considers.

Bruce raises an eyebrow.

Tim raises his own.

"Hm. Perhaps another time," and Bruce slips his thumbs into
the hollows of Tim's hips and pulls tighter against him. The
fabric of Bruce's pants isn't enough of a tease for Tim's penis,
isn't enough *contact*. Tim arches back until he's on his
elbows and shins. "Yes...?"

"Open," Tim says, and licks his lips, "your pants."

Bruce's hands flex on Tim's hips, but he lets go and works
on his fly, opening himself, kneeling up, pushing pants and
boxer-briefs down until Tim can see him, hard and slick, dark
and -- imperative. Tim rocks back and straightens out his
legs for a moment before wrapping them around Bruce's
waist and pulling. The left boot slips, a little, in the sweat on
Bruce's skin, but Bruce allows himself to be urged, moving
up to cover Tim in shadow and -- heat.

Tim takes another breath and feels drunk with it, the scent
of himself more intense and infinitely less important than the
scent of Bruce -- "This really should be so much darker and
colder -- I wish you hadn't showered. I think I'm losing -- I
can't quite seem to -- oh, *that* --" Bruce pinning his wrists
to the bed and holding him there, sending a message Tim
thinks he'll probably ignore, but it feels far too good to
protest.

It's another singular moment, heightened by the look in
Bruce's eyes, and the way that look shifts when Tim slides
the side of the boot down the outside of Bruce's thigh. 

"I think --"

"Extravagantly," Bruce says, and lowers himself with painful
slowness, caution -- contact is still strong enough, strange
enough to make Tim need to catch his breath, make him
fail at it and need to ease himself, somehow --

It could, perhaps, be problematic how much better he feels
once he has his legs wrapped around Bruce's waist -- and the
boot heels dragging against the backs of Bruce's legs, but
there's a variety of forgiveness for it -- unique in the sound
and feel of Bruce's sigh, the brush of Bruce's lips against
Tim's forehead. Tim squeezes with his legs and thinks very
seriously about thrusting up. The pros are obvious. The
cons are frightening, and heavily laden with a loss of control
which would be quite immediate --

Bruce bites the upper curve of Tim's ear. *His* hips are still,
*his* control --

Could very easily drive Tim insane, right now. "You could
stay right here almost indefinitely," Tim says, and the way he
feels his mouth twist speaks volumes about everything he's
failing to keep out of his tone.

"It's flattering that you think so," Bruce says, shifting just
enough to slide his arms under Tim's shoulders and... grip
Tim's wrists again. "Does this make -- anything -- easier...?"

That -- Tim breathes out a laugh and arches up enough to
bite Bruce's chin. "You think I'm looking for someone to
blame." 

"Or take responsibility," and the increase in pressure is
minute, but still tangible enough to make Tim need to shift
beneath Bruce, resettle himself --

Bruce breathes against Tim's mouth, and a low, insinuating
*thing* within him wants him to know that a kiss wouldn't
be too much, that prior experience could be discarded as
anecdotal, irrelevant -- hmm. "There's some degree of
internal... disagreement, here, Bruce."

"Do let me know if I can help," he says, pressing his thumbs
against Tim's wrists, stroking --

Just a kiss, Tim thinks, measuring the lie against the
thousands he's told just to have -- not this. Something to
take the place of this, excuses and compromise. Just a
*kiss*, and he twists his wrists out of Bruce's grip and
catches his hands instead, twines their fingers and thinks
about broken bones and the consequences of a truly
thorough physical education --

"Tell me," Bruce says, leaning in close enough that Tim
breathes his breath, feels a hint of stubble --

"History. Scars. Contact. I --" Just a kiss, and for a moment
he thinks he might've been right about that. Bruce barely
moves his mouth against Tim's own, holds back -- and
probably thinks something about leaving room for initiative.
It's just that actively smiling into the kiss makes Bruce
groan, change, press, *grind* --

Tim grips with his legs, putting as much muscular force into
it as he can, as much physical *focus* -- it's not enough to
stop him from responding in kind, and it feels like opening a
vein, a flood of feeling that blanks out everything resembling
caution.

Control becomes something inextricably tied to the need to
match Bruce's rhythm, to thrust with him, pull back enough
to tease himself, shake -- *take*, and Bruce's tongue is a
blade he needs between his teeth, something to growl
around, guide to where it can *best* wound, and most
efficiently lay Tim open.

There's a swelling, spreading *heat* to this, and the
inescapable knowledge that he's leaving traces of himself on
Bruce's skin, Bruce's *bed*. Tim feels slick all over, oiled for
the machinery of *this* pleasure, so well that not even the
tremors running through him can throw him off track --

"It's too easy --"

And then it isn't, because Bruce is moving faster, grinding
harder. Too much pressure on his hands, too much stretch
for his thighs -- a challenge, Tim thinks, twisting as much as
he can, digging short nails into the back of Bruce's hand
until he lets go and Tim can get one leg over Bruce's
shoulder --

"Ah, better --"

"As you say," Bruce says, pulling back enough to bite Tim
through the boot, kiss him there, stroke up to Tim's thigh
and move, kneel back, pull *away* --

*No*, and Tim's not sure whether that was out loud or not,
but he lacks the resources to both be sure *and* push and
roll up onto his knees, push closer for another kiss which
rapidly makes it meaningless -- if not necessarily okay -- that
Bruce has lifted Tim's arms above his head and is holding
them there with one hand around Tim's wrists.

There's less leverage for him when he knee-walks into a
straddle of Bruce's thighs, an awkwardness added to by the
way the boots hold his feet and ankles in a less than optimal
position.

"No balance. Interesting," Tim says, dragging his cheek
against Bruce's own.

"An excellent way to make you find your own --"

"On you," and it's exactly as easy as it should be tease his
own inner thighs with the hair on Bruce's as he kneels up,
rocks forward -- contact, again, and the opportunity to test
whatever shreds of his resolve are left against Bruce's full-
body shudder.

"On me," he says, and strokes Tim's back with his free hand --
avoiding the tape over Tim's staff and knife and pressing hard
at the base of Tim's spine until Tim starts to rock. It's far less
*complete* a feeling this way -- too many other distractions --
but there's a sense of free choice here. A feeling which
blithely ignores Bruce's hands on him as well as the fact that
Tim couldn't stop rocking his hips if he tried, Bruce's hand --

Bruce's fingers, slick with Tim's own sweat, sliding down into
Tim's cleft -- "Ah... yes?"

Pausing just within, stroking up and down and up -- "You
gave me your back three times, tonight, Tim," Bruce says,
as if it answers everything.

A certain part of Tim is absolutely in agreement on the
matter. The rest... "I haven't been secretly leaving you
coded messages, Bruce." Except, of course, when it's
necessary -- Tim bites the inside of his cheek. "Three taps of
my boot heel doesn't translate to 'I love you.'"

"You're being disingenuous," Bruce says, and kisses him
quickly, sharp and warm -- gone. "That particular smile you
never quite let me see all of is far closer to *that*."

Which -- "You were never supposed to notice that. You
distinctly implied -- on any number of occasions -- that you
were doing everything possible *except* for noticing --"

"I lied," and the slide of Bruce's fingers in Tim's cleft is
neither fast nor gentle. It seems designed to make Tim
shake more, or possibly Bruce is hoping for more protests?

He hasn't given Bruce very much opportunity to state his
own case in this -- matter. He hasn't --

He hasn't prepared himself nearly enough for this feeling,
this possibility, this *invasion* of privacy and self. He's
flushing under the makeup, closing his eyes -- no, he wasn't
going to do that again. Looking at Bruce is a much better
challenge, like he's throwing himself against the vast obstacle
of Bruce's happiness, amusement --

Maybe throwing himself *into* all of that hunger, that black
depth which he knows, now (he's always known) has nothing
to do with a cape or cowl -- "And were you lying about this,
too...?"

"Reflexively. Desperately -- breathe, Tim."

The first attempt shudders itself into inefficiency. The second
seems to push something at the base of his penis, makes
him need to rock faster, sweating at the feel of himself
pushing back against Bruce's fingers, at the possibility of
*breach* should Bruce stop being polite --

"Don't -- hm," Bruce says, and perhaps it was enough
warning, because when Bruce lets go, stops pushing, Tim's
already moving, pulling the blade and flashing it between
them as he moves back, pushing awkwardly with his booted
heels, slashing and diving away from Bruce's attempts to
grip --

Laughing. Bruce let *go*. Tim makes his own warnings and --
Bruce let go of him, stopped and -- well. Laughing is easier
than that, easier than thinking about it, fearing it --

Bruce settles back on his heels and -- "Share."

"I -- trust you to take care of yourself," Tim says, and dances
the knife -- quickly -- over his knuckles before slashing back
in the other direction.

"Do you..." Bruce rests his hands on his thighs and settles
back on his heels. "You were too adept, too pleased and
pleasurably *skilled*..."

What -- ah. "You only ever *intended* me to have a *belt*
knife."

"You wear it every day you can, pressed to your skin. A
secret touch," Bruce says, and the smile in his eyes is sharply
promising -- no, another invitation.

What would it feel like if Bruce were to wear some... *token*
of Tim's own? What -- Tim growls and throws the knife,
half-consciously meaning it to fly past Bruce's ear -- Bruce
catches it.

Turns it in his palm, holds it loosely, almost delicately, as he
drags it just beyond his own skin, just under his own nose --

And flips it around to -- hand it back. It's no more perfectly
designed for his hand than it was a few minutes ago, but fact
has no power over feel. A lesson, if Tim needed one. "Bruce.
You don't... need a proxy."

Three years ago, that light in Bruce's eyes would've put Tim
in his place, left him with no doubt that his protests were
meaningless, and that he could never, ever truly be ready.
Not when held under Bruce's judgment. Now -- it's
something between skepticism and a tease, or some mixture
of both, spiced with continued *challenge* --

Maybe it was then, too.

Maybe -- that's too much, just as it was too much to hope
for that he could leave Robin in the Cave. Robin was never
supposed to have this, because Robin isn't supposed to be
able to see the man in the Batsuit this clearly, this free of
myth and the cleaner sorts of romance. Batman could never
be wounded with this knife. Bruce would prefer to be
helpless -- not that he ever could be. But...

"Why did you stop?" And it's so hard not to turn away, not to
spin the knife again, twist and kick again, anything to tell
Bruce not to answer this time, to tease, instead, give them
*space* -- Tim bites his lip --

And Bruce spreads his hands. "I wasn't sure of my welcome.
I wasn't sure of my -- right."

Tim's hands are shaking. In one respect, it's something to
hold on to with something resembling pride -- the *rest* of
him is still. Reality demands the use of other senses, the --
"This can't be all my choice. It's too much for that. This --
isn't the street."

"And yet," Bruce says, and curls his fingers against his own
knees. "It's hardly just a bed."

Had he expected that admission? Is the argument really
enough to make it *less* of an admission...? No. No, it isn't.
"Bruce --"

"I -- need you to be sure, Tim."

Tim is... breathing too fast. Too sharply. He wants to be able
to say he's too hard for this, too lost and hungry for it. He
wants that to be true and he wants *more*, and there's
some relief that the latter has more imperative than the
former. At least some part of him is -- "I'm sure. Your turn."

"Tim --"

It's not a thought -- Bruce has taught him too well against
trusting to those, Dick has, they all have --

The knife sticks in the wall, sending a shudder through Tim's
outstretched arm, making his turn awkward, shaky -- solid
when he gets his knees under him the right way, when he
presses his free palm against the wall, shifts his grip on the
hilt and bows his head.

"Four times, Bruce."

The sound Bruce makes is soft and low, *lost*, and Tim feels
his penis twitching, leaking more pre-come -- it feels like he's
been aroused for hours, years when Bruce cups his hips from
behind, when he slides one hand so slowly, scratches at
Tim's pubic hair, cups his sac --

"F-four -- oh -- *please* --"

Squeezes and pulls Tim back toward him just enough that he
can slip his penis between Tim's legs -- he's too close for
Tim to be able to tighten his thighs around him, and Tim
can't make himself urge Bruce *back*. It's -- he's so hard,
so *hot* --

"Please," Tim says, and curls his hand against the wall,
around the hilt --

"Say it --"

"Please fuck me. Please please -- ah, Bruce, I'm right
*here* --"

"Always. Always where I need you --"

"I just -- I have to, need to --" Tim shakes his head, hears
sweat patter -- his makeup has to look terrible, right now,
and he wants to reach back between his legs and *hold*
Bruce, but he needs to hold the wall, hold himself up, some
impression of steady, Bruce's hand in his hair --

The kiss is awkward and hard, painful -- perfect to moan
into, perfect to -- oh God, oh no, Bruce's hand wrapped
around him --

Tim tries to pull himself free -- no, he's yanking at the
knife --

"Let me," Bruce says and presses closer, penis bobbing
against Tim's sac, sliding against him everywhere he's most
vulnerable -- not enough --

"*Fuck* me --"

And -- *breach*. Bruce's finger, or Bruce's thumb -- the
brush of Bruce's penis against Tim's thigh as he shifts
enough to -- to give himself *room* --

Bruce inside him, pushing hard, stretching, *twisting* --
"*Bruce* --"

Fucking and stroking, squeezing, *twisting* -- Tim bites his
lip, bites his tongue, bites his lip again and shudders, tries
to grind away from the hand on his penis, tries for
*more* --

"Bruce. I -- don't stop. I can't say -- don't *stop* --"

"Noted," Bruce says, stroking harder, *twisting*, and it
won't stop feeling like something larger than itself, like
Bruce is pushing and pulling and forcing him into a new
shape, the burn inside just a promise of more, yes --

"More," he says, and it lengthens in his mouth, gets louder
and harder -- Bruce's teeth on his ear, lower, Bruce's tongue
on his cheek, a kiss --

Tim moans, rears up enough to rub his cheek against Bruce's
jaw, again, again --

"I said *more* --"

A moment's clarity -- it says something about him that it
feels this *good* when Bruce lets go of his penis, leaving
him to thrust at the air, twitch -- gasp when Bruce pulls out
and *shout* when he comes back with slick fingers, using
Tim's pre-come to make it easier, warmer --

All over his skin and perfect, perfect when Bruce reaches
under Tim's arm with his free hand and reaches up to cup
his shoulder, hold Tim still for it --

"*Don't* stop moving your hips."

Tim laughs, harder for a moment to push the air out of his
lungs and make the scream when Bruce gives him *two*
fingers something whistled and high, throat-tearing,
stressful, shaking him --

*This* is what it should be like, Bruce's shadow darkening
his world, Bruce's presents teasing his palm and priming
him for this from the inside out. Everything he can see,
everything he knows, everything he's *learning* with each
thrust, each stretching push making it hard to breathe
deeply and necessary to do just that.

"I love -- oh, *please* --"

"I will give you everything, Tim. You -- you must *know*
that --"

"Pain, so much fucking *pain* --"

"Here? Now --"

"Don't *stop*," Tim says and works himself back, faster than
Bruce's thrusts until they speed to match him, until
something inside him *opens* and Tim has to yell -- he can't
hold the rhythm, can't make himself keep going -- "Take you,
take you --"

"*Yes*," Bruce says, growling on a hiss that makes Tim's
body flare, *heat* -- shout when he comes, over and over
until he's just shuddering, being *moved* by Bruce's
continued thrusts, all but hanging from the knife in the wall.

Tim sucks air, tries to reconnect with his thighs, his arms --
anything other than the heat inside him, the -- should he
think of it as a threat?

Should he do anything other than take it -- how long will
Bruce make him wait?

Tim's other hand has slid down a little and -- no, bad idea to
clutch the headboard. Sooner or later they're going to be
making it bang against the wall -- if not, he'll stab Bruce in
the lung -- laughing again, and Bruce tightens his grip on
Tim's shoulder and pushes *deep* -- pauses. And pulls out.

Tim pants and tries to decide how long he'll give Bruce to
realize that he *can't* stop -- and then he recognizes the
sound. "Oh, you're -- you're touching yourself --"

"You're too tight for me to... I can't stay inside you for very
long, Tim."

Ah -- but. "I want you to."

"And it can't be -- just you," Bruce says, voice rough and low,
so -- "Don't turn around."

Tim tightens his hand around the hilt. "I want to see --"

"For a moment, Tim, you were relaxed, perhaps satisfied.
The tension is rising in you again, however, and I can see...
have you thought about how long its been since you've given
me your back this many times?"

It would be very, very petty to say something about how it
has more to do with greed and lust than with trust. A lie he
doesn't need to tell. Tim lets his head hang and re-braces
his hands, twisting his wrists to ease the itch from the
gloves.

"Do you know how much --" Bruce groans and speeds his
hand. "It won't be long, Tim."

"I won't say no, Bruce."

"Then touch yourself. For me."

And the thought of Bruce watching nothing but his back, the
way his muscles are moving -- it doesn't matter that Tim's
not ready. It *can't* matter, right now, just like how it can't
matter that he usually uses his right hand. He can't let go of
the knife and he can't not curl his left around his sac,
squeezing it rhythmically until his penis starts hardening
again --

Until Bruce lets go of his shoulder, spreads Tim's cheeks and
strokes the head of his penis over Tim's hole, circling and
pushing, teasing -- "Do it, Tim."

Heat. Just -- *heat*, and it isn't a surprise that squeezing
himself too hard only makes his penis twitch. He's too far
gone right now, a point his body knows from too many
nights *hoarding* adrenaline for hours until he could finally
jerk himself raw. Now --

Now his own touch on his penis makes his mouth fall open
on a gasp, as if some part of himself is shocked -- no, he
should be shocky for this, for the ruthless, disconnected feel
of his hand and for the sense of Bruce's gaze on him, the
slick head of Bruce's penis --

"Bruce, *now* --"

Sliding in, pushing, *pausing* --

"I said --"

And perhaps it's just *in* him to be surprised at the sounds
he makes, at the harshness of the scream when Bruce
thrusts, the transition between empty and penetrated,
*stuck*. He's panting now, each exhale catching on a low
note before expelling itself --

He sounds exhausted, *wounded* --

"Tim," and Bruce's hands are on him again, stroking him,
holding him, pulling him down and *back*, and this scream
isn't as loud as the other, isn't as sharp -- but Bruce is so
*deep* --

"I want -- Bruce, I want you to know -- oh," Tim says,
blinking and trying to breathe, blinking and trying to focus
on the feel, all of it or even some small part of it, the burn
and the *satisfaction*, the stretch and the need, rising all
through him, spreading over his *skin* --

The need to rock, lift himself against Bruce's touch, demand,
*control* --

And then Bruce groans and the need twists and changes
within him, making him stroke himself faster, making his
other hand shake around the hilt of the knife -- "I want -- I
want so *much*," and Bruce's arm is warm and solid against
Tim's chest, gripping Tim's shoulder even as his other hand
covers Tim's on the hilt -- *not* his penis --

Is he surprised? Is this something else which can strike him
down, lay him out and whimpering, moaning, rocking back
against Bruce because he has to, he needs it, needs *this*,
including the exposure of stroking himself hard with Bruce
right here --

Bruce's *bed*, and shaking his head sends sweat
everywhere, makes Bruce lean in and lick his cheek, his ear,
bite, thrust faster, breath hot and damp against Tim's cheek,
chest against Tim's back -- more.

More.

"Your hands, I -- please --"

"*Where*."

"M -- my hips -- oh fuck," and Bruce squeezes Tim hard
against himself before letting go, squeezes Tim's wrist before
sliding his hand up Tim's arm -- off, down, on him, where he
needs them, and at first it's just pressure, but when Tim
loses the rhythm for a moment, Bruce guides him into it, and
it's *precisely* like being hauled down onto an erect penis
whether or not he wants it.

It's tempting beyond Tim's capacity to measure to just let
Bruce do it that way, take that *control*, but it would involve
Tim somehow not continuing to move, himself, and that's
just -- improbable.

And the effort required to hold back that smile -- he wants to
*laugh* again -- makes Tim growl and shiver, throw his head
back against the solid, implacable reality of Bruce's shoulder
and groan.

The kiss is awkward and difficult, *distracting*, but every
time Tim licks up into it Bruce makes a sound and squeezes
Tim's hips -- compromise. All right. He can handle -- or --

He doesn't know if it's the clumsy, shaking brush of his staff
calluses on the head of his penis, the way Bruce is licking his
mouth, the *grind* of Bruce's hips against his rear -- he
doesn't --

He doesn't *know*, but compromises don't matter anymore,
nothing matters but *this* moment, the right stroke and the
right rhythm, and he can't participate in the kiss anymore
and he's afraid to move, afraid to breathe or do anything
else which could change this feeling.

The heat's all through him now, and the sound of his own
whimpers are somehow just a part of it, humiliating and
freeing --

He thinks he hears Bruce calling his name again --

He feels his eyes rolling back in his head --

Shaking again, needing more, *getting* it, getting everything
from Bruce he's always --

Never --

The moment snaps with painful pressure on his hips, with
the way the rhythm has become something ragged and
disjointed, awkward as a kiss and infinitely more damning,
perhaps, please, please --

And then Bruce is holding him still and biting Tim at the join
of shoulder to throat -- coming. Inside him -- Tim lets go of
his penis and squeezes his balls again, just to slow *himself*
down enough to feel every stuttered motion, to be able to
*listen*.

Bruce's breathing is quick and almost painful-seeming, Bruce
still has a grip on Tim's hips, Bruce's penis is a solid
*presence* inside him -- Tim flexes and gasps, squeezes
himself again --

"Stop trying to keep yourself from orgasm," Bruce says --
orders. The kiss just beneath Tim's ear is meant as...
softening?

Perhaps. Of a sort -- it's difficult to be sure. "I -- I think I
want you to -- bring me off." Does he? Is this part of it?
Why *is* he stopping himself --

And Bruce is all tension behind him. In him.

Will he soften? "Please touch my penis, Bruce. I -- please."

And -- *please* when Bruce breathes, shifts within him and
releases Tim's hips to stroke up his torso, scrape short nails
over his nipples and down, down --

"Jesus yes -- this is what I want, this --"

"You weren't sure before," Bruce says, sighing quietly and
wrapping his fist around Tim. "And before that..."

"You -- you're taking something. From me."

"Yes," and Bruce uses his other hand to cup Tim's jaw and
tilt his head back, "I am."

"It's -- more. This way -- ah --" The kiss to his forehead
doesn't burn him or freeze him, doesn't -- it's gentle, nearly
dry --

And the stroke, when it comes --

It's not slow. Tim couldn't handle that right now, and Bruce
knows it, it's -- it's huge that he knows it, undeniable as the
penis still inside him -- Tim squeezes his eyes shut.

"Perhaps if you tell yourself that it's against your preference --
your will."

Is that the kind of game Bruce wants to play -- no. It isn't.
It isn't, and it can't be. Not here. It couldn't be, not from the
moment when he walked up out of the Cave -- "Bruce."

"I want your ease, Tim."

"You want my acceptance. More -- more than..." Tim hadn't
thought it was possible to flush more than he already was,
but he's heating up even more, needing more -- Tim
tightens his hold on the knife when he feels himself starting
to slip, starting to fall, deep inside himself -- "oh God --"

"Is it that this is what you've done for yourself, Tim? I
want -- I have to know."

He doesn't have to tell. He doesn't, and that's *important*,
something he should hold on to, even though he can't even
really be sure he's still holding on to the knife -- he is. He's
got the other hand back on the wall again -- just his
fingertips, because Bruce is holding him close, stroking --

Waves running through him, rocking him into the touch,
making him and marking him -- he doesn't have to say
*anything* --

"It's -- you're so close, you --"

"Close to you," Bruce says, and kisses his forehead again.

"Close to everything I've ever -- my body..." Tim shakes his
head and tries again. "Bruce, I don't know my body --"

"You *do*."

"I can't -- it's -- oh God, it's too good -- ah --" Bruce's penis
*flexing* inside him, and that's more than enough for Tim
to know he's saying too much, offering too much --

"You'll come for me. For my touch, my..." Bruce sighs again,
and this time the kiss is at the corner of Tim's eye, and the
skin is so sensitive there that Bruce's lips feel almost rough,
almost punishing --

"D -- don't -- " Don't make me feel like this. Don't -- Bruce's
gauntleted hand on his shoulder and the cowl looking down
at him, smiling blank and cold, sharp and perfect --

Dick's lips pressed to his forehead in No Man's Land, tucking
Tim under an old wool blanket and then pressing their
foreheads together --

"Bruce, *please* --"

Bruce's hand on him now, here, stroking him so -- so --

He can't even shake his head -- Bruce is holding Tim's head
too tightly for that, kissing Tim between his own fingertips,
burning him, pushing and shaping him -- "Bruce, you -- you
have to know how this *feels* --"

"Yes, Tim --"

"*Please*," and maybe he'll just keep saying it, and Bruce
will keep knowing far too much about what it means, using
it against him like one more weapon until he's nothing but
walking and incoherently talking *need* --

Bruce lets go of Tim's jaw, and Tim lets his head drop
between his shoulders, bracing for the touch -- the kiss at
the apex of his spine, the slow nuzzle somehow matched
to the cruelly perfect stroke on his penis.

Bruce's tongue is almost a *relief*, something which could
be purely lewd, purely *sexual*, as opposed to everything
else that's trapping Tim in this moment, open and hungry
and ruthlessly *fed*.

The only thing Tim can do is be here, be *this*, and the
only consolation is that he knows that it shouldn't feel this
good. It's not much. It's --

It's too easy to just moan and push into Bruce's hand, roll
his hips and thrust, moan more, thrust again and feel Bruce
starting to slip out -- Tim yells for that -- *at* that -- but it
doesn't change the moment so much as highlight just how
far Bruce can take him --

"Beautiful," and Tim moans again, tries to ignore it, tries to
make the shudders feel like anything other than this
*pleasure*.

He can't. He *can't*, and knowing that is its own kind of
satisfaction, because it only leaves one option. Tim lets go
of the wall and lets go of the knife, reaching up and back
until he can wrap his arms around the back of Bruce's neck
and just -- *fall* against him, get him deeper, once more,
and roll his hips for all of it, any of it, everything --

"Of course, even your surrender is ruthless," Bruce says, and
strokes Tim faster, plays him like an instrument -- weapon,
and even the rapidly tightening *something* at the base of
Tim's spine feels languid and liquid, manipulated into
something with no control but pleasure --

Tim closes his eyes and pants, feels himself writhe --

"Perfect --"

-- and comes with a cry, rolling his hips and panting.

This time, there's no real break in cognition so much as a
haze over everything, softening the feel of Bruce's kisses
into something which could almost be considered random
stimulation -- no, he'd probably need drugs for that.

Tim snorts, ignores the *question* Bruce's tension is all but
screaming at him, and drags Bruce's hand up from between
his legs. Bruce hums when Tim licks his hand clean, but Tim
can tell the question doesn't go anywhere, even when Tim
sucks three fingers into his mouth.

Maybe especially not then.

When he can't taste anything but his own saliva -- and when
he can't stop ignoring the fact that it's Bruce's hand, Bruce's
fingers, calluses he knows with every part of him which isn't
directly connected to his penis --

Tim stops and kneels up, twisting life back into his stiffening
ankles -- the boots are making him pay -- narrowing his
eyes at the feel of Bruce slipping out completely, and
wishing for the wet-wipes in the Cave. Maybe Bruce keeps
some in a drawer...

Does he feel up to rifling through Bruce's drawers? It's a
fantasy he'd grown out of once he'd realized just how much
*physical* disconnect there was between Batman and
Bruce Wayne... Tim shakes his head and stretches. He can
feel Bruce watching him, and it's an excellent way to brace
himself for turning around again.

Tim takes a breath and does it, shifting until he's sitting back
against the headboard, knees up enough that his ankles are
straight in the boots. He rests his forearms on his knees.

Bruce has managed to move into a sitting position without
shifting the mattress noticeably, one knee fanned out and
the other up. He is... watchful.

Tim watches him right back -- and winces. There's a welt
shaped exactly like Tim's staff on Bruce's chest. He reaches
out to touch it, feeling the slight shift in temperature... the
top of the welt will bruise.

"Did you think I had regrets, Tim...?"

Tim looks at Bruce from under his lashes and -- lifts his chin.
"They would... suit."

"Hm," Bruce says, "perhaps," and reaches up to catch Tim's
hand in his own. The motion is almost painfully slow, and
very clearly designed to give Tim time to consider and
reconsider whether or not he wants the catch to happen --

Tim pulls back and -- reaches up for the knife --

"Leave it."

Tim blinks. "I happen to treasure Alfred's good opinion,
Bruce."

"As do I," Bruce says, dipping his head just enough to
*make* Tim keep meeting his eyes --

It's not all he -- treasures. Tim shifts and... the endorphin
high is fading, a bit. His body wants him to know that he has
been fucked, wants him to really *think* about it -- perhaps
he means wallow. Tim closes his eyes and breathes.

He can feel Bruce waiting for him to say something, do
something, *say* something --

"Are we..." No. Tim opens his eyes again and pushes down
everything that's telling him to stay in *this* moment. "We
could pretend this never happened."

Bruce raises an eyebrow. "I have limits. And I note that you
did not say 'should.'"

Tim smiles, turning his head -- Bruce catches Tim's jaw and
turns him back. "No warning for that touch, Bruce...?"

"No," he says, and strokes Tim's cheek with his thumb before
letting go. "You want to be seen."

Tim tightens his hand around the hilt... loosens it again and
leaves it there. "By you, yes."

Bruce curls his fingers around his knee. "It occurs to me that
I could make an effort to convince you that I do just that,
that I've *done* just that, at all times, but that that is only
one of the options at our disposal."

"You want to start again. Like... like this."

"Yes."

Somehow, Tim was expecting... less of that answer. Less
admission, less bald *fact* -- Tim pinches the bridge of his
nose and gets an image of himself rolling to his feet and then
just walking off the bed, out the door, down to the Cave.
Showers and masks and shadows. Bruce --

No matter what, Bruce would let him do it. It would be
awkward and difficult for some weeks, but Tim could easily
absent himself from Bruce's presence... before tonight, it
had been months since he'd been in the *manor*, as
opposed to... Tim swallows.

"Bruce, how *long* have you wanted to... start over."

"How long have you wanted to be seen?"

Tim has a choice. He can either choose to view Bruce's
question as rank avoidance of his own... or to view it as an
answer in and of itself, with all attendant emotional
disturbance. Or -- and this is by far most likely -- it's an
invitation to acknowledge that both of the above are far less
palatable than -- starting over. Tim laughs, softly, and lifts
and straightens his legs until he can cross his ankles on one
of Bruce's shoulders. "Hi, I'm Tim. I like to dress up."

"Hm. Perhaps not *quite* that new," Bruce says, and strokes
Tim's calf through the boot.

There's a temptation -- vast and a little frightening -- to bring
up... something. Bruce outing him to Steph and then
proceeding to jerk her around. Vesper. His birthday.
Everything he *hasn't* really taken Bruce to task for because
he's never felt quite this *sure* in his presence...

Bruce can see it in him. On him, perhaps. There's a smile in
Bruce's eyes that's as good as a *dare*, but.

"The next time you fuck up, Bruce, you'll take me with you."

"Or you'll stop me," Bruce says, and strokes the welt on his
chest, and --

Tim wants to laugh at that. He really, really wants to just...
the level of derision he could manage would be *epic*.
*Robin* can't stop Bruce when he's determined to make an
ass of himself.

Robin can't.

Tim doesn't need to look at the knife buried in the wall.
There are a lot of things Robin can't do. After a moment,
Tim nods. "We'll try it your way."

Bruce kisses the boot.

And starts to unlace it.

end.





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