The stone and not the flesh
by Te
September 16, 2006

Disclaimers: Not even close to mine.

Spoilers: Nope.

Summary: In which virtue is protected. No, really.

Ratings Note: Sexual content which dovetails neatly with the
content some readers may find disturbing.

Author's Note: Te: Okay. We've got fingering, wall-frottage,
sex-pollen, huddling for warmth. Assuming I try for 3 out of

a. Clark/Tim
b. Kal/Tim
c. Toonverse!Clark/Tim
d. Some variety of Jay/Tim
e. Toonverse Bruce/Tim

Betty: NOES


He was all set to deal with getting blasted by -- whatever
that was. Whining about it would have just made the Bruce
in his head *bitch* about how he'd *told* Tim -- *warned*
him -- about using the Bat-plane to make unscheduled trips,
about hanging around Leaguers, about going up against
things -- yes, *things*, because sometimes that's the best
word even for Bruce -- without proper preparation and
back-up, and everything else.

Which would have been double-suck, because Bruce never
actually says stuff like that out loud, even when he's right
there, as opposed to just doing a really good job of
*looking* it into you, all mocking eyebrows or -- worse --
mocking cowl.

So -- yeah.

He was dealing, especially since Clark was dealing, and his
method of dealing was all about using the Fortress walls to
hold Tim *still* while cranking up the heat -- mmm. It was
just *comfortable* for him, just what he *needed*, but
there were sweat-stains showing up on Clark's uniform,
sweat beading on his lip and forehead, and whenever he
came close enough to where he had Tim strung up
tight-tight-tight to check on him --

The *smell* --

He was *dealing*, because, well, there are all kinds of
things someone without a full-face cowl -- or even a
half-cowl -- *can* get blasted with, and the ones that just
make you high and needy and horny and *needy* --

He was *dealing*, because it was better than *other* stuff
he's been poisoned with in the past, he's not laughing or
terrified or anything, and he was aching, but the Fortress --
something about the *way* it was exactly like being held
*by* a wall, instead of tied *to* a wall --

He *had* been dealing, but now he's not, because for some
ass-stupid reason, Bruce had decided to use a freaking
*Javelin* to come get him.

And he -- he knows if he wasn't -- shaking now, so cold, so
fucking --

He *likes* the Javelins, because even though Bruce had
designed them, they're all white and sleek and friendly-
looking, it's like *stealing* something to use one, like Bruce
is stealing -- Batman --

And the thing is, it's not that Tim *disagrees* with the
impulse Bruce had had to yank him out of the wall and tie
him up again with, like, zip-strips and strategically-placed
de-cel lines, but they aren't as *good*. They're not holding
him, not keeping him *still* -- as opposed to just keeping
him immobile.

It's like those times when Dick had hung him from the
ceiling by his ankles, or by one ankle and a wrist, and then
wouldn't even scratch Tim's nose for him, even when he
begged. It's like that only *worse*, because Bruce has him
tied to the damned inner *wall*, and so he can't even
wriggle, and he itches, he's --

If he could just -- it's *cold*, because the heat only goes up
so high in the Javelins, and -- "The Fortress was *better*,"
he says, because he feels just that pissy and he's going to
go with that, because it's --

Bruce's grunt is a grunt. It's low and if Tim was close
enough he'd be able to see it in Bruce's chest, maybe *feel*
it with the way his skin is right now, all the uncovered bits,
all the skin he *has* --

Pissy is so much *better* than other things -- "Clark was

Bruce doesn't say *anything*, and it's not fair, but Tim can
feel that, too. It's -- he's *always* been able to feel that,
the moment when he's not even glaring at you, anymore,
because you're not --

Because he doesn't --

And maybe it was a bad idea to just *work* himself against
all the damned bondage, because the only thing he
manages is to get one of his sleeves hiked up and the floor
is colder than he is --

The floor is hotter than he is, but it's not --

He can't touch --

He can't really listen to the sounds he's making.

"Bruce dammit *please* --"

"If I give you another generalized anti-toxin, you'll lose
consciousness --"

"I'm *okay* with that --"

"I'm not," Bruce says, and that's. It's.

Is he actually *laughing*, a little? On the one hand, that's a
good sign that whatever it is isn't, like, destroying Tim's
liver one cold needy itchy *inch* at a time, but on the other
hand, it's just --

It's every *time*. It's the eyes on him again, it's the *tease*,
because sometimes Bruce acts like they're just two assholes
on a playground fucking with each other, like that's okay,
and --

It *is*. It's just --

"Bruce, I can't, I can't you have to *help* me --"

"I promise to improve the bondage once we reach the

Improve the -- okay. Okay. It's a promise, even though it's
still the tease. He can -- he could really *go* for being...
maybe a stalagmite? Or -- no. One of the gurneys. Soft
and hard he can rub himself against until he's warm again,
right again, until he's so raw --

"Try to stay still."

-- until. "I'm *cold*."


He can't -- he hasn't ever really been able to -- fucking
*contextualize* the 'I'm thinking' noises. Not any better than
'I'm thinking,' anyway. It's Bruce. He could be thinking
about -- crime statistics, or the new shade of lipstick Selina
had busted out with last time, or fuck only *knows* what.

Tim doesn't *know*, and it's not actually a relief when the
shadow falls over him enough that he can see it (feel it,
know it, it's cold, it's hot, it's *Bruce* --)

It's Batman, and he can't help but hiss and jerk when that
gauntlet lands on his bare arm, even though he can't get
*away* --


He can feel *that*, too, but it's just another tease. "I'm
cold," he says, again, and growls under his breath and
wishes Bruce would get close enough to *bite*, even if it
*was* just the damned gauntlet.

He'd settle for the *boots*. His mouth is *empty*, and the
Fortress had kept giving him -- well, *chew* toys --

"The Fortress --"

"Was doing an impressive job of attempting to sodomize
you, for a piece of architecture."

"Well --" That's true. "I wouldn't have *minded*."


That's totally a laugh. "Oh -- screw *you*, I'm *high* --"

"On something that -- seems to be -- behaving quite a bit
like cocaine laced with a neurotropic in your system, yes --"

"Go fly the damned *plane* --"

"The autopilot can handle it. For now --"

The gauntlet is awful awful *worst* --

The gauntlet is *incredible* under his jaw, and a part of
Tim is wondering if it's just because Bruce is tilting his face
up like that, *moving* him against the damned ropes,
holding him --

It doesn't matter. Bruce has left him just enough give to
rub his chin against all that hot -- cold -- something --
plastic-y armor, and Tim's going to come in his pants.

"Perhaps several *different* neurotropics --"

Uh, huh, yes, fine, whatever -- "Don't *stop* --"

"Robin. I know you're far more lucid than it would appear to
the casual eye --"

"Oh *fuck* -- *yeah* --"

"-- despite the fact that you just ejaculated in your jock --"

"Just don't -- or -- keep that --"

And Bruce -- eases up.

"Oh, *motherfucker* --"

"Robin. Listen --"

The fact that he's eased up *enough* for Tim to catch
Bruce's thumb in his mouth -- in his *teeth* -- is a very fine
fact, and a good one, and his gums are buzzing -- yeah,
that'd be the coke-like thing -- and his jock and sticky and
warm and wonderful, and --

"The tests the Fortress ran on your blood and semen
samples, while not as complete as I would like --"

Tim can't tell if his jaw is letting him know that he's biting
down hard, or if it's just the little sound Bruce makes. He
doesn't care. He doesn't --

"The *point*, Robin, is that it's very likely that you'll
recover fastest if we allow your own metabolism to -- run
with it. I need you conscious. I need your heart-rate high.
I need --"

It's not enough *warning* before Bruce jabs -- not strikes,
not *enough* -- him in the throat, and Tim can't keep from
coughing out Bruce's thumb --

"I need you not to break that," he says, and he's still
laughing, and Tim is moaning reaching straining --

*Gulping*, because Bruce has three fingers in his mouth,
stretching his jaw, hurting his *neck*, *fucking* --

"And I think -- I have reason to believe that the best way to
manage this task without compromising your... hmm."

In him, *in* him, stretching -- tugging on the de-cel cable
around Tim's waist, cutting off air in two different ways,
making him *sweat*, so warm so good so *deep* --

"Tim. When you're sober, we can -- discuss, in detail, just
what sort of behavior you find entirely acceptable from
Clark's *furnishings*."

That's -- fair, he thinks. Or says. Or --

It's hard to tell with Bruce fucking his mouth like that,
yanking on him --

"I'll make sure Barbara hooks up an IV to keep you hydrated
when we get home," Bruce says.

And yanks on him harder.