[fic] Be all these things (Bruce/Tim, Adult; overgrown meme-response)
Title: Be all these things
Pairing: Bruce/Tim
Rating: Porn
Setting/timeline: Um, well, vaguely OYL, not that *that* matters; well after Tim's 16th birthday and Identity Crisis. You know. Comicstime.
Summary: I'm not saying you can't be all these things for me,/But it's just not the same.
Disclaimer: DC != me.
Notes: Title & summary from of Montreal's "Tim, I wish you were born a girl"; first line from Petra's iteration of the first line meme. Some liberties have been taken with the uniform. For justice porn. Beta by the indefatigable thenotoriousg.
Bruce blinks when he sees Tim's uniform, but he only hesitates a second.
"Go home," Bruce says, and, "That's an insult to -"
Tim holds up one hand; the glove is bright as a canary's wing. "You know that's not true."
"Go -"
"Never," Tim says and shoots a line. The heels add loft to his kick, and his hair flies in the wind as he sails.
Bruce hasn't seen Tim smile like this - wide and sincere, *avid* and brilliant - in years. Since Haiti.
It's just a role, he thinks, and hears Tim's reply. You know that's not true.
After all, it was never *just* Robin who kept Batman honest; Batgirl had as much to do with it as anyone. Both of them.
All of them.
*
Throughout the night, Bruce keeps to his own role, never asks a question when he can demand an answer, hits hard and solid, flies a little faster and higher than anyone, even Tim, can match.
They work as well together as ever. Anticipation and expectation, choreography and improvisation, slide through their movements and hand-offs. If Bruce is surprised by Tim's unflagging grin, by the sight of (dyed; extensions or a wig?) hair in the corner of his eye, he refuses to let on.
"*Oh*, that's *good* -" Tim rolls his shoulders and stretches his neck. The night is finished, the Batmobile's engine silent, and this is the time when - *usually* - they stretch, catch up, move away to bed.
Bruce, however, is caught. Arrested and motionless.
Tim's hands are on his (padded) hips, one leg extended, turned out like a ballerina's. The heels flatter his legs, the short skirtlet even more so. He wipes sweat from his flushed face and smears his lipstick.
"So, when do I get a motorbike?"
At the cave's entrance, far out of reach, dawn shivers against its own light. Bruce squints at it for a long time before he pushes back his cowl.
"Why -" Bruce starts, and does not finish. Tim's cape and jersey are puddled on the floor, the better - it would seem - for him to continue stretching.
He wears a sports bra, ingeniously padded. His shoulder blades flex as he bends over one leg, hands locked around the ankle of his bright yellow boot. He turns to look up at Bruce through the fall of hair.
"The full face mask felt too...impersonal," Tim says, and unfolds, stretching his arms over his head. He laces his fingers together and stretches more. He twist at the waist, scarred (young) skin shifting, (false) bosom swelling. "Really *too* S/M, don't you think?"
Bruce sheds his gauntlets and unlatches the cape's gorget. His face prickles with cold; his chest tightens under a familiar mix of pressures - desire, of course, and, more importantly, grief.
Barbara, he thinks, and names them in turn. Cassandra, Helena, and Kate.
Women never last long around here.
Stephanie. Martha.
If he is to blame - and what is Tim trying to tell him, if not that? - then Bruce can only resolve, again, to do better. Try harder, work more.
Tim lifts the weight of his hair off his neck; the locks are dark, wet with sweat, tangled by the wind.
"Here," Bruce says. Clever to the last, Tim understands and moves back against him, dropping his head forward. Bruce's hands are too big, too thick-fingered, to be much help, but he tries.
Tim sighs and sways a little. "Heels."
"Yes." Bruce works out one knot, then another, while his other hand settles on Tim's waist, holds him steady (here). The extensions are expertly done, woven into Tim's own hair nearly follicle by follicle.
Bruce would like to lose himself in this work - and he does, by every normal standard - separating lock from lock, undoing what flight has wrought. He breathes with difficulty.
Before him, against him, and beneath his hand, Tim shivers. Bruce smoothes out the gooseflesh over his hip and across his belly. His fingertips linger on the scars.
There is no excuse for putting children in danger: he hears her, the last and angriest woman, and clutches at Tim. Grips hard, thumb sliding in the cool sweat, brushing what must be a nipple.
Leslie.
Tim gasps, once, against Bruce's touch, then turns his head. Sharp chin on his shoulder, mascara clumping his lashes. He knows; they all know, better than Bruce, always well *before* Bruce.
"I'm a girl," Tim says, gravely, as he turns, "so you're doing it from the front tonight."
Bruce releases his grip, but it doesn't matter. Tim is *here*, taller, tall enough to push small hands through Bruce's hair and yank his head down.
Tim's mouth is sweet with cosmetics, sharp with wind and sweat. He wraps one leg around Bruce's, parting them, heel digging into Bruce's calf. Tim is *here* and not, Robin but not tonight, far too clever for anyone's good, and he kisses Bruce's mouth open until he's panting. Red-polished nails undo Bruce's codpiece, push in and down, and Tim knows just how to touch him, how to kiss, but his hair is spilling over his shoulders and he's looking down through thickened lashes as he scores Bruce's pubic hair with sharp, red nails.
Bruce stumbles. Groans like an animal in pain, which only makes Tim's smile *sharper*, and then he thrusts into Tim's hand and cannot breathe.
"Oh, *yes*," Tim says, having reached a conclusion which he may, or may not, vouchsafe to Bruce later. He shimmies, hips twitching, as he tugs up the false skirt and *moves*, impossibly, closer. "Should I call you Daddy, or is that -"
Bruce has one hand on Tim's bra, cupping its padding - gel inserts, perhaps, tactilely authentic - his thumb under the elastic and rasping at the small nipple.
"Too impersonal," Bruce manages to reply before he bites open another kiss. Tim rises in his hold, wrapping his other leg around Bruce's thighs, rocking his ass against Bruce's splayed palm, stroking Bruce fast.
Tim wriggles until his cleft opens and grips Bruce's fingers. "Women *do* have an advantage -" he says, then breaks into a sharp whine when Bruce enters him with his index finger.
"A lady, however, is -" Bruce twists his finger. "Always prepared." The tense heat around him, *in* Tim, arcs to his groin, burrows lightning-fast into his lizard brain, and when Tim moves again, upward, Bruce follows with a second finger.
The details - breasts and lubrication, hair and heels and hips - are perfect, as he is sure Tim already knows.
But it's in the breaking of illusion - when snide small talk shatters against a choking moan, when lipstick rubs off on a boy's jaw, when Bruce thrusts forward and up and feels the drag of Tim's cock against his belly - that credibility gives way to truth.
The truth of it is that Tim *is* beautiful like this, moving with, then against, him, his narrow, muscled thighs flexing around Bruce's, a long lock of auburn hair caught in his teeth and his bra twisted up over one (absent) breast.
The truth is somewhere out past illusion and beyond believability, where costumes are shed in pieces and Tim sweats against Bruce's neck, teeth in a tendon, and Bruce fucks him harder than he's ever dared. Because that, too, is expected.
"Oh, *Christ* -" Tim bites and rides, shaking the words out of his mouth as sweat flies into the dark.
And then, beyond expectation, there's just this - an honesty that pushes, wails, and splatters Bruce's jersey as Tim comes on him. *For* him, though that possession is temporary, and Bruce grasps and pushes and holds on, burying himself deep inside, hiding his face in the tangle of Tim's hair. He will try, harder than ever, not to lose this. Not to lose --
"You, *you*," Bruce repeats, and says again, rhythm going desperate, and Tim's eyes are blue and sharp and *knowing*.
The uniforms, after all, can be shared, discarded, and replaced; Dick and Jason and Barbara have done their utmost to make him see *that*. But in the breaking, pulsing moment, despite all the ghosts and regrets that pack his skull, "you" has a single object.
He comes, shuddering apart. All that is left is sweat and the memory of wind, and Tim's sidelong gaze.
[end]
Pairing: Bruce/Tim
Rating: Porn
Setting/timeline: Um, well, vaguely OYL, not that *that* matters; well after Tim's 16th birthday and Identity Crisis. You know. Comicstime.
Summary: I'm not saying you can't be all these things for me,/But it's just not the same.
Disclaimer: DC != me.
Notes: Title & summary from of Montreal's "Tim, I wish you were born a girl"; first line from Petra's iteration of the first line meme. Some liberties have been taken with the uniform. For justice porn. Beta by the indefatigable thenotoriousg.
Bruce blinks when he sees Tim's uniform, but he only hesitates a second.
"Go home," Bruce says, and, "That's an insult to -"
Tim holds up one hand; the glove is bright as a canary's wing. "You know that's not true."
"Go -"
"Never," Tim says and shoots a line. The heels add loft to his kick, and his hair flies in the wind as he sails.
Bruce hasn't seen Tim smile like this - wide and sincere, *avid* and brilliant - in years. Since Haiti.
It's just a role, he thinks, and hears Tim's reply. You know that's not true.
After all, it was never *just* Robin who kept Batman honest; Batgirl had as much to do with it as anyone. Both of them.
All of them.
*
Throughout the night, Bruce keeps to his own role, never asks a question when he can demand an answer, hits hard and solid, flies a little faster and higher than anyone, even Tim, can match.
They work as well together as ever. Anticipation and expectation, choreography and improvisation, slide through their movements and hand-offs. If Bruce is surprised by Tim's unflagging grin, by the sight of (dyed; extensions or a wig?) hair in the corner of his eye, he refuses to let on.
"*Oh*, that's *good* -" Tim rolls his shoulders and stretches his neck. The night is finished, the Batmobile's engine silent, and this is the time when - *usually* - they stretch, catch up, move away to bed.
Bruce, however, is caught. Arrested and motionless.
Tim's hands are on his (padded) hips, one leg extended, turned out like a ballerina's. The heels flatter his legs, the short skirtlet even more so. He wipes sweat from his flushed face and smears his lipstick.
"So, when do I get a motorbike?"
At the cave's entrance, far out of reach, dawn shivers against its own light. Bruce squints at it for a long time before he pushes back his cowl.
"Why -" Bruce starts, and does not finish. Tim's cape and jersey are puddled on the floor, the better - it would seem - for him to continue stretching.
He wears a sports bra, ingeniously padded. His shoulder blades flex as he bends over one leg, hands locked around the ankle of his bright yellow boot. He turns to look up at Bruce through the fall of hair.
"The full face mask felt too...impersonal," Tim says, and unfolds, stretching his arms over his head. He laces his fingers together and stretches more. He twist at the waist, scarred (young) skin shifting, (false) bosom swelling. "Really *too* S/M, don't you think?"
Bruce sheds his gauntlets and unlatches the cape's gorget. His face prickles with cold; his chest tightens under a familiar mix of pressures - desire, of course, and, more importantly, grief.
Barbara, he thinks, and names them in turn. Cassandra, Helena, and Kate.
Women never last long around here.
Stephanie. Martha.
If he is to blame - and what is Tim trying to tell him, if not that? - then Bruce can only resolve, again, to do better. Try harder, work more.
Tim lifts the weight of his hair off his neck; the locks are dark, wet with sweat, tangled by the wind.
"Here," Bruce says. Clever to the last, Tim understands and moves back against him, dropping his head forward. Bruce's hands are too big, too thick-fingered, to be much help, but he tries.
Tim sighs and sways a little. "Heels."
"Yes." Bruce works out one knot, then another, while his other hand settles on Tim's waist, holds him steady (here). The extensions are expertly done, woven into Tim's own hair nearly follicle by follicle.
Bruce would like to lose himself in this work - and he does, by every normal standard - separating lock from lock, undoing what flight has wrought. He breathes with difficulty.
Before him, against him, and beneath his hand, Tim shivers. Bruce smoothes out the gooseflesh over his hip and across his belly. His fingertips linger on the scars.
There is no excuse for putting children in danger: he hears her, the last and angriest woman, and clutches at Tim. Grips hard, thumb sliding in the cool sweat, brushing what must be a nipple.
Leslie.
Tim gasps, once, against Bruce's touch, then turns his head. Sharp chin on his shoulder, mascara clumping his lashes. He knows; they all know, better than Bruce, always well *before* Bruce.
"I'm a girl," Tim says, gravely, as he turns, "so you're doing it from the front tonight."
Bruce releases his grip, but it doesn't matter. Tim is *here*, taller, tall enough to push small hands through Bruce's hair and yank his head down.
Tim's mouth is sweet with cosmetics, sharp with wind and sweat. He wraps one leg around Bruce's, parting them, heel digging into Bruce's calf. Tim is *here* and not, Robin but not tonight, far too clever for anyone's good, and he kisses Bruce's mouth open until he's panting. Red-polished nails undo Bruce's codpiece, push in and down, and Tim knows just how to touch him, how to kiss, but his hair is spilling over his shoulders and he's looking down through thickened lashes as he scores Bruce's pubic hair with sharp, red nails.
Bruce stumbles. Groans like an animal in pain, which only makes Tim's smile *sharper*, and then he thrusts into Tim's hand and cannot breathe.
"Oh, *yes*," Tim says, having reached a conclusion which he may, or may not, vouchsafe to Bruce later. He shimmies, hips twitching, as he tugs up the false skirt and *moves*, impossibly, closer. "Should I call you Daddy, or is that -"
Bruce has one hand on Tim's bra, cupping its padding - gel inserts, perhaps, tactilely authentic - his thumb under the elastic and rasping at the small nipple.
"Too impersonal," Bruce manages to reply before he bites open another kiss. Tim rises in his hold, wrapping his other leg around Bruce's thighs, rocking his ass against Bruce's splayed palm, stroking Bruce fast.
Tim wriggles until his cleft opens and grips Bruce's fingers. "Women *do* have an advantage -" he says, then breaks into a sharp whine when Bruce enters him with his index finger.
"A lady, however, is -" Bruce twists his finger. "Always prepared." The tense heat around him, *in* Tim, arcs to his groin, burrows lightning-fast into his lizard brain, and when Tim moves again, upward, Bruce follows with a second finger.
The details - breasts and lubrication, hair and heels and hips - are perfect, as he is sure Tim already knows.
But it's in the breaking of illusion - when snide small talk shatters against a choking moan, when lipstick rubs off on a boy's jaw, when Bruce thrusts forward and up and feels the drag of Tim's cock against his belly - that credibility gives way to truth.
The truth of it is that Tim *is* beautiful like this, moving with, then against, him, his narrow, muscled thighs flexing around Bruce's, a long lock of auburn hair caught in his teeth and his bra twisted up over one (absent) breast.
The truth is somewhere out past illusion and beyond believability, where costumes are shed in pieces and Tim sweats against Bruce's neck, teeth in a tendon, and Bruce fucks him harder than he's ever dared. Because that, too, is expected.
"Oh, *Christ* -" Tim bites and rides, shaking the words out of his mouth as sweat flies into the dark.
And then, beyond expectation, there's just this - an honesty that pushes, wails, and splatters Bruce's jersey as Tim comes on him. *For* him, though that possession is temporary, and Bruce grasps and pushes and holds on, burying himself deep inside, hiding his face in the tangle of Tim's hair. He will try, harder than ever, not to lose this. Not to lose --
"You, *you*," Bruce repeats, and says again, rhythm going desperate, and Tim's eyes are blue and sharp and *knowing*.
The uniforms, after all, can be shared, discarded, and replaced; Dick and Jason and Barbara have done their utmost to make him see *that*. But in the breaking, pulsing moment, despite all the ghosts and regrets that pack his skull, "you" has a single object.
He comes, shuddering apart. All that is left is sweat and the memory of wind, and Tim's sidelong gaze.
[end]