Ficlet: Black and Red
Title: Black and Red
Author: Khirsah
Rating: Eh, R
Fandom: Batman
Pairing: Bruce/Tim
Summary: They get what they need.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sure.
Notes: It's a page I wrote at work. How can I have author's notes for a page of fiction?
A large, cool hand brushing the nape of his neck is his only warning. Fingers massaging the tensed muscles, thumb digging in deep and winning a low, gusting breath. Nails scratching his scalp. Dark hair is in his eyes, falling across the smooth blankness of his mask. Tim sometimes thinks about how little the mask really hides-the corners of his eyes, his brows. The bridge of his nose. The rest is laid bare, daring his secret to be lost.
Vulnerable skin glowing in the dim.
Fingers fisting, drawing his head back. He arches with it, spine curving in a sinuous bow, eyes seeking the grim dark of Batman’s face. Sharp lines and inscrutable features. Only the fullness of his mouth gives Bruce away. The slick, glistening lower lip catching the light and Tim’s eyes. Drawing him closer.
Warmth. No, heat, leaping from mouth to mouth like connected wires. Tim swallows his own moan, then swallows Batman’s tongue. He eagerly suckles, body strung in a nigh-impossible arch, head twisted and turned to feed Bruce’s obsessive need to touch and taste and remember.
The bare hand slides down his jawline, fingers brushing the pulse. The other, the one still wearing the heavy gauntlet, pushes over Tim’s chest. Material scratching material, blackandred and for a moment Tim almost misses the old costume. They fade too closely together now, caught in the web of shadows that always seem to follow his partner until one’s indistinguishable from the other. Dick sometimes tells stories of a Batman who laughed and cracked bad puns. Tim’s too old for bedtime stories now, and besides, it’s hard to look at Batman’s mouth and imagine it curving in welcome.
Opening in need.
He twists, trying to turn in Bruce’s arms, but the hand on his belly keeps him still. He isn’t supposed to be comfortable when they’re like this. He isn’t supposed to want more. Fingers brushing the curve of his ear, arm banded over his chest and spine twisted in a knotted S. It hurts a little. Part of him wishes it hurt more.
“Batman,” he whimpers as his erection is cupped, squeezed. His hips rock up hard, rutting against the smooth black glove. He wants to feel it against his bare skin. He wants to be stripped down and shivering, naked against Kevlar and steel and the whisper of black cloth. He wants cold metal against his nipples and a calloused hand around his cock. He wants to be pressed between powerful thighs and caged against a broad chest.
Arching, aching. Trying to turn in steel-band arms again. His balls ache; his cock’s wet. Throbbing beneath his mentor’s hand, jerking against restless fingers. “Batman. Batman. Bruce,” Tim says with little gasps as clever fingers stroke him through his uniform and a warm tongue fucks deep into his mouth.
“Jason,” in a moan, a desperate cry and it isn’t enough to make Tim pull away. It isn’t enough for him to say no, no, not here, not with me.
Twisting and swallowing and burning inside, “Yes, Bruce, yes,” and it isn’t what Tim needs, but it’ll get him through the night.
“Jason.”
It will get them both through.
Author: Khirsah
Rating: Eh, R
Fandom: Batman
Pairing: Bruce/Tim
Summary: They get what they need.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sure.
Notes: It's a page I wrote at work. How can I have author's notes for a page of fiction?
A large, cool hand brushing the nape of his neck is his only warning. Fingers massaging the tensed muscles, thumb digging in deep and winning a low, gusting breath. Nails scratching his scalp. Dark hair is in his eyes, falling across the smooth blankness of his mask. Tim sometimes thinks about how little the mask really hides-the corners of his eyes, his brows. The bridge of his nose. The rest is laid bare, daring his secret to be lost.
Vulnerable skin glowing in the dim.
Fingers fisting, drawing his head back. He arches with it, spine curving in a sinuous bow, eyes seeking the grim dark of Batman’s face. Sharp lines and inscrutable features. Only the fullness of his mouth gives Bruce away. The slick, glistening lower lip catching the light and Tim’s eyes. Drawing him closer.
Warmth. No, heat, leaping from mouth to mouth like connected wires. Tim swallows his own moan, then swallows Batman’s tongue. He eagerly suckles, body strung in a nigh-impossible arch, head twisted and turned to feed Bruce’s obsessive need to touch and taste and remember.
The bare hand slides down his jawline, fingers brushing the pulse. The other, the one still wearing the heavy gauntlet, pushes over Tim’s chest. Material scratching material, blackandred and for a moment Tim almost misses the old costume. They fade too closely together now, caught in the web of shadows that always seem to follow his partner until one’s indistinguishable from the other. Dick sometimes tells stories of a Batman who laughed and cracked bad puns. Tim’s too old for bedtime stories now, and besides, it’s hard to look at Batman’s mouth and imagine it curving in welcome.
Opening in need.
He twists, trying to turn in Bruce’s arms, but the hand on his belly keeps him still. He isn’t supposed to be comfortable when they’re like this. He isn’t supposed to want more. Fingers brushing the curve of his ear, arm banded over his chest and spine twisted in a knotted S. It hurts a little. Part of him wishes it hurt more.
“Batman,” he whimpers as his erection is cupped, squeezed. His hips rock up hard, rutting against the smooth black glove. He wants to feel it against his bare skin. He wants to be stripped down and shivering, naked against Kevlar and steel and the whisper of black cloth. He wants cold metal against his nipples and a calloused hand around his cock. He wants to be pressed between powerful thighs and caged against a broad chest.
Arching, aching. Trying to turn in steel-band arms again. His balls ache; his cock’s wet. Throbbing beneath his mentor’s hand, jerking against restless fingers. “Batman. Batman. Bruce,” Tim says with little gasps as clever fingers stroke him through his uniform and a warm tongue fucks deep into his mouth.
“Jason,” in a moan, a desperate cry and it isn’t enough to make Tim pull away. It isn’t enough for him to say no, no, not here, not with me.
Twisting and swallowing and burning inside, “Yes, Bruce, yes,” and it isn’t what Tim needs, but it’ll get him through the night.
“Jason.”
It will get them both through.