
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/52501.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      DCU_-_Comicverse
  Relationship:
      Bruce_Wayne/Tim_Drake
  Character:
      Bruce_Wayne, Tim_Drake
  Additional Tags:
      Porn_Battle
  Collections:
      Porn_Battle_VIII_(The_Eighth_Wonder_-_Bigger,_Longer,_Uncut)
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-01-18 Words: 928
****** Shades of Dark ******
by marchingjaybird
Summary
     Sometimes, Tim just has to be still and trust.
Tim can't count the times that he's had stitches. It's a hazard of the job, one
that he's become inured to over the years. The initial pain is fleeting and the
lingering tender ache is… well, it's something that a guy can grow fond of, if
he's the right kind of guy and he has the right attitude about the whole thing.
Aside from once, when it happened as Tim Drake and not as Robin, he's never
gotten stitches at the hospital. It's too risky, Bruce says, and he sees the
logic in that. He can't go in the costume, and if he kept showing up as Tim,
cradling a new wound every couple of months, people would wonder. They would
assume that Bruce was hurting him. They would take him away.
Alfred is a better doctor anyhow, excusing the rips in his costume – which is
the most upsetting part for Tim – with a sort of old world grace that Tim has
never tried to emulate but has always secretly envied. His hands are soft
against battered flesh, barely there at all, and it seems like the whole ordeal
never lasts more than a few minutes. Then Alfred excuses himself and exits the
room and the scene plays out again.
Bruce detaches himself from the wall, crosses the room like a shadow. He checks
the bandage, examines the stitches, as though any fault could be found with
Alfred's work. It's just an excuse to touch, Tim knows that now. The first few
times, he thought it was just concern that blossomed into something else. He
knows now that it is all part of some strange ritual of personal reassurance
that Bruce puts himself through.
He shifts his touch, fingers splaying along Tim's ribcage. Still cased in
leather, they are cold and distant, clinical almost, the exact opposite of his
usual caress. Tim has grown accustomed to the difference, though. A part of him
embraces it. There will be plenty of time later on for warm hands and grasping
fingers when he's twisted up in the sheets on Bruce's massive bed. This is
something strange, an exchange that belongs more to Batman and Robin than to
Bruce and Tim, though Bruce has always sworn to him that the masks will stay
out of the bedroom.
Bruce is still wearing the mask, but the Cave is hardly the bedroom, and Tim
lets it slide.
Fingers splay across his chest and he draws a slow breath. He always forgets
how big Bruce is, how the span of one hand can cover nearly his entire ribcage.
He's grown considerably in the years since he started this gig, but never
enough to catch up, never enough to even come close. But that's the way Bruce
likes him, lean and small, and on nights like this, he wouldn't have it any
other way.
Bruce looms over him, swathed head to toe in shades of dark. It's hard to see
his eyes behind the mask but Tim stares into them anyhow, knowing that Bruce is
looking back. Bruce always looks back.
A thumb skates across his nipple and Tim gasps softly, arching his back. Bruce
doesn't react, apart from repeating the motion. There's a distance in the way
he carries himself, almost as though he's afraid to let something out. Tim has
his suspicions, but he learned a long time ago not to discuss personal motives
with Bruce. It's a conversation that never ends well.
Cold leather hands dip down to his waist and he leans back, propping himself on
his hands, gaze unwaveringly fixed on Bruce's face. It's meant to show that
he's not afraid, that he's never afraid of anything, but he can't help the
flinch when Bruce's fingers slip past the waistband of his sweats to wrap
around his prick.
It's amazing that the leather never seems to heat up, that the gloves add so
much weight, so much power, but don't seem to impair his dexterity at all. Tim
tips his head back and moans as sense-deprived fingers search out exactly where
he likes to be touched. It's a cold sort of pleasure, and it makes him feel
dirty somewhere deep inside, but he moans and sobs breathlessly, hips hitching
up off the table as Bruce draws him closer and closer to the edge.
He doesn't try to touch. It's a sort of unspoken rule. Every motion in this
little vignette has been planned out, and his part is to spread his legs and
keep his palms glued to the table and just… trust.
Bruce twists his wrist and the subtle change in pressure unfolds an explosion
of pleasure in Tim's belly. He cries out, closes his eyes, sobs Bruce's name as
he comes. Cold fingers withdraw and he slumps down, flushed and weary. Bruce
extends his hand and Tim leans forward without thinking about it, tongue
curling out to lick the come off of Bruce's glove.
The leather is shining by the time he's finished and he turns his head, sucking
a finger into his mouth and stroking it with his tongue in an effort to warm
it. It's a heady taste, chilly and sharp and acrid, and the seam rasps against
the tip of his tongue as Bruce withdraws the digit and wipes the moisture off
on Tim's cheek.
"Go upstairs," he orders. "I'll be there soon."
And Tim obeys, never thinking to question what it is Bruce does in the Cave
after he leaves. There are simply some things that you don't need to – or want
to – know.
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