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Action, from principle It’s getting harder for Bruce to simply watch him.
Bruce has controlled himself for a long time. There was, and is, work to do, and complications are never something he’s actively pursued. Things have a way of tangling themselves up without him putting effort into it.
But it’s getting harder not to touch Tim. Just to pull him close and... hold him there.
Bruce knows that Tim doesn’t need him. At least, not in the way that Dick, or Barbara, or even Jason did. Tim isn’t in love with Bruce, and never has been.
Which makes it... better. Because Bruce knows there’s only so far he can hurt Tim. Dick could seem like an endless vacuum of hunger and approval, while Jason... he knows now he could never have given Jason everything he needed. Tim’s lack of interest in him would make it possible for Bruce to take what he needs and leave Tim intact when it’s over.
But Tim isn't in love with Bruce, and
every small, ambiguous advance has been politely rebuffed.
So Bruce is careful. He stares somewhat more than he used to, and doesn’t touch the boy unless necessary. He’s even cut back on resting his hand approvingly on Tim’s shoulder. All of his actions respect Tim’s limits.
But Bruce has spent his share of nights thinking of ways to make Tim want him.
Tonight, however, he’s thinking of ways to get Tim free of Ivy’s plants. He can see Tim in the greenhouse below, struggling. Ivy's grown something new, something big and faintly alien, with vines like tentacles that bind Tim’s wrists and ankles, and Tim is splayed out and arching.
Bruce should have made his move by now. His erection grinding against the armor is distracting.
Bruce *watches* Tim for a long time. Ivy’s talking to Tim, moving closer, and Bruce presses on the amplifier in his ear.
“—uch a pretty boy,” Ivy’s saying. “Batman should know better than to send *pretty* boys out alone at night.”
Tim twists his wrist in the vine. “I didn’t think your plants cared how their meals look.” Bruce's gaze follows the twist of Tim's shoulder as he wrenches against the vine.
It is... immensely, shockingly difficult to hold on to the Bat.
Ivy pets Tim’s face. “They don’t, my dear Robin. *I* do.” Her hand trails down Tim’s chest. “But my babies *are* particular about taste, and Kevlar gives them tummy-aches.”
Tim smiles as Ivy pushes at the catches on his belt. “Well. Can’t have that.”
“No, we—“
Batman smiles and shoots off a grapple.
By the time he lands, Tim has cut himself mostly free and Ivy is only smoking slightly from the electrical discharge.
Tim snorts. “It took you long enough.”
“I see you increased the current on your belt’s booby trap.” He watches Tim for signs of injury, physical or otherwise. He *wants* to stand Tim still and actually check him, run his fingers over the welts that he knows will appear under the gauntlets.
He doesn't. He stands still and watches Tim shred the last of the vine off his ankle.
“We can’t have the bad guys thinking I’m easy.” Tim grins at him, and Batman must have shown worry behind the mask, because Tim's smile is surprisingly open and just this side of reassuring.
Batman blanks his face and watches Tim bend over to efficiently zip-strip Ivy. He watches the curve and flex of Tim's muscles as he moves, straightening and punching the communicator codes to alert the GCPD.
Bruce doesn’t feel especially efficient.
He’s going to have to do something about that.
He hopes Tim won’t hate him too much, after. Because Bruce isn’t… he isn’t *good* with talking about feelings, and he knows he can’t make Tim understand.
And even if he could, Tim still might not want him.
But he can’t *just* watch Tim anymore. He understands that now.
As for Tim’s limits…
Well. Tim is an adaptable boy.
**
Bruce, as always, watches Tim practice. Tim's motions become more and more precise as he works, until the moves themselves are perfect. Tim approaches training (and everything else) as a series of smaller tasks to be conquered one by one until mastery of the whole is attained.
It’s unfair to make comparisons, Bruce
knows, but none of the others had approached this life with Tim's degree
of... precision.
Tim's determination is different from
Dick's. Dick would run head-first into walls on Bruce's suggestion -- or
perhaps for the sheer joy of it. Tim, assuming Bruce gave him a good
enough reason to do it, would first calculate the distance between himself
and the wall, the structural composition, density and height, and then the
best angle at which to hit it to make it shatter. Tim's *good* at being Robin, which occasionally feels... unfair, a little, because he's the only one of their little “family” who doesn't *have* to do this.
He needs too little.
Bruce watches Tim’s body twist up and
over into a handstand on the bar. He can see the way every muscle twists and
bends beneath the body armor, hard and lithe, and Bruce makes a mental note to re-fit the suit.
Tim has grown again.
He can see Tim falling before it
happens. The boy's wrist *gives* and Tim compensates a half-second too
slowly, landing on the mat shoulder-first. Bruce wouldn't usually move
from the console, but he hears the crunchy pop of the dislocation. Tim's
sitting up and cradling his arm by the time Bruce kneels beside him.
Tim's arm is set back into place with a
single loud snap. Bruce pets it gently, massaging a little. "Painkiller?"
Tim's smile is open and only a little
humiliated, and... Bruce’s hand moves without his permission, tracing the
curve of that smile. His own hand is still gloved, and the contrast
between the gauntlet and Tim's skin is... compelling.
"Bruce. We've talked about this."
"Nope. Really don't."
"No, I’m Robin because *you* needed a
Robin.” His mouth thins. “Apparently *you* also need to be in Robin's
tights."
"Let me." His voice is gentler than he
means it to be.
Tim squirms against the hand in his
pants. "You have a thing for emotionally unavailable people, Bruce."
Bruce chuckles, once. "You noticed."
Tim *bucks*, gasping, "Oh, *fuck*..."
Bruce breathes against his ear. Tim
smells like sweat and the faintest hint of aftershave. "I think
about you. I think about...what you'd feel like. In my mouth. About
touching you inside." It earns him a gasp and an arch from Tim, and Bruce licks his way up the shaft, tasting and forcing himself to be slow. He pets Tim's thighs and behind his knees and Tim's wriggling beneath him. Bruce considers holding him down, but then he realizes Tim's trying to spread his legs *wider*. He's trapped by the tights around his legs. Bruce licks his lips.
He settles between Tim's lean thighs,
spreading him and nuzzling slowly. Tim's push-pushing with his hips and biting his lip and
Bruce *knows* he's trying hard not to make noise. So Bruce licks long,
slow strokes up Tim's cock, swirls his tongue around the head and flicks
at the slit. He slicks a finger in the spit on Tim's cock and presses
small circles in his cleft. It's getting harder not to rush and he
doesn't want to *push* Tim, but Bruce needs Tim to make his want obvious.
He keeps moving his finger but pulls
off Tim's cock. "You taste--" Bruce takes him all the way in, circles one hand around the base and squeezes. He sucks as rhythmically as he can, stroking his tongue along the underside. He can taste Tim's pre-come, smell his sweat, and Tim's hips are *moving* with his mouth. Tim's mouth is wide and panting, and Bruce pushes his fingertip into Tim's hole.
Tim's hips lift right off the floor,
and Bruce's mouth fills with wet and *heat* and he swallows, continuing to
suck
while Tim shakes and gasps. He doesn’t stop until Tim's lying bonelessly
beneath him.
Tim pulls at Bruce's shoulders,
whispers against his mouth. "So that's what you think about?"
Tim *shoves* Bruce up, finds the
catches of the codpiece and twists it off, jerking the armored jock down
and Bruce's eyes widen at the ferocity in Tim’s movements.
"Show me."
Tim's eyes narrow. "No. Not like
that."
Bruce groans, and his own hand has
never felt... he strokes fast, *hard*, calluses making it rough. Making it
better. His eyes are still closed, but he hears a click and a wet
sound, and feels the blunt slickness of two fingers pushing into him. Bruce feels Tim over him, one hand on his shoulder and the other *pushing* little thrusts into him, and Tim's talking to him.
"You think about fucking me. About
being inside."
Usually he'd be getting
dressed by now, but this time he has to lie there breathing for a long
time.
**
Patrol is routine: a couple of drug dealers, three muggings, and a minor break-in. They haven't spoken much since... earlier, but then, Bruce admits, he and Tim aren't much for banter while on duty. There’s no point in revealing their position, and when they talk, it's business.
They pause on the rooftop of the library, and Bruce stands behind Tim, close enough to feel his warmth in the night air. He tells himself that his looming will keep Tim focused on the patrol.
Tim's got one foot on a railing,
peering through the binoculars. "You were right. It's Markett, and looks
like two of Labatt's goons. Didn't know Markett was in the drug trade." When Tim straightens, he leans back into Bruce's body and does a small, deliberate writhe against him and Bruce can't help ducking his mouth against Tim's throat.
Tim reaches behind and wraps an arm
around Bruce's neck. "You remember what I said before?" Tim purrs into
Bruce's cheek.
Bruce freezes against Tim's neck, but
Tim just holds him there and wriggles against him, still whispering. "I'm
going to fuck *you*."
For a while.
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