always with the Dick jokes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
irrelevant) wrote2011-05-22 07:47 am
irrelevant) wrote2011-05-22 07:47 am
Entry tags:
ficlets! [DCU, various pairings]
for want of a nail
DC comics | Batman/Robin (Bruce/Steph) | R | 641 words
The monitor creaks again, and you hear something start to give—
And she catches herself, shifting her weight at the last possible second.
“Check it out, boss,” she says, breathless in her triumph, and the keyboard shifts under your fingers with the creak and sway, and you don’t look up.
You say, “If you have the energy for that, you can run the course again,” and she groans (moans), she whines (whimpers), and she’s vertical and then she’s not, toppled down into your lap.
Straddling you, smiling at you, for you, and she’s on you, touching you, she’s so close—
She has Dick’s joy. Jason’s fearlessness.
You don’t know what Tim has given her, if anything.
You’re not sure you want to know, but you need—
You should know.
But she’s laughing now, hands (gauntlets, rusty streaks on banged up green) on your shoulders and you are—
(so glad)
Relieved she’s still wearing the mask. That you are wearing the cowl.
And she’s kneading your shoulders (strong grip, stronger than last week and you’ll make her even stronger), leaning back into the hands you automatically lift to support her and smiling, bright, brilliant, Robin.
“Robin,” you say, and she leans in, and you smell her, sweat and blood and something like powder…
“Say it again,” she says, breathless hitching words, asking you for something you never would have given and want to (will not ever) take back. Her breath sings against your chin, panting, still begging—
“B,” she whispers, whimpers, “B, please—”
“Robin.” It’s out of you without deliberation or intention. “Robin.” And her hands are tightening and the sound of her is—
“Oh.” Rounded mouth and you think her eyes must be too, under her lenses. Blue eyes. They all have—
“Oh!” again, rocking up into you, gripping you with her legs and riding your lap, your armor.
“Put,” she says, gasps, “put your hands on me, B, I won’t break, ever,” and you believe her, you do, and you give her your hands, your gauntlets because she’s Robin and they’re what she wants. On her cheek and over her heart, cupped around the armoring, your thumb on the R…
And, “Robin,” again, and she’s laughing again. And, “Mine,” because she is, she—
“Yes, yes, yes,” she chants in your ear, her cheek pressed against the cowl, so young, so soft, but not untried, not—
“Yours, B,” and her mouth, so close to yours, and she’s pressing your hand hard into the R over her breast, pushing your other hand down between her legs, tugging at her tights. “Yours, you can do, you can—”
She’s wet inside. You can’t feel but the slide is easy and then her muscles tighten, grip your fingers, and she’s—
“Oh god.”
She’s kissing you, as wet, as strong as she is everywhere else, around your fingers, gripping your legs, clamping down—
Sighing her relief into your mouth. Sharing with you the taste of her pleasure.
Her forehead rests briefly on your shoulder, and then you’re sliding your fingers free, slippery slick, and you know the soft sound she makes will echo through your dreams for at least a month.
She lifts her head so you can see the tilt of her mouth. Pleased, though not so much with herself as with—
“Think I’ll take another shot at the course,” she says as she slides off your lap, pulling her tights back into place.
“Yes,” you say. “You’re ready for the fourth level.”
She groans, but it’s not a protest. Acceptance and… something new. Something you’ve been listening for without knowing you were listening.
The training course hums to life. Running footsteps, flap of her cape and the staff, connecting with her target—
Laughter free of regret.
You look down at your hand. Watch your fingers curl in, clench. Release.
You can still smell her.
Nest
DC comics | Dick/Tim | G | 365 words
"That," says Dick, "was dumb."
Tim doesn't bother lifting his head from Dick's shoulder to answer. It's too heavy, and Dick's statement was unquestionably rhetorical. "Mmn."
"Unbelievably dumb," Dick goes on. "Monumentally dumb. I'd even go so far as to say catastrophically dumb, considering it was Catwoman who radioed in to say you'd passed out in a cordoned off plague zone."
Dick's shoulder is actually pretty comfortable, but his jokes haven't improved at all since he was Robin. "I'm still sick," Tim mumbles. "Alfred says I'm not supposed to be exposed to bad puns for at least another week."
He feels Dick's chest shake where he's pressed against it, feels the rumble of Dick's laughter before he hears it. "You're not supposed to be running around Tricorner fighting gangs, either, but when has a little thing like almost dying ever stopped you?"
"Mmn." Dick's shoulder really is comfortable. Nicely rounded, padded with just enough muscle to cushion Tim's cheek. "Never stopped you, either," he slurs, and he feels as much as hears Dick's sigh, warm breath expelled across his cheek.
"Can't argue with hard truth." The laugh is back in Dick's voice. It's a nice change from strained concern. "Runs in the family," Tim thinks he hears him mutter, and then he hears something click and he's being lowered into the Redbird's passenger seat.
He tries to protest -- it's his car and Dick goes through bikes like Tim does hard drives -- but Dick says, "Shut up and rest," and buckles him in. And Tim's head is spinning and it doesn't feel like it's quite connected to the rest of him, so maybe just this once...
The slam of the driver's side door is distant, barely penetrating the thick haze of exhaustion and lingering illness.
"Go to sleep, kiddo," Dick's voice murmurs in Tim's ear. Soft stroke over his forehead, down his cheek, and did Dick really just...?
The engine turns over. Redbird purrs, she cradles him deep in smooth leather and perfect speed, and Dick is talking softly to Bruce over the comm.
Tim catches one word, "...dumb." He smiles. He turns his cheek into Redbird's leathery inner feathers and checks out for the duration.
Détente
DC comics | Tim Drake, Damian Wayne | G | 654 words
He opens the door and immediately closes it again. He counts off the successive thunks of sharpened steel into wood, one, two, three, four...
And he waits, because there's one more knife in the room that he knows of. Gives the door a tiny push--
Thunk.
He gives it ten more seconds in case of knives he doesn't know of, then he says, "I'm coming in," and pushes the door back open.
"Go away," says the huddle of sheets on the bed. He thinks it's moving, but it's hard to tell. The blinds are closed and the room is dark with approaching dusk.
"I will in a minute," he says, and walks in, pushing the door closed after him with his heel. He sets the tray down on the desk and yellow cat eyes blink up at him from a pile of notebooks. "There's some for you, too," he says, and goes to open the blinds.
Damian's scowling, white-speckled face is sticking out of the sheets when he turns around. "Why did Pennyworth send you?"
"Dick's out and Alfred is making dinner," Tim says. "I don't want to be here any more than you want me, but right now, I'm what you've got." He holds up the bottle of calamine lotion, and he doesn't smile when Damian's scowl deepens, but it's close. "Want to stop itching or not?"
Damian hisses something in Arabic that Tim doesn't catch. It's probably safe to say it's profane. "Turn around," Tim says, and gets a look sharper than the kid's knives. He rolls his eyes. "Can you stand up?"
Damian's upper lip curls. "Of course I can, you moron."
"Then go stand in front of the mirror. That way, you can watch me do it."
Damian chews on his lip for a moment, then he crawls out of bed and follows Tim's suggestion. Tim's only a little surprised. Damian has been slightly more amenable to suggestion since the Tower.
He knows better than to offer his help, so he waits until Damian stops moving before he approaches. The kid's eyes meet his in the mirror. He gets a brusque nod, and he cracks the bottle open and starts on the kid's shoulders.
Head to toe, Damian is covered in one of the worst cases of chicken pox Tim's ever seen. He's wearing a pair of briefs and nothing else, and they look startlingly colorless against red dots and his skin.
"Was it going around at school?" Tim hears himself ask, the same way he'd have asked any other kid, and then he kicks himself mentally for forgetting that Damian is not any other kid. To say the least.
To his surprise, Damian mutters something. "What?" Tim says.
"No," Damian snaps. His chin jerks up and he glares at Tim in the mirror. "I know someone. He also has this -- this disease. I contracted it. That is all."
Tim feels his eyebrows rise, but he doesn't ask the obvious question. He says, "Done." Then, because of the knives, he adds, "Do you need me to do the rest of your... backside?"
Damian whirls like a snake striking, calamine-covered pox standing whitely out against his red cheeks. "Get out," he spits, and stalks over to the desk.
With reluctant amusement, Tim watches him sniff warily at the tray. The cat's face in is one of the bowls. "What is this?" Damian demands.
"Chicken soup." Tim snaps the bottle closed, sets it on the nearest shelf and starts walking.
"Drake," Damian says just as his hand touches the door. Tim turns just enough to see him. "Thank you," Damian says extremely grudgingly.
Tim waits, curious to see if that's all. Apparently, it is. Damian adds, "Now you can get out," and picks up the bowl the cat's face isn't in.
Tim closes the door on the combined sounds of lapping and slurping, and laughs silently all the way to his room.
DC comics | Batman/Robin (Bruce/Steph) | R | 641 words
The monitor creaks again, and you hear something start to give—
And she catches herself, shifting her weight at the last possible second.
“Check it out, boss,” she says, breathless in her triumph, and the keyboard shifts under your fingers with the creak and sway, and you don’t look up.
You say, “If you have the energy for that, you can run the course again,” and she groans (moans), she whines (whimpers), and she’s vertical and then she’s not, toppled down into your lap.
Straddling you, smiling at you, for you, and she’s on you, touching you, she’s so close—
She has Dick’s joy. Jason’s fearlessness.
You don’t know what Tim has given her, if anything.
You’re not sure you want to know, but you need—
You should know.
But she’s laughing now, hands (gauntlets, rusty streaks on banged up green) on your shoulders and you are—
(so glad)
Relieved she’s still wearing the mask. That you are wearing the cowl.
And she’s kneading your shoulders (strong grip, stronger than last week and you’ll make her even stronger), leaning back into the hands you automatically lift to support her and smiling, bright, brilliant, Robin.
“Robin,” you say, and she leans in, and you smell her, sweat and blood and something like powder…
“Say it again,” she says, breathless hitching words, asking you for something you never would have given and want to (will not ever) take back. Her breath sings against your chin, panting, still begging—
“B,” she whispers, whimpers, “B, please—”
“Robin.” It’s out of you without deliberation or intention. “Robin.” And her hands are tightening and the sound of her is—
“Oh.” Rounded mouth and you think her eyes must be too, under her lenses. Blue eyes. They all have—
“Oh!” again, rocking up into you, gripping you with her legs and riding your lap, your armor.
“Put,” she says, gasps, “put your hands on me, B, I won’t break, ever,” and you believe her, you do, and you give her your hands, your gauntlets because she’s Robin and they’re what she wants. On her cheek and over her heart, cupped around the armoring, your thumb on the R…
And, “Robin,” again, and she’s laughing again. And, “Mine,” because she is, she—
“Yes, yes, yes,” she chants in your ear, her cheek pressed against the cowl, so young, so soft, but not untried, not—
“Yours, B,” and her mouth, so close to yours, and she’s pressing your hand hard into the R over her breast, pushing your other hand down between her legs, tugging at her tights. “Yours, you can do, you can—”
She’s wet inside. You can’t feel but the slide is easy and then her muscles tighten, grip your fingers, and she’s—
“Oh god.”
She’s kissing you, as wet, as strong as she is everywhere else, around your fingers, gripping your legs, clamping down—
Sighing her relief into your mouth. Sharing with you the taste of her pleasure.
Her forehead rests briefly on your shoulder, and then you’re sliding your fingers free, slippery slick, and you know the soft sound she makes will echo through your dreams for at least a month.
She lifts her head so you can see the tilt of her mouth. Pleased, though not so much with herself as with—
“Think I’ll take another shot at the course,” she says as she slides off your lap, pulling her tights back into place.
“Yes,” you say. “You’re ready for the fourth level.”
She groans, but it’s not a protest. Acceptance and… something new. Something you’ve been listening for without knowing you were listening.
The training course hums to life. Running footsteps, flap of her cape and the staff, connecting with her target—
Laughter free of regret.
You look down at your hand. Watch your fingers curl in, clench. Release.
You can still smell her.
Nest
DC comics | Dick/Tim | G | 365 words
"That," says Dick, "was dumb."
Tim doesn't bother lifting his head from Dick's shoulder to answer. It's too heavy, and Dick's statement was unquestionably rhetorical. "Mmn."
"Unbelievably dumb," Dick goes on. "Monumentally dumb. I'd even go so far as to say catastrophically dumb, considering it was Catwoman who radioed in to say you'd passed out in a cordoned off plague zone."
Dick's shoulder is actually pretty comfortable, but his jokes haven't improved at all since he was Robin. "I'm still sick," Tim mumbles. "Alfred says I'm not supposed to be exposed to bad puns for at least another week."
He feels Dick's chest shake where he's pressed against it, feels the rumble of Dick's laughter before he hears it. "You're not supposed to be running around Tricorner fighting gangs, either, but when has a little thing like almost dying ever stopped you?"
"Mmn." Dick's shoulder really is comfortable. Nicely rounded, padded with just enough muscle to cushion Tim's cheek. "Never stopped you, either," he slurs, and he feels as much as hears Dick's sigh, warm breath expelled across his cheek.
"Can't argue with hard truth." The laugh is back in Dick's voice. It's a nice change from strained concern. "Runs in the family," Tim thinks he hears him mutter, and then he hears something click and he's being lowered into the Redbird's passenger seat.
He tries to protest -- it's his car and Dick goes through bikes like Tim does hard drives -- but Dick says, "Shut up and rest," and buckles him in. And Tim's head is spinning and it doesn't feel like it's quite connected to the rest of him, so maybe just this once...
The slam of the driver's side door is distant, barely penetrating the thick haze of exhaustion and lingering illness.
"Go to sleep, kiddo," Dick's voice murmurs in Tim's ear. Soft stroke over his forehead, down his cheek, and did Dick really just...?
The engine turns over. Redbird purrs, she cradles him deep in smooth leather and perfect speed, and Dick is talking softly to Bruce over the comm.
Tim catches one word, "...dumb." He smiles. He turns his cheek into Redbird's leathery inner feathers and checks out for the duration.
Détente
DC comics | Tim Drake, Damian Wayne | G | 654 words
He opens the door and immediately closes it again. He counts off the successive thunks of sharpened steel into wood, one, two, three, four...
And he waits, because there's one more knife in the room that he knows of. Gives the door a tiny push--
Thunk.
He gives it ten more seconds in case of knives he doesn't know of, then he says, "I'm coming in," and pushes the door back open.
"Go away," says the huddle of sheets on the bed. He thinks it's moving, but it's hard to tell. The blinds are closed and the room is dark with approaching dusk.
"I will in a minute," he says, and walks in, pushing the door closed after him with his heel. He sets the tray down on the desk and yellow cat eyes blink up at him from a pile of notebooks. "There's some for you, too," he says, and goes to open the blinds.
Damian's scowling, white-speckled face is sticking out of the sheets when he turns around. "Why did Pennyworth send you?"
"Dick's out and Alfred is making dinner," Tim says. "I don't want to be here any more than you want me, but right now, I'm what you've got." He holds up the bottle of calamine lotion, and he doesn't smile when Damian's scowl deepens, but it's close. "Want to stop itching or not?"
Damian hisses something in Arabic that Tim doesn't catch. It's probably safe to say it's profane. "Turn around," Tim says, and gets a look sharper than the kid's knives. He rolls his eyes. "Can you stand up?"
Damian's upper lip curls. "Of course I can, you moron."
"Then go stand in front of the mirror. That way, you can watch me do it."
Damian chews on his lip for a moment, then he crawls out of bed and follows Tim's suggestion. Tim's only a little surprised. Damian has been slightly more amenable to suggestion since the Tower.
He knows better than to offer his help, so he waits until Damian stops moving before he approaches. The kid's eyes meet his in the mirror. He gets a brusque nod, and he cracks the bottle open and starts on the kid's shoulders.
Head to toe, Damian is covered in one of the worst cases of chicken pox Tim's ever seen. He's wearing a pair of briefs and nothing else, and they look startlingly colorless against red dots and his skin.
"Was it going around at school?" Tim hears himself ask, the same way he'd have asked any other kid, and then he kicks himself mentally for forgetting that Damian is not any other kid. To say the least.
To his surprise, Damian mutters something. "What?" Tim says.
"No," Damian snaps. His chin jerks up and he glares at Tim in the mirror. "I know someone. He also has this -- this disease. I contracted it. That is all."
Tim feels his eyebrows rise, but he doesn't ask the obvious question. He says, "Done." Then, because of the knives, he adds, "Do you need me to do the rest of your... backside?"
Damian whirls like a snake striking, calamine-covered pox standing whitely out against his red cheeks. "Get out," he spits, and stalks over to the desk.
With reluctant amusement, Tim watches him sniff warily at the tray. The cat's face in is one of the bowls. "What is this?" Damian demands.
"Chicken soup." Tim snaps the bottle closed, sets it on the nearest shelf and starts walking.
"Drake," Damian says just as his hand touches the door. Tim turns just enough to see him. "Thank you," Damian says extremely grudgingly.
Tim waits, curious to see if that's all. Apparently, it is. Damian adds, "Now you can get out," and picks up the bowl the cat's face isn't in.
Tim closes the door on the combined sounds of lapping and slurping, and laughs silently all the way to his room.