Tim is used to being the shortest person in the room aside from any children that may be present. It isn’t that he’s all that short either, but when most of the people that he interacts with on a daily basis are six feet tall and taller, he often winds up looking somewhat…fragile in comparison. It works well for Tim when he needs to be underestimated for some reason or the other, but in other cases—
It’s hard to feel as though he’s being taken seriously when Tim has to stretch up on the tips of his toes in order to wrap his arms around Bruce’s neck and kiss him. However, Tim makes it work even though he has to work a little to coax Bruce into kissing him back at first. He opens his mouth for the initial slick slide of Bruce’s tongue over his bottom lip and then finds himself moaning for it, for the fact that Bruce kisses the way that he does everything else: with narrow-minded focus and an intense attention to making every single detail come out perfect.
Tim’s knees go weak—
“Bruce,” he breathes, the exhalation coming out sharper than it should as Bruce’s hands slip down to squeeze his hips in a tight grip that feels as though it should hurt. He opens his mouth against Bruce’s own, intending to say something —anything— but the rest of his sentence rushes out of his head along with any other thoughts that Tim might have had. Bruce crowds Tim, lifts him, and has Tim sitting on the very edge of his desk where there are no papers to send scattering.
The smile gleaming darkly in the depths of Bruce’s cool blue eyes is a hungry one. “Yes, Tim,” he says from right against the teenager’s mouth, breath fanning out over the sensitive, swollen lips. “Was there something you wanted?”
Bruce knows exactly what his touch does to Tim, how desire can move so quickly to blank out coherent thought.
At any other time, for any other reason, Bruce would be scowling and chiding the teenager in front of him for making a mistake and letting his lower brain take control. But when Tim’s lustful fugue is a direct result of Bruce’s kiss and the press of his fingers, Bruce can only manage to feel more amused and aroused than anything else.
Tim makes a noise, a frustrated noise, and strokes his fingers over Bruce’s broad shoulders up to the nape of his thick neck. “You’re awful,” he mutters, shifting on the top of the tall mahogany desk as he tries to ignore how Bruce’s presence and the promise of that firm, wide mouth makes his thoughts fizzle out like dying fireworks. This new position sees Tim of a height with Bruce with only a few scant inches separating them from kissing comfortably. “What if it had been something important?”
Bruce kisses him again, as quick as a speedster would do it, and then leans back so that the effect of his looming presence over Tim’s body is understated to a greater degree. He stands comfortably between Tim’s spread legs and seems to savor the bracket of the teenager’s long thighs and perpetually knobby knees pressing into his skin through his slacks.
“In that case, I’m sure you’ll remember it eventually,” Bruce says with a surprisingly wicked smile shaping up the corners of his mouth as he continues to touch Tim as though he’s the one starving for it.
Bruce is rarely like this, almost giddy on the rush that comes from doing what is a taboo (and markedly illegal) in most places, and when he ducks his head to nuzzle the side of Tim’s jaw, the kiss that he presses there a moment later is light and almost too chaste for what Tim is expecting. But it’s inflammatory nonetheless and there’s no missing the way that Tim’s breathing hitches just for that quick touch.
Tim shifts against the firm wooden surface of Bruce’s desk and smiles, sharply. “And what if I don’t remember,” he asks almost absently, busying himself with a languid exploration of the faint trails of scar tissue that streak across the older man’s broad shoulders. He turns his face up at Bruce after a moment and arches up so that he can claim a kiss from that faintly smiling mouth. “My memory’s not what it used to be…”
This time, Bruce’s smile is far from implied. He bares his teeth at Tim in an expression that should make the teenager feel seconds away from being devoured and then reaches up to brush the back of his knuckles over Tim’s throat, over scars that they never really talk about except when they’re together like this. “I have my ways of jogging your memory.”
He taps Tim on that ridge of scar tissue and then turns his hand so that he can rub the side of his thumb over it. “And if you can’t remember what it was then,” Bruce pauses to coax a slow kiss from Tim’s parted mouth that says more than enough about his hopes for what they’ll be getting up to in his office. “Then it wasn’t important, was it?”