Being Realistic
by cimorene
Jim has told himself for a long time that there can't be anyone in Gotham starring in more sexual fantasies than Batman. Even when nobody wants to be caught dead as him at a Halloween party, the amount of porn starring look-alikes and look-not-so-closes in bat masks is steady. So what if most of the people getting off on him have never met him, never talked to him, never shaken his hand (through the smooth black casing of glove - leather? Woven titanium microfiber?). Never poured him a drink -
Jim cuts off the thought firmly there; so what? He's the fucking Batman. Everybody wants a piece of him. Wants him.
Jim has idle thoughts about it. What's under the mask - what his skin feels like under the armor - what that sandpaper voice sounds like begging for more, what happens to those laser-sharp eyes, if they'd soften in need when he's being fucked. Because Jim's mind wanders when it's late and his hand's already on his cock, and he's starting to get into it, from one image to another, from Barbara's shocked brown eyes to Batman's heavy, shadowed gaze and his rippling muscles. When he thinks about pounding into a warm body, hard and violent, he thinks about Batman's strong thighs, the harsh panting of Batman's breath near his ears - a sound he knows by heart.
That's not realistic. If Jim is being realistic, well, he's the fucking Batman. The Batman would top.
Which is probably, Jim admits to himself, why he doesn't think about it that way.
He thinks of it when he feels Batman's shape blotting out the wind behind him, when he hears Batman's voice out of the dark in his ear, sometimes, but he doesn't let himself follow the thought and see where it leads. Tonight he's given himself permission, though, to hell with good ideas.
Together, Jim and Batman have seen through plenty of bad ideas.
Batman likes to be in control. Batman likes surprises, like coming out of the shadows where you'd swear there was only a chair or the old coat someone left on the rack, like leaving in the middle of a conversation as soon as your back is turned. Batman almost always comes when he's called. His questions sound like answers. The grip of his hand can be light, though. He calls Jim "Commissioner" when he talks about official business; when Jim surprises him he says, tense and questioning, "Jim."
Jim thinks - Jim understands, for the first time - Batman could be gentle. His cock is hardening, blood's pooling low in his belly, and he hasn't even opened his pants. When he puts the empty glass back on the table, screws the cap on the bottle of scotch, his hand is unsteady.
It's too late to stop, though: he's started, now, and he knows: with him, Batman would be gentle. Gentle and iron-hard, though, that fucking arrogance, like the razor edges hidden in Batman's gloves. Jim can almost feel it - Batman wrapping around him from behind, warm and there like his own shadow, and that smell, dirt-oil-metal-sweat, hot breath on his neck, his cheek. Batman's gloved hands on his arm... his hip...
Batman would tell him what he wanted, because that's Batman's way of asking: "Bend over," hoarse, that's all the question you'd get out of him. Jim would do it - his pants are open now, cock weeping in the air, hands clenched on his thighs - desk, floor, no, bed, no - the back of a sofa, maybe, something to dig his hands into when he felt Batman bending over him, that black cape falling over both of them, and Batman would put his mouth on Jim's neck, maybe bite his shoulder.
He'd open the belt buckle fast and silent - he might stop to take his gloves off, in a hurry, throw them over the back of the couch, and his hands would be pale blotches in the dark, warm and callused. He'd fuck hard, long smooth wicked strokes, and it'd hurt because he's got to be big, but it'd be careful, not slow but - precise. Yeah. Precise, that's the Batman. His aim, his timing, everything, a control freak losing control, his hands gripping Jim's hips or clutching white-knuckled at the back of the sofa, so Jim could stare down at them in amazement and feel himself opening up unbelievably around Batman's cock and Batman panting like he's running a marathon, right, but he'd be holding back, measuring each thrust in his head.
And then he'd start to let go - Jim wants that, and he knows it happens, has to happen sometimes, because even the Batman has to let go, and he's seen cracks, he's made cracks in that perfect facade, not least when Batman drops the title, calls him "Jim", low, and rough, and God, he would. Like it was ripped out of him, like he didn't have the breath, or couldn't find the words, for everything else, so he'd just say it again, "Jim. Jim," and Jim would know. Jim would move with him and he'd reach out for Batman's hand - on the sofa, or on him - and hold on, because he doesn't know Batman's name, and Batman isn't a name but a title like Commissioner.
But he's alone now, with his hand on his cock, and his eyes closed, leaning back in a chair that smells of mold and stale cigarette smoke, nothing like the metallic tang of Batman, but he pretends the hand is Batman's and that he's coming with Batman behind him, throbbing inside him and filling him with heavy desperate thrusts, rutting, faster and losing precision, sweaty and possessive and clumsy with lust. He'd come inside Jim, holding tight, breathless and wordless in completion.
And Jim comes silently, too. There's nothing for him to say. "You," that's what he calls Batman. There's no reason to say it now; he's alone, and with his eyes closed it's pitch dark, as dark as one of a hundred shadows Batman likes to melt out of and into.
End