Melt Like Lemon Drops by Te (PG)

[marag.livejournal.com]

Fandom: DC COMICS
Pairing: Uh...is that a trick question?
Author on LJ: thete1
Author Website: Teland
Why this must be read:

Because this story is the finest of crack. I mean, it's like the crackiest crack that ever cracked in crackdom. And because this is the DC universe, it doesn't even have to involve any penguins or wings or mpreg to be that cracky. It's just...identity porn of the best kind. And it has glitter. How can a story that involves glitter be bad? (Don't answer that, it was rhetorical.)

I know Te's fic isn't to everyone's taste, but trust me, give this story a try. She knows these characters inside and out and this story shows it, even through all the crack. Did I mention the crack? And the glitter? ::coughs:: Please, just read it, okay? I'm not sure there's any way to describe it, really.

The dress is tight and distinctly glittery.

It ends at the knee, revealing calves -- the stockings are
silk -- and ankles which could, Tim must admit, be
considered shapely. The shoes -- and their four-inch heels --
match the dress perfectly, and Tim honestly isn't sure if he
wants to know who'd produced the ensemble, much less
who had designed the thing.

The rest of the dress -- and the individual *in* it -- is burned
on a portion of Tim's brain which, sadly, is not precisely
expendable. This doesn't mean he has to --

"Tim."

He has to look up again. He really, truly does. There's no
way around --

"C'mon, sweetie, chin *up*."

No, he says, in the calm and not especially glittery silence of
his own brain. "Please."

The shoes pivot. The whisper of silk on silk -- the dress is
really very tight -- makes Tim swallow. He is never going to
recover from this.

Nor is there any hope of forgetting the *precise* feel of
those -- painted, manicured -- nails on his chin. The touch
is gentle. Tim resists.

"Oh, now, it's not all *that* bad, Timmy..." The voice --

The voice is only familiar if Tim makes still another important
part of his brain kind of... squint. It's low, yes, but it's soft
and somewhat *rich*. Buttery.

He's going to go insane. The nice thing about that is the fact
that it can't possibly be any worse *to* look up. The waist is
thick and solid -- there's nothing which can be done about
that. The bodice of the dress strains and shines around the
sort of falsies which really...

He has to admit that if the falsies were any smaller, Bruce
would look --

Tim looks, and the lipstick is dark and wet. The makeup is
expertly applied. Bruce's eyes seem huge amidst the
mascara, liner, and shadow, and also manage to seem like
a warmer shade of blue --

"*That's* better, honey. Now, how do I look?"

There is nothing Tim can do about the expression on his
face -- he *feels* stricken, deep inside, as if Bruce had
reached down Tim's throat and started punching. "Um," he
says, and tries a careful step back.

And another.

Bruce tosses his long, glossy, thick black -- well, it's almost
a mane, and --

Well, no. And no. If it were *Bruce* reaching for him, he
would be caught. Since it is... not (strictly), Bruce's deep
burgundy (to match the lipstick, and perhaps Tim could
simply fall down and die) fingernails sort of... claw. At the
air.

"Oh -- God."

Melt Like Lemon Drops