Leisurely we glide (Dick/Tim, NC-17, DCU)
Title: Leisurely we glide
Author: Mimic
Characters/Pairings: Dick/Tim
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I don't play for keeps. DC owns them.
Notes: Title from Lewis Carroll's "Alice in Wonderland". Fic for Pixie, who has awesomely agreed to make me Bucky icons in return for porn.
Feedback: Ahh, yes.
Word Count: 3200
It was apparent to him even before he took on the role of Robin that Dick played a key role in the way their ‘family’ socialized at any point in time.
His relationship with *Bruce* especially, was vital to monitor at all times, and while Oracle was exceedingly thorough in planting cameras anywhere Dick may be, Tim occasionally took it upon himself to play a more active role in coaxing Dick back to the acceptable side of insanity.
He didn’t, after all, find spending time in Bludhaven particularly unpleasant.
The things he learned from Dick during these visits were all things he would have learned from Bruce, but the lessons were all about reassuring Dick that he was, at the very least, doing a good job at being Tim’s ‘older brother.’
He had apparently graduated from train-surfing blindfolded to just train-surfing, and it was comforting in a strange way that Dick still didn’t believe rooftops or motorcycles were quite good enough for when *he* visited.
The grind of the wheels rubbing the tracks as they sped along a sharp turn coaxed him away from his thoughts and back to the small crease marring the smooth texture of the mask covering Dick’s face, and the way he was obviously not talking even if he was still moving much more than anyone *train-surfing* should be able to.
It still took everything Tim had not to go flying when he spread and braced his feet, and turned.
Dick took in the movement with all the expert of someone who knew his own body well enough to do anything with it, and nodded his approval.
“So did I do something specific to earn the silent treatment, or is this not about me?” He kept his voice as low as he could with the rattle and hum of the train, and the rush of the wind that ate up almost everything.
It was, admittedly, not very low, but Dick seemed to get the point.
He smiled, rueful and all at once *aware* of just what he had been doing. “Sorry, Tim, I’ve just…”
“Had a lot on my mind?” he finished, adding, “Want to talk?” a second later.
Dick’s smile melted somewhat, and hardened around the edges until it wasn’t precisely a smile anymore. Not quite a grimace but -- Dick was thinking very hard about what he wanted to say. No, *how much* he wanted to say.
“I’ve been told I’m a good listener,” he says, allowing his own ruefulness to slip in, and watches as Dick hears that and then hears *him*.
Dick laughs, not happily, but Tim isn’t in a place to analyze just what emotion is filling it, and says, “I can *imagine*, little brother.”
It’s just enough of a push to make him feel justified in coming here.
The next turn he almost overcompensates, and has to grit his teeth against the desire he’s never quite been able to shake to panic and make things worse. He’s never, and will never be, a natural at this sort of thing.
Dick rests a hand on his shoulder and looks at him as the tracks level out again. “Stop’s coming up.”
“This is the express,” Tim deadpans, and Dick’s laugh this time is more real.
“Like I said,” he says, only a few seconds before he jumps, and Tim has to tear his eyes away from the perfect blot of black Nightwing makes against the Bludhaven lights to remember to jump himself.
He lands as perfectly as he ever has, and pulls himself into a crouch before scanning the area and slowly rising to his feet.
It’s instinct to pull his cape around himself, to use it to shield him from everything outside his body. He doesn’t think he’ll ever stop loving the cape.
Then Dick’s firing a line higher into the skyline, and Tim has only a moment to think wryly of ever taking a vehicle before the line between ‘following Dick’ and ‘having to hunt for hours to *find* Dick’ becomes apparent.
He’s known that line, *felt* it for much longer than he should have.
There are some days when he feels the absence of the camera strap chafing his neck more than others.
Dick isn’t so much waiting for him as doing very small laps, and being extra showy on his leaps. Tim catches up, and then works on catching up the rest of the way.
This is another kind of lesson: a mix of follow the leader, and tag, and those high school gym games of football all about proving who’s the toughest of the bunch.
It’s a game that Tim will never win, and one he’s content with being second best at.
He follows Nightwing through the weave of buildings, imitating what he can and improvising when Dick breaks off into things he couldn’t attempt on the ground without twice the flexibility he has. Dick has even more of an advantage here in his town, where Tim can feel him knowing and using every building they cross.
In Gotham it’s easier, especially after the ‘quake with them both wrong-footed and left grasping at the edges of what they used to know so well.
Dick is talking to him with movement now, willing Tim to see everything that’s wrong splayed out in the way he spins himself into a double somersault, and spreads his arms to feel the resistance.
It makes the absence of chafing on his neck, and the weight against his chest itch.
The game shifts and changes rules when they run across their first mugging, Dick drops out of the skyline, and Tim hears the sounds of violence briefly as he passes over them and continues the make-shift ‘patrol’ the game embodies. He changes the course from what Dick would have picked, and feels more than hears the noise of protest behind him.
Maintaining the advantage is difficult, and becomes impossible when screams down an alley cause him to shift abruptly, and Dick swings over him twice before moving on. Tim makes a note of his direction as he expands his staff, giving one of the would-be rapists a mild concussion in the process.
The other two go down quickly, and he nods at the woman clutching her jacket tighter around her body but not really crying.
He takes to the air after she nods back and kicks a little at one of the men.
It’s impossible for him to see Nightwing at this point, but he knows where he’ll be, and the Bludhaven maps come to mind almost as quickly as the Gotham ones.
The shortcuts mean he only takes seventeen minutes to catch up, and he had been stopped once by another mugging. Dick is in the middle of kicking the shit out of some really stupid, persistence dealers. He obviously knows their circle well enough to be spitting personalized insults in their faces, and it’s only a second’s hesitation before he drops down and joins Dick back to back.
“Glad you could make it,” Dick says, kicking a guy his way.
Tim works on not getting his throat stabbed by the long and *already* bloody knife the dealer is packing, and twists around to be within talking distance of Nightwing.
“You’re going to want to investigate what the pimps on eighth are having their girls do.”
Dick’s foot connects to one of the guy’s ribs with a sickening crack muffled by the other fight sounds, and he backflips out of the way. “You see something?”
“Two of the girls getting pushed around,” he answers, spinning his staff to block one man’s sloppy punch and using the other to alleviate the other’s knife with one of his batarangs.
The last of them goes down to Nightwing’s nerve strike, and they work on zip stripping them. “You think it’s more than a coincidence?”
It isn’t quite Dick’s command voice, but the register is rough enough to show he means business. It’s the sort of thing Tim had been avoiding, but the Mission always comes first.
He nods once, and fires a grapple to the roof. Dick follows him on the fire escape. “They didn’t look as relieved as they should being rescued,” he says as Dick jumps to the top.
“Work never ends,” he sighs, and the look on his face is sad and hard, and too much for him too look at.
He turns towards the skyline, and the rapidly approaching day. “It’s not all bad.”
“Tim Drake: optimist,” Dick grins, shoving him on the shoulder affectionately, “Who knew?”
He regards Dick silently. “It has to be one of us. All the time.”
Dick shifts and turns away from him, crawling with movement, nodding and opening his mouth. “Yeah -- yeah, I guess so.”
“Not to say it has to be you.”
He laughs, real and open, but still not happy, and falls forwards into a handstand, shaking his hair out of his eyes, and looking at Tim upside down and through the mask. “I’m just the best at it?”
He smiles. “When you aren’t invested in imitating Bruce, that is.”
Dick flips out of the handstand, stares at him, and laughs again. It’s almost breathless this time.
“I should be returning,” he says the words carefully, with just enough resistance and obvious hope to get Dick to soften his stance.
His hand twitches like he wants to reach out, but settles for asking, “Stay? I have Zesti.”
“Only you would win someone over with soda,” he comments, and Dick shifts again.
“Not anyone, *you*. And you know it works.”
Tim doesn’t grace him with a reply, but when he fires his next grapple it’s in the very obvious direction of Dick’s apartment. He hears Dick’s laughter following him the entire way.
His apartment isn’t especially *messy*, but it has a very obvious lived in quality that Tim misses in his own house, and at the manor.
It’s another thing about Dick that’s different than the rest of them.
He’s out of costume now, with his hair still damp and smelling like Dick’s shampoo. Dick himself is in the kitchen, and when he returns he’s carrying a bottle of water. He tosses Tim the promised Zesti with his other hand.
Tim plucks it out of the air, and returns to staring at the blank television screen.
He can feel the excitement of patrol still tingling against his skin like so much electricity, and at this point he knows caffeine will only worsen his ability to sleep later, but takes a long sip of the soda anyway, and turns to stare at Dick.
He’s not wearing a shirt, and his hair is wetter than Tim’s.
It’s an effort not to bite his lip, and one he isn’t sure it’s worth the trouble of given the situation. He settles for clicking his teeth once, and not moving his eyes from Dick’s, not even for the gentle rise and fall of his chest belying the wired, hyperawareness in his eyes and the set of his jaw.
He takes another drink of his soda before setting it solidly down on the coffee table.
“The offer’s still open. Talking, that is,” he says, and looks at Dick again.
Dick smiles at him, teeth gleaming in the artificial light, and eyes still blown and impossibly blue. “It goes both ways.”
“You need it more,” he barely gets out before Dick leaps across and lands on the couch next to him.
It isn’t an invasion of personal space yet, and he knows Dick well enough to know it won’t be until Tim asks for it.
Dick is still smiling. “Really?”
He shifts, and leans just a bit, his eyes finally drifting to Dick’s bare shoulder, and to the scars making a perfect cross over the top.
The warmth of Dick’s tongue in his mouth isn’t so overwhelming as the press of all that skin against the fabric of his shirt. It feels like downing and choking, and knowing everything about himself all at once, before Dick breaks off and licks a stripe against his neck.
“You taste like grape,” he comments to Tim’s skin.
He hums, just a little, and Dick’s licking turns to sucking. “Comes with the territory.”
Tim unhooks and smoothes out his legs underneath Dick, one slipping off the couch and flexing against the floor. Dick won’t stop licking and sucking his neck, and probably *really* won’t until Tim gives him something better to do.
He can’t think so clearly over that now, though, just about reaching around and gripping the forearm connected to the hand across Tim’s chest, and sliding his other around Dick’s neck and rubbing at the soft hair on the back, and the little prickle of stubble on the front.
Dick makes some sort of noise, a word or a hum, against him, and drags his lips back up to Tim’s mouth, capturing them and sucking in his tongue.
He opens his mouth wide, reaching for as much as he can take. This is all about Dick, all about making him happy, and figuring out just how to do that.
Surrendering the part of himself invested in keeping away from others is always a good place to start.
Dick needs to feel -- needed, useful. A million other things Tim thinks he can understand.
He drags his teeth along Dick’s bottom lip, and feels the hand on his chest shudder and flex, inching towards his nipple and then pressing and squeezing.
Tim swallows the saliva growing in his mouth, and leans forward -- deeper into the kiss and Dick’s *hand*, and feeling himself beginning to harden.
“Know how to show a guy a good time,” he smirks in Dick’s ear, gasping when Dick bites and licks and then blows his cool breath against Tim’s own.
Dick pushes his hand into Tim’s shirt, and pinches his nipple again. Tim bucks.
“The train ride from hell is my hook.”
He chuckles, only a little breathless as Dick continues twisting and working his nipple with his blunt fingernails. “I thought it was the tasteless jokes.”
“Only if I know them well.” That bite will certainly leave a mark. He’ll have to cover it up in the morning, make sure he wears a turtleneck to school.
He groans as Dick pulls away, sitting up and tugging Tim’s t-shirt over his head.
“You think you know me well,” it isn’t so much a question as something to say to pass the time, staring at Dick staring at him.
Dick grins, lethal and sharp, and slides down so he’s straddling Tim’s hips. He can feel every little shift and breath Dick takes, and his eyes fall closed with another moan as Dick takes Tim’s other nipple into his mouth. It only takes him a second to find the right mix of teeth and tongue that leaves Tim growling and crawling at the infuriating soft pillows of the sofa.
And then he’s panting and staring at the impossible blue of Dick’s eyes as he smirks down at him. “Of course I do, little brother.”
It shocks a laugh out of him, and he’s still laughing when Dick covers his mouth with his own. The kiss is obscene, and wonderful, so much that the red Tim’s seeing against his eyes can’t be anything other than a flush.
He shudders and bucks, and *bites* Dick’s lips when Dick slips a hand through his pants rests it against his erection, slowly stroking him, and still fucking his mouth with his tongue.
“Lube. Now,” he breaks away and pants against Dick’s throat, feeling him just as sweaty as Tim is and then feeling alive with that thought.
“What? Can’t keep up?” Dick teases, but twists impossibly back and reaches a hand under the sofa.
He comes back with a tube, and grins. Tim narrows his eyes. “Do I want to know why that’s under your couch?”
Dick shrugs. “Convenience.”
He shifts off Tim, and he bites his tongue and doesn’t quite whimper at the sudden lack of contact. He’s achingly hard, and his fingers are twitches and grasping at the pillows so he doesn’t touch himself, pull Dick to him, do *anything* to make this faster.
Dick gets his pants off, and pulls Tim’s down around his knees, unscrewing the tube, and slicking his fingers.
“How do you want this?” He asks, staring and just… staring.
Tim bites his tongue again. “*Now*,” he spits out, and watches Dick’s eyes gleam.
“Such impatience, maybe I should --“
“If you even *think* about finishing that sentence --“ He narrows his eyes before gasping and bucking as Dick slides a fingers into him.
He doesn’t have a chance to catch his breath before Dick gets another finger in and starts scissoring him, careful despite the rush, and Tim can’t do anything except whine and *feel* the clicking of his throat contracting when Dick rubs against his prostate.
“Dick, oh fuck oh --“ It’s not intelligent but he can’t *stop*. He’s going to come right now, and he growls and digs his heel into Dick’s side or back, spreading his legs wider, but whatever it is it gets the point across.
He pulls out his fingers, leaving Tim aching and empty, an gasping for control. Dick squeezes more of the lube onto his fingers, slicking himself, and Tim can see his eyes fall closed and his mouth open and *widen* at the first touch of his fingers to his cock.
Tim swallows, and can’t tear his eyes away until Dick’s eyes open again, and not even then because they’re just staring *into* each other before Dick moves to position himself, and then thrusts in.
It’s too *slow* is all he thinks before his thoughts dissolve, and it’s just good and *right*, because Dick is thrusting and filling him.
He screams at the first thrust that hits his prostate full on, and can’t control himself enough to match Dick’s pace, but the uneven rhythm only makes it better. More *real*.
Dick gets a hand between them at some point, the one not braced against the back of the couch, and Tim moans and bites at his lips, voice low and hoarse when Dick strokes him, matching his thrusts and driving Tim that much closer.
He grips at Dick’s shoulder, his other hand still spasming against the cushion beneath him. There’s sweat dripping into his eyes, and Dick squeezes his cock just a little harder, before moving to roll and cup his balls, and then there’s nothing but white and his own shouts, and he’s coming too hard to think.
Dick keeps thrusting, and it’s still so good it feels like his orgasm never *stops* but he’s boneless and panting so it must have.
He finally thrusts and stills, hips shaking and groaning loud as he comes inside of him. His shoulders slump, and he pulls out, seeming to ignore the sticky mess of Tim’s stomach, and easing himself into something of a exhausted embrace.
Tim makes a soft sound of protest.
They’re on Dick’s couch, in his living room, with no clothes or blankets and…
Dick makes a happy sounding hum that Tim can feel right through his body. He’s content, for now, and it isn’t as if Dick is due for any visitors in the morning.
He knits a hand carefully through Dick’s hair, and gets only a sigh in response.
It’s not so long before he falls asleep himself.
Author: Mimic
Characters/Pairings: Dick/Tim
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I don't play for keeps. DC owns them.
Notes: Title from Lewis Carroll's "Alice in Wonderland". Fic for Pixie, who has awesomely agreed to make me Bucky icons in return for porn.
Feedback: Ahh, yes.
Word Count: 3200
It was apparent to him even before he took on the role of Robin that Dick played a key role in the way their ‘family’ socialized at any point in time.
His relationship with *Bruce* especially, was vital to monitor at all times, and while Oracle was exceedingly thorough in planting cameras anywhere Dick may be, Tim occasionally took it upon himself to play a more active role in coaxing Dick back to the acceptable side of insanity.
He didn’t, after all, find spending time in Bludhaven particularly unpleasant.
The things he learned from Dick during these visits were all things he would have learned from Bruce, but the lessons were all about reassuring Dick that he was, at the very least, doing a good job at being Tim’s ‘older brother.’
He had apparently graduated from train-surfing blindfolded to just train-surfing, and it was comforting in a strange way that Dick still didn’t believe rooftops or motorcycles were quite good enough for when *he* visited.
The grind of the wheels rubbing the tracks as they sped along a sharp turn coaxed him away from his thoughts and back to the small crease marring the smooth texture of the mask covering Dick’s face, and the way he was obviously not talking even if he was still moving much more than anyone *train-surfing* should be able to.
It still took everything Tim had not to go flying when he spread and braced his feet, and turned.
Dick took in the movement with all the expert of someone who knew his own body well enough to do anything with it, and nodded his approval.
“So did I do something specific to earn the silent treatment, or is this not about me?” He kept his voice as low as he could with the rattle and hum of the train, and the rush of the wind that ate up almost everything.
It was, admittedly, not very low, but Dick seemed to get the point.
He smiled, rueful and all at once *aware* of just what he had been doing. “Sorry, Tim, I’ve just…”
“Had a lot on my mind?” he finished, adding, “Want to talk?” a second later.
Dick’s smile melted somewhat, and hardened around the edges until it wasn’t precisely a smile anymore. Not quite a grimace but -- Dick was thinking very hard about what he wanted to say. No, *how much* he wanted to say.
“I’ve been told I’m a good listener,” he says, allowing his own ruefulness to slip in, and watches as Dick hears that and then hears *him*.
Dick laughs, not happily, but Tim isn’t in a place to analyze just what emotion is filling it, and says, “I can *imagine*, little brother.”
It’s just enough of a push to make him feel justified in coming here.
The next turn he almost overcompensates, and has to grit his teeth against the desire he’s never quite been able to shake to panic and make things worse. He’s never, and will never be, a natural at this sort of thing.
Dick rests a hand on his shoulder and looks at him as the tracks level out again. “Stop’s coming up.”
“This is the express,” Tim deadpans, and Dick’s laugh this time is more real.
“Like I said,” he says, only a few seconds before he jumps, and Tim has to tear his eyes away from the perfect blot of black Nightwing makes against the Bludhaven lights to remember to jump himself.
He lands as perfectly as he ever has, and pulls himself into a crouch before scanning the area and slowly rising to his feet.
It’s instinct to pull his cape around himself, to use it to shield him from everything outside his body. He doesn’t think he’ll ever stop loving the cape.
Then Dick’s firing a line higher into the skyline, and Tim has only a moment to think wryly of ever taking a vehicle before the line between ‘following Dick’ and ‘having to hunt for hours to *find* Dick’ becomes apparent.
He’s known that line, *felt* it for much longer than he should have.
There are some days when he feels the absence of the camera strap chafing his neck more than others.
Dick isn’t so much waiting for him as doing very small laps, and being extra showy on his leaps. Tim catches up, and then works on catching up the rest of the way.
This is another kind of lesson: a mix of follow the leader, and tag, and those high school gym games of football all about proving who’s the toughest of the bunch.
It’s a game that Tim will never win, and one he’s content with being second best at.
He follows Nightwing through the weave of buildings, imitating what he can and improvising when Dick breaks off into things he couldn’t attempt on the ground without twice the flexibility he has. Dick has even more of an advantage here in his town, where Tim can feel him knowing and using every building they cross.
In Gotham it’s easier, especially after the ‘quake with them both wrong-footed and left grasping at the edges of what they used to know so well.
Dick is talking to him with movement now, willing Tim to see everything that’s wrong splayed out in the way he spins himself into a double somersault, and spreads his arms to feel the resistance.
It makes the absence of chafing on his neck, and the weight against his chest itch.
The game shifts and changes rules when they run across their first mugging, Dick drops out of the skyline, and Tim hears the sounds of violence briefly as he passes over them and continues the make-shift ‘patrol’ the game embodies. He changes the course from what Dick would have picked, and feels more than hears the noise of protest behind him.
Maintaining the advantage is difficult, and becomes impossible when screams down an alley cause him to shift abruptly, and Dick swings over him twice before moving on. Tim makes a note of his direction as he expands his staff, giving one of the would-be rapists a mild concussion in the process.
The other two go down quickly, and he nods at the woman clutching her jacket tighter around her body but not really crying.
He takes to the air after she nods back and kicks a little at one of the men.
It’s impossible for him to see Nightwing at this point, but he knows where he’ll be, and the Bludhaven maps come to mind almost as quickly as the Gotham ones.
The shortcuts mean he only takes seventeen minutes to catch up, and he had been stopped once by another mugging. Dick is in the middle of kicking the shit out of some really stupid, persistence dealers. He obviously knows their circle well enough to be spitting personalized insults in their faces, and it’s only a second’s hesitation before he drops down and joins Dick back to back.
“Glad you could make it,” Dick says, kicking a guy his way.
Tim works on not getting his throat stabbed by the long and *already* bloody knife the dealer is packing, and twists around to be within talking distance of Nightwing.
“You’re going to want to investigate what the pimps on eighth are having their girls do.”
Dick’s foot connects to one of the guy’s ribs with a sickening crack muffled by the other fight sounds, and he backflips out of the way. “You see something?”
“Two of the girls getting pushed around,” he answers, spinning his staff to block one man’s sloppy punch and using the other to alleviate the other’s knife with one of his batarangs.
The last of them goes down to Nightwing’s nerve strike, and they work on zip stripping them. “You think it’s more than a coincidence?”
It isn’t quite Dick’s command voice, but the register is rough enough to show he means business. It’s the sort of thing Tim had been avoiding, but the Mission always comes first.
He nods once, and fires a grapple to the roof. Dick follows him on the fire escape. “They didn’t look as relieved as they should being rescued,” he says as Dick jumps to the top.
“Work never ends,” he sighs, and the look on his face is sad and hard, and too much for him too look at.
He turns towards the skyline, and the rapidly approaching day. “It’s not all bad.”
“Tim Drake: optimist,” Dick grins, shoving him on the shoulder affectionately, “Who knew?”
He regards Dick silently. “It has to be one of us. All the time.”
Dick shifts and turns away from him, crawling with movement, nodding and opening his mouth. “Yeah -- yeah, I guess so.”
“Not to say it has to be you.”
He laughs, real and open, but still not happy, and falls forwards into a handstand, shaking his hair out of his eyes, and looking at Tim upside down and through the mask. “I’m just the best at it?”
He smiles. “When you aren’t invested in imitating Bruce, that is.”
Dick flips out of the handstand, stares at him, and laughs again. It’s almost breathless this time.
“I should be returning,” he says the words carefully, with just enough resistance and obvious hope to get Dick to soften his stance.
His hand twitches like he wants to reach out, but settles for asking, “Stay? I have Zesti.”
“Only you would win someone over with soda,” he comments, and Dick shifts again.
“Not anyone, *you*. And you know it works.”
Tim doesn’t grace him with a reply, but when he fires his next grapple it’s in the very obvious direction of Dick’s apartment. He hears Dick’s laughter following him the entire way.
His apartment isn’t especially *messy*, but it has a very obvious lived in quality that Tim misses in his own house, and at the manor.
It’s another thing about Dick that’s different than the rest of them.
He’s out of costume now, with his hair still damp and smelling like Dick’s shampoo. Dick himself is in the kitchen, and when he returns he’s carrying a bottle of water. He tosses Tim the promised Zesti with his other hand.
Tim plucks it out of the air, and returns to staring at the blank television screen.
He can feel the excitement of patrol still tingling against his skin like so much electricity, and at this point he knows caffeine will only worsen his ability to sleep later, but takes a long sip of the soda anyway, and turns to stare at Dick.
He’s not wearing a shirt, and his hair is wetter than Tim’s.
It’s an effort not to bite his lip, and one he isn’t sure it’s worth the trouble of given the situation. He settles for clicking his teeth once, and not moving his eyes from Dick’s, not even for the gentle rise and fall of his chest belying the wired, hyperawareness in his eyes and the set of his jaw.
He takes another drink of his soda before setting it solidly down on the coffee table.
“The offer’s still open. Talking, that is,” he says, and looks at Dick again.
Dick smiles at him, teeth gleaming in the artificial light, and eyes still blown and impossibly blue. “It goes both ways.”
“You need it more,” he barely gets out before Dick leaps across and lands on the couch next to him.
It isn’t an invasion of personal space yet, and he knows Dick well enough to know it won’t be until Tim asks for it.
Dick is still smiling. “Really?”
He shifts, and leans just a bit, his eyes finally drifting to Dick’s bare shoulder, and to the scars making a perfect cross over the top.
The warmth of Dick’s tongue in his mouth isn’t so overwhelming as the press of all that skin against the fabric of his shirt. It feels like downing and choking, and knowing everything about himself all at once, before Dick breaks off and licks a stripe against his neck.
“You taste like grape,” he comments to Tim’s skin.
He hums, just a little, and Dick’s licking turns to sucking. “Comes with the territory.”
Tim unhooks and smoothes out his legs underneath Dick, one slipping off the couch and flexing against the floor. Dick won’t stop licking and sucking his neck, and probably *really* won’t until Tim gives him something better to do.
He can’t think so clearly over that now, though, just about reaching around and gripping the forearm connected to the hand across Tim’s chest, and sliding his other around Dick’s neck and rubbing at the soft hair on the back, and the little prickle of stubble on the front.
Dick makes some sort of noise, a word or a hum, against him, and drags his lips back up to Tim’s mouth, capturing them and sucking in his tongue.
He opens his mouth wide, reaching for as much as he can take. This is all about Dick, all about making him happy, and figuring out just how to do that.
Surrendering the part of himself invested in keeping away from others is always a good place to start.
Dick needs to feel -- needed, useful. A million other things Tim thinks he can understand.
He drags his teeth along Dick’s bottom lip, and feels the hand on his chest shudder and flex, inching towards his nipple and then pressing and squeezing.
Tim swallows the saliva growing in his mouth, and leans forward -- deeper into the kiss and Dick’s *hand*, and feeling himself beginning to harden.
“Know how to show a guy a good time,” he smirks in Dick’s ear, gasping when Dick bites and licks and then blows his cool breath against Tim’s own.
Dick pushes his hand into Tim’s shirt, and pinches his nipple again. Tim bucks.
“The train ride from hell is my hook.”
He chuckles, only a little breathless as Dick continues twisting and working his nipple with his blunt fingernails. “I thought it was the tasteless jokes.”
“Only if I know them well.” That bite will certainly leave a mark. He’ll have to cover it up in the morning, make sure he wears a turtleneck to school.
He groans as Dick pulls away, sitting up and tugging Tim’s t-shirt over his head.
“You think you know me well,” it isn’t so much a question as something to say to pass the time, staring at Dick staring at him.
Dick grins, lethal and sharp, and slides down so he’s straddling Tim’s hips. He can feel every little shift and breath Dick takes, and his eyes fall closed with another moan as Dick takes Tim’s other nipple into his mouth. It only takes him a second to find the right mix of teeth and tongue that leaves Tim growling and crawling at the infuriating soft pillows of the sofa.
And then he’s panting and staring at the impossible blue of Dick’s eyes as he smirks down at him. “Of course I do, little brother.”
It shocks a laugh out of him, and he’s still laughing when Dick covers his mouth with his own. The kiss is obscene, and wonderful, so much that the red Tim’s seeing against his eyes can’t be anything other than a flush.
He shudders and bucks, and *bites* Dick’s lips when Dick slips a hand through his pants rests it against his erection, slowly stroking him, and still fucking his mouth with his tongue.
“Lube. Now,” he breaks away and pants against Dick’s throat, feeling him just as sweaty as Tim is and then feeling alive with that thought.
“What? Can’t keep up?” Dick teases, but twists impossibly back and reaches a hand under the sofa.
He comes back with a tube, and grins. Tim narrows his eyes. “Do I want to know why that’s under your couch?”
Dick shrugs. “Convenience.”
He shifts off Tim, and he bites his tongue and doesn’t quite whimper at the sudden lack of contact. He’s achingly hard, and his fingers are twitches and grasping at the pillows so he doesn’t touch himself, pull Dick to him, do *anything* to make this faster.
Dick gets his pants off, and pulls Tim’s down around his knees, unscrewing the tube, and slicking his fingers.
“How do you want this?” He asks, staring and just… staring.
Tim bites his tongue again. “*Now*,” he spits out, and watches Dick’s eyes gleam.
“Such impatience, maybe I should --“
“If you even *think* about finishing that sentence --“ He narrows his eyes before gasping and bucking as Dick slides a fingers into him.
He doesn’t have a chance to catch his breath before Dick gets another finger in and starts scissoring him, careful despite the rush, and Tim can’t do anything except whine and *feel* the clicking of his throat contracting when Dick rubs against his prostate.
“Dick, oh fuck oh --“ It’s not intelligent but he can’t *stop*. He’s going to come right now, and he growls and digs his heel into Dick’s side or back, spreading his legs wider, but whatever it is it gets the point across.
He pulls out his fingers, leaving Tim aching and empty, an gasping for control. Dick squeezes more of the lube onto his fingers, slicking himself, and Tim can see his eyes fall closed and his mouth open and *widen* at the first touch of his fingers to his cock.
Tim swallows, and can’t tear his eyes away until Dick’s eyes open again, and not even then because they’re just staring *into* each other before Dick moves to position himself, and then thrusts in.
It’s too *slow* is all he thinks before his thoughts dissolve, and it’s just good and *right*, because Dick is thrusting and filling him.
He screams at the first thrust that hits his prostate full on, and can’t control himself enough to match Dick’s pace, but the uneven rhythm only makes it better. More *real*.
Dick gets a hand between them at some point, the one not braced against the back of the couch, and Tim moans and bites at his lips, voice low and hoarse when Dick strokes him, matching his thrusts and driving Tim that much closer.
He grips at Dick’s shoulder, his other hand still spasming against the cushion beneath him. There’s sweat dripping into his eyes, and Dick squeezes his cock just a little harder, before moving to roll and cup his balls, and then there’s nothing but white and his own shouts, and he’s coming too hard to think.
Dick keeps thrusting, and it’s still so good it feels like his orgasm never *stops* but he’s boneless and panting so it must have.
He finally thrusts and stills, hips shaking and groaning loud as he comes inside of him. His shoulders slump, and he pulls out, seeming to ignore the sticky mess of Tim’s stomach, and easing himself into something of a exhausted embrace.
Tim makes a soft sound of protest.
They’re on Dick’s couch, in his living room, with no clothes or blankets and…
Dick makes a happy sounding hum that Tim can feel right through his body. He’s content, for now, and it isn’t as if Dick is due for any visitors in the morning.
He knits a hand carefully through Dick’s hair, and gets only a sigh in response.
It’s not so long before he falls asleep himself.