[dc] kinda like amaxophilia
The garage door rolls up. And purrs.
Tim looks at the cat.
The cat's on the hood of the Batmobile.
The cat's green.
The cat's Gar.
The cat--Garfield, haha--looks back at him. Blinks, in that smugly indignant way that cats have but really, Gar totally doesn't.
"Off," Tim says. This time Gar doesn't blink; fixes Tim with a cat-glare and licks his paw, drags it over his head. Does it again.
Grooming. Batmobile. Tim's right eyelid twitches.
"I need to alarm the car."
Coppery blur. "Dude," Bart says beside him. "The car's warm and making the ticking noise. Cats are like, genetically unable to resist that kind of thing." And now he's perched on the hood, scritching behind Gar's ears. Gar purrs. And stretches.
It's not so weird. There's been weirder.
"When I turn on the alarm," Tim says patiently, "two hundred volts of electricity will knock you both off from where you're sitting. And knock you out." He gestures to the roller door.
"Robin," Bart whines.
"Off."
Gar very deliberately walks across the roof of the car and leaps off the end. If cats could flip the bird with their tails, Tim has just seen it.
Bart's peering at him. "That was harsh, man. I mean, he's pretty good at retracting his claws, even if it was possible to ding the paintwork on these things, which, it totally looks like it isn't."
"Bart."
"And you could just lock the garage. What? We're still in here, why are you closing--"
"Get back on the car."
::
"Uh. Okay."
Bart does as he's told, straightaway, which is one more item to add to Tim's list of Reasons Why Fucking Bart Is A Very Good Idea.
"Hi," Bart grins, sunny and... lounging on the hood of the car. He's resting his weight on his hands behind him, one knee bent, the other leg almost-dangling over the fender.
"Good week?" Tim can make conversation--
"Yup--"
--but sometimes he'd rather not.
"Mnn--" Bart makes a fun little noise when Tim kisses him, but he is actually very smart and knows when to stop speaking and start sub-vocalising. Which he does. A lot. Tim likes it, the contented sounds from the back of Bart's throat, and he likes the fast quaver of Bart's tongue against his mouth, and he really likes the way Bart's suit slips frictionless over the polymerised Bat-paint, because it means Bart loses his grip and slides forwards and is pretty much wrapped around Tim's thighs.
"Hi," Bart says again, but it's not breathy and cute because there's only so much of that Tim will let him get away with, it's more like... need.
Especially when he tugs on the back of Tim's cape with his heels together. "Off," Bart says, and he's wide-eyed with his bottom lip caught in his little teeth. Someone else might think it's innocent but Tim's quite sure Bart's thinking about how the cape pulls tight at Tim's collar.
They've established that kind of thing has a certain... appeal.
Tim shakes off Bart's gaze with the cape and wraps his fingers around Bart's knees.
"How precocious are you feeling?"
"Kinda like Mozart--" Bart begins, but he chokes a little when Tim drags his hands up and frames his thumbs either side of Bart's dick. He's already hard, and Tim could put that down to the metabolism thing, but he's pretty much there himself, so he'll go with really hot kissing. "--yeah, composing symphonies at age six."
"You're not six," Tim smiles, and rubs his thumbs in little circles.
Bart's head thumps gently on the car. "Asshole. Also--ah--I bet you like that--"
"You won't slip on the car if you're naked," Tim says, because he's helpful.
"Point," Bart nods, and then there is a brief blur. Which coalesces into Bart, resuming his sprawling. Naked.
Tim is still wearing mostly everything except his gauntlets and belt and... jock. He gives Bart a narrow glance. "How and why?"
"I get bored in gym class as well," Bart says, and Tim lets him hook his feet behind Tim's legs, "you were trickier. Did Batman design your--ooh, nope, we don't want that mental picture--"
"Bart."
"Robin." Bart's eyes are a wicked gold. "There's no point having sex on the Batmobile with Tim Drake."
Ouch. Tim gets it, but, "Shouldn't you--"
"You don't need the costume to remind you," Bart sounds conspiratorial, and he pulls Tim down and wriggles against him, buzzing, and oh, right. Speed is nice. Speed means friction and friction feels fantastic.
Bart's heels dig into the backs of Tim's knees until Tim is all-the-way on the car too. There's not that much room, really, so shifting Bart up so that his head is on the windowshield makes good sense, and that way Tim can kiss him--
"You're totally watching our reflection, aren't you?" Bart grins.
Tim shoves his thigh up between Bart's and smirks back at him. It's not Tim's fault the windows are mirror-glass. He flicks back the lenses on his mask. "So were you."
"Ooh, the famous detective powers--"
The thing about kissing Bart is that while it really does effectively derail Bart's train of thought, it has adverse effects on Tim's own ability to form coherent action plans. Bart has a really distracting mouth. It's enticingly red and shiny when he's talking and then it's wet and heated against Tim's, and his tongue--yeah, speed.
It's hard not to do what they do and not develop some pretty specific fetishes. Tim wonders briefly if Bart's had the "alternative lifestyles" talk sex-ed classes at his school. And whether he blurted out "Kevlar!"
Bart tugs on his hair. Action plan------right. Tim shifts his weight, and then he can thumb along the vulnerable line of Bart's collarbone, still managing to kiss him (it's more like breathing and biting together, but it sounds dirty and it feels even better) while he trails his fingers over the thin skin over Bart's ribs.
"Lick," Tim says, and Bart mouths at Tim's thumb greedily. There's a little whine when Tim slides his hand away and pinches at Bart's nipple, and the whine becomes more gasp-y and open. Tim watches the blood rush back and colour up the hard nub, and does it again, twists his fingers, and Bart arches slightly up and pulls at Tim's hair harder this time.
"Heyyy," says Bart, and he's flushed in an appealingly patchy way across his chest, and when Tim lifts his head up there's intense colour on Bart's cheeks that's got nothing to do with exertion and makes Tim feel less weird about the whole precocious--oh, fuck he's hot. There's sweat beaded on his lip that Tim bends to lick off, that's all, but Bart likes the licking and it develops into a long, wet survey of Bart's mouth, broken by muffled yelps because Tim can't seem to stop thumbing hard at Bart's nipples.
Bart bites at his tongue and pulls his head back slightly, and Tim can breathe. "You're--"
"--dude, you know foreplay is like, so optional," Bart is already saying, "slow and interesting later, okay, just come here and--yeah--" and then he has his hand in Tim's pants and shivery fingers around Tim's dick, and Tim thinks that of all the public libraries that Bart could have chosen, the 306.7 section in San Francisco had to be the most... rewarding.
Tim tries to make a protesting sound but he shoves into Bart's hand instead and it comes out like a groan. "God, you're impatient--"
"Sex on cars is supposed to be fast. And hard." Bart rubs his thumb over the head of Tim's dick and there's not even any friction because he's wet there already. "It's not like you're not--ngh--"
"Not?" Tim reaches down between them and Bart's just as heated as the rest of him, hard and heavy and jesus, feels like he's throbbing in his hand and that's so amazing. "Not what?"
"--H-hot," Bart laughs, and it makes Tim grin, and Bart rocks up into him, one hand clasped behind Tim's neck, furrowed in his hair, jamming their other hands together so that Tim feels the contrasts of his hand and Bart's dick and Bart's near-slippery skin and the rucked material of his costume. "No, I mean. You're hard," Bart gives him a tight squeeze that Tim returns, "you want--uh, can we fuck? Robin?"
Tim's hips jerk entirely of their own volition.
Bart's skin squeaks on the car. "Is that a--"
God, yes. "Such a yes," Tim pushes Bart's shoulder down and curls his hand up in the slick space behind his knee, and Bart doesn't just have speed, he has flexibility, and maybe Tim's had something to do with that, which would be, um, gratifying.
He can press Bart's knee up against his shoulder. "Nice extension," Tim blurts, and winces, because that's someone else's wisecrack, isn't it?
Bart just blinks and smiles like he's pleased with himself, and wriggles his fingers inside Tim's tights. Then--they're around his knees and Tim is shaking, because he felt that instead of the usual strobe-effect when Bart moves at speed, so Bart must have spent all that relative time just. Touching.
Oh.
Even only at twenty-five frames per second the surveillance on the car might--god, Tim disturbs himself sometimes. Bart's hooked his other leg up under Tim's ass and he gets it, he really does, it's just hard to think of why he might possibly want to move when Bart's still stroking him and making encouraging noises and his body feels like a warm, pliable plaything. Sprawled on top of another. Plaything.
"Oh, god," Tim says, because his brain supplies helpful captions like: You're going to fuck him on the Batmobile. Right about now.
"Come on," Bart bucks up and twists his hand up Tim's cock and off, and he circles Tim's wrist and drags his hand down, "you don't need to--I already--" and Tim's fingers are curled into the cleft of Bart's ass, and precocious doesn't even begin to cover it, because Bart's all slick.
Tim's never showing him where he keeps anything in his belt, ever again.
"Could've done that--" Tim groans, "--like doing it--"
"Fuck, Robin--"
--there's a sharp thrill that curls in his belly when Bart pushes Tim's fingers inside him, and Tim bends Bart back and shoves his hips forward so his cock slides into the perfect space between his thumb and Bart's wrist and, god, that's the sort of precision manouever he wishes he could tell--
"Ah-ah-ah--" Bart stutters the beginning of a word but Tim doesn't hear the first sound, he's too busy watching. Bart's mouth is open and shiny and his jaw twitches when Tim slides his fingers halfway out of him and in again, all smooth heat clenching around him, and he grinds down against their hands until it hurts because he's so hard and Bart squeezes his eyes shut with a convulsive gasp.
"Now, now," Bart jerks at his wrist, reaches up behind his head, his elbows thunking against the windshield, "more, c'mon, I can't concentrate like this andeverything'sgonnaslowdownifyoudon't--just--please--"
Tim feels his lungs hitch uneven breaths in Bart's pauses, wants to whine too when he slides his fingers out of Bart and scrabbles for his other knee, pushes him up and pushes forward and that doesn't work, his dick slides wet and slick along the cleft of Bart's ass and against the car--jesus, insanely good and he can't help but do it again--
"Tim." Bart's trembling, small vibrations that feel fantastic against Tim's skin, everywhere he's touching him and he'd rip off the rest of his costume if he could think about anything but how Bart is shaking against him, but Bart's face is creased up in frustration and his teeth are digging into his tongue like he's trying to stop time, which is probably not too far off the mark, and Tim hauls in a breath and balances and shoves up this time and Bart moans so loudly that he probably doesn't hear that Tim does too.
"You want," Tim starts, but it's enough to mold his hands around the shape of Bart's thighs and fuck into him, all the way inside him, and his fingers felt good but this is just so much more, so perfect and tight, and Bart's clutching at nothing behind him, arched up and wide-eyed now.
"God, yeah, I want, just move--" Bart swallows thickly and blinks hard at Tim likes he's just working out who he is, licks his lips, lets his head drop back, "--fuck." He's not vibrating so hard now but his hands are making fists compusively and he's straining up when Tim thrusts into him, probably too hard, but god, Bart's naked and whimpering and really, really flexible, and Tim is all in favour of Bart's theory on car-sex and he's pretty sure this car definitely calls for hard and fast but if he does that again it's going to be--
"Brain off," Bart pants, "don't you know--how--hard it is--to stay with you--" and Bart pulls Tim's hands away so he can wrap his legs around Tim's waist, and that's a different angle and easier and better and Tim isn't--wasn't--going to come right this second except Bart keeps talking, "--less thinking, more fucking, now, now--"
Tim does, thrusts forward and groans, and Bart's still clutching his wrists so he pushes them both back down onto the car again, and he can feel the bones in Bart's hands shift underneath his own fingers as he gets a dizzy rhythm, and Bart's hissing yes and pushing back, shuddering around him and jerking his hips against Tim for friction on his cock, and Tim tenses all over because he thinks about all the moments that Bart has and he doesn't and they're so many, Tim wants to fill those spaces somehow--and then he just can't think, he's gasping and Bart is hot all around him, and he's coming and it's like a heavy liquid flooding his body and knocking the breath out of him all at once--
--Bart's moving under him, shaking and frantic against him and Tim's vaguely aware of wondering if being half-dressed makes the friction better or worse and then Bart stiffens and makes a choked sound, a harsh little cry and just-----freezes, still for a long, long moment where Tim blinks and Bart does nothing at all until his muscles unclench and he drops his head to the side, hiccupping a sigh, and Tim only knows that because he feels it under his cheek where he's slumped forward into the curve of Bart's shoulder.
Breathing is good. It takes a few quiet moments to work out whose limbs belong to who, but Tim is used to measuring Bart's stillness in eyeblinks, or heartbeats, and just now that's... enough.
"Mmmnngh."
"Hmm?"
Bart unfolds his fingers from Tim's grip and drops his hand onto Tim's neck. "You're still. Mmm. Moving."
Yeah. Not urgent, not with any purpose, just. Skin. Bart. Seems like the thing to do. He's soft and slipping out but Bart sort of... twitches around his dick, and that. "Feels good," Tim murmurs, licks at the stretched arch of Bart's neck and rocks against him.
Bart's fingers creep into Tim's hair and tangle there, tighten sporadically. "Yeah." Tim feels Bart's skin buzz when he speaks, throat working softly when he swallows. "Gonna push you off in a second."
"'kay." Tim's still getting his hair stroked and Bart's only wriggling a little.
"Now."
"Mmm."
Bart doesn't so much as push him off as roll them over and sit up, which is a bit precarious and involves altogether too much un-entangling--dis-entangling, a lack of tangling, which Tim was enjoying.
Watching Bart graze his fingertips over his stomach--shiny, wet, their come on his belly--that's okay too. Kind of hypnotic. Tim doesn't even blink until Bart touches his index finger to Tim's mouth--slick, them.
Tim makes a soft noise and Bart looks at him with his mouth quirked, all curiosity and serious consideration.
It's a struggle not to retreat behind the lenses. "What?"
Bart flickers, and his quirk becomes a smile and an eye roll. Scrutiny must be over.
Max, Tim thinks, with a sudden clear picture of a different Bart, and for a second he wants to hold Bart tight and nothing to change.
"Yup--" Bart's gaze is darting around them like he's cataloguing the exact position of every item--Tim included--in the garage. Maybe his memory isn't eidetic but it might as well be and that's why Tim isn't going to mention the cameras. "--Batmobile. Cool."
Tim snickers. "Got that out of your system?"
Bart's brow creases. "You don't. Why do you think I would?"
"I--" Um.
"It's understandable, man." Bart nods solemnly. Blurs, and he's dressed--tousled, bright-eyed and peering at Tim upside down, perched on the roof of the car. "Completely normal. I mean, apart from the fact that it's not really normal that you have this car in the first place, but that's a whole 'nother level of not normal, and I'm just saying, you know, psychologically, if you were going to like, fetish--fetishificate?--"
"Fetishize." Tim sits up and tries to figure out how to get dressed without getting undressed.
"--it's kinda obvious." Bart stretches out and tilts his head at Tim, who's fastening his cape. "Why are you even bothering? You know you're just going inside and stripping off again."
It's true. The Tower's showers are really, really good. Still. Tim flicks down the lenses. "Off. I need to set--"
Bart smirks at the handprints, which are the least of the mess. "You need to clean."
::
"I thought he'd be something small," Tim says, as an incongruous green owl flaps at them when the door rolls up.
"Owls've got awesome hearing." Bart ducks when the owl's wings flutter over their heads, grins. "Besides. I think there was a spider on the dashboard."
Gar hoots indignantly and disappears into the garden.
::