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buggeryMmm, Gotham boys...
Whiny note: I blame Te entirely for this.
She introduced me to the idea that it was okay to slash Tim with... well, pretty much anybody. She's managed to convince me of the merits of posting fic as soon as it's done, without spending a week or more on beta and other editing.
And she pulled this piece of smut out of me like the intestines out of a medieval torture victim.
Continuity note: Set between the second-to-last and last scenes of issue #6 of the current series of Teen Titans (issue date February 2004). Certainly it'll help you to be familiar with the issue, but there aren't any serious spoilers, and really, I just used a scenario presented in canon as a convenient hook to hang some smut on.
For anyone reading this who doesn't really follow the current era of Batman comics, Dick Grayson (now Nightwing) was the original Robin, and Tim Drake is the current Robin, third to bear the name. Tim just turned 16.
Oh, and I'll give my new icon the detailed attribution that it deserves after I wake up tomorrow. The basics are in the keywords.
"In Lieu of a Lecture"
"So I'm guessing you were planning to change back at the Cave before you went home," Dick says, snapping him out of his reverie. He looks down at himself.
Robin. Right.
"Shit."
Dick reaches over and musses his hair. "Don't worry about it, we'll just swing by my place, and I can drive you home from there."
"After all your talk about respecting us Titans..." he mutters, finger-combing it back into place and glaring at Dick.
Dick only glances away from the console long enough to give him an eyebrow. "I save you from the lecture, and you're going to give me one?"
"Sorry," he says, more because he'd rather concede the point than get into it now. He turns back to staring out the domed glass and trying to ignore his reflection. "I've... got a lot of stuff on my mind."
The hand comes back and just lays across the back of his neck. "Hey, I know how that is."
Well, yeah. He sighs and... doesn't really mind the touch at all.
Once the suit starts coming off, he realises just how much he really doesn't want to put street clothes on without a shower. Something else that should have been too obvious not to occur to him -- he's gone one-on-one with Bruce this afternoon -- but, well, he does have an awful lot on his mind.
"Hey, Dick? You mind if I grab a shower?"
"I wish you would," Dick snickers, half-out of his own costume, pinching his nose closed in an exaggerated gesture.
Tim's getting better at anticipating Dick's moves; Dick ducks, and the boot hits him square in the ear.
And maybe he shouldn't have done that without getting his leggings off first, because Dick tackles him just as he's pushing the waistband past his knees. He tucks into it and rolls, but there's no way he can best Dick at floor gymnastics (or any other kind) and Dick winds up on top of him. He's pinned effectively, Dick having taken advantage of every nuance of position as well as his own superiour weight and strength. He knows every move Tim could make from beneath him, and he's got most of them countered just with his stance.
Most of them.
Dick's grinning, face flushed with adrenaline. His expression changes quickly when Tim's thigh shifts up and rubs against the bulge in Dick's briefs. Shocked and caught and looking for a way out and amused and... a different sort of grin entirely.
Tim swallows, and resists the urge to lick his lips when Dick's leer gets toothier. His mouth is suddenly dry.
And Dick just swivels his hips down, rubbing against his thigh until it's pressed right down to the floor.
"What's the matter, Tim?" Dick drawls. "Didn't I leave you enough time to... talk... with your friend before we left San Francisco?"
He can feel himself scowl. "It's not like that. Don't be a dick."
Dick laughs. Tilts his head up and laughs. "That never stops being funny," he gasps.
Tim takes advantage of Dick's distraction to try to squirm free, but apparently he wasn't that distracted.
"You know Tim, I was a founding member of the original Titans. I know how important it is to have team mates to--" he waggles his eyebrows and rubs against Tim again "--blow off steam with."
"Maybe for your Titans," he growls. "I told you, it's not. Like. That."
Dick makes a pitying face. "What's the matter? Superboy not giving it up? Not stuck on a gir--"
That does it.
He brings his knee up as hard as their position and his pants will allow, growling, "I told you it's not like that--"
--And Dick apparently saw that move coming before Tim knew he was going to make it, because Dick's crotch isn't there, and Tim's attempt at fighting one blow-below-the-belt with another just lends momentum to the way Dick's flipping them over. There's a moment of disorientation as Dick's apartment spins around them, and then--
He's on top of Dick?
Dick smirks up at him, uses his new grip on Tim's hips to shift them up against his own. He's wondering whether 'I'm sixteen' will be sufficient explanation for his erection when Dick's expression smoothes to serious.
"Tim, I've been where you are. I do know what it's like, I wasn't just talking out my ass earlier today. And you can't bottle stuff up, or it just comes out in other ways, and people get hurt." He relaxes his grip on Tim's hips, and gives his ass a gentle swat. "And I really don't care how, or with whom, you uh, 'work out your kinks', so long as you're doing it."
He just stares down at Dick for a long moment, keeping his own expression blank as the Batman's best, until Dick looks ready to break, take it all back and apologise.
"So," he asks, wriggling his hips just enough to shift his own dick alongside Dick's -- and it's at moments like these that he understands less than ever why the guy chooses to go by "Dick" -- "when you were 'where I am,' who was about to molest you?"
"Jesus, Tim," Dick groans. His head goes back against the hardwood floor with a painful-sounding thunk. (Heh, 'hardwood,' he thinks, and then, what are you, Dick?) "Okay, I guess I deserved that."
"Yep."
And Dick's showing no sign of actually answering that question, but honestly, Tim's not sure he'd want to know, despite the obvious blackmail benefits of 'You'll never guess what Nightwing told me...'
But since he is hard, and Dick does sort of have a point... "I tell you what. If I show you that I'm not 'keeping it bottled up,' will you lay off me?"
Dick's eyebrow rises under his mask. "I have the feeling I'll regret asking, but what do you mean, 'show me'?"
He leans back, spreads his legs across Dick's lap and pushes the front of his boxers down, careful to let his hand brush 'accidentally' against Dick's erection through his boxers. Dick starts to sit up, himself, gets one elbow under him and then just stops when Tim takes his dick in hand and starts stroking.
"Tim," Dick says, and bites his lip.
He grins and strokes himself nice and slow, with a twist that makes him throw his head back and grunt. He rolls his hips, thrusting into his hand and, not at all incidentally, against Dick.
"See, Dick?" he says, giving himself a squeeze and grunting again. "I know how to release my tensions."
Dick just nods, and swallows loudly.
Slipping his free hand into his bunched boxers, Tim pushes them further down, getting a good handful of his balls and squeezing. He fondles and pulls at them while he lets go of his dick momentarily to lick his palm. Dick sucks a breath in over his teeth, then makes a strained sound when Tim thrusts his hips again and the back of his hand grinds into the base of Dick's erection.
Dick's nipples are tautly peaked, and his hands keep clenching into fists against the floor. Tim thrusts and strokes and moans just as much as he wants to and maybe just a little more for Dick's benefit. He can't help but grin when sweat starts beading up on Dick's forehead, but aside from that and his clenching fists and the lip between his teeth Dick just isn't reacting enough.
He wriggles his hips back and forth, the movement pulling at the fabric of Dick's boxers. They're barely still on him; it's even money whether Dick's cock is going to spring out the top or through the fly, but either way it's going to happen soon. He's not sure Dick's even paying attention to that, because he's just staring at Tim.
"Are you just going to lay there, Dick?" he taunts. "I can see you have tension that needs releasing..."
Dick shakes his head, but it doesn't look so much like an answer as... denial. And that's just wrong. He works his hips and the hand around his balls faster, harder, not bothering to pretend it's not deliberate
"Come on, Dick. Don't tell me you've got yourself convinced that this is any less fucked up if you don't touch yourself."
And Dick's boxers choose that moment to give, freeing his dick.
It springs through the distended fly and thwacks right into Tim's knuckles and the head of his dick. They draw matching gasps, so synched up they might've planned it, and it would be funny if he wasn't so fucking turned on. He licks his lips. "Oh, yeah."
Dick growls, hooks a thumb into his boxers with one hand and manipulates his erection back through with the other, then pushes his boxers down against the wad of Tim's and starts stroking himself. His clenched abs are the only thing keeping his shoulders off the floor, and the image is startlingly hot.
Their hands keep bumping. Dick's moving in the same rhythm he is, now that he's moving, thrusting up when Tim strokes back, and he has to force his head not to go back too far because fuck, he wants to see this.
"This what you wanted, Tim?"
He has to squeeze, hard, with both hands, because there's just no way he could ever live down coming right then, and... he might not have, but it was a near thing.
Dick grins and starts thumbing the head of his dick between strokes. He runs his free hand up his chest and pulls at a nipple, twists it, scratches. Tim almost wants to do the same thing, feel exactly what Dick's feeling, but playing with his balls feels too good.
The back of his hand keeps sliding along the back of Dick's as they stroke themselves, and he's afraid Dick will just wrap his hand around him and he's afraid to ask him to. He just thrusts and pumps and licks sweat off his own lip and tries not to stare too tellingly.
"Give me your hand," Dick says.
Tim's pretty sure he just made a desperately undignified noise.
His whole body jerks, and he can't give Dick his hand right now, not either of them, because if he wasn't squeezing hard amd biting halfway through his lip he would definitely be coming. Not that that would be unbearably embarassing, but he wants to find out what Dick has in mind.
Needs to.
He takes a deep breath, flexes his hands, and strokes himself once, slowly, ready to clamp down again. "Uh. Which hand?" Smooth, Drake.
Dick's hips lift lazily, going with Tim's new rhythm. And the hand that's been teasing at his nipple slips back down Dick's chest, over his belly, skirts over one hipbone, cups a handful of Dick's balls to match the handful Tim has of his own. Yanks.
Tim makes that noise again, he's pretty sure. Something awfully high-pitched for coming from so deep in his throat.
And Dick lets go of his own balls and covers the hand Tim's got a deathgrip on his own sac with. "This one."
His hand spasms closed under Dick's before he can even think to squeeze.
Dick's still stroking himself steadily, still teasing the head of his own cock with his thumb, still lifting his hips into Tim's like the roll of a wave. Tim's pretty sure Dick is trying to get him to come first so he can tease Tim with tired teenager jokes, but he's caring less and less about that.
He lets his hand go slack with one last caress, and pushes it into Dick's.
And swallows at the look on Dick's face when he does.
Dick clasps their hands together, palm-to-palm, flexes his arm and pulls himself further up. They could arm-wrestle like this, if there were a table between them instead of just their dicks thrusting into their other hands. Or if he was still feeling remotely competitive.
Which he's really just not.
In fact -- Dick rocks up into him, slow and deliberate, both arms flexing towards Tim as his hips rise, then up when he eases back down -- oh, yeah.
He is all about teamwork.
He grinds down against Dick on Dick's next thrust, and wow, the leverage makes so much difference. Dick's feeling it, too, to judge by the way his head drops back. Then he's curling forward again, and Tim is too, pulling up on Dick's arm, Dick pulling him down and in.
The hands working their cocks brush together again, and Dick's knuckles slot between his briefly. Too briefly for him to decide whether twining the fingers of those hands together and jerking them both off would be too weird or just completely hot.
"Dick," he says, and then panics a little because he doesn't actually have anything to say and when he's this horny anything could come out of his mouth.
But Dick just groans, "yeahhh," low and breathy, and there's nothing he needs to say to that.
But Dick groans, "yeahhh," low and breathy, and there's nothing he needs to say to that. He can just keep his eyes wide open and ride Dick, pull himself against him and stroke his hand over his dick, the back of Dick's hand sliding over his, their skin slick with sweat.
And yeah, Dick is just glistening, glowing with it, beads of sweat standing out all over his face and chest and arms, droplets running down here and there. He's got to be sweating, too, he can feel it, but the way his own muscles flex under the skin is infinitely less interesting than watching Dick's abs, his triceps and biceps, shift under his slick, flushed skin.
Dick must see him watching, because he says "Do it," with an extra-emphatic jerk to his own cock to draw Tim's attention to -- he's still flicking his thumb across the head, faster now, and sure, that looks like a fantastic idea.
He shifts his grip on himself up, swipes the base of his thumb once over the head of his own dick. "Fffuck," he hisses. Yeah, fuck, why hasn't he been doing that already. Over again at the top of the next stroke, and a shudder runs through him, shakes him all the way up his spine. Over twice, and he thrusts up hard, and bends his thumb to get the blunt-nailed tip into it at the end of of that stroke. "Oh."
"Yeah," Dick agrees, and he looks up -- he'd been just staring at his dick -- and fuck when did Dick get so close? He flick-flicks his thumb and shudders and Dick thrusts up into him, the muscles in his arm bunching and bulging, and hauling Dick up close to him, nearly upright. Close enough to--
He jerks and gasps and shoots all over Dick, spattering his belly and his dick and all four of their hands. Dick's hand around his clenches hard, tightening just in time to keep him from falling over. His other hand is jerking furiously now, no finesse left.
Tim's come-slicked hand slips slackly against Dick's, and he figures oh, the hell with it and wraps his sticky fingers around Dick's.
Dick arches back, and it's Tim's turn to hold him up by their clasped hands, enough to keep his head from slamming hard into the floor as he comes, too. He can't help but grin as Dick slumps bonelessly, and shamelessly takes advantage of Dick's being momentarily out of it to clamber up, shove the rest of his uniform off, and make a dash for the bathroom.
"You gonna want me to save you any hot water?" he calls back from the doorway.
Dick smirks, not even bothering to lift his head. "Knock yourself out, Boy Wonder."
It's tempting to lure Dick into the shower with him -- his dick twitches at the thought, and he gives it a look, because no, it's still way too soon -- but it seems like stepping back and getting some perpective here would be wise. Playing drop-the-soap with Dick in his shower as they clean each other's jizz off their bodies probably wouldn't be conducive to any degree of detachment.
And he does need to get home at some point tonight.
There's studying there for Tim to do, and he'll have to spend long enough with his dad to spin at least one lie about his weekend of "vocational training," and he should probably go online and see whether Kon's logged on from Smallville.
"What do you know," he mutters to himself. Dick had been right. Somehow, none of it seems as stressful as it had just this afternoon.
He grins and lathers up.
Whiny note: I blame Te entirely for this.
She introduced me to the idea that it was okay to slash Tim with... well, pretty much anybody. She's managed to convince me of the merits of posting fic as soon as it's done, without spending a week or more on beta and other editing.
And she pulled this piece of smut out of me like the intestines out of a medieval torture victim.
Continuity note: Set between the second-to-last and last scenes of issue #6 of the current series of Teen Titans (issue date February 2004). Certainly it'll help you to be familiar with the issue, but there aren't any serious spoilers, and really, I just used a scenario presented in canon as a convenient hook to hang some smut on.
For anyone reading this who doesn't really follow the current era of Batman comics, Dick Grayson (now Nightwing) was the original Robin, and Tim Drake is the current Robin, third to bear the name. Tim just turned 16.
Oh, and I'll give my new icon the detailed attribution that it deserves after I wake up tomorrow. The basics are in the keywords.
"So I'm guessing you were planning to change back at the Cave before you went home," Dick says, snapping him out of his reverie. He looks down at himself.
Robin. Right.
"Shit."
Dick reaches over and musses his hair. "Don't worry about it, we'll just swing by my place, and I can drive you home from there."
"After all your talk about respecting us Titans..." he mutters, finger-combing it back into place and glaring at Dick.
Dick only glances away from the console long enough to give him an eyebrow. "I save you from the lecture, and you're going to give me one?"
"Sorry," he says, more because he'd rather concede the point than get into it now. He turns back to staring out the domed glass and trying to ignore his reflection. "I've... got a lot of stuff on my mind."
The hand comes back and just lays across the back of his neck. "Hey, I know how that is."
Well, yeah. He sighs and... doesn't really mind the touch at all.
Once the suit starts coming off, he realises just how much he really doesn't want to put street clothes on without a shower. Something else that should have been too obvious not to occur to him -- he's gone one-on-one with Bruce this afternoon -- but, well, he does have an awful lot on his mind.
"Hey, Dick? You mind if I grab a shower?"
"I wish you would," Dick snickers, half-out of his own costume, pinching his nose closed in an exaggerated gesture.
Tim's getting better at anticipating Dick's moves; Dick ducks, and the boot hits him square in the ear.
And maybe he shouldn't have done that without getting his leggings off first, because Dick tackles him just as he's pushing the waistband past his knees. He tucks into it and rolls, but there's no way he can best Dick at floor gymnastics (or any other kind) and Dick winds up on top of him. He's pinned effectively, Dick having taken advantage of every nuance of position as well as his own superiour weight and strength. He knows every move Tim could make from beneath him, and he's got most of them countered just with his stance.
Most of them.
Dick's grinning, face flushed with adrenaline. His expression changes quickly when Tim's thigh shifts up and rubs against the bulge in Dick's briefs. Shocked and caught and looking for a way out and amused and... a different sort of grin entirely.
Tim swallows, and resists the urge to lick his lips when Dick's leer gets toothier. His mouth is suddenly dry.
And Dick just swivels his hips down, rubbing against his thigh until it's pressed right down to the floor.
"What's the matter, Tim?" Dick drawls. "Didn't I leave you enough time to... talk... with your friend before we left San Francisco?"
He can feel himself scowl. "It's not like that. Don't be a dick."
Dick laughs. Tilts his head up and laughs. "That never stops being funny," he gasps.
Tim takes advantage of Dick's distraction to try to squirm free, but apparently he wasn't that distracted.
"You know Tim, I was a founding member of the original Titans. I know how important it is to have team mates to--" he waggles his eyebrows and rubs against Tim again "--blow off steam with."
"Maybe for your Titans," he growls. "I told you, it's not. Like. That."
Dick makes a pitying face. "What's the matter? Superboy not giving it up? Not stuck on a gir--"
That does it.
He brings his knee up as hard as their position and his pants will allow, growling, "I told you it's not like that--"
--And Dick apparently saw that move coming before Tim knew he was going to make it, because Dick's crotch isn't there, and Tim's attempt at fighting one blow-below-the-belt with another just lends momentum to the way Dick's flipping them over. There's a moment of disorientation as Dick's apartment spins around them, and then--
He's on top of Dick?
Dick smirks up at him, uses his new grip on Tim's hips to shift them up against his own. He's wondering whether 'I'm sixteen' will be sufficient explanation for his erection when Dick's expression smoothes to serious.
"Tim, I've been where you are. I do know what it's like, I wasn't just talking out my ass earlier today. And you can't bottle stuff up, or it just comes out in other ways, and people get hurt." He relaxes his grip on Tim's hips, and gives his ass a gentle swat. "And I really don't care how, or with whom, you uh, 'work out your kinks', so long as you're doing it."
He just stares down at Dick for a long moment, keeping his own expression blank as the Batman's best, until Dick looks ready to break, take it all back and apologise.
"So," he asks, wriggling his hips just enough to shift his own dick alongside Dick's -- and it's at moments like these that he understands less than ever why the guy chooses to go by "Dick" -- "when you were 'where I am,' who was about to molest you?"
"Jesus, Tim," Dick groans. His head goes back against the hardwood floor with a painful-sounding thunk. (Heh, 'hardwood,' he thinks, and then, what are you, Dick?) "Okay, I guess I deserved that."
"Yep."
And Dick's showing no sign of actually answering that question, but honestly, Tim's not sure he'd want to know, despite the obvious blackmail benefits of 'You'll never guess what Nightwing told me...'
But since he is hard, and Dick does sort of have a point... "I tell you what. If I show you that I'm not 'keeping it bottled up,' will you lay off me?"
Dick's eyebrow rises under his mask. "I have the feeling I'll regret asking, but what do you mean, 'show me'?"
He leans back, spreads his legs across Dick's lap and pushes the front of his boxers down, careful to let his hand brush 'accidentally' against Dick's erection through his boxers. Dick starts to sit up, himself, gets one elbow under him and then just stops when Tim takes his dick in hand and starts stroking.
"Tim," Dick says, and bites his lip.
He grins and strokes himself nice and slow, with a twist that makes him throw his head back and grunt. He rolls his hips, thrusting into his hand and, not at all incidentally, against Dick.
"See, Dick?" he says, giving himself a squeeze and grunting again. "I know how to release my tensions."
Dick just nods, and swallows loudly.
Slipping his free hand into his bunched boxers, Tim pushes them further down, getting a good handful of his balls and squeezing. He fondles and pulls at them while he lets go of his dick momentarily to lick his palm. Dick sucks a breath in over his teeth, then makes a strained sound when Tim thrusts his hips again and the back of his hand grinds into the base of Dick's erection.
Dick's nipples are tautly peaked, and his hands keep clenching into fists against the floor. Tim thrusts and strokes and moans just as much as he wants to and maybe just a little more for Dick's benefit. He can't help but grin when sweat starts beading up on Dick's forehead, but aside from that and his clenching fists and the lip between his teeth Dick just isn't reacting enough.
He wriggles his hips back and forth, the movement pulling at the fabric of Dick's boxers. They're barely still on him; it's even money whether Dick's cock is going to spring out the top or through the fly, but either way it's going to happen soon. He's not sure Dick's even paying attention to that, because he's just staring at Tim.
"Are you just going to lay there, Dick?" he taunts. "I can see you have tension that needs releasing..."
Dick shakes his head, but it doesn't look so much like an answer as... denial. And that's just wrong. He works his hips and the hand around his balls faster, harder, not bothering to pretend it's not deliberate
"Come on, Dick. Don't tell me you've got yourself convinced that this is any less fucked up if you don't touch yourself."
And Dick's boxers choose that moment to give, freeing his dick.
It springs through the distended fly and thwacks right into Tim's knuckles and the head of his dick. They draw matching gasps, so synched up they might've planned it, and it would be funny if he wasn't so fucking turned on. He licks his lips. "Oh, yeah."
Dick growls, hooks a thumb into his boxers with one hand and manipulates his erection back through with the other, then pushes his boxers down against the wad of Tim's and starts stroking himself. His clenched abs are the only thing keeping his shoulders off the floor, and the image is startlingly hot.
Their hands keep bumping. Dick's moving in the same rhythm he is, now that he's moving, thrusting up when Tim strokes back, and he has to force his head not to go back too far because fuck, he wants to see this.
"This what you wanted, Tim?"
He has to squeeze, hard, with both hands, because there's just no way he could ever live down coming right then, and... he might not have, but it was a near thing.
Dick grins and starts thumbing the head of his dick between strokes. He runs his free hand up his chest and pulls at a nipple, twists it, scratches. Tim almost wants to do the same thing, feel exactly what Dick's feeling, but playing with his balls feels too good.
The back of his hand keeps sliding along the back of Dick's as they stroke themselves, and he's afraid Dick will just wrap his hand around him and he's afraid to ask him to. He just thrusts and pumps and licks sweat off his own lip and tries not to stare too tellingly.
"Give me your hand," Dick says.
Tim's pretty sure he just made a desperately undignified noise.
His whole body jerks, and he can't give Dick his hand right now, not either of them, because if he wasn't squeezing hard amd biting halfway through his lip he would definitely be coming. Not that that would be unbearably embarassing, but he wants to find out what Dick has in mind.
Needs to.
He takes a deep breath, flexes his hands, and strokes himself once, slowly, ready to clamp down again. "Uh. Which hand?" Smooth, Drake.
Dick's hips lift lazily, going with Tim's new rhythm. And the hand that's been teasing at his nipple slips back down Dick's chest, over his belly, skirts over one hipbone, cups a handful of Dick's balls to match the handful Tim has of his own. Yanks.
Tim makes that noise again, he's pretty sure. Something awfully high-pitched for coming from so deep in his throat.
And Dick lets go of his own balls and covers the hand Tim's got a deathgrip on his own sac with. "This one."
His hand spasms closed under Dick's before he can even think to squeeze.
Dick's still stroking himself steadily, still teasing the head of his own cock with his thumb, still lifting his hips into Tim's like the roll of a wave. Tim's pretty sure Dick is trying to get him to come first so he can tease Tim with tired teenager jokes, but he's caring less and less about that.
He lets his hand go slack with one last caress, and pushes it into Dick's.
And swallows at the look on Dick's face when he does.
Dick clasps their hands together, palm-to-palm, flexes his arm and pulls himself further up. They could arm-wrestle like this, if there were a table between them instead of just their dicks thrusting into their other hands. Or if he was still feeling remotely competitive.
Which he's really just not.
In fact -- Dick rocks up into him, slow and deliberate, both arms flexing towards Tim as his hips rise, then up when he eases back down -- oh, yeah.
He is all about teamwork.
He grinds down against Dick on Dick's next thrust, and wow, the leverage makes so much difference. Dick's feeling it, too, to judge by the way his head drops back. Then he's curling forward again, and Tim is too, pulling up on Dick's arm, Dick pulling him down and in.
The hands working their cocks brush together again, and Dick's knuckles slot between his briefly. Too briefly for him to decide whether twining the fingers of those hands together and jerking them both off would be too weird or just completely hot.
"Dick," he says, and then panics a little because he doesn't actually have anything to say and when he's this horny anything could come out of his mouth.
But Dick just groans, "yeahhh," low and breathy, and there's nothing he needs to say to that.
But Dick groans, "yeahhh," low and breathy, and there's nothing he needs to say to that. He can just keep his eyes wide open and ride Dick, pull himself against him and stroke his hand over his dick, the back of Dick's hand sliding over his, their skin slick with sweat.
And yeah, Dick is just glistening, glowing with it, beads of sweat standing out all over his face and chest and arms, droplets running down here and there. He's got to be sweating, too, he can feel it, but the way his own muscles flex under the skin is infinitely less interesting than watching Dick's abs, his triceps and biceps, shift under his slick, flushed skin.
Dick must see him watching, because he says "Do it," with an extra-emphatic jerk to his own cock to draw Tim's attention to -- he's still flicking his thumb across the head, faster now, and sure, that looks like a fantastic idea.
He shifts his grip on himself up, swipes the base of his thumb once over the head of his own dick. "Fffuck," he hisses. Yeah, fuck, why hasn't he been doing that already. Over again at the top of the next stroke, and a shudder runs through him, shakes him all the way up his spine. Over twice, and he thrusts up hard, and bends his thumb to get the blunt-nailed tip into it at the end of of that stroke. "Oh."
"Yeah," Dick agrees, and he looks up -- he'd been just staring at his dick -- and fuck when did Dick get so close? He flick-flicks his thumb and shudders and Dick thrusts up into him, the muscles in his arm bunching and bulging, and hauling Dick up close to him, nearly upright. Close enough to--
He jerks and gasps and shoots all over Dick, spattering his belly and his dick and all four of their hands. Dick's hand around his clenches hard, tightening just in time to keep him from falling over. His other hand is jerking furiously now, no finesse left.
Tim's come-slicked hand slips slackly against Dick's, and he figures oh, the hell with it and wraps his sticky fingers around Dick's.
Dick arches back, and it's Tim's turn to hold him up by their clasped hands, enough to keep his head from slamming hard into the floor as he comes, too. He can't help but grin as Dick slumps bonelessly, and shamelessly takes advantage of Dick's being momentarily out of it to clamber up, shove the rest of his uniform off, and make a dash for the bathroom.
"You gonna want me to save you any hot water?" he calls back from the doorway.
Dick smirks, not even bothering to lift his head. "Knock yourself out, Boy Wonder."
It's tempting to lure Dick into the shower with him -- his dick twitches at the thought, and he gives it a look, because no, it's still way too soon -- but it seems like stepping back and getting some perpective here would be wise. Playing drop-the-soap with Dick in his shower as they clean each other's jizz off their bodies probably wouldn't be conducive to any degree of detachment.
And he does need to get home at some point tonight.
There's studying there for Tim to do, and he'll have to spend long enough with his dad to spin at least one lie about his weekend of "vocational training," and he should probably go online and see whether Kon's logged on from Smallville.
"What do you know," he mutters to himself. Dick had been right. Somehow, none of it seems as stressful as it had just this afternoon.
He grins and lathers up.
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Date: 2004-01-22 03:42 pm (UTC)