buggery | I didn't write a story, honest. No porn here, either. ::cough::

Nope. Haven't been writing at all. Te just needed a mood-lifter.

Te also didn't beta this, since I didn't write anything.

Some of the answers to "wait, there have been how many Robins??" are here. If you didn't know that Tim's about to stop being Robin... do people actually read this journal who don't also read Te's?

"Downed" (Gotham, NC-17) Nightwing/~~Robin~~ Dick/Tim

There's a 'no' audible in Dick's voice, or at least a 'wait,' even though all he gets out is "Tim--"

They're in the alleyway behind the Gotham Clock Tower building, the open street off to one side and a relatively clean dumpster on the other. It's a lousy place for this, which may be Dick's point, but there's really no *good* place for it, so that doesn't matter. He gives Dick a dark look as he yanks Dick's belt free and fly open, or what he thinks is a dark look.

Tim hardly knows what he looks like to other people, anymore.

Dick tries once more when Tim shoves his boxers down, even though he's already half-hard underneath.

"Tim, this--"

"I gave up Robin because my dad *asked* me to." Tim can hear the anger in his voice, the way he's almost snarling, but he's in no mood for hiding it and really, this is the last situation where he should *have* to. "Nobody has asked me not to have *this*."

And maybe Dick would've had some answer for that, but Tim ducks his head before he can even see it telegraphed on Dick's face, sucks Dick into his mouth fast enough that anything else Dick might've intended is lost in his need to groan and clutch his fingers into Tim's hair.

Someday, Tim wants to take his time with this. Get Dick on a bed somewhere, or even a chair, and make love to him with his mouth, all soft tongue and gentle suction and petting explorations with his hands. When he's ready to let Dick see -- *feel* -- what it really means to him. When he's figured that out better himself.

Now is no time or place for that, with Tim's knees splayed in an alley's accumulated grime and detritus, and the likelihood of interruption from a passing pedestrian or squadcar or caped vigilante increasing the longer it takes them. So he digs his fingers into Dick's hip. Holds him still with his other hand around the base and bobs his head. Sucks hard. Swallows when Dick groans again and thrusts into Tim's mouth.

Dick keeps thrusting, but Tim forces the rhythm faster, fucking his face on Dick's dick. Swallows at the bottom of every few strokes and steals gasping breaths at the top of the stroke when he can and doesn't really care if he suffocates or drowns in his own saliva. Or Dick's semen, which he gets a throatful of quickly, more quickly than he'd gotten it when he blew Dick on the roof of the condo, though not as quickly as when it had been over the back of Dick's latest civilian 'cycle.

He wants to taste it but he doesn't want to chance getting any on his clothes. Doesn't want to have to choose between more honesty and uncomfortable explanations or more avoidance and lies when he gets home. So he holds Dick in his throat until Dick's done twitching, pulls back and licks at the slit to make sure there's no more. Finally Dick grunts softly and pushes him away, gently but firmly.

When he looks up, Dick is flushed and panting a little, and there's sweat at his temples. It makes him wonder what he looks like. What he would look like to his dad. To Bruce. To Steph, to Barbara. To a stranger in the street.

To himself.

"Somehow," Dick says, and it's that old I've-been-where-you've-been-little-Robin tone that makes Tim ache now, "I expected you to deal better than this."

"Me too." It's out before he can take it back, before he can think.

Dick just lets it go. He's still letting the wall do most of the work of supporting him, though Tim has the impression that it's not so much post-orgasmic lassitude subduing Dick's natural inclination to be in motion as a (mistaken) suspicion that Tim might bolt if Dick did move. "And *this*... is not at all how I expected you to deal with it."

It's not, he doesn't say. He thinks about what he wants to say. "This isn't how I'm dealing with it." Dick's eyebrow goes up. "This isn't about that at all."

Dick's other eyebrow goes up. "Uh-hunh." He sounds entirely unconvinced.

"Really not. Mostly."

"Mostly, huh?"

I've been in love with you ever since I can remember, he doesn't say. I dreamt about you before you or I were ever Robin, and I dreamt about you all the years you were Robin, and then when Jason was, and when I was, and I still dream about you. I dream about you more than ever now. "I... please don't ask me right now, Dick."

"Tim. What the fuck." Dick's voice is flat, but Tim hears what's under it anyway -- not so much demand as frustration. Dick's at a loss for answers. It's a feeling Tim knows all too well these days.

He tucks Dick away, starts to fasten his pants back up for him. Lets Dick bat his hands away and finish the job himself. Tim stands up and leans against the wall beside Dick and brushes half-heartedly at his knees with the sleeve of his jacket. Crosses his arms over his chest and doesn't look at Dick.

Dick sighs. "We have to talk about this, Tim."

He wants to run away. From Dick, from everything else that's fucked up in his life. To Dick, in some world where he can just have Dick and none of the other stuff matters. "I know. I... just not right now. Please."

The sigh he gets this time is the one that means Dick's frustrated because he *is* going to let it go for now. Because Tim asked him to.

He's not any more ready to deal with that than anything else.

"I'm just saying, eventually, distracting me from talking about what's going on between us with mind-blowing sex is going to stop working."

"I *know* that," he snaps, and pinches the bridge of his nose. And gasps and shivers when Dick cups his jaw and turns his head.

Lets himself look up and meet Dick's eyes. "What I mean," Dick says, "is that it's going to stop working *soon*."

No. He can't... "Is my technique slipping?" Wit: almost always a successful means of escape from sticky situations.

Dick doesn't smirk or even leer at him; his eyes just burn into Tim's more intensely. *Almost* always. "Not at all. It's just that I'm--" Dick blinks, looks like he's going to say something else, like he has something else he doesn't know if he *wants* to say, then just holds Tim's face still while he leans in and kisses him.

His mouth is hot and wet and irresistible. Tim doesn't want to fight it, can't fight it, wraps his arms around Dick's back under his jacket when Dick moans. He puts as much of what Dick wants from him into the kiss as he can. As much as he can bear to give up.

I'm falling in love with you, Dick's kiss says. Tim can't deal with that yet, either.

He manages not to actually hump Dick's leg, which is a good thing, because between the way his erection is pressed against Dick's thigh and the way Dick's other hand found its way down to Tim's ass to hold them even tighter together, he's much closer to coming in his pants than he really likes. A soft moan in answer to Dick's, and repetitive licking at Dick's upper lip, are sufficient encouragement for Dick to release him.

"I need to get home." Changing the subject: obvious, but effective.

Dick's eyes are intent on him. He wants to look away, and forces himself not to, even when Dick strokes his thumb over Tim's cheekbone. "Let me give you a ride?"

He's too grateful to Dick for making that a question. Mustering a small smile is almost easy. "Nah. I'll take the bus." That's his life now. The bus, and an endless array of too-light tops and too-loose pants, and spending every night home safe in his bed.

There's a red motorcycle in the Batcave somewhere, maybe on one of the back platforms, hopefully not in a case. He doesn't actually want to know. He also doesn't want to ride anywhere on a motorcycle tonight, even (especially) Dick's.

He squeezes Dick's side as he drops his hands and steps away. Dick lets go of him, too, leaving his cheek feeling suddenly cold. "Thanks," Tim says. He trots off before Dick can say or do anything else, at the pace of a civilian who doesn't want to miss his bus but is smart enough not to get mugged over it.

That's his life now. He repeats it to himself on the ride home as if it will sink in.

It doesn't work, but there's not much else to think about on the bus.

more Dick/Tim, Dick/other, Tim/other, and assorted other slashfic by Jack here

We now return you to your regularly scheduled pornlessness.