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Cherry Lips

by Te

[Story Headers]

Cherry Lips
by Te
February 13, 2004

Disclaimers: So very much not mine.

Spoilers: None, really. Vague references to the fact that the (comic) Teen Titans exist, and various older Batman storylines.

Summary: It's kind of a rule. You have a Robin, sooner or later you put him in a dress.

Ratings Note/Warnings: NC-17. Contains content some readers may find disturbing.

Author's Note: Jack made me a pretty:

Eventually, I found something resembling a plot to hang it on. As for the house... yeah, I'm pretty much playing Make Your Own Fanon. It's fun.

Acknowledgments: To Livia, Basingstoke, and Jack for audiencing and many helpful suggestions.

Feedback: Makes me even cuter.


"I can't believe you have your own secret lair."

Tim opens his closet and gives Dick an innocent look over his shoulder. "But Dick, you got one..."

"When I moved out. And got a job."

"Life's just not as simple as it was in your day, my friend," Tim says mock-sadly.

"My day. Right." Dick throws himself back into a chair and puts his feet up on the desk. "You know what kills me?"

"Do tell." Tim's going through the clothes, examining and rejecting one outfit after another.

"You have a house. A nice-sized, empty house. Private. Fully-stocked?"


"You haven't thrown one party, have you?"

Tim snorts. "It's a hideout, not a freaking dorm room."

"You have people who know you're Robin. You have your own team."


The thing is -- the hell of it is, that, as amused as Tim clearly is, it's more a function of how he relates to Dick than it is about realizing how screwed up he is.

And he is. Screwed up.

"And what are you thinking? House! Privacy! The fact that you're -- theoretically, at least -- a teenager."

Tim gives him a mild, wordless glare that Dick has come to think of as Tim Drake: Default Setting.

"You're letting down your people, Boy Wonder."

Small, choked laugh. "My people?"

"Your people. You know, the mass of fun-driven, light-hearted underaged types you're supposed to be infiltrating tonight?"

"Oh, those my people. Got it." Tim tosses something green on the bed and starts stripping. "Tell you what. Why don't you let me worry about them? You've got your own role to play."

He thinks about pushing it, about pointing out that his role is an actual role, as opposed to Tim's, which is just supposed to be... "Is that a dress?"


"You're wearing a dress?"

"I'm supposed to be a club kid."

"Why do you own dresses?"

"You know, I've seen those pictures Barbara has of you in some of your more interesting disguises."

Which, okay, true, but "yeah, but Bruce bought those."

"He bought these, too. Technically. He trusts my judgment in terms of modern fashion."

Dick isn't glaring. He isn't. He grabs the dress off the bed before Tim can reach for it, and... it's short. And velvet. And short. Really more of a shirt than a dress, though Tim is a little guy. "What kind of club did you think we were going to, anyway?"

Tim's sigh is deep and heartfelt. "New. 'Mixed' clientele. Mostly techno. Scheduled Goth nights -- this isn't one of them. Average age of attendee: nineteen and dropping. Hence the need for me, old-timer."

"Yeah, but --"

Tim yanks the dress out of Dick's hands and smoothes it. "And also? Sometimes I feel like being pretty."

He says it in the exact same voice he uses to say things like 'I think that one has a boot gun,' and 'where are you parked?' Dick looks at him. "You're getting better at the deadpan."

"I try." Tim slips the dress on and crouches in front of the closet again. "Docs or combat boots?"

"What are you wearing under the dress?"


Dick thinks about it. "You only have the bright green Docs?"

"Well, I have burgundy in here somewhere..."

"Kind of clashes, don't you think?"

"Yeah, you're right. Combat boots, it is. I'll have to do some more shopping."

Dick can't decide if he wants to see that or not. He shakes it off and waits. Those are... definitely fishnets. "What do those feel like?"

"Bruce never put you in them?"

"I'm just going to pretend that image never happened."

Tim snickers. "How about the one where he kneels at your feet and tenderly slips those high heels you wore for --"

"Watch it."

"Heh." Tim does a half-serious series of kicks and turns. "Surprisingly comfortable, actually. Though I bet that won't last."

"Remember, you're not on active duty tonight, kid."

"Yeah, yeah. But I may have to protect my virtue."

"How often do you go undercover?"

"Like this? Just enough to stay in practice. Strange as it may seem, I just don't feel entirely comfortable in dresses."

Dick snorts. "I knew we were coddling you when we let you wear long pants."

"What did you do in wintertime, anyway?"

"Suffered. Are you ready yet?"

"Yeah, right. I don't even have my make-up on. Just be happy that I shaved this morning."

"That must've made gym class interesting."

Tim flips him off, throws a smock around his shoulders, and pushes Dick's feet off the desk, flipping up a hidden panel to reveal a mirror. With lights.

"Your desk is a vanity table."

"Yet one more reason why I don't invite people over here."

Dick grins. "Should I be flattered?"

"By the fact that I've made copies of several of those pictures of you, just in case? If you want."

"Sure. Tell yourself that it's for blackmail purposes. Anything that gets you through the night."

Tim snickers and draws on eyeliner in thick, even strokes. "Asshole."

And it's not that he's surprised that Tim would be this... thorough. About anything, really -- the kid footnotes his grocery lists. Still, he'd never really expected that thoroughness would be applied in a situation like this one.

A pause in the application of mascara. "What?"

He probably should have expected it. "Absolutely nothing."

Tim gives him an openly speculative look for a moment before nodding and turning his attention to his hair. This, at least, isn't remotely surprising. Dick's pretty sure Tim has at least one pocket on the utility belt devoted to emergency hair-care products.

There was no other explanation for how often the kid's hair had been suspiciously perfect during No Man's Land.

"Shut up, Dick."

"I didn't say anything."

"Shut up, anyway."

And really, he had planned on hiding his smile behind his hand or something, but Tim's pretty much just asking for a smirk. Dick provides.

Tim ignores him and streaks his hair. In two colors. Which is... okay, the fuchsia adds a nice contrast.

"Maybe you should buy some pink boots."

"I've only been able to find cheap ones. They fall apart too easily."

Meaning, 'when I try to fight in them,' which, well, considering their lifestyle... "You could dye your own."

"You just want someone else to have the nickname 'fairy boots.' Don't smack me, you'll mess up my makeup."

Dick punches him in the ribs, instead. 'Pixie boots,' he doesn't say.

Tim grunts and eyes himself critically.

"I had been planning to get there before tomorrow."

"Are you this impatient with all your dates?"

Dick blinks.

Tim smirks. "It'd explain your love life. Or, you know, the lack thereof."

"I'm perfectly willing to make you fix your makeup again."

"It's so sad when a hero gets old and loses his discipline."

And he would point out that Tim is enjoying himself far, far too much, but... how often does that happen? Dick settles back in his chair and crosses his arms. "Fine, girlfriend. Give me the run-down."

Tim brushes glitter eye shadow on, artfully careless. "You show up, looking nice and awkward and closeted. Metrosexual-chic yuppie looking to get a little crazy -- you should have some product for your hair, by the way -- you'll be scouting the bar, edging the dance floor. You get the second run at the bathrooms."

"And you?"

"You're dropping me off six blocks away, behind the sushi place. I take a nice, leisurely stroll, arriving fashionably late. My ID isn't the best, but it probably shouldn't be. If I do get carded, I'm going to flirt about it first. I don't seem to be the bouncer's type, but it establishes my cover, blah blah. Pass me the nail polish. No, the hematite."

"How long is that going to take to dry?"

"Not long. Anyway, if I am the bouncer's type, I do my best not to cripple him before making my way inside. I hit the dance floor, find the likely druggies, flirt some more. I get the first run at the bathrooms -- you know we're not going to find anything there. Nobody does bathroom deals these days."

"Yeah, we're being thorough. You might find a back room or something."

"Nobody bothers with back rooms, either. Not for this stuff."

"You're pretty much just trying to get me to lecture you about the importance of being anal retentive, aren't you?"

"I own my kinks." Tim blows on his nails and gives him another innocent look.

The makeup makes it both less and more convincing. Dick rolls his eyes. "What else?"

"Assuming I get in on-time, I make contact with you at plus-seventy minutes, after I get some water from the bar. I playfully drag you onto the dance floor, and we make our reports. Second meet-up an hour after that, because you just can't resist my hot underaged bod, and come hunt me down. I'll be in the northeast corner." Tim files at the second and third fingernails on his right hand, and eyes the left for a long moment before chipping at the thumbnail and standing. "Third meet an hour after that, when you'll find me trying to look inconspicuous by your bike. Satisfied?"

"Are you ready?"

Tim bats his eyelashes. "I'm always ready for you, sweetie."

Dick snorts and shoves him out the door into the hallway. "Save it for the bouncer."


He drops Tim off behind Tomo's and heads for the club, pasting on tonight's game-face and laughing when he realizes that he's doing his Superman impression. Which is... probably a little extreme. He tries for something closer to Kyle and winds up firmly behind the velvet rope -- but only six people get in before him. Just about perfect.

The flash of green in the corner of his eye announces Tim's arrival, but Dick doesn't look.

The club itself confirms earlier surveillance. It's loud, it's packed, and it's still new enough not to smell like anything in particular -- other than way too many different kinds of cologne. The music isn't bad, though, and the crowd looks fun enough... it's the kind of place Dick would go to anyway, whether or not he had anyone to go with. If he was in his own skin, he could probably find someone to play with.

As it is, the club is just another potential crime scene, and he's doing his level best to cultivate the looks he's getting -- an eyebrow raise from that one, a giggle from that one... yeah. He makes for a convincing tourist. A convincing, aging tourist, and isn't that just a joy?

He orders a green apple martini and reminds himself that he's doing this for a good cause.

And that there are other cool clubs. Without budding new drug rings. Where he can be cool. Dammit.

He's on his 'third' martini -- most of the first two making for sticky places on the floor in a rough circle around the bar -- and it's abundantly clear that he's in the wrong place to learn anything remotely interesting. As opposed to how much cleavage is necessary to get free drinks out of the bartender (not much, considering), how many illegal weapons are under the bar (three), and how many people will hit on him when he's being a tourist. (one and a half, as no one that drunk really counts)

He checks his watch and heads vaguely toward the dance floor, watching the crowd get younger and younger with every step he takes. It's more obvious than it usually is. Or... no. He's just really feeling the fact that he hasn't been a regular on any kind of scene for much too long. He doesn't know one song in three, which isn't bad in and of itself, but...

It makes him feel restless, weirdly hungry somewhere under his skin -- or at least under the ridiculous yuppie clothes. It's really not fair that this is just early surveillance work -- it'd be nice to have some violence to look forward to, if he isn't going to --

"Dance with me."

Tim's voice in his ear and -- presumably -- Tim's hands on his shoulders, sliding down to twine with Dick's hands just long enough for Dick to squeeze before sliding out again. Dick turns to face him and gets a quick flash of green before Tim moves behind him again.

"Too slow."

"No fair playing when I can't..."

Tim... giggles. And cups Dick's hips. "Life's not fair, old-timer. Now walk."

Club kid. Right. Dick lets himself be steered, repressing a snicker when Tim starts moving his hips to the music. He's embarrassed. Half-drunk and embarrassed, and being molested by... there he is. Tim throws his arms around Dick's neck and grins up at him lazily, dancing them together until Dick's pretty effectively plastered with underaged boy.

Which is an odd thought to have, considering how much time he's spent rolling around various practice mats with this particular kid, but... he's not sure. He shakes it off internally and plants his hands on Tim's hips, vaguely enjoying the feel of velvet against his palms and checking left while Tim checks right.

"Looks clear, Glam Wonder," he mutters.

"Don't make me stomp on your loafers, Metrowing."

Which is reassuringly Tim-ish, but by the time they're actually looking at each other again, Tim's got his wide-eyed and look-at-me-I'm-stoned face on.

A brief smirk. "You've never gone undercover with me before. Not really. I'd forgotten."

"I'm being obvious, aren't I?"

More giggles for the benefit of whoever might be listening. "Lucky for you, it works for your cover. Keep looking shocky." And Tim turns, grinding his ass back against Dick's crotch and lifting one arm back around Dick's neck. And pulling.

Dick leans in obediently. "If that dye in your hair rubs off on my skin I'm going to send these pictures to your Dad."

"Stop worrying. You don't see any fuchsia on my face, do you? I designed this stuff myself."

"You frighten me."

"Flatterer. Nothing in the bathrooms but skank and semi-public sex."

Dick decides his cover should at least know how to 'dance' like this. "Nothing interesting at the bar. I'm starting to like the dress."

"Yeah, it almost makes up for the fishnets. Almost. Check the blonde girl in the corset."


"Right. Red corset."

"Tch, be specific. I see her."

"Floor dealer. Periodic trips to the southwest corner."

Dick pulls up an image of the blueprints in his mind. "Fire exit."

"Yeah." Tim spins in his arms again, face sweaty and blank and eyes clear. "Both times I wandered over there I was gently encouraged to turn around."

Dick shoves his thigh between Tim's and tries to decide if he should move his hands to the kid's ass. "There's our supply. Any idea about the bosses?"

"There's a skinny guy with white-blond hair, glasses, and a cell phone behind some muscle -- two big guys. Don't recognize any of them clearly, but muscle-with-a-goatee might have been in one of the East side raids last year. Song's about to change."

"Get ready to reject me. I'll head over after I get my heart broken."

"Got it."

Dick grabs Tim's ass with what he hopes comes off as awkward ferventness.

Tim snorts and grinds up hard, leaning in with a grin that goes from Tim-ish to something sharper and meaner while Dick watches. "Want some, baby?"

Dick lets himself go slack-jawed. "You're so --"

"Too bad." Tim shoves him about a fraction as hard as he's capable of doing and spins away laughing while Dick feigns a stumble.

He works up a blush and watches Tim not-quite-sashay into the thick of the dancers. One of them -- a boy who may or may not have been old enough to graduate high school -- tugs Tim closer and points at Dick.

Whatever Tim says makes him laugh.

Dick shoves a hand back through his hair and plasters on a scowl, stalking back toward the bar. One more drink, his pass through the bathrooms, then a closer look at that --

There is absolutely nothing like machine gun fire. Unmistakable and loud, even with the music and several hundred people. He shoves the two people closest to him to the floor and --

There. Gunmen coming in through the main entrance. Four he can see, possibly more. He glances back over his shoulder to see Tim doing his best to herd people back toward the bathrooms and dives behind the bar, shooing the bartenders vaguely Timwards and stripping down to his uniform.

He can't do anything about his shoes, but it won't be the first time he's fought barefoot. He rips the paper-strip off one of his temporary masks and slaps it on his face, grabbing the sawed-off pool cue from under the bar and heading towards the shooters.

The first set of shooters, because he can hear .45s now. Which makes sense. Muscle is always armed, these days.

He takes out the first two machine-gunners and flips away from the others, throwing a small table back behind him and diving behind another. No immediate sign of Tim, save for the fact that the number of bystanders has decreased dramatically. Good enough.

He tosses a handful of smoke bombs at the guys with the handguns and a handful of shuriken at the others, waiting a half-second for the curses to start before diving back in.

Three guys, ski-masks, AKs. The pool cue snaps on the head of the one who managed to keep his AK up, and Dick breaks his nose as thoroughly as he can before kicking back at the second -- and sincerely missing his boots. He spins, grabbing the second guy's gun and slamming the stock into the third guy's chin before clubbing the second guy for good measure.

One of the first two is still moaning, so Dick clubs him, too, and heads back toward the fire exit --

And drops, rolling, because the goatee-muscle Tim had mentioned is stumbling out of the smoke and shooting wildly, eyes streaming with tears. Dick reaches for another handful of shuriken, but there's a tinkling crash and goatee-boy drops amid a cloud of tequila vapors.

He looks over his shoulder and sees Tim behind the bar with a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand.

Tim holds up a finger, shrugs, and holds up two.

Dick nods and gestures for Tim to head back toward the bathrooms, edging back against a wall and heading for the fire exit. He manages to avoid most of the broken glass, but the bodies are something else entirely.

He says a silent apology and a prayer as he crawls over a girl with pigtails and a missing face and pauses, wincing, at the click of a gun being reloaded. Too slow. He peers around the edge of another fallen table and sees the blond crouched behind the bleeding body of what had to be the other bodyguard.

Dick grabs the shuriken again, and hears an entirely different click behind him. He shifts his aim and tosses the blades behind him, and turns just in time to see corset-girl start to fall. He back-kicks to get the gun out of her hand, and back-kicks again to get her to stay down.

Too slow and too loud, but the last of his shuriken knocks blond-guy's aim out of true and a punch convinces him to surrender.

Dick grabs him by the collar and gives him a shake. "Talk."

"We didn't start this --"

"Who's we?"

"I can't --"

Dick slams him back against the open fire-door, noting that whoever had been out there isn't anymore. "You can."

"I work for Tony Angelotti. He told us to set up here. That's all I can say."

Dick lifts him off his feet and glares.

"I don't know anymore, man! The other guys weren't ours!"

"Angelotti isn't local."

"New York! He's from New York!"

Which Dick knew. Underboss. He thinks about hitting the guy a few more times, maybe breaking his glasses, but he can hear the sirens. He slams the guy's head back against the wall and watches his eyes roll back in his head.

There are a few people wandering back out into the club proper, which means that Tim's probably made his own exit. Dick takes that as his cue.

By the time he makes it to his bike, Tim has Dick's extra boots out from under the seat and is wearing Dick's jacket over his dress.

He looks about as pissed as Dick feels.

Dick puts on his helmet and gives his report to Oracle to route back to the cops.

"Are you two all right?"

"No injuries," Tim says, and slides onto the bike behind Dick.

They both know that isn't what she's asking.

There's a moment's silence before she comes back on again. "You're off patrol tonight, R."


Dick thinks about reaching back, maybe squeezing Tim's shoulder, but just fires up the bike. "Are we done, O?"

"B's probably going to want to hear from both of you."

"Right. N out." He switches to the regular helmet radio. "Back to the Robin Cave?"

"It's a house."

"Yeah, but 'the Robin Faux-Tudor' is kind of lame."

And really, so's his attempt at lightening the mood, but Tim doesn't call him on it.

They take the ride in silence.


Tim kicks off his boots as soon as they get inside and strips off the fishnets, absently balling them in the pocket of Dick's jacket. He's going to have to remember to give them back before putting on the jacket again. Or possibly wait until the next time he heads out to the new Titans Tower.

A simple 'oh, you forgot these at my place' tends to go a long way.

Dick leans against the counter and watches Tim head for the fridge, putting out his hand just in time to catch a bottled water. Tim takes a Zesti for himself and heads back toward the bedroom without a word.

Dick frowns to himself. No practical jokes until after the new kid's head is on straight again.

He finds Tim sitting on the edge of the generic, hotel-looking bed, slumped over with his hands between his knees. He's pulled the sleeves of Dick's jacket up, but that's about it.

Tim's a bare-legged rumple with festive hair that's gone from artfully-mussed to sweaty and tangled.


"Hey, yourself. You know... Batman probably didn't mean it as punishment to take you off patrol."

Tim snorts and lets himself fall back on the bed, dress riding up to his jockeys. "I know that, actually. It's not that."

Dick kicks off his own boots and joins him on the bed, sitting tailor-style and resisting the urge to yank Tim's dress back down. "Then what?"

"Intellectually, I know we did all we could. I know I did all I could -- and let me tell you, packing a couple hundred drunk and/or stoned people into two bathrooms and a hallway? Surprisingly challenging. But..."

"I hear you. But you did do good tonight."

"Uh, huh. So did you. And I'm sure that's exactly what you'll be thinking when you wash the blood out of your suit."

Dick winces. "Point."


Silence for a while, save for the small sounds of Tim chipping idly at his nail polish. Dick looks around at the bedroom and wonders who decorated it. It really is disturbingly generic; everything that would hint at Tim's personality is tucked away behind hidden panels, or in locked-and-alarmed but equally hidden containers.

Dick isn't even sure where the kid keeps his extra uniforms.

And it's probably the most honest sort of decoration Tim could have. It hadn't taken long at all to figure out that the reason why the thirteen year old with the damning folder full of photos, articles, and frighteningly accurate detective-work was so surprisingly laid-back about the whole issue was because he was... really laid-back.

Or... not laid-back so much as buttoned-down. Dick has never, actually, seen Tim lose his shit. He's only seen the kid demonstrably upset a bare handful of times. And even though he knows that Tim's upset now...

He isn't sure how many other people would be able to see it. There's nothing showing on his face but glittery makeup. There's nothing showing on his body but a vague sense of tension in his shoulders.

It's hard to classify "didn't put his boots away neatly" as "upset," even considering the fact that Dick had spent his formative years with Batman. Which makes him grin ruefully to himself.

Tim would appreciate that comparison about as much as he would.

"Should I be apologizing for making you brood?" The smile is mostly in Tim's voice.

"I wasn't thinking about the club."


"Nah. Mostly thinking about you." And what a freaky kid you are.

The grin makes it to Tim's mouth. "Heh. We never got our second dance."

Dick snorts. "I thought we were just going to make another scene."

"No, no, you were going to grovel and then I was going to think about it. And then we were going to dance."

"I was supposed to grovel?"

Tim bends one leg up and plants his foot on the bed, shifting ostentatiously. It's a really nice view. "Oh, I'm worth it."

"Are you always this much of a flirt when you wear dresses?"

"How much do you actually mind?"

It's a good question. A shrewd question. Because, frankly, Dick's gotten used to the rhythm of their relationship, and the fact that all of the flirting comes from his end.

But there wouldn't be any if Dick didn't think there was a possibility -- however unlikely -- of Tim eventually finding his own Tim-ish way of giving it right back.

"I think the better question," he says, putting his palm flat on the loose, simple bodice of the dress, "is how far you want to take it."

The dip of Tim's lashes would be obvious and seductive without the mascara. With it...

Dick strokes along the grain of the velvet, up to Tim's throat. Waits.

"I think, tonight..." Tim's eyes are serious and clear. "Pretty far."

Dick nods, shifting and leaning in. "Tonight."

Tim's lip gloss tastes like cherries, and his tongue tastes like sugar. Both of them are much too sweet for a kiss like this, because Tim kisses exactly like he should: firm and sure despite inexperience Dick doesn't have to guess at.

He knows pretty much everything Tim has been doing with his love life -- and everything he hasn't. He pulls Tim over him and sucks the kid's tongue into his mouth, giving Tim a moment to settle comfortably over him before pulling his knees up to push against Tim's back, urging him closer.

Tim laughs into Dick's mouth and pulls back just long enough to rake his hair out of his face before kissing him again.

This close, he smells like clean sweat and the leather of Dick's jacket. Which is... Dick cups Tim's shoulders and pushes him back. The jacket really is huge on Tim, one of the sleeves slipping down from Tim's elbow to puddle well past his hand.

It's more than a little disturbing how hot that is, but Dick decides to go with 'cute' in combination with ' dated lots of people shorter than me.' Easier on his own sanity, really. Easier than that when Tim raises an eyebrow at him and shrugs the jacket off.

"I'm short, not twelve."

Dick slides his hands down to Tim's hips and squeezes. "Not twelve. Got it. Frankly, I'm relieved."

Tim snickers and reaches for the hem of the dress, and the other eyebrow goes up when Dick stops him. "Oh?"

"I own my kinks."

Tim smirks for a half-second before giving him the wide-eyed and moderately dazed look from the club. "Wanna call me Dylan, baby?" The high-tenor breathiness is even more pronounced without a pounding back-beat.

"'Dylan?' Is that this alias' name?"

"This alias barely exists." Tim gives an exaggerated wriggle. "But I think 'Dylan' works, don't you?"

Dick slips his hands under Tim's dress, careful not to hike it up any more than it already is, and spends a small, pleased moment watching his thumbs work under the velvet. And another watching Tim tilt his head up just a little, watching his breathing go ragged. "You know what works for me?"

"Mmm. Tell me..."


There's a nice little flare behind Tim's eyes, and all trace of 'Dylan' fades off Tim's face. "Yeah?"

Dick pushes his thumbs in a little harder on either side of Tim's bulge and strokes. "Yeah."

"I don't know, I think it might be useful practice to have sex in character."

"Maybe when I feel like being a pedophile."

Tim snickers. "You know, I deserve all kinds of favors for not pointing out how fucked-up that last statement was."

Dick cups him and squeezes. "I'll start paying you back right now."

"Oh. You... do that."

"Lift up."

Tim does him one better, standing up over him and kicking the jockeys all the way off.

"That... is an inspiring view."

Tim blushes, but doesn't cover himself so much as... stroke, balls swinging a little as he tries to keep his balance on the mattress.

"Yeah. But I want more than that."

Tim bites his lip and nods, giving himself a hot little squeeze before dropping back down to crouch, then kneel over Dick again. Dick twines his fingers in Tim's own and licks his lips.

"Show me what you like."

Tim shudders and blushes harder, and it's hard to tell whether it would be better without the makeup. He's really very, very pretty. And just plain sexy when his gaze arrows in sharp on Dick's own as he starts to stroke, guiding Dick slow and hard.

And it's just so Tim that he can keep up that kind of focus even now, with raw and rhythmic little gasps falling out of his mouth with every stroke. It's just another dare, really.

Dick brings his free hand to his mouth and sucks his thumb, watching Tim's eyes narrow and enjoying the feel of the kid's hips working over and against his own.

He slides his thumb out of his mouth with a wet pop. "Trust me?"

The focus dissolves into something hotter and more confused for a second before Tim blinks. "Yeah. Dick..."

Dick slips behind their working hands and presses his slick thumb up behind Tim's balls, sliding back a little and pressing up hard.

"Oh fuck."

Tim squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip, and Dick can feel himself flex. "Open your eyes."

Tim whimpers and does it, and the sight makes Dick groan. Because it's like someone flipped a switch somewhere deep and important inside Tim's mind. His eyes are wild and naked, and the last time Dick saw him look this vulnerable he was in the process of dying from the Clench.


He's not dying now. He's... hungry, and the needy little noises he's making are going to make it difficult to hold on to the 'tonight' thing. Which is just one more reason to make this good.

He takes his hand off Tim's dick and pulls Tim's hand with him. The kid looks even wilder for a second, and Dick can feel himself doing a number on his own jockeys with pre-come.

Tim takes a shuddering breath. "Please --"

"Come up here. I want you in my mouth."

"Oh. God."

Tim crawls up his body while Dick shoves the other pillow under his head, shifting up into a position his spine will start hating in about three minutes and grabbing Tim's hips. "Hold on to the headboard."

"Dick --"

The first touch of his tongue makes Tim shake in his hands, and Dick can't make himself wait -- even to get a better sense of the taste. Dick pulls him in deep and slides his thumb back behind Tim's balls, sucking hard and rubbing tight circles.

Tim gasps and cries out, jerking his hips forward, and Dick swallows and stops holding on, stroking Tim's smooth, hard thigh.

Another high, wailing cry and then silence. He wants to tell the kid to breathe, but mostly he just wants this. Tim's ragged, desperate thrusts into his throat and -- Tim's hand in his hair, gentle and shaking.

Dick squeezes his thigh and the next cry is strangled and the next silence is brief and punctuated with a vicious shudder. And then Tim comes in his mouth, gasping like a drowning survivor and tugging on Dick's hair.

"Oh. Man."

Dick slips his hands back to Tim's hips and gives him a gentle push.

Tim sits back on Dick's chest, whimpering and tugging the extra pillow out from under Dick's head.

"Mm. Thanks."

Tim's laugh is a little cracked. "You're welcome." He stares down at Dick for a long moment before brushing his fingers over Dick's forehead, shoving back a lock of hair. "That was... really hot."

Dick smirks and gets a half-smile and a head-shake in return. And then Tim reaches behind himself, sliding his palm down over Dick's stomach and beyond, riding the bulge with the heel of his hand.


Dick folds his hands behind his head and rolls under Tim, watching the muscles of Tim's thighs flex and release in automatic adjustment. "Go ahead."

"Lift up."

Dick grins and does it, and Tim arches back enough to push and pull Dick's tights and jockeys out of the way without turning around. And then feels his way back and wraps his fist around him.

And grins as he starts to stroke.

"You're 'practicing' again, aren't you?"

"Maybe." Tim rubs his thumb over the head of Dick's dick and puts a thoughtful look on his face. "It's a really good shoulder stretch."

"Make sure to let Batgirl know. We all have to stay limber."

Tim snickers and squeezes, and it's a lot harder to keep a straight face -- or even a smirk. Especially when Tim starts stroking faster, narrowing his eyes in concentration but not actually looking away from Dick.


"Faster? Or slower?" And Tim pauses with his fist wrapped around the base of his dick for one heartbeat, two, three, before rocking it back up with jerky little pulls.

"Mmph. What do you think?"

"I think you like it when I tease." Hard, slow circle over the head of his dick.

"You're... not wrong."

Tim gives him a wide-eyed pout and takes a deep breath. "I love the way you feel in my hand, baby..."

Dick laughs and gasps. "Don't --"

"Ohhh, you're so hard for me..."

"Jesus, you're fucked up --"

A flash of Tim in the hard glint of his eyes, gone in a second. "Are you gonna fuck me, Dick? Are you gonna do it real hard?"

Dick grabs for Tim and gets a handful of velvet before Tim flips back and off the bed. There's a brief satisfaction in the awkward-sounding thump of Tim's landing, but really, Tim's snickers make sure that doesn't last. Dick growls and launches himself after him, pinning Tim in four moves.

"Oooh, Daddy."

Dick presses Tim's wrists against the carpeting and glares.

'Dylan's' moue shifts into Tim's smirk. "Now you don't want to play?"

Which is... a good point, actually. Still. "I just want to make sure you know --"

"That you want me. I get it. I've been getting it. But you were hard at the club and you're ruining my dress right now. So?"

Dick looks down between them and... yeah. Leaking all over the dress. "I'll buy you a new one."


There's no trace of a smirk left on Tim's face. "Tell me."

"I'm a virgin. Dylan... isn't."

And that's just -- "Tim."

"Doesn't mean I don't want it. I just..." The shrug is a small one, awkward from the way Dick's pinning him.

"Well, I feel like a bastard."

Tim snickers. "You've been hitting on me since I was fourteen and now you feel bad?" Tim shifts beneath him, but when Dick starts to move Tim wraps his legs around Dick's waist and holds on.

"Jesus, Tim --"

"I stopped being a kid for you when I started being Robin. I'm actually used to that, you know." Tim rocks up under him, making Dick gasp.

"I don't --"

"Want to take advantage of me? Fine. Put your hands in mine."

Dick does it, immensely and pathetically reassured by the strength in Tim's squeeze.

"Now look at me."

Tim's eyes are open and clear.

"Do it."

Dick thrusts hard, gasping at the feel of velvet and the skin and muscle beneath.

"Oh... I meant --"

"I know what you meant." And he doesn't have the control for that even if he thought he could do it right now without wanting to hang himself.

"I'd let you --"

"God, Tim --"

"I want you to. I want you inside me --"

Dick isn't sure whether he kisses Tim to shut him up or because he has to. Either way, it's good. Hard and wet and Tim catches his rhythm effortlessly, getting hard against him and making small, hot noises into his mouth.

And the velvet isn't enough anymore.

Dick shakes one hand free and arches, reaching between them and shoving the dress up and out of the way. He hears it tear and groans into the kiss, and he can't stop driving his hips against Tim's own.

"Oh God, Dick --" And Tim clutches his hair and pulls him into another kiss, holding on tight and clutching with his thighs.

Dick braces his free hand on the floor and goes for it, losing himself to hot, sweaty skin, hard muscle, and Tim's soft, wet mouth.

Hot mouth, and the sounds Tim's making...

Every whimper, every groan is another several million dead brain cells until Dick isn't anything but his body, but the drive of his dick against Tim's stomach.

He comes gasping, ripping himself out of the kiss to keep from biting Tim's lip hard enough to make it bleed.

Tim's hand spasms in Dick's hair, and it's... it's almost instinct to get up on his knees and haul Tim with him, spinning him around until his back is pressed to Dick's chest. He wraps his hand around Tim's dick and strokes him fast and hard, and the sounds just get louder, hotter, maddening. And he gets it. This is...

This is Tim, who doesn't show anyone anything, ever. Dick pulls Tim hard against his chest, twisting Tim's nipple and deliberately closing his eyes before pressing his mouth to Tim's ear. "Tell me what to do."

Wordless noise.

"Tell me how to make it easier."

"Nothing. There's nothing --" And Tim shouts and comes all over Dick's fist.

Dick holds him until he stops shaking, and then Tim twists free and crawls a few feet away, turning back to face him before sitting down.

His hair hangs in his face, and he's breathing hard, one knee up and the other splayed flat against the carpet.

Dick waits, and tries to ignore the fact that the ruined tangle of Tim's dress is still damned attractive.

"You get used to it," is what Tim finally says, and it's almost a question.

"Yes and no."

Tim laughs, covering his face with one hand. "One simple answer. One. That's all I ask." And then Tim scrubs at his face and looks up. It's not an easy grin, but it's still a grin.

"Your makeup is a mess."

"Yeah, it's all over your face. And neck. And suit."

Dick groans.

"You're going to be leaving glitter all over Bludhaven for weeks, you know. I don't care how much you shower."


The grin this time is better, and Dick thinks he can almost see Tim packing everything up and putting it aside for later before he stands up and offers his hand to help Dick off the floor.

He takes it and stands. "Tim..."

Darkly honest look. "I'm okay."

"You know --"

Tim squeezes his hand. "I'm okay." And then he releases Dick's hand and gives him a shove. "Come on, we've got a trip to New York to plan before we call Bruce, and I still have to get home before my parents wake up."

"I really don't know how you do it," he says, and it's more honest than he'd intended it to be.

Tim gives him a narrow smile. "I like it that way."

And Tim yanks the dress down straight over his hips and heads out toward the computer room.

Right. Dick takes a moment to check that the fishnets are still in his jacket pocket, straightens his own clothes, and follows.

Definitely worth a trip out to San Francisco.


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Fandom:  Other (Nightwing)
Title:  Cherry Lips
Author:  Te   [email]   [website]
Details:  Standalone  |  NC-17  |  *slash*  |  38k  |  02/14/04
Characters:  Nightwing, Robin
Pairings:  Nightwing/Robin
Summary:  It's kind of a rule. You have a Robin, sooner or later you put him in a dress.

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