Bite your lip
May 24, 2004
Disclaimers: If they were mine, I'd make a lot of embarrassing noises.
Spoilers: None, really. Takes place in some nebulous period of canon that isn't quite now.
Summary: Investigation and exposure.
Ratings Note: NC-17.
Author's Note: I'm pretty sure this bunny came out of a conversation with LC, who also provided some choice bits.
Acknowledgments: The deliciouscrack crew, of course, and also Weirdness Magnet.
Repetition makes everything easier.
The fifteenth time you shoot your line and swing out over late night traffic will almost certainly be easier than the first. The forty-seventh lie to your parents was infinitely easier than the tenth.
The third time you... do this. Well.
At this point, the question of whether it will get easier is still a question. Tim isn't, actually, sure if he wants it to get easier. And the reasons for that don't even have the decency to be consistent with themselves. Because it would be okay to not want this to be easier if he was just concerned about the shades of grey creeping into his moral outlook, but the fact is...
Part of him likes how difficult this is. Part of him doesn't want to give up the feel of swallowing around the pound of his own heart, and the back-brained panic of the fact that there are only so many places he can hide out here -- and still keep his vantage point.
The fact is, if he were Dick, he'd know exactly which rooftops provided which views into his apartment, and while Dick is more casual about this sort of security than Tim's ever likely to be on his least paranoid day... chances are he does know.
And one day he's going to look out of those uncurtained windows and...
He's not thinking about that.
He's doing this the best way he knows how, and he's reasonably sure he hasn't left behind any evidence. He's not some kind of sniper, leaving nests to be perused and catalogued by any detective with half a brain. He's...
He's not thinking about that, either.
He's just... watching.
The bike gets him out here to the 'haven quickly and easily, and sometimes he even gets all the way to his actual destination, and Dick gives him soda and they watch late night television and it all feels so normal, and so good, because Dick is... he isn't sure what he'd do without Dick in his life.
But one night he'd decided to see if he could, well, surprise Dick -- because it's good to stay in practice -- but he'd never actually made it inside, because a routine check on Dick's position from that rooftop had...
And he had seen.
And Dick is frighteningly attractive. Beautiful, even, and moreso seemingly every time Tim looks at him. He's pretty sure he remembers a time when he could look at Dick without... wanting. More than he has, more than he gets, more than he could ask for. He's almost sure it had to be that way, otherwise he wouldn't have been able to be around Dick as comfortably as he has, as he still can. Mostly.
They work really well together -- even Batman thinks so.
Batman. And that's another thread of panic, another sharp, sharp icicle raked down his spine. He's worked with the man for three years. He knows Batman is a man -- he's long past the superstition -- but he still knows that Batman is going to figure this out. What he's doing.
And then... he doesn't know 'and then.' He doesn't think about that, either.
To be perfectly honest, he doesn't think about much of anything once he's out here, once he knows if Dick... if Dick will.
Sometimes he looks tired after a patrol, and the lights go out.
Sometimes the lights are already out by the time Tim gets here.
This is only the third time. The lights are on, and Dick is pacing, moving. There's a
half-read book in his hand and the television is on. So is the stereo -- Tim can tell by the way it's lit up. It's only the third time for this, but he's known Dick for a long, long time.
Tim knew the way his body moved long before he ever heard his voice, and now that he's sixteen, and now that it's the third time, he's pretty sure he knows what it means. Dick is feeling...
He isn't sure what Dick is feeling, beyond restless and awake and --
Tim watches through the binoculars as Dick throws himself casually, elegantly on the couch. He'd picked the right rooftop for this -- the view into Dick's living room is nearly perfect. And Dick shoves his cut-off sweats down almost immediately, and he's not even wearing a jock under them, and Tim feels his mouth fall open and lets it stay that way.
Mouth-breathing is unfortunate to look at, but infinitely quieter. And he's pretty sure he won't need to moan for at least a few minutes. At least until...
He can't ever look away. He can't.
He knows that it's possible that one day he'll be used to this enough that he'll be able to do all sorts of things, but he only knows that on an intellectual level. His body knows an entirely different set of facts:
Dick's legs are long. Dick's body is lean and muscled and scarred and perfect. Dick's hand curls around his own cock beautifully, naturally. Dick bites his lip like he'd rather someone else do it for him.
Tim's never going to get used to this. He's never going to stop needing to see it.
The way Dick's mouth moves, and it's obvious that he's speaking, but the angle isn't quite right for lip-reading. He hasn't used his directional mike for this. Yet. He doesn't think he could...
He shakes his head and tightens his hands around the mini-scope, forcing himself to be aware of the plastic, of the gritty feel of the roof beneath his left knee, of the faint complaint of his spine at the way he's crouched.
He wants to know what Dick's saying. He absolutely doesn't want to know what Dick's saying. He wants to be here, in his own body enough to not lose his mind more than he already is at the rhythm of Dick's strokes. Because he can feel it. What it would be like.
Maybe not Dick's hand -- his imagination isn't quite that good, and he hasn't had enough time to study Dick's calluses as much as he'd like to -- but his own. What it would feel like to just shove his shorts and tights and jock down, out of the way, just so he could pick up Dick's rhythm.
Not just yet. A few minutes more, when he's hard enough and acclimated enough to the sight of this that using that rhythm on his own cock would be shocking, painful, would... he can already feel it. The way it would be the next thing to being in there, too close and too hot and too needy and exposed.
Far more than Dick is right now, because Dick doesn't know he's watching, and Tim
would. Or... it's hard to think with Dick touching himself like that, with the way his head rolls back and forth against the back of the couch, with how good it must be for him, even though it's just his own hand.
Dick has always been so present within his own body, so graceful and sure and alive, turning the world into grainy black and white around him.
"I want you," he whispers to the night air, because he has to, because there's no one to hear, because Dick won't react to what he can't hear, and because it's just this close to honest.
The way he is.
And then Dick starts pumping his hips like the motion of his own hand isn't good enough, or maybe like it's more about the motion of his body than about what he's actually getting.
Like he's imagining fucking someone, doing it right now. And they would be spread over his lap and holding on, because Dick is doing it hard, so hard, and he wants it that way.
Tim wants it to hurt and he wants it to be thoughtless, reflexively needy and physically cruel. Brutal, perfect, and the plastic of his 'scope creaks under his fingers and the seam of his jock is a punishment. He doesn't want to move, just yet. He knows himself well enough to know that adjusting himself will just lead to jerking off, and then he might close his eyes.
He doesn't want to so much as blink.
Dick is so close now, he has to be. The lamp shines on the sweat on his forehead, and his hips are rolling, snapping up, up, and Tim bites his lip to hold back the moan. Not yet. Not yet.
He wants to see. He has to see -- oh God, Dick pushing his t-shirt up with his other hand, scraping and pinching at his nipple --
"Dick," and that was too loud, but he's still alone, it's still okay, even though Dick's rhythm is beautifully ragged now, even though he's slick with his own pre-come. Tim wants to know what he tastes like, wants to lick Dick's thighs and suck on his balls and taste the skin, the difference between sweat and pre-come, the difference between pre-come and --
He manages to make it through, manages to watch Dick coming, arching off the couch and -- moaning, he's maybe moaning, and that's all Tim can take. He turns and sets his back to the edge of the roof, ditching the gauntlets and lifting his hips and pushing everything down, out of the way.
His mind is scattered, desperate, and the images aren't the right ones, not really. He's overstimulated, and it actually takes a little while before he can get past the old ones. Dick flipping and tumbling through the air, Dick smiling at him, Dick fighting his way through a crowd of hostiles --
Tim groans and squeezes himself hard, too hard, and thinks about Dick doing it, to himself, to both of them at the same time.
Dick saying his name and Dick touching him, watching him, having him, and there's a six story drop about six inches behind Tim, and he wishes that didn't make it better. He wishes it didn't feel so right, because the last thing he really needs right now is more proof of how fucked-up he is.
How fucked-up this is, because one day he's going to start scheduling this, more than he already does, because it's only the third time and he's already addicted.
He jacks himself harder, faster, and he thinks he's actually farther away from his own orgasm, like maybe he's still enough of a human being to hate himself for this. And then his mind gives him the image of Dick's throat curved back, of the curve of Dick's mouth, and he's --
"I thought it was a stranger."
His heart seizes in his chest before his mind kicks in, before he can let go of his cock.
"Watching me, that is," and Dick's voice in his ear is flatly curious, dangerously dreamy.
And just like that Tim can feel Dick. The heat and presence of him behind his back. He can't say a word.
"How many times?" Dick's breath is hot and ticklish against his ear.
He has to be holding himself up on his palms. He had to have climbed up here by hand, silently, or --
"Are you gonna tell me?"
Tim's cock twitches in his grip before he can squeeze it again.
"You had to know I'd feel you. I just thought... I had a secret admirer." There's a laugh in Dick's voice, and Tim wonders if he can make himself have a heart attack.
He's definitely tempted to try.
"Move," Dick says, and Tim's used to following orders.
He pushes to his feet and moves forward, but he doesn't get far. Dick catches his shoulders and squeezes, holds on tight and pulls Tim back against his body fast. Too fast. He doesn't have time to hold back his gasp.
His face feels hot and he's still hard.
He squeezes his eyes shut.
"Do you know why I didn't stop?" Dick's voice is so soft.
"No," he manages, and it sounds thick and low to his own ears.
"There's nothing like having someone's eyes on you, Tim. But you don't really know about that, do you?"
He shivers, and Dick's hands tighten on his shoulders. And then slide down Tim's arms to his hands, to where he's trying to cover himself. Dick tugs Tim's left hand back down to his side. And twines his fingers with the right.
"I think you should," he says, and wraps Tim's hand around his own dick again. "I really, really do."
"Dick. We -- I --"
"On your knees."
"Oh God," he says, but he's doing it, and Dick follows him down and presses closer.
"Now. Unless someone else is watching this rooftop..." Dick's mouth is close enough to Tim's face that he can feel Dick's smile. "It's just us. It's just what you do... and what I can see."
Everything. He can see -- Tim squeezes his eyes shut for a second, opens them again and tightens his fingers. Dick's fingers slip in between his own, Dick moves with him when Tim starts to stroke again. Staring helplessly at himself, his cock sliding in and out of their fist and he can't tell if the motion in his arm starts with him or with Dick.
"Oh God Dick--"
"Is this what you wanted?" His breath curls hot and wet around Tim's ear. "Did you want me to see you, Tim?"
No way to answer that -- to do anything but pant and jack himself harder, watch Dick's hand swallow his own and watch Dick's fingers grow shiny and wet and just. Moan and let Dick do him, and watch him, until Tim's coming into their hands and shaking hard.
"Oh, Tim --" Dick brings their joined fingers up to Tim's mouth. "Suck them, let me see -- your mouth --" And Dick kisses his jaw hard as Tim opens for him. Lets Dick push inside, as much as he can take, fingers slipping across his lips and his chin as he sucks his come from their skin. Dick hums against his throat and pulls Tim back tighter against him.
Starts undoing the tunic with his free hand and... there's no reason for Dick to know which panel contains the electric charge that needs to be deactivated, but he does. Like he's studied Tim's suit, and every time they're out together Dick knows -- Dick could.
Tim moans around the fingers in his mouth. Dick is, and the tunic falls open to either side, so Dick can press his hand on Tim's chest and just -- hold him there. His hand is so hot through the t-shirt and he's got to be able to feel Tim's heart beating hard enough to rattle his chest.
He presses harder, and slides his other hand down to Tim's belt, undoing it with a flick of the wrist and making Tim feel impossibly lighter on top of just being more naked. Like Dick is maybe the only thing keeping him tethered to the roof.
Dick's hands and Dick's mouth on his throat, Dick's tongue --
Tim hears himself moan and feels Dick hearing it, and for a second he's pressing on Tim's chest so hard Tim can't breathe, and then he isn't. No contact at all. No --
Hands on his shoulders again, bending him back, and Dick shifts around Tim so fast that he doesn't have time to look down. Dick's eyes are wild in the faint light from the streets and Dick is pushing him down on his back, petting him and pulling his legs out straight, stroking up his thighs and tugging his tights and shorts down further, down past his knees.
"Dick, I... I --"
"You could've asked, you know." The curve of his smile is sharp and faintly wicked. "Or touched me."
Tim bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut at the feel of Dick cupping his sac.
"Maybe like this," he says, and gives him a gentle squeeze before stroking back up over him to either side of Tim's cock. "You want to, right?"
Dick slides his hands up further, pushing up under Tim's shirt, and he knows the feel of Dick's calluses now. He'll always know.
"I'm sorry, I'm --"
"Shh. You want to touch me? Like this?" Thumbs on Tim's nipples, hard little circles --
"Oh God, yes --"
"You could've," Dick says, and pinches his nipples, making Tim gasp. "You could've come in --" Scratching lightly up and down his chest, and his eyes are huge and dark and focused. "I'd let you. I want you to, Tim," and pinches him again, harder, until Tim bucks up into his hands and moans,
"Dick, oh god please--" His voice feels like it's pouring out of his throat. Dick's hands are hot and huge on his chest, and then they slide down, out the bottom of his shirt.
Strokes over him, light and teasing. "Like this?" Dick says. "How would you do it, Tim?" Cups his balls again and looks at Tim, looks in his eyes. "You want to suck me?"
"Yes --" And Dick bends down fast and takes Tim in. "Oh god," far too loud but he can't. He can't even close his mouth.
It's all he can do not to shove his hands in Dick's hair and pet and stroke and pull, but he can't, he doesn't -- he shouldn't have this, it's too good. Dick feels so -- his mouth is so hot, so wet and sweet and good, and his tongue is making Tim want to tell every truth he knows.
It's everything he wanted and nothing he's supposed to have, and he isn't sure if it's just because he's terrified or not.
Dick's palms cup his hips and Dick's thumbs dig in hard and Tim can't -- he can't --
He sits up on his elbows and balls his hands into fists and Dick is looking at him. Watching with darkly gleaming eyes and that's -- Tim swallows around the lump of fear and embarrassment in his throat and forces himself to look right back, to see the way Dick's seeing him, and know that it's going to be in Dick's eyes from now on.
Because Dick knows exactly how bad he wants this, how much he needs it, and there's nothing he can do but be this naked. All the time.
"Dick," he says, and it comes out like a plea and he doesn't know what else he was going to say anyway, but Dick just narrows his eyes and sucks harder, slipping his fist from around the base of Tim's cock and reaching for one of Tim's wrists. His thumb is over Tim's pulse and he has to feel how fast it is, how desperate.
He presses down hard and just keeps looking at Tim, and it's something like breaking, like the first helpless gasp of air after coming out from underwater. It's Dick sucking him, and it's like he hadn't really known how good it would be before, or let himself feel it on more than just the shallowest edges of his consciousness.
"Dick. Dick, I can't --"
And Tim feels the head of his cock bumping hard against the back of Dick's throat for just long enough to moan before Dick is swallowing him, and he can't keep his eyes open anymore. It's too hot, and it's too real, and he needs this. He can't keep his hips from pumping and he can't form the words to tell Dick to hold him down.
Not when Dick is moaning around him, and it's just one more thing he's not supposed to have, that he never thought he would, and Tim hears himself panting and feels Dick squeezing his wrist and he can't hold it back anymore.
He curls in on himself and shakes his arm loose and shoves his hands into Dick's hair and he can't even make himself gentle. He can't even just pet Dick the way he wants to. His hands won't listen to him, spasming and pulling as Dick sucks, and Tim sits up all the way and holds on, feeling himself heat all over at the press of Dick's face against him, at the heat and undeniable reality of him.
Tim feels greedy, reckless, and part of him wants to come solely so it can stop, and part of him --
No, there's no other part of him anymore, because all he can think about is what it would be like to spill down Dick's throat when he'd barely let himself think about Dick's hands on him, and he has to pull out, get control, but Dick's grip on his hips is iron and he can't even drag his fingers out of Dick's hair.
Tim bites his lip and shakes and comes, groaning in his throat at the feel of Dick swallowing around him, over and over.
He tries to catch his breath and fails, and fails again, and by the time Dick pulls off Tim feels a little drunk on too much oxygen and too much feeling.
It's worse when Dick kisses him, or better, because it's the easiest thing in the world to just keep his hands in Dick's hair, to pet him now and do it a little too hard because his hands are shaking. To moan into Dick's mouth and let himself get pushed back down again. Dick's cut-offs don't hide anything, and Dick kisses like he doesn't care at all, holding Tim down with his weight and only pausing long enough to take quick, shallow breaths before licking his way back into Tim's mouth.
He wants more. He wants so much more, and that's something else he'd never considered. It would've been obvious if he had -- the feel of Dick moving on him, the taste of himself in Dick's mouth --
But he hadn't, and that's terrifying, too, and the only relief is that he'd have to fight to get out of this, and he never would. He couldn't. He has to have this, to feel this, and so it has to be okay.
Even when Dick stops kissing his mouth and moves to his throat, and there's nothing to catch Tim's groans but the night air. Even when he hears himself gasping in stark, obvious counterpoint to the rock of Dick's hips against him.
"What else did you want, Tim?"
Words. He'd forgotten words, and how the sound of Dick's voice saying things like that could make him shiver.
More when Dick nips at his earlobe. "What else did you think about when you touched yourself?"
The sigh of Dick's breath against him is anything but soothing, and then he's moving, pulling Tim's arms from around his neck and pressing his wrists back against the roof. "Tell me."
It's an order, and it makes Tim swallow. Somehow it doesn't matter that his mask is still on, that the lenses are still up. Probably because Dick knows him as well as anyone. Maybe better now.
"I just -- you. I have... images in my mind." He swallows again and thinks about turning his head, and about what it would look like if he did. He wants to know if it would be sexier for Dick, better, and he wants Dick's weight back on top of him and --
Dick strokes his wrists. "Tell me more," he says, and his voice is low and demanding. Rough. The 'you owe me,' is silent, but it's just as real as the pressure of Dick's hands against his wrists..
He absolutely does. "Your hands on me. You touch me more than anyone, I --"
And it makes Dick pull back, a little. "God, Tim, I don't --"
"You do," he says, and reaches for Dick's hands before he can get too far away. "You touch me all the time, you... even when we're working." And he thinks maybe he's saying the wrong thing, because the look on Dick's face is a little horrified, but it's the truth, and it's... "I like it," Tim says, and curls his hands around Dick's own, dragging them back to his face. "I like it when your hands are on me. It... it makes me..."
Warm, real, normal... something, only Tim doesn't really have the words to make that make sense, he just has the need. The hunger and craving for it, and he pulls Dick's fingers back to his mouth. He still tastes faintly of Tim's own come, or maybe it's just the smell.
Tim licks Dick's fingers, licks between them and closes his eyes behind the mask when Dick's pushes in.
"You want this," Dick says, and it sounds like he's figuring something out, like there was maybe something even more in what Tim said. He doesn't want to think about it, and he knows how to make it so he can't.
He pushes the hand that isn't on his face down, away from him, and Dick's cock is a hard outline through the thin material of his cutoffs.
Tim moans around Dick's fingers and curls his own under the waistband of Dick's shorts, and moans again at the scratch of hair against his knuckles, and the slick heat on his fingertips. Dick shoves the shorts down without a word, without hesitation, without even looking away from Tim's face.
Like it's absolutely nothing to bare himself like this. Maybe it isn't, for Dick. Maybe it doesn't matter at all that Tim's drooling around his fingers and touching him with shaky hunger. A part of his brain wants to tell him that maybe it's better for Dick this way, but that's too much to wrap his mind around.
It's enough just to get his fist around Dick's cock, to get a better grip when Dick crawls forward until he's straddling Tim's chest. This close he can smell him -- he can't not -- and when he strokes, Dick pushes in with his fingers and --
It's not a thrust. It's too smooth for that, too... Dick rolls his hips, pushing his cock into the circle of Tim's fist and it's so sexy Tim has to moan around Dick's fingers and clutch at Dick's wrist when he tries to pull out again.
"I want to hear you. I want -- oh, Tim. You... you have to talk to me."
Tim lets go of Dick's wrist with a whimper that just gets louder when Dick twines his fingers with Tim's own and pushes their hands back down against the roof.
"Talk to me."
"I don't know what to say," and he knows he sounds pathetic, but all he wants to do is focus on the smell of Dick's sweat and the feel of him over him, holding him down, rocking into his hand and watching him -- smiling at him.
"You like the way I touch you."
"Every time I -- ruffled your hair --"
And it sounds like Dick wants that to be a question, but Tim strokes him faster, harder, tightens his other hand around Dick's own and thinks about Dick pulling his hair, about all the times Dick's tackled him playfully or randomly put an arm around him and pulled him close, and the way Dick's slicker with pre-come on every stroke, the way Dick's breathing gets rougher and rougher --
It's like permission. It's like a blanket forgiveness for all the times Tim took those touches the wrong way. And he knows he should probably say some of that out loud, that none of this is Dick's fault, but he doesn't want to make a sound. He doesn't even want to breathe, because he doesn't want to miss a single second of this. The feel and sound and smell of him, and those wide blue eyes seeing him.
And not turning away.
Not even when the rhythm of his hips gets ragged, though the expression on his face is... sharper. Harder and more intent. He's going to come. He's --
Twining their fingers together and changing the pace, making each stroke shorter and more brutal.
"That's not the way you --" Were doing it when Tim was watching, and Dick smirks at him, and no, he doesn't have to say a word.
Dick was playing for an audience, before. Now he's just... having sex.
Tim licks his lips and lets himself be guided, and he only gets a moment to be conflicted about where he wants to look before Dick's hand tightens around his own and he groans. His name.
And Tim can't look anywhere but Dick's face, at the way his eyes narrow and his mouth falls open and stays that way for every panted moan.
Even in the questionable light Tim can see how flushed Dick is, how close, and when Dick speeds their hands even more he can't help but moan, too.
"Oh, Tim, Tim -- make me come. Make me -- God --"
"I want to. I've always --" Tim bites his lip and shakes his head and lets himself just feel it. The heat and strength of Dick's hand around his and the way the look on Dick's face just makes him want to never stop, never let go.
Dick's pushing Tim's other hand hard against the roof, now, and every moan sounds like the best kind of painful.
"Don't stop," Tim says before he can think, and blushes when Dick laughs.
"Not -- a problem -- oh fuck --"
The laugh turns into a loud, breathless groan and Dick is coming all over their fists and spattering Tim's shirt. Tim forces himself not to reflexively tighten his grip on Dick's cock and forces himself to just wait.
It's easier when he focuses on Dick's face again. Dick is breathing hard, and licking his lips, and Tim wants to feel guilty for the part of his mind that won't stop taking snapshots, but he can't. Dick knows now. It has to be okay. Maybe more than that when Dick pushes Tim's hand against the roof one more time and lets go. And... touches his face.
Tim leans in to the brush of sweat-damp fingers across his cheek, but only gets a moment more of contact before those fingers sweep really purposefully over the mask. And flip back his lenses.
Tim blinks against the shift in the light and then just watches Dick looking into his eyes. And then Dick makes them squeeze his cock again before pulling free. Tim curls the fingers of that hand into a fist to keep himself from petting Dick's thighs or... or a lot of things.
"I... um." It's really time for him to go home. The position of the moon doesn't give him a perfectly accurate time, but...
"You're coming inside with me."
Dick's fingers are teasing almost idly at the edges of his mask, and his other slick, sticky hand is tracing patterns on Tim's chest. He's not sure when his shirt got rucked up. He's almost sure he could make sense out of the patterns, but that would require him to stop staring up at Dick.
It's not going to happen. "Dick --"
"I want you in my bed, Tim. And you're going to talk to me."
"I." He has to go home. He absolutely can't -- "Okay."
Dick cups his face and tilts it up a little further, holding it there. "All I have to do is ask," he says, and Tim thinks that maybe should have been a question, but also...
Maybe it shouldn't. Dick hasn't stopped tracing those patterns on his chest, and he brushes his other thumb over Tim's mouth.
"Tim," Dick says, frowning a little. That is a question.
"Yes," Tim says, and lets himself feel it when Dick's thumb slips almost into his mouth.
And lets Dick see him feeling it.
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Title: Bite your lip
Author: Te [email] [website]
Details: Standalone | NC-17 | *slash* | 28k | 05/24/04
Characters: Robin, Nightwing
Summary: Investigation and exposure.
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