Fic: Messy Paint and Smashing Heads ; Tim Drake/Jason Todd; NC-17
Title: Messy Paint and Smashing Heads
Series: Bloody Knuckles and Master Plans
Author: Aravis Tarkheena
Pairing: Tim Drake/Jason Todd
Rating: NC-17, totally
Warnings: Jason smut, if you cannot GUESS the warning at this point then you know me not at all
Disclaimer: Not mine, Jay's legal
Word Count: 2,500ish
Author's Notes: HAPPY BIRTHDAY shiny_glor_chan!!!! I figured I'd post this for you rather than letting it languish on my harddrive. Sequel/Side Story to Bloody Knuckles and Master Plans. This won't make sense with out it. Forgive typos, I'm late for work and I don't get home until AFTER midnight. I wanted to post this on Gloria's b-day so the editing was minimal.
Beta: AKA Gloria came here and cleaned it up a bit as she read the lovely Jason porn. *noms on it*
Previously on Jason Has Blue Balls...
I found the storage unit three days after getting into the city. Finding it hadn’t been easy, but then, if Drake had been interested in making things easy for me, I wouldn’t have to track him down him this way.
I sauntered into the office of the place like I owned it. It was filthy and messy and smelled like stale cigarette smoke. I snatched the master key from the manager, after I Stupid Americaned him out of the office, and into the back room.
Who said Brucie Wayne didn't teach me any valuable life skills?
I exited the office before he recovered enough to come back out, and ducked behind a few sad looking trailers. I watched the door until the manager left for the evening. The minute he turned the corner down the block, I was on my feet scanning the rows of storage spaces. I walked past all the rusty looking doors until I found one with beautifully oiled hinges and no dust on the front surface.
I used a toy I snatched from Babs to disable any electronic security system that might be in place. After that, I keyed open the lock and slipped inside.
The storage unit was cool and felt slightly damp. There were no windows, so it was very dark inside; the only light came from the open door behind me.
The room was almost bare, and the air was heavy with the scent of oil and damp cement. I glanced around with the door still hanging ajar, giving myself a few moments to take it all in.
The first thing I took notice of was Tim's Ducati in the far corner. The minute I saw it, I knew I had been right about everything. It was draped with a dull beige drop cloth, but its lines were still unmistakable even in this light.
In another corner was some rolled up bedding. There was a small, one burner, camp stove just next to it. Two bags that were clearly designed to be slung over the side of the Ducati were tucked neatly in a corner. One was for clothes and the other probably had the basic tools Tim used to do simple work on his Ducati and secretly infiltrate huge and scary as fuck criminal organizations.
That seemed to be his favorite hobby these days. Well, that and babying his Duc.
Tim's insistence on working on his bike himself was actually how I had managed to find him. Don't get me wrong, you've got to appreciate a man who knows his way around an engine the ways Drake does, but a weakness is a weakness, and weaknesses are meant to be exploited.
Drake would agree with me.
A little bit of bribery, a lot of flirting, and no small amount of begging had convinced Babs to share the plans Tim had drawn up to modify the engine of his Ducati. According to Babs, the guy had been coming up with ways to make the thing faster and more energy efficient from the minute Bruce first dropped the keys into his hand. At this point there was probably more of Tim in that thing then the manufacturer.
Babs thought I wanted a bike of my own. She thought I was feeling motorcycle envy. She thought I wanted to make some of those modifications to a bike of my very own. While all of those things were true, they had nothing to do with why I wanted those plans.
The way I figure, Drake's such a brain he had to have thought of a few things that regular mechanics either wouldn't have thought of, or wouldn't be able to afford.
I had been absolutely right.
There were more than 20 components in the plans that were completely out of the norm.
Now, because Drake lived the way he did and did the things she did, I figured it was only a matter of time before the Duc needed some serious TLC. Drake just wasn’t the kind of guy who could deny his Ducati a little love and affection. Of course Drake would do those repairs himself because Drake was the person that he was. So all I had to do was keep an eye out for a private buyer of any of those unusual components.
It took less time to enlist Babs' help the second time around, but what I gained in time convincing her, I lost in running ‘errands’ for her. If there was one thing I could say about Babs, it was that the girl knew how to negotiate. Babs' programs got a hit after a few false leads. After I had healed up from a beating I had taken on one of those little ‘errands,’ I tracked Drake down to a shady part of a city with an unpronounceable name in Eastern Europe.
The address for the initial part delivery was phony, but a few well placed questions around the right --or maybe that was the wrong-- parts of town had gotten me the name and address of the storage place.
The language barrier had actually been my biggest obstacle. Lucky for me my Kris speaks the universal language of 'Ow, I’m Fucking Bleeding.'
The Duc, which was insanely distinctive, had been seen in this area. The storage place was one of only two places Tim could hide out in.
I did the math.
I walked over to Tim's Duc and pulled the drop cloth off. I tossed it to the floor before taking the bike in.
The last time I'd seen this pretty little piece of work, I'd had Drake pinned up against it. We'd been on the run and the metal of the bike had felt almost as hot as Drake's flushed, sweat damp skin.
I pressed a palm to the bike and the coolness of the metal knocked me out of my memories. I ran a hand over the spotless red paint and tried to dispel the chill from the tips of my fingers with the friction.
A bike like this should always be hot, with combustion of the engine or the body heat of its rider.
A flash of lust hit me as my conscious mind processed that particular thought. I felt my face go hot and something warm and liquid pool in my belly.
I knew his scent from that night, those few moments I spent with our bodies pressed together in hot retreat. It was a sense memory I hadn't realized I had until I'd stepped through the door of this shitty little shed and caught a whiff of him again. The musk of his unpolluted sweat mixed with the hint of leather and oil.
I knew it better than I had realized.
My cock knew it even better than that.
My body had spent a great deal of my adolescence in a catatonic state. Lately it seemed awfully invested in making up for lost time. My hormones always seemed to be in over drive, and it wasn't just endorphins from a successful hunt.
It was pure sex and ball crushing want.
It made me wonder if Drake ever felt this way, or if it was just 3 years with an untapped dick.
Did Drake ever lay on the bed roll in the corner of this storage unit with his hand wrapped around his own cock and his mind on...
His mind on what?
Not me, clearly. He had made that pretty plain.
On Batgirl?
On Batman?
On his fucking Duc?
Jealousy's a bitch and while I'm pretty sure Drake's never gotten hard thinking about Bruce naked, I'm equally sure he's frequently thought about Batgirl naked.
Probably on the Duc.
With whipped cream and a fucking cherry on top.
And the image of Drake bending over her naked body with a smirk on his face and a cherry between his perfect fucking teeth was not helping my dick in the slightest. Or maybe it was that it was helping the little bastard too much.
It wouldn't be so bad if she wasn't so fucking hot. While I'm pretty sure I could distract Drake from my serious vagina lack, I knew I couldn't make up for not having that rack.
It was an excellent rack.
I traced idle patterns against the red paint of Duc, smudging the perfect sheen with the oil from my fingers. I imagined Tim bent over the Duc, face full of concentration as he buffed off the mark I'd left on his bike.
A bike he went to a lot of trouble to bring along with him to Godknowsfuckistan after pointedly leaving me behind. Stranded, alone, in a shit part of town with an erection big enough to be mistaken for a concealed weapon. I looked like fucking Plaxico Burress without the sweat pants.
The image of him from that night was still burned into my mind. His spine straight, his body tensed and his legs wrapped around the Duc as he sped off into the night.
I took a deep breath, gripped the handle bars and straddled the bike. The damn thing felt like it had been molded to fit between my legs. I felt the phantom tingle of the bike humming to life against my thighs.
I bit the inside of my lip and felt myself flush. My leather jacket suddenly felt too hot and too tight. I took another breath, intending to count to ten and calm down a little, but I didn't even get past 'one' before the scent registered in my mind again.
His scent.
It was much stronger here, on his bike.
Anger, resentment and annoyance melted very suddenly into something hotter, intense and liquid and impossible to ignore. The heat in my face was nothing compared to the heat that was pooling in my gut. I shifted to ease it but the movement made my dick, hard and way to sensitive for my own good, brush against the fabric of my jeans.
Sometimes going commando was just a whole lot of no fun at all.
I felt myself groan, and I leaned back. I braced one hand behind me on the back of the bike for balance. The position eased the pressure on my dick but not the molten heat in my stomach. My cock twitched as it roiled and surged. I stopped breathing as I eased down my fly.
My cock pushed out of the fly of my jeans, fast and easy, like it was just waiting to rush out the door. I it palmed once, hard and brutal, hoping to coax it down to something easy, something manageable. Lazy arousal I knew how to handle, but this?
It had been years since I had it this bad. Not since I’d been wearing the red, green and gold. Years and years and years since I had to just stop where I was, take my dick in hand and just-
The first stroke of my fist hit me hard, like an electric shot, a jolt to my body that I wasn’t entirely sure I could handle. I jerked and shook and arched but the bike between my legs kept me from getting the leverage I wanted, the leverage I needed to press my cock into the tight circle of my fist in the way I wanted.
I felt a sound crack through my throat, harsh and abrasive, but I never heard it. The buzzing in my ears was much too loud and I couldn’t focus enough to clear it. I didn’t want to focus enough to clear it.
I shifted my left hand, bracing myself further before I bit hard at my lip and started stroking in earnest.
I shook my head in frustration, feeling my hair stick to the damp sweat at my temples. I was constricted everywhere. The movement of my arms was restricted by the pull of my heavily armored leather jacket and the movement of my hips was restrained by the bike between my legs.
It was torture.
I wanted to be naked.
I wanted to feel the leather of the seat against my ass and the cool of the metal against my thighs and I wanted to move my arms just as fast and hard as I needed.
But I didn’t need it.
Not really.
I was wound up and turned on and so blissed out it would have taken next to nothing to make me come.
I twisted my wrist and tightened my fist and the friction made me choke on a gasp. I smelled him again then, all around me. I saw his face and felt his hot, sweat damp body next to mine. I saw that ring on his lip and clenched my teeth as the overwhelming desire to bite at it washed through me.
My orgasm hit like a blow to the head. Quick, unexpected, and shockingly disorientating. I bit my lip and shook, trying hard not to topple the bike. I watched my come splatter wetly against the bright red paint.
The image of Tim on his knees licking the paint clean with even, careful strokes of his soft pink tongue flashed vividly in front of my eyes. I had to close them as another wave shot through me and my body jerked and spasmed again and again.
I sat there gasping for long moments, the scent of him thick in my nose and throat. I could almost taste him in the air and I groaned.
It took me a while to calm my heartbeat. I blinked my eyes open and waited for them to adjust to the darkness again.
The sun was starting to set, I could see the light under the door fading as I caught my breath. Drake would be back at any moment and it probably wasn’t a good idea to let him catch me sitting on his Duc with my pants unzipped and my come running down the side of his bike.
I cleaned the bike and myself with one of Drake’s dirty t-shirts figuring he’d rather have the come on his laundry than on his bike.
Who ever said I wasn’t considerate?
I didn’t know Drake’s schedule, but I figured he’d be back here around nightfall to suit up and head out. When he got here, he’d find yours truly, waiting for him.
I wasn’t sure what he was working on, but with Drake, it was always scary, messy and dangerous in just the right ways.
I couldn’t wait.
Series: Bloody Knuckles and Master Plans
Author: Aravis Tarkheena
Pairing: Tim Drake/Jason Todd
Rating: NC-17, totally
Warnings: Jason smut, if you cannot GUESS the warning at this point then you know me not at all
Disclaimer: Not mine, Jay's legal
Word Count: 2,500ish
Author's Notes: HAPPY BIRTHDAY shiny_glor_chan!!!! I figured I'd post this for you rather than letting it languish on my harddrive. Sequel/Side Story to Bloody Knuckles and Master Plans. This won't make sense with out it. Forgive typos, I'm late for work and I don't get home until AFTER midnight. I wanted to post this on Gloria's b-day so the editing was minimal.
Beta: AKA Gloria came here and cleaned it up a bit as she read the lovely Jason porn. *noms on it*
Previously on Jason Has Blue Balls...
I found the storage unit three days after getting into the city. Finding it hadn’t been easy, but then, if Drake had been interested in making things easy for me, I wouldn’t have to track him down him this way.
I sauntered into the office of the place like I owned it. It was filthy and messy and smelled like stale cigarette smoke. I snatched the master key from the manager, after I Stupid Americaned him out of the office, and into the back room.
Who said Brucie Wayne didn't teach me any valuable life skills?
I exited the office before he recovered enough to come back out, and ducked behind a few sad looking trailers. I watched the door until the manager left for the evening. The minute he turned the corner down the block, I was on my feet scanning the rows of storage spaces. I walked past all the rusty looking doors until I found one with beautifully oiled hinges and no dust on the front surface.
I used a toy I snatched from Babs to disable any electronic security system that might be in place. After that, I keyed open the lock and slipped inside.
The storage unit was cool and felt slightly damp. There were no windows, so it was very dark inside; the only light came from the open door behind me.
The room was almost bare, and the air was heavy with the scent of oil and damp cement. I glanced around with the door still hanging ajar, giving myself a few moments to take it all in.
The first thing I took notice of was Tim's Ducati in the far corner. The minute I saw it, I knew I had been right about everything. It was draped with a dull beige drop cloth, but its lines were still unmistakable even in this light.
In another corner was some rolled up bedding. There was a small, one burner, camp stove just next to it. Two bags that were clearly designed to be slung over the side of the Ducati were tucked neatly in a corner. One was for clothes and the other probably had the basic tools Tim used to do simple work on his Ducati and secretly infiltrate huge and scary as fuck criminal organizations.
That seemed to be his favorite hobby these days. Well, that and babying his Duc.
Tim's insistence on working on his bike himself was actually how I had managed to find him. Don't get me wrong, you've got to appreciate a man who knows his way around an engine the ways Drake does, but a weakness is a weakness, and weaknesses are meant to be exploited.
Drake would agree with me.
A little bit of bribery, a lot of flirting, and no small amount of begging had convinced Babs to share the plans Tim had drawn up to modify the engine of his Ducati. According to Babs, the guy had been coming up with ways to make the thing faster and more energy efficient from the minute Bruce first dropped the keys into his hand. At this point there was probably more of Tim in that thing then the manufacturer.
Babs thought I wanted a bike of my own. She thought I was feeling motorcycle envy. She thought I wanted to make some of those modifications to a bike of my very own. While all of those things were true, they had nothing to do with why I wanted those plans.
The way I figure, Drake's such a brain he had to have thought of a few things that regular mechanics either wouldn't have thought of, or wouldn't be able to afford.
I had been absolutely right.
There were more than 20 components in the plans that were completely out of the norm.
Now, because Drake lived the way he did and did the things she did, I figured it was only a matter of time before the Duc needed some serious TLC. Drake just wasn’t the kind of guy who could deny his Ducati a little love and affection. Of course Drake would do those repairs himself because Drake was the person that he was. So all I had to do was keep an eye out for a private buyer of any of those unusual components.
It took less time to enlist Babs' help the second time around, but what I gained in time convincing her, I lost in running ‘errands’ for her. If there was one thing I could say about Babs, it was that the girl knew how to negotiate. Babs' programs got a hit after a few false leads. After I had healed up from a beating I had taken on one of those little ‘errands,’ I tracked Drake down to a shady part of a city with an unpronounceable name in Eastern Europe.
The address for the initial part delivery was phony, but a few well placed questions around the right --or maybe that was the wrong-- parts of town had gotten me the name and address of the storage place.
The language barrier had actually been my biggest obstacle. Lucky for me my Kris speaks the universal language of 'Ow, I’m Fucking Bleeding.'
The Duc, which was insanely distinctive, had been seen in this area. The storage place was one of only two places Tim could hide out in.
I did the math.
I walked over to Tim's Duc and pulled the drop cloth off. I tossed it to the floor before taking the bike in.
The last time I'd seen this pretty little piece of work, I'd had Drake pinned up against it. We'd been on the run and the metal of the bike had felt almost as hot as Drake's flushed, sweat damp skin.
I pressed a palm to the bike and the coolness of the metal knocked me out of my memories. I ran a hand over the spotless red paint and tried to dispel the chill from the tips of my fingers with the friction.
A bike like this should always be hot, with combustion of the engine or the body heat of its rider.
A flash of lust hit me as my conscious mind processed that particular thought. I felt my face go hot and something warm and liquid pool in my belly.
I knew his scent from that night, those few moments I spent with our bodies pressed together in hot retreat. It was a sense memory I hadn't realized I had until I'd stepped through the door of this shitty little shed and caught a whiff of him again. The musk of his unpolluted sweat mixed with the hint of leather and oil.
I knew it better than I had realized.
My cock knew it even better than that.
My body had spent a great deal of my adolescence in a catatonic state. Lately it seemed awfully invested in making up for lost time. My hormones always seemed to be in over drive, and it wasn't just endorphins from a successful hunt.
It was pure sex and ball crushing want.
It made me wonder if Drake ever felt this way, or if it was just 3 years with an untapped dick.
Did Drake ever lay on the bed roll in the corner of this storage unit with his hand wrapped around his own cock and his mind on...
His mind on what?
Not me, clearly. He had made that pretty plain.
On Batgirl?
On Batman?
On his fucking Duc?
Jealousy's a bitch and while I'm pretty sure Drake's never gotten hard thinking about Bruce naked, I'm equally sure he's frequently thought about Batgirl naked.
Probably on the Duc.
With whipped cream and a fucking cherry on top.
And the image of Drake bending over her naked body with a smirk on his face and a cherry between his perfect fucking teeth was not helping my dick in the slightest. Or maybe it was that it was helping the little bastard too much.
It wouldn't be so bad if she wasn't so fucking hot. While I'm pretty sure I could distract Drake from my serious vagina lack, I knew I couldn't make up for not having that rack.
It was an excellent rack.
I traced idle patterns against the red paint of Duc, smudging the perfect sheen with the oil from my fingers. I imagined Tim bent over the Duc, face full of concentration as he buffed off the mark I'd left on his bike.
A bike he went to a lot of trouble to bring along with him to Godknowsfuckistan after pointedly leaving me behind. Stranded, alone, in a shit part of town with an erection big enough to be mistaken for a concealed weapon. I looked like fucking Plaxico Burress without the sweat pants.
The image of him from that night was still burned into my mind. His spine straight, his body tensed and his legs wrapped around the Duc as he sped off into the night.
I took a deep breath, gripped the handle bars and straddled the bike. The damn thing felt like it had been molded to fit between my legs. I felt the phantom tingle of the bike humming to life against my thighs.
I bit the inside of my lip and felt myself flush. My leather jacket suddenly felt too hot and too tight. I took another breath, intending to count to ten and calm down a little, but I didn't even get past 'one' before the scent registered in my mind again.
His scent.
It was much stronger here, on his bike.
Anger, resentment and annoyance melted very suddenly into something hotter, intense and liquid and impossible to ignore. The heat in my face was nothing compared to the heat that was pooling in my gut. I shifted to ease it but the movement made my dick, hard and way to sensitive for my own good, brush against the fabric of my jeans.
Sometimes going commando was just a whole lot of no fun at all.
I felt myself groan, and I leaned back. I braced one hand behind me on the back of the bike for balance. The position eased the pressure on my dick but not the molten heat in my stomach. My cock twitched as it roiled and surged. I stopped breathing as I eased down my fly.
My cock pushed out of the fly of my jeans, fast and easy, like it was just waiting to rush out the door. I it palmed once, hard and brutal, hoping to coax it down to something easy, something manageable. Lazy arousal I knew how to handle, but this?
It had been years since I had it this bad. Not since I’d been wearing the red, green and gold. Years and years and years since I had to just stop where I was, take my dick in hand and just-
The first stroke of my fist hit me hard, like an electric shot, a jolt to my body that I wasn’t entirely sure I could handle. I jerked and shook and arched but the bike between my legs kept me from getting the leverage I wanted, the leverage I needed to press my cock into the tight circle of my fist in the way I wanted.
I felt a sound crack through my throat, harsh and abrasive, but I never heard it. The buzzing in my ears was much too loud and I couldn’t focus enough to clear it. I didn’t want to focus enough to clear it.
I shifted my left hand, bracing myself further before I bit hard at my lip and started stroking in earnest.
I shook my head in frustration, feeling my hair stick to the damp sweat at my temples. I was constricted everywhere. The movement of my arms was restricted by the pull of my heavily armored leather jacket and the movement of my hips was restrained by the bike between my legs.
It was torture.
I wanted to be naked.
I wanted to feel the leather of the seat against my ass and the cool of the metal against my thighs and I wanted to move my arms just as fast and hard as I needed.
But I didn’t need it.
Not really.
I was wound up and turned on and so blissed out it would have taken next to nothing to make me come.
I twisted my wrist and tightened my fist and the friction made me choke on a gasp. I smelled him again then, all around me. I saw his face and felt his hot, sweat damp body next to mine. I saw that ring on his lip and clenched my teeth as the overwhelming desire to bite at it washed through me.
My orgasm hit like a blow to the head. Quick, unexpected, and shockingly disorientating. I bit my lip and shook, trying hard not to topple the bike. I watched my come splatter wetly against the bright red paint.
The image of Tim on his knees licking the paint clean with even, careful strokes of his soft pink tongue flashed vividly in front of my eyes. I had to close them as another wave shot through me and my body jerked and spasmed again and again.
I sat there gasping for long moments, the scent of him thick in my nose and throat. I could almost taste him in the air and I groaned.
It took me a while to calm my heartbeat. I blinked my eyes open and waited for them to adjust to the darkness again.
The sun was starting to set, I could see the light under the door fading as I caught my breath. Drake would be back at any moment and it probably wasn’t a good idea to let him catch me sitting on his Duc with my pants unzipped and my come running down the side of his bike.
I cleaned the bike and myself with one of Drake’s dirty t-shirts figuring he’d rather have the come on his laundry than on his bike.
Who ever said I wasn’t considerate?
I didn’t know Drake’s schedule, but I figured he’d be back here around nightfall to suit up and head out. When he got here, he’d find yours truly, waiting for him.
I wasn’t sure what he was working on, but with Drake, it was always scary, messy and dangerous in just the right ways.
I couldn’t wait.