[fic] Seeing Through Clothes (Dick/Tim, NC-17)
Title: Seeing Through Clothes
Pairings: Dick/Tim, Kon/Tim
Medium: DCU (Batfamily)
Timeline/spoilers: One Year Later; major spoilers for INFINITE CRISIS and very vague ones for NIGHTWING #125 and ROBIN #150.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Dick has their costumes all figured out.
Disclaimer: DC, not me.
Notes: Halloween porn for petronelle because I felt like giving her something. Title from the book by Anne Hollander that Tim's reading.
When the knock sounds at his door, Tim ignores it.
When the knock repeats, he says "come in" and continues reading.
The knock comes again, more loudly.
"Come *in*," he calls.
And again, the same irregular, restless rhythm. He marks his place in the discussion of Renaissance drapery and rises with a barely-contained sigh to open the door.
He notes everything at once, takes it all in before he blinks, then begins to prioritize the details. There are long, muscular legs in fishnet stockings above black leather ankle boots. A brilliant smile that's no disguise, a torrent of platinum-blonde hair over wide shoulders. A bustier cinched around a lean waist to create the illusion of hips.
And a little orange plastic bag dangling from one (false) long, black fingernail.
"Trick or --" Dick starts to say.
"You're too tall," Tim tells him. He leaves the door open, crossing the room back to his desk. "Your shoulders are too broad. And that's *Talia's* lipstick shade, not Dinah's."
"But I'm pretty." Dick's right behind him, dangling that stupid bag in front of his face. Breathing on his neck, up and down the bristle at Tim's hairline. "Also, *hot*."
"You're crazy," Tim says. He breathes deeply, letting his shoulders appear to relax, before snatching the bag away.
"Hey, those are mine!" Dick grabs for the bag, Tim ducks and feints, and the candy spills out over the rug.
Down on one knee, Tim makes a play for the Dairy Milk bar, but Dick pinches the nerve in his elbow. His forearm gone numb, he drops the candy and swears.
"Watch it," Dick says, smirking as he stuffs the chocolate into his mouth. "Cursing *and* consuming sugar? You'll be tipping over liquor stores next. Supervillainy's a slippery slope, little brother."
Candy corn is sprinkled all over the carpet. Tim bites the orange crest off one, then the orange bottom, placing the white striped center on the desk.
Dick's left eyebrow disappears into the wig's bangs. "You got a problem with the white part?"
"Tastes weird," Tim says and nibbles away the top of the next piece.
He's lying, but Dick doesn't have to know that. Dissecting candy corn with his incisors takes a certain amount of concentration, such that he doesn't have to...*see* Dick.
See the way he's got his legs crossed, see the stripe of dark skin and light hair between the hem of the bustier and the waistband of the shorts. See his fake nails scratching (absently?) at a hole in the fishnet, see the way the wig makes his face look a little darker, a lot more dangerous.
"No way!" Dick leans over when Tim takes a mini-Charleston Chew and tries to bat it out of his hand. "Those're my favorite --"
Dick's kneeling now, knees spread, as he scratches Tim's fist. The candy squishes in his hold as he kicks into a somersault and rolls away. Dick leaps and follows, tackling Tim around the waist and *pulling* him back.
He could keep fighting, or he could -- pretend Dick has won. The latter is less secure, far more unpredictable, but -- Dick's breathing heavily, more heavily than he needs to, and he's wearing *fishnets*.
This could, at least, be pretty interesting.
The carpet drags, burns, down Tim's arms and back as he slides forward, until Dick's straddling his thighs and beaming down at him.
"Your mascara's clumping," Tim says, but Dick's busy unlocking Tim's fist and retrieving the ruined candy. "And your lipstick --"
Dick swipes the back of his hand across his mouth, then twists the candy apart, stuffing one piece into Tim's mouth. "Shut up and --"
Chocolate and gritty nougat and Dick's *finger*: Tim bites down, shakes his head a little, then lets his body go loose. Dick yelps, glares, crooks his finger against the back of Tim's lower teeth and *tugs* until Tim's mouth opens.
Squinting, Dick shakes himself like he's trying to wake up.
"What--." Tim swallows the candy and sucks the taste of Dick's finger from the back of his teeth. "What do you want?"
"It's Halloween," Dick says absently as he straightens his wig.
"So this isn't an announcement about a major lifestyle change?"
Dick smirks at him.
"It's a fair question," Tim adds.
"Let me --" Dick shifts his weight, tugging at the top of the bustier. "Let me ask you a question."
Tim waits. Dick's knees are planted on either side of his hips, trapping his hands. The fishnets are stretched tight over Dick's thighs, less a regular pattern than a series of gaping holes held together by thread.
"What're you *doing*?" Dick asks finally, hands on Tim's shoulders.
It occurs to Tim that Dick has, at last, managed to loom convincingly.
Admittedly, the wig and bustier undercut the overall effect.
"Dick --" Tim rolls one shoulder, then the other, testing his means of escape.
Dick squeezes more tightly and dips his head down.
The wig brushes Tim's cheek. He tries to move his hand to bat it away, but Dick shifts slightly and tightens his knees against Tim's arms. From this angle, Tim can see down the bustier's empty cleavage, see the planes of Dick's pectorals, the dark penny of one nipple.
"I mean," Dick says, "You're up here, in what's really *not* my room --"
"I --"
Dick shakes his head, so Tim bites his lip. More tendrils from the wig tickle his nose. "The house got torn down, rebuilt, this *isn't* my room, but --"
"Bruce --" Tim says. Bruce would say otherwise.
At the name, Dick's hands flex on Tim's shoulders in time with the lift and grind of his thighs. "Fuck --. *Forget* Bruce. What *I'm* saying, what I mean, is, is --"
"What *do* you mean?" Tim keeps his voice as mild as he can. It's fairly difficult, given Dick's weight across his lap, the dark heat in Dick's eyes --.
The latter might just be the mascara, of course.
Dick takes a deep breath and lets it out through his nose. Then another, and another, his weight rolling against Tim.
"I came up here," he says, "I thought --" Dick's eyes close and his mouth twists, smearing the lipstick that much more. He has relaxed his hold, so Tim moves his hands over the curve of Dick's thighs, up his sides. Dick's eyes fly open. "Tim?"
"Listening," Tim says. "Go on."
"Ah. Um. *Fun*. Came up here, wanted to --" Dick trails off, sucking half his lower lip into his teeth.
Tim's fingers trace the bare skin between bustier and shorts.
Dick blinks rapidly. "Um --"
"Fun?" Tim prompts. He returns each clue Dick's managed to let drop as he strokes the backs of his knuckles down Dick's exposed skin. "You came up here to not-your-old room. Because it's Halloween. And I'm sulking when I --"
"Ah, *Christ*," Dick says when Tim's thumbs dip over his pelvic bones. His mouth is open, wet, his legs flexing. "Tim, I really didn't --"
Tim believes that. He believes that Dick didn't *mean* to come up here to fool around. His intentions truly were G-rated, pure, to cheer up the weird little brother, pig out on candy, maybe wrestle. Nothing more.
But things -- situations, circumstances -- have a way of slipping out of Dick's grasp.
("One minute Superboy was *there*, the next the tower was coming *down*, I'm sorry, I'm so --.")
The funny thing -- one of the many funny things -- about being -- being *himself*, Tim thinks, is that he knows Dick, knows Dick's face, far better than himself, than his own. When he's suited up, the face he wears is Dick's.
Dick only remotely resembles Kon. Big shoulders, dark hair, blue eyes. It only occurs to Tim *now*, as he knots his fingers in that stupid wig and yanks Dick's head down to bite his way into a kiss, to wonder whether he saw Dick on Kon or vice versa.
They're nothing alike, or they're perfectly identical, or Tim is just as crazy as many have long maintained. He -- he doesn't know, and he can't pursue that line of analysis, because Dick is *groaning* against his mouth. He cups the back of Tim's neck and kisses back, so wet and *eager* that Tim's vision blurs for a second, making him shake. Dick groans again when Tim slides his hand up one inner thigh, fingers scrabbling at the fishnets, plucking and tearing.
"Guh-*God*, okay --" Dick pulls away, unzipping the shorts, kicking out one leg and peeling them off. He yanks at the waistband of the stockings, then shudders as he goes still when Tim shakes his head.
"Leave 'em on," Tim says and sits up, letting Dick slide back, pushing Dick's calves until his knees are bent and feet are flat on the floor. He reaches forward, fingers in the fishnets, stroking Dick through the material until Dick's head falls back and the wig slides to one side.
"Tim, this isn't --"
"-- what you meant to happen," Tim finishes for him, and kisses him again. He tugs the wig off and tosses it away; there's nothing comparable to the silky slide of Dick's real hair against his hands. He cups Dick through the stockings again and feels Dick's torso and hips *rise* to meet him, one leg wrapping around the back of Tim's thighs, pulling him closer.
"Right," Dick breathes and pushes his hand down the back of Tim's pants. With one hand, Tim undoes the fly to make room, and Dick's fingers curl around one ass cheek, nails digging in. "Oh, *Jesus*, Tim --"
"It's okay, it's *okay* --" Tim's mouth is sliding down the tendon in Dick's throat as he works a hole in the stockings wider and wider, until four fingers fit inside, until he can sit back and pull Dick's cock out.
Dick blinks at him, sweat in the mascara, lipstick *gone*. Tim rubs his face and his hand comes away streaked with the dark burgundy.
"Hey, that shade suits you --" And then Dick's laughing, because it's never all that far away, laughing and reaching for Tim, working his pants down and wrapping his own hand around Tim's cock.
Tim pushes forward, dropping his hips, changing the angle as Dick jerks him slow and steady. He bites his lip, watching Dick, watching the beautiful mess he's making.
He knows that Dick came first, chronologically, but --. He shakes his head and reaches for Dick again, tracing the holes in the stockings, skirting his balls, mashed up in the stocking's crotch, tickling the base of Dick's cock -- red, dark, *wet*, standing out against the fishnets. Shuddering, Dick tightens his grasp and speeds his strokes.
"You look at me like that and I --" Dick stops and lifts his hips, opening his legs even wider, canting toward Tim.
("It's like your voice says 'get to work' but your *eyes*, dude. Your eyes're saying 'fuck me'. How do you *do* that?")
Tim closes his eyes when Dick moves again, going up on one knee, kissing his throat and jerking him more raggedly, *harder*.
He used to think that if his mother hadn't died, he wouldn't have been Robin. He can't think like that any longer, can't see his parents as some necessary sacrifice, can't believe that Kon died so that he could finally -- have Dick. Touch him like this, twisting his wrist and sucking on his neck, muffling his groans in the expanse of Dick's salty, *hot* skin.
Dick is touching him everywhere, the backs of his knees, the crack of his ass, up his spine and down his chest, as his other hand pumps and jerks and he's grunting, sounds like Tim's own name, and other noises, sweating under Tim's mouth and pulsing in Tim's hand, leaking and shooting pre-come, wrenching his hips and pulling them closer, and closer, until Tim's splayed over Dick's chest and their dicks are lined up. Until he's kissing Tim again, his mouth wider than ever -- mouths for laughing, for kissing, never for shrieking, dying -- tongue against Tim's palate and hand around their cocks, holding him here.
"C'mon, Tim, c'*mon*, please --" Dick's breath spatters cold against Tim's wet lips and chin. His eyes are wide and *blue*, shining, and he wants -- he wants Tim to feel good. Happy, safe, *better*. He wants Tim to come, and he's rocking his hips against Tim's, squeezing their cockheads together, rubbing them against Tim's belly as he nips at Tim's ear. "Please, I need you to --"
Tim grabs at Dick's hair, his upper arm and drives his hips forward. He watches Dick watching him come, until he's really coming and his eyes are closed, red light and ridiculous *stars* behind his lids, and Dick groans loudly enough to qualify as a shout, his cock snapping against Tim as he starts to come himself.
("It's like, like...*man*. When you're coming, it's like that's *really* you, the real you, and I can't get enough, you have no idea.")
Tim swallows a rush of saliva as Dick rubs his back and pats his ass. The muscles in his arms and legs are twitching randomly, his breath coming irregularly, and he has to shake his head several times to clear his eyes.
Dick's rubbing his lips together, working on air, blinking as slowly as cat. He stretches his left arm, then his right leg, before humming a little and gathering Tim back against him.
If Kon hadn't --. They wouldn't have taken that trip and Dick --.
Tim shakes his head again. "I ruined your costume."
Dick laughs hoarsely and lazily rubs the come splattering his bustier. "You think her costume hasn't ever seen this?"
"I don't want to know," Tim says and closes his eyes.
"I mean, whatever his faults, no one can say Ollie's not all man --"
Tim shudders, then exaggerates it. "Shut up --"
"I thought you could go as Speedy, see," Dick says and ruffles Tim's hair. "The real trick is getting the quiver and green suit on Bruce --"
Tim opens one eye. "You *have* met Bruce, right?"
Dick cuffs his cheek, then pulls him against his chest again. "Whole new world, little brother."
"I'm not wearing a red tunic," Tim tells him. "Let alone that stupid hat."
"Aww, *c'mon*," Dick whines. "Roy was adorable in that get-up."
"About as good as you looked in the Elvis suit, yes," Tim says. He stretches out his arms and neck, but Dick doesn't loosen his hold.
"You know, I take time out of my busy schedule --" Dick starts to tickle right between Tim's shoulder blades.
Tim rolls to the left and pushes his knee between Dick's thighs. "Yes, the busy schedule of an unemployed trust fundie must be *intense*."
"-- drive down here from the city, and what do I get?" On his side, Dick plants his cheek on his hand and bats his lashes. "Nothing but trouble. Don't know why I even bother."
"Because," Tim says and stretches again. Warmth is flowing slowly, surely, through his body and he wants to enjoy this. "Because you're just too goodhearted for your own good."
"Hm." Dick grins. "Sounds about right."
Several pieces of candy corn are embedding themselves in Tim's side. He can't quite bring himself to move.
Dick knocks his shoulder. "Hey, toss me that Special Dark, right behind your ear --"
Tim reaches backward for it, unwrapping it as he retrieves it, and pops the candy into his mouth.
It's too sweet, almost oily, but he grins as Dick shouts in protest.
[end]
Pairings: Dick/Tim, Kon/Tim
Medium: DCU (Batfamily)
Timeline/spoilers: One Year Later; major spoilers for INFINITE CRISIS and very vague ones for NIGHTWING #125 and ROBIN #150.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Dick has their costumes all figured out.
Disclaimer: DC, not me.
Notes: Halloween porn for petronelle because I felt like giving her something. Title from the book by Anne Hollander that Tim's reading.
When the knock sounds at his door, Tim ignores it.
When the knock repeats, he says "come in" and continues reading.
The knock comes again, more loudly.
"Come *in*," he calls.
And again, the same irregular, restless rhythm. He marks his place in the discussion of Renaissance drapery and rises with a barely-contained sigh to open the door.
He notes everything at once, takes it all in before he blinks, then begins to prioritize the details. There are long, muscular legs in fishnet stockings above black leather ankle boots. A brilliant smile that's no disguise, a torrent of platinum-blonde hair over wide shoulders. A bustier cinched around a lean waist to create the illusion of hips.
And a little orange plastic bag dangling from one (false) long, black fingernail.
"Trick or --" Dick starts to say.
"You're too tall," Tim tells him. He leaves the door open, crossing the room back to his desk. "Your shoulders are too broad. And that's *Talia's* lipstick shade, not Dinah's."
"But I'm pretty." Dick's right behind him, dangling that stupid bag in front of his face. Breathing on his neck, up and down the bristle at Tim's hairline. "Also, *hot*."
"You're crazy," Tim says. He breathes deeply, letting his shoulders appear to relax, before snatching the bag away.
"Hey, those are mine!" Dick grabs for the bag, Tim ducks and feints, and the candy spills out over the rug.
Down on one knee, Tim makes a play for the Dairy Milk bar, but Dick pinches the nerve in his elbow. His forearm gone numb, he drops the candy and swears.
"Watch it," Dick says, smirking as he stuffs the chocolate into his mouth. "Cursing *and* consuming sugar? You'll be tipping over liquor stores next. Supervillainy's a slippery slope, little brother."
Candy corn is sprinkled all over the carpet. Tim bites the orange crest off one, then the orange bottom, placing the white striped center on the desk.
Dick's left eyebrow disappears into the wig's bangs. "You got a problem with the white part?"
"Tastes weird," Tim says and nibbles away the top of the next piece.
He's lying, but Dick doesn't have to know that. Dissecting candy corn with his incisors takes a certain amount of concentration, such that he doesn't have to...*see* Dick.
See the way he's got his legs crossed, see the stripe of dark skin and light hair between the hem of the bustier and the waistband of the shorts. See his fake nails scratching (absently?) at a hole in the fishnet, see the way the wig makes his face look a little darker, a lot more dangerous.
"No way!" Dick leans over when Tim takes a mini-Charleston Chew and tries to bat it out of his hand. "Those're my favorite --"
Dick's kneeling now, knees spread, as he scratches Tim's fist. The candy squishes in his hold as he kicks into a somersault and rolls away. Dick leaps and follows, tackling Tim around the waist and *pulling* him back.
He could keep fighting, or he could -- pretend Dick has won. The latter is less secure, far more unpredictable, but -- Dick's breathing heavily, more heavily than he needs to, and he's wearing *fishnets*.
This could, at least, be pretty interesting.
The carpet drags, burns, down Tim's arms and back as he slides forward, until Dick's straddling his thighs and beaming down at him.
"Your mascara's clumping," Tim says, but Dick's busy unlocking Tim's fist and retrieving the ruined candy. "And your lipstick --"
Dick swipes the back of his hand across his mouth, then twists the candy apart, stuffing one piece into Tim's mouth. "Shut up and --"
Chocolate and gritty nougat and Dick's *finger*: Tim bites down, shakes his head a little, then lets his body go loose. Dick yelps, glares, crooks his finger against the back of Tim's lower teeth and *tugs* until Tim's mouth opens.
Squinting, Dick shakes himself like he's trying to wake up.
"What--." Tim swallows the candy and sucks the taste of Dick's finger from the back of his teeth. "What do you want?"
"It's Halloween," Dick says absently as he straightens his wig.
"So this isn't an announcement about a major lifestyle change?"
Dick smirks at him.
"It's a fair question," Tim adds.
"Let me --" Dick shifts his weight, tugging at the top of the bustier. "Let me ask you a question."
Tim waits. Dick's knees are planted on either side of his hips, trapping his hands. The fishnets are stretched tight over Dick's thighs, less a regular pattern than a series of gaping holes held together by thread.
"What're you *doing*?" Dick asks finally, hands on Tim's shoulders.
It occurs to Tim that Dick has, at last, managed to loom convincingly.
Admittedly, the wig and bustier undercut the overall effect.
"Dick --" Tim rolls one shoulder, then the other, testing his means of escape.
Dick squeezes more tightly and dips his head down.
The wig brushes Tim's cheek. He tries to move his hand to bat it away, but Dick shifts slightly and tightens his knees against Tim's arms. From this angle, Tim can see down the bustier's empty cleavage, see the planes of Dick's pectorals, the dark penny of one nipple.
"I mean," Dick says, "You're up here, in what's really *not* my room --"
"I --"
Dick shakes his head, so Tim bites his lip. More tendrils from the wig tickle his nose. "The house got torn down, rebuilt, this *isn't* my room, but --"
"Bruce --" Tim says. Bruce would say otherwise.
At the name, Dick's hands flex on Tim's shoulders in time with the lift and grind of his thighs. "Fuck --. *Forget* Bruce. What *I'm* saying, what I mean, is, is --"
"What *do* you mean?" Tim keeps his voice as mild as he can. It's fairly difficult, given Dick's weight across his lap, the dark heat in Dick's eyes --.
The latter might just be the mascara, of course.
Dick takes a deep breath and lets it out through his nose. Then another, and another, his weight rolling against Tim.
"I came up here," he says, "I thought --" Dick's eyes close and his mouth twists, smearing the lipstick that much more. He has relaxed his hold, so Tim moves his hands over the curve of Dick's thighs, up his sides. Dick's eyes fly open. "Tim?"
"Listening," Tim says. "Go on."
"Ah. Um. *Fun*. Came up here, wanted to --" Dick trails off, sucking half his lower lip into his teeth.
Tim's fingers trace the bare skin between bustier and shorts.
Dick blinks rapidly. "Um --"
"Fun?" Tim prompts. He returns each clue Dick's managed to let drop as he strokes the backs of his knuckles down Dick's exposed skin. "You came up here to not-your-old room. Because it's Halloween. And I'm sulking when I --"
"Ah, *Christ*," Dick says when Tim's thumbs dip over his pelvic bones. His mouth is open, wet, his legs flexing. "Tim, I really didn't --"
Tim believes that. He believes that Dick didn't *mean* to come up here to fool around. His intentions truly were G-rated, pure, to cheer up the weird little brother, pig out on candy, maybe wrestle. Nothing more.
But things -- situations, circumstances -- have a way of slipping out of Dick's grasp.
("One minute Superboy was *there*, the next the tower was coming *down*, I'm sorry, I'm so --.")
The funny thing -- one of the many funny things -- about being -- being *himself*, Tim thinks, is that he knows Dick, knows Dick's face, far better than himself, than his own. When he's suited up, the face he wears is Dick's.
Dick only remotely resembles Kon. Big shoulders, dark hair, blue eyes. It only occurs to Tim *now*, as he knots his fingers in that stupid wig and yanks Dick's head down to bite his way into a kiss, to wonder whether he saw Dick on Kon or vice versa.
They're nothing alike, or they're perfectly identical, or Tim is just as crazy as many have long maintained. He -- he doesn't know, and he can't pursue that line of analysis, because Dick is *groaning* against his mouth. He cups the back of Tim's neck and kisses back, so wet and *eager* that Tim's vision blurs for a second, making him shake. Dick groans again when Tim slides his hand up one inner thigh, fingers scrabbling at the fishnets, plucking and tearing.
"Guh-*God*, okay --" Dick pulls away, unzipping the shorts, kicking out one leg and peeling them off. He yanks at the waistband of the stockings, then shudders as he goes still when Tim shakes his head.
"Leave 'em on," Tim says and sits up, letting Dick slide back, pushing Dick's calves until his knees are bent and feet are flat on the floor. He reaches forward, fingers in the fishnets, stroking Dick through the material until Dick's head falls back and the wig slides to one side.
"Tim, this isn't --"
"-- what you meant to happen," Tim finishes for him, and kisses him again. He tugs the wig off and tosses it away; there's nothing comparable to the silky slide of Dick's real hair against his hands. He cups Dick through the stockings again and feels Dick's torso and hips *rise* to meet him, one leg wrapping around the back of Tim's thighs, pulling him closer.
"Right," Dick breathes and pushes his hand down the back of Tim's pants. With one hand, Tim undoes the fly to make room, and Dick's fingers curl around one ass cheek, nails digging in. "Oh, *Jesus*, Tim --"
"It's okay, it's *okay* --" Tim's mouth is sliding down the tendon in Dick's throat as he works a hole in the stockings wider and wider, until four fingers fit inside, until he can sit back and pull Dick's cock out.
Dick blinks at him, sweat in the mascara, lipstick *gone*. Tim rubs his face and his hand comes away streaked with the dark burgundy.
"Hey, that shade suits you --" And then Dick's laughing, because it's never all that far away, laughing and reaching for Tim, working his pants down and wrapping his own hand around Tim's cock.
Tim pushes forward, dropping his hips, changing the angle as Dick jerks him slow and steady. He bites his lip, watching Dick, watching the beautiful mess he's making.
He knows that Dick came first, chronologically, but --. He shakes his head and reaches for Dick again, tracing the holes in the stockings, skirting his balls, mashed up in the stocking's crotch, tickling the base of Dick's cock -- red, dark, *wet*, standing out against the fishnets. Shuddering, Dick tightens his grasp and speeds his strokes.
"You look at me like that and I --" Dick stops and lifts his hips, opening his legs even wider, canting toward Tim.
("It's like your voice says 'get to work' but your *eyes*, dude. Your eyes're saying 'fuck me'. How do you *do* that?")
Tim closes his eyes when Dick moves again, going up on one knee, kissing his throat and jerking him more raggedly, *harder*.
He used to think that if his mother hadn't died, he wouldn't have been Robin. He can't think like that any longer, can't see his parents as some necessary sacrifice, can't believe that Kon died so that he could finally -- have Dick. Touch him like this, twisting his wrist and sucking on his neck, muffling his groans in the expanse of Dick's salty, *hot* skin.
Dick is touching him everywhere, the backs of his knees, the crack of his ass, up his spine and down his chest, as his other hand pumps and jerks and he's grunting, sounds like Tim's own name, and other noises, sweating under Tim's mouth and pulsing in Tim's hand, leaking and shooting pre-come, wrenching his hips and pulling them closer, and closer, until Tim's splayed over Dick's chest and their dicks are lined up. Until he's kissing Tim again, his mouth wider than ever -- mouths for laughing, for kissing, never for shrieking, dying -- tongue against Tim's palate and hand around their cocks, holding him here.
"C'mon, Tim, c'*mon*, please --" Dick's breath spatters cold against Tim's wet lips and chin. His eyes are wide and *blue*, shining, and he wants -- he wants Tim to feel good. Happy, safe, *better*. He wants Tim to come, and he's rocking his hips against Tim's, squeezing their cockheads together, rubbing them against Tim's belly as he nips at Tim's ear. "Please, I need you to --"
Tim grabs at Dick's hair, his upper arm and drives his hips forward. He watches Dick watching him come, until he's really coming and his eyes are closed, red light and ridiculous *stars* behind his lids, and Dick groans loudly enough to qualify as a shout, his cock snapping against Tim as he starts to come himself.
("It's like, like...*man*. When you're coming, it's like that's *really* you, the real you, and I can't get enough, you have no idea.")
Tim swallows a rush of saliva as Dick rubs his back and pats his ass. The muscles in his arms and legs are twitching randomly, his breath coming irregularly, and he has to shake his head several times to clear his eyes.
Dick's rubbing his lips together, working on air, blinking as slowly as cat. He stretches his left arm, then his right leg, before humming a little and gathering Tim back against him.
If Kon hadn't --. They wouldn't have taken that trip and Dick --.
Tim shakes his head again. "I ruined your costume."
Dick laughs hoarsely and lazily rubs the come splattering his bustier. "You think her costume hasn't ever seen this?"
"I don't want to know," Tim says and closes his eyes.
"I mean, whatever his faults, no one can say Ollie's not all man --"
Tim shudders, then exaggerates it. "Shut up --"
"I thought you could go as Speedy, see," Dick says and ruffles Tim's hair. "The real trick is getting the quiver and green suit on Bruce --"
Tim opens one eye. "You *have* met Bruce, right?"
Dick cuffs his cheek, then pulls him against his chest again. "Whole new world, little brother."
"I'm not wearing a red tunic," Tim tells him. "Let alone that stupid hat."
"Aww, *c'mon*," Dick whines. "Roy was adorable in that get-up."
"About as good as you looked in the Elvis suit, yes," Tim says. He stretches out his arms and neck, but Dick doesn't loosen his hold.
"You know, I take time out of my busy schedule --" Dick starts to tickle right between Tim's shoulder blades.
Tim rolls to the left and pushes his knee between Dick's thighs. "Yes, the busy schedule of an unemployed trust fundie must be *intense*."
"-- drive down here from the city, and what do I get?" On his side, Dick plants his cheek on his hand and bats his lashes. "Nothing but trouble. Don't know why I even bother."
"Because," Tim says and stretches again. Warmth is flowing slowly, surely, through his body and he wants to enjoy this. "Because you're just too goodhearted for your own good."
"Hm." Dick grins. "Sounds about right."
Several pieces of candy corn are embedding themselves in Tim's side. He can't quite bring himself to move.
Dick knocks his shoulder. "Hey, toss me that Special Dark, right behind your ear --"
Tim reaches backward for it, unwrapping it as he retrieves it, and pops the candy into his mouth.
It's too sweet, almost oily, but he grins as Dick shouts in protest.
[end]