[porn] Work It (Dick/Tim pwp)
petronelle wanted Dick/Tim with the first Nightwing costume. This is for her and inlovewithnight, who just wanted porn. It's hard to write porn without the p. But I persevere. For justice.
Title: Work It
Pairing: Dick/Tim
Summary: "Doubt I'll ever get your firm, ample bosom, though."
Setting: Um. None, really. Do with it as you will.
*
Dick keeps every costume he's ever worn, all lined up in chronological order. It'd be creepy if it wasn't so cute.
"I can't believe you ever --" Tim shakes his head and closes the closet door.
Dick blocks the door. "Can't believe I was ever that scrawny? Me, either." He puts his hand on Tim's shoulder and squeezes gently; the gesture *seems* nice and all, but he's grinning, too. A cat with a canary has *nothing* on a Grayson with a joke. "Buck up, little guy. Some day, you'll be big and strong, too." He looks Tim up and down. "Maybe. I don't know, what's Alfred feeding you? Gruel and water?"
A nerve-strike would work. Just a light one, enough to impede speech and motor functions. It might be overkill, though.
"Poor Alfred." Dick shakes his head regretfully, sliding his palm down Tim's arm, testing the musculature. "I guess he just doesn't have much to work with, huh?"
Tim grits his teeth and swallows the rush of heat at Dick's touch. "Stronger than you were," he says, then tilts his head. "Doubt I'll ever get your firm, ample bosom, though."
Dick's mouth opens and closes.
Tim echoes the regretful sigh. "I *know*. Sucks, doesn't it?"
"Man. It was the *era*! I made it..." Dick shoves open the closet door and yanks down his first Nightwing costume. He holds it up against himself with a shaking hand. "I made it *work*, little man."
Tim tilts his head four more degrees. "You worked *something*, yeah."
"I *worked* it! I worked it *hard* --" Dick's cheeks are flushing. He glances down. "Roy said once it was like the cover to a romance novel."
"Hmm." Tim touches the gaudy gold scales. "He's not wrong."
"Thought he meant I looked like the hero," Dick mutters and slaps Tim's hand away. He's protective of his *costume*: Tim shouldn't be surprised by that. "Had me going for a *week*."
Tim snorts, because the image of Dick swooning in someone's muscular arms, his chest heaving, is...not wrong. He clears his throat. It's not entirely right, either. "It's a very pretty outfit, Dick."
Dick frowns and won't meet Tim's eye. He seems captivated by the blue and gold horror. "Shut up. I liked it."
"I think *everyone* liked it," Tim says. There's a catch in his voice he'd rather not hear. But if he clears his throat again, Dick is sure to notice. "At least, they couldn't look away."
Dick's grin twists into the sharper, brighter one he gets in the middle of a really good fight. "Okay, that is *it*, junior!"
Tim's already stepping back, dropping down into an easy stance, but Dick's not pouncing. He's not doing anything that remotely resembles fighting. He's just --.
Tim holds up his hands. "Uncle. Please don't strip, it's --"
"Ha-HA!" Dick barks as he jumps out of his pants and tugs the tights up his legs. "You think you can argue with *Nightwing*? Mock this mad creature of the --" He's having trouble with the collar, his head stuck under its ridiculous flaps. His voice comes out a little muffled. "-- night?"
"Here --" Tim untwists the collar and smoothes it down; Dick's head emerges, free but not untousled for his trouble. "How'd you ever hide that, anyway?"
"Those are secrets known only to Nightwing, my small and irritating chum." Dick yanks the shirt the rest of the way down his torso and strikes a pose, hands on his hips. "Fear me! Adore me! For I am --"
"Barefoot?" Tim takes another step back but Dick's too quick, even after all these years. He tackles Tim and they roll, and maybe the collar wasn't specifically *designed* for offense, but it's sharp and gets him clean across the cheek. "Ow, *dude*."
Dick rolls them again until he's back on top, forearm over Tim's throat. "Mock me now, boy wonder?"
"Um." Tim swallows hard. Because, yes. Dick looks sillier than *anything* with the Elvis-collar up nearly to his ears, and the gold stripes catch the light and shine it back at jarring angles, and the blue is, basically, a shade of *turquoise* not seen outside of a Miami coke king's condo, but. But and still and however. He looks *good*, his face flushed and his grin shining and his eyes *match* that darker blue. "Well, yeah."
Dick drops his weight onto Tim's stomach and increases the pressure on his neck. "But your idle threats and inane wisecracks? Where are they now, huh?"
In my dick? Tim closes his eyes and does the brief, theta-level relaxation technique. It doesn't help. "Seriously, *Superman* gave you that costume?"
"Oh, he gave me *a lot* more than that." Dick's not wrestling him any more. Dick's rocking against him, slow and easy, and Tim suddenly appreciates the cleavage-V. It shows off the flush on Dick's chest *really* nicely.
"I don't --"
Dick rolls his hips, once, as he eases his arm off Tim's neck and curls it under Tim's head. Their faces are really close together now and the room is a lot warmer and Dick's voice is getting huskier. "You *do*. Want to know, don't you?"
Tim licks the left corner of his lips. His hand has found its new, permanent home, right at the bottom of the V, and his fingers curl inside. "I want to know what you were *thinking*, putting that on."
"Nah," Dick mutters and his breath tickles up the sweat snaking down Tim's throat. "You want to know. All about Superman. And --"
Tim sees his opening and goes for it, elbowing Dick in the ribs and rolling over until he's on top. "I know about Superman, Dick."
Dick blinks up at him. "You don't know *anything* about Superman."
"He likes Robin," Tim says and tugs hard on the V. Dick shivers when Tim presses his face against the skin there. "He likes *you*."
Dick's skin is hot, silkier than the stupid costume, and it gets this *pink* when it's kissed that Tim's never seen anywhere. It's like every pore opens up and drinks in the heat, then radiates it back, doubled. "He --" Dick's hands paw at the back of Tim's shirt, clumsily for a moment, then more confidently, sliding upward under the hem, coming around his waist and squeezing. "He liked it. The costume."
Tim glances up, briefly, and smirks. "Clark's a good guy. But his sense of fashion --?"
"Says the kid in the black cape that's *nothing* like Batman's?" Dick's thumbs tickle the hollows of Tim's hips, then press harder when Tim sucks in a breath. Dick smirks back at him. "Exactly."
There are irresistible forces, and immovable objects, and Tim doesn't know which he is. He just knows that Dick is *neither* of those things; Dick is motion and grace and, it has to be said, really, truly, deeply *obnoxious* jokes. The best thing to do, then, when confronted with the most acrobat jackass on the planet, is to kiss him.
"Fina--" Dick swallows the sound, gripping Tim harder, hauling him up. The kiss goes deeper, and Tim would like to believe he's the one in control, but control has a way of backflipping out the window when Dick's around. There's no control, not when Dick, even flat on his back, kisses him like this, like it's the best thing he ever got to do, like it's birthday and Christmas and pie all in one. One hand slides around to palm Tim's ass, the other forward to graze his hard-on. Tim shudders and gasps--there are some things he's never going to get used to, things he doesn't *want* to get used to--and the way Dick can touch and kiss and make him like *this* is right at the top of the list.
Tim braces one hand beside Dick's head and pushes himself up. Regulates his breathing, then *doesn't*, because Dick's tugging down his zipper and pushing his hand inside.
"You're really hard --" Dick stops and laughs. "Oh. That, too."
"I --" Tim lifts his ass and lets Dick pull his pants down as far as they'll go. He thumps back down when Dick wraps his warm palm around the base of his dick and *tugs*.
"Was gonna say you're hard. To shut up --" Dick's mouth is hovering three and a half centimeters from Tim's cockhead. His breath is *cyclonic* there.
"I could --" Tim bites his lip and stares down. Dick's mouth is. Is one of his earliest memories. Which means it's probably wrong on more levels than Freud and Lacan *together* could ever sort out that Tim's hips rock forward and drag his dick across that mouth. Dick chuckles and slaps Tim's ass lightly. "I could say the same about you."
The collar is crushed up around Dick's face and suddenly, it's not so ridiculous. Nothing is, not when Dick stretches like *Elongated Man* and pushes his mouth down Tim's shaft and --.
"*Christ*." Tim gets that noise out, knots his fingers in Dick's hair, and just enjoys. Hot and tight and *slick* and he gets the feeling Dick's still smirking at him but. The lump in his cheek makes that kind of hard to see.
"Mm." Dick's making noise, and the slurp-slap sounds of sex are whirling in Tim's ears, and his head falls back as he pushes and thrusts. Dick's hand on his hip lets him ride it, ride it deeper and wetter until Dick suddenly pulls off.
"Mrh?" Tim shakes his head. "Muh?"
"Easy, little wing." Dick lifts Tim's limp hand and wraps it around his dick. "Just wanna watch for a bit."
Dick is motion and grace and deepseated perviness. Tim knows all that, but it still surprises him. Surprise, though, doesn't slow his hand, doesn't break eye-contact with Dick, doesn't erase Dick's wet, red, smiling mouth and his eyes crinkling up as he watches, fingers digging into Tim's thighs as Tim pulls and rises and falls and jerks himself, riding that V, dick painting trails in the sweat there.
"Like that?" he asks, mouth full of air, chest constricted, all feeling in his hand and nowhere else. "Watching this?"
"Fuck. Yes." Dick's nails scrape up and down his thighs, his hips, finally his ass, pulling Tim closer and closer. "Just like that."
"Good." Tim can't close his eyes, but he *has* to, as he shakes hard and he's so *close*, he can feel it, feel pre-come spattering the collar and Dick's chest. "I --"
"Come on, Tim." Dick's index fingers skate over Tim's sweaty ass, slide down the crack. "Do it. Just like --. For me?"
Like a whipcrack, or a jack-knife, something bent, then straight, and Tim shouts as he comes, pumping out over Dick's chest, his throat, his--*fuck*--his *face* and Dick's grinning up at him the whole time, beautiful in the sweat, licking his lips. Licking Tim clean, sensitive, oversensitive, humming as he does it.
Theta-relaxation, all the tenets of Zen *and* Tibetan Buddhism, and it still takes Tim several moments to come back to himself. He's splayed out over Dick, face in his shoulder, as Dick rubs his back and laughs.
"Superman ever do that?" Tim asks when he's sure he has the air to speak.
Dick shivers and rocks. "Uh --"
*Interesting*. Tim rolls off, watches Dick wipe down his chest and suck clean his fingers. "World's foremost expert on Robins here. You have to tell me."
Dick's back on top of him, pinning Tim and *grinding*. "No, but let me tell you about *Kal*."
[end]
Title: Work It
Pairing: Dick/Tim
Summary: "Doubt I'll ever get your firm, ample bosom, though."
Setting: Um. None, really. Do with it as you will.
*
Dick keeps every costume he's ever worn, all lined up in chronological order. It'd be creepy if it wasn't so cute.
"I can't believe you ever --" Tim shakes his head and closes the closet door.
Dick blocks the door. "Can't believe I was ever that scrawny? Me, either." He puts his hand on Tim's shoulder and squeezes gently; the gesture *seems* nice and all, but he's grinning, too. A cat with a canary has *nothing* on a Grayson with a joke. "Buck up, little guy. Some day, you'll be big and strong, too." He looks Tim up and down. "Maybe. I don't know, what's Alfred feeding you? Gruel and water?"
A nerve-strike would work. Just a light one, enough to impede speech and motor functions. It might be overkill, though.
"Poor Alfred." Dick shakes his head regretfully, sliding his palm down Tim's arm, testing the musculature. "I guess he just doesn't have much to work with, huh?"
Tim grits his teeth and swallows the rush of heat at Dick's touch. "Stronger than you were," he says, then tilts his head. "Doubt I'll ever get your firm, ample bosom, though."
Dick's mouth opens and closes.
Tim echoes the regretful sigh. "I *know*. Sucks, doesn't it?"
"Man. It was the *era*! I made it..." Dick shoves open the closet door and yanks down his first Nightwing costume. He holds it up against himself with a shaking hand. "I made it *work*, little man."
Tim tilts his head four more degrees. "You worked *something*, yeah."
"I *worked* it! I worked it *hard* --" Dick's cheeks are flushing. He glances down. "Roy said once it was like the cover to a romance novel."
"Hmm." Tim touches the gaudy gold scales. "He's not wrong."
"Thought he meant I looked like the hero," Dick mutters and slaps Tim's hand away. He's protective of his *costume*: Tim shouldn't be surprised by that. "Had me going for a *week*."
Tim snorts, because the image of Dick swooning in someone's muscular arms, his chest heaving, is...not wrong. He clears his throat. It's not entirely right, either. "It's a very pretty outfit, Dick."
Dick frowns and won't meet Tim's eye. He seems captivated by the blue and gold horror. "Shut up. I liked it."
"I think *everyone* liked it," Tim says. There's a catch in his voice he'd rather not hear. But if he clears his throat again, Dick is sure to notice. "At least, they couldn't look away."
Dick's grin twists into the sharper, brighter one he gets in the middle of a really good fight. "Okay, that is *it*, junior!"
Tim's already stepping back, dropping down into an easy stance, but Dick's not pouncing. He's not doing anything that remotely resembles fighting. He's just --.
Tim holds up his hands. "Uncle. Please don't strip, it's --"
"Ha-HA!" Dick barks as he jumps out of his pants and tugs the tights up his legs. "You think you can argue with *Nightwing*? Mock this mad creature of the --" He's having trouble with the collar, his head stuck under its ridiculous flaps. His voice comes out a little muffled. "-- night?"
"Here --" Tim untwists the collar and smoothes it down; Dick's head emerges, free but not untousled for his trouble. "How'd you ever hide that, anyway?"
"Those are secrets known only to Nightwing, my small and irritating chum." Dick yanks the shirt the rest of the way down his torso and strikes a pose, hands on his hips. "Fear me! Adore me! For I am --"
"Barefoot?" Tim takes another step back but Dick's too quick, even after all these years. He tackles Tim and they roll, and maybe the collar wasn't specifically *designed* for offense, but it's sharp and gets him clean across the cheek. "Ow, *dude*."
Dick rolls them again until he's back on top, forearm over Tim's throat. "Mock me now, boy wonder?"
"Um." Tim swallows hard. Because, yes. Dick looks sillier than *anything* with the Elvis-collar up nearly to his ears, and the gold stripes catch the light and shine it back at jarring angles, and the blue is, basically, a shade of *turquoise* not seen outside of a Miami coke king's condo, but. But and still and however. He looks *good*, his face flushed and his grin shining and his eyes *match* that darker blue. "Well, yeah."
Dick drops his weight onto Tim's stomach and increases the pressure on his neck. "But your idle threats and inane wisecracks? Where are they now, huh?"
In my dick? Tim closes his eyes and does the brief, theta-level relaxation technique. It doesn't help. "Seriously, *Superman* gave you that costume?"
"Oh, he gave me *a lot* more than that." Dick's not wrestling him any more. Dick's rocking against him, slow and easy, and Tim suddenly appreciates the cleavage-V. It shows off the flush on Dick's chest *really* nicely.
"I don't --"
Dick rolls his hips, once, as he eases his arm off Tim's neck and curls it under Tim's head. Their faces are really close together now and the room is a lot warmer and Dick's voice is getting huskier. "You *do*. Want to know, don't you?"
Tim licks the left corner of his lips. His hand has found its new, permanent home, right at the bottom of the V, and his fingers curl inside. "I want to know what you were *thinking*, putting that on."
"Nah," Dick mutters and his breath tickles up the sweat snaking down Tim's throat. "You want to know. All about Superman. And --"
Tim sees his opening and goes for it, elbowing Dick in the ribs and rolling over until he's on top. "I know about Superman, Dick."
Dick blinks up at him. "You don't know *anything* about Superman."
"He likes Robin," Tim says and tugs hard on the V. Dick shivers when Tim presses his face against the skin there. "He likes *you*."
Dick's skin is hot, silkier than the stupid costume, and it gets this *pink* when it's kissed that Tim's never seen anywhere. It's like every pore opens up and drinks in the heat, then radiates it back, doubled. "He --" Dick's hands paw at the back of Tim's shirt, clumsily for a moment, then more confidently, sliding upward under the hem, coming around his waist and squeezing. "He liked it. The costume."
Tim glances up, briefly, and smirks. "Clark's a good guy. But his sense of fashion --?"
"Says the kid in the black cape that's *nothing* like Batman's?" Dick's thumbs tickle the hollows of Tim's hips, then press harder when Tim sucks in a breath. Dick smirks back at him. "Exactly."
There are irresistible forces, and immovable objects, and Tim doesn't know which he is. He just knows that Dick is *neither* of those things; Dick is motion and grace and, it has to be said, really, truly, deeply *obnoxious* jokes. The best thing to do, then, when confronted with the most acrobat jackass on the planet, is to kiss him.
"Fina--" Dick swallows the sound, gripping Tim harder, hauling him up. The kiss goes deeper, and Tim would like to believe he's the one in control, but control has a way of backflipping out the window when Dick's around. There's no control, not when Dick, even flat on his back, kisses him like this, like it's the best thing he ever got to do, like it's birthday and Christmas and pie all in one. One hand slides around to palm Tim's ass, the other forward to graze his hard-on. Tim shudders and gasps--there are some things he's never going to get used to, things he doesn't *want* to get used to--and the way Dick can touch and kiss and make him like *this* is right at the top of the list.
Tim braces one hand beside Dick's head and pushes himself up. Regulates his breathing, then *doesn't*, because Dick's tugging down his zipper and pushing his hand inside.
"You're really hard --" Dick stops and laughs. "Oh. That, too."
"I --" Tim lifts his ass and lets Dick pull his pants down as far as they'll go. He thumps back down when Dick wraps his warm palm around the base of his dick and *tugs*.
"Was gonna say you're hard. To shut up --" Dick's mouth is hovering three and a half centimeters from Tim's cockhead. His breath is *cyclonic* there.
"I could --" Tim bites his lip and stares down. Dick's mouth is. Is one of his earliest memories. Which means it's probably wrong on more levels than Freud and Lacan *together* could ever sort out that Tim's hips rock forward and drag his dick across that mouth. Dick chuckles and slaps Tim's ass lightly. "I could say the same about you."
The collar is crushed up around Dick's face and suddenly, it's not so ridiculous. Nothing is, not when Dick stretches like *Elongated Man* and pushes his mouth down Tim's shaft and --.
"*Christ*." Tim gets that noise out, knots his fingers in Dick's hair, and just enjoys. Hot and tight and *slick* and he gets the feeling Dick's still smirking at him but. The lump in his cheek makes that kind of hard to see.
"Mm." Dick's making noise, and the slurp-slap sounds of sex are whirling in Tim's ears, and his head falls back as he pushes and thrusts. Dick's hand on his hip lets him ride it, ride it deeper and wetter until Dick suddenly pulls off.
"Mrh?" Tim shakes his head. "Muh?"
"Easy, little wing." Dick lifts Tim's limp hand and wraps it around his dick. "Just wanna watch for a bit."
Dick is motion and grace and deepseated perviness. Tim knows all that, but it still surprises him. Surprise, though, doesn't slow his hand, doesn't break eye-contact with Dick, doesn't erase Dick's wet, red, smiling mouth and his eyes crinkling up as he watches, fingers digging into Tim's thighs as Tim pulls and rises and falls and jerks himself, riding that V, dick painting trails in the sweat there.
"Like that?" he asks, mouth full of air, chest constricted, all feeling in his hand and nowhere else. "Watching this?"
"Fuck. Yes." Dick's nails scrape up and down his thighs, his hips, finally his ass, pulling Tim closer and closer. "Just like that."
"Good." Tim can't close his eyes, but he *has* to, as he shakes hard and he's so *close*, he can feel it, feel pre-come spattering the collar and Dick's chest. "I --"
"Come on, Tim." Dick's index fingers skate over Tim's sweaty ass, slide down the crack. "Do it. Just like --. For me?"
Like a whipcrack, or a jack-knife, something bent, then straight, and Tim shouts as he comes, pumping out over Dick's chest, his throat, his--*fuck*--his *face* and Dick's grinning up at him the whole time, beautiful in the sweat, licking his lips. Licking Tim clean, sensitive, oversensitive, humming as he does it.
Theta-relaxation, all the tenets of Zen *and* Tibetan Buddhism, and it still takes Tim several moments to come back to himself. He's splayed out over Dick, face in his shoulder, as Dick rubs his back and laughs.
"Superman ever do that?" Tim asks when he's sure he has the air to speak.
Dick shivers and rocks. "Uh --"
*Interesting*. Tim rolls off, watches Dick wipe down his chest and suck clean his fingers. "World's foremost expert on Robins here. You have to tell me."
Dick's back on top of him, pinning Tim and *grinding*. "No, but let me tell you about *Kal*."
[end]