[fic] Paris Is For Brothers (Dick/Tim, NC-17)
Title: Paris Is For Brothers
Pairing: Dick/Tim; others mentioned.
Summary: Dick's been very lucky.
Fandom: DCU, Gotham division (the missing year, whatever we're calling it)
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: DC is part of a corporate monolith; I am not.
Notes: Say that canon is true and the Bats *did* go travelling for a year. Say, further, that despairing, dystopian futures and identity-annihilation may have been getting to me. This is one possible (porny) remedy for both propositions, generated from some recent fannish discourse.
Travel, they say, broadens. Dick's not convinced of that.
Madrid was better, loud colors and colorful noise. Sumatra was confusing, but learning the Three Fingers of Silence technique made it worthwhile. Auckland was green, strangely familiar. Strange, since Blüdhaven was never green and now it's just *black*. Prince George was greener yet, salt heavy on the air, restful.
The apartment in Paris is far too *empty* for Dick to feel anything like comfortable. The ceilings are at least eighteen feet high, the floorboards have to be older than the United States. Everywhere he looks, he's confronted with pale blue walls, pale as the light on a pigeon's wing.
He can't figure out how this place manages to be so *grand* when it's so empty. The rooms hold the hush of museum galleries, but there's nothing on display. Just the occasional old mirror, gilt flaking off its frame, the silver backing gone dark as coal, that reflects the opposite, empty wall.
The only thing this emptiness is good for is tumbling. He's been challenging Tim to handwalking-races, backspring contests, anything to *fill* up the empty space.
Yesterday morning, he broke a chunk off the wainscoting when he ran up the wall. He needs to be more careful.
He needs something else to do.
This afternoon, Bruce is out being -- Dick isn't sure who. What. Mr. Billionaire, yes, but the dark suit and open-necked pink shirt didn't belong to the playboy.
He's not going to get used to Bruce-being-*Bruce*, no visible act, any time soon.
On his hands, touching only the black tiles, Dick walks through the kitchen and into the hall.
Tim's in the room they share. *Share*: A place as big as this, and they're still bunking up together. Dick would have moved one bed to another room, but Mme. Pérez-Seguine, the concierge, scares him.
She resembles Alfred in very bad drag, only with all the sweetness squeezed, *wrenched*, out.
*Scary*.
Dick shakes off the image of her bearing down on him with a sweep-broom in one hand and a butcher knife in the other. Tim might be up for some sparring. It can't hurt to try; Dick's hair is clinging to his neck, his hands are flexing uselessly, and he needs to *move*.
Hell, even if Tim's in one of his moods, Dick's going to keep on him until he gives in.
No one can resist the force of pestering, no, sir.
Through the door, he can just make out the low, careful sounds of Tim's voice. Who's he talking to? Little bastard couldn't have made a friend in Paris *already*. Dick's been with him the whole time.
Besides, Tim...doesn't make friends very easily. Not any more.
*That's* a thought for a later --. Never.
So who's he talking to? Dick leans closer, resting his forehead against the cool, soft wood of the door. There are pauses, silences, that indicate Tim's on the phone.
Grinning, Dick pads back to the phone at the end of the hall and lifts the receiver silently. He knew how to listen in undetected at *thirteen*; cop school just refined his technique.
"...oh, *God*, see?" It's a guy's voice, young, a little strangled.
"I see," Tim replies, calm as ever. "Stay still. I just want to *watch*. You. For a --"
Dick swallows the swelling laugh; Tim was watching before he could *crawl*, no doubt about it.
"I *can't*," the kid says. "Can't stay still. I *want* you --"
Sex. Phone sex.
His little-brother-who's-not is having phone sex.
Transatlantic, daytime-rates, gay phone sex.
Dick's neck gets really hot, really fast. Unbearably hot -- *Clark*-level heat that screws shut his eyes, drops open his mouth.
He shouldn't be listening. Right?
"What are you doing now?" Tim asks.
"Um." The kid gasps, then exhales, the sound whistling and broken.
God, he sounds *good*. Who is he? Dick tips his forehead against the cold blue wall and breathes out through his nose, holding the receiver away. The kid isn't talking, but he's making sweet little *gurgles* in a cracked register that echo right under Dick's sternum before jogging lower, deeper.
He can *see* how red the guy's (blank) face must be, the sweat shining down his chest, muscles in his arms cording out high and tense.
"Stop." Tim's voice is steady and deep.
Shivers pluck at the skin down Dick's back. *Of course* Tim's in charge.
"I *can't* stop. I want --"
"What? What do you want?" Interrogation, Robin crouching over a goon, knee on his throat: the memory flares before Dick's eyes, so bright that he almost forgets to listen for the answer.
Almost.
"You. Want --. Or, or. Touch me?" The poor kid sounds *so* far gone. He must be aching, tears in the corners of his eyes, hips lifting toward the imaginary touch, the imaginary *Tim*.
Dick rolls his head back and forth, but the wall fails to cool him off.
"No. Touch *me*," Tim says. Dick swipes his fist over his mouth, bounces it down his chest, does *not* make a sound. He has to be imagining the sweet hint of relief around Tim's tone, softening it, shadowing. "Inside."
Dick's abdomen clenches, his thighs shake with the effort -- effort. Not to pump, not to push.
Not to break down that door and *tackle* Tim.
"Ohhh? Yeah. Inside you."
They're really good at this. They've done this before. (How long?) The conversation's taking in only essentials -- touch, want, in-fucking-*side*.
A balance needs to be struck -- all you've got is words, but the sounds and voices, they need to be balanced with encouragement, with --.
Dick's always been a little too...*talkative* for phone sex. Both too talkative and too urgent, really, so he wastes too much time scene-setting, and then need gets overwhelming and he forgets to talk, can't. Just breathes and strokes and it's over way too fast.
That approach works fine with Roy ("You still there, vato?"), and Kory, too ("Do that again"). Babs -- Babs gets annoyed ("Any time now, Boy Horndog").
Bruce would get annoyed, too.
If they ever --.
Oh, God, that would be --. A disaster in every sense of the word. Beautiful, insane, disaster.
His way, Dick's sure, would have worked with Jason ("Christ, Wing, just shut the fuck up and --. *Ah*. Fuck, yes --").
He hasn't ever done this with Clark. You don't *phone* him, for one thing. You can tell him what you're doing, though. He likes that. And if you're lucky, he'll be there before you finish, cloud-sweat cooling your thighs, hot mouth nudging aside your own (not hot enough, never tight enough) fist.
Dick's been very lucky.
"Two. Two fingers." Tim's voice is even and *loud* in Dick's ear. Overpowering. "I'm taking two now --"
Jesus.
"Two," his...boyfriend? gasps back. "Tight, Tim, you're -- it's too, it's so --. Oh. Oh, *Tim*!"
That shearing sound, wet breath and thumping furniture, twisting skin. Everyone sounds *perfect* when they're coming. Dick knuckles his erection, drags rough denim over it, tries not to yank. Too hard.
Tim waits a beat. "I'm catching you with my mouth."
His small, *precise* mouth, daubed and blurred with *come*.
"Rrrgh."
"Cleaning you all the way down," Tim adds. "Licking --"
His -- friend? partner? No. -- his buddy's voice shudders. "Two. Still --"
"Inside me," Tim says. His patience is -- crackling. Mirror's silver, cobwebbing black, fine as silk. "Go deeper."
The guy's voice is silkier now, afterglow-languor making him slur. "Mm, deeper, yeah. Faster. Remember? The first time, and Kon --"
"Harder. *Faster*." That's an order. It's low, mean, *needy*, Gotham invading Paris. "Now."
Now. Dick drops the phone. Strips off his shirt on the way down the hall, doesn't let himself stop. *Obeying*, answering the order, entering the room, and Tim's there.
Waiting for him? On *Dick's* bed, the little *fucker*, mouth tilting in that tight little smile, cheeks stained red, knees drawn up and two fingers up his --.
"Whatcha doing, Timmy?" Dick sing-songs the question but can't keep the quaver out of his voice.
"I'll call you back," Tim says calmly, never looking away from Dick, and lets the receiver drop, bounce, to the floor.
He's *naked*, bony knees bookending his flushed face, *staring* at Dick. Watching Dick launch himself onto the bed. Tim. With his hand.
Between his legs.
Glistening with slick.
Slick smeared over his *balls*, his -- Jesus -- *shaven* balls, they're dark and heavy. Dick licks his way up, sweet lube down to salty skin, up the shaft, sour-hot, grinning when Tim finally makes one, tiny gulp that could be a groan.
Dick lifts his mouth from Tim's belly. "On *my* bed?"
"Mine's...*made*." Goosebumps break out over Tim's chest as Dick slides his teeth over one nipple. "Didn't want to --"
Hand on Tim's wrist, slowing the thrusts he's still giving himself, and Dick licks the rest of the way up. Into Tim's open, hard-toothed mouth, as Tim's other, *free*, hand closes in Dick's sweaty hair, as Dick bites into a kiss.
Tim's tongue is every bit as *sharp* as it would have to be to speak as --. Precision, that's it, and Dick presses his tongue inside, lets Tim lick at it, *taste* himself. Tim makes small, pleased noises at that.
"Who were you talking to?" Dick slides one hand down Tim's side, over the taut skin of his hip, tickling Tim's cock until Tim shivers and wriggles. "Who?"
He lifts his fingers away, squeezes Tim's wrist to stop the thrusts, and repeats the question.
Tim's flush reaches to his hairline. His eyes blink open, narrowed and intent. "Bart."
Dick rocks back onto his heels, the bones in Tim's wrist grinding in his hand. "You --. You're fucking *Impulse*?"
Tim blinks again before his eyes widen slightly. "He's Kid Flash now. Or was."
Pedantic little *freak*. "You're fucking *Kid Flash*?"
"On occasion." Tim grimaces briefly when Dick skates his fingernails up over his stomach. His legs tremble with the effort not to move; his tongue darts out over his upper lip. "It would be more accurate, however. To say that he fucks *me*."
Dick is whirling. Inside -- and he's never going to be able to think that word again without *blushing* and tasting this, tasting *Tim* and seeing his wrist angled just so -- inside, he feels a whirl of thought and need cyclone around. "No fucking *way*."
It's not that Tim is sexual -- Dick's going to need several months to adjust *that*, no matter how easily he kissed the kid. He's never been all that smooth in navigating between intellectual acceptance and physical accomplishment; the latter's way easier, always has been.
It's that Tim is *talking* about it. Calmly as he discusses anything else, weather patterns over the South Pacific, behavioral attributes of meth-heads, carpet-fucking-fibers.
Dick can't stop the surprise, the laughter that accompanies it.
As he squints, Tim presses his palm flat as a stone against Dick's chest. "Roll over."
Dick goes with it, releasing his hold, rolling onto his back. He gapes, a little, when Tim climbs *on top*. Straddles his waist, his --.
Tim's smile slopes to the left, so Dick closes his mouth.
"Oh." Tim sounds almost regretful. "Condom --"
Dick feels his fingers *dig* into the hard meat of Tim's hips. "What, you don't think I'm *clean*?" With the monthly bloodtests Bruce administers? Not likely.
Tim's frown is a thing of -- not beauty. Marvel, or wonderment, all on Dick's part. How the hell can he *concentrate*? Now, *here*?
"Sex is never clean," Tim says. His tone makes it sound like he's quoting.
Groaning, banging his head against the pillow, Dick releases him. "That's the *point* --"
"Hn." Tim's bare feet don't make a sound as he moves out of the room. Down the hall, and Dick is *two seconds* away from just pulling himself off from the need, when Tim returns with the box. Picks up right where he left off. "That may be the case, but there's no reason to --. Wallow."
"I don't want to know where you got that," Dick says and yanks the box from Tim's hand.
"Bruce has lots of..." Tim tilts his head, eyebrow going up, mirroring the angle of his half-fond goddamn *smile*. "Ladyfriends."
Frustrated, almost shaking with it, Dick rips open the box with his teeth, then the foil on the first packet. "Don't --."
Tim's hand moves quickly, *elegantly*, liberating the rubber from Dick's shaking fingers. "Don't mention Bruce?"
Dick chokes, then shakes as Tim unrolls the condom, quick sure fingertips moving far too lightly down Dick's cock. "Tim --"
"Here," Tim replies, and it's the same voice, same expression, he uses on the street, at r-points, because he *always* beats Dick to rendezvous, no matter how close Dick is. He swings his leg over Dick's waist, plants his hand on Dick's shoulder, and --.
"God," Dick says, and winces, because that's *Tim*, up there, over him, crouched. Bangs in his eyes, flush returning. "Shouldn't I --" His hand bangs uselessly against Tim's ass.
The corners of Tim's mouth twitch. "I'm pretty well-stretched."
"*Fuck*." All his fingers spazz and curl, yanking at Tim, hauling him back and down, and Dick might not know *what* to say, but that's never stopped him before. Besides, his body's *more* than acquainted with what to do, so his ass is lifting off the bed, pushing his dick up, rolling with Tim's motion as he drops, wiggles, settles. Dick's cockhead rubs Tim's crack, nudges in --. "Oh, *God*, Jesus --"
"Mm." Tim's mouth is open, his hand on Dick's cheek, thumb raking over Dick's lower lip. "Up --"
"Inside," Dick echoes, all the heat around him pulsating and growing inside, down his cock, past his balls, and he sucks in breath as he lifts and pushes and watches Tim's face --.
Tim's face *change*, twist and contort, and it's probably a good thing that *something* can affect him like this, like he's human.
No, that's bullshit. Tim's always been human, just -- different. Never more so than in the last year; it's reflex on Dick's part to treat him like he's a brat, an irritating freak, and that's always had more to do with *Dick* than...Tim. Tim, who's *on* him, bearing down on Dick, fucking himself slow and steady, up and down, eyes dark and fastened on Dick's face.
"Christ, Tim, you're --"
Tim's eyes flash, widen, and he shakes his head. His dick's rubbing against, *jolting* against Dick's stomach. When Dick gets his hand around it, starts to stroke him faster than the thrusts, Tim's head falls back until all Dick can see is the sharp point of his chin. The long line of his chest, blush splashing down white skin, and he shudders, *harder*, when Dick pinches one nipple.
"Gng --" Tim's chest heaves, Dick rolls and thrusts harder, all the way, *faster*, and watches Tim shiver on the edge of losing it. "*Dick*, Christ --"
The last time Tim swore, it was his first week in Blüdhaven, when he finally picked up the phone on Dick's hundredth call: "Stop fucking calling me."
Tim drops his head back down, eyes moving fast and restless until Dick smiles at him. It's hard to smile, he's too fucking *horny* and on the edge himself, but he does and Tim sinks back down, swiveling his hips until Dick can't see for the heat.
"Tell me," Dick whispers, licks his dry lips, and tries again. "Tell me. What to do."
Tim's torso *twists* and Dick speeds his strokes so the flush darkens more.
"Like you tell Bart," Dick whispers and Tim's ass *crashes* onto Dick's thighs as he gurgles and rubs himself like a dog. "Tim."
"I --"
Tim wails when Dick releases his cock, then shakes as Dick soothes his hands up and down his sweaty chest and sides. His back.
"Shh," Dick's saying, craning his head off the mattress, upward, pulling Tim forward until he's almost all the way *off*, out, but his mouth's wet and open for Dick's kiss. He keeps shushing Tim, into the kiss, massaging the insanely *tight* muscles in Tim's shoulders. "It's okay, I --"
"Dick. *Dick*." Tim mouths his cheek, speaks *urgently*, like Dick's name is the answer to -- something. Bracing his hand on Dick's shoulder, Tim pulls himself up, onto his knees, before sliding back down. Onto Dick. And he's somehow *hotter* inside now, like that's even possible, as his rhythm speeds up, stays just as fluid, just as *right*, as in anything he does. "Unn --"
Dick thrusts up, wraps his hand back around Tim, and jerks him just as fast as he likes it. "You're fucking *blowing my mind* --"
Tim barks out a laugh, his knuckles going white on Dick's arm, his ass tightening and *sucking* around Dick. "M-mutual, believe --" He twists counterclockwise, rising and falling in a jagged, rocking movement that Dick believes, right now, with the fervency of a man moments from coming, is the most beautiful thing in the world, ever. "-- me."
"Yeah --" Dick's not thrusting now so much as -- riding it. Riding Tim's movement, heat prickling over every inch of skin, *admiring* it.
So when Tim starts to come, mouth twisting into a choked-off shout, Dick wraps his other hand around the first, stares and watches the flush wink in and out, the come spurt and splatter, and keeps saying Tim's name.
Tim's curled over him, claws in Dick's hair, on his shoulders, shuddering and *coming*, and when he collapses, he kisses Dick's face like a starving man, inhaling him.
Tim goes still, slack, for a long moment, his mouth sweet on Dick's neck. Dick wraps his arm around him, waiting, and Tim is nothing if not -- thoughtful. Of others. He shakes himself, every little motion jostling the overwhelming tenderness on Dick's cock, and starts to rock his hips.
"Is this --? Am I --?"
Dick rubs the come into the skin on Tim's stomach, on his own, and closes his eyes. Thrusts like he's got all the time in the world. "Oh, *fuck*. Yes."
"Hm," Tim says, hoarsely, and shifts back, changing the angle, *deepening* it. "How's that?"
"This isn't --" Dick's hips pump recklessly and he bites his lip. When he's got more control, he opens his eyes. "This isn't an *experiment*."
Tim's considering him, blank but for the flush and bright eyes, blue between his lashes.
"Is it?" Dick adds and pushes up, ass and lower back coming off the bed, tumbling Tim forward. "This better not --"
Tim folds up under him, lips parting and meeting in time with Dick's thrusts. It takes him a long time to say, "No."
"Good," Dick says but all he hears is a growl, his hand petting Tim's hair, the other squeezing his hip, pushing up his right leg until he's in so deep he can't breathe. Urgency sizzles in his balls, in the pit of his gut, and he fights to see, fingers splayed over Tim's cheek, Tim's tongue darting out to lick them, as he starts to come. And *comes*, Tim's lashes lying like paint on his cheek, smears and shadows and tears --.
Dick falls all the way down. He *trembles* when he finally gets enough presence of mind to pull out. "Oh, *man*."
He remembers to roll off Tim, but pulls him as he goes, until Tim's half-splayed over his side. Elegant little fingers pluck at the rubber, remove it and tie it off, and Dick can only grunt in response.
"Not an experiment," Tim says when he's tossed the rubber away. It lands somewhere else with a wet plop. He tucks himself against Dick's side and Dick gets the feeling that he's holding himself still. Too still.
"Huh," Dick says intelligently, tugging at Tim's arm. "Good to know."
Tim remains still. If Dick could open his eyes, he knows he'd see that watchful, *considering* expression on Tim's face. But he can't, so he doesn't. Instead he yanks on Tim's arm again, and again, until Tim lies on top him again, sighing.
"You're a *cuddler* --" Tim sounds a little hoarse, a lot amused.
Dick noogies the back of Tim's hair. "Shut up. Just --"
"You're cuddling," Tim says. "It's a simple observation."
Opening one eye, Dick smirks at Tim. "You don't cuddle with Impulse?"
"Not as such, no." Tim's mouth tightens and Dick knows he's forbearing from correcting him again.
"Speedster, huh?" Dick stretches, luxuriating in the ache in his balls, the tingle down his legs. "What's that like?"
"You've never --?"
Dick rubs his chin. "Jessie, but --"
"Ah." Tim's chin pokes into Dick's forearm, where the muscles are still twitching randomly, happily. "I thought so."
He sounds -- *satisfied*. Maybe he's been a detective so long that he can't stop himself. Dick snorts and pulls a lock of Tim's hair. "Is this the part where we compare sexual histories?"
"I believe that's supposed to precede the, ah. Intercourse," Tim says. Seriously.
Dick checks, but there's absolutely no trace of humor on Tim's face. Which means that he *is* joking. "Luckily, you remembered the rubber."
Tim nods, his chin dragging at the skin on Dick's arm. "I meant to say something about your...wide experience."
"I'm clean," Dick protests. Tim makes a small, chuckling sound, and Dick realizes just how *stupid* he sounds. "Wide?"
"Hmm. *Legendary*, some would say," Tim says. His brand of humor, of teasing, isn't like anything Dick's ever had to deal with. It's all about precision (of course) and abstraction.
It's good to hear it again.
Dick doesn't say that. He combs his fingers through Tim's damp hair and lets himself breathe for a while. He doesn't know if he wants to know -- if he can *handle* -- the answer to what he says next. "And you...?"
"Ah," Tim says, "there's the fraternal concern." He deepens his voice until he sounds terrifyingly like *Roy*. "How much booty you getting, bro?"
Dick twists his hand in Tim's hair and punches his shoulder with the other. "You know what --"
"You meant, yes. Well." Tim shifts fractionally backward, tucking back into himself, and he's naked. How does he *do* that, conjure the cape, when he's as bare-assed as Dick is? "It's not *quite* as long a list as yours."
Dick shows his teeth. "Who's on it?"
Tim cocks his head, listening to something. Footsteps in the hall, and Dick's first thought is -- Bruce. Tossing him out the window, but only after the characteristically *thorough* castration.
It's Mme. Pérez-Seguine, who still considers this apartment to belong to her dead brother, tip-tapping in her stiletto heels down the hall. She likes to help herself to the rich Americans' food.
"Bart, but you know that." Tim pats Dick's shoulder. "I locked the door. Bart, Cassie --"
"*Cass*?" Dick shivers violently.
"Wonder Girl," Tim says gently. "Not --. No, not her."
Dick exhales. "Fuck. Coronary there." He wills his pulse back to the normal range. "Okay, go on."
Tim closes his eyes and his expression goes more than blank. *Still*. "What are we counting as criteria? Exactly?"
Snorting, Dick flops over onto his stomach, dragging Tim under him. "Whatever you want, little man."
Tim's sucking his lower lip over his teeth. "Can we do this later?"
Superboy.
God. Dick *knows* how much of an asshole he can be, but somehow it always manages to slap him upside the head and catch him by surprise. He presses his forehead against Tim's, worming his arm under Tim's back, across his waist, pulling him closer. "Sure, of course," he says, because he can't apologize.
He can't apologize because they don't talk about -- a lot of things.
Fewer things than half an hour ago, but --. "Sure," he says again, and drops a kiss on Tim's left eyelid, then his right. "Now let me sleep."
"Tired?" Tim pushes lightly, consciously ineffectually, at his shoulder. "Loser."
"I worked hard," Dick says and wriggles.
"Funny," Tim says and --. His body, pressed under Dick's, is bony and strong. There's no way that Dick can *feel* him relax, but he does. "I seem to remember doing much of the work."
"Keep telling yourself that." Dick's mouth is sore and swollen and he kisses Tim's chin anyway. "Now cuddle me, damn it."
"Sap."
"Brat."
"Stud."
"Hell, yes." Dick opens both eyes and grins.
Tim's looking at him and for a moment, there's no consideration, just -- *looking*. Wide, shadowed eyes and the curl of a smirk on his mouth, and that blush.
God, that *blush*. Dick presses his mouth against it, sucks lightly on the heat there, and, for once, there's nothing to say, nothing to *avoid* saying.
[end]
Pairing: Dick/Tim; others mentioned.
Summary: Dick's been very lucky.
Fandom: DCU, Gotham division (the missing year, whatever we're calling it)
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: DC is part of a corporate monolith; I am not.
Notes: Say that canon is true and the Bats *did* go travelling for a year. Say, further, that despairing, dystopian futures and identity-annihilation may have been getting to me. This is one possible (porny) remedy for both propositions, generated from some recent fannish discourse.
Travel, they say, broadens. Dick's not convinced of that.
Madrid was better, loud colors and colorful noise. Sumatra was confusing, but learning the Three Fingers of Silence technique made it worthwhile. Auckland was green, strangely familiar. Strange, since Blüdhaven was never green and now it's just *black*. Prince George was greener yet, salt heavy on the air, restful.
The apartment in Paris is far too *empty* for Dick to feel anything like comfortable. The ceilings are at least eighteen feet high, the floorboards have to be older than the United States. Everywhere he looks, he's confronted with pale blue walls, pale as the light on a pigeon's wing.
He can't figure out how this place manages to be so *grand* when it's so empty. The rooms hold the hush of museum galleries, but there's nothing on display. Just the occasional old mirror, gilt flaking off its frame, the silver backing gone dark as coal, that reflects the opposite, empty wall.
The only thing this emptiness is good for is tumbling. He's been challenging Tim to handwalking-races, backspring contests, anything to *fill* up the empty space.
Yesterday morning, he broke a chunk off the wainscoting when he ran up the wall. He needs to be more careful.
He needs something else to do.
This afternoon, Bruce is out being -- Dick isn't sure who. What. Mr. Billionaire, yes, but the dark suit and open-necked pink shirt didn't belong to the playboy.
He's not going to get used to Bruce-being-*Bruce*, no visible act, any time soon.
On his hands, touching only the black tiles, Dick walks through the kitchen and into the hall.
Tim's in the room they share. *Share*: A place as big as this, and they're still bunking up together. Dick would have moved one bed to another room, but Mme. Pérez-Seguine, the concierge, scares him.
She resembles Alfred in very bad drag, only with all the sweetness squeezed, *wrenched*, out.
*Scary*.
Dick shakes off the image of her bearing down on him with a sweep-broom in one hand and a butcher knife in the other. Tim might be up for some sparring. It can't hurt to try; Dick's hair is clinging to his neck, his hands are flexing uselessly, and he needs to *move*.
Hell, even if Tim's in one of his moods, Dick's going to keep on him until he gives in.
No one can resist the force of pestering, no, sir.
Through the door, he can just make out the low, careful sounds of Tim's voice. Who's he talking to? Little bastard couldn't have made a friend in Paris *already*. Dick's been with him the whole time.
Besides, Tim...doesn't make friends very easily. Not any more.
*That's* a thought for a later --. Never.
So who's he talking to? Dick leans closer, resting his forehead against the cool, soft wood of the door. There are pauses, silences, that indicate Tim's on the phone.
Grinning, Dick pads back to the phone at the end of the hall and lifts the receiver silently. He knew how to listen in undetected at *thirteen*; cop school just refined his technique.
"...oh, *God*, see?" It's a guy's voice, young, a little strangled.
"I see," Tim replies, calm as ever. "Stay still. I just want to *watch*. You. For a --"
Dick swallows the swelling laugh; Tim was watching before he could *crawl*, no doubt about it.
"I *can't*," the kid says. "Can't stay still. I *want* you --"
Sex. Phone sex.
His little-brother-who's-not is having phone sex.
Transatlantic, daytime-rates, gay phone sex.
Dick's neck gets really hot, really fast. Unbearably hot -- *Clark*-level heat that screws shut his eyes, drops open his mouth.
He shouldn't be listening. Right?
"What are you doing now?" Tim asks.
"Um." The kid gasps, then exhales, the sound whistling and broken.
God, he sounds *good*. Who is he? Dick tips his forehead against the cold blue wall and breathes out through his nose, holding the receiver away. The kid isn't talking, but he's making sweet little *gurgles* in a cracked register that echo right under Dick's sternum before jogging lower, deeper.
He can *see* how red the guy's (blank) face must be, the sweat shining down his chest, muscles in his arms cording out high and tense.
"Stop." Tim's voice is steady and deep.
Shivers pluck at the skin down Dick's back. *Of course* Tim's in charge.
"I *can't* stop. I want --"
"What? What do you want?" Interrogation, Robin crouching over a goon, knee on his throat: the memory flares before Dick's eyes, so bright that he almost forgets to listen for the answer.
Almost.
"You. Want --. Or, or. Touch me?" The poor kid sounds *so* far gone. He must be aching, tears in the corners of his eyes, hips lifting toward the imaginary touch, the imaginary *Tim*.
Dick rolls his head back and forth, but the wall fails to cool him off.
"No. Touch *me*," Tim says. Dick swipes his fist over his mouth, bounces it down his chest, does *not* make a sound. He has to be imagining the sweet hint of relief around Tim's tone, softening it, shadowing. "Inside."
Dick's abdomen clenches, his thighs shake with the effort -- effort. Not to pump, not to push.
Not to break down that door and *tackle* Tim.
"Ohhh? Yeah. Inside you."
They're really good at this. They've done this before. (How long?) The conversation's taking in only essentials -- touch, want, in-fucking-*side*.
A balance needs to be struck -- all you've got is words, but the sounds and voices, they need to be balanced with encouragement, with --.
Dick's always been a little too...*talkative* for phone sex. Both too talkative and too urgent, really, so he wastes too much time scene-setting, and then need gets overwhelming and he forgets to talk, can't. Just breathes and strokes and it's over way too fast.
That approach works fine with Roy ("You still there, vato?"), and Kory, too ("Do that again"). Babs -- Babs gets annoyed ("Any time now, Boy Horndog").
Bruce would get annoyed, too.
If they ever --.
Oh, God, that would be --. A disaster in every sense of the word. Beautiful, insane, disaster.
His way, Dick's sure, would have worked with Jason ("Christ, Wing, just shut the fuck up and --. *Ah*. Fuck, yes --").
He hasn't ever done this with Clark. You don't *phone* him, for one thing. You can tell him what you're doing, though. He likes that. And if you're lucky, he'll be there before you finish, cloud-sweat cooling your thighs, hot mouth nudging aside your own (not hot enough, never tight enough) fist.
Dick's been very lucky.
"Two. Two fingers." Tim's voice is even and *loud* in Dick's ear. Overpowering. "I'm taking two now --"
Jesus.
"Two," his...boyfriend? gasps back. "Tight, Tim, you're -- it's too, it's so --. Oh. Oh, *Tim*!"
That shearing sound, wet breath and thumping furniture, twisting skin. Everyone sounds *perfect* when they're coming. Dick knuckles his erection, drags rough denim over it, tries not to yank. Too hard.
Tim waits a beat. "I'm catching you with my mouth."
His small, *precise* mouth, daubed and blurred with *come*.
"Rrrgh."
"Cleaning you all the way down," Tim adds. "Licking --"
His -- friend? partner? No. -- his buddy's voice shudders. "Two. Still --"
"Inside me," Tim says. His patience is -- crackling. Mirror's silver, cobwebbing black, fine as silk. "Go deeper."
The guy's voice is silkier now, afterglow-languor making him slur. "Mm, deeper, yeah. Faster. Remember? The first time, and Kon --"
"Harder. *Faster*." That's an order. It's low, mean, *needy*, Gotham invading Paris. "Now."
Now. Dick drops the phone. Strips off his shirt on the way down the hall, doesn't let himself stop. *Obeying*, answering the order, entering the room, and Tim's there.
Waiting for him? On *Dick's* bed, the little *fucker*, mouth tilting in that tight little smile, cheeks stained red, knees drawn up and two fingers up his --.
"Whatcha doing, Timmy?" Dick sing-songs the question but can't keep the quaver out of his voice.
"I'll call you back," Tim says calmly, never looking away from Dick, and lets the receiver drop, bounce, to the floor.
He's *naked*, bony knees bookending his flushed face, *staring* at Dick. Watching Dick launch himself onto the bed. Tim. With his hand.
Between his legs.
Glistening with slick.
Slick smeared over his *balls*, his -- Jesus -- *shaven* balls, they're dark and heavy. Dick licks his way up, sweet lube down to salty skin, up the shaft, sour-hot, grinning when Tim finally makes one, tiny gulp that could be a groan.
Dick lifts his mouth from Tim's belly. "On *my* bed?"
"Mine's...*made*." Goosebumps break out over Tim's chest as Dick slides his teeth over one nipple. "Didn't want to --"
Hand on Tim's wrist, slowing the thrusts he's still giving himself, and Dick licks the rest of the way up. Into Tim's open, hard-toothed mouth, as Tim's other, *free*, hand closes in Dick's sweaty hair, as Dick bites into a kiss.
Tim's tongue is every bit as *sharp* as it would have to be to speak as --. Precision, that's it, and Dick presses his tongue inside, lets Tim lick at it, *taste* himself. Tim makes small, pleased noises at that.
"Who were you talking to?" Dick slides one hand down Tim's side, over the taut skin of his hip, tickling Tim's cock until Tim shivers and wriggles. "Who?"
He lifts his fingers away, squeezes Tim's wrist to stop the thrusts, and repeats the question.
Tim's flush reaches to his hairline. His eyes blink open, narrowed and intent. "Bart."
Dick rocks back onto his heels, the bones in Tim's wrist grinding in his hand. "You --. You're fucking *Impulse*?"
Tim blinks again before his eyes widen slightly. "He's Kid Flash now. Or was."
Pedantic little *freak*. "You're fucking *Kid Flash*?"
"On occasion." Tim grimaces briefly when Dick skates his fingernails up over his stomach. His legs tremble with the effort not to move; his tongue darts out over his upper lip. "It would be more accurate, however. To say that he fucks *me*."
Dick is whirling. Inside -- and he's never going to be able to think that word again without *blushing* and tasting this, tasting *Tim* and seeing his wrist angled just so -- inside, he feels a whirl of thought and need cyclone around. "No fucking *way*."
It's not that Tim is sexual -- Dick's going to need several months to adjust *that*, no matter how easily he kissed the kid. He's never been all that smooth in navigating between intellectual acceptance and physical accomplishment; the latter's way easier, always has been.
It's that Tim is *talking* about it. Calmly as he discusses anything else, weather patterns over the South Pacific, behavioral attributes of meth-heads, carpet-fucking-fibers.
Dick can't stop the surprise, the laughter that accompanies it.
As he squints, Tim presses his palm flat as a stone against Dick's chest. "Roll over."
Dick goes with it, releasing his hold, rolling onto his back. He gapes, a little, when Tim climbs *on top*. Straddles his waist, his --.
Tim's smile slopes to the left, so Dick closes his mouth.
"Oh." Tim sounds almost regretful. "Condom --"
Dick feels his fingers *dig* into the hard meat of Tim's hips. "What, you don't think I'm *clean*?" With the monthly bloodtests Bruce administers? Not likely.
Tim's frown is a thing of -- not beauty. Marvel, or wonderment, all on Dick's part. How the hell can he *concentrate*? Now, *here*?
"Sex is never clean," Tim says. His tone makes it sound like he's quoting.
Groaning, banging his head against the pillow, Dick releases him. "That's the *point* --"
"Hn." Tim's bare feet don't make a sound as he moves out of the room. Down the hall, and Dick is *two seconds* away from just pulling himself off from the need, when Tim returns with the box. Picks up right where he left off. "That may be the case, but there's no reason to --. Wallow."
"I don't want to know where you got that," Dick says and yanks the box from Tim's hand.
"Bruce has lots of..." Tim tilts his head, eyebrow going up, mirroring the angle of his half-fond goddamn *smile*. "Ladyfriends."
Frustrated, almost shaking with it, Dick rips open the box with his teeth, then the foil on the first packet. "Don't --."
Tim's hand moves quickly, *elegantly*, liberating the rubber from Dick's shaking fingers. "Don't mention Bruce?"
Dick chokes, then shakes as Tim unrolls the condom, quick sure fingertips moving far too lightly down Dick's cock. "Tim --"
"Here," Tim replies, and it's the same voice, same expression, he uses on the street, at r-points, because he *always* beats Dick to rendezvous, no matter how close Dick is. He swings his leg over Dick's waist, plants his hand on Dick's shoulder, and --.
"God," Dick says, and winces, because that's *Tim*, up there, over him, crouched. Bangs in his eyes, flush returning. "Shouldn't I --" His hand bangs uselessly against Tim's ass.
The corners of Tim's mouth twitch. "I'm pretty well-stretched."
"*Fuck*." All his fingers spazz and curl, yanking at Tim, hauling him back and down, and Dick might not know *what* to say, but that's never stopped him before. Besides, his body's *more* than acquainted with what to do, so his ass is lifting off the bed, pushing his dick up, rolling with Tim's motion as he drops, wiggles, settles. Dick's cockhead rubs Tim's crack, nudges in --. "Oh, *God*, Jesus --"
"Mm." Tim's mouth is open, his hand on Dick's cheek, thumb raking over Dick's lower lip. "Up --"
"Inside," Dick echoes, all the heat around him pulsating and growing inside, down his cock, past his balls, and he sucks in breath as he lifts and pushes and watches Tim's face --.
Tim's face *change*, twist and contort, and it's probably a good thing that *something* can affect him like this, like he's human.
No, that's bullshit. Tim's always been human, just -- different. Never more so than in the last year; it's reflex on Dick's part to treat him like he's a brat, an irritating freak, and that's always had more to do with *Dick* than...Tim. Tim, who's *on* him, bearing down on Dick, fucking himself slow and steady, up and down, eyes dark and fastened on Dick's face.
"Christ, Tim, you're --"
Tim's eyes flash, widen, and he shakes his head. His dick's rubbing against, *jolting* against Dick's stomach. When Dick gets his hand around it, starts to stroke him faster than the thrusts, Tim's head falls back until all Dick can see is the sharp point of his chin. The long line of his chest, blush splashing down white skin, and he shudders, *harder*, when Dick pinches one nipple.
"Gng --" Tim's chest heaves, Dick rolls and thrusts harder, all the way, *faster*, and watches Tim shiver on the edge of losing it. "*Dick*, Christ --"
The last time Tim swore, it was his first week in Blüdhaven, when he finally picked up the phone on Dick's hundredth call: "Stop fucking calling me."
Tim drops his head back down, eyes moving fast and restless until Dick smiles at him. It's hard to smile, he's too fucking *horny* and on the edge himself, but he does and Tim sinks back down, swiveling his hips until Dick can't see for the heat.
"Tell me," Dick whispers, licks his dry lips, and tries again. "Tell me. What to do."
Tim's torso *twists* and Dick speeds his strokes so the flush darkens more.
"Like you tell Bart," Dick whispers and Tim's ass *crashes* onto Dick's thighs as he gurgles and rubs himself like a dog. "Tim."
"I --"
Tim wails when Dick releases his cock, then shakes as Dick soothes his hands up and down his sweaty chest and sides. His back.
"Shh," Dick's saying, craning his head off the mattress, upward, pulling Tim forward until he's almost all the way *off*, out, but his mouth's wet and open for Dick's kiss. He keeps shushing Tim, into the kiss, massaging the insanely *tight* muscles in Tim's shoulders. "It's okay, I --"
"Dick. *Dick*." Tim mouths his cheek, speaks *urgently*, like Dick's name is the answer to -- something. Bracing his hand on Dick's shoulder, Tim pulls himself up, onto his knees, before sliding back down. Onto Dick. And he's somehow *hotter* inside now, like that's even possible, as his rhythm speeds up, stays just as fluid, just as *right*, as in anything he does. "Unn --"
Dick thrusts up, wraps his hand back around Tim, and jerks him just as fast as he likes it. "You're fucking *blowing my mind* --"
Tim barks out a laugh, his knuckles going white on Dick's arm, his ass tightening and *sucking* around Dick. "M-mutual, believe --" He twists counterclockwise, rising and falling in a jagged, rocking movement that Dick believes, right now, with the fervency of a man moments from coming, is the most beautiful thing in the world, ever. "-- me."
"Yeah --" Dick's not thrusting now so much as -- riding it. Riding Tim's movement, heat prickling over every inch of skin, *admiring* it.
So when Tim starts to come, mouth twisting into a choked-off shout, Dick wraps his other hand around the first, stares and watches the flush wink in and out, the come spurt and splatter, and keeps saying Tim's name.
Tim's curled over him, claws in Dick's hair, on his shoulders, shuddering and *coming*, and when he collapses, he kisses Dick's face like a starving man, inhaling him.
Tim goes still, slack, for a long moment, his mouth sweet on Dick's neck. Dick wraps his arm around him, waiting, and Tim is nothing if not -- thoughtful. Of others. He shakes himself, every little motion jostling the overwhelming tenderness on Dick's cock, and starts to rock his hips.
"Is this --? Am I --?"
Dick rubs the come into the skin on Tim's stomach, on his own, and closes his eyes. Thrusts like he's got all the time in the world. "Oh, *fuck*. Yes."
"Hm," Tim says, hoarsely, and shifts back, changing the angle, *deepening* it. "How's that?"
"This isn't --" Dick's hips pump recklessly and he bites his lip. When he's got more control, he opens his eyes. "This isn't an *experiment*."
Tim's considering him, blank but for the flush and bright eyes, blue between his lashes.
"Is it?" Dick adds and pushes up, ass and lower back coming off the bed, tumbling Tim forward. "This better not --"
Tim folds up under him, lips parting and meeting in time with Dick's thrusts. It takes him a long time to say, "No."
"Good," Dick says but all he hears is a growl, his hand petting Tim's hair, the other squeezing his hip, pushing up his right leg until he's in so deep he can't breathe. Urgency sizzles in his balls, in the pit of his gut, and he fights to see, fingers splayed over Tim's cheek, Tim's tongue darting out to lick them, as he starts to come. And *comes*, Tim's lashes lying like paint on his cheek, smears and shadows and tears --.
Dick falls all the way down. He *trembles* when he finally gets enough presence of mind to pull out. "Oh, *man*."
He remembers to roll off Tim, but pulls him as he goes, until Tim's half-splayed over his side. Elegant little fingers pluck at the rubber, remove it and tie it off, and Dick can only grunt in response.
"Not an experiment," Tim says when he's tossed the rubber away. It lands somewhere else with a wet plop. He tucks himself against Dick's side and Dick gets the feeling that he's holding himself still. Too still.
"Huh," Dick says intelligently, tugging at Tim's arm. "Good to know."
Tim remains still. If Dick could open his eyes, he knows he'd see that watchful, *considering* expression on Tim's face. But he can't, so he doesn't. Instead he yanks on Tim's arm again, and again, until Tim lies on top him again, sighing.
"You're a *cuddler* --" Tim sounds a little hoarse, a lot amused.
Dick noogies the back of Tim's hair. "Shut up. Just --"
"You're cuddling," Tim says. "It's a simple observation."
Opening one eye, Dick smirks at Tim. "You don't cuddle with Impulse?"
"Not as such, no." Tim's mouth tightens and Dick knows he's forbearing from correcting him again.
"Speedster, huh?" Dick stretches, luxuriating in the ache in his balls, the tingle down his legs. "What's that like?"
"You've never --?"
Dick rubs his chin. "Jessie, but --"
"Ah." Tim's chin pokes into Dick's forearm, where the muscles are still twitching randomly, happily. "I thought so."
He sounds -- *satisfied*. Maybe he's been a detective so long that he can't stop himself. Dick snorts and pulls a lock of Tim's hair. "Is this the part where we compare sexual histories?"
"I believe that's supposed to precede the, ah. Intercourse," Tim says. Seriously.
Dick checks, but there's absolutely no trace of humor on Tim's face. Which means that he *is* joking. "Luckily, you remembered the rubber."
Tim nods, his chin dragging at the skin on Dick's arm. "I meant to say something about your...wide experience."
"I'm clean," Dick protests. Tim makes a small, chuckling sound, and Dick realizes just how *stupid* he sounds. "Wide?"
"Hmm. *Legendary*, some would say," Tim says. His brand of humor, of teasing, isn't like anything Dick's ever had to deal with. It's all about precision (of course) and abstraction.
It's good to hear it again.
Dick doesn't say that. He combs his fingers through Tim's damp hair and lets himself breathe for a while. He doesn't know if he wants to know -- if he can *handle* -- the answer to what he says next. "And you...?"
"Ah," Tim says, "there's the fraternal concern." He deepens his voice until he sounds terrifyingly like *Roy*. "How much booty you getting, bro?"
Dick twists his hand in Tim's hair and punches his shoulder with the other. "You know what --"
"You meant, yes. Well." Tim shifts fractionally backward, tucking back into himself, and he's naked. How does he *do* that, conjure the cape, when he's as bare-assed as Dick is? "It's not *quite* as long a list as yours."
Dick shows his teeth. "Who's on it?"
Tim cocks his head, listening to something. Footsteps in the hall, and Dick's first thought is -- Bruce. Tossing him out the window, but only after the characteristically *thorough* castration.
It's Mme. Pérez-Seguine, who still considers this apartment to belong to her dead brother, tip-tapping in her stiletto heels down the hall. She likes to help herself to the rich Americans' food.
"Bart, but you know that." Tim pats Dick's shoulder. "I locked the door. Bart, Cassie --"
"*Cass*?" Dick shivers violently.
"Wonder Girl," Tim says gently. "Not --. No, not her."
Dick exhales. "Fuck. Coronary there." He wills his pulse back to the normal range. "Okay, go on."
Tim closes his eyes and his expression goes more than blank. *Still*. "What are we counting as criteria? Exactly?"
Snorting, Dick flops over onto his stomach, dragging Tim under him. "Whatever you want, little man."
Tim's sucking his lower lip over his teeth. "Can we do this later?"
Superboy.
God. Dick *knows* how much of an asshole he can be, but somehow it always manages to slap him upside the head and catch him by surprise. He presses his forehead against Tim's, worming his arm under Tim's back, across his waist, pulling him closer. "Sure, of course," he says, because he can't apologize.
He can't apologize because they don't talk about -- a lot of things.
Fewer things than half an hour ago, but --. "Sure," he says again, and drops a kiss on Tim's left eyelid, then his right. "Now let me sleep."
"Tired?" Tim pushes lightly, consciously ineffectually, at his shoulder. "Loser."
"I worked hard," Dick says and wriggles.
"Funny," Tim says and --. His body, pressed under Dick's, is bony and strong. There's no way that Dick can *feel* him relax, but he does. "I seem to remember doing much of the work."
"Keep telling yourself that." Dick's mouth is sore and swollen and he kisses Tim's chin anyway. "Now cuddle me, damn it."
"Sap."
"Brat."
"Stud."
"Hell, yes." Dick opens both eyes and grins.
Tim's looking at him and for a moment, there's no consideration, just -- *looking*. Wide, shadowed eyes and the curl of a smirk on his mouth, and that blush.
God, that *blush*. Dick presses his mouth against it, sucks lightly on the heat there, and, for once, there's nothing to say, nothing to *avoid* saying.
[end]