January 13, 2005
Disclaimers: No one here is mine.
Spoilers: Not a one.
Summary: Five little smutlets.
Ratings Note: NC-17.
Author's Note: Just a little something to remind you
what the world of shameless, gratuitous porn looks
like, chica. *g*
Acknowledgments: To Jack, Mary, and Livia for
The kiss is --
Slick, he thinks. *Deep*. Tim wants to ask -- a *lot* of
things -- but most of them just boil down to 'why.'
And asking would involve him doing something other
than tilting his head back to give Dick better access.
To *let* Dick. And perhaps it shouldn't seem strange,
because this is something Tim has done as much as
humanly possible. It's just that the context is a bit
A gauntleted hand in his hair and the faint whisper of
the Nightwing uniform's material against his civvies,
as opposed to, say, a gauntleted hand wrapping a
blindfold around his head for the purpose of train-tag.
The humming sound Dick makes into his mouth feels
like a cue, or, perhaps, like something which *ought*
to be a cue -- or at least a warning -- but it's just a
noise. The thing which occurs between Dick taking a
breath through his nose and Dick... licking his tongue.
Teasing it, tickling -- no.
It's a coax and an *invitation*, *precisely* the same
as Dick opening a door, or... smiling. And, of course,
Tim's reaction to it is predictable. Or should have
He doesn't have enough time to consider blushing
before Dick starts *sucking* on his tongue, humming
again and stepping closer. *Pushing* closer, and
Tim's hands feel... strange.
Heavy, clumsy at his sides. Like he should be...
He clenches them into fists instead of grabbing for
Dick, clutching at him like --
"*Dick*," he says, and stops because he can't count
on the words that would follow being remotely safe.
Dick smiles at him, and strokes the edge of Tim's ear
with the hand which *isn't* in Tim's hair. "Yeah?"
He hadn't expected the kiss to stop. He isn't sure
when he'd stopped being surprised that it had
This time, he has a much better excuse for not
finishing the sentence. Dick is staring at his mouth.
Of course, thinking that just makes him *more* conscious
of it, of how ticklish the feel of drying spit is on his lips,
of the fact that no one comes up to the roof of the
townhouse but him, of the fact that --
That Dick is still staring.
And that his hands are still... not holding him. Not quite --
at least not beyond Tim's familiar inability to *move*
when Dick is *just* touching him.
"Dick, what --"
"Shh, Tim. Just... before I forget again?"
"Yes?" It shouldn't actually be possible for Dick to get
closer, but he does. He smells like soap, and himself --
barely. He hadn't done any patrolling before coming
Dick grins, and leans in just close enough that Tim
reflexively breathes in his next exhale.
And thinks seriously about passing out.
"Happy birthday," Dick says, and kisses him again.
Kissing Bruce is strange enough -- *twisted* enough.
However, 'enough' hasn't been an entirely valid concept
since Tim first put on the suit, and so it isn't -- precisely --
beyond reason for there to be... more.
Stone against his back, cold on his elbows and calves.
Tim considers, for a moment, the question of whether
this would be more comfortable if he was in sweats (as
opposed to shorts and a t-shirt), and then the act of
considering much of anything seems...
The kissing hasn't, technically, stopped. It's just moved
to different *areas*. There's nothing *physically*
difficult about breathing anymore, though Tim doesn't
doubt that Bruce *could* bite his throat hard enough to
close his windpipe. Perhaps not the most efficient
method of fighting crime, but --
It doesn't, actually, surprise him to be lost in irrelevancies
It isn't that there aren't multiple vastly important things
to consider. It's just that Bruce hasn't bitten him at all,
yet, and the tongue on his throat is a hot, wet *threat*.
There's a question of need, here, both in the specific
and blatantly *physical* sense, and in all of the
emotional things which they haven't strictly...
Which *he* hadn't -- not before coming back to Gotham,
and not before deciding to train *with* Bruce, for the
first time since...
Bruce's hand is bare, and there's a flesh-colored bandage
on his knuckle. The palm is hot and hard and manages
to make Tim's t-shirt feel entirely irrelevant. Or perhaps
that's just the pressure Bruce is using.
"There are... so many things I'd like to say."
And so, of course, it had seemed like a perfectly rational
idea to shove Tim against a wall and *kiss* --
"I can't," Bruce says. His voice is honest and rueful, and
his thumb is on Tim's nipple.
"There... are other ways."
"So there are," Tim says, unsurprised to hear *his* voice
Or to see Bruce... reacting. Narrowed eyes and stillness.
He barely feels the next kiss at all, even with the taste
of blood in his mouth.
Bruce's *other* hand is on his dick.
No one had ever suggested this, though she thinks
Superboy might have been trying. This... this is *sex*,
and Spoiler's eyes are full of "like this?" and "what am
I doing?" and also "Cass Cass Cass."
But Spoiler's body is moving easily, smoothly from
one motion to another.
A deeper inhale when Batgirl tilts her head back, a
squeeze -- one for each breast -- when Batgirl exhales
And when Batgirl pushes forward with her hips, Spoiler
drops to her knees.
"I don't --"
And silent again, even though Batgirl has only pushed
down her tights.
Here, she thinks. *Here*.
And Spoiler leans in and strokes her own face with
"So good so smooth so so," Spoiler says with the
twitch and flex of her fingers against Batgirl's thigh.
*More*, Batgirl says, but can't specify.
Because she doesn't have time, because Spoiler's tongue
says "oh Cass oh" and the scratch of her short nails on
Batgirl's hips are assorted curses she lacks the context
Later, she'll ask Spoiler to explain.
Later, she'll -- she --
"Kon -- *Kon* --"
Tim's hips are sweaty and *moving*, pumping even
though Kon's only using his tongue.
Maybe *because* he is, and there's a part of his brain
which sincerely wants to know how the fuck he'd
gotten here -- how they *both* had -- but he's pretty
sure he's allowed to ignore that part in situations like
Tim naked from the waist down. Tim in *his* bed. Tim
naked from the waist *down* in his bed and --
"Oh *God*, Kon, please --"
Begging. Just --
Strangled sounds, low and hoarse, and Tim's dick is a
thick, salty weight on his tongue and he can't *not* suck.
The best he can do is not do it too --
"Oh -- oh *fuck*, Kon, do it *hard* --"
And then he can't, and that's frankly okay with him. He
holds on tight to Tim's hips and goes *down*, sucking
almost as hard as he wants to and jerking at the feel, the
You taste so fucking *good*, he thinks, and Tim's hands
skate over his hair, clumsy and random and -- no.
*Not* random. Tim's trying to hold *on*, and if Kon
*could* will his hair to grow he so totally and completely
But it's still better than pretty much anything when Tim
locks his fingers behind Kon's head and *pulls*.
"Kon -- oh Kon I need --"
And Tim is *twisting* in his hands, trying to... to... he
isn't sure, and stopping to ask is something on the
*back* end of impossible, and Kon listens and groans,
"Mmm," Dick says again. "Give me a *good* reason to
let you go."
There's a smile in his voice -- pressed against Tim's ear --
but he's also some degree of serious.
Tim *had* gotten fairly adept at recovering quickly
post-orgasm -- it's the sort of thing which is frankly just
good sense when one spends any amount of time
masturbating in places like the *Cave*. But.
But his heart is tripping in his chest again and Dick is still
"Or don't," Dick says, and --
Tim is reasonably sure that was *entirely* sincere, despite
the fact that Dick is licking his ear, now.
Another smile, and it *is* a physical impossibility to
ejaculate grey matter, but that doesn't seem especially
important right now. Considering the fact that Tim hasn't
had a coherent thought since Dick had put his hand in
"Not very *long*, but I'll wait."
"Let -- let go."
Dick stills against him, and he's close enough that Tim can
feel it everywhere. It's even harder to breathe now. "Tim?
Did I --"
"No," he says, and struggles to breathe, to think, to do
*anything* that will keep Dick from thinking this was a
That's *his* job, after all. His job for... sometime when
he *can't* just drop to his knees.
His jeans are bunched and uncomfortable, he's sticky,
and he's *exposed*. But.
"God, Tim. Anything you want, little brother..."
It's also his *turn*.