Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/49978.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      DC_Comics
  Relationship:
      Nightwing/Robin_III, Dick_Grayson/Timothy_Drake
  Character:
      Tim_Drake, Dick_Grayson
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-01-12 Words: 3020
****** Beyond the Mere Design ******
by Rubynye
Summary
     Tim spends a moment in the present.
Title: Beyond the Mere Design
Fandom: DC Comics
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Nightwing/Robin III (Dick/Tim)
Summary: Tim spends a moment in the present.
Beta Reader:
[[info]]
petronelle *blows kisses*
Disclaimer: Nothing here is mine but the arrangement of the words.
 
"Shh." Dick's fingers trailing down over Tim's eyelids gently shut his eyes;
the same fingertips, finely calloused, drag over Tim's lips before he can
protest. "Shh. Close your eyes." Dick's voice washes soft and warm over Tim's
face, his fingertips drawn up over Tim's cheekbones spark an uncontrollably
flaring blush, and Tim really shouldn't be here, taking up Dick's time, he
should be training or going home or...
The tip of Dick's nose brushes Tim's, his breath an even tide across Tim's face
as his fingertips trail up to Tim's temples, and all Tim can do is sit, eyes
closed, holding onto the table, holding his breathing steady. Dick's nose
trails down the side of his like a fingertip as Dick leans in, breathing over
Tim's mouth, and Tim can taste him already, orange juice and human male musk
and his own indefinable warmth. It was a busy night. Maybe they deserve a small
reward, so Tim leans forward into the touch.
But he gets only a light brush of softly chapped lips, a snip of laughter like
an accelerant poured on his incandescent cheeks, before Dick pulls away.
"Tease," Tim accuses, squeezing hard on the inflexible wood of the table, and
considers pointing out that his parents are really going to expect to find him
in his bed in less than four hours. Or at least in their house. Or at least not
in Bludhaven.
Dick just laughs, fingers pressing lightly in front of Tim's ears as they frame
his face, the puff of breath almost cool over Tim's nuclear-level blush. He can
feel Dick looking at him, pressure like a gust of air, and he'd want his mask
if it would be any use. "Relax," Dick replies. "And let go of the table."
"I thought you wanted me to keep my hands still." Dick chuckles again at that,
sliding fingertips slowly up into Tim's hair; they vibrate a little with the
laugh, with Dick's breathing and pulse. Tim expects a pull, a rub, but Dick's
fingers just wrap around the curve of his head, palms molding to the shape of
his skull.
"Still, yeah. That doesn't mean a death-grip. Here." Dick lets go of Tim's head
and takes his wrists in a grip that somehow makes Tim intensely aware of their
architecture, of the bones and tendons moving inside his skin as Dick presses
his fingers over Tim's pulse and his thumbs to the bones of Tim's forearms.
Dick tugs, gently, and when Tim lets go settles his hands on his thighs, palms
flat on denim.
Dick takes his hands away, scooting back enough for the air around Tim to swirl
down to stillness. Tim sits, eyes closed, and can't even hear Dick breathe. The
vertigo is almost disabling. Tim wants to reach out, to open his eyes, to
ground himself, as his feet dangle in midair and Dick seems to disappear.
But Tim knows vertigo and uncertainty, and reaching out or opening his eyes
would definitely be against the rules. So he breathes deeper, and stills. At
first all he can feel is empty air around him, all he can hear is his own
heartbeat echoing in his ears. But the stillness spreads, and in it he can feel
as much as hear the slow back-and-forth of Dick's breathing. Dick's still near,
roughly in front of Tim, and Tim keeps listening though his lungs are starting
to ache, trying to place him.
The touch still makes him jump. Dick's hand, folding around his shoulder,
callouses catching slightly on the T-shirt. Dick's laugh is a puff of cheerful
humidity over Tim's ear, and he camouflages his press into Dick's hand with an
exasperated shrug and groan. "Okay," Tim says, starting to open his eyes.
He doesn't get any more than a thin line of brightness before Dick stops him
with two fingertips tapped lightly on his eyelids. "Wait. We're not done yet."
He leans in, reaching across Tim's lap to plant his other hand on the table by
Tim's hip, and Tim can feel air eddying between them, stirred by Dick's
movement and warmth.
Tim growls. This has gone on long enough, is distracting enough, to mess with
his time sense; he's not entirely sure anymore just how long he has left. He
had six hours of sleep last night, so he could stay up until morning, but what
if he gets a case tomorrow that takes all night? "What, exactly--"
"Are we doing?" Dick's breath swirls over Tim's ear, his chest skims Tim's
shoulder, little flicks of hair and planes of muscles. His chest and arm glow
like stones under summer sunshine, warmth shading into heat radiating against
Tim's back and side. Tim feels himself bending towards all that warmth, so he
leans away.
There's no point, really. With his eyes closed, Tim can feel Dick even where
they're not touching. He can smell him in aggravated detail, a little damp from
his shower, a whiff of plastic-sweet conditioner, clean human skin and Dick's
particular warm sweetness. Tim forgets himself for just long enough to gulp a
deeper breath, and his head reels like he's been drugged, and he's shooting up
from half-hard. Painfully hard, when Dick brushes Tim's ear with his parted
lips, chuckling softly as he pulls his mouth along the upper arch. "You'll
see," Dick says softly, moving his lips over Tim's ear, and Tim doesn't shudder
and doesn't shudder. "You'll know it when you see it." Tim's ear vibrates with
Dick's voice, just before Dick drags the smooth wet warmth of his tongue over
the curve; Tim's belly clenches, all the air floods from his lungs, and he
shudders.
"I--" Tim's hands clutch at nothing, balled into fists in his lap, as Dick maps
his ear with his tongue too slowly to call licking; each time Dick finds a
ticklish spot he stops, probing and circling it till it makes Tim shake like he
swallowed a vibrator. "Gah--" By the second such spot Tim can't keep his
breathing quiet, every exhale breaking up into a rough hiss; by the fourth Tim
is gasping in an effort not to keen, and he can smell the fresh sweat prickling
up all over his skin. He suspects he can't feel his blush anymore only because
it's fading into a generalized flush rising in patchy heat all over his arms
and chest and neck. "You!"
"Me," Dick hums over the hinge of Tim's jaw, exhaling a wash of air like warm
water, and swings around to kneel in front of Tim again, hands bracketing his
waist. "Hey. Tell me what you see."
Tim laughs, shocked and sharp, fists clenching tight enough to feel the tensile
strain over his knuckles. "My eyes--"
"Are kind of closed, yeah." If Dick finishes one more sentence Tim's going to
accuse him of having had his metagene activated for telepathy. He doesn't punch
Dick, or his own thigh, or the table. He just breathes, controlled and even,
ignoring the diaphragm-deep twitches as Dick's hands, big hands, palms just
damp enough to enhance their texture, curve around his wrists and skim up his
arms against the grain of his hair. .
The squeeze to Tim's shoulders is familiar and bracing, and reminds him that he
still has no real idea what he's supposed to be doing here. "Why didn't you
just blindfold me?" He has to push his voice down, almost into the range he
uses as Robin, to keep it steady.
Dick stands up so smoothly the only clue is the changing direction of his voice
as he starts laughing again. He's been laughing all night, but this one's even
deeper, even warmer, and Tim can see in his mind Dick's bright teeth and
crinkle-cornered blue eyes, the slight tilt of his head. "Because I like your
eyes," he tells Tim, hands pressing over Tim's shoulderblades. "Tell me what
you see."
Dick's fingers slide into the ridge of Tim's spine, tracking over each bump of
bone as if his T-shirt weren't even there. "You," Tim tells him, and his voice
shakes unavoidably.
"Mmm," Dick hums, sounding pleased, leaning closer. "Tell me more." His other
hand travels in squeezes up Tim's shoulder, pressing the side of his neck,
thumb well away from his windpipe, fingers flicking his nape.
"Nnn," is all Tim can say at first. But he breathes, and... "You, smiling--
" always. The image is shadowed, outdoors, light and darkness patched over
Dick's masked face and wild hair, sweat glinting on the planes of his
cheekbones. "On the roof at 85th and Wessex, after the jewelry store gang."
He'd invited Tim to catch up with him, laughing from the middle of at least
three assailants; Tim arrived and looked down in the alley to see Dick backflip
unnecessarily and exhilaratingly, kicking in one man's jaw, evading a pipe
swing, and booting the swinger in the forehead. "You're... warm. A little
flushed, a little sweaty." Just enough to shine, Tim catches in time, and
doesn't say, though he does blush at the thought of blurting that, the memory
of Dick looking up from zip-stripping the would-be burglars to unerringly find
Tim in the shadows, the feel of Dick's strong finely raspy fingers along his
spine. "But not even breathing hard." Just smiling up from the street, bright
as a searchlight.
"Heh, go me." Dick brushes his lips over the furrows of Tim's forehead,
smoothing them out, and puckers to actually kiss Tim between his eyes. "What do
you feel?"
"You mean, besides you all over me." The different meanings of the word "feel"
briefly skitter through Tim's head; before he can construct the sort of comment
Dick deserves for all of this, for leaning close enough for his heartbeat to
echo into Tim's skin and dragging his rough-soft lips over Tim's temples, the
thought's blasted away on the gust of Dick's breath in Tim's other ear.
"Dammit," Tim curses, because he's shaking even harder, his pulse banging in
his chest and beneath his skin, his brain overloading uselessly on sensation.
Dick chuckles just as intimately into this ear. "Shh," he whispers again,
reaching down to grab the hem of Tim's T-shirt. "Lift up?" Tim raises his arms,
ridiculously aware of the pull and stretch of his muscles, the rotation of his
shoulder joints and the arch of his back, the soft slither of battered cotton
over his skin when Dick pulls the shirt off. He considers leaving them up in a
snide pose, but this is still Dick's game; he smears his lips along the
underside of Tim's arm, and Tim chokes on his own breath. Dick lightly presses
his teeth into Tim's wrist, and Tim curses again because it's that or moan,
dropping his hands back into his lap where his erection and his wrist throb
counterpoint.
Tim's usually figured Dick out by now, and confusion and arousal are making it
equally difficult for him to breathe. "You haven't answered the question," Dick
murmurs in Tim's ear, and at least that makes something clear: Dick obviously
wants Tim's head to explode. He growls impatiently, and Dick laughs and licks
his ear with the full twisting force of his tongue. "Patience, my young--"
"Not a single movie reference," Tim hisses. "No." Dick just keeps laughing,
kissing Tim's temple, fingers unsnapping and unzipping Tim's jeans. "And for
the record, I-- oh." Dick smiles against Tim's skin, and his knuckles brush
Tim's dick, bump by bump echoing throbs into him, for a moment all Tim can
feel. "I-- I feel." Dick's hands mold to the angles of Tim's hips, making them
flare into reality with squeezes, and skim down Tim's outer thighs in broad
stripes of heat as he pushes Tim's boxers down with his jeans. Tim tries to
care that his clothes are in a tangled heap and completely fails. "Hot.
Present. Um, as in, right here."
Dick kisses Tim's cheekbone, lingering and heated, the skin flushing hotter
under his mouth. "The best present," he whispers; a ripple goes through him,
and his laugh has a self-conscious note to it. "In the present," he agrees a
little more loudly. "Now you're getting it."
"But I--" Can't think, sitting here naked on the smooth hard table, with Dick's
hands shaping the muscles of his thighs. Tim doesn't even realize he's
clutching the table edge again till it bites into his palms; he eases his grip,
resting against the line of pressure, and Dick's nose pokes his cheek as Dick
presses his grin to Tim's jaw. Tim wants to reach up, to feel Dick's shoulders
move beneath his hands, sink them into the feathery hair tickling over his lips
and down his neck as Dick kisses a path down his jugular; when Dick mouths the
place where his shoulder joins his neck Tim's breath stutters in his chest and
he grabs reflexively, Dick's elbow in his hand, the curve of Dick's bicep under
his palm. Dick hums a pleased sound, and his tongue is a thrust of living wet
heat in the dip of Tim's collarbones, bracketed by his rough-silk lips.
"Oh, God," Tim gasps, both hands squeezing the hard muscles of Dick's upper
arms, wrapped around heat and soft skin. He was supposed to keep his hands
still but Dick doesn't call him on it, as he sucks a wet tingling kiss over
Tim's heart that makes his untouched nipples ache and completely destroys any
control left over his breathing. It's uselessly fast, stuttering in and out of
his lungs, and he only knows he's trying to thrust upwards when Dick's firm
hands pin his hips to the table, only feels how hard he is when Dick nudges him
with his chin as he nuzzles his belly, breath over the skin there hot enough to
ignite. "Oh, God, oh, dammit, oh."
Dick nudges Tim's thighs apart with his head, dragging his flickering hair up
Tim's inner thighs, humming happily when he nuzzles Tim's balls, shocking a
noise out of Tim that's too high and shapeless to be any word. "What are you
thinking?" Dick murmurs right up over his shaft, the weight of his voice
curling around Tim like a hand, pressure on his chest, a series of explosions
in his heart.
"Jesus, Dick, thinking?" Tim squeezes Dick's arms so hard his fingers slide,
and Dick laughs onto him, into him. "I can't think," he admits, slowly, gasping
between each word, hoping that's what Dick wanted to wrench out of him, wanted
to make him see. "You've--" swept everything away, with hands and lips and body
heat. There was a night before, there's a morning on its way, but none of it is
real anymore, nothing is real but Dick under Tim's hands and kneeling in front
of him, lips a millimeter from his cock. "Nngh. You."
"Only this moment," Dick says, all warm satisfaction. "That's exactly it. Be in
this moment."
Whatever reply Tim could possibly have made is lost in the feel of Dick's lips
dragged up over his cock, Dick's hair pressed soft and smooth to his abdomen,
the flare of red pounding behind his eyes, his whimper when Dick parts his lips
over the head, sucking him into wet fire. There really is nothing and
everything in this moment except Dick's heat all around him, tingling in his
skin, the pulse in Dick's tongue and the sliding band of his lips and the
chuckle in his throat as Tim groans, eyes rolling beneath his lids, as Dick
squeezes his hips and moans vibration around him and goes down.
                          **************************
Tim looks down from the roof of his house. The light is low and pink, morning
just starting to rise over Gotham. Tim's showered and dressed for the day, tee
and jeans and jacket and his bookbag on his back. Dick had an especially good
time retrieving the bookbag, which Tim had left in the front hallway, while Tim
crouched on his own roof and listened in sick suspense for his father's shout
or Dana's scream.
Fortunately, he didn't hear either, just the shower running, footsteps in the
hall. If he climbs down the back facade Tim can step into the kitchen like he
came down the stairs; Dad and Dana, concentrating on their coffee, hopefully
shouldn't notice anything strange. But it's a lot to hinge on 'hopefully'.
"Stop thinking so hard." Dick ruffles Tim's hair, and Tim lets him, though he
does at least glare. "You worry too much."
"Someone needs to." Dick just looks at Tim, smile tilted, eyes blue in his
mask, and all Tim can think of is the way Dick smiled up from between his
knees, when the sparks of orgasm had faded and Tim remembered he could actually
see. Tim looks up at Dick, and all he can remember is how it felt, the way
there was nothing he had to think about, nothing he had to do, just smile back
and pull Dick to his feet, wrap his arms around Dick's neck and lie back
against the table. Dick's smile widens to a grin, and his hand in Tim's hair is
warm through the glove, curving around his head to pull him in.
It's just a light kiss, but Tim's mouth tingles, still a little sore; Dick's
must be, too, as he hums a soft moan that makes Tim's lips buzz. Then he backs
off, and waves, and jumps across to the next roof. Tim watches him bounce
across the rooftops for a few moments, then shakes his head till it feels like
it's sloshing and crouches down to reach for a handhold. If his sense of
urgency doesn't return soon he'll have to keep reminding himself of the things
he has to do, all day.
But every breath still feels as warm and unhurried as it did last night, and
Tim really can't make himself mind.
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