Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/50665.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      DC_Comics
  Relationship:
      Nightwing/Robin, Dick_Grayson/Tim_Drake
  Character:
      Dick_Grayson, Tim_Drake
  Additional Tags:
      Rimming, Crossdressing
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-01-14 Words: 3986
****** Shades of Red ******
by Rubynye
Summary
     An evening undercover, a night off, and the space in between.
Notes
     I wrote this for
     [[info]]
svmadelyn's Kink_and_Cliche_Multifandom_Challenge (and I listed the challenges
I was assigned under the second lj-cut: if you are easily squicked or have
particular squicks, you may want to check the list I used before reading this.)
It's far too overdue to submit, but I decided to post it anyway. I hope that's
OK.
See the end of the work for more notes
Title: Shades of Red
Fandom: DC Comics
Rating: NC-17. Kinky, at that.
Pairing: Nightwing/Robin (Dick/Tim)
Summary: An evening undercover, a night off, and the space in between.
Spoilers For/Based On: Batman: Gotham Knights issues #33-36 and #47.
My most gracious and wonderful Beta: [[info]]sister_wolf
Disclaimer: So not mine.
Author's Notes: I wrote this for [[info]]svmadelyn's Kink_and_Cliche
Multifandom_Challenge (and I listed the challenges I was assigned under the
second lj-cut: if you are easily squicked or have particular squicks, you may
want to check the list I used before reading this.) It's far too overdue to
submit, but I decided to post it anyway. I hope that's OK.
 
"Well, she's almost certainly Ariadne Pinxit." Tim takes off the large brooch
that houses wearable scanners; he already plugged his scanner into the laptop
as soon as the hotel room door shut behind them. "The facial scanner gives it
an 85 percent probability, but your retinal scanner gives a 93, and all the
major landmarks match, so, arguably, we've got the right avant-garde artist."
Dick has been doing pull-ups in the bathroom doorway for nearly ten minutes,
and has yet to break a sweat. Sometimes Tim almost hates him. "I'm glad this
was worth your wearing high heels."
"If Barbara could fight crime in heels I can walk around a gallery opening for
a few hours." Freed from the brooch, the scarf falls around Tim's shoulders; he
catches it and folds it up into a small square on the dresser, and shrugs off
the jacket.
"On a healing stab wound? Sit down already." Dick's voice has no strain in it
at all. Tim is tempted to grab Dick's legs and make him pull them both up;
instead he says, "You're one to talk," as he carries the laptop over to the
small round table by the window, sits down and glances outside. This room puts
them nearly high enough for nighttime, but the city would look brighter from
outside on a rooftop, and the breeze would pour over Tim's face and through his
hair, smelling of car exhaust and humanity and crime. The hotel-room air is
smooth and still; the chair is padded wood beneath Tim's legs, which itch a
little inside the pantyhose. The leg wound aches dully, but it's bearable.
Dick hums thoughtfully. "I'm surprised she came back to Gotham. Do you think
it's for someone specific?"
"If so, I'm not sure who. She doesn't have family here, and she killed all but
one of the men who attacked her; that one subsequently died in jail." Tim zooms
in on the left lower quadrant of the face smiling out of the laptop screen.
"Hmm, that mole wasn't there before."
"Where?" Dick swings his legs up and flips down from the doorway, landing on
his hands, and walks on them for a few steps before flipping upright to lean
over Tim's shoulder. Pointing out a spot an inch below the corner of her mouth
and calculating the measurements, Tim ignores Dick's scent, freshly sweaty and
warm, as if Tim can smell the glow off him. Which he's ignoring. "Think that's
nanite ink?"
"Could be. Maybe Mr. Grayson should have lunch with Ms. Effingo and
investigate." Dick stands up, hands on hips, and Tim snorts. "How will you do
that, kiss her? I should have known you wouldn't pass up a redhead."
Dick presses his hand to his chest. "I'm hurt, truly hurt. Besides, you make a
hotter redhead than she does."
"Well, I was available," Tim says, maybe a little bitterly. With one swift
movement Dick unpins Tim's chignon and sweeps the freed hair forward over his
face. Listening to Dick's laugh move as he pushes the fall of hair from his
eyes, Tim aims down and back from where Dick had been, and smiles when his
knuckles thwack Dick's thigh and Dick howls, mostly but not entirely for
effect. "Ow! You've crippled me for life!"
"Somehow I doubt that." Tim opens the log to check over his report, then
pauses. When he turns his head, pale red hair falls in a vaguely scratchy
tumble around his face and neck. "How much of a risk do you think she is?"
"Hmm." Dick flops onto the bed. "Not that much. She seemed genuinely happy at
the opening tonight. And Bane said --- don't make that face at me, Boy Wonder--
- Bane reported that she was on the straight and narrow."
"On the other hand, she did kill three men last time, and I'm not sure I find
Bane's word all that reassuring." As Tim rereads his report and looks up
incidental information, Dick fiddles with the remote, gets up again, and
wanders into the shower.
With the shower as background music, Tim does a little searching through
approved and less-approved channels. Lillian Effingo's credit records are
sparse, one credit card from three months ago, and no criminal records have
shown up so far, not even a parking ticket. All of which Tim knew from their
briefing, but hacking a police database or two gives him something to think
about beside the ivory and blue pantsuit on the other chair, the blouse he's
still wearing, or Dick in the shower.
Tim catches himself scratching his cheek, frowns, and makes himself stop before
he leaves a mark. Makeup remover always makes him itch, but concealer is
itchier; one day he'll ask Steph or Cassie how they stand it. Rubbing the back
of his neck beneath the wig, Tim makes a list of what's left to do here; mostly
that involves removing the rest of the clothes and the wig that went into
'Beth', Tim's identity tonight, and he'll have to wait till after he leaves to
do that. Beth probably wouldn't stay the night, and Tim shouldn't.
Beth's a little demure for Tim's tastes, but she was Dick's idea; of course
Dick thought it was hilarious to make Tim pose as a girl to accompany him to
tonight's gallery opening, and once Alfred pulled the pantsuit out Tim knew he
was doomed. At least the sight of Tim as a redhead shocked Dick into actual, if
brief, silence. Next time he's going to have to figure out what will make Dick
blush.
The shower shuts off, and Tim carefully rearranges his expression to look
serious, concentrating on the computer screen when Dick emerges naked,
scrubbing a towel over his wet hair. Tim swallows hard, does not glance over,
and rereads the same lines four times before he realizes it.
Subject seems unlikely to resume criminal activity, though of course it is too
soon to assess the risk numerically, even within a range. Her new identity
appears so far to be entirely a fabrication, not stolen either in whole or in
part. In conclusion
A bare hand on his thigh, a laugh from by his knee. "Jesus!" How did Dick get
underneath the table before Tim noticed?
"No, just me." Dick's smile shines in the dimness under the table, and when he
strokes a hand up Tim's uninjured calf Tim holds down a shudder through
willpower alone. "You're still in your pantyhose," Dick says with wonder and
horror. "Weren't you going to undress? Or do you like wearing Laura Ashley?"
Refusing to dignify that with even a raised eyebrow, Tim turns back to his
report, trying to remember what he was going to add. "The hotel staff saw you
come in with a redheaded girl. You need to leave with one."
"All the more reason for you to take this off." Dick's voice is still light,
but... Tim looks down at him again, at Dick's hands on his thighs and Dick's
face, his chin on Tim's knee. There's this... space that opens up sometimes,
during patrol or in the Cave or at Dick's apartment, at nearly random times;
it's within everything else in their lives as vigilantes, as Bats, as Robins,
but not really belonging to any of it, to anything but the two of them. It's
not when or where they actually do anything, but where and when those things
begin. Tim can feel it starting now, as Dick looks up at him out of dark blue
eyes.
But there's a report to edit, and so much else, and..."We have stuff to do,"
Tim says, while he still can. Dick, unfazed, doesn't move or look down, hands
still and warm on Tim's thighs. "Stuff," Dick repeats, and his eyes are... it's
like they're getting bigger, though they can't possibly be.
"We both have reports to finish, and equipment to return, and I have to dye my
eyebrows." OK, that was just a little too much information; when Dick drops his
head to laugh Tim knows he's lost.
"You have to dye your eyebrows," Dick gasps, shaking his head so wet hair
brushes Tim's thighs. "God, Tim, that's even better, or worse, than 'I have to
wash my hair'."
"Well, they're red right now. I can't go home tomorrow and tell my Dad some
weird eyebrow-bleaching fad is sweeping school."
It's futile, and Tim knows it, and Dick knows it, and he looks up grinning.
"Impressive attention to detail," Dick says, raising an eyebrow. "Maybe you
could shave them."
"Ugh, no. Besides, I have to..." Well, what? Tim stares at the blinking cursor,
searching unsuccessfully for the mental list he made just a few minutes ago.
His parents think he's sleeping over at a friend's, his homework was the
reading he did while getting dressed and the problem set he did two days ago,
and he's off patrol tonight.
"Whoa," says Dick. "Don't glare at the laptop like that, you'll break it."
I'm not Kon, I can't break a computer by frowning at it, Tim thinks, absurdly,
and realizes that he was supposed to find that amusing. "Besides," Dick
continues, "if you stay I'll give you a ride to school in the morning. You can
tell them I'm your big brother."
Tim surrenders a laugh. "Why don't you wear this wig, and I'll tell them you're
my crazy sister."
"Nah, it looks much better on you." Dick kisses Tim's knee, and the answering
shiver is only mostly repressed. "Lift up," Dick orders, and when Tim does Dick
slides hot bare hands all the way up to Tim's waist, never once lifting them
from Tim's skin till he grasps the waistband of the pantyhose. Holding himself
up on his arms is relatively easy, but Tim is still on the verge of shaking.
"Dick," Tim says, and it comes out a groan, and nothing else will. Not "I
should go" or "we shouldn't" or "we're still on duty". Not when Dick winks at
Tim as he peels the pantyhose over his knees and off his feet, as carefully and
precisely as if he were disarming and opening Tim's uniform, and man is Tim
glad he's untaped himself already.
Especially when Dick sucks him in. It's always a bit of a shock, the heat and
wet and tug of it, how excessively good it is and the way Tim can feel it all
over his body, and Dick always does it as if it should be that way, engulfing
him to the root, swallowing around him. Sometimes Dick backs off and teases
with coy licks and kisses, sometimes he sucks hard as if he could suck Tim's
brain right out of his head, but he always starts off this way.
Tim fights his own body's desire to arch and squirm, clutching the edge of the
table instead of Dick's hair till the wooden rim dents his fingers. "Dick, God,
I..."
Dick pulls up, dragging his lips up every millimeter of Tim's shaft, flicking
his tongue over the head, and off. And looks up with something more like a
toothy smirk than a grin. "Don't you have eyebrows to tint?" Dick asks, and Tim
seriously considers kicking him. "You," Tim gasps, the air cold after the heat
of Dick's mouth, "are such. A."
"Yeah, I am." Pressing his hands into Tim's hips, over the bones of his pelvis,
Dick tugs Tim forward, kissing his inner thigh.
Tim almost thinks Dick is going to drag him beneath the table, and firms his
grip on its edge, but Dick stops with Tim's ass hanging awkwardly off the edge
of the chair. "This is kind of uncom--- oh, holy fuck." It's not uncomfortable
anymore, it's nothing short of fucking amazing, because Dick is cupping Tim's
thighs in his hands, pushing them up and apart, and he's licking him. Beneath
his balls, and lower, up and down, further down on each pass. Tim's knees ram
into the table, but he barely notices; all he can feel is the wet burn of every
single nerve between his legs, as Dick nuzzles Tim's perineum and licks his
asshole and it ought to be awful and it's amazing.
Tim hears someone gasping "oh god oh god holy shit" and realizes it has to be
him. He slams his mouth shut and bites the inside of his lip and swallows a
whimper. Dick is licking in circles, Tim can feel every individual fold as Dick
flicks his tongue over them, and he can't even concentrate on the rhythm
because waves of sensation are crashing up through his balls and his belly,
slamming into his lungs to knock the breath from him, shuddering up his spine
into his brain.
If Tim keeps hanging onto the table it's going to tip and the laptop will fall.
Tim blinks at the computer. Its cursor blinks brightly back at him. He really,
really hopes he actually found all of the hidden cameras on it. Dick is digging
his fingers into Tim's thighs, hard enough that it ought to hurt, but Tim's
entire body is thrumming till it feels like nothing could hurt. And Dick is
humming, a buzz in Tim's flesh, and dragging him forward, and not slowing down.
Tim goes with it. He should be thinking. He can't think anymore. He drops his
shoulders against the chair back, reaching up to grab it; the back of the bra
twists as he wriggles and slides down, the blouse tugs the high collar round
his throat, a flimsier hold than his cape. Dick pushes Tim's legs back and up,
hands hard and warm as Tim presses into his hold, and he's still licking, and
when he starts humming again Tim recognizes the tune like a slap, but a good
one.
Laughing hurts, because Tim doesn't have any breath to laugh with. "Of all, all
Monty Python's brilliant works, nngh, Dick---" because Dick is laughing, a
different buzz than the humming, and he doesn't stop "---all their songs and
you pick that one." He spat that out unintelligibly fast, between one gasp and
the next, but Dick laughs again, laughs into him, and Tim thinks he's going to
die or come or both at once as his back helplessly arches.
Still humming, Dick licks up a little, licking Tim's balls and sucking on them
each in turn, and Tim can hear himself moaning and feel the stretch of his
thighs and the pull against his arms as he writhes, as Dick pulls him onto his
face. Dick licks a long swipe up Tim's dick and it twitches; sensation comes
crashing back in one huge wave and Tim can't breathe and he shakes all over, he
hears himself cry out like a hurt thing because it feels so wrenchingly good as
he comes hard, bucking against Dick's face and groaning, feeling as if the top
of his head has blown right off.
A heartbeat, two, three, four. Tim shivers, dragging air into his lungs, red
pulsing down to black behind his eyelids. Eventually he registers Dick pulling
off him, with an oversensitive ache and a vague sort of relief that at least he
didn't come on anything he's still wearing. One of his legs is on the table,
closer to the laptop than he'd realized, as he blinks up from flat on his back
on the chair, which is digging into the small of his back, and which he is
sliding off of, despite Dick's hands pressed into his thighs holding him up.
Dick leans his sweaty forehead against Tim's knee and coughs twice; Tim can
feel him trembling and lets go to reach down and push a hand into his hair. The
chair is tipping, they really should move, but all either of them can do is
gasp, warm damp hair around Tim's fingers and little cool eddies of air over
his sweaty skin. Eventually, Dick smiles against Tim's thigh, and lets go of
the leg on the table to smudge his hand across his mouth. Undoubtedly, he
should have used a napkin instead, and why the hell did Tim just think that?
His brain is misfiring, clearly, like a piece of equipment malfunctioning after
a lightning strike or a crash. Dick is pushing on his thigh. Tim scoots back
far enough to think of what he'd do to the chair if he sat on it; grimacing, he
plants his feet and pushes back far enough to stand on legs that really want to
shake. That gives Dick room to unfold himself from beneath the table, not that
he needs it.
"Did you like that?" Dick asks, voice a little hoarse, lips a little bruised-
looking, and it is so unfair that Tim is the one who still can't talk. Tim
nods, and Dick's eyes are dark and serious as they search his face for a long
moment.
Then Dick smiles, that bright untarnished smile, and the handprints on the
backs of Tim's thighs throb when Dick curls his hands around Tim's biceps and
kisses him, slow enough to be ducked. Tim doesn't duck, and Dick's mouth is hot
and open and wet over his, and there's a moment of 'ew' and a moment of 'wow'
and then he can't be horny again yet can he? Even though he's a teenager?
Because he can taste himself, all of himself, and he can taste how much Dick
wants it, and his hands are sliding over the moving muscles of Dick's back and
he's prickling hot all over, already.
This shouldn't be so hot, any of it. This--- this thing between him and Dick
that isn't dating because they both have girlfriends, that's kind of brotherly
except when it completely and totally isn't, it shouldn't be so damn hot, but
it is.
Tim can feel it all over his skin, inside the blouse he's still wearing, which
is crumpling between them. It's going to be wrecked if they don't stop, and
plausible deniability only goes so far, and it goes further than Bruce's
occasional willingness to overlook. Disengaging from the kiss is much more
difficult than it should be, especially when Dick looks painfully shocked for a
moment before he understands and grins ruefully. "Here," Dick says, unbuttoning
the collar of the blouse, and Tim obediently raises his arms as Dick pulls it
up over his head.
Dick smirks a little when he reaches behind Tim to unhook the bra, but he's
Dick, it's not like he could help it. Willing him not to comment, Tim reaches
up to catch the falsies; for once Dick actually doesn't say anything as he tugs
the bra off Tim's arms, and that's the entire disguise except for one part.
When Dick gathers a handful of the wig, bunching it between his hand and Tim's
head, Tim has to close his eyes, hugely and suddenly uncertain. Of all the hair
colors he could have picked, why did he choose red? He's not--- he's just Tim,
and Dick has both hands full of the wig now, and Tim's almost afraid to look up
and see who's reflected in Dick's eyes, even when Dick gently tilts his head
back.
But all Dick says is, "the usual solvent, right?"
"Right," Tim manages, and Dick lets one handful go, reaches over for the
bottle, and detaches the wig. "Come to bed, Tim," Dick says, low and rough, and
Tim forces open his eyes, and the hungry look on Dick's face... "The things I
want to do to you." He's looking right at Tim, and his hands are in Tim's real
hair, curving and pressing behind his head, just about to pull.
Tim shivers, and swallows, and goes.
 
                                      *|*
 
There are things Tim could say, questions spinning in the part of his mind that
always notices and never shuts off. There are still issues to consider from
tonight's assignment, unanswered problems to solve, not least whether the
former Ariadne Pinxit can be allowed to continue her new life. But there's a
pleasant ache to Tim's body and a satiated haze over his mind, and he could
shrug them off and get up and go back to work, or he could lie here in the
remarkably decent bed and let Dick continue tracing the curves of the rose on
his right shoulder-blade. "In homage to the late Ms. Pinxit?" Dick finally
asks.
"Beth seemed like the type to have a tattoo," Tim replies.
Dick laughs at that. "How'd you apply this by yourself?"
"Wouldn't you like to know." Tim smirks over his shoulder, so he can see Dick's
grin and to make it easier for Dick to kiss him. "I think you wanted me to find
this," Dick says, resting his chin on Tim's shoulder.
"Is that why you got a hotel room?" There are, after all, places they could
have gone after the event that would have been easier to secure.
Dick turns his shrug into a full-body ripple. "Maybe I just wanted to do this
in a bed for once, though I guess we could always climb up on the roof if you
want. Just watch the leg."
"You totally should have been the one wearing the wig." Tim's banter is
slipping, but he can't really bring himself to care much about it when Dick
laughs again with effortless cheer, draping his arm across Tim's waist. Maybe
he should just let himself sleep, Dick snug against his back, obviously willing
him to relax. He can get back to work tomorrow.
Tim is halfway to dozing off when Dick unpeels from his back, sits up and
stretches, and the way he's moving--- sometimes Robin needs to wake up fast.
"You're going on patrol," Tim says flatly as he sits up.
Dick has the grace to not bother feigning surprise. "Well, yeah."
"And I'm not." It gets easier all the time to get mad at Dick, even when he
grins like that.
So he tries another tactic. "Tim, look," Dick says, laying his hand on Tim's
shoulder; his voice is Nightwing-practical, with just a hint of an order.
"Gotham needs us functional, and your leg needs to heal some more. A night off
isn't a punishment."
"Is that what this is?" It's harder than it should be to stay mad at Dick,
especially when he smiles like that.
Dick nods towards the bits of Tim's disguise, still on and around the table.
"As much of one as we can manage, anyway." He does that big-and-soft-and-blue
trick with his eyes again, and it's annoyingly effective. "I'm glad you were
available tonight."
Tim sighs, and lets Dick press him back down to the bed. "I'll be back by
three, unless something comes up," Dick says, squeezing his shoulder, releasing
him slowly; for a moment Dick leans forward, like he's going to kiss Tim again,
before he gets off the bed and goes to take another shower.
Tucking his hand under the pillow to find the communicator he knows Dick left
there, Tim curls up on his side; briefly listing the useful things he could do
if he got up, he closes his eyes, and the lamplight is warm red through his
eyelids.
He doesn't have a nightmare all night.
End Notes
     Cliche: Undercover Lover/have to pretend to be dating
     Cliche: Pet/ghost/computer as matchmaker
     Kink: Rimming
     I chose to do the first and third. Since I thought I should do three,
     to fit the challenge, I also went and piicked up Crossdressing.
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