Fic: Nestbuilding (Jason/Tim)
Feb. 7th, 2011 04:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
imasupermuteantTitle: Nest Building
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Tim/Jason
Rating/Warnings: Rated NC-17 for D/s, smut, erotic humiliation and Jason's pottymouth
Word Count: 4053 words
Summary: In which Jason acquires a houseboy and Tim gets a new Mission. Sort of a sequel to Safe.
Note: This fic, like many, exists in the nebulous universe where all of the people I like are alive and all the people I don't like only show up when I need them too and I mention canon events only incorrectly and in passing. Be warned.
Maybe it's that Jason has gotten soft. Maybe Tim's gotten harder (and not just literally) or maybe it has nothing to do with emotional density and everything to do with not being alone.
Maybe it's the sex.
It is, Jason decides, definitely the sex. From the very first (biting, thrusting, clench) kiss, up against a brick wall in a dark alley with a couple of punks not quite bleeding out nearby, Jason is... Well, 'addicted' isn't the right word. It's more like 'infatuated', 'obsessed', 'needy'.
Jason's (perfectly understandable) anger at and about Tim's existence is, for the most part, overshadowed by his desire to put his dick in Tim's mouth, this doesn't mean he's going to go out and buy a thesaurus to describe his feelings.
Which he does. Because Tim's mouth was invented for Jason's dick. Created as a word of both function and art to facilitate Jason's orgasm. A wonder of nature.
So it started with making out in alleyways and evolved into fucking in alleyways and eventually it became fucking in Jason's shitty apartment off of Third street. All of it is good. All of it is at a level of emotional attachment that Jason can handle, i.e. none.
What Jason can't handle is that he's done fucking the kid and instead of rolling to his feet and grabbing his pants and leaving, Tim is curled up on Jason's couch watching Saturday morning cartoons and eating a bowl of Wheaties.
Jason isn't quite sure what is going on but he knows he doesn't like it (much). The kid has to get out. Even if he is completely (distractingly) nude. Even if the bruises blossoming on his hips are from Jason's teeth and fingers. Even if Jason doesn't really mind his company all that much, when he thinks about it.
The point is that Jason is done with him, and Tim is still there.
"Get the fuck out of my house, kid." Jason finally growls.
Tim looks up with bright blue eyes that make Jason's cock twitch and gives him a broad (sharky) smile. He stands and grabs his clothes, sliding most of the way into his pants before he makes it to the open window and walks out onto the fire escape. Jason glares at him even as he waves and leaps, the muffled pop of a jumpline only barely audible. The little fucker never even did up his fly.
Jason glowers at the still flickering TV for nearly five minutes before heading out to smash some heads.
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Tim/Jason
Rating/Warnings: Rated NC-17 for D/s, smut, erotic humiliation and Jason's pottymouth
Word Count: 4053 words
Summary: In which Jason acquires a houseboy and Tim gets a new Mission. Sort of a sequel to Safe.
Note: This fic, like many, exists in the nebulous universe where all of the people I like are alive and all the people I don't like only show up when I need them too and I mention canon events only incorrectly and in passing. Be warned.
Maybe it's that Jason has gotten soft. Maybe Tim's gotten harder (and not just literally) or maybe it has nothing to do with emotional density and everything to do with not being alone.
Maybe it's the sex.
It is, Jason decides, definitely the sex. From the very first (biting, thrusting, clench) kiss, up against a brick wall in a dark alley with a couple of punks not quite bleeding out nearby, Jason is... Well, 'addicted' isn't the right word. It's more like 'infatuated', 'obsessed', 'needy'.
Jason's (perfectly understandable) anger at and about Tim's existence is, for the most part, overshadowed by his desire to put his dick in Tim's mouth, this doesn't mean he's going to go out and buy a thesaurus to describe his feelings.
Which he does. Because Tim's mouth was invented for Jason's dick. Created as a word of both function and art to facilitate Jason's orgasm. A wonder of nature.
So it started with making out in alleyways and evolved into fucking in alleyways and eventually it became fucking in Jason's shitty apartment off of Third street. All of it is good. All of it is at a level of emotional attachment that Jason can handle, i.e. none.
What Jason can't handle is that he's done fucking the kid and instead of rolling to his feet and grabbing his pants and leaving, Tim is curled up on Jason's couch watching Saturday morning cartoons and eating a bowl of Wheaties.
Jason isn't quite sure what is going on but he knows he doesn't like it (much). The kid has to get out. Even if he is completely (distractingly) nude. Even if the bruises blossoming on his hips are from Jason's teeth and fingers. Even if Jason doesn't really mind his company all that much, when he thinks about it.
The point is that Jason is done with him, and Tim is still there.
"Get the fuck out of my house, kid." Jason finally growls.
Tim looks up with bright blue eyes that make Jason's cock twitch and gives him a broad (sharky) smile. He stands and grabs his clothes, sliding most of the way into his pants before he makes it to the open window and walks out onto the fire escape. Jason glares at him even as he waves and leaps, the muffled pop of a jumpline only barely audible. The little fucker never even did up his fly.
Jason glowers at the still flickering TV for nearly five minutes before heading out to smash some heads.
* * *
On Tuesday (a school night, some sick part of Jason's mind reminds him) Jason wakes at the crack of evening (wearing little more than the boxers he fell asleep in) to find Tim in his kitchen, making pancakes in nothing but an apron and a smile. The apron itself is black canvass with (Jason nearly chokes) a bright yellow bat-signal embroidered on it's front.
The kid, Jason admits, has serious balls. He would be impressed with Tim's adolescent bravado had he not been in those very same shoes just a couple years (and a death) before. Adolescent bravado, Jason knows, masks adolescent insecurity. And, in Tim's case, the sort of cunning that Lex Luthor gets wet dreams about.
None of it shows, of course, when Tim spins around and gives Jason a sly smile and pushes him into a chair at the table. It's the only chair that Jason owns, the only place to sit in the apartment besides the couch, and it sits at a place of honor in front of the home-like kitchen table he bought at Ikea.
Sitting in his best and only chair, at the head of his own table, with a steaming pile of pancakes in front of him, Jason feels a little bit like he's still dead and in heaven as opposed to endless black. It get even better when Tim, still silent, slides under the table, pulls Jason's cock out, and takes him down to the root in one long swallow.
"Mmmm." Jason doesn't know whether he's moaning about the pancakes (delicious!) or the blowjob (also delicious!) but it doesn't matter much either way.
Tim keeps sucking, and bobbing, and doing that thing with his tongue as Jason works his way through the pancakes, somehow managing to make Jason come just after he's swallowed the last glorious bite.
"Fuck." Jason groans.
Tim pops up from under the table with a grin and leans in to give Jason a kiss that taste's like his own jizz.
"Fuck." Jason says again.
"Yeah." Tim tells him before heading for the window. He must have stored his Robin getup somewhere on the fire escape because Jason has a hard time believing he would do any flying in Gotham wearing his sex-apron.
Speaking of which... "You want I should...." Jason gestures in the direction of Tim's dick.
Tim smiles, "Nah, I've got to get to patrol. I'll see you later."
He's gone. And Jason is left alone in his kitchen with a bunch of dishes and the strangest feeling that he's just been had.
* * *
The kid, Jason admits, has serious balls. He would be impressed with Tim's adolescent bravado had he not been in those very same shoes just a couple years (and a death) before. Adolescent bravado, Jason knows, masks adolescent insecurity. And, in Tim's case, the sort of cunning that Lex Luthor gets wet dreams about.
None of it shows, of course, when Tim spins around and gives Jason a sly smile and pushes him into a chair at the table. It's the only chair that Jason owns, the only place to sit in the apartment besides the couch, and it sits at a place of honor in front of the home-like kitchen table he bought at Ikea.
Sitting in his best and only chair, at the head of his own table, with a steaming pile of pancakes in front of him, Jason feels a little bit like he's still dead and in heaven as opposed to endless black. It get even better when Tim, still silent, slides under the table, pulls Jason's cock out, and takes him down to the root in one long swallow.
"Mmmm." Jason doesn't know whether he's moaning about the pancakes (delicious!) or the blowjob (also delicious!) but it doesn't matter much either way.
Tim keeps sucking, and bobbing, and doing that thing with his tongue as Jason works his way through the pancakes, somehow managing to make Jason come just after he's swallowed the last glorious bite.
"Fuck." Jason groans.
Tim pops up from under the table with a grin and leans in to give Jason a kiss that taste's like his own jizz.
"Fuck." Jason says again.
"Yeah." Tim tells him before heading for the window. He must have stored his Robin getup somewhere on the fire escape because Jason has a hard time believing he would do any flying in Gotham wearing his sex-apron.
Speaking of which... "You want I should...." Jason gestures in the direction of Tim's dick.
Tim smiles, "Nah, I've got to get to patrol. I'll see you later."
He's gone. And Jason is left alone in his kitchen with a bunch of dishes and the strangest feeling that he's just been had.
* * *
He doesn't think about it (much) until nearly a week later when he tracks Robin down somewhere near Robinson Park and they end up fucking furiously against a dumpster. In all honesty, he doesn't really think about it then so much as after he's dragged the kid back to his apartment and bent him over the side of the couch.
What he thinks about is that he's started bringing Tim back to his house (and his couch, and his floor, and his bed) more often. That he's started to notice the way the kid's jaw tightens up when they start fucking around outside and that he's adjusted his behavior to prevent those little boyscout brain-glitches that end with Tim not following him home and him not getting his dick sucked.
It's... a mildly unnerving thought. One which grows even more unnerving given that Tim is still in his apartment, buck naked and sound asleep in a pile of blankets of Jason's floor. Add that to the strangely caring visit (entirely unprovoked) that had happened last Tuesday and Jason is not liking the picture he's seeing.
The thing is, Jason muses, that Tim is not the kind of Robin that Jason was. A disturbing thought all on it's own, yes, but also relevant in that fact that the kind of Robin that Tim is is a freaky, anal-retentive, paranoid Robin.
A Robin paranoid enough not to turn his comm off while he's going down on Jason in an alley, freaky enough to know the exact location of all the fire exits in Jason's building not because he's planning on breaking in (or out) but because he's honestly concerned about fire. The kind of kid who checks his condoms every six months to see if any of them has expired.
Freaky. Anal-retentive. Paranoid.
....And asleep in Jason's home with no clothes, no weapons, and his comm resting on the coffee table nearly three feet away.
This, Jason realizes, is serious shit.
The realization starts in his gut and moves through him like electricity, bringing sweat up on his forehead and making his hands shake.
"Fuck" he whispers. The sound echos across the small apartment but Tim sleeps on, trusting. Jason feels nauseous.
Jason will be the first to admit that he's a crazy fucker. He's got the bag of heads and the evil laugh to prove it. But he's not an evil fucker, not yet, and he knows the difference between what's right and what's naughty and what's morally reprehensible.
Somehow, Jason's sure, it's ethically better to be just fucking a sixteen year old than it is to be fucking a sixteen year old who is mistakenly in love with you. He's unsure how, exactly, the philosophical math works out but he's knows it's true.
Jason decides not to think about it anymore. He's an action kind of guy.
And the action he chooses is dumping the bits and pieces of Tim's costume directly on Tim's head and glaring down at the (fucking adorable) confusion on his face.
"Wha-"
"Get out." Jason says, "This isn't the fucking Mariott and I'm not your fucking maid so--"
"Fucking get out, fuck?" Tim asks, deadpan, as he slides (slowly) into his shirt, "I'm so very sorry for messing up your pristine residence."
Jason... doesn't laugh because he's trying to break up with the kid, not encourage his bitchy humor and fuck, there's something to break and that sort of blows Jason's mind.
"Look, kid, I don't want you to think the wrong thing about what's going on here."
"What's going on?" Tim asks, "We fuck, you freak out, I leave. We repeat. It's not that complicated."
"I don't freak out-- I-- No. This is about you and the creepy little romance you've got growing in your head. I don't know who the fuck your imagining I am but--"
Tim snorts and stands, buckling his belt and engaging the safety latch that electrocuted Jason just a few weeks ago, "Shut up." He says, and the sound of his voice is dry and serious and sexier than it should be, "You know when to find me when your little crisis of conscience or domestic freak out or whatever is over. I'll try not to pine away while you figure it out."
For a minute Jason thinks maybe he read the kid wrong, that the infatuation he saw is just his ego getting away with itself. But he looks into the kid's eyes and sees... something a little more intense and creepy and straight-up Bruce than he'd ever like to think about.
He looks away. Tim lets out a derisive snort and lets himself out.
Jason resolves not think about it.
And he doesn't.
Really.
What he thinks about is that he's started bringing Tim back to his house (and his couch, and his floor, and his bed) more often. That he's started to notice the way the kid's jaw tightens up when they start fucking around outside and that he's adjusted his behavior to prevent those little boyscout brain-glitches that end with Tim not following him home and him not getting his dick sucked.
It's... a mildly unnerving thought. One which grows even more unnerving given that Tim is still in his apartment, buck naked and sound asleep in a pile of blankets of Jason's floor. Add that to the strangely caring visit (entirely unprovoked) that had happened last Tuesday and Jason is not liking the picture he's seeing.
The thing is, Jason muses, that Tim is not the kind of Robin that Jason was. A disturbing thought all on it's own, yes, but also relevant in that fact that the kind of Robin that Tim is is a freaky, anal-retentive, paranoid Robin.
A Robin paranoid enough not to turn his comm off while he's going down on Jason in an alley, freaky enough to know the exact location of all the fire exits in Jason's building not because he's planning on breaking in (or out) but because he's honestly concerned about fire. The kind of kid who checks his condoms every six months to see if any of them has expired.
Freaky. Anal-retentive. Paranoid.
....And asleep in Jason's home with no clothes, no weapons, and his comm resting on the coffee table nearly three feet away.
This, Jason realizes, is serious shit.
The realization starts in his gut and moves through him like electricity, bringing sweat up on his forehead and making his hands shake.
"Fuck" he whispers. The sound echos across the small apartment but Tim sleeps on, trusting. Jason feels nauseous.
Jason will be the first to admit that he's a crazy fucker. He's got the bag of heads and the evil laugh to prove it. But he's not an evil fucker, not yet, and he knows the difference between what's right and what's naughty and what's morally reprehensible.
Somehow, Jason's sure, it's ethically better to be just fucking a sixteen year old than it is to be fucking a sixteen year old who is mistakenly in love with you. He's unsure how, exactly, the philosophical math works out but he's knows it's true.
Jason decides not to think about it anymore. He's an action kind of guy.
And the action he chooses is dumping the bits and pieces of Tim's costume directly on Tim's head and glaring down at the (fucking adorable) confusion on his face.
"Wha-"
"Get out." Jason says, "This isn't the fucking Mariott and I'm not your fucking maid so--"
"Fucking get out, fuck?" Tim asks, deadpan, as he slides (slowly) into his shirt, "I'm so very sorry for messing up your pristine residence."
Jason... doesn't laugh because he's trying to break up with the kid, not encourage his bitchy humor and fuck, there's something to break and that sort of blows Jason's mind.
"Look, kid, I don't want you to think the wrong thing about what's going on here."
"What's going on?" Tim asks, "We fuck, you freak out, I leave. We repeat. It's not that complicated."
"I don't freak out-- I-- No. This is about you and the creepy little romance you've got growing in your head. I don't know who the fuck your imagining I am but--"
Tim snorts and stands, buckling his belt and engaging the safety latch that electrocuted Jason just a few weeks ago, "Shut up." He says, and the sound of his voice is dry and serious and sexier than it should be, "You know when to find me when your little crisis of conscience or domestic freak out or whatever is over. I'll try not to pine away while you figure it out."
For a minute Jason thinks maybe he read the kid wrong, that the infatuation he saw is just his ego getting away with itself. But he looks into the kid's eyes and sees... something a little more intense and creepy and straight-up Bruce than he'd ever like to think about.
He looks away. Tim lets out a derisive snort and lets himself out.
Jason resolves not think about it.
And he doesn't.
Really.
* * *
Just a few days later Jason comes home from Harry's (the fantastic deli just a few blocks away where he spends most of his time and money) to find Tim leaning casually against his front door. The kid is in civvies, wearing a pair of dilapidated jeans and a shirt that probably says something witty in binary, with his hair un-gelled a flopping in his face.
Jason's just about to kick the kid out when he notices the flash of a slim metal collar on Tim's neck.
It's a signal, one they've managed to work out through a series of almost entirely non-verbal conversations. The collar means that Tim's in need of something a little bit rougher than a fuck against a wall, a little bit more intense than their usual fare.
Jason's just about to kick the kid out when he notices the flash of a slim metal collar on Tim's neck.
It's a signal, one they've managed to work out through a series of almost entirely non-verbal conversations. The collar means that Tim's in need of something a little bit rougher than a fuck against a wall, a little bit more intense than their usual fare.
It also means, Jason thinks, that Tim's more stressed out than he would ever let on. Like Bruce, the kid doesn't often admit to needing anything, even if what he needs is to be reduced to his composite parts.
What the hell, Jason muses, why not have one last scene for the road?
He's got Tim in his living room and naked before Tim can say a word, although he wouldn't anyway, since Jason doesn't let him speak without permission. The collar contrasts beautifully with Tim's skin, drawing attention to the fragile line of his collarbones and the scar that Jason gave him.
It's a little fucked up, Jason thinks as he secures Tim's wrists into the heavy leather cuffs he keeps just for this occasion, that even after Jason had essentially tried to kill him, after the scar Jason had left had made high collars and bondage-wear something of a necessity, Tim still trusted him with something like this. It's a little frightening. And beautiful.
And Tim is beautiful, no matter how Jason feels about his unhealthy attachment or his relationship with the people Jason hates, Tim is one of the most beautiful people Jason has ever seen. Scars and skin held together by muscle.
Jason has Tim kneel in front of him, his hands held behind his back in restraints that he most certainly could get out of if he had any inclination. He looks down into pupils that are already widening and feels that shiver of pure power that comes from having Tim at his command.
"Look at you." Jason growls, tilting Tim's chin up into the fluorescent light of the ceiling fixture, "Slut. You've been waiting for me to fuck you all day, I'll bet, probably since I last saw you. Have you been thinking of my cock all day, is that it?"
Tim swallows heavily and blinks back tears. Jason can't be sure if it's the harsh light or his rough tone.
He lets his left hand rest on Tim's cheek, steadying, before reaching back with his right hand and slapping Tim in the face. Tim cries out but doesn't speak and Jason feels his eyes narrow in (mostly) feigned annoyance.
"I asked you a question, bitch." He growls.
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"I--" Tim gasps as Jason reaches out to give a sharp tug on his hair, "I was thinking about you... about your cock. All week."
Jason gives a vicious smile and reaches down to pinch one of Tim's nipples, eliciting a delicious little whimper. He doesn't have many toys beyond the cuffs, but he still knows how to get the kid hot.
It's an intoxicating feeling, and Jason revels in the fact that he can go as far as he wants. They'd established quite early on that Tim would most definitely stop him if it went to far, and that knowledge makes Jason feel as though he has all the freedom in the world.
His hands slide across Tim's face and down the line of his throat, across the scar caused by his knife and his anger.
"Should I let you have it, do you think?" He asks, running his thumb across Tim's plush bottom lip.
"Yes." Tim breathes heavier, his face flushing with humiliation and arousal.
"Beg."
"P-Please." Tim cries, "Please fuck me. Please give me your cock, Jayson. I need-- please."
Jayson slaps Tim across the face again, enjoying the sound and the shocked look in Tim's eyes before leaning in to whisper into his ear.
"I don't know if I want to fuck someone like you, slut." He says, sliding two fingers into Tim's mouth. "Who knows where you've been."
"Mmmmph." Tim groans as Jayson fucks his mouth.
Speaking of which...
"I want you to suck me off." Jayson declares, sitting on the couch and spreading his legs wide. "Go."
They've done this before, and Tim knows what's expected of him. He scrambles forward, his bound arms forcing him to shuffle on his knees. He falls head first into Jayson's crotch, struggling to pull himself upright.
Jayson watches and, on occasion, laughs, because he knows it's what Tim needs.
Twisting around to get into the right position, Tim brings his teeth to the button of Jayson's jeans. This maneuver, Jayson thinks, would be more entertaining if it were performed by someone without the Bat's extensive escape-training. As it stands, Tim only fumbles a little in his attempts to open Jayson's pants with his teeth and soon has his lips wrapped around Jayson's cock.
"Fuck, yeah." Jayson groans at the familiar feeling of Tim swallowing around his cock, sucking with all the attention to detail that Jayson would expect from a tight-ass like him.
Jayson lets his head fall back on the couch, relaxing into the sensation of getting blown by Timothy Drake. He keeps his hands at his sides, letting the kid struggle to keep his balance, to not fall down onto Jayson's dick.
Tim coughs, once, and pushes even father down onto Jayson's cock and then presses up with his tongue, stroking along the underside while his throat tightens around the head and fuck.
Jayson's hands suddenly come back into play, pulling Tim off (roughly) by the hair just in time for him to come all over the hard wood floor.
"Look at that." Jayson says, panting from his orgasm, "You've fucked up my house."
Tim is gasping, looking between Jayson's cock and the come on the floor as if he doesn't understand why he didn't get to swallow.
"Lick it up."
"What?"
Jayson almost laughs at Tim's bewildered expression and surprised outcry. He briefly wonders if the kid is going to safeword over the injustice, but after a long moment of eye contact, Tim bends down to lap at the cooling puddle of ejaculate on the floor.
Jayson did just come, but that doesn't mean the sight isn't ridiculously hot. He leans forward to press a foot against Tim's shoulder blades (pressing Tim even closer to the mess on the floor) and fights the urge to giggle at the sheer joy of it all.
"Good boy." Jayson says, leaning down to let Tim out of the cuffs, "Masturbate until you come."
Tim does. And Jason watches from three feet away. And when Tim comes he collects some of it on his fingers and licks it off with a laugh.
And then they're sitting together in a quiet apartment that still smells like sex and Jayson slowly remembers all of the reasons why he had decided not to do this again.
Prime among those reason being the hard, hurt look in Tim's eyes once he gathers himself enough to look into Jayson's face.
"Don't worry." Tim tells him, "I got the message before, and I''m not coming back."
Jayson wonders at the sharp pain that shoots through him at that, but he hides it as best he can and gives Tim his most villainous grin.
"Good." He says.
Tim stands and heads for the door, straightening his clothes.
"Hey, kid." Jayson says, pausing him at the door, and Tim turns to look at him with eyes hidden by that shag of hair. "It was fun."
"Yeah." Tim says.
And then he's gone. And Jayson is alone, his floor covered in come and saliva.
What the hell, Jason muses, why not have one last scene for the road?
He's got Tim in his living room and naked before Tim can say a word, although he wouldn't anyway, since Jason doesn't let him speak without permission. The collar contrasts beautifully with Tim's skin, drawing attention to the fragile line of his collarbones and the scar that Jason gave him.
It's a little fucked up, Jason thinks as he secures Tim's wrists into the heavy leather cuffs he keeps just for this occasion, that even after Jason had essentially tried to kill him, after the scar Jason had left had made high collars and bondage-wear something of a necessity, Tim still trusted him with something like this. It's a little frightening. And beautiful.
And Tim is beautiful, no matter how Jason feels about his unhealthy attachment or his relationship with the people Jason hates, Tim is one of the most beautiful people Jason has ever seen. Scars and skin held together by muscle.
Jason has Tim kneel in front of him, his hands held behind his back in restraints that he most certainly could get out of if he had any inclination. He looks down into pupils that are already widening and feels that shiver of pure power that comes from having Tim at his command.
"Look at you." Jason growls, tilting Tim's chin up into the fluorescent light of the ceiling fixture, "Slut. You've been waiting for me to fuck you all day, I'll bet, probably since I last saw you. Have you been thinking of my cock all day, is that it?"
Tim swallows heavily and blinks back tears. Jason can't be sure if it's the harsh light or his rough tone.
He lets his left hand rest on Tim's cheek, steadying, before reaching back with his right hand and slapping Tim in the face. Tim cries out but doesn't speak and Jason feels his eyes narrow in (mostly) feigned annoyance.
"I asked you a question, bitch." He growls.
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"I--" Tim gasps as Jason reaches out to give a sharp tug on his hair, "I was thinking about you... about your cock. All week."
Jason gives a vicious smile and reaches down to pinch one of Tim's nipples, eliciting a delicious little whimper. He doesn't have many toys beyond the cuffs, but he still knows how to get the kid hot.
It's an intoxicating feeling, and Jason revels in the fact that he can go as far as he wants. They'd established quite early on that Tim would most definitely stop him if it went to far, and that knowledge makes Jason feel as though he has all the freedom in the world.
His hands slide across Tim's face and down the line of his throat, across the scar caused by his knife and his anger.
"Should I let you have it, do you think?" He asks, running his thumb across Tim's plush bottom lip.
"Yes." Tim breathes heavier, his face flushing with humiliation and arousal.
"Beg."
"P-Please." Tim cries, "Please fuck me. Please give me your cock, Jayson. I need-- please."
Jayson slaps Tim across the face again, enjoying the sound and the shocked look in Tim's eyes before leaning in to whisper into his ear.
"I don't know if I want to fuck someone like you, slut." He says, sliding two fingers into Tim's mouth. "Who knows where you've been."
"Mmmmph." Tim groans as Jayson fucks his mouth.
Speaking of which...
"I want you to suck me off." Jayson declares, sitting on the couch and spreading his legs wide. "Go."
They've done this before, and Tim knows what's expected of him. He scrambles forward, his bound arms forcing him to shuffle on his knees. He falls head first into Jayson's crotch, struggling to pull himself upright.
Jayson watches and, on occasion, laughs, because he knows it's what Tim needs.
Twisting around to get into the right position, Tim brings his teeth to the button of Jayson's jeans. This maneuver, Jayson thinks, would be more entertaining if it were performed by someone without the Bat's extensive escape-training. As it stands, Tim only fumbles a little in his attempts to open Jayson's pants with his teeth and soon has his lips wrapped around Jayson's cock.
"Fuck, yeah." Jayson groans at the familiar feeling of Tim swallowing around his cock, sucking with all the attention to detail that Jayson would expect from a tight-ass like him.
Jayson lets his head fall back on the couch, relaxing into the sensation of getting blown by Timothy Drake. He keeps his hands at his sides, letting the kid struggle to keep his balance, to not fall down onto Jayson's dick.
Tim coughs, once, and pushes even father down onto Jayson's cock and then presses up with his tongue, stroking along the underside while his throat tightens around the head and fuck.
Jayson's hands suddenly come back into play, pulling Tim off (roughly) by the hair just in time for him to come all over the hard wood floor.
"Look at that." Jayson says, panting from his orgasm, "You've fucked up my house."
Tim is gasping, looking between Jayson's cock and the come on the floor as if he doesn't understand why he didn't get to swallow.
"Lick it up."
"What?"
Jayson almost laughs at Tim's bewildered expression and surprised outcry. He briefly wonders if the kid is going to safeword over the injustice, but after a long moment of eye contact, Tim bends down to lap at the cooling puddle of ejaculate on the floor.
Jayson did just come, but that doesn't mean the sight isn't ridiculously hot. He leans forward to press a foot against Tim's shoulder blades (pressing Tim even closer to the mess on the floor) and fights the urge to giggle at the sheer joy of it all.
"Good boy." Jayson says, leaning down to let Tim out of the cuffs, "Masturbate until you come."
Tim does. And Jason watches from three feet away. And when Tim comes he collects some of it on his fingers and licks it off with a laugh.
And then they're sitting together in a quiet apartment that still smells like sex and Jayson slowly remembers all of the reasons why he had decided not to do this again.
Prime among those reason being the hard, hurt look in Tim's eyes once he gathers himself enough to look into Jayson's face.
"Don't worry." Tim tells him, "I got the message before, and I''m not coming back."
Jayson wonders at the sharp pain that shoots through him at that, but he hides it as best he can and gives Tim his most villainous grin.
"Good." He says.
Tim stands and heads for the door, straightening his clothes.
"Hey, kid." Jayson says, pausing him at the door, and Tim turns to look at him with eyes hidden by that shag of hair. "It was fun."
"Yeah." Tim says.
And then he's gone. And Jayson is alone, his floor covered in come and saliva.
* * *
Another three weeks pass in maddening silence and monotony, Jason spends a good three hours each night searching out the places where he and Tim usually meet, but finds them empty and undisturbed.
Halfway through the fourth week Jason, patrolling around his little corner of Gotham like he's still wearing the green booties, comes to the realization that Tim might actually have meant what he said, that maybe the kid had broken up with him for real. Which is a ridiculous thought because Jason doesn't get broken up with, he does the breaking.
Jason snorts a laugh at his own immature idiocy and looks around the deserted alleyway once more. There is no sign of Tim, no bit of brick purposefully damaged or moved out of place as a signal to Jason. No tracers left in only slightly hidden places.
Maybe, Jason thinks as he pops out a grapple and heads for the apartment, something happened. Something besides the underage vigilante realizing exactly what he was doing with an older, possibly undead, villain.
Maybe Tim is dead.
That thought sends a shiver of horror through Jason's spine and legs. He is so distracted by the idea that Bruce would let it happen (again) that he nearly slams into the side of the Gotham Mutual building and has to do some fancy acrobatics just to keep himself from plummeting to his hilarious and messy death.
Tim, he thinks, couldn't be dead. Or even maimed. The kid is careful and calculating and most definitely not dumb enough to get himself shot or crow-barred or blown up or anything. Even if Jason had been noticing that he was less and less careful. Even if Jason had confused that lack of obsession for lo-- for some bizarre affection for him.
No, Jason reminds himself, Tim was only avoiding the inevitable awkward conversation in which they would pretend they had never sucked each others' cocks. There was no way he could be...
Landing on the fire escape, Jason's fingers twitch for his comm. He isn't going to call Bruce, he reminds himself. He hasn't called Bruce in the last three years and he isn't going to break his streak for the sake of the kid who replaced him.
Even if he's worried. Which he isn't, because Jason doesn't worry about anything anymore.
He's pulling his (homemade) comm out of his pocket as he goes through the window, into the living room. Just as he keys into Bruce's old emergency channel he sees a familiar shape curled up on the couch.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Jason hides his relief with anger, and considers it a good decision right up until he gets close enough to see Tim's face.
The kid isn't crying, but there's a ghost of tears in his face, the sort of gaunt expression which implies something horrible.
"Fuck." The comm falls to the floor and before he knows what he's doing he's got his arms around Tim's shoulders and his forehead pressed to Tim's cheek. "What happened? Is Bruce--"
"My father is dead." Tim's voice sounds like emptiness and screaming and the tick of a timer in an empty warehouse.
"Fuck." Jason whispers and squeezes Tim tighter, like it'll help. Jason knows exactly what will help right now, and he's not capable of providing it. He never figured out what brought him back from the dead, after all.
"I--" Tim's breath is shaky, but his voice is steady, "I don't know where to go. Dana is crazy. Bruce is making noises about adoption and I-- I know you don't want me here but--"
Jason wants to say it's true, wants to kick the kid and his baggage and his overpowering attachment into the street.
"Stay here." It's as simple as that.
"I--I could. I mean-- I need--"
Jason hasn't the slightest clue what the kid is trying to get at, but he lets him fumble with his words for as long as it takes. That Tim is talking at all is a bit of a miracle, Jason doesn't need to expect that it will make sense.
"I need more... Structure in my life, Jason, and I--" Tim slid from the couch and Jason's arms, kneeling in front of his and looking up with a (very) familiar expression.
"Kid--"
"Collar me." Tim says, "Keep me. I need-- I--"
Jason's eyebrows are lost somewhere up in his hairline. Sure, Tim had always been a gigantic bottom (just how Jason likes him), but he'd never had an inkling that Tim would want to do something like this, long term, and he isn't quite sure how to respond.
And that's a dirty, dirty lie because Jason knows exactly how he wants to respond and it involves tying Tim to the nearest piece of furniture and fucking him unconscious.
"Kid-- Tim. I--" Jason rubs a hand through his hair and sighs. He can see Tim's face in all of it's broken, desperate need and is shocked by the answering need he feels to take care of him. "This is what we're going to do. You and I are going to go to bed and you are going to sleep. In the morning, we'll have breakfast and you're going to sleep some more. Then we'll get lunch. Do you see where this is going?"
Tim nods.
"And when I'm satisfied that you aren't on the verge of a mental breakdown or something, we'll talk about it? Okay?"
"Okay."
So Jason lifts Tim from the floor and carries him bodily into the bedroom, helps him out of the majority of his clothes and bundles him into bed, curling his body around Tim's and holding on.
It takes Tim a long time to get to sleep, and Jason doesn't let himself sleep until he's sure that Tim is out so they spend a great deal of time in silence, just breathing and pretending they aren't focusing on each other.
It's not the first time that Jason has been in bed with Tim but it's the first time he's done it with the intention of just sleeping, and it's more pleasurable than he's comfortable admitting. Jason doesn't want to think about what tomorrow will bring, how his relationship with Tim (and now he has to call it that) has turned into exactly what he was trying to prevent.
...How he doesn't really mind anymore, even if it means he's getting soft.
NEXT
Halfway through the fourth week Jason, patrolling around his little corner of Gotham like he's still wearing the green booties, comes to the realization that Tim might actually have meant what he said, that maybe the kid had broken up with him for real. Which is a ridiculous thought because Jason doesn't get broken up with, he does the breaking.
Jason snorts a laugh at his own immature idiocy and looks around the deserted alleyway once more. There is no sign of Tim, no bit of brick purposefully damaged or moved out of place as a signal to Jason. No tracers left in only slightly hidden places.
Maybe, Jason thinks as he pops out a grapple and heads for the apartment, something happened. Something besides the underage vigilante realizing exactly what he was doing with an older, possibly undead, villain.
Maybe Tim is dead.
That thought sends a shiver of horror through Jason's spine and legs. He is so distracted by the idea that Bruce would let it happen (again) that he nearly slams into the side of the Gotham Mutual building and has to do some fancy acrobatics just to keep himself from plummeting to his hilarious and messy death.
Tim, he thinks, couldn't be dead. Or even maimed. The kid is careful and calculating and most definitely not dumb enough to get himself shot or crow-barred or blown up or anything. Even if Jason had been noticing that he was less and less careful. Even if Jason had confused that lack of obsession for lo-- for some bizarre affection for him.
No, Jason reminds himself, Tim was only avoiding the inevitable awkward conversation in which they would pretend they had never sucked each others' cocks. There was no way he could be...
Landing on the fire escape, Jason's fingers twitch for his comm. He isn't going to call Bruce, he reminds himself. He hasn't called Bruce in the last three years and he isn't going to break his streak for the sake of the kid who replaced him.
Even if he's worried. Which he isn't, because Jason doesn't worry about anything anymore.
He's pulling his (homemade) comm out of his pocket as he goes through the window, into the living room. Just as he keys into Bruce's old emergency channel he sees a familiar shape curled up on the couch.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Jason hides his relief with anger, and considers it a good decision right up until he gets close enough to see Tim's face.
The kid isn't crying, but there's a ghost of tears in his face, the sort of gaunt expression which implies something horrible.
"Fuck." The comm falls to the floor and before he knows what he's doing he's got his arms around Tim's shoulders and his forehead pressed to Tim's cheek. "What happened? Is Bruce--"
"My father is dead." Tim's voice sounds like emptiness and screaming and the tick of a timer in an empty warehouse.
"Fuck." Jason whispers and squeezes Tim tighter, like it'll help. Jason knows exactly what will help right now, and he's not capable of providing it. He never figured out what brought him back from the dead, after all.
"I--" Tim's breath is shaky, but his voice is steady, "I don't know where to go. Dana is crazy. Bruce is making noises about adoption and I-- I know you don't want me here but--"
Jason wants to say it's true, wants to kick the kid and his baggage and his overpowering attachment into the street.
"Stay here." It's as simple as that.
"I--I could. I mean-- I need--"
Jason hasn't the slightest clue what the kid is trying to get at, but he lets him fumble with his words for as long as it takes. That Tim is talking at all is a bit of a miracle, Jason doesn't need to expect that it will make sense.
"I need more... Structure in my life, Jason, and I--" Tim slid from the couch and Jason's arms, kneeling in front of his and looking up with a (very) familiar expression.
"Kid--"
"Collar me." Tim says, "Keep me. I need-- I--"
Jason's eyebrows are lost somewhere up in his hairline. Sure, Tim had always been a gigantic bottom (just how Jason likes him), but he'd never had an inkling that Tim would want to do something like this, long term, and he isn't quite sure how to respond.
And that's a dirty, dirty lie because Jason knows exactly how he wants to respond and it involves tying Tim to the nearest piece of furniture and fucking him unconscious.
"Kid-- Tim. I--" Jason rubs a hand through his hair and sighs. He can see Tim's face in all of it's broken, desperate need and is shocked by the answering need he feels to take care of him. "This is what we're going to do. You and I are going to go to bed and you are going to sleep. In the morning, we'll have breakfast and you're going to sleep some more. Then we'll get lunch. Do you see where this is going?"
Tim nods.
"And when I'm satisfied that you aren't on the verge of a mental breakdown or something, we'll talk about it? Okay?"
"Okay."
So Jason lifts Tim from the floor and carries him bodily into the bedroom, helps him out of the majority of his clothes and bundles him into bed, curling his body around Tim's and holding on.
It takes Tim a long time to get to sleep, and Jason doesn't let himself sleep until he's sure that Tim is out so they spend a great deal of time in silence, just breathing and pretending they aren't focusing on each other.
It's not the first time that Jason has been in bed with Tim but it's the first time he's done it with the intention of just sleeping, and it's more pleasurable than he's comfortable admitting. Jason doesn't want to think about what tomorrow will bring, how his relationship with Tim (and now he has to call it that) has turned into exactly what he was trying to prevent.
...How he doesn't really mind anymore, even if it means he's getting soft.
NEXT