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Tim’s playing a video game when Red Hood comes to call.
It’s a rare moment of downtime. He’s got excess energy, but he doesn’t want to spend another evening battering away at the bag with no real goal in sight. That’s always been more Dick’s style. Tim likes gaming when he can, even if he doesn’t usually have the time. The strategy of it all appeals to him, a small, safe microcosm of the puzzles he has to solve every day out in the real world. Even fighting becomes amusing on a screen, characters battering each other between interjections of snappy one liners.
He’s in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, legs crossed on his sagging loaf of a sofa. There’s a blanket and a cushion half covering his lap as he mashes the buttons of the controller in his hand, a tiny figure on the screen in front of him running around in circles. Tim doesn’t have the time to grind co-op or ranked games, but he does like playing stuff on his own. If the Waynes had more time, the far-off pipe dream of family game nights would be more of a possibility. Then again, Tim can’t really imagine Bruce sitting down to play Mario Kart. He snorts a little under his breath at the thought.
“What’s so funny?”
“Jesus fucking Christ!” Tim jumps in the air, instinctively throwing the controller in the direction of the voice like a makeshift batarang. It smacks Jason on the chest and he catches it on the bounce, quirking a smile at Tim’s freaked expression.
Jason isn’t dressed casually, exactly, but he’s not fully suited up either. Weapons belts are slung over his broad chest, a black t-shirt the only thing separating his skin from the cool air of Tim’s air conditioned apartment. Low slung trousers hang from his hips, knives strapped to every inch of his body. There’s a sliver of golden skin on his stomach peeking through, a strip of sunlight in the dark. His face is shadowed and half covered with a mask, but Tim can see the smile in the way his eyes scrunch up in the corners, a rare thing of gentleness in his usually hardened exterior. It makes him look softer when he’s like that. Less harsh.
“What’s so funny?” Jason repeats, tossing the controller back to Tim with perfect precision. He pushes off from the wall he’s leaning against, boots thumping on the floor as he walks over.
Tim catches the controller in one hand, sighs, and rolls his eyes. “You’re really not supposed to be here. I updated the security system last week.”
Jason goes wide eyed and points at his chest, an imitation of the classic who, me? expression. Fingerless gloves punctuate scarred knuckles. Tim hates that he notices these things.
“You know you can’t keep me out.” Jason’s voice is lazy, the guttural rasp of the Lazarus Pit startlingly soft when removed from pain and suffering. “Sometimes I think you’re not even trying.”
And, yeah, maybe Tim hasn’t exactly been gearing his systems to keep Red Hood out, but he’s also assessed that he’s not a threat anymore, or at least not as much of a threat as before. Jason’s been mellowing out recently. Sure, he’s still running around the city with sharp knives and hard fists, but he hasn’t been targeting Tim in the same way. When they do meet in the night, it’s vicious, but it’s not cruel. He suspects it hasn’t been the same for the others if Dick’s stressed voicemails have anything to say about the matter. Bruce can’t even stand to look at Jason like this, let alone fight him. It’s a point of contention. Tim tries not to get involved.
“What do you want,” Tim drones, and resets the run on the game. Turns out throwing away your controller winds up with your character dead.
Jason prowls around the room, peering at the little knickknacks that Tim has left lying around. He picks up a roughly hewn whittled wooden robin, turning it left and right in one gloved hand, and then places it back down carefully. There’s a sense of familiarity to his movements, like he’s done all of this a thousand times.
“Just to talk,” Jason says offhandedly. He folds himself into the opposite end of the sofa with deadly poise, his posture only just maintaining the façade of ease. Beneath the surface, his muscles are coiled and ready to strike, his gaze watchful. It reminds Tim of the time he went to the zoo as a child with a nanny. He’d peered over the handrail at the tiger exhibit, watching as the big cat crouched in the grass and blinked slowly back at him. The only noticeable movement had been the slow flick of its striped tail lashing from side to side.
Tim frowns. He’s never going to tell Jason that he reminds him of an apex predator. His ego does not need that boost. “What did you want to talk about?”
Jason watches the screen. “What were you laughing about?”
Sighing, Tim pauses the game. He doesn’t turn to face Jason. “Just thinking about the others,” he says, and it’s clear to both of them who he’s talking about. He doesn’t use the word family, but he knows Jason is aware of Tim’s relationship to Bruce, Dick, and Damian. It’s more of a relationship than Jason has with them right now, awkwardly puckered around his sudden reappearance from the dead.
“Hm.” Jason is uncharacteristically unaffected by the mention of their shared family. Usually, he doesn’t like talking about them unless he brings them up first. It’s a sore subject. Tim thinks he understands, or he tries to, anyway. Jason might not be the hero he once was, but he’s not evil. Not everyone gets that.
Tim’s about to offer some sort of consolation, but Jason cuts right through his train of thought: “Extra toothbrush is gone from the bathroom.”
Uh, yeah. That’s true, and also a complete non sequitur. Tim isn’t really surprised by the confirmation that Jason’s been snooping through his shit, but he is somewhat taken aback by the fact that he cares about such a small detail. It’s not like Tim discussed his relationships with Jason before, but yes, his most recent boyfriend is now out of his life. It’s not a big deal. They weren’t really serious — granted, it’s hard to be serious with anybody when you’re hiding half of your life from someone, and Tim tries not to date within teams for the sake of minimising complications on that end. In the end, it had been more perfunctory than anything else, a clinical disposal of the things his ex left scattered across his life.
Tim chews on the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, we broke up.”
“Yeah,” Jason parrots back in the same tone.
Tim wouldn’t usually let such a statement go unexamined. It’s clear that Jason has some sort of interest in this, though Tim has no idea why. Unfortunately, the thought of discussing his love life, of all things, with Jason sounds unbearable, so he’s very willing to let the matter drop. Nothing about the situation is notable, and none of it should be relevant to Jason, stalkery tendencies or no.
But Jason doesn’t want to drop it. He waits for Tim to elaborate, and when nothing comes, he clears his throat pointedly.
Tim puts down the controller and twists slightly to face Jason, his soft t-shirt crumpling at his waist.
“We’re talking about this?” Tim raises his eyebrows, gesturing between them. “Us?”
Jason shrugs. “Brother to brother,” he says with a lazy smile. Despite his languid, stretched out relaxation now, there’s still something mean about the way the muscle pulls over his face, sharp and dangerous.
Even if Tim were to go far enough to call Bruce and the others his family, Jason has never been part of that. Bruce may be Tim’s father, but Jason is not his brother. He died before Tim ever met him, crushed beneath the Joker’s heel, and returned a furious avenging angel. Broken, a little. Older. And strange, like he no longer fit into the web of the family, too violent and desperate to slot into the place he once inhabited as Robin.
If anything, Jason has been the ghost haunting Tim’s every breath, more boy and more hero than he could ever be.
Red Hood, though? Red Hood is different.
Villainous, sowing discord wherever he goes. Brutal. A killer. And though Tim doesn’t know why, Red Hood has been shadowing him too, watching his every move. He knows. He’s not stupid. No one can track Red Robin without his knowledge. In the beginning, all Jason seemed to want was a fight, as if it was entertaining feeling Tim claw his way from the brink of death every single time they clashed. He doesn’t even bother with the fights anymore. He lurks and looms. Tim doesn’t understand what he wants now.
“Sure,” Tim sounds out, turning back to the screen. “Brother to brother.” He doesn’t fully relax, but he does unpause and settle into the rhythm of the game, dashing around the screen nimbly.
He’s painfully aware of Jason hovering at the end of the sofa. He feels a little boxed in, like there’s a hulking beast blocking the only way out of this. His skin crawls a little with tension, that telltale prickle that comes before confrontation. Honestly, it feels like he’s walking into a trap, and he can’t figure out what it is.
“Um, well. It wasn’t going anywhere,” Tim says vaguely. He clears a floor of the dungeon, running into the next room.
“Why not,” Jason asks, fingers tapping on the arm of the sofa. Tap, tap, tap. It’s quick and impatient, like he’s waiting for a specific answer and this part of the conversation is only delaying the path to whatever mark he’s hunting.
Tim swallows. “Um. Because it wasn’t?” He shakes his head slightly and laughs awkwardly, voice pitching with discomfort. “It’s not like I was really expecting it to get serious. And we were incompatible, you know?”
Something about Jason lights up at that. Not like a smile, but like a fire. There’s a predatory glint in his eye. Somehow, Tim knows he’s slipped up by revealing this much, because there are a multitude of questions Jason could ask and not a single one of them has a good answer. Or even an answer that Tim wants to give, at all. Because when he said they were incompatible, what he really meant was—
“Incompatible?”
Tim kills an enemy on screen. He pretends it’s Jason. “If I ask you to drop it, will you?”
“No.”
“I thought so,” Tim mutters under his breath. The clock ticks — one, two, three. He inhales deeply. “I mean sexually.”
He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but Jason exists to surprise. It’s like his awareness sharpens, like he’s about to strike. It takes everything in Tim’s willpower to keep playing the game as though nothing weird is going on, even if he has kind of initiated a conversation about sex with the murderous vigilante who broke into his home. This is so normal. This is so fine. The second this is over, he will scrub any and all memory of this from his mind and pretend it never fucking happened.
“How so?” It’s a little unsettling how Jason keeps batting these neutral questions back at Tim. He doesn’t seem ruffled by the conversation topic at all, nor does he stop to pause before replying each time, as if he’s expecting everything that Tim will say.
“I mean, it feels a little weird, sometimes. With cis guys,” Tim clarifies with a shrug. He mashes the attack button, his little character swinging its sword through the onslaught of enemies.
Beside him, Jason hums. “Why?”
God, is it getting hot in here or is Tim just that uncomfortable with this whole situation? It’s kind of embarrassing talking about this with Jason, even setting aside the fact that Tim maybe harboured a little crush on Robin when he was a little boy, back when he couldn’t figure out if he wanted to hold hands with the little hero or take on the mantle himself. Turns out, it was both. But that’s old news, and though Jason has certainly grown into his features, that’s not something Tim has ever entertained since.
Tim scratches his neck. Sits on top of one leg.
“It’s complicated,” he squeezes out. “Cis guys can sometimes see guys like me differently.”
Understatement of the century. Maybe it’s because Jason met Tim after he transitioned, but he’s never treated Tim strangely. He’s not so naïve that he thinks the abstract concept of passing has nothing to do with that — because, yeah, Tim passes, whatever that means, but it doesn’t make him any more or less trans. Generally, his genitalia doesn’t have much to do with his relationships with people, and it’s easier for them not to care too much about his transness. With sexual partners, that goes a little differently.
It’s not that Tim’s ex treated him like a girl. Some guys do, especially if they identify as straight, and Tim stays the hell away from those on principle. With gay guys, they can sometimes get weird about — uh, Tim’s dick. He calls it his dick, even if it’s not necessarily what someone would expect a dick to look like. He knows it’s not like a cis guy’s penis and that’s fine, because it’s not exactly a normal vagina either. Most people don’t really know what to do with it. His ex was okay for the most part, didn’t mind using fingers and stuff, but he clammed up when it came to going down on Tim.
It was just awkward. Unenjoyable, though his ex insisted he was good at it, and Tim has heard from tons of people that it’s meant to be super fun. Maybe it’s a dysphoria thing that made it hard for him to enjoy it, or maybe it was the guy doing it. Whatever the case, it was just one part of a wider issue when it came to sex, and for all Tim is happy to have relationships without that dynamic, it’s kind of important when it comes to his boyfriend.
How the fuck he’s going to explain all of this to Jason, he has no idea.
Jason just nods like he gets it. Tim is absolutely sure he doesn’t, but he’s not keen to share all of that yet, so he takes it as a small mercy.
Until Jason opens his mouth. “Was it bad?”
Oh, fucking fuck. It’s one thing to make vague allusions to incompatibility and a completely other thing to discuss the quality of sex with his ex with someone like Jason. Not just because they’ve never spoken about this sort of thing before, but also because he’s Jason, and that entails a whole bunch of Jasonness that really shouldn’t be welcome in this sort of conversation. But Tim doesn’t want to back down, doesn’t want to show just how ruffled he is, because he knows there’s nothing the Red Hood latches onto more than a sign of weakness. Never mind the fact that he’s already wound himself up into knots. Adults can have sex. Adults can talk about the sex they’re having. Or not having, in this case.
Tim weighs his thoughts carefully in his head. He scrunches up his face a little. “It was… not ideal,” he says eventually.
“What part of it was not ideal?”
Tim is not looking at Jason. He can hear his slow grin anyway, something liquid around the curve of the vowels. It twists something in his chest.
On-screen, his character dies. He hasn’t really been paying attention to the game for a while, just absently moving around and mashing buttons. He’s sure Jason has noticed this, as he notices all things, and suddenly, he’s annoyed. Who the fuck is Jason to come into his home and ask these invasive questions? It’s not like it’s anything relevant to their situation either. He could at least pretend to excuse it if it was.
“I’m pretty sure brothers don’t go that far into detail,” he grits out. Slowly, with measured movements, he sets the controller aside. “What do you really want?”
When Tim looks up to meet Jason’s eyes, they’re so dark they look black. His face is startlingly bare, his mask evidently discarded at some point. Jason’s staring at him like he’s something to eat, something to destroy, and all the feline grace in the world can’t conceal how much of a predator he is when it comes down to it. His dark eyebrows are furrowed together in the slightest facsimile of a frown, his lips ever-so-slightly parted to taste the air. Tim’s skin burns with the attention, a prickling intensity usually reserved for physical touch. Something about being watched like this feels more intimate than anything else Jason could have done.
“I don’t know,” Jason says, and he looks surprised by his own admission.
Suddenly, Jason feels impossibly close. Tim’s throat is dry as a fucking desert. He swallows. It sounds so loud to his ears.
So slowly, telegraphed in the gentlest of movements, Jason’s hand lifts from the sofa. Drifts through the air. Places itself squarely on the edge of Tim’s knee, far out enough that it’s not truly invading his space and gentle enough that Tim could shake it off without any effort. It feels like Jason’s palm is burning a brand onto his skin.
“What part of it was not ideal?” Jason repeats himself in a murmur, thumb slowly stroking back and forth over the point of contact.
“Um. You know,” Tim starts. “Just the— well.” He gestures shakily to his crotch. God, everything feels like it’s tingling.
Jason doesn’t raise his eyebrow. He doesn’t prompt Tim to continue. He just keeps staring and touching, slow and measured.
“He didn’t like going down on me,” Tim says in a rush, “or maybe I didn’t like it when he did. Or both of those things. I don’t know.”
At that, Jason freezes. He draws back, his hot palm no longer weighing down Tim with the intensity of touch. Tim takes advantage of the opportunity to press his legs together, because— because—
Well, it’s fucking embarrassing and it’s fifty different types of wrong, but there’s a twisting in his gut and a fluttering between his legs and thinking about oral sex and Jason in the same conversation is doing things to his brain that it really, really shouldn’t. Because now, Tim can’t help but imagine what it would feel like to have scarred fingers scissoring their way inside him, a precursor to a sharp, cruel tongue. He’s thinking about what that hand would look like slickened by his body, and he’s thinking about how it would taste, if he’d get some sort of sick satisfaction from licking his own arousal off Jason’s dexterous hands. And he can’t help but wonder if it’s truly always bad, or if it could be so, so good. If Jason would be better — if Jason would be experienced, targeted and focused in this realm just as he is with everything else he approaches.
Jason rises from the sofa with all the grace of a dancer. Tim doesn’t know if he’s relieved that Jason is letting this go or mortified that it’s even reached this point in the first place, but before he has the space to exhale and unclench, Jason’s kneeling in front of him like a knight from a picture book. It feels abruptly surreal for a second, like this has all been some strange wet dream and Tim’s about to wake up on his own, slightly damp but blissfully alone.
Like this, Jason looks beautiful. He’s always been beautiful, but there’s something different about seeing him beneath Tim, gazing up at him with that dark, dark look. It’s intense, but it’s yielding, and Tim is struck by the sudden desire to weave his hands into Jason’s hair and pull, or maybe to cup his cheek gently. He looks cherubic, save for the scars bisecting his face, and if you told Tim that this was an angel sent to deliver him to the afterlife, he’d almost believe it for half a second.
Jason reaches out. His hands hover above Tim’s knees, only a centimetre from touching. He tilts his head slightly — a bafflingly puppyish gesture.
“Can I touch you?” His voice is a low rasp, barely audible over the sound of Tim’s beating heart, and yet it hooks into something deep within his throat.
Tim nods mutely.
Gently, Jason nudges Tim’s legs apart. His roughened palms, calloused by his blades, bleed heat into every part of Tim’s body. It’s so slow. His hands are so big. Rippling scar tissue presses hotly against the outside of Tim’s thighs, sliding up past his hips and eventually settling around his waist. Jason tugs Tim forward sharply, his knees splaying on either side of that beautiful face. Hands scrabble for purchase on the sofa behind him. He could stop this at any time, knows his body and reflexes wouldn’t fail him, and yet there’s something holding him in place. Not the cold trickle of fear — though there is something setting his heart racing and blood pumping. No, it’s something different. Something like anticipation.
Fingertips hook into Tim’s waistband and then still, asking a silent question. He’s teetering at the edge of a huge fucking drop. It’s not that he anticipated this, but he knows what to expect if he continues. Things won’t be the same ever again. There might not be anything to save after this. Whatever tentative peace he has with Red Hood could be gone by tomorrow morning.
Tim places one hand over Jason’s and pulls down.
He can hear Jason’s sharp little inhale, see the way his throat bobs when he swallows. It’s a little strange sitting on the edge of his sofa like this, underwear and sweatpants bunched first around his knees, then pooled at his ankles. He feels watched, heat burning all over his skin as Jason takes the sight of him in, intense and focused wholly on Tim’s body, Tim’s reactions.
Jason’s fingers skitter up the sides of Tim’s thighs. He peels off his gloves, one after the other, and breathes deeply. He doesn’t look nervous, per se, but there’s something questioning in his eyes when he meets Tim’s gaze again.
“Do you want to—” Jason cuts himself off, brows furrowing. Then, with a casual strength that Tim envies as much as he admires, he hitches Tim’s legs over his shoulders like it’s nothing, practically lifting half his body off the sofa altogether. Like this, with all of him out in the open, Tim is torn between wanting to tug his t-shirt down over himself or scoot forward and close the gap for once and for all.
“Is this okay?” Jason asks, as if Tim isn’t practically dripping for it. The fact that he’s so insistent on checking in on Tim every step of the way would feel patronising if it weren’t so sweet.
“Yeah,” Tim says, and his voice is a little shaky, halfway to hoarse. “Just—” He’s braced on his elbows, but he reaches one hand to cover where Jason’s scarred palm sits hot and heavy on his thigh. “Touch me?”
And he sees the way the uncertainty bleeds out of Jason’s eyes now that he’s been reassured. This slow, liquid tension between them has been building and building, and Tim’s sure Jason’s hard under his gear, too. Still, he waits patiently. He watches.
Jason looks down at the core of him. He lifts his right hand from where it’s holding one of Tim’s thighs and Tim obligingly wraps his legs around Jason to steady himself. When Jason’s fingers trace their way up to Tim’s body, he almost squeezes his eyes shut from how overwhelmed he feels in the moment. Because there’s no way to believe that Jason Todd — Red Hood, even — is on his knees in front of Tim right now, eyeing him like he’s a wonder as his fingers— as they—
Tim does not whimper when Jason’s fingers enter him, but he bites his lip so hard that he might as well have sliced it open. There’s the sensation, of course — long, scarred fingers brushing up against him — but it’s the sound that gets to him, slick and wet with the sensuality of sex. And Jason is gentle with his movements, probing, at first. Tim wonders if it’s his first time with a guy like him. Or his first time with a guy at all.
Jason’s fingers push up against his dick and Tim’s body lights up, unable to suppress the full shudder and gasp that shakes out of him. One hand comes instinctively to grip Jason’s hair, soft and silky in his hands. Tim’s eyes are open now, and the sight of Jason spreading him open almost inquisitively is too much to bear.
“Jason,” he gasps, and he’s not proud of it. “You’ve done this before, yeah?”
Jason pauses his ministrations. He hums for a moment in consideration, slowly moving his fingers over Tim’s dick as he thinks on his reply, and it’s like slow sparks are flashing through Tim’s body, warming him with a gently building intensity. He tries to stop his hips from pressing up against those fingers, but like everything with Jason, it’s a losing battle.
“Sure,” he says eventually, and there’s even the ghost of a smile there, something heartbreakingly charming. “But not with you.”
Tim feels his heartbeat all through his body. He feels his heartbeat pressed up against Jason’s fingers, something insistent and loud. His chest feels light and airy. He clenches around nothing. Still, through all of these sensations, he pulls himself together enough to respond verbally.
“Not with me, but with someone like me, maybe?” Absent-mindedly, he can feel his hand petting Jason’s hair a little, some secondary sensation hovering far away from his focus.
Jason stops then, leaning into Tim’s touch like he’s starved for attention. His eyes are brighter than the sun and darker than the night. Tim gets the strange urge to run his fingers over Jason’s eyebrows, his nose, his cheekbones. It’s a tender moment only underscored by their mutual arousal.
“There’s no one like you, Tim,” Jason murmurs, and Tim feels his heart clench within his chest, his entire body pulled inwards for just a split second.
“Okay,” Tim whispers. “Okay.” The world is righted once more. He inhales unsteadily, then moves his hand to where Jason is still circling his cock. “I like when you touch me there,” he says, pressing down for emphasis. “I like being fingered. I like being opened up.”
Jason bites his lip as he watches, allowing his hand to be moved. Tim tries not to scream.
“This part is sensitive,” Tim continues, pushing Jason’s fingers, and oh. He needs more of that. “It’s not that different.” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t want to, because it is different, but he’s used to downplaying the trans parts of him. He’s used to recontextualising them for cis people.
Jason smiles a little again. “It’s different.” He says it like it’s obvious, like it would be stupid to think otherwise, and Tim realises for the first time: he really trusts Jason. Not just enough to have sex with him. Not just enough to wave it off when he breaks into his apartment. Something hidden rears up within him, something that maybe has been there all along. But Tim can’t think about that right now.
Not when his hand drops away and Jason takes it as an invitation to seize control, curling his fingers up against Tim’s dick and lighting every fuse in his body. Not when he’s suddenly being fingerfucked, his hips stuttering of their own accord to meet Jason’s every touch, his eyes fluttering closed as he leans back and screws his hands up in the sofa cushions. God, with his eyes shut, there’s so much more to the sensations. He could swear that he feels every single little scar brushing up against him like a fucking livewire. He’ll never be able to forget the feeling of Jason’s fingers inside him. If he pulls them out, Tim might die.
“You’re loud,” Jason’s voice croons, and Tim flushes with bright embarrassment, because yes, those noises are coming from him. Those demands, those cries, those Jason Jason Jasons. And maybe Jason doesn’t like it. Maybe he should stop. He bites his lip again, nodding.
“No,” Jason says, and Tim cracks one eye open to see Jason thumbing his lip out from between his teeth. “Be loud. I like knowing you feel good.”
It’s all the invitation Tim needs. Those fingers move in and out, strumming all the places Tim thought only he knew to touch, and he can feel his orgasm building inside him, a wave cresting. He feels his thighs squeezing Jason, but he can’t stop — not when Jason’s touching him like that, not when he feels himself throbbing from stimulation and arousal, not when his body feels like a stranger to him in the wash of feeling.
Jason fucks him brutally with his fingers, not affording him a second of respite as he presses against Tim with an insistent rhythm. He knows what he’s doing and Tim wants him to keep doing it, to keep touching him, to keep—
“Jason, I’m—"
He doesn’t even finish the sentence before he’s coming, hot waves of sensation rushing through his body as he shudders out his orgasm. Jason fingers him through it, his touch gentling, and when Tim’s back on Earth, he sighs contentedly and blinks down at the man between his knees. He feels lazy with contentment.
“As nice as that was,” he ventures, “it’s not what I expected.” Because, yeah, if Jason has hands like that, Tim wants to know what the rest feels like. His mouth, first — hot and wet over his dick, attentive in all the ways that Tim has never known before.
Jason pulls his fingers back slowly, then all at once. He looks up at Tim. “Oh, trust me,” he says with a slow grin, all sharp teeth, “I’m not done yet.”
And Tim squints, because Jason is breathing slightly heavily, and there’s a wild glint in his eyes. He’s a little feral, maybe, like some beast. Tim knew the Lazarus Pit changed some things about Jason, but maybe it changed this, too — his relationship with sex. His experience of arousal. His libido, even.
Tim doesn’t get the chance to ask, because as soon as he opens his mouth, Jason hitches him up on his shoulders, sticks his face in Tim’s crotch, and fucking inhales. He feels Jason’s shoulders stiffen beneath him as he shudders and moans, his breath brushing the most sensitive parts of Tim. Somehow, his hands are in Jason’s hair again. Somehow, he’s gripping on tight.
“Tim,” Jason groans. “Tim. Can I?”
Tim never expected Red Hood to ask anyone for permission. Jason Todd, on the other hand, has been nothing but courteous every step of the way. Well, as courteous as someone can be while they’re fingerfucking the living daylights out of you. Tim is surprisingly into the way Jason’s reacting to the smell of him, the initial shock and embarrassment washed away by the way Jason’s clearly getting off on it.
“Yes,” Tim says. “Now, Jason.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Jason seals his mouth over Tim like he’s savouring him, his tongue nimbly tracing every part of him. Tim feels Jason groan against his dick, and then the way he quickly attacks with fervour, his tongue working up a pace inside Tim.
And yeah, Tim has technically been eaten out before. He’s faked an orgasm and said thanks and gone his own way. It’s never felt like this.
It’s lethal, watching Jason’s face screwed up in bliss as he tastes Tim. He didn’t know that was even possible, that someone could be so turned on just from the taste of him. As Jason sucks on him, his cheeks hollowing out, Tim finds himself choking back a scream. He's alternating between sucking and licking and even gentle nips, fireworks of sensation that thrum all along Tim’s body like electricity, and fuck. He’s so thankful to whatever gods are out there that Jason Todd exists, because he could have died without ever knowing this feeling.
Quickly, Tim finds himself bubbling up again, fingers screwed in Jason’s hair and pulling him further in, as if that’s even possible. God, it’s like Jason’s carving out a space inside Tim, something that will never be filled by anything else — anyone else. Tim clenches around his tongue and helplessly grinds on Jason’s face, even as a hand slips between them and Jason starts touching him as well, his fingers pressing against Tim’s dick in all the ways he likes.
It’s not fair how good Jason Todd is at reading him. He’s a quick learner, if nothing else.
Jason’s tongue thrusts into him shallowly, Tim’s hips coming up to meet it each time. It’s wetter than just being fingered, everything soft and smooth and supple in a way Tim isn’t used to, and he whines at the sensation, tugging at Jason’s hair again. He’s never going to be able to go without this now. Not now that he knows what it’s like, truly.
“Jason, please,” Tim begs, and he’s not crying — not yet — but there’s something wet in his eyes, like he might sob from frustration or desperation. “ Jason. Don’t stop.”
Fuck, he’s going to come again. Everything is screwing up inside him, a tight knot of arousal and anticipation, and Jason just keeps going, his tongue curling inside Tim like a brand. He’s moaning, he can tell, and his body is tensing up like he wants to pull Jason into him, and he feels like he might explode into a million pieces. Jason’s hands, Jason’s tongue, Jason’s shoulders tensed beneath him. It’s too much. It’s too much.
“Oh my god, ” Tim cries, and he comes for the second time that night, his whole body arched and curled around Jason as that devilish touch works him over with deft dexterity. He knows he’s squeezing his thighs too hard, but Jason doesn’t seem to care as he moans into Tim, his fingers filling the space left by his tongue.
For a few seconds, he just lies there, panting in the aftermath. Then, Tim loosens his grip on Jason’s hair and strokes it once before pulling back. He thinks he’s been thoroughly debauched, but it’s nothing compared to how Jason looks: on his knees, his hair completely mussed, his eyes half-lidded, and his face completely soaked from nose to chin. Even his cheeks are slightly flushed, a rare reminder that Jason Todd is, despite everything, still human. Tim thinks he might regret it forever if he doesn’t touch Jason right now.
He slips two fingers into Jason’s mouth, his gut twisting when Jason immediately sucks on them. He spreads them out, then pushes to the back of his throat, his own breath hitching when Jason gags on them with a moan.
Tim shakes himself out of his stupor. He draws his fingers back and wipes them on the corner of his shirt, acting with more nonchalance than he truly feels. He feels a little cold now, wet and used with his body bared to the night chill, but there’s a looseness in his muscles that only two stellar orgasms can fuck into him. And Jason — willing, pliant Jason — has yet to get off. Tim’s nothing if not reciprocal.
Only, when he pushes Jason back slightly and crouches in the space between them, hand running down Jason’s chest, he’s met with an iron grip around his wrist.
“You don’t need to,” Jason murmurs, and his voice is gravelly and fucked out beyond Tim’s expectations.
“I mean, I know I don’t need to,” Tim says petulantly. “But I want to. Especially after… that.”
It feels like the experience he just had is too raw to be described with words. His euphemistic talk around it falls terribly short even now, but he’ll need a few days to process that — and explore it all over again, hopefully — before he can readily discuss it.
The corner of Jason’s mouth twitches into the smallest of smiles. Is he blushing right now? Jason Todd, flushing in embarrassment?
“No, you really don’t need to,” Jason repeats, and he clears his throat pointedly, loosening his grip on Tim.
Tim’s hands immediately dart down to Jason’s dick. Jason inhales with a sharp, oversensitive hiss when they make contact, and Tim immediately pulls away, chastened.
“You did? Just from touching me?” Tim feels a little demanding when he says it, but he doesn’t mean to be. He’s just not used to this, to his partners finding pleasure in what gives him pleasure. And certainly not to this extent.
Jason does a half shrug, tucking his head into Tim’s neck and kissing it softly with undue affection. He tries not to shiver in response and ends up sighing softly, hands coming up to Jason’s hair again.
Tim might be obsessed with Jason’s hair now. Actually, he might have always been obsessed with Jason’s hair. It’s so soft and dark and now he knows what Jason looks like when he tugs on it. That image might be imprinted on the wrinkles of his brain forever.
He gives a gentle experimental tug, feeling Jason collapse slightly against him. Interesting.
“Don’t abuse that,” Jason mumbles into his throat.
Tim laughs, sunny and soft, and goes back to stroking Jason’s hair while receiving his attention.
“Okay, I admit it,” Tim says, all blasé and no vulnerability. “That was okay.”
Jason bites his neck sharply. “Just okay?”
“Mm. Alright, it was good,” Tim amends, splaying his hand over the back of Jason’s neck. “Thank you.” He says it genuinely. It cracks him open, just a little, and lets the soft parts show.
Jason hums into his neck and licks it apologetically, soothing the sting of the bite with more kisses, but it’s not long before Tim’s stifling a yawn. Shit, it’s later than he meant to stay up — living a double life means taking sleep where you can get it, because there’s no guarantee you won’t have to do a few sleepless nights in a row without preparation.
But of course, like with everything else, Jason has preempted that. He pulls Tim up to his feet with effortless grace, then crouches to pull his underwear up. The television gets switched off without Tim having to lift a finger. He walks to his bedroom in a trance, finding himself tucked in bed before he can even make a feigned protest.
Jason flicks the living room light off. In the darkness, Tim can faintly make out Jason’s silhouette, but not his expression.
He realises something. They’ve reached the awkward part of the night now, the part where it’s decided whether this is one-and-done or if Jason will stay over. And, bafflingly, Tim wants him to stay over. He doesn’t want to wake up alone in the morning with nothing but a memory of what came before.
And now he’s thinking about it, he can’t stop. What if this changes things between him and Jason? What if their relationship can’t recover from the swift introduction of sex? Tim wasn’t thinking about his family before, but now the idea of Bruce and Dick looking at him with twin frowns won’t leave his head. It was stupid to let himself get physical with Jason, but maybe it doesn’t have to be bad. Maybe they can get through this.
Tim reaches out with one hand. “Jason?”
In the doorway, Jason doesn’t move. Tim can’t even tell if he’s looking back at him. He kind of hates it.
“You’re not leaving, right?”
It sounds so childish. Tim loathes the way his voice cracks over it, but he’s sleepy enough that he could blame it on tiredness. Usually, Tim’s the one walking out. He didn’t realise being the other party would bother him so much until now. Absently, he’s reminded of when his parents used to leave him all alone in Drake Manor with nothing but echoing empty hallways for company. That’s a useless thought, however, so he discards it.
Jason shifts slightly, then moves into the bedroom, the moonlight catching a sliver of his face. Tim can’t read the expression there, but it’s settling enough to see it at all, especially when it means Jason’s perched on the side of the bed, sitting with him like a parent babysitting a kid with a nightmare. Still, it’s the sort of reassuring company that Tim’s never had the luxury of enjoying, and when Jason takes Tim’s hand in his own, bare palms pressed together like a kiss, Tim falls asleep far too easily.
He doesn’t dream of anything at all.