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He can’t remember how it started, later. Where it started. At the bar under the neons, or in the cramped hallway outside the bathrooms, air stale and humid with sweat, or in the bathroom, after the hideously tacky blacklight overhead flickered and went dark and the last thing Tim saw was the reflection of Jason behind him in the mirror, eyes and teeth and white T-shirt glowing, bisected by a long scratch. Then blackness.
Then Jason warm at his back, a big hand on his shoulder. “Hey, are you—?”
It might have been then.
-
He’s been idling in a corner of the club for two hours when he gets the text.
O >>
Hey bud. Think your chicken flew the coop.
<<
shit. seriously?
O >>
Well one of his aliases just boarded a plane to Chiang Mai.
So I wouldn’t hold your breath for a sighting.
<<
ive been listening to godawful techno for 2 hours for nothing?
thanks o
but ugh.
O >>
Dolphin noises truck horn dolphin noises truck horn truck horn
That was my techno impression
<<
spot on
He slips his phone back into his pocket and slumps against the chalkboard-black, metallic-Sharpie-graffitied wall. That’s his night done. Eardrums forever damaged, and for what. The mark’s long gone. Four months of research possibly down the drain. And—
“Hey.”
And—Jason is here, apparently. Right here. In front of Tim. Towering as per usual. He’s in civvies, loose white T-shirt tucked into his jeans, combat boots. The white streak in his hair is blacked out, and whatever cheap spray-on dye he used is bleeding onto his forehead. It looks like he got ink on his fingers and rubbed. His shoulders are hunched, his body curving toward Tim, but Tim knows it’s less about him and more about Jason not liking a crowd at his back.
“Uh.” Tim pushes off the wall. “What are you doing here?”
Jason shrugs. It’s hard to read his expression under the flashing red-blue-violet lights. “Was in the neighborhood,” he says, voice raised enough to be heard over the pounding music.
Tim’s eyes narrow. “Are you following me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I was nearby, heard O say you were here, thought I’d—” He visibly realizes he is not beating the following-Tim allegations. “Well. I was just saying hi. So… hi.” His mouth twists when Tim doesn’t respond. “Okay. Bye.”
“Wait.” Tim takes a step forward, hand hovering in midair, ready to snag Jason’s sleeve if he has to. He doesn’t have to. “Seems my mark’s on a plane to Thailand right now,” he says. “So I’m having a drink. Stay or leave. Your choice.”
He’s fully expecting Jason to leave. He just barely manages to keep his face neutral, hiding how startled he is, when Jason follows him instead.
Tim always has to wriggle his way through crowds, through the bodies thronging a bar, but they part easily for Jason’s height and shoulders. Tim’s not bitter. He takes advantage, sliding neatly into the space at Jason’s side. There’s always space at Jason’s side. People instinctively keep their distance, no matter if he’s Hood or himself. Not for the first time, Tim wonders how it would feel to be treated as a wild animal, big and aggressive and prone to charging, by strangers and allies and sort-of family alike. Maybe that’s why he lets their arms brush when he leans over the bar. Doesn’t press in, but doesn’t move away.
“What do you want?” Jason says in his ear.
Shock fuzzes through Tim’s belly like summer lightning. It takes way too long to realize Jason’s fucking asking for his drink order. “A Manhattan,” he says, Timothy Drake-Wayne’s standard, and feels the huff of Jason’s breath. “Sorry, is that funny?”
“I meaaaan.” Jason flags one of the bartenders. “Figures you’d want something sweet.”
“A Manhattan isn’t that sweet. It’s not a Cosmo. It’s strong and bitter and like, smoky.” He specifically chose it for that reason.
“Smoky, huh.” Jason relays the order, and Tim passes his black card to the bartender while Jason’s still rummaging for his wallet. “Hey, can he get an extra cherry in that?”
Tim shoves him, ineffectual. “Fuck off. You’re so embarrassing.”
“Three cherries,” Jason says, and grins when the guy plops in a third one. Grins even wider at Tim’s scowl. “No way you don’t like maraschino cherries.”
Tim loves maraschino cherries. “Whatever,” he says, and Jason laughs. He’s made Jason laugh twice in ten minutes.
Jason orders a gin and tonic. Tim raises his eyebrows. “What?”
“Not a whiskey, neat?” Tim puts on a deep growly voice that, truth be told, doesn’t sound anything like Jason, but it gets the point across. “Or a whiskey sour? Maybe a Dark & Stormy for the former crime boss?”
“Say it louder, will you?” Jason makes a face. “Also, who do you think I am, the Big Bat? Tell you a secret.” He leans in. His mouth brushes the shell of Tim’s ear for a fraction of a second. “Kinda fuckin’ hate whiskey. Rum, too. Any dark liquor. And tequila kicks my ass. I can do gin and vodka and that’s it.”
“Have you tried good whiskey?” Tim says, and immediately feels like an asshole. Braces for the biting rich boy.
Jason just snorts. “Suffered through Brucie’s 10k-a-plate charity galas for a couple years there, didn’t I? Yeah, I’ve tried 70-year Glenlivet or whatever. I guess I’d take it over Seagram’s, but only if I’m not the one paying.”
“You’re not the one paying, but I don’t think they have Glenlivet here.”
“Lucky for your wallet, I’m a bottom-shelf kinda guy.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Tim says, and flushes hard. He disguises it with a sip of his drink. He would, in all honesty, prefer a Cosmo, or a Tequila Sunrise or one of the ludicrously overpriced in-house cocktails, really anything sweeter than this, but something about ordering cute cocktails makes him balk unless he’s already drunk and past caring. Even here. Even knowing nobody gives a singular shit.
Jack Drake would never order a fruity cocktail. Bruce Wayne would—but on purpose, to be effeminate and flamboyant in the way of the charismatic charmer secure in his public-facing sexuality, and besides he wouldn’t drink it. Not for real.
It is patently absurd to be worried about sounding 1. girly, or 2. faggy when ordering drinks in a hot little club where half the people on the dance floor are some flavor of queer and the other half are people happily dancing with the first half. Nobody’s recognized Tim, as far as he knows. Even if they did, who cares. Who fucking cares? There is no story here.
And yet.
He and Jason stay at the bar for longer than Tim expects, snagging an empty space near the wall where they don’t have their backs to the crowd. By his third drink, Tim’s leaning over the bar to shout an order for one of the in-house cocktails, something with a silly name and strawberry juice that comes with a twist of candied orange peel, and the way Jason’s eyes crinkle when he sees it makes Tim forget his pretense, the one no one cares about but him. The thing about Jason is he is so wholly himself at all times, even when he’s guarded, even when he’s lying, and in the face of that flamelike candor any artifice becomes flimsy as paper. Jason burns right through you. It’s why he will never get along with Bruce as well as the rest of them. It would be the same if he’d never died. Bruce survives by placing as many facades and funhouse mirrors between him and the world as he can, by lurking in the shadows, in the subterranean deep. Jason lives at the surface of his own skin, bright and hot. He was never going to make it in that cave.
Tim would never say it to him. He would take it so, so wrong. But it’s true.
“Okay, clear something up for me.” Tim swirls the ice in his cocktail, which is fabulous and fruity and exactly what he wanted. Jason’s stuck to his gin and tonics, let Tim try a sip of one and laughed when he wrinkled his nose at the pine-needle taste. “You said you were in the neighborhood. But.” He gestures at Jason’s clothes, his blackened hair. It looks like he put makeup on the scars around his mouth and jaw, the ones he can’t hide with clothing and that attract stares in public. Side effect of being brutally fucking murdered. “You weren’t working, were you?”
“I have a safehouse in the area,” Jason says. “I was killing time until midnight.”
“So you were listening to the comms, heard O mention…?”
Jason darts him a glance. “...That you were here, yeah.”
He looks like he’s bracing for more questioning, but Tim just settles into his barstool and tips back the rest of his drink. Jason heard Oracle mention he was here and came to say hi. Jason heard Oracle mention he was here, went to the bathroom of his safehouse and sprayed cheap temporary dye into his hair, dotted drugstore concealer over his scars. Maybe changed his shirt. Dabbed cologne behind his ears, judging by how good he smells whenever Tim leans in too close, like jasmine and rosemary, musk and city smoke and boy.
Tim closes the tab after that, eyeing how Jason’s shoulders keep getting tighter, how he’s inching sideways in his seat to face the club more directly, how he’s started wincing every time the music builds frenetically to a fakeout beat drop that never comes. He absolutely hates it here. He hasn’t said a thing about leaving.
“Hey,” Tim says, putting his card away. “You wanna get some fresh air?”
Jason’s relief is so stark that he feels bad for not suggesting they leave earlier. But since when does Jason stay in places he hates just because Tim is there? Sure, they’ve been circling ever closer over the past few years, their orbits overlapping more and more, with Tim essentially becoming Jason’s liaison to the rest of the family—and yes, the past year in particular has seen them crashing in each other’s safehouses, patching each other up after long nights, grabbing 5 a.m. Early Bird Specials, tapping on windows, leaving notes stuck on fridges, nosing around in each other’s cases until someone tosses up their hands and suggests they work it together—but that doesn’t mean….
Tim knows he’s competent, is the thing. He’s smart and relatively easy to work with and he is good at his job. Wanting him around when there’s a web of murders to trace does not equal wanting him around period. Does not equal wanting to be around him.
“I just gotta pee,” he says, sliding off his stool.
“Same.”
Then the cramped hallway outside the bathrooms, air stale and humid with sweat. Then the men’s room, Tim beelining for a stall, sitting down and pissing and hearing Jason piss at the urinal and realizing just how off-balance he is, and not only because he’s three drinks deep. Then time skips and he’s washing his hands with the weird melon-scented soap and the hideously tacky blacklight overhead flickers and goes dark and the last thing he sees is Jason behind him in the mirror, glowing, bisected by a long scratch. Then blackness.
Then Jason warm at his back, a big hand on his shoulder. “Hey, are you—?”
Tim turns and pushes up into him. There’s only time to feel Jason’s shaky exhale on his lips and chin before the door swings open, light and noise and a body spilling in, and they break apart. Tim’s heart is thumping louder than the music, louder than anything in the world. A physical throb in his ears, almost painful. He grabs Jason’s wrist and hauls him out of the bathroom and down the hall to the Staff Use Only exit, which lets out into one of Gotham’s many fishbone-skinny alleyways, brick walls and oil-slick puddles, asphalt littered with trash and cigarette butts and broken glass.
Jason is laughing for some reason, shocked and breathy. Tim wants to know the joke. He turns around, and they’re closer than he thought and swaying closer still, mouths almost brushing by accident. The way Jason’s lowering his head automatically to find Tim’s eyes. “What’s so funny?” Tim asks, in a voice that doesn’t sound like his own. “What’s so funny?”
“I don’t….” Jason’s shaking his head. His grin is silly, open-mouthed, showing his crooked left canine. He was sweating in the heat of the club and it’s ruined his makeup. His facial scars are on full display. There are black smears on his forehead from the stupid dye. Tim thought he wanted Jason beyond reason but it turns out there are many reasons. There are new reasons all the time.
Jason’s laugh is making him laugh. He ducks, the crown of his head brushing Jason’s chest, and cackles helplessly at the dirty ground.
“I lo—I like when you—” Jason’s saying above him. Tim looks up and Jason is right there, he’s always right where he needs to be, always, except for those long terrible years when he wasn’t.
Somehow their noses bump. “It would be so,” Tim breathes, barely hearing himself, “so stupid if we—” Their mouths catch and glance off. Jason’s laugh threads into a small, sweet noise. “If we—”
Jason kisses him, warm and messy and left of center. It lasts only a heartbeat before he pulls back, big dark eyes roving over Tim’s face.
Fuck that. Tim drags him down and slides their mouths together, hot and open.
It turns desperate quickly as oil catching light. Jason moves against him, big hands tripping down his spine to pull him closer. Tim hooks his arms around Jason’s neck, rakes his fingers through those thick soft curls. Their mouths part briefly, teeth clacking together, when Jason stumbles. “Oh, shit,” Tim says, wild.
“You’re—I don’t—you’re not sober,” Jason says. “You’re not—”
Tim grabs him by the ears. They’re both breathing hard already, Jason’s chest heaving. “I am not 100% sober in this moment,” Tim agrees, because obvious lies will not help him here, “but I’m not that gone, and I’ve been sober all year, and I want, I want you to trust me.”
Jason’s eyes are bright as cigarette cherries. He just kissed Tim. He kissed Tim. Jason kissed him. “All—? Tim. Tim. I—”
“What about you? Are you okay?” It earns him a slightly startled look. “‘S okay if you’re, if you’re not.”
“No, I… I just….”
“Jay,” Tim says.
They move at the same time, mouths catching hard in the middle. Jason’s hand comes up to cradle the back of Tim’s head, grip gentle in his hair, angling him. It takes maybe ten seconds to blow past desperate to frantic. Their tongues slide diagonally, and Tim tastes him, the bitter fragrance of gin, lingering chill. They make a noise at the same time, the same vibrating hum, Jason’s high and Tim’s low and aching. Jason’s kissing him over and over, hands everywhere—Tim’s shoulders, his biceps, his waist—Tim reaches down blindly to grab one of Jason’s hands, directing it to his ass. Jason, bless him, doesn’t need telling twice, gets both his hands on Tim’s ass, fingers spreading wide, gripping him, thigh pressing forward. Tim’s mouth hangs open. He keeps forgetting to kiss, his focus narrowed to the hot little heartbeat between his legs. He moans and rocks against Jason’s thigh, reaches back around to grab Jason’s hand a second time, bringing it to his lower belly, the button of his trousers.
“Oh, Jesus,” Jason says, breaking the kiss, breath fanning shakily over Tim’s mouth. “That what you want? You’re so—” He kisses Tim, sucks on his bottom lip, dips his tongue into Tim’s mouth. Trails hot breathy kisses over his cheek to the hinge of his jaw. “So fucking—Christ. Yeah? Is that what you want? Oh, god.”
“Yes. Yes.” Tim’s rocking his hips, Jason’s hand moving with his belly. Now Jason’s mouth falls slack against his own as he works Tim’s trousers open, fumbles with the zip, just enough to stick his hand down the front—under the waistband of Tim’s cotton briefs. Tim shivers, cool fingers on his hot skin. Jason’s hand pushes down, down, to cup his—
“Oh!” Jason says suddenly, head jerking away from Tim’s throat. His fingers stutter to a stop. The look on his face is. “Oh,” he says again, eyes wide.
And Tim realizes, with the thud of a body hitting pavement, what has happened here. What Jason has, somehow, impossibly, just now fucking figured out.
There’s a cascade in his chest like a building collapsing floor by floor, sinking down in a straight line. He wonders if the ringing in his ears is audible to anyone but him.
“Did you,” he says in disbelief, “not know I’m trans?”
“Uhh,” Jason says.
“Oh my god, how did you not know?”
Jason came back when Tim was sixteen. He was short-haired and wearing binders, but not even on T yet. Fast forward eight years and he’s gotten top surgery and figured out tailored clothing and shaves every day, only very rarely gets the Ma’am—uh—sir?—uh treatment, though if he’s with Steph and Cass he will occasionally get grouped into the server’s Hello ladies, which kind of sucks. But. He certainly did not always pass like he does now. The Gotham Gazette has been pretty classy about the name change, but the seedier gossip rags have deadnamed him more than once. It’s something Bruce cares about more than he does. Tim’s deadname isn’t even in his Bat file. An act of love from the world’s most anal-retentive database manager.
Somehow all of this has culminated in Jason sticking his hand down Tim’s pants, expecting to find a cis man’s cock.
“I don’t know!” Jason says. “You’re a guy! I never thought about it!” He winces. “Fuck, that’s bad, right? Assuming ‘guy’ means—? Okay, well, shit. I’ll work on that.”
“Oh my god,” Tim says. And then, “Oh my god,” again, for good measure. “How did you not—it’s hardly a secret! Everyone knows! I joke about it, sometimes!”
“Every time you or Steph say something I don’t understand, I assume it’s a meme!”
“Oh, my god.”
“I’ve seen your locker!” Jason says, a little desperate. “I’ve seen your uniform! There’s a—not that I noticed, but there’s a jockstrap in there!”
“Are you arguing with me about this?”
“No! I’m just saying!”
“Just because I don’t have balls doesn’t mean it feels awesome to get kicked in the crotch,” Tim hisses. “Steph wears a jock too! I designed them! The cups are smaller!”
“Okay!” Jason says. “Okay, yeah, that—that tracks.”
“Oh, well, as long as it tracks.”
“Look, I’m sorry.”
“It’s… okay,” Tim says, numb. He is baffled by the fact that Jason’s hand is still in his underwear. Fingers resting very lightly on the upper swell of his cunt, where his pubic hair thins out. He thinks Jason is probably bi, but that does not mean he’s good with what Tim’s got. “Um. I’m sorry, too.” Does he have anything to apologize for? He’s not always good at knowing. It’s safer to apologize than not. “I’m sorry,” he says again, shifting away from Jason’s touch. “Sorry. We can forget it.”
“What?” Jason stares. “Tim.”
He wants Jason to stop looking at him right now. “What.”
“Tim. It doesn’t change anything. For me. I still… I wanna….” His fingers twitch. Tim shudders, and Jason’s mouth crooks. He dips his head, bringing their faces close again. Tim’s breathing shallows, involuntary. His lips feel swollen. “I’m good with anything,” Jason says. “Everything. You know?”
“I mean. To clarify, it’s not everything,” Tim says.
Jason’s laugh is an exhale. He looks and sounds so relieved, even more than when Tim asked if he wanted air. “Can I still…?”
“Um. Yeah,” Tim whispers.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Jason kisses him. Despite the greenlight, his hand stays where it is for a long minute. Tim lets himself be kissed, first slowly, then harder, deeper, building to the fever pitch of before. It’s only when he’s hooked an arm back around Jason’s neck and arched into him, his other hand finding where Jason’s shirt is untucked and skimming the hot, smooth planes of his back, feeling muscles flex in sequence beneath his skin, that Jason’s fingers shift the last inch to where Tim is dizzyingly wet.
They both sigh into the next kiss. The tips of Jason’s fingers, the base of his thumb and the ridge of his palm, are rough with callouses. That texture on Tim’s cunt, the reminder that this is Jason touching him, Red Hood, Robin, Jason, has him moaning and tilting his hips into it, fingernails digging into Jason’s back. Jason slides his fingers down Tim’s center, drawing wetness from the base of him to his hot throbbing clit, and there he lingers, stroking the perimeter without applying direct pressure, exploratory, infuriatingly light.
“It’s because of. T. That it’s bigger than….” Tim mumbles, hand falling from Jason’s hair to tug his shirt the rest of the way out of his jeans. He wants to touch, wants his hands all over that warm gold skin, smooth but for where it’s mottled with raised or fissured scars.
“Mm,” Jason says, sounding faraway, still stroking. His muscles twitch when Tim flattens a hand over his belly, and he blinks as if waking from a dream. “Oh. You don’t—you’re not gonna—it’s gonna feel fucked.”
“What?”
“Scarring. Front’s worse than the back. Uh, the autopsy. Feels fucked. Just a warning.”
Tim’s skritching his fingers through the line of hair down Jason’s navel. He lets his hand travel upward, and yes, there’s the scar tissue, the Y-shaped incision, thick and knotted and railroad-tracked with the imprints of old stitches. “Thing is,” he says, “I just like how you feel all over. So, that’s that.”
He doesn’t know if it’s the perfect response. He’s not at the height of his intellectual capabilities right now. But he keeps moving his hands over Jason, over his belly, up and down his spine, the twin swells of his tits, thumbs catching on the peaks of his nipples, and keeps kissing him, and kissing him, his full mouth and his jaw and the pulse beating hard songbird wings in his throat. And Jason frames Tim’s face in one hand, brushes their noses together, nuzzling, and says, “Can I—inside?”
“I’ll kick your ass if you don’t,” Tim says, and experiences the bright and sweeping joy of Jason’s laugh against his mouth. Then he gasps as a finger begins the slow push inside. “Oh! Oh, oh please….”
“Whatever you want,” Jason murmurs. “God—whatever you want—oh, Jesus, you’re wet. Oh, shit, Tim.”
“Fuck off,” Tim says, inane, and gets a hand out from under Jason’s shirt to grab his hair again and pull him in. They’re kissing, and Jason’s found a rhythm, first one finger and then two, curving in and receding without ever leaving him empty, and Tim’s pulling him in and in until he feels his back hit the gritty rough wall of the alleyway, cold and damp through the silk of his shirt. Almost certainly gonna ruin the shirt. Worth it. Worth it. He’s clutching at Jason’s shoulders, licking at his tongue, pleasure swirling in his belly like a liquor burn, and then—
Jason breaks the endless kiss. “Let me get my mouth on you,” he says in a rush of breath. “Let me, let me—please?”
“Oh, god.” Tim’s head thunks back against the brick. “Oh, oh god.”
“Yes?”
He nods, dizzy. Jason drops to his knees so fast it must hurt, but he doesn’t seem to notice as he hooks his fingers into the gaping waistband of Tim’s trousers, tugs them down around his thighs. Tim shivers as the night air hits his bare skin.
Then Jason’s face is—between his thighs, the slight swell of him in his cotton briefs, soft and wet. Jason presses his face there and inhales deeply through his nose, exhaling hot and shaky against the sticky-wet fabric.
Tim claps a hand over his own mouth.
“Oh, my god,” Jason says, and leans up to mouth at the flat strip of skin between Tim’s navel and where his pelvis tips, tonguing the inches of skin revealed as he peels Tim’s briefs down to join his trousers. Then Tim’s fully bared. He thinks he can smell it, the thick pungent sea-scent of his own wetness cutting through the alley smells, Christ. Jason’s saying, “Oh god, oh my god,” smearing the words against his skin, lips tracing down, and without hesitation he takes Tim’s cunt in a hard, sucking kiss.
The sound that wrenches out of Tim, even muffled, is embarrassingly high. His hips jerk and Jason’s head moves with it, mouth hot and open around him, all over him. Tim’s so wet from being fingerfucked, from being kissed and kissed, he can feel it cooling on his inner thighs like sweat. And everything between, at his apex, is hot and slick and breath. Jason laps at him, tongue flat but soft, long tasting licks, pooling the wetness on his tongue. His eyes are closed, lashes dark and spiky on his cheekbones. It’s too dark to see much else. To know if he’s flushing like Tim is, if his face is burning, if his skin feels like one nerve exposed.
“Jason.” It’s swallowed by his palm. “Jay. Jay.”
Jason’s nose is buried in the dark wires of his hair, jaw working against the undercurve, tongue smoothing over Tim from the base of his cunt to just below his hard clit. He’s eating, mouthing as if at the wet flesh of a mango, like he’s not even trying to catch the juice before it runs down his chin. Making mouth-full humming noises that vibrate against Tim’s soft wet parts, reverberate in the terribly empty space behind his navel, the scraped-out space he wants now to be filled hot and hard, in one stroke. Jason’s tongue drags over his entrance once, twice, presses in—the tip—flicks out. Tim’s thighs are trembling. If it weren’t for the solid brick at his back he would collapse like a tension bridge. His free hand finds its way to Jason’s hair, the longer curls at his crown, damp with sweat from a long night, fucked to hell from Tim’s earlier grasping. He grabs a fistful of hair and Jason groans, deep and rumbling from the back of his throat, and Tim catches it when his eyelids flutter, two slits of white—his eyes rolling back in his head.
“More,” Tim gasps. “More, more more more, Jay, more—”
He’s got both hands in Jason’s hair now, holding his skull in place while Tim angles his hips upward, sliding himself over Jason’s lips and tongue until Jason’s sealing his mouth around Tim’s clit for the first time, sucking, for the first time, and Tim cries out.
Jason’s eyes flare open, staring hazily up at him, sucking again—long, unrelenting, tongue cradling the underside of Tim’s clit. His hands move from the backs of Tim’s thighs to his bare ass, helping the angle, holding him somewhat thoughtfully away from the nasty brick. Tim has no fucking concept of what his face looks like. He can feel his jaw hanging open, hear his own ragged breathing, but what Jason’s seeing in the dark he doesn’t know.
Then Jason pulls off, a plucking sound, just far enough to say hoarsely, “Like this or fingers, this or fingers—?” and Tim says, “Fingers, inside, fuck me, fuck me with your hands, fuck me,” and Jason says, “Jesus god damn Christ,” and takes him again, broad, then narrowed, sucking, and there are fingers probing him from below, unseen, fucking easily back inside him with a wet noise. Tim’s head knocks back, throat arched, as he gasps airless and soundless at the light-polluted sky. Two fingers are thick and hot as a cock inside him, curving up toward his navel, a hard press from within.
Hhhaaaahhhh, someone’s saying, too fucking loud, oh, oh fuck, please, please, like that, like that like that—
“Honey you gotta keep it down,” Jason mumbles, half-slurred. Tim feels every word against the hottest parts of himself, the faintest scrape of teeth, of evening stubble, Jason’s slick wet chin and broad tongue and the perfect suction of his lips around the whole top of Tim’s cunt. “Honey, beautiful, you gotta,” and he’s fucking Tim in short hard strokes, stroking with his tongue, inside and out—Tim feels pried open, displayed, somehow in a good way, and he’s shaking, hips rocking helplessly, fucking his cunt against mouth and fingers, his hands twisting in Jason’s hair—
He comes, hard and silent, on Jason’s tongue.
Jason’s fingers stop inside him, holding the final press. He sucks Tim through it, then pulls off, pulls out, when Tim starts scrabbling blindly at the side of his head, immediately oversensitive.
He manages to stay upright for all of three seconds before his knees buckle.
Jason catches him on the way down, strong hands on his waist, yanking him in so his bare ass doesn’t hit the damp dirty ground. He lands in Jason’s lap instead, thighs splayed across Jason’s where he’s kneeling in that supplicant position. Tim is shivering, not from the night chill. His thighs are twitching at random. He can feel his heartbeat pulsating his cunt. Still bared, so wet, surely leaving a wet spot on Jason’s jeans.
Breathless, eyes lidded, Tim finds Jason’s face in the dark. Mouths at him, clumsy, smelling himself, tasting himself, thick and full-bodied like wine. Jason’s lips are swollen, equally clumsy. His jaw must be sore. Tim draws that tongue into his mouth and sucks himself off it, the lingering traces of his come. He kisses Jason’s slick, flushed chin, his cheek, his mouth again—presses against him—his bare cunt brushes the front of Jason’s jeans and Tim makes a stupid shocky noise and jerks away from the point of overstimulation, shuddering as if electrocuted. Jason says, “Oh Jesus,” low and soft and half a kiss against Tim’s slack mouth. “Jesus, you sweetheart, you’re….”
They’re kissing again. Jason’s arms are tight across his lower back, body curving around where Tim’s exposed, still too boneless to deal with his trousers. He sinks slowly into Jason’s lap, ass flush with Jason’s strong thighs.
It occurs to him that Jason hasn’t come.
He gropes at the button of Jason’s jeans, tugs the zipper down. Jason’s gone still beneath him, only his chest moving as his breath quickens. Tim shoves a graceless hand into his boxers, curls his fingers around Jason’s hot, thick cock, the skin like silk, so hard it must be aching—
Jason jerks, makes a cut-off noise, and comes, spilling into the cup of Tim’s palm. Then it’s his turn to pant and shake, his hold on Tim tightening in the aftershocks. “S—orry,” he says. “Oh sh-sh—it, sorry.”
Tim withdraws his hand from Jason’s boxers and holds it up to the yellow-tinted city light filtering in from beyond the alley. Come shines slick on his palm, webs his fingers. The only reason he refrains from licking is he’s pretty sure he touched the brick wall at some point.
“Normally,” Jason says, almost conversational aside from the way he’s still catching his breath, “I’d be really fucking embarrassed, but I… I don’t think there’s a person alive who could watch you come like that”—he ducks his head, speaking into the crook of Tim’s neck—“feel you come like that, feel your come in their mouth, and not….”
God.
It’s easier when he’s not being looked at. Jason has a way of looking that guts Tim cleanly as a steel blade. So he leans in further, his mouth at Jason’s ear, level with the sweep of a dark curl. “I want it again,” he says, which already feels like a confession, even if it’s not the more accurate I want it always, all the time. “I want….” Too much.
Jason’s chest expands with a long, slow inhale.
“I….” Tim shifts his hips. And shifts them again. His clit is oversensitive, but the base of his cunt, his entrance, is open like a hungry mouth.
He leans back, making Jason lift his head.
Before anything else, Tim cleans the come off his hand with the hem of his silk shirt. He does it neatly, spreading his fingers wide to clean them one at a time, from base to tip. Then he smooths out his shirt, looks Jason in the eye, and drags his sticky palm down his own front, wiping off the rest. Leaving a mark.
He takes Jason’s hand—the fingers still pruny—and maneuvers it back between his thighs. “This okay?”
“Uh huh,” says Jason, staring.
Tim bends Jason’s middle and ring fingers the way he wants them and pushes them back inside, watching Jason’s mouth fall open. “Don’t touch my clit,” he orders. “Just like this.”
Jason nods, looking more than a little thunderstruck. Tim tries and fails not to feel pleased with himself. He twines his arms around Jason’s shoulders, angling his pelvis until Jason’s fingers are hitting the exact right angle with every long grind of his hips.
“Like that?” Jason’s studying his face, intent.
“Yes. Hah. Yeah.”
“What else?”
Tim finds his mouth. It’s kissing in slow motion, eyes half-lidded, both of them focused on where Tim is being slowly, deeply fingerfucked. As he nears the rise and swell and crest his back bends, head tipping back, Jason’s mouth dropping to the arch of his throat. This time orgasm rolls in like thunder, slow, prolonged, and wet, Tim shuddering and clenching down on Jason’s fingers while Jason mouths at his pulse point, the delicate skin beneath his ear. Spent, he pushes at Jason’s wrist. Jason eases out of him, trailing wet over his own jeans.
Tim slumps forward, exhausted. Jason stops to tug Tim’s trousers up, covering him, then winds his arms around Tim’s back to pull him close. For a minute all Tim hears is their breathing, the muted thump of music from inside the club, the distant sounds of horns and late-night traffic.
“Hey. So, uh.” Jason clears his throat. He’s starting to go tense under Tim.
That didn’t take long. Tim blinks hard at the opposite alley wall, bracing himself. Well, that was a fun bad idea. See ya round.
“Sorry,” says Jason.
Yup! There it is.
“I don’t know if I ever. Said anything, or….”
Tim sits up straighter in Jason’s lap. He’s not entirely confident in his ability to walk, but that’s one-minute-from-now-Tim’s problem. “It’s fine. You don’t have to worry about me getting the wrong idea, it’s fine.” He shifts his weight so he can start doing up his trousers.
“Huh?”
“You didn’t say anything. I know how this works. It’s fine.”
Jason’s frowning. “No. Hang on. Hang on.” He puts a hand over Tim’s, gentle but insistent. “I don’t think we’re on the same page. I’m really fucking tired of not being on the same page with you. Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t know. That was stupid. It’s not—because I don’t pay attention to you. I.” He draws in a breath. “I pay attention to you all the time. I just, I didn’t know. I didn’t think about it. I’m sorry.”
“Oh,” Tim says, soft.
“So I’m sorry if I ever said any stupid shit. I’ll be….” His mouth tightens, almost a smile, bitterness directed inward. “I’ll be better.”
“Oh, for the love of.” Tim makes a fist and very carefully brings it to the side of Jason’s face, knuckles resting on his cheek. “Shut the fuck up,” he says, not unkindly.
“Right. Message received.”
“I mean it. Just, be cool.”
“Right,” Jason says again, nodding. “Be cool. No worries. That’s my whole thing.”
He sounds so awkward that Tim starts to feel cold and sick in the pit of his stomach. It’s good that Jason is okay with him, but there are so many other ways for Tim to ruin it. This precious thing between them, pale mornings and blue nights and mattresses. He draws back, turning his face so Jason can’t see his eyes. “Maybe I should—”
“Wait. Fuck.” Jason’s grip doesn’t tighten around Tim’s back, but he doesn’t let go either. “Don’t. I’m being a freak but it’s not—it’s not about you, I mean, it is, but not that you’re trans. I don’t care about that. No, I mean—I do care, it’s you, I care about—uh, about everything you’ve got… going on….” He thunks his forehead onto Tim’s shoulder. “Jesus absolute Christ. I’m being a freak ‘cause you’re you. Okay? Just ‘cause it’s you.”
“What do you mean,” Tim says.
Jason lifts his head. He looks ready to bolt, but he stays right where he is. “Wanted you for ages,” he says, rough and quiet. “That’s all.”
“You… for ages?”
He shrugs. Then seems to catch himself and nods, slow and serious, no room for interpretation. “Yeah. Sorry, this is awkward as hell. I just like you and I’m. Yeah. Oh, man.”
Tim stares at him.
Jason cringes, shoulders curling in. “Terrible fucking timing. Sorry. Just didn’t want you to think it was you. That you’re a problem or something. You’re not. You’re my favorite. Like, Tim, it’s so bad. It’s so bad. Okay, fuck. Oh, my god. Christ. Can you stop me? Can you knock me out, maybe? This is carnage. I mean, this is—”
Tim stops him. Jason stills, then trembles, then laughs against his mouth.
END.