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Okay, so this is how it goes.
Jason drags Tim into some kind of case, because Tim is a freaky super genius and it takes him about twenty-four hours to solve these things on average. In this particular instance, it takes about fifteen minutes, or about as long as it takes him to flip through Jason’s files while Jason fails to not stare at the hair curling at the nape of his neck.
“Yeah,” Tim says. “Yeah, it’s definitely the uncle.”
“That was fast,” Jason says, even though he isn’t surprised. “What about the alibi?”
“Paid somebody off,” Tim says. “Probably the sex worker. The only reason why a guy like that wouldn’t have cash in his wallet is because he had just spent it.”
He is, of course, completely confident and exactly correct. It’s going right to Jason’s dick. Jason shifts and clears his throat. “Well. You just cleared up my weekend. So. Thanks.”
“Hm,” Tim says and then it’s just them, sitting awkwardly in the living room of one Jason’s safehouses, with no real excuses. Tim’s pursing his lips in that way he does when he’s still mulling something over. Jason wants to disrupt his train of thought. Ideally by kissing him.
“Okay,” Jason says, standing up and stretching exaggeratedly. “Guess I’ll–”
“There’s a bar about a block or so down from here,” Tim blurts. Jason stops. “Looks interesting.”
He does not actually pair this with any sort of request or invitation, but Jason knows Tim well enough by now to parse it out.
“Um,” Jason fumbles. “Sure. Okay.”
This is how he ends up walking to a shitty East Side dive bar with Timothy Jackson Drake, Red Fucking Robin, who makes Jason’s chest go all hot and shaky everytime he looks at him. Tim sticks close the whole walk down. Their knuckles even brush once or twice, which nearly has Jason fainting like a goddamned Victorian maiden.
Embarrassing. It’s fucking embarrassing, what Tim does to him. And it’s not going to get less embarrassing once Jason has a couple of shots in him, so he really has no idea what his end goal is here.
Probably just to watch Tim unwind, watch his hair fall into his face. Maybe make him laugh once or twice. Go back home and jack off alone and pretend he’s just extremely horny and not–anything else.
Anyway. They go to the bar. Have some awful, awful shots. Jason does indeed make Tim laugh once or twice and as always, Tim gives just as good as he gets and makes Jason laugh right back. They drink enough for Jason to be pleasantly buzzed but sober enough to walk in a straight line. They leave the bar. Tim bumps against Jason’s shoulder, which makes him feel buzzed in a whole different kind of way.
“That was, um,” Jason tries. “That was nice.”
“Yeah,” Tim says, distant. And then, “Hey.”
“Hey, what?” Jason asks, or means to ask, but it doesn’t quite make it out in the second between the thought and Tim pushing him up against the brick exterior of the dive bar and putting his mouth on Jason’s.
Oh. Oh. Tim’s mouth is pleasantly warm and a little slick, still heavy with the taste of cheap beer. Jason gets both of his hands to Tim’s shoulders and then up to cradle the back of his head. He’s tangling his fingers in Tim’s hair to keep his hands from shaking. Tim is literally sucking on his tongue. Oh, God.
Tim pulls away but he’s still flush to Jason, both hands on Jason’s chest. “You’ve wanted that for a while,” he tells Jason, correctly.
“Uh,” Jason says. Stringing words together coherently seems like a hassle when Tim is right there and Jason could, hypothetically, be kissing him. “I mean–it’s not–is it that–”
“Just to me,” Tim says, answering the question Jason hadn’t quite been able to ask. He has to push up on his tiptoes to get closer to Jason’s face. “I’ve been watching.”
“Uh-huh,” Jason says stupidly, but then it doesn’t even matter anymore because Tim is kissing him again. It’s a chill Gotham night, there’s some sort of nineties soft-rock song blaring out of the bar behind them, and Tim Drake is kissing Jason Todd. Will wonders never fucking cease?
Somebody jostles Tim’s shoulders, sending him even further into Jason’s chest. Tim huffs.
“We should probably, ah. Take this somewhere else,” Tim says. “Ideally, a horizontal surface.”
Jason’s mouth goes dry. “Okay,” he says. “Whatever–whatever you want.”
Tim leads him back to the safehouse, his hand loosely locked with Jason’s. For some reason, Jason can’t stop staring at the place where their fingers intersect. This is the problem with Tim. It would be way easier if Jason were just, like, weird and horny about him. Sex is fine. Sex is something that happens all the time. It gets tricky if Jason gets weird and sappy about it instead. If Jason starts daydreaming about making Tim breakfast or adopting a cat together or stupid shit like that.
Thankfully, it’s a little hard to think about domestics when Tim had his tongue fully in Jason’s mouth, like, five minutes ago and there is the imminent promise of a bed in their future.
Tim’s leading him up the stairs now. Jason’s heart is pounding so loudly in his ears that he can barely hear his own footsteps. They’re both picking up speed. Tim trips on the landing and laughs, mostly to himself, and Jason’s breath stutters and stops. They’re pulling to a stop in front of the door before Jason even knows it, and Tim is pulling out a key that Jason definitely doesn’t remember giving him.
“Where the hell did you get that from?” Jason says. Tim shoots him a sideways grin as he pushes the door open, just a flash of white canine, and Jason needs him very, very badly.
There’s barely even time for the door to close before they’re on each other again, pouncing like hyenas or horny teenagers. Which they’re not technically that far off from. Jason’s fumbling at the hem of Tim’s shirt, which Tim obligingly drags up over his head as they unsteadily make their way to Jason’s shitty mattress. Jason runs his hands helplessly up and down the bare, tightly muscled expanse of Tim’s back. His hands are definitely shaking now. He’s too hot and shivery for his own skin, all of two seconds away from going absolutely out of his fucking mind. Tim seems to have it all under control, leading Jason carefully to the back of Jason's terrible studio apartment; except there’s a slight trembling to his breath, a flush of color all across his cheeks and down his neck. He’s at least as affected as Jason is. He’s just always been better at hiding it.
They find the bed, although find is a strong word. More like trip and tumble. Jason barely catches himself from landing on Tim’s knee. Tim’s crawling back on the bed, dragging Jason by the collar of his shirt.
“Why the hell do you still have this thing on anyway–” he’s muttering, tugging at the fabric.
“My scars are fucked,” Jason tells him, even as pulls it up over his head.
“Good,” Tim says viciously. Jason doesn’t have the time to feel any kind of way about it because Tim is on him again, one arm hooked tight around his neck and the other coming up through Jason’s hair. And Jason lets him. Jason just fucking lets him.
He bears his hips down onto Tim’s, which makes Tim let out a sharp, stuttering, satisfying gasp. Tim bucks his hips up, maybe involuntarily. The friction has Jason fisting at the sheets.
“So,” Tim gasps. “Like this then?”
“Huh?” Jason says muzzily.
“Like you on top, me on bottom,” Tim continues. “Is that how you want it?”
“I mean,” Jason says, slowly. “That’s how it usually is.”
“Okay,” Tim says. “But is that what you like?”
Jason blinks. Tim sigh ghosts against Jason’s chin, and then he hooks his ankle behind Jason’s knee. The next split-second is a blur of scratchy cotton sheets and screeching bedsprings as Jason finds himself with his back pressed against the mattress, Tim braced over him. Jason is completely at his mercy. He’s never been harder in his life.
“Why don’t we try this?” Tim says. “Alright?”
“Yeah,” Jason manages. “Yeah. You–whatever. Whatever you say.”
Tim grins, a little mean, a little edged. “Very good.” Jason’s whole fucking body seizes up. Jesus fucking Christ. Tim’s grin gets sharper. “Oh, you liked that?”
“Shut up,” Jason grits out. Don’t shut up. Tim splits the difference by kissing Jason again, open and wet and filthy. Like he was holding back before. Tim breaks the kiss, sits back fully on Jason’s dick in a way that has Jason making this awful, choked noise.
“Lube and condoms,” he says. “Do you have them?”
“Um,” Jason says. Tries to remember. “Should be in the–nightstand drawer.”
Sure enough, there they are. Tim places the box of condoms up on the nightstand, but he keeps the lube in one hand as he runs a finger underneath the waistband of Jason’s jeans.
“You wanna help me out with these?” Tim says. He doesn’t need to ask Jason twice. Jason’s wiggles his jeans off of his legs, with Tim helping to pull at the fabric. It should be embarrassing, but it isn’t; mostly because of the hungry way Tim looks at his dick the moment it’s free, exposed to the cool, open air.
“Do I get to see yours?” Jason tries, but Tim is already on it. Within a few seconds, they’re both awfully, gloriously naked. Tim’s dick is about as pale as the rest of him, flushed pink and already wet at the tip. Jason could honestly die happy right here.
Tim’s popping open the cap to the lube, squeezing some out onto his fingers with an absolutely obscene squelch. “You ever done this before?”
“Not from this angle,” Jason admits.
“Aw,” Tim says. “I’m your first.”
“That isn’t what I meant, you asshole,” Jason says.
Tim just smiles, pressing one shockingly cool knuckle against Jason’s rim. Jason hisses, ratcheting up into a gasp as Tim gets a whole finger inside.
“We’re gonna go slow,” Tim says, even as he crooks it in a way that has Jason arching into the touch. “Take it one step at a time.”
“I know how sex works,” Jason says, all in a rush. “Fuck, I’m not some blushing–God, Tim.”
“I know, baby,” Tim says. Jason bites down hard on his lower lip. Clearly, Tim has done this at this angle before. His movements inside of Jason are slow, carefully calculated to open without hurting. He’s leaning over Jason again. Their chests are about an inch apart, and his breath is muggy on Jason’s collarbone. He twists his finger again. Jason’s hand comes up to clutch at his arm. “You can make noise if you want.”
“Fuck you,” Jason says. “Seriously. Go straight to hell.”
Tim just grins, and then he goes for the second finger. Since he asked for it, Jason doesn’t bother holding back this time. Tim’s breath hitches near Jason’s shoulder, but he recovers quicker than Jason does.
“You’re doing–” he says. “So well.”
“Fuck,” Jason pants. His hips buck up without him meaning to. Tim puts one hand on his hip, effortlessly holding him down, which makes Jason want to–fucking scream.
“Can you hold still for me?” Tim asks. Almost without thinking about it, Jason is keeping himself completely and totally motionless. Just because Tim fucking asked. Jesus. Tim hums, clearly pleased, pressing a kiss into the hollow of Jason’s neck. “Good.”
He’s slipping a third finger inside now. Jason tilts his head back on the pillows so that Tim has more space to mack at his neck, and also so that he doesn’t have to think about how absolutely fucking wrecked he must look right now.
“Why do you–” Jason says, nonsensically. “How do you even–”
“I know you,” Tim says simply. Jason guesses he must. How else would he be able to get something coherent out of Jason’s stutters and rambles? How else would he know to pull out the bone-deep wants Jason barely even knew he had? He might know Jason better than anyone.
Then he pulls all three fingers out, leaving Jason to make this awful, unnatural fucking–mewling noise. Tim snorts. Jason throws a hand over his hot, hot face.
“Man, shut the fuck up,” he says. “What do you even think you’re doing?”
Tim doesn’t answer. Instead, there’s the rip of foil and the sound of rubber against skin. Jason’s breathing picks up again. In the next second, Tim’s body is pressing warm against Jason’s, the tip of his dick against Jason’s entrance. Jason braces one hand on Tim’s shoulder. Whatever it was he was trying to say shudders and shakes in his throat.
“Hey,” Tim says. His eyes are like molten sapphire in the low light. He looks way too soft and fond for–whatever it is they’re doing. If he keeps on looking at Jason like that, if Jason doesn’t look away, they’re going to end up way over their heads. But he keeps on looking at Jason anyway. And Jason doesn’t look away. “Alright? We’re good?”
Jason inhales deeply. “Yeah,” he says. He lets Tim push him back down onto the bed. “Fucking–hit me with it.”
“God,” Tim says, and then he’s pushing into Jason. Slow, inexorable. Jason is being filled, second by second. The stretch of himself around Tim and the heat of Tim inside of Jason is so fucking overwhelming that he nearly comes right there and then. Tim might be feeling something along those lines, because his breathing goes ragged and he presses the top of his head to Jason’s shoulder. His hair is stringy and damp with sweat. “Oh my God. Jason.”
“Uh-huh,” Jason says, a little hysterically. Christ. Jesus fucking Christ. They can’t ever go back from this now. Jason doesn’t even know how to want to.
“You feel so–” Tim says. Jason hasn’t seen him this shaken maybe ever. “You’re so–you don’t even know. Oh, God. Jason.”
Clumsily, Jason nudges Tim by the cheek, back up to his mouth. Tim takes the hint like a champ. They’re kissing again, quieter and gentler then before. Like they could do this forever.
Tim lets out a sigh against Jason’s mouth. And then he moves.
He’s fucking relentless, when he wants to be. Jason never forgets that. It’s all Jason can do to grip onto Tim’s shoulders, just fucking–taking it. And taking it. Tim’s chest rubs up against the tip of Jason’s dick, again and again, and Jason is panting so hard that he actually feels lightheaded.
Tim keeps up a steady stream of sweet nothings above him. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he promises. “You’re so good, you’re so beautiful,” he says. Mostly, it’s just Jason’s name, over and over again. Into Jason’s neck, into his mouth. At one point, he says it while pressing a kiss into Jason’s sweaty forehead.
He’s too fucking sweet. Jason is too fucking hot, flushed from the top of his head all the way down his chest. The only words Jason can manage are, in no particular order, “Fuck,” “Jesus,” and “Tim,” which, when said desperately enough, sounds like a litany all on its own.
“You’re so beautiful,” Tim mutters again, into the side of Jason’s lip. Jason’s moan is a strangled, breathless thing. “You’re so gorgeous. You’re doing so well, sweetheart.”
“Tim,” Jason says, useless and desperate. “Tim, I think I–”
He comes unceremoniously, splattering sticky strings of pearl across Tim’s chest. It shakes through Jason’s whole body, leaving him gasping and starry-eyed. Tim moves into him once, twice, before he’s shuddering along with Jason.
“Oh my God,” Jason says, staring up at the ceiling.
“Yeah.” Tim collapses into Jason’s chest completely. “Yeah, I fucking know.”
This is probably the part where he finds out that everything from the bar onwards has been a dream. Some kind of dying fantasy from whatever it is that will inevitably kill him again. But the slight weight of Tim on top of him is warm and vivid and real enough. So is the quickly drying gummy come in between.
“Okay,” Jason says, patting at Tim’s shoulder. “This is–fucking gross. We gotta–”
With a sigh, Tim rolls off of him. Jason paradoxically misses the warmth. He walks into Jason’s kitchen completely buttass naked. Jason probably should say something. Instead, he just watches. Since it’s an eensy-weensy studio, Jason has full view of everything Tim’s doing. Completely casual, Tim ties off the condom and dumps into the kitchen trash. He grabs a couple of washcloths and wets them into the sink. There’s something strange and disgusting and domestic about it all. Jason’s heart is doing that weird, shaky thing again.
Tim turns back and catches Jason staring. He snorts. “Creep.”
“First of all, you’re one to talk,” Jason says. “Second of all, we just had sex. Me being a creep is the least of your worries.” He’s not quite able to keep the giddiness out of his voice, but that’s alright, because Tim looks like he’s biting down on a smile of his own.
Jason sits up as Tim approaches, holding out his hand for the washcloth. Tim doesn’t give it to him. He sits down on the bed besides Jason and starts wiping at Jason’s chest himself, which almost makes Jason want to drag him back down on the bed and go for round two.
“I can take care of it,” Jason says.
“I know,” Tim says, but he doesn’t stop.
With a huff, Jason picks up the other rag and goes to town on Tim’s chest. Tim rolls his eyes, but lets him have it. Eventually, they’re about as clean as the washcloths will get them, although Jason will definitely have to take a shower later. Maybe he could get Tim to tag along. Save some on the water bill.
Except he can’t be stupid about this. Tim probably means this as a one-time, stress relief thing. Probably he wants them both to forget about this entirely and never talk about it again, leaving Jason to keep on pining like a romance heroine in silence.
But then again, Tim was the one who invited Jason to the bar. Tim was the one who kissed Jason first. Tim was the one who suggested the horizontal surface, who didn’t let go of Jason’s hand all the way back to the apartment. He had told Jason he was beautiful. He had called him sweetheart.
“That was, uh,” Tim says, laboriously. Any of his previous bravado is gone. Jason stares at him. “That was nice.”
“Yeah,” Jason says. "Hey."
Tim probably meant to say something, but Jason cuts him off by kissing him again. Just a soft, quiet touch of the lips. There isn’t even any tongue involved. It’s just Jason trying to say I’m here and You have me. If you want me, you have me .
“Hey,” Jason says again. He’s whispering even though it’s just the two of them. “Why’d you kiss me anyway?”
Tim wets his lips, making a very valiant effort to pretend like he’s not staring at Jason’s mouth. “I just–couldn’t take it anymore. Wanting you and knowing you wanted me back and not doing anything about it on the off-chance that–you didn’t actually want me the way I wanted you. Like you were just–”
“Just what?” Jason asks, but Tim doesn’t answer. “Tim. How do you want me?”
“Just–” Tim gestures up and down along Jason’s body before he puts his face into his hands. “All of it! The whole thing! The sexy stuff, the gross stuff, the embarrassing stuff, the sappy stuff. I’m not–I don’t usually–”
“Yeah,” Jason says, surprising himself. “I mean. Same here.” Tim jerks his head up to look at Jason, who looks down and picks at a spot of lube on the sheets. Gross. He’s going to have to change them later. “The whole thing. All of it. It’s been–a really weird couple of months for me.”
Tim laughs, and Jason doesn’t have any choice but to look back at him. He’s smiling that big, stupid grin that Jason hates so much, only he doesn’t really hate it at all. Tim drapes one arm across Jason’s shoulder, presses his smile into Jason’s still naked back.
“God,” Tim says and then, mostly to himself. “This is such a bad idea.”
Sure. Probably. But’s what one more bad idea in a long string of them; especially when said bad idea’s name is Tim Drake?
“You know,” Jason says, suddenly. “I have this really great idea for water conservation.”