Title: Until the day is born Fandom: DCU (Post-War Games) Series: To be awakened (Story #3) Pairing: Clark/Tim Rating: Adult Summary: Tim doesn't want to be someone who wants this, but he is. Notes and Excuses: This is so extremely Te's fault I don't have words to express it. The worst part of it was when she started going on about Breyfogle Tim -- he of the early Robin minis -- and how perhaps he was still there, under all of the years of Woods, if only someone could reach him. Love to Betty for providing hand-holding from someone other than Te. Disclaimer: The characters belong to DC Comics. I just pervert them when people make me. Kissing Clark was never a bad idea. It takes Tim a few tries to realize that it's safe, as much as anything can be. By that point, he's more or less addicted. Moreover, right here, right now, Clark is lifting him off the bed and making a soft noise that -- It's never been Superman. Whether or not Superman has ever made a noise that vulnerable is a question best left to people with more complete data than Tim has, at this point. He's not interested in Superman -- Superman is important, but Clark is real, present, and running his fingers through Tim's hair. Soon breathing will become important, but until then, there's all of the warmth and wet and tangling and -- all of the kissing that is just exactly like sex, but more so. It's not going to matter when he runs out of air. He still won't want to breathe if it means breaking this contact. That thought in itself makes him want to pull away -- how can something so simple as friction be so viscerally perfect? -- but he doesn't have that much strength. Even if it weren't Clark, he might not. How he ended up with his legs around Clark's thigh is irrelevant. Possibly a miracle. It doesn't matter how, just that he has the perfect, hard, muscled truth of Clark right there, and -- He really has to breathe. Maybe after he's finished rocking his hips -- so hard, so right -- Breathing -- Clark puts a hand on his hip and lets his mouth go. Tim gasps and tries to hide the strained quality of his breathing -- he's suffered worse -- but Clark is smiling at him. There's nothing he needs to hide and nowhere to hide it. If he had a mask -- If he had his cape -- If he were actually dressed in anything at all -- It wouldn't matter. He wants to turn his face away, but Clark is kissing him again. He has a sense that he's losing, and that he has never been happier to lose. It's not a battle. It has nothing in it like a battle, and that is why he is losing. He tries to remember the last time he had something he couldn't bear to let go and hears his father's voice echoing in the Batcave. No. He let Robin go. He can't let this go -- Clark stops. Tim is surprised for a moment that his heart doesn't stop. Clark studies him, smiling a little. Clark smiles so readily. "Are you all right? You said something." Tim can make himself not blush. But not right now. "I didn't mean to. I --" Tim kisses him, but Clark is slipping toward Superman for the moment. "Are you all right?" "Yes." He bites back 'dammit,' and it takes effort. Real effort to not swear in front of Clark, even though Clark has heard a thousand times worse. Tim fights for a breath that isn't hitched, a moment that's something he can control. Clark is still looking at him and not kissing him. "Tim --" "Don't," Tim says, and this time when he kisses Clark, he's losing and winning all at once. He can't remember being this hard -- and then he can, in perfect aching memory. How it had felt the night that he wore a Robin suit, not his, but Jason's -- How it had felt to be the person that Bruce needed. The person that Dick needed. It hadn't hit him until he was home in his own bed, miles from the suit he'd worn, and then he understood it all and he could hardly bear to touch himself. That kissing Clark is the same rush of completion and being in the perfect moment -- He wants to think about it, but Clark is rubbing his back and he can't stop thrusting against Clark's leg. Muscular control is gone. He hears himself moan and it's mortifying. He hears himself do it again. "Tim," Clark says, but that's Clark, not Superman. Clark who is pushing him away, and Tim hears himself groan -- worse and worse -- with protest. "Please," he says, and that's incoherent. He tries again and gets out, "Don't stop touching me." Clark mouths his neck and lays him on the bed. "I've got you." He runs his hands up Tim's thighs and this time Tim manages not to make a sound, just to spread himself as wide as he can -- the degrees of imperfection are there, but it's smoother than crying out would be. Clark says, "You're so beautiful." Tim wants to laugh, but Clark is nuzzling his thigh and he can only gasp. "Let me," Clark says. "Yes," Tim says, and he should ask what, he should ask when, or why, or how, or anything, but Clark is lifting his hips and licking him there and all he has is a brief hysterical thought that it's just as well Superman can't get human diseases. Then he hears himself moan again and he wants to be a thousand miles away. Even if Clark could still hear him. He can't stop the sound from happening even though it doesn't make sense to make noise. He can't imagine Clark needs to hear any of the sounds to understand that Tim's responding -- the twitch of his muscles alone -- and yet he's still making noise. Worse -- louder, more obviously than anything -- he's fisting his hands in Clark's hair. It's obscene to want this and the slippery sound of it under his groans only makes it more real, more naked. He doesn't want to be someone who wants this, but he is. Words take breath, and his breath is gone. He fights for enough to say, "Clark," and the way Clark speeds up makes his thighs shake hard. His hands -- he's pulling and pushing and anyone else, anyone at all, would be in pain. He can't make Clark stop that way, and he can't push his legs together, can't close his mouth. The force of his orgasm -- that he can even reach a climax from this alone -- but -- The words in his head go away. It's too hot, too invasive and all-pervading and -- everywhere, inside him and -- Tim braces his feet against the bed and comes, naked and vulnerable and human. He's saying, "Stop, stop, please stop." Losing the heat of Clark's mouth hurts as much as he knew it would, and as irrationally. Clark is over him, on him in an instant, hugging him though Tim is wet with his own come and Clark is hard, so hard against his thigh. "Tim. I -- I didn't hear you." Tim's shivering hard and the only thing that makes him not push Clark away is that Clark is still Clark. Superman has to know there was nothing to hear. Tim shakes his head and hides his face -- finally -- in Clark's shoulder. "I didn't say anything until -- I --" "I'm sorry," Clark says. "Did I hurt you?" Tim shakes his head again and doesn't, can't look up. Not yet. "Then --" Tim wants to hit him or shake him, but he can't do either. "I just --" and he looks up, feeling the lack of a mask, feeling every shudder and every bit of exposure that he can't put away. It's like dreaming about going out as Robin naked. But it's not a dream. Clark blinks at him and touches his cheek. "Are you all right?" He tries to stop his eyes from narrowing and his cheeks from tensing in a wince at the concern, the warmth -- wincing at Clark is not something he ever does. But he does. "Tim," Clark says. Tim pushes him away, weakly, because everything he does is weak compared to what Clark can do. Even kiss. Even make love. "Just -- just please. Leave me alone." Clark lets him go, but he's frowning. "Are you sure?" Tim can feel himself looking lost for a moment -- when did he stop knowing how to not widen his eyes? -- and then he nods. "Yes. I -- I'm sorry." Clark squeezes his shoulder and gets out of bed. "You're sure I didn't --" Tim scowls at him, and that, at least, feels right and familiar. "It wasn't your fault. Everything -- everything will be fine. Just -- just please go home." His bed will be viciously cold and empty without Clark there. His life -- Clark is standing on the floor, naked and perfect. "Tim --" Tim wants to look determined about his decision, but he can feel the expression waver and fail. "Don't go," he says, against his own will, and he feels greedy and young. He can't ask this of Clark. Clark is holding him as soon as he says it, wrapped around him safe and warm. There's nowhere safer than Clark's arms. "I'm here," Clark says, and strokes his back. "Will you be all right?" "I don't know," Tim says. "Tim --" Tim hides his face in Clark's chest again. "I don't know. I -- I'll keep you posted." Clark chuckles and strokes his hair. "I'll be listening." Tim shivers and lets himself lean on Clark, taking in as much warmth as he can. "I know." "Let me know as soon as you figure it out," Clark says, and Tim isn't drifting. Tim can't look at him -- not now, not when Clark will be able to see every last thing he's thinking -- but at least Tim can rock against him, again. It's not the same urgency as when Tim couldn't think for wanting. It's saner, gentler, until Clark grinds back and groans in his ear. "Are you sure?" he says. Tim kisses his nipple. Licks it. "Yes. I can't just --" "Oh --" Clark shivers. "You could --" Tim looks up at him and consciously, carefully arches an eyebrow. "Let me?" It makes Clark laugh and gasp, which is everything Tim wanted. Tim feels himself smiling even if it's not perfect to do this with his hips. Instead -- he shifts away and Clark touches his shoulders -- so lightly, so consciously lightly -- They both need a shower. Clark is smeary and sticky, and his stomach is damp. He doesn't taste human, but his hands feel as gentle as any human could be under the circumstances. Tim sucks him -- wants to tell him to push, to be Clark, where it's safe -- and he looks up. Meets Clark's eyes. Clark groans and says, "Tim -- it's --" Tim lets him go long enough to say, "It's only fair," and opens his mouth again, trying to be as warm as Clark, as open and giving. He can't be. He'll never be. But what he can do -- and what he's been doing -- is enough to make Clark arch off the bed a little. With enough time, Tim might relearn how to calculate his movements just from watching Clark. They don't have that kind of time now. "Always perfect," Clark says. He meets Tim's eyes again. He's beaming, and then he moans. His fingers are tangled in Tim's hair, not pushing, not forcing, just there, as real and necessary as the thickness of him in Tim's mouth. Clark gasps and squeezes -- a human-strength squeeze, even as he comes. Tim envies his control and coughs and swallows. Clark tugs him up into another hug, a much more settled one. "Tim -- you didn't have to --" Tim kisses him. Clark's mouth still makes him feel naked, and he doesn't have a solution for that yet. If satiety doesn't suffice, he'll have to work out another way to keep -- no. He has to regain some detachment. He can't possibly do it with Clark kissing him. Clark hugging him -- which goes on even longer than the kiss -- is also an impediment. He's pressed against Clark's side, and for the first time in a very long time, he's warm all the way through his body. The solutions will have to wait.
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