
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13047408.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      DCU
  Relationship:
      Tim_Drake/Damian_Wayne
  Character:
      Tim_Drake, Damian_Wayne
  Additional Tags:
      Hate_Sex, Teasing, Puberty, Accidental_Voyeurism, Rough_Oral_Sex,
      Dominance, Objectification, Verbal_Humiliation, Dirty_Talk, Sexual
      Tension, Facials
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-12-17 Words: 3034
****** For a Change ******
by MissNaya
Summary
     Tim notices everything, whether he wants to or not. He knows by the
     clothes Dick wears whether he’s on-again or off-again with Barbara
     (tight pants and polo shirts mean on-again). He remembers how many
     bullets Jason has left even when Jason himself forgets. And he knows
     that Damian has been jerking off to the thought of him for at least
     several weeks.
Notes
     yet another commission, and my first polished damitim fic. thanks to
     chronicallyNaughty for the idea!
See the end of the work for more notes
Tim notices everything, whether he wants to or not. He knows by the clothes
Dick wears whether he’s on-again or off-again with Barbara (tight pants and
polo shirts mean on-again). He remembers how many bullets Jason has left even
when Jason himself forgets. And he knows that Damian has been jerking off to
the thought of him for at  least  several weeks.
It’s not like he was trying to figure it out. It’s just that Damian is much
less of a mystery than he makes himself out to be, particularly now that he’s
knee-deep in the throes of puberty. He remembers the night he first noticed,
after a particularly rough patrol where Damian’s recklessness had cost Tim at
least a dozen arrests. Bruce would have taken care of reprimanding him any
other time, but he’d been off-world on official League business for months.
That meant it was up to Tim to make sure the little demon knew exactly how much
he’d messed up.
They’d gotten into a shouting match so loud it had scared the bats off of their
perches high above their heads. Tim hadn’t intended for things to get so
heated, but Damian had been unbearably smug about his anger, which only fed
into it even more. Things culminated in a short scuffle; ages of pent-up
frustration tipped the scales in Tim’s favor, and he had found himself pinning
Damian against the nearest wall, arms wrenched behind his back, knee jabbing
into the base of his spine.
“Wipe that smile off your face  now, ” he’d growled, carefully enunciating
every word, “you bratty little  pain-in-the-ass. ”
He knew something went wrong when Damian stiffened and wrenched away from him.
Even more so when he left the Cave without a single word, not even bothering to
retaliate. For a tense few moments, Tim had wondered if he’d been too vicious,
if he’d slipped up and let his rivalry with Damian get the better of him. He
wasn’t his biggest fan, but he didn’t want their teamwork to suffer because of
it. Resolving himself to choke out a quick, awkward apology, he had slipped
silently upstairs to stand in front of Damian’s room.
The door was cracked. Damian’s door was  never  open, so he had to have been in
a really sorry state to be so careless. Tim had raised a hand to knock, but
paused in mid-air when he heard it.
A small gasp. The tiniest, simplest noise, that he thought at first might mean
Damian was actually crying. But there, underneath it, was something else, a
quick and wet  schlp-schlp-schlp  that Tim recognized all too well. Then there
was another noise, a much less ambiguous one, followed by a breathy voice that
grunted out, “ Drake. ”
He’d turned and left after that.
 
That had been the first time, but it certainly wasn’t the last. Once Tim was
able to recognize certain signs in Damian — increased agitation, tense
shoulders, fingers that twitched by his sides whenever they argued — it was
easy to calculate when he’d reach his breaking point (always signified by a
quick, silent retreat to his room as soon as their night’s work concluded). The
few times he’d gone back upstairs to confirm his hypothesis, he’d heard those
sounds again; the gasping, the moaning, and, every once in a while, his name.
Those nights, he’d have the Cave to himself, with ample time to work on his
projects without fielding snarky comments from the Demon Brat. It was peaceful.
It was productive.
Which is why, he told himself, he’d started to take a less passive approach.
It didn’t take much. Damian’s hormones burned like an underground coal fire, so
constant and intense that sometimes Tim liked to imagine he could actually
smell them polluting the air. Just one fleeting touch, or a tongue darting
between his lips to catch an errant drop of coffee, would have Damian’s dark
skin reddening and set his teeth on edge like an animal trying to ward off a
predator.
It was heady, being that predator for once.
 
Maybe that’s why he still can’t stop himself from taunting Damian, weeks later.
It’s their new normal, something he slips effortlessly into their inevitable
bickering. It’s wrong, he knows, to mess with him like that, but in his
defense, it’s like Damian has actually gotten  more  determined to piss him off
recently.
“That’s wrong,” Damian says, for what has to be the fiftieth time that night.
He leans forward, one hand braced on the back of Tim’s chair, the other
pointing toward one of the monitors displaying the schematics Tim’s drawn up
for a new, discreet surveillance camera design. “Your measurements for the lens
are  completely  off, Drake. This work is even shoddier than usual.”
“You’re reading it wrong,” Tim responds flatly. “That’s 61, not 87.”
“Well, your handwriting is atrocious.”
Instead of batting Damian’s arm away, Tim grabs him by the wrist and lowers it.
He delights in the way Damian doesn’t yank back until after he lets him go.
“Why don’t you hit the showers?” he asks. “I can’t concentrate if you’re gonna
crowd me with your B.O. all night.”
Damian’s indignant little sputter is music to his ears. “I refuse to take
hygiene tips from a hermit like you!”
“Uh-huh,” Tim says. He tips his teacup up to his face, as if trying to mask
Damian’s smell with its aroma. In reality, the kid’s fine, but he figures it’s
enough to get him worried about whether or not Tim truly can smell the rush of
testosterone in the air.
“Don’t dismiss me,” Damian snarls. When Tim still doesn’t respond, he grabs the
back of the chair and spins it around. “I’m  talking  to you!”
The sudden movement causes some of the tea to slosh out of the cup and splatter
on Tim’s pants. By now, it’s lukewarm, so it’s little more than an
inconvenience, but it’s an inconvenience that signifies tonight’s gonna be a
long one unless he can get Damian under control. The kid’s already standing
like he’s won, with his back straight and his arms crossed over his chest, a
satisfied little smirk on his face.
With a sigh, Tim reaches back to set his cup down.
“Why do you always do this?” he asks.
Damian, clearly caught off-guard by the question, wrinkles his nose. “Do what?”
“Get on my nerves.” Tim stands, pleased to see he’s still a couple inches
taller than Damian. “You really want my attention that bad?”
“D-don’t be  stupid, ” Damian says, doing a poor job to disguise the stutter in
his voice. “I merely wish to keep you from completely ruining our operations.”
“You can’t go one night without starting something, can you?” Tim asks.
He takes one step forward. Damian takes one back.
“I—”
“No. Shut up.” When Damian opens his mouth to protest, Tim shoves him by the
shoulder, advancing on him more. “It’s like ever since we fought, you’ve been
raring to go again. You want to see me angry, don’t you?”
Some of the color drains from Damian’s face. He seems to momentarily stop
breathing.
“Don’t give me that stupid look. You don’t get to pick fights and then back
down from them, brat.” Once they’re within arm’s reach of a wall, Tim grabs
Damian by the shirt and slams his back against it. “You want a rematch? Let’s
get it over with. The  adults  have  work  to do.”
There it is. The tensing shoulders. The way his hands almost shake when he
wraps them around Tim’s wrists. Damian’s eyes dart back and forth as if
searching for an exit, something like panic on his face.
“Drake, this is—  Unhand  me—”
“You wanted to talk,” Tim says, lowering his voice. “Let’s talk.”
Damian says nothing. He squirms, shoulders writhing, but Tim keeps him pinned
against the wall. Try as Damian may to wrench Tim’s hands off of him, all he
succeeds in doing is spurring Tim to grab his wrists and slam them back against
the rock face.
By the time Damian’s hands are pinned beside his head, they’re both panting,
despite not exerting much effort.
“Drake,” Damian says. It’s almost a plea.
Tim ignores him and glances down.
“...Hah. Are you serious?” he asks, as if he’s actually surprised to see
Damian’s hard-on straining in his pants. “Is this  getting you off? ”
Damian spits out a few words in Arabic that don’t sound very kind. He tops it
all off with, “I hate you, Drake, I  hate —”
Tim’s knee between his legs chokes his words off into a feral-sounding hiss.
His head tosses back to  thunk  hard against the wall.
Tim doesn’t know why he did it. Surely this is too far even for them. But the
way Damian’s mouth falls open, the way he actually  keens  from the firm grind
of Tim’s kneepad into his crotch, it all makes it seem worth it in that moment.
“So that’s why,” he murmurs, vaguely aware that his lips have found their way
to the underside of Damian’s jaw. “You just wanted me to manhandle you again,
didn’t you?”
Though it comes out several octaves higher and tighter than usual, Damian
manages to spit out, “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Tim bites him, right on the soft spot between jaw and neck. He hears Damian
rush to muffle his resulting moan.
He realizes then that this is actually happening. Here they are, in the middle
of the damn Batcave, him with Bruce’s fucking  son  hard and gasping up against
the wall.
Okay, yeah, this has totally crossed the line from “taunting” to something else
entirely. He’s gonna need to replace all the surveillance tapes from tonight
before Bruce gets back.
But he can worry about that later.
For now, he moves his leg around, watching the way Damian’s hips twitch and
stutter with every new burst of sensation. He doesn’t hear anything, though.
When he looks up, he realizes it’s because Damian is biting his lip hard enough
that a trail of blood drips down his chin.
Without thinking, he leans forward and licks it up. It startles Damian long
enough for Tim to get a thumb between his teeth and pry his mouth open.
“Uh-uh,” he says. He can scarcely believe the husky sound that comes out of his
mouth is  his  voice, but he loves the way it makes Damian’s eyes darken with
lust. “You’re gonna let me hear you.”
Damian’s knees practically buckle at the command, his eyelashes fluttering
while his eyes roll up into the back of his head. He doesn’t utilize his now-
free hand to try to get away. He just moans, low and helpless.
Tim licks his too-dry lips. With the taste of Damian’s blood lingering there,
he says, “There you go. Now, get on your knees.”
Damian tries his best to glare, he really does. But, drooling around Tim’s
thumb, cock throbbing against his knee, he doesn’t look very intimidating. Tim
guides him down with the hand holding his mouth open. The second Damian is
kneeling at his feet, he removes his thumb and snatches him up by the hair.
“...Look what you did,” he says, sticking his tea-stained leg forward. “Why
don’t you clean me up, brat?”
Damian’s nostrils flare. He’s never looked more humiliated, more livid, more
aroused.  “You  pervert. ”
“Says the one who got hard getting pushed around,” Tim says. Thrusting his leg
forward more indignantly, he says, “Now, clean. Up. Your. Mess.”
He doesn’t wait for a response before tugging Damian’s face flush with his
thigh. Damian muffles some sort of noise against the fabric, brow set in a hard
crease, eyes fluttering shut. His hands come up, but rather than push Tim away,
he tangles shaky fists around the back of his leg.
Christ, what a sight.
Tim has to swallow a lump in his throat to ensure he doesn’t lose his cool,
unaffected tone. “About time you finally learn some responsibility. I guess
that’s why you act out so much? All you needed was someone to put you in your
place instead of kowtowing to you. Go figure.”
Damian bares his teeth. “My  place  is not at your  feet,  Drake.”
“It is, though,” Tim says. “I know you’re a big, bad al Ghul and all, but the
thing is? I don’t care. Act like a little prince all you want, but you’re doing
way better as my washing machine right now.”
Damian glares up at him, snarling, eyes wide. “You…!”
“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” Tim says, and tugs him back into place again.
 
For the next few minutes, it’s almost as if a fog has descended over them.
Damian huffs and licks until Tim’s pants are even wetter than they were before,
and Tim guides him up and down, occasionally pressing the toe of his boot
between Damian’s legs when he sucks a spot of fabric clean.
They keep it up until there’s no reason for Damian to continue. The scent of
tea has been replaced with something thick and musky, a spit-slick sort of
filthiness that makes Tim feel like he’s floating.
Slowly, gradually, he guides Damian’s mouth toward the straining bulge in his
pants. They meet each other’s eyes, Tim’s cool blue against Damian’s hazy
green.
“...You pervert,” Damian sighs again, before lifting his trembling hands to
undo Tim’s belt.
It’s clear once Tim’s dick is out that Damian doesn’t quite know what to do. He
looks overwhelmed, his mouth impossibly small beside Tim’s length, which isn’t
enormous, but it’s definitely big in proportion.
“Wrap your hands around me,” Tim says. “Open your mouth.”
Damian, shockingly obedient, does what he’s told. Their eyes remain locked as
Tim slowly rocks his hips forward.
Damian’s mouth stretches wide to accommodate him. It’s hot and wet and soft,
and it takes all of Tim’s self-control to thrust at a steady, shallow pace
instead of the frantic one he wants to set. Damian doesn’t quite know how to
move his mouth and hands in tandem, and he sucks and licks separately as if he
can’t remember to do both at the same time, but despite his inexperience, it
feels incredible. Just to have Damian on his knees, looking up at him without
malice for once, drives Tim absolutely crazy.
God, he’s going to Hell. But he may as well enjoy the trip.
The wet little suckling sounds Damian makes seem impossibly loud in the vast
emptiness of the cave. Tim rocks his hips faster to hear more of them,
interspersed with Damian’s tiny, muffled noises. Damian shocks him by leaning
forward all at once, making eye contact while he somehow takes Tim down his
throat without gagging.
Little overachiever.
Tim clamps a hand down over his mouth to muffle a moan. Damian’s eyes sparkle
with mischief; Tim knows he has to think fast to maintain his advantage, so he
rolls with the development, fucking in and out of Damian’s tight throat.
“I, ah… Mmn…” Tangling his fingers in Damian’s bangs, he holds him steady for a
few extra seconds when his cock is deep inside. “...I’m gonna come on your
face, little prince.”
That does it. Damian’s eyes go wide, then his brow furrows, and he makes a
gagging little moan that sends drool bubbling up out of the corners of his
mouth. He grips Tim’s shirt as if to pull him even closer, betraying his true
feelings even though he makes muffled sounds of protest.
“What?” Tim asks. “Don’t like that? Don’t like that I’m gonna mark you up,
demon brat? Well—  hahh — too bad. I think it’s a good punishment, don’t you?”
Damian holds up one rather rude finger. Tim holds his head down in response
until he feels Damian’s throat muscles pulse and flutter around him.
“Damian,” he says once he starts moving again, “you’re going to touch yourself.
Get yourself off with my cum all over your face. You understand me?”
Damian’s wide eyes spell out his compliance for him, but Tim wants to hear it.
He pulls his cock out, dragging it over Damian’s cheek while he gasps for
breath.
“Do you understand me?” he asks again, surprised by how authoritative he
sounds.
“Drake—”
Possessed by some animalistic frenzy, Tim smacks the side of Damian’s face with
his cock. “Say it.”
“ Ya Allah.  Tim—”
Hearing his name uttered in such reverent desperation makes Tim’s cock twitch.
He wipes the resulting bead of precum on Damian’s bottom lip.
“Say. It.”
“I understand,” Damian gasps. “I understand.”
Tim pries Damian’s hands off of his cock and begins to stroke himself instead.
“Then do it, Damian. Touch yourself for me.”
Damian’s name seems to have the same effect on him. Immediately, his hands go
to his waistband, rushing to free his cock. Tim catches sight of it, flushed
and red and no doubt oversensitive from its previous rough treatment, before
Damian closes both hands around it.
The Cave is overtaken by the sounds of gasping and moaning and the obscene wet
slapping sound of their hands on their cocks. Damian, Tim notes, hasn’t even
taken his gloves off. He wonders if he’s too deep in the throes of pleasure to
care, or if this is how he normally likes to do it, creating friction to make
it hurt just a bit. With how he reacted when his knee was between his legs, Tim
has a hunch it’s the latter.
He’s not sure what pushes him over the edge specifically: the thought of Damian
handling himself so roughly in order to get off, or the way his tongue lulls
out of the side of his mouth, curling against the underside of Tim’s cock to
encourage him to finish. Every bit of his face is slick with either sweat or
spit or precum, his cheeks flushed red, perfectly disheveled, no,  almost
perfect—
And then he comes, splashing Damian’s forehead and cheek and eyelid and rubbing
off the excess from his tip onto Damian’s waiting tongue. Now, dripping and
whining and positively ruined,  now  he’s perfect.
“Good boy,” he says, “good boy.”
Damian cries out and arches and comes all over Tim’s shoes.
He’ll have to make him bend down and clean that mess up, too.
End Notes
     catch me on tumblr before The Man takes our internet porn access
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
