(DCU) Taste The Green
Title: Taste The Green
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Tim/Damian
Rating: NC-17
Words: 2271
Notes: Costume kink. For a prompt at dcu_memes.
A/N: Set in the future, but in a way that ignores the reboot.
Summary: Damian is wearing the original Robin uniform. Tim doesn't think he can be blamed if he loses his mind a little.
It’s the uniform. It has to be the uniform, because there’s no other reason Tim would react to Damian like this.
Yes, Tim’s noticed that Damian has grown attractive as the years have passed. But it’s a detached sort of observation, one that has no personal effect on Tim’s life.
Just because Damian is attractive doesn’t mean that Tim is actually attracted to him.
Damian is still Damian. He may be almost out of his teens now, but he’s still a patronising, spoiled little brat towards Tim. It doesn’t matter how much it disappoints the rest of the family - the truth is that the two of them will probably never get along.
So it makes no sense that Tim’s heart is in his throat, that there’s heat pooling between his legs, cock stirring in interest at the sight of all that skin.
Hence him blaming it on the uniform.
There has to be a reason Damian’s wearing it. A bet, maybe? A dare? Something to do with Jason or Steph or maybe even Dick.
Whatever the reason, nobody thought to warn Tim that when he stepped into the Batcave, he’d be confronted by the sight of Damian stretching on the mats, wearing the original Robin uniform.
Taut red fabric across his chest, a slither of toned stomach visible underneath where it’s not quite long enough for Damian’s torso. Short cape that doesn’t quite cover the swell of his ass. And the shorts, bright green and obscenely tight.
Maybe if Tim had been expecting it, he could have covered his reaction better. But he wasn’t and he didn’t and Damian had seen.
Damian had watched Tim’s face, seen the stab of arousal that no doubt flittered clearly across it. And Damian’s own expression had morphed from shock to the kind of grin that made him seem like a predator.
It’s the uniform. It has to be. Tim’s had fantasies about that damn thing since he first hit puberty. Except the idea that he could get aroused for just anyone wearing that particular costume is a little disturbing. And also untrue, because he’s seen other people wear it before. Folks at Halloween, some of the more deranged members of their rogues gallery, even strippers.
The costume is as much a part of Gotham’s history as it is Tim’s own.
So it’s not just the uniform, which means at least a part of it is Damian, and Tim can feel himself pressing back against the workbench Damian’s managed to box him in against. Damian’s hands are braced against the counter on either side of Tim’s hips and he’s using every inch of height he has over Tim to loom over him.
“I’ve known you’re a lot of things, Drake, but a pervert?” he’s sneering, expression haughty. “Just when I think you can’t embarrass yourself any further, you reach new depths.”
God, he’s going to hold this over Tim’s head forever. He’s never going to let a single day go by without reminding Tim that he got hard for the sight of Damian in the original Robin uniform.
He’s going to use this to torture Tim.
The thought of it makes something rise in Tim’s chest, something tight and angry. Something that makes him want to take Damian’s casual cruelty and throw it back in his face.
Everyone always expects Tim to rise above Damian’s behaviour. They expected it when Damian was ten and they still expect it now.
Right now Tim wants nothing more to stoop down to Damian’s level.
Something in his expression must change, because Damian’s voice cuts out. Not that Tim’s being paying attention to the steady string of derision anyway, but the arrogance on Damian’s face has subsided somewhat, replaced by something wary.
Tim gives his own feral smile and licks his lips.
Damian’s eyes widen a little.
It makes Tim feel more bold, more reckless.
“I’m the pervert?” he asks quietly. He lets himself lean back against the workbench, spine arching so his hips push out. He doesn’t miss the way Damian’s gaze flickers down, only for a second but enough that he can see the change of atmosphere registering on Damian’s face. “Looking at our positions right now, you think I’m the pervert?”
A little of the cockiness seeps back into Damian’s face, and he smirks, making a tutting noise with his tongue. This time when his eyes rake across Tim’s body, it’s slow and deliberate. “I’m not the one getting all flustered at the sight of a little leg, Drake.”
If Damian thinks he can control this little contest of flirtation, he’s very wrong. Tim lets his smile be slow and wet and dirty. “But you are the one trying to push me up against the nearest flat surface,” he counters slyly.
Damian falters, and Tim takes advantage of the moment to lean forward, pressing up on tiptoes so his lips can ghost over Damian’s ear. “I don’t think I’m the only pervert here.”
He expects Damian to get indignant, to shove him away. Damian will leave the cave in a sulk, which makes it an automatic win for Tim by Damian’s own bizarre rules. Meaning that Damian will never discuss it again, as is his usual tactic whenever he perceives Tim’s gotten the best of him.
That’s what Tim expects.
Instead, Damian shivers and Tim hears a quiet gasp pass his lips.
And, oh, this has already gone too far. Tim doesn’t do things like this, it just isn’t him.
But as he pulls back, achingly slow, Damian’s watching him, lips parted and eyes dilated, and Tim doesn’t want to stop.
He’s not even really aware that he’s moving until his knees hit the floor.
He looks up at Damian through his eyelashes, lets his expression be just as hot as he feels inside, burning up with this strange tension, with the smell of Damian’s skin and the colours of the Robin suit seared across his mind.
There are so many reasons why he shouldn’t be doing this, but for once Tim’s brain is failing him, can’t recall a single excuse why this can’t happen.
Instead he reaches forward and runs his fingers lightly up Damian’s thigh.
The muscles twitch under his touch, but Damian makes no effort to leave.
Tim closes his eyes a moment, feeling dizzy. “You shaved for this,” he whispers, feeling the proof under his fingers, smooth hairless skin.
“I- It -” Damian stammers above him.
“It’s good,” Tim says mindlessly, opening his eyes again as he leans forward, and the noise Damian makes when Tim’s tongue drags across his skin is sharp and deep.
The flesh of his leg is so warm under Tim’s mouth.
Tim licks a path up Damian’s inner thigh, inhaling the scent of fresh sweat and arousal. There’s dark hair visible between his legs, not quite covered by the shorts, so apparently Damian didn’t shave everywhere.
Tim drags his lips across the hair, and Damian gasps again, wavering above him before his hand settles lightly on Tim’s head. Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it, just petting lightly at the hair above Tim’s ear.
They should stop. Tim should stop. Joke’s over, never mind that it wasn’t a joke in the first place and there’s no part of Tim that’s laughing. What he’s doing, it doesn’t make sense, except he’s got the strangest feeling that they’ve been heading for this for a while.
He should stop.
He doesn’t want to.
He licks along the hem of the shorts, tongue half on fabric, half on skin. It’s painfully obvious that Damian isn’t wearing a jock, and Tim feels a little dizzy to see how much this is effecting him already.
Between his own legs, his cock throbs at the sight.
He slides both hands up to grip Damian’s hips, shifting forward on his knees. He doesn’t care if this is insane, if he can barely stand to be in the same room as Damian most days.
Right now he needs this.
He presses his face against the heavy bulge behind the fabric of the Robin shorts, nosing at the curve of it, the hardness. Damian grunts, his hips minutely pushing forward but Tim holds them steady. Just taking a moment to explore, to get lost in the familiarity of the shorts and the new sensation of Damian’s heat behind them. Rubbing his cheeks and jaw there, listening to every hitch of Damian’s breathing.
It shouldn’t feel this good, but it does.
He licks at the fabric, outlining Damian’s shape behind it, licking up the line of the shaft. Peppering open-mouthed kisses over the swell of the head before he presses his lips there and sucks as hard as he can, and Damian lets out a strangled sound above him.
There’s a thump and a creak that Tim assumes is the hand not in his hair slamming down on the workbench and gripping the edge of the counter tight.
At first the material of the shorts tastes of practically nothing, just clean fabric. But the longer and harder Tim sucks at it, up and down the trapped length of Damian’s cock, the more he can taste sex, the more he can taste Damian. Filling his senses, filling his mind, and he rubs his face harder, holding Damian’s hips more firmly.
“Drake, I -” Damian mumbles above him, and the hand in Tim’s hair is still so light, as if Damian doesn’t know how to touch him, or doesn’t know if he should.
Tim makes a reassuring noise, slurred through the way his mouth drags over fabric, and slides his hands around and back to grip Damian’s ass. That gets him a surprised groan, and Damian’s hips pressing up against him, thrusting against the lines of Tim’s mouth.
He wants that, wants Damian losing control for him.
He gets rougher, rougher still as all the treatment gets him is more of Damian’s sounds, hungry and a little awed.
It’s when he starts using his teeth, just scraping them slightly along the base of Damian’s cock, that he gets a barked out, “Tim!”
He’s pretty sure he can count on one hand the number of times Damian’s called him by his given name.
He presses his teeth in a little, not hard but enough that Damian must be able to feel the pressure of them through the shorts, and Damian’s stroking his hair constantly now, pulling a little when it catches between his fingers. His hips are bucking up against Tim’s mouth, not in a way that hurts but a way that makes the slide of it perfect, makes his lips buzz and tingle.
His hands start to massage Damian’s ass firmly, squeezing each cheek beneath his palms, fingers drawing closer until they’re pressing down through the material into the cleft of Damian’s ass. And that’s when he feels Damian jerk above him, letting out an almost anguished shout, every muscle going momentarily rigid with tension before his cock is pulsing beneath Tim’s mouth. Musky scent and moisture seeping through the fabric as Damian comes for him, trembling and gripping Tim’s hair like he’s forgotten how to let go.
Tim groans, tilting his head back, pressing into Damian’s palm. He’s achingly hard, his boxers and the crotch of his sweats damp with pre-come. He’s not thinking when he shoves a hand down between his legs, just desperate to ease the pressure, to get friction. Rolling his hips up against his hand as he fumbles at the waistband.
He’s not expecting Damian to drop to the floor beside him or to swat his hand away.
But then Damian’s hand is pushing into his sweats, palming him, and Tim whimpers, bucking up into his fist. He gets a glimpse of Damian’s face, his flushed cheeks and dark eyes and the way he looks so intent, the way he’s staring at Tim’s face like he’s trying to read him.
And then he can’t keep his eyes open any longer. So close, leaning on Damian’s shoulder, not quite biting back all the noises spilling from his lips as he rides the movement of Damian’s hand. Sweating and shivering, and his hand reaches out blindly, settles on Damian’s bare thigh and squeezes.
Damian makes a soft, needy sound and that’s what sends Tim over the edge, moaning and spilling all over Damian’s fingers.
It takes a long moment for the world around them to start registering again. It’s the cold of the stone beneath Tim’s knees that pulls him back. Damian is like a furnace next to him, his chest still rising and falling with deep breaths. His hand is still down Tim’s sweats. The Robin shorts are a mess.
Damian’s still staring at him like Tim’s a mystery he can’t walk away from.
He needs to say something, to make this right.
“Why are you wearing that?” he blurts out instead.
Damian frowns a little. “A bet with Todd,” he answers, and for once there’s no edge to his voice, no sarcasm or contention or superiority.
“I take it you lost?” Tim sighs. Damian’s hand is still down his sweats.
“No, it’s not over,” Damian says. “I have to wear this when training for a week. If I do, I win.”
“You’re going to be wearing that for a week?” Tim hisses.
Damian’s eyebrows raise, which means he very much felt the way Tim’s cock just twitched.
Slowly his face spreads into a wicked grin, the tip of his index finger stroking over Tim’s softening shaft, making him shudder and bite his lip to keep from whimpering.
“Pervert,” he whispers appreciatively.
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Tim/Damian
Rating: NC-17
Words: 2271
Notes: Costume kink. For a prompt at dcu_memes.
A/N: Set in the future, but in a way that ignores the reboot.
Summary: Damian is wearing the original Robin uniform. Tim doesn't think he can be blamed if he loses his mind a little.
It’s the uniform. It has to be the uniform, because there’s no other reason Tim would react to Damian like this.
Yes, Tim’s noticed that Damian has grown attractive as the years have passed. But it’s a detached sort of observation, one that has no personal effect on Tim’s life.
Just because Damian is attractive doesn’t mean that Tim is actually attracted to him.
Damian is still Damian. He may be almost out of his teens now, but he’s still a patronising, spoiled little brat towards Tim. It doesn’t matter how much it disappoints the rest of the family - the truth is that the two of them will probably never get along.
So it makes no sense that Tim’s heart is in his throat, that there’s heat pooling between his legs, cock stirring in interest at the sight of all that skin.
Hence him blaming it on the uniform.
There has to be a reason Damian’s wearing it. A bet, maybe? A dare? Something to do with Jason or Steph or maybe even Dick.
Whatever the reason, nobody thought to warn Tim that when he stepped into the Batcave, he’d be confronted by the sight of Damian stretching on the mats, wearing the original Robin uniform.
Taut red fabric across his chest, a slither of toned stomach visible underneath where it’s not quite long enough for Damian’s torso. Short cape that doesn’t quite cover the swell of his ass. And the shorts, bright green and obscenely tight.
Maybe if Tim had been expecting it, he could have covered his reaction better. But he wasn’t and he didn’t and Damian had seen.
Damian had watched Tim’s face, seen the stab of arousal that no doubt flittered clearly across it. And Damian’s own expression had morphed from shock to the kind of grin that made him seem like a predator.
It’s the uniform. It has to be. Tim’s had fantasies about that damn thing since he first hit puberty. Except the idea that he could get aroused for just anyone wearing that particular costume is a little disturbing. And also untrue, because he’s seen other people wear it before. Folks at Halloween, some of the more deranged members of their rogues gallery, even strippers.
The costume is as much a part of Gotham’s history as it is Tim’s own.
So it’s not just the uniform, which means at least a part of it is Damian, and Tim can feel himself pressing back against the workbench Damian’s managed to box him in against. Damian’s hands are braced against the counter on either side of Tim’s hips and he’s using every inch of height he has over Tim to loom over him.
“I’ve known you’re a lot of things, Drake, but a pervert?” he’s sneering, expression haughty. “Just when I think you can’t embarrass yourself any further, you reach new depths.”
God, he’s going to hold this over Tim’s head forever. He’s never going to let a single day go by without reminding Tim that he got hard for the sight of Damian in the original Robin uniform.
He’s going to use this to torture Tim.
The thought of it makes something rise in Tim’s chest, something tight and angry. Something that makes him want to take Damian’s casual cruelty and throw it back in his face.
Everyone always expects Tim to rise above Damian’s behaviour. They expected it when Damian was ten and they still expect it now.
Right now Tim wants nothing more to stoop down to Damian’s level.
Something in his expression must change, because Damian’s voice cuts out. Not that Tim’s being paying attention to the steady string of derision anyway, but the arrogance on Damian’s face has subsided somewhat, replaced by something wary.
Tim gives his own feral smile and licks his lips.
Damian’s eyes widen a little.
It makes Tim feel more bold, more reckless.
“I’m the pervert?” he asks quietly. He lets himself lean back against the workbench, spine arching so his hips push out. He doesn’t miss the way Damian’s gaze flickers down, only for a second but enough that he can see the change of atmosphere registering on Damian’s face. “Looking at our positions right now, you think I’m the pervert?”
A little of the cockiness seeps back into Damian’s face, and he smirks, making a tutting noise with his tongue. This time when his eyes rake across Tim’s body, it’s slow and deliberate. “I’m not the one getting all flustered at the sight of a little leg, Drake.”
If Damian thinks he can control this little contest of flirtation, he’s very wrong. Tim lets his smile be slow and wet and dirty. “But you are the one trying to push me up against the nearest flat surface,” he counters slyly.
Damian falters, and Tim takes advantage of the moment to lean forward, pressing up on tiptoes so his lips can ghost over Damian’s ear. “I don’t think I’m the only pervert here.”
He expects Damian to get indignant, to shove him away. Damian will leave the cave in a sulk, which makes it an automatic win for Tim by Damian’s own bizarre rules. Meaning that Damian will never discuss it again, as is his usual tactic whenever he perceives Tim’s gotten the best of him.
That’s what Tim expects.
Instead, Damian shivers and Tim hears a quiet gasp pass his lips.
And, oh, this has already gone too far. Tim doesn’t do things like this, it just isn’t him.
But as he pulls back, achingly slow, Damian’s watching him, lips parted and eyes dilated, and Tim doesn’t want to stop.
He’s not even really aware that he’s moving until his knees hit the floor.
He looks up at Damian through his eyelashes, lets his expression be just as hot as he feels inside, burning up with this strange tension, with the smell of Damian’s skin and the colours of the Robin suit seared across his mind.
There are so many reasons why he shouldn’t be doing this, but for once Tim’s brain is failing him, can’t recall a single excuse why this can’t happen.
Instead he reaches forward and runs his fingers lightly up Damian’s thigh.
The muscles twitch under his touch, but Damian makes no effort to leave.
Tim closes his eyes a moment, feeling dizzy. “You shaved for this,” he whispers, feeling the proof under his fingers, smooth hairless skin.
“I- It -” Damian stammers above him.
“It’s good,” Tim says mindlessly, opening his eyes again as he leans forward, and the noise Damian makes when Tim’s tongue drags across his skin is sharp and deep.
The flesh of his leg is so warm under Tim’s mouth.
Tim licks a path up Damian’s inner thigh, inhaling the scent of fresh sweat and arousal. There’s dark hair visible between his legs, not quite covered by the shorts, so apparently Damian didn’t shave everywhere.
Tim drags his lips across the hair, and Damian gasps again, wavering above him before his hand settles lightly on Tim’s head. Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it, just petting lightly at the hair above Tim’s ear.
They should stop. Tim should stop. Joke’s over, never mind that it wasn’t a joke in the first place and there’s no part of Tim that’s laughing. What he’s doing, it doesn’t make sense, except he’s got the strangest feeling that they’ve been heading for this for a while.
He should stop.
He doesn’t want to.
He licks along the hem of the shorts, tongue half on fabric, half on skin. It’s painfully obvious that Damian isn’t wearing a jock, and Tim feels a little dizzy to see how much this is effecting him already.
Between his own legs, his cock throbs at the sight.
He slides both hands up to grip Damian’s hips, shifting forward on his knees. He doesn’t care if this is insane, if he can barely stand to be in the same room as Damian most days.
Right now he needs this.
He presses his face against the heavy bulge behind the fabric of the Robin shorts, nosing at the curve of it, the hardness. Damian grunts, his hips minutely pushing forward but Tim holds them steady. Just taking a moment to explore, to get lost in the familiarity of the shorts and the new sensation of Damian’s heat behind them. Rubbing his cheeks and jaw there, listening to every hitch of Damian’s breathing.
It shouldn’t feel this good, but it does.
He licks at the fabric, outlining Damian’s shape behind it, licking up the line of the shaft. Peppering open-mouthed kisses over the swell of the head before he presses his lips there and sucks as hard as he can, and Damian lets out a strangled sound above him.
There’s a thump and a creak that Tim assumes is the hand not in his hair slamming down on the workbench and gripping the edge of the counter tight.
At first the material of the shorts tastes of practically nothing, just clean fabric. But the longer and harder Tim sucks at it, up and down the trapped length of Damian’s cock, the more he can taste sex, the more he can taste Damian. Filling his senses, filling his mind, and he rubs his face harder, holding Damian’s hips more firmly.
“Drake, I -” Damian mumbles above him, and the hand in Tim’s hair is still so light, as if Damian doesn’t know how to touch him, or doesn’t know if he should.
Tim makes a reassuring noise, slurred through the way his mouth drags over fabric, and slides his hands around and back to grip Damian’s ass. That gets him a surprised groan, and Damian’s hips pressing up against him, thrusting against the lines of Tim’s mouth.
He wants that, wants Damian losing control for him.
He gets rougher, rougher still as all the treatment gets him is more of Damian’s sounds, hungry and a little awed.
It’s when he starts using his teeth, just scraping them slightly along the base of Damian’s cock, that he gets a barked out, “Tim!”
He’s pretty sure he can count on one hand the number of times Damian’s called him by his given name.
He presses his teeth in a little, not hard but enough that Damian must be able to feel the pressure of them through the shorts, and Damian’s stroking his hair constantly now, pulling a little when it catches between his fingers. His hips are bucking up against Tim’s mouth, not in a way that hurts but a way that makes the slide of it perfect, makes his lips buzz and tingle.
His hands start to massage Damian’s ass firmly, squeezing each cheek beneath his palms, fingers drawing closer until they’re pressing down through the material into the cleft of Damian’s ass. And that’s when he feels Damian jerk above him, letting out an almost anguished shout, every muscle going momentarily rigid with tension before his cock is pulsing beneath Tim’s mouth. Musky scent and moisture seeping through the fabric as Damian comes for him, trembling and gripping Tim’s hair like he’s forgotten how to let go.
Tim groans, tilting his head back, pressing into Damian’s palm. He’s achingly hard, his boxers and the crotch of his sweats damp with pre-come. He’s not thinking when he shoves a hand down between his legs, just desperate to ease the pressure, to get friction. Rolling his hips up against his hand as he fumbles at the waistband.
He’s not expecting Damian to drop to the floor beside him or to swat his hand away.
But then Damian’s hand is pushing into his sweats, palming him, and Tim whimpers, bucking up into his fist. He gets a glimpse of Damian’s face, his flushed cheeks and dark eyes and the way he looks so intent, the way he’s staring at Tim’s face like he’s trying to read him.
And then he can’t keep his eyes open any longer. So close, leaning on Damian’s shoulder, not quite biting back all the noises spilling from his lips as he rides the movement of Damian’s hand. Sweating and shivering, and his hand reaches out blindly, settles on Damian’s bare thigh and squeezes.
Damian makes a soft, needy sound and that’s what sends Tim over the edge, moaning and spilling all over Damian’s fingers.
It takes a long moment for the world around them to start registering again. It’s the cold of the stone beneath Tim’s knees that pulls him back. Damian is like a furnace next to him, his chest still rising and falling with deep breaths. His hand is still down Tim’s sweats. The Robin shorts are a mess.
Damian’s still staring at him like Tim’s a mystery he can’t walk away from.
He needs to say something, to make this right.
“Why are you wearing that?” he blurts out instead.
Damian frowns a little. “A bet with Todd,” he answers, and for once there’s no edge to his voice, no sarcasm or contention or superiority.
“I take it you lost?” Tim sighs. Damian’s hand is still down his sweats.
“No, it’s not over,” Damian says. “I have to wear this when training for a week. If I do, I win.”
“You’re going to be wearing that for a week?” Tim hisses.
Damian’s eyebrows raise, which means he very much felt the way Tim’s cock just twitched.
Slowly his face spreads into a wicked grin, the tip of his index finger stroking over Tim’s softening shaft, making him shudder and bite his lip to keep from whimpering.
“Pervert,” he whispers appreciatively.