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Dreams aren’t unusual. Often, they’re halfway decent looks into the psyche of the individual having them. Maybe not quite as clear cut as ‘you’re falling, so you must feel like your life’s out of control.’ But there can certainly be something said to a straight line drawn between having the hots for someone and said someone showing up in your dreams to wrap their hands around your dick.
His own hands aren’t there. Or– no, they are. He just can’t move them from above his head. The dull clatter of metal against wooden bed frame says Dream Damian is using handcuffs. Which does in fact make him just that little bit harder. Who knew?
Escaping from them would be easy work, but everything’s a little fuzzy around the edges and he doesn’t really want to do that. He’s actually exactly where he wants to be. The pleasant weight of Dream Damian straddling his thighs, dragging a dry hand up and down the length of him until his skin is buzzing with it.
If anything, maybe he could dream up some lube or spit or something to ease that just a little bit– he opens his mouth to ask. Demand, actually. Because that’s the sort of dynamic he and Damian, dream or otherwise, have always had. They aren’t nice and they don’t pat one another on the back to make things easier. He could ask the polite way, and Damian might just bite him for the trouble.
And isn’t that a thought.
Tim doesn’t get the opportunity to figure out what card he’ll pull from Damian’s deck of responses, because all that comes from his mouth is a gurgled moan.
The noise makes Dream Damian pause his movements. Which isn’t at all what Tim was trying to get at. Calloused fingers, rough from sword hilts and weight training and pushing at every one of Tim’s buttons, squeeze just enough to make him whine for it.
He’d probably be embarrassed for that one if this was real. Damian wouldn’t let him forget it. Instead, thank whatever higher power is guiding the crazed dreams of a man half out of his mind with lust, a thumb drags over the swollen head of his cock. It smears the pre that hasn’t really stopped leaking from him around. And that eases the slide of hand just enough to make it more pleasure than fight.
The muscles in his hips and stomach twitch, Tim bucks into the warm grip.
“Stay still, Drake.” His voice is low and soft as it drawls out the order. It curls like smoke in the base of Tim's skull at the same time Dream Damian's other hand curls around the protrusion of hip bone to enforce it.
He's panting like a dog in a hot car at the command. He's so close to the edge it's nearly unbearable. His back’s sticky and hot with the heat collecting between him and the bed. He’s almost…
The final push over that cliff's edge is opening his eyes. It's the forest green he's all too familiar with that meets him and the shock of adrenaline that's screaming at him– oh shit, this is real.
Tim comes undone in Damian's hand. Mind blank, unwinding on itself, he crumples. Whites out while trying to jerk his hands down to grab onto the younger and– to cover his face in shame and– to push him off and yell.
Except. Except he doesn't do any of that. Tim comes back to himself, no longer floating in that sea of hazy half-dream half-reality. He's solidly here, in his bed, in his room. And he still has Damian’s solid weight firmly on top of him.
He wets his dry lips, watching as Damian examines his come covered hand, turning it this way and that in the meager light that makes it past the black out curtains.
He inhales when it's brought closer for examination, tongue dragging across fingers like he's cleaning off the remnants of a messy meal. Tim holds the breath, gaze unwavering from pink lips wrapping around tan fingers. Damian meticulously works his way through each digit, then drags his tongue across his palm.
He looks like he's savoring it and Tim has the thought that maybe Damian is actually a demon. Maybe he's a succubus.
That'd explain everything, actually. He’d been sent to fuck with Tim specifically. To make his life hell and muddle up his sense of what was right and what was wrong.
“Adequate,” Damian concedes. His spit damp hand drops to Tim's hip.
That's just about as much of a compliment as he's ever gotten from Damian. And it's not even– Tim throws his head back and clenches his eyes tightly shut. He’s trying to do the math for this situation. Just a dream would’ve been fine. If he hadn’t opened his eyes and looked, that’d also have probably been fine. Now he’s looked and he knows and the knowledge can’t be put back into the box– he groans. Dick's gonna kill him. Bruce is definitely going to kill him.
Except they're not here and Damian had fucking… he’d initiated the entire situation that they’re in. Tim's the victim here. Technically. So.
So…
“Unlock the cuffs and I'll show you more than adequate, Demon.”
Damian's eyes darken at the promise. The threat. He shows Tim a flash of sharp canine teeth and reaches over to do just that. Metal falls away and in the span of a single breath Tim has Damian underneath him.
One hand is pressing his right shoulder into the mattress, the other wrapped around his throat. A knee to his left thigh, digging into the soft muscles that stretch across the top. Damian only lets out an exhale at the sudden motion. He doesn't fight it like Tim would expect.
He has always imagined Damian a cornered animal, scratching and clawing and biting to get out on top. Whether that’s physically or verbally. To see Damian go limp now, only slowly reaching his left hand to curl around the wrist of Tim’s hand encircling his neck like a collar, it’s almost– it’s a little disappointing, actually.
Nails dig into the soft skin of Tim’s inner wrist, and that jolts him back into the moment. He’d been staring at Damian’s impassive expression for way too long, he hadn’t even noticed when it morphed into mocking amusement. “Do you need a performance review for every step of the way, Drake? Perhaps a map with a key for you to follow? It’s no wonder you can’t keep a partn– hh.”
Tim tightens his hand around Damian’s neck, cutting him off before he can spit anymore poison. That is more of what he expected. Mean words cutting right to the quick of Tim’s insecurity.
And maybe, to a lesser extent, the pretty noise he makes with his air cut off so suddenly. The gasp and tightened grip around Tim’s own wrist. The way his expression is wiped of that haughty air of superiority he carries like a shield. Tim leans down, hovering just shy of a kiss.
It feels like a final barrier. Like somehow kissing him is more damning than the absolute filth of Damian licking Tim’s spend off his fingers. He loosens his grip on Damian’s neck just enough to feel a breath exhale over his lips.
Then Damian is lunging forward, closing that sacred distance in the most teeth forward kiss that Tim’s ever had the experience of participating in. If he’s making comparisons, it’s probably like trying to kiss a blender.
Teeth tear into his bottom lip, sharp and painful. He swears that he can hear the skin break.
Tim retaliates, gives as good as he gets. He bites back, slipping his hand up higher so that it holds the underside of Damian’s jaw. He digs his thumb and pointer into the hinge, forcing him open so that Tim can taste himself on the back of Damian’s tongue without wondering if he’ll ever be able to speak again.
He might lose himself right here, actually. Now that he’s in it. The slide of his tongue against Damian’s. Tracing the outline of his teeth and the divots of his soft palate. Tasting the sharp mint of the tea he favors mingled with the bitterness of salt and the iron of his own bloodied lip.
When he’s had enough, needs to pull back and catch a full breath, his blood is smeared red across Damian’s skin like lipstick stains. Swollen lips still parted by Tim’s hand, his eyes aren’t so much green anymore as they are twin black holes, swallowing the light.
Tim moves his knee from off Damian’s leg at the same moment that he releases his shoulder. He sweeps his knee underneath Damian’s, spreading his legs to create more space. His hand meanwhile finds suitable enjoyment slipping down the plane of scarred chest in front of him.
He flicks the bud of a nipple and elicits a growl for his troubles.
“Quit fucking around.” Damian presses a hand to the back of Tim’s shoulder. The one still wrapped around his wrist shoves it off. “I should have left the handcuffs on you. Your sense of urgency is lacking. I should have finished at least once by now.”
“What, you shoot off that quick?”
“From your mouth? Rich. I hardly had to touch you.”
“Right, right. Sneak into my room, jerk me off while I’m asleep, eat my cum like some kinda whore, then mouth off about not getting yours. That’s about right for you.” He reaches down between them, breezing past Damian’s probably more than a little painful, neglected erection. Shoulder dipping so that he can press a finger inside and– “You fucking prepped for this.”
He’s incredulous. He’s actually going to go crazy.
He’s a horrendous mix of really turned on (imagining Damian doing that– where’s the weird higher power pervert dream god now, because what Tim would give to just watch him on his back, sinking finger after finger inside himself. The noises he’d make, the way his face would twist and– well, pervert dream god, he’d pay a lot of money) and disappointed that he doesn’t get to pull Damian apart all by himself.
“Of course I did. You think I didn’t consider this as a possibility?”
“Oh my god. Of course you did. Next time–” Next time? He’s counting eggs before letting them hatch. He’s pushing three fingers into Damian’s ass and his brain is short circuiting from it. The muscles clench lazily around him, already stretched. Already ready. “Let me do it.”
Damian’s hips twitch when Tim presses upward, dragging against his prostate. Lovingly, Tim thinks. Affectionately, maybe. He bites his lip, aggravating the split skin, but that’s alright. It’s fine. He pulls his fingers free and grips himself, rubbing whatever lube remains on his fingers over his dick. He’s not as hard as he’d been when Damian had been jerking him off, but he’ll get there. Tim has no doubts on that matter.
“I will consider it if this proves to be anything more than mediocre.” He maintains that nasty tone of his, it doesn’t even wobble a little bit.
Still, it’s a good enough promise. And it’s kind of hot, if he’s being honest.
Tim presses inside without any further fanfare. It’s hot and wet and all consuming. Not quite how he’d ever daydreamed about this going, but he’s not complaining. He sinks until his hips are flush to Damian’s. Until he can’t get any deeper, any further into him.
He swallows a mouthful of saliva. Yeah, maybe he’ll live right here instead. In this moment for the rest of his stupid life. Maybe he’ll keep Damian on his cock, stretched around him, stuffed with him. That flickering look of pleasure on Damian’s face can be the last thing he sees before kicking the bucket.
A heel digs into Tim’s ass cheek before he can dig himself any further into that hypothetical.
“Drake,” Damian groans. Still irritated, but the edges are filed down.
He moves.
Damian is… he is a gorgeous human. It goes without saying. Anyone with eyes can see it, and those without can probably hear it in the timbre of his voice. He’s the best of Bruce and the best of Talia – a pairing of genetics so astronomically unfair, it puts every other regular person at a disadvantage. It’s just his personality that sometimes – read: often – puts people off.
So to have him here – Tim’s own hands framing those perfectly symmetrical features. Thrusting into him, trying not to blink so that he doesn’t miss any of the micro-expressions of pleasure-enjoyment-lust – he actually can’t believe it.
Damian’s hips move to meet his thrusts. Matching stroke for stroke the brutal pace he sets. He isn’t trying to be gentle with the other. He’s almost certain that Damian might flip their positions and take his pleasure into his own hands if Tim even tried (and isn’t that an idea. He tucks it away for future deliberation with everything else).
For now though, Tim wants Damian under him. He wants to hear their skin slapping together and creating the most obscene noises. He wants to watch the jolts of his harder thrusts push Damian up the bed, until he has to drop a hand from Tim’s back and press it to the headboard. He wants to watch his puffy, blood smeared lips gasp, panting desperately for the air that Tim’s trying to fuck out of him.
Damian tightens around him at the same moment that his nails drag down Tim’s back with a sharp sensation that manages to not really hurt, but just makes the arousal in his gut sweeter.
“Shit,” Tim hisses under his breath. He’s inching dangerously close to the precipice. He has to drop a hand from Damian’s pretty face to grab his until-this-exact-moment neglected cock between them. Because like hell is he going to let Damian get on his ass if he comes a whole second time before Damian does even once.
His cock is unsurprisingly, also just as perfect as the rest of him. He’s uncut, thick and full in Tim’s hand. He’s goddamn mouthwatering. Tim slows his thrusts to match the slide of his hand, the way eased by just how much pre Damian has managed to leak all over himself.
“Drake,” Damian moans his last name. He sounds close, he looks close. His eyelashes are damp and fluttering. His expression is lit up. Transformed with pleasure. And all Tim can think about is how he’d rather hear his given name on Damian’s lips instead.
“Tim– I want you to say my first name, Damian. Want to hear it.”
“Drake, fuck off–” His tone isn’t quite as sharp as it could be. But Tim’s also got his dick in his hand and that’s always a precarious position to start making threats from. Tim slows his hips, settling into a slow grind that he’s certain slides against Damian’s prostate with how aggressively his cock twitches, spilling another bead of pre onto Tim’s stilled fingers.
Tim watches as Damian’s muscles tighten. Trembling, flexing with definition. A bead of sweat trails across his forehead and down into his hairline. Damian nervously licks some of the blood from his lips. His heel slips from Tim’s hip and his fingers are digging a bloody rut into Tim’s shoulder.
He definitely could come off this, but he’s holding back the feeling for as long as he can manage to get what he wants from Damian. To draw it out and wring every last drop of satisfaction from it.
"Go on, it's easy." Tim encourages, prodding further. "One syllable."
“Tim… Timothy.” He pants the name after groaning, almost certainly wrestling with his own pride to wrangle the words. “Please. Bastard. Just– move.”
Yeah, he was absolutely correct. That does it.
His brain turns to putty. Tim only has a few more good seconds in him. But he can twist his wrist and jerk Damian off while his last desperate thrusts towards the finish line are counted.
When Damian comes, his ass tightens around Tim like a trap. A strangled noise escapes from him. A wounded animal whine. He spills into Tim’s hand, ropes of come splashing onto their stomachs.
Tim follows so shortly after it might as well have been instantaneous. He pushes his cock as deep into Damian as he can when the blissful oblivion of orgasm washes over him. He wants to mark him, claim him, keep him. Make sure that if Damian doesn’t come back to him, at least his body will remember Tim.
He’s riding out the waves of Damian’s muscles contracting, his own body winding down in piecemeal.
Tim releases Damian’s softened cock. Now that he has the room, he leans down and captures Damian’s lips once more. He presses a slow, tired kiss into his mouth. There’s no bite, no urgency. It’s… so damn sweet that it feels a half-step off from romantic.
They both groan when he breaks the kiss and slips free from Damian’s body. Tim collapses into a puddle beside him. But he surely does keep his hands on Damian’s still exertion hot skin. An arm tossed with intentional carelessness across his stomach and curled around his waist so that he can’t just leave. He can’t disappear into the shadows and vanish without Tim knowing.
Not that he’s trying to leave. Not at that moment, anyway. But it’s probably coming.
A hum rumbles high in Damian’s chest, Tim can as much feel it as he does hear it. “That was incrementally better than mediocre.”
Fucking christ. “Yeah, drop me a rating on Yelp or wherever you can leave reviews.”
Damian snorts a soft laugh that makes his stomach flex under Tim’s arm. He’s so screwed.