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There are warm, large hands on his waist. There are warm, soft lips on his. His hands are tangled in soft hair, legs wrapped around a warm waist. Everything is suffocatingly warm and soft and slow.
A few years ago, Damian was the older one between them. He and Jon would hold hands during patrols and share stolen, fleeting kisses after missions. He’d promised himself he’d wait. Wait for Jon, who was two years younger, who’d still be underage when Damian turned eighteen. He’d made a promise that, when he turned twenty, he’d be ready for Jon. Just for Jon.
And then he was gone. The fight, the pocket dimension, the childhood spent in two times speed without him. And when Jon had come back, he was older. He’d aged six years in the time he was away. He was twenty, with new experiences and memories that Damian had missed. And Damian was still sixteen.
But he had a promise to keep.
It’s 12:29. He’s been twenty for 29 minutes. Four agonizing years waiting. Staving himself off while Jon ran around with other men and pushed their barely-there relationship to the back of his mind. But when the time came, he wasn’t late. When Damian called, he arrived.
Jon tastes like apples. Apples and honey and stars. Damian used to feel like the more experienced of the two. Now he feels starkly out of place, with Jon licking into his mouth and rubbing his sides and tasting like an all American buffet. Damian hates to lean back, even when his lungs scream for air.
Jon is panting softly, his lips shiny and slick. Black curls are plastered to his forehead and his pupils have blown so wide the blue of his eyes is barely visible.
“I thought you had a girlfriend while I was gone,” he says breathlessly.
“I did,” Damian huffs back. “Nika wanted to wait until we were older.”
“You didn’t tell her your dance card was already full?”
“Didn’t have to.” Damian kisses him again. His teeth sink into the plush skin of Jon’s lower lip. It couldn’t hurt if he tried, but Jon’s hands tighten around him anyway.
“I didn’t think you’d remember your promise,” Jon breathes into his mouth. Damian licks the sound up, greedy.
“I didn’t think you’d hold up your end.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“I made that promise so that you’d be eighteen, and I would be the responsible one. Now you’re babysitting a twenty year old virgin.”
“I like that,” Jon admits quietly. His lips slide against Damian’s, slick with spit. His fingers massage Damian’s sides. “That you waited. That I get to be your first.”
“How conservative.” Damian nips him again.
Desire sparks in his gut. It catches, setting his nerves alight. Every touch is a drop of gasoline, until there’s a fire roaring low in his stomach that pools between his thighs. He’s kissing Jon, letting his hips roll leisurely. Jon isn’t stopping him, so he tightens his thighs and presses harder. He knows Jon can feel the wet spot on his silk night set, but he hasn’t said anything. Hadn’t done anything except kiss and lick and massage.
Jon has a way of canting his head and moving his jaw that’s so fluid it must be practiced. Damian’s hand moves to tangle into the shorter hair at the back of his neck, firm against the warm skin of his scalp. He tugs, finding satisfaction in how Jon’s jaw falls open at that.
There’s not really a competition. There’s no fight for dominance. They trade in slow, rolling rounds that blend together until it’s impossible to tell who’s in charge. Teeth meet lips meet teeth. Jon’s hands are always steady, always firm, holding Damian flush against the warm board of his chest.
Damian breaks the kiss just to stare at the line of spit between their lips. It feels straight out of a magazine.
Jon leans in again. His lips brush against Damian’s cheek the same way they did when they were younger. When Jon was younger. He finds his way to the space below Damian’s ear. Damian tugs on his hair. Jon takes this as encouragement.
His mouth is adventurous. Where it started behind Damian’s jaw, it travels down and around, looping across the column of his throat on a path only he knows. Damian feels his spit drying on his skin.
Damian’s hand that wasn’t in Jon’s hair—previously splayed against his back—now circles around to push the heel of his hand into the space between Jon’s legs. His hips jump at the touch, jolting Damian’s whole body in the process. Damian mirrors the motions he used to do to himself, alone in bed wishing he were older, that Jon were with him.
He feels moisture building against his palm as he rolls his hand in sync with the steady grinding of his own hips down onto Jon’s thigh.
Jon lean back to kiss him again, hips bucking into the touch until he finds his rhythm. The room is silent save for their breathing, and the slick sound of lips on lips on tongues. It’s agonizing. It’s perfect. His vision goes white.
He was gasping into Jon’s mouth when his elysium was snapped in two by the knocking on the door.
“Damian? You still up?”
Jon leaned back, eyes bright and panicked. “Shit, Dames—“
The door was swinging open. Damian whipped his head around to Tim’s figure in the doorway. “Drake!”
Tim was staring, one hand gripping the door frame. “What the hell?”
Jon’s hands were on Damian’s waist, lifting him off his lap and dropping him on the bed next to him. Damian’s face felt hot. He knew he was flushed to his collarbone.
“I was gonna tell you that Dick and I have a birthday patrol planned, but apparently, you’re already whoring yourself out! It’s like 00:45! How did you get Jon here so fast?” Tim storms over, jabbing a finger into Jon’s chest. “I bet you were waiting, you perverted freak.”
“I am twenty years old, Drake.”
“You weren’t born at exactly twelve. You’re basically still nineteen! This is cradle robbing.”
Jon looks incredibly uncomfortable, hands fidgeting on his lap. Probably to cover up the wet spot on his thigh where Damian’s desire had soaked all the way through his underwear and pajamas. “I can um… leave, if you’re taking him on patrol…”
“No, Kent, you stay. Timothy is being dramatic.”
Tim seethes. “Don’t think I don’t have any kryptonite.”
Damian puts his hand firmly on Jon’s lower back. “I have been a consenting adult for two years. Tell Grayson that I will be otherwise occupied for the next few hours, and we may go on my birthday patrol later, after 21:00.”
“I can’t believe you. Fine, be a slut the moment you’re old enough. Don’t come crying to me when—“
Damian escorts him out. Jon is teetering nervously on the edge of his bed. Blue eyes dart around, the mood stifled.
“Kent,” Damian breathes, slotting himself against Jon’s chest. “Are you still with me?”
“Yeah.” Large, warm hands smooth down his sides and hook under his top. They feel downright feverish against his bare skin.
Damian melts into him, letting out a heavy sigh. “Don’t mind that. Just… just relax. I would still like to fulfill the promise I made.”
Jon breathes out Damian’s name, leaning forward to murmur it into his mouth. It sends a thrill up his spine. “I love you,” Jon breathes against his lips.
Damian remains perfectly still, fingers twitching against his chest. Jon’s face falls slightly. Damian leans back. Jon looks crestfallen, until his fingers begin working the buttons of his silken pajamas. His top falls open, and Jon’s hands drift up to push it off entirely. The cold air digs into him until large, warm palms cup the swell of his chest.
A breath is pulled from his throat as Jon thumbs over his nipple. Jon’s mouth moves to his jaw. Every movement is slow and warm and deliberate and Damian feels it searing under his skin.
He pushes Jon’s chest away with a hiss. “Hold on,” he mutters. “I know what I want.”
Jon raises his hands off Damian’s skin as Damian sets to work on his sweatpants and boxers. Jon peels his shirt off, leaving himself exposed to Damian’s meticulous gaze.
“This looks good,” Damian murmurs, rubbing his thumb over the twin scars across Jon’s chest. “How did you get it done?”
Jon’s voice is breathy and stutters. “Tim… Tim had some kryptonite surgical tools on hand from working on Konner…”
Damian’s eyes narrow. “I’m in medical school. You didn’t think to ask me to do your surgery?”
“I wanted you to be surprised,” he laughs breathlessly. Damian doesn’t find it funny.
“And this…” His hand trails down to run his thumb over the healed phalloplasty between Jon’s legs. “Was this also supposed to be a surprise?”
“Do you… like it?”
Damian doesn’t bother responding. He stands, kicking his pants off. He grabs Jon’s hands and brings them to the lace hugging his hips. Jon hesitates before hooking his thumbs under the panties and pulling them down.
“How well does this work?” He wraps his hands around Jon’s cock.
“I had an implant, so I should be able to—“
“Good. I’m going to ride you.”
Jon’s breath catches in his throat. Damian uses the opportunity to force him to lay down and plant his knees on either side of his hips.
“Damian—“
“Quiet. How much do you feel?” He thumbs over the tip of Jon’s cock.
“Not… not too much at the tip, but—“
“So here?” He wraps a firm hand around the base of his cock. Jon groans quietly, hips jumping into the touch.
Damian nods, slowly settling his hips down. Jon gasps and digs his fingers into Damian’s hips. It takes him longer than anticipated to bottom out, panting and leaning forward onto Jon’s chest.
“How do you feel?” Jon’s voice is warm and surprisingly steady in his ear. Damian groans in response.
Damian allows Jon to help him as he raises himself up and slides back down. The stretch burns slightly, and it takes him a few moments to adjust to the pressure. He’s slow, rising and falling at an excruciating pace.
He can feel Jon’s fingers twitching, digging into his skin.
“Give me a moment,” Damian grinds out. “This is… taking longer to get used to than I would have liked.”
Jon rubs his thumbs across Damian’s skin. “You can take a break if you need…”
Damian settles down flush against Jon’s hips. He takes long, slow breaths until the pain ebbs. He opts to roll his hips slowly against Jon’s instead. The drag of wiry hair against his clit sends sparks up his spine. Jon’s panting and groaning and his hips are desperately trying to jump up into Damian’s.
“Feel so good,” Jon mumbled slurredly. “So good around me…”
Damian hisses, pushing his knees into the mattress and trying again, riding Jon in earnest. He can see beads of sweat forming on Jon’s chest—can watch his own fall down to meet them.
Pleasure clouds his vision and he can hear Jon’s panting filling his head. It’s good. It’s so much better than any of the films or books he’d consumed said it would be.
His knees suddenly won’t listen, and only the force of Jon’s hands keeps him moving, bouncing on his cock until he can’t think straight.
He rolls his hips down again, earning a drawn out moan from Jon. His hips stutter and fall flush against Jon, breathing ragged.
“Is that good, Dames? Duzzat feel good?”
Damian nods, his head swimming. He stays like that for a few heartbeats, sitting on Jon’s cock. Then he begins to push himself up. He lets out a long breath at the feeling—the slide and stretch and every vein that makes his vision spin.
“Oh, Jon…” Damian hears his own voice before he realizes he’s spoken. Jon’s fingers are hot and reassuring against his hips.
Damian can hear himself panting, can hear the wet sound they make when he lands flush against Jon on every downstroke. It’s almost artistic. He can’t think, can only push himself up and let himself fall, supported by two superpowered hands firm against his sides. He’s losing his rhythm now, relying entirely on Jon to keep him going.
What does him in is Jon’s hand moving from his side to where they meet, his thumb rolling across his clit.
He hears a drawn out moan and can’t tell who it is, because Jon must also be coming, telling by the way his hands are shaking against his skin and his legs are twitching.
Laying at Jon’s side, the world slowly shifts back into focus. Warm, large hands massage his thighs comfortingly.
“Thank you,” Jon breathes.
Damian blinks at him, unsure if he’d heard correctly. “For what? Intercourse is a mutual exchange.”
“For waiting. For… for letting me be your first.”
“I don’t go back on my word, Kent. I’m shocked you think so lowly of me.”
“It’s just—I didn’t wait for you. I assumed that you’d do the same.”
“Whore.”
Jon cuffs him over the shoulder. Damian feels his lips quirk up in a small smile, even as fatigue settles into his muscles down to the bone.
When he falls asleep, he’s confident he won’t be alone when he wakes. Which is the best birthday gift he’s received in his hour of being twenty years old.