Chapter Text
Tim considers himself to be a very normal teenage boy, thank you very much. At least, as normal as a nineteen year old vigilante practically raised by Batman can be. And because he is a normal nineteen year old, he has a very normal libido. And Tim is single, meaning he masturbates instead of having sex like many people do. It’s even preferable to having actual sex because he doesn’t have to worry about sexually transmitted diseases or infections or the headache that is an NDA. Having enjoyable sex as a very young and attractive CEO is surprisingly difficult. So yeah, Tim masturbates, because it’s the easiest method for him to blow off some steam without getting anyone involved.
And people result in drama.
Tim hates drama.
Masturbation it is.
Unfortunately for Tim, he was injured when dealing with the latest Arkham breakout and is benched for the next month. It’s only a couple of fractured ribs, some stitches, and an insanely bruised back (because some psycho thought it would be fun to stomp on it until Tim passed out), but Bruce recently found out that Tim is missing a spleen and doesn’t want him to get an infection. Tim just thinks it’s punishment for not telling Bruce as soon as he got the chance. When Dick caught Tim keeping himself in shape (he has to work out, crime doesn’t stop just because Red Robin is benched!), he tattled to Bruce, and Bruce sicced Jason on his ass. Like literally moved Jason into Tim’s apartment without asking permission beforehand–not that he’d have listened had Tim told him no (which he would). And as if that isn’t torture enough, Jason has no concept of boundaries or personal space. He takes every possible opportunity to tell Tim how much he doesn’t want to be here, and just how big of a pain in the ass Tim is. Bruce must be holding something big over Jason in order to get him to watch over Tim like some sort-of glorified babysitter.
Heaven forbid Tim does any strenuous activity in these circumstances!
Yeah. Fuck that.
The worst part, however, is that Tim hasn’t been able to jerk off at all since Jason moved in. He just doesn’t feel comfortable doing it when Jason is in his apartment. Like what if he walks in? Or hears Tim? Or smells it somehow? Or finds out Tim likes to take it up the ass just as much as he likes to put it in?
No fucking thanks. He doesn’t need to give Jason more things to make fun of him over. Or worse, resent him for. He knows Jason isn’t homophobic or anything like that, but he doesn’t want Jason to feel uncomfortable. Like, who wants to imagine their rival/younger-brother-but-not-really/replacement jerking it just a room over? He’ll kill himself if Jason finds out. Like, a nosedive off the roof and leaving his will on the bed for everyone to find kind of kill himself.
Thankfully, Jason has stepped out to grab groceries, and Tim isn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. It’s been a week of cold showers and thinking about gross shit to keep his erections away, and now this is his first chance to let loose a little.
As soon as Jason closes the front door behind him, Tim is whipping his dick out at lightspeed. Metaphorical lightspeed, because Tim is a human and not deranged.
…
Okay, not too deranged. Like a normal amount of deranged. What is a normal amount of deranged? Doesn’t matter, but Tim is whatever that is. Normal deranged. Normal teenager. Normal hormones.
The first thing Tim actually does after Jason leaves is he runs into his room and locks the door behind him. Both of his locks. Because there is no way in hell he is chancing anyone walking in while he has his dick in his hand. Tim fumbles for his lube in the nightstand drawer, grabs a box of tissues, his hand sanitizer (he’ll wash his hands too, he just feels cleaner doing both after these kinds of activities), and settles under the covers of his bed. As eager as Tim is to finally touch himself in the peace and quiet of his own home (and ALONE), he is Bat-level paranoid. Tim checks the window to make sure no one can see what he’s doing (they can’t, his bed is on the opposite side of the room), looks over his locks one final time, and finally sneaks a hand below his sweatpants. Even just putting a hand on his dick feels absolutely wonderful.
It’s been way too fucking long.
He pulls his pants and underwear down in one fell swoop, stopping just at his mid-thigh in case he needs to get them back up again at a moment’s notice. His dick is finally free (albeit still under the covers, but Tim isn’t the kind of moron to leave his dick hanging out in the open), and Tim gives it a couple of experimental strokes before uncapping his lube.
He squirts a generous amount on the tip of his cock before recapping it and placing it in a tissue, slowly stroking himself and letting the lube coat his length. It’s cold and wet and feels like a fucking miracle. Tim has barely started and he already knows he has no chance at lasting, not with how pent-up he is. He strokes himself slowly, letting out a sigh of relief.
Tim closes his eyes and leans back against his pillow, listening to the slick sounds coming from the interaction between his lubed up dick and hand. He lets himself make noise, his moans breathy and shallow. Tim takes his time, circling his thumb over his slit and cupping his balls with his other hand.
He thinks about chapped lips pressed up against his own. Someone biting his bottom lip. Drawing blood. It’s a man touching him this time. He’d be rough, but not intentionally. The man would try to be as soft as possible with Tim, but he’d lose control as soon as the vigilante whines and shivers beneath him.
Fuck.
Tim is so fucking close. His strokes are faster now, his hips bucking up into his hand. Just a little bit more and–
He jolts at the sound of keys jingling outside of his apartment’s front door. It’s been less than ten minutes. Jason should not be back already.
Tim moves as fast as humanly possible, wiping the lube off his cock with a tissue and tossing it in the trash can beside his bed. He thanks the universe that he put on a tighter pair of boxers today, tucking his erection away as best as he can. Not all is fine and dandy, however, given the fact that Tim is in a very loose pair of sweatpants and was on the verge of orgasm mere moments ago. He tries not to think about the fact that he’s probably still dripping precum and promptly fails, his dick twitching slightly where he’s maneuvered it.
Shit.
Tim doesn’t have enough time to wash his hands, so sanitizer will have to do for now. He wipes his hands with another tissue before kneading the sanitizer into them. He frantically opens the window next and sprays a copious amount of Febreeze into the air, hoping to mask the smell of sex. Tim tosses the lube back into the nightstand drawer, closes it fast but not hard enough to slam it (primarily so Jason won’t suspect anything is amiss), and unlocks his door so the part-time-crime-lord can barge in as usual. He’s not supposed to have it locked anyway, mostly because he was caught doing situps on the second day of Jason’s babysitting. Tim flops back onto his bed, lays on his stomach, and opens his laptop to his WE emails.
All of this, by the way, is done in under a minute. Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne is nothing if not efficient. He scrolls through his emails leisurely before drafting a response to Tam’s inquiry regarding the upcoming month’s coffee budget.
Jason barges in less than thirty seconds later.
“Yo, replacement.”
Tim sighs. “Have you ever heard of knocking?”
“Nah, takes away the fun. ‘Sides, you don’t have your hand down your pants or anything like that so I figure it’s chill.”
Tim doesn’t bark out a laugh, even if he really fucking wants to. Because if Tim didn’t have ears sensitive enough to differentiate people based on the sound of their footsteps (thanks to Damian, Bruce, and his parents whenever they actually bothered to visit), Jason would have found him just like that–gripping his dick under the sheets. He’d probably be mid-orgasm too, making an obscenely embarrassing face.
If only you knew.
“Are you lacking a modicum of fucking privacy?” Tim puts as much venom into his voice as possible.
“Says the fucking stalker.”
Tim groans. This isn’t going anywhere, and Jason is never going to let Tim’s eight-year-old activities lie in their grave where they ought to.
“What do you want, Jason? I’m working here.”
“...Have you seen my wallet?”
If Tim could, he would bang his head against the wall and rip out his stitches so he’d bleed to death in peace. “Why the fuck would I know where your wallet is?”
“Cause you’re like, the knowing-guy.”
Tim raises an eyebrow, turning to face Jason. He’s going to kill Jason. He is going to strangle Jason to death and revel in glee as the light leaves his eyes. “The ‘knowing-guy?’” He’s lost an orgasm to this. It was going to be a really good orgasm, too. He just knows it. He’s the “knowing-guy,” after all.
“You know shit. Like Oracle.”
“Y’know,” Tim sighs, “for someone who reads a shit ton of gothic and victorian literature, your vocabulary is incredibly lacking.”
Jason leans against the doorframe. “Are ya gonna tell me where the wallet is or what?”
Tim pinches the bridge of his nose in an attempt to calm himself down. He is not in the mood to yell at Jason right now. “Have you checked your pockets?”
“Yeah.”
“Your back pockets?”
Jason rolls his eyes and complies, only for his face to fall slack when, you guessed it, the wallet magically appears. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“How did you know that?” Jason asks, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.
“Because that’s where it was the other day when you were trying to make an online purchase.” Tim runs his hands through his hair. “Is there anything else you need?”
“Uh…” Jason pauses to think. “I don’t think so?”
“Keys?”
“Have ‘em.”
“Reusable grocery bags?”
“Oh!” Jason exclaims. “That’s what I was missing!”
“Can you close the door on your way out?”
“Why, so you can, like, finish watching porn or something?” It’s one of Jason’s usual quips, but Tim can’t help the way his heart rate quickens. It’s trying to escape his ribcage at this point. Does Jason know? He’d usually ignore it, but the comment about having his hands down his pants earlier makes it harder to let go.
“Sure,” Tim deadpans. He leans into it, because what better way to throw someone off than to go higher than their expectations? It’s so utterly ridiculous that Jason won’t even think to consider he was actually masturbating. “I was just getting to the good part where she starts to drink his piss-”
“What the fucking fuck, dude!” Jason yelps. “You can’t just say shit like that!”
“I mean if you want to watch it with me just ask. Well, groceries first and all but I can beam it on the T.V.”
Jason scoffs, refusing to meet Tim’s eyes. “You are one sick fuck.”
“I’ve been told my fucking is quite pleasurable, actually–”
Jason slams Tim’s door as loudly as possible and stomps away. Tim smiles to himself. Tim: 1, Jason: 0. Maybe he’ll actually think before he asks Tim about sex stuff again.
Good fucking riddance.
Tim’s too tired to try to touch himself again once Jason leaves, so he resigns himself to a nap instead. He can always jerk off another time–it’s not like the chances of this happening again are high.