Blunt nails — because there is always nails involved — scrape up his chest when Tim raises upright, dirty with crusting engine oil between the cuticles and skin on Damian's fingers, and Tim's throat clenches and arches at the feel when those nails nudge his hardened nipple with malicious intent. Fuck. They're sharp.
A breathless, mocking laugh whistles through Damian's teeth as the top of his dark head digs into plush, isabelline material of the backseat's cushion. "Ttch… you aren't even tolerable at that…" At the next shallow, rigid thrust into him, he groans at it as if mildly disappointed, "I can't even feel it…"
It shouldn't even phase him with how long he has known him but the comment ends up curling Tim's lip anyway.
It doesn't matter what they were doing, Damian always knows how to get under his skin. And of course what Damian is saying is a load of BS… they wouldn't be doing what they are doing now if sex between them wasn't adequate… What a spoiled little-…
A very good idea flickers inside his once sullen thoughts and Tim rides with it, grinning — hoisting Damian's sweat-slippery back up into the air with the help of his left arm and gripping with the fingers on his right to the protruding bar above the car window — and he starts plunging into the slick and hot muscles, Damian's muscles around his cock; faster; harder; with more demanding strokes.
The sudden pinning against the interior of the car door, the change in thrusting makes Damian's eyes widen and his breathing labors and one of his feet props up against the headrest of a seat, leg muscles straining. Tim asks him smugly, still grinning, not slowing his pacing, "How about this…then…?"
"Nnngn…" It is more of a soft moan than an outright protest. "N-not hardly…"
"Uuuh-huh. Then what was that tremor in your voice just now?"
When Damian starts matching him in speed, pushing Tim in deeper, Tim wonders faintly if it is smart to get smug so early in.
"Ooh… jesus… keep moving your hips like that…"
Something similar to irritation surfaces over Damian's flushed expression. "Don't order me aro—" and he is silenced by the solid, warm collision of Tim's dry lips on his. Even kissing is an inexhaustible battle between them. Someone has to choke by the brute strength of the other. Someone has to bleed overnight with an icepack pressed to the injury. They both end up bruised everywhere by the morning.
When Dick or Alfred give him wary but semi-concerned looks, Tim insist calmly with another icepack and his coffee mug that they are getting better about the fighting.
It is a lie. Everything else follows. The past month is lies shrouded in darkness and the smell of costumed nylon and grinding bodies and rough, underage intercourse. He knows that. He doesn't know how much they did know about it all but… Tim intents to keep his mouth shut. He already knows how insane this all is.
Close… so close…
And he figures Damian must be too because the younger lifts himself from his pinned position to the car door, shoving Tim down so he can settle in Tim's lap, panting and bouncing to the next couple of thrusts from underneath him before wrapping his arms around Tim's neck and biting down on Tim's shoulder to keep from screaming.
It hurts. It always hurts.
Damian's come spills against Tim's abdomen, unpleasantly warm as his own blood rolling down his bare skin from Damian's bite.
Tim's hands holding Damian's almost-bony hips jerk them with each wave of the orgasm building, and Damian whimpers with his mouth still clamped tight, and everything is warm again, and it feels…
They remain clinging to each other, naked and heaving — almost as if they truly are lovers — and it breaks as Damian rolls off and Tim scoots away patiently, checking over his bleeding wound. "Your blood is disgusting," Damian says loudly with a scowl, wiping at his pinkish-stained mouth.
"I could make a vampire comment right now. But I'm sure you wouldn't find it funny considering your upbringing."
"What are you? Grayson?"
Suddenly, Tim's insides are souring and attempt a complicated acrobatic twirl. And he isn't completely… sure why.
"What, do you think about him when we're like this?" he snaps.
It's sarcasm coming off him… but Tim can read the sincerity deeply embedded in it. His insides subdue as Damian crosses his muscular arms huffily. "Your jealousy is trivial and it is about to bore me to tears, Drake."
"…I think I liked you better when you were over on that side and moaning for me."
Damian scoffs, beginning to dab himself of the mess that was his lower half.
"Your memory is deluded. I didn't moan for anyone."
"Right." Tim resists the urge to roll his eyes good-naturedly, and uses the advantage of the spacious area to stretch his cramping legs.
"Have any idea when Dick or Alfred are returning to the Bunker?"
"I don't care." Another Damian staple of a scowl.
Whether or not Damian had liked it, it had been cute when he was ten. Unfortunately to Tim's sex-tainted psyche… it is still cute now.
"Just wanted to know how much time we had to clean up the backseat of the Maybach 62S Landaulet before, you know, there was an off-chance that this was the time we got caught."
The sixteen-year-old pops open the car door, standing up, and Tim's eyes observe shamelessly as the tanned, smooth muscles on Damian's lower back and ass constrict and relax. "You take care of the clean up," Damian told him offhandedly, facing away from him, "I have to finish the telescoping wing modifications on Father's plane…"
"Hey…" Tim breathes, crawling out with him, also not bothering to grab clothes, and gently touching Damian's shoulder. "…I know we established the 'respect-boundaries-after-or-else' policy a long time ago but… I didn't mean to sound… jealous. I shouldn't have accused you of something like that, Damian."
The twenty-three-year-old fully expects for him to curse him in Arabic for breaching the no-touching or even look more pissed than he currently is. Damian only looks… slightly exasperated. If even at all.
"…You are such a woman, Drake," he complains, furrowing his eyebrows, and his mouth screws up thoughtfully.
"I take it you've forgiven me then."
"Forgiven for what?" Damian snorts, reaching back into the car and elbowing Tim aside as he pulls on his cashmere slacks. "I'm still troubled by the fact Father took in a simpleton for a protégé."
Tim's blue eyes smile gleefully. "Me too," he agrees, jostling aside the younger to pull on his baggy jeans. "Speaking of, need help with the new BatPlane?"
"I highly doubt you would understand the delicacy or complexity of these mechanics dealing with—"
"—the overlapping extension spar system?" Tim finishes for him, staring over him seriously and not batting a single eyelash. "I've played with this toy before."
"Hm." It could have been a trick of the light in the parking garage but Tim thought he saw Damian's thin lips twitch up. "Father's crime fighting equipment are not toys, Drake."
"You are insufferable."
"I like you too."
...I'm not going to lie to you... this came to me so randomly. I do not...think I ship them. IDK. But... when my brain demands that I write something... by golly it will have me do it. SOMETHING NEW. I LIKE NEW THINGS. Um... in further explanation for setting let's assume that Bruce is still playing Batman around the world while Dick is in Gotham and Tim is Red Robin and Damian is Robin yahha yadda JUST GO WITH ME ON THIS. If anything needs further explanation, feel free to ask me. That being said... comments are always deeply appreciated (like if this seemed to work out?) and if you do leave one... expect to see me in your email either flailing or sobbing. Or maybe both. Depends on what kind of day I am having. Oh... and everything Batman related does not belong to me.