Body-hugging spandex is the business formal dress code when it comes to the occupation. There are jokes — oh, there are always jokes — between the members of the superhero community, filtering through the grapevine than what circulates in the media. It's not that much of a scandal, admittedly.
Costumes and corsets and Kevlar and killer pointy heels are the norm.
Whether it would have been several years from now, or even several hours more into their stupid bet, Damian's ass would eventually have made homage to the scaly panties.
Every Robin's ass had at some point in time.
(Stephanie confessed that she was fond of their secret experiment night, nervously laughing between the heavy making out, while the silky-smooth material trapped against Tim's half-formed erection, rubbing. Yeah, her thighs and toned legs didn't seem all that bad in the second pair.)
Damian's muscles cupped and filling the panties look like they belong.
The inside of Tim's mouth slicks with saliva. He licks where his lips have gone uncomfortably dry.
Tim Drake isn't, by any means, an imbecile. He knows better (even if it prompts a bit of horror at the mental discovery) than to deny the fact that the image is arousing. But, facts are facts — Tim doesn't like Damian. Well, not quite in that manner. Not quite maybe. Damian has gotten easier to work with out in the field; he respects the title of Robin. They still verbally fight, however. The side-comments brim with sarcasm with the continuous jabs at each other's "lack of competence" regardless of situation and who leads.
There's an intimate routine to it, something akin to habit.
They enjoy it. The arguing, the bristling...
Neither of them would probably be willing to give that up. Not even if Tim blatantly ignored that Dick is lounging out on the nearest armchair, watching both of his brothers with semi-interest, and then shoved Damian's skinny, ignorant ass against the wood-paneling, slotting their hips, and JUST…
"Put the camera phone down or I'll break those fingers, Grayson," Damian hisses out. "This moment of stupidity does not need to be recorded for its posterity."
Dick laughs as the sixteen-year-old plants his hands on those narrow hips. For once, he takes the safer option and pockets his cell.
"Oh, c'mon! Don't be such a grouch, Little D," he says, cheerfully. The scowl does not fade off, not even with the appearance of Dick's encouraging and warm smile. "We've all done this, right, Tim?" Dick peeks over to the other, leather armchair and Tim remains silent, concentrating on what blood is gathering underneath his trousers and willing it to vacate.
An irritated groan.
"If you prefer to parade yourself in this atrocity, kindly leave me out of it." Tim watches the hem of a white oxford shirt fist into Damian's knuckling hand. "I've upheld the end of my bargain," Damian points out, a flash of impatience to his expression. "Now you uphold yours." Steely blue eyes focus on Dick rummaging into his opposite pocket.
"Fair's fair, kiddo," Dick says, conceding, holding up a blue microchip clipped within a molded, plastic casing.
Access codes, likely. Illegal access codes, even more likely, to… god knows what Damian needs them for. Or how Dick got his hands on them.
Bruce is going to destroy him. Both of them.
And Tim, just for association.
Oracle might, too.
The older man snatches it back out of Damian's reach just as he goes for it, earning him a couple angry swears in Farsi, and Dick leans over to Tim's space. He elbows him rudely in the bicep. "Think that your ex would enjoy the show?" Dick leers, wiggling his eyebrows good-naturedly, and Tim's poker face goes an undignified shade of red.
"You're a moron," Damian says, sneering. He yanks the chip from Dick's now lax fingers, and for a split second — pale brown cheeks darken with flushing.
"Let him be, Dick. Fun's over."
Somehow, Tim finds his voice, thankful for its composure. Dick's amused face peaks with another smile.
Damian rolls his eyes, staring down at him instead. "I can fight my own battles, Drake," he announces, not without a drip of malice. Damian turns where he dropped his cashmere slacks. Tim tries to avert his gaze purposely where Damian squats and bends in the arches of his feet to retrieve the slacks, the green curve of his small, gorgeous ass flexing.
He doesn't succeed.
The cold shower during mid-morning, mid-afternoon, and after patrol… doesn't rid the memory either.
DC Comics does not belong to me. I really hope you enjoyed reading!~~ Any and all comments are super duper appreciated. x3
The Robincest meme prompt:
"Even years later, when Damian is in his late teens, he and Tim still bicker. It seems like they'll just never get along.
And then one day, for a bet or a joke or to prove a point, Damian tries on the scaly green panties version of the Robin suit.
Tim is mortified to discover this is one of the hottest things he's even seen.
He honestly isn't sure which would be a worse option - if he's somehow Robin-panties-sexual or if he's genuinely attracted to Damian. Either way, he can't get the image of Damian dressed like that out of his head!"