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The Penthouse has many luxurious features, but by far Damian’s favorite is the tub. It’s a sprawling, indulgent thing, more of a small pool than a bathtub, tricked out with every feature from scented oils and bath salts to whirlpool jets and heating. When Gotham’s bitter winters have him longing for the warmth of the desert, it’s a great comfort to be able to curl up in water almost too hot to bear and let it envelop him like a second skin.
It’s also a magnificent place to lavish attention on his lover.
He knows he’s going to get Tim in the bath as soon as his beloved arrives at the Penthouse, swaying so hard he nearly loses his balance stepping off Redbird, holding his bruised ribs gingerly.
Damian clucks his tongue as soon as he sees him, already scanning him for obvious injuries.
For all his many other skills, Timothy has never been good at taking care of himself, so often seeming content to leave his wellbeing to fester unless Damian takes it into his own hands.
It is something that both frightens and honors him.
Damian is there at his side as he dismounts, helping him start to divest himself of the pieces of his armor as they step into the underground elevator to take them up to the Penthouse proper. Tim barely even tries to resist, even murmuring thanks as Damian undoes the difficult-to-reach clasp along the side of his suit, which says volumes about how exhausted he is.
It’s obvious how much he needs this. Not just the help, but Damian, but kindness and affection and someone to take care of him. He leans into Damian’s every touch with a neediness that can only partially be attributed to his physical condition.
“You ought to have come to me earlier,” Damian scolds him, tutting again at the self-done stitches running up his upper arm that reveal themselves when his undershirt is stripped away.
Tim shrugs, listing against him as they step out into the hallway leading to the Penthouse door. “I was busy,” he defends himself, as though that has ever or will ever be an acceptable excuse for allowing himself to come to harm. “There’s this new board member - replacement for the one who died in that bombing last month, remember? Guy’s smart and dedicated, and I’m pretty sure he’s loyal to the concept of Wayne Enterprises, but he also thinks I’m an idiot, I think…” he scrubs at his face with a tired sigh. “Keeps demanding these stupid presentations justifying all the biggest parts of our budget. I swear to god he’s trying to run me into the ground on purpose.
Damian hums, resisting the urge to promise the foolish man’s head for him if he desires it.
While he may abide much more closely by his father’s teachings than his mother’s, after so many years, it would not be the first time Tim has turned such an offer down.
“Make Father deal with him,” he says instead. “It is his company after all.”
“Should make you deal with it,” Tim mutters. “With diplomacy,” he adds after a moment’s thought, “not swords.” He allows himself to be herded towards the bathroom, stripped down to his underwear and his armor in a pile by the couch to deal with later. “Gonna be your inheritance one of these days anyway.”
Damian pauses in his tracks, halting Tim with a hand on his elbow. Tim looks at him in confusion as Damian angles him to meet his eyes. “I would be honored to share the burdens of running my father’s company with you,” he says solemnly. He hesitates, conscious of his own tendency to say things hurtfully without meaning to, and even more conscious of the hateful insults to Timothy’s capabilities that he had once spewed, when he was too young and foolish to understand what it was he was destroying.
If he phrases this wrong, it could all too easily tear at one of those healed wounds between them.
Sensing this, perhaps, Tim waits for him to gather his words without speaking, eyes a little wide.
“Perhaps you would be willing to teach me?” he finally asks. “I am confident that… under your guidance, I could learn how. It is not that I assume it to be easy,” he hastens to add. “I haven’t any doubt that you are exceptionally capable at what you do. I simply also have confidence in my own capacity to learn.”
He winces internally, feeling the suspicious dread that he has somehow made a misstep and doesn’t know where.
Timothy’s brow furrows, but if Damian is reading him correctly, there is no offense in the purse of his lips, and perhaps is even some amount of startled fondness. Damian relaxes the tiniest bit. “Dami, you don’t want to do that,” he says, tilting his head. “It’s… listen, it’s not fun, most of the time. It’s a lot of busy work that’ll take away from time you could be spending on better things, and negotiating with people you don’t want to be talking to but you have to make them think you like them anyway, and it’s just - ”
“You’re saying you don’t believe I have the patience or social skills for it,” Damian fills in. He’s surprised to find it hurts, even though objectively he knows it’s probably a fair assessment.
“I didn’t say that,” Tim disagrees immediately, tangling their fingers together before Damian has time to pull away. “I mean, yeah, I guess I don’t think it’s something that would come naturally to you, and I say that as someone who loves your prickly-ass self. But I just meant you shouldn’t have to do it. You should get to - to enjoy being a teenager.”
“I’m already older than you were when you started,” Damian argues. “Not to mention I’d have you to assist me.”
“I took over because I had to,” Tim argues right back. “You don’t.”
“But I want to,” Damian fires back, stepping closer to cup his lover’s cheek in his palm, forcing him to meet his eyes and see that he means it. “I want to because it’s draining you, and because you are precious to me, and therefore so too is the work you do.”
Tim tilts his head almost unconsciously to lean further into his touch, a lovely hint of a blush tinting his porcelain cheeks. “You’re spoiled, you know that?” he murmurs, the furrow in his brow fading. “Thinking you can just say you want something and that’s the end of the discussion.”
Damian hums, sweeping his thumb across his cheekbone. “In my defense, I am usually correct,” he replies. “After all, I told you I wanted you.”
He lets out a soft breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Yeah.”
Damian steps closer, tangling his fingers gently in the sweat-stiffened locks of hair around his ears as he watches Tim’s pupils dilate, fixed on him with the steady attentiveness of a dog awaiting its master’s command. “Yes, what?” he murmurs, testing the waters.
And Timothy, as always, lets him in so beautifully. “Yes sir,” he breathes.
At his assent, Damian allows his fingers to tighten their grasp, not hard enough to hurt, but tight enough that he can’t draw away.
Not that his beloved makes any such attempt.
When Damian pulls him forward and crushes their lips together, he follows like Damian’s thoughts are his own. His plush lips part easily before Damian’s questing tongue, allowing him to trace the shape of his teeth, the perfect imperfection of the gap between his front incisors, the sharp edge of the chip in his lower canine that he got on patrol last month and hasn’t had time to get fixed yet.
Damian notes it, pins it carefully to the list in his mind that he must see to it that Tim takes care of for himself.
His Timothy is so strong, so clever and capable. There is a small, selfish part of Damian that is grateful for his lack of self care, grateful for the space it has left for Damian to burrow into his life and never leave.
To take care of him, to have the opportunity to earn his submission, is a gift he is grateful for every day of their lives.
“Come on,” he murmurs, listening to the way Tim’s breath catches in his chest.
He’s struck by the sudden desire to take it from him.
And Tim will allow him, the same way he allows himself to be led by the hand into the bathroom, the same way he will allow Damian to give him what he needs by taking what he wants.
And what he wants is - “Take off your underwear.”
He releases Tim to begin drawing them a bath. The sound of the faucet running quickly drowns out the sound of fabric sliding over skin. He tests the temperature, trailing his fingers through the almost-too-hot water until he’s certain it’s perfect. He adds a few drops of scented oil, less than he might on another night, the pleasant smell of chamomile tinging the air.
When it’s ready, and only then, he rises and looks at Tim.
His darling is waiting patiently, stripped naked and standing without shame behind him. His hands are relaxed at his sides, palms open, fully exposed.
His eyes, though still alert and bright with awareness, are focused on Damian and Damian alone as he awaits his next command.
“Good,” Damian says softly, drinking in the way the lingering tension in his shoulders unspools the tiniest bit more at even that mild praise.
Damian has every intention of stripping the iron from his spine until he is little more than his basest pleasure, the core of him hollowed out and held in Damian’s hands.
He lets the bathtub continue to fill behind them, taking his time to check Timothy over, ensuring that he has no new injuries in need of treatment and that all his old ones are healing well.
Under other circumstances, he knows Tim would put up a fuss, insisting he was fine and that there was no need to worry, regardless of his condition.
But here, like this, exhausted and halfway into submission, he is beautifully cooperative, allowing him to trace the lines of healing cuts and sighing as Damian presses a kiss to his bare shoulder.
Damian’s hand slips lower, cupping him in his palm as he rolls his balls thoughtfully between his fingers. He spreads his legs helpfully, granting him full access to the most delicate parts of him.
His cock is still mostly soft, exhaustion no doubt keeping him from getting worked up easily, but that’s alright. It’s not one of those kinds of evenings anyway.
Damian lightly strokes his velvety shaft anyway, feeling Tim’s hips twitch, before withdrawing. “Follow me in,” he commands, stepping away and stripping out of his own clothes briskly before climbing into the bath, the scented water enveloping him in comforting heat.
Tim trails him as closely as a shadow, long, coltish legs stretching gracefully over the lip of the tub. He takes Damian’s outstretched hands, allowing himself to be guided down to sit between his spread legs, his back to Damian’s chest.
He lets out a blissful sigh, and Damian can feel the way the day’s stresses drain out of his muscles as he positively melts back against him.
Damian chuckles. He presses another kiss to the side of his neck, tasting the steam softly dampening his skin. “Does it feel good, habibi?” he murmurs, the answer obvious, yet desiring to hear it from his beloved’s own lips.
“Yes, sir,” he sighs, and Damian feels his chest light up with warmth as real as the water surrounding them.
He hums in pleasure, Tim’s lips quirking up as the sensation rumbles against his back like a purr.
He shifts his hips, questioningly grinding against Damian’s stirring member. But Damian stills him with a firm hand on his shoulder.
His cock may be half hard, but that’s not his priority right now.
He starts to knead Tim’s tired muscles with skillful fingers, seeking out the knots under his skin and pressing inexorably until he feels them give and melt away beneath his fingertips.
Tim leans more heavily against him with every one until he’s nearly boneless in the water.
Damian’s other hand comes up to tangle in his soft curls, carding water through them until they’re damp to the touch. He scritches his fingernails along his scalp, watching as Tim’s eyes go half-lidded with contentment. The bottle of shampoo sits within reach on the shelf beside the tub, but Damian doesn’t move to reach for it just yet.
When his hand on Tim’s shoulders falls still, his beloved’s gaze focuses on him, blinking slowly but alert. “Take a deep breath for me,” he says softly.
Tim’s eyes widen a bit, but he remains perfectly relaxed as his chest expands.
Damian waits for his lungs to fill completely before pushing his unresisting body under the water.
Tim settles against the bottom of the tub as easily as lying down in bed, a few tiny bubbles slipping free from between his lips. More escape the inky locks of his hair, stirring with the slight adjustments of his body as he gets comfortable.
Wide blue eyes stare up into Damian’s trustingly.
Here is why he held off on the shampoo, on any of the expensive soaps that Alfred ensures are kept stocked at the penthouse.
This way, there is nothing in the water to burn his lover's eyes, nothing to discourage him from keeping that beautiful gaze locked on Damian for as long as Damian desires it.
The bathtub is more than big enough for Tim to stretch out in, but he remains slightly curled up, keeping himself fully bracketed by the frame of Damian’s strong legs. Not for the first time, Damian is grateful to have grown into his father’s broad frame, smug in his ability to surround the leaner vigilante so thoroughly.
The hand resting on Tim’s shoulder drifts down to his chest, and Tim’s hand comes up automatically to meet it. Their interlocked fingers rest atop his sternum, Damian’s palm angled to be able to feel the steady thump-thump of his heartbeat. The rhythm now remains lazy, calm, not a hint of distress in its beat.
This is one of Damian’s favorite games.
Sometimes, the games they play can veer into the realm of brutality. For all that time and the gentle guidance of their family have softened Damian’s jagged edges, allowed him to truly understand and respect his father’s lack of bloodshed, there is still and will always be a part of him that thrills in the sight of an open wound, skillfully inflicted.
For the first years of his life, this was encouraged. The next years of his life were spent trying to suppress it, his viciousness wrapping itself up in shame. It is only recently that he has begun to understand what it means to find a balance between the two sides of himself.
He thinks, perhaps, that the same is true for Timothy.
The fingers laced with his twitch softly.
Damian resumes stroking his hair with his other hand, strands drifting in the water as though reaching after his fingers. Tim settles once more, blinking slowly.
There is a scar, just behind his ear.
It’s barely visible, was hardly more than a scratch even when the wound was fresh.
Tim has many scars, of course. They all do. Damian has mapped every one on his beloved’s body, from the deep surgical ridge where Grandfather took his spleen down to the tiny half-moons and stars that freckle his knuckles and the palms of his hands.
He has worshiped these scars, for all that he has cursed that which has dared damage his lover’s flesh by hands other than his own.
This scar is different.
It may have been lain by Damian’s hand, but not with care, not with reverence.
It was a batarang, thrown in fit of pre-teen rage when he still gladly would have named Timothy his detested rival.
Now, he can’t even remember what he was angry enough about to justify such an attempt on the life of the older boy, what was worth leaving such a hateful mark on his skin.
What he does remember is the fluid way Tim had dodged, leaving the weapon to graze near-harmlessly by him instead of carving into his skull as intended.
Even more, he remembers the expression on Timothy’s face when he turned towards Damian, a thin trickle of blood running ignored down the side of his cheek.
He’d been expecting fury, would have delighted in fear, but what he saw instead was bitter satisfaction.
The satisfaction of a detective who knew exactly what the answer to the mystery would be, and was disappointed anyway at being proven right.
It had… unsettled Damian, that look.
“Maybe someday you’ll be good enough to actually hit me,” he’d called across the rooftop. “Maybe then you’ll actually deserve to be called Robin.”
And without another word, he’d grappled off the rooftop, leaving Damian alone and restless in the darkness.
For weeks after that, it had stuck with him, the lingering question lodged like a splinter under his skin:
If Timothy had expected the batarang to be thrown, why had he turned his back in the first place?
Back then, he’d told himself it was weakness, foolishness, though even then the label didn’t feel as right as it had before that evening.
He thinks he might understand, now.
Beneath the water, Tim’s chest shudders.
The mental countdown that began in Damian’s head the instant he dipped under the surface continues to tick inexorably onwards. He strokes his thumb soothingly against the other man’s knuckles, a silent show of praise as Tim twitches again, abdomen flexing as it fights against the instinct to push himself upwards. A couple of small silver bubbles slip free from his lips.
But even as the signs of strain begin to make themselves apparent, Damian’s hand remains relaxed atop his aching lungs, no pressure keeping him in place beyond his own trust in Damian to know how much he can take.
And Damian does know. He knows Tim’s limits, the extent to which his beautiful mind and body can be pushed without breaking.
And oh, what a glory it is to be allowed to push.
He lets his native tongue spill soothingly from his lips, words of endearment in League dialect flowing like water. He doubts Tim can understand them through the water in his ears, but he knows he can hear his gentle tone, washing over him like the bath.
And Timothy has always been so good at understanding beyond the mere words Damian speaks.
He’s been under longer than most people would be able to bear, now.
His chest is making little bucking motions against Damian’s palm, gripping his fingers tight enough to bruise.
They’re not at his limit yet, but Damian feels the growing agony of his lungs like they’re his own.
And even more, he feels the way Tim fights against his own body. The way he chooses Damian, even over the scream of his own desire to survive.
His fingernails dig into Damian’s hand, an unconscious plea for him to let him up, let him live again.
Right now, if Damian chose it, he could let Tim die. Just like that.
Tim’s eyes meet his through the delicate ripples in the water. They’re narrowed with the strain, purpling lips pressed flat in an effort to keep himself from breathing in a great lungful of water.
He must be able to read the softness in Damian’s face, the way he drinks in the sight of those lovely lips slowly turning blue, unconsciousness lurking on the edges of vision like silt.
He sees this, and he relaxes into it, eyes going half-lidded as the jerking of his body grows intense enough that his legs splash softly through the surface, scrabbling at the bottom of the tub and kicking out. Another silver bubble slips through his lips and bursts.
Damian waits another few beats of his pounding heart. One more.
And then, finally, he tugs on their interlocked hands, and Tim lurches up and out of the water, gasping and coughing. Damian feels the ecstatic expanse of his lungs against his chest.
It’s so easy to grow greedy with his beloved.
He twists Tim’s upper body towards him so he can violently crush their lips together, draining the air from his burning chest and expelling it right back where it belongs.
And Timothy, precious miracle that he is, does his best to participate, even as Damian limits the amount of oxygen he can pant past the invasion of Damian’s domineering tongue.
Damian drinks in his gasps like the finest wine.
When he’s gained enough awareness to start to fall into one of the practiced breathing patterns drilled into both of them, Damian allows them to break apart.
Tim’s head finds its way to being softly pillowed against Damian’s chest.
He traces his knuckles soothingly across the planes of his heaving shoulders. “You did so well,” he murmurs in Tim’s ear. “So good, so perfect for me. Beautiful, Habibi.
Tim basks in the praise the way he breathes in air, blooms under it like a flower in the sun. His breaths have evened out, deep but steady and calm. The blue has retreated from his lips, leaving him rosy and half-drunk on oxygen.
Tipping his chin up, it’s clear from his hazy, hooded gaze that he’s fully down by now, floating in that headspace in which Damian knows he could do just about anything to him without a single protest.
He presses another kiss, this one chaste and innocent, to Tim’s forehead. “Would you like to do it again?” he asks softly.
Tim hums, nuzzling up against him ever-so-sweetly. “Yeah,” he mumbles back, and Damian rewards him with another kiss to the forehead, heart so full of love he could burst with it.
This time, there is no need to coach him to take a deep breath. As soon as he feels his chest inflate, he is pushing him back under the water, petting along his wiry ribcage and pressing delicately against his healing bruises as the older man settles perfectly back into place.
Even though his chest must surely still be aching from the last round, there is still no hesitation as he lets himself be drowned once again, simply because Damian has asked it of him.
It is these moments, holding the very heart of himself in his hands, that he feels the most worthy.
He would trust Timothy’s judgment in any scenario, would place his own life in the hands of this brilliant strategist without hesitation on any mission.
And Tim - of everyone alive, there is little doubt that he is the one who has witnessed Damian at his worst, has seen him at his cruelest and pettiest and most cowardly. He has had that cruelty directed at him, had it carved into his flesh and broken bones.
And yet still. Here they are.
Damian’s not sure he would be able to trust anyone else to love him the way Tim loves him.
Tim doesn’t last as long this time, lungs already worn out, but Damian was expecting that. The timer in his head is shortened from the outset.
It’s barely any time at all before he’s once again spasming against Damian’s hands. This time, Damian lets them roam, stroking along Tim’s graceful limbs and muscular, shivering abdomen, giving him other stimulus to focus on.
Damian’s cock is fully hard by now. He’s unashamed to admit that the desperation in Tim’s eyes heats his blood like no mere bath ever can, bubbles and muted grunts spilling from Tim’s lips as the agony of drowning sinks its claws into his ribs. One hand even shoots up out of the water to scrabble at the edge of the tub before withdrawing, nails scratching at the bottom of the tub as he battles his instinct to save himself.
When the bucking of his chest turns to sharp lurches, strength waning and the panic in his expression fades with the awareness in his eyes, Damian cups a hand under his head and pushes him up, not that he needs much coaxing.
He shoots upward, racking in panicked, harsh gasps while Damian rains praises down upon his skin.
Tim’s cock is rock hard and a needy red between his legs, and it makes Damian huff a laugh into the droplets of water dripping down his neck, too fond to ever sound mocking.
His nimble, elegant fingers wrap tightly around the pretty, slightly curved shaft, adding a slight and practiced twist as he starts to pump it.
Tim lets out a sharp keen, tapering off as he runs out of air he’s just gotten back. His legs spread, knocking eagerly into Damian’s.
“You’ve earned this,” Damian hisses into his ear with all the force of a command. “You deserve all this and more, my darling. So perfect for me. So beautiful, the way you drown for me. Like a painting, my Ophelia in the river, only oil on canvas could never capture how divine you are when you submit to me.”
Tim makes a punched-out sound, something hungry and hurt all at once. His hips buck up to meet the steady pumps of Damian’s hand as he continues to work him, roughly swiping the pad of his thumb over the swollen plum of his glans with every stroke.
“I love you,” he breathes, and that does it.
With a ripped, wounded wail, Tim comes, back arching and cum splashing across the wet plane of his stomach, clouding the water. Damian works him through it, not gentling his pace until Tim’s throaty groans turn to whines, and his hips are twitching to get away from his touch.
With a final cruel press against his slit that draws a soft protest from his lover’s lips, Damian withdraws his hand. He grabs a soft, clean washcloth from next to the tub, wiping the cum from Tim’s shaft and belly before too much of it can dissolve into the bathwater around them.
Tim is completely boneless, neck tilted back to rest his head on Damian’s collarbone. If he didn’t know that this was how Tim always gets towards the end of a scene, he might have worried that he’d actually drowned the older boy.
As it is, while he’s eager to get his lover into a warm bed where he can finally get the sleep he so desperately needs, he doesn’t forget why they’re here in the first place.
Conscious of the way the water is beginning to cool around them, he grabs the shampoo, working Tim’s soaked curls into a rich lather. Tim shifts his head helpfully for easier access, though he stubbornly keeps as much surface area of his body as humanly possible pressed against Damian.
When Damian runs his nails across his scalp, he lets out a sigh that’s practically a purr.
Damian smiles, taking his hand and kissing the back of his knuckles before releasing it so he can pour water from his cupped hand through his hair to rinse out the shampoo. He cups his palm against Tim’s forehead to keep the soap out of his eyes, stroking his temple softly as he does.
“How do you feel?” he asks in a murmur, regretful to disturb the expression of barely conscious bliss on his face.
Tim hums contentedly, turning his face to butt against Damian’s neck like a sleepy kitten. “‘M good,” he slurs. “‘M perfect. You’re perfect.”
As always, something deep in Damian’s chest unclenches and unspools into a pool of sizzling warmth, and he kisses Tim’s head, uncaring about the taste of soap.
He makes short work of the rest of the shampoo, runs a second clean washcloth across Tim’s skin, enough that he will be able to go to sleep feeling clean and refreshed until he can take a shower in the morning.
Tim is absolutely zero help during his spongebath, making disgruntled sounds anytime Damian dares reposition him for better access.
“I know exactly how well that suit of yours breathes, I’m not letting you get in our bed without washing your armpits,” Damian sniffs, resolutely refusing to give in to his complaints.
“You’re not allowed to tell me I stink right after you make me come my brains out,” Tim grumbles, but he does raise his arms, so Damian takes it as the victory it is.
By now, Damian’s cock has mostly softened, forgotten in the far more sacred ritual of tending to Tim’s needs.
When he has decided that they’re both clean enough to satisfy his standards, he helps Tim out of the tub, watching very carefully to make sure Red Robin doesn’t die an embarrassing death cracking his skull open on the bathroom floor.
He wraps him up in a soft and fluffy green towel and gives him a guiding push towards the connected bedroom, not fully trusting him to find it himself in this state. “Go wait for me on the bed,” he orders gently, and Tim shuffles off in that direction without complaint.
As soon as Damian is sure he’s safely off the tile floor, he sets to draining the tub, taking the time to rinse off the rag he used to mop up Tim’s spend as he does.
While he has little doubt that poor Alfred is likely far more aware of him and Tim’s activities than any of them really want to think about, Alfred included, he does personally oversee the Penthouse’s upkeep for security reasons, and Damian has absolutely no desire to subject him to that.
Though he rushes through these final chores as efficiently as possible, eager to join his lover in the comfort of their bed, he still half expects Tim to already be asleep by the time he gets to him.
For a few moments when he pads silently into the bedroom, flicking off the light behind him, he thinks he’s right, the tousled mop of Tim’s damp hair the only thing visible above the covers.
But as he approaches, Tim untangles an arm from the blankets to reach for him with an unintelligible but clearly demanding mumble.
Damian is only too happy to oblige. He slips under the covers behind him, tucking them in as soon as he does to seal in as much heat as possible.
To his surprise, Tim doesn’t snuggle instantly up to him like a giant teddy bear. Instead, his hand finds its way to Damian’s softened cock, making him go still in surprise.
“You don’t have to, beloved,” Damian murmurs. “I have already found plenty of satisfaction in you tonight.”
But Tim’s clever fingers show no hesitation on their quest to bring him back to hardness, and Damian’s body is happy enough to respond to that quest. “Want to,” he murmurs sleepily. “Want you inside me.”
Damian lets out a sigh of pleasure, reaching down between their tangled legs to prep Tim, but when he does, he finds his hole already slick with lube, his rim soft and puffy from being hurriedly worked open. He must have prepared himself in the few minutes he was alone while Damian was still in the bathroom.
“You were thinking about this, weren’t you?” he says huskily, slipping a finger in to test his work.
Tim adjusts his hips, eagerly making room for his hand to press in deeper. “I always think about you,” he returns, and Damian practically growls. Tim lets out a soft whine as he withdraws his finger that quickly catches in his throat as Damian replaces the digit with his swollen cock, the sound turning into a pained groan.
It’s a tight fit, Tim’s hasty preparation barely enough to allow him entry without damage, but Damian isn’t concerned.
He knows Tim likes it to ache, likes to feel every inch that Damian’s flesh has carved out within him.
Once their hips are pressed together, as deeply rooted as he can go, Tim takes another deep breath that sounds as nourishing as the ones he’d taken when Damian finally let him up for air.
Damian hooks a leg over his, pulling him back against him and keeping him there, the hot pulse of his insides wrapped around his shaft as cozy as curling under a blanket on a cold winter’s day.
“Sleep now, blossom of my heart,” he whispers in Tim’s ear, dipping into League dialect. “You’ve earned your rest.”
He lays there, not rocking up into his velvet heat, simply savoring the precious gift of being allowed to rest inside of him, as Tim’s breathing evens out.
And in the morning, if he wakes them both up by thrusting into his puffy, overnight-stretched and sensitive hole until Tim is sobbing and begging for more all at once, well.
That shall be a gift too.