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Tim doesn't take off his domino, far after the time where he slips off the seat of his bike and changes back into civvies by the lockers. He knows it looks odd, but he genuinely refuses to give up the opportunity to capture some photos of Damian sweating on the mats today.
He swears the kid has grown since the last time he saw him. Or maybe it's been gradual enough that Tim doesn't actually notice until he's looking at him in the lighting of the cave's sparring area. Damian's in a loose pair of sweats, folded at his waist and ankles. He has wraps secured around his fists and bare feet. He's shirtless.
Tim stands, numb and dumb, watching the sweat drip down his kind-of-little-brother's abs. He's quick as a viper and just as flexible as one, twisting and bending so far Tim could imagine him just snap. He's beating up a dummy like it murdered his cat, batarangs flying through the air in whips of his wrists.
The footage of Tim standing here in his domino while Damian works out is possibly incriminating, but who would call him out on it? Bruce? Absolutely not. If anyone were to notice, it'd probably be Barbara, but it's not like she has any room to talk about taking unsolicited photos of people she likes.
…Does Tim like Damian? Fuck.
He just. Likes looking at him, mostly. Which is probably worse, that he's blatantly attracted to a fifteen-year-old as if he isn't a grown man.
Well. Damian has never necessarily acted fifteen. He was always going to have a fundamentally different experience and attitude than the average teen.
Not that Tim needed to add to that by perving on him.
He crosses his arms and raises one casually to brush his fingers over the side of his mask, to snap a few shots in quick succession. Damian in flight. The bulge of his developing biceps, the curve of his back muscles. The hard flex of his fucking abs.
Tim knows he's better than this. He's surrounded by people, young and old, with bodies just as absurd. Maybe it wasn't just that it was a nice body, but it was Damian's. Prickly, exceptional asshole, Damian. Sweet, arrogant Damian. Damian, who has since acquired a monkey from the last time Tim saw him.
Damian stops rather abruptly, chest heaving, head bowed a little. Tim watches, enraptured by the glisten of sweat down the neat nape of his neck.
"What are you doing, Drake?" He says, turning his head to narrow brilliant green in his direction.
Tim swallows very normally. He crooks a grin at him, and lifts his fingers off his mask as inconspicuously as he can. "Waiting for you to fall flat on your face."
Damian rolls his eyes. "Tt. Of course. You don't have anything better to do."
"And you're doing something better?" Tim says sarcastically, even though he agrees. "Haven't you done enough work today? What's the point behind more exercise. You got a problem, Dames."
Damian scowls, nose wrinkling like a bunny briefly. Tim sees his eyes drift before he, intriguingly, flushes, and turns his head sharply away. "Not everyone is as lazy and weak as you, Drake."
Despite the rebuttal, he continues on to snag a towel off a rack, wiping his face and the back of his neck. He leaves his mess behind as usual, batarangs pin cushioning the destroyed dummies. Surprisingly low-tech training devices— Tim would have to talk to Bruce about upgrading this cave.
He sneaks another shot of Damian's back, as he's rolling his shoulder blades in an aching stretch. His fingers pull briefly at the high waistband of his pants, scratching a spot at the base of his spine, and Tim can see the low dimples of his back. Jesus fucking wept.
"Are you turning in for the night?" Damian asks suddenly, a little bit quiet from facing away.
Tim blinks for a moment, shaking his head. He slings his hands in his pockets, squeezing the inside of the fabric. "No. I'll fill out a report first."
There's an affirmative hum. Before Tim can form the breath to excuse himself, and drag his feet over to the computer, Damian swivels around and interrupts him. "I— I've designed a new uniform."
He's not meeting Tim's eyes, instead staring resolutely at the floor, one hand pulling at his own wrist. Oh.
"Yeah?" Tim says, unsure what Damian expects of him. He is interested, but— he's more interested in the strangeness of Damian's demeanor, going about telling him. He'd normally expect the kid to boast about it.
"Only father has seen it," Damian says. "Would you like to?"
Tim is suddenly dizzy. Damian wants him to be the first to see his new Robin uniform. "Uh. I mean," He starts, then realizes what his idiotic mouth is about to rob him of, if he automatically dismisses an offer like this. "Sure, let's see it."
Damian raises his chin, spine straight again. "Good. Wait here."
He spins on his heel and stalks off to go change privately, even though Tim is pretty sure he's seeing enough skin right now that it would count as seeing him naked anyway. Derailed, Tim finds himself finding a seat on the bench, closer to the showers, flanking the lockers.
Tim's curious about why Damian decided to update his uniform at all, since the most recent one is rather decent. It's tactical, properly fitting, and it matches Damian's prickly personality. It upsets the red, green, yellow pattern of the traditional Robin suit, but Tim probably doesn't have any room to talk on that subject. He shifted to pure red and black, too— Tim had wondered once, if Damian chose black and red on purpose to copy him, but it was more grey anyway, and plenty of heroes wore those colors.
He thumbs over the edge of his domino, contemplating how long he can wear it before being called out. He would like to snap a few pictures of Damian's new suit, now that he had the opportunity. Damian was too smart to miss that, though.
He leans back when he hears Damian coming around the bend again, footsteps a faint scuffle to allow him to be aware of his path. He's already feeling a bit amused, before Damian comes into view, still adjusting the long, dusty green gloves wrapping up the length of his forearm.
Tim's mouth goes dry, for some reason.
It's really not that big of a deal. It's certainly a change from Damian's last aesthetic. A lot more classic Robin on Damian than Tim's is accustomed to. Bright red tunic, thin yellow lines down the front, and solid behind the red R. Short green sleeves cling to his shoulders, and start of his biceps. Green tights, to bulging thighs, and yellow knee-guards, leading into knee-high boots, bright laces all the way down to his feet. Yellow soles and utility belt, and the underside of his sprawling cape.
Tim's low, simmering, not-quite-arousal drops and sparks to life in his gut. Holy shit. His thighs are obscene, Tim can see his fucking cup, in those tights— Jesus. Even with minimal skin on display, just the open expanse of his biceps and elbows, Tim feels the absurd urge to lick him.
His hair is still sweaty, messed up from changing and the rough movements of his training regimen. It's sort of curly when it's damp, fly-aways tucked in a smooth-down motion of Damian's glove through it. Oh, wait, Damian's mouth is moving.
"—Decided, but we'll see."
"Huh?" Tim says. "No? Wait, sorry. Looks nice."
Damian purses his pretty lips, the single dimple he inherited from Bruce making a valiant appearance. His brows furrow, domino crinkling. His crosses his arms. Tim helplessly tracks the movement, the slight shift of muscles playing beneath skin.
"You are acting exceptionally weird tonight, Drake," Damian says scathingly. "Is there a reason your brain is melting out of your ears?"
Really accurate description. Tim would give him eight out of ten for accuracy, points off for being unoriginal. "You look really good."
Tim's voice might have sounded a little too breathless, rather than conversational. Damian— pauses.
Then that blush crawls up his face again. "…Don't make fun of me, Drake."
…He's embarrassed. Nervous? Because Tim was complimenting him directly, not the suit? He was nervous the whole time, actually. What the hell for? Because it was Tim? Damian, worried about being made fun of? Tim is fucking delighted, all of the sudden.
He heaves himself off the bench to stride in closer. "I mean it, Damian. This is— I like it. Didn't think you'd like so much, uh, yellow."
He reaches out to brush a few fingers over the yellow foreground of Damian's Robin symbol, on his right pec, and Damian makes this abortive jerking motion when he makes contact. Tim drops his hand in response, feet glued to the ground, a foot away from Damian. He drags his gaze up Damian's exposed throat, instead, to meet eyes through their domino's.
Damian's fingers twitch at his side. He shifts half a step backward. "What do you have your mask on for?"
Tim feels himself smile, voice unavoidably flirty when it escapes him. "Why do you care?"
Damian cocks a brow, then scoffs. His cheeks are a delicious pink. Cute. Damian is cute, Tim is realizing. He knew that, already, but it is really hard to deal with this close up.
"I'd like to know what exactly you're looking at when you say things like that," Damian says.
Is that how they were going to play it? Tim hums, biting the inside of his cheek, and nodding thoughtfully. He stuffs his hands in his pockets again, and he catches how obviously Damian tips his head to follow the movement, how the white lenses of his mask shift when he glides his gaze up Tim's body. Well. He doesn't need Damian to lose the mask to know where he's looking.
"Maybe you should pay closer attention," Tim says.
A few beats of silence. Tim has a tingle in the back of his brain, sensing how much Damian wants to squirm at the rising tension.
"Like how closely you pay attention to me?" Damian asks.
"How close do I do that?" Tim murmurs, leaning in a little. He watches Damian's chest expand broader, his breaths deeper. His lips part.
The Damian averts his attention, head turning to the side. "What is your real opinion of the uniform?"
"Real?" Tim echoes, taken aback. He reaches out now, emboldened by the interaction enough to cup Damian's side, where his ribs start. "My opinion's the same, Robin. It suits you. It's not like you to be insecure, you know."
Damian scowls, then. "I know you're holding something back, Drake."
Tim blinks at him. Does he— okay. Tim takes his hand back, and runs it exasperatedly through his hair. He blows a breath out his nose. "Fine. I don't want you to wear it."
Damian rears up in effect, about to hound him for the admission, and Tim concludes it by continuing with, "Or else I might ruin it and fuck you in it."
There's a click of Damian's teeth, loud as he shuts his open mouth. His lenses are incredibly round, shocked into silence. Tim lets it speak for itself. He said his piece.
"You— You just, what do you—" Damian sputters, lifting his hands to meaninglessly gesture, the new cut of his gloves creaking slightly with the movements. He really has to break those in some more.
Tim lifts his own hand, slow, to his temple. He lets Damian stare directly at the motion as he presses the silent mechanism, and takes a picture of Damian's bewildered, flushed face, in his new Robin uniform.
All of the tense embarrassment in Damian's body drains abruptly out, and they both move at the same time. Damian's arm shoots out to grasp the front of his shirt, tugging him toward him, and Tim closes in to lock an arm around the back of his neck, forcing their faces close. Tim kisses him, hard, mouth slightly parted. Damian moans.
Tim's free hand gropes blindly at Damian's arm, to his side, sliding down to squeeze hard at his waist. Damian presses so close to him he thinks he might be trying to merge, soft mouth getting more wet with spit as it works with Tim's. He catches his teeth on his lip, nipping the flesh, and delving his tongue deeper on the next pass when it results in a gasp.
Hell, what is happening. He has Damian Wayne in his arms gasping and moaning from just a little kissing. Bruce's son. Tim's brother, technically. He— god. What was he meant to do, though? He tastes good.
Damian stumbles back slightly, when Tim urges him, and he uses his grip on his waist to ease his back against the cool metal of a closed locker. He bites into his mouth, to distract him, while Damian's hands grow borderline desperate, pulling at his shirt to guide him impossibly closer.
His knee finds its way in between Damian's legs, meeting the solid curve of his cup protecting his groin. Damian hisses, twisting his head away to get the sound out. Tim scrapes his teeth on his jaw instead, trailing kisses down the exposed line of his throat. Even his sweat tastes good, salty, and how he distinctly smells, the rose and jasmine and vague cinnamon. Tim wants to eat him alive. He wants to make him come.
Fingers drag messily through Tim's hair and tug sharply, to pull his head away from Damian's supple neck. He grunts, following the motion to avoid the tingling pain from repeating, and stares down at his little brother's debauched face. Damian breathes heavily, eyes shut, a little whimper in his throat as Tim moves his hands down to his ass.
"I bet you planned this, didn't you?" Tim pants. He squeezes the muscle-fat, perfect softness to his ass. Exhilaration soaring through his veins. "You saw me taking photos that whole time, didn't you? You were showing off for it. Then you had to put this on, to prove you were right about me."
Damian swallows. White lenses blink open. His gloves tighten in Tim's hair, as if that will save him from Tim's rising hunger. Tim feels like a predator, pinning Damian to the cave's lockers and five seconds away from divesting that fucking suit from his perfect body.
"I'm going to keep this on," Tim tells him, hushed. "And I'm going to take as many pictures that I want, now, while I make you come. And you're going to be very good, and quiet, aren't you?"
Damian closes his eyes under the mask again, and his head falls against the metal, rolling over his own shoulder. He's shy like this, never done anything like this probably, so cute— He nods, just a short jerk of his chin.
"Show me how to disarm it, Robin," Tim says, and lowers his hand to Damian's utility belt, to start.