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The weak sound of crying greets Damian as he returns to the Cave.
He allows himself a smile only while his face is hidden, and goes about his usual post-patrol routine. It's an effort to steel his expression when he removes the cowl. He doesn't even glance to the table, where buzzing and faint whimpers echo. He strips off each piece of the batsuit, checks and stows each weapon and tool, even takes his usual shower. Only when he's safely hidden beneath the spray does he allow himself to slip, quickly and quietly jacking himself off to remove the edge.
The pale splay of limbs in the corner of his eye when he emerges is near-irresistable.
Tim's voice rises as soon as he spots Damian. It sounds like may be trying to speak behind the gag—almost impressive, considering how long he's had to suffer.
Damian pushes temptation of both sight and sound back, and thoroughly ignores him. He walks right past the metal table holding Tim down without a glance, moving straight to his computer to log a report.
Surely Drake doesn't expect Batman to deviate from routine.
The first sign he gives that he has any awareness of Tim's presence is, halfway through the report, when he reaches over to the remote to dial the intensity up further.
A shout nearing a shriek echoes through the cave, sending bats scattering. Tim's thrashing is visible even in the blurry reflection of the monitor. Damian smirks, but does not turn. He still has a report to finish.
It takes him far longer than usual, so distracted. Granted, he doesn't help his rate of progress by pulling the remote closer, and playing with the settings at regular intervals. Before he left, Drake was taking pains to smother every sound, but now Damian might well be directly controlling his voice. Four hours away have been quite helpful in breaking him.
Finally, the report is finished, admittedly not as polished as his usual standard. He'll check it later when he doesn't have such alluring matters to attend to.
Tim's eyes have slipped closed, tear tracks drying below them as he trembles. Damian drinks in every detail while he has the chance. Lips stretched wide and rosy around the black ball gag. Wrists and ankles rubbed raw from tugging against his bindings, the most effective restraints Damian could find. The leather strap around one wrists is worn on the outside, from some surely heroic effort to escape, but not loosened in the slightest. Damian was not worried. He never could have made it through the reinforcement.
The vibrator he's dialed back to its lowest setting, but it seems enough to keep Tim shaking. Damian can only imagine the excess of stimulation the man is feeling after so long. Evidence of a previous release splatters across the table and his own torso.
“Disgusting,” Damian sneers.
Tim flinches, eyes blinking open with far less sharpness than usual. When they manage to stir up and reach eye contact, Damian is surprised to still find fury and betrayal within. Perhaps not as broken as he'd thought.
“With a face like that, you'll make me think you want to stay here,” says Damian.
Tim scowls. An angry sound rumbles in his throat—and abruptly lifts in pitch as Damian turns up the vibrations.
He leaves it there for a long minute, as Tim arches up far as he can, arms jerking against the restraints. Only when his body starts to shudder and sag does Damian allow a reprieve.
Not entirely, of course. Drake will have to make do with a lower setting.
With remarkable patience, he waits for Tim to catch his breath. When he does, he makes a sound quite like speech, words muffled and incomprehensible through the ball gag. He stares at Damian again, but the anger is tempered with something, dare he say it, pleading.
When Damian smiles this time, it is entirely for the purpose of being seen.
“I will allow you to speak,” he grants, styling himself an indulgent master as he leans over to unclasp the gag, “but consider your words wisely.”
Tim doesn't immediately take him up on it when the gag comes out. He works his jaw first, pinches and stretches his lips, breathing hard. Damian watches impassively.
“Dam...Damian,” he starts, voice hoarse.
Dry, surely, and likely sore from all the screaming he did while alone. Damian will have to pull the tapes later to savor each sound.
Tim's mouth works a few more times on phantom words. Even knowing Drake was an inferior placeholder for his father's crusade, Damian has always reluctantly admired his ability to think through each action and word before he commits to it. But this time, honestly, he's had all these hours to think on it. He should have come up with something to say by now. He had plenty of things to spit at Damian earlier, before the gag went on.
“Untie me,” Tim settles on. Trite and simplistic, but at least it's not the inanity of a why or you won't get away with this.
Damian is Batman now, which means he will get away with whatever he likes.
“I don't think you've earned it,” says Damian.
Another spark of ire in Tim's gaze. Damian is delighted to see the fight still left in him, and even more to watch the way Tim quashes it down instead of speaking back. Someone is learning their place.
Tim's chest rises and falls heavily with each breath. Sweat beads on his nude body, dripping down to mar the smooth metal of the table. The seed on his stomach is too dry to drip. How long has it been since he was forced to come against his will, trapped and alone in the cave, offered no reprieve by the constant stimulation of an uncaring toy?
Drake is taking so very long to find words again, so Damian clicks the vibrator's intensity up a notch. After a moment, another notch. Another, and again, until Tim is pressing his lips together against a whine.
He prefers Tim like this. The man inside not lost, but no longer questioning and fighting and then lambasting Damian nonstop. Truly, for all the struggle to get him stripped and tied down, one would have though he was being murdered.
“Are you uncomfortable?” Damian asks, sweet as cyanide.
Blue eyes snap to him. Damian can see the gears turning sluggishly behind them, desperately trying to assess the preferable answer despite the strain Damian has put him under.
Whether Drake determines it the answer to best please Damian, thinks his situation cannot get worse, or is simply too beaten to lie, he eventually nods.
Damian trails his fingers up Tim's inner thighs, though the man is already trembling too strongly to show a reaction. There is no base to the toy he used, no flared bottom to hold it back. A simple bullet vibe, wide as two fingers, and not as long. Amazing how something so small can be so effective.
Especially when it is not intended for such things.
When he slides two fingers an inch into Tim and finds no sign of the toy where he left it, he confirms just why that is.
“You'd like to take it out?” Damian asks, withdrawing his hand and giving no sign of his discovery.
Tim hesitantly nods, obviously primed for a trap.
“Yes,” he tries slowly. “If you just untie my hand...”
“Of course,” Damian agrees, stepping around the side of the table to do just that. Every amiable acceptance only makes Tim tenser. He is a condemned man, waiting for the revelation of his torture, and Damian alight with anticipation for the moment realization drops.
Damian holds his wrist tightly as he frees it from the bonds.
“Don't make me resecure this,” he threatens, leaning over Tim to display every inch of his large frame in reminder. A hard squeeze for the message to sink in, and then he releases, returning to his previous position in front of Tim's splayed legs. The better view.
Tim eyes him like prey to a predator, slowly pushing up as much as he can with one wrist still tied. He's smart enough not to move for the other restraints without permission.
Instead, he tugs his legs up as much as they'll allow, leans his shoulder down, awkwardly shifts and shimmies with three limbs bound. Damian tries not to let his amusement show as Tim maneuvers into whatever slightly better position he can manage. He even steps back a foot to allow full breathing room, if no privacy.
He'll have to consider further toys. Watching Tim move without being able to unspread his legs is delightful, but it would be better if something were bouncing on his body with each motion.
Tim glances up when he's finally hunched as much as he can, taking in Damian's faux-innocence with suspicion and no small amount of humiliation. Then he ducks his head and reaches down between his legs without further ceremony.
The jolt that goes through him when Damian flicks the settings up again is enjoyable, even if Tim presses on.
Two fingers press into his own hole, feeling around. Damian amuses himself by oscillating the intensity unevenly as Drake works—not that he needs more amusement, watching Drake root inside himself for something he will not find.
Shoulders rise on the restrained man as his breath comes more and more unevenly. Damian's loin stirs with the realization it's not just from effort, but from panic.
“Having trouble?” he asks, when a full two minutes have passed.
Drake scowls up at him, through a fringe of mussed and drooping hair. His anger is somewhat undercut by the shallow fear in his panting. Not that the insufferable man will let that keep him from making Damian's life difficult.
“Well, you're not supposed to just shove—”
“Me?” Damian interrupts, stepping in to loom over him. He switches the toy off so Tim can listen properly. “I'm not the one who was squirming around on it. I'm not the one who was too busy coming like a slut to notice it moving deeper.”
Tim lashes out. Damian is surprised he lasted this long.
He catches the fist before it strikes, battling it back to the surface. It's hardly a fair fight, and Damian has no interest in making it fairer.
With a knee between Tim's thighs, he lifts himself onto the table. His upper body is entirely supported by a harsh grip holding Tim's wrist to the metal surface, and another over the man's jaw.
“What did I say,” Damian hisses, reaching for the loosed binding.
Tim thrashes in his grip, helpless to stop Damian from retying him. When his jaw is released, he even makes an attempt at a headbutt—effortlessly dodged. The second Tim's wrist is secure, Damian leaps off the table.
“Don't you—!”
Damian turns the vibrator on full force, and Tim interrupts himself with a cry.
“Here's what's going to happen,” Damian says, over the sound of his unwilling moans. “You're going to stay right there, because clearly you can't be trusted with anything else. And if you resume speaking disrespectfully, I'll be forced to utilize the gag again as well.
“But,” he continues, lowering the intensity and leaving Tim gasping, “I'm not without mercy. So, if you ask me nicely, I'll remove the vibrator for you.”
He allows what he thinks is a more than generous twenty seconds, during which time Tim continues panting and completely neglects to address his generous offer.
“Well?” Damian prompts.
Tim squeezes his eyes shut, head twisting to the side. It's the closest he can get to hiding—as if Damian cannot simply shift his weight to follow, observing every ounce of humiliation.
“Fine,” Tim grits out.
“Come again?”
Eyes pull up to glare at him, sparkling with tears. Fear, stimulation, fury, all combining to make something Damian imagines is quite overwhelming.
“Take it out,” says Tim.
“That's not very polite.”
“Please.” His voice cracks on the word, chest shuddering. He doesn't cry though, not yet, even if his gaze shifts to the ceiling to avoid eye contact. “Da—Damian. Please take it out.”
Damian pets the nearest ankle, drawing another flinch.
“Of course, Drake,” he purrs.
He sets the remote aside, leaving the vibrations on low.
Two of his own fingers slip in just as easily as before. He left plenty of lubrication before. Damian knows he'll need to fit far more of his hand inside to remove the toy, but he's not anticipating when he slides the fingers in all the way and still feels nothing. Drake really did pull it in deeply.
“You must have really enjoyed it,” Damian mocks.
Tim presses his lips together to stay quiet. Probably wise. Best not to anger someone who's inside you.
Damian shoves in a third finger. A slight quake reverberates around them, echoes of the vibration above. He can feel the tightness now, but there's no response to indicate it's painful. Good. Drake has far more to take before his request is filled.
His fingers twist and splay, working the inner muscles to accept him whether they like it or not. It takes some time, practicing the stretch over and over until they can reach their furthest distance. Periodically, he twists to curl the tips just so, drawing flinches and whimpers from Tim.
The man's eyes pinch closed, ability to stifle his reactions wearing out ever more by the second.
“Can you just—grab it,” Tim finally says, without opening his eyes. Damian has done nothing to his throat—there's an enticing prospect—but it sounds ruined nonetheless.
“I though you'd like me to be sweet and gentle,” says Damian. He pets Tim's knee softly for good measure.
“Just do it,” Tim chokes.
“Courtesy,” Damian reminds him.
“Just do it, you fucking—ah!” Tim jerks at a hard crook against his insides, Damian's expression souring.
“Fine. But since you can't speak kindly...”
Damian withdraws his fingers roughly, collecting the discarded gag. Tim whimpers a, “no,” but doesn't even try to turn his head to stop Damian from reapplying it. He pulls the strap tight, careless of the lubrication from his fingers smearing over it and into Drake's hair. Tears bead in Tim's eyes, but refuse to fall.
The same three fingers shove back it without preamble.
“Remember this is what you asked for,” Damian says, and crams in a forth.
Tim whines, twitching. With his mouth forced open around the ball, it's harder to keep himself quiet. Damian delights in each sound as he roughly pumps the fingers, all accompanied by the background buzzing. The bump of his middle joints catches each time, until he forces that in as well to thrust deeper. It gets harder to move, stretching Tim's rim further the closer he gets to the base of his fingers, but he doesn't stop.
His knuckles butt against the reddening rim. Damian turns his hand, dragging each bump across the surface. No slickness reaches so low on his hands, making the motion harder and Tim squirm.
The bottle still lays on the tray table where he discarded the remote. Damian regretfully grabs it, dribbling lubricant without finesse over his hand. Good enough. It will spread when he forces it inside.
He twists and pulls half-out once more, fingers splaying in preparation, and then presses in. The pace is slow but unrelenting with the new slickness, forcing Tim's hole to part impossibly over his knuckles, the width of his hand, all the way on. Imagining such tightness around his cock instead fires arousal through Damian.
Tim moans loud and squirms. With his motion so restricted, it's impossible to tell if he's trying to pull away or merely acclimate himself. Perhaps, Damian thinks indulgently, he's even trying to fuck himself down on the hand.
Finally, his finger tips brush something hard and vibrating deep inside.
“There we are,” Damian murmurs, and flicks it with his nails.
Tim jerks, crying out.
“Isn't this what you wanted?” Damian asks, pumping his hand slowly and ensuring he taps the toy with each in-stroke. “What you asked for?”
Tim shakes on what sounds like a sob. His cock, once abandoned and struggling to recover, is rising again. Damian curls his hand insistently against the man's prostate to encourage it.
“See? You like it.”
With his fingers inside to the base, he can spread them even wider, urging Tim open. Outside, his thumb sweeps through the lubricant pooling in his palm, slicking as much as it can single-handed.
Damian pulls back until he can position it as well. His thumb tip rubs against Tim's rim. Swollen and red with abuse, and he's not even finished yet. With a deliberate slowness to savor each moment, Damian pushes all five fingers in.
Tim quakes, moans gasping and hitching. His legs twitch on either side of Damian, alternately trying to pull apart and turn inwards.
Damian clamps his free hand on one of the bare thighs, locking it in the widest stretch against the restrains.
His hand presses in, deeper, deeper. Damian twists back and forth, envisioning a corkscrew, until Tim opens around the very widest part at the base of his thumb. He finds himself holding his breath as he watches each sliver of skin slowly disappear, until Tim is clamping down over his wrist.
Damian murmurs a curse. He really fit it all. He wasn't sure he could.
He's on a mission, though. The tips of his fingers wiggle around the smooth shape of the toy, until they can hook enough to tug it closer. Damian looks up Tim's body as they do, heartbeat loud in his ears, finding him flushed and struggling, cock at attention.
Well. Let him never say Damian did nothing for him.
He curls his fingers behind the toy, getting just the right leverage, and then presses it right up against Tim's prostate with ruthless precision.
Tim shouts out, jolts off the table and back down, pulls every direction at any distance he can manage. Damian follows without reprieve, filling him far too wide for him to escape even an instant of the sensation. Tears leak from Tim's eyes, pouring down the sides of his face as his cries rise in pitch.
“Just trying to get ahold of it,” Damian lies blithely.
He curls and stretches his fingers within Tim's walls, painstakingly inching them around. His hand slips in an inch deeper, and Damian catches his breath at the sight of Tim around his arm. The toy he pulls into his palm. It lifts off direct contact with Tim's sensitive nerves, but Damian hardly worries about a lack of stimulation. The girth alone, splitting him open...
Tim continues weeping, but his moans sound as pleasured as they do distraught. Damian's mouth curls in a smile.
Motion by faltering motion, his hand finally closes fully around the vibrator.
His entire fist. Damian clenches down on the toy to make his knuckles and muscles bulge inside, and gets a mewl for his trouble.
The bullet buzzes within his fist. Like this, it seems such a negligible motion, though he knows his hand is hardly as sensitive as Tim's hole. Still, muffled by the shell of his palm and fingers, the vibration is surely dulled for Drake. The man is breathing hard, squirming to adjust on Damian's fist, but not shaking nearly so strong.
That won't do at all.
Damian leans carefully over, minding he gives Tim no reason to look, and silently presses the remote.
The bones of his hand seem to rattle as the intensity amps up, entire fist shaking. Tim shouts, loud and high, eyes snapping open. His body convulses, hips undulated where Damian impales them in place.
Damian draws his arm back until Tim is squeezing on the thinnest part of his wrist, rim held tight against the base of his fist, and then punches back in. Tim jolts and moans.
“Yes,” Damian breathes.
He repeats the motion, pounding in his fist. He can't move fast, but he strikes firm and steady, drawing an irrepressible reaction with each thrust.
After a few more, he abandons the motion, turning his hand to push the bumps of his fingers into that sensitive spot. Tim moans, whimpers, squirms on his first, tears not slowing as he cries over the relentless assault to his prostate.
Damian's vibrating fist forces out the orgasm after less than a minute. Tim shudders once more, voice breaking on the highest moan yet, and his eyes fall shut as his comes over himself once again, cock untouched. He shakes with the aftershocks, sagging into the table.
Damian stills for a moment, breathing hard like he was the one to find release.
When Drake starts squirming at the vibration still in his body, he slowly withdraws. Inch by impossible inch, slick skin revealing itself as the absurd width of his fist finally pulls from the man's body.
Panting, Damian turns to drop the still buzzing toy onto the tray table. It's smaller than its own remote. Let it never be said size is a measure of effectiveness.
Tim is lax on the table when he returns his attention, cheek against the cool metal as he breathes hard.
Damian runs a hand through his sweaty hair, more gentle than he'd admit. Perhaps he's getting soft, but Tim did perform exquisitely well once his options to fight were taken away. He palms his own aching cock within his pants.
“Don't fall asleep yet, Timothy. You still haven't given me my turn.”