Chapter Text
Tim has grown used to the feeling of being watched, but he doesn’t enjoy it.
No matter how he masquerades, he’s a photographer, not a performer. A part of him will never accept being in the limelight, feeling eyes scrape down his body like knives slicing off pieces of him to take home for dinner.
One would assume the CEO of Wayne Enterprises walking onto an exhibit hall floor would garner more than a few stray glances, but it doesn’t. Tim has never been so pleased to be wrong about his assumptions.
The makeshift aisles curving around booths and displays bustle with harried marketers, lax soldiers grateful for the time off and paid ‘educational’ leave, overzealous teenagers, and children without backpack leashes on. However, everyone was looking somewhere else: backlit booths, video projections, holographic displays, dissected engines, weaponry, and full-scale, flight-capable aircraft. There are things worth ooh-ing over, and Tim isn’t one of them.
Which is great when he is reminded of the silicone plug up his ass with every step. It shifts and rubs his inner walls, stretching his abused hole a near-neligible amount, only noticeable by how… focused he is on it.
Tim can’t let the memory go. He swears he can feel it, Dick’s cum—his spit.
He clenches reflexively, hole fluttering around the base, still feeling the imprint of Dick’s cock and the way it split him open, stretched him out so well.
Tim’s face burns, a reaction he can’t leash, not with its cause right beside him.
“How did they get a helicopter in here?” Dick asks, gaze caught on Bell’s latest prototype, not yet mission-ready. He’s jittering by Tim’s side, steps bouncy with awe, barely contained thrill, and 400 milligrams of caffeine.
Dick lowers his head, breath fanning over Tim’s ear—an intimacy he still doesn’t believe is real, similar to the grounding weight of Dick’s hand settled low on his back—and next question is for Tim alone,
“And more importantly, when can we get one?”
Tim looks at him curtly, a silent chastisement. You never know who may be listening in a place like this, but Tim came prepared with a small signal jammer and frequency disrupter. No one will be recording him today, but he still keeps his voice low when he answers,
“You say that as if you don’t have access to the Javelin, Bat-plane, or the JL’s fleet.”
“Sure,” Dick says easily, shrugging off the fact that any hero would lend him a plane at the drop of a hat, that is if the flight-capable ones hadn’t already swept him off his feet. “But imagine it in black and blue.”
Tim indulges him with a gentle hum, but points the majority of his attention to finding WE’s damn exhibitor space. Despite memorizing the floor map, he swears they’re going in circles. The exhibition halls are massive, and though every space is numbered, the sheer amount of people and eye-catching displays have him caught on the backfoot.
Dick, however, seems happy just to be here, hanging out with him.
“Now the real question is, what would I call it?” Dick prompts, still going on about the imaginary plane Tim will buy for him… which, obviously he will. Like hell would Tim allow anyone else to buy Dick tech and gadgets.
“Don’t take inspiration from here,” Tim sniffs distastefully, letting his mask drop as Dick casts him in a protective shadow.
Helicopters are staged artfully around the room, most of them are current versions of the old guard machinery of Apaches and Chinooks, but there are a few legacy pieces around for photo ops, sit-ins, and tours.
“But,” Tim says, distracted by the casual sweep of Dick’s fingers dipping under his waistband, pressing teasingly into a bruise on his hip. “I’ll try to keep my commentary on the implications of naming aircrafts and war machines after displaced and disenfranchised native tribes to myself.”
“For now.” Dick laughs, not at the subject, but at Tim’s distaste.
Dick knows him well, but hey, someone has to keep Tim from financially obliterating the directors of Lockheed Martin, Lex Corp, and Boeing… A little hacking wouldn’t be the worst thing, especially if he is to meet with them later and discuss a teaming agreement.
Sometimes to get the devil’s technology and access to patents one has to play nice and pad his pockets. Calls like this, where morals don’t always meet the light, is why Damian, despite his youthful boasts of upholding the Wayne legacy, wouldn’t make in this industry.
Bruce has a similar struggle and kept WE out of defense contracting, but when forecasted signs of plateauing in several innovative areas while Lex Luthor forged ahead… Well, choices had to be made.
Two years ago, Tim would have hacked his network and duplicated his drive on whatever project interested him, but the moment he has the plans, they’re dated and made obsolete. Tim needs them in realtime, needs to be in on the conversations, and calling the shots. The best way to stop him, control the flux of technology and give the Justice League a leg up in global conflict is to foster this relationship, play into their hands to swipe the deck.
That doesn’t mean he hasn’t lost sleep over the decisions, but he still stands by them in the light of day.
Tim learned quite a bit when working with and in opposition to Ra's. Turns out the ancient megalomaniacs are good for a few things, and honing idealistic boys into ruthless men is one of them… or was that the result of Lady Shiva’s training? Batman’s lessons? Or the deaths that haunted him into adulthood?
Tim supposes it doesn’t matter; he holds every hard-won lesson close, listens to them when the world refuses to make any sense.
He breaks away from his thoughts when the WE logo finally appears in the air like a gleaming beacon cutting through the clutter of the exhibit hall.
“You look like you’re preparing for a fight,” Dick says with an odd, unreadable tone as he puts an acceptable amount of space between them, peeling away slowly. His hand stays on Tim’s back, a proprietary gesture, but one that won’t undermine Tim in the eyes of his peers and colleagues.
Innocent even, if Tim didn’t know he was thumbing over the controls on the vibrator’s remote in his pocket.
“I might be,” Tim drolls. “Won’t know until I’m told.”
The last statement isn’t directed at Dick, but to the man who has popped up beside them with a level of stealth that would’ve earned Cass’s approval.
Tablet tucked into his arm, stylus ready, the man means business.
Tim nods in greeting before introducing the others to each other. “Silas, meet Richard Grayson—”
“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” Silas says, a greeting and a dismissal. Curt, to the point, and happy to cut out any pleasantries, Silus is an effective administrative assistant when Tam is out or unable to help him. Unfortunately, despite his year with WE, he still hasn’t managed to fake the schmoozing portion of the job that would bring him to a level above ‘effective’. He needed a little work on his corporate diplomacy, but the change from groveling is refreshing enough to keep him around.
Silas turns his attention to the CEO. “Now, Tim, your first meeting is in ten minutes. I’ve already sent the information to your tablet and printed the necessary hand outs, electronics are not allowed into the room. Any devices found will be wiped.”
The admin rushes on, relaying the facts as they near WE’s exhibit.
Tim takes the information in like it’s a pre-mission brief, letting it sink in and wash over him as plans cord together. This venture is no different than an Arkham breakout—high-stakes, multiple opponents, a battle ground of pop-up boardrooms and rented furniture.
But he can’t help but wonder if the remote-controlled plug is considered an electronic device… is his ass about to set off an alarm?
Minor panic creeps into the forefront of Tim’s mind as his admin wraps up his brief.
“However, before I rush you over to LexCorp,” Silas’ voice clips with barely contained annoyance as they pause beside the illuminated podium made to look like the columns of WE’s logo. “Lance has requested a photo op.”
Tim nods, ignoring the disdain Silas projects. The photographer and marketing specialist was just doing his job; it’s not the kid’s fault everyone hates getting their picture taken. At an event like this—or any company event for that matter—it’s a necessary evil. Social media doesn’t feed itself.
But the kid, a baby-faced college intern in his co-op semester, pops up from behind the podium, with a bundle of pens in hand, just in time to hear it. His face falls, puppy brown eyes growing softer.
Tim smiles gently at him and makes a mental note to ask him about his camera and classes after the meeting with Lex.
But right now he’s rushing and he doesn’t have time to soothe the kid who’s pretending his feelings have hardened to the demands of the job as he carefully arranges the new pens in the jar for people to take.
“Make sure you get pictures of the booth staff as well,” Tim reminds as he fixes the lapels of his suit jacket and slips into position, posing where the light hits him the best and the logo is perfectly framed above his shoulder.
Lance nods, adjusts his camera settings and takes the picture before looking up. Annoyance and something like disgust flits across his face, nose wrinkling slightly as his brows pitch together.
“Uh, sir, you have a, um, bruise,” the kid says as diplomatically as possible.
Tim startles. He’d forgotten about that.
“Dear god, Gavin,” Silas scoffs. “Did you maul him?”
Gavin? Tim blinks, but Dick corrects the admin with an ever-pleasant smile that hides the disbelief sparking in his eyes,
“Grayson, Richard Grayson.”
However, Silas pays the eldest Wayne ward no heed as he snaps his fingers and points at WE’s Marketing and Communications Manager.
“Wendy,” he calls, “I know you have concealer in your purse. It does nothing for you, but it’ll be a close enough match for Tim. Cover him up.”
“Silas!” Blurt more than a few people.
“Quickly, quickly,” he orders.
And Tim finds himself, between one blink and the next, a doll while Dick watches on in thinly veiled horror. He should have seen this coming. Any other staff would have let their CEO go on with his life, whispering behind his back drafting fantastic storylines of elicit deeds, but somehow he has inspired his people into being protective.
The question is, where does the ‘protection’ stem from and whose motive is intertwined with obsession?
He watches their facial expressions carefully—knows Dick is doing the same—and files each reaction accordingly.
Lance: disgusted and annoyed. Immaturity, perhaps?
Silas: petty anger, annoyance. Impatience?
Tim winces sympathetically at Wendy as she dabs the make up over the small hickey Dick had sucked high on his neck.
“Didn’t know you had a… partner, Mr. Drake,” she quips lightly as she smudges and blends the edges.
Embarrassment bites at Tim, and the glare he points at Dick isn’t feigned.
“He is… passionate,” Tim responds stiffly.
Her next dab borders on aggressive, jabbing him in the throat even though she winks at him and laughingly says,
“I’d say. Though, perhaps a little restraint would save us some trouble, yes?”
She looks down, popping the cap back on the tube of concealer—a move he didn’t know could be filled to the brim with sass.
Forget what he said about his employees groveling; Tim needs to strike fear back into their hearts. He raises a brow and cocks his head to the side, giving her the look Tim stole from his mother, and just like that, Wendy remembers herself.
She doesn’t risk saying another word, but she backs away slowly and slips out his direct line of sight.
Dick snorts, a soft huff of laughter.
Tim looks around, his brow raises. “Are we done here?”
“Yes,” Silas nods once and reaches for Tim, ready to grab and drag him off to his meeting in time, a gesture that catches Dick’s attention and earns his ire. “We need to—”
Tim decides to test the waters, pushing further for reactions.
“Real quick: babe, jump in for a picture,” Tim smiles at Dick, calling him over to the booth and slipping into an intimate hold, too close for colleagues and friends.
“Comfortable giving orders are you, babe?” Dick’s voice is a dark purr spoken low in Tim’s ears, a hot breath fans his ear, sending shivers down his neck even before the teasing threat makes him clench down on the plug. “Don’t forget who holds the power.”
Breath a stuttered moan, Tim twists in Dick’s arms, looking up—lip between his teeth—as the flash goes off. But Tim isn’t looking at it, caught by the depthless night devouring the blue of Dick’s eyes as his pupils blow wide. As quick as the light, an emotion passes over Dick’s face, something unreadable.
Tim blinks, forgetting and remembering himself all in that single flare.
Lance grimaces.
But Tim—Tim wants nothing more than to see the picture, hold it as proof, scour it for evidence of more. Maybe it holds that breath of emotion, maybe it has the answer tow whatever this thing is that’s building between them…
There’s no time, Silas is shifting on his feet—antsy and impatient.
Work waits for no one.
Tim peels away from Dick’s arms like velcro, a slow and forceful tear.
And Silas pulls him away, the admin drops his voice, speaking so low Tim almost doesn't hear, “Try not to leave a mark next time. Some of us actually care for Tim’s reputation.”
—
Dick kept his promise; he didn’t turn the vibrator on.
Not even once.
And somehow, that’s worse.
Because Tim has it in him and it’s not doing anything and it feel big but not big enough and if he moves in his chair, it moves, and—there’s a wetness around his hole he can feel if he focuses on it, and if he focuses then he remembers Dick’s cum, his spit, his utter possession of Tim and the promise of more…
And yet nothing has fucking happened.
He’s strung out like taffy stretched and pulled to max as his last meeting packs up their notebooks and nods to him, leaving their CEO sitting at the head of the table, unable and unwilling to get up.
The end of the day. He made it.
The members of his business development team had completed their daily conference debrief with him half-present and held together by a mask of cool indifference. He feigns flipping through his notes and scribbling a few more until their booth’s temporary conference room door closes with a soft sound.
Only then does Tim allow himself to collapse over the table, losing the tension of spine like a puppet with cut strings.
His hips shift in the seat, and then it’s all he can do—rock, frot, and search for any and all fiction to ease even a modicum of the building pressure.
A pathetic whine itches the back of his throat. Tim drops his head to the table, rolling his brow against the cool plastic as he bites back the sound, holding it in like the fist he forms. His swelling cock pressed near-painfully against the seam and zip of his trousers.
He held it together all day. He did what he had to do, and if he could think beyond the swelling need, he might even feel proud because somewhere between the second and third meeting he got WE one another contract and filled a few positions, a small win but the first of many this week.
And now… now he wants.
The door opens without Tim hearing it. One moment he’s alone, lost and unmoored in his search for pleasure, and in the next, a throat clears.
He lurches upright. Snaps to attention like he’s guilty; fear and shame battling for control.
Did he forget a meeting? Did he fuck up and—
But only Dick stands on the other side of the room, leaning against the wall, gaze heavy with desire.
“Oh baby, look at you.” A low sound, a purr.
Tim’s hips twitch.
And Dick watches closely, tracking the wet swipe of Tim’s tongue against his bottom lip, watches the way he clenches and releases his fists. He notes every response and scans for more as he ventures carefully and says,
“Pathetic.”
Condemnation. Judgement.
Humiliation lights up Tim’s spine and sears his cheeks red.
He couldn’t bite back the responding moan if he tried.
“God,” Dick curses—to what, the mess Tim is or his reaction to the word, Tim doesn’t know, nor does he have the presence of mind to figure it out. Not when semi-pain is a fraction too much, but pleasure is so so close.
Dick walks over.
A predator’s stalk.
Eyes never leaving Tim’s, forcing him to meet his gaze, to watch and wait.
“Did you keep it together?” Dick asks, voice the lilting dark. A siren’s call and all Tim wants it to leap, jump into the dark water, and drift beneath the surface. “Or did you let them look at you like this, flushed, whining. Desperate.”
“Dick—”
“No, I’m sure you didn’t,” Dick says, cutting off the pleading cry.
He stands over Tim’s chair and leans down, petting Tim’s cheek with the tips of his fingers until his strung out lover leans into the touch, lashes fluttering down with another needy little noise.
“This is for me.” Words a murmur, more for himself than for Tim. Something like awe strings the letters together.
And it’s enough to draw heat into Tim’s belly, reel it in like a ball of yarn.
He cups Tim’s cheek, holding his head up.
“Tell me, Tim,” Dick urges. “Is this just for me?”
“Yes,” Tim breathes. “Just you.”
Only you. Tim wants to sigh and promise, but can’t. The words are too much. Too honest. Too much for a fling. He knows better than to let them out.
Tim swallows them back and replaces the shred of vulnerability with a step back onto safer, steadier ground.
A reedy keen. He knows how he looks… Tim is too smart to not know. So he, just like any mission, any target, plays the game.
He makes his eyes go wide and innocent, arches his back just so as he leans over the table, stretched out for the taking.
Still under Dick’s hand; their gaze locked.
Dick opens his mouth, lips parting; he’s going to press. Going to demand Tim answers with the truth he’d rather hide.
His heart hammers.
It’s only manipulation if they both don’t want it.
But they do. (He’s seen Dick’s browser history. He knows)
So Tim blinks, fluttering his lashes and… breaks.
“Please, daddy.”
His voice cracks.
Dick’s fingers twitch against his cheek as his lips part on a lost breath. Shock bleeds to raw desire. His eyes go dark, pupils blowing wide.
“Let me come,” Tim begs, twisting the knife… manipulation, he’d think if he were present in his mind. But he doesn’t feel in control.
The words are a choice, but they are also more.
Need-driven instinct.
“Please,” Tim begs in utter frustration and need. Tears well in his eyes.
Pitiful and pathetic.
Tim wants to hear it again. Pathetic.
He’s been so good today. He held himself together, ignored the plug, did what he was supposed to do. Followed the rules and trusted Dick to do the same and now, now he needs him. Needs more.
And Dick is willing to deliver. He lets go and steps back, giving Tim enough room to comply when he orders.
“Up. Take your clothes off and get up on the table.” A barked command, and Tim is helpless against it.
He stands, wobbling on weak knees and tugs off his clothes. The bend… a tease as the plug shifts and for once today he doesn’t have to swallow his groan.
Tim braces against the table, letting the spark of pleasure work through him as he kicks out of his pants, tugging them off and over his shoes.
One leg gets caught. He couldn’t care less.
His fingers tremble and fumble dumbly over the knot of his tie until Dick, with a cocked brow takes pity on him.
“Leave it.”
Tim does.
He’s too far gone to care.
Climbing up on the table, he sits back, spreading his thighs as Dick steals his seat at the head of the table, guiding Tim back like he’s a feast to be devoured.
Tim goes, pliant and willing.
“God, you’re a wreck aren’t you?” Dick asks, expression raw with want; he’s holding it together better than Tim, but he too is lost, driven-half mad. He strokes a barely-there touch over Tim’s hips and into the dip of his thigh, pushing them open with the lightest of pressure. Revealing his abused, pink little hole stretched around the plug.
“And I haven’t even touched you yet, not really.”
Tim rolls his head side to side against the table. A pleasant haze has settled over him, leaving him warm from the inside out, there is only pleasure and need lapping like waves, ebbing.
He doesn’t think he could move if he tried… but maybe he could if Dick told him too.
But Dick isn’t doing or saying anything and Tim needs—
“Please,” Tim begs, too far gone to care.
“Uhuh,” Dick clicks his tongue and shakes his head mockingly.
“Daddy!”
“Fuck.”
And then those tracing fingers finally, finally drift to where Tim needs them. Dick slips the tip of his finger under the plug, shifting it inside Tim, earning a low moan.
The encouragement is all he needs.
Dick rocks it, rolling the tip of the plug, nudging and pressing over his prostate. He tugs at it, stretching Tim’s aching hole as he plays with it, fucking the widest point in and out. He adds more lube, or at least Tim thinks he does… it’s a moment lost and unrealized because—
The vibrations…
It starts buzzing.
And Tim cries.
It's so much after so little. It sends him hurtling to the edge of his pleasure, yanks him forcibly to the brink.
God, he's not going to last much longer.
Pathetic.
Tim’s face burns. He’s moaning, filthy, wanton.
Needy.
Tim presses his wrist against his mouth, biting to keep the sound in.
Dick only laughs. “You want something to keep you quiet?”
Looking down at him, casting his blurry gaze down his body—catching sight of his red and weeping cock—Tim barely manages a nod.
And then Dick lets go of the plug, quits tormenting him, leaving him on the edge. Tim whimpers, breath catching, torn between cries and relief.
Longer. He can stay here longer, enjoy this stolen moment—enjoy Dick—longer but god at what cost…
He doesn’t move until Dick pushes his chair back to create room and flicks his gaze down, and orders before the words come.
“On your knees.”
Tim can do nothing but obey.
He sits up slowly… the slow vibrations echoing over his prostate. His hands clench on the edge of the table, his toes curling, feet flexing. Oh. Oh, god.
“I bet you could come just like that, couldn’t you.” Dick leans back in his chair, utterly in control. Regal, Tim thinks. Beautiful like some dark god.
Tim worries his lip, just trying to breathe, trying to keep it together as Dick spreads his legs, flicks open his pants and pulls out his cock.
“Too bad, daddy told you want to do.”
The vibrator cuts off.
And with it goes his pleasure, stealing the orgasm from his grasp.
Tim curses, but when he rocks against the table, Dick’s glare is a dark promise of punishment if he keeps it up. If he disobeys. Heat floods him, a torrent of imagery, being thrown over Dick’s lap, spanked until his ass is raw and then taken but later, Tim tells himself. He can have that later.
Now, he wants to be good. He wants to taste Dick’s cock. Let it fill his mouth and throat as he comes in the plug on his ass.
He scoots carefully to the edge of the table and slips off.
His knees hit the floor a bit too harshly. Pain spikes and drives clarity back into his body.
Tim glances at the door. “This is so unprofessional.”
Dick leans down, a finger crooked under Tim’s chin, forcing his head up to meet his gaze.
Firm and gentle, but it’s not kindness in his eyes, not necessarily. The glint is too demanding to be kind, but it is understanding.
“The exhibition floor has cleared out, open-hall hours are over. Everyone else has packed up and left for the sponsored happy hours; it’s just us.”
Tim believes him at his word, too far gone to do anything but nod and give back into the haze of pleasure. He takes Dick’s cock in hand, holds it lightly as he licks the head and down the vein, wetting a path, tracing until his mouth hits the fabric of his briefs and trousers.
Dick moans and presses his hips up, searching for more.
His hand slips into Tim’s hair. The hold is gentle, he doesn’t force Tim down, just strokes through the strands, fingers scratching lightly over his scalp.
“It’s just us,” Dick says, another breathless moan as Tim takes him in his mouth, swallowing down, feeling the weight of him against his tongue. Dick shifts, leaning forward, and when his whisper comes, no more than a groan, Tim’s eyes nearly roll back in his head.
“But it doesn’t have to be,” Dick teases. “What if they were listening? Lurking outside the door for your next meeting, waiting for you.”
Tim takes him deeper, bobbing his head along.
He shifts on his knees. Dick takes mercy on him—or maybe not mercy but something a little darker—and slips his foot under Tim, pressing against his cock, giving him something to move against as the vibrations come back on.
“What would they think,” Dick continues, an onslaught of fantasy that only burns brighter, sweeps Tim away from reality. “What if they heard you—crying for me, moaning like a little slut?”
Tim groans, all but choking on Dick’s cock as he tries to swallow him down whole.
His pleasure is building, voracious and unstoppable, but–but he wants Dick to come first… needs to feel it. Taste him on his tongue.
“What if they saw you, the CEO of Wayne Enterprises on his knees, humping my leg, choking on my cock.”
The plug kicks into a higher setting.
Tim lurches, flinching away or maybe just rutting harder into Dick’s leg.
He whines around the dick in his throat, choking, pulling a long and low groan from Dick before he pants.
“You are mine, Tim… but maybe if you begged so sweetly I’d let them watch.”
Tim looks up through his lashes as Dick stares down at him, looking as wrecked as Tim feels (though nowhere near as much as he looks) and knows it won’t take much more.
So close. He rocks faster against his leg, clenching around the plug as his eyes roll back, but he lasts—lasts until Dick comes down his throat but not without grunting,
“Daddy’s pathetic little whore.”
And then there is no holding back.
There is no fighting the all-consuming wave of pleasure.
Tim swallows, drinks down Dick’s spend and comes apart with a muffled scream. Shadows edge his vision, whiting it out.
A dull hum of his senses.
Nothing but pleasure and relief.
Dick works him through it, faintly Tim feels the hand in his hair, petting down his neck, playing over the knot of his tie like it’s giving him ideas.
Tim whines and presses his head into the crook of Dick’s thigh as the pleasure shifts to pain and overstimulation.
The vibrator cuts out.
“Shh, you did so well,” Dick soothes, and pulls Tim up, manhandles him into his lap in a show of strength Tim isn’t present enough to admire and salivate over. “So perfect for me, baby.”
Tim nuzzles into his hand, panting lightly as he regains breath and sense.
“Perfect for daddy.”
And yeah.
That’s probably something they're going to have to talk about… later. Much later, for now Tim is content where he is.
The world can raise its head later, but for now it is only them in the afterglow.
And Tim is content right here in his daddy’s lap.