Chapter Text
Damian doesn’t know what changed, what sudden madness has come over Drake. He doesn’t even know which remark of his might have triggered the avalanche! He doesn’t suspect anything. He doesn’t even get a warning, before lightning suddenly strikes.
“Shut up, brat,” Drake rudely cuts into his spirited retelling of the tedious meeting he has been required to partake in with the young man, where he was infuriatingly made to sit in silence and twiddle his thumbs, like some untried simpleton. Not that he has, for some of those board members have been more than insulting with their jibes and hints about their father and his virility…
“How dare you cut me off, Drake?” Damian growls at the insipid young man, ready to put him in his place, only… Drake, the annoying dead weight hanging around their family’s neck like some cursed albatros, isn’t with the program.
“You almost cost Wayne Biotech the entire meeting, you tantruming little child,” Drake hisses with not a single shred of humility in his voice. Like he can just… mouth off at a born Wayne, and an al Ghul. Such a preposterous notion! But he sounds scornful, and looks… mean. Not something Drake habitually does — or is capable of, as far as Damian knows.
Still. Damian is certain Drake will eventually see the error of his ways and apologise profusely, or at least snidely, but it still won’t do to take this entirely undeserved dressing down without a complaint. No, of course not.
He smirks. “Ooh? Are you unhappy you had to kiss some ass to—”
“Shut it,” Drake rudely cuts him off yet again, his cold blue eyes boring twin holes into Damian's skull in a rather uncharacteristic move. “The adults are talking.”
“What do you mean sh—” Damian yelps, but is cut off again.
“Shush,” Drake says dispassionately.
“How dare you—”
“Shush,” Drake insolently cuts him off again.
“What is the meaning of—”
“Children who cannot behave are sent to their rooms.” Drake stares down into his eyes with a sharp look, his lips pulled into a tight, knife-edge, bloodless, mirthless smile, and flicks Damian's forehead with a finger. He… Like… like some common… Like this is…Oh Damian is simply lost for words! How dare Drake treat him like this?! “Go to the kitchen, brat, and help Alfred peel all the vegetables for dinner,” he orders Damian, orders him, like the demon prince is some common help!! “And think about what you’ve done. You can come back to apologise once you’re ready to be a good boy.”
Damian doesn’t understand his body. He doesn’t understand how or why his legs react and obey the command. He doesn’t understand why he hops to with his heart racing in his chest instead of snarling out in displeasure and incandescent rage. He… he simply cannot grasp why he leaves the room without a comment or a backwards glance, excitement tightening the front of his pants. He only feels the weight of Drake’s gaze as he exits the room, and goes to the kitchen. Even though he doesn’t actually have to.
Pennyworth will tell him not to bother. He will tell Damian to save his time, his efforts, and not to mess with his system. Damian knows he won’t be put to work… and yet he still walks into the kitchen, like he was ordered to.
“Master Damian,” the butler greets him with a distracted frown. “Do you require something?”
“I…” Damian swallows. “Drake told me to help you peel the vegetables for dinner.”
The kindly old butler regards him with his milky white eyes, gazes at him for quite a while, until Damian feels like fidgeting, and smiles. “Then I suppose you better start. At least I know you know your way around knives.”
Damian… He can’t believe himself reaching for the knife and the closest potato, and yet… Drake’s voice calling him a child and a brat echoes in his ears, and he shivers.
He isn’t a child. And he isn’t a brat. But he is still peeling the potatoes just as instructed, because Drake commanded it, and because… it makes him feel… good?
He had hoped that whatever madness came over Drake (and himself) would dissipate once they started dinner, but it is not the case. He only just took his first few bites of his food when Richard asks him about the meeting. So he begins his retelling.
He only gets as far as last time when Drake, voice soft but cold as steel, cuts him off.
“Oh no. He didn’t actually do that,” he tells Richard without a single glance at Damian. “He didn’t even look over the reports like I asked him to. He had in fact no idea what they contained. And he didn’t shut up. He started mocking Holt for going the route we agreed upon, and I had to step in and silence his indignant, stupid ass, before he cost us millions just on the flagship project alone. Nobody was pleased, least of all me. But I managed to wrangle things into order soon after.”
Damian’s hackles rise like the tide. Drake can’t just—This indignity cannot stand! “How dare you? I wasn’t—”
Drake turns towards him then, quick as a snake, and he sneers. Sneers! “You were. You did. Now shush. Little brats who swing their legs and dig their noses for treasure get to keep quiet while the adults are talking.”
Damian’s mouth, as if on command, snaps shut.
“Good,” Drake smirks at him, the line of his mouth strangely alluring. “Now quietly eat your dinner while I talk with Dick, brat. God knows chewing’s the only thing your mouth is good for.”
His eyes widen in surprise, even as his hand raises his fork loaded with scrumptious potatoes he himself helped peel just an hour ago — to consume soundlessly.
This is madness. This is inconceivable. This is…
As he takes the first bite, he shivers. He chews and swallows mutely, and takes another bite while Drake observes him from the corner of his eyes, intermittently. His smile, mirthless and mean, is… Like a live wire to Damian’s penis.
Damian doesn’t understand this. He simply cannot understand what is happening to him. Has he been bewitched? Is this some sort of… retaliation? Some sort of evil spell? Why is his body craving this? Why is obeying Drake’s demeaning commands giving him pleasure? And why has he not shown Drake his place yet?
But worst of all… if this carries on, how will he be able to hide his shame? Surely with all the attention Drake is calling to him, it will be impossible to hide what the young man’s words are doing to him.
This is why he tries to ignore the looks both Drake and Richard send him, and focuses on eating as much as he can.
He doesn’t exactly remember how he managed to relocate to the family room. He doesn’t even remember how or why things didn't escalate, for surely someone would have stepped in if they saw Drake’s deplorable treatment of him, but yet nobody did. Neither did Damian, either, and… He apparently managed to conceal his traitorous body’s inconceivable reaction to Drake’s unfair actions towards him.
It is hard though. Mostly because Drake, who has gone completely insane it seems, has opted to sit to the side of him in an armchair, only to put his sneakered feet up and rested it in Damian's lap. His dirty soles rest on Damian’s thigh, crossed at the ankles as Drake converses with Richard, paying no mind to him. Or what his actions bring forth in Damian’s body.
Damian has no words. The blatant disrespect of such treatment, the complete disregard of his person is… incendiary. Damian is the heir of the Bat, the next Demon’s Head, a prince of his people, and yet Drake is using him as a footstool?! While there is a rule for no shoes indoors in the Wayne household? What sort of maladie… How dare… This is simply inconceivable!
It should irk him, this scorn and contempt he is handled with, the mistreatment by the hands of such as Drake, and yet… it does other things to him. The older teen treating him like dirt under his feet is strangely — and horrifyingly — arousing.
Damian cannot move as the sneakers twitch minutely every time Drake gesticulates while he is still deep in discussion with Grayson, for fear of his lap getting any sort of scrutiny. For he is so very painfully hard, and he cannot even move or speak in fear of drawing any kind of attention to himself. Surely anybody witnessing his predicament at his debasement would think him mad. Or perhaps depraved.
And maybe he is. He must be, if Drake treating him with so little care or regard makes him so excited. Humiliation should not make people feel so—
“Guess he calmed down,” Drake suddenly remarks with a nudge of the toe of one sneaker against his thigh. “Don’t you have homework to take care of, brat?”
Damian clenches his teeth together to silence the whimper that threatens to escape him, and manages to turn it into a half-believable sneer instead.
Drake just chuckles at him from his place next to Grayson.
“Guess the gremlin cannot be tamed this easily. Go, do your homework, brat. The adults are too busy to play with you right now.”
“It’s not a weeknight,” Damian grumbles, eternally grateful to whichever god is watching over him that he is able to speak without calling attention to his growing shame. “My homework is already finished, and has been for a day.”
“Don’t lie,” Drake admonishes him with another nudge that turns into small kicks until Damian jumps up, turning away from them just so. The angle makes it look like he is attempting to escape Drake’s abuse, while his true motive is achieved: his shame is hidden by the armrest.
“Jesus, Tim, that’s too much! All right, Dami, go do your homework,” Richard tiredly sighs from Damian’s left. “Just… I’ll come up, after. For now let Tim win this one.”
Well, this is convenient. Damian couldn’t have asked for a better excuse to use as his exit. He hunches his shoulders and feigns a defeated stance as he slouches off, making sure the front of his pants are not visible to any of his family members as he shuffles out of the room.
All the while, he feels Drake’s eyes on him like a physical weight. But he manages to escape his immediate predicament, which is good.
He gets to run up to his room undisturbed, which is even better. Because then… There he can finally undo his trousers to get his hands on his aching erection!
He’s a teenager. He has no illusions about how many times his peers feel the need to spill their seed. Just like he does. But he doesn’t care about such things. And he certainly cares not that right now he is doing it with the image of Drake firmly fixed in his mind.
His hands. His cold eyes. His haughty smile. The pressure of his feet resting on Damian’s thigh. They all are impossible to ignore as he fists his erection and pulls himself off without care or finesse.
Drake has made himself impossible to ignore. Nay, he is… he is all Damian can think of. The masterful scorn with which he treated Damian for hours, denying him ways to escape, this artful torture has been so skillfully done, so perfect…
Damian comes, recalling Drake’s cruel smile, imagines him giving Damian his consent as well as approval for his release, and weeps with gratitude.
By the time he recovers himself enough to go to the bathroom, he is almost ready for another round. He grabs himself a towel, wipes himself off, and kicks his pants and boxers off to get even more comfortable. And he is.
Which is bad. Or good, maybe, as the image of Drake sneering at him comes back, strong. Drake in his mind’s eye scoffs at him for getting presumptuous. For assuming he would be allowed to come a second time.
His fingers tighten around his cock, and he whines, pleading.
Good, Drake in his daydream sneers , now beg. Beg me to allow you to jerk off to thoughts of me. Because you’re sure as hell nor worth my time or my efforts. Beg me, brat!
Damian whimpers. And begs. “Please,” he whispers. “Please, Drake, I need it!”
Demanding brat, Drake hisses as one hand reaches over to flick him on the forehead, like he did earlier. You need it? No. You just want it, like a little child wants candy!
Damian sobs. He wants to jerk his own cock off, he wants to ease his own suffering, but Drake has gotten hold of his fantasies as well. He is powerless to take control of even his own daydreams! Drake has permeated every last detail of his being.
“Please,” he begs again, pitifully, for his cock is so hard, straining against the cool air of the room, glistening with precome, searching for touch Damian isn’t allowed to have according to his own, twisted mind. “Please, Drake, I will be good, I promise!”
Good, huh? We’ll see, Drake chuckles as that same finger slides down his cheek to poke at him. Fine. Do it. But make it quick. I’m busy, and cannot waste my time on selfish little brats.
Damian’s hands fly to his cock and all of his fingers encircle his weeping length as his hips thrust up, desperate for his orgasm.
There, you needy little brat, tell me, is it good? Drake chuckles, and Damian whines.
“Yes. So good. Drake, please!”
Come.
He can’t not obey the command. His eyes roll back as his balls draw up to funnel all they have to give out of his body, splattering his abdomen and chest.
As he falls back onto his bed, he hears Drake’s parting chuckle.
What a thoroughly annoying brat.
By the time his bedroom door opens, he has himself cleaned up, the window is open, and the drapes are slowly moving in the gentle wind. His room smells like spring, and not like sexual acts he ould rather not advertise. He is dressed in new clothes, laying on top of his bed reading a comic, with his homework laid out neatly on his desk.
He is still enjoying the afterglow of two exceptionally good orgasms, so he doesn’t jump at the sound. Also, he expects Grayson, for Richard promised he would be the one to come up to check on him. This is why he almost sticks to the ceiling, like a surprised cartoon cat when Drake scoffs at him from the middle of his room.
“What a disrespectful little brat you are,” Drake sighs with abject displeasure.
“I’m… not sure what is expected of me,” Damian admits shamefully, because he… isn’t. He is simply lying on his bed, and his homework is finished on his desk, like it was asked of him. He doesn’t want to be confrontational, so he simply stares at Drake, waiting for his next instructions, trying to read his body language.
“What is expected of you,” Drake almost growls, “is to sit at your desk, and present your homework to me. Like I ordered you to.”
You didn’t say that before, Damian wants to say, but he doesn’t… he cannot talk back. His mouth refuses to open. His teeth remain clenched tight. He is powerless to deny Drake anything.
Instead he stands up and obediently walks to his desk. He sits down, and pulls up—
“No. I know your history tutors. Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes,” Drake sighs, and Damian pulls out his essay next. “No. English is your strong point, I know you would not cut corners there, either. Show me… Hmmm. What about… calculus?”
Damian roots around in the pile for his calculus homework,so Drake can inspect it. Once he has located it, he attempts to pass it on, but there is no hand to take it. Fine. Without showing his disappointment at the missed contact, he places it on top of his desk, and leans back in his chair so Drake can better read it.
“First question… second… hum,” Drake mutters as he appears to read it, and then he tuts. “No. Third one’s wrong. Erase it and do it again.”
Impossible! Damian couldn’t have gotten his answer wrong! Or… did he?
“Now?” He asks when nothing else comes from behind him, and he shivers as he feels Drake grabbing hold of the backrest, and pushing him forward using the chair.
“Yes. Now. Erase it and do it again.”
Damian’s hands fly to grab his eraser and pencil. He almost tears the paper in his haste, and he can hear Drake sigh in disappointment behind him, his warm breath ruffling Damian’s hair.
How is one to think in such conditions?!
“Wrong,” Drake sighs again, a scant minute later. “Erase it and start anew.”
Damian’s hands tremble. He can feel Drake’s weight pressing down on the backrest. He can feel his breath on his skin. It’s maddening.
And even though he has had two orgasms not half an hour ago, he is so hard once again, that it hurts.
His pencil lead breaks as he attempts to tackle the problem again, and he has to humiliatingly click on his pencil, like a careless imbecile as he tries to remember what numbers look like. He doesn’t know what he missed. He doesn’t know what error he made. All he can do now, is—
“Again!”
Damian swallows as a warm hand clamps down on the back of his neck.
“I know you can do this. You are not this stupid. Not after all the tutors Talia employed just for you,” Drake drawls into his ear. “So if you are playing with me, hoping that I will leave you alone if you annoy me long enough, you can forget it. We will stay here for as long as it takes. If it takes the entire night for your will to break, I do not mind in the slightest. I will stand over you, I will watch you struggle and flail until. You. Finally. Give. Up.”
Damian clenches his teeth down around a whine that threatens to escape his throat. His hands stain the paper with his sweat. There is a bead rolling down the small of his back. His arms prickle with goosebumps. And his cock is leaking in his pants, tenting it and wetting his front, while the soft breeze from his window chills it, chills his feverish body until it is so very confused he doesn’t even know…
Please, he wants to say. Please Timothy have mercy on me, he wants to beg, but he doesn’t. He only bends his head down over his papers and tries to work out what he has missed. He reads the line number by number, process by process, until finally… Enlightenment!
“There you go,” Drake chuckles darkly. “I knew you would break, eventually.”
That hand grasping the back of his neck slides up to pat at his head, to ruffle his hair as Drake says, “good boy,” like it is supposed to be a disrespect, a slight or a slur, but instead it pushes Damian over the edge. His body takes it as permission, and all he can do is clench his teeth together, squeeze his lips so no voice escapes his lips as his body is wracked with pleasure, as his cock gushes, as he comes untouched and unprompted but for a single phrase uttered by Drake, in spite.
“Irks you, doesn’t it?” Drake chuckles, completely misunderstanding his silent shaking, takes it as angry defiance without outlet, and he ruffles Damian’s hair some more, unaware that Damian is still coming as he does so, wetting the front of his sweatpants as his cock continues to drool sluggishly.
Damian doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t have a hope in the world if Drake decides to stay, if he smells what has just transpired even though the spring breeze is heavily perfumed with Pennyworth’s roses… Or worse, if he demands Damian stands up for whatever reason.
Damian is frozen into his chair by indecision, and allows Drake to touch his person in jest, in clear mockery, and he drinks it all in. He knows this isn’t right. He knows this is not normal, or expected, or even ethical of him, no. Drake surely would not touch him if he knew his cruelty only wrought more pleasure out of Damian’s hungry body… But Damian cannot do anything.
He only bows his head in hopes that Drake shall… leave him alone? Touch him more? Jeer at him? Debase him?
He doesn’t know, and doesn’t care. He has already given himself over to this. He has already lost himself in… whatever this is. His mind is a jumble, and he can barely contain his trembling body that is so focused on those fingers playing with his hair.
“Ti– Drake, I—”
“Shut up, brat. The Fourth solution is correct. Fifth… sixth… Fine. Guess you’re not as much of a fuck-up as usual. Stranger things, I guess.” The fingers are withdrawn from Damian’s hair, and he wants to whine, to beg to have them back. “Don’t forget to brush your teeth and go to bed at a reasonable time. I will check if your lights are off in half an hour. Make sure not to break your curfew, or else.”
Damian’s swallow is audible to the both of them.
Timothy chuckles darkly.
Damian listens to his quiet, measured footsteps as he exits his room.
“Half an hour, brat, don’t forget. Bruce and Dick may have been lax, but I won’t be.”
The door closes.
Damian slumps forward, and rests his sweaty, feverish forehead against the grain of his desk as he sobs.
This is madness!
It doesn’t take him half an hour to clean up yet again, to throw his soiled pants into the hamper, and to get into his nightclothes, but he still barely makes it into his bed before the decreed lights out. It is… barely ten on a weekend, which is completely ridiculous. Drake is testing him, he knows. And yet he still cannot do anything but obey whatever willful rules Timothy tries to punish and humiliate him with.
He also takes a small hand towel to lay underneath his hips in preparation for… whatever might come. He is a teenage boy, and even a gentle breeze can elicit certain reactions from his hormonal body. This is one of the reasons that sleeping on his stomach has become a custom of his. Certainly the promised visit of Timothy after lights out has… prompted yet another bodily function from him, and he tries not to hump his cock into the soft bedding as he thinks about the young man’s fingers clenched around the back of his neck, and as they slid up, short nails scratching his scalp—
His door opens.
Damian swallows.
“Huh,” Drake mutters as he peers in. Damian can only see his silhouette against the gentle glow of the hallway lamps. “For once you obeyed. Had a little too much discipline today, baby brat?”
Damian doesn’t know how to reply, so he doesn’t. He just hopes Drake won’t have him vacate his bed for… whatever reason. It would be most unfortunate, and humiliating in the… unpleasant way.
“Nothing to say, brat? I know you are awake.” Drake fishes with a mean chuckle that has Damian’s cock twitch in desperation.
“I do not know what you wish to hear from me,” Damian admits, once silence falls between them, bewildered. Apparently Timothy expects him to… talk back? Is he supposed to be defiant now?
Drake tuts. “Of course you don’t. What a surprise there.” He pauses as he regards Damian’s still form in his bed for some time. “Tell me,” he asks eventually, “do you have any comics or flashlights hidden in there?”
Damian shakes his head as well as he can. “No.”
“Of course you would say that,” Drake chuckles. And then he moves in.
The lights stay mercifully off as he stalks closer. The glow from the hallway is all Timothy has to see as he lifts up the spare pillow. There is nothing underneath. He puts it back, then quick as a snake he slides his hand under the pillow under Damian’s head. That hand comes up empty, too.
So he begins… Oh sweet, merciful heavens! Damian tries not to moan as his body is patted down, along with the rest of his bed, and he tries not to thrust up into the towel as Timothy strokes his fundament, albeit it is just a perfunctory touch, and nothing more. It still has him sobbing into his pillow until the touches stop.
“Stop whining, brat,” Timothy goads him. “What else did you expect? You defy me at every turn. Just because you decided not to pick a fight with me on this one single thing, I still know what you are. You deserve nothing else.”
Yes, Damian thinks. He deserves to be treated by Drake thusly. He deserves to be spoken to harshly, while he is brought skillfully to the brink. He twitches his hips in the hopes that Timothy won’t notice. That he will be allowed to, while he is verbally flogged so masterfully.
“When… When will I be forgiven?” he eventually asks, when nothing else comes. When he realises Drake expects input from him, for this to go on.
“Not for a good long while,” Timothy chuckles darkly. “Not until I’m good and satisfied that you know your place, brat.” A hand suddenly threads into his hair and grabs hold of a fistful, and Damian, caught off guard, chokes as he suddenly comes. Without warning.
Again.
He bites into his pillow, his hands clenched in his bedding in desperation not to give himself away.
“No words, huh?” Timothy drawls as he pets Damian through his silent, shaking, all-encompassing orgasm. “I guess you are capable of learning, little gremlin prince. One just has to make you.”
Damian, once his body has wrung all his poor, overused testicles could offer to pump out of themselves, sags into his bedding in relief. “Yes,” he mumbles, and his eyes flutter closed at Timothy’s exquisite touch. Even though it is meant to debase, to his tired, post-orgasmic body it feels like… absolution.
Timothy hums. He plays with Damian’s hair for a little more, possibly in hopes of eliciting a rise that never comes. When he withdraws, Damian has to stop himself from getting up to follow the touch.
“Guess we’ll see, brat prince,” he drawls as he exits Damian’s room, and the door closes, shutting the light out.
Damian sags into his bed, his strained muscles giving up the fight.
He wonders what will happen first? Will Timothy be satisfied with his humiliation, or will Damian’s depravity get discovered, in possibly one of the most shameful of ways?