Warnings: implied underage; age difference; spanking; angst; hurt/comfort
Pairings: Bruce Wayne/Tim Drake
Summary: Based on a tumblr ask/prompt for: "BruTim with spanking. Bruce punishing Red Robin era Tim for putting himself in danger while Bruce was lost in time."
Tim was reckless while Bruce was away, and Bruce is going to find out why.
Credits: This is a non-profit, fanmade work. All characters are owned by DC. This fanfiction was written and created by me.
A/N: To celebrate my 100 followers on tumblr, I accepted 5 prompts to write shortfics for. This is one of them.
As a warning, this story takes a 180 in tone. Make sure to read the tags.
I can't remember Tim's exact age in RR years. I'm pretty sure he was mid-late teens, so I added the underage tag but honestly, it's never mentioned in this fic so you can age him up in your head if you want.
Somewhat dubious consent? Given that Tim and Bruce have an established relationship, I assume they have a proper safe word, but I added a tag for that too.
Bruce pushed down hard between Tim's shoulderblades, forcing his upper half to the mattress, and Tim had to bury his face in the sheets to hide the color that was burning there. Bruce had barely touched him, had barely said a word, and Tim's cock was already stiffening in anticipation. He listened, heart beating fast, head hazy, as the mattress creaked under Bruce's weight.
A shiver went down Tim's spine as Bruce leaned over him, his hot breath fanning against his ear.
"Did you miss me?" Bruce whispered. Timbre low. Each word carefully sounded. Tim was propped up on his knees but he could feel himself growing weak already, weak enough to collapse into the bed.
"Yes," Tim said, breath shuddering, voice muffled against the mattress.
He bit back a gasp as a hand yanked on his jeans and underwear, pulling them past his hips in a single motion. His entire body was flushed now, his face and chest hot and burning. All the while, his heart was beating faster. Yes. Yes. Yes.
"That's not very nice," Bruce said, in no particular tone, and Tim had to pause there. Had to wonder at the game Bruce was playing at.
Unsure of the question hiding there, Tim didn't know how to respond. So he kept silent, chewing on his bottom lip, waiting as Bruce's hand roamed over his ass.
"Dick did a good job taking care of you while I was gone, didn't he?"
Tim could catch a subtle undertone to Bruce's voice. Something foreboding. Tim was certain that there was no way he could answer this safely. If he told Bruce that Dick did well as Batman, didn't that imply Dick had been a good replacement? But if he said the opposite, then Bruce could interpret that as Tim being ungrateful for Dick's service. Either answer could make Bruce angry.
Not that Tim was opposed to making Bruce angry.
Bruce's hand moved across Tim's exposed flesh in measured, careful movements. His rough calluses contrasted against Tim's smooth skin. The hand travelled up, barely snaking underneath the hem of Tim's shirt, before rolling back down. Past the small of his back, down the crease of his ass, over his entrance, his perineum, his balls—then back up again.
Tim's eyes squeezed shut, resisting the urge to rock back into Bruce's hand. His cock was hard and pointing already. God, he had waited so long for this. Was almost afraid he'd never get it again. No one understood how fucked up and sick in the head he was, no one. Not even Dick, as close as they were. Only Bruce understood Tim's desire to be grabbed and pushed and punished.
"He doesn't take care of me like you do," Tim said, trying to choose the wisest words.
He didn't. Or maybe he did. Tim hissed sharply between his teeth when Bruce's hand came down hard on his ass. His thighs quaked from the impact. He was not expecting Bruce to start out so strong, so fast. The distance between them hadn't changed anything, it seemed—Bruce still had it, and Tim was torn between cursing and begging for more.
"You got in a lot of trouble while I was gone." Bruce's voice was a rumble in his chest, and that growl alone made Tim's cock twitch between his legs. Yes, this was what he had been waiting for. Yes, no more teasing. "Running off on your own. Getting into danger. That's not how I raised you. That's not how I taught you. Is it?"
"No. It's not."
The sharp smack of Bruce's hand echoed through the room, and the air was sucked from Tim's throat. Heat prickled to the surface of the mark where Bruce struck him.
"So why did you do it?" Bruce's voice was more forceful now. The anger coming off him was steadily rising. Tim's heart was beating hard and fast. He readjusted his position on the mattress, legs spreading a little further—then suddenly, the large hand resting on Tim's upper back pushed him down again. He was forcefully pinned to the bed, back arched and ass in the air. Tim let out a soft grunt, almost unable to breathe with Bruce's weight holding him down. "Was it Dick's fault? Did he tell you to act that way?"
"No," Tim gasped.
"Then whose fault is it?"
"Mine. My fault. Oh God, Bruce—"
His words were cut short, his voice breaking as Bruce landed a series of smacks on each of his cheeks. His movements were even in strength but the pain of each one layered over the next, and Tim's entire body clenched up in response as he bore that pain—hands fisted around the sheets, legs squeezed together, face in a deep grimace. Heat spread across every inch of his body. Each sound seemed louder than the last. Tim began to flinch away, began to squirm, but Bruce still had him pinned, fingers and elbow painfully digging into Tim's back.
It became too great to take. Tim cried out, the sheets doing little to stifle his yelps. God, if Bruce wasn't careful, all of Gotham would hear them.
"Hold still," Bruce said, when Tim began to slack. His strict tone commanded Tim into fixing his posture. Impatient, Bruce forcefully maneuvered Tim back into proper place, strong hands pushing Tim's body around as if he were no more than a ragdoll.
If Tim didn't know better, Bruce's breathing seemed just a touch heavier than usual. Tim didn't focus on it—he stopped his squirming, teeth baring down as Bruce struck him particularly hard. Tears sprung to the corners of his eyes. That sting was going to last.
Tim let out the breath he had been holding when Bruce finally came to a slow. But Tim knew him too well to know this was over. Bruce's hand, nice and warm, eased over the marks. His touch was careful, almost gentle, and Tim—despite himself—sighed over and over again.
His lips moved, forming around Bruce's name, but he was silent. Almost breathless. It was difficult to believe that there was a point in time where they could drag this out for hours. Tim was aching hard between his legs despite the punishment. His ass felt like it was on fire. He wasn't sure how much more he could take.
"Shame on you, Timothy," Bruce said, his voice returning to its usual steely composure. The hand snuck further down, touching Tim's sensitive inner thighs. Fingertips just barely hovering over his balls and the base of his cock. Tim's breath hitched at the touch—but then the teasing fingers went back up Tim's body. The fingertips grazed over his hole, but kept moving. Kept moving. A whimper was caught in Tim's throat. He wanted more. More of anything. More of everything. The gentle massaging continued, until Tim's body began to cool down, and that only scared him more. Bruce was just prepping him for the next round. "Shame on you for forgetting what I taught you. For getting into trouble."
Shame almost felt like a command. Tim's stomach flipped at the word. Before he could linger on the thought, there was a sudden strike.
Tim's body inched forward from the impact. He tried to remember to breathe. Tried to steel himself for the next one. But his head was spinning and his cock was leaking and his body was so tender.
Shame.
"I'm sorry," he said. And he meant it.
"Sorry doesn't change that you were reckless."
The next smack echoed off the walls. The pain sent a spark up Tim's spine.
Tim's face suddenly went hot, his chest clenching up, eyes burning.
"Stop—"
"Did you think that because I was gone, you could do whatever you wanted?"
Another. The sheets were starting to stain with his tears.
"Stop. Fuck. Please."
Tim's next scream broke halfway. His chest heaved, his entire body shaking. Fingers twisting in the sheets. He could hear his own voice, how pathetic it sounded, and it only filled him with that much more shame.
"Are you ready to start explaining yourself? Or are we going to do this all night?" Bruce said, his voice rising above all the sound in the room.
Nearly sobbing now, Tim managed to choke out, "You."
"'You' what? Speak up."
Bruce grabbed a hold of Tim's hair, forcefully craning his head back. Tim finally breathed, the air of the room feeling so much cooler than the bed he had been breathing into. The coolness almost emphasized the heat in his face and Tim looked straight ahead, his focus on the headboard blurring in his tears.
"You," he managed to say. It was difficult to speak. Difficult to even out his breaths. He swallowed. "I was looking for you." The hardest part was that it wasn't an act. It wasn't an excuse. It was true. And it wasn't something Tim wanted to admit—and he only remembered that fact when Bruce's sudden silence pervaded the room, adding to the depth of his confession. "I just—I just wanted you back."
Bruce's hold on him instantly relaxed and that's when Tim felt the sudden drop in his stomach. The realization of what he had meant to keep secret. All the emotion he had trapped inside his chest for the past year suddenly sprung forth all at once, his eyes burning with renewal. Both the fantasy and his composure began to crumble, fast, like falling glass.
When Bruce reached for him, Tim pulled away, already knowing how he'd respond if Bruce held him. But Bruce was relentless, as always, and Tim was soon dragged into his arms. Tim could feel himself falling apart. He felt so childish. Almost everything had worked out in the end, hadn't it? The worst of it was over. Bruce was back. He was there. And yet, he couldn't stop crying.
"Tim. Tim."
Bruce breathed his name in his hair, over and over again. Tim could barely hear him. He scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to calm himself.
"You left us," Tim said, voice thick. And he knew it wasn't fair to say. He knew Bruce's reasons. And if Tim had been in the same position—God, he would have done it too. He hated himself for it but he said it anyways, the words tumbling out of him. "You left all of us."
"I know." Bruce's voice was quiet. A different kind of quiet. Tim focused on the hand that rubbed his upper back, his shoulders. "I'm sorry."
Tim didn't respond. His breaths stuttered as he tried to force himself to calm down. Bruce's hold around him tightened. His embrace almost painful.
"I'm sorry."