browngirl

Um, Happy Halloween. I have a longish author's note, which can be summarized as a whimpery chant of "oh my God" while rocking back and forth.

Title: Nonverbal Communication
Fandom: DC Comics
Rating: NC-17. Really.
Characters: Owlman/Tim Drake
Summary: Recruitment.
Warnings: Content the writer found disturbing, so the readers likely will. Dark, non-con, and just plain wrong.
Setting: The Crime Syndicate of America, a canon AU of the Justice League of America. Somewhen between this page from JLA# 108 and

thete1's CSA: Gotham series.
Audienced and Betaed by

maelithil,

petronelle, and

brown_betty
Dedicated To: People who know who they are. ;)
Disclaimer: These characters and their settings belong to DC Comics

The apartment isn't quite dilapidated, Owlman observes. The walls are in good repair, paint peeling only at the corners. The living room, which features thin carpet, reasonably sober furnishings, and a large gun lying beside the couch, is fairly spacious, especially from the vantage point of the doorway where he's braced. He's pressing only lightly against the wall, but he's fairly certain young Drake can tell that he already needs its support, by the pressure of his other hand around the boy's wrist if nothing else.

The bones in his grip feel fine as a bird's, especially when he squeezes and they shift, the feel of the wince reverberating through hot damp skin. It was certainly a good idea to remove his gauntlet, and Owlman makes a mental note to teach Drake not to wince, later. For now, breaking the boy's wrist won't improve his concentration, so Owlman fractionally eases his grip, and clears his throat.

Despite his efforts his voice is reedy, but that's to young Drake's credit. His capacity for focus, no matter the task, is one of the qualities that brought him to Owlman's notice. "In six months, no one will be able to take a gun from you."

The rush of air through the boy's nose isn't quite a snort. So Owlman doesn't squeeze his wrist again, quite. His other hand moves steadily despite this distraction as well, and the rush of satisfaction in Owlman's chest is almost warmer than everything else. When young Drake is trained, which will not take long... but for now he needs instruction.

So Owlman gives him his orders, ignoring the cracks he can hear in his own voice, the roughness of his breathing, the slow fragmenting of his control. The boy is good. As if his life depends on it, and it does, but with deliberation and grace, even under the circumstances. "You will set the fire when we leave." The boy shudders from knees to tongue, and Owlman's knees threaten to buckle, his hand slides an inch down the wall before he can stop it. Even so, young Drake's pace doesn't hitch or slacken. He's going to be remarkable.

"Your first assignment will be identical to that which killed my first Robin." Drake inhales, hard, the breeze of it cool on hot skin that he quickly rewarms with another bob of his mouth. The combination startles Owlman into glancing down at him, at the thin reddened ring of his lips and the flush in his flexing cheeks and his hard blue eyes, and the sight of the boy, the feel of him sucking that much more forcefully, nearly knocks the rest of the statement from Owlman's thoughts. "I expect you to return successful, with all my property unharmed, including yourself."

Drake closes his eyes, His lashes are incongruously long, the skin over his cheekbones strangely tender. It'll be a relief to cover those vulnerabilities with a mask, deceptive as they are; the boy's tough enough to be Jack Drake's half-trained heir, and he's smart enough to not even wince this time when Owlman squeezes his wrist again till the bones grind together. Sweat beads along his hairline, and he shakes, but he's still focused, still moving, and his mouth is simply that much hotter when he groans.

Owlman has to lock his knees against the rush of heat, and he feels more than hears the scrape as his hand clutches at the wall hard enough to scratch off paint. His orgasm is imminent, throbbing insistently behind his balls and behind his eyes, and afterwards he's going to take this boy with him and make him the new Robin. Life hasn't been so interesting in far too long.

But first. "Ultra-man has expressed an interest in meeting you." Young Drake's eyes open wide, and when he swallows hard the sensation is exquisite enough to almost make Owlman stammer. Almost. "I feel like granting the favor. You are to extend to my colleague--" The boy swallows again, deliberately, successfully making him gasp. "All the respect." Again. He's nearly breathless. "You would grant me." And again. "Though not. The obedience."

The sound the boy makes is derisive, choked-off, vibrant, and Owlman feels it in his abdomen and spine and thighs. He lets his head tilt forward a little, lets himself gasp, lets himself feel the rhythmic wet heat the boy steadily applies to him until his orgasm hits like a blow behind his knees. He can feel himself jerk, he tears more paint off the wall, but he doesn't break the boy's wrist, and he doesn't collapse.

He takes two long, slow, deep breaths, and shudders as Drake licks him, Not lasciviously, not gently, but with long thorough strokes. Just before the buzz completely fades beneath the ache, he pulls away, releasing the boy's wrist.

Though young Drake doesn't so much as glance at it, eyes veiled and downcast as he cradles his wrist to his chest and stands up, Owlman can see his awareness of the gun's location. He refastens his armor unhurriedly, controlling his breathing till it evens out somewhat. His heart pounds against his breastbone, but that will settle soon, too.

The boy looks up. Owlman will allow him the smirk in his eyes, but if it spreads to his mouth he'll have to beat him before they leave. "We should be going. Take care of the building."

Drake's lips are still swollen and shiny, but his smile is nearly as sharp as those Owlman cultivates. "One day, I am going to kill you."

Returning the smile is inescapable. "I would be displeased if you didn't make the attempt." Owlman makes a note not to go easy on the boy, even as he finds himself shifting enough to give a hint. And, expectedly, Drake takes it, flattening himself against the wall as he moves through the doorway and out of the living room. Owlman follows him, watching as much for the pleasure of it as to see if the boy pulls another weapon, and the anticipation is as exhilarating as the success. Life is going to be much more interesting, indeed.