Tim had only managed to get about ten good minutes of seriously
regretting taking Bruce out and going after Crane solo -- though he's
willing to go with the idea that he might've had a little longer for that
if he'd been conscious -- before Bruce actually showed up.

Since then, he's had a good five seconds or so to kick himself for not
doing a better job, followed by way, way too long -- he *knows* it's
only been a few seconds, but *still* -- to a) go back to thinking he'd
had the right idea, and b) listen to Crane's bones snapping up in the
cab.

And, really, he *gets* that sometimes you have to leave your partners
chained to poles in runaway trains -- for just one example -- in order
to get the job done, but somehow the look on Bruce's face as he
walked past was even more *wrong* than, well --

"Don't! *Please*!"

That. The bad guys are only supposed to beg like that because
they've done a good job *scaring* them, *not* because this time
Batman's actually going to *kill* them. And he doesn't really think
*talking* is going to do any good, but --

"Batman! Don't do it!"

It has to be better than just standing here, and there's a *whacking*
sound, and that grunt sounds like Bruce is in pain, and he's got to get
*out* of this.

Tim yanks the chain on the cuffs straight, and then there's another
*thump*, and a screech -- from the *train* -- and, okay, there's
plenty of armor in the gauntlets. Sure, the chain is Bat-standard, but it
can't be *much* harder to break this than it is to break --

And the thing is, he's long -- *long* -- past ready to get a good growth
spurt. It's bad enough to get picked up and *moved* by supervillains.
Batman really needs to *stop*. Still.

"So is it my turn to get released? *Finally*?" Possibly he could've said
that in a nicer tone.

"No. It isn't," Bruce says, and cuffs his *other* wrist to the pole, then
hooks both chains around a de-cel line he'd anchored to one of the
handholds about two feet above Tim's head.

"What the *hell* --" No, wait. Focus. "What about Crane? You
didn't --"

"He's unconscious."

Tim blinks, and yanks experimentally on the new configuration of Robin
bondage. "O-kay, fine. Day is saved. Is that stuff out of your system
yet?" It really isn't. He *knows* it --

"No."

And, really, that would explain why they're on a no-longer-runaway
train car with Crane blood seeping out of the cab and back toward them --
and it's frankly always a good sign when bad-guy blood is red, as far
as *Tim* is concerned -- and why Bruce has tied him up *better*.

Except for how it totally and completely doesn't. Hell.

Tim does his best to turn around, but with his arms yanked up over
his head and his feet only *barely* on the floor, he can't really see much
beyond the sleeves of his undershirt and the swirl of Bruce's cape. Right.
"You realize how insane you're acting, right? That there was a
*reason* --"

"That you disobeyed orders *several* times? That you did your best to
distract me from my *work*?"

You *like* it when I distract you. I have a key to your *office*, you
drugged-up asshole. "Batman --"

He doesn't have any thoughts in his head whatsoever for the first slap --
the first *spank*. He can't even *yell*, because he's too keyed up on
work-now to yell for all but *serious* pain.

Getting spanked -- *spanked*. What the *hell*? -- by Bruce on a
not-runaway-anymore train doesn't count. It's Bruce, but his shorts
*are* armored, and none of that is the *point*.

"Batman, *Jesus* --"

"Count."

Tim blinks -- and jerks, because Bruce isn't *stopping* -- and blinks
more. "Are you *serious*? Are you really --"

The next spank is hard enough to rock him off his feet *entirely* for a
second and send him *swinging* -- until Bruce catches him by the hip.

"*Listen* to me. You're not in your right *mind* --"

"*I* feel wonderful," Bruce says, and Tim can *hear* him smiling, and
the spanks start *right* up again.

There are a few ways he can respond to this -- though he's betting
that right about now the judicious use of *extra* foul language will just
make this worse -- but --

"If you don't count, I *won't* stop."

"*Fuck* you." Some things are about *principle*.

"Hmm."

Oh, that's a less than good sound right about now. Tim stretches enough
to grab the de-cel with both hands and holds on, lifting his feet. Bruce
needs *leverage* to make this count. "Will you please just stop being
psycho for a *few* -- *ah* --"

The thing is... Bruce can get all the leverage he needs by reaching around
to grab him by the crotch and *squeezing*. Because that? Is going to
keep him pretty still. And *steady* for one spank after another.

And another.

And it's *still* not bad, but... but. He's being spanked. Crane's unconscious,
but he's right *there*, and Bruce is *spanking* him, and just --

His face feels hot and he has to grit his teeth to keep from doing more than
grunting.

There are, apparently, more things than just *killing* that Bruce isn't afraid
of, right now.

After about nine kinds of *forever*, he stops.

"Well?"

Tim breathes, and gives himself a minute to make sure his voice will be okay.
"You're not seriously expecting an apology. You can't *possibly* be that
fucked-up right now."

Bruce squeezes him again. And -- again.

"C'mon, you *said* that wasn't what this is *about*." And it doesn't matter
that *he'd* been seriously planning to chip *away* at that attitude, because
now is *not* the time. "B-Batman --"

It almost sounds like a sigh, but it's probably just an exhale. Exertion and...
and Bruce hasn't done nearly enough tonight to make him tired. It's fucking
*Crane*.

"Listen --"

"In retrospect," Bruce says, leaning *in* -- Tim can feel the edges of the cowl
against his cheek. "I *don't* expect an apology. Not from *you*."

Oh, *that* was an insult. Added to -- heh -- injury. He's going to have to
insist on having his gauntlets equipped with lock-picks in the future. Possibly
acid-shooters.

Possibly something *else* nasty that he could use to shoot Bruce in the
*face*. Right now, though, the only thing he can do is fucking *squirm*,
and that feels really, really --

Really not *helpful* right now.

And Bruce is *panting* against his ear. Bruce is... wait.

"*Bruce*," he says, as loud as he can make himself say it when they're
both in uniform and on the street, and Bruce is quiet. For just long enough
for Tim to think, maybe, he's *getting* somewhere, but --

"Another... violation."

"Oh, god-fucking-*dammit* --" And squirming *still* isn't getting him
anywhere, but he can't stop, and he -- he *really* can't stop. Bruce's
*thumb* is in a *good* spot, and that spot just gets better with every
hit.

"You're still not counting."

"We could've -- ah -- *ah*! We could've done this *anywhere*. You
could --"

"I *know*," Bruce says, and bites his neck, hard. Through the collar of his
cape, but still --

Still --

He's going to come in his jock. He's seriously going to come in his fucking
*jock* because Bruce is officially *crazy* now, and *he* can't do anything
but wriggle like a porno cliché and *take* it.

"*Please*," he says, because it falls out of his fucking *mouth*, and Bruce
*yanks* his tights and shorts down -- the *back* of them down -- and
strokes his ass.

It doesn't matter that he's been much naked-er than this in company
pretty often. That was the *Cave*, and his *choice*, and Tim doesn't think
he's ever *felt* more naked than he does right now.

"Batman -- Batman, come *on* --"

"Yes," he says, and squeezes Tim's crotch *harder* and runs his thumb
down the crack of Tim's ass --

"Oh fuck -- *fuck* --"

And there goes *one* trip to the Manor's laundry room, because Alfred is
*not* getting his hands on *this* jock.

His legs are shaking, and Tim realizes that he's been up on his toes for... he
doesn't know when he'd put his toes back *down*.

Dropping down onto his heels just makes that thumb *move*, and the
sound that comes out of his mouth *this* time is shaky and high.

"You wanted this."

He can't keep himself from growling and he *doesn't* try. "Yeah, because
offering to blow you in your *bed* is *totally* the same thing as *this*."

Bruce pants against the back of his neck.

"Just... come on, you *know* this isn't what *you* --"

"I wanted to let you. I was... *cautious*."

One of the really irritating aspects of his life these days is that he can't,
actually, stop himself from *listening* to this. Because Bruce in a confessional
mood is special and rare, even if Tim *is* chained to a freaking pole with a
sticky jock and his ass hanging out. "You were," he says, and listens to
Crane's wet -- that would be blood, yep -- snores.

"I was *afraid*."

"And you're pissed about that. I *get* that -- *fuck* --"

He wasn't expecting that slap at all. Or the next one.

The one *after* that, though, was reasonably predictable. Tim catches his
lower lip between his teeth because it's *safer* than just gritting and takes
it.

And groans when Bruce finally pushes down the *front* of his tights and...
pets. Slides his gauntlet -- cold, *smooth* -- through the come and
*teases* Tim's dick and Tim locks his knees and shivers.

"Tim," Bruce whispers in his ear, and pants more.

"Am I... supposed to have... an *answer*?"

He can't really keep his mouth shut, anymore. His ass is hot and a little sore
and, while he's pretty sure bare-handed would hurt *more*, the gauntlet is
still making him feel like he might spontaneously combust at any second.

In the bad way.

Or the good way -- shit, that hand on his *dick* -- stroking --

"Is this supposed -- fuck -- *fuck* --"

"Yes, Robin?"

Screaming makes it feel better, in a weird way. Makes *him* feel better,
cleaner, or maybe just something like more focused. He's *going* to come
again soon, and he's *not* going to be sitting comfortably for at least a
few days, and he's *absolutely* going to make Bruce's life *hell* from
now on -- just as soon as he *fixes* this -- but... he can think.

"*Robin*."

A little. "If you're trying to teach me -- hngh -- a lesson... why don't you
just -- just *fuck* me?"

Another pause.

Tim can't actually keep from blowing out a breath. "Well?"

"And if I'm just *enjoying* myself?"

Then you need a *therapist*. But, Tim knew that already. "Then you
should just fuck me *anyway* -- ah --"

Yanked back and lifted *against* Bruce, and the armor is cool and rough
on his ass, and his mind can't decide if it's soothing or terrible. But he has
to *focus*.

"Do it, *Batman*. Throw me down on the floor. Get me on my
*knees* --"

Bruce's growl -- and the way the cowl is digging into the skin of his cheek
again -- makes him jerk and whimper, but *that* works just fine.

He wriggles a little more.

"Is that what you want?"

Tim turns it into a writhe, deliberately dragging his ass against the rough --
fucking sandpaper-rough, right now -- fabric of Bruce's chest armor until
he can make a really *good* whining noise.

Bruce clutches him hard. "*Answer* me."

"You *know* it is," Tim says, and plasters a smirk on his face. "Unless
you're *scared*."

He doesn't see the knife, at all, but the de-cel line holding his arms over his
head snaps -- and his arms drop. He can't actually slow the process down,
any, and he hadn't realized how *weak* --

"Down."

Technically, he *could* brace himself like this -- he's not that tired, and the
pole is sturdy -- but *that* isn't what he wants to do. "My arms are too
weak for me to do it like this. *Uncuff* me."

Another growl.

"You're not actually afraid I can *take* you? Like *this*?" Come on. Call
me on this. I *dare* you --

Bruce's arm comes down so fast he jumps, but, again, that works. As does
being free -- *finally* -- from the freaking *pole*.

Really, getting shoved down onto his hands and knees is part of the plan.
This plan, and possibly a few others, and Tim has just enough time to orient
himself toward the cab -- and the blood leading to the Unconscious-crow --
before Bruce drops down behind him and grabs his hips.

And *licks* him.

"Oh -- oh *God* --"

That isn't a growl so much as a *purr*, but either way it rumbles hard through
him and makes him claw at the floor. The broken chains on either wrist jingle
and click and Bruce is...

Oh, *Bruce*.

Simple, *simple* facts of life: One, Bruce is out of his fucking mind. Two, this is
fucked up beyond *all* human comprehension. Three, in about five minutes,
he's going to be face-first in Crane's blood-puddle, because he can't keep his
head up because this is too fucking *good*.

Every push, every teasing little flick, every --

Every fucking *thrust* --

"Don't *stop* --"

"Hm. I don't know how I could have ever been afraid of taking advantage of
a boy like you."

"What -- *fuck* --"

Bruce's thumb -- still in the gauntlet -- *in* him, and Tim frankly has a *lot*
to say about that little comment, but most of it is coming out in grunts and
moans, right now. Yeah. Just...

He can *do* this -- oh, he *really* can -- but he has to do it *right*. He
pushes up on his hands and makes an effort to move *away* that's about
eighty percent real.

And gets *yanked* back.

"*No* --"

"*Yes*," Bruce says, and pulls *out*, which makes no sense whatsoever
until the slaps start falling again, one after another after a-fucking-nother.

Tim doesn't have to fake a sobbing little whimper at *all*. And when Bruce
pushes in again with his thumb, he lets his head drop and braces himself on
his elbows.

And pants.

And spends a *lot* of time grateful for every night he'd taken the time and
made the effort to fuck *himself*, because Bruce is *fucking* him a lot
more than he's stretching him. And that doesn't change when he pulls out
again and comes back with two slicked fingers.

It's -- it's *bruising*, and hard, and this is actually pretty fucking difficult.
*Taking* this, he can do. Playing broken-little-boy instead of rocking back
on every thrust, on the other hand, is an actual *challenge*.

He picks himself up enough to get a *good* look at the Crane, and the
blood, and the way Crane's left arm is bent in at least two *wrong* ways,
and... yeah. That helps.

In that way where he isn't sure what it's going to do to his psyche to be
looking at *that* when Bruce starts *going* for his prostate. He's never
wanted to simultaneously yark and come before. This is new and special
and possibly -- *probably* -- he should work on repressing the hell out of
*all* of this as soon as possible.

Or...

God, he can't stop *groaning*. *Now*, Bruce is stretching him, *now*
he's not fucking him anymore, and he can't actually stop pushing back for
more, a little, not even when Bruce makes one of those little
I'm-thinking-and-that's-*bad*-for-you humming noises and pauses.

But. "Please... I..." Tim works up a *good* whimper, and whispers, "Please,
Bruce..."

Maybe an 'oh, I'm so *sorry*' would fit here, but a) no, and b) Bruce isn't
an idiot.

He can't *count* on Bruce being an idiot, even with the blunt *push* of
his dick against Tim's ass making him pant and drool a little.

Like an animal. Like --

Like *exactly* what Bruce was so *afraid* to see him as. Tim narrows his
eyes and moans to keep from growling, and then just lets himself gasp and
whimper. Bruce is big, and he's sore, and he'd *never* signed up for
*this*, and --

"Fuck... fuck, *please* --"

Stroking his back and *rocking* in. Not pushing, not really thrusting,
just... this jerky little *rhythm*. This... this fucking *playful* --

And he isn't sure whether it's the situation or the fact that he can't stop
thinking about the way Bruce had flown the Batplane in a way even *he*
would've found a little *too* exciting, but...

Tim feels himself *dropping*, on the inside, feels himself losing it, a little,
because he *gets* it. It isn't just Bruce being reckless, or even Bruce being
brutal and mean and *insane*.

It's Bruce having *fun*, because he isn't scared of anything. Not
anymore.

The first real thrust tenses him up hard *and* sends him skidding closer to
Crane's blood. The next one makes him scream. The next is going to --
going --

Tim comes, untouched, all over the floor, and then just tries to hold *on*.
Keep loose, keep steady -- as much as he *can* with Bruce leaving bruises
on his hips and *pulling* him into every thrust.

*Making* him take it, and yeah, he *has* had that fantasy before. It's just
never been something he'd considered *useful*, as opposed to hot, but
right now?

Yeah, he's going to let Bruce do *all* the work, because he doesn't know
how much of a difference it'll make, and he *doesn't* know how much
pick-up he's going to have when Bruce is finished with him, but at least
he can maybe keep from exhausting *himself*.

He definitely can't keep himself from screaming, or scratching at the floor,
or banging his *head* against the floor -- no, no, *steady* --

"*Robin* --"

He can be *steady*, he can --

"Beautiful. Little. Bird."

Every word punctuated with another thrust, another *scream*, but it's
okay, he won't *need* his voice. He can't see the inhaler from here, but he
*knows* it's right there, he knows it, just a few --

"Beg for it -- beg for it *again*."

"I just want to make sure you have a *reason* to keep me here, Bruce."

"*Do* it."

"Anything. It can be anything you *want* --"

Bruce's hand around his throat, Bruce pulling him *up* by his throat,
holding him and thrusting up -- *up* --

"Oh God --"

"*Say* it, Tim."

Tim. No control. No *control* --

The squeeze doesn't last long, but it's hard enough to make Tim see stars
*anyway*. He coughs and *groans* at the way it shifts everything inside
him --

"*Tim*."

"*Please*, please Batman, please -- please *don't* --"

Bruce's hand *spasms* on his throat, holding and squeezing and
*squeezing*, and Tim can feel him coming, but mostly he can feel himself
starting to lose consciousness.

He takes it, and focuses on -- on --

There are exercises for this, he *knows* there are, but he can't quite --
it's all just images, and the sound of Bruce panting when *he* can't, and
the stink of blood, and --

He's gasping before he's even fully aware that Bruce has let go, and
yelling, hoarsely, because Bruce is pulling out.

Tim lets himself fall back down to his hands and knees and waits.

Bruce strokes his back. "Good boy."

Oh, Bruce is going to *pay*. Woof, he doesn't say, and listens to Bruce
doing up his uniform again, and waits just a *little* more... there.

Bruce strokes his hip. Really *very* possessive stroking, and it's just
one more thing to add to the list for "later." For now...

Tim twitches, carefully, ignores the *twinge* from his ass, and *moves*.
Scrambling forward and getting to his feet and -- okay, he didn't *plan*
that stagger, but it works. He turns to face Bruce, and it doesn't matter
that the cowl is on. He *knows* that look.

It's the "oh, *please*," look, even though --

"Robin. Really."

-- Bruce wouldn't ever put it that way. Right. "I just." Tim swallows, tilting
his head back to make it good and obvious -- and to let him get a quick
glimpse of the cab. The inhaler is within kicking distance. "I..." He swallows
again, and takes another step back, letting himself trip a little on his tights.

"What is it?"

Man, that was almost *conversational*. "I..." Another step, and he slips
in the blood. Crane is still snoring, which is good, because right about now
if he *did* open his eyes he'd be getting a perfect view of Tim's ass.

Which, really, no. One more step and he can go for the inhaler. But
Batman is narrowing his eyes, a little.

"I didn't..." Tim bites his lip, and reaches back to rub his ass, and nearly
falls too *soon*, because *ow*. "Batman," he says, because he can't think
of anything else.

"Robin," Bruce says, and freaking *smiles* at him, and that's as good a
cue as any. Tim drops into a crouch and grabs for the inhaler, and --

Bruce *slams* into him, skidding them through Crane's blood and
knocking them both back against the console.

"And what do you think *you're* doing?"

And that *would* be good and terrifying, save for how Bruce does *exactly*
what he's supposed to do -- grab Tim's wrists, lift his arms above his head,
and just generally give Tim the *perfect* shot to blast Bruce with Crane's
little inhaler.

"What --" Bruce is coughing.

And, well, Crane hadn't been very specific about the dose, but Tim's *fingers*
aren't tired, and he's not taking *any* chances. After the second blast,
Bruce lets go and stumbles backwards.

"Robin, wait --"

Tim isn't taking *any* chances. Bruce coughs more, and, slips in the blood,
and goes down. Tim sprays him some more.

"*Robin*."

The air smells vaguely medicinal, and, weirdly, kind of like his Dad's cologne.
Tim spares a moment to wonder what the effects of this stuff are on people
who *weren't* blasted with the no-fear gas, shrugs internally, and keeps
spraying until nothing's coming out but little puffs.

And then he takes a step *back*, and waits.

When the mist clears, Tim can see that Bruce's cheeks are wet beneath the
cowl. Anything else is... difficult to say. He's curled in on himself, a little, and
coughing dryly.

Crane, for his part, is now snoring wetly on his *back*. They must've
knocked him over. Maybe, if Tim's lucky, the bastard will choke on blood
and vomit. It's *almost* his birthday.

Tim starts to bend to pull up his tights and pauses. "Are you *fixed*, yet?"

Bruce coughs a little more. "I... Robin..."

Tim shakes the inhaler, just in case.

"Oh. Oh my God."

Hmm. That *sounds* sober, but...

But Tim isn't, actually, sure how to *be* sure without putting himself in range
again. Shit. Tim takes a deep breath, yanks up his shorts and tights, promises
himself some of the *good* painkillers for later, and takes a step forward.

Bruce *flinches*. "Batman?"

"Oh God."

"Fuck. Did I give you an overdose?"

"Robin... Tim..." Bruce looks up at him -- *slowly* -- and winces. And then
looks down... at the broken cuffs on Tim's wrists.

Okay. Fine. "You really need to start coping now, *Batman*."

"Robin --"

"Because I'm tired and *sore*."

Another flinch, but Bruce is moving again. When he stands, he isn't shaky at
all, but...

"*Did* I give you an overdose?"

After a really, really *long* moment, Bruce... smiles. Not one of the freaky
wrong ones, either -- this one is small and pained-looking. "No. I'm justifiably
horrified by... by everything I just did."

And what about the things you *said*? Tim narrows his eyes and crosses
his arms over his chest. "Fine, whatever. Are you *coping* yet?"

"Yes."

Tim nods. Good enough. "Okay. Let's get Crane to the cops and go *home*,
okay?"

Bruce nods at him, pulls another set of cuffs from his belt, *pauses*, and
then shivers a little.

Tim moves out of the way and lets him take care of Crane.

It's a long walk back into the subways proper -- and thus to places with
viable *exits* -- and it's nearly dawn by the time they get to street-level. Tim
yawns, and punches the beeper that'll give Gordon's people their rough
coordinates.

And leans -- carefully -- against the wall of their alley.

It smells like morning, car exhaust, and rotting vegetables. Like Gotham.

"Robin," Bruce starts, but doesn't say anything else. He's doing what looks
like his third-best shadowy lurk, which means that the only reason Tim can
see him is because Crane's little rope necklace is fairly brightly-colored.

Crane, of course, is dangling from Bruce's right fist.

"Robin. I would... understand if you... the things I did..."

He can't quite keep himself from growling. "And what about the things you
*said*?"

Bruce sighs. "I can't ever apologize --"

"Really not."

"You... you're so much *more* than that, so much... there's nothing --"

"Bruce," Tim says, quietly and deliberately, and gives Bruce a second to
deal.

"Yes," Bruce says, eventually.

Tim rolls his head on his neck, back and forth. A boy like *him*, hunh? "The
next time you try to kick me out of your bed? I'm stabbing you. And
putting laxatives in your energy shakes. And stabbing you *again*."

"Robin --"

"And my allowance just got tripled."

"*Tim* --"

"And I want a Porsche."

"Hm."

Tim turns into the shadows and raises an eyebrow. "*Well*?"

"You're... not old enough. To drive."

Tim grins, nice and slow. "You don't say."

Bruce coughs.

Tim nods, mostly to himself, and waits for the cops.

end.