A knowledge of roots
by Te
July 30, 2007
Disclaimers: Not even remotely mine.
Spoilers/Timeline: Vague references to older storylines.
Takes place reasonably early in Tim's tenure as Robin.
Summary: "Is this some kind of fucked-up *job* interview?"
Ratings Note/Warnings: Sexual content which does and does not dovetail with the content some readers may find to be disturbing.
Author's Note: Another part of the For My General Loving series. Takes place some weeks after "We do not spare."
Acknowledgments: Much love to Petra and Pixie for audiencing and encouragement.
The framework -- the paradigm -- is informed in the following ways:
Tim Drake is a somewhat undersized boy with no great degree of socialization and thus no real way to educate himself in much of the teenaged experience. He is also somewhat shy, and, while not overly inclined to be trusting, he is *lonely*, and this is something which can be made to show.
Additionally, Tim Drake is *not* a homebody, and has always been drawn toward Gotham as a whole, as opposed to merely the parts of it which are designed for someone of his class and age.
Further, there is nothing special about Tim Drake. He is not a martial artist, he is not heavily armed physically, emotionally, or even intellectually. His education has been neither enhanced nor padded by the mentorship of a brilliant, dedicated man.
Tim Drake has, for lack of a better way to put it, never been to the circus.
Tim Drake is, in this respect, rather vulnerable, which is how he'd gotten -- here.
"Oh, chicken, you are *sweet*."
'Chicken' is new, and it's extremely tempting to do something with the look he's currently sending at Matches from under his lashes, but there's a time and a place. Here, in the passenger seat of a rather vast and fragrant Chrysler with a paintjob somewhere between bronze and *decay*... not so much. "I haven't done anything," Tim says, instead, and considers shifting enough to encourage the hand on his thigh to explore.
"You don't think so? That's pretty interesting."
As it happens, the hand doesn't go anywhere, but there *is* a squeeze.
There's some question about -- a lot of things, really. Starting with how much of this game Tim can honestly play, given the last several weeks. Later this week, Jack Drake will be escorting Tim-sometimes-Timmy Drake to yet another Event. This one will just be a dinner, as opposed to a party. There will, therefore, be fewer opportunities to disappear with Brucie, but Tim will be deeply surprised if one such opportunity doesn't arise at *some* point.
Furthermore, Tim's room at the manor is no longer sheeted and closed off. A part of him feels somewhat guilty about making more work for Alfred -- it's not like he's *sleeping* there for more than an hour or two at a time -- but it's gratifying just the same.
Further still, Robin hasn't spent this much time working -- and working well -- with Batman since Robin was someone else entirely.
All of this makes *this* game, *this* act -- too much. A little too difficult. The part of him which is vulnerable and unsure is honestly quite small, these days -- Bruce has been quite... quite. And, while it doesn't seem untoward to work on it a little, to live in it if only for it to feel familiar for some colder time in the future...
"You okay over there, baby?"
Possibly, there's more to that statement than an admonishment not to think too much -- at least not here, not now -- but, being as it comes with a pat to his thigh, Tim feels justified in the narrow reading. "Oh, I -- I was just. Thinking."
"*That* much I could tell. Gettin' bored with ol' Matches already?" The matchstick rolls and bobs in his mouth, now in view, now gone.
Matches' fingers curl on Tim's thigh, play along the inseam of Tim's pants like they're an instrument which doesn't take very much effort to learn. "I wouldn't say bored," Tim says, and slouches enough that those fingers are more of a tease.
"Wouldn't you?"
The accent and tone are almost right, the words are a little further off the mark. More importantly, the silence following them is somewhat heavier than it could be, but... they're at a stoplight. Tim covers the hand in his lap with both of his own and squeezes until the fingers stop. "I'm looking for a reason."
The matchstick stills at the corner of -- Bruce's mouth. "How much do you need one," Bruce says, and his eyes are curious and openly questioning.
"I think I'd have to, at the very least, blush very hard if I mentioned something about my 'motivation,' Bruce, but --" Tim strokes Matches' hand and does not try to pull it tighter against himself. Much. "I have to admit there's a certain aspect of that sort of thing to my current dilemma." He's been -- spoiled.
The laugh is something which could conceivably be uttered by Batman's and Matches' horrifying child. "Who are you?"
"I -- young, vulnerable, poorly socialized. Hungry. Needy -- it's possible that I lacked -- a strong father figure," Tim says, and indulges himself, briefly, in the feel of one of the few scars Bruce has on his hands. It's a small, colorless thing just beneath the writing callus on Bruce's right hand, and the truth is that Tim hadn't noticed it until Bruce's hands had stopped being -- solely -- the primary instruments of Tim's learning process.
The matchstick rolls along the fullest part of Bruce's lower lip -- stops. "A good start."
"I could probably use some -- direction," Tim says, and the part of himself which knows the precise nap of the carpeting of far too many cloakrooms probably doesn't belong here, perfect cue or no.
Bruce drums his fingers on Tim's thigh --
"By which I mean -- I'm feeling a little. Lost."
"Perhaps you're assuming a bit too much education."
Interesting. Very... hm. "How d'you mean?"
Another one of those hybrid laughs, and this one seems to shape itself to the shift of -- Matches' body, not Bruce's. Matches is far more aware of -- and inclined to use -- his mass. "You know sometimes I got too many *errands* and not enough time, baby."
Robbie Malone, when last heard from, was on his way to a short stretch upstate. Out of state...? Tim isn't sure about those records. Clearly, he should be. "The name's... Alvin, not baby. And I *don't* work for free -- cheap."
"Ain't a damn thing cheap about you. Baby," and the light turns green. There's nothing of Bruce in Matches' slouch, and the hand on Tim's thigh has become somewhat inert. It might as well be resting on -- some small, moderately important possession which should probably be kept from hitting the floor too hard.
Alvin would -- well, that's several different very good questions, right there, but, for now, Tim's reasonably sure Alvin wouldn't be touching it. Tim sets one elbow on the door's armrest -- avoiding an ashtray stuffed with aging gum -- and sets the other hand beside him on the seat. The slouch seems adequate. His expression... well.
He needs more information.
"Look, if you want this to be more than just a one-time deal --"
"Reach into my pocket and tell me what you feel, baby."
What sort of 'deal' had he signed on for, exactly...? Tim rolls his eyes and goes for the nearest jacket pocket. The wallet isn't a surprise, save for its quality. Someone, at some point in the distant past, had paid a fair amount of money for the wallet. The leather needs to be oiled. But. "Okay, so you can afford me. *Today*. But I'm no one's boy," Tim says, and wonders how obvious it is. How obvious should it be?
"No? Well that's a real damned shame," Matches says, taking a hard left that makes something in the transmission give the car a little shudder -- no.
He doesn't care about cars. Or -- not this car. "What -- is this some kind of fucked-up *job* interview?" Alvin would absolutely pocket at least one of the fifties. And dare Matches to say something about it.
The response is a smile that wouldn't look out of place on a not-especially anthropomorphic lizard. "If that's what you wanna call it. Baby."
Alvin's quick enough to get out of the car and roll out of the way of passing traffic until he can get someplace where the big, crazy man isn't. And with that fifty... of course, there's a question of what else he can get. "Look, just tell me what you want."
"All in good time."
All right. After another five minutes, it's clear that they're heading somewhere near the docks. Alvin knows by Matches' voice that they're heading into *his* comfort zone, but Alvin knows how to take care of himself. It's both a little too late and a little too early in the day for there to be many people around out here, but, again -- Alvin can take care of himself.
He hasn't expected help from anyone else for a good long while, now, and Matches -- whoever the hell *he* is -- no.
Alvin knows the name, if nothing else. He's heard it whispered and he's maybe heard it yelled. Matches is some kind of *somebody*, godawful -- ugly-ass clothes or no.
Tim makes Alvin chew his thumbnail and fidget. Alvin was expecting this guy to want a blowjob, maybe something a little fancier, but that was before he *realized* it was Matches. He could get a lot out of this, get somewhere, maybe make enough to get his own place somewhere the landlord won't ask too many questions.
Alvin needs this, and Tim feels like he knows him better by the second. His clothes are all wrong, and the hair is, too --
The next stoplight is a good enough place for Tim to break the spikes in his hair and muss it a little.
Neither Matches nor -- anyone else says a word until the light is green.
"You're pretty jumpy now, wound up like a pretty little rabbit..."
Alvin stops himself from flipping Matches off and is moderately glad for it when the hand starts moving on his balls again. Maybe this one just wants to get *him* off.
"You're wondering what I want from you. That's okay -- I haven't decided yet."
Matches shifts his hand a little, and now it's just one finger moving, lightly and -- *casually*. It's just enough to make him feel a little overheated, impatient. "What the hell are you waiting for?"
"A *sign*, gorgeous," he says, and eases up on the gas.
Apparently, the sign he's looking for is the one for the Motel Maryland. Why it's called that is anyone's guess (Mike "Weasel" Johnston, a part-time bookmaker and one of Matches' associates, was born there.), and Alvin has other things to worry about. "Hey, it's more if you want to actually get a room." At least, he thinks it probably should be, considering.
"That's all right -- somethin' just *tells* me you're gonna be worth it," he says, taking the wallet back after pulling out another fifty.
Tim thinks -- Alvin is a little unsure, at this point. A man like Matches probably wants a lot for his money, the kind of connections he has. But -- it's not like Alvin's going to give the money back.
There's a woman neither Tim nor Alvin can place working the counter, but she treats Matches like family, even with the surly-looking kid he's dragging along behind him. There's some chance that the woman just assumes *Alvin* is family, but the lack of introduction -- or request for same -- is telling.
This is a motel Robin is going to have to pay more attention to, even though it's well outside his territory.
The room is no uglier than it should be, and the afternoon light through the thin curtains even makes it seem a little warm, and some degree of homey -- no, that's from the non-standard pictures on the wall, and the *decidedly* non-standard mini-fridge in the corner. This bolthole isn't listed in any of the files Tim has access to, which is more than enough reason for Tim to raise an eyebrow.
Matches takes off the jacket and rolls his shoulders a little. The shirt's just tight enough to show off some -- not all -- of the muscle definition.
Tim waits --
"You don't think I tell you everything right *away*, do ya?"
Not even remotely. Tim certainly hadn't expected to learn more *today*, but clearly he now has a lot more access. It would be interesting to know when that particular decision was made, but that last was something of a non sequitur for Matches and Alvin. "I don't expect you to tell me anything," Alvin says, and wanders over to the mini-fridge.
A few beer bottles on the door, what might have once been a slice of pizza on a grease-stained paper plate.
Tim reaches for the little freezer --
"Sure you wanna do that?"
Matches, when he looks, has settled himself on the bed. A few more buttons are loose at the collar, showing off the edges of a few intimidating-looking scars and hair. The tanner is of far too high a quality for Alvin to notice. Matches has one knee up. His shoes are off, but not his eye-wateringly argyle socks. "Why wouldn't I?"
"Seems to me like you haven't exactly agreed to full-time employment."
"I could agree and bail on you the second you turned around," Alvin says, and flicks at the freezer flap with a finger. "Not like you can stop me."
Matches pulls the stick from between his teeth and makes it dance over his fingers, just a little clumsily. "That's --" He pops it back in. "I gotta say, it's real sweet that you think I couldn't find you the minute I wanted to. Mr. Draper."
Alvin... Draper? Tim thinks he might've picked something a little more ethnic, but it's true that there's only so much of that someone with his features and coloring could pull off. Apparently, Alvin won't look very much different from Tim. All right. "You -- you've been following me."
The smile is as sharp and slow as a knifeman with time on his hands. Alvin scrubs his palms on his pants. Tim thinks about it -- and crosses his arms over his chest. The little fridge is just cool enough on his legs to make him stiffen up to keep from shivering.
"I'm not afraid of you."
"Wouldn't do me much good if you were a coward, baby," Matches says, and gestures lazily. "Why don't you close that up for now and come here? I got a little story to tell you."
Tim is more than a little tempted to just kick it closed, but the only kicks Alvin probably feels like giving now are pretty violent. The *door* is probably looking tempting...
Matches pats the bed beside him. "No reason to make this difficult, baby."
Baby. Perhaps paradoxically, Tim is reasonably sure that Alvin would find that somewhat reassuring. It's annoying, it's more than a little creepy, it sets the tone right back to where it should be, considering everything else. *Everything* else. Once Tim is on the bed, though --
Matches catches and moves him, quick and implacable, until he's between Matches' legs. Bruce's -- it's a little hard to focus, considering the sheer number of ways they've duplicated -- or nearly duplicated -- this position over the last several weeks. Matches is hard against the base of Tim's spine, and --
He's not quite pinning Tim's arms. Alvin would --
"Easy there, baby boy. You don't want to get yourself in trouble, now."
More trouble, that is. The decision, at this point, must narrow down to either relaxing as much as he can and taking this -- it's possible that Tim favors this choice a little too much for the role -- or pushing hard enough to maybe piss off the big, scarily *famous* criminal.
Alvin relaxes, not doing a very good job of controlling *all* of the emotion, but he'd definitely keep the fear off of his face -- if not out of his eyes.
"I'm listening," he says, a little rough, perhaps husky --
"Mm," Matches says and rolls his hips up enough to make Tim need to press back -- perhaps Alvin would hope to get Matches' mind on a more familiar track. "That's real sweet, chicken. You got a bright future ahead of you -- I can tell."
Chicken, again. And -- hm. "I'm not that --" Young, Tim doesn't say, and Alvin scowls. "You said you had a story for me."
"I did, didn't I?" Matches starts working on the buttons of Tim's over-shirt. It's entirely wrong for Alvin's style, but Tim has to admit that part of the reason why his mind is protesting is because Matches is doing it so *slowly*. "Shouldn't keep you waiting, I know, but..."
The match is a thin scrape over the side of Tim's throat. The breath is hot, damp and a little garlic-y -- Alvin's shiver is involuntary. So is Tim's, of course, but there are different nuances. "Hey, if you want to sit me on your lap for story-time, it's your nickel." There. A little directionless bravado.
"A little more than *that*, baby, but I take your point," Matches says, and it's difficult to be sure whether Matches starts licking Tim's neck before or after he pushes one big hand under Tim's gapping button-down and starts teasing Tim's nipple through the t-shirt.
There's a part of him which really wants to *be* sure, and perhaps that's close enough to Alvin's... discomfort. "I -- look, you can --"
"Shh," Matches says. "Daddy's busy right now." This lick is long and slow, and it might as well be perfectly designed to get another shiver out of Tim.
Alvin bites his lip to keep from making any noise --
"Though that reminds me *of* the story," and the matchstick drags over the slick spot on Tim's neck.
Would Alvin respond to that? It doesn't seem called for. Certainly not as called-for as digging his fingers into the duvet -- comforter, a little. Alvin needs something to hold on to. Tim needs something to hold on to that isn't his *penis*.
"See, once upon a time there was this real small-timer of a hustler -- if you'll pardon my language choices, baby -- workin' the streets, running a girl or two. Went by the name of Danny Draper."
Brother...? No, it would be the father. "You -- what about him --" Alvin probably wouldn't have been able to hold back the gasp at that twist to his nipple. Even if he could, it's too late now.
"He was a pretty good guy, ol' Danny. Never treated his girls too rough, always makin' little jokes... you like jokes, baby boy?"
Alvin's father -- his *Dad* -- is (was?) a pimp and a criminal, which doesn't say much about his ability to create a stable home-life -- lack of a strong father figure, right.
Add in a few shades of Jason Todd's father, stir briskly --
And now Alvin's getting by doing the same kind of work, only *lower*. "N-no," Alvin says, and scowls again at the stutter --
And loses the scowl to the feel of Matches' grinding against his back and ass, the feel of those fingers on his nipple -- and the other hand is opening the rest of the buttons on Tim's over-shirt.
"Seriously, *what* --
"It's too bad you don't like jokes, baby, 'cause I got a real *zinger*. See, we've already *established* Danny was a fun guy, but *one* of the things he liked to do to have fun is play the ponies. And the cards. And everything else he could get odds on. Some people say it's a sickness, but Danny wasn't having *any* of that," Matches says, and the shove isn't very hard, but it's still a surprise.
"Fuck," Tim says, and catches himself on his hands before he can stretch over his legs too much more than Alvin should be able to manage.
"Ditch the shirt. Heh -- both of them, actually."
Alvin pauses -- hesitates -- because Tim knows, now, that Alvin hasn't been hustling all *that* much. Dad hasn't been gone that long -- something. Matches catches him by the hips and *lifts* Tim, moving Tim against Matches' crotch *that* way.
All that *power* -- is a reminder, Tim thinks, and makes Alvin stiffen and tense.
And take off his shirts. He hasn't even dropped them at the foot of the bed before Matches is hauling him back, stroking up Tim's chest and pulling until Tim's head is resting against Matches' shoulder --
"Good boy," and the angle is just right for Tim to watch the matchstick bob in a little pantomime of approval. Hm.
"Glad you -- approve," Alvin says, and shifts a little, frowning at the way he can't really get away from the feel of Matches' *dick*. Shirtless, he can feel the heat of it, now.
"Are you, now? That's real nice, baby. I always knew we'd get along --"
Tim -- is much too hard. Bruce is -- there's really no way around it. The best he can do is try to make all the shifting look a little -- no, he shouldn't be resting his head quite so comfortably. He tries to sit up, a little, and there's a hand around his throat.
Not squeezing, and not even pressing, but --
"You didn't -- pay enough," Alvin says, and it has to be enough that Alvin would start to sweat for this, *too*.
"Maybe. Baby. But see, we're at the sad part of the story."
They really are. Alvin would have to be... something. Worked-up, ashamed, scared -- it's not like he wants to really enjoy what's coming, or -- something. "I already know this part," Alvin blurts. "He got debts, and he -- he ran off." Left him. Alone -- "Doesn't have anything to do with *anything* --"
"You're *almost* right," Matches says, and presses on Tim's throat just hard enough to stroke, just hard enough --
The memory is real and it isn't. It's Batman using Tim's throat to hold Robin still for something too *much* to be a kiss, and it's Brucie keeping Timmy quiet for a hard, slow fuck which still has a little Nightwing around the edges of it -- Tim hasn't had time to perfect the memory, to narrow it down to something useful, plausible -- Tim can't keep his hips still, so he decides to get his hands into it, wrapping them around the *iron* of Matches' forearm --
"Keep yourself from tugging and there's a Franklin in it for you, baby," Matches says, and kisses Tim's forehead.
"I -- I don't --"
"You can do it. Just uncurl those fingers and do something *useful* with them. Get your pants open for me."
Bruce's arm -- Matches' arm. Matches, and the fact that Tim wants to hold on -- Alvin shudders and lets go, but making his hands clumsy on his fly is teasing Tim too much, right now. And there's just enough pressure on his throat to be noticeable when Tim gasps at the feel of his own fingers on his briefs.
Just -- so close -- he can say something. He *should* say something --
"Hey, you don't have to -- I'm being a good boy, right?"
"The *best*. And that's why I'm takin' care of you. See, 'cause an *associate* of Danny's noticed what you were doin' to make ends meet these days, and he got the idea that maybe you could work off a few of his debts for *him*."
Taking *care* of Alvin. Making up for Alvin's *father*. The fact that Tim had asked for something just like this -- *postulated* it -- no.
The fact of it --
It says just as much about *Bruce* as it does about Tim. "You -- you bought me. Fine. I *get* it --"
"You're a real smart boy. All my little eyes and ears say so... but." Matches doesn't bother pushing down the briefs as opposed to just slipping Tim out through the slit and -- immediately starting to stroke.
"Nn -- I --" Tim makes Alvin bite it off, swallow it back --
"I'm just not sure you *do* get it yet, baby. But I know you'll catch on," Matches says, pulling back against Tim's throat and -- it feels like he's also pulling the rhythm he's using with his other hand *into* Tim, narrowing the world's focus down, *twisting* --
Panting is, perhaps, the better part of valor, here, even though it's making it impossible not to feel that hand on his throat -- Bruce's hand -- no, he can focus, keep pulling at the ugly comforter -- *not* grind back --
"I keep forgetting how much I need a mirror here. Right across from the bed so I can see everything on that pretty face of yours without working for it -- or making *you* work for it," he says, using his forefinger to make Tim tilt his head up, back -- "Course -- I still need to figure out *all* the ways you're going to make my investment pay off."
"I could --" No, Alvin shouldn't be offering. "I mean -- oh fuck," Tim says, and goes back to the panting. The stroke is far more perfect than it should be, given the limits of acquaintance, but Tim can go with Matches having good -- instincts.
"You could do what, baby? Make me *real* happy to see you? You've got that part down, already," and the smile on his face is only visible as a razor edge of white, the matchstick which is honestly getting hard to focus on as more than one of the more regular *shapes* in Tim's view, or --
Closing his eyes works. Needing to *squeeze* them closed is maybe something he should work on, but there's nothing here Alvin wants to see.
Alvin -- has to be hating himself at least a little for responding like this, *wanting* like this. He was essentially just sold into slavery by a man his father would've probably called a friend -- or at least a friendly acquaintance.
Matches is patronizing, domineering --
Matches is a paying customer --
Matches is going to make him come, and maybe strangle Alvin a little while he's at it. Tim is going to -- Tim is already moaning, moving his hips, and every back-thrust shoves him against Bruce's erection. Matches' erection. Somebody --
Presumably there's going to come a time when he's *better* at this, but for now it has to be good *enough* that he's not grabbing Bruce's arm and he's not begging --
"Oh -- *please* --"
Fuck is pretty much the only word for that. Matches hasn't done nearly enough to make Alvin beg for more, though possibly once they get to know each other a little better...
The laugh comes out cracked, jagged in Tim's throat and still not nearly rough enough. Matches joins him, and that is nothing remotely like compensation for the fact that Matches had stopped *stroking*. "Fuck," Tim says, because it's still the right word. "What do you *want*?"
The push -- it's a push, this time, not a shove, and so it's mostly up to Tim to bend, move, turn around and face --
Presumably, being better at this will eventually include being able to watch Matches unzip his fly and push his boxers -- bright orange satin -- down just enough to let his penis out into the stale, warm air of the motel room.
"What do *you* think, baby?"
"You didn't have to -- get me all wound up first," Alvin says, and he sounds as frustrated as Tim feels, and perhaps a little bit more wounded.
"I'm a businessman, chicken. Gotta keep my employees *motivated*," he says, and crooks a finger. The ring on it winks in a bit of stray daylight. "Come on over here and swallow me."
If Tim lies flat, there'll be a certain degree of contact for *his* erection --
"No, baby, stay up on your knees a little. I'm not done with your little friend, just yet."
Crawling over, Tim has to admit, adds a certain something. It's possible Timmy had done that once or twice with Brucie when Brucie was in a certain mood, sometime in a dream, or perhaps in the study. It's also possible that Matches just wants to see how well his brand new *boy* follows orders, which means that it's absolutely necessary for Tim to do it with his eyes open and *on* Matches, for Alvin to do it with a distinct sneer --
For Tim to get a good *grip* just before Alvin does something which he might not have *quite* as much practice at as Tim does.
"Watch those teeth, now," Matches says, and Tim honestly isn't sure who the laugh *under* that voice belongs to. At the moment, it matters less than making sure he doesn't get *quite* enough suction on the head, and that he only goes down far enough that he's barely kissing his own fist.
When he comes back up, he doesn't suck at all --
"C'mon, now, baby, you can do better than -- that," Matches says, and the hitch might not have anything in particular to do with the fact that Tim had pulled off entirely, but Tim chooses to believe it does.
Alvin's eyes probably shouldn't be open. Alvin should also probably not be looking up at Matches like *this* --
"Well, aren't you just a *vindictive* little chicken." The admiration is broad, but not -- shallow.
"Sorry," Alvin says, and licks his lips. Slowly.
"That's all right, baby. I guess you just need a little *help*," and the hand in Tim's hair pulls tightly enough that Alvin has to tilt his head back to keep it from hurting -- tightly enough that Matches has just given him a choice between two *different* pains.
Though the hand on Tim's throat is still very gentle --
"You don't wanna make me regret taking you on, now do you?"
Does Alvin know the term 'rhetorical question?' Tim isn't quite sure, and it's far less important than the fact that Alvin knows the term 'threat,' especially when the hand that isn't in his hair *tightens* on Tim's throat --
"I'm almost sure you don't. I could be wrong, though -- that kinda thing does happen every now and again," Matches says, and the angle's all wrong for letting Tim see what Matches is doing once he moves that hand from his throat, but the grunt is a solid thing, familiar --
He's stroking himself, and Tim can't quite keep back a groan at that. There's something too intimate about that when -- Bruce does it. It always feels like a much larger and more important kind of threat, as if one day Tim's not going to be able to do less than everything he can to *keep* this -- "I can -- do better. Matches."
"Yeah? I dunno. The trust is getting a little shaky, here."
Loss of trust? They can't have *that*. "I was just -- a little distracted," Tim says, and the smile that wants to be on his face really doesn't belong, but perhaps Bruce will pretend the aviator lenses are blocking his view of it --
"You, baby? That's real hard to believe, somehow."
-- or perhaps he won't. Which -- hmm. "Why don't you let me make it up to you... Daddy?"
The *twist* of Bruce's expression is not, actually, completely out of place for Matches. It's just -- poorly timed.
"I mean... you gotta get your money's worth outta me," Tim says, swallowing and -- honestly, it feels more like skimming above and around the space Alvin inhabits than it feels like *being* him, but --
"Very -- that's very true," says the man currently skimming above and around Matches Malone, and pulls Tim's head back down.
And shakes -- perhaps at the feel of Tim's breath -- in the moment before Tim goes down. This time, there's no question of trying for 'Alvin,' much less 'Alvin is pissed off and inexperienced.' The fact that there are an increasing number of acts which Bruce seems to prefer to this does not mean the man hasn't given Tim ample opportunity to both learn and *perfect*.
At the moment, Bruce seems inclined to leave his hand around the base, but that just means that Tim can nuzzle a little at the end of every -- swallow. He can stay right there, *hold* Bruce right there, inside of himself --
He can suck, and let the taste make him moan, let the feel make him shudder and salivate --
"Keep -- keep those baby blues..." The words are slurred and the diction *uneven*, and it's actually tempting, for a moment, to keep his eyes closed, to tease *that* way, as opposed to all the other ways they've been throwing at each other.
But then he wouldn't be able to *see*. And seeing --
Seeing means getting hit with the twisting, grinding, perfect *shock* of Bruce's expression. His eyes -- the sunglasses are pushed up -- unevenly -- on Bruce's forehead, and his eyes are wide and almost *fixed* -- no. Fixed would imply a a degree of diffusion, and everything *about* those eyes scream focus.
It's just -- direct, at him... none of the descriptions Tim can think of are right enough, *true* enough for the feel of that. It's bigger, somehow, with the two of them here like this, than it could be in the manor. Or --
He knows he's not supposed to think of it like that, and --
And perhaps *enough* of that is showing on his face, because Bruce takes his hand away, and Tim doesn't bother taking a breath before swallowing Bruce *in*.
He's pinioned, surrounded by the mass of Bruce's thighs, the shape of his skull cupped in Bruce's palm, the shape of himself neither more nor less formless than the idea of giving Bruce this, and giving in *to* this.
It doesn't take long before he can't focus on more than the pound of his own heartbeat and Bruce's sharp, rhythmic gasps. Everything else is a stutter of feeling and image -- the hair curling at the base of Bruce's penis, the ticklish brush of fingertips against the back of his neck, the flex of those thighs under his palms --
"Tim," Bruce -- breathes, spreading wider and stroking Tim's face, his hair, his shoulders and back up to his cheeks.
Yes, he wants to say, but that's not all of it. It's better to be necessarily silent for this, because there's too much he doesn't want to... to *dilute* this with. Bruce already knows and -- Bruce doesn't forget anything. Tim focuses on swallowing, sucking, *holding* --
Shudders enough that he can hardly feel Bruce's hands shaking -- he can't hear or see or -- no, Bruce is silent, now, tensed and gripping with his hands, now --
Tensed and shuddering as he pulses down Tim's throat, twitches in Tim's mouth and squeezes Tim's shoulder and the back of Tim's neck hard enough to hurt, as if some part of him thinks Tim plans to go anywhere.
When he lets go, he immediately starts stroking Tim again, and his hands are rough and almost clumsy -- pushing him away. Tim can't manage to get the moan out before he's gasping, and can't manage to kneel upright before Bruce is pulling him close and crushing out all of Tim's new air.
Tim -- clutches back and breathes shallowly until he can see something other than bright sparks on thick black. Eventually, it becomes entirely too obvious that Bruce *isn't* holding him that tightly, anymore, and that Tim is rocking against Bruce's abdomen.
There's something he's supposed to reach for, here, and it's within himself. It's a boy not very much like him, at all, and while it's conceivable that Alvin would be this desperate at this point, it's really not that he'd be this -- affectionate. Tim pulls back --
And gets shoved down to the bed hard enough to bounce. "Hey, sorry about that, Matches, just got a little -- sometimes I get --"
"Tell me," Bruce says, "later."
He can do that. He can --
He can punch himself in the mouth in the effort to get his wrist within biting distance before the scream gets all the way *out* of his mouth. Bruce's mouth is like a weight, the hands on his hips are burning him, drowning him -- he's had enough experience to recognize the synesthesia, but Tim's beginning to doubt that he'll ever have enough to do anything about it.
He -- Bruce -- "I can't -- Bruce, I --"
Tim reaches out, trying to just... slow Bruce down, make Bruce give him a chance to find the shreds of -- something, but Bruce catches his hand and squeezes it, holds it against the bed --
"Bruce," and it sounds like he's begging for something because he *is* begging for something. He can't keep himself from pulling his knees up --
And Bruce lets him go for long enough to lift Tim's legs over his shoulders, curls his hands around Tim's thighs -- too much, perfect --
And the sound Bruce makes when Tim gives up and grabs him by the hair is electrifying, stunning, *perfect* --
Tim bites down hard on his wrist, and has a moment to be aware that he's criss-crossing a bite mark *bruise* before he isn't aware of anything but losing it, thrusting up and up into Bruce's mouth, spilling everything from himself which needs to be *in* Bruce, and right now that's just -- everything.
It takes too long to feel anything like physical coherence, but Tim thinks he might be *thinking* reasonably well. There's none of the usual sense of loss, or losing, or -- and then again, perhaps he isn't thinking well, at all..
Tim opens his eyes, stares at the water stains, breathes, and waits patiently for the stains to stop seeming profound. Once they do, he sits up and --
And Bruce is sitting back against the headboard again. He's not quite frowning, but there's something in his eyes which Tim can't quite read. He raises an eyebrow.
Bruce raises one right back, and whatever is behind his eyes has been joined with the sort of laughter which doesn't need sound to feel --
Tim feels himself flushing, and shifts, thinks seriously about examining the stains for any messages he may have missed --
"To the extent to which I planned... this... I. " Bruce closes his eyes, and the laugh curves at the corner of his mouth. "In a moment, I'm going out to the car to retrieve some more... appropriate clothing, for you. You should take the time to review the materials in the freezer, and then destroy them..."
"Noted."
Bruce keeps his eyes closed for another moment, and, when he opens them, they're as clear and focused as they should be. "Alvin. That's what you prefer."
"My friends call me Al," Tim says, thinks about 'Vinnie' -- no, Al.
"Hm," Bruce says, retrieving the sunglasses and putting them back on. "You ain't gonna have much time for them anymore, baby. You're working for me, now."
"Yeah, I figured as much. Lemme guess -- my first job is to keep my mouth shut and my eyes open," Tim says, and slips off the bed to stretch a little.
"Got it in one. Knew you were a bright boy the minute I saw you," Matches says, pushing off the bed, straightening his pants, and moving for the door.
Tim starts toward the freezer --
And is stopped by a hand on his shoulder. Alvin turns enough to look at it, gaudy rings, tanned skin, a light dusting of hair -- "Yeah, Matches?"
"Just enjoying the moment, chicken," he says, and flicks at Tim's earlobe with his finger. "Nothin' for you to worry about."
Noted, Tim thinks, and closes his eyes until the pressure is gone.
end.
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