Country Matters
by Te
September 19, 2009

Disclaimers: No one and nothing here is mine.

Spoilers/Timeline: Vague references to older storylines. Takes place not long after Tim's sixteenth birthday.

Summary: In which there's a Clark ex machina, and Te waves her hands in the air like she just don't care.

Ratings Note: Sexual content, sexual content, and, just when you think there could be a plot? Sexual content.

Author's Note: This one is totally Mildred's fault. I'm not sure what she did to get me to write it, but I know it must've been dastardly.

Acknowledgments: To Mildred, Pixie, and Jack for audiencing and encouragement -- and being just fine with waiting months for me to finish the thing. Blame Jack for the title. *g*

*

It's not a good day.

It's so far from being a good day that Tim has been tempted -- sorely -- to put this day on his list of *bad* days, despite the lack of poisoned relatives, near-death experiences, or horrible fights with Dick.

It's --

Well, the fact of the matter is that he'd woken up in a woman's body. That is, by far, the most difficult part of Tim's day. The lack of the penis he'd gotten to know very well over the years, the loss of the balance he'd *fought* for, the *breasts* currently swaying just enough to make their presence felt, even though all he's doing is pacing --

He's been pacing a great deal. A part of him has offered the -- weak -- suggestion that this can only help him get accustomed to this body, that the movement will make him more aware of his new center of gravity, that he'll be able to -- work.

Except that that's the *other* reason that today kind of -- deeply -- *sucks*.

("You're benched. Go home.")

Tim is aware that he's snarling. He's put a great deal of time and effort into always being aware of the image he's presenting to the world, and -- thankfully -- his face doesn't appear to have changed very much. His eyes are somewhat wider. His eyelashes are *shorter*. His mouth is --

He's not thinking about his mouth. He -- is not.

Except for how -- all right, he has to see. He closes his eyes and opens the closet door, opens them --

And still sees too much of his body before he can focus, and now the snarl, which had been somewhat *pouty* --

He's frowning. His eyes make it seem like he's *hurt*, like he needs someone to *protect* him --

Apparently, he has gender issues. Wonderful. Just --

He closes the closet and goes back to pacing. Perhaps Steph will punch him in his pretty, pretty mouth. Perhaps Barbara will do... something. It doesn't pay to try to predict the punishments she'll mete out. Ever.

It --

*Bruce*.

Bruce had taken one look at him when Tim had gotten off his bike, ordered him to a gurney, and done an exhaustive series of tests, taking blood and urine for good measure. All good, all fine. *Reasonable* things to do, really, for all that Bruce hadn't said a *word*.

Still fine, really -- Bruce is an uncommunicative *bastard*, and where the hell did he get *off* ordering Tim to --

Okay, okay. He's fine. He's not --

All right, he's *very* angry -- that much had been clear with that glimpse in the mirror. A very *attractive* flush if he does say so himself, and oh, *God*, what the hell is he supposed to *do*, here?

At the very least --

He can understand the benching. He *isn't* as steady on his feet as he'd become accustomed to being, and his body is... they'd have to come up with an entirely different uniform for him, and not just the tunic. He's *taller* than he was -- just under two inches, by his own eye. His legs are longer.

Shapelier.

Tim shudders and -- does not punch the wall, even though it's right there being solid and familiar and normal and everything he really isn't, right now.

At the *very* least, Bruce should've kept him there for observation. Sure, his father and Dana are off on the honeymoon they never got to have before, but --

What if something *else* goes wrong? Is he going to change color? Grow more? Get sick? Is he a little too warm, right now?

Would he notice under everything else?

What the hell was Bruce *thinking*?

Just -- he'd argued --

("Go home.")

And *fought* --

("There's nothing more you can do here. Wait for my call.")

And Bruce had turned away from him like maybe the past three *years* had been an hallucination and he was just the scrawny, untrained *child* who needed...

'The Discipline of Absence,' is what he'd called it then, within the privacy of his own mind. His parents had honed it to an art form without even trying, but Bruce always had *purpose* behind *his* actions.

If the child bleats too much, ignore it. It *will* learn to stop, and -- he's snarling again.

He could really *fucking* use some time on the bars or the pommel horse, maybe a lengthy interlude with the heavy bag --

("Go home.")

And *what*?

He's still Tim Drake, and that *should* mean that he's still Robin -- if a little off his game due to certain unforeseen *difficulties*.

Bruce is his *partner*. And yes, they've had some rough times -- *all* Bruce's fault -- but they'd worked around them where they couldn't work through. They're supposed to be able to talk about things, honestly and openly, supposed to *help* each other --

All right, he has to admit -- he'd be shocked *blind* if Bruce wasn't doing everything in his power to *fix* him, and to find out *why* Tim had woken up in this body. Robin has been some degree of neutralized, ergo Batman has to step in and step *up*. It's who Bruce is --

It's who *they* are, or who they're *supposed* to be --

Possibly he'd just growled. Possibly. He's not willing to try a definitive statement about that, because the sound was really very -- high.

He does not spin into a kick which would shatter the very nice lamp Dana had picked out for him when they were in the process of decorating this townhouse. His body is telling him --

This body is telling him that he *could* do it without falling on his ass -- which may in fact be somewhat bigger --

All right, that was more of a yell than a growl.

And he doesn't throw his keyboard through the window, but that's mostly because Superman is hovering outside with a worried look on his face.

Tim blinks.

Superman -- Clark waves.

Well. That.

Well. Tim walks over and opens the window, ushering Clark inside. The window is a somewhat tight fit for his shoulders, but Clark manages quickly enough. And then stands in the middle of Tim's bedroom with his hands folded together --

And then reaches out to touch Tim's face. The graze of his fingertips is light and warm enough that Tim decides that he's definitely *not* feverish, and -- yes, *well*.

"Is there something I can do for you, Clark?"

"Ah... I was going to ask you the same question," he says, and his smile is both the definition of rueful and far too gentle for Tim to deal with. His eyes aren't much better, and --

Tim turns and crosses his arms over his --

Tim brings his hands down to his sides and curls them into loose fists. At least his nails hadn't decided to grow.

Clark clears his throat quietly. "I noticed... ah. That is to say -- your frustration was somewhat... audible."

From how far away, exactly? No, he is *not* going to ask that question. It's enough that Clark is *here*, and it's Robin's job to deal with that. Tim takes a deep breath and turns back to face Clark. He has no idea what the smile on his face looks like --

It makes Clark wince. Deeply.

All right, no smile. "You can, of course, see what -- some of -- the problem is."

Clark narrows his eyes and folds his hands together. "I think... yes. At least, I've formulated a working theory."

His tone is an invitation to *joke*, which is -- well. Clark has always been friendly to Tim, even warm. It seems almost criminal to be as pissed-off as he is. Perhaps a bit like the emotional version of hissing at a cat who's trying to wind between your legs, or --

Something a bit less speciesist, perhaps.

Tim does his best to calm himself down -- Superman is here to *help*, and --

And Clark draws himself back, visibly.

Tim had taken too long --

"I'm sorry," Clark says. "There was an incident with red Kryptonite some years ago, and -- ah. I... empathize?"

Tim had read about the incident in question, of course, and -- he nods. "You don't -- you have nothing to apologize for, Clark."

Clark nods with perfect politeness and a rather small amount of actual *belief*.

What would it look like if *he* winced, right now?

"You said... ah. Some of the problem, Tim?"

Well, whatever it looks like, he's doing so *now*. He waves a hand. "It's not -- Bruce benched me."

Clark frowns. "Because you're... have you forgotten your training?"

"*No*, I haven't forgotten -- I haven't forgotten *anything*," Tim says, and there's that growl again, so fucking high-*pitched* --

"I'm sorry," Clark says again, and unfolds his hands to make what looks very much like a *soothing* gesture.

It makes Tim want to *growl* again, and -- is he hormonal? Is his uterus about to start sloughing its lining right into his currently ill-fitting jeans? He's going *commando*, because none of his underwear *fits* properly, anymore. Not even the *briefs* --

"Tim, I... I really would like to help," Clark says, and reaches out again. This time, his fingers don't actually touch Tim's face, as opposed to making a warm space just beyond his skin.

Is he really glaring? At *Clark*? Tim squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and pushes a hand back through his hair --

And freezes, because the motion makes his breasts sway in a new and *different* way, and --

("You'll learn, little brother. I love Bruce like no one in the *world*, but sometimes we *all* need someone a little Super to talk to.")

Tim -- puts his hands over his face, brushing Clark's fingers with his left and thinking seriously about just putting himself to sleep for a little while. He can do it -- it's just one of the many, many useful things he's picked *up* over the years --

"Or -- would you prefer that I go? Perhaps I could --"

"Clark," Tim says, and wonders, idly, if 'hopelessly muffled' is better or worse than 'painfully high-pitched.'

"I'm listening," Clark says, gentle and -- so very, very gentle.

Tim sighs and scrubs his hands down from his face. His smile must be a little better -- Clark doesn't wince, at all. "This --" Tim licks his lips. "This would all be a lot less difficult if Bruce hadn't kicked me out of the Cave."

Another frown. "He -- *why*?"

And Clark's tone is so honestly confused, so full of potential anger on his *behalf* -- it's a little breathtaking, to be honest, and also kind of... intimidating. Clark *isn't* his friend, for all that they've had a perfectly friendly working relationship over the years -- It's the first time Clark has ever made him think of Kon.

"I -- forgive me, Tim, but -- did he *give* a reason?"

"Other than me not being fit for anything at the moment -- no," Tim says, and catches himself making his own soothing gesture. "He... he told me that there was nothing more I could do in the Cave. After he ran several tests and took some fluids. I... I'm angry with him."

"Of course you are," Clark says, and rests a hand on Tim's shoulder. "Would you like -- would you *mind* if I talked to him?"

It isn't exactly like something Kon would say -- there's neither cursing nor offers of violence on his behalf, and there are so *many* reasons why Tim doesn't talk to Kon very much about his relationship with Bruce -- but there's still that edge to it, and that assumption of... care?

He isn't sure. It's still intimidating, but that has more to do with the source than with anything else, and yes, there is *nothing* but sincerity in Clark's eyes.

Tim smiles a little wider. "Let me... may I offer you something to drink? You've never been... here, before."

"Tim --"

"It would make me very uncomfortable if you were to talk to Bruce about this before I had a chance to make my own points, Clark."

Clark's frown deepens for a moment and he squeezes Tim's shoulder. "Would you tell me? If there's anything I can do?"

The fact that those were two entirely different questions is... entirely clear. He *could* ignore it, but really... Clark had come here to check on him, and to help, and -- and. "I don't know you all that well," he says, and pushes on Clark's hand until it's off his shoulder.

"Ah -- that's very true, Tim, but --"

"I suddenly have a lot of free time and -- not quite so suddenly -- mango-papaya juice in the refrigerator downstairs. Join me, please?"

"Oh, I --" Clark blinks and smiles *broadly*. "I would love to, Tim. Thank you."

*This* smile actually feels like it belongs on his face. "Save that 'thank you' until I've proven I can actually manage to be fit company, Clark. Please."

"You *do* understand that I hold you under no obligation to entertain me, don't you?"

("Please, call me Clark. And if I may call you Tim...?")

He's not sure why that's coming to mind, now, but -- the feel of it, face to 'S', and then looking up and up into clear blue eyes that held welcome, hope --

It had felt, then, a lot like suddenly being somewhere other than Gotham, or -- there'd been a sense of Clark as both gateway to and proof *of* a much wider world. Right now, with Clark walking behind him -- moving lightly in those bright red boots over carpeting, hardwood --

Should he be offering a tour? Giving Clark a chance to examine and comment on the few paintings his father had kept after that financial crash? They were his mother's favorites, he knows -- from memory rather than actual conversation *with* his father -- and as such, they've been something of a connection to a woman he can admit, now, that he'd never truly known.

He doesn't know Clark well enough for that, to *assume* that sort of desire for deeper knowledge --

Had he really been *that* obviously distressed? Why is Clark *here*?

Well, perhaps that will come out over juice and the fruit salad he'd made for himself last night after a grocery shopping trip that had made him feel both very adult and like an... alien in his own skin. Tim laughs quietly to himself --

"Hmm?"

Not quietly enough, of course. Tim smiles ruefully and looks back over his shoulder. "Forgive me, I'm -- having something of a bout of unintentional free-association in my mind. I was expecting to be alone for... quite some time."

"I'd be happy to... no, I'm sorry, I was about to lie to you."

Tim pauses at the steps and turns enough to let Clark see his raised eyebrow without having to use his powers.

Clark stops and seems to... fidget, a little.

After a moment, Tim realizes that Clark was reaching for a tie he is most emphatically not wearing, and raises his eyebrow higher.

"I'm rather... your parents are away?"

"For the next ten days," Tim says, and tries to look patient.

The attempt makes Clark smile wryly. "I'm afraid I was... going to say something about being happy to leave you in peace."

"But you wouldn't be? Happy, that is."

"Well..." Clark reaches out and pushes a lock of Tim's hair off his forehead, moving neither slowly nor hesitantly. Just -- doing it.

Tim blinks, and focuses for a moment on Clark's hand, on the fingers currently moving --

They're on his cheek, and Clark's expression manages to be both unimpeachably mild and openly admiring.

"Clark --"

"Ah. I'm sorry," he says, and moves his hand back to his side. "I'd much prefer spending time with you than... any number of other activities I could name. I'd like to know you, Tim."

And that was... matter of fact. Almost *bald*, though that word doesn't provide any room for the open friendliness, the openness in *general*, and the way it demands some measure of reciprocation. "Why now?"

Clark raises an eyebrow of his own. "You did mention having rather more free time than has become your usual, Tim."

So he had. All right... all right. Tim nods once and gestures at the steps, and Clark walks down beside him, looking around at the furnishings, or perhaps using his investigative-reporter mind to draw conclusions about Tim and his family...

Tim is struck, deeply, by a desire to ask Clark what he *does* see here in this place which is technically his home, but has always felt... well. The mansion he'd grown up in had been his home, but once he'd begun training to be Robin, the Cave had become far more home-like than any of the places Tim has actually lived.

It's where he'd sweated, cried, hurt, failed -- triumphed, again and again, over his own body and mind. It's the place he had run to, time and again, when there was trouble, even if the only thing Bruce had ever done to ease that trouble was give him new tasks to perform, new heights of perfection to *achieve*.

It's the *Cave*, and of course going there had been the first thing to come to mind when he'd woken up sore because his brand new breasts hadn't appreciated being slept on. And there he'd expected to stay, relieved that his father and Dana were elsewhere, that there'd be no one he'd have to lie to in order to stay in the right place, the *safe* place --

"Tim...?"

He hadn't quite managed to make the glass of juice overflow, but it was a very, very near thing. Tim snorts humorlessly and picks up the glass gingerly, watching the juice wobble and threaten to spill once, again, *again* -- "Surface tension," he says, "is a fascinating thing, Clark."

Clark's eyebrow is up. "I've always thought so. The way certain insects use it to walk on water, as an example."

"Capillary action, as well," Tim says, and sips juice from the glass until the danger of spillage has passed --

"Oh. One of my very favorite things," Clark says, smiling and reaching for the glass.

"I had been planning to get you another --"

"No need," and he takes it and drinks deeply. "Mm. I rarely saw mangoes when I was growing up. They still seem like a special treat, even though the fruit markets in Metropolis are wonderful places."

That... Tim shakes his head. "I have an image of you dragging your wife to a farmer's market. It isn't very pretty."

Clark takes another swallow, and -- the light in his eyes is rather sharp. "Good marriages are built on many compromises, Tim. And I've held Lois' purse through many, many hours of shoe shopping."

"I... I have to admit I never would've considered that Lois Lane *could* spend hours shopping for clothes."

"*Shoes*," Clark says, and hands the glass back to Tim, "are a very different sort of animal, as I've learned."

"Ah. I... see?" Tim looks at the glass, which is half-empty. Half-full. Covered in Kryptonian... cooties. Right. He drinks --

"There. In some cultures, we would've entered into a deep and spiritual contract, to offer each other no harm, to provide for each other's well-being... that sort of thing."

Heh. *Really*... "Are you telling me that we're 'going steady' now, Clark...?"

"Oh," and Clark's smile is dazzling, reminiscent of *Dick* -- "Would you like to?"

He has only ever had *one* response to smiles like that, and there's a paradoxical sort of comfort in knowing that he's blushing *just* as deeply as he would in his *male* body. And Clark --

Clark is studying him with an obviousness which must be built on a very peculiar sort of politesse -- he'd undoubtedly seen everything there was to see about the nuances of Tim's expression before Tim had even *registered* the fact that he was blushing, but -- he's letting Tim see the... process? The desire *to* read Tim that deeply? He isn't sure, and -- he can ask.

"Clark...?"

"You are... forgive me, but the differences are so *subtle* in terms of your features..."

"Ah... that."

*Clark* blushes. "I'm sorry, I was actually hoping to distract you from... this. If your feelings now are anything like my own were..."

Tim gives Clark his own sort of wry smile. "It only bothers me when I breathe."

Clark reaches out, once more, and -- stops, shaking his head. "How are you finding school, Tim?"

"Painfully dull. Pointless. Moderately intellect-destroying. Stressful. I -- I always admired your ability to maintain the character of someone lacking in physical... competence."

"It's not difficult when one has countless memories of an awkward childhood and adolescence to call on," Clark says, and looks toward the table with a question in his eyes.

"Oh, I'm sorry -- yes, please sit," Tim says, and moves to join him -- starts to move, and realizes that his nipples have decided to find the chafe of his -- largest -- t-shirt... invigorating. "Oh... God."

Clark pauses half-into one of the chairs.

Tim waves a hand. "It's nothing. Just -- um. My body making itself... known."

The interesting thing is that Clark *lets* him see his gaze wander down to Tim's breasts and back up again, as if that's just another perfectly normal observational choice, and --

Yes, Tim is blushing harder --

"I'm sorry," Clark says, again. "I... perhaps. Your stepmother's undergarments?"

And harder *still*. "She's... larger through the chest than I am. I couldn't make any of her -- any of them fit."

"Of course you would've already tried. I -- hm." Clark sits down and pushes out the chair next to him.

Tim sits -- carefully enough that his breasts only sway a *little*. This close, Clark's scent is something of a tease in the air, and Tim remembers this from a handful of earlier encounters: Clark smells human *enough* that Tim catches himself, again and again, searching for hints of something his brain can only label as 'generic adult male' and not really finding it.

What's there is anything but unpleasant, though. There's something of a sense of power, of growing things melded with ozone --

And Clark is watching him with a smile on his face, because Tim is the one doing the studying. "I -- I'm sorry, Clark --"

"Will we continue to apologize to each other, do you think, Tim?"

"I... one hopes we'll eventually grow more comfortable in each other's presence."

"'One,' Tim? And... what were you going to say before I interrupted you?"

Tim smiles and traces a pattern of interlocking boxes on the surface of the table. "All right -- *I* hope. And I was going to apologize for studying you so obviously."

Clark raises his eyebrow again and hums, watching Tim's hand for a moment before turning back with a *shrewd* look in his eyes. "Are you apologizing for the studying or the obviousness? As you've almost certainly noticed, I'm not immune to the temptations of either."

Well, yes, Tim *had* noticed, but -- "Do you really... is it really a *temptation* toward obviousness? I mean, there *are* things I can imagine which are less pleasant, but..."

"You have always been a very private young man," Clark says, and expertly continues the invisible pattern of boxes Tim is drawing.

Of course he could *see* the pattern, and... and. "There's a desire toward disingenuousness in regards to that last statement --"

"Would it be forward of me to suggest that such a thing suits you very well?"

Clark is. Clark is *flirting* with him. Openly --

Clark traces a jagged line across their boxes to Tim's hand, covering it with warmth, *enveloping* it in warmth -- "Tim... you should feel free to study me, and to ask any questions which come to mind."

*Any* questions? That's -- that's very --

The smile on Clark's face is broad and noticeably older, if no less warm and welcoming than the others have been. "I've been friends with *Bruce* for quite some time, Tim. I -- shall we say that I doubt you'll ask anything more uncomfortable than he has, over the years?"

Well. "On the one hand, that sounded a lot like a *dare* --"

"Oh. Well, I suppose it *could* be taken that way, yes --"

"On the other hand, I'm curious as to how much Bruce had *asked*, as opposed to ordering, demanding, or ordering *while* demanding."

Clark laughs, softly. "You know him well, Tim. Surely you've discovered that he has... hm. Many different *ways* of asking questions?"

("Go home.")

Tim can't really keep the frown off his face entirely, and he turns away --

Clark squeezes Tim's hand -- gently. "I'm sorry --"

"Another apology, Clark...?"

"Look at me...?"

Tim closes his eyes for a moment and then does so, smiling ruefully again. "I think I... I'm rather more upset with Bruce than I'd like to be, at the moment."

"He's denied you your... other home?"

*Right* to the heart of things, and -- "You've been... dealing with Robins for a long time."

Clark squeezes Tim's hand again. "I'm sure he doesn't realize how important --"

"Clark. Let's... talk about other things. Please?"

The squeeze remains for another several seconds, and Tim wonders what eternity means to someone who has been forced to live at a speed nearly infinitely slower than what would be natural.

Bart had made several observations on the matter, and Bruce has any number of reports on Barry Allen and Wally West, but all of them live in touch with the Speed Force, which is something entirely other than what Clark seems to have at his disposal --

"Ask, please, Tim..."

Because he had absolutely been studying Clark again. This -- "I..." Tim snorts. "I've grown far too accustomed to being a Bat and a Titan. My family and friends all take my... observational habits for granted."

"They've had time to come to know you," Clark says, and turns Tim's hand palm up before sliding his thumb into the slight hollow there. "And yet... it's hard to imagine not being desperately curious about which aspects of myself you find... fascinating."

Tim raises an eyebrow -- and decides not to glance at the hand Clark is holding.

"Ah. Perhaps that sounded narcissistic."

Tim's laugh comes out hummed and rather satisfying. "I couldn't fault your taste."

Clark's eyes widen slightly, and his smile is dazzling again, *profound* again -- "Oh. Tim," and he strokes Tim's palm with his thumb, back and forth before settling into small circles that make Tim --

Well, he shivers, a little, and he's even *more* aware of his breasts, and -- yes, he'd been flirting back. Time to cut this off a little. Tim pulls his hand away from Clark's and deliberately looks away from those eyes --

"Tim?"

"Sorry, I..." It's a little difficult to pull on the polite and distant smile which should be on his face, but he manages. "I was going to ask you about speed. Your conception of time," he says, and tucks his hands under the table.

Clark's expression seems... not hurt. Not that. Disappointed, perhaps, though that...

Well, he'll leave soon enough, and *then* Tim can freak out, a little, about the fact that he'd been *flirting* with *Superman*. Until then, there's no reason not to be personable. "What I mean is... well, you're obviously quite skilled at timing your reactions -- duplicating them? -- so that they seem to happen at just the right time for a human to pick up."

Clark nods and glances at his own -- somewhat lonely-looking -- hand.

Another reaction designed to inform Tim, and to make their conversation seem as natural as possible, for all that they'd somehow managed to get themselves into --

("Ohhh, *Clark*. There's no one like Clark, little brother. No one who can *do* the things -- okay, okay, stop making that *face* at me.")

Something. It's a joke he'd like to share with someone, but he really isn't sure that Clark would appreciate it -- or would he? He seems *thoughtful* at the moment, and he's doing absolutely nothing to hide his open *examination* of Tim.

"Or -- perhaps I should be telling you to ask *me* questions...?"

Clark blinks and -- blushes, again so *timely* -- "I'm sorry -- again. You were wondering... well," Clark says, and his smile is bright and sincere and manages to seem false all the same.

Tim frowns and curls his fingers against his thigh -- he really doesn't want to be the one who makes *Clark* strive for some degree of dishonesty --

"At this point, Tim, it's second nature. I'm lucky enough to be able to spend the vast majority of my time with other heroes and people who know the truth about me, but I've been hiding my abilities since I was old enough to understand what my parents were telling me about the dangers of the world. Over and above *that*... is the fact that it's far more pleasant to converse with people than it is to speed beyond their comprehension."

Which makes perfect sense, but there's still that note, that *hint* in the tightness of Clark's smile -- "Clark, I've... offended?"

Another blink -- "Oh, no, Tim, not at all," and Clark reaches out to touch Tim's face again -- stops and drops his hand to the table, once more. "It's only that you seemed to prefer a greater degree of... formality?"

Politesse, even. And it's true. It's just that it's only *partially* true, and... how to explain that, exactly? He's *blushing* again. "We were... ah. Flirting."

Clark traces a square on the table which may very well be at the same place where Tim had traced the *first* square. "I must admit, I had hoped that was the case."

Hoped. Well.... well. He's suddenly a petite, black-haired, blue-eyed *woman* -- though if Lois blushed as much as he does, she would probably try to have some of the blood vessels in her cheek surgically removed --

"Tim. I don't want you to be uncomfortable with me --"

"But -- you're attracted."

"Oh. Very much," Clark says, and this time he *does* touch Tim, setting his fingers beneath Tim's chin and lifting his face until Tim can see Clark's smile, the open --

*Desire* is really the only word for it. Far more polite -- perhaps he means controlled -- than hunger, and far deeper than simple attraction. Tim has yet to test this body -- this *look* -- on the wider world, but... he has to admit that he makes a reasonably good-looking woman.

He looks a lot like his mother, and -- he's not thinking about that. He's really, *really* not thinking about that.

He closes his eyes for a moment --

"Tim..."

He opens them, and -- Clark. *Looking* at him with his lips parted and his pupils... distinctly wider than they'd been when Clark had arrived. Tim swallows. "I imagine I'm... sending signals."

Clark's smile is small and older, again. "Physically, you show all the signs of heightened arousal, but... you should know that I'm more than capable of ignoring that for the sake of this opportunity to come to know you, Tim."

"Was that what you were doing when you answered my question about time, Clark? Ignoring my signals?"

The smile on Clark's face twists, slightly -- "You'll note that I didn't say I was very good at that sort of thing."

*That* -- Tim laughs and Clark smiles at him, but -- "You *must* have had a great deal of practice."

"With people I've wanted to be close to? That I've had the chance -- the *right* -- to *become* close to? You must have very interesting ideas about what goes on at the Watchtower when we're not busy doing our jobs."

Images -- oh, *dear*, that's a lot of images. And far too many of them include Bruce glowering, glaring, and otherwise using his most stern expressions for purposes not... indicated.

*Clark* laughs. "Should I apologize? I... I must confess, Tim, that it's tempting to speak to you in the same ways I speak to Dick. You're both so very brilliant and funny."

Tim raises an eyebrow. "I'm -- really not used to being compared to Dick. The benefit of having come *third*, I think."

"Oh, but... have people told you that you're much like Jason?"

"Well, no, but -- he was the one I was expected to live up to. Or -- he was the one I felt I *had* to live up to."

Clark nods and -- cups Tim's cheek. Something else to be grateful for in terms of this change -- he really hadn't had very *much* facial hair to lose. And Clark strokes Tim's cheekbone with his thumb, which is --

Well, it's --

It feels good, and very warm, and while he's reasonably sure that he's not flirting with anything save his body -- *this* body --

Clark is definitely still flirting.

"Clark..."

"I think, perhaps..." Clark strokes Tim's cheekbone one more time and then drops his hand to the table again. "Would you tell me what sorts of things you like to do for fun?"

He blinks, but -- it's a getting-to-know-you question, and entirely appropriate, and there are entirely natural reasons why his cheek feels cold. Tim doesn't look at Clark's hand, and the fact that he's thinking about the Superman sheets he'd had for his bed until he'd had to pretend to have grown out of such things...

He'd done a lot of *things* on those sheets, and that's --

Clark's nostrils flare, once, and Tim's heart decides that it was time for a *skip* -- talk. And the *first* thing that comes to mind -- "Sometimes -- not often enough -- I get to play computer games with Barbara. I understand you helped her with her VR equipment...?"

Clark blinks once, twice -- smiles. "It was my pleasure. There's so much potentially dangerous technology at my disposal, thanks to my biological parents... It felt very good to have someone I could trust with it, someone who wouldn't use it for the wrong reasons."

Tim smiles ruefully. "All right, now I feel guilty for using it to play Barbara's mods of Star of Carnage and Demonquest."

"Believe me when I say that it's even more satisfying to know that people I care about are having *fun* with it, Tim."

People he... cares about. Tim nods and tries -- fails -- to fight back another blush. Clark doesn't *know* him -- yet. "I also enjoy just... moving through Gotham. In daylight, whenever possible."

Clark's gaze moves to Tim's cheek, which must be quite red, and quite noticeably pale *under* that. Or -- can Clark distinguish that sort of thing -- no, Clark can almost certainly *see* the vasodilation before the color-shift happens, without doing any more with his powers than *focusing*.

"Ah... well. I don't get to do it very often --"

"Why not now?"

"Oh -- *now*?"

"Yes," Clark says, standing up and offering his hand.

Tempting. Very -- how long has it *been* since he'd just taken a *walk*? He'd been able to give himself leave to go on runs through the city -- training never ends -- but... but. And but. "I'm supposed to wait for Bruce's call."

"If you took your communicator, he'd be able to reach you anywhere. And I could have you back to the Cave... well."

"Very, very quickly, yes. Hm. I..." Tim takes Clark's hand and stands. His shoes still fit perfectly, the t-shirt hides *much* of his shame, and these jeans -- while uncomfortably tight at the hips -- *had* been a little too long for him. They're the perfect length, now, and perhaps he's just an *androgynous*... girl.

He'll think of it as especially *deep* cover.

"All right, now," Tim says, and gestures at Clark's uniform --

"Oh, of course," he says, and there's a distinct *breeze*, but he hadn't felt Clark letting go of his hand in the time it took him to change into jeans, trainers, a white undershirt, and a plaid overshirt of the sort which tends to make Kon get very, very pained looks on his face whenever he finds a new one in his closet.

Tim ducks his head to hide his smile --

"Tell me?"

-- from exactly no one. "Ah -- your outfit. It made me think of some of the things Kon has said about Smallville."

Clark sighs. "I really do wish he could relax and enjoy himself more there. For all the awkwardness and fear, I had a very happy time there."

"Well... Kon sort of *imprinted* on cities, Clark. Honolulu, Metropolis. It's only natural for him to feel a little... stifled," Tim says, slipping his hand away from Clark's and walking toward the front door. He grabs his key ring from the basket --

"Spoken like a city boy, born and bred. I hardly spent all my time with the cows, Tim."

Tim hums and leads them out into the hall. "Despite their wonderful personalities...?"

"Oh, Bessie was a *termagant* to the other cows. And always lied about her milk production," Clark says, narrowing his eyes in a smile that seems designed to invite Tim *specifically*, as opposed to --

Well, he doesn't know. He laughs, locks up, and tucks the keys in his pocket. The elevator operator pays exactly no attention to either of them, which is the sort of consistency Tim can't help but find soothing.

The day is bright and sunny, and while Tim can't help noticing a distinct lack of bra-less women... well, he can keep things from moving *too* noticeably if he just walks slowly and takes smaller steps.

More feminine steps --

*Smaller* steps.

Clark takes a deep breath and frowns.

"I didn't think I would have to warn *you* about not doing that in the middle of a city, Clark."

"Hmm...? Oh, no, someone just put entirely too much lemongrass in their curry."

Something else he hasn't had in a while. "I don't know, I kind of like the astringency of a strong Thai curry."

"Yes? You don't find it takes away from the other flavors too much?"

Tim shakes his head. "Although -- I imagine it can be difficult for you to enjoy things which aren't flavored in more subtle ways."

"It's not that," Clark says, and allows a young couple who appear to have more piercings and tattoos than functional brain cells to push between them. "I enjoy any number of heavily spiced things. Just -- perhaps I don't allow lemongrass enough credit."

Tim smiles. "Yes, it told me last week that it thought you were being unfair."

"Was it very sad? I do hate upsetting my food."

"It will never, ever forgive you. I -- have another question."

Clark smiles down at him. "Please, ask."

That please seemed a little... perhaps a little *more* than... something. He's not sure. Clark isn't touching him, at the moment, and a part of Tim is only being watchful, waiting for the *next* moment of contact.

Perhaps a hand at the small of his back, as the very large and polite man leads the small girl through the mean streets of a dangerous city --

Yes, he's being ridiculous. "I think --" Tim shakes his head. "I always feel a little bit like I'm cheating at life when I do this."

"Surely that must be part of the pleasure of it...?"

"Well... yes and no? I've never really been especially rebellious by nature."

Another smile, though this one could be aimed as much at the city in general as at him. "Perhaps you could tell yourself that I'm leading you astray."

"Sharing juice, going out walking with strange men... oh, Clark, *please* tell me your intentions."

"Oh... on a public street, Tim? I'm shocked," Clark says, and there's actual *heat* in his eyes --

Tim doesn't stumble. "I was ah -- joking."

And Clark rests his hand on Tim's shoulder. "So was I."

"Ah --"

"Mostly. But -- your question?"

("The first time he took me flying I felt *drunk*. I was giggling like a loon, gaping at the clouds and the city far, far below... You kids today don't know how good you *have* it with all of these flyers available for random trips into the sky.")

Tim bites the inside of his cheek -- focuses. "You -- I know you see auras around all living things," he says, mouthing the words more than speaking them --

Clark nods. "Yours has always been so *contained*, more intense than broad... well. Yes?"

Tim blushes *again* -- "It's the primary reason for your vegetarianism?"

"Really, factory farming practices in this country would be *enough*, but -- yes."

"I really always wondered... I mean, don't you see the deaths of vegetables, too?"

Clark squeezes his shoulder. "I am only a man. I do have some guilt for... ah. Hierarchical thinking? But... so very *many* non-sentient things are delicious."

Tim laughs. "All right, a fair answer --"

"Will you let me take you out for a late lunch? An early dinner, perhaps?"

A date? Perhaps. If he allows it to be one. "There's actually a very good Indian place about three blocks from here... if you haven't been turned off curry entirely by my lemongrass-profligate neighbor."

Clark sighs and smiles *very* broadly. "I would suffer many things to be able to continue sharing your company, Tim," and Clark's fingers sort of *stray* to the back of Tim's neck.

"Ah -- that's somewhat... ticklish," Tim says, and resists the urge to try to rub the blush off his cheek.

"Oh... would a firmer touch be acceptable?" And Clark demonstrates, pressing with his thumb and stroking down once, again --

"Would you... you seem. Are you always this... touchy?"

They pause at a corner, surrounded by a milling throng of Gotham's daylight people. There's a Hudson campus nearby, and avoiding swinging backpacks is always a concern. Clark presses with his thumb again and Tim looks up --

And gets a little lost in trying to tease the warmth in Clark's eyes from the heat. The pleasure from the... other pleasure. There's a strange feeling in his genitals which Tim strongly suspects --

Clark's nostrils flare again. "You're very beautiful, Tim," and Clark pitches his voice expertly to carry easily only to Tim's ears. "You've always been so, to me, but there's a fascination to seeing you like this, so much yourself and yet so different. If I'm not making you uncomfortable, I would like to continue touching you in small ways."

The crowd around them begins to move, but Tim is having a hard time remembering how his legs -- how these legs work, and -- and. "I'm not... I wouldn't say that I was... uncomfortable."

Clark's smile is entirely unlike a blade, which makes it seem all the more unfair that Tim's starting to feel laid *open*. Or.

Perhaps that's just his brand new genitals making their presence felt. Tim shakes it off internally -- as much as he *can* -- "We should. Cross here."

Clark nods and stares into his eyes for another -- long -- moment, and really, if he were in Clark's position, faced with someone he *knew* was physically attracted to him --

All right, so in that position, Tim's response has -- generally -- been to *flee*, but -- yes. Crossing the street. They can do that. Tim turns and steps off the curb, and Clark keeps his hand right there, stroking him -- firmly -- and.

Tim's not sure whether to be grateful or not that there are too many other scents for him to be able to smell *Clark*. Just --

What does *Clark's* arousal smell like? What does Tim smell like to him, right now?

What --

And Tim realizes that he's moving pretty much on autopilot, and that if anyone (Bruce) asked, he wouldn't be able to describe *anything* about this particular block or any of the people on it. He can focus. He's --

He's *used* to working through arousal, and this kind doesn't even come with any pain from too-tight jeans or unforgiving jocks. There's a little discomfort -- he feels noticeably *damp* -- oh, but -- hm. "Clark..."

"Yes, Tim?"

"I'm not... er. You'd tell me if I suddenly started menstruating, right?"

Clark coughs, and it's very, very obvious that he's trying hard to fight back a laugh.

"It's not like I have *experience* with this sort of thing --"

"No, of course not, I -- I was only a woman for a little more than a day, and -- yes. In any event, you're definitely not. You are, however --"

"Wet. Yes. Um. Presumably this won't get extreme enough to require a change of clothes," Tim says, and rather hates that it actually *is* a question, but. It is.

"Ah. Not in my experience, no," Clark says. "Perhaps... would you tell me more about your relationship with Barbara?"

A blatant -- and welcome -- change of subject, designed to distract Tim from what is, definitively, incipient discomfort with the entire *situation*. This... how aroused *is* he? He's still thinking reasonably clearly, which could be considered equivalent to being half-hard, or could be --

("Come *here*, Boyfriend Wonder. I've been soaking my undies all damned *night*.")

-- something else entirely. If arousal had somehow hit him while he was alone, he would have, perhaps, *tested* the issue. Or he would've thrown himself into a cold shower and hoped for similar effects.

Or he would've just dredged up some of his most horrifying and disgusting memories -- the Gotham sewer system in high summer comes to mind --

He doesn't know. He'll find *out*, because Clark can't possibly have *that* much free time, and he *will* be alone with nothing to do but figure out this body. And it's not very much of a surprise that the prospect is daunting, at best. Tim sighs --

And Clark strokes the back of his neck again, harder this time. A call for attention? Tim looks, and there's open, honest curiosity on Clark's face, just as if he can't --

Well, no, he *can't* read thoughts. He can just read bodies even better than *Cassandra* can, and -- "Ah -- I'm curious. What is my body telling you, right now?"

Clark's smile is rueful and soft. "That you're aroused. That you're -- at least somewhat -- confused about something. That you're... hmm. Worried? I hope not about me."

Tim gives Clark his *own* rueful smile. "More about what I'm going to do with all of my free time once you have to return to your responsibilities and can't -- distract me, anymore."

Clark nods. "Perhaps I should take you to Bludhaven when you need me to go?"

When *he* needs Clark to go? "Um -- well. It *has* been a while since I've seen Dick."

Clark smiles again. "So he told me the last time we spoke. He cares for you a great deal, Tim. Though..." Clark sighs a little. "I confess that I often have the desire to fly you all into the Cave and *force* you to -- at the very least -- spend time *working* together."

Well... "You're uniquely situated to see how well we do and don't manage to deal with each other as a family."

Clark nods and edges them to one side of the sidewalk, so that a family with several children can pass.

So that he doesn't have to move his hand from the back of Tim's *neck* --

"It's why I'm curious about you and Barbara, Tim," he says, and guides them back toward the center. "While it's true that I've spent relatively small amounts of time with you and her, today was the first time I've ever heard either of you mention spending time just having *fun* together."

And that makes good sense, really, but -- "*Have* you had the chance to speak with Barbara... unofficially?"

Clark sighs again. "An exchange of pleasantries and a great deal of distance. I've always wished I could come to know her better -- she's a brilliant and strong woman."

And beautiful, as well? No. It's not like they're playing coy on the topic. "Are you attracted to her, as well?"

"Oh, yes," Clark says, and turns to raise an eyebrow at Tim. "Are you, Tim?"

He'd -- asked for *just* that. Really, it's good of Clark to give him these brief stretches of time when his blush can *fade*. "Ah. I've never really..." Thought about it? No, not *quite* that. "It's never seemed to be my... place. I think that's the most accurate answer I can give, anyway," Tim says, and guides them to the left, so that they can cross.

"Ah, here? I think I smell the place you're thinking of. It's quite wonderful," and Clark strokes his neck again. "Would you tell me more about this 'place' thought?"

"She's much older -- no, that doesn't really have anything to do with it. I... for some reason, Bruce decided that she couldn't know my identity. She figured it out on her own after a while, but there was that *distance* I couldn't really breach --"

"Bruce... he hid your identity from -- *Barbara*?"

Oracle, he was going to say. And -- yes. "It also didn't seem like my place, at the time, to ask him what his reasoning was, for that."

And Clark's frown is deep enough to be somewhat *worrying*, really --

"Clark, I -- the last thing I want is to spend our time together... bitching about Bruce --"

"Of course not. I'm sorry for dragging the conversation back there, however unwittingly --"

"No, I mean -- ah. He's your... closest friend?"

"Other than Lois, yes," Clark says, and some of the frown dissipates. "That doesn't mean that I'm blind to his very real *faults*, Tim. You shouldn't ever feel as though you need to censor yourself around me. Not for that and not, I hope, for any other reason."

Because there's nothing Tim can say to Clark which would be... too much. The smile on his face *feels* a bit twisted. "I begin to see why Dick speaks so highly of you, and of spending time with you."

"Oh... he's a wonderful man. A beautiful man," Clark says, and there's a question in his voice.

Tim laughs. "Are you asking me if I'm attracted to him, too, Clark? How *do* you think I spend my time with my family?"

"Mm. I can only say how *I've* longed to spend time with your family, Tim. And yourself."

The laugh becomes a little strangled, and there's a certain cheerful smugness to the expression on Clark's face. "Really, I -- all of... us?"

"The ability to hope is one of the many treasures allowed us, Tim. It would be *wrong* to deny it. Almost... hmm. Sinful."

"Well. We wouldn't want to commit any sins," Tim says, and walks them into the narrow entryway to the restaurant. It necessitates Clark moving behind him, again --

And Clark strokes his neck one last time, hooking his thumb *gently* into the collar of Tim's shirt before moving his hand away, entirely.

Small touches, right. Tim shakes his head and opens the door, and the scent of the place wakes him up all over. Something spicy today, he thinks, and they're early enough that the buffet is still open.

The hostess shows them to one of the tables near the window, and -- well, he's with *Clark*. If a random gunman appears to shoot the place up, they'll be *quite* all right.

"You'd prefer that table in the shadowy corner, perhaps?"

Of course Clark would know that. "I've decided to leave the responsibility of protecting us up to you, Clark."

Clark's smile is broader than the statement was worth, really, and -- "Thank you, Tim." That was very -- serious, and --

All right, so the last time they'd worked together, Bruce had urged him to take point, and Tim had done so even after Clark had joined them for a little action against Livewire and Harley Quinn, but -- still. Tim shakes his head --

Clark touches the back of Tim's hand lightly. "Ah... do you recommend the buffet?"

Safer territory. "I've only had it twice, but both times it's been excellent. Though we should absolutely get an order of the Peshwari naan."

"You make me want to take you to India, sometime."

Tim laughs and moves to the buffet. "I'll keep an eye on my schedule."

"Please do."

And there's something almost surreal about walking along the buffet with *Clark* behind him, especially as a change of clothes would lead to the restaurant staff bending over backwards to present him with whatever he wanted...

Well, no, Clark really wouldn't appreciate *that*, at all. Clark probably loathes that sort of thing, now that Tim thinks about it, just as Tim has always been a little uncomfortable with those -- few -- Gothamites who react to the sight of him with anything other than fear, derision, acts of extreme violence, or all of the above. There's just something *suspicious* about the positive ones --

Clark probably doesn't feel the same, at all. Tim shakes his head again and goes for the palak paneer and some bhindi masala, resisting the siren call of tandoori chicken. He's gotten his father and Dana to come here with him several times in the past, and there will be future opportunities to assuage his inner carnivore. Besides, he can *feel* Clark making note of his food choices, and -- attraction or no -- there's something of an undertone of 'authority figure who needs to be impressed.'

Robin should never, ever make Superman imagine the lonely, horrible death of a chicken, no matter how delicious the marinated and baked corpse. Mmm, corpse. And when Tim looks up, the smile Clark's giving him is just as sharp...

As the one on Tim's face. Heh.

They return to the table and order lassis and their naan, and for a while they only eat. Or... well. There's a certain degree of mutual observation. Clark eats precisely like someone who enjoys the *act* of eating as much as he enjoys individual dishes -- though it's clear that he approves of the meal.

Tim eats... well, undoubtedly Clark is learning something vastly important about Tim by the way he's eating. Additionally, he's *Clark*, and so it would be deeply pointless to try eating in any way save his usual.

As such, he allows Clark to rip the naan into pieces to save his fingers from as much of the clarified butter -- the amount is, as always, generous -- as possible. Clark smiles for that with his eyes -- a narrowly pleased look which seems like it could be one of Bruce's save for the greater *volume* -- and Tim decides to not let the blush make him look down, this time --

"This place is wonderful, Tim. Thank you for suggesting it."

Tim smiles and takes a sip of lassi. "Well, it's also busy enough that no one should take undue notice of me."

"Always a concern at... ah. Times like this?"

Tim spreads his hands.

Clark nods and pushes the last piece of naan towards Tim. "I have a question, though..."

"Yes?"

"Are you always... shy?"

He *hadn't* looked down -- he'd still been blushing. "I -- try not to be, when it seems as though something else is... desired."

"With your girlfriend, as an example."

Steph. Clark *had* asked about her after the last time they'd worked together, and Tim remembers finding it strange and a little... random. He'd been wearing Robin. Clark had... not been wearing Superman. It was something he'd *noticed*, but he hadn't really given himself leave to think about it. "Ah -- were you... you've hit on me, before."

Clark raises an eyebrow. "Well... yes?"

Just like that, as if it were nothing. Tim shakes his head. "I'm sorry, I'm having to look at past encounters in a different light."

"Ah," and Clark smiles in a way that can only be defined as 'fond.' "I'd always suspected that you were focused more on your work than on anything personal I might say."

That invitation to Metropolis... Tim blinks. "You might've... I. I don't know."

"Been more aggressive? I considered it," Clark says, and the fondness becomes the distance of memory. "I imagine Bruce would've enjoyed watching you cut me down for my impertinence -- and distinct lack of good timing."

"Impertinence? Is that what you're calling it, Clark?"

Clark pushes his plate to the side and grins, setting his elbows on the table and leaning in. "Well. If you *don't* consider it to be impertinent, then perhaps I should... ah. Intensify my attentions?"

And what, exactly, would that entail? "Clark..."

Clark lifts his hand and makes a sort of gentling gesture. "I would never want to be with you sexually if it wasn't something you wanted with more than just your body."

Tim snorts. "I -- forgive me, Clark, but it's a rather singular experience to be read this clearly by someone who is, actually, *interested*."

"Oh... interested is something of an understatement, but -- ah, no, I was about to bring up Bruce, again." And Clark's expression turns *deeply* rueful. "I promise, I'm not always this focused on the man."

Tim waves a hand -- "He's your friend --"

"And you are infinitely more important to me, at the moment --"

"Don't -- not that. Please," Tim says, and leans back.

Clark frowns. "Tim...?"

"I don't really..." Tim shakes his head and looks down -- and looks up again, because he's hiding this *frown* from no one. "Flirtation is fine, Clark -- vastly entertaining, as a matter of fact --"

"I'm glad --"

"But -- that sort of exaggeration is uncomfortable. I'm not -- *we're* not friends."

Clark nods solemnly. "What can I do to change that?"

"Ah -- forgive me, Clark, but I don't think we can build the foundation of a true friendship over dessert."

"I've been told that I'm a very fast -- some might even say efficient -- worker," Clark says, widening his eyes and speaking very slowly and with the sort of exaggerated sincerity that can't help remind Tim of *treacle*.

And Tim really can't -- he laughs, and winces because it's so high-*pitched* --

Clark smiles, pleased and, yes, a little smug about it. Kon has the same look when *he* manages to get Tim to laugh, and --

Honesty is a *kind* of dessert? "It's deeply disconcerting when something you do reminds me of Kon."

"Oh... I've certainly never felt anything of the kind," Clark says, *dryly*, and raises his eyebrows again.

Oh. Well... perhaps all the blushing will cause a blood clot and he can stroke out. It would cap the day nicely -- no, he really is having a lot more fun than he would've predicted possible, and --

"No, don't worry, Tim. I don't get to spend nearly enough time with Conner's... friends."

And that was an interesting tonal shift, reminiscent of the way he'd asked about *Dick* -- and the way Tim hadn't answered. "Would you have all of Kon's friends for your own, as well, Clark?"

"Does anyone ever truly have *enough* friends, Tim? I... I have another question."

Tim finishes his bhindi masala and pushes the plate aside. "Other than the one you just asked?"

"Humor me...?"

Tim smiles into Clark's eyes and leans back in his chair, crossing his legs -- recrossing his legs into the more gender-appropriate configuration --

Clark is absolutely looking through the table at Tim's legs.

Tim snorts again. "You're making me wish I'd shaved, Clark."

Clark blinks and chooses to continue looking through the table for a long moment before he looks up with another pleased smile. "Is it something you do often, Tim...?"

"No. But then, my legs have rarely proved to be so fascinating to another party."

"Fascinating," Clark says, and leans closer still, "is an excellent way to put it. Your hair is lovely."

The hair. On his *legs*. Tim shakes his head and kicks his foot a little --

Clark returns his attention to it.

"*Really*, Clark. You don't think this is a *little* over the top?"

"*Not* -- until it bothers you, Tim. You truly are --"

Tim holds up a hand. "A moratorium on compliments, please? You're giving me a complex."

Clark blinks. "By... appreciating the sight of you? And the memory of your skin, your scent..."

Tim pushes at the air in front of his hand. "Please, no *more*. Tell me -- you want us to be friends."

"Yes. Please."

"Then tell me..." Something. Clark looks positively *avid*, focused on Tim in a way that makes Tim wonder what he's *not* focused on, and... hmm. "What is it *like* to have to hold on to your reactions, to... do you memorize them and save them for when they're appropriate? Or is it more like a command decision to *not* react right away...?"

"Ah -- that." Clark folds his hands together and looks down at the table -- *not* at Tim's legs, though Tim supposes he might just be missing it.

It's another pause, another rather intimidating *effort* to keep the conversation at a speed he can handle --

"You -- my hesitation has far more to do with the fact that I'm not sure how to answer without bringing up Bruce *again* than with anything else. In case you were wondering," Clark says, looking up again and asking -- all but *begging* -- forgiveness with his eyes.

Tim shakes his head. "He's one of the most important people in your life --"

"And yours."

"And -- mine, yes," and Tim sighs and looks up at the ceiling. There's a sky painted on the ceiling, colors and shades that Tim's reasonably sure could never be found in Gotham, assuming they could be found at this latitude, at all. "The fact that I'm angry with him..." Tim looks back at Clark and waves his hand. "Go on, please. I'd like for you to answer as *completely* as you can."

"As you prefer --" Clark clears his throat.

The waiter is still well out of hearing range, but Tim appreciates the extra... security. He inclines his head to Clark and, when the waiter arrives, orders galub jamun for them both.

Clark gives him another pleased look, and it's probably Tim's imagination, but there's something *to* the look which is vastly reminiscent of being told -- in no uncertain terms -- that Clark intends to *try* to build a foundation for their as yet quite shallow relationship over the course of dessert. Tim smiles to himself --

"Yes?"

He waves his hand again. "You first."

"You know, Tim... I suspected that having a private conversation with you would be something like this, judging by the way I've seen you relate to your family and friends, but experiencing it is something quite beyond expectation."

("So you *do* have a personality in there under all the hero worship. Oh, little *brother*. We're going to have a *great* time.")

That hadn't been the *first* time Dick had called him 'little brother,' but it had been the first time it had felt nothing but *meant*, intentional and as powerful as any emotion, and -- yes. Intoxicating. But -- "I thought we were going for a compliment ceasefire, Clark."

"Oh -- you're right, of course. And I was going to answer your question: Bruce often seems to prefer that I... speed myself up. That I react with something closer to my natural speed, even if it leads to the conversation moving in a way that *must* seem uncomfortable, if not unnatural --"

"He's *Bruce*, Clark. To be honest, it's somewhat difficult for *me* to... hmm. Credit? Some of your responses."

Clark nods slowly, and never looks away from Tim's eyes. "I can only tell you that I've been honest with you, and that... well. It's *important* to me that you see what you do to me, what you make me *feel*. There's a connection between us -- small and fragile as it may be -- that I would very much like to strengthen. To deepen."

It would be very, very easy to get tangled up in *that*, if only to try to pick it apart into something which would make more sense, something... well. He *is* an attractive woman, at the moment. His hair could be better-styled, and a good bra would help a great deal, but...

He looks good, and that *should* be enough for any number of people with compatible sexualities. It's just that, save for a few very notable moments, Clark has been focused on his... intellect? Personality?

("Oh my God. You totally just made a *joke*. You -- like, without provocation or *anything*. Are you okay, boyfriend? Tell mama all about your secret boy-pain.")

Of course, Steph had been exaggerating wildly -- he tells jokes all the time. It's just that they're rarely especially funny, or, well. Noticeable. Loud? Something.

"You -- I'm flustered, Clark."

Clark nods slowly.

"You should... you didn't quite answer my question?"

"The mechanism of how I choose to relate to the people in my life, yes," Clark says, and unfolds and refolds his hands. "It's not something I give that much thought to, to be honest, Tim. I've been doing it -- to some degree or another -- since my powers began developing in earnest."

Before *Tim* had been born. But -- "Still. Humor me," Tim says, and turns his foot on his ankle, making a rough circle -- and regaining Clark's attention.

Clark's *obvious* attention, and Clark's smile is openly inviting, in that way which is more about seduction than anything else. "Was that a test, Tim?"

Well... "Not -- entirely -- consciously," Tim admits, and has another sip of his lassi before leaning back again.

"A fair answer," Clark says. "You know, it took years of being lovers before Dick began doing things... similar to that, with me."

Testing. Teasing? By some definitions -- yes, and what *had* been the thought behind that? A desire to see if Clark's appreciation of his -- current -- lower limbs went as deep as Clark had implied? Tim certainly doesn't remember thinking that deeply, and... "Well... Dick always implied that he was rather younger than I am now when the two of you... began your sexual relationship."

"Fourteen," Clark says, smiling again and presenting Tim with an utterly unassailable *nostalgia* in his eyes, as if Clark wants Tim to know, with all of himself, that he is, at this moment, *specifically* remembering sexual acts with Tim's *older brother*.

The images are... definitely images. That Zero Hour business had proven, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Dick had been smaller than *Tim* was when he'd started being Robin, and Clark is -- is. Is this where he asks Clark *specifically* about his tastes? Tim sets the glass down and runs a finger along its rim --

And Clark looks directly at it when he says, "It's second nature for me to hold on to the *feel* of my immediate reactions to the person with whom I'm conversing, to keep them to myself and for myself until it's time to share them."

Tim taps the glass with his finger --

Clark looks up and smiles at him -- just his eyes. "Does that answer your question, Tim?"

Yes and no, and also... also, Tim realizes, his body is telling him exactly how long it's been since Clark has touched him. Sitting opposite each other across a fairly sizable table has to be part of it -- especially since Tim *is* leaning back --

Cassandra would have given up on communicating with him -- again. Or possibly... possibly he's giving Clark more of a mixed series of messages than he gives *her* -- and Clark is looking at him very, very patiently.

"I -- well. If you tell me you're never tempted to *adjust* your initial reactions for the benefit of the other party --"

"You won't believe me? Tim..." Clark unfolds his hands and gestures in a way that seems to take in the whole of the world, of which this restaurant is a very, very small part. And then he lays his hands flat on the table, again, and raises his eyebrow. "Would you tell me what *possible* benefit there could be, for me, in that sort of dishonesty?"

Tim raises *both* of his eyebrows, and Clark raises his hands briefly.

"A serious question. An *honest* question. I -- why would I want to even *chance* guiding a conversation with someone I cared about away from that which *moved* me, Tim? I may be fast, but I've *never* felt I had enough time for *that* sort of thing."

"That's fair, but --"

"Only fair?"

Tim taps his glass again. "*Only* fair, yes, Clark, because just taking *our* conversation into account -- there've been any number of opportunities for you to exaggerate your interest and attraction --"

"And you honestly feel I've *taken* them?" Clark laughs and shakes his head. "I think I'd be offended if I wasn't currently beset with images and possibilities wherein I could -- with great and pleasurable effort -- change your mind."

That -- all right, yes, *images*, and he's never --

He's barely done anything with Steph, and that has a great deal to do with that conversation they'd had --

("Oh, honey. I've known you were pretty damned queer for a *long* time. I tried to tell myself that you were just shy, maybe a little young... it's okay, you know? I know you love me.")

They haven't talked about it, since. Not really. She -- sometimes she'll *ask* him if he's met any cute boys, and he'll say something about not paying that much attention to strangers, and she -- won't ask about the Titans. Or about anyone else she knows that *he* knows. This is --

"Tim. What are you thinking...?" And there's something like a purr lurking *beneath* Clark's voice --

Dessert, and a brief chance to get his bearings while smiling his thanks to the waiter, and who calls him *miss* in a way that suggests that he is, at least, *hoping* that Clark is an older relative. Tim's a bit too shocked to blush -- it's a small thing, but it comes on top of everything else --

And Clark takes a bite of one of the reddish balls while looking *directly* into Tim's eyes. There's a smile in Clark's own, but it's only gentle when compared to the rest of his expression.

Offended.

Change Tim's *mind* --

The waiter leaves -- hopefully not too affronted by Tim's failure to respond to his tone -- and Tim takes a deep breath. "In case -- if it hasn't been clear to you in one way or another, Clark -- I'm not experienced."

"Not... with men?"

An out, blended perfectly with a request for more information. "Not -- generally. At all."

Clark picks up another of the balls and holds it between his fingers, and perhaps it's something of a panic reaction that Tim is focused on it. The thing is wet and sticky with rosewater syrup and smells wonderful, delicious.

Clark's fingers would --

"Did you think -- ah. I don't mind, Tim. At all."

Doesn't *mind*, as if virginity is problematic, as if -- no, wait. "What were you going to say before you changed your mind?"

The smile, when it reaches Clark's mouth, is lazy and a little sharp.

A little *Bruce*, really, and -- of course the two of them are friends. Of *course* they are --

"Did you mean, 'what did I intend to say with my first reaction, which of course happened long before I decided to speak either sentence or question fragment,' Tim?"

He'd -- definitely asked for that. It doesn't change the fact that he needs to *know*. Tim nods and picks up his fork --

"May I?" And Clark brings the ball closer to Tim's mouth --

"Ah -- no. Really -- um." Tim resists the urge to look around and see if they're being watched -- he knows that they *aren't*, and that's not even close to being the *point*.

Clark nods and eats the thing, sucking his fingers into his mouth for a quick and *entirely* shameless moment --

His mouth must be so *warm* --

"I was going to ask," Clark says, "if you thought your being sexually inexperienced would discourage me. *Stop* me from attempting to seduce you."

And that... would've been a very *challenging* question, on a number of levels. "I -- can see why you decided not to... say it, entirely."

Clark's smile speaks of a laugh that simply hasn't made it out of that broad, broad *chest* --

"Anyway. It -- it discourages *me*, Clark. I don't want to -- I've been happy being. Ah."

"I'm very curious about why you've decided that you don't want to lie to me. I imagine you've learned to do it with great ease and skill, over the years."

Distraction -- in a way. In any event, Tim's next deep breath actually *takes*. He wouldn't say he feels any more relaxed -- his *breasts* had moved too much for that -- but... he's oxygenated, at least. He stabs one of the balls with his fork and eats it, deliberately slowly.

He's giving himself time and Clark *knows* it -- of course he knows, and does it feel like a tease?

He's giving himself *time*, and he damned well needs it. "Are you like this with Dick?"

"Almost never. He runs rings around me solely by being himself, and -- he appreciates the part of me which is more... *earnest* than anything else."

"I thought you said you don't tailor yourself?"

Clark inclines his head. "Touché. It would be more accurate to say that I don't tailor my individual responses. My... mode of being is something else, entirely. I didn't think you'd have much patience with someone tripping over your feet and spilling delicious curry in your lap. You... don't have many pairs of pants that fit at the moment?"

"I -- no, I don't. But." Tim shakes his head. "What made you think I'd appreciate *this*?"

"Well, again -- it would be more accurate to say that I've *hoped* you'd appreciate this. You're a brilliant and often *ruthless* young man, and you've been demanding honesty from me from the start. I *am* earnest and rather awkward, but I like to think I've improved a great deal -- in terms of the act of making new friends."

"And seducing them?"

"Oh..." Clark smiles again. "Whenever possible. I'd like to *show* you sex, Tim. I'm quite sure you have a great deal of intellectual and *clinical* knowledge, perhaps a fair idea of how much you'd enjoy certain acts and practices... I'd like to help you refine that knowledge. I'd like for you to show me -- teach me -- everything about your body --"

"It's not *my* body --"

"It will be, again. Gotham needs you. The *world* needs you, and Bruce will do everything in his power to make sure those needs are filled. And I hope that if I pleasure you enough today -- you'll allow me to do it again."

Tim is blushing again. He's not sure when it had started up -- there are any number of potential Clark-related culprits -- but it's *there*, now, and... and. He hasn't looked away from Clark's eyes, and the inside of his mouth tastes like sweetened flowers.

Clark would undoubtedly be able to tease out any number of other flavors --

"I don't. Clark, why are you assuming that we *will* have sex?"

Clark shakes his head. "Call it the persistence of hope. We still wouldn't want to commit a sin."

Tim closes his eyes, just for a moment. He can *feel* Clark watching him, looking him over and thinking about --

Wanting to touch. Wanting to *have* him, and -- do things. Show him things, and a part of Tim's mind has spent the past five minutes on a seemingly endless slideshow of all the beautiful male bodies of his acquaintance. Bodies in motion, bodies wounded and in need of his care, bodies twisting and leaping and bending.

Hairless bodies and hairy ones --

Scarred ones --

Bruce.

Tim opens his eyes and swallows and doesn't *fucking* gasp. And he doesn't know what the expression is on his face --

Clark looks worried, smile entirely absent for the first time since he'd *arrived* -- "Tim, I -- have I gone too far?"

Tim laughs. It really doesn't sound that good, but -- "You're asking me that *now*?"

"Your heart rate increased dramatically, and you seem... frightened. For the first time." Clark clenches his hands into loose fists and very *loudly* doesn't reach out, and --

Tim *is* frightened. It's just not the kind of -- of. Tim closes his eyes again --

Dick, smiling at him and beckoning Tim into his bathtub --

("You're *filthy*, Timbo. C'mon, no need to *wait* to get clean --")

"Tim, please, if there's anything I can --"

"Call it -- call it a crisis of sexuality," Tim says, and stands. "I -- they prefer people to pay for their meals here up at the counter --"

"Oh, please, let me, but -- are you all *right*?"

He's looking at the floor. At his perfectly normal feet in his perfectly normal trainers --

He's *wet*, his nipples feel like *spikes*, and there's an incredibly beautiful man who'd like to touch him, who'd like to be touched *by* him. He could use his *mouth*, and be filled --

Tim brings his hand to his face -- pinches the bridge of his nose.

After a moment, Clark rests his hands on Tim's shoulders very, very lightly. "Tim, after I pay... should I take you home?"

He sounds... earnest. And that's possibly the *funniest* thing that's happened to Tim in at least a month, but he's reasonably sure that if he tries to laugh, right now, it would come out moaned.

There's footage, in the Cave -- footage he'd been expected to watch and *learn* from -- of Clark fighting one of the Apokoliptian monsters. His uniform had been *shredded*. Cape entirely missing, one leg of the tights torn wide, the top in rags curling away from his broad, golden chest. He'd been sweating. *Glistening*, and grunting with pain and exertion --

And Tim had slept in the *center* of his bed that night, body pressed to the shield of El and right hand crushed beneath him --

And Clark is right *here*, waiting --

"I. I'm sure you have other things you --"

"At the moment," Clark says, pitching his voice low, "there's nothing the rest of the League can't handle. Clark Kent is on assignment. I want -- I don't want you to be uncomfortable with me. I would rather lose this chance with you now than have you decide that you'd rather not be my friend, at all --"

"What -- let's. Let's pay," Tim says, and turns to look up at Clark --

Clark frowns and nods, squeezing Tim's shoulders -- lightly, again -- and moving to the counter.

Tim takes the time to try to calm down, to try to *think* with something other than his -- genitals. This time, the laugh bubbles up despite himself, and it's high and cracked. It's *quiet*, at least --

He knows Clark had heard it, and must wonder --

Clark had smelled Tim's *fear*, and has the entirely reasonable belief that it's about him, that something he'd done or said had finally pushed Tim too far, and --

That's true and false at once. It *is* too much. It's *crippling* after years of pushing his desires to the side, of saving them for the end of patrol and the privacy of his own room, his own bed, or, at the very least, his shower. He has years of images of perfect male bodies in his mind, years of carefully regulated repression, because none of the men he's been attracted to have ever --

Kon. Kon *had*, but Kon had been so *young*, then. He hadn't even had a *name*, and it hadn't stopped Tim from desiring, from fantasizing in lurid detail all the things he would've liked to do to that gangling, beautiful, artificially teenaged body --

Kon had kissed him, and maybe if he'd tried something more direct -- Tim doesn't know. He'd told Kon that he wasn't interested in doing that sort of thing with a teammate, and that he had a girlfriend. Kon had laughed it off and spent an hour telling Tim about Tana Moon, and that had been the end of that, the *only* time there'd ever been a chance for reciprocation. Except that Clark has informed him that there had *always* been that chance, and more --

("Perhaps you could come to Metropolis, sometime --)

And when Clark returns, he puts his hand on Tim's shoulder, again, and perhaps that's why Tim leads them to a quiet alley --

"Oh. Tim, I --"

"Just -- take me -- take *us* back?"

They're at Tim's window in an instant, and Tim tumbles through quickly --

Clark's fingers, warm through the t-shirt as they brush Tim's ribs --

Clark doesn't follow. He doesn't --

Tim could end this right here. Right -- now.

He could --

"Come in. Please."

"Are you sure? I -- I could understand your not wanting to --"

"Please," Tim says, again, and backs away from the window. Backs toward the *bed* -- he stops, and Clark is right there in front of him, in reaching distance. Everything about his body language is explicitly designed to keep Tim from feeling loomed over, and so it's paradoxically impossible for Tim to not be deeply, helplessly aware of Clark's *size* --

"Did you... would you like to talk more? Please, Tim, don't be afraid of me --"

"I'm not --" Tim laughs again and pushes a hand through his hair -- and shivers at the way his breasts just *move* without anything resembling Tim's permission. How do women *stand* it?

"Tim. You *are* afraid, and I -- there's no point to you lying about *that* --"

"Yes. Yes, I know. It's just -- I'm not afraid of *you*, Clark," and Tim gives up and crosses his arms under his breasts. *This* time he can keep the shiver to himself. Just -- the *weight* of them --

"Then... would you tell me what you *are* afraid of?"

"I'm -- bisexual. I've known that for a while, and -- ah. I haven't done anything about it. I haven't --" Tim bites the inside of his lip and looks down, *away*. He should have come up with something better to say before deciding to do this.

He should've *made* a decision --

And Clark's fingers are on his cheek, warm and rose-scented, dry and *gentle*, and Tim wants --

"Tim..."

Tim *wants*, and why is this so hard? Why has it always been so *hard*, when people do this sort of thing every day, other people --

("One day, dude, you are *going* to grow a hormone, and then you'll *understand* --")

Clark strokes Tim's cheek with his fingertips, strokes over to Tim's *mouth*, and that --

Tim's breathing hitches, his whole body feels like it had *stuttered* for a moment before going on with the business of making him ready, making him *desperate* --

Clark *tugs* at Tim's lower lip until Tim stops biting -- "Would you let me see your eyes, Tim?"

"Surely. Surely there are any number of ways you could -- you know how I. Feel."

"I know the rhythms of your body, the pound of your heart. I would -- please let me see your eyes."

Tim -- he doesn't gasp, and he doesn't *pant*. He exhales, and Clark's fingers shift, just a little, against his lip, and there's a *throb* inside him now, something that manages to feel both wet and *hot*, something that makes him wonder if he'll stagger if he tries to walk, if he'll fall to his knees --

And if he does, would Clark let him stay there? Just for a while? Tim squeezes his eyes shut -- opens them and turns, looks up --

"Oh, Tim..." And Clark's eyes are a little wider than they should be, dark with arousal, the mechanism of pupil dilation -- they shouldn't look so *soft*.

He's seen them sharp, seen them teasing and some particular variety of deadly, and he wants -- "Clark. You should. I'm not --"

"Is it so terrible to desire, Tim?"

Tim feels his expression twist and thinks seriously about *running* -- in his own home, and to *where*, exactly? This laugh *is* more of a gasp than anything else. "How can you *ask* that? I --"

"I never feel more human than when I *crave*, Tim. And I..." Clark's nostrils flare and he leans in, presses his nose just in front of Tim's *ear* --

Breathes deep. Breathes --

"Let me show you --"

"Yes. I -- yes --"

And Clark *presses* his fingers against Tim's mouth and kisses his cheek, his ear -- so *softly* --

Tim hears himself make a sound he doesn't want to *admit* to, and he turns --

And it feels like the kiss was waiting for his mouth, like all of this was just build-up, foreplay --

Clark's mouth is *soft*, but it doesn't have to be, and it's *hot* when Tim slips his tongue in, wet and -- he tastes curry and sweetness, but isn't there something else? Something different and a little sharp?

Something he can --

Clark cups the back of his head and wraps his other arm around Tim's waist --

"May I lift you?"

Tim is -- still -- *short*, and it would certainly be easier for Clark -- "I. Yes --"

And his feet leave the ground without any sense of effort, just a little too quickly -- the throbbing thing inside him feels more like a *flexing* thing, because *Clark* is warm through his clothes, because Clark is kissing him again and humming, tuneless and pleased --

Tim's legs are *dangling* several inches above the floor, and he shudders, wants --

It's -- he can't just wrap his legs around Clark. He doesn't want -- it's just a *kiss*, and Clark hasn't --

Clark licks Tim's mouth and pulls back, eyes *gleaming* and his smile is too sweet to be so wet, too wet to be that *friendly* -- "Tim. Again?"

Tim swallows and tries to make words come out, tries. "Clark, would you like -- I. The bed?"

Clark breathes deep *again*, and Tim wonders --

"What -- what do I smell like --"

"Arousal, both fresh and lingering. Youth and health. The sweat that hasn't quite broken the surface of your skin -- *arousal*, Tim, and -- did you mean? Would you like to lie down with me?"

"It would be --" Something. Definitely -- he can't *think* around this feeling, around everything *possible* -- "Put me down."

"Tim?"

"I need -- this shirt, it's -- I'd like to. Take it off."

And he's on his feet on the floor just like that, and Clark is steadying him by the shoulder -- "Tim, you mustn't -- there's no need to move *quickly* --"

"I don't want to scare myself out of this, I don't -- there's something *in* me, Clark, and I can't --" Tim shakes his head and lets himself look into Clark's eyes again, lets himself be *seen* --

Clark touches his mouth again -- and gasps when Tim kisses his fingers.

And *moans* when Tim sucks the tips of his index and middle fingers into his mouth. The taste -- he wants Clark to *wash*, preferably in some ridiculously pure mountain stream. He wants to know what *Clark* tastes like, not the rose that's getting in the *way* --

Tim sucks harder and grabs Clark's wrist, holds on tight and licks, sucks and licks *more* --

"Oh, Tim. You look so beautiful like this. So --" Clark strokes Tim's hair almost *restlessly* --

And the sound that comes out of Tim -- at least it's muffled. At least -- his eyes are closed again, and Clark's fingers are so *big*, and if he sucks hard enough then he doesn't have to think about how they'd feel somewhere else --

There's more than *one* somewhere else, and that thought -- Tim feels muscles clenching that are entirely unfamiliar. Training, control -- he can tell where they are and how they move --

He flexes, deliberately --

"*Tim* --"

And whether that was in response to Tim flexing or to Tim's *knees* buckling -- Clark has his arm around Tim's waist, again, and Tim has to --

He takes Clark's fingers in deeper, and now the throb is constant, something that runs through his entire body and -- it feels like it should be making Tim shake and move, shudder and --

He *needs*, and he pulls back --

He *licks* Clark's fingers and looks up. Clark's lips are parted and his eyes are much darker than they were a moment ago, and Tim thinks it's better to have Clark feeling this, to be able to *see* it on him, a reflection or validation --

It's *better*, and the shirt comes off easily enough, and maybe he should -- he's going to have to wear these jeans *again*, and he's getting them dirty with every heartbeat, every *pulse*.

Clark is staring at him almost hungrily, waiting for Tim's next move, and --

It feels like cowardice to back his way to the bed without taking his jeans and trainers off, but his hands are giving him a choice: either let them stay at his sides or let them cover his breasts, and. He's had enough of mixed messages.

He lies down and reaches out --

And Clark is over him, looking him up and down when he has to have seen everything there was to see in the time it took for Tim to *think* about moving. His lips are still parted, and when Tim sits up a little --

Kiss, harder this time for all that Clark's lips are soft, for all that his tongue seems perfectly human in Tim's mouth --

"N-no," Tim says, shaking his head --

"Tim...? I -- please let me kiss you --"

"Yes, but -- I need you to." Tim licks his lips. "You were -- you're controlling your body *rigidly*, and I -- I want to feel. You."

Clark inhales sharply and shudders -- nods, and this time the kiss is slow and *dangerous*, hard only because there's no *give* to Clark's mouth, nothing he can do to shift the skin, nothing -- he bites, *testing*, and Clark moans and bites him back, teeth pressing in against Tim's lower lip, pulling --

That was more of a lunge than anything else, more -- *more*, and his hands feel clumsy and useless right up until he cups Clark's face and holds on, digs *in* with his fingers --

Clark moans again and lowers himself out of his hover -- *mostly* out of his hover. That's *not* all of Clark's weight, and Tim pulls on his head, strokes to his arm and pulls there --

"Tim --"

"*Please* --"

"Oh, *yes*," Clark says, and gives Tim his weight, presses Tim down against the bed, pushes some of the air out of Tim's body and swallows it, swallows the noise Tim makes and seems to *try* to swallow Tim's tongue.

The kiss is nothing like Tim's ever experienced, and perhaps nothing will be like it again. It feels like kissing warm, wet stone, expertly carved and given life by an especially beneficent -- or lustful -- god. It feels like warmth and pressure, slickness and *power*, because Clark's tongue is dominant, impossible, somehow *thicker*-feeling than it had been a moment before --

*Had* it just been a moment? A part of Tim is insisting that this kiss has lasted for hours, *weeks*, that Tim is growing old and growing *up* through the gift of Clark's wet and expert mouth, that he's being *changed* by this -- or, perhaps, by wanting it as much as he does.

As --

Clark pulls back and immediately kisses Tim's chin, licks the line of his jaw and down to Tim's *throat* --

"You're so pale, Tim. So -- anything but *delicate*, but perhaps you could forgive a certain moment of fancy, foolishness --"

"Ah -- *Clark* --"

"Stephanie is so beautiful... do you ever let her kiss your throat?"

"I -- sometimes. You. Please --"

The kiss is so hard it feels like a *bite*, and Tim bucks helplessly, gets *nowhere* --

Clark *pushes* against him, and it's so good, so -- almost. It's not quite *right*, and Tim can't help knowing why. Nothing is in the right *place*, and the jeans -- his *and* Clark's -- are in the way --

Clark licks his throat again -- again, and perhaps he's tasting the sweat that isn't quite on Tim's skin, yet, feeling for the salt of it --

Pain, and Tim realizes that he's biting his lip much too hard, that he's digging in against Clark's skin with his fingertips -- he pulls back --

"Oh, please don't -- let me. Tim, you can't *hurt* me that way --"

"Oh, I -- oh -- you probably have to tell people that a fair amount...?"

"Only the ones who were more interested in me than they were in Superman," Clark says, smiling at Tim -- winking.

A joke for them to share, and -- "Is this where I ask if I'm being sufficiently Robinly?"

"Would you enjoy speaking about the Mission? I suppose I could... hmm, listen *very* attentively while you went over local crime statistics?"

Fast -- *too* fast, only -- Clark isn't controlling his speed quite so *assiduously*. There is... impatience? *Something* is making him eschew 'proper' pauses --

"Tim...? Did I say something wrong?"

And even that was -- very fast. Tim smiles. "No, Clark. Nothing -- nothing is wrong, at all."

"Oh... in that case, would you like to be bitten?"

Steph, after a patrol that had left her bruised and *angry*, tearing Tim's cape out of the way and biting down hard enough to make Tim a little weak in the knees -- but after that she'd only kissed him, again and again, slowing and softening until they were lying together in her bed, surrounded by her scent -- she hadn't left a mark. "I -- perhaps?"

"May I try, Tim?"

Tim licks his lips and thinks about sky-blue sheets filling his vision as he pulls and strokes, as he bites his lip and dreams of being *overwhelmed* -- "Do it. I -- please -- *ah* --"

A bite and a *suck*, hot enough to make the rest of him feel cold -- no, just the parts of him Clark isn't touching. The *few* parts, and Tim lifts his hips against Clark's weight --

Clark bites the other side of his throat and *rocks* against Tim, urges -- something. He could. They could --

Tim struggles under Clark's weight --

"Tim --"

"I just -- I'd like to spread my legs --"

"Let me," Clark says, looking into his eyes, into *him*, and when Tim nods --

His legs are spread and his *knees* are up, and Clark is hovering over him and staring, *watching* the way Tim's breasts move -- they just won't lie *still* on Tim's chest, and every deep breath makes him feel... a little too free? Is *that* what it is? Tim laughs at himself and *cups* his breasts, holding them still while he shifts his hips, pulls his knees *back* a little --

"You're lovely, so --" Clark shakes his head. "You never answered me about Dick, Tim --"

"Of *course* I'm attracted to him. I was attracted to him before I was *pubescent*, Clark --"

"Oh. Thank you for telling me," he says, and his smile is broad and a little too *sane* for the moment, for the way his body feels --

"Nnh -- I. Oh. Moving that way -- my jeans --"

"Oh. The seam of your jeans is pressed against your clitoral hood, Tim. That must be... uncomfortable?"

*Hope* in Clark's voice, and Tim has to laugh again, has to let *go* of the right breast for long enough to tug the jeans *away* from himself --

"Your scent is... perhaps you'd let me taste you?

Clark's mouth, wrapped around him and *sucking* -- no. It wouldn't be that. It -- Tim growls and punches the bed --

His right breast moves in a *wave* --

"Tim --"

"I want my *body* back!"

Clark winces and -- yes, that was something of a *yell*, and he really didn't --

"I'm sorry, I -- it's not *your* fault," Tim says, and sits up -- and gasps, because that throbbing thing -- that. His *clitoris* has definitely sat up and started demanding *notice*.

"You don't need to apologize for that, Tim," Clark says, cupping Tim's shoulders and stroking down his arms. "I understand -- ah, well. If I'd had the opportunity to make love to anyone while I was a woman, I imagine there would've been several moments of... frustration."

"Frustration? I -- I really want. I think I'd *vastly* enjoy you performing fellatio on me --"

"*Please* hold that thought until you're -- ah, more yourself?"

Tim blinks, but -- yes, Clark really *had* been hitting on him, and perhaps he'll reach a point when that will stop *throwing* him --

"For now... for now, I'd very much like to... help you enjoy the body you *have*, Tim."

Is he more attractive to Clark, now? He'd almost have to be -- Clark had never *come* to him before, never tried so hard to -- he could *ask*. It's just that he isn't sure he wants to hear the answer. He should just...

A part of him -- one which is even mostly connected to the part of his brain which is still *functioning* -- is only insisting that he should take this while it's available, that a happy life is *filled* with compromise -- Tim chokes on his own laugh and covers his face.

He's lying here with a *breast* in his hand, an *insistent* vagina, and a clitoris which is screaming for something -- he has no idea *what*.

"Tim..."

"I don't -- it's all so *strange*, Clark. I don't even -- I've had any *number* of fantasies about you --"

"Oh... yes? Would you tell me --"

"At the moment, I can't see them doing much *good* --"

"I beg to differ," Clark says, cupping Tim's face and settling on the bed again. He's kneeling between Tim's legs, and the scent --

Tim can smell *himself*, and it makes him think of sparring with Cassandra, of the *fierce* way she smiles, sometimes, when she's beating Tim to a pulp -- oh, *God* --

And Clark pulls Tim's hand away from his face, slowly and gently.

"I -- Clark. I'm feeling..." Tim pulls his hand from Clark's grasp and waves it. "I *realize* that there are other things we can do, but... it feels like something of a *waste*."

Clark's expression is a bit... pinched. Maybe puckered. "I... ah. You haven't... gone very far with Stephanie?"

The blush returns like a bad penny, or perhaps a nasty infection. "No. I. She used to push... more. She hasn't since I told her about my attraction to men."

Clark nods and looks somewhat solemn for a moment --

Tim *flexes* --

And Clark doesn't look solemn, at all.

"I -- didn't mean to do that --"

"Involuntary spasm. You are... a part of me is deeply fascinated by your ability to *speak*, considering how aroused you are physically, Tim."

Well... "I really don't think I'm firing on all cylinders, Clark. In fact, I'm sure I'm not, because the urge to run screaming from this bedroom and climb a wall, somewhere, is relatively mild compared to the urge to have you *put something in me*."

"Oh, you really only had to *ask* --"

"I'm *terrified* --"

"I would say that you're more... intimidated. Terror has a more acidic tang," Clark says, and strokes down the center of Tim's chest to his navel. He pushes *in* with one finger, and something sharp and *vicious* sparks up to the spaces just behind his nipples and down to his clit --

"Oh -- *oh* --"

"May I take your jeans off, Tim?"

"I --" Tim feels his face twist again --

And Clark's palm is on his cheek, his fingers teasing at Tim's temple, his ear -- "When Dick was fourteen, he had no comprehension whatsoever of his beauty --"

"He. He still doesn't --"

"You didn't know him then, Tim. For him, Bruce was the most perfect man in the world, in every possible way. For a natural performer, he had very little faith in his ability to *arrest* the eye. He made me *ache*, Tim."

Oh. "I..." Tim licks his lips and thinks of the boy Dick had been, the boy who'd held him in his lap and smelled like cotton candy and clean sweat, and the boy who'd tumbled and flown so effortlessly through the air at that aquarium, making Tim feel like the most useless excuse for a vigilante who had ever been trained. The smile had been the same, the physical *confidence* --

Except that neither of those boys had lived with *Bruce* for very long -- if ever. Tim shakes his head -- and catches himself arching up for the feel of Clark's finger in his navel.

Just. He needs, and if he doesn't deal with that soon, his body will clearly do it for him --

"Would you like to hear more?"

"I -- I don't want to invade Dick's. His privacy is important, and --"

"And he's always been very, very circumspect about our relationship, Tim?"

Tim looks, and yes, Clark is smiling gently everywhere save for his eyes. "I'm. Being a tease."

"You're lovely," Clark says, and pushes *in* again --

"Oh, God -- that. I never knew that was *sensitive* --"

"Perhaps it wasn't," Clark says, and *curls* his finger, a little --

"Please, I -- more. I don't know --"

"I've never seen any evidence that this sort of sensitivity runs along gender lines --"

"*Clark* --"

"Tim. He was honestly surprised by the things I wanted to do with him, by the ways I wanted to touch and the pleasure I took in just watching his reactions and knowing that they were due to the things *I* did..."

That... Tim laughs, a little. Okay. "Ah. A lesson, Clark...?"

Clark's smile is broad and *highlights* the years between them to the extent that Tim feels -- young. *More* young -- "Would you consider taking it to heart?"

Tim knows the smile on his face is rather sharp. "I do know that I make a rather attractive woman, Clark --"

"Oh, that's very good to hear," Clark says, and pushes in with his finger again --

"*Oh*. I --" Tim shifts a little, and perhaps it's more of a writhe -- "I'm still --"

"Unsure. Uncontrolled? It must be terrible not to know exactly what you want --"

"*Yes*, it." Tim takes a breath. "It would be *nice* to be able to ask you for something and know that I actually want just that. It doesn't seem like that's asking too *much* --" 

"Please. Let me take your jeans off?"

"Take -- I. Would you take *your* clothes off? I -- it would be more... comfortable?" Tim shakes his head. "I've watched you *fight*, seen your skin... *you're* beautiful, and I..." Tim sits up and lets go of his breast, letting it fall and sway --

"Tim --"

"Kiss me again," Tim says, and rolls up onto his knees, making a command decision to wrap his arms around Clark's neck and lean in --

Clark does, pushing his tongue in *slowly* -- at the same speed as the finger still in Tim's navel. Tim pants around it once, twice --

He *sucks* and opens his eyes to find Clark watching him *avidly*, and, yes, with some degree of impatience. Tim really doesn't know *why*, but it's actually somewhat soothing. *Clark* knows *exactly* what he wants, and it involves Tim being naked, or at least thoroughly disreputable with his pants around his ankles, and --

He'd be lying to himself *horribly* if he allowed himself to think that he'd never had *that* fantasy. Dick --

Bruce. Jesus, *no*, not here and now, because --

Tim shakes his head, and Clark licks his cheek, the skin beneath Tim's eye that's been sensitive for years, now --

Tim shivers, and the point is that it was almost never *Clark*, and -- that's something he can say --

Just as soon as he stops trying to know everything about Clark's impossibly hard mouth with his own. This could *bruise* him, and his lips are certainly already swelling, already -- "Hn. I -- I think. Would you let me suck -- *mm* --"

All right, kissed *right* back down to the bed -- and then up *off* the bed, and his feet are dangling in the air, and -- yes. Tim straightens them, and wraps them around *one* of Clark's legs -- "Oh, Tim, yes, that's -- that's wonderful," and Clark kisses his cheek, pushes one hand into Tim's *hair* --

"Steph always -- ah." He hadn't really meant to --

"Always, Tim? I -- perhaps I should... make something of a confession," Clark says, and *grips* Tim's hair, tilts his head back just *so* --

And bites Tim's *chin*, not very hard, but very much *entirely* like the way Steph does in the moments before she --

Clark kisses him *very* hard, and pulls Tim's closer --

Flips them in the *air*, until he's pressed to Clark with his entire body, gravity conspiring to make Tim just that desperate, or -- at least conspiring to make him *look* that way. Certainly it makes the kiss that much deeper, more -- all right, no, that's *him*, because he's been *programmed* for kisses like this, and Clark *knows* that --

Clark had *watched* him with Steph at least once, and there's some consolation that it would've been on some shadowy rooftop -- Steph never kisses him like this when they're alone in one of their bedrooms --

Steph's kisses aren't like this. Aren't -- Clark's tongue only barely *feels* like a tongue. It's too hard, slick and *implacable*, pushing itself into Tim's mouth and making him need to suck, need to --

Tim pulls back -- and gets stopped by Clark's hand in his hair. Briefly. Tim raises an eyebrow.

"Ah. I'm... sorry?" Clark loosens his grip and pets the back of Tim's head gently and carefully -- perhaps a little possessively. And really --

"For watching me with Steph, or for giving in to the urge -- however abortively -- to hold me still?"

"Both, but -- you should know that my apology isn't as sincere as it could be," Clark says, and raises his own eyebrow.

Asking him if that's all *right*, if Tim can forgive -- only, as a question, it really doesn't manage to get past disingenuity. Clark's question has the weight of Tim's arousal behind it, the knowledge they share of just how hungry Tim is. It's -- Tim frowns and pushes on Clark until he lowers them back down to the bed and Tim can kneel up --

And catch his breasts again, because he'd moved *just* fast enough to make them want to express themselves. Again. Tim carefully keeps his fingers away from his -- rather large -- nipples --

Clark stares at his breasts openly, *thoughtfully* --

"I want -- a part of me wants to accuse you of not playing fair, Clark."

"I -- yes? What sort of fairness would you prefer?"

Just as if Clark would -- happily, even -- change his approach to *accommodate* Tim's desires, whatever they may turn out to be. It feels a bit like the minor, amusing fantasy he's had of asking Bruce for a favor and having the man say yes before he knows anything about it. Some things aren't so much unlikely as... well. Better to say that they reach heights of ludicrous impossibility heretofore unknown outside of Saturday morning cartoons and painfully bad science fiction movies. And --

Clark cups Tim's thighs and squeezes gently, which reminds Tim -- he hasn't really *looked* at Clark for what feels like a while. He hasn't examined --

Clark's jeans are quite loose-fitting, but in this position, that doesn't mean very much, at all. Tim lets go of his breasts and holds them against his chest with one arm while he reaches down with the other -- and barely keeps himself from snatching the hand *back*. It's not that the heat is anywhere near *that* intense, it's just that the heat is *noticeably* more intense than anything his palm was expecting. He squeezes --

"Ah -- Tim. Is that... fair?"

Oh, yes, he had mentioned something along those lines. The smile on Tim's face feels small and tight, but it's honest. "I'm not entirely sure, yet. *Are* you uncomfortable with being naked around me for some reason...?"

For a moment, Clark's expression is as hard as his mouth -- and then he's smiling so perfectly, so *warmly*, that a part of Tim wonders if that was an illusion. "Tim..."

A *part*. "What was that? Did I say something to upset you?"

Clark's eyes widen briefly -- "No. I've wanted to make love to you for quite some time, Tim, but -- mm. The... plan, for that, keeps changing. Dramatically."

Tim squeezes again -- Clark is holding his wrist, and that -- another stutter inside him, another *clench* that Tim can't help making more intense --

"You already have so much *control*, Tim. It's truly --"

"Impressive?" Tim laughs and twists his wrist in Clark's grip -- he doesn't let go. "Clark, you -- *naked*. You could do it in a moment. Is there something --"

"It will be difficult not to ask you for..." Clark's mouth twists. "Tim, are you sure?"

"I won't -- if something happens and you need to go, Clark, that's one thing, but I. I think I *need* to make *you* come --"

"It used to be so *difficult* to convince Dick to let me pleasure him --"

"I'm *not* Dick," Tim says, and *yanks* against the grip Clark has on him until Clark -- finally -- lets go. "I won't be able to stop you for very much longer. I won't *want* to. But -- please. Let me pretend, for a little while..." Tim swallows and bites his lip. That had come out much more fervently than he'd wanted --

And Clark is almost *searching* him. Certainly, Tim thinks he can feel the ghosts of touches all over his body, testing touches, teasing and demanding touches --

Tim bites his lip *harder* -- stops. "Please --"

Clark's hands on him, warm and --

Clark beneath him, again, naked and *hard*. Tim's straddling *both* of his thighs, now, and the spread of his legs -- his inner thighs feel a little cool, and the jeans are chafing him, making him feel -- hell. "My turn. Strip me --"

And Tim doesn't know if he's surprised or *not* that Clark brings them back to the same position. Clark's expression -- he seems to be *trying* to look patient, and the layers of action and reaction that must have gone into that, the control and the *years* of well-meaning --

No, he can't call it deception. Tim lets his breasts swing the way they want to and strokes Clark's chest, adds the sight and feel to his personal gallery of male perfection -- and gets lost in the image of Clark with Dick. Dick as he is *now*, but still so much *smaller* than Clark, lean and beautiful beyond words while Clark strokes and touches --

While Dick laughs and writhes -- Tim licks his lips and looks up at Clark's eyes again. There's a question in them, as well as open speculation, and really --

"Thank you, Clark --"

"You're entirely welcome. Would you tell me what you want? Or -- perhaps what you were thinking about that made you flush so beautifully."

Tim looks down at himself -- the tops of his breasts are reddened, his nipples almost plum-colored -- "Ah. You and Dick."

"Oh..." Clark smiles and cups Tim's hips. "Sometimes, we speak about you."

The first thought that comes to mind -- absolutely doesn't belong. Just --

"Sometimes," Clark says, and *squeezes* Tim's hips, "he picks rather interesting moments to mention how much he cares about you, how much he worries that you don't allow yourself enough time for -- pleasure."

"*Fun*," and Tim plants his hands against Clark's pecs and pushes, a little. "Pleasure is a rather more loaded term than I think Dick would use -- at those moments."

"I'm curious about your objections --"

Tim growls -- stops. "Would *you* want to give yourself unwarranted hope about someone you loved?"

"Love -- oh. You know how I feel about *hope*, Tim," and Clark is stroking Tim's abdomen with his thumbs -- "May I touch your breasts?"

"I don't want -- I've spent a long time working to make my fantasies about Dick less *painful*. I -- I know I brought him up, but it was only --"

"In the... ah. *Hope* that I would speak about how the two of us make love?"

Does the blush outperform the flush? Clark can surely tell, and -- "I don't seem to have much control over the things I say --"

"Should I assume, then, that some of the things you *do* say aren't true?" Fast again, and Clark's fingertips are digging in, slightly, against Tim's *ass* --

"Ah. I -- that would be *easier* --"

"Would it be fair...?"

"For certain values of..." Tim scratches Clark's chest *hard*, and there's no give, no -- "You're so *hard*, I --"

"That felt wonderful. If you were curious."

"Ah -- oh." Tim does it again, and again, and there are no welts, there's no *sign* of himself on -- "Perfection --"

"I concur. About those... values?"

"I." Tim shakes his head and strokes his way to Clark's nipples, pinches them and something in his own nipples seems to flare, *assert* -- he opens his mouth to answer Clark's question, but all that comes out is a moan --

Clark squeezes Tim's hips *firmly* --

"Nnh -- I. You're *very* experienced --"

"I was a virgin until I was significantly older than you --"

"You've made up for lost *time*," Tim says, laughing a little and -- thinking about it. 'Significantly older' would suggest that Clark had already been Super*man*... Tim pinches Clark's nipples as hard as he can --

"Oh -- again?"

"Yes. Yes, I -- if I were lying to you, at least some of the time --"

Clark grunts and rolls his hips up. There's a bead of pre-come at the tip of his penis, and Tim can't -- he reaches down and slides his thumb over the head, and forces himself to watch Clark's eyes as he brings that thumb to his mouth --

He shudders, breasts *moving*, and the taste is exactly what he was looking for, strange and hot and mineral --

"Do you like it?"

Tim pulls his thumb out from between his lips and presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, wants more -- he nods and moves his wet thumb back to Clark's nipple. "Yes. You're beautiful --"

"You're intoxicating. Ask me another question. Ask me to touch you. *Order* me to touch you --"

Bruce. They're so *close*, and have been so since before there *was* a Robin. So many years, so much --

And Tim can see it, the two of them pressed together, Clark pushing back the cowl while Bruce tore at Clark's pathetically *thin* uniform. He wants to -- no. It's not that he wants to know. It's that he wants to *feel*, and he's had nearly as long to grow accustomed to that attraction as he's had with Dick, but he can't seem to stop -- why *now*?

Tim shakes his head --

"Your scent changed again, Tim. Are you -- would you tell me why you're distressed?"

"I'm -- inappropriate thoughts. Entirely --" Tim looks into Clark's eyes, and knows that he must look like he's *pleading* --

"Oh, lovely --" And Clark strokes up over Tim's ribs and -- stops before his hands reach Tim's breasts.

Tim covers those hands with his own, unsure whether he wants to squeeze or tug or *push* --

"But what's *wrong*, Tim?"

"*Bruce*," and it's gritted more than spoken, and he's blushing *more* --

"He hurt you --"

"*Yes*, I -- I don't *want* to think about him, not now --"

"Then... the last time I made love to Dick, he allowed me to taste him all over. He laughed when I licked his underarm and tried to push me away. I bit the thin skin over his ribs, I dipped my tongue into his navel..."

Dick in his *shower*, stretching and scrubbing himself and singing "New York, New York," before grabbing Tim and spinning him to face the *wall* --

("Gotta get your *back*, little brother --")

"Oh. Clark. Did he --"

"He's sensitive there, but my touch was too light -- I tickled him. I confess I wanted to hear him laugh again, wanted to feel his hands in my hair --"

"His hands are perfect. Everything --" Tim bites his lip and squeezes Clark's thighs with his own, tugs on his hands --

"Your breasts are so full, Tim, generous and soft --"

"My. My nipples -- *hn* --"

"So sensitive. Dick's are not, unless he's had the patience to allow me to suck and nip at them for quite some time --"

"Oh. Oh, God, I -- thank you --"

"Your pleasure is my own," Clark says, and there's something about his voice that's a little... off. The sincerity is *palpable*, but... the accent? The rhythm?

"Clark -- oh. Oh, that -- that touch --" Clark's thumbs, brushing against his nipples, pushing them back and forth, and Tim feels himself getting *wetter*. Just --

He takes one hand off of Clark's and reaches down --

He can't make himself touch further than his own thigh, though, and --

"Oh, that -- mm. Tim, Dick began touching himself while I was licking his thighs. His eyes were closed and he was gentle with himself, so much more than is his usual. He told me he wanted to *last* --"

That sound was a whimper, high and -- *high*, and Tim shakes his head, *reaches* for himself and touches slick wetness, and even the *texture* is different from his own pre-come. It's thicker, more -- he doesn't know. The hair is mostly the same, and if he can just --

This body is *telling* him that it would be easy, that it wouldn't take *much*.

Just a touch, there, and --

Clark moans just before Tim does, perhaps for the way Tim clenches when his fingertips brush his clit, when Clark lifts Tim's breasts slightly and *presses* on Tim's nipples --

"Clark, it feels -- I don't --"

"Try -- ah. Rubbing a circle. Very small, very light --"

Tim nods and does it -- shudders all over and makes a sound that's almost a *bark* --

"Oh. Perhaps you'll let me do that with my tongue? Soon?"

It's -- his turn *first*, but he can't keep himself from rubbing another circle, and another --

Clark whispers something that Tim can't quite hear.

"What...?"

"Ah -- sorry. I said that you were beautiful."

It didn't sound quite like that -- except for how it *did*. In Kryptonian, and Tim thinks about Bruce presenting him with the learning materials, Bruce correcting his pronunciation and tone, Bruce smiling so *sharply* when Tim had asked -- cautiously -- *why* he was supposed to learn a language that only had relevance for one person on the planet -- and Bruce not even coming *close* to giving him an answer.

He'd filed it away under "because I'm supposed to know a large fraction of *everything*" and left it at that, enjoying the small formalities and large amount of political incorrectness, wondering if he'd ever -- well.

He could say something right *now*, and Clark might even appreciate it. Or he could feel Tim was trespassing --

"Tim...?"

It must feel like Tim was kneeling there just staring for ages. Tim smiles and shakes his head. And presses *harder* on his clit, just to --

Make himself *cough* out a groan --

Clark squeezes his breasts -- "You could tell me anything, I wouldn't --"

"Your voice, Clark," he says, because it's true *enough*. "The way you speak, sometimes..."

"Touch yourself again, the way you did --"

Another groan, and this time his hips buck and he's touching -- that would be the opening of his *vagina* --"

"May I pinch your nipples? Perhaps --"

"Yes, I -- I'd like to see -- *nn*, oh, that. I can't tell if that was pain or *not* --"

"You've never played with your nipples...ah. Extensively?"

Tim shakes his head. "It feels too. I wind up feeling *self-conscious*," Tim says, and has to laugh a little, because he's *masturbating* in front of *Superman*. *On* Superman --

"Oh, that's terrible, Tim. I've only watched you pleasuring yourself once --"

*That* -- "You're making me want to *curse*, Clark-- *oh* --"

Clark is *tugging* on Tim's nipples, rolling them a little between his fingers -- "It was after your mission to Tokyo, with Conner --"

"*Kon*, I. I've wanted --"

"He's almost always aroused when you're near, but you. Oh, Tim, you'd treated my invitation like a *distraction* --"

"It *was*. I had a *mission*, Clark, mm, yes -- I think harder --"

"You're stroking your opening. You... would you push in, slightly?"

"I don't know. I." And Tim realizes that his eyes are closed. He opens them, and Clark's penis -- pre-come connecting the head to Clark's abdomen, shiny and so slick, so -- Clark wants to see Tim *fuck* himself, and it's not that it's a particularly difficult desire to understand, but --

"Fear in your scent, again -- hm. Are you worried that you won't enjoy the sensation? Or that you'll enjoy it too much?"

Laughing feels like -- motion within him, *waves* of feeling, and surely the undertow is close? Something to *fear*, yes, and let that fear ride him, drive him to where he needs to *be* --

"Oh, I'm sorry. I -- what did I *say*?"

Another laugh, and it sounds breathless because it *is*. "Oh, Clark. Oh -- I'll tell you. When you need to worry about my *fear*."

"But -- is it Bruce, again?"

"*No*," and Tim pushes in with his middle finger, just a little -- and he thinks that sensation is his vagina saying "*well*?" Laughing again would just make the waves intensify, and staying upright is already starting to be problematic. "Clark, I. When you *watched* --"

"You were *rough* with yourself, almost ruthless, physically -- but you laughed, once, shaking your head against the pillow. I've wondered --"

"Heh. Well..." Tim pushes in just a little *deeper*, and now the things his vagina is saying are somewhat unprintable. There's just a little friction -- that would be the *angle*, more than anything else -- and there's warmth, slickness --

He wouldn't need *lubricant* -- and his *mind* wants him to know that it's conflicted about that. He has so many *good* feelings -- and memories -- about lubricant, particularly the medical grade in the belt currently in the hidden compartment in *that* closet. The tube which he has replaced twice, without so much as a *word* from --

*No*, and now there's anger at himself to go with the fear, to go with --

A part of him is only *wondering*, only -- he *likes* having things inside him, fingers or the escrima stick Dick probably thinks he'd lost somewhere --

"You seem -- your *scent*, Tim. I don't -- I don't think I *understand*..."

And Clark has to be sensing -- everything and nothing at once. It has to feel like he's having sex with a *crazy* person, and that probably shouldn't be as funny as it is, but. Tim opens his eyes and looks into Clark's concerned ones, Clark's *dark* ones, and is that a hint of red? Tim looks into Clark's eyes, opens his mouth, and pushes *in* --

And that was *definitely* Kryptonian, much too fast to be *understood*, but the emotion behind it --

The *feel* -- "That time, Clark. I was in the middle of fantasizing Kon's penis into my *throat* --"

"*Tim* --"

"And then you were there. Guiding his hips as he thrust, whispering something I couldn't understand into Kon's ear because it was -- nn. Speed-babble, or whatever. Whatever you'd like to call your *version* of that --"

Motion --

Clark is sitting up, *lifting* Tim by the hips and sucking Tim's nipples, one after the other and back again, again --

Most of him is focused on the *pull* of it, the sweetness and *ache* --

The -- hysterical, he now realizes -- part of him is thinking about the handful of times Tim has seen a woman breastfeeding. Doesn't lactation sometimes happen spontaneously? It wouldn't be the *weirdest* thing that has happened to Tim today --

And the laughs come out tumbled, jumbled with the moans. The moans are breathless and cracking --

Tim pushes his free hand into Clark's hair, and is surprised and disappointed that it *feels* like hair. Thick and healthy -- oh, but he can pull as hard as he *wants*. He gives it a try --

And Clark looks up at him from under his lashes. That's *definitely* red between pupil and iris, and Tim can't hold back a smile. Certainly, he can't bring himself to *try*.

He pulls out --

He *clenches* around himself, because his vagina doesn't want to *hear* about pulling out, but -- he needs his other hand. He needs it so he can drag his slick finger over Clark's upper lip --

So he can watch Clark's eyes *widen* for a moment before he sucks so hard it *hurts*. Tim moans and licks his lips, bucks his hips and makes contact with Clark's abdomen, so warm and hard, and if he had a *penis* --

He doesn't, and so that isn't *enough*.

"On my *back*, Clark --"

And he hits the bed *vigorously* enough to bounce a little, but Clark has a *firm* grip on his breasts. Tim responds by wrapping his legs around Clark's waist and getting kissed for it, getting his mouth *fucked* for it -- 

And the fantasy is *right* there: Dick moving over him, praising him for his increased flexibility as he bends Tim's legs back to his chest before --

*Before*, and Clark's penis is a hot weight on Tim's abdomen, moving and painting him with alien pre-come, so warm and so *slick*.

Tim's starting to feel *dirty* -- on a number of *levels* -- but he's being kissed by a man who has admitted, openly, to spying on Tim while he was jerking *off* --

"Oh -- Clark. If I'd known what you wanted. If I'd *understood* --"

Wet *slurp*, and Clark pulls his lips from Tim's breast.

*When* had he moved back --

"You had no *inkling*, Tim?"

"You have *Dick*. And *Lois Lane*. And -- apparently all sorts of other people. I thought you were being *friendly*."

Clark makes a sound -- it's almost a growl. "If Bruce would just --" He shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I'm very -- none of you *communicate* properly with each other, and sometimes that's deeply -- frustrating," Clark says, and *licks* Tim's nipple --

Tim's flexes internally, and it's possible that he's getting used to the feeling, because it *only* makes his skin prickle all over with fresh sweat --

"Ah, that *tang* --" And Clark is licking his way up the center of Tim's chest, *rocking* his hips -- "If you don't mind, I --"

And suddenly Clark's penis is against -- Tim's *lips*. "Oh. *Oh* --"

"Many women seem to -- ah. May I?"

*Fuck* me -- no, he can't quite bring himself to say that. It's -- he's blushing again, and his clit wants him to know that Clark's penis is warm, that it's *hard*, that it could be -- "Move. You -- Against me, please --" *Tim* growls, because it's so *close* to what he'd imagined frottage would feel like, it's --

Pressure and *slide*, slickness and -- is that his hood moving? Is that what having a foreskin would feel like?

Tim shakes his *head* --

"Please tell me --"

"Comparative -- physiology. I -- faster? I think -- oh, *God* --"

"I should've guessed that you'd prefer things to fit as neatly within a familiar paradigm as they could --"

Tim's *eyes* roll back in his head --

"Oh, Tim, don't stop -- keep talking to me, please, keep *sharing*. Would you *like* for me to try to convince Kon to --"

"Oh my God. Ah -- no? Really? I treasure his -- nuh. Uh -- his sanity, oh -- *fuck* --"

"I really was *mostly* joking, oh yes, *pull* my hair --"

"*Kiss* me --"

"A bit difficult with the angle, but --"

Clark's tongue slips between his lips at nearly the same time as the head of Clark's penis --

Oh, *against* Tim's clit, and Tim groans and *yanks* on Clark's hair, rears up to make the kiss harder, and his lips feel swollen, impossible -- they were *already* larger than the ones he'd grown up with, and now they must look. Obscene.

Though perhaps no more than the rest of this, perhaps --

Clark squeezes Tim's hip with one hand, and uses the other to -- he's *guiding* his penis against Tim's clit, rubbing it back and forth, up and down, and Tim can't classify the noise he's making beyond being quite sure that it's not the conversation Clark seems to want --

"Tim," Clark says, and it sounds like a plea, like a *prayer*, and Tim *wants* to be able to say something in response to that, but he doesn't have anything but *noise*.

He's *close*, or he thinks he is. The waves just keep *breaking* within him, driving him higher and making him feel more and more *open*, as if Clark could do anything to him and this body could take it and demand more. He wants his finger back inside himself, but more than that --

Another kiss, and Clark seems to almost be *drinking* from his mouth, licking so *gently* as he moves his penis faster, *teases* --

No, it's perfect, it's -- it's *right*, so much so that Tim has to pull back and bite Clark's lip, dig in against something with no give at all. "I want -- oh. Words, I. I wasn't expecting *words* --"

"You're a very articulate young man --"

"Stop being -- *complimentary* --"

<<I would have your beauty for my own, fine one. You were made for art, for the expression of the creative and the judgment of the divine -->>

"I *heard* that --"

"I'm sorry?"

"So -- *innocent*. How do you even -- I can't -- oh, God, Clark, I *need* --"

"Please tell me, Tim. I would have your *pleasure* --"

Tim squeezes his eyes shut and tries to get *more*, moves his hips but only succeeds in making Clark's penis slip away from the places he needs it *most* -- "*Please* --"

"It's all right, Tim, you're -- oh, Tim, let me --"

"In me, I need -- please, Clark --"

*Motion*, and his thighs are spread *exactly* as far as they can comfortably go, and Clark --

*In* --

Thumb *vibrating* on his clit and *in* --

"Unh -- oh fuck, oh *fuck* --"

And then Clark *moves*, and Tim realizes that it's Clark's *tongue* inside him, that he's tasting -- he can taste --

Tim throws back his head and *shouts*, and Clark is *holding* his thighs apart, Clark is *fucking* him with his tongue and using -- vibrating --

And Tim's aware that he's banging his head against the pillow, but mostly --

The clench --

The *slide* --

And it feels like the scream *forces* itself out of Tim's chest, feels like -- the waves -- the *undertow* --

He's *coming*, and there's nothing he can do to stop it, nothing he can do to ease it or at least --

Slow it down, make it stop before he loses his *mind*, and it can't possibly keep going like this, it *has* to stop, has to let him *go* --

Oh --

But it's easing, a little, he can think, he can register the fact that Clark is just *stroking* his clit now, so *lightly*, and he's licking around the entrance more than he's fucking --

Of course he knows that that was an orgasm. Tim's *neighbors* know that that was an orgasm, but -- he's not sensitive. It's still *good*, and he's writhing for it, tugging --

At some point he'd buried his hands in Clark's *hair* again, and he *likes* to have it pulled. Does Dick? Is he ever rough with Clark?

And he can *see* Dick guiding Clark's head on his penis, see him smiling as he *fucks* Clark's mouth, hear him moan -- oh, he wants to hear Dick *moan* --

"I -- please. That was --" Tim shakes his head and tries again, breathes deep and feels something *shift* within him. He moans and tries for speech again, for -- "Clark..."

Clark hums against him, and it rolls right through him, and his entire *body* wants him to know that there could be more, that he's *having* more --

"You don't -- I *came* -- *oh* --"

Clark's *kissing* the entrance to his vagina, pressing his lips against it hard and slipping his tongue in, teasing the -- he supposes that would be the upper wall, but the only thing Tim's sure of is that he's working his hips again.

Had he stopped? At all? "Clark. *Clark* --"

<<Your taste is intoxication, wonder -->>

"*Clark* --"

"Yes, Tim?"

And that *particular* innocence will now always speak of the boldest, *baldest* *lies*, but -- "You really don't -- ah. I'd like to make *you* come --"

"I'm afraid I've stained your comforter," Clark says, and drags his nose *up* against his clit --

"Ah -- oh. Surely you're not -- ah. Finished?"

"Well, that's the amusing thing, Tim -- I rather think you aren't, *either*," and when Clark looks up at him --

Well, the view and *staging* are both rather --

Clark has very attractive smile lines at the corners of his eyes, and he's currently using them to great effect.

"Noted," Tim says, and sits up on his elbows -- and watches his breasts try to point in opposite directions. Clark's expression is making it very clear that he finds that image particularly attractive, which is...

He's *seen* Steph without a bra on -- once. Her breasts are much fuller than his own, and more naturally firm. Would Clark -- he'd already said he found Steph beautiful --

"Tim... I. I gather it doesn't help that I find your breasts to be quite wonderful?"

Tim raises an eyebrow and smiles. "I'm glad I can provide pleasure."

"Ah. Or perhaps I should say 'noted?'"

And that... Tim smiles a little wider and lifts his leg enough that he can stroke *Clark's* leg with his foot --

"Oh. Yes...?"

"You could consider... using your fingers."

"Perhaps in a few minutes...? I can make my tongue quite... hm. You seemed to enjoy it?"

And, apparently, the taste of his pre-ejaculate -- did he ejaculate? At all? Well, he's *intoxicating*. Or, given the vagaries of translation, 'that which maddens the senses.' But... "I really would like to suck you, Clark."

"You've never -- you might not enjoy the sensations as much as you've imagined --"

Tim raises his eyebrow *higher*. "Are you trying to tell me that *any* of your sexual partners have expressed displeasure -- or even *implied* it --"

"I wouldn't --" Clark looks distinctly sheepish. "I don't want to cause you discomfort, Tim."

Because he's just *that* big. *But*. Tim strokes Clark with his foot a little more pointedly. "What I've *imagined*, Clark, is that the inevitable discomfort would be part of the attraction."

And that makes Clark narrows his eyes *and* look a little distant. Is he remembering Dick? Someone else?

"Or... I could ask you how *Dick* feels about sucking you off."

"You could," Clark says, and kisses Tim's mound, does it again -- does it *again*, and nuzzles Tim's there, breathes *deep* -- "He *has* always enjoyed it, but it used to cause him pain."

Practice makes -- oh, he really should feel guilty about this endless *questioning*. He wants to know -- and Clark wants to *tell* him -- Tim shakes his head. "I think I'm shooting myself in the foot with regards to... how I'm going to *relate* to Dick after this."

Another kiss, another inhale -- "Mmm. I -- knowing Dick, he would probably be quite willing -- even happy -- to discuss *this* with you. Ah... if you found yourself at a loss for other topics of conversation."

And that is... nothing but the absolute truth. Tim snorts and pinches the bridge of his nose --

Gets his thigh *licked* and shivers --

"Certainly you don't bring this up out of any desire to listen in on that hypothetical conversation."

"Oh, I'd *never*, ever do such a thing. Hardly ever. Almost certainly not -- hrm. Often?" And Clark reaches to tug Tim's hand away from his face. He's hovering a bit, and when Tim allows him to move his hand... he's smiling broadly.

Tim tries and fails to suppress his *own* smile and settles back on his elbows. "You... take a *lot* of liberties, Clark."

"Would you discipline me for it?"

Tim feels his smile twist into something that's probably a lot more like a *pucker* --

And it's absolutely fascinating to watch that pleased, amused *light* dancing in Clark's eyes when the pupils are still rimmed with *red*. Still --

"How on earth would you... negotiate your relationships with my family if we *weren't* all conditioned to being under surveillance at all times?" 

"I suppose," Clark says, and flies slowly back down between Tim's legs, kisses Tim's abdomen and mound again, nuzzles Tim's thigh -- "I suppose that I would have to institute a program of making myself seem harmless, even beneficial --"

"Earnest, perhaps?"

Clark's smile is *sharp* as he spreads Tim's outer lips, as he leans in --

And doesn't kiss.

"I'm just a simple farmboy, Tim. Far from home. And -- ah. Naive? Your city ways are *alien* to me," and his breath is *hot* on Tim's clit, damp and promising --

Tim takes a breath. "You... hm. Didn't your parents *talk* to you about being... nosy?"

And yes, Clark *does* nuzzle Tim's clit, and the sensation does, indeed, make Tim's body relax all over -- no, it just feels that way, because his vagina is trying very hard to let Tim -- and Clark -- know that it's *available*.

The *rest* of him is rather tense, a bit covered in gooseflesh -- *interested*. "You -- should answer my question --"

"I strive not to be a disappointment to my parents," Clark says, and *licks* --

"*Hnn* -- you. You could consider trying *harder* --"

"Would you tell me --" A kiss, slow and wet, slow and --

His clit wants him to know that Clark's tongue is *not* a finger, but that it's willing to overlook that failing in the interest of --

Of -- "Oh, that -- uh. Harder, please --"

*Press*, broad and thick -- the flat of Clark's tongue, and this lick makes Tim arch his hips up, try to *follow* --

"I think. Would you hold my hips -- *oh* --"

Such broad *hands*, but Tim's not sure if he's reacting to the feel of them or to Clark's breathy moan, Clark's *pleased*-sounding moan as he licks again, and *again* --

Tim's legs are shaking, but -- "You had a. Question?"

*Kiss*, hard and oddly *chaste*-seeming -- "Those sheets you used to have... ah?"

Something had seized within Tim, making him clench, making him -- "I. I thought you only watched me masturbate *once*, Clark --"

"Oh, I did, truly. But -- hm. Bruce watches you sleep, sometimes... and sometimes I watch *Bruce* -- sometimes if I watch him *deeply* enough, he'll allow me to share his company --"

"Watching me *sleep*?"

"Well, he always turns off the monitors before I get there. I have to... sometimes I feel --" Another kiss, and another -- a slow, *hard* lick --

"T-tell me. Please, I need --"

"Of course," Clark says, shifting and kissing Tim's mound, again. "When he watches you sleep, he seems to want privacy. And I have... well. There's a curiosity to that, a desire within myself -- constant and difficult to *restrict* -- to understand him, to know what it is that drives him --"

"He's probably just --" Tim shakes his head. "Making plans for me, making sure I'm using my rest periods efficiently. Or. Ah. There have been times when he's *woken* me by watching --"

And the memory of the last time that had happened is --

He'd been living in the manor while his father had been in that coma. The bed -- *his* bed, because he'd gotten used to it --

His bed had seemed large and forgiving, welcoming after a long day training until it was actually difficult to think about all the things he didn't want to think about. He doesn't remember the dream he was having, but he'd woken up with a start, and Bruce had been right there.

A gauntleted hand on his shoulder, the other just brushing his cheek --

("There is nothing, Tim. Rest.")

And he'd asked Bruce if he was *sure*, and sounded like a child to his own ears --

("Everything is as well as it can be.")

And he'd fallen asleep *wanting*, and admitting absolutely nothing to himself --

"His... regard. It must be intimidating, at times?"

Tim had closed his eyes again. He opens them to see a look of understanding on Clark's face, open and gentle *despite* the red. Tim reaches out to touch, to stroke Clark's cheek and forehead, his mouth --

He gets kissed, and Clark says "Tim," sounding pleased and perhaps even *eased*, as if there'd been something stressful about... watching Tim remember? Knowing Tim was thinking about Bruce *again* --

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to be so -- distracted."

"I am by no means perfect, Tim. There are times when I've felt jealousy so strongly it *hurt*, but I have no illusions about my place in your life," Clark says, cupping Tim's hand in his own and kissing Tim's fingers.

That -- Tim's wincing. "Clark, you -- the fact that I'm attracted to others --"

"Your love -- the *way* you love, with such quiet intensity..."

Wincing *and* blushing -- "I. I wasn't thinking about anyone else when I -- when you made me... come."

And Clark gives him another of those *profound* smiles, and if Tim didn't have those memories of sitting in Dick's lap, he *would* be tempted to think that Dick had learned them *from* Clark. It's --

Absolutely impossible to look away, and very difficult not to lose himself in the thought that he'd *made* Clark look that way, that that smile is for *him* --

"I confess -- I was thinking of Dick," Clark says, and raises his eyebrow, turning the smile into something rather teasing.

"I -- oh. I'm. Well, that's entirely reasonable --"

A *breathtakingly* fast change of expression: Clark is serious, *worried* again --

"Clark...?"

"No, *no*, Tim. I was *thinking* about what sounds you might make if Dick had been the one pleasuring you. I was wondering if you would call his name, if any of those shouts had been meant to be my own. Your love for him is so *clear*, your curiosity -- your *hunger* is so tempting..." Clark is cupping Tim's hips, fingers digging -- gently -- in against Tim's ass.

And Tim is blinking... rather a lot. That's. Well. It's -- "It doesn't seem... I don't see the." Tim frowns, because there really ought to be *some* way to phrase what he wants to say that makes sense. There is -- there should *be* jealousy, or at least a sense of something being missing --

"I find you both *deeply* attractive, Tim. And... your care for each other." Clark hums a little and *licks* Tim's abdomen up to his navel, stabs in *hard* with his tongue --

"Oh -- that. Definitely doesn't tickle. There's something almost *electric* about it --"

Another hum, and Clark does it again, and again, and Tim is very glad he keeps his navel clean, though there's some question as to whether whatever lingering dirt had been on his *male* body had survived the transition --

His *scars* are all in the wrong places, and he's not going to think about that. He *is* going to push his hands into Clark's hair again, and get another... hum? Or was that a moan? Difficult to tell, as it's rather *slurred* --

And Clark wants to perform cunnilingus on him again -- Steph. Steph would... *would* she like it? From him? From Clark? Certainly the images are compelling. Steph had told him she used to pretend to *be* Superman when she was small. He'd never gotten to show her his sheets --

His nipples are aching, both from what Clark is doing to his *navel* -- and *what* is the connection there? They ache, also, from Clark's earlier attentions, and it wouldn't hurt --

For certain values of hurt --

Tim cups his breasts and feels their softness, lifts them and squeezes them, a little, imagining Clark's hands, Clark's gently implacable *grip* -- he lets go and sucks his first two fingers into his mouth, licks them and does the same for the other hand --

And the first pinch makes him arch up, and Clark moans and stabs his navel *faster*. The second pinch makes Clark look up and almost *glitter* at him --

"Surely you can't begrudge me the beautiful image of Dick burying his face between your breasts, turning to lick, turning to *bite* --"

Tim moans and arches again, helpless above and beyond being unable to deny -- *that*. Dick loves women so much. He's better than Tim at so many things, including bisexuality, and he could be beautiful for Dick, *willing* --

"Oh, Tim, I will never -- perhaps if you were to let me just let it *slip* to Dick about your attraction --"

"God, *no*. It's -- it's been hard enough keeping it a secret, letting him -- oh, your *mouth* --"

Breathing *hot* against Tim's inner thigh, perhaps drying the fluids there, somewhat, but he has so much more to give --

"Clark, please, I -- I think I want. Ah. In me? Again --"

<<Will you forgive me this aggression, fine one?>>

Aggression? What -- "Are you -- Clark?"

Clark meets his eyes, and there's a curiosity there, along with the hunger and the *burn*. He *has* to know that Tim understands him, considering how *much* attention Tim has apparently demanded over the -- years.

Tim shakes his head -- "I don't --" <<Know?>> "Which aggression are we --"

Talking about, and it certainly could be *this* kiss, and the way it presses Tim down to the bed and *pins* him there, as if Clark has something far sharper than a simple tongue, far more *dangerous*. Tim moans and Clark starts fucking his mouth, starts *teasing* --

It's *necessary* to bury his hands in Clark's hair, to twist it around his fingers and pull, twist more until he can feel at least *somewhat* caught. Held and held *down*, and when he opens his eyes, Clark's are open, too, staring down into him and demanding --

Attention? Pleasure? Some nebulous variety of more? Tim tries to put all of the questions into his *own* eyes, and perhaps it works, a little, because the kiss becomes slower, if not more gentle. It's *crystal* clear that Clark enjoys the sensation of fucking Tim's mouth with his tongue, that he likes the way Tim is sucking on him, trying to hold that tongue in his mouth --

Weight and *pressure*, just a little at first, just enough to *alert* Tim, and it's easier than he'd expected to bend his knees back to his chest, to leave a *space* for Clark between his legs, a way to get more of that contact --

Oh, he's so *hard* again, though to be fair -- Tim has no idea if Clark had ever gotten soft. And it's far less important than the feel of Clark's shaft sliding against Tim's clit, than the way Clark is almost *feeding* Tim his tongue, filling him in a way that makes Tim heat all over --

Though that could just be the inevitable result of this close a contact with a Kryptonian --

Kon. Kon is *always* warm, though not so warm as this. He hadn't known for sure, but *now* he does, and he'll remember it the next time they're close, the next time Kon looks at him with that poorly-veiled speculation in his eyes, that *instinct*, clear and accurate within him, that Tim really does *want* --

("Just admit it, dude -- I am *smokin'* hot.")

And he could *interrogate* his mind over the way it's throwing out constant distractions, endless images of *everyone* Tim has ever been even moderately attracted to --

But he knows it's a defense mechanism as much as it's anything else. Part of him doesn't want to *deal* with the fact that he's in the process of having sex with someone he'd always considered so far beyond himself that he couldn't even crib together a decent fantasy, as opposed to a parade of otherwise innocent images and the occasional belch of *id* --

And the rest of him is struggling with all the power at its disposal to keep Tim from thinking about --

Clark's best friend. He --

Clark pulls back and smiles at him gently, once more. "A spike of fear. I know you told me not to worry about those --"

"I can't seem to -- I don't have *control* of my brain, Clark, and I'm sorry --"

"No need," he says, and presses two fingers against Tim's lips, "to apologize. The first time I made love I was both in the moment and in a million different bedrooms at once. The things I could *hear*..."

"I... oh. I -- you're making me worry that I'm keeping you from something --"

"If Superman needs to leave, he will. And *I* will return as soon as I can -- if you'll have me."

*Really* -- Tim tugs Clark's fingers away from his mouth. "Ah... perhaps I've been sowing some measure of doubt, in that respect?"

Clark's smile gets wider. "Oh... you could change your mind. Or have business of your own. Or both. Life is risk."

Tim shakes his head and laughs quietly. "I really don't understand -- and this is by no means a request for compliments, in whatever language you choose to use --"

<<But you do speak...?>>

"Ah." <<One-who-teaches did *insist*.>>

<<Mentor,>> Clark says, and traces Tim's frown line --

<<As you say. Kal-El -->>

"Only around the... hmm. Edges," Clark says, rearing up and *thrusting* once, again --

Tim clutches at the pillows with his hands and at Clark's waist with his *legs* --

"Beautiful, beautiful -- I'm sorry. You were saying?"

Tim laughs again -- moans and *arches* again -- "Were you *testing* me with Kryptonian?"

"Mm, you -- it would be far more accurate to say that I was testing the boundaries of what I could get *away* with, Tim, and -- I love the feel of your slickness Tim, your -- oh, so *human* --"

"Human *female* --"

"*Lovely* female," and Clark gives Tim more of his weight, braces his hands on the pillow to either side of Tim's head seemingly just to *do* it --

Or to give Tim the opportunity to see those thick and massively golden forearms in his peripheral vision. They're only lightly dusted with hair, not like -- *dammit*. "*Harder* --"

<<Your wish, your demand, your *pleasure*, oh fine one, desired -->>

"*Clark* --" Fingers on his mouth --

"Would you suck?"

And *everything* in Clark's voice suggests that Tim would feel that he'd have an *option*, a sort of internal -- perhaps *eternal* -- foundation of optimism about the concept of free *will* --

And Tim is laughing while he sucks, moaning while he laughs, and yes, licking while he sucks, while Clark *thrusts* against him, again and again. There's some degree of discomfort, but Tim can't call it pain.

Perhaps if he weren't quite this wet? Presumably that will be the case at *some* point --

"Oh, the feel of you, Tim. So soft and yet so inflamed..."

*Hot*. Clark is *hot* and making Tim sweat, making him -- Tim squeezes Clark with his legs and wonders if he can come this way --

"Do you feel...? I often wonder about human sensitivity. I'm trembling, steady and mild, but... oh, Tim, I've wanted you for so *long*."

Trembling? Tim makes a questioning sound around Clark's fingers -- and Clark pushes in *deep*, *stretches* Tim's mouth --

"Oh -- was that not what you wanted?"

Tim bites down *lightly* --

"Yes, *that*, Tim. Shall I thrust with my fingers, as well?"

Tim nods and hums -- moans at the feel of Clark using the exact *opposite* rhythm to the one he's using for his hips. In and out, thrust and release. Tim clenches internally --

Clark growls softly and this time Tim *can* feel the shaking, the *tremor*, all-encompassing and intimidating in the best possible way --

So *good* --

"I almost think -- mm. Does the fear make it better for you? Is it somehow... somehow *part* of sex for you?"

Tim raises *both* eyebrows --

"You're incredulous. I see. It's -- I don't *want* you to be afraid, Tim --"

Tim bites a little harder --

"But are my wants *entirely* irrelevant? I would think that a young man like yourself... you *wish* to please, and that. I do worry about taking advantage --"

The laugh is no more slurred than the moan, and perhaps less so, perhaps -- oh, it feels like Tim could almost *swallow* Clark's fingers, take them *deep* within himself --

<<I would be forgiven my crimes, if not my desires...>>

The *sound* of it, liquid and sweet, exactly as though those sounds were made for Clark's throat, for the power and precision -- those *thrusts*, and there's pre-come in his cleft, now, ticklish and wet. He wants to be *touched* --

"Perhaps I was foolish to give you my fingers to suck. I want to *hear* you, fine one, so brilliant and so *sharp* -- and would you use your teeth on my penis?"

And it's starting to be a little beyond Tim to raise his eyebrow -- trying to do so just convinces his eyes that they want to roll back in his head --

"Dick never -- *almost* never. It upsets him. It -- he knows that my sensitivity is quite high, that I can feel everything he does, however lightly..."

*Focus* returns with a rush that's almost painful, a sense that he had *been* close to another orgasm and isn't anymore, but -- sensitive. Of course Clark must be --

*All* of his senses are powerful, but how does he *live* with that much input? It must be --

"Tim...?"

Tim leans back against the pillow and Clark removes his fingers from his mouth, *stops* thrusting, which is terrible, but -- "You must -- how do you *dampen* the constant influx of physical information?"

Clark smiles at him -- fond again, and, by the look of it, utterly unsurprised.

"I mean -- ah." Blushing. Again. "I'm sorry, but that's very *interesting* --"

"The easy answer is 'practice,' but I imagine that's unsatisfying?"

The slight salt of Clark's fingers is a tang in his mouth, an ache on his tongue -- and Tim realizes that he was tasting *himself*, at least in part, and he'd known that it would be different, but he hadn't really given the matter much *thought* -- focus. "I... if you wouldn't mind expounding...?"

Clark nods and pries Tim's legs -- gently -- from around his waist. And then he just *is* between Tim's legs, spreading Tim's lips *wide* -- "You feel the air, my breath --"

"Nn -- yes. I. Very much --"

"But now..." Clark exhales, warm and just -- *everything* -- "Just my breath?"

"Oh. Oh, God --"

A kiss -- several of them, wet and serious, quick and *deep*, all within, and his vagina wants him to know that Clark's tongue is the perfect thing -- and that, while it *could* be convinced otherwise, any attempt to do so right *now* would result in dire consequences. Tim's *aware* that Clark is still kissing him, still moving his hard, perfect lips, but --

"You -- you've made your point. I think. I need to come, Clark, or it's --" Tim shakes his head. "There are no real messages from the base of my spine, but --"

Clark pulls back *slightly*. "More from within your abdomen --"

Slurred but entirely comprehensible, and -- "*Waves* of feeling, and the sense of myself as being in motion, or -- maybe *wanting* to be in motion. Just -- please. Something?"

"Yes," Clark says, cupping Tim's hips and licking up *hard* over Tim's clit, making Tim grit his teeth and writhe --

*Try* to writhe, because Clark's grip is both gentle and completely impossible to move around, and that makes something seize in him --

"Tim?"

"*Don't* let go --"

Clark moans and does something -- oh. He's *sucking* Tim's clit, pressing with his lips, and Tim thinks he knows, now, how it would feel if he still had a penis. If --

Or. No, it's -- that tightness in him is in an entirely different place, and feels more... fragile? Difficult to maintain? He's not sure of anything beyond not wanting the feeling to stop --

Except that he's *empty*, and this time he's actually aware of his ass, too. Maybe it's all the natural lubricant in his cleft, or maybe it's the male in him asserting itself. He *could* be full. He could have --

"Clark, I want -- in me. My vagina or my -- ass -- *fuck* --"

And a part of his brain is searching his memories for the feel of Clark letting go of his hip, but that part is much too slow and doesn't have its *priorities* in the right place. Clark is -- his hand --

His *thumb* is in Tim's vagina and his fingers are spreading Tim's cleft wide, rubbing at Tim's *hole* as he pushes, as he *thrusts* --

And the shock seems to *explode* under this wave of sensation, and the only thing Tim can do -- he's moaning and *cursing*, and he's gripping at the duvet with both hands, and he's *twisting* for it, rocking his hips as much as he can --

Clark is still *holding* him, still sucking and this --

So much --

And his body is telling him that if he just manages to twist *enough*, Clark will be inside him *both* ways, that he could have --

Clark presses *down* with his thumb and Tim shouts, tries to work his hips to make Clark thrust, go faster --

Hum *deliberately* loud around his clit until it seems like every muscle in Tim's body is tensed and holding him twisted, bent -- when had he sat up? How -- it would be *better* if he just planted his feet and pushed instead of drumming his fucking *heels*.

Tim lets himself fall back and does it, and there's a push -- *breach*, and he's not sure *which* of Clark's fingers that was, that *is* --

Inside him, burning hot and so *hard*, so *rough*, and Clark's saying something, or just moving his lips --

Clark's licking him, long flat stripes of his tongue, his hard and powerful *tongue* --

*Push*, thumb and finger, and he can feel Clark's finger in his ass and Clark's thumb in his vagina, he can feel -- he can smell himself and *hear* himself --

"*Clark* --"

Another moan, and this one is loud enough to make Tim shudder all over, to make him kick out involuntarily --

"*Please* --"

That thrust --

So *hard*, and Clark could do anything to him like this, could make Tim *want* anything, beg and plead and --

Tim feels himself clenching, and then there's nothing but the pleasure. It wipes out absolutely everything but itself and makes Tim shout and toss his head, shake and *kick* --

And he's still not ready for the way it goes on and *on*, for the way Clark is fucking him *through* it, and Tim can't control the motion of his hips, but Clark is just riding it perfectly, catching his lack of rhythm and keeping it, keeping *him* --

"Oh, God, *please* --"

"So beautiful, so *perfect* --"

And Tim flops back against the bed and gasps, pants -- yanks at the duvet until he can convince his fingers to *unclench*. That thing inside him is quieter, but not actually anything *like* quiet or still.

His body wants him to know that there's more available, that Clark is right *there*, *inside* him -- and Tim's growl turns into a laugh, because --

"Oh... yes, Tim?"

"What -- exactly -- are your arguments against fucking me?" And Tim sits up on his elbows and raises an eyebrow. "I'd like to get them out in the open so I can begin working against them *immediately*."

Clark blinks -- but not before the red in his eyes widens and *deepens* -- not before he lets Tim *see* it.

"*Now*, Clark."

"You're quite small --"

"I *stretch* --"

"Not..." Clark exhales and presses *up* with the finger in Tim's ass, and the friction is -- the *burn* is -- "Oh. The way you *clenched*, Tim --"

And Clark *is* saying something else, but he's saying it directly into his vagina. Perhaps *spelling* it, and Tim groans and clutches the duvet again, throws his head back and *wills* himself to stand firm --

Or at the very least *not* just lie here and *take* it, not just this, not *yet* --

"-- so *much* we can do together, Tim. You're still so *close*, relatively --"

"*Clark* -- what *else*?"

"You. You have a *hymen*, Tim."

"*What*? God, *why*?"

"Ah -- I'm afraid I can't answer that question," Clark says, and rests his free hand on Tim's abdomen, rubbing warm and firm. "If you would breathe deeply --"

"I -- really don't want you to pull out."

"Oh. Oh. Tim --" And Clark's expression changes, goes distant and hardens --

"Clark --"

"Earthquake. At least a six point four. Please breathe?"

And a part of Tim is honestly questioning the timing, but Clark is frowning hard and stroking Tim's abdomen almost restlessly --

Tim breathes -- and moans at the *loss*, so much more intense than anything he'd felt when he was just masturbating --

And gets kissed, hard and for only *just* long enough --

His lips are sore --

"I'm sorry," Clark says, and he's fully suited up. "I will -- would you have me return?"

"*Yes*. Go --"

He's gone. And Tim is splayed out naked and *not* fucked enough. By any stretch of the imagination. The curtains billow in and out of the window. The bed --

The room smells like a great deal of heterosexual sex, though infinitely more pleasantly than in the brothels of his acquaintance. He moves his legs -- wetness, somewhat cool --

Clark had come, untouched, the first time he'd gone down on Tim. Tim *almost* wishes there were someone to see the expression on his face. He's quite sure it's an interesting one.

Tim swings his legs off the bed and stands up -- sticky thighs, sticky *cleft*, and -- the hint of that burn. Does Clark really not want to -- or.

Or.

Tim fingers the comm in his ear but doesn't take it off passive receive. If Bruce had found anything, he would've called. Certainly he wouldn't have bothered to wait until Tim wasn't... would he? Tim just *touches* the small button that would allow him to transmit, to *ask*.

Bruce has never really been the kind of man who *makes* his partners and associates ask important questions, though it's possible that Tim getting sexually involved with his best friend -- and his *first* partner's lover --

All right, so he's feeling a little queasy. A little *unfinished*, and being in this room surrounded by the smell of himself, the hints of *Clark* --

Tim crosses his arms under his breasts and holds on, just for a second. He can recognize all the hallmarks of leading himself -- *beating* himself -- into a class one freak-out, and that just wouldn't be helpful, right now.

He'd had a fair amount of sex with Clark Kent --

He'd had a fair amount of sex with *Clark*, who is, apparently, as separate an entity from Clark Kent as Bruce is from Bruce Wayne. Or Tim from Tim Drake, for that matter. Clark has *wanted* him for quite some time, even going to the extreme of watching him jerk off, from... some mind-boggling distance.

Had he touched himself while he watched? That would've been a good question to ask, especially since Clark had seemed in the mood to answer all *sorts* of questions of that type. He can deal. He can absolutely deal with the fact that he's no longer a virgin --

Will he still count as a virgin when he's back in his own body?

Are there limits to how many ridiculous questions he can ask while hugging himself naked?

Tim snorts and pulls the duvet off the bed. It's washable, which is a good thing, and -- and yes, he's holding the wet spot close enough to his face that he can smell it. Mostly, he smells himself -- except not. The scent is similar to the taste of Clark's pre-come, but stronger. Deeper, somehow, if not sharper.

Perhaps if he can manage to keep his legs together when he sees Clark again, he can *also* manage to get his *mouth* on Clark. That would be... a stretch. Heh. It's not the best -- it's possible he means 'worst' -- pun, but, well, that could *be* a way to negotiate his next visit to the 'haven.

Or Dick's next visit *here*, and -- would he just show up if Tim stayed off the grid for a day or two? Dick hasn't been here since Tim's birthday, and he does tend to get *twitchy* if it has been too long between visits.

*He's* getting twitchy. Staying twitchy.

At the very least -- he wouldn't have to worry about hiding an erection, right now. That's -- definitely something.

Tim snorts to himself, puts on a robe, and takes the comforter to the laundry room. He's been doing his own laundry as a matter of course since that stitch had popped in his calf in the night and he'd bled all over a -- plain -- set of sheets which have since been discarded. It had taken a lot of work to make the stain less *obviously* blood-related, but anything that makes him look like a normal -- and circumspect -- teenaged boy is to be encouraged.

Once the washing machine is going, he heads to the bathroom and showers quickly and thoroughly -- tries to. Women make up fifty-one percent of the world's population, and hand-held shower heads still aren't standard issue. He considers taking himself to the master bath -- where Dana had *insisted* there be a hand-held installed -- but decides on the judicious use of a washcloth, instead.

His vulva as a whole seems convinced that he hadn't done anything like a good enough job, but -- he was starting to make himself a little overly sensitive and a *lot* overly stimulated.

Does Steph have a hand-held in her shower? He can't remember ever noticing one way or another. Perhaps she has one of those *massaging* shower heads, and -- yes, Tim realizes, now, why they would be so popular an option.

When he's done, he almost smells familiar to himself. There are subtle hints of (female) *other*, but he can deal.

And Bruce hasn't called, or left an e-mail, or shown up to lurk inside his closet. Tim sighs and goes to pop the comm back in --

He pauses and eyes the phone. He can *call* Dick. That's an option available to him, and the fact that he normally forgets that right up until Dana asks -- periodically -- if he's spoken to Dick recently... well. If nothing else, he really ought to make the LUDs for his phone look reasonable in *case* his father or stepmother ever decide to check.

He's a young man on his own for two weeks. He *ought* to be calling all sorts of people, and -- he really is pacing naked in his bedroom making up excuses to call his *brother*.

Because he has *that* many issues. Jesus. If nothing else, Dick would be *ticked* to find out that Tim had been benched some other way. It's not like Bruce would think to let him know -- no more excuses. He'll call, they'll talk, Tim will do something other than drive himself crazy wondering if Clark will come back, *when* Clark will come back, what he'll *do* when he comes back, whether Tim will learn to make new and exciting terrible *noises* when he comes back --

*Is* he hormonal?

Or is he just -- seriously -- missing time training in the Cave? He could go for a run, at least, and maybe he should --

The interesting thing, once Tim sits on his bed, pinches the bridge of his nose very hard, and *thinks* about it -- is that he honestly doesn't *feel* like he's freaking out. Sure, his heart rate's up and he's a little too warm, but that itchy feeling between his shoulder blades is -- mostly -- missing, as is the...

Crawling feeling in his scrotum. Right. Tim opens his hand and smacks his forehead against his palm a couple of times. Just because he's a woman who'd had sex with Superman while talking dirty about his older brother's myriad charms --

Tim lets himself fall back against the bed -- and grabs his breasts before they flop around too much.

And then he takes the phone off the charger and punches in Dick's number.

It rings four times --

"-lo? Who's calling?"

"Ah -- it's me, Dick. Are you --"

"*Tim*? Is everything okay? You -- you're using the *phone*. Which I had to go *find* -- it turned out to be under the bed, and -- black smoke?"

"Billowing," Tim says, because *his* line was clear the last time he checked --

"Yeah, ditto. You're all right, though? Because, uh. *Phone*," Dick says and makes a small grunting noise --

"Are you. You're still under the bed, aren't you?"

"Not for *long*, little brother -- okay, my hair is caught. Hang on --"

Tim hears the phone hit the floor from not very far up --

"Oh, ow, this was supposed to stop *happening* when I cut it," and Dick's voice is quiet, but still clear enough.

And Dick's hair... well, it's only really short when considered against how long it *used* to be --

"Okay. Okay. Shimmying out as we speak -- is your voice weird for some reason, or is it just the fact that we're on the *phone*?"

"Not -- getting over that phone thing anytime soon, are you?"

"Answer a *question*, Timbo. I already know *something* is wrong --"

"Um. I'm a woman."

"Er... On the inside? I don't judge you! In fact, I always kind of wondered --"

"*What*? No -- *no*. I'm a *woman*, Dick. On the *outside*."

"Okay, so we're ignoring what I just said --"

"No, we *aren't*, Dick, *what* --"

Dick sighs and -- creaking noise, bouncing noise. He's *on* his bed, now, and that's improvement, but --

"Seriously, what --"

"It's just -- you have these little mannerisms, sometimes. And you're very -- okay, so mainly I just think you might be gay."

"I -- I *am* gay --"

"Still? Even though you've got a... wow, now I'm picturing it. We really need to have this conversation in person -- okay, I *can't* leave the 'haven tonight, but I'm going to come see you tomorrow. Why aren't you in the Cave?"

*Good* question. "Ah -- Bruce did a bunch of tests and then sent me packing."

"*What*? *Why*?"

"Apparently it was clear to him that I wouldn't be much... use."

"Your center of gravity. You -- God, you'd need a whole new uniform -- but still, you should be under *observation* in case something else goes wrong."

"My thought exactly, really, but -- well. My apartment *is* bugged six ways from Sunday --"

"Man, and I don't even have a set-up where I can hack into any of the feeds and *see* you -- *are* you okay?"

Tim smiles ruefully and pushes a hand back through his hair. "I... well, Clark came by."

"Oh! That's great! I bet he at *least* distracted you from your gender trauma. You -- um. Is it wrong that I'm *really* wondering what you look like? Because I am. Your voice is so..."

"High? Embarrassing?"

"I was going to go with 'cute,' but... I'm guessing that's not much better?"

And Tim can *see* Dick saying that, the way his entire body would be a picture of sympathy and *gentle* question. He would, perhaps, have his hands on Tim's shoulders -- he'd be touching Tim in *some* way, and --

"Yeah, got it. *Not* cute. It's -- manly? In that very... okay, now I'm thinking of castrati, and *that's* no good -- "

Tim snorts. "*Dick* --"

"Got you to laugh, though," he says, and Tim can hear the smile in his voice, pleased and a little smug -- "So what were you doing with Clark?"

Um. "Ah -- we went out to lunch. That Indian place I was telling you about --"

"The one right in your neighborhood. *I* wanted to go with you to that place. There's hardly any decent Indian at all in the 'haven," and Dick sighs again. "You'll take me?"

"Of course --"

"Good. So you had a good talk with Clark? Maybe... about your vocational activities?"

Because clear lines are still *phone* lines. And. "About... really a lot of things --"

"Uh oh. What aren't you telling me about *Clark*, Tim? You guys didn't fight or anything, did you?"

"No! No, we didn't -- fight. Um. At all --"

"Because that thing with... your team and Clark's --"

"No, no, Clark and I actually talked about that a few months ago," Tim says, and remembers the conversation in images and moments -- A rooftop, the flutter of Clark's cape, the curious feeling of maintaining surveillance on a mob hitter while also reassuring the most powerful being on the planet that no, he wasn't angry, and yes, he *did* think the League and the Titans could work together smoothly in the future.

Clark hadn't *touched* him until he was about to leave, and then it had been a hand shockingly warm through the shoulder of Tim's uniform, a blank of feeling where the thickness of his cape and gorget prevented being *sure* whether or not Clark was moving his finger, at all...

"Ah -- it went well. The conversation. That one and the one we had today, I mean --"

"You're *flustered*."

"I'm -- still a woman. My breasts keep moving in unexpected ways. To be fair, if I put some time and thought into considering the physics of the matter, I could probably start predicting it, but it's definitely --"

"Tiiiiim. Tim. Tim."

"Dick --"

"You do realize that if you keep trying to distract me while also not telling me anything substantive -- I'm going to start making assumptions."

He'd *wanted* to talk to Dick. He'd -- "Assumptions?"

"Mm, big ones. Also -- *why* are you just telling me *now* that you're gay? We're supposed to *talk* about things like that, little brother."

*Whiplash*, because Dick sounds hurt and a little *offended* -- "It -- never came *up*, Dick --"

"Speaking of -- *did* you have sex with Clark, or what?"

"... um?"

Dick *coughs* out a laugh. "Hey, that was supposed to get me indignance, maybe a '*Jesus*, Dick' -- I like those -- and. Wait. *Did* you?"

There was a reason he wanted to talk to Dick, wasn't there? Something beyond the general enjoyment he takes in hearing Dick's voice when he doesn't have to think about what that voice is *saying* --

"Oh my God. You *did*. You really -- as a *woman*?"

*Really* -- "I didn't exactly have too many *options* at the time, Dick --"

"That was *almost* a '*Jesus*, Dick' -- but it didn't quite make it. Um. He did *mention* finding you attractive the last time we... well, at the time I was hoping he'd be doing *other* things with his mouth, but... wow."

Dick, naked in his bed while Clark spread his legs as wide as they could go. Dick naked and *hard*, and Clark talking about *him* -- "Ah... 'wow' is how I'm choosing to describe the encounter to myself, really --"

"No *wonder* you wanted to talk -- oh, I wish I was there, little brother. I'd make you tell me *everything*."

"Um?"

Dick *moans*, shameless and loud and over the *phone*, and it's possible that Tim is staring *at* the phone --

No, he's *pressing* it to his ear, because that moan --

"Oh, God, I can *see* it, Tim. You... what are your breasts like?"

No, he's staring at the phone again, and --

"I mean... are they small? *You're* small, so I'd guess they'd be kind of proportional --"

Dick's voice is too tinny that way. Too -- Tim brings the phone back to his ear, and -- "Ah. They're not. They're not very small."

Dick's breathing *hitches*, and he's really not. He can't be --

"Dick...?"

"How... ah. How big?"

Tim swallows. "They look... I think they're a C cup? Possibly... more than that. They're very... they've been distracting."

"Oh... heavy? Soft? Full?"

"Heavy and soft, Dick. I... are you. Do you. *Why* do you want to know --"

"Because --" Dick laughs, soft and breathless. "Because I'm a *pervert*, little brother. I thought you *knew* that."

And Tim is blushing. A lot -- no, that's really more of a flush, because he *did* know that Dick was a pervert, and he was even *used* to it, but Dick being a pervert *about* him is very, very different from Dick being a pervert *to* him. It's just --

"Tim? Are you..." Another breathless laugh, and Dick's whole *voice* has changed. It's low, husky... "Uh... are you okay?"

It's a little too *much*, because what Dick is *really* asking is if Tim's okay with Dick... being that kind of pervert. Tim swallows and there's an audible *click* --

"Oh, hell, I'm making you uncomfortable. I'm sorry --"

"*No*. I mean -- no. You're not. I'm not uncomfortable," Tim says, and thinks of Clark's fingers on the back of his neck, *remembers* the feel of Clark's fingers on the back of his neck and breaks out in gooseflesh. *Throbs*. "If you... was there anything else you wanted to... know?"

"Oh. I..." And there's a curious rasping sound -- Dick rubbing the phone against his face? It's still early for both Dick's official and unofficial jobs, and... maybe he hadn't shaved.

Maybe... "I mean. If there's... anything --"

"Uh -- just to be clear here, little brother -- thinking about you, Clark, and your breasts has kinda -- by which I mean definitely -- given me one *hell* of a hard-on."

Tim opens his mouth -- and moans. *Loud* --

"Oh -- *hell*. You... I need to make you make that sound *again*. Tell me how?"

"It's possible --" Oh, good -- *words*. "I mean, you're talking, and that can only... help."

There's a sound of fabric moving against fabric. Against -- skin? "It's like that, Tim? You want me?"

A dozen distinct -- and distinctly painful -- 'fantasies' about Dick discovering *just* that, and the look in his eyes would be horrible, devastating. Except --

"It's okay. It's really -- I keep thinking about your eyes in a woman's face. Your hard little mouth --"

"It's... softer. And somewhat swollen at the moment --"

Another hitched breath -- or was that a gasp? "Clark... he did that to you. *Just* kisses, right?"

Tim closes his eyes and *licks* his lips, remembering Clark's *taste* --

"It can be so *damned* hard to get him to give it up, to *let* you suck him... do you want to suck him, Tim?"

"*Yes* -- I mean. He tastes. I tasted some of his pre-come --"

"He's wonderful, *strange* -- I... he was the first man I ever tasted, Tim. The only one for a *long* time, and..." Dick laughs again. "I have to admit, every man after that has made me *search* for that taste, like some strange and mineral sea, like... I don't know. You liked it."

"Yes. Yes. I -- and his fingers --"

"Big, strong fingers. *Long* fingers. In your mouth, Tim?"

Tim nods and -- phone, right. "I... it's one of the first things I did. I needed. I feel... empty. That seems to be the way arousal is working for me --"

*That* was definitely a gasp --

"Dick...?"

"Wanna be filled, little brother? Maybe... maybe *fed*, a little?"

Tim swallows again -- he's salivating. He's... reaching for his genitals. "I... he put his fingers inside me, Dick. Both... um. Holes."

"Oh -- *fuck*, Tim, did you --"

"I liked it. I loved it, wanted more --"

"I'm -- kind of have to *stroke*," Dick says, and moans softly. "You have to be -- incredibly tight."

Tim nods again -- "I. That's what Clark said --"

"And hot inside. And -- were you wet for him? You must have been, he's *Clark* --"

"I was... all over my thighs --"

Dick makes a noise that *might* have a word somewhere in the middle of it, but Tim's not sure, at all. Dick is *stroking* himself for this, for the image of Clark touching *him*.

Her? "I want... this is really turning you on?"

"Making me *crazy*, little brother. Making me want to shower with you, touch you everywhere Clark touched. Every *way* -- I. This is *okay*? I mean, at this point I'd need to jerk off *anyway* --"

"He --" *Dick*, and he wants to *see* -- "Clark told me he *watched* me jerk off, once --"

"*Just* once? *God*, now I'm thinking about that -- only you still have those big, soft breasts --" Dick laughs and groans -- "Did I mention the crazy, Tim? Oh -- God, I know what you *look* like, and suddenly that's -- uh. Very important."

Oh. Oh -- "Dick...?"

"You've got these... hard hands. *Small* hands, and I keep waiting for them to get bigger, for *you* to get bigger --"

"Believe me when I say I'm *working* on it --"

"You're too *coherent*, Tim. Touch -- touch yourself? Do you know what you *like*, yet, with that body?"

"Ah -- Clark made a suggestion. To that end --"

"Oh my *God*. He told you *how* to masturbate? What -- *what* did he tell you?"

Tim bites his lip -- Tim *licks* his lips and reaches down between -- and gasps at the first touch, because he's already *slick* again. He'd just had a *shower*, but he might as well have --

"Tim? C'mon, little brother, gimme a little *help* here -- or moan like that, again. That's a *good* moan, that moan makes me want to suck you *off* --"

"*Jesus*, Dick --"

Another laugh -- and wet sounds, slick sounds --

"Are you -- licking your hand?"

"Mm-hm. I -- I can taste myself, but I'm pretending it's you -- mainly because I can. You've wanted me, Tim? You never *said* anything --"

"You -- if you'd even hinted you were *interested*, Dick --"

"Okay, okay, but -- you were so *young*, I didn't want to make you run screaming, Tim --"

"I -- wouldn't have."

"Oh, *fuck*, yes," Dick says and it's hissed, fervent -- "I'm stroking myself again. I'm -- what did Clark tell you to do with that sweet little clit of yours?"

Blushing *furiously* -- "He... small circles with my fingers. And... it really did seem to work wonders --"

"He is a *brilliant* man with a *lot* of experience and you should always listen to him, especially when he's telling you how to *work* it for me, little brother --"

"For -- you."

"*Please*? Pretty please? I'm... you must look so *incredible* right now. All that lean muscle and all those scars --" Dick moans again. "Jesus, your scars wouldn't be in the right *places* --"

"Deeply disconcerting --"

"It would be like having sex with a *stranger*, and I know that probably shouldn't be turning me on as much as it does..." Dick grunts and sighs, and there's the sound of the mattress shifting.

"What... are you doing?"

"Getting up on my *knees* for you, Tim. You like begging, right? I could *so* beg for you --"

And that -- little circles, right. Lots of them, but maybe harder -- Tim gasps --

"Oh, you're *doing* it. Do you like it hard?"

"Ah -- somewhat. Just. Um... I'm still *learning*, Dick --"

"You're a *fast* learner. Always so smart, so *sharp*. Okay, so I lied."

"I -- lied?"

"Clark has wanted your sweet little ass for *ages*."

Sweet little -- should he tell Dick that it's *bigger* now? "Um. Ah. He -- intimated. Strongly."

"Always complaining about how *reserved* you were with him -- complaining in that *Clark* way, where -- mmm. You can always tell he's hoping you'll tell him he's wrong, that -- ah. God, touch yourself a little faster for me --"

"Oh -- *oh* --"

"Where is Clark right *now*? I -- mmph. I *know* him. He doesn't like to stop until you're passed *out*. And then comes the *cuddling* --"

"Earthquake. He -- ah. Said..."

"Silly earth getting in the way of Robin getting laid. I -- you told him he could come *back*, right?"

"Y-yes. Dick, I." Harder to talk, harder to focus on anything but the way he can move his hips *and* touch himself where he *needs* to --

"Uh, huh. Ah. Mm -- you. Did you ever want to jerk me off? Suck me --"

"*Yes*, I --" And Dick *grunts*, and Tim has to -- the circles are *good*, but -- "I'm. I'm pushing in. My -- vagina --"

"Oh. Oh, *do* that --"

And the sound Tim makes is like the love child of a growl and a *yell*, because pushing in with two makes him *feel* Clark, makes --

"Fucking *hell*, little brother, I want --" Another laugh, gasping and *loud* -- "I want *you*. Wanna watch you with Clark or -- whoever else you *want*. Maybe that Super*boy*-friend of yours --"

"Dick. He's -- I --"

"He's pretty attractive and I *know* he wants you. I could see it at the Tower, the way he looked at you -- fuck, oh, your hand -- would you squeeze me?"

"If --"

"Say *yes*, Tim --"

"*Yes*," and Tim's fucking himself now, and he can't get very deep without sitting up, and that changes the *angle* too much --

"Ooh, that was a *frustrated* noise. Is it no good if someone isn't doing it for you? I -- nn. I can understand *that* --"

"I wouldn't say -- ah. *No* good, but. Dick, he said -- Clark said he wouldn't. Um."

"Fuck you? He -- it's *hard* to get him to do that, as opposed to getting him to touch you and kiss you and *lick* you -- oh, God, do you taste different now? Not that I'd know what you tasted like *before*, but --"

"Yes, it's -- different. Dick, I. Faster? Can I?"

"*Please* do, and I -- I'll go faster, too -- oh, your pretty swollen mouth. *Had* you ever? With a guy? Hell, with your *girlfriend* --"

"Um. No," Tim says, and the 'o' sound lasts a little too long, because there's a *spot* inside him that's just --

It doesn't feel the way his prostate does -- did, and he's not sure he has words for the way it *does* feel, because it seems to be more a matter of what it makes him *want* -- more, harder, faster, *more* --

"I -- ah -- *Dick* --"

"I really -- really, really. God, little brother, the way you sound..."

The way *Dick* sounds, and if his voice sounded like that all the time, Tim would've had *no* luck hiding from him. Just -- "Um. Your voice is. Ah..."

"Kory. Kory used to call this my *real* voice, but her priorities were -- um. *Different*," and Dick's laughing again, almost *crooning* -- "Oh, that's so *sweet*, and -- I hope you don't mind me imagining your mouth?"

*That* sound was --

"I'll take that as a 'no, Dick, please continue perving on me *just* like that --'"

"Please -- I -- *oh*, Jesus --"

"And you are absolutely fucking yourself. Holy *hell*, that's filthy. Do *not* stop --"

"Really -- not a *concern* --"

"It's that good? It's -- nn, wish I could *smell* you --"

"Can't stop. My hips are --"

"Curvy? A little? And your *ass* -- oh, I'm not thinking about your ass, I'm really not. Except for how it's small and lean and feels so good against my *palm* --"

What -- he -- "How do you *know*?"

"That last spanking. No Man's Land. I'm -- hnn -- *hurt* you don't remember -- oh, fuck, *fuck*, I'm -- squeezing a little if you don't mind --"

"Oh -- please. Clark said. Um --" Blushing *now* isn't helpful or remotely *sane*, but --

"*What* did Clark say? Something dirty, I hope. Oh, please say more dirty *things*, little brother..."

Well. "He -- ah. He said you're usually. Um. Rough with yourself. When you're masturbating --"

"Like *now*, and, okay, I'm probably a little -- *you* should understand. I hit puberty in the *manor*, with Bruce always right *there* --"

"Fast. Fast and *hard* --"

"And faster than *that*, yeah, and -- mm, oh, I just hit -- that really good feeling, I'm -- God, I'm pretty fucking close, but..."

Tim whimpers --

"And even *closer*, oh, *fuck*, little brother, but -- I want to *tell* you this, want you to know this about me --"

"Oh -- oh? I -- I really wish I had --" A toy. "Ah -- hold on, just for a minute --"

"What, no, don't go *now* --"

Flushing *all* over, and his breasts look like they're tipped with *weapons*, strange and hard -- "Ah, just. I need something. Solid. In me."

"Oh, *fuck*, okay, *go* --"

Tim drops the phone and rolls off the bed, moaning at the slight jar because it makes his breasts feel -- it makes his *vulva* feel -- right, hidden compartment *behind* the hidden compartment in his closet, and sometimes Tim wonders if the people who currently live in the homes his family have left ever find themselves thinking that the Drakes are painfully *odd* -- there.

The act of *looking* at this escrima stick makes him clench and have to work a little to keep his feet, and that means his vagina thinks he's definitely on the right *track*.

He goes back to the bed and tucks the phone between his face and shoulder --

"*There* you are. I -- couldn't stop. Slowed *down* but couldn't stop, and you really need to tell me what you're about to put in your shiny -- and oh, I bet it's *really* shiny right now -- new vagina. Right now."

"Um." Tim bites his lip and spins the stick over his fingers --

"I'll beg. I will -- please? I need to know if it's *thick*. If it's long, or -- *is* it a dildo? Bright and sparkly? Disturbingly accurate?"

"I've -- um. Never been able to. I haven't been to any of those stores *unofficially*, Dick --"

Dick groans and -- "Here, *listen* to this," he says, and --

He'd just brought the phone down by -- that *sound*. That's -- that's not very slow at *all*, and he must be so *slick*, and Tim's whimpering again, trying to be quiet so he can *hear* --

"*Please*, Tim. Tell me, you -- you *heard* that --"

"Dick, you -- I want you. I just. You -- I never meant you to *know* that --"

"Because sometimes you're crazy and *wrong-headed*, but I love you, anyway. Love you so much it just *aches* sometimes, because I never thought I'd *have* anyone like you in my life -- God, tell me what it *is*, little brother --"

"Escrima baston. Um. It's yours --"

"My missing baston? You stole my *baston*? For *sex*?"

Tim bites his lip *hard*, and tries not to think about -- anything, at all, because he's too *aroused* to think clearly, and --

"*Mine* -- You've been --" Dick *growls* --

"Dick, I -- it was. I just couldn't stop myself --"

"*Fuck* yourself, Tim. Do it *hard*, because that's the way I'd do you, the way I *need* to right now --"

"*Oh* --" Tim flips the stick around and pushes in, and the slickness is incredible, and the feel -- completely unnatural, of course, and he'd *known* that, but it's *Dick*, too, and that -- "I can -- oh, God --"

"C'mon, Tim, *in* --"

"*Ah* --"

"*Again* --"

"Dick, I -- please --"

"*Again* --"

And it's so good, so -- there's something *in* there, and that's probably his damned *hymen*, but bumping against it with the stick is a little like playing the world's sexiest drum. The waves going through him are jagged, *rough* --

"Again, little brother, come on, you can take it --

"I can -- oh. Can't stop, I --"

"Let me *hear* it for a little while, let me -- you must be so *wet* --"

Tim hears himself *whine*, and it has to be better to hold the phone down by his genitals, to --

It's just that now he's almost painfully aware of the sound of it, so slick and *obscene*, over and over, and his hymen doesn't block off the entire area, and --

Every time the stick bumps against the *border* of the thing Tim clenches up tight, tighter --

"*Tim* --"

Dick, tinny-voiced and *far* -- Tim brings the phone back up to his face --

"Are you hearing me, little brother? Come on, now --"

"Y-yes. I -- feels so --"

"Feels good?"

"*Dick*, I want --"

"And I want to *give* it to you. I -- Jesus, *faster* if you can take it --"

Faster, yes, and -- and Tim throws his head back and *shouts*, because it's almost like the vibration Clark was using on his clit -- he could *touch* his clit if he just wedged the phone between his shoulder and ear -- there.

"Moving the phone again? What --"

"Have to -- I'm touching my clit. As well --"

Dick groans *loudly*. "Oh, I -- I'd do that while I was fucking you, Tim. Just -- get my fingers in there, *too* --"

"*Please* --"

"I can come see you *tomorrow*. And maybe you'll be back in your own body, by then, maybe -- God, fuck -- do you like it? In your ass?"

"Yes, *yes* --"

"Using my *stick*. My *weapon* -- why didn't you *tell* me you were this dirty?"

"S-sorry. I'm -- please, Dick, you can -- I want to hear --"

"Hear me jerking off more? Or just talking? Mm, I -- moaning for you? Giving you what you *want* --"

"Please, *please*, I don't know, I -- feels so *good* --"

"Oh. Nuh -- fuck, *harder*, Tim, like me, like --"

Tim *shouts*, and the vibrations are impossible, perfect -- he could *break* his hymen like this, and wouldn't it be better? Or -- Dick. Clark. *Dick* --

*Clark*, and he's coming back, if he can. He has to know what he's doing right now, what *they're* doing -- he *could* be concentrating on rescue efforts, but his mind is as powerful as his body, he can -- fucking *multitask* --

"Dick, he said -- maybe -- I want to be *fucked* --"

"I know, Tim, I know -- God, if I was there I'd want to get a finger up your ass, *too* --"

"Oh -- oh, God --"

"Fuck you every way I can, *take* you every way -- God, you must look *gorgeous* --"

"Flushed. I'm -- I'm *red* --"

"Like a stain on you, like -- come on, come for me, let me hear you come for me --"

"Dick --"

"Don't try to hold *back* from me, I *need* this, Tim, need *you* --"

*Fuck* -- That. Need. Dick *needs* him, and Tim only knows one way to deal with that, to *live* with that --

"You love it. *You* need it, and mm, fuck, I can almost *smell* you --"

Tim's shouting again, *writhing*, and he keeps losing contact with those *good* places on his clit, but being able to move is almost more important --

"I can -- skin moving on the sheets. I *know* that sound. You're working your hips?"

"Body. My -- everything. I can't --"

"*Come* for me, Tim, just like you've always wanted to, just -- give it to me. Please --"

"*Dick* --"

"*Please*, Tim, do it now, do it while I'm still so hard for you, so ready for you --"

And he can see it in flashes, *feel* it in hallucinatory surges. Dick rising over him and staring, touching --

Dick pulling out the escrima stick and replacing it with his fingers, his long and perfect fingers --

Bruce spreading his legs wide and seeing him, knowing everything and not saying a *word* before pushing in, stretching him open --

*Breaking* him open and he wouldn't stop for the pain, wouldn't go *easy* --

And then the only thing Tim's aware of with any clarity is that there are no *words* in the scream. He can be thankful for that. He can --

Oh, the *feel*, like light shooting through his entire body, burning him so efficiently that there isn't any pain, just the brightness, the *need* --

He's spasming and jerking, and Dick is saying -- something.

It's just that voice, the one he knows from a thousand fantasies and carefully hoarded memories --

It's *Dick*, and no one else, and if a part of him is disappointed -- he already *knew* he was crazy and wrong-headed, and it just keeps going --

Keeps *riding* him --

"Oh God, oh fuck -- *Clark* --"

Tim opens his eyes and there's no one. Of *course* there's no one, but -- Dick's laughing --

"*Jesus*, where did you *come* from? You're getting my *sheets* dirty -- ooh. Oh, mm, your *tongue* --"

"Ah... Dick?"

"Right -- right *here*, little brother. And -- unh. I'm sure Clark would say. Hi. Oh, don't *tease* me, Clark --"

He could hack Barbara's feed. He could -- it would take too long, and anyway -- "What is he --"

"*Sucking* me. Mouth like -- like a *furnace*. A *wet* furnace, oh, *Tim* --"

"I'm here. I'm --" Tim licks his lips and pulls the stick out -- *slowly*. "Is he -- all the way down?"

"Uh -- buh. Jesus fuck, swallowing me *whole* -- oh, you sounded so *good*, Timmy -- Tim, I'm sorry, I -- you gotta forgive me, oh fuck -- Clark, suck me, *suck* -- "

Dick cries *out*, and he'd said something once about there being *thin* walls in his apartment building, but --

"Oh, hands. Hands on my hips. Making me *fuck* his mouth -- that's dirty *pool*, Clark -- here, Tim --"

And Tim *knows* that hum, and his vagina wants him to know that he could know it *better*. And those *wet* sounds --

A *slurp* --

Tim *moans*, clutching at -- his mound. It's not really the same thing as grabbing his penis -- it's not even *close* -- but it's kind of necessary, just the same.

Especially when he pushes between his lips and starts rubbing his clit again. His incredibly *stalwart* clit --

The phone's moving --

Dick *shouts*, muffled and *wonderful* --

"Dick --"

"I -- I can't -- oh fuck, Tim, *fuck* -- sometimes he just *does* this when I'm jerking off, I --" Dick's laugh is cracked and *hoarse*, toneless and harsh --

"I --" Tim licks his lips. "Does it feel --"

"*So* good. *Always* good, and I -- again. *Tim* --"

"Touching. I'm -- touching myself again --"

"Oh, good *girl* -- *sorry* --"

Tim grunts and blushes again --

"Ah -- ah -- oh, *God* --"

And that's the sound of the phone tumbling off the *bed*, and Tim's straining to hear more, to *have* more --

He can just barely hear Dick shouting -- he sounds almost *tortured*, and how, exactly, is he going to live up to *that* -- tomorrow.

Dick wants to come see him tomorrow. And -- he'd said. A lot of things. A *lot* of things, and Dick often *does* say a lot of things --

Tim bites the fingers of his free hand and tries to wait -- and keeps rubbing his clit. Clark can probably hear him *doing* that. And --

"I'm terribly sorry, Tim, I -- well. Dick did sound very... ah. Close?"

Clark, talking to him over the phone -- because he's in Dick's apartment and -- wet sound. "Are you licking your lips?"

"Not *just* now," Clark says, and it doesn't seem possible for his voice to *contain* the smile in it. "How are you?"

"Um. Good? That wasn't supposed to be a question. Ah. Is everything all right?"

"Oh. I think so. Though you could be *closer*...?"

Dick's voice saying -- something --

Clark sighs. "Dick says that he's going to be late for work, and -- you could've just *asked* for the phone, Dick," and Clark's voice fades as it goes, but --

He was definitely *pitching* his voice to carry to Tim. Tim shakes his head --

"Tim. Little brother. Tim," and Dick's voice is breathless and -- mm.

"Yes?"

"Just a yes? Not an 'oh, please, big brother, let's do that a *lot*?'"

"I was hoping --" Tim cuts himself *off* and bites his lip.

"Hoping? *Tomorrow*, yes. And -- maybe I'll make Clark *bring* me there -- or you could come here. No, wait, your parents are gone. We need to have sex all *over* your apartment, Tim."

"Ah?"

"It's -- a rule?" And Tim knows that look is back on Dick's face -- and probably his whole body. A request to be taken at face value, and also to call on their years of friendly acquaintance and acknowledge that Dick is right no matter *how* crazy the things he's saying are.

Tim smiles. "Well. I do like to follow rules."

"You -- here, let me find my pants -- oh, thank you, Clark. Wait, yes, I do need underwear --"

"If you -- well, I know you're busy, Dick --"

"Yes, yes, I *am*, and that's a wonderful thing, as everyone in my life seems to agree that things go *badly* when I'm bored -- you don't plan to bore me tomorrow, do you?"

*Another* blush, though it's possible the heat in his skin has something to do with the fact that he's now kind of *pressing* on his clit, and --

"Oh. Clark says you're still touching yourself. Only, he said it in that I'm-telling-you-a-*secret* way, which means that I probably shouldn't have repeated it, but -- multi-orgasmic? Really?"

"Um. It seems so? Certainly, I don't seem to have reached a... stopping point."

"Wow, I... maybe I can start my patrol a little *late* tonight, or cut off work early --"

"Oh, Dick, I wouldn't want --"

"No, *you* wouldn't, but that's just because you haven't *tried* me yet, little brother," and *that* smile in Dick's voice --

Train-surfing, rooftop tag, *sewer* racing -- "Um?"

Dick sighs, long and gustily. "No, you're right, I really can't do *either* of those things, because Desmond's getting *feisty* out here, and... yeah. Maybe if I just roll past your place after patrol...? You're *benched*, and -- we really have to make sure you stay *stimulated*."

Tim laughs quietly -- it still *moves* him enough to make him moan --

"Not that you aren't doing a *damned* good job with that, already -- ah. Is the stick out?"

"Ah... yes. At the moment."

"Mmm. Lick it for me? Just -- so I can *hear* you do it?"

"Oh. I -- oh. That's --"

"Filthy? Or a little too heterosexual for you -- what about your *girlfriend*?"

*That* whiplash makes Tim's *eyes* cross -- "Um -- bi. I meant bi. I think. It's complicated --"

"It *always* is, but... lick? Just a little one? What if you pretend it's my -- heh. Little friend?"

An entirely different *reason* to cross his eyes. "Oh, that's -- ah. Um. Condoms would be necessary. I think," Tim says, and hopes fervently that it had made *sense* --

"Condoms... oh. Oh, man. You could get *pregnant* -- are you *sure* he's not ovulating, Clark? I mean, Bruce really hammered *in* that whole thing about the rhythm method being stupid and also *stupid* -- he says he's *very* sure you're not ovulating. Which means you *could* be even more horny than you are right now, and let me tell you -- that puts all *kinds* of images in my head --"

"Oh -- God. I --"

"What if I *call* you tonight when things get slow, little brother? I... I'm really *invested* in exploring these new and exciting social possibilities between us."

Tim squeezes his eyes shut and wonders -- well, when he squeezes his *penis* he can usually calm down a little -- "*Oh* -- Jesus, that was -- oh?"

"You -- Clark can't tell exactly what you just did there, but I'm betting it was *incredible*."

"Uh -- ah. A pinch. My clitoris."

And there's a sound in the background --

"Oh, Tim. You just made Clark *moan*. From a distance, yet. But I've only got about another minute and a half before I *have* to run --"

"The stick."

"*Please*," and it sounds like Dick is licking his lips. "Just -- let me live through you a little bit, there. Help me *taste* you."

And that sound had a lot of n's and r's in it, and -- yes. Tim picks up the stick and just looks at it for a moment. Most of it is entirely dry and reputable, and it's not like he hasn't sterilized it after every use, and --

He's tasted himself *countless* times, pretending he was licking Dick, or Kon --

Bruce. Not this time, not by a *long* road --

"Tim...?"

"Yes. I -- yes," Tim says and brings the stick to his mouth, sucking it in with as loud a sound as he can manage --

Dick moans, and -- "Oh. Oh, yeah. *Suck* me, little brother --"

That did *not* mean 'push the stick in so far you gag,' but --

"Oh -- *fuck*, that noise -- don't *hurt* yourself --"

Tim pulls back and hums, deliberately sucks back saliva --

"Fuck, *fuck*. I don't *want* to leave you like this. I've never even *imagined* you being like this -- Clark is looking at me like I'm an idiot, but this is where I point out that *some* of us don't have the ability to look in on other people's *masturbation habits* whenever we get the *urge*."

Tim laughs around the stick in his mouth, licks it and tries to think critically about the taste. It's somewhat milder than the smell would suggest, and it's not very strong. Some of the latter has to be due to the fact that he's put out so *much* of it. There's a slight tang to it that reminds him -- *again* -- of Cassandra's scent, but, under everything else, there's the taste that means *him*.

"Pull it out and tell me how you taste...?"

Tim does it slowly, sucking as he goes --

"I really, *really* hope you'll love going down on me, Tim, because -- *damn*."

Tim laughs again and rubs at the blush on his face. It's as pointless an act as it ever is, but it satisfies something inside him. "I've had the fantasy... well. For a while, now. A long while."

"I am going to *teach* you not to keep things like that to yourself, and Clark is going to *help* me, but...?"

"Ah... I still taste mostly like me? But there's... it's a little sharper, I think. And the texture is all different."

"Mmm. Okay. Okay. I can live with that for the *hours* before I see you. Do *not* let Clark tire you out entirely. We can... have a sleepover?"

And that's... a really *warm* feeling, the same one he always gets when Dick wants to spend time with him. It's a little odd to have that feeling *while* he's masturbating -- and Dick *knows* he is -- but it doesn't stop feeling good. "I -- all right."

Dick sighs. "Love you, little brother. Here's Clark."

A part of Tim is only focused on wondering how long it took to make Dick into someone who *reflexively* doesn't wait for a response after saying something like that. Bruce --

"Tim. I'm going to fly Dick *close* to his police station in a moment, but... I still have quite some time at my disposal --"

"I still -- I want you to come back."

"I'm glad," Clark says, and he sounds it, pleased and warm and -- yes, aroused.

For a moment Tim just listens to the sound of his perfectly even -- and unnecessary -- breathing, just *thinks* about the fact that he's going to be here imminently, that -- Possibly he should've left the duvet on the bed to continue saving the sheets -- or possibly there's already a wet spot between his legs. Tim laughs again --

"I like that sound very much, Tim -- yes, Dick, he's laughing. I can't wait to smell you again."

"Ah... well, I did shower. But it seems to have been an ultimately pointless act."

"Well, really, if you take that thought a little farther, aren't all attempts to clean oneself pointless?"

Tim smiles and thinks about rubbing himself a little harder -- "I *believe* in the utility and pleasure of those few hours every day when I can *feel* truly clean, whether or not I am so, Clark."

"Oh. There are so many different ways to *define* clean, Tim. Why, the human vagina refreshes itself by the process of lubrication, just as the uterus does with menstruation."

"Um. Am I *close* to menstruating...?"

"You're near the beginning of your cycle. I'm sure Bruce will find a way to... hmm. Cure you before you have to deal with your uterine wall. For now, perhaps you should think of how *very* clean your vagina must be. As these things go."

"You. Make me blush rather a *lot*, Clark."

"So does Dick. I feel I'm in fine company, Tim," and that's a *laugh* in Clark's voice -- "Oh, Dick is ready. I'll see you soon, Tim."

"All right," Tim says, and hangs up the phone. And has just enough time to think about maybe coming up with something interesting to *say* to Clark --

Clark is there, between his legs, hands pressed to his inner thighs and gaze *focused* on his vulva. Perhaps specifically his working fingers.

"Ah... hi?"

"Hello," Clark says, and leans in slowly --

Tim takes a breath --

Clark pauses. "I. Perhaps you'd like to kiss me, first?"

Tim blinks. A kiss would be nice, but -- *Dick*. He'd just come from sucking Dick *off* -- "*Please* --"

And Clark's smile looks a lot like one of Bruce's again, deadly and *broad*. Tim reaches out --

And Clark is over him, lifting Tim's arms around his neck and *breathing* against Tim's mouth. That scent -- "Oh. Clark, that's -- I can *recognize* Dick's scent. Under -- over. Oh, God," he says, rearing up and nuzzling Clark's mouth, breathing deep and licking Clark's lips, over and over --

"If I'd known of your attraction -- to *either* Dick or myself -- oh, Tim, will you let me join you and Dick? If only just to *watch*?"

"I -- mm. I. Can't imagine Dick *objecting*, Clark --"

"*Your* desire, Tim. Tell me..."

*Almost* an order, but -- "I've never -- you *know* I've never, but. I think I'd enjoy that a great deal. I --" Tim kisses Clark as hard as he can, crushing his mouth against the *power* of Clark's own -- and groaning and *shaking* once his tongue is inside, once he can *taste* --

Clark keeps his own tongue still, holds himself there for Tim to lick every *vestige* of the taste out of Clark's mouth. Just -- another fantasy he'd never had, and a part of him feels *amazingly* dim for that lack. Dick is salt, sweetness --

And then Clark is working Tim's tongue in hard, *pulsing* sucks, and --

Tim knows -- better than he knows his own *name* -- that that's *exactly* how Clark had sucked Dick *off*. It sends another of those *waves* through him, fast and devastating, and Tim wraps his legs around Clark and holds on.

For this, at least --

Right now --

He doesn't have to think. With Dick -- he'd just changed his entire *world* with Dick, and he can't bring himself to regret that even a little, but... it's still change. This, with Clark...

It's all new. They're writing this relationship as they go, and maybe there isn't anything that can be wrong. He *squeezes* Clark with his legs --

And Clark moans into Tim's mouth, letting go of Tim's tongue and slipping his own into Tim's mouth, slow and almost hard --

No almost, because this kiss is pressing him down -- it feels like *in* -- to the pillow. Clark is fucking him *steadily* with his tongue, and really, if he didn't want Tim to ask to get his *other* orifice --

Orifices --

Yes, well, if he *doesn't* want that, he's going about it entirely the wrong *way*. Tim smiles into the kiss as much as he can -- it isn't much. He can *feel* the soreness and swelling in his lips -- and Clark can definitely feel the smile, because he pulls back with a last lick to either corner of Tim's mouth --

"You're happy?"

"Rather. And -- also somewhat amused," Tim says, and strokes the back of Clark's neck. Just to feel. The hair there *seems* almost downy, but it would take more strength than Tim will *ever* have to pull just one.

"Do tell."

"Ah... you were listening? To the phone sex?"

"It has almost always been a great pleasure to hear you and Dick conversing with each other, Tim."

*Almost* always, and -- no, he's not going to think about the times they haven't gotten along, because it was always --

About Bruce.

And tantamount to swallowing a caltrop --

Clark strokes Tim's cheek -- he's searching Tim's eyes for the thing which he *knows* is messing with Tim's mood, and -- "You know, it's disconcerting how well you can read me. I *know* you're used to doing a lot more than that with less, as it were, but -- ah. I've grown accustomed to having a little more mystery at my disposal."

"Oh... you wear it well," Clark says, and strokes Tim's mouth with his thumb. "You were saying?"

Nothing is out of bounds. Everything is *possible* -- Tim licks Clark's thumb and watches Clark's eyes narrow, *bites* Clark's thumb and watches them widen again, and --

This is a game he could play *extensively*. He laughs again and licks, *sucks* -- "I. I was amused -- earlier -- by the fact that nearly everything you do seems *designed* to make me want you to fuck me --"

"That's -- rather more *specifically* goal-oriented than was my intent, Tim --"

"And yet you protest," Tim says, and lies back. Clark is hovering enough that Tim's legs are off the bed -- "Come down here. Please."

Narrowed eyes again -- heat. Weight.

*Pressure*, and Tim sighs, working his leg against the outline of Clark's erection --

"You feel *wonderful* --"

"I want you inside me, Clark --"

"Ah... if you'll forgive? I don't think it's *me* you want inside you, at all."

That -- touché, really, but -- "That was entirely too *reasonable*, Clark --"

Clark kisses Tim's forehead. "I'm sorry."

"I *have* fantasized about having you fuck me, Clark --"

"But there's more to that thought you're not saying, and --" Clark pulls back. "Perhaps it's wrong of me -- even somewhat overly formal -- but for that, to actually *hurt* you in the interest of taking that aspect of your virginity..."

Tim frowns. "You need to know I *truly* want it, and want it from you. I won't ask if you made Dick jump through hoops --"

"Not -- not *that*, Tim --"

"Because I already know you *did*," and Tim sighs and shakes his head. "I'm getting to know you better by the moment."

Clark frowns, and looks somewhat *hurt*. "Tim, you make it sound -- ah. Because *I've* made it sound as though it's only your own feelings which are... difficult. Tim, I cared for you before you thought of me as anything other than a useful addition to the community of heroes, or as the friend of two of the people most important to you."

"Clark --"

"Please," he says, and gives Tim more of his weight. "Let me."

Tim raises an eyebrow and nods.

"I know you find that particular admission... I know it makes very little objective *sense* to you, but I don't enter into sexual relationships *lightly*."

And... again, really, there's a lot there Tim can protest, but. But. Clark is entirely capable of learning everything there is to know about a person while watching them from *space*. He'd been watching Tim. *Closely*, and perhaps being friends with Bruce *means* that sort of freedom with Bruce's family --

And the image of Bruce *insinuating* himself into Kon's life is -- definitely an image. Several of them, as a matter of fact, and if his subconscious is kind, none of them will come back to haunt him.

His subconscious has never been kind, and he's never really going to have -- there should be a point at which the thought of Bruce can no longer *drive* him, or at least it should only be for the Mission. They'd been doing so *well* since his birthday, relating to each other as equals, and --

"Tim...? Are you... there's anger in your scent, but also hurt, and I... please tell me it's not me --"

Tim shakes his head. "And give you more proof that I'm not... what, exactly, do you want from me, Clark? We're lying here together, my legs are around your waist, you've shared Dick's *semen* with me -- I'm not a *virgin* anymore because of you --"

"And we had a very nice lunch, yes. I want *more*, Tim. I want your secrets, your dreams and fantasies -- I'll happily share my own --"

"You want --" Tim stops and *thinks* about it. He'd been thinking that Clark was *placing* a boundary when he was ready -- more than -- to go with the idea that none were *necessary*, but...

The truth is that Clark wants a *lack* of boundaries, a deeper and stranger one than Tim had imagined, or -- perhaps not so strange. Steph is his closest friend, but sexuality and everything attending it is a -- mostly -- closed door between them. Clark would open that door and... and.

"I don't... make friends easily."

Clark nods and strokes Tim's forehead -- Tim had been frowning. Steph likes to kiss him there, sometimes. *Dick* had kissed him there once, but, to be fair, it had been after a patrol that had left them both thrumming on an endorphin high --

And Dick had invited Tim back to his apartment for the night without actually *looking* at him. Tim had assumed it meant that he hadn't really wanted Tim to come -- and Tim had *had* to get back to his parents' house, and. Dick had wanted him that night.

He -- he had, and there's nothing in there that Tim can deny. Clark is searching him again, reading his distraction and his -- singular lack of being entirely *here*. Clark --

Has a point.

Tim moves his arms from around Clark's neck slowly, noting the deepening frown on *Clark's* face, and then gives himself leave to cup and stroke Clark's cheeks, to really look at him, really *see*. And that... well.

Tim smiles, a little, and drops his hands. "Let me sit up?"

"Of course," Clark says, backing off and sitting on the edge of Tim's bed -- one foot *firmly* on the floor. Tim edges reasonably close and mirrors Clark's position, resting one hand on Clark's knee.

"I don't make friends easily," he says, again, and squeezes. "You... that sort of thing must seem a little... strange, to you?"

"Only a little," and Clark covers Tim's hands with his own. "In some ways, your secrets cut deeper than my own, and are more connected to who you are as a person."

And are a lot like Bruce's, but... "Is that how it seems to you? I don't think I've ever really considered them that way. You have to hide your *species* on a day to day basis, whereas I only have to hide the signs of my unofficial occupation --"

"Those aren't your only secrets, Tim," Clark says, and there's a hint of both chiding and *plea* in Clark's voice...

"No, I -- suppose not," Tim says, and curls the hand under Clark's own into a loose fist -- and gets it squeezed.

"Tim -- I would understand if you wanted to keep things... light between us. I have had other lovers who wish only --"

Tim puts up his other hand and takes a moment to search Clark. There's the moment -- it has become usual *very* quickly -- of wondering what the point is, when faced with a being with *that* much control over what he shows to the world --

But Clark wants to be seen by him, *has* wanted --

"Would you tell me... hm." And Tim knows he's frowning again by the way Clark strokes his forehead. Clark is invested in *having* things be easy for Tim, if not in making them so. "You want quite a lot."

"Oh, yes."

"At the same time, however, you say you've come to... care about me. If that's the case, then you must have come to know quite a bit about me *already*."

"I've seen the surface of things, Tim. Your passion, your anger, your pleasure and happiness. I would have what lies beneath."

And that. The way it was *phrased* -- <<You think in the Language.>>

Clark smiles and strokes Tim's cheek. "At times, I can't help it. Does it bother you?"

"It would perhaps be more accurate to say that it interests me. It would seem to invite questions about your day to day existence, your relationships with people who *don't* speak Kryptonian... well."

"In general, it seems to make people believe I'm more formal than I truly am, but then..." The smile on Clark's face twists to something faintly sour. "Many people seem to think they should be on their best behavior in front of me."

Which is the sort of thing...

Dick, turning away before inviting Tim back to his apartment. Steph, and the way she sometimes becomes *quiet* around him, and watchful.

Tim sighs and nods. "That tends to create a great deal of distance, whether or not distance is... desired."

Clark inclines his head, an acknowledgment that he knows perfectly well how much it has affected *Tim's* relationships... because he has been watching.

Tim smiles ruefully. "I could say something, here, about how it's rather presumptuous for you to ask for more of me than I've given to the people who've *been* in my life, Clark."

"You could, yes. Most assuredly. But... would you tell me why you won't?"

Good question, with a somewhat exhilaratingly frightening answer. He's sitting on the edge of his bed, but he might as well be leaning over a balustrade. "I don't -- always -- want distance. There's something..." Tim turns the hand Clark's covering over, giving him his palm --

"Tim..."

Tim smiles ruefully -- at Clark's knee. "You're in the unique position of not being *of* my family while simultaneously being steeped *in* it. I've never had to lie to you, both because of your clearance and the fact that lying would be pointless." Tim looks up, and lets himself fall, a little bit, into Clark's quietly hungry *focus*. "The fantasies, such as they were, all involved a freedom I've lacked with the other people I've wanted in one way or another. A freedom to *connect* as well as the freedom to detach."

"I want that for you, Tim. *With* you."

Tim shakes his head. "That's -- it's too *convenient*, Clark --"

"I've been told that I'm very easygoing --"

"Clark."

Clark sighs and smiles again. And strokes Tim's palm with his fingertips. "I have infinitely less invested in your detachment than in your connection, but I have learned to accept. There are -- breathtaking -- similarities, but you are not Dick, and even if Bruce and I had worked together as often with you as we did with Dick... well."

"You *didn't* help raise me."

Clark nods. "I would've been honored... but no," and Clark twines his fingers with Tim's own.

What would it have been *like* to have Clark there in the early days? Sometimes when he thinks about what he was like when he was thirteen, he has to *cringe*. A little bit of karate, a few basic -- and not entirely wrongheaded -- ideas about detection, and a large amount of naïveté. Bruce had been in so *much* pain after Jason's loss, and there was more anger between Bruce and Dick than Tim had been able to fathom.

He'd spent a lot of time alone with the Case and Bruce's assignments for him, wandering through the shadows of the Cave and somehow deeper shadows of the manor. And then the Obeah Man had kidnapped his parents, and --

Bruce had been there to offer him the comfort of work, the ease of *purpose* -- and a legacy that had been established in the manor -- and the Cave -- long before Dick had even been born. Clark's presence would've made things entirely different, would've *distracted* Tim from the things he'd needed to do --

He would've made things *softer*, if not strictly easier. Warmer. Tim swallows and searches Clark again -- and gets searched deeply, in return.

He's naked, and Clark is wearing -- the trappings of Superman. They're holding hands and being *together*, and if Tim is honest with himself, he has to admit that something like this could've changed him deeply if it had been available three years ago. And -- "I'm... a little too afraid to think about what kind of person I would be if -- if you had been my friend, then."

"I can understand the hesitation -- there are times when I've wondered what *I* would be like if I'd gotten to know Bruce when I was younger -- but, in the end, you're your own young man, Tim."

Tim laughs quietly. "Am I, Clark...? I've built my *life* on Bruce and Dick. On Jason's *memory* --"

"And you wouldn't be yourself if you hadn't, I think," Clark says, and traces the line of his jaw. "You are your passions, Tim. We all are."

"My passions. Yes... those." Tim squeezes Clark's hand. "And your passions?"

"You'd like to know?"

Tim knows the smile on his face is a little cruel, but... "It seems like it would be a useful thing to know, Clark. You *have* given me a unique opportunity to study you for the sake of the Mission."

Clark's mouth twists. "I'd rather not be dissected in -- another -- report, Tim."

Tim cocks his head to the side. "Oh, but... I'd feel honored to be similarly dissected for the AI."

"Ah... well. I'm not *entirely* sure, but the AI may feel the need to do it somewhat more literally than you'd find entirely comfortable."

Tim bites the inside of his lip.

Clark -- the light which had been, now that Tim thinks about it, *missing* from Clark's eyes for the past several minutes is back. With a vengeance.

"I don't suppose a cheek scraping would be sufficient?"

Clark *pats* Tim's cheek. "You have so *many* fascinating surfaces, Tim. Inside and out. The human animal is a marvel of complexity, well worth *intensive* study."

"You know..." Tim laughs and shakes his head. "I've always *wanted* to see the Fortress for myself --"

"Yes?"

"But you're making me wonder if I shouldn't acquire one of Bruce's haz-mat suits first."

Clark's expression is a *marvel* of disappointment -- "Tim."

His *voice* is the perfect representation of *scold* --

"Don't be ridiculous. The AI would treat those suits like *paper*."

Tim brings his free hand to his mouth and rubs at his upper lip, a little. It doesn't actually stop the laugh from bubbling up the back of his throat, but there are appearances to be considered --

There really aren't any appearances to be considered, at all. Tim looks up at Clark from under his lashes, and knows that the light in his own eyes must be rather impressive.

Clark *strokes* his cheek. "The earth's environment is probably my primary passion, these days. I'm sure Bruce keeps you informed of my movements when I'm not simply reacting to various disasters...?"

Tim moves his hand from his mouth and looks up again. "Your work with the radiation-poisoned areas in Qurac is fascinating and more than a little *relieving*. I've seen footage of the farmland you've recovered for the use of the people."

Clark's smile is warm and pleased. "At my current schedule, it will be at least five years before I'm finished there -- and of course there remains the possibility of further disasters --"

"You bring hope," Tim says, and means it with all of himself -- and especially with the part of him which missed those sheets *bitterly* after looking at the footage --

And Clark moves closer. "I've also -- there are... ah. Other things."

"Strip-mined areas, deepening river beds to stave off flooding, redirecting sewage dumping --"

"That last..." Clark winces.

Yes, that *last*. "It's gotten you in trouble with certain governments."

"Access to clean water is *important* --"

"I've never..." Tim squeezes Clark's hand again. "You're hurting no one when you force the dumping into areas unconnected with the groundwater supply --"

"Well, there was... a certain real estate firm looking to develop just outside of Jakarta. I'm afraid I lowered the property values dramatically --"

"In the interest of staving off another cholera outbreak. Bruce's reports are quite thorough."

Clark's smile is rueful. "I suppose I should've known that he would take an especial interest in those activities of mine which most interfere with human life."

"Well, to be fair to Bruce -- and I really don't want to be, at the moment, so really it's a kind of *extra* fair --"

"One might even say super-fair?"

"Indeed," Tim says, and shifts until he's up on his knees and sitting on his heels --

<<Most-fine.>>

"*Bruce* -- left the report in question in one of the non-urgent files. He often leaves things there *solely* for my own amusement."

"'Superman defecates all over multi-million-dollar real estate deal?'"

"My inner populist was... hm. Thrilled. Sometimes I think I'd like to be a physician."

Clark blinks and smiles. "You'd be wonderful --"

Tim holds up a hand. "I have doubts about my bedside manner -- and about my ability to devote the time and energy the job deserves."

Clark shifts his grip on Tim's hand until he can stroke the inside of Tim's wrist with his thumb. "Bruce is very close to... Dr. Thompkins, is it? And -- that expression is rather terrible, Tim --"

"Saying this is just going to guarantee that Bruce is paying *attention* to the various bugs, but -- she really gets on my nerves. That's shallow *and* petty, but there are only so many times I can stand to be lectured on the evils of violence and the vast mistake I'm making with my life -- okay, I'll be even *more* honest. She was one of the exactly two adults in Bruce's life when he was growing up, and she's terrible to him. Insulting, disrespectful -- she treats him like the child she wishes she'd aborted. That she wishes she *believed* in abortion so she could've aborted him.

"*I'm* angry with Bruce, and he *is* kind of an asshole a lot of the time, but he treats her like the secular second coming, bowing to her rules and edicts right and left, and she gives him absolutely nothing in return. Nothing she wouldn't give anyone who walked through her doors, anyway."

"Oh... goodness? It had been my understanding... that he sees her as something of a mentor?"

That really was kind of over the top. Really -- would he have said all of that if he *wasn't* upset with Bruce? Probably not. Still -- Clark wanted honesty. "He does see her as a mentor, and he would probably be pleased if I went into medicine *because* of how he feels about her... but I won't be talking *to* her about it," Tim says, and smiles ruefully. "Do you ever find yourself watching neurons spark and fire, Clark?"

"Only when I'm concerned about someone's neurological health and am otherwise frustrated. I'm afraid the patterns -- if they're there -- remain a mystery to me."

Which makes sense. If Clark had been able to shed light on that sort of thing, he would've done so by now. "I *believe* in those patterns, Clark. I -- humans are all so different from each other, but still the same in so many wild, mysterious, *bizarre* ways -- well."

Clark searches him for a long moment, avid and *focused*, obviously interested -- "Some would see that as -- further -- proof of divine influence."

Tim smiles. "Some like to take the easy way out."

"A terrible sin," Clark says, and raises his eyebrow.

"Good thing we're avoiding those," and... Tim realizes that he's shifting back, moving --

He wants to lie down with Clark again, and it isn't just because his genitals have been making plaintive demands for attention since he'd stopped actively touching them. It's -- ah.

Tim shakes his head. "I'm used to cuddling for conversations like this."

"Oh. Well..."

And suddenly Tim is on Clark's lap with his arms wrapped around his neck. Tim laughs. "Better, in a very special way."

"I'm glad. Have you spoken with Stephanie about your... condition?"

"To be honest, I was hoping to save that conversation until my cure was a fait accompli. Well -- I was *hoping* to spend however long it took to *be* cured in the Cave, wallowing in the bracing lack of appreciable sympathy from Bruce and Alfred. I'd train, catch up on studying the various reports... um. Train?"

"Your life is so full, Tim. I don't know how you manage to find the time for friendships," Clark says, and that expression is really a lot like one of Dick's, which...

All right, he's blushing again. "Sometimes my passions aren't especially... accessible. To others."

"You long to improve yourself, your skills and abilities?"

"Of course. I have a lot to live up to." And a future he can't even think *around* without wanting to do at least two hundred push-ups while working on becoming at least a *baritone* --

And Clark frowns like he'd *sensed* there was something Tim hadn't said, which is something he really could've predicted.

"Before you ask... Bruce has told me that he expects me to... take over for him when he can no longer be the Batman."

And Clark strokes Tim's back almost restlessly, frowning a little -- "That's rather a lot to *put* on you, Tim --"

"Why? And if you're about to say something about my age, Clark..."

"Well, no, I wasn't -- I try not to be *that* sort of hypocrite, Tim, especially since I've been working at this since I *was* your age, but..." Clark sighs and cups Tim's waist and left shoulder blade. "I can recognize the logic in his thinking -- I *remember* how unhappy Dick was when he took over for Bruce for that brief time, and your temperament *does* seem better suited -- but... all right, perhaps I *am* thinking about your age."

"Clark --"

"Perhaps, for my peace of mind, you'll allow me to help you have as much of an adolescence as you possibly can?"

"Adolescence is *overrated*, and --"

"Not," Clark says, and strokes down from Tim's waist to cup his ass, "in some respects."

Tim feels his expression twist -- "*This* body won't be reaching its sexual peak for quite some time."

Clark's nostrils flare. "I'm sure you're correct, but..."

Had Tim done or said something in particular to regain Clark's amorous side? Had his body? Tim frowns and starts to reach down between his legs -- stops.

"Tim?"

"Am I... very wet again?"

"Not as much as before, no, but -- you seemed to respond favorably when I mentioned Dick's stint as Batman...?"

Oh. Well. He *had* asked -- and Clark's smile is very... wet. "Um --"

"You were *his* Robin, for a time."

"We -- hardly knew each other, at the time. Um. That's when we *started* to get to know each other. I was having other problems at the time, I'd had to allow myself to get beaten up to protect my secret..." Tim shakes his head again. "He was very understanding."

"He usually is," Clark says, and nods. "You wanted him... badly."

"I -- where were *you*, Clark? You must've -- the kink possibilities *alone* --"

"I was only recently fully *alive*... and I needed to be with Lois," Clark says, and the strokes turn distinctly soothing. "When I did listen, the two of you seemed to be doing wonderfully together."

"It was... it was exhilarating to be honest. I *knew* he didn't like seeing himself in the mirror with the cowl on, that it *hurt* him --"

"But he made an excellent Batman --"

"*Yes*," Tim says and squeezes Clark's shoulders, pushes a little -- "A *lifetime* of obsession in one tall, perfect body. Everything Batman stood for, *stands* for, and hugs that didn't mean death and pain, touches that weren't designed to instruct or even *guide* --" Tim stops and laughs at himself --

"Oh, Tim, you -- I really could listen to you speak about Dick for hours at a time, if for some reason you were unsure about that...?"

"I... I didn't have much else to say. I mean, you can *guess* that I spent a great deal of time trying to hide untimely erections --"

"I'd say they were *very* timely. It hardly seems possible that the two of you have never been intimate before."

"I... well. In retrospect, I can see times when we could've been, if I had been less... well." Tim snorts. "You've been... a help."

"I'm very glad," Clark says, and kisses him -- softly, *quickly* -- several times.

Tim moves to kiss him back -- and Clark's fingers are between Clark's mouth and his own. Tim raises an eyebrow.

"Could we... speak more?"

Tim licks a stripe up along Clark's fingers. "You could tell me about your other passions."

"You're being indulgent --"

"Yes," Tim says, and licks Clark's fingers again. "I am. You could consider reciprocating."

"You shouldn't think -- the thought of being inside you warms me, buries me in images and fantasy. I could *please* you --"

"*Yes*, Clark --"

"And I have been Dick's lover for too long not to realize that someone like you *would* find even the discomfort, the *pain* pleasurable -- I." And Clark looks stressed -- possibly *distressed* --

Tim squeezes his shoulders again, noting internally the lack of give -- no. "You've stopped softening yourself for me."

Clark blinks. "Should I --"

"No. This is -- this is what I want," Tim says, rubbing Clark's shoulders, his neck -- "I. I'm touching you a lot, but --"

"Please don't stop," Clark says, and kind of *gathers* Tim closer. It's much softer than a pull, much more confident than a mere physical request. "We're learning each other, and a part of me finds it more wonderful than even more sexual contact would be."

"A part of me would *like* to protest that, but..." But his heart is beating faster, and he's *warm*, and it has everything and nothing to do with the feel of Clark's broad, *hard* chest against his nipples, Clark's impossible *possibilities* -- "Talk to me. More."

"There is both craft and art in investigative reporting. The craft is easy to explain -- the legwork, the research, but once the interviews begin, once it becomes necessary to start asking questions, to open the eventual report to the *human* factor..."

"Bruce would say that that's more of a science."

"Bruce is a *Philistine* -- ah. Sometimes," Clark says, cupping Tim's ass and lifting him slightly, setting him down again, lifting -- down. <<I would make a solitude with you.>>

Tim shivers. "Something -- more than intimacy?"

"Something more formal than that, but which includes a great deal of room for casual contact, pleasure... It's -- difficult to explain," Clark says, and it's not quite a frown on his face, but his expression is serious -- passionate.

"Tell me of the art," Tim says, and presses against the hand on his back, down against the one on his ass --

"The world is full of *secrets*, Tim. The most open person in the world is hiding something, if only from him or herself. There are all sorts of ways to use psychology to force those secrets into the light, but the *art* is in coaxing them free, in finding the words and motions, the *being*, to convince another person to allow you into them.

"Lois does it effortlessly. *Thoughtlessly*. She would say that she agrees with Bruce on what makes it work, but deep inside she knows that this is something she was born for. The patterns within her mind flare and dance along pathways I struggle to know, and the world lays itself open for her perusal. It's really almost *biblical*, Tim."

"The parting of the human sea?"

"There is an ocean within us all," Clark says, lifting Tim again and kissing his collarbone, licking --

"I like -- oh, that suck --"

"I won't mark you --"

"Ah -- probably for the best. I think?" Tim laughs and pushes his hands into Clark's hair, tugs a little -- "Please kiss me?"

A kiss for his *collarbone*, but there's no time to either protest or clarify before Clark is kissing his mouth, coaxing -- yes, *that* -- Tim's tongue into his mouth and working it between his lips, dipping in and pulling back over and over before sucking hard --

He still tastes a little like *Dick* --

He pulls back and searches Tim again.

"I -- what? I wasn't -- thinking about anything else."

Clark narrows his eyes in a smile that's *only* pleased -- "Tell me... tell me more about the human mind as you see it. Or... something else?"

Tim shakes his head and cards through Clark's hair -- watches Clark's eyes narrow and *briefly* flare red. He shivers again, and feels himself *clench* --

"Tim. Your arousal is *blinding*, at times. A part of me wants only to stoke it, to urge it and you to greater heights --" Clark licks his lips. "Please."

"I --" Tim licks his lips and breathes, closes his eyes for a moment and tries not to *listen* to his genitals, which are being insistent about the fact that Clark's penis is close, close enough that Tim can feel the warmth of it through Clark's uniform against his naked thigh -- he can't keep from rubbing it a little.

"Tim --"

"Addiction," Tim says, and quietly marvels -- yes, he *does* have a thought to go with the word. "There's a theory -- and some practice -- that suggests that the human brain is, at least in part, *designed* to react chemically with various agents, and produce the effects that millions of people will do terrible things just to experience just one more time. At the same time, there are all of these *behaviors* which utilize and express some of the same physiological effects, and really -- it seems that everyone alive is capable of becoming addicted to something. From heroin to gambling to sex to *religion* --"

"Bruce has called it, in my hearing, a design flaw," Clark says, and strokes two fingers down the hollow of Tim's spine --

Tim arches for it, thinks -- "What if it's not a bug so much as it's a feature? What if there were a way to *harness* the power of the human mind to alter itself for the better use or consumption of these various substances and actions? We've both trained ourselves to think in certain ways, to *live* in certain ways. We've both *addicted* ourselves to a way of being so thoroughly that we could never live without it. A part of me is honestly *panicked* by the fact that I won't be able to go out there tonight, that I won't be able to help -- and to hurt, for all that there's nothing about that sort of activity which will help me."

Clark frowns. "Your physical health, your personal athleticism?"

"Both just as easily maintained -- and improved -- with a fully-stocked gymnasium, Clark. This *need* in me to have a purpose, to be *useful* -- is it so different from the religious maniac who needs to do everything in his or her power to become 'right' with their god? Of course, I've *mostly* grown out of seeing Bruce as my personal savior..."

"Ah -- I'm very, very glad. I do sometimes... wonder, about his ability to instill that sort of feeling in the young people he gathers to himself."

Tim smiles. "And his right to do it? He isn't the only one, of course, but he is the *best* at it. And I... I know myself, Clark. There will be a day when Bruce isn't there at all, for me or for anyone else, and I will still *need* to prove myself to him in every way I can. For a part of me, there's no happiness without it --"

"Tim, no --"

"But I'm going afield. My *passion*, Clark..." Tim pauses and breathes, tries to put it into the *right* words... "What does it truly mean that we're *all* born with the ability to change what we see, how we perceive -- and even who we *are*? You say there's an ocean within us all, and I agree. We are *teeming* with life... with a life -- with *lives* of the *mind*. And most of us do it in small ways if we do it all, and far too many of us do it in ways that damage both ourselves and the society we live in, but..." Tim growls a little, blushing at the sound of it. "I'm sorry, I don't think I really have the *words* for this."

"Oh, no, Tim, you..." Clark strokes him almost restlessly, presses and pulls Tim closer -- nuzzles Tim's mouth. "Tell me more? Please. I want to hear this, your thoughts. I need -- please."

Is he helping to build that solitude? Tim smiles ruefully -- gets kissed, slow and *deep*, and the moan doesn't wait for permission or even *thought*, because Clark's tongue feels even less *like* a tongue than before, devastatingly mobile only by the grace of a truly beneficent -- god.

Tim *hums* when he can stop moaning, wanting Clark to feel something like the subtly profound waves moving within him, or at least the *tremor* Tim can feel in his thighs --

*Clark* moans and cups the back of Tim's head, fucks Tim's mouth and lifts him again -- and when Clark sets him down, the impossibly *hard* shaft of Clark's erection is pressing against Tim's lips --

Pressing *between* when Tim shifts, and Tim cries out into Clark's mouth and tugs his hair hard, *wants* --

He's going to *stain* Clark's uniform --

Clark pulls back. "More. Please?"

"I --" What was he *saying* -- oh. Yes, but -- "I've never... I've never really told anyone about this. It's always seemed a little... like an excuse? For not being as *firm* within my sense of self as I could be."

"You feel you've changed yourself too much?"

Tim looks down between them and closes his eyes for a moment. "It's more... I don't really feel like I *had* much of a self before Bruce began training me."

"Oh... Tim, no. Everyone struggles for a sense of identity when they're young --"

"There was what I knew about Batman and Robin, about *Bruce* and *Dick*, and there was the desire to know more, the *need* to know more, to believe in something greater -- there really wasn't much *else*, Clark. I didn't read very extensively beyond what had to be done for school, I only really listened to the bands Dick and Jason mentioned in those *insipid* Teen Gotham Beat interviews -- and the ones with similar styles. I didn't play sports or do anything other than *using* the karate lessons to try to feel closer to them..." Tim laughs. "I was a *cipher*. I'm somewhat better than that now, Clark, but really... anyway. I *do* recognize that I'm a reasonably interesting person to be around *now*. You don't have to... defend my self-esteem."

And Clark seems distinctly *troubled*, but he nods, after a moment. "Finish your earlier thought for me?"

For him, yes. "If we're all born with the capacity to alter ourselves beyond all previous recognition, then determinism is dead in the water. There is no fate, no *inevitability*. Everything -- everything is *possible*, and so there's always room for hope," Tim says, smiling and shifting back enough that he can rest his hand on the 'S'. "And for heroes."

For a moment Clark is only staring at him, but a smile starts tugging at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes are... almost shining, really.

"Clark, I... it's what *you* meant for me, to me... for a long time, now. It really wasn't fair, or --"

"Tim, I --"

"Please, let me finish?"

Clark closes his mouth and nods.

Tim nods back. "It wasn't fair to you, and it didn't take into account that you were an actual person, with needs and desires and a *life*... but at the same time, that was a part of it, too. *Knowing* that you had to be someone -- and later learning that you were Clark Kent -- well, it added to the whole thing, this *mix* of things within myself..." Tim laughs. "I'm making it sound like -- I don't know. I don't always -- or often -- have a lot of faith in the world. The fact that *everything* is possible means that a lot of terrible things are *probable* -- or already extant."

Clark nods again and strokes Tim's hair.

"But... yes. The fact that even an alien from an incredibly distant planet could *embody* this -- this huge and vital thing, could live as a man *and* the world's greatest hero... I'm flailing again. It's just -- you've been important to me for a long time, and a part of me is only waiting for you to leave again so I can have the time to freak *right* out --"

"I really hope you won't, Tim. I'm only a man --"

"These things are ultimately *soothing*, Clark. Helpful to the part of me which will always be running around alleys with a very expensive camera and a notebook with stains from all over Gotham. I..." Tim smiles ruefully. "I'm afraid a lot. Sometimes I think my *foundation* is fear, and everything else is a response to it or a way to deal with it or a way to *enjoy* it. I have a hard time *remembering* that I think anything is possible, and thus applying it to myself can be... sporadic. But it's there. And I think it counts as a passion."

<<Your beauty moves.>>

"Clark --"

"I would like to make you *happy*, Tim, even though I know that true happiness comes only from within ourselves --"

"I'm happy, Clark. I like to think... well, *most* of me has been deliriously happy since Bruce agreed to take me on. I'm living the life I used to dream about, and -- before there was Superman for me, and before there was Batman -- there was Robin. I get to *be* what I've dreamed about. I'm not unhappy."

Clark frowns and presses Tim close again, making it necessary for Tim to move his arm from between them. "You are... there are still doubts within you. You allow yourself so *little* of the world around you --"

"I don't *need* much to be satisfied --"

<<I would have you glutted, sated and lost within your own pleasure, beautiful one. I would have our solitude ring with your cries.>>

And that -- Tim *thinks* about it --

Tim *tries* to think about it, but Clark's eyes are rimmed with red, and, this close, Tim can feel their heat. And when Tim shifts... yes, he's already left a wet spot on Clark's shorts, but... "Does that mean you will...?"

"I." Clark seems to be searching *himself*, and that --

Tim doesn't want to interrupt so much as he wants to *encourage*. "Please, Clark."

"If you'll let me... if I use my fingers. Perhaps you'll find that satisfying?"

Tim doesn't doubt that his *body* would find it satisfying, but -- "When will you let me make *you* come, Clark? With more than just my apparently attractive... flailings?"

"Am I being selfish?"

"Selflessly so," Tim says and rolls forward, putting a little more of his weight on his knees -- and making himself moan for the feel of Clark's *heat* against his clit --

Clark smiles, bright and almost *fierce* -- "You must admit that -- you are *tantalizing*, Tim --"

"What I am... is increasingly too -- wet to think." Tim frowns. "Somehow that seems to have less verbal *impact* than 'too hard.'"

"Oh... I must disagree," and Clark rocks up against him once, again --

Tim's mouth falls open for this moan and stays open for another, another -- focus, *think* -- "You -- you have to *wear* this uniform --"

"I can dry it in an instant --"

"The *stain* --"

"Ah -- true," Clark says, and rests his hands on Tim's hips. "An excellent reminder. *Do* you want my fingers?"

"Too -- too *much*. Clark, I'm going to be *upset* if you don't at least let me --"

"You could stroke me with your wonderful hands, beautiful --" And Clark is holding Tim's hands in front of his face, kissing the palms and sucking the fingers, repeating the process and licking, pressing them to his own face --

Tim tries to *cup* Clark's face, but the grip is impossible to break -- or even *adjust* -- "Please, Clark, I want to *feel* you in every way I *can*. I want to remember this with my body, I want --"

And Tim's on his back and spread -- *lifted*, and Clark leans in and *sucks* Tim's clit, making Tim kick and *mewl*, and Tim can only hope nothing exciting and crime-related happens near this room anytime soon, because having *this* footage perused would kill him.

He can't move his hips, but he can't *stop* moving his legs and his upper body, writhing and kicking, yanking at the sheets and *wanting* --

And Clark moves his mouth *down*, licking, stabbing at the aperture of Tim's urethra -- and *that* feeling is so familiar it make him *curse*, growling and reaching for Clark's hair --

Slamming back against the bed because that's Clark's *tongue* inside him, shoving in and in, and Tim knows that he *could* come from this, but he doesn't want to. There's a space inside him which has *felt* something longer, something *harder* --

And his right hand finds the escrima stick, loses it again in the sheets --

He has to hold *on* --

"*Clark* --"

"I must -- your *taste*, Tim, the musk and tang of you --" And Clark hums against the opening of Tim's vagina while he fucks Tim with his tongue, making Tim squeeze his eyes shut and scrabble for more contact, reach and bend *up* --

And *shake* for the shift inside him, or perhaps for the way Clark is *drinking* him, licking him clean and making him feel dirty, *lost* --

"Now," Clark says, pulling back and --

Oh, fingers, two fingers, and they're pressed against his hymen, they're *pushing* there, and the sensation is exactly like having something inside him without much give *stretched*. "Oh -- will you? Please?"

"What you want, Tim -- I -- the pain can be quite *sharp* --"

"Please, I -- Clark." Tim bangs his head against the pillow just a *few* times --

"Tim, no --"

"Do you want me, Clark? Do you --"

"I won't *let* you doubt that, Tim --"

"No. No --" Tim licks his lips and looks up at Clark, knowing that his expression is *made* of plea, of the kind of raw need he's spent years learning how *not* to show --

"You're so very *beautiful*, Tim. Dick will be enchanted, lost to you -- I can't wait to see you give yourselves to each other --"

"Not Dick. Not -- not *now*, Clark. Please tell me -- do you want to be inside me?"

And for a moment Clark's eyes are so bright with heat there's no blue at all and his whole body is tense. He *shudders*. "Tim, you mustn't -- you're so very *small*, you must feel this stretch -- oh, such power in you, even here..."

And Clark begins to *thrust*, and the sensation is so perfect, so close to *perfect* -- "My body -- this body *wants*, I -- please, tell me you want --"

"I *want* you," Clark says, and his tone is almost angry, deep and *dark*, and Tim shivers and clutches the sheets again, pulls at them --

"Everything, Clark -- I. Everything is *possible* --" And the scream rips itself out of him, hurting something in his throat because --

Clark --

So *deep*, and Tim is forcing his breathing into something like calm as quickly as he can, Clark has to know that was all right, that *hurt* --

"Tim... Please, Tim, you must tell me --"

"C-Clark. Clark. *Oh* --" It's still singing through him, still -- like a skip in the wave, a jagged edge for it to catch on within him, and the hurt place feels like a hot *beacon* inside him, beyond which is pleasure, pressure and fullness -- "Oh, God. Clark --"

"I'm sorry. I'm -- my *control*, Tim -- oh..."

The only possible response was to spread himself wider, to answer the raw *ache* inside him with a pull in his thighs, a tightness in his abs --

<<You must speak, fine one. You must make contract with me that I may avoid crime and trespass. I would know your *mind* -->>

"Don't stop. Don't *wait*. Don't --" Tim licks his lips and opens his eyes again, planting his feet so he can push up and *rock* against Clark's hand --

And Clark rests his free hand on Tim's abdomen and presses *down*, holding Tim in place. "Say it --"

Tim nods -- Tim *clenches*, and the sound he makes is almost a howl, shocked out of him by the pain that shoots through him -- and the fact that the pain is already less intense. Tim smiles --

Clark *twists* his fingers and presses down *hard* --

"*Fuck* me --"

And a part of Tim was waiting for the feel of Clark pulling out, for a *pause*, but he was clearly expecting both too much and too *little* from Clark's control. Clark is thrusting in sharp, even strokes with his fingers, and it feels like Clark's trying, more than anything else, to get Tim *used* to the feeling. Tim wants to tell him that it's just not possible, that it's just too *different* from everything else, including that interlude with the escrima stick.

There's a *heat* to it, wet and intense enough that Tim's starting to sweat again. It's *not* a burn -- he's far too slick for that, but --

But there's something *else* Clark's fingers are hitting with every thrust, and Tim wonders if it's his cervix, the outer wall of his uterus -- he doesn't know and he doesn't *care*. There's an internal *shudder* every time Clark makes contact, something to *add* to the thrust and slide --

"Please -- please do speak, Tim --"

"Ah -- good. It's -- I want. Please don't stop, Clark, please stretch me *open* -- oh, *God* --"

The splay of Clark's fingers, the twist and vaguely *upward* thrust -- it feels like Clark is both mapping and *making* him, and the only thing *keeping* it from being perfect is his own mind wanting more, wanting --

"Clark -- your pleasure --"

<<It lives, it waits -->>

Tim *hauls* on the sheets and tries to arch against the hand holding him down, tries to --

He's *not* as close to orgasm as he was a few minutes ago, the pain or the *change* of stimulation had eased him back down, but --

Oh, he wants this to go on *forever*, wants to be able to work his hips against Clark -- "Please. Please --"

<<I *ache*.>>

And Tim's squeezing his eyes shut again, because the feeling is so -- it's --

He can't *move* into it, but that just means that he's taking it, that he can't do anything *but* take it --

"I *want* you," he says, and it's so low that it's almost his own voice, almost -- "I would whisper. Into my pillow --"

"The things you would say for the lover you imagined, that you would beg for when you weren't biting and sucking your *fingers* -- I watched you *mark* your fingers, fine one, Tim --"

"*Please*, did you hear? Did I -- that time --"

Clark moans, pained and somehow *sweet* --

"Oh, Clark --"

"I'm afraid I -- I've *listened* to you, Tim. *Countless* times. I've learned your preferred rhythms, and I -- you never say *names* when --"

"Hnn -- I want -- I want to be taken, sometimes, I want -- oh, sometimes it could almost be *anyone* --"

"*Me*, Tim. Be -- be mine, for this moment, only mine..."

Tim gasps and whimpers, tosses his head -- *stops*, because he doesn't want Clark to think he means *no*, he can't let Clark think -- speaking, words -- "Yours, yes. You -- you *hurt* me --"

Clark cries *out*, and now he's *stroking* Tim everywhere he can reach with his free hand, pressing and cupping, trying to *soothe* --

"My mind -- I can't always control. But right *now*, Clark --" He *forces* his eyes open -- "Just you, so -- you're so much, Clark, I can only feel -- I can *smell* you and I want to taste, want you to fuck, want you to *take* --"

"Tim --"

"*Show* me how much you want me, Clark, please, I'm begging, I need -- please, *please* -- *mm* --"

The kiss is clearly designed to silence him when it starts, and as such it's hard not to let himself bite Clark's tongue -- only.

Clark can feel *everything*, if in very different ways than how Tim can feel, and it's possible -- Tim bites down and opens his eyes -- and the *brightness* of Clark's eyes is painful enough that he has to close them again, *grunt* --

Clark pulls back. "Oh, Tim, I'm sorry --"

"You didn't *burn* me, Clark --"

"At that distance, in this way --" Clark shudders on top of Tim and presses gently against Tim's eyelid with his thumb, strokes as if he can ease the discomfort that way. "You must believe -- I usually have more *control*, Tim," he says, and he's still thrusting with his fingers, still *expertly* following Tim's internal curve --

Tim laughs despite himself, despite *everything* --

<<I would enter your *mind* -->>

"Perhaps -- nn. Perhaps you could start with my -- *ah*. Oh, what -- what is --"

"Vibration, just in my fingertips. A level of control I *can't* achieve with my penis, Tim. You -- just your pleasure, just *yours* --"

"*No*, Clark," and it takes everything he has -- he can't seem to feel his *extremities* -- but he sits up and wraps his hands around Clark's working arm, feels the flex and release of muscle in something which should be too hard to *move*. He tugs, gritting his teeth against the mixed messages from his vagina, from the overly complicated *whole* of this sex. "*Show* me --"

And Clark's *wake* moves Tim, almost turning him over onto his side. He's *empty* --

And Clark is naked and kneeling above him, hard and *breathing* hard, and Tim clenches. It's enough of an excuse for his clumsiness when he kneels up to straddle Clark, to dig his knees in against Clark's thighs before reaching down to *grip* --

"Oh -- oh, Tim, *yes* --"

Tim strokes with both hands, messy and awkward, *wonderful*, because even though his palms are telling him that there should be *limits* to how hard an erection can get, the rest of him is just -- excited, *moved*. And that word seems too small for the feeling, for the way he's *grinning* even as he moans at the desperate, needy throb within him --

It *is* too small, but it's what he has. And Clark -- his eyes are closed, his head tilted back --

Tim realizes that Clark would *let* Tim get him off this way, that Clark is close enough, perhaps, to *need* just this --

Or Tim's mouth --

Or. Tim lets his hands slide down to the base of Clark's penis and squeezes as hard as he can. It's ridiculous to think he can *hold* Clark there, but it's something he needs, just the same --

"Every subtle shift of texture, every callus and *scar*. Oh, Tim, you've been so *cruel* to your hands --"

"I love the way I feel when I stroke myself, Clark. I -- when I shake someone's hand, a part of me is always imagining how that hand would feel wrapped around my penis, is always measuring strength and degree of will --"

"Once. I -- Bruce *gripped* me, and stroked, and looked deep into my eyes..."

That sound -- harsh and high and *loud* --

And Clark is looking at him again, and it should be too difficult to read expression with his eyes that red, but there's a knowingness there, a sense that Clark can *feel* every thought in Tim's head, that he knows every *fantasy* --

"*Don't*," Tim says, and squeezes Clark again. "Don't take me away from this."

Clark exhales on a moan and caresses Tim's arms, squeezes the upper parts of them -- Clark's hands are shaking, and it's making Tim *move*, vibrating parts of him too *far* from where he needs it -- "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to -- it was only your talk of *hands*, Tim --"

"L-later. Later. I promise I'll talk about --" Tim bites his lip and presses as close as he can, guiding Clark's penis between his legs -- "Please, let me have you," he says, and it comes out sounding high and young, but there's nothing Tim can do about that. Clark --

Clark would've heard it that way even if Tim had managed to disguise it enough for his own ears. And just -- the way he's *looking* at Tim, the way he's not fighting --

Some part of Clark is only waiting to see if Tim will do it, if Tim *can* do it, and perhaps it has to be that way, another test for him and for his *determination*. Tim feels his mouth curving into a smile he most often uses on the *street* --

And Clark shudders again, gripping Tim's arms *hard* --

*Lifting* Tim, and -- maybe it's not a test, at all. Maybe it's everything Clark can *manage*, right now, and that's the kind of terrifying --

"*Tim* --"

"*This* fear, Clark. You should -- oh -- you should *learn* it," Tim says, and lines the head up against his hole -- "I think. I think it's for *you* --"

"Please, Tim. One last -- one last *time* --"

And Tim *pulls* on Clark's penis, trying to get it in, trying to feel more than just the brush of the head against his inner lips --

And whatever Clark says -- whatever language it's *in* -- is too fast for Tim to understand as more than an open-mouthed hum with a lot of different notes and a great deal of -- passion.

"*Now* -- oh, *fuck* --"

<<You must hold me -- always like *this* -->>

"Clark, I -- oh. Oh my God, I --" Tim shakes his head and tries to convince himself to breathe, to think -- to do anything other than *boggle* at the feel of Clark inside him, at the scratch of Clark's hair against his lips, at the incredible --

He can't have possibly stretched that *much*, only he wouldn't be feeling this if he *hadn't*. It's -- it feels like Clark is holding him *open*, or like -- maybe he *is* clenching around --

"*Please*," Tim says, and he doesn't know what he's asking for. Doesn't -- Tim shakes his head -- gasps because he *hadn't* been breathing, and that makes something move inside him, makes Clark whisper --

Something --

"I can't. Can't hear, or --" Tim blinks and tries to focus, reaches up for Clark's shoulders --

*Relaxes*, suddenly and utterly, and physics is irrelevant -- it feels like Clark is *miles* deeper than he was a *moment* ago --

And Tim is shouting and digging his nails in against Clark's perfect skin, wanting to mark, to hurt, to alter *something* just to prove that this is as much for Clark as it is for him, as --

<<Ease. I need your *ease*, beautiful one. I must not injure -->> "There are traces of your blood on my fingers, Tim. I. Please, I will not hurt you *more* --"

"*Clark* -- oh, you're. Give me. Give me those fingers --"

Clark shudders and *flexes* --

Tim shouts again -- and it's muffled by the fingers in his mouth. He can taste himself again, and perhaps there is something metallic rather than mineral, something human other than his pre-come -- he can't tell, and he can't stop making *noises* around Clark's fingers, one muffled shout for each pound of his pulse, for every thudding bit of *heat* --

*Inside* him --

Tim sucks -- clenches and shouts, bites *down*  --

"*Please*, Tim --"

And Tim's nodding desperately. He's *trying*, but every message from his body comes with an exclamation point, every breath just makes it clear that he's *full*, utterly so --

He can feel Clark in his *ass*, and -- what would it be like for him to push a finger inside, too? At what point does his entire self *snap*, leaving him open and utterly usable?

Another *flex*, and Tim's eyes roll back in his head, and the wave that rushes through him makes him feel *faint* --

"*With* me, Tim. You can -- oh, you're so *strong*, Tim, and I need that now. I need --" <<Give *in*, beautiful one -->>

Pain in his *hand*, random and -- oh, he's beating his fist against Clark's *shoulder*, and that -- Tim blinks and opens his eyes, but it's hard to focus against the heat, the sense of himself as something *speared*. This --

It's what he had *wanted*, only Clark is frowning and searching him instead of looking *happy*, and that's not right. Tim shakes his head and *sucks* Clark's fingers, tries to pull them deeper inside himself, focuses only on *that*. It feels like it takes some sizable fraction of forever, but after a while the throbs and waves fade a little, *quiet* a little until Tim is breathing reasonably evenly.

He can't think of words to say and he can't make himself *move* --

"Tim," Clark says, and his hands are suddenly on Tim's hips, cupping and holding them. "I must."

Must. He -- Tim opens his eyes *again* and tries to put a question into them, something like *internal* coherence --

"If. If you need me to pull out, Tim, I --"

Tim shakes his head and tries to say *something*. It comes out as a moan that makes him clench again for the sound, for the fact that Clark's hearing it --

Anyone *listening* could hear it --

Words. He can -- "Clark, I." Tim bites his lip. He just needs time, another few moments to *be* in his body and in this moment -- and Clark is squeezing his hip with one hand and petting Tim's hair with the other, still searching him --

"Tim, you mustn't. You feel wonderful around me, soft and warm, perfect --"

"I want -- that's what I *want*, Clark, I -- oh, *God* --" Another clench, another *flex*, and Tim has no idea which came first and no idea how to find *out* -- no. Clark would know.

Clark --

"Your eyes. I -- they're so. Do they ever hurt you?"

"Oh, Tim... I became accustomed to the discomfort a long time ago. You -- tell me about *your* pain?"

Tim laughs -- groans and tries to shift -- Clark is holding him still. "Clark...?"

"Another moment, just like this, Tim. I'll do anything you'd *like*, but I have to feel you, right now --" <<I touch your sweetness and am made. I fill you and am *broken*.>>

"Broken. That -- I've never. There's never been anything *like* this --"

"I know, fine one, Tim -- tell me about the *pain* --"

Tim shakes his head and tries to think beyond the urgency in Clark's voice, in his *expression*. "I -- mostly around my. Opening. The stretch there feels -- ah. Some variety of *impossible*."

Clark nods slowly. "Then I must be careful, and *you* must let me move us both, at least for now?"

Tim's lips feel dry -- he licks them and nods, and his mind offers him the image of a *specific* fantasy -- "You were. On your back, I -- when I was touching myself --"

"Oh... yes?"

The *man* on his back beneath Tim had shifted and changed, almost *flickered* between choices -- but Clark had been one of them. "You were smiling at me. You held my hips -- *oh* --"

"Like this?"

Tim moans and loses himself to the feel, the *heat*, inside and out -- "Please. Please, Clark."

"Do I kiss you? Touch your... your wonderful *skin*?"

Psychic whiplash, because Clark is stroking his penis, whispering words Tim can't hear or understand as he thrusts up, thrusts *in* --

His fingers are still *wet* on Tim's hip --

"In me. I -- please, your finger. I. Please?"

And perhaps he should be grateful that he'd gotten *something* coherent out, because this flex makes Tim's eyes roll back in his head again, makes his body feel loose and almost *helpless* everywhere Clark isn't touching --

He could have -- oh, God, what happens when Clark *moves*?

"*Tim* -- you. You don't think it would be too *much*?"

"I don't *know*, Clark -- but." Tim shakes his head and licks his lips again, thinking about the burn of it from earlier, the pure *familiarity* of it and sense of being -- taken. More.

And Clark's eyes are wide and *bright*, difficult to focus on -- Tim reaches up to touch Clark's cheek, the skin *beneath* his eye -- warm. Very. The difficulty is *heat* haze.

"You want to --"

"*Yes*, Tim. I -- if I could, I'd. There's nothing I don't want from you."

And that's... a lot. Enough that Tim thinks he should really be *trying* to think *deeply* about it, to at least try to put it into some context --

He's *full*, and he could be more so. Clark is *inside* him, and painting streaks of saliva, come, and -- perhaps -- more of those blood traces on his hip --

"Do it, Clark. And then --"

And then he's being kissed again, *silenced* again, and Tim can feel the heat of Clark's eyes on his eyelids, which means Clark's eyes are *open* and that it would be dangerous to open his own. He doesn't particularly *want* to hurt himself that way, for all that there wouldn't be *permanent* damage --

God, *Clark*, and he can't even *think* about the smaller things, like the brush of his nipples against Clark's chest, the way Clark's thighs are forcing his own to stay spread --

The fact that Clark is *here*, and that they're having sex --

Clark would say 'making love,' and mean it so much that it would have it's own inalienable *truth* --

*Please*, Tim thinks, tries to say around Clark's tongue --

And Clark moans and pulls Tim tighter against himself, strokes Tim's back and ass, cups him and squeezes there --

Pulls back and licks Tim's mouth, Tim's cheek and ear --

"Is it wrong that a part of me is only wondering what you'll fantasize after this, Tim?" Whispered against Tim's *ear* --

"I -- ah. It's an excellent question, Clark -- *oh*, that. That *flex* --"

"Would you have me do it again?"

"*Yes*, because -- it's different. Changing -- the feel --" And Tim groans and feels himself getting wetter, feels Clark's heat and wants to be bitten, held down, *moved* -- "Fuck me -- I --"

"Yes, I -- *now*," Clark says, lifting Tim --

"Oh -- *oh* --"

And Clark *pulls* Tim down, all the way *down* --

"Oh, God, but -- my. Ah -- other hole? *Ohn* --"

Clark's tongue in his *ear*, licking and sliding, teasing even as he lifts Tim again, as Tim feels himself *losing* Clark's penis, losing everything --

"*Clark*, you -- are still not being *fair*," Tim says, and the laugh comes out chopped, broken by moans as Clark pulls him back down so *slowly* --

<<Everything you do urges trespass, the taking of advantage -->>

"I'm sure. I'm -- oh, *please*, Clark --"

<<For you, for your pleasure, my fine one -->>

"Or -- possessed? Held-used?"

<<*All*,>> and Clark squeezes Tim's ass again before slipping two fingers into his cleft, sliding them down to where Tim has gotten himself wet again, *dirty* again --

"So -- oh, God, one hand. One -- you're moving me with one *hand* --"

Clark *pants* against Tim's ear and paints a circle around Tim's hole, so slowly Tim can't help but feel the pucker of it, the *smallness* --

He clenches and Clark *bites* his ear --

He shouts and Clark thrusts *up*, again, *again* and Tim can't *stop* shouting. It's *nothing* like all those times he's fucked himself, and nothing like the feel of the stick from earlier. Clark is so thick in him, so *deep*, and something like this must be dangerous, must --

The feel --

<<Clark, I am -- I feel -->>

<<Please do *speak*, Tim,>> and Clark pushes *in* with his finger, just a little, just *enough* --

Tim moans and throws his head back in an effort to get more air, or maybe just to *feel* this more. Clark is still *thrusting*, and it's making Tim's breasts bounce, making Tim clench around Clark's penis, his *finger* --

Clark bites his ear again -- the *lobe*, this time -- and holds it, makes a sound that *could* be a growl --

And Tim is shaking, *wanting*, because --<<This feeling. You create a beauty in me, art/light -->>

<<Beautiful one, I am *lost* -->>

<<More. Take-have -- I would have more -->>

And Clark *licks* his way back to Tim's mouth -- kisses him and fucks him that way, too, and his tongue is as hard as his finger, his *penis* is harder than anything Tim can imagine, but it's so slick, so --

Mobile within him, following him and *taking* --

Burn and *suck* --

I *need* you, Tim can't say, and he doesn't know if he could say it even if Clark wasn't making his mouth feel as used as every other part of him. It's too much, or it should be. Clark has had such a relatively small space in his fantasies, and a part of Tim is stuck on the question of why, tripping over the undeniable fact of Clark's attraction, Clark's *care* --

It's not for *him*, and it never has been, except that Clark is forcing him to know that that's a lie. *All* of this is for him, and --

*Burn*, because Clark's finger *isn't* that slick, because he's tight --

Clenching hard, over and over now, and the sounds he's making around Clark's tongue are wet and *loud* for all that they're muffled, choked off with every thrust --

One-two-three, one-two-three, and it's a simple rhythm, but it's too fast for him to follow, too *much*, and Tim is shaking his head --

Clark sucks his lower lip and Tim feels the heat of Clark's eyes --

Tim clenches his *ass* and yells, wordless and needy --

He can't -- every fantasy at this point falls *apart*. There are too many hands and not enough bodies, there are eyes on him from all corners and no one touching him, no one with him, never --

Never anyone --

"Tim, I -- I'm going to come, soon, and --"

And if Clark says anything else, Tim can't hear it. All he has is the sound of his own scream, high and sharp and cracking as his entire body shouts, clenches, *has* --

The pleasure seems to be coming from everywhere at *once*, and a part of Tim is aware that there's nothing touching his clit, that this is a *problem* --

And then Clark *is* touching him there, vibrating his finger and sending Tim to another *peak*, another place to scream for, inside and out --

Everywhere --

Blank, everything gone, every --

And Tim's aware that he's *clutching* Clark with his thighs, with his ass *and* his vagina --

He's aware that Clark is kissing him all over his face, that Clark isn't *thrusting* --

"*Please*, Clark --"

"Tight. You're so much *tighter* now, Tim --"

"I --" It's true. It's *very* true, but it's a different sort of impossible than it was when Clark first pushed in. It feels less like that part of his body telling him that he's *small* than it feels like that part of his body telling him that it's *excited*. Certainly his *clit* is throbbing -- and the feeling goes right back and *in*. He's *pulsing* around Clark, and Clark has to be able to feel every moment of it.

Tim opens his eyes -- and winces against the brightness of Clark's own.

"I'm sorry. I'm --"<<Lover, I have *need* -->>

"Lover --"

And Clark's thrust *forces* a yell out of him, forces Tim to reach for Clark's shoulders again and *cling* --

"Clark --"

"I know. I know you didn't mean to say --" Clark moans and shakes his head. "You should let me pull out. This *will* hurt you."

And Tim *wants* to look into Clark's eyes, to *show* him that it's okay, that -- oh. "Close. Close your eyes and look *through* them at me, Clark --"

"An excellent idea. I -- it's not usually so *difficult* to control the brightness, Tim..."

If anything, Clark sounds like he's apologizing for a sexual *failing*, and that -- Tim doesn't laugh, this time, but he still relaxes all over, a little --

"Oh... please look now?"

Tim opens his eyes and tries to follow the way Clark's track behind the lids, tries -- he reaches up to touch, and while the warmth through them isn't actively *painful* -- "I wish -- I find *myself* wanting to apologize. I should've made you come before --"

"*Tim*," Clark says, and it's *odd* to watch a frown with Clark's eyes closed. It's quieter than it should be, stranger --

Tim shakes his head. "At the very least... I want you inside me when you come, Clark. I want to -- I need to *feel* that -- *ah* --"

More of a *push* than a thrust, and Tim's vagina wants him to know that there's a *penis* there, and that this is something worthy of comment and attention --

This time, Tim *does* laugh --

And then the world moves --

Clark's on his back, *under* Tim, and Tim's bent over him -- and the angle shift is making him clench, over and over, making him moan and *shake* -- it feels like another, smaller orgasm, and Tim bites his lip and takes it --

*Rides* it --

Gasps and groans, tries to focus -- Clark is far enough away that he can open his eyes without hurting Tim, which is good for what it's worth, but --

He's far *away*. Tim leans in a little --

Clark stops him with his hands on Tim's shoulders. "Tim. If you. I can hold myself *still* -- if you move."

He doesn't *want* -- except. All right, that was kind of a *serious* twinge inside his vagina, and -- hmm. "We can compromise."

Clark -- blinks. "Ah... yes?"

"Your finger isn't in my ass anymore, Clark. It's... hmm. A problem," Tim says, and raises his eyebrows.

Clark narrows his eyes and -- that wasn't a smile so much as an incredibly brief show of teeth.

A part of Tim is honestly intimidated. Another part is worried about having pushed too far. It's just that the *rest* of him has ceded control of Tim-qua-Tim to these incredibly *vigorous* genitals, and... Tim clenches as hard as he can --

Clark *arches* beneath Tim, eyes closed and he's -- humming? No, that's speed-babble, Clark-style.

"Clark...?"

"*Lois* -- does this to me. I -- *please*, Tim --"

Oh. And possibly there should be extra o's and h's for that, but mostly -- he clenches again, gritting his teeth against the -- he wouldn't call it *pain* --

"Oh, please, *please*," Clark says, squeezing Tim's shoulders -- *almost* too hard --

"You feel..." Tim licks his lips. <<I will mourn the loss of you, Clark.>>

Clark's laugh is breathless and a little shocking --

He hadn't meant to be *funny*, per se -- "Clark?"

<<Lovely one, most fine -- I only intend a *small* death.>>

Oh -- ah. Tim blushes. <<The correct word... regret?>>

<<I would leave you *free* of regret -->> "But yes," Clark says, and strokes the sides of Tim's neck with his thumbs. "Please," he says, and the redness of his eyes makes the smile somewhat more *diabolical* than what Tim is sure was intended -- they're just *too* bright for Tim to parse finer detail -- but.

"Inside me, Clark. Let me -- you know I've wanted *that* from you, that I continue to find it pleasurable --"

"I worry -- I doubt I'd have the control to keep my hips still were I to penetrate you that way again. And I need --" Clark shakes his head. "I do... I believe you when you say you enjoy the discomfort, but I wish to take you this way *again*. Soon," and Clark rubs small circles against Tim's neck, arches enough that Tim's knees leave the bed entirely, and --

It's possible that the sound he just made was not dissimilar to a purr. "Flexible."

"At -- *need*. Oh, clench again, Tim, please -- *ah* --

And Tim does it again, and again, and the swelling is starting to go down inside him, but it's much too *slow*. Maybe -- when Clark lowers himself back to the bed, Tim pushes up a little, moaning at the feel of Clark sliding out --

Tim's lips seem to try to *cling* to Clark, and that's painful and *strange*, enough to make Tim shiver --

"Oh, beautiful, beautiful and *sharp* --"

Lois... has undoubtedly been in this very position countless times, and Tim can't help wondering if it's what she prefers. If -- well.

It takes a certain degree of fortitude to *make* himself take Clark in again, to push against the pain and the way his vagina -- always with *something* to say -- is insisting that there's no way in *hell* that Clark will fit now. That's a *lie*, for all that easing himself back down makes him *hiss* --

Makes him *shudder*, all over --

"Tim, you -- please don't *hurt* yourself --"

"*Clark* --" No, he's not really about to tell him to be quiet. That's the impulse of the *insane* part of him, and is thus not there to actually be listened to -- save as a source of various things *not* to do. Tim pants and opens his eyes again. "It occurs to me that there's just not going to be way to do this unless I get accustomed *quickly*..."

Clark's response is a moan -- and his hands are *shaking* on Tim's shoulders. So --

There's definitely *something* about being in a position to *ride* Clark, for all that none of Tim's fantasies about being in this position have gone quite that way. Tim *thinks* about it -- and leans in enough to pinch Clark's nipples, to catch them firmly and *pull* --

And the flex makes Tim gasp, makes him clench in return -- and that was definitely a *growl* from Clark --

And his vagina's opinion of that involves a spasm that leaves Tim -- open. Tim smiles. "Oh, Clark..."

"*Tim*..."

"Hold *still*," Tim says, and braces himself on his hands. The motions are simple --

"*Ah* -- oh, Tim, oh -- *please* --"

-- and apparently devastating. Tim's still a little too swollen for this to be the sort of arousing that leaves *him* breathless and begging, but oh --

"Beautiful one, I *burn* --"

"Hnn -- try not to burn my *bed*, Clark --"

And something about that -- his tone, maybe? -- makes Clark *buck* just as Tim is easing down. It makes Tim shout, and Clark's hands are immediately on his hips, holding them and holding Tim *still* -- "I'm sorry, I'm -- please, Tim, tell me you're --"

<<I am filled, desired one. All is well -->>

Clark gasps and