Dreamtime
by Te
September 20, 2011

Disclaimers: No one and nothing here is mine.

Spoilers/Timeline: Vague ones for older storylines. Takes place during Tim's training.

Summary: "Perhaps. Perhaps I shouldn't have had Alfred drug you."

Ratings Note/Warnings: Sexual content which dovetails *very* neatly with the content some readers may find to be disturbing.

Author's Note: For a very, very special birthday girl named Meg, who makes me happy every time I speak to her. <3

Acknowledgments: With thanks to Mildred for audiencing and telling me I'm going to hell encouragement.

Length: 13,000 words.

*

Bruce has spent the whole day watching Tim.

It's --

Of course Tim is training. Of course it's important for Tim to be monitored -- some of the things he's learning to do are quite dangerous --

Tim knows that's not the reason. He --

Tim hasn't been sleeping well. For a moment, Tim thinks his mind will allow the euphemism to stand, that it will all be --

Tim laughs, painfully -- if quietly -- and continues to do his cool-down stretches.

His parents --

His mother is dead.

His father is -- his father may never wake up again.

The dreams are... exactly what they are.

His mother's eyes.

His father's screams.

Sometimes, in the dreams, he's the one drinking the poisoned water, and he lies there, awkward and paralyzed, until his eyes start to burn and his body starts to stiffen and --

"Tim."

Tim jerks -- and relaxes himself reflexively --

"Good," Bruce says, and rubs Tim's back with rough -- but not casual -- expertise until Tim has no --

Until all the tension is inside. "I'm all right now, Batman."

Bruce stiffens --

And Tim remembers that he's only supposed to call Bruce Batman when the suit is on, when --

Bruce hasn't been wearing the suit very much since --

Since he's come back.

Tim doesn't grit his teeth, and he doesn't --

It's too late for him to correct himself --

"Tim..."

"Yes."

Bruce's hands are firm on Tim's shoulders. He's not tugging, or making Tim turn to face him --

It feels like he could at any *moment* --

Bruce squeezes his shoulders. "Alfred informed me that you're to... hmm. Report upstairs for your cocoa no more than ten minutes from now." There's a smile in Bruce's voice, cautious and soft.

Tim shivers. "I'm. I'm not done --"

"You are."

The fear for that -- "*Oh* --"

Bruce is squeezing his shoulders *very* firmly. "You're done for *tonight*. I need... I need you to be rested."

Tim -- breathes. "Yes. Yes, Bruce."

For a moment, it feels as though Bruce is even closer, as if he'll do -- something.

Another hug? Could he *take* that?

The moment passes, though, and Tim feels Bruce step back --

And watches him walk away -- toward the console.

Tim had barely managed to get any of the file reorganization done today --

And he's not supposed to think about that right now. He -- he knows that.

He does one last stretch.

He heads upstairs.

Alfred is waiting in the kitchen with a tray with his cocoa on it -- but no snack. Maybe he didn't work hard enough for one today?

He'll work harder tomorrow --

And Alfred tuts at him when he reaches for the tray. "Sit *down*, young sir."

"I -- I'm all right --"

Alfred looks at him.

Tim sits down.

Alfred nods in satisfaction, sets the tray down, and hands Tim the cocoa. "Drink."

"Yes, Alfred." He does so, and, if anything, it's even creamier and more delicious than it usually is. He tells Alfred so.

And Alfred's expression... quirks. Oddly.

"Alfred?"

"It is nothing, young sir. All is..." Alfred hums and raises an eyebrow. "It must seem as though all will never be well again."

Tim looks at his cocoa and doesn't say anything.

Alfred rests a gloved hand on his shoulder. "Drink more, please."

"I --" Tim swallows. "Yes, Alfred." He does.

"Very good. I will not tell you that all will be wine and roses when you wake."

"I. I appreciate that, Alfred."

Alfred nods once. "You must remember that even grief has an end, Master Tim."

Tim... thinks of Bruce. And doesn't say a word.

And Alfred laughs softly. "As you say. I shall try again: You must remember that even grief has an end for *most*."

"I -- I do know that --"

"A moment."

Tim swallows and nods. "Yes, Alfred."

"You must *also* remember that there is neither shame, nor harm, nor *wrong* in seeking that end -- by nearly any means at your disposal."

Tim frowns. "It... it's *fitting* to mourn."

"Just so, young sir. But it is *also* fitting to allow your new and personal understanding of death to guide you to a new and fuller understanding of *life*."

"I... don't think I understand."

Alfred smiles at him, warm and kind and small. "No...? Then merely allow the thoughts to remain close to the forefront of your mind. I believe you will *come* to understand them very well."

Tim nods slowly --

He wants to do *everything* slowly all of a sudden --

And the yawn seems to *force* its way out of him --

He's blinking and he can't seem to *focus* --

And Alfred is right there to guide him up out of his chair and up --

He doesn't know.

He doesn't --

Black.

He's on his back and no one can see him, no one can --

There are people walking around --

He can see their feet, their legs --

He can hear them speak, and the talk is about *victims* and *death* and *poison* --

And he knows what dream he's having. He --

Oh, he wants to wake up, he wants to wake up so *much*, he can't *stay* like this --

He's being lifted --

They're talking about how small he is, how light --

"This one hardly lived at all, Sarge."

"That's a shame. A real shame." The man sighs and flicks cigar ash on Tim's arm. "Bag 'im up."

"Yeah, I guess we have to."

And it's a dream, it's just a dream, he doesn't have to --

He can have *control*, he can --

Oh, but he can't *move*, he can't *think*, and the bags are so thick and black --

So *dark* and he won't be able to hear, won't be able to see --

It's a *dream*, it's --

He is what he *makes* himself, and nothing can stop him, nothing can hold him back if he can just --

The zipper is so loud --

The zipper is every sound in the world --

The world is *black* --

"Wake-y, wake-y, chicken."

There's a hand holding the zipper back from closing. It's a big hand, tanned dark, and there's hair on the knuckles --

"C'mon now, we ain't got time for you lollygaggin' around, now."

Do people really *say* that?

But the zipper is yanked down and down --

And the man looking down at him is wearing sunglasses and a terrible suit, his hair is mussed, and there's a matchstick --

There's a matchstick --

Tim knows what this means --

"There you are, chicken. Up and at 'em. We got places to go and things to do."

"M-Matches?"

Matches grins, bright and wide.

This isn't the first time Tim has wondered why Matches' dental work is as perfect as Bruce's, but it's the first time it's felt --

He hasn't ever had a *conversation* with Matches, nothing longer than five minutes, anyway, and right now he feels too... light-headed? Not here? Something...

*Something* light --

And Tim giggles helplessly when Bruce -- when *Matches* skitters his fingers up over Tim's bare ribs --

His pajama top is *open* for some --

Some reason --

Oh, he's still *giggling* --

He's not supposed to --

He shouldn't --

Tim clicks his teeth together firmly and shakes his head --

"Aww, what's that about, baby boy? It's fun-time, now."

Fun -- what? "B--" No, he's not supposed to do *that*, either. "Matches, I don't understand what's going on."

Matches raises his eyebrows --

*Waggles* his eyebrows --

For some reason, watching them move is the most fascinating --

It's just that Bruce's eyebrows never seemed as though they *could* move like that --

And now Matches is raising one eyebrow, and then the other, and then the first again --

And he's sticking out his *tongue* --

Tim hears himself make a sound like a sigh and -- and a *hoot* --

He coughs -- "I'm sorry --"

"For what, chicken?"

Chicken. Chicken? "Um. I don't feel... I don't think I'm awake enough to think... yet. Maybe. Maybe I should have some coffee?"

Matches cocks -- 'tilts' doesn't seem like the right word, somehow -- his head to the right.

And rolls the match between his lips to the *left* --

And back to the right --

And back to the left --

Tim follows it helplessly --

Matches is *smiling* --

Matches is making the stick *bounce* --

Oh, he's going to giggle again, and he can't, it's not --

It's not right --

And this time, the sound he makes is closer to air escaping from a tire than anything else --

Matches *grins* --

"Oh -- oh, I was supposed to -- what was I supposed to do?" And Tim can feel himself *blushing* --

And then he can *really* feel it, because Matches is stroking his cheeks with one blunt finger -- "You're a real little cutie, chicken."

"I -- are you calling me a chicken --"

"Because you're just as young and pale and tender as a dirty old man like me could want," Matches says, stepping back and snapping the fingers of both hands twice. "Up! It's time to go."

Tim scrambles up reflexively, tugging his pajama bottoms further up on his hips and starting to button his top --

It's really very difficult to *do* for some reason --

"Don't worry about that, chicken," and Matches pats Tim's bottom --

"Oh --"

And points toward the door. He --

Well, all right. Maybe they're going down to the Cave? He doesn't know. He really --

He has no *idea*, and he's usually better at figuring this sort of thing *out*, and Bruce is going to be so *disappointed* -- "*Yeep* -- oh, oh, you're tickling --"

"I sure am," Matches says, and his fingers are all over Tim's ribs --

And under his arms --

And in the hollows of his elbows --

And Tim is gasping and twisting --

Panting and --

*Giggling* and twisting --

Oh, he must sound like -- like a *baby* --

"That's right, chicken. That's *just* right."

"But -- I --" And that giggle is almost a *shriek*, because Matches is tickling the base of Tim's *spine* --

Matches is holding him still and just not --

Not *stopping* --

Oh, Tim can't breathe, and it feels --

He can't stop *smiling* --

And the next thing he knows, Matches is lifting him --

Holding him *close* --

His hands are so big and hard and *warm* on Tim's waist --

They're eye to *eye* --

"Oh -- Matches --"

"How's that, chicken?"

Tim blinks and licks his lips and tries to think, tries to catch his *breath* --

Matches waggles his eyebrows *again* --

And Tim claps a hand over his mouth to hold in the hoots --

Matches lets his stick droop. And shakes his head.

Tim blinks and moves his hand --

And the stick bobs up and Matches nods --

And Tim snorts helplessly. Just -- "*Matches*!"

"Are you *scandalized* over there, baby boy?"

"I -- I -- I don't know what you *want* --"

"This."

"I -- what?"

"*This*," Matches says, slowly and a little obnoxiously. "This, right there."

"Me... dangling above the floor?"

"And giggling. Ol' Matches likes that just fine."

Tim bites his lip and tries to think again --

But it's still not working very well. It --

"Oh --"

Matches is -- carrying him. Out of his bedroom and into the hall --

*Down* the hall where it's always shadowed, and there are rooms Tim hasn't seen --

("Those bedrooms haven't been used in my lifetime, Tim. Alfred keeps them sheeted off.")

But they're going there now, and the fact that Tim can't quite make himself turn fully away from Matches --

His mustache looks so *real* --

He's still waggling his eyebrows --

They're turning right and walking into --

A room. It's.

Well, it's definitely a bedroom, because there's a bed, and Tim's on it.

It's just that the duvet is orange.

And the headboard has shag carpeting on it that's a *different* shade of orange.

And there are *things* hanging from the posts -- fuzzy dice, a strip of rainbow-hued condoms, a Robin bobblehead, a... personal massager --

It's orange, *too* --

The curtains are green -- and flocked.

The lamps have beaded fringes.

The door to the en suite bathroom has been replaced with a beaded *curtain*.

There are *lava* lamps --

The paintings --

The paintings are velvet. Absolutely *all* of them --

Matches is looking at him with a *sly* grin on his face. Matches --

Well, *he's* wearing a gold and green suit with a checked pattern and a red shirt.

And a huge gold watch that's just tacky enough -- no, it may very well be real.

And, of course, the sunglasses. Aviator glasses that haven't been in fashion --

It occurs to Tim, in a very murky and somewhat distant way, that Matches' sunglass choices were probably very different when the aviator glasses *were* in fashion.

Assuming Matches existed then.

Tim licks his lips.

"Feelin' any better, chicken?"

"I... um. I wasn't feeling *bad* --"

"Just a little off? A little... fuzzy?" Matches is touching -- well, no. Matches is *molesting* the dice.

And that word --

There's something *about* that word --

Tim sits up and scoots back to the headboard --

And stops when Matches touches him between his sad little pectorals.

"Matches?"

"Gonna giggle for me again, chicken?"

"I -- it's not especially dignified."

Matches grins and shakes his head -- or. No. *Bruce* looks at him from over the top of the sunglasses and shakes his head, and it's.

It's a very amused look. The sort of look -- sharp and *demanding* -- that always makes Tim want to...

Squirm.

Which is even less --

"Dignity --"

"Yeah, chicken...?"

Tim licks his lips. "Dignity isn't the only --" It's just that he's so *warm*. So  --

Matches drags his finger down and down to Tim's navel, and that --

Tim shivers --

""Dignity isn't the only' *what*?"

What what -- "Concern," Tim says, blushing and --

He's not squirming, or --

It's been --

Tim doesn't remember masturbating before going to sleep tonight, and suddenly that seems very... important.

And problematic --

"You can tell ol' Matches all *about* your concerns."

Tell --

It occurs to Tim, in the midst of a warmth that seems both feathery and dream-like -- where the dreams in question aren't his *own* -- that there are questions he isn't asking.

Many questions.

Many --

He's not entirely sure --

"Batman --"

Matches growls, low and -- and *animal* --

And Tim hears himself squeak.

And he blushes, because -- because. "Matches."

"Go on, baby boy. What is it?" And Matches sits down at the foot of the bed.

"I think. I think I might be drugged."

Matches nods slowly. *Thoughtfully*.

"I -- I'm having --"

"Good drugs or bad drugs?"

"I -- um. What?"

Matches waggles his eyebrows again. "You feeling sick?"

"No --"

"Unhappy?"

"No --"

"Out of control?"

"My -- my thoughts --"

"Is that the drugs... or the fact that you're packing a little heat?"

Tim --

Tim knows that he can't, actually, make his eyes fall out of his head without certain other steps being taken first. That doesn't change how it feels.

And *nothing* can change how it feels when Matches grabs Tim's hands and moves them *away* from his groin --

"I -- Matches --"

"Shh, shh. There's nothin' wrong with a little... heh. Stiffness between friends."

"You *never* mention --" My erections. Except -- that's Bruce. And Batman.

The question of what *Brucie* would say about them is abruptly *deeply* compelling --

And Matches snaps his fingers. "Come on back, chicken."

"I -- I'm a little uncomfortable."

This time, it's definitely Matches looking at Tim from over the glasses.

It makes Tim jump --

He has to do *better* --

"I mean -- what do you need me to do, Matches?"

And Matches' smile is almost -- gentle. And it's very, very warm.

"I --"

"I told you, chicken -- it's fun-time."

Tim licks his lips --

And Matches presses his big, dark *thumb* to Tim's lips. "But we should probably get a few things straight first."

Oh, thank goodness. "I'm -- I'm listening," Tim says, and tries not to think about the fact that his lips are *moving* against Matches' thumb --

*Matches'* lips are parted -- "You're a real pretty kid, Timmy --"

"I don't -- I don't like 'Timmy' --"

"No? Gonna promise not to call me any of the things *I* don't like?"

Tim swallows. That seems -- bigger than just the request it sounds like. Still -- it's reasonable. Tactically, even. "Yes, Matches."

Matches grins again and rolls the stick to the other side of his mouth. "Yeah, I think I can believe that promise, too. You're a good kid. A real go-getter."

"I... try?"

The grin gets wider. "You're real confused, aren't ya."

"Yes! I mean -- I'm sorry, I don't feel --"

"You don't feel like you're on top of your *game*. Right?"

"That's -- that's exactly it --"

"You don't have to be," Matches says, and strokes Tim's mouth. Back and forth and back and forth and --

"I -- what?"

"You don't. Have to be. On top of your game. Not here. Not now." And Matches never stops *stroking* --

And Tim knows -- *knows* -- that he's not supposed to cover his groin again, but --

"Move those hands, chicken."

"But --"

"*Now*."

Tim gasps and does it. "Please --"

"Don't beg, yet, chicken. We haven't gotten to *that* game."

Tim's eyes feel... very, very wide --

The stick is *bobbing* --

"Please -- please tell me what I have to do --"

"Have fun."

"But --"

"That's it, baby boy. That's all I need from you tonight."

Tim frowns. He knows --

That was all very *simple* English, but --

Tim shakes his head --

And Matches tightens his grip on Tim's jaw --

"Oh --"

"It's been a long time since you've smiled for me, chicken."

"I -- there -- I don't know what to say. Matches."

Matches nods, and the stick bobs on the exact opposite rhythm. "You can leave your hurt with me," he says, and his voice is low, rough --

*Similar* to the voices of men whose names Tim's not supposed to *use* -- "I don't. How do I do that?"

"You gonna let me teach you?"

Tim -- feels himself flush. It's just -- "I always -- please."

Matches nods slowly --

Strokes Tim's mouth *firmly* --

And this time Tim can't help making a noise. Can't --

"I like that, chicken."

"That -- noise?"

"Oh, yeah. Makes me... heh. Makes me think you're happy to see me."

And that... is an innuendo Tim isn't too drugged to catch. Tim licks his lips before he can think --

And winds up licking Matches' thumb --

And Matches... grunts. "Is that what you want, baby boy...?"

And there are fantasies -- so *many* fantasies -- where Batman asks him if he wants something --

This is *different* --

It shouldn't -- but he's blushing again. He's -- he must look like a *tomato* --

And Matches is smiling. "We'll come back to that question."

"I -- I -- thank you --"

"You're welcome, chicken. Can't get ahead of ourselves, after all -- I gotta teach you somethin'. Right?"

He *always* -- "Please."

The stick bobs exactly three times before Matches stops it and rolls it to the other side of his mouth.

And then Matches stands up *fast* --

Tim gasps for the speed, for how cold his mouth feels without Matches' thumb --

But Matches is only stripping off his jacket and watch. He tosses the latter on the bedside table -- there's a hot pink *doily* on it for no rational reason --

And, for a moment, Tim can only see broad shoulders. Powerful arms. Thick, perfectly defined obliques that stretch out the red satin shirt. It's hard to see *Matches*, and Tim thinks that must be a lesson. Every piece of clothing can be a part of a disguise. It's just as important not to *undershoot* that sort of thing as it is not to *overshoot* it --

And Matches is raising an eyebrow at him. "Penny."

Penny? Oh -- Tim shakes his head. "It's not important -- *oh* --"

Abruptly, Matches is sitting with his back to the headboard and Tim is straddling his *thighs* --

"Matches --"

"Tell me what it was, chicken. Tell me... heh. You're gonna tell me everything before I let you outta here."

Tim blinks and tries to -- no. Matches wants --

*Bruce* wants --

"You. You want me to feel better."

Matches grins. "Knew you'd pick that up sooner or later. Now tell me what you were *thinkin'*."

Tim licks his lips and -- goes with it. Just -- "It was... hard to see you. For a moment."

This time when Matches raises an eyebrow, Tim is absolutely sure that he's not the only one doing it. And that seems... dangerous.

"The -- ah. The moment passed."

"Did it...?"

"Yes, Matches."

Matches nods slowly and cups Tim's hips --

Tim shivers --

Matches *squeezes* --

And Tim moans. He -- "Matches --"

"You like that?"

"I -- yes. It feels... good --"

"Good to know," Matches says, and *yanks* Tim close --

"Matches --"

"Lesson number one," and Matches breath tastes like strong mint. "You ready?"

"I. I. Yes --"

"Ask yourself what you want to have happen right now."

"But -- I don't --"

"Shh, shh. You don't have to tell me, yet."

Tim swallows and shivers --

He can *see* himself in Matches' sunglasses, and he looks wide-eyed and small and *young* --

"You thinkin' about it, yet, chicken?"

"Oh! I will -- I will," Tim says, and tries to think *around* his erection --

The fact that he's a little cold, still --

The fact that Matches is *warm*, so --

Even through that awful *shirt* --

Tim swallows --

"That looked promising. You know what you want?"

"I. I'm a little... cold."

"You wanna get warmed up?"

"That sounds..."

"Yeah...?"

"That sounds... different. From asking me if I'd like to be warmer."

Matches grins again. "That's 'cause it is. So answer the question."

Tim pants and -- "I'm afraid."

"Yeah?"

"I'm afraid... of embarrassing myself."

Matches nods slowly. "That's fair, that's fair. But -- it's just the two of us tonight, chicken. You got nothin' to worry about."

Tim frowns. "I -- disagree."

"And that disagreement is all about how hard your pretty little cock is...?"

Tim flushes and *jerks*. "I --"

"Thought so," Matches says, and tightens his *grip* on Tim's hips. "Don't be afraid of me, chicken. Don't ever be afraid of ol' Matches."

"I -- but -- please --"

"Shh. You're such a beautiful baby boy. You're everything I wanna see right now. Everything I wanna *touch*."

Tim moans, and it's loud and helpless and --

At least he's shaking his *head* --

"It's okay."

"Matches --"

"It's all okay, chicken. It's just us here," and when Matches looks over the top of his sunglasses --

Tim isn't sure. It --

Bruce's warmth. Batman's focus. Matches' leer. Brucie's *happiness* --

Tim shivers and hears himself gasp --

And feels himself twitch. Just --

"I'm sorry --"

"Shh, shh. I felt that."

"I know --"

"I *liked* that," Matches says, and pulls Tim close again. Closer. "That kinda thing will heat you right up."

"I." Tim searches Matches, tries to --

"Do you wanna be warm?"

Tim whimpers -- and nods.

Matches grins, stick bobbing as he leans back -- and opens his shirt. Just. Of course those are snaps instead of buttons.

Of course Matches is wearing a *wifebeater* under it.

Of course --

Of course a man like Matches -- a fighting man -- would have any number of scars. Marks.

A bruise on his right arm --

Tim reaches out to touch it, to feel --

Bruce hadn't let him --

Bruce isn't *here*. Not quite, and Matches only smiles when Tim covers the bruise with his hand. He --

"Yeah, chicken?"

"Does -- does it hurt?"

"Bruises *always* hurt some... and always feel a little better if they get a little love."

Tim licks his lips. "Love?"

"Didn't anyone ever kiss your boo-boos?"

Tim makes a face --

And Matches laughs at him. Just --

"It's not -- at the very least, it's unsanitary --"

"It feels good, chicken."

"But --"

"It feels," Matches says, and rolls the stick to the other side of his mouth *slowly*. "It feels like the pain doesn't matter when it happens. Like nothing matters but the fact that someone loves you just. That. Much."

"That's -- a lesson."

Matches nods.

Tim bites his lip and nods, tries to *imagine* -- but. Matches knows what he likes. He knows --

Tim leans in and kisses Matches' bruise softly, carefully --

It's a *big* bruise -- someone had *kicked* his biceps -- so Tim kisses it several times, and marks the shape of it with his lips --

And Matches sighs --

And pets him --

And *moves* him until he's cradled sideways on Matches' lap, curled against his *chest* --

His very warm chest. He --

This close, it's impossible not to smell his cologne, which is sweet and heavy, at once. Cheap -- but nowhere near as tasteless as, perhaps, it should be.

Tim isn't complaining.

Tim --

Tim isn't complaining about the position, either. It *is* warm, and it's --

Relaxing? Is that the word he's looking for? Is that even possible --

Matches kisses his forehead. It's warm, and soft, and *lingering*, and Tim thinks --

He doesn't have a bruise there, or any other sort of wound --

It's a *kiss* --

Matches wants to *touch* him -- or --

Matches wants to make him feel better. That's -- different? "You -- don't have to touch me --"

"I want to," Matches says, and kisses Tim's forehead over and over --

"Oh. Oh. Do you..."

Matches presses his *smile* to Tim's forehead --

Tim shivers --

Matches pulls him *closer* --

"Oh -- Matches --"

"You still cold, sugar?"

Sugar. Hm. "I -- wasn't aware that I was... sweet?"

Matches laughs, and tilts Tim's head back just enough that he can see how broad it is, how *sharp* --

"Ah --"

"Young boys are *always* sweet, sugar. You should trust ol' Matches about that."

And it occurs to Tim -- belatedly, fuzzily, and very, very warmly -- "Do you... have a lot of experience with young boys?"

Matches' laugh is low and husky and --

Apparently enough to make Tim's penis twitch *again* --

"Mmm. Should I tell you all about it, chicken? Make you... warmer...?"

Tim shivers *again* --

And Matches squeezes him, pets him, chafes him like he was out in the cold --

"Oh -- Matches --"

"Shh for just a sec," and Matches lifts Tim in his arms, nuzzles Tim's head to the side --

"*Ohn* --"

"Mmm..." And Matches is kissing Tim's *throat*, pressing his mouth there --

And there --

Breathing *hot* and nuzzling more --

His stubble is so *rough*, so --

Tim shivers *again* --

And the hug knocks the breath out of him, the --

He has his head on Matches' shoulder now, and Matches is stroking his back --

No, yanking Tim *closer*, spreading Tim's legs over his own --

Tim moans *helplessly* --

And *then* realizes that that feeling is Matches' erection, thick and hard and -- trapped behind a layer of polyester and God only knows what else.

Tim pants. He --

"Gettin' warmer, sugar?"

"I -- um. Yes --"

"Should I tell you about those other boys...?"

Tim squeezes his eyes shut and - opens his mind. A little. *That* part of his mind, and the memory of not being able to shut his mouth --

Or blink --

Or *move*, because Batman was yanking Robin's trunks down and down on the next rooftop --

Because Robin was cursing loudly and struggling to get onto his hands and knees --

Because Batman was *growling* and didn't stop until Robin's penis was in his mouth --

("*B* -- oh, fuck, *please* --!")

Tim couldn't even get his *camera* up. Not that time.

Not the other times, either --

And when Matches sighs this time, Tim knows that he can feel him blushing --

"A good boy like you..." And Matches tightens his grip on Tim's hips again --

Tim *grunts* --

Matches sighs again. "A good, *smart* boy like you maybe wants to know all about it..."

"Please," Tim says, and he's shocked because it came out *quietly*. Almost -- almost *conversationally* -- "*Mm* --"

"You like gettin' your cute little ears kissed, sugar...?"

"I -- I never. Not. Not before."

"Then maybe it can be just for the two of us," Matches says, and this kiss is hot and wet and -- and *breathy* --

Tim moans and *shivers* --

And Matches clutches Tim's *ass* -- "They were beautiful, chicken. Just like you."

"N-no --"

"Oh, yeah. The first one..." Matches laughs then, heavy and *low*. "The first one was little like you. Quick and slippery as an eel. Bendy like you get when you wanna turn me on..."

"Oh -- I --"

"Gonna deny that, sugar...? Maybe you *don't* wanna turn ol' Matches on?" And Matches *spreads* Tim through his pajama bottoms --

And Tim *thrusts* -- "Oh -- sorry --"

"Shh, it's okay. I know what you need. What you're *startin'* to need," and Matches starts *massaging* Tim's ass --

Tim *moans* --

"Good boy. The first one... mm. He got me hot all the time. Made me wanna... take him everywhere I could. *Show* him things. Show him what lived *inside* me," and Matches' voice is harder again --

Matches shudders --

Pants -- "The second one. He was a big boy. *Tough* even though he was... so young." Matches groans then and *bites* Tim's ear --

Tim cries out --

"Shh. I... I can still taste him, baby boy. I think about him... oh, every day and *night*," and Matches' laugh is as dark as *Batman's*, and that --

Tim shivers and hugs Matches, hugs *Bruce* --

"I need -- gotta get you warm. Gotta get you *right* --"

"It's okay, I'm okay --"

"I *need* you --"

"I'm here, Matches, I promise -- *mmph* --"

The kiss is hard, but not painful. The kiss is *deep*, and --

Matches' eyes are closed behind the glasses. Tim *knows* they are --

Matches is shuddering and cupping Tim's face with one huge hand and his hip with the other --

Matches is making *love* to Tim's mouth, because Tim can't call this a kiss anymore. This --

He's nibbling and sucking and biting and *licking* --

Stabbing in and *groaning*, and Tim wishes so *much* that he could taste like Jason, that he could *move* like Dick --

That he knew how to *kiss* like either of them, because -- surely he'd be strong enough to stop sucking Bruce's tongue if that's not what he really wanted?

Surely he could do more than just *clutch* at Bruce's shoulders --

But is it Bruce kissing him?

It's --

The kiss is so *wet*. There's saliva on Tim's chin, and the licking is so *messy*, and he never lets Tim suck on his tongue for *long* enough.

Would Bruce?

Brucie?

Tim can't imagine Batman letting *anyone* suck *his* tongue, or anything else. Batman never touches with *skin* --

This --

Tim thinks Matches would give him all the skin he *wants*. At least for a little while. He --

Tim pulls back --

Matches *groans* -- "Baby boy... you didn't like that?"

"Oh -- no! I liked it. I -- did you want to kiss me? More?" He can't stop that from being --

"Two different questions. I heard that," Matches says, and grins. His lips are *shining* with saliva.

His mouth --

*Tim's* mouth feels -- sensitized. Buzzy and --

It feels like it *matches* his mind, because even with the feathery feeling going away, there's still too much to easily *contain*. Tim's used to his thoughts about everything and everyone save Dick and Bruce and Jason and Barbara being easy to put into small boxes and -- contain.

Even *sex*.

There were fantasies, of course, but he hadn't needed Bruce to tell him that fantasies were healthy, useful things when kept in their places, when they *were* contained.

Tim would save them until he was alone in his room at night, until he could take his clothes off and imagine being touched (like this) and held (like this) and *enjoyed* --

And Matches is studying him. He's...

His smile is getting wider and *wider* --

"Matches?"

"I wanna kiss you all over baby boy, sugar baby..."

"Please don't call me 'sugar chicken' -- ah. Sorry --"

Matches laughs, then, and it *is* a Matches laugh, because it's a broad thing, and an *easy* thing, somehow  --

"I'm sorry -- I'm sorry I made you think about --"

"Shh. I *like* thinkin' about my boys. *All* my boys, so pretty and *tasty*."

*Did* you ever taste Dick -- no. He won't -- he won't. Tim licks his lips and squeezes Matches' shoulders --

"Yeah...?"

"I -- thank you. For telling me."

Matches opens his mouth and exhales slowly. The smell of mint --

The heat --

Tim leans in *helplessly* --

And Matches pushes his hand back into Tim's hair --

Matches grips and *holds* --

And this kiss is -- not harder. Not wetter. But it's *heavier* somehow, deeper and darker and --

Tim doesn't know, but he's moaning, and for the longest time it has nothing to do with the fact that Matches' other hand is moving all over his chest. It's *just* the kiss, and the way Matches is pushing in with his tongue, in and in --

So *slowly* --

And this time --

This time, Tim knows Matches' eyes are open.

Tim tries to keep *his* eyes open -- he wants Matches to *see*, he's always --

He can't, and he can't stop moaning, and he can't stop rocking his *hips* --

And then Matches starts rocking his *own* hips, and that --

It's so *heavy*, and Tim cries out into Matches' mouth --

He does it again and *again*, and he's making the kiss messy, he's keeping Matches from doing what he *wants* --

And Tim doesn't know *what* that sound was when Matches pinches his nipple, but it makes him throw his head back --

He hadn't meant to *do* that --

"Oh, look at you. Mm. You ever do this when you're jerking yourself off, sugar?"

Tim gasps and tries to --

There are *cameras* in his room --

But *Matches* doesn't know about them. He --  Tim tilts his head forward again and licks his lips --

"Gonna tell me?"

"I -- yes, Matches --"

"Ooh. And you're gonna be an obedient little chicken?"

Tim *blushes* --

Matches growls --

"I'm sorry --"

"No, no. You didn't do a *damned* thing wrong," Matches says, and licks his lips. "Tell me. Tell me how you get yourself off."

"Will it... turn you on?"

Another laugh. "Wanna see how much?"

Tim groans. He -- he's seen Bruce *start* to get hard in the shower. Not much. Just enough --

Just enough to make Tim absolutely sure --

He's so *big* --

"Say yes, chicken --"

"Yes! Please. I mean -- please -- *mmph* --"

And Matches pushes his thumb *deep* into Tim's mouth --

And uses his other hand to open his fly. One button, and a zipper which looks like it *wants* to slip off the tracks --

Matches' boxers are satin, too. *Yellow* satin --

And that stops mattering when Matches pulls his penis out of the slit, and it's hard, so hard, and thick, and *wet* at the tip, and Tim can't help reaching out --

But he stops himself. He -- he doesn't have *permission* --

"You wanna touch it, sugar...?"

Tim gasps and blushes again -- that really wasn't *worth* a gasp. It was a logical --

"You can if you want. You got -- mm. Tough little hands."

And that -- "Is that... better? Than other kinds of hands?" And *then* Tim looks up --

Matches is looking over the top of his sunglasses again. The humor in his eyes --

"I mean --"

"It's better *sometimes*. Can't really..." And Matches rolls his hips up --

His penis *twitches* --

"Can't really forget about *soft* hands. *Smooth* hands. They have their *place*, sugar," and Matches bobs the stick once, twice -- "Touch it."

Tim moans and just --

His fingers are callused in several places --

And his palms --

If he were to wrap his hand around and squeeze --

Matches growls again --

"Oh --"

"Yeah. Yeah, like that," Matches says, and *pushes* --

"Matches --"

"You like that, chicken?"

Tim shivers -

"You like me fucking your hard little fist?"

Tim -- makes a noise. He --

And Matches tilts Tim's chin up, and that's how Tim knows he was staring --

"I'm sorry --"

"Shh, shh. Just answer the questions."

"I." Tim licks his lips and squeezes Matches' penis --

Matches grunts and *grins* -- "You can do it."

"I. It's very -- hard."

Matches licks his *teeth*. "Is it...?"

"Oh! I mean -- I meant --" Tim blushes hard. "You feel... very good. I like. I've wanted --"

"To touch me?"

*Bruce* -- but. There have been nights -- and days, and mornings -- when Tim has wanted --

All of him.

*Everything* -- "Yes," Tim says, and it feels like the most honest he's ever been in his *life*, and it feels --

"You frightened, sugar?"

Tim licks his lips. And nods once.

Matches breathes through his mouth. "My second pretty boy... he was never scared of me even a little. No matter what."

Tim winces. "I'm sorry --"

"No. No." And Matches strokes Tim's cheek with his fingertips, pets Tim's hair, pets Tim's *eyebrows* -- "There were times when he should've been scared, sugar. Times when he should've run *screaming*," and Matches' voice is a low, amused growl --

But it's still only Matches.

It --

"Should I run from you now?"

"Maybe. Maybe, chicken. I never know that kinda thing 'til afterward," and Matches covers Tim's hand on his penis. "What I *do* know... is that I want you to stay right here."

"Oh --"

"With me."

"Okay --"

"Just like that, chicken?"

Tim's eyes are wide and he's nodding, licking his lips, this close to whimpering -

"Tell me how you jerk off."

He whimpers and brings his other hand to Matches' penis, holds it and feels himself getting slick and sticky at once --

"Tell me now, sugar..."

"I. I get on my back."

"Why."

"Oh --" Tim licks his lips and squeezes --

Matches makes him squeeze *harder* -- "Tell me."

"It makes me. I can pretend I'm looking up at -- the person from my fantasy."

"The *man* from your fantasy."

Tim blushes and nods. "I'm not. But sometimes..."

Matches raises his eyebrows.

"Sometimes... I used to think about Batgirl."

Matches takes a breath... and smiles broadly. "She was pretty hot for a vigi. What did *she* do for you?"

Tim bites his lip -- no, he's getting rid of that habit. "She would... touch me. With her gauntlets. I would -- I knew what they sounded like when she was touching... skin."

Another *slow* smile. "I bet you did. Did she ever shove those fingers deep...?"

Tim *pants* -- and nods. "But I -- I wasn't always... myself. In those fantasies."

And now there's a stillness -- he *feels* more like Bruce or Batman than Matches.

"I mean -- I don't really know --"

"Don't lie to me. Don't *ever* do that."

Tim -- doesn't bite his lip. "I'm sorry. I'm -- sometimes they were dreams. More than fantasies."

"Dreams of being touched by Batgirl...?" Matches again --

Tim doesn't *squirm*, but he's definitely stroking Matches now, squeezing and stroking *faster* --

"Slow down."

"Oh --"

"*Now*."

Tim grunts and does it. "Yes -- I'm sorry --"

"You know what to do to be forgiven."

He -- really does. But -- "Tell me -- please tell me that I don't have to be afraid? Again?"

Matches covers *both* of Tim's hands, but doesn't stop them or even guide them. He sighs, and rolls the stick. "Don't be scared of me, chicken. Even if you should be."

"Matches --"

"I'm *never* gonna get on you for your *kinks*. That's -- heh. That kinda thing gets in the *way*."

And that -- makes sense. A lot of sense, really. Tim nods, and knows it's jerky and awkward --

"Tell me."

"Sometimes... sometimes I have my own... gauntlets. In the dream. Yellow ones."

Matches opens his mouth --

Breathes *heavy* --

*Licks* his lips --

"It's not -- it doesn't --"

"I heard a rumor, sugar."

"I -- yes?"

"Squeeze. Nice and hard."

For a moment, Tim can't translate that -- but his hands could. His hands were already --

Matches *groans* -- "That's good. That's -- mm. Real good. Ease up."

"Yes, Matches -- *oh* --"

And the bite to his jawline wasn't *very* hard, but it was a *bite*, and Matches' stubble feels --

Tim wants to *rub* himself on it --

What would that feel like on his *penis*? He --

"Wanna know the rumor...?"

"Yes --"

"Even though you don't know what it's *about*...?" And Matches' smile is broad again, white and slick --

"Please. Please, I want to know everything --"

"Then that's just what you'll get, chicken. Word on the street is that she's coming *back*."

"Oh -- but --"

"But...?"

But Matches isn't supposed to know *why* Batgirl isn't on the street --

But Matches knows *other* things --

And Bruce knows --

Batman always knows. Still -- Tim shakes his head. "That's... surprising."

Matches grins. "*One* of the things I gotta teach you -- one of the things you gotta *learn* -- is that some things don't die no matter *how* much effort the world puts in to making sure they do," and there's another look from over the sunglasses. *Batman* this time, and *only* Batman. This is a test.

Tim licks his lips. "They -- people thought that Matches -- that *you* were dead once."

"So they did, so they did," and the glasses go up again. "Just goes to show, chicken -- you can't keep just anyone down."

"No one -- please."

Matches sighs and pulls Tim close again, and now the head of his penis is sliding slick and hot over Tim's abdomen --

"You feel -- you feel so good --"

"Better by the second. In fact... let go."

"Oh -- are you sure?"

Matches laughs --

*Tickles* Tim --

"Oh -- *oh*, please --" And Tim moves *away* --

And Matches puts Tim on his *back* again --

And the sensations are so light, so silly and shivery and --

He's laughing and squirming --

He can't tell if it's the laughter or Matches' *smile* making his penis feel like this --

"Dick --"

"What about 'im, chicken?"

Oh -- but. "He tickles me --"

"Like this...?" And Matches grabs Tim's *ankles*, yanking them up into the air and gripping them with one hand before tickling the backs of Tim's knees through the pajama bottoms.

Tim hears himself snort --

Snicker --

He's squirming and swatting *ineffectually* --

Matches shouldn't be this *fast* -- except that Batman has *needed* him to be this fast, and that was that.

The question of what Batman needs from *Tim* --

No, there's no question. Batman needs a Robin, and sometimes Robins make sounds like *this*: breathless and heedless and happy, warm, pleased --

"*Matches* --!"

"Answer the question, sugar..."

Oh, but -- no, he remembers. "Dick tickles me *everywhere*!"

Matches grins and tickles the bottoms of Tim's feet --

"*Ee* --"

"Here, then."

"Y-yes!"

And then he tickles Tim's abdomen --

"There, too -- oh, oh, I need to breathe!"

"Not yet, chicken," and those shockingly deft fingers are on his throat --

His palms --

His underarms when Tim grips the duvet so he can at least *control* how he's writhing --

"Everywhere, Matches, everywhere!"

And Matches growls and *yanks* Tim's bottoms down --

"*Nnh* -- oh -- *oh* --"

"Here...?" And those fingers are moving up and down the underside of Tim's penis, making Tim twitch --

And jerk --

And *groan* --

"Please -- *please* --"

"Are you saying he *didn't* tickle you here, chicken...?"

"Ohn -- I -- it feels --"

"Shh, not that. Tell me."

And Tim pants and tries to focus on Matches, licks his lips -- "Never -- never there --"

"Then this is something else just for us, now isn't it?"

Tim whimpers and nods, but he can't --

His penis is twitching again and *again* --

He's never even *imagined* tickling it, and now not even gripping the duvet is enough to keep him from moving like -- he doesn't know --

But he does. He's writhing and twisting and pumping.

He's curling his toes and trying to spread his legs even though Matches is holding his ankles.

He's lifting his hips to get *more* --

And blushing isn't letting him stop --

And moaning is just making him do it *more* --

"Hungry little baby boy, aren't ya..."

"Nnh -- *please* --"

"Need it just like *this*...?"

"Oh, *Matches* --"

"Look at you blushin' for ol' Matches just like you *didn't* know what you were gonna get --"

"I *didn't*! I didn't know!"

Matches cocks his head to the side and grins -- and doesn't *stop*. "You screamed for it every night, chicken. Did you really think ol' Matches wasn't listening...?"

He'd screamed for *Batman* --

But Batman is part --

*Matches* is part --

Tim doesn't know, and he's shaking now, shuddering all over --

He feels like he's been hard for so *long* -- "*Please*!"

"You wanna come, chicken...?"

"*Hnh* -- oh -- yes, *please*!"

"You want me to *make* you come?"

"Oh, God --"

"Yes. Or. No," Matches says, and the light, ticklish touch moves to the *head* of Tim's penis --

He shouldn't be *able* to follow Tim's twitches and jerks so *expertly* -- except.

Had Jason had this?

Would Jason have *liked* this?

It's the kind of question Tim would like to spend *hours* on, would like to *focus* on, but everything is *light* pleasure, *ticklish* --

He can't catch his *breath* --

"Please please --"

"Answer the question --"

"Make me *come*!" Tim says, and knows that he's closer to the color of *brick* than anything else. That can't possibly be *attractive* --

Except that Matches is grinning like Tim had done the best thing, the most *perfect* thing --

"Matches -- *ohn*!"

He hadn't seen Matches move --

He can't --

Tim's legs are on his *shoulders* --

Matches' mouth is so --

Hot-wet-hot --

So --

But Tim has to look up, has to sit up and *see* --

Bruce smiles at him from over Matches' sunglasses, wry and *darkly* pleased --

"Oh --"

But then he pushes the sunglasses back up and hums --

"*Please* --"

And then everything is screaming and *pleasure*, because Matches sucks --

And sucks --

And sucks *harder* --

Nothing has ever felt --

Nothing *could* ever feel --

Tim doesn't *know* what sounds he's making, or if there are words, or if it's attractive or --

He doesn't know what's *happening*, because it feels like his body is sparking all over, feels like everything he *is* has turned to *this* feeling --

Sex can't be contained.

Sex -- he was *wrong* about it for all this time, and that's *frightening* --

But Matches hums again --

*Licks* him --

And the pleasure turns white and *shattering*, familiar only in the sense that he's lost himself before --

But this time, Tim doesn't know if he'll be able to come *back*. He --

There's so much --

He feels so *bright* --

"*NNH* --!"

And then he's bouncing on the bed, splayed out flat --

No, *sprawled* out, because there's nothing neat about the way he feels, nothing even remotely *organized* -- "*Matches*!"

Is that a rumble? A purr? Something --

It *rolls* around Tim's penis, makes it shudder and *twitch* more --

And then Matches pulls off, and there's a *moment* of cold that makes Tim *wince* --

But it's over when Matches wraps his hand around Tim's penis loosely and comfortingly. He --

"Thank you --"

"You're welcome, sugar. You're just as sweet as I knew you would be," and Matches strokes Tim's cheek with something small and hard -- "Open your eyes."

Tim does -- and is just in time to see Matches bringing the stick back to his mouth.

He bobs it.

Rolls it.

Rolls it back and *forth* --

And Tim shakes himself all over before he can be *hypnotized* by it.

And Matches laughs. "How are you feeling, chicken...?"

"Um. Very... good?"

A grin. "Is that a question?"

"It shouldn't have been," Tim says, and blushes again. He starts to sit up --

And there's a big, hard hand splayed -- this is definitely a splay -- on his chest and holding him down.

"Or -- I can stay down."

"Do that. For now."

"I -- yes, Matches --"

"Tell me more about how you feel," he says, and there's something hungry under his voice. Something that *doesn't* sound like lust --

Or, rather, doesn't sound like lust for *sex*.

Batman *needs* -- many things.

Tim licks his lips and takes a *deep* breath --

"That's right, baby boy. Get *good* and calm."

Tim smiles helplessly. "I don't think I've been this calm in... um. A long time." And there's a voice yelling at him from the back of his mind, and it's telling him that he doesn't *deserve* to be calm, that it's not *right* --

But Matches --

Bruce looks so happy. So --

How could *that* be wrong?

Tim smiles wider and strokes Bruce's hand -- "I... I'm really grateful."

"You shouldn't --" Bruce shakes his head and turns away, breathing heavily, *harshly* -- "I -- a moment."

"It's all right --"

"I have to --" And Bruce's fingers curl in against Tim's chest. Bruce is --

His hand is *shaking* --

And Tim -- can't. He pushes on Bruce's hand until he moves it, then sits up and just --

Well, all right, Dick probably would've figured out something better than just hugging Bruce's *arm* --

And Jason -- Jason probably would've had something to *say*, or maybe he just would've smiled one of those smiles that *felt* like touches --

Tim shakes his head at himself and strokes Bruce's arm, and squeezes it -- "It's all right. I promise --"

"Tim..."

Tim shivers and holds on *tighter* --

"I'm not -- this is --" Bruce growls and stiffens, but... he doesn't tug his arm away, even though he could do so easily.

"It's all right, Bruce. Whatever it is."

Bruce laughs softly. "I shouldn't need you to... hm. But... you feel better?" And Bruce turns back to look at him, to *search* him.

Tim smiles. "Yes, Bruce. I promise -- well. I suppose I *can't* promise not to have more nightmares --"

Another laugh, and Bruce strokes Tim's cheek with slow care. "I don't hold to superstition, but... *something* tells me that that would be a problematic promise to make," and he raises one eyebrow.

Tim laughs a little *helplessly* --

And Bruce parts his lips. "Perhaps... another giggle?"

"I... I'd rather not --"

"Hmm. And if I were to give you incentive...?"

And *this* giggle is -- just as helpless as the other laughter. It --

Bruce is *smiling* --

"Oh... Bruce..."

"Yes," Bruce says, and tugs off the sunglasses, setting them down on the bedside table. "I... I can make you laugh, as well?"

Tim's heart is beating very fast -- again. "I've often. I've often found you very amusing."

"But..." Bruce shakes his head and touches Tim's mouth with his free hand. "You haven't felt comfortable sharing that?"

"I don't want to... intrude --"

"You never do. You --"

"Bruce, I wouldn't *be* here if I hadn't --"

"You knew I needed you, Tim. You must. You must not ever go *back* on that," and Bruce cups Tim's face. "Please."

Tim swallows. "Yes. Yes, Bruce."

"Beautiful... you are beautiful," and Bruce tugs his arm free and lifts Tim onto his lap again, pulls him close -- "It was so *dark* without you --"

"Bruce --"

"It was -- I didn't think I could ever --" And Bruce growls and pulls Tim close, *clutches* -- "Robin..."

"Oh -- Batman --"

And Bruce laughs and strokes Tim's back. "Not... quite."

"I'm sorry --"

"Shh, it's all right. Perhaps..." Bruce kisses Tim's temple. "Dick and Jay learned, with time, that I needed Robin just as much as Batman did. If not more."

Tim wraps his arms around Bruce's chest as much as he *can* --

Bruce moans and kisses Tim again, again --

"I'm here --"

"Yes, you are. And I will always -- you must let me *please* you, to give *back*."

Tim shivers. "I will, Bruce. I promise --"

"Perhaps. Perhaps I shouldn't have had Alfred drug you."

Tim bites his lip. "I... imagine... ah."

Bruce laughs again, shaking them both. "It seemed... it seemed that it would help you... relax."

"I can see... that..."

"And... I wanted you to develop more of a tolerance to that compound."

"That's a valid reason --"

"Tim."

Tim pulls back to meet Bruce's eyes. "I'm listening."

"I often. I don't." Bruce frowns and strokes Tim's hair, and Tim's cheeks, and Tim's mouth.

It feels both strange and *not* to kiss Bruce's fingers -

And it feels like he's passed a test -- the most *important* test -- when Bruce parts his lips and stares at Tim hungrily again. He --

"You... need me."

"Yes."

"You." Tim bites his lip before he can think --

And Bruce tugs Tim's lip back out from between his teeth --

"Oh -- sorry --"

"I find that. Very arousing."

Tim blushes... and bites his lip again.

Bruce makes a soft sound, and the hand on Tim's mouth is shaking now. It's just a *small* tremor, but feeling it on his lip makes Tim moan -- "Tim..."

"You. You were saying something --"

"I don't know what I'm doing."

Tim blinks. "I -- um. Now?"

Bruce smiles wryly and strokes Tim's cheek again. "I've never..." Bruce shakes his head. "Robin always... teaches."

"I. I don't feel very... qualified --"

"I understand."

Do you? Wait, no, that's not the right question. "What... what should I teach?"

Bruce takes a deep breath --

Another --

"How to please you."

"I -- you're very good at that --"

"There are... other touches."

Tim blushes. "Yes. Yes, there are."

Bruce nods slowly. "And... not all of those touches are... sexual."

Tim swallows. "Did you... I like. Did you like being hugged?"

"Very much. I also enjoy you here, on my -- do you like this?"

"It's... somewhat embarrassing --"

"But... pleasant?" And Bruce is searching him. *Studying* him.

Tim nods --

And Bruce smiles with his eyes, warm and almost *soft* -- and then frowns as if there's a voice in *his* head telling him not to be happy. It --

Exactly like that, actually. Hm.

Tim hugs him again --

Bruce *shivers* -- "You mustn't. You mustn't ever do this if you don't want to --"

"All right, Bruce --"

"It's only --" Bruce strokes Tim's back, and his hair, and his hips --

"I like this --"

Bruce *clutches* Tim's hips and moans.

"Please. Please tell me?"

"Matches... made Dick laugh. With... a sense of scandalized fun."

"I imagine so --"

"Jason..." Bruce clutches Tim *tighter* --

Almost painfully so. Tim relaxes himself deliberately --

And Bruce kisses Tim's temple again, letting it linger, breathing so *warm*...

"It's all right, Bruce."

A briefer kiss. "Jason would become... gleefully obscene for Matches. He took great joy in mocking him. Everything about him."

"Should I --"

"No," Bruce says, and pulls back again, cupping Tim's face and staring into him. "Jason." He swallows.

"You don't have to --"

"Jason told me that, sometimes, I made him feel as though I would rather have him be Dick. That... terrified me. You mustn't ever let me make you feel... that."

Tim -- nods. "You... need me."

Bruce smiles ruefully. "Yes. Precisely. Please tell me how to please you."

"You've already --"

"More. Please." Bruce frowns. "Unless." Bruce lets go of him. "Do you. Perhaps you wish to sleep?"

The desire to yawn is sudden and -- and *betraying*. He doesn't try to swallow it back, though -- that would be *pointless*.

Bruce nods and starts to *move* Tim, though --

"No, wait -- ah."

Bruce searches him. "You... you've been getting very little rest."

"It's -- I know. But I'd like... I'd like to stay with you. More," Tim says, and feels himself blushing *hard* -- no. Bruce needs him. He can be brave for this. He can be --

Robin is *always* brave, and confident, and sure --

Robin *knows* he's needed --

And Bruce closes his eyes and pulls Tim close again, rocking him slightly --

Bruce is still *hard* --

But maybe he shouldn't focus on that right now?

*Did* Bruce and Jason hug a lot? Enough?

Is there any such thing -- no, there can't be, because Jason is dead and Dick is in New York and there *isn't* a Robin, there won't be until he's *ready* -- oh. *Oh* -- "You called me Robin."

Bruce hums. "So you did notice that."

"You -- I'm not *ready* --"

"Robin means many things to many people, Tim," Bruce says, and there's a laugh in his voice. "Certainly, Robin means many things to the many people *inside* me."

Tim snorts -- somewhat painfully. "Um -- sorry."

"I take no offense. I try very, very hard to take no offense to the truth."

"I..." Tim shakes his head and wraps his arms around Bruce's neck.

"Thank you, but please tell me."

Tim searches Bruce's eyes and -- "A lot of. It seems, sometimes, as though most people find ways to take offense to the truth."

Bruce opens his mouth and breathes. He looks -- avid. "And what truth would you tell me?"

*Dick* -- no. "Roy... um. He told me about some of the things you said to Dick."

Bruce blinks. "When... you visited the Tower after the funeral?"

Dick had *insisted*, but it hadn't seemed... "Dick didn't. Roy told me Dick *wouldn't*."

Bruce smiles ruefully. "He's a very wise young man. And... I don't know what to say to him, now that I've said the unforgivable."

Tim frowns. "Apologies... work?"

"Do they?"

His parents never apologized to each other. They -- Tim frowns and looks down --

But Bruce tilts his head back up again. "Robin."

Tim gasps. And sits up straighter --

And Bruce smiles. "I don't think Roy ever told Jason about the things I said to Dick."

"Oh -- no?"

"He would've ordered me to apologize. Perhaps -- no. There would've been violence, as well."

"I... could nerve-strike you?"

Bruce's eyes narrow in a *warm* smile. "Perhaps later we'll spar."

Tim moans --

And Bruce kisses him softly. It's *careful*, and warm, and gentle --

And Tim realizes that his suspicion about Bruce having multiple ways to make love was correct --

And he can't stop himself from tightening his grip around Bruce's neck, from pressing closer still, from rubbing against Bruce's erection, so hard and slick against his abdomen, against his own hardening penis --

And Bruce hums and pets him all over, rubs away tension Tim wasn't even *aware* of until Tim feels loose and warm and tired in ways that sleep can't *touch* --

He thinks --

But being unsure about this makes him laugh into Bruce's mouth --

And Bruce groans and clutches him again, holds him so --

The kiss gets *harder* --

And Tim can take it, can *feel* it, can --

It's so *good*, and he'd never imagined it was *possible*. He still can't quite wrap his mind around it -- there's featheriness around the edges, still, but Tim doesn't think that's the whole of the problem --

Bruce needs him.

*Bruce* needs him, and --

Tim pulls back. "I thought I wouldn't *see* you!"

Bruce frowns.

"I mean -- I'm sorry --"

"*No*," Bruce says, and searches him, strokes and rubs him more. "You thought... you thought *I* wouldn't need you?"

Tim nods and blushes more --

"I need. I need so much, Tim. I need. You'll see," Bruce says, and kisses Tim's temples again, and his ears, and his mouth, and his cheeks --

And he groans *loudly* when Tim works his hands between them and squeezes his penis again --

"Please."

"Oh -- yes. You should've said --"

Bruce's laugh is cracked, low and sharp -- "Are such things. Are they easy for you?"

"Ah -- no. I take your point."

Bruce laughs again and cups Tim's face, strokes Tim's mouth over and over --

Tim kisses Bruce's thumb every time it *pauses* --

"Beautiful. Beautiful boy. Please don't stop."

"Oh -- should I --"

"Please. Please do what you wish."

Tim pants and searches Bruce's eyes, which seem so warm, so *hungry* -- "Sometimes. Sometimes I think about -- washing you."

Another laugh. "If you would let me do that to you..." Bruce shakes his head. "There's nothing. There is... no reasonable way to finish that sentence. I must give you everything --"

"Oh, no --"

"*Yes*. I -- I'll teach. I'll show ya, baby boy. Pretty boy. Chicken. I'll show ya everything you need, *give* you everything --" And the groan is Matches and Bruce put together --

Bruce throws his *head* back --

And Tim realizes that he's stroking with one hand and all but *massaging* the head with the other --

He'll keep that up.

"I owe you so *much*, Bruce --" 

"I didn't -- I *failed* you --"

"No! Oh, no --"

Bruce growls and squeezes Tim's hips *painfully* hard --

Tim bites back a wince --

But Bruce grunts and rips his hands away, clenches them into fists -- "It's -- there must be..." Another growl and he shakes his head --

His hair is so *mussed* -- "Tell me, tell me, Bruce --"

"There *must* be a sign, a weakness within me, a moment --"

"Oh, Bruce --"

"To have -- such beauty --" *Another* growl, and Bruce's thumb is in his mouth, Bruce is staring and *panting* --

Tim *sucks* --

"*Hnh* --" And when Bruce winces, it doesn't look anything like pain. It doesn't look anything like no, or stop --

Tim scrapes his *teeth* --

"Tim. Tim. Would you ever --"

Tim nods as vigorously as he *can* --

Bruce pushes *deep* --

"*Mm* --"

And then Bruce's penis twitches *violently* and -- he's coming. Just --

Spilling out and --

Tim squeezes hard because he *needs* to --

"*Tim*!"

And Bruce isn't holding him anymore. There's nothing stopping him --

Tim moans and scrambles back just far enough that he can bend down and lick Bruce's penis, *taste* --

Bruce growls and grips his *hair* -- but doesn't try to pull him away. Just --

*He* gets very sensitive after an orgasm, but he can be gentle, and careful --

"Tim."

"Mm? I mean --"

Bruce laughs, low and breathless. "No. No. Enjoy... please enjoy me," Bruce says, and loosens his grip *slightly*.

And that --

If he can just... suck a little. Just the head. Just where there are spatters of semen, so salty-sweet and *thick* --

He tastes so *different* --

And that's probably one of the stupider thoughts Tim has ever *had*, but this...

Tim licks away another spatter, and presses his tongue to the slit --

Bruce moans and his penis twitches again --

Tim holds it *still* --

"Beautiful -- you may..." Bruce swallows audibly. "Jason. Jason would -- oh, Tim..."

And for a moment Tim doesn't know *why* that thought was interrupted -- but then he realizes that he has the head in his *mouth* --

That he's *sucking* --

Tim moans and tastes and *tastes* --

Bruce grunts. "I can't --" Another laugh. "I can't *stop* you."

But do you want to? Tim forces himself to look up --

And Bruce's eyes are bright and somehow *hectic*, full of --

Tim pulls back and licks his lips --

Bruce *grunts* -- "You didn't need to stop --"

"I'd rather not *hurt* you, Bruce --"

And there are long, blunt fingers on his mouth. "Some pains are dearly desired."

Tim raises an eyebrow.

"Hmm. But it's true that that is rarely one of them... save when my body has already had time to grow accustomed to the mouth in question," and the smile in Bruce's eyes is warm and *hopeful* --

Tim... licks between Bruce's fingers.

The smile turns wild, *heavy* --

Tim *nibbles* Bruce's fingers --

"I have, of course, watched you take your own mouth..."

That's an 'of course'? Tim keeps nibbling to keep from biting his lip again --

"Would you like... there are toys. Devices. Are you... familiar?"

Tim blushes and nods.

"I could... I've crafted certain items for my own use..."

Tim -- blinks. And pulls back. "You... want to make me... sex toys?"

Bruce's smile is rueful. "I've developed a taste for doing such things on nights when sleep eludes me more than has become... usual."

"I'm. I'm really not sure what sort of toys I'd *like*, Bruce."

"I'm more than willing to help you experiment."

Tim blinks and -- realizes that a part of him had thought this would be only one night. He -- he swallows.

"Tim...? I need not --"

"No! It's all right. I..." Tim blushes. "I don't think I'm used to... being wanted."

"Needed," Bruce *corrects*, and strokes Tim's cheekbones. "What can I do to help you understand?"

Tim looks down -- no. He looks at Bruce from under his lashes. "Ah... teach me? You could... do more of that."

Bruce hums. "And should it be me...?" And then he flexes and pulls the matchstick from between folds of the terrible duvet. "Or somebody else?"

Tim's penis twitches.

And Matches grins. And pulls a bottle of lubricant from his pocket.

Tim's penis twitches *again* -- "I -- Matches -- should I -- "

"On your back, sugar. A little bat told me you needed a *lesson*."

Tim's penis is apparently just going to --

Tim lies down with his head *near* the pillows and spreads his legs as wide as he *can*.

"Mm. *Good* boy. Plant your feet for me."

"Y-yes, Matches -- and. I want -- you shouldn't think I don't want --"

"You want a *lot*, doncha. Hungry boy like you might just make himself want..." And that's not Matches' expression, at *all* -- "All *kinds* of things, haaa."

"Oh, God. Um. Um."

"Oh, tiger, look how *pink* you are! You didn't get a *sunburn*, did you?"

"I -- it's *night*!"

"Oh. Hm. I suppose you *could've* gotten a *moonburn* somehow, aha ha..." And -- Brucie dumps lube all over his *hand*.

"Brucie --"

"Yeeesss?"

Tim -- stares. "I don't. Will you -- ah."

"Oh, don't get *scared*, tiger! I used to do this kind of thing all the *time*," and Brucie *winks* at him -- "*You* know what boarding school is like."

The fact that Tim's penis is *still* --

Is he still drugged? Had he *finished* the cocoa?

Or is this -- could this possibly just be *adolescence*?

"Now, let's see... ooh, *look* at that *adorable* little pucker --"

"Oh, God, no -- no. Please! Please."

Brucie blinks at him very, very stupidly.

Tim bites his lip --

And *Bruce* -- hums. "It was the 'adorable,' wasn't it?"

"I. I'm not comfortable quantifying -- ah."

Bruce laughs softly. "Perhaps we'll work on that performance, too --"

"Ah. Has *anyone* wanted... that?"

Bruce raises an eyebrow. "And here I thought you were paying *attention* at all of those parties."

"I meant -- ah. Actual -- hm."

"People with *good* taste, Tim...?"

"*Yes* -- *oh* -- oh, Bruce --"

"This touch? You never touch yourself this way," Bruce says, and rubs his slick fingertip back and forth on the head of Tim's penis.

"I -- I -- it's usually not enough --"

"Is it enough now?"

Tim blushes. "You'll make me. You'll make me come. Very easily."

"Will it be a satisfying orgasm, do you think?"

Tim licks his lips and stares at his twitching, leaking penis -- he shakes his head. "I'm not sure."

And the match is right back between Bruce's --

Matches' lips. "Maybe *I* should touch you this way, chicken."

Tim moans and arches --

"Oh, yeah? Missed me that much?"

"Please. Please -- inside me?"

The stick bobs -- "That's what you want, chicken? Nothin' else?"

"You -- you're already -- slick --"

"*Not* what I asked," Matches *growls* --

Tim moans. "I'm sorry! Ah -- ah. Yes. It's what I want --"

"Even if it hurts...?"

Tim *grunts* -- and grips the duvet instead of reaching for his penis. "Please. Please, I -- you know --" But he doesn't know. He --

*Bruce* knows.

*Batman* knows.

Matches... wants Tim to tell him all about it.

Tim licks his lips. "Sometimes I... thrust. Into my own rectum."

Matches licks his *teeth*. "'Sometimes'?"

"I -- fairly often --"

"*How* often."

Tim groans and *yanks* at the duvet -- no. No. "Sometimes. Sometimes every other night."

"So *that's* what kind of hungry you are, hunh? Maybe I should make you *wait* for it."

Tim feels his eyes getting *ridiculously* wide -- but he thinks he knows what Matches wants. He -- "Please don't."

"Why *not*?" And Matches cups Tim's *scrotum* with his slick hand -- and doesn't squeeze. He --

Tim *pants* --

"Better answer me, baby boy..."

"I -- I. I need it. I need to feel you -- inside."

"Is that so...?"

Tim blushes and *sweats* -- "I need to feel you. I need -- I need you to teach me. How it feels."

Matches... breathes through his mouth. "Yeah...? That's how it's workin' for you, chicken?"

"Please. Please -- penetrate --"

"No."

Tim groans -- "Please tell me what --"

Matches squeezes Tim's scrotum *firmly* --

"*Ahn* --"

"I'm not gonna penetrate *anything*, baby boy. I'm gonna *fuck* you. Nice and deep --"

"*HNH* -- oh -- *please* --"

"Right now," Matches says, and lets go --

And pushes --

And --

"Oh -- oh, *Matches* --"

"Uh, hunh..."

Is that one finger? Two? It's so --

It's so --

"One finger to start you off, baby boy. How is it?"

"Big -- I --" Tim squirms because he *has* to --

"You never felt somethin' that deep, have you?"

Tim nods and -- "My fingers -- oh, Matches --"

Matches starts *moving* his finger --

"Please. *Please* --"

"Your fingers are... mm. Small and strong. Just like you."

"I'm -- I'm not --"

"You *are*, baby boy. Just like I like 'em. How's this," and Matches *crooks* his finger --

"*Ohn*! Please!"

"Yeah, good boy. That's the kinda noise ol' Matches likes. Keep it up."

Tim nods and just -- opens his mouth.

And *keeps* it open so that every times Matches thrusts --

Or crooks --

Or *twists* --

Noise comes out. Louder and --

He can feel this -- inside. Low in his abdomen and at the base of his spine --

His penis is so hard, so --

It feels so *heavy* -- but no heavier than Matches' eyes on him, Matches --

*His* eyes are *always* hot, always avid and sharp --

"You -- you're hungry, *too* -- *oh* --"

"That's just right, chicken. Gonna eat." Thrust -- "You." *Twist* --"*Up* --"

"*Please*!"

And now the thrusts are faster, harder --

There's a *burn*, thick and so --

So *sweet* --

Tim can't keep his *eyes* open --

But he can feel Matches staring at him --

He can feel Matches *seeing* him, and *knowing* him --

Wanting him. *Needing* him, and that --

Tim *has* to give for that, *be* for that --

It's so *important* --

But when Tim opens his eyes, it's not Matches, at all. It's *Bruce*, and he looks frightened and starved and happy and --

"*Bruce*!"

"My *love* --"

"*Oh*!"

And Tim doesn't know whether he feels Bruce's mouth on him before or *after* his vision goes white --

He --

He's spasming and screaming --

He's beating at something warm and *slick* --

He's *thrusting* so --

Clenching and -- and screaming *more* --

He can't stop --

He can't *stop* --

Shoulders, those are Bruce's *shoulders* -- Tim opens his fists and clutches at them and moans, pants, tries to open his eyes --

Tries to focus once his eyes *are* open --

Bruce is moaning around him, mouthing him wet and soft --

So *gentle* --

Tim shudders and takes it, panting and just --

His body clenches without his permission and he cries out *again* --

He's -- all right, that's more of a full-body *tremble* --

Tim lets himself collapse into another sprawl and moans until Bruce pulls off --

And licks his way up Tim's chest --

Tim opens his mouth --

"I'm sorry," Bruce says, and his breath doesn't smell like mint, at *all*, anymore.

But -- "I -- why?" Tim opens his eyes --

And Bruce is smiling ruefully. "You wanted Matches."

"I wanted. I wanted all of you."

Bruce raises an eyebrow.

Just -- "Perhaps... ah. I think I'd need to be more sober for... Brucie."

Bruce raises his eyebrow *higher* --

And Tim snorts helplessly. "Just -- to get in the right state of *mind*, Bruce."

"Hmm. Certainly, we can give it a try," he says, and kisses Tim's jaw. "You were wonderful."

"Oh -- I. What?"

Bruce hums. "Did you take pleasure from the way I lost control earlier?"

"Oh. Yes, I see," Tim says, and blushes. "I... don't think you're going to have very much difficulty getting me to lose control. Ah... ever."

Bruce licks his lips and smiles *broadly* -- with his eyes.

Tim strokes the wrinkles at the corners. "I. I love you."

Bruce *closes* his eyes -- but somehow it's incredibly easy to tell that he's still smiling. When he *does* open them, there's some of Matches' avidity -- but it's still Bruce. "Stay with me."

"I -- tonight?"

Bruce's smile this time is rueful. "And, perhaps, for somewhat longer than that."

Tim blushes -- again. "All right --"

"Thank you," Bruce says, and kisses Tim firmly -- briefly. "Please breathe deeply."

What -- oh. Bruce is still --

Tim clenches and *squeaks* --

And blushes more.

"Or... don't breathe deeply...?"

"Oh -- Bruce. I..."

"Hmm. I would like for you to get *some* sleep. But..." And he raises his eyebrow again.

Tim bites his lip --

Bruce kisses him again --

*Again* --

And Tim, with some effort, turns away.

"Tim."

"I... sleep. Is a good idea," he says, and turns back.

If anything, Bruce looks *hungry* again --

"Or --"

"Sleep is an excellent idea," Bruce says, and pulls back. "Breathe, please."

Tim does so, slowly and evenly --

Mostly evenly --

Tim closes his *eyes*, and *that* lets him breathe evenly enough to stop clenching even a little --

And Bruce pulls out slowly.

When Tim opens his eyes, Bruce is using a disinfectant wipe on his hands and smiling down at him with... affectionate pride. "I... I always want to do... more. When you look at me that way."

"I don't mean to pressure you --"

"I like that kind of pressure," Tim says, and pulls his pajama bottoms up. "And... other kinds, too."

Bruce takes a deep breath and nods without a word, tossing the wipe in the wastebasket -- and lifting Tim into his arms and off the bed.

"Oh --"

"Which bedroom would you prefer to stay in tonight?"

"Not... this one?"

"The sheets..." Bruce smiles ruefully. "If I allowed you to sleep on anything with a thread count that low, Alfred would quite possibly poison me."

But having sex on them is all right? How to even *ask* that question? Tim coughs. "Ah -- hm. Noted."

Bruce pulls Tim closer and kisses his forehead. "Any other bedroom would be --"

"Um."

"Yes?"

"Bruce... did you..." No, he *has* to ask this one. "*When* did you decorate this room?"

Bruce laughs, softly and with *amused* pain. "Before I introduced Matches to Jason."

And Dick? "And... that didn't work."

"Not the way I planned, no," Bruce says, and smiles warmly. "You, on the other hand, blushed very intriguingly from nearly the very first moment."

And so this -- or something like it -- was planned at least two months ago. Hm. Tim nods thoughtfully and wraps his arms around Bruce's neck.

"Thank you."

Tim smiles because he *has* to -- "You're welcome. The scent of your bedroom is another thing which makes me blush. Just as an aside."

Bruce narrows his eyes in a *powerful* smile. And carries Tim out the door and down the hall.

More questions form in Tim's mind seemingly with every step Bruce *takes*, and most of them feel difficult and embarrassing when they *don't* just seem mortifying. But...

He has to find out more about Dick. And --

Robin, perhaps, gets to ask all the questions he wants.

Certainly it's something to keep in mind.

end.



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