by Te
May 19, 2012

Disclaimers: Basically nothing here is mine.

Spoilers/Timeline: Vague mentions of older storylines, faintly AU-ized. Nothing newer than Tim moving back into the Manor. Takes place a few months after that happened.

Summary: No pressure. Really.

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

Author's Note: A commission for the lovely and talented Meg. You make me smile so much!

Acknowledgments: With much love to Mildred, Melissa, Nonie, Spice, ShadowValkyrie, and my Jack for audiencing, encouragement, and suggestions. This was a toughie, and I needed you.

Length: 21,000 words.


The tuxedo Tim's wearing is anything -- anything -- but Alfred-approved. For one thing, his bowtie is striped red and black. For another, his vest -- which creeps high enough to show -- is just as red as the average European robin's breast... isn't.

Not that he's advertising.

*Robin's* -- the Gotham one, that is -- red is much less saturated, and has much more in common with drying -- not dried -- blood.

Because Bruce -- and Batman -- know what Tim -- and Robin -- like --

But thinking about that just might make him blush. He --

This is not the sort of party for that.

The jacket and trousers are perfectly-cut, of course. His shirt is crisp and a white stark enough to stand out even with everything else. His boutonnière matches the vest, in that it's a color which came about via the crossing of any number of different roses -- and who only knows what else -- because sometimes Bruce uses his sleepless nights -- and days -- for *botany*.

It's beautiful -- and so, Tim thinks, is he. Which isn't the most *familiar* feeling to have --

Not in *this* house -- or.


This is, of course, his *second* stint of living in Wayne Manor. Unlike Dick and Cassandra, he is *not* Bruce's legal child, but... he could be. He --

This *morning* --

("I will never. I will never pressure you --"

"No! I mean -- I know that -- I know that.")

And Tim had felt himself blushing to the roots of his hair, felt himself starting to sweat and --

And *panic* a little --

("I'm sorry --"

"It's all right, Bruce --"

"It isn't. It -- I'll leave you now.")

And --

There had been a part of him which had honestly been *relieved* --

There *are* parts of him which are slow enough, *idiotic* and slow enough to not know what to *do* with a Bruce who comes to his room at night --

Who closes the door behind him and touches --

Kisses --

*Looks*, always looks, and sometimes --

("You *see* me!")

And Bruce had paused in the doorway, stiff and *obviously* tense, even completely covered in a robe and pajamas. Tim had felt even more naked than he *was* --

Small and flushed and *unqualified* --


Bruce hadn't turned *around* --

And so Tim had shivered, swallowed, and stood, walking to the door and forcing himself to touch --

To *remember* last night and the night before that --

All of the other nights since he'd moved back *in* --

And then --

Well, then it hadn't been hard to touch Bruce, at all, or to wrap his arms around him and hug, just -- hug --

And listen to Bruce *sigh* his name --

("It's not -- it's not you, Bruce. It's never you making me hesitate.")

Bruce had hummed with *gentle* amusement and stroked his hair --

("Are you sure about that, lover...?")

And every time Bruce calls him that --

Tim had blushed, of course, and taken the opportunity to press his cheek against the lapel of Bruce's pajama top --

("Mm. You make me regret being covered."

"If I let you feel *all* of my blushes --"

"You'll make me a happy man...?")

And Tim's heart had been *pounding* --

So *quickly* --

But --

("Are you saying you're not happy now?")

And he'd put the tease in his voice; Bruce *always* loves to hear that sort of tease --

("I have been happy every moment since you've come back to -- us. All of us.")

And Bruce always knows when Tim doesn't *mean* the tease, when Tim needs that sort of *declaration* and -- Tim is getting much better at knowing when Bruce needs that sort of thing, himself.

He had pulled back enough to smile up at Bruce --

("I was... coming back to you, too."


"Bruce --"

"I will never pressure you, Tim. In *any* way."

"I *know* --"

"I need. I need your happiness.")

And Tim had nodded and shivered, pressed *closer* --

And the kiss had tasted -- somewhat guilt-inducingly -- of toothpaste, but Tim had already known that Bruce had been up for some doubtless-terrifying length of time while Tim was sleeping the sleep of the hopelessly -- and happily -- *exhausted*. *Bruce* had shown no signs of minding Tim's sleep-mouth --

Bruce had cupped the short-shaven back of Tim's hair with one hand and Tim's hip with the other and kissed him again --

Again and again until Tim wasn't thinking of anything but more, and heat, and getting Bruce *out* of his clothes, and how convenient it was that *he* was naked --

He'd pressed *closer* --

And Bruce had made a soft sound and pulled back.

("Please --"

"Lover... I must go in to Wayne Enterprises today.")

And Tim had winced and let himself *access* his time sense -- it really was just that late --

And Bruce had smiled wryly --

("I believe I enjoy that expression far too much. I will return as soon as I'm able --"

"I -- training.")

Bruce's eyes had *flared* with excitement and *pride* --

Tim had blushed *again*--

("There is also... tonight's gala, Tim.")

Tim hadn't cursed, but he'd *wanted* to --

And Bruce had seen that desire, too. He'd stroked Tim's lower lip --

He'd kissed Tim's *forehead* --

("Bruce --"

"We will train ourselves to patience together, lover."

"And -- then?")

And Bruce had smiled, sharp and somewhat *wild* -- if never in the same way *Dick* is --

Bruce had smiled and stroked a ticklish line over Tim's *throat*, narrowing his eyes for Tim's *pant* --

("And then... we will do nothing of the kind.")

Which is, perhaps -- no.

Which is *precisely* why Tim has spent the day alternating between working out to an extent which could, by some definitions, be considered *extreme*... and taking lengthy, thorough showers.

He is a very, very clean teen vigilante at the moment --

Well, no.

At the *moment*, he is a very, very clean teen *socialite*, because *his* Robin never wears Jeux cologne -- if he can possibly help it -- and he certainly never wears shoes this slick. Not even in *this* part of the Manor -- though, to be fair, the West Ballroom and its satellite areas tends to be sheeted off for most of the year.

Tim's Robin also tends to have very specific responses to snickering young men who make those sorts of comments about 'ghetto' people.

Brucie Wayne would dump chilled champagne -- or possibly gazpacho -- down their -- boring -- tuxedos.

Timmy Drake just smiles falsely, makes note of who they are for future reference, and moves on... though not very far.

It's not that he has any interest whatsoever in seducing Hillary Groton-Battle, who is the current girlfriend of Snickering Young Man Number Two -- and who wears Sylph cologne with much less style and grace than Selina Kyle would on her *worst* day, *and* whose politics and personality, on first Robinly glance, leave as much to be desired as her boyfriend -- but.


*Sometimes* he can see more there. And, if not... well.

Tim hadn't needed Bruce to teach him that certain sorts of -- ignorant -- people only understand certain sorts of -- objectively terrible -- things.


Timmy Drake dances wonderfully -- if Tim does say so, himself.

Timmy Drake is also witty, interesting, and, while not as *physically* sluttish as Brucie Wayne --

"Oh, what are you *doing*, Timmy? You know I'm dating Bradley," Hillary says, smiling up at him through her -- perfectly -- enhanced lashes --

Keeping her soft lips parted just *so* --

*Hoping* for a good answer --

And so Timmy spins her, ignoring the fact that the music calls for nothing of the kind --

She giggles and swats him ever so lightly --

Timmy smiles a smile *Robin* wouldn't find *wholly* unfamiliar --

She shivers the way Steph would --

She's nothing like Steph, and so Tim feels no compunctions whatsoever about leaning in to breathe against her blushing ear --

Taking her *small* gasp for his own --

Getting close *enough* that his lips will brush her ear with every movement -- "Do you want me, Hillary...?"

A breathless giggle -- "Timmy --"

"Shh. A 'yes' or 'no' will suffice."

"You -- you don't -- you're not like --"

Tim pulls back, working an impatient expression onto his face as he dances with her in staid, normal ways --

"Oh -- *Timmy*!"

He raises an eyebrow.

She blushes *and* flushes --

Tim doesn't -- quite -- move their arms enough that he can see his watch --

And *that* was a flare of *panic*. Rapidly-hidden, but...

But. Sometimes -- just sometimes -- this sort of social manipulation feels a great deal like sending Robin to deal with high school bullies. It doesn't stop being satisfying to teach people like that important lessons about behavior... but it also doesn't stop feeling wildly unfair.

Still --

Still. He has a job to do. Timmy Drake does, anyway. "Was there something you wanted to say to me, Hillary?"

Anger, panic, hurt, lust, determination, calculation --

It's all such a *slow* progression --

"What... what do *you* want, Timmy?"

That's better. Timmy smiles and pulls her -- somewhat -- closer. "Many things."

"Like what --"


A mean-spirited pout --

And Timmy can laugh for it, low and careless and --

Yes, even more panic-inducing, judging by the sweat at her temples. But -- she recovers. "Well, if you're going to be an asshole --"

"I don't like your friends, Hillary," Timmy says, and lets just a *little* Tim into his voice --

Enough to widen her eyes --

Enough to get *more* of that calculation -- but also real thoughtfulness. She is, perhaps, wondering where the differences are between her and her friends. Wondering if it's *just* her -- beautiful -- hazel eyes; thick, blonde hair; and curves.

Tim has been seen with Steph, of course.

These people --

These people would *all* assume that he was Timmy with her, too.

And that...

Timmy smiles again, letting it be a touch rueful and soft. "Maybe you're not as different as I think you are --"

"*What* -- what do you think?"

Timmy sighs and stops dancing as the music changes. "Champagne?"

She purses her -- perfectly -- painted mouth. "Sure."

Timmy takes her arm like the older man he sometimes affects himself to be --

Hillary presses close --

Snickering Young Man Number Two isn't snickering, at *all*, anymore -- and neither are his Neanderthal friends -- but, as gratifying as that is, there's more to be done.

Timmy acquires champagne for both of them, waits for her to sip down half of it -- "You know what I like to do with my free time."

A confused look -- "You volunteer with the Wayne Foundation. Um. Doing -- soup kitchen stuff? Or something?"

Timmy smiles. "You're reasonably well-informed. I mostly do literacy work now."

"Helping... poor people learn to read?"

"And helping them understand and respond to the various important documents that would otherwise cause massive difficulties in their lives, yes."

She bites her lip -- stops. "You... people say your... girlfriend does volunteer work, too."

Timmy leads them to a -- moderately -- shadowy corner of the ballroom and leans against the wall, taking a moment to check --

Brucie is currently surrounded by *seven* different women. When Tim was thirteen, the women who did that sort of thing often weren't that much older than Hillary is now. Now that Tim is pushing seventeen and Bruce is over forty...

Well, Brucie has done a marvelous job of forgetting, condescending to, and outright *tripping* over the women who are under twenty-five or so. They've mostly learned to leave him alone.

The fact that it feels, to Tim, like the end of an *era* is proof of his essential ridiculousness --

"Is that why you let him -- I mean. *Are* you going to let him adopt you? Because of the Foundation?"

No, but the fact that he's very, very good at making me come screaming is --

Is --

Timmy smiles ruefully and turns back to smile into her -- openly curious, now -- eyes. "The thought had occurred. He's a good man. I like that."

"And... you think most of the people here aren't good, at all."

Tim would raise an eyebrow for the obvious statement. Timmy... spreads his hands and smiles a little more widely.

"Are you --" She laughs like a much older woman and shakes her head. "Timmy, you're seriously..."


"What would your *girlfriend* say about you hitting on me?"

"Oh... a lot. If I couldn't convince her you were worth it," Timmy says, entirely honestly, and sips his own champagne.

Hillary flares her nostrils. "What do you want from me. Just -- cut the shit for a *minute*, okay?"

For you to make a *difference* --

For you to make these parties less *awful* --

For you... to prove me right about the humanity I can *sometimes* see in your eyes --


"I think we can agree that these parties are pointless?"

"You don't actually *go* to any of the *good* ones --"

"No. I don't actually go to any of the ones which are fueled with even more drugs and alcohol than can be found in Brucie's cabinets on any given weekend --"

A semi-scandalized snort --

And Timmy smiles. "Hillary... I don't like your friends," he says again.

"Do you like *me*?"

"Sometimes. And, at those times, I think of you convincing your friends --"

"To do volunteer work? Were you going to *fuck* me into being a good person?"

Timmy smiles. "No."

"You were just going to be a giant tease?"

"You respond so well to it," Timmy says, and strokes down the center of his vest.

Her eyes follow the movement for a *moment* -- and then she snorts. "Are you gay?"


"Are you *sure*?"

*Tim* smiles --

And Hillary shivers --

"Oh, yes," Timmy says.

She narrows her eyes --

*Calculates* a little more --

Tim sips his champagne and checks again --

Brucie is unzipping the dress of -- Hillary's aunt Quimby in a corner that isn't even *remotely* shadowed. What would Timmy do?

Tim settles for making Timmy hum and nodding towards the couple-of-the-moment --

"What -- oh my fucking *God*, she's such a *whore*!"

Timmy hums again. "Is she?"

"*Yes*! She hits on *my* friends! I can't believe she hasn't hit on *you*, yet."

Timmy smiles. "I might not be her type. Considering," he says, and nods again, doing it slowly enough to *really* call attention to the difference between his size and Brucie's own. 

Hillary snorts --

Coughs --

"Um. I'm sorry --"

"I liked that," Timmy says. "A lot."

"Me sounding like a pig."

"We all have our kinks."

Hillary crosses her arms under her breasts --

"I like that, too --"

"They say your girlfriend is *violent*."

The one -- and only -- party of this sort Steph had allowed Tim to bring her to had ended for the two of them when Steph had grabbed the scrotum of one of the mayor's aides and twisted firmly.

He'd been drunk enough to hit on her on a manner she hadn't felt inclined to laugh off.

Happily, he'd also been drunk enough not to be entirely sure, the next day, why none of his pants fit properly. And -- "She's a much less patient person than I am, Hillary."

"Hmph. And you're sure she's not going to rip my hair out and drop me in a fountain for talking to you?"

Timmy smiles a little wider at the thought of Steph ever -- *ever* -- being that *nice* to someone she was upset with... "I'm sure."

"*Really* --"

"Really. We're not monogamous. We never have been."

Hillary blinks.

"You were expecting me to say something else...?"

She... shrugs. "Most people our age... don't."

Timmy lets Tim smile again. "I think you can guess --"

"How you feel about most people our age. You... you're honestly looking for something with *me*."

Tim finishes his champagne. "As quietly as it's being kept, you're about to graduate salutatorian from the Armoury -- and that makes you blush. It shouldn't. You're presumably planning to do something with your life once you graduate --"

"Bryn Mawr --"

"Is an excellent school. And they'll like you even more if you've been improving yourself in other ways. And organizing the rest of your... crowd to do the same."

"They'd just be doing it to *look* good --"

"They'd still be doing it -- and that, in the end, is what I care about," and Timmy blows Hillary a kiss. "Who knows? They might even learn Important Life Lessons."

Hillary snorts again -- "Stop making me *do* that!"

"Hmm. I'm not sure if I can find my *motivation* for that, Hillary --"

"I like it. I like it when people call me 'Larry.' Sometimes."

Tim lets Timmy blink --

"I'm not gay! Or -- anything. Not that I think --"

"There's anything wrong with that...?"

She blushes. "I just -- I like the nickname."

Timmy strokes her knuckles. "Who calls you that?"

"Some... some of the girls I study with at school. None of them are *here*."

"Hmm. I'm less than shocked. Larry."

She gives him a wry look. "If you call me that in front of --"


She slumps -- a little.

Timmy clinks their champagne flutes together lightly. "Only when we're alone."

"How often is that going to happen?"

"How badly do you think I should hurt your boyfriend when he attempts to be a Neanderthal about me kissing you?"

She blinks rapidly enough that her false eyelashes *look* false --

"Careful, your eyelashes --"

"Oh -- fuck, I *hate* these -- my mother makes me wear -- anyway. Um. They say you're a black belt. But they didn't say in *what*."

Timmy Drake... led a public life, too, once upon a time. "Judo and karate," Tim says, and finishes his champagne just as a waiter walks by with an empty tray.

Hillary gives the man her quarter-full flute, as well, and -- smiles into the man's very, very surprised eyes.

When he's out of earshot, Timmy purses his lips. "Was that for me?"

"It was for *me*. To -- practice. I've tutored kids in school before. I can... I can look people in the eye who aren't just like me."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"I can... I suppose you want me to start a fashion?"

Timmy inclines his head.


Timmy *shakes* his head... and winds a lock of her thick hair around his index finger. "May I...?"

She cocks her head to the side, studying him for a long and somewhat *dark* moment...

"You can always just *ask* me the questions --"

"What happens when you get what you want from me, Timmy?"

Timmy should, by rights, be building a reputation like Brucie's. If one is *known* to be feckless, then a habit of disappearing when things get distinctly hirsute will not seem especially strange.



Timmy shakes his head. "I'm going to try very, very hard not to grow into a clone of my guardian, Hillary. I'm not going to promise to always be here -- wherever 'here' happens to be -- because I have responsibilities --"

"Including your other relationships. Which -- how many?"

Steph. Bruce. Dick. *Kon*. Bart...

Tim closes his eyes and smiles --

And Hillary snorts a third time. "Fine. But you're not getting *my* deep, dark secrets without a few of your own."

Timmy licks his teeth and opens his eyes again. "Noted. As I was saying --"

"You have *responsibilities*... but you're going to *try* not to be an asshole?"

"Precisely. Larry..."

"Only. Only girls call me -- fuck," she says, and she's taller than he is, but she still pushes up on her toes in the moments before Timmy and Tim and Robin cup her shoulders and push down gently --

In the moments before Timmy leans in and does this, *this*, and he'd made promises to himself about these parties, made --

He wasn't going to *be* Brucie --

And he's not.

He's *not*, because Hillary -- *Larry* -- is more -- a lot more -- than what she had seemed even on *Robin's* first glance --

Because her mouth is soft and tastes of excellent champagne and something much sweeter --

Ah, the tea cakes Bruce decided Brucie would develop a taste for. The tea cakes which had no *business* at a party like this one, but which had been baked by Alfred -- and so had disappeared by the dozens within minutes.

Cream and alcohol and grapes and those faint hints of *delicious* tang --

Sugar and *lemon* --

Tim pulls Larry closer and licks every taste of it out of her mouth as she moans and presses closer still, as she reaches up to *test* at the carefully styled -- and longer -- hair at the front of his head before moving her hand back to pet and scratch at the back.

She slips her tongue into his mouth --

Tim *sucks* --

She moans *loudly* --

And Tim moans --

And Timmy Drake moans, too, because --

Because *Timmy* has never, ever, ever kissed *any* woman before, and he honestly hadn't expected it to be this *good* --

Movement, right in his peripheral vision. Tim spins Larry out of his arms, straightens *and* loosens his stance, and smiles into the eyes of Snickering Young Man Number Two. Bradley.

He has morphed into Scowling Young Man Number One, and Numbers Two Through Four almost certainly think they're blocking Tim's escape route. Which...

Timmy smiles sunnily. "Boys. How may I help you?"

"*Outside*. *Now*."

Timmy purses his lips and prepares to say something about wanting to keep his tuxedo neat --

But Larry pushes between Bradley and Tim. "If you *ever* plan on fucking me again, you'll go away and take your friends with you."

"Hill --"


Oh... ooh. Timmy would like, very much, to purr. Tim settles for looking quietly calm and noncommittal. A fight *wasn't* outside his mission's parameters for the evening, but *that* was only because he hadn't expected to turn Larry so *thoroughly*.

("Remember, Robin: Sometimes the greater part of valor by *far* will be to watch your enemies -- whoever they might be -- destroy *themselves*.")

As you *say*, Batman.

Tim leans back against the wall and waits as Larry tears Bradley a new one about flaws Tim had no knowledge of whatsoever -- though none are at all surprising. Bradley's cronies have begun to shuffle and look around to make sure they aren't being seen as *part* of this --

And Brucie and Quimby are missing entirely. Perhaps for a trip to the Roofie Suite. Quimby will wake up *mostly* nude -- though with whatever undergarments she'd chosen to wear still on, if slightly rumpled -- and no memory whatsoever of what she did or didn't do with Brucie Wayne.

Tim would like to know *when* Bruce had tested the various compounds on her to make sure they'd be *safe*... but it's enough to know that he had, and that he will thus have at least two hours to train and/or work on the computers before needing to return to the party.

"-- and you don't. Fucking. *Own*. Me!" And Larry tosses her fantastic hair and crosses her arms beneath her breasts.

Tim has... a wonderful type. Several, actually.

He snags another flute of champagne to hide a small smile behind.

Within two minutes, the Scowling Young Men are gone, and Larry is shivering a little within Tim's shadow.

Tim hands her his champagne --

She downs it in one quick swallow. "God, I need a *beer*."

"Is that your favorite?"

"No -- well. Yeah, actually. *Good* beer. Not this -- ironic crap."

"I've never really been a fan of beer, but I'm more than willing to try new things."

"You'd let me take you to a bar."

Tim *and* Timmy wrinkles their nose --

"Didn't think so."

"I was thinking... your house. Or the Manor."

"And your girlfriend --"

"We make love most often at *her* home. She isn't *entirely* averse to time spent here, but..." Timmy shrugs again.

"It is... kind of creepy."

"No argument."

Larry giggles and pushes her hair behind her ear. "Is your *suite* creepy?"

Tim smiles. "A little, yes. But, with music, it improves." And it improves even more with Bruce, and Dick --

"What about -- your other... lovers?"

"All men, all... somewhat scattered. I *mostly* go to their homes." Like the Cave.

"On your *motorcycle*."

Timmy grins. "Every boy needs a little power between his legs, Larry."

Another giggle and a push. "Are you. I mean. Are your other friends like you?"

Oh... "In what ways?"

An *impatient* look --

And that will never do. "They're all intelligent. They're all dedicated to improving the world we live in -- in one way or another. They're all more polyamorous than not. But... they're also all very different from each other. And -- mostly -- significantly older than I am."

Larry frowns. "It would be nice..." She blinks and shakes her head, and then pulls on a *brave* smile --

"You want better friends."

"Did you think I didn't *notice* how fucked-up -- no, no, never mind. College soon, right?"

"Yes --"

"And. I'm going to introduce myself to everyone as Larry there. Even if it *does* make everyone assume I'm queer."

"I highly recommend --"

"Experimenting? Because maybe your *girlfriend* likes blondes, too?"

And that was an image... he really should've expected. Tim laughs and shakes his head. "She *likes*... strong women. *Physically* strong, that is."

"She's supposed to be a *tank*!"

"She is," Timmy says, and licks his lips. "And she likes... aircraft carriers. And anti-tank rockets."

Larry raises her nearly-brown eyebrows. "Which one is Cassandra Wayne?"

"That would be telling."

"But she *is* --"

"-- capable of telling her own secrets, and choosing what those are," Timmy says, pulling on just a bit of Tim's formality.

Larry smiles at him ruefully. "You can tell me your girlfriend's type, but not serious detail?"

Tim offers his own smile in return. "Precisely. Both Steph and Cassandra can be... idiosyncratic. And... they both hate these parties --"

"I'd noticed, by their extreme lack of *presence*. I mean, it's not like Brucie is the type to *remember* to shove embarrassing family members in closets."

That -- is worth something of a quirk. "Not as such, no --"

"Do you think Cassandra would like me?" And for a moment the makeup, the dress --

All of it seems wrong, because Larry is young and hopeful and entirely too innocent for a party like this one.

"I mean --" Larry shakes her head once. "I don't know what I mean --"

"She likes everyone who is honest, open, and at least somewhat loving. And she gives people a great deal of leeway on the first two if the last is strong enough."

A -- poorly -- shuttered look. She's almost certainly doubting that someone in this particular world would be *like* that, but --

Timmy waggles two fingers in the air between them. "Scout's honor."

"And she's -- better. Like all the rest of your friends."

Tim nods once. "She had a very difficult childhood. It's made her... appreciative of the warmer things. And determined to have them for herself and her loved ones, no matter what."

"And she's -- our age. Almost."

"A little older -- probably."

Larry blinks. "I -- she doesn't know how *old* she is?"

Tim wants to say something a little cutting to *end* the line of questioning, but Tim is *bad* at making friends. Timmy is a little better, as these things go. "She can estimate, but, beyond that..." He spreads his hands.

"That's *horrible*!"


"I -- what... what does she like to talk about? I mean, I'm not going to... to interrogate her about her *abuse*."

"She's not much for talking about herself, at all, but..." Timmy smiles. "She *very* much enjoys getting to understand new people, getting to see them and... feel them."


"Not physically -- not right away, anyway -- but... nebulously. She's..."


Timmy waves a hand. "In a way. She doesn't worship any of the gods, but she is... in touch with the world in ways other people aren't."

"Like... a Buddhist?"

Tim coughs -- and Timmy does his level best to push aside the deeply amusing memories of Connor attempting to explain several of his more abstinence- and meditation-centric philosophies to Cassandra and getting... nowhere.


The ensuing spar had been deeply educational, but --

"So... no? I just want to know --"

"*When* I introduce you to her, you'll ask her every question that comes to mind... and you'll remember that, with Cassandra, monosyllabic answers *don't* mean she's bored with you."

"I -- what *does*?"

Timmy grins. "Her getting up and walking away from you."

"I --" Larry snorts again. "Fine. Okay. What about your girlfriend? Is she a Steph or a Stephanie or what?"


This feeling, Tim thinks, is a thrill he'd last felt when he was *four*. It's the prospect of making friends, and doing so *proactively*. Hudson, Callie, and Ives had all chosen *him*.

His family --

Well, he'd *thrown* himself at his family -- with the exceptions of Steph and Cassandra -- and so they don't really count for this.

This is *different*. This is him using his own personality, his own gifts, his own *skills* to make someone... like him.

And to like the people *he* likes, too. The part of Tim which is fully aware that this sort of thing happens every day -- with *breezy* ease, even -- *is* extant; it's just that it's also being made *irrelevant* by the incredible... thrill.

And so he spends the next two hours *with* Larry, sharing little things -- all he *can* share -- about Steph, about Cass and Kon and Dick and Barbara and Bart and Connor, *too* --

He watches her grow, by turns, wistful, eager, excited, shy --

He watches and *wonders*, because Steph has less and less time for civilians now that she's the other Robin, and Dick tends to be *forgetful*, and Kon isn't the most security-minded person in the world, and Barbara is *impatient*, and Connor is on the other side of the *country*, and Bart --


Bart is *unpredictable*. *More* so now that he's Kid Flash --

But --

But this feels too good not to continue, especially since he already *had* a lunch date with Cassandra tomorrow --

She *likes* it when he's excited. She thinks he's too *jaded* much of the time, and he can't say that she doesn't have a point.

He makes plans to pick Larry up from her parents' house, and -- yes. He'll do it in the jewel-green Modi 999 sports car Brucie -- *not* Bruce -- had purchased for him as a welcome back present. It *would* be tricky to fit three people in the thing -- considering the modifications Bruce-and-*not*-Brucie insisted upon, and how many of those modifications sprawl, albeit subtly, into the passenger compartment -- but the fact of the matter is that Larry is the largest of the three of them at five feet, six inches and one hundred thirty-five pounds.

The Modi can handle it.

And Tim is just about to introduce Larry to the pleasures of stepping into the kitchen to make up a tray of assorted hors d'oeuvres for oneself before taking said tray somewhere *private* --


Specifically, Brucie with his bowtie entirely missing, his shirt unbuttoned enough to expose a *rumpled* undershirt, his jacket seated unevenly, his stubble *dark* --

Dark enough to make the *smear* of lipstick trailing from the left corner of his mouth along his cheek *exclamatory* --

"Oh, Jesus. I don't even want to *know* what Aunt Quimby looks like right now."

Well -- "Probably not, no --"

Larry snorts. "How many of his conquests do you wind up *seeing* at the breakfast table?"

"Not *too* many, as these things go --"

"Because they're too *embarrassed*?"

Timmy purses his lips. "I wouldn't dream of making assumptions --"

Larry smacks his lapel. "How do you even *live* with him?"

"He *is* --"

"A good man. That's what you said. But *when*?"

Timmy smiles ruefully and -- somewhat -- painfully. For the lie *coating* the truth: "When he's not inebriated."

Brucie's laugh carries across the ballroom --

There's a tinkling, *musical* crash --


And that would be the death of one of the champagne towers.

Servants -- hired for the night only, of course -- rush to clear the mess --

And Brucie is moving closer.

He's doing it in arcs, loops, and *swirls* which seem entirely *random* --

He's still coming closer. He --

Tim is needed.

There's something of a pang for that -- a pang Tim doesn't know what to *do* with -- because he wasn't ready to be Robin again, he wasn't --

Even if he has to give up *Larry's* company for the night, he's not *ready* to be anything but --

"Timmy? Are you okay?"

Tim blinks --

Robin shutters -- no. Timmy smiles ruefully. "I have the distinct impression that I'm about to be needed."

Larry frowns. "I -- is he even coming this *way*?"

At the moment, he's walking in the precise opposite direction --

But, after two more steps, he spins with tipsy grace -- nearly overbalancing the two women he *seemed* to be escorting to the *next* nearest champagne tower -- and begins striding *briskly* towards him.


"*Tommy*, you scamp, where have you *been*...?"

Larry winces. "Am I allowed to be sympathetic about that?"

No, because --

Because it means more than you think --

Because --

Tim smiles for Timmy. "Yes and no."

A questioning look --

"I... promise to explain another time." Does he? Really?

Larry *frowns* --

So Timmy lifts her small, soft hand to his mouth and kisses the back softly and lingeringly, letting the ruefulness stay in his eyes --

-- and taking the skepticism in *Larry's* eyes for his own.

"Ooh, am I interrupting? *Can* I interrupt? You know I've always thought that it's important for young boys to be *free*, ahaaa..."

The women on Brucie's arms laugh with the sort of brightness which strongly suggests that they hadn't paid attention to a single word he'd said.

Larry -- looks horrified.

Robin gestures 'enough' with the hand half-hidden by his suit pants --

Bruce raises an eyebrow *slightly* -- and then leans over to whisper in the ears of the women on his arms, first one and then the other.

They giggle and coo -- and depart.

And then Brucie -- or rather, Brucie's significantly more sober alter ego -- smiles at Larry. "You'll *have* to forgive me, please, it's been a *terrifically* exciting evening, Miss...?" And he offers his hand --

"Ah -- Groton-Battle. Hillary Groton-Battle," Larry says, and takes Brucie's hand.

Brucie *starts* to lift it --

Larry starts to *frown* --

And then Brucie smiles gently -- and squeezes Larry's hand even more gently than that. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Groton-Battle --"

"You -- you can call me Hillary."

"Truly? I'm honored --"

"Ah. Why?"

"Because it's *abundantly* clear that you've made an impression on Timmy... and people like that tend to make *deep* impressions on *me*," and the *real* Brucie would wink for that --

At least *laugh* for it --

*This* Brucie only continues to smile, offering *hints* of dimness --

A tantalizing *taste* of frivolous cologne on the air --

And Larry licks her teeth and cocks her head to the side. "He says you're a good man."

And how exactly will Bruce deal with this? How --

Bruce looks at him through Brucie's eyes --

Bruce looks *into* him, studies and *searches* him, and it's hard to be anyone but Tim, *impossible* to be anyone --

Brucie turns back to Larry. "My sons have *inspired* me, Hillary. And driven me even more. If I could be even a *fraction* as worthwhile as they are --"

"Timmy *isn't* your son, yet, though."

Tim doesn't *wince* --

And Brucie manages a rueful smile that's only soft, only open and *soft* -- "My *first* son taught me that there was room for such things in the human heart... whether or not there was room for such things outside of it."

Larry blinks rapidly and blushes --

*Starts* to turn to look at Tim --

He's Timmy now, he has to *be* Timmy now --

And Larry shakes her head and takes her hand back. "You -- need Timmy right now. Right?"

For a moment, Tim thinks Bruce will say something else devastating, something else *designed* to make his heart pound and his knees feel *optional* --

But Bruce only nods, and Brucie smiles brightly. "I *promise* to give him back in one piece, ahaaa..."

Larry snorts and *then* turns to Timmy. "I might bail early. Two o'clock tomorrow?"

Tim pulls on Timmy by main *force*, blowing her a kiss while Brucie stares into the distance. "It's a date."

She hums --

Seems to *consider* --

And then leans in to kiss his cheek. "Thanks for tonight, Timmy," she says, whispering in his ear.

"You're welcome. Let's do it --"

"Repeatedly," she says, and laughs a little as she turns and walks away, waving at Brucie when she's three paces away --

And then ignoring both of them. Just --

"You didn't tell me you planned to make a *friend*, tiger."

"I didn't *plan* anything of the kind -- oh."


"Ah..." He almost certainly should have something else to say. He almost --

He should --

Certain facts are in evidence:

One, Bruce -- not Brucie -- has his hand resting at the small of Tim's back.

Two, Bruce is *pushing* him. Not *hard*, but --

Three, Brucie -- not Bruce -- is smiling and waving and blowing kisses at every woman they pass -- every woman over twenty-five, that is --

Still --

*Still* --

Tim lowers his head. "We're being obvious."

"Ahaa, ha -- I need you."

Tim grunts and -- doesn't trip, doesn't --

"Did you like the kiss?"

"Brucie --"

"How many times -- "

"*Brucie* --"

"Shh, tiger, you *know* I can hear you *fine*," and Brucie snags a champagne flute from a passing waiter --

Snags a *fruit* tart from another passing waiter -- and hands it to Tim before putting his hand right back where it was.

"Sweeten your *disposition*, tiger!"

"Brucie, where --"

"You haven't so much as *touched* a civilian in nearly three *years*," Bruce says, and forces Tim to lead them toward the kitchens --

No guests are around. No --

Bruce is jealous. Bruce is -- jealous.

Tim licks his lips --

"Are you thinking of her."

"I --"

"Alfie, old chum, would you mind scaring up Dickie on the horn? I simply *must* take a *breather*."

Alfred, for his part, looks at them *narrowly*.

For a moment -- a long one -- Tim doesn't have the faintest *clue* what expression is on his face --

And then he pulls on Timmy's bland languidness and salutes Alfred with his fruit tart.

"Do *you* require a rest as well, Master Tim?"

Rest. 'Rest'. Well...

Bruce doesn't *actually* increase the pressure at the base of Tim's spine.

Bruce doesn't --

Bruce knows *exactly* how much noise Tim tends to *make* for pressure there --

"I see. Master Bruce, I believe --"

"I need -- a break," Tim says. Well, that was more of a stammering *blurt* --

Alfred raises his *eyebrow* at him --

Tim feels himself *blushing*, and that's just not --

The kitchen is full of the *catering* staff, and he has to -- he has to cope. Right now. He takes a deep breath and says, quietly, "I need to speak with Bruce privately."

Alfred's expression is pinched enough to speak *volumes* about --

Well, about all the things he *hasn't* said since Tim and Bruce began making love. "It's all right, Alfred --"

"Is it, young sir?"

He wants, very badly, to *look* to Bruce --

To see him and feel him and know --

To be *guided* and *know* -- but he can do this. He smiles ruefully. "We... really do have a fair amount *to* discuss." And that's the absolute truth, the --

How much is he really going to *say* once they're alone?

How --

No, he always winds up saying a great *deal*, but the fact of the matter is that all too little of it involves asking questions like --

"What about my age?" And "What about the fact that you *do* want me to be your son?" And "What is and *isn't* appropriate behavior for us? For *me*?"

He's never asked *any* of those questions --

Bruce has never --

It's never come *up*, and now Alfred is really making Tim *feel* that lack as more than just something to make his heart beat faster, make his heart *pound* --

Bruce is still touching the small of his *back* --

And Alfred turns to Bruce again. "Master Bruce."

"Yes, Alfred," Bruce says, and there's no *trace* of Brucie in his voice, no -- no *anything* --

"I *trust* that you *will* take the time to speak with Master Tim while the two of you are taking your rest?"

Bruce *shivers* -- "Yes," and his voice is so low, so *dark* --

Tim --

Tim presses himself back against Bruce's hand *slightly* --

But the frown on Alfred's face says that he'd seen it. Of course he'd seen it. Of --

He sees *everything* --

And he sighs and shakes his head once. "If you will excuse me, I will contact Master Dick now."

"Thank you, Alfred," they say together --

And then, somehow, Tim is walking up the back stairs --

The stairs which are too *narrow* to walk abreast with Bruce --

Bruce hasn't moved his *hand* --

"I will never. I will never *limit* you," Bruce grits --

"Bruce --"

"There will be no *pressure*."

"It --"

"I need you so badly," he says, and his voice is low, conversational, nearly *calm* --

"You --"

"But you *know*, tiger, I just *remembered* something, ahaaa..."

"Ah... what?"

"Ah-ah-ah, I don't want to ruin the *surprise*," Brucie says, and starts to *push* Tim again --

"Okay, all right, I'll --"

"I know, I know, I'm just an *eager little beaver* tonight, but I simply *have* to show you... well. *You'll* see."

See *what*? Should he be worried?

In the earliest days of their romantic relationship, Bruce would... shift between identities, using Matches and Brucie -- and, memorably, the *Batman* -- to share deep-seated emotional truths.

It had been...

Well, it had been somewhat *predictable*, given what Tim had known about Bruce and his prior relationships --

His *current* relationships --

Tim stops in the middle of the darkened hallway. For a moment, the pressure on his back is almost *hard* --

Bruce *pants* out a breath --


"*Tiger*, come *on* --"

"I thought -- I thought..." Tim shakes his head once -- how to even *say* this? How would *any* Robin ask Bruce about the *end* of identity play -- no, strike that, how would *he* ask that question?

Is it even *possible*?

Does he *want* to?

Does he -- how is he supposed to want to say anything at *all* once Bruce cups Tim's hips with *both* hands --

Once he squeezes and --

Tim moans. *Quietly*, but still --

And he moans again when Bruce nuzzles his *ear* --

They're in the *hall* --

*Anyone* could come upstairs --

"Have you come to fear me, lover?"

Tim blinks. "I -- what? No --"

"Perhaps... perhaps my... mood swings?"


Bruce hums and *licks* Tim's ear --

Tim grunts and pushes back against him --

Bruce *pants* again. "I only wish to please you, to... Brucie entertains you." And -- that wasn't a question in *tone* --

But it was in every *other* way. "Yes. Yes, he does --"

"Will she lead you --" Bruce growls and pulls back --

"What -- don't --"

"Tiiiger. *Let* me entertain you. Aha, ha, haaa..."

Tim shivers and closes his eyes. "Will. I think -- I think we're going to have to... talk. As we are. As we should be -- you know what I mean."

"Honestly, crumpet, you *know* there's never a thought in my head --"


Bruce kisses Tim's ear *hard*. "I love you. We will. We can speak of everything and anything you wish. But -- please. Let me please you. Let me. Let me *show* you."

There is... no way on earth -- or any of the other planets accessible by Javelin, JLA transporter, or friendly Kryptonian -- to say no to that. Tim nods --

And Bruce's hand is back at the small of his back --

"Hidey-ho, tiger..."

Tim walks the few paces to his door --

But Bruce keeps pushing him, keeps --

"Brucie, did you forget --"

"Oh, *probably*, tea-biscuit, but -- oh, no, we *have* to go to the master suite tonight."

Oh. Oh...

Tim feels himself flushing *hard* --

They haven't --

They don't --

They *never* --

And Brucie strokes a ticklish line up and down Tim's *spine* -- "What's the matter, spinach leaf?"

Spinach -- "Ah. I wasn't aware that I looked... green. Brucie."

"Just a little around the *edges*, ahaaa. Did you not *want* to join me in my suite?" And Brucie *is* there -- but so is Bruce.

It's an honest question. It's --

Somehow, Bruce doesn't *know* the answer to that question --

Just as if --

But it had been Alfred who had shown Tim Bruce's rooms when Tim was thirteen -- and who had warned him never to go in when Bruce was sleeping. And it had been Dick who had gripped Tim by the shoulders and *held* him in the *doorway* to the suite while Bruce was recovering from his broken spine --

("He'll come back to us, little brother. Bigger and badder than *ever*.")

And all Tim had been able to do was nod --

He could *feel* Dick *needing* him to nod --

And --

God, they're in the doorway *again*, and the door is open *just* enough that Bruce's scent is in the air, sweet cologne and that indefinably warm and heavy and *male* scent --

Tim doesn't *moan* --

But he really, really wants to.

"Tea-biscuit, I *promise* we'll have the bestest time in the *world*," Brucie says, and he actually sounds *worried* --

Tim licks his lips. "I -- I believe you --"

"I'm not sure I should believe *that*," and Brucie cups Tim's shoulders, squeezes *gently* --

"No, I -- it's --" How to say it? This isn't the *first* time that Bruce has left him feeling as though he's somehow *choking* on his blush --

It isn't even the first time *Brucie* has done this to him --


"You can tell *me*, tiger," Brucie says, massaging him with clumsily *lustful* expertise -- it only *seems* like he'll miss a mark. He never actually does, and his hands are --

Big. Warm. *Loving* --

*Moving* --

"You can tell me *anything*..."

He wants to. He *really* --

"You can..." And Brucie strokes down over Tim's chest --

Pushes his hands under Tim's jacket and *vest* --

He's so warm through Tim's *shirt* --

"Brucie --"

"You *know* Daddy wants *all* your secrets, tiger..."

"I want yours, too," Tim blurts --

And Bruce -- not Brucie -- sighs. And *scratches* Tim's chest through his shirt. He --

Tim *moans* again --

"I'll tell you *everything* I remember -- are you going to eat that?"

Eat -- what -- he's still holding the fruit tart. He -- he eats it, because Bruce never actually hands him food -- or reminds him *about* food -- unless he thinks Tim should be eating it.

It's sweet, of course, and the fruit is *nearly* as perfectly ripe as the fruit Alfred chooses for them --

And *Brucie* sighs -- "You *are* going to let me kiss that right out of your pretty little mouth, aren't you...?"

Tim licks his lips, which are now faintly coated with rich cream. There's a slickness to them, a sense that it would be better if someone *else* were to do the licking --

Of *course* it would be better --

Just as *everything* will be better -- or at least more sanity-destroying -- once he steps into Bruce's suite. So -- he does.

Or rather, he *tries* to, because Brucie's hands are big and clumsy and *firm* on his hips --

"Tiiiger, you still have to tell me *secrets*!"

"Brucie --"

"I'll make it worth your whiiile..."

"You always do," Tim says, blushing again and -- needing. Just --

If he *had* to go back to the party right now, he could, but he'd damned well need a minute to tuck himself *painfully* --

"Please. Please, Brucie --"

The kiss for his temple is almost hard, and Brucie scrapes him a little with his stubble --

Tim moans *again* --

"You know what I *need*, don't you, tea-biscuit?" And Brucie's voice is much, much *lower* than it usually is, much --

Not harder. *Hungrier*.

"You know what I'd *do* --"

"It's just -- we never... here."

Brucie sighs again, unbuttoning Tim's jacket --

Tim's vest --

"You don't know how *badly* I needed to *see* you in your room, dumpling," Brucie says, and Bruce's *growl* is threaded through it --

Bruce's *honesty* --

"And I... well. Daddy would *never* want to *pressure* you, never..." And Brucie presses closer, *looms* against and *over* Tim -- "Never, ever, *ever* make you feel... dirty..."

"I like. I like feeling. Dirty. Sometimes --"

Bruce growls --

And Brucie *hoots*. "Oh, listen to *me*. You're going to turn me into an *animal*, tiger. Just like you. Ahaaa."

"Brucie. Brucie, I -- please, I'll do anything --"

"We'll do *everything*, ginger-snap. But first you'll tell me *more* about this room." And that -- was a command. That --

Tim hears himself *whimper* --

Brucie pushes his fingers into Tim's shirt *between* the buttons --

"Please --"

"Do it now, tiger. Do it for me."

Tim -- swallows. Tries --

Is he supposed to be Timmy for this? Timmy would have some measure of *control* over himself --

Though possibly not once Brucie started tugging on his *fly*. Just -- "Brucie --"

"*Give* it to me --"

"It's yours. It's *yours*. Like --" I always wanted to be. "Ah."

"Oh, *Timmy*. It's like that...?"

Of course Bruce could hear that. God, he could probably *feel* that -- "I -- I need you --"

And Bruce growls and *yanks* Tim back against him --

He's *hard*, and his erection is pressed to the small of Tim's *back* --

And somehow Tim's pants are open --

Tim's shirt is un-tucked --

Brucie's hand is *moving* over and over Tim's abdomen --

Brucie's other hand is gripping and *molesting* Tim's left hip --

"Please -- please, Brucie --"

"It's just that I've needed you all *day*, crumpet --"

"You *have* me --"

"Do I...?"

"Yes! *Please* -- oh --"

And then they're in the dark --

No one is touching him --

"Now *where* did I put that *light*, ahaaa...?"

"It's -- it's next to the *bed*, Brucie --"

"Now how do *you* know that, tiger...?"

And Tim can *feel* Bruce's gaze on him in the dark --

The *complete* dark, because Bruce had closed the door behind them, and Alfred *never* opens Bruce's curtains --

"You haven't been *peeking*, have you...?"

"I -- Brucie, I have a good *memory*," Tim says, and thinks about straightening his clothes --

He's *good* at doing that in the dark --

And the lamp comes on. Specifically, the one on the *far* side of the bed. The corners of the room are still in shadow, of course, but the bed itself is clear, as are the nearest bookshelves, and the bureau, and -- the out-of-place armoires.

The ones *Dick* had explained to him --

The doors to the one on the right are... open.

("It's not that he'll never talk about them, little brother -- he *will* if you ask -- but..."


And Dick had smiled ruefully and ruffled Tim's hair.

("They belonged to his *parents*, Timbo. And -- he's kept them in his room and *close* to his bed since they were killed."

"I -- oh. That would explain --"

"Why they're not where they belong even though he *is* in the master suite now, yeah. I... well. He *keeps* things, you know? Like you do, but... more.")

Which... he can't *see* anything in the armoire. The closet-like space is empty, as is the large cubby-like space. The drawers -- all of them -- are closed.

He's not even sure *which* armoire it is, and --

There's something *on* one of the doors. Something... hanging?

Tim starts to move closer --

And Bruce is behind him again just that quickly, Bruce is touching --

No, Brucie is *molesting* him again, touching him all over, stroking him all over and just --

*Feeling* him --

His hands feel so *hungry*, and Tim's not even sure what that *means* -- but it's enough to make him harder, make him *need* to push back --

"Arms *up*, crumpet..."

"Yes -- yes, Brucie --"

"Ooh, you know I *love* it when you're a *good* boy, Timmy --"

"I always --" Tim shakes his head and lets himself shiver for the loss of his jacket --


And his vest is gone -- "I -- ah --"

And Brucie is crouched and untying Tim's *shoes* --

"I can do that --"

"So can *I*, and my teachers were so *proud* when I finally learned, ahaaa..."

Tim snorts. "Brucie."

"Oh, don't *scold* me, tea-biscuit, it's been a *trial* without you."

And -- he's now said versions of that multiple *times*. Is he -- perhaps Tim should play? "You didn't look like you were suffering with Quimby Groton, Brucie..."

"Was *that* her --" But *Bruce* cuts Brucie off with a narrow-eyed stare that makes Tim feel small and needy and naked and overheated all at *once* --

"Oh -- Bruce --"

"Shall I touch you the way I touched her?"

"No --"

"Shall I... Brucie could... play more. Be more intoxicated --"

"I don't want --"

"Your scent makes me *drunk*," and Bruce *grips* Tim's *ankles* --

"I -- hell -- Bruce --"

"I'll give you anything you *desire*, Tim --"

"You are! I mean -- you have, and I -- we can. You were going to show me something," Tim says, and tries to sound gentle, encouraging --

Tries to sound anything but desperately --

But Bruce, perhaps, *wants* his desperation. Needs it? "Please, Bruce, I -- anything from you tonight. I've spent --" Tim laughs quietly and shakes his head. "Let's... ah. Let's just say that I've spent the day... fighting off... hunger."

Bruce narrows his eyes even *more* --

Tugs off Tim's shoes and socks --

And Tim can -- well, his pants are already open. He can push them down --

He can *start* to push them down and then completely forget what he was *doing*, because Bruce is nuzzling him through his boxer-briefs, Bruce is growling and sniffing and *pressing* against him --

"Bruce --"

"How much."

"I -- I -- what?"

"Is this for *her*."

Tim blinks and tries to -- no, he has to answer, has to --

Bruce needs him to *think* right now --

"Bruce, I --"


"Bruce, she's a *friend*. She's -- I mean -- I hardly *know* her --"

"You *kissed* --"

"It was --" For his cover. But.

And Bruce is staring up at him. It's not a glare -- there's no accusation in it whatsoever -- but the hunger --

The *need* --

Tim licks his lips, shivering for the feel of all the *cream* still there -- "I -- like her. I want her... to be as much of a friend as possible. Perhaps as much of a friend as... Ives." Or more -- Tim frowns and shakes his head --

"Tim. I need. I need to know --"

"I don't -- I don't want her *more* than I want you, or -- "

"Will she take you from me."

Tim -- blinks.

A lot.

Enough that he's not entirely sure he *isn't* wearing false eyelashes, because this --


"*Bruce* --"


"I'm not -- I don't even think *you* can take me from you," Tim says, and feels himself blushing, feels himself -- "Where are you *getting* -- *NNH* --"

And the kiss to the head of his penis through his boxer-briefs is hard, hot, *lingering* --

"Bruce -- Bruce, *please* --"

Bruce grips his hips and *sucks* him through his underwear --

Tim locks his *knees* --

And Bruce pulls back and -- hangs his head. He --

He's staring at the *floor*.


"It wasn't very long ago that you spoke of... retiring."

And it *really* wasn't very long ago that he'd been *forced* to retire -- but he isn't thinking about that. He --

That's over now. It's *all* over now, and he's not --

"I was -- phenomenally stupid --"

"*Don't* speak of yourself that way," Bruce says, and *now* he's glaring at Tim --

"I *was*, Bruce. I thought -- I thought that this life, this -- I thought that you --" Tim shakes his head. "I thought I could somehow give up my *family*."

"Am I..." Bruce winces and shakes his head --

"You -- you *are* my family --"

"You must not say things --"

"I *mean* it," Tim says, and his heart is pounding again, he's *sweating* again --

"It makes you *frightened* --"

"Of course it does!"

Bruce winces *harder* --

"Oh -- Bruce --"

"Please, Tim, I must -- I didn't mean to *do* this to you --"

"Make me *crazy*? I --" Tim laughs helplessly and -- cups Bruce's face. His stubble is long enough to scratch and tickle, and the part of Tim which is only ready -- desperately ready -- to feel it other places has to be *quiet* now. He -- "It's -- you have to know how frightening a topic family is for me in *general*, Bruce."

Bruce closes his eyes and shudders, and --

"You -- you thought you'd... lost me."


"You -- I missed you so *much*, Bruce -- ah --"

And Bruce's grip on his hips isn't *painful*, but it's -- serious. Very, very serious.

Tim licks his lips and tries not to arch and *strain* against the grip. He -- he has to -- "Please, Bruce. Please tell me -- you have to tell me what -- you need to know --"


Tim gasps a laugh. "What do you need to know right *now*?"

And Bruce -- searches him. *Studies* him.

Tim strokes Bruce's cheeks -- and then gives himself over to *feeling* Bruce's stubble, to waking up the flesh of his palms and fingers with it, to imagining --

"You -- will not leave."

"Only -- only for lunch --"

"You'll come *back*."

Always. Always -- "Yes."

Bruce frowns and searches him more *deeply* --

And Tim shivers and smiles ruefully. "'Always'. Is what I didn't say."

Bruce parts his lips and *pants*, *stares* --

"Oh -- I meant it --"

"Tiger, are you *still* dressed?"

Tim blinks --

Stares --

"I... ah. Brucie, I don't -- are you sure --"

"I'm *always* sure of *you*, crumpet. Let's get you out of these clothes, hmm?"

Oh -- well. "And into something more comfortable?"

Brucie leers dramatically. *Bruce* stares hungrily -- "Well, Timmy, I can think of *something* I want to get you into, ahaaa..."

Tim raises an eyebrow and shrugs off his shirt, then peels out of his undershirt. And then Timmy purses his lips. "The French maid's uniform *again*, Brucie?"

Bruce blinks. Once.

Timmy smiles like a small and *incredibly* aroused shark -- two can play at this very, very odd and ridiculous game --

"Tiger, you have to *tell* me about these kinks --"

"*You* have to *remember* them --"

"Oh, don't be *mean* to Daddy, now --"

"Mean would involve me saying *no* to some-- thing. Some -- oh -- *ohn* --"

And Bruce is sucking him through his boxer-briefs again, Bruce is --

*Brucie* is humming "La Marseillaise" and *mouthing* him --

"Please --"


Fuck -- no, no -- "I don't -- please don't make me have an orgasm --"


"Brucie --"

"Are you *sure*, eiderdown?"

Tim pants and -- doesn't stagger. He can -- he can *control* himself --

"You're *awfully* hard..."

"Yes. Yes. And I don't --"

"You don't want to come yet, tiger...?"

"Yes. No. I mean --" Tim licks his lips *again*, balling his hands into fists. "You know what I mean."

"Oh, *tiger*... well. I have a few *ideas*," Brucie says, curling his fingers into the waistband of Tim's boxer-briefs and tugging them down --

And down --

*Slowly* --

"*Please*, Brucie --"

And then they're around his ankles and Tim can step *out* of them --

"*This* way, Timmy," and Brucie leers *dimly* at him as he stands --

As he tugs Tim toward --

The open armoire.

Specifically, towards the *right* door of the armoire, which has gained a curious accessory. Which --

Well, those are *restraints*. Specifically, the sort *designed* to be attached to doors so that the submissive -- whoever he or she may be -- can be *swung*.

Among other things.

It --

"Ah. Brucie..."

"Yes, ribbon-mint?"

It says --

It definitely says *something* that, at this point, the random and semi-random pet names either flow right past him or flow right past him after first making him feel *warm*. But.


"Daddy *promises* to make you feel *extra* good."

"Extra -- Dick told me..."

"Yes...?" And Brucie is *toying* with one of the wrist cuffs --

Well, Tim *hopes* it's one of the wrist cuffs, because he's spent too much time *training* upside-down to be able to view it sexually --

That's a ridiculous lie.

"Ah..." Tim reaches out to stroke the empty cubby. "This... is..."

"What *is* it, tea-biscuit?"

Tim -- blushes. Helplessly. "You're going to make me say it, aren't you."

Brucie looks innocent.

Bruce -- hidden behind Brucie's eyes -- looks anything *but*. And also looks very, very happy about that. He --

Tim crosses his -- naked -- arms over his -- naked -- chest. "You like my blushes too much, Brucie."

"But how could I *not*, Timmy? You're Daddy's perfect little *doll*."

"Brucie --"

"No? Maybe you should be *art*, instead. I have an idea for the *naughtiest* picture..."

*Brucie* sketches? Wait -- "And we aren't talking about stick figures?"

"*Coffee*-cake, I've had *some* practice with my pencils and what-not. Daddy gets *bored* at night when you're not in his *bed*."

"Meaning there are *already* sketches?"

Another leer -- and this one is doubled, because *Bruce's* expression is pure heat.

"Perhaps... the sort of sketches which could get you *arrested*?"

Brucie raises his fingers to his mouth -- "You won't *tell*, will you?"

Tim snorts. "Am I *alone* in those --"

"Daddy's precious boy should *never* be alone."

And that... wasn't *quite* Brucie. Or Bruce. Tim raises an eyebrow.

"You've been alone too *much*, crumpet --"

"How do you even *decide* which pet names get repeated and which don't?"

Brucie -- and Bruce -- *tap* their mouth with their fingers. "*That* would be telling. And I think you had something to tell me...?"

"Oh -- fine. How do you -- this is -- *which* one of your parents did this armoire belong to?"

"Gosh, I don't *remember* --"


"You're right, that was a *terrible* fib," Brucie says, and smacks his own wrist. Lightly. "It belonged to my *father*... but he's not here," Bruce-and-Brucie say.

Tim raises his eyebrow again.

Bruce smiles *wryly*. Brucie -- smiles like he's been huffing nitrous oxide. "I *promise* I won't get all *mopey* on you, lemur-cookies."

"What -- I -- that's not --"

"*Pretty* please?" And Brucie spins the wrist cuff in a small circle. "You *know* Daddy loves you..."

Tim -- shivers. "I know -- I know. And I -- I'm not worried about you becoming *sad* --"

"Then what *is* it?"

Good question. *Excellent* question, really, because he's naked in *Bruce Wayne's* bedroom -- and no one else's. Bruce doesn't *only* make love to people he adopts or wants to adopt -- unless there are more things Tim doesn't know about Bruce's relationship with Clark than the more difficult Old Kryptonian declensions -- but there's certainly something of a... theme.

It --

This isn't beyond the pale, not truly.

This -- when taken with the rest of their romantic relationship to date -- isn't even *especially* outré. Not -- truly.

"You don't have to be frightened, tiger. Daddy will *never* hurt you."

"Sometimes. Sometimes I worry... about you hurting yourself."

Brucie sighs and Bruce reaches to stroke Tim's cheek, or --

Maybe it's the other way around. Maybe --

"*Trust* me, jaggery. We're *both* going to have a *marvy* time."

Sometimes, Tim thinks he would like to be the sort of person who can resist people who use the word 'marvy.' Other times -- like now -- Tim only wants to do this: Cup Brucie's hand in both of his own and kiss his fingers, and lick his finger*tips*, and suck them as he moves closer --

And closer --

And presses himself *back* against the door --

"Oh, Daddy's precious *baby*," and Brucie kisses his forehead with a wet *smack* --

"Brucie --"

"Thank you," *Bruce* says, soft and low and so --

So *deep* --

And maybe his reaction to that voice is enough to explain why he's not entirely sure what *motions* went into him being tied to the door --

What's led to him being restrained and *moving* with the *swing* of the door --

"Brucie --"

"Oh, *tiger*. You look good enough to *eat*."

Tim -- pants. "Is that what you're going to do?"

Brucie pulls on a thoughtful expression -- it seems to take far more effort than it had taken to *lift* Tim enough to cuff him to the door -- and hums. "Mayyybe. Honestly, Timmy, the possibilities have me all *aflutter*."

That -- Tim snorts. And strains against the cuffs just to *see*...

They're soft enough to be comfortable, but *not* enough to bend. Tim has *made* his hands and wrists flexible enough that he could -- possibly -- escape from this if something terrible happened to Brucie --

Or to Bruce's *mind* --

He doesn't want to escape. He --

*Robin* has to think about things like that. Tim doesn't, at all. He -- "I'm. I'm safe with you."

Bruce *stares* into him -- "*Always*, muffin. You *never* have to be scared of one little thing," Brucie says, and strokes the underside of Tim's penis lightly enough that Tim bucks --

Gasps --

And Brucie -- lights up. Just --

"Please --"

"You look like you're about to *pop*, crumpet."

Pop. Really. "I -- is that really a *shock*?"

"You *always* surprise me, Timmy. You know that," and Brucie's fingers trail up and down Tim's shaft --

Up and down and up again --

Tim is shivering and --

And *pumping* --

"I think I could do this all *night*, tea-biscuit..."

Tim swallows and tries very, very hard not to laugh, not to --

It's *ticklish*, but he doesn't have to focus on that --

Aspect --

Tim shakes his head and just --

He focuses on the *thickness* of Brucie's fingers, the *faint* roughness that not even the world's best moisturizers can fully heal --

He's --

Tim is twitching and *leaking*, but he thinks he could be --

"Is that what you want, Timmy?"

"What... what?"

"Do you want me to keep doing *this*...?"

That -- oh, his eyes are wide. His --

He's *tense* now, and shivering --

Twitching *more*, and he can feel the laugh bubbling up the back of his throat --

He doesn't know what the laugh will *sound* like, and that's usually a *bad sign* --

Brucie is still --

Still stroking him so *lightly* --

Brucie purses his lips. "Tiger, you're going to have to be a *lot* more communicative if we're going to get *anywhere* tonight."

"I -- you -- I *can't* get anywhere!" And Tim is very proud of himself for getting that out --

But then Brucie *stops* stroking and Tim hears himself *whine*.

*Loudly* -- "Oh -- oh, God --"

"No one here but us *chickens*, lemon-drop --"

"Brucie -- I -- I *can't* say much with you --"

"Stroking you...?" Brucie smiles *gently*. "I *do* understand, Timmy. I was sixteen once, *too*. That's why I *stopped*."

"I --" Didn't want you to stop. I *never* want -- Tim swallows and licks his lips --

And the kiss is warm, wet, *deep* --

The kiss *pushes* him back against the door of the armoire, swinging it back --

Brucie catches it and holds it still easily, holds *Tim* still, and one day Tim is going to ask just how much weight this armoire's door can *hold*, but right now Brucie is licking his *mouth*, and Tim thinks he's far more likely to produce word salad than anything coherent.

Brucie --

Brucie *always* kisses him like this, like --

Like he wants to -- no. Like he *needs* to taste Tim, and *feel* Tim with his tongue, and make Tim wetter and more open and generally *needier* --

Tim needs Brucie's *body* right now, his heat and weight and scars and *hair* --  but Brucie is still dressed. Brucie is holding his body *away* --

Brucie isn't even rubbing him with his *stubble*, and really --

All right, he has school in two days, and sometimes it *does* take longer than that for the stubble-burn to fade, but he *needs* --

Tim tries to make it a deeper kiss, a *harder* one --

"Ah-ah-ah, fuzzy-almond --"

"What -- that -- *ohn* --"

Cock ring.

Cock ring *on* him --

Where was Brucie even *keeping* that? Did he -- no. No. "Did you have that in your *pocket*?"

"As a matter of *fact*... ahaaa..." And Brucie tickles the *head* of Tim's penis --

"Nnh -- you -- all *night*?"

Brucie's smile is loose and *wet*. "It was a *challenge* to keep Gumby's --"

"*Quimby* --"

"-- Limpy's hands out of there... but I was *motivated*," Brucie says, and strokes a *spiral* around the head --

Tim makes a *strangled* noise --

"Ooh. You should do *that* again..."

"I -- I -- Brucie --"


Tim blushes and shakes his head --

"Oh, now, don't say *no* to Daddy..."

"I -- you -- this isn't very... ah."

When Brucie raises his eyebrows like this, there is nothing cold, or steely, or intimidating, or anything *remotely* Bruce-ish about it. He's blinking, for one thing, and for another --

For another, he looks dimmer than the -- very, very weak -- gaslights in Crime Alley, like --

Well, no, Tim *likes* that simile, because this *feels* criminal, and dangerous, and --

Well, not *wrong*, per se, but definitely -- "NNH --!"

Definitely he can't be expected to think when Brucie is dragging his fingernail so *lightly* down the underside of Tim's penis --

When he's crouching to *lick* the head --

And Tim's scrotum --

And Tim's inner *thighs* --


"Please *what*, tea-biscuit?"

"You -- I -- ah."

"I think you want to *tell* Daddy something."

Everything --

"I think..." And Brucie licks his lips before taking the head of Tim's penis in his mouth --

*Pressing* with his lips --

Humming *Lara's Theme* --

It -- all right, that's very *interesting* in a baritone shading to bass, and that's probably the only reason why Tim is managing not to *yell*, not to --

He's pumping his *hips* again -- and Brucie is managing to make the fact that he's not *letting* Tim get any deeper into his mouth seem *accidental*.

He --

"I really *hate* you!"

Brucie makes a sound like a heartbroken basset hound. *Around his penis*.

Which -- is an excellent reason to groan and shudder and --

And shudder more.

And more than that when Brucie looks up at him --

When *Bruce* looks *into* him --

Tim slumps and groans again, arches *helplessly* -- "Of course -- of course that was -- a lie --"

Brucie pulls off with a wet smack -- "Are you *sure*, flower-face? I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't make you *happy*..."

Tim -- moans. "Please. Please? Please."


"I don't -- if you -- your mouth was so *warm* --"

"*Too* warm?"

"Nuh -- what -- *HNH* -- blowing -- you're blowing -- oh, *God*, Brucie!"

Brucie *whistles*, and it's --

Tim is reasonably sure that the whistle in question is from a *spaghetti western*, and that's just --

"Brucie. *Brucie*."

Brucie whistles a *question* --

And Tim's penis twitches somewhat exclamatorily. Just --

Tim licks his lips.

Brucie licks his own and smiles *tipsily*. "You taste *marvy*, string-cheese --"

"I don't -- no. Not that one."


Tim squeezes his eyes shut --

Is immediately *struck* by the image of Brucie licking one of Alfred's creamier dips from the *hollow* of a celery stalk --

And *Bruce* hums -- undoubtedly for the fact that Tim's penis twitched again.

Tim opens his eyes again --

And Brucie smiles up at him with innocently filthy good cheer. "Are you ready to tell Daddy more secrets yet?"

"Ah. What. What secrets --"

"You can tell me all *about* how you feel to be *here*, crumpet. Daddy would *love* to hear that."

And... Tim was perhaps overdue for a blush. He -- "You know that --"

"Tell me *more*, tiger. *Give* me more... and I'll do the same," and Brucie licks a wet stripe up the hair on Tim's lower abdomen to his navel --

Stabs in and *wiggles* his tongue --

"Enh -- Brucie -- "

And Brucie pulls back. "*Tell* me --"

"I like it! A lot! You never --" Tim licks his lips and pants. "This is -- it feels. Special."

Bruce *glares* at him --

And Brucie pants. "*How* special?"

"I -- I'm not *coherent* --"

"*Please*, crumpet!"

Tim grunts and -- catches himself *yanking* at the restraints in an attempt to touch Brucie, pet him and hold him and soothe -- but. He *knows* what would soothe him. He -- "You. You bring... toys. With you. Sometimes. To my room."

"Boys. Boys *need* toys..."

"I... I've always wanted to see... where they come from."

"*Just* see?"

Tim blushes again and smiles ruefully. "No. No, I... it's more -- it feels --" Tim swallows again and thinks -- "I'm -- really red right now."

"You look just as flushed and juicy as an *nectarine*, tiger, but *tell* me!"

"It's -- arousing?"

"You're getting me ready to lose my *mind*. And you know that." And that was Brucie *and* Bruce again --

It feels like a *warning* --

And Tim is nodding and straining again, struggling not to dislocate his thumbs --

Robin doesn't *belong* here --

Because Robin keeps *every* secret.

"It makes me feel... right. Brucie."

Brucie sighs and -- flushes. "More."

"It makes me..." God, he must be getting even *redder* -- "You. You don't *bring* just anyone in here --"

"No. And not -- you thought." Bruce growls and shakes his head once, glaring at the *floor*.

"I --

"You thought I didn't *want* you here," Bruce says, and it's an *accusation* --

But not one aimed at Tim. He --

"*Tell* -- "

"Yes. Yes, I thought that -- *oh* --"

And Bruce's hands are on Tim's hips again, Bruce is nuzzling him, sniffing him and kissing him over and *over* again --

"Please --"

"You -- you thought I hadn't *chosen* you."

Tim *grunts* -- and now he's shaking, he's --

He's *cold*, because he's flushed and sweating and Bruce can see him, Bruce knows --

"Yes, I see. I -- lover, I have *failed* you --"

"No! No, you --"

"*Yes*. I only -- I wanted to be *gentle*, I wanted -- not to *overwhelm*. I --" Bruce groans and nuzzles Tim's *hips*, nosing and licking --

Mouthing and breathing *hot* --

Tim feels himself blushing *harder* --

"You -- Bruce -- I want -- I *wanted* --"

"You... wanted me to overwhelm you?" And Bruce *pants* into the hollow of Tim's left hip --

*Licks* him there --

And *then* looks up, searching and *studying* Tim -- "Please. Please, you must --"

And Tim -- laughs. He can't -- he *has* to --

"*Tim* --"

"You always do *anyway*, Bruce!"

"I can't *pressure* you --"

"I *want* you to --"

Bruce growls and *licks* him -- a long, *hot* stripe from his navel to his throat --

"*Please* --"

And then Bruce is mouthing Tim's throat, kissing and -- and making *love* to him there, *wet* love that's still so --

So *gentle* --

Steph would've already left marks --

*Dick* would've already left *many* marks --

Bruce never does.

Bruce just makes it *feel* like he *will* -- no.

Bruce makes it feel like he *has*, like he *is*, like it's an ongoing process of being --

Being stamped and branded and *tattooed* with everything --

("Oh, little brother. I *told* you you'd like it..."

"It's not that I didn't *believe* you --")

But Dick had just looked at him, and it had been *that* look -- the under-the-lashes-I-know-*everything*-you're-not-saying look that tends to make Tim consider -- just consider -- regretting becoming sexually involved with *him*. It --


"It made perfect *sense* for him to be as good at sexuality as he is at everything else --"

"But you didn't believe it."

"Of course I --"

"You didn't believe it would work on *you*."

"Dick, I'm a teenaged *boy*. I'm fully aware that *everything* works --"


And Tim had... blushed.

Blushed the way he's blushing *now*, because he'd been *thinking* of Bruce's mouth on him, Bruce's *gentle* touches --

So warm and *sweet* --


"It would be -- I didn't -- ah."

"Do tell, Timbo."

"I didn't... factor in the emotional component.")

And Dick had looked at him *incredulously*, which, really --

It's the sort of thing that any number of Tim Drakes -- real, fictional, and/or dating civilians -- would find *huff*-worthy --

But the laughing was worse. Just --

("Really, Tim?"

"*Really* --"


"Dick --"

"It's *Bruce*!"

"Yes! It's *Bruce*!")

And Dick had spun him against the wall of his loft --

Dick had *pinned* him against the wall and kissed his *nose* --

("Dick --"

"You should know by *now*, little brother -- the boss doesn't make love to *anyone*... unless he's making *love*.")

Like he's doing right now. Like he's been doing almost every *night* --

And sometimes Dick is *there*, and how is Tim supposed to think of anything, at all?

How is he supposed to be anything *but* overwhelmed?

How --


Tim moans and shivers, arching off the door --

And getting pushed right back against it, getting --

Bruce is licking Tim's *ear*, and it's so warm, so --

So *soft*, and Tim is *aware* that he's been moaning --

"Where are you?"

"I -- what --"

"Are you with her --"

"*Dick* -- I -- I was thinking --" Tim shakes his head and tries to think, tries to look up and *focus* on Bruce --

Who cups Tim's cheek and squeezes -- "I will never -- you must not *let* me limit you --"

"I won't *leave* --"

"What must I tell you to prove to you that I *would* have chosen you, had you given me a chance to do so?"

Tim -- grunts. And --

And *aches*, just --

He's clenching on *nothing* and he wants -- everything. But especially Bruce's *growling* kiss --

The feel of the *remarkably* sturdy door against his back as Bruce presses close --

The feel of Bruce's broad mouth, hard mouth, *perfect* mouth --

And somehow the kiss still doesn't *hurt*, somehow the kiss is making him just --

Tim shivers and feels himself loose and open and *needy*, *soft* everywhere except for his *aching* penis --

He can't keep himself from thrusting against Bruce's *leg* -- oh -- but --

He's still dressed --

He has to go back *downstairs* --

Tim pulls back and turns out of the *kiss* --


"You -- your clothes --"

"*Meaningless*. Give me -- give me your *need*," Bruce says, and *licks* Tim's mouth, and Tim's ear again --

Pushes Tim's head *further* to the side and *sucks* over Tim's carotid --

So --

So *perfectly*, and Tim is sweating again, needing --

He *can't* keep himself from thrusting --

The material of Bruce's pants is so smooth, so sleek and so --

"I want -- I want *more*," Tim says, and he didn't actually *mean* to say that aloud, but -- "*Ahn* --"

Bruce is *biting* his throat, biting a *collar* around his throat, and the mild sting of the bites is making him *harder* --

Making him *rub* himself against Bruce like -- "Dick -- "

"Tell me," Bruce says, and bends to lick and nibble Tim's *nipples* --

"Nnh -- you -- *please* --"

"Should I... he may very well have arrived, lover."

God --

And *he'll* be in a tuxedo, and he always lets *Alfred* choose those for him --

Lets Alfred dress him perfectly and *conservatively* --

"I'll call him --"

"No! I mean -- the party needs a *host*!"

Bruce narrows his eyes and *looks* at him. "You... are still too focused."

That -- Tim laughs somewhat *hysterically*. "Bruce, you -- *one of us has to be*!"

Bruce shows his teeth. "Are you sure...? Crumpet...?"

Tim *grunts* again --

He really needs to *deal* with that reflex --

At some point when Brucie isn't leering at him and tickling his *scrotum* lightly enough to make him pant and *squirm* --

"You said something about *toys*, cinnamon-stick..."

Tim -- squeaks. "Brucie --"

"Ah-ah-ah, don't try to take it back *now*..."

"What -- I -- where do you *keep* your toys?"

Brucie *beams* -- "Right *there*, tiger," and he swings the door *shut* -- "Oh, *hm*. I suppose I *can't* get to the drawer this way --"

"You -- *what*?"

"'What' what, tiger?"

"You -- you keep your -- never mind."

Brucie leans in and *nuzzles* him -- hard enough to let Tim feel his stubble --

"Oh -- yes --"

And then he pulls back --

"Brucie --"

"I have to keep them *somewhere*, tea-biscuit," and Brucie swings the door open again --

"Oh, God --"

And that's the sound of a perfectly-oiled drawer rolling open --

Tim wants to know what's *in* it --

And trying to twist himself enough to *see* is pointless. Just --

"What's the matter, Timmy? Ants in your -- oh, but you're not *wearing* pants, *are* you, ahaaa..."

"Brucie -- nuh -- oh -- hee --" And Tim firms his mouth into a *line*, because that sound --

That's the kind of sound --

That's the kind of sound that's remarkably difficult not to *make* when there's a long, sleek, red-brown *feather* being stroked up one's left inner thigh and down one's *right*. He --

"Mmm... not *all* my boys let me play this way, you know," and Brucie's voice is *conspiratorial* --

"Mm -- mm?"

Brucie chuckles and drags the tip of the feather around and around Tim's scrotum --

"Nn -- mm -- *mm* --"

"Are you going to open your beautiful little mouth again, crumpet?"

Oh --

And that's *Bruce* looking into him again, looking --

So *hungry* --

Tim opens his mouth and pants, just -- "*Ee* -- *mm*!" Closed again, definitely closed, because that feather --

So --

There's an almost *oily* feel to it, so --

And the feel of it on his nipples --

"Mm -- *mm* --" And Tim shakes his head --

His whole *body* is shaking --

"Is that a *no*, crème fraîche?"

Is it? That's -- that's a very good *question* -- "Nee -- fuck -- *MM*!" And he's just going to *keep* making that sound, because Brucie is using the feather on Tim's *navel*, dipping it in and brushing it around, using the soft barbs to drive him --

Drive him --

"Mm -- *mm*!" No, he has to -- "*Please*!"


Tim pants -- and *gasps* a laugh as Brucie drags the loose and *fluffy* afterfeather *around* Tim's navel --

No, he closes his mouth and he *keeps* it closed --

And Brucie purses his lips and shakes his head. "*That's* not the way to play the game, tiger."

It's not a *game* -- except that Robin isn't here. Right?

Robin isn't --

And --

But --

Brucie sighs and dances the feather over his fingertips before dragging the tip down the bridge of Tim's *nose* --

Tim shivers, eyes crossing and -- "*Wait*," he says, and that was his *command* voice, but --


Brucie tugs the feather back -- and Bruce raises *one* eyebrow. "I'm listening."

Tim -- pants. And --

No, he breathes. He *fixes* his breathing --

He *tries* to fix his breathing -- but the heat in Bruce's eyes is too much, too hard and heavy --

Tim feels himself *twitch* again, and the weight of the cock ring *should* be negligible -- it's *thin* leather -- but it *isn't*. It --

Tim moans and squeezes his eyes shut --

"Lover. Show me."

Tim *grunts* --

And it might as well be the first night, *their* first night, because Tim couldn't *think* after Bruce had closed Tim's bedroom door, could barely breathe or do more than *stammer* --

("Bruce. Bruce. I -- you -- you want --"

"I desire you. I... I've come to believe that you desire me, as well --"

"I do. I mean -- you know -- of course you know -- oh, God, I can't --")

And being kissed had felt like being *burnt* --

Being touched had felt like being *made* --

Bruce's hands are so big --

Always so *big* --

("Will you show me?"

"Yes, of course -- ah. What?")

And Bruce's smile had -- had shattered all of Tim's mental *architecture* --

("Your pleasure."

"I -- oh. You -- ah. You'd like to see me... masturbate?"

"Very much."

"You -- the cameras --"

"The cameras have given me much over the years, beautiful boy. I... I desire so much more.")

And that --

He hadn't been embarrassed. He hadn't been frightened. He hadn't been *anything* but *painfully* aroused, because Bruce was looking at him --

Into him --

Bruce was *helping* him take down his boxer-briefs --

Helping him wrap his right hand around himself in just the right way to *use* his staff calluses --

And here, now, Bruce's hand on his cheek is going to make him --

Tim whimpers and opens his eyes --

Opens his *mouth* -- but only a moan comes out. At least that's a *reasonable* sound -- oh.

Bruce has his thumb on Tim's lower lip, dragging it down slightly --

Tim sucks it into his mouth because he *has* to, hums and *licks* because he has to --


Yes, Bruce, anything, anything --

"Please. Please open your eyes once more."

He'd *closed* them? But -- of course. He always does when he's sucking Bruce. When he's sucking *anything* on Bruce -- he opens his eyes and sucks *hard* --

And Bruce smiles wryly. "Shall I take that as a request...?"

That --"

Bruce sighs. "How you blush..." He shakes his head. "You never do on the street."

Robin isn't *allowed* to --

"And my saying that... was painfully obvious?"

Tim nods and scrapes his teeth on Bruce's short nail. Just -- a little --

"I want your sounds, lover."

You can *have* --

"All of them."

-- oh. Tim pulls back and licks his lips. All trace of the cream is gone, leaving only saliva and salt, the faint swelling from Bruce's *kisses* --

"You need no shame with me, Tim."

"I -- it's not... a question of shame," Tim tries --

And Bruce raises an eyebrow at him. He --

"You -- you don't need -- ah. *Dick* likes my... sounds --"

"So do I."

"You don't --"

"I do," Bruce says, and strokes Tim's lower lip with his thumb. "I've watched the two of you."

And that --

Nothing as *obvious* as that should be able to make him blush like this --

Nothing -- "Do you -- do you masturbate --"


Tim winces in the moments *before* his penis twitches again --

*Again* --

He groans and *wants*, and Bruce is so close, so --

Dick has never tickled him when Bruce was *with* them.

Bruce has never done more than *tease* with a tickle when the three of them have been together.


"I... ah. I can't just..." He squeezes his eyes shut again --


He grunts again and *opens* his eyes. "Bruce, you've *watched*. You *know* --"

"Dick must... struggle with you."

That sounds so -- Tim shakes his head --

"He must... *force* you to lose your reserve."

"I. Ah. I wouldn't --" Put it that way --

But Bruce still has his eyebrow up.

Tim moans and *wants* to slump, to fall over, to *bend* over -- he can't do any of the above. He strains forward instead, wanting Bruce's thumb back in his mouth --

Bruce pulls it *back* -- and raises the feather between them.

Tim shivers. "Please --"

"Yes... or no. We need never have this or anything like it, Tim."

"But you want --"

"I *need* you to surrender *enough* of your reserve to answer the *question*," Bruce says, and the smile in his voice is full of *laughter* --

Just as the smile in his *eyes* is full of *heat*.

Tim licks his lips and --

("Are you gonna make those cute sounds for me, little brother?")

God, *always* -- 

("Oh, *Tim*, more, give me *more* --")

And he'd been -- *giggling* --

("I won't stop. *Nothing* will make me stop --"


"Oh -- so *beautiful* --")

Bruce --

Bruce knows *exactly* what Tim looks like when he's ejaculating while laughing breathlessly.

Bruce *likes* that --

"Tell me. Tell me how *much* you want --"

"You must not let it color your decision, lover --"

"I have to *please* you!" And that was more of a *yell* than anything else, but --

God, but it's true, it's *all* of the truth, it's everything *in* him --

And Bruce is growling again --

Bruce is stroking his *throat* with the tip of the feather --

"Nn -- Mm --*MM* --"


Tim *nods* --


Tim opens his mouth --

And Bruce drags the feather over Tim's lower lip --

"Oh -- ee -- yes, Bruce, yes, do it --"

And Bruce's other hand is in his hair --

Bruce is dragging the feather down Tim's *side*, making Tim jerk and try to *twist* --

Tim *tries* to close his mouth --

But Bruce opens it again with his kiss, opens it *wide*, and the noises Tim is making are high-pitched and embarrassing, practically --

Practically *squeals* as Bruce teases his hip with the afterfeather --

Bruce isn't even using his *tongue*. He's just *holding* Tim's mouth open with his own and *taking* the sounds --

*All* of them --

Tim blushes and tries to turn away --

"Well, if you're going to be a *mean* tea-biscuit, then I'm just going to have to be a mean *Daddy*," Brucie says, and then gives Tim ten full seconds to *think* about what that means --

To face *front* again --

Before he begins using the feather on Tim's *penis*.

Just --

Around and --

Tim whimpers and feels himself *flex* and twitch, feels himself -- but is his penis trying to get *away* from the sensation or trying to get more of it for itself? How *much* of a problem would it be to start ascribing independent emotional reactions to his penis?

Tim swallows back a laugh which would have almost certainly been *cracked* --

Bites his lip --

Whines *loudly* and *then* remembers how *poorly* lip-biting works in terms of holding back sounds --

He presses his lips together and closes his eyes --

"Don't do *that*, petit four..."

Oh -- "Dick always lets me -- neh -- hee -- oh, *Brucie* --"

"I'm *not* Dickie, tiger. *Open* those eyes..."

Tim shivers and pants --

Screams *quietly* when Bruce drags the afterfeather up the underside of his penis --

At least it wasn't a laugh --

And neither was that --

And neither was that --

And -- Tim laughs, and it's high-pitched and *needy*, because Bruce is using the *tip* of the feather on and in Tim's *slit* --

It --


"*Open*," Bruce and Brucie say --

Tim opens his eyes --

And Bruce looks avid and starved, looks --

Brucie is *almost* nowhere to be seen -- there's only a certain looseness around Bruce's mouth, a certain *wetness* to the hunger --

"Ple-- *ee* -- *MM*!"

Around the glans --

Around the *edge* of his foreskin --

Tim whimpers and shakes his head --

Brucie raises his eyebrows. "You're going to have to be clearer than *that*, pumpkin pie..."

And -- the feather isn't on him. The feather is --

Brucie is holding the feather *away* from him, and Tim shivers and moans, opens his mouth -- "You -- ah."

Bruce smiles with Brucie's lips. "Yeeesss...?"

"You're getting. You're getting your feather... dirty."

"Some of us *like* that kind of thing, tiger," and Brucie brings the feather close to his face --

Inhales *deeply* --

And Bruce is staring at him, needing and *wanting* --

"*Please* --"

"*Anything* you say, tea-biscuit."

"Oh, I --" But there's no time to say *anything* before Brucie is tickling his nipples again, before he's making Tim arch and *yank* at the restraints --

"Such a *violent* little thing..."

"*Mn* --"

"What was that?"

Tim shakes his head --

Brucie trails the feather down Tim's chest and abdomen in a *snake* pattern --

"Hnh -- oh --" Tim shudders and feels himself flush, feels himself --

But he *can't* close his eyes, and that means he can't prepare, can't meditate himself into anything like a ready *state* before --

"Oh, *God* -- *nn* -- *EE* -- *MM*!"

And now his penis is twitching over and *over* again --

Dick *never* tickles him that much there, never --

There are always tickles in more standard places and *strokes* for his penis, *squeezes* --

"Ple-- *hee* -- *mm* -- *mmm* --"

"Daddy *loves* the smell of your sweat, tiger..."

Tim shudders and clenches his hands into fists --

Stares *down* at the way Brucie seems to almost be *coiling* the feather around his penis --

But of course it doesn't bend that much --

*Can't* bend that much without *breaking* --

Tim *feels* broken --

Tim *pants* -- tries to, and the shivering, *crooning* sound that comes out of him makes Brucie sigh --

"You should do *that* all the time, candy-cane..."

"Bru--" But the rest of that is a giggle, a -- no, he closes his mouth, his closes his *mouth*, and he's shaking so much now, *leaking* so much --

"You make me want to *suck* this feather, crumpet..."

Closed mouth, completely closed, and it's okay if he jerks like this, if he pumps his hips for more --

"Oh... Timmy..."

God, *more* --

"Why, you're leaking like a *faucet*..."

And all he wants to do is writhe for this, twist and --

Even his *hands* are sweating, and the only way that could be better is if they were sweating while wrapped around Bruce's penis --

But Bruce wants him this way. Bruce --

Bruce wants him to be tied and helpless and --

Loud --

But his mouth is closed, and he's humming for it, humming and --

But that was more of a squeak, more --

Bruce is dragging the *wet* tip of the feather over and over Tim's *scrotum*, and Tim's penis doesn't know what to do with the *freedom* of it, with --

He wants --

The sensations are *less* intense, and that means he can open his mouth, moan, look up at Brucie and -- "Please. Please --"

"Please *what*, tiger...?"

"I -- *nn* -- oh -- oh, those -- so *light* --"

"Your poor little scrotum's so *tight*... I'll never, ever hurt it...."

Tim *grunts* and -- "You -- *torture* --"

"Is *this* torture, crumpet...?" And Brucie lifts Tim's scrotum on his fingertips and tickles it just --

Mercilessly --

He --

It's not less intense. It's --

"*Mm* -- *mm* --"

"You have to answer *questions*, Timmy..."


"That wasn't a 'no', was it...?"

And Tim's eyes -- he can *feel* how wide they are --

Brucie frowns and shakes his *head* -- "You *said* you were going to *please* me, tea-biscuit. You said you *had* to."

"I do! Oh -- *ohn* -- oh, *please* --" But that last was less a word than a breathless stretch of high-pitched *noise*, because Brucie is using the fluffy afterfeather again, using it to make Tim tense harder than he ever has in his *life* --

He's -- he's *whining* again --

Squeezing his *eyes* shut --

"Ah-ah-ah..." And the tickle for the head of his penis --

It's Brucie's *fingertip*, and that shouldn't be so *affecting* after the feather --

But it is, it *is*, and he's gasping for it, gulping air and whimpering, jerking and straining --

"Callus --" Oh, that was a *word* --

"Blimpy said I had the hands of a *stevedore*..."

Tim gasps again and snorts, chokes and giggles so much, so *much* --

"Oh, *Timmy*..."

"No -- oh, no --"

"*Yes*," and Brucie uses one of his strike calluses on the head of Tim's penis *while* using the slick tip of the feather on the shaft --

Around and --

All *over* --

Tim is shouting and *pumping*, but Brucie never misses a mark --

Bruce is staring into his eyes --

And every time Tim *stops* shouting, the giggles come out, high-pitched and sharp and desperate, embarrassing and *loud* --

What is Bruce *thinking*?

What --

"Don't. *Stop*," Bruce says, and that --

That's worth a little *hysteria*, because *Bruce* isn't stopping and that means Tim can't, can't for *anything* --

He's leaking so *much* --

He's -- he's *spasming* and giggling, *sobbing* and giggling, and Bruce leans in to *kiss* his eyes --

Bruce doesn't stop --

Doesn't --

Bruce leans back and licks his *lips*, and Tim needs, needs so *much* --

He can't stop *shuddering*, and he would've thought that there would be limits to the *attractiveness* of that --

But Bruce is visibly and *hugely* erect behind his pants --

Bruce is panting and staring --

It makes Tim strain more, shake more and need and need so *much* --

"No," Bruce says, and drops into a crouch --

"What -- *UNH* --"

And Bruce is sucking him, sucking him so --

No, Bruce is licking him *clean*, licking away every last *drop* of pre-ejaculate and then *dragging* his relatively dry lips along the shaft --

He --

He's --

He's using his *handkerchief* --

"*Bruce* --"

"You were just a little *too* juicy, bunny-muff. *This* will help," and Brucie *blows* on him again --

Tim tenses and *screams* --

"*Perfect*," he says, and there are two *fresh* feathers in his hands --

"Nuh -- Brucie -- *Brucie*!"

"Give it *up*, tiger. Daddy *knows* what you need..."

"I --" And he's shrieking a laugh for the feel of the red feather teasing the head --

Or maybe for the feel of the green feather's pale-lime afterfeather working and *working* the part of his shaft just beyond the cock ring --

He can't --

He can't hold *back*, and Bruce keeps licking his cheeks, the skin beneath his eyes --

He's yanking at the restraints again --

He's slamming himself back against the door and arching, pumping and straining --


"What was that, tiger...?"

"Your --*nee* -- *ohn* -- your *mouth*!"

"Do you want it *back*...?"

"I don't *know*," Tim says, but really that was more of a sob, more --

Oh, he's screaming again, laughing and -- and *babbling*, and the tears are coming faster than Brucie's licks --

Faster than his *sweat* --

"Oh, perfect *boy*..."

He wants to beg again --

He wants to say Brucie's name --

He wants --

He wants everything, *everything*, because the cock ring is *off* --


And Bruce is using the feathers like *weapons* --

Bruce is --

He's not *blinking*, and he's so steady, so calm and sure --

Tim can *trust* --

Always --

And he thinks he *is* babbling an apology for the way his eyes are rolling back in his head, but mostly he's shaking and thrusting, he's --


He's fucking the *air*, because Bruce is using *both* feathers on his slit --

Because Bruce is *growling* --

And the world tightens and narrows to a hot, black *vise* of pleasure --

He's so --

"Perfect... perfect *lover*..."

And Tim doesn't *know* what that sound is, but he knows he can't stop making it, not for one *moment* while he's ejaculating --

"*Yes*, Tim --"

Over and --

"Give me *everything*."

*Always*, Daddy --

No -- no *air*, but he can't *care*, because Bruce is kissing him, kissing Tim's laughter and his tears as he *strokes* Tim's penis --

His hand is so *strong* --

Tim tries to call his *name* --

He can't, he can't do anything but moan, and slump --

He feels so good, so --

Every part of him is sensitive, on -- on high *alert* --

Bruce is kissing him so *deeply*, holding him --

No, opening the restraints, and Tim can hold himself steady, can --

His arms fall entirely without permission, and Tim blushes and *winces* --

Bruce kisses him again and pulls back. "Are you in pain?"

"Ah. Ah. No. I'm just. I can't seem to. My arms..."

Bruce inhales deeply. "That's entirely normal, Tim. You know that from your escape artistry practice."

Oh -- he does. He blushes harder. "Yes, Bruce."

Bruce smiles softly, holding Tim against the door with one hand splayed to Tim's abdomen before crouching to undo the ankle restraints. Tim works on standing on his feet --

Works on convincing his feet that they *belong* on the entirely warm and comfortable carpet --

And gives up on that entirely when Bruce lifts him into his arms --

The fabric of his clothes tickles enough that Tim *moans* a giggle, arches and --

He can't stop *squirming* --

Bruce isn't actually *moving* anymore, and that's --

"Ah -- Bruce."

"Yes, Tim?"

He's *still* squirming -- "You -- are you going to -- ah. Move?"

"Is there any particular way you would *like* for me to move?"

Tim... blushes more. And licks his lips. And -- lives with the fact that he's breathing little laughs for the feel of Bruce's buttons against his oblique. He --

"I'm entirely open to suggestions."

"You -- sound too happy."

"I could stop," Bruce says, and the smile in his eyes is just --

"That was a -- a ridiculous lie."

Bruce hums. "Yes, it was. Thank you," he says, and drags Tim's body against his own --

"Oh --" Tim laughs helplessly --

Bruce lifts him into a *kiss* --

Tim laughs into Bruce's *mouth* --

And they're moving again. Toward the bed, which makes perfect, objective, wonderful sense --

Beautiful, *promising* sense --

Tim sucks Bruce's tongue --

Bruce grunts and lays Tim down, stroking Tim all over with his huge, warm hands --

So *rough* -- according to Tim's sensitized skin --

Tim moans and writhes for those hands, moves and rubs himself against the duvet Quimby Groton will never see --

The duvet Tim was sure *he'd* never *feel* --

Bruce rumbles a sigh and pauses with his hands on Tim's hips.

Tim does his best not to *wriggle* those hands into continuing to pet him --

He's not *Dick* --


"Ah... yes?"

Bruce smiles sharply. "You're tempting me to keep you in this state for as long as humanly possible."

"I -- would grow resentful." Eventually.

Bruce raises an eyebrow at him.

Tim raises one back and does his level best to use that eyebrow to express some variety of 'this blush doesn't matter.'

Bruce's hum speaks volumes about how successful that wasn't.

Still --"I'd like to give you an orgasm, Bruce."

"I'd very much like to let you."

"Then --"

"I would feel... somewhat bound by duty. After."

Tim blinks and frowns. "I... *more* bound than you feel at this moment?"

"Oh, yes."


"At this moment... I am far too distracted -- and physically impaired -- to perform any of my duties."

Tim... lets his expression be somewhat sour.

"Oh... lover."

"Bruce --"

And then he can't be sour, at all, because Bruce's fingers are *ghosting* all over his body --

Bruce is touching and moving and *using* every bit of sensitivity --

Tim *writhes* --


"I just -- I was going to --"


"You -- hee -- *Bruce* --"

"I'm listening attentively, of course," Bruce says, and circles Tim's nipples --

Tim arches and *gasps* --

Bruce kisses Tim's hips *wetly* --

"Ohn -- I was just going to say -- something --"

"About...?" And Bruce kisses Tim's abdominal hair --

"Bruce --"

Licks it against the *grain* --

"*Bruce* --"

"I *love* you," and Bruce kisses Tim's *navel*, and it's ticklish and warm, slick and strange and so good, so *good* --

"You -- I love *you* --"

Bruce *shudders* --

And Tim grips his huge shoulders, perfect shoulders -- "Let me -- let me make *love* to you --"

Bruce pulls back -- "You *are*."

Tim laughs. "I'm *lying* here --"

"Very agreeably. And... actively?"

Tim *snorts*. "Bruce."

Bruce smiles. "Lover. You could consider allowing me more time --"

"You can have more time," Tim says, and it's not *quite* a blurt -- "After."


Tim sits up, shivering for the way the duvet drags against his skin, and pushes Bruce onto his back.


"*After*, Bruce. When we'll both be... some variety of sated."

"We'll have other responsibilities --"

"We'll have the same responsibilities then that we have now. And I..." Tim smiles ruefully. "I won't ask for much."

Bruce stiffens. "You never -- it's not that. I *want* you to ask -- no. I want you to *take* --"

"Then let me," Tim says, smiling and stroking a path down Bruce's rumpled shirt. "We've both been... we've spent all day *missing* what we needed. Give us a little time to *have* it."

Bruce inhales sharply, searching Tim's eyes and swallowing. "When Jay would ask for such things..."

Oh... "Yes?"

*Bruce* smiles ruefully. "He would be rather more... brutal about it."

"Did it work?"

"Sometimes. Please. Please give me your touch."

Tim bites his lip and opens Bruce's pants one-handed -- mainly because he can. "Any... special requests? Do you have still another feather in that drawer?"

"As a matter of fact..."


Bruce hums -- and sighs when Tim cups him through his very, very damp boxer-briefs. "I've... found such things to be the wrong sort of torture in the past --"

"That hardly seems fair," Tim says, and squeezes firmly --

Bruce moans and arches -- "Oh... Tim. You're welcome to... to experiment with me in any way... sexuality shifts and *changes*..."

"*That* hardly seems fair --"

Bruce laughs softly -- "I agree. It seems... it seems as though questions, once answered, should *stay* answered -- oh... your hand, your -- please squeeze me again --"

"Yes, Bruce," Tim says, and does it --

And then does it again --

Bruce sits up on his elbows, shirts straining over his chest and mussed hair falling somewhat rakishly over his forehead. He --

"Bruce... you're beautiful."

"I've thought, more than once, that no one could be more beautiful than a person who is desperately in love."

Tim blushes *hard* -- "Ah --"

Bruce smiles. "Tim... take my penis out. Hold me... hold me in your wonderful hand."

"Yes, Bruce," and Tim does just that, holds and strokes, squeezes --

He's so *big*, so --

Tim licks his lips and gives himself permission to stare, to just -- *enjoy* the sight of Bruce's *powerfully* curving penis, so thick and long --

So *dark* --

So *slick*, and the tender and *sleek*-seeming foreskin is pulled all the way back --

Tim licks his lips --


"Ah... yes?"

Bruce laughs softly. "I vastly enjoy seeing that expression on your face."

Tim *touches* his upper lip with his tongue and begins to stroke faster. "Perhaps you should put it there more often."

"Shall I expose myself... at the breakfast table?"

Well. "That depends," Tim says, and leans in to lick away the fresh droplet of pre-ejaculate --

"Oh... yes?"

"On whether or not you wanted to watch me eat Alfred's food... seductively."

"Hmm. Noted. Shall I expose myself while we're training."

Oh, God. Oh -- God. Tim strokes down to the base of Bruce's penis and squeezes firmly once more --

Bruce *grunts* -- "Please. Please answer --"

"That... well. *That* depends, as well," and Tim kisses the head of Bruce penis --

Bruce moans *loudly*, tossing his head -- "Please."

Tim closes his eyes and breathes --

Wants --

Wishes he hadn't masturbated quite so *many* times today --

No matter *how* awkward that would've made training and everything *else* --

"*Please*, Tim --"

"I. It would depend on whether you would wish me to beg for your touch while I was... stretching," and Tim licks the head of Bruce's penis again --

Again --

*Harder* --

Bruce *growls* -- "Only. Only stretching?"

Tim pulls back and exhales hotly on Bruce's penis --

"*Tim* --"

Tim kisses Bruce *hard* --

Bruce *groans* -- and cups the back of Tim's head, strokes and teases the shaved parts --

"I've thought about... stretching myself over the pommel horse --"

"*Hnh* --"

"Stretching... stretching my arms high enough that they could be tied to the uneven bars -- "

"*More*. Please -- *please*."

Tim smiles at Bruce, knowing it's one of the warmer -- *hotter* -- ones in his repertoire.

And then he licks a long, *long* stripe along the underside of Bruce's shaft --

And he kisses more --

And more --

"Your *voice* --"

"It would be... a *kind* of stretch were I to sit on your lap with my thighs spread over your own --"

Bruce groans and *grips* the duvet --

"Oh, Bruce -- I think of you *forcing* me to spread my legs --"

"Never -- never pressure --"

"I think of you *demanding* --"

"I must have your *pleasure*, Tim!"

Tim smiles again, and kisses the head of Bruce's penis *softly*.

Bruce *grunts* --

"Take it, Bruce. *Take* my pleasure --"

And --

It's impossible to be sure whether Bruce's moan comes before his pull --

Whether Tim's *thrill* comes before the feel of Bruce filling his mouth --

So much --

So *much*, and Tim is kissing his own fist, and Bruce is *petting* the back of his head --

No, Bruce is petting and mussing *all* of Tim's hair, which means that he's going to look *nearly* as special as Bruce will when they return to the party --

He doesn't care. He doesn't --

Bruce is *holding* Tim on his penis, Bruce is moaning and shuddering --

Bruce is almost -- almost *quaking*, and there *is* something tectonic about it, something which seems to go beyond biology to *geology* --

Tim moans and *sucks* --

Bruce inhales sharply and shudders even harder --

Bruce *grips* the back of Tim's head and *tugs* -- and then yanks his hand away and grips at the duvet.

Tim opens his eyes and shakes his head at Bruce --

Bruce's eyes are wide and almost *panicked* --"Please, Tim, you mustn't --"

Tim eases his suction slowly and *inexorably* --

"I will not *hurt* you!"

Tim inclines his head as best as he can. He doesn't particularly want to look -- or feel -- like the aftermath of an ill-advised interlude with a lead pipe. But. He tickles the underside of Bruce's penis with the tip of his tongue --

Bruce arches and immediately *slams* himself back down to the bed --

Tim *nods* and makes a come-on gesture --

"My love -- I need you -- I need you *always*," and that was more of a *growl* than actual language, and it's enough to make the short hairs on the back of Tim's neck stand up --

Enough to make Tim shiver and need --

And enough to make him moan and *nod* when Bruce brings his hand back to his head and tugs so gently, so perfectly --

His *hand* is shaking --

But for all the gentleness and shaking, it would take more strength than Tim *has* in this position to pull against that grip. It --

Bruce *has* him, and there are so many fantasies --

So many *moments* on rooftops *across* from the rooftops Batman and Robin were occupying --

In bedrooms down the hall from his parents --

In his bedroom *here*, but with no sign, no *hope* that Bruce would ever walk in --

Tim is blushing again, but *mostly* he's sucking, licking and humming and making love in every way he *can* -- oh. He *strokes* Bruce, too, and he can't manage a very *long* stroke in this position, but he *has* to make it worth it, has to *give* Bruce his calluses, his sweat, his *need* --

And Bruce is moaning for him constantly, *shuddering* constantly and staring into his eyes --

Tim doesn't want to miss a *moment* --

Bruce moans more *loudly* every time Tim *blinks*, moans in a more *pained* way, and Tim wants to tell him that he's here, that he'll always *be* here --

He --

He'll *be* Robin to Bruce's Batman *and* Tim to his Bruce *and* Timmy to his Brucie -- and Alvin to his Matches --

Everything, absolutely everything, and he won't leave --

He wants to make Bruce *believe* that, make him *feel* everything *he* feels --

And, in moments like this, Tim *knows* that this must be a start, knows that this contact, these tastes and scents and touches --

These sounds and *sights* --

They're staring into each other's *eyes* --

Bruce is so big in his *mouth* --

"Lover. *Lover*, I --" And Bruce growls again, tenses all over and shudders *harder* --

And a part of Tim only feels *cheated* -- he knows what that means. The *rest* of him can't be anything but thrilled, heated all over and appreciated, loved, needed --

*He's* brought Bruce to this moment again --

He's given Bruce what he's *wanted* -- and he can give this, too. He moves his hand and *gulps* Bruce into his throat, holding him there and immediately feeling just -- stoned. Hot and dry and *stoned*, because Bruce is inside him --

Bruce is *shouting* and *inside* him --

Bruce is *arching*, and not even Tim's *firmest* grip on Bruce's hips is enough to push him down, to --

So strong --

So beautiful and *strong* --

And, right now, his. Tim smiles around his mouthful and moves his right hand from Bruce's hip to his scrotum. It's incredibly tempting to tickle, but he settles for his usual firm and rhythmic squeezes.

The shouts turn to grunts --

Bruce's tension becomes something which seems like it should have more to do with pain than pleasure --


And Bruce is shaking *violently* as his penis spasms in Tim's throat, as it flexes and *spills* --

For *him* --

Tim blushes again and swallows --

And swallows --

And groans in his chest when an attempt to pull back to taste leads to Bruce *holding* Tim in place for a long and *hot* moment Tim will never, ever forget.

Still, Bruce *does* let go after a time, and Tim *does* require air --

Tim pulls back *only* just enough to get it --

"I'm sorry --"

Tim shakes his head.

Bruce laughs painfully. "You must -- I recognize the reasoning behind not wanting me to apologize for holding your head still, but you desired to *taste* my ejaculate." And Bruce raises an eyebrow at him.

Of *course* he can do that right after an orgasm.

Tim hums --

Bruce *grunts* --

And Tim pulls off very, very slowly. And wetly. And loudly --

And Bruce's groan is *exceedingly* gratifying, and more than worth rewarding both of them by moving up the bed to rest half on top of Bruce's massive chest.

Bruce's clutches him immediately --

And Tim hums. "As you may have surmised by now... I wanted to be held even more than I wanted to taste you."

Bruce shivers and eases his grip --

"No, Bruce."

Bruce growls and rolls Tim over onto his back until he can loom over him, shadow him, heat the *world* --

"I have no objections to this position... but."

"I must know -- did I hurt you?"


Bruce frowns and searches him, which...

Tim smiles ruefully. "Judging by my experiences with Dick, there will, eventually, be some *minor* soreness in my jaw and throat --"

"*Tim* --"

"But I rather demanded just that," and Tim raises his own eyebrow. *High*.

"I've made you *promises* --"

"And you've kept every last one of the ones that I've wanted you to keep. That I've *needed* you to keep."

Bruce frowns and strokes Tim's cheeks --

"You should feel free to massage the hinge of my jaw --"


"Bruce," Tim says, and *presses* Bruce's hand to his cheek. "I won't ask for this... often."

"I must... I must care for you."

"You do."

"There's so much --" Bruce winces and shakes his head --

And so Tim squeezes his hand firmly. "You care for me. You take care *of* me --"

"Do I?"

Tim smiles. "Yes. I'm. I'm warm with you." And really -- "*All* of you, actually. Much to my -- occasional -- chagrin."

Bruce hums -- and then opens his mouth for: "Ahaaa... *honestly*, dust-ruffle, you *know* Daddy *lives* to keep you warm at night --"

"And during the day?"

"*Absolutely*. Though I confess I *always* get those mixed up. Say, *you* have a watch somewhere, don't you?" And Brucie blinks at him hopefully.

"Ah... yes. Yes, I do have a watch --"

"*Marvy*! You can keep track of the time... and *I* can keep track of your pretty little *everything*. We can be a *team*, tiger."


"*Exactly*. Now give Daddy a kiss."

Tim does just that, giving *most* of himself over to the *marvel* of messily *lustful* affection that Brucie is giving *him*. The rest of him, though...

The rest of him is fully aware that Bruce *still* likes to use his personae to say vastly important things. Like the fact that, in this moment at least, he's giving Tim full sanction to judge when they should *stop* dallying in the afterglow and start being responsible.

Which... Tim can absolutely do that -- especially since the alternative is Bruce denying himself pleasure in the hopes of *tricking* his work ethic into leaving him alone.

There's something deeper there, though. Deeper than the abdication of responsibility, deeper than the 'team' comment -- an affirmation, if anything could be, of their partnership --

Bruce is going to keep *track* of him.

Bruce is going to... watch.

More than he has been? Is that possible -- no, of course it is. He's going to watch *more*, and he's going to be more of a *presence* in Tim's life, and he's going to try *exceedingly* hard not to be oppressive -- and he'll almost certainly back off if Tim asks him to do so --

Will Tim be able to do that?

Anything *like* that?

Tim turns out of the kiss and licks his lips --

"Aw, you're not going to be *mean* to Daddy again, are you?"

"I --" He has to make a choice. He has to --

He has to give Bruce something that will make it *easier* for him not to obsess in *painful* ways. Bruce will always obsess in *some* ways, but with Dick and Cassandra he's *relaxed*, now -- even with Dick living in Blüdhaven and Cassandra spending days at a time out there *with* him. He --


Brucie kisses Tim's cheek at least twelve times before Tim turns back to face him, and then his smile is loose and drunk and *soft*.

Bruce's smile -- in his eyes -- is patient.

Tim reaches up to cup Bruce's face. "I'll do it."

Bruce shudders once, all over. "Tim --"

"It's never you who makes me hesitate and I -- I need you to know this about me, Bruce --"

"Tim, don't --"

"I need you to *feel* it --"

"I -- I can be -- I will not *pressure* --"

"You will," Tim says, and covers Bruce's mouth, and smiles wryly at Bruce's *wince*. "You'll pressure me all the time, Bruce. And you'll do it in all the ways I *like*."

And for a moment Bruce looks only mournful, only *sad* --

It's *hard* to pull him down for a kiss -- but not to get the kiss itself, which is hungry and more than a little hard. Bruce knows *exactly* how Tim goes about making his decisions. Tim pushes his hands into Bruce's short hair and grips as much as is *possible* --

Kisses and holds *on* --

Until Bruce turns out of the kiss and pants against Tim's cheek.

"Should I ask you not to be mean to... baby?"

Bruce shudders -- but he also grunts a laugh. "I..." He pulls back enough to meet Tim's eyes. "Is it too fast? I never *know* such things."

It's really, really adorable that Bruce thinks *he* does -- but Tim can smile and stroke Bruce's stubble, feel it and *have* it -- "I've been waiting... well. Not as long as you have, but --"

"No," Bruce says, and smiles ruefully. "Not as long as I have."

Tim blushes again -- and damned well carries on. "It's not too soon."

"And if you feel regret for this choice?"

"It will pass."

"Tim --"

"I'm not Dick. I -- I *have* had regrets for this life, Bruce. But... I'm still me," Tim says, and arches up to kiss Bruce softly. "The regrets always pass. Sooner rather than later."

"I feel as though I'm tempting fate."



Tim pulls Bruce down on top of him, gives himself Bruce's *weight* --


"We're tempting fate together. That's... well, that's always rather better than the alternatives."

Bruce cups Tim's cheek and searches him once more -- and then nods, very deliberately relaxing himself and... cuddling.

Tim doesn't *purr* -- he's a bit too far out of the post-orgasmic haze for that -- but he knows Bruce can see it in his eyes by the smile in his own.

Correction, by the *smiles* in his own. Tim braces --

"Ooh, tiger, you're just *delicious* when you decide to be a good boy."

"Aren't *all* your boys good, Brucie?"

"*Sooner* or later, ahaaa. Though I really should use a firmer hand with the girls every now and then. They keep *leaving*."

Tim lets himself remember -- in *vivid* detail -- the *brief* spar which had occurred when Bruce had decided to inflict Brucie on Cassandra without first obtaining permission. Technically, the results were inconclusive. *Realistically*... Brucie really shouldn't ever have quite that many facial bruises. Tim closes his eyes and smiles sharply.

"*Something* tells me you're not feeling sympathetic, salt-lick."

Salt -- hm. Tim opens his eyes again and tries to drag on enough Timmy to tease *back* despite the fact that he's here --

Right *here* --

In Bruce's *bed* --

Tim *shivers* and closes his eyes *again* --

And Bruce's kiss to his temple is love, acceptance, welcome, care -- *gentle* care and everything *else*. The message is clear: He can be Timmy some other time.

Perhaps for lunch tomorrow, and for every other time he needs to be something *like* a civilian. He can *have* that, with Larry and with whoever else he *chooses*.

For now... Tim smiles ruefully and buries himself in Bruce a little, in his heat and scent and *self* --


"Lover," Tim says, and kisses Bruce's rough jaw. "Always."

Bruce sighs and holds him tighter.

Tim will give them... fifteen more minutes of this until they'll have to start straightening their clothes and coming up with cover stories. Tim has just a few set aside which could prove appropriate for both of them. Bruce almost certainly has more and *better* ones. For now...

They have each other.


Feedback lets me know you're out there -- and yes, I care about that. Feedback is how I connect to people, and how I make new friends and meet new lovers -- just ask the ones I already have sometime. Feedback makes all the hard work *more* meaningful, and *more* special, and *more* worthwhile. Feedback? Is the glue that holds my fragile sanity together, to be honest. Talk to me.

DW :: LJ :: E-mail