For the man who has everything
by Te
February 3, 2012

Disclaimers: No one and nothing here is mine.

Spoilers/Timeline: Vague spoilers for older storylines. Nothing newer than ROBIN #100. Takes place at an AU-ized point before Tim's sixteenth birthday.

Summary: "Will I be expected to... perform?"

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

Author's Note: Commission for a lovely fancreature who wishes to remain anonymous, and sequel to Shed your skin. This one takes place some three weeks after the end of that story, and will not make sense unless you read it first. Go on, I'll wait.

Acknowledgments: With much love to Mildred, Pixie, Melissa, and ShadowValkyrie for audiencing, suggestions, and encouragement.

Length: 18,000 words.


Awareness comes with suspicion, though not immediately.

*Immediately* is for warmth, and solidity, and *security*, and, since Tim almost never wakes up feeling those things --


He's been drugged.

Tim sighs, and it feels so good that he hums and giggles and -- well, for some reason he *can't* wriggle, but he'd really, *really* like to --

Correction: He's been drugged heavily, recently, and with --

Well, it probably wasn't with malice.

Malice doesn't taste like lemon ice cream, or feel like soft, thorough, *fuzzy* restraints around his wrists, thighs, and ankles, or smell like problematically *good* cologne --



Tim giggles again because, at this point, he *has* to --

"Mm, love *that* sound, baby boy."

Tim opens his eyes --

Tim opens his eyes --

Tim *opens* his *eyes*, and this time it works. He is... suspended. In a room he frankly doesn't *recognize* -- wait. He can see the window, and the view of the grounds suggests that this at least *used* to be Bruce's great-aunt Wilhelmina's room. *Nothing* else suggests that, though.

The lace canopy that had been over the four-poster bed is gone.

The posts -- previously dark and knobbed -- are now *blond* and knobbed.

The bed linens -- previously rather hysterically floral -- are now modernist and in shades of... red and blue. That...

That's *odd*. Why --

Matches turns Tim's face by the chin. "Where'd you go, chicken?"


Matches shakes his head slowly. Slowly enough that Tim can see *trails* --

But he absolutely can't reach out to touch them.

Or reach out to touch Matches with his thighs.

Or with his increasingly erect penis. He --

"Hmm." Tim twists away from Matches' grip --

Matches *allows* it --

That's *extremely* interesting, and so Tim turns back to look at him, and study --

It's the shaggy wig today -- the one which makes Bruce look a little like Dick's huge and disreputable uncle. No jacket, at all. Red sateen shirt, unbuttoned -- no. Un*snapped* nearly to the navel and gapping wide.

Gold chain.

St. Christopher's medallion Tim wants -- "I want to lick it."

Matches raises his eyebrows and looks at him from over his eyebrows. "Should I let you...?"

"Mmm... no," Tim says, and continues his perusal. The pants are a puce and khaki herringbone pattern that will haunt him in his dreams, and the shoes are creamy yellow leather ankle boots with stacked heels. They look so well-beaten that they *had* to have come from a vintage shop.

A part of Tim is absolutely positive that now he knows where the lemon ice cream is coming from.

He -- "I want you to rub the boots all over my skin, Daddy," and Tim beams because he can, because he *always* can --

"We'll see, we'll see. Have you noticed how you're trussed-up, chicken-boy?"

"Mmm...? Neatly? Well?" Tim tries a shimmy. It works better than the wriggle had, though still not all that well. He looks up -- and the ceiling now has exposed beams. Around the beams are ropes. *In* the beam are hooks -- but they're not presently being used.

He is upright, and the ropes are holding his wrists above his head, as well as the thick cuffs around his ankles. His knees are bent. His heels are touching his buttocks.

The thick cuffs around his -- spread --  *thighs*... well.

The ropes for *those* are attached to *statuary*. Specifically, to two large -- very large -- sculptures Tim has never seen before. The one on the left is of a nude woman with hair as large as Ivy's when she's gotten a fair amount of direct sunlight, *breasts* as big as Catwoman's, *hips* as big as *Amanda Waller's* --

Her pubic hair has been 'shaved' into the shape of a heart.

She seems to have Steph's mouth.

The statue on the right is of a nude male who is equally generously-proportioned -- his nipples *alone* are intimidating, and his posterior brings to mind certain Finnish homoerotica --

He could store two baseballs in his scrotum.

He -- well. Well.

Tim snickers and hums and flips his hair back out of his face before smiling at Matches. "I think I can see the basics of my... situation."

Matches grins, stick bobbing at the right side of his mouth. "Thought you could. Tug against the ropes anyway."


Matches cocks his head to the side and walks around Tim -- and the statues. He stops when he's *behind* Tim --

He breathes on the back of Tim's neck --


Tim grunts and gasps, and -- "I wasn't ready for --"


And there's no option, he *has* to yank against the restraints, try to haul himself up -- no.

Try to lower his legs -- no.

Try to pull his legs together -- no.

Even -- even when he *strains* --

When he growls until all the lemon feels like *sweet* silk around his *brain*, until he starts to *sweat* a little --

He's *warm* --

"That's right, baby boy. Show me a little *desperation*..."

"Yes, Matches --"

"Show me... mm. Show me how you're gonna fight when I pimp your pretty little ass out today."

Tim grunts and *freezes* --

And Matches laughs and pats Tim's *ass*. He can *only* touch the center -- Tim's feet are in the way -- but it still feels --

It *always* feels --

The silk is *strangling* him --


"You think ol' Matches forgets about his debts, baby boy?"

"I --" And the rest of that is a *shout*, because Matches just pinched Tim's nipples --

Matches is allowed much rougher *hands* than Bruce is, much dryer and *harder* -- "Yes or no question, chicken. *You* know the drill."

He does. He --

Three weeks of this.

Three weeks since Dottie-or-maybe-Princess got down on her knees in a dingy social club and relieved Tim of his virginity --

Three weeks of Brucie and Batman and Matches and, yes, *Bruce*. Dad and Daddy and everyone else in that crazy, wonderful, beautiful, romantic, terrifying mind.

Three weeks of getting what he needed, finally what he *needed*, and he hadn't even known half of what those things *were*. And never mind the *wants* --

Except that he *has* to mind. Doesn't he?

Bruce -- mostly Bruce, and always Dad -- *likes* it when he minds. "I don't think I've had enough drugs for this, Daddy."

*Bruce* coughs -- and Matches covers with a "heh. That so?"

"I -- it's just -- oh, *fuck* --"

Matches only bites the back of Tim's neck when Tim's been misbehaving in some way, shape, or form. *Bruce* does that sort of thing because he has to. *Batman* does to encourage obedience. Matches --

Matches wants to punish him at least a little. *Matches* doesn't want him to mind. Not that much. Which --

Tim shivers and hangs his head --

And Matches eases the force of the bite immediately, replacing it with a lick. "Tell me all about it, chicken."

"How --" No, bad start. Bad... Tim shakes his head --

Shivers for the -- fading -- lemon he can *feel* --

For the silk that should be around his *penis* -- "You're going to share me with -- someone else."

"You got that right."

"You're. You're going to..." Tim licks his lips. Matches had, in fact, said it. "Will I be expected to... perform?"

Matches chuckles... and pushes a thumb into Tim's *cleft* --

Which is how Tim notices exactly how sweaty he already is, exactly how *obvious* --

"Nothing too extreme, chicken. We probably won't even untie you."

Tim *grunts* and --

Just --

"Oh. Oh."

Another chuckle -- and Matches starts rubbing his hole. Just -- rubbing. Rough circles, rougher back-and-forth motions seemingly designed to make Tim sweat more and lose the ability to focus.

He --

"Give in, baby boy."

"Matches --"

"Shh. Don't I always take care of ya? Don't you always feel *real* good when ol' Matches is done with you?"

Tim blushes *hard*, because all he can think --

He's sprawled on his back on the fake tiger hide in Matches' apartment.

He's panting and crooning on his hands and knees while the skin of his ass *throbs* from a bare-handed spanking.

He's curled against Matches' chest and sobbing for how good, how perfect --


"That's right, chicken," and Matches breathes hot and soft against the side of Tim's throat. "You know I'll always do you right."

"But --"

"And make sure you always get *done* right," Matches says, and shoves his thumb in --

*Twists* it --

Tim cries *out* --

"Never had a pretty boy like you. Never... mm..." And Matches starts *working* his thumb, starts --

It's too much *not* to move for that, to direct a little, show *willing* -- as it were --

Except that he can't. He --

Has Matches *really* never tied him this *effectively* before?

Brucie's *incapable* of tying anything more challenging than a *granny*, but surely Bruce and *Batman* --

"You were -- you were saving this for me."

Matches *pauses*, and the stick scrapes a hot, ticklish line up the side of Tim's throat.

Tim moans and shivers --

"Was I...?"

"I -- it's obvious --"

"Pause," Bruce says, and cups Tim's throat from the front in a gesture Tim's not altogether sure how much he approves of, considering how *quickly* and *easily* it focuses him. Still --

"I'm listening."

"All too well," and there's a rueful smile in Bruce's voice. "Dick has been dosing you with Thirteen-G regularly." It isn't a question --

"Ah... he enjoys my giggles, too."

Bruce rumbles a hum. "While I won't say that I've *never* had cause to question his taste..."

Tim snorts. "Noted. We can always drug me more thoroughly."

"We could, yes."

Hm. Tim raises an eyebrow. "But...?"

Bruce pulls out --

"Gyah --"

"One moment," Bruce says, and walks around in front of him again -- he's using a disinfectant wipe on his hand.

And then one of the musk-infused *aloe* wipes that Tim -- vaguely -- remembers mentioning a fondness for during a post-mind-blowing-orgasm haze. Bruce forgets nothing. Ever.

When he's done with the wipe, he tosses it in the waste basket, unclasps the St. Christopher's medal so as not to unattractively muss his *attractively* mussed wig, lifts the medal between them... and raises an eyebrow.

There's enough Thirteen-G left in Tim's system that he's honestly confused for a moment, and vaguely inclined toward bathing his synapses in the juice of clementines --

("And then there's the way he *tastes*, little brother...")

"You're about to invite Clark here."

"Not *just* yet, but yes."

Which --

Well --

No, he's not actually surprised about that. Clark has been a quietly lingering *presence* in their sex life since --

Well, since the days when Tim would use the sex toys he'd purchased for himself with -- some of -- the large amount of guilt-money Jack Drake had folded into his palm just before his trip to Haiti --

He'd used every *inch* of flexibility Bruce had taught him, and he'd used it well:

One toy in his mouth and one toy buried *deep* while the World's Finest made use of him.

In uniform, naturally.

In --

He was very, very young -- wait. "You want to *hypnotize* me?"

Bruce raises an eyebrow. With the aviator sunglasses and the wig, it looks distinctly bizarre, but only in ways that make Tim's penis twitch.

He is trained. Still -- "*Yes*, that's a question!"

"You find it more objectionable than the drugs...?"

"I -- I can *fight* the drugs -- oh."

Matches smiles at him.

"Matches --"

"You're not gonna fight *me*, are you, baby boy...?"

"I -- you --" Tim frowns --

Frowns more deeply when his face tries to tell him that it's approximately four millimeters higher in the air than it should be --

Giggles --

And Matches rumbles and scratches idly at his chest hair. "Do this for me, chicken."


Timmy Drake purses his lips and bats his lashes. "What do I get if I do...?"

Matches smiles more *widely*. "Used. *Hard*."

There is, in fact, only *one* response to that: "Yes, Daddy. Anything you say."

"There's a good boy. Watch," Matches says, and shifts *minutely* to the left --

And the medallion catches a stray beam of what must be late afternoon sunlight. The glare is as shamelessly perfect as a 'shopped lens flare, and so Tim is smiling --

And Matches is smiling --

And Tim breathes deep, focusing on nothing but the medallion and the fact that Matches is breathing in time with him perfectly --

So perfectly --

There's an urge, when the medallion starts to swing, *not* to follow it, an urge to form the pearl and *hide* until such time as Bruce stops --

Matches stops --

"Come with me, baby boy..."

There's an *urge* --

"Come right down with me where it's warm. Quiet. And just a little dark."

He can -- he can resist if he wants --

"You know I need you, chicken..."

*Fuck* --

"You know I need you to give me everything you *are*..."


"Shh. Watch."

He wants. He needs --

The light flares and fades --

Flares and --

There's a darkness in him which has nothing to do with the pearl and *everything* to do with three weeks of what can only be termed emotional *humidity*. What else can you call something so thick, so settling and enervating at *once*?

It's this --

This thing they've been *building* between them every time Tim has called Bruce's *name*. *Any* of Bruce's names -- or titles.

There's no *escape*, and Tim had never *expected* that. Not with *Bruce* --

"Just breathe, chicken. You know how to do it. Breathe and give it up for me."

He's not supposed to be able to *do* this as Matches. Not *this* --

"You know where you need to go."

Please, God --

"You know who you need to *be*."

("Be yourself, baby boy. Or just be *everyone* you need to be.")

Nothing should be that --

Easy --

It's so dark --

It's so... dark.

"Good boy," Matches says, and he's far away --

So --

He's right there, and he's pressing the medallion to Tim's mouth, which feels slack and unimportant until --

"Kiss it, chicken."

Tim does, slow and lingeringly --

"Mmm. *Now* I can put it back on," he says, and does. And then tilts Tim's face up and looks down into Tim's eyes. The glare off his sunglasses is a complicated thing, interrupted by dust and the haze of the drug still in his system.

By contrast, Tim feels very, very simple.

"You're going to do everything I say."

"Yes, Matches."

"You're... heh. You're gonna love *everything* we do to you today."

There's something in him which pauses, or -- wants to. It's much too far away to make a difference. "Yes, Matches."

"Mm. You..." Matches licks his lips. "Tasty little chicken. Fresh and... mm. Lean. You're all mine today, baby boy..."

Tim sighs and smiles. "Yes, Matches."

"You won't tell any lies -- to me *or* Clark. You won't leave out any little *truths*. You'll let out every sound -- no matter *how* much of a blush it puts in your smooth little cheeks. Get me?"

"Hnn. Anything you say, Daddy."

*Bruce* raises an eyebrow --

Lowers it --

And Matches raises *both* eyebrows.

"You're... confused about the laugh, Daddy?"

"It doesn't come out like that when you're feelin' as obedient as ol' Matches likes."

"Usually --"

"Never," Matches says, and tightens his grip on Tim's chin. "Where are you, baby boy."

"Here, Daddy. In the dark with you. Where I belong. Hnn. I strongly suspect that what you're feeling right now is surprise about how deep certain of my... personae go."

For a moment, Matches tightens his grip even *more* --

The stick is utterly still --

And then Matches smiles, bright and wide --

And wider than that until he's Bruce at his most *demented*.

"I love you, Daddy."

"Son. *My* son, so perfect and sharp..." Bruce sighs and strokes Tim's chin with his thumb. "Your personae have only firmed with time and... care?"

"Your care, Daddy."

Bruce growls and *stares* --

"I want to *writhe*, Daddy."

"Perhaps I'll let you. If you're very, very good."

Tim sticks his tongue out, but he can't reach any part of Bruce's hand --

Until Bruce shoves his thumb in Tim's mouth and starts to fuck him with it. "There are, of course, ethical concerns..."


"The question of how much molestation to allow myself while you're this suggestible, for example, comes to mind."

Tim smiles around Bruce's thumb and flicks at the short nail with his tongue --

And Bruce turns his thumb down and presses *hard* on Tim's tongue, effectively pulling Tim's mouth open and out of true. "I've always wanted to control you."

Tim slurs something which he's reasonably sure Bruce can translate as the 'yes, Daddy' it is --

And Bruce smiles. "At the same time... I've wanted nothing of the kind. I know you know that, too. Now."

Tim slurs again --

Drools and *tries* to slurp -- he can't with his mouth held open like this, and so Bruce must not want him to. He waits, and allows himself to salivate.

"I've wanted you to be my son, my lover, my partner, my boy, my girl, my daughter, my mother-figure, my slave, my whore..." Bruce sighs and slips his thumb out. "Leave your mouth open."

Tim nods and does so.

"You've been all of those things and more to me over the past three weeks, and yet somehow a part of me is surprised that I want even more. I will have it."

Tim nods again.

"Close your mouth and lick your lips... yes, just like that. What else, do you think, should I order you to do, little one?"

"Hnn. Fall in love with Clark."


"Oh... don't be jealous, Daddy," Tim says, and moves his head until he can look up at Bruce from under his lashes at the precise angle --

Bruce parts his lips and *burns* at him, feels at him, *exists* at him --

And this is the man Tim belongs to, this is the man who wants everything real about him and everything they can *make* real *between* them.

He's so *big* --

In every *way* --


"Tell me."

"If you make me love him -- correction: if you force me to unearth the rather passionately romantic and worshipful feelings I've harbored for him since the night I watched him make Dick laugh -- and then do other things entirely -- on the roof of the Musashi building --"

Bruce grunts -- "You... did not see fit to share that you'd seen that?"

Tim smiles. "You never asked, Daddy."

Bruce strokes a line down the center of Tim's forehead, over the bridge of his nose, over his mouth, over his chin -- "You will not hide from me, Tim. Not ever again."

Pain for that, staggering and -- no, it's not pain, it's -- it's something *hammering* on the edges of the warmth, the darkness -- "*Daddy* --"

Bruce growls. "*Save for the Mission*."

The hammering stops and Tim slumps as much as is *possible*. And then he focuses on panting and shoring himself up, searching for --

"With me, Tim. With me and *only* with me for this moment."

"In. In the dark --"


"Warm --"



Bruce cups Tim's chin again and lifts his face. "There is no safety for you but what I -- we -- choose to give. And sometimes there will not even be that."

And that is... correct. The cracks melt away into solid darkness. "Yes, Daddy." And -- "I know you didn't want that exception. Most of you, anyway."

Paradoxically, perhaps, it is the Batman staring down at him with cold pride --

And then the pride is much warmer. "Beautiful love. I know you would give me everything if you could."

"Yes, Daddy --"

"Finish your earlier thought about Clark."

"Yes, Daddy. You've been remarkably thorough about smashing my reticence, repression, and overall tendency toward obsessive anal retentiveness to *powder*, Daddy. At this point, what's left is directly connected to the other people in my life --"

"Such as Dick."

"Yes, Daddy," Tim says, and pauses --

Bruce's smile is wintry, rueful, and, of course, dark. "I will not give that order today. Continue."

"Yes, Daddy. Forcing me to, for lack of a better term, *open* myself to Clark --"

"'Giving yourself' isn't sufficient?"

"A gift need not be -- fully -- usable. Or even openable."

Bruce smiles at him again. "Son. Go on."

"Yes, Daddy. If I open myself to him, I will both be more open in general -- and thus more fully usable by you -- and more desperate to please Clark in any and every way he demands. Or you demand for him."

Bruce narrows his eyes thoughtfully... and then grunts. "Simply forcing you to love the acts performed..."

"Very limited, Daddy. I'm reasonably sure I'd be disappointed in you if the emotion was available to me at present."

Bruce chuckles softly and strokes Tim's lower lip with his thumb. "You will open yourself utterly to us. You will beg, cajole, coax, seduce, demand... everything. And you will offer everything in return."

The darkness -- breathes, not shudders. It feels like it's *larger* than it was before, though how he would be able to be sure of that from the *center* of it is beyond him --

No, that's a lie, and he is not allowed those.

The darkness is larger. And... roomier. "Yes, Daddy."

Bruce cocks his head to the side. "I did not expect this."


"You *know* yourself to be loved."

Ah. Tim shows his teeth. "Did you think you weren't clear, Daddy...?"

A pause -- and then Matches flips a fresh stick from his shirt pocket into his mouth, rolls it back and forth, and casually twists Tim's nipples in opposite directions.

"*Nnh* -- "

"Some parts of me find *some* things difficult to *believe* in, chicken."

"Faith is -- can be -- *ohn* --"

"Maybe I should just hold your pretty little nips this way. See how pink and swollen they can get for me."

"You -- they're yours --"

"'course they are, pretty boy. You're just keepin' 'em warm for me."

Tim blinks. "That's quite gruesome."

"Heh. That why your cock twitched?"

"Probably, yes. Will there be any signal to bring me out of this trance, Daddy...? Or will you keep me like this indefinitely?"

"Chicken, *chicken*. You and I both know you'll claw your way back up *eventually*."

"Very true. All right. I'd like to formally request the opportunity to spend at least a significant amount of time in a position which could be considered abasing."

"What's the matter with *this* position?"

"Nothing, on the face of it. I just know that I'll make much more noise for Clark if I'm on hands and knees. Or, better, my *face* and knees."

Matches narrows his eyes -- and *doesn't* squeeze himself through his awful, awful trousers.

Tim frowns. "I think I might be offended, Daddy --"

"*I* think you're still a little off your game," he says -- and knocks on the armored jock he's wearing. "Ol' Matches is borrowing a few accessories from some of those other guys today. Just to keep the game fair. Are you *ready*, chicken?"

Tim licks his teeth. "Yes, Daddy."

"When I snap my fingers three times, you'll come out of your trance. But you'll be my pretty little whore -- among other things -- until I say different. Get me?"

"Mm. Yes, Daddy. Thank you, Daddy."

Matches grins and leans back, plucking the stick from between his lips and tapping *Tim's* lips with it. "Call him."

"What should I say?"

"The truth, natch."

Well... "Clark... I'm ready to be used."

Matches grins. "*My* boy," he says, and the pride in his voice is sharp, heavy, *proprietary* --

"I want to *pose*, Daddy --"

"Oh -- not just yet, please," Clark says, smiling warmly and cupping Tim's obliques. "It's only... you must know how beautiful you look just like this, Tim."

Clark -- thinks he's beautiful. Clark --

Well, of course Clark has hit on him before, and even spoken of his attractiveness, but Tim was wearing *Robin* all those times. Robin is always beautiful. Tim Drake is beautiful beyond *reason* to Bruce -- and to, apparently, *all* of the men who live within him -- but to other people?

To other people *worth* Tim's time and attention?

To the world's greatest *hero*?

Clark blinks rapidly. He looks *confused*. "Tim...?"

Tim blushes because there are no other *options* --

And Matches chuckles. "Tell him what's happening, chicken. Be *specific*."

Tim breathes around his pounding heart -- "Yes, Daddy. I... imagine I... well. I seemed calm before. Yes?"

Clark nods. "And quite... well... there was a great deal of *aplomb*, Tim."

"And you'd like to have that back, I know," Tim says, and smiles ruefully. "I'm working on it, I assure you --"

"Oh, no, you must do precisely what you feel --"

"I need to give what you want, Clark. I need to..." Tim licks his lips and arches forward as much as he can in the restraints. "I need you to want me as much as I want you. I need to satisfy you... so I can satisfy Daddy."

Clark -- flushes. "But that is not the only reason. Is it?"

A shift in... tone. Hm. "No, Clark. You're very, very important to me. And I..." Tim smiles ruefully. "I can't help showing it now. And feeling it -- deeply -- when you show your... appreciation."

"You couldn't feel it before, Tim?"

Tim lets his smile become far less rueful. "In general, I am much, much better at compartmentalizing than I am right now. And at outright hiding from myself."

And Clark... takes a long, deep breath. He is wearing worn jeans, a deep red Henley which makes him look even bigger than he *is*, and work boots which, while not new, actually manage to look as if they've *avoided* much of the Kent farm. He is Clark today, and, for the moment, no one else -- not even Clark Kent.

He strokes Tim's cheek, and kisses Tim's temple, and says: "You are very beautiful, and I have longed for your touch for years, but..."

Matches raises his eyebrows. Sometime while Tim wasn't paying attention, he had dragged two chairs over in front of the tableau with Tim at its center, and is sprawled on the right with one hand idly scratching one of the more frightening scars on his chest and the other equally idly cupping his groin. "'But'? But *what*, cornfed?"

"Oh, really, Matches, can we at least talk about *that* nickname --"

"No," Matches says, and grins. "At least not until you've made my boy scream a couple-few times."

"Oh -- I want to, of course --"

Matches waves the hand that was scratching his chest. "So do it."

"He -- has no defenses."

"Not a one."

"He has no *defenses*, Bruce!"

Matches bobs the stick obnoxiously. "Cornfed --"

"*No*. I -- wait. Please?" And Clark gestures 'stand down.' "Give me... more of yourself for just a moment, please."

Bruce raises an eyebrow and then inclines his head. "Go on."

"I can't -- if he *regrets* this --"

"He will not."

Clark frowns. "I -- you can't be *sure* --"


Tim smiles. "He absolutely can be, Clark. He has three weeks -- and two years -- worth of proof of how I respond to... inevitability."

"Yes, but, you *love* -- Bruce," and Clark blinks. And stares.

And flushes so suddenly and *completely* --

Tim tries one of Timmy Drake's purrs. "This is another of those moments where it would be very, very pleasant to be able to pose, Daddy --"

"Be quiet for a moment, Tim," Clark says, and turns to Bruce. "Unless...?"

Bruce makes a magnanimous gesture. "You may enjoy him as you see fit, Clark. I promise to... hmm. Step in. Should it become... necessary."

Clark parts his lips and sighs --

Strokes the fly of his jeans -- oh. His erection is abruptly obvious. And impressive. And... mouth-watering.

Tim rolls his head on his neck in lieu of squirming in any of the ways unavailable to him --

Blur -- and Clark is holding an *oddly*-shaped... toy? It's white, and appears to be *sweating* the Kryptonian lubricant Bruce most often uses with him --

Bruce hums. "Will you be needing me further, my companion...?"

Clark smiles sharply, hisses, and the toy morphs into something about half the size -- but the exact shape -- of Bruce's erect penis --

Clark shoves it *in* --

Tim *screams* --

The toy *secures* itself, shifting within him --

*Changing* within him --

<<I will always have need of you, my companion,>> Clark says, and smiles brightly. "But for now, I'd like to speak with Matches. Though..."

Matches... lounges in the chair, throwing one long, powerful leg over the arm and folding his arms behind his head. "What can I do for *you*, cornfed?"

"Oh... much, truly. For now, please tell me if the boy knows Kryptonian?"

"'The boy...?'" Matches grins. "Those other guys teach my chicken all *kinds* of things, Clarkie. You never really know."

Clark smiles *sharply* at Matches... and then begins to rub the head of Tim's penis with the slick tip of his index finger. It's smooth and warm, teasing enough to make Tim's knees feel weak despite the position he's in --

Tim tries to moan *quietly* --

"Are you saying that *you* don't teach him everything you can, Matches...?"

Matches grins a little wider and bobs the stick. "I only teach him *useful* things."

"For example?"

"How to deep-throat like the pro he was born to be, how to keep himself from coming until *I* say he can, how to walk in heels..."

Tim blinks. *Batman* had taught him --

For the *Mission* --

But Matches is grinning at *him*. Wetly.

*Clark's* smile is only *avid*...

Tim lets himself flush for the *flood* of rewritten memories --

For the warm and *shocking* realization of whose hand had been inside the gauntlet, whose hand had been *steadying* him --

No, the flush isn't enough. Tim moans and arches his head back enough that it's obvious that he's offering his throat --

And Clark makes a soft sound and squeezes him there. It *feels* like a purely soft and gentle touch... but Tim can't breathe, at all. He can barely *hitch* --

<<I was already well-assured of your pleasure for this, fine one, but do you speak...?>>

Tim nods once. It's all he can *manage*. It's not that Clark's hand is that much bigger than Bruce's -- it's that Clark is holding Tim's throat as close to his chin as possible.

<<You have desired me long...?>>

Tim nods again.

<<I would hear...>> Clark sighs and releases Tim's throat --

Tim breathes as evenly as he can --

<<Speak, boy.>>

'Fine one' suggested one sort of speech. 'Boy' suggests something else, entirely... and, when Tim considers it, there *were* such things as *treasured* properties. Tim nods internally. <<This one would know what you would hear, Kal-El.>>

"No, not..." Clark shakes his head and kisses Tim once, again --

Kisses Tim hard and *wet* --

"I am not Kal," he slurs into Tim's mouth and kisses *again* --

And Matches chuckles. "Just so you know? That sweet little ass can take a *lot* of punishment."

Clark moans --

Slurs something impossible to parse --

And the toy in Tim's ass begins to do... something. There's *motion*, but it doesn't feel like pulsation, vibration, or even thrusting. It *feels* like a large, hard *ball* had grown within the toy and is rolling back and forth inside it, stretching Tim in a wave that doesn't *stop*.

Tim shivers and whimpers and tries to focus on kissing back --

"No," Clark says, and fucks Tim's mouth with his tongue, cups Tim's face and holds it, tilts Tim's head back far enough that the stretch is *strangling* --

The ball keeps *moving* --

"Looks like you're already makin' cornfed feel it, chicken. Good job."

Clark grunts and pulls back. "He's been making me *feel* it -- for years," Clark says, and smiles with a blend of ruefulness and wry heat. "I think..." <<Proceed with sub-routine ten-ten.>>

There is a *tone*, low and somehow soothing --

And then the ball -- *not* the rest of the toy -- begins to vibrate *as* it rolls. It --

"*Hnh* -- *nnh* --"

"Do you like it, boy?"

Tim shudders and *strains* --

"Answer now," Clark says, folding his hands in front of his abdomen and raising an eyebrow.

"I -- I'm not sure, yet!"

Clark parts his lips and pants again -

"If you don't mind ol' Matches asking...?" There's a laugh in Matches' voice --

"Oh -- forgive me," and Clark flies back to sit in the chair next to Matches. "The sub-routines are numbered for ease. Ten-ten is steady vibration to add to a certain rolling... ah, *some* of you may recall?"

"Heh. I just might, at that," Matches says, and looks Tim over with covetous pride before turning back to Clark. "You should probably let my baby boy know what he's in for."

"Oh, do you think so? Young people appreciate surprises so very often," and Clark's expression is open, guileless --

*Kentish* in ways the moving *thing* in his ass wants to *protest* --

And Matches nods to Tim --

And Clark *turns* to Tim. "How *do* you feel about surprises, boy?"

Tim opens his mouth to answer -- and moans, long and *loud*. It feels like the toy is getting -- heavier, not bigger. Louder in a different *way* --

"That... is terribly inspiring."

"'Terribly,' cornfed?"

"Oh -- horribly. I truly was hoping to keep control for a longer period of time --"

"My baby boy *likes* it when people lose control --"

"Yes, yes, but does he truly *deserve* that?"

Tim *grunts*, stomach turning over --

His penis already *hurts* with the need to be touched --

And Matches grins *slowly*, taking the stick out of his mouth and gesturing expansively with it. "Well, I don't know, Clarkie. Why don't you *tell* us what he deserves?"

Clark flushes again -- *blushes* -- but his eyes flare brightly enough that Tim has to shudder --

And shuddering changes the sensations inside him to something that feels like how Bart has always described being off-*phase* --

Tim whimpers and shudders *more* --

And both Matches and Clark are staring at him, looking --

Drinking him *in* --

Tim *groans* --

And Clark gestures sharply. "Be silent for a time, boy. You must hear every word of this. You... you may bite your soft lip if you must."

Tim nods once and does just that --

And Clark sighs and turns back to Matches. "There is love, of course. Such love as Tim would know well, as he fell for you and your family long before he ever allowed himself to know you."

Matches chuckles and shifts his lounge, moving until he's resting his right ankle on his left knee. "Some people say that's no kinda love, at all."

Clark gestures -- dismissively, not arrogantly. He still isn't anything like the Kal from Bruce's reports. "Some people are more foolish than even I am. And you know that very well."

"So I do, so I do. But tell me about the love."

Clark narrows his eyes -- "He rejected me so *easily*."

"Multiple times, even."

"Yes, and --" Clark sighs. "He used your tricks, your *methods*."

"*Not* mine," Matches says, and jabs down with the stick.

"Oh -- yes, of course. But you know whereof I speak."

Matches rolls his head on his neck. "Oh, yeah. Those other guys -- they'd lie to their own mother if she wasn't dead and buried."

Tim can't keep himself from *blinking* --

"And so, of course, would Tim himself," Clark says, and narrows his eyes *at* him. "You hid from me, boy. You hid your *emotions*."

And that --

He wants to *whimper*, to *apologize* -- but he has to be silent. He pleads with his eyes, instead, tries to express some version of his need --

Clark hums thoughtfully.

"Yeah, cornfed?"

"I wasn't expecting... he's *already* sorry."

"Yep. He can't be anything else, like this."

Clark shivers. "No defenses... I believe I feel too powerful, too --"

Bruce pushes Matches' sunglasses down the bridge of his nose --

"Oh, no, I won't *stop*. It's just that I'm going to have an orgasm *quickly*, and I have to decide *how*."

Matches pushes the sunglasses back up. "Nice high ceiling in this room now --"

"Oh, forgive me, I really do love what you've done with the decor of this room."

Matches shrugs. "Gotta keep your hand in. You know how it goes."

"So I do. And... hm. He really does enjoy performing fellatio far too much for me to reward him that way --" <<Sub-routine nineteen-alpha.>> "You'll be able to see... ah, there."

The toy stops vibrating inside him, but *doesn't* stop rolling --

The toy flexes and *flares* at his hole --

And then there are... vines? Tentacles? Tim's not comfortable with using either word for something as decidedly non-organic as the *things* flowing out of the toy and around his hips, but he's perused enough pornography that he's willing to *accept* 'tentacles' as a placeholder term until he learns the Kryptonian word for --

And then he's screaming, because the tentacles are *mummifying* his penis and scrotum, and they aren't being especially gentle about it. They're hot and tight and *rough* --

They're flexing with the pound of Tim's *heart* --

"*Silence*, boy."

Tim bites his lip *hard* -- and harder than that when he sees Matches cupping himself and squeezing.

That --

He knows *precisely* how painful that is when one is wearing a jock -- and how necessary. He's being beautiful for Daddy, even if he isn't quite managing --

But Clark's eyes are glowing steadily, and Clark is looking him over *slowly*, and the wet spot on Clark's jeans makes it looks as though he's *already* ejaculated --

Oh, *yes* --

Tim smiles because he *has* to --

Clark gasps --

And Matches grunts -- and grins. "That's right, baby boy. You can't hide a damned thing from yourself like this. Not even what you do to us."

Tim nods once in lieu of saying anything --

Clark *growls* -- "He still doesn't know everything, though."

"Heh heh. No, he doesn't. And lemme tell you something, Clarkie -- it was *hard* not to spill the beans before this. Just to see those pretty *eyes*."

"Beautiful, yes, I --" Clark licks his lips.

Tim tries to put an *obedient* question in his eyes --

"You still don't know how *long* --" Clark growls again --

And the kiss happens before Tim can prepare himself for it, before he can do *anything*, and so he stiffens at the wrong time --

Clark *bites* him --

Tim moans --

Clark bites him *again* and Tim is silent, *silent*, and Clark nods and shudders and touches him, strokes him everywhere he can easily reach -- which is nearly everywhere, because of the way Tim is *trussed*.

There is something *blissfully* obscene in having his feet massaged at the same *time* as his buttocks --

But then Clark moves the statues further apart, and the strain in Tim's thighs is immediate and *maddening*. It doesn't *hurt*, yet, but he *wants* to cry out for it, to *move* for it, to massage his own inner thighs --

He puts a plea in his eyes as best as he *can* --

And throws his head back to strangle his own scream when Clark wraps his fist around Tim's mummified penis and squeezes *hard*.

"Good. Good boy. This is what I will have," Clark says, and then he just *is* behind Tim with his penis -- his huge, hard, *hot*, *slick* penis -- nestled in Tim's cleft --

Tim gasps for the *need* he feels, sudden and *painful* --

"Better be quiet, chicken..."

Oh, Daddy, *please*...

"The scent of pleas unspoken -- so young --" And Clark growls and cups Tim's throat with one hand and his hip with the other before starting to thrust hard and *fast* --

"*Very* nice, cornfed. Can you focus enough to see the expression on my chicken's face?"

"For -- the moment -- please. Describe it anyway."

Matches grins lazily and scratches at another scar on his chest. "His mouth is a wet, red little 'o'. His lips are as swollen and puffy as you could like --"

"His -- I need his *eyes*."

"Mm. Anything you say, Clarkie. Every time you *grind* in -- yeah, like that -- his eyes widen like a little boy's. Like a *shocked* little boy's. Superman's just not *supposed* to hot-dog good little children."

Clark gasps a laugh --

Growls *again* --

"*More*, Matches, *please*."

"You got it. Those thrusts that are just *barely* not goin' right *in* make him *pant*. Make his eyes go all heavy and *dazed*. Heh. It's almost like he's *drugged*."

"Oh -- oh. Has anyone ever told you that you're a very dirty man, Matches?"

"What can I say? I've learned from the best. Gonna come all over his pretty little hole?"

"Oh - *nnh*. The thought is, as you might have guessed... very tempting -- unh. *Unh* --"

And Clark is thrusting faster, *grinding* faster --

Tim pants and *clenches* --

Clark growls *again* --

And Tim can't keep himself from whimpering --

"Bad. *Boy*." And Clark hisses --

And the ball is vibrating again, rolling *faster*, *hurting* every time he clenches --

Clark's penis would feel so much *better* --

Clark's fingers --

Clark's *tongue* and fingers, *please*, because Brucie had taught him to love it --

("Oh, mmm, what a *dirty* little *treat* you are, tiger...")

He wants  -- God, he *wants* --

("What a -- mm-mm-*mmmm*...")

And Clark's sweat feels so much *slicker* than his own --

And Bruce's breathing is starting to *roughen* --

And he can't stop, can't stop clenching, can't stop shuddering, can't stop *chewing* his lip, because he has to make noise, has to show them what they're *doing* to him --

No, no, they want quiet from him, control, and so -- yes. He can distract himself. Brucie had gagged him that day, stealing a scarf from his date to the charity regatta and winding it twice around Timmy Drake's head until all Timmy could smell was Sylph perfume and Brucie's pre-come helpfully smeared on Tim's upper lip. The wheelhouse had been small and *cramped*, and Brucie hadn't stopped, hadn't let *up* --

("*Pattypants*. Did I *say* you could come all over yourself?")

Please, oh --

If he could only say *please* --

If he could *show* them, because Clark's hand is almost *clumsy* on Tim's throat now --

Clark's thrusts are so *ragged* --

Matches is *drumming* on Bruce's jock -- "Yeah, that's right, cornfed. *Do* him."

"*Hnh*. I -- will -- not -- *stop*."

And Tim can't throw his head back, can't --

No, no, he's gagged. He's *gagged*, and Brucie's weight is holding him down against a narrow bulkhead, Brucie's fingers are twined with his own --

("Naughty boys have to -- have to take the *reaming*, crumpet...")

And he'd wanted it just like this --

Needed it so much --

Needed every *second* of Bruce slowly and *painfully* rising out of Brucie until the bites stopped being gentle --

<<Sub. Routine. *One*.>>

And Tim hears himself *yell* as something *opens* inside him, as something stretches him wide like -- like he's being unfolded --

It feels like the toy is suddenly thin and *flat* against his inner walls --

"*Take* it, chicken."

"*Yes*, Daddy," Tim shouts before he can think -- and then he's screaming for the feel of Clark *shoving* in --

For the feel of the toy flowing *out*, strand by strand, drop by *drop*, until there's only heat, pressure, *heat* --

Tim whimpers *again* --

"Dis-disobedient slut. So." *Kal* groans, shudders, and *clutches* Tim's throat. "I expected more from your training, Matches."

"What can I say? I've always been a laid-back kinda guy. Why not let him try it his way, though? Let him *work* your cock for you."

"It will not --" Another groan --

A *rueful* laugh --

"It won't take long, at all. I didn't mean to -- oh, Tim, I've been watching you since -- since you were *eleven* --"


"Yes. Yes, *that*. Your lithe young body dashing over rooftops, slipping in slush and ice and simple *grime*. I dreamed of -- of taking you to *me*. Of *holding* you and --" Clark *growls* through another groan. "I was going to *bring* you to Bruce -- eventually -- " *Another* growl -- "*Milk* me, boy. *Make* me come."

And he wants --

There are so many *questions* --

But he's already clenching, already *forcing* his body to accept that *Clark's* body is just that large, just that strong, just that -- not impossible. Not impossible in any *way*, because Tim isn't just wanted now; he was wanted *then*.

He would've *made* himself right for Clark, would have used every toy *available* until Clark could use *him *. He would have taken the *pain*, *just* like this --

Anything for the feel of hot breath on the back of his neck --

Increasingly *high* moans --

Clark *pants* -- "More. I need --" He hisses, and releases Tim's throat just as the tentacles around his penis lower it until it's perpendicular to his body and *penetrate* --

He can't --

He *can't* --

"You may scream," Clark says, and his voice is *almost* calm --

Because Tim had stopped clenching. He --

He *can't* do that, he has to --

He tries to move again -- the restraints won't let him. He clenches -- and something *inside* him moves enough to make it *clear* that his penis is *full* --

The world is white --

The world is so heavily skewed toward bright, blinding silence --

No, that's not --

"*Yes*, Tim!"

And Clark is thrusting --

And Matches is pinching his own nipples --

And the thing which felt like silence was the wall of stunned *intensity* slamming through him for the clench --

For *every* clench --

His penis is twitching *violently* --

Is it pleasure? *Could* it be? Could *anything* like this -- no, that's a ridiculous question. The world is full of people for whom an encounter like this would be the height of *ecstasy*. And that is and *isn't* a good choice of words, Tim thinks, because there's something religious about this, something of a sense of being tortured for the sake of a higher cause, for the betterment of better *people*, because Clark is moaning wordless and *high* --

And Matches' pants and jock are around his *thighs* --

And Tim is useful, *so* useful, because every moment of this pain is the beauty in their eyes and their *touch*.

Tim clenches as hard as he *can* --

Clark *shouts* -- and pulls out, flying up and around to ejaculate on Tim's mouth --

And chest --

And abdomen --

And penis -- after the tentacles release him everywhere save for around the base and *inside*.

The sensations make Tim clench on *nothing* -- though, going from experience, any number of things can make him do that.

Including watching Clark narrow his eyes at him *speculatively*.

Tim smiles, lowers his lashes, and begins to lick his mouth as clean as he can -- but he immediately has to moan for the taste, which *is* reminiscent enough of citrus that Tim is brought right back to being drugged.

Clark's sigh is *exaggeratedly* disappointed, but Tim can't help but look up --

"You can't help yourself, can you, boy?"

Only honesty would suit. "No, Clark. I can't. I have... a theory about it."

Matches grins and squeezes himself through his neon-fuchsia boxer shorts. "*I'd* love to hear it, chicken. How 'bout you, cornfed?"

Clark narrows his eyes, but doesn't look away from Tim. "Yes. Tell us."

"Yes, Clark --"

Clark shivers and -- licks his lips. Tim feels sensitive and *damp*... because he's just been licked *clean*. And Clark hasn't begun to soften, at *all*. "Don't wait."

"Yes, Clark. The only practice I have with this sort of emotional honesty has called for large *amounts* of emotional honesty. With... no pause. Or break. Or... control."

Clark licks his lips again. "And you have no defenses."

"None for you or Bruce."

Clark lifts his chin for a moment -- and then nods. "You would be capable of following *Dick's* orders for silence and control in this moment... were he to give you any."

"Yes, Clark," Tim says, and smiles ruefully. "I want to be perfect for you. I want --"

And Clark is right there with two fingers on Tim's mouth and his gaze *stern*. "You are giving me the opportunity to punish you for disobedience... which is something I much prefer to punishment for the sake of whim. I will take no apology until I am done hurting you."

Tim grunts -- but. "Clark... I. I'll love it. I *have* to love it."

Clark smiles. "I know. The punishment will be your cognitive dissonance. You will not be patrolling tonight."

Tim *gasps* -- but when he looks to Bruce he can only see Matches, and a smile which is wet, lazy, wide, and unassailable. Tim moans. "Yes, Clark."

The motions are, of course, incomprehensible --

And they end with Tim suspended from some of the larger hooks -- no. What had *been* the hooks are now glowing white *sleeves* which are in the process of growing down Tim's v-spread arms from Tim's fingertips to -- his elbows. They stop there, and harden dramatically enough to feel *permanent* -- no, not that. There's no reason to be irrational.

His legs are positioned in the sort of split which really does look better, in Tim's opinion, on the female-bodied and those male-bodied people willing to wear gaffs. It's *thorough*, and seven months ago Tim hadn't been *capable* of hitting these particular marks. However, six and a *half* months ago Tim had spent a week in Blüdhaven learning from the best. During that time, Jack Drake had undoubtedly thought warm, self-congratulatory thoughts about their liberalism in terms of the 'chosen family' -- of *course* Tim should get to have a brother, so long as he's an *acceptable* sort -- and Bruce had... what?

Tim doesn't know, and, in this moment, with Bruce staring at him from behind Matches' sunglasses -- he can *feel* that --

With Bruce enjoying him, wanting him, *hungering* for him --

Had he hungered then, too?

Had he wondered if Tim would make love with Dick?

Had he *feared* that?

What could *allow* Bruce to share him so easily and *openly* with Clark --

Tim grunts *loudly* -- but then, he always does when his scrotum is stimulated while his legs are spread this widely.

Clark is staring down at him *curiously*. He's fully-dressed again, and, somehow, his jeans are clean and dry. His hand is warm and firm around Tim's scrotum. "Tell me your thoughts about this position."

Well... "I can't help but wonder if it's as aesthetically pleasing as the other."

Clark smiles brightly... and strokes a long, firm line down the inside of Tim's right thigh --

And knee --

And leg --

The cuffs on Tim's ankles are of entirely earthly origin and are -- Tim checks -- chained to *other* hooks on the exposed beams. The statues have been arranged -- coyly -- in the shadows.

If they want to, they could *swing* him back and forth... hmm. "I do see some benefits."

"Oh... I'm glad to hear it. Certainly, I'm quite fond of seeing you this way," Clark says, and strokes his way back *up* Tim's leg, which is, now that Tim thinks about it, much more sensitive --

"Have I been *shaved*?"

"Not quite. I took the liberty of burning out the follicles in your lovely legs."

"But -- I --"

Clark smiles more sharply. "The scent was quite terrible for the few moments it lasted before I could dissipate it. You don't have objections, do you...?"

Well. Tim laughs. "I have no right to objections, Clark."

"No, you don't, but it would be *interesting* if you did."

Tim raises an eyebrow. "More interesting?"

Clark narrows his eyes.

Matches *shifts* -- and plucks the stick from his mouth before jabbing at the air with it. "I think you should -- heh --*depilate* that dainty little sac of his, too, cornfed. Slowly."

"Oh, yes? I..." Clark lifts Tim's scrotum again and examines it. "The hairs are so *neat*. Did you...?"

"There's a little pair of silver scissors around here somewhere. Some of those other guys get obsessive when baby boy can't play through," Matches says, and *rubs* himself through his boxer shorts --

Clark hums and raises an eyebrow at Matches. "Are you saying you *don't* get -- ah. But of course you are. Forgive me."

Matches inclines his head --

And Clark turns back to *him*. "Boy. Do you enjoy your lovers' obsessiveness?" The plural is *absolutely* audible --

As it *should* be -- "I feel it complements -- and validates -- my own."

Clark nods thoughtfully, and -- "Will you scream?"

"I --"

"Let's find out," Clark says, and his eyes flare red at *once* --

And he lowers his head *slowly*, so --

Tim can't *help* but stiffen, even though he knows that Clark can control the temperature of his heat vision to *fractions* of a degree, even though he knows that Clark wouldn't --


What if *this* will be why Tim won't be patrolling tonight?

*One* of the reasons why.

Tim grunts and *whines* --

And *then* the heat registers, and it's precisely like exposing himself to the kind of sunlight Gotham pretty much *only* gets during high summer while even hotter *needles* penetrate him --

Not especially painfully, at all. It's really more of a series of sharp *stings* than anything else. Hm.

Tim relaxes cautiously --

And Clark chuckles while turning Tim's scrotum back and forth, presumably to seek out *every* last follicle. How long will it take the hair to grow *back*? How much of a difference *is* there between this and electrolysis?

Would Bruce *miss* the opportunity to trim Tim's scrotal hairs?


"Speak when you're spoken to, boy," Clark says almost *absently*, and then goes back to examining his work --

The sting hits in three more places --

Five --

*Eight* --

And then Clark's eyes are simply blue again, and Tim -- breathes. Just breathes. And waits --

Clark smiles at him sharply. "How do you feel?"

"Ah... sensitized. Perhaps... the sensation is similar to the early stages of sunburn, and I confess that I'm curious --"

"You will neither blister nor peel."

Tim inclines his head in thanks --

"Unless... Matches?"

"Nah. A little extra pinkness is enough for ol' Matches. But thanks for the thought."

"Oh... you're very welcome," and Clark turns back to Tim. "You were honestly frightened for a moment."

"Yes, Clark. I... have questions."

Clark flares his nostrils. "You may ask them."

Tim opens his mouth --

And Clark slaps him with his open palm. From -- nearly -- anyone else, the blow would be minor. As it is, Tim tastes blood and something like the scrambling of his internal *circuitry*.

Tim licks his lips and tries to focus --

Tries *harder* when his penis twitches --

Manages. And puts a question in his *eyes*.

Clark smiles. "You may ask one question for every night -- pardon; *day* -- you agree not to return to the townhouse of your biological father and stepmother.

The phrasing --

The *implications* --

But of course Clark has been paying attention for the past three weeks --

And of course Matches looks moments away from *exploding* into the kind of action he really shouldn't be able to *achieve*.

He is Tim Drake, and that has come to mean beauty. Desirability. Worth.

And the perfect power of rising wounds. "As you say, Clark."

Clark parts his lips, and the avidity in his eyes -- "Please. Ask."

"Will you hurt me for every question?"

This time, the blow registers more as a rush of light and something too *fast* to have the sound it should --

Ah, another blow to the mouth. This one didn't open any cuts *inside* his mouth, but the first cut is still bleeding --

"Yes," Clark says, and kisses him *hard* --

Tim whimpers because there are no other *choices* -- and because he knows with *perfect* certainty that even if his lips *do* swell unevenly, a *human* won't be able to see it. He opens himself for the kiss as best as he can --

And then it's over. "And, sometimes, I will hurt you simply for the sake of doing so," and Clark *grips* Tim's scrotum -

Tim grunts and tries to convince his eyes not to fall *out* --

"Oh... I wanted a scream."

"I'm -- very sorry --"

Clark sighs. "You are. And that is... almost painfully sweet. Arousing. I -- Matches --"

"No more for that pretty face, Clarkie," and that was Matches *and* Batman -- the tension in the jaw is *unmistakable* --

"As you say," Clark says, and releases Tim's scrotum --

Pinches and *pulls* Tim's nipples -- "

"*Hnh* -- oh --"

"Ask, boy."

"Y-yes. Do you. Do you enjoy -- frightening people?"

"Some people. Would you like me to elaborate?"

Tim licks his lips and --

Two days. He can explain away two days --

Dick is always --

Dick has been *extremely* willing to be used as an excuse --

And then he's screaming, because the twist is impossible, *brutal* --

"Oh... beautiful. If it helps, boy... I *want* you to ask more questions."

Tim cuts off his own scream with a *grunt*, because --

Oh, God --

He *has* to give Clark --

"Heh. I want it, too, baby boy," Matches says, and pumps his *hips*. "I want it *bad*."

Tim *whimpers* -- and there is absolutely no choice. "Please. Please elaborate."

Clark sighs again and *slowly* eases the pressure on and twist *of* Tim's nipples. The blood begins rushing back immediately, and Tim is gasping --

Gasping --

*Groaning* --

"Oh -- such a lovely boy --" And Clark kisses him all over his face --

Bites Tim's earlobe *viciously* hard --

And pulls back. "Most of me finds the scent of human fear distasteful, though far less so than I did when I was your age. Other parts of me revel in such things. More?"

Three days... and now four. "Yes, please, Clark -- *ahn* -- oh, *God* --"

Clark is slapping his penis and stroking it, slapping and stroking, slapping and --

Hissing --

The restraints around Tim's wrists grow further down his arms and *lift* him --

And Clark *swallows* him, humming and sucking and Tim can't parse the sensations, can't separate pain from incredible, incredible pain from perfection, perfect pain --

The scrape of hard, square *teeth* --


And Clark pulls off. "The scent of your fear is both gift and goad, fine one. You are mine to use today, mine to do with what I will -- or nearly so. You will enjoy everything I choose to do, and so even your fear is... beautiful. But there is more," and Clark smiles cruelly.

Five days. "Please. Please tell me."

Clark inclines his head -- and spanks Tim's scrotum six times, fast and hard and metronomic.

Tim cries out for the fifth and sixth --

Aches and catches himself *swinging* --

"*Please* --"

"Shh," Clark says, and stops his swing by the simple expedient of gripping Tim's hips and holding on *tightly*. "*Your* fear, boy. *Yours*. You have given me your professionalism and very little *else*, leaving me to my imagination -- and my *surveillance*. I am not of your family, boy. I have no great love for holding myself *apart* from those I desire, no preference for simply *watching*," and Clark breathes in sharply through his mouth, irises darkening to purple around the edges. "Do you understand...?"

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


"I'm sorry! I mean -- yes, I understand. Any emotion given honestly and powerfully must be -- be --"

<<Most *desired*, pet.>> And Kal's smile is wide, *wild* --

And then Matches clears his throat --

And Kal laughs, low and rich and *threatening* in the moments before he inclines his head. When he looks up, his eyes are blue and more *wicked* than cruel, more --

More Clark than Kal.

"I smell your curiosity, boy. *Ask*."

Six days. Tim shivers and closes his eyes --

And hears himself make a truly *interesting* noise -- a scream traveling through most of an octave -- when Clark bites his way from the apex of Tim's spine to the base at *speed*.

And then does it again --

And then does it hard enough to draw *blood* in -- three places? Five?

Clark yanks Tim's head back and kisses him from over his shoulder, cups Tim's throat and licks blood into and out of his mouth, strokes down to Tim's penis and squeezes, massages, strokes *fast* --

So --

He slurs *something* -

And Tim's penis is forcibly reminded that there's something in it, something which can move --

And *leak* --

Oh, he's *slick* inside, and he's *grateful* for that --

His penis is being *fucked* --

His *mouth* is being fucked, and all he wants to do is writhe -- no, that's not true. He wants to *ride* something, *someone* --

He wants to be full again, wants *time* to *comprehend* being full --

It hadn't *lasted* long enough before; he still feels tight, feels *needy* --

He's clenching so *much* --

And something closes like a *fist* around his spine --

Tightens his swelling *sac* --

And Tim screams into Clark's mouth as he doesn't come.

And doesn't come.

And doesn't come.

And doesn't -- "Please *please*!"

"*Now* ask, boy."

"Where -- where is *Kal*?"

Clark smiles sunnily -- and slaps Tim's penis again --

"God, *ow*, *yes* --"

"Waiting for permission he almost certainly will not get... today?" And Clark turns Tim to face Matches --

Who nods once and squeezes his penis very -- very hard. "Which is not to say I don't like the guy, cornfed. He's *real* exciting-like."

"Oh... he does try."

"Always... always gotta try hard in this -- heh -- workaday world we live in," and Matches glitters at Tim over his sunglasses. "Isn't that right, chicken?"

"Yes, Daddy -- *fuck* -- what -- ah. I mean --"

"Mm. Seven days," Clark says, and shoves two fingers into Tim's sore mouth to go along with whatever he'd shoved in Tim's *ass*. "Suck, boy."

Tim hums and nods and *tries* to figure out what's going *on* in his ass --

It feels like there's something *alive* in there -- no. It feels like there are *several* living things in there, and all of them are in *motion*. The sensations aren't unpleasant -- though Tim has to wonder how *much* of that, at this point, is the power of hypnotic suggestion --

And Matches chuckles. Loudly. "Oh, baby boy, you make the *cutest* faces sometimes. Makes me wanna just eat you *up*."

That was almost *Brucie* --

And that's always a cause for *consternation* --

But it's good to be amusing --

What the hell is in his *ass*? Tim tries for an interrogatory hum --

And Clark sighs happily. "*Eight* days, fine one? What a good boy you are."

You never *answered* --

But he can't even finish the thought before Clark is whisper-hissing... and there are *three* *distinct* *flexes* in his *ass*.

Which can really only mean one thing --

Clark grins at him. "The fact that you've figured out for *yourself* that I ordered the... ah... fragment of the AI which traveled with me today to form what Roy would call a 'squirm' of tentacles does *not* free you from your obligations, fine one," and Clark flies back --

Lowers Tim to a few feet above the floor once more --

Strips himself naked --

He's so *beautiful* --

But clenching around the things --

Clenching around the *tentacles* in his ass makes him scream, makes his penis twitch, makes the *thing* *inside* his penis thrust faster, *harder* --

Tim is bucking and swinging, bucking and twisting and *fighting* --

How many tentacles *are* there?

How the hell -

Oh, God, they're bigger, thicker, *longer*, and Tim can't focus on anything, can't -- can't *see* anymore --

Everything *burns*, and when he tries to bite his lip --

The slaps land seemingly everywhere at *once* -- everywhere *except* his face -- and Tim remembers --

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! Oh -- *ohn*!"

And he knows Matches is saying *something* --

And he knows Clark is *moving* --

The *lash* around the base of his penis tightens so violently it seems like it will *cut* him -- but then it's gone. It's --

Tim's *heart* stops beating.

Tim's mind stops --

His ass flexes *open* --

And then he's clenching and *shrieking*, hurting his throat as much as anything else, hurting *everywhere*, and he's never felt this raw, this used, this --

This --

And that's Clark's huge, hot hand cupping the back of his neck, forcing Tim's *head* down --

"Love -- I *love* --"

"I know, pet. *Watch*."

And Tim pants, begs with every whine and *whimper* for the ability to open his eyes --

He opens his *eyes* --

And Clark is reaching slowly, so *slowly* for Tim's *spasming* penis with his other hand --

"Don't blink," he says, and touches the bulb at the end of the spike in Tim's penis. It expands immediately --

Expands and *expands* --

Tim *keens*, feeling himself stuffed, taken, *used* --

And then loses all of his air when Clark begins to stroke his penis with just his fingertips, ticklish and hot and strange and *hot* --

Tim clenches --

It's so light --

He flexes and clenches --

It just -- it just keeps going and --

He flexes and --

It's so *light* and he --

Clenches and *sobs* --

"Hey, chicken. *Do* it."

And for a moment Tim wonders if he's getting *taller*, because Clark's hand and his own penis seem to be getting farther and farther *away* -- tunnel vision, everything he is narrowing down --

And down --

Black --

"Oh, pet..."

He coughs out his air --

Black --

He's whooping and *howling*, throwing his head back and *howling*, because nothing has ever been this intense, nothing has ever rolled right *through* him like this, nothing has ever lit up every hurt place he *has* --

But he can't ejaculate around the *spike*. He --

He howls again --

*Again*, and he's fighting, *pleading* --

"Cornfed, Clarkie, *farm*-fresh. I'm gonna *need* that cock later."

Clark sighs. "I suppose you're right," he says, and whisper-hisses again, turning the spike liquid --

Tim shrieks and comes --

And comes --

The spike *solidifies* --


"It's just that he's so *beautiful* --"

"Yeah, yeah, gimme the *money* shot."

Liquid again, and Tim can't breathe in more than shuddering pants, desperate *pants* --

All he can do is arch and *shoot* --

Over and *over* --

Black --


Black --

"I'm going to be rather upset if you've worn him out completely, Clark."

"Oh, honestly, Bruce, have a little *faith*. In *him* if not in me."

"Somehow, I've failed to test him with an experience quite like that one --"

"Well, whose fault is that?"


Clark hums -- and that is definitely his smooth, hot finger stroking down the midline of Tim's torso. "He's awake."

Is he?


"Oh, yes. Though, to be fair, he might be somewhat... ah... out-of-sorts."

Bruce hums... and Matches pats Tim's cheek with *affectionate* firmness. "Wakey, wakey, chicken. Let's see those baby blues."

That. Tim opens his eyes. "I always thought 'baby' blue was a warmer color. Or... perhaps more of a pastel? Oh. I suppose I *am* conscious."

Matches shows his teeth. He's standing on Tim's right, and he's naked except for the sunglasses, the chain, and his fuchsia boxer shorts. And, well, the *wig* --

But the wig doesn't count for things like this. It never does --

"Tell us how you feel, chicken."

"That -- is an excellent question. Ah... give me a moment, please."

"Sure thing," Matches says, and strokes Tim's swollen mouth with gentle care.

Tim shivers for it -- and *then* realizes what position he's in. Or -- yes, he can work it out. He's suspended 'on' his back some four feet above the floor. His *hands* are free, but his wrists and forearms are *encased* in something that feels like leather, but is probably Fortress. His arms are chained roughly perpendicular to his torso, though angled outward -- presumably to offer easier to access to his torso. His feet are also free, and his ankles and calves are encased in the same 'leather'. His legs, however, are spread in a *broad* 'v'. It's not as much of a split as he was in before -- not by a long road -- but...

Access will be very, very easy.

Tim swallows -- and *only* then notices the neck support. Throat support? Posture collar? That, he thinks, is the most accurate description for it. It's less tight than *firm* -- no.

It *is* tight -- and perfectly form-fitting. It's just that the past three weeks have taught him new ways to *define* 'tight'. He can swallow perfectly well in the collar, but he can't turn his head, or lean back, or look forward --

"Tick-tock, chicken."

"I'm sorry, Matches, Clark; I'm not sure *how* I feel about the collar. I mean, it's quite comfortable --"

"Heh. It's *too* comfortable, isn't it."

Is that really -- Tim licks his lips. "I won't. I won't have to *struggle* to stay in position --"

"No, you won't," Clark says, and he just *is* on Tim's left. "You won't have to do anything but... submit." And then he touches the collar and pushes --

There's a *clicking* sound --

And Tim's head is being held perfectly -- not upright. Upright relative to this *position*. He can see precisely how erect his penis -- still? -- is, and the sight is enough to make him throb --

And clench --

He's empty.

He's -- empty?

Tim whimpers because it's the only sound that makes any *sense* for a moment --

"Oh... beautiful," Clark says, and touches the collar again --

Click --

And now Tim is looking at the back wall -- his head is upside down. His --

It would be very, very easy for someone to fuck his throat in this position. Hm. Tim attempts to move on his own -- and the collar tightens minutely, but thoroughly. He's locked in place. But... "I can't help but wonder if you doubted my ability to... follow orders."

"Oh, no, please don't think that way," and Clark begins to stroke him, to pet and massage him everywhere except where the restraints are covering him --

The restraints offer their own massage.

"It's... mm, lovely," and Clark bites the back of Tim's left knee *hard* --

"*Ah* --"

Clark kisses and licks and bites *again* --

"Oh -- yes, please --"

<<Fine one. Precious boy. This day could not last long enough for my tastes.>> "Matches, if you would...?"

"Mm. Anything you say, cornfed," and Matches touches the collar --

Click --

And Tim is focused on his own erection again --

And on the very large, very beautiful, very -- amorous. Tim licks his bruised lips and feels --

Clark flares his nostrils --

"What's got you so conflicted, baby boy?" Matches chucks his chin --

"Is it still the collar...? Because, truly, I chose it not because I wished to denigrate your ability to follow orders quickly and well, but rather because I find that it enhances your beauty," Clark says, cupping Tim's ass and squeezing. "I have always found Bruce's choices for your collars most alluring."

Tim blinks --

Matches rolls the stick between his lips. "Pretty sure those were some *other* guy's choices, cornfed."

Batman *alone* chose the collars? That... is suspicious. Considering. Tim narrows his eyes.

Matches smiles *widely*. "You don't believe me, chicken?" Matches sucks his teeth. "That's a real shame. A *cryin'* shame."

"Oh... very true," Clark says, and his eyes flare purple around the edges again. "Lack of trust is very problematic."

"Kinda. Kinda the opposite of *copacetic*."

Clark nods solemnly. "After everything we've done for you."

"Everything we've *meant* to each other, even," and Matches rolls his shoulders and sniffs.

Tim -- blinks more. And licks his lips --

And winces --

And shivers-clenches-moans -- *shouts* for the feel of Clark slapping his penis.

"You really must focus, boy. We're not done conversing."

"I'm -- very sorry --"

"But are you sorry for not trusting ol' Matches?" And Matches waggles his eyebrows.

Tim laughs. "I *always* trust you to have my best interests at... ah... somewhere very important to you."

Matches and Clark share a look -- "Are we takin' that?"

"Well... we *could*. But."

"There's more, yeah," Matches says, and, *ominously*, takes a pair of large latex gloves from Clark --

And smiles, almost certainly for Tim's expression. Which --

"*This* gets you twitched, chicken? *After* cornfed turned your sweet little ass into a robo-snakepit?"

Robo-- well. "Ah... you have a point. Please... carry on."

"Don't mind if I do," Matches says, and the lubricant he's working into the gloves -- and along the length of the entirely average-looking sound -- is *also* entirely average-looking, but Tim knows, at this point, that it won't be.

The question is whether or not he's still trading *days* for questions --

And they're smiling at him like they can *read* that --

They see him. They know him.

They see him and they know him and they *still* want him, still --

Well, of course Matches --

Bruce --

God, he needs -- "Nine days," Tim blurts, and feels himself flush --

And Clark parts his lips --

And Matches *licks* his lips. "Go on, pretty boy. Ask."

"I need -- do you -- Clark," Tim says, and cuts his eyes enough that he can *mostly* meet Clark's gaze --

Clark makes it easier immediately. "Fine one. Ask."

"How. How do you feel about *me*?"

Clark blinks in *surprise* -- and then smiles so warmly, so sweetly... "Were you my boy in truth, I would, perhaps, never share you, at all. I am a creature of many greeds, many hungers, many *lusts*..." Clark sighs. "I have loved you for a very long time. In glimpses, in shadows, in hints and *conjectures*... but there is more," and Clark's smile turns sharp.

Tim pants --

Swallows --

The collar *squeezes* him, hard enough to make him *moan* -- "Ten days. And I. I would like to be hurt for my questions --"

"Did you think you *wouldn't* be, chicken?" Matches sucks his teeth again. "Oh ye of little *faith*," and he begins to... slick Tim's penis, not stroke it. He seems far more interested in working the lubricant in all over than in stimulating Tim further.

The fact that Tim is panting for it thus *must* be an afterthought --

Even though Matches and Clark are both *smiling* at him --

And Matches releases him after giving him a *firm* squeeze --

Tim moans --

And Matches begins slicking the sound.

"Oh... may I, Matches?"

"Heh. Only if you do it slow, Clarkie."

"Of course. If you would just make sure... yes, you missed a spot on the sound right... perfect."

Matches grins and hands the sound to Clark. There's a moment when Tim's brain insists that whatever it is can't be *that* bad -- Clark's hands are bare -- but then sanity regains ascendancy, and Tim shivers and licks his lips --

"Are you ready, fine one...?"

Tim pants -- "You haven't asked that question --"

"It wouldn't do to overuse it," Clark says, and taps the slit with the tip of the sound. "Answer."

Tim moans -- "Yes, Clark."

"Good," and he holds Tim's penis what must be at a perfect ninety-degree angle to his torso, sets the sound against the slit --

Tim closes his eyes -- no. Tim opens his eyes and breathes as steadily as he can, as *easily* as he can, even though the sound is --


Tim blinks and looks to Clark --

Who winks at him as he guides the sound in -- slower than it would sink on its own. Slower and --

Focusing like this, Tim can see -- and feel -- Clark breathing warm on the sound to keep it from cooling too much in the air, which frankly bodes *frightening* for what's going to happen with it once it's inside. If *this* part is comfortable --

If he's going to be able to get *used* to the sensation of being filled this way --

The *wrong* way --

Tim flushes hard as the sound slips past some unknowable and almost certainly *biologically* meaningless threshold. There's no pain -- there's just the *reminder* of what it feels like for semen to pass that point coming from the other direction. He can't help staring at the thing, at the *delicate* touch Clark has on it --

"I begin to see why you prefer this method, Matches."

"That little -- heh -- *edge* of apprehension?"

"Oh, yes. He's so utterly focused..."

"But he's still listening to *every* word."

"*Do* you do this...?"

"Nah, it's those other guys. But I've *thought* about it. There's nothin' I don't want with my baby boy."

Clark sighs. "So beautiful. So willing and open... a little faster, I think," and he loosens his grip on the sound --

And it begins to sink faster *immediately* --

Tim can feel *everywhere* the Kryptonian sound had -- bruised him? Left him -- ready, not raw. *Sensitized*, because it seems like he can feel every cell, every part of him which can swell and fill --

He's panting through his nose --

He's throbbing and there's a noise --

He's *whining* --

It's in. It's -- in.

Clark removes Bruce's gloves and takes them -- somewhere --

"But, of course, I was speaking of my love for you. My need for you... here," Clark says, and squeezes him gently --

Tim *knows* it's gentle --

It --

He can *see* that it's gentle, so why is he screaming? God, screaming and -- and *leaking*, and it's not even *pain*. He *knows* what pain is like, he *understands* pain, he has a *relationship* --

He has *several* relationships with pain, and this isn't it. This is -- is --

This is something larger, something insistent and --

He needs --

He's leaking so *much* --

He can't stop screaming even for long enough to properly *sob* --

Matches touches the collar --

Click --

He can't breathe -- and he can't make a sound. At *all*. And then Matches wipes his eyes with one of the countless rainbow-hued handkerchiefs he always just *does* have to hand. They're actually cotton, so Tim can't even protest when he's *not*... this.

He still wants to scream.

He still *needs* to --

Clark isn't squeezing him anymore.

Matches is *smiling* -- "What you may or may *not* have figured out, baby boy, is that the slick on the spike increases sensitivity. Heh. A *lot*."

Tim would like, very much, to whimper. It's a kind of enough when three more tears roll down his cheeks --

And a different kind of enough when Matches licks them away. He --

("You're gonna gimme everything, chicken. Because that's *exactly* what I want.")

That. Tim licks his lips and shivers, tries to *comprehend* the feeling from his penis --

It's not a burn, or an ache, or a shock, or anything like that. It's an exclamation; it's the physical expression of the scream he can't utter, it's --

"That feeling, fine one. That look in your beautiful eyes, as if they have never been cold, and could never *be* cold. That *pain*... is it betrayal?"

Tim opens his mouth -- remembers -- he shakes his head.

Clark nods. "All right. Subjective time allows me much... and demands much, in turn. I am given weeks and years to wallow in your beauty, your myriad sounds of enjoyment, your laughter. I am given still more time to imagine them made for myself. To *dream* them for myself until it seems strange that they were ever made for anyone else. And then, of course, I am given the truth -- or what I was led to *believe* was the truth."

Oh -- oh, no --

"Ah, you strain to make a noise. Is it more pain, fine one? Is it understanding, at last?"

Tim mouths 'I'm sorry' *frantically*, over and over --

"You are, I know, and it *is* enough. But the ache remains, fine one, sweet boy, *beloved* pet... Tim."

Tim seizes *hard* --

Tries and fails to scream --

Clenches on *nothing* --

Black --

And there is nothing lovely about the *whooping* sound he makes as he gasps -- he hadn't had *time* to center himself before the collar tightened -- but that doesn't seem to matter to Matches and Clark, who are watching him avidly and --

They love him. They *both* love him, and he hasn't *given* --

He's always *wanted* to give --

Clark bends Tim's left foot down and licks the underside from heel to toe.

Matches *tears* off his boxer shorts, and there *is* a part of Tim which believes -- strongly -- that that sort of thing will stop *working* on him eventually --

*Someday* --

But he's always wanted to give, and now he can.

And perhaps that's why he's going back and forth between signing 'please' and signing 'I love you' with both hands while he whimpers and gasps, perhaps that's why it feels so *good* to scream *with* his penis as it twitches --

As he leaks and *throbs* --


Matches rolls his head on his neck and cracks his knuckles. "What's the 'hm' for, cornfed? I'm gettin' kind of impatient over here."



"It's only..."

Matches looks at Clark.

Tim signs *frantically* --

Wait, he *can* speak. He opens his mouth --

And Clark is right there to touch the collar, which tightens --

Clicks --

And he's looking at the back wall again, upside down and not *breathing* --

"It's just that I haven't decided what I *want*, Matches."

"Heh. Yeah, you have."

"I assure you --"

"You want everything with my baby boy -- *our* baby boy --"

Clark *grunts* --

"You want everything you can *get*."

"*Bruce* -- I mean --"

"Shut it, cornfed. What do you want the *most* --"

"I really think we ought to *discuss* --"

"*I* think... mm," and that's definitely Matches stroking circles around Tim's nipples with the stick -- "Squeeze his cock again."

"I --"

"Do it."

"He can't even *scream* like --"

"So let him."

The collar releases him -- but there's no pause, no *transition*, no sense of anything *solid* before Tim is screaming again, signing 'please' over and over again so he can *keep* screaming --

There's so much --

Is it light?

Does light *provide* sensation -- no, that's an *idiotic* question. Thousands of Green Lanterns protect the universe via the judicious *use* of light in --

Not in these respects. Not --

But would this *count* as misuse?

How much does he really want to *know* about -- but the suggestions implanted in him won't *let* him follow that train of thought, or anything else that would take him away from the sensations slamming through him, *rolling* through him --

He has to *breathe* sometime --

But are Matches and Clark still talking? Have they decided what to *do* with him? He has to *know*, he has to --

They *love* him, and he has to be able to give them everything they *need*. That's what you *do* when there's love, real love, and he's known that -- no. He'd spent a great deal of time *not* knowing that in more than just abstract, cultural-sponging terms, but now --

("You think ol' Matches lets pretty boys like you get away from him?")

And really, there was a lot he'd *wanted* to say to that, but --

("That's for those other punks, chicken. They don't know how to *treat* boys like you. They don't. They don't know how. They don't know how to *appreciate* boys like you --")

God, he could *feel* Bruce *straining*, feel him trying to reach, feel him --

Feel everything, absolutely *everything* --

Just like now. Just --

("And you do?"

"I'll show you, baby. Just you wait.")

Matches shows him everything, all the time. Matches strips every other identity *bare*, because even when he *isn't* at the heart of them --

Even when he isn't the razor and the *heat* at the heart --

Oh, God, that *squeeze* --

And being upside-down just means that the tears are flowing into his *hair*, that the sweat is flowing into his eyes and making him tear *more* --

No, he has to focus, has to --

"-- to this for hours, really -- oh, he's stopped."

Tim pants --

Pants --

Clark -- it *has* to be Clark -- tickles the backs of Tim's knees --

Tim *croons* a laugh --


"At this point..."


"All right, I'll admit that there's a *powerful* desire to see how much of this you'll put *up* with --"

"Tick. Freakin'. Tock."

Clark coughs. "As you say. I believe I'll just --" And those are Clark's hands on his hips, smooth and hard and hot. "Tim. Fine one..."

"Yes. Y-yes..."

Clark sighs. "Take all of me. *All*," he says, and pushes --

So --

There's so *much* of him, and for some reason it's *difficult* to --

Oh -- "The -- the tentacles weren't... big?"

"Mm... is that eleven days, Matches? Or twelve?"

"I think we should call it twelve. Just for the timing's sake," Matches says. "Slap his cock."

"As you *say* --"

The first sensation is more shock than anything else, more -- more of a blank wall to be *shoved* against while the rest of his body sorts itself into something which can --

Can --

Oh, God, it's building, it's *building*, and this time it won't stop at the plateau it had reached before, this time --

He can almost *see* the sensation, see it *rocketing* up and up past everything, past *pain* --

Feel it spreading through him, red and white and hot, so *hot* --

"Are you still focused, precious boy?"

Tim pants through his nose and nods, he can't --

He can't *speak*, but he can --

Oh, but can they *see* him --

"Do we let him get away with that, Clarkie?"

"I think we can, Matches. I mean, I *am* halfway inside him and he is -- mm. Milking me most *wonderfully*."

"You really gotta love that."

"Yes. Oh, yes."

"All right, he can nod. Answer his question."

"Of course," Clark says, and starts to *rock* --

In --

*Inside* --

Tim can *feel* that in his penis, and the --

The light and *heat* --

Tim whines and *sobs* --

"Oh -- a little longer, Tim..."

Tim nods and bites his lip, clenching harder and flexing *open* for the way *that* pain focuses things, *gives* --

"Perfect, oh... so beautiful," Clark says, and rocks in -

In --

*In* -- "The tentacles, such as they were --"

"I think we can agree that they *were* tentacles, Clarkie."

"Well -- mm. Yes, but, truly, that was just one of their functions, Matches --"

Tim catches himself signing 'what what WHAT,' but --

"Oh, thirteen days? *Thanks*, baby boy."

-- it's much too late --

"They were quite... oh..." Clark moans and *shoves* --

Tim *growls* a scream, tries to swallow it, tries to *strangle* it --

His throat is so *open* in this position, and once he starts screaming freely again --

Once he loses --

Loses control --

"Better make it quick, cornfed," and Matches starts dragging his penis over Tim's *lips* --

Tim hums in *shock* --

"You *had* to see this coming, chicken..."

He has a point. And yet --

"Oh, just -- a little --" And Clark grunts as he *pulls* Tim onto his penis --

Tim *shouts* --

Wails --

No, no, he can't, he *can't* --

"Oh, baby, sweet... you don't know what you *do* to me when you make those sounds..."

He does, he wants to, he *needs* to --

"And -- mm. To be fair, he *should* know what he does to *me*," Clark says, and now he's pulling Tim into his thrusts --

Into *every* thrust --

"Drivin' you crazy, cornfed?"

"Making me -- oh. So... but I was going to answer a question."

Matches chuckles and *slaps* Tim's mouth with his penis, spattering Tim's chin with pre-ejaculate -- "You could consider it. You know. If it's not too much trouble."

"Oh -- hardly any, at all -- do keep grunting just like that, Tim."

Yes -- oh, yes -- yes --

"Yeah, keep it *up*," and Matches goes back to painting Tim's lips. "But you were sayin'?"

"The tentacles, if braided together -- and they were at several points -- were designed to be no broader and no longer than Roy Harper's penis."

"*Hnh* --"

Matches pauses.

Clark pauses --

"What was that, chicken?"

"I -- ah. I don't know? Oh, no, *wait* --"

But Clark is squeezing Tim's penis --

And Matches is twisting Tim's nipples --

And --

And he doesn't *know*, because everything is bright, everything is loud, everything is wild and in *motion*, because his body doesn't belong to him, his mouth his ass his throat --

That sound --

Those sounds are *him*, and he's not --

Connected --

He's untethered and *floating* --

"Oh -- not quite yet," Clark says, and Tim doesn't know what that *means*, but there's a hum that isn't him --

A warmth he doesn't *understand* --

Something --

Something so *sweet* --

"NNH --"

And then he's slamming back into his body -- because Clark is vibrating his entire body and thus Tim's, *too*. Tim grits his teeth and whines through them, twitching and flexing and --

"That's better, isn't it?" And Clark stops --

And Tim slumps -- "Nuh --"

And Matches *immediately* starts dragging the head of his penis over Tim's mouth again. "But you were saying, chicken?"

"I... ah. I'm definitely... attracted... Daddy, I don't think my spine is still located in quite the same place --"

"Oh, it is," Clark says, and pats his hip before starting to thrust once more. "*How* attracted?"

"I - I -- oh. Oh, so --I can't -- concentrate --"

"Should we hurt you more, chicken...?"

Tim opens his mouth -- but the only thing that comes out is a moan, desperate and *loud*.

Matches pants and cups his chin -- "Tim."

It's not Matches. It -- "Daddy?"

Clark *stops* --

"Yours, of course. Always..." Bruce *strokes* Tim's chin with his thumb. "We wish to take you at once --"

"*Please* -- oh, *please* --"

"Shh," Bruce says, and *presses* on Tim's mouth with his thumb. "With you restrained, you will *only* be able to sign if you need us to stop. We may not see those signs right away. You may not be able to sign *clearly*. I --"

"I *trust* you, Daddy! And -- Clark, too!"

Clark moans and -- speed-babbles something *fervent* --

"My love... are you *sure*."

Tim moans again --

Tries to speak and moans *again* --

Cuts himself off with a growl that because a *shout* when he clenches involuntarily -- "*Please*! I'm *sure*! I need -- I need to belong to you *both*!"

"Then..." Bruce's hand trembles on Tim's face -- "Then you always will --"

"*Yes*, Tim --"

"You got five seconds to breathe, chicken. After that -- heh. *You* know what you're gonna get."

Oh --

For a moment, it seems as though nothing will ever hurt as *wonderfully* as the smile on his face --

"Thank you, Daddy!"

"You're welcome, baby. *Breathe*."

And that's what he does, smiling and opening and *relaxing* --

Clark moans --

Clark begins to slip *out* --

And then he and Matches push in *together*, inch by *warm* inch, *thick* inch, *slick* --

Tim moans until he can't, shivers and clutches at the chains, rocks until they hold him *still* --

"Good. Good boy --"

"*Eager* little chicken," and Matches grunts and starts to *ride* Tim's mouth. "Just what I *like*."

"Oh -- oh, Matches, so *rough* --"

"You ain't seen nothin' yet."

"Still, his mouth -- "

"You think he might bleed more, cornfed?"

Clark grunts and *grips* Tim's hips -- "I --"

"You think you wanna *taste* it?"

Clark *growls* -- and then he's thrusting as fast as Matches is, thrusting hard and --

They're *working* Tim *between* them --

*Using* him --

"Mm. Look at that pretty flush..."

"Like... oh, like wine..."

"Rich and *dark*..."

"Want. I want to *drink*, Matches --"

"Then ring 'im," Matches says, and Tim can *hear* the grin in his voice, so sharp and --

"Oh -- he's going to scream very vehemently if I remove the sound --"

Matches thrusts *deep* --

Tim groans in his *chest* --

"Not now he won't, cornfed. Do it."

Clark moans *high* --

Black --

Black --

Oh he wants to scream he has to scream there's so much he's ejaculating metal and there's so much why is there so much he has to --

Scream --

So --

Black --

Hum --

*Heavy* hum -- and Matches is grunting *desperately* --

*Repeatedly* --

And that's when Tim realizes that Clark is vibrating all three of them, that --

At some point, he's going to have to decide how he *feels* about this method of being brought back to consciousness, but perhaps not until after he's done being reamed out by the World's Finest.

Tim smiles around Matches' penis -- and knows Matches has seen it -- felt it? -- by the way he grunts louder and fucks *harder*, *driving* into Tim's throat with every thrust and only giving him time for *sips* of air.

It's all he needs, especially since *Clark's* thrusts are ragged and *fast*, slick beyond all -- human -- comprehension --

Which lubricant is he using *there*?

What would it *feel* like if he were to use the lubricant which increased sensitivity --

No, Clark would undoubtedly get bored the fifth or sixth time he had to bring Tim back to consciousness. This -- this is more than enough. This is almost *perfect*, and the only thing that would make it better would be being able to see their *faces*.

But there's something to be said for the *slap* of Matches' scrotum against the bridge of his nose -

"Baby -- oh, *baby* --"

And for that --

And for the feel of Matches so deep in his throat, so --

He doesn't *stretch* there, and he's *going* to be raw, raw to express how full he is right *now* --

"*Tim*, my fine one, most desired *boy*, do you *feel* --"

"Nod -- he's *nodding*, cornfed -- can't take that --"

Tim *stops* --

Matches *growls* -- "Good boy, good *toy*," he says, and *twists* Tim's nipples just as he pulls out *enough* --

Tim whimpers and *yells* --

Matches chokes it off --

Clark pulls most of the way out --

"Oh, *yeah*, cornfed. *This*," Matches says, twisting harder and pulling out again just as Clark *slams* in --

Tim *screams* --

Matches thrusts --

Tim clenches on nothing as Clark pulls *out* --

And then they're alternating thrusts perfectly, working him back and forth between them, *pushing* him back and forth when Tim can't swing properly --

Of course they can move him --

Of course they can *support* him --

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

"What -- heh. What can I do you for, cornfed?"

"*This*. *More*."



"I can *do* more," Matches says, and then there's a grind, a slapping thrust, a *rush* --

There's so much --

Tim's so moved --

Tim's so full --

Tim's so *fucked* --

And nothing has ever felt this perfect, nothing has ever made his penis feel this *happily* irrelevant, this pleased to be relatively *ignored*. They're not *stopping*, and Clark's moans just get higher, seemingly *younger* --

Matches' grunts get *hungrier* --

Black --

Oh, he's forgetting to *breathe* when he can, when --

Black --

God, and Matches is thrusting faster --

And Clark is thrusting faster --

Out --

Tim gasps --

Shudders --

Matches growls and *grips* the collar -- and Bruce slurs something in *archaic* Kryptonian that Tim can't catch --

The collar *flows* off and Bruce is stroking his throat, massaging him --

"Oh, Bruce, I *understand*," Clark says, and that hand is on Tim's penis again --

The feeling is so loud --

The rhythm is *incomprehensible* --

But he doesn't have to comprehend a thing, he doesn't have to do anything but take it, take everything they can give him, offer his body for their use, their love --

He's so sorry not to have *done* this before --

Clark groans -- "Sweet boy, your regret makes me --"

"*Ache*," Bruce says, and slams in once --

Again --

Again and he's *snarling*, *choking* Tim -- "My *love* --"

Tim signs 'yes' with both *hands* --

And Bruce *buries* himself in Tim's throat and ejaculates, moaning and shuddering on his feet. It isn't the first time Tim has felt Bruce's penis twitching in his throat, but it's the first time in this *position*, and it makes Tim want to grip something, want to *hold* --

Yes --

Oh, yes --

Bruce is groaning and still *twitching* --

Bruce is *gripping* Tim's throat --

Black --

Bruce pulls out and does *something* with the chains -- and then Tim is upright and gasping with his legs locked around Clark's hips and his arms in the air --

"*Daddy*, I need --"

"Here," Bruce says, and he simply *is* pressed to Tim's back, warm and hairy and sweat-slick. He's stroking Tim's sides and chest, Tim's arms and thighs --

Tim breathes and slumps back against him --

And then realizes that Clark's hands are on his hips again, that Clark is still inside him, that Clark had *stopped* thrusting --

Tim isn't sure *how* to classify the noise he just made, save that it seems to be an entirely reasonable response to the sharp smile on Clark's face.

*More* archaic Kryptonian -- this time from Clark -- and the accent is the one the AI had used to demonstrate what happened to the language -- The Language -- when populations had been isolated due to war and *plague* --

The only thing Tim can be sure of is that he's being asked a *question* --

But there is only *one* acceptable answer: <<Yes,>> Tim says, and signs it, too, and slurs it when Bruce slips two fingers into his mouth --

"Two weeks? That's wonderful, fine one."

"Oh, *God* --"

"And so is this," Clark says, and begins to thrust again, parting his lips and panting for each thrust, each *push*, so hot and so --

So sweet and deep, so *deep* --

"Oh -- *nnh* --"

"Beautiful, so -- would you have my control, fine one?"

Tim blinks --

Bruce tugs his fingers *out* of Tim's mouth again --

"I -- what -- *ahn* --"

The bite to his lip is *vicious*, but almost perfunctory -- Clark doesn't want to bruise him any more than he already is --

"Fifteen days, fine one, and I -- it is not enough -- "

"Please -- *please* --"

"You can *have* my control -- I can continue this motion... oh, almost indefinitely," and Clark smiles even *more* sharply. "Or you can have something else."

Oh. Oh --

Bruce *sighs* -- and Tim knows what *he* likes, what *he* wants --

And what he wants to see.

Tim licks his lips as *firmly* as he can, watching Clark narrow his eyes for it and trying to hold on against the relentlessness of Clark's thrusts, the perfect *shiver*, the *roil* that drives him *higher* -- no. He doesn't have to hold on, at all. He doesn't -- "No control. No -- *please* --"

"Ah -- I can't give you that. So -- so beautiful and human and *fragile* -- but yes. As you would. *Hold* him, Bruce --"

"With pleasure," and Bruce grips the backs of Tim's *thighs*, bending them up and back --

*Exposing* him --

And Clark's hand is so *big* on his *throat* --

And Clark's kiss is so --

So *hard* --

But no harder than the fuck, than the -- the shove and *slam*, and Tim is whimpering into Clark's mouth, Tim is shaking -- no. Tim is *shuddering*, because every thrust tells him exactly how *thick* Clark is, how hot --

How *good* --

Tim whimpers *louder* -- no, that's Clark breaking the kiss to bite Tim's cheek, to *growl* against Tim's cheek, lick Tim's chin --

Move his hand and bite Tim's throat --

So --

Tim *screams* for the *suck* --

And then screams again, because there's nothing human about the way Clark is fucking him, nothing --

Nothing *comprehensible* --

It's so *fast* --

"Hold on, little one."

"Daddy -- *Daddy* --"

"He will not injure you."

"*Ohn* -- it feels -- I've never --"

"I know," Bruce says, and nuzzles Tim's ear. "Take it all."

And Tim hears himself make a *croaking* noise -- but it's not as important as the feel of himself relaxing into it, giving *in* to the fuck --

To *Clark* --

Bruce sighs in his ear. "Good boy."

Tim slumps even more --

Clark's groan against his throat is *vibrato* --

And somehow his thrusts are even deeper, even *faster*, somehow --

God, that *friction*, and Tim's been *trained* to feel this way for the scent of his own sweat in moments like this --

The scent of Bruce's --

The scent of *Clark's*, because he's even slicker now than he was before, because he's pushing closer like he can't get close *enough* --


"Everything is yours," Bruce says --

"*Yes*," Clark *growls* --

"*Ohn* --"

He wants --

He *wants*, and he --

Can't come. Tim sobs and shudders *harder* --

Bruce kisses his temple --


Clark growls and stiffens *impossibly* against him, making Tim feel soft and --

More fragile than he's ever *been* --

Clark pulls back --  "*Tim*!"

And his eyes flare *painfully* bright in the moments before he shouts and comes, ejaculating over and over again --

*Filling* him --

Tim clenches and doesn't come and *screams* --

And screams again when Bruce kisses his ear --

And again when Clark takes the ring off and his penis twitches so violently Tim can feel everywhere *both* sounds touched --

Everywhere the *lubricant* touched --

And now he's sobbing more than screaming, shaking and tensed and needing, needing so *much*, and he knows Bruce is saying something --

Clark is kissing him all over --

He's being moved --

Bed, and he knows it because he knows the precise feel of Alfred-approved sheets on bite marks --

Bruises --

He's on his back and Bruce is kissing his mouth -- no. *Daddy* is kissing his mouth, because those are Daddy's hands cupping his face so perfectly, and those are the sounds Daddy makes when he wants Tim to relax and *open*. They're low *and* deep, rich *and* heavy, and Tim is spreading his legs --

Clark hums and strokes Tim's inner thighs. <<'And I would take this madness and become something greater, something spread and taken --'>> "But of course that play was strictly forbidden by the time I was born -- though not because of all the sex. Beautiful boy. How long may I tease you?"

He *wants* to answer -- but when Daddy pulls back to let him, Tim hears himself whine *ridiculously* --and he's clutching at Daddy and pulling him back. He's --

"Son. I'm here," Daddy says, and kisses him again, again --

"Yes, I see," Clark says. "Another time," and he swallows him --

Sucks --

Tim shouts --

And shouts into Daddy's mouth --

He wants to kiss, he wants to kiss so *badly*, and touch, stroke, *hold*, but one hand is spasming on Daddy's shoulder and he's all but *slapping* at Clark with the other --

He's arching and *straining* --

He can't remember *how* to thrust --

And Daddy pulls back to lick his mouth and smile at him. "I love you. Give in."



"*HNH* --"

And Tim is aware of his eyes rolling back and of a sound coming out of his mouth that he'd never want to *admit* to --

But nothing matters, nothing is *better* than the fact that he's finally managed to clutch both of them, than the *feel* of it as his body tries to jack-knife, as everything in him burns and flares and --

And --

Clark is humming --

Daddy is kissing him so *softly* --

The inside of his penis is *screaming* so *perfectly* --

The moment --

Stretches --


"-- convince you to take up smoking one of the all-natural, additive-free tobacco products at times like this --"


"It's only --"

"Lois' habits have trained you. Yes, I know. Hmm. Son. Open your eyes."

"Yes, Daddy," Tim says, and -- tries.

Very hard. Very --

He manages. His vision is distinctly blurry --

But Daddy wipes his eyes with a *white* handkerchief, and -- he can see. Daddy is leaning over him on his left, Clark is hovering slightly *above* the bed on the right so as to make it easier to pet Tim with both hands. The bed -- with its red and blue sheets and blond wood accents -- is almost certainly nearly identical to the bed in Clark Kent's apartment on Schuster Avenue in Metropolis. It... hmm.

Will there be rooms decorated for everyone Daddy wants to share him with? The manor *is* big enough -- isn't it?

*Who* rouses jealousy and who *doesn't*?

What will it take to find out?

What will he have to *give* -- other than everything?

Clark kisses a slow path down from Tim's right shoulder to his fingertips.

Daddy pushes Tim's head to the right and begins making slow and not *especially* wet love to his throat.

They are not ready for him to be... anything but this.

What is *he* ready for?

("Chicken, *chicken*. You and I both know you'll claw your way back up *eventually*.")


Tim smiles wryly --

Clark makes a soft noise --

And Bruce -- not Daddy -- hums and pulls back to study him, turning Tim's head to make it easier.

"I -- sorry --"

"No," Bruce says. "We asked much. You gave more. Here." He snaps his fingers three times, and --

There's a moment when Tim thinks he won't feel anything in particular --

And then there's a moment when the world seems larger and broader and *colder*. Or perhaps that's just his mind. Tim smiles ruefully and sits up on his elbows. He considers for a moment, and then he pulls up his right leg --

And Clark makes an *appreciative* sound and rests one hand on Tim's inner thigh. For a moment, they all simply stare at it there. It's golden against Tim's pale skin, perfect against Tim's *scarred* skin, *warm* --

But Bruce can't see the warmth --

He just knows it's there.

After a moment, Tim takes a deep breath --

And another --

And then he smiles and tilts his head back just so. Bruce hums and cups his face immediately, and the kiss is warm, slow, and gentle enough that Tim's swollen mouth mutters more than yells. When Bruce licks his way out of the kiss, he raises an eyebrow --

And when Tim nods, Bruce turns him into a kiss from Clark. It's hot enough to make him shiver, but still slow and gentle --

But Clark pulls back abruptly and moans -- and smiles ruefully. "I want more."

Tim blinks and opens his mouth --

And immediately gets it covered with two long, smooth fingers. "A statement, not a request. I smell your pain *and* your fatigue, fine one. But... will we have this again?" Clark moves his fingers and raises his eyebrows.

Tim smiles and opens his mouth to say yes -- but Timmy Drake licks his lips and smirks. "That's up to Daddy." Wait, what? Tim tries again --

And Timmy giggles.

Tim frowns --

And Alvin sneers --

And Tim *fights* --

And *Dottie* tosses her *hair* --

Oh, for the love of --

"I think," Timmy says, pointing his toes and crosses his legs at the ankle, "that all hands are just a little *confused* about our standing *orders*, cap'n."

Clark blinks somewhat stupidly. He and Timmy stare at Bruce together --

And Bruce pulls on Matches with a leer and a stretch. "Told ya you'd still be my whore, chicken."

Clark coughs --

Timmy pouts. "Until *when*?"

"Until I say different, natch," and Matches pulls a stick from the bedside table and circles Timmy's nipples with it. "Now why don't you sashay over to the closet and put on somethin' pretty for Daddy? We gotta decide what you'll be wearin' for the next couple weeks."

Timmy blows out a gusty sigh and rolls to his feet before stepping off the bed. "*Fine*. But if gassing Jack Drake puts him in a coma again, I'm going to be *extremely* pissy."

Clark makes a sound like an accordion being run over --

"That's just fine, chicken. So long as you *behave*." And Matches sits up against the headboard with his hands folded behind his head and a smile on his face. Clark...

Well, Clark looks like he wants to say *something*, and *Tim* can even guess what it *is*...

But Timmy hasn't examined this closet, yet. There's no telling *what* fun things are in there.


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