Shed your skin
by Te
August 21, 2011

Disclaimers: No one and nothing here is mine.

Spoilers/Timeline: Vague references to older storylines. Takes place at an extremely nebulous point sometime after Tim moved out of the manor and sometime before his sixteenth birthday.

Summary: In which Bruce talks about his feelings.

Ratings Note: Sexual content which dovetails *severely* with the content some readers may find to be disturbing.

Author's Note: A commission for a fancreature who wishes to remain anonymous, but honestly, people who ask me for this kind of filth will *always* have a special place in my heart.

Acknowledgments: With much love for Pixie, Mildred, KingNorth, and ShadowValkyrie, all of whom provided audiencing and encouragement.


"Just what sort of undercover assignment *is* this?" And -- it's not that Tim thinks he'll get a reasonable answer. For one thing, Batman is Batman.

For another thing, Batman... isn't.

At present.

He --

Well, there are certain realities to Tim's specific lifestyle, and one of those realities is that there will occasionally be evenings when Dana Winters-Drake will insist on Family Outings. *Jack* Drake is never all that enthused about them, but he *always* agrees to them in the interest of Being A Better Husband And Father, and, thus, Tim has to agree to them, too. So.

A ten block walk to the park, followed by a jog around a sizeable fraction *of* the park, followed by a painfully *slow* walk home thanks to his father's bad leg --

Actual *homework* --

Technically, Tim is over an hour late for this rendezvous with Bruce in the Cave. Therefore --

"You makin' some kinda complaint, chicken?"

Tim has had the past couple of years to get used to Matches being Matches. The fact that he *hasn't*is thus proof of an essential failing within him. Still, this is, in fact, tactically sound. He pulls on one of Alvin's better sneers, holding up the cheap little red dress like it's been infused with something much, much worse than spandex. "You called for *backup* tonight, Matches. Not some --"

"Careful, careful," Matches says, and tugs the stick out from between his teeth before using it to gesture expansively. "I expect you to show some *respect* for your hardworking sisters out there."

Alvin does, in fact, have a history of hooking. A *brief* one --

Alvin had appeared in Matches' life at a *young* age, after all --

Alvin narrows his eyes as meanly as he wants to. "Nobody's gonna buy it."

Matches uses that scary, incongruous speed to get -- up close and personal. "You just let *me* worry about that. Chicken."

So that's that.

Still, once the falsies are on, the exceedingly high-coverage bra, the gaff -- nowhere near as cheap or as cheaply made as it *should* be for Alvin to wear --

Does Matches splurge on that kind of thing?

For -- anyone?

It's a question more than worth asking, but Batman is in the slightly-too-hard light in Matches' eyes -- time is short.

Happily, Tim's legs were already shaved for the undercover work he'd done two nights ago in one of Gotham's more fun clubs, so the -- very cheap -- thigh-highs go on perfectly. He -- hm. "No garters?"

Matches shows his teeth. "You want I should put some on for ya?"

Alvin sneers again. "Like you know how."

Matches cocks his head to the side thoughtfully, dangerously -- "You tryin' to make a little noise, Al? Make ol' Matches pay attention to what you do when I leave you alone with my wallet?"

Tim blinks -- no, not that. Alvin shrinks a little. "I didn't --"

"Didn't think so. Dress. *Now*."

Alvin shimmies into the dress and strikes a pose --

And Matches looks a lot happier. Good, fine, perfect.

Tim pulls on a choker which he knows cost a lot more than it looks like it did, uses the -- very --
cheap makeup to make himself look both older and -- extremely -- cheap --

And, by the time he's finished with that, Batman is styling his hair into something boyish -- as opposed to male. It takes him less than two minutes, and Tim is about to stand --

Bruce -- not Matches and *really* not Batman -- pinches Tim's earlobes between the pads of his fingers. Gently.

Tim raises an eyebrow.

Bruce raises one of his own, matchstick still between his teeth.

The question is an obvious one, though the timing is a little... Tim's not sure. Still, when *Bruce* asks him questions, it's always better to answer them. To -- have them, a little.

It always makes Tim feel... closer.

Tim licks his teeth -- his lipstick wouldn't stand up well to anything else -- and smiles ruefully. "I haven't figured out a way to justify piercings to my father."

A *brief* shadow in Bruce's eyes --

Something that almost looks *pained* --

And Tim can't. Not -- that. "I... might just go ahead and do it --"

"Do what, chicken?"

Okay, whiplash -- but every part of him can cope with that. "What I *want*," Alvin says, knocking Matches' hands aside and standing. "What's my name?"

Matches makes a show of studying him --

Gestures for him to *spin* --

Alvin does, using *everything* he's learned from his 'sisters' on the street --

Maybe the ones who chased him away from the *profitable* strolls --

"Nice," Matches says. "Very nice... Dottie."

Good enough. Tim makes Alvin make Dottie switch her *subtly* padded little hips --

And Matches smacks his --

Their --

Her. Matches smacks her ass.

And keeps his hand there. For --

A while.

Tim blushes and swallows --

"Mmm. Look what a pretty girl you can be," Matches says, and grips her right cheek --

Uses his free hand to slap and grip her *left* cheek --

Strokes around to her *hips* -- and grunts.


"Don't be shy now, precious. Daddy knows *exactly* what you like..."

What. The --

Wait, should Alvin be protesting at this point? What are they *doing* tonight?

Dottie tries on one of Alvin's sneers --

"No, baby. *Not* like that."

"I -- I -- sorry --"

"Shh, shh, I know..." Matches sighs and pulls Dottie back against him. "I know you're just a little girl. Too young for ol' Matches -- that's what everyone says, anyway. But we know different. Don't we?"

Tim swallows --

Alvin clenches --

And Dottie giggles. "Oh, *Matches*. The other kids are *kids*."

A flash of sharp teeth, the scent of cheap musk and sulfur from the match -- Matches leans in and kisses Dottie's cheek. "Not like you, princess. Not... mmm. But you know what'll happen if I see anyone else's hands on you, doncha?"

Translation: Bruce isn't satisfied with the padding. And... something else. *What* else?

"Don't make me wait, princess --"

"I -- I -- I'm not a *whore*."

"Heh. No?"

Wrong answer. Wrong answer? Dottie frowns, letting a little bit of a pout make it onto her face --

And then Matches' huge, tanned hands are cupping Dottie's breasts --

Squeezing and -- and *pressing* --

Stroking back down to Dottie's hips --

Yanking *up* the dress --

Tim moans, forcing his voice to crack high enough to sound like Dottie's --

Matches (Bruce?) *pauses* --

But then there's one hand cupping Tim through the gaff and another hand on Dottie's breast --

"Are you thinkin' about it, princess...?"

Thinking about *what*?

"Are you... mm. Thinkin' about what you are to me...?"

And this -- all of this -- had been precipitated by Tim saying -- oh.


Oh -- "I'm." Dottie blushes and bites her lip. She can't really *help* it -- "I'm your whore, Matches," she says, in a *small* voice.

"Bought you fair and square," he says, pulling back and smacking Dottie's ass *hard* before she can pull her dress down and straight again. "You're mine... and *everyone's* gonna know that tonight."

Well... fuck. Wait, no, he can --

She can --

Dottie turns around and smiles *wetly*. "You think I'm good enough to show off...?"

The hard light in Matches' eyes has *nothing* to do with Batman, this time. "I know you are. Just remember who you belong to and we'll do *just* fine."

Which -- the wet look was best.

He'd told Dottie not to be *shy* --

Okay. Tim can do this.

The fact that he'd assumed Matches would want *Alvin* for backup tonight... or. Hmm.

Maybe Matches is about to pick up a reputation for fucking underaged boys who dress like --

No, there wouldn't *be* padding -- or falsies this *good* -- if the assignment were anything like that. The fact is that Bruce hadn't said *anything* specific about Alvin --

The *other* fact is that the circles Matches move in aren't *big* on pedophiles --

The *other* other fact is that there's a *choker* --

Tim can do this. He focuses on Matches eyes over the aviator glasses --

And then Dottie purses her lips and switches her hips. "What are we *waiting* for, Daddy?"

Matches -

Bruce's penis twitches violently enough that Tim can *see* it happening under the gold and green checked pants, and now --

Now he's a little --

Matches chucks Dottie under the chin. "Don't lose it now, princess. We got people to do and things to *see*."

Penis. Penis.

*Penis* --

No. No. He's fine --

Dottie isn't shy --

Dottie gives Matches' scrotum --

Dottie gives Matches' *balls* a squeeze. "*I'm* fine, Daddy. You sure you don't need me to take care of somethin'?"

Matches rolls the stick to the other side of his mouth, and his smile is lazy and bright and *slick*. "You be a good girl tonight and you just might get a treat."

Dottie licks her teeth. "I'm *always* good --"

Matches snaps his fingers and points --

To the heavily-restored nineteen-seventy-nine Chrysolet Hercules which is Matches' current car of choice.

Dottie giggles and salutes, sloppy and loose, then slips into her bright red spike heels -- they don't *quite* match the dress -- and jogs for the car.

Matches paces her perfectly.

And --

For a while, it's a little strange and wrong. This car needs *city* streets, but they're in the suburbs. The richer-than-God suburbs, at that.

Dottie hunches in on herself a little --

Matches snaps his fingers again --

Apparently, Dottie is supposed to be able to brazen *anything* out. "Sorry, Matches --"

"Uh, huh. Just don't do it again and everything'll be copacetic, princess."

"I want some gum," Dottie tries --

"You're old enough for your wants not to hurt ya, princess."

Dottie giggles. "*Barely*."

Matches grins and reaches over to *grip* Dottie's left thigh. "You do all right."

God, his hand --

His big, hard --

But Dottie's allowed to moan --

Dottie *should* moan, and maybe cover that hand with one of hers --

Matches rumbles and *shoves* his hand under Dottie's dress --

"*Oh* --"

"Easy, princess, easy. You gotta save some for the main *event*."

And what's *that* supposed to -- no. No --

("Your tasks will not merely require physical prowess. Your tasks will not merely require emotional fortitude. Your tasks will not merely require intellectual perfection. Your tasks will require all of those things and much, much more. Your tasks will require *everything* you can give, Tim. You will use yourself *ruthlessly* or you will be of no use to *me*.")

He... can do ruthless.

And he can use... everything. "Oh, Daddy, you know how much I love your *hands*."

"You were suckin' on 'em like lollipops last night."

Really. Dottie grins and pulls Matches' hand higher up her thigh. "It's not *my* fault you taste so good, Daddy."

Matches curls his fingers in against Dottie's thigh, scratching a little with his short nails --

"*Nnh* --"


Bruce...? "Daddy, I'm just so *hot*."

The stick moves from one side of Matches' mouth to the other and back again --

Dottie wriggles down in the big bucket seat until Matches' fingertips are pressed against the gaff --

"*Up*, princess."

"But *Daddy* --"

And there's a hand around his throat, just that fast. Just --

Tim swallows with *difficulty* --

"Don't test me tonight, Dottie."

There are several possible responses to that. They range from "really," to "oh, fuck," to "damn it, Bruce, I didn't need to have this kink any more than I already did."

Still --

Dottie squeaks. "I'm sorry," she says in a *strangled* voice --

Matches loosens his grip. "Are you?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"You gonna behave?"

"Yes, Daddy --"


Tim sits up straight -- no. Dottie sits up with a sad pout and a profound lack of good posture. "I just wanted --"

"You think I don't know what you want, princess? You think I don't wanna give it to you so bad I can *taste* it?"

And that.

Tim has never seen Bruce watching footage from any of the cameras planted in Tim's living spaces and YJ headquarters. He has, however, seen Bruce watching footage from everyone *else* in the family...

He'd just assumed Bruce didn't -- care.

He'd just... assumed. And now, for whatever reason, Bruce wants him to make a whole new *set* of assumptions. He --

Tim licks his lips --

Matches' eyes haven't left the *road* --

And --

Part of using everything at one's disposal is using one's *partner*. "Daddy..."


"I... um."

"Spill it, princess," but Matches softens that with a hard and somehow *sweet* stroke down from Dottie's throat and back to her thigh.

This gaff... is not going to get any less uncomfortable. It's time to own that. "Daddy... I wanna know *what* you can... taste."

Matches shows his teeth and pulls onto the Sprang bridge.

"I mean --"

"*What* do you mean?"

Dottie squirms. "Sometimes. Sometimes I don't think you want me, at all."

The smile slips -- but only for a moment. "You sayin' you got stupid over there, princess?"


"You sayin' you don't know what happens when ol' Matches brings a pretty girl home and *keeps* her?"

"You *don't* keep me -- um." The only saving grace *that* had was the fact that it was in Dottie's *voice*, high and sweet and just a little flavored with the Ironbound.

Matches isn't smiling at *all* anymore, though it's hard to say whether Matches is *Matches* --

It --

Part of using yourself is -- is *fucking* well avoiding the hugely emotional conversations while you're *undercover*. It --

Tim makes Dottie giggle, high and even sweeter. "Aw, listen to me. I'm sorry, Daddy, I'll be good."

Matches (?) grips the steering wheel hard enough to make it creak, grips Dottie's thigh hard enough to make her *squeak* again --

"I *promise* --"

"I don't think." Matches growls --

Swallows --

"I don't think you get it, princess --"

"I'll do better --"

"Shut it!"

Dottie winces and nods --

"You're not goin' anywhere tonight after we're done with our business. You're not goin' anywhere but where I *tell* you to go."


"Yeah, that's right. You got a lot to learn, princess. And it's about damned time I did the teaching."


"Spread 'em."

Tim does reflexively --

And that hand is gripping him through his gaff --

That hand is --

So *big* --

Dottie *whimpers* -- 

She doesn't know what to do with her hands --

Matches has got such a good *grip* --

"You gonna be a good student, princess?"

"Straight -- straight As!"

Matches -- purrs. Not rumbles. And squeezes hard --

"Ohn -- *fuck* --"

And then Matches eases his grip and *pats* Dottie --

Tim --

Him --

"Game face on, princess. We're *almost* there."

Her. "Yes, Daddy."

The meet-up turns out to be in a dingy little social club midway between the docks and Little Ibiza. From the outside, it looks like a cracker box with arrow-slit windows. Inside is years of cigarette smoke, old velvet hangings which look distinctly mangy --

They're the color of dried *blood* --

And the seats are overstuffed red leather -- most of which have been slit open by keys kept in back pockets --

And the ambiance is a mix of tinny opera and horse racing announcements.

Alvin wants to sneer --

Tim wants to pull on elbow-length latex gloves --

Dottie looks around curiously and keeps a little pout on her face and a swivel in her hips. If people see her attitude and the way she moves, they *might* just avoid looking at anything else.

The people in question are, of course, familiar. Matrioso family lieutenants -- not capos. Barbara had shown Tim footage of Helena giving Jimmy "Motor" Matrioso that dramatic scar on his left cheek.

Tim himself had broken Jake "The Shake" Gemelli's ankles last year after busting up a *different* social club while hunting for information about a string of murders Bruce had thought, at the time, were the act of a Matrioso hitter.

It had turned out to be a completely unconnected serial killer, but Tim can't say he regrets the fact that Gemelli still has something of a limp.

Tim lets himself move closer to the big boys' table so he doesn't have to keep reading lips. The talk isn't substantive. Matches is known only by reputation here, and the Matriosos are a relatively young and hungry family.

Hungry enough to be paranoid.

Tim takes the implied lessons on how to make oneself desirable as a business associate -- Matches is using every *drop* of his oily charm -- and waits for the real --


Tim lets Dottie flail a little on Matches' lap and giggle. "Daddy!"

"Shh, princess," he says, and turns to Mikey "Mats" Matrioso. "Is it time for the party yet?"


Mikey takes a drag off his Westport and blows the smoke toward the ceiling. "It's not polite to bring your *own* favors, Matches."

*Favors*? Oh. Oh --

"What I can say, Mikey? I don't spread it around too much. *One* case of the clap was enough for me."

Mikey narrows his eyes. "You sayin' our girls aren't clean?"

Matches looks at Mikey from over his sunglasses. "I'm *sayin'*... that no one can keep an eye on as many girls as you're running twenty-four-seven."

Mikey grunts. "Matches, Matches, that's not a happy thought. I *don't* do business with people who take away my happy thoughts."

Matches grins and shrugs. "Don't be like that, Mikey. Princess is enough for me."

Jake spits a sunflower seed shell into the ashtray. "I think she's a cop."

Matches snorts and yanks down Dottie's dress enough to show the bra -- and the lack of a wire. And then yanks it *up* to show the same.

Dottie blushes and squirms --

Jake still frowns. "That doesn't prove anything."

Matches shows his teeth. "Thought you'd say that."

"Did you."

"Ol' Matches has been around the block a *few* times, Jake." And then Matches looks at Dottie. With his eyebrows up.

This can't --

This can't possibly --

"Don't make me wait now, princess. You know what you're here for."

She really *doesn't* --

She --

And Matches -- doesn't break character for a second. For a *heartbeat*. The eyes are blue and hot. The smile is lazy and sharp. The matchstick is *bobbing*.

And Matches isn't holding Dottie still anymore. He -- "I'm --" A *virgin* --

("There is no safety in this life.")

Tim -- no. Dottie swallows. "In -- in front of all these people?"

Matches' expression turns annoyed. "You can play innocent when I get you *home*, princess. For now? On your *knees*."

Tim lets himself shiver --

Matches lifts his *hand* --

"Sorry, Daddy!" And Tim gives Dottie just a little of his grace --

And Dottie gives Tim just a little bit --

No. No. *Jason* gives Tim a little brass, a little shamelessness. Robin gets to have *everything* every other Robin had. That's how it works, right? Jason probably would've laughed through this, maybe said something uncomplimentary about all the old ash on the floor --

At least he's wearing stockings --

Tim reaches for Matches' fly and tries to be bold enough to avoid blushing, hard enough, brave enough --

("There is no safety --")

He can use himself. He can --

Matches' hand is in his hair, warm and hard and -- gentle.

"Hurry the fuck up, princess. You *know* I ain't got all night."

Tim swallows -- and realizes that he's salivating.

Tim looks *up* -- and Matches isn't looking at him. He --

"Where *are* your girls?"

"All in good time, Matches. We're still waiting to see what Officer Princess has to show for herself."

Jason would -- "I'm not a fucking *cop*!"

And one of them -- almost certainly Jimmy, judging by the angle -- nudges her with his foot. "So prove it."

That --

Tim promises himself time with Jimmy's face and his R-shuriken in a dark alley sometime *soon*...

And opens Matches' pants.

The boxers are silk the approximate shade of nineteen-eighty-five. At least, that's what always comes to mind whenever he sees that particular shade of neon lime. He --

Matches isn't hard enough. He.

Tim isn't sure *how* he feels about that, or even what he means by 'enough.' But Dottie knows.

Dottie's had a lover in his forties for a while now.

And Dottie knows what to do when that lover isn't... prepared.

Dottie leans in and nuzzles Matches through the boxers, humming and kissing and humming more --

Matches' hand freezes on Dottie's head for a moment --

Another --

And then he sighs and starts petting her again, using both hands now. He strokes and cards through her hair --

He cups the back of her neck and squeezes --

He strokes her *ears* --

"Mmm, that's right, princess. Be my *good* little girl."

"Yes, Daddy," Dottie says, and tugs Matches' --

Dick, not penis.

Dottie tugs out Matches' dick and licks it all over, slow and wet and --

Matches growls and tightens his *grip* --

"Sorry, Daddy," Dottie slurs, and starts kissing instead, making the kisses hard, heavy with *suction* --

Mikey chuckles. "Looks like she's gettin' the idea."

Jimmy nudges her with his foot again --

"Jimmy, buddy, friend -- you do that again and we're gonna have a problem."

Jake snorts. "Is she a whore or your girlfriend?"

"I'm *his* whore," Dottie says, and sucks a little bit of the foreskin between her lips to nuzzle and mouth, nibble --

And *Matches* chuckles. "What the lady said. I... mm. Suck it, princess."

Tim shivers and *wants* -- no, no, Dottie wants, Dottie's getting --

Getting *wet* --

Dottie has it *good* with Matches, Matches takes care of his property *always* --

Dottie sucks the head into her mouth and -- panics. A little. Matches is big. Bigger than *most* of her toys --

Heavy and thick --

The *taste* is heavy and thick --

And that's when Dottie realizes that she's moaning, that she's sucking hard --

That she has one fist wrapped around the base of Matches' dick and the other hand between her legs --

She can tease herself all she wants, she can --

She can work her head no matter *how* big Matches is --

Mouths *stretch*, and -- she's done this before. She's done this *lots* of times, because Matches loves it, Matches loves her *mouth* --

Matches uses --

Uses everything --

Someone whistles --

"Oh, what -- well, look at that. Gonna get off right here, 'princess?'"

A snicker --

The sound of another sunflower seed shell being spat out --

"Where did you *find* her, Matches?"

"Nnh -- why don't you let me tell you later?"

*Raucous* laughter -- but then it's hard to hear, because Matches has his hands over her ears, Matches is stroking and *pressing* --

Matches *likes* this, and he's getting so hard so *fast* --

Dottie groans and tries to take more --

Dottie starts *stroking* him --

And Matches shudders and *clutches* her. He --

He moves his hands --

"Oh -- oh, baby girl, you're so fuckin' *sweet*," and Matches growls --

"C'mon, fuck her mouth --"

"Aw, yeah, she can take it --"

"-- fucking *wants* it --"

" -- *love* sluts --"

"Hey, she got a sister?"

More laughter, more --

And maybe it's okay for Dottie to blush, maybe --

Matches picked her because she *is* a slut, Matches likes that, too, Matches --

Matches is looking down into her eyes, and there's a question there Dottie needs to answer, but mostly there's heat, and hunger, and a lust that feels as slick as the inside of her gaff --

Dottie moans and speeds up, works her head *more* --

Matches growls --

Groans and growls *again* --

"Fucking *give* it to her, Matches --"

"Yeah, let's see it!"

Dottie blushes more and knows she looks *pleading*, knows she's being obvious, cheap --

That's what Matches *likes* --

And so does Tim, to be *perfectly* honest, for all that he'd dearly like to make a comment about what happens when one moves beyond the spectrum of acceptable homosocial behavior --

No, no, Dottie *can't* snort right now --

Dottie swallows and swallows Tim down, shuffling closer on her knees and trying to gulp, trying to take --

"*Dottie* --" And Matches sounds like *Bruce* --

"I think I want a piece of that --"

But then Matches laughs and stands, looming over Dottie and pulling out -- "Don't know where you've *been*, Jake --"

"Like you know where *she's* been?"

Matches grins like a shark and brushes Dottie's hand aside before gripping himself with one hand and the back of Dottie's head with the other. "She was a bona fide virgin when I... picked her up, Mikey. She's still... mm. Fresh and new. Aren't you, princess?"

Dottie opens her mouth -- but can only moan when Matches starts stroking her with the head of his dick --

When Matches starts *painting* her --

Dottie shivers and moans *more* --

"All right, that's it, call the girls in, Mats!"

Matches grins and rolls the stick in his mouth. "Glad I could be -- heh -- inspiring, gents."

More laughter --

And then Matches is covering her ears again --

Matches is pulling her onto his dick --

Matches is staring into her eyes and -- panting.

Mouthing words --

No, she can read that, she can --

She *knows* Matches just like Matches knows her, and Matches wants her to know that he needs her, that she's the best baby, the pretty princess --

He pushes --

He pushes and *pushes*, and there's so much of him, and she's the prettiest little girl, the hottest piece --

The best --

The *best*, and she can swallow just the way she's always done for Matches, for --

She can't breathe.

She can't breathe. She --

Oh --

She's shaking and staring, shuddering and *tearing* --

It's ruining her peripheral vision, but she thinks she can see -- other women. Maybe as young as she is, maybe not --

She can't *hear* --

But she can feel *Matches* shuddering, feel his weight shifting like he's having a hard time *balancing*. She reaches up to grip his hips, because Dottie can be just as strong as she wants to be, and Dottie always wants to take care of Matches the way he takes care of her --

Matches needs a --girlfriend?

And she's blushing again, and trying to swallow laughter with all the pre-come, trying to feel like herself, as opposed to like the boy who's wanted something like this for so *long*.

You don't ever break *cover* --

Not for *anything* --

And anything absolutely includes the feel of a huge, erect penis pushing in and *in* --

The scent of male, the scent of sex, the scent of *Bruce* --

The feel of thick, wiry hair scratching his mouth, tickling his lips --

A heavy scrotum slapping and dragging against his chin --

*Bruce*, it's Bruce, and Tim has no idea what they're going to *do* with this, what they're going to say, how he's supposed to *think* --

How he's supposed to think of *anything* but the way Bruce is still shaking, still gripping, still covering Tim's ears just as if there's any way to protect Tim from all of this --

And now he just has to hope that anyone paying attention will assume that it's Dottie doing the pleading with her eyes --

That *only* Bruce can see how much he needs him, how much he wants him, how much --

God, how *much* --

Dad, *please* --

And Tim realizes that he's whimpering when Matches goes rigid --

When Bruce's eyes *flare* with need and so much --

So many other *things* --

Bruce's penis *spasms* --

And Tim has never felt anything like the sensation of semen splashing his throat --

Semen spattering the back of his *mouth* --

Semen on his *tongue*, and he's drooling now, moaning and dripping semen and saliva on the lap of his dress --

He's --

He's a *mess* --

He can't *stop* moaning even to *suck* --

And he's not even *close* to prepared for the feeling of Bruce stroking his face and hair -- and pulling out. Just --

His dress is hiked up.

His lips are swollen.

His stockings have a run.

There are come stains --

His mouth is --

But Matches snaps his fingers, and his *body* knows how that works somehow --

He's up and moving, straightening himself *out* -- and, when he looks, Matches is sitting down with his sunglasses hiding everything. And he's pointing at his lap.

It's --

Does this count as afterglow?

Does he *want* it to?

No, no, that's a thought for another time. He --

Dottie sits sideways on Matches' lap, crosses her legs, and fixes her makeup as best as she can with Matches *bouncing* her --

Though thankfully not quite as much as the way Jake is bouncing the young woman on *his* lap.

The others seem content to be fellated.

Tim is --

Dottie is calm, and secure, and perfectly happy about the way Matches keeps kissing and biting her ears and throat while they wait. She knows she's done well.

Tim is --

Dottie would *really* like to have *her* turn now, because it's been too long since she's had that big dick somewhere where it could do *her* any good --

Tim is watchful, and patient, and doing an excellent job -- if he does say so himself -- of not turning up his nose at all the coerced heterosexuality in this grimy little room.

Are the women even getting *paid* for this? No, no, he can't think about that yet.

He thinks, instead, about all the information these women would undoubtedly love to give Robin -- if never the police -- about these men --

And he lets Dottie smile with satisfaction.

Once the orgasms have all occurred, the women -- except for Dottie -- are dismissed, though not for anything resembling *useful* conversation. Agreements are made to share information and business opportunities, but nothing of any worth is *discussed* --

And that, of course, is a lesson in and of itself: Gathering intelligence can't always be a matter of hitting the right person hard enough, no matter how much more satisfying the world would be if that were the case.

The men drink grappa. Mikey actually offers Dottie some --

And Dottie grins. "I *like* the taste in my mouth."

Laughter all around --

And, just for him and/or possibly her --

The feel of Matches' penis twitching and starting to rise -- though not enough to be *terribly* obvious once he sets Dottie on her feet and stands. They go, and Tim is punctilious. He wobbles on his heels *right* up until he slides into the passenger seat.

He hums terrible and popular songs until the windows are up and the bug-sweeper tells them they're clear.

He gazes at Matches with his eyes their widest --

"Don't --"

He smiles *precisely* like himself. "Bruce."

"Tim. I."


Bruce has both hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road -- the wheel is creaking.

"Is there something you'd like to *tell* me?"

Bruce's cheek twitches.

"Maybe... oh, I don't know, something about how I could improve my *performance*?"



"You suck a *mean* cock, baby boy..." And Matches smiles just like he plans on... brazening this out. Well, then.

Tim gives him the wide eyes again. "Oh, did I... was it good, Matches? Did you like it?"



And Matches licks his lips. "You're a natural, chicken. You took it like a pro."

Really. "Even... even though I made a mess?"

"Nothin' wrong with a little mess, sweet cheeks."

You know *nothing* about my cheeks. "Is this... I mean. Did you want to do it again?"

"'Want to...?'" Matches grins and takes them up to sixty. The streets are clear enough for it.

"I mean -- um. I can do better!"

"Sure you can, chicken. And you *will*."

*Really*. "Oh -- but -- I have to go *home* --"

"What did I say, hunh? What did I say?"

What -- oh. "But -- you were -- that was *Dottie*!"

"No, chicken. That was *you*. You're not goin' home tonight. Not even for a *minute*."

Tim -- blushes. And his heart is -- pounding. He can't --

He *can't* --

"Bruce --"

"Tim. I. If we --" And the steering wheel creaks *again* --

And Bruce shakes his head *viciously* --

"Tim, *speak* --"

"Bruce, we have to be somewhat reasonable --"

"I *want* you," Bruce says, and he's still not looking away from the road --

"I... picked that up --"

Bruce *growls* -- "I'm sorry."

"No, I --"

"I'm *sorry* --"

"*Okay*! You're sorry! We can -- talk about this?" And Tim reaches out to rest a hand on Bruce's thigh --

It feels like *wood* --


"If we. If we speak... obliquely."

"Ah. Yes?"

"If we." Bruce grits his teeth as they pull up to a red light, and when he turns to look at Tim, his eyes are blazing with hunger that looks like *rage*. He --

"I. Don't suppose I can take this gaff off --"

"Do it."

Tim pants and -- he does it. He does it --

But Bruce is staring at the road again --

Bruce is *driving* again --

"Bruce, *you* talk --"

"I want to play with you."

Well. Well. "I... suppose I can't say that's a surprise right now --"

"It's -- more than simply play. For me."

"Ah... for me... as well? Can we talk about the public sex --"

"You enjoyed that."

And that was flat, and with about as much give as Bruce's thigh. It -- no, go with it. "It still wasn't optimal for my *first time*."

"It's not over."

"What -- ah. My first time."

Matches smiles --

"*Wait* --"

Bruce sucks in a breath, and covers Tim's hand on his thigh. It's warm, and gentle, and somehow absolutely nothing like any of the countless other times Bruce has touched his hand.

The fact that there's no gauntlet is barely a *fraction* of *why* it's different -- "I'm listening, Bruce."

"There are so many things I have never been able to say. There are so many touches I have never been able to *give* --"

"Not to me?"

Bruce's smile is sharp and *thorned* -- "Tim. You have always been... yourself."

"What does that --"

"It means... it means that I have every intention of being honest with you... and that there is a way to make that... easier."

Quite... quite possibly for both of them. Tim nods once. "Who do I need to --"

"Be yourself, baby boy," and Matches brings Tim's hand to his mouth for a long and somehow *filthy* lick to the palm. "Or just be *everyone* you need to be."

Tim licks his lips. "I -- I'm really... rather exceedingly hard."

"I guess we're just gonna have to do somethin' about that, chicken --"

"I'm not that young."

Matches grins and brings Tim's hand down to his groin. "Young *enough*."

Tim... gets a grip. "Is that what you like?"

"Small hands, sweet voices, tender, *tender* flesh... what's not to love?"

"Does that mean I'm going to be too old for you someday?"

"Why borrow trouble --"

"I need to know," Tim says, and doesn't *let* himself look away --

Matches purses his lips around the matchstick. "You worried, chicken?"

Tim shivers. "Yes."

"Don't be."

Tim raises an eyebrow. "Just like that?"

Another smile, wide and *wet*. "What else needs to be said?"

"I can think of a few things," Tim says, and hikes the dress up further so he doesn't stain it --

"Baby boy, you are *sweet*."

"You like me in drag."

"I *like* you... period. Tell Daddy how you wanna come."

Tim swallows. "Because I can have what I want?"

"Because I wanna hear you *talk*."


"*Don't* make me wait."

Tim smiles... and starts stroking Matches through his godawful pants --

"Baby --"

"I want you to fuck me."

Pause, hot and sharp and heavy --

*Pause* --

"You think you can take that, baby boy?"

"I think." Tim swallows and squeezes Matches --

"Tell me, baby..."

"I think I want you to *make* me take it."

Matches covers Tim's working hand with his own and forces Tim to squeeze *hard* --

"Oh --"

"Maybe I want you to ride me."

Tim sucks in a breath -- "Maybe I want you to bend me over -- something."

"'Something,' hunh?"

"I'm... flexible."

Matches makes Tim squeeze him again. "What else do you want, chicken?"

Tim smiles and looks down, listening to the enervating *thrum* of overlarge seventies tires on the gridded surface of the Sprang --

"Better tell me."

"What happens if I don't?"

"I hurt you."

"You've hurt me a lot of times," Tim says, and it comes out -- too fervent. Too honest --"No, not --"

Matches uses his speed to grab Tim by the throat and squeeze *hard* --

"Nnk --"

"You know how it's gonna be now, baby boy. Doncha?"

Tim blinks and stares and tries to *think* --

Tries to deal with the fact that he's still jerking Matches *off* --

Tries to do anything *but* reach for himself with his free hand and stroke and stroke and --

He's failing at absolutely *everything* --

Everything except -- judging by the *spasming* -- turning Matches on more.

The matchstick bobs just a little too fast to be hypnotic --

Matches is watching the *road* -- "I guess you don't know, at that."

"Please," Tim mouths, and just saying that --

Just *feeling* that --

Tim shivers and *can't* moan --

"I guess you don't know what it means to belong to ol' Matches," he says, shaking his head and sighing a little.

And squeezing Tim's throat *rhythmically* --

So --

So *hard* --

*Please* --

"You're mine now, chicken. That means you do what I say when I say it. That means you don't lie to me. That means you *take*... everything I want you to take." He eases his grip --

Tim groans and -- tries -- "What. What do you want me to take?"

The matchstick bobs *slowly* -- "Everything. 'cause that's *exactly* what my baby boy deserves."

Oh -- fuck. He. "I want --"

"Take it."

"Daddy..." And he's blushing again, staring --

He needs to see the *reaction* --

Except that there's nothing *to* see but a tightness in Matches' jaw. The rest... the rest is the *violent* spasm of Matches' penis.

He --

"You like that."

"So do you... princess?"

Tim licks his lips. "Not that."

"Baby boy..."

"Or possibly... 'chicken.'"

Matches' grin is hard on his face and several different *kinds* of deadly --

It's possible that Tim means 'satisfied.' Or 'triumphant.' It's a question that he hadn't truly meant to ask in this much *detail* --

But that's a lie.

"I'm yours."

That wasn't.

"I'm..." Tim squeezes his own penis hard enough to hurt, hard enough to make himself whimper --

"You're what."

His face is *hot* -- "I'm -- you can't take this away from me," Tim blurts, because there's too much, there's --

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

Tim blinks --

Opens his *mouth* --

"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 --"

"And you do?" His voice is so *husky* --

And Matches reaches over and strokes Tim's cheek with his hard, scarred knuckles -- "I'll show you, baby. Just you wait."

"How. How long --"

And suddenly the Hercules is growling and purring up to eighty miles per hour --

On *suburban* streets --

Well, theoretically all the children likely to chase balls into the street are home in their beds at this hour --

Tim is sweating and -- hurting.

It feels like he's been hard for... exactly as long as he has been.

It feels --

Tim swallows and shakes his head --


Tim grunts. "It's nothing --"

"Is it?"

How much does *Bruce* need this conversation? Tim blushes again and looks --

And there's too *much* tightness in the jaw for Matches, too much violence held in the shoulders --

Tim licks his lips and forces himself to let go of his own penis --

Matches makes a small *noise* --

And Tim -- owns it. "There's -- more you want to tell me."

"You're a good little boy. Like to *listen*."

Tim laughs helplessly -- "I do. I really --"

"So ask," Matches says, and he's loose again, *easy* again -- confident? Matches is *always* confident -- or should be. Maybe 'happy' is the better word for it.

Tim never thought -- "I never thought you could be this happy."

Matches chucks him under the chin. "Pretty boys always make me happy. *Smart* pretty boys make me *ecstatic*."

"I -- ah. I enjoyed... sucking you."

"*Hungry* pretty boys --"

"Make you hard?"

Pursed lips --

Bobbing matchstick --

"You interruptin' me now, chicken?"

Tim can do nothing about how wide his eyes are --

Or how much he's blushing --

Or how easy it is to look down and *feel* contrite enough to say -- "I'm sorry, Matches."

*Soft* growl. "Are you."

"Yes, Matches --"

"We'll see about that," he says, and pulls into the Cave. He parks in the usual space the Hercules gets when he's not planning to take it out for a while -- "Stay right there."

"Yes, Matches," Tim says, and continues to look down --

And Matches slams the door and moves around to the passenger side with a distinct spring in his step. He yanks open the door -- it's easy to forget how *heavy* it is until one sees it in motion -- opens Tim's seatbelt, and lifts Tim up onto the roof of the car.

"Oh --"

"Yeah," Matches says, and takes Tim's entire penis into his mouth with one gulp --



There's no way to move, no --

Matches is holding him by the hips --

Matches' *shoulders* are keeping Tim's thighs spread --

And Matches is sucking --

So *hard* --

"M-Matches --"


"That. I. I won't -- no --"

Matches pulls back and licks his lips. "You taste *good*, chicken."

"Oh. I." Tim whimpers and shakes his head --

Tries not to arch --

He fails -- and Matches smiles.

"Hungry little thing."

"Yes. Yes, please --"


"Please -- more."

Matches licks his lips again. "Thought you wanted to get fucked, baby boy."

"I do! I do -- *oh* --"

"Then that's what you're gonna get," Matches says, throwing Tim over his *shoulder* --

And walking toward the stairs.

God, he's not even *changing* -- but maybe that's easier? He wants to tell Bruce that he can handle this even if he looks like himself --

But maybe it's not time for that. *Possibly* it's time to reach down and lift the back of Matches' awful jacket so he can stroke Matches through his equally awful shirt --

And Matches purrs, which --

"You -- like me to be affectionate?"

"I told you, chicken -- I like *you*."

"I'm not -- oh. You're jogging. Up the stairs?"

"You tellin' me you're *not* in a hurry?"

"I'm --" But the rest of that is a *groan*, because Matches is rolling his shoulder in *just* the right way to make Tim's penis feel --

Even needier.

Even *better* -- "*Please* --"

"It's all right, chicken. You'll get what you want."

Tim blushes and swallows -- oh, he's *clutching* Matches' shirt --

And they're going through the clock --

And Matches pauses. He seems to almost be *thinking* -- no, of course he's thinking.

Maybe about breaking character, and what it would mean to stop and re-engage the clock even though Matches really *wouldn't* --

Tim rears up and stretches enough to do it himself --

"Careful baby."

"I -- that's me."

Another purr -- and Matches is jogging again, moving easily -

What would he *possibly* say to Alfred?

Would Alfred want *Tim* to say anything?

Tim tries to steady himself -- no. He reaches up and back and tries to pull the dress down over his *ass* --

And Matches reaches up and *smacks* his ass. *Hard* --

"I'm sorry!"

"That's mine right now, chicken."

"Oh -- oh. I just -- I don't want --"

"*What* don't you want?"

Alfred to *see* -- but does Alfred exist in this paradigm? *Can* he?

"*Talk*," Matches growls, and pauses midway up the stairs to the bedroom --

And it occurs to Tim that somewhere, down deep, Bruce has to be wondering what exactly he's *doing*, what Tim *really* wants --

He'd been trying to cover himself *up* --

"I was afraid," Tim blurts --

"Of *what*."

How -- how to even --

But, in truth --

He can be honest. "Of being seen," Tim says, and wriggling doesn't make his ass sting any less, but it still feels... very good.

Matches *grips* Tim's ass, rubs his calluses against it --

And his breathing is very, very rough. Very --

"You maybe only want me to see you, chicken...?"

Tim swallows and blushes more -- "For -- for this --"

"But not for other things?"

Tim squeezes his eyes shut --

He's never going to forget being *watched* --

He's never going to forget any of this. "I'm -- I'm yours. Daddy."

Matches sighs, long and hot and *aroused*. "Gotta. Gotta treat you right."

"Please, Daddy --"

"Yeah," Matches says, and starts jogging again, taking them right into Bruce's bedroom --

The scents *alone* make Tim moan --

He hasn't been in this room since Alfred had given him the *tour* -- and then Alfred had done it more to *illustrate* the admonition not to ever try to wake Bruce from a nightmare --

God, he can't stop breathing *deeply* --

Not even once Matches *throws* him on the bed --

He's allowed.

He's allowed to *be* here --

Tim moans out all of his air and turns over onto his hands and knees --

And Matches growls.


Pause --

The sound of a drawer opening --

And then the mattress dips as Matches crawls onto the bed --

He yanks Tim's heels off and *tosses* them --

He's still *dressed* --

"I want -- I want your *body*."

*Another* pause --"More of it than you've already had, chicken?"

Tim swallows and shivers. "All. All of it."

And this sigh... doesn't sound like Matches, at all. This --

The way he's being *petted*, and stroked --

The way his muscles are being rubbed and eased *and* tested --

Tim wants to call Bruce's *name* --

But then he's being yanked up onto his knees by the back of the dress --

"Oh --"

"Dress off, chicken."

"I -- please --"

"You'll get everything you want, baby boy. But not. Not tonight."

And it wasn't that Tim had expected this to be only one night -- not at *this* point -- but hearing it *that* way makes him shiver, makes him --

Tim shakes his head and *yanks* off the dress as carefully as he can --

Matches snaps his *bra* --

And Tim takes that off, too, rubbing reflexively at the small welts on his obliques -- he's just a *little* bigger than he was when Bruce had *made* that bra --

And Matches knocks Tim's fingers inside and rubs him -- *not* massages. It's not that Matches' fingers are clumsy, or that he misses a mark or hurts Tim. It's that the touches are shamelessly greedy and -- hungry.

They make Tim feel like incredibly attractive meat --

Sexually *available* meat -- no, not that. Or not *like* that. Or --

He doesn't know. He's blushing and his genitals *hurt* --

He's squirming --

And then he's crying out and pumping his hips at *nothing* because Matches is pinching and twisting his *nipples* --

"Oh, yeah, chicken...?"

"I -- *please* --"

"You don't do this too much when you're jerkin' off."

Tim grunts and just --

The image of Bruce staring at the footage.

The image of Bruce *masturbating* --

He'd thought he'd *dealt* with -- but that was stupid. Very, very --

"You get too... busy with your little cock, baby boy?"

Little -- right. Tim licks his lips. "It doesn't -- it doesn't feel that good. When I do it --"

Matches growls and *pulls* Tim's nipples, twists *more* --

"Oh, *please* --"

"Wanna bite you, baby boy. Wanna bite you and suck you... mark you right *up*..."

And Tim opens his mouth, but the only thing that comes out -- "*Fuck* me!"

Matches grunts -- "So quick?"

Tim groans. It's just -- he can't *help* but know that that means that Bruce wants to do this more slowly, wants to take his *time* --

He wants that, *too* --

"I can't -- I can't take it --"

"Can't take me makin' love to you, baby boy?"

That was a serious *question*.

A *worried* question --

"Not -- please not now --"

"Later, then?"

"Yes -- yes, *please* --"

A *pleased* growl -- and then Matches is holding a small, glowing bottle in front of his face. There are Kryptonian symbols written on it. There --

"I. What?"

"Met a funny guy once. Kind of a stick at first glance, but loosened up real nice with the right kind of attention," and Matches starts --

Starts rubbing Tim's *hole* --

So *rough* --

"What. What was his name...?" Will Bruce actually *say* it?

"I don't remember, chicken. It's not important," and Matches rubs *harder* --

"Oh -- please --"

"Anyway... he gave me this to play with. Said it was perfect for pretty little boys who don't play with the right *kinds* of toys. Said it... loosens 'em right up."

Tim swallows --

Checks himself for objections --

None. All right, then. "I... will be sure to thank him if I ever see him."

"Maybe ol' Matches should invite him over for a show...?"

"Oh, God. Oh -- ah."

"I'm sure I could... remember his name. Under the right circumstances." And Matches hisses in a breath --

And there's a *slick* finger pushing in. It's -- "Not -- not *cold* --"

"Not this stuff, chicken. Not *ever*."

Tim shivers and starts to drop down onto his hands --

Matches clutches Tim's shoulder with his free hand. "Not yet."

"S-sorry -- *ohn* --"

"Yeah, I knew you'd like that," Matches says, and *keeps* his finger crooked as he rubs --

*Presses* and rubs --

"Knew you'd... mm. I could *find* the guy's name. Track him down sometime."

Tim blushes hard and tries not to work his hips -- no. He can *do* that --

"Oh... baby. Do that more."

"Yes. Yes, Matches --"

"Call me -- you know what to call me."

The blush isn't going *anywhere* -- "Daddy..."

"Yeah. Yeah, you know what I like. You know what I need. You've *always* known -- faster, chicken."

Tim nods and does it, clenching his hands into fists to help keep the rest of his body *still* -- but he doesn't have to. He --

Tim bites his lip and reaches back with one hand to stroke Matches' hand, his hairy wrist --


"Just -- just. I need to feel you --"

"I could. The funny guy's pretty warm to the touch..."

Tim shakes his head and pants --

"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it. He's a lot like... one of your friends..."

*Kon* -- "Not -- not -- please, Daddy --"

*Hot* growl -- and Matches' free hand is on his hip, stroking and *squeezing* -- "Just me?"

"Right -- right now --"

*Another* growl -- "You know how hard you got me, baby boy?"

Tim moans and *flushes* --

"You know how much I *need* you?"

"Please -- please *more* -- *ahn* -- oh. Oh, that didn't --"

"Hurt...?" And Matches leans in enough that Tim can see his smile. "Maybe I don't wanna leave you too raw, chicken," and he *twists* his two fingers inside Tim --

"So -- so full --"

"You're gonna get more than that."

Tim moans more, works his hips *faster* --

"Mmm. You're gonna get..." Matches licks his lips. "Daddy needs your pretty little ass."

Tim grunts and *squeezes* Matches' wrist --

"Yeah. Daddy needs to hear you scream for him."

"I -- I will --"

"You used to scream *real* pretty for this kinda treatment," Matches says, and starts thrusting faster --

*Harder* --

Tim shivers and tries to *think* --

"Shut up in your big ol' bedroom, surrounded by all the rich and pretty things -- "

Tim *chokes* -- and forces himself *not* to think about where they are right *now* --

Matches smiles *again*. "All alone in that big, big bed. Maybe a little lonely..."

"I -- I was --"

"You'd make a lot of noise back then, chicken. Like you wanted someone to come... get you..."

"Fuck me, I wanted -- I wanted to be *fucked* -- oh -- oh, *God*, Matches!"

"This hard. *This* fast. And this rhythm, with your pretty little fingers shoved up your pretty little ass --"

"I *needed* you!" And Tim didn't mean to say *that*, but --

"Then why," Matches says, and starts a *corkscrewing* thrust --

"*Please* --"

"Why didn't you call my name...?"

Tim coughs a laugh -- "*Daddy* --"

"Right here, baby, baby boy..." And Matches smile is sharp *and* rueful --

"You -- you know how *ridiculous* you are --"

"Nothin' more ridiculous than a guy packing the kind of heat *I* am, baby. *Down*."

Tim drops before he can think about it --

He's on his *stomach* --

And Matches purrs again --

Shoves *deep* --

"*Ohn* -- oh, *please* --" And he tries to scramble up onto his hands and knees --

Matches plants his free hand between Tim's shoulder blades and *pushes*. "Stay *right* there, baby boy. I'm gonna fuck you right into the *bed*."

Tim moans and feels himself blushing --

Remembers all the times he'd masturbated in something like this position so he could pretend he was being held *down* --

And Matches remembers those times, too.

Matches had *watched* and *wanted* --

"*Daddy* --"

"See, the funny thing about all this?"

"I -- I'm listening?"

"Heh. I know you are, baby boy. I know you'll remember... mm. *Every* word," and now every thrust is hard --

Every thrust is *deep* -- "*Please* --"

"Shh, shh --"

"Sorry -- sorry, Daddy --"

"You'll have plenty of time to make that kind of noise, chicken. Right now... right now you need to hear me telling you about *how* ridiculous I was. How *stupid*," and he emphasizes that with a *hard* twist --

Tim grunts and *shudders* --

Bites his *lip* --

"Such a *pretty* little baby boy... mm. Thought I didn't need you like this, chicken. Thought I could -- heh. Be *strong*. Thought I could watch you learning and growing and becoming and keep. Keep my hands to *myself*."

"I --"

"Shh," and Matches grips Tim's *throat* again --

Tim's penis twitches so hard he *screams* -- nothing comes out. Nothing --

He's going to *come* --

All Matches has to do --

He's doing it. He's thrusting in again and again --

He's thrusting hard and *fast* --

He's --

Tim is *shaking*, and he can't stop *trying* to cry out --

"Thought -- oh, baby, I thought I could live *without* you," and that's Matches and Bruce *together* --

He's groaning and his *hands* are shaking --

"Thought -- I thought -- Tim. *Come*."

Tim's eyes fly open --

Tim feels himself tense all over, feels his *toes* curl --

"Give me. Give me *this*," and Bruce squeezes Tim's throat *painfully* hard --

And crooks his *fingers* --

And the screams in Tim's mind blank out everything, *take* everything but the heat and the pleasure, the *good* of losing himself, losing *everything* as he jerks and *spasms* --

He can feel something in him trying to give, something huge and *tight* --

And then Bruce releases his throat and he's screaming aloud, screaming and --

"Please -- *please*!"

Bruce pulls *out* --

And pushes in, pushes in so --

He's so *big* --

There's so *much* --


He grunts and *shoves* the rest of the way in --

Tim screams and beats at the bed with his *fists* --

It *hurts* --

"*Tim* --"

"Daddy -- Daddy, *please* --"

Bruce groans and massages Tim's shoulders, the back of his neck --

*Squeezes* Tim's shoulders --

He's still *shaking* --

And Tim's not getting soft. He --

It feels like he's been hard too *long* for that, like he's taken too *much* --

Or maybe just like there's an incredibly large and *hard* penis inside him --


Tim pants and tries to --

No, he fixes his breathing as best as he can --

Bruce *growls* --

"Ah -- no?"

"Tim. You must. Do you like." Bruce growls again and *spasms* inside him --

Tim grunts and tries to lift, tries to work his hips -- he can't. He can't --

Tim *clenches* --

"*Tim* --"

"Oh -- *hurts* --"

"I'm --"

"Daddy, *please* --"

"You don't have to *call* me --" And the rest of that is a groan and more *shaking*, which --

Really. Really? Tim licks his lips and clenches again --

"Tim --"

*Again* --

"*Tim*, you -- I must --"

"You're still my Daddy. You -- mm. You're what I need, Daddy --"

"*You* --"

"*Please*, Daddy -- *ahn* --"

But Bruce doesn't pull *all* the way out --

He --

He *pauses* --

Tim closes his eyes and licks his lips --

Tim *struggles* not to clench again --



"*Hnh* -- *Tim* --"

"It's what -- it's what we both *want* --"

"I *do* --"

"*Fuck* me -- *nnk* --"

"Beautiful boy," Bruce says, and his grip on Tim's throat is *iron* -- "I'll give you *everything*."

And he squeezes --

And Tim's vision *blanks* --

And then Tim is trying and failing to cry out for --

For every push --

Every rocking *thrust* -

Jason had this.

*Clark* has had this --

Dick *should* have --

But who else?

Who else could there have *been*? Is that a question he's allowed to ask? Is it a question he's allowed to *think* -- no, Bruce likes him, wants him --


And there's nothing in Tim's mind but the shouts he can't actually get out of his throat --

And exclamation points --

And black --

Tim can feel his eyes rolling up --

But then he's gasping and screaming, gasping and clawing at the *sheets* --

"*Dad*, please, *Dad* --"

"*Tim* --"

"Please don't *stop* --"

"I. I *won't* --"

"You *need* me --"

"So *much* --"

"He was never *there* --"

Bruce gasps and thrusts *hard* -- "Tim, *please* --"

"Never there, never warm, never --"

"I won't let. I won't let you *go* --"

And the grip on his throat is back, and a part of Tim can only wonder if he'll be bruised, if it's something he'll have to *explain* --

The rest doesn't care, *can't* care, can't scream or fight --

And doesn't want to. Every thrust is moving him, inside and *out* --

The headboard is getting *closer* --

Bruce's hand --

Bruce's *penis* --

And Bruce is groaning steadily now, *shaking* more as his thrusts get faster and *harder* --

It feels like they're getting *deeper* --

Oh --

Oh, *God* --

And now Tim is *gripping* the sheets, gasping and getting nowhere, *screaming* in his mind for the feel of Bruce shifting angle sharply, *knowingly* --

Bruce lets go --

"No -- *Dad* --"

"Tell -- *tell* me --"

"*Squeeze* --"

"I need your *sounds*."

Bruce needs --

Batman needs --

Tim feels himself flushing all over and just -- opens his mouth.

And now Bruce is fucking sounds out of him, *shoving* out cries and whimpers and *yells* --

He thought he *couldn't* get louder than he had back then, back when there was no one on this entire *floor* but him and his hands, his hands pushing and *stroking* --

But never as warmly as this, never as *perfect* --

He's *sobbing* for it --

"My -- my beautiful --"


"*Son* --"

"*Hnh* --" And Tim can't keep himself from clenching, can't stop doing it over and over --

It *hurts* when he does it --

Bruce is grunting and losing -- losing his *rhythm* --

And now it's all screaming, all --

He sounds like a cat in *heat* --

Bruce grips Tim's wrists and holds them against the bed --

And now every thrust is brutal, sharp --

Oh, Daddy --

Daddy --

"*Tim* --" And Bruce *stops* --

"No, *please* --"

But Bruce is *growling* -- heat.

*Wet* heat inside him --

Oh -- "*Dad* --"

Bruce is panting and *shuddering* --

And Tim remembers every fantasy of Bruce collapsing on him --

Of Bruce's scent filling his nose and Bruce's body being --

God, *everything* --

"*More*," Bruce says and pulls out just slowly enough that Tim doesn't *need* to scream --

Bruce *moves* him --

Tim's *leaking* --

And then Tim is straddling Bruce's lap with his back to Bruce's chest --

Those awful pants and boxers are down around Bruce's *knees* --

And Bruce is pushing in again. Slowly. *Roughly* --

"Dad --"

"This. *This* --" And Bruce moans when he's all the way in --

Bruce bites Tim's *ear* --

Bruce grips Tim's *penis* --

"*Ohn* --"

"Do you -- would you like me to move?"

Tim -- tries to think about something other than how *tight* his scrotum feels, how needy his *penis* feels --

"I can... for a little while."

Tim swallows and presses closer to Bruce, rubs the back of his neck on Bruce's shoulder --


"Stroke. You -- I want you *in* me --"

"Like this?" And Bruce strokes him... hard. Not slowly. Not -- not *gently* --

Tim groans and *flushes* again --

"Beautiful boy. Tell me --"

"Just like -- stay --*please*, Dad --"

"I'll stay," Bruce says --

Bruce *promises* --

And Tim shivers and thrusts into Bruce's hand --

*Shudders* and thrusts, because it's damp with sweat --

Because it's Bruce's *hand* --

Tim clenches and *shouts* --

And Bruce sighs. "Yes, Tim. My. My son..."

"Oh, *please* --"

"I will not stop --"

"*Daddy* --"

"Or maybe you need ol' Matches?"

"*Hnh* --"

Matches licks Tim's *temple* -- "You can have what you want, baby boy..."

"Ev-everything --"

Matches purrs and strokes Tim *faster* --


"Yeah, *lots* of noise. You know what I like --"

"Oh -- oh, God, *please* -- *nnh* --"

"Mmm, tight little ass around me... heh. Not too tight for me."

"*Daddy* --"

"You're gonna get done every chance I *get*... princess --"

Tim gasps and *snorts* --

Matches grins and *squeezes* --

And Tim can't stay even a little still, can't --

He's *riding* Matches --

Matches *grunts* -- "Always. Always knew you'd know how to bounce on a cock --"

"*Fuck* --"

"Always knew you could be *good* for me."

And now Tim's penis is twitching constantly, now --

"Daddy --"

"*Come* for me, baby boy."

"Yes -- oh, yes --"

"Get it *all* over this big ol' bed..."

"I want -- I want you so *much* --"

"I'm yours," Matches says, easy and comfortable and --

And *easy* --

But not as easy as he is --

No one --

Never --

He can't stop *bouncing* --

And now he's yelling for it again, *keening* for the feel of Matches inside him, Matches *softening* --

"*Please* -- *hnk* --"

"I know what you need, chicken," and Matches tightens his grip on Tim's throat --  "And I'm not gonna let you breathe until you come."

Fuck --

Oh, *fuck* --

And now he's moving roughly, *jerkily* --

Now he's *shoving* his penis into Matches' moving fist --

Bouncing, he's bouncing --

And Matches is breathing *hot* against his ear --

Matches is squeezing so hard with *both* hands --

"Daddy loves you, baby boy..."

And Tim *slams* himself down --

Tim tenses and screams --

It goes *nowhere* --

It's so --

So hot and *bright* --

And Matches pants and growls through Tim's orgasm --

Loosens and tightens his grip so Tim's screams seems to *warble* --

"Good. Good boy..."

Tim clenches *helplessly* --

And Matches doesn't stop this scream, at all. Matches lets him yell and yell --

But he doesn't let Tim fall over. He's being clutched in huge, strong arms --

He's being held.

Tim slumps into it and -- breathes.

Just breathes.

He's not going to try to think... yet. Not --

Not while he's being *kissed*, and there are faint hints of grappa in the scent, and faint hints of *himself* --

It's Matches, because Bruce would never let his stubble burn this much -- or. He doesn't know. He --

Tim opens his eyes --

But Matches' -- or Bruce's, or *whoever's* -- eyes are closed. He --

He closes his eyes again. And reaches up to wrap his shaking arms around -- someone's neck.

He feels --

He'd said --

Bruce promised --

Tim shivers and pulls back --

"Tim --"

"Bruce," Tim says, and tries to shape the name in his mouth, tries to understand *something* --

*Anything* -- no. Not that, because what he was *really* doing was trying *not* to understand everything that happened tonight, trying to bury it under --

Under whatever he has instead of the ability to cope. He's better than that. Tim pushes Bruce's arms away from him and kneels up, shivering as Bruce slips the rest of the way out.


And then he turns. And looks --

Bruce looks... calm? Resigned?

He's not *reaching* for Tim -- but his hands are resting palm up on his thighs.

And --

Tim is supposed to take -- everything.

Tim swallows and turns again, this time pulling the covers back on the left side. Bruce sleeps on the right. Bruce always --

Tim slips beneath the covers and pulls them up to his waist. "My -- they wake up at six."

Bruce narrows his eyes. "They never check on you."

"They'll start if I don't show up for... some breakfasts."

Bruce strokes his own thighs -- and then strips. The makeup he uses instead of the highly problematic tanner is smudged in places, but would still look normal enough to a casual eye. Alfred is going to have to go over him with large amounts of cold cream --

Unless Tim does it. He -- "Bruce... I."


Tim looks Bruce over, cataloguing the scars he's only ever allowed himself to glance at --

The hair --

The *muscle* --

Bruce hums and *flexes* --

And Tim's penis twitches rather more bravely than it has any right to, considering how much sleep he hasn't gotten and all the sex he *has*. It --

Bruce smiles sharply. *Warmly*. And then crawls up the bed, peeling the covers back again and laying himself down --

Very, very close.

Perhaps his penis has the right idea. Tim sighs and presses closer, still --

"Three breakfasts a week."

Tim licks his lips. "I can. I can say -- ah. It can be less than that. Sometimes."

Bruce kisses Tim's forehead. "Thank you."

Tim shivers --

And Bruce wraps an arm around Tim's waist. "Son."

Tim sighs and smiles. "Dad."


Tim shivers *again* --

And closes his eyes.