"No, of course I don't think that," Tim says, but that's a lie. He's been
thinking it non-stop. How if Bruce wanted something else, he would have
asked for it before the rooftop, before Tim was practically incapacitated
and overwhelmed by drugs.
He's still leaning into Bruce's touch though, eyes sliding shut. God, he
wanted more. Like last time. Harder maybe.
"I just---I wasn't expecting you tonight. I'm a little off my game." A lot
off. Drunk.
It's an opening. A crack in the door wide enough for Bruce to wedge his way through. And he did, slowly, subtly until it's too late to retreat. He wanted Tim to want this as badly as he did. Let him be an addiction, so there'd never be room for anyone else.
"You're drunk." A transgression, but Bruce forgives him. "Stand up and come here."
Tim stands, feeling stupid but obedient. He's never wanted to let Bruce
down. He spent most of his young life trying to live up to others but more
importantly to Bruce's needs for him. The perfect soldier, always. Now
there he is, drunk like an idiot in front of the only person who matters.
He moves forward, slowly, and it's barely a step to get close enough to
Bruce for him to see how sluggish Tim's eyes are. The heat in his cheeks.
Maybe even the flutter of his pulse against the slope of his neck.
"I didn't--intend to get drunk," he says. "I mean, maybe a little. Just to
let some steam off, you know?"
While Tim is getting to his feet, Bruce peels his gauntlets off and sets them on the table beside him and when Tim is close he's reaching for him, fingers sliding under his shirt to palm over the familiar grooves of his ribs and muscle. He hadn't intended to get drunk and Bruce could have scolded him for it, but if he were honest, that really wasn't the pressing issue here.
"Did you let him touch you?" His voice is low when he says it. It seems like a question, but it isn't one. It's the first little hook. The start of a slow, deliberate reeling in. He didn't mind if Tim noticed or not. It'd work out for him either way.
Tim moans at the first slide of Bruce's hands. It's been--he's just messed
up. Ever since the rooftop, all he can think about is Bruce and being held
and touched by him, and it's really fucking everything up but he can't help
it. Bruce is a magnet, and once Tim had really felt its pull he could do
nothing but want to slide into it again. God, it's good. Being touched like
he's everything in the world. More important than even the Mission, maybe.
"I didn't---" Tim can barely breathe, is already getting hard just being
close, even though his hands are reaching to slow Bruce down. "--No. I
didn't want anyone touching me like that."
It's just one more thing they had in common. Neither of them had been able to stop thinking about that rooftop. He'd wanted his hands on Tim again from the moment they parted. His hands slide Tim's shirt up higher, knuckles grazing bare skin. But he stops when he feels Tim's hands on top of his own.
Bruce shouldn't be pleased by it, but he is. A small quiet part of him puts it away. Still mine, it whispers.
He looks up at him. "Would you have wished it were me?"
Yes. Yes, of course, nobody will ever compare to Bruce, no matter how hard
Tim tries to fit someone else into that space. The man at the bar would
have gladly railed Tim into the bathroom stall if he'd only have asked, but
that wasn't what Tim had wanted. He was trying desperately to fill the
gaping hole in him that Bruce had so suddenly opened up on the rooftop.
"Bruce." It's noncommittal but hesitant. Tim's not in the mind to make good
decisions. But they can't just do this again... Can they?
Bruce could sense Tim's hesitation, could feel it in the way his hand sits on top of Bruce's own. In the quiet way he says Bruce's name.
That uncertainty? That hesitation? It's by design. None of his boys were ever meant to find someone to fill the space his absence leaves behind. It's too vast. Too jagged around the edges. No one else would fit. Not the way Bruce does. And Tim? His perfect soldier, Tim, doesn't cannot decide how he feels. Because Bruce made it that way, so he could decide for him. He shifts, hands resuming their slow crawl up his chest, a thumb brushing over Tim's nipple when his hand is high enough to reach it.
"It's okay, Tim," Bruce says. "I'm right here. You can have exactly what you want."
The part of Tim that wants to snap that what he wanted was to be given the
necessary space to deal with shit in his own way is completely and utterly
silenced as Bruce's thumb swipes over a nipple. He's wavering, sure as
Bruce is there touching him, because---the alcohol? The longing? Not
really, if he's honest. Those things, they help, but the crux of the
problem is that he wants Bruce, has wanted him for years and never allowed
himself so much as a furtive glance to make that clear. He'd tried to hide
it, and now look where that had got them. So if Bruce was offering... If
Tim needed it...
With a moan, Tim bows his head, resting it against Bruce's shoulder, his
hands tightening at Bruce's wrists.
"This---it's wrong." It was why Tim had held back for so long. Crossing the
bridge had made the other side that much sweeter.
There were a lot of things in Bruce's life that were wrong. Some of it more egregious than others. Some of it that rightly should have earned him a lengthy prison sentence. None of it was enough to stop him. None of it even slowed him down. Should he have questioned the morality of wanting to kiss Tim so much it made him ache? Perhaps. And maybe he did.
"I don't care." It's a quiet, almost tender confession. Bruce had done much worse. He cared about Tim and he'd never call that wrong. His thumb draws a lazy circle over Tim's nipple, and when his forehead touches his shoulder, Bruce turns to kiss his cheek. "I just want you. That's enough for me."
A breathless laugh is the answer that Bruce gets, followed by another hum
of a moan as Bruce's thumb rubs his nipple to a hardened peak. Fuck, that's
good. Random guys at the club wouldn't know to touch a man's nipple if it
bit them in the ass, but Bruce knew. Tim didn't really want to question how
it was that he knew exactly what buttons to press to get Tim to relent. He
was just a little too tipsy to worry as much as usual and certainly worked
up enough to put some of his concerns aside.
For now.
Tim tips his face, catching Bruce's lips for a hungry kiss that leaves
absolutely nothing to the imagination. There's no question if Tim likes
this or doesn't. Of course he does. He's been desperate to hear Bruce's
praise his entire life, and Bruce dolls it out exactly enough to string Tim
along. His hands scramble to find the cowl, to tug it back and off Bruce's
face to let it hang around his neck at the back, so he can tangle hands in
sweat-damp hair.
Is that something Tim really wanted the answer to? Bruce didn't imagine he did. But the truth was? Bruce and Tim were mirror images. Dark reflections casting the same shadow. Bruce knows all of the ways to get Tim to relent, not because he'd studied him, but because they were the same. Jagged, imperfect pieces forcing themselves to be perfect under the weight of their own scrutiny.
Maybe it's not something Tim is ready to confront, but Bruce already had.
Bruce's tongue slides into Tim's mouth as he pulls the cowl off. He's pleased and hums his approval into Tim's mouth. His hands settle in familiar places on Tim's body that makes getting away seem impossible. Or if you asked Bruce? Intimate. It annoyed him the taste of that other man lingers. He'd make Tim forget the encounter. He'd fill him up until there was no more room for anyone else. He kisses Tim like he wants to devour him, while his hands drag across his chest, lifting Tim's shirt higher and higher.
By the time Tim breaks the kiss, it's really only so Bruce can haul his
shirt off. His skin is already pebbling with goosebumps, the fine hairs
standing up on the back of his neck and his arms. Bruce kisses like nobody
else, and he has the deepest taste of anyone Tim has ever kissed. Like
falling headfirst into a deep, dark cave. Consumed by darkness.
He's working on Bruce's costume, eager hands fumbling for the pieces. He's
sloppy in his current state, afraid to slow down because if he does, this
moment might shatter.
He dives in for another kiss, crawling onto Bruce's lap.
The shirt goes without a second thought, tossed aside and forgotten the second it leaves Bruce's hand. Then his mouth is back on Tim, tasting him and committing it all to memory. Bruce knows the harder he pushes him, the farther away he'll land when Tim finally comes to his senses. Even if Bruce's orbit is ultimately impossible to escape, Tim was right. Bruce never wanted him too far out of his sight.
The suit falls away piece by piece and Bruce helps when Tim's fingers fumble over some of the clasps and closures. He welcomes the weight of Tim in his lap, drags him closer so his chest is pressing against Bruce's.
"You missed me, didn't you, Tim?" His voice is low, a growl that rumbles up his throat. Each word deliberate and precise. Designed to draw him in close and keep him there.
"I missed you," Tim parrots back, absolutely true and heartbreaking. He
thought Bruce knew before that he missed him, that even if he demanded
space he would always miss him when they weren't working together or close
enough to touch. Tim knows he's a coin flip of Bruce, some warped mirror
image, the closest Bruce has to someone like him, and that's always been a
tough pill to swallow, forever wondering if he was always like Bruce or if
Bruce molded him into the thing he wanted most. "Of course I missed you,
Bruce, you're---everything."
It's embarrassingly true. He didn't just miss Bruce because they fucked,
though that's a heavy part of it right now. He missed Bruce every day.
Missed being his partner, his confidant, his companion. Missed waking him
up in the morning after a particularly long, rough night when Bruce forgot
to set an alarm because he knew Tim would be there. Missed eating breakfast
in the Cave while flicking through files, silent but present, together.
Misses that if he falls, Bruce is there to catch him.
There's just something about hearing the words from Tim's own mouth. Demanding space and respect for boundaries were all meant to put up walls between them. To keep them apart and Bruce means to tear them down, one by one. To keep Tim close and reliant. If he could get Tim to admit it out loud, it's the first brick worked loose and thrown on the ground and it'd bring them back together again, even in that small way.
Though this moment didn't feel small at all. Not with Tim's admission hanging so heavy between them. Everything. Bruce is everything and it's how he's always wanted things to be between them. Maybe Bruce should feel bad about it, but he doesn't.
He doesn't say anything to that. Just presses in for another kiss, fingers hooking into the waistband of his pants to tug them down. "Stand up and take these off."
Tim climbs off Bruce's lap, his lips kiss swollen and his eyes heavy. He
obeys easily, unzipping his jeans and tugging them down, kicking his shoes
off, sliding his pants off, his underwear. Bruce is still in half
costume--again, always in full control while Tim spirals--but Tim doesn't
care. He sinks to his knees to help Bruce at least get some of the bulk of
his suit off.
At least the bracers over his shins. At least something so Tim doesn't feel
so vulnerable and on display.
Bruce realizes that feeling is not equal here. He never liked feeling vulnerable. It's why he wrapped himself in layers of armor and kevlar. It's why he kept the people he loved at arms length until he wanted them to be closer. Control is easier. Control doesn't make him feel like he's sinking. But he lets Tim take off the bracers. He doesn't stop him. And he sinks a little farther.
It's nothing he's not seen before, but Tim is still so beautiful to look at that Bruce takes his time to admire him. The easy way his jeans and his underwear roll down over his hips and the easy way he kicks his shoes off and away. The way his muscles move under his smooth skin, Bruce's training still ingrained like a stamp. He's beautiful when he's vulnerable. Just like how Bruce likes him.
"Get up and turn around. Then spread your legs." He gestures toward the table. "Put your hands there."
Tim hesitates, as if Bruce is asking the world of him. He's just--a little
confused. He'd sort of thought he'd just suck Bruce off, maybe they'd go in
the bedroom.... Right here in the open living area? With the window wide
open? It sends Tim's pulse racing.
He does it, bends and puts his hands exactly where Bruce asked, laughing
breathlessly because what can he even say? He's hard, cock jutting out in
front of him and red at the engorged tip. He bows his head and as he
spreads his legs, he looks back, watching Bruce.
If they weren't up so high, Bruce might have been a little more concerned about it, but like it is now, there's a certain kind of excitement in the open window. It makes his hard cock strain against his suit, but he ignores it now that Tim's truly put himself on display for Bruce's inspection. And his pleasure. He reaches for Tim's cheeks, kneading them with precises presses of his hands. And when he's satisfied, he pries them apart to lick a stripe between them, eyes flicking up to meet Tim's gaze with the intensity of his own.
"Oh----god---Bruce---" The words stutter out in a heady moan as Bruce's
tongue laps at his hole. For whatever reason, Tim hadn't anticipated he'd
do that. Not just right now but ever. No one has ever---it's so good
though, especially catching Bruce's gaze right before he did it like that.
Tim has to bow his face though, turning it away, fully embarrassed and so
turned on it was hard to focus.
Maybe not, but Bruce had wanted the taste of Tim on his tongue. Had wanted to watch him tremble and hear him moan. And for Tim to remember no one would treat him as well as Bruce does. His hands stays locked in place while he laps at Tim's hole greedily.
"I don't have to," he says when he comes up for air, "But you like it, don't you?"
Tim is practically drooling as he hangs his head and shivers, his shoulders
dipping and his back arching in a beautiful curve. It's good. It's so
goddamn good that Tim's brain isn't functioning practically anymore. No one
has ever done this to him, has ever taken the time, and Tim honestly never
thought it was something he wanted. But with Bruce, it's unbearably good.
When Bruce stops, it's too long, even if it's only to ask if Tim likes it.
He's panting, swallowing down his spit and shaking his head, then nodding,
forgetting what he's even doing.
Beautiful. Bruce thinks when Tim arches and the smooth line of his spine dips to bring him closer. So damned beautiful. He wants to take his fill, but doesn't think he'll ever be full up.
He likes the sound of Tim begging. And it isn't just the quiet plea for more. He likes the way that desperation curls around his name. How needy Tim sounds when he says it. He wants more. He wants Bruce to give it to him. It's enough to make Bruce put the discomfort of his erection straining against its confines away, so he could focus tasting Tim and watching him open up for Bruce.
His tongue slicks against Tim's hole in a long, slow drag, pulling a low rumble of a groan out of him. It makes Bruce tug at his hips to drag Tim deeper into the mire with him and so he could better feel Bruce's tongue wriggling its way inside of him.
Tim could cry. He might be crying, he doesn't even know anymore what's up
or down. Bruce's hands squeezing his ass and prying his cheeks apart,
Bruce's tongue shoving inside his hole, the wet and sloppy sounds of
it--that's all that's right in the world. Bruce is all that's right
in Tim's world, all that's good and perfect and exactly what he needs. His
head is spinning, fingers digging into his own table as he strains up on
his tiptoes to make the pleasure that much more intense, every muscle
shivery and taut, built by Bruce's own hands and molded into this image he
holds before him.
"P--lease--" Tim can't even speak right anymore, the words wet and heavy on
his tongue. He doesn't even know what he's begging for, whether it's more
or less or for Bruce to just fuck him already. "Please,
please--pleasepleaseplease--!"
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"No, of course I don't think that," Tim says, but that's a lie. He's been thinking it non-stop. How if Bruce wanted something else, he would have asked for it before the rooftop, before Tim was practically incapacitated and overwhelmed by drugs.
He's still leaning into Bruce's touch though, eyes sliding shut. God, he wanted more. Like last time. Harder maybe.
"I just---I wasn't expecting you tonight. I'm a little off my game." A lot off. Drunk.
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"You're drunk." A transgression, but Bruce forgives him. "Stand up and come here."
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Tim stands, feeling stupid but obedient. He's never wanted to let Bruce down. He spent most of his young life trying to live up to others but more importantly to Bruce's needs for him. The perfect soldier, always. Now there he is, drunk like an idiot in front of the only person who matters.
He moves forward, slowly, and it's barely a step to get close enough to Bruce for him to see how sluggish Tim's eyes are. The heat in his cheeks. Maybe even the flutter of his pulse against the slope of his neck.
"I didn't--intend to get drunk," he says. "I mean, maybe a little. Just to let some steam off, you know?"
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"Did you let him touch you?" His voice is low when he says it. It seems like a question, but it isn't one. It's the first little hook. The start of a slow, deliberate reeling in. He didn't mind if Tim noticed or not. It'd work out for him either way.
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Tim moans at the first slide of Bruce's hands. It's been--he's just messed up. Ever since the rooftop, all he can think about is Bruce and being held and touched by him, and it's really fucking everything up but he can't help it. Bruce is a magnet, and once Tim had really felt its pull he could do nothing but want to slide into it again. God, it's good. Being touched like he's everything in the world. More important than even the Mission, maybe.
"I didn't---" Tim can barely breathe, is already getting hard just being close, even though his hands are reaching to slow Bruce down. "--No. I didn't want anyone touching me like that."
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Bruce shouldn't be pleased by it, but he is. A small quiet part of him puts it away. Still mine, it whispers.
He looks up at him. "Would you have wished it were me?"
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Yes. Yes, of course, nobody will ever compare to Bruce, no matter how hard Tim tries to fit someone else into that space. The man at the bar would have gladly railed Tim into the bathroom stall if he'd only have asked, but that wasn't what Tim had wanted. He was trying desperately to fill the gaping hole in him that Bruce had so suddenly opened up on the rooftop.
"Bruce." It's noncommittal but hesitant. Tim's not in the mind to make good decisions. But they can't just do this again... Can they?
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That uncertainty? That hesitation? It's by design. None of his boys were ever meant to find someone to fill the space his absence leaves behind. It's too vast. Too jagged around the edges. No one else would fit. Not the way Bruce does. And Tim? His perfect soldier, Tim, doesn't cannot decide how he feels. Because Bruce made it that way, so he could decide for him. He shifts, hands resuming their slow crawl up his chest, a thumb brushing over Tim's nipple when his hand is high enough to reach it.
"It's okay, Tim," Bruce says. "I'm right here. You can have exactly what you want."
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The part of Tim that wants to snap that what he wanted was to be given the necessary space to deal with shit in his own way is completely and utterly silenced as Bruce's thumb swipes over a nipple. He's wavering, sure as Bruce is there touching him, because---the alcohol? The longing? Not really, if he's honest. Those things, they help, but the crux of the problem is that he wants Bruce, has wanted him for years and never allowed himself so much as a furtive glance to make that clear. He'd tried to hide it, and now look where that had got them. So if Bruce was offering... If Tim needed it...
With a moan, Tim bows his head, resting it against Bruce's shoulder, his hands tightening at Bruce's wrists.
"This---it's wrong." It was why Tim had held back for so long. Crossing the bridge had made the other side that much sweeter.
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"I don't care." It's a quiet, almost tender confession. Bruce had done much worse. He cared about Tim and he'd never call that wrong. His thumb draws a lazy circle over Tim's nipple, and when his forehead touches his shoulder, Bruce turns to kiss his cheek. "I just want you. That's enough for me."
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A breathless laugh is the answer that Bruce gets, followed by another hum of a moan as Bruce's thumb rubs his nipple to a hardened peak. Fuck, that's good. Random guys at the club wouldn't know to touch a man's nipple if it bit them in the ass, but Bruce knew. Tim didn't really want to question how it was that he knew exactly what buttons to press to get Tim to relent. He was just a little too tipsy to worry as much as usual and certainly worked up enough to put some of his concerns aside.
For now.
Tim tips his face, catching Bruce's lips for a hungry kiss that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. There's no question if Tim likes this or doesn't. Of course he does. He's been desperate to hear Bruce's praise his entire life, and Bruce dolls it out exactly enough to string Tim along. His hands scramble to find the cowl, to tug it back and off Bruce's face to let it hang around his neck at the back, so he can tangle hands in sweat-damp hair.
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Maybe it's not something Tim is ready to confront, but Bruce already had.
Bruce's tongue slides into Tim's mouth as he pulls the cowl off. He's pleased and hums his approval into Tim's mouth. His hands settle in familiar places on Tim's body that makes getting away seem impossible. Or if you asked Bruce? Intimate. It annoyed him the taste of that other man lingers. He'd make Tim forget the encounter. He'd fill him up until there was no more room for anyone else. He kisses Tim like he wants to devour him, while his hands drag across his chest, lifting Tim's shirt higher and higher.
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By the time Tim breaks the kiss, it's really only so Bruce can haul his shirt off. His skin is already pebbling with goosebumps, the fine hairs standing up on the back of his neck and his arms. Bruce kisses like nobody else, and he has the deepest taste of anyone Tim has ever kissed. Like falling headfirst into a deep, dark cave. Consumed by darkness.
He's working on Bruce's costume, eager hands fumbling for the pieces. He's sloppy in his current state, afraid to slow down because if he does, this moment might shatter.
He dives in for another kiss, crawling onto Bruce's lap.
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The suit falls away piece by piece and Bruce helps when Tim's fingers fumble over some of the clasps and closures. He welcomes the weight of Tim in his lap, drags him closer so his chest is pressing against Bruce's.
"You missed me, didn't you, Tim?" His voice is low, a growl that rumbles up his throat. Each word deliberate and precise. Designed to draw him in close and keep him there.
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"I missed you," Tim parrots back, absolutely true and heartbreaking. He thought Bruce knew before that he missed him, that even if he demanded space he would always miss him when they weren't working together or close enough to touch. Tim knows he's a coin flip of Bruce, some warped mirror image, the closest Bruce has to someone like him, and that's always been a tough pill to swallow, forever wondering if he was always like Bruce or if Bruce molded him into the thing he wanted most. "Of course I missed you, Bruce, you're---everything."
It's embarrassingly true. He didn't just miss Bruce because they fucked, though that's a heavy part of it right now. He missed Bruce every day. Missed being his partner, his confidant, his companion. Missed waking him up in the morning after a particularly long, rough night when Bruce forgot to set an alarm because he knew Tim would be there. Missed eating breakfast in the Cave while flicking through files, silent but present, together. Misses that if he falls, Bruce is there to catch him.
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Though this moment didn't feel small at all. Not with Tim's admission hanging so heavy between them. Everything. Bruce is everything and it's how he's always wanted things to be between them. Maybe Bruce should feel bad about it, but he doesn't.
He doesn't say anything to that. Just presses in for another kiss, fingers hooking into the waistband of his pants to tug them down. "Stand up and take these off."
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Tim climbs off Bruce's lap, his lips kiss swollen and his eyes heavy. He obeys easily, unzipping his jeans and tugging them down, kicking his shoes off, sliding his pants off, his underwear. Bruce is still in half costume--again, always in full control while Tim spirals--but Tim doesn't care. He sinks to his knees to help Bruce at least get some of the bulk of his suit off.
At least the bracers over his shins. At least something so Tim doesn't feel so vulnerable and on display.
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It's nothing he's not seen before, but Tim is still so beautiful to look at that Bruce takes his time to admire him. The easy way his jeans and his underwear roll down over his hips and the easy way he kicks his shoes off and away. The way his muscles move under his smooth skin, Bruce's training still ingrained like a stamp. He's beautiful when he's vulnerable. Just like how Bruce likes him.
"Get up and turn around. Then spread your legs." He gestures toward the table. "Put your hands there."
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Tim hesitates, as if Bruce is asking the world of him. He's just--a little confused. He'd sort of thought he'd just suck Bruce off, maybe they'd go in the bedroom.... Right here in the open living area? With the window wide open? It sends Tim's pulse racing.
He does it, bends and puts his hands exactly where Bruce asked, laughing breathlessly because what can he even say? He's hard, cock jutting out in front of him and red at the engorged tip. He bows his head and as he spreads his legs, he looks back, watching Bruce.
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"Oh----god---Bruce---" The words stutter out in a heady moan as Bruce's tongue laps at his hole. For whatever reason, Tim hadn't anticipated he'd do that. Not just right now but ever. No one has ever---it's so good though, especially catching Bruce's gaze right before he did it like that.
Tim has to bow his face though, turning it away, fully embarrassed and so turned on it was hard to focus.
"You don't have to---do that."
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"I don't have to," he says when he comes up for air, "But you like it, don't you?"
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Tim is practically drooling as he hangs his head and shivers, his shoulders dipping and his back arching in a beautiful curve. It's good. It's so goddamn good that Tim's brain isn't functioning practically anymore. No one has ever done this to him, has ever taken the time, and Tim honestly never thought it was something he wanted. But with Bruce, it's unbearably good.
When Bruce stops, it's too long, even if it's only to ask if Tim likes it. He's panting, swallowing down his spit and shaking his head, then nodding, forgetting what he's even doing.
"It's---good, yeah---Bruce, please..."
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He likes the sound of Tim begging. And it isn't just the quiet plea for more. He likes the way that desperation curls around his name. How needy Tim sounds when he says it. He wants more. He wants Bruce to give it to him. It's enough to make Bruce put the discomfort of his erection straining against its confines away, so he could focus tasting Tim and watching him open up for Bruce.
His tongue slicks against Tim's hole in a long, slow drag, pulling a low rumble of a groan out of him. It makes Bruce tug at his hips to drag Tim deeper into the mire with him and so he could better feel Bruce's tongue wriggling its way inside of him.
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Tim could cry. He might be crying, he doesn't even know anymore what's up or down. Bruce's hands squeezing his ass and prying his cheeks apart, Bruce's tongue shoving inside his hole, the wet and sloppy sounds of it--that's all that's right in the world. Bruce is all that's right in Tim's world, all that's good and perfect and exactly what he needs. His head is spinning, fingers digging into his own table as he strains up on his tiptoes to make the pleasure that much more intense, every muscle shivery and taut, built by Bruce's own hands and molded into this image he holds before him.
"P--lease--" Tim can't even speak right anymore, the words wet and heavy on his tongue. He doesn't even know what he's begging for, whether it's more or less or for Bruce to just fuck him already. "Please, please--pleasepleaseplease--!"
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