The worst part of it all is that Tim can't even apologize. He can't say
he's sorry, that he's trying, that there's never going to be anyone else
but Bruce and Bruce doesn't have to worry because Tim is a good boy and
doing everything he can---but please---just a little gentler, a little
slower, a little moment to take a breath.
Or maybe it's the best part, because his hands immediately are back to his
own thighs, slapped down loudly, fingers gripping his own muscle as he
gulps down Bruce's next brutal thrust and feels his cock finally push past
the tight resistance and edge down his throat. With Tim's head tipped back
as it was just to take the length at the best angle, it feels like Bruce
will be able to see the outline of his thrusting cock against the red,
stained tendons in Tim's neck.
His tongue is lolled out, inviting Bruce even deeper, gagging but pushing
himself for Bruce. To be perfect. To be his vessel.
The thing is, Bruce knows Tim is trying. He doesn't protest, doesn't try to stop Bruce from forcing his way down his throat. That's what a good soldier does, wasn't it? They took whatever challenge is put in front of them and rise up to meet it. That's how they were all trained. Tim would do his best because that's what Bruce expects. It's satisfying to hear the smack of his hands against his thighs.
"Good boy, Tim," Bruce says, his voice humming as he feels himself winding up, getting closer and closer to that precarious edge. He tilts his head back, lips parting as he tries to catch his breath. It feels like it's slipping away, like he's going to drown. He's close, he's so close. "You're a good boy for Daddy, aren't you?" Just for Bruce.
Tears stream down Tim's red cheeks, his own cock mercilessly weeping as
well as the word sinks in. He's never once called Bruce that. It's so
filthy and obscene, filling up Tim's head with so many different,
conflicting feelings. Bruce is his father, had stepped in to replace the
real thing, had been that for Tim over the years, and that was part of the
reason Tim never let thing get out of hand. It's too complex to want both a
father and a lover both in the same body. But Daddy is on another level
that Tim had only dreamed of in private.
His toes curl, knees shifting wide so he can spread his thighs a little,
give himself room. Room for nothing, really, since he can't touch himself,
his hands spasming against the meat of his own naked thighs, nails dragging
into his skin.
Daddy.
Tim's eyes roll back as Bruce's cock slides in deep. He can't breathe.
Can't think. All he can hear is that single word repeated in Batman's gruff
growl over and over again in an echo chamber, in time to the beat of his
own heady heart. His face is turning colors. It's perfect. He holds there
for Bruce, swallowing him, gagging on him, giving Bruce everything that's
in him and then some, more than he'd ever give to anyone else because
nobody deserves this sloppy, degraded, desperate part of Tim but Bruce.
For once this isn't something Bruce had planned. It wasn't some tightly woven thread or a piece of some grand master plan to drive Tim to the brink. It just. Happened. In the moment, heady and intoxicating as it is, Bruce had felt the word slip out of him. Bubble up like the quiet surge of a wave against the beach. It feels right. Because it only winds Bruce up tighter, makes his balls feel tight.
It feels right because he can see the way Tim reacts when his head drops to watch him. He can see his cock weeping and Tim's wet cheeks and it drives Bruce over the edge. His orgasm hits like punch to the gut. It seizes him and every muscle and every thought and all Bruce can think is Tim and how beautiful he looks on his knees and desperate and lips wrapped around the thick girth of his cock. For a long few moments, it feels like Bruce won't ever stop coming, like he'll deflate when he's emptied out completely.
But it does stop eventually and the grip he has on Tim's hair relaxes and all of the tension and anger he felt leaves him as he takes a few weary steps back, giving Tim space to catch his breath. He isn't angry anymore. He could forgive the bites and the welts and the bruises. They would heal. He could forgive because Tim would not forget this moment and if he thought to ever ask for space again, he'd remember it would never be like this with anyone else. Not ever.
Bruce doesn't trust his knees to hold him up. So he sits down on the mat near Tim, panting and sweating and trying to will his heart back to something closer to his baseline. Then he reaches for Tim, pulls him close and presses a warm kiss to his sweat slick forehead. As much praise as he had in him to give right then.
It's another tsunami of come from Bruce's cock, and Tim has to wonder if
anyone has ever successfully sucked the man off and lived to tell the tale.
Tim can take a lot, swallows so much more than should be humanly possible,
but even he can't keep up entirely, spluttering on the last few spurts as
they slide out the corners of his overstuffed mouth. It's perfect, though,
really. Tim just slack there, a vessel to be used for Bruce's needs. To
fulfill Bruce. Crying and turning blue in the face and so relieved when
Bruce finally does pull away but already missing the intensity of that high.
There's nothing like it. No one else could ever take him there. He would
have never trusted some strange man to do that to him.
Tim sags when he's let go, boneless and doubling over to cough with one
single, quivering arm holding him up, his body a wreck of spasms from the
rough come down. And then Bruce is gathering him close, kissing his
forehead, and all Tim can do is bow in against him, crawl slowly into his
lap and straddle his waist, arms looping lazily around his thick neck. He
gives a pathetic thrust against Bruce's stomach, his cock rubbing there.
And moans.
"Please?" he murmurs. "Just---stay like that." Tim would do the work.
Rutting against Bruce, using his skin as friction for his desperate cock,
rocking in against his abs as he buried his face in Bruce's neck and
shoulder, panting.
In a few quiet pulls of air, Bruce could feel himself coming back down to earth. That boneless, weightless feeling sliding into contentment. He allows Tim into his lap, welcomes him and wraps one of those strong arms around his waist.
When he feels that hard press of Tim’s cock against his stomach Bruce pulls back, just enough to watch him rut against him, with a hand sliding over his hip. Subtle encouragement.
Tim's body undulates like a beautiful serpent as he rocks against Bruce.
His ass rubs along Bruce's soft length, his own hard cock thrust against
Bruce's abdomen. He winces at every catch of the head against Bruce's deep
toned muscles, then moans at the hand subtly on his hip just keeping him
steady and giving him permission to do this. He's dizzied by it, blood
rushed south and his head still spinning from the lack of air during that
blowjob.
Head bowed, he rides into Bruce, moving in short, jerky little bursts.
And then, quietly, "Daddy," whispered into Bruce's chest. Horribly quiet
and embarrassed to say it but the flush on his body gives away how much he
likes it.
If he were honest, Bruce wasn't too sure how he would feel hearing that word from Tim. It had not been intentional when Bruce said it, but here, while Tim is rocking into his abs, it is very much intended. Even if he's whispered it into his chest, even if he's hiding his face to hide how embarrassed he is.
As it has time to settle, Bruce decides he likes it just fine. His free hand graze over the beautiful curve of his spine, while he leans forward to kiss his shoulder and kiss his neck. Then up his cheek and close to his ear.
"Can I?" Tim gasps, shivery at hearing it again from Bruce, right there
against the shell of his ear. In that dark, intimate voice. "Can I come?
Please, can I--can I touch myself and come?"
He couldn't yet say the word again, too distraught as he rocked into Bruce,
close but needing more to get off and still under Bruce's spell enough to
ask for permission. He'd been told not to touch himself. He wouldn't. If
Bruce said no, he'd buck into him all night to get off or go without.
Tim's begging does something to him. Stirs something dark and warm inside of him that goes straight to his cock. Tim's obedience does the same and Bruce inhales sharply, quietly against the side of Tim's head.
When he asks again, Bruce doesn't answer. Not right away. He looks down to watch that hard flesh pressing into his abdomen.
"No." There's nothing malicious in the denial. Just a quiet warmth to go with Bruce wrapping his fingers around Tim's cock and stroking him in tandem with every roll of his hips. "Don't stop."
"No-no? Bruce, I---haaah...." Tim shudders, clenching his legs around Bruce
as those thick fingers find his aching hardness. He's too worked up to know
if Bruce is saying no to coming or no to touching or no to both, so he just
breathes through the absolute torture of the pleasure and continues to jerk
and thrust into Bruce's fist and against his body. "I ca-n't, Bruce I
can't--please...." He can. He tells himself he can. He'll wait as long as
it takes, as long as Bruce wants.
Forever, if he asked it. Tim is his soldier and perfect boy and he would
wait for permission.
For a minute, he doesn't bother to clear up the confusion. He likes the desperate sounds Tim makes, but the way he keeps going because he wants to make Bruce happy. He likes the weight of Tim's cock in his hand. He likes the way Tim tries to hold himself back when he's clearly close to the brink. Bruce could be cruel and tell him to stop, edge him close and leave him wanting. He could; Tim's given him the power to do so. But he decides the sight of Tim coming would be a better one.
So after a few lazy strokes, he kisses Tim's jaw again and says, "It's okay, Tim. Come for me."
It's an explosion out of Tim barely a few seconds after permission is
given. Tim had been holding his breath and he lets it all out in a huff as
he arches his body back. Holding his arms loose around Bruce's neck, he
thrusts two more times into Bruce's perfect hand and then comes. Thick
spatters of come against Bruce's chest, down the man's fingers, onto his
own body with how his cock is arched that way, twitching helplessly in the
rough texture of Bruce's grip. Tim doesn't shout, instead his lips are
merely parted and nothing really comes out except a sigh of gratitude.
The other men hadn't known what to do with Tim, how to give him what he
needed. The pain was fine, good even, but it's nothing compared to the
emotional toll being with Bruce takes on him. Like being wrung dry.
When it's over, Tim sags against Bruce, face buried against his shoulder as
he pants and tries to catch his breath.
Bruce braces a hand against Tim's back, holding him steady as he comes. And as he watches his boy come unraveled, Bruce knows he made the right choice. He's beautiful to watch, flush cheeks and sweat-drenched and Bruce watches while he's hitting that high and when he comes down from it after. He waits for Tim to go slack, then holds him close, like he's something precious.
They'd have to get up soon enough, but for now, Bruce just wants to hold Tim for a moment longer.
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no subject
The worst part of it all is that Tim can't even apologize. He can't say he's sorry, that he's trying, that there's never going to be anyone else but Bruce and Bruce doesn't have to worry because Tim is a good boy and doing everything he can---but please---just a little gentler, a little slower, a little moment to take a breath.
Or maybe it's the best part, because his hands immediately are back to his own thighs, slapped down loudly, fingers gripping his own muscle as he gulps down Bruce's next brutal thrust and feels his cock finally push past the tight resistance and edge down his throat. With Tim's head tipped back as it was just to take the length at the best angle, it feels like Bruce will be able to see the outline of his thrusting cock against the red, stained tendons in Tim's neck.
His tongue is lolled out, inviting Bruce even deeper, gagging but pushing himself for Bruce. To be perfect. To be his vessel.
no subject
"Good boy, Tim," Bruce says, his voice humming as he feels himself winding up, getting closer and closer to that precarious edge. He tilts his head back, lips parting as he tries to catch his breath. It feels like it's slipping away, like he's going to drown. He's close, he's so close. "You're a good boy for Daddy, aren't you?" Just for Bruce.
no subject
For---for Daddy.
Tears stream down Tim's red cheeks, his own cock mercilessly weeping as well as the word sinks in. He's never once called Bruce that. It's so filthy and obscene, filling up Tim's head with so many different, conflicting feelings. Bruce is his father, had stepped in to replace the real thing, had been that for Tim over the years, and that was part of the reason Tim never let thing get out of hand. It's too complex to want both a father and a lover both in the same body. But Daddy is on another level that Tim had only dreamed of in private.
His toes curl, knees shifting wide so he can spread his thighs a little, give himself room. Room for nothing, really, since he can't touch himself, his hands spasming against the meat of his own naked thighs, nails dragging into his skin.
Daddy.
Tim's eyes roll back as Bruce's cock slides in deep. He can't breathe. Can't think. All he can hear is that single word repeated in Batman's gruff growl over and over again in an echo chamber, in time to the beat of his own heady heart. His face is turning colors. It's perfect. He holds there for Bruce, swallowing him, gagging on him, giving Bruce everything that's in him and then some, more than he'd ever give to anyone else because nobody deserves this sloppy, degraded, desperate part of Tim but Bruce.
no subject
It feels right because he can see the way Tim reacts when his head drops to watch him. He can see his cock weeping and Tim's wet cheeks and it drives Bruce over the edge. His orgasm hits like punch to the gut. It seizes him and every muscle and every thought and all Bruce can think is Tim and how beautiful he looks on his knees and desperate and lips wrapped around the thick girth of his cock. For a long few moments, it feels like Bruce won't ever stop coming, like he'll deflate when he's emptied out completely.
But it does stop eventually and the grip he has on Tim's hair relaxes and all of the tension and anger he felt leaves him as he takes a few weary steps back, giving Tim space to catch his breath. He isn't angry anymore. He could forgive the bites and the welts and the bruises. They would heal. He could forgive because Tim would not forget this moment and if he thought to ever ask for space again, he'd remember it would never be like this with anyone else. Not ever.
Bruce doesn't trust his knees to hold him up. So he sits down on the mat near Tim, panting and sweating and trying to will his heart back to something closer to his baseline. Then he reaches for Tim, pulls him close and presses a warm kiss to his sweat slick forehead. As much praise as he had in him to give right then.
no subject
It's another tsunami of come from Bruce's cock, and Tim has to wonder if anyone has ever successfully sucked the man off and lived to tell the tale. Tim can take a lot, swallows so much more than should be humanly possible, but even he can't keep up entirely, spluttering on the last few spurts as they slide out the corners of his overstuffed mouth. It's perfect, though, really. Tim just slack there, a vessel to be used for Bruce's needs. To fulfill Bruce. Crying and turning blue in the face and so relieved when Bruce finally does pull away but already missing the intensity of that high.
There's nothing like it. No one else could ever take him there. He would have never trusted some strange man to do that to him.
Tim sags when he's let go, boneless and doubling over to cough with one single, quivering arm holding him up, his body a wreck of spasms from the rough come down. And then Bruce is gathering him close, kissing his forehead, and all Tim can do is bow in against him, crawl slowly into his lap and straddle his waist, arms looping lazily around his thick neck. He gives a pathetic thrust against Bruce's stomach, his cock rubbing there. And moans.
"Please?" he murmurs. "Just---stay like that." Tim would do the work. Rutting against Bruce, using his skin as friction for his desperate cock, rocking in against his abs as he buried his face in Bruce's neck and shoulder, panting.
no subject
When he feels that hard press of Tim’s cock against his stomach Bruce pulls back, just enough to watch him rut against him, with a hand sliding over his hip. Subtle encouragement.
no subject
Tim's body undulates like a beautiful serpent as he rocks against Bruce. His ass rubs along Bruce's soft length, his own hard cock thrust against Bruce's abdomen. He winces at every catch of the head against Bruce's deep toned muscles, then moans at the hand subtly on his hip just keeping him steady and giving him permission to do this. He's dizzied by it, blood rushed south and his head still spinning from the lack of air during that blowjob.
Head bowed, he rides into Bruce, moving in short, jerky little bursts.
And then, quietly, "Daddy," whispered into Bruce's chest. Horribly quiet and embarrassed to say it but the flush on his body gives away how much he likes it.
no subject
As it has time to settle, Bruce decides he likes it just fine. His free hand graze over the beautiful curve of his spine, while he leans forward to kiss his shoulder and kiss his neck. Then up his cheek and close to his ear.
"Are you going to come for Daddy?"
no subject
"Can I?" Tim gasps, shivery at hearing it again from Bruce, right there against the shell of his ear. In that dark, intimate voice. "Can I come? Please, can I--can I touch myself and come?"
He couldn't yet say the word again, too distraught as he rocked into Bruce, close but needing more to get off and still under Bruce's spell enough to ask for permission. He'd been told not to touch himself. He wouldn't. If Bruce said no, he'd buck into him all night to get off or go without.
no subject
When he asks again, Bruce doesn't answer. Not right away. He looks down to watch that hard flesh pressing into his abdomen.
"No." There's nothing malicious in the denial. Just a quiet warmth to go with Bruce wrapping his fingers around Tim's cock and stroking him in tandem with every roll of his hips. "Don't stop."
no subject
"No-no? Bruce, I---haaah...." Tim shudders, clenching his legs around Bruce as those thick fingers find his aching hardness. He's too worked up to know if Bruce is saying no to coming or no to touching or no to both, so he just breathes through the absolute torture of the pleasure and continues to jerk and thrust into Bruce's fist and against his body. "I ca-n't, Bruce I can't--please...." He can. He tells himself he can. He'll wait as long as it takes, as long as Bruce wants.
Forever, if he asked it. Tim is his soldier and perfect boy and he would wait for permission.
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So after a few lazy strokes, he kisses Tim's jaw again and says, "It's okay, Tim. Come for me."
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It's an explosion out of Tim barely a few seconds after permission is given. Tim had been holding his breath and he lets it all out in a huff as he arches his body back. Holding his arms loose around Bruce's neck, he thrusts two more times into Bruce's perfect hand and then comes. Thick spatters of come against Bruce's chest, down the man's fingers, onto his own body with how his cock is arched that way, twitching helplessly in the rough texture of Bruce's grip. Tim doesn't shout, instead his lips are merely parted and nothing really comes out except a sigh of gratitude.
The other men hadn't known what to do with Tim, how to give him what he needed. The pain was fine, good even, but it's nothing compared to the emotional toll being with Bruce takes on him. Like being wrung dry.
When it's over, Tim sags against Bruce, face buried against his shoulder as he pants and tries to catch his breath.
no subject
They'd have to get up soon enough, but for now, Bruce just wants to hold Tim for a moment longer.
"Feeling better?"