The contrast should disturb him. The gentleness in Tim's touch stark against the dark marks on his body. And he kisses him sweetly, as if that would make the acid less bitter. It doesn't. Because he would be a liar if he said he hadn't thought about Tim like that. Struggling under his weight. Twisting and begging for more as Bruce fucked him. Pinning him down and squeezing every last ounce of pleasure out of him. It only makes him angry because Tim went somewhere else for it when everything he could have needed was right there in front of him. They were alike in so many ways. Why had Tim needed to go anywhere else?
The question is jarring. What are we? He almost says nothing. Instead he reaches for Tim's wrist and grips it in his hand tight enough to bruise.
"You tell me, Tim. You're the one who keeps pushing me away."
It's impossible not to wince at the grip. Bruce is unforgiving when he
wants to be, and it gets Tim's blood boiling in all the right ways. He
remembers the first few times they seriously sparred, when Bruce could
easily pin him, hold him down, and how exciting it was. How breathlessly
terrifying to be held and know this person could break him in half if he
had a mind to.
"I mean," he clarifies, "You adopted me. I didn't think--you wanted me like
that. Until Ivy's." He swallows, heart thundering in his chest, because
it's so complicated. He loves Bruce as a father and a sexual partner and a
mentor and a friend even under the right circumstances. It's too much for
two people to be to one another, isn't it? It's too messy. "Do you really
want me?" And not anyone else.
He should have known. His perfect soldier. His mirror image would have those same dark inclinations. Bruce hadn't wanted to admit how many times he had come to the image of Tim pinned underneath him. How some of those sparring sessions had left him so hard it ached. He thought, Tim wouldn't want to know about that. He thought Tim would be disgusted, pull away from him. Not until Ivy's when all he wanted was to get his mouth and his hands on him.
"Yes." The admission comes as Bruce yanks Tim toward him, pressing his body in close. He could overlook the marks. The imperfections. They would heal and Tim would be all his again. "But I won't share you. Not with anyone. So this stops. Tonight."
Tim lets loose a breathless laugh, nodding, his pulse skittering at Bruce's
tone. He knows. Of course he knows. There's no more allowing Tim to run off
with other men, but Tim doesn't want other men. He's never wanted other
men. The whole thing had been just to satiate a desperate need. This, with
Bruce--this is everything.
But. The look in Bruce's eyes is enthralling. And God, sue Tim wanting to
play with him to get more.
"And if I say no?" he asks, leaning up on his tiptoes again to find the
corner of Bruce's mouth to nip and kiss there in kittenish sweetness. "If I
continue to let other men touch me?"
Somewhere, Bruce knows he's being baited. He can see it in the way Tim laughs and in that sweet way he kisses the corner of his mouth. Like he doesn't realize those words would burn Bruce to his core. Like the thought wouldn't twist in his gut. But Tim knew. He knew that possessive streak ran deep. And once he staked his claim, there wouldn't be room for anyone else.
So while he's still close, Bruce shifts, fast as lightning and drags Tim into a kiss. He holds Tim against him tight like he's trying to merge with him. Drag him into the dark too.
The kiss is hot as fire and deep as the ocean, Bruce's tongue thick and
unyielding as it punishes its way through Tim's mouth. It's perfect,
everything--the way Bruce crushes Tim close, the way he bites that warning
into his lips. Of course Tim won't. If Bruce is serious about wanting Tim,
then Tim won't ever need someone else to bruise and try to break him. The
only person he wants doing that is Bruce.
"What about all these marks on my body?" he whispered between panting into
the kiss. "Are you gonna replace them? All the spots that other men have
bruised me?"
He could. Easily. Bruce could squeeze and bite new bruises into Tim's skin, mark his territory. Leave his fingerprints so no one, not even Tim would forget who he belonged to now. He kisses him again, rakes his tongue over every inch of Tim's mouth he could reach before letting him go, giving Tim room to move.
It's a little embarrassing, but that's part of the thrill, isn't it?
Showing off all that he did just to hurt himself when he wanted Bruce but
wouldn't allow himself to have him. Tim unzips the rest of his suit,
talking a step back so Bruce can see. He's already seen the ones on Tim's
ribs, the bites at his abdomen, but as Tim shucks the bottom half of his
suit and kicks it aside, Bruce will see the true reality of how rough these
men were with his boy.
Tim turns, slowly. "The worst of them are on my hips." And it's true. The
bruises are fresh and in handprint placements from gripping Tim's hips too
hard, as well as a pretty nice welt on his ass that must have come from a
spank. Flushed from once again being naked in Bruce's presence while Bruce
himself is mostly clothed--and in the middle of the Cave, no less--Tim
looks over his shoulder at Bruce. Watches the darkness in his eyes. "I'm
sorry."
Bruce is silent as Tim strips down, counting every bruise as they came into view. Their shape, their size, the stage of healing, all of it catalogued in Bruce's head. Why he wanted to remember something that sparked such a visceral sense of rage, he didn't have an answer for. But he put it all away to remember just the same.
It's that welt that makes Bruce's blood boil the most. His jaw is tight as Tim turns and he sees it the first time. Angry and red and stark against Tim's skin.
"Of course," Tim says, quietly. It feels like a trick question, but Tim is
compelled to answer either way. If he didn't go out and save the city,
Bruce would be disappointed. If he did go out sporting all the bruises and
welts, then Bruce would also be disappointed. Tim didn't know which way
would be worse, so he went with the truth. "I needed things, but I
didn't--I mean, I tried not to let it get out of hand if I was going out
after." Normally these kinds of trysts are reserved for after patrol or
during a rare night off. But lately, Tim couldn't afford to be picky.
There's some part of Bruce that wants to ask for a name. He doesn't, because he's not sure what would make him angrier: having it or Tim saying he didn't know. He's quiet a moment, considers his options. He tried not to let it get out of hand, but from the looks of his body, from that welt set deep in his skin, he let it get out of hand often. Bruce exhales sharply.
"Not hard enough." He's quiet again, then his expression shifts, as if he's made up his mind about something. "On your knees."
Bruce's voice sounds different, and it sends shivers ricocheting down Tim's
spine. He does as he's told with no argument. He's in no position to talk
back or even ask questions, really. Part of him realizes how lucky he is
that Bruce hasn't smacked him across the room for the insubordination, let
alone what feelings it clearly brought up in his mentor.
So he goes down, knees to the mats they'd just been sparring on. Looking
up. Waiting for direction.
Bruce watches Tim sink low and there's just something about the sight of Tim on his knees. Intoxicating and heady. When Tim looks up at him, it just makes Bruce's growing erection ache. He could have let Tim's transgression go. Offered comfort. But Tim needed a lesson. And not one he'd learn from a smack across the room.
He's slow and deliberate in the way he rolls the lower half of his suit down, his cock hard and bobbing once it's free.
Tim swallows as he watches Bruce roll his suit down. Deliberate. Slow.
Meant for a show that Tim was helpless but to devour. And god, he does. He
devours the sight of Bruce like that, above him, strong and capable and
perfect even with ages of scars older than Tim slashing across his rock
hard abdomen. The divots of hard-earned musculature, the V leading down to
Bruce's hard cock--it's enough to make Tim squirm, his mouth actually
watering.
"Bruce, I--" But he stops himself. Bruce gave him direction. And Tim is a
soldier.
His mouth opens after another swallow to clear the spit. Hands loose at his
sides but anxious, his own cock jumping sweetly in anticipation. Because
Bruce is huge. And the last time, he barely fit in Tim's mouth. It's never
going to get easier, but fuck does Tim want it to be difficult. Always.
Half the reason Bruce is doing this, is to watch Tim's face. The slow rove of his eyes over Bruce's well defined muscles. He could give him permission to touch, to graze his fingers over every scar and dimple and tight thread of muscle. But that's a reward for good boys who followed orders. Bruce isn't convinced yet. Tim had spent weeks getting his needs met by other men and yet he's squirm here, mouth watering like he hasn't been touched in ages. He'd see how well Tim listened.
He approaches slow, stooping just enough to brush a hand over Tim's jaw. "Keep your hands by your side. No touching me or yourself. Understood?" Not that Tim's answer really mattered. Bruce didn't give it a chance to before he's pressing the tip of his cock into the warmth of Tim's mouth.
The soft yet stern touch to his jaw had Tim's skin prickling with
goosebumps. He would have nodded in agreement, started to speak to promise
Bruce all the obedience he deserved from Tim, but the words barely got off
his tongue and he certainly couldn't move his head as Bruce guided the tip
of his cock against Tim's parted lips. Tim's eyes flutter shut, and he
tries to get his tongue perfectly under the heft of Bruce's massive length,
the weight of it on him like a godsend.
A moan slides past, desperately pitched as his hands find themselves
balling into fists to rest on his thighs. He won't touch. He won't. But
it's nearly impossible, his body crying out for more comfort, more
connection. His eyes open again to look at Bruce, to show that he's here,
he's aware, he's doing everything Bruce wants, and he won't stop. He leans
a little forward, encouraging Bruce to go deeper.
For a minute, Bruce relaxes. The tension eases from his shoulders and his jaw doesn't feel clenched so tightly. For a minute, he forgets that he's angry or that deep almost visceral sense of betrayal. It all melts away under the smooth glide of Tim's tongue. He's never one to lose himself in a moment, but for this? For Tim, he does. Just a little. His eyes slide close and and his breathing hitches and he just let's what he's feeling happen, without trying to tamp it down or lock it away.
But it's only a moment and when it passes, he reigns himself back in and opens his eyes to see Tim gazing up at him, his hands curled into fists on his thighs. It's a gorgeous sight. His lean forward pulls Bruce a little deeper into his mouth and he could go deeper still. Stretch Tim's jaw to accommodate the girth of him. For now he wanted to savor the feeling, let it build slow until it broke under the strain. So that's what he does - ease his way in and watch the way Tim has to work out how to breathe and how to keep from choking. Bruce wouldn't give him long. He'd reach the limits of his patience soon enough and it wouldn't matter much if Tim was ready for that or not.
His name on Bruce's tongue. It's a sound unlike anything else in the world.
Softly hummed like a prayer, and Bruce would never pray because he is god
and vengeance and all that Tim needs in the whole universe. Tim moans. How
couldn't he, hearing Bruce like that? Watching the man's eyes close and his
features soften for just that bare second. It's perfect. Tim would live
here on his, sucking Bruce off forever in supplication if it meant he could
glimpse that side of Bruce again.
That tenderness that no one else ever got to see.
Saliva builds as Tim takes a bit of the lead, bobbing his head gently to
take Bruce in and out, to slick his length. It's already at the back of
Tim's throat and Bruce has barely moved and has more to go and that's a
beautiful warning to Tim, who is eager to choke and cry again for Bruce, to
be put in his place and then told he was a good boy for healing.
There's something reverent in Tim's eye as he watches Bruce and it spikes the pleasure already flooding through him. Bruce draws in a sharp breath to keep his composure. He could feel it when hit the back of Tim's throat and it finally drags a quiet groan out of him. There's a moment of indulgence as he rests his hand on the top of Tim's head, curling his fingers between the dark strands, encouraging him to continue that bob of his head.
Tim will know when he's had enough, when his patience has reached its limit when those fingers curl tighter and Bruce rocks his hips forward. He pulls back, hand in his hair holding Tim steady for when his hips surge forward again and marveling at the softness of the back of Tim's throat. That makes him moan too.
Tim's balled fists curl tighter, and he presses them firmly against his
thighs, hard enough to bruise if he isn't careful. It's more difficult than
it has any right to be, keeping still, not touching. All he wants is to
worship Bruce's body with his reverent hands or maybe hold his cock where
even his mouth can't fit it all in. He wants to cup Bruce's balls or hold
his ass to feel him make that first, brutal thrust where the head of his
length pushes against the back of Tim's throat hard enough to make his
stomach quiver.
Tim's drooling. He can't help it. Bruce doesn't even give him time to suck
it back, or breathe, or anything, just holds his head still and thrusts in
deep. Tim tries to open his throat to accept him. The men he's been with,
they're nothing compared to Bruce, not just in temperament but in size and
girth. No one has made Tim's gag reflex trigger. No one has made Tim want
it to. His eyes water as he opens up his throat for the next thrust,
whimpering pathetically as his cock twitches with every thrust in Bruce
makes. It hurts. His throat is on fire already but he loves it, loves being
on his knees and giving Bruce what no one else can.
Not Dick or Jason or anyone else. Just Tim.
He can't help it; his hands jump on the next deep thrust, holding Bruce's
thighs, pushing against them. An automatic survivor's instinct to keep from
choking. And then out of sheer desperation to hold on and be grounded by
touch.
Bruce could feel himself slipping again. The grasp on his composure loosening with every brutal slam of his hips against Tim's face. He doesn't have to stare at Tim to know he's struggling - struggling to keep his hands on his thighs, to keep from choking too badly on the cock thrusting into his mouth. He just lets his mind wander to the soft tightness of his throat and every jolt of pleasure he feels when he hits it just right. Tim is perfect for it too. Knew how to take him down despite the pace.
It's perfect. Too perfect. And the illusion is broken when he feels Tim's hands on his thighs, pushing back against him. He opens his eyes, tilts his head down to look at Tim's hands, small when compared to the thick meat of Bruce's thighs. Part of him thinks about letting it slide. He could hardly blame Tim for wanting some sense of control over the encounter. Bruce isn't gentle as he fucks Tim's mouth. He grips his hair tight. His pace is unrelenting; Tim hardly has space to breathe in between. Bruce could see the tears wetting his cheeks. But then he sees a bruise pressed into his hip. Remembers the angry, red welt on his ass and Bruce decides Tim doesn't have the privilege. He hasn't earned it yet.
"Hands, Tim," he growls. The warning rumbles up from somewhere deep, a note of Batman, thick and hoarse from the high he's chasing.
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.
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The question is jarring. What are we? He almost says nothing. Instead he reaches for Tim's wrist and grips it in his hand tight enough to bruise.
"You tell me, Tim. You're the one who keeps pushing me away."
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It's impossible not to wince at the grip. Bruce is unforgiving when he wants to be, and it gets Tim's blood boiling in all the right ways. He remembers the first few times they seriously sparred, when Bruce could easily pin him, hold him down, and how exciting it was. How breathlessly terrifying to be held and know this person could break him in half if he had a mind to.
"I mean," he clarifies, "You adopted me. I didn't think--you wanted me like that. Until Ivy's." He swallows, heart thundering in his chest, because it's so complicated. He loves Bruce as a father and a sexual partner and a mentor and a friend even under the right circumstances. It's too much for two people to be to one another, isn't it? It's too messy. "Do you really want me?" And not anyone else.
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"Yes." The admission comes as Bruce yanks Tim toward him, pressing his body in close. He could overlook the marks. The imperfections. They would heal and Tim would be all his again. "But I won't share you. Not with anyone. So this stops. Tonight."
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Tim lets loose a breathless laugh, nodding, his pulse skittering at Bruce's tone. He knows. Of course he knows. There's no more allowing Tim to run off with other men, but Tim doesn't want other men. He's never wanted other men. The whole thing had been just to satiate a desperate need. This, with Bruce--this is everything.
But. The look in Bruce's eyes is enthralling. And God, sue Tim wanting to play with him to get more.
"And if I say no?" he asks, leaning up on his tiptoes again to find the corner of Bruce's mouth to nip and kiss there in kittenish sweetness. "If I continue to let other men touch me?"
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So while he's still close, Bruce shifts, fast as lightning and drags Tim into a kiss. He holds Tim against him tight like he's trying to merge with him. Drag him into the dark too.
"You won't," he growls into Tim's mouth.
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The kiss is hot as fire and deep as the ocean, Bruce's tongue thick and unyielding as it punishes its way through Tim's mouth. It's perfect, everything--the way Bruce crushes Tim close, the way he bites that warning into his lips. Of course Tim won't. If Bruce is serious about wanting Tim, then Tim won't ever need someone else to bruise and try to break him. The only person he wants doing that is Bruce.
"What about all these marks on my body?" he whispered between panting into the kiss. "Are you gonna replace them? All the spots that other men have bruised me?"
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"Show me. Let me see how far down they go."
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It's a little embarrassing, but that's part of the thrill, isn't it? Showing off all that he did just to hurt himself when he wanted Bruce but wouldn't allow himself to have him. Tim unzips the rest of his suit, talking a step back so Bruce can see. He's already seen the ones on Tim's ribs, the bites at his abdomen, but as Tim shucks the bottom half of his suit and kicks it aside, Bruce will see the true reality of how rough these men were with his boy.
Tim turns, slowly. "The worst of them are on my hips." And it's true. The bruises are fresh and in handprint placements from gripping Tim's hips too hard, as well as a pretty nice welt on his ass that must have come from a spank. Flushed from once again being naked in Bruce's presence while Bruce himself is mostly clothed--and in the middle of the Cave, no less--Tim looks over his shoulder at Bruce. Watches the darkness in his eyes. "I'm sorry."
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It's that welt that makes Bruce's blood boil the most. His jaw is tight as Tim turns and he sees it the first time. Angry and red and stark against Tim's skin.
"Did you work like this?"
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"Of course," Tim says, quietly. It feels like a trick question, but Tim is compelled to answer either way. If he didn't go out and save the city, Bruce would be disappointed. If he did go out sporting all the bruises and welts, then Bruce would also be disappointed. Tim didn't know which way would be worse, so he went with the truth. "I needed things, but I didn't--I mean, I tried not to let it get out of hand if I was going out after." Normally these kinds of trysts are reserved for after patrol or during a rare night off. But lately, Tim couldn't afford to be picky.
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"Not hard enough." He's quiet again, then his expression shifts, as if he's made up his mind about something. "On your knees."
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Bruce's voice sounds different, and it sends shivers ricocheting down Tim's spine. He does as he's told with no argument. He's in no position to talk back or even ask questions, really. Part of him realizes how lucky he is that Bruce hasn't smacked him across the room for the insubordination, let alone what feelings it clearly brought up in his mentor.
So he goes down, knees to the mats they'd just been sparring on. Looking up. Waiting for direction.
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He's slow and deliberate in the way he rolls the lower half of his suit down, his cock hard and bobbing once it's free.
"Open your mouth."
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Tim swallows as he watches Bruce roll his suit down. Deliberate. Slow. Meant for a show that Tim was helpless but to devour. And god, he does. He devours the sight of Bruce like that, above him, strong and capable and perfect even with ages of scars older than Tim slashing across his rock hard abdomen. The divots of hard-earned musculature, the V leading down to Bruce's hard cock--it's enough to make Tim squirm, his mouth actually watering.
"Bruce, I--" But he stops himself. Bruce gave him direction. And Tim is a soldier.
His mouth opens after another swallow to clear the spit. Hands loose at his sides but anxious, his own cock jumping sweetly in anticipation. Because Bruce is huge. And the last time, he barely fit in Tim's mouth. It's never going to get easier, but fuck does Tim want it to be difficult. Always.
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He approaches slow, stooping just enough to brush a hand over Tim's jaw. "Keep your hands by your side. No touching me or yourself. Understood?" Not that Tim's answer really mattered. Bruce didn't give it a chance to before he's pressing the tip of his cock into the warmth of Tim's mouth.
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The soft yet stern touch to his jaw had Tim's skin prickling with goosebumps. He would have nodded in agreement, started to speak to promise Bruce all the obedience he deserved from Tim, but the words barely got off his tongue and he certainly couldn't move his head as Bruce guided the tip of his cock against Tim's parted lips. Tim's eyes flutter shut, and he tries to get his tongue perfectly under the heft of Bruce's massive length, the weight of it on him like a godsend.
A moan slides past, desperately pitched as his hands find themselves balling into fists to rest on his thighs. He won't touch. He won't. But it's nearly impossible, his body crying out for more comfort, more connection. His eyes open again to look at Bruce, to show that he's here, he's aware, he's doing everything Bruce wants, and he won't stop. He leans a little forward, encouraging Bruce to go deeper.
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For a minute, Bruce relaxes. The tension eases from his shoulders and his jaw doesn't feel clenched so tightly. For a minute, he forgets that he's angry or that deep almost visceral sense of betrayal. It all melts away under the smooth glide of Tim's tongue. He's never one to lose himself in a moment, but for this? For Tim, he does. Just a little. His eyes slide close and and his breathing hitches and he just let's what he's feeling happen, without trying to tamp it down or lock it away.
But it's only a moment and when it passes, he reigns himself back in and opens his eyes to see Tim gazing up at him, his hands curled into fists on his thighs. It's a gorgeous sight. His lean forward pulls Bruce a little deeper into his mouth and he could go deeper still. Stretch Tim's jaw to accommodate the girth of him. For now he wanted to savor the feeling, let it build slow until it broke under the strain. So that's what he does - ease his way in and watch the way Tim has to work out how to breathe and how to keep from choking. Bruce wouldn't give him long. He'd reach the limits of his patience soon enough and it wouldn't matter much if Tim was ready for that or not.
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His name on Bruce's tongue. It's a sound unlike anything else in the world. Softly hummed like a prayer, and Bruce would never pray because he is god and vengeance and all that Tim needs in the whole universe. Tim moans. How couldn't he, hearing Bruce like that? Watching the man's eyes close and his features soften for just that bare second. It's perfect. Tim would live here on his, sucking Bruce off forever in supplication if it meant he could glimpse that side of Bruce again.
That tenderness that no one else ever got to see.
Saliva builds as Tim takes a bit of the lead, bobbing his head gently to take Bruce in and out, to slick his length. It's already at the back of Tim's throat and Bruce has barely moved and has more to go and that's a beautiful warning to Tim, who is eager to choke and cry again for Bruce, to be put in his place and then told he was a good boy for healing.
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Tim will know when he's had enough, when his patience has reached its limit when those fingers curl tighter and Bruce rocks his hips forward. He pulls back, hand in his hair holding Tim steady for when his hips surge forward again and marveling at the softness of the back of Tim's throat. That makes him moan too.
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Tim's balled fists curl tighter, and he presses them firmly against his thighs, hard enough to bruise if he isn't careful. It's more difficult than it has any right to be, keeping still, not touching. All he wants is to worship Bruce's body with his reverent hands or maybe hold his cock where even his mouth can't fit it all in. He wants to cup Bruce's balls or hold his ass to feel him make that first, brutal thrust where the head of his length pushes against the back of Tim's throat hard enough to make his stomach quiver.
Tim's drooling. He can't help it. Bruce doesn't even give him time to suck it back, or breathe, or anything, just holds his head still and thrusts in deep. Tim tries to open his throat to accept him. The men he's been with, they're nothing compared to Bruce, not just in temperament but in size and girth. No one has made Tim's gag reflex trigger. No one has made Tim want it to. His eyes water as he opens up his throat for the next thrust, whimpering pathetically as his cock twitches with every thrust in Bruce makes. It hurts. His throat is on fire already but he loves it, loves being on his knees and giving Bruce what no one else can.
Not Dick or Jason or anyone else. Just Tim.
He can't help it; his hands jump on the next deep thrust, holding Bruce's thighs, pushing against them. An automatic survivor's instinct to keep from choking. And then out of sheer desperation to hold on and be grounded by touch.
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It's perfect. Too perfect. And the illusion is broken when he feels Tim's hands on his thighs, pushing back against him. He opens his eyes, tilts his head down to look at Tim's hands, small when compared to the thick meat of Bruce's thighs. Part of him thinks about letting it slide. He could hardly blame Tim for wanting some sense of control over the encounter. Bruce isn't gentle as he fucks Tim's mouth. He grips his hair tight. His pace is unrelenting; Tim hardly has space to breathe in between. Bruce could see the tears wetting his cheeks. But then he sees a bruise pressed into his hip. Remembers the angry, red welt on his ass and Bruce decides Tim doesn't have the privilege. He hasn't earned it yet.
"Hands, Tim," he growls. The warning rumbles up from somewhere deep, a note of Batman, thick and hoarse from the high he's chasing.
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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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.
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