Hello, guys! So, this is a soulmate AU. This one is 'you have your soulmate's first name written on you in their handwriting', and it's Robinpile. XD More than that, it's a stripper AU too. Yep, all the good things in this one. Hope you enjoy!

Warnings for the story: explicit sex and polyamory.

Tim's nails dig into my shoulders, shoving me back against the headboard. His knees are tight against my hips, head thrown back and throat arched in a way that's always just so goddamn gorgeous. My hands are at his ass, gripping and only barely helping to guide him as he rides me with a force just shy of desperate, and he's moaning and gasping and pretty much drowning out all the sounds I'm making in return.

"Fuck," I nearly shout, my back arching away from the headboard I'm leaning against as I grit my teeth together, rocking my hips up to meet his thrusts. "Tim, god, Tim!"

His head rolls down, and then he's shoving me back to hold me down and I shudder. My head tilts back against the wall, and he leans in to put his teeth — fucking gloriously sharp teeth — right against my ear.

"Stay," he hisses, and I bite my tongue to try and hold off from coming then and there. I shiver, flex my fingers on his ass, and let out a deep moan towards our roof. Tim's groan of satisfaction is all the reward I'd ever need. "Good boy, Jason. Just a little longer, just a minute."

I let my head fall down, getting my mouth against his shoulder and setting my teeth to work to keep myself distracted. It's impossible to forget the perfect, genius, god riding me, but I can at least get my attention on the very worthy goal of marking up his skin with a dozen little reminders of this round. They'll join the fading ones that haven't quite healed from two nights ago, and the hard scratches down my back from last night that are still a little scabbed in places.

Tim shakes, cock rubbing between us as he moves and painting trails of faint wetness along my stomach. His breath catches, his fingers dig into my shoulders harder, and I cling to him as his lifts and falls edge over that last bit into desperate.

A few moments and then he arches, screams to the heavens as he comes between our chests. He rides me right through it, and I shout his name as I follow him right off that cliff. It blinds me for a second, and I come out of that momentary whiteness with shaking limbs and exhaustion starting to drag me down next to the utter, bone-deep satisfaction. Tim is still, resting with his head ducked down against my shoulder and my softening cock still inside him. I lift a faintly trembling hand up to comb through his hair and scratch his scalp, and he hums and almost purrs right into the crook of my neck.

"We staying here?" I manage to ask, tilting my head in against his.

"Mmhm," he confirms. "Couple minutes."

My mouth curls into a soft grin as I relax back against the headboard. "You got it, babe. Always down to make you late for work."

He curls an arm around the back of my neck, shifting closer and all but curling up on my chest. "I'm not late. Yet." His free hand presses against my chest, and I hum soft pleasure as one of his nails traces the dark lines of cursive over my heart. Timothy; all the proof I need — combined with my love for him — that Tim is meant to be my soulmate.

Or maybe one of several. I have a theory going.

He reaches the end of the y of his name, and then presses a kiss to the hollow of my throat and pushes back from me. He lifts off of me, prompting shivers from both of us, before swinging around and sliding off the bed. He heads for the bathroom as I strip off the condom and drop it in the trash can on the floor just to the left of the bed. Then I follow him.

Getting clean without actually losing any more time is a lost cause. I end up on my knees in the shower before we're done, feeling the burn of Tim's hands in my hair and listening to every cry with sharp pride burning in my chest and my hand around my own cock. If we had any real energy left there probably would have been a third round too, but he's content to let me massage product into his hair and soap into his back before he leaves me to finish washing up on my own. For the best, because he has to take the time to dry his hair for work and I don't.

We get out at roughly the same time, as he throws on a pair of yoga pants that are fucking sin in form and one of my shirts. It's way too big for him, hanging off one shoulder, and I waste more than a few seconds just staring at how unbelievably pretty he is. At least until he tosses me a pair of worn jeans and a black tank-top with a smug little smirk and a wink. Of course he knows I'm watching.

When we actually get out of the bedroom I tilt my head up, smelling food in the air and immediately steering Tim towards the kitchen. It's not really a surprise to find Damian — one of Tim's business partners and probably the one least likely to try and take his whole company — at my stove, nudging what I think is an omelet around in a pan with a cup of coffee already in his other hand.

Still, it's my kitchen.

Damian turns to look at us, jade eyes cool and every bit of him already put together. His dark grey suit fits perfectly to his tall, lean frame, every fold neatly pressed and making him look like exactly what he is. The heir to two different massive corporations and therefore well on route to be the richest man in the world before all that long. Tim's not far behind, but he has the distinct advantage of already running his company, whereas Damian is only eighteen and still has to grow into command.

"You two are very loud," he says with one raised eyebrow, leaning back against the counter. "Have you considered soundproofing?"

I snort, circling around to the coffee maker to find it already filling a second cup. "Have you considered not breaking into other people's homes?" I pull out the cream from the fridge and set it next to the coffee maker for when it finishes — Tim's coffee usually barely looks like coffee once he's done — before heading for Damian. He lets me push him away from the stove and take over whatever he's started cooking, though he flicks his eyes up.

"I am capable of cooking, Todd."

"But it's my kitchen," I counter. "Sit your ass down, Damian." He obeys, after pausing just long enough that it's supposed to be clear that it's his choice and not my command, and takes the opposite end of the kitchen table from where Tim will end up. I check his omelet, find it acceptably started, and pull out ingredients for two more.

"Is it really breaking in if I have a key?" Damian's voice is slightly amused, that slight accent to his tone coming out a bit more now that he's not paying attention to it. He's lounging in the chair, one long leg crossed over the other and looking perfectly at ease.

I watch Tim pour his coffee, and then give him a small nod when he glances at me to see if he should leave it going for a third one as well. "Yeah, but I don't remember ever giving you a key so I really don't know where you got it."

One of his hand flicks dismissively. "Technicalities. If you are invading my life I am entitled to invade yours as well, though I suppose the one benefit to your incessantly loud morning activities is that you make rather excellent alarm clocks. How did I ever manage to wake myself on time without both of you?" His voice is dry and sarcastic, and I shoot him a grin over my shoulder.

"Voyeur," I accuse. "Get a pair of earplugs."

"So I can miss my actual alarm? Not particularly forward thinking, is it?" I give a small laugh, and Damian scoffs. "Drake, please put on something that does not show off all those hickeys. We have a meeting in a half an hour, remember?"

"It's not like they can start without us," Tim points out, the amusement easy to read in his voice.

"It is a matter of professionalism."

I empty the omelet Damian started onto a plate, give the other two a quick nudge to make sure they don't burn on the one side, and then carry that plate over to Tim and set it down in front of him. He meets me with a kiss that tastes like coffee and a smile curving his lips. One of his hands reaches up and slides his fingertips through the short hairs at the back of my neck, and I resist doing the same to him. If he goes out with messed up hair it makes headlines.

"Todd." Damian's clipped tone is obviously displeased, and I just barely resist flipping him off.

Instead, I pull back a bit until I can grin across the table at him. "Suck it, Damian. Partner privileges."

A scoff, and then Damian is leaning a little further back in his chair. "You are not even soulmates, Todd. It is not your name on Drake's skin, is it?"

I give Tim one last lingering kiss before pulling back. "Says you." I slide my hands over Tim's shoulders, stepping in against his back as I lean down to press my mouth to the perfect, flowing name written on the back of Tim's neck. "You know whose name is written back here, Dami? In Arabic?"

He rolls his eyes. "A common one, and your 'partner' is the CEO of a global corporation who will meet hundreds of people from my part of the world. The writing on my arm does not say 'Timothy' now does it?"

Tim leans his head back, lightly tugging at my hair. "Spoilsport," he teases, sliding his fingers down my neck and then pushing me back. I take the cue, though I steal one last kiss to that black script before I head back to the stove.

It's a wild theory, maybe it's an insane theory, but I just know that Tim is supposed to be mine. He feels like no one else I've ever been around, I love him with every inch of my soul, and I can't imagine the thought that he might not be my soulmate. I'd been in love before him, but never like this. Never with this depth and certainty. As far as I'm concerned, there couldn't possibly be a different 'Timothy' in the world that destiny's said will be mine. Tim is it.

Tim's mark says 'Damian' though, all written out in Arabic, and there's no arguing that. Following that thread, Damian's says 'Richard,' and I don't think I know one of those yet. Damian is from older families, one of which believes that the only true relationship is between two soulmates, and that means he's been stubborn about even the thought of maybe seeing if my insane idea could be possible.

There are some very rare stories out there about soulmate groups, hidden deep down in search results, but I've never seen one about a group larger than three. The names go in circles, so I have this mad little hope in the back of my chest that maybe one of us will meet a Richard somewhere, and he'll have my name on him. Maybe that might be enough to convince Damian that this is even possible.

Also, the idea of the media outrage is kind of a fantastic thought. They have some of the most hilarious ideas about my relationship with Tim, it's great.

They think I'm whipped, which is just about the funniest goddamn thing I've ever read. Sure, if 'whipped' means that Tim brings home all the money, and I get to take care of him, indulge all my hobbies, and get the most fucking incredible sex on a nearly daily basis. What do people think I'm sacrificing to live this kind of a dream, exactly?

Then again, these are the same morons that think I'm 'Drake's bad boy,' so they clearly haven't got brains to begin with. Honestly, Tim is generally way more ruthless than I ever am. Also honestly, I think it's really fucking hot when Tim goes all corporate-ice-queen and starts cutting people down to size.

I give Damian his omelet next, then scoop the last one out of the pan and join them at the table. Tim steals another kiss from me a minute later, when he finishes his food and gets up to go change into more appropriate clothes for his work. Damian makes a faintly disgusted noise, but I grin at him and he just rolls his eyes and goes back to eating with one hand. With his other, he pulls his cellphone out and starts flicking through it, a small frown gathering between his eyebrows.

"We're going to be late!" he calls towards the other half of the house.

Tim shouts something back, but I can't understand it and judging by his exasperated look, neither can Damian.

"It's a lost cause," I tell him conspiratorially, like it's a secret between us.

The look he shoots me is very pointed. "You say that as if you are not part of the problem, Todd. You encourage his behavior; I've seen it."

I don't even try to pretend otherwise. "Guilty as charged and happy to be that way. Speaking of bad influences, got anything particularly early tomorrow morning?" He gives a small shake of his head, and I grin and lean my elbow on the table so I can really face him. "We should go out."

His look is suspicious. "Where did you have in mind, Todd?"

"Well, you guys are closing a big deal today, right? I missed the specifics, but some kind of copyright getting sold to you later today that you're then contracting Tim's company to design and experiment with?" Damian gives me a slow nod over his coffee, not looking even a little reassured. "So we should celebrate. Grab some dinner, maybe go to a nice club afterwards and spend some money?"

Damian's eyes narrow a little further. "Todd, you thrive on vagueness. What kind of club?"

That's the moment that Tim reappears, his jacket slung over his arm and in the middle of buttoning up his shirt all the way. "Club?" he immediately asks, as he drops his jacket over the back of the chair and devotes both hands to finishing dressing. "What are we talking about?"

"Going out to celebrate tonight," I tell him, rolling my head back instead of actually turning towards him and away from Damian. "We should definitely go out to a strip club, right?"

Damian nearly spits out his coffee, and Tim smirks as he slips around the table and leans down to press a soft kiss to my lips. "Mmm, I like that idea. I think we're overdue for some questionable headlines."

"Drake," Damian hisses. sounding a little scandalized. "You want to provide the magazines with gossip on the same day this deal goes through? The headlines will already—"

"Damian, sweetie," Tim's smile is definitely a touch wicked, as he buttons his cuffs closed. "The deal is tech. We're going to get headlines but no one's going to understand what it is, and they're not going to talk about it in anything but higher circles. Getting noticed at a strip club is not going to circulate in the same groups, and we haven't had a scandal in a while anyway. We can afford one."

"I'm not going." His tone is stubborn, and I share a glance with Tim that shows me just how much neither of us believe Damian's going to stick to that.

"We'll see," is Tim's tactful response. "Now come on, Damian, we're going to be late, remember? We keep walking in late together and they're going to make up a scandal about us all on their own."

I grin, relaxing back into the chair. "Drake Industries CEO having illicit affair with Damian Wayne?! Read the full story below!" Damian's expression is glorious, and I lean up and coax Tim down into a kiss. "Have fun, babe. I'll bring you lunch at one, just let me know if you want it some other time."

"Enjoy your day," Tim murmurs back. "You do any particularly good working out—"

"I'll send you a picture or video," I finish. "Get going before you're too late for it to be fashionable, Mr. Big Shot."

Tim snags his jacket from the back of the chair and gives me a wink and a smile. "I'm always fashionable."

Of course Damian folds, and once they're both off work and it's suitably late we head for a club that I know. It's not one of the high class 'gentlemen's clubs' where the paparazzi are always staked at the entrances looking for new victims, but something further downtown but still very safe. Also, very female and gays themed. Not quite at the level where if you pay a dancer enough you can do anything you like — because honestly Tim and Damian scream money and they would get knifed in places like that — but one where the dancers will be a little looser about how strict they are with the 'no touching' rules, as long as they like you.

I used to go to much lower class ones back when I was just a guy trying to stay alive in Gotham's underbelly however I could — honestly, I even danced a time or two when I was desperate and was young enough I could pull off that whole lean and gorgeous thing — but this place was more of a treat. The dancers are legal, the business isn't selling drugs to anyone who walks in, and they hold the dancers to a higher level of quality in exchange for the higher cash flow that moves through there.

You're not going to find any unshaved legs or sloppy make-up in a place like this.

It's anything but nondescript outside — I would not be surprised to find signs in their glass-covered billboard with the dancers fully nude — and Damian looks a touch wary as our driver pulls up near the entrance. There's a little bit of a line, but I take Tim's hand in mine and lead the two of them right up to the front.

Damian is still in his semi-formal work outfit, minus the suit jacket and tie. Tim's still wearing his business slacks, but he swapped to a deep green v-neck with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and somewhere in the time I was cooking us all dinner managed to paint his nails a shiny black, put on bits of make-up that make his lips a touch redder and outline his eyes just enough to make them bright and gorgeous, and find a single silver earring to dangle from his right ear and tinkle softly with every movement.

He also gave me the same eyeliner, after swapping my jeans to a different, less worn pair — equally loose though, which is very good — and giving me a quick once over. He also spent a good amount of time pleased and smirking over the fact that in this tank-top, you can see a good couple inches of the scratches on my back before the fabric covers them.

I am more than happy to be his resident bad boy arm candy.

I relax, let my mouth curl in a small grin, and stop us in front of the pair of bouncers. The one more obviously in charge — a little smaller than the other one, and leaning back against the wall instead of at the velvet rope — is already scanning Tim and Damian up and down, and it's only when we stop that he really looks at me. Not a surprise, people working in places like this have a pretty finely tuned sense of who has money and who doesn't.

Which is why I bring a bit of my street accent into my words when I tell him, "They've got the money; I'm the guide."

Another flick of his gaze up and down Damian, and then he gives a smile and nods to the larger bouncer, who simultaneously blockades the rest of the line with his body and waves us in. As we pass by — quietly enough that no one else will hear — the one in charge leans in towards us and says, "Enjoy your night, Mr. Drake, Mr. Wayne."

I give him a small grin back, and usher both of them into the moderately loud music of the club. It's not the pounding bass beat of regular clubs, but just enough music to keep the attention focused on the dancers while still allowing them to speak to the 'clients' without shouting. Clubs like this are all about the dancers being able to coax people into private dances or extra favors, I was pretty good at that part of it in my few forays into the scene.

Inside it's all open area; a big stage, scattered smaller tables with poles clearly meant to be danced on, a large bar, and some pretty comfortable looking armchairs sitting right next to much more classic looking stackable dining chairs. All of it's done in black and dark reds, and it's a few steps up from what I remember it being like. Nice upgrades. Classy enough that Tim and Damian don't stick out like sore thumbs, even though there aren't very many other people in semi-formal wear in here. We're also in the minority because we're male, and most of the crowd in here is women. That tends to happen when that's what you cater to, and all your dancers are male as well.

Tim's gaze immediately slides across the smaller tables, scanning dancers, as Damian's turns towards the crowd with a certain bit of distaste clear in his eyes. Mine go to the bar, and it's that direction that I pull the two of them with one hand intertwined with Tim's and the other with a light grasp on Damian's wrist. Neither of them protest me getting them through the mess of people, or right up against the bar where we get the almost instant attention of one of the bartenders.

He leans right up against the opposite side of the bar, gives a charming smile, and asks, "What can I get you boys?"

I release Tim's hand and pull Damian's wrist up to put it on the bar, which makes him scowl just a little, but I ignore it. I also ignore the way I can see his mouth make that little 'tt' noise he does when irritated, even though the sound itself is too low to be heard under the music.

I smile back at the bartender, and tilt my head towards Damian. "A band for this one, he's under twenty-one."

The bartender winks at me, and reaches down underneath the bar. "Thanks for the heads up, sweetie. What about you?" His hand reemerges with a painfully neon orange wristband, and his gaze slips to Tim. "Or you, sweetheart?"

Tim smiles one of his equally charming, business smiles, leaning against the bar with a casual air that makes me sweep my gaze down that curve of his waist. "A Ramos Gin Fizz, please." The bartender secures the wristband around Damian's wrist, fingers professional, and offers up another smile towards Tim before looking at me with a silent question. "He'll have something sweet and brightly colored," Tim answers for me. "Just to destroy people's expectations."

The bartender's expression shifts into a small grin, and he nods. "Coming right up, boys."

I laugh as he moves away, letting go of Damian's wrist and looping my arm around Tim's waist to tug him in against my side. "Aw, you know how I like it when you get all take-charge on me, babe."

Tim slides his arm around my waist in turn. "I know." He looks past me towards Damian, who's looking at the band around his wrist with that same faint disgust. "So, are you paying for this night or am I?"

Damian's eyebrows slide up towards his hair, and the look he gives Tim is the most flat look of disbelief I think I've ever seen. "They are not my drinks, Drake. Pay for your own debauchery."

"Like you're not going to enjoy the eye-candy," I taunt, with a small grin. "You grab cash, Tim, or are we stopping by the ATM in the corner?" Instead of answering, Tim reaches down and procures three small stacks of cash from inside the righthand pocket of his slacks. He hands one to me, and one off to Damian, who takes it even though he looks a bit puzzled.

"Why would we need cash? I'm sure they'll accept a credit card for the drinks." I reach over and gently guide him to tuck the bundle away inside the pocket of his pants, and do the same for mine.

"Have you not been to a strip club before?" I ask, and Damian's quickly averted gaze and small frown is answer enough. "Oh my god, Tim, we're taking Dami's strip club virginity. This is great."

Tim's smile is back to looking wicked, and he slides out from underneath my arm and circles around Damian, until he's trapped between us. "Alright, sweetie. A couple quick guidelines. Yes, you can pay for a drink with a card. You can't pay for a dancer with a card. You throw money onto the stage for dancers you like, and usually they earn a pretty good percentage of whatever is there at the end of their routine. That needs cash. Ones are the usual, a five or ten if you like them, a twenty if you really like them."

"Keep a couple ones in your hand," I take over, "but nothing bigger. This isn't a nasty part of town but you'll get swarmed if the dancers realize just how rich you are. If you really like a dancer, most of them will walk around the floor when they haven't got routines planned and you can buy lapdances, or private shows. In general, do not touch unless invited. They can touch you, you can't touch them. Also, be polite and they're more likely to be nice to you too. General rule for you know… Life."

Damian rolls his eyes. "But what is the point, Todd? I fail to see the charm in this idea."

Tim doesn't even try to hide his smirk, and I stare for just a second before managing to say, "Damian, how did you even get to eighteen without figuring this out? The point is to watch hot people move their bodies in hot ways while taking off almost all their clothes, and then, sometimes, to pay those hot people to dance mostly naked right on top of you. Do you need some other reason?"

"It seems…" His mouth twitches into something like a sneer. "Undignified."

"Yeah, no shit." That's about when the bartender comes back with our two drinks, and Tim exchanges them for his card with a smile. "It's gonna be a hell of a night, Dami. You'll have fun; promise."

He seem unconvinced, but the bartender comes back and hands Tim his card back before leaning onto the bar in front of us. "You three actually showed up at a good time," he says, with a nod towards the main stage. "Rick's about to do his show; you don't want to miss that man. Get a good spot, stay tuned, and hey—" he winks "—you want anything else feel free to come right back, darlings."

Damian lets Tim and me steer him away from the bar, as Tim's gaze scans the room for any free seats. There's a small cluster of one armchair and two regular ones about near the center of the place, and I follow Tim's tug at my elbow — Damian between us — to that section. Tim takes the armchair without hesitation, and passes me my drink as I sit down. It's a bright blue and — when I take a drink — somehow manages to taste like strawberries; not bad at all.

Tim relaxes, and I slide my chair a bit closer to his. "See anything you like?" I ask, leaning against the arm of his chair.

Tim smiles back at me. "Well, there's you." I can't help the small grin, and he reaches up and curls his fingers into my hair to pull me down. The kiss is soft, almost chaste, and the hum of satisfaction that stays in the back of my throat is probably completely lost to the music. "A few," he says between us, "but nothing stunning yet. Wait and watch the show?"

"Sounds good," I answer, resisting the urge to lean back in for another kiss. "Think I should pull Damian to the stage?"

"In the middle of the crowd? You'll freak him out." Tim gives a soft laugh and lets me go. "Go on, babe. I'll hold your drink; get the view you want."

Then I can't help myself, and I catch his mouth again for just a moment before passing him my drink and pulling away. "You're amazing. Love you, babe." He smiles up at me as I stand, and Damian gives me a slightly puzzled look which I brush off with a shrug. "Tim'll explain. Have fun, Dami."

I head for the stage, and my height and bulk lets me slide my way to the front without that much difficulty. People haven't really started gathering yet, so there's still some room to move and I take full advantage to get right up next to the stage. People don't usually want to get in my way, it's a nice bonus of being tall and strong.

It's a few minutes of waiting in front of the stage before the lights flicker, and then what has to be an announcer struts out on stage, and I bite my tongue just a bit. He's tall, pale, and holy shit the arms on this guy. Long red hair curling around his shoulders, several dark tattoos on his upper arms, and only wearing a pair of dark red leather pants.

I honestly miss whatever the hell he's saying; I am that caught up in the way he looks and the way he emphasises whatever the fuck those words are with little rolls of his hips and cocky smirks. That guy could fuck me into next week and I would be a satisfied pile of happy goo by the end of it. I might have a bit of a thing for people legitimately stronger than me, as long as they're gorgeous on top of it.

The lights dim, and I can feel the press of people around me as they really gather. I swear to god the announcer looks right at me and winks before he heads off for the back of the stage. There's a moment of silence before the music starts, something with a thick bass beat I can almost feel in my bones but it's… playful. Which is when two blue rolls of fabric fall from the ceiling, and a man slides right down the middle of them and sets lightly on the stage.

My reaction might be even more visceral than the one for the announcer.

He's shirtless — solid goddamn muscle — and his skin is an olive shade, marking him as very clearly not your classic mix of European white. He's got fingerless dark blue gloves on that go up to his elbows, and skintight blue, black, and gold pants that end at his ankles and only barely come up to his hips. His hair is a little shorter than Tim's but the same deep black, and when he lifts his head and smiles it is one of the most charming, beautiful things I think I've ever seen. It's right up there with Tim's smile.

My breath catches in my throat,

There's one single moment of anticipation, the music fades, and then he springs into movement as it swells again. My eyes go wide as he flips into a handspring, back to his feet, and into another forward dive before I can do much more than blink. He's twisting as he flies through the air, turning himself sideways and for one heart-stopping fraction of a second I think he's going to crash right into the pole at the end of the stage. Until his hands close around it and he's whipping his body around the pole in a circle, momentum carrying him up towards the top as he spins. I stare, and then he's smiling and his legs are sliding around the metal, leaving him upside down with his back arched off the pole and his hands twisted around it below his head.

Another heart-stopping moment as he lets go of the pole and slides down, but his thighs clench down on the pole and stop him just a couple inches from the bottom, and the smile slips into a grin as his hands slide up his own body and his eyes close. The look on his face isn't far from bliss, and fake or not it's fucking incredible and not much more than five feet away from me. From here I can see the dark sweeps of eyeliner framing his eyes, and when he opens them again I can see that they're the brightest, most impossible blue.

And looking right at me. I force myself to swallow, to suck in a sharp breath, and he smirks and winks before he's moving again and the moment is over. It's easier to breathe without him looking at me, but I'm still completely captivated by the arch of his back and the way he moves. Even past it being ridiculously hot, it's impressive. The strength in his muscles is absurd, and he's more graceful than anyone else I've ever seen.

The gloves comes off first, flung towards the back of the stage as he returns to those two long furls of fabric. He uses them to get into the air, and his skin looks gorgeous with that fabric wound around it. The moments where he drops are still heartstopping, but it's just… He's beautiful.

He swings out over the crowd in one direction, then the other, and finally is back on the stage itself. He struts to the front of the catwalk section, gives a playful grin, and then hooks his thumbs underneath those skintight pants and slides them right down his legs. The cheering is deafening, and the stage is already littered with bills but there's a new flood of them. He laughs, kicking the pants towards the back of the stage and then sliding forward, gaze roving over the crowd. He's got on a pair of black underwear, but I'm almost positive they're a thong — he hasn't turned away from me yet — and they're not covering much.

He's taking bills from people's hands — sometimes with his teeth — and really just showing off. And yeah, it's definitely a thong.

That stutters me into action, and I push my hand into the pocket of my jeans and grab that stack of cash that Tim gave me. It feels like a crime that I have to glance down at it to fish out the bills that I want before sliding it away again, and then hold the two twenties out towards the stage. It's only a couple of seconds before he zeroes in on it, and those blue eyes are on me again. He's still catering to the crowd on either side of the catwalk, but when he does get to the end, he's watching me with a smile and a light sheen of sweat to all that gorgeous skin.

For a second I think he's about to sink down on his stomach like I've seen him do further up the stage, but then he twists and arches and my breath stops in my lungs as he slides right down into the splits, his back to me and his ass right there. I stare for a second before following the arch of his back and catching the glint of his eyes where his head is arched back. He raises an eyebrow, flicking his gaze down his own back. I catch the hint.

I reach forward, pull one string of the thong up, and slip the two twenties into it, being careful to touch his skin as little as possible. Invitation or not, he deserves respect and tempting as it is to grope him that would be pretty far beyond rude. Not going to win me any points.

He smiles, and then he's gathering his legs back in and spinning to face me. I manage to drag in a breath as he leans in, lips brushing my ear as he whispers, "Thanks, sweetheart." His voice is as playful and perfect as the rest of him, and I shiver as he pulls back.

I get one more wink before he's moving away, and then my eyes catch on the inside of his right thigh as he pushes back to standing. Specifically, the black handwriting that's neat but thicker lines. The handwriting that says Jason and looks an awful lot like the way that I sign my name.

I swallow, staring at him for every second of the time he has left on the stage, as he finishes his routine. What did the bartender call him; Rick? More than likely part of a stage name, but that's not far from Richard, and my theories still stand. It could be possible.

I have to talk to him, or at least get close enough to see that mark again and make sure I'm not crazy.

The music ends, and he grins and waves as he slides off the stage and that redheaded announcer and a stagehand take his place. I turn to go, slipping through the crowd with just a little bit of trouble and heading back to Tim and Damian. I come out of my slight daze enough to notice that Damian's eyes are wide and trained towards the stage, and Tim has a smile on his face that gets wider as I move closer.

Instead of sitting down, I just lean in and catch Tim's mouth in a kiss, sliding my hands through his hair to cup his head in both hands. He gives a soft moan into it — definitely inaudible to anyone but me — and then I slowly pull back, lingering in the press of his mouth as long as possible. Then I take my seat, and reclaim my drink as he hands it to me.

"That good, hm?" Tim's smile is knowing, and I answer it with a small grin, leaning on the arm of his chair and into his space.

"He was goddamn gorgeous, wasn't he?"

But it's Damian that answers with a low, almost awed, "Yes." Then he seems to realize what he's said, and jerks a little bit as a dark flush slides into his cheeks. He's almost scowling as he actually tears his gaze away from the stage to look at us, clearly embarrassed. "He was pleasant enough."

I decide not to call Damian out on his bullshit, but I do share a glance with Tim before casually commenting, "He's got my name on his thigh." I take a swallow of my drink in the resulting moment of silence, and then tack on, "Wonder if his name is Richard?"

Tim, who is very open to the idea that there might be a fourth part of our circle, gives a soft laugh and leans in to pull me into a brief kiss. "Go for it, babe. Even if he's not, I'd pay to get a closer look at him."

Damian, who still believes that soulmates are only ever two people, rolls his eyes and scoffs. "Todd, you're delusional. I am not part of your fantasy, your relationship, or your destiny. How many times do I need to tell you that for you to believe it?"

I grin at him. "Just one more, Dami. Swear."

"Liar."

Tim taps my shoulder with his free hand, and I follow where he's pointing to see our dancer slipping out from what looks like a backstage entrance. He's got a pair of black shorts on with a jagged dark blue v that definitely frames his crotch, and he's slipping around the edge of the room as he scans the room. I start to stand, and Tim pushes me back down.

"Relax, Jason. He'll see you. Take one more sip of that drink and then hand it over." I obey, and Tim sets both of our drinks down to the far side of his chair. Which is about when the dancer sees us, and smiles before moving our direction. "See?"

He gets close to us, and I almost stand again to greet him before forcing myself to be still. I catch the edge of Tim's smirk from the corner of my eye, and know that he knows exactly what I had to stop myself from doing. The dancer sweeps his gaze over me, Tim, and finally Damian before looking back at me. That's about two seconds before he, with no hesitation, slides right onto sitting sideways on my lap, his left arm circling my shoulders. I strangle back a gasp, staring up at that playful smile as I flounder for a second, then decide to very lightly rest my fingertips on the small of his back and grab the chair with my other so I don't touch his legs.

"You know," he starts, "normally I don't do most of this floor work, but I just had to meet someone as generous as you." He shifts, fingers tracing along the back of my neck and his smile bright as he adds on, "And polite too. Keep your hands to yourself and everything."

My words feel caught in my throat — he's hot and right in my lap and even more gorgeous up close — but luckily Tim covers for my momentary inability to speak.

"He's very well-behaved," Tim agrees, and I glance to the side to see him relaxed back into the armchair.

"Oh?" the dancer asks, and when I look up he's looking at Tim too. "Did you make sure of that?" Tim's smirk is apparently enough answer, because he laughs and curls fingers through the hair at the back of my neck, tugging just a bit. "Usually I'm the one getting paid for a show, but I think I'd pay a good chunk of change to see him wound around your fingers, Mr. Drake."

Tim gives a small laugh. "Am I that obvious?"

The dancer rolls his outside shoulder in a one-sided shrug and gives a softer smile. "It pays to know your heavy hitters. I was a little surprised to hear from my friend up there on stage — the MC — that Jason Todd was at the end of the catwalk." He turns in my lap, looking to Damian, who looks utterly entranced. "And Damian Wayne too; quite the night out for you boys, hm?"

Damian blushes, and then scowls and ducks his head.

"And he's shy," the dancer nearly purrs. "Don't worry, darling; I can give you all the attention you want." Damian flushes even darker, and the dancer laughs and turns back to Tim. "It's actually pretty refreshing to see a couple here together; not many people can handle seeing someone else with their partner. You like to watch or just confident?"

"Both," Tim answers easily. "In fact, I'd like to get a more private show for the three of us if you're open. No need to watch the clock; I'll pay for whatever time of yours we take up."

"How could I resist?" He smiles, sliding off my lap and I have to grit my teeth for a second at the friction. Honestly, I've been semi-hard since that moment on the stage where he did the splits in front of me. "Even if I was doing anything, I'm free now. Follow me, boys. Feel free to bring the drinks with you."

I am far less graceful than he is about getting to my feet, and I blindly take my drink when Tim pushes it into my hand before he's pushing me to follow the dancer's retreating back. Damian's ahead of us, and Tim slides his arm around my waist and leans in to speak in my ear.

"Bit tongue-tied, Jason?"

I manage to make something like a laugh, and then vaguely gesture at the dancer's back. "Yes. I mean, Jesus, he's—"

"Yes, I have eyes, Jason." Tim's tone is teasing, and then he presses a small kiss to my jaw. "Are you going to bring up your theory to him? If his name is Richard, it might just work. I can't imagine many people have the kind of chicken scratch handwriting on Damian's arm."

My mouth curls into a small grin at the thought of Damian's continual irritation that whoever's name is written on his arm, they have about the laziest, messiest handwriting I've ever seen. "Yeah, I'm gonna tell him. How pissed do you think he's going to be?"

"The theoretical Richard or Damian?" Tim counters.

"Fair point." I lean into Tim just a little, wrapping my arm around his shoulders. "I love you, babe."

His smile is soft and beautiful, and I can't help smiling right back.

The dancer guides us to a side corridor guarded by a thick, fairly intimidating bouncer that immediately slips to the side to let us pass. He says something to the bouncer, but it's too quiet to hear and it's not more than a couple words. He takes us down the corridor, past a few doors, to the third one on the right. He's in first, and then pushes it closed again once we're all inside the room.

It's not a very big room, but it's bigger than I expected it to be. The walls are lined with booth-style seating in a dark red, the floor is carpeted black, and there's a small stage with a pole in the center of the room. At each corner of the room is a small table, each with a few coasters already laid out. One of those tables, towards the door, has a small stereo system that looks like it's wired into speakers up in each top corner of the room. The lighting is a little brighter than out in the club itself, but it's still dim in comparison to actual normal light levels. No lock to the door, but that's probably a safety thing. Just in case of crazy customers.

"Get comfortable, boys." He's smiling and I take a seat at the back of the room, let Tim take my drink again and slip it onto one of the tables. Damian sits down at the other corner of that table, on the booth to the right side of the room.

The dancer moves towards the sound system, and I speak to cut him off. "So, can I ask one random question before we start anything?"

There's a little flicker of surprise in those blue eyes, but he only gives a soft laugh and says, "Sure. Go ahead, sweetheart."

"Todd—" Damian starts, with a warning tone.

"I don't suppose your name is Richard, is it?"

Sharp surprise, as Damian makes one of those annoyed little hisses, and I can see little hints of wary body language before he asks, "What would make you think that?"

Instead of actually laying out my theory, I reach up and hook fingers over the top of my shirt and pull it down to bare the dark 'Timothy' over my heart. "So, meet Tim…" Tim catches on, turning his head and sweeping his hair out of the way to show the lines of Arabic writing. "Damian…"

"You are insane, Todd. This is completely ridiculous, and impossible, and—"

"Damian," Tim says with a hard note of command, raising one eyebrow.

Damian meets the look for a second, but then looks down and slowly grudgingly, unbuttons the cuff of his left sleeve and rolls it up to his elbow. Then, with a last glare at the both of us, turns his arm so we can all see the scrawl of the name written from the underside of his wrist almost all the way up to his elbow.

"And Richard," I finish, looking back up at the dancer.

He seems frozen, but then he's slipping across the room and taking Damian's wrist in gentle fingers, raising his arm. He stares for a long couple of seconds, and then lets go and steps back. "Usually I go by Dick," is his answer, as he looks back at me. "So, you think…?"

"It's a theory." I reach over, take Tim's hand and squeeze it. "I've never doubted that he's my soulmate, and I don't care what his mark says. There's a feeling you get when it's right; something clicks. We've both been open to the idea that there might be a Richard out there with my name on him, and that it might be possible that we're not as cut and dry as most of the world." I give a crooked grin. "Damian thinks I'm nuts, but what about you? Think this whole thing is crazy?"

Dick pushes out a long breath, and then sits down on the stage in the middle of the room. "Not as crazy as you might think. I have… I have a friend who had a drunk one night stand with a woman, and she came back a year later with a daughter whose name matched his mark. He had it tattooed over to stop anyone spreading rumors, and he loves that girl more than anything else in the world. Things aren't always simple."

One of his hands rises, rakes back through his hair as he sighs. Then he gives a small laugh, and a smile. "You know, I've met a decent handful of 'Jason's, but none of them have ever actually been decent people. So what the hell? I'll give it a shot." His smile turns to a grin. "Gotta say, I usually don't jump into the idea of forever before the first date. What did you have in mind?"

Tim laughs, Damian scoffs, and I grin right back.

"How about we say 'dinner' and start there, Dick?" I squeeze Tim's hand again, shoot him a glance so I can see his smile. "You know, he'll attest that I'm not that bad a cook."

"He's being modest. Jason's a wonderful cook."

"Tim—"

"Hush," Tim orders, and then leans in and brushes his lips over mine. I close my eyes for a moment so I can savor that touch before he pulls away. "You're a wonderful cook, Jay. Fact, not opinion, and Damian will agree." He turns to look at Dick again. "Join us for dinner at our place? If you're willing I can have someone pick you up, or just give you the address. Your decision, of course."

"Sounds like a plan," Dick agrees. "Should be interesting."