Tim is barely coherent, barely conscious, and he doesn't make a noise when large hands haul him into a strong, steel-like body.

"You're being so good today Little Bird," the clone intones smugly, carding his fingers through Tim's hair. It's oily now, and a mess of tangles and leftover gel, but the...Superboy doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he's fascinated by how downy and soft Tim's hair had become once the gel began to warn off. Even with the extra oil, the clone likes to card his fingers into Tim's locks.

Unless Tim tried to swiftly turn around to sink his teeth into the smooth, impenetrable hands. Then, the gentle hands would turn rough and brutal when theydig into his scalp. Tim would then be yanked up by the roots and teeth would return the favor to latch unto the muscles of his forehead.

But today...

Today, Tim is docile. Tim is still as sharp and keen in mind, but he's tiring. It's been roughly a week, according to Tim's internal clock, and he's covered in bruises from teeth, from nails, from a suckling, unforgiving mouth, and from fingers that dig into his pale skin.

Tim doesn't want to muster up the energy today to rebel. Instead, he is sitting at the base of the clone's feet, like some sort of favored pet. He feels the usual emotions of disgust, shame, and a burning fury.

But it all dims down as fingers clamp unto his bruised jaw. They give a warning squeeze and Tim can feel his spirits dying.

"Ifyoudon'tbehave,LittleBird,I'mgoingtohavetoputyoubackinyourcage."

Tim shivers and all his abrasions and wounds ache. His skin, his nerves, are remembering those same fingers sinking into the skin of his hips as a cruel mouth bruises his lips. As sharp teeth cuts them.

"Such a good boy today Little Bird," the clone purrs. As if it is a reward, the clone tilts his chin up with what Tim suspects is a form of telekinesis to drop, for once, a gentle and, well, almost loving kiss.

And Tim is plunging into the deep length of a hurricane as he bites down. It's a familiar course of actions as he feels the hard lips twist into a hybrid of a snarled smirk and smash themselves firmly unto his lips.

"Bad Bird," the clone chuckles and Tim grunts as he's hauled up to splay all across the clone's lap.

He struggles, fruitlessly, and the clone smirks in amusement before kisses and harsh nips are being placed on his lips, the corners of his contorted mouth. Tim yelps as hands sneak down to his ass, but the noise changes to a whimper as the clone undulates his hips.

"Pretty, pretty, bad Little Bird," the clone whispers before biting down savagely on Tim's cheeks to, once again, leave his mark on his property.