... it's one of the things he's gotten used to as Robin. For every supervillain
who treats him like just another annoying vigilante in need of being painfully
murdered, there are at least three who underestimate him, in one way or
another.

He's smart enough to appreciate the ones who do -- they *do* make life
easier -- but it's still a bit frustrating. Especially considering the fact that 'Robin'
means something just slightly more *pointed* to supervillains than other
sidekick designations.

And he's never going to *ask* what possible reasoning had gone into Bruce
allowing Dick to decide that Robin-the-crime-fighter should dress pretty much
the same way as Dick-the-circus-performer for so many years (and he's
spent a lot of time wondering what Jason thought of... all of this), but it's
enough to make him wonder what any potential new Aqualads would have
to go through.

Considering.

Still, he'd been dealing with Poison Ivy tonight, and it's fair to say that his gender
had defined the path of the encounter as much as the R on his chest. Some
things were just... perennial.

Heh.

He pulls into the Cave and mentally runs down the list of things he'll have to do
before heading back to his parents'. Showering, certainly, checking to see if
Batman had any directives for him for *tomorrow* night, just in case they
don't see each other before then -- and Bruce is here, judging by the ticking of
the Batmobile's cooling engine, but it's as likely as anything else that he'll be...
yeah.

At the main computers, not even half out of the suit, and definitely working.

It's just SOP to check for messages on the secondary system, and entirely
practical for Bruce to *leave* messages, as opposed to just talking to him.
He's busy. And...

He's busy.

There's a part of him which is grateful -- more than anything else -- for having
so little time to get to know *Bruce* before... well, before Gotham started
getting more crazy than crazy. He understands Dick's frustration with the man
a little too well for comfort as it is. Better to have as much opportunity as
possible to just...

Anyway.

He has to shower, and change, and restock this belt. He'd managed to duck
before Ivy could kiss him on the mouth, and managed to dose himself with
the standard array of antitoxins, *and* managed to get Ivy secured and keep
her that way until the GCPD could arrive with the hazmat equipment, but it's
just practical to keep himself prepared. He sets the belt next to him on the
secondary console, just to make sure he won't forget, strips off the cape and
tunic, and frowns a little.

He should also probably do a little stretching. Ivy's vines had seemed a lot
more interested in bondage than the dislocation of his limbs, but he's been
doing this for long enough to know that 'vaguely sore right now' tended to
mean 'really kind of uncomfortable' in the morning.

Especially since 'in the morning' pretty much always refers to 'three to five
hours from right now.' He'll do it after he showers. For now... hmm. One
e-mail from Steph, routed to this account from the one he's actually allowed
to share with her, a message from Oracle -- possibly about their
rewiring-the-Clocktower date -- and nothing at all from --

"Tim."

He's also grown accustomed to only jumping a mile in the air on the *inside*
when Bruce does the stealth-approach thing. "What's up?"

"Hmm."

And that's... less than helpful, actually. Tim starts to turn around in the chair
and stops.

Bruce is rubbing his shoulders. And his arms. Hunh.

Well, it *has* been a while since Bruce has given him a rubdown. He's really
incredibly good at it, though he doesn't really seem to be looking for knots or
tension so much as just sort of... rubbing.

It feels pretty strange, especially considering how sweaty he is. "Uh...
Bruce?"

"You smell like..."

And Tim *means* to give Bruce time to finish the thought -- judging by the
tone in his voice, it seemed like an *important* one -- but he can't really keep
himself from making an embarrassingly high-pitched noise when Bruce licks
him.

His neck, and his *face*, and also his forearm -- after grabbing and lifting it --
and his neck again, and he thinks he's entirely allowed to make high-pitched
noises.

Even though they aren't the most *productive* use of his vocal cords.
"Bruce? What --?"

"It's... fair to presume..." Bruce licks his throat again.

"Presume *what*? What are you -- *jeez* --"

And it isn't that he didn't know exactly how strong Bruce is, it's just that Bruce
doesn't spend a great deal of time lifting him bodily out of chairs, setting him
down on his feet long enough to yank off his shirt and gauntlets, lifting him
again, and then *licking his chest*.

Not on an average day, anyway, and -- "Bruce, wait, are you -- what -- oh
*Jesus* --"

Never, ever in his life had he ever imagined a scenario where Bruce would be
*sucking* on his pectorals. And collarbone, and throat again -- he's imagined
a lot of *things*. He's *supposed* to think as many strange possibilities
through as possible, but not -- Not --

Tongue. In his *ear*, and that doesn't tickle so much as feel extremely --
extremely --

"Tim."

"I'm *listening*, Bruce, what the *hell* --"

"Ivy. Tonight."

That was almost a question, if you could ignore the fact that Bruce has one
hand around his back and it's more than enough to *hold* Tim, especially
since his arms are crushed between their chests -- *question*, right. "Ivy.
Yes -- Bruce, you're *chewing* on my *ear* --" And his neck. Bruce's other
hand is in his hair, yanking his head back -- "*Bruce* --"

"Your *taste*..."

Okay, *he's* listening, but apparently Bruce isn't. Entirely. Or. "Ivy. What
about Ivy? She's in custody..." Wait. "Did she attack you first? Is that --"

The sound Bruce makes... well, it's a moan. Possibly a *groan*, right against
the skin of Tim's throat and just... vibrating *through* him. "Bruce. Bruce,
my belt -- I have more antitoxin --"

"I'm not. Affected."

Tim blinks. A lot, really, and that was a really *bad* idea, because it was
wasting time he could have been using to --

To do anything but *shiver*, because Bruce seems determined to lick every
drop of sweat off his skin. Every -- he shouldn't be thinking of his tights. He
shouldn't be... he is. He really is.

"I -- I think maybe -- Bruce --"

"Yes."

"Are you absolutely *sure* you weren't dosed with anything tonight?"

Bruce growls at him, on him, against him --

"Easy, Bruce, I'm just --"

"*Think*, Tim. What did... what did she do to you?"

To him? *He's* fine... for the most part, except for how he has no idea
whatsoever to do when Bruce sort of drops them *both* on the floor --

"*Tim*."

Bruce's eyes are almost black. The pupils are dilated and his nostrils are flaring
and his jaw is clenched and the last time Bruce had ever looked at him
*remotely* like that was when he'd shown up wearing Jason's old uniform --

"I don't. Have much... control," Bruce says, and strokes his chest, and stares
at him -- at *him* --

Think. He has to think. He has to think of something other than the fact that
Bruce's hands are huge and hard on his *skin*, and that Bruce is apparently
having sex with him for no -- "The kiss. The kiss! She --"

He'd done a much better job avoiding Ivy's mouth, all things considered. Then
again, he's trained to react to danger, as opposed to Bruce's tongue.

Possibly Bruce's tongue should be filed under 'dangerous,' from now on.
Possibly his entire mouth, and also his hands --

He'd already *filed* the hands under 'dangerous,' just not in terms of 'holding
his head still and in position so that he can kiss Tim breathless.'

"I -- Bruce --"

"She kissed you. On the mouth."

"No, that was *you*!" No, he can think, he can definitely --

"I think I'm going to kiss you everywhere, Tim," Bruce says, and that was a
threat.

That was... a really... it was a *threat*. "I used the antitoxins! I cleaned off --"

"Yes. You're... very well-trained," Bruce says. "A very... good. Soldier."

The lipstick. He'd cleaned it *off*, and Tim doesn't think he can be blamed for
*reacting* to that, although it was probably extremely stupid to try for a
leg-lock on a) Bruce, and b) on a Bruce who seems perfectly happy to *have*
them locked together and --

"Tim. You have to... keep thinking."

Because Bruce seems content -- definitely the wrong word -- to keep *grinding*
them together, jock to jock, and it's not even remotely painful enough to keep
Tim from moaning before he can bite his lip.

"Don't. Don't -- you sound --"

It's possible that this kiss is just meant to *stop* Tim from doing anything that
would provoke... escalation, but it's reasonably clear that Bruce isn't thinking
clearly at the moment.

He'll beat himself up for the fact that his IQ has, apparently, divided itself by
Bruce's weight just as soon as he can stop thinking about all that weight *on*
him, and about how Bruce tastes like Alfred's coffee, and about the fact that his
hands are crushed between them again, but *Bruce's* hands are on his hips.

On his *tights*.

"Bruce, I --" He curses himself for needing air, because it gives Bruce time he
doesn't actually *need*.

Tim's shorts and tights are around his knees, and Tim has *never* seen Bruce
look like this.

Not even through the viewfinder on his old camera, and -- no, he can't go
there, right now, he has to think. He. "I didn't scrub off the lipstick... right
away --"

Bruce nods, silently, and *squeezes* him through the jock.

The fact that Tim's positive that was supposed to be some sort of reward --
the fact that it *was* -- is not helping *anything*. "I -- Bruce, please --"

"Don't say 'please,' Tim. Just. Just..." Whatever else Bruce was going to say
is lost in that moaning growl, and the next one, and the next -- against his
abdomen as Bruce drags his *teeth* --

"Oh *God* --"

"*Tim*." And it sounds like *Bruce* is begging, and he can't.

He *can't* -- "Took the -- antitoxin -- oh -- *oh* -- right *away* --"

"Irrelevant. You were dosed with... hn."

The grunt is the only warning he gets before Bruce pulls his belt knife and cuts
Tim's jock off, and it's *not* a relief, except for how it absolutely is, and --

Think. He can think.

"Something new?"

Bruce breathes on him in response.

"Something *new*. Okay, it wasn't -- I'm not --"

"You're still... thinking clearly." And Bruce looks him in the eye again, and his
expression is pained and amused and *desperate*. "It seems... unfair."

"Oh. God. Bruce --"

"Keep talking. Keep... I'm trying to focus. On your voice."

As opposed to his dick. Or his -- no. He can, or *should*, say some of this --

Out *loud*, at least as much as the gasping scream when Bruce suddenly
*moves* and licks his way up the underside of Tim's dick. And it's like a part of
him has been waiting for this, or was *ready* to wait for this, or something else
confusing and desperately physical.

He can't stop moving his hips, and he can't do anything with his hands but
claw ineffectually at the stone. He can't actually imagine telling Bruce to
*stop*. It's -- it's -- "In my... bloodstream..."

"Yes. I'm... poisoning myself. More."

With *him*. Bruce is -- "I'm a weapon -- I'm --" The rest is lost in a hiss, because
Bruce's grip is impossibly tight on his hips, and Bruce is breathing on him,
breathing him *in* -- "Bruce, you have to -- have to *stop* -- dangerous --"

"I can feel your pulse with my tongue."

"Oh *fuck* --"

"It's not racing... any more than can be... expected..."

"*You*, Bruce, it's -- I'm aimed at *you* --"

"Yes. You are," Bruce says, shifting, and yanks down Tim's shorts and tights
further before spreading Tim's thighs with his hands. "If you had... exerted
yourself more... the toxins in your sweat would have been overpowering... I."

Tongue on his thighs, moving, snaking -- tickling and teasing -- no. Tasting him,
taking him *in*, and the position they're in, now --

It's not even a pin. Not anymore. It doesn't matter that Tim doesn't actually
have the strength to *push* Bruce away from him -- he knows at least half a
dozen strikes which could incapacitate --

Which should --

"I have to get away," Tim says, and it comes out whispered and pathetic.

"Yes. You have to." Bruce looks at him again, and Tim can't decide whether
Bruce's blown pupils or shaking hands are more difficult to focus on. No, more
*important*, because Bruce's gaze slides down to Tim's spread knees, and --

Tim forces himself to *move*, before he can think about it, before he can *fail*
to think about it and wind up in an entirely different -- and impossible to
escape -- position.

The first attempt to stand ends with him on his ass, and Bruce *reaches* --

Tim rolls, kicking off his boots and tights as he goes and *not* looking back.
The first lesson. The most important one -- never look back at a... pursuer.
Attacker.

Bruce isn't attacking him. Bruce just --

No. Naked, he *can* move, and he does. The tranq darts are close enough,
even though Bruce is between him and the actual guns. And Bruce is --

"Do it. Now. Before --"

He does, and Bruce swats aside the ones aimed at his chest and clenches his
fists for long enough for Tim to hit him in the thigh.

Tim pants, and watches, and *waits*.

Bruce clenches his fists even tighter, and doesn't remove the dart until after a
full count of ten. Enough time for every bit of the dose to make it into his
system. And then he drops to his knees. "Bruce --"

"Shower. Then contact the Watchtower. They may have to... teleport."

"The medlab, yes, but --"

Bruce falls the rest of the way. Tim knows precisely what a mind-bogglingly
stupid idea it would be to go to him and give him a biological accelerant. There
is no one in the Cave that Bruce needs to be awake to fight.

And --

He turns and heads for the showers.

He *also* knows that this is, at best, a stopgap measure. Whatever's in his
system will still be in his sweat when he gets out, no matter how much of the
de-con chemicals he douses himself with.

Scrubbing himself repeatedly afterwards is also pointless, but the urge is
impossible to --

He very clearly needs to spend a great deal of time, at some point, considering
his urges. At the very least, he could have some sort of plan in place for... for...

Should he be trying to scrub Bruce down, too? Warning the League that
*he's* contaminated won't do anyone any good if they don't realize that
Bruce, at this point, is covered in... covered.

There are so very many images that he doesn't want to deal with right now, but
want doesn't have anything to do with it. He'll get out, dry off, find a clean suit --
the Arctic one will at least keep him from exposing anyone *else* -- and then --

The thing about shower tile is that it's one of the least comfortable materials on
the planet, especially when you're slammed into it.

He should've given Bruce a larger dose. He --

"Cumulative. Effect of the... toxin," Bruce pants against his ear.

"What should --"

"Some... degree of compromise..."

Bruce's hand slides down the center of his spine, making Tim jerk, and then that
hand is on his hip, spinning him around. Bruce is swaying on his feet. There are
slivers of blue around the black holes of his eyes. "I --"

Bruce falls to his knees again, but this time it's purposeful.

And Tim really has no choice but to accept the fact that his erection... is still an
erection. He should've masturbated. He should've --

The sound is entirely unfamiliar, and when Tim parses it... it's a laugh. A strangled,
pained, *drugged* laugh --

"Bruce --"

"Perhaps... a partial victory..." Bruce cups Tim's hip with one hand, and laughs
again.

It's hard to tell if he's holding Tim still or holding on.

"If you... don't ejaculate in my *mouth*."

"Oh --"

Bruce swallows him. Bruce --

"Oh *God* --"

It's too much. It's --

It's *Bruce*, and there's nothing efficient about groaning and there's nothing
*practical* about staring into Bruce's eyes and knowing that he's going to be
seeing them just like this in every dream he *has* for the rest of his life.

Whether or not they're nightmares.

"I'm sorry. I'm --"

Bruce reaches up, shaking and sluggish -- but not his mouth, his hot mouth,
his *sucking* mouth -- and there's another dart in his hand.

A full one.

Tim takes it, and --

Heat. So much -- the shower is cold and Bruce is -- Bruce *wants* him, at
least a little, at least enough --

Tim squeezes his eyes shut, stabs Bruce in the neck with the dart and --

And *shoves*.

And comes all over Bruce's chest as he falls. On the *Bat*.

He needs to...

He needs...

Tim bites his lip and reaches up to unhook the shower nozzle. At the very least,
he can hose them both down a little more before he calls in the League.

...

*