And felt its very gladness
October 9, 2006
Disclaimers: No one and nothing here is mine.
Spoilers/Timeline: Vague ones for older storylines. Takes
place pretty early in YJ canon.
Summary: "I'm not denying anything, Superboy."
Ratings Note/Warnings: Sexual content which dovetails
neatly with the content some readers may find
Author's Note: A response to metron_ariston's
request for a snippet using this
icon. Happily, Zee gave me
a bunny for it.
Acknowledgments: To Zee for bunnying, audiencing,
encouraging, and freely accepting all the blame.
'Inappropriate' isn't the only word for this, Tim thinks, and
digs his fingers harder into the couch cushion.
He has to replace the left gauntlet sooner rather than later --
there's a bit of a tear on the inside of the right index finger,
and it keeps trying to insinuate itself under the fingernail --
And the amount of his mind focused on that issue is pitifully,
pathetically, and inexcusably small.
Superboy's lips are working (hungrily) against his mound,
and Superboy's throat is working the head of Tim's penis
like -- like --
The gauntlet --
The frown lines on Superboy's forehead speak *mostly* of
concentration, but the anger isn't gone, not yet. Superboy
has precisely as much patience with helpful advice -- and
the direction of a team-leader -- as someone his age should.
The gauntlet. If he thinks more about -- Batman always
wants *reports*, and if he thinks more about how he'll
phrase his report about the gauntlet in language both clear
and ruthlessly concise --
It will make this last longer.
Tim shoves the fingers of his -- left -- hand into Superboy's
thick, curling, and improbably-styled hair and closes his eyes.
They don't make it through the weekend. Despite the fact
that Superboy's own patience with *Impulse's* age-related
concentration difficulties is woefully small, some
incomprehensible part of the boy's (he can't really think of
him as 'the clone.' In his experience and studies, clones
tend to have far less innate independence) mind had chosen
to take exception to the way Tim had been...
Well, yes, it had been a lecture -- however brief.
The fact that it had been an *effective* lecture that had
gotten Bart focused enough to be a help on their mission
is, apparently, irrelevant.
The fact that as soon as Tim realized just what sort of
personnel challenge the mulish look on Superboy's face in
conjunction with the near *bristle* of his body language
portended he should've taken better control of *himself* --
It isn't irrelevant. It's moot.
He knows, at this point, just what it *does* to Superboy for
Tim to return his sarcasm with better-worded sarcasm, to
return his poorly-aimed insults with ones that hit much
deeper. The boy wears his origin uncomfortably, at best.
The pain when Tim's head bounces off the wall -- isn't
enough of a payment.
Not for the growling, cursing -- *gentle* -- kiss he receives,
and not for the way his penis had begun hardening while
they were still -- arguing.
Arguing is an inadequate word.
The kiss gets harder, wetter, more -- he will not laugh --
*focused*, but not very much rougher at all. Tim is nearly
entirely certain that Superboy had been programmed to
know quite a bit about the physical limitations of humans.
Something to replace the conception of instinct, perhaps.
"Suck me," Tim says, when there's a long enough break in
the kiss for it.
"Fucking *make* me."
If he were a better -- if he were better, the first time Kon
had said something of the kind, he would've goaded the
physical portion of their *argument* into continuing, and
while it's entirely possible -- even probable -- that Tim
would've been able to defeat him, it wouldn't have
happened without enough purely non-sexual pain to make
it.... to make him...
He could do it now.
Instead, he uses the small flexibility Superboy allows to
cock his head -- slightly -- and to give him the small,
sardonic smile that occasionally makes Batman hum, and
even smile back in his own way.
It makes Superboy snarl -- audibly -- and his body is that of
a boy older than Tim, but not by -- enough. His uniform is
very thin, and Superboy's relative invulnerability is even
more relative in terms of how he seems to experience the
press of Tim's thigh through their uniforms.
"Fuck -- fuck *you*, man, I -- *fuck* --"
The last expletive is, of course, differently *toned* than the
others. Tim's foot is firmly back on the floor.
There's a hole in the wall beside Tim's head --
But it hasn't finished crumbling at the edges before
Superboy is on his knees, fumbling at Tim's shorts.
He hasn't bothered with Tim's belt since the last time -- the
first time -- the shock had knocked him unconscious.
Once the shorts are down, Superboy nuzzles him through
the tights, far rougher than the kiss had been. As teases go,
it could eventually prove to be an incredibly effective one,
but, as near as Tim has been able to tell, Superboy finds
his scent to be a little too much of a distraction. The
nuzzling has never lasted long, and it doesn't this time.
His tights and jock are tangled with his shorts around his
thighs, and Superboy is --
He is --
When Superboy chooses, like now, to use Tim's penis to
fuck his own face, it becomes incredibly difficult to retain
anything resembling control.
Tim can suppress either the sounds his throat wants to make
or his body's urge to shake and buck -- not both.
If Superboy were a different sort of powerful artificial
construct, Tim would believe this sort of thing was on
purpose, but the boy isn't, and Tim can't.
It makes it better, and --
Superboy moans around him, saliva trailing down his chin.
He doesn't stop.
He remains angry, of course.
The anger -- if Tim is honest with himself, he has to admit
that the anger is part of the attraction.
When Superboy is sucking him, or stroking him, or driving
against him, driving him back against whichever horizontal
or vertical surface seems *handy* --
The anger is right there, as tangible as tongue or teeth or
fingers, and, at first, Tim had assumed it was simply...
another part of this.
Certainly, he had not been ignorant of the ways in which
Dick... negotiates (poorly) his own sexuality, and there had
been any number of hints -- on top of the occasional bit
of hacked footage -- that his relationship with Arsenal...
That there has been a measure of antagonism beneath the
affection and respect they clearly have for each other.
Certainly, it would've informed their sexual encounters.
Additionally, it would explain why Dick had never brought
Arsenal up with him, when Tim has had to do everything
short of actually running *away* to avoid conversation
about Dick's *other* relationships.
There is shame there, enough to register even with the truly
shameless. This is right and fitting -- sex shouldn't ever be
built on the negative. Tim believes -- he hopes, and even
has some reason and right to do so -- that if he had been
able to convince himself, in one way or *another*, that
Superboy's anger was... like *that*...
It absolutely --
"God, I..." Superboy laughs, easy and soft, and bangs his
head against the floor.
Tim waits, and licks the boy's faintly odd but not -- by all
experience -- poisonous semen from his bare fingertips.
And puts the gauntlet back on.
"Shit, if you weren't such an *asshole*, sometimes..."
Superboy snorts, tucks himself away, and sits up. "It would
*kill* you to just, I don't know, let me *know* that you've
got a good reason to jump down Bart's throat or whatever?"
"Why would I ever do it if --"
"Oh, just -- shut up, man," Superboy says, and lies back.
Tim leaves him to it.
Superboy's anger in the moments before they -- before, is
entirely outer-directed, outer-*focused* as well as focused
in and of itself: Tim had behaved badly, and deserves anger.
Anger and lust are -- can be -- linked. Ergo...
Tim has a realistic enough impression of his own relative
romantic/sexual inexperience, and yet he has an extremely
difficult time even *thinking* the words, 'Superboy is
ashamed of his behavior.'
There's nothing -- there's nothing *wrong* with this for
Superboy, even though -- by Superboy's own
*complaints* -- Tim has given him less than no reason to
believe himself *respected*, much less regarded.
The anger isn't always there, of course. There are other
things. Other --
With thought, Tim can understand -- intellectually -- the
appeal of someone who touches and allows themselves to
*be* touched even outside the realm of the mission and
How that person could come to seem a friend, despite the
fact that any number of people outside their lives -- outside
the *work* -- would find the idea laughable at *best*.
When Dick had taken over after that business with Jean-
Paul... the fact that Tim has every reason to believe that
Dick considers him a friend -- family, even -- *now* has
nothing whatsoever to do with *then*. And explaining
that reality to the boy he had been at the time, would,
perhaps, be as useless as explaining reality to --
"You have a visitor, Robin," Batman says, over the comm.
"Deal with it."
The question of whether or not 'it' refers to the situation or
the visitor -- remains not-ambiguous-enough.
He allows Superboy to find him, and there is no anger here.
There is juvenile humor which is easily deflected as Tim
leads them back to the city limits, there are a few chances
to see his training of Superboy in action as they stop a
couple of muggings and an armed robbery, and there is
some planning for the weekend.
It's -- easy, on a number of levels.
There are other triggers than anger, at least for himself,
and he can't --
There's something terribly familiar, something *visceral*
about the way Superboy smiles -- no, *beams* -- up at
Tim on his jump-line, holding up a crushed mass of ex-guns
up for his perusal. His -- *approval*.
At the time, he had nodded and said 'good work.'
Once they are -- technically -- outside of Gotham, he repeats
himself, and allows the boy to brag about the technique
he'd used *this* time with the TTK. There's a flush on the
boy's face which, of course, has nothing to do with the mild
chill in the air, or even residual adrenaline.
The boy's eyes --
Superboy's eyes are wide and bright and welcoming,
inviting -- inviting Tim to share the pride, to wallow in the
small victory with him, to fill a need, to.
When Tim touches Superboy's face, he leaves the gauntlet
"Oh, I..." Superboy's eyes are half-closed in an instant, and
his lashes are a particularly neat smudge, as perfect as
science could make them. "Do you... I mean, do you have
"I mean. I could -- um. I'm kinda..."
The hand-gesture is obvious, but no more so than the bulge
in the boy's thin tights. "Come here," Tim says, and notes
the way his own feet leave the ground for several moments
during the kiss.
Once he's down again, he says, "Superboy," and the boy
smiles, and sinks to his knees.
The first time, Tim manages to *only* thrust hard enough
to make Superboy choke once. He needs --
The second time is better, and Tim strokes Superboy's hair
when the boy moans around him, and reaches down to
wipe the saliva away with his thumb.
By the time he's done, the briefs Superboy wears under his
tights are a dead loss, and his penis is dark and slick and,
of course, demanding in its own way. Tim reaches --
"No -- I --"
Tim raises an eyebrow. "No...?"
"Could you -- I mean... leave the gauntlet on?"
The first touch makes Superboy whine, high and thin in his
throat. The first stroke makes him shake, and cling, and
pump his hips in short, sharp motions.
"Please -- oh, *please*, Rob --"
"Please don't stop -- oh -- oh fuck *God* --"
Tim nods, and continues.
They don't fight the entire weekend.
On Wednesday night -- his night off -- he wakes to the
sound of a particular chime from his computer.
He doesn't begin dressing right away, of course -- a message
from Batman did not, automatically, imply an urgent need
for *Robin* -- but.
"Convince the clone his need for social contact would be
better served in another city."
The 'or I will' is unspoken -- unwritten -- of course, but that
means nothing. Batman's belief in communication
*efficiency* is one of the many things Tim appreciates and
admires about him, after all. He's never truly understood
the way others find it unpalatable.
The lack of understanding feels -- *is* -- deeper than that in
terms of Superboy, but it's there, just the same.
Tim hits the macro that will send 'noted' to the appropriate
place, double-checks that his father and soon-to-be
stepmother are asleep, suits up, and flies.
He hasn't made it two blocks before Batman's voice is in his
ear with coordinates, and there's no need for further
He finds Superboy deep in conversation with several hustlers
of Tim's -- Robin's -- acquaintance, uses the opportunity to
fish for new and interesting intel -- there isn't any -- and
then grabs Superboy by the wrist.
"Hunh -- oh," he says, and smiles.
The first kiss is impossible to effectively dodge, given the
fact that they're approximately fifteen stories up.
It's slick, and fast, and -- yes -- somewhat rougher than
Superboy's usual. There's an edge of hungry desperation,
to be sure, but there's also just... affection. It makes Tim
feel a little sick -- no.
The fact that he can't decide whether he's warm and tense
or cold and relaxed makes him feel ill.
"Fly us twenty miles -- north northeast," he says, and curses
himself internally for having to *think* about it.
There's nothing particularly exciting -- or even aesthetically
pleasing -- about the sad little stand of carbon monoxide-
poisoned woods next to the highway, and Superboy
expresses this vociferously while Tim tries to get his
thoughts in order. Tries --
"I mean, damn, Gotham's fucking *creepy*, but at least --"
There's really nothing which could be said beyond the
obvious. "You can't be in Gotham anymore, Superboy."
"-- there's stuff to *do* -- what?"
"Your presence in the city is a problem." With Batman, he
doesn't add. He shouldn't have to.
"What -- what the hell are you talking about?"
But, of course, he does. Tim doesn't bother holding back
the sigh. "Gotham is Batman's city, and you're not welcome
within it. Or so I was informed -- not for the first time --
approximately fifty minutes ago."
"Well, shit, aren't we friends?"
It's... the non-sequitur is more than a little staggering,
actually. To the point where Tim can't decide whether it's
better or worse that he's absolutely sure the boy can't tell
he's blinking stupidly behind the mask.
"I mean -- what the *fuck*, man?"
"Superboy -- I was given an order," he tries.
"And you just -- jump fucking *double* time to follow it,
and never fucking mind anything else?"
The boy -- he seems to almost be *pleading*, and Tim has
never been precisely *ignorant* of Batman's desire to keep
an eye -- however remote and attached to something small,
brightly-dressed, and not *himself* -- on the dangerously
young and dangerously powerful metahumans currently
running around the world. It's just that now...
"I can't -- I don't *believe* you," Superboy says.
Now it's almost too large, almost too *much*. What is he
supposed to *do* with people like this? With the *boy*,
who is, actually, still pleading with every part of him -- eyes
wide, lips parted, brow furrowed.
He wants -- deeply and *obviously* -- for Tim to soften the --
This is a *blow* for him.
He's -- he's a boy. Superboy is a *child*, and Tim has, of
course, known that from the very beginning. Given Ivy's
not entirely incongruously *gentle* treatment of children
in the past, it's entirely possible she would've been
sickened by her own behavior with Superboy, had she
spent enough time around the non-drugged version of him
To know everything Tim does. Everything *Robin* does,
and Robin... Robin takes care of children.
He grins, consciously -- it's as much of the somewhat
hysterical laugh as he's remotely allowed to let escape --
and is anything but immune to the way it simultaneously
makes Superboy recoil *and* begin to relax.
There are times, now, when the images in Tim's mind while
he's masturbating are dominated by the flashing memories
of Superboy's broad, golden back, the curve -- almost
gratuitously *round* -- of his ass --
The sounds he makes around Tim's penis --
The -- the endless *possibility* --
And Superboy is beginning to frown again. Tim -- can't.
"Gotham is where I live, and where I work... but it's not the
only place in the world."
The boy's attempt to look like Superman is more effective
than it has any right to be, but Tim is willing to bet that
Superboy has seen that particular crossed-arm *look* as
much as anyone not actively a repeat criminal-offender
in Metropolis. "You guys -- you *Bats* -- act like it is."
"Would you really want us treating the rest of the world
that way, Superboy?" The spread of his hands may or may
not be overkill --
"I --" The laugh says it's not. "Okay, you have a point. Still.
I just wanted to come *hang out* with you. And it's not
like I can look Robin up in the phone book."
Tim nods. It's entirely true. "For now... why don't you let
me contact you when I *can* --"
"'Don't call me, I'll call you?'"
Dangerously on-target, that. "It can't be any other way," he
says, and pauses, and considers... and moves a little closer.
"I'm... sorry," he says, and doesn't let it become a question.
The number of apologies his team-mates expect --
The number of situations they expect them *in* --
"You, Rob, I just. You know." He frowns. "I wanted to *see*
you. And -- you want it, too," Superboy says, and the look
in his eyes is perfect, just -- perfect.
It's steady, and clear, and completely (innocent) free of
anything resembling -- the inside of Tim's own mind, on any
given day. He can feel the smile trying to shrink on his face
to something real, and he resists it. Just -- for a little while.
"Dude, don't even -- you *do* want it. I know what you
*sound* like when you come --"
"I'm not denying anything, Superboy." Whatever he may or
may not be admitting --
"Well -- okay, then. Just, you know. Don't forget that."
-- is either inappropriate, irrelevant, or moot. Of course.
"How could I?"
The steadiness could, reasonably, be ruined, somewhat, by
the flash of hotly stubborn *suspicion*. However, there's
something to be said for the mutuality Superboy has never
Tim is changed, perhaps, by their association. Their --
relationship. It's not the fact that the boy's particular variety
*of* suspicion gives Tim the urge to smile even more, to
tease until there's either laughter or more of that
wonderfully malleable, wonderfully *clean* anger.
It's the fact that even though he won't do it now, he'll do it
in the future. He knows himself just that well.
For now, however, he only gestures, letting his gauntlet get
far enough out of the shadows that the green is clear.
He watches the boy see it, and consider -- so very briefly --
And then he feels --
Zee: I haven't forgotten the Tim/Kon chan, you know.
Te: You know, if I write that...
Te: *eyes you*
Zee: I am fully prepared to take any blame.
Te: There will be payment exacted at Some Future Date.
Zee: Really. Scapegoat me *all* you want.
Zee: I... *eyes you back*
Te: *steeples fingers*