Disclaimers: Not even close to mine.
Spoilers: Vague references to assorted toonverse things,
and a little bit of comicsverse. (Very little.)
Summary: Four first times.
Ratings Note/Warnings: Sexual content which dovetails neatly
with the content some readers may find disturbing.
Author's Note: I told Petra I wanted to write some toon!Tim
and demanded poetry. Neruda brings out the toonverse in me.
Acknowledgments: To Jack, Petra, and Kat for audiencing
and encouragement.
The first time was kind of hazy.
He'd been cold for three hours, freezing for an hour, and
there'd been maybe five minutes -- it felt like a year -- when
he was absolutely sure there was something else he could
be doing, something else Bruce had taught him for situations
just like *this*, and if he'd just been able to remember it, to
stop thinking about every time in his life he'd *ever* been
warm, then he could get out of Freeze's trap and get back in
the *game*.
And then --
And then there hadn't been much of anything, and then
there *had* been, but he'd been snowblind -- iceblind,
behind his eyes, blood in his *veins* -- for too long to
distinguish between the white of the trap and the white of
*here*. There.
Even when you were *there*, the Fortress could never be
a *here*.
And -- yeah. He'd started getting warm fast, and he must've
said something --
"I assure you, Robin, both I and the AI are monitoring
closely, I would never let you be hurt."
Because Clark was -- right, Clark. And he remembers being
awake enough to point out that it was kinda freaky to take
the hypothermic kid to *Antarctica*, but by then he'd been
too warm, too good half in the walls or maybe the floor,
only it was liquid, sweet --
And then there's a lot of nothing, just -- blank-and-thankfully-
not-*white* between the memory of wondering what it
would be like to take a bath in, like, *soup*, if it would be
anything like this, and the memory of the salt-metal-air
*smell*, like -- like food you weren't supposed to actually
eat, because it would kill you or at least make you stoned,
like the moment *of* eating --
Just --
Nothing until he was licking -- so *thirsty* -- Clark's neck
and scratching at his chest. Fucking --
Filing his short-enough-already-thanks fingernails on Clark's
chest and rubbing his face on Clark's jaw until his cheeks
felt bruised, until the *itch* under his *skin* could just --
just --
"Oh, oh, are you *sure*?"
And the thing is? Tim remembers -- distinctly -- having no
*idea* what Clark was talking about at the time, and he
remembers --
"Tim, Tim, really --"
He remembers shoving his fist half-way into Clark's mouth --
*mostly* gently -- to get him to shut up, to get him to
*breathe* on him, to get him to scrape away the weird-
wrong feeling on his hand.
He could take care of the rest of his body, but --
Yeah.
In retrospect, Clark probably *had* warmed him up a little
too fast, but it wasn't really Clark's fault that Tim had
developed something between a reflex and coping
mechanism for dealing with bizarre, intense physical
weirdness.
Clark had been right *there*.
*
The first time is a little ridiculous, though Tim suspects that
other people would have different words for it.
It's not that Tim hadn't *known* Clark was weak against
magic, that he was *vulnerable* to it, but there's a
difference between knowing that and the image that's
burned onto his brain (with too many other things, and --
never mind) of Clark's eyes rolling back in his head and
his knees just *collapsing*, *Clark* just collapsing, and --
well.
That's just scary. It's one thing for people like Faust to have
an easy time taking out humans, and most metas, and
even Batman -- Faust's a sneaky fucker with way too much
time on his hands and a lot of *power*, and that *is* pretty
much all it takes, if you're also dedicated -- but it's
something else when it's Superman. Not that he'd ever say
that to Bruce.
Still, all of the above is just one more way he's going to get
Bruce to bring him *up* to the Watchtower whenever he
fucking asks, because a) it's Faust, b) the League's in a
messy pile, and c) Robin's on the case.
It takes a little while for Faust to stop fondling his books,
but Tim's willing to go with that, to be *fine* with that,
because if the guy had just *memorized* his stupid
League-piling spells, then Tim would be kind of SOL.
As it is, he just has to be a little patient and wait for Faust to
leave just *one* book where he can get to it -- a little
Mission Impossible with a jump-line, his ankle, and the
ventilation shafts Bruce probably *didn't* design to be
just-right for Robins on the stealth-move, and the book
almost feels like it *wants* to be in his hands, and then...
And then...
Well, okay, so it's more than a little freaky -- in that 'yes,
Bruce, you were right the first time, but it *was*
necessary' -- to watch the marks become letters, the
letters become words, to... well, it's not just watching. It's
*feeling*, just like how it's less *feeling* in terms of his
hands (they're bare, and he doesn't know why, he just
knows they had to be) on the book's (Book's) cover than...
being.
He is the book, and that's just... just fine, really, especially
since it's even easier to move through the ventilation shafts
when he's floating, when he's light and words and *power* --
It's hard to just take Faust *down* with the power instead
of taking him -- there's so many places (Places) he could
*send* the guy, but... no. He takes him down, he ties him
up, he gags him, he breaks his thumbs -- not just for fun.
Gestures can be *tricky* with guys like him.
And then he goes to wake everyone up, and Bruce raises an
eyebrow at him, and Clark reaches up and kind of *plucks*
Tim out of the air -- oh. Right. That.
Tim feels himself blushing a little, and the rest of the League
can just -- think what they *want* about that. He knows
Bruce knows that he's embarrassed for forgetting, and
Clark...
"That's quite amazing, Robin."
Clark is Clark, and curling his hands over Tim's shoulders
like he can still feel something (True) running through him,
and the look on his face stops being Clark and starts being
Clark-is-*wondering*, in every sense of the word --
But yeah, the first time is ridiculous, because it's all *about*
that, even though Clark waits a few days before showing
up in civvies and asking about *school* and trading recipes
with *Alfred* for fucking vegetarian *cuisine*.
No, it's about that, and even if Tim had *had* any doubts,
they would've been gone the second Clark touched him,
because it wasn't a Superman touch and it wasn't even
really a *Clark* one, not the Clark-he-knows, anyway.
It was all about maximizing the amount of Tim's skin that
was being touched by Clark's hands, Clark's fingers, and,
you know, Tim had been *thinking* about this -- or
something like it.
It's not like everyone who gets the chance to take it up the
ass in the *sky*, you know?
But it turns out that Clark wants *him* to fly, and it takes
focus to do that, and even though Clark really -- *really* --
doesn't seem to mind the way Tim winds up kneeing Clark
in the head once Clark gets his finger *all* the way inside,
once Clark starts flexing and pushing --
"You don't -- did you *hear* yourself speaking, Tim?"
"What -- what?"
"The *words*, the *magic* --"
"Ohnn -- I -- don't fucking --" Stop, he was *going* to say,
but Clark's eyes are wide and he's actually *sweating* with
it, shiny on his broad, golden forehead. A different *kind*
of shiny than the slick he keeps adding to his lips with his
tongue.
Clark is --
Well, okay. Tim wants to get fucked by Superman, Clark
wants... the kind of power that can drop him to his knees.
It's not like Tim can *judge*.
So he gets Clark to hold still, and he thinks about it -- it's
hard, because except for the flying thing, he hadn't really
bothered to memorize much, and Bruce has the books
locked away Somewhere Else (which, really... *mostly*
fine) -- and he thinks about it more, and --
"Close your eyes --"
"Oh, I -- you need me to for the... the spell, Tim?"
"No, I just need you to stop looking at me like you're
wondering if you can make me come by setting me on fire."
"Oh. I -- sorry." Clark closes his eyes, and Tim thinks about
it *more*, and for a really bad second it feels like it was all
a mistake, that Faust had maybe just... tripped on invisible
somethings Diana had maybe left lying around the Tower
like cheap toys.
Except that it wasn't. It was just...
Well, it's not really about *thinking*, at all.
It's about feeling, and -- grabbing without hands, *twisting*
without... and --
It's about *being*, and for another, different second it's
about being *Clark*...
He's -- he's warm and he's hungry-horny-desperate, and
the --
The *boy* keeps whispering things which make his knees
shake, even though his knees are planted on the floor, even
though the boy is biting his lip, wide-eyed and shaking,
scared --
So hot inside, so perfect -- so --
Shaking so much his penis/dick is trembling, spattering his
belly/abdomen with moisture/pre-jack -- so sweet --
So -- *fucked* --
And he gasps and it feels like his brain is cheap fabric getting
yanked on by a *pit* bull, it tears and he -- he --
"Oh, *Tim* --"
"Fuck -- *fuck*." That probably wasn't coherent, but --
*fuck*.
"You're *wonderful*," Clark says, and slicks Tim's thigh with
his sweaty forehead on his way down, and moans against
Tim's *balls*, and Tim kind of feels like he's gonna yark,
but it turns out that having Superman shove his
Supertongue up your ass is even better than ginger ale.
"Glkk," Tim says.
It also turns out that having Clark lift you bodily so he can
get his tongue in *deeper* doesn't actually do much for
coherence.
It *also* turns out that being able to perform black magic
doesn't make it hurt less to come in your own eye, so...
yeah. Ridiculous.
*
The first time is -- well, Tim's pretty sure Babs would mock
him mercilessly for *thinking* it, so he's never gonna say
it -- profound.
Still, Babs gets to play with fabulous tits *all the time* --
they're right there *on her* -- so she doesn't actually get
to say.
And while Tim's willing to bet that Clark would *totally*
have other words for it, well, the fact of the matter is that
it was good for everyone, good for the *world* that Clark
had discovered there were other kinds of Kryptonite while
he was visiting Gotham for some damn important-only-to-
the-civilians thing Bruce's company was doing, so that
Tim could get him back to the *Cave* when he suddenly
faceplanted into the champagne tower and got up with a
pair of DDs doing their damnedest to bust out through his
cheap shirt.
It could've been so much *worse*.
However, since Tim liked not being a Robin-shaped pile of
smoking ash, he'd refrained from pointing that out, and just
got Clark settled while they waited for Bruce to stop having
to be Bruce Wayne and get back to being Batman.
Alfred made cocoa, and found a robe which must've
belonged to Bruce's women's rugby-playing grandma,
and... yeah.
Profound.
Because Clark had had to *strip*. Like, to get into the robe,
because even grandma wasn't six-three and stacked all the
way to the top and --
Yeah.
Just... yeah.
Hips and tits and Clark's chin being just a little too *big* to
make the woman he was gorgeous, as opposed to terrifying.
In the best ways.
Especially when Clark got the robe all settled and sat back
down and the robe gapped open and Clark scowled and
closed it again and it gapped *again* and --
Well, as far as Tim was concerned, that was the next best
thing to *destiny*.
Luckily -- or perhaps proof-that-God-existed-and-was-
awesome-ly -- Clark responded pretty well to the suggestion
that there was important research to be done which
involved Tim seeing how far he could crawl *up* there,
starting with his tongue.
Where 'well' was defined by 'blush on the face and the neck
and the chest and the tits.'
Just --
Well, Clark hadn't responded *quite* so well to the
suggestion that Tim just wedge himself between the tits
while Clark held them steady for him, but once Tim
explained that he wasn't planning to, like, come on Clark's
face or anything...
So, yeah. Everyone -- possibly everyone in the known
universe -- could totally benefit from being lifted bodily,
wedged between *Super*-tits -- and he feels bad, still, for
taking that title away from Kara, but he's pretty sure she
would understand -- and just, you know.
Held there.
By the tits in question.
"I'm -- not entirely sure what you're getting out of this,
Tim --"
"Just trust me," he'd said, and Clark had nodded agreeably
and started sort of... *rolling* those tits back and forth and
up and down and back and forth again.
"I suddenly understand why Bruce keeps making sure
Diana's on assignment elsewhere whenever you come to
the Tower."
"Bruce is really, really, really mean sometimes, Clark," he'd
said. "You, on the other hand, are a wonderful person in
every fun-bag. I mean 'way.'"
"I'm really very glad you think so."
And it had been a little painful to extricate himself from
between the Supertits -- which, in retrospect, may have
been closer to an *F*, if you counted the parts that didn't
jiggle because of the whole pec thing -- but Tim has
always been a firm believer in the concept of *fairness*,
and also there was a *pussy* down there.
The nice thing about the gurneys is that Bruce had designed
them for all *kinds* of medical things, and then replaced
them back when Babs had first started out, and even
though Clark had gone a little pale -- under the blush *and*
the golden -- when Tim flipped out the stirrups, he had
agreed that it was for a good cause with only a *little*
persuading.
At which point it was only a matter of figuring out how to
get his fingers *in* while his mouth was *on*, and that was
really just a matter of time.
Robin is *resourceful*, after all.
And Clark's pussy, while not sentient in and of itself,
seemed very invested in making sure Tim got it right.
It also seemed invested in making sure Tim got sticky right
down to the collar of his cape, but Tim takes that sort of
thing as proof of a job well done.
And also of awesome.
And awe-*inspiring*, because once Clark started bucking it
had been kind of all Tim could *manage* to keep licking in
vaguely the right place and keep from thrusting too hard.
And *then* --
He remembered that this was a Superwoman.
And put his back into it.
Granted, the noises Clark started making -- well, if *he'd*
got turned into a chick and then finger-fucked by someone
he barely knew, he'd probably be a little embarrassed if he
made noises like that.
Proof-of-a-job-well-done notwithstanding.
In any event, none of those noises sounded like 'stop,' and
also Clark's pussy was kind of *thrumming* in a deeply
(literally) muscular way around his fingers -- most of his
fingers, and also it was easier to *ride* it once he gave up
on the licking and started sucking Clark off.
After a while, it got easier to tell when Clark was coming --
the ominous creaking feeling in his fingers would get the
volume cranked *way* up, and also it would feel like he
couldn't pull out if he tried -- and Tim could refine his
technique, a little.
Suck, suck more, ignore the incipient shoulder-fatigue, keep
sucking, breathe through the pain, lick away most of the
*juices*, swallow, lather, rinse, and repeat.
A while after that, Tim became aware of Bruce sort of
*looming* behind his left shoulder, all patient in his own
special Bat way, and Tim knew that he probably wouldn't be
allowed to switch off before it was time to get down to the
business of *fixing* Clark. Also Clark's noises started to
have words in them again like "oh God" and "oh -- I --
*oh*," and stuff like that, so Tim just focused on keeping
it up with his right and jerking himself *off* with his left --
"Do *not* ejaculate anywhere near Clark's vulva, Robin."
He'd nodded as coherently as he could and tried really hard
not to think about what it would *look* like --
Clark's juices were all *clear* and smelled like several
different varieties of 'yes, please,' and shooting all over
that would be spank material for a *lifetime* --
And he gave up and *thought* about it, about white
smeared all over Clark's clit, about his *come* --
And maybe on those *tits* --
And then he'd shot off on the floor and kept himself pointed
that way until all available semen had left the building.
And then he took a deep breath and pretended he was
trying to punch his way through a soft, delicious wall.
In the end, Clark actually *did* break his fingers, but only
two of them, and Tim had broken those fingers before,
anyway. The injury-gauntlets were a little on the small side,
but they worked just fine for the next few patrols.
Sadly, he wasn't healed *enough* before the new-and-
different K wore off, but, well.
He knows where Bruce *keeps* it.
*
The first time probably shouldn't count, even though it
totally does.
Granted, he'd been aware that he was in a different
universe pretty much right from the get-go -- there'd been
that big glowing *square* in the Cave, and also Bruce
tended to get up to all kinds of bizarre and wrong shit
when injuries forced him to be benched, and probably he
shouldn't have been playing with the computers *before*
he knew exactly what Bruce was working on, and also he
probably shouldn't have then decided to see if it was any
easier to do a triple backflip if he started somewhere above
the ground anywhere *other* than the mats --
But, yeah.
Different universe, different rules.
He'd laid low for a while, scanned through as many of the
newspapers he could find, paying attention to the language --
he'd read *all* of Bruce's files on the Justice 'Lords,' and then
he'd hacked into GL's own, just to be sure -- and he'd even
broken into a library after hours to see if he could make
sense of the penal code here.
Bruce is totally going to give him a shoulder-pat or two for
that whenever he manages to yank Tim back into the right
universe.
For now... well, nothing *too* different.
There's a whole lot more metas *and* aliens *and*
apparently-non-powered vigilantes running around, and
this universe's Robin is a seriously stacked *chick*... but
crime is crime, and Bludhaven looks way nastier here than
it does back home.
He uses some of his ready-cash to pay for the civvies he
liberates from a Salvation Army after hours, hops on top of
one of the local trains, and heads out.
He's expecting Dick to track him down pretty much the
second he starts working, but the fact that he doesn't even
make it out of a ten block radius his first night makes it
pretty clear that 'way nastier' is kind of an understatement.
He hasn't been shot at this much since pretty much ever,
and by the time he *does* stop it's the kind of sunny that
makes him feel like a target.
He beds down with some friendly pros who enjoyed
watching him beat the tar out of their pimp, and they feed
him and ask him if he's supposed to be in Gotham. Which
is interesting, and a little stressful, too -- why *isn't* Tim
Drake Robin in this world? But they let him get away with
a shrug and something vague about seeing the world a
little without the big, bad Bat at his shoulder, and none of
them try to get under his mask when he's sleeping.
There's no Leslie in this Bludhaven, but lots of the girls *do*
get up to Gotham now and then, and, after checking to
make sure the number still works, he gives them most of
his collection of business cards to share around.
Still, they're right enough. There's nothing stopping him from
going *anywhere*, and there's so many people in this
universe that apparently don't exist in his own -- there's
a whole *team* of teenaged heroes.
It's just that it doesn't really -- *work*. He *can* work like
this for a while, but he'll run out of batarangs *fast* if he
has another night like this one. It's not that he's all that
thrilled about mixing it up with alternate universe versions
of Batman -- he *loves* Bruce, but his Bruce is really
fucking scary enough -- in the end, he kind of *needs* the
resources if he's going to be hanging around here for long,
and...
Well, it doesn't *seem* like it's *much* more fucked-up
here.
So he hops on top of the train for the return trip, and hops
another few until he's about as close as he can get to Wayne
Manor via public transportation, and then he changes into
his civvies and catches a cab.
Once on the grounds... nothing tries to kill him. No random
soldiers, no lasers coming out of the trees, nobody popping
up to ask for him to show his papers. The manor *is*
different -- it looks *newer* -- but all of the little cameras
along the walk seem to be in the right places, and, when
the door opens, it's Alfred -- who *doesn't* look like he's
seeing a ghost, which is a serious relief.
"Young sir, should you truly be here right now?"
"I'm gonna go with 'probably?' Uh... look, Al, how familiar
are you guys with alternate universes?"
And then somebody shoots him in the arm with a tranq
dart. Which is, when he thinks about it.
Thing.
When he --
Dart.
When he wakes up, he's in the Cave, and he feels a little bit
like someone had used his brain as a mixing bowl, like
maybe there's still neurotropic batter coating his skull, but
it's no different from how he reacts to the stuff they use at
home.
He frees his wrists from the restraints and is working on his
ankles before he remembers that he doesn't really want to
spook the Bats here. Whoops. He pauses with his fingers
on the right ankle strap, and thinks about maybe just lying
back down --
"You have all of your fingernails," Bruce says, like it's
something that makes perfect sense.
"Um? Yes? Last I checked, anyway. Listen, Bruce, I'm not
really --"
"Your musculature is obviously different, as is your scarring
pattern, as is your relative flexibility," Bruce says, and
squeezes Tim's wrist for a moment between two fingers
before dropping it again. "Additionally, the real Tim Drake is
currently having dinner with his family."
Family...? But Bruce points, and -- yep. There, on the
monitor, is him. Only really not. He has no idea who those
people are. "That's not -- is he adopted or something? Look,
I don't really care. I'm just kinda stranded here, and I
didn't want to hang around doing nothing while I wait for
my Batman to yank me back where I belong --"
"You belong... with him?"
Which. Tim frowns, and looks around for his cheap little
backpack -- which is currently open on a workstation, with
his uniform all spread out around it. The belt looks
dissected, which is worth a wince, but, well. Batman broke
it, Batman can damned well fix it. "You know who I am,"
Tim says, and tries a shrug. "I'm just here to hit you up for
additional supplies, maybe a safe-house. I don't *need*
one, but *my* Bruce always gets cranky when I sleep out."
And he's not going to ask about the freaky case which, for
some reason, doesn't have Dick's old uniform, and which
looks more like a grave marker... he's not asking. Not his
universe.
"I mean, um. Do you need to test me? How does that even
*work* for alternate universe stuff? You *are* used to that,
right? You're not just standing there waiting to dump me in
acid to see if I turn back to Clayface or something?"
For whatever reason, that makes Bruce look at the freaky
case and also do that thing where he'd scare the hell out of
people if he was in civvies, but since he's suited up, he just
looks normal. Ish.
"Seriously, Bruce, I'm thinking we should probably *talk* as
little as possible. I just --"
"You want to... help."
"Batman needs... a couple of Robins? By the way, I'm lying,
I totally wanna talk to *her*, because damn --"
"She doesn't exist in your world," Bruce says, and looks at
him like he's waiting for Tim to admit some deep, dark
secret.
"Not that I know of? I mean, she's not Robin, and my Bruce
doesn't seem to go for blondes unless he's being Matches."
Bruce makes a kind of choked noise, which works well
enough as a cue for the sweet little bike -- he *needs* to
get one of those -- that the Girl Wonder comes rolling in
on.
Tim unhooks the last restraint, jumps down off the gurney,
remembers that he's only wearing the same jockeys that
he was wearing for patrol last night, decides that Robin's
either used to that or should be, and heads over.
"Hey, Robin. I'm Robin-from-an-alternate-universe. Wanna
spar?"
"Uh. I. Bats...?"
She's got blue eyes, the blonde's real, and she probably
outweighs him by fifteen pounds. She might have twenty on
this world's Tim Drake. Mm. It's probably bad form to check
out her 'R' while she's waiting for Batman to make the
world make sense -- he knows the look on her face from
the *inside* -- but. "Is that a *shuriken*?"
"He... appears to be what he says, Robin. However --"
She's got great reflexes and a mean-streak, too, judging by
the knot that's gonna be on the back of his no-longer-
reaching hand. Tim whistles, grins, and eyebrows at her a
little.
She gives him the kind of scowl that's hard to take seriously
with her wearing the same shade of lipstick Babs (where's
Babs?) does, and then turns up the volume and turns it on
Bruce. "*Tell* me you did not for one *second* think that
was *our* Tim. Lie if you have to."
"His world... seems to be quite different," Bruce says, and
it's a shame that he's being so useless, because she totally
*knows* useless when she hears it, and so has enough of
her attention still on *him* that they've got a nice little
slap-fight going on between their bodies --
And then they don't, because even though she telegraphs
her punch way too much, it's still a *punch*, and that calls
for some action.
Sparring with her is actually a *lot* like going up against
Babs and Bruce's freaky love-child, because she's vicious as
hell *and* has a whole lot of power to back it up. Also, she
gets a little *fire* behind her eyes every time Tim makes
his dodges showy, a little spark and flare, and even though
she fights just as quietly as Bruce, there's just something
about the way she holds her mouth that makes Tim *think*
she wants to laugh, or -- something.
It feels wrong to even think it, alternate universe or *not*,
but Tim can't help wondering if this would be *better* if
Bruce wasn't right there watching.
It's okay, though -- thinking it made him lose enough focus
that she catches him in the jaw. It's just a glancing blow,
but it *gives* him enough momentum that he can either
go flying or, well, go *flying*.
He tucks his knees and flexes and, when his hands hit,
*springs*.
"*Shit*, you don't have any *bones*," she says, and Tim
wonders if he'd been wrong about Dick just being in
Bludhaven being his hermit-y self, or if it's maybe worse --
But he lands, and grins, and he's not thinking about it --
and anyway, Bruce has him by the shoulder. The gauntlet
feels heavier, but the material *isn't*, judging by how
Bruce has been moving his hands and fingers. The 'heavier'
is just the way he's holding on.
And when he looks at the other Robin, she sees it, too. It'd
be nice if he could tell by the look on her face if this Bruce's
handsiness was a good thing, bad thing, weird thing, or just
a thing, but... he can't.
"So... you gotta fix my belt. I *need* that," Tim says, and
twists his shoulder experimentally.
Bruce lets go. "The materials are more appropriate than the
ones used for your uniform, certainly, however --"
"So why not let him wear one of our Tim's?" She looks at
him, looks him up and down, and -- "okay, it's a little small,
but..."
Tim frowns. "Well, I -- is it like yours?"
"Pretty much. No skirt, no headband."
"I kinda like the headband."
Robin grins at him, and puts her hands on her hips. "No
skirt, no *headband*."
So he winds up wearing one of *her* spares, instead, just
with one of this world's Tim's tunics, and he feels a little --
he feels *way* too much like Dick until he gets the skirt on.
This is the part where it doesn't count, because there's just
no way it should ever feel better to wear a skirt, even if it
*is* Robin's, unless you're a) undercover, b) doing it to
get (*your*) Bruce to pay attention, or c) undercover.
Alfred fixes his hair, though, which almost makes up for the
way he spends the better part of an *hour* trying to feed
him, like, vegetables. And fruit. And bread.
Too weird.
And he's expecting Bruce to shadow them, but it turns out
that Robin had been operating on her own for a while
*before* becoming Robin, and that... well, he's not sure.
Would *his* Bruce just trust some guy claiming to be an
alternate universe Robin who kept hitting on his Robin?
Granted, that would be *him* getting hit on, and Bruce
is already kind of used to that, but -- whatever.
The important thing is that they get to patrol, and he gets
to see that he wasn't just imagining things. The whole city
looks newer than it should, and there are parts that look
like news video of disasters half a world away.
Robin says something about an *earthquake*, and shrugs
when she says it, and that's kind of...
Well, the word 'head-fucky' comes to mind, because Gotham
isn't freaking Coast *City*, and anyway, if there'd been a
quake years ago...
Well, why isn't it all fixed?
The papers *said* there was a Justice League on this world,
so it really doesn't --
Yeah, not thinking, even though the longer he spends here,
the more it feels like his skin doesn't fit right.
Back to back works like a *dream* with Robin, even better
than sparring. If she's not used to working with Dick, than
she's used to *someone* who's an acrobat, and that's good
enough. Her shoulders are even better than Bruce's to vault
from, since he needs less spring to get to them, and she's
got more than enough strength to work them into a double-
spin kick, even though it takes a full extra turn-and-a-half to
get them to the right speed.
It doesn't take an hour before her mouth -- her whole
*face* -- looks right because she's whooping and cheering
and growling, and then it's the part which absolutely does
count, because Tim has never gotten the chance to make out
with Robin before, and he may never get that chance again,
and somewhere around the fourth kiss in that alley he starts
feeling guilty for never asking her name, but --
"Mmm, Robin --"
They're out in the street, one, and the fact that she knows
*his* name is Tim isn't making her all that eager to break
protocol.
Maybe she didn't get along with the other guy.
It doesn't matter. She chews on his ear and punches him
in the chest with her armored -- more than Babs' -- tits, and
smiles like she's got the dirtiest secret in the world when
she reaches up under her skirt and grabs him by the jock.
"Wanna suck my dick, Robin?"
"Not in *this* alley, Robin. It's too exposed. And anyway,
what are you gonna do for *me*?"
"Try me," he says, and gives a little push-push into her
big, gauntleted hand. It's the same one she'd had to wash
earlier to get his blood off. "I'm pretty easy."
"Yeah, I --"
And then there's a *cough* from above them, and he knows
it pretty well, even though it makes Robin jump *and*
squeeze in a way that would be unfortunate without the
shiny new -- and perfect-fitting -- Batjock.
And Robin's got a batarang in one hand and the other
eventually makes it out from under Tim's skirt and onto
the handle of the grapple --
"Robin, I'm pretty sure it's okay," he says, and then
Superman says,
"I really hope so. By which I mean -- er. I'm terribly sorry
to... er."
Robin looks pretty -- blank, actually, which probably means
she's got a serious case of the blinks under her mask. Has
she not met Clark before?
Whatever. "What's up, Superman?"
"Er... Robin, you seem -- perhaps it's not important right
now. I thought you should know that there seems to be...
well, something of an interdimensional rift where the Cave
used to be."
"Used to --?!"
"Is! I mean -- certainly all the censors -- well, there seems
to be any number of... Batmen. And Robins. At the moment."
"Uh."
"Jesus," Robin says, and smacks him. "This is *so your
fault*."
Which, well, Tim's willing to go with. Still, Robin smacks
hard. And punches him when he smacks her back. And --
And Clark coughs again. "Really, I -- *hate* to interrupt,
but the last communication from Batman was quite explicit
about the need to get the two of you clear --"
"We're nowhere *near* the Cave," Tim says, and gets a
better grip on Robin's hair while she's busy trying to
stomp on his toes.
Robin giggles and steals his headband. "Yeah, seriously, Big
Blue, what --"
And then he's flying -- and so is Robin, because Clark has
them (gently) by the backs of their necks and is pointing
them northeast. And --
"Oh. That would be a what."
"Uh," Tim says. "Yeah." There's kind of a glowing yellow
rainbow -- *just* yellow, or at least that's the only part
that's glowing -- over there, and it's growing and making
his skin feel tighter. More wrong.
"So your *fault*," Robin says, and then Clark is wrapping
them both up.
"Hey, what, we should get *back* there," Robin says, and
wriggles enough to let him get in a *good* wriggle --
But he doesn't even make it down to the ground before
Clark's got him again.
"Dammit, Clark --"
"I promise, both of you, I won't --"
"Superman's name is *Clark*?"
So that's how they wind up back at the Fortress, which is
just as fucked-up and freaky as the Fortress in his universe,
even though this Clark doesn't seem to have any random
aliens all habitated-up here.
The AI calls both of them Robin, which would be interesting
if Clark wasn't totally capable of programming the thing to
within an inch of its non-life while, like, Robin was busy
blinking or something.
That's also how about seventeen other Robins wind up at
the Fortress, as apparently the glowing rainbow pit that still
*is* the Cave and the manor, but only if you squint, keeps
belching out new ones, and some of them don't get stuck.
All of the Batmen do, which is... well, it makes him and a
*lot* of the other Robins kind of twitchy, but the AI won't
let them get anywhere near the hangar, so they all kind of
focus on bitching at Clark and sparring and also making
out. You have to pass the time.
This is more of the part that counts, because there's blonde
Robin, and a kinda girly strawberry blond Robin, and this
one really big and *bulky* Robin who's wandering around
in panties until they all tackle him, and then they all switch
clothes.
And then one of the other Tims gets the AI to make a giant
Twister board. He doesn't play, but that still counts as
helpful, even though the *rest* of the other Tims are no
fun at all.
By the time Clark comes back with three different Dicks -- in
panties, *too*, and that's just beautiful even though the
oldest one is managing to both be three inches taller than
him and *feel* about nine -- Tim's feeling pretty okay with
things, especially since blonde!Robin *did* want to suck
his dick, and she looks really good doing it while the bulky
one is tonguing her ass and the girly one is managing to
fuck the bulky one up *his* ass in a way that's still damned
girly.
The Dicks look a little shell-shocked, but the other Tims all
come equipped with giant, way-too-young-Robin-shielding
capes and the will to use them, so *that's* okay.
It's less okay when Clark makes the Fortress put a big ass
*wall* between them and everyone else -- wait, no, one of
the other Tims used a very him move (if he does say so
himself) to get across before the wall's fully down.
But yeah, less okay in the *short* run, but the long run
involves the blonde sitting on Clark's face to get him to stop
saying random things about how maybe they could all just
watch the horrible ice story outside, and the bulky one
being really agreeable about lying flat so that Tim can still
*see* most everything while he's sucking the bulky one off,
and the girly one makes the other Tim switch clothes with
him, and Tim's not sure whose skirt the other Tim's wearing
now, but -- yeah. It works.
"Yo, fix his *hair*," the bulky one says, and that's way too
coherent, so Tim closes his eyes and focuses.
And then -- and this is also the part that counts -- some big
powerful thing that does, in fact, turn out to be Clark's hand
yanks him off bulky Robin's dick --
"Terribly sorry --"
-- sucks bulky Robin like a big alien vacuum cleaner --
"Oh Jesus fucking *fuck* --"
-- gets him off, licks his lips, *looks* at him --
"The description was somewhat garbled over the
communicator, Tim -- and seemed to involve at least eight
different B-Batmen -- but I do believe the last transmission
was speaking about you...?"
"Crap. Time for me to go?"
Clark gives him sad-face, and also a -- sticky -- hug. "I'm
afraid so. Still. I don't suppose I could interest you in a
*tiny* bit more... more? At speed?"
"Lemme think about it -- yes," he says, and Clark beams at
him, and Tim's pretty sure he's saying *something* about
gratitude and 'not enough' and also 'oh, *Robin*,' but since
his dick is in the way, at the time, he really can't be sure.
Clark is a good guy, in all incarnations -- he refuses to listen
to any different opinions on this -- and the fact that this
includes a Supersuck *and* an excellent view of bulky
Robin pushing blonde Robin's legs up and *out* while girly
Robin is giving that other Tim a spanking which --
Well, he doesn't think he can be blamed for thinking there
should be, like, glitter around the guy's hand. Those *wrist*
twists --
So yeah, it counts, and he's going to cherish the memory
for as long as he lives even though he *does* wind up
back in his own universe wearing panties, a headband, and
freaky black tabi boots.
He's reasonably sure Clark will appreciate the look, even
though Bruce just looks a bit sour.
end.
