Title: The very friend I sought (Reference) (4900 words) Fandom: DCU (Batman: Prodigal) Summary: The voice makes Dick's throat hurt. Pairing: Dick/Tim Rating: Adult. Content some readers may find disturbing. Notes: This is Te's fault from top to bottom. Betty made sure it made sense outside of my head. The only good thing about being Batman is getting to work with Robin a lot. Dick hasn't said that to anybody, even Tim, because it sounds too obvious to say out loud. Training with him is a breeze, patrolling smooth as working with Donna or Wally, as long as Dick remembers to use the right voice. After patrol, when they're back in the cave but still suited up, he says, "Robin, you did a great job out there." Tim gives him that shy smile. "Thanks." Batman never just gives praise, though, so Dick switches to command voice and says, "Better do your cool-down exercises again." Tim hops to it like he hasn't already spent ten minutes stretching. "Man, you'd do anything I say if I just use that voice, wouldn't you?" Dick takes a deeper breath and thinks bass. "Take your pants off, Robin." Tim's hands twitch. Dick raises an eyebrow -- under the cowl. "Do it." And if he thinks too hard about what it means that Tim does, he's going to have to go home. Wherever home is right now. "I --" Tim's hands are still shaking. All of him is shaking. He really needs to eat more, but Alfred's not around to look after that, and he doesn't live here, and -- That means it's Dick's problem to look after him. "Come here." He can tell Tim's eyes are wide even behind the mask. "Are you --" And if they're doing this -- Batman hates being ignored, but he hates repeating orders more. Dick shuts himself up and waits until Tim is close enough to hug. Not hug. Not if it's Batman and Robin. To -- enfold, maybe. Embrace is too warm. Tim puts his arms around Dick's -- Batman's waist and clings to him hard. "I don't know what you want." Not entirely this -- and even less, how harsh the kiss has to be, to be right. Tim groans into it -- it has to hurt, his mouth is so hard and he's shaking, but not running away. He clutches at the belt and breaks the kiss, gasping. "Batman, I --" Dick catches his chin and kisses him again. Tim melts into it, all too much. Like this is what he wants -- and isn't that better, shouldn't it be what he wants, if it's going to happen? -- but he's whimpering, high in the back of his throat. "Please." It would be entirely appropriate for Dick to apologize. It's not at all appropriate for him to unfasten his own tights, or let Tim push them down. "What, Robin?" The voice makes his throat hurt. It's only fair. "Tell me what you want," Tim says. To stop this. To hug him and tousle his hair and say it was all a joke. To push him away and never mention it. To push him to his trembling knees and take his mouth, just as hard as he can bear it. Dick kisses him again, trying to find a way out of everything. "Batman, please." He wants to see Tim's eyes. That would make this all safer. He wants to not be Batman, but that's not an option at all. "This," he says instead, and he can't, wouldn't push Tim down. From the way he's shivering, he's never -- It's not what Robin should have to feel, no matter how much he wants it. Dick touches Tim's cheek and remembers his gauntlets, too late and too cold. "Just this." And the easiest -- the only way to not push Tim too far is to push himself, to kneel on the cold cave floor. Tim fists his hand in the cape fabric, if it can even be called fabric at this point. "I -- I'm sorry," he says, but there's nothing he's done wrong. "No," Dick says, and the Batman voice is harder, now. His diaphragm won't listen to what he's telling it. "It's all right." It's all wrong for him to cup Tim's hip -- damn the gauntlets, but it doesn't matter that much -- and lick him. Tim's still shaking, and he's hard -- probably was from the first order, when Dick thought he was making a bad joke. It's the worst joke he's made in ages. Tim wails and pushes forward into his mouth, then stills himself with an iron will that no boy his age should be expected to have. "Oh, god." "Give me everything you've got," Dick says, and it's easier to hold the command voice when he's heard that phrase in those tones, so many damn times. "And then double it," Tim says, completing the phrase, sounding like he's not sure whether to laugh or cry. "Batman -- Dick --" "You heard me, Robin." He can do this -- he can take this, from Tim, who seems terrified of his own pleasure, who's hardly moving at all except that every few breaths his hips jerk. What Tim's learning from this -- no. "I'm sorry," Tim says again, but he gets control -- or loses control -- of himself and his convulsive movements take on a rhythm, something Dick can work with, escalate, use. Tim's squeezing his shoulders hard and gasping for air, every breath sounding tortured. "Oh -- god, Batman -- I'm going to --" There must have been a point where Dick could have stopped all of this, but there's no time now to wonder when it was. He tightens his fingers on Tim's hips, holding him, and Tim jerks in his mouth and comes. Dick stands up, pulls Tim into his arms and tries -- again -- to hug him, through the aftershocks that are more like shock. "It's okay," he says, but he's still wearing the damned gauntlets, and he can't see Tim's eyes. Tim can't see his, either, until Dick shoves the cowl back. "Oh," Tim says, like it's some kind of a surprise. Did Bruce ever -- no. No, he couldn't have. Dick hugs Tim again -- there's nothing to him but bones and armor -- and shivers with him. "Sorry. I'm sorry." Tim leans back and it's a wrench to let him go, but he takes his mask off, and that makes it easier. "It's okay. It really -- it is." There's just nothing to say to that. Dick pushes his hand through his hair and tries to shake it off. "Let's get you something to eat, okay?" Tim bites his lip. "Yeah -- that -- that's a good idea." Dick should be more surprised the next night -- when he doesn't give Tim nearly as many orders, not because Tim takes them badly, but because he's not sure they won't go wrong, halfway between his brain and his mouth, and turn into something else. He knows he doesn't ask Tim to get into his personal space because he hasn't said anything since they got back to the cave. He was going to wait for Tim to leave, on his own. He's been Robin long enough to know the routines and how to take care of himself. None of those routines involve coming up to Dick when he's working the last knot out of his right shoulder and being close enough to touch. To -- hold. "Robin." He means the voice to be a warning. Tim -- Tim kneels, and looks up at him, biting his lip for a second that makes Dick hate himself for not saying, "Tim." "Batman, I -- please." Tim takes a deep breath, steeling himself all too visibly. "I want --" No, and no, and -- yes. Tim is braver than Dick ever was, in this. There were times, months, years when he wanted to pull this stunt more than anything. It looks like a stunt, now. But also, when he looks at Tim, like something he never had. They should really talk about this -- about being Robin, about -- everything. Dick definitely shouldn't run his fingers through Tim's gel-stiffened hair. Tomorrow, he's taking the gauntlets off the second he gets in the car, he promises himself, and he promises Tim when Tim shivers. "What," he says, and it's flat enough to be Batman. And to be a question. "Let me --" Tim reaches for Dick's belt, and he's wearing his gloves, but he's quicker taking it off than Dick has managed to be, quicker peeling open the uniform -- has he had more practice, really? and -- It should stop. It should never have started. The very last layer of plausible deniability is in flame-retardant briefs, around Dick's thighs fifteen seconds after Tim unlatches the belt. Tim knew -- must have known -- what the offer would do to Dick, though how he knew -- His heart is pounding like they're still on the streets, and this is what he wanted, yesterday. He hasn't been this ashamed of his own desire since he kissed Kory the first time. Tim's mouth is just as hot as he hoped it would be, just as precise and, god, eager. He wants not to want to push, but his hands aren't listening. Tim groans when Dick touches the back of his head, and it makes Dick wonder where his own voice has gone. If he had the time, the nerve, to take Tim upstairs to one of the few rooms anyone's used this decade, to spread him naked across a wide, clean bed and kiss him, he could tell him that he's strong, that he's handsome, that nobody could do a better job of being Robin than he's doing. And he should do that. He should push Tim away and say his name, enough times to break whatever this is and keep it from coming back. Tim is too good a Robin for that to even be possible. He chokes and moans through it, and the only conceivable response is to push him down, thrust into his mouth, and make him moan again. "Robin --" Dick says, and he can't manage his own voice, no matter how much he tries. He can't manage to add, "stop," either. Tim clutches at his hip and swallows around him, making a noise that should be words -- whatever it is Tim has to say, about this. Dick doesn't have to hear it, hear anything, to know that Tim's saying, "Batman." But he's choking himself, letting Dick move him, and the word gets cut off with his breath. "God --" Dick tries to look at Tim and say his name, again, to -- stop him and make him never stop -- "Robin --" Tim's whimper is caught in his throat, will never get farther, and he digs his short nails into Dick's hip. It's too much, all of it, but there's no way to warn Tim -- "Robin" just isn't enough, and it only makes Tim push himself more. Dick tugs on his hair and Tim groans, taking it entirely the wrong -- right -- way. He coughs when Dick starts to come, pulling away, and that's better even though it's worse, even though Tim's mask -- it's a good thing he's wearing a mask. If he'd been comfortable with -- Dick drops to his knees and hugs Tim, forgetting the cowl until he can see Tim's eyes widen behind his lenses. "God, Batman --" As if they're the same thing. Dick wipes a smear off of Tim's cheek and hates himself, kisses Tim's wet, abused mouth and hates himself more for the way Tim clings to him and how sweet it feels to have this, even if it's from the wrong side. He doesn't know this version of the Robin suit as intimately as he could, but as soon as he reaches for the belt, Tim helps him. "Wonderful, Robin," Dick says, and the voice is right, but the words are too good too be true. Tim kisses him again and shivers in his arms, shakes when Dick pushes his jock aside and jerks him. "I tried -- I -- Batman, I --" This isn't for Dick, and he can't listen to Tim's voice shake like that. He kisses Tim, biting his lip to make him whimper, stopping him from talking. If he'd wanted to stop this, he would have said it already, unless he can't stop it, either. It's Dick's fault this is happening, and he should do something -- anything -- other than squeeze Tim with the damned gauntlet and suck his tongue until he comes. It seems entirely too gentle a punishment for something this big. "I have to go home," Tim says in a rush in his next deep breath. It's entirely true, and it's like a punch to the gut. If they had the time -- if Tim could spend the night, and they could just talk -- maybe this would make some kind of sense. "Hit the showers," Dick says, and that, finally, is his own voice again. Tim nods as crisply as he ever does in the field and gets to his feet, barely trembling. "I'm --" Dick says, "It's not your fault," too fast, and too deep. Tim nods again. "All right. I --" he looks toward the showers. "I have to go." Someday they'll have the time to talk about this somewhere where they can both get naked. Somewhere sunny, because Dick doesn't begin to trust himself in the showers here. "Go," he says. "And -- you did a good job," and if he could only hold on to his own voice, this wouldn't have happened. Tim's smile is small enough that it looks sincere. Their efficiency in the field gets better every night. On the way back, Tim says nothing, and Dick treasures the kind of silence Batman is allowed to have. He's not sure what to say that's not an apology, or how to apologize for something that Tim wanted so badly. He should know better than to expect everything to be normal when they get back, but he expects it enough that he's surprised when Tim kisses him the moment he gets out of the car and says, "Batman." As if that's a full sentence. As if Dick should know what it means. It's enough to make him uncomfortably hard, but beyond that, he doesn't know what Tim wants. Worse than that, he doesn't know what he wants, except not to want this, at all. Not to say -- as he says -- "Robin," in a voice that isn't his and should never be his. The longer this goes on, the more sure he is that Bruce was right not to ask him the first time. Tim smiles and kisses him again, nipping at his lip, hugging him -- because Robin can hug, even if when Dick tries to return the hug it shifts to something much more dangerous. "I -- I thought you might want this," Tim says. Robin says. Dick peels the gloves off and goes to push the cowl back, but Tim catches his hands. "You don't have to." It's strangling him in ways that have nothing to do with how heavy the cape is. "Robin --" Tim presses his lips together in an expression that's not quite upset enough to be a frown. "Please -- don't." "Tim," Dick manages -- in the wrong voice, but finally, the right name. Only fair, then, in its dizzy way, that Tim stops him from saying anything more by kissing him hard, wrapping an arm around his neck and pulling Dick's uniform open and off and down and away except for the parts that really matter, until he's naked from the waist down and if he looked in a mirror, he still wouldn't look like himself. "Please," Tim says again, and his gauntlet is rough on Dick's dick, painful and all too present. "Batman." "I'm not," Dick doesn't say, because he can't and because it's not true enough. "I can't," he doesn't say, because Tim's Robin. If Batman needs a Robin, then what does Robin really need? Not to be pushed against the car, not to have his uniform unfastened -- and Tim is helping, again, or it would take long enough for reason to set in. Hopefully. If there is any reason left to have, it should stop Dick from pushing Tim's tights down and making him turn around, and -- Tim is already shuddering, pressing his hands against the window, and the way he whimpers when Dick -- when, when Batman spreads his ass and licks him makes Dick quail. It should be more than this, warmer and sweeter, less panicked. Tim's hips buck and he pushes against Dick's tongue, and that scrape is his gauntlet against the window, trying to find purchase and balance. Dick sympathizes with every inch of his being. "Batman, please," Tim says, his voice cracking in the middle. "Please --" Not stop, no -- surely Tim could say that, for all Dick's not sure he can say anything like that anymore. "Robin," he says, and pushes his tongue in again, harder, as if it's going to do something other than make Tim scream and beat his fist on the car. As if it'll hurt enough to stop this. He can't, ever, hurt Tim. Robin. It's not enough to jerk him off, skin to skin -- finally, without the gauntlets -- but if he had the gauntlets, it might be enough for whatever this is. Enough, to fuck Tim with his tongue and ride the rhythm of his hips and his wails until he comes. Until he shivers to something like stillness and says, "Please, Batman. I want -- I want you." Until he turns around and pulls Dick to his feet, taking his semen-sticky hand in a firm, green grip. There is skin-safe lubricant in the belt, and there are condoms, though those are supposed to be for distributing to prostitutes. Unless -- No, that's what they're there for, and Dick knows Bruce well enough to trust that. To trust that Tim, tilting his head back so Batman can kiss him, hasn't had to do this before. Doesn't have to do it now. He spreads his legs with none of the ease Dick would expect, if he'd ever been in this situation before. He gasps and tenses when Dick presses a slick finger inside him, and then Tim's determination never to show weakness -- Robin's determination -- makes him thrust his hips back, hard. "God -- Batman --" This would be easier, so much easier, with an hour and a mattress, but it's not what Tim wants. Not what Robin wants, or -- or what Batman wants, if Dick lets himself think about it that way. "Breathe," Dick reminds him, and Tim nods, once, acknowledging it as an order. "I'm all right," he says, and it's as much a dare as an acknowledgment. There are no such things as boundaries in this place, no physical limit that can be measured in numbers. There's always enough energy for one more set, one more try, because there has to be. Because the reasons they're needed never rest. Tim covers his mouth with his hand, muffling his shout, when Dick pushes another finger into him, until Dick pulls his hand away and swallows the sound. His breathing is ragged, but when Dick breaks the kiss to ask if it's from pain, Tim says, "Don't stop, don't stop," and leans forward for another kiss. It's no easier to move his fingers than it was when he started, and that worries him, and worse when Tim says, "More, please --" as if he doesn't know what he's asking for. As if he doesn't know that more will make him arch until he hits his head on the car -- there should be a bed, there should be time -- and scream, and reach back to clutch Dick's wrist so that he doesn't, can't stop. It's not enough -- can't be, not with Tim pushing back onto his fingers in desperate shoves. It has to hurt, though Tim is barely whimpering with it now. There's no comfort there, nothing that should be there. Tim's so tense he might break, and that's not safe. Dick kneels -- feeling the weight of the cape, missing his real uniform, the one that doesn't make him Batman, more than he has since this began -- and Tim shakes his head, pulls at his shoulder. "You don't -- I don't want --" "I won't hurt you," Dick says, and he sounds like himself for a fleeting moment. Almost long enough to make him feel sane. "Batman, please --" Tim pushes back onto his fingers again. "Don't -- you don't have to --" "I want to." He doesn't mean for it to be Batman voice, but he doesn't have enough control. He can get Tim to thrust into his mouth even though it makes Tim wail, but he can't stop being Batman, not even for this. Especially not for this, with Robin groaning and working his hips, hurting himself and opening himself. Especially not when Robin clutches at the cowl and says, "God, Batman, just fuck me," because he shouldn't be wearing it -- and he gets no credit for trying. Even less for the way Tim's hips stutter between thrusts, and it's worse when Tim punches the car hard. "Don't make me -- god, not yet, Batman -- please --" There's no room for "I don't want to" or "I can't" between Batman and Robin. What needs to be done happens, and Tim screams at another push, another swallow around him, and comes. Dick stands and sways from the weight of the cape, kisses Tim hard while he sobs for breath. "You weren't ready." "I'm sorry," Tim says, his chest still heaving. "I --" "No excuses." Just another kiss, and Dick presses his fingers back into Tim to make him moan against Dick's mouth. "No -- no, I know." Tim takes a deep, shuddering breath, and another. "I'm -- I'm ready, now." Dick laughs and misses the sound of his own voice. "We have time." They have too much time, too much space. There should never be so much emptiness around them, above them. No one is expected, no one is there. If Alfred were -- They'd be safe. Tim bites his lip. "Are -- all right." Dick kisses him again, gently, taking up some of that time, until Tim shifts and sucks his tongue hard. He squeezes Tim's hip, then his dick, teasing him back to arousal. "Batman," Tim says, and he's not relaxed, but he's smiling just the same, a taut Robin smile that makes Dick hate himself. He hasn't done any of this right and he doesn't deserve the name or the affection. But here and now, he doesn't have a choice. If he denies either, it will hurt Tim more than another kiss ever could, more than pulling his hands away -- though Tim hisses at that -- and putting on a condom. Robin needs him to be Batman. Tim does. And part of that is kissing Tim breathless, then saying, "Turn around," in the deepest, darkest voice he has. Tim turns, though he's shaky. Because he's shaky, maybe. "Oh, god, please." He leans on the car, bracing his hands against their own reflections, then spreads his legs and looks back at Dick over his shoulder. "Is this -- am I --" "Perfect." More lubricant -- because more time would be best, but Batman can't carry Tim upstairs to Dick's bed, and Dick can't imagine doing this in Bruce's. More lubricant, then, and a breath that is not calming or collecting, though he needs it to be both. Tim tenses at the first push -- of course, and Dick winces, because there's nothing for it, nothing for Tim's half-suppressed whimper but to say, "Robin?" It makes him relax, but that makes Dick tenser. "I'm all right." He's not, but arguing the point won't make this stop. Arguing with himself hasn't fixed it. There are no options left, now, but to slow down, to give Tim as many breaths as he needs to contain himself. He waits for Tim to say, "I'm all right," again, though it sounds less confident this time, before he continues, as slowly as his hips will move with the weight of the cowl pressing in on him. Tim presses his forehead against the car, his breathing studiously even, and it's everything it should be and should never have been. Tight, hot, necessary, perfect -- if Dick could only say something, he would tell Tim in a thousand ways how good he feels, how mindblowing this is, how nothing has ever been like this. How the gel in his hair smells, heavy with his sweat, and how his groans make Dick want to yell. If Batman yelled. If Batman did more than say, "Don't forget to breathe," when Robin stops groaning for a moment. "No, I -- god," Tim says, and he pushes back into the next thrust as if he's not tired, as if it doesn't hurt him at all. As if he's so brave and trusting that he's Robin. Even Batman has limits, though he pushes them constantly. When Robin asks him to cross those limits, they may as well be made of wind, because there's no way to hold back, to not meet Tim when he rocks back again and get him to shout, "Yes, please, yes," exactly the way Dick would. If this had ever been real, before. Dick puts his hand on Tim's wrist and wishes, now, that he still had the gauntlets on, to hold him against the car, to wrap around his dick and urge him to keep going, keep throwing himself into it. He shouts -- something not a word, not even trying to be "Batman," and Dick says, "Yes," and doesn't know whose voice he's using. Tim writhes against him and says, "Please, yes," and he doesn't care what voice it is. Robin is coming in his fist and saying, "Yes, Batman --" and any voice that makes him do that is a good one. He can say, "Tim," in his next breath, and Tim pushes back against him, hard and fast, taking his breath and the last shred of control away. Dick thrusts harder, pinning him against the car, pushing into him until he loses what's left of his mind in the heat and depth of Tim's body. "I --" Tim says after a greyed-out interval, and he taps the car the way he'd tap the mat to concede a bout of wrestling. Dick gets hold of himself enough to realize Tim probably can't breathe and lets him go. He deserves, more than he's ever deserved anything, to hear, and feel, and see Tim's wince when he pulls out. "Are you all right?" he asks, too little too late by several orders of magnitude. Tim turns around and hugs him, Robin-tight, and pulls him down into a kiss. "That was -- I --" "I'm sorry," Dick says, but his voice sounds weak after he's been using Batman's so much. "No, no, no." Tim shakes his head. "Don't be, I'm fine, it was --" He falters and hugs Dick again. "I just. I -- love you." Love who? "God, Tim." Dick kisses him again as if that will make the words any easier to hear after what he's done. "I love you, too, I -- god, Robin." Tim smiles. "You don't have to be sorry, Dick. You really -- really don't." He reaches up to itch his eye. "Oh --" and he grimaces. "Where did my belt end up?" Dick can barely stop goggling at him long enough to shake his head, let alone look for it. How is he so unruffled? "Over here -- I -- are you sure you're okay?" Tim takes his mask off. Dick takes advantage of the excuse to peel the cowl back and take a few deep breaths as himself. "I'm fine," Tim says, and this time when he hugs Dick, it feels like he's telling the truth. "That was -- I didn't know anything could feel that good." It should never have been so fraught, so impersonal, so damn rushed. Dick squeezes him. "I wish it could have been better." "How?" Tim laughs, and it eases something Dick hadn't realized was clenched in his heart, even though it's brief and incredulous. "I -- I can't -- no, it was --" he shakes his head. "It couldn't have been." Dick starts a few sentences in his head that don't get past "But" before they die. It wasn't about him, and maybe it wasn't for him. But if he broke something, he's got to make sure Tim knows he'll set it as right as he can. "Maybe you'll let me make it up to you sometime." Tim shivers. "You don't have anything to make up for, just --" He shrugs. "It's okay." There's no way around Tim's conviction, so Dick tries heading straight through it. "Maybe -- sometime -- we could try for a repeat performance. Though -- without the car." Tim looks at the sticky car and the corner of his mouth quirks. It's as good as a date. "You -- have a point there." Dick kisses him and pulls out the voice, one more time. "Thank you, Robin." It's worth it just to see Tim blush.
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