DC Noncon Fest

A DC Fandom Event running from April 6th-April 19th

[dc-noncon-fest]

What is DC Noncon Fest?

DC Noncon Fest is an event that aims to encourage creators to touch the taboo and embrace those darker WIPs you're a little bit nervous to post. The deader that dove is, the better!

The event will run from Monday April 6th to Sunday April 19th (that's two whole weeks of fun!)

Please check out the Rules and FAQ

You can also find this year's prompts HERE

We're a team of one mod who has never run an event before so please be patient with us 🙇

[tinyjaybin-almondmilk]

@dc-noncon-fest Day 12 - Stuck in a wall | Anonymous sex

Robin in a wall

Summary:

"Stupid mission," Damian snarled as he tried to pull himself inside, feeling as if the wall closed tightly around his waist, the grip preventing him from either pulling or pushing himself. "Just great."

After a few more tries, Damian gave up and tapped his distress beacon. Whoever was closest would get him free of the stupid wall, but it was humiliating to wait.

Suddenly, Damian felt something or someone tugging at his belt. It shouldn't be possible, the skyscraper was tall enough that the clouds hid the streets below.

Wordcount: 1,546

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Rating: Explicit

Relationship: Kon-El | Conner Kent/Damian Wayne

Tags: Kabeshiri | Stuck In a Wall, Anonymous Sex, Pussy Spanking, Cum Slut Damian Wayne, Come Inflation, Double Penetration, Dubious Consent, Writing on the Body, Anal Fisting, Belly Bulge, Mild Breeding Kink, Watersports

[yasublues]

what about for day 11, tim molesting dick on a train/subway, at rush hour, maybe even saying the quote, "just look at you"? dick wearing a skirt and having a pussy and having to watch himself in the window's reflection as tim gropes him and gets him wet...

sorry it took so long, i literally just got swept under real life..... anyways it's still april technically so it totally counts :D also i hope you don't mind, i added omegaverse to the prompt. it's the first time i write aob, and i thought a small one-shot/drabble like this would be a good place to start.

-> @dc-noncon-fest

dc non-con fest, day eleven. in public, "just look at you". | aob au.

The train is full.

Rush hour is a nightmare, and Dick could've avoided it if only his motorbike wasn't undergoing repairs. So many people squished together in the wagon, heating up the space horribly, some even stinking it up and leaking their own pheromones everywhere—a group of rowdy teenagers without control of their glands, a couple of office workers who reek of smoke and stress, one lady a mater or so away trying to cover her pungent alpha scent with perfume.

It's no wonder Dick is getting a bit dizzy.

He blames his swirling head when a hand slides and rests on his waist, another suddenly groping his ass, and instead of kicking his assailant to hell and back, he freezes, his muscles locking and stilling under the stranger's touch.

It's—

—no, no, please, not again—

The stranger fondles his ass, gripping it hard and firm. Dick has to stifle out a moan, his own hand covering his mouth, and when he gets slapped for it, his back arches, surprised and instinctive. He can feel his cunt begin to slick, and tears gather in the corner of his eyes, because when that same hand travels lower, slipping under his skirt and tracing his pussy over his panties, his legs spread open, making room for it.

It's practically an invitation, and he hears the stranger chuckle behind him, so close to his ears.

The reflection on the train's window only offers him a vague silhouette, shorter than himself, and Dick whines, as those hands tighten their grip and make him lean towards the other, pushing them together and hiding the assault from the rest of the passengers.

Still, Dick can hear the wet sounds of the cloth against his lips, the squelch as the stranger touches him over his underwear, his cunt gushing, the scent of arousal suddenly there, Dick's omega crooning inside his head.

His panties soiled, slick starting to run down his thighs, the touch unwelcome and yet Dick doesn't struggle, can't, even as the hand on his waist cups one of his breasts and pinches his nipple. He curses for not wearing any bra, today of all days, and he usually wears them, he does, it was just today—

—today, and all the other days, the same train, the same hour, the same touch—

"Just look at you," the stranger says. "So wet and I haven't been inside you yet."

A moan makes it past his teeth, body pliant and receptive at the thought of this going further, while his mind screams and tears fall because Dick doesn't want this, he never does—

"Maybe we should remedy that," they muse.

A second later, he has two fingers up his pussy scissoring him wide open, dragging against his walls and working them up, the movements so nice, so good, as if they knew the right way to please him. It makes him want to start a purr, and it drives the point home, the fact that his body has betrayed him, that it's inviting the stranger to do whatever he wants with it despite Dick wanting none of it.

"You're so cute like this," they praise, mouthing the words on his shoulder, slowly drawing closer to his mating bite, and no, Dick can't let them, he can't— "Such a pretty omega."

They continue to finger him, and as the time passes it gets harder and harder not to let out his moans, his gasps and whines already filtering through. His scent is surely stinking up the place, arousal and fear intertwining, except nobody says a thing, and if they look, they only turn up their nose, and Dick—

Watches himself spread his legs out further, accommodating to the stranger's presence, watches as he cries and bites down his own fingers not to cry out—moans of pleasure, high-pitched and needy and wanton, sounds he doesn't want anybody to hear; he can't let them, they belong to him and to Tim and to no one else—and watches as the stranger lifts his skirt to let him see his pussy clenching down on their hand, so wet it's dripping down their wrist.

He watches as another finger gets added and his pussy swallows it greedily, his own eyes never leaving the reflection, unable to stop. His knees tremble, but he can bear it, he can until the hand that was holding the skirt up traps it on its belt and the stranger drags his fingers around his clit, spreading his cunt even wider, everything on plain sight.

He hates it, but he can't help it, the whine that he can't quite repress nor the shudder of his spine. His body loves it, and the salt of his tears matters to no one.

"Such a lovely pussy," he hears, almost distantly, the voice of the stranger seemingly far away. "My favourite plaything."

Dick's being stretched out and he'll be even more, a fourth finger teasing at the entrance, when the stranger presses down on his clit, and slowly starts to rub circles on it. The sensation is overwhelming, and it makes him start to move his hips alongside the movement, even though he'd held up so well, even though he tried not to give in.

He cries, and grinds down the stranger's hands, his omega purring up a storm, and it feels so good, hid body telling him he's doing what he's supposed to do, surrendering and letting himself be pliant under that awful touch—

"You love this, don't you?" The stranger mocks him. "Such a slut."

Dick cries out, tries to deny it, but the word makes his cunt flutter and the humiliation persists when he hears the stranger chuckle at his plight.

"You're going to cum like this," they order, tongue teasing near his neck, where Tim's claim is, where nobody should be able to even see— "Grinding down on me, loving it, dripping down on the floor," they continue. "And you're going to watch yourself do it, and you're going to finally let everybody hear those moans of yours."

He doesn't want to do that. But he hasn't stopped watching himself, and his abdomen is pure heat, his cunt under so much assault it's red and puffy and—Tim's cum from this morning seeps out of it, too, omegan cum so precious to Dick, useless to the stranger who cares none for it, lets it drop onto the ground where the rest of Dick's slick pools.

"Look at yourself," the stranger instructs him, Dick's eyes automatically returning to his pussy. "Cum for me, big brother."

And—

He does, the reaction instinctive and almost trained, pleasure crashing and his brain blanking out. He doesn't close his eyes, he's been told not to, and he watches as his cunt lips are spread and he squirts, his cum hitting the train's wall, the sound going unnoticed as the conductor announces the next station over the speakers.

When he finishes, trembling and letting himself fall on the stranger, he finds familiar hands holding him tenderly. His skirt is back in place, and they're nuzzling him. The scent of the stranger finally registers, let out in the aftermath of the assault, and—

"Timmy," he mutters. "Tim, Timmy, baby bird—"

Making soothing sounds, Tim leads his fingers to Dicks' mouth, and Dick sucks on them, tasting himself and calming down, tears falling down still.

He wants to ask why, he wants his nest and to have Tim with him and to have his little brother explain himself, but his brain is fuzzy and his cunt is still sending him waves of pleasure, the fingers slowly fucking his mouth making it even more difficult.

He'll ask later.

(Or not, and next week, when he boards the same train for one reason or another, he'll find the same stranger again, and he'll cry again, and cum again, and tremble in their arms and ask why are you doing this, and mutter no, please, stop, and—)

(—"Hey, Tim, can you board the train today?")

[azraelagentofthebat]

Ao3 Link

Most people were born with soulmarks. Pale, shadowy handprints that lay dormant against the skin, waiting patiently to be touched by that one special person. When they did, the mark would bloom into a brilliant color.

It wasn't just any touch, though. No, the handprint represented the first touch that made your heart beat faster. People could know their soulmate for years and years, only realizing the truth of their relationship after a single tender moment.

It was pretty common to see handprints against people's palms, their soulmarks a representation of the first time they held hands. Chest and arm soulmarks were widespread too, though honestly it could be anywhere - face, legs, thighs, back…

Tim's soulmark was wrapped around his throat.

For as long as he could remember, his parents had dressed him in turtlenecks. Tim had hated them when he was small - he couldn't understand why they were so insistent that he wear something so uncomfortable and stifling, especially when none of the other children ever wore them. His mom would laugh as she told the story of how she would come pick him up from daycare, only to find that he had been running around shirtless for most of the day.

It didn't take him long to figure out that the turtlenecks were for hiding his soulmark, but that had been confusing, too. His parents soulmarks were hidden under their clothes, but that was only because his dad's was on his shoulder and his mom's was on her hip. People with more visible soulmarks never hid theirs; in fact, they seemed to flaunt them, especially if they had already bloomed.

Tim had been five when he had found out the real reason. He remembered that night in perfect detail, even years later.

He had already been suffering from insomnia, even at that age. His tiny mind had been racing as he laid in the dark, too worked up to sleep despite the exhaustion eating at his bones. He slipped out of his bed, padding his way over to his parent's bedroom - and yet, when he pushed open the door, he found it empty.

He continued down the hallway, perking up when he saw the promising golden glow spilling from the kitchen. He had quickened his pace, but as soon as he heard his parents speaking, he froze.

Hearing his mother's voice, he had realized that there was something wrong. She sounded so different than she always did when speaking to Tim - there was something broken and frightened in her tone. She had been speaking as though in a whisper, but straining his ears, Tim had managed to hear her.

"I swear to god, it gets bigger every day." Tim clumsily crept forward, peering around the kitchen doorway. His mom had looked so pale in that yellow glow, and her arms were wrapped tightly around herself. "And it's already fucking huge. How old is her soulmate? Ten? Fifteen? Twenty?"

His soulmark had always been big. A shadowy handprint wrapped firmly around his chubby neck. He had liked it, loved the shape of it - it reminded him of a bat. He liked to imagine that it was his bat friend perching on his neck. When he sat like that, Tim could whisper secrets to him.

But now the thought made him feel strange - overwhelmed with an emotion he had been too young to understand. He knew he didn't like it.

He had brushed his fingers against his neck as his mom continued, shivering. "I look at that handprint, and all I can think about is what's going to happen to her. I mean, it looks like his soulmate is gonna try to murder her - and I'm supposed to sit here and not do anything about it?"

His dad rested a hand on his mom's hip, right where her soulmark was. His voice was soft as he spoke. "You can't stop fate, honey. Nobody can."

"It's just so unfair. Someone is going to lay their hands on my little girl. Someone is going to hurt her, and she's supposed to spend the rest of his life with that person."

"We don't know that. For all we know, she could be play-wrestling with a kid when it happens."

"What kid?" His mom hissed. "That soulmark is already the size of my hand!"

"Janet…" his dad's tone was soft, but she still pushed away from him. Tim couldn't remember ever seeing his mom so angry.

"No - no, I don't want to hear it. I don't understand why you aren't worried."

"I am worried. But we also don't know exactly what's going to happen. I mean, this whole thing could just be a huge misunderstanding." His dad sighed, reaching out his hands. After a long pause, she took them. "Should we… I don't know. Shouldn't we lay off the sweaters? She hates them."

"I know. I know, she's not a baby anymore, and I can't just keep making her wear them." His mom sighed, rubbing her eyes. "I just hate seeing it. Every time I look at her, I just keep picturing what's going to happen."

Tim suddenly felt very, very small. His heart rabbited in his chest, and the shadows seemed to creep closer to him. Was he really going to get hurt? His neck ached, as though a monster was scratching at his throat.

"I know. I think about it too." His dad stepped forward, wrapping her in a tight embrace. Tim could still clearly picture the anguish on her face, the way she clutched tightly onto her husband.

They had continued to speak, but their words were too muffled for Tim to make anything else out. Not that it had mattered - he had already heard enough.

He slipped away from the kitchen, heading back to his room and crawling into bed. As he had laid there in the dark, he had touched his neck, his tiny, chubby hand dwarfed by that shadowy grip.

He hadn't slept at all.

After that night, he wore the turtlenecks without protest. It didn't matter that they were uncomfortable, it didn't matter that other kids gave him weird looks, it didn't matter that Tim found himself making excuse after excuse.

All that mattered was making sure that nobody had to look at the ugly promise collaring his neck.

___

Jean-Paul didn't have a soulmark.

For the first few years of his life, he hadn't even known what they were. His father didn't have one either, and as for other people…

Well, they had lived in almost total isolation. He didn't remember much of it anymore, but there were still a few images in his mind. An old manor, covered almost entirely in ivy. The deep quiet of the house, almost suffocating in its stillness. The perfect, emerald green hills of the countryside. It had been somewhere in Europe, surely? The details were so fuzzy.

Something he recalled with perfect clarity, though, was the gate.

Wrought-iron, tall enough that it seemed to stretch into the sky. Tipped with sharp, curling point - both decorative and deadly. His beautiful cage.

He had never been allowed to leave. Every day, he would sit at the edge of the garden, face pressed against the cold metal, wondering about the world beyond. What could possibly lie beyond those hills?

He tried to pester his father with questions, but they were almost all denied. He had the vague notion that there had been other people, sometimes - strange silent women who looked after him while his father was away. They barely spoke at all.

That was why it had been such a shock when they suddenly moved to America.

Gone were the long, slow days of wandering the overgrown yards, drawing flowers and chasing bugs. Now the world was made of concrete roads, smoggy skies, and people. So many people. More people than he had ever imagined.

And the strangest thing was that they had all had marks. Handprints littering their bodies, in all sorts of colors. Deep green, soft purple, bright yellow - he could have never imagined such colors on skin before.

What made him uneasy, though, were the handprints on the other children.

The first day of school, Jean-Paul had ended up in the nurse's office. It had all been too much - the noise, the smells, the press of bodies all around him. He had collapsed partway through lunch, crawling under a table and hiding until a teacher found him thirty minutes after lunch had ended.

When his father had arrived to pick him up, Jean-Paul hadn't known what to expect. His father rarely got angry at him - in fact, he rarely acknowledged him at all. So when they had gotten into the car (something else that was new for Jean-Paul), he had been surprised when his father asked him what was wrong.

It had all come out at once - how strange and boring class was, how overwhelming the hallways were, and how scary the other children had been, covered in those horrible, ashy gray handprints. To Jean-Paul, the colorless marks had looked almost demonic, like they had all been touched by a terrible curse.

His father had been quiet for a long time, and Jean-Paul had figured that he wouldn't answer. When he had finally spoken, his voice had been low and quiet - barely audible over the hum of the car. "You don't need to be frightened of the other children. The handprints are their soulmarks."

"Soulmarks?" Jean-Paul had gnawed nervously on his lip. Outside the window, the city rolled by - buildings and roads and people, strange in their normalcy.

"The handprint promises them to someone else."

"Like marriage?"

"… Yes. It's a sign that God intended for those two people to be married."

"Oh." They pulled into their driveway, gravel crunching under the tires. The dull, squat house stared dully back at them, and Jean-Paul frowned. "Then why don't we have marks? Is there something wrong with us? If I don't have a mark, does that mean I'll never get married?"

His father exhaled through his nose. "You ask too many questions." He turned off the car, and to Jean-Paul's surprise, turned to face him. He almost never looked directly at Jean-Paul; he had felt so small under his father's steely gaze.

"It makes you different, but it's a good thing. Not having a soulmark keeps you pure. It's for the best that you don't have one."

"But doesn't that mean I'll never find love?"

"There are… more important things in this life."

Before he could stop himself, Jean-Paul blurted out "What about my mother? Did you not love her?"

A stupid question to ask. They never talked about his mother - whoever she was, whatever had happened, she was fully off-limits as a topic of conversation. Jean-Paul knew that, and yet his mouth went running off before he could think better of it.

His father's icy blue eyes narrowed. "Like I said - too many questions."

And that was the end of it. Jean-Paul was expected to go to school the next day, despite his many protests and few bouts of tears. He still ended up underneath the lunchroom table; but this time, his father didn't pick him up.

So, slowly, Jean-Paul learned to adjust. He went to class, did his homework, kept his head down. Days turned into months turned into years, until his life before America seemed like a distant dream.

All the while, he remained fixated on soulmarks. At first, he liked that he didn't have one - the promise of being forever pure made him feel special, different from the other children who treated him so badly. Soon, though, that specialness became loneliness. The other children treated him with disdain, put off by his lack of mark and generally weird behavior. The adults, on the other hand, looked at him with pity.

At home, life wasn't any better. His father never touched him, never hugged him or even patted his head. Neither did the nanny who took care of him during his father's months-long business trips.

As a result, when someone did touch him, it was always electrifying. It didn't matter how - an accidental brush of fingertips while passing out worksheets, getting grazed in the school hallways, the teacher tapping his shoulder to get his attention. Even when other kids pushed him down, shoved him against the lockers, hit him in the face, it still had the same effect. That wonderful, stomach-twisting feeling that always left him wanting more.

When he got home, he would wrap his arms around himself, so tight he could hardly breathe. He would imagine that it was his soulmate hugging him - a shadowy, faceless girl who would whisper in his ear how much she loved him, how glad she was that they were together now. He knew that it was dirty and wrong, that he should be proud of his bare skin, but he couldn't stop himself.

Even as he grew up and left behind the childish rituals, he still wanted. Still dreamed of touch, of connection, of destiny. A destiny other than the one he was made for.

___

The moonlight was impossibly bright where it peeked through Tim's blinds, casting bars of silver onto his bed. As he squirmed for the millionth time, he watched the slivers of light dance against his blanket.

Ever since becoming Robin, his insomnia had only gotten worse. For more nights than he could count, he would lie in bed fruitlessly, mind racing a thousand miles a minute. He'd end up falling asleep in the middle of class, on the train home - hell, even on dates with Ariana.

Bruce had tried to teach him meditation techniques, but they never worked for Tim. Actually, come to think of it, they didn't really seem to be working for Bruce either. Ever since Bane had broken all those inmates out of Arkham, Bruce's burnout and exhaustion seemed to get worse every day. At this rate, Tim didn't know how much was left in him.

Tim slapped a hand over his face, letting out a groan. If he kept worrying about Bruce, he'd be up all night - and that wouldn't help anyone.

As much as he was loathe to admit it, there was one way he could get himself to sleep.

Before he could think better of it, he kicked the covers off and slipped out of bed. Hesitating for just a moment, he turned his gaze to his full-length mirror. A tired teen boy stared back at him, just barely visible in the darkened bedroom. He stared critically at himself, taking in his mussed hair, the bags under his eyes.

Keeping his gaze firmly on the mirror, Tim pulled his shirt over his head. Most nights, he even slept in turtlenecks - at this point, not having something around his neck made him feel uneasy.

His soulmark was as dark as ever against his skin - that deep, shadowy gray circling his neck tightly. The cool night air prickled against his skin, and Tim shivered. He brought his own hand up, placing it against the mark until the two were aligned.

Even now that he was starting to hit his growth spurt, the hand was so much bigger than his own. His fingers were dwarfed by the ones on his mark, which wrapped obscenely around his slender neck. The palm was bigger too, a flat square resting firmly against his windpipe.

Taking a deep breath, Tim squeezed his neck. He dug his fingers precisely into his carotid artery, the way he had been taught. Within seconds, he felt that familiar wooziness - his pulse pounded against the tips of his fingers. He was free to suck in deep breaths, but they provided no relief from the ache that was beginning to pound in his head.

He released the choke, allowing his brain just a moment to recover. Once he was sure he wasn't about to fall over, he tightened his grip once more.

Adrenaline thrummed through him, his body's fight-or-flight kicking into gear as he strangled himself. He gasped uselessly for air, and he could see the shine of spit on his lips.

Almost without thinking, he slid his free hand under the waistband of his pyjama pants. Shame coursed through him as he felt that his dick had already started to get hard, his clit stiff under the tips of his fingers.

That didn't stop him from pinching his dick between his fingers, jerking himself off with staccato movements. The touch made him whimper, and his hips stuttered forward. The pain from his neck curdled, transforming into a sick, perfect pleasure.

Color was blossoming on his cheeks, the soft skin had turning ruddy from abuse. His cunt throbbed, fluttering around nothing. Fuck, it felt so good - the pain, the fear, the fantasy-

Tim bit back a moan, squeezing his eyes shut. Not allowing his imagination to wander, he made himself picture Ariana. Her dark, lustrous hair, her pink lips, her long eyelashes. The soft curve of her body, the outline of her ill-fitting bra through her t-shirt.

In his fantasy, she was still clothed - even now, he struggled to picture her naked - but when she straddled his hips, he could feel the imaginary heat of her cunt through her jeans. He ground into his own hand, imagining how it would feel to be pressed against her.

"So needy," she purred, her lilting accent thick with arousal. She wrapped her slender fingers around Tim's neck, and he whimpered as she tightened her grip. Her palm pressed against his windpipe, and he gasped uselessly for air. "You like that, darling? You like it when I hurt you?"

"Yes," he tried to wheeze - but with her hand cutting off his airway, it was hard to get anything out.

"I know you do," she purred, putting more of her weight against the hold. She pressed her knee between Tim's thighs, grinding hard against the seam of his pants. Tim moaned brokenly, scrabbling at her wrist.

And yet, it still wasn't enough. Her hand was too small, her fingers beautiful and delicate and all wrong. Even in his fantasy, Tim couldn't quite suspend his disbelief - couldn't convince himself that Ariana was really the one.

No, deep down, he knew he was destined for something much worse.

Tim opened his eyes, yanking his hand out of his pants in frustration. Before he could think better of it, he made a beeline for his closet.

He pushed aside the shirts hung haphazardly, reaching for a shelf in the back. When he felt the familiar leather against his fingers, a shiver ran through him.

He pulled out the belt, metal buckle clinking as he brought it back to the bed. He had never even worn the damn thing, and it had sat unused in the back of his closet for years and years.

Unused except for this.

Tim's hands trembled as he pulled his pants and underwear off, the fabric pooling on the floor. He could see the shine of slick on his boxers. Tim felt hot shame at the sight - it was sick how wet the strangulation always got him, how eager.

It didn't stop him from looping the belt around his neck.

He gave the belt a harsh tug, letting out a pathetic, choked-off whine at the pressure. The belt got so much tighter than his hand ever could, the skin of his neck pinched as he strangled himself. His cunt throbbed, and he could feel himself twitch.

He yanked the belt even harder, groaning at the immense pressure. His head pounded, and black spots were beginning to bloom at the edge of his vision.

This time when he rubbed at his clit, he nearly came from that first touch. Every sensation felt amplified, larger than life - as though being on the edge of death made it all the more sweet.

He was too worked up to use any kind of finesse. His hand trembled as he began rub himself with harsh movements. Obscene, slick sounds filled the bedroom, but he could hardly hear it. His whole world was reduced to the pressure against his neck, the swirling pain in his head.

Tim fell back against the bed, letting out a strangled moan. He could practically feel the phantom of someone on top of him - the bed would dip under their weight, their breath would warm his face.

"No," Tim whimpered, though the sound was little more than a barely-audible wheeze. "No, wait…"

"Shh." His soulmate shushed him, his low voice rumbling in his chest. Tim thrashed, but his soulmate was so much bigger, so much stronger. An adult, dwarfing Tim's tiny body. His grip tightened on Tim's throat, and Tim's eyes rolled back into his head. "That's right, pretty boy. You'll take anything I want to give you."

Tim shook his head, but his soulmate just grabbed his face, forcing him to stay still as the man kissed him deeply. Tim could practically feel the scrape of stubble against his face, so different from his own baby-soft cheeks.

Drool slipped from the corner of his lips as he worked his dick, flesh hot under his hand. His pussy twitched, entrance fluttering despite nothing being inside of him. Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes, and the dark interior of his bedroom swirled.

In his imagination, his soulmate chuckled. "I'm almost embarrassed to be bound to a filthy slut like you." His hand tightened on Tim's throat, fully cutting off his airway. Tim's chest jumped as he uselessly tried to suck in air. "So close to coming, just from a little pain? You like it that much?"

"Please," Tim mouthed, unable to make any noise. His soulmate dropped his other hand, unceremoniously shoving a few fingers inside Tim. The stretch was so intense, his insides burning at the abrupt intrusion, but Tim could hardly feel it. His vision was almost completely gone at this point, unconsciousness threatening to overtake him completely.

His soulmate leaned down, kissing the tears that were slipping down his cheeks. "Come for me, pretty boy."

Tim let out a strangled moan as he tipped over the edge, clit throbbing against his fingers. His entire body burned, the lack of oxygen drawing out his orgasm and making his nerves sing with pain and pleasure. Even as he came, he continued to tug harshly on the belt, sending jolts of delightful agony through him.

By the time he came down, his entire body was trembling uncontrollably. Tim barely managed to unbuckle the belt, the leather sliding out with a click.

Tim curled in on himself, taking deep, rattling breaths. Every gasp of air hurt, his neck throbbing with agony. He brushed his shaking fingers against the damaged skin, shuddering at the heat he felt.

Fuck.

Despite the pain, his breaths were coming fast now. He balled up his fists, pushing them into his eyes.

He had lost control of himself. It was bad enough that he had these… fantasies… but hurting himself over them was totally unacceptable. Bruce was at his mental and physical lowest, and instead of keeping himself at peak performance, Tim was busy with a little autoerotic asphyxiation.

Tim tossed the belt off of his bed in disgust, rolling over and grabbing his clothes. He pulled his turtleneck on first, gently touching the protective fabric over his neck.

At least the bruises would be easy to hide.

___

Jean-Paul didn't like Wayne manor. It was beautiful, certainly - the Gothic architecture was truly a sight to behold, and each piece of furniture was probably worth as much as a semester of his tuition. That didn't stop it from feeling haunted.

The halls were filled with portraits of Waynes from years past, though none were as prominent as the many, many paintings of the late Thomas and Martha Wayne. The entire house felt like their shrine - or maybe more like their mausoleum.

Their cold eyes followed Jean-Paul wherever he went, judging from their prisons of canvas and paint. He could practically feel their thoughts - interloper. Stranger. Unworthy.

Well, Jean-Paul would prove them wrong. When Bruce had found him in Europe, he had been nothing more than a pawn of the Order, but now he had a purpose. A mission, even - to protect Gotham, just like the Batman did.

And, if it came down to it, Jean-Paul wanted to be ready to replace him.

That meant Jean-Paul had to change. He couldn't be that same soft-spoken boy who hugged himself to sleep - he had to be ruthless, cunning, cold. The Batman was barely human, and Jean-Paul, groomed to be the avenging angel, was the perfect candidate. All he needed to do was cut away what little human parts of him remained. Literally, if needed.

Tim, on the other hand, didn't seem so sure.

The kitchen scissors seemed strangely large in Tim's small hands. The metal of the blades glinted as he toyed with them. "You want it… short?"

"Yes." Jean-Paul reached up, tugging on the ends of his hair. The tips of it always started to get wavy, and it curled slightly around his finger. "All of this needs to go."

Tim made a face, grimacing as he took a step closer. Jean-Paul turned away, feeling Tim's fingers begin to card through his long blond locks. "Real short?"

"I want it off." Jean-Paul said, the heat of annoyance edging into his tone. "Out of the way."

Tim let out a sigh. "You got it." The scissors closed with a snip as Tim made the first cut.

"No, I don't, not yet. But I will get it." Jean-Paul squeezed his thigh, staring at the kitchen floor. Pale blond hair fell to the ground in clumps, years of careful growth slashed away in an instant. He hadn't had short hair in years - he wondered what he would look like. Not that it mattered, of course. Looks were hardly the point.

"I guess I just don't understand what your hair has to do with it." Tim said after a moment. The scissors kept snipping dutifully away, the sound ringing in Jean-Paul's ears. "I liked it long."

Before Jean-Paul could protest, Tim suddenly buried his hand deep into Jean-Paul's hair, the flat of his palm pressing against his scalp.

Jean-Paul froze. Tim's hand was shockingly warm, and even through his Robin gloves, Jean-Paul could feel its softness. His heart pounded, and he felt dizzy as blood rushed to his head. When Tim pulled away, Jean-Paul could still feel the phantom of his touch tingling against his scalp.

Jean-Paul realized he had just been grabbing a large clump of hair between his fingers, scissors now working close to his face. Even still, he couldn't stop his mind from starting to race.

He wanted Tim to put his hand back. The thought hit him like a train, and he had to fight not to double over. He wanted Tim to touch him again, to run his fingers through his hair, play with the ends and twirl it around his fingers. He wanted Tim to cup his jaw, cradle his neck, lay on his chest. He was so small and light - Jean-Paul would be able to wrap his arms around him so tightly. Smother him completely.

Tim's face was so soft, a hint of baby fat still clinging to his cheeks. What would they feel like under his lips? Jean-Paul knew he would hate being kissed like that, whine and squirm away. Would he complain that Jean-Paul was treating him like a baby?

Jean-Paul didn't think of him like that. Half the time, he didn't even seem like a kid at all - more like a grown-up trapped in a tiny body.

Maybe Tim would like being kissed on the lips instead.

Jean-Paul shuddered in revulsion. What the hell was wrong with him? His mouth felt dry, and his hands trembled against his thighs. It didn't matter how mature he was; he was still a child. Jean-Paul didn't know exactly how old Tim was, but there was no way he was any older than fifteen. Why was he thinking these thoughts about this boy, this boy who was supposed to be his friend?

And why couldn't he stop?

Jean-Paul knew he was touch-starved, that he was pathetic and desperate and lonely, but this was a new low.

"Seems such a shame to cut it all off," Tim mumbled, though he continued to snip away. Jean-Paul could barely hear him over the roar of his heartbeat. "Such a nice color…"

Without thinking, Jean-Paul blurted out "You like my hair?"

Tim paused, scissor blades poised next to Jean-Paul's ears. He must've heard something in Jean-Paul's tone - something vulnerable and soft and stupid.

"I do." Tim was silent for a moment, the scissors drooping slightly. "You know - I've already cut a lot off, but I think I could save some of-"

"No." Jean-Paul interrupted, sucking in a deep breath. He should forget he ever had these thoughts, these feelings. He needed to focus on what was really important. "No, just - just cut it off."

Tim didn't move. "Jean-Paul…"

"I told you to cut it off!" Jean-Paul shouted. His fingers dug into his leg, nails biting harshly into his skin. "Just - get it over with so we can get back to training. That's all that matters."

"… Fine." Tim's voice turned cold, and he tugged on Jean-Paul's hair as he resumed his work.

Jean-Paul clutched onto his thigh, staring ahead with unseeing eyes. The only thing he should be thinking about was getting stronger. He needed to remember that, or he'd never be good enough to be Batman.

He did his best to ignore his heart still racing in his chest.

___

Coming here might not have been his smartest idea.

Tim grunted as he fell, knees slamming painfully against the cold Batcave floor. Despite the pain, he was up in an instant - he couldn't afford to hesitate at all.

Bruce was gone, halfway around the world looking for his dad and Dr. Kinsolving. He had finally formally assigned Jean-Paul to be his successor, a decision that Tim was doubting more and more.

After all, Jean-Paul was clearly losing it.

Tim sprinted toward the main exit, not daring to use the narrow passage that he had used to sneak in. As he ran, he passed the shooting range that Jean-Paul had installed, tiny shurikens embedded in their faces. Tim shuddered - the idea of a shooting range in the Batcave was so fundamentally wrong that it made his skin crawl.

Jean-Paul called out after him, his voice strange and low. "He trained you well, Robin. And you've made him proud, I'll grant you that." Tim sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth as a flurry of those same shurikens whizzed past his cheek. They looked impossibly sharp; Tim wasn't eager to find out exactly how sharp. "That's in the past."

He leapt over the Batmobile, bounding past the partially-covered Redbird. He hated to leave it behind - that car was the reason he had bothered to come back at all - but considering the circumstances, getting out of the cave in one piece was the priority.

"The transformation is complete. The crusade begins; the mantle is mine now. And the cave, and the city. And I've decided you're no use to me."

He could hear Jean-Paul moving behind him, but when he risked a glance over his shoulder, he couldn't see him anywhere. Crap. He wouldn't think it would be possible to sneak around in that bulky metal bastardization of the Batsuit, but clearly Jean-Paul was managing just fine.

Tim leaned forward, hands pumping as he tilted into a dead sprint. Even this far gone, surely Jean-Paul would be satisfied with letting him leave - they had been something like friends, hadn't they?

Tim's hopes were quickly dashed as he felt a blinding pain against his spine, and he tumbled harshly to the ground. His forehead smacked against the floor, and his vision filled with stars. Jean-Paul must've leapt on him from behind - not that the knowledge did him any good now.

Tim wheezed as he was forcibly rolled over. He could tell that Jean-Paul was still talking, that harsh, deep voice reverberating through him, but it was hard to hear over the roar of blood in his ears.

The metal claws of the new Batsuit glinted cruelly where they were tangled in Tim's cape, slicing into the fabric like it was paper. Fighting against the pain, Tim scrabbled for his bo staff - if he could get a good hit on Jean-Paul, he might be able to-

And then he was being hoisted into the air.

Jean-Paul had moved so fast that Tim wasn't sure exactly what he had done - at least, not until he felt the crushing pressure against his throat. That familiar, terrible pain that Tim had inflicted on himself so many times before.

Tim flailed in stupid surprise for a moment, instincts filling him with an animal panic. He scrabbled at Jean-Paul's arm, but he might as well have been trying to cut down a tree with a butterknife.

"Wayne needed you," Jean-Paul hissed - even through the modulator, his voice was dripping with malice. "But I don't!"

Tim wheezed as Jean-Paul tightened his grip. This was really happening, wasn't it? Jean-Paul was actually going to kill him. His heart pounded in his chest as it fruitlessly tried to keep him alive. Tim had gotten in close calls before, but this time there was no one to pull his ass out of the fire.

That didn't mean he was gonna go out without a fight.

Tim ran his fingers along the Robin crest, pulling the tiny metal R away from the tunic. Gripping it tightly, he stabbed the sharp point into Jean-Paul's arm. It was a sloppy attack, born of desperation - and yet, it seemed to work.

Jean-Paul made a startled noise, his grip loosening enough that Tim could suck in a deep breath. Not hesitating, he unhooked the collar of his cape, managing to squirm out of Jean-Paul's tight grip. Both he and the heavy fabric fell to the ground in an undignified heap. His head was spinning, but he still managed to hold up his arms, bracing for another attack.

It never came.

"I'm… sorry…" Jean-Paul's voice was soft, barely audible - so different than it had been just a moment ago. Even his body language was different, and he looked like he was collapsing in on himself. He clutched his head, those vicious claws pressed against the cold metal of his cowl. "I don't know why I did that… I…"

"Keep your distance, Paul." Tim gasped out. His neck throbbed with pain, and he had to resist the urge to touch it. His skin felt like it was on fire, prickling with a strange heat.

"But I didn't mean to hurt you." Jean-Paul looked back up at Tim, his voice taking on a pleading edge. It was like his mind had cleared, and for just a moment, he was himself again. Tim's heart thudded - seeing him like this was almost scarier than when he had been trying to kill him. "Robin, I-"

And then he froze.

Jean-Paul was staring. Tim could feel the impossible weight of his attention like needles against his skin, those ominous red eyes locked onto him and him alone. He had to fight not to flinch.

Jean-Paul took a step forward, and Tim instinctively scrabbled away. He didn't make it far - his back hit something sharp. It took Tim a moment to realize that it was Jason's memorial case, still shattered from Bruce's fight with Bane.

"I told you to stay back!" Tim tried to sound authoritative, but his voice came out thin even to his own ears.

Jean-Paul didn't seem to hear him at all. He took another step forward, and this close, Tim could see that his hands were shaking slightly. The sight of those frightening claws trembling would've almost been funny if Tim wasn't so sure that he was about to die.

Tim wrapped a hand around one of the shards of glass still laying on the floor. He almost certainly wouldn't get lucky a second time; though if he angled it right, he might be able to get Jean-Paul in the neck.

No, he couldn't. Even if he could get through the armor plating on Jean-Paul's suit - something he seriously doubted - he would never forgive himself for taking someone's life. Not even to save his own.

But Jean-Paul still wasn't attacking. In fact, when he knelt down, his movements were slow, as though he was trying to not spook Tim. Well, he wasn't doing a good job of that - Tim couldn't remember the last time he had felt this scared.

"Tim…" Jean-Paul whispered. His tone sounded strangely - reverent? Tim's skin prickled, alarm bells ringing in his head.

"You don't have to do this." Tim said, fighting to keep his voice even. "You want to work alone, right? Just let me out of the cave and I won't come back."

Jean-Paul ignored him. He leaned forward, and for a moment Tim wasn't sure what he was doing - but then he realized that Jean-Paul had started to crawl toward him.

Tim's heart leapt into his throat, panic fully seizing him. Without thinking, he whipped his hand around, aiming the glass shard directly at those horrible red eyes.

Jean-Paul caught his wrist effortlessly, tightening his grip until Tim released the shard with a pained yelp. The tips of his claws dug through his gloves like they weren't even there.

"Tim, I - I can't believe it." Despite his painful grip, Jean-Paul's voice was still so soft. So dreamlike. "It's you."

"What?" Tim squirmed fruitlessly, flinching away when Jean-Paul's other hand reached for his face. He was expecting those claws to dig into his skin, but instead, Jean-Paul just cupped his cheek. Somehow, the gentle touch was even more unnerving.

"All this time, I thought that I… that I would never…" The tips of his fingers suddenly pressed into his cheeks, and Tim winced at the pain. His tone lowered back into that same growl as he clutched Tim's jaw tightly. "They must've done this. They tried to take you away from me."

Whatever clarity Jean-Paul had gained seemed to be slipping away again. Tim had to get out of here, fast.

"Jean-Paul, please." Tim pleaded. "Just let me go."

"No." Jean-Paul released his wrist, instead grabbing the front of Tim's tunic and slamming him to the ground. "You're mine."

And then Jean-Paul wrapped his hand around Tim's throat.

Tim instinctively sucked in a gasp of air, but - Jean-Paul wasn't squeezing. He just rested his hand there, claws freezing against Tim's neck. His bare neck.

Oh. Oh no.

No, no, it - it couldn't be him.

Tim could feel a cold wave of horror crashing through his body, the pieces finally falling into place. His limbs were locking up in fear. His breath picked up; childish, panicked pants for air. He was hyperventilating - even knowing that, he couldn't make himself stop.

Jean-Paul's expression was unreadable through the cowl, but there was something like twisted fondness in the way that he had started to stroke Tim's cheek. His movements were clumsy, and Tim's jaw twitched as Jean-Paul accidentally scraped him.

"How could I have been so blind?" Jean-Paul murmured, though it didn't sound like he was talking to Tim. "Batman really does need Robin, doesn't he? I thought Wayne was weak, but I have been shown the light."

"No," Tim stammered before he could stop himself. He could feel Jean-Paul's claws flex against his throat, and he swallowed on reflex. "No, wait."

Jean-Paul ignored him, tightening his grip even further. He dragged his other hand away from Tim's face, tracing a line down his tunic. Tim's breath caught when the kevlar-reinforced fabric began to part, sliced open as easy as warm butter. The pale skin of Tim's chest was flushed pink, ruined fabric falling away from his body. Was he - was he really about to-?

Tim couldn't even make himself think it.

"No!" Tim shouted, grabbing Jean-Paul's wrist. The panic was making it hard to concentrate - somehow, despite the many times he had been in danger before, this felt different. "Stop, I - I can't-"

"Why not?" Jean-Paul purred, his voice low and rumbling. The sound made a shiver run down Tim's spine. "We were made for this, don't you see? Made to be partners."

Jean-Paul leaned down until his cowled face was only inches from Tim's own. His ruby-red lenses burned as he spoke. "Wayne was just filling in until I came. Now we can live the truth. Batman and Robin - soulmates."

At Jean-Paul's words, Tim's face felt hot. A wretched sob twisted its way out of his throat, chest heaving as he tried to keep his tears in.

His parents had been right. He really had been fated to a monster.

Even as his vision began to blur with unshed tears, Tim shook his head vehemently. "No - no, no, it's not true. We're not-"

"We aren't?" Jean-Paul interrupted, tilting his head. "Then who's your soulmate?"

"That's - private." Tim hissed. "I don't need to tell you anything."

Jean-Paul hummed. "Fine. But if we aren't soulmates, tell me this…" He dragged his finger down Tim's sternum, until it was resting just above his utility belt. "What color is your soulmark?"

Tim could feel the blood drain from his face. Wrapped around his neck, there was no way for him to see his own mark without a mirror. "Why… does that matter?"

"Because if you tell me, I'll let you go." Jean-Paul's fingers drummed against the metal of his belt, clicking ominously in the quiet cave. "So what color is it?"

Tim sucked in a deep, shaky breath. "It's… red."

"Wrong." With a flick of his wrist, Jean-Paul tore the belt away from Tim, his last line of defense stripped away in an instant. "It's blue," he growled. "My blue."

Tim didn't hesitate. Despite the bad angle, he managed to level a kick directly against Jean-Paul's ankle; nothing particularly impactful, but hard enough to hurt. Jean-Paul made a surprised grunt, his grip on Tim's neck loosening slightly - and that was all Tim needed.

He wrenched his way out of the hold, scrambling desperately to get to his feet. Glass from the destroyed memorial case cut into his palms, but he ignored the prickle of pain in favor of his mad dash away from Jean-Paul. His vision swam as he bolted for the exit, yawning mouth of the cave threatening to swallow him whole.

Tim made it all of five feet before getting tackled again.

This time, Jean-Paul pressed his full mass against Tim, crushing the breath out of him in an instant. He didn't know exactly how much the armor weighed, but it had to be a lot.

"Brat," Jean-Paul hissed. "You're not getting away from me."

He grabbed a fistful of Tim's hair, yanking his head back. The other hand snapped around his neck - this time, it was hard enough that the tips of his claws dug into his skin.

Tim let out a wheeze as his air was cut off. His head spun as Jean-Paul leaned closer, cold metal cowl pressing against his ear. "You are my Robin, now. And that means you need to listen to me."

Jean-Paul suddenly sat up, dragging Tim with him. It was like he weighed nothing in his grip - he probably didn't.

Tim scrabbled at the hand around his throat, trying to tuck his chin down, but it was no use. Jean-Paul was way too strong; his hand was like iron around his throat.

"Nnh," Tim gasped out, trying to speak. He tried kicking out again, but Jean-Paul was ready for it this time and didn't even flinch. Black spots danced at the edges of his vision.

"Stop it, Robin." Jean-Paul snapped. "Don't make this difficult."

He slammed Tim down. His skull hit the ground with a painful thud, and Tim was swept with a sudden wave of dizziness. He felt almost like he was floating, though the ripples of agony shooting through him were keeping him awake.

Tim's eyes rolled back, going totally limp against the floor. The world was going dark, edges of unconsciousness threatening to take over.

And yet, despite the pain, despite the overwhelming fear, Tim could still feel that familiar heat in his core. That molten, liquid arousal, seeping into his body without his consent. He had done this to himself too many times, gotten himself used to that delectable, horrible mixture of pleasure and pain. He couldn't stop the way he whimpered noiselessly, thighs twitching with need. It made him feel even more frightened as his body betrayed him completely.

When the pressure around his neck suddenly eased, he sucked in a desperate breath. And then another, until he was panting raggedly. As oxygen returned to his body, the spots faded away - but he was still so dizzy. Tim let out a groan, world spinning around him as he was moved.

It took him a moment to realize he had been rolled onto his back. Jean-Paul loomed above him, the silhouette of those sharp shoulders cutting into the lights of the Batcave. His red lenses burned as he stared down at Tim.

When he spoke, Tim was surprised by the softness of his words. "You are a beautiful little creature, aren't you?" Jean-Paul grabbed his face, but more gently this time. "Like you were made to drag men to sin."

"You're a fucking psycho," Tim rasped. He could feel that his face was wet with tears, leaking out from under his mask. His core throbbed, overheated skin prickling with arousal.

"And you really are a brat." To Tim's surprise, he sat up, releasing Tim entirely. Tim's heart slammed in his chest - he needed to try and run, but his head was killing him. There was no way he didn't have a concussion.

Jean-Paul raised his hand, claws glinting for a moment in the air before he swiped violently across Tim's stomach. Tim let out a hoarse scream as the sharp blades dug into his flesh, blood splattering across Jean-Paul's claws. The shredded fabric of his tunic finally fell away, leaving him completely exposed - nothing left to hide his body.

Jean-Paul let out a low noise, gazing raking down Tim's body. Even through his cowl, Tim could feel the heat in his eyes, and he tried to cover himself.

Jean-Paul batted his hand away, cocking his head curiously. Tim's cheeks burned as he realized where he was looking. "You're a woman?"

Tim should've expected the comment, but he could still feel himself getting angry. "I'm not a girl," he hissed. He tried to cover himself again, but this time Jean-Paul caught his wrist, the tips of his claws pressing against him in a clear warning.

"No, you aren't." Jean-Paul agreed, surprising Tim. He knocked Tim's legs apart, settling between them. He ran his fingers along Tim's inner thigh, staring intently at the thin red lines he left behind. "You're Robin."

When the tips of Jean-Paul's fingers brushed against his labia, Tim flinched. "Wait - wait," he stammered, instinctively trying to close his legs. All he did was lock them around Jean-Paul's waist, the armor cold even through his insulated tights.

"Why should I?" Jean-Paul tugged at the delicate skin, spreading Tim's lips obscenely open. Tim froze, terror racing through him. One wrong move, and Jean-Paul's claws would slice right into him. "This is what you were made for."

He had never felt this exposed in his life. His face burned with humiliation as Jean-Paul stared at his entrance, the cool air of the Batcave making him shiver.

"You're aroused," Jean-Paul growled - it wasn't a question. Tim squeezed his eyes shut, a fresh wave of tears rolling down his cheeks.

"No," he whined, hating how childish he sounded. "No, no, I'm not."

"Then why are you so wet?" The tip of Jean-Paul's finger teased Tim's entrance, and Tim's heart pounded in his chest. One wrong move, and Jean-Paul would shred him to ribbons.

Traitorously, Tim could feel his entrance twitch.

Jean-Paul muttered something too quietly for Tim to hear, leaning back over Tim's supine form. When he reached out for Tim's neck again, Tim's heart slammed into his throat; but this time, he didn't wrap his hand around it. Instead, he traced a long line across his skin, staring intently. "I wondered about your shirts - those turtlenecks. I knew you had to be hiding something."

Tim gasped as he was suddenly breached, Jean-Paul's finger sliding deep into his cunt. Even though it was just one digit, Tim felt so full - he hardly ever fingered himself, and his tiny pussy struggled to take the intrusion. His insides burned, though he couldn't tell if it was from the stretch or from the claw scraping his insides.

"I figured it was your soulmark - that, or some kind of scar." Jean-Paul mused, thrusting his finger in a slow, languid motion. "But there's another reason you hide your neck, isn't there?"

Jean-Paul finally clutched Tim's throat, squeezing it slightly - just the barest hint of pressure. Tim whimpered, grabbing Jean-Paul's wrist ineffectually. "This bruise. Where did you get it?"

"Whuh?" Tim gasped stupidly. Jean-Paul twisted his finger inside Tim, making his legs tremble with the terrible pleasure/pain.

"The one around your throat." Jean-Paul repeated impatiently. "It's from a belt, isn't it? Nothing else is that shape. Who gave it to you?"

"I…" Tim thrashed, whimpering as Jean-Paul's movements sped up. He could feel the sharp tip of Jean-Paul's claw scraped into his soft flesh, his cunt twitching traitorously as Jean-Paul dug it into his sensitive cervix. "Ah, fuck!"

Jean-Paul grumbled, though Tim couldn't tell if the sound was disappointed or pleased. "Depraved little whore. The bruise is so even, so clean. You did it to yourself, didn't you?"

"No, no," Tim whined, shivering at the unbearable onslaught of sensation. Jean-Paul's finger twisted cruelly, and Tim practically screamed. "No, please! Take it out!"

"And you're a liar, too. How did Wayne ever put up with such a disobedient brat?" Jean-Paul's voice was dripping with a cruel, cold amusement - he had never heard Jean-Paul sound like this. "You clearly need the firm hand of the real Batman."

Whatever anger Tim felt at Jean-Paul's words melted away as Jean-Paul shoved another finger inside of him. Even with his wetness, the stretch ached. Tim yelped, boots skidding across the floor as he struggled to adjust to the intrusion.

"Stay still," Jean-Paul growled, tightening his grip on Tim's neck until he wheezed. As his oxygen was cut off, he found himself instinctively going limp, body succumbing to that familiar burning.

"Not so hard, is it?" Jean-Paul crooned, voice mocking. The sound of his fingers sliding in and out of Tim's pussy was impossibly loud, slick and blood dripping from his entrance and trailing down his thighs. "All you have to do is take what you were made for."

Spit burbled from Tim's lips. He could feel his heartbeat through his entire body - his head, his neck, his cunt. It was disgusting how good this felt, nauseating that he was getting off to his own rape. And yet, he couldn't stop himself from making horrible, choked-off noises as he pathetically tried to moan.

It was only when he was threatening to slip fully into unconsciousness that Jean-Paul finally released his neck. Tim heaved in a few deep breaths, though it was hard to keep them steady with Jean-Paul relentlessly fingering him.

Jean-Paul only gave him a few seconds of reprieve before those claws were back against his throat. Tim's clit throbbed at the pressure, and he had the horrible, traitorous thought that he wanted to touch himself - but he couldn't, he just couldn't.

Jean-Paul certainly showed no interest in doing it for him. He seemed completely transfixed by his fingers pumping in and out of Tim's cunt, hunger clear in his posture.

He continued to toy with Tim - choking him out until he nearly passed out, then letting him take in a few desperate breaths. Over and over again, Tim was brought to the brink - and yet, every time, he was denied reprieve. His entire body felt like it was on fire, pain and pleasure corroding his veins. He could hardly tell where he ended and Jean-Paul began - they were a complete circuit of blissful agony.

The next time Jean-Paul let go of his throat, Tim let out a desperate sob. "Please, please, please," he whimpered.

"Please what?" Jean-Paul stared at him, those ruby-red eyes blazing.

"Please, just… just get it over…" Tim shivered - he sounded so pathetic. Weak. Was this all he really was without Bruce by his side?

But this had to end - and it would only be over once Jean-Paul got what he wanted.

So Tim let his legs fall fully open. He reached down with a shaking hand, and with no small amount of trepidation, he spread his cunt open with his fingers. Jean-Paul sat up a little straighter. When Tim spoke, it was with the clearest voice he could muster.

"Please, Jean-Paul. Make me yours."

For a long, long pause, Jean-Paul didn't move an inch. He just stared at Tim's cunt, still stuffed full of his fingers. Tim could feel dread creeping into his stomach - had he been wrong? Was this really just supposed to be some kind of horrible, twisted punishment?

And then Jean-Paul pulled his fingers out entirely, drawing a surprised gasp from Tim. They were shiny with slick and blood, and Tim felt woozy at the sight.

With a single movement, Jean-Paul tugged his tights down to his thighs. Tim stared at his bared skin; the pale flesh, the fine blond hair dusting his thighs. There was something so strange about seeing the man underneath - in his armor, Jean-Paul barely seemed human.

When he pulled his underwear down too, Tim shivered, unable to tear his eyes away from his dick. It was red and angry with blood, jutting out just underneath his breastplate. Tim had never seen a real penis before. For some reason, the sight made his heart pound even harder.

This was really happening. He was really going to lose his virginity like this.

Unexpectedly, Jean-Paul gripped Tim's arms, hoisting him up until he was on his knees too. Tim's entire body ached, and the only reason he could stay upright at all was Jean-Paul's hold.

"Ask again." Jean-Paul growled, voice so low that Tim could barely hear him. He pulled Tim a little closer, until the head of his cock was pressed against Tim's bare, bleeding stomach.

Tim's breath caught in his throat. "Make… make me yours?"

"Use my name. My real name."

Tim wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn't bear to look away. "Make me yours, Batman."

"My Robin," Jean-Paul sighed. There was something in his voice that sounded almost like love.

Then he picked Tim up. In one brutal movement, he shoved the tip of his cock inside.

Tim's muscles immediately seized, cunt clenching around the intrusion. It felt so much bigger than the fingers - despite the lack of sharp claws, the pain was actually worse. He instinctively thrashed in Jean-Paul's grip, but he didn't even seem to notice.

"My Robin, my Robin." Jean-Paul muttered deliriously, snapping his hips up. Despite the power of his thrust, he only managed to sink another inch or so inside of Tim. It burned, and Tim let out a low sob.

"Batman," he slurred, gripping Jean-Paul's wrist. His head drooped as he struggled to keep it up, exhaustion and pain making it difficult. "Batman, pl-ease…"

"Impudent little harlot," Jean-Paul chastised, gripping Tim's arms tighter as he continued to try and force his way in. Tim wailed, instinctively trying to squirm out of his grip. "I'm giving you what you need, aren't I?"

Tim shook his head. "No, I need… I need…"

Even now, he couldn't bring himself to say it. But the pain radiating from his entrance was unbearable - he couldn't take much more of this, he couldn't.

So he brought his own hand up to his throat, small fingers pressing against his soulmark. "Please."

Jean-Paul stilled his hips, staring nakedly at Tim. "You really are something else."

Tim just whined, shivering as Jean-Paul batted his hand away and replaced it with his own. When he squeezed, Tim's eyes rolled back, sweet endorphins flooding his system. He could feel his cunt twitching as he was strangled, hours and hours of choking himself training his body to react with arousal.

This time, when Jean-Paul rolled his hips up, he sank in a few more inches. He let out a disbelieving laugh, tightening his grip on Tim's neck. "I can't - ngh - believe that you called me a psycho when you're like this." He drew Tim closer, gaze burning holes in Tim. "Do you spread your legs for anyone who roughs you up?"

Tim shook his head vehemently, but Jean-Paul dug the tips of his claws into his neck. "How can I believe you? I already know you're a little liar."

Tim tried to speak, but all that came out was a weak gurgle. With another snap of his hips, Jean-Paul finally drove all the way into his cunt.

He had never felt this full in his life. The burning stretch of too much, too big was still there, but more than that was the discomfort of how deep Jean-Paul was in his guts. He could practically feel it in his stomach.

It was painful, it was disgusting, it was horrifying. And yet, Tim could never remember feeling so turned on.

Tim's vision blurred as Jean-Paul dragged him up by the throat until only the tip of his cock remained inside. He lingered there for a moment, the pressure against Tim's neck so intense that he felt like his head was going to explode. When he dropped Tim back down, what little air that remained in Tim's diaphragm was punched out.

Jean-Paul continued to use him, lifting him one-handed as though he weighed nothing at all. Over and over his cock drove deep into Tim's guts; the cave was filled with the obscene sounds of their fucking, impossibly loud in Tim's ears.

Tim's vision danced with dark spots, unconsciousness threatening to overtake him. This time, Jean-Paul didn't seem interested in keeping him awake - he fucked Tim with a single-minded focus, chasing nothing but his own pleasure. Tim could hear the ragged grunts from behind his cowl as he filled Tim's cunt.

His pussy felt like it was on fire. He could feel every involuntary twitch of his muscles, every drag of Jean-Paul's dick inside him. He tried to whine, but nothing came out - his airway was completely cut off.

When Jean-Paul pulled him closer, murmuring something in his ear, Tim couldn't even hear it - his senses were growing dull, vision fading away. It felt as though his entire world had been reduced to the cock inside him and the intense, impossible pain in his neck.

He wrapped his arms around Jean-Paul's shoulders, shivering at the cold touch of his armor. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips against the cold metal of Batman's cowl, right where his mouth would be. A strange facsimile of a kiss.

Jean-Paul froze, and Tim could practically feel the shock radiating off of him. The man let out a soft, ragged cry, so different from the low growls he had been hissing in Tim's ear. And then Tim could feel something hot and liquid filling his guts, molten fire in his cunt. It felt so good, so right.

Like he really had been made for this.

That was the last thought he had before his eyes rolled back, vision blacking out completely. Just before he fainted, he swore he could hear Jean-Paul - the real Jean-Paul - calling his name. But then Tim was gone, wrapped up in the blissful relief of sleep.

[toothbit3]

Reuploading all my shit cuz tumblr nuked me 💔 @dc-noncon-fest day uhhh I forget

Also day ???? (Whatever yesterday was) is on my Twitter here:

Not gonna post it cuz i think it’s what got me banned :/

[dc-noncon-fest]

Thank you for an awesome event!!

As DC Noncon Fest winds to an end, we just wanted to thank everyone who has participated <3 The response to this event has been far greater than we could have anticipated and every piece of fanwork has been AMAZING!

Thank you all so, SO much for participating and making DC Noncon Fest AWESOME!!!

Remember, even if the official event has ended the event collection on AO3 will remain OPEN and we encourage people to keep posting to it forever!

If you @dc-noncon-fest we'll continue to reblog your posts here as well <3

Thank you all again! <3333

[twinflamedfool]

send the pain below | brujay

♡ SYNOPSIS: Bruce's grip around Jason's waist tightens in his sleep, and Jason places his hand on Bruce's heart, beating slowly yet consistently. He wishes that Bruce had left him in that building, let his heart stop as he bled out peacefully. It would have been kinder, but in the years since his death, his dad's heart has hardened. Bruce has admitted that he couldn't bear to let Jason die again, despite Jason's wishes and Bruce's accidental attempt, which is why this whole charade—being locked away in an empty, near-impossible-to-escape safe house—exists.

♡ WORD COUNT: 2K

♡ WARNINGS: 18+, kidnapping, rape/non-con elements, pseudocest, suicidal thoughts, non-consensual drug use.

♡ A.N: i just think jason should be put into situations where he cannot consent in a meaningful way or at all. also, this was written for @dc-noncon-fest ‘s free day.

READ ON AO3

Sometimes, Jason wonders if anybody is aware that he is alive. He's sure that Alfred knows, but like in all things, he serves Bruce first and foremost. He would have kept this to himself.

If Bruce is as anal as Jason remembered about documenting information, then there must be a file detailing every little bit of Jason's identity and misdeeds, but under heavy security. Batman's eyes only. He doubts Dick will think much of Red Hood's disappearance. To him, Jason is just another unsuccessful crimelord. Maybe Barbara will want to know why Red Hood disappeared, may even question Bruce about it, but he'll have a prepared answer that will wrap up any loose ends Barbara wants to tug loose. Talia couldn't care less so long as her beloved is still active.

There is no one else who'd care about his resurrection, so really, only Bruce knows.

In the end, he's the only one that matters—the one Jason did all this for.

Bruce's grip around Jason's waist tightens in his sleep, and Jason places his hand on Bruce's heart, beating slowly yet consistently. He wishes that Bruce had left him in that building, let his heart stop as he bled out peacefully. It would have been kinder, but in the years since his death, his dad's heart has hardened. Bruce has admitted that he couldn't bear to let Jason die again, despite Jason's wishes and Bruce's accidental attempt, which is why this whole charade—being locked away in an empty, near-impossible-to-escape safe house—exists.

At first, Jason believed that this was Bruce's version of revenge, but he quickly realized that his dad was keeping him locked away for his eyes only because he was selfish. He wanted to keep Jason to himself more than he wanted Jason to get better. It's a familiar tactic, if he's being honest, even if this time, his isolation is strictly enforced.

There are cameras from every angle in his new home, which perfectly lines up with Bruce's neuroses. He can't be with Jason at all hours, the way Jason knows he desires to—and a sick satisfaction rushes through his veins at that—so this is the next best thing. Of course, the reason he's now so heavily monitored is that he's tried to kill himself on multiple occasions, but Bruce has always arrived at the right moment to salvage Jason's life.

Ironic, considering.

Now, the fight has left him—or it would be more accurate to say that it has been leeched from him due to the drugs Bruce pumps him with. It's just one more way for Bruce to subdue him, which has his stomach swooping each time he remembers that Bruce wants to keep him.

It's beyond sick how happy he is about this whole, seedy arrangement, especially when he remembers how they got here in the first place. It's only then that the fantasy he's carefully constructed in his mind pops, and he is reminded that Bruce will never give him what he really wants.

Bruce hasn't even fucking apologized for what he did, as if Jason didn't need or deserve it. Maybe in Bruce's eyes, he doesn't. His dad has never been a man to speak what's on his mind, but keeping Jason locked and drugged up like this? There is something seriously wrong with him, and that's coming from Jason.

"Jay?" He hears, snapping him out of his morbid thoughts.

He opens his eyes to find Bruce staring intently at him, as he is prone to since he discovered Jason's return, especially in this fucked-up home of theirs, as if he can't believe that he's actually alive.

"Hey," Jason replies, closing his eyes again, not ready to deal with Bruce this early, even as he battles a weary mix of surprise and delight that he's still here.

The sun will be rising soon, not that he knows that, windowless as he is, but if he can trust the analogue clock Bruce set up for him, it's around that time.

Bruce pulls Jason flush against his bare chest, his large, calloused hand cradling his face. He leaned into the touch unashamedly, chasing the warmth Bruce always exudes, furnace that he is. He strokes Jason's cheek tenderly, the way he did when Jason was little, and he relaxes into Bruce's touch. He kisses Jason's temple, too, before he brings his mouth to Jason's neck—to the scar of the wound that almost killed him.

Jason trembles as Bruce lathes his tongue over the full length of it. His scar itches uncomfortably, and Jason isn't sure whether it's from phantom pain or actual pain. These days, it's the same thing to him. He exhales sharply as Bruce sinks his teeth into the junction between his neck and shoulder.

Bruce is quick to soothe it with a gentle kiss, the way he did after each time Jason got hurt as Robin. He was free with his affection, always feeding a touch-starved Jason. This is not so different from then, just more extreme.

The hand on Jason's hip trails down to his softened cock, and he gasps at the unexpected, firm hold, eyes opening to meet Bruce's dark, half-lidded ones.

It's always a question of whether or not Bruce has enough time to indulge Jason in the morning, but it seems that today, Bruce does.

Jason watches Bruce stare hungrily at his lips, and he leans in to close the gap between them. He is an amazing kisser and knows exactly what Jason likes. He kisses the breath out of Jason, stealing away what's left of Jason's sense as he lazily strokes Jason's cock.

He had fantasized about this as a kid, dreamed of being fucked by Bruce, being loved by Bruce, more than anybody else in his life, being more than a son and a lover. He would have never wished for it had he known it would be like this—or maybe he would have, desperate as he was—and still is, let's be honest—for Bruce's regard when he began to lose it near the end of his life.

This wasn't so bad, not really.

Jason enjoyed these stolen moments of theirs, this routine Bruce had forced him into. He must be a masochist or something, but he'd only accept this sort of behavior from Bruce, which says everything about Jason.

All he does is for Bruce because Bruce is all he has—because once upon a time, Bruce had made it so, and Jason had accepted that so long as Bruce didn't discard him.

Well, look at how that ended.

It wouldn't be so bad to die again, though. This time, he'd know how it would feel to be treasured by Bruce, to be precious enough to lock away as though he were one of Martha Wayne's pearls. He could die happily enough, even if he knew he would never come first to Bruce.

Before long, Jason is hard, leaking enough pre to soak Bruce's hand, and that hand travels to his hole, occupied by a plug that Bruce had shoved in him before Jason passed out last night. He moans into Bruce's mouth unabashedly as Bruce fucks the toy in and out of him, letting out a loud cry when Bruce replaces the plug with his cock. He only spills some of the cum as he is split open once more. He is still loose from last night's activities, but not so loose that it doesn't ache a little as Bruce bottoms out.

Bruce lets out a deep groan, and the sound rushes straight to Jason's cock. He likes it when Bruce is loud and clear with his pleasure. He can't hide his emotions during sex, a facet he has recently come to learn about Bruce. It is refreshing, to say the least, to know that Bruce enjoys this—him.

He clings to Bruce, arms wrapped around his neck, and pulls back for a moment to stare at Bruce's face. His gaze is scorching, branding Jason as he begins to move. Jason makes a punched-out sound, and Bruce's face flickers with a heady desire Jason has become intimately familiar with. His first thrust is powerful enough to shake the headboard, as are every one after, as he fucks into Jason with a harsh snap of his hips, brushing his prostate with each thrust.

Jason tries to hold back, to slow down the throb of pleasure spreading through him as Bruce fucks him roughly, to savor Bruce's attention while he has it, but he is still so sensitive from the hours of lovemaking the night before. It doesn't help that Bruce is smiling down at him, fond and a little smug, as he realizes Jason's predicament.

"Bruce, stop," Jason whines, but that only makes Bruce's grin widen, his pace growing even faster as his grip tightens. He's going to leave Jason with so many new bruises, on top of the ones that are almost healed. He can't wait to press on them once he's left alone to his devices, waiting for Bruce to come home to him. He moves his hands to clutch onto Bruce's shoulders, nails digging into his skin hard enough to make Bruce hiss.

"Do you think you can cum untouched again, Jay?" Bruce asks. Jason shakes his head, on the verge of tears, and Bruce leans down to lick his wet lashes, his hand coming to rest around Jason's neck. "I think," Bruce huffs, biting back a groan as Jason tightens at the same time Bruce squeezes the sides of Jason's throat. His cock drools over his abs, a wet mess that he does nothing about. "You can, can't you, sweetheart?"

Jason whimpers at the endearment, unused to hearing it despite how often he hears it now. It's something his dad used to call him, more than even lad, a vocal affirmation of his affection for Jason. He had stopped hearing it when things had gone sour between them, but it's his again, just like Bruce is his dad again.

All of this is worth it for that alone.

His dad tucks a curl behind his ear, and it reminds Jason that enough time has passed for his hair to grow actual curls. He swallows his resentment and focuses back on his pleasure, the desperate burning that pulses throughout him.

"You're such a good boy, Jason. Cum for me, sweetheart," Bruce orders, and trained as he is, those words send him toppling over the edge.

Jason sinks his teeth into Bruce's neck to muffle his shout, to muffle an endearment that he cannot help but spill, but he knows that Bruce still hears the truth of his moan because his hips stutter.

Bruce moans and slams into him one last time.

It doesn't matter how often or how rarely Jason calls him Dad in bed; it always affects Bruce the same way: he loses his composure immediately, the way Jason usually did each time he fantasized his dad finally crossing the line on the nights he crept into his dad's bed as he jerked one out the mornings after.

Much like Jason, Bruce lets the matching endearment spill from his mouth, but he does not attempt to hide it, even as wrecked as he sounds.

There's a splash of wet heat inside him, a molten mess that joins the lukewarm remains from before. Jason weakly clenches down on Bruce's cock, whining as his dad's cock twitches a few more times inside him. He kisses Jason, effectively cutting off his whimpers, and some time must pass because eventually his dad softens enough to slip from Jason's hole. However, he is quickly plugged back up and maneuvered to lie atop Bruce.

"I'm so glad you're alive, Jay," Bruce whispers, and Jason melts into his dad with the sweetest of sighs, uncaring of how easily he allows himself to yield because this is all that he has ever wanted.

He is loved, and it's enough.

It must be.

[dovesnotdead]

If Bruce hadn’t been so stubborn and determined to drive away everyone he ever met, maybe Jason Todd wouldn’t have ended up, unknowingly, on Thomas Elliot’s operating table. Unfortunately for Jason, Dr. Elliot has a few ideas about how to improve his body and his relationship with Bruce at the same time.

Written for @dc-noncon-fest Day Eight for prompts: Body Modification and “That Wasn’t So Hard Was It?”

[tidbitsandbats]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

eking in one last submission for @dc-noncon-fest

[tidbitsandbats]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

for the final day of @dc-noncon-fest

[dc-noncon-fest]

DC NonCon Fest Final Day!

Although today is our final day of the event, remember that the ao3 collection will remain open indefinitely! It's never too late to post for the event <3

If you want things reblogged here after the event ends then make sure to tag us at @dc-noncon-fest so we see it!

[tidbitsandbats]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

for day 13 of @dc-noncon-fest

[yasublues]

Hello. hello! I was floating around as ghosts do and a little moth told me you wanted prompts ‼️😏

So here’s my submission for you! After a long and careful consideration I chose for you…

Day nine: virginity / incest / de-aging / “just lie there and take it” (not too sure about the quote… And possibly also extreme underage..? Up to you!)

———

Dick had always wanted to be the one to take Tim’s virginity, and when a mission goes wrong and a de-aged Tim is left in his lap… well… of course he’ll take what’s been handed to him on a silver platter (whether Tim wants it or not. Of course normal Tim would be ecstatic which is why he doesn’t have his memories intact…) 👀

———

Or: Tim says the quote because he wants Dick to take his virginity (maybe he still has his memories) and rides Dick 👀 maybe Dick says they shouldn’t because he’s now got a small body that can’t handle it 😏 // or young Timmy (who doesn’t have memories but has been informed of the situation) just loves dilf!dick and takes advantage of it

———

I hope that helped :3

okay so this one is the longest so far, and i had to rewrite it three times because it kept coming out fluffy and not the right vibe, but i managed it in the end!!! i'm so tired lol, it's past my bedtime XD

also hiiii pastel!! :D thank you for the prompts! <3 i ended up choosing the first one, because dilf!dick taking advantage of 13 y/o timmy and his virginity has been living in my brain since you sent this ask. and to everyone who sent me similar prompts to this one, i'm glad we all share one dicktim braincell <3

-> @dc-noncon-fest

dc non-con fest, day nine. virginity, incest, de-aging.

As Tim looks around an apartment that's supposedly his, theirs, in the arms of the man he's just recently begun to call his big brother, he wonders how can such a home—full of photos and so clearly lived in, with traces of his and Dick's presence all over, casual and evident—can be his future.

Tim is thirteen in his forty-something year old self's house. A mission gone wrong has landed him here. It's not time travel, Dick has ruled it out, therefore no consequences exist for showing him the shape of the years to come, but.

"We… live together," he comments, shivering when Dick tightens his grip. His brother hasn't put him down in the entire time he's been de-aged. "You and I."

The myriad of photographs reveal it, most of them centred in Dick and Tim through various stages of their life, growing old together, laughter lines appearing and disappearing depending on where Tim lays his eyes.

"We do," Dick nods, pulling him closer, kissing him lightly on the head. It's so strange, having Dick so intensely focused on him. It makes his body tingle all over.

Tim nods, accepting the information. "Is it because of… Batman?" He's hesitant to ask, because if Batman and Nightwing fought again and it was bad enough for Tim to leave Gotham entirely—

Wait. Is Bruce still alive?

Before he can voice that thought, Dick chuckles softly. "B is fine. Fighting retirement and Jason's problem entirely. You—"

"Jason?" Tim asks, interrupting because, Jason?

Dick's look is mischievous. So light. So different than the Nightwing he knows, burdened and angry and yet—both of them so clearly loving. "Many things change in decades, baby bird," he says. "Don't worry about it. You and I, on the other hand," he pauses, cupping Tim's cheek and caressing it with his thumb. "We're in Blüdhaven because it's our home. Because you decided to make it so."

"I did?" He left Gotham? Left Bruce, left his parents? What about—Ariana? Ives?

"It's been years, after all," Dick shrugs, before leaning down and kissing him on the lips, chaste and—and his first kiss. "Things change."

Dick kissed him.

Dick kissed him?

Dick—

"Dick…?"

His brother—is Dick even his brother anymore?—laughs, amused and loud. "You're looking at your husband." And then, rueful, "Disappointed?"

Tim feels his cheeks heat up, his lips suddenly dry, and both embarrassment and happiness shake his heart and make war in his chest. He shakes his head, denying Dick's question.

Disappointed? In Dick Grayson?

"Never."

Dick kisses him again, for that, and Tim feels—about to explode. When Dick gives him one, two, three more kisses, quick and that make his brain fuzzy, he only grips his Nightwing suit harder.

On the next one, Dick doesn't stop, and his tongue separates Tim's lips and forces them open, and it's—Tim doesn't know how what's happening. Dick's mouth on his is hot, his fingers digging on Tim's sides are almost painful, and it all results in Tim making sounds he's never heard himself do.

This Dick, greying on the sides, older than even Bruce as he's known him, kissing him and loving him so openly, surrounding him with his warmth, so big against Tim's body.

It's overwhelming.

Tim's so, so lost.

Does he reciprocate? Why is Dick—because they're husbands, but—aren't they brothers, too? His head is such a mess, thoughts dying at the beginning of Dick's touch, and his body can't decide if to lean in or away, everything torturous and wonderful and scary, in the hands of a Dick Grayson he still adores but doesn't know at all.

When Dick breaks the kiss, he presses their foreheads together.

"Tim, baby, sweetheart," he murmurs, nuzzling their noses and so close. "You're so tiny like this, how did I ever let you go?"

The indignation returns Tim to reality. "I'm not tiny! But—wait, does that mean I grow taller?"

Dick laughs. So fond. So graceful, even at his old age. "Taller than now? Yes. Much taller?" He hums, as if deliberating. "Debatable."

Tim can't help his pout. "I should kick your ass for that."

"That'll take you a few years yet, Timmy," Dick smiles, kissing him one more time, lingering but without putting tongue in it, thankfully.

Dick closes a door behind him, and Tim jolts at the sound. It takes him by surprise to notice they're not in the living room anymore, and that Dick's moved them to the bedroom without him realizing.

Dick puts him in bed, hovering over him, in a position he's only ever caught once his parents in, that he's only seen in porn videos some of his classmates share for laughs and morbidity. Engulfing Tim's body, kissing him again, putting his hands under his tee and squeezing—

"You're so cute like this, Tim," his brother says, barely giving him time to breathe before kissing him again, tongue almost dancing with his own, swirling and sucking and making Tim's pussy twitch, wets it like it's beginning to do sometimes.

When Dick starts to kiss his neck, biting him gently, leaving marks but making sure not to break skin, Tim tries to close his legs, the movement instinctive. But Dick notices and stops it, one of his hands on Tim's thigh, big enough to surround it almost entirely and with the strength to halt Tim and keep him still.

Then, his brother—husband?—guides his legs to a stretch, positioning himself between them, and his other hand climbs high on Tim's torso and palms his chest, fingers closing around his little tit.

"Dick," Tim gasps. "Dick, wait—"

But Dick ignores him, backing away only to rid him of his t-shirt, and Tim flushes red and feels his eyes begin to water, so exposed and embarrassed and—and wanting Dick, and not wanting Dick, and confused and wanting his big brother back, even while he's in his arms.

"Don't be shy," Dick scolds him, barely an admonishment in his voice. "You're so pretty, baby bird," he praises him, leaving a trail of kisses down his chest, fingers pinching one of his nipples. Tim gasps and bites his lip not to make any more sounds at the sensation. "You've always been."

Dick moves the hand on his thigh towards the edge of it, riding his pants—basketball shorts—up, too, high until he traces lightly his slit, touch foreign and invasive and hot, the sensation travelling up Tim's spine.

He trembles as he pleads, "Dick, stop, please—"

"Why? You told me yourself, at this age, you had already touched yourself," Dick comments, casual as a Sunday evening, pressing his hand against Tim's pussy. Tim moans because of it, high-pitched and surreal, something he's never done before. "Such a naughty bird."

"I don't—I haven't!" Tim denies, hands going to his mouth in an attempt to stop it from making more embarrassing sounds. But Dick only pushes his pants down, without even pausing, leaving the air hit his pussy and making Tim shiver. "I've never—!"

The stare Dick pins him down with stops the words from leaving his throat. Tim feels like prey, so vulnerable to his big brother's eyes, so dark compared to before, so full of something Tim can't define.

"Never?" He mumbles to himself, frowning, before leaning towards Tim's face and asking him, "Tell me, Timmy, has Ariana kissed you yet?"

Yet—?!

"Did I take your first kiss, baby bird?"

He should—he should say no. Something about this is making Dick's voice sound wrong, dangerous in a way he never is outside of Nightwing.

But Tim nods, unable to lie to Dick Grayson.

"Oh, Timmy," Dick breathes out in awe, kissing him again and again and again, muffling any protest he puts up. "You're so precious, my little brother, my husband, my Tim."

Without another word, Dick pushes one finger inside him, sliding it with ease, looking and drinking Tim's face as he does it, and it's—he tears up, he yelps, tries to push Dick away, but his arms tremble and Dick starts moving the finger in his pussy, and—

"So beautiful," Dick murmurs against his lips, kissing him with tongue once more, and licking his tears when he breaks it off, keeping him close, pushing a second finger inside him— "My good little Robin."

His heart is so full. Dick is praising him so much. His body feels so strange, and he wants to cry and burrow in his big brother's arms, but—he's already there. Dick called him little brother, and it made him so happy to know despite all of this.

He loves Dick so much.

If this—

If this makes Dick happy—

"Dick," he sobs, his brother relentless in his assault on his pussy, in his mouth on his tits, so small yet red with Dick's ministrations. "Dick, Dick, Dick."

He repeats Dick's name as a mantra, as a confession, as a plead.

Dick adds another finger and stretches him out, making him cry out, making Tim hold onto him tightly, crying and opening his legs further, and soothes him with soft, tender kisses all over his skin, loving and devoted.

"Don't worry, baby bird," Dick croons, with that big brother smile Tim has learnt to adore, calming and doting. "I'll take good care of you." And after a chaste kiss on his lips, he continues. "I promise."

To Tim's ears, it sounds like a threat.

[tidbitsandbats]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

For day 12 of @dc-noncon-fest

[tidbitsandbats]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

for @dc-noncon-fest

[toothbit3]

Reuploading all my shit cuz tumblr nuked me 💔 @dc-noncon-fest day uhhh I forget

Also day ???? (Whatever yesterday was) is on my Twitter here:

Not gonna post it cuz i think it’s what got me banned :/

[tidbitsandbats]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

for @dc-noncon-fest