oroburos69 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
oroburos69) wrote2010-07-21 08:45 pm
oroburos69) wrote2010-07-21 08:45 pm
Entry tags:
To the Bone 2 of 3
Title: To the Bone 2 of 3
Beta: lady_of_scarlet
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: double penetration, non-con, tentacles, multiple partners, violence, torture, cannibalism, sex pollen, dub-con, angst, horror, hurt/comfort.
Summary: A riot erupts in Arkham Asylum, and Robin is locked inside.
Characters: Robin/Tim Drake, Poison Ivy, Bane, Killer Croc, Batman
Author’s Note: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bitternarration, the winner of my offer in the Gulf Aid Now auction. Also, look at the warnings. I fulfilled each to the absolute best of my abilities while keeping the story reasonably plausible. This is sick shit. Finally, I’m using this one for the caught in a robbery square on my H/C bingo (they were stealing away when they caught Robin...It’s a stretch, but the only idea I have). Additional thanks to kirax2 for her help with research and characterization.
The roots holding his legs creak as they grow, lifting him to a more convenient height for Croc. Poison Ivy giggles, one slim hand holding onto his leg, fingers tucked discretely under Robin’s peeled-back body armor.
Croc grabs his hips, his claws piercing Robin’s skin. The head of his cock presses into Robin’s still-aching body, threateningly huge. He pushes forward, and the skin over Robin’s hips gives way to Croc’s claws, making the maneuver difficult, and shallow lacerations open under the stress. Croc growls in frustration and changes his grip, using the grooved pads of his hands to hold on tight enough to bruise.
He tries again, gradually increasing the pressure until Robin can feel his already torn skin splitting and spreading apart. Robin draws a shuddering breath through gritted teeth, the damp splintering of bitter roots between his molars going almost unnoticed.
“I told you not to bite,” Poison Ivy says delightedly, cementing the idea that something is very, very wrong with her. She never laughs about damage to plants. Robin twists, trying to see her and gets another set of cuts in his back for his trouble. The ache from moving has lessened, as has the poison induced paralysis.
The bitter juices from the shredded roots send sparks through his mouth, a sensation that sweeps through the rest of his body, flowing outward from his spine like a shadow across his skin. His skin is hot, feverish under the thick fabric of his shirt, the fire in his blood warming him up from the inside.
Robin spreads his legs further apart willingly, eagerly, and the rounded head of Croc’s erection slides inside, an agonizing stretch that feels divine, sending a thunderous stampede of arousal racing through his body.
Robin pulls against the roots holding him still, needing to touch, to have more. He can hear Bane and Ivy laughing, but he doesn’t care because Killer Croc is pushing deeper inside of him, every inch a cascade of acute, vividly spiraling agony, but he can literally feel his mind twisting it into pleasure, spiking the levels of dopamine and endorphins in his brain to irresistible heights. Croc bottoms out, can’t get any further, and Robin writhes in his grasp, trying to push down on his cock, needing more, needing to have it all.
Croc laughs, but he sounds happy, not mocking. Massive arms reach under Robin, lifting him until he’s nearly sitting on Croc. It takes his weight off of his elbows and shoulders, which feels good, like everything else. Robin twists, taking Croc deeper inside himself, earlier pain forgotten in the razor sharp surge of pleasure. The roots that bind him peel away, scraping down his body in a rough caress and Robin uses his freedom to grab hold of Croc, snagging his fingers in the rough cotton of Killer Croc’s Arkham uniform.
Strong hands hold him still and Robin is grateful for that even as a low whine falls from his lips, because under the tsunami of lust and pleasure he can feel the knife’s edge of pain, the warning of serious damage if he isn’t careful. He’s on edge, ready to come at the slightest provocation, his cock dripping and twitching eagerly.
“Please,” he begs, needing Croc to fuck him, to get him off. “Please.”
Croc bends over, bringing his muzzle level with Robin’s face. His long black tongue slips free from his razor sharp teeth and licks at the corner of Robin’s mouth. He smells like fresh blood, but Robin spreads his lips eagerly. Croc’s tongue darts inside, bringing the taste of raw meat, which makes Robin feel sick but arouses him, too. Fuck, everything arouses him.
The nearly overwhelming stretch of having Croc inside of him starts to fade to a restless buzz and Robin wiggles impatiently, hating himself even as he begs Croc to fuck him. Killer Croc hisses in response, a dry lizard-like rattle, carefully thrusting into Robin. Croc slides in and out easily, Robin slick and wet from Bane’s come, the combination of Bane’s cock and Ivy’s plants having stretched Robin wide.
Some distant part of Robin is sick and afraid and upset. The rest of him is moaning like a whore as Killer Croc fucks him while Poison Ivy and Bane watch.
Croc grinds against his prostate and Robin screams, coming in long spurts trapped between the smooth skin of Killer Croc’s chest and the front of his costume. The burning lust disappears within seconds, and Robin struggles, nearly getting free before Croc pulls him back down.
“Fuck you,” Robin snarls, punching Croc hard enough to knock loose a tooth, tearing open his knuckles, blood pouring down his arm. Croc laps it up, his tongue wrapping around Robin’s arm before darting back into his mouth.
“Fuck me, fuck you—the boy sure is confused,” Bane says, and Poison Ivy laughs in response.
“Croc, I think you need to hold him still. He’s trying to get away. You don’t want him to get away, do you?” Ivy asks sweetly.
Killer Croc growls and pins Robin to his chest, claws digging into his sides threateningly. Robin struggles, heedless of the gouges he opens over his ribs, Croc’s claws tearing through the thick layer of Kevlar and catching on the ceramic plating over his chest. Low rumbles from deep inside Croc’s throat thrum through Robin’s bones, and he shifts his grip to Robin’s hips, pulling him down on his cock.
Robin takes advantage of his freed arms and goes for Croc’s eyes, stabbing his thumbs into his scaled eyelids. Croc shakes his head, clipping the side of Robin’s head with his jaw and then drops him, his softening cock slipping free with a wet sucking noise that is somehow more humiliating than anything else.
Stars swim through Robin’s field of vision as he staggers to his feet, thin streams of come and blood dripping down his legs, blood leaking from his sides. He shakes out his cape, covering himself with it, hiding himself in it. Everything from his skin to his bones aches, and his heart is working double time, blood pounding through his veins.
“I think you should use your tongue on him,” Ivy tells Croc, her enjoyment of the scene obvious. “Pin him down and lick him clean.”
Croc’s leathery skin creaks as he looks at Ivy, his pupils narrowing. His sniffs the air, his nostrils flaring, a gleaming string of blood and spit hanging from his jaw where Robin knocked his tooth out.
The twitching roots that cover the floor stir, Ivy obviously willing to help if she needs to.
Robin pants, heat pouring through him. Sweat beads up at his brow, on his neck, stinging as it seeps into open cuts that he can’t quite feel. He tugs his body armor into place. The white ceramic plates stain milky pink where his hands touch them.
“What’s wrong, Croc?” Ivy says, the threat in her voice obvious. “You want to do it.” Bane stands up, moving in front of her.
Robin sees an opportunity. “I really don’t think you do, Croc. She’s manipulating you.” He’s surprised by how cold his voice is, because he feels more scared than angry. “She’s using you.”
Croc roars, a deep rough cough that rattles the ceiling, and charges at Bane. Ivy’s plants snap forward, wrapping around his ankles but Killer Croc tears through them, ripping them apart with the hooked claws on his feet and hands. Bane lunges, leading with a punch to Croc’s stomach that he shrugs off.
Poison Ivy dodges away from them, laughing happily.
She dodges toward Robin.
He moves before he even thinks about it, throwing himself into a side kick that sinks deep into Ivy’s side, knocking her head first into the wall. Moving hurts, but he ignores it, taking the advantage he’d gained. She collapses, falling between the corpses of the men she killed, one green hand landing in the cracked open chest cavity of the guard that Killer Croc ate.
Robin follows her down, driving his knee into her chest with a move designed to knock the breath out of her. He puts enough force behind it to break bone, his leg pushing deep inside her. Ivy feels like rotting fruit, wet and loose under his hand, worms writhing under the surface. He pulls back to hit her again (and again and again and again) but Bane yanks him off her, slamming him against the wall.
His ears start to ring and the breath is knocked out of him, but Robin surges forward, going for Bane’s eyes. He misses, his hand knocked down by Bane’s forearm, so Robin knees him in the balls and twists, elbowing him in the side of the head, the crack of bone on bone echoing loudly.
The sound of gears grinding is quiet compared to their panting breath, but Robin can’t shake the feeling that it’s important for some reason. Bane swings at him, and he dodges, yanking out a dozen of the tubes that connect to the back of Bane’s mask. Acid green venom sprays out like arterial blood, splattering across Robin’s skin.
Bane cries out, dropping to his knees as venom and blood spill out of the torn ports to his skull. Robin slams his foot into Bane’s head, aiming for the temple, hitting as hard as he can. He follows up by using the heel of his palm to break Bane’s nose.
Bane begins to slump over, and Robin hits him again, cracking his jaw. It feels good, feels right, so Robin punches him, the torn skin on his knuckles stinging at the pressure.
The leather wrestler’s mask is dripping blood and venom onto the floor. Bane is out. Down. No longer a threat.
Robin puts his foot on his neck. He could stomp. It would crack open the cartilage of the trachea. Bane would suffocate within minutes. He could press down slowly, cut off the blood supply to his brain. If he moved up a few inches he could stomp on the shattered remains of Bane’s nose, send bone shards through the nasal cavity and into his brain. He could--
“Robin.”
Robin freezes and pulls his cape tight around himself. “Yeah?” he asks, watching the blood leak out of Bane’s mask.
“He’s down. Back off,” Batman’s voice holds a warning; one Robin learned to listen for before he ever put the costume on.
He steps down.
Robin runs his tongue over his chapped lips. They still taste like Killer Croc.
“You took down all three?” Batman asks. He’s looking at Poison Ivy, half sprawled across a dead man’s chest, as he takes Bane’s pulse.
Robin laughs.
Something in his laughter makes Batman turn around so fast that his cape flares out behind him. “Robin?”
The ringing in his ears is so loud that he can barely hear Batman. Robin rubs at the edge of his mask. It itches.
“Robin.”
Batman’s voice cuts through the haze and Robin responds instinctively. “Yeah?”
Batman looks him over, and Robin shivers, staring at the ground. World’s Greatest Detective, he thinks. “Are we done here?” Robin asks. His voice makes it sound like he’s begging.
“The police can finish up,” Batman replies.
Relief crashes over Robin, even as he feels sick, nauseous at the idea that Batman might know something. He looks up, but Batman chose a solid mask for a reason. It makes him really fucking inscrutable when you want to know what he’s thinking.
Batman touches his shoulder, and Robin jerks back, knocking his arm away in a textbook block. Batman tilts his head slightly, which is a warning sign because the neck of his cowl doesn’t bend easy. He’s asking a question, and Robin panics, because he sure as hell doesn’t know the answer.
The silence stretches on too long, and Batman backs up a step. “Let’s go,” he orders, heading toward the door. There’s a guard waiting there. He backs up warily as Batman passes him. Robin keeps the edges of his cape closed tight, keeping his ruined costume from view and his head bowed because he’s certain there’s evidence on his face. He still thinks the guard will be able to smell it.
He doesn’t let himself think about the stabbing pain that shoots through his back with every step he takes. He refuses to acknowledge that he’s limping, and limping badly. He imagines a world where Batman wouldn’t notice.
“Do you need immediate medical attention?” Batman asks, once they’re away from the guards, once they’re alone in the cold night air.
Robin rubs at the edge of his mask, wishing he could take it off.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Batman decides.
Robin looks at him blankly, then says, “I’m fine.”
Batman is unconvinced. “There’s a Batcave hidden under the island. We can go there or go home.” He watches Robin for a moment, then continues. “If your injuries are serious enough that they cannot be taken care of at home, then I’ll take you to a hospital.”
“You have a Batcave under Arkham Island?” Robin asks. His mind feels like the gears have rusted to a halt, and he wishes Batman would just make the decision for him.
“Yes. It is equipped to deal with anything short of internal bleeding.” The curve of Batman’s mouth could definitely be interpreted as worried.
“I’m probably not bleeding internally,” Robin eventually offers, even though he very well might be. If they go home, Alfred will be the one stitching him up. He wants to avoid that.
Batman nods and turns away, heading toward the overgrown garden next to the Intensive Care building. Robin limps after him.
Batman disappears from beside him in a rush of heavy black fabric. Robin stares at the empty place where he had been for a moment, then looks up. Batman is perched on a nearly invisible ledge. Robin fumbles with his utility belt, hunting for his grappling hook.
He nearly kills himself trying to get on the ledge without his cape gaping open. Batman shifts forward like he’s going to touch him or something, so Robin slips past him, heading into the crooked passage.
Batman grabs his shoulder and he twists away, sending a wild blow toward him. Batman blocks it easily, catching his wrist. He presses a long piece of metal and plastic into Robin’s hand.
Robin blinks behind the mask. His eyes itch.
“You forgot your grappling hook,” Batman says when Robin doesn’t respond.
Robin nods and keeps walking. The cave takes a sharp turn and ends abruptly, a craggy sheet of rock preventing him from going any further. He hears Batman come to a stop beside him, about two feet to his right.
“I’m going to take you up with me on this one,” Batman tells him.
Robin shakes his head because he’s not processing what Batman is saying.
Batman moves closer and reaches out very slowly. Robin watches, running his fingers over the edge of his mask. He wraps his arm around Robin’s waist, tugging him closer.
“Robin, you have to wrap your arms around my neck. I can’t support your weight like this,” Batman eventually says.
Robin obeys, holding his cape closed with one hand and wrapping the other around Batman’s neck. Batman looks down at him, the white lenses of his mask blank. He’s frowning, and Robin worries that something got on his face, that Batman can see--
The grappling hook sounds like a gun going off and Robin flinches in response. The line retracts slowly, running at the lowest speed it has. Batman’s arm hurts where it presses against the cuts in his back.
Batman pushes off the wall with his foot, and suddenly there’s solid ground under them. Robin staggers and stumbles away, because he doesn’t want to get Batman dirty.
The frown is back.
The wall behind Batman beeps and starts to move, saying something about verified identities. There’s a mining shaft elevator behind it, light-weight rails for walls, heavier metal sheeting on the floor.
Batman grabs Robin’s wrist very, very slowly. So slow that Robin wonders if his perception of time is whacked, but a glance shows that, no, Batman’s just moving like a glacier for reasons of his own.
Robin lets himself be led into the elevator. Batman presses the red button on the switch box that dangles from an electrical cable, and the doors slide closed.
“Robin, come over here,” Batman says carefully, like he’s worried that Robin’s going to wander off the edge. Which is possible, because there aren’t safety railings on anything and the whole thing is suspended above what looks like a bottomless pit.
“Robin--”
He remembers that he’s supposed to go stand by Batman, so he starts walking. Something wet is dripping down his leg, and he dearly hopes it’s blood, because it’s splattering on the floor and there’s no way Batman can’t see it.
He stops next to Batman, and stares at the floor. Robin feels pretty lucky, because it’s definitely blood.
“I need you to take off your cape.” Batman isn’t facing him, he’s pulling a really big box out from under a bench.
Robin hesitates.
Batman’s gauntlets click when he pops the catch that holds them on. He takes off his mask, and Robin suddenly feels like he’s going to throw up. Robin wonders when he started panting, wonders why his breath still tastes like Killer Croc.
“Robin?” Bruce is at his side and Robin can’t remember him moving. He has the solvent for the adhesive that holds Robin’s mask on in his hand. “I’m going to take your mask off.”
The solvent is cool on his face. Bruce pushes in on the edges of the lenses to release the suction. As Bruce peels the mask away, a flood of liquid pours out, sliding down his cheeks.
He licks a drop that gets caught in the corner of his mouth. It’s salty.
A white scrap of fabric wipes up the remains of the adhesive and the tears. He doesn’t know where Bruce got the rag from. He hadn’t been watching.
“Okay, we’re going to try this again. Tim, I need you to take off your cape,” Bruce speaks slowly.
Tim lets go of the edges of the thick fabric. They stick to his gloves. He tries to shake his hands free. It doesn’t work.
Bruce slides his hand under the clasp that holds the cape on and flips it. Tim shrugs it off, letting the cape fall to his feet.
It takes a few moments for Tim to look him in the eye. Bruce looks horrified, and Tim is surprised. He thought Bruce had figured it out already.
Bruce lets his breath out slowly, like he’s about to jump off the roof of Wayne Tech, spread his wings and fly across the city. “Did you take venom?” he asks. Bruce takes Tim’s arm by the elbow and peels off his glove while he waits for an answer.
“I--no,” Tim replies defensively. He wonders if maybe Bruce still doesn’t know, if the horror was because he thought Tim was taking venom.
“Your eyes are glowing green,” Bruce explains as he gets the other glove off. Tim’s knuckles start to sting in the open air, but the feeling is muted.
“I didn’t...” Tim protests, even as he remembers that Bane had been dosing so high that his sweat glowed.
“It’s okay, I trust you,” Bruce reassures Tim, pulling him toward a long bench and urging him to sit down. “I am going to assume you had some kind of incidental contact, though. You will probably start going through withdrawal within twenty-four hours. If you start feeling dizzy or nauseous, let me know immediately.”
“I’m dizzy and nauseous,” Tim replies, watching numbly as Bruce unbuckles his boots and slides them off. A twisted length of root falls out of one boot, and Tim kicks it away from himself, his heart rate increasing again. He’s still breathing too fast, panting like he just ran a marathon.
Bruce kneels in from of him and looks up. His frown—Batman is upset—is concerned. “It’s unlikely that you are going through withdrawal already. Did Poison Ivy use any kind of behavior or perception altering toxins on you?”
Tim pales and looks away.
“Tim, it’s okay,” Bruce says, and Tim wants to believe him so badly it hurts. But if it were okay, he’d feel okay, and he sure as hell does not feel okay. “If Ivy poisoned you, I need to know so I can give you an antidote. Most of her toxins have long term effects.”
“Yes.” Tim says, because the idea of long term effects terrifies him. Bruce takes his hand and presses down on the skin between his thumb and hand, then counts how many seconds it takes for color to come back. “She—yes.” He rubs his eyes with back of his wrist.
“Okay,” Bruce says again, grabbing a bottle of pills from the box at his side. “You’ll need to take one of these every six hours. I don’t think you’ve lost enough blood to go into shock, which makes things easier.” He gets up to leave and stops. “I’m just getting a glass of water. I’ll be right back.”
Tim doesn’t respond when Bruce untangles his hand from his cape. He swallows the pill without protest when Bruce returns with a glass of water.
Bruce also brings a sloppily folded pair of sweat pants and a tee-shirt. Tim eyes them with trepidation. “There is a shower here,” Bruce begins, “your costume is mostly ruined, at least a few of those cuts will need stitches, and all of the ones from Croc’s claws will need to be cleaned. The bleeding is slow enough that you can have a shower first, if you want,” he offers awkwardly.
Tim nods. “I can shower by myself,” he says, heading off the conversation he sees coming on. “I don’t need help.”
“I doubt that, but I welcome you to try.” He tucks the clothes under his arm and offers Tim his hand.
To the Bone 1 of 3
To the Bone 2 of 3
To the Bone 3 of 3
To the Bone Epilogue
Beta: lady_of_scarlet
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: double penetration, non-con, tentacles, multiple partners, violence, torture, cannibalism, sex pollen, dub-con, angst, horror, hurt/comfort.
Summary: A riot erupts in Arkham Asylum, and Robin is locked inside.
Characters: Robin/Tim Drake, Poison Ivy, Bane, Killer Croc, Batman
Author’s Note: Written for
bitternarration, the winner of my offer in the Gulf Aid Now auction. Also, look at the warnings. I fulfilled each to the absolute best of my abilities while keeping the story reasonably plausible. This is sick shit. Finally, I’m using this one for the caught in a robbery square on my H/C bingo (they were stealing away when they caught Robin...It’s a stretch, but the only idea I have). Additional thanks to kirax2 for her help with research and characterization.FOUR
The roots holding his legs creak as they grow, lifting him to a more convenient height for Croc. Poison Ivy giggles, one slim hand holding onto his leg, fingers tucked discretely under Robin’s peeled-back body armor.
Croc grabs his hips, his claws piercing Robin’s skin. The head of his cock presses into Robin’s still-aching body, threateningly huge. He pushes forward, and the skin over Robin’s hips gives way to Croc’s claws, making the maneuver difficult, and shallow lacerations open under the stress. Croc growls in frustration and changes his grip, using the grooved pads of his hands to hold on tight enough to bruise.
He tries again, gradually increasing the pressure until Robin can feel his already torn skin splitting and spreading apart. Robin draws a shuddering breath through gritted teeth, the damp splintering of bitter roots between his molars going almost unnoticed.
“I told you not to bite,” Poison Ivy says delightedly, cementing the idea that something is very, very wrong with her. She never laughs about damage to plants. Robin twists, trying to see her and gets another set of cuts in his back for his trouble. The ache from moving has lessened, as has the poison induced paralysis.
The bitter juices from the shredded roots send sparks through his mouth, a sensation that sweeps through the rest of his body, flowing outward from his spine like a shadow across his skin. His skin is hot, feverish under the thick fabric of his shirt, the fire in his blood warming him up from the inside.
Robin spreads his legs further apart willingly, eagerly, and the rounded head of Croc’s erection slides inside, an agonizing stretch that feels divine, sending a thunderous stampede of arousal racing through his body.
Robin pulls against the roots holding him still, needing to touch, to have more. He can hear Bane and Ivy laughing, but he doesn’t care because Killer Croc is pushing deeper inside of him, every inch a cascade of acute, vividly spiraling agony, but he can literally feel his mind twisting it into pleasure, spiking the levels of dopamine and endorphins in his brain to irresistible heights. Croc bottoms out, can’t get any further, and Robin writhes in his grasp, trying to push down on his cock, needing more, needing to have it all.
Croc laughs, but he sounds happy, not mocking. Massive arms reach under Robin, lifting him until he’s nearly sitting on Croc. It takes his weight off of his elbows and shoulders, which feels good, like everything else. Robin twists, taking Croc deeper inside himself, earlier pain forgotten in the razor sharp surge of pleasure. The roots that bind him peel away, scraping down his body in a rough caress and Robin uses his freedom to grab hold of Croc, snagging his fingers in the rough cotton of Killer Croc’s Arkham uniform.
Strong hands hold him still and Robin is grateful for that even as a low whine falls from his lips, because under the tsunami of lust and pleasure he can feel the knife’s edge of pain, the warning of serious damage if he isn’t careful. He’s on edge, ready to come at the slightest provocation, his cock dripping and twitching eagerly.
“Please,” he begs, needing Croc to fuck him, to get him off. “Please.”
Croc bends over, bringing his muzzle level with Robin’s face. His long black tongue slips free from his razor sharp teeth and licks at the corner of Robin’s mouth. He smells like fresh blood, but Robin spreads his lips eagerly. Croc’s tongue darts inside, bringing the taste of raw meat, which makes Robin feel sick but arouses him, too. Fuck, everything arouses him.
The nearly overwhelming stretch of having Croc inside of him starts to fade to a restless buzz and Robin wiggles impatiently, hating himself even as he begs Croc to fuck him. Killer Croc hisses in response, a dry lizard-like rattle, carefully thrusting into Robin. Croc slides in and out easily, Robin slick and wet from Bane’s come, the combination of Bane’s cock and Ivy’s plants having stretched Robin wide.
Some distant part of Robin is sick and afraid and upset. The rest of him is moaning like a whore as Killer Croc fucks him while Poison Ivy and Bane watch.
Croc grinds against his prostate and Robin screams, coming in long spurts trapped between the smooth skin of Killer Croc’s chest and the front of his costume. The burning lust disappears within seconds, and Robin struggles, nearly getting free before Croc pulls him back down.
“Fuck you,” Robin snarls, punching Croc hard enough to knock loose a tooth, tearing open his knuckles, blood pouring down his arm. Croc laps it up, his tongue wrapping around Robin’s arm before darting back into his mouth.
“Fuck me, fuck you—the boy sure is confused,” Bane says, and Poison Ivy laughs in response.
“Croc, I think you need to hold him still. He’s trying to get away. You don’t want him to get away, do you?” Ivy asks sweetly.
Killer Croc growls and pins Robin to his chest, claws digging into his sides threateningly. Robin struggles, heedless of the gouges he opens over his ribs, Croc’s claws tearing through the thick layer of Kevlar and catching on the ceramic plating over his chest. Low rumbles from deep inside Croc’s throat thrum through Robin’s bones, and he shifts his grip to Robin’s hips, pulling him down on his cock.
Robin takes advantage of his freed arms and goes for Croc’s eyes, stabbing his thumbs into his scaled eyelids. Croc shakes his head, clipping the side of Robin’s head with his jaw and then drops him, his softening cock slipping free with a wet sucking noise that is somehow more humiliating than anything else.
Stars swim through Robin’s field of vision as he staggers to his feet, thin streams of come and blood dripping down his legs, blood leaking from his sides. He shakes out his cape, covering himself with it, hiding himself in it. Everything from his skin to his bones aches, and his heart is working double time, blood pounding through his veins.
“I think you should use your tongue on him,” Ivy tells Croc, her enjoyment of the scene obvious. “Pin him down and lick him clean.”
Croc’s leathery skin creaks as he looks at Ivy, his pupils narrowing. His sniffs the air, his nostrils flaring, a gleaming string of blood and spit hanging from his jaw where Robin knocked his tooth out.
The twitching roots that cover the floor stir, Ivy obviously willing to help if she needs to.
Robin pants, heat pouring through him. Sweat beads up at his brow, on his neck, stinging as it seeps into open cuts that he can’t quite feel. He tugs his body armor into place. The white ceramic plates stain milky pink where his hands touch them.
“What’s wrong, Croc?” Ivy says, the threat in her voice obvious. “You want to do it.” Bane stands up, moving in front of her.
Robin sees an opportunity. “I really don’t think you do, Croc. She’s manipulating you.” He’s surprised by how cold his voice is, because he feels more scared than angry. “She’s using you.”
Croc roars, a deep rough cough that rattles the ceiling, and charges at Bane. Ivy’s plants snap forward, wrapping around his ankles but Killer Croc tears through them, ripping them apart with the hooked claws on his feet and hands. Bane lunges, leading with a punch to Croc’s stomach that he shrugs off.
Poison Ivy dodges away from them, laughing happily.
She dodges toward Robin.
He moves before he even thinks about it, throwing himself into a side kick that sinks deep into Ivy’s side, knocking her head first into the wall. Moving hurts, but he ignores it, taking the advantage he’d gained. She collapses, falling between the corpses of the men she killed, one green hand landing in the cracked open chest cavity of the guard that Killer Croc ate.
Robin follows her down, driving his knee into her chest with a move designed to knock the breath out of her. He puts enough force behind it to break bone, his leg pushing deep inside her. Ivy feels like rotting fruit, wet and loose under his hand, worms writhing under the surface. He pulls back to hit her again (and again and again and again) but Bane yanks him off her, slamming him against the wall.
His ears start to ring and the breath is knocked out of him, but Robin surges forward, going for Bane’s eyes. He misses, his hand knocked down by Bane’s forearm, so Robin knees him in the balls and twists, elbowing him in the side of the head, the crack of bone on bone echoing loudly.
The sound of gears grinding is quiet compared to their panting breath, but Robin can’t shake the feeling that it’s important for some reason. Bane swings at him, and he dodges, yanking out a dozen of the tubes that connect to the back of Bane’s mask. Acid green venom sprays out like arterial blood, splattering across Robin’s skin.
Bane cries out, dropping to his knees as venom and blood spill out of the torn ports to his skull. Robin slams his foot into Bane’s head, aiming for the temple, hitting as hard as he can. He follows up by using the heel of his palm to break Bane’s nose.
Bane begins to slump over, and Robin hits him again, cracking his jaw. It feels good, feels right, so Robin punches him, the torn skin on his knuckles stinging at the pressure.
The leather wrestler’s mask is dripping blood and venom onto the floor. Bane is out. Down. No longer a threat.
Robin puts his foot on his neck. He could stomp. It would crack open the cartilage of the trachea. Bane would suffocate within minutes. He could press down slowly, cut off the blood supply to his brain. If he moved up a few inches he could stomp on the shattered remains of Bane’s nose, send bone shards through the nasal cavity and into his brain. He could--
“Robin.”
Robin freezes and pulls his cape tight around himself. “Yeah?” he asks, watching the blood leak out of Bane’s mask.
“He’s down. Back off,” Batman’s voice holds a warning; one Robin learned to listen for before he ever put the costume on.
He steps down.
FIVE
Robin runs his tongue over his chapped lips. They still taste like Killer Croc.
“You took down all three?” Batman asks. He’s looking at Poison Ivy, half sprawled across a dead man’s chest, as he takes Bane’s pulse.
Robin laughs.
Something in his laughter makes Batman turn around so fast that his cape flares out behind him. “Robin?”
The ringing in his ears is so loud that he can barely hear Batman. Robin rubs at the edge of his mask. It itches.
“Robin.”
Batman’s voice cuts through the haze and Robin responds instinctively. “Yeah?”
Batman looks him over, and Robin shivers, staring at the ground. World’s Greatest Detective, he thinks. “Are we done here?” Robin asks. His voice makes it sound like he’s begging.
“The police can finish up,” Batman replies.
Relief crashes over Robin, even as he feels sick, nauseous at the idea that Batman might know something. He looks up, but Batman chose a solid mask for a reason. It makes him really fucking inscrutable when you want to know what he’s thinking.
Batman touches his shoulder, and Robin jerks back, knocking his arm away in a textbook block. Batman tilts his head slightly, which is a warning sign because the neck of his cowl doesn’t bend easy. He’s asking a question, and Robin panics, because he sure as hell doesn’t know the answer.
The silence stretches on too long, and Batman backs up a step. “Let’s go,” he orders, heading toward the door. There’s a guard waiting there. He backs up warily as Batman passes him. Robin keeps the edges of his cape closed tight, keeping his ruined costume from view and his head bowed because he’s certain there’s evidence on his face. He still thinks the guard will be able to smell it.
He doesn’t let himself think about the stabbing pain that shoots through his back with every step he takes. He refuses to acknowledge that he’s limping, and limping badly. He imagines a world where Batman wouldn’t notice.
“Do you need immediate medical attention?” Batman asks, once they’re away from the guards, once they’re alone in the cold night air.
Robin rubs at the edge of his mask, wishing he could take it off.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Batman decides.
Robin looks at him blankly, then says, “I’m fine.”
Batman is unconvinced. “There’s a Batcave hidden under the island. We can go there or go home.” He watches Robin for a moment, then continues. “If your injuries are serious enough that they cannot be taken care of at home, then I’ll take you to a hospital.”
“You have a Batcave under Arkham Island?” Robin asks. His mind feels like the gears have rusted to a halt, and he wishes Batman would just make the decision for him.
“Yes. It is equipped to deal with anything short of internal bleeding.” The curve of Batman’s mouth could definitely be interpreted as worried.
“I’m probably not bleeding internally,” Robin eventually offers, even though he very well might be. If they go home, Alfred will be the one stitching him up. He wants to avoid that.
Batman nods and turns away, heading toward the overgrown garden next to the Intensive Care building. Robin limps after him.
Batman disappears from beside him in a rush of heavy black fabric. Robin stares at the empty place where he had been for a moment, then looks up. Batman is perched on a nearly invisible ledge. Robin fumbles with his utility belt, hunting for his grappling hook.
He nearly kills himself trying to get on the ledge without his cape gaping open. Batman shifts forward like he’s going to touch him or something, so Robin slips past him, heading into the crooked passage.
Batman grabs his shoulder and he twists away, sending a wild blow toward him. Batman blocks it easily, catching his wrist. He presses a long piece of metal and plastic into Robin’s hand.
Robin blinks behind the mask. His eyes itch.
“You forgot your grappling hook,” Batman says when Robin doesn’t respond.
Robin nods and keeps walking. The cave takes a sharp turn and ends abruptly, a craggy sheet of rock preventing him from going any further. He hears Batman come to a stop beside him, about two feet to his right.
“I’m going to take you up with me on this one,” Batman tells him.
Robin shakes his head because he’s not processing what Batman is saying.
Batman moves closer and reaches out very slowly. Robin watches, running his fingers over the edge of his mask. He wraps his arm around Robin’s waist, tugging him closer.
“Robin, you have to wrap your arms around my neck. I can’t support your weight like this,” Batman eventually says.
Robin obeys, holding his cape closed with one hand and wrapping the other around Batman’s neck. Batman looks down at him, the white lenses of his mask blank. He’s frowning, and Robin worries that something got on his face, that Batman can see--
The grappling hook sounds like a gun going off and Robin flinches in response. The line retracts slowly, running at the lowest speed it has. Batman’s arm hurts where it presses against the cuts in his back.
Batman pushes off the wall with his foot, and suddenly there’s solid ground under them. Robin staggers and stumbles away, because he doesn’t want to get Batman dirty.
The frown is back.
The wall behind Batman beeps and starts to move, saying something about verified identities. There’s a mining shaft elevator behind it, light-weight rails for walls, heavier metal sheeting on the floor.
Batman grabs Robin’s wrist very, very slowly. So slow that Robin wonders if his perception of time is whacked, but a glance shows that, no, Batman’s just moving like a glacier for reasons of his own.
Robin lets himself be led into the elevator. Batman presses the red button on the switch box that dangles from an electrical cable, and the doors slide closed.
SIX
“Robin, come over here,” Batman says carefully, like he’s worried that Robin’s going to wander off the edge. Which is possible, because there aren’t safety railings on anything and the whole thing is suspended above what looks like a bottomless pit.
“Robin--”
He remembers that he’s supposed to go stand by Batman, so he starts walking. Something wet is dripping down his leg, and he dearly hopes it’s blood, because it’s splattering on the floor and there’s no way Batman can’t see it.
He stops next to Batman, and stares at the floor. Robin feels pretty lucky, because it’s definitely blood.
“I need you to take off your cape.” Batman isn’t facing him, he’s pulling a really big box out from under a bench.
Robin hesitates.
Batman’s gauntlets click when he pops the catch that holds them on. He takes off his mask, and Robin suddenly feels like he’s going to throw up. Robin wonders when he started panting, wonders why his breath still tastes like Killer Croc.
“Robin?” Bruce is at his side and Robin can’t remember him moving. He has the solvent for the adhesive that holds Robin’s mask on in his hand. “I’m going to take your mask off.”
The solvent is cool on his face. Bruce pushes in on the edges of the lenses to release the suction. As Bruce peels the mask away, a flood of liquid pours out, sliding down his cheeks.
He licks a drop that gets caught in the corner of his mouth. It’s salty.
A white scrap of fabric wipes up the remains of the adhesive and the tears. He doesn’t know where Bruce got the rag from. He hadn’t been watching.
“Okay, we’re going to try this again. Tim, I need you to take off your cape,” Bruce speaks slowly.
Tim lets go of the edges of the thick fabric. They stick to his gloves. He tries to shake his hands free. It doesn’t work.
Bruce slides his hand under the clasp that holds the cape on and flips it. Tim shrugs it off, letting the cape fall to his feet.
It takes a few moments for Tim to look him in the eye. Bruce looks horrified, and Tim is surprised. He thought Bruce had figured it out already.
Bruce lets his breath out slowly, like he’s about to jump off the roof of Wayne Tech, spread his wings and fly across the city. “Did you take venom?” he asks. Bruce takes Tim’s arm by the elbow and peels off his glove while he waits for an answer.
“I--no,” Tim replies defensively. He wonders if maybe Bruce still doesn’t know, if the horror was because he thought Tim was taking venom.
“Your eyes are glowing green,” Bruce explains as he gets the other glove off. Tim’s knuckles start to sting in the open air, but the feeling is muted.
“I didn’t...” Tim protests, even as he remembers that Bane had been dosing so high that his sweat glowed.
“It’s okay, I trust you,” Bruce reassures Tim, pulling him toward a long bench and urging him to sit down. “I am going to assume you had some kind of incidental contact, though. You will probably start going through withdrawal within twenty-four hours. If you start feeling dizzy or nauseous, let me know immediately.”
“I’m dizzy and nauseous,” Tim replies, watching numbly as Bruce unbuckles his boots and slides them off. A twisted length of root falls out of one boot, and Tim kicks it away from himself, his heart rate increasing again. He’s still breathing too fast, panting like he just ran a marathon.
Bruce kneels in from of him and looks up. His frown—Batman is upset—is concerned. “It’s unlikely that you are going through withdrawal already. Did Poison Ivy use any kind of behavior or perception altering toxins on you?”
Tim pales and looks away.
“Tim, it’s okay,” Bruce says, and Tim wants to believe him so badly it hurts. But if it were okay, he’d feel okay, and he sure as hell does not feel okay. “If Ivy poisoned you, I need to know so I can give you an antidote. Most of her toxins have long term effects.”
“Yes.” Tim says, because the idea of long term effects terrifies him. Bruce takes his hand and presses down on the skin between his thumb and hand, then counts how many seconds it takes for color to come back. “She—yes.” He rubs his eyes with back of his wrist.
“Okay,” Bruce says again, grabbing a bottle of pills from the box at his side. “You’ll need to take one of these every six hours. I don’t think you’ve lost enough blood to go into shock, which makes things easier.” He gets up to leave and stops. “I’m just getting a glass of water. I’ll be right back.”
Tim doesn’t respond when Bruce untangles his hand from his cape. He swallows the pill without protest when Bruce returns with a glass of water.
Bruce also brings a sloppily folded pair of sweat pants and a tee-shirt. Tim eyes them with trepidation. “There is a shower here,” Bruce begins, “your costume is mostly ruined, at least a few of those cuts will need stitches, and all of the ones from Croc’s claws will need to be cleaned. The bleeding is slow enough that you can have a shower first, if you want,” he offers awkwardly.
Tim nods. “I can shower by myself,” he says, heading off the conversation he sees coming on. “I don’t need help.”
“I doubt that, but I welcome you to try.” He tucks the clothes under his arm and offers Tim his hand.
To the Bone 1 of 3
To the Bone 2 of 3
To the Bone 3 of 3
To the Bone Epilogue