Chapter Text
It started with a stupid game Tim and Kon played. Call it a byproduct of growing up as a generation of terminally-online children. The goal of the game is to send the weirdest, creepiest, or grossest things they can find on the internet and try to get the other to nope out because of how fucked up it is. Not like, anything illegal, just like normal fucked up.
Tim gets a ping on Discord. No explanation, just an AO3 link with the title Like Birds in the Night. Curious, he clicks on it. Right off the rip, the tags are promising.
Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: Batfamily/Gotham Vigilantes
This gives Tim pause. He's vaguely aware that people write real-person fanfiction about both the Waynes and their alter egos (separate, for the most part, unless someone is writing a story where the Waynes interact with the vigilantes), but it's never something he's really interacted with.
Relationship: Red Hood/Robin (#3)
Characters: Robin (#3), Red Hood
Additional Tags: Explicit Sexual Content, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Spit as Lube, Knifeplay, Blood and Injury, Hate Sex, First Time, Loss of Virginity, Light Dom/sub, Semi-Public Sex, Roof Sex, Top Red Hood, Bottom Robin (#3), Hair-pulling, Batcest | Batfamily Incest, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Tim stares at it, blinking, not scrolling down. Because. What the fuck? How did Kon even find this? Did he really expect Tim to read the whole thing? Read a story some weirdo on the internet wrote about his brother fucking him?
He clicks back into Discord. Wtf man, he sends in reply.
😆😆😆, is Kon's response. Followed by, did you read it yet?
No I didn't read it 🤮
Dude you gotta, that's the rule. Unless you're saying I win.
😑 I fucking hate you
😈😈😈
Pissed, Tim returns to the AO3 tab and scrolls down.
Like Birds in the Night
Anonymous
Summary: Hood has him pinned to the roof with a knee on his chest, a knife to his throat. The wicked point digs into his soft skin, a bead of blood welling up around it. Robin groans, his eyelids fluttering. His heart pounds a furious beat in his chest, a confusing mix of fear and shameful arousal.
The crimson hood, gleaming in the full moonlight, leans in close. When he speaks, the voice modulator turns his voice to mechanical gravel. "What's wrong, little bird?"
And why the fuck is that so hot?
Ew. Is he really going to sit here and read this because of a stupid game? Sighing, heavy and long-suffering, Tim starts to skim. The writing's… not great, but not terrible. It starts with Robin being stalked across the rooftops by the Red Hood, getting pinned down and sliced open a couple times (and getting off on that).
Tim swallows hard, no longer simply skimming. He reads each line at glacial speed, feeling his cheeks heat with each new sentence, each new lewd description.
Robin is no longer pinned, but he lays still regardless, eyes locked on the man kneeling between his thighs. He wishes he could see the look on Hood's face as he brings his knife to the crux where his leg meets his groin. He traces the tip carefully around his shameful bulge, and Robin can feel his heart beating in his throat.
The serrated metal slices through his green tights like butter. Cold Gotham air raises goosebumps on the newly freed skin. With the delicate precision of a surgeon, Hood cuts out the entire crotch, Robin's hard, leaking cock springing free. He shudders when Hood runs the tip slowly up from his sack, along the bulging vein on the underside, until it catches on the ridge of his cock head. He doesn't break skin, but the implicit threat of it makes his length twitch.
"Careful, birdy," he scolds lightly, the tip coming up to collect a pearly bead of pre-cum that leaks from his slit, "I'd hate for something unfortunate to happen to your pretty cock."
Shit. His mind is doing a horribly good job at supplying him with images to match the words, excruciatingly detailed images. Shot in 4k. He can see the way the moonlight refracts off of Jason's helmet. The rough, warn texture of his leather jacket and the smell of gun oil that clings to him. He can hear the rough, altered voice filtered through his helmet, and see his own cock springing out of his sliced-up uniform (suspending his disbelief to pretend he wouldn't have an athletic cup underneath to protect him from a low blow).
He's hard. Just as shamefully as the version of him in this story. Cheeks burning, he palms himself through his jeans, and he keeps reading.
Robin lays deathly still. He hisses when the knife slices into his thigh, drawing a bloody line in his skin. Hood drags the pad of his thumb through the blood, smearing it over pale, muscular flesh.
Jesus Christ.
Who the fuck writes stuff like this? And… why is it doing something for Tim? Clumsy, with one hand, he fumbles open his button and fly and shoves them down, freeing his hard cock. Gives it sharp, short strokes.
Three gloved fingers push past his plush lips and press down on his tongue, threatening to make him gag. He can taste the leather and gun oil, bitter enough to make his nose crinkle, and can't help but wrap his lips around the digits and groan. "That's it, baby," Hood coos, "get 'em nice and wet for me." He pumps them slowly in and out of Robin's mouth. Robin does his best to obey, to lave his tongue over the leather-clad digit until their dripping with his saliva.
Because he knows that's all the slick he's going to get.
Hood pulls them out a moment later, holding them up as if to inspect the stringy coating of saliva. Without a word, he brings his hand between Robin's legs. One finger traces a lazy circle around his rim, feeling the way the tight pucker clenches in anticipation.
"Oh, fuck," he moans, breathless, as the first finger sinks inside. Tim's breath comes out a little shaky, and he bites his free hand while he pumps himself with the other. Robin's experimented a little bit with himself before, of course he has. But Hood's fingers are thicker than his own, and he works into Robin's hole roughly. The drag of the leather and the tacky glide of the spit burn, but he has him moaning and bucking his hips all the same, craving more. It's not long before he's stretched wide around three of Hood's thick fingers and sounding like a whore.
When Hood deems him stretched enough, he pulls his fingers out roughly and leans back to free his own cock, straining against his pants. Robin watches with wide eyes. His cock, engorged with blood, is long and girthy. The sight of it makes Robin clench down, whether in anticipation or fear, he's not sure. Will that really fit inside of him? Something tells him that Hood is going to make it fit, regardless.
He shoves Robin's legs up to his chest, practically folding him in half — thank God he's so flexible — and holds him under the knees while he examines him like a piece of meat. His other hand appears next to Robin's face. "Spit," he commands in that mechanical gravel. Robin turns and cranes his neck as best he can, spitting a couple times into Hood's palm. Hood slowly spreads the pool of saliva along his length while leers down at him. Robin can feel his skin prickling with heat under the scrutiny, hole stretched and cock hard and leaking against his stomach. Shamefully on display in this position.
Hood shuffles forward and blankets himself overtop of Robin with his massive bulk. Robin's heartbeat kicks up in response. He can't believe this is about to happen, even as he watches between their bodies as Hood lines himself up at Robin's presented hole. The blunt head catches on his rim and the pressure makes him gasp, eyes going wide.
"Fuck!" he grits out as it pops in, stretching him wider than Hood's fingers had. Tim's teeth are making deep indents in his own skin, but the hand muffles his low groan. His other hand is busy stroking himself, faster now, coils of pleasure burning in his core. Hood doesn't give him time to adjust, even though it burns as he drives himself to the hilt in one rough thrust. He pulls his hips back and snaps back into Robin without mercy. Robin can't help the indignant cry that escapes his lips, his hands coming up to grip the supple leather of Hood's jacket for dear life. His eyes start to blur.
Hood drops himself onto one elbow, the expressionless crimson mask hovering just over Robin's face. He can see his reflection in the glassy lenses, wide-eyed and half-wrecked. A hand fists into his hair, yanking his head back hard enough his scalp stings. Cold metal bites the exposed skin of his neck. He feels the way it digs dangerously in when his throat bobs with a heavy swallow. Despite the furious rhythm of his hips, Hood's hand is steady and the knife doesn't slip. He lays as still as he can, not even risking rutting his hips up to meet Hood's punishing thrusts.
It's hard, though, when every one pounds into that sensitive bundle inside him that has starbursts dancing in his vision. His eyelids flutter and he lets out a low, cracked moan. "That's it, birdy," Hood says, low and dangerous, "sing pretty for me." The knife leaves his neck, coming up instead to caress down his cheek. The point is terrifyingly close to his eye. A shuddered half-sob, half-moan escapes when his cheek is tenderly sliced open, blood running like tears down toward his neck.
When he cums, it hits hard, like an electric current shooting down his spine. His back arches and he almost screams into the quiet night. He can feel himself clamping down tight around Hood's cock, milking it for all it's worth as he rides out his orgasm. With a grunt and a couple more rough, sloppy thrusts, Hood spends deep inside of him.
Oh, fuck. Tim tips his head back, able to clearly picture the sight of himself, pressed under Jason in uniform, cut up and bleeding, legs pressed to his chest like a whore… Biting down so hard on his hand he's sure it's going to break skin, he spends into his own hand, pumping himself through it while he shakes through the orgasm.
He sits in his chair, panting, cock still in his messy hand, for a long while. His eyes blur as he stares at the screen. The rest of the story barely matters. After getting himself cleaned up and his breathing back to normal, Tim hardly even processes the rest of it. Jason leaves him laying on the roof, bleeding from various cuts and wondering how the fuck he's supposed to explain his cuts and torn up suit to Batman.
What the fuck was that?
The author's note at the bottom says, I'm so unwell about these two istg 😭😭😭
He scrolls back up, careful not to let himself read the lines over again. The story, published a month and a half before, has fifteen hundred hits and a hundred twenty-two kudos, along with a slew of comments talking about how hot it was and how much they love seeing Robin get cut up and dicked down by Red Hood.
Hands shaking a little, feeling too hot in his skin, Tim opens Discord again. I bet you're real proud of yourself, motherfucker 🤢