It's Dick's voice, taken from archives and filed away for safekeeping; the audio tweaked just a percent higher, younger.

He closes his eyes, reclines back on the spare mattress. It's not home. It doesn't have his posters or his music collection. Heroes don't focus on indulging on their side-lives. The Cave and the spare room, embedded with twenty or more different security measures, he's sure of it, isn't home without his dad. But Tim makes due.

A fizzle of a static image before it clears up to something more solid, more real. The previous Robin, his Robin stands before him. Fully costumed, straight and tall like the good soldier he had been, with that sharp-witted, cocky smile plastered all over the live-feed, over the newspapers. A better Robin, perhaps.

He imagines the pressing weight of body-armor spreading over him, soaked through with perspiration, the heat-familiar and living flesh of another person caught inside. The intimacy. We're the same. We want the same things. Jason, teach me. Tim's hands methodically peel away his sweat-dried, red tunic, hands and fingertips too cold from the air-conditioning.

Far too cold. Buried deep beneath the moldy earth. Too far from him.

"Jay…" he whimpers, nickname slipping from his lips when Tim's fingers touch over, shaping his neck, using his other hand to palm over the faint bump of erection in his leggings. Teach me. He works himself to fullness, under the dead eyes of the hologram. It, he smiles, repeats Tim's name with such deliberation, and the teenager groans out breathy as a response, tightening the pressure of his gauntlet-fingers on his throat. Don't deserve this. Don't deserve you.

A dribble of pre-come wets Tim's fingers, lessening the burn of chaffing with a little slick-slide, but it's not worth bothering with relief.

He wants to feel. Wants to feel those strong hands he could only imagine punishing him, holding him down and bruising him, snatching away the oxygen from his lungs. Jason's smiling, cocky mouth traveling his hipbone, licking and sucking kisses to the ridge, biting, marking him.

The lightheaded, fluttery tingle in his stomach, behind his eyes and dizzily spinning his head sank to the stiff mattress. It all edges on the building pleasure, on Tim jacking himself with increasing speed and ferocity, like he wishes to go numb from it, and the pressure of his hand choking his own throat.

Asphyxiation, his textbook explains. Cerebral neurochemistry. Dopamine. β-endorphin. Neurotransmitters. 5-hydroxytryptamine.

It's close, what he wants, what he feels, so close and edging.

Tim's tongue feels heavy inside his mouth.


He can't cry out. Not with fingers so tight, the jerky, hurried movements under his uniform.

His eyes flick over to the hologram, over the red and black, over his trim, muscular features, where his midsection narrows towards his hips, and it's an ill want. Something he never had, never would have, something he idolized with every sparking, human fiber but never met. Wanted to latch onto, absorb and understand (an expansion of bare skin, push against, Jason's blood-cracked nails scratching him, everywhere, everywhere, feel everywhere)…

The space of his abdomen warming. Fluid. His vision graying out, as each pulse sounds louder in his eardrums. Grip loosening on his spasming throat.




Originally written for my pal Ronnie on Tumblr, after we made some… interesting, hypothetical theories about Tim's obsession with the Jason memorial and the fact that he could create his own hologram image whenever he wanted. Fixed up some things but essentially kept it as it was. Thought I'd share with you guys. Any and all comments are greatly appreciated~~