The Secret Life of Superheroes, a birthday tale for Robin Just-Robin
Summary: When Batman's archenemy puts Robin's life on the line, can Batman solve the ultimate riddle and save his trusty sidekick, all of Gotham, and possibly even himself? Holy sexual ambiguity, Batman! A birthday one-shot for Just Robin. Rated M
"Master Wayne, wake up! Commissioner Gordon has flashed the Bat-Signal. Gotham is in danger!"
"What the fuck, Alfred?" Bruce whined. "Why can't that guy learn how to use a damn cell phone?"
"Yes, sir." Alfred sighed heavily, Batman's unitard slung over one arm and his employer's coffee—cream and two Equals—outstretched in the other. "I'm afraid there's a bit more, sir."
Alfred flinched as Bruce turned his intense emerald eyes on his butler and snapped, "More what?"
"I'm afraid Robin is not answering his cell."
"What?" Bruce felt his heart begin to race, and he fought to remain calm. "Did you use the Batline?"
"Sir, I used everything. Even your private cell," he added most reluctantly.
Bruce turned pained eyes on his long-trusted caretaker and nodded solemnly. Forcing the covers off his nearly-naked body (his Batman briefs being his one very private indulgence), he swung into action. As Bruce downed the coffee, Alfred brought him up to speed on his conversation with the commissioner.
"Thank you, Alfred. I'll meet you in the Batcave."
His trusty servant nodded and left him alone to take his morning dump and a much-abbreviated shower. Though his butler had free rein of Bruce's life, the bathroom was the one place Alfred never intruded. Oh yes, Alfred knew all Bruce's secrets—of which there were many. That he was Batman was, of course, the most secret of all the secrets, but Alfred also knew about all the girls who came and went through the revolving door of his employer's bedroom. Alfred tried to look the other way, but it bothered him that his charge was unsettled. He knew a superhero needed a stable home life in order to go out into the world and do what was expected of him.
However, here—in the inner sanctum, the immaculate white-tiled privacy of his man-chamber—Bruce was able to plumb the depths of his heart. And it was here, in his cavernous shower, where Bruce had first begun admitting to himself only very recently that something was definitely bothering him about Robin.
He suspected that Alfred had seen the stirrings of an erection under his Batman briefs just now but prayed the man would attribute it to Bruce's highly sexualized nature and not the fact that he'd just mentioned Robin, the fact that his sidekick was in danger notwithstanding. A mention is a mention, and coming upon the heels of the erotic dream Alfred had interrupted—a jumble of skin-tight green shorts, elbow-length gloves, a chest-hugging red T-shirt cinched at the waist with a thick gold belt, a bright yellow cape, and always the damn black mask—Robin's name was enough to bring up Bruce's thick erection.
Despite the annoying headline running through his mind ("Gotham in trouble; Batman whacks off before answering signal") Bruce took his painfully hard cock in his hand and pressed his forehead against the cool tiles as the double shower head beat down upon his muscular back. He worked his palm quickly over the pulsating length, letting those images from his dream revisit his consciousness. Supple thighs, tight green ass, trim waist, intense blue eyes, and—just before his release—Robin on his knees before him, the sumptuous, red lips with that undeniably feminine bow wrapped around Bruce's cock.
"Nnngg," he groaned, both losing himself in the fantasy and fighting it at the same time.
"Batman's…not…gay…" he grunted into the wall as a ribbon of white cum sprayed the tiles, following up with, "not that there's anything wrong with it."
"Batman, thank God you've come," said Commissioner Gordon. "This envelope was delivered two hours ago."
Bruce sneered, "Two hours? Why the h—why didn't you signal me sooner?"
Gordon turned bright red. "We couldn't get the Bat-Signal to work. I had to call in the A/V guys…seems our projector lamp burned out."
"Oh for fu—" Bruce cleared his throat and started again, swallowing his frustration. "That is unacceptable, Commissioner."
"I'm sorry, Batman. Here," he said, handing him a tightly-sealed baggie.
Bruce felt a cold chill run down his spine as the familiar green envelope with a black question mark settled into his hand. "The Riddler."
"I'm afraid so."
Bruce tore through the plastic and slid his gloved finger under the edge of the envelope, opening it carefully in case there was a toxic substance inside. He felt the perspiration under his armpits, but his specially-formulated suit wicked it away just as quickly. The stationery was folded over once, with the usual message on the outside, "Riddle me this, Batman." He took a quick, deep breath, then opened the flap and read:
Not really a bird, this gaily-clad pest
Annoyed his folks so much he got tossed from the nest.
"It's Robin," Bruce gasped. "The Riddler's got him."
"Oh dear Lord, no," wailed the commissioner. "Where? How?"
Bruce read on:
His red-breasted song is the first sign of this
The season of mating, a lover's first kiss
I'll end it today, send it down in flames,
Or might the Caped Crusader be up for some games?
Bruce gazed off into the distance so he could work out the riddle. "The red-breasted robin's song is the first sign of spring…how does one 'end spring?'"
"The Gotham City Mattress Factory!" Bruce had to hand it to Gordon. He was brilliant at solving these riddles, if not a complete disaster at every other aspect of crime fighting.
"'Send it down in flames'…I have to get down there!"
"Go, Batman. Godspeed!"
Bruce flew down the stairwell and jumped into his car, conveniently parked in the "Reserved for the Batmobile" spot by the front door of the precinct. Pulling away from the curb, he knew he needed the steady voice of his most trusted friend in the world.
"It's Riddler; he's holding Robin down at the old mattress factory."
"It's a trap."
"Shocking," Bruce sassed, then instantly felt awful. "Sorry, Alfred. It's just…it's Robin…" Bruce's voice choked over the lump in his throat.
Alfred's voice rang out through the surround-sound speakers in the Batmobile. "Use your head, Bruce…set your heart aside."
He knows, Bruce realized suddenly. He allowed himself a brief moment of panic—Who else suspects I might be gay?—before gathering himself. "Batman out."
Taking Alfred's sound advice, Bruce closed off his confusing feelings for his colorful sidekick, shifted the Batmobile into twelfth gear, and rushed to the waterfront. Time was most definitely of the essence, but Bruce knew that Riddler would wait for Batman; the game was for him and him alone.
His gut twisted uncomfortably, and Bruce was grateful his stomach was empty.
Bruce leapt out of his car, pushing through the front door of the factory, which was not only open but had an enormous green arrow pointing the way.
"Fucking Riddler. I'd like to stuff that fucking question mark staff of his up his fucking…"
"Welcome, Batboob!" The familiar voice over the broadcast system stopped Bruce in his tracks. "Where exactly did you say you'd like to put that staff? Heeheeeheeeheee!"
Keep your head, Wayne, he reminded himself. Robin needs you…
"We're waiting for you, Batloser," he taunted.
Bruce tore down the hallways as fast as his black boots would carry him, following the crazy zigzag route Riddler's goons had set up for him. Up three flights, across the hall, down two, up six more, finally drawing him outside the window on the ninth floor, where the next arrow stuck to the side of the building pointed up. Bruce fastened his utility rope to the end of his Batarang and tossed it to the top of the building around the iron railing. With his soles pressed firmly against the side of the building, Bruce followed the rope up, hand over hand, missing the sight of Robin's tight little green ass in front of him and the occasional brush of his bottom against Bruce's thighs.
A window opened, and two goons dressed in green question-mark-covered jumpsuits popped their heads out. Something tells me I'm not the only sexually ambiguous character in this story, Bruce reflected.
"You're just in time for the barbecue!" one said, causing both to dissolve into hysterical laughter.
Bruce retrieved his Batarang and secured it to his utility belt, hopped inside the open window, and quickly took in the scene before him. It wasn't a pretty sight.
At one end of the room was what appeared to be a scale model of Gotham City tightly wound in heavy twine. Bruce's eye followed the twine along the floor to the middle of the room, where it climbed like a rogue vine, starting at one leg of a wooden X-cross nailed to the floor wrapping several times around the short green boot he would recognize anywhere, across approximately fifty inches, Bruce calculated, to the other boot, then up to the top of the widespread beams, where each of Robin's wrists was similarly tethered. His heart jumped to his throat as Bruce's gaze followed the twine around a red rubber ball gag which was forced between the lips of none other than the Boy Wonder, then trailed another sixty inches away into the hands of his arch enemy, The Riddler.
"Hm hmm, mmmm!" Robin's strangled cries drew Bruce's eyes up to his friend's charcoal mask. Robin's deep blue eyes moved frantically side to side, screaming "Batman, NO!" to his crime-fighting partner with the only part of his body that wasn't shackled. Bruce gave Robin a pointed stare, letting him know that he would save them both—and Gotham City while he was at it.
"You weren't your usual speedy self today, Batchump. What gives?" Riddler's grating voice drew Bruce's attention back on him. "Problems with the Bat-Signal this morning? Or did your commissioner have trouble working out the riddle this time?"
"What's your game, Riddler?" Bruce knew he didn't have time to take out The Riddler and all his extras and save Robin and the city. Besides, he had no idea what kind of booby-trap the diabolical trickster had set for him this time.
"Your little friend seems to have a short fuse," he taunted, the anonymous goons chiming in like hyenas.
Suddenly, the green people lunged at Bruce from every direction, dragging him by the arms and legs to the opposite side of the cross. Robin's eyes grew wide as his partner's feet were bound to the wood beams. Bruce stood by helplessly as his arms were pulled around Robin's body, and his wrists were crossed at the boy's lower back.
"Just like we talked about, boys," Riddler cackled, then Bruce felt his fingers forced open so they were cupping Robin's thinly-clad ass. If Bruce had a thought about moving them, it was no match against the tight rope now weaving them tightly in place. He was grateful for his thick rubber mask; the last thing Bruce needed right now was to be blushing like a goddamn girl.
Bruce turned apologetic eyes to his friend. "Sorry, chum."
"Mmm," Robin gritted out through the gag, reminding Bruce that perhaps he had even bigger problems.
The men stared resignedly into each other's eyes while their chests were bound tightly together nipple to nipple. Another rope was forced around the two just under both men's utility belts, and Bruce had a flash of hot desire as the goons wrapped the twine tighter and tighter and his pelvis was forced to meet Robin's belly. Bruce was more thankful than ever for the extra four inches of height he had on the Boy Wonder, which allowed his stiffening cock to at least press into a safer spot on his partner's body than his own equipment, not that anywhere was exactly ideal.
"Don't worry, Robin, I'll get us out of this hot mess." Robin did not look hopeful.
Bruce's attention was diverted when Riddler lit a match and held it near the tail of the twine. "This rope," he hissed, "is a specially-treated weave derived from our fair city's own Gotham elm."
"Thank you for the botany lesson, Riddler," Bruce gutted out impatiently. "Any particular reason you're telling us this?"
"Patience, Batfreak, I'm getting to that. Now, once lit, this fuse will burn quickly. As you can see, the blaze will weave its way straight to our red-breasted warbler's mouth, around your deliciously intertwined torsos, hands and feet, and across the room to this model of Gotham City."
"You brought us here to blow up a model of the city? And I should care why?"
Riddler's eyes narrowed. "You're testing my patience, Bathole. Obviously, the model is a metaphor. You do know what that word means, right?"
"Twelve years of the best public education Gotham city taxes can buy," Bruce answered.
Riddler chuckled appreciatively. "I'll take that as a 'no.' A metaphor is used to represent something else; in this case, that would be the actual city of Gotham which will light up like the Fourth of July with a series of well-placed dynamite blasts if you two overgrown trick-or-treaters fail to pass my little test."
"What's the test?"
"Honestly, Batfucker, I thought you'd never ask. Very simply, the rope will not burn if it's wet. There's only one way to stop this whole city from going up in flames, and it lies right there between Tinkerbelle's lips. He can only get half the rope wet, being bound and gagged and all. So here's your last riddle for today: How does one man get something inside another man's mouth wet enough that it won't burn?"
Robin blinked like a trapped fox contemplating chewing his leg off to escape the metal jaws, but Bruce was already onto more practical matters.
"And if we pass?"
Riddler smiled benevolently, moving the match away from the fuse. "Then we're done here. You go back to the Batcave and do whatever it is you do in there; I live to torture you another day."
"What do you want, Riddler? Why the elaborate game?"
"Yes." Riddler sighed heavily. "I'm afraid it doesn't cast me in the best light, but I can't help it. I'm just really fucking curious about you two. I mean, you're worse than Sam and Diane, Ross and Rachel, Rocky and Bullwinkle…will they, won't they…you two are the one riddle I just can't solve, and it's tearing me apart inside!"
Robin's eyebrows shot up about the same time as Bruce's, though with the masks, only the two of them knew it.
"You're bi-curious…about us?"
Riddler answered simply, "Yes."
"Wow. This is an all-time low, even for you."
"I have only one thing to say to that, Batdouche. Pucker up!"
The flare of the match striking the rope was reflected in Robin's eyes, and Bruce knew what he had to do.
"Sorry again, chum," he told his sexually ambiguous friend. Knowing he had no time to waste, Bruce set his tongue to work on the rope. Within moments of licking the first strand of twine, Bruce's mouth was as arid as the Sahara. He didn't understand what was happening until he heard the insane cackling of The Riddler again.
"Oh, did I fail to mention the 'treatment' included a special parching powder? Silly me!" Hideous laughter filled the room, the cast of human boogers adding their chorus.
Bruce's mind raced with the added challenge. How was he going to manufacture the saliva he needed to get this job done? That's when he noticed the stream of drool sliding out the side of Robin's mouth beneath the gag.
"For the citizens of Gotham," he said nobly, before swiping a puddle from the corner of Robin's lips with his tongue and applying it to the rope.
"More…drool," Bruce murmured to Robin, who blinked once to show he understood. The two settled into a kind of rhythm, drool…swipe, drool…swipe, and soon Bruce forgot that he was actually lapping at his friend's lips repeatedly, and with an audience, the same lips he'd dreamt about wrapping around his cock this morning.
Robin faltered momentarily as Bruce's cock twitched anew, but Bruce gave him a stern look, and Robin got his act together. Bruce side-eyed the rope and saw the lit fuse drawing closer, a handful of inches away. His tongue moved quicker, pressing into the gag sloppily, hitting Robin's lips as often as not.
As the flame approached Robin's mouth, Bruce leaned in and closed his lips over the Boy Wonder's, pressing his tongue against the twine in a last-ditch effort to squelch the fire. The two men felt the heat of the flame as it singed the skin of their lips before sizzling and dying in their joined mouths. Bruce pulled back, and the two men gazed into each other's eyes, seeing relief—but something else as well.
Bruce startled at the sound of applause behind him, and he turned his head to see The Riddler grinning his ugly face off and clapping his hands. Seconds later, of course, he was joined by the rest of them.
"Untie them, boys," Riddler ordered, then added, "unless of course, you'd like us to leave Robin ready for you on the cross, Batbent?"
Bruce hated the vision that lodged in his head right then, and hated even more that Riddler read his mind. "Hold everything! Was that a yes, Batbutt pirate?"
Bruce cleared his throat. "Just untie my hands and leave us alone."
"You delight me, you oddly-attired superhero. As you wish."
With a tornado of hideous laughter, the green people left the two crime fighters alone. Bruce retrieved his Batblade from his utility belt and immediately began slicing through the twine holding the gag in Robin's mouth. When the last thread finally gave out, Bruce gently released the gag from Robin's mouth and worked his fingers over the rough grooves scratched into the boy's cheeks. Bruce itched to kiss him again, but he wouldn't do that to the boy—not here, not now, not without his willing participation. Robin licked his lips and watched silently while his friend cut the rest of the ropes and set them both free.
"Let's get out of here." Bruce slipped out the window and sent the Batarang around the railing once more, grabbing the rope and preparing to back down the building. Robin hopped into place in front of Bruce, the curve of his tight green ass sitting just above Bruce's thigh. Bruce was still painfully hard, and the sight of Robin's hamstrings flexing just inches away wasn't helping. Hand over hand, he concentrated on getting down the building. Once his feet hit the ground, Bruce quickly tugged down his utility belt, hoping to cover his enormous problem.
With Robin safely down, Bruce retrieved his Batarang and the two made for the Batmobile.
"ROOF…CLOSE." The bulletproof glass closed over their heads as the Batmobile sped off toward home. Robin pulled off his heavy green gloves, tossed them to the floor, and pulled his fingers through his short dark hair.
Bruce glanced across to look at his passenger. "You're lucky."
"How do you figure?" Robin answered.
"With just the eye mask, you don't have to deal with hat head."
Robin burst out laughing. "Oh yeah, I'm a lucky one, all right."
The mood lighter, Bruce was able to turn his attention to the road—not that the Batmobile needed the human to watch where it was going—but he felt Robin's eyes upon him. "Hey, thanks for saving me."
"Any time," Bruce answered. If Robin didn't stop staring soon, Bruce was sure his little problem would be discovered, so he diverted the boy's attention. "Ya hungry? Wanna go grab some breakfast?"
Robin turned suddenly in his seat. "You know what really steams me, Batman?"
Bruce bit the inside of his cheek so he didn't smile at his friend's old-fashioned rap. "No, what?"
Robin smashed his fist into the palm of the opposite hand. "We didn't even get to use any of our POWs or WHAMs. I love those things!"
Damn, the boy is adorable when he's riled, Bruce thought. "Yeah," he agreed. "We might have to get the art department to make a new expletive for us after this one. SMOOCH!"
Bruce's joke dropped like a lead balloon between them, both men realizing simultaneously there was nothing even slightly funny about their kiss.
"Sorry," he apologized. "That was in bad taste."
"Terrible," Robin agreed, and Bruce tasted the horrible parching elm twine on the back of his tongue once again. "Just for the record," Robin started, waiting for Bruce to turn, so he did, and Robin continued, "I usually taste much better than that."
"That's good to know, Robin." Stoic as ever, Bruce turned back to face the road.
"How about you?" Robin pressed. "How do you taste?"
Bruce's jaw dropped as his friend's question washed over him. "How the fu—heck should I know and why the fu—heck are you asking?" Alfred was always chastising him for his foul language, and he always tried to be a positive influence on his young ward.
Bruce watched in terrified fascination as Robin's bare hand slid across the center console, rolling briefly but very suggestively over the gear shift, before coming to rest on Bruce's knee. With just the tights between Robin's hot hand and Bruce's skin, Bruce could feel the press of every fingertip on his thigh. Bruce was afraid to look up into the eyes of the boy, afraid with one look, he'd give himself away, so he continued watching the hand with morbid fascination as it slid closer and closer to his black latex superhero outerwear briefs.
"Robin? What're you doing?"
"Unbuckle your damn utility belt, Batman."
Bruce threw his head back against the headrest with great exasperation. "What's the point?"
"The point is…" Robin's hand slid over the enormous bulge poking out of Batman's superhero costume, "I want to suck your dick."
"Come on, Batman. I know you want me. Who do you think you're kidding with this act?"
"DUDE!" Something inside Bruce snapped, and he turned his head violently toward Robin. "Even if I take off the belt and pull down these black…things, my unitard fucking starts at my ears and goes down to my toes and it unzips down the back and it will be impossible for you to get your lips anywhere close to my dick. OKAY?"
Robin burst out laughing, the relief of Batman's admission making him giddy. "Okay, dude." He squeezed Batman's erection once more. "How about a handjob instead?"
Bruce looked over at the boy, his eyes reflecting back a playful, youthful joy. "You want to make me jizz my Batman suit?"
"Sure. Why not? You've got a damn butler, haven't you?"
Bruce closed his eyes and pinched them tightly with his long fingers. "Robin, I'm not gay."
Robin snorted. "What the fuck was that kiss then?"
"I was saving your life, remember?"
"Mmhmm. Well, it just so happens, I'm not gay either."
Bruce opened his eyes and turned to face the green and red enigma that was ruining his life. "Did you not just offer to suck my dick?"
"That seems pretty gay to me."
"Not if you're a girl, dummy." Robin smiled widely and pulled off her mask.
For the first time ever, Bruce was able to see her beautifully sculpted brows and the full effect of her high cheek bones. Those lips, that had always seemed so feminine to Bruce, actually were the plump, delicate lips of a beautiful girl. His eyes drifted down her chest. He'd never noticed the slight crest below her "R" before, but now he could see it, a definite curve. He dropped his eyes lower, below the belt, to those short green spandex things he'd admired coming down the building. That tight little ass, those creamy athletic thighs…he laughed out loud as he realized how clueless he'd been.
"Holy homoerotic confusion averted, Robin!"
"Not that there's anything wrong with it," Robin added, giggling like the girl she was.
"All this time," Bruce muttered. "I think they're gonna have to change my nickname to 'In-the-Dark Knight.' Is Robin even your real name?"
"Pfft! Is yours Batman?"
"Touché. Why did you pretend to be a boy...and you can't very well accuse me of lying there. You felt the evidence."
"I sure did...ahem. I didn't think you'd take me seriously as a sidekick if you knew the truth. Besides, I know all about the parade of girls. I didn't want to be the next notch on your utility belt."
Bruce nodded. She was right; his behavior in the past had been pretty darn abominable, but she was different—obviously. "I would never do that to you, Robin…or whatever."
"I know, and I'm sorry for the torture you must've gone through back there. That Riddler is one fucked-up freak of an archenemy."
"Like the Joker's any better?"
"I need to know how old you are—truth now."
"Twenty-five. And you're thirty-eight. Think you can keep up with me?"
"Oh, I seriously doubt it." Bruce couldn't stop smiling, and his face was starting to hurt. "So what do you propose we do about this situation?"
"Oh, gee, I don't know. Maybe get you home and out of that superstrength chastity suit so I can properly express my appreciation?"
Robin laughed at Bruce's sudden change of plans, and she most definitely approved.
"Sir, I've been waiting for your call."
"Sorry, Alfred. We were tied up. All is well. I have Robin. The citizens of Gotham are safe. We'll meet you in the Batcave in seventeen minutes."
"Very good, sir."
"And Alfred, we're starved. Whip us up some Egg McMuffins, would you?"
"Absolutely, sir. And greetings, Master Robin."
Bruce grinned across the stick shift at his friend's shy smile. "Holy overstarched shirts, Alfred. It's Robin. Just Robin."
A/N: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Robin! Hope you liked this little cartoonish crackfic in honor of your greenness. I had a little help, and here's a shout-out to Soapy for helping me brainstorm this a few weeks back when she created your group. She hinted you might like a slash, and honestly, this started out that way, but you see what happened. Big cartoon expletive SMOOCHes to Shell Shock and Intricacy Alterite for pre-reading and helping me iron out some things that weren't quite lying flat. And HOLY COMMA SPLICE to your favorite beta and mine, Chayasara. MWAH. Love you, ya little green thing! Hope your birthday is as special as you are. xxx ~BOH