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Oh what fun the mind is. To touch, to control, to play with. To break.
The minds of others are Psimon’s own personal playground, free to mold and manipulate as he pleases. Just a gentle touch, a light suggestion, and humans submit so easily. Effortlessly.
It isn’t often that he encounters a challenge like this.
Certainly he’s encountered other metas, maybe a few Shadows, who have been able to put up a resistance to his psychic persuasions, but nothing of this caliber. When they’d met in the Biyalian desert, the girl had been the first to defeat him in a long while.
Psimon’s completed his current mission — manipulated the Quaraci diplomat into making the right moves for his Queen — and could have already fled from the embassy’s plush offices undetected, but he was intrigued. He’d wanted a rematch.
It is quickly becoming apparent that this had not been a fruitful line of thinking.
The Martian is just as talented at blocking him as she had been the last time they met, only now she has her whole team to support her. Athleticism has never been Psimon’s strong suit, and it’s a struggle running down the embassy halls to evade their attacks as he goads the girl through their psychic link. He tries a memory wipe, an effective little trick that had worked wonders before, but it seems the Martian girl is a fast learner. She easily blocks the attack from her team.
Out of options, he reaches his mind out through the corridor, pulling all of them into the psychic plane.
Foolish children. The humans are shocked, but even the metas look around in surprise at the change in their surroundings. The one clad in bright yellow makes some attempt at humor which goes unappreciated by his teammates.
Psimon has no time for those imbeciles though; his focus is concentrated on the Martian. None of his psychic probes are getting through. She’s too strong . Escape will be difficult now.
With psychic attacks out, he resorts to common psychological attacks. Taunts her. The Martian is hiding something, of that he is certain, though he was blocked out before being able to ascertain what exactly it is she so desperately doesn’t want her teammates to know. It triggers something in her, his pushing. Usually his goading weakens the mind, leaves emotionally compromised victims powerless to block his psychic intrusion any longer, but with this Martian… suddenly everything is amplified.
He needs to backtrack quickly. Find an escape route. He won’t be able to probe the Martian’s mind, not now that her defenses are raised. But her friends — he spares a glance towards the unwelcome interlopers — her friends certainly have secrets as well. And human minds are so very weak.
The boy, he decides. The youngest. Smallest. And something tells Psimon there will be interesting secrets to share in the brain of a Bat.
Robin puts up an admirable fight, for a human, but it’s still child's play to break in. What is he hiding? What doesn’t he want his team to see? That will be the key to Psimon making a successful retreat: Trap them in a memory and then flee while the teens-playing-at-heroes deal with the inevitable fallout.
It’s insultingly easy to find — the memory is still fresh in the boy’s brain and the first thing to leap out when Robin thinks about what he doesn’t want Psimon to see.
Psimon yanks the memory out, linking the children’s minds and letting the scene replay for all of them in vivid detail as he slips away.
Silk sheets below him, smooth and soft against his bare skin, clinging just a bit from the shimmer of sweat coating his body. He twists his fingers into the silk and takes a staccato breath when he feels a slick finger press against his entrance.
“Relax.”
His eyes fly open (when did he close them?).
Soft blue ones stare back at him. A small, reassuring smile curves up away from a handsome, chiseled jawline. Broad shoulders box him in, and the sculpted torso of a man littered with scars.
He inhales slowly. Holds. Allows all his muscles to go slack as he exhales.
The finger is back, rubbing small circles against the tight ring, but he doesn’t tense this time. He takes another deep breath and focuses on how it feels. Foreign, but good. Exciting. It sends little tingles through him.
Anticipation.
Blue eyes still stare at him but the finger doesn’t press again.
“You still doing okay, chum?”
“Yes. Bruce, please—”
He lets his thighs drop wider. Baring himself. Encouraging the man above him. Bruce.
The finger presses. It breaches him with little effort now, working it’s way further and further until it is all the way inside. Knuckles press at his rim.
It feels good. It feels not enough.
He rocks his hips back on it experimentally, earning another smile from Bruce. Bruce leans forward. Captures his lips again as Bruce gently slides the finger out. He whines. He doesn’t want it out. But Bruce doesn’t remove it all the way, only pulls it out a little before pressing it back in. Bruce repeats the motion a few times, in-out-in-out as Bruce’s teeth find his lip, and then Bruce’s finger finds something else, something amazing, something that makes sparks fly behind his eyes and his hips press frantically back against Bruce's finger.
Bruce chuckles, and he whines again. He doesn’t want to be laughed at, he just wants to feel good, and it feels so good but it’s not enough—
“Enjoying that?” Bruce’s teasing voice is familiar, but he doesn’t want to be teased. He just wants—
“More!”
Bruce chuckles again, and heat paints his face because he isn’t supposed to lose control like that. They’re supposed to be equal here even if he is the one with less experience (no experience), but he can’t form a more dignified response because Bruce gives him exactly what he demanded, slipping a second finger in alongside the first and pressing back against that spot that feels amazing and makes him see stars. Makes him want more — want Bruce.
Time is lost in a haze of pleasure — Bruce’s lips on his throat, fingers pumping steadily inside of him, his hand gently tugged away by Bruce when he attempts to reach for his cock which is hard and wanting and dripping against his stomach. He’s never been this hard, this aroused. He’s never experienced anything like this.
(Bruce drags the blocked hand up his body until it lands on his chest, giving him silent permission to play with his nipple. He takes it greedily, pinching and tugging on them the way Bruce had earlier in the night, long before that slick finger had found its way to his hole.)
Somewhere along the way a third finger is added. There’s pressure now, along with the sparks, but Bruce doesn’t rush. Takes time to work him open until his body is pliant and desperate, until he’s a sobbing mess on the bed, begging for nothing but Bruce.
And then Bruce is back there between his legs, spread wide and inviting. The fingers are pulled out and something much larger nudges his entrance.
He blinks up at Bruce with damp eyes (when did he start crying?)
“Chum—” There’s so much held in that single word, a mixture of awe and trepidation. Seeking permission that there was never any doubt he would give.
“Yes. I want you, Bruce. Please—”
The fingers of Bruce’s clean hand intertwine with one of his own, holding it down next to him on the bed, grasping it tightly as if Bruce never wants to let him go. Then Bruce presses in.
He gasps. There’s a stretch. It’s a lot — larger and harder than the fingers had been. But he wants it. Has wanted it for so long. He makes his body relax. Lets Bruce inside.
Bruce’s hand squeezes even tighter as he presses forward.
Full. So full, getting fuller and fuller until every inch of Bruce is buried inside him.
They're as deeply connected as any two people could be.
The way the two of them have always been. Only now it’s made physical.
Bruce kisses the corners of his eyes. His cheeks. His lips.
He kisses back. And Bruce moves.
Slowly at first. Gentle rocking that drags Bruce's hard cock across his prostate and extracts drawn out moans from his throat. Bruce gets bolder, pulling out further, pressing back in. Hitting that spot inside him that makes his toes curl and his brain disconnect from his body. Bruce sets up a rhythm, and it’s all he can do to twitch his hips back haphazardly in response, craving more.
Bruce’s lips never leave him, peppering kisses against his cheeks, his jaw, his throat. Bruce’s warm chest is pressed to his own, body draped over his. Encompassing him.
It’s over too quickly for him. Bruce wraps a calloused hand around his cock and it only takes a few firm tugs to have him cumming. His fingers dig desperately into Bruce’s broad shoulders.
“Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Bru—”
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
Bruce tries to pull out, but he moves quickly, clasping his legs around Bruce’s waist.
“No. I want you to—”
“Okay, chum.”
Bruce is moving again. It’s a lot. The drag of Bruce’s cock feels “too much” rather than “good,” but he wants this.
Bruce picks up the pace, hips snapping forward with each thrust. The fingers still holding his hand tighten almost painfully, as if Bruce is holding on to him for dear life. Then everything comes to a crescendo.
Bruce tenses. Groans. Fills him.
He feels proud. He did this. Him.
He reaches up to cup Bruce’s face.
“Bruce. I lov—”
Something bright yellow catches his attention. Wally is staring at them, eyes wide as if he’d just seen a ghost.
When did Wally get here, he doesn’t remember—
Bright green. Artemis next to him. And no, what is she doing here, what are they doing here, what—
Kaldur. Conner. Megan. They’re all here. Staring.
What are they doing here?
No, no, no, no. This is private. They aren’t supposed to be here.
Get out, get out, get out, get—
There is a collective gasp of air the moment they break free from the… whatever that was. Because there was no way it was a memory. It had to be another one of Psimon’s manipulations because there is no possible way that that had actually happened. It couldn’t. Not to Wally’s best friend.
Batman wouldn’t do that.
It wasn’t real, it wasn't real, it wasn’t real. But it felt real. Because Wally had witnessed every excruciating second of it when whatever Psimon did had left him—them—trapped in the (not) memory. He had seen every touch, every press of skin on skin, every inch forced into—
A shiver runs through him. He shakes his head vigorously, the world blurring around him.
Not real. Not real. Not real. Not real. Not —
“What the hell was that?” Connor growls, saying what Wally’s— what they’re all thinking.
Looking around, everyone looks just as shaken as Wally feels. Kaldur’s usually stoic eyes look lost, and Artemis looks positively pale. They’re all staring at something behind him. Wally twists until he too is facing —
Robin.
He’s not looking at any of them, instead his eyes are focused far too intently somewhere on the hallway carpet a few inches from M’gann’s left boot. His fingers are curled into tight, steadfast fists. The rest of his body is trembling.
The air hangs heavy, no one daring to move. Connor’s words seem to still be reverberating despite the silence of the hall.
Rob doesn’t speak. He seems frozen in place, cold horror covering him. Wally doesn’t know if he could answer any better than the rest of them anyways. Does anyone know what the hell just happened? How could Robin possibly offer up an explanation for what they just saw?
It doesn’t matter anyways, because it wasn’t real , but the way Robin is taking short, shallow breaths in through his nose is telling of the mounting panic he’s trying to contain. He looks fragile. Like he’s barely glued together and a slight blow would make him shatter to pieces.
Kaldur takes a tentative step forward.
“Was that… a memory?” The words are soft spoken, but they ring out so, so loud in the silence.
Robin stiffens.
“Yes,” M’gann’s voice is the same regretful tone that usually accompanies her apologies. “Psimon was trying to hurt me—us—by revealing our secrets. He was trying to go after me but I blocked him. I guess he switched targets. I'm so sorry, Robin, I should have stopp—"
“Wait, so that was all real? Then what the heck was going on? I may only be a few months old, but even I know that that is not okay.”
“Robin, this is very concerning—”
“Was… that Bruce Wayne?”
Robin jerks, twisting to stare at Artemis in horror. For one, long millisecond, Wally’s brain goes into damage-control mode—Batman and Robin’s identities are heavily guarded secrets and if this caused them to be compromised—
Then it hits him like a punch to the gut.
That was Bruce in the memory. The person who had… done that… who had raped Wally’s best friend. Was Batman. The person Dick trusted and relied on most.
Anger wells up within him, roaring flames fanning up from his gut through his chest until he feels like he’s going to explode with it, open his mouth like a dragon and breathe fire to roast Bruce Wayne alive—Batman and Justice League be damned.
“Rob—”
Smart, quick-witted, funny Robin, who can manipulate any situation, talk his way out of anything and cover up any unwanted information leaks with a bit of misdirection and few fast one-liners… is silent. Instead, he jerks away from Wally’s reaching arm, a noise escaping his throat that Wally doesn’t want to admit sounds like a choked back sob. And he runs.
“Robin!”
Five voices ring out, but Wally is the only one who follows.
With his super speed, he could catch Dick in an instant, but Wally lets him go until he pushes out through a fire exit, collapsing onto the ground as soon as he’s outside. Wally approaches slowly. This is… this is huge. And Dick’s going to need his best friend here to support him through it. He can see the flare of Robin’s nostrils working rapidly as he gets close to hyperventilating again. As Wally approaches Robin’s prone form, he suddenly hears something that makes his stomach pool with ice.
“—compromised. N-need… immediate extraction.”
Robin is whimpering into his comm, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who he’s placed the call to.
“Robin, what the hell?”
Robin jerks, staring up at him as if he hadn’t even been aware of Wally’s presence.
“You’re calling him?”
“Leave me alone, KF.” Robin rises on shaky legs and moves into a defensive stance that has only ever been used against Wally during Black Canary’s training exercises. “It’s none of your business—”
“Bullshit, Rob. You’re my best friend. If you think I’m going to let you run back to your abuser—”
“He’s not—! You don’t know what you’re talking about, he’s—”
“I saw the memory, Rob. We all did. You can’t hide this.”
Robin flinches as if Wally’s words had been a physical attack.
Shit. He messed up. Yelling at an abuse victim is not the right way to handle things, Wally.
“It’s alright,” he tries again, softer. “We know now. We won’t let him hurt you again.”
He steps closer, reaching out to comfort his best friend, but Robin thrashes away from his touch, eyes fire.
“He’s not hurting me,” Robin spits. “He’s my boyfriend, and it’s none of your business. You had no right to—”
“Boyfriend? Since when are you even—? And he’s… what? Twice your age? Not to mention he’s basically your dad. Rob, that’s messed up, how can you not see—”
The world suddenly goes black around them and Wally chokes, coughing on the rest of his words.
Smoke bomb.
He spins with the speedforce, hurricane winds blowing away the dark fog. Robin has already vanished.
Wally doesn’t bother to look for him. A Bat that doesn’t want to be found won’t be found.
Everyone is waiting where he left them, and they look less than ‘traut’ when they see him trudging back without the Boy Wonder in tow.
“Is he—?”
“Took off. Called Batman to pick him up.” The name feels sour on his tongue.
“Well at least we know he’ll be safe then.”
Wally looks at Superboy incredulously. Then it hits him. They don’t know. Can Wally even tell them? Can he betray Rob’s trust like that? But how is he supposed to help him—
“How can we be sure?” Yes! Wally could kiss Artemis right now! She continues, “I mean… Batman knows everything, right? There’s no way he wouldn’t know about… something like that.”
“You believe Batman would allow Robin to be abused?” Aqualad sounds doubtful.
“Maybe as an Atlantean you didn’t recognize him, but that guy in Robin’s memory? I’m pretty sure that was Bruce Wayne. He’s basically the richest guy in Gotham. Maybe even on the planet.”
“So?” Superboy growls. “What does that have to do with Batman?”
“Sooo, didn’t Batman tell us before that Wayne was the one who provided the funds for the League’s HQ?”
Aqualad stares at her. “So you think that Batman may have used Robin to…. garner favor with this ‘Wayne’?”
“I’m just saying it’s a possibility,” she mumbles, wrapping an arm around herself. The weight of the idea is crushing, even if Wally knows the truth. At least they’re on the right track.
“Batman is a hero, and one of the founding members of the Justice League. I do not wish to believe him capable of such a horrific deed. However… if there is any possibility your theory is true, we must consider it. For Robin’s sake. Our course of action should be to contact the League then. Discreetly.”
“I don’t think we should.”
Everyone turns to stare at Miss Martian.
“What?” Wally barely restrains himself from shouting. “Our friend is being abused and you want us to do nothing about it?”
“This is exactly what Psimon wanted. He didn’t show us that memory so we could get Robin help. He did it to distract and divide us.” Her voice is sorrowful, as if she blames herself for everything that happened. She doesn’t meet any of their eyes as she speaks. “And it worked… we didn’t even notice him escaping.”
Whipping his head around Wally realizes for the first time that she’s right—Psimon is nowhere to be seen. He’d been so focused on Robin… on Batman , that he had honestly forgotten about the enemy they had actually come here for.
Add that to the list of failures.
“So, what’s your point? We failed at the mission so we should let our friend keep being abused?” Wally snaps.
“No. What I mean is, Robin didn’t share that memory willingly. We… saw what we saw without his consent. So it isn’t up to us to do anything with the memory. If we want to help him, we should wait for him to approach us. That needs to be his decision.”
Artemis scoffs, echoing Wally’s sentiment.
“Plus… you noticed, didn’t you?” Megan continues, her cheeks tinting red. “In the memory, Robin didn’t seem distressed. He seemed… he was enjoying it.”
Wally’s own face is aflame in an instant. He doesn’t want to think about it, the way Robin had been touched, filled, shaken as an orgasm ripped through him. He didn’t need to see his best friend like that. Especially not with Batman as the one doing those things to him.
“Miss Martian has a point,” Aqualad says.
Wally’s stomach sinks.
“It’s not right to enter someone’s mind without their consent,” Superboy agrees, speaking from experience.
“At the very least we should discuss the issue with Robin before taking any further course of action.”
“Fine,” Artemis says, Wally’s last ally admitting defeat.
Everyone turns to him. Waiting for him to agree. They don’t understand that Robin is in danger right now, flying alone with Bruce Wayne in the Batplane somewhere over the Bialyian desert. And there’s no way to make them understand.
He murmurs a tentative agreement, and although his voice is dripping with dissatisfaction, they take him at his word, considering the issue settled as they trudge silently back to the Bioship. It’s quiet in the cockpit, but Robin’s empty seat is screaming at all of them.
Wally spends the ride home debating whether he should contact the Flash first or if it will be better to go straight to Superman.