Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sidekicks rarely visit the Watchtower. Ollie himself would never dream of letting Roy tag along—too much responsibility when all he wants to worry about is saving the world. Which… is why it always fascinates him when Batman does the opposite.

To be fair, Robin is quite mature for his age, brought up by Batman, trained in combat and investigations while listening to speeches about vengeance. He’s got more tactical training than most other sidekicks Ollie’s known; Ollie can see the leader he’ll be one day. It might even worry him, make him shudder thinking about another Batman in the making, if Robin’s personality hasn’t differed so much from his mentor.

Then, there’s the other thing.

The men’s locker room isn’t always the most relaxing place in the Watchtower; it’s where post-battle adrenaline finds time to cool down, cursed by the musky smell of masculine sweat and bodily fluids. Altercations happen here, some so violent they’ve caused damages—benches thrown, lockers knocked down. Which is why having this kid—not even fifteen, wearing a bright smile and a domino mask and literally nothing else, chatting up a storm with any adult leaguer—that much more bizarre.

Also, no one can even focus on what the kid’s saying because of what he’s packing.

Robin comes out of the shower without a towel, proudly displaying his… assets as if nothing is wrong. He’s talking animatedly about the adventure he just had with Roy and Wally and Donna, speaking to no one in particular. Clark sees him, blushes, and hastily pulls a towel over his own much less impressive toolkit. Barry is much less embarrassed, though, and keeps stealing curious glances down Robin’s crotch.

“As I was saying,” Robin continues, “then Wonder Girl had to tie them up with her rope and—”

Ollie turns away, doesn’t see Barry stopping everything he’s doing to listen to Robin rant, and proceeds into the shower.

By the time he finishes, Clark’s already left and Barry is kneeling in front of Robin with the boy’s amazing nine inches down his esophagus.

“—and then they ran off with their tails between their legs like frightened little mice—” Robin continues perkily while thrusting his hips, plunging his gigantic cock down the speedster’s throat. “Aw… Yeah… That’s some good shit, Uncle Barry.”

Barry’s in his sweatpants and shirt, blonde hair damp with sweat. He keeps his mouth busy—cheeks hollowed, amazingly no gag reflex when the cock slides down his throat in an enormous bulge, covered in spit whenever he rocks back to reveal the thick, dark, uncut meat lined with veins.

It all becomes more frantic when Barry speeds, fucking his head on Robin’s crotch faster until he’s vibrating. Robin grunts, stops ranting, and slams his hips into Barry’s vibrator of a throat until he comes with a groan.

“Fuck… that was good.” Robin pauses, looking nervous. “Don’t tell Batman I said fuck.”

Barry laps up every drop of the boy’s release before hopping to his feet, tugging off his shirt, shirking off his sweatpants, all but draping himself on top of a wooden bench with his naked ass on display. He spreads his cheek to reveal the pucker between them, which Robin presses with his fingertip, drenched in spit.

“Oh, yeah… Oh fuck. Fuck me with that thing you got, Robin.”

Robin pushes a finger in, sinking to the knuckle. He curls it as Barry rocks his hips against him.

“Why don’t we ask Uncle Ollie if he wants to join us? It’d be rude not to,” Robin says, turning his head to the clueless voyeur. “Uncle Ollie?”

Ollie sees Robin—his small stature, his erect, glossy cock, nine inches standing, twitching to life—and thinks, oh, fuck. He’s enthralled by that thing, so thick and long and meaty, and he can’t turn his eyes away. Would it be bad to take the offer without telling Bruce first?

“What are you waiting for, Uncle Ollie?” Robin says while Barry rolls his eyes in annoyance.

The boy makes Ollie wonder what Batman and Robin do in their downtime; what their relationship is like. It makes him all hot and bothered imagining Bruce with his clothes off, wearing only a cowl, baring his ass, fucked by his sidekick.

Ollie tosses away the towel, walks over, gets on top of the bench while straddling Barry. His powerful leg muscles make it easy to hold this position for a long time—his ass out, his torso leaning forward. His and Barry’s asses stack vertically.

“Show me what you’ve got, kid.”

Robin jumps onto the both of them and eats their asses like a kid in an ice cream buffet, licking one after the other, swirling his tongue over their rims, stabbing it into their puckers. Barry moans like a bitch. Ollie isn’t like him—or he’d like to think he’s not. He ends up moaning all the same.

He even swears and begs Robin to fuck him when he finally feels the engorged tip of that massive cock against his hole; when Robin thrusts in, Ollie feels like a skewer. Robin impales him on his monster of a dick and fucks stars into his eyes.

Robin cycles through them, fucking one ass after the other, never leaving one cold for too long, but Ollie still finds himself empty whenever that monster dick isn’t penetrating his guts. He spits dirty talk like a whore (that he’s definitely going to forget when this is over) while rocking to Robin’s rhythm, listening to Barry doing the same. Their asses push back against the boy’s dick like moving cocksleeves.

When Robin cums down their guts, he divides his release so both leaguers get a fair amount. And Robin has a lot.

That’s how Robin leaves them there that day, fucked out, stacked, their asses overflowing with Robin’s cum while Ollie rehearses how he’s going to tell Bruce about this.

“So… Yeah. I dropped my pants in front of your sidekick and bared my ass and—”

Fuck.