
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12109323.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      DCU
  Character:
      Jason_Todd, The_Batman_Who_Laughs, Robin_(DCU)
  Additional Tags:
      vore_Robins, Blood_Drinking, Painful_Sex, Guro, Crying, Rimming, Tongues,
      Biting, Monsters, Prostate_Milking, Dry_Humping, Grinding, Soft
      Insertion, Begging, Fear, Guilt, Master/Pet, Fivesome_-_M/M/M/M/M
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-09-16 Words: 2507
****** Fetch ******
by MissNaya
Summary
     Jason meets the Robins owned by The Batman Who Laughs. Turns out,
     they want to play.
Notes
     please read all tags before continuing! seriously, you don't want to
     just wander into this fic blind!
     underage warning because, even though the vore Robins are technically
     ages-old manifestations of an evil god, they still look like, well,
     Robin. also, there's no tag for "dubious xenophilia/bestiality where
     a guy gets fucked by human-looking things that act like weird, rabid
     animals," so there's that, too.
     from a prompt on my_tumblr:
     I'm on bended knee, begging you to write about the vore robins trying
     to fuck Jason. Just pinning him down and using him. Making him feel
     embarrassed and degraded by a bunch of half pint pipsqueaks. It would
     be practically cathartic.
     well, this is... something like that! enjoy!
See the end of the work for more notes
They look familiar; maybe that's what stops Jason dead in his tracks. Not just
the bloostained little Robin costumes, the ones from his and Dick's time,
before the era of pants and cloaks, though they're a blast from the past in and
of themselves. But the hair, the structure of their faces, their stature, it
all paints a picture not unlike a distant memory.
And then he's on his back, not able to see much of anything but yellow, green,
and so much red.
The Robins screech like something right out of Hell, with voices that layer and
echo in a way no human could possibly match. The only shot Jason manages to
fire off sails past them into the distance before impossibly sharp claws drag
the guns out of his hands. All the while, they chitter and laugh and say,
“Crow, crow, crow” in a pitch that makes the hairs on his body stand on end.
He fights with all his strength, but the Robins are strong despite their size,
and they have the advantage in numbers. (Jason doesn't want to admit it, but
he's sluggish, still partway frozen from the chill he felt when he first laid
eyes on them.) He was just supposed to be on a recon mission to help the others
find a way to reverse the damage done to their city, but this, this... To say
he hadn't expected it would be an understatement.
The claws — claws and teeth — tear through his armor with ease, leaving wet,
bloody gashes behind with every swipe. He hears more than sees them fumble
around with his helmet until they finally find the button to release it, and
then he truly feels vulnerable, clothes hanging off in shreds and face exposed.
If they wanted to, they could go for the throat, maybe even bash his head in
until it caves against the concrete underneath him, but, to his surprise, they
don't. One Robin cups his face, long nails digging into the soft skin below his
jaw, and tilts his head up, and he figures they're going to make him watch
while they rip out his guts with their bare hands.
But then another one licks a trail up his cock, and he realizes the reality is
about to get much worse.
“No,” he says immediately, arching his back and throwing his arms out to try
and shove the Robins off of him. He twists and he flails and he begs, “No, no,”
but one catches him by the wrist and starts nibbling on his fingers, and the
other traps his arm between its legs and begins grinding down against it.
“Crow,” they say, and underneath all the reverb and the coiling, growling
wrongness, he realizes they sound far too much like he did when he wore that
costume. They never say a word more, but he feels like they're mocking him with
each “crow, crow, crow.”
They move in an almost animalistic way, like there's no forethought, no
decisions to be made, only instinct. With all Jason's thrashing, they have to
constantly move, and whenever two or more end up too close to each other,
there's snarling and the snapping of teeth until one Robin reigns supreme,
grinding down against whichever spot he's decided to claim. They rut against
his face and his stomach and his legs, rough scales on their shorts like
sandpaper on his skin, but it seems like there's always at least one between
his knees, lapping at his cock.
He wants to be sick. He doesn't want to see these nightmarish mirror images of
his former identity — of himself — treating him like a bitch in heat. He's not
sure if he's more disgusted because they're young or covered in gore or
sporting those constant Joker-like grins, but it gathers his stomach up in
knots, and he feels acid churn at the back of his throat. A way out. He needs a
way out of this. He turns his head from side to side, peering around for
anything he can use as a weapon, but—
There, in the shadows, a tall and imposing silhouette he'd know anywhere.
“Bru—” starts on the tip of his tongue, but then the shadow grins, and the name
dies in his throat. Before he can get a better look, a pale thigh settles into
his line of vision, and he finds his head trapped between a Robin's legs.
“Crow,” the thing says, grinning down at him. Upside-down, the grin looks like
a snarl. “Crow, crow,” it goes on, bending forward to drag its teeth over the
flat of his stomach.
Over sweat and blood, Jason can smell something muskier, but he doesn't admit
to himself what it is until the Robin yanks down its shorts and lets its hard,
leaking cock rest on his face. “Nhahh, no—“ he tries to say, but one of them
pushes up his thigh and runs a slimy tongue over his hole, and when it pushes
inside (too big, too long), he finds himself unable to speak.
Not that it matters. The Robin on his face thrusts into his mouth, and it's a
harsh angle, one that catches the skin against Jason's teeth, but it doesn't
seem to mind. If anything, that energizes it more, and it starts humping away,
too small to even choke him properly, but filling Jason's mouth up all the
same.
Where? Where are the other two? There's so much going on, so much pleasure and
pain and attempts not to drown in his own spit, and Jason doesn't even feel
like a real person grounded in reality anymore, blinded and covered by limbs
that are all the same size and shape. It takes him a minute to realize another
Robin is rutting into his half-closed palm, and even then, he can't tell if the
wetness it drags back and forth across his wrist is precum or blood or
something else entirely. The fourth makes itself known when it battles with the
one between his legs, and the two have a brief snapping match before one of
them nicks one of his balls between their teeth.
Jason howls, arching away from the pain and gagging himself on the first one's
cock. For a moment, the world is a blur of kicking and shoving, trying
desperately to free himself, but the Robins are insistent, and just take the
blows before leaning down to lave their tongues over him again. His flagging
erection sails back up to full hardness in record time, and he hates himself.
One of them settles on his chest, face-to-face with the one on his head, and
starts grinding its bare dick between his pectorals. He hears them cackle at
each other like they're having some sort of discussion, or maybe they just like
the way he looks, disheveled and wet with blood, drool, and tears. He hears a
few more inquisitive “crow”s before someone starts poking at his cock like they
don't know what it is. The thought that this is all some game, some experiment
to them, settles so heavily in Jason's heart that he groans out a muffled
scream.
The one on his chest must feel it, because it starts giggling and bouncing more
insistently, while the one on his face just grabs his chin until it bleeds,
holding him in place. Between his legs, two fingers push in, claws slicing his
insides, and when he screams again, cum splatters over his neck, thicker and
warmer than the blood already there.
More giggling, this time from between his legs, and he realizes — no, he's
known all along — that his pain only makes them more giddy. He wants to stop,
to lie still and hope they get bored and wander off, but everything hurts and
he can barely breathe, and his body's bound to move with or without his
permission. His hips jerk with every thrust of the Robin's fingers, moving
against them rather than with them. Blood that feels impossibly hot puddles
beneath his hips and thighs, and he wonders if this might be where it ends:
Jason Todd, back from the grave, only to be fucked to death by his own demented
lookalikes. Nothing he'd want on his gravestone.
He isn't aware of the pressure on his abdomen until it disappears; the spent
Robin must have been lying on top of him, taking up too much space for one of
the others, because after a short scuffle, he hears one retreat into the
darkness while the other settles down just above his cock.
“Mnuh,” he begs, mouth still occupied. His jaw aches so much that he doubts
he'd be able to speak even if it wasn't. “P'se. Pluh—”
“Crow,” the Robin answers, grinding itself down against his long-since-softened
cock. Sounding more and more aggravated every second, it almost whines, “Cro-w,
crow, crow!”
He can't. There's no way he can do what the thing wants, not when it feels like
the other Robin is trying to claw his flesh out from the inside. Despite
himself, he sobs, first once, then again and again, but all it seems to do is
excite the one on his face even more. He can't even lift his arms up to try and
stop them; what good would it do at this point, with his head swimming from
blood loss and a bone-deep ache across his entire body?
Almost like a testament to his own damnable determination, the Robin on his
stomach lifts up his cock and pinches it between its fingers, trying to force
it inside of itself anyway. It takes a few tries that Jason barely feels with
everything else going on, but it works, and the thing starts moving, gurgling
out little half-laughs all the while.
Blessedly, the fingers in his ass still, as if that Robin is intrigued by the
way his insides feel while his companion rides him. Jason doesn't think it's
possible to feel anything but pain at this point, but with the pads of the
Robin's fingers facing upward, it finds his prostate.
There's no mind-shattering feeling of bliss, no sudden hardness or burst of
pleasure that drowns out the pain. It's more of a pressure than anything, like
the feeling of having to piss, a feeling that gets worse every time the Robin
riding him grinds its hips down against his pelvis. It builds and builds until
it spills over, but doesn't go away even when something wet leaks from the tip
of his cock. Not piss; it's thicker, slimier, but thinner than cum even still.
Prostate fluid, his mind supplies him, overly-clinical as if detaching himself
from his body will make the situation any better.
The fluid fills up the Robin and drips out over his balls, and one or both of
them laugh. The fingers in his ass quirk upward, a bit too firmly to feel good,
but it makes him leak more, which all of the Robins seem to enjoy. God, he
feels like an object, a toy, more dehumanized than ever before in either of his
lives. Just as another sob forces itself out of his throat, the other Robin
pulls out of his mouth at long last. He doesn't even remember to breathe before
he hears the ripping of cloth and then finds his face buried between the
Robin's cheeks.
It “crow”s impatiently, like it's jealous of whatever its companion is doing to
his ass, and Jason wants to yell at it to go join its brothers away from him if
it wants it so bad. But his jaw is open wide enough for the Robin to reach in
and pull his tongue out, and Jason is forced to keep it that way lest it be
ripped off at the root next time. He lets the Robin rub its hole over his
tongue, grunting and mewling and giggling, long strands of precum dripping onto
his chin. He doesn't remember consciously deciding to do it, but after a
moment, he shoves his tongue as far into the Robin's hole as it'll go. That one
little moment of action instead of reaction makes him sick to his stomach, but
he just wants all this to end. He'll do anything to speed it up, if only a
little bit.
He's not sure when his cock hardens, but eventually, he becomes fully aware of
the Robin on top of him bouncing up and down on it with unbridled glee. The
other one licks where their bodies meet, greedily lapping up the sticky mess
there, tongue so long that it passes over his balls at the same time.
Jason hates it, and hates this, and hates himself, and moans.
The crowing rises to a fever pitch. The one on his face comes, he thinks, but
it keeps riding him anyway, its legs trembling on either side of his head. The
fingers disappear from his ass, and the one riding him gets shoved forward
seconds before another cock squeezes its way in beside Jason's own. They're all
a squirming, shaking, screaming mess, including Jason himself, and by the very
end, he finds his own hips rising up to meet each thrust, grabbing at the hips
above his head to keep that Robin in place while he tongue-fucks its hole.
Terrible. An absolute, unforgivable disgrace.
But he's so close, and the pleasure is all that's keeping him from dwelling on
the pain, and he needs to muffle himself so the whole world doesn't hear him
moaning. It's the guilt, he thinks, along with disgust, that finally propels
him to orgasm.
From there, he can't tell in which order the others finish and get off of him.
It's all he can do to try and breathe. But soon, there's nothing but the
cooling dampness of too many fluids on his body, and a pain in what he's sure
is a back bruised so badly he'll hardly look human when he rolls over.
Not that he looks much like one now.
He vaguely registers the presence of the Robins' mouths on him — all four this
time — licking off the blood and gnawing on his skin. That is, until a deep,
familiar voice cuts through the silence.
“Bar.”
They all scamper away at once, and it's weird enough that Jason gathers up
enough strength to lift his head. There, mere yards away, is that Batman-but-
not shape, with its stark-white grin piercing through the darkness.
“Good boys,” the Batman-thing says, stalking forward, jingling with each step.
“Did you have fun? Did you eat well? Time to come home with daddy...”
One by one, it goes up to the Robins, and Jason realizes what the jingling is:
chains, with collars fastened at the ends to form leashes. Not-Batman locks up
each of the Robins in turn, all of them staring up at him like dogs in awe of
their owner. When it finishes, it turns its grin on Jason.
Holding up one last collar.
“...We have to start training your new brother.”
Jason screams.
 
End Notes
     actually by "enjoy" I meant "feel slimy and weird and maybe develop
     an awkward boner or two," probably, idk about you but that sounds
     kinda like my experience writing this
     it was fun, though!
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
