He never expected this.
The occasional blow jobs and hand jobs are his duty to his mentor. He performs the act with skill but little pleasure for himself. Batman enjoys himself--that's a given, as Robin is simply too good at whatever he does for the man not to climax--and never tries to stop him, never tries to make it anything else.
There are no kisses or caresses past a hand on Robin's shoulder or fingers combing through his hair.
As soon as he's finished, Robin cleans him and tucks him back behind cup and tights, and returns to his other duties. Batman resumes his own. They never talk about it.
Robin often remembers the first time--Batman's stunned reaction, his grip on Robin's shoulder, the fingers flexing as the pleasure grew--and wonders why Batman never tried to stop him.
Maybe he isn't the first Robin to do this. Maybe it's always been their duty. He's fine with that. He knows he does what's needed and he's good at it.
If he goes home and, with his knuckles hard against his lips and a gauntlet wrapped around his cock, brings himself off to the image of Batman coming, he's fine with that, too. It's only natural.
Still, he never expected this.
Never expected to be draped across the Batmobile on his back, Batman bent over him, mouth taking him deeply with hungry tugs, leather-clad fingers finding his balls, his perineum, sliding one by one into him and bringing about a hard, fast orgasm.
Robin's still surprised, still trembling with pleasure when he's turned and entered and it becomes something more than duty.
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