Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6795229.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      DCU_(Comics), Batman_(Comics)
  Relationship:
      Jason_Todd/Bruce_Wayne, Jason_Todd/Damian_Wayne
  Character:
      Jason_Todd, Bruce_Wayne, Damian_Wayne
  Additional Tags:
      Unhealthy_Relationships, Revenge_Sex, Developing_Relationship, Consensual
      Underage_Sex, Rough_Sex, Biting, Anal_Sex, Masochism, Sadism, Nipple
      Torture
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-05-09 Updated: 2016-05-23 Chapters: 2/? Words: 16183
****** Ill-Fitting Pieces ******
by Skalidra
Summary
     Bruce and Jason have a thing going on; a night every month or so to
     be as rough and violent as they want to be, without restraints. At
     least until Bruce leaves for almost two months, off-world, without
     even telling him. Out of anger, frustration, and an itch he can't
     scratch, Jason sets his eyes on a different target.
Notes
     So honestly, I don't really expect anyone to read this. XD But uh, if
     you do, the basic version is this is terrible, unhealthy, awfulness
     involving Brujay and then JayDami. At the same time (not physically).
     It's ugly. If you're still about to read, I hope you enjoy!
***** Chapter 1 *****
It starts like it always does.
Jason harasses Bruce out on patrol, following him and making comments, taking
shots into the combats to leave one or two thugs with clear bullet wounds that
won’t match up. Thing that will mess with the story of being taken down by the
great Batman. He watches Bruce get more and more irritated until he gets turned
on, gets snarled at to back off and leave Bruce be. Keeps following, pushing,
dropping sarcastic comments, and then finallyBruce snaps.
It’s sudden, brutal, and Jason takes a few punches in the precise, ruthless
whirl of the dance; gives back just as much as he takes. The blows are muted by
armor, and no weapons come into play. They never do. Jason leaves his guns in
their holsters, the knife at his thigh in its sheath, and sticks to fists and
boots. He’ll have bruises, and so will Bruce, but it won’t be any worse. Not
until they reallystart in on each other.
The first bit is when Bruce slams him face first into a wall hard enough to
stun. The brick leaves scratches on the front of his helmet, Bruce’s teeth
leave a painful bite on the back of his neck, on the only slice of skin that
isn’t covered between armor and helmet, and then he’s being dragged back. He
gets away from the grip, leaves Bruce with a punch to the jaw that will
definitelybruise bright and vivid, and retreats.
Not far enough to be outright running, keeping up the fight and the taunts as
he leads Bruce across Gotham. Bruce stays close, and it’s unspoken but both of
them know exactly where this is headed. When Bruce slams him up against the
wall on a fire escape, next to a window that leads to one of Bruce’s more
discreet safehouses, it’s no surprise to either of them.
When Bruce shoves closer, growls, “Stay,” at him, he laughs.
“Fucking biteme,” he snarls back, and Bruce doesn’t even hesitate.
One hand grabs him by the front of his helmet and pushes his head up and to the
side, twisting his neck and baring that same slice of skin for another sharp
dig of teeth near the front of his throat. He groans through his teeth, puts a
hard punch in Bruce’s side in retaliation that probably doesn’t do more than
ache a little past the plates of armor.
“Stay,” Bruce repeats, voice deeper and darker than Jason can hope to match.
He shoves out the breath in his lungs, doesn’t fight when Bruce lets go and
steps to the side, to the window. “Only cause you asked so fuckingnicely,” he
spits.
Bruce carefully disables the security on the window, opens it, and Jason moves.
He whirls and shoves Bruce into the apartment with both hands to his low back,
follows as Bruce rolls and turns in the middle, coming up on one knee to face
him.
There’s one beat of silence as Jason closes the window, flicks the security
back on and tugs the curtains closed. There are enough rumors in Gotham without
there being one that Batman and Red Hood are fucking around; fun as it might be
to hurtBruce’s reputation like that.
Bruce is standing by the time he turns around again, and then he lungesfor
Bruce. They collide, all hard angles and ill-fitting pieces jarring against
each other with too many sharp edges to even pretend they fit right. He jerks
at Bruce’s cape, gets a hand pressing hard against his low back to crush them
together and a leg hooking behind his to unbalance him.
Bruce’s lip is split, and he gives a sharp bark of laughter. Bruce can’t see
his grin past the helmet, but it’s clear enough in his tone when he hisses,
“You’ve got a little something on your chin there, Brucie.”
He can see the bottom half of the scowl, before Bruce’s free elbow hits his
ribs and forces the wind out of him. The other hand yanks at the back of the
collar of his jacket in that fraction of a second his hands reflexively loosen,
and he topples backwards and hits the ground hard.
“Bite your tongue,” Bruce snaps back, dropping to the floor over him with a
heavy thunk, knees bracketing his waist and one big hand closing over his
throat.
He laughs again, sharp and vicious and alight with anticipation. “You’ve done
all the biting tonight, remember?”
He grabs Bruce’s wrist, twists the hand away from his throat, flips them so
Bruce is on his back beneath him for just one moment. The spare hand grazes the
side of his neck, hooks the release for his helmet, and he draws back just
enough to catch it and fling it aside before it falls on Bruce’s face. Funny as
that would be, it’s not quite worth it. The moment of consideration costs him
the advantage, and Bruce is surging up, hands sliding to one side of his torso
and pulling, twisting. He hits the floor on his chest, hears Bruce’s breath
rush out against his ear as weight presses down over him and hands jerk at the
collar of his jacket.
He hisses as his shoulders snap back, arms locking straight as the leather gets
pulled off him in one harsh yank, right before a second hand tangles gloved
fingers in his hair and pulls hard. It arches his throat, forcing him to brace
his hands against the floor unless he wants to let his hair take all the weight
of the upper half of his torso being dragged up from the ground.
There’s a knee pressing into the small of his back, hard enough pressure to
make him grit his teeth at the pain so he turns it into a grin instead. Gloved
fingers hook under the edge of his domino mask, ripping it from his face
without any of the luxury of actually loosening the adhesive first, before his
head gets shoved back down and held there, turned just enough sideways that his
nose isn’t grinding into the cheap carpet. That doesn’t stop the knee in his
back though, or the too-knowledgeable pull of fingers at the hidden zipper for
his armor at the back of his neck.
“What, not gonna buy me dinner first?” he taunts, muffled against the carpet as
he presses his hands to the carpet, bends his legs to get his toes underneath
him.
“This isn’t a relationship.”
He jerks into movement, pushing up against Bruce and it hurts like a bitch but
he manages to throw him off far enough to get out from underneath the pin. The
hand stays in his hair though, harsh and unforgiving, and he snarls and goes
with it, flinging his weight back into Bruce instead of trying to get any
further away. Jason’s not naive enough to think that it’s surprising, but he
does end up on top, layered down over the older man with his weight centered
into Bruce’s sternum to make it harder to breathe, both arms pulled up to press
against the ground and frame that fucking cowl.
“No,” he counters, “guess this is the kinda encounter where you pay me
afterwards, huh? Crisp little folded bills on the nightstand or some shit like
that?” He bares his teeth, rolls his hips in against Bruce’s and watches that
little part of lips he gets in response. “I bet you’ve got at leasta couple
hundred in that belt of yours; last I remember that was about the going rate
for a good fuck.”
The hand in his hair yanks — he swears he feels at least a couple strands part
company with his scalp — and he yelps at the sharp fire of it before lips are
crashing into his. It’s all teeth, all a sharp collision in the same way they
always come together. Bruce is pushing up, pushing him back and dragging him in
all at once until he’s sitting in the bastard’s lap. The gloved fingers of
Bruce’s free hand are jerking at the last bit of the zipper holding his armor
on, and he repays the favor by blindly reaching up and shoving the cowl back
along Bruce’s skull to bare his face.
It gets him a sharp bite to his lower lip, but that’s almost nothing in the
scale of things and he just grins into the kiss and bites right back. Bruce’s
hand parts the armor on his back, fisting in the white t-shirt he’s got below.
Two can play at that game though, and he drops his hands to Bruce’s shoulders,
spreading his fingers out as they slide beneath the cape so he can find the
little hidden catches holding the black fabric on. It’s easy with so much
practice, and he’s already lowering his hands to Bruce’s ribs as the cape
falls.
Then Bruce is letting go of his hair, getting his armor in both hands and
dragging it forward instead. He almost curses when Bruce just leavesit halfway
down his arms and shoves him back, but manages to just snarl instead as he hits
the ground. Bruce is moving, but Jason’s just as fast as Bruce when it counts,
and he rolls with the impact and shakes the armor off his arms to be free
again.
“That’s the rate for good street,” Bruce spits, shifting to his feet and Jason
follows.
“Oh, don’t try to deny where I’m from now, B. You know exactly who you’re
fucking; should have paid more if you wanted something more high class.”
“I’m not paying you anything,” is the snapped response, and Jason bares his
teeth in a vicious smile.
“Then you get what you fuckingget, don’t you, Bruce? You don’t pick somebody up
in an alley and expect them to raise their fucking pinkie when they drink tea.”
Bruce’s eyes narrow, and Jason takes the cheap shot just because he can. “You
want some high-society whore how about you go fuck Tim?”
Bruce is frozen for one single moment, and then he all but roarsand launches
himself forward. Jason braces, takes the full weight of Bruce crashing into him
and gets knocked back into a wall under it. Bruce puts a fist in his side,
grabs him by the throat with the other hand in the same moment and he can
barely get the gasp for air out underneath those steel fingers. But he doesn’t
fight that, just grabs Bruce’s sides and drags him closer, grinning and
grinding forward against the thigh that shoves its way between his. He hooks
his still-gloved fingers into little catches he almost knows by heart, and by
the time Bruce’s free hand is dropping to rip the holster off his thigh he’s
almost got that first layer of armor off.
He pulls the last catch, yanks hard on the armor and Bruce hisses in irritation
as it starts to peel off. Bruce lets go of his throat, shoves him into the wall
like he’s going to get put throughit, then draws back enough to rip both gloves
off.
He laughs, a little breathlessly, and comments, “Fucking control freak,” right
as Bruce has the armor halfway off his arms and can’t retaliate. He just gets a
nasty glare in response, before the armor drops to the floor.
Bruce’s hands close in his t-shirt, dragging him in for another collision of
teeth and tongue that he meets wholeheartedly. He shoves both hands into
Bruce’s hair, jerking at it until Bruce growls into the kiss and lands a solid
punch to his gut. The breath whooshes out of him as he folds in on the impact,
giving a sharp noise of pain and automatically letting go. It’s not enough to
really damage, he can tell that by the feeling, but it’s a sharp ache that
knocks the air from his lungs, makes his throat clench up for a second in
instinctive reaction to the nausea that would be there if the blow were any
harder.
Their mouths rip apart as Bruce grabs him by both shoulders and twists, shoving
him face first against the wall before he can catch his breath. Bruce presses
close to his back, weight doing most of the work of pinning him as those hands
drop down to his pants. He shoves his hands against the wall, tries to push
back, but Bruce has always outweighed him and without the right leverage — or
really hurtingBruce in a not-so-fun way — he’s not going to get out. Not
without a distraction or something anyway.
This wouldn’t be nearly as good if he could.
So he snarls instead, shoving back just so Bruce will push him harder into the
wall, almost enough that he has to struggle to breathe between the hard plaster
and the heavy heat of Bruce’s chest. Hot air rushes over the side of his neck
as Bruce gets his belt undone, all but yanking it out of the loops with one
hand as the other deftly undoes the button and zipper of his pants.
He manages to get enough air to hiss, “If we’re not getting to a bed, you might
want some of the supplies in my pockets.”
“Shut up,” Bruce growls right back.
Then those fingers are wrapping around his wrists, dragging his arms back hard
enough that his shoulders strain at the sudden twist, and by the time he’s
swallowed down the groan building in his throat Bruce has stripped the gloves
off his hands. He feels the leather before he fully understands it, but only
struggles a little bit as Bruce tightens the belt around his wrists, pulling it
tight enough that it bites into his skin. If he really wantedto he could slip
it without that much trouble, but he doesn’t really want to. It’s just one more
thing to pull against, to feel.
Bruce’s hand pushes back down, shoving beneath the waistband of his briefs and
wrapping around his cock with no ceremony. That gets him to arch, gasp, before
Bruce’s other hand grabs a handful of the hair at the back of his skull and
tugs hard enough he has no choice but to arch his throat even further. The hand
at his cock is rough, a little painful with nothing to ease the drag of
calloused fingers, but damnif it isn’t just right.
“Whore,” Bruce hisses into his ear, and Jason curls his mouth into something
between a vicious grin and a snarl.
“Thought you weren’t paying me. Make up your fucking mind, Brucie.”
Bruce lets go of his hair, but only so that arm can wrap around the front of
his neck. Fingers strong as steel clasp over his mouth, shoving his jaw shut
and holding it that way, the wrist and arm pressed across his throat making it
a little hard to breathe. He’s dragged away from the wall, half-carried and
half-steered across the cheap apartment to the open door of a bedroom. He’s
staggering, barely able to keep his balance and force his legs into small half-
steps with the arm across his throat and the hand still shoved down his pants,
roughly jerking at his cock.
His head is tilted back, but he manages to crane his gaze down far enough that
he’s not caught totally by surprise when he gets shoved down onto the bed
that’s the main focus of the room. He sprawls out across it, unable to catch
himself without the use of his hands, and immediately Bruce’s hands are jerking
his pants and briefs down, pulling them to his ankles before working at his
boots. He squirms, trying to curl up to get enough leverage to push up or make
some kind of attempt at fighting. But then his boots are gone, his pants are
being yanked off, and suddenly the only things he’s wearing are a plain white
shirt and the belt around his wrists.
Jason twists onto his side, looking back at Bruce just in time to catch the
other man starting to strip out of the dark grey undersuit. He gives a mocking
whistle, gets a glare for it. “A show, huh? Do I get fucking dinner too or is
that a little too personalfor you?” He licks his lips to make the double
entendre really obvious, as if it would possibly slip under Bruce’s notice.
The undersuit falls away, and then Bruce is striding forwards, down to a pair
of tight black briefs, and climbing onto the bed. His breath almost fucking
catches when Bruce straddles him, one powerful hand shoving him onto his back
and holding him there by his right shoulder. It forces him to arch his back, to
keep it that way so his arms aren’t crushed beneath the weight of both of their
bodies. Bruce’s eyes are steel, his mouth a faint sneer, but then there’s that
bulge in those black briefs, and Jason grins.
“Why even fucking pretend, B?” He bucks up, grins wider as Bruce’s mouth
tightens. “You get off on this you fucking freak.”
Bruce’s other hand snaps out, and he grunts at the sharp impact of knuckles to
his cheek as Bruce backhands him. It turns his head, but before he can look
back up there are strong fingers grabbing his jaw, yanking it back.
“If one of us enjoys this, it’s you,” are the words spit down at him.
He bares his teeth, jerks against the hold on his jaw. “You’re the one in
denial, not me. I know exactlywhat I am, Bruce, you just can’t fucking handle
the fact that you’re a fucked up, sadistic—”
Another backhand, same side of his face, which cuts him off mid sentence. Then
fingers are shoving into his mouth and holding it open, pressing his tongue
down to the bottom. He gasps in air past them, tastes the lingering flavors of
leather and sweat and snarls around the intrusion, unable to free his tongue
without biting down harder than he wants to. He still closes his teeth on
Bruce’s fingers, tight enough to threaten but not to really harm.
Bruce leans down, getting right in his face, and growls, “Keep your damnmouth
shut or I will gagyou, Jason.”
He laughs around the fingers, then bites down hard enough that Bruce winces and
pulls them from his mouth, teeth scraping the whole way. “You like my mouth too
much,” he counters, then grins, sharp and wicked, and adds, “and I’d enjoyit
too much.”
He jerks up, stretching his neck to get up high enough to catch Bruce’s mouth
in a kiss, closing teeth on his bottom lip to drag him down. One hand closes on
his throat, but Bruce does follow him back down and the pressure around his
neck is barely even enough to make him notice it past the distraction of
Bruce’s mouth. For now.
A nip to that split lip is repaid with a sharp bite that threatens to split his
too, that tightens those fingers until his breath catches, and he can feel
Bruce’s other hand shoving his shirt up his chest. It bunches at his armpits,
trapped by the bound arms, but that’s apparently far enough for Bruce’s target
because those thick fingers are suddenly pinching at one nipple hard enough
that he yelps. He’s expecting them to swap over, twist the other one to match,
but they don’t. Instead Bruce rubs at it just long enough, in justthe right
way, that sharp pleasure spikes down his spine, and then the fingers are
turning vicious again, pinching it right between blunt nails that sure as hell
don’t feelblunt.
He twists his head away from the kiss, snarls, “Fuck! That fuckinghurts you son
of a bitch!”
Bruce’s mouth twists up into a little smirk, the fingers on his throat
tightening even further, threatening to bruise and cut off his air completely.
“Thought you likedpain,” Bruce murmurs, and anticipation lights in a sudden
rush in his chest because he knows that smug, mocking tone. Knows it means that
Bruce’s nasty, sadistic, leashedside is finally coming out to play.
So he twists his mouth into something between a grin and a snarl, bucking up
against the solid weight of Bruce straddling his waist. “Thought you knew how
to give it,” he gasps back, voice coming out thin and breathy against those
fingers. “Don’t you fucking disappoint me now, Bruce.”
The smirk tightens a bit, and then Bruce is leaning down, jerking his head to
the side and sinking teeth down into the skin below his ear. He bites back a
groan, but then Bruce is pulling away just as quickly, leaning off to the side
to pull open the drawer of the nightstand. The plastic bottle that comes out is
familiar; there’s one scattered at just about every safehouse both of them own
around the city, and probably out of it too.
He starts to open his mouth, say whatever biting comment comes to mind, but
Bruce’s fingers clench down on his throat and he chokes instead, unable to
breath for a couple of precious seconds until they ease a bit. Oh yeah, he’s
going to bruise for sure.
Bruce shifts off his waist, kneeling at his side instead, and he starts to
twist before Bruce’s free hand presses to his hip and pins him down. He almost
shudders at the dark growl that comes from deep in Bruce’s chest, at the way
that Bruce’s eyes have gone focused and steely in a way that usually means
intense violence is going to follow pretty quickly. Usually it’s a look that
people only see when other lives are on the line, and in this case it means
he’s going to get exactlywhat he wants.
The grip on his throat loosens, sliding up to push his jaw up and bare his
neck, and Bruce is shifting again at the same time. He sucks in a sharp breath
as Bruce’s knee presses down across his throat, the width keeping his head
forced back and up even as Bruce’s hand lets go, the pressure making it a bit
difficult to breathe but not nearly as bad — and good— as the fingers were. It
leaves Bruce’s hands free though, to uncap the lube and slick the fingers of
his far hand before closing the bottle and dropping it to the side.
“Spread your legs,” Bruce orders, voice low and dark and hitting all those old
parts of him that used to snap to when he was Robin.
He pulls against the belt securing his wrists, curling his mouth into a grin as
he opens his legs, knees bending as he pushes his hips up in blatant
invitation. Bruce takes it, gaze dropping down as the slick hand slides between
his legs, shoving a finger into him with no real regard for the slight
resistance. He groans in mixed pleasure and pain, before Bruce’s free hand is
sliding up his chest, unmistakably back up towards the nipple he was abusing
before.
He grits his teeth, expecting pain, but the touch is just firm instead, rolling
it between fingers until it pebbles, until he’s tilting his head back even
against the knee across his throat and pushing his chest up. Which is of course
when Bruce twistsit and he has to yelp, brain not quite processing the sudden
shift in sensations. He cringes away, not that it helps even a little and those
fingers just follow. It’s sharp, painful, and he twists his hands into the
sheets beneath him and tries to pull away, to get the sensitive piece of flesh
away from the hand toying with it.
“Son of a bitch,” he finally gasps, as Bruce’s other hand — following his
writhing without a problem — shoves a second finger in beside the first. Too
much, too fast, but they’re slick and he can feel every fraction of it as those
knuckles slide inside, fucking him in harsh, unrelenting thrusts that are just
perfect.
Bruce’s hand swaps to the other nipple, and he manages a breathless snarl and a
jerk of his chest that only manages to make Bruce’s leg press down harder
against his throat. He’s a little more prepared for it this time, but that
doesn’t mean the nails are any less painful the second time around. The
conflicting sensations are playing havoc with his head, like they always do,
but his cock has no such reservations and is standing firmly at attention. He
can feel it, even if the angle Bruce has his head at doesn’t let him look down
to actually see it himself.
By the time Bruce is pulling away he’s faintly trembling, tears in the corners
of his eyes that he refuses to acknowledge and his mouth open, breath coming in
harsh pants through his teeth. Bruce’s fingers pull out of him with no
ceremony, knee easing off of his throat so he can finally breatheagainst the
tender, aching pain of his chest. He gets two short gasps before Bruce is
grabbing him by shoulder and thigh and manually flipping him over onto his
stomach. It’s actually a relief, because that lets him ease his back out of the
arch he was using to protect his arms.
Bruce pushes between his thighs, and he can feel the other man’s hard cock
pressing up against his ass, spares just a fraction of a second to wonder when
Bruce stripped out of those black briefs. Just a fraction though, because then
Bruce is repositioning, aiming, pushing forward and god the breath goes
rightout of him. Freezes in his lungs because there’s no waiting, no adjustment
period, just a solid push until he’s full and there’s no more length to press
in.
Thick fingers curl around his hips, dragging him a few more inches up until
he’s hanging in the grasp, the angle too low for him to get any of the weight
on his knees. The change in position jerks his body back into action though,
making him shiver and arch, pulling at the belt again.
It’s just a couple of seconds before Bruce’s grip is tightening and the too
muchof it all is sliding out, giving him just a moment to catch his breath
before the return thrust. Hard, fast, with no care for the fact that his cock
is rubbing against the sheets every time he jolts forward from one of those
slams. It’s frustratingly almostenough, and he pushes his forehead into the
sheets as well and shoves back against the thrusts as best as he can manage
with Bruce holding him still.
“Come on,” he snarls. “Come on, you bastard.”
Then one hand is rising and grabbing a handful of his hair, jerking him up and
back into a sharp arch. His scalp burns and he cries out, chest shaking in
little tremors as his muscles try and maintain the arch without any real
support. Bruce growls, leaning down into and over him, and the weight suddenly
pressing him into the bed at least takes the pressure of off his scalp. Teeth
dig into the side of his throat, the top of his shoulder, leaving dully aching
points of pain that he knows from experience will turn into bruises that will
be obvious bite marks. Knows that later he’ll dig his fingers into them while
he’s jacking off and pretend that it’s the same calloused fingers, the same
weight pressing into his back.
Bruce’s free hand lets go of his hip, circling around and grabbing his cock
instead. He bucks into the hand, groans through his bared teeth at the contact
and almost shouts when Bruce falls into a rhythm, hand jerking him off at odds
with the hips snapping against him. Fast, rough, too much in the best of ways
and he bites into his own lip hard enough to draw blood to keep from moaning.
When Bruce’s teeth close over the nape of his neck he gasps and arches, some
long forgotten instinct screaming give inas those teeth dig in over the bump of
his spine. He struggles instead, pulling against the leather around his wrists
and twisting beneath the solid weight fucking him into the mattress. It’s not
enough to even make Bruce pause, and that excites him in a way it shouldn’t, in
a way that makes him close his eyes and part his lips on a deep groan.
He shakes, pain edging over that line into too muchwith the next bite and then
he’s twisting again, crying out into the sheets as the coil in his gut draws
tight, tighter, snaps.
The hand on his cock keeps moving, merciless as his orgasm rushes through him,
leaves him high and sensitive as those fingers drag every last drop from him
they can. Until he chokes on a sob, trying to twist his hips away from the
overwhelming touch. Then they let go and Bruce draws back, both hands returning
to his hips. He jerks at each probably accidental shove against his prostate,
trying to catch his breath as Bruce fucks him with all the speed and strength
of the other man working himself to his own release.
Finally Bruce snarls, fingers tightening painfully on his hips and rhythm
stuttering until he finally comes with a shout. Jason squirms at the feeling of
it, the hot rush inside of him and the filthyknowledge that he’s being marked
up in a way one hell of a lot more personal than teeth against a shoulder.
Bruce holds him still, panting, until he can feel the cock in him start to
soften. Then Bruce pulls away, slipping out of him and letting go, heavy weight
falling to the bed to his side. He stays still for another few moments,
finishes catching his breath, and then twists his wrists and gets to work
loosening the belt enough to slip his hands free. It’s not all that hard; at
least he’s not having to dislocate his thumbs or try and hunt down some kind of
key.
He rolls each shoulder slowly, stretching out the ache in them and slowly
flexing his arms too, making sure nothing hurts in a way that might actually be
important. Nothing does, so he stretches out once, feels something in his spine
pop into place, and then twists to push up and off the bed. Not far, just far
enough that he can dig into the pile on the floor that’s his pants and briefs
and retrieve a cigarette from its carton as well as the lighter that’s in the
same pocket.
Then he gets back on the bed, propping his back against the headboard and
unceremoniously lighting the cigarette. Which is when Bruce’s eyes snap open,
head tilting where the other man is lying on his stomach to look up at him with
narrowed eyes.
“Jason…” Bruce starts, in a threatening growl.
“Fuck off,” he mutters, drawing in a nicotine-laced breath and closing his eyes
for a moment in simple pleasure.
He can hear Bruce push up, hear the difference when Bruce snarls, “Put it out,”
almost directly in his ear.
He takes another deliberate drag, turns his head to meet those steel-blue eyes,
and blows it out directly into Bruce’s face. “Fuckyou,” he says with a grin.
It’s not even a little surprising when Bruce lunges at him, gets him down,
twists his wrist enough to pry the cigarette out of his forcibly limp fingers.
That turns to wrestling, to a fight that’s as much desperate kisses that taste
like blood and smoke as it is hard punches, to him on his back on the cheap
carpet with Bruce fucking him for a second time. His hands are free this time
though, and Bruce ends up with long claw marks down his back and sides, a
couple of which actually break the skin. Until Bruce gets fed up with it and
puts him on his knees instead, one hand hard in his hair and teeth leaving
bruises on every spot of empty skin Bruce can find and reach.
He ends up with a bit of rug burn on his knees and elbows, satisfaction humming
through every limb as he stays half-curled on the carpet and watches Bruce put
himself back together piece by piece. He can almost see Bruce once again
carefully restraining that almost-cruel part of himself, locking it down
underneath all those little walls that make it so much funto break out again.
He closes his eyes when Bruce leaves the room in search of the rest of his
suit, only opens them again when he hears those somehow quiet footsteps and he
can look up to see Bruce almost hovering over him, fully redressed except for
that the cowl isn’t on yet.
He stares up at Bruce, unwilling to make the first move when he still feels so
damn good, and after a few moments of silence Bruce drops down over him. The
cape flares, falling over both of them as Bruce fits one thigh between his and
catches his mouth in a kiss. It’s brief, before Bruce is pulling back and
sliding down his chest, both hands falling to grip his upper thighs and push
them open. He has half a moment to wonder before Bruce’s head is lowering,
teeth baring and then biting down on the sensitive skin of his left inner
thigh, too close to the crease of his leg and groin to be comfortable.
The gasp escapes his mouth right before the groan, fingers curling into fists
as he presses his shoulders back into the carpet and tries to decide whether to
push into the teeth or pull away. Bruce is pulling back before he can make up
his mind, hand sliding down to press a thumb hard into the fresh bruise. He
squirms before Bruce lets go, moving back up his body and then dragging him
into a harder kiss.
“You’re mine,” Bruce says into it.
“In your fucking dreams,” he breathes back, digging his fingers into the armor
covering Bruce’s shoulders.
Bruce pulls away a minute after that, flipping the cowl up and shutting himself
back behind that wall of Batman. The flare of the cape is as ridiculously
dramatic as it always is when Batmanturns to leave, mouth back in that hard,
uncompromising line.
“See you next time, Brucie,” he calls at Bruce’s back. There’s no response, but
he doesn’t expect one.
He stays on the floor for a few more minutes, long enough that moving and
disrupting the lingering satisfaction doesn’t feel like a crime, and then
finally pushes himself up. He collects his clothes from around the apartment,
relaxes into the couch out in the living room, and lights up another cigarette.
When it’s burned down to the filter, he puts it out pointedly, deliberately, in
the center of the coffee table.
===============================================================================
It takes two weeks for all of the aches to fade, and he spends another two
weeks past that trying to deliberately cross his patrol with Bruce’s and
getting nothing. The itch builds up underneath his skin, distracting and
frustrating, and his own hands just don’t do enough to make it go away.
Finally, when he gets sick of it, he throws caution to the wind and takes an
afternoon ride down to the manor. It’s rare that he ever steps foot in the
place, but not unheard of. Usually he doesn’t come by because as much as he
loves seeing the old man, Alfred somehow always manages to make him feel guilty
and trap him into coming back for some dinner, or promising to call and check
in. Alfred is just about the only thing in this manor that he can really stand
being around.
Also, most of the family doesn’t appreciate him just showing up out of the
blue; they tend to think that he’s planning something nasty and wants to see
what might interfere. Which has been true all of maybe twice, so really they’re
being paranoid bastards in the way only Bats can.
He pulls into the driveway of the manor, drawing the bike to a stop near the
foot of the stairs that lead up to the actual front door. It’s always kind of a
toss of fate whether or not he’s welcome in the Cave itself, but no security
system is going to try and incapacitate him if he just walks up to the front
door, even if no one is home that actually wants him there. This is a safer bet
all around, although Alfred will probably reprimand him for coming to the manor
all dressed up as Red Hood.
He really does respect Alfred’s rules — no masks in the house — but this is a
matter of personal security. If he shows up unannounced at the manor in
anything less than his gear it feels too vulnerable, too normal. This is just
another challenge. At least he’s got the jacket zipped up, so he’s not showing
off the red bat symbol splayed across his chest, and no domino mask on beneath
the helmet.
He flips the kickstand on the bike and shuts it down, pulling his helmet off as
he swings off the machine. He spends a second hesitating, disguising it as
setting the helmet on the seat of the motorcycle so he can tug his gloves off
and shove them in the pocket of his jacket. He leaves the helmet there, takes
in a slightly deeper breath, and starts to head up the stairs.
Which is promptly interrupted by a loud bark that makes him turn, scan the area
until he finds the rampaging form of Damian’s enormous Great Dane mix of a dog
headed for him. He automatically braces, shifting his feet to a better position
where he’s not balanced on two different stairs, preparing to meet the dog head
on like he would any enemy.
Except when Titus gets to him, rearing up on back legs and almost as tall as he
is, he doesn’t shove the dog away. He just huffs, staggers a little bit
underneath the impact of paws against his shoulders, and gives a small grin.
“Hey, boy,” he murmurs, raising a hand to scratch at the dog’s neck.
Dogs aren’t usually his thing, but this one doesn’t lick him, growl at him for
no reason, or try and climb in his lap, so over the years they’ve managed a
kind of understanding. It helps that he’s seen once or twice that, like any
other member of their family, Titus is a demonwhen unleashed and angry.
“You shouldn’t let him do that,” calls a voice, and he looks past the dog to
find Damian walking up. Sweatpants, sneakers, and a white tank-top that’s
slightly dampened by sweat. Clearly the two of them were out on a run, though
it doesn’t look like it was over.
He snorts, patting Titus’ head and then lightly pushing him back. The dog takes
the hint — smart bastard — and drops back down to the ground. “I don’t mind.”
Damian reaches them, clicking his tongue, and Titus circles around and sits
right down at Damian’s side like the perfectly trained dog he is. “I do,”
Damian counters. “You’re teaching him bad habits, Todd.” He just shrugs, not
even trying to deny that, and Damian’s head tilts. “What are you doing here?”
He almost bites his tongue, almost makes up some kind of bullshit on the spot,
but swallows the impulse back. “Looking for Bruce,” he answers shortly.
“Haven’t seen him out in a while; he around?
He catches that little narrowing of Damian’s eyes, the spark of confusion,
before the younger man speaks. “Father’s been on a mission off world for the
last three weeks; he doesn’t expect to be back for another two, last he
contacted us.”
His stomach goes tight, jaw clenching down. It’s a sick kind of shock, followed
by a swell of anger that almost makes him clench his hands into fists. He
controls it with a deep breath, glances up towards the house. “Well, that would
have been fucking nice to know,” he mutters.
Forget their arrangement, forget all the nights spent tearing bruises into each
other’s skin, it seems like professional courtesy to tell one of your supposed
partners, one of the other people involved in protecting Gotham, that you’re
not going to be around for over a month. What if he’d actually needed help?
What if there had been an emergency or some kind of situation and he didn’t
know that Bruce wasn’t around to back him up? That’s the kind of shit he needs
to know.
There’s an awkward beat of silence, as he gets himself under control, and then
Damian asks, “Did you need something, Todd?”
He almost snaps at the brat, but then he looks back and the first thing he sees
are steel-blue, narrowed eyes watching him. It snaps into focus in about half a
second how muchDamian looks like Bruce these days. Not as tall, and he’s lean
instead of broad, but the eyes, the line of his jaw, his hair, that expression…
He’s seventeen now, and no one could mistake the two — there’s too much Talia
in the color of his skin and Damian’s got the same sort of dangerous naked-
steel beauty that Talia does — but the similarity is there.
The idea that sparks in Jason’s head is sick, it’s immoral in a way he can’t
even pretend to not see, but it sticks. He’s frustrated, and angry, and it
sticks.
“Frankly,” he starts, forcing his voice to calm down a little even though he’s
sure it won’t fool Damian, “it’s been quiet and I’m fucking bored. I was trying
to see if Bruce would let me follow him around for a night and harass him;
usually he’s got more interesting things going on than whatever crimes I might
run across in my section of town.” He shoves at the ground with the toe of one
boot, doesn’t even try to pretend he’s not bitter when he adds, “Guess that’s
not happening.”
Another moment of silence, then, “You could join me, if you wish.” He meets
Damian’s gaze, and the younger man gives a shrug, lifts his chin in something
like challenge. “Drake is with the Titans, Brown and Cain are tracking down a
lead somewhere in Japan, I despise having Gordon attempt to direct my every
move, and I have had just about all I can stand of Grayson’s chattiness and
have no interest in calling him from Bludhaven for yet another night full of
inane jokes and optimism. If you wish to fill in as a partner, I would not
object.”
“Getting sick of the golden boy, huh?”
Damian scoffs, rolls his eyes. “I do not require a partner at all, but Father…
insisted, and Grayson has been reportingto him.”
“You’re stuck with a partner every night?”
“Every other,” Damian corrects, “at minimum. It has been… constraining.”
“Smothering jackasses,” he comments, and gets a small smirk from Damian, though
Damian doesn’t verbally agree. “Alright, sounds good. Meet you in the city
tonight? Nine?”
Damian tilts his head in a small nod. “Nine. Try not to be late, Todd; I am
willing to leave you to your boredom if you are.”
He gives a small grin as Damian starts to head up the stairs and back into the
manor. “You leave me behind and I’ll tell Dickieyou bailed and went out on your
own.” Damian turns, glares at him, and his grin widens. “See you at nine,
brat.”
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     Welcome back! So, now we get to the second half of these two
     pairings. Jason and Damian. This is where that underage tag comes
     into play (seventeen, by the way, and it's all totally consensual).
     Enjoy!
He tries not to think too much between then and nine. If he thinks too much
he’s going to think about what an awful idea all of this is, and how much of an
absolute prick he is for even thinking about going through with it. He’s going
to talk himself out of it, going to convince himself that it’s better if he
just leaves the brat alone and lets the anger in his gut fester until its real
target is back in town. He shouldn’t take any of this out on Damian.
He still ends up in the nastier parts of town come nine; waiting on the rooftop
of a four-story apartment building that he knows is the start to Bruce’s usual
patrol route. It’s just a few minutes later that a dark figure propels
themselves over the ledge and joins him, and for a second he freezes up because
it’s like karma is showing up just to kick him in the teeth.
Then the owner of the black cape and cowl straightens up, and his world
resettles into its proper place. Too short and too slim, and as the figure
walks closer he can identify the shade of copper skin showing at Damian’s
exposed jaw. He crosses his arms, pushing off the stairwell he’s leaning on and
turning a little bit to face the not-Batman.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he says in place of a greeting, any
thought of making nice gone in the face of that unexpected costume.
Damian’s jaw tightens, and the brat spits, “It’s standard protocol, Hood,” up
at him. “I am tall enough to pass as Father.”
He snorts. “To some people, maybe. You couldn’t have given me one night away
from the fucking Bat?”
“I thought you were lookingfor Father.”
“On myterms,” he snarls. “Maybe I don’t like him dropping in on me unannounced,
or getting reminded of him when I’m not in the fucking mood to deal with it.”
Damian takes a sharp step forward, into his space, and he bares his teeth and
barely stops himself from lashing out. “When have you and Iever worked alone
together, Todd? It is more common to see you and Father, so thatis what I chose
to portray. If you dislike it you are free to leave; I am not responsible for
keeping you entertained and I do not need you here.”
“I thought daddy dearestwas keeping you reeled in tight,” he spits back. “Don’t
you get in trouble if I leave?”
“Is it my fault if you promise to patrol with me and then go back on it?”
“Is it myfault you showed up as the goddamn Batman?”
“Can you not even handle the shadow of my Father, Todd? Would it make you more
comfortableif I returned to the Cave for the completely inane purpose of
swapping clothes?”
He shifts his weight forward, snarls lower in his chest. “I can handle more
than you can dream of, brat.”
“It is just a costume,” Damian snarls back, with another small step forward.
“It is protocol. Even an imbecile like you couldn’t mistake me for my Father,
Todd — unless you’ve managed to become even morebrain damaged since any of us
last checked — so stop shrinking from the mention of his name and behave as the
warrior you claim to be!”
He almosthits Damian, almost just says fuckthis whole night and attacks, but
instead he draws his hands into tight fists. Slowly, through his teeth, he
grinds out, “Don’t you fuckingtempt me, kid.”
Damian is right in his face, voice a low, rough growl that almost matches
Bruce’s. “Do notunderestimate what I can handle, Todd. I am not a child. I have
a rightto this suit and I will not give it up just because you can’t deal with
the reminder of a man who isn’t even on this planet.”
“Shut the hell up,” he growls back, against the anger rising underneath his
skin.
Damian’s teeth bare instead. “You have no rightto tell me what to do, not when
you shy away from a shadow and a name. I knew you were a liar but I never took
you to be a cowardtoo, Todd.”
The roar that comes from his chest barely sounds human to his ears, and
training abandons him as he lashes out, grabbing Damian’s arms and wrenching
him sideways, slamminghim up against the wall that was at his back. Damian’s
gloved hands dig into the leather of his jacket and he presses close in an
instinctive pin, bares his teeth when his roar ends.
He thinks, in that moment, he understands what it’s like to be on the other
side of his encounters with Bruce. To be baited until you just snap.
Then he’s leaning in, going for that unfamiliar mouth in that too-familiar
costume and crashing them together. Damian jerks, gasps in a breath against his
mouth, and he snarls into the mockery of a kiss and presses closer, letting go
of Damian’s arms. He doesn’t get shoved away, doesn’t get bitten or punched, so
he takes it as silent permission to wrap one of his arms around Damian’s waist,
beneath the cape, and grab the back of his neck with the other. His fingers
curl against the armor, wanting hair that he can grab and pull at, but he makes
do with pushing Damian harder against the wall.
Until he pulls his head back just enough that he can breath in the fraction
between their mouths, and hisses, “I’m so fucking sick of thinking about
Bruce.”
Then Damian’s hands are clenching in his jacket, and he expects to be pushed
away and almost gasps when, instead, he gets wrenched forward those few inches
left between them. Damian’s teeth come down hard on his bottom lip, and he
makes a sharp little noise of pain as he feels it split near the center,
flinches back a touch before the taste of blood reaches his tongue.
“Then don’t,” Damian snaps back. “Keep him out of this.”
Instead of answering — instead of lying— he drags Damian into another kiss,
pulls Damian hard up against him and shoves first one leg between his thighs
and then the other. He can feel Damian’s breath catch, and he forces himself to
pull back after another moment, to even out his breathing and try to think
before he ends up grinding Damian against the wall like he’s some stupid
teenager who can’t think past his cock.
He pulls away enough that he’s sure Damian’s eyes have opened, and then
demands, “Come with me.” He takes Damian’s left wrist as he pulls back, doesn’t
give him a chance to protest as he heads in the direction of his nearest
safehouse, just a block away.
This is the start of Bruce’s usual route; he likes to be nearby.
Damian follows at his heels without a breath of complaint, even when he lets go
to make the leaps across the gaps between the buildings. It feels like it takes
way too long to get to the small balcony of his apartment, swinging down into
it and immediately setting to work disabling his security as Damian comes down
beside him.
“It is a glass door,” Damian snarks, as he finishes the last of the security
and pushes it open. “What do you think your alarm system is going to do?
Startlethem?”
He drags Damian inside, all but flings him against the closest wall while he
hooks everything back up and then sweeps the curtain into place to hide them.
Then he points to the wires circled around the door, follows them to the
explosives they’re hooked into.
“Yeah, it’ll startlethem into bits and pieces. Not all of us keep security as
non-lethal as the stuff at the Manor, brat. Anyone walking in here gets blown
all to hell before they’re anywhere near me.” He stalks closer, boxes Damian in
against the wall with his greater height and broader build as he snarls, “Now
get that fucking suit off, Damian.”
The twist of a smirk feels out of place against the cowl, and he can see
Damian’s shoulders curl forwards a bit, see how he’s clearly anticipating
something big. “You seem so offended by it, maybe youshould be the one to take
it off.”
He probably doesn’t disappoint. He jerks forward, shoving Damian harder against
the wall and then raising one hand to drag the cowl back along Damian’s skull
to bare his face. There’s challenge in every inch of the expression that he
reveals, and he tangles his fingers in Damian’s black hair and yanksdown.
Damian yelps, flails a bit, but his neck arches anyway and Jason takes full
advantage of the moment. He drops his mouth to Damian’s throat, bites down hard
and cruel for a moment before moving up to speak right into Damian’s ear.
“You want me to tear this thing right off of you, Robin? Big, bad, Red Hood
ripping this lieoff your skin?”
Damian actually snarls, jerking against his grip before a punch hits his side
with enough force to ache a bit, though not enough to make him actually move.
“I have no interest in your identity, Todd. Do this as yourself or not at all.”
He pushes forward against Damian, snaps, “Fine,” right into his ear.
He lets both of his hands drop to the cape, pinning Damian with nothing but his
weight and the threat of his teeth while he pulls apart all of the little
connections with easy familiarity. The cape comes loose easily, and Damian
gives a startled gasp as he continues with the outer layer of armor. Damian’s
hands press against either side of his waist, and he dips his head and sinks
his teeth in closer to the back of his neck, as far as he can get before the
bunched up cowl interferes.
Damian hisses, and he almost laughs in response because Damian is arching
against him, hips pushing forward in what’s probably an instinctive grind.
He gets the last hook undone for the armor, and pulls back just enough that he
can grab Damian’s wrists and drag them up off his waist. It’s definitely
anticipationin Damian’s gaze as he yanks both gloves free, and then drags the
armor off of his arms to leave the brat in just that last layer of reinforced
suit. He gives Damian a predatory grin, gets a fucking shiverfor it, and then
raises a hand to grab the hidden zipper in the undersuit and pull it down.
Slowly, for the effect.
Damian swallows, and he tracks that line of skin being revealed all the way
from the hollow of Damian’s throat down to his navel. He shifts closer, pushing
one thigh between Damian’s and bracing his free arm against the wall beside his
head, leaning in to graze his teeth along Damian’s jaw and then against the top
of his throat. He pulls his head back just a bit though, so he can watch
Damian’s expression as he slides his gloved hand back up the revealed chest.
There’s sharp desire there — strangely naked considering how much effort Damian
generally puts into hiding what he feels — a small hint of wariness, and so
much anticipation he’s surprised the kid hasn’t vibrated right out of his skin
yet.
He pushes the undersuit back off of Damian’s shoulders, leaves it on his upper
arms for a moment as he lowers his gaze to the now fully exposed chest. His
mouth curls in a small grin as he watchesDamian’s nipples pebble underneath his
gaze, feels and hears the way the kid’s next breath comes a little bit shaky.
He looks up again to study Damian’s expression as he raises his hand, rubs one
thumb over a nipple — gets a small little clench of teeth for it — and then
pinches. Not too hard, but enough to hurt.
Damian squirms, twisting against the wall but pushing forward, not back. He
smirks.
“Someone likes a little pain,” he comments, and Damian’s teeth bare.
“Do not tease, Todd. Get on with it.”
He bares his teeth right back, then leans in closer and slides his hand up to
settle around Damian’s neck, thumb pressing lightly into the hollow of his
throat. “What makes you think you get to tell me what to do?” he hisses,
pressing until he feels Damian swallow.
“What makes you think I’ll allow you to do whatever you wish?” Damian
retaliates.
His chuckle comes out dark, and then he shifts forward and presses Damian
hardinto the wall. “You’re still here.”
Damian’s eyes flicker wide for a moment, but before the brat can say anything
he drags him forward, into a hard kiss that still tastes just a bit like blood.
He tightens his grip on Damian’s throat by a fraction, waits for the gasp, and
then shoves his tongue forward to take and take and take.
Damian’s thighs press in against the leg he has between them, and then hands
press against his waist with enough force he can feel it through the armor. He
retaliates instantaneously, letting go of Damian’s throat so he can grab his
wrists instead and slamthem up against the wall on either side of Damian’s
head. He gets a second gasp for that, and he draws back to put a fraction of
space between their mouths so he can let out a low, dark, growl of threatfrom
the depths of his chest.
The catch of breath is audible, and when Damian shudders and arches forwards an
inch or so his mouth curls with a vicious sense of satisfaction.
“You like that, little Bat?” he murmurs, speaking through the crooked smirk.
“Are you finally realizing you’re in over your head?”
Damian’s eyes open, and the wariness is clearer now but so is the desire. He
watches the brat swallow, follows the bob of his Adam’s apple and just wants to
biteat it. “I am perfectly capable of handling you, Todd. If you desire to see
me overwhelmed you will have to earnit.” He tightens his grip as Damian pulls
against the pin, as the brat’s teeth bare and he spits, “Make me.”
He’s always been a sucker for challenges.
He grins, and then lets go of Damian’s wrists so he can wrench the undersuit
down. It’s easy getting it to Damian’s waist, off his arms, and he doesn’t even
bother to try for some kind of tease, just hooks his thumbs in underneath the
band of Damian’s briefs and shoves them down along with everything else. It
leaves everything in a pile on the ground, and he grabs Damian’s throat again
to hold the younger man against the wall as he takes a half step back to
slowly, obviously, rake his gaze down along Damian’s exposed skin. A hand
closes around his wrist, but there’s no pressure and no twist to make him let
go so he doesn’t even pretend to care.
He lets his gaze linger on Damian’s erection, almost wants to humiliate him but
just lets the silence do it instead, and god damn if the brat’s cock doesn’t
actually twitch under the attention. He presses his fingers harder into
Damian’s throat, gets anothertwitch, and laughs.
“Well, isn’t someonejust a tangle of all kindsof kinks?” he mocks with a wicked
grin.
Before Damian can figure out a response to that he moves, shifting closer and
grabbing the brat to flip him and shove his chest up against the wall. Damian
sucks in a startled breath, before his hand closes on the back of the younger
man’s neck and he presses his weight forward into it, pressing the entire
length of his body up against Damian’s back.
He grips Damian’s waist with his free hand, lowers his head so he can exhale
hot and slow over the skin beneath Damian’s ear. “Wonder how deep I can crawl
under your skin?” he whispers, then tightens his grip and breathes just loud
enough to be heard, “Wonder what else I’ll find in there?”
“I—”
He slides the hand on Damian’s waist forward, shoving it between skin and the
wall until he can wrap his gloved fingers around Damian’s cock. Damian arches
beneath him, shoving into his hand, and he presses his grin against the crook
of Damian’s neck and shoulder as the younger man’s hands press hard against the
wall, fingers curling against it and scraping blunt nails against the
unforgiving surface. When he bites it’s definitely enough to hurt, but it’s not
the same kind of force he was using before. This time, he works the skin
beneath his teeth as he rolls his hips forwards against Damian’s ass, until
he’s sure that he’s broken enough blood vessels that this patch of skin is
going to bruise red and ugly and obvious.
“Todd,” Damian gasps, pushing into the loose tunnel of his fist.
He pulls his hand away, ignores the sharp little noise of protest Damian makes,
and tightens the grip on the back of Damian’s neck as he takes that same half
step back so he can get a look at the younger man from the opposite side. He
takes his time raking his gaze down the copper skin and the lines of faded and
fresh scars, down the back of those legs and then, of course, to Damian’s ass.
It’s not Dick’s absurdly perfect, round ass, but it’s firm and pretty damn
gorgeous all on its own.
“Not bad,” is what he chooses to say, making sure his words come out mocking.
Damian shifts, like he’s about to speak, and he brings his free hand in to grab
one of the cheeks of that ass to prematurely cut him off. Damian tenses a bit,
but he doesn’t let that stop him from getting a good feel of the one half. Then
he pulls it to the side a bit, enough that he can take a look at the dusty,
clenched ring of muscle hidden between the cheeks, and his grin is utterly
real. He shifts back up against Damian’s spine, and lowers his free hand down
between Damian’s legs to get a loose grip on the weight of his balls. Damian
inhales sharply, and then tenses again when he slides his hand up and back and
gets his fingers pressed in between Damian’s cheeks and up against what he most
definitely intends to fuck at leastonce tonight.
He snorts, leaning in to tug at Damian’s earlobe with his teeth. “Relax, I’m
not going to fuck you up against the wall, little Bat,” he reassures, and then
gives a quiet, rough laugh and adds, “Not this time anyway.”
“You think there will be a second time?” Damian demands, head twisting until
they’re nearly face to face, against the pressure on his neck.
“Tonight, or in general?”
Damian gives a small snarl, pressing back against his holds. “You are
overestimating your own abilities, Todd.”
Another laugh, before he meets Damian’s snarl with a grin and lets his hand
slide up to rest on Damian’s waist instead. “I don’t have to be some kind of
sex god to get you wanting a second time, babe. You want to know why I’m so
damn sure that you’ll be back?”
He waits, makes Damian actually spit, “Yes.”
Then he leans forward, crushing Damian between his weight and the wall as he
lowers his mouth to speak into his ear. “You’re getting off on the violence of
it, the pain, the possessiveness.” He shakes Damian once by the grip on his
neck, lowers his voice to a rough snarl. “I could leave right nowand you’d
still come back, little Bat, because no matter how many other people you fuck,
who else would dare to treat the little prince like this?”
At the last word he wrenches Damian away from the wall, drags him along by his
neck as he strides towards the door to the actual bedroom of the safehouse.
Damian’s suit is still tangled around his ankles, and he flails both arms for
balance as he’s pulled along, trying to keep up with longer legs and a faster
stride.
“Todd!” Damian snaps, and then a curse in Arabic that he understands about half
of.
It’s still enough to make him laugh.
He ends up almost carrying Damian the last third of the distance, when he
trips, and then finally lifts him to toss him onto the bed itself. Damian rolls
to his back, glaring up at him and pushing partway up on his elbows.
“I am supposed to come back because you are an utter bastard?”
He grins, standing at the foot of the bed. “Yeah, and look how hardyou are.”
It’s a thing of beauty to watch Damian flush, fingers curling into the sheets
and head twisting away from him to glare, embarrassed, at the bed. He takes
advantage of the moment of distraction to lean down and get his hands on
Damian’s ankles, deftly undoing the catches to his boots and then pulling the
suit off of him to leave the younger man finally fully nude. He takes a couple
moments to just look, appreciating all that tightly compacted muscle and the
lean, dangerous beauty to him.
He’s not going to say it out loud — even he can recognize when something is
going too far — but Damian looks a lotlike Talia right at that moment. They
both have this quality to them like a sheathed blade; beautiful and gleaming
and more than capable of slitting your throat at a single moment of
inattention, and damnif that isn’t enticing. He had the same kind of visceral
reaction to Talia, during the night they shared a bed.
Seventeen and in over his head; there are some parallels here he’s not sure he
wants to draw.
Damian’s mouth curls in a small sneer. “You are veryoverdressed, Todd.”
He pulls himself out of just looking, moving forward onto the bed and crawling
over Damian, shoving him flat onto his back and sliding one leg up in between
his thighs. “Maybe I like having you vulnerable,” he taunts. “Maybe I
likehaving all the power.”
Which is when a hand claws for his face, and he flinches back but not in time
to prevent nails from catching the edge of his domino and ripping it off his
face. They catch a good bit of his temple on the way there too, and he winces
at the combined sting of that and the domino getting torn off. What isit about
both the Waynes refusing to actually take the time to loosen the adhesive
before yanking it off his face?
“”I am farfrom helpless,” Damian hisses, flinging his domino off the bed to who
knows where in the room.
He meets Damian’s gaze, lets his mouth curl in a sarcastic smirk. “Ow.”
“You are overdressed,” Damian presses, looking poised to strike again if he
doesn’t get what he wants.
He braces his weight on one hand, slides the other down to grip the outside of
Damian’s thigh as he presses his leg up with enough pressure to make Damian
squirm a bit. “Maybe,” he murmurs, digging his fingers in harder, “I was
planning on fucking you just like this. Pull my pants down just enough to get
in you and—”
“No,” Damian interrupts, in a snarl. “You will undress, Todd. It is fair.”
He stalls out for a second, just staring, and then blurts, “Jesus, what part of
this looks fairto you? Do you think this is some ‘show me yours, I’ll show you
mine’ game? That’s so fucking juvenile.”
Damian tenses up, teeth baring as his eyes narrow. “And you are always so
mature.”
That stalls him for another moment, before he barks out a laugh and just
mutters, “Touché. Alright, fine. I’ll undress if it’ll make you fucking happy.”
He pushes up, sitting back onto his heels and letting go of Damian’s thigh. He
shrugs his jacket off, tosses it over the bed, then gets to work on the buckles
for his gloves. Damian actually seems a little surprised that he’s doing what
the brat wanted, and he raises an eyebrow and snorts as he throws his gloves
down to join the jacket.
“Get that look off your face, little Bat. It’s like you think I’m doing this
for you, and not just because it’ll be easier to fuck you without my gear in
the way.” Damian flushes again, as he tugs the zipper on his armor down and
then sheds that as well. “If I was doing this for you, I’d be making it a
show.” Finally, he pulls the white undershirt off, and then leans down over
Damian as the younger man’s gaze darts down his bare chest and then back up.
“And I would have made you ask nicely.”
Damian visibly swallows, and he smirks and pushes himself back up so he can
swing away from straddling Damian’s thigh and get off the bed. He’s not quite
crazy enough to turn his back, and he keeps himself aware of Damian as he makes
short work of his boots, and then the knife and gun strapped to his thighs.
He’s just unbuckling his belt when Damian speaks again.
“You could not makeme do anything.”
His gaze snaps up. Damian’s eyes are narrowed and he’s half sitting up, braced
on palms and elbows. It’s defiance and challenge and both those ideas make him
want to just slam Damian onto his back and bite down until the brat gives in.
Carefully, he reins those impulses in a little bit.
Instead, he bares his teeth, shoves his pants and briefs down, steps out of the
puddle it makes around his ankles, and strides forward. Damian’s sharp little
gasp eases that part of him that wants to bite down, and he settles for giving
a rough snarl and crawling back over the younger man, shoving Damian back down
and then leaning in to keep him flat on his back.
“You tempt me and I’ll prove you wrong, little Bat. Don’t start what you can’t
finish.”
Damian’s hands rise, gripping his biceps and digging nails in on the edge of
painful. “I am not the onlyone who has not finished what he started. If you are
so intent on fuckingme, perhaps you should get on with it.”
He gives a rough bark of laughter and plants one hand in the center of Damian’s
chest to give himself something to push up off of. “Even if I thought you were
enough of a masochist to actually enjoy getting fucked with no lube or prep —
which I don’t — I wouldn’t. Have a little patience, brat; I’ll keep it quick.”
He knocks Damian’s grip off of him and then stretches out, reaching for the
nightstand. It’s almost out of reach, and he ends up laying basically his full
weight on Damian so he can get his fingers inside it and grab the bottle of
lube. Damian makes an offended noise even as his breath leaves him in a huff.
“Todd, you are heavy.”
“Well if you hadn’t taunted me I would have grabbed it while I was still
standing.”
It takes a little effort to get his weight back on his knees, and he
considersjust asking, or ordering, before shrugging the idea of being niceoff.
Instead he grabs Damian’s hips and manually flips the brat, laying him out on
his stomach before dragging his hips into the air to put him on his knees
instead, ass up and out.
“Todd!” Damian sounds almost scandalized, and he preemptively wraps one arm
down around Damian’s thighs to hold him in place as he clicks the cap of the
bottle open one-handed.
“Wayne!” he mocks right back, doing a bit of careful maneuvering to get the
lube actually on his fingers and not all over the bed. “Relax,” he orders,
stroking the fingers of his clean hand — belonging to the arm wrapped around
Damian’s legs — across Damian’s thigh. “We’re not going to get anywhere if
you’re stiff as a board.”
“There is noreason for me to be in this position,” Damian hisses, twisting
against his grip so he just holds on tighter. “Let go or I will hurtyou, Todd.”
“Sure there’s a reason,” he counters, completely ignoring the threat because
honestly, it’s not much of one. He pauses a moment, can almost feelDamian’s
hesitation, and uses it to raise his other hand up without interference. “I
likeit.”
Damian jerks when a finger slides home, spits out another curse in Arabic that
just makes him grin as he leans over and down, pressing little nipping kisses
to the section of Damian’s spine that he can reach. It seems to stop Damian’s
threat in its tracks, because he doesn’t get clawed or punched or otherwise
hurt even though he keeps his arm looped tight around Damian’s thighs.
“Seriously,” he murmurs into Damian’s back, “relax, Damian. I get that you like
some pain, but this is not something to fuck around with. Relax.”
He can almost physically feel the sarcastic response on the tip of Damian’s
tongue, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Damian slowly spits, “I would prefer to
be on my back.” It’s said like it’s the ultimate concession, like it’s some
kind of huge surrender that he’s only grudgingly allowing himself.
He pauses, briefly considers the pros and cons, and then shoves out a sharp
breath and lets go. Keeping Damian on his knees feels… It feels like too much.
So he pulls his finger out and twists Damian’s hips to push the younger man
onto his back, parting Damian’s thighs and tugging him down a couple inches so
he can sit snugly between those spread legs. They immediately press in against
his hips, and he almost rolls his eyes as he idly shoves them wide again,
trying to convey that pressing those legs in against him is not relaxing.
“Alright,” he concedes, “your turn, little Bat. Relax for me.”
Damian has that wary edge back in his gaze, but he does breathe out long and
slow and the tension doesdrain out of him somewhat. It looks manual, but that’s
good enough. He can work with forced relaxation; it’s all the same when it
comes down to the physical necessities.
Of course, Damian ruins the moment by hissing, “Not for you.”
He snorts, slides his hand back down to press that finger back in and watch
Damian’s eyes squeeze shut for a moment. “Of course not.”
Maybe there are some advantages to having Damian laid out flat like this.
Specifically, the sight of Damian’s hands twisting into the sheets is pretty
damn nice, and so is the little flash of teeth as Damian notices him watching
and flushes, twisting his head away. He smirks, but doesn’t comment on it even
though he hasa sarcastic little jab about Damian choosing this sitting on the
tip of his tongue. It’s clearly been awhile, and Damian’s clearly at least a
little nervous even if he’s nevergoing to admit it, so this is not the time.
There’s a fine line between being a bastard and being a piece of shit, and he’s
not willing to accidentally cross it. Purposefully, maybe, but not
accidentally.
He leans down instead, calling Damian’s attention back with a quiet, “Hey,” and
then catching the brat’s mouth in a kiss. A little softer this time, a little
more exploratory and a little bit less like he wants to eat the brat alive.
Which isn’t necessarily untrue, but being rough is not going to help Damian
relax.
He lifts his free hand and slides it into Damian’s hair, cupping the back of
his skull so he can adjust it to a slightly better angle. Damian’s mouth parts
almost hesitantly, and he gives a muffled sound of satisfaction as he slips his
tongue in to explore. Damian’s pressed close enough to him that he can feel the
faint shiver, and he curls his fingers in that black hair and tugs just enough
to give the sensation without causing any pain. He feels more than hears the
tiny moan that Damian makes, and smirks as he pulls back from the kiss and
pulls Damian’s throat into an arch at the same time. He doesn’t even bother
opening his eyes, just paints a trail of kisses down Damian’s jaw and onto the
more sensitive skin around his ear.
Damian squirms, giving a little gasp, and presses down against the single
finger inside him.
“Todd, don’t—”
“Hush,” he orders, and miraculously, Damian does. “I know what I’m doing,
little Bat. Let me do it.”
Damian’s hands grab onto his shoulders, a little bit less heavy on the nails
this time, and the brat gives an argumentative sound and presses upwards a
little. “You are leaving marks too high up,” Damian protests. “Todd, stop.”
He snorts, dryly comments, “It’s called concealer,” but does lower his mouth a
few inches to safer territories. “It’s not any different than covering up the
fact that someone punched you in the face.”
“Have a lot of practice at that?” Damian jabs.
The answer that comes out of his mouth is almost too truthful. “I don’t cover
up my bruises,” he murmurs into Damian’s neck, then quickly covers the honesty
by adding, “No paparazzi to give a fuck that I don’t look perfect at all
times.”
Damian doesn’t continue the half of a conversation, but the grip on his
shoulders slides up along his back, fingers clearly mapping out muscle and
tracing the lines of old scars. It probably satisfies him a little too much
when he pushes a second finger into Damian and gets those hands to dig nails
into his skin. He gets a bitten-off gasp too, and without thinking hums
something like reassurance into Damian’s throat. He doesn’t go as far as saying
anything, but he takes a bit of care to keep the roll of his fingers relatively
gentle, even as he curls them in search of Damian’s prostate.
It takes him a bit to find it, but then his fingers find the different texture
and Damian’s hands dig into his back again. He gives a quiet laugh into
Damian’s skin, but keeps any nasty comments off of his tongue. Damian’s breath
comes a little sharper, but the younger man doesn’t say anything either, just
arches a bit and twists down towards his hand. It takes self-control he
honestly didn’t know he had, but he stops himself from rocking down against
Damian’s hips, even though he can feel the grazes of heated skin against his
own as Damian squirms and it’s damndistracting.
To combat that, and to keep himself from doing anything stupid — like working
himself up too high to even make the fuck worth it — he shifts his body down.
He lets go of Damian’s hair so he can brace against the bed and keep his
balance, sucking a trail of hickeys in a meandering path down Damian’s chest.
He pays special attention to the small whine — almost inaudible if he wasn’t
paying so much attention — he gets when he sucks one right over the protrusion
of Damian’s collarbone, and he makes sure to graze his teeth over that skin a
little longer than the rest of it. He detours off the path Damian probably
expects after that, slipping sideways so he can mark his way down Damian’s side
and the sensitive skin over his ribs.
Damian’s hands end up in his hair, curled tight and pulling with just enough
pressure that he can feel it. He’s pretty sure it’s not even intentional, but
it’s a damngood feeling so he doesn’t stop it, though he does twist his head
and nip at the skin of one of Damian’s wrists in warning. He meets the hazed
blue eyes looking down at him for just a moment, then smirks and goes back to
his mission to track what parts of Damian he’s had his mouth on.
By the time he reaches Damian’s hip the younger man is rocking up into the
thrusts of his fingers, head arched back and the hands in his hair rhythmically
clenching and releasing in little waves of motion. So he slips his fingers
almost all the way out, keeps the same rhythm and pushes a third in beside
them. Damian’s inhalation is sharp, and he waits just a moment for the flutter
of hot muscle to ease before continuing his rocking thrusts. He sucks a mark
into the hollow of Damian’s hip, enjoysthe almost startled sounding moan that
he gets for the sensation.
“Look at that,” he murmurs as he pushes up, shifting back up and over Damian.
“The arrogant little prince, Damian Wayne…” He pauses to wait for Damian’s eyes
to open and meet his gaze before he finishes, “All wrapped around my fingers.”
Damian’s eyes widen and then the flush comes right on its heels, darkening the
tops of Damian’s cheeks. That, paired with the way Damian scowls in a clear
mixture of anger and embarrassment, gets a grin out of him.
“Watch your tongue,” Damian hisses, and his grin gets a little wider.
“You want to? Maybe next time, little Bat; I’m not that big a fan of the taste
of lube.”
And Damian’s flush gets darker, that scowl disappearing underneath fresh shock.
He laughs, then takes a bit of mercy on the brat and leans in to catch Damian’s
mouth in a kiss. He takes his time coaxing Damian to open his mouth, giving
little painless nips to his lower lip and tracing his tongue along the seam
between Damian’s lips. It doesn’t take all that long, and then he carefully
matches the roll and thrust of his tongue to the movement of his fingers.
Thatgets him a muffled moan and another clench of the hands in his hair, and to
ride that bit of momentum he curls his fingers and rubs purposefully along the
bundle of Damian’s prostate.
Damian tugs at his hair hard enough to get him to break the kiss, presses
thighs in against the side of his hips, and then whinesinto the fraction of air
between them. And fuck, if he wasn’t already rock hard that would have done it.
He bares his teeth in reaction, takes a second to rein in the impulses
screaming at him to just take, and then steals a last lingering kiss before
pulling away. Damian’s hands slide out of his hair — which he’s almost sad
about — as he sits up, and he has to twist his head away to locate where the
hell he abandoned the bottle of lube. He finds it half behind one of Damian’s
knees, and reaches over to pick it up. He waits until he’s got it down between
them before pulling his fingers out of Damian, so he can watch the entrance
contract and it nearly knocks the breath out of him.
He finds his lip curling in a snarl, needing some way to safely vent the surge
of animalistic desire to have and take and claim. Damian’s thighs pressing hard
in against his hips as the younger man twists against the bed and then arches
does not help.
His hands are actually shaking a little bit as he squeezes some of the lube out
onto his already dirty hand and then tosses the bottle aside. He hisses at the
contact of his hand on his own cock, squeezes his eyes shut for a second and
gets it done as quickly as possible before forcing himself to lower his hand
back down to Damian’s ass and rub as much of the excess on his hand onto
Damian’s skin as he can, dipping his fingers in past the rim as well.
Damian’s hands twist into the sheets, and he takes in a deep breath to try for
just some small measure of restraint. He braces his clean hand beside Damian’s
head, aims himself with the other and then presses forward. Damian gasps at the
first breach, clenches down and he forces himself to stop. He has to take a
second to drag in a hard breath.
“Easy,” he manages to say, “easy. Relax, Damian. Just let me in.”
Damian shudders, and then there are nails digging into his back and he jerks on
instinct, shoving himself in a couple inches further before he can stop.
Damian’s nails rakehis back, and he hisses and shudders himself.
“Fuck,” is all he can get out for a second, before he gathers some of his mind
back. “Come on, brat. You’re good; promise. I’ve got you.”
It hard to say whether it’s because of his words or just the passing time, but
Damian does shudder into something a little closer to relaxation. It’s enough
that he can carefully rock forward, easing himself further into Damian with
little rolls of his hips, until finally he bottoms out. Damian is actually
trembling a little bit, breath coming in sharp little bursts, and he lowers his
head to brush his nose across Damian’s throat, breathing in the scent of sex
and sweat and whatever kind of cologne or soap Damian is using that definitely
smells like it costs more than most people earn in a month.
If richhad a scent…
“Todd,” Damian breathes, nails digging into his back again. “Todd, I— I need—”
“I know,” he answers, almost surprised at how rough and low his voice comes
out. “Just hang on to me, little Bat.”
He grabs Damian’s hip, tilts it up just a little bit and then gives a testing
roll of his own hips. When Damian doesn’t flinch or clench too hard or anything
else that would betray pain, he loosens the tight restraints on the instinct
and desireburning in his chest. He bares his teeth, doesn’tbite down but does
give a deep growl into Damian’s throat as he rocks forward a little harder, a
little faster. Damian responds with a strangled moan, arching up against him
and staying that way, hands pressing hard against his back with almost enough
force behind them to force him closer. Almost.
Damian feels hot against and around him, especially the rush of breath against
the top of his shoulder, and fuckbut he’s tight. Not enough to really worry
him, but definitely the kind of tight that implies that it’s been awhile since
Damian did this. At least as far as he remembers, though it’s been awhile since
he actually played top so he might not be right. The important bit is that
Damian doesn’t seem to be in any kind of mood-ruining pain, and isn’t demanding
he stop.
What little control he’s still keeping slips as he fucks into Damian, and he
pushes himself up with his free hand and shrugs off Damian’s grip, sitting up
between the brat’s legs and grabbing his other hip so he can put some real
power behind his thrusts. Damian arches, face twisting into something too heavy
with desire to be a real grimace. He tightens his grip, lets his head fall back
for a moment as he pants with the exertion, then forces himself to loosen his
hands a little so he can slide them down Damian’s thighs. He lifts those thighs
a bit, guides them to wrap around his waist instead of clinging to his hips.
His head dips, eyes squeezing shut as he grabs hold of either side of Damian’s
waist to drag him down onto the thrusts. Damian twists against his grip, heels
digging into his low back as the younger man gives a breathy cry. Then fingers
grab the edges of his hair, curling half into the strands above his ear, and
his eyes snap open to follow the length of Damian’s outstretched arm.
Before he can really think about it he strikes.
He lets go, grabs Damian’s wrists, and lunges forward to slam them down against
the bed to either side of Damian’s head. Damian’s eyes fly open, wide and
surprised, and he bares his teeth in threat and picks up the pace of the snap
of his hips. That drives Damian to arch, to gasp, to pull against the grip on
his wrists and then shudder when he leans his weight down into the pin.
“Todd!” His name comes out as what’s nearly a cry, and Damian’s second shudder
is a lot harder. “I— I can’t… Todd! Just—”
He understands the disconnected plea, and drags Damian’s wrists across the bed
until he can cross them over the brat’s head and swap his grip to just one
hand. The other he shoves down between them, wrapping his hand around Damian’s
cock with no real ceremony. Damian shouts, and he almost echoes it at the sharp
contraction of muscle around him. He strangles it back to a hard shove of
breath, then forces himself to concentrate for a moment so he can match the
rhythm of his hips and his hand. Luckily it comes easily, because he’s damn
sure he wouldn’t have had the focus to make it work if it hadn’t.
Damian is writhing, pulling against the hand pinning his wrists down. The legs
wrapped around his waist are pressing in hard enough that he’s pretty sure that
he’s going to bruise in a spot or two, and the intermittent, almost random
clenching around his cock is wrenching him towards an end he isn’t ready for
yet. He wants to enjoy this, to really get to take in the picture of Damian,
undone, desperate, and pinned beneath him.
Then Damian’s back is arching high, every muscle winding tight before he gives
a sound almost loud enough to be a shriek. He feels Damian pulse in his hand,
feels a stray splatter of hot wetness against his stomach and watches that arch
collapse as Damian shakes. He lasts long enough to watch it ease, to get a good
view of Damian’s parted lips and thoroughly debauchedappearance, before his own
orgasm crashes over him.
He tightens his grip on Damian’s wrists, squeezes his eyes shut and shouts as
his hips stutter, the wave of it slamming the breath out of him and washing his
body out with ecstasyfor a few good, long moments.
He comes back to himself slowly, head hanging low and his breath coming in deep
gasps, hips still rocking in tiny little circles to chase that feeling. He
stops that first, then pries his fingers off of Damian’s wrists — those are
going to bruise — and pushes up, giving himself some distance back. He has to
manually unhook Damian’s thighs from around his waist, and he opens his eyes so
he can watch Damian squirm as he pulls out. It doesn’t disappoint.
He runs his hands down the spread of Damian’s thighs, gets a tired look from
lidded blue eyes, and then pulls away. He climbs over enough that he doesn’t
crush Damian’s leg when he lets himself fall onto his back, stretching out
along the bed and hooking an arm behind his head. The afterglow lingers and he
relaxes into it, not trying to calm his breathing down any faster than natural.
He hears the bed shift, and then snaps his eyes open when heat touches his side
and weight settles down onto his shoulder. He looks down and finds Damian
pressed up along the length of his body and beneath his arm, upper hand falling
to rest on his stomach and the head of black hair settling neatly over his
heart.
He just stares for a second, and then blurts, “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Relaxing,” Damian says, and then his tone turns sarcastic, “was that not what
you wantedfrom me, Todd?”
“I don’t do… whatever the fuck it is you’re trying here,” he tries to enforce.
“You’re supposed to leave.”
“Says who?”
“The rules.”
“Tt. I thought you lived to breakrules, Todd.”
He glares down at Damian’s head, which stillhasn’t lifted to actually look at
him. “There are some unspoken rules about encounters like these and you’re
fucking them over, Damian. Jesus, it’s like this is your first time.”
At that, Damian’s head does raise, and there’s a defiant look to the flat line
of his mouth. “What does it matter if it is?”
He almost feels his world snap into little pieces.
He jerks back, putting a foot or so of distance between them as something close
to horror washes down his spine. “You— I— Jesus, tell me you’re fucking
joking.” The silence is answer enough. “Shit. I didn’t mean to—” His hand
rises, tugging through his hair. “Fuck, you didn’t think to maybe mention
that?”
Damian’s eyes narrow. “Exactly when should I have slipped that into the
encounter, Todd? What would it have changed, anyway?”
His breath is coming too sharp, too fast. “I don’t know! I would have— fuck,
been gentler? Nicer? Not fucking done it to begin with?!”
Damian is moving, and the shock lets the brat — the fucking virginbefore this
mess — get a hand in the center of his chest and shove him flat onto his back.
“You are a hypocrite, Todd,” Damian spits. “You were fine with sleeping with
me, despite the fact I am not yet legal, but now that you know I had no prior
experience it’s suddenly morally wrong? Why does that make any difference?”
“I thought you knew what you were doing!” he snaps back, glaring. “Jesus,
Damian, I thought you knew your fucking limits! I thought you knew enough to
stop me if I went too far!”
Damian’s voice comes out low and dark. “I am fully capable of stopping you,
Todd. Do notunderestimate me.”
He surges up, shoving Damian back and then getting right in his face. “Yeah?
Would you have stopped me if I’d just thrown lube on and gone to fuck you
without any prep? Or if I didn’t use lube at all? How about if I hadn’t slowed
down when I realized you were nervous? What if I’d ignored it when you wanted
to be on your back?”
“You did not doany of that, so—”
“That’s not the fucking point!” he shouts, and Damian actually flinches back
half an inch. “Jesus, Damian, do you have any idea what I could have done to
you?! How badly I could have hurt you or scared you just by not knowing that
you didn’t know enough to stop me?! Fuck!” He shoves off the bed, stands and
whirls and tries not to throw whatever’s nearest at hand. “Do you actually— You
stupid little bastard, do you have any idea what sex is supposed to be? The dry
mechanics, the feeling, anything at all?”
Damian gets off the bed, sliding to his full height and stepping right up in
front of him. “You talk as if I am some naive child incapable of making my own
choices, Todd. Your first action was to slam me against a wall; do you think I
expected anything less than what occurred?”
He starts to speak, starts to argue, and Damian coils and lashes out, sinking a
punch right into his sternum. He chokes, staggers back, hits the edge of the
bed and falls backs onto it as he gasps for air.
“It has already happened,” Damian says from above him. “I enjoyed myself, you
enjoyed yourself, and any fears you have about the experience are pointless
because they did not happen. Whatever your previous mistakes, if I did not
trust you with my safety I would not have let you near me, let alone let any of
thisoccur. So lie back down and either cease this pointlesstrial of self-pity
and self-hatred or at least do it silently because I was enjoying myself and I
am not done. Is that clear enough for you, Todd?”
He gapes, then manages to get enough air into his lungs to say a breathless,
“Yes.”
“Good. Vertical on the bed, on your back, now.”
He obeys, lifting himself against the lingering ache in his chest to shift into
the position Damian wants, before opening a spot underneath his left arm that
Damian almost immediately slips back into. He shoves out a hysterically amused
burst of air because he can’t get enough of it to really laugh.
“Bruce is going to fucking skin me alive,” he whispers, as Damian presses up
against him, left arm wrapping over his stomach in a way that feels decidedly
possessive.
“Iwas not planning on telling him,” Damian almost snaps. “Were you?”
Yes, but he bites down on that answer, bites down on that whole desire to
hurtBruce because this isn’t right. Sleeping with Damian was one thing but
actually being the first? Takingsomething that important for a chance to make a
jab at Bruce? That’s going too far, it’s selfish and too cruel to just be part
of the game and he nevermeant to…
It’s like he’s seventeen and in over his head all over again.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!