Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11581962.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      DCU, Batman:_Arkham_(Video_Games)
  Relationship:
      Dick_Grayson/Jason_Todd, Roman_Sionis/Jason_Todd
  Character:
      Dick_Grayson, Jason_Todd, Joker_(DCU), Roman_Sionis
  Additional Tags:
      Canon-Typical_Violence, Past_Torture, Past_Rape/Non-con, Dubious_Consent,
      Angst, Rape_Recovery, Hurt/Comfort
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-07-23 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 5582
****** Nice Enough to Leave Scars ******
by MissNaya
Summary
     Someone sends Dick recordings of Jason at his worst. With old wounds
     re-opened, he has to try and use unconventional methods to stitch
     them back up again.
Notes
     so! this is a really intense fic. it centers heavily on the effects
     rape can have on a victim's sexuality. if that sounds like too much
     for you, I implore you to click away and keep yourself safe.
     somewhat inspired by an anon on my_tumblr who asked for a scene where
     Black Mask rapes Arkhamverse!Jason during his time in captivity. it's
     not exactly what the requester probably had in mind, but I hope it's
     satisfying nonetheless!
     note: Jason is underage for the jayroman scene, but not for the
     jaydick scene.
***** Back *****
Dick never should have opened the package. Worn manila envelopes with no return
addresses on them almost always spelled bad news. He knew that, had known it
for a long time, but that didn't stop him from dipping its contents into his
palm: one scuffed USB drive.
One scuffed USB drive with a green smiley face painted on its dull purple
surface.
Seeing it had been like staring at a ghost. Even without any solid proof, he
knew who it was from immediately. Leave it to Joker, he thought, to find a way
to screw with us long after he's dead.
He'd run the envelope and USB for prints, but by then there were too many
layered on to get anything useful. Then he'd set the envelope aside for further
tests, scanned the drive to make sure it was virus free, and made the worst
decision he could possibly have made.
He put it into his computer and opened one of the files.
His monitor had nothing on the Batcomputer, but it still boasted one of the
best displays money could buy. Even then, the video that opened started out
dark and grainy, low-quality as if it had been recorded on VHS. A single
flickering light bulb illuminated the room, something heavy dangling underneath
it. It took a moment for Dick's eyes, and the camera, to adjust, but when they
did, he felt his heart drop.
Jason. It was Jason.
His uniform was torn and caked in dirt, and his face was haggard and sunken-in,
leaving him looking more like a corpse than a person. The Robin emblem on his
chest no longer shone. But it was himhanging there like a sack of sand, there
was no doubt about it.
“Say hello, pretty bird,” came the Joker's all-too-familiar voice. Dick wanted
to say he'd nearly forgotten what it sounded like, but that would be a lie. Its
sour-sweet lilt turned his stomach in knots even now.
Jason said nothing. Dick wondered if he was even conscious.
“Now now,” Joker chided, “there's no need to be rude to our audience. Or do you
need a little motivation?”
Something about the way he said that last word made Jason stir in his bonds,
feet just barely scraping the floor. He moved like he wanted to thrash, but all
he could manage were a few tugs against the ropes around his wrists.
“Please,” he said, voice smaller than Dick had ever heard it. “Please, no.”
“That's the spirit!” Joker sounded so genuinely delighted by Jason's plea that
it brought bile to the back of Dick's throat. “Now, what's say we play a game?”
Joker rounded the camera and bent over to smile into it, adjusting his polka-
dotted bow tie. He looked healthy, unaffected by the Titan virus that had taken
his life. It hurt Dick to remember just how long he had Jason locked up down
there.
Slicking back his hair, he backed up a few steps until most of his body was in
frame. “This one's called 'Pick Your Poison!' Are you listening, boys and girls
at home? Each round, our wonderful contestant, Robin, will get to choose
between three wonderful toys. Whichever one he picks, we'll play with! Doesn't
that sound like fun?”
Joker leaned in and cupped a hand to his ear, as if listening for his imaginary
audience's reaction. Behind him, Jason began to sob.
“Goodie goodie! Now, for round one, we have: the crowbar, the power drill, and
the welding torch! What'll it be, Jason, ol' boy?”
“Just lemme go,” Jason said, voice cracked and broken. “Please don't do this.
Please. Please just let me—”
Joker ticked and tocked with his tongue against the roof of his mouth, rocking
back and forth to the tune. Speaking over Jason's begging, he sing-songed,
“Five seconds left! Better hurry up and decide, or it's Joker's choice. Four,
three, tw—”
“Crowbar!” Jason blurted out. Even in low-resolution, Dick could see his face
twisted up, ugly and wrinkled and shut-eyed like a toddler throwing a tantrum.
“Crowbar, ohgod,please...!”
Jason trailed off into sobs, and Joker stalked away off-camera to go shuffle
around some heavy-sounding objects. Dick heard one slow scraaaape, and then,
smiling widely, Joker came back into frame, aforementioned crowbar in his
hands.
“Who didn't seethatone coming?” he said with a wink toward the camera. Then,
cackling his horrendous, maniacal laugh, he raised the bar above his head.
Dick shut his eyes.
===============================================================================
 
He wished he could say he stopped there, but there were so many clips loaded
onto the USB. They played one right after the other, and Dick was transfixed.
No. No, that's not fair. He could've turned it off at any time. His stomach
would've thanked him for it. But the truth was, he was curious. What had turned
Jason into the man he was today? What changed a rough-around-the-edges,
kindhearted kid into an army general hellbent on destroying the city? Even
months after the Halloween incident, Jason had no qualms about killing. There
was an anger in him, a hurt that ran deep, and god damn it, Dick was his
brother. He felt, in that torturous moment, like he had to try and understand
what Jason went through.
He wasn't ready for the next video, 006.avi, to start playing. Wasn't ready for
the horrible truth it would reveal.
It started out like all the others. Jason, in the center of the room, tied up
and exhausted. He looked more malnourished with every video, clothes sagging
off his limp frame. Dick wondered how long he'd been there by that point, but
the Joker, off-camera, answered for him.
“Happy six month anniversary!” he crowed. “We all pitched in to get you
something.”
Out of the shadows stepped more people, people Dick quickly recognized as
Arkham inmates and other criminals. One by one, they each took turns pummeling
Jason, venting their vigilante-related frustrations while Joker cheered them
on. Jason, the poor thing, couldn't even begin to fight back, bound tightly to
a chair that rocked whenever he was hit. After a particularly hard “leap year
punch” from Calendar Man, it looked like he would actually fall over this time.
Dick's stomach lurched just from the sight of it, but before Jason could crash
down, a hand caught the back of the chair.
Dick recognized the owner of it immediately: Black Mask. Roman Sionis, dressed
sharp in a white tuxedo, like he'd thrown on something special for the
occasion. He righted Jason, waving off boos from the crowd.
“Alright, alright,” he said. “My turn. I wanna give little Robin here a special
present.”
He pulled a pocket knife out of his suit, flicking it open. A few people spoke
up when he began cutting through Jason's ropes, but he paid them little mind.
“Does he look like he's in any condition to fight back? Don't be pansies,” he
said.
And then, when Jason's limp form slumped into his arms, he lowered him to the
floor.
“Boy Wonder, huh?” he said, straightening up and undoing his cufflinks. Slowly
but efficiently, he rid himself of his suit jacket, tossing it over the back of
the empty wooden chair. “What's say we fix that right up? Gonna make you
amantoday, kiddo. ...Eh. Maybe more of a woman.”
Dick's brow scrunched up. Even Jason seemed to take notice of that, attempting
to pull his arms up under him to push off of the floor. Roman didn't even
bother to stop him. He was too busy pulling his belt out of its loops.
Oh, no. No, no, no.
“Beatings are fun and all, but you, Robin? You deserve a little creativity,” he
said, kneeling down. He hooked his fingers through Jason's waistband — an easy
feat with how loose his pants were by then — and tugged him back. Jason's chin
hit the concrete with a dull thwap. “You ever get outta here, you tell your
boss what happened. You tell Batman this is because of him, okay? Let him know
what happens to his stuff when he messes with me.”
Jason seemed to find a renewed sense of vigor when Roman began to yank his
pants down. He struggled, grabbing at them with weak, shaky hands. “No, no,” he
muttered, indignant, but it was an easy task for Roman to pull them free of his
grasp. They, and his underthings, all came down at once.
Jason was scarred. Bruised. It was easy to see even with the low quality. Dick
didn't know how anyone could look at Jason's flesh, sickly pale where it wasn't
covered in marks, and get aroused, but Roman somehow managed, pulling out his
already-hard cock.
As if his appearance wasn't enough, Jason began to put up as much of a fight as
he could manage. He slapped at Roman's hands, tried to pull his clothes back
on, and scrabbled at the concrete in a vain attempt to crawl away. Around him,
the crowd muttered, hooted, and laughed, Joker in particular squealing about
what a fun idea it was. Not a single person tried to help him. Nobody even
expressed disdain. Dick knew they were all terrible people, but for whatever
reason, he still expected more from some of them.
With one hand, Roman pulled Jason back by the arm. With the other, he worked a
good amount of spit over his cock. It still wouldn't be enough. Dick wanted to
shout it at the screen, to throw escrima sticks and wing-dings at everyone
until they backed off, but all he could do was stand there at his computer and
watch.
Jason summoned up what must have been an impossible amount of energy to shout
“NO!” at the top of his lungs, but it fell on deaf ears. His head slumped back
down onto the ground, concrete pressing into his cheek. His face was turned
right toward the camera. He started to sob some more, and Dick wanted to vomit.
“There you go,” Roman was cooing, dragging his cock up and down between Jason's
cheeks. “There you go.”
And then he pushed in.
 
***** Forward *****
Dick doesn't know how long 006.avihas been playing. It seems like it's been
going on forever, just this one “scene,” with Black Mask holding down Jason's
arms and rocking his hips while Jason cries and pleads and screams. Dick's
hand, pressed tightly against his own mouth, is trembling almost as hard as it
looks like Jason is.
And then he hears behind him, too loud and too close, “What the hell is this?”
Dick whips around and meets eyes as wide and blue as his own. Standing not five
feet from him is Jason, clenching his helmet so hard his knuckles must be white
under his gloves, teeth bared like some sort of defensive wild animal. The
window is open behind him, the window Dick swore had been properly armed, but
since when had that ever deterred Jason?
He thinks a million things all at once, like why are you here and what did I do
and how much have you seen, overlapping in an ugly cacophony that rolls in his
inner ears and makes him feel like the world is swaying around him. And if this
is how he feels, he can only imagine what Jason is thinking, staring through
him while the sounds of his own torment crackle out of the speakers.
“I—” he starts, but it's all he can do to gape like a fish out of water for a
moment. “Jason, I— I can—”
“What the hell is this?” Jason repeats, storming forward. Dick tries to stop
him when he goes for the computer, to hold him back, like he might spare him
from re-living his trauma. But Jason just shoves him off, drops his helmet, and
grips the desk with shaking fingers. “Where the hell did you get this? What is
this? Huh? How long have you been watching this?!”
“I'm sorry,” Dick says, because it's easier than telling him the truth. “I
don't know who sent it. I shouldn't have—”
“You're damn right, you shouldn't have!” Jason fumbles with the USB until he
can get a good enough grip on it to yank it out. The video stills, and then the
screen goes black. “You— You, you—I c-can't— I thought I, he—”
Jason's voice hitches, breathless, and Dick hates that he recognizes it as the
way he would sound on the tapes before launching into a panic attack. He
reaches for his shoulder, but gets smacked away so hard his wrist bends back.
“Don't touch me! Don't,” Jason says, wrapping his arms around himself for a
brief moment. He sucks in a shaky breath, then pockets the USB and runs his
hands through his hair. “Don't you say a damn word. You forget what you saw,
you hear me?”
“Jason—”
“Don't!” There's a fire in his eyes, but behind it, Dick sees something wet and
fragile threatening to spill out. He hears it in Jason's voice, too. “Don't
look at me like that. I don't need your pity.”
Dick opens his mouth, closes it, and looks away. “I wasn't—”
“I don't wanna hear it.” Jason turns on a heavy heel and stalks back toward the
window, reason for his visit long forgotten. “I mean it, Grayson. Forget you
ever saw any of that.”
And then, like the video before him, he's there one moment and gone the next.
===============================================================================
 
Dick debates for a long time whether or not to go after him. Part of him thinks
Jason needs time alone, time to process his emotions, but the other part
remembers all too clearly what happened the last time he tried to “process”
something. A person who tries to regain control of his life by turning a city
into a fear-gas-covered wasteland is probably not familiar with healthy coping
mechanisms.
And Dick knows he's probably the last person Jason wants to see right now, just
short of Black Mask himself, but god damn it, he's worried. Whatever state
Jason's in right now, be it angry or distraught or homicidal, it's Dick's
fault, so it's his responsibility to ensure Jason doesn't do anything too
terrible to himself or anyone else.
That's the rationale that has him standing outside of Jason's safe house hours
later, cloaked in the shadows of a moonless night. He knows this is the one,
because Jason's prized motorcycle is slumped haphazardly against the building.
He'd never treat his bike that way any other time, would never leave it sitting
right in front of his safe house. He's being careless. All the more reason to
check up on him.
The curtains are only open a sliver, but through them, Dick can see the dull
bluish light of some sort of screen illuminating an otherwise dark room. He
crouches down a bit to get a better angle, and there he sees Jason hunched on
his bed with a laptop open in front of him.
On it, the video is playing. The video.
Dick's heart sinks. Why? Why is he watching that? He had figured the first
thing Jason would do would be to crush the USB and then set fire to the pieces.
At most, he could understand looking through the files for anything of note, a
clue or a message or something like that, but to watch that video? Dick can't
wrap his head around it.
Jason must have been too out of it to switch on his security system, which is
for the best, because Dick isn't thinking straight, and moves to open up the
window without deactivating anything. His mind is completely overcome with two
parts regret and one part confusion, and he slips soundlessly inside, brow
furrowed.
The words, “What are you doing?” come out before he can think better of it.
Jason jumps and slams the laptop shut, turning around to fix Dick with that
same cornered animal stare.
For the better part of a minute, neither of them say anything. Jason's chest
heaves up and down with fast, heavy breaths. Dick searches his face for some
kind of a clue as to what he's feeling, but surprise melts into an accusatory
glare before he can puzzle anything out.
“Jason,” Dick says on the tail end of a breath he hadn't realized he'd been
holding. His expression softens, likely too close to the pity Jason had been
trying to avoid. “Jay, why are you doing this to yourself?”
Jason's nostrils flare, and by the way his shoulders tense up, Dick knows he's
said the wrong thing. “To myself? You did this to me when you watched that
fucking video. He did this to me wh-when—”
His words die on the edge of a snarl. Dick tries to speak, but Jason sucks in a
loud breath and holds up his hand.
“You need to get rid of any delusions you have of helping me,” he says,
steadier now. “What you have to offer, it won't do anything for someone like
me. Okay? There's nothing you can do, so don't even try.”
Whether it's true or not, it hurts. Dick takes a cautious step forward, arms
spread and palms open. Were it anyone else, he'd try for a hug, but he's smart
enough to know that that won't soothe Jason. Still, he wants Jason to know he's
not a threat.
“That's not true,” he says. “No one's beyond help. No one. Not even you.”
“Yeah?” Jason scoffs, nodding his head in a false show of agreement. “Not even
Joker? Not even Black Mask?”
When Dick's face goes blank and his arms slump, Jason knows he's won. Dick can
see the validation wash over him (but, he notes, it weighs him down, dragging
his shoulders and the edges of his mouth down with it). He sneers and moves to
open the laptop back up.
“That's what I thought. Just go,” he says.
“Jason,” Dick says, because it's all he can think of in the moment. He closes
the distance between them and lays a hand on Jason's wrist, halting him when
the laptop's only half-unfolded. “Don't.”
Jason pulls his arm back as quick as a slap to the face. “You don't get to tell
me that. You don't get to tell me that!”
“It's not healthy to—”
“Oh, is it?” Jason's shouting now, sitting up on his knees, shoulders squared.
“So you know what's best for me, huh? Is that it?”
Dick takes a steadying breath and shuts his eyes. “I didn't— That's not what I
meant.”
“You wanna help me, Dick?” Jason asks, a challenge in his voice. He grabs
Dick's arm to tug him until his knees are flush against the bed, but even after
that, Jason keeps pulling, like he wants to yank his arm off. “You really wanna
help with this shit?”
“Yes, Jason.” Dick, opening his eyes again, hopes he sounds as sincere as he
feels. “Of course. I'd do anything.”
Another silence falls over them. This one only lasts half as long, but it's
twice as heavy, descending like smoke, sticking to his throat and his lungs.
Something in Jason's expression changes — eyes half-lidded, brow set — but
before Dick can identify the look, Jason pulls him by the back of the neck and
presses their mouths together.
Dick's so startled that Jason literally steals the breath from him, sucking
down his exhale. Another hand comes up to cup his face, and then Jason deepens
the kiss, licking into Dick's slack mouth. Transfixed, he lets Jason tug him
back onto the bed, but as soon as his hands settle down onto the mattress, Dick
rears back.
“Jason,” he breathes, “what—”
“You said anything.” Jason tugs him the rest of the way onto the bed via a leg
hooked around his waist, and, settled against his crotch, Dick can feel him
hardening through his pants. “Kiss me.”
“I don't understand,” Dick gapes. He feels disconnected from the situation,
like he missed the transition that made this all make sense.
“I'm not asking you to understand,” says Jason, unhelpfully. “I'm asking you to
kiss me.”
Dick licks his lips, Jason's taste still lingering there. He detects neither
cigarettes nor alcohol, so for whatever reason, Jason's doing this sober. If
anything, that only confuses him more.
He opens his mouth to ask again, but something tells him pressing for an answer
will only leave him with the opposite. So, trying to tamp down on his own
feelings, he leans down and kisses Jason again.
Jason lights up immediately, wrapping his arms around Dick's shoulders and
pulling him close. Dick never imagined he'd be like this, so affectionate, so
open. He wonders if this stems from a crush, or if Jason would've latched onto
anyone else the same way. Maybe he needs someone to get the taste of bile out
of his throat after watching that video.
It makes sense, but it feels wrong. Dick not only feels like he has no right to
Jason's body, but that, by going along with this, he's somehow making things
worse. He's read extensive papers on the trauma that often results from rape,
how children especially tend to go on to compensate for their experiences by
leading promiscuous sexual lives, but he never in all his years imagined he'd
end up so close to a situation like that.
Or maybe he's completely wrong. Maybe Jason likes him, and wants to replace a
foul memory with a pleasant one. It's not like the kid ever learned how to
express emotions properly, not growing up with abusive parents and then Bruce,
the king of emotional dishonesty. Maybe this is the first time he's been so
close to someone since the incident.
Whatever the case, Dick gains nothing from dwelling on it right now. Not with
Jason almost hungry beneath him, exploring his mouth with a greedy tongue,
holding him in place with legs that are stronger than they have any right to
be. Dick thinks it's just Jason's hips rocking at first, but then he realizes
he's complicit, grinding down into him with every thrust. God help him, he's
turned on.
One particularly harsh thrust has Jason tilting his head back with a sigh,
showing off his neck in a way that has to be purposeful. In the low light, Dick
can't make much out, save for a particularly big raised white scar near his
throat. He presses his lips to it instinctively. When that doesn't seem to turn
Jason off — seems to make him even more frantic, as a matter of fact — Dick
kisses a wet trail up to his ear and breathes into it huskily.
“Let me know if I need to stop,” he says. “Whenever— No matter what, just tell
me and I'll—”
“Shut up.” Jason sounds almost angry, and when he pulls Dick back into a kiss,
his fingernails dig into the soft spot of his jaw. He pulls away only enough to
whisper, “Fuck me.”
Jesus Christ. Dick feels his heart skip a beat, unprepared to hear something so
blunt. While his body begs him to acquiesce, his brain gives him pause. This
doesn't seem right. The way Jason tensed up all over again when Dick talked
about something as simple as consent, as a way out, that doesn't bode well at
all. If Jason is trying to push himself through something he's not ready for,
he can't be complicit, he won't hurt him more—
But then Jason pulls him down for another kiss, and rolls his hips just so, and
Dick loses himself to sensation again.
It's heady, lying in someone else's bed. Dick has always been a very tactile
person, the sort who communicates best through touch. Jason's desire for
closeness, misguided or not, doesn't escape his notice. It has his whole body
on alert, ready to give in, desperate to feel all the things he can't say out
loud. And adding sex to all of it only makes him more vulnerable, easier for
Jason to mold in his hands like putty. It's hard to see past the haze of lust
that's descended over him.
He decides to give this a chance. They shift on the bed, wiggling around until
they're lying in it vertically. Jason shoves the laptop out from under his back
to give them more room. Dick kisses him with everything he has, the both of
them cutting through the silence with muffled noises and gasping breaths, and
Dick brings a hand up to cup Jason's cheek.
It's the cheek with the brand. His thumb rests at the top of the J, and he
doesn't miss how Jason tenses up again at the touch. He's about to pull away
when Jason does it for him, untangling their legs and turning over in the bed.
Jason, flat on his stomach now, takes Dick by the wrist, guiding his hand
instead to his hip. To his waistband.
Stomach sinking, Dick realizes what Jason wants him to do.
“No,” he says, trying to move his hand away, but Jason holds firm. He has to
shift to keep balance when Jason goes for his other wrist, pulls that hand to
his hip as well, and then he's kneeling over him, their positions practically a
mirror image of what was on the tape. “No, Jason, I— I can't—”
He expects anger, indignation, but what he gets instead is a breathy plea. “Do
it. Do it, Dick, right now.”
“Jay,” Dick says, leaning forward to rest his forehead between Jason's shoulder
blades. He feels weak all of a sudden. “You don't really want this. You— you
don't have to want this—”
“But I do!”
It's so loud that Dick actually jumps a little. He feels more than hears the
next breath Jason takes, and more than that, he feels the way it comes out in
the form of a few little sobs that he tries to hide.
“I do. Okay? I do. I want it,” he says, tight like he's saying it through
clenched teeth. “I'm fucked up and I want it, so just do it or get. Out.”
His heart breaks when he hears Jason sniff sharply, clearly trying to hold back
more sobs. And he doesn't know if Jason wants it because he doesn't know how
else to want something like this, or if he wants it to feel like he has control
over a situation where he didn't before, but in that moment, Dick knows two
things: one, that Jason is telling the truth. And two, that it isn't his place
to try and figure out anything past that.
He doesn't sit up. Doesn't move, except to yank Jason's pants down with a few
rough, sharp tugs. He feels Jason's nails scrape over the backs of his hands
even through his gloves, but he lets him do it, a shudder bolting up his spine.
Dick kisses Jason's shoulder blade, then his neck where he can press skin
against skin. Jason remains tense, but lifts his hips a bit by way of what Dick
has to assume is permission.
“Lube?” he asks, feeling filthy for it.
He feels even filthier when Jason says, “Don't need it.”
“Jay—”
A huff kills his arguments on his tongue.
If this is what he wants, Dick thinks, then how can I argue?
(He knows that he can. That he probably should. But with Jason so weak and open
and trusting beneath him, he can't bring himself to walk away.)
“...Say 'blue,'” Dick says, “and I'll stop.”
Jason sounds like he's going to say something again, a protest maybe, but Dick
cuts him off by grabbing him by the hips and tugging him a few inches lower.
Every piece of his body is screaming at him not to play this risky game,
because Jason doesn't seem like he has any interest in a safe word, but Dick,
desperate for more of that closeness, that emotional connection, twists those
worries up and stomps them down into a dark, quiet place.
Jason's skin is tanner now, healthier, save for the crisscross of faint scars
marring it up. Dick pries apart his cheeks, studying him, trying to think of
this as something better than what it is. He imagines Jason shaking because he
wants Dick and Dick alone, imagines that the saliva he spreads over his fingers
is proper lubricant. When he presses them in, it's harder to pretend that
Jason's whimpers are from pleasure instead of pain, until he mutters, “More.
Faster,” into the pillows.
It's too much, too fast, but Dick complies until he's three fingers deep. Jason
definitely sounds like he's crying now, but between his legs, his cock swings
impossibly hard. Dick tries not to judge him for it. Tries not to judge himself
for liking it.
He tries to keep going with his fingers for as long as possible, spitting on
them whenever his saliva starts to dry, but Jason grabs at his forearm and
tries to tug him away. At first, he thinks it's part of their dynamic, that
Jason is channeling himself back when he was too weak to fight properly, but
then the tugging becomes more insistent, and Jason says, “Come on,” and Dick
can't pretend any longer.
He pulls his fingers out and undoes the near-invisible catches on his uniform
to free his straining cock. He hates that he's still hard despite everything,
hates that having Jason Todd squirming underneath him makes his heart beat
faster and his blood rush south. It feels vulgar when he slicks himself up,
but, when he presses the tip to Jason's hole, it's impossibly, astonishingly
hot.
With his thumb on the head of his cock, he slowly pushes inside, watching
himself disappear bit by bit inside of Jason. His other thumb traces soothing
little circles into Jason's skin.
It's terrible to say, terrible to even think, so Dick hopes against hope when
he opens his mouth that it's the right thing to do.
“There you go,” he breathes. “There you go.”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, Jason opens up, and Dick slides in to the
hilt without meeting any resistance. Jason tightens right back up as soon as
he's in, but for that one brief moment, everything is bliss. He gapes, breath
coming out in a short staccato. The position has Jason's shirt riding up, so
Dick pushes it until he can see the broad canvas of his back, with all its
scars and marks. The dim light makes it impossible for him to see every detail,
so he trails his palm up and down over every inch of skin he can reach.
“Shh, Jason,” he whispers, even though he's the one making the most noise. He
feels clammy, sweat dripping down his brow and off the tip of his nose. Jason's
hands, clenched into fists in the sheets, tighten even more when a drop hits
the small of his back. “I've got you. I've got you.”
“Move,” Jason says abruptly, pleading, shaking. He rocks back, though Dick can
feel his legs trembling. “Move, Dick.”
He does. He grips Jason's hips like he saw in the video, then begins to thrust
in and out, slow at first, but faster every time he feels Jason twitch around
him. The obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh fills the air, as wet as
the groans Jason sobs out.
“Oh, stop,” he says, but it sounds like he wants Dick to do anything but. “Stop
it. Please...! No, no, no, no...”
Dick can't suppress the moan that tears its way up out of his throat. He feels
like the worst person in the world for enjoying this, even if he knows Jason
doesn't mean the things he says. He speeds up more, wishing both to finish this
faster and for it to never end.
“Please! No— Don't— Don't, don't...” Jason says, and then it's as if something
inside of him breaks. He goes limp everywhere except for those hands tangled in
the bedsheets, insides throbbing while Dick takes him. “...stop. Don't stop,
please, Dick, ungh, don't stop, I'm, I'm so, oh my god, oh my god oh my god—”
Hearing his own name destroys the last of Dick's resolve. Something about
knowing that it's him Jason is thinking about, if only in this moment, gives
him the push he needs to let go. He fucks Jason as hard and as fast as he can
manage, and even the friction from too-little lube feels good now, has his eyes
rolling up into the back of his head. Beneath him, Jason continues to blabber,
until the strength of his orgasm turns his words into an incoherent mess.
Dick holds onto Jason's hips so tight he leaves marks, breath leaving him in
one long, low moan as he comes. Jason twitches and shudders around him, drawing
out his orgasm well past what he thought he could take, until the pair of them
are little more than a couple of panting, sweat-drenched messes.
They sink onto the mattress together, Dick clinging to Jason even after he
pulls out. He peppers Jason's neck and shoulder with kisses, chaste but
lingering, feeling the way he shudders after almost every one. He doesn't know
whether or not this will help Jason in the long run. He just knows that, for
now, Jason slips into a sleep deeper than Dick would imagine he would've
managed on his own.
Maybe that's the best he can hope for.
 
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