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You don’t know when this became a comfort, something smooth and inexorable, all the transitions ground down into a fluid shift from flight to fight to fuck: it’s a kata well practiced, it’s concentration, adaptation, sublimation with a cut on your cheek and an ache in your jock.
It’s sex, something else you had to practice, until you could pin Jason or take a punch to the mouth, then let him kiss you without it being somehow…fraught.
Dramatic. He likes dramatic, a little unnecessary movement in his hips when he’s crawling over you and you’re crawling back, upside down with your arms rubbing against his arms and your knees gripping his ribs, pulling him close sooner than he wanted. You spend less time fighting now, fight with a little less to prove and you’d almost call it a spar, almost call it friendly if your teeth weren’t still sore when he thumbs your bloody mouth open to lick his way inside.
He presses you back into the grit of the roof, you let him and wish you could leave an impression in the tar, something for your boots to tread over later with recognition and a silent thrill. It might be your favorite thing about sex: evidence after the fact, the cover up, the solitary joy you can unpack from unsolitary, sometimes public acts. Bruises that mean more to you than they do to other people, the knowledge that you can pull your cowl back and he’ll react like he doesn’t already know your face. “There you are,” he says, words that don’t mean anything, shouldn’t be cute from a mouth smeared with your blood but you don’t.
You don’t take him as seriously as you used to. He’s not the myth anymore, to revere through a pane of glass: he’s just Jason, just another boy who tried to be Robin and failed.
There you are doesn’t mean anything, you’re always some measure of absent in or out of your new cowl, solitary enjoyment of an unsolitary act and you’re. Not just Tim, not to anyone, even if he can see you pretty clearly through the glass.
He revered you, for awhile. He fucked Robin, watched Robin fail to break and made Robin feel so good he cried, crawled home and cried some more and you were that person, you were, but.
You’re something else now, when he tries to find it, grips the heavier leather of your cape and gathers you up gently, as if it were a blanket. As if it wasn’t something else you stole from him: he asked the first time he saw it on you and you whispered, maybe I just like to wear your clothes, to see him stop and start to sweat, a little solitary enjoyment of his own. Moving with him now, finally feeling the now, you let him keep his grip on the cape and shove him until he’s under you, until he’s tilting and shifting and *posing* a little, letting you know how much he likes to be there. He’d do it to anyone who pinned him, it doesn’t mean anything either. “One of these days I’ll follow you home,” you tell him, pulling his jacket open and feeling the chill in your sweat-damp hair, “Try this costume on for size.”
He groans, pushing his hands up your thighs and gripping them firmly, again when you rock down and you’re both huffing one sigh for the armor in the way, he says he wants you in it now but you just want him in you. You’re planning now, painting and discarding scenes until something just makes your cock twitch, makes your throat close: and this is part of it too, the moment where he fits his hands to your hips and starts to pull your tights down, where you wonder if he misses the red and green as much as you do and you forget, you open—
thinking about what you want when the tights are off—want him in your mouth until it aches again, until you can taste something other than your own blood, want your cowl back on, want it from behind so he won’t see that you’re losing it, want to kiss him until roof grit sticks to his hair, want to fuck his mouth with your tongue and want him to move and moan and touch you until it feels like you’re being thrown through that glass for the dozenth fucking time. He’s moaning now, watching it narrow your eyes and color your cheeks. Your breathing has shifted and the muscles in your thighs are tense lines when he drags your shorts and jock over them. Leather cape sliding against your ass but it’s going to stay, going to keep you both warm out here and give him something to hold onto.
“What do you want baby bird,” he asks, a little smoulder in the smarm to keep it on the tolerable side of annoying.
You’re a little rough with the zipper of his jeans anyway: “Don’t call me that.” Your exposed knees dig into the roof grit and the roof grit digs right back, zipping you in place over his hips and—reminding you, push your free hand into his hair and the texture grips his hair in a way that makes his breath whine. You track the scar running over the crown of his head; Jason grimaces and you imagine his teeth buzzing, imagine everything flying off the shelves and scattering in his head until he has to sigh, say “Fine, have it your way,” and press up against your collar where your scar is, fresher and a little more…personal.
Squirm: feel Gotham biting your skin and feel yourself getting hard for it. “Prep me,” your mouth moves and your whole face feels like it’s stretching to accommodate the clipped words, your whole face feels numb like you’ve been swimming in the channel when you wrinkle your brow and force the numbness into a sneer: “Fuck me.” Jason’s hips roll up for the words, let you tug his jeans down and think about how good he has to be to run around this city in them. Think about how you used to do the same, ten years old and nothing to hide your identity but a hooded sweatshirt and.
And the fact that you weren’t anything to anyone, and you won’t let that happen again, you won’t—
“Kid—”
Your eyes find his, lenses up and it’s no difference to you either way, frowning until he rolls those eyes and turns his head to the side while he shrugs himself out of his sleeves and digs what you need from a pocket. “I don’t care—”
He slaps you, laughs and makes you think for old time’s sake before gripping your chin in strong fingers and staring down your wounded little glare. “Don’t fuck with me kid, maybe I don’t know where you’ve been.” Your spit’s still pink when it lands on his domino, almost in his eye and he shakes his hand free of your jaw to hit you again, hard knuckles and soft leather pushing a moan sideways out of your mouth. You spit again, blood on his cheek running into his dimples when he grins, and you feel something like normal muttering, “That really hurt,” as you tear the foil open and roll the condom over his dick. “Such a fucking princess,” he mutters back, teasing his hips up at your touch and slicking his fingers. He almost manages to sound mutinous, but.
He’s too hard to stage an uprising right now. “At least I’m your princess,” you say, sickly sweet and he’s gagging exaggeratedly even as he tugs your hips closer and fingers your hole, starts with two because he’s impatient and you want him to be, feeling you open like he still cares about fucking with you as much as fucking you.
“You aren’t anybody’s anything.” He means it—it’s not a bad thing to him, it’s accurate and admirable, but. You growl and snap your hips, drive yourself against his fingers until you can feel the leather just below the second knuckle and it burns and makes you hiccup. “Maybe I’m looking to make something mine for a change,” maybe you had something that was yours until Bruce disappeared, until you realized it had just been on loan to you the entire time, could be taken away as easily as it was given. Sucking Jason’s dick into the heat of your ass will be a poor, poor substitute, but he’s never complained before. He’s not complaining now, even if his smirk says he doesn’t believe you and his eyes say he’s a little sad for you, or probably just sad for himself.
Not that sad, though, adding a third finger for you to fuck yourself with, and putting his dry hand, his dry glove around your cock, squeezing until the shock goes right through you and stripping it hard enough that the leather burns. “Such a sweet little cock,” he murmurs, squeezing and stroking until you’re not sure if you’re about to come or if you’re in pain, “You’re so fucking cute, wanna fucking torture your dick,” and you’re still not sure which it is even though you’re clenching around his fingers and coming all over his tunic with a long, shaking moan. He laughs, still can’t believe that gets you off and laughs at the way you’re trying to glare anyway: he swipes his hand through your come, shoves his fingers into your bloody mouth to make you taste it. Pacify you before you start bitching, because you’re good and slick now, and he’s fucking you from both ends with his fingers and still laughing like he doesn’t take you seriously anymore either.
And who could, watching you stop fucking your face on his fingers and turn to spit out a tooth you just worried loose on them? “Fucking Christ,” he snorts, dragging slick fingers out of you and slicking his cock, “Get on my dick before you aren’t even pretty anymore.” Sneering hurts your jaw and you can feel the hot, aching hole in your mouth where your gums are bleeding, your whole mouth going hot and filling up with saliva to flush it out and you spit again, next to his head this time and push your gauntlets through his hair until he groans from the pull of it. His hands find your hips and squeeze, but.
But he’s not forcing you, and it makes you shiver, makes you clench and ache for how empty you feel, reaching down and shifting with your knees going raw against the cold roof grit to guide him in, sink down until you’re both sighing and his smirk is going soft at the edges. He doesn’t have a dry hand this time, but it’s soon enough to be its own kind of torture when he palms your cock and rolls his hips like he’s determined to stroke you hard again. You’re biting a split in your lip and pressing your tongue into the new space between your teeth, and it’d be stubbornness if the pain didn’t go right to your cock, if you weren’t moving your hips in counterpoint. Licking your lips paints them red and the spit running down your chin is more red than pink: he reaches up and thumbs it away, watches you pant and go from hurt to hungry again.
You reach in turn, brush the white hair back from his face, hold it away in a soft bristle with your palm. The movements of his hips slow and shallow for a moment, let him sigh like he’s finally starting to get it, and he’s tired when he says, “I’m not who I used to be either,” and he catches your hand when you try to snatch it away like you’ve been burned. Like you wouldn’t like to be burned, probably.
He’d do it if you wanted.
That’s…terrifying.
Terrifying when he drags your hand through the mess on his tunic and licks it off, thumbs the head of your cock with a rough callous and your hips jerk one way, your heart jerks the other and you can hear it tearing the sound you make in two. There you are making you squirm and it’s the weight of your own cape keeping you in place now, the weight of his hands on you and your mouth hurts your knees hurt your everything hurts until you’re hard again, hips snapping in time with sharp, labored cries as you stop trying to escape the feeling and chase it through the circle of his hand.
Driving yourself down and fucking yourself on his cock, muttering a long slow litany of fuck you, fuck you, fuck you through clenched teeth because it’s not what you wanted, it’s roof grit turning your knees to hamburger and a hole in your mouth and Jason’s hand a little too rough; it’s coming apart for those things and coming on him again, clenching and crying and you keep crying, tears shocked out of you from wherever you’ve been shoring them up, and he bucks under you, puts your hand in his mouth again and bites the heel of your palm when he comes, has the muffled, contained orgasm you wanted.
You can’t feel the bite of his teeth through your gauntlet; your face feels the opposite of numb now, hot and hurt and he spits you out with a groan, voice whistling and fucked-thick when he says, “Shit,” and realizes you’re really crying, you’re really crying a lot and he’s panicking because that’s his dick going soft inside you and—
God, you’re a mess, trying to laugh at him through the blood and snot in your throat, moaning when he pulls out and falling into him until everyone’s a mess and your cape settles over it. “I’m okay,” you gasp at him, laughing and sobbing against his collar. His shoulder holsters are digging into your underarms and even that’s funny, right now, just. He’s been armed the whole time and you could have taken one and it didn’t even occur to you. It didn’t even matter and that’s a lot of oversight or a lot of trust on both your parts.
Jason sighs, that whine at the back of his throat that means he’s going to be nicer now, nicer than he wants to be even if it’s just to say, “No, you’re really not,” and have the decency to sound sad about it. He shifts his hands through your cape, gathers you up in it like a blanket and you wonder if he wanted to be nicer this whole time—if he wanted a blanket, a bed, someone to be nicer to him than you ever are. “You—” he sighs again, through his nose, and the resentment makes you squirm down against his sensitive cock until he’s laughing too. “You—fuck, I fucking hate you, but. You can follow me home, if you need to.” His hands pull a little tighter at your cape, a little tighter still when you stop crying, stop laughing, stop anything.
“I’m not your Robin.” Not anybody’s anything, a solitary thing that collides with him on rooftops and shivers in his grip when it’s over.
He rolls his shoulders back and stabs you with those guns like he’s making a point, muttering no shit, and, “Kid, I don’t want to know whose mission you’d brighten,” before pushing at you enough to sit up. He looks pissed when you peel your knees up from the roof with exactly the grimace that pain deserves, and he looks worse when he’s brushing them off and helping you back into your tights, like he’s waiting for you to stop him, comment on it. “If you’re going to let me knock your fucking teeth out, you’re going to let me put my head on straight,” and you nod because…well, that’s pretty fair.
Even if reaching down to zip him back into his jeans doesn’t do anything for the state of your head, but he huffs another laugh for it, and that’s good enough right now.
You’re at the edge of the roof before you feel you should be, before you’ve finished sifting through the sex and the cleanup and determined how long you’ve been lingering on this building; he’s standing next to you, grapple pulled and watching you like he’s just as lost, just as busy processing everything and a little worried you’re just going to jump. “You love me,” you say, like you’re just now getting the joke, and you don’t need to see his eyes to know he’s rolling them as he groans, probably remembers why he spends eighty-some percent of his life well away from you and shoots the grapple. “Don’t spread it around,” he says before he swings: “It doesn’t exactly reflect well on either of us.”
And he’s gone with the last word, back to his guns, back to his blankets and beds. You don’t know what would be waiting there if you followed, but you never know what’s waiting at the manor, these days, who’s waiting at Alvin Draper’s apartment to see you like this.
You scrub your hands through your hair before pulling the cowl back over it, lenses down to make the world a little clearer: the shadow against shadows of him turning a corner two blocks away. You pull out the grapple. You shoot.
You close your eyes and swing, letting the night lift your heavy cape and drag you where it will.