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. It's ugly. If you're still about to read, I hope you enjoy!

Warnings this chapter for: explicit sex, very rough sex, biting, masochism and sadism, and nipple torture.


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 finally Bruce 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 really start 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 definitely bruise 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 bite me," 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 fucking nicely," 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 hurt Bruce's reputation like that.

Bruce is standing by the time he turns around again, and then he lunges for 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 least a 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 leaves it 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 fucking get, 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 roars and 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 through it, 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 hurting Bruce 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 wanted to 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 damn if 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 personal for 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 exactly what 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 damn mouth shut or I will gag you, 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 enjoy it 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 just the 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 feel blunt.

He twists his head away from the kiss, snarls, "Fuck! That fucking hurts 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 liked pain," 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, leashed side 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 exactly what 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 twists it 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 breathe against 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 right out 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 much of 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 almost enough, 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 in as 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 much with 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 filthy knowledge 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. "Fuck you," 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 fun to 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 Batman turns 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 demon when 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 much Damian 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 reporting to 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 Dickie you bailed and went out on your own." Damian turns, glares at him, and his grin widens. "See you at nine, brat."