Bruce always gives him what he asks for.
Tonight, when Bruce follows him to his room to tuck him in for the night, he strips off the robe he put on in the cave and lets if fall carelessly to where Alfred will have to pick it up, slides onto the bed and says, "Fuck me."
And Bruce is silent as he crosses the room, already half-naked and so scratched up it's just hard to look at, but Jason doesn't look away. Bruce leans over him, simply watching. And then he straddles him, big knees on either side of his long, thin legs. "How?"
And it's one of those nights so Jason says, "Gentle," but two nights ago he said "Rough" and Bruce had given him that, too, until he'd come all over the sheets on a scream that had left his voice as scratchy as Batman's. Then he'd rolled onto his back panting and stroked Bruce's face. "Fucking Christ, Bruce," he'd said, pushing his fingers through Bruce's hair, sculpting his features with his sweaty fingers. He'd kissed Bruce for the first time then. He'd kept kissing him for long minutes after, body still except for his lips.
That night—a bloody lifetime ago—he'd wondered why he'd waited so long to try that. Kisses usually come first, like in the movies, he thinks, but he and Bruce aren't usual, so it's okay.
Tonight is not like that night. Nothing rough. No bruises. Tonight he only wants the kiss. Whatever comes after is incidental. Mostly. He used to only want it rough because rough you can feel; you really know how bad someone wants you when they make marks all over your body that look almost like their own scars if you stare at them hard enough (and he had). It was as if the first kiss that night had broken a dam and now he can't stop wanting another and another after that. He knows he'll be asking for gentle for nights to come. That is, until he wants to bleed again.
And Bruce will give him that, too.
Despite his best intentions about the kiss, it gives way to more, and maybe it always will from now on. Maybe it will become the warm-up to the main event in place of the heavy touches and blowjobs that used to be.
Tonight he loves the fact that Bruce has made him into this thing that can stretch so easily; make the arch of his foot fit like a puzzle piece against Bruce's shoulder with no pain. In fact, it feels good, so he puts his back into it a little more, feels his ass lift off the sheets. He can go almost as long as Bruce, he can control his breathing; he can ride it out, stretch it out, and take it all. Spread open and gasping, he wonders if Bruce ever fucked Dick like this. Or at all.
He curls his toes and bites his lower lip. He'd think about that more if he actually cared. Truth is he doesn't, because whatever Dick was to Bruce then, he's none of those things now. Bruce is his, plain and simple. Always will be, he thinks.
Bruce likes to trace his tongue over Jason's collarbone, likes to hold still for long, torturous moments inside him, letting him feel the pulse and the throb.
"Move, dammit," Jason growls and tries to make him, but his fingers only side off the muscle.
He's hot and tired and horny and Bruce hurts so good inside him and his skin is scratched with salt and why doesn't Alfred say anything not even about the sheets and how long can they have this before somebody comes and takes them away from each other?
They fight better now—and it's not like it was when Dick was with Batman because he's seen the footage and those two weren't human together; they were a machine, flawless and terrifying even with Dick's dumb jokes.
And maybe they did fuck, but not like this.
Because fucking or fighting, everything is more intense with him and Bruce. They understand each other in a way no one else can. He can feel Batman's big, powerful body everywhere because there's no part of Bruce's he hasn't touched, licked, bitten, sucked. And if there's any place on his body that Bruce has missed, he'll fix that soon enough.
It's so clear to him. This thing with Bruce, it's real and good because no matter how primal things are when they're ripping at each other's clothes in the Batmobile, he knows how to make Batman laugh.
And Batman needs him. Because, yeah—hell yeah—he'll be there on time and without question for Batman, and the sick fucks out there never have a chance against the two of them combined. Batman and Robin can't lose.
Bruce is moving again (because he always, always gives Jason what he wants, eventually) and he's so good at this because he made his own body into a weapon too, just like he made Jason's. So they fit together, in all these painful, good ways, and he needs the part of him that can be filled with everything Bruce is to always be filled with Bruce.
"Harder," Jason moans, and maybe tonight isn't that kind of night after all.
Bruce pushes his legs further apart and grinds their bodies together so brutally, Jason imagines they meld together right there. Like iron, like fucking molten lava.
"Yes," he sighs and comes so hard he passes out.