FIC: Getting Inside (1/1) Fandom: DCU Rating: NC-17
Title: Getting Inside 1/1
Author: in_excelsis_dea
Characters: Jason, Donna
Summary: Jason deals with the repercussions of being brought back to life. First he broods. Then he has sex.
Rating: meta-ish PG-13 first half, but largely NC-17
Warnings:SPOILERS and explicit sex in the second half.
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine. I am merely borrowing and do not intend to make any profit.
AN: My brain is fried. But reading Countdown 41 perked me up a bit. There are spoilers for Countdown 41 in this fic. Do not read unless you want to be spoiled. Also written for 64damn_prompts prompt 16.Rip. Comments and constructive criticism are always appreciated.
"Bob." He hears her ascent but ignores it. She's definitely better company than most. Hell, sometimes she even gets him. But they've just finished a challenging battle and he just wants to be left alone. Left to himself. Left to mope.
"Why Bob of all things?" She doesn't get the hint, but he's in a reasonable mood instead of a down-right nasty one and so he doesn't taunt or openly repel her. He could. He's good at that. All it would take is a couple scathing, well placed barbs. He knows her- not as well as Dick knows her- but he didn't train with the Bat for nothing. He could reduce her to tears within three sentences.
Yet somehow, it's the furthest thing from his mind.
He really doesn't like how she affects him.
"Because it's short." He leans back into the alien grass, peers up into the purple sky with the foreign stars. He starts making up constellations to kill time. It was something he did as a kid, something he stopped doing when he became Robin. When he was a kid, the stars were mystical. Magical. Untouchable. Something to strive for, to break the monotone drone of daily life in the slums. Once he became Robin, he didn't need them anymore. He learned the history behind them. He learned the constellations. He learned that the stars were something he could touch- that Bruce had been to them before.
They lost their magic.
He wonders if it's slowly coming back.
"But why Bob? Why not...Ted? Dan? Mike? Jim?" She lists off names, leans back into the grass with him. There are still a good six inches between them. He's not sure if that's a good thing or not.
"Because I like 'Bob'." She wants some deeper meaning. She wants to get inside of him, not in a literal sense, though he wouldn't mind that. She wants to see what makes him tick. He recognizes the signs. He went through five fucking shrinks at various schools until they decided he was incorrigible. He took pride in that, knowing he was one of a kind.
Except that he's not really.
There apparently was another just as fucked up kiddie waiting to take his place.
"You're an enigma," she finally sighs. He can see her with his peripheal vision. She's staring at the same stars, lying on the same grass, went through the same battle he just did. And yet...there's something different about her.
"I know," he finally states, letting a smirk form.
"You're impossible," she mutters, pulling herself up into a sitting position. "I don't know what to do with you." He lets her ramble, content to sit back and watch the show. People trying to make sense of him is always amusing, because they fail. Utterly. Sometimes it drives them into madness. Like it did with Talia, because there is no fucking way she would have kissed him with a sound mind. She's been lusting after his father for the past decades. It's too screwy to contemplate- and the fact that it's too screwy for him just says it all.
"You were trained as Robin," she continues, embracing her knees to her chest. "You died. Came back. Went on a killing spree. Go after Tim. Show up in New York and taunt Dick. Go after Speedy. And then suddenly you're saving lives?"
The question hangs in the air. He could answer it, were he so inclined. He could give her a smartass answer about how he was exploring his horizons or how he got bored with murder or how he only set out to murder the murderers in the first place and Bruce fucking refused to see it.
He could.
But he won't.
"You don't make any sense," she repeats softly, her head on her knees. "Everyone is full of tales about how awful you are- and then you show up at Duela's funeral and it's as if you did a one-eighty. Why?"
He shrugs into the ground. He doesn't really have an answer. When he first came back, he was so out of it that he didn't know right from left. He didn't know up from down. He didn't know that Talia was his Dad's fucking partner. He got dunked in a Lazarus Pit and traded one evil, one problem, for merely another.
Instead of no memories or thoughts or feelings or basically what made him him (and he's never been religious, so he doesn't go for all that soul crap), he was overloaded. He remembered everything. He could taste the hot, sand-filled air in Ethiopia. He could feel the rubber of the Batmobile tires. He could smell the pungent reek that came from the building down the street when he was three, where they incinerated garbage (and sometimes people, as the rumors said).
And the driving force behind all the memories was rage. Pure, unadulterated rage.
It consumed him.
He took LSD once. It was before he became Robin, because that's how he filters his life- before Robin, after Robin, after resurrection, though now he supposes he'll have to come up with another measurment- like after Hell broke loose, because that would definitely fit. He took the drug because all he really wanted were some fucking cigarettes, but there weren't any around and some idiots thought it would be cool to get the eleven year-old high.
He swore off the hard stuff after that. The physical symptoms were bad. The mental symptoms were worse. He'd never experienced something so fucked up- until Talia pushed him into the damn Pit. It was like taking LSD again- except triple the amount. And it never really subsided. It never really wore off. Even when he thought he was being logical- that he was completely in control- something would happen. Something would throw him off.
Even now, he battles with it.
It took training. It took meditation. It took having Bruce nearly kill him again and let a fucking scum-bag murderer go free to shed some light on the situation, to make him start to slowly think clearly again.
Not that it really worked. But it helped him at least set his priorities straight. "Dad" had to pay. "Dad" had to learn the lesson. And then he could- maybe, hopefully- move on.
He's still working on that.
Dick and Timmy, the ass-wipe- they're too far into Batman's pants to dare go against him. Especially the Replacement. He could show up with fucking roses and he'd probably get accused of dosing them with some toxin or being in cahoots with Poison Ivy. Not that she isn't hot in a super-villainess way, but he really doesn't go for the whole "vine" and au naturel thing.
The chick next to him, however...
No. No. Thoughts are not going there. At all. Never.
He's screwed up. Fucked up. Not a sane bone in his body. But at least right now he isn't lost in a not-but-really-but-basically-same-thing-as-a drug haze. He started smoking two packs a day to see if he could counteract the fucking Pit. Didn't work and now he's being forced to wean himself off of cigarettes, because damn it, they were in his other jacket and it wasn't as if he had the time to pack before being dragged off.
He never thought he'd be in the middle of saving the world again.
It's just so...
He groans, pulls himself into a sitting position. "End of the world," he finally remarks. "End of an era. And I got pulled in kicking and screaming. Decided that for once in my life, I could make my own decision."
She turns to him, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. He can see her tongue, how her lips are wet. "I-" She starts.
He finishes it.
He's ignored the urges long enough. He's had enough playing by the rules. He's had enough period and if he can't take his fate into his own hands, at least this he can.
He hasn't had a woman's touch- hasn't had the time to get laid- since he left Dick in New York. And while she may be an Amazon warrior and a fierce fighter in her own right- he's better. He doesn't have the scruples and morals she has.
For once, that's a good thing.
Her mouth is cool against his and he can taste her shock. He pushes them both back onto the grass, so that he's halfway on top of her. He deepens the kiss, biting back a groan as fire spreads down his spine right into his groin. Her breasts push into his chest, which is a very nice sensation- or would be, at least, if he didn't have a bloody Kelvar vest on. The only solution is to remove it.
She writhes under him, and at first he's slightly worried that this isn't what she wants. But then she pulls him down against her mouth once again and claims his tongue, fucking his mouth with her own.
And God, it feels great.
He has no clue how to get off her outfit, he realizes. So he decides to take off what he can- his own pants and boots, kicking them away as she trails her hands down his chest and he sucks on her collar bone. Seconds later, he's only clad in his boxers and she hasn't even removed her boots.
Irony at it's best.
"Take it off," he mumbles against her ear, snapping the straps. She starts to laugh and shoves him off of her, so that she can sit up properly and undo the zippers, toe herself out of her boots. He's impressed when she peels down the top portion and there's nothing underneath but rosy flesh. He's even more impressed when she moves a bit and they jiggle and he can't help himself from reaching out and squeezing, flicking his thumbs over her nipples.
She hisses and the sound goes right to his crotch. He's already hard, but every touch, every noise, every sensation makes it worse. Better. He isn't sure which, because fuck yeah, it's painful, but on the other hand, it means he's that much closer to being inside her. And that makes up for everything.
She's soon completely naked and wet and ready for him, but he tests just to make sure. Ignoring her breasts for the moment, he trails a hand down her stomach and draws it away when she gasps and his hand comes up dripping. Definitely ready.
He rubs her again, delighting in her hissing, her hips jerking slightly as she thrusts her hips into his hand. "Not yet," he smirks. "Not quite yet."
"Jason," she moans as he removes his hand and instead leans down to blow on the liquid pooling there. He sticks out his tongue to lap at it, using small, yet forceful strokes to intensify the pleasure. She bucks up again and he nearly gets hit. Frowning and wishing that he had any sort of Bat equipment with him (plastic ties were great for tying people down with, so that you can ravish them in peace), he is forced to use his hands instead, pushing her hips into the grass and therefore lowering his mouth so that the vegetation tickles his chin as he twists her clit with his tongue.
Oh, she likes that.
Her breathing hitches when he sticks his tongue inside her, and he feels his cock jump. It's nearly time to finish this. He rakes her clit with his teeth as he sucks hard at her opening, licking up the fluid she created because of him- for him.
He releases her hips as he comes up, her fluids still on his lips, leaving a slightly bitter taste in his mouth. Leaning forwards, he seizes her lips again, pushing her own essence into her mouth. Their tongues battle, while he adjusts his hips and wriggles out of the last clothing barrier. The grass isn't the most comfortable thing to have on himself, but it's not really a bad feeling either. And as long as the alien plant-life behaves itself and doesn't try to eat them, or give them hideous rashes on their intimate areas (and he probably should have thought about that before hand...), he'll deal with it.
He can't wait any longer for this.
Their lips still occupied, he shifts his hips, lines himself up and thrusts as hard as he can into her. She moans into his mouth, arching her back and he can't help but groan himself at the sensation. Too fucking long. It's pure instinct and need driving him now- pulling back and shoving as hard as he can while she lifts her hips to meet him. He breaks the kiss, nibbles his way down her jaw, her throat, her chest, her breasts. One hand snakes down to tease her where they meet together, and one hand stays to fondle one nipple while his teeth knead the other one.
It's powerful.
He hasn't felt this energized in ages and he doubts she's been getting much more. She was married once, but her husband died and since then, he knows she's had a couple of boyfriends, but nothing recent. The whole "coming back from the dead" thing tends to turn a lot of people off, even though it's not like it changed anything. Oh sure, it fucked with his head. But he is physically fit and no, his genitals haven't fallen off or anything. Perish the fucking thought.
He's still got a cock and balls and he's finally getting some use out of them. Her muscles clench around him and he feels the tremor come and rides it over the edge, shooting into her. She follows a bit later, after he's licked his fingers and pinched her right there and it's sight to behold.
He's not prone to flowery words in the least. But even he has to admit that she looks fucking gorgeous sprawled out underneath him, sweat making her glisten in the odd alien sky. He pulls out, but doesn't get up, instead collapsing next to her. He closes his eyes, calls up the sensations again. Calls up the mixture of control and out-of-control he just went through, his mind still reeling.
He's not cured. He's probably never going to be cured. But apparently hot sex gives some control back. He's not going to return to Earth and apologize for his "sins" or give Timmy a hug. But he can work on concentrating on the mission and focusing on her and maybe letting her into his head. Just...not all the way.
But enough.
Enough of the way so that it matters.
Yeah, he's fucked up. But so is she. And they kind of need each other.
Author: in_excelsis_dea
Characters: Jason, Donna
Summary: Jason deals with the repercussions of being brought back to life. First he broods. Then he has sex.
Rating: meta-ish PG-13 first half, but largely NC-17
Warnings:SPOILERS and explicit sex in the second half.
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine. I am merely borrowing and do not intend to make any profit.
AN: My brain is fried. But reading Countdown 41 perked me up a bit. There are spoilers for Countdown 41 in this fic. Do not read unless you want to be spoiled. Also written for 64damn_prompts prompt 16.Rip. Comments and constructive criticism are always appreciated.
"Bob." He hears her ascent but ignores it. She's definitely better company than most. Hell, sometimes she even gets him. But they've just finished a challenging battle and he just wants to be left alone. Left to himself. Left to mope.
"Why Bob of all things?" She doesn't get the hint, but he's in a reasonable mood instead of a down-right nasty one and so he doesn't taunt or openly repel her. He could. He's good at that. All it would take is a couple scathing, well placed barbs. He knows her- not as well as Dick knows her- but he didn't train with the Bat for nothing. He could reduce her to tears within three sentences.
Yet somehow, it's the furthest thing from his mind.
He really doesn't like how she affects him.
"Because it's short." He leans back into the alien grass, peers up into the purple sky with the foreign stars. He starts making up constellations to kill time. It was something he did as a kid, something he stopped doing when he became Robin. When he was a kid, the stars were mystical. Magical. Untouchable. Something to strive for, to break the monotone drone of daily life in the slums. Once he became Robin, he didn't need them anymore. He learned the history behind them. He learned the constellations. He learned that the stars were something he could touch- that Bruce had been to them before.
They lost their magic.
He wonders if it's slowly coming back.
"But why Bob? Why not...Ted? Dan? Mike? Jim?" She lists off names, leans back into the grass with him. There are still a good six inches between them. He's not sure if that's a good thing or not.
"Because I like 'Bob'." She wants some deeper meaning. She wants to get inside of him, not in a literal sense, though he wouldn't mind that. She wants to see what makes him tick. He recognizes the signs. He went through five fucking shrinks at various schools until they decided he was incorrigible. He took pride in that, knowing he was one of a kind.
Except that he's not really.
There apparently was another just as fucked up kiddie waiting to take his place.
"You're an enigma," she finally sighs. He can see her with his peripheal vision. She's staring at the same stars, lying on the same grass, went through the same battle he just did. And yet...there's something different about her.
"I know," he finally states, letting a smirk form.
"You're impossible," she mutters, pulling herself up into a sitting position. "I don't know what to do with you." He lets her ramble, content to sit back and watch the show. People trying to make sense of him is always amusing, because they fail. Utterly. Sometimes it drives them into madness. Like it did with Talia, because there is no fucking way she would have kissed him with a sound mind. She's been lusting after his father for the past decades. It's too screwy to contemplate- and the fact that it's too screwy for him just says it all.
"You were trained as Robin," she continues, embracing her knees to her chest. "You died. Came back. Went on a killing spree. Go after Tim. Show up in New York and taunt Dick. Go after Speedy. And then suddenly you're saving lives?"
The question hangs in the air. He could answer it, were he so inclined. He could give her a smartass answer about how he was exploring his horizons or how he got bored with murder or how he only set out to murder the murderers in the first place and Bruce fucking refused to see it.
He could.
But he won't.
"You don't make any sense," she repeats softly, her head on her knees. "Everyone is full of tales about how awful you are- and then you show up at Duela's funeral and it's as if you did a one-eighty. Why?"
He shrugs into the ground. He doesn't really have an answer. When he first came back, he was so out of it that he didn't know right from left. He didn't know up from down. He didn't know that Talia was his Dad's fucking partner. He got dunked in a Lazarus Pit and traded one evil, one problem, for merely another.
Instead of no memories or thoughts or feelings or basically what made him him (and he's never been religious, so he doesn't go for all that soul crap), he was overloaded. He remembered everything. He could taste the hot, sand-filled air in Ethiopia. He could feel the rubber of the Batmobile tires. He could smell the pungent reek that came from the building down the street when he was three, where they incinerated garbage (and sometimes people, as the rumors said).
And the driving force behind all the memories was rage. Pure, unadulterated rage.
It consumed him.
He took LSD once. It was before he became Robin, because that's how he filters his life- before Robin, after Robin, after resurrection, though now he supposes he'll have to come up with another measurment- like after Hell broke loose, because that would definitely fit. He took the drug because all he really wanted were some fucking cigarettes, but there weren't any around and some idiots thought it would be cool to get the eleven year-old high.
He swore off the hard stuff after that. The physical symptoms were bad. The mental symptoms were worse. He'd never experienced something so fucked up- until Talia pushed him into the damn Pit. It was like taking LSD again- except triple the amount. And it never really subsided. It never really wore off. Even when he thought he was being logical- that he was completely in control- something would happen. Something would throw him off.
Even now, he battles with it.
It took training. It took meditation. It took having Bruce nearly kill him again and let a fucking scum-bag murderer go free to shed some light on the situation, to make him start to slowly think clearly again.
Not that it really worked. But it helped him at least set his priorities straight. "Dad" had to pay. "Dad" had to learn the lesson. And then he could- maybe, hopefully- move on.
He's still working on that.
Dick and Timmy, the ass-wipe- they're too far into Batman's pants to dare go against him. Especially the Replacement. He could show up with fucking roses and he'd probably get accused of dosing them with some toxin or being in cahoots with Poison Ivy. Not that she isn't hot in a super-villainess way, but he really doesn't go for the whole "vine" and au naturel thing.
The chick next to him, however...
No. No. Thoughts are not going there. At all. Never.
He's screwed up. Fucked up. Not a sane bone in his body. But at least right now he isn't lost in a not-but-really-but-basically-same-thing-as-a drug haze. He started smoking two packs a day to see if he could counteract the fucking Pit. Didn't work and now he's being forced to wean himself off of cigarettes, because damn it, they were in his other jacket and it wasn't as if he had the time to pack before being dragged off.
He never thought he'd be in the middle of saving the world again.
It's just so...
He groans, pulls himself into a sitting position. "End of the world," he finally remarks. "End of an era. And I got pulled in kicking and screaming. Decided that for once in my life, I could make my own decision."
She turns to him, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. He can see her tongue, how her lips are wet. "I-" She starts.
He finishes it.
He's ignored the urges long enough. He's had enough playing by the rules. He's had enough period and if he can't take his fate into his own hands, at least this he can.
He hasn't had a woman's touch- hasn't had the time to get laid- since he left Dick in New York. And while she may be an Amazon warrior and a fierce fighter in her own right- he's better. He doesn't have the scruples and morals she has.
For once, that's a good thing.
Her mouth is cool against his and he can taste her shock. He pushes them both back onto the grass, so that he's halfway on top of her. He deepens the kiss, biting back a groan as fire spreads down his spine right into his groin. Her breasts push into his chest, which is a very nice sensation- or would be, at least, if he didn't have a bloody Kelvar vest on. The only solution is to remove it.
She writhes under him, and at first he's slightly worried that this isn't what she wants. But then she pulls him down against her mouth once again and claims his tongue, fucking his mouth with her own.
And God, it feels great.
He has no clue how to get off her outfit, he realizes. So he decides to take off what he can- his own pants and boots, kicking them away as she trails her hands down his chest and he sucks on her collar bone. Seconds later, he's only clad in his boxers and she hasn't even removed her boots.
Irony at it's best.
"Take it off," he mumbles against her ear, snapping the straps. She starts to laugh and shoves him off of her, so that she can sit up properly and undo the zippers, toe herself out of her boots. He's impressed when she peels down the top portion and there's nothing underneath but rosy flesh. He's even more impressed when she moves a bit and they jiggle and he can't help himself from reaching out and squeezing, flicking his thumbs over her nipples.
She hisses and the sound goes right to his crotch. He's already hard, but every touch, every noise, every sensation makes it worse. Better. He isn't sure which, because fuck yeah, it's painful, but on the other hand, it means he's that much closer to being inside her. And that makes up for everything.
She's soon completely naked and wet and ready for him, but he tests just to make sure. Ignoring her breasts for the moment, he trails a hand down her stomach and draws it away when she gasps and his hand comes up dripping. Definitely ready.
He rubs her again, delighting in her hissing, her hips jerking slightly as she thrusts her hips into his hand. "Not yet," he smirks. "Not quite yet."
"Jason," she moans as he removes his hand and instead leans down to blow on the liquid pooling there. He sticks out his tongue to lap at it, using small, yet forceful strokes to intensify the pleasure. She bucks up again and he nearly gets hit. Frowning and wishing that he had any sort of Bat equipment with him (plastic ties were great for tying people down with, so that you can ravish them in peace), he is forced to use his hands instead, pushing her hips into the grass and therefore lowering his mouth so that the vegetation tickles his chin as he twists her clit with his tongue.
Oh, she likes that.
Her breathing hitches when he sticks his tongue inside her, and he feels his cock jump. It's nearly time to finish this. He rakes her clit with his teeth as he sucks hard at her opening, licking up the fluid she created because of him- for him.
He releases her hips as he comes up, her fluids still on his lips, leaving a slightly bitter taste in his mouth. Leaning forwards, he seizes her lips again, pushing her own essence into her mouth. Their tongues battle, while he adjusts his hips and wriggles out of the last clothing barrier. The grass isn't the most comfortable thing to have on himself, but it's not really a bad feeling either. And as long as the alien plant-life behaves itself and doesn't try to eat them, or give them hideous rashes on their intimate areas (and he probably should have thought about that before hand...), he'll deal with it.
He can't wait any longer for this.
Their lips still occupied, he shifts his hips, lines himself up and thrusts as hard as he can into her. She moans into his mouth, arching her back and he can't help but groan himself at the sensation. Too fucking long. It's pure instinct and need driving him now- pulling back and shoving as hard as he can while she lifts her hips to meet him. He breaks the kiss, nibbles his way down her jaw, her throat, her chest, her breasts. One hand snakes down to tease her where they meet together, and one hand stays to fondle one nipple while his teeth knead the other one.
It's powerful.
He hasn't felt this energized in ages and he doubts she's been getting much more. She was married once, but her husband died and since then, he knows she's had a couple of boyfriends, but nothing recent. The whole "coming back from the dead" thing tends to turn a lot of people off, even though it's not like it changed anything. Oh sure, it fucked with his head. But he is physically fit and no, his genitals haven't fallen off or anything. Perish the fucking thought.
He's still got a cock and balls and he's finally getting some use out of them. Her muscles clench around him and he feels the tremor come and rides it over the edge, shooting into her. She follows a bit later, after he's licked his fingers and pinched her right there and it's sight to behold.
He's not prone to flowery words in the least. But even he has to admit that she looks fucking gorgeous sprawled out underneath him, sweat making her glisten in the odd alien sky. He pulls out, but doesn't get up, instead collapsing next to her. He closes his eyes, calls up the sensations again. Calls up the mixture of control and out-of-control he just went through, his mind still reeling.
He's not cured. He's probably never going to be cured. But apparently hot sex gives some control back. He's not going to return to Earth and apologize for his "sins" or give Timmy a hug. But he can work on concentrating on the mission and focusing on her and maybe letting her into his head. Just...not all the way.
But enough.
Enough of the way so that it matters.
Yeah, he's fucked up. But so is she. And they kind of need each other.