[DC] in the business of misery
Title: in the business of misery
Pairing: Bruce/Jason
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: underage. I think.
Summary: this is thinking it through.
Notes: a softer world: There should be a word for a threat that is also a promise. Because that is what I want you to hold me down and do. There’s this one line I don’t promise I won’t use again, because I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to put it somewhere for two years, and I’m not sure this is the best possible place.
In the kingdom of bad ideas this one is probably heir to the throne. In no plane of reality is it advised by the how-to guides, “and also, if you wish to lead a long and happy life, you should steal off the tires of the car of the most powerful guy in your city.”
They’re careful not to add that if by some miracle you’re not seen on the first tire, “come back for more.”
And they certainly don’t recommend that upon getting caught you should “be sure to strike the man with a tire iron!”
All of which Jason does.
(On the subject of bringing back the man to your home, they keep mum. Between the lines of “self-respect” and “in the morning”, there’s a certain matter of fact admission of thrills and ambition. You do what you have to do.)
But if that was a bad idea, it was nothing compared to the rest.
Jason’s skin is thrumming with the rightwrongneed of it, anticipation prickling like goosebumps. The thick taste of it slicks the back of his throat, salty and bitter when he swallows his own saliva, reforming like an oily sheen.
Bruce thinks he’s something special. One of a kind, he says. Breathed, dark eyes boring into Jason’s, and Jason’s skin crawled with hope and the bone-deep knowing.
Batman says he’s needed. Robin’s the light to Batman’s darkness, he explains, eyes boring into Jason’s. Forceful intent behind his every word, willing Jason to (listen) (agree) (give in).
Like there’s even the first doubt Jason’s not going to.
When Jason takes a breath the sharp air of the Cave blisters through his lungs like he’s been dashing for safety, and he can’t keep the giddy giggle out of his voice when he says yes. Some part of him feels like asking if there’s something Bruce wants him to sign, and even if he did, even if the fucking ridiculous pointy ears on top of the cowl thickened and curled into actual horns and he requested that Jason write down his name in blood, he’d go for it.
(Batman’s going to make something better out of Jason’s soul than Jason was amounting to, anyway.)
(Batman doesn’t ask him to write anything down, actually, but you can’t fight crime without shedding a little blood. Batman doesn’t like it too much, but Jason doesn’t mind. He knew he’d have to pay the trade in more than the sweat Batman demands from him when he trains.)
Jason waits to seal the deal with a kiss.
Working with Batman, it’s this: let yourself be devoured, and he will give you everything.
The first time Jason looked across a charity ball’s glittering lights, the sparkling bubbles of champagne and the crystalline laughter beaded onto the hum of conversation, and recognized the mayor’s bland aide as the shadowed man who’d met with Donny Inzerillo in Gotham’s damp, narrow streets, uneven pavement half-concealed under the murky blanket of asphalt, yellow streetlamps far away and between (one of the candidate’s promises during the campaign, forgotten as soon as he turned into a mayor, larva into fly shedding behind bothersome baggage), he felt the taste of the streets spreading into his mouth. Triumph with as rich a bouquet as the wines Bruce didn’t drink and pretended not to see Jason swipe.
It would’ve been enough to justify the unforgivable waste of an evening attending the fucking parties meant, and all the people hurt while they weren’t. The kids scrambling and the girls raising their arms over their heads to protect their faces. Gotham people have (one) free clinic, but Leslie Thompkins’ can’t give you new teeth. (Bruce Wayne is paying dizzying amounts of money to various specialists for his adopted son to have as bright and even a dentition as a movie star.) Enough for the Mission.
Glancing at Bruce and finding him looking at Jason with Batman’s eyes, dark and quietly intense (his thumb running in lazy circles along the rim of his glass), that’s for him.
Jason wants Batman’s hands around his wrist, pinning him down. He wants Bruce’s lips to stroke murmurs along Jason’s arched throat, and when he gasps he wants Bruce’s even white teeth to sink into him - not because he’s decided to but because he can’t help it, because they’re playing at juggling the control between them, so it’s always falling, falling, falling, slipping from their hands and into the air, pulling them together no matter what they want, like it controls them, they don’t control it.
He wants everything Batman can give him, and he fucking knows Bruce wants to give him everything. He wants that so much it’s like a scarf around his neck tugged too tight, choking him.
“Come on,come on,” he grinds, bucks out.
Then there’s something in his mouth beyond Gotham and hunger. It’s more solid, but it tastes the same, and Jason moans and laughs when the barely restrained darkness envelops him.
If he drowns in it he won’t even know he’s dead.
(Jason’s knees fall apart as easily as his life.)
This entry was originally posted at http://runespoor.dreamwidth.org/122479.html. There are
comments there.
Pairing: Bruce/Jason
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: underage. I think.
Summary: this is thinking it through.
Notes: a softer world: There should be a word for a threat that is also a promise. Because that is what I want you to hold me down and do. There’s this one line I don’t promise I won’t use again, because I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to put it somewhere for two years, and I’m not sure this is the best possible place.
In the kingdom of bad ideas this one is probably heir to the throne. In no plane of reality is it advised by the how-to guides, “and also, if you wish to lead a long and happy life, you should steal off the tires of the car of the most powerful guy in your city.”
They’re careful not to add that if by some miracle you’re not seen on the first tire, “come back for more.”
And they certainly don’t recommend that upon getting caught you should “be sure to strike the man with a tire iron!”
All of which Jason does.
(On the subject of bringing back the man to your home, they keep mum. Between the lines of “self-respect” and “in the morning”, there’s a certain matter of fact admission of thrills and ambition. You do what you have to do.)
But if that was a bad idea, it was nothing compared to the rest.
Jason’s skin is thrumming with the rightwrongneed of it, anticipation prickling like goosebumps. The thick taste of it slicks the back of his throat, salty and bitter when he swallows his own saliva, reforming like an oily sheen.
Bruce thinks he’s something special. One of a kind, he says. Breathed, dark eyes boring into Jason’s, and Jason’s skin crawled with hope and the bone-deep knowing.
Batman says he’s needed. Robin’s the light to Batman’s darkness, he explains, eyes boring into Jason’s. Forceful intent behind his every word, willing Jason to (listen) (agree) (give in).
Like there’s even the first doubt Jason’s not going to.
When Jason takes a breath the sharp air of the Cave blisters through his lungs like he’s been dashing for safety, and he can’t keep the giddy giggle out of his voice when he says yes. Some part of him feels like asking if there’s something Bruce wants him to sign, and even if he did, even if the fucking ridiculous pointy ears on top of the cowl thickened and curled into actual horns and he requested that Jason write down his name in blood, he’d go for it.
(Batman’s going to make something better out of Jason’s soul than Jason was amounting to, anyway.)
(Batman doesn’t ask him to write anything down, actually, but you can’t fight crime without shedding a little blood. Batman doesn’t like it too much, but Jason doesn’t mind. He knew he’d have to pay the trade in more than the sweat Batman demands from him when he trains.)
Jason waits to seal the deal with a kiss.
Working with Batman, it’s this: let yourself be devoured, and he will give you everything.
The first time Jason looked across a charity ball’s glittering lights, the sparkling bubbles of champagne and the crystalline laughter beaded onto the hum of conversation, and recognized the mayor’s bland aide as the shadowed man who’d met with Donny Inzerillo in Gotham’s damp, narrow streets, uneven pavement half-concealed under the murky blanket of asphalt, yellow streetlamps far away and between (one of the candidate’s promises during the campaign, forgotten as soon as he turned into a mayor, larva into fly shedding behind bothersome baggage), he felt the taste of the streets spreading into his mouth. Triumph with as rich a bouquet as the wines Bruce didn’t drink and pretended not to see Jason swipe.
It would’ve been enough to justify the unforgivable waste of an evening attending the fucking parties meant, and all the people hurt while they weren’t. The kids scrambling and the girls raising their arms over their heads to protect their faces. Gotham people have (one) free clinic, but Leslie Thompkins’ can’t give you new teeth. (Bruce Wayne is paying dizzying amounts of money to various specialists for his adopted son to have as bright and even a dentition as a movie star.) Enough for the Mission.
Glancing at Bruce and finding him looking at Jason with Batman’s eyes, dark and quietly intense (his thumb running in lazy circles along the rim of his glass), that’s for him.
Jason wants Batman’s hands around his wrist, pinning him down. He wants Bruce’s lips to stroke murmurs along Jason’s arched throat, and when he gasps he wants Bruce’s even white teeth to sink into him - not because he’s decided to but because he can’t help it, because they’re playing at juggling the control between them, so it’s always falling, falling, falling, slipping from their hands and into the air, pulling them together no matter what they want, like it controls them, they don’t control it.
He wants everything Batman can give him, and he fucking knows Bruce wants to give him everything. He wants that so much it’s like a scarf around his neck tugged too tight, choking him.
“Come on,come on,” he grinds, bucks out.
Then there’s something in his mouth beyond Gotham and hunger. It’s more solid, but it tastes the same, and Jason moans and laughs when the barely restrained darkness envelops him.
If he drowns in it he won’t even know he’s dead.
(Jason’s knees fall apart as easily as his life.)
This entry was originally posted at http://runespoor.dreamwidth.org/122479.html. There are
comments there.