Jason’s skin has been itching for days, ever since Dick came “home.” It’s funny because Dick didn’t even know about Jason until he showed up and shoved himself into the former Robin’s life; Dick hadn’t been to the Manor for long before that. Yet, Jason has seen Dick in every corner, in every silence, in every long-staring glare Bruce has given. It’s never felt like Jason’s space, more like he’s keeping it warm for a ghost.
But now Dick is here – it only took a category 4 to bring him back – and he’s bigger than life, filling in each of those corners, his gaze reflecting back at Bruce when the old man broods.
It’s driving Jason fucking nuts.
So, he pushes back, forces Dick to see him, to pay attention while they’re working on sandbagging as part of the Wayne Foundation, while they’re out on patrol trying to find places for the homeless or stop petty crimes in the relatively quiet streets the night before landfall.
He dogs Dick’s footsteps, barges into his room – the one Bruce left so perfectly the same it seemed to even surprise Dick when he opened it that first night - puffs his chest out. There’s something so irritatingly perfect about the other boy, even after Trigon, after Dick has been such a, well, dick to him.
Dick kicks him out.
And maybe it’s still hero worship from when he watched Robin soar through the skies only a few years ago, or maybe it’s because Dick is just fucking hot as hell with his constantly furrowed brow, his curling, longer hair, the truly awful quips he has. Jason’s only human.
They’re in the kitchen, storm clearly about to break and Bruce hasn’t been seen in hours, when Dick finally snaps.
“What do you want, Jason?” he hisses, when Jason steps on his heel, for a moment sounding just like the Trigon-induced Dick in Jason’s mind.
Jason can’t articulate the want, the fire in his veins, the itch in his skin, so he scoffs and shoves Dick, like it’s Dick’s fault he ran into him. He shoots out a hand – going for a palm strike – but Dick parries, catching it, holding it close to his chest.
He honestly couldn’t say if something about Dick’s countermove drew him in closer, if it was the electricity in the air, or if his blood reached the boiling point, but Jason fell towards Dick and then he wasn’t falling so much as aggressively grabbing the back of Dick’s neck and yanking the taller man down, down, down until their lips met.
Neither of them noticed the cloudburst as Gotham welcomed the hurricane, the wind whipping around the manor, shrieking like a banshee; like a thousand bats in a frenzy.
Jason only felt the tension break, a coolness coming upon him as his lips smothered Dick’s and the aching joy when Dick fought for only a moment before his arms went around Jason settling onto his hips, going - what felt like to Jason – boneless, and Jason was the one holding up his predecessor. He walked them back to the island, amused with the one brain cell that wasn’t currently traveling down to his cock, that Dick seemed to have six arms, seemed to want to invade Jason’s body with his own.
Jason would let him if he could. This, this is what Jason wanted.
In a dream-like fugue they end up finding their way into the bedroom wing and through silent communication they tumble into a current guest room, rather than either of their own. Jason shuffles Dick backwards, the other boy going surprisingly easy, until his knees hit the back of the bed and falls down.
“Oh, fuck,” Dick moans – and isn’t that delicious? Filth coming from the golden boy’s mouth and Jason is the cause.
He shoves Dick down, a silent plea to stay put, and then he walks back to the door, shutting it and locking it. When he turns back around, Dick is looking at him with one eyebrow raised, hair disheveled, propped up on one elbow. There’s a faint tinge of red to his neck and cheeks.
“You think that’ll keep him out?”
“I literally could not give a fuck, bro,” Jason says, hotly. Nothing will keep him from this except Dick himself.
Dick winces. “If this is going where I think it is, Jason, I really need you to not call me that.”
“Where do you think it’s going, Dickie?” Jason questions smugly as he stalks back towards the bed.
Dick doesn’t answer with words, only his body as he surges up into Jason’s grasp and claiming his mouth. Jason’s lips are swollen, even bigger than usual, but he’s done some damage to Dick too and he presses in to suck and bite at his bottom lip, almost enough pressure for it swell up and match his own.
“Will this make…things better…between…us? Is this…what you need?” Dick mumbles in between kisses, grinding his long body up against him, placing a muscular thigh between Jason’s and using his knee to rock against Jason’s cock.
Jason ignores him, caught up in what feels like a dream, finally hearing the rain pouring down instead of just his own blood rushing through his veins. He runs his hands under Dick’s tight blue tee, forcing it up and exposing skin. When he bites a nipple and Dick moans beneath him, he sits up on his knees, scrambling to get his shirt and hoodie off, not caring if he looks like a moron as he grabs both items in his hands, hauling them over his head. He tosses them to the floor and sits on Dick’s hips, perched, knowing what he looks like.
Sure enough, Dick’s eyes rake over him, bluer than usual in the room darkened by the heavy gray storm outside. Jason’s body still has twink-like qualities, but he knows he’s finally filling out thanks to eighteen months of training with Bruce and another month or so with Dick. He’s thin but strong, shoulders broad, and his abs are the kind models would dehydrate to have.
He’s distracted from his show, though, when Dick puts on his own: biting his lip, moving a hand from the bed to rest on Jason’s hip, running up said abs, to his throat, to his ear, tugging it – and him – back down.
Jason lets himself get lost in Dick’s body, in feeling its heat, the sharp edges of his shoulders and hipbones, in finally shoving off the tee and biting hard on pectoral muscles built strong from hanging on the rings down in the Batcave.
Jason wonders if Dick will fulfill that fantasy for him, too. If maybe he’ll stick around after the storm, actually patrol with him and Bruce, workout on his old gymnastic equipment; let Jason know him as he was.
The image of Dick hefting himself upside down on the rings brings back the itch under his skin and Jason becomes crazed, yanking off their pants, shoving his hand down both their boxer briefs to get their cocks touching, panting when his – pale and thick – contrasts so well with Dick’s – dark and long.
His breath is coming faster, and he leans back down, forcing Dick to submit to his kiss, shoving his tongue in his mouth, far less skilled than he could be but suddenly desperate.
Dick’s muffled noises finally hit him, just as Dick pushes against his chest to separate them. “Jason, Jas—, Robin, little wing, stop.”
It’s more the nickname that pulls Jason from his frantic movements than the ‘stop.’ Not because he wouldn’t listen, but because he’s never heard Dick say his name so fondly.
Then he realizes what Dick said and he rears back, instantly dropping both their cocks from his hands, placing his hands on his thighs, probably looking obscene while Dick looks like a god stretched out under him, long cock still pointing straight towards his chin, resting on his golden stomach.
Fuck. Shit. Way to go, Todd, he thinks, you’ve fucked this up, too.
Memories of Robin’s, “You can be Robin after I’m dead” flash through his head and he tugs on his hair with both hands, the dream becoming his nightmare.
“Hey, hey,” Dick says, hands suddenly on Jason’s body, caressing him. Jason trembles. “I just want you to slow down. There’s no rush. I mean,” he pauses. He removes one of his hands moving it up to rub at his face, the other resting lightly on Jason’s hip.
Dick looks pained as he says, “Look, Jason. I know you’re not actually nineteen. I hacked Bruce’s file. Fuck, I mean, have you even done this before?”
Jason almost laughs as he considers. He goes with the lie. “No.”
Not with someone that he’s happy his cock is hard for, anyway. But that isn’t in Bruce’s file and neither of them need to know.
“Fuck,” Dick repeats. “Okay.” Dick’s eyes close for a moment, his head tilting back, exposing his long throat to Jason. It’s a surrender of a sorts. Jason takes advantage, letting his mouth graze the skin that looks pale in the lightning flickering through the window. He finds a spot, a hollow just below Dick’s chin that makes him moan and clutch his fingers to Jason’s hip hard.
“Slow. We’re going to do this slow, little wing.”
“I’m not going to fucking break, Dickie,” he says, meanly, pulling back, because the kindness is more than Dick’s given him before, more than he could have hoped for. He wants to lash out, make Dick bend to his will, to be forced silent with desire.
He wants Dick’s praise.
Fucked up. He’s ten kinds of fucked up.
He affects boredom, crossing his arms over his chest.
“No, you won’t,” Dick almost whispers. He pushes his bangs out of his eyes. Then he pulls Jason down by the shoulders, letting their cocks brush together again. Jason hasn’t gone soft and he feels Dick twitch against him, growing harder again. His voice cracks. “But I might.”
The words give Jason what he’s really wanted from Dick – something of himself. Jason suspects he doesn’t understand, not really, but the fire is lit in his stomach again, this time simmering, low, long-lasting.
Dick’s pulled both their briefs up over their erections, but Jason doesn’t mind so much, anymore. They kiss for a long time, Jason allowing Dick’s slower pace, striving to learn what makes him tick, what makes him moan and shake against him. He seems to love when Jason’s lips take his in completely, when he flicks his tongue against his teeth; when they just breathe, lips pressed together, as their hands explore.
The rain intensifies outside, cracking against the window like sleet. Jason’s starting to feel uncharacteristically sleepy. “Will he need us tonight?” he mumbles, lost in the soft sensation of Dick’s hand sweeping over his backside.
Dick considers, quietly. “No. He’ll want to do it on his own.” He places a kiss to Jason’s forehead. “You can sleep, little wing.”
Jason can’t take it anymore. He drags his eyes open. “Little wing?”
Dick flushes, looks like he’s been caught by Alfred with his hand in the cookie jar before dinner. “I—”
Jason shrugs, buries his face in Dick’s chest instead. “’S nice,” he says, and passes out to the feeling of Dick’s hand running through his hair, like a daydream.