Chapter Text
“So greedy, Wing.”
And it's true. Dick’s shoulders are pressed into the cold floor, his hips lifted up and over his chest, only partially stripped out of the uniform he arrived in two weeks ago. His cock bobs openly in the rapidly cooling air, glistening, responsive as Jason guides the first end of the double ended dildo against him slowly. Savoring every twitch, every clench of Dick’s tight core. Dick’s eyes widen, breath hitching, as he instinctively drives his hips upward, chasing the promise of being full; the flex of it all accentuating his back muscles beautifully under all the kevlar he wears.
Fuck.
Not that Batm—Jason (he is Jason, Jason Todd) is any better. Any less greedy. His own boots are still half-laced, one leg of his pants trapped in armor pads he never bothered to remove. He doesn’t care. Not now. Not when he’s dripping wet, body humming with urgency, need setting him on fire. Over the course of the past twenty years he had missed so many things—
And Dick—this Richard Grayson, reminds him of one of the things he had missed most of all—craved—
“Gods…have you been lonely too, baby?”—Fuck, his voice is such a treat: breathy—vulnerable—teasing—all at once. It reaches deep inside of him and twists a muscle he hasn’t used in decades—or maybe one that had just been saturated with pain for just as long. It holds on to one word, a slip-up probably—too—
Jason’s fingers brush over Dick’s uniform, gripping just enough to feel the weight of his chest, the breadth of it. The years of solitude lay heavy across his own shoulders; lifting slightly with every moan, every shiver, every shudder from Dick. Hollow nights, empty buildings—a city that had always felt so alive because of its people now liberated of its heartbeat as his only companion. The fights against rogue ghosts, the occasional mission out, left him more numb than satisfied…long moments of quiet the only reward for a thankless mission of keeping things out by keeping himself in.
And now…Dick is here. Or maybe not. Not his Dick.
No, his Richard Grayson had died young, too young—before Bruce—before the Joker—but sometime after Jason had died and then been reborn, Dick Grayson had died. And Jason had not been there. He can appreciate the irony in that. At the very least Bruce had told him, had invited Jason to his funeral.
Jason hadn’t gone.
And then everything had gone to shit.
And despite being trapped here for nearly half his life—Jason still couldn’t bring himself to go—
And now a man sits before him—or rather, lies beneath him—gray at the temples, older, hardened—still confident, still cocky, and curious, curious about this hell that Jason has trapped himself within—still pulling Jason apart without even trying too with his presence.
It makes Jason’s cunt throb.
He hovers over what he fears might be a hallucination—a projection born from isolation and grief, repeating ad infinitum. The same almost ghost that blinks at him now, lashes trembling—and Jason’s mind stutters.
This can’t be his Dick. He isn't. And yet—
Two weeks. Two weeks of reconstructing the Motherbox that brought this Richard Grayson to him. Two weeks side by side, every moment spent in each other's presence—two weeks of babble—two weeks without silence—the line blurs.
This Dick Grayson melts into his touch. Responsive. Hesitant. A contradiction—and yet, so, so very goddamn willing.
And Jason—Jason has spent years being whittled down to a simple man…or simple enough. For years his closest companions had been ghosts. Bruce apparitions flickering at the edge of his vision until he learned to strike first, cut them down before they could open their mouths: Darkseid—a tournament—he was trapped in the dark multiverse—had the powers of superman—held a Green Lantern ring—all bullshit.
But he never got Dick Grayson.
Not once. Not even in his dreams. No matter how much he begged.
So, Jason doesn’t just want this; he needs it. And Dick…this Dick wants to give it to him—might even ache in the same way—saturated in a loneliness too—
There were differences.
Apparent when Jason had begun to strip and Dick had paused. Gaze fixed at Jason’s cunt.
“Expecting something different?” Jason had asked, voice gruff, hoarse from talking too much over the past week, compared to the silent decades that preceded it.
Dick had swallowed hard, a shudder running through him. “I…Christ, Jay—can you sit on my face—” desperation turning the phrase shaky.
Jason had pushed him down, ridden his face as Dick had grasped the back of his thighs, his ass, dragging him in further as he sucked at Jason’s dick, tongue licking broadly over Jason’s folds, his face saturated with Jason’s come as Jason gripped at the graying hair and rutted against his face until Dick tapped the back of his leg, gasping for air—
“God, Jay…I want to be full,” Dick had rasped, desire—need—pain in his glassy eyes.
There was—is only one answer to Dick’s pleading: “I think I can manage that.”
And he does. Fuck, does he.
He braces one hand on Dick’s thigh, the other guiding the first end of the dildo deeper—slow, steady, unrelenting—until Dick takes all of it. Dick keens, head thrown back, cock leaking pre-come so freely it lands in thick droplets onto his own lips.
Jason catches it with a swipe of his fingers, tastes it—salt, heat, desperation—and mixes the rest with the crude lubricant he scavenged from the half-crushed med-pack Dick arrived with. He works it into himself with a practiced efficiency—many long lonely years to learn how to get it right—to try to fill the gaps—
His ass loosens under his own touch—clenching, releasing, clenching again—softening just enough to take what he needs. And he needs it. Now.
(He hadn't needed much preparation either, this Dick Grayson. Had started begging for something bigger, something more, not even a minute into Jason's relatively dry fingering.)
Jason shifts forward, dragging his body over the second end of the dildo. His muscles tremble with anticipation, with hunger he’s held tight for two decades. He positions it carefully, the blunt tip nudging between his cheeks, teasing the rim of his hole. Heat coils hot and bright in his belly.
Beneath him, Dick twitches—hips jerking upward, cock bobbing helplessly, chasing contact he hasn’t been given yet.
Jason lets him feel the weight of it. Lets him look.
Then—
He sinks down in one smooth motion.
A twin sound breaks out of both of them—Jason’s throaty groan, Dick’s cracked moan—as the double-ended dildo sits inside Jason perfectly, pressure spreading fire up his spine, while the other end shifts inside Dick, pushing deeper.
Jason has to brace himself on Dick’s thighs—the sensation of someone alive around him—underneath him. Fuck. He rolls his hips experimentally—once—twice—slow—clenching around it enough that the movement pushes the toy deeper into Dick.
Dick writhes. Jason watches.
The sensations crash over him—stretch, drag, fullness—yes, but more than that—
It’s been decades since anyone has wanted him like this—decades since anyone has looked at him with hunger instead of fear, with need instead of suspicion. (Decades since Dick Grayson has looked at him with desire—)
Dick’s moans, his trembling thighs, the way his hands clutch at the floor then grab on to Jason’s ankles to help stabilize them—-while trying not to grab Jason too hard—every little piece feeds that starving wound inside Jason. Fills it. Warms it. For the first time in years, Jason feels seen.
And it’s too much. And nowhere near enough.
He rocks a bit more, rises up slightly, watches as Dick’s cock jerks once again, and wonders if he could feel more full still. Wonders if he can still feel full when this Dick inevitably leaves him too—
So he reaches out, dragging the slick head of Dick’s cock against his soaked cunt. The friction makes them both groan—Jason from the shock of sensation, the way his folds part around the heat of Dick’s oh so very apparent desire.
Jason does it again. Hold Dick against him as he ruts down just enough to feel Dick’s cock rub against the underside of his own.
Dick’s eyes flutter, mouth falling open.
“Jay—Holy—please—”
That right there—his name breaking open in Dick’s mouth—makes Jason’s cunt throb. Lonely years press into him like a physical weight. He wants to feel wanted. Wants to feel taken. Wants to feel loved, even if it’s just pretend, even if it’s just for tonight, even if this Dick isn’t his Dick.
He grinds down harder, smearing his slick across the length of Dick’s cock, watching Dick fight not to thrust. Watching him break apart just from Jason’s weight alone.
“Do you want to come inside of me, Wing?” It just slips out, the question, the desire, it rushes out. The tone he uses, he hasn’t uses it in years, it feels cruel in his mouth and yet—“Do you want to feel just how tight I can be Goldie?”
Dick shudders violently—“Fuck—n-no one has called me that in ages.”
Jason leans forward, bringing their faces inches apart, forcing Dick to fold even more, hears his joints cracking as he goes and Dick lets out a small punched out groan at the stretch of it all—letting his breath ghost over Dick’s lips.
“Robin,” his voice turns soft and ruinous, it’s a hunch—“Do you want to come in me, Robin?”—that pays off spectacularly as Dick’s hips jerk helplessly, a choked off cry—Holy fucking Bat—erupting from him.
“Fuck yes, Hood—yes, Jay—”
His voice cracks open on the last word, pleading, undone.
Jason smiles—hungry, aching. He sinks down again, grinding Dick’s cock perfectly between his folds, letting him feel everything he could have, everything Jason wants to give him, everything Jason has been denying himself for twenty years.
“Good,” Jason says, rolling his hips so that the blunt, slick crown of Dick’s cock slips right into the cusp of breaching him—right there, right where Jason’s body tightens instinctively around the idea of it. He feels himself twitch, feels the heat pulse deep in his belly. He leans forward, voice dropping into something low and devastating. “Then beg me for it.”
Dick doesn’t hesitate this time.
“Fuck—yes. Yes, Jay—yes. Please, let me inside of you. I bet you are so warm and tight baby. Just for me. Please, baby—” His voice is raw, stripped bare, desperate in a way Jason hasn’t heard in decades—not even in the illusions the fog of Gotham forced on him. Dick’s need is real. His want is real.
Jason wants to hear more of his begging. No—he needs to.
Jason lowers himself onto Dick’s cock in one sharp, unforgiving drop.
They both cry out—Jason at the electric stretch of being filled so suddenly, Dick, likely, at the overwhelming clamp of Jason’s cunt swallowing him down to the base. The jolt drives the double dildo deeper into Dick at the same time, the motion forcing a ragged sob out of him, high and helpless.
Jason braces his palms on Dick’s thighs and rides him—rides him hard—letting the strength in his own body dictate every punishing rhythm. His thighs flex, his core tightens, and every grind milks Dick’s cock like it was made just for Jason to squeeze.
And Dick acts like it.
Tears gather in the corners of Dick’s eyes, breath stuttering into broken pleas, hands clutching at Jason’s thighs so tightly Jason will feel the prints tomorrow the way he's gripping on for dear life.
Jason grins through his own shuddering breaths. Good. Let him hold on.
He uses the length of the dildo inside both of them as leverage—every thrust forces the toy deeper into Dick, and forces Dick’s cock deeper into Jason. Dick has no leverage, not any more, every shudder, every cry, every sob—is one that Jason drives out of him—and Jason relishes in that—craves more—using Dick’s strength, Dick’s weight, Dick’s need to build his own pleasure higher and higher.
Words fall out of his lips. He doesn’t fully register what he’s saying—just the rough cadence of filth spilling from his mouth, made sharper by decades without anyone to talk to, let alone fuck—Dick eyes are wide as he mouths along with Jason’s words—
Jason catches fragments of himself, torn and distorted by his own pulse: do you want to breed me, Dickface?—fill me up—fuck, see if you’re even fertile anymore old man—show me you still can fill me up—
Dick breaks open like a struck match. His breath stutters, his entire body jolting, and he chants it—pleads it—yesyesyes, yes, please, christ, please, let me fill you up, Jay, fuck, you’re so tight—Jay, I’m—Jay I’m gonna come—I’m gonna—
When Dick comes, it hits him hard, his back arching so violently Jason nearly loses his seat. Hot pulses flood into Jason, coating his insides in thick waves. Filling him so completely.
Jason doesn’t slow down.
He rides through it, rides through Dick’s ragged sobs of overstimulation, rides through the trembling in Dick’s thighs, rides through the way Dick almost screams with the intensity of it. The pressure of being filled—actually filled, after so many years of emptiness—makes Jason’s cunt clutch hungrily.
It’s almost too much.
Almost.
He wants more.
Dick babbles incoherently beneath him, words dissolving into noise, into gasps, into Jason’s name. He can feel Dick’s hands trembling on his calves now—trying to hold on, trying to keep up, trying not to fall apart while Jason takes everything he gives and demands more. Dick’s voice breaks on a strangled, half-sobbed, “Jay—Jay, I can’t—fuck, I can’t—”
Jason stares down at him, unforgiving, “Yes, you can. You already are.”
The weight of Dick’s legs under his hands steadies Jason, lets him push himself harder, up and down, using both their bodies like they were built to fit together—exactly like this.
Jason lets himself drink in the sight of Dick underneath him. He is beautiful like this—flushed, shaking—chest coated in a deep blue kevlar he had never seen before two weeks ago. Jason takes it in now. Reinforced at the shoulders, right where the cowl would connect. Fingerstripes are still there—but the blue bleeds into a bat splashed along his heaving pecs.
Undeniably Batman. In blue.
Not unlike the red sigil etched into Jason’s own chest.
The cruelty inflicted on them was different. Two men grown in different worlds, yet shaped by common griefs—common ghosts—both left hollow.
Aching.
Needing.
By the same title, the same burden—
Jason comes with a strangled sound, hips jerking, every muscle locking tight as the pleasure tears through him. Dick comes with him—again—body shaking, cock twitching helplessly inside Jason as he wrings it out of Dick.
When Jason finally lifts himself off—acutely aware of the ache in his hips that wasn’t there twenty years ago—he collapses onto the floor beside Dick, panting hard.
He feels his age. Feels the way loneliness settles back into his bones alongside the soreness of his muscles.
He also feels Dick's come start slipping out of him. Which, that won't do.
Jason exhales, rolls slightly onto his side, and brings a hand between his legs. He’s still stretched open, still tender, still throbbing with the shape of Dick inside him. Carefully—almost absently—he gathers what he can with his fingers and eases it back up into himself. A soft sound leaves him as his fingertips brush sensitive muscle.
He presses two fingers in as a plug, holding everything where he wants it, but his body’s too loose, too needy, and he feels the seep of warmth trying to escape around them.
So he slides in a third.
Dick stretches out beside him, body trembling faintly as he reaches between Jason’s thighs. He eases the half-forgotten slick, still-warm length of the dildo out of Jason slowly, carefully—not for Jason’s sake, Jason realizes, but for his own. Dick winces, shoulders tensing, and Jason can tell he’s feeling the echo of everything they just did. Older bodies. Older aches. The natural course of what they have allowed themselves to become.
They lie there in silence, catching their breath, sweat cooling on their skin. Two minutes. Three. Their hearts settle, their bodies slowly remembering what comfort feels like.
Dick rolls onto his side.
His hand drifts, almost absently, to the red bat on Jason’s chestplate—the one he hasn’t bothered to remove yet. Dick’s fingers flatten over the emblem like he’s seeing it for the first time. Which is ridiculous. They’ve spent nearly every waking moment together for the past week—building, planning, fighting, tending wounds. And Dick has touched him. Helped him bandage cracked ribs. Pressed close in cramped corners of the bunker. Laid a hand on his shoulder when Jason’s vision blurred after a particularly bad migraine.
He’s seen it.
But this is different. This touch is reverent. Personal.
It rattles Jason hard enough that he nearly shoves the hand away.
Before he can—Dick’s voice cuts in.
“Jay…let me—let me clean you up.” Dick swallows, cheeks still flushed. “I can eat it out, if you want—”
Jason’s breath catches—unexpectedly sharp, painfully so.
He pushes his fingers in deeper to his cunt.
“You’re going to leave, again,” he says quietly. Its not an accusation. Can't be when it is just the truth. “Let me at least keep this reminder.”
Dick’s expression twists. Pain flashes in it—regret, longing, something fragile enough Jason almost looks away from it.
“Ok,” Dick murmurs.
There’s a beat—soft, unsteady—before Dick’s gaze drifts downward, his hand following. His fingertips brush Jason’s lower stomach, tracing a loose circle, before noticing the fingers that Jason has plugged himself with. Another complicated expression crosses his face—before he silently removes the gauntlets he somehow still had on. He slides a finger alongside Jason’s, slow, careful, pushing any lingering leaks back where Jason wants them. The steady pump of Dick’s finger is almost gentle.
Then, as uncertain as he had sounded the entire time that Jason has known him: “Can you…get pregnant?”
Jason snorts. The sound comes out harsher than he means.
“Ah…no.” He shifts onto an elbow. “Cut out my uterus years ago. It was easier.”
Dick’s brows knit. The quiet “Oh,” that follows carries a weight Jason can’t read—loss? Relief? Some part of Dick’s old grief resurfacing? Jason doesn’t pry. He doesn’t dare.
This is not his Dick Grayson.
Dick wets his lips. Hesitates. Then: “It…would be foolish to ask you to come with me, wouldn’t it?”
Jason closes his eyes.
Fuck, he’s tired. So goddamn tired of being alone. Of waking to silence. Of holding the line against a city that bites at him like a starving dog. Of being the last man standing.
Part of him wants to say yes. Wants to follow any Dick Grayson anywhere. Wants warmth. Wants touch. Wants anything but the endless empty years ahead.
But the other part—the older, broken, stubborn part that survived this Gotham—that loves his Gotham despite everything—the part that kept vigil alone through storms and invasions and empty winters—the part that believes he is the last wall between this place and collapse—that part recoils. Digs in. Refuses.
He breathes out, shaky.
He pulls his fingers from his own cunt—only to gasp when Dick immediately replaces them with three of his own, sliding in deep like he’s determined to hold Jason open. Dick’s thumb drags firm circles around Jason’s sensitive cock, slow and knowing—his eyes so very fucking blue as he watches Jason's face, increasing the pressure he is exerting with his thumb as Jason’s back arches off the floor in a helpless jerk.
A groan breaks loose from him—raw—and by the time he forces words through his throat, they come out wrecked, splintered:
“I—