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Dick hadn’t planned to start a fight.
But Blüdhaven… That was Dick’s territory. It was his to protect. The city was his body, every road the arteries and veins leading to his heart; every hub of activity, offices, stations, suburbs, were his cells. And so his hackles had been raised even before he had time to notice the blood.
Jason was slacked against a shipping container on Haven’s harbor, panting. Speckling all over his chest, all over his exposed forearms and pants and boots, were blooms of brownish crimson.
He did not spare Dick a glance.
“What did you do, Hood?”
Temper flared, throbbing in his temples. Dick’s speech was strained. His hands opened and closed, ready to lurch for his escrima sticks, ready to let his voice drop to the deep, commanding register of his designation. He kept his eyes on Jason like the lasers on a military copter, raking over his exhausted form, studying the blood (other people’s blood).
And it was the cursory glance that Jason gave him (Dick reasoned), the way he had his chin tilted and his helmet turning for half a second before disregarding Dick altogether, that set his jaws grinding.
“What’s that on you?” Dick demanded, taking one still step toward his brother. “Who did you kill?”
A BPD helicopter boomed loudly somewhere on the other side of the harbor, throwing its strobe lights over the tall stacks of rusted containers. A glint of that light shone over Jason’s helmet and glistened crimson. Most of Jason was in shadow.
“What did you do, Hood?” Dick repeated, louder and harsher this time. “Who. Did you kill?”
This time, Jason didn’t bother with an acknowledging glance. He gave a rather quiet, careless sneer, designed to irritate and to chafe, and before Dick could comprehend what he was doing, he was in front of Jason, pinning his torso to the hollow metal box behind him.
All over Jason’s muscles was silt-like power—coiling, ready, but slipping right through the fingers and disappearing the moment Dick had his hand around his throat. Jason allowed himself to be pinned back, arms up, palms out on either side of him. The featureless helmet tilted back. Dick found his rationality failing.
All there was left was Jason, his audacity, his temerity.
His challenge.
How the fuck dared he? Stepping into Blüdhaven unannounced. Killing. In Dick’s territory. Fingers closing like metal claws, Dick pressed hard enough to feel the bulge of the trachea, the pulse pumping hotly underneath his thumb. He heard Jason choke behind his helmet.
“Submit,” Dick warned, dropping the temperature of his command, elevated to the no-give authority of his destination.
It wasn’t ideal. Some would call it an abuse of power, freely enacting his power as a Dom on the field, using his voice to make an opponent submit. But Dick had always found all his rational control gone when faced with that uncaring, infuriating attitude of his younger brother. For years, Dick had thought he had all his anger issues mastered. But occasionally—at times like this—Dick would fully realize how naïve that had been.
Jason’s answer was nothing short of sarcastic.
“O-or what will you do, G-Golden Boy?”
He’d croaked through his constricted trachea, but during no part of his words did he show a hint of backing down the way Dick had hoped he would. It boiled Dick’s blood.
Dick retaliated by squeezing harder.
Jason wheezed, hands drawing up to clench around Dick’s wrists. But his fight was weak. He rested the back of his head on the rusted metal, peering up through the visual sensors built into that stupid, faceless red helmet. He sounded tired, and his muscles slackened back. Covered in blood and grime, despite the challenge in his words, every fiber in his body told Dick that this was someone who had fought enough battles for a night and had no more strength left for another.
That only made his brother’s defiant attitude all the more infuriating.
Dick wanted to punch that emotionless mask off him. He wanted to beat him until he submitted.
Instead, he stood back, dragging Jason with him by his throat. He flexed the muscles in his arms, triceps bulging, and he threw Jason’s bulk sideways and down, toward the cracking, gravel-covered harbor.
Jason held his arms in front of him to soften the blow. When he dropped, he rolled on the ground—to his credit, still agile despite his exhaustion—and spun back. He settled on one knee with a hand at his throat. When he got up, Dick could see the weariness in his bones.
Dick threw himself at Jason, neglecting his escrima sticks in favor of fists and muscles.
Jason retaliated, but his mind wasn’t in the game. Dick could tell Jason had already used up his allotted adrenaline for the night. He was sluggish, uncaring, leaving himself open and vulnerable.
It was less of a fight, more of bullying or discipline. It wasn’t long before Dick had his knee to Jason’s lower back, pinning him face-down on the ground, a hand closed around the handle of the escrima in his holster.
“Submit.”
Jason groaned. He tried to get up, but the prongs of the stick were jammed into the junction between his neck and the back of his skull, where the collar of his kevlar armor ended, leaving a thin strip of flesh.
“Submit,” Dick said, voice rising and cutting through the air with the strong assertion of a Dom who wasn’t in any mood for nonsense.
Jason turned rigid, but only for a second. Then he gave a harsh, almost performative shove with his back, bumping Dick and jamming the prongs harder against his own flesh. A tired chuckle rang out from under his helmet.
That disrespect was the last straw.
Dick pressed the trigger. Electricity zapped from the prongs into the flesh, transferring the electrons into the body underneath. Red Hood grunted, spasming rather inelegantly.
“I said, submit.”
Jason answered that with a growl.
Dick let the electricity fire for five seconds before stopping. He jammed a thumb behind the occipital curve of the helmet, pressing on the mechanism to open it. The helmet hissed and unlocked. Dick pulled it off and tossed it aside.
Blüdhaven’s night was sweltering, a thick must hanging inches away from every plane. Jason’s skin behind the helmet was covered in a fine layer of beaded sweat, only enough for the streetlights to bounce off him in a glossy sheen. Sweat gathered under Dick’s suit, over his forehead as he bent Jason’s arm back, dissatisfied that his brother did not cry out, either too stubborn or too exhausted. Dick hoped he wasn’t jacked up on performance enhancers or subspace suppressors.
Jason arched his back, trying to knock Dick down. Dick threw his weight down and twisted, Jason’s arm straining in his grasp. Dick leaned down until they were chest-to-back.
“Stay down.”
His breath billowing right over the shell of Jason’s ear. His chest pressing down over Jason’s back, his hips layered over Jason’s. The suggestive position put his heartbeat into overdrive, each pump sending neural chemicals throughout his body that triggered the dominant response: shut him up, push him down, punish him until he bends to your dominance.
Jason did something that Dick hadn’t expected.
Jason breathed out and turned lax at the command, muscles uncoiling, the wound limbs releasing their tension until he was just a sprawled puppet left on the sidewalk; underneath Dick.
Then Jason made a soft noise that went straight to Dick’s crotch.
For years, Dick had questioned how Jason had managed to keep himself so calm and collected on the field, with his biology dragging him down. He must’ve been using suppressants, Dick had reasoned. No submissive could train themselves to resist various Dominant registers so thoroughly that they never slipped up even once.
Now, it seemed, the answer lay in the helmet.
The helmet must’ve been used to filter out the special wavelengths and voice signatures of a Dominant’s voice. High-tech stuff, but not unbelievable for Red Hood. Dick kept a warning press on Jason’s back, but used the other hand to brush the hair behind Jason’s head. Damp, coarse hair, midnight-black with a white streak near the front. Jason moaned.
“Good boy,” Dick praised, a bit softer, but still firm, with his Dom register intact.
That hand brushed over Jason’s hair, combing through it, scraping the fingertips gently over the scalp. A shiver ran through Jason.
“This is what you really need, isn’t it? What you need is a master, someone to command you and take care of you.”
“Yes, mister,” Jason answered, almost in a trance.
Fingers inserted between the roots of his hair and pulled. Jason let out a soft breath as Dick jerked his head back, his neck forming a strained arc.
“You’re not a bad boy at all,” Dick whispered in Jason’s ear. “You’re just desperate for a spanking.”
“Please.”
“Do everything I say.”
Keeping a strong hold on Jason’s roots, Dick got up on his feet. Jason followed, as obedient as a doll, getting up on his knees and shuffling forward as Dick dragged him close to him. Dick pinched his chin and guided him to look up. Jason’s eyes were misty surfaces of lakes, unfocused and receptive, his lips hanging slightly open. Pink, plump lips, showing a slip of pink, wet tongue.
“Tell me why you’re so set on being a pain in the ass,” Dick commanded, stroking Jason’s cheek with his finger. “Why always such an annoyance—killing people, getting on my fucking nerves?”
Those sweet lips moved, voice coming out low and mellowed, still sounding so young. “To get your attention.”
Dick’s heart jumped at that. A strange flutter—a jerking clench.
“What kind of attention?”
“Bad attention.”
“Why bad attention?”
“Because it’s the only kind of attention available. Because you can’t break his rules. The only way for you to notice me.”
Dick’s mouth was dry.
He couldn’t help it; he’d so long chafed at Jason, had so long been angered by that insurgent attitude, that the image of Jason there on his knees, Jason with a mist over his eyes and rosy lips parted in held-back desire, sent him right over the edge.
Dick knew what he was doing when he pulled Jason by the hair toward his crotch; knew there was a delicate membrane of trust stretching and breaking up between them. But Dick was far from perfect; he was really a grotesque lump of held-back frustrations and suppressed urges, a damaged Dominant who’d spent way too long keeping control for all the submissives he’d guided down. Control slowly slipping, desperate to let out the beast. All he yearned for was to let himself free. To explode.
And it didn’t take any persuasion for Jason—deep in subspace and too fucked-up to say no—to unzip the crotch compartment of his suit, to release the cock beneath his cup, all hard and erect and throbbing, and gently take the massive thing into his mouth.
It should’ve alarmed Dick how easily this had come to Jason. It should’ve been clear that this was something the sub was used to, had been made to do so often that he’d fallen into the motion without any urging or command. But Dick’s head was filled with the full devastation of sex, and all he did was whisper, “Oh, fuck…” when Jason’s lips closed around his glans.
Jason’s tongue twirled around the tip, swirling and dragging along the shaft.
It didn’t take ten seconds of Jason sucking on his cock for Dick to lose all patience. His fingers in Jason’s hair, he forced the sub’s head down onto the ground as he followed him, dick wet and sprung, one padded knee dropping onto hard, textured asphalt. He shoved until Jason’s cheek was pushed against the ground, his palms flat on the ground, his ass high in the air.
The plump, rounded curves of the ass; reflective material reflecting the streetlights. Dick molested Jason’s form with his eyes—head down in the dirt, ass up like a bitch waiting to be bred—his tongue drying up, turning into a stiff, leaden weight in his mouth.
“Bare yourself.”
He didn’t release Jason’s hair; didn’t move out of the way. He stared mesmerized as Jason shimmied his hands to his waist and blindly worked the buckles.
It wasn’t hurried, wasn’t torturously slow, but it’d tried Dick’s patience before it was finally done, the waistband rolled down, and the round mounds of Jason’s unmarked ass and bruised thighs were laid bare.
Before Jason could finish, a mini bottle of lubricant was tossed next to him.
“Prepare yourself for me.”
Jason took off his gloves, took the bottle, blindly clicked it open, and squeezed the clear lube into his palm. He reached between his thighs, wrist shoving his balls out of the way to run a finger up the taint and into the pucker between the swells of the buttocks. The glistening tips of his fingers probed the mouth of the entrance, and then the tips were gone, swallowed by the hole, the wrinkled rim of the pucker clenching and spasming around the digits.
Dick salivated; it was impossible to swallow all of his spit, and he drooled like a starving animal. He stayed very still as Jason began pumping his fingers into his hole, sticking them all the way to the knuckles. Whenever they were pulled out most of the way, the digits were slick with the lubricants, singing an obscene melody with their squelches.
Jason had barely done what Dick had asked him when Dick took his wrist, swatted it away, and leaned over him.
Dick layered his torso over Jason, a hand on the small of his back, the other in his hair, tightening and dragging Jason’s head backward, his cock swollen and throbbing between the mounds of Jason’s ass. Dick stopped, panting and growling in Jason’s ear.
“Tell me you want this.” The breathing was deep and throaty, vibrating out of the deep cavern of his chest. It was a useless thing to command, but it’d feel too easy otherwise—too much like cheating. Too much like a violation.
“I want this,” Jason answered, soft and distant.
Dick let out the gates that had pent up all his emotions.
He held his breath when he lined himself up; breathed out slowly as he pushed in through the softened, prepared pucker. The pressure around him nearly made him explode, and he let out a grunt that was more of a moan.
He shoved forward, only heightened by the heavy breathing in his ears, until he was fully sheathed inside that pulsing warmth around him.
Dick looked down at where he connected with Jason. One look at the tight cinch of the rim, the clenching muscles contracting around him, made him bite his lip and groan; he imagined his cock all the way inside Jason, the length of it spearing into his belly, lancing into the deepest parts of him, and Dick had to tear his eyes away to steady his rapid heartbeat.
Dick moved, and Jason endured as they collided in forceful smacks, Dick spearing him clean through with each thrust.
“Move with me, Jason.”
Jason obeyed, righted his hips, shoving backward to meet Dick halfway.
That tiny sway of his hips; the little gasps, the whispers of moans, hisses, cries… all seeping into Dick’s cracks, dragging across his brain, firing up every nerve from the base of his skull to the rest of his body.
“Tell me you love this,” Dick begged, eyes half-open and lips sensually parted, hips thrusting all on their own.
“I love this.”
“Say you want me to come inside you.”
Jason moaned and shivered. For a moment, he stirred as if he was coming out of it, beginning to identify the scenario and come up from subspace, to fire through the delicate illusion Dick had built.
But he relaxed again, and soft, breathy words came out: “I want you to come inside me.”
Dick pressed his lips together—his chin wet with spit—and moaned. His balls, tightened and throbbing between his legs, gave a few rhythmic spasms, and the gates of pressure deep inside his loins snapped.
He filled Jason up with his release—thick ropes of cum spilling and oozing deep inside and ballooning his midsection. Dick relished the feeling of control, of marking someone who’d been denied him for so long. The sheer mental ecstasy of the act nearly brought him over the edge a second time.
Post-orgasm, the relaxation hormones spreading through him fought against a fresh wave of clarity.
He stepped away, his dick flopping out of his brother’s hole, suddenly dumb and stiff and had no fucking idea about what to do.
Jason stirred on the ground. Quietly and without orders, without urging, he got up.
Dick didn’t see Jason’s face or eyes when his brother calmly put himself together—pants, garters, helmet.
But when he looked back at Dick through that featureless helmet, his posture serene, Dick knew he was already back into himself, having adeptly lifted himself out of subspace like it was no big deal, like what had happened hadn’t been a spur of the moment; hadn’t been Dick’s moment of weakness but all a calculated encounter from the beginning.
Dick had never felt so stupid as when Jason said, “See you next time, pretty boy.”
At that moment, Dick didn’t know who between them was really being played; who had really used whom.
When Jason ran from him with long, fast strides, arms bent and swinging powerfully, legs pitching forward, he also knew that this would just be one more cause for guilt between them, another layer of mistrust, animosity, and misplaced lust.