#was hoping to edit and throw this on to ao3 too but uhhhhhh that's going to have to wait

[setsailslash]

Hi! Congratulations. For the prompt-A-Thon, how about BruJay with possessive Bruce? Jason totally doesn't push Bruce's buttons or try to make him lose control. Please 🤤🤤

i reaaaally hope i hit the possessive bruce bit in this prompt given i got derailed for a bit 😂 a reverse robin au fill, also for @brujayweek​ day 7 prompt: age difference.

warnings for non-consensual groping (not between bruce and jason), implied child abuse, underage

When Jason comes to Bruce with his design for a new Robin suit, Bruce tells him: "Absolutely not."

"We catch bad guys, don't we?" Jason asks, shoving the sketch back under Bruce's nose, forcing him to look again, and its implications are just as awful on the second pass.

"Not like this, Jay."

"I want to catch the worst ones." Jason is unlike Tim. For one, Jason isn't dead. For two, Jason takes to being Robin with enthusiasm instead of obligation like Damian or a natural aptitude like Tim. "You could either make it fire-repellent or bulletproof or whatever else your Bat-Tech can make it, or I'll wear my own."

"Your own?"

Jason pulls out a skimpy scrap of bright green fabric that shimmers from the pocket of his hoodie, and tells Bruce. "My own."

 -

A long, low whistle. A leer above a lit cigarette.

It is all the makings of terrible things.

"Playing dress up so late at night?" The man calls out to him, echoing off of the walls making up the dead end. He is ten feet away.

Robin doesn't say anything, standing straight from where he was bent over a petty thief knocked out and out cold on the ground, pulling the zip tie around his wrists tight behind his back.

"Kid like you, dressed like that, really shouldn't be out on these streets. Nothin' good ever happens this late at night." The man says to him, steadily closing the distance between them. Seven feet now. "I'm a nice guy, ya see. But you won’t always get so lucky. There're lots of bad men out here." And it seems like he quite likes the sound of his own voice too when he just keeps going. "I mean, unless you're looking for trouble, 'cause if you're then you're in just the right place, lil'bird."

Six feet.

"Trouble has a habit of finding me." Robin tells him, wondering if the man gets it at all. That the thief slumped on the ground didn't get there himself. Four feet.

"Seems like with or without you wanting it, eh, kid?" 

It is every last taste of the unsavoury injected into those words. That some men will take and take and take. And you can scream yourself hoarse when they hold you down but no one comes to save you, not now, not ever. So why even bother?

"Kid like me, right?" Robin echoes, looking up at the man that has put him into a corner. Two feet.

"Yeah." The man drops the butt of his cigarette, grinding it against the wet asphalt before reaching out with a nicotine-stained hand to curl it around Robin's jaw. He tips his chin up, the dim light from the street lamp from the mouth of the alleyway coats everything in a sick oily glow.

The thief at their feet does not stir, not even when the man's other hand reaches down, dragging over the skin on the outside of Robin's thigh before his hand goes up, his fingertips digging in and grabbing Robin’s ass hard.

A chuckle, low and deeply amused when he earns a quiet little gasp from between Robin's mouth.

"Well, baby, aren't you just asking for it?"

 -

When Robin steps on the man's hand and breaks every joint on every last finger, the man screams. Long and loud and almost unbearable.

Robin relishes in the sound even as he spits out, and it is scathing: "It's going to be a long fucking while before you'll even be able to touch yourself."

If asked to describe Robin in one word, Jason's answer is this: Robin is bait. So no one else has to be the blood in the water to be swallowed whole.

When Batman shows up with red and blue flashing a symphony behind him, he doesn't reprimand Robin even as he lays eyes on the state of the man. Instead they stand aside as Gotham's finest lead the men away, one finally coming to while the other now beginning to lose consciousness.

"Told you it works." Robin is rocking back and forth on the heels of his green pixie boots, hands clad in matching green gloves clasping loosely behind his back. He tips his head up to Batman with a grin that is all teeth when he can clearly see all the displeasure in the tense line of the man's clenched jaw. "Even if you don't want to believe me, I'm okay with this, really."

There are no bruises in the shape of anyone's hands across his body. That is his own doing. Robin’s mouth doesn't let up from its grin, not even when he presses himself up against Batman's side.

"B, would it kill you to say good job though?"

 -

There are only so many hours of the night left when they come back from patrol.

Jason doesn't head to the shower, he doesn't go upstairs either. Instead, he hops up on to the desk just as Bruce sits down at the computer. Jason doesn’t break the silence, not this time.

He swings his legs from his perch, working through the plate of cucumber sandwiches Alfred had left for them before he retired for the night. Jason has polished off three-fourth of the plate before Bruce says, finally, drawing his hands back from the keyboard when he no longer has the excuse of the nightly patrol report to fall on.

"You did good.”

“Pulling teeth would’ve hurt you less, isn’t that right, Bruce?” Jason asks around a mouthful of bread, sprays a bit of crumbs on Bruce too when he does if just because he can.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

"It's Saturday tomorrow, B. No school."

Bruce falls silent. Jason doesn’t reprimand him. Instead, Jason looks beyond Bruce to the row of Robin uniforms along the far wall of the cave. To Damian Wayne who has left Gotham for the League.

"The first Robin was your real son."

To Tim Drake who is dead and buried and mourned.

"They were both my sons."

Jason knows exactly every way where he doesn’t measure up, where he doesn’t even come close to either one of them. He is Robin in name only, and he has made his peace with that.

He swings his legs still, tip of a pixie boot bumping against the chair’s armrest. There is no reading between the lines for this. He drags his eyes back from all the Robins to have flown this nest to tell Bruce in probably what is the only way to spur him into action.

"I don't want to be your son, B."

-

It is the yellow cape that falls to Jason’s bruised knees.

It is the red tunic that hikes up when he reaches out to him.

It is the tiny pair of green scaly shorts that show off so much bare skin.

Except, it isn’t just any of those things when Bruce gives up all pretenses and kisses Jason breathless. Bruce is the fox in the hen house, the snake with poison in its fangs, the man in love, and maybe that’s the worst of them yet.

Bruce Wayne is a man that doesn’t lost control, this comes as close it gets.

It starts chaste with Bruce going slow and Jason eager to part his lips wide enough to welcome the slide of Bruce’s tongue. Bruce licks into his open mouth, dragging just the softest hint of teeth over the tip of Jason’s tongue when Jason tries to imitate what he is doing for him.

The first thing Jason lets out when he gets enough air in his lungs again is on a burst of delight: “Finally.”

Jason says it with a smile. It is a small damning thing when he directs it at Bruce, and just him.