Archive of Our Own ^beta

It only happens because he's grown complacent, Jason tells himself.

New players come in and out of Gotham all the time, but none of them ever stick; at least, no one has since Red Hood stepped into the game. This city is his and had been taken away from him, but Crime Alley welcomed him right back into her arms, claiming him for herself. So did her inhabitants, ever since he'd taken the weak and the victimized under his protection.

Even then, it'd only been because Jason had the drive to make it happen. The skills, and the resources, and the smarts to go toe to toe with the Bat, as well as the foresight to ensure the playing field stayed so uneven no one else would ever want to.

It isn't ego to say only he could have done it, because frankly, Jason is just that good.

He'd been trained by Batman and the League of Assassins, by countless teachers who'd tried to break him only for him to kill them first. Jason's spent years honing himself, brutalizing himself in order to make sure no one else could do it to him, for the single purpose of changing this city.

Which is why nothing can explain how easily this guy had gotten the jump on him.

He calls himself The Arkham Knight.

Jason doesn't even know where to begin with that. The mere name fills him with a rage he hasn't felt in years, at least not since… Bruce. Not since he'd formed the Outlaws, returned to the Bats as the prodigal son. He'd started out with nothing, but somehow Jason had managed to find his people—those who considered him their person, even when he hadn't done anything to deserve it.

What would they say if they could see him now?

He lands hard on his back, helmet cracking against the concrete, and immediately the left eye goes dead. Shit, he's lucky he hadn't snapped his neck.

As it is, Jason finds that he can't move.

Not from any injury but because of the steel boot threatening to crush his throat.

The Knight tilts his own helmet down at him, managing to look menacing with such a slight movement. He isn't saying anything, which tells Jason quite a lot, actually: this guy isn't your two-bit criminal playing at being one of Gotham's rogues, and he isn't some megalomaniac looking to give his grand spiel.

He's a predator. He'd been hunting Jason down for weeks, maybe even months, presumably biding his time for just this—to get the Red Hood completely at his mercy.

This, whatever this is, it's personal.

The helmet's display flickers once more. He's screwed, but more importantly he's blind. Jason thrashes under The Knight's heel, grabbing at his ankle, but it doesn't budge. Jason kicks upwards, but connects with nothing.

Just before he runs out of air, the boot draws back—Jason, quick as a knife, rolls over on the ground and gets into a crouch in an instant.

The Arkham Knight lets him do it.

Jason fumbles with the catch of his helmet, thoroughly busted, useless. He hurls it at The Knight, who dodges easily.

They're only a few yards apart, now.

"You're not what I thought you'd be," The Knight finally says.

The static screeches in the silence; looks like The Knight’s tech has seen better days too.

"Yeah? How's that?" Jason says, even as he wavers on his feet. His right side feels like one big, throbbing bruise. But, like a split lip that he can't stop tonguing, he can't help the urge to needle some more. "What do they say about me on the streets, big guy?"

"You weren't supposed to be weak."

And fuck if that doesn't grate on his nerves a little.

Jason bares his teeth in a snarl, but a single blow sends him to his knees. He's dizzy with blood loss, maybe has a couple of broken ribs. Bottom line, not good.

Then there's a gun pointed in between his eyes and dizziness is the least of his problems.

"If you were gonna shoot me, you'd have done it already," he drawls, clinging onto bravado as much as he is onto consciousness. Jason raises his eyebrows, smirks. "Come on, enough of the dramatics—"

A vicious backhand cuts the inside of his cheek. Jason gags on the blood that floods his mouth, spits it out—and inhales sharply when the gun is shoved forcefully between his lips.

Despite himself, despite his training, Jason’s mind goes blank.

He’s better than this. He should be better than this.

Jason hears the click of the safety turning off.

"Bang," The Arkham Knight says, and then he pulls the trigger.

Pain explodes through Jason’s head, shock reverberating through his skull.

It hurts, it hurts, but Jason's not dead.

He's not dead.

It’s a fucking blank.

A blank, and the force of it could still have killed him, Jason thinks, hysterically. But The Knight's grip on the gun had been so steady that the shot of air only makes him choke.

Jason doesn't move, can’t move, not when the gun is pulled out of his mouth, not when he's shoved onto his back. His body is in shock, he thinks. He's frozen, paralyzed.

He's helpless.

"What are you…"

The Knight follows him down, knees him in the stomach. A gloved hand clamps down over Jason’s face, smothering his breaths, and Jason can't focus on that when there's a heavy weight pinning him down by the hips and another hand tearing at his pants.

He shouts.

The reality of the situation sets in, just as he feels a knife dig into the fleshy part of his hip and down his thigh.

It's not the pain that gets to him, but the rush of slick hot blood that soaks his pants, through his underwear, now torn at the seams.

"Get the fuck off me!"

Jason scrambles at the arm over his face, bucking his hips upwards and into the knife to scrabble for purchase, and it works.

He swings blindly, fist clipping The Knight's helmet; it splits his knuckles but he doesn't fucking care.

Those eerie, glowing eyes flicker, and a voice crackles from the speaker:

"Jaybird—"

Jason jerks against the ground, his blood going cold.

It can't be.

"—Jaybird, we're gonna get you out of there," comes Roy's voice again, urgent and furious, distorted by the speaker. It only gets louder when The Knight leans further in. "Don't you fucking touch him, you son of a bitch, I'll kill you—"

For a moment, he'd thought The Arkham Knight was…

"We're coming for you, Jay," Roy promises, and the fizzle of the speaker cuts off anything he has to say afterwards.

This is so much worse.

Somehow, Jason can feel his gaze dragging down his body, fixating on his hips before using the knife to slice through the rest of his tac pants. The Knight cuts them right off him, holding Jason down like it's nothing.

It doesn't—it doesn't make any sense.

Jason is bigger than him, should be stronger than him. But in this moment The Knight has complete control.

Like Jason is nothing.

"Get the fuck off me," he repeats, hoarsely, and for a second he thinks The Knight just might listen.

But all he does is lean back to unbuckle his own belt.

Jason watches in sick horror as he shoves his pants down to reveal his hardening cock.

The Arkham Knight strokes himself, almost harshly, perfunctory. His shoulders are tense, like he's the one in pain.

And afraid, Jason whispers, "I'll kill you."

"You couldn't even if you tried."

When The Arkham Knight reaches up to undo the catch of his helmet, Jason tells himself to run, somehow.

But he can't.

Not when the mask comes off and he sees that fucking face.

The fury in it.

In his own face, staring right back at him.

"I'm not going to kill you," The Arkham Knight—promises. "Because after we're through, none of them will ever want you. And you're going to wish you were dead."

It's like the air's punched out of him when The Knight wraps his hand around his cock.

It hurts. The grip is too tight, the glove rough and gritty against sensitive skin, but worse than that—Jason feels a fucked up rush of arousal pooling in his groin, making his dick twitch, and—

"You like this," his own face tells him, twisted in disgust.

There's a letter branded on his cheek, a gruesome, ragged scar; Jason tamps down on his revulsion and the urge to throw up because he knows exactly who put it there.

He looks away, finds The Knight's helmet lying discarded a few feet away. The blank eyes reflect a perfect view of Jason's shame, but it’s still better than looking at him.

The Arkham Knight…

Jason can't ever call him by his name, because that would mean admitting that this is him—that this is who he actually is, and that he has it in himself to rape someone.

The Knight jerks him off faster, and Jason cries out, eyes prickling.

"Is this how you got him to love you?"

Jason is lightheaded and the words aren't making sense anymore. They slip through his mind like water, no matter how hard Jason tries to cling to them.

He grasps at the physical sensations like a lifeline instead. Jason is gripping at his shoulders, trying to shove him away, but The Knight just looks down at him, clear eyes burning with rage.

The Arkham Knight's eyes are blue, just like Jason’s were before he came back. He's younger than Jason but tougher, meaner, somehow more weathered. Like he's been broken but only came back stronger.

He's cruel in ways Jason never thought he could be.

"You—" When he speaks, The Knight's voice is ragged.

He lets go of Jason's cock almost dully, letting it fall flush against his belly.

And then he swallows, looking for the briefest moment—stricken.

A tear falls onto Jason's face.

"Is this how Bruce fucked you?" he breathes.

Jason's heart stops beating.

"Don't," he chokes out when his legs are jerked apart, the backs of his thighs skidding on the harsh concrete, making his skin burn. "Stop. You don't need to do this. I never… Bruce and I never—"

The Knight slaps his face hard enough to make his ears ring. There's a hand groping between his legs, between his cheeks, rubbing at his hole; it's slippery, and wet, and hot with his blood.

Jason gasps in bright, searing pain when he shoves two fingers in, biting down on his bottom lip to muffle his cry. It hurts and he's given no time to adjust, but when The Knight starts rubbing insistently inside him, he sobs at the pleasure.

God, he's sick.

The both of them are.

Jason feels like a slab of meat, limbs heavy and useless, as The Knight hikes up his leg so he can fuck him even harder with his fingers. He shakes with fear and his own anger, and above him, The Arkham Knight is crying.

His tears drip onto Jason’s face when he leans down and presses a chaste kiss to Jason’s lips. His eyes are bright, lashes wet and heavy, and for a split second, there's something like clarity there.

And then it's gone.

"Why you?" He shoves another finger in, and Jason feels something tear. "Why do they love you, when no one ever cared about me!"

"Please," Jason begs.

The Knight doesn’t listen.

He doesn't prep Jason so much as ease the way in for himself, and it’s not nearly enough. When he finally puts his cock to Jason's hole and presses in—

One brutal thrust is all that has Jason sobbing, and then another, and then The Knight is rutting into him.

He fists a hand in Jason's hair and pulls his head back, exposing the line of his throat. Then he jerks him to the side, so that Jason is staring straight at the helmet.

They're watching him.

They have to be.

They're out there right now, they're racing to save him, they're watching as he fucks into the hand fisted around his cock.

When The Arkham Knight thrusts in just right, it gets to be too much, too good—and Jason's mouth parts in a moan for all of them to see.

He comes just like that, split open on his own cock.