“I once told you if you ever left, it would be your choice, not mine.”
Bruce drags him by the shattered remains of his hood from the edge of the roof to the center. Once there, he casts Jason to the ground face-first, almost as if he just wanted to show off that he could.
His domineering aura is oppressive, worse than anything Jason's ever felt from him. It makes his instincts go crazy, telling him to stay quiet and stay down. Not like he can do much talking anyway. His jaw is swollen half-shut, and there's a steady stream of blood dripping out from between his lips. Artemis's kiss still feels like fire on them. A good fire, not the burning one that Bruce has pounded into every other inch of his body.
Jason tries to push himself up on his elbows, but a strong hand grabs the back of his helmet and forces his nose to the concrete.
“Stay down,” Bruce warns.
No. Not Bruce. This is Batman through and through. And Jason is no longer his son, but another common criminal, one who needs to be dealt with.
When Jason doesn't try to get up again, Batman's hands find his belt. Jason's head is spinning, his ears are ringing, and everything seems a million miles away, so it takes him a while to realize Batman is yanking his pants down. By the time he shoots a hand down to try and yank them back up, it's too late. Batman slaps his wrist away so hard Jason feels the bone bruise.
“No,” he wants to say. “Not here. Not in front of everyone.”
But he knows what Batman will say. That he started it by shooting Penguin on live TV. That it's his fault there are dozens of police cars at the base of the building, and a GCPD helicopter shining its spotlight on them right now.
He wishes one of those cops in the police chopper would draw the line and help him, stop what's about to happen, but he knows that's not how it works. Sex-as-dominance is as commonplace for an alpha as crime is in Gotham City. And Batman, the city's favorite alpha, has put his villains in their “place” that way more than once.
Never Jason, though. Never anyone from the family, not like this.
Then again, Jason is the family's token omega. Or, was. He's pretty sure he can't count himself as part of the family any more.
“...If you ever left,” Batman's voice rings in his head, “it would be your choice, not mine.”
So he supposes this punishment is “his choice,” too.
He'd laugh if he weren't so damn afraid.
He can smell Batman now, a potent and sickly musk that isn't at all what he'd expect during normal sex with an alpha. This isn't sex for pleasure, though; this is a lesson. In any other situation, Jason's instincts might prep him for sex by arousing him, getting him wet with the help of those vestigial mechanisms that still somehow exist in biological males.
Instead, this scent, intimidating and thick, tells him to keep still and submit. Don't fight a losing battle with an aroused and angry alpha.
His hand trembles as he reaches back, pressing against Batman's hip. It does absolutely fuckall to stop him. Batman, cock already out, overpowers him easily, lining himself up with Jason's asshole.
Despite himself, he sobs. He wants to blame it on biological fear, on a defense mechanism meant to show submission and evoke feelings of mercy, but he knows that isn't the case. He's never been that kind of omega. No, this is hurt, this is betrayal, this is an ugly set of emotions stemming from the knowledge that Batman has only ever used this form of intimidation against his most horrendous foes.
“Please,” he says, the word nearly lost amid the swirling wind that the helicopter has surrounded them with. “Please don't. Bruce—”
But this still isn't Bruce. Batman slams into him as far as his tight, dry passage will allow. Jason yelps, flailing out to grab at the concrete so he can try to drag himself forward. Batman just pins down his wrist and his hips and starts to move.
Jason feels something tear inside of him. His slick production won't start up until later, a last-ditch effort by his body to keep from getting too damaged. Right now, he's on his own, with only blood to pave the way. Under the swirling cacophony of police bullhorns and deafening helicopter blades, he lets himself yowl like a pained cat.
(This is how cats have sex, he thinks to himself. The male actually has barbs on his penis that hurt the female when he mounts her. That's why he bites the scruff of her neck to keep her in place, much like how Batman bites his neck now. Jason remembers mating season in Crime Alley because of the cats especially, and how they'd screech and hiss and howl. How the females, driven by biology, would still slink around and present themselves to the males anyway, even knowing what was coming. Little more than slaves to their heat cycles.)
By the time Jason finally feels himself slick up, his throat is raw from screaming. The extra lubrication does little to ease the sting or heal the damage that's already been done. Batman's cock isn't barbed, but it might as well be, from how much it hurts every time he stabs it inside. It's clear he's using it as as much of a weapon as a batarang or his fists, and something about that makes it hurt Jason even more.
“Red Hood has been subdued,” he hears somewhere far above him, a tinny thing coming through a megaphone or a speaker. “Repeat, Red Hood has been subdued by the Batman.”
He imagines a news feed showing this live, Batman's body cloaked over his like some sort of obscene shadow. Thinks about dispassionate newscasters nodding in relief that he's been stopped, reassuring citizens that they can all rest safely tonight. Batman saved the day again. What a hero. Praise be to him for taking down that dangerous Red Hood, who shot their beloved Cobblepot.
Batman speeds up inside him, and Jason hears him growl. It's that feral cat growl, the one that says stay down, don't run, I'm about to finish. Jason thinks about trying to rear up and shake him off, but what good would that do? What good would any resistance do? His friends are gone. His biological family has been torn apart, and his found family doesn't want him any more. If Batman wants to hurt him, he can try. But nothing physical, no pinch of teeth or swelling knot or rush of cum against his torn-open insides, can ever hurt as much as what Bruce had told him before.
“Your decision. Not mine.”