Work Text:
The signs are subtle. The sounds of carbon-fiber on carbon-fiber. Servos hitting high power to draw back the elbow. Jason 'Red Hood' Todd pushes off with one foot, anchoring the other to spin him mid-air, knife and gun drawn. Red fletching skims his helmet. The 9mm Glock barks his supersonic reply.
That damn arm is some kind of prescient, orichalcum shell deflecting both bullets with a snappy motion. "You'll have to do better than that, Todd." Roy 'Arsenal' Harper is a cocky son-of-a-bitch, sauntering out from behind his hiding place — a convenient Gotham Alley — all sloppy, red hair and overconfident smirk.
The two face off. Arsenal's arm and bodysuit come from Brigid. Filled to the brim with tricks and defenses. But Jason's own armor and blade bears her maker's mark. He lunges, bypassing normal human acceleration to jab with the knife. Roy grabs the blade, trying to shift around Jason's guard. The crime lord just shoots him twice in the chest, staggering the slightly older hero (at least, by last count, their times being dead or in stasis or a clone muddy the waters) anti-hero. Roy grunts — he opted for a light model of armor — drops his bow, grasping Todd's knife-wrist with his biological hand, freeing the cybernetic to pound on the faceplate of the iconic, red helmet over Hood's helmet.
Jason grunts at the brutal impact. Roy was built and the arm could punch with more power than his own armor's augments. So he twists, turning the grip on his wrist into a fulcrum, throwing Arsenal to the pavement. The 9mm flashes again, two bullets hammering Arsenal's chest, knocking the wind out of him before the gun points at the unprotected face.
"Jesus Fletching Christ, Jay." Roy barely manages to cough out around the pain in his chest. "Did you pack the 150 tungstens?"
"And a head-round of 155 anti-ceramic."
Roy flops his head against the concrete, groaning. "Saints. If you didn't wanna see me, you could have just said so."
"Get up. We both know you can take more than four rounds, slacker." Red Hood offers a hand anyways, pulling his friend off the pavement. "Coffee?"
"As long as it's not," Roy stops himself short, not quite mentioning the forbidden family. "Sorry."
"'s fine." Jason shrugs it off pulling his safehouse keys from his jacket pockets. Say what you will about Brigid's designs, the girl did not know how to incorporate storage. Together, they walk down the alley and Jason feels some of the tension bleed out. Having someone competent to watch your back does that. Not that Jason trusted anyone else, right now.
He unlocks the door. They crowd into the entry way. The latch clicks. The lock slides home. Then the pair explodes into motion. Roy gets the first blow in, ripping free Jason's helmet and somehow yanking the gun free of it's holster. They grapple, rolling further into the apartment. Clothing, armor, and gear spills as they use every bit of their impressive physicalities to try and strip the other naked.
The gun is their focal point, trading hands, clacking as the magazine is dropped, rammed home, the slide is worked, and the custom ammo spills across the floor. Finally, down to skin, they separate, Jason sending Roy tumbling into the living room. He stands, gun in hand and advances on the older (maybe) redhead.
Arranged like a piece of fine art Harper offers no resistance beyond a cocky smirk. Jason stalks forwards, straddling his partner and tapping the cold steel of the barrel against Roy's forehead. The smirk stays affixed. His cock rubs against the valley of Jason's ass. "Hold still," Hood hisses rubbing up and down against that glorious meat. They both moan.
"Well?" The fucking original flavor still smirks. Jason rises. And sinks. He inhales, but the play is successful. Roy's eyes roll back and the stupid smugness is extinguished for pleasure.
"That's right. You like that, Sparrow?" Jason has to bite back a gasp, as Roy wiggles his hips a little.
"Fuck, how are you so damn tight?" Hands gripped hips. Cold metal on the right, warm flesh on the left. The gun slides down, rounded muzzle pressing into lips.
"Suck me like you mean it." Jason rides, loving the sensation of his boyfriend inside him. Roy, smirk returning, opens his mouth. Black metal slides against pink flesh. Mouth enveloping the pistol's slide.
"Fuuuck. You fit so good inside me. I fit so good inside you." The gun is dragged from the mouth, the sights briefly clacking against the back of Roy's teeth. It glides, trailing saliva, until it presses on the Adam's apple, the bump a target.
Roy doesn't respond, hips just working, plunging in and out of Jason. The crime lord groans, loving the motion. "A twitch of my finger. A twitch of my finger and I blow out your brain stem. You feeling lucky, Sparrow?"
The antihero just smirks, letting his metal hand wander up, smooth fingers tracing the defined muscles of Jason's pecs. How could they be so delicate?
The gun slips. Pleasure dances in Jason's core. He readjusts it to press on Roy's sternum, a bracing point to increase his speed atop Roy.
There's a dragged out moment. Roy goes rigid, bucking up into Jason. The brutal penetration cracks the egg of pressure inside Jason, pleasure (and cum) spilling out. Both men collapse to the hardwood floor, exhausted from their impromptu but incredibly powerful romp.
"You're out of bullets."
Jason can hear Roy's smirk. Maybe it needed fucked out of him. They'd have to try again.