Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

 "What? Got nothing to say anymore, Robin?" Jason sneered, the only thing keeping him from draining Tim being the fury that burned inside of him, a wildfire that demanded more destruction.

He wanted to shatter more than just bones; he wanted to crush the spirit that kept Tim defiant even in the face of pain.

Jason straddled Tim, his weight pinning the younger boy to the cold, unforgiving ground, causing him to groan. He took a moment to admire his handiwork—the deep bruise blooming across Tim's right cheek, the broken arm, the leg twisted at an unnatural angle, the ribs that shifted dangerously with every shallow breath.

But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

"Fuck… you." It was barely a whisper, but the venom in it was sharp. Tim spat onto Jason’s helmet, the saliva smearing across the glowing red lens of his helmet. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that single act of rebellion, to the way Tim’s cracked lips curled in triumph even as his body gave out beneath him.

It made Jason’s smirk widen despite himself.

Yeah, the boy had the Robin spirit for sure, just like he had: that same stubborn resilience, that same fire in the eyes even when the body was broken. But Bruce didn’t learn, did he? No, he saw a shinier toy, a newer model, and decided Jason had meant nothing, had been nothing for him. Just another replaceable cog in the Bat’s machine, tossed aside the moment something brighter came along.

Bitterness and rage coiled tight in Jason's chest as he wiped the spit away with the back of his hand, his sneer deepening. He would show them exactly what happened when they put another child in this suit.

"Bad idea," he growled, and in one swift motion, he tightened his grip on Tim’s throat and slammed the boy’s head against the ground.

The dull thud echoed in the empty space, and Tim’s eyes rolled back, a faint whimper escaping his lips: small, fragile, everything Jason had once been. Jason expected him to bleed. He planned for it. It would be harder for him to control himself, but what would be the point of doing all of this without leaving Tim bleeding for Bruce to find?

What he didn't expect was that the best thing he had ever smelled would hit him like a crowbar blow to the chest. It flooded his senses, rich and metallic, but sweet, the sweetest he had ever felt. Wrapping around him, the aroma of Tim's blood pulled at the frayed edges of his already fragile control, threatening to unravel him completely. His jaw clenched, his hands moving to Tim's shoulders as a low, guttural growl rumbled in his chest when the scent hit him like a freight train.

Jason's head swam, his vision narrowing to the pulse fluttering just beneath the skin of Tim’s neck. His fangs ached, his gums throbbing as they pressed against the inside of his mouth. He couldn't stop his breathing from quickening, each inhale pulling more of that intoxicating scent into his lungs.

Mine-mine-mine.

The word pounded in his skull like a drumbeat, muffling every other thought. His hands shook, claws retracting and unsheathing in a desperate attempt to regain control. He knew he shouldn’t. This wasn’t part of the plan. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Tim wasn’t some back-alley dealer, he was Robin. His replacement. He should only make Tim bleed, but never drink from him because he knew what would happen.

He wouldn't stop.

And as far as he had gone, he didn't want another Robin dead. Not again. Not by his hands. But the hunger… the fucking hunger, that fucking need, was overwhelming, a tidal wave crashing over him, threatening to pull him under.

“Fuck no!” Jason growled through gritted teeth, but then he inhaled deeply, and the scent of Tim’s blood seeped into his lungs, his very soul.

His mouth watered, his fangs fully extended now. He clenched his jaw so hard his fangs pierced his own tongue, the sharp burst of copper only making the hunger worse. He wanted to laugh, to scream, to crack the kid’s ribs open, to make him see what Bruce had turned them both into.

But he couldn’t move. His body felt like it was being torn in two—one half screaming to feed, the other clawing at the edges of his humanity, begging him to stop.

MINE-MINE-MINE

Jason’s hands shook as he tore off his helmet, the clatter of it hitting the ground drowned out by the roar of blood in his ears. He panted, each breath scraping his throat raw, his vision tunneling until all that remained was the fragile dance of Tim’s carotid artery beneath paper-thin skin. The scent of his blood was thick enough to choke on and tears filled his eyes as he threw his head back, staring at the ceiling.

He was gonna do this, wasn't he?

It wasn't a choice. It had never been. From the second he’d decided vengeance would be his last meal before putting a bullet in his own rotting brain, this had been the only possible end. The hunger would always win because Jason Peter Todd had always been too weak to fight it.

The tremors in his hands worsened as he crouched over Tim’s broken form and cradled the boy’s jaw, gently turning the boy’s head to expose the pale column of his throat. Tim’s breath hitched, his broken body going rigid as he realized what was happening.

“No, no, no!” His voice cracked, panic sharpening the edges of his words. He thrashed weakly, his mangled limbs offering little resistance but still trying to push Jason away. “Don’t— don’t you fucking dare!”

Jason’s chest tightened, a flicker of something—guilt, regret, humanity—cutting through the haze of hunger. He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. But the blood… it was there, so close, and he had been starving, had been freezing for so long. And once again, Jason felt like a scared, stupid little kid who didn't want to die. Not again. Not a third time.

His fangs ached, the urge to bite almost unbearable. He swallowed hard, his voice low and rough as he whispered, “Shh.”

Tim pleaded. “Hood, don't—”

His grip on Tim’s shoulder tightened, claws digging in just enough to draw a pained gasp. But he didn’t strike. Didn’t tear into him like he wanted to. His breath came in shallow, ragged bursts as he fought to keep control, his mind screaming at him to stop, to think, but the hunger was louder.

It always was.

Tim’s good hand flailed weakly, smacking against Jason’s arm, but it was like a child’s touch. He was too broken to fight back, and Jason hated himself for it. A low growl rumbled in his chest as he bent down, lips brushing against the warmth of Tim’s neck. The scent was intoxicating, a drug sweeter than vengeance, richer than fear, something right. His fangs grazed the skin, and Tim stiffened.

For a moment, hesitation flickered. This is wrong, this is too far. But the hunger roared louder, drowning the thought out before it could fully take hold.

Then, his fangs pierced flesh.

It wasn't enough.

Nothing was fucking enough.

Jason's fist collided with the ground beside the criminal's head, the impact leaving a jagged crack in the pavement. The man flinched, shrinking into himself as if trying to disappear. He was going insane and would die soon if he continued like this.

He knew that. Knew it in the way his hands shook when he wasn’t killing, in the phantom aches where his humanity used to reside, in the coldness that spread through his body. He wasn't stupid or delusional, he had been here before, dying of hunger.

But he’d tried. Christ, he’d tried everything, clawing at solutions like he had dug through coffin dirt.

Therapy sessions abandoned halfway through. Meditation drowned in bourbon. Even those goddamned breathing exercises Alfred had taught him, now warped into hyperventilation between murders. Then he’d hunted every shade of blood after that: the electric rush of a trafficker’s terror in his tongue, the happiness of one of his girls in giving him some blood, the molten satisfaction of snapping a rapist’s spine and tearing through his jugular, the numb chill of a drug lord begging through crimson bubbles.

And yet, here he was, still empty.

Still ravenous.

Still cold.

The rhythm of his violence was unsustainable. If he kept this up, this damned city would run out of criminals before his hunger showed even the slightest sign of fading. The thought clawed a wet laugh from his throat, half sob, half snarl. What then? Would he turn on the addicts huddled in alleyways? The shoplifters? The jaywalkers? The girls? What line would he not cross when the ache became too much?

What would Bruce think of me now?

The ghost of his dad's disapproval tightened around his ribs like barbed wire.

"Please," the criminal beneath him begged, his remaining eye, the other swollen shut, rolled wildly, reflecting the flickering fluorescents of the warehouse as desperation twisted his features into a grotesque mask of fear. "We didn't mean to—"

"What? A bunch of grown-ass men didn't mean to attack that girl coming home from work?" Jason let out a low, dangerous growl, his grip tightening around the man's throat to silence him. His lips curled into a sneer, revealing fangs that glinted ominously. "She told me you said she was asking for it. Well, maybe you and your men were asking for me."

Jason turned the criminal's head to the side with a brutal jerk, his crimson eyes locking onto the vein pulsing erratically beneath the thin layer of skin. The man's hands clawed weakly at Jason's arm, his muffled pleas lost in the suffocating grip. But Jason wasn't listening anymore. The hunger, raw, insatiable, and all-consuming, had taken hold, drowning out reason and mercy alike.

The man’s remaining eye bulged, his legs kicking uselessly against oil-stained concrete. Jason tilted his head, studying the frantic flutter of the pulse beneath paper-thin skin. He could almost taste it already, the hot rush of fear-laced blood, the momentary illusion of fullness.

He struck like a viper.

This wasn’t the cultured sip of Gotham’s velvet-draped vampires. No, there was no etiquette, no pretense. It wasn’t gentle nor careful as a vampire would be with someone who consented to giving them their blood. No, Jason bit as a predator. His fangs tore into the man’s neck with bestial ferocity, ripping through tendons and veins. Blood hit his tongue, copper and salt and something sour, adrenaline curdling it, but he drank it, gulped it down like a man dying of thirst, only to find the water poisoned.

The criminal’s body spasmed, fingers scrabbling at Jason’s armor before going limp, the warmth of the blood doing little to quench the cold void inside him. The warehouse seemed to close in around them, the shadows deepening as Jason fed, the world narrowing to the pulse beneath his lips and the hollow ache that nothing could ever truly fill.

Jason drank until there was nothing more to drink, until the corpse beneath him resembled a deflated balloon—skin clinging to bone, eyes sunken into plum-dark sockets. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough, and he was still empty.

He ripped his fangs from the desiccated flesh, strings of gore clinging to his chin. He grit his teeth in frustration as he threw his head back, breathless and trembling. His chest heaved, his heart pounding, or what passed for a heart in his undead body.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Why did no amount of blood ever satisfy him? His green eyes scanned the warehouse. There was nothing left to destroy. No screams left to wrench from trembling throats. Just him and the yawning void in his chest, wider now than the crater of his grave. His gaze fixed on the flickering light above.

This wasn’t normal. He knew what real hunger was like, had died because of it the first time, and he still remembered his early days as a vampire. But even then, it had never been this unbearable, not even during those long, desperate nights on the streets when he’d gone days without feeding.

Back then, hunger had been a manageable ache, not this maddening need that consumed everything inside him, its icy grip always there.

Images flashed unwanted through his mind, memories of drinking from Bruce and Alfred, of being cradled in their arms as he fed, feeling safe and cared for. He remembered the warmth of their bodies, the way he’d drift off to sleep after, sated and content. Warmth. Safety. Lies.

Dick Grayson had never been part of those moments. No, he had been too busy fighting with Bruce, too busy resenting Jason for taking his place. Always angry, always resentful. The bitterness twisted Jason’s thoughts, staining the memories like ink spilled. In the end, he had the same fate as Dick. Replaced, and by a little genius human who was undoubtedly better than the stupid little vampire who’d gotten himself killed. The thought burned like acid in Jason’s mind.

He clenched his fists, his claws digging into his palms until they drew blood. The sting was nothing compared to the hunger that still clawed at him, gnawing at his insides like a beast that refused to be tamed. He would show them. He would show that he wasn't just something to be thrown aside, a toy to play with before getting rid of when he wasn't shiny anymore.

They would pay, they would bleed and cave at his feet, and beg him to come back—

"Boss?"

Jason's head snapped back, his crimson eyes locking onto the figure standing among the drained corpses. Her carotid throbbed visibly beneath her darker skin, her heart thudded in his ears, each beat a siren song that pulled at the hunger writhing inside him with the promise of warmth. He tilted his head, baring his fangs as he took a step toward her, his movements of a predator stalking prey.

The animal part of his brain chanted feed-feed-feed until—

"Boss, it's me. Gabriela."

He froze. Gabriela. His second-in-command. And Jason had just stalked her. His gaze sharpened, the haze of bloodlust lifting just enough for recognition to seep through. He straightened, forcing his fangs and claws to retract.

"I know," Jason said, more of a growl. The fledgling part of him that still remembered breathing wanted to apologize. The hunger sneered. Let her run. Let them all run. They’ll be easier to chase.

Gabriela’s dark eyes swept the warehouse, taking in the torn bodies strewn across the floor, the blood splattered against the walls like some macabre painting. Her expression didn’t change, but the tension in her shoulders betrayed her unease. Jason hated that nervousness. She shouldn't feel like that around him; she should trust him to be in charge. Yet, it was all on him. He was the one getting more out of control each day that came by, becoming a beast without a thought that wasn't blood.

She turned back to him, arms crossed, and jaw set. "It didn’t seem like you did."

A flicker of irritation cut through the guilt that threatened to rise. He couldn’t afford guilt, not now, not ever. Weakness had claws here. "What do you want, Gabriela?" It came out rougher than he intended.

"We’ve got a problem." She stepped closer, her boots crunching over broken glass and dried blood. "Some guys have been giving trouble to the girls on Ninth Street. They said you told them to call you if this happened."

The hunger roared alongside the anger, ice, and fire, a twisted symphony that tinted his vision green at the edges. No one messed with his girls. Ninth Street was his—every cracked sidewalk, every flickering streetlamp—and anyone dumb enough to touch the women scraping survival from Gotham’s underbelly was begging for a slow, painful death.

"Who?" Jason snarled, the Lazarus fire in his eyes locked onto Gabriela, demanding an answer.

She didn’t flinch, though Jason could see the tension in the way she held herself, "Some new gang that has been pushing in from the south side. They cornered Iris last night. She’s shaken up, but she’s okay. She managed to scare them off with your name, but they said they would come back tonight."

‘Scare them off.’ Jason’s lip curled. Iris was tough, had survived three overdoses and a pimp’s switchblade before her fifteenth birthday, but she shouldn’t have had to have handled that shit by herself. That was his failure. The streets were supposed to know better. To fear better. And he should’ve protected the girls, protected what little he had left.

And now these rats thought they could waltz in and take what they wanted? His territory? His people? No, no one took what was his. Not anymore.

"Come back, huh?" Jason scoffed, a devilish grin on his lips as he rested his hand on the holster of one of his guns, "Guess I'll just have to be there tonight when they show up, then." The hunger coiled behind his ribs like a living thing, all teeth and twitching muscles, feeding on the acid drip of his anger until his veins buzzed with it. He needed to kill something. He needed to tear into flesh and feel blood—

"Sure you don't want us to handle it?" Gabriela tilted her head, looking him up and down, "We can bring you some rival gutter rats to feed on, and you can finish the night."

Annoyance flared in him. They'd tried this dance before, the offerings, the careful monitoring, as if he were some feral dog to be pacified with scraps. And Jason knew they meant well, but it didn't work, anyway. It didn't matter how much blood he drank, the hunger just wouldn't stop crawling at the walls of his stomach. But of course, he wouldn't tell Gabriela that.

Always taking care of him. Her and Trevor, as if he were one of her children or his little brother and not their fucking boss. Jason hated it. It reminded him too much of everything he had lost.

Jason stepped over the corpses, “And why the hell would I finish the night when things are just getting exciting?” He asked with a tilt of his head as he passed by Gabriela in normal human speed.

She licked her lips, a nervous tic she’d never quite shaken, and fell into step beside him. “Well, you look like shit, boss. Maybe you should get some rest. It’s been days.” She didn't hesitate, the kind of no-nonsense practicality that had made her indispensable to him.

Jason chuckled, a dry, humorless sound that echoed faintly. “Straightforward as usual, Gabi.”

Gabriela smirked, the scar along her jaw—courtesy of a meth-head's broken bottle last spring—twisting with the movement. “That’s one of the many reasons you keep me around.” Her eyes glinted with a hint of pride.

She wasn't wrong. Gabriela and Trevor were the only ones he allowed to talk to him like that, and that was because he could be playing the ruthless gang leader now, but he knew that even he needed people to keep him grounded sometimes. 

Sometimes.

She quickened her pace, cutting in front of him and forcing him to stop. Jason’s jaw tightened, his green eyes narrowing as he leveled her with a glare that would’ve sent most people scrambling. But Gabriela just stood her ground.

“I’m not gonna back down, Gabriela,” Jason growled, the thing in his chest twisting at the thought of letting this go. “I’m gonna show those motherfuckers exactly what happens when they mess with the girls.”

“I know,” Gabriela said, raising her arms in surrender, “Just…" She exhaled, "Try to get some rest after that, okay? We need you at your best.”

Jason’s lips twitched, but he didn’t argue. He knew she was right, even if he’d never admit it out loud. If only Jason had actually been able to rest ever since he died, though. No, the shit ass universe had decided that he would be hungrier and more sleepless than he had ever been as a kid as some kind of twisted punishment, because being brutally beaten and suffocated to death wasn't enough apparently.

And honestly, fuck it. Jason wasn't gonna be the tragedy they wanted him to be. He had a plan, a good fucking plan, and he was gonna follow it and make sure he was remembered. For good, or bad.

"I'll try," Jason patted Gabriela's shoulder, the lie tasting like ash in his mouth, but better than the temptation of taking her blood when she was so close.

"Okay," she nodded, and he stepped around her, his boots thudding heavily against the concrete as he made his way toward the exit.

The rage burning inside him was more than enough to guide his steps towards his motorcycle. He swung a leg over the seat and put on his Red Hood helmet, the engine snarling to life beneath him. The hunger. The fury. They were one and the same now, a storm that would leave nothing but destruction in its wake.

And Jason just had to aim it at the right people.

Logically, Jason knew it was a trap.

Those fuckers said they would come back because they knew he’d rise to the bait. Predictable. Textbook. Which meant silver would stain their arsenal—bullets, blades, chains—anything to tip the scales. Again, logically, he knew that.

The thing was: Logic had left the table the moment the scent of blood hit his nose.

Jason hissed as a silver bullet grazed his arm, the burn searing through his skin. He slammed the guy he was choking to the ground, the crack of bones beneath his hands satisfying in a primal way.

Lucky shot, he thought bitterly, glaring at the bastard who’d managed to nick him after a few shots, some pockmarked idiot clutching a revolver and stumbling backward. Jason’s return shot punched through the man’s sternum before his boot hit the pavement.

"Fuck!" The bastard wheezed as he fell on the ground.

A flash of silver caught his eye, a knife, swung recklessly at him. Jason reacted on instinct, deflecting the blade with the side of his forearm before driving his foot into the attacker’s stomach. The force sent the man hurtling backward, slamming into the wall with a sickening thud.

The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood, each breath pulling him deeper into its intoxicating call. It was overwhelming, a siren’s song that drowned out all reason. Jason looked around at blurs of movement in the alleys, walking corpses with glazed eyes and trembling hands, armed with borrowed courage and lunging at him with bullets and blades.

A twisted grin opened on his lips. He moved with the precision of an experienced predator, his guns shooting through flesh and bone, leaving victims for his fangs to tear into anyone foolish enough to get too close.

Blood sprayed across his face, his chest, his hands, but it didn’t matter. He could barely feel the wounds they inflicted—silver burns, deep cuts, bruises—none of it registered as they healed. The hunger was all that existed, an icy ravenous beast that demanded to be fed.

Another knife flashed. Silver again. Jason wrenched the wielder’s arm sideways, relishing the wet pop of dislocation before burying his face in the man’s neck. He sank his fangs into the man’s jugular, draining him in seconds, then tossed the body aside like trash. Another came, stupid, so stupid, firing a Glock wildly. Jason blurred past the spray of bullets, tore the weapon free, and crushed the man’s windpipe with a twist. The blood here was thinner, bitter with nicotine, but he drank it anyway.

The hunger roared, a cold burn spreading through his veins. Every swallow sharpened it. Every kill left him emptier. He could feel it, the edges of his sanity fraying, his control slipping. Rationality dissolved, he was teeth and fury, and he couldn't, didn't even want to stop.

A silver chain whistled through the air. Jason caught it mid-swing, links branding his palm. He barely registered the burn before reeling its owner in pulling the man off balance, and driving his fangs into his jugular. The satisfaction was short, it always was, just enough to taunt him, to remind him that no matter how many throats he tore open, the hunger would never truly be sated.

A shot.

Jason's head snapped to the side when another idiot tried his luck, raising a gun with trembling hands. He didn’t bother ducking. Just tilted his skull a fraction, letting the second bullet kiss air where his temple had been before answering with a single shot of his own. The man collapsed, clawing at the scarlet geyser erupting from his throat, wet coughs echoing off graffiti-stained walls.

The sight of it snapped something inside Jason. His nostrils flared, the coppery tang filling them. His focus narrowed to the fallen man, choking and gurgling as his life spilled out onto the dirty alley floor. Jason’s fangs elongated, his vision sharpening as the hunger roared louder, drowning out the chaos around him.

The world slowed, sounds muffled, colors muted, as if everything but the blood had ceased to exist. Even the silver chain still embedded in his forearm seemed to scream louder now, its poison mingling with the frenzy pounding behind his ribs.

He lunged, faster than any vampire, ignoring the sting of silver still burning in his arm, and dropping to the man’s side. Knees cracked against concrete as Jason plunged into the ruin of the throat, not drinking but devouring. The blood flooded his mouth, scorching and vile with adrenaline, yet he couldn’t stop shredding meat from bone. The man jerked once, a marionette with severed strings, but Jason barely noticed. His claws gouged trenches into the asphalt, anchoring himself to the kill, to the lie that this time, this corpse might actually fill the howling void, might push away the cold.

It didn’t.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Ribs heaving, Jason reared back and ripped the mangled throat clean out in frustration. Blood splattered across his face and chest, hot and sticky.

It wasn't fair. He knew he had come back wrong, twisted and broken in ways he couldn't even begin to understand, but this wasn't fucking fair. He couldn't continue like this, a monster driven by an insatiable need that no amount of blood could satisfy. It would kill him, slowly and painfully, tearing him apart from the inside out.

Hunger would be what killed Jason Peter Todd.

Again.

A scream pierced the air. High, human, female. Jason’s head snapped toward the sound, pupils contracting to slits behind the domino mask. A man dragged one of his girls into the alley—Mary, Iris's best friend. Shit. He’d told them to hide inside the building next door, but he must’ve missed one of the assholes slipping in.

Mary kicked and clawed at her captor, her voice trembling with rage and panic. "Let me go, you limp-dick fucker!"

The man pressed a knife to her throat, his face twisted into a cruel sneer. "Shut up, bitch!"

Jason’s stomach tightened, the hunger surging like a freezing tidal wave as the scent of her blood hit him. He took a step forward, "Get off her, and I might just let you live." It came out as more of a snarl than words.

The man glanced around at the carnage, the bodies strewn across the ground, the blood splattered on the walls, and laughed bitterly. "Let me live? Sure, you will."

His grip tightened on Mary, and the blade kissed her throat, drawing a ruby bead that rolled down her collarbone. Jason’s nostrils flared when metallic sweetness bloomed in the air, his gums throbbing where elongated canines pressed against the inside of his cheeks. He clenched his fists around his guns, forcing himself to stay in control.

Mary’s wide eyes locked onto Jason as she whispered. "Red..."

That single word, laced with fear and desperation, cut through the haze of hunger for a fleeting moment. Then the blade bit deeper. Blood scent exploded, honeysuckle and iron, twisting into a perfume that lit his nerves on fire. The hunger roared louder, claws scraping his ribs, but beneath it surged a darker current: fury, molten and possessive, at the violation of what belonged to him.

His guns clattered on concrete as he crossed the distance in three strides before the man could react. The knife hit the ground the second Jason’s hand wrapped around the man’s wrist, crushing it with a sickening crack. The man screamed, but the sound was cut short as Jason slammed him into the wall, his claws digging into his throat.

Mary stumbled free, palms scraping brick as she scrambled away. He didn’t watch her crawl away. Didn’t blink. Only saw the frantic flutter of a pulse beneath sweat-slicked skin.

"Wrong move," Jason growled, his fangs bared when hot blood sprayed across his face, igniting the primal hunger that had been gnawing at his insides.

He ripped into the man’s neck with savage precision, tearing through flesh and sinew as the body convulsed in his grip. The taste of iron flooded his mouth, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just this—the pulse beneath his lips, the warmth sliding down his throat, the way his hunger roared louder, colder, even as it was momentarily sated. Rational thought dissolved, leaving only the beast inside him in control once again, to the drumbeat of feed-feed-feed.

Jason finished drinking from the man, the body limp in his grasp. He dropped it without a second thought, his green eyes scanning the alley for the next target, hunting. The hunger still raged inside of him when his gaze landed on the figure against the wall: small, trembling, her breathing shallow. The scent of her blood hit him like a sledgehammer, no sign of recognition in his mind.

He moved toward her, a predator stalking a wounded prey, his vision narrowing to the thin trickle of blood on her neck.

Mary’s eyes widened as Jason loomed over her, his expression inhuman, his green eyes glowing in the dark. “Red? What are you doing?”, she asked with a shaky voice, pressing herself against the wall, trying to create distance.

Jason didn’t respond. He didn’t even hear her. The hunger drowned out everything else, her voice lost in the roar of his instincts. All that hammered in his head was prey-feed-more. He grabbed her by the shoulders, his claws digging into her skin, and pushed her up. She gasped, her hands coming up to push against his chest. “Stop! Shit, don’t do that, Red!”

Her squirming only fueled the predator in him, the weak struggles of prey. His fangs extended, his lips curling back in a snarl. The cut on her throat was so close, so inviting. He leaned in, breathing her in, the scent of her blood overwhelming. Mary screamed, shrill and desperate, but it barely registered.

It was all reduced to her blood and his hunger.

Before his fangs could sink into her skin, a force slammed into him, shoving him hard to the side. Jason stumbled but recovered quickly, his head snapping toward the new threat. Who dared to get in his way? A female figure stood in front of Mary, her gun aimed directly at him.

The green haze of his hunger clouded everything, and he bared his fangs, ready to attack.

“Boss!” The word cut through his mind like a blade. His fangs retracted slightly, the haze in his vision flickering. He paused, his body tense, his mind struggling to process.

Boss.

The sound of it echoed in his head, pulling him back from the edge. The green glow in his eyes dimmed, and the world came sharply into focus.

He saw Gabriela standing firm, her gun steady in her hands, her expression a mix of determination and something else—betrayal? Behind her, Iris crouched beside Mary, her arms wrapped protectively around the girl. Mary was trembling, her face pale, tears streaming down her cheeks. She clutched at Iris, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her eyes locked on Jason with a mix of fear and disbelief.

Oh, shit.

Jason took a step back, his claws retracting, his posture faltering. The hunger was still there, clawing at him, but it was overshadowed by the weight of what he’d almost done. He looked down at his hands, still stained with blood, and then back at the three women in front of him. His chest tightened, a cold knot of dread settling in his gut. He’d almost—

He’d almost killed one of his own.

"What the hell, Hood? What the fuck was that?" Iris shouted, stroking Mary's hair. Jason had never seen her so angry.

And he deserved it. God, he did.

"Sorry, Mary, I—" The words got stuck in his throat. What would he say? I'm hungry all the time, I'm going mad, I'm dying, I'm cold all the time, and I'm so fucking scared? No, there was no excuse for what he had almost done. "I'm handling this."

No, he wasn't. He was pushing it, more and more, and it wasn't working. Nothing was fucking working. And he… he didn't know what to do. So many plans and schemes, and yet none of them had any use for this.

"You need to get a grip, Boss, because that ain't you." Gabriela slowly lowered her gun, still trusting him even after what just happened.

A laugh threatened to break through his throat. Not him? Maybe it was him. Maybe it was who he had always been, who he was always meant to be. Not Robin, not magic, not the son that could have had Bruce's love, but a hungry beast on the verge of insanity.

Jason’s head snapped up, his green eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her take a step back. "I don’t need a fucking babysitter, Gabriela."

"I’m not babysitting. But you’re my boss, and I’m not letting you tear yourself apart over whatever this is, alright?" She held his gaze, unflinching, and gestured at Iris and Mary. "You’ve got a gang to lead. People who depend on you. So whatever’s eating you, fucking deal with it before it deals with you. Or us."

Gabriela might have punched him in the face as well; hell, she probably should have, if only to knock some sense into him. He opened his mouth to retort, but the truth of it silenced him. She was right, and they both knew it. Jason was running out of time. He had been able to ignore that because his victims had deserved him, had deserved the Red Hood, but now…

Now, he was forced to face the fact that soon he would become the kind of person he put down. Shit, if it weren't for Gabriela, he would have become it tonight. Which meant he had two options: allow himself to become that beast, or put a silver bullet in his own head before it happened.

The second one wasn't something he was unfamiliar with, anyway. He considered it almost every night since he had come back, the only thing that stopped him was his plans for revenge. Revenge. Jason's hands trembled as he realized that was the last thing he had left.

Mary’s choked sob snapped his gaze up. She was shaking, Iris’ arm tightening around her shoulders, with a glare that could’ve melted steel. How could he face the other girls after breaking their trust? How could he even trust himself around his gang like this? Everything he had built these last months was gone, but he could still do one more thing before having to put himself down.

He could still hurt Bruce and Dick—his final, desperate attempt to matter.

Jason faced the women before him, the women he had looked out for despite the hunger and fury that drove him. "Take care of everything and don't come after me," he declared, not sticking around to see their reactions.

He left as quickly as he had arrived, grabbing his guns and jumping onto the roof above them. Jason didn't look back either, not allowing both the ache in his chest and the smell of blood to pull him back.

No, for what he would do, he would need control more than he ever needed it, so he could tear Robin apart piece by piece.

"Looking for your friends, Robin?" Jason drawled, tilting his head and taking in the sight of Tim in his Robin suit—tiny, pathetic, every inch the perfect little soldier Bruce wanted. His lips curled into a smirk, his gun resting loosely in his hand. “Or just lost without your babysitters?”

Tim’s breath hitched, imperceptible to anyone who hadn’t been trained by the same man. Jason caught it anyway, the way his pulse jumped in his throat, the slight tremor in his glove as it inched toward the bo staff. The kid hadn’t expected him; that much was obvious.

Great. It had been worth it to use his last few moments of sanity to catch Tim by surprise, even if it had taken days of tolerating painful hunger to spy on Titan's Tower until Robin finally went on a solo mission.

The moment of hesitation was gone. Tim’s staff snapped open with a hiss, its silver segments catching the light as his body tensed, but his voice stayed calm, almost bored. “Quite far from Gotham, Red Hood. Did you get lost or something?”

Jason leaned back against the railing and chuckled, a low, mocking sound. “Nah, I’m exactly where I want to be. Now you…” He gestured with the gun, the barrel glinting as it caught the light. “You’re the one who shouldn’t be here. I guess Batman’s lowered his standards for child soldiers.”

Tim’s lips twitched into a smirk, unimpressed. “Well, I could say the same about his standards for villains. I didn’t know some low-level gang leader had been upgraded to villain of the month.”

Jason’s smirk widened, but his eyes narrowed. The kid had guts, he’d give him that. “Low-level? I’ve had more control over Gotham’s streets than Batman ever did. You’re just playing dress-up in a bird costume.”

Tim shifted his weight, his stance widening. “Funny, coming from the guy who stole another villain's identity. Originality’s not your strong suit, is it?”

He suppressed the instinct to bare his fangs to Tim, his finger tightening on the trigger, but he didn’t fire. Not yet.

"Not gonna ask about your little friends, Robin?" Jason taunted, enjoying the way Tim’s brow furrowed at the remark, the first crack in his usual calm facade.

That dangerous glint in his eyes was almost cute too, like a cornered kitten trying to look like a lion. "What did you do to them?"

"Oh, don’t worry. They’re just taking a nap." He let the pause linger, counting the rapid flutter of Tim’s pulse. "For now. But after I’m done with you, I’ll make sure to pay them a visit and—"

Jason sidestepped a swing of Tim’s bo staff. The silver gleam of the weapon whistled past his ear, close enough to make his skin crawl. He staggered back, surprised. Okay, he hadn't expected Tim to attack first, but the thrill of it sent a rush through his blood. It was time for the best part of hunting.

Catching the prey.

"Didn’t Batman teach you not to interrupt a villain when he’s monologuing?" He clicked his tongue, mock disapproval in his tone. He rolled his shoulders as the Lazarus-green edges of his vision pulsed in time with his heartbeat. "Manners, kid. They’re important."

"Sorry," Tim shot back, his tone drier than the Sahara. "I must’ve missed that lesson."

He spun the staff in a blur, aiming for Jason’s ribs. Jason twisted out of the way, but the edge of the weapon grazed his side, leaving a faint burn. He hissed, his lips peeling back to reveal his fangs. The hunger, always simmering beneath the surface, flared at the sting of pain.

But the clarity overlapped it. For some reason, Jason felt saner than he had in the last months, with a clear goal in mind and the means to achieve it. And he would take advantage of that before it was gone.

The first shot cracked through the air, a sharp echo that bounced off the kitchen walls. Jason expected Tim to duck, to flinch, to falter. But he moved like liquid, his silver bo staff flashing as it deflected the bullet with a metallic ping. The next shots met the same fate, Tim’s movements precise, almost casual, as if he’d done this a thousand times before.

Jason’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. Damn, kid’s better than he looks.

Tim didn’t wait. He lunged, his staff a blur of silver as he aimed for Jason’s ribs. Jason twisted out of the way, but the tip still caught his side, the silver burning like a brand even through his jacket. His red eyes narrowed.

“Not bad,” Jason admitted, ejecting the spent magazine with a click. Fresh rounds slid home with a lethal whisper. “For a glorified mascot.”

Tim spun the staff, unfazed. “Says the guy cosplaying as a discount crime lord. Does the jacket come with a gift card, or is the cringe intentional?”

If Jason weren't so busy despising Tim's guts, he would have found him funny.

He fired again. Tim ducked, rolled, and came up swinging. He spun the staff in a tight arc, aiming for Jason’s legs. He leaped back, the staff grazing his boots, and fired a shot, but Tim was already in front of him, staff whirling in a blur of motion. Jason barely managed to dodge, the silver humming past his ribs close enough to singe his jacket. He countered with a brutal kick to Tim’s midsection, but the kid flipped backward, landing light as a cat.

"C'mon, Hood, that's the most a Gotham's villain can offer now?" Tim said provokingly, the little shit. His chest heaved, but his smirk was all Robin—bright, infuriating, and still alive.

The lenses of his helmet glinted dangerously. Oh, he was going to make the little bastard eat those words.

"Oh, you haven't seen anything yet," Jason scoffed, and his guns fired again, bullets ricocheting off Tim’s staff in showers of sparks as he deflected with a practiced ease that was starting to piss Jason off.

Every shot met silver, every move was countered with precision. Jason reloaded with a savage twist of his wrist, firing off another round, but Tim spun out of the way, his bo staff whipping around in a deadly arc. Jason ducked just in time, the silver humming inches above his head, but then the bo staff cracked against Jason’s forearm. Silver bit deep, but the pain barely registered through the green haze creeping into his vision.

Tim was good. Too good. Surgical. Each feint, each strike calibrated to millimeter perfection. Not like Jason had been, all instinct and street experience mixed with Bruce's training. No, this kid fought like he’d been trained, like Bruce had poured everything into making him perfect. Like he cared enough to keep him alive.

The realization hit like a knife to the gut.

Jealousy twisted sharply and ugly in Jason’s chest. His guns hit the ground with a clatter.

Tim blinked, sweat-slicked hair clinging to his forehead as his smirk stretched wolf-wide. “Giving up already?”

Jason’s claws unsheathed with a wet snick. “Just getting started.”

He moved. No more bullets. No more games. Just fists and fangs and the raw, animal need to break something.

Tim blocked the first strike, but Jason didn’t let up. He drove forward, claws raking across the staff hard enough to send sparks flying. Tim’s breath hitched, just once, Robin's unshakable composure fracturing like Gotham ice under spring thaw, before he pivoted, aiming a kick at Jason’s ribs.

Jason caught his ankle and yanked.

Tim's spine met pavement with a hollow thud, but he rolled before Jason could pin him. Still, Jason saw it—the split-second wince, the way his left leg buckled slightly when he stood. It was enough for when Jason attacked, Tim hesitated, and that was all he needed. He lunged, his claws extending with a sickening snick.

He didn’t go for the kill, not yet. He wanted the kid to feel this.

His claws raked across Tim’s arm, tearing through the fabric of his suit and drawing blood. Tim cried out, stumbling back as his staff came up to block the next strike. But Jason didn’t stop. His attacks became a flurry of slashes and grabs, each one more brutal than the last. The kid was great, no doubt about it, but Jason had been this close to the edge for too long, and Tim was the perfect target.

Tim managed to land a hit, the silver staff slamming into Jason’s side with enough force to crack a rib. Jason barely flinched. The pain was nothing compared to the hunger freezing inside of him, the fury burning in his chest.

“Is that all you’ve got, Tim?” Jason sneered, his voice dripping with venom, and watched shock twist Tim's features.

Oh, this was delicious.

Jason attacked, and this time, he didn’t hold back.

Bone cracked under his knuckles. Tim stumbled back, but Jason didn’t let him recover. He grabbed the kid by the throat, slamming him into the nearest wall hard enough to leave a crater in it. Dust rained down around them as Tim gasped, fingers scrabbling at Jason’s grip.

“You’re not Robin,” Jason growled, leaning in until his fangs grazed Tim’s ear. The kid’s pulse hammered against his palm, rabbit-quick, adrenaline-sour. “You’re just the placeholder.”

Tim’s knee jerked up, aiming for the ribs, and Jason twisted, taking the hit on his hip, but his grip loosened just enough for Tim’s bo staff to come down on his wrist. Jason roared, immediately recoiling as silver seared through tendon. Tim didn’t waste the opening. He flipped backward, putting distance between them, chest heaving beneath torn Kevlar.

"Who are you?" Tim snarled, his bo staff raised.

Blood dripped from Jason’s wrist, sizzling where it hit the ground. He embraced the pain. Tim had more moves than a gymnast and the reflexes of a cat, but he was still just a kid. Just a kid, huh? Jason crushed the annoying thought beneath the green tide surging behind his eyes.

"Someone you won't forget when I'm done with you!" Jason snarled back. All he saw was green when he attacked, too fast for Tim to react.

He grabbed the staff with both hands, the silver burning into his palms, before yanking it out of Tim’s grip. Tim stumbled, eyes widening for a fractured second, long enough for Jason to drive a clawed fist into his diaphragm, sending him sprawling. Tim hit the ground hard, but he was already rolling to his feet, his hand going for a smoke pellet.

Jason didn’t give him the chance.

He was on top of Tim in an instant. His fist slammed into Tim’s side, the sickening crunch of ribs echoing in the confined space. Tim gasped, crumpling to one knee, his body folding in on itself as pain rippled through him. Jason didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Tim’s arm, twisting it until the joint gave way with a wet pop, a close fracture.

He didn't want him to bleed. Not yet.

"Pretender," Jason laughed when Tim’s scream tore through the air, fueling his hunger—for blood, for violence, for something to silence it.

Tim’s face twisted in agony, his free hand clutching at his broken arm, his breath coming in shallow gasps. But his eyes, Bruce’s eyes, Jason realized with a jolt, still gleamed with defiance. Tim’s kick was desperate, instinctive, but Jason caught his ankle and squeezed, tendons creaking under his fingers. For a heartbeat, he almost hesitated. Then he twisted, the snap of bone splitting in the air like a gunshot.

Tim’s choked sob tore at something buried beneath the Red Hood’s armor, a ghost of a boy who still flinched at the sound of breaking things. The nausea hit Jason then, sudden and sour, but he swallowed it down. Buried deep down inside him, something knew this was wrong. That a line was being crossed that he couldn't come back from.

But he didn't care, couldn't care, otherwise everything would crumble, and he couldn't afford that now. Weakness had no place here. Weakness got you left in a warehouse with a bomb ticking down. Weakness got you replaced.

Tim’s scream cut off abruptly, his body going rigid as shock set in. Jason leaned over him, his claws digging into the kid’s shoulder, pinning him to the ground. The modulator in his helmet sharpened his words into blades. "What? Got nothing to say anymore, Robin?" Jason sneered, the only thing keeping him from draining Tim being the fury that burned inside of him, a wildfire that demanded more destruction.

He wanted to shatter more than just bones; he wanted to crush the spirit that kept Tim defiant even in the face of pain.

Jason straddled Tim, his weight pinning the younger boy to the cold, unforgiving ground, causing him to groan. He took a moment to admire his handiwork—the deep bruise blooming across Tim's right cheek, the broken arm, the leg twisted at an unnatural angle, the ribs that shifted dangerously with every shallow breath.

But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

"Fuck… you." It was barely a whisper, but the venom in it was sharp. Tim spat onto Jason’s helmet, the saliva smearing across the glowing red lens of his helmet. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that single act of rebellion, to the way Tim’s cracked lips curled in triumph even as his body gave out beneath him.

It made Jason’s smirk widen despite himself.

Yeah, the boy had the Robin spirit for sure, just like he had: that same stubborn resilience, that same fire in the eyes even when the body was broken. But Bruce didn’t learn, did he? No, he saw a shinier toy, a newer model, and decided Jason had meant nothing, had been nothing for him. Just another replaceable cog in the Bat’s machine, tossed aside the moment something brighter came along.

Bitterness and rage coiled tight in Jason's chest as he wiped the spit away with the back of his hand, his sneer deepening. He would show them exactly what happened when they put another child in this suit.

"Bad idea," he growled, and in one swift motion, he tightened his grip on Tim’s throat and slammed the boy’s head against the ground.

The dull thud echoed in the empty space, and Tim’s eyes rolled back, a faint whimper escaping his lips: small, fragile, everything Jason had once been. Jason expected him to bleed. He planned for it. It would be harder for him to control himself, but what would be the point of doing all of this without leaving Tim bleeding for Bruce to find?

What he didn't expect was that the best thing he had ever smelled would hit him like a crowbar blow to the chest. It flooded his senses, rich and metallic, but sweet, the sweetest he had ever felt. Wrapping around him, the aroma of Tim's blood pulled at the frayed edges of his already fragile control, threatening to unravel him completely. His jaw clenched, his hands moving to Tim's shoulders as a low, guttural growl rumbled in his chest when the scent hit him like a freight train.

Jason's head swam, his vision narrowing to the pulse fluttering just beneath the skin of Tim’s neck. His fangs ached, his gums throbbing as they pressed against the inside of his mouth. He couldn't stop his breathing from quickening, each inhale pulling more of that intoxicating scent into his lungs.

Mine-mine-mine.

The word pounded in his skull like a drumbeat, muffling every other thought. His hands shook, claws retracting and unsheathing in a desperate attempt to regain control. He knew he shouldn’t. This wasn’t part of the plan. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Tim wasn’t some back-alley dealer, he was Robin. His replacement. He should only make Tim bleed, but never drink from him because he knew what would happen.

He wouldn't stop.

And as far as he had gone, he didn't want another Robin dead. Not again. Not by his hands. But the hunger… the fucking hunger, that fucking need, was overwhelming, a tidal wave crashing over him, threatening to pull him under.

“Fuck no!” Jason growled through gritted teeth, but then he inhaled deeply, and the scent of Tim’s blood seeped into his lungs, his very soul.

His mouth watered, his fangs fully extended now. He clenched his jaw so hard his fangs pierced his own tongue, the sharp burst of copper only making the hunger worse. He wanted to laugh, to scream, to crack the kid’s ribs open, to make him see what Bruce had turned them both into.

But he couldn’t move. His body felt like it was being torn in two—one half screaming to feed, the other clawing at the edges of his humanity, begging him to stop.

MINE-MINE-MINE

Jason’s hands shook as he tore off his helmet, the clatter of it hitting the ground drowned out by the roar of blood in his ears. He panted, each breath scraping his throat raw, his vision tunneling until all that remained was the fragile dance of Tim’s carotid artery beneath paper-thin skin. The scent of his blood was thick enough to choke on and tears filled his eyes as he threw his head back, staring at the ceiling.

He was gonna do this, wasn't he?

It wasn't a choice. It had never been. From the second he’d decided vengeance would be his last meal before putting a bullet in his own rotting brain, this had been the only possible end. The hunger would always win because Jason Peter Todd had always been too weak to fight it.

The tremors in his hands worsened as he crouched over Tim’s broken form and cradled the boy’s jaw, gently turning the boy’s head to expose the pale column of his throat. Tim’s breath hitched, his broken body going rigid as he realized what was happening.

“No, no, no!” His voice cracked, panic sharpening the edges of his words. He thrashed weakly, his mangled limbs offering little resistance but still trying to push Jason away. “Don’t— don’t you fucking dare!”

Jason’s chest tightened, a flicker of something—guilt, regret, humanity—cutting through the haze of hunger. He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. But the blood… it was there, so close, and he had been starving, had been freezing for so long. And once again, Jason felt like a scared, stupid little kid who didn't want to die. Not again. Not a third time.

His fangs ached, the urge to bite almost unbearable. He swallowed hard, his voice low and rough as he whispered, “Shh.”

Tim pleaded. “Hood, don't—”

His grip on Tim’s shoulder tightened, claws digging in just enough to draw a pained gasp. But he didn’t strike. Didn’t tear into him like he wanted to. His breath came in shallow, ragged bursts as he fought to keep control, his mind screaming at him to stop, to think, but the hunger was louder.

It always was.

Tim’s good hand flailed weakly, smacking against Jason’s arm, but it was like a child’s touch. He was too broken to fight back, and Jason hated himself for it. A low growl rumbled in his chest as he bent down, lips brushing against the warmth of Tim’s neck. The scent was intoxicating, a drug sweeter than vengeance, richer than fear, something right. His fangs grazed the skin, and Tim stiffened.

For a moment, hesitation flickered. This is wrong, this is too far. But the hunger roared louder, drowning the thought out before it could fully take hold.

Then, his fangs pierced flesh.

He was as gentle as he could be, careful not to tear, not to hurt Tim more than he already had, but the boy gasped anyway, his body jerking weakly beneath Jason’s weight as the first rush of blood hit Jason’s tongue. Nothing else mattered from that moment on. The first taste was electric, richer than anything he’d ever tasted, a shockwave of heat and sweetness that bordered on euphoria and made his entire body shudder.

It was perfection in liquid form, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just this—the pulse beneath his lips, the warmth sliding down his throat and pushing away the cold, to the rhythm of swallowing, the desperate, gnawing void inside him finally, finally, beginning to fill. It was everything he hadn’t known he’d been missing, a balm to the emptiness that had been eating him alive.

A muffled whimper escaped the boy’s throat, but it dissolved into the static roaring in Jason’s ears, suffocated by the primal chant of more, more, MORE. Tim's fingers scrabbled weakly at Jason’s shoulders, but the resistance only spurred him on. He drank deeper, claws digging into Tim’s collarbones to hold him still.

And for the first time in months, Jason didn’t feel hollowed out.

He felt alive.

Tim’s body went rigid, a strangled gasp escaping his lips. His struggles weakened, his broken limbs flopping uselessly as he succumbed to the inevitable. Somewhere distant, buried beneath layers of bloodlust, a voice screamed at him to stop, you’re killing him, you monster.

But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Not when it felt this good, when every swallow knitted his frayed edges back together, when his entire existence narrowed to the revelation that after months of gnawing starvation, he was full.

He didn't notice Tim's breathing slowing to shallow hitches. Didn't hear the way his heartbeats stuttered, thready, irregular, a clock winding down. Didn't see the pallor washing over the kid’s face, the blue tinge blooming beneath his lips like poisoned petals. He didn't notice Tim's breathing slowing down. He didn't see that the kid was dying in his arms.

All he could focus on was the feeling of satisfying himself.

Or that was until a faint prickle of pain hit the base of his skull, a dull ache that Jason tried to ignore.

Tim’s blood still burned on his tongue, but the ache grew, spreading down his spine like a slow-burning fire, insistent and distracting. He clenched his jaw, his fangs still buried in Tim’s neck, but the discomfort was impossible to ignore now.

His muscles tightened as the pain sharpened, a steady throb that pulsed in time with his ragged breaths. He tried to focus on the blood, on the way it filled the void inside him, but the ache was spreading, wrapping around his ribs, digging into his shoulders. He growled against Tim’s skin, frustration bubbling up when the pain started to drown out the euphoria.

Then it hit.

White lightning shearing through his neural pathways, scorching synapses and cutting through the haze of bloodlust like a blade. Jason’s entire body arched as if hooked to a live wire, tendons snapping taut beneath sweat-slicked skin. His fangs tore free from Tim’s neck with a wet snick. He hissed in pain, his claws instinctively digging into the ground with the intensification of the agony. His vision blurred, the edges of the room swimming as he tried to make sense of what was happening.

“Get the fuck off him!”

He recognized the voice immediately.

Dickie

Jason’s head snapped back, his green eyes locking onto the figure standing over him. Dick fucking Grayson. His face was a mask of rage, his blue eyes blazing as he advanced, his electrified escrima sticks crackled with energy.

Jason barely had time to register the sight when his world dissolved into static again, nerve endings screaming as 50,000 volts liquefied his control, forcing him to stumble back.

He growled, his claws unsheathing as he turned to face Dick, but the pain was everywhere now, burning through his muscles, his bones, his very soul. Then a swift, brutal kick to the ribs sent Jason sprawling, his body hitting the ground with a dull thud.

Jason quickly recovered, stopping his fall with his claws that dug deep into the ground, leaving jagged marks in their wake. Before he could react, Dick was on him, moving with a speed that defied human limits—because, of course, Dick Grayson was perfect like that. Jason grunted as Dick's knee slammed into his face, the impact sending a sharp burst of pain through his skull.

Yet, he didn't falter. Instead, he smirked through the agony, his lips curling into a twisted grin that masked the storm of emotions raging inside him.

"Oh, so you came for Robin this time, Nightwing?" Jason didn't hide the sheer bitterness behind the mockery in his tone. He didn't. Just like he hadn't spent countless nights dreaming, half-hallucinating Dick's voice promising I'm coming for you, Little Wing through the Joker's laughter echoing in his skull.

He wasn't even at your funeral, and you really think he would have cared enough to come for you? A voice mocked in his head at the same time Dick snarled and a silver-edged escrima stick flashed down toward his skull. Jason twisted, barely avoiding the blow, but Dick didn’t let up.

His escrima sticks hummed with electricity as they sliced through the air. Jason dodged the first strike, but the second caught him across the ribs, silver biting deep. The pain should have been excruciating, should have sent him to his knees, but all he felt was a dull throb beneath the icy hunger still thrumming in his veins.

He grinned, blood-smeared fangs flashing. "That's all you got, Golden Boy?"

Dick swung again, and Jason ducked, the silver humming inches from his face, and countered with a vicious swipe of his claws. The other man moved back, his body fluid and precise, but Jason’s claws caught the edge of his suit, tearing through the fabric. Dick didn’t flinch, his expression carved from stone as he retaliated with a sharp jab to Jason’s ribs.

The electrified tip sparked against shirt, but Jason barely registered the shock and twisted to avoid a kick that would’ve shattered his ribs. Dick moved like a storm, his attacks relentless, but there was no playful banter, no smirk, no Dick. Just raw, seething rage burning in his eyes, his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful.

Jason laughed and dodged another strike. “What? No quips? No lectures? I’m almost disappointed. Did the Bat finally teach you how to shut up?”

Dick didn’t respond, and damn, Jason never thought he would think that, but his silence was unnerving. The golden boy messed with his villains, provoked them, made sure they knew they didn't get to him, but now he was just… quiet. All of that for the human boy but not for the vampire one, huh?

Fury flashed through Jason, white-hot and venomous, and he kicked Dick in the chest hard enough to dent the symbol over his sternum, sending him back. Dick didn't stay back, though.

He was like a possessed man, driving Jason back with a flurry of blows. The electrified sticks grazed his arm, sending a jolt through his body, but the pain didn’t hit him. His mind was even clearer, saner, and he felt good, almost invincible. What pissed him off was that Dick’s anger, that bruised-bright, brotherly protectiveness was being used against him, the only thing breaking through the euphoria.

“Why the ugly face, Wing?” Jason goaded, his claws scraping against the escrima sticks when he blocked another strike. “Did I hurt your little replacement too much? Or is it just me you’re mad at?”

Dick attacked again, a blur of motion—spinning kicks, electrified strikes, every move precise, every hit meant to hurt. Jason took them, let them glance off him like rain, because nothing hurt as much as the hunger had.

Nothing could.

A silver escrima stick cracked against his temple. Blood seeped hot into his lashes, painting the world crimson. Jason licked the gash, copper blooming on his tongue. “Cute,” he rasped, smearing red across his cheekbone. So he hit a nerve, good to know. “C`mon, Dickie boy. You’ll have to hit harder than that.”

If Dick was surprised that he knew his name, he barely showed it besides his jaw tightening as he launched into another attack. The escrima sticks crackled with electricity, each swing faster and more brutal than the last. Jason dodged some, the silver grazing his armor, but others connected, the shocks rippling through him.

He didn’t care and grabbed Dick’s wrist mid-swing, his claws digging deep enough to draw blood. Dick grunted, his free hand striking out in a jab aimed at Jason’s throat. Jason caught it, twisting Dick’s arm as he pulled him closer, their faces inches apart. Strained breaths mingled in the charged space between them, a mockery of tenderness. Close enough to count the sweat-slicked strands of hair sticking to Dick's forehead. Close enough to pretend this wasn't another knife twisted in their rotting history.

It was almost intimate, if Dick wasn't trying to rip his head off.

“What’s the matter, Golden Boy? Worried your little sidekick couldn’t handle me?” Jason sneered, his breath cold against Dick’s face.

Dick’s eyes flashed, and for a moment, Jason thought he’d finally get an answer. He craved it, the way a starving man craves bread, even if it burned his throat on the way down. But all he got was a growl when Dick twisted again, landing a kick to Jason’s chest that sent him skidding back. Jason recovered quickly, his claws digging into the ground to stop his momentum.

So much rage, so much motivation, things that were never there for him. Not when he was the one bleeding out on the floor. Why? What had been so wrong with him? Was it because he was a vampire? Or because he dared to try to follow Dick's footsteps? Maybe because he always knew what you would turn into, that same voice mocked him, and his smirk turned into a snarl as he lunged.

This time, when Dick swung his escrima sticks, Jason held his wrists and stopped them in the air. And then he slammed his forehead into Dick’s. The sick crunch of cartilage echoed between them. The impact sent Dick stumbling back, blood trickling from his nose and—

Jason took a deep breath, the scent of Dick’s blood filling his nose like a drug. It was just like Tim’s, so sweet and tempting, calling for him and hammering into his head mine-mine-mine. Saliva pooled under his tongue, the edges of his vision flickered emerald, shadows deepening until all he saw was that scarlet trail painting Dick’s chin. His fangs ached, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts as the hunger roared back to life.

What… what was happening? Why did only their blood smell like this?

Dick rose slowly and wiped at his nose, smearing the blood across his lips. He glared at Jason, his grip tightening on the escrima sticks. “You're not walking away from this."

The sound of Dick's voice took him away from the hunger again, almost as fast as he spun, his movements a blur, aiming a kick at Jason’s knee. Jason swiftly caught his leg mid-air, claws digging into the muscle and yanking hard. Dick’s balance faltered as he stumbled forward, but he recovered quickly, using the momentum to drive his other knee into Jason’s chest.

The impact sent him back, but Jason didn’t fall. Not to him.

Dick’s next strike was a feint that Jason saw a fraction too late. The real hit came low, a brutal sweep that knocked his legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard, but twisted mid-fall, kicking Dick’s knee out in retaliation. Dick staggered, but held his ground. As if he had something to fight for.

And that wasn't Jason. It had never been.

Jason lunged up, claws aimed for Dick’s throat. Dick blocked with crossed escrima sticks, the silver searing Jason’s palms as they locked in a stalemate. Close enough now to see the way Dick’s jaw clenched, the way his breath came sharp and controlled. Not panic. Not even anger, really.

Calculation.

Jason’s stomach dropped when he finally realized what was happening.

Dick was fighting him out of fury, yes, but he was also herding him—away from Tim’s limp body. Would he have thrown himself between them until his bones broke instead? Would he have fought as hard for him? Would he have carried his little broken body, too? No, not you. Never you. The answer hissed through his veins, bitter as toxin.

Jason growled both at the thought and at Dick, wrenching free, but Dick pressed the advantage, driving him back with a bunch of strikes. One connected—another crack across Jason’s temple that sent him reeling. It didn't stop him from seeing the way Dick’s gaze flicked past him, just for a second, to where Tim lay motionless. The way his throat worked was as if he were swallowing glass.

Jason’s chest tightened, ribs suddenly too small for the acid churning inside him.

Oh.

Dick was scared. Scared for Tim, because his body was broken, and he wasn't moving. Because Jason had almost drained him whole, feral instinct overriding whatever scraps of humanity he’d clawed back from the grave. Because Jason had almost killed a fucking kid. The guilt that washed through him was so violently corrosive that Jason felt breathless, but he couldn't— wouldn't let himself feel it.

So he ran his mouth.

"You know, unlike you, your Robin talked a lot before I broke his wings. Do you think the last one did too?" It was a petty provocation, but Jason was nothing but petty when it came to avoiding his feelings and hurting others'.

He got distracted for a second by the hurt that crossed Dick's expression, nothing more than a second wondering if that pain was for the bleeding kid at their feet or, maybe, just maybe, because of him—

Pain.

Both escrima sticks hit him right on the face. Pain spread across his face at the shock, a hot, stinging ache that radiated from his cheekbone to his jaw. The blow itself sent him flying, the world spinning in a blur of shadows and lights, but he twisted in the air, instincts kicking in, and landed in a crouch that skidded him back a few feet.

Fuck, that shit hurt!

Jason raised his hand to his face, fingers brushing against the torn edges of his domino mask. Half of it hung loose, the adhesive ripped away, leaving one eye exposed to the cold night air and the weight of Dick’s glare. Jason wiped the blood from his split lip, his claws grazing the rough edges of the torn domino mask.

The exposed half of his face felt raw, vulnerable, but he forced a grin anyway, letting the crimson streak smear across his cheek. "Call me dramatic, but that stung."

Dick didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on Jason’s face, his knuckles white around his escrima sticks. Did he… no, he didn't. Of course, he didn't recognize him. He watched Dick's eyes narrow, disbelief and confusion shining in them. Well, shit, it seemed like he would have to do it himself.

He didn't think about it. He just ripped the other side off and threw it aside, hunger forgotten under the weight of what he was doing. Jason tilted his head, letting the dim light catch on his features. "What? Did you forget what I looked like already, Dickie? Or is it just that hard to look me in the eye now?"

"Jason?" The way Dick said it, so broken and hopeful, twisted Jason's heart as only a Bat had always been able to.

The name fell like a prayer from a heretic's lips, shattered, reverent, Jason's knees nearly buckled under the weight of it. It dredged up memories he’d buried deep, when they still acted like he mattered, of a time when he’d believed in something more than vengeance.

Of home.

His grin widened, and he clapped theatrically, the sound echoing in the tense silence. "Finally! I thought I’d have to spell it out for you. What happened with the detective skills the old man taught you, Dickhead? Aren’t you a cop or something, too?"

Dick's face twisted like a gut-punched saint, all wide-eyed shock and trembling lips, almost as satisfying as the copper-sweet promise of his blood still humming in Jason's sinuses.

"Jason, you—" When literal tears spilled over those ridiculously long lashes, pristine as the Boy Scout act Dick never quit, Jason's rage burned hotter. As if he actually gave a shit. Dick’s gaze flicked to Tim, then back to him, his voice trembling. "He wouldn't. You… you wouldn't."

Jason swallowed down the guilt that threatened to rise, a bitter taste in his throat, and laughed, cold and hollow. "Are you sure about that, Goldie? Maybe…" He glanced at Tim, calculating, weighing his options. The kid was still unconscious, vulnerable. Perfect. "I should finish the job for you to see it. Make it real for you."

Dick’s eyes widened, realization dawning too late.

"No!" he roared, surging forward to intercept, but Jason was faster. He sidestepped Dick’s desperate lunge with ease, his movements fluid and precise. In one swift motion, he grabbed Tim, hauling the boy’s limp body against his chest. He tilted Tim’s head to the side, exposing his neck and baring his fangs, and let his gaze lock with Dick’s—a silent challenge.

A second. It was all he needed to rip Tim's throat off and leave him to bleed out, as much as his stomach churned at the mere threat.

Dick froze, his escrima sticks crackling in his hands as his eyes darted between Jason and Tim’s unconscious form. Jason tightened his grip around the boy, claws hovering just above the already bruised skin of Tim’s neck. The faint rise and fall of his chest was the only sign Tim was still alive, and Jason couldn’t help but smirk at the way Dick’s breath hitched, the way his knuckles whitened around his weapons.

“Don't,” Dick whispered, trembling with something Jason couldn’t quite place: rage, terror, desperation, a cocktail of weaknesses that made his teeth ache. “Jason, please. Don’t do this.”

Begging already? Oh, how the mighty had fallen. He would have never gone so low for Jason, for sure.

His grip tightened around Tim’s limp frame, his claws lightly brushing the boy’s throat. He could feel the faint pulse beneath his fingertips, weak but steady. The scent of Tim’s blood still lingered in the air, so sweet, so intoxicating, and Jason’s hunger roared back to life, clawing at his insides with renewed desperation.

Jason tilted his head, feigning consideration as his claws grazed Tim’s throat. “Don’t do what? Finish what I started? Oh, Dickie, you know better than that."

“You’re not like this!” Dick shot back, the escrima sticks trembling now, their electric hum dying to a wounded whine.

He wasn't. Jason knew his younger self would be disgusted with every single thing he was doing at that moment, and in a way, Dick was right. The problem was that the boy he had met, the boy he had left, didn't exist anymore.

He didn't survive his second death, and the man who had clawed his way back to the surface was something else entirely, something darker, hungrier, and far less forgiving.

“Oh, but I am. This is exactly who I am, and I don't know, maybe you knew it too, and that's why you ignored me for so long." Jason was well fucking aware of how childish he sounded, but he was allowed to be a bit childish after everything. He gestured at himself with his other hand, a mockery of a stage magician’s flourish. "But look at me now. Guess I’m not so easy to ignore anymore, huh?”

This was the only way they gave a damn about him. And he didn't care. He didn't want their love, he wasn't that delusional. He just wanted them to feel and know it was him. He did it. He mattered, in whatever fucked-up way it was, even if it meant carving his name into their bones with a knife.

Dick took a step forward, anguish etched into every line of his face. “Jason, let him go. Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re going through, we don’t have to do it like this." He forced a smile, the soothing kind of smile Jason had seen him give victims, "We can figure it out. Just… please. Don’t do this.”

Jason’s grin faltered for a split second, Dick’s words pressing against the walls of his fury. What if you're wrong? What if he cared? What if he didn't replace you? What if he loves—

The rest of the sentence curdled in his throat, impossible. No. He wouldn't let himself be that stupid again.

“We’re way past figuring it out, Goldie." He shook it off, his grip on Tim tightening. "You had your chance. Now it’s my turn.”

Tim groaned softly, his head lolling to the side, the slow thump of his heartbeat echoing in Jason’s ears like a funeral drum. Jason tilted his head, inspecting the boy’s pale face, the sweat-damp hair clinging to his forehead.

“Look at him,” Jason sneered, his tone dripping with scorn as he jerked Tim’s limp form higher. “Your perfect little stand-in. Doesn’t look so perfect now, does he?”

Dick’s eyes flicked between Jason and Tim, desperation and fear warring in his gaze. “You don’t have to do this, Jason. You’re not a monster.”

A monster? His crimson eyes darkened with something unreadable. No, no, he was way past that. He’d been branded, broken, and rebuilt into something far worse than a mere monster.

“Yeah? Tell that to the kid dying in my arms." Jason chuckled and shook his head, and fuck, but it hurt him to say that as much as it hurt Dick to hear that. So he focused on what he did best. Hurt others. "You’re always so fucking sure of yourself, aren’t you? How do you think B is gonna take it when you come back with another dead Robin?”

The words tasted like Gotham river filth, like the grave dirt he’d clawed through.

Dick took a step forward, but Jason’s claws tightened, and he stopped dead in his tracks. “Little wing, please,” His voice cracked, and for a moment, Jason faltered. The nickname, that damn nickname, added to the fact he’d never heard Dick sound like that—broken, pleading, like he was teetering on the edge of something he couldn’t control.

Good.

“Begging suits you." Jason’s grin widened until his cheeks ached, a rictus that left his eyes dead and glittering. He tilted Tim’s unconscious face toward Dick, pale eyelids fluttering like moth wings. "Do it more."

Dick stiffened for a moment, then exhaled, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “What do you want?”

Jason blinked, surprised by the question. He hadn’t expected Dick to give up so easily. It wasn’t like him. But then again, nothing about this situation was like him.

“What do I want?” He repeated, and bared his fangs in a snarl that lifted his upper lip, “I want you to admit it. Admit you and Bruce replaced me without a second thought.”

Dick flinched like he’d taken a batarang to the gut. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me!” Jason shouted, his claws jerking deeper and drawing blood, causing a choked whimper from Tim that echoed too much like his own screams in that warehouse long ago.

The scent hit him like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, his vision swam.

He shook his head, forcing himself to focus, focus on the way Dick and Bruce could tear his heart apart so easily. “You left me, Dick. You all did." The words came out ragged, stripped raw. "And now you’ve got this shiny new Robin, and you expect me to just accept it? To sit back and let Bruce keep playing with his little soldiers?”

They thought they could just move on and act like nothing happened, didn't they? That he would be just a footnote in their lives, the poor little vampire they took in who got himself killed, the soldier, but never the son and brother. They thought they could simply walk away from him.

But guess what? They were still his. Every scar, every whispered regret, every moment they tried to forget—he owned them. He had carved his name into their souls long before they’d abandoned him, and no amount of time or distance could erase that. He decided when they were done.

And they weren’t done yet. Not even close.

Dick’s jaw tightened, guilt flashing in his eyes, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he took a step forward, his escrima sticks raised in a gesture of surrender. "I’m sorry, Jason. I’m so fucking sorry. But this isn’t the answer. Hurting him—” he gestured to Tim’s limp form, his lips pressed into a tight line, “It won’t fix anything.”

Jason’s grip loosened ever so slightly, and he glanced down at Tim’s pale face. The boy looked so young, so fragile, and for a moment, Jason’s chest ached. What was he doing? Would he really drain Tim out in front of Dick? That wasn't part of the plan. It never was. But then the hunger roared back to life, drowning out the flicker of guilt.

“Maybe not,” Jason said softly. A pause before a bittersweet smile opened on his lips, “But it’ll make me feel better.”

Before Dick could react, Jason leaned in, his fangs grazing Tim’s neck. But he didn’t bite down. Not yet. He glanced up at Dick, his smile turning into a smirk at the way his brother’s eyes widened in horror.

"Tell me," Jason drawled, tongue tracing the lethal points of his teeth."What are you willing to do to save your precious little brother?"

Dick didn't hesitate, "Anything. Just let him go.”

He didn't deny it. He didn't deny that Tim was his little brother, of course, he didn't because, as Jason already knew, that was what he was. What Jason wasn't.

His claws scratched Tim’s throat, the faintest pressure just enough to remind Dick who held the stakes in this game. Or maybe out of jealousy. It was hard to tell when every instinct in his body told him to drain Tim.

Jason's grin widened, predatory, as he leaned closer to Tim’s exposed neck, the scent of blood still teasing his senses. “Anything, huh?” He taunted, dragging out the word. He didn't even know what he would do with such an offer, but it was too good to go to waste. “That’s a dangerous promise, Dickie. Are you sure you can live up to it?”

Dick's hands tightened around the escrima sticks, his blue eyes burning with a determination that Jason hadn’t seen in years. Not for him, at least. “Anything.” The second repetition landed heavier, final. “Let him go, and you can have whatever you want from me.”

Jason tilted his head, his red eyes narrowing as he studied Dick’s face. The sincerity there was almost laughable. So that's what it meant to have a Bat's devotion? God, he must have really been the worst, the most unworthy, for him not to have had even a tiny bit from that.

But fuck worthiness, Jason wasn't gonna let them tell him what he deserved or not anymore. He would just take it. And among the many things that Dick hadn't given to him, there was one that he had craved ever since he was a needy baby vampire.

Connection, love, bond—

“What if I ask for your blood?” Jason asked, his tone dangerously soft. The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. “Would you finally give it to me after all these years?”

There it was, the flicker of hesitation. Dick’s breath hitched, his throat working as he swallowed hard. Jason knew exactly what he was asking. Vampires didn’t just drink blood; they took something more. Something intimate, something personal, everything Dick had always kept locked away from Jason.

Oh, and without even mentioning the fact that Jason had a reputation now. He didn't leave any of his victims alive, Tim being the first. And considering what he had done with the kid, Dick’s chances of surviving this weren’t that high, not with the way Jason’s fangs ached to pierce flesh, to claim what had always been denied. He ignored the bile rising in his throat at the image of Dick’s body cooling beneath him, those vivid eyes clouding over like frosted glass.

He didn't even care if Dick's blood wouldn't satisfy him like Tim's had, even if he smelled as good. No, he just wanted it. Wanted to crack Dick open and drink until every withheld truth, every withheld touch, flooded his veins. And he expected to have to take it, for Dick to say no, but even knowing the risks, Dick’s resolve didn’t waver.

“Take my blood. Take whatever you need." He glanced at Tim and swallowed hard. "Just let him go first.”

“You’d really do that?” Jason murmured, almost a whisper, almost small. “You’d give me that?”

No hesitation. No flinching. Just that same stubborn determination that had always made Dick Grayson so damn infuriating.

"Yes."

It immediately sent a jolt through Jason’s veins. His claws flexed against Tim’s skin, the scent of the boy’s blood still thick in the air, telling him to feed on what was his. But he was too busy with disbelief. He couldn't believe it. He couldn't buy that Dick would risk it all for the fucking replacement, or maybe he didn't want to believe it.

Jason scoffed, "That easy?" His voice dripped with venom, but beneath it, something raw and jagged twisted in his chest.

Dick didn’t look away. "I need to take him to the med-bay first, but yes. After that, I'm all yours."

MINE-MINE-MINE

All his, huh?

"One wrong move, and I'll drain him at the first chance." Jason snarled and released Tim abruptly, letting the boy slump to the ground.

Dick dropped his escrima sticks and rushed forward, catching him before he hit the surface as Jason got up and stepped back, his claws and fangs retracting. He watched Dick gently lay Tim on the ground, the concern etched in his features so deep that it put a lump in Jason's throat. His hands first checked Tim's pulse, then his injuries with a care like no other, and settled on cupping Tim's cheeks as Dick let out a tremulous exhale.

For a moment, Jason was stupid enough to wonder if Dick would have held him like that if he had come to save him. Part of him wanted to look away, to shut his eyes and pretend this scene didn’t exist, but he couldn’t. The world narrowed to Dick and Tim's heartbeat, one slow and the other fast, every other sound, every other thought, was muffled, drowned out.

And as he observed Dick maneuver Tim, trying to lift him without aggravating his injuries, the ugliest feeling clawed its way up inside him, growing like one of Ivy’s cursed plants, the sickest idea taking root in his mind.

Tim's blood didn't eliminate his hunger, but it quieted it enough for him to be able to think for himself again. To feel for himself again. Why? What was so special about the Replacement? He had no fucking idea, but with that… what if Tim was more useful to him than he had realized?

What if he was Jason’s way to stay alive, to complete his plans, to claw his way out of this curse?

And the only thing standing between him and that possibility now was Dick. Dick, who cradled Tim in his arms as if he were something precious. Dick, who was distracted, so utterly focused on his new Robin that he hadn’t even glanced Jason’s way. Dick, who would never, ever let him take Tim if he had anything to say about it. Dick, who could be Bruce’s broken gift instead of Tim.

“After that, I'm all yours.”

Jason's lips twisted in a smirk when he decided what he would do. Fuck, he was the worst piece of shit, wasn't he? Unfortunately, he didn't find it in himself to care.

One moment, he was standing there. The next, he lunged.

He slammed into Dick with enough force to knock the air from his lungs, sending them both sprawling to the ground. Dick grunted, immediately trying to fight him, but Jason was faster. He twisted, grabbing Dick and pulling him against his chest, a hand holding his wrists to his sternum and the other holding his throat hard enough to make the older man hiss in pain. His legs locked around Dick's, stopping him from moving.

Jason tried not to think about how that was the closest thing to a hug that they ever shared.

Dick’s eyes widened, a flicker of panic breaking through his usual composure. “Jason, stop!” he gasped, his hands scrabbling to get free from Jason's grip, “Let me take him to the med-bay! Please, just let me save him first!”

Awww, how cute.

Jason leaned in, his breath brushing against Dick’s ear as he forced his head to the side, making him look at Tim’s limp, broken form. “I’m gonna drink your blood,” he whispered, low and taunting. “And if you wake up, you’re gonna do so knowing you failed him.”

Dick was gonna wake up. Jason would ensure that now he was more in control of himself. He would wake up and either think Jason took Tim's corpse or kidnapped him. Either way, he would hurt, just like Jason wanted him to.

"No, no, no!" Dick’s chest heaved, his blue eyes wild with desperation.

Jason delighted in the sight, prepared to bite him when he heard it:

A choked sob breaking from Dick's throat. It was a jagged sound, filled with so much pain that someone would think Dick was the one he tortured and not Tim. Jason froze.

“Please, don't do this.” Dick breathed out as his body struggled against him, “I can’t lose another brother. I can’t.”

He might as well have taken a silver dagger to the gut. Brother. He called him brother. He stared at Dick, at the tears streaming down his face, and for a moment, he hesitated. The fury flickered, the hunger wavered. A question came to his mind. What if I'm wrong?

But only for a moment because he didn't allow himself to ponder it. This was a classic trap. Dick was nothing but a master manipulator in a way even Jason wasn't.

Jason shifted, one hand gripping Dick’s jaw to keep him still. “Shhh,” he crooned, “I’ll take good care of him, Dickie.”

Then he struck.

His fangs sank into Dick’s neck, not gentle, but not tearing into his throat either. And God, Jason should have predicted it from the smell, but Dick's blood was just as good as Tim's—maybe even better in its own way.

Not as sweet, but rich, layered with something earthy and warm, sunlight trapped in amber. It flooded his mouth, and Jason felt it surge through him, warmth igniting his veins. The blood tasted like one of Alfred's muffins fresh from the oven in the morning, feeling like Bruce's rare smiles, those fleeting, hard-won moments, belonging like home. His nerves sang with it, the hunger shutting the fuck up again. It wasn’t gone, not entirely, but the static in his head dimmed.

He drank greedily, his grip tightening on Dick as the man gasped, his body jerking in protest but his strength was waning fast. Jason could feel the tension in Dick’s muscles, the way his body fought and failed to break free. A part of him, a distant, buried part, ached at the sound of Dick’s pained grunts, but it was drowned out by the rush of blood on his tongue, the way it filled him as only Tim's blood had.

Mine-feed-more

The thought was visceral, and Jason couldn’t resist. Drinking deeper, he pulled Dick closer, his hand moving from his jaw and tangling in the man’s hair to keep him still. It was like drinking from the sun itself, and he felt like a worshipper, bathing in its heat. Dick’s struggles weakened, his breathing becoming shallow, ragged. Jason could hear his heartbeat, fast and frantic at first, then slowing, faltering.

At first, he didn't give it any attention.

But as his thoughts grew clearer, he started to realize what was happening. Jason froze, his fangs still buried in Dick’s neck, his chest heaving as he fought to regain control. He was taking too much. If he kept going, Dick would die. That sent a jolt of panic through him, 

Blood dripped from his lips as he stared down at Dick’s pale, slack face resting on his shoulder. Unconscious, but alive. Still alive. Relief washed over him and Jason found himself snuggling on the junction of Dick's neck and shoulder. His claws twitched, the urge to feed still throbbing in his veins, but he forced himself to stay still.

He couldn’t kill Dick. Not because he gave a shit if the golden boy lived or not, of course. Of course. But because he wouldn't let go of the blood that finally fed him. The blood that was his after all these years. No, Jason was nothing but selfish, and he was gonna hold onto life this time out of sheer spite. He looked at Tim, his breath hitching before he saw it. The rise and fall of his chest. Still alive too.

Good.

Rubbing his cheek against Dick's skin, a distracted movement, Jason thought about his next moves. He should just take Tim. As good as the kid was, he could overpower him easily in the right conditions, and now that he was more in control, he would make sure the conditions were the right ones. Taking Dick… it wasn't worth the trouble.

Logically, he knew that. He wouldn't be able to drink from Tim as much as he wanted to and would have to be careful, but it was better than risking everything with Dick. The thing was, logic wasn't on the table when it came to hunger. Jason wanted both of them. He wanted what was owed to him. And he would have it.

The fact that the disappearance of two dear sons instead of one would hurt Bruce more was just a bonus.

It was harder to let go of Dick than he thought it would be. For some reason, a part of Jason, the small, pathetic one, clung onto the idea of hugging his big brother, as if he hadn't just forced Dick into that deadly hug and forcefully drank from him. As if he wasn’t taking by force what had never been given to him. He almost laughed at how pitiful he was, moving to put Dick to the ground and ignoring the cold that immediately took hold of him afterward.

He took a sedative from one of his pockets, the ones he used for the Titans, and injected it on the other side of Dick's neck. The unconsciousness caused by the feeding wouldn't take long, definitely not long enough for a car trip back to Gotham, so he would have to improvise. Jason caught a glimpse of his bite mark on Dick, and didn't even pretend he didn't enjoy it, that possessiveness and satisfaction warmed him almost as much as Dick and Tim's blood.

What? He had the right to leave marks on his new living blood bags and—

Jason recoiled at the use of the derogatory term. Okay… that made him sound like one of those vampires who kidnapped humans to feed on them. But that wasn't what he was about to do. It wasn't. Dick and Tim weren't some innocent victims of the circumstances, no, they were part of this. They deserved what they had coming. They deserved him taking them.

Didn't they?

Clenching his teeth, Jason shook his head. He had no time for doubts. He needed to feed from them to be in control, and they needed to pay, Dick for everything he hadn't done and Tim for taking what was his. Bruce needed to pay. It was simple like that, a transactional chance of revenge and survival. So yeah, they were his, but living blood bags, and nothing else.

They couldn't become anything else.

Jason rose and headed towards Tim, then kneeled next to him, taking in the sight of the even paler skin and bluer lips. A kid. A fucking kid. And you promised to protect them as you weren't protected, huh? Bile rose his throat, but Jason swallowed it down. Tim stopped being a kid the moment he put on the Robin costume, and had become a target just like him.

Another broken Robin.

Jason was doing him a favor by taking him away, be it for his own benefit or not. Yeah, keep telling yourself that.

He brushed it off and brought his wrist to his fangs, then bit it hard until he started bleeding in his mouth. The pain was fleeting, nothing compared to how tasting his own blood after experiencing Dick and Tim's was like going from a buffet to trash scraps. Jason quickly guided the wound to Tim's lips, using his other hand to open them.

After he considered a good amount of blood had gone down Tim's throat and Jason’s wound started to heal, he put his hand on Tim's chest. Jason waited for a few moments, preparing for what was to come when the combination of broken bones and a vampire's blood healing abilities settled.

Yeah, this was gonna be a bitch for the Replacement.

Tim’s eyes shot open, wide and unseeing, a second before a scream tore from his throat. The sound was, guttural, animal, nothing like the composed, calculated Robin Jason had been fighting moments ago. The sickening crunch and grind of bones resetting, knitting themselves back together at an unnatural speed, echoed loudly in the kitchen, causing Jason’s stomach to lurch.

Jason’s hand pressed down on Tim’s chest, pinning him to the ground as the kid thrashed, his body convulsing with the agony of healing too fast, too much, in a way a human body wasn't meant to.

He didn’t know why he did it—why he leaned in, his other hand slapping over Tim’s mouth to muffle the screams. His own throat tightened, a knot of something he couldn’t name, wouldn’t name, coiling in his gut.

“It’s okay,” Jason whispered, almost gently, as if he were comforting a frightened animal. His forehead brushed against Tim’s, and he spoke as if he cared, “You’re gonna be okay. It’s almost over.”

The words felt foreign on his tongue, too soft, too tender for the mess they were in. But he kept saying them, repeating them like a mantra, as if he could somehow will them to be true. As if a part of him wasn't enjoying it, as small as that part was now. Tim’s scream dissolved into fragmented whimpers, his body still jerking involuntarily, but the fight was bleeding out of him. His eyes fluttered, rolling back before slipping shut, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps.

Jason didn’t move, didn’t let go. He stayed there, his hand still pressed to Tim’s chest, feeling the too-fast rhythm of his heart beneath his palm, the other against his mouth. The pain was fading, the worst of it over, but Jason could still feel the faint tremors running through Tim’s body. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to look away, to focus on the cold, hard reality of what he was doing.

Because he hadn't comforted Tim. He had kept him still, kept him quiet. He wasn’t doing this out of some twisted sense of care. He was doing it because Tim was his now—a tool, a means to an end. A way to stay alive. Anything else, anything more, was a lie.

Jason let out a shaky breath, his claws retracting as he finally pulled back. Tim lay still now, his pale skin and blue lips back to their normal colors, his heart beating as fast as it should. But what bothered Jason was the healed bite mark on his neck. He glared at the smooth skin as if it was his enemy.

His living blood bags should always have his mark. But to leave a permanent mark, Jason would have to claim them, something he knew wasn’t wanted, and he wasn't that kind of monster. So he promised himself to drink from Tim as soon as possible to leave another bite mark.

He took another sedative and injected it on Tim. “Let’s get this over with,” Jason muttered, to one in particular, and put on his helmet.

Then, without hesitation, he scooped the boy up with none of the gentleness he’d shown moments ago and slung him over his shoulder, then did the same with Dick on his other shoulder. Standing at the entrance of the kitchen, he glanced back. A few drops of blood here and there, his too, which meant Bruce would be able to identify it as being from the three of them.

That, added to the silver bo staff and escrima sticks abandoned, would show him a clear picture. His dad would know Red Hood was him. He would know exactly who had come for his sons. For a heartbeat, Jason wondered how much the lives of Bruce's human children would weigh over his little vampire's.

He hoped a lot more so he could see Bruce fall apart, even if not for him.

Jason looked forward, carrying Dick and Tim away from the Titan's Tower to their new lives with him. 

Hey, dear readers! I'm actually considering writing more for this. It might not be a big fic, but I want to write a few more chapters exploring the dynamics between Jason, Tim and Dick, and develop this idea. So if you enjoyed this, please leave a comment telling me what you liked about this and if you'd like more of it, it would motivate me a lot to continue this!❤️

Chapter Text

[This first scene might be triggering for some people, so be careful when reading it. Triggers: references to human trafficking, description of devices used for human trafficking]

Jason didn't want to be in a place like this.

He didn't even want to bring anyone to a place like this.

Fuck, he‘s killed people who’ve brought others to places like this, okay?

But this… it was different.

Jason's shoulders pressed against the concrete hard enough to crack the plaster, his crossed arms digging into his leather jacket, his muscles coiled tight as he watched James work. Every fiber of him screamed to lunge forward, to tear the man apart for daring to lay a finger on what was his. The sterile glow of the operating light reflected off the surgical tools, casting harsh shadows across the room.

Nightwing and Robin lay unconscious on the steel tables, wearing the regular clothes Jason had bought off a random store, their breathing shallow and steady.

The scent of their blood spread through air, the sweetest of all, it caused every breath Jason took to make his fangs ache. His canines throbbed like live wires in his jaw, saliva flooding his mouth. Control came in layers: clenching his molars until enamel creaked, digging crescent moons into palms through gloves, and counting each drop hitting steel trays instead of heartbeats.

It was the hardest thing he had ever done to both keep himself under control at the smell and sight of Dick and Tim's blood, and to allow that piece of shit to touch them to even breathe near them. His instincts roared, primal and possessive, demanding he rip James apart and drag the unconscious pair back to his place.

Not that he cared specifically about them in any way. No, it wasn’t about them. It was about his. Dick and Tim were his now, whether they liked it or not, and as such, he wouldn’t allow any lowlifes to be around them and live. The thought of James’s hands on them, of his breath contaminating their skin, sent a low growl rumbling in Jason’s chest.

James moved with practiced efficiency, his gloved hands steady as he inserted the tracking chips into their spines. The soft beep of the monitors filled the silence, a constant reminder of their fragile state. He’d make James's death slower if he so much as nicked a vein, if he caused them even a moment of pain.

“No damages, right? Permanent or temporary?” came Jason’s voice, controlled, but with an edge to it that hinted at the storm brewing beneath the surface.

James paused, glancing up at him. Even with the surgical mask covering his face, Jason could see the amusement in the way they crinkled at the corners. “A possessive one?” James chuckled, his tone light, almost mocking. “I should’ve imagined it from the way you protect your territory.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed, and he pushed himself off the wall, taking a step closer. He rested his hands on his guns, “Answer. The. Question.” Each word fell like a hammer strike.

James hesitated, the levity in his expression fading as he met Jason’s gaze through the helmet’s opaque lenses. “No damages,” he said quickly, losing his earlier confidence. “Both temporary and reversible. The chips sit clean beneath the L3 vertebrae. No nerve interference. They’ll be fine once the anesthesia wears off.”

Jason stared at him for a moment longer, searching for any sign of deceit in the twitch of his hands, the dilation of his pupils, in his heartbeat rate. When he found none, he nodded curtly, stepping back. “Good."

James returned to work, and Jason hoped for silence, but the man spoke again, voice syrupy with false camaraderie, “May I know your reason for bringing these beautiful boys to me?” The doctor had barely finished his sentence, and yet already lit up every single one of Jason's instincts.

protect-mine-protect

His lips curled in disgust at the way James emphasized the words, tongue lingering on beautiful as if tasting it. The implication that they were merchandise—that Jason was just another depraved client—crawled up his spine like centipedes. He initially expected such a reaction, since those were the kind of clients James received after all, but it still made Jason want to throw up at the fact that he was trusting a man like that with Dick and Tim.

It didn't matter how much he hated their guts, how much he wanted them to hurt and pay. He hated this. Hated the necessity of it. But he couldn’t risk them running. Not now. Not ever. Not when he needed them to be himself again. Not when every stolen moment of their presence sanded down the jagged edges inside him, made him feel less like a ghost haunting his own life.

Jason didn’t dignify James with a response, only staring James down, letting the silence stretch until it pressed against the walls. The helmet hid his face, but he knew James felt it: that primal glare that had made better men piss themselves.

Good. Let him be afraid.

James Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, his hands fumbling slightly with the sutures. “I know, none of my business, right?” he chuckled awkwardly, the sound hollow and forced.

Jason tilted his head, slow and predatory, as if silently saying, no shit.

He glanced at Dick and Tim, their bodies still and pale under the harsh light. The urge to shove James aside and press his own hands over their wounds, to fix them with teeth and violence if he had to, burned through his veins. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Not yet.

He didn’t owe James an explanation, he didn’t owe anything to anyone. But the weight of his actions still pressed on him, all the reasons he couldn’t, wouldn’t, voice out loud—how their blood called to him louder than any heartbeat, how their absence left him hollowed out and rabid.

James cleared his throat, his gaze flickering nervously to Jason before returning to his work, fingers tightening around the surgical clamp until the metal creaked. “Sorry, I’m just curious why a vampire like you would come to me.” The last word cracked slightly, betraying the careful nonchalance.

Jason’s own fingers brushed the textured grips of his twin pistols, leather gloves whispering against custom steel. Every instinct screamed to bury a bullet between those skittish eyes, to taste the startled burst of copper he exuded. His jaw tightened beneath the helmet, tendons standing rigid as suspension cables. Patience, he snarled at the hunger and rage gnawing his ribs.

The bastard was still useful.

The scent of blood—their blood—still lingered in the air, taunting him, clinging to his sinuses. It took everything in him not to drag his tongue along the drying streaks on their skin, to mark them, claim them, remind himself they were here, they were his. He forced his breathing steady, mechanical. In. Out.

“You’re the best at what you do. Why wouldn’t I come to you?” Jason said calmly, but the edge in his tone made it clear it wasn’t a compliment.

It was a statement of a fact, but still laced with disdain. Best. The word curdled in his mouth. The best butcher. The best collaborator. Best at stitching collars into flesh while pretending it was medicine. He’d studied James’ files—every gleaming chrome operating theater built on rivers of donated blood, every smiling photo with Gotham’s vampiric elite.

But he was the only choice. When Jason realized Dick and Tim would eventually wake up and that he couldn't keep them drugged, not unless he wanted their blood to taste awful, he had quickly come to terms with the fact that they could overpower him in the right situation. The thought of them slipping through his fingers, of their scent fading from his territory, made his claws itch.

He wouldn’t lose them. Not to weakness. Not to incompetence.

And unfortunately, this was the only quick option he found. So, Jason decided that if he were really going to do this, only the best would do it for him. Only the best would ensure they stayed his, bound to him in ways even they couldn’t escape. His fingers twitched at the thought, longing to trace the fresh scars that would soon mark their skin. His marks, his proof.

James paused, his gloved hands hovering over the sutures. “Well, my usual clients aren’t exactly the kind of vampires you’re known for appreciating.” He glanced up, his masked face unreadable, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease.

The unspoken you freak lingered like static.

Jason’s gaze sharpened behind the helmet. He scoffed, “You mean the lords of human farms?” he purred, savoring the way James’ carotid leaped beneath paper-thin skin.

James wavered, his hands resuming their work but moving slower now, more cautiously. “Yes. That’s… exactly what I mean.”

He didn't know. Not yet. He had no fucking idea Jason was the reason he was recently out of work, or why Gotham's human farms were now rare. That had been obvious from the moment he accepted Jason's offer, but it was interesting to see a prey who had no idea it was currently one.

Jason’s lips curled into a cold smile, though James couldn’t see it. “You’re right. I have no appreciation for them. Just like I’ve no appreciation for you.” he growled, low enough to vibrate the surgical trays. “But business is business, right?”

James’ laughter emerged strangled, the sound muffled by the mask, but it was as if someone had stepped on a squeaky toy. He didn’t meet Jason’s gaze this time. “I’m glad you’re a businessman above everything else, Mr. Hood.”

Sure

Jason didn’t respond immediately. He pushed off the wall, taking a step closer to the table where Dick lay unconscious. He traced the rise and fall of Dick’s chest, the beep of the monitor a reminder that he was still alive. Still his. Jason’s fingers twitched inside their leather prison, tendons flexing like caged animals as the hunger stirred again—a live wire beneath his skin. He ground his molars until the ache drowned it out.

He needed every scrap of intel before carving his pound of flesh.

“Tell me,” Jason began, soft but carrying an undercurrent of steel. “How long until they wake up?”

James glanced at the monitors, then back at Jason, “Two, maybe three hours. The anesthesia should wear off by then.”

Jason nodded once, a blade of a gesture. He turned, boots breaking the silence like gunshots as he crossed to Tim’s table. The kid looked like a wax figure—pale, still, and deceptively peaceful. No bruises. No split knuckles. Just smooth skin hiding the betrayal of a body that shouldn’t exist. Jason’s teeth clenched as his gloved hand hovered over Tim’s throat, close enough to feel the pulse calling for him to take one more sip of his blood.

“And that’s it. They’re good to go.” James finished the sutures with a flourish, blood-black thread glistening under his hands.

Finally.

“How careful should I be with them?” Jason asked, despite knowing how James would react. He couldn’t help it, he had to know. If Dick and Tim tried to fight him after waking up, if the birds tried to fly the coop, he needed to know exactly how many bones he could break before the wings permanently snapped.

James smirked as he set aside the surgical tools. He peeled off his gloves with deliberate slowness, tossing them into the trash bin with a flick of his wrist. “Didn’t take you for a rough one, Mr. Hood,” he said, his voice dripping with a mockery that made Jason’s claws unsheathe reflexively.

Jason closed his eyes for a three-count, his blood singing with the need to paint the walls crimson. The helmet’s voice modulator hissed as he snarled. "Are you really gonna make me ask that again?".

James froze. His throat bobbed, beads of sweat forming at his hairline. He hesitated, glancing at Jason’s gloved hands, his claws now showing. His earlier bravado evaporated like steam under pressure.

“N-no,” he stammered, “The chips are designed to withstand impact. You shouldn’t need to worry too much.”

Jason’s gaze bored into James like a predator sizing up its prey. He took another step closer, his boots echoing off the tiled floor. “Shouldn’t?”, he echoed dangerously. The word emerged distorted, half an electronic growl, half a promise of violence.

James swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. He fumbled with his words, desperate to clear up any misunderstanding. “No, what I mean is— the chips are secure. Unless you’re planning to break their spines—” His voice cut off abruptly as Jason’s hand shot out, gripping the front of his scrub shirt and yanking him forward.

Jason let out a growl, baring his fangs beneath the helmet. “Don’t insult me.” The mere idea of anyone harming Dick or Tim, his prey, sent a surge of raw, feral rage through him. They were his to protect, his to claim, his to destroy if he so chose.

No one else had that right.

James’ breath hitched. He nodded quickly, his hands trembling as they hovered uselessly in the air. “A-apologies, Mr. Hood." His hands fluttered like wounded birds. "The chips— they’re stable. Regular physical activity like fighting, running, fucking, won’t dislodge them. You just have to be careful with the stitches in the first few days.”

Jason grimaced in disgust at the word 'fucking', holding James there for a moment longer, before shoving him back with enough force to make the doctor stumble.

“And the stitches?” Jason pressed.

James steadied himself against the operating table, his fingers gripping the edge for balance. “Keep them dry for the first forty-eight hours. Avoid direct pressure on the area. No full submersion in water. You can clean around the incision site with a damp cloth, but—" he wavered, glancing at Jason’s gloved hands, “—be gentle. No scrubbing.”

Jason tilted his head, his helmet reflecting the harsh light. “And pain?” He needed to know every detail, every risk, so he could ensure Dick and Tim were safe—safe from harm, safe from others, safe from everything but him.

“Minimal,” James replied quickly, adjusting his skewed glasses, the tremble in his hands making the gesture clumsy. “Any discomfort should be manageable with over-the-counter painkillers. They’ll feel sore, but nothing more.”

It shouldn't bother him that Dick and Tim would be in pain, but it did. Maybe because he wouldn't be the one causing it. If his blood bags were to hurt, it had to be by his hands and not by the hands of some pervert creep.

Jason stepped closer, his shadow swallowing James whole, the cold edge of the operating table digging into the surgeon’s back. “And if it’s more?”

James swallowed, his gaze flickering to the unconscious figures on the tables. “Then… you’ll need to come back. If there’s swelling, redness, or discharge, it may be an indication of infection. But I doubt that’ll happen. The procedure was clean.”

Jason exhaled through his nose, the scent of antiseptic and blood like thick sludge in his lungs. He’d seen what happened when wounds festered near the cord—the fever, the paralysis, the way the body turned traitor. Surprisingly, the image of Dick sweating through the sheets or Tim convulsing as sepsis set in didn’t spark the jagged satisfaction he’d expected.

Maybe because I want them aware when I peel them apart. Yeah. That’s all.

Jason’s fists clenched, the leather of his gloves creaking. “Clean,” he repeated, “Anything else I should know?”

James straightened his scrubs with shaky hands, avoiding eye contact. "No excessive movement. But only in the first few days, I promise.” He gestured vaguely toward Dick’s prone form. “Especially him.”

A muscle twitched in Jason’s jaw. Of course. Nightwing’s spine was like a goddamn slinky on a good day.

"Is that all?"

“Yes, that’s all." James nodded, and removed his mask. "Just… let the wounds heal.”

Jason turned away, his boots clicking against the floor as he moved back towards Dick and Tim. He reached out, gloved fingers brushing against Dick’s forehead, the touch almost tender if not for the possessive curl of his hand. He studied their still forms, the rise and fall of their chests, the faint pulse visible in their throats. 

They were fully his now. Vulnerable. Dependent. And he’d make sure they stayed that way.

"Here," James spoke, calling for his attention. The doctor reached into the pocket of his scrubs to pull out a small, sleek device. He held it out to Jason, his hand trembling slightly. “This is how you’ll control them. You can set the parameters here.”

Right, Jason almost forgot about that.

He took the device. The screen lit up, displaying a map with a blinking red dot: the location of the tracking chips. James leaned in slightly, pointing to the interface with a shaky finger. “You can define the distance they’re allowed to go from a marked location, or from the device itself. It’s… adjustable.”

Jason tilted the screen, scanning the controls. His thumb hovered over the touchpad, testing its responsiveness. The map zoomed in and out with fluid precision, the red dot shifting as he manipulated the scope. “How precise?”

“Down to the meter. You can set it to a specific radius—ten meters, fifty, a hundred. Anything beyond that, and the chips will administer a warning pain. If they keep going…” He trailed off, glancing at where Dick and Tim lay unconscious.

Jason continued to circle the input field with his thumb, waiting for James to elaborate. When he didn’t, Jason prompted him with a growl. “Finish what you were saying.”

James swallowed down. “Well, they’ll lose motor control. The chips will paralyze them until they either return to the designated area or… or someone resets the device.”

Jason’s grip on the device tightened, his claws digging into the plastic casing. The weight of it in his hand felt heavier than it should. He glanced back at Dick and Tim. The idea of them, of Dick, collapsing mid-stride, his body betraying him in the blink of an eye, sent a strange flicker through Jason.

Not guilt. Not satisfaction. Something else entirely.

He faced James, “And if I want to disable it? Temporarily?”

James blinked at him, as if someone had never asked him that question. “There’s an override function. You can deactivate the distance restrictions for a set period, like an hour or a day. But it’s logged." His fingers twitched as if he wanted to reach for the device but thought better of it. "You’d have to reset the timer manually once it runs out.”

Jason nodded, studying the screen. The red dot pulsed steadily, a silent reminder of the leash he now held. He zoomed in on the map, his thumb hovering over the radius setting. Ten meters from the device for now; later, he would set it up from his safe house. That would be enough. Enough to keep them close. Enough to remind them who had the power.

He set the parameter, the screen blinking in confirmation. Then, he slipped the device into his jacket pocket. 

His mind raced as he calculated all the possibilities and contingencies he’d need. He wouldn’t need it often, he didn’t plan to give them much freedom, but it was good to have options.

Control was everything.

James shifted uncomfortably, “Uh, Mr. Hood?" James began, making Jason turn his head to him. James’s smile faltered, his lips twitching as he took a step back. "What about the other half of my payment?”

Jason chuckled, low and dark, the sound reverberating through the sterile room. “Of course. But first…” He stepped closer, his gloved hand landing heavily on James’s shoulder. The weight of it made the man stiffen, his breath hitching. Jason leaned in, his helmet’s visor reflecting James’s nervous face. “You know Lord Marchius, don’t you? One of your oldest clients.”

James looked to the side, and shook his head quickly, too quickly. “No, I don’t— I don’t know him.”

Oh, he was a bad liar.

Jason tightened his grip on James’s shoulder, pulling him closer. “But you do know him.” His voice dropped to a whisper, the electronic distortion making it sound like a growl. He leaned into James’s ear, his breath hot even through the helmet. “You’ve been stitching tracking chips into his property for years. You even gave him fresh living blood bags when he got picky about his meals.”

James’s eyes widened, his face paling. Panic settled in. He jerked back, trying to pull away, but Jason grasped his nape and pressed him against the wall. James grunted, but quickly stammered, “Wait, you don’t have to do this. I can give you information on Lord Marchius." He shifted under Jason's grip, trying to look at him, "I know everything: his operations, his allies, his weaknesses. Just let me go, and I’ll—”

Jason interrupted him with a laugh, “Lord Marchius is already dead, you idiot."

James froze, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “What?”

Jason pressed James against the wall with enough force to crack it, taking pleasure in his groan. “I gutted him last week,” he said, calm but laced with menace. “Found him in his little blood farm, surrounded by his property. Pity you weren’t there. You could’ve joined him.”

He remembered well the satisfaction he had in killing this specific piece of shit. He made it slow, ripping eyes off, tearing ears off, cutting some limbs, burning with silver, truly taking advantage of that vampire healing to make sure the last thing that scum that had the audacity of calling himself lord felt was all pain.

James’s breathing quickened as he struggled against Jason’s hold. “I—I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t—"

“Didn’t know, ir didn’t care?” His free hand drifted to the holster at his side, his fingers brushing the grip of a pistol. “You’ve been making a fortune off the suffering of others, James. And now, you’re gonna pay for it.”

James’s gaze flicked to the unconscious forms of Dick and Tim on the operating tables, as if appealing to them for help. “You’re just like them,” he whispered, his voice trembling, but firmer than it had been tonight. “You’re no better than the lords.”

Jason’s hand stilled. For a moment, the only sound was the faint beep of the heart monitors. No, he wasn't like them. Dick and Tim weren't defenseless victims. They were fucking vigilantes, they were the reason he had lost everything, they were—

They had to pay, and Jason needed to live to do what had to be done. It was nothing like it. Nothing, huh? A voice mocked in the back of his mind, but Jason ignored it.

“Difference is," Jason grabbed his gun, resting its muzzle against James's head, "I’m the one holding the gun now.”

A shot.

Blood splattered, body went limp.

Jason shifted his attention back to Dick and Tim, the corpse at his feet already forgotten, a trivial afterthought. He strode towards them with purpose, his boots scuffing faintly against the cold, sterile floor. His gloved fingers hovered just above the neat rows of stitches that marred their skin, tracing the lines without touching, as if the mere proximity could undo the damage.

He hated it, hated the sight of it—especially on Tim. The kid didn’t even have his bite, didn’t bear the mark that screamed mine to the world. It was wrong. Unfinished.

mine-mine-mine

It echoed in his skull, relentless, consuming. A low growl rumbled between his ribs, a sound more animal than man, directed at no one and nothing. It was a futile attempt to soothe the gnawing possessiveness clawing at him. Soon, though. Soon he’d feed from Tim, sink his teeth into that unmarked skin, and leave his claim etched deep.

Soon, it would all be as it should be.

Dick was the first one he carried to the car. He lifted him like a princess, and part of him wished they were in a patrol that went wrong so he could tease Dick about it. Stupid, really, they never even patrolled together. The car was parked in James's "clinic" parking lot, a normal sedan that wouldn't attract too much attention.

Jason lay Dick on the back seat, leaning over him to carefully set his head on the seat. Then he heard it: Dick mumbling something. At first, he dismissed it, because knowing Dick, he was probably saying something about Kory or one of his little friends who were always more important than him back then. He huffed and was about to get out of the car—

"Little Wing."

His head whipped to Dick's face. The way he said it, so soft, so anguished, sent a knife straight through Jason's ribs. Fuck, it wasn't fair for Dick to call him like that, even if it was in a dream or something, not when Jason had never meant anything for him, had never been anything but his own replacement.

That… it was nothing. Nothing that mattered. He blinked away the ridiculous burn in the back of his eyes and focused on the feeling that drove him here. His hand grasped Dick's face, and he stared at his blood bag's relaxed features. Unconscious, but still able to hurt him with just one word. How ironic.

Jason let go of Dick with a push and headed back inside. He carried Tim in the same manner, laying him between Dick's legs and on top of him, in a way Alfred would definitely have scolded him for unsafe car practices. But Alfred wasn't there, was he? Jason swallowed down the knot in his throat and looked at Dick and Tim, at how, even asleep, they seemed to lean onto each other.

He wondered if that was what having a brother felt like. Something ugly twisted in his gut.

He shouldn’t care.

He didn’t care.

But the sight of them like that—comfortable, trusting, together—made his fangs ache with something sharper than hunger. His jacket was still warm from his body when he yanked it off, the movement too rough, too desperate. He draped it over them, tucking the fabric around Tim first, then Dick, ensuring neither was exposed.

Satisfaction curled through him as the red leather swallowed them whole, his scent marking them even.

mine-mine-mine

His. Only his.

The Pearline building was among the most expensive places to live in Gotham. Not only was it a stronghold for wealthy vampire elites who hid their decadence behind opulence, but it was also because of the services it offered. Everything legal, but their discretion was like no other. Which made it perfect for a crime lord like him to have one of his safehouses there.

And now, it was the only place where Bruce wouldn't find them so soon.

The building loomed over them like a predator over Gotham’s skyline, a sleek monolith made of glass and steel that glimmered with the cold detachment of its inhabitants. Jason stepped inside through the hidden entrance, the reinforced steel doors sliding open with a whisper, Dick and Tim slumped over his shoulders like dark trophies.

The security cameras blinked red in the corners, tracking his every move, but he moved with the assurance of someone who had nothing to worry about. Because he didn't have.

The elevator doors hissed open, and Jason stepped inside, his boots clicking against the mirrored floor. He hit the button for his floor, watching the numbers climb as the elevator ascended with a soft hum. The overhead light buzzed faintly, casting a sterile glow over the trio. The sight of them reflected back at him—the Red Hood, a man carved from violence, carrying two of Gotham’s finest vigilantes.

Oh, the old man would go crazy once he found out he lost two birds at once, and to Jason out of everyone.

The doors slid open on the penthouse floor, and Jason stepped into his apartment. The space was sprawling, a fortress of modern luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panorama of Gotham’s skyline, the city’s chaos muted by distance and tinted glass. The furniture was sleek and minimalist, featuring black leather couches, chrome accents, and a glass coffee table that seemed to belong in a museum.

The walls were bare except for a single painting hung above the fireplace, a chaotic swirl of red and black that matched the turmoil in Jason. A sleek kitchen dominated one corner, its stainless steel surfaces gleaming under recessed lighting.

Not his style, but well, that was the point of having a safe house hidden in plain sight.

Jason crossed the penthouse with long strides, going up to the second floor. The master bedroom loomed at the end of a dimly lit hallway, its door ajar, inviting him in like a predator returning to its den. He stepped inside and headed towards the bed, a massive fortress of silk and memory foam, its black covers impeccably smoothed as if untouched by human hands.

Shrugging them off with a gentleness that surprised himself—because of the stitches, of course—he lowered Dick first, his body folding into the mattress with a soft sigh. Tim followed, his smaller frame barely making a dent. Jason stepped back, staring down at them.

Something wasn’t right.

Dick’s long limbs sprawled awkwardly, his head tilted to one side as if he’d been tossed onto the bed carelessly. Tim’s hands curled loosely at his sides, his face slack, hollowed out by the anesthesia. It seemed... wrong. Like they were too fragile, too ordinary. Jason frowned, his fingers twitching at the thought.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, turning abruptly towards the closet.

He came back with an armful of fancy pillows, plush and oversized, their silk covers gleaming softly under the bedside lamp's gentle glow. He wedged one beneath Dick’s head, adjusting the angle so his neck wasn’t cricked, before doing the same for Tim. His movements were quick and efficient, not careful or anything. He added more pillows around them, propping Dick’s arm up slightly to relieve the pressure on his shoulder, tucking one under Tim’s knees to keep his legs from straining.

Then he stepped back and took a good look. Yet, it still didn’t feel like enough.

Jason stalked out of the room again, his boots muffled by the thick carpet, returning moments later with a stack of blankets: cashmere, Egyptian cotton, and wool so fine it felt like silk against his gloves. He draped one over Dick, smoothing out the wrinkles with a brisk efficiency, then he covered Tim with another, tucking the edges beneath the mattress to keep them snug.

He stepped back again, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. Better. Much better—

Wait. Jason froze. What the actual fuck was he doing?

He glanced around the room, realizing what the bed looked like. No, no, this wasn't a nest. It fucking wasn't. It might have looked like one, but it definitely wasn't it. Why would he make a nest for Dick and Tim? The only time he had a nest was when he was a kid, with Bruce and Alfred, when he believed he was loved and cared for, that he was their good, little vampire.

Jason’s throat tightened. He turned away, his gloves creaking as he clenched his fists. It wasn't a nest, he just… he did all of this because of the stitches. That was all. He didn’t want them to get worse. Didn’t want complications. Didn’t want to have to deal with infected wounds or broken incisions. This wasn’t about Dick and Tim. It wasn’t about care.

It was control.

He told himself that as he stared at them one last time, the pillows and blankets cocooning their still forms, the room humming with an uneasy silence. Control. Control. Control.

That was all.

He left the room, closing the door softly behind him. He headed to the living room and slumped onto the sofa, the leather creaking beneath his weight. The penthouse was silent save for the faint hum of the city outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and stared at the floor, fists clenched.

The hunger simmered just beneath his skin, an insistent ache that whispered for him to go back to the bedroom, to take the blood needed from them. He flexed his fingers, claws retracting and unsheathing in a rhythm that matched the thrum of his thoughts.

His gaze flicked toward the stairs, toward the closed bedroom door. For a moment, the urge to go to them, to sink his teeth into their necks and drink until the cold inside him vanished, was almost unbearable. He could feel the heat rising, the pull of their blood still lingering on his tongue, sweet and intoxicating.

But no. He wanted them awake to hurt. He had to make this purposeful; otherwise, he wouldn't be any different from the vampires he killed.

He let out a long, slow breath, trying to push down the gnawing hunger that clawed at his insides. He forced his thoughts away from the two unconscious bodies in the bedroom.

Gabriela. The girls. His gang. They’d be wondering where he was, why he hadn’t checked in, and he couldn’t. Not like this, not with his grip on himself still so tenuous.

Jason slumped back against the couch, his head tilting to stare at the ceiling. The plan. He needed to focus on his new plan. He had Dick and Tim now, and that changed everything. They were his leverage, his lifeline, and Bruce… Bruce would be so fucking desperate that he could almost taste it.

That was the point, wasn't it? To make him pay, to make him feel even a fraction of the pain Jason had carried since crawling out of his grave, and finding out he wasn't even avenged and was replaced instead.

But the girls needed him. He had become their protection since he came back, and if he stayed out for too long, someone would think that protection was no longer. So, no, he couldn’t avoid them forever. He knew that. But the thought of facing them, of seeing the disappointment—or worse, the fear—in their eyes, made him sick.

He’d lost control. He’d almost hurt Mary. He’d almost—

Jason cut the thought off. Yeah, he couldn’t handle that. Not yet. Maybe tomorrow, once the hunger had settled, once he had a firmer grip on himself.

For now…

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. The screen lit up, casting a pale glow across his face. His thumb hovered over the contact list for a moment before he tapped Trevor’s name. The phone rang twice before Trevor picked up.

"Boss?" Trevor's voice crackled through the phone, laced with relief, and God, how Jason missed it.

Jason smirked, leaning back on the sofa. "Who else would be calling from my phone, Trev?"

A breathy laugh escaped Trevor. “Oh, thank God, boss. After what Gabriela told me, I was afraid we wouldn’t see you again.”

Right. Of course Gabriela would have told him. Still, he wished she didn't. Enough people he cared about saw him as the monster he was, he didn't want to add Trevor to the list.

Jason chuckled, though the sound lacked any real humor. “Thought I would leave you with all the paperwork and accountability to do?”

He was lucky to find Trevor in the beginning, because handling all the boring parts of leading a gang was no shit.

He could hear Trevor's smile through the phone. "Nah. Didn't think you'd be that cruel."

The thing was, he would have been that cruel. Not on purpose, but he wasn't thinking straight when he decided he would either have his revenge or die before he became an uncontrollable beast. He didn't consider the fact that his gang would lose power without him and would either have to join others or get killed. He didn't think about how the girls would lose their protection and have to get back to their pimps.

He just… didn't. He was so consumed by hunger and the need to have one last revenge, that he didn't care about anything else.

A beat of silence stretched between them, thin as razor wire.

"Gabriela told you that happened, didn't she?" It wasn't necessary to confirm, but Jason wanted to anyway.

A sigh. "Yeah."

"Is…" Jason hesitated, concern etched in his tone, "... Mary okay?"

Stupid question really, he definitely wouldn't be okay if one of the few men he relied on in his whole life tried to drain him.

"She's good. Just shaken up." Trevor informed, adding worriedly, "But Iris is pissed at you."

That was… expected. He deserved it. He deserved it all. Isis didn't trust easily, and he had taken that trust and betrayed it in the worst way possible.

Jason sighed, "Rightfully." His fingers curled into fists, unable to continue on that subject. "Your sister good?"

He could see the way Trevor's eyes softened as he spoke, even miles away, "Ah, you know, she is recovering from another flu, but she got to go to school yesterday. Could barely hold her back from leaving in her pajamas."

Jason couldn't help the smile that spread through his lips. Before Trevor worked under him, Ana was always sick, and he had no money to buy her medicine or take her to the hospital. But now, Jason made sure that the man received enough money for both of them, and so that his sister could go to a good school that she wasn't able to attend before.

It wasn't much, they deserved much better, just like many of the people living in Crime Alley. But it was still something, and it felt good to do more than killing sometimes, as much as he enjoyed it.

"That's good," Jason said, his mind going to the other members of his gang. "You and Gabriela keeping the guys under control?"

He couldn't say all the people who worked for him were like Trevor or Gabriela. Most were, he tried to get all the strays he could, but some just wanted to be part of a powerful gang and run shit. Those they had to watch closely, and make sure their fear of breaking his rules was always greater than their greed.

"Like herding cats, but yeah, we got it." Trevor snorted, but then a pause came, and he asked. "Boss... you good?"

Jason's reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows was a smudge of red and black, his helmet discarded on the coffee table. The city sprawled beneath him, glittering like broken glass.

"Peachy," he lied, but it wasn't exactly a lie.

He was better. Certainly better than a few hours ago. It was just not enough. He wanted more, more control, more of Dick and Tim's blood, more of this sanity that felt like slipping at any moment without them.

Quieter, Trevor asked, "You coming back soon?"

Jason glanced at the staircase. "Tomorrow." He said finally, softer now. "Tell Gabriela I’ll check in tomorrow. Make sure she keeps an eye on the girls.”

Trevor paused, as if he wanted to say more, but he settled on, “Got it, boss. Take care of yourself.”

Always looking out for him. It was funny to see Trevor worry about the big, bad Hood, honestly. It almost made Jason believe he deserved it.

"Sure." Jason snorted.

He ended the call, tossing the phone onto the sofa.

He dragged a hand over his face, the rough texture of his gloves grounding him. The image of a sick little girl overlapped with the memory of Tim’s screams, the way his body had writhed in agony as his bones healed. Jason clenched his teeth at his own stupid mind. One thing had nothing to do with the other. Ana was a kid, an actual kid, and Tim was…

A target. A blood bag. A replacement. Nothing else.

And Jason wasn’t the kid who used to cry at the thought of hurting someone. He wasn’t the boy who believed in Batman’s justice. He wasn't the little vampire who took charity as love.

He was the Red Hood. And he had a plan, a good plane. He’d make sure they stayed put. He’d make sure they couldn’t run. And then… then he’d deal with the rest.

But first, he needed to make sure he didn’t lose himself again.

Dick stirred, warmth pressing against him like a cocoon.

His body sank into softness, the kind that made every muscle relax, every thought slow, like syrup pooling in his veins. He sighed, burying his face into something warm against his body. Familiar. The scent hit him first: clean linen, the faint traces of soap, and something uniquely Tim. His arms tightened instinctively around the smaller form curled against him, fingers digging into the fabric of a hoodie that wasn’t Tim’s usual sleepwear.

For a moment, he let himself drift. He was warm, and Tim was in his arms, and that was more than enough. Maybe they had fallen asleep on the sofa while watching a movie again, the only way Tim would allow his cuddling. His lips curved in a small smile. Yeah, it was probably that.

But then the ache started.

A dull throb radiated from the side of his neck, pooling at the base of his skull. It wasn’t sharp, more like a persistent bruise, gnawing at the edges of his consciousness. What the— He winced, shifting slightly, but the movement only made it worse.

Dick blinked his eyes open, grunting. Soft light filtered through black silk sheets draped over the bed's frame, casting everything in muted hues. Silk pillows cradled his head, cashmere blankets tucked around him with meticulous care, as if someone had arranged them while he slept. Then he saw Tim beside him, just as swaddled still. The room was quiet, the kind of quiet that made the hum of Gotham outside feel distant, muffled. His fingers tightened against Tim’s back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

It was what grounded him when memories came back in fragments, like shards of glass cutting through the haze.

Going to the Titans’ Tower to tell Tim that Bruce had left the planet with the League for a mission and bother him until he agreed to hang out with him.

He’d been happy. Not just content, but happy. The kind of happiness that warmed him from the inside out. It was rare these days, as grief threatened to swallow him whole, but with Tim sprawled beside him on the couch at Titans’ Tower, laughing at some stupid joke Dick had made about Bruce’s mission reports, he felt like the Dick Grayson who could still fix things.

Then it happened.

Red Hood’s silhouette hunched over Tim’s broken body, the wet, rhythmic sound of feeding cutting through the static in his skull.

Dick swallowed, his throat dry. The image of a villain, one reminiscent of the Joker, taking another brother from him had just been the last straw for him. He’d fought him in a blur of fury. It was the way he moved, the way he fought, like every blow was personal. With hatred.

Only to find out that it was Jason. His little brother. His little wing.

Dick still couldn't believe it. He didn't want to believe it. Because it was Jason, the little boy who would look at him as if he were the greatest, who could make Bruce laugh so easily, who happily drank tea with Alfred in the afternoons. That Jason couldn’t have the capability to shatter bones, couldn’t have pinned him down so easily, and drain him—

Dick’s hands trembled. He pressed them flat against the silk sheets, grounding himself by using the cold, slick fabric.

That… just couldn't be. He couldn't reconcile it.

But believing it or not, he was forced to deal with it. Jason forced him to deal with it. And they made a deal. Dick offered himself—anything to save Tim—and Jason had asked for his blood. Tears pricked the back of his eyes. How many times hadn't he regretted not having fed Jason when he was alive? Many. Too many.

And there was his little brother. Asking for one of the countless things Dick had never given to him. Things he knew Jason wanted, needed from him, but that he had ignored, forced himself to because he was too angry, too full of resentment, too blinded by the fact Bruce had adopted a kid better than him in every aspect.

Happier. Less angry. Better Robin. More obedient.

So when Jason required such a little thing, something Dick owned him all those years ago, he thought he saw a way out. That he would take Tim to the med-bay, take care of him, give Jason his blood, and find a way to fix this. Fix them. But then… Dick closed his eyes.

Jason turned on him. He hated Dick enough to not even let him look after Tim, and take his blood by force. Dick’s hand moved to his neck, fingers brushing the tender skin where Jason’s fangs had pierced him.

The worst part was that the bite didn’t hurt. There was that initial sting, as gentle as Jason had been for some fucked up reason, and it still hurt a bit. But then it felt… intoxicating. It was a warmth that spread throughout his veins, filling him with a strange, unwanted euphoria that caused his limbs to feel heavy and his head to swim.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like that. It wasn’t supposed to feel... good.

But it had.

And yet, he felt sick. The boy he’d failed so spectacularly had become… this. Someone who would beat up and drain a child. Someone who would drain people to their deaths. A vampire who saw him as nothing more than a meal.

Dick blinked away the sting of tears, focusing instead on Tim. He sat down with some difficulty, settled Tim on his back, and immediately started checking on his little brother. Checking pulse points, running along limbs that should've been shattered. Memory supplied the sickening crunch of bone beneath his palms in the Tower, the wet rasp of Tim's breathing.

The last time he saw Tim, he was… broken. There was no other word for it. But as Dick checked him with unsteady hands and blurry vision, he found… nothing.

No injuries. No broken bones. No—

He frowned when his fingertips felt something on the back of Tim's neck, breath hitching as he traced the familiar ridge-and-valley pattern. What the hell? He moved Tim to the side, shock twisting his features when he spotted it. Surgical stitches. Precise. Expert. His fingers hovered over them as Dick was too afraid to touch and mess them up.

Wait, the pain in his neck. His hand shot out to the back of his neck, finding the same thing there.

But how—

Jason.

The pieces started to fall into place in his mind. There was no way Tim could have healed from broken bones that Dick most definitely felt in the Tower, so there was only one explanation. Jason healed him with his blood. A mix of relief and hope filled him. He shouldn't think any good of that. God, Jason was who had hurt Tim in the first place, who had almost drained him, so supernaturally healing him to avoid killing him was kind of the minimum.

Basic fucking decency.

Dick pressed his forehead against Tim’s shoulder. That small mercy burned like a bittersweet ache in his chest because he knew it must have hurt like hell, but he couldn't help being glad that Jason at least didn't let Tim die. Even if he probably only did it to hurt Tim more, Dick… he couldn't have lost Tim too. He couldn't have failed another brother.

But then the realization hit him like a freight train. Jason hadn’t just taken his blood. He’d sedated them. Took them somewhere. And now they were here, wherever here was.

Dick stiffened, his breathing quickening. He shifted, careful not to jostle Tim, and glanced around. The room was spacious, luxurious even, but cold. The bed alone could've housed a football team, its carved mahogany posts stretching upward like prison bars, piled with pillows and blankets that cocooned them in warmth. Almost as if someone cared enough for that.

This was… confusing because the last time he saw something like it, it had been a nest. The word came unbidden, and Dick's stomach sank. He'd seen these too-perfect arrangements before—in abandoned warehouses where fledglings hoarded trinkets, in Gotham penthouses where ancient vampires recreated childhood bedrooms down to the peeling wallpaper.

Vampires didn’t make nests for just anyone. Nests were for family. For clan. For people they cared about.

His throat closed at the thought. No. Jason didn’t care about them. He made that perfectly clear. Dick's palm flattened against Tim's sternum, feeling the steady thump-thump-thump beneath. Proof of life that Jason could've easily stolen. The contradiction carved him hollow—the viciousness that shattered Tim's ribs versus the brutal mercy that knit them whole.

Jason thought he and Bruce had abandoned him and replaced him with Tim. It wasn't all true, but it wasn't all a lie either. Dick had left. He… didn't save his little brother. So a part of him could see where Jason was coming from, could see why he was so angry and spiteful when they talked.

He deserved it. Deserved Jason's hatred, deserved whatever his brother decided he deserved. But Tim didn't. He wasn't a replacement, could never be, no, he was another blessing in their lives, like Jason had been. Only this time, Dick wasn't too stupid to see it.

Tim stirred beside him, a soft groan escaping his lips.

Dick leaned over Tim, shaking his shoulder with a careful grip. “Tim,” he murmured, “Wake up.”

Tim groaned, his brow furrowing as his eyelids fluttered open. His eyes squinted against the dim light, glassy and unfocused. "What…?" he slurred, tongue dragging across chapped lips. His attempt to sit up dissolved into a shuddering gasp, knuckles whitening against black silk. "Shit. Feel like Bane used my spine as a... pretzel twist."

"Easy." Dick slid an arm behind Tim’s shoulders as he steadied him, a hand on his back as he helped him upright. Tim grimaced, his fingers instinctively rising to touch the side of his neck where Jason had bitten him. His hand froze midway, his gaze flicking to Dick with confusion. “What the hell…?”

Dick hesitated, “Do you remember what happened?”

Tim blinked, his brow furrowing deeper. He took in the opulent surroundings—the soft silk sheets, the meticulously arranged pillows, the muted glow of the overhead light. His confused frown shifted to unease. “Where are we?”

Then his hand flew to the back of his neck, hissing as his fingers brushed the stitches. "Jesus Christ—" he hissed through clenched teeth, recoiling as if the wound burned. "Is that—?"

“I don’t know where we are,” Dick admitted, quite ashamed. “But… it must’ve been Jason.” He turned slightly, showing the matching incision at the base of his own skull. The movement pulled at fresh scabs, a bright spark of pain cutting through the guilt. "And those are stitches. I’ve got them too."

Tim froze, staring at Dick like he’d just spoken in tongues. His fingers twitched against his thigh, a nervous tic he’d never fully kicked, as his breath hitched. “Jason?” he repeated incredulously, his voice hoarse. “You mean Red Hood, right, Dick? Jason is—” he hesitated, the words lodged in his throat, “Jason’s dead.”

Right, Tim had no idea. How would he say this when even he couldn't believe it? Jason's eyes flicked between the crimson of a vampire and a sickening green that reminded Dick of one thing. The Pit. And if the Pit had him, then maybe, maybe, none of this was entirely Jason’s doing. Not really. Just the rot of the waters twisting his brother into something sharp and serrated.

It had to be it. It had to.

Dick shook his head slowly, his throat constricting around the words. “He’s alive, Tim,” he said, forcing the confession past the tightness in his chest. “He’s Red Hood. I found out when I ripped off his mask with my escrima sticks.”

Tim stared, the color leaching from his face, his lips parted, but no sound came out. For a heartbeat, he appeared fifteen again—smaller, breakable—before his mouth twisted into something bitter. “So…” He dragged a hand through his disheveled hair, laughing once, a hollow, airless sound. “Ripped his mask off with your escrima sticks?” The corner of his lip twitched. “Bet that hurt him.”

The vindictive curl of Tim’s smile mirrored the feral thing in his own chest that still snarled at the memory of Tim’s bruised ribs. So no, Dick didn't blame Tim for taking satisfaction in Jason getting hurt. Shit, Jason had certainly taken pleasure in hurting Tim, so it was pretty fair.

Still, Dick regretted it now. Yes, everything Jason had done was wrong, and yes, a part of him, the protective beast that had lunged to attack on sight the moment Tim had been hurt, still wanted to beat Jason up for it.

But the rest of him still remembered that fifteen-year-old with a sweet grin tossing batarangs at paper targets, the part that still heard a voice rasping “I’ll be Robin forever, Dickface”, ached like an open wound. The rest just wanted his little wing back.

"He was draining you when I arrived, Tim." Dick said between clenched teeth, "I… I lost control."

And I didn't know it was Jason. Dick didn't say it. He didn't know if he would have been so… aggressive if he had known it was Jason. Would his fists have hesitated? Would that protective rage have curdled into something softer, something fractured and pleading, if he'd recognized those eyes beneath the blood-streaked helmet?

"It's okay. Thank you for trying to avenge me." Tim patted his forearm, his smile growing softer, sympathetic. A deliberate pause, his gaze tracking the guilt twisting Dick's features. "I imagine things went south when you found out he was Jason…"

"I lowered my guard." Dick confessed, remembering how easy it had been for Jason to get past him once he realized that was his little wing, who was back, who was hurting his little brother, who was draining criminals left and right— "It was on me."

"Well, unless you could have imagined your brother would come back from the dead as a crime lord, I don't blame you for lowering your guard." Tim's shrug lifted the blanket between them, not so subtly in his attempt to lighten the mood and make Dick feel less guilty.

A small smile opened on his lips. Dick still appreciated it.

It was why, despite knowing he deserved whatever Jason had coming for him, he had to protect Tim from Jason. The thing that was wrong between him, Bruce, and Jason had nothing to do with Tim. He couldn't allow Jason to drag him into this more than he already had.

Dick cupped Tim’s face in his hands, his thumbs brushing gently over the faint bruise on his cheek. “We’re gonna get out of this,” Dick said firmly despite the tremor in his hands. “I’m not gonna let Jason—”

The bedroom door creaked open, cutting him off. A mocking laugh echoed through the room, ice flooding Dick’s veins. His head snapped toward the sound, his body instinctively shifting to shield Tim. He never would’ve thought he would have to protect one of his brothers from the other, but here they were.

Jason stood there, leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed. The smirk on his face was sharp, predatory. “Always thinking you’re in control,” Jason drawled, his voice dripping with condescension. “You haven’t changed a thing, Dick.”

In control? Dick wanted to laugh. He had never been in control in a single moment of his life. He pretended he was, his villains bought into it every single time, but he just… wasn't. Mainly after what happened to Jason.

Yet… yet, Dick forced a small smile, his hand reaching out in a gesture that felt both desperate and futile. “C’mon, Jason, let’s talk.”

Dick's palms burned with the memory of Jason's smaller hand slipping into his during a Gotham downpour years ago. He flexed his fingers against the phantom weight. He had to hold himself back from simply hugging Jason and crying in his arms, thanking his little wing for coming back to him.

No, that wouldn't do any good.

“That’s exactly what I’m here for,” Jason pushed off the wall, his movements slow and deliberate. He sauntered over to the armchair beside the bed and dropped into it with arrogant ease, his legs spread wide, one arm slung over the backrest. “Go on." He tapped two fingers against the holster at his thigh. "Speak.”

Dick took a deep breath, his mind racing. He needed to buy time, needed to figure out a way to get Tim out of here. But before he could start, Tim spoke. “You can’t keep us here."

He glanced at Tim, whose eyes were narrowed, his jaw set with defiance, and Dick’s chest swelled with both pride and worry at the sight. Tim could hold his own, but Jason was… different now. He wasn’t the kid Dick remembered, replaced by something colder, sharper, more dangerous. And yet, looking at him now, Dick couldn’t help but see the boy who used to trail after him, the boy who’d laughed at his stupid jokes and looked at him like he hung the moon.

Jason’s gaze flicked to Tim. Anger or maybe resentment gleamed in it before being replaced by that icy smirk.

“But I can,” Jason replied as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as he gestured at them, “You see those stitches in your necks? They aren’t just for decoration.”

His mind ran through the options of what could be in his neck, sifting through every horror they’d encountered: black-market modifications, the kinds of things Jason had once spat at Bruce for tolerating. His breath hitched when the answer clicked and he realized there was something perfect for a vampire in Jason's situation. It hit like a punch to the diaphragm, cold sweat prickling his spine.

“What have you done?” Dick asked, his voice strained. Half a plea, half an accusation.

He searched Jason’s face, looking for any sign of guilt, any bit of the boy he’d once known. Jason's smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. Dick thought he saw a flicker of something—guilt, maybe—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

Jason chuckled, the sound hollow and devoid of any real humor. “Just put a little chip in there. Nothing too fancy.” When shock crossed their faces, he shrugged, as if it were nothing. “What? It’s not like you’re not used to Bruce putting trackers on you. Oh, and it’ll knock you out if you leave this place without my authorization.”

Dick’s mind raced, piecing together the implications. A chip. A farm chip. Vampires used them in their human farms and trafficking schemes to control their victims, seeing humans as nothing more than property. His hand instinctively went to the back of his neck, fingertips brushing the tender area where the stitches were. The thought made his stomach twist.

Jason wouldn't. He wouldn't. And yet, here they were.

Tim scoffed, his arms crossing. “You put farm chips on us? Wow, that’s a new low. Even for you.” His voice dripped with disdain, but Dick could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for a weapon that wasn’t there.

Jason’s smirk sharpened into a blade-edge, shoulders rolling back like a predator settling to hunt. “Talking like you know me, Replacement.” The way he spat the word made Dick’s chest tighten.

Not a replacement. Never a replacement. No one could ever replace Jason, and Tim could never be something so hollow.

Tim didn’t flinch. “But I know Red Hood.” He crossed his arms, glaring at Jason with defiance. “And I know even when he was out of control, he was still taking down human farms and human trafficking schemes. Didn’t think he could be such a huge hypocrite.”

Dick looked between them with the corner of his eye.

Jason stared at Tim for a long moment. Then, slowly, his lips split into a wide, predatory grin. “Guess I’m just a huge hypocrite then.”

Dick's chest tightened with a mix of anger and something heavier, something he couldn’t quite name. “Why?” he asked, his voice breaking slightly. He looked up at Jason, really looked, blue eyes scraping over every familiar angle of that face, searching for answers, for cracks, for anything. “Why would you do that?”

The room fell silent, the question hanging in the air. Jason tilted his head, his grin fading into something colder, more calculating. For a moment, it seemed like he might not answer.

Then he leaned back in the armchair, his arms spread wide in a gesture that was both mocking and defensive. “Because I fucking can,” he finally said, his voice dripping with arrogance. “And as my blood bags?” A sharp, humorless laugh. “I can do whatever I want with you.”

Blood bags. That word echoed in Dick's head, ringing in his ears as the cold, hard reality settled in. Jason was actually doing this. He wasn’t just lashing out in anger or seeking temporary revenge—he had planned this, meticulously, cruelly. He intended to keep them, to strip them of their humanity, and to hurt them in ways that went beyond physical pain. He wanted to break them, to reduce them into nothing more than property, tools to be used and discarded at his whim.

And Dick… he couldn't let that happen.

Tim scowled, "We are not your—"

"We will fight you." Dick cut him off, his gaze locked on Jason with an intensity that burned through the tension in the room.

There was no hesitation, no doubt in his words, just his determination to protect Tim.

Jason leaned back in his chair, his expression a mix of amusement and mild surprise. "Really? Didn’t expect that." He huffed, resting his chin on his hand as if he were watching some mildly entertaining spectacle unfold before him.

It gave Dick such a dissonance to look at him, to know he was Jason, and still only see his little wing in the cracks of this crime lord’s image.

"I mean it, Jason." Dick rose to his feet, swaying for a moment, the lingering effects of whatever Jason had done to him still evident, and for a second there, he thought he saw a glint of concern, but it was gone when he straightened, his posture firm.

When Tim made a move to follow, Dick raised a hand, gesturing for him to stay back without even glancing in his direction. He knew Tim would listen, knew he’d understand without words.

"We are gonna fight you every step of the way," Dick continued, low but carrying an edge. "And maybe you can overpower us, but there’s a chance. And it’s not worth the trouble."

It was two against one—two highly trained vigilantes against one vampire strong enough to come back from the dead, but two still. Yes, they certainly weren't in any shape to fight at that moment, but once they recovered, the moment Jason lowered his guard, they could take him down. 

And yet despite everything, that wasn't what Dick wanted...

"Okay, so what do you suggest I do?" Jason entertained him, seeming genuinely curious, "Let you go?"

As if that wasn't the last thing Dick wished for. No, now that he knew Jason was back, he wasn't letting go of his little wing ever again. And if that meant being his blood bag for a while, then be it. He could play the long game, as long as Tim wasn't involved.

"No. Let Tim go." It came out certain, as certain as Dick felt.

"What?" Tim snapped, as Dick expected he would, because, of course, his little brother wouldn't want to leave him behind.

"Shut it, Timbo, the adults are talking." Jason scoffed, rising from his chair in one fluid movement, his gaze never leaving Dick.

There was something about being the sole center of attention for a vampire like Jason that had left Dick completely unsure of how exactly to feel.

"You're gonna see the adult when I shove your gun right up—" Tim cut himself off when Dick gave him a sharp glance, "Tim."

The words ‘not now’ weren't spoken, but Tim still took a deep breath and sat back on the bed. His fingers dug into the silk sheets, causing his knuckles to whiten, but he stayed silent.

Jason chuckled and gestured dismissively at Tim, "Being a good boy for your older brother. How cute."

Dick exhaled through his nose at the provocation, stepping forward until he could see the flecks of gold in Jason's green eyes up close. The scent of leather and gunpowder clung to him, familiar yet foreign now, like a ghost wearing the skin of someone he used to know.

He didn't have a problem being haunted if it was by his little wing, never did.

"Just let him go." His voice dropped, stripped raw. "You wanted to hurt him? You’ve accomplished that. Still feeling like you want to hurt me more?" He spread his arms, a bitter offering, his body a shield between Jason and Tim. "Then I will stay, willingly. Torture me however you want. But keeping the both of us? That’s just stupid. We will find a way out. Take me, and you won’t have that problem."

Jason’s head tilted, considering, and for a moment, Dick believed. He believed Jason would see the reason, that he was logical although everything he had done until now said otherwise, said that he was driven by a deep hatred for him and Bruce that was enough for him to wipe out half of the underworld in a few months and attack him and Tim so brutally.

No, he wanted to believe there was a chance for Tim to get out of this and get his brother back.

Then Jason threw his head back and laughed, a sharp, jagged sound that scraped against Dick’s ribs. "The master manipulator Dick Grayson." He wiped an imaginary tear from under his eye. "Damn, never thought I’d see you work. You almost had me. Almost." The last word was a bitter snarl, venom lacing every syllable.

Wait, what? Was that how Jason saw him now?

Dick stiffened. "Jason, that's not—"

Jason's hand shot out, fingers wrapping around his throat. Not crushing, just holding. A warning. A promise. And god, was it bad that Dick craved for the proximity that brought them?

"You’ve talked. Now it's my turn, Dickie." Jason leaned in, claws pricking just enough to sting, to remind him who held the power here.

Movement flickered in Dick’s periphery: Tim sliding off the bed, silent as shadow, muscles coiled like a spring.

Jason didn't miss it either, his grip tightening in warning as his grin widened. "Try it, Replacement. See what happens."

Tim's jaw clenched, and Dick knew it. His little brother would act, for him, if he didn't stop him.

"It's okay, Tim. I'm okay." Dick swallowed against the pressure of Jason's grip, glancing at Tim to try and soothe him down.

It worked. Tim stayed still.

"Look at me." Jason forced him to face him again, the green almost glowing in the dim light. "Not at him."

If Dick didn't know better, couldn't see how much Jason despised him now, he would think Jason was jealous. But he did know better.

"Speak. You said it was your turn," Dick said, his voice steady despite the clawed hand wrapped around his throat.

The cold press of Jason’s thumb stroked his pulse point, almost tender, as if mocking the violence in the gesture.

Jason’s growl was a predator’s purr. "Here’s the thing, Goldie." His grin widened, turning vicious. "You don’t get to negotiate. And he doesn’t get to leave. You’re both mine now."

Dick’s breath hitched at the sheer possessiveness in those words, but he found himself unable to look away. He couldn’t. Jason’s green eyes burned into him with a mania that made it impossible to break the stare.

And at another moment, in a whole other situation, Dick would be more than glad to belong to Jason. To be… his clan. To have those arms around him without the threat of violence, to hear that growl rumble against his skin in happiness instead of fury. God, even now, part of him rejoiced that his little wing claimed him, that after everything, Jason still wanted him close enough to choke.

But it was an illusion just like the nest.

"And you aren’t gonna fight me," Jason continued, his tone shifting to something almost playfully mocking, "Wanna know why?"

Not really. Dick could feel something bad was coming, but he had to know.

Dick’s throat bobbed against the pressure of Jason’s grip, but he forced it out anyway. "Why?"

Jason leaned in, his breath hot against Dick’s face, his grin widening until it was almost feral. "Because each time you do, I’m gonna break one of you onto the brink of death, and make the other one watch. Then I’ll heal you just to do it all over again." He paused, letting the threat sink in, savoring the way Dick’s features twisted with all the emotions raging inside of him.

His little wing wasn't capable of that, was he? Dick wanted to think that he wasn't, that this was just a really good bluff, but everything in Jason screamed that it wasn't. He would actually do that. Dick searched Jason’s face for any sign of hesitation, any crack in the mask.

There was none. Just the cold, calculating gleam of someone who had already decided exactly how far they were willing to go.

"And if that isn’t enough to keep you two under control…" Jason reached into his pocket, pulling out a sleek phone. He rolled it between his gloved fingers like a magician showcasing a prop. "Then the old man’s morals will."

Bruce. He was talking about Bruce.

Dick’s gaze locked onto the phone. "What are you talking about?"

"See, my gang keeps a few pieces of shit for me to feed on when I’m not hunting. So if I don’t feed from you," he said, filled with false sweetness, "Then I’m just gonna feed from them, and I'm not exactly known for keeping my prey alive. Oh, and they have orders to kill those scum if I don’t show up at least once a day." Jason tilted his head, the motion almost childish. "So, choose your poison."

A glacial coil of dread settled in Dick's gut, crystallizing with each calculated word. It was all so well planned, so well thought, so well aimed at their weaknesses, that he couldn't see a way out.

Maybe because of all the noise in his head telling him to hug little wing, show him you loved him, tell him he was everything, mixed with he is a threat to Tim, you have to protect your little brother, you can't let him hurt him again. His skull throbbed with competing impulses: fractured memories of a laughing Robin warring with the image of Red Hood draining Tim.

Silence stretched as Dick's mind raced. Okay, so he couldn't fight Jason and couldn't get Tim out of this. Not straight up. Which meant he had to play the role of obedient blood bag until he could find a way for Tim to escape. He could do that. It was the oldest Grayson play—smile brighter, bend without breaking, become the distraction. He could practically hear Bruce’s voice growling buy time as adrenaline sharpened his senses to a knife-point.

"We'll behave." Dick declared, summoning the particular grin that once charmed talk show hosts and assassins alike, even when his pulse jumped beneath Jason's fingers.

Jason felt it.

His smirk turned even more vicious. "Good. You're learning." He looked over Dick's shoulder at Tim, "But I want him to say it too."

Dick heard Tim begrudgingly mutter, "I’ll... behave." Each syllable emerged stiffly, as though dragged over broken glass.

Pride and guilt twisted behind Dick’s ribs.

Jason nodded in satisfaction, grip loosening gradually, fingertips lingering just long enough to brand the memory of the pressure into Dick’s skin. Dick rubbed at the spot where Jason’s fingers had been, a strange mix of relief and something else he couldn’t quite name.

The absence of Jason’s touch left his skin tingling, partly from the lingering pressure, partly from the unsettling warmth that had somehow felt… grounding in a grotesque way, like a tourniquet applied too tenderly.

"Now that everyone knows their places…" Jason announced, dusting invisible lint off Dick’s shoulder before delivering a condescending pat. The gesture carried the weight of a collar being fastened. "Take a shower so we can have dinner. You guys stink."

Okay, he hadn’t expected that. Not the shower part—they actually needed one.

Dick’s eyebrows twitched upward in surprise. "Dinner?", he repeated. The wrongness of it pooled under his tongue.

Jason turned and headed towards the door, his movements unhurried. He snorted, "What? You thought I was gonna let you starve or something? Nah. Need you sharp." His fangs gleamed faintly on the word sharp. "So I can feed properly."

The casual cruelty of it sank into Dick’s ribs like a rusted hook. He felt like he would have to get used to it.

Dick and Tim exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them in the span of a heartbeat. There was no other choice but to do what they were told. And again, a shower would be good.

“Now get into that shower, and don’t let water rain directly on the stitches. I'm gonna get you some better clothes.” Jason pointed at the bathroom, and left the bedroom.

Just like that. No locks, no restraints. The absence felt heavier than chains.

And he had said it so naturally too, as if they weren’t his blood bags, as if they were… brothers. Dick’s chest ached, threatening to crack the fragile composure he’d barely managed to scrape together. He almost let himself believe it, almost let the familiar ease of Jason’s voice trick him, but then Tim’s cut through the illusion. “So, who goes first?”

Dick exhaled slowly, pushing the thought aside. “You go first. I'll take the watch."

Tim stared at Dick before he gave a sharp nod. He pushed himself off the bed, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at his stitches. The sight made Dick sick, the guilt coiling tighter in his gut. He should have protected Tim better. He should have been faster, smarter, better. But he hadn’t been, and now they were stuck here.

Tim shuffled to the bathroom, and Dick watched him go, his gaze lingering on the closed door before he crossed the room, and leaned against the wall beside the bathroom door. The sound of running water filtered through the wood, a steady rhythm that did nothing to calm him.

So Jason at least planned to kind of take care of them. Shower, food, clean clothes, it was the bare minimum really, but not in a normal kidnapping. It was probably because he planned to feed from them, but it at least signaled to Dick that he wouldn't have to worry about asking basic stuff for Tim. Jason’s twisted pragmatism deserved no gratitude, but Dick cataloged the concessions anyway: no shackles, no gag.

It was something.

Jason stepped back into the bedroom just as the shower shut off, tossing a bundle of clothes at Dick with a careless flick of his wrist. "Here."

Dick caught the sweats midair, unfolding them with a frown. The fabric diminished his frame, the hem dragging past his ankles when he held them against his legs, the sleeves swallowing his hands whole. He held up the sweatshirt like a surrender flag. "Don’t  you have another size that isn’t huge?"

Jason leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed in a way that pulled his jacket taut across his shoulders, that Dick still reflexively measured against his own. "The only clothes here are for me." He jerked his chin toward the pile. "So it's those or parade around in Batshorts. Your call."

Dick's fingers tightened around the fabric. The scent of Jason clung to it: gun oil, leather, and something faintly metallic beneath. He didn't want to think about the meaning of wearing Jason's clothes, how very clan-like that was, because he knew he would only fool himself.

Tim emerged from the bathroom, steam curling around him, a towel slung on his hips. He looked between them, eyes narrowed to slits beneath dripping bangs. "What'd I miss?"

Dick tossed him the smaller set, grateful for the distraction. "Fashion crisis."

Tim caught them with one hand, eyeing the oversized sweats with a raised brow. "Great. I always wanted to drown in fabric."

Jason rolled his eyes, and if Dick didn't know any better, he would say he saw care in them. "Dinner's in ten. I'm waiting for you in the hallway." He pushed off the doorframe and left.

When the door clicked shut, Dick turned to Tim and squeezed his shoulder, the damp skin warm beneath his palm. “Stay here and don’t do anything stupid.”

Tim’s lips twitched, a ghost of a smirk. “You’re one to talk.”

Dick smiled and stepped into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. The steam from the shower hung in the air, warm and heavy, but it did nothing to ease the tension in his shoulders. He stripped, his movements mechanical, before he stepped under the spray. The water hit his back like a thousand needles, hot enough to blur the line between punishment and relief. It kept him from drowning in the whirlwind of emotions threatening to pull him under.

He washed quickly, not wanting to leave Tim by himself for too long, but careful not to wet the stitches at the base of his neck. Every twist of his torso pulled at the stitches, a constant reminder of what Jason had done, of the collar he’d forced them into.

When he stepped out of the shower, he felt marginally better, the heat easing some of the tension in his muscles. He dressed in clothes that hung on his body like borrowed skin, sleeves swallowing his fingers until he rolled them twice, and opened the door. Tim was sitting on the edge of the bed, his gaze fixed on the floor, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his knee. Assessing, always assessing.

He faced up when Dick stepped out. Tim snorted. "You look like a kid playing dress-up."

"Shut up," Dick muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

He actually paid attention at Tim, who'd managed to make the oversized clothes look intentional, sleeves shoved past his elbows, the hem knotted at his hip. It was such a Tim thing to do—turn something meant to humiliate into a statement.

Tim caught him staring. "What?"

"Nothing." Dick forced a smile. "Just thinking how even Jason's hand-me-downs can't ruin your aesthetic."

Tim rolled his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders eased. Just a fraction.

The bedroom door swung open without warning. Jason stood there, arms crossed, "You two done playing house?"

Dick met his stare, "We're ready."

Jason's lips curled. "Good." He stepped aside, gesturing down the hall. "Let's go before I change my mind."

He trailed after Jason out of the bedroom, with Tim close behind. He couldn't help but glance at Tim, who was walking stiffly, eyes darting around as if calculating their next move.

Dick hated the way Tim’s shoulders were tense, hated the way he appeared so much smaller without the Robin suit, breakable. He should be safe. He should be. But Jason hadn’t been, and now—

As they walked through the hallway, Dick noticed how dimly lit it was, the shadows stretching long and ominous along the walls, and the first floor was shrouded in the same half-light. It was clear Jason hadn’t bothered to turn on more light.

Why would he? Vampires could see in the dark, and it seemed he didn’t care much about the comfort of his… guests.

He kept his gaze fixed on Jason’s broad back, tension coiling tightly in his stomach until they arrived at the kitchen.

It was as cold and impersonal as the rest of the place. Stainless steel appliances gleamed under the recessed lighting, their surfaces spotless, untouched. Next to it, there was the dining room, which was the complete opposite. It was too bright, too normal—crystal chandelier refracting light across polished mahogany beneath bone china plates.

Like some twisted parody of family dinners at the Manor.

Jason walked over to the table, where a couple of paper bags sat. He pulled out two cheeseburgers, a chili dog, and three sodas, setting them down with a casualness that almost let Dick believe they were just spending the night in his place, that Jason might toss him a soda and complain about patrol routes.

How delusional of him.

Jason gestured to the burgers and sodas. “Sit and eat.”

Dick hesitated, but Tim didn’t. He strode over to the table and dropped into a chair, his gaze locked on Jason. “What’s the catch?” Tim asked. Flat. Defiant. The same tone he’d used at fourteen, demanding Batman take him seriously. “You’re not exactly the hospitable type.”

Jason smirked, leaning against the table as he unwrapped the chili dog. “No catch, Replacement. Just thought you two might be hungry. Can’t have my blood bags passing out on me, can I?”

Of course. Of course, that was the reason. Dick slid into the chair across from Tim, scanning Jason and the food. It smelled good, almost too good, and when he unwrapped it, a burst of onions and seared meat was released and his throat moved before he willed it, traitorous biology overriding the acid churn of dread in his gut.

Tim shot him a sideways glance, fingers tightening around his soda can. The condensation dripped onto the tablecloth, darkening the fabric.

Jason dropped into the chair opposite them with the ease of a king claiming his throne. He unwrapped the chili dog with deliberate slowness, grease glistening on his fingers as the scent of cumin and charred meat cut through the sterile air. “What?” he asked between mouthfuls of savage bites, sauce smearing the corner of his mouth. “Never seen a vampire eat junk food before?”

His stomach churned. Not because a vampire was eating normal food, he knew that when they were fed enough blood, they could taste it for a few hours. No, it was the rest. This isn’t right. The contrast of it, of Jason, his Jason, tearing into street food while Tim’s stitches peeked above his collar, made his pulse stutter.

Still, Dick took a hesitant bite, the flavors exploding in his mouth, good as they shouldn't be. He forced himself to swallow, tracking the way Tim’s burger wrapper crackled as his brother peeled back the lettuce with surgical precision.

“You’re not gonna poison us, are you?” Tim asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Jason snorted, shaking his head. “Not my style. If I wanted you dead, you’d already be dead.”

He held his tongue. Jason had rendered Tim pretty close to death for someone who didn't want him dead. The image flashed again—Tim’s shattered ribs visible through torn skin, the wet rasp of his breathing—and Dick took another bite, forcing himself to chew and swallow despite the lump in his throat.

He needed to keep his strength up, even if it would all go away when Jason fed on him.

Dick took a slow sip of soda, the fizz barely registering on his tongue. He faced Jason, who lounged in his chair like a king holding court, lazily tearing into a chili dog. The sight was so absurdly Jason—so deliberately, infuriatingly Jason—that it sank his stomach like a stone.

He couldn't keep looking, so he shifted to Tim, always Tim, steady Tim, who sat dissecting his burger into geometric sections. A crumb clung to the corner of Tim’s mouth, trembling with each shallow breath, and Dick fought the absurd urge to reach over and brush it away.

The tension in the room was thick, the air heavy with unspoken words and simmering resentment.

It pressed against Dick’s chest, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. He didn’t know why he did it, maybe because he had always sucked at silence, or maybe because the quiet was worse, but he cleared his throat, setting the burger down. “So. This is… nice.”

Both Tim and Jason looked at him as if he were crazy. Yeah, maybe he was crazy for that, but someone had to say something that couldn't lead to a fight. Then Jason snorted, a sharp, mocking sound. “Nice? Really, Dickie? That’s the best you’ve got?” His fangs glinted as he smirked. “What’s next? Complimenting the fucking décor?”

Dick’s thumb dented the soda can. He tasted salt, the burger’s grease, and the lie on his tongue all at once. “Just trying to make conversation." He shrugged, trying to keep his tone light. "You know, like normal people do.”

Jason scoffed, “Normal people? You think we’re normal now? That’s adorable,” He leaned back in his chair and made a 'go on' gesture. "But sure. I want to see where this goes."

Fair enough, normal wasn't what they were at all. But sometimes, just sometimes, Dick wished they were. Not because he wanted simplicity or ease, but because it might mean he wouldn’t have to lose a brother. Again.

“Well,” Dick began, his voice carefully neutral, “you’ve been busy.” He gestured vaguely, encompassing the penthouse, the situation, everything.

Jason smirked around a bite of chili dog, grease smearing the corner of his mouth. “You could say that.” His green eyes gleamed with something dangerous as he licked sauce from his thumb, “Gotham’s been… eventful.”

That was one way to put it. Reports of Red Hood described him as absolutely feral, a beast in human flesh draining every criminal who crossed his path. But Dick had seen only a fraction of it firsthand, and still... he refused to let himself think of his little wing as nothing but a monster. There had to be more beneath the rage, beneath the violence. There had to be something left of the boy he once knew.

The Pit explained the violence, the rage.

But the precision? The calculation?

That part kept Dick awake.

Dick’s smile felt stapled on, his fingers tightening around the soda can. “Yeah, we’ve noticed. Red Hood’s been making quite the name for himself.”

Jason wiped his hands on a napkin with deliberate slowness. “It’s not hard when you’re the best thing to hit the city in years.” He tossed the napkin onto the table, his smirk widening. “Better than a flying rodent, that’s for sure.”

Unnecessary.

As Dick expected, Tim didn't hold back, “Yeah, because terrorizing criminals and leaving a trail of bodies behind you is so impressive.”

“Careful." Jason’s gaze snapped to Tim, his smile turning predatory. Gossebumps dances across Dick's skin, "You’re still on thin ice.”

His protective instincts flared. Dick’s boot nudged Tim’s ankle under the table—a silent stand down—even as he schooled his face into a calm expression. “Tim,” he warned, his tone gentle but firm, “let’s not start anything, okay?”

Tim let out a sigh, leaning back in his chair with a mutter. “Fine. But he started it.” The red flush creeping up his neck betrayed the casual posture.

The breath Dick released caught halfway when Jason chuckled and kept up the provocation. “Still got that fire, huh? I’ll give you that.” He tilted his head, studying Tim with a mix of amusement and something darker. “But keep pushing, and you might just find out how thin that ice really is, Replacement.”

Don't say anything. Don't give him the satisfaction, Dick begged silently.

 It didn't work.

Tim’s head had snapped up, his blue eyes blazing with defiance, the kind that only came from years of standing toe-to-toe with Gotham’s worst. “Knock it off with the ‘Replacement’ crap. It’s getting old.”

Jason’s smirk faded, replaced by a colder mask. “Oh, it’s not crap, Timmy. It’s the truth. You’re the new model. The upgraded version. Bruce’s shiny new toy.” His voice dripped with venom, and Dick could see the way Tim flinched, just barely, before masking it with anger.

Please, don’t make me choose. Don’t make me step between you two. The thought of it coiled like barbed wire around Dick’s ribs. Protecting Tim from Jason’s jagged edges, shielding Jason from the consequences of his own wrecking-ball heart. He’d do it. He’d throw himself into the chasm between them, even if it left him bleeding out on both sides, even if it meant losing Jason all over again.

Dick leaned forward, “Jason, that’s enough.” His voice dropped into Nightwing’s cadence, steel wrapped in velvet, a warning disguised as a plea.

Jason faced him. “Enough? You think I’ve even started?” His claws scratched the wood, as if he was barely restraining himself from tearing it apart. Or tearing into them.

He looked feral. He looked the same as he had when he threatened to finish draining Tim in front of Dick. And a part of Dick hated him for it. Hated this Jason for acting in ways his little wing would never. Hated him for seeking to hurt a child simply because he found himself in the same mantle, the mantle that was taken from Dick in the first place.

Dick’s jaw clenched, but he forced himself to stay calm. “Jason,” he said, softer now, “we’re here. We’re not fighting you. Can we just… finish this meal?”

Jason’s green eyes narrowed as he stared at Dick. “You're the one who wanted to talk in the first place, Dickie." Yet, like a moody kid, he straightened up and crossed his arms like Jason used to do when Bruce didn't let him patrol sick.

A smile almost opened on his lips at the memory. Almost.

"Sorry. It won't happen again." Dick conceded, robotically, and he thought he saw Jason grimace at that, swift, brutal, a flash of white fangs before his face smoothed into porcelain indifference.

He must have seen what he wanted to see. It was happening many times tonight.

Dick and Tim ate the rest of the meal in silence as Jason lounged in his chair, legs sprawled out, his gaze tracking their every move. The way he stared was unnerving, like a predator sizing up its prey, and Dick’s skin crawled under the weight of that gaze. He forced himself to keep eating and glanced at Tim, who, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He kept his face down, methodically picking at his burger, but Dick could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched every so often.

When they finished, Jason pushed back from the table with a scrape of his chair, the sound grating on Dick’s nerves. He stood towering over them, looking at Tim with a smirk sharp enough to cut glass. “Get ready, Timbo. I’m drinking from you tonight.”

Everything in Dick froze. His limbs locked, his chest tightening like a vice. Tim’s face paled, but he didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just stared at Jason with that stubborn defiance Dick both admired and hated.

He shot to his feet. “No.”

Jason tilted his head, his expression a mix of amusement and irritation as he turned to Dick. “No?” he repeated, mocking, daring him to argue.

Dick’s jaw tightened, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. He knew this was a trap, knew Jason was goading him, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Take me instead.” The words came out sharper than he intended, but he didn’t back down. “I’m offering.”

Jason’s sneer widened, his fangs glinting in the dim light. “Oh, how noble of you, Golden Boy.” He leaned forward, resting his fists on the table, “But what if I want to feed on Tim?”

Dick swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet Jason’s gaze. He wouldn’t back down. Not now.

“I’m stronger,” He said quickly, his mind racing. He needed to make this make sense. “I can handle it better than he can. You know that.” His voice wavered, but he didn’t let it break. “He’s already been through enough.”

“Aw, look at you, playing the big brother.” Jason provoked, and easily cutting him with just words. “Always the protector, huh? It's cute. But no.”

Dick clenched his fists tighter, his nails digging deeper into his palms. “Jason, please. He can’t—”

“I can handle it,” Tim interrupted. He pushed back his chair and stood. He wasn’t trembling, wasn’t hesitating. Just defiant, even now. “I don’t need you to protect me.”

Dick turned to him. This wasn’t about pride or heroics. This was about protecting him. “Tim, don’t—"

Tim cut him off, his gaze locked on Jason. “Just get it over with.”

Jason stood there for a moment, then chuckled and gestured at Tim, “See? The kid’s got guts. I like that.” He took another step forward, his presence looming, his hand raised. “You think you can protect him from me?” His claws caressed Dick's cheek, the sting of their touch barely felt compared to his words. “You can’t even protect yourself.”

Dick didn’t flinch, though.

“I’m not trying to protect him from you. I’m trying to protect him from this.” Dick gestured between them, his eyes pleading for Jason to hurt him, not Tim. “Whatever is between us, it’s not his fault. So take it out on me. Not him.”

Jason’s scowled. For a moment, something flickered in his expression—doubt, maybe, or guilt—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. “Fine.” His tone was dismissive, his sneer returning. “But on one condition." He leaned in, his breath hot against Dick’s ear. "I leave my bite mark on Tim before feeding on you."

A bite mark?

"Why would you do that?" Dick inquired with a frown.

Feeding was one thing, but leaving a bite mark just for the sake of it? That wasn't normal unless… it was with clan. But that couldn't be. Jason made it clear, they were nothing but property for him.

Jason shrugged, as if the answer didn’t mean anything. "My blood bags carry my mark. It’s the rules." His voice was smooth, devoid of emotion, and that lack of feeling didn't sit right.

Still, that seemed to be the thing he wouldn't be able to convince Jason of the other side. For an insane moment, Dick's muscles coiled, and he considered trying to overpower Jason. The rage that told him to punch this monster over and over, hurt him like he had hurt Tim, to make sure he could never touch his little brother again. 

It didn't last long.

The moment he realized that would mean hurting his little wing, punching the boy who wanted nothing but to read books and protect people who couldn't protect themselves until he bled, it was all gone.

Dick sighed heavily and turned to Tim, his heart pounding. "Tim, are you okay with this?" He hated himself for asking that question, for not being able to stop it.

Jason barked a laugh, cutting off any response Tim might have given. "He doesn’t have to be okay with it. This is happening whether he likes it or not." He leveled Dick with a glare, "It’s the price for me feeding on you instead of him."

Tim ignored Jason. "Yeah," he replied firmly, despite the tension in his frame. "It’s okay."

Jason rolled his eyes, "How touching. Now, stay still, Replacement." He passed by Dick and walked towards Tim, his movements predatory. Tim didn’t flinch, didn’t move, he just stood there, rigid. Dick’s fists clenched at his sides, but he forced himself to stay still.

It was just a bite mark. They healed. It wouldn't be anything permanent.

Jason’s gloved hand came up, curling around the back of Tim’s neck in a grip that wasn’t cruel but wasn’t gentle either. A command, not a caress. Tim’s breath hitched, glancing at Dick, resolute, before he dropped his gaze to the floor.

The sight twisted something deep in Dick. He should be able to stop this. And yet, he wasn't. Always not enough. Not fast enough, not smart enough, not obedient enough, not good enough.

Jason leaned in, his lips brushing against the side of Tim’s neck, and Dick felt his own breath catch. He stared, transfixed, as Jason’s fangs gleamed faintly in the dim light. For a second, it was almost intimate—the way Jason’s grip tightened, the way Tim’s eyelids fluttered shut, the way Dick couldn't look away—but then Jason struck. His fangs pierced Tim’s flesh with a precision that spoke of experience, the soft sound of flesh parting hitting Dick like one of Bane's punches.

Tim hissed, his body tensing, his fingers curling into fists at his sides, but he didn’t make a sound beyond that, as if he refused to. His eyes squeezed shut as Jason’s fangs sank deeper, marking him. Dick wondered how it felt for Tim, if for some reason it was as good as it had been for Dick, or if he was in the excruciating pain Dick should have been in.

Both options made him uneasy.

Jason lingered for a moment, his lips pressed against Tim’s neck, and Dick tensed, ready to interfere in case Jason wanted more, but he pulled back with a soft, almost satisfied sigh. Dick could finally breathe.

Blood smeared Jason's lips, and he licked it away with a slow swipe of his tongue, “There,” he said, smooth, like velvet wrapped around steel. “Now he’s marked.” He released Tim with a final squeeze, stepping back and leaving Tim standing there, trembling slightly, his hand instinctively going to the bite mark on his neck.

The bite glared up at them all, twin crescents oozing crimson.

Dick didn't care what Jason would do, he simply rushed past him and steadied Tim. "Hey, it's okay. You're okay." Dick cradled Tim's face, and his little brother looked up at him, shame twisting his features. For what, Dick didn't know, but he refused to leave his side. "I'm here."

He tried to ignore the bite mark on Tim's neck as he pulled him close, and simply allowed himself to be thankful to have Tim in his arms with just that and no broken bones or injuries. He glanced at Jason, only to see him staring at them with an unreadable gleam in his gaze.

Everything in Dick told him to reach for him, to hold him like he was holding Tim, to tell him he was right in being mad at him and Bruce, but that this wasn't the way. This wasn't him. This was the pit. And yet, even with all of that, Dick still loved him. He always would.

His fingers twitched with the urge to act, to bridge the gap between them, and he might have done it, might have pulled Jason into the circle of his arms, if Jason hadn’t looked away. It could have been a trick of light, but Dick swore he saw tears in those red eyes. Another crack. He was about to speak up, when suddenly, Jason was in front of him. “Your turn, Dickie,” Jason purred, his grin widening as he wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand, the motion theatrical.

The moment was gone.

Dick let go of Tim, who glared at Jason immediately.

"Sit down and rest, Tim. This will be quick," He told his little brother, who obeyed begrudgingly.

When he turned back to Jason, the vampire raised his eyebrows, and Dick swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Okay. Where do you want me?"

"Let’s go to the sofa," Jason shrugged, his voice smooth and dripping with mockery. "At least there I won’t have to carry you after you pass out on me."

As if him passing out wouldn't be Jason's fault.

Dick didn't say it, though, and followed anyway. He wasn’t sure what he expected—some kind of order or restraint—but Jason just sprawled across the sofa, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, arrogant and entirely at ease.

Dick frowned as he stood in front of the sofa, his arms hanging by his sides. "Where do I—"

Jason cut him off with a sharp grin, patting his thigh. "Sit."

Okay, what?

Dick scoffed, his eyebrows shooting up. "Really?"

Jason tilted his head, his expression dripping with faux innocence. "I could sit on your lap, but then I’d literally crush you to death. So yeah, really."

Dick hesitated for a moment, his pride bristling at the command. But the weight of Tim’s glare from across the room and the exhaustion pulling at his limbs made the argument die on his lips. He hated how Jason could make something so mundane feel like a power play, but the sooner this was over, the sooner he would leave them alone.

He let out a soft sigh, stepping forward and lowering himself onto Jason’s thighs. The position was awkward at first, stiff and unnatural, but Jason’s solid frame beneath him somehow made it manageable. His hand immediately settled on his hip, gripping him firmly, as if to ensure he wouldn’t move.

Jason’s voice broke the silence, low and teasing. “Relax, Dickie. You’re acting like I’m about to bite you.” He paused, then added with a smirk, “Oh, wait.”

Dick shot him a glare, but there was no real heat behind it. "Very funny."

Jason laughed, patting his hip, "You’re not as heavy as I thought you’d be with all those acrobat muscles.”

Dick didn't notice it at first, but was Jason actually trying to soothe him down in a weird way? The realization made something in his chest tighten, though not unpleasantly.

He snorted, the tension in his chest easing slightly. “Thanks, I guess.”

Jason’s smirk returned, though it lacked its usual edge. “Don’t get used to it. You’re still a pain in my ass.”

Dick chuckled softly, the sound escaping before he could stop it. “Right back at you, Little Wing.”

The nickname slipped out before he could catch it, and he braced himself for Jason’s reaction. But Jason didn’t snap, didn’t lash out. Instead, he froze, his body going rigid beneath Dick. For a few moments, neither of them spoke.

Then, slowly, Jason’s grip on his hip loosened, and he let out a long, slow breath. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, rough, but lacking its usual venom. “Someone’s got to keep you on your toes.”

A bittersweet ache settled deep inside him. He didn’t respond, couldn’t find the words. Instead, he let his body sag slightly, his shoulders dropping as he allowed himself to lean against Jason’s chest.

It was too much like the past, too much like the times when they used to be brothers, when Jason had looked up to him with an admiration that Dick had been too blind to see. Back then, Jason had trusted him despite all the hostility, all the coldness Dick had thrown his way.

And Dick had failed him. Not just in the end, but long before that, in ways he had only begun to understand after he lost him.

A memory surfaced, unbidden, vivid as a knife to the gut. Jason, younger, smaller, sitting on Bruce’s lap during one of their first feedings. Dick had walked in on them, anger bubbling up in him at the sight. He’d been so jealous, so resentful of this new kid who had stolen Bruce’s attention, who had taken his place as Robin. He’d stormed out, ignoring Bruce’s calls, ignoring Jason’s wide, uncertain eyes that had followed him with a flicker of hurt.

And now, here he was, sitting on Jason’s lap, the roles reversed, and he couldn't stand the weight of his actions. He closed his eyes, the regret pressing down on him like a physical force, and he wished he could go back, wished he could undo every harsh word, every cold shoulder.

"Nervous?" Jason asked, making Dick open his eyes. His gloved fingers brushed against Dick’s cheek in a gesture that was almost tender, the leather cool against his skin. "Don't worry. I'll be gentle." His tone was entirely mocking, laced with a bitterness that cut deeper than any blade, but the way he cradled Dick's cheek wasn't.

It was soft, almost like the way Bruce used to comfort him when he was younger, back when Dick still believed in the safety of those hands, before he learned how easily they could let go.

Dick knew it was a trap, a cruel game Jason was playing to unsettle him, to remind him of his failures. And yet, despite the voice in his head screaming to pull away, he leaned into Jason's touch, his body betraying his resolve.

"Just get this over with," he muttered, barely a whisper, trying to mask the way his heart raced. He hated how vulnerable he felt, how the lines between enemy and brother blurred.

Jason’s claws traced Dick’s neck lightly, the sharp tips barely brushing his skin. The promise of pain lingered there, mingling with the faint sting of the bite still fresh on Dick’s throat. Gently, too gentle for someone who used kindness as a weapon, he guided Dick’s head to the side, exposing the curve of his neck.

Dick wished so badly this was him feeding his little wing after a long patrol. That it was finally the moment he would share such a bonding with the brother he had rejected for so long. But it wasn't. And the reality of that settled in when Jason's fangs sank into the tender flesh, piercing deep, and Dick gasped, his body tensing involuntarily as the intoxicating sensation surged through him.

It was the same as in Titan’s Tower. Warmth, euphoria, a rush that made his thoughts blur and his limbs go heavy. Dick’s hands instinctively rose, gripping Jason’s shoulders to steady himself, fingers digging into the leather of his jacket.

And for a heartbeat, Dick let himself pretend. Let himself believe that the hands holding him weren’t meant to hurt, that the teeth in his throat weren’t meant to punish. That this was just another night, just another brother, just another way to say I’m here.

Jason’s grip tightened, one hand cradling the back of Dick’s head as he drank, his other arm wrapped possessively around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. The steady pull of blood was accompanied by a low, almost soothing rumble from Jason’s chest, vibrations that Dick could feel against his own, reverberating through his very bones. It was unnervingly intimate, the kind of closeness Dick hadn’t shared with anyone in years, and it left him feeling exposed, vulnerable, like his skin had been peeled back to reveal every raw, trembling nerve beneath.

His fingers twitched, tightening on Jason’s shoulders as he fought to hold onto some semblance of control, but it was slipping through his grasp like sand. Jason’s grip on his hip softened, his other hand coming up to cradle the back of Dick’s head, holding him steady.

The gesture was almost… caring. Dick’s chest ached for the last time that night.

“That’s it,” Jason murmured against his neck, a low purr. “Just let it happen, Dickie.”

Dick’s thoughts grew hazy, the world fading away until all he could feel was his little wing's warmth.

Jason stared at him.

Not like a normal stare, no, this certainly wasn't it. It was already awkward for Tim to watch Jason feed on Dick in a way that was so… soft and intimate, making him feel like he was the outsider instead of Jason. Instead of the guy who literally kidnapped them.

But then, Jason’s gaze locked onto Tim’s over Dick’s shoulder, and something dark and possessive flickered in those glowing green eyes. It wasn’t just a look, it was a challenge, a silent claim. See? He’s mine. Not yours. The unspoken words hung between them, dripping with smug satisfaction.

Tim’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. Childish. Ridiculous. And yet, it burned under his skin all the same. He scowled.

Tim watched Dick slump forward, his body going limp, and his stomach twisted, the sight of Dick—his hero, his brother—so vulnerable and helpless getting him nauseous. Instincts screamed at him to move, to do something, but every threat Jason made stopped him. Tim forced himself to stay still. He couldn’t risk it, not when Jason had already proven how far he’d go.

The silence in the room was suffocating, broken only by the faint sound of Jason drinking. Tim’s skin crawled, his mind racing through scenarios, but every plan ended the same way: with someone getting hurt. Probably Dick. Probably him. Never Jason. Or at least, not until he accomplished his plan.

Finally, Jason stopped. He pulled away slowly, letting Dick slump forward onto him. Tim let out a sigh, relief warring with fury as he watched Jason manhandle Dick’s limp body. His hands twitched, itching to intervene, but he forced himself to stay put. Jason adjusted Dick carefully, arranging his limbs with a precision that almost looked… gentle.

Almost like he cared.

Tim held back a scoff. Yeah, that wasn’t possible. Jason didn’t care. Not about Dick, and certainly not about him. What happened in the Titan's Tower made that clear. This was just another manipulation, another way to keep them under control. Yet, Tim couldn’t look away as Jason propped Dick’s head on a cushion, brushing a strand of hair from his face in a gesture so tender that it felt like a crime to say it was all fake.

He shouldn’t care. Jason had hurt them. He’d kidnapped them, marked them, and now he was treating Dick like some kind of prized possession. It was sickening. But beneath the anger, Tim felt something else. Something small, fragile, and dangerous. A flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, the Jason he followed around wasn't gone. That maybe they could be brothers despite everything.

The thought was stupid. Risky. He crushed it quickly, burying it beneath the cold logic that had always kept him alive. The pit had taken hold of Jason, and he couldn't fix that before containing him. He had to remember that.

"So, now that we are finally alone…" Jason stepped back, his gaze lingering on Dick for a moment longer before turning to Tim. The predatory glint in his gaze was back, and any illusion of gentleness vanished. "Let's have a real talk."

Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments, dear readers!❤️ Knowing how much you liked this and that you wanted more was the reason I got motivated to write more, so it's all on you guys. Now, if you want, please tell me what you think of this chapter, your thoughts on the characters and their relationships, what you expect or want to happen. I'm open to ideas!