Jameson // Metallica

CAPES AND COWLS

Jason scrubs a hand over his newly-shorn hair and tries to resist the urge to whip his cape off and wrap it around his waist to give people something else to look at. His bright red underpants seemed to be a magnet for a worrying number of looks--both pitying and admiring. What the fuck possessed him to wear fucking tights?

The party flows and ebbs around him in swirls of bright colour, capes and confusion--please tell me that isn’t Jerry dressed up as Wonder Woman?--until he’s waylaid by the birthday boy himself. Kirk bounces happily at him, a glossy top hat perched perilously on his curls and an exuberant smile on his face.

"So, who are you? I should know this, right?"

Kirk pouts at him. "I’m Shade, man! He’s bad-ass." He slips a pair of square-lensed sunglasses on and waves his cane exaggeratedly. “No?”

None the wiser, Jason plasters an encouraging face on. "Yup, badass. Happy birthday, dude! What a party, huh?"

"Thanks, man." Kirk claps his hand on Jason's shoulder. His fingers linger long past what would be considered friendly--and what's with this flexing shit? Jason looks down at the hand and then his gaze travels up to Kirk's face. Kirk's face with his mouth curving into a lecherous smile, tongue flickering over his labret as his eyes focus intently somewhere over Jason's shoulder.... He takes a quick peek over his shoulder and catches sight of Lars in a skin-tight red outfit.

Ah.

He watches Kirk slink across the crowded room and run an appreciative hand over Lars's ass. Looks like he's found his prey for the night....

Now, where the fuck is James?

#

There's a flash of motion in his peripheral vision and then he's yelping in a most unheroic way as a hand reaches out and yanks on his cape, pulling him into the dark void beneath the staircase.

Excitement, relief, momentary fear and lust all spike together in a graph jagged enough for a mountain range... this is how James makes him feel. Then his face becomes best friends forever with the wall.

"Having fun?"

The words come out of nowhere; hot breath curls intimately around his ear then trickles down his spine to pool in his groin. He's proud to discover that he can keep his voice steady when he squirms free of James's weight and turns to reply.

"Jesus, James. Were all the cowboy suits taken?"

What he doesn’t say is that this is awesome. Totally and fucking awesome. Better than his imagination could ever have conjured. Instead, he trails his fingers over the cool black rubber of the cowl and down to the silky fabric of the cape which promptly snags on the rough skin of his fingertips. What he can see of James's mouth twists into a sardonic thin-lipped smile, and then it’s Batman shoving his gauntlet-clad hand down Superman’s tights and groping him roughly while fucking his mouth with a tongue that’s almost a weapon.

Jason’s knees buckle.

His grunts and--to his eternal shame--whimpers are swallowed by James’s greedy mouth which presses against his lips, rubbing them raw. All sensation flees his extremities and heads to his groin, leaving his body boneless and almost floating.

“Shit, sorry....”

James jerks his hand away at the loud burst of unwelcome laughter. The blush starts at the crown of Jason's head and cascades down his body until he’s certain that even his fucking toes are bright red.

By the time he can breathe again, James--no, Batman--has melted away into the shadows, leaving Jason wishing that he'd worn something more... restrictive... and cursing the interruption, vehemently.

#

When he next finds James it’s still dark, but less crowded. Intimate, almost. Jars rattle on the pantry shelves as James backs him up against them and steals his breath, steals his soul again. He’s damn grateful that Lars’s parties are more about the booze than gourmet cuisine. A heavy bass beat filters through the walls and he can hear drunken laughter but the kitchen is theirs.

Leather creaks and fabric rustles as James slithers through his grasp and drops to his knees in front of him. Oh. His tights are wrenched down to mid-thigh and cool gauntlets dig small circles of pain into his hips. "Oh, god," Jason says, because it's only the first touch and his brain is already melting into a puddle. So hot, so wet and so right. Tomorrow, when he jerks off thinking about this, replaying every fucking second, he'll have bruises to remind him that yes, this really is James on his knees, cape puddled on the floor around him, tongue curling around his cock, owning it.

And it's hot and intense and somehow dangerous. Jason's beginning to wonder if he's fallen--dick first--into some fucked up universe where Batman is sucking his dick instead of James. He doesn't much care; it's way too good for him to bother questioning it.

"James..." he gasps out.

And Batman lifts his head and fixes him with a piercing glare, eyes narrowed to slits behind the cowl. "No fucking names."

Then it's hot and intense again, and everything that sex with Ja--Batman should be.