Jason's kisses have an odd sweetness to them. A hint of death and resurrection and the Lazarus Pit. Madness and desire and anger and love. He tastes like honey and cigarettes, the night and Gotham. His kisses burn through Tim like fire.
They cleanse away the kisses that were mistakes. Cassie's kisses. Zoann's, Rose's. Steph...No, not Steph's. Hers were adolescence and expectation and right for the time.
But now Tim knows the truth.
What he wants is hard flesh over harder muscle. Height and strength. Short hair and scratchy stubble turning the skin of his neck red. Nothing soft. No wet folds or bouncing breasts. No citrus perfume. No lips that taste like candy or bubble gum or strawberries.
He wants the hard knee pushing between his thighs, the big hands grabbing his shoulders, the thickening cock pressing against his own.
They beat on each other because that was expected.
They kiss because that's what they need.
Neither is a mistake and both are and still they can't stop. Passion and pain wipe away everything else.
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