Title: Dangers of Routines
Author: Yami no Kaiba
Beta: Irihi Safaia
Series: Animated Teen Titans
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Red X/Robin

Summary: Routines, he shouldn’t have them.
Disclaimers: The characters are totally not mine, and I don’t know who owns the animated versions. DC owned the original characters, I’m sure about that.

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For Ginzai.

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It wasn’t a routine, per say. Routines were deadly habits that - more then likely - ended up with some evil villain (or third rate bad guy) finding out and exploiting it to their end in some nefariously large scheme to take the good guy out of action so that they’d be able to rip something off or take over the world without interference.

He’d learned that lesson two months after first hitting the streets back in Gotham.

Some habits were hard to break, though. Years of staying up to almost dawn were one of them. Swinging across main streets and running across roof tops in the dead of night... Well, that was something he wouldn’t ever let himself forget.

He made a point to make his presence known to the underworld of this new city. On at least one-third of the nights of the month he patrolled the streets on his own as randomly as he could.

Persistence however would make it possible for this particular meeting. Because as random as he tried to be, hot spots of criminal activity demanded that he focus his attention on certain regions of the city more than others.

When he felt an itch between his shoulder-blades (A Gotham night, and that feeling intense and familiar as he’s performing a spin kick to the jaw of Perp. #1 while punching Perp. #2’s legs out from under him with a nerve strike to the thigh.) after the fourth interrupted mugging, he’d paused and waited, head cocked to the side. When no one showed he had thought briefly of rooting out the watcher before another scream for help three or four blocks down the street distracted him. He was off, pushing the mystery watcher to the back of his mind for the more immediate problem.

When he rounded a corner into an alley, he took in the scene with a single glance and was on the nearest gang member before his mind had processed the information. Fifteen gang members sporting matching leather jackets bearing a tiger icon closed around a family of four, the parents pushing the children behind them towards the alley wall. There’s another child-like body being held with a knife close to the throat, but not close enough that a flung birdarang would cause damage to the hostage.

The birdarang imbeds into the man’s wrist. There’s a shouted curse and in the shock of the sudden pain the hostage (girl, Caucasian, 9 or 10 years old, mother most likely considers blue to be a favorite color) is dropped and stumbles forward towards the cornered family where the father grabs her arm and pulls her behind him.

He has two knocked out before the surprise of his attack registers leaving twelve unharmed and one injure with five potential hostages. One hand dips behind his cape, gripping the condensed form of his staff as his other hand flares out his cape. The movement and bright, garish colors insures to make him the focus of the gang. Luckily, the mother’s smart enough to use the shift in attention to herd the family further into the alley where they can use the cross connections to get to the next alley over.

He’s shifting his grip on the staff to hit the hidden catch when they descend upon him, knives, chains, bats, and crowbars their weapons of choice. The mass of bodies make the alley cramped and maneuverability is low. He wishes momentarily that he’d had the time to come in from above, but the next moment he’s fending the mass of criminals off as well as he can, twisting, striking, and dodging. The itching sensation is back when he strikes out with the staff and raps a knife wielder hard on the wrist.

Before he can get the staff back into a proper defense position, a chain whips out, wrapping around his outstretched wrist. A sharp yank causes him to stumble and fall forward. He twists and lands on his back, but before he can flip back onto his feet one of them is on him, pinning him to the ground and giving him a painful kidney punch. His air rushes out and his eyes water behind the mask as he tries and fails to gasp for air.

There’s a dark, triumphant murmuring through the seven conscious gang members, five cradling bruised wrists and arms giving him nasty looks even as they curse him out.

A whistling sound cuts the air and when it stops the man above him jerks and rolls off him moaning in pain. He can see up into the night, and there’s a black-clad figure standing on the edge of one of the roofs, hand planted on a slim, cocked hip, the wind snapping his tattered cape back as his white skull-like mask catches the moonlight. “Seems you need a hand, kid.” Red X launches off the building, falling and tossing more red ‘x’-shaped shuriken at the rest of the brutes.

Having gotten his wind back, he sweeps up his staff as he tumbles backwards and onto his feet. It’s a whirlwind of snapping capes, punches, kicks, and strikes of staff and shuriken hitting soft flesh and he’s soaring on the feeling he’s missed ever since he left Gotham. The feeling of rightness and being part of something larger, of being a partner and not a leader.

It takes them a minute and a half to take the rest down, and another five to secure and move the gang members to the front of the alley alone.

He’s taking out his grapple and getting ready to leave when one grey gauntlet clasps on his shoulder and spins him around, the other pushing on his chest until he’s pushed back against the brick wall in the darkest corner of the alley. “I’ve been looking for you,” Red X says in a low, breathy tone.

He’s thinking about the itching feeling he’s had throughout the night and it suddenly clicks. “You mean watching me.”

Red X makes a considering, positive sounding noise and the gauntlet on his shoulder lifts to peel the skull mask away to drop it to the alley floor. “You’re a pretty thing to watch.” The older boy (he could only be older or the ‘kid’ references would be hypocritical) moves forward, pressing up against Robin and cups the back of the masked teen’s neck and pulls him into a kiss.

It’s a new mind blowing sensation and it only gets better when he lets his mouth open slightly and Red X sweeps in. Red’s thumb rubs at the skin of his neck that the cape doesn’t protect and he realizes he’s moaning and clutching at Red’s shoulders, pulling him closer.

Red’s other hand snakes out from between them and back under Robin’s cape, maneuvering to squeeze his ass. Robin can’t help but buck against Red’s thigh and moan deep in his throat. He’s hard and hot and he needs air but he doesn’t want to ever have Red X stop kissing him.

But Red X does, chuckling at the needy whine Robin can’t stop from leaving his throat. “So pretty…” Red X licks across Robin’s lips, cupping the back of his head and moving the hand on his ass back around to tug at the front of his pants. “I like pretty things.”

“You mean you steal pretty- oooh,” Red’s hand is down Robin’s pants and he’s stroking Robin’s dick. It feels good, so good that Robin can’t stop himself from thrusting into the motion.

Red X nuzzles Robin’s neck and hums against the skin and neckline. “Since I can’t steal you I’ll just have to steal this.” He moves his hand faster and Robin emits a high whine.

“More. *Please*-” and Red’s kissing him, hot and hard and twisting his hand on the down stroke.

It feels too good and it's too much and he’s screaming into Red’s mouth as he comes, hands clenching in the material of the tattered cape resting on Red’s shoulders.

He’s leaning heavily against the alley wall and pretty much dazed when Red X removes his hand and moves backwards, licking along the soiled gauntlet. What body language he can see screams cocky and he can just imagine the smirk that Red X must be giving him.

Red X stoops and picks up the discarded mask, pulling it back on while standing up. “See ya around, kid.”

As he watches the black-clad figure race away, he can’t help but wonder if it’ll become a routine.

--Fin.