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"You're not sticking that in me again," says the boy, eyeing his long, hard cock with suspicion, "Don't even try."
Bruce growls at that.
"Repetitive," he scolds him, but he knows it's his own damn fault. After that disaster a few weeks ago, the little snot doesn't let him anywhere near his ass, which, if you've ever seen Dick Grayson's ass, is fucking tragic, but oh well.
He still likes Bruce, however (makes no sense, but he'll take it), even after that, and he still likes doing the other stuff. He likes being kissed until he moans and his legs fly open, he likes to have his nipples teased until he's nearly in tears, he likes to get off, he likes to watch Bruce get off, and even though he's on guard now (as he very well should be, Bruce applauds him for that, even though it makes him want to put his fist through a wall), he also likes how crazy it gets whenever this goes down.
It's evident in the way he gasps when Bruce pins him down on the bed. It's in the way his breath comes out rapid and flat, the way he can't go five seconds without lapping at his mouth, the way his hard-on is needily rubbing up against the older man's stomach, leaving behind a trail of delicious wetness. Dick's sharp blue eyes are fevered and as wide as saucers, daring him to do something about that.
He wraps his hand around the boy's cock, gives it a hard squeeze, and savors the deep shudder and the little cry of frustration it earns him. Dick falls back into the mattress, limbs twitching; they've been at it for a while, and he can tell that he's really close.
"Not yet," Bruce tells him, moving his hand only a little. He's so aroused that he's barely getting the words out. "More."
"Nnnhihateyou," the boy whines, and that's okay, he can say that in here, "I hate you I hate you," and every little declaration of hate is accompanied by a furious thrust of his hips.
Bruce looks at that, looks at him squirm, and it makes him grin until his face hurts. He's no fool, he knows what he's doing is hideous, but Dick isn't, he's beautiful, a single small fleck of beauty atop the large, steaming pile of crazy that his life has become. It's sweet, so, so sweet, it's the sweetest thing. If only he could see himself now. That settles it, he's getting that ceiling mirror installed. It's not like it'd arise any suspicion, with the reputation he has anyway.
Still grinning, he descends on Dick to get some of that sweetness on his lips. They kiss, sloppily, sucking on each other's tongues, groaning into each other's mouths. It's a bad scene, a really bad scene, if anybody would see this, if this got out, Bruce Wayne would be done, he'd be done, but he doesn't care, he's way past that. And Dick forgets himself and forgets that he hates him, throws his arms around him and embraces him, so tightly it catches Bruce completely off guard. It lasts much longer than he'd thought.
They always forget how mad they are at each other, and how fucked they are, when they kiss. They get lost in it. In his arms, Dick is shaking. His flesh is hot. He's burning up.
"Now," the boy pleads, "Please, now, please."
He's got such a smart mouth, usually. He's quick-witted, eloquent even, more than Bruce has been at his age, but whenever he gets him like this, it all collapses into pleasepleasemoreandihateyou.
It's refreshing.
However, he's not the only one who's begging.
"Let me do it," Bruce hisses against his mouth, their lips still connected by a string of saliva. He wants to make it sound like an order, but he can hear the neediness seeping in as he says it. That's what he's been reduced to, Gotham's famed playboy, negotiating with a teenager about getting his pounding cock inside him. "Let me try it again – "
"No."
"Trust me."
That earns him a throaty laugh. The boy's pouty, roughed-up lips part into a twisted, leering smile. He wraps his arms even tighter around him and there's a twinkle in his eye as he declares, "Never."
"Brat."
Bruce pushes him off, and their passionate embrace is history. And Dick is still smiling, because he knows he'll get what he wants, he'll get his reward, as Bruce grabs his cock and starts furiously beating him off.
Because this is all they do, really. They make out, they bitch at each other, and then they jerk each other's dicks like a pair of schoolboys. Probably because one of them is a fucking schoolboy.
It's skeevy and it's pathetic; Bruce has had models, super heroines, goddesses, he's had them all over the city and in every position imaginable, and now he's in bed with Robin and he's doing this shit. And the worst part is, he doesn't want to be anywhere else, and he doesn't want to do anyone else.
The truth is, it's way too good. It's too good to see that smug little smirk slide off his face as he starts to lose it, eyes closed, lips open and tense all over, to hear him stammer "Yes, nnnhyes," over and over until it's not a word anymore, to feel his entire body grow harder and harder until he breaks. And right when he comes, Bruce shoves his cruel, hard mouth in his face and they kiss again while the sticky, hot fluid runs over his fingers.
Dick makes a long, humming "Mmmmmh"-noise against his lips while he twitches in his arms, and then his hand is on his madly throbbing cock, tugging at him in a way that makes him wish he had something to bite down on.
"Your turn now," Dick offers cheerily as he gets to work, almost mounting the other man's larger body in his eagerness. Whenever he's finished, he's all sunshine and rainbows and enthusiastic strokes for a while, because it makes him forget, for all of five minutes, what an asshole his boss is.
He beats him off oh so affectionately.
And Bruce shreds the insides of his mouth with his teeth because he doesn't want the boy to hear him whimper, and his head rolls back when he closes his eyes and thinks of that one glorious moment in time when they actually fucked.
The first time they're at it, he slides inside him without even thinking about it. He's used to pussy, and those get wet unless you're REALLY bad at it, which he isn't.
The boy's bruised thighs are so smooth and soft and inviting and he moans so good that it goes right to his head, then snaps something in there.
And it feels g r e a t.
He's so firm and hot and tight it feels like it's melting the skin off his dick, and it makes him shiver, and it turns his low, labored hissing into open moaning and
And he doesn't hear the boy scream pull it out PULL IT OUT until maybe the fifth time, and he doesn't really STOP until Dick's fist smashes into his head –
"Thinking about that again, huh," the boy's teasing voice reaches him through the haze. Bruce bares his teeth at him and sees him come back with a similarly wild expression, nimble hands still busy between his squirming thighs.
Bruce knows. He knows that Dick likes to think about it as much as he does, because it marks the day he successfully planted his fist in his face and Bruce did nothing about it.
He never retaliated.
Dick was right to do it.
"You … hit me …" he reminds him huskily, and the boy's eyes flash dangerously.
"You tore me up."
Bruce responds with a hot, desperate groan.
Good point.
"Sad," Dick quips in a sing-song voice, observing him as he strokes him almost casually now, "Been in me for all of ten seconds, yet it's all you think about. That's sad, old man."
Bruce doesn't reply, because his teeth are snapping, because his abdomen starts to twitch as he feels the first push of a powerful orgasm. Yet he can't come, he can't come like this if the boy keeps slacking off.
It's true, it still haunts him, not in the way he knows it should, it haunts him because of how good it'd felt, but in his dreams he sees an alternate reality where Dick spreads himself wide on his bed, begging him for permission to take it, and they both know that that's not happening. So –
He grabs the boy's neck and pulls him up like an alleycat, and Dick mewls like one as he tries to twist his cock in self-defense (good thinking), but Bruce only needs one hand to hold him and uses the other one to slap his fingers off his hard-on.
"Turn around," he barks, "Get on your hands and knees."
"Yeah right," Dick spits out in defiance, pushing up against his broad chest, but he can see fear creep into his large, mad eyes, he can smell it on him.
He shivers when Bruce smushes their faces together to look at him up close.
"Calm down, chippy," he growls between gritted teeth. "I'll try something else, I'm not gonna put it in, I won't. I promised."
Dick's eyes narrow. "You never promised," he points out brattily, and accurately.
Bruce roars at him. It's so hard to have this conversation on the verge of orgasm.
He tries another approach. His rough, chafed mouth finds Dick's ear. "Don't you wanna know what I got," he murmurs, feels him shiver again and this time it's not exactly from fear. His lips curl into a smile against Dick's skin, salted with sweat. "It'll be good. That I promise."
He looks at him and sees his smirk mirrored. "Say please."
Being a shithead; Dick's last line of defense.
Good.
He tosses him back into the sheets.
"Please."
He says it in the most throwaway, sarcastic manner possible, but his body betrays him when his cock starts to twitch as the boy rolls onto his stomach. Dick gets on all fours, but he doesn't let Bruce out of his sights even once, looking back over his shoulder with hard, watchful eyes, waiting for him to make his move. The look of keen alertness on his sharp little pixie face is fucking hot.
Bruce puts his hands on his sweat-slicked thighs and all he wants to do is split them open, but he wills himself to do the opposite. Utilizes the weight and strength of his own legs to lock them together as tightly as possible, can't hold back another loaded moan as he inserts himself between them. It's not what he wants. But it'll do. Dick tenses, but Bruce knows that he gets it, because he can feel the muscles in his lean, wiry legs clamp down on him immediately, trapping him, teasing him.
"You try something funny, I'll hit you," Boy Wonder declares, even though they both know he's in a really shitty position to do that right now.
Bruce gives him an almost appreciative pat on the back. "You can try," he says generously, before he starts pounding away.
The wet noise their bodies produce as they slap together is so satisfying.
Beneath him, Dick is making that throaty Nnnnh-sound again, rocking back and forth in accordance with his thrusts, and as he looks down he can see him desperately try to free a hand and jerk himself because all that business has given him another erection.
"Let me," he offers, and hears Dick whinily intone his name as he makes a fist around his raw, twitching cock.
They find a good, hard, fast, steady rhythm, because like always when they've reached some sort of agreement, it works, it simply works, they work good together. Dick is eager and nimble and Bruce is brutally efficient, and he manages to yank him into another screaming orgasm before he violently erupts between his thighs, splattering the boy, his monogrammed sheets, and himself with hot dripping seed.
Good thing his bedroom is soundproof.
Bruce has never had use for post-coital niceties and Dick doesn't know the first thing about them, so they simply push apart, roll onto their backs, and stare ahead.
On closer inspection, ceiling mirror might be awkward.
After a while, Bruce hears a tiny "Ew," and then Dick is rubbing himself clean with his expensive linens.
"Throw those in the fire," he suggests raspily.
"When I get up."
Doesn't look like he's about to get up.
"Was that nice," Bruce asks him.
Because that's what he'd said, after that debacle some weeks ago. He'd said he wanted it to be nicer. Bruce is still figuring that one out.
Dick stops what he's doing, looks at his gnawed-up fingernails instead. "Nice enough," he determines. Then, a sneaky look out of the corner of his eye. "I want to sleep on you tonight."
Bruce sighs.
It's something Dick likes to do. Curl up on him like a housecat. Sometimes, he even gets the suspicion that this is what he's really after, what he really comes in here for, Dick Grayson, No Parents.
"Your room too cold?" He grumbles.
"Nah, it's good," says the boy, crawling on top of him. "I like it better here."
It's a bad habit. It's psychologically unsound; definitely not good self-preservation.
For either of them.
He lets him.
Once Dick's head slumps heavily onto his chest, he realizes how exhausted the boy must be. He can't remember when Dick has last eaten. Or slept. He doesn't know any of these things about himself, either, but that's normal.
"I was going to go through those case files," he growls, pointing at the pile next to his bed.
A soft mop of dark curly hair tickles him as the boy looks up. "Read them to me."
"It's murder."
"Read them to me."
Bruce snarls at him through his teeth. Then, he reaches out, takes a file, opens it, and starts reading in a deep, sonorous voice.