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Nothing tests Bruce Wayne's patience quite like a quarterly review.
The conference room buzzes with the drone of projections and market forecasts, each slide dragging his mood lower. By now, in his thirties, he’s spent more hours than he cares to count trapped in inane corporate marathons just like this one– trying to endure them with the practiced emotional detachment he applies to far more dangerous things.
He watches the reflection of charts ripple across the glass surface of the table and wonders, not for the first time, if he should have sold every last share the moment legal control passed to him. Handed the keys, set fire to his family legacy, walked away.
Alas. Appearances must be kept. Not even Lucius can execute every task on his behalf, and there isn’t much Bruce isn’t willing to shoulder for the sake of the illusion.
He's successfully tuned out the financial director's nasally voice when the door to the glass-walled room cracks open.
Lisa, the executive assistant, peeks in. A yellow pencil skirt hugs her petite frame as she leans just inside, tablet tucked tight under her arm.
"Mr. Wayne. There's…" She glances at the conference table, then back to Bruce seated at the far end, "Someone is waiting for you in the lobby. It's… urgent."
The small, pointed look she gives him makes the message unmistakable: this is something unusual.
Bruce's brow ticks up.
"Let's break for lunch," Lucius announces, graceful as ever in his ability to steer a room.
Chairs swivel back, people gather their papers, snap shut their laptops. Bruce is on his feet before anyone else– buttoning his suit jacket as he gives Lucius a grateful nod– and strides out.
In the upper lobby, through the glass doors he spots a familiar figure hunched against the wall beneath the glow of the Wayne Enterprises sign. A cap in his hand, rust-brown flannel jacket tied around his waist in a sagging knot. One worn Nike sneaker taps a quick, anxious rhythm against the beige tile.
The moment Bruce triggers the sliding doors, his head snaps up.
"Dick?" Bruce’s voice drops, half worry, half disbelief at seeing him here in the middle of a school day. "What's going on?"
Dick flicks a glance around the lobby, checking who’s close, who’s listening. Then he moves right up to Bruce's personal space and speaks in a fierce whisper.
"Your office. Now, please?"
Before Bruce can ask another question Dick is storming past him and grabbing his hand, wrenching him along.
In the elevator the boy jabs the top-floor button, then stabs the door-close button repeatedly in growing agitation.
The cab stays stubbornly still until Bruce swipes his keyfob over the reader. Only then do the doors glide shut, sealing them inside with a low, rising hum.
"Your cute lady assistant didn’t let me up here alone," Dick mutters. "I told her it was an emergency."
"Her job is to make sure no one is let in alone," Bruce replies, watching the boy closely. "Talk to me. Did something happen at school?"
Dick presses his lips together.
While Bruce is giving him a once-over it clicks: Dick’s class has a field trip in the city today. Must've been the… Natural History Museum tour Bruce signed the permission slip for ages ago. That explains why he’s in jeans instead of uniform.
Dick steps into the vestibule the second the elevator doors part. "You've gotta promise not to laugh," he says, pacing deeper inside.
Bruce’s eyes drift to his lower half, the belt around the boy's light-wash, over-sized jeans. He has both his hoodie and jacket wrapped around his waist. It's all too suspiciously bulky, too purposeful.
Dick turns around. His face is pink; hard to say if from exertion or something else. He hooks his thumbs under the knot of his jacket, hesitates, and lets go again.
Bruce gets it. Or at least, he thinks he does.
"You had an accident," he says evenly.
Dick’s eyes flick up, mortified. "Don’t– don’t make it sound like I pissed myself or something!"
"I didn’t say you did."
Dick chews his cheek. Then, he takes a deep breath.
"It’s… the other kind. Okay?" He gestures vaguely at his midsection, the universal distressed teen sign for please do not make me say menstruation out loud in front of you.
Bruce nods slowly. Relief, understanding, sympathy- none of it touches his expression. He keeps it steady for Dick’s sake.
"Ah," he says, "okay."
Dick covers his face with both hands. "Oh my god."
Bruce steps around, keeping his distance just enough to give Dick space. "Did it happen at the museum?"
Dick’s fingers tremble as he unwraps the makeshift waist-cocoon he’s tied himself into. First the hoodie, then the jacket. The final layer reveals the truth.
Bruce leans around slightly to take stock.
"Shucks," he murmurs, "that’s a huge stain."
Dick makes a strangled noise, then bolts for the private restroom attached to the office. He slams the door open hard enough that it bumps the stopper, then shuts it only halfway: a subconscious plea not to be left completely alone.
Inside, he twists left, then right, trying to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror. But it’s installed too high, so he ends up half-hopping, lifting himself on his toes, craning awkwardly.
"I didn’t notice anything until I went to pee," he whines.
Bruce follows him in. "Why didn't you head straight home?"
Dick whips around, hair flopping over his forehead. "Do you think I wanted to sit down in a bus? Or a car? Or anything with seats? No!"
"So you walked here?"
Dick throws his arms up, then lets them slam down as he plops onto the closed toilet seat, shoulders hunched.
"Can you stop asking stupid questions and help me?" he snaps, cheeks flushing darker.
Bruce sighs, straightens up. He crosses the width of the office in a few quiet strides.
He stops behind the desk– an ostentatiously long, stylized slab of glossy black– its surface polished to a mirror sheen that reflects the cold wash of daylight and the geometry of the windows above it. Looking down the busy midday street, The Natural History Museum is little more than a pale stone speck in the distance, dwarfed by the towers of Financial District. A faint, fond huff escapes him as he imagines Dick’s odyssey through it all.
Receiver pressed to his cheek, Bruce dials the extension.
"Lisa? Come in for a moment, please. Thank you."
Half a minute later, heels click decisively outside the flush walnut door. Lisa slips in, no more than five foot two even in her heels, looking tiny compared to the imposingly tall door swinging inward beside her.
"You asked for me, Mr. Wayne?"
Bruce nods and dips closer. He pushes a hand into his slacks pocket, and spends a second forming the appropriate words on his tongue.
"I would… like you to procure some feminine hygiene products."
Lisa’s black-brown eyes flick– just once– to the ajar restroom door. Bless her soul, a quiet understanding settles over her face. She adjusts the thick frames on the bridge of her nose.
"Of course… What kind?"
Bruce opens his mouth, realizes he genuinely has no idea what category of pad or tampon or other device would best suit his mortified ward at the moment, and clears his throat. "An assortment," he says, waving a vague gesture. "And while you’re at it, I need a pack of underwear and a pair of simple jeans. Let's say… boy’s size twelve."
Lisa nods, already mentally assembling the list.
"And Lisa," Bruce adds quietly, his tone dipping in earnestness. "I appreciate your discretion, as always."
Her expression softens. She takes the folded hundred from his hand without comment.
Once she leaves, Bruce makes quick a call to Dick's teacher to inform him that Dick will be absent for the rest of the day. Predictably, the teacher didn’t even know he’d vanished from the group.
Meanwhile, in the restroom, Dick has kicked off his jeans entirely. They lay in a defeated heap near the trash bin, the stained patch turned mercifully away. He’s sitting on the edge of the closed lid, shirt bunched in his fists, legs drawn up.
"Lisa’s gonna think you’re weird," he mutters.
Bruce leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "I can't imagine there would be anything weird about a period to her."
"Don’t say period," Dick groans, letting his head fall forward until his fringe shadows his face.
Bruce holds back a smile. He remembers the first time this happened– not that long ago at all– how shocking it was for Dick, how careful Bruce had been to school his reactions then, too. The learning curve had been steep; it still was.
It takes him a moment to notice the sudden shift in the boy.
Tears have gathered silently, clinging to Dick’s lower lashes in trembling, glassy crescents. He blinks fast, harder, trying to chase them away.
Bruce moves from the doorframe immediately, stepping close enough to crouch in front of him. He lays a hand gently against Dick’s abdomen, just above the wrinkled hem of his t-shirt.
"Does it hurt?"
Dick shakes his head. "No…"
A shaky breath shudders out of him, and the tears that have been threatening overflow in two long streaks down his cheeks. He sniffles pitifully and his fingers curl gently into the fabric of Bruce's collar.
"A few kids in my class saw. I think they saw, B," he whispers. "Or at least… they knew something was wrong. I could see them whispering."
A pause. His breaths start to come quick, getting stuck in his throat, panicked. He presses the heel of his hand to his eyes, trying to wipe everything away.
"I’m never going back to that school," he says, voice pitching higher. "I can’t. They’ll think I’m weird. Or disgusting. Or– someone’s gonna figure it out, and then- then it’s all over."
Puberty is a cruel enough upheaval on its own, but for Dick– already wrestling with a tangle of feelings about his body– it’s a full-blown battlefield.
Bruce takes in the sight of him: the entire heartbreaking picture. The soft waves of his dark hair falling forward, the downturned, plump mouth. The tears running down his ruddy cheeks. He looks… cherub-like, yes. So dear and precious.
Bruce never imagined he’d be here, navigating this terrain with someone. He’d been prepared for adversaries, investigations, moral calculus in the shadows of Gotham. But this? The day-to-day fears of a growing kid who trusts him more than anything?
He'd bend the world in half if it meant Dick could step forward easier.
Bruce crouches even lower, bringing them eye-level. He rests a careful hand on Dick's bare knee. It's slightly scuffed and bruised, no doubt from their nightly escapades.
"You're not weird or disgusting," he says. "What happened is very human. It could happen to anyone. That’s all it is."
Dick shakes his head hard. "I should’ve known it was coming. I left my backpack in the bus and– " His breath catches on a wet hiccup. "I'm so stupid."
"You wouldn’t call someone else in your class stupid for having a little accident, wouldn't you?" Bruce tries.
"You don't get it," Dick says instantly, pulling his knees up tighter, retreating into himself. His back brushes the back of the seat. "They already give me shit everyday. But I was just starting to fit in."
The next thirty minutes are a blur of soothing words and assurances. Bruce gently points out that homeschooling isn’t the automatic answer to every conflict Dick fears. He fields dramatics about "changing his name and moving to the mountains in Peru" with the patience of a saint. Slowly, the worst of Dick’s panic ebbs.
The lunch hour passes by completely.
At last, Lisa returns with the shopping bag, sets it discreetly on the counter, and leaves with a soft knock against the doorframe.
After Bruce brings the goods to the restroom Dick sniffles once, then begins untangling himself from the small ball he’s curled into.
He drops the bloody briefs to his ankles with a miserable little kick, and struggles to get them over his sneakers. Bruce swears he doesn't let his eyes linger on the bareness too long.
Dick’s voice crackles with half outrage, half leftover sorrow. "She got me boxers!"
Bruce's brows knit together, "Come on, Dick. She went out of her way to help–"
"But I can’t wear these with a pad," Dick says, shaking the garment in the air. "There’s no place for the wings! Does she not know how this works?"
Bruce blinks. "Hm… what about the… tampons?" He offers weakly, gesturing toward the assorted supplies.
"Nope.” Dick kicks the briefs farther away. ”’M not gonna wear that."
"Why not?"
Dick’s face twists: a quick grimace, embarrassment flashing across it. "I just… don't wanna," he mutters.
He doesn't want to, Bruce guesses, because he never has.
But Bruce reaches into the bag anyway. "Why don't you at least try?"
He picks up the box, turning it awkwardly in his hands. The delicate pastel branding of the cardboard looks patently out of place against black-glazed fixtures of the executive bathroom. He opens it, holding it out. Dick hesitates, then snatches one– quickly– like he doesn’t want Bruce to see how shaky his fingers are.
Dick tears open the wrapper with some aggression, the material crinkles in his fingers.
He pulls out the applicator and… just stares at it. It’s almost comically unassuming, a little white plastic tube with a string dangling from the end.
He turns it over. And over again.
"What the hell," he whispers.
Bruce clears his throat softly. "Do you know how it works?"
Dick shoots him a look, just full of I can't believe we’re having this conversation-energy.
"Do you?"
Bruce considers lying for exactly half a second. "…No."
There's a long groan out of Dick's mouth. He gets up from the floor. "Why do I have to go through this? This is the worst day of my life."
"Do you want me to find instructions?"
Dick pulls the applicator away from his face, eyebrows pinched. "It has instructions, Bruce," he snaps, pointing his whole hand at the box.
"Well… I could help you?"
The boy eyes Bruce dubiously.
Then something loosens in his expression, like a wave of relief cutting through the suspicion.
"You could… help me," he echoes, quieter.
Bruce nods slowly, lifting his brow, waiting for confirmation of some sort. Convinced, Dick nods briskly in return.
First, Bruce peels off his suit jacket– for better mobility– hangs it on the door hook, and before taking a knee in front of Dick he rolls up his sleeves. Getting down to business, as it were.
It's a semi-conscious decision to pull the boy closer by his waist, slotting his hands on the hips like they belong there. But for Dick's sake, he thinks in quick retrospect, it's no use being coy about this.
"Relax. There's a first time for everything. Besides…" he says, gently lifting the hem of his shirt, splaying a hand atop his warm, tan skin. "You've fit in bigger things," he says as neutrally as he can, "you can fit a tampon."
Dick flushes a deep beet red and averts his eyes. But his gaze is snagged right back; he gasps sharply as Bruce's hand skims lower on his thigh, dipping in between his legs.
"Stop," Dick blurts, grabbing Bruce’s wrist. "It's– it's bloody and dirty."
Bruce lets his hand fall away without resistance. Calmly, he reaches out and plucks the applicator from Dick’s hand.
"Turn around," he gives the boy a reassuring smile and a nod, "I'll help you."
Dick spins reluctantly, craning over his shoulder, worry pulling at his brow. Bruce places a hand between his shoulder blades, tilting his hips for better access.
"Spread your legs a little more."
Dick whines softly, but does so. "Bruce- Please, be gentle."
Bruce wets his lips, painfully aware of how quickly his composure unravels around this boy. His collar already feels too warm, and he’s grateful he never bothered with a tie today.
Somewhere between one faithful night at a circus and now, Bruce has misplaced every ounce of restraint he used to pride himself on. With Dick leaning into him, soft and trembling, he feels utterly susceptible.
He strokes the boy's silky inner thigh with reverence, pride flaring in his chest, lust drying his throat. Such beauty at his fingertips – he should count his blessings and not make this about himself.
A proper man would help Dick in his predicament, nothing more.
"Need I remind that you can walk on a tight rope a hundred feet in the air, and do a kick-flip to split a thug's lip open? You can handle this, chum."
Bruce gives a perfunctory glance at the contraption in his palm. The mechanism of it seems straightforward.
Traveling up, he strokes a hand digits brushing over the excess of wet there. He parts Dick's labia with his index and middle fingers. The glistening folds, the small little hole, they pulsate invitingly with his touch.
Dick's legs tremble, there's a blotch of dried blood on his taint.
Bruce breathes out, steels himself as much as he hopes he's steeling the boy.
He begins, guides the thin applicator between the folds, searching for the right spot. Dick tenses at the contact and whines softly.
Bruce depresses the applicator slowly. Halfway in he places his thumb to the end and presses the tampon inside forward, all the way in.
Dick straightens as if bracing against a hit, shoulders climbing toward his ears. He adjusts for a second before a grimace ripples across his face.
"No, no, no! Take it out. It's scratchy!"
The boy wiggles, lifting his leg.
"It hurts. Please!"
Bruce holds him in place and reaches for the removal string and gives it a light, controlled tug.
It doesn't give right away and Dick panics. "Take it out NOW!"
Bruce yanks harder, decisive. The resistance gives all at once, the thing coming free with a small, ignoble plop.
Before Bruce can draw breath to speak, Dick is spinning around, arms coming up as he hugs Bruce's head, pressing it to his chest. There's a sob brewing in his chest, he's a bit breathless from the ordeal.
That is what strikes a match in Bruce's gut- such raw, uninhibited reach for comfort.
"You're alright…" Bruce guides them apart, hands firm on Dick's hip. "Maybe it’d help if you were a bit slicker next time."
Dick hesitates, face twisting as he considers it. "I don't know… It felt icky."
But Bruce is already sliding in between, cupping his hand around the boy's crotch. Dick is wet and scorchingly warm against him.
"Don't, please-" Dick gasps lightly, tries to cover himself, "Bruce, please, it's so gross–"
Bruce catches his wrist calmly and leans in, inhaling in Dick's blooming sex, the hint of arousal there, like it's a grand feast laid out on a table in front of him. He presses a kiss on the boy's pubic bone.
"Nothing about you could be gross to me."
A breathless grunt leaves Dick, his hand stutters in the hold.
It hits Bruce, again, in that sharp, humbling way: this boy is his responsibility. His to guide, his to steady. His to protect from harms both obvious and invisible. His alone.
If someone could convince the boy there's nothing wrong about him, nothing to fix about him, it's Bruce.
"You're not weird or disgusting, Dick."
Bruce locates and presses on his hole. After a few coaxing pushes he manages to plunge his finger in. He's met with sliminess that is smoother, heavier than regular slickness, inviting him into the tightness.
There's a pretty little whimper out of Dick. He curves back, supporting himself against the sink.
Bruce pumps his finger up and down, "See? It doesn't hurt, right?"
"N- no…"
For good measure, Bruce adds a thumb to the mix, begins rubbing a circle around the budding clit in the midst of the folds.
"Ha - haaa." Dick's hands fly to fist into Bruce's hair.
"Mh-m," Bruce agrees, mouthing against his thigh.
Dick is trying to stay still, but Bruce can feel him clenching, imperceptibly grinding his hips each time Bruce's finger– working up to two of them– dip in.
Bruce could revel in this all day– and he does keep going, unhurried, for a long minute more
Finally, when he pulls away, he sees he's stained red– deep dark and tacky– up to his first knuckle. Seeing blood is as familiar as his own pulse. Still, he finds himself momentarily arrested by it, watching the slow flex of his fingers, catching a whiff of metal-sweet ozone.
"There. Any better?"
Dick breathes out a shuddering breath. "No, it's not. You just made me all… hot and tingly."
Bruce feels it too– an answering pull low in his stomach, a tightness in his breath, the generous semi he's sporting in his slacks.
There's no coming down from this, now.
Wiping his finger on the hanging hand towel, he stands up, circling the boy pressed against the sink.
Bruce lowers his voice into something gentler, coaxing. "We could have a little more fun? Might help you relax."
Dick’s reaction is hazy, flushed at first but turns into a wide-eyed, almost affronted stare. "But… But we can't have sex. I'm… bleeding. It's dirty."
"I don't mind at all."
The boy shakes his head, flustered and defensive, "But we shouldn't, like– Isn't that dangerous? Without a c… condom?"
Bruce could think about any of the hundred reasons why this isn’t the smartest idea. But the truth is, none of it quite outweighs the desire to soothe the tetchy boy in front of him– or the quiet, concupiscent whisper in the back of his mind that keeps saying: Here. Now. Why not?
"Condoms aren't exactly common office supplies," Bruce says with a shrug.
Dick turns away, eyes flicking toward the far wall. He crosses his arms and scoffs. "Maybe you should get Lisa to buy you some."
Bruce hums, falling easily into the tease he knows will spark something in Dick other than worry. He taps his chin, thoughtful.
"Lisa is very helpful and resourceful," he muses, "Come to think of it, she's pretty cute and small, too..."
Dick’s jaw drops. Then snaps into a deep pout.
A small, wet sniff escapes him before he lunges for the shopping bag, snatching it up with far more force than necessary, his expression crumpled up with offense.
Bruce reaches out, hands circling Dick’s waist. He tugs the boy back into the spot. "I'm joking."
Dick huffs, not meeting his eyes, "Well, you suck at jokes."
"Forgive me," Bruce murmurs, "I promise she's never crossed my mind like that," his fingertips drift up Dick’s side, light, apologetic, "Not when I have you waiting for me at home… or standing in front of me like this."
For the romance of it all, he leans down, brushing a kiss against the boy's ruddy cheek. Bruce feels Dick’s breath hitch, feels the hesitation soften under his touch.
Dick finally turns toward him, hand sliding up Bruce’s arm, fingers curling shyly. There's a small, searching moment; Dick always needs that beat, that silent are you sure?
Bruce holds his gaze warmly, deep blue eyes holding his own.
Rising on his tip-toes, smaller hands on Bruce's cheeks, the boy's lips touch Bruce's in a tentative kiss. With the next one he tries to follow Bruce's tilting head, he misjudges the angle, nose bumping Bruce’s cheek, mouth catching at the corner of his lips instead.
Bruce smiles into it and deepens the kiss anyway.
Dick's lips part because Bruce’s do, his mouth opens when Bruce’s tongue brushes his gently, he freezes for half a heartbeat, then makes an earnest attempt to copy the motion–
Bruce has to fight a laugh. He tastes something unmistakably like Lunchables as Dick nudges his tongue past Bruce’s teeth, stiff and uncoordinated, before retreating again, flustered. They still have to work on the kissing part.
He slides a hand behind Dick and another beneath his knees, and lifts him clean off the floor.
"Whoa- Bruce, I don't know," Dick voices, hands sliding to Bruce's neck for support, "It's weird with the blood–"
Bruce plants a kiss on his temple. "It’s perfectly healthy. Perfectly safe," he murmurs.
"But it always hurts the next day– Wait… here!? Are you nuts?" Dick hisses under his breath, when he sees where Bruce has carried him. He looks away at the desk, the scattered papers, the door that anyone could walk through.
Bruce sets him down, hands warm on his waist until Dick finds his balance. Bruce tilts the boy's chin up with his fingers, wiping the dried tear tracks along his cheekbone. He leans in once more– close enough to share breath.
Dick, his brows pinched together, speaks against his lips. "Can't we just do it at home?"
"Feel how hard I am."
He takes Dick’s hand– guides over his slacks, on his growing bulge, lets him feel, lets him understand. Dick startles, color flaring high on his cheeks, teeth catching on his lower lip in a shy, overwhelmed bite. The sight of it sends a thrill through Bruce’s chest.
A scene like this is straight out of Bruce's earliest fantasies– if he hadn't already galloped ahead and gotten away with every single one of them.
Dick is staggeringly, so readily adaptive for his age. But he seems skittish still. In the swell of everything that has happened today it's no wonder. Bruce can be sympathetic.
"That's all you, Dick." He brushes his knuckles along the boy's jaw.
Dick leans into it for a fraction of a second– then catches himself and tilts his chin up stubbornly, nose wrinkling in that bratty way of his that makes Bruce want to both spank and smooch him. "Why are you blaming me?"
"No… I mean. It's all thanks to you."
Dick skitters his fingers on the outline of Bruce's swollen length. "Can't you just… shrink it until we get home?"
"I want to give it all to you. Right here and now."
"Oh, I…"
Bruce wraps his hands around Dick’s torso and draws him close, guiding him with an ease; he turns Dick in his arms, chest to his back, fitting him against him.
"I want you here," Bruce murmurs into the curve of his ear. "In the place where I spend all day pretending I'm not thinking about you and your tight little holes."
Dick melts a little– a small sound escapes him before he can swallow it down.
Reaching down Bruce touches him, dips a finger into his folds, "Still tingly?"
Dick nods, dazed. His pupils are blown wide, he looks drunk on adrenaline, on fear, on want that his body is only beginning to understand, "Yeah…" he breathes, "Yeah."
Bruce guides him forward until Dick’s palms find the desk. The smooth black surface reflects a warped hint of their shapes in the overhead light.
Leaning back, he sees streaks all over Dick's groin, the mess he made with the fingering. The tang of blood makes his head spin a little, the throbbing in his veins is reaching a fever pitch.
"Climb a little higher."
Dick hesitates– grunts– and then, slowly, awkwardly, braces his hands on the desk and hoists himself up, settling there with a sigh of surrender.
While his good-time boy splays himself on the desk, Bruce slides a thumb along his hip in a reassuring stroke, and unfastens his own belt.
"Bruce-"
Spreading him open with one thumb, tugging his cock out of his boxers with another, Bruce scoots closer.
Dick keens when Bruce's swollen tip rubs up and down his slit, settling there, finding the good spot.
"Let me," Bruce breathes out and strokes a broad hand on the globe of his small ass. "Ready?"
Dick swallows and nods- yet the moment Bruce starts pressing in, Dick's fingertips shoot to press against his thighs. The boy's cheek is against the desk, teeth clenched together. "It's too much!"
Bruce shushes him, peppers kisses his shoulder, coos praises, encouragements, as he settles better behind him.
When he can sink further in that sliminess in on another level. The boy is tight, he always is, but there's a silkier quality to the lining of his hole today. Gripping onto his waist, Bruce manages pitiful half-thrusts back and forth, going a bit deeper each time.
He's halfway in when the phone shrills violently on the counter, jolting them both.
Bruce doesn't stop. The ringing goes on a few seconds longer, then mercifully cuts out, leaving only the sound of Dick's little 'ughs' in tandem of Bruce pushing into him.
Each drag of his cock in and out of the boy has his length more streaked with blood. A few drops have splotched onto the carpet-lined floors below Dick's dangling feet.
"That's it, yeah. You're taking so much already, chum. But you can take some more."
"Ngh- nnn-"
"There–" Bruce pants, "Just slide back on it," he instructs, while grabbing onto the boy's ankle, drawing him back. "That's my boy."
Both of their breaths shudder, when Bruce thrusts his hips with more intent. He lets the motion settle, then repeats it– firm and smooth- until a cadence begins to form.
Dick doesn’t quite relax against the table. His shoulders stay tense, fingers curling against the edge as his eyes flicker up. Tears have gathered again below his thick, dark eyelashes. "B-"
Bruce grunts, "Dick-"
Dick's hand slips back, searching, fingers brushing blindly until Bruce realizes what he’s asking for. He shifts just enough to meet him, threading their fingers together, palm to palm.
A sharp rap at the door breaks the moment.
Bruce's rhythm stutters completely.
Both of them freeze up.
The panes on either side of the flush door are frosted glass. A shape moves behind them.
Bruce clamps a hand over Dick's mouth.
The boy lets out an irritated, muffled sound against his palm, curving his spine.
"Mr. Wayne?" Lisa calls through the door. "The 1:30 conference call is ready for you."
Bruce shuts his eyes for a moment, dragging in a breath. Reality rushes back into his bloodstream with a cooling clarity: The door is very much unlocked. His shirt is open and askew, pants pooled indecorously around his ankles.
He's balls deep in a twelve-year-old who has ripe thumbprints of blood all over his buttocks.
So much for slipping quietly out of the corporate world.
When he speaks up he makes sure his voice isn't scraped thin or weirdly breathless, "Postpone it to 2:00, won't you, Lisa? This will take a moment longer."
There’s a small pause– just long enough for Bruce to imagine her raised eyebrow, and feel his dick twitching with his quickening pulse – then comes Lisa’s polite, short: "Of course, Mr. Wayne."
Heeled footsteps fade down the hall. Dick sags in relief, shoulders loosening.
Bruce waits for a moment longer in the silence.
Then he steadies the boy again, rucks up his t-shirt in the back, bunching it up in his fist. "Alright," he murmurs, blood humming in his ears, "Let’s finish this."
Dick slides forward on the desk with the sharp, needy thrust of his hips, but Bruce holds him fast by the shirt, denying him that inch.
"Bruce, ungh-, ah-," Dick's voice collapses into a string of moans he tries to muffle by biting on his lip.
Bruce looms over him, close enough that Dick can feel the weight of him, the heat, the pressure. Bruce exhales a low, awed sound. "God," he mutters. "You’re perfect."
He presses in fully then, leaving Dick nowhere to go. The sound Dick makes in response pitches high enough that Bruce has a fleeting, distant hope it doesn’t carry through the office– down the hall, past Lucius's door, into places it absolutely shouldn't be heard in.
"Shh, shh."
"Please, please…" Dick whimpers.
Bruce fucks him. He bends closer, voice rough and unfiltered now, words spilling out with the sensation itself. "Love being inside you, filling you up. Son– Dick–"
"Ahhh- ummh-"
Dick’s voice breaks completely, reduced to sound and breath and Bruce’s name, his insides clenched tight.
"I've got you," Bruce murmurs, "I've got you right here,"
The world narrows to pressure and proximity; Dick trembling beneath him, the sharp edge of sensation rolling higher, higher. He rides the crest of it, the fissure of pleasure cracking through his system.
And with a stifled groan, then and there, above the watchful eye of the city, he spills his seed inside the boy.
It's followed by a gradual loosening. The rush ebbs slowly, like a tide drawing back from shore. Satisfied, Bruce grunts into the slick heat.
"Good job… Good-"
There's no time to bask.
Pulling out, the opening of Dick's swollen pussy is right there winking at him. The blood and semen gathered there begin to slowly ooze out only seconds later.
Bruce, steadily leveling his breath, glances down at his shirt. The pristine white now bears a constellation of dried blood; smears, streaks, almost an imprint of where Dick pressed into his hip.
Dick sits up on the desk, straightening his shirt with shaky fingers. There’s a glaze over his eyes, but Bruce doesn’t let himself look too long. He slides a hand briefly through the boy's hair– a praise, an apology– and reaches for the phone.
Bruce clears his throat. The receiver is cool in his palm.
"Lisa," he says, voice settling immediately into something smooth. "You picked up my dry cleaning this morning, didn’t you?"
There's a brief rustle over the line as Lisa confirms she did, and he continues: "Excellent. Could you leave it outside the door? Thank you."
Dick scoffs as he ends the call.
"You just love bossing her around."
"I do, in fact, happen to be her boss."
Bruce finishes fastening his pants, attempting to cover the bloody mess coloring his own groin, movements slightly stiff. He exhales through his nose. "Should we try the tampon again?"
Dick braces his hands on either side, sliding off the desk. A bit dazed, his thighs part automatically for balance– then snap back together when there's an unwelcome slip of fluids threatening to trail down the inside of his leg. His wince is small but deeply felt.
"Jeez, why did you have to make it such a mess? I'm not putting anything up there now!"
Bruce watches him with the patient resignation of a man who is beginning to learn that offering a practical solution to a moody teenager is a gamble at best. So far it has had about a twenty percent success rate– and that’s on a good day.
Still, he dares to try: "Only until you get home?"
Dick is already awkwardly shuffling to the restroom, thighs tightly held together. "You're not the boss of me!"