Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/583693.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Batman_(Comics)
  Relationship:
      Jason_Todd/Bruce_Wayne
  Character:
      Jason_Todd, Bruce_Wayne
  Additional Tags:
      Adult_in_a_Position_of_Power
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-12-05 Words: 1443
****** Vices ******
by Redbreast_(orphan_account)
Summary
     This is abhorrent, as far as Bruce is concerned. Jason knew this by
     the line of his mouth, the set of his brows, as he no longer bothered
     to try and conceal the hooding of his eyes, the vicious, appreciative
     efficiency of every crook of his finger. He's resigned himself to it.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
"Bruce, it's-"
Uncomfortable is the first thing that comes to mind, but... no, not really.
This is what he's been lobbying for, the negligible Robin shorts slung low on
his hips with a switch in his step he's only ever seen down on Van Buren
street, on the shivering, jaded prostitutes with their beautiful faces so
painted that even the inherent bitterness of their countenance isn't enough to
turn the lusty away from the pretty picture they make.
This is abhorrent, as far as Bruce is concerned. Jason knew this by the line of
his mouth, the set of his brows, as he no longer bothered to try and conceal
the hooding of his eyes, the vicious, appreciative efficiency of every crook of
his finger. He's resigned himself to it.
Jason scoots farther up on the console, slender thighs parting as far as
they'll comfortably go, the lines where the edge of the counter digs into them
turning an angry red that stands out even against the pervading flush that
curious, unexpected self-consciousness paints down his body, into the v of his
hips and down the insides of his legs. It feels weird, the intrusion, foreign
in a way that makes it all his body can focus on.
"You want this?" Bruce had asked him. Jason had answered with his teeth.
"Fine.”
It was a momentous victory.
They were in the cave— the Batman had already removed his cowl, but his
presence remained, sitting like something more ancient than Jason has words for
at the primary console, filling up the whole damn room without moving, without
saying a word, and Jason had wanted: an urge beyond anything logical. Had slunk
over, the clasps of his vest undone, hanging limply away from his chest as his
nipples pulled tight at the cold. He isn't impressive in the way Bruce is, big
and thick and so solid it winds Jason sometimes, makes him stop and just
breathe, just internalize. Isn't impressive in the way Dick is, legs that go on
for miles and a certain continuity to his form, a line of action that draws
attention fluidly to all of his best features; but Jason knows better than to
think that Bruce wouldn’t want him like this. Slender, wiry with muscle his
frame hasn't found room for, hips too narrow for shoulders this broad, broad
enough that he knows he’s going to be big one day, bigger than Dick, almost as
big as Bruce, maybe. Knees that knock together, shins with sparse, straight
hair augmenting them already, even at fourteen.
He'd straddled Bruce's thighs— more of a feat than he'd initially anticipated.
The stretch of spreading his legs wide enough to bracket his mentor's was
bizarre and exciting. Had pressed his calloused, thin-fingered hands to the
symbol, the icon on that chest, sliding them lower, as low as he'd dared, and
leaned in to press a kiss— or something resembling, at least, too wet and
messy, unduly aggressive to be classified as anything so successfully romantic,
successfully sexual as a kiss.
And Bruce, looking like Atlas, had finally, finally relented.
The stainless steel surface of the table is shockingly cold against his
nipples, warming far more slowly than Jason would've liked, and despite the
strangeness of it, the cousin of discomfort that was having one of Bruce's big,
calloused fingers pushing in tiny increments into his ass, he was getting hard;
even harder, as he focused on the hand anchoring his hip, big enough to span
almost halfway across his stomach, grasping with bruising force at the
protrusion of his hip bone, keeping him from squirming away as his body
twitched and thrashed absently.
He's getting what he wants, and that— well, it doesn't make breathing any
easier, not with all of Bruce's unrelenting, surgical precision behind him, and
he'd though there'd be more passion, more wild abandon, but-
There's something devastating about this, too. Because Bruce's body is a
machine, and sex is an action, an exercise, something that Bruce would excel at
simply by proxy of the obsessive control he wields over everything about his
physical wellbeing. Sex with Jason isn't being treated like a guilty pleasure,
something he didn't mean to give in to, can't find his way out of: it's being
treated like a task, an action to execute, a means to an end.
Because Bruce has resigned himself to being a horrible, horrible person, the
kind that has sex with boys not yet through puberty, facing it with the same
grim determination he faces menaces in the night. Jason knows this, knows that
now that he's relented, the next time will be looser, more relaxed, more the
cloying humid images he thinks of when the word 'sex' is murmured like a bad
word within his earshot, even though the way Bruce is acting now reads as—
—using Jason. Swift, mechanical motions, stretching him open, knowing what
comes next: a prick in a place that it shouldn’t fit, isn’t intended to go, and
sweat, and noise, and Jay knows that that's not Bruce's thought process here,
but the notion of being an item, a means to an end, where it once would have
infuriated him has him wailing in startlement when his dick finally fills out
enough to touch the painfully cold metal tabletop beneath him.
His entire body flinches, jerking up, away from that burning point of contact,
and he nearly chokes on his own spit when it drives him farther onto Bruce’s
finger just as another one is lined up next to it, slick and chilly with
something nondescript he’d pulled from his belt when the first one had gone in—
the vaseline-like compound they used for scrapes, probably.
“Bruce!”
It’s high and petulant, a tone for when Jason has reached the end of his rope,
done playing nice or pulling punches or being ignored, bratty and devastatingly
effective, even here. Bruce falters, for a moment, fingers still pressing,
pressing into Jason in a way he can’t ignore, but gentling; the militant
abruptness of his actions tapering off as he slows, seems to stop and
internalize Jason in front of him, cheek pressed against the table,
shoulderblades trembling as his fingers try to find purchase of a surface that
has none.
He’s hesitant to introduce tenderness into this, because that will make it
real—not just an awful, awful man doing an awful, awful deed, but luxuriating
in it, indulging it, turning a singular offence into a proper vice.
Jason has no idea how the fuck Bruce came up with these lines of descending
behavioral depravity in his head, but he’s one hundred percent done trying to
coddle the man by letting him stick to them, no matter how the idea of being
ridden hard and put away wet makes the bottom of his stomach pool with
something that he would’ve called shame if it weren’t for how violently it made
his cock twitch.
It’s Bruce’s last line of defense, treating this with as much clinical,
impersonal focus as the Mission, and Jason stone cold could not give any less
of a fuck right now. He lets his whole body stretch out, knees sliding farther
open on the frictionless surface, mouth open in a prolonged little moan of
rapture mixed with agitation, Bruce, Bruce—
It ends in a squeak when Bruce pulls him back into his lap. His face and
pectorals are still pressing into the counter, but his dick is now wedged into
the rough material of the batsuit in the crevice of Bruce’s closed thighs,
knees knocking the arms of the chair, butt stopping a few inches short of where
it would be pressing into the suit’s crotch guard.
Bruce’s fingers slip back into him, but there’s more rhythm now, more life,
like Bruce really can’t help himself, and Jason can hear Bruce breathing, now,
measured but deep, particular: aroused, Jason realizes, he sounds so goddamn
aroused, and that’s—he’s—
The hand that was on his hip smoothes up and down his back, now, nudging his
dick just hard enough down with every pass across his lower back that it makes
him start to whine, a high, embarrassing, continuous noise that he can’t seem
to stop now that it’s started, but that’s okay, because it makes Bruce inhale
like he’s been punched, and that’s still blowing Jason’s mind (he’s getting
fingered by the Batman and it’s making him horny, Jesus Christ.)
He decides to ask. Because Bruce has given him this much. Because Bruce has
never been able to say a proper, decisive no to him, not really.
“B, I want to—I mean, c-can we—“
“Yes.”
End Notes
     Because Rachel was getting stupid anons yesterday.
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