For the longest time, Jason thought Bruce didn’t want him back. And he was okay with that; not everyone’s gonna want you back, that’s life. Jason would’ve been content with their friendship, honest to God, and he was content, until Bruce started withdrawing—stopped the hair ruffles and casual shoulder touches, and began to keep Jason at arm’s length. Jason couldn’t understand why. Couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out what he did wrong.
Until last night, when Jason pushed Bruce a little too far. Bruce pushed back—pushed him right up against the alley wall—and then, unmistakably, Jason watched Bruce’s eyes catch on Jason’s mouth, watched them follow the motion of Jason’s tongue wetting his lower lip.
Today Bruce is pretending nothing happened with his typical, pig-headed determination, but that shit ain’t gonna fly now that Jason’s got his number. Enough is enough, and Jason’s not afraid to take extreme measures.
So when Bruce is still giving Jason the cold shoulder, sitting grim and still at the Bat-computer, Jason drops into his lap. No preamble whatsoever, and Jason’s proud to notice that Bruce grunts in surprise. That’s what he gets for ignoring Jason so hard: sneak attacks. Jason puts on his sunniest expression in the face of Bruce’s scowl, swinging his legs over Bruce's and leaning into Bruce’s face.
"Hey there, Boss-man," he says guilelessly, making himself comfortable in Bruce’s lap. He has to squirm a little to manage it; Bruce is big enough that there's not a whole lot of room left in the chair for Jason. Plus, he's in the Batsuit, and the armor is too hard and unyielding to make Bruce’s legs a cozy perch. But Bruce always puts off heat like a massive man-shaped furnace, and this close, Jason can smell him—leather, sweat, and kevlar—and it makes Jason’s breath quicken.
"Jason," Bruce says by way of greeting. He's trying to be impassive, but not quite managing it; his voice is strained around the edges, he won’t meet Jason’s eyes, and a quick glance down confirms that Bruce’s gloved hands are forcefully clenched on the chair’s armrests, to keep himself from touching.
It’s really astounding that Jason’s never called Bruce’s bluff before.
He trails one hand down Bruce's chest, leaning forward a little. "You busy?"
Bruce is still not looking at him. It's easy to tell, even through the cowl, even with the white lenses up; he's trying to look around Jason at the computer screen. He’s trying to ignore what’s right in front of his face, just like he always does, just because he’s got this—ridiculous need to keep himself miserable—
Jason scowls and makes up his mind. In one quick motion, his hand snaps out and shoves the cowl down out of Bruce's face; he’s not gonna let Bruce hide behind Batman right now. Maskless, Bruce looks as stubborn as ever, even with cowl-matted hair sticking to his forehead from sweat; annoyance is starting to twitch in Bruce’s jaw. Jason can’t find it within himself to be bothered. He's pretty annoyed, himself, at having to resort to being an annoyance to get Bruce's attention.
"So busy lately," Jason says. He knows he sounds bitter, childish even, but sue him if he's a little bit hurt. He knew Bruce would pretend it didn’t happen, but the way he’s treating Jason is unfair and Bruce knows it.
Bruce says nothing. Doesn’t move.
Jason tilts his head, licks his lips. "This wouldn't have anything to do with last night, would it?"
Even simply getting the words out for the first time makes a thrill go up Jason's spine, half from his own daring, half from the memory surfacing in his mind like a shark's fin. The end of a tease-turned-rooftop chase, both of them breathing hard from exertion. Jason was grinning so hard his cheeks ached, exuberant from getting Bruce to play, getting him to give chase; and then Bruce pinned him against the alley wall, arms boxing Jason in. Jason laughed, asked what're you gonna do now that you caught me, old man? and then Bruce loomed a little closer. Right up in Jason’s space, near enough to breathe the same air. Jason's grin had faded, his eyes going wide.
And then, the mother of all disappointments: Bruce had caught himself, one short moment too soon, and found a newfound determination to push Jason away.
Now Bruce says, "The Mission comes first,” a well-worn, overused response. Jason sneers automatically; Bruce making excuses, how new, how original. And then he realizes that Bruce had probably prepared for this interrogation, had planned ahead to nip this in the bud, planned to lie to Jason again.
Bruce says, "It has nothing to do with you," and without warning Jason’s ablaze with anger at the transparency.
"Liar,” he says, fiercely, and shoves forward to mash his lips to Bruce's.
Lightning fast, Bruce shoves him back before he makes contact, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck like a kitten. "Jason—"
Outrage surges through Jason, more from the unfairness than the indignity.
"You want me,” he spits, eyes burning. “I know you want me. So why do we have to keep pretending you don't want me?!"
"Jason. We talked about this."
"No we didn't, you just keep pushing me away and saying no," Jason snarls. "Give me one good reason."
"You're too young."
"I said good reason!"
Bruce's jaw clenches—God, Jason hates that. It means Bruce's made up his mind, won't listen to reason, won't listen at all. Jason growls in frustration and shoves himself backwards out of Bruce's grip, off of Bruce's lap.
Bruce lets him go, and Jason stalks away, fuming.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Bruce resettling himself at the computer, centering his focus on the screen once more. Indignation swells in Jason's chest, warring with the stewing fury. Bruce thinks he's won. Bruce thinks that all it takes to make Jason swallow his bullshit is a quick, condescending pat on the head.
Jason stares at the back of Bruce's head for a long moment, practically trembling with anger. He wants to scream, to hit something, to make Bruce stand up and pay attention and give a damn—
An idea strikes him, and he makes up his mind. In four long strides, he reaches the mats; his blood is boiling and he's seeing red, and his breath is coming in short, angry pants. But beneath the determination, adrenaline’s quivering through him, anticipation’s making his mouth water.
He cups himself through his sweatpants, squeezes. It doesn't take much to get him going—Jason's wires sometimes get crossed when he's pissed, when he's in the middle of a fight. All it takes is the memory of Bruce’s body heat from when Jason was in his lap; that, and the size of his hands, the almost frightening intensity of his stare last night when they almost kissed.
It’s enough to make him shiver, make him hard. Licking his lips, Jason slides his hand down below the drawstring.
As he starts to stroke, he calls out to Bruce. “Oh, of course you're right," and he makes it as obnoxious, as syrup-sweet as he can with his hand already down his pants. "We shouldn't. We couldn't!"
Jason had thought it would take longer to catch Bruce’s attention—in fact, he’d been kinda worried Bruce would tune him out entirely—but Bruce’s control must have been worn thinner than Jason had thought, or maybe the cloying insincerity in Jason's voice got on his nerves; whatever it is, Bruce turns in his seat.
And that is the most beautiful double take Jason’s ever seen, and when Jason meets Bruce’s eyes, there’s a little-lost-boy/deer-in-the-headlights look there. Beautiful. Jason would be laughing his head off right now if he weren’t already short of breath. Even still, he has to tamp down on a cackle. Come on, Jason. Eyes on the prize.
"In fact, I'm ashamed to have brought it up," he says. The breathlessness in his voice is only half exaggerated, now; the hunger in Bruce's face right now is doing wonders for his hard-on.
He licks his lips, again, and Bruce’s eyes follow the motion, just like they had last night. Heady triumph, success, catches Jason’s breath, winds him up—it’s dizzying, consuming, all the power of Bruce’s attention like this. He wants to crow with it.
Instead, he shoves his sweatpants down over his hips. The cold air of the Batcave is a shock when his cock bobs free, but Jason’s wound up enough that it just makes him shiver. He kicks his sweatpants the rest of the way off, and he thinks he hears a stifled noise from Bruce as he bares his legs.
Jason realizes, vaguely, that he’s forgotten his facetious apology, now, completely lost the thread of it—but it doesn’t seem to matter, because Bruce hasn’t stopped staring. He hasn’t looked away, not once. Victory is so close Jason can taste it.
His fist tightens on his cock as a sudden, renewed blitz of arousal hits him, and he groans and leans into it, speeding up his strokes.
The clatter of Bruce's chair falling is the only warning Jason gets before Bruce fucking tackles him to the mat. The landing knocks his breath away, but he doesn't have time to complain because Bruce is on him, covering him, holding him down with a hard, bruising kiss.
For a moment, it’s too much all at once, Jason’s stunned; the hot, heavy body pinning him almost doesn’t register as Bruce's, the kiss doesn’t quite register as a kiss, but Jason's pretty quick on the uptake. In an instant he's surging up beneath Bruce, grabbing his face with both hands, moaning into the kiss.
It swallows him up. He’d wanted this for so long, and the triumph alone is making his body fucking sing, but—Bruce. Oh, God, Bruce—he’s so intense in everything he does, applies the same single-minded focus to everything, and this kiss is so intent, so absorbed. Desperate. Like he’s devouring Jason.
Jason loves every second of it.
He wraps his legs around Bruce's waist, locking his ankles behind Bruce's back to drag him closer. It lines up their hips perfectly and Jason grinds up, gasping against Bruce's mouth. Objectively he knows it's just the protective cup, but it's hard and it's Bruce and having him this close is making it impossible to think.
Sensory overload plus breathlessness makes Jason break the kiss, head falling back as he pants for air. Bruce takes the opportunity to kiss his jaw, down to his throat, almost frenzied. It makes Jason groan, fingers twisting in Bruce’s hair.
“Ohhh, fuck me,” Jason groans, and everything slams to a halt.
Bruce is frozen above him, and Jason, seized by panic, grips onto Bruce's shoulders, tightens his legs around Bruce's waist. There’s this wild hope that if he clings hard enough he can somehow stop Bruce from backing out. Because if Bruce decides his obnoxious moral code is more important than Jason—if they go back to that awful place where Bruce pushes Jason away for something he can’t control, something he can't DO anything about—Jason can’t do that. Not now that he knows how Bruce feels on top of him, how Bruce tastes, now it’d be a thousand times worse—
But then, Bruce is speaking, voice gravelly like he’d had to forcibly tear the words from his throat.
"There won't be—I won't—no penetration," he growls.
Jason deflates, exhaling in relief. Even still, the first wave of feeling is followed by disbelief nipping at its heels—it's bubbling up in him to say, Boss-man, you're still getting off, doesn't matter if it's in or around my asshole, but it’s easy enough to swallow the urge. Alfred's always talking about picking his battles. Jason guesses right now it's picking between settling for third base and not getting laid at all.
No contest. Still:
“One condition,” Jason says. Bruce stiffens, but Jason clenches his hands on Bruce’s shoulders again, refusing to let him put any more space between them. He smirks. “You don’t get to keep the Batsuit on.”
Bruce’s mouth twitches and then, wonder of wonders, he actually laughs, short and barking. Jason beams, delighted. It makes him want to kiss Bruce, so he does, thrilled with the novelty of being allowed to kiss Bruce now. He likes it so much that he does it a second time, lingering, and then a third, even longer.
But then Bruce is leaning up off of Jason, pulling off his gloves, and Jason scrambles to help, pushing the heavy cape back off of Bruce's huge shoulders. His heart feels like it's bursting, which doesn't make sense, because how many times has he seen Bruce sans cape and cowl? Shirtless, too, and it’s not like Jason didn’t sneak a glance or five in the shower. But this is different—it’s a front row seat.He’s allowed to look his fill. When Bruce settles back on his heels, pulling the armored tunic over his chest, Jason gets to watch the way his muscles ripple and stretch; and then Bruce pushes back off of him further to take off the boots, the tights.
Jason’s mouth goes dry.
As soon as Bruce has freed himself, Jason surges up to meet him, to press his body flush to Bruce’s. He’s dragging his hands down Bruce’s chest, feeling the shape of him, the bulges and contours and the wiry hair, and he feels so greedy and so lucky.
Bruce pushes back, bearing down until Jason’s flat on the mats beneath him, and yeah, Jason still can’t believe this is really happening, but the new and overwhelming feeling of Bruce's cock against his own goes some distance towards convincing him. His brain’s flooding with white noise, everything disappearing but the feeling; Bruce is kissing him, but Jason’s having a hard time responding, floored as he is by the feeling of their erections pressed together.
Bruce is huge. Yeah, Jason knew that, on an intellectual level, and sure, the thought had gotten him through a handful of jerk-off sessions, but the thought had been mostly in context of how Bruce's cock would feel stretching him, filling him. This—feeling him, the swollen heat of Bruce’s dick, the sheer girth—is something he can barely wrap his head around, and the intensity of the feeling is making him shake in Bruce's arms. "Oh my God—Bruce," he says, dazed. "I can feel you everywhere."
As soon as the words are out of his mouth, shame hits him in a wave; God, he's babbling, he sounds so ridiculous, so young—
But Bruce doesn't laugh, just kisses him like he understands what Jason was trying to say, like he knows how Jason feels; gentle, but still with that infectious needy fever. Like he's trying to memorize the inside of Jason's mouth, the entirety of Jason's being. Jason forgets his embarrassment in favor of throwing himself into the kiss, hard and fast and needy.
Bruce's hands come down to grab Jason's hips, to squeeze, and Jason shudders. When Bruce rolls his hips down, now, it traps Jason's dick between Bruce's and his own stomach. Jason gasps, keeps gasping, can't seem to catch his breath, because every time Bruce thrusts it floods his body with warmth.
His hips jerk involuntarily, and Bruce tightens his grip so that he can't move, so he's overpowered, and all he can do is squirm under Bruce's body as it refuses to yield.
"Bruce," Jason moans.
When Jason comes, his head knocks back against the ground hard enough that he sees stars, mat or no mat. As he lies on his back, catching the breath that was knocked out of him, Bruce pushes back off of him.
"Hey—wait—" Jason says in protest, not wanting Bruce to run away now of all times, but Bruce is just settling back on his knees and grabbing at his utility belt, lying in a pile.
When he gets out the lube that they use for picking locks and easing open stuck windows, Jason's heart leaps into his throat. Wildly, he wonders if maybe Bruce changed his mind about anal, but then Bruce is sliding his hands between Jason's thighs, slowly and methodically smearing them slick.
Jason watches, keeping himself from squirming at the touch of Bruce's huge, rough hands, at the feeling of his thighs sliding together.
Finally, unable to stop himself, he says, "Bruce, what—?" but finds himself unable to complete the sentence. Bruce does one of his infuriatingly cryptic almost-smiles, pulling Jason's left leg up over his shoulder and pressing a kiss to his ankle.
In spite of himself, Jason shivers.
Then Bruce pulls Jason's other leg up, so both of his legs are up resting together over Bruce's shoulders. He's got both big hands holding them together, thumbs rubbing circles onto Jason's skin. Bruce's dick, still huge and hard, is nudging at the insides of Jason’s legs, where his skin is almost oversensitive.
Jason looks up at Bruce questioningly.
"Clench your thighs for me," Bruce says, in that quietly authoritative tone that always makes Jason's dick twitch, even now, spent as it is.
"Sure thing, Boss-man," Jason says, breathless, and obeys.
And then Bruce starts to fuck his thighs, fingers digging hard into Jason's legs where he's holding them together.
It's not something Jason ever thought of, and if he'd heard of it he would have laughed, but somehow it feels incredible—the sensitive skin of his inner thighs tingles as Bruce thrusts, sending warmth blazing through him, and when Jason tilts his hips up, Bruce's dick rubs against the underside of Jason's. And more than that, he can see the flushed head of Bruce's cock peeking through his thighs as he fucks him.
It's a dizzying sight, and Jason thinks there's nothing he'd rather watch—until, that is, he looks up at Bruce face; the look in his eyes is deep, probing, somehow both riveting and frightening in its intensity. Jason can feel himself flushing.
"Jason," Bruce murmurs, and then, "My boy, my beautiful boy—"
Jason's thighs clench involuntarily, and Bruce cuts himself off with a grunt. His fingers tighten painfully on Jason's thighs, and then he's fucking Jason's thighs harder, like he can't help it, like he's losing control. The force of his thrusts is rocking Jason's whole body, and Jason has to fling out his hands to brace himself against the mat.
Bruce’s eyes are locked on Jason’s, and Jason can't look away, either, can't catch his breath; when Bruce comes, hot all over Jason's thighs, it startles him for a moment, the mood breaking like a needle popping a soap bubble. When he realizes what happened, he laughs, even breathless as he is; Bruce's mouth quirks at the corner, amused as ever by Jason’s amusement.
Gently, Bruce eases Jason's legs down from his shoulder, rubbing his thighs slowly with those enormous hands to get the circulation flowing; as he does, he settles back between them until he's lying on top of Jason. It's almost like being covered by a sweaty, heavy blanket, up until Bruce starts kissing him, infuriatingly slow; here Jason is, renewed hard-on rubbing against Bruce's belly, and Bruce just wants to pet him and use him as a pillow.
Jason makes himself relax his hands—they've left imprints on the mat from how hard he'd been pushing against it, heh—and pushes lightly at Bruce's shoulders.
"Bruce," he says against Bruce's mouth. "Mmph—Bruce—"
He pushes Bruce a little more insistently, and then uses his legs as leverage to push Bruce over onto his back.
Bruce lets him, although he raises his eyebrows up at Jason when he straddles Bruce's chest. Jason knows that look—he's amused, laughing on the inside.
"Yuk it up, old man, it's not my fault you're not ready to go again," Jason says, but he's grinning, because even if Bruce is laughing at Jason's expense, he's still laughing, and anything that makes Bruce laugh is okay in Jason's book.
"Brat," Bruce says, sliding his big, rough hands up Jason's thighs, rubbing gentle circles with his thumbs.
Jason shivers, and wraps his hand around his dick. "You love it," he says, pretending not to be breathless.
Bruce doesn't deny it, just squeezes Jason's thighs, and Jason lets his mouth fall open like it wants to, licks his lips, and tightens his grip on his cock.
He's a little surprised that Bruce doesn't want to take matters into his own hands, so to speak, but there's greed in Bruce's eyes as he watches Jason touch himself, and Jason wonders suddenly if Bruce had imagined him like this before, if he'd wondered how Jason would get himself off. The thought makes him warm, makes his hips jerk, and Bruce moves one hand to grip Jason's waist, hard, like he wants to keep him still.
Jason hums, pleased, and slides his free hand up Bruce's belly, up over his pecs. He's got a hell of a view, here, Bruce's broad shoulders, the dark curly hair on his chest, and sure, it's nothing Jason hasn't seen before, but he's never gotten to drink his fill, and never from this angle, and definitely never with Bruce's hands keeping him exactly where he wants him.
He squirms, testing, and Bruce's grip tightens to just this side of painful; it's good, it's really good, it's perfect. His skin's prickling, goosebumping; he can practically feel Bruce's gaze dragging all over him.
"Jason," Bruce says, "come for me," and Jason keens, head thrown back, and screws his eyes shut as he comes on Bruce's chest.
Before Jason's properly caught his breath, Bruce tugs at his arm, and Jason's so off-balance that he yelps, falls right on top of him. Just as Bruce planned, presumably.
"Aghhh, no fair," Jason mumbles into Bruce's neck, and hides his grin when a chuckle rumbles through Bruce's chest. Jesus, if he'd known a little hanky-panky made Bruce loosen up this much, he would have tried something sooner.
He rubs his hands through the come on Bruce's chest, smearing it into his skin.
"You need a shower," Jason announces, pushing up on his elbows to smirk down at Bruce.
Bruce raises an eyebrow. "Do I," he says, deadpan as ever.
"And you had nothing to do with that, I'm sure."
"Bruce, please. I'm innocent as a freakin' angel."
"Mm," Bruce says, somehow managing to convey equal parts dubiousness and fondness in that one syllable.
Jason snickers, overcome with fondness himself, and leans down to press a long, lingering kiss to Bruce's mouth. It's nice—warm, wet, slow. Sweet. He'd been annoyed by Bruce's insistence on slow kisses earlier, but now he thinks he could come to see the appeal.
They kiss for a long time. When Jason pulls back to breathe, Bruce's eyes are open; he's watching Jason carefully, with a look that Jason can't quite read at first.
When Jason gets it, he groans. "Bruce, you're not seriously gonna try and tell me that we can't do this again."
Bruce's face goes stony, like that was exactly what he was trying to figure out how to say, and Jason sighs in exasperation.
"Let's just..." Jason pauses. Collects his thoughts. "Let me have the afterglow. We can fight about it tomorrow, if you're dead set on it. But fuck, Bruce, can't you let me have this? Just for now?"
Toward end, his voice gets pleading, and he hates that it does, but he can see the way Bruce's eyes soften just a little, so he refuses to let himself feel bad about it.
"Tomorrow," Bruce says.
"Alright," Jason says. And, belatedly, "thank you."
After a moment of pause, Jason pushes off of Bruce, pushes himself up to his feet, and extends a hand down to Bruce when he does. Bruce lets Jason pull him up, and before Bruce lets go of his hand, Jason bounces onto his tiptoes to peck Bruce on the lips. Maybe Bruce saw it coming, maybe not, but either way he's smiling when Jason pulls back. Just barely, but still there, so. Jason counts it as a win.
"Race you to the showers?" Jason says, grinning, and bolts before Bruce has the chance to answer. He doesn't have to look back to know that Bruce will chase after him; he has faith that that much won't change.