miss maggie (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bossymarmalade) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thejusticelounge2014-03-25 04:25 pm
bossymarmalade) wrote in thejusticelounge2014-03-25 04:25 pm
voilà le portrait sans retouche
Oliver stalks across the camp, noticing Clark and Zatanna up on the tower — that doesn’t matter to him, as long as it’s not Mia up there haunting it, little round-faced girlghost — and heads into Bungalow 2, into the bedroom he shares with Bruce.
Bruce is in the room, poring over a book on illness and disease, a refresher more than him actually learning anything, and doesn’t look up when Oliver enters. He remains where he is, standing by the window as he looks down at the medicines and supplies he’d been sanitizing, holding the book with one hand as his other checks the seals on the bottles and vials.
Oliver kicks off his shoes, letting them heap against each other. “Come here,” he says. “Put that shit down and come here, Bruce.”
His voice flat, he speaks over his shoulder: “Busy.”
Oliver laughs, but it comes out serrated. “You know all that shit inside out. Learned it dandling on your father’s knee, ain’t that how it goes? Thomas Wayne, the greatest surgeon of them all, and you — Gotham’s your patient, right? That’s how you carry on daddy’s legacy.” He’s getting faster, louder as he talks, the words spilling out over themselves, tumbling down atop each other in an untidy pile. “We all got fucking legacies to carry out, one way or another.”
Bruce looks up from his book, and over at Oliver, looking unamused. Well.. Moreso than usual. He remains silent, staring at the other man, unblinking.
"Come /here/. Christ, is a simple request too much for you? Do I need to submit it in writing? Scream? Holler? Beg?"
Bruce exhales, closing his book. Slowly. “What happened?” Then, after a beat, he adds: “In writing, but on carbon copy paper.” He sets the book down and folds his arms, taking a step towards Oliver. Then, perhaps the motion, pushing him from his place, or maybe something shifting under the archer’s skin catches Bruce’s eye, because he repeats, frowning. “What happened?” The words are softer, but not gentle. He unfolds his arms, the stance aborting mid-motion.
Oliver moves forward, meeting Bruce, and pushes one hand against Bruce’s face, drawing fingertips across his forehead, thumb down along the bridge of his nose, an arc over the cheekbone and a pull down to the lips, Bruce’s chapped lips, his strong, familiar chin. He exhales, a long slow relieved breath, then pulls back his elbow and drives his fist forward, crunching it against the side of Bruce’s face. His knuckles pop open, two of them, on that hard wing of cheekbone, and Ollie’s mouth drops open slightly in pleasure, making a pattering, sticky sound.
Bruce’s eyelids sluggishly droop at the sensation of his lover’s touch, his own hand moving to curl around Ollie’s hip, a familiar motion, by now, to pull him close, when— ..his head snaps to the side with the punch, because there hadn’t been a reason for him to anticipate it, to displace the energy. The scalpel-sharp edge of his cheekbone crackles like dry plaster, splitting instantly, and the taste of blood, cloying and dark, fills his mouth. Bruce spits, checking to make sure the blow didn’t rupture his sinus cavities, and when the saliva lands clear on the hardwood floor, he takes a moment, the silence spanning out between them.
”..you already used up your free one,” Bruce intones, words dipping darkly, the cobalt of his stare settling on Oliver’s face. He lifts his hand, swabbing at his cheek: his finger tips come back crimson.
Oliver is looking at Bruce, looking, /staring/ at him with eyes blown wide and dark, glassy-glossy and pleading around the edges. He drops his bleeding hand to Bruce’s shoulder, twisting his fingers in the fading material of his scrub shirt, and he licks his lips, nodding. “Way back when,” he agrees. Then, “Make things make sense to me, Bruce. Just for one goddamn minute. Clear it all up for me.”
Bruce moves his arms around Oliver’s waist, and lifts him up, up, like he’s going to flip and then, pile drive the other man, but, abruptly, with a loud, hard growl, slams him onto the bed. The frame shakes, trembles under the force of it, and Bruce hauls his hands from under Oliver’s back to jerk at the button, the fly of his jeans, yanking them open. Pulling it down.
Bruce snarls at him, his voice a low, smokey hiss. “..you goddamn idiot.” He kneels over Oliver, his body twisting so he can open his mouth and lick at the raw, split skin over Ollie’s knuckles, his hands working the waist of Oliver’s jeans down, shimmying them off and down his hips, his muscular, toned thighs.
Oliver gives a low groan, arching up against Bruce’s hands as they work his jeans down, his toes knocking against each other from the jostling. He doesn’t try to help or hinder, just digs his fingers into the sheets, the mattress, stretching his throat exposed, gasping when Bruce’s tongue meets his pulped knuckles. “Yeah, yeah,” Ollie murmurs, half delirious. “Honey. You know what I need.”
Bruce growls, low in his throat, the sound feral and untamed as he pulls Oliver’s jeans just low enough, so he can work his fingers against the pucker of the other man’s asshole. It’s dry, the muscle rippling against the pads of his fingertips, but Bruce doesn’t refrain from probing it, a finger slipping into the center of it. Another noise shifts from between his lips, his cheek starting to swell, already. He lifts Oliver’s legs, bends him in half by the inseam of his jeans, his mouth cupping and pursing over the bloodied knuckles, saliva spooling in his mouth. He lifts his head, and lifts his hand, spitting onto the fingers and returning it to the pucker of Ollie’s hole, pushing a finger, then two, inside.
Oliver swallows and swallows, his breath ratcheting up fast, outpacing his pulse. Bruce manhandling him is such a fucking relief, the feel of his heavy body and his sure hands (surgeon’s hands, that nasty part of his mind chortles, but Ollie shoves it back down); he bares his teeth and pushes back against Bruce’s questing, wet fingers. “Come here,” Ollie says again, mindlessly. “I want you, Bruce. Come here.”
Bruce warns him: “Hit me again and I’ll break your nose.”
Oliver gives a bark of a laugh. “Break whatever the fuck you want, I don’t care.”
Bruce’s lip curls over his teeth and he adds another finger to the already spread pucker of the other man’s asshole, forcing it open, making sure the edge of his nail doesn’t clip the tender skin.. but the gentleness ends there. Bruce’s fingers are thick and strong, and he forces them inside of Oliver, grouped together, and he curls over Oliver’s legs, forcing them up higher. He pulls his fingers up, and back, then shoves them back in, deep, gritting his teeth against the tension.
"You want it to hurt?" Bruce hums, just barely drifting into his speaking voice. "..you want it to make sense?"
Oliver lets out a hiss through his teeth as pain whips up through him, pushed in and out with Bruce’s fingers, but god/dammit/ it’s better than all the other nipping biting pinching things he’s feeling right now, so he doesn’t protest, doesn’t pull away. “That’s the one damn thing that always makes sense,” Ollie says, roughly. His voice is fast disintegrating, flaking away in pieces. “Go on. Do it for me, honey.”
Bruce presses his forehead against Oliver’s temple, his swollen cheek emanating warmth, rising over Oliver’s vision for a moment as Bruce murmurs, his fingers working, now-dry, inside the other man’s body. He rests there, for a just a moment, just a brief, deliciously short second. He brings his gaze up, lifting his head to stare at Oliver, his hand curling under the pillows for the curled tube of KY, twisting the cap off with his teeth and spitting it to the side.
”..keep talking.”
It’s not like he’s ever had a problem with talking. Mostly with shutting up. But for some reason when Bruce says that, it’s like an instant crimp closes Ollie’s throat, and he has to force air and sound past it, nonsense words, nonsense thoughts. “Whole place is going fucking upside down, Bruce, can’t keep hold of anything, it’s like … late for lacrosse, someone’s hidden your stupid stick. Like letters from home on a secretary’s typewriter, it’s lysol in the hallways. You know what I mean. D’you know what I mean?”
Bruce lifts his head up pushes a hard breath out and vows: “I’ll break your jaw if you start talking about rain on your wedding day, Queen.”
Oliver actually laughs at that, an honest surprised laugh, and it’s a true enough emotion to burn through some of the confusion fog, the remembered and half-remembered sorrow and fear. “All right, honey,” he says, amusement curling in his voice. “Just — come /on/, okay? I need to stop thinking for a while. I need everything to get distilled down to manageable.” He curls his toes and reaches down to dig his fingers into Bruce’s shoulder. “Come on, come /on/.”
"Reach down and get me out." Bruce pumps a touch of the lube out, not as much as he’d use if he were at home, but Oliver can’t tear, not too badly. They can’t afford it here, as much as Bruce understands what the other man needs. He brings the tip of the canister down, angling his knees against the bed, working his fingers in and out as way of spreading the lube over his fingers, the heat making it all slick, so suddenly.
Oliver gives a put-upon sigh and twists his mouth as he tugs and pulls at Bruce’s waistband, getting his fly open and palming out his hard length as Bruce gets him ready. “There we go,” Ollie says by way of encouragement, hand wrapping around Bruce’s cock, squeezing lightly. “We good?”
Bruce bares his teeth at that sigh, chucking the tube aside, and brings his hand to wrap around the shaft of his prick, removing the fingers buried inside of Ollie’s body. They pop, slickly, before the sound is punctuated by the sound of Bruce’s cock slapping wetly, a second later, half a breath before Bruce aligns himself, rolls his hips with a surge of power that makes the bed rock, and buries four, five inches of his cock in Oliver with one clean push.
Bruce grits his teeth, hissing, because the lube only goes so far: the rest of it is a slow, burning push, but he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t fucking stop until there’s nothing left to give. Sinking, hot and hard inside of the clenching mouth of Ollie’s entrance, the tightness, the friction, wrings a hard moan from him.
Oliver clutches at Bruce wildly, fingers digging into anything he can find — the dark curls of his hair, the thick muscle of his arm — and then gives a long, shaky groan, his own cock pushing up hard from the feeling of Bruce thrusting all the way inside him. It’s exactly what he wanted and couldn’t even figure out for himself, driving away any and all thoughts about the madness here; there’s nothing else to consider, to concentrate on, except the sensation of it, the rills of bright white pain that dissolve into biting hot pleasure. “Fuck, yesss,” Ollie rasps. “That’s — you’re fucking perfect. God, it’s perfect.”
Bruce falls into silence, focusing on the tension of Oliver’s jeans—they hadn’t even gotten those off his legs, they worked like a fulcrum for Bruce to work Oliver’s legs back—and back they go as Bruce curls over the blond man, pushes his knees to his fucking ears. He doesn’t kiss him, doesn’t meet his mouth: Bruce places his hands on the backs of Oliver’s thighs, pinning him, doubled, and pulls his hips back before shoving back in.
Bruce repeats the motion, each jagged thrust driving him deeper, and farther, into the archer’s convulsing, velvet grip. Soon, the noise of their coupling is louder than even Bruce’s steady, even breaths, the union wet, ragged.
After that there’s not a whole lot of talking to be done, because the pressure and the strain, the heat and the pounding blood, the feel of Bruce’s weight, his cock, Ollie’s own aching hardness — they take precedence over anything as pointless as words and coherence. Bruce is opening him up, relentlessly, and Ollie doesn’t try to push back, even; no answering roll of the hips, no bearing down on the thrusts. He can hardly move and right now, this is the best thing. He shuts his eyes at first but then drags his eyelids open again, focusing on the planes and angles of Bruce’s face even though nothing is really registering except that steady pounding, the wave-beating against everything that’s stupid and ugly and unresolved. “I’m gonna come,” Ollie blurts banally, over the sound of them fucking and the slickness of their sweat, but it’s truth and god knows Bruce is hitting everything inside him that’s gonna catapult him over that edge.
Bruce doesn’t answer him, doesn’t say a goddamn thing, but he picks up the pace of his fucking. The bed begins to tremble, the frame creaking, but he doesn’t, not for a second, doesn’t let up. If the frame breaks, so be it, if there are explanations to be sought, it’ll be done, but Bruce’s focus narrows down. His world pinpoints on this, the way that Ollie’s body is stuttering under the relentless assault, opening up and parting, cleaved in half, splitting at the seams.. And Bruce can feel it all. He angles his hips, seeking out the smooth, hard rise of the other man’s prostate, buried inside his body, with thick, blunt head of his cock. He targets it, very nearly attacks it, a moan slipping out of his throat—almost escaping before Bruce swallows it, smothers it and shoves himself in deeper, harder.
Oliver pushes up, then, up up against Bruce, forehead furrowing with the effort of it and sweat blooming out all across his back, warm on his nose and belly. When that moan nearly comes free right before Bruce loops it back into his mouth and turns it into even more force with his hips, Ollie uses one last burst of energy to grab Bruce’s head, pull him in close, bite at his mouth as Bruce slams against his prostate. That’s way fucking enough for him, a whirlwind of pulsating, maddening heat and prickling jolts working their way up his spine, into his cock, drawing orgasm out of him in one howling shout as he arches off the bed, far as he can manage. It just brings him that much harder up against Bruce as he’s thrusting down, and Ollie grabs onto him faster, throat offering just half-formed sounds now, loud and choppy in the still, hot air of the bungalow.
Bruce cradles those sounds, precious as they are, inside of his own mouth, curling his lips against Oliver’s. He doesn’t stop the push of his hips, not with the first sign of Oliver’s orgasm, not even as it peaks, he rides it down the slope of it. He only stops, pauses when the archer’s cock gives one last shuddering pulse, ribbons of milky white seed splattered against the inside of Oliver’s jeans, his chest, his belly. Bruce works his mouth over Ollie’s, kissing him and stilling his hips, entirely, his breath evening out from the exertion easily enough. He is healing, and fast, and the labored breaths are no longer so labored. He pulls out of Oliver, cock still rock hard, his eyes settling on the other man’s own, holding them.
Oliver watches, panting as the knots of desire and need in his chest, his stomach, start to unfurl and uncoil, no longer gnawing at him. But Bruce has pulled out of him without coming, and Ollie reaches for him, still perplexed but not looking away from the other man’s gaze. “Bruce…” he says, unsure. “Honey. What? Come on, baby, I want you to come too…”
Bruce looks down at Oliver, a moment too-long, before he looks down, between their bodies. He realigns, and pushes back into Oliver, slipping back inside almost easily. He readjusts his knees, arching his back and tilts his pelvis to begin to thrust.. but slows the motion. Cuts it in half. He rolls into it, a slow, heavy pulse of motion, half the speed, all the force behind it. He lowers his mouth and bites the edge of Oliver’s shoulder, through his shirt.
Oliver lets his head drop back against the pillow when Bruce pushes in again, reigniting the burn and stretch of entry, feels his throat bob haplessly as his body readjusts and spreads apart for it. The feeling is good, and it hurts, and it’s wonderful, and it’s too much, and it’s nearly not enough. It’s a zillion things all at once and Ollie rolls his tongue against his bottom lip before sucking it in, biting down on it as Bruce’s teeth edge into his shoulder. “That’s right,” he says, the words coming out raspberry red stained and ragged. “That’s right, Bruce. Just like that.”
Bruce groans, quietly, when Oliver speaks and tenses. He thrusts a bit harder, but doesn’t create a pace from it. He murmurs, quietly: “..keep talking.”
Oliver wants to complain about this request, but the feel of the hectic blood radiating from Bruce’s cheekbone where it’s barked open and accessorized by the blood on Ollie’s knuckles makes him feel a pang of guilt. So for that, and for the feel of Bruce moving inside him, steady and deep, Ollie marshals what little cogency he has left and puts his wet fingertips alongside Bruce’s face. “I love you,” he says, because there’s no need to save them up, his I-love-yous. He can always make more of them, and Bruce deserves as many as Ollie can give. “The kids are coming apart and I just, I needed something to get it back together again, Bruce, and you understand, you’re the one who understand this, who knows what it’s like, and how — that one time, honey, when you said, you said it was okay if they used you as a, a … what fool word did I use, as a boogeyman, and you said it was okay as long as it made them stronger? I guess I kinda figured out what you meant, but I dunno, I dunno if I’m the kinda type’a person who can do that, and I just…” Ollie trailed off there, instead opening and closing his mouth a few times. “Fuck. Holy hell, Bruce, that feels fucking … oh, god.”
And the words spur him. And he doesn’t stop. Ollie speaks, answering the question Bruce had asked in disjointed time; the explanations, they wrap around the part of Bruce’s brain that doesn’t cease—and really, it doesn’t stop even then, the tinkering, the machinations—and for a moment, that split-second space where Oliver is explaining.. it buffers the constant clash of it all against the inside of his mind. Oliver’s words wrap around him, allow the hard, hot spike of desire that had been seeded and growing in the base of his spine to filter through the din, because Ollie is talking, and it means he can.
And that is more than enough for him.
Bruce rolls his hips, once, then twice, and with a drawn out heavy breath, his hips stutter an off-beat, staccato rhythm, and he comes. He doesn’t shut his eyes, but his eyelids drift, the length of his sex twitching as it empties, and this time, when Bruce pulls back, it is with a soft, wet rush of fluid. He untangles himself from Oliver, jerking his jeans back down, and turns their bodies, curved, against each other, his hand settling onto his hip, like he’d tried to do, before.
Oliver blinks, long-tempo, at Bruce, still lost in the syrup slow time of their fucking. “Thank you,” he manages, and that’s about it. There’s no other space for deconstruction, not right now, not with the prints of themselves all over each other, and Ollie knows he’s not long for awakeness and awareness anyhow. But he gets that out, at least, and his fingers latch on, and there isn’t abandonment after all.
Bruce is in the room, poring over a book on illness and disease, a refresher more than him actually learning anything, and doesn’t look up when Oliver enters. He remains where he is, standing by the window as he looks down at the medicines and supplies he’d been sanitizing, holding the book with one hand as his other checks the seals on the bottles and vials.
Oliver kicks off his shoes, letting them heap against each other. “Come here,” he says. “Put that shit down and come here, Bruce.”
His voice flat, he speaks over his shoulder: “Busy.”
Oliver laughs, but it comes out serrated. “You know all that shit inside out. Learned it dandling on your father’s knee, ain’t that how it goes? Thomas Wayne, the greatest surgeon of them all, and you — Gotham’s your patient, right? That’s how you carry on daddy’s legacy.” He’s getting faster, louder as he talks, the words spilling out over themselves, tumbling down atop each other in an untidy pile. “We all got fucking legacies to carry out, one way or another.”
Bruce looks up from his book, and over at Oliver, looking unamused. Well.. Moreso than usual. He remains silent, staring at the other man, unblinking.
"Come /here/. Christ, is a simple request too much for you? Do I need to submit it in writing? Scream? Holler? Beg?"
Bruce exhales, closing his book. Slowly. “What happened?” Then, after a beat, he adds: “In writing, but on carbon copy paper.” He sets the book down and folds his arms, taking a step towards Oliver. Then, perhaps the motion, pushing him from his place, or maybe something shifting under the archer’s skin catches Bruce’s eye, because he repeats, frowning. “What happened?” The words are softer, but not gentle. He unfolds his arms, the stance aborting mid-motion.
Oliver moves forward, meeting Bruce, and pushes one hand against Bruce’s face, drawing fingertips across his forehead, thumb down along the bridge of his nose, an arc over the cheekbone and a pull down to the lips, Bruce’s chapped lips, his strong, familiar chin. He exhales, a long slow relieved breath, then pulls back his elbow and drives his fist forward, crunching it against the side of Bruce’s face. His knuckles pop open, two of them, on that hard wing of cheekbone, and Ollie’s mouth drops open slightly in pleasure, making a pattering, sticky sound.
Bruce’s eyelids sluggishly droop at the sensation of his lover’s touch, his own hand moving to curl around Ollie’s hip, a familiar motion, by now, to pull him close, when— ..his head snaps to the side with the punch, because there hadn’t been a reason for him to anticipate it, to displace the energy. The scalpel-sharp edge of his cheekbone crackles like dry plaster, splitting instantly, and the taste of blood, cloying and dark, fills his mouth. Bruce spits, checking to make sure the blow didn’t rupture his sinus cavities, and when the saliva lands clear on the hardwood floor, he takes a moment, the silence spanning out between them.
”..you already used up your free one,” Bruce intones, words dipping darkly, the cobalt of his stare settling on Oliver’s face. He lifts his hand, swabbing at his cheek: his finger tips come back crimson.
Oliver is looking at Bruce, looking, /staring/ at him with eyes blown wide and dark, glassy-glossy and pleading around the edges. He drops his bleeding hand to Bruce’s shoulder, twisting his fingers in the fading material of his scrub shirt, and he licks his lips, nodding. “Way back when,” he agrees. Then, “Make things make sense to me, Bruce. Just for one goddamn minute. Clear it all up for me.”
Bruce moves his arms around Oliver’s waist, and lifts him up, up, like he’s going to flip and then, pile drive the other man, but, abruptly, with a loud, hard growl, slams him onto the bed. The frame shakes, trembles under the force of it, and Bruce hauls his hands from under Oliver’s back to jerk at the button, the fly of his jeans, yanking them open. Pulling it down.
Bruce snarls at him, his voice a low, smokey hiss. “..you goddamn idiot.” He kneels over Oliver, his body twisting so he can open his mouth and lick at the raw, split skin over Ollie’s knuckles, his hands working the waist of Oliver’s jeans down, shimmying them off and down his hips, his muscular, toned thighs.
Oliver gives a low groan, arching up against Bruce’s hands as they work his jeans down, his toes knocking against each other from the jostling. He doesn’t try to help or hinder, just digs his fingers into the sheets, the mattress, stretching his throat exposed, gasping when Bruce’s tongue meets his pulped knuckles. “Yeah, yeah,” Ollie murmurs, half delirious. “Honey. You know what I need.”
Bruce growls, low in his throat, the sound feral and untamed as he pulls Oliver’s jeans just low enough, so he can work his fingers against the pucker of the other man’s asshole. It’s dry, the muscle rippling against the pads of his fingertips, but Bruce doesn’t refrain from probing it, a finger slipping into the center of it. Another noise shifts from between his lips, his cheek starting to swell, already. He lifts Oliver’s legs, bends him in half by the inseam of his jeans, his mouth cupping and pursing over the bloodied knuckles, saliva spooling in his mouth. He lifts his head, and lifts his hand, spitting onto the fingers and returning it to the pucker of Ollie’s hole, pushing a finger, then two, inside.
Oliver swallows and swallows, his breath ratcheting up fast, outpacing his pulse. Bruce manhandling him is such a fucking relief, the feel of his heavy body and his sure hands (surgeon’s hands, that nasty part of his mind chortles, but Ollie shoves it back down); he bares his teeth and pushes back against Bruce’s questing, wet fingers. “Come here,” Ollie says again, mindlessly. “I want you, Bruce. Come here.”
Bruce warns him: “Hit me again and I’ll break your nose.”
Oliver gives a bark of a laugh. “Break whatever the fuck you want, I don’t care.”
Bruce’s lip curls over his teeth and he adds another finger to the already spread pucker of the other man’s asshole, forcing it open, making sure the edge of his nail doesn’t clip the tender skin.. but the gentleness ends there. Bruce’s fingers are thick and strong, and he forces them inside of Oliver, grouped together, and he curls over Oliver’s legs, forcing them up higher. He pulls his fingers up, and back, then shoves them back in, deep, gritting his teeth against the tension.
"You want it to hurt?" Bruce hums, just barely drifting into his speaking voice. "..you want it to make sense?"
Oliver lets out a hiss through his teeth as pain whips up through him, pushed in and out with Bruce’s fingers, but god/dammit/ it’s better than all the other nipping biting pinching things he’s feeling right now, so he doesn’t protest, doesn’t pull away. “That’s the one damn thing that always makes sense,” Ollie says, roughly. His voice is fast disintegrating, flaking away in pieces. “Go on. Do it for me, honey.”
Bruce presses his forehead against Oliver’s temple, his swollen cheek emanating warmth, rising over Oliver’s vision for a moment as Bruce murmurs, his fingers working, now-dry, inside the other man’s body. He rests there, for a just a moment, just a brief, deliciously short second. He brings his gaze up, lifting his head to stare at Oliver, his hand curling under the pillows for the curled tube of KY, twisting the cap off with his teeth and spitting it to the side.
”..keep talking.”
It’s not like he’s ever had a problem with talking. Mostly with shutting up. But for some reason when Bruce says that, it’s like an instant crimp closes Ollie’s throat, and he has to force air and sound past it, nonsense words, nonsense thoughts. “Whole place is going fucking upside down, Bruce, can’t keep hold of anything, it’s like … late for lacrosse, someone’s hidden your stupid stick. Like letters from home on a secretary’s typewriter, it’s lysol in the hallways. You know what I mean. D’you know what I mean?”
Bruce lifts his head up pushes a hard breath out and vows: “I’ll break your jaw if you start talking about rain on your wedding day, Queen.”
Oliver actually laughs at that, an honest surprised laugh, and it’s a true enough emotion to burn through some of the confusion fog, the remembered and half-remembered sorrow and fear. “All right, honey,” he says, amusement curling in his voice. “Just — come /on/, okay? I need to stop thinking for a while. I need everything to get distilled down to manageable.” He curls his toes and reaches down to dig his fingers into Bruce’s shoulder. “Come on, come /on/.”
"Reach down and get me out." Bruce pumps a touch of the lube out, not as much as he’d use if he were at home, but Oliver can’t tear, not too badly. They can’t afford it here, as much as Bruce understands what the other man needs. He brings the tip of the canister down, angling his knees against the bed, working his fingers in and out as way of spreading the lube over his fingers, the heat making it all slick, so suddenly.
Oliver gives a put-upon sigh and twists his mouth as he tugs and pulls at Bruce’s waistband, getting his fly open and palming out his hard length as Bruce gets him ready. “There we go,” Ollie says by way of encouragement, hand wrapping around Bruce’s cock, squeezing lightly. “We good?”
Bruce bares his teeth at that sigh, chucking the tube aside, and brings his hand to wrap around the shaft of his prick, removing the fingers buried inside of Ollie’s body. They pop, slickly, before the sound is punctuated by the sound of Bruce’s cock slapping wetly, a second later, half a breath before Bruce aligns himself, rolls his hips with a surge of power that makes the bed rock, and buries four, five inches of his cock in Oliver with one clean push.
Bruce grits his teeth, hissing, because the lube only goes so far: the rest of it is a slow, burning push, but he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t fucking stop until there’s nothing left to give. Sinking, hot and hard inside of the clenching mouth of Ollie’s entrance, the tightness, the friction, wrings a hard moan from him.
Oliver clutches at Bruce wildly, fingers digging into anything he can find — the dark curls of his hair, the thick muscle of his arm — and then gives a long, shaky groan, his own cock pushing up hard from the feeling of Bruce thrusting all the way inside him. It’s exactly what he wanted and couldn’t even figure out for himself, driving away any and all thoughts about the madness here; there’s nothing else to consider, to concentrate on, except the sensation of it, the rills of bright white pain that dissolve into biting hot pleasure. “Fuck, yesss,” Ollie rasps. “That’s — you’re fucking perfect. God, it’s perfect.”
Bruce falls into silence, focusing on the tension of Oliver’s jeans—they hadn’t even gotten those off his legs, they worked like a fulcrum for Bruce to work Oliver’s legs back—and back they go as Bruce curls over the blond man, pushes his knees to his fucking ears. He doesn’t kiss him, doesn’t meet his mouth: Bruce places his hands on the backs of Oliver’s thighs, pinning him, doubled, and pulls his hips back before shoving back in.
Bruce repeats the motion, each jagged thrust driving him deeper, and farther, into the archer’s convulsing, velvet grip. Soon, the noise of their coupling is louder than even Bruce’s steady, even breaths, the union wet, ragged.
After that there’s not a whole lot of talking to be done, because the pressure and the strain, the heat and the pounding blood, the feel of Bruce’s weight, his cock, Ollie’s own aching hardness — they take precedence over anything as pointless as words and coherence. Bruce is opening him up, relentlessly, and Ollie doesn’t try to push back, even; no answering roll of the hips, no bearing down on the thrusts. He can hardly move and right now, this is the best thing. He shuts his eyes at first but then drags his eyelids open again, focusing on the planes and angles of Bruce’s face even though nothing is really registering except that steady pounding, the wave-beating against everything that’s stupid and ugly and unresolved. “I’m gonna come,” Ollie blurts banally, over the sound of them fucking and the slickness of their sweat, but it’s truth and god knows Bruce is hitting everything inside him that’s gonna catapult him over that edge.
Bruce doesn’t answer him, doesn’t say a goddamn thing, but he picks up the pace of his fucking. The bed begins to tremble, the frame creaking, but he doesn’t, not for a second, doesn’t let up. If the frame breaks, so be it, if there are explanations to be sought, it’ll be done, but Bruce’s focus narrows down. His world pinpoints on this, the way that Ollie’s body is stuttering under the relentless assault, opening up and parting, cleaved in half, splitting at the seams.. And Bruce can feel it all. He angles his hips, seeking out the smooth, hard rise of the other man’s prostate, buried inside his body, with thick, blunt head of his cock. He targets it, very nearly attacks it, a moan slipping out of his throat—almost escaping before Bruce swallows it, smothers it and shoves himself in deeper, harder.
Oliver pushes up, then, up up against Bruce, forehead furrowing with the effort of it and sweat blooming out all across his back, warm on his nose and belly. When that moan nearly comes free right before Bruce loops it back into his mouth and turns it into even more force with his hips, Ollie uses one last burst of energy to grab Bruce’s head, pull him in close, bite at his mouth as Bruce slams against his prostate. That’s way fucking enough for him, a whirlwind of pulsating, maddening heat and prickling jolts working their way up his spine, into his cock, drawing orgasm out of him in one howling shout as he arches off the bed, far as he can manage. It just brings him that much harder up against Bruce as he’s thrusting down, and Ollie grabs onto him faster, throat offering just half-formed sounds now, loud and choppy in the still, hot air of the bungalow.
Bruce cradles those sounds, precious as they are, inside of his own mouth, curling his lips against Oliver’s. He doesn’t stop the push of his hips, not with the first sign of Oliver’s orgasm, not even as it peaks, he rides it down the slope of it. He only stops, pauses when the archer’s cock gives one last shuddering pulse, ribbons of milky white seed splattered against the inside of Oliver’s jeans, his chest, his belly. Bruce works his mouth over Ollie’s, kissing him and stilling his hips, entirely, his breath evening out from the exertion easily enough. He is healing, and fast, and the labored breaths are no longer so labored. He pulls out of Oliver, cock still rock hard, his eyes settling on the other man’s own, holding them.
Oliver watches, panting as the knots of desire and need in his chest, his stomach, start to unfurl and uncoil, no longer gnawing at him. But Bruce has pulled out of him without coming, and Ollie reaches for him, still perplexed but not looking away from the other man’s gaze. “Bruce…” he says, unsure. “Honey. What? Come on, baby, I want you to come too…”
Bruce looks down at Oliver, a moment too-long, before he looks down, between their bodies. He realigns, and pushes back into Oliver, slipping back inside almost easily. He readjusts his knees, arching his back and tilts his pelvis to begin to thrust.. but slows the motion. Cuts it in half. He rolls into it, a slow, heavy pulse of motion, half the speed, all the force behind it. He lowers his mouth and bites the edge of Oliver’s shoulder, through his shirt.
Oliver lets his head drop back against the pillow when Bruce pushes in again, reigniting the burn and stretch of entry, feels his throat bob haplessly as his body readjusts and spreads apart for it. The feeling is good, and it hurts, and it’s wonderful, and it’s too much, and it’s nearly not enough. It’s a zillion things all at once and Ollie rolls his tongue against his bottom lip before sucking it in, biting down on it as Bruce’s teeth edge into his shoulder. “That’s right,” he says, the words coming out raspberry red stained and ragged. “That’s right, Bruce. Just like that.”
Bruce groans, quietly, when Oliver speaks and tenses. He thrusts a bit harder, but doesn’t create a pace from it. He murmurs, quietly: “..keep talking.”
Oliver wants to complain about this request, but the feel of the hectic blood radiating from Bruce’s cheekbone where it’s barked open and accessorized by the blood on Ollie’s knuckles makes him feel a pang of guilt. So for that, and for the feel of Bruce moving inside him, steady and deep, Ollie marshals what little cogency he has left and puts his wet fingertips alongside Bruce’s face. “I love you,” he says, because there’s no need to save them up, his I-love-yous. He can always make more of them, and Bruce deserves as many as Ollie can give. “The kids are coming apart and I just, I needed something to get it back together again, Bruce, and you understand, you’re the one who understand this, who knows what it’s like, and how — that one time, honey, when you said, you said it was okay if they used you as a, a … what fool word did I use, as a boogeyman, and you said it was okay as long as it made them stronger? I guess I kinda figured out what you meant, but I dunno, I dunno if I’m the kinda type’a person who can do that, and I just…” Ollie trailed off there, instead opening and closing his mouth a few times. “Fuck. Holy hell, Bruce, that feels fucking … oh, god.”
And the words spur him. And he doesn’t stop. Ollie speaks, answering the question Bruce had asked in disjointed time; the explanations, they wrap around the part of Bruce’s brain that doesn’t cease—and really, it doesn’t stop even then, the tinkering, the machinations—and for a moment, that split-second space where Oliver is explaining.. it buffers the constant clash of it all against the inside of his mind. Oliver’s words wrap around him, allow the hard, hot spike of desire that had been seeded and growing in the base of his spine to filter through the din, because Ollie is talking, and it means he can.
And that is more than enough for him.
Bruce rolls his hips, once, then twice, and with a drawn out heavy breath, his hips stutter an off-beat, staccato rhythm, and he comes. He doesn’t shut his eyes, but his eyelids drift, the length of his sex twitching as it empties, and this time, when Bruce pulls back, it is with a soft, wet rush of fluid. He untangles himself from Oliver, jerking his jeans back down, and turns their bodies, curved, against each other, his hand settling onto his hip, like he’d tried to do, before.
Oliver blinks, long-tempo, at Bruce, still lost in the syrup slow time of their fucking. “Thank you,” he manages, and that’s about it. There’s no other space for deconstruction, not right now, not with the prints of themselves all over each other, and Ollie knows he’s not long for awakeness and awareness anyhow. But he gets that out, at least, and his fingers latch on, and there isn’t abandonment after all.