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thejusticelounge2014-03-25 04:42 pm
bossymarmalade) wrote in thejusticelounge2014-03-25 04:42 pm
Entry tags:
ever upwards
takes place during the League Retreat on Rigel 4, then back on Earth afterwards
One
Ollie’s almost drifting off right at the bar, so much activity and drinking and sex at night. It’s only the promise (boast? threat?) that he made to Bruce earlier that’s keeping him awake at all.
Finishing up his other conversation, Bruce makes his way over to the bar, expression leveling out with every step he took. It wasn’t that he needed to play his cards close to his chest around Oliver; the man had proved himself a valued ally and friend, time and time again. But, it’s easier to look serious as he approaches him, to make the rise of his eyebrows all the more exaggerated when he looks for his scotch and finds the tumbler half empty. Reaching for the decanter, he shakes his head. “..think your skill at frustrating me has only gotten *better* as the years go on, Queen.”
The sound of Bruce’s voice — his *real* voice, not the one he puts on at parties or even the one in the mask, but a very specific one that’s somewhere in between — still gets Ollie’s blood rushing. He’s never understood that reaction. Or maybe he’s just never stopped to analyze it. Enough that it happens, and that Bruce is, in his own ordered way, as much of a wild card as Ollie can be himself.
"I believe in self-improvement, Bruce, what can I say?" Ollie watches the deliberate movements as Bruce pours himself another drink, licking his lips. "Whenever I enjoy something, I make it a point to do it well."
Bruce pauses, mid-pour, lips twitching as Oliver speaks. He shakes his head, once, setting the decanter down atop the bar with a soft clinking noise. He lifts the tumbler of (now mostly) scotch to his lips and takes a deep draw of the amber liquid, savoring the burn as it travels down his throat. He turns to look back at the empty patio, changing subjects as he states, nodding to himself in confirmation: “They enjoyed themselves.”
Getting up to come over, Ollie tips the decanter over his own glass, covering the tiny bit of whiskey with scotch. His elbow brushes against Bruce’s with the movements, and this close, he can smell the other man; nothing specific, but an expensive smell. With the faintest hint of Nomex underneath, and Ollie feels his mouth start to water.
He doesn’t turn, stays facing the bar so he can look at Bruce’s face. “Most of us enjoyed ourselves,” he agrees. “Lots of us because you managed to make it. And no, I’m not saying that we wouldn’t have had a good time at all if you weren’t here — just that you made it better. It felt better. More like things are the way they should be.”
In the earlier days, Bruce might have shook his head in mild disbelief. Perhaps, even made a comment denying the allegation that his presence would give *anyone* comfort, but, those days are gone, and behind him, and looking out at the empty space in front of them, at the cabins where his children are sleeping, the man knows, deep in his heart, that making any sort of claim to the contrary would be ungainly. So, he doesn’t, and opts instead for yet another swig of his drink.
"He’s going through something and I—" The change of subjects—from the retreat weekend to Dick’s current state of turmoil— is sudden, but it’s Oliver’s own fault: Bruce’s introspection was one of his harder to beat traits, and the movement from the light banter was nearly inevitable with the heartfelt confession from the archer. He swallows, smirking as he exhales through his nose in a sharp, short little noise, and looks over at the other man, reaching out to tap the name-tag, still firmly adhered to his shirt. "Makes me wonder if I should get a couple hundred of these printed out, for the next night I’m out on the town."
The change in Bruce’s expression is infinitesimal by anyone’s standards. And Ollie wouldn’t call himself subtle, not by a long stretch, but if there’s one thing he knows it’s his friends. And he and Bruce have been changing alongside each other for too long now to not clue in to these things.
Especially when it comes to the kids. But then Bruce is on to the next thing, tapping Ollie’s label, making another of those half-wry, half-wistful comments that he makes.
"As if you’d need a trick like these!" Ollie laughs, finally peeling off the label and crumpling it. "Isn’t your shtick more in fending off the unwanted attentions rather than attracting more?" Before Bruce can answer, though, Ollie diverts down a side alley and loops back to the more serious topic: "He’s been going through something for a while, now." Ollie weighs out the next part for only a moment’s consideration before elaborating, "don’t let him blame it all on you."
He leans over, mostly to make sure Bruce is listening, but the look in Bruce’s eyes makes it something different and Ollie instead tangles his fingers in the side of Bruce’s sweater and kisses him. He has to slant his head to accommodate his own long nose and Bruce’s intense profile, and Bruce’s mouth is warm with the sweet, oaky sting of the scotch, and Ollie licks his way in with an insistence that keeps growing.
It’s hard to surprise the detective, but, along with frustrating him, Oliver Queen has always had a knack for managing to do so. Still, there’s barely a millisecond of pause, when the other man’s mouth presses against his, facial hair prickling against the stubbled expanse of Bruce’s skin, before he’s returning the gesture in kind, groaning at the swipe of Ollie’s tongue at the seam of his lips. He sets the tumbler of scotch down behind him, half-blind, and brings the cool, damp fingers of that very same hand up, smoothing through the slope of hair at the back of the archer’s neck.
Turning his body so he’s flat against the bar, Bruce’s other hand comes to settle on Oliver’s hip, applying just the tiniest bit of pressure: not to keep him from pressing in, really, but to give Bruce an idea of his motion—through the tensing of muscles, the micro-shifts in his stance—before he actually completes it. He parts his lips, finally, inviting the blond’s tongue in, easing his own against the slick muscle with a practiced curl.
Bruce’s response makes Ollie groan in desire, heat kindling in his belly so fast his fingers are jerking where they’re pleated into Bruce’s soft black sweater. He angles his body closer, nosing against Bruce’s face and licking eagerly into the other man’s mouth to taste all the crevices of his cheeks, under his tongue, the slick hard surfaces of his teeth.
He hadn’t known what to expect, although Bruce had made it clear enough that a kiss wouldn’t be unwelcome. Fuck, even that kiss-not-a-kiss that had gone on underwater between them had left Ollie riled and ruffled for the rest of the night, when he’d gone back to Kate and she’d bitten over the mark on his lip again, as he told her what had happened.
Ollie pushes his hips against Bruce’s, sprawling his other hand out along Bruce’s shoulder blade to keep him close. It’s dizzying, the taste of him, the feel of Bruce’s uber-controlled body so near.
Perhaps he’s acquiring some meta-esque mind-reading abilities, or, even more likely, perhaps, he’s thinking on that kiss-not-a-kiss himself, because Bruce tilts his head down and then up against Oliver’s in the next moment, teeth finding the plushest center of the blond’s lip, gently, gently biting down against it. The hand that had been against his hip shifts, winding around Oliver’s waist as he drags him up flush against his body, angling their bodies, so his thigh ends up resting right between the other man’s own, calloused fingers slipping up the back of his shirt to touch skin, still warm from the sun. He revels in it, pushing his touch against the hardened flesh, edges of rough skin catching on the tiny hairs lining the surface.
Pulling back, Bruce half-nuzzles his lips against Oliver’s, his other hand winding up higher across the other man’s scalp, where the hair is longer and he has more purchase. His voice is a husky, rolling blanket of heat when he speaks next, against Ollie’s mouth. “..glutton for punishment, aren’t you?” His fingers tense, pulling on the strands of flaxen hair, forcing the archer’s head to tilt back, so Bruce can bring his biting kiss to roam the expanse of his throat.
"Oh, jeeeezus," Ollie breathes, voice starting to get raspy and harsh as he feels his cock thicken, straining in his pants against the neat, unrelenting pressure of Bruce’s thigh. He suddenly wants to feel Bruce’s skin too, the skid and skip of his fingertips over all that scar and muscle, and Ollie growls as he yanks at Bruce’s clothes, one hand moving firmly up Bruce’s side and the other pushing into his waistband.
The feel of Bruce’s fingers in his hair and mouth on his throat is gorgeous, glorious, and Ollie digs his fingertips along the crest of Bruce’s hip to urge him on, to get more of that rich, warm skin into his touch. “Fuck, didn’t even know how much I wanted this, you absolute fucking asshole—”
He’s crowding Bruce against the bar now, bucking forward with his hips every now and again to relieve some of the strain and the heat thumping in his blood. “Tell me you’ve been thinking about it too. C’mon, tell me.”
The chuckle that slips from him could easily be described as malicious, but there, pressed right against the hollow of Oliver’s throat, whiskey-warm, it’s something else entirely. He shifts his weight from one side to the other as the blond moves his hand under the band of his trousers, knowing that Oliver is growing hard against him, and wondering how long it will take for the other man to realize that he, too, is at half-mast. The bulge growing there, against Oliver’s hip, is swung heavy and large, the answer to more than a few questions being given when Bruce flexes his hips and presses the thickening length of it against the blond’s pelvis.
"That a good enough answer?" Bruce responds, bringing his mouth back up to the edge of the archer’s jaw, nipping a sharp line across it, nostrils flaring and puffing out a warm breath against his skin. The hand he’d had at the man’s hair drops down, coming around to grip Oliver’s free hand, bringing it to the hard, thick line of his cock, trapped beneath the material of his trousers, making sure those deft, nimble fingers can trace it, from base to tip, all seven, eight, nine inches of it. "Or do you need something more definitive?"
"I’d say that’s pretty damn definitive."
It comes out a scratchy, throaty purr, and Ollie cups Bruce’s cock through his trousers as he grinds his own length against the man’s hard, tensed thigh. He licks Bruce’s mouth, wanting a taste of him, then brings his other hand up to brace against Bruce’s throat, force his head back so Ollie can rub his nose, his mouth and beard, against Bruce’s exposed throat.
He’s what could easily be termed an expert at getting people’s clothes open one-handed, so it doesn’t take long for Ollie to unfasten Bruce’s pants. When he gets his hand inside, he tips his head back so he can watch Bruce’s expression when Ollie wraps his hand around that hot, heavy length, the skin silken against his calloused palm and fingers.
"Ahhh," Ollie breathes, "you’re a fuckin’ sight, you pretty bastard." He smears his thumb across Bruce’s swollen mouth, hooking the corner to feel wetness, echoed in the wetness of the head of Bruce’s cock against his thumb.
When that hand, bow-calloused and rough, slides around the girth of his sex, Bruce takes a breath and allows his eyelids to droop, just the tiniest bit, in a nearly canine gesture of unadulterated pleasure. He licks his lips, his body immaculately still, and allows Oliver free reign in his actions and words. Well, to a point.
As his thumb moves across his lips, and the man speaks, Bruce catches the digit between his tips, nipping at the pad a bit cruelly, holding the skin between his teeth before releasing it. “Pretty?” He alleges, words curling dark at the edges, the smirk that he seems to perpetually sport nowadays showing up, in full force, even as he brings both of his hands to the blonde’s hips.
It’s unnecessary, really, as Bruce doesn’t need the handholds to turn Oliver, but he figures it might make the man feel better, in retrospect, when he pivots his weight against his hip, forcing the blond around to nearly bite the edge of the bar. Bruce’s hand curls around Oliver’s throat from behind, thumb and row of fingers on either side of his windpipe and he drops his lips to the archer’s ear, murmuring into the shell as he ruts up against him, the motion nearly feral. His unclothed cock drags up against the furrowed and clothed crack of Ollie’s ass, his other hand moving under the man’s chest to both hold him, and keep him from having his chest compressed as he leans against him.
”..that the word you want to be using right now, Queen?”
The roughness is delicious, unexpected, just the kind of thing that gets the fever into Ollie’s blood. It’s been only Kate who does this to him, lately, so the ferocity with which Bruce is treating him, the desire that Ollie feels mirrored back at him, is nothing short of maddening.
"I’ll call you pretty whenever I damn well choose, Bruce," he says, letting his voice drawl out, low and insouciant. "Don’t forget, I’m one’a the moneyed class of boy billionaires too. You can’t have me whining and begging you to fuck me with just a few growls and well-placed moves."
Ollie presses his ass back against Bruce’s cock for that last part, shamelessly. They’re well beyond the point where he could play coy, if he’d ever wanted to play coy. Bruce’s hand on his throat tightens, and Ollie’s eyelids sink lower in utter pleasure. These are the kinds of fucking games he loves to play, and even if Bruce has the upper hand right now, the tide could turn any moment.
"You’re in a dilemma now, anyway," he points out, still insolent. "How’m I gonna jerk you off from this angle?"
… … …
Two
Ollie: Bruce I guess we oughtta be more discreet from now on.
Bruce: It’s all right, Oliver. It’s so small, no one will even notice it missing.
Ollie: Ohhhhhhhh big talk, Wayne
Bruce: You’re right.
Bruce: It is big
Bruce: talk.
Ollie: Dunno if you can back it up, though
Ollie: When *I* say it, it ain’t boastin’
Bruce: Weren’t you in the process of doing just that the other night? ‘Backing it up’?
Ollie: *rassum frassum*
Ollie: Things get crazy on vacation brain, what can I say.
Bruce: That excuse might work with some, Queen, but not with me.
Bruce: Beginning to sound like you weren’t enjoying yourself.
Ollie: Ohhhh, I didn’t say that.
Bruce: Hm.
Bruce: “Vacation brain.”
Ollie: Vacation something else, too.
Ollie: Not like *you* weren’t enjoying yourself, longears.
Bruce: Never said I hadn’t.
Ollie: I was about to ask if you’re always this terse, but I already know the answer.
Ollie: Bet you’re more talkative when you’re fucking.
Bruce: You’d be wrong.
Ollie: Really?
Bruce: I’m even willing to demonstrate.
Bruce: Just to prove it.
Ollie: Just so you know, I talk incessantly.
Bruce: You mean more than you already do?
Bruce: Bring Kate along, then.
Bruce: Give you something to do with your tongue instead of driving me up a wall.
Ollie: You wouldn’t say that if you knew the kinds of things I talk about.
Bruce: Tell me.
Ollie: Hmmph. Well, with Kate, I normally tell her what she tastes like, how she looks, what I wanna do to her. What I want her to do to me.
Ollie: With you, I’d probably …
Ollie: Talk about that dark hair. How you have to purposely rumple it up for your careless playboy act, ‘cause normally it’s perfect. How much I’d wanna mess it back up again. Or maybe that mouth of yours, how you’d taste like silver and ashes and cognac.
Ollie: Maybe I’d tell you I wanted to see you go down on Kate, lose some of that iron control, wanted to hear the sounds you’d make against her cunt with your tongue.
Ollie: Getting the picture?
Bruce: Your place.
Bruce: If we break something, I know it’ll be affordable for me to repair it.
Ollie: You better put in a helluva effort if you’re gonna be jibing me like that the whole time, B.
… … …
Three
He reaches across the distance to curl a broad hand around the other man’s neck, just under the proud line of his jaw. Pulling forward, he tangles their mouths, their lips crashing, as he works his tongue between the seams, stealing the breath Oliver attempts to drag in, and claiming it as his own. It’s spans a brief lifetime, that kiss, before Bruce pulls back, already swelling from the force and he half-growls the inquiry: “Have I ever not?”
Ollie licks his lips when Bruce finally pulls away, blood thrumming with excitement from the taste of him; hot, unmistakable desire and a strange austerity. Compelling and intriguing, just like the man himself. He hadn’t raised his own hands when Bruce kissed him, but now he does, spanning his fingers across the side of Bruce’s head and rubbing his thumb across the temple. “No, you’re right,” Ollie drawls. “Nobody could ever accuse you of doing anything halfway.”
He watches Oliver’s face closely, possibly searching for evidence that there is a part of the other man that doesn’t quite want this, and when he comes back with nothing, his expression slides into a look of satisfaction that is as close to pleased as he gets. Turning his head, he kisses the inside of Oliver’s forearm, watching him with eyes the color of a storm over the sea, locking gazes, when his tongue slides out to taste the salt from his skin.
That catches Ollie by surprise, and he gives a short, foxlike huff as his own eyes go darker, dilated from the sensation making the hairs stand up on his arms, the back of his neck. Making heat kindle in his cock and belly. Jesus Christ but Bruce is good at all this, better than Ollie’s given him credit for; he’d suspected that Bruce must have some method of releasing all his considerable tension, but hadn’t realized sex would be the way. Ollie leans in again, fingers tightening in Bruce’s hair as he bites against Bruce’s mouth, into the soft slick inside of his bottom lip. “Kate’s gonna love watching me fuck you,” he murmurs, pushing at Bruce’s nose with his own. “We’ll make you describe it, what it feels like, the whole time.”
The bite earns a soft push of air from his open mouth, eyelids drooping a bit. “Blood from a stone,” he replies, setting their foreheads together as he moves his hands to Oliver’s waist. Deft fingers make short work of the belt, pulling it open, but not off, fingers popping the button of his jeans out of place, lowering the fly in a fluid motion. “..besides, how would I get a word out, Queen?” He brings his lips to the shell of Oliver’s ear, dragging the prickly, stubble brushed surface of his cheek against the other man’s. “Thought my tongue was buried in her cunt, or..” He reaches into the confines of material, hooking his calloused fingers around the thick coil of Oliver’s prick. “Was it that my lips were around her clit, sucking her off?”
When Bruce plays along with the scenario they’re spinning, arguing the logistics of an entirely fictional hookup, it’s so very *Bruce* that Ollie can’t help but laugh, a short but entirely genuine sound. “Yes, okay, yeah,” he agrees, “you can’t talk then, not much anyhow, ‘cause you’ll be busy with your mouth and your fingers, fucking her cunt and her ass with two fingers, three at a time, god, Bruce, you won’t believe how my wife can take it.” He has to stop there because Bruce’s hand is in his pants, the touch of his roughened fingers similar to Ollie’s own hands but more … elegant. Ollie takes a long breath, feeling his cock stiffen into Bruce’s palm, and scrubs his hand around the back of Bruce’s head, roughly. “I guess I’ll find out how well *you* take it, huh?”
"I had my suspicions, when you married her," Bruce admits, pulling the length of Oliver’s prick out and into the open, tugging loosely, nearly idly, from root to tip, making sure to use the natural slide of his foreskin against the sensitive tip, avoiding touching the thickening head with the callouses that line his thumb. There is no jealousy in his tone, but a sense of ..admiration for Kate, with whom the crime-fighter had possibly shared two, three dozen words with in the last year. Respect, for a woman that could keep Oliver Queen enthralled the way she had, without fail, a respect that wasn’t diminished by any other factor (including Kate’s not-so-hidden disdain for Bruce and how he worked). It was a simple, brief expression of emotion, punctuated with the opening of Bruce’s mouth. The dart of his fingers into the warm recesses, gathering saliva, before returning dampen the skin he is stroking. "If you get there before Kate does, maybe." And, with those words, he opens up a very different set of circumstances for Oliver to play with, in his mind.
And Bruce has landed a bull’s-eye with that one, because god knows Ollie’s been fucked by Kate before and it’s something that makes his head spin even in recollection, how good she is at it. “She just might,” he says, voice thickening at the wetness of Bruce’s fingers returning to his cock with that sure grip, knowing exactly the responses he wants to elicit. There’s no reason at all for Ollie to hold back on those responses. He can be ornery, it’s true, and winding Bruce up is always fun, but right now Ollie mostly feels like he wants to give Bruce what the man is after, and so he doesn’t hold back when he wants to gasp and moan and dig his fingers into Bruce’s shoulders to encourage him. “She won’t let you off easy, Bruce, if she decides she wants to fuck you. She won’t ease up until you come totally undone, begging for it.” He drops his forehead to Bruce’s collarbone, panting against him. “God, don’t stop. Keep doing that, fuck, just like that, Bruce.”
"I wouldn’t expect any less. Open," Bruce replies, much more concerned with the man in his arms than the woman in their minds, however. He brings his fingers back, the ones stained with the taste of Oliver’s precome, dragging their touch against his lips.
Ollie narrows his eyes to a thin, dark green at Bruce, but at the same time he opens his mouth and sucks in Bruce’s sticky-wet fingers, the taste of himself and Bruce’s mouth, all salt and spice, the sting of cordite along the edges of Bruce’s fingernails shooting high up along the back of his throat. He grabs onto Bruce’s wrist, holding him steady as Ollie takes his fingers in deep, biting the tips with his back teeth before sliding them back out again. His cock is still aching, wanting release, but damned if Ollie’s gonna let Bruce know *just* how much he wants it.
Bruce groans at the feeling of the bite, his dick twitching at the pain that lances up the digits, but slides the tips back down to curl them around the width of the head. He slides them, making sure to get the sensitive skin nice and wet, before totally pushing the foreskin off, and down, sliding his rough thumb under the frenulum, teasing it. Slowly, and watching Oliver’s expression from the corner of his eye, he brings the tip of his index finger to the leaking slit at the top, smearing the precome around and around. He widens his stance, legs spreading, and watches the archer as he does his, working his touch over the swelling length, quicker as the moments slip.
"Ahhhhhh, jesus—" Ollie bares his teeth, eyebrows drawing together when Bruce touches him in that *particular* way of his; bordering on fussy, but with an inexorable strength shot through every motion and flick of his fingers. He bites down on Bruce’s collarbone through the other man’s clothes, the shock of fabric on his teeth making him snuffle and he moves to the side of Bruce’s throat, rubbing his nose along the skin there, licking, careful not to leave a mark. Ollie isn’t sure yet how Bruce would feel about visible marks, and he has just enough presence of mind to pull away, leaning back so Bruce can watch his face while his hips thrust forward, pushing his cock into Bruce’s ever-quickening ministrations. "Please," he says finally, blinking his eyes open, enough to meet Bruce’s gaze however blearily. "C’mon, Bruce, don’t stop, I’m so close…"
Allowing his eyelids to droop even further, until they are nearly closed, Bruce lets loose a low, feral growl, pushing Oliver back against the wall behind them. He does nothing to shield the rattling of the blond’s skull against the drywall, the sound only echoed by the thumping of his knees as he drops to the ground, undoubtedly ruining the trousers in the process. The man doesn’t waste time in latching his mouth onto the engorged tip of Ollie’s cock, wrapping his lips around the width and wrapping his tongue around, but that’s as far as he goes. An inch. Maybe two, at the most. And he makes it work. Suckling at the dark red length, spit leaking from around the seam of his lips, Bruce groans when the first pulse of precome splashes against his tongue, and shifts his hands to Oliver’s hips, holding him immobile.
Once Ollie processes what’s just happened — not a wasted movement at any point, Bruce moving so swift and sure — he growls back, sinking his fingers into Bruce’s hair as Bruce pins his hips against the wall. “Yeah,” he grunts, voice dipped down low and ragged, “I bet you’ve been dying to do that, Bruce, get that mouth around my dick, since you’re not using it to talk and all.” Ollie’s cock is pulsing against Bruce’s tongue, engorged and heavy, and although Bruce isn’t taking him in all the way, isn’t letting Ollie fuck his mouth, the sight of Bruce’s stern lips stretched around the girth of him is enough to make Ollie’s balls tighten, contract, make his blood race so fast that his head thunks back against the wall when he comes, shooting spurt after spurt into Bruce’s mouth with a hoarse, wordless cry.
His reaction does not belie his inexperience and when the first bright, bitter rush of fluid hits his tongue he swallows, doesn’t stop swallowing. He sucks it down, cheeks hollowing, the corners of his mouth nearly leaking the thick, viscous fluid and breathes out through his nose, moaning around the hot, twitching length. He digs his nails into Oliver’s hips, where his shirt meets the waist of his pants, and knows that he is leaving marks—the half crescents of his nails in his hardened flesh, no doubt—but uncaring at this point about a little evidence. If it were up to Bruce, now, he’d turn the man’s body into a virtual crime scene if it meant he got to hear another cry like that, ripping from that wry, cynical, stupidbeautiful mouth. None of this comes through, though, and Bruce makes sure of it, clamping his lips down, taking all of Oliver in until he’s thrust to the back of his throat, sublimating his own desire to make sure that Oliver’s own peaks.
Bruce’s nails pressing into his skin provide a counterpoint to the sensation of orgasm, a small series of excruciatingly discrete pressure-spots and then the moments that some of his nails slice through. Ollie can’t stop, though, keeps twisting his hips to thrust his cock into Bruce’s mouth, along his tongue and against his cheek, milking every last drop of come and every last jolt of over sensitized sensation from this whole crazy encounter. It takes a while before his cock stops leaking and Ollie grasps his length as he pulls out of Bruce’s mouth, smearing the dark head of his dick along Bruce’s lower lip, pulling it askew. The disarray of that just makes Ollie want him more, Bruce Wayne on his fucking knees staring up at him with those gorgeous, relentless hawk eyes. “Honey,” Ollie says, half to be an asshole and half because jesus, he means it, and trails his fingers along Bruce’s jaw before bending to kiss him. The taste of his own come is fresh and briny on Bruce’s mouth but Ollie licks determinedly into the crevices until he uncovers the taste of Bruce himself, polished silver and fragrant cardamom, something darker and deeper that Ollie can’t yet name but wants to figure out.
Bruce doesn’t relent, doesn’t give up the hold he has on Ollie, and drags him down by the hips: kneeling on the ground, forcing the blond to sit on the slope of his quads, pinning him up against the wall. It isn’t a fever-pitch, frantically aggressive display of ownership—the lack of alpha posturing evident as he returns those kisses, sharing the taste of Bruce’s victory with the man who let him have it,—but rather, a way for Bruce to get his hands on Oliver, palming his sides with broad, powerful strokes. His fingers catch against the softer parts of the material of his shirt, until Bruce abandons skimming the surface of it, and instead, pushes his touch under against Oliver’s skin. Tracing the swollen half-moons his grip had left, before smoothing up, Bruce runs his hands over Ollie’s front, his sides, his back, until it’s blatantly obvious, achingly clear: he’s making sure the man is still there. In one piece, heart beating, wrapped up in Bruce’s smell, with Bruce’s mark on his skin, with Bruce’s tongue slicking against his own. Alive. All right. Alive.
The mood has been shifting all through this encounter, and that’s something Ollie likes, recognizes, is a close personal friend of. He always likes it best when Kate and him range wildly from sweet to brutal and back again. But despite that, and the roller coaster Bruce has taken him on, this is something different again, the edge of desperation and relief in Bruce’s patting, stroking, mapping hands. And the thought of that melts any lingering snap and sarcasm, because it’s something Ollie knows even better, has had his own long, eviscerating fears of. “Hey,” he murmurs against Bruce’s mouth, giving him small gentle kisses at the corners and along his chin and cheek. “Honey.” And this time the word is all affection, and Ollie doesn’t mind one bit wrapping his arms around Bruce, letting his friend touch and reassure himself, letting Bruce explore and examine. He moves one hand up Bruce’s back, letting it sprawl lazily at the base of Bruce’s neck, and rubs big circles along Bruce’s back and side with the other.
The reaction borders on canine, in nature. Unseen, Bruce’s lip curls, almost over his teeth, as if Oliver means to stop him with the words; Bruce isn’t even hearing them. But, when Ollie does no such thing, and allows Bruce to continue, the hands eventually stop, and fall away and down, until his touch is gone. He brings his hands to the wall on either side of the blond, his face resting in the slope of Oliver’s neck, and breathes, the rise and fall of his chest easily, controlled. He is satisfied with the state of Oliver’s existence, and when the words the archer had uttered come floating down from the ether, almost a full minute after they’d been spoken, Bruce grates out: “…what.”
Following Bruce’s lead, Ollie lets his hands drift down and away from Bruce’s body, contenting himself with one last touch, curving his palm over Bruce’s knee. “I was gonna say,” Ollie elaborates, “that you suck cock waaaaay better than I ever did.” It’s never a good idea to let things get too saccharine. Especially with Bruce.
Huffing a breath, Bruce pulls his face back, expression back to something more like normal. He arches an eyebrow, meeting Oliver’s eyes and almost snorts. “..I know what prep school you went to, Queen,” he reminds him. “And I heard exactly what happened in those hallowed halls.” If there had been any sort of emotional response, it’s gone, or it had never existed in the first place. “Or, in the bathrooms between them.”
That makes Ollie laugh, hooting and loud, and he slaps Bruce’s knee before casually rearranging himself and doing his jeans back up. “Can’t fool another prep school boy, hey?” he says jovially, because this is another part of the dance they both know intricately — no matter how bad it actually was, how lonely and terrifying, rich orphan boys at prep school is a helluva good punch line — and pushes off from the wall to get to his feet. “I guess my education wasn’t as well-rounded as yours. Or you’re just naturally better at everything, which seems to be the more popular consensus.” He grins at that, sharp-toothed, the comment carrying just enough truth to give them both back their edge after being so intimate.
He rises after Oliver does, pushing a hand through his hair, smoothing the locks back into place. An adjustment to his shirt, rearrangement of his collar, and everything is back where it should be. For the most part. Smirking, the expression heavy and curling dark over the swollen curve of his mouth, Bruce raises the stakes a bit higher, meeting Oliver’s eyes evenly. “..then maybe we should leave Kate out of our next meeting,” he comments, carefully watching Oliver’s expression, brow inching towards the sky. “I’d hate to have her join that group, if only for your sake.”
Ollie snorts, even though he’s shifting his hips around, feeling the denim of his jeans dragging against the marks of Bruce’s nails, knowing he’ll need to explain them to Kate later. Probably in phenomenal detail; the woman wasn’t a genius attorney for nothing. “Ah, that’s not even in the realm of possibility,” Ollie declares, looking satisfied as he takes in the state of Bruce’s mouth, the shiny swollen sultriness of his bottom lip. “You might outdo me when it comes to anything else, but not when it comes to doing my wife.”
Bruce laughs, and the sound is as thick as honey, amber and warm, the sound of it breaking through nothing short of miraculous. A smile graces that swollen mouth, however brief, and he shakes his head, not in denial of the man’s claims, but as if he were attempting to knock the expression of joy Ollie’s words have put on his face. He crosses his arms over his chest, and looks up at the archer, still amused. “For once.. I’m not doubting you, Queen.”
One
Ollie’s almost drifting off right at the bar, so much activity and drinking and sex at night. It’s only the promise (boast? threat?) that he made to Bruce earlier that’s keeping him awake at all.
Finishing up his other conversation, Bruce makes his way over to the bar, expression leveling out with every step he took. It wasn’t that he needed to play his cards close to his chest around Oliver; the man had proved himself a valued ally and friend, time and time again. But, it’s easier to look serious as he approaches him, to make the rise of his eyebrows all the more exaggerated when he looks for his scotch and finds the tumbler half empty. Reaching for the decanter, he shakes his head. “..think your skill at frustrating me has only gotten *better* as the years go on, Queen.”
The sound of Bruce’s voice — his *real* voice, not the one he puts on at parties or even the one in the mask, but a very specific one that’s somewhere in between — still gets Ollie’s blood rushing. He’s never understood that reaction. Or maybe he’s just never stopped to analyze it. Enough that it happens, and that Bruce is, in his own ordered way, as much of a wild card as Ollie can be himself.
"I believe in self-improvement, Bruce, what can I say?" Ollie watches the deliberate movements as Bruce pours himself another drink, licking his lips. "Whenever I enjoy something, I make it a point to do it well."
Bruce pauses, mid-pour, lips twitching as Oliver speaks. He shakes his head, once, setting the decanter down atop the bar with a soft clinking noise. He lifts the tumbler of (now mostly) scotch to his lips and takes a deep draw of the amber liquid, savoring the burn as it travels down his throat. He turns to look back at the empty patio, changing subjects as he states, nodding to himself in confirmation: “They enjoyed themselves.”
Getting up to come over, Ollie tips the decanter over his own glass, covering the tiny bit of whiskey with scotch. His elbow brushes against Bruce’s with the movements, and this close, he can smell the other man; nothing specific, but an expensive smell. With the faintest hint of Nomex underneath, and Ollie feels his mouth start to water.
He doesn’t turn, stays facing the bar so he can look at Bruce’s face. “Most of us enjoyed ourselves,” he agrees. “Lots of us because you managed to make it. And no, I’m not saying that we wouldn’t have had a good time at all if you weren’t here — just that you made it better. It felt better. More like things are the way they should be.”
In the earlier days, Bruce might have shook his head in mild disbelief. Perhaps, even made a comment denying the allegation that his presence would give *anyone* comfort, but, those days are gone, and behind him, and looking out at the empty space in front of them, at the cabins where his children are sleeping, the man knows, deep in his heart, that making any sort of claim to the contrary would be ungainly. So, he doesn’t, and opts instead for yet another swig of his drink.
"He’s going through something and I—" The change of subjects—from the retreat weekend to Dick’s current state of turmoil— is sudden, but it’s Oliver’s own fault: Bruce’s introspection was one of his harder to beat traits, and the movement from the light banter was nearly inevitable with the heartfelt confession from the archer. He swallows, smirking as he exhales through his nose in a sharp, short little noise, and looks over at the other man, reaching out to tap the name-tag, still firmly adhered to his shirt. "Makes me wonder if I should get a couple hundred of these printed out, for the next night I’m out on the town."
The change in Bruce’s expression is infinitesimal by anyone’s standards. And Ollie wouldn’t call himself subtle, not by a long stretch, but if there’s one thing he knows it’s his friends. And he and Bruce have been changing alongside each other for too long now to not clue in to these things.
Especially when it comes to the kids. But then Bruce is on to the next thing, tapping Ollie’s label, making another of those half-wry, half-wistful comments that he makes.
"As if you’d need a trick like these!" Ollie laughs, finally peeling off the label and crumpling it. "Isn’t your shtick more in fending off the unwanted attentions rather than attracting more?" Before Bruce can answer, though, Ollie diverts down a side alley and loops back to the more serious topic: "He’s been going through something for a while, now." Ollie weighs out the next part for only a moment’s consideration before elaborating, "don’t let him blame it all on you."
He leans over, mostly to make sure Bruce is listening, but the look in Bruce’s eyes makes it something different and Ollie instead tangles his fingers in the side of Bruce’s sweater and kisses him. He has to slant his head to accommodate his own long nose and Bruce’s intense profile, and Bruce’s mouth is warm with the sweet, oaky sting of the scotch, and Ollie licks his way in with an insistence that keeps growing.
It’s hard to surprise the detective, but, along with frustrating him, Oliver Queen has always had a knack for managing to do so. Still, there’s barely a millisecond of pause, when the other man’s mouth presses against his, facial hair prickling against the stubbled expanse of Bruce’s skin, before he’s returning the gesture in kind, groaning at the swipe of Ollie’s tongue at the seam of his lips. He sets the tumbler of scotch down behind him, half-blind, and brings the cool, damp fingers of that very same hand up, smoothing through the slope of hair at the back of the archer’s neck.
Turning his body so he’s flat against the bar, Bruce’s other hand comes to settle on Oliver’s hip, applying just the tiniest bit of pressure: not to keep him from pressing in, really, but to give Bruce an idea of his motion—through the tensing of muscles, the micro-shifts in his stance—before he actually completes it. He parts his lips, finally, inviting the blond’s tongue in, easing his own against the slick muscle with a practiced curl.
Bruce’s response makes Ollie groan in desire, heat kindling in his belly so fast his fingers are jerking where they’re pleated into Bruce’s soft black sweater. He angles his body closer, nosing against Bruce’s face and licking eagerly into the other man’s mouth to taste all the crevices of his cheeks, under his tongue, the slick hard surfaces of his teeth.
He hadn’t known what to expect, although Bruce had made it clear enough that a kiss wouldn’t be unwelcome. Fuck, even that kiss-not-a-kiss that had gone on underwater between them had left Ollie riled and ruffled for the rest of the night, when he’d gone back to Kate and she’d bitten over the mark on his lip again, as he told her what had happened.
Ollie pushes his hips against Bruce’s, sprawling his other hand out along Bruce’s shoulder blade to keep him close. It’s dizzying, the taste of him, the feel of Bruce’s uber-controlled body so near.
Perhaps he’s acquiring some meta-esque mind-reading abilities, or, even more likely, perhaps, he’s thinking on that kiss-not-a-kiss himself, because Bruce tilts his head down and then up against Oliver’s in the next moment, teeth finding the plushest center of the blond’s lip, gently, gently biting down against it. The hand that had been against his hip shifts, winding around Oliver’s waist as he drags him up flush against his body, angling their bodies, so his thigh ends up resting right between the other man’s own, calloused fingers slipping up the back of his shirt to touch skin, still warm from the sun. He revels in it, pushing his touch against the hardened flesh, edges of rough skin catching on the tiny hairs lining the surface.
Pulling back, Bruce half-nuzzles his lips against Oliver’s, his other hand winding up higher across the other man’s scalp, where the hair is longer and he has more purchase. His voice is a husky, rolling blanket of heat when he speaks next, against Ollie’s mouth. “..glutton for punishment, aren’t you?” His fingers tense, pulling on the strands of flaxen hair, forcing the archer’s head to tilt back, so Bruce can bring his biting kiss to roam the expanse of his throat.
"Oh, jeeeezus," Ollie breathes, voice starting to get raspy and harsh as he feels his cock thicken, straining in his pants against the neat, unrelenting pressure of Bruce’s thigh. He suddenly wants to feel Bruce’s skin too, the skid and skip of his fingertips over all that scar and muscle, and Ollie growls as he yanks at Bruce’s clothes, one hand moving firmly up Bruce’s side and the other pushing into his waistband.
The feel of Bruce’s fingers in his hair and mouth on his throat is gorgeous, glorious, and Ollie digs his fingertips along the crest of Bruce’s hip to urge him on, to get more of that rich, warm skin into his touch. “Fuck, didn’t even know how much I wanted this, you absolute fucking asshole—”
He’s crowding Bruce against the bar now, bucking forward with his hips every now and again to relieve some of the strain and the heat thumping in his blood. “Tell me you’ve been thinking about it too. C’mon, tell me.”
The chuckle that slips from him could easily be described as malicious, but there, pressed right against the hollow of Oliver’s throat, whiskey-warm, it’s something else entirely. He shifts his weight from one side to the other as the blond moves his hand under the band of his trousers, knowing that Oliver is growing hard against him, and wondering how long it will take for the other man to realize that he, too, is at half-mast. The bulge growing there, against Oliver’s hip, is swung heavy and large, the answer to more than a few questions being given when Bruce flexes his hips and presses the thickening length of it against the blond’s pelvis.
"That a good enough answer?" Bruce responds, bringing his mouth back up to the edge of the archer’s jaw, nipping a sharp line across it, nostrils flaring and puffing out a warm breath against his skin. The hand he’d had at the man’s hair drops down, coming around to grip Oliver’s free hand, bringing it to the hard, thick line of his cock, trapped beneath the material of his trousers, making sure those deft, nimble fingers can trace it, from base to tip, all seven, eight, nine inches of it. "Or do you need something more definitive?"
"I’d say that’s pretty damn definitive."
It comes out a scratchy, throaty purr, and Ollie cups Bruce’s cock through his trousers as he grinds his own length against the man’s hard, tensed thigh. He licks Bruce’s mouth, wanting a taste of him, then brings his other hand up to brace against Bruce’s throat, force his head back so Ollie can rub his nose, his mouth and beard, against Bruce’s exposed throat.
He’s what could easily be termed an expert at getting people’s clothes open one-handed, so it doesn’t take long for Ollie to unfasten Bruce’s pants. When he gets his hand inside, he tips his head back so he can watch Bruce’s expression when Ollie wraps his hand around that hot, heavy length, the skin silken against his calloused palm and fingers.
"Ahhh," Ollie breathes, "you’re a fuckin’ sight, you pretty bastard." He smears his thumb across Bruce’s swollen mouth, hooking the corner to feel wetness, echoed in the wetness of the head of Bruce’s cock against his thumb.
When that hand, bow-calloused and rough, slides around the girth of his sex, Bruce takes a breath and allows his eyelids to droop, just the tiniest bit, in a nearly canine gesture of unadulterated pleasure. He licks his lips, his body immaculately still, and allows Oliver free reign in his actions and words. Well, to a point.
As his thumb moves across his lips, and the man speaks, Bruce catches the digit between his tips, nipping at the pad a bit cruelly, holding the skin between his teeth before releasing it. “Pretty?” He alleges, words curling dark at the edges, the smirk that he seems to perpetually sport nowadays showing up, in full force, even as he brings both of his hands to the blonde’s hips.
It’s unnecessary, really, as Bruce doesn’t need the handholds to turn Oliver, but he figures it might make the man feel better, in retrospect, when he pivots his weight against his hip, forcing the blond around to nearly bite the edge of the bar. Bruce’s hand curls around Oliver’s throat from behind, thumb and row of fingers on either side of his windpipe and he drops his lips to the archer’s ear, murmuring into the shell as he ruts up against him, the motion nearly feral. His unclothed cock drags up against the furrowed and clothed crack of Ollie’s ass, his other hand moving under the man’s chest to both hold him, and keep him from having his chest compressed as he leans against him.
”..that the word you want to be using right now, Queen?”
The roughness is delicious, unexpected, just the kind of thing that gets the fever into Ollie’s blood. It’s been only Kate who does this to him, lately, so the ferocity with which Bruce is treating him, the desire that Ollie feels mirrored back at him, is nothing short of maddening.
"I’ll call you pretty whenever I damn well choose, Bruce," he says, letting his voice drawl out, low and insouciant. "Don’t forget, I’m one’a the moneyed class of boy billionaires too. You can’t have me whining and begging you to fuck me with just a few growls and well-placed moves."
Ollie presses his ass back against Bruce’s cock for that last part, shamelessly. They’re well beyond the point where he could play coy, if he’d ever wanted to play coy. Bruce’s hand on his throat tightens, and Ollie’s eyelids sink lower in utter pleasure. These are the kinds of fucking games he loves to play, and even if Bruce has the upper hand right now, the tide could turn any moment.
"You’re in a dilemma now, anyway," he points out, still insolent. "How’m I gonna jerk you off from this angle?"
… … …
Two
Ollie: Bruce I guess we oughtta be more discreet from now on.
Bruce: It’s all right, Oliver. It’s so small, no one will even notice it missing.
Ollie: Ohhhhhhhh big talk, Wayne
Bruce: You’re right.
Bruce: It is big
Bruce: talk.
Ollie: Dunno if you can back it up, though
Ollie: When *I* say it, it ain’t boastin’
Bruce: Weren’t you in the process of doing just that the other night? ‘Backing it up’?
Ollie: *rassum frassum*
Ollie: Things get crazy on vacation brain, what can I say.
Bruce: That excuse might work with some, Queen, but not with me.
Bruce: Beginning to sound like you weren’t enjoying yourself.
Ollie: Ohhhh, I didn’t say that.
Bruce: Hm.
Bruce: “Vacation brain.”
Ollie: Vacation something else, too.
Ollie: Not like *you* weren’t enjoying yourself, longears.
Bruce: Never said I hadn’t.
Ollie: I was about to ask if you’re always this terse, but I already know the answer.
Ollie: Bet you’re more talkative when you’re fucking.
Bruce: You’d be wrong.
Ollie: Really?
Bruce: I’m even willing to demonstrate.
Bruce: Just to prove it.
Ollie: Just so you know, I talk incessantly.
Bruce: You mean more than you already do?
Bruce: Bring Kate along, then.
Bruce: Give you something to do with your tongue instead of driving me up a wall.
Ollie: You wouldn’t say that if you knew the kinds of things I talk about.
Bruce: Tell me.
Ollie: Hmmph. Well, with Kate, I normally tell her what she tastes like, how she looks, what I wanna do to her. What I want her to do to me.
Ollie: With you, I’d probably …
Ollie: Talk about that dark hair. How you have to purposely rumple it up for your careless playboy act, ‘cause normally it’s perfect. How much I’d wanna mess it back up again. Or maybe that mouth of yours, how you’d taste like silver and ashes and cognac.
Ollie: Maybe I’d tell you I wanted to see you go down on Kate, lose some of that iron control, wanted to hear the sounds you’d make against her cunt with your tongue.
Ollie: Getting the picture?
Bruce: Your place.
Bruce: If we break something, I know it’ll be affordable for me to repair it.
Ollie: You better put in a helluva effort if you’re gonna be jibing me like that the whole time, B.
… … …
Three
He reaches across the distance to curl a broad hand around the other man’s neck, just under the proud line of his jaw. Pulling forward, he tangles their mouths, their lips crashing, as he works his tongue between the seams, stealing the breath Oliver attempts to drag in, and claiming it as his own. It’s spans a brief lifetime, that kiss, before Bruce pulls back, already swelling from the force and he half-growls the inquiry: “Have I ever not?”
Ollie licks his lips when Bruce finally pulls away, blood thrumming with excitement from the taste of him; hot, unmistakable desire and a strange austerity. Compelling and intriguing, just like the man himself. He hadn’t raised his own hands when Bruce kissed him, but now he does, spanning his fingers across the side of Bruce’s head and rubbing his thumb across the temple. “No, you’re right,” Ollie drawls. “Nobody could ever accuse you of doing anything halfway.”
He watches Oliver’s face closely, possibly searching for evidence that there is a part of the other man that doesn’t quite want this, and when he comes back with nothing, his expression slides into a look of satisfaction that is as close to pleased as he gets. Turning his head, he kisses the inside of Oliver’s forearm, watching him with eyes the color of a storm over the sea, locking gazes, when his tongue slides out to taste the salt from his skin.
That catches Ollie by surprise, and he gives a short, foxlike huff as his own eyes go darker, dilated from the sensation making the hairs stand up on his arms, the back of his neck. Making heat kindle in his cock and belly. Jesus Christ but Bruce is good at all this, better than Ollie’s given him credit for; he’d suspected that Bruce must have some method of releasing all his considerable tension, but hadn’t realized sex would be the way. Ollie leans in again, fingers tightening in Bruce’s hair as he bites against Bruce’s mouth, into the soft slick inside of his bottom lip. “Kate’s gonna love watching me fuck you,” he murmurs, pushing at Bruce’s nose with his own. “We’ll make you describe it, what it feels like, the whole time.”
The bite earns a soft push of air from his open mouth, eyelids drooping a bit. “Blood from a stone,” he replies, setting their foreheads together as he moves his hands to Oliver’s waist. Deft fingers make short work of the belt, pulling it open, but not off, fingers popping the button of his jeans out of place, lowering the fly in a fluid motion. “..besides, how would I get a word out, Queen?” He brings his lips to the shell of Oliver’s ear, dragging the prickly, stubble brushed surface of his cheek against the other man’s. “Thought my tongue was buried in her cunt, or..” He reaches into the confines of material, hooking his calloused fingers around the thick coil of Oliver’s prick. “Was it that my lips were around her clit, sucking her off?”
When Bruce plays along with the scenario they’re spinning, arguing the logistics of an entirely fictional hookup, it’s so very *Bruce* that Ollie can’t help but laugh, a short but entirely genuine sound. “Yes, okay, yeah,” he agrees, “you can’t talk then, not much anyhow, ‘cause you’ll be busy with your mouth and your fingers, fucking her cunt and her ass with two fingers, three at a time, god, Bruce, you won’t believe how my wife can take it.” He has to stop there because Bruce’s hand is in his pants, the touch of his roughened fingers similar to Ollie’s own hands but more … elegant. Ollie takes a long breath, feeling his cock stiffen into Bruce’s palm, and scrubs his hand around the back of Bruce’s head, roughly. “I guess I’ll find out how well *you* take it, huh?”
"I had my suspicions, when you married her," Bruce admits, pulling the length of Oliver’s prick out and into the open, tugging loosely, nearly idly, from root to tip, making sure to use the natural slide of his foreskin against the sensitive tip, avoiding touching the thickening head with the callouses that line his thumb. There is no jealousy in his tone, but a sense of ..admiration for Kate, with whom the crime-fighter had possibly shared two, three dozen words with in the last year. Respect, for a woman that could keep Oliver Queen enthralled the way she had, without fail, a respect that wasn’t diminished by any other factor (including Kate’s not-so-hidden disdain for Bruce and how he worked). It was a simple, brief expression of emotion, punctuated with the opening of Bruce’s mouth. The dart of his fingers into the warm recesses, gathering saliva, before returning dampen the skin he is stroking. "If you get there before Kate does, maybe." And, with those words, he opens up a very different set of circumstances for Oliver to play with, in his mind.
And Bruce has landed a bull’s-eye with that one, because god knows Ollie’s been fucked by Kate before and it’s something that makes his head spin even in recollection, how good she is at it. “She just might,” he says, voice thickening at the wetness of Bruce’s fingers returning to his cock with that sure grip, knowing exactly the responses he wants to elicit. There’s no reason at all for Ollie to hold back on those responses. He can be ornery, it’s true, and winding Bruce up is always fun, but right now Ollie mostly feels like he wants to give Bruce what the man is after, and so he doesn’t hold back when he wants to gasp and moan and dig his fingers into Bruce’s shoulders to encourage him. “She won’t let you off easy, Bruce, if she decides she wants to fuck you. She won’t ease up until you come totally undone, begging for it.” He drops his forehead to Bruce’s collarbone, panting against him. “God, don’t stop. Keep doing that, fuck, just like that, Bruce.”
"I wouldn’t expect any less. Open," Bruce replies, much more concerned with the man in his arms than the woman in their minds, however. He brings his fingers back, the ones stained with the taste of Oliver’s precome, dragging their touch against his lips.
Ollie narrows his eyes to a thin, dark green at Bruce, but at the same time he opens his mouth and sucks in Bruce’s sticky-wet fingers, the taste of himself and Bruce’s mouth, all salt and spice, the sting of cordite along the edges of Bruce’s fingernails shooting high up along the back of his throat. He grabs onto Bruce’s wrist, holding him steady as Ollie takes his fingers in deep, biting the tips with his back teeth before sliding them back out again. His cock is still aching, wanting release, but damned if Ollie’s gonna let Bruce know *just* how much he wants it.
Bruce groans at the feeling of the bite, his dick twitching at the pain that lances up the digits, but slides the tips back down to curl them around the width of the head. He slides them, making sure to get the sensitive skin nice and wet, before totally pushing the foreskin off, and down, sliding his rough thumb under the frenulum, teasing it. Slowly, and watching Oliver’s expression from the corner of his eye, he brings the tip of his index finger to the leaking slit at the top, smearing the precome around and around. He widens his stance, legs spreading, and watches the archer as he does his, working his touch over the swelling length, quicker as the moments slip.
"Ahhhhhh, jesus—" Ollie bares his teeth, eyebrows drawing together when Bruce touches him in that *particular* way of his; bordering on fussy, but with an inexorable strength shot through every motion and flick of his fingers. He bites down on Bruce’s collarbone through the other man’s clothes, the shock of fabric on his teeth making him snuffle and he moves to the side of Bruce’s throat, rubbing his nose along the skin there, licking, careful not to leave a mark. Ollie isn’t sure yet how Bruce would feel about visible marks, and he has just enough presence of mind to pull away, leaning back so Bruce can watch his face while his hips thrust forward, pushing his cock into Bruce’s ever-quickening ministrations. "Please," he says finally, blinking his eyes open, enough to meet Bruce’s gaze however blearily. "C’mon, Bruce, don’t stop, I’m so close…"
Allowing his eyelids to droop even further, until they are nearly closed, Bruce lets loose a low, feral growl, pushing Oliver back against the wall behind them. He does nothing to shield the rattling of the blond’s skull against the drywall, the sound only echoed by the thumping of his knees as he drops to the ground, undoubtedly ruining the trousers in the process. The man doesn’t waste time in latching his mouth onto the engorged tip of Ollie’s cock, wrapping his lips around the width and wrapping his tongue around, but that’s as far as he goes. An inch. Maybe two, at the most. And he makes it work. Suckling at the dark red length, spit leaking from around the seam of his lips, Bruce groans when the first pulse of precome splashes against his tongue, and shifts his hands to Oliver’s hips, holding him immobile.
Once Ollie processes what’s just happened — not a wasted movement at any point, Bruce moving so swift and sure — he growls back, sinking his fingers into Bruce’s hair as Bruce pins his hips against the wall. “Yeah,” he grunts, voice dipped down low and ragged, “I bet you’ve been dying to do that, Bruce, get that mouth around my dick, since you’re not using it to talk and all.” Ollie’s cock is pulsing against Bruce’s tongue, engorged and heavy, and although Bruce isn’t taking him in all the way, isn’t letting Ollie fuck his mouth, the sight of Bruce’s stern lips stretched around the girth of him is enough to make Ollie’s balls tighten, contract, make his blood race so fast that his head thunks back against the wall when he comes, shooting spurt after spurt into Bruce’s mouth with a hoarse, wordless cry.
His reaction does not belie his inexperience and when the first bright, bitter rush of fluid hits his tongue he swallows, doesn’t stop swallowing. He sucks it down, cheeks hollowing, the corners of his mouth nearly leaking the thick, viscous fluid and breathes out through his nose, moaning around the hot, twitching length. He digs his nails into Oliver’s hips, where his shirt meets the waist of his pants, and knows that he is leaving marks—the half crescents of his nails in his hardened flesh, no doubt—but uncaring at this point about a little evidence. If it were up to Bruce, now, he’d turn the man’s body into a virtual crime scene if it meant he got to hear another cry like that, ripping from that wry, cynical, stupidbeautiful mouth. None of this comes through, though, and Bruce makes sure of it, clamping his lips down, taking all of Oliver in until he’s thrust to the back of his throat, sublimating his own desire to make sure that Oliver’s own peaks.
Bruce’s nails pressing into his skin provide a counterpoint to the sensation of orgasm, a small series of excruciatingly discrete pressure-spots and then the moments that some of his nails slice through. Ollie can’t stop, though, keeps twisting his hips to thrust his cock into Bruce’s mouth, along his tongue and against his cheek, milking every last drop of come and every last jolt of over sensitized sensation from this whole crazy encounter. It takes a while before his cock stops leaking and Ollie grasps his length as he pulls out of Bruce’s mouth, smearing the dark head of his dick along Bruce’s lower lip, pulling it askew. The disarray of that just makes Ollie want him more, Bruce Wayne on his fucking knees staring up at him with those gorgeous, relentless hawk eyes. “Honey,” Ollie says, half to be an asshole and half because jesus, he means it, and trails his fingers along Bruce’s jaw before bending to kiss him. The taste of his own come is fresh and briny on Bruce’s mouth but Ollie licks determinedly into the crevices until he uncovers the taste of Bruce himself, polished silver and fragrant cardamom, something darker and deeper that Ollie can’t yet name but wants to figure out.
Bruce doesn’t relent, doesn’t give up the hold he has on Ollie, and drags him down by the hips: kneeling on the ground, forcing the blond to sit on the slope of his quads, pinning him up against the wall. It isn’t a fever-pitch, frantically aggressive display of ownership—the lack of alpha posturing evident as he returns those kisses, sharing the taste of Bruce’s victory with the man who let him have it,—but rather, a way for Bruce to get his hands on Oliver, palming his sides with broad, powerful strokes. His fingers catch against the softer parts of the material of his shirt, until Bruce abandons skimming the surface of it, and instead, pushes his touch under against Oliver’s skin. Tracing the swollen half-moons his grip had left, before smoothing up, Bruce runs his hands over Ollie’s front, his sides, his back, until it’s blatantly obvious, achingly clear: he’s making sure the man is still there. In one piece, heart beating, wrapped up in Bruce’s smell, with Bruce’s mark on his skin, with Bruce’s tongue slicking against his own. Alive. All right. Alive.
The mood has been shifting all through this encounter, and that’s something Ollie likes, recognizes, is a close personal friend of. He always likes it best when Kate and him range wildly from sweet to brutal and back again. But despite that, and the roller coaster Bruce has taken him on, this is something different again, the edge of desperation and relief in Bruce’s patting, stroking, mapping hands. And the thought of that melts any lingering snap and sarcasm, because it’s something Ollie knows even better, has had his own long, eviscerating fears of. “Hey,” he murmurs against Bruce’s mouth, giving him small gentle kisses at the corners and along his chin and cheek. “Honey.” And this time the word is all affection, and Ollie doesn’t mind one bit wrapping his arms around Bruce, letting his friend touch and reassure himself, letting Bruce explore and examine. He moves one hand up Bruce’s back, letting it sprawl lazily at the base of Bruce’s neck, and rubs big circles along Bruce’s back and side with the other.
The reaction borders on canine, in nature. Unseen, Bruce’s lip curls, almost over his teeth, as if Oliver means to stop him with the words; Bruce isn’t even hearing them. But, when Ollie does no such thing, and allows Bruce to continue, the hands eventually stop, and fall away and down, until his touch is gone. He brings his hands to the wall on either side of the blond, his face resting in the slope of Oliver’s neck, and breathes, the rise and fall of his chest easily, controlled. He is satisfied with the state of Oliver’s existence, and when the words the archer had uttered come floating down from the ether, almost a full minute after they’d been spoken, Bruce grates out: “…what.”
Following Bruce’s lead, Ollie lets his hands drift down and away from Bruce’s body, contenting himself with one last touch, curving his palm over Bruce’s knee. “I was gonna say,” Ollie elaborates, “that you suck cock waaaaay better than I ever did.” It’s never a good idea to let things get too saccharine. Especially with Bruce.
Huffing a breath, Bruce pulls his face back, expression back to something more like normal. He arches an eyebrow, meeting Oliver’s eyes and almost snorts. “..I know what prep school you went to, Queen,” he reminds him. “And I heard exactly what happened in those hallowed halls.” If there had been any sort of emotional response, it’s gone, or it had never existed in the first place. “Or, in the bathrooms between them.”
That makes Ollie laugh, hooting and loud, and he slaps Bruce’s knee before casually rearranging himself and doing his jeans back up. “Can’t fool another prep school boy, hey?” he says jovially, because this is another part of the dance they both know intricately — no matter how bad it actually was, how lonely and terrifying, rich orphan boys at prep school is a helluva good punch line — and pushes off from the wall to get to his feet. “I guess my education wasn’t as well-rounded as yours. Or you’re just naturally better at everything, which seems to be the more popular consensus.” He grins at that, sharp-toothed, the comment carrying just enough truth to give them both back their edge after being so intimate.
He rises after Oliver does, pushing a hand through his hair, smoothing the locks back into place. An adjustment to his shirt, rearrangement of his collar, and everything is back where it should be. For the most part. Smirking, the expression heavy and curling dark over the swollen curve of his mouth, Bruce raises the stakes a bit higher, meeting Oliver’s eyes evenly. “..then maybe we should leave Kate out of our next meeting,” he comments, carefully watching Oliver’s expression, brow inching towards the sky. “I’d hate to have her join that group, if only for your sake.”
Ollie snorts, even though he’s shifting his hips around, feeling the denim of his jeans dragging against the marks of Bruce’s nails, knowing he’ll need to explain them to Kate later. Probably in phenomenal detail; the woman wasn’t a genius attorney for nothing. “Ah, that’s not even in the realm of possibility,” Ollie declares, looking satisfied as he takes in the state of Bruce’s mouth, the shiny swollen sultriness of his bottom lip. “You might outdo me when it comes to anything else, but not when it comes to doing my wife.”
Bruce laughs, and the sound is as thick as honey, amber and warm, the sound of it breaking through nothing short of miraculous. A smile graces that swollen mouth, however brief, and he shakes his head, not in denial of the man’s claims, but as if he were attempting to knock the expression of joy Ollie’s words have put on his face. He crosses his arms over his chest, and looks up at the archer, still amused. “For once.. I’m not doubting you, Queen.”