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)
thejusticelounge2013-01-14 07:45 pm
bossymarmalade) wrote in thejusticelounge2013-01-14 07:45 pm
Entry tags:
robindamianwayne ficlets
billionaire boys' club
The yacht rolled on a rogue wave, and the shift in balance gave Oliver the advantage he needed to lock his arms around Damian’s chest. The decanter in Damian’s hand fell to the floor with the sound of shattering crystal, prismatic shards of it exploding across the hardwood. The aged whiskey it had contained splattered the deck, its fumes quick to permeate the boat’s enclosed cabin. The glass crunched underfoot as Oliver spun Damian to face the wall and pushed him against it, pinning him from behind.
“Release me,” the boy bit out, one cheek pressed to the plaster and his eyes cutting sideways as Ollie held him tight by the hair, one arm pinned against his back. He was strong— Damian had always been built solid, even as a little boy, but he was all compact muscle now at seventeen. A cord of it strained in his twisted neck as he fought to free himself from the hold, and Ollie was quiet, watching Damian’s pulse thrum wild there in his throat.
As always, he underestimated Oliver, didn’t account for the power in his arms and shoulders built by years of wielding a bow. Ollie was patient, letting him tense and struggle and wear himself down. “Queen,” Damian rasped, lapsing into that petulant tone Oliver had heard plenty of times throughout the last seven years. “Let go.”
“What’s wrong, Damian? Don’t like it when someone bigger than you corners you in?” He wrenched Damian’s arm hard, and the boy hissed and resumed his fight, those muscles in his neck flexing again. Maybe Ollie was a little petty himself, taunting a teenager he’d already cowed either way. But when it came to making a point, there was no being subtle with Damian. He learned the hard way or not at all. He maintained his grip even as Damian’s efforts ebbed again. “You sure seemed to think it was funny when you were holding the cabin boy over the rail.”
Damian shrugged as much as Ollie’s hold would allow. “I told him I’d throw him to the sharks if he messed up my drink order. I’m a man of my word.”
“You aren’t a man at all. Just a little boy who thinks his daddy’s money gives him the right to be an ass to the help.” He exhaled in frustration, and Damian shuddered as Oliver’s breath blew against the back of his neck.
Oliver blew between his lips again, deliberate this time, and Damian’s reaction was the same. He leaned in even closer, speaking into the boy’s ear. “If you’ve been trying to get my attention,” he advised, voice low and throaty, “terrorizing my staff isn’t the way to do it.”
The boat lurched on another wave and Ollie lost his grip on Damian, the latter seizing the advantage to twist and tackle him to the floor. Bits of shattered crystal dug through his deck shirt as Damian fell on him, pinning him with his weight. The whiskey drying on the floor was sticky, its woodsy scent more potent now that he was trapped on his back. He let his arms fall slack where Damian held them, regarding him with careless nonchalance. He wasn’t going to humor the boy with a fight, if that’s what he wanted.
Damian observed the lack of resistance and released his arms. He leaned back, knees planted astride Ollie’s waist. His head tilted as he studied the man beneath him, expression quizzical like he was trying to work something out.
Ollie kept his hands on the floor by his head even though Damian was no longer holding them down. “Comfortable up there?”
Damian glared in what looked to be his best impression of Bruce. He braced on his knees, and he rolled his hips once.
Ollie wasn’t expecting it, and a groan escaped him when Damian ground down against him. The boy seemed to take it as a sound of surrender because his face split with a triumphant smile.
The flash of arrogance broke with uncertainty when Oliver grabbed his waist to still him. He dug his fingertips in hard enough to bruise and knew Damian would examine the marks in the mirror later, would probably get hard and heated again seeing the bruises in their blue-violet testament to someone who could match his willfulness blow-for-blow. “Go ahead, move,” Ollie said.
Damian’s tongue darted out to wet his mouth, and Oliver released one hand from his waist, cupping his chin instead and grazing his thumb over the glistening lower lip. Knocking the hand away and pressing down on Oliver’s chest, Damian seized his arms again. “I’m not like Grayson,” he warned with a growl, face hovering inches above Oliver’s. “I’m not something that can be easily claimed.”
“Likewise.”
They huffed at each other for what seemed a long time, Damian’s chest warm even through their shirts and the broken crystal still pricking Ollie’s back with niggling pains. And then Damian seemed to fly backward, and Bruce was behind him, hauling him by his belt and the scruff of his neck and looking angry enough to chew the glass that littered the cabin floor. The door stood open behind him, and Oliver could see the harbor beyond.
Their voyage was at an end.
“Father,” Damian breathed, eyes round and lips frozen in a circle, any bravado he’d mustered lost to the visage of a child caught with his hand in the wrong jar. “I was—”
“I don’t need to hear your reasoning,” Bruce interrupted, and he pulled Damian close by the ear. The boy grunted in pain and gripped his father’s wrist, making little progress in his effort to loosen the hold. “I’ve told you about starting fights. What was it this time, Damian? You can’t just attack everyone who displeases you in some way, you have to—”
“Bruce, come on.” Ollie rose, brushing his shirt free of broken crystal and stretching his back after being pinned on the hard floor. “You can’t really lecture the boy about having a violent temper, can you?”
Bruce glared, and Ollie pictured Damian hovering over him again, eyes dark and hooded under his brows.
“No harm done,” Ollie insisted in as casual a tone as he could manage, surveying the minor damage done to the boat’s private bar. “He got a bad attitude with one of my staff, and I straightened it out. That’s all.”
Damian scowled at Ollie, a grimace replacing it when Bruce tightened his hold. “I’ll make certain it’s straightened out. Damian, let’s go.” He turned toward the open door, pulling Damian along.
“Wait,” Ollie called, walking closer to them. He stood with his hands in his pocket, looking at Damian stooped over to avoid having his ear twisted any harder. Something about it made him chuckle, and Damian’s eyes lit with such fury he thought he might go up in flame.
“Bring him back to me next weekend,” Oliver said when he didn’t ignite after all. “He’s got potential, but he could use another lesson. Every rich man’s son should know how to sail,” he added when Bruce looked like he might protest.
Bruce looked between Oliver and the boy fuming in his grasp and sighed. “Fine,” Bruce said. “You can be assured this behavior won’t be repeated next time.”
“I’m sure it won’t.”
He watched them from the viewport as Bruce strode down the dock toward his car, never relinquishing his grip on Damian’s ear and Damian visibly whining over the situation. Ollie laughed again and leaned on the splintered bar, his hand landing in a dried puddle of whiskey that Damian had spilled when he came in here to correct his drink.
He lifted his thumb to his lips, the same thumb he’d used to brush over Damian’s mouth, and licked the residue away. One more lesson. Just one more time, and somebody would learn something.
The yacht rolled on a rogue wave, and the shift in balance gave Oliver the advantage he needed to lock his arms around Damian’s chest. The decanter in Damian’s hand fell to the floor with the sound of shattering crystal, prismatic shards of it exploding across the hardwood. The aged whiskey it had contained splattered the deck, its fumes quick to permeate the boat’s enclosed cabin. The glass crunched underfoot as Oliver spun Damian to face the wall and pushed him against it, pinning him from behind.
“Release me,” the boy bit out, one cheek pressed to the plaster and his eyes cutting sideways as Ollie held him tight by the hair, one arm pinned against his back. He was strong— Damian had always been built solid, even as a little boy, but he was all compact muscle now at seventeen. A cord of it strained in his twisted neck as he fought to free himself from the hold, and Ollie was quiet, watching Damian’s pulse thrum wild there in his throat.
As always, he underestimated Oliver, didn’t account for the power in his arms and shoulders built by years of wielding a bow. Ollie was patient, letting him tense and struggle and wear himself down. “Queen,” Damian rasped, lapsing into that petulant tone Oliver had heard plenty of times throughout the last seven years. “Let go.”
“What’s wrong, Damian? Don’t like it when someone bigger than you corners you in?” He wrenched Damian’s arm hard, and the boy hissed and resumed his fight, those muscles in his neck flexing again. Maybe Ollie was a little petty himself, taunting a teenager he’d already cowed either way. But when it came to making a point, there was no being subtle with Damian. He learned the hard way or not at all. He maintained his grip even as Damian’s efforts ebbed again. “You sure seemed to think it was funny when you were holding the cabin boy over the rail.”
Damian shrugged as much as Ollie’s hold would allow. “I told him I’d throw him to the sharks if he messed up my drink order. I’m a man of my word.”
“You aren’t a man at all. Just a little boy who thinks his daddy’s money gives him the right to be an ass to the help.” He exhaled in frustration, and Damian shuddered as Oliver’s breath blew against the back of his neck.
Oliver blew between his lips again, deliberate this time, and Damian’s reaction was the same. He leaned in even closer, speaking into the boy’s ear. “If you’ve been trying to get my attention,” he advised, voice low and throaty, “terrorizing my staff isn’t the way to do it.”
The boat lurched on another wave and Ollie lost his grip on Damian, the latter seizing the advantage to twist and tackle him to the floor. Bits of shattered crystal dug through his deck shirt as Damian fell on him, pinning him with his weight. The whiskey drying on the floor was sticky, its woodsy scent more potent now that he was trapped on his back. He let his arms fall slack where Damian held them, regarding him with careless nonchalance. He wasn’t going to humor the boy with a fight, if that’s what he wanted.
Damian observed the lack of resistance and released his arms. He leaned back, knees planted astride Ollie’s waist. His head tilted as he studied the man beneath him, expression quizzical like he was trying to work something out.
Ollie kept his hands on the floor by his head even though Damian was no longer holding them down. “Comfortable up there?”
Damian glared in what looked to be his best impression of Bruce. He braced on his knees, and he rolled his hips once.
Ollie wasn’t expecting it, and a groan escaped him when Damian ground down against him. The boy seemed to take it as a sound of surrender because his face split with a triumphant smile.
The flash of arrogance broke with uncertainty when Oliver grabbed his waist to still him. He dug his fingertips in hard enough to bruise and knew Damian would examine the marks in the mirror later, would probably get hard and heated again seeing the bruises in their blue-violet testament to someone who could match his willfulness blow-for-blow. “Go ahead, move,” Ollie said.
Damian’s tongue darted out to wet his mouth, and Oliver released one hand from his waist, cupping his chin instead and grazing his thumb over the glistening lower lip. Knocking the hand away and pressing down on Oliver’s chest, Damian seized his arms again. “I’m not like Grayson,” he warned with a growl, face hovering inches above Oliver’s. “I’m not something that can be easily claimed.”
“Likewise.”
They huffed at each other for what seemed a long time, Damian’s chest warm even through their shirts and the broken crystal still pricking Ollie’s back with niggling pains. And then Damian seemed to fly backward, and Bruce was behind him, hauling him by his belt and the scruff of his neck and looking angry enough to chew the glass that littered the cabin floor. The door stood open behind him, and Oliver could see the harbor beyond.
Their voyage was at an end.
“Father,” Damian breathed, eyes round and lips frozen in a circle, any bravado he’d mustered lost to the visage of a child caught with his hand in the wrong jar. “I was—”
“I don’t need to hear your reasoning,” Bruce interrupted, and he pulled Damian close by the ear. The boy grunted in pain and gripped his father’s wrist, making little progress in his effort to loosen the hold. “I’ve told you about starting fights. What was it this time, Damian? You can’t just attack everyone who displeases you in some way, you have to—”
“Bruce, come on.” Ollie rose, brushing his shirt free of broken crystal and stretching his back after being pinned on the hard floor. “You can’t really lecture the boy about having a violent temper, can you?”
Bruce glared, and Ollie pictured Damian hovering over him again, eyes dark and hooded under his brows.
“No harm done,” Ollie insisted in as casual a tone as he could manage, surveying the minor damage done to the boat’s private bar. “He got a bad attitude with one of my staff, and I straightened it out. That’s all.”
Damian scowled at Ollie, a grimace replacing it when Bruce tightened his hold. “I’ll make certain it’s straightened out. Damian, let’s go.” He turned toward the open door, pulling Damian along.
“Wait,” Ollie called, walking closer to them. He stood with his hands in his pocket, looking at Damian stooped over to avoid having his ear twisted any harder. Something about it made him chuckle, and Damian’s eyes lit with such fury he thought he might go up in flame.
“Bring him back to me next weekend,” Oliver said when he didn’t ignite after all. “He’s got potential, but he could use another lesson. Every rich man’s son should know how to sail,” he added when Bruce looked like he might protest.
Bruce looked between Oliver and the boy fuming in his grasp and sighed. “Fine,” Bruce said. “You can be assured this behavior won’t be repeated next time.”
“I’m sure it won’t.”
He watched them from the viewport as Bruce strode down the dock toward his car, never relinquishing his grip on Damian’s ear and Damian visibly whining over the situation. Ollie laughed again and leaned on the splintered bar, his hand landing in a dried puddle of whiskey that Damian had spilled when he came in here to correct his drink.
He lifted his thumb to his lips, the same thumb he’d used to brush over Damian’s mouth, and licked the residue away. One more lesson. Just one more time, and somebody would learn something.