
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/539632.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      DCU_(Comics)
  Relationship:
      Jason_Todd/Bruce_Wayne, Batman/Robin
  Character:
      Jason_Todd, Bruce_Wayne
  Additional Tags:
      Intercrural_Sex, Frottage, Mutual_Masturbation
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-10-17 Words: 4090
****** Compromises ******
by orphan_account
Summary
     Alfred’s always said that Jason lacks subtlety. Jason’s always said
     that he gets the job done.
     AKA, that one time Bruce and Jason fucked.
Notes
     For Jai and Dean. Hope y'all like it!
     Thanks to Anna, Kat, Eggie, and Sasha for looking this over.
For the longest time, Jason thought Bruce didn’t want him back. And he was okay
with that; not everyone’s gonna want you back, that’s life. Jason would’ve been
content with their friendship, honest to God, and he was content, until Bruce
started withdrawing—stopped the hair ruffles and casual shoulder touches, and
began to keep Jason at arm’s length. Jason couldn’t understand why. Couldn’t,
for the life of him, figure out what he did wrong.
Until last night, when Jason pushed Bruce a little too far. Bruce pushed
back—pushed him right up against the alley wall—and then, unmistakably, Jason
watched Bruce’s eyes catch on Jason’s mouth, watched them follow the motion of
Jason’s tongue wetting his lower lip.
Today Bruce is pretending nothing happened with his typical, pig-headed
determination, but that shit ain’t gonna fly now that Jason’s got his number.
Enough is enough, and Jason’s not afraid to take extreme measures.
So when Bruce is still giving Jason the cold shoulder, sitting grim and still
at the Bat-computer, Jason drops into his lap. No preamble whatsoever, and
Jason’s proud to notice that Bruce grunts in surprise. That’s what he gets for
ignoring Jason so hard: sneak attacks. Jason puts on his sunniest expression in
the face of Bruce’s scowl, swinging his legs over Bruce's and leaning into
Bruce’s face.
"Hey there, Boss-man," he says guilelessly, making himself comfortable in
Bruce’s lap. He has to squirm a little to manage it; Bruce is big enough that
there's not a whole lot of room left in the chair for Jason. Plus, he's in the
Batsuit, and the armor is too hard and unyielding to make Bruce’s legs a cozy
perch. But Bruce always puts off heat like a massive man-shaped furnace, and
this close, Jason can smell him—leather, sweat, and kevlar—and it makes Jason’s
breath quicken.
"Jason," Bruce says by way of greeting. He's trying to be impassive, but not
quite managing it; his voice is strained around the edges, he won’t meet
Jason’s eyes, and a quick glance down confirms that Bruce’s gloved hands are
forcefully clenched on the chair’s armrests, to keep himself from touching.
It’s really astounding that Jason’s never called Bruce’s bluff before.
He trails one hand down Bruce's chest, leaning forward a little. "You busy?"
"Mn."
Bruce is still not looking at him. It's easy to tell, even through the cowl,
even with the white lenses up; he's trying to look around Jason at the computer
screen. He’s trying to ignore what’s right in front of his face, just like he
always does, just because he’s got this—ridiculous need to keep himself
miserable—
Jason scowls and makes up his mind. In one quick motion, his hand snaps out and
shoves the cowl down out of Bruce's face; he’s not gonna let Bruce hide behind
Batman right now. Maskless, Bruce looks as stubborn as ever, even with cowl-
matted hair sticking to his forehead from sweat; annoyance is starting to
twitch in Bruce’s jaw. Jason can’t find it within himself to be bothered. He's
pretty annoyed, himself, at having to resort to being an annoyance to get
Bruce's attention.
"So busy lately," Jason says. He knows he sounds bitter, childish even, but sue
him if he's a little bit hurt. He knew Bruce would pretend it didn’t happen,
but the way he’s treating Jason is unfair and Bruce knows it.
Bruce says nothing. Doesn’t move.
Jason tilts his head, licks his lips. "This wouldn't have anything to do with
last night, would it?"
Even simply getting the words out for the first time makes a thrill go up
Jason's spine, half from his own daring, half from the memory surfacing in his
mind like a shark's fin. The end of a tease-turned-rooftop chase, both of them
breathing hard from exertion. Jason was grinning so hard his cheeks ached,
exuberant from getting Bruce to play, getting him to give chase; and then Bruce
pinned him against the alley wall, arms boxing Jason in. Jason laughed, asked
what're you gonna do now that you caught me, old man? and then Bruce loomed a
little closer. Right up in Jason’s space, near enough to breathe the same air.
Jason's grin had faded, his eyes going wide.
And then, the mother of all disappointments: Bruce had caught himself, one
short moment too soon, and found a newfound determination to push Jason away.
Now Bruce says, "The Mission comes first,” a well-worn, overused response.
Jason sneers automatically; Bruce making excuses, how new, how original. And
then he realizes that Bruce had probably prepared for this interrogation, had
planned ahead to nip this in the bud, planned to lie to Jason again.
Bruce says, "It has nothing to do with you," and without warning Jason’s ablaze
with anger at the transparency.
"Liar,” he says, fiercely, and shoves forward to mash his lips to Bruce's.
Lightning fast, Bruce shoves him back before he makes contact, grabbing him by
the scruff of the neck like a kitten. "Jason—"
Outrage surges through Jason, more from the unfairness than the indignity.
"You want me,” he spits, eyes burning. “I know you want me. So why do we have
to keep pretending you don't want me?!"
"Jason. We talked about this."
"No we didn't, you just keep pushing me away and saying no," Jason snarls.
"Give me one good reason."
"You're too young."
"I said good reason!"
Bruce's jaw clenches—God, Jason hates that. It means Bruce's made up his mind,
won't listen to reason, won't listen at all. Jason growls in frustration and
shoves himself backwards out of Bruce's grip, off of Bruce's lap.
Bruce lets him go, and Jason stalks away, fuming.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Bruce resettling himself at the
computer, centering his focus on the screen once more. Indignation swells in
Jason's chest, warring with the stewing fury. Bruce thinks he's won. Bruce
thinks that all it takes to make Jason swallow his bullshit is a quick,
condescending pat on the head.
Jason stares at the back of Bruce's head for a long moment, practically
trembling with anger. He wants to scream, to hit something, to make Bruce stand
up and pay attention and give a damn—
An idea strikes him, and he makes up his mind. In four long strides, he reaches
the mats; his blood is boiling and he's seeing red, and his breath is coming in
short, angry pants. But beneath the determination, adrenaline’s quivering
through him, anticipation’s making his mouth water.
He cups himself through his sweatpants, squeezes. It doesn't take much to get
him going—Jason's wires sometimes get crossed when he's pissed, when he's in
the middle of a fight. All it takes is the memory of Bruce’s body heat from
when Jason was in his lap; that, and the size of his hands, the almost
frightening intensity of his stare last night when they almost kissed.
It’s enough to make him shiver, make him hard. Licking his lips, Jason slides
his hand down below the drawstring.
As he starts to stroke, he calls out to Bruce. “Oh, of course you're right,"
and he makes it as obnoxious, as syrup-sweet as he can with his hand already
down his pants. "We shouldn't. We couldn't!"
Jason had thought it would take longer to catch Bruce’s attention—in fact, he’d
been kinda worried Bruce would tune him out entirely—but Bruce’s control must
have been worn thinner than Jason had thought, or maybe the cloying insincerity
in Jason's voice got on his nerves; whatever it is, Bruce turns in his seat.
And that is the most beautiful double take Jason’s ever seen, and when Jason
meets Bruce’s eyes, there’s a little-lost-boy/deer-in-the-headlights look
there. Beautiful. Jason would be laughing his head off right now if he weren’t
already short of breath. Even still, he has to tamp down on a cackle. Come on,
Jason. Eyes on the prize.
"In fact, I'm ashamed to have brought it up," he says. The breathlessness in
his voice is only half exaggerated, now; the hunger in Bruce's face right now
is doing wonders for his hard-on.
He licks his lips, again, and Bruce’s eyes follow the motion, just like they
had last night. Heady triumph, success, catches Jason’s breath, winds him
up—it’s dizzying, consuming, all the power of Bruce’s attention like this. He
wants to crow with it.
Instead, he shoves his sweatpants down over his hips. The cold air of the
Batcave is a shock when his cock bobs free, but Jason’s wound up enough that it
just makes him shiver. He kicks his sweatpants the rest of the way off, and he
thinks he hears a stifled noise from Bruce as he bares his legs.
Jason realizes, vaguely, that he’s forgotten his facetious apology, now,
completely lost the thread of it—but it doesn’t seem to matter, because Bruce
hasn’t stopped staring. He hasn’t looked away, not once. Victory is so close
Jason can taste it.
His fist tightens on his cock as a sudden, renewed blitz of arousal hits him,
and he groans and leans into it, speeding up his strokes.
"Ah—God, Bruce—"
The clatter of Bruce's chair falling is the only warning Jason gets before
Bruce fucking tackles him to the mat. The landing knocks his breath away, but
he doesn't have time to complain because Bruce is on him, covering him, holding
him down with a hard, bruising kiss.
For a moment, it’s too much all at once, Jason’s stunned; the hot, heavy body
pinning him almost doesn’t register as Bruce's, the kiss doesn’t quite register
as a kiss, but Jason's pretty quick on the uptake. In an instant he's surging
up beneath Bruce, grabbing his face with both hands, moaning into the kiss.
It swallows him up. He’d wanted this for so long, and the triumph alone is
making his body fucking sing, but—Bruce. Oh, God, Bruce—he’s so intense in
everything he does, applies the same single-minded focus to everything, and
this kiss is so intent, so absorbed. Desperate. Like he’s devouring Jason.
Jason loves every second of it.
He wraps his legs around Bruce's waist, locking his ankles behind Bruce's back
to drag him closer. It lines up their hips perfectly and Jason grinds up,
gasping against Bruce's mouth. Objectively he knows it's just the protective
cup, but it's hard and it's Bruce and having him this close is making it
impossible to think.
Sensory overload plus breathlessness makes Jason break the kiss, head falling
back as he pants for air. Bruce takes the opportunity to kiss his jaw, down to
his throat, almost frenzied. It makes Jason groan, fingers twisting in Bruce’s
hair.
“Ohhh, fuck me,” Jason groans, and everything slams to a halt.
Bruce is frozen above him, and Jason, seized by panic, grips onto Bruce's
shoulders, tightens his legs around Bruce's waist. There’s this wild hope that
if he clings hard enough he can somehow stop Bruce from backing out. Because if
Bruce decides his obnoxious moral code is more important than Jason—if they go
back to that awful place where Bruce pushes Jason away for something he can’t
control, something he can't DO anything about—Jason can’t do that. Not now that
he knows how Bruce feels on top of him, how Bruce tastes, now it’d be a
thousand times worse—
But then, Bruce is speaking, voice gravelly like he’d had to forcibly tear the
words from his throat.
"There won't be—I won't—no penetration," he growls.
Jason deflates, exhaling in relief. Even still, the first wave of feeling is
followed by disbelief nipping at its heels—it's bubbling up in him to say,
Boss-man, you're still getting off, doesn't matter if it's in oraroundmy
asshole, but it’s easy enough to swallow the urge. Alfred's always talking
about picking his battles. Jason guesses right now it's picking between
settling for third base and not getting laid at all.
No contest. Still:
“One condition,” Jason says. Bruce stiffens, but Jason clenches his hands on
Bruce’s shoulders again, refusing to let him put any more space between them.
He smirks. “You don’t get to keep the Batsuit on.”
Bruce’s mouth twitches and then, wonder of wonders, he actually laughs, short
and barking. Jason beams, delighted. It makes him want to kiss Bruce, so he
does, thrilled with the novelty of being allowed to kiss Bruce now. He likes it
so much that he does it a second time, lingering, and then a third, even
longer.
But then Bruce is leaning up off of Jason, pulling off his gloves, and Jason
scrambles to help, pushing the heavy cape back off of Bruce's huge shoulders.
His heart feels like it's bursting, which doesn't make sense, because how many
times has he seen Bruce sans cape and cowl? Shirtless, too, and it’s not like
Jason didn’t sneak a glance or five in the shower. But this is different—it’s a
front row seat.He’s allowed to look his fill. When Bruce settles back on his
heels, pulling the armored tunic over his chest, Jason gets to watch the way
his muscles ripple and stretch; and then Bruce pushes back off of him further
to take off the boots, the tights.
Jason’s mouth goes dry.
As soon as Bruce has freed himself, Jason surges up to meet him, to press his
body flush to Bruce’s. He’s dragging his hands down Bruce’s chest, feeling the
shape of him, the bulges and contours and the wiry hair, and he feels so greedy
and so lucky.
Bruce pushes back, bearing down until Jason’s flat on the mats beneath him, and
yeah, Jason still can’t believe this is really happening, but the new and
overwhelming feeling of Bruce's cock against his own goes some distance towards
convincing him. His brain’s flooding with white noise, everything disappearing
but the feeling; Bruce is kissing him, but Jason’s having a hard time
responding, floored as he is by the feeling of their erections pressed
together.
Bruce is huge. Yeah, Jason knew that, on an intellectual level, and sure, the
thought had gotten him through a handful of jerk-off sessions, but the thought
had been mostly in context of how Bruce's cock would feel stretching him,
filling him. This—feeling him, the swollen heat of Bruce’s dick, the sheer
girth—is something he can barely wrap his head around, and the intensity of the
feeling is making him shake in Bruce's arms. "Oh my God—Bruce," he says, dazed.
"I can feel you everywhere."
As soon as the words are out of his mouth, shame hits him in a wave; God, he's
babbling, he sounds so ridiculous, so young—
But Bruce doesn't laugh, just kisses him like he understands what Jason was
trying to say, like he knows how Jason feels; gentle, but still with that
infectious needy fever. Like he's trying to memorize the inside of Jason's
mouth, the entirety of Jason's being. Jason forgets his embarrassment in favor
of throwing himself into the kiss, hard and fast and needy.
Bruce's hands come down to grab Jason's hips, to squeeze, and Jason shudders.
When Bruce rolls his hips down, now, it traps Jason's dick between Bruce's and
his own stomach. Jason gasps, keeps gasping, can't seem to catch his breath,
because every time Bruce thrusts it floods his body with warmth.
His hips jerk involuntarily, and Bruce tightens his grip so that he can't move,
so he's overpowered, and all he can do is squirm under Bruce's body as it
refuses to yield.
"Bruce," Jason moans.
When Jason comes, his head knocks back against the ground hard enough that he
sees stars, mat or no mat. As he lies on his back, catching the breath that was
knocked out of him, Bruce pushes back off of him.
"Hey—wait—" Jason says in protest, not wanting Bruce to run away now of all
times, but Bruce is just settling back on his knees and grabbing at his utility
belt, lying in a pile.
When he gets out the lube that they use for picking locks and easing open stuck
windows, Jason's heart leaps into his throat. Wildly, he wonders if maybe Bruce
changed his mind about anal, but then Bruce is sliding his hands between
Jason's thighs, slowly and methodically smearing them slick.
Jason watches, keeping himself from squirming at the touch of Bruce's huge,
rough hands, at the feeling of his thighs sliding together.
Finally, unable to stop himself, he says, "Bruce, what—?" but finds himself
unable to complete the sentence. Bruce does one of his infuriatingly cryptic
almost-smiles, pulling Jason's left leg up over his shoulder and pressing a
kiss to his ankle.
In spite of himself, Jason shivers.
Then Bruce pulls Jason's other leg up, so both of his legs are up resting
together over Bruce's shoulders. He's got both big hands holding them together,
thumbs rubbing circles onto Jason's skin. Bruce's dick, still huge and hard, is
nudging at the insides of Jason’s legs, where his skin is almost oversensitive.
Jason looks up at Bruce questioningly.
"Clench your thighs for me," Bruce says, in that quietly authoritative tone
that always makes Jason's dick twitch, even now, spent as it is.
"Sure thing, Boss-man," Jason says, breathless, and obeys.
And then Bruce starts to fuck his thighs, fingers digging hard into Jason's
legs where he's holding them together.
It's not something Jason ever thought of, and if he'd heard of it he would have
laughed, but somehow it feels incredible—the sensitive skin of his inner thighs
tingles as Bruce thrusts, sending warmth blazing through him, and when Jason
tilts his hips up, Bruce's dick rubs against the underside of Jason's. And more
than that, he can see the flushed head of Bruce's cock peeking through his
thighs as he fucks him.
It's a dizzying sight, and Jason thinks there's nothing he'd rather
watch—until, that is, he looks up at Bruce face; the look in his eyes is deep,
probing, somehow both riveting and frightening in its intensity. Jason can feel
himself flushing.
"Jason," Bruce murmurs, and then, "My boy, my beautiful boy—"
Jason's thighs clench involuntarily, and Bruce cuts himself off with a grunt.
His fingers tighten painfully on Jason's thighs, and then he's fucking Jason's
thighs harder, like he can't help it, like he's losing control. The force of
his thrusts is rocking Jason's whole body, and Jason has to fling out his hands
to brace himself against the mat.
Bruce’s eyes are locked on Jason’s, and Jason can't look away, either, can't
catch his breath; when Bruce comes, hot all over Jason's thighs, it startles
him for a moment, the mood breaking like a needle popping a soap bubble. When
he realizes what happened, he laughs, even breathless as he is; Bruce's mouth
quirks at the corner, amused as ever by Jason’s amusement.
Gently, Bruce eases Jason's legs down from his shoulder, rubbing his thighs
slowly with those enormous hands to get the circulation flowing; as he does, he
settles back between them until he's lying on top of Jason. It's almost like
being covered by a sweaty, heavy blanket, up until Bruce starts kissing him,
infuriatingly slow; here Jason is, renewed hard-on rubbing against Bruce's
belly, and Bruce just wants to pet him and use him as a pillow.
Jason makes himself relax his hands—they've left imprints on the mat from how
hard he'd been pushing against it, heh—and pushes lightly at Bruce's shoulders.
"Bruce," he says against Bruce's mouth. "Mmph—Bruce—"
He pushes Bruce a little more insistently, and then uses his legs as leverage
to push Bruce over onto his back.
Bruce lets him, although he raises his eyebrows up at Jason when he straddles
Bruce's chest. Jason knows that look—he's amused, laughing on the inside.
"Yuk it up, old man, it's not my fault you're not ready to go again," Jason
says, but he's grinning, because even if Bruce is laughing at Jason's expense,
he's still laughing, and anything that makes Bruce laugh is okay in Jason's
book.
"Brat," Bruce says, sliding his big, rough hands up Jason's thighs, rubbing
gentle circles with his thumbs.
Jason shivers, and wraps his hand around his dick. "You love it," he says,
pretending not to be breathless.
Bruce doesn't deny it, just squeezes Jason's thighs, and Jason lets his mouth
fall open like it wants to, licks his lips, and tightens his grip on his cock.
He's a little surprised that Bruce doesn't want to take matters into his own
hands, so to speak, but there's greed in Bruce's eyes as he watches Jason touch
himself, and Jason wonders suddenly if Bruce had imagined him like this before,
if he'd wondered how Jason would get himself off. The thought makes him warm,
makes his hips jerk, and Bruce moves one hand to grip Jason's waist, hard, like
he wants to keep him still.
Jason hums, pleased, and slides his free hand up Bruce's belly, up over his
pecs. He's got a hell of a view, here, Bruce's broad shoulders, the dark curly
hair on his chest, and sure, it's nothing Jason hasn't seen before, but he's
never gotten to drink his fill, and never from this angle, and definitely never
with Bruce's hands keeping him exactly where he wants him.
He squirms, testing, and Bruce's grip tightens to just this side of painful;
it's good, it's really good, it's perfect. His skin's prickling, goosebumping;
he can practically feel Bruce's gaze dragging all over him.
"Jason," Bruce says, "come for me," and Jason keens, head thrown back, and
screws his eyes shut as he comes on Bruce's chest.
Before Jason's properly caught his breath, Bruce tugs at his arm, and Jason's
so off-balance that he yelps, falls right on top of him. Just as Bruce planned,
presumably.
"Aghhh, no fair," Jason mumbles into Bruce's neck, and hides his grin when a
chuckle rumbles through Bruce's chest. Jesus, if he'd known a little hanky-
panky made Bruce loosen up this much, he would have tried something sooner.
He rubs his hands through the come on Bruce's chest, smearing it into his skin.
"You need a shower," Jason announces, pushing up on his elbows to smirk down at
Bruce.
Bruce raises an eyebrow. "Do I," he says, deadpan as ever.
"Yes."
"And you had nothing to do with that, I'm sure."
"Bruce, please. I'm innocent as a freakin' angel."
"Mm," Bruce says, somehow managing to convey equal parts dubiousness and
fondness in that one syllable.
Jason snickers, overcome with fondness himself, and leans down to press a long,
lingering kiss to Bruce's mouth. It's nice—warm, wet, slow. Sweet. He'd been
annoyed by Bruce's insistence on slow kisses earlier, but now he thinks he
could come to see the appeal.
They kiss for a long time. When Jason pulls back to breathe, Bruce's eyes are
open; he's watching Jason carefully, with a look that Jason can't quite read at
first.
When Jason gets it, he groans. "Bruce, you're not seriously gonna try and tell
me that we can't do this again."
Bruce's face goes stony, like that was exactly what he was trying to figure out
how to say, and Jason sighs in exasperation.
"Let's just..." Jason pauses. Collects his thoughts. "Let me have the
afterglow. We can fight about it tomorrow, if you're dead set on it. But fuck,
Bruce, can't you let me have this? Just for now?"
Toward end, his voice gets pleading, and he hates that it does, but he can see
the way Bruce's eyes soften just a little, so he refuses to let himself feel
bad about it.
"Tomorrow," Bruce says.
"Alright," Jason says. And, belatedly, "thank you."
After a moment of pause, Jason pushes off of Bruce, pushes himself up to his
feet, and extends a hand down to Bruce when he does. Bruce lets Jason pull him
up, and before Bruce lets go of his hand, Jason bounces onto his tiptoes to
peck Bruce on the lips. Maybe Bruce saw it coming, maybe not, but either way
he's smiling when Jason pulls back. Just barely, but still there, so. Jason
counts it as a win.
"Race you to the showers?" Jason says, grinning, and bolts before Bruce has the
chance to answer. He doesn't have to look back to know that Bruce will chase
after him; he has faith that that much won't change.
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