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Rain pelted the windows of GCPD headquarters, as if each heavy drop held a personal vendetta against the building and those inside. Gotham rain was miserable enough, but with this storm came the first bitter winds of winter, whistling between the skyscrapers and whipping up discarded newspapers and empty plastic bags into tiny, sodden twisters in the streets.
Bruce's clothes and hair had mostly dried from being out in the deluge, but a persistent chill still settled in his spidery fingers, causing them to redden and tremble. He wasn't using them, though, so the discomfort was easy to ignore… he only sucked the cock deeper into his mouth, tongue working languidly along the underneath side, his nose brushing into the salt-and-pepper hair that collected at its base.
"Can you believe this fucking guy," Chief Bock's gruff voice ground out suddenly, speaking to no-one in particular around the cigarette in his teeth. He sat slouched in his office chair, knees spread wide to accommodate where Bruce was situated between them, one hand loose on the back of Bruce's neck while the other clutched a stack of reports. It was these that currently held his attention and frustrated him so - just the first few pages had soured his mood enough, but now he looked fully ready to beat someone's face in. "The Batman… what kinda stupid name is that?"
The dismissive comments would have been insulting, but between the ache of being on his knees and the obtrusion jammed thickly into his throat, Bruce was too sub-level to consider that life he'd built from the shadows… Here in this office, under this hard, calloused thumb he could exist apart from the responsibilities he'd created, free from that oppressive and blood-soaked darkness. Bruce couldn't reply even if he wanted to so he simply shifted to look up at Bock with dark, half-lidded eyes, unable to stop the drool that dribbled from his lip upon doing so.
Bock spared him a glance, and despite his aggravation he couldn't help but exhale a bit of his ire in a cloud of acrid smoke. "Bet you're pissed. Gotham's got a new mysterious bachelor…but where's that leave our prince Bruce Wayne?" As if to summon a reaction, Bock dug his fingers into Bruce's scruff and eased him closer, forcing himself even deeper past his teeth.
Bruce's brow knit subtly at the new level of breathlessness but he took it with grace, gagging only for a moment. His reply was the scarcest of whimpers, his porcelain throat working against Bock's dick as if he were trying in vain to swallow it.
The chief could have feathered this arrangement all afternoon, keeping Bruce knelt on the hardwood and lazily fucking himself into his mouth, but that little hurt furrow in Bruce's expression was so pathetic that Bock almost felt for him. He released Bruce and his chair creaked as he leaned back into it, casting the stack of papers into a careless scatter on his desk. "Lose the shirt," Bock ordered in his tired, rasping tone, bringing the cigarette to his lips and taking a deep drag.
As soon as the chief pulled his cock out, Bruce couldn't help but splutter, choking on the excess of saliva and precum that had collected and letting it dribble obscenely down his chin. There was no hesitation before he followed Bock's instruction, skeletal, cold-stiffened fingers moving to undo each button down his white dress shirt's front. He didn't trust the predatory sharpness of Bock's appraising gaze, but in a chilling and dreadful way it thrilled him: letting his shirt fall from his angular shoulders and discarding it felt like peeling back his skin, setting it aside in a damp pile so his muscle and bone would be easier to eat.
Bock watched the kid's young sinews flexing, noticed how his nipples hardened from the chill in the room and ground the cigarette nearly to pieces between his incisors. Seeing how Bruce's body changed between each of their encounters was one of the chief's favorite parts: one wouldn't think that this young and beautiful prince of Gotham could ever see the city's frightening underside, but he had to have picked up all of those ugly bruises and puckered scabs and scars somewhere . Bock first attributed them to carelessness or clumsiness, but they grew too numerous too quickly to be so simply explained away. Looking at them now, Bock was more satisfied imagining they came from one of the Iceberg Lounge's exclusive dungeons, intoxicating images of shining black leather and chains and gags coming to mind.
Smoke unfurled from beneath his mustache and leaked out between his teeth as he flashed a wolfish sneer full of them. "Get into some shit, kiddo?" Bock leaned forward with elbows on his knees so that they saw each other at eye-level, reaching out a rough, heavy-knuckled hand to take Bruce's chin and tilt it up to one side. "Next time you wanna get beat up, come see me."
"Yes sir-" Bruce started, but his voice splintered apart into a moaning cry as Bock used his free hand to press the cigarette's lit end into the soft, unmarred skin just under the line of Bruce's jaw. With an audible hiss it was extinguished and he fought to stay still, groaning, a squirm twitching through his hips.
Little time for recovery was afforded before the chief placed a palm to Bruce's sternum, giving him a firm shove. As he collapsed back onto the hardwood, legs buckling awkwardly out from under him, Bock slunk out of his chair onto his knees so that he straddled Bruce's wiry midsection. "Look at you, fuckin' drooling for me," the chief breathed in his airy monotone, just loud enough for Bruce to hear. As he spoke he explored with his left hand, the hand that glinted with a tarnished-gold wedding ring, tracing a thumb along the smoothness of Bruce's chest and catching the calloused pad on one of his nipples. "You hard, prince?"
The chief knew how Bruce liked it: touch feather-light until it bruised, words of threat and ruin whispered in the blaisé tone of sweet nothings, braiding into one another so that it was impossible to tell pain from pleasure. He could have easily fought back - thrown an elbow to crack Bock's nose or brought a boot so hard into his solar plexus that he'd be coughing blood - but this wasn't an escaped Arkham patient looking for innocence to infect…this was an animal lured out at Bruce's baiting. He was being offered the rare opportunity to choose : to be defeated, to lose the struggle and be laid bare and made to suffer under someone stronger than him with nothing at stake but his own dignity. " Yes ," Bruce groaned miserably, almost as if in response to his own self-ruining thoughts before reaching up to fumble at Bock's clothes.
He allowed Bruce to tug his tie loose and get the first few buttons of his collared shirt undone, but, as always, grew too impatient for his own disrobing. "Let's see what we can do about that, huh?" Bock braced Bruce in between his hands, then lowered onto his forearms to taste at him as if he were a wolf lapping at its prey, offering one or two gentle kisses before his manners gave way to hunger. Each of his bites and licks pulled a different whining sound from Bruce and so he played him like an instrument of flesh, sucking bruises into his neck around the cigarette burn, grazing teeth against his ear or lip, delivering a breath-stealing bite only to pass his tongue back over to clean the blood away.
"C-chief!" Bruce clutched at the muscular bulge of Bock's shoulders, stifling every natural instinct to shove him away instead of pulling him closer. He bucked up his hips in an attempt to find friction, but it was in vain - he was at Bock's mercy and quickly became overwhelmed, cock throbbing.
Deaf to his cries, Bock had now turned his attention to the slim-fitting jeans and briefs sitting low on Bruce's hips, making quick work of the button and zipper and yanking both articles off one leg at a time. Bruce's slender, sensitive hardness slipped free, but the chief paid it no mind…instead he reached for Bruce's face, rough fingertips dragging up along his throat and jaw toward his mouth.
Bruce winced, expecting some degree of cruelty at Bock's touch, but the older man suddenly paused in his onslaught. He slowly leaned in, looking closely at Bruce's face, his rugged and handsome features glinting with curiosity and something like adulation. When Bock gently thumbed his right eye closed, Bruce found himself melting from the strange gesture, thankful for the moment of peace and closeness. It was almost romantic, an exceedingly rare theme in their arrangement.
Naturally, the moment was brief. Bock's questioning stare split apart into a devilish smile, one of those lovely and sharp-fanged things that poorly disguised a jeer. "Makeup?" he rumbled critically, breath burning and scented with the vices of late nights and stress in the scant space between them. "What's a pretty little brat like you doing wearing makeup?" Bock pressed a thumb to Bruce's lower lip. "You can't be that hard-up for attention… Open up."
The intimate awareness submerged Bruce in such a daze that it didn't even register what the chief was referring to: the smudge of black grease paint in the crease of his eyelid, a potentially-damning mistake surely made in his exhaustion that morning when he was washing Gotham's blood and grime off his knuckles. It was a new obstacle to keep his alter-ego wrapped up so tightly, especially when sleep deprivation slowed his mind and limbs and saw him prone to such clumsy mistakes, but for now, those concerns were impossibly far away…for now Bruce's jaw fell open without a second thought, heart throwing itself against his ribs with renewed anticipation.
Bock didn't need to invade his mouth so viciously after such an obedient invitation, but when Bruce involuntarily moaned at his roughness, he savored it. The chief shoved the index and middle fingers of his left hand in, wedding ring striking teeth in passing, flattening his tongue and collecting a generous bit of saliva from behind Bruce's molars. He let out a growling exhale against Bruce's neck, ragged with arousal as he reached down between his legs.
Bruce's body tensed to quivering as the chief forced the first two fingers into him, their passage only slightly eased by the saliva coating them, deeper, then shallower, movements defined by obscene, wet sounds. As Bock worked in and out of him, stretching the tight ring of muscle open as quickly as he pleased, Bruce offered a cacophony of mewls and whimpers, grip tightening into white knuckles on the chief's shirt. Too soon Bock added a third finger, spearing Bruce with unforgiving plunges. Though he crooked each finger against the narrow, seizing walls with experience, he avoided the prostate carefully, teasingly. "Lemme hear you, kiddo…" the chief cooed in his voice like dust, screwing his fingers in deep and holding them there as he kissed and nipped along the ripples of Bruce's obliques. "You want my dick, don't you?"
"Yes sir… ngh…!" The words struggled out of Bruce in gasping bursts. With each desperate buck of his hips his cock sprang about, woefully untouched and leaking precum to pool onto his stomach. He was at the point of begging now, clutching at Bock like a damned man searching in panic for absolution at the robes of a priest. "Yes…!"
Luckily for Bruce, he wasn't the only one maddeningly hard, especially after such keening: Bock's own length seemed to leap at each of Bruce's tortured cries, pulsing with such impossible heat that the chief couldn't draw it out any longer. He slipped his fingers out of Bruce's tightness and drew back up onto his knees over him, taking up his slender hips so roughly that he surely would leave bruises. "Fuckin' slut ." The chief thrust slowly into Bruce's spit-slickened entrance to punctuate the insult, a groan of pleasure rasping from deep in his chest.
If Bruce's body struggled to take in Bock's fingers, to stretch around his sizable length was almost agonizing. Surrender came surging up into his mouth like bile and he thought to cough it out, to buckle and beg to be handled gently, but a degenerate part of him longed for something even worse: already he was nearing the brink, his hard-edged jaw flexing open in a moan.
Bock watched the reconsideration flash across Bruce's countenance and momentarily worried for his well-being, but as it ebbed away into revelry, so did his concern. "'At's a boy," the chief breathed amidst the rhythmic cadence of their bodies, the praise precious in its rarity and barely audible over the clinking jostle of his belt buckle. While buried in him, Bock took one of Bruce's legs and folded it against his chest, using the new leverage to drive in even deeper: now each thrust could land perfectly against Bruce's sweet spot, and Bock let them. "You gonna come for me, kiddo?"
"Fuck, yes," Bruce knew he was going to ache from the strain of Bock's muscular weight leaning on his folded leg, but his rapidly-impending climax absorbed all of his attention. He screwed his eyes tightly shut and gasped as the final tension mounted. "Yes, yes- "
Bruce cried out. At first he thought the stinging sensation that came next was his orgasm, but this was pain, pain that brought spots bursting across his vision and knotted his viscera with nausea. Just as his body began to seize, the chief had taken Bruce's length in-hand, pressing a thumb hard into its base and halting his release.
"Not yet." Despite Bruce's weak protests, Bock kept his grip steadfast as he continued pushing into him, pace picking up speed until it was nearly frenzied. These were the moments that the chief would let himself come apart, his breathing ragged with exertion, strands of slicked hair breaking formation to hang messily in front of his face and Bruce adored watching it happen. He couldn't possibly tear his pain-wet eyes away as Bock finally gave in, doubling over, coming into him and groaning with the relief of emptying one weakening wave after another. "Fuck, Wayne…!" All through it Bruce was held immovably, forced to feel every bit of the surging and stretching of his insides as the chief's spend filled the cramped spaces around his cock.
Before Bruce brought himself to awkwardly ask how long Bock would have his dick in a fist, the chief let go, and the responding fluctuation of pressure elicited a pathetic whine from him. He would have been happy to leave this encounter here, knowing that to come was a privilege, but when he attempted to wriggle himself out from under Bock, he didn't move.
Bock exhaled with satisfaction as he finally pulled out of Bruce, but before any of his spend could leak out, the chief reached to plug the hole with his thumb. "Stay," he growled in warning, letting the weight off of Bruce's folded leg and sitting back on his heels. "I'm not done with you yet." The chief leaned over, let his breath linger hot on Bruce's half-hard cock, and, in an act even rarer than his praise, let his tongue drip out to lick a slow stripe up the underneath side, encouraging it to stiffen again.
And stiffen it did: between Bock's mouthful of heat and the discomfort of his entrance plugged and full to bursting, it didn't take long at all before he was throbbing back to life with a vengeance. It was only then that Bock eased his thumb away, letting his body-warm come ooze from Bruce and coat the waiting fingers of the same hand. It was this substance that slicked his touch as he took up Bruce's cock with a wet squelch.
The first several pumps took Bruce straight to a heavenly place and he vocalized as such, but as friction quickly built, so did the discomfort of the chief's irresponsible choice of lubricant: soon it started to congeal until it was nearly coarse, grating stickily against Bruce's sensitivities like glue. Bruce loved the disregard for etiquette and he soon begged for harder, faster strokes; his wishes were granted and, subjected to only moments of Bock's unforgiving motions, he heaved a shuddering sob and exploded into the chief's fist.
Bock held him fast as Bruce rode out those sweet spasms, brows knitting in an expression that mocked pity. "That's better, huh, kiddo?" he purred, watching Bruce as he struggled to recover from the undoing: head angled up to bare his pale, quivering throat, countenance pulled tight in suffering, chest heaving, sprawling bruises glistening with sweat. He could have stayed there forever, sitting astride Bruce and drinking in each of the little things that made him so darkly, compellingly beautiful, but the chief's knees were starting to complain; Bock grunted with the effort as he got to his feet, stepping over Bruce and buckling his slacks and belt. "I'd offer you a smoke, but you wouldn't take it."
"Thanks," was Bruce's dry, hoarse-voiced reply. Once he managed to regain enough of his faculties he sat wearily upright, reaching for where his jeans were tossed aside; he slipped back into them without standing, instead taking the chance to work strength back into the wiry muscles in his limbs.
What followed were the familiar sounds of the chief's routine to settle: the click and strike of an old Zippo, liquid poured into a glass and a heavy decanter being set back down, all concluded finally by the slight creak of his desk chair as he sank into it. Conversation was easily replaced by the lazily-drifting cloud of smoke Bock breathed out; this period of semi-companionable silence was an important ritual for the both of them, time to reflect on what brought them here and consider how best to reenter the world that paced impatiently just outside the office door. For Bock, it was eventually going home, having a silent dinner with his family and trying in vain to catch some kind of decent sleep before the graveyard beat inevitably roused him.
Though the bat-man had, at best, a tumultuous relationship with GCPD, Bruce found himself pitying Bock. Regardless of faction or ambition or degree of crookedness, Gotham City was an animal that fed off of suffering, drew it from even the strongest of men until they were left drained of their very humanity: he could see it happening to the chief, saw the evidence in the way he rubbed at his eyes when he thought no one was looking and in the whisky bottles lined up in the cabinet, as empty as they were many. Bruce would have liked to think that taking up the cowl and cape was his way of fighting that animal, protecting his own humanity, but he had to acknowledge that nagging possibility that it had already been taken from him.
As he sat there on the hardwood floor Bruce felt the gravity of self-awareness and dread weigh down in his chest, as if his viscera had been replaced by stones, and he found himself inching back toward where Bock sat in his office chair, saying nothing. The chief, also wordlessly, shifted his knees to make room for him between them, setting his drink aside before running a hand gently back through Bruce’s unkempt hair. Rain tirelessly pounded a million fists against the window panes and so they listened to its ire: perhaps when the storm finally passed, they would be ready to part.