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  1. March 16th 2018 He initially went up to me and put his arms around me kissing my neck , telling me he wants to be bad if it’s okay, he wanted to try rough play, if I was up to it, was very lusrful in his voice, it was kinda hot, I told him he can guide me and we can do a good practice if he wanted to play too, he even asked (shyly) if I’d wear certain things lol I told him I’m gonna drink coffee and water and to pick out my wardrobe, no limitations =} He picked out a blue satin gstring with a black Lacey bra, natural colour nylon pantyhose, black button top, red school girl skirt, I told him I’ll go change and then he said as he grabbed my arm gently, bring a full bladder =O!!!! But to wait closer to tbt end, to release the contents, I got dressed in what he wanted , he asked if I could put my hair up a bit in , I shrugged and did my best, he asked me to put on a selected dress shoe and he opened the door and went silent for about 3 minutes?? I heard knocking so I went to see what he was up too and he covered me mouth and whispered to me to struggle , so I did , I even tried using my feet And legs, against the door way to br picked up and tossed onto the bed with him getting on top being so forceful, I was really excited and wanted to get into character =} I put my arms up only for him to over power mrband omg he never told me about shirt ripping!! He tore my shirt opened so I let some pee out , as I struggled, he was a little rough with my chest then he flipped me on my stomach and laid on top rubbing my pussy thru my clothes making me pee a little more, then and he rolled us about so he can cover my mouth with his free er hand, (I was so turned on I wanted anything if I could cum lol) his hand was up my skirt and down my nylons and he told me to be a good girl! Lol I nodded and acted afraid for him and he moved me to thr table and bent me over! He was rubbing his hands over my body telling me sometimes when he lusts so bad like right now he wants what he knows he can’t have, I asked him what and he said my butt looks extremely inviting =O!!!! But we can pretend, (I was thinking pretending how??) He ripped my nylons from tbt back and got me to spread my legs and lifted and angled my butt and he went into my pussy and god!! I nestle swooned lol it was so big I was so tight, I can pretend he’s doing my butt so I fake cried as he ravaged me!! He was so commanding and forceful, I didn’t know he had this in him I LOVED it!! He put my head into the bed to “scream” especially when I came so hard I came and peed a little lol then he pulled out and I for a second i thought why? Then I felt it on my ass and waste, he Jizzed on me , ew lol but he wasn’t done!! He Lifted my skirt and told me I was a naughty school girl by wearing seductive lingerie then he forced me to crouch as he waved his giant cock in my face and got me to suck till he came again as I peed myself , I almost gagged he came a lot he held my Head till he finished and till I swallowed, I fell on the bed and was in a sex coma, though I had peed myself he made me cum orally, it was hot and amazing, never the less, he tried to apologize for being all bit rough, I told him he can go as rough with me as he wants ❤️ He cuddled and even apologized about my shirt, I told him as long as my lingerie is spared I’m good, we cuddled and he was touching me and my wet parts of my clothes, b4 our shower, lord knows I wanted his jizz off my back he told me he wanted to to rip off my pantyhose and to even rip a skirt, I told him we can go to the store and pick me up a designated set, anything goes , and we finally got into the shower and he was a little stiffy so I was gently cleaning his man tool and I told him if he can cum a 3rd time I’ll suck him or he can pretend to use my ass again ( haha ) but no cumming for him, good lol I was sore and kinda wanted the taste of his .load outta my mouth, then we went to bed =}
  2. also available on ao3 under the name where the baptized drown. the other kinks/rough sex bits can be skipped over if that's not your thing. jude = the joker. this is part of a 'verse where bruce works with him and kills people and stuff. ------------------------------------------------------------- April 2010 They were laying together in bed in the penthouse, exchanging slow, deep, lazy kisses. Jude rolled over to grab the lube from the nightstand and winced. Bruce reached out with his hand to touch Jude’s shoulder: “You okay, sweetheart?” Jude huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, I’m fine, just — gotta piss. Lemme up real quick.” A rush of heat railed down Bruce’s spine and exploded in his stomach. It clouded his brain and made rational thinking impossible, and so Bruce did not hear himself say, “No,” until it was already out of his mouth. Instantly the heat was replaced by cold glass shards of panic. If it was anyone else — hell, even if it had been Rachel — he could’ve passed it off merely as a control thing. But it was Jude. It was Jude and he knew Bruce, he knew every single thing about him and he was intelligent and Bruce could see him working it out in his eyes and in the soft amused curl to his mouth. “No?” he repeated, almost gently. But Bruce could hardly hear him over the rush in his ears. His face was so hot he had to roll onto his back and stare at the ceiling, hardly able to breathe. The panic wrapped its tight burning fingers around his lungs and squeezed. He’d kept it a secret for two years. He’d been so good for two years. When he’d get himself off and Jude would ask what he was thinking about he’d tell partial lies: I’m hurting you. You’re in pain. And sometimes — rarely — he could get himself off thinking about it the way Jude thought, just beating him, spraying blood from his mouth or his nose. But it wasn’t often. It wasn’t the same way Jude could. And when he thought about the other thing and lied to Jude he felt sick with guilt, and even sicker when he got off anyway, fucked up images flashing through his head, things he couldn’t admit even to himself, things he’d never been able to admit to himself — The thing was Jude was fucked up too. He had his fucked up kinks and Bruce knew about them, had always known, and they roleplayed with the kinks sometimes, or they talked their way through sex with detailed fantasies about the things Jude needed from Bruce, the things Jude wanted to do to Bruce. But Bruce had known about Jude’s kinks from the beginning, from when they’d still just been Batman and the Joker. Jude had never made it a secret the things he wanted, the things he liked. He reveled in it. In fact Bruce had come to realize that other people knowing was part of the kink, that Jude enjoyed letting people know he wanted pain, he needed pain, he needed to be beaten and humiliated as long as it was entirely on his terms and under his control. The rest of the kink had far more complexities and intricacies that Jude had only let Bruce know about, but Jude didn’t mind letting Bruce know, either. He wanted him to know. He liked that Bruce knew and Bruce enjoyed indulging him, he got off seeing Jude get off, seeing the pleasure these things brought him, the bruises and the cutting and the blood and Bruce bringing Jude just to the brink of orgasm and then leaving him with his cock in a ring so he couldn’t come, the biting and the scrapes with his nails and the knifeplay and the rape fantasies and the electroshock therapy fantasies and the drugged fantasies, all of it. Bruce loved it because Jude loved it, and even more so because he knew this wasn’t something Jude wanted with just anyone, that the masochistic pain-loving side he displayed for other people was only the very surface level of it and that Jude trusted Bruce more than he’d ever trusted anyone else. But Bruce — — Bruce hadn’t ever been able to come to terms with what he liked. Not even once he saw the amount of fucked up off-kilter hardcore shit Jude was into. Once, in late summer 2009, Jude had told him, ‘I’ll try anything once,’ and Bruce had very nearly admitted what he wanted, but he just couldn’t. He just couldn’t, and he wasn’t even really sure what his hold-up over it was, except that it was there, and it was dug in so deep it was nearly part of the kink itself. The shame. The embarrassment. The horror. You like that? he’d always imagined Rachel saying, if she’d ever found out. That’s fucking sick, Bruce. And Jude… Jude might not say the same. But he’d think it. Surely, he must think it. Because people weren’t into what Bruce was into. Not normal people. He thought sometimes if he was into any other kind of weird sex stuff — come-eating, or if he had a foot kink — (which, hell, he kind of did, at least where Jude was concerned, but that was more because he liked every part of Jude than because he was fixated on feet as a whole) — but it would’ve still been easier. He could’ve just said hey, this is what I want, and Jude would’ve laughed at him but indulged him too, let him fuck the arches of his feet or suck his toes or his fingers or whatever he wanted to do. They rimmed each other and Jude liked Bruce to put his teeth on his cock even though it hurt him and it might’ve not been bad — if it was something like that, if it was something excusable — “Wayne?” Jude’s voice, still gentle. It occurred to Bruce he’d been saying his name for a while. His fingers were on Bruce’s shoulder and he’d rolled back over onto his side. His tongue came out and wet the side of his mouth. “Hey, honey — look at me, huh?” Bruce forced himself to look. The panic lifted one hand from his lungs to slap the back of his head. You fuck up, it whispered in its sinuous serpentine voice. You complete fucking loser. Jude’s throat flexed as he swallowed. He reached up from Bruce’s shoulder and touched his cheek and Bruce had to physically remind himself to stay still. “It’s okay,” Jude said, softly, “hey? It’s just me, right? It’s just us? If this is something you want — ” Bruce’s eyes blurred. His throat was so dry he had to work to make himself speak. He couldn’t — he couldn’t. Even with Jude looking at him like that. Even with Jude’s voice barely a whisper in his ear, Jude right there, gentle, warm, understanding, patient — no. No. “No,” he said, and it cracked. “I can’t — ” He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. He huffed out through his mouth, frustrated. Furious. Miserably alone and aching with how fucking much he desired and wanted and needed this and how he couldn’t push past this stupid fucking barrier even for the man he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. “I can’t, Jude. Okay? I c- I just can’t.” Jude bit his mouth. The understanding and the sliver of tender pity in his eyes was almost too much. Bruce had to restrain himself from snapping — though he knew Jude would just take it, the way he took everything. The way he’d probably take this, if Bruce could just stop being such a fucking coward — “It’s okay,” Jude said. He stroked Bruce’s cheek again, then sat up. The sheets pooled around his waist as he slung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. Bruce could see the faint bulge his bladder made against his waist and the thread of desire that wound around his body was so strong it made him nauseous. Fuck, he wanted — fuck. He just wanted. “It’s all right, honey. I’m just gonna go — ” he gestured at the bathroom — “and then we can — if you still want — ” “Yes,” Bruce whispered. He had to close his eyes. His throat was tight. “Yes, I want.” “Okay,” Jude said. Bruce listened to his feet pad across the floor. He heard the bathroom door snick shut. He bunched the sheets up in his hands and whimpered into the soft cotton. When Jude came back a minute or so later Bruce had breathed his way through the worst of it and was able to focus his attention and energy on making Jude feel good, which was what he wanted. It served as its usual distraction piece. He didn’t want to see any more of that pity in Jude’s eyes so he made him stay on his stomach, face pressed into the pillow. He gripped his hips hard enough to leave bruises and sank his nails into the skin, drawing blood. He bit his shoulder and fucked him, bottoming out inside him, flesh slapping wetly and heatedly in the stillness of the room. He called Jude a slut and a whore and slapped him and pulled his hair so hard Jude screamed a little bit, hoarse, tinged with laughter. He sank his teeth into the flesh around the scars and dragged his nails across the scars on his arms, and when he came, when they both came, he closed his eyes and shoved his face between Jude’s shoulder blades, right up against his spine, and he didn’t think, and he didn’t think, and he didn’t think. -- He wasn’t sure if everyone knew their defining moment of getting into a kink; he knew Jude didn’t have one, just that he’d always liked violence, and had decided relatively early on he wasn’t going to make a big deal about it, because he liked what he liked and it wasn’t going to go away and why should he bother denying himself that pleasure. But Bruce knew when he’d gotten into his — he’d tried to forget it, and he’d tried to deny that it was what it was, but he knew. He’d always known. There were three separate incidents, scattered through his early years. The first: he’d been three or four, maybe. He’d needed the bathroom really badly and he couldn’t remember exactly why he hadn’t been able to get to it for so long, but by the time he got in he was already wetting himself. The downstairs bathroom at Wayne Manor had been massive, as big as a regular room, but Bruce had known he wouldn’t get up the stairs without ruining the carpet and he’d yanked his pants down and stumbled into the walk-in shower, which was much closer to the door, and pissed into the drain. He’d just stood there trembling with his legs squeezed together and pissed all over himself and his pants. His mother had found him and cleaned him off and somewhere in there, in the growing desperation, in the frantic realization that he was going to wet himself, in the stumbling, in the relief, in the humiliation of his mother washing him — one or all of those things had sparked something off. He and Rachel would play with her Barbies and he’d pretend they were wetting themselves into her tea set cups and she’d squeal at how disgusting it was. Or he’d make his action figures piss off the side of the balcony in his room. He tried sneaking in to watch his father or Alfred when they used the bathroom but his father had put a stop to that really quick, and he couldn’t think about it without feeling that sick dread — the shame of being caught, of knowing he was doing something wrong, without understanding why. The second: he was maybe six or seven. It was high summer and he and Rachel were in the fields beyond the manor. They’d been drinking a lot of water to keep hydrated and Rachel was wearing her favorite summer dress. They were playing hide and seek by an old tree and suddenly from behind the trunk Bruce heard Rachel crying. Fear plunged into his heart because he assumed she’d hurt herself but when he ran around the tree he saw her gripping herself tightly through her dress. She was pissing down the trunk into her good shoes and the hem of her dress was soaked. She looked up at him with her teeth sunk into her lower lip and her eyes shining and she said, “I’m having an accident, it was an emergency, I’m sorry, I couldn’t make it, I — please don’t get mad — ” Whatever passed for desire in those days rushed through Bruce’s whole body. He couldn’t stop staring at her, the trembling muscles, the desperate clench of her hands between her legs, the way the piss ran and ran down between her thighs. “I’m not mad,” he said. “Do you want me to go get your mom?” “Uh-huh,” she whispered, and he ran off. He got Mrs. Dawes and he couldn’t remember what happened after, except that after that Rachel wouldn’t play so far from the house anymore. He’d never been sure if she remembered that incident or not. Certainly she never brought it up. Certainly he never brought it up. The third: the worst. The most shameful. Worse than being caught by his father at trying to peek into the bathroom. Worse than wishing he could share a stall with a boy at school. Worse than feeling humiliated when he tried to play with Rachel’s Barbies after the tree incident and she told him, you can’t make them do that disgusting potty thing anymore, Bruce. You’re not allowed. Worst of all of them. He wasn’t entirely sure something like this couldn’t send him to jail, if anyone ever found out. But he remembered it. He couldn’t block it out. He’d blocked out whole chunks of his life from that same time, but not this. Not any of the night itself, but especially not this: His dad’s body slammed into the ground in the alley. His ears were ringing crazily and the smell of cordite was sharp in his nostrils and the iron rich scent of blood. It would be months, he remembered, before either of those smells got out of his nose or his skin or his hair or his clothes or his fingers or his eyes or any part of him at all. He stared at his dad dying in the rainwater with his blood pooling under his shirt and spreading out beneath his suit jacket and then he looked further and he saw what was spreading beneath his father’s pants. Piss darkened his crotch as his bladder released with his fear and with his death. Bruce stared at it, running down his legs. Soaking the fine fabric. On his other side his mother fell, and the same sequence of events happened: blood pooled from her chest, and piss stained her crotch. She was aware of herself enough she tried to grip herself and Bruce stared at her hand folding uselessly between her legs in the moments before it slackened and she died, too. The gunman darted away, down the alley, into the night. Bruce could feel his own crotch dampening with fear, but he barely had anything in him, because his dad had made him go to the bathroom before the performance. When the police arrived Bruce was still staring at the piss on his father’s pants. He wished — he wanted to rewind the moment. Over and over. Gunshot, fall, piss. As the ambulance carried him away, shock blanket around his shoulders, he thought about how badly his dad must’ve had to go before he was killed. There had been a lot of piss. He was sick into a trashcan, but he couldn’t erase the thought. He wondered if his parents had been killed because he was so sick. He’d tried to block it out after that. For years he’d tried. He’d pretend the dreams he had about uncontrollable urination were just because he needed to piss in his sleep. He pretended all of his fantasies didn’t involve Rachel’s hand between her legs, Rachel squeezing her thighs together, Rachel potty-dancing in front of a toilet. He pretended he couldn’t remember anything from the night his parents died. He pretended it didn’t feel fucking good to stagger into filthy back alleys in Asia and piss after a long session of sparring, or after a long session of control therapy where he’d refuse his body any sort of relief for hours as part of his training. He pretended, and he pretended, and he pretended. But it hadn’t done any good. Even now, with Jude, when he fantasized, it was in the vaguest possible ways, without naming it to himself, without fully picturing what he wanted, and it still didn’t do any good. It was still there. Every single fucked up shameful humiliating aching wanting needing part of it. He was still fucked up beyond repair and now Jude knew and Jude was going to leave. He’d think about it and decide he couldn’t handle having a freak for a boyfriend and he’d leave. He’d kick Bruce out of the gang. And then Bruce would have nothing. He’d be nothing. All because he hadn’t been able to keep his fucking mouth shut for once in his life. He lay awake until dawn staring at the ceiling. Jude was beside him sleeping or pretending to; at one point Bruce must have made a noise, or else Jude was just severely in tune with him, because he rolled over and half woke and touched Bruce’s cheek again: “‘s all right, honey,” he murmured, “‘m here.” Then he subsided again, tucking his face against Bruce’s neck, folding their fingers together. But Bruce knew it was only a matter of time. Once Jude woke up, once he remembered — ‘I’ll try anything once.’ But he can’t have meant this. ‘If you want — ’ But he can’t have really meant it. He was just indulging because that’s what he did. He was just telling Bruce yes because he never said no. He didn’t want this. No one wanted this. Bruce covered his mouth with his hand. He shut his eyes. The panic curled up over his chest and settled in. -- Jude’s favorite fantasy was when Bruce pretended to drug him with chlorpromazine and then rape him. They had a bottle of placebos that looked a lot like the actual antipsychotic. Bruce would slip Jude one between his lips and hold his jaw shut until he swallowed. If Jude refused he’d crack him across the jaw. If Jude talked back — which he did sometimes, laughing at Bruce from beneath lidded eyes, taunting him — he’d hit him even harder. Usually by the time the pill was swallowed Jude was bleeding from some part of himself and cackling wildly. Then Bruce would roll him over, roughly, and jerk his pants down, and unzip his own. He’d shove Jude’s face into the mattress and hold him there. ‘Stay down you piece of shit.’ Sometimes he’d spit on Jude, on the back of his neck. He’d hit him again, and again, and again. He’d bite him hard enough to draw blood and he’d fuck into him with no prep, no lube, and no warning. He’d jerk him hard and slap his cock and scrape it with his fingernails. He’d grab Jude’s hair and haul him up from the mattress, then slam his head into the headboard repeatedly while he fucked him. Jude would pretend to be sobbing the whole time, his hands fisted in the sheets, sometimes coming up to grab at Bruce — which Bruce then had to slap his hand away, or grab it and shove it between them, to where Bruce’s cock was going in and out of Jude’s ass. ‘Please,’ he’d whimper, ‘oh, fuck, please stop, please, I’ll be good, I promise, please, no — ’ By the time he came he’d be a fucking wreck, covered in scratches and blood, shaking uncontrollably, mouth bitten. It was such a violent, unsettling fantasy they only indulged in it once every few weeks, but Bruce knew how much Jude loved it, how much he craved and needed it, and he enjoyed himself because Jude did. When they did it this time, four days after the piss incident, Jude fought against Bruce getting him on his stomach. They didn’t generally employ a safeword but because of the nature of this fantasy Jude had allowed Bruce one out — every so often if Bruce felt uncomfortable he’d tap the inside of Jude’s wrist, gently, and Jude would reach back and squeeze Bruce’s hand. ‘I’m okay,’ it meant. ‘It’s not too much. I promise. Keep going.’ Jude fighting Bruce about the rolling over thing was so unusual Bruce had to tap his wrist three separate times, until finally Jude rolled his eyes, pushed himself up on his elbows, touched their foreheads together, and whispered, “Wayne, I know what I’m doing. If I don’t like it I’ll shove you off. You have to trust me, honey. Please,” and his voice and his face and his eyes and everything in the tension of his shoulders and his whole body was so desperate, and so open, that Bruce gave up, nodded, and kept going. He smacked Jude across the face. He drew blood under his eye, and across his scars. Jude started laughing wildly, jerking his hips up against Bruce’s. “If I’d known you were so sick, doctor, I’d’ve requested a different psych years ago,” he said. “Or maybe I’d’ve recommended you get one. Can patients recommend their own doctors psychiatrists?” “I don’t know,” Bruce growled, straining to stay in the headspace. “Well, maybe we can make this one an exception, huh?” Jude reached up to touch Bruce’s face and Bruce grabbed his wrist and shoved it back on the bed. He tried again to flip Jude over and Jude held him off, digging his toes into his thigh. “You’re so fucked up, you want so many fucked up things, you’re gonna need more therapy than even I’ve ever — ” Bruce punched Jude in the mouth. His fist rang with the shock of the impact and he realized with stunning clarity he was really, genuinely angry. “Shut the fuck up, you piece of shit,” he snarled. “You fucking gutterfilth piece of trash.” Jude blinked up at him. His mouth and his nose were soaked in blood, but he was grinning, broadly. “Ooh,” he said, “hit a nerve, huh? Maybe you don’t like hearing I’m not the only freak in the room — ” “I said shut up,” Bruce growled, and hit Jude again, smacking his head backwards against the headboard. “Shut the fuck up; you don’t get to talk to me about being a fucking freak, you don’t get to talk to me about being fucked up. You fucking animal. You fucking trash. You want every single thing I give you. You’d climax as I was murdering you. You shit.” Jude’s laughter rang up to the high ceiling. This was not ever how the fantasy went. Even when Jude talked back to Bruce it was pretty subdued and it was over pretty quick. He wanted Bruce to overpower him and to have it stay there. He seemed to need that level of vulnerability because he couldn’t get it from anyone else comfortably. This was different, and Bruce wasn’t sure what it meant — or rather, he thought he knew, and he didn’t like it. He was getting uncomfortable, but there was no signal for that. If he tapped Jude’s wrist now Jude would just remind him again he was fine, but Jude being fine didn’t mean anything if Bruce wasn’t — “Why don’t you just admit what you want from me, doctor,” Jude whispered. He was giggling, staring up at Bruce, mouth bloody, eyes going unfocused as he (sort of) pretended the placebo was affecting him. “Why don’t you just admit you want to take shit from me and then take it. Instead of going through all this song and d— ” It was too much. Bruce didn’t have a word he could use and he didn’t have words he could use without giving too much away. He grabbed Jude by the back of the neck and this time he was able to flip him over because he moved quickly, Batman rising to the surface. He shoved his knee down against the back of Jude’s thigh and pinned him down with that and with his elbow and then he fucked him. He kept his face shoved into the mattress and he fucked him so hard he drew blood and he kept whispering ‘shut up. shut the fuck up’ over and over and he was trembling. They both were. Jude was slapping ineffectively at Bruce’s thigh and every time he did Bruce would just grab his hand and cut into his skin again with his nails. He forced Jude’s body to rock against the mattress, cock trapped between his own body and the sheets, until he felt Jude tense up and then shudder out his orgasm. Then instantly Bruce pulled out and doubled over himself, running to the bathroom. He dry-heaved into the sink. He was shaking all over. He didn’t realize he was crying until he discovered he was only standing because he was gripping the sink so hard. He’d gone soft already. He was covered in blood and scratches and he was in pain and warm all over and he hated himself. Fuck, he hated himself. This sick thing in him he couldn’t want and he couldn’t get rid of. And how dare Jude try to bring it out like that. How dare Jude pretend he understood. When Jude himself had never had an issue with his own desires and wants. Why couldn’t it just be enough for them to be the way they’d been now for two years? Why did Jude have to try and make Bruce do anything different? He heard footsteps, and then Jude’s face appeared behind his in the mirror. “Hey,” he said, softly, “you okay?” He was soaked too, filthy with his own come and with blood and bite marks and rising bruises. His hair was a fucked mess on top of his head and his hand was trembling from overexertion as he reached up to touch Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce tensed. Jude pulled back. He bit his mouth. “Are you mad at me?” he asked. “Did I do someth— ” “Please leave me alone,” Bruce whispered. He discovered he could no longer look at Jude so he closed his eyes and ducked his head down. “Please, just — I need to be alone.” Jude exhaled, slowly. “Okay,” he said, after a while. “Do you — I mean, should I just — I can go back to the apartment if you — ” Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel guilt trying to rise up from where it always dwelt, just below the surface. He hadn’t bothered giving Jude any aftercare. He’d just fucked him raw and left him there on the mattress, filthy and panting, and this wasn’t Jude’s fault, this was all Bruce, all of Bruce’s fucked stupid insecurities and untreated Issues. No, he wanted to say. No, don’t really leave. I can’t bear it if you leave. I can’t handle this on my own even though I’m pretending I can and I can’t be by myself, I want to make you feel wanted, I’m sorry I didn’t take care of you, please don’t go — “Maybe so,” he said, hating himself, every part of himself. “For a little while.” Jude made a noise Bruce refused to allow himself to interpret. “All right,” he said, quietly, and then Bruce heard his footsteps again. He didn’t let himself look up for a long time, but when he did Jude was gone. The sheets had been somewhat straightened and his clothes were gone and he was gone. His shoes and his apartment keys and his hair tie and his Walkman and his burner phone. Bruce’s eyes blurred over, and this time he couldn’t fight it, so he didn’t bother trying. He stumbled into the shower and turned it on as hot as it would go. He sat on the floor and curled up with his knees to his chest and his chin on his knees and he cried. And the panic crawled up over his back and nestled itself against his shoulder and whispered, you see? -- Alfred could tell something was wrong, but as it had been for years he didn’t push. The next few days Bruce went down to meetings and came back up and swam laps or pushed himself on the treadmill or with weightlifting until he was exhausted, panting on the gym floor, arms trembling. He texted Jude a few times to make sure he was still alive and Jude always responded pretty much instantly, which meant he had the phone on him and wanted desperately for Bruce to call, but Bruce knew he wouldn’t make the first move because this was Bruce’s shit to work through, and Jude was being… whatever, conscientious. He got a few texts from Cornell asking why he wasn’t going on runs and what the fuck was going on between him and the boss and could he please fix it because Jude was impossible to be around when he and Bruce were fighting. Kiedis came over once to give a report on the shell company running out of Wayne Tech and told Bruce quite cheerfully that both he and Jude looked like absolute shit. But Bruce couldn’t — he just couldn’t. He was furious with himself for not being able to work around these stupid walls he’d put up for himself and he was furious with Jude for trying to break them down and he was furious with himself for being furious with Jude because he knew Jude was only trying to help. It was the same thing Jude had done almost two years ago when he’d initiated Bruce into the gang and brought out his ugly violent side and Bruce knew that. He knew how much happier he was now with this new life, and how he’d never go back, and how even if he’d managed to figure it out on his own that the darkness was part of him he would’ve never been able to actualize it without Jude. But it didn’t matter. He couldn’t bear this. He couldn’t want this. Not with what was attached to it, not with how taboo it was, not with how humiliating, not — not with any of it. When he’d lived in Europe, there had been a few close incidents — a guy on the Eurail sitting next to him had spent a while shifting uncomfortably in his seat and crossing his legs. He’d bumped Bruce’s elbow accidentally twice before turning to him with a sheepish grin and admitting, “Sorry, mate, I really need the toilet,” which was — a whole new level of erotic, and Bruce had barely been able to mumble a coherent, normal response. A woman he’d been kind of flirting with in a bar in Germany invited him out behind the bar and said, “Just — ‘scuse me for a second, would you,” before hitching her skirt up her thighs, spreading her legs, and pissing, hard, for well over a minute. “Oh, das ist gut,” she’d moaned, “I’ve been holding it forever…” and Bruce had thought he might pass out. And once, in a training center in Switzerland, the instructor had gone too long in their session and had to race into the bathroom midway through. Bruce had felt him trembling as he’d positioned Bruce’s body and seen the way he was bending at the waist when he tried to stand straight. He didn’t shut the door all the way and Bruce saw him through the crack in it leaning against the back wall and gasping as he aimed his cock and pissed into the toilet. Bruce tried. He tried. He went out after all those times — and other times too, smaller incidents, dreams he had or just hearing other men pissing in the bathrooms wherever he was, even seeing people cross their legs in public for reasons that may not have even been bathroom-related — and picked fights, got himself beaten to shit, or beat someone else to shit. His fist colliding with men’s jaws and cheekbones and his knee to their stomachs and their foreheads smashing together. Ending up in the free clinics at two in the morning with bloody knuckles and a sprained wrist and a black eye. Desperate to distract himself from this sick, twisted need that wouldn’t go away. It didn’t work, it never worked, but it felt fucking good, anyway. It was enough of something else he wanted that he was able to tell himself it was enough overall. He liked violence, loved it, even. Long before his tender other self had emerged with Jude’s assistance he knew he liked violence. He hid it behind Batman for a long time, and then he didn’t. And it should have been enough. It should have been enough. For years he’d thought he just wasn’t trying hard enough. For years he thought if he just disciplined himself harder, if he was just more brutal, if he just pushed a little too hard until he was blacking out from whatever — exhaustion, pain, anger — he’d block it out. But it wasn’t gone. In some ways since joining Jude’s gang and renouncing Batman it had gotten worse. It was as though the tender creature was budding its head there too, and begging for release. You need this. You need Jude, you need his brand of anger. And you need this too. It’s okay. It’s okay. The tender creature was a liar, Bruce’s panic said. But the tender creature itself knew it hadn’t lied in almost two years. And the urges were there; they were distracting, they were ruining everything. The flashes of Rachel pissing behind the tree, of his parents pissing themselves when they died, of his accident in the shower… once, when he was a freshman in high school, and he and Alfred had been stuck in traffic on 78 and he’d finally had to beg him to pull over because he’d started leaking into his shorts. He’d barely gotten the door open and his cock out before he was pissing. Some of it hit the footwell because he couldn’t get far enough out of the car. Alfred hadn’t minded; he hadn’t said anything. But Bruce knew he’d drank more than he’d really needed or even wanted. He knew he’d done it on purpose. And later that night at the manor, flush with shame, his hand snaking beneath his shorts — This was ruining everything. It was getting between him and Jude. But it didn’t have to. It didn’t have to. -- He looked up piss kink on Google. Most of the search results were for shit he wasn’t into, people pissing on each other without holding it, people drinking piss, people using sounders… most of them were naked, which didn’t do anything for Bruce, and absolutely none of them seemed to really need to go. In fact most of them were acting like the piss was a very secondary factor to the erotic… whatever they were doing. The women rubbed their breasts and moaned as they pissed and the men held their cocks over toilet bowls and pissed for, like, fifteen seconds, which… what the fuck. What was that. Bruce was frustrated enough he nearly gave up on the whole endeavor, but then he saw a tiny thumbnail near the bottom of the page of a woman in jeans with her legs crossed tightly and her hands jammed between them and — — yeah. Okay. Yeah. He clicked the link. The woman was walking around outside her house in her jeans and an overcoat and holding herself, bending frantically at the waist. Into her cell phone she snapped, ‘Hurry up, I need to piss,’ and Bruce’s whole body jolted. He pressed the heel of his hand down on his cock, feeling it twitch. The woman flipped her phone shut and shoved it into her pocket. The movement made her wince and double over further, squeezing down hard enough Bruce could see her knuckles grow white. She groaned and twisted herself, curling her fist against her thigh, pacing like an animal. ‘Oh,’ she moaned, softly, after a while, ‘oh I can’t do this, I can’t hold it — ’ She attempted to get to the front door but it was locked, and as she started moving away from the door again she groaned, ‘Oh, no,’ and whoever was holding the camera focused in on her crotch in time to show — Fuck. The piss spread from beneath her hands and down her thighs. She let out a few choked sobs — and Bruce watched in fascination, unable to breathe, as the flow stopped. The flow stopped, but she was clearly still desperate, twisting and holding herself and tapping her fingers frantically over her hip. She was biting her lip and looking around and Bruce paused the video on a shot of her still doubled over, jaw clenched. He was hard, just from watching this video. He still had his hand pressed to his cock and he wanted desperately to jerk off; he wanted to come, but not like this. Not like this. Gritting his teeth he shut the laptop and stood, stretching his arms over his head and shifting his legs a little to ease the pressure. Then — deep breath — he reached for his phone. As he flipped it open panic stole over him again; it bit his heart and whispered, you can’t — — but the tender creature shoved it backwards screaming into the darkness and whispered back, yes I will. He called Jude, who picked up on the second ring: “Wayne — ” sounding desperate, hopeful, unhappy, broken, and Bruce realized with a feeling like being hit in the back of the head with a sledgehammer that he hadn’t spoken to Jude, really, outside of a few sentences, in nearly a week. What an asshole he’d been. What an asshole, and how foolish. The kink — the shame — none of it was ruining anything. The kink wasn’t ruining anything. Bruce had done all this himself. He sucked in a breath. “Jude,” he said, “sweetheart, can you come — ” “I’ll be there in twenty,” Jude said, and hung up. Bruce’s hands started shaking; it occurred to him as he tossed his phone on the mattress what this meant, what he was doing. He bit his knuckles. What was he doing? He’d only just looked at piss porn for the first time in his life today. He couldn’t shake the memory of Rachel’s disgust at the games he’d play with her dolls; the curdling horror at finding something… fascinating about his parents wetting themselves as they literally fucking died. The years and years of telling himself he was sick, he was twisted, he was broken — But this was Jude. And Jude liked strange things too; he’d given his heart to Bruce, he’d laid himself bare and open and there were things he’d told him that Bruce knew he’d never told nor would ever tell another person. He’d fixed Bruce and made him whole and it was irrational to believe he’d leave Bruce over something like this. Not when he’d been so frantic to get back to the penthouse. Still, by the time Jude got back to the penthouse Bruce had whiplashed himself between thinking it would be okay and that it would all fall apart, and he almost couldn’t walk down the short hall from his room to the kitchen to see him. Jude was standing at the entranceway with his hair pulled back and his scars laddered down his shoulders and though he was talking quietly to Alfred his attention focused on Bruce the second he appeared in the door, laser intent, electric, lashed. As ever like two magnets crashing together. Bruce took a step forward; Jude excused himself from Alfred’s side, and then — there he was. He laced their fingers together and bumped his nose against Bruce’s cheek. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered. Bruce reached up, tugged at a loose curl framing Jude’s face. “I was an idiot,” he whispered back. “Come with me,” and together they walked down the hall and into his room. With the door shut they walked to the bed and Jude stretched himself out on the mattress. He held out his hands and Bruce walked to him, crawling between his legs, smoothing his palm down his cheek. He leaned down and bit Jude’s lower lip, drawing it into his mouth. Jude sucked in a breath. “Wayne — ” “I want — ” Bruce closed his eyes; pressed their foreheads together. “Fuck, Jude, I just — I — ” It stuck in his throat. He couldn’t say it. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fist, or anyway he tried to. Their hands were still joined, though, and he felt Jude stroke over his knuckles with his thumb. “It’s okay,” Jude said softly. With his other hand he drew Bruce’s head down slightly so he could kiss his forehead. “If you can’t say it, it’s okay.” Bruce felt him push his hips up, dragging their crotches together. Bruce gasped out, shuddering, the arousal from earlier spiraling back out. “But I want it,” Bruce said. He was nearly in tears. “Fuck, I just, I need it, Jude. I need it and I need it with you and I’ve been so stupid keeping it from you — ” “No, honey — ” “I just, I’ve never been able to — not even with myself. I’ve hated it my whole life. I couldn’t even admit that I liked it, and… and you’ve just always…” He trailed off. He felt Jude’s fingers trailing slowly down his spine, soothing over him; after a moment he said, quietly, “I want you to trust me. I want you to be comfortable with me and whatever you want with me. I’m not forcing you to admit anything you’re into or not into until you’re ready. And if you’re never ready — ” he dragged his hips up again, and Bruce groaned — “that’s okay. I just want to be with you, Wayne. I like what I like and you’re right, it’s not an issue for me. But we’re two different people. I appreciate you doing what you do with me and if that’s all you’ll ever be comfortable with that’s fine. But — if you ever want to explore anything else. I’m open to anything. Anything. I promise.” He tucked his fingers under Bruce’s jaw. “I won’t leave you,” he murmured, and Bruce could have cried, so he surged up instead, and fit their mouths together. This time he pushed down against Jude, so that Jude shuddered, eyes falling shut. He kissed down his jaw and over his neck to suck a bruise into the taut, pale skin, over the hot racing heart. “I love you,” he said, sex-rough. “I love you, Jude.” “Love you too, Wayne,” Jude said, and reached up to card his fingers through the short soft ends of Bruce’s hair. -- Two days later they stumbled together into Jude’s apartment covered in blood — not their own — and after dropping their clothes at the front door in a gasoline- and blood- and sweat-soaked heap they made their way into the bathroom where after some maneuvering they managed to pile into the shower. Jude turned the water on all the way and solely with the hot knob because the pressure was shit again and the heater in his unit had been sort of broken for a few days. He ran his hair under the water so that it lay flat and faintly wavy against his head and then he pulled Bruce against him and kissed him roughly with the water catching between their mouths. “I thought — ” “Yeah, I know, so did I — ” Jude pressed his hands against the sides of Bruce’s face. “No one’s fucking taking me from you,” he said. “No one’s taking you from me either. I won’t allow it, Wayne.” Bruce’s hands were still trembling faintly from the incident. It had been a bad run-in with some dealers; Bruce had killed a guy with his favored knife, and Jude had used a garrote on his companion when he’d tried to shoot Bruce in the heart. His whole head had fucking come off and flown across the pavement; the blood had gotten in Bruce’s hair and sprayed over his face. Reznor had made a joke about soccer and Jude had snorted even as he was trying to get Bruce into the Mustang so they could leave. They’d gotten their money and their drugs and everything was settled — but there was always a comedown moment after the more harrowing near-death experiences, even now, after all this time. Jude — always possessive and fierce and tender when they were alone — was perhaps at his most gentle, his most loving, when he’d been afraid he’d lose Bruce. He leaned in and bit Bruce’s mouth and Bruce whispered, “I won’t allow it either,” against his warm, damp skin. He dropped his head onto Jude’s shoulder and they stood for several minutes in the (relatively warm) spray, swaying back and forth, Jude humming softly in Bruce’s ear, hand on the small of his back. Then Jude said, “Hang on a second, I gotta piss,” and Bruce — adrenaline crashing, relieved to have Jude in his arms, tired, in love, lazy and safe and warm — reached up with his hand to grab Jude’s wrist as he started to push the shower curtain back, and he said, “No. Stay.” Immediately after the panic tried to seize his brain and clutch the vestiges left that still hesitated over this, but Bruce forced it back. He wanted this. He wanted this. More than that, Jude wanted it. He’d promised Bruce. And Bruce had thought about waiting until he felt ready but the truth was he didn’t think he’d ever feel ready. The panic wasn’t going away, the shame wasn’t going away — but neither were the urges. Neither were the dreams and the desires and Bruce thought perhaps, with time, with exposure, the unpleasant parts would lessen, and perhaps one day fade away entirely. He needed that. He needed this, desperately. Jude was looking at him, curious. “Stay?” Bruce nodded. “Uh-huh.” Jude’s mouth twitched. He maneuvered them so that he was out of the spray. “But I have to piss, Wayne.” “I know,” Bruce said. His throat was tight. He didn’t know what he was feeling, just that there was a lot of it. His eyes dropped down to Jude’s dick, then back up to his mouth. “You can piss in here.” Jude raised his eyebrows. It was entirely for show; Bruce knew how to read his body language better than anything in the world, and Jude was loving this, every second of it. “Wayne, I don’t — ” “How bad do you have to go?” Bruce asked. It was easier than telling Jude what he wanted outright, and Jude was smart enough to understand, and to go along with it: “I mean, pretty bad, I’ve been — I haven’t gone since before we left for the drug deal and that was what, four, five hours ago?” “So you’ve been holding it for all that time?” “Uh-huh.” Bruce swallowed. He could see that Jude was letting him lead entirely on this one; of course they’d never explored this, and Jude wouldn’t know what to say to get Bruce off, but Bruce — even in here, even with Jude tilting his body forward and looking at Bruce with gentle encouragement, he couldn’t quite let himself go all the way. He couldn’t make himself say what he wanted, but he knew Jude wouldn’t push, either. He wanted all sorts of things he couldn’t even name, he wanted things he had never even thought of before, and so in the end it was easier to just keep it very simple. “I want you to piss here,” he said, “just let go, Jude, c’mon,” and Jude set his feet and held his cock and pissed. The noise he made when it started coming — sharp, relieved — shot straight to Bruce’s own cock, and he couldn’t keep himself from doing what he’d ached to do for days — no, weeks; no, all his fucking life — and taking himself in his hand and stroking, hard, brutally, punishing. He came harder than he could ever remember coming, watching Jude piss, listening to the soft noises he made as the stream slowed and tapered off. His toes were still curled against the shower floor when Jude started jerking himself, and then Bruce’s controlling brain kicked into overdrive and he knocked Jude’s hand out of the way to finish him off, too. They kissed for a long time after, starving and wet and messy, until the water had gone frigid. They huddled up together under their blanket on Jude’s mattress and kissed until they fell asleep. Bruce woke in the morning with his fingers in Jude’s hair, his mouth on his neck. Something felt loosened between them, open and soft and free. “I enjoyed last night,” Jude said. “Did you?” “Yes,” Bruce said. He ducked his head and kissed Jude’s knuckles so he wouldn’t have to look at his face and embarrass himself by crying. “Yeah, I did.” Jude smiled at him. He touched the corner of Bruce’s mouth. “‘m glad, champion,” he whispered. -- Gradually they started working out what Bruce liked. His vaguely formed desires from childhood spilled over and found words. They played around with it and fucked around and Bruce discovered what he wanted Jude to say and what he didn’t, and what he wanted Jude to do and what he didn’t. They incorporated it a little into Jude’s fantasies, usually where Jude would end up pissing himself because Bruce hit him really hard when he had a full bladder. They never actually did anything with Jude pissing in reality — Bruce had no idea how to go about getting it started, and Jude was still letting Bruce control this entirely. But the fantasies were more than enough. Jude was excellent at pretending. Bruce even managed to admit — shaking, ashamed — the thing about his parents. Jude didn’t say anything, never brought it up again. But he also didn’t leave. He didn’t leave and he touched Bruce after he’d told him, stroking his arm, kissing his neck. ‘I love you,’ he said, quietly, pressing their foreheads together. ‘I mean it. I love you.’ And Bruce discovered — he was allowed to relax. He was allowed to want this. When Jude came into Bruce’s room at the penthouse early in the afternoon nearly a month after the first incident in the shower, Bruce was working on filing some reports for the Enterprises. Jude had been out all day establishing connections because Bruce had a lot of work to do before the weekend. They were planning on holing themselves up in the penthouse until Monday morning, fucking and playing video games and listening to music and working out and driving Alfred crazy. Jude hadn’t been due to come in for another hour, though, and Bruce wasn’t quite finished with his paperwork. “Hey, sweetheart,” Bruce said, without looking up from his desk. “Sorry, you’re a little early; I’m not quite done — ” “Oh, take your time,” Jude said. His voice was odd, a little bit strained, and Bruce glanced over momentarily — and then looked again. Jude was standing with a half-empty water bottle in his hand. His smile was as strained as his voice and Bruce could see that he was pressing his thighs together. He didn’t realize his mouth had fallen open until he felt his throat drying out. He swallowed, hard; hands trembling against the paperwork, he said, “How, uh — I mean, what — ” “I’ve already had three bottles,” Jude said. “This is my fourth. I’ve — oh, fuck — ” he crossed his legs despite he was standing and Bruce’s brain turned into white noise — “I’ve been spacing them out over the day, but it’s really starting to hit me now and I — ” He took a long swallow from the bottle, then doubled up on himself. His hand flew to cover his cock. “I need to piss, Wayne.” Bruce’s mouth was completely dry, even though he’d shut it. Jude wasn’t quite able to stand still; he was shifting his weight constantly from foot to foot, squeezing his thighs together, pushing one knee up over the other. His hand was shaking where he was holding the bottle. He’d wedged the other hand between his legs and was gripping himself, hard. “I need the bathroom, honey, please,” Jude said, and Bruce’s whole body came back online in a sudden rush. His cock twitched in his pants. He looked down at his paperwork. Then back up to Jude. Slowly, he said, “You’re gonna have to wait. I’m sorry. I’m in the middle of something and I can’t cater to you.” Panic flared across Jude’s face. “Oh — ” He squeezed his cock and crossed his legs over his hand for a moment. “Wayne, c’mon — ” “You can wait,” Bruce said, feigning indifference — or anyway trying to. But his whole body was a mess of emotions and aching and he could hear the tremor in his voice as he forced himself to turn away and shuffle his papers up. He couldn’t even see the writing on them he was shaking so hard, every inch of his body focused towards Jude, jaw clenching tighter and tighter. He heard shuffling noises and water sloshing and looked up again to see Jude downing the rest of his bottle, still hunched up. He dropped the bottle on the floor and dragged his fist down his thigh. “I have to go,” he said. “Wayne, please, I — it’s an emergency, please, I can’t — fuck, I can’t wait — ” “You shouldn’t have drank that last bit of water then, huh,” Bruce said. His voice sounded overloud in his own ears. “You fucking idiot.” “I’m sorry, I — I wasn’t thinking, honey…” Jude was wearing his suit trousers since he’d been out all day and he reached under his shirt to unsnap the button. Bruce caught a flash of how bloated he was and the arousal rushed over him in a stunning overheated wave. His fingers — coated in greasepaint — curled around his cock again. He pressed his thighs together. Shifted. “Please… please let me into the bathroom…” “I said I’m busy,” Bruce repeated, though he couldn’t even look down at his papers. He couldn’t tear his eyes off Jude, standing there, shifting, squirming, moaning softly and chewing his lower lip and glancing again and again at the bathroom door. Four fucking bottles of water. Bruce could hardly believe — when it was over he’d have to ask Jude how long he’d planned this. And how excited he must’ve been to know this was the date when he’d do it, when he’d surprise Bruce with it. Underneath the arousal and the game Bruce felt love so sudden and so strong he was nearly bowled over. He licked his mouth and looked at Jude and let his mask slip from his eyes long enough for Jude to see it. And Jude must have seen it because he relaxed his face enough to show the same. His lips twitched up at the corners. Then he winced, and gasped, plunging his hands deeper between his thighs. “Fuck,” he breathed, “fuck, Wayne, I — it’s coming out, please, oh — ” Bruce could tell he was curling his toes inside his shoes. He forced his mouth into a thin line. He forced himself to turn away. “You’re a grown man,” he said, voice trembling again. “If you can’t wait to use the bathroom — ” “I really, really can’t,” Jude moaned, “please just — I need to get in there, I need to get in there so badly, I need to get to the toilet, I’m gonna, fuck, I’m gonna piss myself, honey, I’m — ” he exhaled sharply, and Bruce glanced over again in time to see a dark spot appear at Jude’s crotch. He stared at it. Jude stared at it. He licked at his scars. “I leaked,” he whimpered. “I’m sorry, I leaked, I’m having an accident — ” “For fuck’s sake,” Bruce said. “Please just — fuck, I drank so much, I drank too much, I know, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking about what I was doing, it’s just — fuck, it’s so much, two whole liters, oh, fuck, oh no — ” The dark spot grew on his trousers. He whined low in his throat, squeezing his legs together tighter. He was panting like a fucking animal. Bruce was fully hard. He was afraid to touch himself; even through his pants he thought he might come. Slowly he stood; he walked around the couch and over to where Jude was standing. Jude’s eyes darted up to him and he licked his mouth again, frantic. He was gripping himself and squirming. “I’m leaking, I’m — oh, I’m gonna have an accident, I’m gonna go to the bathroom in my pants, please, please help, please let me — ” Bruce reached in and touched Jude’s bladder. It was swollen and rock hard and Jude gasped out. He leaked again; Bruce saw the piss spread out past his hands and run halfway down one thigh. “It hurts so much, I can’t make it — ” “I don’t care.” “I can’t fucking move, Wayne, honey — ” “I don’t care.” Jude was still squirming. “I can’t hold it,” he moaned, and Bruce had to press the heel of his hand against his crotch. He gritted his teeth. Fuck. “You’re gonna piss yourself,” Bruce said. “Right here.” “I really am, please — there’s too much, it’s coming out — ” He started pissing harder; it ran down the rest of his thigh and spilled out onto the floor. His crotch was dark and shining and every few seconds Bruce could see the fabric getting rewetted. Jude was still gripping himself hard and crossing his legs and squirming and when Bruce walked behind him and wrapped his hands around his middle Jude gasped: “Oh, don’t do that, oh, please, I’m pissing myself, I’m having an accident in my pants — honey please I need the bathroom so bad I can’t hold it, oh, fuck, fuck, I can’t hold it — ” He was sobbing. Bruce couldn’t tell if it was affected or not, but it didn’t matter. He slid his hand down Jude’s stomach over Jude’s own hand. He laced their fingers together over his soaked crotch. “Let go,” Bruce whispered in his ear. “It’s too late, just let go,” and Jude whimpered. His whole body shivered before going limp; he slumped backwards into Bruce’s arms and started pissing full force into his pants, moaning softly at the feeling of it. Bruce could feel it coming out onto his hand, heard the hiss as it ran down Jude’s thighs and onto the floor. He pissed for well over a minute, maybe two minutes. Every so often Bruce thought he was slowing down but then a fresh burst of it would come out and Jude would whine and squirm and whimper, “I’m sorry, oh, honey, I’m still having an accident, there’s more, I’m so sorry, I just couldn’t hold it,” and Bruce would kiss his neck, stroke his hair, and tell him, “It’s all right, sweetheart. I’ve got you. It’s okay.” Eventually the stream tapered off. Little spurts came out for a while and then Jude groaned, turned, and slid his filthy hands into Bruce’s hair. He kissed him savagely; Bruce tasted blood, and fisted his hand in Jude’s shirt, pulling him even closer. He dragged their crotches together, feeling the heavy soaked fabric of Jude’s trousers against his own. Fuck, he was so close to coming. He was trembling, gasping into Jude’s open mouth. Jude licked Bruce’s tongue, and suddenly Bruce couldn’t wait. He shoved his own pants down, grabbed his cock. He was so hard it hurt to touch himself but it took just a few shuddering frantic rough pulls and then the heat spiraled down his spine and coiled in his stomach and he was coming, so hard he staggered against Jude, pushing them both towards the wall. His mouth went slack from the force of it and he closed his eyes and pressed his face into Jude’s neck, fucking his fist, biting Jude’s skin. Jude held onto him the whole time, riding him through it. Eventually when the aftershocks subsided Bruce became aware that Jude was humming to him, softly, pressing his mouth to Bruce’s temple, and that Bruce was crying. Jude was swaying them back and forth like he’d done in his shower and he reached up and wiped the tears off Bruce’s cheek. He smiled at him. He had such a beautiful smile. “Thank you,” Bruce whispered. He didn’t have the strength to talk any louder than that. “Thank you, sweetheart.” He reached up, too, and touched Jude’s scars. Jude closed his eyes, leaned into Bruce’s hand. “I love you,” Bruce said, “I love you so much.” “I love you too, honey,” Jude said. He turned his face a little so he could kiss Bruce’s palm. For a while they were quiet, just standing there, breathing together. Eventually Jude pushed away from the wall enough he could tug his pants off, and his shirt, the hem of which was also soaked. Bruce could see where his bladder was still swollen. As he stripped off his own clothes Jude glanced down too. His mouth twitched. “‘m gonna need to go again soon, honey,” he said. “It’s already getting kinda bad.” “Oh, don’t worry,” Bruce said, smiling too. He curled their fingers together and started for the bathroom. “I’m sure you can wait.”
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