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"Batman and Robin vanquish their enemies again!" Damian declares beside him, a happy twist to his lips as he pumps a fist in the air.
Bruce smiles back, dragging his towel over his hair. "Heh."
Damian turns into his room to collapse into bed, huffing out "The end," while he drags his pillow under his head.
Bruce leans against the doorframe. Eyes following the slump of his body, lit by the late sun. Bruce can't resist the allure of Damian's damp hair and flushed skin, the boy crumpled on his bed in his pajamas.
It's easy to sit astride Damian's legs—getting longer with every year that crawls by— and find his thumbs hooking down at the boy's waistband.
Damian tries to lift his hips, a faltering motion of putting pressure on his knees, but it doesn't matter much. The waistband is left at the crease of powerful thighs, bare ass soft and free to touch.
Bruce does, dragging his fingertips over the skin, pressing indents into the fat as he skims down the curve.
Damian makes a small noise, out with the gusty sigh his touch invites. Bruce trails his fingers up the boy's side and over his shoulder, a prompt in itself that Damian registers well enough. Bruce's fingers sink into his open mouth, warm, like a wet wound.
Bruce's underwear feels tight, his sweats bulging from his cock. His son sucks leisurely at the digits, tongue slicking over the ridges of his knuckles. They could adjust positions to make this easier, but Damian seems pleased with it; he's relaxed for once, exhausted from the recent hard work, free to rest and feel clean while Bruce makes them both feel good.
Damian's trust is a tad addicting. Bruce isn't the best at substantiating it, but he's been trying. It must be working if Damian lets him have him like this.
Bruce's voice is light as he says, "The end? Is that all?"
"Mmmh," Damian gurgles around his fingers as they reach toward the back of his throat. No gag reflex, unless he triggers it on his own.
He drags his fingers down the broad spread of his tongue as he pulls them free from closed lips, relishing the ragged gasp as spit drips down his chin.
"Didn't peg you as one for h– happy endings, father," Damian rasps. Bruce lowers his hand and pushes a digit into his hole, easing his way inside.
There's hardly any resistance, on the second, soft hole clutching up around his fingers every time they pull back. He crooks them to dig into the spot he's steadily becoming more familiar with, and Damian groans his sleepy approval. His hips twitch forward, to try and drag his small cock against the bed, and Bruce pushes down his chuckle.
"Good to know," Bruce says, stretching him open, "that I can still surprise you."
There's a rise of a whine, before Damian is twisting his neck to glance at him over his shoulder, eyes lidded and a bit wet. Lips flushed and bitten, fringe curling away from his forehead.
Removing his hand from Damian's thigh, he squeezes his own cock while working his boy open. Another time he'll have to see if he can get tears to well up enough to spill across his cheeks, maybe during getting his ass spanked red from Bruce's palms. He reacts on such a hair trigger when Bruce is giving it to him this way; maybe he knows what it does to his father, or maybe Damian can still surprise Bruce as much as he does to his son.
His fingers slip out of Damian's hole and he fishes his cock out from his pants, heavy and hot in his hand. He braces his hand to the bed, anchoring himself, and feeds the head of his cock slowly into the boy's body.
Damian tenses slightly, partly clutching at the sheets. His ass gets tight, tight, for a hot second, and Bruce grunts through it. His hand pivots to the small of Damian's back, pushing his stomach to the surface of the bed.
"Faaa," Damian exhales, sprawling outwardly again. His ass pushes back into the smooth glide of Bruce's cock disappearing deep inside. He rocks inside him for a moment, enjoying the easy warmth wrapped around him.
Bruce's palm leans hard into Damian's spine, and drags upward, to curl around the base of his neck. Shoving his face into the pillow. Damian's back arches, one leg curling up helplessly. Bruce breathes harshly through his mouth, hips rolling an effective rhythm.
Sweat tingles at Bruce's shoulderblades and back of his neck, watching a long shudder wrack his boy's body. He wonders absentmindedly what the point of the shower was, if he was going to pump another mess inside him anyway, but there's not much he can do—A muffled pant into the pillow urges Bruce to go, "Harder, father...!"
So he does.