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Thomas watches as Bruce grins across the ballroom, a laugh escaping him at something the man in front of him has said. The man, in response, reaches out to touch Bruce's upper-arm, squeezing gently in what could be an innocent, companionable gesture but really isn't.
The touch makes Thomas' eyes narrow, his attention solely on that focal point, on the way Bruce doesn't shrug the man off. Doesn't even seem to consider it, not a single sign of discomfort in sight. If anything his smile seems to grow, his head tilting slightly back and to the side to expose the arch of his neck.
It takes Thomas a moment to realize he's baring his teeth, and then he quickly schools his expression, glancing around to see if anyone noticed his lapse in control. But the partygoers seem unaware, too focused on their own enjoyment rather than the darkness their host briefly showed. Certainly not looking for it in him, either.
Because Thomas is the picture perfect definition of the Gotham elite. He is handsome and intelligent and filled with class. He is generous with charities and vicious in business and everyone here respects him if not actually likes him (namely, the business 'partners' he has dominated without remorse). None of them have a clue about what Thomas really is, that he doesn't only control Gotham as Thomas Wayne Jr. but also as the fearsome Owlman.
Only two people know that secret. First his loyal servant Alfred, the man who helped him murder his parents, who continues to support all of Thomas' endeavors as he takes over Gotham piece by piece. And the second, of course, is Bruce.
Thomas' baby brother, the one shining light in his life. The one bright spot he allowed to continue existing when he could have so easily snuffed it out. He killed Thomas Sr. and Martha, killed the two tutors employed to teach him, killed the nanny intended to watch him—but not Bruce. He chose to let Bruce live.
He doesn't know why. The boy was weak, unable to lift a finger to help Thomas kill their parents when Thomas told him to. Bruce was a sniveling child, practically ordinary, and there was nothing that should've prolonged his life once it was made clear that he really wasn't like Thomas, that he had nothing to offer the world Thomas wanted to build.
But still, Thomas didn't kill him. There was something that stayed his hand, that has stayed his hand for the nine years since. And that something has only grown with every passing month, grown with every moment that it's just him and Bruce, him and Bruce against the entire world. Bruce's more gentle soul has become something to covet and protect, instead of destroyed. All of Bruce has become something to covet and protect.
(From the world, at least. Thomas still struggles with protecting Bruce from Thomas himself.)
At the end of the day, Bruce is the only person in the entire universe that Thomas loves, the person Thomas chose to remain by his side. Which means that Bruce is his, and shouldn't be slutting around with random men at a gala when his place is at Thomas' side.
Thomas draws in a slow breath through his nose, and releases it on the same even count. He does it again when just the once fails to calm him, and then again and again until he feels more centered. Until he feels less like striding across the ballroom and murdering one of his peers in a very, very public place. That would be rather challenging to sweep under the rug.
Well, he could always just kill everyone in the ballroom...
Inside his head, he tuts at himself, rolling his eyes at his own ridiculousness. Honestly; considering murdering hundreds of people? That might be a favorite pastime of his but he can't let it get as real as it was just a moment ago, because if killing one rich person would be hard to cover up, killing hundreds of them would be entirely impossible.
Or a fun challenge—
"Possessive fool," he mutters under his breath, taking a sip from his champagne glass to cover it. He forces himself to turn away from the sight of Bruce and that man, trying to settle back into his person-suit instead of the monster lurking just beneath the surface. He makes his way over to a group of fawning sycophants and strikes up a conversation, falling into the familiar patterns of speaking with the ever so boring Gotham upperclass.
But only half his attention is on it, no matter how hard he tries to focus on Daphne Granger's dull story about picking her dress for the gala tonight. His mind keeps returning to Bruce's smile, to the sight of that large hand on his brother's arm, the claim the man felt entitled to doing, as if he had any right to so much as look at Bruce, let alone actually touch him.
Bruce has grown up so much from the trembling eight-year-old boy he was when Thomas killed their mom and dad in that alley. Bruce has certainly inherited the attractive Wayne genes, but where Thomas is a near perfect mirror of their father, all of Bruce's Wayne features are softened with the influence of Martha, more of a mix of the pair of them than Thomas ever has been.
He's beautiful, really. He always had the potential for it as a child, but now, at seventeen, he's fully come into his looks. And despite how Thomas wishes no one else could see it, he's certainly not the only one who's noticed. Bruce has many, many admirers, and Thomas despises it.
It's a strange feeling, that possessiveness. Because on the one hand, Thomas believes with his entire being that Bruce is worthy of all the attention in the world. That Bruce is perfect, and the idea of anyone not loving him, wanting him, praising him, is just preposterous. Everyone in the fucking universe should understand that Bruce is the best of them. They should give him a fucking crown, because he deserves it.
But also...but also, he belongs to Thomas.
Bruce has been his from the first day his mother placed that newborn baby in his arms, his since the moment Thomas looked down at him sprawled on the ground of the alley and offered him his hand instead of a blade to the heart. No one else gets to have Bruce, no one deserves him, and Thomas will kill anyone who tries to take him.
Because Thomas is selfish and greedy and he doesn't care that Bruce is the one person he actually thinks deserves all the attention he receives. He doesn't care that Bruce deserves anything he wants, even if that's a hand on his arm from a man twice his age at a gala. He doesn't. Fucking. Care. The boy belongs to him. It's a fact of the universe.
Rage is beginning to simmer beneath the surface, crawling under his skin, an itch he can't make go away. Because Bruce knows he belongs to Thomas, just as much as Thomas knows it. So what Bruce is doing tonight, letting someone else touch him, turning that beautiful smile on someone else—
He fucking knows better. He fucking knows better. And if somehow he's forgotten, or thinks Thomas is less serious than he is—well, then clearly Thomas needs to give him a reminder.
It only takes five more seconds before Thomas can't take it anymore. He excuses himself from the conversation, not even able to care about the fact that he interrupted whoever was speaking mid-sentence, unable to care about their surprise at his sudden lack of manners. Later he'll smooth it over with them and they won't even remember at all, but for now he has more important matters at hand.
Thomas' eyes scan the ballroom as he searches for his brother, and his shoulders square when he spots Bruce. The boy is currently over by the bar, leaning against it as he talks to the bartender. The drink in his hand looks like soda, but considering how charmed the bartender looks Thomas wouldn't be surprised if a little alcohol had been snuck in the glass at Bruce's urging. If so, the woman will be out of a job before she can blink.
Thomas strides across the room, effortlessly weaving between people and avoiding the ones who attempt to strike up a conversation with him. He has eyes only for Bruce, none of the rest of them even a fleeting thought as he closes the distance between him and his brother.
Bruce becomes aware of him when Thomas is within fifteen feet of him, and turns to Thomas with a smile, body language unfolding like a flower. It's so very different from the way he was acting with the bartender, and the man earlier, and satisfaction thrums under Thomas' skin.
It's quickly drowned out by the rage still burning inside him, and Bruce's smile falters at whatever he must see in Thomas' expression.
Out of everyone in the world, Bruce has always been able to read him best. He never fell for any of Thomas' masks, never was fooled like the rest of the populous. While Thomas looks perfectly at ease to everyone else at the gala right now, Bruce sees the truth. He might not understand it, but he always sees.
It's another thing that makes him so very precious to Thomas. Another thing that fuels his possessive anger, upset that Bruce could flirt with anyone with a pulse when he has Thomas at his side, when they are so connected. It's a disgrace, and he needs to be punished for it.
"Hey," Bruce greets once Thomas reaches him. His tone is perfectly congenial, but his eyes are hesitant, wary. Smart boy. He should be wary. "What's up?"
"Come with me," Thomas says, and though his own voice is perfectly friendly, though it conveys a note of request, they both know it's not. They both know it's a demand, and Bruce will comply.
Bruce nods mutely, and follows much the same way when Thomas turns away, heading for the door that will lead deeper into the Manor. He doesn't say a word, and neither does Bruce, the world around them dead silence as Thomas leads the way to his bedroom.
Once inside, once he's heard Bruce shut the door behind them, he takes his time, not yet acknowledging the teenager. He loosens his tie as he heads over to the small wet bar in the corner, undoing the top button with one hand as the other pours a moderate helping of amber liquid into a waiting glass.
After what he deems is a long enough period, during which his monster climbs higher and higher under his skin, moving past the polite façade he puts on for the masses, he finally turns around to face Bruce.
The boy is leaning against the door, arms folded over his chest. He, too, has dropped the persona meant for the public, body language tense and stronger than what he'll show anyone who isn't Thomas or Alfred. His eyes, still so blue and sweet and trusting despite everything, despite what he knows is coming, are locked on Thomas, nervous but still firm.
His perfect boy. So irrationally sweet and gentle, and yet still with a backbone of steel. Thomas wouldn't have him any other way.
"Your behavior tonight was abhorrent," Thomas says flatly, and Bruce's face twists with offense.
"Excuse me? I didn't do anything—"
"Be quiet," Thomas snaps, and Bruce falls silent immediately, wariness rising in him once more, easily shattering the momentary brattiness. "Did you think you were subtle, Bruce? No, your open affections were obvious and disgraceful."
Once more, Bruce's face twists, this time with shock. "Thomas, what are you—what do you mean? I wasn't..."
"All the touching," Thomas says lowly, beginning to stalk forward, closing the distance between them. Bruce gets even more tense. "Giving yourself away like a pathetic little whore. Did you enjoy it, Bruce? Letting that man touch you? Laughing at his jokes, smiling like you wouldn't rather be anywhere else? Did you enjoy knowing that he was thinking about getting you on your knees? Hell, I took my eyes off you for a little while—maybe he did get to experience what your mouth is like."
Bruce looks unsettled when Thomas stops in front of him, their chests brushing against each other, Bruce pinned between Thomas and the door. Thomas has to look down to meet the boy's eyes, and he enjoys the way Bruce's throat bobs nervously. Thomas is simply so much bigger than Bruce, all his training as Owlman and some of his father's genetics working together to provide him quite a bit of size. Bruce, meanwhile, is smaller both because of age and a different physical lifestyle than Thomas, a far less demanding one.
Thomas has always enjoyed that, towering over Bruce. He likes being able to surround the boy without any effort, easily pinning him against the door without even really doing anything, just standing in front of him. Nowhere for Bruce to go, even if he wanted to. Not that he'll ever try—Bruce knows better.
"I wasn't," Bruce says softly, shoulders curling inward slightly. "Thomas, I promise, I wasn't trying to...I didn't want that. Not from anybody. I was just talking, I swear. I didn't mean to...give that impression."
"You know better, Bruce," Thomas murmurs. He lifts his free hand, trailing his fingers down Bruce's cheek and neck before settling his broad palm between the boy's collarbones, fingers extending to curve around the front of Bruce's throat. Bruce shivers.
"You know better," Thomas repeats, tone harder. "Intentionally flirting or not, you know how you're supposed to behave. You know what other people shouldn't be allowed to do to you. You know you're mine."
Bruce's eyes lower and he nods mutely. His arms unfold from their position across his chest, brushing Thomas' own as he allows them to drop down to hang at his sides. Open and accepting, like the loyal little boy he is. Complying with the punishment he knows is coming.
Thomas leans back, then steps away completely, taking a long sip of his drink as he looks Bruce over. Then he says, "Strip and bend over the edge of the bed on your stomach."
Again, Bruce simply nods, and then begins following the instruction. He starts with his tie, then button by button he removes his shirt, his pants soon following. Thomas doesn't try to pretend he isn't watching with burning intensity, his mind filled with a constant repeat of mine, mine, mine as Bruce reveals more and more of his body.
Once he's completely stripped down, Bruce pads silently across the room, showing no shame for his nudity or actions as he lowers himself over Thomas' bed, feet planted on the floor and stomach against the comforter. He folds his arms under his head, resting his cheek on them and turning those pretty blue eyes on Thomas, waiting and ready and his, his, his...
Thomas walks over to his chest, opening the heavy lid and then letting his fingers trail over the contents of it, debating on what he wants before selecting a few items. He carries them over to the bed, and places them by Bruce's hip out of the boy's line of sight.
Then, for a moment, he simply admires the sight laid out before him. Bruce's raised, pert ass, the curve of his spine, the way his legs are already obediently spread slightly apart, the appealing curl of his hair against his forehead as he watches Thomas out of the corner of his eye.
Thomas smiles at him, but he knows it isn't a comforting expression. He knows it's hungry and dark and everything Bruce has come to expect from him, all the things that no one else will ever be worthy of seeing in full.
Just like no one will ever be worthy of having Bruce like this, laid out like a buffet, pliant for whatever Thomas decides to do to him. Beautiful. Perfect. And his his his his his!
After a moment's debate, Thomas first picks up the cock ring from the small pile of items he grabbed from the chest. He reaches down between the edge of the bed and Bruce's front, and slides the ring over Bruce's soft cock, settling it firmly in place before pulling his hand free. Bruce grimaces at the sensation, but smartly doesn't protest.
Next, Thomas grabs the roll of black rope. He moves forward, kneeling on the bed, and pulls Bruce's arms out from under his head, extending them fully so they rest straight against the comforter above Bruce's head. Bruce doesn't try to watch or move at all as Thomas binds his wrists together, instead settling his cheek against the comforter and releasing a slow breath.
Thomas shifts backward to instead sit on the edge of the bed, curling one leg up while the other hangs over the edge so he can face Bruce. He runs his hand softly over the swell of the boy's ass, kneading almost gently at the flesh, playing with Bruce's cheeks like they're simply something for Thomas to enjoy and not actually a feature of Bruce's. No, this belongs to Thomas just like the rest of his brother. His to do with as he pleases.
And oh, so much of it certainly does please him.
When he grows bored of the teasing, he lets his hand slide away until he's not touching Bruce at all. He remains still for a little while, leaving Bruce in silence, the boy's face looking the opposite direction and thus having no way to tell what's coming, what Thomas is doing in the silence of the room.
Once Bruce has started to fidget—minutely, of course, because the boy certainly knows better than to move—Thomas allows himself a small smile, and then he begins.
The smack of his palm against Bruce's ass echoes through the room, and brings with it a yelp from the teen, flinching against the bed. His extended arms jerk like they want to curl back downward, but, like the good boy he is, Bruce halts the motion, keeping them straight the way Thomas put them, the boy perfectly understanding the unsaid command.
Thomas brings his hand down again, layering it directly over the area of the last hit, lighting up the already tingling nerves once more. He does it a third, fourth, and fifth time for good measure, greatly enjoying the way the flesh reddens under the abuse, the way Bruce is twitching against the bed, the sweet little shouts that escape him with each hit.
Satisfied with that, Thomas moves over to the other cheek, gracing it with the same rough treatment, spanking the teen again and again, only barely holding back his strength. He wants Bruce to feel this every time he moves, wants his ass to light up every time he has to sit down. So he's reminded over and over and over of who he belongs to.
"Guh," Bruce wheezes inarticulately when Thomas shifts his hand to smack over the boy's hole, his back curving as his body shakes. Thomas doesn't give him the time to collect himself, bringing his hand down with rapid fire strikes. He watches with fascination as Bruce's asshole flutters, clenching as it struggles to react to such a unique sensation.
Thomas' palm is beginning to sting slightly, but he doesn't stop, covering Bruce's entire ass with firm smacks, eyes hooded as the flesh darkens before his very eyes. Bruce will carry his marks for a while to come, and Thomas is going to delight in seeing the bruises that will soon rise to the surface.
He's hard as a rock in his slacks, drunk on the whines and yelps and whimpers that spill neverendingly out of Bruce's mouth. The boy is writhing over the bed as he struggles to keep himself in place despite the onslaught, to not incur more punishment by moving too much.
But he needn't worry; Thomas is enjoying his weak, involuntary squirming, how helpless he is, how he is submitting to Thomas' whims without a single protest. He'll be begging soon enough, Thomas knows, but the word 'stop' will never once cross his tongue. Not ever. Not with Thomas.
Thomas finally stops spanking him, but immediately reaches for the last item he grabbed from the chest, lips quirking with amusement when he sees that Bruce has slumped against the bed with something like relief. Tremors run up and down his spine, and Thomas delights in the knowledge that his boy is about to be blindsided.
He winds his arm back, letting it pause in the air for one long moment, and then he swings it forward, slamming the paddle against the red skin of Bruce's ass with a resounding slap.
And Bruce wails, thrashing in place, head tossing as the pain in his ass reaches new heights, the solid, leather-covered wooden paddle providing no reprieve, only heightening everything to new levels.
Thomas keeps going, bringing the paddle forcefully down on the on-fire ass again and again, not even stopping when his arm begins to feel tired, enjoying it all too much to bring it to an end just yet.
Bruce is sobbing against the bed, shouting with each strike, voice breaking again and again. But still he doesn't try to escape, doesn't fight, doesn't even lower his arms despite the fact that they aren't secured in place. He just...takes it, and Thomas' desire is more powerful than anyone will ever understand.
"Please," Bruce finally keens, after far longer than Thomas knows most would. His perfect, strong boy. "Please, please, please."
Thomas hits him again and again. Bruce's pleas blur together, a constant stream, the boy babbling near incoherently as Thomas tortures his ass. His heart pounds in time with those beautiful little words coming out of the teen, heady on the power, entire body alight. This is where Bruce is meant to be. His, his, his.
When—and only when—Thomas is damn good and ready, unresponsive to the boy's desperate words, he finally stops. He tosses the paddle back onto the bed, and listens with what might be slightly cruel amusement as Bruce sucks down rough lungfuls of air, whining on each breath, sounding desperate and needy and vulnerable and just perfect.
Thomas climbs fully onto the bed, shuffling forward on his knees until he's positioned in front of his little brother. He takes the boy's chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilts his head upward, smiling when he sees his face.
Bruce is a wreck, face bright red and streaked with tears. His lips are wet and plump like he's been biting at them, and there's a wildness to his eyes that Thomas thoroughly enjoys.
He swipes a thumb gently over Bruce's cheek, wiping away a falling tear. Bruce's cries begin to quiet just a tad, breaths hiccupping as he focuses intently on Thomas' face.
"Are you hard, Bruce?" Thomas asks, voice soft but not the slightest bit kind. No, he's far too amped up to be anything near kindness.
Bruce whimpers, wet eyelashes fluttering, and gives a weak nod. It makes Thomas' smile widen, a sharp flash of teeth.
"Good," he says, continuing to rub his thumb slowly back and forth over Bruce's cheek. "But you don't get to come tonight, little brother. Sluts take their punishments without release, isn't that right?"
New tears fall from the corners of Bruce's eyes, but he nods his agreement nonetheless, despite the misery in the press of his lips.
Thomas removes his hand from the boy's cheek, continuing to hold his head up as he reaches for his belt. He undoes it quickly, shucking down his slacks and underwear only far enough to be able to pull his cock out. He gives himself a few strokes, and Bruce gives a full-bodied shudder before letting his jaw drop down without having to be asked.
"Good boy," Thomas says hungrily, and then pushes into the boy's mouth, fucking deep and hard immediately, pushing all the way into Bruce's throat. He groans with pleasure, ignoring the way Bruce chokes and twitches, more tears falling. Thomas' head tips back as he basks in the sensation of the warm, wet, tight grip of his boy's throat around his cock, his smile taking on a feral edge as he feels it clench around him as Bruce swallows like the good little cocksucker he is.
He gives a few slow thrusts, dragging in and out of Bruce's mouth almost leisurely. He pulls out completely, sliding the head of his cock over Bruce's lips and coating them in pre-cum, then slaps his cock against the boy's cheek. Bruce whines at that, eyes bright, and Thomas is chuckling as he pushes back into the waiting hole.
From there, Thomas fucks in the way he wants to, snapping his hips roughly again and again, grunts and groans escaping him as he uses his little brother's mouth and throat for his own pleasure. Drool spills from Bruce's mouth, making him even more of a mess than he already was, and Thomas holds his head firmly in place so he can fuck in and out with a fast, hard pace, enjoying Bruce's body like he's nothing more than a cocksleeve.
Bruce is so much more than that, means so much more than that to Thomas, but he's also this. He belongs to Thomas, and that means he is Thomas' cocksleeve if Thomas decides to use him that way. Bruce is everything to him and everything for him, and neither of those things will ever change.
When Thomas feels his orgasm approaching, he pulls out fully, wrapping a hand around his cock to jerk himself off. His eyes are fixed on his wrecked little brother until he comes, spilling his release all over the pretty little boy's face. He strokes himself through it, arousal burning inside of him as he watches his cum splash against Bruce's cheeks, nose, forehead, mouth, chin—claiming him in the most satisfying and base way possible.
Once his orgasm has passed, the last of it rocking through him, he lets go of Bruce's head. He can't help but smirk a little when Bruce immediately collapses back to the bed, his entire body boneless, perfectly limp.
Thomas cards a hand through Bruce's sweat-damp hair, cooing softly when the boy shivers at his touch.
"That's my good boy," Thomas says on a soft breath. "And you've learned your lesson, haven't you? My perfect boy, you know what's right and wrong now. Don't you?"
Bruce nods minutely against the comforter, not having the strength to lift his head.
"Good," Thomas says, sated and victorious and so very satisfied, so very happy with his loyal little brother. All his, forever and always. "So very good."