(Young Justice) Molasses
Title: Molasses
Fandom: Young Justice Animated
Pairing: Red Arrow/Green Arrow
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1620
Timeline: Post-"Infiltrator", Season 1, Episode 6
Notes: For dcu_freeforall, prompt "brown".
Summary: Ollie's not there and Roy's all kinds of alone.
He shouldn’t be doing this. Shit, he shouldn’t be doing this, but he can’t help it. Barely kicking the door closed behind him before he’s pulling at his belt, fingers that are so sure and steady in battle suddenly clumsy and fumbling.
The belt does its best to resist him, and Roy would laugh if he wasn’t sure it would taste like blood in his throat. Tries to breathe, to think, and when that fails he settles for slamming his head back against the door. It creaks on its hinges, judders threateningly when he does it again, but the door holds and the belt buckle finally gives under his hands, so maybe the universe doesn’t hate him after all.
Maybe the universe is kind of fond of him, because there’s gotta be someone around to be the joke, the fall-guy. Someone who’s so fucked up that he makes everyone else look better by comparison. And anyone’s got to look better than Roy right now, with his eyes squeezed shut and his head pressed back into the door hard enough that he’s probably going to leave a dent, his hand scrabbling at his fly.
He shouldn’t be doing this, and he’d gotten so much better at remembering that. Remembering that there were things he wasn’t supposed to want, and things he wasn’t going to have, and remembering to bite his lip to keep any names from slipping through when he touched himself in the dark.
But his neighbours here don’t give a shit, so he can be as loud as he wants. He can scream the fucking roof down if he wants, but instead he only grunts when he pushes at his trousers, at his boxers, freed cock curving upward, thick and red. Wraps a hand around himself, hisses at the feeling of textured fabric, not painful but not exactly comfortable. Lifts his other arm, because letting go of his cock right now seems like an end-of-the-universe impossibility, and starts biting at the catches on the armoured bracers around his wrist and forearm.
He likes the new uniform. It’s his, not some half-assed mimicry or tribute to anyone else’s. But it turns out, it’s also a lot more complicated to take on and off, at least when he’s so angry and turned on he can’t even think straight.
Strips his arm, heavy fabric hitting the floor with a dull thud, half-glove following close behind, and then swaps hands, naked fingers hot around his cock, and groans. It sounds too loud, but he reminds himself that it doesn’t matter, even if he kind of hates hearing his own voice sounding like that, rough and needy.
This is Roy’s apartment, Roy’s new base of operations. The Shit Hole, he’s not-so proudly dubbed it, but it’s what he needs. Close to the action, surrounded by people who need saving in a way Roy isn’t capable of. Nobody looks twice at him here, and he has his secret entrances to the building (through the roof, through the basement, through the space between the drywall if he’s really desperate) but he could probably walk through the halls in full superhero garb and nobody would bat an eye. Everyone has their own problems, Roy doesn’t even register to them through the ocean of their own suffering.
Most importantly, Oliver Queen doesn’t live in the next room.
Roy grits his teeth and begins to stroke.
Of course Ollie would treat the dissolution of their partnership like a break-up. Like a fucking divorce. Because the only time anyone ever seems to be mad at Ollie is when he’s promised a woman the world and then all but forgotten her name a month later. And the worst part is that he’s never actually trying to hurt those women, because Ollie never means to hurt anyone, but he manages it anyway. He’s a whirlwind, and so many people are happy to let themselves get swept up in Ollie’s path but they can never hang on for long.
Nobody’s ever held on as long as Roy.
Squeezes himself a little too hard, then a lot too hard, letting the pleasure-pain veer too close to actual pain. Deep noise rattling in his throat, and then he’s panting through it, waiting for the fireworks stop bursting inside his skull. It’s a punishment, making himself hurt like that, because he’s not supposed to compare himself to all those women. One of the personal set of rules carved into his soul that let him live with Ollie and not go crazy, not just crawl completely out of his mind and do something that would ruin them forever.
But they’re already ruined, aren’t they, and Roy hasn’t compared himself to those women in years. Doesn’t want to start that again, but then he remembers Ollie’s face, the twitch of his beard, the stiff line of his jaw and the soft lines of his mouth.
The break-up face. The ‘wow, great to see you, how have you been, great to see you’ face.
The ‘you look good’ face.
Roy’s feet skid slightly over the floor, sliding down the door a little as his hips snap forward, press into his fist.
It’s all bullshit, Ollie’s so full of bullshit. His niece?! He must think they’re all stupid, must think Roy’s stupid, and he’s stroking himself again, quick and merciless. Trying to hold on to the anger, because it occupies his mind, keeps him safe. Protects him from all the images that have haunted him since he hit puberty, all the times he heard Ollie’s voice through the wall, laughing with his flavour-of-the-month girl, groaning for her.
And Roy doesn’t have to be quiet here, because Ollie won’t hear him, Ollie doesn’t know.
“Hate you,” Roy snarls at the air, and his hips are rocking up and up and his boots squeak faintly against the cheap tile.
Hates Ollie’s smile, the companionable hand on Roy’s shoulder, hates all the times he wanted to press into it, roll into it. Wanting to feel that palm sliding over his skin, huge hand, archer calluses, and the noise that’s trying to crawl up from Roy’s chest sounds too close to a sob. Learning to fight with a hard-on that wouldn’t quit, because the crooks in Star City didn’t exactly care that Roy was aching in his jock, wet and rubbing all wrong. And just because Ollie had that look on his face, that look that said the world didn’t get any better than when he was fighting crime, arrows flying, Roy right there by his side. That look that made Roy’s heart ache like somebody had punched into his chest and squeezed.
He’s being relentless with himself, Roy knows he is, stripping away every last shred of control he has because there’s nobody here to see him like this. Nobody to see him vulnerable, because Roy’s never been good at letting people see him like that, even Ollie. But he feels it now, and the noises he’s making don’t sound angry enough for him any more, hurt little gasps and whimpers. And he hates Ollie and Roy’s fingers are slick with how much he needs this, and he isn’t going to last. Twisting his hand, letting all those rougher patches from years of holding a bow hit him just right.
And it’s so fucking easy to imagine it, to see Ollie in the shadows in front of him, to feel Ollie’s whiskey warm breath on his face. Hear Ollie’s laughter, but it doesn’t have to be cruel, Roy’s mind won’t let it be cruel. Instead it’s pleased, amused and curious and dirty, and Ollie’s fingers are so sure as they reach out for him.
Smiling at him. The dark smile. The other ‘you look good’ face.
And Roy’s arching, head and shoulders pressed against the door, and he chokes on the name trying to force it’s way past his lips, lets it be a shaky moan instead. Eyes squeezed shut but Ollie’s still there in his mind as Roy groans and shudders, fingers of his free hand clawing at the wood. Crying out when it hits him, sharp stab deep in his belly as he breaks, gives in, painting his fist and his uniform with his release. Hand still moving like it isn’t his own, because in his mind it isn’t, and strong fingers milk him of everything he has until he’s gasping, twisting away, too sensitive for the touch. Letting the door hold him up as much as his legs, and the backs of his eyelids glowing red.
And that’s what it all comes back to. Red, the colour of his desire, flushed and sweating and trembling through the aftershocks. The colour of his uniform, the colour of his arrows, and the colour of his shame, and Roy sighs and lets his legs fold beneath him, sinking slowly to the floor.
In his mind, Ollie’s still laughing, the soft chuckle of an adult faced with a child who still doesn’t know his place in the world.
His red and Ollie’s green. Together, they should be this perfect mix, should be like fucking Christmas. Except somewhere along the road, they got too mixed up, all warped, blended until their colours lost their shine.
And now there’s just the murky brown smear where they used to exist, where they used to glow.
Brown as mud, as cold coffee, bitter and foul. Shitty stain in their now shitty relationship, and Roy looks around at his shitty apartment that’s his, all his, and tries to sneer. Feels it wobble on his face, anger drained out of him leaving this hollow, dull ache, and for a moment, just a moment, Roy lets himself feel young and lost.
Fandom: Young Justice Animated
Pairing: Red Arrow/Green Arrow
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1620
Timeline: Post-"Infiltrator", Season 1, Episode 6
Notes: For dcu_freeforall, prompt "brown".
Summary: Ollie's not there and Roy's all kinds of alone.
He shouldn’t be doing this. Shit, he shouldn’t be doing this, but he can’t help it. Barely kicking the door closed behind him before he’s pulling at his belt, fingers that are so sure and steady in battle suddenly clumsy and fumbling.
The belt does its best to resist him, and Roy would laugh if he wasn’t sure it would taste like blood in his throat. Tries to breathe, to think, and when that fails he settles for slamming his head back against the door. It creaks on its hinges, judders threateningly when he does it again, but the door holds and the belt buckle finally gives under his hands, so maybe the universe doesn’t hate him after all.
Maybe the universe is kind of fond of him, because there’s gotta be someone around to be the joke, the fall-guy. Someone who’s so fucked up that he makes everyone else look better by comparison. And anyone’s got to look better than Roy right now, with his eyes squeezed shut and his head pressed back into the door hard enough that he’s probably going to leave a dent, his hand scrabbling at his fly.
He shouldn’t be doing this, and he’d gotten so much better at remembering that. Remembering that there were things he wasn’t supposed to want, and things he wasn’t going to have, and remembering to bite his lip to keep any names from slipping through when he touched himself in the dark.
But his neighbours here don’t give a shit, so he can be as loud as he wants. He can scream the fucking roof down if he wants, but instead he only grunts when he pushes at his trousers, at his boxers, freed cock curving upward, thick and red. Wraps a hand around himself, hisses at the feeling of textured fabric, not painful but not exactly comfortable. Lifts his other arm, because letting go of his cock right now seems like an end-of-the-universe impossibility, and starts biting at the catches on the armoured bracers around his wrist and forearm.
He likes the new uniform. It’s his, not some half-assed mimicry or tribute to anyone else’s. But it turns out, it’s also a lot more complicated to take on and off, at least when he’s so angry and turned on he can’t even think straight.
Strips his arm, heavy fabric hitting the floor with a dull thud, half-glove following close behind, and then swaps hands, naked fingers hot around his cock, and groans. It sounds too loud, but he reminds himself that it doesn’t matter, even if he kind of hates hearing his own voice sounding like that, rough and needy.
This is Roy’s apartment, Roy’s new base of operations. The Shit Hole, he’s not-so proudly dubbed it, but it’s what he needs. Close to the action, surrounded by people who need saving in a way Roy isn’t capable of. Nobody looks twice at him here, and he has his secret entrances to the building (through the roof, through the basement, through the space between the drywall if he’s really desperate) but he could probably walk through the halls in full superhero garb and nobody would bat an eye. Everyone has their own problems, Roy doesn’t even register to them through the ocean of their own suffering.
Most importantly, Oliver Queen doesn’t live in the next room.
Roy grits his teeth and begins to stroke.
Of course Ollie would treat the dissolution of their partnership like a break-up. Like a fucking divorce. Because the only time anyone ever seems to be mad at Ollie is when he’s promised a woman the world and then all but forgotten her name a month later. And the worst part is that he’s never actually trying to hurt those women, because Ollie never means to hurt anyone, but he manages it anyway. He’s a whirlwind, and so many people are happy to let themselves get swept up in Ollie’s path but they can never hang on for long.
Nobody’s ever held on as long as Roy.
Squeezes himself a little too hard, then a lot too hard, letting the pleasure-pain veer too close to actual pain. Deep noise rattling in his throat, and then he’s panting through it, waiting for the fireworks stop bursting inside his skull. It’s a punishment, making himself hurt like that, because he’s not supposed to compare himself to all those women. One of the personal set of rules carved into his soul that let him live with Ollie and not go crazy, not just crawl completely out of his mind and do something that would ruin them forever.
But they’re already ruined, aren’t they, and Roy hasn’t compared himself to those women in years. Doesn’t want to start that again, but then he remembers Ollie’s face, the twitch of his beard, the stiff line of his jaw and the soft lines of his mouth.
The break-up face. The ‘wow, great to see you, how have you been, great to see you’ face.
The ‘you look good’ face.
Roy’s feet skid slightly over the floor, sliding down the door a little as his hips snap forward, press into his fist.
It’s all bullshit, Ollie’s so full of bullshit. His niece?! He must think they’re all stupid, must think Roy’s stupid, and he’s stroking himself again, quick and merciless. Trying to hold on to the anger, because it occupies his mind, keeps him safe. Protects him from all the images that have haunted him since he hit puberty, all the times he heard Ollie’s voice through the wall, laughing with his flavour-of-the-month girl, groaning for her.
And Roy doesn’t have to be quiet here, because Ollie won’t hear him, Ollie doesn’t know.
“Hate you,” Roy snarls at the air, and his hips are rocking up and up and his boots squeak faintly against the cheap tile.
Hates Ollie’s smile, the companionable hand on Roy’s shoulder, hates all the times he wanted to press into it, roll into it. Wanting to feel that palm sliding over his skin, huge hand, archer calluses, and the noise that’s trying to crawl up from Roy’s chest sounds too close to a sob. Learning to fight with a hard-on that wouldn’t quit, because the crooks in Star City didn’t exactly care that Roy was aching in his jock, wet and rubbing all wrong. And just because Ollie had that look on his face, that look that said the world didn’t get any better than when he was fighting crime, arrows flying, Roy right there by his side. That look that made Roy’s heart ache like somebody had punched into his chest and squeezed.
He’s being relentless with himself, Roy knows he is, stripping away every last shred of control he has because there’s nobody here to see him like this. Nobody to see him vulnerable, because Roy’s never been good at letting people see him like that, even Ollie. But he feels it now, and the noises he’s making don’t sound angry enough for him any more, hurt little gasps and whimpers. And he hates Ollie and Roy’s fingers are slick with how much he needs this, and he isn’t going to last. Twisting his hand, letting all those rougher patches from years of holding a bow hit him just right.
And it’s so fucking easy to imagine it, to see Ollie in the shadows in front of him, to feel Ollie’s whiskey warm breath on his face. Hear Ollie’s laughter, but it doesn’t have to be cruel, Roy’s mind won’t let it be cruel. Instead it’s pleased, amused and curious and dirty, and Ollie’s fingers are so sure as they reach out for him.
Smiling at him. The dark smile. The other ‘you look good’ face.
And Roy’s arching, head and shoulders pressed against the door, and he chokes on the name trying to force it’s way past his lips, lets it be a shaky moan instead. Eyes squeezed shut but Ollie’s still there in his mind as Roy groans and shudders, fingers of his free hand clawing at the wood. Crying out when it hits him, sharp stab deep in his belly as he breaks, gives in, painting his fist and his uniform with his release. Hand still moving like it isn’t his own, because in his mind it isn’t, and strong fingers milk him of everything he has until he’s gasping, twisting away, too sensitive for the touch. Letting the door hold him up as much as his legs, and the backs of his eyelids glowing red.
And that’s what it all comes back to. Red, the colour of his desire, flushed and sweating and trembling through the aftershocks. The colour of his uniform, the colour of his arrows, and the colour of his shame, and Roy sighs and lets his legs fold beneath him, sinking slowly to the floor.
In his mind, Ollie’s still laughing, the soft chuckle of an adult faced with a child who still doesn’t know his place in the world.
His red and Ollie’s green. Together, they should be this perfect mix, should be like fucking Christmas. Except somewhere along the road, they got too mixed up, all warped, blended until their colours lost their shine.
And now there’s just the murky brown smear where they used to exist, where they used to glow.
Brown as mud, as cold coffee, bitter and foul. Shitty stain in their now shitty relationship, and Roy looks around at his shitty apartment that’s his, all his, and tries to sneer. Feels it wobble on his face, anger drained out of him leaving this hollow, dull ache, and for a moment, just a moment, Roy lets himself feel young and lost.