Money, Money, Money

All the money in the world couldn't buy him a night with Bruce Wayne, and that was why he wanted it so much.

Tony had heard that Wayne hadn't fucked his Russian ballerina — heard it when he was fucking her himself, making her moan his name. After it was over, when she was too close, stroking his chest, circling the arc reactor, she said, "That's why I like you, Mr. Stark. You give me the pleasure I want. Mr. Wayne withholds too much."

He asked around, found any girl he could that Bruce had been with in the year before. With a little money to pry open their lips, they all told the same truth: Bruce would not touch them, sent them home before bed, sometimes with a gift and sometimes not. From all he could tell, Bruce Wayne had not seen a naked woman in more than twelve months.

So it wasn't because he thought Wayne to be horribly attractive or irresistibly intense. He was attracted to some men, sure, but he'd met Wayne before and thought he was more boring than the ballerina. He'd seemed like a mindless playboy, one of the rich boys who toyed around with business but didn't have the brains to back it up like Tony did.

It was the conquest. He didn't even know if Bruce would go for men; from all accounts, he seemed to be the straight, one-woman-a-night bachelor type, but those same tales had missed the part where he didn't sleep with them. Maybe it was a shield. Even if it wasn't, he promised to make sure Tony Stark was the exception to Bruce Wayne's rule.

Tony Stark's method for life and just about everything was to start big and work backward, but it still surprised him that he didn't even need to try for subtle. A little innuendo, a waggle of his brows, a lick of his fingers and they were away from Bruce's latest party, an altogether astoundingly boring event that only promised to get better with Bruce's dick inside him, feeling like it was splitting him in two because it had been too long, far too long since Tony had been in that position for him to be fucked with so little preparation, but once they got into it Bruce was impatient and Tony never minded a little pain.

He moaned into the blankets, unashamed, pushing back towards Bruce. He wiggled his hips a little once they were flush against each other. "Move," he demanded petulantly, thrusting back.

"I don't want to—"

"Move!" Tony demanded again, wishing, for a moment, that he was on his back so that he could grab Bruce, force him to move faster. Luckily, Bruce didn't deny him a second time.

As it turned out, Bruce seemed to have a lot of pent-up tension, and Tony had no complaints about being pounded into the mattress, as he would later say, "like a cheap whore." He preferred it, in fact, when he wasn't the one on top, and as his arms gave way, leaving only his ass suspended above the bed, the head of his own dick barely brushing its surface, he let Bruce know just how much he preferred it.

"Oh fuck, oh yes," he groaned, his voice muffled in the blankets. "Harder."

Bruce's hands grasped his hips tight, pulling him in every time his hips snapped forward, and so Tony took it upon himself to wrap his fingers around his hard dick, pumping in counterpoint to Bruce's thrusts, getting pleasure from his prostate as he moved back, his hand as he moved forward. His other hand gripped the blankets, his teeth clenched together. He came before Bruce, his muscles turning to liquid as the other man finished, groaning low and wicked, his first noise since that second thrust in.

Tony felt like every part of his body was sore as he put his suit back on; even his fingers felt clumsy, like every muscle in them was just as well-fucked as the rest of him. As he fumbled with his tie, he asked, "So Natascha was just a beard?"

"What?" Bruce asked, startled. His pants were only half-on. He'd given up trying to clean the semen off the bed, leaving it for his butler instead.

"Natascha— the ballerina."

"No, I know who— 'Beard?'" Bruce asked, like he honestly didn't know.

Tony rolled his eyes. "You didn't sleep with her. Don't tell me you're not gay after that."

Bruce looked back to the bed, like there was some clue to his sexuality there besides the wet spot and the fact that they'd just fucked. "I don't usually sleep with men."

Tony grinned and looked at himself in the mirror. Only Pepper and maybe Rhodey would have been able to tell he'd just had mind-blowing sex. No one at the party would suspect a thing— not from him, anyway, though Bruce looked like he'd been through a sex hurricane. "So, what? I'm special? I'll bet you say that to all the pretty young boys you bring to bed."

"Not really." Bruce was still yanking up his pants, like he didn't know how to work them. Maybe his butler dressed him every morning. "It's just— been a long time."

"No shit." Tony felt his thighs burn as he crossed the room to Bruce, pushing the other man's hands away and zipping him up. "But that's been your choice."

Bruce eyed him, warily. He'd given up too much. He shrugged it off after a moment, though, fixing up his shirt and tie so he looked a tiny bit less like he'd been completely ravished. "They want money. Fame. To say they got to have sex with Bruce Wayne. I don't really think that's your modus operandi."

"Aw," Tony teased as they made their way down the hall and back to the party. "So you're really a romantic at heart."

Bruce blushed, just slightly, and disappeared into the crowd to mingle.

Later that night, some time after the champagne was served, the party heard that Batman was on his way to foil an attempt on the life of the mayor — again. Tony didn't care, laughing as the drink bubbled up to his brain; he'd gotten to fuck Bruce Wayne. Batman had nothing on him.