I know this is slightly out of character for my work, but what can I say.

Review this and I'll smile myself to sleep.


They were older now. Too old for this.

That's what they told themselves every time.

It wasn't okay to sneak into each other's rooms anymore, tiptoeing down dark hallways, hoping to god they'd wake up on time to get back to their own rooms.

It wasn't okay to keep their friends (or at least housemates) out of the loop, parading girls through The Tower constantly, each hoping to make the other jealous.

Robin always brought home girls who were athletes, soccer players, track stars, surfers straight off the beach, with muscular thighs, slim hips and an almost brutish sense of humor. Beast Boy's ladies were dainty, long-limbed and flexible, gymnasts or dancers who found sanctuary in his tall frame and broad shoulders.

The pattern was flawed, you see, because no girls knew that Robin liked just a hint of fang on his shaft, or dipping slightly painfully into the slit before he erupted. None of them looked as Beast Boy's naked body like he was the answer to every question then allowed a slightly feral grin to stretch across their face before they devoured his mouth.

But it never mattered whose girl sucked cock better or whose girl could play Call Of Duty better when they were drawn to each other like moths to flame, Beast Boy cursing under his breath at the fact that even at 19, Robin walked around in his mask, leggings, combat boots and nothing else—looking for all intents and purposes like something straight from a gothic-influenced military wet dream. Robin would claw at those bulging biceps, finally releasing his pent-up jealousy at the build he craved but would never have because of some dream-crushing flaw in his genes.

They were too old for the kisses that at one time, were gentle and soft but now were just a conjugal meeting of teeth, tongue and skin, with enough lip to be bloodied. Similarly, they were too old to quit training when the material over their groins became uncomfortably tight, too old, in Robin's case, to drop to his knees willingly, the concrete scraping his pale skin as his slender fingers curled around that long emerald cock, his lips perfectly shaped around the head until his freckled nose pressed into curls that smelled of ocean and sunshine and sex.

Beast Boy had outgrown their ritual, it was just a matter of habit—that's what he told himself as he found his hands framing that face, his fingers simultaneously wrapped around a rosy cock and welcomed into what was constantly virgin-tight heat. He was too old to use the excuse of 'practice' to allow his him to love the way his shaft was gobbled up by an ass that could end wars, too old to wank in his room alone, biting his lips as he recalled those delicious whimpers, the sound of skin slapping skin, the purple bruises he left on that long, unmarred neck.

I should've outgrown you long ago.

They say this too often, watching ebony lashes against pale cheeks, mesmerized by the flow of water droplets down a muscled back, convincing a boy hero to remove his mask—looking deep into blue-violet eyes as fingers of jade disappear into a tight, hot hole over and over again.

The mystery of their meetings is contemplated whilst they rock together on the roof, the pace a little too slow and a little too intimate.

And again in the kitchen where a raven-haired boy washed the dishes in nothing but underwear claiming his clothes were in the laundry, resulting in Robin waking up the next morning with a bruise across his torso from where the sink bit into his chest.

Again, in the T-Car, where Beast Boy nips at the insides of those creamy pale thighs, believing without a doubt that he could live on that skin and those ruby-red lips for the rest of his doomed existence.

And let us never forget that weekend in South Carolina when they were supposed to attend the seminar set up by Titans East but were held up by the fact that watching Beast Boy suckle a Mystery Flavored All-White Popsicle is an innuendo that must be cemented with actions. And then the phone call to their room gets answered by Robin, who is quite talented at sounding dreadfully sick with 'food poisoning', even while he's being pounded into the mattress with both wrists handcuffed to the head board to he's trying to hold the phone between his head and raised shoulder.

They think on it the morning after, scraping cum from under their fingernails scratching it from their chest, washing it from the smalls of their backs, muttering that that was the last time.

Until they both decline on the groceries run and are trapped their alone, with their hearts desire and their guilt, tearing at clothes and lips and necks until they can finally become unbroken, moving as one while Robin shows the benefit of being the best jockey in your pre-titan years is that you are sinfully amazing at riding cock.

I should've outgrown you long ago.

They say it too often, but they never mean it.