Even the wildest animals
January 24, 2004
Disclaimers: DC, Warner Brothers, many others who aren't even close to being me.
Spoilers: None, really. Before Out of the Past, at least in my own mind.
Summary: Terry isn't entirely altruistic.
Ratings Note: NC-17.
Author's Note: Cold weather comfort fic with porn. Jack started it and kindly handed it off. And equally kindly reminded me that I had to finish it...
Title quote from Thoreau.
Acknowledgments: To Jack, Livia, and the Spike for audiencing.
Feedback: Yes, please! email@example.com
Gotham is in the grip of a cold snap that has the temperature dropping to record lows even for January. The cold doesn't bother Terry much, at least at night; the suit has fantastic insulation, and crime tends to drop when it's this bad. Still.
He heads back to the Cave early after another uneventful patrol.
Bruce is sitting at the computer, probably planning to stay there until after Terry's gone home. It hasn't escaped his notice that the old guy's been stiffer than usual with the bitter weather, even though the only real sign is that he moves a little slower. The chill creeps even into the usually climate-constant Cave, and it's worse up in the house.
He can feel Bruce's eyes on him while he changes back into Terry. "Brr," he says, shrugging his shirt on and tucking it into his jeans. "Man, it's freezing down here."
Bruce barely grunts.
"You can quit the made-of-stone act, Bruce. I know the cold's been getting to you."
He gets the Eyebrow.
And he tosses an easy grin back at Bruce, slinging his jacket over his shoulder. "C'mon upstairs. You're just going to go up there as soon as I'm gone anyway, and if you go now, I'll give you a rub-down."
Bruce blinks at him. Once.
"What? I've been giving my mom backrubs and neckrubs for years. I'm not actually trained or anything, but I know what I'm doing." He waggles his fingers demonstratively.
"That... isn't the problem."
And, okay, weird, but a) it's Bruce, and b) he's got that look on his face. The one that would be a smile if Terry didn't know the man was thinking fondly of violence past.
It isn't that he doesn't understand the feeling -- sometimes he thinks he was born to understand that feeling -- it's that it doesn't seem right to classify the result as a 'smile.' Smiles are for daytime, and the people who live there.
Bruce blinks again, and it's clear that whatever the memory was; it's gone now. "Go home, Terry."
But... no. Bit in his teeth. "This used to be a thing, right? A Batman thing."
And that's one of his favorite looks. Surprised and pleased and predatory. It's the I-made-the-right-choice look that tends to make Terry want to hit things harder. Because he can.
Bruce sits back a little in the chair, not so much straightening as reminding himself that he can't get those shoulders all the way back anymore. "Are you surprised?"
"In retrospect... no. It makes sense. Though I do feel cheated. Where are my backrubs?"
"Hm." The Bruce-laugh. He flexes one hand.
It's supposed to be a demonstration, and Terry knows what the demo is for, but still. He also knows what those hands can do. Even now. "Hey, I'll settle for a neck-rub. I work hard for my money."
And Bruce looks at him for a long moment, a serious moment. He's remembering something else. Terry can feel the suits at his back. Staring at him with mannequin eyes. No way.
"But I'll let you owe me." He plants himself in front of Bruce and puts a hand out. "C'mon, upstairs. If I get home this early my mom will start asking embarrassing questions about my love life again."
Bruce just looks at his hand for another long moment, long enough that Terry thinks he's gonna get blown off or maybe insulted -- he's due -- but in the end there's a little twist of one of those not-smiles, and Bruce takes it.
Terry actually has to pull a little, which means that Bruce really is hurting, but when he's up there's not so much as a tremor.
He swallows past the way-too-familiar-at-this-point lump of feeling as Bruce slips his hand out of Terry's own and follows the man upstairs, staying behind him and watching.
That knee, and his back had to be killing him. And his neck. Broad and muscular and under way too much pressure, considering his posture. And...
"Hey, what did happen to that leg?"
Terry could've guessed it was something Bad, as opposed to just bad. He probably should have.
Bruce starts walking again, without answering his question.
"You should put up little signs. 'Ask about this and you get blank silence.' 'Ask about this and you get yelled at.'"
"I thought I already had." There's a smile in his voice.
"Yeah, but that's everything and... right."
The thing about Bruce is that you can always tell when he's amused. He sends waves of it off, like maybe it isn't just a conscious illusion that he's larger than life. Auras and force of personality and all that crap.
He's Bruce, and he is Amused. All must acknowledge. He snickers to himself and Bruce pauses just long enough to give him the Eyebrow again.
And he means to say something sharp about that, or at least something silly to keep up the mood, but... he's just a little caught.
Because Bruce is really going to let him do this, and that's great, because he's Bruce, so it's a chance to do a nice thing without putting on a mask first, while also being a chance to prove himself an apprentice of many talents.
But, you know, Bruce isn't his Mom, and Terry's not that fucked up.
All those thoughts and imaginings and excuses-to-wank had been safely tucked in the land of not-even-remotely, and now they... aren't.
Bruce is going to let Terry touch him. All over.
And Bruce is looking at him.
"Tell me you didn't forget to power down the missiles again."
"No! And hey, that was only once."
"I'm sure the people in the surrounding countryside would have found that comforting when they woke up in a crater."
Scowling, at least, makes it easier to hide what he's thinking.
Okay, a little easier. "Nothing important, I promise."
Bruce snorts at him and continues out into the manor proper and...
"Jesus, you're a gazillionaire, Bruce. You can't afford a little central heating?"
"Is your breath steaming?"
"Well, no, but --"
"Then it is on."
The kids-today head-shake, and Bruce leads them toward the bedrooms. Toward his bedroom, and Terry is beginning to have serious doubts about his skills. He's never tried to give anyone a backrub when he was hard.
Front rubs, now...
But... it's actually warm in here. Terry blinks.
"Better insulation, fewer drafts. Still, feel free to light the fireplace if you feel yourself in danger of hypothermia."
Terry glares at him.
And lights the damned fire.
It's not hard. It isn't exactly listed in his official duties, but it was one he picked up damned fast. The only time his fingernails are supposed to be blue is... well, they're just not. He gets it going nicely, adding a few extra logs, and brushes his hands off on his knees.
And when he stands up, Bruce already has the shirt off, jabot hanging like an afterthought. And it's... there's a disconnect, or maybe a conflict. Or maybe it's just that he never expected the man to lie down, much less to strip.
Bruce has even more scars than Terry had imagined.
And it's the kind of stupid, mindless lust he thought he'd gotten over when he was fourteen and finally capable again of whipping his dick out to pee without needing to... detour.
And he has to start coping now. "Don't do that?"
A milder eyebrow, uncapitalized and more bemused than anything else. "What, exactly, shouldn't I do?"
"I'll take care of that. The folding, you know. Just let me wash my hands."
Bruce eyes the shirt in his hands with one of those memory looks for a moment, and then nods at him.
In the bathroom, all Terry can do is stare at his hands. Calluses would be one thing, but his hands are shredded. Dry cold. It'll be like getting a rubdown with, like, tree bark.
He washes them in hot water, using the liquid soap in the hope that it has some kind of moisturizer, and then... there. Thank God. Hand lotion.
He rubs himself until his hands are too slick for the doorknob, and tucks the bottle under his arm.
And Bruce is... on his stomach. And it takes about a year for Terry to take it in. He's stripped down to his jockeys -- plain cotton, who knew? -- and he's on his stomach and this must have been normal at some point, because Bruce doesn't even look amused.
And his jokes are generally a lot more fucked up than simple, random, partial nudity.
Bruce turns his head on the pillow. "Is something wrong?"
Other than the fact that I'm popping wood, Bruce? Not a thing. "No. I just... my hands are rough." He moves the lotion to one hand and nearly manages to squirt the bottle across the room.
"Your hands are rough."
"I... yeah. I didn't want --"
Bruce looks at him like he's insane. "My skin is not, actually, made of parchment, Terry."
"I know that! I mean. Do you have anything better...?"
"I don't think I've ever met a massage-tease..." An entirely different Eyebrow.
It breaks through the panic, if nothing else. "You're such a bastard," Terry says, and toes off his shoes again, crawling onto the bed to straddle him.
Bruce is still, patient as the stone he's so clearly not.
He thinks about asking about 'problem areas,' but really, that's just stupid. So he braces his thumbs over Bruce's nape, pushes in, and slides up. Okay, this is easy. He'll find the more-of-a-problem than usual areas and go from there.
He tests the muscles of the man's neck with his fingertips and it makes him sincerely wish he was trained. At this point, he's just glad that Bruce made him spend all that time with hand strengtheners.
His shifts his thumbs down again, and then out to the sides, where the muscles are knotted like hot stone beneath the skin. But when Terry digs in, Bruce... sighs.
And he thinks... no, he knows he needs to hear that again. Digs in harder and starts making small circles. Bruce groans, short and low, and gooseflesh prickles its way up his arms and over the back of his neck.
Right. Bruce is being all casual about this, so Terry should be casual, but casual would mean letting his crotch rest against Bruce's skin, and really just no. It's bad -- good -- enough with the insides of his thighs being tickled by the hair on the outside of Bruce's and he can focus. Really.
But Bruce has the kind of neck that probably won't get soft and loose even if he pumps the man full of narcotics, and he's making those sounds...
Bruce has been training his memory. Training him to have one, and if his teachers had any idea they'd probably kiss the man, but right now having a memory just means that Terry knows full well what he's going to be thinking about the next time he jerks off. What he's going to be hearing. So... move.
"I'll... uh. Come back to that," he says, and feels a little more like an idiot, but shoulders are better.
He doesn't know how many times Bruce has had his shoulders dislocated, shot, or otherwise just mangled -- too many scars to count -- but it has to be a lot more than Terry. The difference between too much and ridiculous.
There are spots that are... uneven. Like the muscle never quite grew back the way it was supposed to, so Terry has to focus.
Too much pressure would just make things worse. Not enough is annoying, but, well, he isn't trained. The last thing he wants to do is injure Bruce. So he takes it easy, and there isn't much he can do.
"Hey, you got any connections who could actually teach me this stuff?"
"I'll give it some thought."
Another one of those little 'hm' noises. It should probably feel weirder than it does to be on top of a laughing, half-naked Bruce Wayne. It just feels... He shakes it off and moves back to Bruce's neck. Mostly just checking on things, making sure the tension hasn't crept back beyond where he'd left it. Mostly.
There are a million inappropriate and downright idiotic things he wants to say in response to those groans, and what he wants to do isn't much better.
He pulls off and pours some more lotion on his hands, warming it up as much as he can with friction.
"This is going to be cold on your back."
What say I slick up my dick and -- no. Bruce's back is more scar tissue than skin, with a handful of those weird little dips that mean chunks of meat have been forcibly removed from the man's body and never entirely replaced. "So... who stitched you up in the old days?"
"My butler. Mostly."
And it's tempting to make a snide comment about the guy's tailoring skills, but then he thinks about it. About what Bruce would probably look like if he hadn't been good. "He was gone when you got that scar on your face, hunh?"
"Sadly, yes. Though it did finally get me out of the society pages."
Terry snorts. "They found someone prettier?"
"They always do."
Terry digs his thumbs in on either side of Bruce's spine, and gets a hiss. "Too much?"
"You'd actually tell me, right?"
But he takes him at his word and works his way down, only slackening when he gets to one of the dips, and Bruce shifts and stretches beneath him. Terry's sweating under his clothes and it has nothing to do with his sad little fire.
Everything to do with the "hmm" sound Bruce makes when he gets to just above the waistband of his jockeys. Terry splays his hands and thinks about it and thinks about and works his way back up.
If his obliques have lost anything over the years, he can't tell. The skin is thin, but the muscle is hard.
"Yeah, okay." And also, I want you. Terry pushes and prods and tries to move everything into vaguely the right place and thinks about his next move. Back to the neck, and the weirdly soft hair. Too long to be called stubble. "Time for a haircut?"
This time he curls his fingers under and pushes his thumbs up behind Bruce's ears. More about relaxing him than working with the muscle -- and he has to be careful around those pressure points.
And making Bruce trust him to be careful is probably not the most relaxing thing he can do, but he knows how good this felt whenever Dana would do it for him. Bruce doesn't actually make any more good noises, though, so... arms.
He works down the left, starting from the shoulder. More scars, more muscle. Bruce must've been able to bench press small farm animals back in the day. Before the powered-up suit.
Now he's just warm and solid and male and Terry wants to bite him there and his hands are moving pretty much without his orders. Good that he's working on an arm.
"How much pressure can your hands take?"
"I'm not entirely sure."
"'kay. Let me know."
He tests with his fingertips first, cataloguing the scars, the broken knuckles -- of course -- the swollen knuckles. Then he flattens it against the mattress and twines his fingers between Bruce's own, pushing at his palm with the tips and just trying to will some of his body heat into Bruce.
"Good so far?"
Please do let me make it better. Terry grits his teeth and shifts to Bruce's side. Better positioning, or rather, better positioning unless Bruce decides to check on his personal assistant. Terry's jeans are already uncomfortable. They'll be painful if this lasts much longer.
But. He's doing something, here.
He lifts Bruce's hand and chafes it between both of his own for long moments, warming it, before he starts on his fingers. "Do I want to know how many times you've broken these?"
"The gauntlets weren't always armored."
"Yeah, yeah, and you walked to school ten miles uphill."
"Through the snow?"
"Mostly flaming hailstones. The occasional bombing raid."
Terry gives serious thought to warming those fingers in his mouth, but smiling is a better bet. He plays with each finger in turn, and there's no real reason to stroke the back of Bruce's hand when he's done, but he's also rapidly losing the ability to care. Other arm, same process.
Bruce's right ring finger is actually a little crooked, so he doesn't do any excessive bending, just rubs between the knuckles and tries to get it warm. Thinks seriously about licking the back of Bruce's neck. Thinks about it for long enough that he can taste the salt and the lotion and contents himself with loosening things up a little more.
"You're starting to tense up again."
Non-committal grunt and Terry looks at Bruce's legs and... decides to start on the feet. Fewer obvious breaks, but then he'd bet Bruce had also probably been more careful with his lower body. Or maybe he'd just been more of a puncher than a kicker. Or maybe he'd just been lucky.
Impossible to tell.
He can do more, though, and that's enough. Until he gets to Bruce's knees. "Uh. I have to admit I'm kind of worried about these."
"Just... the backs will be sufficient."
He presses just hard enough to avoid tickling and then starts thinking about theoretical physics. Jars full of dead animal fetuses. Radiation. Thighs. Really hard thighs. Grey hair, and yeah, that's kind of weird, but it also...
Feels really good against his palms. He wipes the back of his wrist over his forehead and rubs the sweat off on his shirt.
And starts on the other leg. Pretty soon, he's going to have to decide whether or not he's going to ask Bruce to turn over. No, he's going to have to decide how. No, he's going to have to start working on controlling his voice, or come up with some way to either laugh off his erection or stoically ignore it.
Which would be more in character?
Which would get him more of this?
But, in the end, Bruce turns over as soon as Terry can force himself to stop cupping the back of Bruce's thigh in his hands.
And Bruce is...
"You have got to let me take care of that."
"Normal physical reaction. The importance of relieving tension. Come on, Bruce, work with me."
And Bruce... laughs. Chuckles, really, and sits up on one elbow.
"I've been good. I've been so good, and how long have you been hard? No, don't answer that, just let me..."
He straddles Bruce's thighs and cups his shoulders. Slides one hand around the back of Bruce's neck and Bruce just... smiles at him.
Hard and sharp and bright.
"One might think you had ulterior motives."
"I didn't, actually. More like something to leaven the altruism and just... Jesus, yes." Snugged up tight and just... fucking himself against Bruce's dick. Yeah. Yeah, that's... he lets his head fall back and groans, trying to remember not to squeeze hard enough to undo all his work.
And when he looks back down again, Bruce is... it's a different smile. A hungry and really kind of pleased smile.
Likes what he sees.
Terry can work with that.
"You know how long I've wanted this, right? You know I haven't even tried to repress it."
"You did give that impression."
"I didn't want to. I like wanting you, Bruce. It feels good. You feel good."
And Bruce rakes his gaze over his face and down. Pausing at his mouth and the scar on his collarbone before he slips his free arm around Terry's waist. And cups his ass. "Do I."
It's not a question, so Terry doesn't bother to answer with words. Noises, though... noises definitely work when Bruce pushes at the seam of his jeans with his thumb. He digs his knees into Bruce's sides a little more and... mm. Back and forth.
Another laugh against his chest, and a sucking bite that moves to his nipple and settles there.
"Jesus. Jesus fuck, Bruce."
He manages not to whimper when Bruce takes his mouth away, but the gratification is burned away like tissue paper when Bruce gives his ass a squeeze and slides his hand around between them. Another squeeze, really kind of friendly, and Bruce is doing a really good job of getting his jeans open one-handed.
A better job than his boxers are doing at keeping his dick restrained. Terry pushes them down and shifts. "Let me just --"
"Gonna put a collar on me? Kinky."
Bruce just hands him the bottle of lotion and sits up, presenting his own hand.
And there might not be nerve endings in the brain, but he just felt those cells die. Die hard and die happy, because oh fuck yeah.
Terry squeezes some out and yanks Bruce's hand back behind him and hisses at the cold and holds his ass open. And Bruce doesn't even blink, just pushes one finger in slow and watches him.
"Two. Give me... oh, God. Oh, God, you're killing me..."
Bruce's tone is so fucking dry and Terry can't think. Thrusts against Bruce's stomach and back onto his fingers and "fuck me."
Bruce twists his fingers and crooks and Terry watches his dick spit pre-come on Bruce's chest, watches a thread of it connect them, and then Bruce pulls out and thrusts and he can't keep his eyes open.
"Bruce. Bruce --"
"You're making me... I'm gonna come soon --"
"It's good. Oh fuck, it's good."
"Yeah. Don't stop --"
Hard thrust and Bruce cups his hip with his free hand and bites his nipple, holding it between his teeth and urging Terry to work his hips faster. Wants him to work for it. Take it. Wants --
He comes groaning and flexing, all over both of them, and has to lock his thighs to keep from falling over. It's a near thing, anyway, even though Bruce has got him. He blinks his eyes open and leans in for a kiss and has a completely bizarre moment of 'hey, that's weird' when Bruce slips his tongue between his lips until he remembers that they haven't, actually, done this before.
Of course kissing comes later.
He laughs into Bruce's mouth, and cups his face, trying for another kiss and laughing too hard to manage it.
"Sorry, just... I'm wondering if we have to break out the sex toys and flavored lube before we can neck."
"Actually, no, I'm wondering if I care."
And Bruce wraps his arms around him and pulls him close and it stops feeling awkward when Terry shifts just enough to drag his balls over Bruce's erection. And then it's just hot.
"Mm, yeah. Lie down again."
"Because you're feeling generous."
Bruce grins at him and leans close enough for a kiss, but when Terry opens his mouth he gets his lip bitten. And then he lies down, folding one hand behind his head and grinning that sharp little grin, and for a moment...
It's like a localized time warp. Terry can see exactly how he must have looked twenty years ago. Thirty. And he wonders who got to see him like this back then, and if they had any idea...
He shakes it off. It doesn't matter. They're all gone, and he isn't.
And he's not going anywhere.
He thinks about just staying where he is, but... no. He slides in next to Bruce, pulling his free arm over his own body and resting it helpfully against his hip. And moves in just enough to kiss him again, sliding his hand down that broad, scarred chest and stomach and into Bruce's jockeys.
Hot, thick, hard and perfect in his hand, and he hums into the kiss, urging Bruce's tongue into his mouth and sucking in rhythm. Bruce strokes his hip and Terry gives up on restraint and throws his leg over Bruce's own, and this is just...
It's warm and it's good, and it's real. The scent of sex and hand lotion and the feel of those calluses against his skin and the twitch of Bruce's dick in his hand.
"Tell me what you like."
Bruce's breath hitches once and he moves the hand from behind his head to pull Terry in for another kiss. Hard this time, devouring, and Terry groans and clutches Bruce with his thigh and it's too soon for much, but it still feels good to rub up against all that muscle and skin, better when Bruce flexes his thigh and starts to pump into his fist.
Terry slips his tongue into Bruce's mouth and tries to say everything. Why this is good, why he needs it, and how stopping or stepping back is not an option and when Bruce comes in his fist it's all he can do to stop stroking.
He can't let go, though.
Not just now.
Bruce leans back, not quite out of the kiss. It's a suggestion, and Terry goes with it, rolling on top of Bruce and keeping it going.
He tastes like coffee.
Terry licks his way out of Bruce's mouth and licks his sticky hand, watching Bruce watch him in that calculating way. And drags his hand down Bruce's chest before giving him a squeeze.
He thinks about moving, but... Bruce is still holding him.
And he did end patrol early, so... he relaxes. "I'm starting to really appreciate winter."
"It has its charms."
"You know I'm not going to let this be a one-off, right?"
"I'll call the jeweler tomorrow."
Terry bites him on the collarbone. It's enough. He's made his point.
Bruce caresses his hip. "I'll wake you in an hour."
"Mm. Okay. Night, Bruce."
"Good night, Terry."
And Terry lets the smile in Bruce's voice ease him into sleep.
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