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Power Lines

by Te

Power Lines
by Te
December 6, 2003

Disclaimers: Not mine.

Spoilers: Vague ones for Secret Society. Assume this takes place post-Secret Society and pre-Wild Cards.

Summary: It's not a relationship.

Ratings Note: NC-17.

Author's Note: For lo, there is nothing like saying the words 'I probably won't write this pairing' out loud to get people to PELT you with images, ideas, bunnies, and encouragement. You can stop now.

Acknowledgments: To Jack, for getting the ball rolling in a big way. To Jack, Livia, Bas, and the Spike for audiencing. The Spike also provided a title.

Feedback: Sure. teland@teland.com

*

John doesn't, actually, like Batman.

He thought he would, given time to get to know the man, but...

Well, he's had time. And opportunity.

As far as he can tell, Batman is a surly sonofabitch with more issues than Life magazine and a genuine need to get socked in the mouth. Possibly twice.

And it isn't that the man is in any important way different from the rest of the League -- they could all use a run through boot camp.

It's just that in terms of Batman, John doesn't think it would actually help.

Assuming he didn't just knock out the DI and escape...

John shakes his head. It wouldn't be pretty.

It wouldn't even be useful, in the long run.

Maybe if they drugged him first, but hell, the asshole had probably given himself tolerances to everything any decent human being could think to use.

Which was the other thing -- really, the important thing:

He was good at what he did.

Professional in a way guaranteed to make a nun's knuckles itch, but professional just the same. Strong, capable, and dedicated.

In a lot of ways, he'd be easier to deal with if he screwed up in any noticeable or important ways.

As it was, he just existed in his own essentially rebellious way.

John's man enough to admit that that, more than anything else, is what sticks in his craw. He's spent his adult years convinced that there was a way -- a right way -- of doing things, and that deviating from it led to disaster and jobs not getting done.

And it isn't that Batman makes him doubt, per se.

It's that he's clearly found a way of his own.

And feeling superior about his own way -- he doesn't need a mask, even the Lantern standard. He has friends, and even something like a life -- only goes so far.

And none of this has anything to do with why he's sleeping with the man.

Though that, in itself, is euphemistic to the point of comedy.

John makes the ring dissolve his uniform. It's a feeling he doesn't think he's ever really going to get used to, a split-second of abject nudity before his street clothes come back. The problem isn't the strange, senseless magic of it -- he comes from a long line of women who looked at witchcraft as something that simply was, whether or not they practiced -- it's the fact that he's not sure why he can feel it at all.

Even Flash has never commented on it when he changes in front of the kid, and if anyone would comment on sudden, hallucinatory nudity, it's him. Though there's something there...

John shakes that off, too.

There's a reason he's stripping down to casual, and there's a reason he's doing it now, on the Tower.

Whether or not Batman understands or acknowledges it is entirely beside the point.

John finds him where he always does, alone among the computers.

"Working?"

"Yes."

Right. John puts a smirk in his voice. "Stop."

"I don't take orders. In case you failed to notice."

Easy enough to spin the man's chair around -- he'd never do something as childish as planting his feet -- but hauling him up is something different. He offers his hand.

Batman looks at it with obvious distaste.

And no, this isn't what he wants out of a relationship -- God help him if he's ever that fucked up, but.

He has to admit there's amusement in the game.

And it's not as if he's got anything better.

John takes his hand back and crouches, casually nudging Batman's knee aside when it brushes his chest.

Smiles up into blank disdain for which he has, at this point, not one whit of respect. "I have an order for you."

"I fail to care."

There's a difference between grim stoicism and the appearance of it, the struggle for it. Even on Batman.

John wonders if Superman has any idea.

He smiles a little wider. "Fuck me."

"I'm busy."

"It can wait."

"So can you."

"I don't want to."

"Again? I fail to care."

John stops the chair mid-spin, shaping one hand over the curve of Batman's athletic cup and leaning in for...

You can't really call it a kiss. At least he can't.

Kisses aren't supposed to hurt, even with a man whose mouth is as naturally hard and ungiving as Batman's.

The first time he slips his tongue in, it gets bitten. Not very hard.

The second time he does, Batman is utterly still. The third, the fourth.

The fifth and there's no noticeable transition, nothing that John can feel, even this close. Just the slide of his sore tongue and Batman's fist bunching his t-shirt and the rough, awkward haul halfway into the man's lap.

John pulls back just far enough to grin again, and then Batman's scrabbling, almost clawing at his head.

"You should have longer hair."

"Not even on your birthday, Batman."

Bark of a laugh, cut off by the next kiss, by John's grunt when Batman's hands slip down to his nipples and twist.

It's a signal, as good as any other, and John pulls out of Batman's hold -- just painful enough -- and stands.

This time, Batman takes his hand.

And holds on.

This close, this must pressure... John doesn't have to look around. He knows they're completely alone.

"You push too much."

"So push back."

Gloved-hands on his chest and, for a moment, John thinks Batman will take him literally, and wonders how far either of them are willing to go in this part of the Tower.

But Batman just strokes him with slow, clinical attention to the lines of muscle.

And grins. It always looks like a snarl on his face.

Always.

"Let's go."

And he's barely in the door to Batman's bedroom before he's being spun and slammed against metal. He didn't see it coming, but it's something he knows how to counter.

Maybe better than he could as a young man, ring inactive or not -- now he knows exactly what kind of enemies he might have to face.

Right now... he doesn't care.

Hand on his wrist forcing it up behind his back.

Other hand on the back of his neck.

Hot breath on his ear.

"What kind of push do you want?"

John flexes his arm, shifts enough to take some of the pressure off his shoulder. "Find out."

Hot, fast lick from his jaw to his temple, another over the curve of his ear. If he had hair on the back of his neck, it'd be standing up. "You give a man bad ideas, John." The bite on his earlobe makes John wonder if the man plans on giving him a ring.

And he doesn't let up until it's a burn, forcing its way over his skin, into his belly and cock. He could hear the amusement in Batman's voice, a disturbingly happy sort of pleasure that had no rightful place here.

Batman just bites harder for a long, long moment before pulling back, releasing his wrist. "Bed."

John stretches and turns, rubbing his wrist. "Color me touched." And heads for the bed made with disturbingly military precision.

Batman stops him with a hand on his chest.

"What?"

A narrow-eyed look, something on the edge of a real glare. "What are you after, here? Really."

No way not to smile at that. "A good, hard fuck. It doesn't have to be complicated."

Slow, cautious nod, and it's tempting to needle the man a little more. Accuse him of catching a distinct case of the feelings, at the very least, but.

He's not that kind of man.

Or... not enough of that kind.

He strips down the old-fashioned way, mostly because Batman never fails to watch. Even with the cowl, even with the renewed few feet of distance between them... Batman has the kind of look you can feel.

To the point... it's a little hard to imagine the man fucking other people on a regular basis in a way that has nothing to do with ego. He knows what he's doing -- but it's not exactly rocket science. He is, in no way, a blushing virgin -- but that can be faked.

Easily.

He stretches out on his stomach, reaching for the headboard and spreading his legs.

It's just that John really can't imagine too many people being this naked around Batman without... what?

Shame?

Terror?

Helpless amusement?

John chuckles to himself and stretches a little more, just because he can. Turns over when Batman fails to pounce.

The man is -- of course -- watching.

On anyone else, it'd be 'staring.' Not Batman.

He takes himself in hand and strokes. Nice and slow. "Want a taste?"

It's a matter of practice, and his own watchfulness -- the cowl hides the swallow, but not the way the thin lips tighten on themselves.

"Uh, huh. Later." Turns over again, and this time he doesn't have to wait. Batman covers him like a big, kevlar blanket. He hasn't taken off anything.

He never does until he has to.

Hands around his biceps, testing the muscle, moving to his forearms.

It occurs to John, not for the first time, that the man could probably give a world-class massage.

That isn't what he wants.

He works his body into a roll beneath Batman's, lifting them both and enjoying the strain on his muscle.

Being a part of the Justice League has meant that he spends more time powered-up than not. It's easy to forget what human feels like.

That's a little closer to why he does this.

Hard thrust against his ass that's more frustrating than anything else.

"Come on --"

Hard bite to the back of his neck, cutting him off. Two more for both sides of his throat and Batman's pushing his wrists hard against the mattress.

"Think I'm gonna move? Do it, Batman --"

"My bed, my rules..." Another one of those moments of creepily human amusement.

"Aren't we too old for power games?"

Batman freezes over him. Relaxes. "I'm going to pretend you didn't actually say that."

"You do that." And John laughs his way through fingertips trailing back down his arms, to the feel of the bed shifting beneath him as Batman gets up on his knees, sliding his hands down until they're splayed over the base of his spine, thumbs digging into the hollow.

Small click of what probably isn't plastic at all, or at least no kind of plastic the average person could buy.

There's something intensely perverse about fucking a man who keeps his belt on. More than the mask, more than the -- yes -- endless power games.

Slick thumb pressing in, slow and hard.

More than the gloves.

He spreads a little wider, feeling the burn in his thighs and idly reminding himself to work on his flexibility.

There's time for thoughts like that, for adjustment physical and otherwise -- this doesn't change.

A Batman with slick fingers and John's naked ass available is a Batman with an entirely predictable urge to be... thorough.

It hadn't taken long at all to figure out that it had nothing to do with any ideas toward preparing him.

Batman's just a manipulative -- pun entirely intended -- bastard.

And the gloves are smoother than fingers could ever be, material always staying cooler far longer than John's body thinks it should.

Ungentle circles around his hole, pulling at muscle and skin.

Two fingers in like a jab to a pressure point and John jumps, tenses.

Forces himself to relax.

Batman's half-bracing himself with his other hand on John's back, palm-flat and a little too heavy for the position.

Turns his fingers and crooks and John grunts into the pillow and rides it, encourages it.

And Batman takes a little too long to go with his rhythm, but he does, eventually, fucking him with a corkscrewing grind that's almost good enough. Almost.

"You've got a fetish," he says, gritting his teeth against the not-enough.

"I've got a dozen."

"How many of them would I give a fuck about?"

Pause. "I'm honestly unsure. You're a surprisingly kinky man, John."

Has to bang his head against the mattress -- no pillow -- a few times, but Batman doesn't move again until he gives up and laughs.

And really, sometimes he thinks this is why. Because when Batman's moving on him, when John's naked and they're not quite fucking yet; this is when the man is closest to something that could, possibly, be understood one day.

Something like a brother in arms, if not a real soldier.

But then... then he'd have to let this be more than just sex. More than just the grinding pleasure of Batman's gauntleted fingers in his ass, working him harder and faster, opening him up wide and needful.

He doesn't...

He doesn't think he can have that.

Not with this man.

Still... "Come to my place sometime. I'll take the vaulting horse out of storage."

Batman leans in close, but not to kiss. Presses the slick hardness of his grin against the back of John's neck. "Amateur."

And the laughter just turns into a groan, and another. One day Batman's going to make a serious attempt to fist him.

He hasn't decided yet if he'll let him.

Or... it's really more that he hasn't figured out how he'll feel about it after he lets him. And none of that means a thing right now, because John isn't sure if Batman's honestly trying for his pleasure, or if the man is just turned on enough to forget to be selfish.

Hard strokes with those fingers, and Batman just pushes him back down when he tries to get up on his knees.

He thinks about fighting it, but then Batman slips his fingers out. A heartbeat, another, and the mattress dips and shifts and Batman shoves in, one long, hard stroke that forces the breath out of him.

More when Batman covers him.

"Gonna fuck me into the mattress?"

"Don't ask stupid questions."

Just enough time, enough control to laugh again, and Batman's moving, finding his stroke with effortless rhythm, a hip-rolling grind that turns brutal almost before John can catch his breath.

Slick-sticky gloves around his wrists and boots keeping his ankles spread, and John growls into the sheets and works his hips as much as he can.

Pushing up hard and fucking the sheets, and it's not enough friction, but this isn't about his cock.

This is about hot breath and sharp teeth against his neck, about the burn in his thighs and the jagged-sweet pleasure of Batman inside him. Doing his best to pound him into a new shape, and utterly free of anything like care.

"Come on --"

"Greedy --"

"Fuck me, Batman --"

Rough, quiet growl, and Batman losing control has nothing to do with force or viciousness. He'd get that anyway.

It's about the way every breath is panted out against his skin, the way every few thrusts there's a groan against his ear.

And then just teeth in the meat of his shoulder and the flex of the hands around his wrists and --

"God --"

Batman bites harder, moves faster, slamming into him so hard John can't buck into it, or not fast enough.

All he can do is take it.

And he can feel himself smile, but it's loose and vague, less important than the ragged little groans Batman is fucking out of him.

Than the roll of muscle and armor above him that shifts the angle just enough. A tease and a fuck, and now he is fighting, pulling against the hold on his wrists, desperate to move them just enough to get a hand on his cock.

"Don't --"

And Batman snarls, squeezes hard enough for the bones to grind in John's wrists. Bites the back of his neck like an animal and holds on.

And this is why, more than anything else, more than anything involving thought or the ever-decreasing potential of anything John could call friendship without a smirk.

This power, this energy, this mindless connection of body to body, where Batman could be any guy who doesn't want to strip, and he can just be... John.

Younger, easier in his own mind.

Sincerely well-fucked.

"John."

Not a plea, not a command, barely even a sex sound. Just his name, panted out like just another breath, and John forces himself to move. The rhythm's gone, and God, he needs. "Yeah --"

"John --"

And Batman licks his neck, his cheek, everywhere he can reach, something between tasting him and just feeling him with his tongue, and the bed doesn't move -- every bed in the tower is welded down -- but the mattress does.

They're fucking themselves off the bed.

John twists his neck enough to catch the man for a kiss, and, fuck, it's a real one. Still brutal, still harsh, but he'd bet money that the man's eyes were closed behind the mask.

And that the reason he's getting it is because he can't possibly hold it in this position. Laughter just another goad to his cock, sliding in the mess of his own pre-come and sweat.

One last, brutal thrust and Batman's coming inside him, making a serious effort to break his wrists and hissing against his neck.

"Fuck --"

"Shut. Up."

Batman pulls free like he's ripping out a poison dart, forcing a grunt out of him and pulling him onto his back -- and nearly off the bed.

John braces one foot on the floor and grabs for his own dick -- not fast enough.
Even with the pause for Batman to tuck himself away again.

"Batman --"

"You said later."

Quick flash of a smile and the man is swallowing him down, holding his hips still and sucking hard.

And this... it's nothing but itself.

He's fucking the mouth of a man wearing a mask with pointy ears.

His dick is long since over it.

He cups his hand around the back of the cowl and throws his head back, stroking with his thumb and thrusting as much as he can.

It doesn't take long. Batman's mouth is still a man's mouth, hard and hot and slick and generous.

John comes with a shaky laugh, pricking his thumb on the point of one ear.

Batman takes his time pulling off, swallowing around him until John winces. Licking his way up and off. And standing up.

John smirks, mostly to himself, and stretches. Folds his hands behind his head. Even half-off the bed, it's comfortable. "You can go back to work now."

Batman shakes his head, not quite smiling.

"Or you can watch me enjoy the afterglow."

"What if I want cuddle?" Gentle, serious voice and John swears he can feel his hair turning grey.

Looks at Batman. And watches the smirk crawl over his face like a particularly self-satisfied snake.

"Gotcha."

"You... there are no words, Batman. None."

"Heh. You know where your clothes are." He turns to go.

"You're honestly leaving me in here alone?"

"The video cameras will provide me hours of entertainment should you try to get into anything you shouldn't," tossed over his shoulder with honest amusement.

And John doesn't know if it's funnier that he knows the man is telling the God's honest truth, or that that wasn't, actually, what he was talking about at all.

He rolls his eyes at himself, gets up, and gets dressed.

He's got his own work to do.

And Batman's bed just isn't that comfortable.

end.


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