This fever, spreading
March 8, 2004
Disclaimers: None of them are mine.
Spoilers: Major ones for "A Better World," minor ones up through "Wild Cards."
Summary: Wally knows he shouldn't.
Ratings Note/Warnings. NC-17. Possible disturbing content.
Author's Note: I was all ready to give things a rest, but Shrift reminded me that Lorder!Batman was, actually, still right there.
Title from Hilda Doolittle's "Eros":
... Where is he taking us
now that he has turned back?
Where will this take us,
spreading into light?
Acknowledgments: To Shrift, Weirdness Magnet, the Spike, and Jack for audiencing and encouragement.
He was going to tell someone about it.
On one side, there's the whole thing about how Wally often feels like he's always about one wrong sentence away from getting set up on blind dates by Superman -- and possibly the Princess. On the other side, there's the fact that... okay, it's weird.
Or maybe not weird enough.
It isn't like he doesn't know who it is, even though he never turns the lights on, even though he's never wearing --
He knows, and it's fucked up, and probably insanely dangerous.
Definitely insanely dangerous.
He knows them, all of them, and can -- obviously -- get to them anytime he wants to.
Wally never thought he'd wind up thinking of his own freaking apartment as just another potentially deadly location where the Flash -- the whole damned League, maybe -- might be needed, but he does, now.
And that's one more reason why he really ought to tell someone about his occasional, random night visitor.
He doesn't want to.
He... really doesn't want to, and part of it is the fact that he probably -- definitely -- should've said something the first time, or at least the third. At this point, he's pretty much stuck hoping they believe him if he says that it just hadn't occurred to him that there might be a problem about a random (not random, he knows, he knows and now he knows what he tastes like, too) guy who shows up in his apartment no matter how many locks he puts on, no matter how many spiffy, expensive alarms he buys.
Yeah, that would pretty much be the opposite of all things cool.
'Oh, that Flash! Brainless as always, ha ha.'
GL would probably just say something about how he needs to start thinking with his other head. And glare.
Assuming he wasn't just... elsewhere, at the time.
John's doing a pretty sweet job with the 'elsewhere,' these days. Not that he blames him. It's not like he wouldn't --
He patrols a lot these days. At home, even.
The League doesn't always need him, but there's always crime. Central City isn't Detroit or Gotham or anything, but it's not paradise, either. Just because he doesn't have, like, an insane asylum full of psycho supervillains to deal with doesn't mean there isn't --
So, okay, maybe he's rescued more than his fair share of kittens from trees lately. In the suburbs. Of San Francisco.
Still. He's got a lot of energy to burn up, and maybe, just maybe, he doesn't always want to go home right away.
It's not like he's afraid of his apartment -- that would be just a little too insane, thank you very much -- it's just...
He tends to show up after dark -- big shock -- but never too late. Sometimes he's there when Wally gets back after ten or so, sometimes he wakes Wally up with... a kiss or a touch or just being there, looming there in the dark until Wally's dreams shift to small places, closed places, airless and dark and he wakes up gasping and then there's the touch, the kiss --
If Wally doesn't get back to his apartment until dawn, or nearly so, then he won't be there.
Wally's never seen his face in daylight.
Wally's never seen his face, period, because the few times he'd 'accidentally' left a light on -- even out in the kitchen -- it was always off by the time he showed up.
The last time, he'd woken up to find every light bulb in the house partially unscrewed. He got the point.
And it's not like his body doesn't know --
He skids to a stop in an alley. He's not breathing hard -- he needs to log a few hundred more miles, or maybe just a hundred or so at really high speed before that happens -- he just feels like he should be. His heart feels like it wants to seize up in his chest, and he's hard.
Not for the first time, he thinks about designing some kind of funky, repressive groin armor, because, really, if he has to rescue any little old ladies or whatever like this, he's going to have to take a jog off a cliff or something.
It's not like he's surprised that thinking about it -- about him -- gets him hard. It's just... really inconvenient. And uncomfortable.
Just another part of how this whole thing is fucked-up beyond all human comprehension, because... it's good.
And he shouldn't be running from something that's good, except for how it's good in that really-shouldn'tdo -this way, should be scared, should be ashamed, because this is a bad guy and...
It's not like he's doing anything. No world-takeovers or urging Wally to vote Fascist. He doesn't even wear the suit (sometimes he's naked, maybe right now, maybe waiting), and even J'onn has his little not-really-shortsat -all-don't-think-about-it pants on when he fights crime, and... and.
It takes about four minutes to get back to his apartment. Long enough to think 'I want this,' and 'mine,' and 'maybe it isn't --'
It's late (not too late) and all the lights are off, all the doors are closed as he zips up the stairs and down the hallway. He braces his hands on the door and stares. Red gloves on wood.
The plating on the '3' of his '37' is starting to chip. He rubs at it, but no more comes off. He'll have to get that replaced. Maybe next time he's feeling unbe-fucking-lievably anal and also like dealing with the super, who is eight feet tall and five feet wide and who looks at Wally like two-day-old anchovy pizza and he wonders if other people babble in their heads and he wonders if he has anything interesting in the refrigerator and he opens the door and he walks inside and it's dark.
He didn't leave any lights on before he left this morning, of course, but there are all different kinds of dark, and this kind slams the door with Wally's body and bites his throat through the suit hard enough to make him gasp and kisses him.
Presses Wally's shoulders back against the wall and... licks him. It just feels like another kiss at first, but it's obvious when he moves, when that tongue slides just over the outside of Wally's mouth, and it's not like it's too fast to catch -- not for him -- but he can't make his body cooperate. He can't make it do more than just...
Wally turns his face into it, tilts his chin up and he -- he licks at him like an animal, like he isn't tasting Wally at all, as opposed to just finding another way to kiss him. To tell him.
Wally twists in his grip, just enough to loosen the hold, just enough so he can feel -- it's just a t-shirt. Jeans when Wally slides his hands down. Sometimes it's a business suit. Sometimes it's skin. Wally wants skin, and he tugs at the t-shirt until he can have it.
Wiry hair and muscles and hot skin and scars.
"Wally," he rumbles, half-purrs against Wally's ear, and bites him. The side of his ear, the lobe, that little spot under and behind it, and Wally's body beats a fast tattoo against the door because that spot always makes him vibrate.
Makes him clutch at him -- him -- and he purrs again:
"I missed you," he says.
Six days -- nights -- since the last time. Wally doesn't ask if he was looking. Waiting, watching -- whatever he does. He doesn't want to know. He doesn't. He -- "I know your voice," he says, and winces. Wally's read this fairy tale.
But he just... laughs. A low, relaxed (wrong) chuckle, and strokes his way down Wally's chest, down and down to where the suit's top angles down over his crotch.
"I'd be disappointed if you didn't. Or maybe he would."
"No --" And Wally was going to say something, something important about how he won't -- can't -- go there, but he's pulling and pushing up the top of Wally's suit and rubbing the back of his hand against Wally's erection. "Don't stop," he says instead.
"Tell me why."
Another laugh. "Because I don't want to."
"No, I mean -- fuck --" Stroking him, and still holding him back against the door, and Wally spreads his legs and --
"You want to talk?"
"No. Yes. We never -- who are you? Don't -- oh God please --"
He kisses Wally again, slow and hard and in nothing like the same rhythm as the hand on Wally's dick. It's the difference between circles and angles, between something -- the kiss makes Wally want to melt into a Wally-shaped puddle on the floor. The hand makes Wally want to climb him, ride him. Both methods have been equally successful. He never says stop, or don't.
He wants -- Wally doesn't know what he wants, except for this, and maybe that's part of it. Because it's not like he's the smartest crayon in the sixty-four or anything, or that he's ever been that good at relationships, but he'd never thought he'd ever have this much sex with someone and still have no clue.
Wally manages to push and turn his way out of the kiss, but he can't do a thing about his hips. He can't --
"Fuck," he hears himself say, and comes with his hips jerking, with his hands clutching at -- him. No. "Tell me your name."
"You know what to call me --"
"No. Tell me your name."
And he... stops. The fist around Wally's dick is still, steady. Waiting, because he knows. The hand on Wally's shoulder isn't -- quite -- squeezing.
Wally lets go for long enough to push his cowl back over his face, to scrub his hair back out of the flat, damp tangle it always gets itself in. And forces himself not to reach out again. Not to lean in and nuzzle and taste -- Batman always smells like armor.
It's not like he can get close enough to -- he can't.
"Tell me," Wally says again, and balls his hands into fists.
"Is it important?"
"Is it -- are you serious? No, are you --" Insane. He's not going to actually say that. He wouldn't say that to anyone who was holding his dick. Because he's not insane.
And he -- squeezes.
Wally's knees try to buckle, and he's not trying to squint into the darkness anymore because it's a battle just to keep his eyes open, to keep from -- Wally bats at the hand, pushes at it, doesn't wrap his own hand around it and guide it the way he wants. Doesn't. "No," he says. "No."
"Tell me -- oh -- oh --"
And for a moment Wally thinks he won't, thinks he's in trouble now, and then he doesn't really think much of anything, because he's getting jerked hard, fast, just like he likes it, like he can't do for himself because he always loses control, he can't ever keep it, but of course he can, no matter what Wally wants, because even when Wally can make himself twist, struggle, fight --
"Don't -- no..."
It sounds too much like yes. It feels like yes, with his hips pumping into it, the hurt of it, because it's too soon for him, and those hands are big and hard and rough on him, and he's aching all over, and he can't make him stop.
"Don't," he says again, and pushes at him, at all that heat and muscle and evil, because even though he'd changed his mind, even though he'd helped Wally and the rest of the League escape, he was still the wrong one, the bad one, and it's like maybe Wally needed to learn the lesson with his body.
Needed to be taught, and Wally bites his lip and shoves harder, because at least he can do that, at least his arms will listen even if his fuck-stupid hips won't. He can still --
And he stops. Lets go. And Wally hopes all the shaking looks like vibration, because at least people are used to that, he's used to that, but Wally doesn't think it looks like anything but what it is.
He clenches his fists again to keep from hugging himself, to keep from yanking his tights up.
"All I wanted was a name, man! I can't keep -- you can't keep coming here and doing this like some... freaking succubus or something!"
"It's -- never mind. I..." He reaches out, and Wally flinches, but all he does is stroke Wally's cheek. Softly.
His hand is shaking, and Wally wants to hold it still. He -- he shouldn't shake. Even if -- Wally grits his teeth and settles for just holding it against his face, and doesn't stroke the knuckles with his thumb. "I just want this to be a little less fucked-up. I don't -- I need a reason not to..." Have the League hunt you down and lock you up with the rest of your psycho team. "I need a reason to trust you."
"And if you shouldn't? Trust me."
Wally breathes. "Your voice... it isn't always like... his."
"Because he won't let it be," he says, and steps closer, presses his hand against Wally's cheek harder. "I have no such compunctions."
"Do you have any?"
"You're still here, aren't you?"
No lights, but it's been long enough that the streetlights from outside add something. More shadows, mostly, but there's a faint gleam off his teeth. His smile. Wally shivers. "How much are you joking?"
"As much as I ever do. Wally."
"Tell me --"
"It won't matter." And he's closer, close enough that Wally can feel his breath on his mouth. Taste it.
Wally takes a shuddering breath and tenses, and he stops. Wally breathes some more and swallows. "It does matter. To me."
Another one of those smiles. "I only have one real name, Wally."
The kiss is hard, wet and fast and impossible not to sink into.
"And you already know what it is. Don't you."
Wally whimpers, and realizes he's fisting the back of his t-shirt again, pulling and clawing at it, arms wrapped around Bat -- around his back and dick rubbing hard and wet all over Batman's -- all over his stomach --
"Say it, Wally."
"Do it for me," whispered against his mouth, or maybe licked into the flesh of Wally's lips, and Wally's vibrating again, thrumming with it, wanting --
"Don't make me --"
"Wally..." And the kiss is deep and slow, too slow, so wet, and Wally moans and arches into it, sucks on his tongue and thrusts against him, and there's something wrong.
It isn't the kiss, or the feel of all that skin and muscle against him, it's --
Light. And he opens his eyes before he can think, and he sees. Everything he's been feeling on him, over him. The soft, thick hair is black, the hard mouth is red, the hot skin is pale, paler where it's scarred, and the eyes --
It shouldn't mean anything. He's never seen Batman without the cowl, and he's never even tried to imagine the man in normal clothes, except for that one time with John and all the tequila, and -- it shouldn't matter.
Except that he'd also never imagined Batman's eyes, but if he had...
They'd be just like this. Lasered in on him with focus that had no right to be human, bright and wild and sharp and -- crazy. Definitely crazy.
Nobody sane could look like that.
Nobody sane could look at him like that.
And those eyes flare, just for a second, just for long enough to make Wally's heart pound harder, for him to gasp -- and he hits the door hard, again, and he -- and Batman yanks at his tights, pushes them down until they're puddled over the tops of Wally's boots, and Wally manages to kick the left one off, lifts his right leg up to yank at it, but Batman -- Batman just pushes him back against the door and does it himself.
And then he slides his hands up Wally's thighs, squeezing and stroking them, strokes up to Wally's ass and down a little again and --
"Lift them," he says, and Wally stares into those eyes and does it, wrapping his legs around Batman's waist, curling up and in on himself, and Batman just... stares.
"Please," Wally says.
Batman cups his ass again and -- fuck -- one finger in his cleft, sliding down slow, slow, and he's watching Wally, and it feels stupid that it's so good, so much to see his eyes.
It is, though, because now he can feel them, too. The weight of that hot, hungry look, all over his body like a caress. Like possession.
"Yes," he grits, and pushes in.
Dry, hot, big finger, and he's used to it, he's felt it, but not up against a door, or folded up quite like this, and no, no. His stupid brain is making excuses. It's incredible because the lights are on, because he can see Batman doing it, and see the way his face changes, hardens when Wally lets his head thump against the door and groans.
He likes this, he likes it, likes making Wally twist and move like this, likes making him moan and beg with his body. Making him beg --
"Harder, Batman. Do it -- oh God --"
And there's a muscle flexing in Batman's jaw, and he's barely even blinking. Neither is Wally.
He licks his lips and squeezes Batman's shoulders, holds on and tries to work himself faster into it. He keeps losing the burn, and oh fuck that's the best part.
The second best.
The best is the voice, and the look, and Batman -- the other Batman has never sounded like that. Never sounded that open and hungry for him, or maybe not for anyone, and Wally gives up and slides one hand off Batman's shoulder and wraps it around his own dick and Batman pulls out fast and comes back faster, two fingers --
"Oh God --" and Wally can't stop saying it, can't stop bucking and yelling, and Batman twists and Wally comes screaming, thighs flexing around Batman's waist.
Batman holds him, pets him in hard, even strokes until he stops vibrating. Pulls out and sets him down on his feet. And Wally kisses him. He still can't close his eyes, but now he's wondering if Batman ever did.
"You look -- what do you need?"
And that makes Batman close his eyes, squeeze them shut for a long moment that makes Wally want... he isn't sure what he wants. He just knows that it feels like more.
He wraps his arms around Batman's neck and kisses him, presses close until he can feel how hard Batman is through the jeans.
Batman slides one hand into Wally's hair and cups the back of his head, making the kiss deeper. Wally walks them back toward his bedroom, and it's not surprising that even though this is his apartment, and the lights are on, and he's the one facing forward, he's still the one stumbling.
It doesn't matter.
They get there, and Batman lets Wally shove him back onto the bed. Lets Wally crawl on top of him and straddle him and stroke his hands up under that t-shirt, through the sparse hair and over all those scars. Lets him and watches him, like he thinks --
"I'm not going anywhere," he blurts, and... no. He doesn't want to wince. It's exactly right.
"Wally, you -- all I did was turn the lights on."
"No, it's..." He forces himself to stop petting the man, and it takes effort. "It's more than that. I can... um. See you." And it comes out lame, but it's nothing but the truth.
"Don't trust me."
And Batman flips them over and kisses Wally again, bites his mouth and his chin and his throat, growls against his throat and shoves his hands under Wally's back and pulls him up, yanking hard on the top of the suit. Wally hears something tear and reminds himself that he does care, and shoves Batman back just enough to get it off himself.
And then Batman pushes him back down and strokes his chest, over and over, twisting hard on Wally's nipples and -- fuck -- hard again, harder when he sees the hunger back on Batman's face. Wally reaches back and holds on to the pillow and goes with it. Sometimes it's like this, sometimes Batman makes him come again and again, and it's familiar, his body knows it, but it's still so good.
So much better to be able to see this. Batman's eyes and the faint flush staining the hard planes of his face.
His -- Wally can't even call it a perfectly normal face, because it isn't. He's handsome, someone who people take pictures of or something, and it's almost hard to look at, because it seems wrong.
Until he gets another look at those eyes.
They make it easier to breathe, somehow. Easier to just be here, in this bed that hasn't felt like just his in months now. Like he belongs and -- Wally closes his eyes against the thought and turns his head.
Or tries to. Batman has his chin in one hand, and -- he isn't squeezing, or not very hard, but it's still an order. He's used to taking orders from... Wally shakes it off and opens his eyes and... that's an order, too. Something huge and wordless and impossible not to obey, because...
Batman needs to see him, too.
Whatever's in his own eyes -- and he knows.
Wally swallows and Batman nods slowly. And lets go, slipping off the bed --
Batman smiles at him, narrow and honestly amused. And strips off his shirt.
And the jeans, and -- he wasn't wearing shoes. And somehow that's the biggest thing, or the new biggest thing. Batman wandering around his apartment in jeans and no shoes, like he --
Wally laughs helplessly and Batman raises an eyebrow at him, like he's ready to share the joke, and it's just one hit after another, one massive, deadly thing after another, and Wally shakes his head. He's not laughing anymore.
He reaches out and Batman comes back to him, kneels over him, big and hard all over, and Wally says "yes," and Batman wraps his fist around the base of his own dick and slides the head over Wally's open mouth, again and again, and it doesn't feel like a tease. Because those eyes are on him, and Wally knows how much he wants this. All of it, every touch.
And it's just as much as he does.
He groans when Batman pushes in, finally, and slides his hands over Batman's thighs and sucks, staring up at him. More he thinks, and the first thrust makes him drool, and the next makes his dick twitch, and then it's just one after the other, and the slick, heavy weight of Batman on his lip, on his tongue, and Wally lets his eyes roll back in his head and bucks his hips up into nothing.
Batman slides his hands into Wally's hair, and he's not really pulling so much as just petting him hard, moving Wally's head almost incidentally. Making love to him with his hands and fucking him with his dick, taking him and having him, and Wally whimpers around Batman's dick and squeezes the hard muscles of Batman's thighs.
Swallows, again and again, and tries to make himself care enough to breathe. He doesn't, he can't, and Wally's heart pounds and the shadows fade in on his vision. That doesn't matter, either. Every thrust makes his eyes roll back again, and --
He moans and slides his hands up to Batman's hips, urging him on faster, harder, and then just keeps moaning because Batman never needs to be told twice. Not in this, not in anything, and Wally stretches for better access and Batman holds his head and gives it to him.
Fucks him until his lips are numb and the spit slides down his chin, the pre-come slides down Wally's dick and down Wally's throat, and every sound he makes is muffled and choked. He was embarrassed the last time, flushing every time he heard himself sound like bad/good porn, but not now.
Now it feels like one more way of turning on the lights.
Batman gasps and comes down his throat, and Wally shoves at his hips so he can catch the last shots on his tongue, so he can taste it, lick it all over Batman's dick and keep licking until Batman gasps again and pulls out and shifts away.
"Batman," he says, and stops at the hoarse and the raw of his own voice.
And Batman leans in, curls in beside him and tugs him into a messy, hard kiss and jerks him off.
Just as slow.
"Wally," Batman says again, and it sounds like a million deep, important, terrifying things.
Wally whimpers into Batman's mouth and thrusts into his fist.
Batman sucks his tongue for a slow, hot second.
"I won't tell," Wally says, and Batman tenses. "Don't stop, I just -- I just --"
Even when Batman looks sad his eyes are sharp enough to bleed on.
"I need this," Wally says. "I need --"
"Trust you. I know. I won't. Just don't stop."
And now Batman isn't sad so much as serious, and the kisses are harder, and Batman's hand is --
"So good, so --"
Wally groans into the kiss and comes again, panting and vibrating and trying to stop, trying and failing and finally he just gives up and rolls into Batman, sliding his arm under Batman's own and vibrating against Batman's body until Batman rolls them both back down, until he's pressing Wally down to the mattress.
Wally gasps out an exhale and can't breathe in as deeply the next time.
He holds on tighter.
"You still can't stay," he says, so Batman won't have to.
"No. Not... not tonight."
Wally closes his eyes. "Okay."
And Batman kisses his throat, sliding one hand up to Wally's face again and tilting it out of the way. Holding it.
Wally relaxes into the touch, and wonders when he'll have to start lying.
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Fandom: Justice League
Title: This fever, spreading
Author: Te [email] [website]
Details: Standalone | NC-17 | *slash* | 24k | 03/08/04
Characters: Batman, Flash
Summary: Wally knows he shouldn't.
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