Disclaimers: DC, Warner Bros., any number of others. I'm
just a supplicant at the temple.

Spoilers: Nothing specific. Assume this happens sometime
*before* Out of the Past.

Summary: Terry knows how to get what he wants.

Ratings Note: NC-17.

Author's Note: I honestly don't remember *where* this
exact bunny came from, but Jack had to be a major
part of it. And Livia, too.

Title from Whitman's "Youth, Day, Old Age and Night:"
"Youth, large, lusty, loving --- Youth, full of grace, force,
fascination! Do you know that Old Age may come after you,
with equal grace, force, fascination?"

Acknowledgments: To Jack, Livia, the Spike, and
Weirdness Magnet for audiencing and hand-holding.
The hand-holding, especially. Jack also gave me beta,
yay.

Feedback: Adored. leytelj@gmail.com

*

If Terry was looking for rationalization, he'd be in luck.

Another night's patrol, another dawn's trip back to the Cave
to get patched up. Because he came that close to getting
killed -- again -- and, hey, no time like the present, right?

He's not looking for rationalization.

Terry's had... a damned long time to get used to this idea.
It's just another one of those plans he usually makes an
effort not to make.

You approach a desire obliquely, from the shadows of
your own heart and mind, or it sees you coming and...
gets away.

Terry knows he has issues.

Just... not about this.

"You should probably try to avoid taking blows with
your ribs, in the future."

And Bruce is... the snarkiest bastard he's ever known.
Ever *likely* to know. Terry gets a better grip on his
own elbows above his head and tries to stay still.
"Yeah, the thought had occurred to me." He doesn't
try hard.

"Do you have an itch?"

Terry considers taking that straight line for what it is,
but... no. No way Bruce won't trip him up if he tries
to do this with *words*. "Sorry," is all he says.

A grunt lost somewhere between non-committal and
irritated.

Bruce is way too fucking good at this. Which, okay,
makes nothing but sense. He isn't just the Batman --
the old Batman -- he's the guy who has had a big
squirming handful of teenagers to fix up after they
got their asses kicked. Years of them. *Decades*.

Still, it doesn't seem fair.

It's not that Terry has *any* bad feelings about the
fact that the guy knows what he's doing when it
comes to first aid.

It's just that it would make Terry's life easier if he
wasn't quite this... professional.

Bruce's fingertips touch him so lightly that they
almost tickle. Almost.

And, well, that's a message in and of itself.

In the old days, Bruce had been a lot less careful with
him when he got banged up. It hadn't taken real long
to figure out that the man had been sublimating the
need to strangle Terry for his fuckups by making the
recovery process as painful as possible. Or maybe it
had just been part of the training. 'Get used to *this*
pain, too, rookie.' Or something.

Whatever.

It's been a while since Bruce has been anything but
gentle as *hell*.

Clearly, Terry has earned... something.

Maybe even what he wants.

From the side, from the shadows, from the dark... and
Bruce seals the PlasTape with his thumb, not looking at
Terry's face. Perfect.

Terry slips one hand down from his elbow and catches
Bruce's own, presses it against his skin.

Against one of the seventy new bruises that are going to
become obvious in a few hours, and, okay, *ow*, but
also... yeah. He remembers this hand, from every time
he's touched it.

The first time he shook it, those rare few times he's
gotten to help the man up.

Big hand, hard hand, male hand, *yeah*. Bruce's hand.
Three long-since-broken and only half-healed knuckles.
Veins and really kind of *cold* skin, loose on muscle
and bone, but not thin. Not yet.

Less an old man's hand than an old fighter's hand.

Bruce's hand.

He can stop staring at it *any* time now.

Terry forces himself to look up, and Bruce is giving him
that look. The one -- okay, *one* of the ones that's
always made him wonder how *anyone* who spent
more than ten minutes with Bruce Wayne could ever get
the idea that he was anything but... something.

Something *important*.

Something that might just *hurt* you if you don't come
up with something useful to say, Terry, *now* -- "I've
been thinking about this," is what falls out of his mouth.
He sounds about ninety percent believably-casual to his
own ears, which means it's probably more like seventy
to Bruce.

Who's still giving him that about-to-commit-violent-
acts-whether-or-not-it-gives-me-a-heart-attack look.
Right.

"How to do this." Terry runs his thumb over Bruce's
knuckles, like traveling a little mountain range.

Bruce narrows his eyes at him. If he's surprised, he's
not showing it. "Terry --"

"Wanna know what I decided on, Bruce?"

And Terry's *definitely* not going to give the man time
to answer *that* question. Yanks Bruce's hand down
to his crotch and thrusts against the palm and... yeah.
The suit's armored, but he's been hard... He feels like
he's been hard for days. Maybe months.

"The direct approach," he says, and forces himself to
keep his eyes open against the not-enough-but-*close*.

It's a long moment of nothing. *Long*. Bruce's eyes
are still narrowed, and his fingers aren't curled around
Terry at *all*, but there's no way he's backing off.

No. Fucking. Way. He lets Bruce hear him. He *could*
try to hide what this is doing to him -- fuck knows he
knows *how*, but there's no point.

And Terry... he's had time for this, too.

Time to figure out exactly what it would feel like to
show Bruce exactly how turned on he is. How much
he --

"You want this?"

"Bruce --" Cut off by his own hiss because Bruce *has*
him. Has his balls in a fucking *death* grip. Or... no.
It's a *threat* grip, because Terry's pretty sure this
won't *actually* sterilize him. Yet. Right.

One chance. That's anything *but* new.

Terry forces himself to relax, some part of him registering
the way his abs have tensed up to allow him to curl in on
himself, but it's only reflex. He braces himself on the
stool with his free hand and arches back. Spreads his legs.
"What do *you* think?"

On anyone else, it'd be a blink. On Bruce, it's just the
half-second *pause* between trying to glare Terry into
submission and kissing him. *Hard*.

His lips are just as not-warm-enough as the rest of him,
but the inside of his mouth is as hot and wet as anyone
else's, and Terry closes his eyes to *focus* on it, keep up
with it. Fast and... fuck, so good. Bruce doesn't so much
loosen his hand as make the touch more purposeful, and
it doesn't matter that the suit's in the way -- that the
*armor's* in the way. If he doesn't get a -- heh -- grip,
he's going to come just like this.

He forces his eyes open again and it doesn't help. Bruce is
staring at him, through him. *Watching* him.

Of fucking course he is.

Terry laughs into the kiss and tugs -- a little -- on the
hand against his crotch. "I wanna be naked."

Bruce... raises an eyebrow at him. And lets go. Backs off.
"Upstairs."

"Fuck yeah."

Terry stands up and strips down to his shorts, leaving the
suit folded on the stool and forcing himself to *walk*
up the stairs, if only just to keep the feeling of Bruce
behind him. All that silent menace.

And if it was anyone else, if *they* were any other two
people, it would probably be awkward. All the damned
stairs, and Bruce with his cane, and then *more* stairs,
and... no. Not awkward.

He slows down enough to let Bruce overtake him.
Bruce doesn't change his mind just because he has to
*delay* his actual gratification, and neither does Terry.
It's actually weirdly... nice.

Because he doesn't even have to give lip service to hiding
the way he's looking at the man. At those broad, broad
shoulders that are nowhere near as stooped as they
probably should be. Slipping beside him to look at the
tendons and muscles working beneath the skin of
Bruce's hand as he puts weight on the cane, as he
releases it.

In front of him again and walking backwards *just*
to watch the way that obviously old scar twists and
moves on Bruce's face when he gives Terry a smile.
A *Bruce* smile. The one where he's laughing *at*
you, not with you, and wants to make sure you
know it.

"You're such a bastard," he says, and he doesn't bother
to keep anything out of it. Not the admiration, and
*not* the old, familiar irritation. You rub me raw, he
doesn't say, but the amused little sound Bruce makes
lets Terry know that he hears it anyway.

And maybe he *could* stop heeling the man like a
poorly-trained dog.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

There are three rooms in the manor that actually *feel*
like anything. The study, with the ghosts of a million
fireside non-conversations, the kitchen, and *this* room,
which is probably the only bedroom that's had *anyone*
in it in fuck knows how long.

This is the only room anywhere that actually smells like
Bruce -- hints of the kind of cologne that Bruce only wears
when Terry has to go to some function with him, hints
of something both absolutely and indefinably male, and
underneath it all... something like metal, or maybe
blood.

Probably his imagination.

It's been making him hard for two years, now.

It just makes him harder now.

Bruce is still at the door -- Terry can feel that, too.
Somewhere behind him, just far enough away that Bruce
would have an easier time committing some hideously
painful act of violence on Terry than the other way
around.

He doesn't have to wonder if Bruce thinks of it that way,
too.

Terry grins to himself and skins out of his briefs, looking
over his shoulder to make *sure* he has Bruce's attention
before winging them into a corner. They drape some
ancient-looking lamp very nicely.

Bruce gives him another eyebrow raise. "Planning on
burning the manor down?"

And... okay, point. Still... He strips off Bruce's jabot,
yanking the collar of the jacket out of the way, balls it up,
and wings *that* at the corner, rocking the lampshade
enough to make the shorts fall to the floor. Raises his
own eyebrow.

Bruce's smile... is exactly the same as it always is, which
makes Terry's heart knock when the man leans in and
takes another kiss. Because he's *naked* and Bruce just
isn't and Bruce is sucking his tongue and... fuck. He
wants to know how long *Bruce* has been considering
this.

How long he's been waiting for it.

He's not going to ask. Some things he wants to figure out
for himself.

And some things are going to be getting him off *nicely*
whenever he's not getting just this. Just the thought of
*Bruce* thinking about it... yeah, not now. Now he's
thinking very seriously about *climbing* Bruce, or at
least dragging his cock all over that perfect suit.

Bruce's hand in his hair, *pulling* Terry's head back.
Staring at him, wordless and perfect. Bruce's mouth is
shiny with spit and Terry wants more *right* now.

Shakes himself free and starts working on the
pressure seam of his waistcoat, more than a little
impressed that he's managing it not-entirely-clumsily.

Burning inside because Bruce is *letting* him.

Terry leans in and sucks a hard kiss to Bruce's throat,
and the looseness of the skin there just gives him an
excuse to make it messy. Bruce grunts and slides his
hand down the middle of Terry's back, down over his
ass and squeezing, pulling him in.

"Fuck, Bruce --"

"What do you want?"

"Everything. Anything. *Now*."

Hand off his ass and up to his shoulder, pushing him
*back*. And pushing him again, and, yeah, he gets it.
Bed. Walks backward until the backs of his knees bump
the mattress and lets himself fall, lets himself sprawl.
Big, hard bed and a big, hard man watching him.

And stalking to him.

No one should be able to stalk with a cane, or maybe
it's just that Bruce, and *only* Bruce, should *always*
be able to stalk with a cane. Stare like a weight and
Terry has to get his cock in hand, *has* to stroke.

And Bruce... stops.

His body can't decide between being pissed off and
being even *more* turned on, because... he's got
Bruce's attention. More than usual, and more than
*before*. He couldn't feel more reckless if he was
jumping off a building when the suit's glider wasn't
functioning. "Wanna see me do it, Bruce?"

Bruce cocks his head at him, exactly like some grey
and terrible bird of prey staring at a fish, or maybe a
rabbit, and Terry's breathing harder, cock leaking
pre-come.

Bruce plants the cane in front of himself, suit falling open
over his chest, and folds his hands over it.

And that is... *so* an answer.

Terry grins and folds his legs back until he can get up on
his knees. Runs his free hand down over his chest, lower
until he's just about hiding the movement of his other
hand from view and... this is not the kind of tease that's
gonna do it for Bruce, and he doesn't really feel like
pretending it does anything for him.

Back up towards his nipples, lingering over the bandages,
over the *bruises* and... he has to. Just a little poke,
and then a harder one, a *longer* one, and he doesn't
really think of himself as being a masochist, but then
he also doesn't really think of himself as easy.

What it comes down to is that there are some things
that he does think about, because it's either fun to do
so (Bruce fucking him) or vital to his continued existence
(how to keep the Batplane from taking a header into the
bay after getting hit by a missile or six).

The rest of it... there's just no room, no time, and no
point.

And he likes the way his belly lurches when he pokes
just *that* hard, the way his cock twitches in his fist,
and the way Bruce... shifts.

Just a little.

"You like that."

"Don't ask stupid questions."

"Yeah, fuck you. On second thought..." Off the bruise with
a gasp and he reaches around and shoves his middle
finger *in* before he can pause or question himself and it
makes his mouth fall open, makes him grunt and whine
and that's *before* he starts fucking himself.

No lube, barely any sweat -- not in *this* monument to
draftiness -- and the burn is pushing him higher, making
him jerk himself faster, and the only thing keeping his
eyes open is the fact that *Bruce* is barely blinking.

"*God*, Bruce --"

"From the front."

"What... I can't."

"Stop jerking off."

"Are you --" *Insane* is what he wants to say, but, okay,
stupid questions. He grits his teeth and takes his hand
off his cock, groaning. Just *looking* at himself is
going to kill him. He's about as hard as he's *ever* been,
cock dark with blood and reaching for his belly and...
he's going to beg. *Soon*.

Braces himself on one sticky hand and slips the other
out of his ass. Reaches around and back *in*.

From the front.

"Spread your thighs wider."

Same voice as ever. *Training* voice. "Fuck. *Fuck*..."
He does it.

"Two fingers."

"I need --"

"You don't."

And he doesn't know who he's punishing by doing it hard,
doing it fast, he just knows it fucking *burns*, and keeping
his eyes open is rapidly going from really-hard to
*impossible*, because, *yeah* he does this to himself.
He's *been* doing this to himself, but it's different when
it's *Bruce* calling the shots.

When Bruce is right *there*, close enough to touch,
close enough to suck, close enough to *fuck*, and still
not *moving*.

"Bruce, touch me."

"Faster."

"I... fuck *please* --"

"Can you come from this?"

"Yeah, maybe, *Bruce* --"

"Show me."

"Need it... need it faster. Harder."

"Do it."

And it occurs to him -- he just asked *permission* to
fuck himself harder. And it's something like shock and
something a *lot* like anger, but it's mostly just...
Bruce is *smiling* at him. With his eyes, which
always means so much more than when he just uses
his mouth.

He's *enjoying* himself, the sick fuck, and... Terry
can't say he isn't doing the same.

"Want your fingers in me."

"I know."

"Your cock."

"I know that, too."

Blue eyes *glittering* at him, and Terry gives his hand
a twist just to see Bruce look that much *hungrier*, and
it's almost a surprise that it feels that good. "Please."

"No."

"*Please*." Twist.

"No."

"You just... wanna hear me beg." *In*.

"You have a remarkable gift for stating the obvious."

"God, I hate you."

"And people say *I* have issues..."

Laughing just turns to a whine, which turns into gasps
and groans, and he *can't* keep his eyes open anymore,
it's too much, he's so hard it *hurts*, and if Bruce would
just *touch* him...

Nothing, and nothing, but the stink of his own sweat and
his cramping wrist and the need that's too big for him
to claim. He can't do it. He *can't*, and the noises he's
making are desperate, pathetic. He'd never let anyone
*but* Bruce hear these noises, and even then...

Even then it's just too fucking much.

"Terry."

"Oh fuck --"

"Open your eyes." And Bruce is *right* there, glittering
at him.

"*Touch* me."

"All right."

Light, teasing, *awful* touch on his cheek, his throat,
brushing over his nipple.

"Like that...?"

"You *bastard* --"

And Bruce *jabs* him, right there, right on that goddamned
bruise Curare left on him with her feet, and it hurts so bad
it knocks the breath out of him, knocks the come out of
him, all over his abs and his chest and -- fuck -- all over
*Bruce*.

Terry shakes. And shakes.

And regains some measure of control over his body and
lifts the hand he's bracing himself on without steadying
himself first. He manages to loop that arm around
Bruce's neck *just* before he falls backward, heels
digging into his own back until he *unfolds*.

And refolds himself around Bruce's body.

He hears the cane hit the floor, somewhere completely
unimportant.

"More," he says.

Bruce smiles at him, and it shouldn't be so *hot* -- they
were this close fifteen minutes ago -- but it is. Maybe
it's that they're laying down now, or maybe it's just
that he's naked and getting come all over Bruce.

Marking him.

And that's...

Terry arches up enough to get to Bruce's throat,
sucking and biting.

"I don't think the Board of Directors would appreciate
me showing up with a hickey, Terry."

"Buy them something pretty. They'll shut up."

Laughter rumbles through the man, more obvious to
Terry's mouth than to his ears. The vibration makes
him suck harder, and Bruce... it's not a thrust. It's too
fluid for that, too much about the whole of the man's
body, as opposed to just his hips.

It doesn't matter, it just feels *good*. Makes him want
to be harder than he is right now, but that's one of
those self-fulfilling things. Has been since he *hit*
puberty, and yeah, he's pretty happy about that. Because
Bruce is just pressing him down to the mattress, Bruce
is *riding* him, and Bruce tastes like sweat and
*Bruce*, and it's a *good* time to be hard.

Better when Bruce makes a little 'hmm' sound that
Terry's only previously heard him make when the
plane was perfectly shined, or, better yet, when
there were bits and pieces of Jokerz' gear on the spikes.

Hunting trophies, he called them, and Terry's mind
could get under control *any* time now.

Bruce's tongue is in his ear.

Or not.

He could *be* a hunting trophy. He could... yeah. Spread
his legs and bend over the plane, the car, whatever.
They *used* to belong to Bruce...

Terry grins to himself and rolls them over -- carefully.
Bruce looks... there's a kind of satisfaction on his face
that Terry never thought he'd see on anyone who was
*that* hard.

This hard. Under him, trapped behind his pants and
his underwear and, yeah, Terry's definitely rubbing
himself off, now. "I want to see you desperate."

Bruce just raises an eyebrow at him.

"Yeah, I know, there'd have to be more physical injury
involved. And possibly weaponry. A boy can dream."

Bruce's hands on his hips, squeezing, slipping back
to cup his ass --

"A boy can also settle for getting fucked. Bruce --"

Back to his hips and the look on Bruce's face is
speculative. The how-much-can-I-get-out-of-this-kid look
that always means Terry's going to get *exactly* what
he asked for.

If not necessarily what he wanted.

He rocks within Bruce's grasp.

"Patience is a virtue."

And he's not, actually, *quite* as desperate as he's playing
it, *but*. "You like me for my vices."

"I don't *like* anyone."

"You like the dog."

"The dog doesn't talk."

"Then shut me up, Bruce..." And it's almost a purr, and
that's not new, either. It's fucked up where it *isn't*
disgustingly sugary, but no one *gets* him like Bruce.

No one plays with him like Bruce. And the smile on his
face feels just as shiny and slick as Bruce's *looks*.

And those hands are sliding back around, stroking his
thighs, his belly, pausing over the bandages just long
enough for Terry to flinch *and* relax -- a sharper
smile -- then those hands are over his nipples. Light,
too light, tracing circles. "Harder."

"No."

It's already been established that begging doesn't work,
which leaves... not a whole lot. Terry braces himself a
little steadier on his knees and covers Bruce's hands
with his own. Catches his fingers. "*Harder*." And that
probably hurt Bruce's fingers -- it hurt his own -- more
than his damned nipples, but --

"Well, why didn't you *say* so..."

Another one of those laughs that he might or might *not*
have noticed if he wasn't actually on *top* of the man,
and no time whatsoever to enjoy it before Bruce is
wrenching his nipples, so hard Terry has to gasp before
he can yell. And then yell a *lot*.

"You really need to learn to take what you're given."

"Not ever gonna get that from *you*, God, Bruce --"

"Shh..."

Hands stroking up over his throat, soft enough to be
soothing if it was anyone but Bruce. It just makes him
*push*, thrust harder, and Bruce's pants are soft and
expensive and in the fucking way. He reaches for his fly
and Bruce responds by pushing up on Terry's jaw with
his thumbs. It's a warding *and* a warning and he
doesn't really give a fuck.

Shakes loose and moves back, smirking at Bruce's hands
closing on empty air and working a little faster, a little
harder, and then Bruce is sitting up and one of those
hands is in his hair. Terry goes with it, letting himself
get pulled forward and then diving *down*, wincing at
the feel of hairs coming free and nuzzling at the man's
crotch.

The smell makes him growl, and not even the feel of
Bruce's fingers digging into the pressure points on his
shoulders can make him move. "You were going to shut
me up," he says into the silk of Bruce's boxers.

Bruce doesn't say anything at all -- but the hold he has
on Terry is abruptly a lot less violent.

Terry grins and tugs at the waistband. Bruce obliges him
by lifting his hips, and Terry tugs pants and shorts down
to the man's knees. If he wants them off, he can fucking
well *take* them off.

Because Bruce is hard and Terry has *been* hard and.
"I've wanted this."

"Take it."

Tempting to see if he can make the man order him -- he's
not going to get a *request* -- but nowhere near as
tempting as just *doing* it. Licks his way up the big vein
and the taste makes him shiver. Has to...

Get his hands on Bruce's thighs, still broader than his own,
still *solid*, even the scarred one, like maybe Bruce is
still working out in some room he just hasn't bothered to
show Terry, and that wouldn't be *remotely* surprising.

He doesn't make Terry work *too* hard to get those thighs
open, though, which is.

Maybe he's not the only red-blooded American male in
the room, after all.

He grins to himself and pulls back, nipping at the insides
of Bruce's thighs, biting when the man twitches, harder
when he gets a grunt.

"Terry."

"Yeah..." Leans in and sucks on the heavy, hanging sac,
opens wide and mouths, letting himself drool, letting
himself just breathe it all *in*.

All the sex he's getting, all the *Bruce* he's getting and thank
God for the direct approach, anyway.

Lets go and licks his way up the man's cock again, and this
time he's not going anywhere. Sucks the head into his
mouth and watches Bruce watch him. Unreadable, for the
most part, and that makes Terry frown, and *that* makes
Bruce smirk.

Bastard, bastard... Terry lets his eyes fall mostly shut and
goes *down*, swallowing hard and humming. Are you
wondering why I know this, Bruce? Not a question worth
asking aloud, even if he could.

Bruce either knows or doesn't give a shit. Possibly both.

The *good* question would, perhaps, be more like 'do you
like it that I already knew?'

Or maybe... 'do you wish I didn't?'

Terry grins around his mouthful and looks up again, and
Bruce is *still* giving him the blank look. And, okay, that's
an answer right there, but no way is it good enough. Not
with the man's *dick* in his mouth. He pulls off with a
wet pop.

"Was there a career in gay porn you haven't told me
about?"

Eyebrow.

"This stoic shit isn't going to cut it, Bruce."

Shutters down again, and Terry's giving *serious* thought
to 'accidentally' hitting some of the scars he *knows* still
give the man pain, but Bruce... blinks.

Sits up and braces himself on his elbows, smiling a little.

"Just how much... noise do you think I make?"

"Exactly as much as you want to."

"So you want an exciting ride?"

And Bruce's smile doesn't change, but he hadn't needed
Bruce to teach him to always watch a man's eyes. And
there's just a tiny... shift. "No," he says, careful to exhale
right over the wet head of Bruce's cock. "I want you to
show me what you like."

The smile slips off Bruce's face and he reaches out, stroking
Terry's face. "I... can do that."

And that pause is just the sort of thing Terry normally
wants to dive into headfirst, but... there are limits to how
far he's willing to push. Right now, anyway. "Good."

And this time when he swallows Bruce's cock, he gets
a gasp, and a hand in his hair. Petting him.

Which means... do that again? Probably. He's pretty
confident that he's not going to fuck up *here*.

He pulls off slow, tonguing the slit, doing it harder when
Bruce grunts and shifts. Pressure on the back of his head
and he goes down again, not quite as smoothly,
because... heh. Bruce is taking him *very* literally.

Show him, right.

A tug on his hair, and Terry obeys.

Pressure. Terry obeys.

Tug. Terry pulls off and glares. "You could just *tell* me
to fuck myself on your cock."

Bruce smirks. "I'm having fun."

"I..." There's really nothing he can say about that. It's not
like he thought this would be *easy*, after all. He smiles
ruefully and scrubs a hand through his hair. "So what can I
do to make you *stop* messing with my mind?"

Bruce blinks. "You want me to *stop*?"

"I... okay, point. Come here," he says, and doesn't actually
give the man any time to do so, crawling up over him
and kissing him hard. Pulling back just long enough to push
Bruce's undershirt up and out of the way, and then just...
touching while he kisses. Hot skin and cooler scars.

And the skin isn't so much soft as it's... looser than his
own. Bruce must've been *leathery* back in the day,
touching him like stroking a fucking saddle or something.

Now, though, it's almost -- almost -- possible to imagine
Bruce as someone you could curl into.

Someone it wouldn't hurt to hug.

Bruce feels his smirk and breaks the kiss. "What?"

"Just thinking about the future. You know, curling up
together in front of a roaring fire, maybe adopting a
kitten --"

"Ace *eats* kittens."

"And you're shit-scared that I'm serious."

Narrow-eyed look. "I've learned not to make any
assumptions about how a person will behave after sex
based on how their behavior *before* having sex."

"Is that a warning, a life-lesson, or just an excuse?"

Thumb on his lower lip. "You decide."

"And what are you going to do?" He touches his tongue to
the tip of Bruce's thumb. Just to offer his own suggestion,
of course.

Bruce responds by pushing his thumb into Terry's mouth,
rubbing his tongue. Sucking would be good. Sucking
would be *very* good. But he wants Bruce to ask. Or tell
him.

He lets his lips hang slack.

Bruce smiles at him with his eyes. "Suck it."

Terry does, not being shy with his teeth, and Bruce fucks
his mouth with his thumb. For a moment -- a long one --
Terry wants to get his mouth back where it means
something, but it's undeniably hot to do this. To imagine
what it would mean if it were any man but Bruce, or if
*he* was the one making someone suck his fingers.

It's better that it can *only* be this way.

That Bruce is the one here, and, for now, Bruce is his.

For that... Terry can be Bruce's just a little more than he
already is. He wonders if the man will notice, or care.

It doesn't really matter.

He catches him by the wrist and holds him still, licking
his thumb and getting it as wet as possible before
pulling off. "I still want you to fuck me."

"I didn't think you'd change your mind."

"Yeah. You might've noticed I'm stubborn."

Bruce sits up all the way, catching Terry by the hip before
he can move back. Body to body and this close he can
feel and taste every breath.

"Do it," he says, and kisses Bruce, eyes wide open right
until that wet thumb slides down his crack, and it's like
some complicated work of machinery, or maybe a really
simple one.

Slick slide of Bruce's thumb, and the way that every
millimeter seems to be another weight on his eyelids,
and the way that the lower his eyelids droop the sharper
the smile in Bruce's eyes.

It doesn't seem right, or even believable that it should be
this good between them, that this could *work*.

It's horrifying in exactly the right way.

Not just good -- *right*.

He's never letting this go.

He spreads his legs, and that just makes it better, presses
them together at the crotch, and bucking back into the thumb
teasing his hole means bucking forward, rubbing himself off
against Bruce and... yeah, that, too.

"Wanna come all over you," he pants into Bruce's mouth.

"You're getting predictable, Terry."

"Okay, want you to come all over --" Cut off by his own grunt
as Bruce pushes *in*. Not slick enough, even with all the
spit. There's a difference between stretching yourself out
and fucking yourself raw.

"Too much?" Almost -- *almost* solicitous.

"Nn. Not enough."

"Stop trying to make a point." But Bruce doesn't *stop*
fucking him, doesn't even pull away.

"I'm... not."

Bruce kisses him again, slow and hard, not quite biting at
his mouth so much as promising a bite if Terry doesn't get --
and stay -- with the program. And Bruce's thumb... every
push in makes Terry twitch, every pull *out* makes him
wince. Bruce sucks his lower lip for a moment before
breaking the kiss.

Looking Terry up and down with something sleepy in his
eyes, something lazy and powerful.

"Well?"

"I... yeah. Lube."

Bruce doesn't embarrass either of them by saying anything
about that 'not being so hard,' just nods and slips out,
slowly, pushing a little on Terry's hips until he braces
himself more firmly on his knees.

And backs up to rest against the headboard, opening the
drawer on the night-table and rummaging.

Terry can't help but grin a little at that. Bruce may be
*Bruce*, but he's still a man. It's more than a little smug-
making that he has to *look* for the lube.

Bruce raises an eyebrow at him. He knows *exactly*
what Terry is thinking.

And it's the perfect opportunity for Bruce to shut him
down -- Terry is *waiting* for the snide comment -- but
he doesn't say anything, just moves the small bottle in
his hands like a careless magician.

"You're thinking about making me slick myself up, aren't
you?"

Twitch of a smile. "Getting tired?"

"Getting tired of being the evening's 'entertainment.'"

Yet another eyebrow raise.

"Okay, that's a lie. I just..." He runs a hand over his own
chest. "Do you... how much does that do it for you? I
mean..."

And Bruce actually looks surprised for a moment, like
of *course* he enjoys watching his 'personal assistant'
fuck himself like a nympho hooker.

Which, when you put it *that* way... "Never mind."

"Come here."

And Terry seriously considers just sort of stumble-walking
the few feet on his knees, but, really, why *not* go for it?
He scoots back, instead, and drops onto his hands, sliding
them along Bruce's legs. If the bed was bigger, he could
make this *really* exciting, but it's still an impressive half-
crawl, half-slither, if he does say so himself.

And he thinks serious time could be spent rubbing himself
off on Bruce's legs, sometime in the (near) future. The one
with the ridiculously huge and angry-looking scar which he's
not going to ask about, and the one that might well be as
ripped and solid as that of a man thirty years younger, all
thick scratchy hair and infinitely thicker muscle.

Bruce's hand falls on the back of Terry's head, curving in a
gesture of affection that would be a lot more warming if he
wasn't so fucking turned on.

He leans in to suck Bruce's cock a little more, getting something
like a rumbling purr out of the man and stroking as much of
Bruce's chest as he can reach. He wants this body -- wants it
for himself.

He wants to strip down in front of a mirror when he's eighty
and know that he can kick just *about* anyone's ass, and that
the only reason it's not everyone is that he's spent his whole
life earning scars and breaks and tears and *damage*.

Damage that *means* something.

And maybe it's a little fucked up that so much of his lust is
tied in to envy, to covetousness, but maybe that's just the
purest way to do things.

How can anything be better than wanting what you admire?
Than desiring... *exactly* what you desire. Terry smiles
against the softness of Bruce's stomach, and burrows in until
he's nuzzling the skin against muscle that's been *just* this
toned since before his mother was born.

And yeah, that makes him even harder. Though if he calls
Bruce 'gramps' out loud he's *never* gonna get fucked.

Laughs and kisses his way up, sucks at the nipple that got
sliced or shot off sometime in the bad/good old days, and
then at the one that's still there. Bruce is petting him like a
favored animal, and tugging, too.

Just a little.

Terry takes the offered kiss, and lets Bruce pull him in all
the way, snugged up tight so that his knees are bumping
the headboard on either side of Bruce's hips, so that every
other part of him is bumping something even better.

And the way Bruce is looking at him -- looking *up*, in an
accident (not likely) of positioning...

It's too much, because it feels like the way *he's* been
looking at *Bruce*. And that's wrong. Makes him shake his
head, but Bruce just catches him by the jaw.

"It doesn't have anything to do with your age," Bruce says,
and kisses him again, and Terry has just enough time to
register the slickness of the fingers on his hip before those
fingers are pressing *in*, making him moan into Bruce's
mouth, making him rock back onto them.

"Whatever, I don't care, more --"

And Bruce gives it to him, fucking him with those fingers and
fucking him with his tongue, and Terry's cock drags over
Bruce's stomach. It's a tease that's going to kill him, and
very soon. Nowhere near enough friction, not enough to light
a fucking *match*.

Just enough to make him feel like he's smoking, like he's
rubbing himself down to nothing useful and. "Please," he says,
letting his head fall back, and Bruce's mouth is much too
careful on his throat.

Which, okay, *he* can't buy the people who'll ask about a
hickey anything pretty, but still. Can't help pushing against
the kiss, the sucking not-quite-bite, as Bruce *rides* him
with those rough, thick fingers.

"I want. I want --"

And Bruce's other hand is on his hip, pulling on him, or
maybe...

"God, do you want me to turn around?"

"Yes."

And either Bruce is feeling especially laconic, or he's just
too turned on and wound up to chastise Terry for stupid
questions. Either works.

He feels thick and awkward and clumsy, and he thinks his
job of turning around was probably more funny than hot,
but whatever. Bruce is spreading him with one hand and
Terry spreads *himself* from the other side and --

"*Bruce* --"

"Sit back."

Terry does, and gasps at the first blunt nudge against his
hole. He can't quite see, even when he looks over his shoulder,
but he can imagine it. Bruce has to be holding his own cock,
guiding it into him, and fuck, *yes*, he's fantasized about
this. *Dreamed* about it, and the only reason he's making
himself go slow is that he wants to *feel* this.

Every moment of stretch, of slick burn, of the way Bruce stops
holding him open to slide that hand up and over his back for
no practical reason. Bruce is just *feeling* him as Terry sinks
down, as Bruce sinks *in*, and Terry has no idea how he's
ever going to walk past a mirror now without seeing
*something* like what Bruce sees.

How sexy he must be, just like this. "Oh God."

Bruce grunts and thrusts, just a little.

"Yeah, I... oh *fuck*," and he's all the way down. Bruce is all
the way *in*, and sweat breaks out all over Terry's body.
He can *smell* himself, and smell the room, and smell Bruce
and sex, and he doesn't have to be told.

He couldn't make himself stay still even if he *tried*.

Braces himself on his knees and pulls off *almost* all the
way and drives himself back down.

Bruce doesn't make a sound, but both of his hands are on
Terry's hips now, squeezing hard and...

"Fuck. Fuck, Bruce, make me..."

And he doesn't really want to ask, he feels *guilty* asking,
but he's *seen* what Bruce can and can't do, and it's just
so good to let the man hold *some* of his weight, to
make Bruce *lift* him and then pull him back down.

"Oh *God*."

Rough grunt out of Bruce and the burn's all through him
in a way that has nothing to do with summer or sunlight --
even a Gotham August. That's all about how you feel on
the *outside*.

This is just lighting him up all through him and way down
deep, like maybe his bones would be glowing like -- bad
imagery. He shakes it off, and then just tosses his head
because *that* feels good.

The way most of his hair is stuck down to his face and neck
with sweat, and the way *some* of it can move, and Bruce
is moving *him*, fingers digging in hard and cock digging
in harder and Terry can't wait anymore.

Fists his own cock and groans. Good idea *and* bad idea,
because, yeah, it's just driving him higher and higher,
working himself in rhythm with every thrust, but he also
can't keep this *slow*.

And part of him wants Bruce to just push him down and
fuck him into the mattress and down through the *floor*,
but he's got *nothing* like patience left.

He has to let go of his cock, has to drop to his hands and
brace himself and *work*, fast and hard, and Bruce's gasps
are drowned out by his own grunts and yells. Which sucks,
but it's not like he's even *remotely* capable of *not*
making noise.

He *wants* Bruce to know what this is doing to him.

Wants him to remember this the way he wants him to
remember every good kick he gets in out on the streets, every
sweet little move he coaxes out of the Batplane.

This, he wants to say, is *exactly* how good I am.

Use me.

And Bruce is mapping him out like a blind man, stroking him
all over his back, and then around his chest and it's not the
best position for *any* of it and Terry has about thirty seconds
before it gets really frustrating. Maybe fifteen.

"Bruce. Bruce, fuck, deeper -- *fuck* --"

No words, just a slick finger sliding in *next* to Bruce's cock,
pulling him open and making Terry lurch and yell, mouth
open and groaning on every thrust, even though he's doing
most of the work. He's making *himself* lose it, and somehow
that's making it worse. Better. Hotter, something.

He scrabbles at the sheets and throws his head back and tries
to see past the curtain of his sweaty hair, tries to focus enough
to... he doesn't know *what* the fuck he wants to do other
than get *more*.

"Sit up."

"Yeah, okay, Jesus..." Only way to do it is fast, pushing off
with his hands so he *springs* up, and the new angle makes
him scream, makes him feel like he's being *split*, and there's
no way to stop. Bruce slipping his finger *out* is a goad, and
Terry doesn't know why he moved down in the *first* place.
He wants to ride Bruce for at least the next five years, with
occasional breaks to shoot missiles and things, and maybe --
*maybe* -- eat, and Bruce is holding him close and thrusting
*up*.

One hand around Terry's cock --

"Oh God. Oh *God* --"

And the other hand slipping up over his chest, twisting and
pulling at his nipples --

"Don't. *Stop*."

And up to his throat for the *briefest* squeeze --

"Yeah, yeah that, too --"

And Bruce is sucking on the back of his neck and *growling*,
and Terry hadn't realized he had any control left to lose, but
it's gone now. He can't even stay in rhythm, he doesn't
know what to do with his hands beyond reaching back to
grab at Bruce.

Or maybe just covering the man's hands with his own, not
guiding so much as *riding*, and Terry lets his head fall
back on Bruce's shoulder, shaking and trying to keep going,
even graceless and ragged. Enough to keep up the intensity.

He doesn't have *words* left, just desperate noise.

Louder when Bruce *squeezes* his cock and moans. Once.
Long and low and Terry turns his head as much as he can,
enough to catch the end of it in a kiss as Bruce stops.

And comes.

Comes *inside* him, and that's just the hottest thing ever,
and his cock pulses in Bruce's fist and Terry makes him
stroke faster, squeeze harder, because he wants to come
*now*, while it's still rolling through him like fire in
zero-g, relentless and alien and beautiful.

"Please. Please --"

"Terry," Bruce says, and that's enough, oh yeah. He
comes all over Bruce's fist and his own stomach, groaning
and shuddering until he can remember how to breathe.

Bruce gives him time, bracing him with hands around his
biceps and easing him forward -- but only enough to rest
his mouth against the back of Terry's neck again. Not quite
kissing.

Every exhale against his sweat-damp skin just makes
Terry wonder how long he can possibly convince the man
to let them stay *just* like this. He makes a conscious
effort to ease the tension from his own muscles, and feels
Bruce's teeth against the nape of his neck.

He wonders how many times they'll have to do this before
he'll be able to read the man's expressions with his skin.
He's pretty sure that's a smile, but... Bruce has a surprising
variety of very different smiles for such a surly bastard.

"You should shower."

"You should join me."

Bruce's grin presses a little harder against his skin for a
moment. "I don't have a mother to go home to."

And, really, there's nothing like being forced to think about
your mother when you have your boss' dick up your ass to
kill a mood. "Right." Terry eases himself off and stretches.
Slides off the bed and stretches a little more.

He looks over his shoulder to find Bruce watching him with
open, honest appreciation.

Not the kind of thing he wants to push, but... "You really
don't have any issues with this at all, do you?"

A flare behind those eyes, that same mix of amusement
and threat. "You expected different? From me?"

"If I had, I wouldn't be here."

Bruce leans back against the headboard, good knee bent
up. Easy in himself. "There's your answer."

Terry narrows his eyes at him for a moment, just a little
suspicious, because... *too* easy. But Bruce's look fades
into something darker and meaner and *familiar* soon
enough. Terry nods to himself and retrieves his shorts,
pulling them on over... everything, and, yeah. They'll only
be fit for burning, now, but whatever. They'll get him back
down to the Cave where the rest of his clothes are.

He considers saying something about the way he feels,
about why it's perfect that the answer to his question about
Bruce -- *this* question, anyway -- has been in Terry all
along.

He pauses with his hand on the door frame.

And then grins to himself, because... Bruce already knows.
That's kind of the point.

"See you tonight," he says, and makes his way back to
the Cave.

If Bruce says anything in response, it's too quiet to
register.

end.