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. teland793@sbcglobal.net


John doesn't, actually, like Batman.

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

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

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*

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

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

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



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

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.


"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

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.


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.


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?



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 --

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

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

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

"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.

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

"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

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

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.


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

"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.


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

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

"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.