This and that of you
by Te
November 5, 2008

Disclaimers: No one and nothing here is mine.

Spoilers/Timeline: Vague references to older storylines. Takes place over the course of about fifteen years.

Summary: Share and share alike.

Ratings Note/Warnings: Sexual content which does and doesn't dovetail neatly with the content some readers may find disturbing.

Author's Note: Missing scenes and a sequel to the first ending of A way so familiar. Will not make a *lick* of sense without the other.

Acknowledgments: Much love to Jack and Mildred for audiencing and encouragement.


There are problems with this, starting with the fact that he's in Bruce Wayne's big, big bed wearing only a pair of boxer shorts.

Somewhere -- in this big, big house -- Bruce's valet-cum-guardian is wandering around, *being* someone who won't let Harvey call him Mr. Pennyworth, and apparently not doing a thing about the fact that his... ward is screwing his best friend.

And his cousin.

There are other problems -- like the fact that it's *him*, and he's doing something he's known from the time he was *nine* wasn't right. Wasn't --

Well, okay, he knows there's nothing wrong with it -- no matter what the rest of the world thinks -- but that's just it. If he's *caught* doing this, then the rest of the world will come down on him like a ton of bricks, and he just can't.

He *can't*. He has his future to think about, college and beyond, maybe politics, and this is *exactly* what he said he'd never do, what he said he'd *control* in himself. It's not like he doesn't like girls -- he *loves* girls, loves *fucking* girls, and he *ought* to be able to just focus on them like he has since his dick started working for more than just pissing --

Except for how he's here, laying out on Bruce's bed like some fuck-dumb idiot while Bruce... sketches him.

God, maybe he should insist that Bruce doesn't sketch his face. Just -- what if somebody *finds* that thing?

It even comes with an image -- any *one* of the assholes they go to school with ripping out the pages and running through the squad with the best ones, the dirtiest ones --

"You're very tense, Harv."

"You *think*?"

Bruce looks up and frowns, and -- damn. It's that worried frown. The one that comes right before Bruce maybe shutting himself down and not saying one damned casual word until Harvey begs for a *week* --

"Hey, no, no, I'm not mad at you."

"You *are* angry, though," Bruce says, and that's -- new. He used to let Harvey just get *away* with saying things like that.

There's a lot of things he used to do -- and be -- before Tom Wayne came along, and -- where is *he* now? They see him at meals, and other than that, he's just not there, at all. He'd *said* he'd give him and Bruce space, but damn.


"I'm angry at myself. For -- doing this."


And sometimes, Bruce is just the sweetest, most naive -- Harvey plucks at the left leg of his shorts --

"Oh, I'm -- I'm not done. Drawing that."

Right. "Sorry. Um... sorry." Harvey blows out a breath. "You don't think this is a little... too?"

Another frown, deeper this time. "We don't have to. I just thought... you look very beautiful like that. Even though you're tense."

Beautiful. Not handsome, not even attractive. Beautiful. "Bruce --"

"I'll put this away. We can do something else --"

"No! Don't -- don't be like that. I'm just..." Harvey sighs, and... yeah, he's being an idiot and probably an asshole, too. "You can sketch me all you want. I'll just lie here and wonder what the *hell* I'm doing with my life -- no, not that, either."


"See, I *knew* getting involved with you would be different from getting involved with *anyone* else -- even if I hooked up with some other guy. I'm just being slow about dealing with *how* different it is."

Bruce nods, and, after a moment, he smiles.


"When Tom tells me I'm unique, he tends to have the same blend of fondness and exasperation in his expression."

"I'll just *bet*. Ah... how long? Do you think you'll need?"

Bruce stares down at the sketchpad. "Hm. Twenty minutes. If it's going to be any good."

Everything Bruce does is good. Just -- everything. "Okay, then. I'll just -- relax."

Or he'll try, anyway. Just -- he's been *sleeping* in the room to the other side of Tom's, because, of course, Wayne Manor has more bedrooms than his apartment building has *floors*. He's been sleeping there, but he's been spending pretty much every other moment in *here*.

To the point where he can *smell* himself in here, now, and -- hell, he was supposed to take Bruce out on the town, continue Tom's good work, a little...

Is Tom heading into Gotham, at all? Without them?

The idea makes him feel a little pissed-off and a lot guilty, which is stupid on more levels than Harvey can really deal with. Still --

"Do you know what Tom's been up to?"

"Working out, I think. He's very dedicated," Bruce says, and doesn't look up from the sketchpad in a way that seems... unlike him.

"You know, you don't have to spend all day *every* day with me. I could just watch some TV, check out the grounds --"

"We don't have a TV," and Bruce looks up with a rueful smile. "Do you think we should?"

"Uh... there are good shows? You can watch the news?"

"Alfred prefers newspapers. I miss them when we're at school." 

"Do you think... hell, okay, I'll stop pussyfooting around. I'm kind of... worried about Tom."

Bruce nods. "I wish he'd spend more time with us."

"That would probably be easier if we weren't shut up *here* all the time --"

"I like. It's good to have you in my bed, Harv."

And the way he says it, so low and so *full* --

"Oh. Harv..."

Because of course there was no way for him not to *notice* the twitch of Harvey's dick, the way he *gets* for Bruce, because there's no one like him, anywhere. No one so big and fucking -- gorgeous. And right now those blue eyes are warm and getting hotter, and Bruce is actually in the process of setting the sketchpad *aside* -- "Don't do that. Uh -- you should finish."

Bruce looks at him for a long, long, heavy, long, *hot* moment -- "Are you sure?"

And yeah, there's a part of him which wants to laugh it off -- he'll be seventeen in a couple months, not *fourteen* -- but the rest of him is kind of *stuck*, because now he knows exactly what it's *like* with Bruce.

His mouth, his huge fucking hands, his *body* --

Harvey licks his lips, and Bruce shifts, getting up on his knees so that Harvey can see how hard he is under his own shorts, how *much* he wants -- "Jesus, big guy. We just --"

"Two hours ago."

"Uh -- that long?"

Bruce nods, and -- yeah, he's not going to question Bruce on time. He's got one of those fucking *atomic* clocks in his brain.

"Then -- we can wait a little longer. Finish. I want -- I want to see."

Bruce nods again and settles back on his heels, and -- see, if he *hadn't* lain down with a pillow under his head, he wouldn't be able to *see* the outline of Bruce's big dick through his boxers. The shadows ought to hide it more, or --

Something. "You look so good, Bruce."

"I'm glad you think so. You and Tom -- oh," Bruce says, and perks up. "Tom's back."

"He is?"

"His door just closed. He leaves it open when he's not there."

"You heard...? Okay, fine, so your hearing is apparently spectacular. Makes me think you shouldn't make me shout so much, hunh?"

"I disagree. Vehemently."

It doesn't always seem right that Bruce can make him blush like a damned kid, sometimes, except for how a part of him thinks it's just perfect, but that part wants them to have a *real* thing, to tell the world to fuck right the hell off so he can have his -- boyfriend.

Man. Lover.

Harvey shakes it off. "We should -- we should at least bring him in here. I miss the little guy."

"So do I," but Bruce looks down again. "I think he might be... you know he's very... down."

"He lost someone, you said. A... cousin?"

Bruce nods. "They were very close."

"Yeah, I -- I can't believe I forgot, except for how he's been hiding it pretty damned well."

"He can be... private. But it hurt him a great deal. He..." And Bruce is speaking more quietly now, like maybe Tom's hearing is just as good as his own. "He broke down when he heard the news, Harv. I've never seen him --" He shakes his head. "He wouldn't let me comfort him for a long time."

"Some guys... some guys are like that, Bruce. Girls, now -- they know how to deal with things like that way better than we do. It's *okay* for them to cry whenever the mood hits 'em, so they get used to it, to *letting* themselves feel sad. And Tom's not *like* other guys, really, but it's still there. He probably didn't want you to see him being weak --"

"He's *not* weak, Harv --"

"No, I know," Harvey says, and pushes at the air a little with his hand. "I'm not saying he is, at all. But he might *feel* that way."

Bruce nods slowly, and --

Hell, had Tom maybe *needed* Bruce this week? This, and -- he'd also lost his *girlfriend*, and never mind wondering what a guy like him had been doing with a girlfriend in the first place -- "We should get him in here, make him talk. Or just make him listen while *we* talk *at* him."

"He -- he really does value his privacy --"

"And maybe you're worried about pushing too hard?" Harvey smiles and kicks Bruce's knee lightly. "Go get him. *Trust* me when I say it's a good idea. I promise I won't move a muscle."

Bruce nods and sets the sketchpad down, and -- puts on his robe, even though he's just going next door. Apparently, walking around in your underwear is *not* done, even if fucking under the same roof as your guardian is. Learn something new every day.

Harvey rests back on his elbows and waits, trying to think cool and colder thoughts, because, yeah, he's *not* hard, but there was something about the way Bruce was walking --

The way Bruce walks, sometimes, when he's just been working out with Tom. That *light* step even though he's as big as a damned house and twice as solid. He's not hard, but he really could be, *easily*, and there's no way he's making Tom put up with that. Not after monopolizing the only family the poor guy has out here for the past couple of days.

And it only takes a minute or two before Tom's walking in with Bruce on his heels. The smile on his face is tight and small, but it still looks like a real one. His eyes, though...

Harvey shudders a little, inside, and pats the bed next to him. "I promised Bruce I wouldn't move so he could finish his sketch, but there's plenty of room."

Tom nods and crawls on. His shoes are off, and he's dressed in rich-boy casual -- or as close to it as anyone who lives with Alfred Pennyworth is likely to get. He obviously wasn't working out, but...

"So... what were you doing all day?"

"I had Alfred take me into the city so I could spend some time at the library," Tom says. "Just... getting more of a handle on Gotham."

"Aw, you can't do that in the library. You've gotta *feel* the town, live in it, a little."

He gets a little more of a smile for that. "Noted. I..." He turns to Bruce. "I spoke to Lex earlier today. I'm going to head out to Metropolis tomorrow for the rest of break."

Oh... that's going to go over like a lead balloon. Damn. Bruce looks like -- Harvey clears his throat. "You sure that's a good idea? Tom? I mean, I know you and Lex are tight, but --"

"I just need -- a change of scenery, I think. Lex called this morning and he invited me..." Tom smiles ruefully. "I think I may have jumped at the chance."

And Tom is *looking* at Harvey, but he's pressing his foot against Bruce's knee, and -- Harvey gets it. He's attempting to *will* Bruce to deal, but he really ought to know --

"Tom," Bruce says, and his voice is full again, just in different and *darker* ways.

"Bruce. It'll be all right. You and Harvey will get more time together, and I'll get to -- I can't stay here right now, Bruce. I can't."

And that makes Bruce look hurt, which makes Tom look both determined and a little self-loathing. Deep water, right.

Harvey nudges the sketchpad with his foot. "You were gonna finish, big guy."

Bruce blinks and nods, and -- it's not that Harvey doesn't understand Bruce's problem. Lex is *Lex*, and that's more than enough problem for *anybody* -- except for Tom, who'd gotten himself caught up so tight with the guy that it's a little scary.

But... he misses his home, and for *some* reason he can't go back there just yet, and who knows? Maybe Lex *does* find ways to make it easier on the guy, even as he makes things harder for *everyone* else.

It would definitely be better if Bruce and Tom weren't screwing -- but it's a little hard to figure out who, exactly, it would be better for. Bruce is in love. Tom... he's not sure. Harvey honestly wants to protect Bruce, but he knows that's built on a whole lot of the kind of selfishness he can't afford.

Bruce can't ever be his *real* lover, and so he can't exactly ask him to give Tom up. Tom seems to think it's just fine that Harvey gets to have Bruce all to himself sometimes, but he also thinks it's just fine to do that without giving Bruce up, himself.

Or Lex.

He doesn't know.

"I... I'd like to see that. When you're done," Tom says, and his voice is quiet and a little on the small side.

"Yeah, me too," Harvey says. "Unless you want to keep it to yourself."

This time, Bruce's frown is thoughtful. "I still haven't... there's a lot I haven't learned, yet, though the books Tom bought have been very helpful."

Tom smiles again. "You have an incredible amount of natural talent, Bruce. There's always a fair amount of emotion in your work, life... well."

"I just copy what I see," and Bruce shakes his head. "Not as well as I'd like. My memories are better, more full, but I want -- I always want something tangible, as well. Like your photographs, Tom."

"Understandable," Tom says, and -- hunh.

"You take pictures, Tom? Like... buildings and stuff?"

Tom waves a hand. "It's a hobby I've had for a few years. I think I've gotten some decent shots of a few spots on the grounds, though I won't know until they're developed."

Harvey nods. "That's pretty cool that both of you are artists --"

"I'm not --"

"Harv, it's just --"

Harvey snorts. "Fine, *neither* of you are artists. You just do things really well that other people can't do for shit, okay?"

Tom smiles and looks down. Bruce gives him one of those long -- and longing -- stares. The kind that make Harvey want to just roll Bruce under him and --

No, he's not going to give himself a damned hard-on. "So... you brought a camera here with you, Tom?"

"Actually, no. I'd -- planned to give it up. But when Bruce bought me a camera for Christmas..." Tom smiles. "I still don't know how he knew."

Bruce smiles, too, even though he doesn't stop sketching. "I didn't. I just wanted... I wanted to be able to look through your eyes."

And Tom... if he was a girl, Harvey would say that Tom's kind of melting over there. Well, no, he's absolutely melting for Bruce. Anyone would, and this -- "Heh, this is why I've never been too upset about Bruce not making other friends. Someone like him -- you kinda have to try to keep him for yourself."

"Harv --"

"Yes," Tom says. "You do."

And Bruce looks up and looks at both of them, back and forth and back again. He's blushing, and he looks so damned *happy*...

And suddenly Harvey is really *feeling* the hours since the last time they'd kissed. They're like a weight on his chest, making breathing a challenge. Making *thinking* a challenge --

"I really should... go pack," Tom says, and starts to move --

And it's a surprise that it's his hand on Tom's arm, firm and a little hard, but -- it's there, and he has to deal with that. "Hey, no. What are you gonna do when you're finished with that? Sit up alone in your room?"

"I was planning to work out a little more. I -- Harv, the two of you don't get enough time at school --"

"And neither do the two of you. Sometimes -- sometimes I think, maybe, there *isn't* enough time for things like this --"

"There isn't," Bruce says, and sets the sketchpad down before crawling closer -- to Tom. He cups Tom's face, and Harvey has to see --

Tom's eyes get heavy-lidded almost *immediately*, like a part of him was maybe just waiting for that touch, this *moment*, and Harvey doesn't --

He could clear his throat or something, *remind* them that they're not alone, but it's not like they both don't know that. They need this, maybe, they --

"Tom," Bruce says, and it sounds like a full dozen of the kinds of things Bruce says to him to make him *crazy* --

"Bruce. I -- I want --"

"Please stay. If not for the week, then for today. I'll... you could tell me. What to do."

And Tom frowns so hard that he looks much older for a long moment, like maybe Harvey and Bruce are the only real teenagers in the room, and --

Maybe that's what death does to a person when it comes too soon and too hard. Harvey sits up slowly, trying not to interrupt their moment. He just needs to -- see this.

"You... you know Harvey doesn't *mind*," Bruce says, and there's a plea in his voice, something that makes Harvey glad he's sitting up and can bunch his boxers up a little bit, because --

"Bruce," Tom says again, and the sound of his voice --

It's not a surprise that Bruce kisses him. It was a request, a plea of his own, and they look --

Bruce is so much *bigger* than Tom, but Tom still looks older, that line on his forehead cutting deep even as he tilts his head back to take the kiss, make it deeper --

Bruce moans, and Harvey's dick has had way too much time and experience with that *not* to respond, not to want to reach out, touch, *have* -- and Bruce is still just cupping Tom's face, but he crawls closer on his knees, backing Tom up against the headboard and pressing close, closer --

*Tom* moans, and it's not a sound Harvey was ever supposed to hear, or know --

They look good together. They look --

They *look* like family, like something a lot closer and messier than cousins, and knowing that that *shouldn't* turn him on isn't doing a thing to make it stop happening. Just -- he's got that heavy feeling, the warm feeling all over his skin and that *tight* feeling at the base of his spine.

And he can't stop staring.

Tom's hands are on Bruce's shoulders, but they look like they want to be other places. They're *shaking*, just a little --

And Bruce pushes *hard* with just his hips, making Tom's eyebrows go up, making Tom moan again --

And Harvey thinks he can maybe see all of it, now. Bruce wanting Tom badly enough that he ached, and Tom doing or saying *something* to make Bruce think it was okay, that it *could* be okay. It's -- Bruce would've *needed* that, but as soon as he got it --

As soon as he got it, Bruce would've been all over Tom, wanting and needing at him and kissing him like it's a physical debate and points needed to be scored. He should look away.

Possibly he should *walk* away --

Bruce breaks the kiss and stares at Tom, and Harvey has just enough time to take a *breath* before Bruce pushes Tom's head back and starts sucking and kissing his throat. Just -- Harvey knows what that *feels* like. Those lips and that tongue --

*Teeth*, and it's clear where Bruce had been getting that practice from, it's --

Tom is gasping and *groaning*, shaking more -- pushing. He's *pushing* Bruce, or trying to --

And then Bruce's hand is on Harvey's knee, squeezing and stroking --

And Tom is laughing, cracked and a little high.

"Uh --"

"Sorry. About this -- nnh. Harvey. Um --" Tom laughs again, *gasps* again, and he doesn't need to see everything to know that Bruce is biting him again.

"It's okay? I think? Look, I can leave -- *ow* --"

The thing is, Harvey's *pretty* sure Bruce doesn't do anything to strengthen his hands, but right now he's equally sure that Bruce doesn't have to.

"C'mon, big guy, you've got Tom right there --"

"Both of you," Bruce says -- *slurs* against. Against Tom's throat. He knows what that *feels* like --

"*Bruce*," and Tom's pushing again. "We talked about this --"

"Not enough," and Bruce pulls back, finally. His lips are swollen and a little red, *wet* -- he licks them and -- yeah, that was Harvey's dick twitching. Fuck.

"Bruce, it's great that you want us all to be close. I think that's a fantastic idea," Harvey says, and nods at Tom -- and stops, because Tom still has his head tilted back, and his eyes are closed --

And Bruce is *humping* Tom even as he stares at Harvey, pushing and grinding --

"Uh -- hell. Bruce --"

"You're hard," Bruce says --

Tom's eyes are open *wide* --

Fuck. "Well, it's not every day that I get gay porn played out in front of me, big guy," he says, and his voice is *real* damned shaky, but he'd gotten that out, and that has to help --

Especially when Tom laughs again. "Sorry. Again. I seem to be in something of a -- Bruce, you should really. Stop."

"*You're* hard," Bruce says, and fucking *darts* in to lick Tom's throat, long stripes of his tongue --

Tom's eyes roll back.

"Guys, come on --"

Bruce pulls back again. "We can all -- we're *here*, and safe, and aroused. We can be together," and Bruce is stroking Harvey's thigh now, squeezing and marking the shape of it, maybe testing the damned *muscle* --

"Bruce," Tom says, and he sounds fucking *admirably* together, considering all that Bruce pressed against him -- "Harvey and I -- we're friends. That doesn't mean we want to have sex with each other."

And Bruce's frown is fucking *epic*, but --

"Yeah, big guy, what *he* said. I -- I'm not *ready* for a gay orgy."

"And that's *entirely* all right, especially since I feel the same," Tom says, and pushes Bruce again. "Please, Bruce --"

"It's wrong," Bruce says, moving back entirely -- and not incidentally letting Harvey start breathing normally again.

"It's *not* --"

"It's *wrong*," and Bruce stares at both of them, eyes hot and a little angry. "You both -- you *hide* from me when you think it's the other's *turn*. You pass me back and forth between you --"

"C'mon, Bruce," Harvey says, and covers Bruce's hand with his own. "You know it wouldn't be that way if you didn't want both of us. And if both of us didn't want *you* --"

"Exactly --"

"It's not -- *natural*," Bruce says, and his hands are clenched into loose fists. "There's nothing keeping us apart but what the two of you think is appropriate. Love shouldn't work that way. It *doesn't* work that way."

Love? Seriously? No, of course Bruce is serious. Bruce is serious even when he's *joking*, and -- Harvey looks at Tom. Tom frowns and looks at him, and -- yeah. Tom looks just about as helpless as Harvey feels. But how the hell are they supposed to deal with *Bruce*?

Honesty might work. Honesty is what got them *here*... but he'd be lying to himself if he said that didn't count as working. "I -- uh. I'm not... you're attractive, Tom. You -- you're funny and cool, and you've got a great body."

Tom's smile is kind of twisted. "Ah... I feel the same way. On all counts."

Harvey nods. "Thanks? No, that wasn't supposed to be a question. Thanks. It's just -- I'm not really... I mean, part of me is pretty much *screaming* about how screwing around with Bruce is really kind of *enough*."

"I hear you," Tom says. "And -- yes. Enough is a good word for it. We don't have to -- we don't *need* more."

"No, exactly. I'm *okay* with the two of us not screwing."

"Yes, exactly," Tom says, and turns to Bruce. "It's different with you, Bruce. For both of us. We *need* you --"

"I need both of you. I need you -- I dream of you touching, Tom, Harv. I think about what it would be like to watch you, *just* to watch."

Harvey shakes his head. "Bruce, it isn't --"

"Wait. Please," Bruce says, and picks up his sketchbook again, flipping through the pages until he reaches the one he wants, and then laying the book down on the bed.

It's --

It's very, very much a picture of him and Tom kissing. Tom has his hands in his hair, and he has *his* hands -- well, one of them is on Tom's shoulder, and you can't *see* the other one, but the way the positioning works, it *would* be on Tom's ass.

It's. They're *naked* in the picture, and Harvey can see a *lot* of Tom's scars, see the shadow of his pubes, the rise of his dick --

"And here," Bruce says, flipping the page --

"Uh. Damn."

Tom makes a strangled noise. Which is maybe exactly the kind of sound he'd be making if he *were* swallowing Harvey's dick the way he is in the picture. In this one, they're both wet... maybe in a shower? God, he can see --

Bruce had drawn Tim's cheek being forced out of shape by Harvey's dick, but that's not the most. He -- the *look* on Tom's face, like there's nothing he'd rather be doing, like Harvey tastes fucking *great*, like he *does* need --

"Bruce," Tom says, and shudders once, all over. "You're getting better by the day, but I. Um."

"Then -- here," Bruce says, and Harvey braces himself for the turn of the page --

And exhales, because it's just another one of him and Tom kissing. Making out, really. Tom has his mouth on Harvey's throat, and his hand -- oh. They're jerking each other off, and -- damn. That expression on Tom's face, that line deep on his forehead. The expression Bruce had given *him* makes him look almost drunk with it, almost kind of *lost* --

"They're -- uh." Harvey licks his lips. "They're *good*, Bruce, but --"

"They're not good enough," Bruce says, and nods. "You still don't *see*. I'll have to do better --"

"If. If what you're trying to express is that you think we'd be very attractive together --"

"*Beautiful*, Tom. You both... you've given me so much pleasure, both of you, and I want you to share it with each other, to feel what you make me feel --"

"*You* give us that, big guy --"

"Harvey. You've never felt Tom's mouth. The heat of it, the power of his jaw as he bites, the *determination* in the way he licks and sucks --"

"Jesus --"

"Bruce --"

"Tom," Bruce says, and lifts the sketchbook -- he tosses it aside as if it's nothing and picks up Harvey's right hand. "Look, Tom. His calluses are so different from yours, but still so hard, so *good* against sensitive skin," and Bruce is stroking Harvey's palm, his fingers --

And Tom is looking at Harvey's hand like he has no choice in the matter, like -- Tom looks up, looks at *him* again -- he's blushing.

It makes Harvey blush, too, because -- well, he has a *good* idea of what Tom is thinking right now, and Bruce is *touching* him --

"I've worked very hard to draw Harvey's hands, over and over. Most of the things in that sketchbook involve Harvey's hands -- I. You're much easier for me to draw, Tom. I don't know why --"

"My -- attractiveness. You haven't been focused on it for quite as long," Tom says, and he's still looking at Harvey, still -- he's searching, a little.

"No one... uh. No one focuses like Bruce."

"Agreed," and Tom's smile is quick and small, not showing any teeth --

He wants Tom to show teeth. To be -- something other than the guy in those pictures. The one who just *loses* himself to sex with him --

With *Bruce*, and somehow it's just hitting him -- or maybe just hitting him *harder* -- that all of those pictures, those poses and *expressions* come from experience. Bruce had *seen* Tom that way, made him *look* that way the way he'd made Harvey look that way.

It's -- possible, is maybe the word for it. And it's not like Harvey hasn't fantasized about other guys before, it's just that for most of the past year he's been *mostly* fantasizing about Bruce. His hands and his mouth, his body pressed warm against Harvey's own --

He's *too* hard, and now he knows what Tom looks like when he's gone for it, when it's just that good. He just -- he hasn't *had* that with other guys, except for those times when he'd walked through *that* part of Grant Park and seen... a lot of different things.

Been *offered* a lot of different things, but none of those offers had ever felt like this --

"Ah... Harv?"

He's staring. At Tom. With a hard-on that won't be quitting anytime soon. *Shit*. He blushes again and looks away -- looks at Bruce, and his expression is so damned *hopeful*.

And hungry. "It's all right, Harv. He's very... from almost the moment I met him I couldn't stop thinking about him."

"Bruce --"

"Bruce, no, don't --"

"You shouldn't *stop* me. I -- I want to *say* these things. I love you both so much, and you need to understand. Please. Let me?"

Bruce can sound more reasonable than *anyone*. *Ever* -- and Harvey knows Tom's thinking pretty much the same thing by the way he has his eyes closed.

And his head is tilted back again. He... he really exposes his throat a lot. It's. He *shouldn't*, because that just gives people ideas. People like Bruce, who he *wants* to give ideas to, obviously, but also --

Harvey swallows. "You -- go ahead and talk, Bruce. It's okay."

And Tom nods, opening his eyes again -- and shifting enough that the bulge in his jeans is really, really obvious, even just in Harvey's peripheral vision. Focusing on Bruce is better, because he's nowhere near as hard as he could be, because it's *Bruce*, and that makes sense for at least a part of his mind.

It -- it has made a lot of damned sense for a while.

Bruce takes a breath and rests his hands on his incredible thighs --

Harvey is *focusing* now, because Bruce wants to say --

"Both of you -- I get lost in the way Tom moves, the way he narrows his eyes when something is interesting to him, the way he almost always laughs *quietly*, as if amusement is something to be careful with. Or -- happiness?"

Tom nods again, and Bruce nods back --

"And Harv -- you're so easy with yourself, so comfortable, but you never stop *thinking*, and you're always at least two or three steps ahead of me..." Bruce shakes his head. "I just want to follow you everywhere, want to be with you when you go to college, to law school --"

"You don't even want to *be* a lawyer, big guy --"

"I know. And I'm not sure I want to go to college, either, but the idea of losing you... either of you. Tom, I want you to be in *reach*. *You're* always thinking ahead, thinking of things I can barely dream about, and that means you're always a little distant, because you don't let your body exist without your mind. I -- I don't think that made sense --"

"I -- think I understand what you mean," Tom says, and smiles ruefully -- reaches out. "I'm in reach now."

"Now, but not always. Not ever..." Bruce shakes his head again and reaches to twine his fingers with Tom's own. He squeezes, and somehow it's an *incredible* surprise that he lets go again.

Still, it's enough to remind him to *keep* breathing --

"If you were together, then I'd always know -- I'd have a *chance* of always knowing where both of you were. You'd never be *far* from me, for as long as each of you wanted me. But that's -- I know that's selfish and -- unbecoming. But you'd also always have each other, and I promise. I promise that that would be another beautiful thing."

God, the need. No one -- no one *anything* like Bruce, but right now it's the need that's hitting him hard, *working* him, because Bruce is his friend. His *best* friend, and best friends don't let each other go crazy with need, right?

It's just that, thanks to whatever the hell had twisted Bruce up like this when he was a kid --

No, he knows that. Everyone in Gotham knows that, really, and sometimes Harvey thinks about the fact that he's one of the few people who *really* knows what it means and wants to *panic*. But -- *however* that had worked, it won't do a thing for Bruce, right now, if he were to move closer to him and touch, kiss, hold --

Not for Bruce. Not right now. And he knows Tom is looking at him before he turns around, but it still hits hard when he does, because Tom's eyes...

They aren't very different from Bruce's, right now. It's that *need*, and the way it's making his eyes seem almost *hollow* --

Tom swallows. "God. Harv -- your eyes."

"Yeah, I... I bet they're pretty fucked up right now."

"Not how I'd describe them, but... I can see your point. And, perhaps, feel it," Tom says, and looks down at the bed. It breaks things a little, and maybe this is where one of them says something sane and reasonable and they all go back to their own bedrooms and fucking *cope* --

But maybe it's *really* when he reaches over and rests one hand on Tom's long, lean thigh.

Maybe it's when Tom sucks in a breath and shudders -- and slaps his hand down on Harvey's own before he can take it back.

"Oh. I --"

"Yes," Tom says. "Ah."

Harvey's lips are dry, and he can *feel* Bruce watching, feel him *waiting* and wanting -- needing. "We could... give it a try."

And Tom starts breathing faster. Not quite *panting*, but -- still.

Harvey licks his lips. "We could try... giving Bruce what he wants."

"Bruce. I... sometimes I feel as though I've --" Tom shakes his head and looks up, and there's a *hard* light in his eyes, sharp and impossibly *sexual* --

Jesus --

"Let's," Tom says, rolling up out of his tailor-style and onto his knees.

And then it's just -- "just" -- a matter of getting up on his own knees, moving close enough -- he's close enough. And he's about to kiss another guy. Not Bruce, so there's no excuse -- no matter how weak. A stranger --

Not really a stranger.

Bruce's other -- lover, and he's gay, and he's fucking *ice* cold about it, matter-of-fact and *experienced*, and Harvey's hands feel too large and clumsy, and Harvey's dick is fucking *conflicted* --

And Tom's mouth is right there when he leans in. It's just a little softer than Bruce's, but not as broad. There's a scent of cinnamon and chocolate, and Tom doesn't wear cologne, and he's not sweating, and they're kissing, slow and careful. He can quit any time. He -- Bruce has to see him trying, see *them* trying --

Bruce moans, and it goes *straight* to Harvey's dick, making him twitch and gasp --

And Tom's tongue is sliding between Harvey's lips, moving back and forth but not *in*, and maybe he'd thought Harvey's lips were too dry. Or maybe he just likes it that way.

He can see Bruce shifting out of the corner of his eye, but Harvey thinks it would break something *important* to look -- Tom's eyes are closed.

Harvey kisses harder, more seriously --

Tom makes a surprised noise --

Harvey licks Tom's tongue, and then it's in his mouth, teasing and playing with his own, still slow, still *careful*, and it's nothing like Bruce's pictures and it's nothing like what he'd *seen* Tom do with Bruce, the way he'd given it up as soon as Bruce --


It doesn't feel all that natural to cup Tom's face -- his cheeks are too smooth and his face is too *small*, but it makes Tom make another of those surprised sounds, and -- yeah. Harvey kisses Tom *hard*, giving it to him the way he'd give it to Bruce --

And then there are small, hard hands on his shoulders -- gripping, not pushing -- and Tom is sucking Harvey's tongue --

"Oh. *Yes*," Bruce says, and Harvey has to admit that the guy has a point. This is --

This is a damned good kiss, sharp and *hot* --

And hotter than that when Tom knee-walks those last few inches closer, straddling Harvey's thighs and pressing close enough that Harvey can feel *exactly* how hard he is under those pants. And it's the same thrill as it's always been, as he'd always knew it *would* be. The feel of someone *male*, attractive, *wanting* --

Harvey pushes one hand into Tom's hair and lets the other hand slide down his arm, shift until he can touch Tom's side, tug a little at his shirt --

Tom pulls back panting. "Harv -- ah."

"Too much?"

Tom's smile fucking *glitters*. "No. Just -- we should decide. How far we plan to go with this."

*Good* question. And he risks -- it *feels* like a risk -- a look to Bruce... who is cupping himself through his boxers and *staring*. "Damn, big guy. That looks... serious."

"It is," Bruce says. "It's very. Please, kiss again."

"We can do that," Harvey says, and turns back to Tom. "Right?"

Tom touches his tongue to his upper lip. "I think we could probably do that very well, Harv. But... ah. What else?"

"That's... a harder question."

"You could --"

"Wait, Bruce," Tom says, smiling and shaking his head. "For this, you can't really... help."

"Oh. I'd like to... but I won't," Bruce says, and settles back to sit on his heels.

Tom nods and raises an eyebrow. "Just a little making out, Harv?"

"Probably that's... safest. Uh. But we could... do more."

That makes Tom blink several times, and Harvey thinks he'd maybe pushed a little too *much*, but --

"Please," Bruce says, low and *rough*, and it says a lot of things about him that Harvey doesn't want to *hear* that it makes his hips pump, makes him *thrust* -- against Tom.

"Oh. Harv. I -- damn."

"Uh -- sorry? Kind of a reflex. There."

Tom laughs -- quietly, just like Bruce said.

Harvey can't help wondering what would make him *really* laugh right about now, with everything he's dealing with right now. Is this to distract himself? Should he be helping with that or not? "Anyway -- we can just make out --"

"Or we could do more," Tom says, and strokes Harvey's shoulders, strokes up to pet Harvey's throat --

"I like that. I'm -- sensitive."

Tom smiles. "Me, too. Bruce..."

"Not so much," and they're smiling at each other, and Harvey can *feel* Bruce's stare like heat, air pressure -- he should be popping his ears or something. "Maybe if we just -- ah. That *last* picture."

"We could jerk each other off, yes," and Tom shifts -- *grinds* against Harvey --

"Fuck, do that again --"

"Harv," Tom says, and it sounds like he's testing it in his mouth, maybe marking out the shape of it for later, when... Harvey makes him shout it, maybe?

He still doesn't know how he *feels* about that -- other than how *that* part of him likes that idea just fine -- "You... can really move those hips. I --" Harvey slides his hand from Tom's side down to his ass. "How's this?"

Tom nods and opens his mouth -- bites his lip and keeps grinding against him, body moving with flexibility, grace --

"You're givin' me ideas, Tom --"

"One does one's best."

Harvey snorts and *squeezes* Tom's ass, which is as small and hard as the rest of him. Just the right size for this, especially since it -- or maybe the grind -- is making Tom's eyes get heavy-lidded again. "A little lower?"

Tom nods and parts his lips again, licks them --

Harvey opens his mouth to say *something*, but it comes out a groan, because Tom's hitting him fucking perfectly, *making* him need to thrust back, once for every *turn* of Tom's skinny hips --

"Good," Tom says, gritted and low. "God. Also *fuck*, Harv --"

"Yeah, I'm. I'm hearing you. How are you doing over there, Bruce?"

"Masturbating. Happily."

Tom gasps on a laugh, and Harvey *has* to look -- "Okay, so I *got* that this was a fantasy of yours, big guy, but... wow."

Bruce smiles, eyes narrow and warm as he strokes himself, one slow pull after another for that great, big dick. Yeah, wow is the right word for it, especially since Bruce is just *doing* it, not blushing or looking away, not embarrassed --

And why should he be? He's with his *lovers*. Right. And when Harvey looks, Tom is staring and licking his lips almost absently -- "You'd love to be sucking on that right now, wouldn't you?"

"Wouldn't *you*?"

Good point again. *Excellent* point. But -- "I don't know. I kinda think you might have me beat on that. Bruce doesn't have any pictures of *me* sucking cock."

Tom flushes. Blushes? "I -- all right, yes. I'd love to suck Bruce off. I *love* to suck Bruce off. It's one of the great... pleasures of my existence."

"Tom," Bruce says, and it sounds like please, or maybe don't stop --

It makes Tom grind *faster* and just a little harder --

"God, you could do that all fucking day and I'd be happy about it, Tom."

"Noted. But --" He turns back to look at Harvey, and his eyes are wide and deep -- his pupils are blown. "Kiss me again?"

'For Bruce,' he doesn't say, but he doesn't have to. Especially given the fact that Harvey's no longer sure just how true that is. Harvey tightens his grip on Tom's hair --

"Or -- that. Nnh. Harv --"

"Yeah," Harvey says, pulling Tom *in* until he can kiss hard again, thrust into Tom's mouth with the same rhythm he's using for his hips --

Tom moans into Harvey's mouth and squeezes his shoulders, grinds and *bucks*, and --

He's wearing way too many clothes. "Wait," and he pushes Tom back and starts working on the buttons of his shirt from the bottom. Tom works from the top and the shirt's gone in a minute, followed by the undershirt, and --

He's seen Tom's body in the showers, in the few sketches Bruce had shown him which he could stand to look at without jealousy -- or freaking out about *exactly* what he's doing now --

This is more like the sketches than those memory snapshots, even though Harvey isn't really sure how that's working in his brain. It' just -- there's more movement, more *reality* to the sketch, because Tom is still not-quite-panting, and his body is tight and hard and perfect -- for a little guy.


"Sometimes sensitive, sometimes -- okay, they're sensitive right now. Harv, God. I -- let me get my pants off."

"Yeah, uh -- one sec," and Harvey twists and pulls on Tom's nipples a little bit, thinking of the last time he'd done this -- the dance, and he hadn't been this rough on Ellie, he hadn't been able to believe she *would* open her dress for him until a good sixty seconds after she had done it. The sounds she made were nothing like Tom's. They were these soft little moans and sharp 'oh' sounds when he'd twisted just a little --

"Harv. Fuck -- I don't especially want to come in my pants --"

"You're that close?"

Tom raises an eyebrow at him. "One of us hasn't been fucking steadily for the past three days."

"You're just *full* of good points, aren't you? I like *these* points *better*," he says, and tugs hard --

"*Fuck* --"

"Yeah, curse for me --"

"*Harv* --"

"Bruce never, ever will --"

"Would you like me to? I could -- mm. I could manage --"

"Wouldn't be the same, big guy," and Harvey bites his tongue, a little, lets himself really *look* at Tom, watch him pant -- for real, now -- and feel him *clutch* his shoulders -- "Gonna curse again?"

"Fucking *let* me take my fucking *pants* off," Tom says, and --

Bruce grunts and starts jerking himself off faster --

"See? Bruce likes it, too. You probably already knew that."

"I had my -- fucking -- suspicions," Tom says, and this smile shows a lot of teeth. Wet, shiny teeth in his wet red mouth.

Harvey hears himself groan and lets go of Tom's nipples -- and shoves his thumb into Tom's mouth just to see, to *feel* --

Tom kneels up and opens his pants -- and sucks Harvey's tongue with a seriously *twisted* smile in his eyes, like maybe he knows exactly how much Harvey wants to push right now --

Experienced, right. And it doesn't matter how many guys he's been with, because he's Tom, and scary fucking *intuitive*, and Harvey feels a little like he's the one stripping down, maybe taking his *skin* off, too --

And Tom is hard. Just -- of course he is, but he's never seen *this* dick hard, and it kind of stops him, a little --

Until Tom *bites* Harvey's thumb and *slurps* his way off it. "Too much?"

Harvey closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath before shaking off the haze of what-the-*hell* currently taking over his damned mind. "I'm good. I -- turn around?"

Tom raises *both* eyebrows. "If you're sure."

"About my dick between your cheeks? Yeah, I'm pretty fucking sure."

Tom's eyes get wide and then narrow down *small*. "Harv. I like the way you think."

Bruce *groans*, loud and long, and when Harvey looks  -- he's slowed down again, but it looks like it's maybe killing him to do it. He's flushed all the way down his chest and his dick is dark, *incredibly* slick at the tip -- pre-come dripping down to the *bed* -- "Maybe we should *hold* that think --"

"No. Bruce wants *us* to -- make love," Tom says, standing up on the bed for long enough to kick out of his pants and boxers before kneeling back down -- giving Harvey his back. "He's getting off on this more than he can *express* at the moment --"

"*Yes*," Bruce says, and sounds angry, happy, hungry --

"And he knows we'll take care of him," and Tom looks back over his shoulder. "Won't we?"

"Until he's shouting the fucking roof down. God, all these scars on your *back*. What, were you whipped as a child?"

"I'm a bad, bad boy?"

"Fucking *dirty* boy. And also maybe kind of a *slut* once you get started?"

Bruce gasps. "*Harvey* --"

"Oh, you haven't seen *anything*, yet," Tom says --


"Relax, Bruce," and Tom reaches back to grab Harvey's dick. "*Watch*."

And both he and Bruce groan when he slips into Tim's crack. It's warm, tight and not tight *enough* -- and just a little slick with sweat. Tom is flexible enough that he's still gripping the base of Harvey's dick -- *squeezing* -- "*Fuck*, yeah, but move your damned hand --"

"Yes, *sir* --"

"Jesus, I *knew* you were kinky. I just wasn't *thinking* about it --"

"Think *later*," Tom says, and -- there's an edge of desperation in his voice that Harvey's pretty damned sure doesn't have a thing to do with how hard he is or even how much he wants *this* right now... yeah, he's definitely distracting himself, and yeah, Harvey is absolutely going to help.

He starts thrusting slowly, learning the rhythm that'll let him stay as much in Tom's cleft as possible, stay in that *heat* while Tom rocks back and pants, sweats --

Harvey grabs Tom by the hips and speeds up a little --

"God, come *on* --"

"Relax, little guy, I got you," and Harvey reaches around -- and reaches *around*, making himself think of what else he could be doing. "What do you say, Bruce? Want to see me fuck your freaky little cousin?"

Tom grunts --

And Bruce *comes* on him, one spatter hitting him right on the back of the hand --

"*Yeah*, I -- I think that was a *yes*, Tom. So what do you think?"

"Oh -- God. God -- stroke me, just stroke me --"

"Not fuck you? Bruce was pretty *damned* clear about the availability -- and *utility* -- of the insane amount of lube you got in this place."

Tom grunts and *bucks* into Harvey's fist. "Jesus. Jesus, I -- I don't *know*."

And that -- that was too honest to ignore, no matter what his dick is screaming about. "Easy, okay, okay, just this," and Harvey pushes Tom down onto his hands and knees and gets a better grip on his dick, hard in his hand, slick and not *quite* anonymous --

He could be anywhere, but he's not. He's *here*, and this is *Tom*, the guy who'd seduced Bruce right out from under him, the guy who'd *made* Bruce into the kind of guy who could come on him because he was doing *just* this --

And God, it feels so fucking *good* to do this, to *give* it to Tom, feel the slight shift in friction that means he's rubbing *right* against that little hole, that little pucker that Bruce has been *inside* --

Has Lex?

No, he's not thinking about that. Right now, Tom is right here -- where he belongs -- and --

And Bruce is moving up behind him, pressing big and warm against Harvey's back and just *resting* his hands on Harvey's hips. Not holding or guiding, just feeling the way Harvey's moving, the way Harvey's *fucking* --

"Beautiful," Bruce says, right in his ear, and he sounds calm and pleased, hungry and *pleased* --

"Fuck -- fucking *hot* --"

"Harv. Harv, don't stop, please don't stop --"

"Don't you fucking worry about that, you kinky little bastard," but -- Harvey eases back out of Tom's cleft, squeezing Tom's dick a little harder in apology --

"*Fuck*, Harv, *please* --"

"Just wait a sec," and he takes himself in his free hand, stroking once, twice -- *stopping* before he comes all over Tom's scarred back, and -- "Spread him for me, Bruce?"

Bruce moans and does it, and --

That really is a *little* hole for what he *knows* it's been doing. Damn.

And Tom is panting, moaning and still fucking Harvey's fist, and Bruce is breathing hot and damp on Harvey's neck, and it feels like committing a *crime* to rub the head of his dick over and over Tom's hole. It's that thrilling, that *wrong* --

"Oh, *fuck*, Harv --"

"Yeah. I'm not --" Harvey licks his lips. "I'm not pushing in, but I *want* to --"

"Oh -- *ohn* --"

"Bruce would. Nnh. Bruce would probably slick you up for me --"

"Yes," Bruce says -- 

"Slick *me* up for you --"

"*Yes*." And Bruce grips *harder* --

"Oh, God -- God, fuck -- please, I don't --"

"*I* don't know how this got so crazy this fast, but -- it feels *great*," Harvey says and *slaps* his dick against Tom's hole, and does it again because it makes his balls feel the best kind of tight, makes pre-come spatter all over Tim's cleft --

"Faster -- *harder*," and Tom is rocking a little crazily now, wanting and needing --

You've gotta *answer* need with need, don't you? Isn't that how it works? Harvey slaps down a few more times, but he *does* need more, and maybe -- he'd seen, once --

He shifts back and pushes between Tom's spread thighs, lifting up so he can crush Tim's sac against his body a little --

And Tom *immediately* brings his thighs together and kneels up -- "Do it. *Do* it, Harv --"

"*Fuck*, yes," and it's easier to stroke Tom this way, but it also *isn't*, because this time the tightness goes all *around*, because Bruce is kissing and sucking on Harvey's throat, because Tom's got one hand down to brush and *rub* against the head of Harvey's dick for every thrust --

Every sweet *push* --

He can't --

Fuck --

The best part of this *has* to be the fact that he can do it just as fast as he wants to, just as *hard*, and let Tom know exactly what he wants to be doing, what he *could* be doing --

"Harv," Bruce says, and sticks his tongue in Harvey's *ear*, and that slick, ticklish and fucking *hot* --

"Bruce --"

"*Harv* --"

"Fucking *come*, Tom --"

And Tom twines his fingers with Harvey's own and forces Harvey to squeeze harder, jerk him fucking *brutally*, and Bruce is still tonguing his ear, still pressed so close, so good --

Tom shouts, hoarse and *loud*, and comes all over their fists. He -- he'd just made Tom *come*, Tom, and not Bruce, not --

He's had sex with *two* guys, now, and he really wants to *understand* the part of his mind that finds that satisfying, since the rest just wants to freak out -- no, it wants him to come, if only to end this, to --

Tom is panting, gasping and crooning out soft little moans that are all about how *good* that was --

And then Bruce reaches between Harvey's legs and starts *working* his sac, squeezing and pressing and making Harvey bite his lip, make noises through his teeth --

"Your turn, Harv," Tom says, and there's a *grin* in his voice --

"Yes, Harv, please come for us --"

Us. God --

And the next squeeze is so hard it makes him throw his head back, and Bruce *cups* his throat, pets it soft and so good, so *good* --

And Tom is still teasing the head of his dick, managing even though his thrusts are ragged, too hard and too fast --

"I love you," Bruce says, and Harvey's coming before he can shout, shooting out everything in him that can think until he's just a mass of feeling, hot and sparking and desperate --

Fucking --

*Right* back into his body, and he's swaying hard, but Bruce is a solid wall behind him. He lets himself lean, and it's not even close to a shock that Bruce is starting to get hard again. Harvey smiles, knowing it looks lazy and *extremely* fuck-drunk, and rubs back against Bruce -- carefully enough that he only feels a *little* like he might fall over.

Tom turns around and stretches before sitting back on his heels and cocking his head to the side.

"Yeah, Tom?"

"Just taking the opportunity to look at you in a whole new light, Harv."

"Heh. Wait, let me give you my *good* side," Harvey says, and starts to turn --

Bruce grips his hips. "No."


"I -- sorry," Bruce says, and kisses Harvey's shoulder. "I want. I want to keep feeling you."

"I wasn't planning on going far, big guy -- especially since it's your turn to get a little affection."

"Mm. Affection," Tom says, and his smile is tiny and *sharp*. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

"The *kids* are calling it names I don't like to think about," Harvey says, and -- no, he's not thinking about that right now, either. "Tell us what you want, Bruce. You know we'll do it."

"Yes. Yes, I *do*," Bruce says, and Harvey doesn't have to see the smile in order to *feel* it. "Thank you both so much. Was it... was it as good for both of you as it seemed?"

"For me, yes."

"And for me, too, big guy," and the look on Tom's face now is actually a little shy -- or possibly shocky. Distraction wearing off? Harvey reaches out, and when Tom takes his hand he yanks him close.

It's *also* not really a surprise that Tom keeps his balance really well, but he's pretty much convinced himself that, since he's not going to convince either Tom or Bruce to play a sport, he might as well not think about all the things they *can* do with their bodies.

And maybe all the things Tom has already done, going by the scars that just get scarier every time he looks at them -- he looks at Tom's eyes, instead. "What do you think, Tom? Will we get an answer out of Bruce?"

"For what he wants to do sexually..." Tom raises a hand and waves it back and forth. "Tough call, but I'm betting that right now he's a little overwhelmed by possibility."

"Yes," Bruce says, and squeezes Harvey's hips. "That's it, exactly. There's so much -- you're both *here*."

And that can't help but be great for Bruce, especially since they've gotten with the porny little program in Bruce's head. Harvey smiles wryly at Tom, and Tom gives it right back to him.

"We could always offer suggestions, Bruce," Tom says, and cracks his knuckles in an extremely *suggestive* way.

Harvey laughs a little. "Yeah, Bruce. We're here to *help*."

"You are. You *do*," and Bruce kisses Harvey's shoulder, the back of his neck, whispers something that sounds like love and yes and a lot of other good things.

Harvey reaches back and pets one of Bruce's thighs. "Why don't you start by lying down?"

"Oh. Yes," Bruce says, and backs off immediately, and when Harvey turns around...

Well, at least part of him was expecting Bruce to be a little stiff and awkward -- it's *his* first threesome, too -- but he's resting on one elbow and smiling at both of them, hair sort of *comfortably* mussed and legs spread -- damn.

Harvey shakes his head. "You look happy and fucking gorgeous, big guy."

Bruce smiles wider, and then turns to Tom. "Come closer?"

Tom hums and does it, crawling until he's half over Bruce, one hand on Bruce's shoulder and the other moving over and over Bruce's chest. Which --

"Heh. The sheer *number* of guys at school who'd kill for a chest like that..."

"I probably wouldn't kill for it, but I'm glad I don't have to make that choice," Tom says, and starts playing with the hair.

"I -- *not* what I meant --"

Tom smiles back over his shoulder at him. "No? My mistake."

Harvey snorts and moves between Bruce's legs, cupping his sac and squeezing *just* hard enough to make Bruce grunt. "I guess I shouldn't mention how some guys feel about *this*."

Bruce blinks. "They talk about my *genitals*, Harv? On your *team*?"

"Well, no one is pulling out a ruler and *explicitly* saying 'yeah, no, that Wayne guy's more hung than that,' but it comes up. Usually when it's been *way* too long since any of us has seen a hot girl."

Tom laughs quietly. "Ah, homosocial behavior."

Harvey shoves Tom a little and gets another smile, and this one makes Harvey want to sit down somewhere with Tom on his lap -- and Bruce watching every damned minute. He shakes it off. "*Anyway*. You make a lot of guys feel *damned* insecure, big guy."

*That* makes Bruce blush --

And that makes Tom lean in for a kiss that's slow and very, very hungry. Bruce pushes one hand into Tom's hair and pulls Tom's over him a little more -- until he's got a bony, muscular little blanket that must feel *perfect* to Bruce.

Harvey watches for a while, noting that Bruce kisses Tom hard even when he's *not* trying to be convincing, that Tom *really* likes tugging and scratching at Bruce's chest hair, that Bruce apparently does that thing where he tries to touch everywhere at once all the time, no matter *who* he's with --

And he realizes that whatever *Tom* does, Bruce is just never going to have sex with someone he doesn't love. Hormones won't do it, and whim wouldn't get *anywhere* with Bruce. Just love, and sometimes Harvey wonders just what Tom had said or done to make Bruce fall that hard that *fast* --

But then he remembers the way Bruce had looked at him pretty much from the very beginning, all wide eyes and *intensity* for even the most minor things Harvey had done, and... yeah. He's going to focus on being grateful that Bruce had chosen *him* and go with that.

Especially since Bruce's dick is *right* there, rising and stiffening and getting *bigger*, just -- mm. Waiting for Harvey's mouth. This -- it really has always seemed kind of strange that people wouldn't *want* to do this. There's the cleanliness factor, and then there's the big object vs. small orifice factor, but when you brush all that aside...

Pleasure. Heat.

The *taste* --

And the way Bruce groans for it, deep and heartfelt as he arches up a little, as -- Harvey looks, and Tom is fucking Bruce's mouth with his fingers and staring right back at *him*. Heh. Harvey pulls off with the nastiest sound he can manage, watching Tom's eyes narrow a little. "Wanna taste?"

Tom licks his lips --

Bruce groans again and *lunges* up until he can take Tom's fingers down to the second knuckle.

"Your arms are long enough to reach," Tom says, and pulls his fingers out --

"Oh -- *please* --"

"Give Bruce something to suck on?"

"Heh. Absolutely," and Harvey moves to the side enough that he can still reach Bruce's dick while pushing his fingers into Bruce's mouth --

Another groan, and Harvey can't tear his eyes away from Tom, because he just *swallows* Bruce in one movement --

Bruce is biting Harvey's fingers --

"*Jesus*, little guy --"

Tom turns enough to raise an eyebrow at him, and the fact that he *can* do that even with his lips crushed against Bruce's mound --

"Okay, I'm impressed. How long can you keep that up without air?"

Bruce groans and arches clear off the bed, reaching down to cup the back of Tom's head and *pull* --

Tom closes his eyes and *sucks*, groaning deep in his chest, and Harvey wants -- a lot more than he's getting right now.

"Wait, no, pull off a little."

Tom nods and comes nearly all the way off until he's *just* sucking the head and Harvey can bend over, lean in --

And get kissed by Tom with Bruce's dick between them making things messy and hot enough that Harvey feels his skin prickle with fresh sweat. Just -- their tongues slide and move against each other, their lips press, push against Bruce's dick -- which twitches and leaks more pre-come that Harvey *has* to lick off.

And -- movement. Tom's doing something with the hand he isn't resting on Bruce's abdomen. Playing with Bruce's sac, maybe? Harvey reaches between Bruce's legs just to feel -- *not* Bruce's sac, which only leaves --

Harvey pulls back -- and presses down on Bruce's tongue with his fingers. "How many you got inside him?"

"Just -- mm," Tom says, slurping and licking -- "Just one. We should have lube for this."

"You mean you want to finger him together?"

"I have the strong suspicion that it would make Bruce come very, very hard."

Bruce grunts and thrusts up between them, twitching again --

They both go for the head at once, bumping themselves into an accidental kiss with a lot of tongue, a lot of *suck*, and Harvey's laughing into it, Tom's smiling into it --

It's hard to say whether *Bruce* gets much out of it -- beyond the noises he's making --

No, the noises are enough. This is *good* for him, and even though Harvey's never really spent much time thinking about his friends having sex with each other... well, he'd also never had a (real) friend like Bruce, before. Things were bound to be different even as they made terrifying amounts of sense. He backs off after a lick that takes in the slit and Tom's upper lip. "I'll get --"

The lube, he was going to say, but Bruce is Bruce, and so had managed to get the nightstand drawer open even while sucking Harvey's fingers and doing his best to fuck both their faces. Just --

"I -- I love you, big guy --"

Bruce goes *rigid*, squeezing his eyes shut and shuddering -- but he doesn't come.

Harvey whistles softly and strokes Bruce's chest with his free hand. "Easy, now. Don't wanna miss the main event."

Bruce pants and groans -- tugs Harvey's fingers out of his mouth. "Harv. Please -- don't wait. Just -- if you lube your finger, then you'll lube Tom's fingers once you push in --"

"Bruce, I really should pull out --"

"*No*, Tom. Please," and Bruce sits up and looks back and forth between them. "Please," and that --

That was *begging*, and Bruce is looking desperate again, and -- Harvey has to. Just -- kiss him back down to the bed, cup the back of Bruce's head and lick, thrust --

Bruce grips Harvey's shoulders and squeezes hard enough to make Harvey a little worried about *injury* -- but then he pushes, and Harvey gets the message *loud* and clear. Even though it feels a little like a tragedy to interrupt Tom as he just fucking *works* himself on Bruce's dick, up and down and up again, *exactly* like he plans on leaving the next day and wants to make his point before he goes.

He's here now. "Make some room, little guy."

Tom hums and does it, and Harvey crawls over until they're both between Bruce's spread thighs, big thighs, *great* fucking thighs --

Harvey bites the one on his side --

"*Harv* -- oh, Tom --"

Yeah, so maybe he does have a few ideas good enough for Tom to go with. Harvey sucks and licks his way up Bruce's thigh to the crease, careful not to leave any marks --

*Would* anyone ask Bruce about marks on his thighs? Would anyone really risk Bruce giving them an answer? No, there's *still* no reason not to be as careful as he can, and -- God, Bruce tastes so fucking *good*. Salty with sweat and just -- inescapably *male*. Not that he really *wants* to escape this, but -- still.

It's Bruce, and he's wanted this for so damned *long*, wanted to crawl down quiet from his bunk and kneel on the floor and just kiss, feel with his hands and mouth, watch Bruce *move* with pleasure --

Just like this.

And it's not really a surprise that Tom's already back to mouthing Bruce's dick -- you *can't* just leave something like that sitting there with no attention -- and it's time for Harvey to slick up.

They've done this a couple of times since Harvey has been here -- twice with him doing this to Bruce, once with Bruce doing this to *him* -- and it still seems unnatural like *magic*. Nothing should feel this good, nothing should be this *close* to his dreams and fantasies --

And Tom is still twisting and working his finger inside Bruce, bare and *raw* --

"I want to try that, too. No lube, I mean."

"With *me*?"

"Uh -- Bruce first, little guy. But -- hell, maybe. Your hands are so fucking *small* compared to Bruce's --"

"*Please*," Bruce says, and -- right.

"Sorry, big guy, don't mean to make you wait," Harvey says, and pushes in, feeling that same fucking *rush* --

"I feel -- oh. Both of you -- *please* --"

"Bruce. Do you *want* our mouths? Or just this?"

That -- "You're seriously giving him *options*? With *that* in our faces?"

Tom smiles. "Sometimes Bruce likes to concentrate. Right?"

"Yes, but -- oh, oh, so *hard*. I want --" And Bruce sits up on his elbows again, shaking his head and panting, staring with glassy eyes --

"*Damn* you look good --"

"I agree. You make me want --" And Tom starts thrusting faster, really fucking *taking* Bruce --

Who has his hands clenched into fists and his eyes narrow --

"Fuck.*Fuck*, yeah, faster," Harvey says, mostly to some dim part of himself which can't believe this is happening, because he's already matching Tom's rhythm --

"I love -- oh, I *love* --"

"It's all right, Bruce," Tom says. "It's -- I love making you feel this way. *Helping* to make you feel this way," and Tom turns to smile at Harvey, and --

It may *not* have been an invitation to kiss again, but it feels good once he does it, sweet and hard and some definition of *right*, because Bruce is clenching around him, around *them* --

So good to do this, to *have* this, and the only question is how he's going to give this up again --

He knows he won't. He's going to try to keep it to handjobs and kissing, but he knows it won't *work*. Bruce is too hot inside, he makes sounds that are too *hot*. And he can't leave this only to Tom. It --

It's not even really *jealousy*, anymore, as opposed to something that feels like an imperative, an order from the universe to keep doing just this, just --

Tom sucks his tongue *hard* and pulls back, and there's a moment where they're just staring at each other, maybe learning each other a little --

"I can't wait, anymore," Tom says, and nods toward Bruce's dick, and looking at it gets Harvey a little lost, because it's back to being *just* that hard, that big and dark and *hungry* looking, like maybe every possible touch would be good, necessary --

"Yeah," Harvey says, feeling dumb in every part of his brain save for the lizard stuff in back, which is damned well on *fire*. He grabs Bruce by the base and bends him back down toward them, pushing a little so he can watch Tom wrap his mouth around it, so he can wait and watch and then *stroke* to the same rhythm Tom is using with his mouth --

And Bruce doesn't seem to have any words left. It's just noise and breath, and the way he's arching and moving, writhing, pushing back against their fingers --

"God, Bruce, don't stop --"

"Can't. *Won't* -- Harv --"

"Right here, big guy --"

"Your mouth, too, please, *both* of you --"

"You're a greedy bastard, and that's just fine by me," and Harvey moves his hand so he can mouth Bruce, instead, lick and suck the shaft maybe a little too hard, but --

Bruce is groaning like an animal and clenching *hard* --

Bruce is shuddering all over and *periodically* tensing --

And when Tom pulls back, Harvey lunges to take the head in his mouth, bumping his cheek against Tom's --

Tom starts *nibbling* his way down the shaft --

Bruce grunts, over and *over*, tensing *hard* --

Bruce comes in Harvey's mouth, twitching with it and just -- giving it *up*. Harvey thinks that sound is Bruce banging on the bed with his fists, that that *feeling* is Tom crooking his finger right up against that sweet spot --

He does the same, and gets one more spurt of come to push around his mouth a little before swallowing and pulling back --

And getting *yanked* into another kiss by Tom, who really, really wants a taste. He really can't blame him, so he settles back and lets Tom lick his mouth clean, and wonders what his definition of 'friendship' is going to look like when everything's all said and done.

"Oh, the two of you -- that was wonderful, but I think. Do you think we could just... lie together?"

Tom pulls back with a last lick for Harvey's upper lip and a shoulder pat. "We could. But dinner is -- imminent."

"I could definitely eat," Harvey says. "After I shower and brush my teeth and somehow figure out how to face your damned guardian *again* --"

"He likes you, Harv," Tom says, and crawls close enough to Bruce to kiss him -- hard and brief. "I think he'd approve of nearly anyone who stopped Bruce and *me* from fucking night and day, though --"

"Oh... God. He knows. I mean, I knew he knew, but -- he really knows. Yeah, I'm gonna take that shower right *now* --"

"Harv, wait," Bruce says, reaching for him and pulling him *carefully* into a kiss that's soft, warm -- so damned good, right up until it ends and Harvey has to think about facing Alfred again.

"Seriously, showering is a *good* idea --"

"Yes," Tom says. "And I'm sorry I said that -- I'd been going on the assumption that you knew that Alfred knew."

"Agh. Like I said, I knew he knew, but I didn't really -- know it. Know it. You know? Hell." So he sounds like an *idiot* -- but it makes Bruce smile like the happiest teenaged pervert in the entire world, so... that's okay. "All right, maybe we all jump in the shower *together*. It'll be just like school."

Tom laughs. "I'm afraid the showers here are only comfortable for two. I'll head back to my room," he says, and kisses Bruce again -- aiming right for the corner of his mouth where his smile is starting to slip -- before rolling out of bed, grabbing his clothes and Bruce's robe, and going.

"That was -- I didn't mean to make him want to go," Harvey says.

"I don't think." Bruce lets the frown take over. "I don't think anything could have made him want to stay right now. He's very... correct, in some ways."

"Except for how you wouldn't be frowning that way if you thought that was the *only* reason he wanted to bolt."

"We didn't. I was hoping that the three of us being together would allow him to... to be open."

"Aw, Bruce..." Harvey rests his hand on his shoulder. "I think the three of us being together is probably the *last* thing that would've helped with that."

Bruce winces.

"Which isn't to say it wasn't a good thought! I mean, *he* knows that you want to be there for him, that you love him and want him to be happy. But maybe right now he has to go his own way."

And Bruce just sits there for a long moment, but then he nods slowly. "I was alone for... for a very long time. When Tom came, everything was suddenly much brighter here, much *better*."

"I can see that. He -- he's done wonders for you," Harvey says, and it only hurts a little right now, which might just mean that he's actually an okay person.

Bruce nods again. "I want to make it better for him, too, but I don't know how."

Harvey squeezes Bruce's shoulder. "Just keep letting him know that you're there for him, big guy. He'll come around. Just -- probably *not* while I'm right there. We're all friends, but *you* guys are family. And that makes a difference for a lot of people."

Bruce's frown gets more thoughtful. "But not for you?"

Harvey smiles ruefully and uses his free hand to rub the little yin and yang pendant that he doesn't plan on taking off... ever. "Not for me, no. Sometimes... sometimes I think you're my *real* family, Bruce. That I just had to wait a little while before I got one of my own."

*That* makes Bruce smile. "I like that. I'd like to be your brother, Harv."

Oh... of course he would, because Bruce doesn't see any problem at all with falling for his *cousin*. But that smile... "Well, then -- you are."

"Just like that?"

Harvey grins, just a *little* ruefully. "Well, we could have a big ceremony for it, but then it would be even weirder when we came back here to screw around, you know?"

"I suppose you're right. But... sometimes weird *is* good," he says, and there's a question in there, but not much of one.

"Sometimes, yeah," Harvey says, and reaches for Bruce's hand, instead. "Shower? If we show up downstairs too long after Tom does, I'll feel *really* weird. In the bad way."

"Shower," Bruce says, and they move off the bed.

It's a surprise that Bruce doesn't put the moves on too much once they're *in* the shower, but apparently Harvey had made himself clear enough. Too clear, maybe.

Harvey laughs at himself and takes a kiss because he can. If they can't distract Tom from everything in his head -- or keep him in the state -- then they can damned well have fun on their own.

Bruce smiles when Harvey pulls back.

Yeah, like that.

And then stuff happens! Yes, STUFF.

He has an arrangement with the people who handle the day to day affairs at his father's garage. A portion of his -- quite generous, he must admit -- allowance gives him the kind of access which was important to him a year ago, but is now merely convenient.

It's not that he has any real hope of impressing a *Wayne* with his choice of vehicles -- today, the Alfa Romeo Spider -- but rather that it seems like the sort of thing to do. He has invited a... friend to spend time with him, to be with him, and that friend has had to make a flight to do so.

It's only fitting that he pick up that friend at the airport, and that he do it in style -- and picking the car was a lot easier than picking the clothes. By rights, he should be wearing his well-worn character, folding himself into the Spider to the creak of leather and the artificial whisper of lame. They could do -- certain portions of -- the town, and he could continue to make inroads into appearing as feckless, useless, and *harmless* as his long-term plans require him to.

The Lex who wears suits and has serious -- and ever so quiet -- meetings with certain board members isn't the one who has friends, because --

Because that Lex knows no one who could be counted on to provide both necessary cover and secrecy. Except for how he does. Possibly.

Lex eyes himself in the rearview mirror. No eyeliner, but just a hint of subtle lip gloss -- there for the people who care to pay *close* attention. The clothes could be considered business casual, save for how he'd spent a fair amount of money convincing his tailor to provide shirts in colors which could kindly be considered ambiguous.

The fact that he looks very, very good in such colors -- 'pale and interesting' is a comment he'd appreciated from one of his conquests -- isn't beside the point, at all.

On the whole, though... the look combined with the car is a compromise, and one he wouldn't feel at all comfortable making if his father hadn't done him the favor of choosing Lex's Spring Break for a much-needed working vacation in New Orleans, which is quite lovely this time of year. The apartment will be empty save for the -- discreet -- chef and the -- positively crypt-like in his silence -- Evan.

And no one of any importance will see him at the airport.

And --

He's not worrying. That would be a waste of time and the ruin of what should be an entirely pleasant few days.

Tom Wayne...

Tom Wayne has been a source of pleasure and intriguing mystery, for all that his gender is inconvenient and his more exciting lies transparent.


Lex wouldn't say that it had been a whim to use the telephone number Tom had provided him with something which had -- almost -- seemed like thoughtlessness. He doesn't really *do* whims at this point in his life. It's just that he *also* hadn't put much more thought into it beyond asking himself if he *wanted* Tom to be here with him, and whether it would seem too desperate to make the request.

The answers had been yes and no, respectively, and he'd made the call -- while being perhaps a little too *full* of the memory of the last time they'd had sex.

Once again, Tom had spread his legs for him, offering his ass for Lex's fingers and *not* his cock, with the same line about the act being more involved than he wanted to deal with while in school.

Once again, Lex had lived with that quite happily, wallowing in Tom's scent and cries, the way he has of *not* shouting when he's close, the way he periodically stops breathing and seemingly loses the ability to say anything other than Lex's name and 'please.' And, of course, the eager -- and *increasingly* practiced -- pleasure he takes from sucking Lex off with that hot and perfectly lovely mouth.

That would have really been more than enough reason to make the invitation -- he *doesn't* believe in denying himself good sex, and Tom has offered him some of the best -- but there had been other reasons, other...

Yes, he thinks he can call them drives. The fact is, something terrible had happened to Tom several weeks ago. He frankly doesn't buy the 'death in the family' routine -- Tom's reactions have been too profoundly bleak for that, while also being shoved down too assiduously -- but he has no doubt that it had been something both extreme and life-altering.

He. He *likes* Tom -- more than he cares to admit, much of the time -- and he hasn't enjoyed seeing him hurt like that. It's far too easy to think of some of his more problematic memories when Tom goes hollow-eyed and silent, and he wants that... that *grief* to dissipate as quickly as possible.

While Tom has thrown himself into their sexual relationship in a very gratifying and deeply pleasurable manner, Lex would rather not encourage Tom to see him... that way. He wants to be more than just a distraction for Tom, he wants more of the intriguing way they had *begun*, with Tom both moderately unsure and far more aroused than *he* could comfortably control.

If Lex is going to be actively bisexual -- and it certainly appears to be something life has thrown at him to deal with -- then he wants his lover to be at least as cock-struck as he is. As near as he can figure, the *best* way to deal with that is to help erase -- or suppress -- all of the negative feelings Tom is currently bringing to the table with something better.

Something *more* -- and he has no doubt that he can do a far better job at that than *Bruce*, who, by all accounts, lives in a very large and decorous museum to his murdered parents' memory.

And if it works out in such a way that Tom finds himself grateful to Lex for helping him through a difficult time... so much the better. Grateful people can grow resentful if too much force is applied to that gratitude, but Lex trusts himself to know where to draw the line.

It's a *good* plan, and if he'd never imagined that he'd spend this kind of time working on a plan of this sort for a *male* of the species... well, one adapts or one dies, and that's all there is to it. He'll never get an heir out of Tom -- and he's not looking for a life-mate, *anyway* -- but there are other things. A mind like his, incisive and cold without actively being callous, an imagination that dwells naturally on the possibilities of a better world --

He can *use* Tom for his plans, and, assuming nothing untoward happens between now and then --

No, he doesn't make assumptions, either. But it remains a good plan to cultivate those who *do* seem useful, especially given how few and far between they are.

Wayne Enterprises doesn't have a private jet to go with the rest of their fleet, so Lex takes the flight information and moves to the baggage area with the rest of the drivers and families. Sending a limo really would've been a bit *too* new money, and would've lacked the personal touch which Tom really *better* ought to appreciate, and --

There. He walks out with the other first class passengers, looking like a thoroughbred in a mass of plow horses, despite being as dressed-down casual as Lex is. Tom has a sort of natural formality to the way he moves, when he's pretending not to be a black belt in at least two different martial arts disciplines, that marks him as *old* money... or, given what Lex has *learned* about old money over the years in private school, as being just that good.

He's willing to go with the latter, especially since it comes with a small, sincere smile once Tom notes his presence. Correction: once he decides to *show* that he's noted Lex's presence, because Tom also likes to pretend to not be as observant as he is.

There are times when Lex wants to take a sharp knife -- it wouldn't have to be overly large -- and *cut* through the layers of Tom's protective coloration to find the raw, dangerous human beneath.

And then he wants to fuck him.

"Welcome to Metropolis," Lex says, and inclines his head.

"Thank you, Lex. It's good of you to have me," and Tom raises an eyebrow. "I'm surprised you came personally. It really wasn't necessary."

Lex purses his lips. "And leave you to navigate the mean streets all by your lonesome, darling? I wouldn't *dream* of it."

Tom snorts and cocks his head to the side. "Your clothes implied that we wouldn't be playing that particular game this week."

*Good* observant boy. "Did they? I must have dressed in the dark again. Do you have any other baggage?"

Tom pats the shoulder-strap of his small duffel. "I pack light, as a rule."

"Then let's go. Darling."

Tom shakes his head and gestures for Lex to lead the way.

They make it to the car --

"Oh, Lex. You really know the way to a guy's heart," Tom says, and traces the *air* just above the hood of the Spider.

"So I was right to assume that the Wayne garage is full of Rolls Royces, Mercedeses, and Bentleys?"

"There's one truly lovely Jaguar which belonged to Bruce's father, but -- yes. Though assumptions are dangerous, Lex."

Aren't they, though? "Danger can be... exciting."

That makes Tom look at him from under his -- long -- lashes, and Lex feels something shift and move inside him, feels himself *want* --

"In any event... shall I pop the hood, or can you restrain yourself until we get back to the garage?"

Tom purses his lips and drops into a crouch near the front passenger wheel. "I... just a few minutes under the hood? I only need to *look*."

Surprising, that. He would've guessed that it would only be the *lines* of the car that would appeal...

All the better that he'd picked a powerhouse on wheels, really. Lex opens the hood, and Tom leans in immediately, breathing in and studying so hard and so obviously that Lex has to wonder what *else* Tom has been hiding under that ever so *smooth* exterior. But.

"You have an interest."

"Lex. I *am* a teenaged boy," and Tom never actually looks away from the engine, checking the oil and the fluids and muttering his approval.

"Did you spend a lot of time with vehicles in California?"

Tom waves a hand. "More than I might've in another life, less than I wanted to. There was always something else to *do*..." Tom sighs and stands up straight again. "I don't suppose I can convince you to find some open roads and let this baby *work*...?" And the hope on Tom's face is -- naked. Honest.

Tempting. Lex lets himself smile. "Well. I *hadn't* been planning to do much driving today..."

"Lex. A car like this really *needs* to be taken out and... enjoyed."

Enjoyed. Really. "I suppose we could... play. A little."

And Tom's eyes flare just as if the last few moments had been far more clever and profound than Lex had noticed.

He really, really likes the car. All right. Lex pulls the keys out of his pocket and holds them up. "How well do you follow directions?"

Tom raises an eyebrow. "Very."

Perhaps Tom is of the opinion that any male in a Spider *ought* to have an erection. Lex tosses the keys to him. "Take a left when you pull out, and then you're going to take the first exit once we get on the highway."

"Noted --"

"*Don't* open up until I tell you."

Tom caresses the key chain with his thumb. "As you say. Lex."


They get in, and Tom only takes a moment to caress the dash before -- delicately -- sliding the key into the ignition and starting the car.

He pulls out smoothly, and...

He drives well. Cautiously, but not hesitantly. He keeps his eyes on the road even when Lex rests a hand on his thigh --

"How long have you been driving, Tom?"

"Off and on since I was fourteen. I take every opportunity I'm given -- and appreciate them very, very much."

How much? Lex hums non-committally and resists the urge to cup Tom's crotch. It isn't long before they're in farm country, and -- yes, Tom raises his eyebrow. "Almost," Lex says, and focuses on watching the open fields, the bored livestock here and there --

And *there* means they're in the county in the state with the least resources put aside for traffic enforcement, as everything that can be spared is set aside for the burgeoning drug problem, and all of its attendant ills.


Tom takes them up to ninety, smile hard on his face and bulge *prominent*. "Who takes care of your vehicles?"

"We have a garage on retainer --"

"Pay. Them. More," Tom says, and moves them up over one hundred.

As ever the most thrilling part of it is that the car itself hardly seems to register the increase in speed. The ride is as smooth as ever -- low-slung carriage slicing through wind resistance effortlessly --

"This car..."

"Yes, Tom...?"

"I feel like I'm cheating on the other wonderful cars of my acquaintance, and yet somehow I don't care," and Tom weaves the lanes a little bit before settling in to blow smoothly past the people going sixty, eighty --

Lex laughs and squeezes Tom's thigh --

"How long before I have to... hm. Come back down to earth?"

"At this speed? Five minutes."

Tom *growls* -- "No, I'm fine. I'm -- heh. You can *tell* how fine I am --"

"Oh, yes," Lex says, and drags his fingertips along Tom's inseam.

"Oh -- Lex. It's been much, much too long."

Since he's had sex? Or since he's had sex with a truly wonderful car? Lex hums a laugh. "You're going to let me fuck you."

Tom shivers -- and it affects his driving not at all. "I --"

"You will. You've wanted it, and while you've done a creditable job denying yourself... well."


And just that one word, just the *way* he says Lex's name... it's entirely possible that Lex hasn't loved his own name well enough over the years, because Tom makes it sound like...

Like every moment of confidence within himself is justified. Like everything he wants is available to the point of already being on the tip of his tongue, or crushed within his hands.

Lex smiles and moves his hand from between Tom's legs --

He gets a gasp, but *not* a swerve. "Lex, we -- I --"

"Don't lose your *grip*, Tom. You've been doing so well."

Tom weaves through a slightly more congested area of traffic -- and slows down.

"It's not time, yet --"

"I find myself," Tom says, and his smile is hard again, *fixed* on his face --


"Rest stops are wonderful things, Lex," and Tom pulls into one.

There are a few scraggly trees, a crumbling, graffiti-covered -- nothing interesting -- building which used to a be a gas station, and several empty parking spaces. Tom pulls into one and shuts the car down with an expression deeply reminiscent of the one that had been on his face the last time Lex had watched him squeeze himself. Hard.

"As I was saying, I find myself inclined to take a moment to *further* enjoy this car -- if you're amenable, that is."

"You've found a semi-deserted spot and now you want to make out. In a car. In the *Spider*." Lex raises his own eyebrow. "I just want to be clear."

"If we're going to be clear -- I'd like to suck you *off* in this car. Which happens to be a Spider," Tom says, opening his seat belt and turning to face him. "I think... that I'd like for you to come in my mouth while the only things I can smell are you and this car. Which is, again, a Spider."

Lex licks the backs of his teeth and thinks -- tries to think. Knowing that Tom heartily enjoys giving blowjobs is --

Something which makes thinking a good deal more *challenging*, but -- no, not impossible.

"I'm not going to let you put me off, Tom."

Tom frowns -- raises both eyebrows. "Well. I'm not going to let you fuck me in a car, Lex. Maybe *over* the car if wherever we park for good is private enough --"

"It isn't."

Tom looks -- briefly -- mournful. And shakes his head. "I'm not trying to put you off. I'm *trying* -- to get your penis in my mouth."

"How are you doing?"

He gets several blinks for that, and then -- "Ah -- aroused. Very. I can smell your cologne. I feel extremely annoyed that the scent has *become* arousing, but I'm willing to live with it --"

"*Not* what I meant, Tom," Lex says, and reaches to cup Tom's face, to stroke until he can cup Tom's jaw. Until he can grip --

"You don't really want to talk about my problems, Lex --"

"Don't -- you shouldn't ever try to tell me what I do and don't want to do."

"But I should accept it when you do it to me?"

"It suits you," Lex says, and gives himself permission to stroke Tom's lower lip. It's never chapped or rough. He takes very good care of himself -- and he's going to focus. "Just one question, Tom."

"I'm listening."

And *resisting*, by the sound of his voice, and -- that really *shouldn't* make him harder, but, again, something to accept and move on from. "Is your sudden desire to engage in risky, semi-public sexual behavior a credit to my -- and the car's -- baseline level of attractiveness, or are you just here looking for a way to spiral gracefully out of control?"

"*Lex*. I'm not --" Tom bites his lip and -- blushes.

The satisfaction is as rawly sexual as *everything* else. "All right. I'll take that as a little from both columns A and B. I don't know what happened to you, Tom, and I've accepted -- provisionally -- the fact that I *won't* know --"

"I lost --"

"Don't. Don't lie to me right now. We're doing so well," Lex says, and smiles. "I know you lost *something* vastly important to you, and that's enough. You can cry on Bruce's shoulder if the mood strikes you. You're *here*, though, with me, and you're *going* to feel better."

Tom's laugh is low and very, very old. "Or else, Lex?"

"No. I'm going to *make* you feel better, and that's all there is to it. I'm willing to go with the idea that a start on that would be letting you use my father's car for a sexual fantasy --"

"Then let's --"

"But we're going to do it *my* way," Lex says, and lets go. "Turn around and start the car. Head back to the highway."

Tom stares at him for a long moment. There's anger in his eyes, and also they're a little too deep, the hollowness close to the surface and impossible to ignore.

"Trust me, Tom."

That makes him smile, sharp and just a little deadly. "When in Metropolis... or its immediate environs, I suppose." And Tom turns around, fastens his seatbelt, and starts the car.

He doesn't take it above eighty this time, and Lex finds himself wondering if the car is regretful -- no, he really isn't going to anthropomorphize the car. Tom may be satisfied with letting his brain periodically marinate in testosterone, but Lex is made of sterner stuff.

No matter how nice the car is.

And once they're on the highway, Lex feels himself relaxing a little, and wonders why -- until he realizes that Tom is getting more and more tense in that way that tends to mean he's close to being honest about something -- or merely *very* close to *wanting* to be honest. Mm.

Lex rests his hand on Tom's thigh again, and doesn't bother to hide his attention when Tom deliberately, ruthlessly relaxes himself again. He's a little less hard than he was before, but not much, and --

A part of Lex's mind is convinced that Tom is the most attractive person he's ever met face to face -- and thus is the most attractive person possible at this point in his life, because who's to say how a beautiful person --

How a beautiful *woman* will look once she opens her mouth. That part of his mind has far too much communication with his genitals, however, and the rest of Lex is far more capable of coping. Tom's hair isn't especially thick or lustrous -- though he keeps it clean and healthy. Tom's skin is pale and clear, but not even close to being as pale as his own.

Tom's mouth isn't very generous, his nose not especially aristocratic. His eyes --

His eyes are most often hooded with all the things he never says, though they can brighten, deepen --

The blue isn't reminiscent of sea or sky, unless he calls up memories of days in England which never reached very far past their rainy beginnings.

His cheekbones are quite sharp, but would only seem dramatic if makeup were to be applied. His jaw is also sharp, and --

And taken together, his features would make him a lovely, fascinating, and perhaps somewhat irresistible woman. As a male of the species, he's... pleasant. And Lex really ought to remember that the next time he finds himself pacing and growling to himself because Tom isn't there to be touched, to be taken and *had*.

He's here *now*, and there's nothing very special about his physical appearance --

All right, now his mind wants him to think about Tom's body, about the lean and well-defined muscle that makes *up* his body, and the way he can use it when they're sparring. It *is* an extraordinary body, and all the more so for being so obviously *crafted* as opposed to nature-given. Tom *should* be average in every way save for his *lack* of height, but --

He isn't. He has recreated himself into something far better than what he was born with, and that...

That is very, very attractive.

Lex squeezes Tom's thigh and gets an eyebrow raise. "Next exit," Lex says, and goes back to stroking idly.

"Lex... you really don't have to take responsibility for my issues --"

"Of course I don't. But, at the moment, I have nothing better to do. Bear right once you're off the highway."

"I --" Tom nods, and his discomfort is palpable and deeply palatable. He's unsure about himself in Lex's presence, and that happens so *rarely* --

Perhaps he's not a very *nice* person, but he has Tom's best interests at heart. And at *cock*, for that matter. "Stop worrying."

"I'd rather not be. Burdensome --"

"A *highly* attractive trait. Don't worry -- I'll let you know if you're boring me," Lex says, and lets his smile be a sunny one.

Tom shakes his head. "You can't fix this. You can't fix *me*."

"Maybe not. But I can remind you of all sorts of things which don't need fixing in the slightest," Lex says, and indulges himself with the feel of Tom's abdomen, hard and perfect under his shirt.

Tom has let him see -- some -- of the things he does to keep his body in that condition, but he works out silently and could very easily be slipping out of his bunk at night to do still more, and -- he really would do just that. Lex smiles to himself again.

"Take a right at the next light, then keep driving until the road ends. There'll be a left."

Tom nods, and the rest of the drive goes quickly. The construction here is continuing apace, though there's no one visible at the moment as it's after five, and contractors are perfectly human.

Tom parks at the edge of the dust-obscured lot and turns to face Lex with his eyebrow raised.

"A lab. Or it will be in about... three months," Lex says, and steps out of the car.

Tom does the same. "You wanted me on LuthorCorp property?"

If everything goes the way it should, one day you'll be *LexCorp* property, Lex thinks... to the world at large. He grins back over his shoulder at Tom. "Why not desecrate in *style*, Tom?" And he sits on the hood of the car. "Come here."

Tom looks around, eyes narrow and focused -- "No security for the site?"

"Not until there's a place to *put* the important equipment. My father doesn't believe in spending money profligately."

Tom nods and comes around -- and stares at the ground, jaw and shoulders tensed to the point --

Lex takes a breath. He'll indulge himself in massaging Tom *later*. For now... "You wanted to walk on the wild side, a little," he says, and reaches out to grip the front of Tom's shirt, pulling him close.

Tom gives him that hollow-eyed stare for a long moment -- and then lets it crack and shift to a smile that's almost entirely real.

Impressive. "Blow me."

Tom looks down at the hand Lex has on his shirt. "And if I say that the mood has passed?"

"Then I do something cruel to that very, very obvious erection, Tom. Did you really have to ask?"

The smile gets harder and *more* real. "How cruel are we talking about, Lex?"

"Don't tempt me," Lex says, and that -- had been a lot more honest than he'd intended. A frown would just make it more obvious --

Except that, judging by the *avid* look in Tom's eyes, that had already been obvious *enough*. "Lex," Tom says, tasting his name like a delicacy he's not at *all* sure of... "Would you really leave me hanging?"

I'd leave you bleeding by the side of the *road* if I thought it would help get me closer to where I needed to be -- except. Would he? He's not going to think about it. "On your knees, Tom. The way we both want you."

Tom raises an eyebrow, smile getting broader on his face. "Been doing some... reading?"

Yes. And there was a long, entirely sober night at a certain club filled with helpful, helpful gay men. "One does what one can. *Don't* make me wait."

Tom looks down at the dusty ground, looks up, closes his eyes --

And drops so gracefully that it's challenging to keep his breathing even. Very challenging --

And impossible once Tom starts working on his fly, expert and quick -- "Any particular requests?"

It would help if he knew what in particular *to* ask for, but Tom has been very, very... good. Open. Hungry -- "Enjoy yourself," Lex says, and narrows his eyes against a gust of wind bringing grit and the smell of deep clay, against the feel of himself being eased out of silk and into the air --

And into Tom's wet, perfect mouth.

It's --

It's *not* a perfect mouth. It should be broader, *softer*. It should --

Slide right down his cock until Tom's kissing Lex's mound, and -- he doesn't like to think about his mound very much, as the few people who've seen it have generally reacted with either horror or a little *too* much interest. Tom has never been horrified, at all, and it's something of an irritant -- albeit one of great interest -- that he hasn't, as of yet, been able to discern just where *Tom's* interest falls on the continuum between lust and rank perversion.

His lips feel incredible. His --

His *throat* is tight and wonderful, *always* wonderful, because he gives it so easily, as if it's nothing -- no. He *takes* this for himself, losing all trace of submission --

Until Lex pushes a hand into his hair. Tom opens his eyes and looks right -- through him. And then pulls back enough that Lex can see the saliva-slickness of his own cock, his mound --

Tom moans when Lex tugs and goes right back down, eyes going heavy lidded at the breach of his throat --

His tight, vicious throat --

Lex grunts and thrusts, getting perhaps a millimeter deeper and loving it, needing it --

Tom gulps and his eyes widen, he shudders and the wind blows more grit at both of them, more of the scent of ravaged earth --

"You're understandably proud of -- how good you are at this."

Tom makes a questioning sound and pulls back against Lex's grip -- and makes a much better sound when Lex *tightens* that grip.

"Are you worried, at all, about how you'll look with dirty knees?"

Tom *smiles* around him -- and waves a hand. Which is an excellent reason to pull out and thrust again, and again --

Again -- "I, of course, find it extremely -- mm. Diverting, intellectually, that you're willing to go this far with me."

Another questioning sound -- and silence when Lex chokes it off.

"Oh, it is far, Tom. It's --" Lex grunts again and does his best to bite back a moan. Tom's *tongue* -- "Not just anyone would play this kind of game," and Lex isn't happy about the sound of his voice, but --

There's nothing hollow about Tom's eyes, at all. They're hot and focused, hungry for more?

He'd better be. And Lex gives in to the urge to pull and thrust, thrust and *yank*, and Tom's moan stutters in the rhythm Lex sets, Tom shudders and grips Lex's hips --

And doesn't try to control the motion of them, at all.

"You... are very, very special to me, Tom. And I'm going to make sure you *know* that -- keep your eyes open --"

Another flash of anger, easy to misinterpret as just more heat, but *Lex* isn't that far gone, and --

"Fight me -- hnn. Fight me all you *like*. I'm not letting you leave until you feel -- oh. Infinitely better --"

And laughing makes Tom cough, but he controls it well. Perhaps *too* well, because those coughs felt like a *flutter* around him, like --

Well, *he's* panting now, which is unfortunate due to the grit problem, but the scour of it against his cheek as the wind rises... it adds a certain something.

As does the feel of Tom *stroking* Lex's hips, the sight of him staring, perhaps *willing* Lex to come --

"How long can you really keep this up, Tom?"

Oh... *that* expression looked a lot like 'try me.' Which...

"Sadly, I'm -- I'm a human, teenaged male. And you already know how good you are. So," and Lex lets go and leans back against the car --

When, exactly, had he stood up...? A very interesting question, but one for another time.

"Make me come, Tom. Don't stop until you do."

That gets another smile, broad and obscene, dangerous with the flash of even white teeth --

And then Tom is fucking his own face on Lex's cock, doing it fast and almost *brutally*, and not bothering to control the sounds that come out of him, the sounds that get *stopped*.

Lex thinks he can feel the vibration of every last one of them right up his spine until they're thrumming in his skull, forcing his brain to deal with -- this.

But who could? There's a desire -- a *push* -- to just surrender to it wholly, to *let* Tom take him this way and whatever other way he would wish --

But this isn't for his pleasure, and that would be the wrong sort of dangerous, besides, that would be --

God, *Tom*, and the way he's looking at him again, staring into him as he spears himself, *works* himself --



You can't really *have* one without the other, and he'd known that, he's *always* known that --

Lex laughs and groans, and his hips are working again, but Tom has no trouble whatsoever following their rhythm, taking it for his own --

"You. Really. Are a very good boy," Lex says, and that's all he can manage before he's cursing and moaning, *slamming* in and in --

Tom squeezes his hips *hard* --

And Lex feels himself losing it, losing everything he's built in himself until he's nothing but the animal he was born as, naked and too lost to be ashamed, too cock-stupid to be frightened --

And then his knees are buckling, and that *won't* do --

Tom keeps him up, keeps him steady because he has *just* that much strength in that wiry little (beautiful) body.

He pulls off and works his jaw around, massaging it --

Lex brushes Tom's hands away and does it himself, taking Tom's raised eyebrow as *enough* proof that he's doing this well. While he has a fair amount of experience with massage -- always an excellent seduction technique -- he's never really tried to do it to someone's *face* before, and --

And he doesn't want to babble in his own mind no matter *how* good that blowjob was. Eventually, Tom closes his eyes and even gives up a soft sound of relief, pleasure --

It goes *right* to his cock, and, as ever, Lex greatly fears *while* wishing for the day when he has a bit more control over his sexual responses. At the moment, he settles for occasionally pausing in his ministrations to stroke and pet Tom's swollen mouth, to fantasize about having it again, again --

"You remain a fantastic lay," Lex says, because it's the first thing that comes to mind which isn't either far too fervent or simply a moan.

Tom's smile is quick and small, and he doesn't open his eyes. "Thank you."

"How sore *is* your jaw?"

"You really can stop, Lex --"

Lex presses his thumb against Tom's mouth. "Not what I asked."

*That* makes Tom open his eyes, and the humor there is sardonic and heartfelt. And --

"You rarely ever look like a teenager, Tom. I find myself curious as to how you manage that."

Tom -- licks Lex's thumb and pulls back enough to talk. "You smile more than I do. And you don't have perfect control over your surprise reactions."

Lex narrows his eyes. "I'm rarely surprised enough to *take* control."

"But you are surprised sometimes. Or perhaps it's only me who brings that out of you," Tom says, brushing Lex's hands aside and standing just as gracefully as he'd knelt.

If it's *not* an invitation to look him over -- and enjoy himself doing it -- it should be, and Lex takes it as one.

The knees and shins of his pants are a dead loss, and taken with the swollen lips, the flush fading only *slowly* from Tom's face --

Lex smiles. "You look debauched. It --"

"Suits me? I'll take your word for it," Tom says, and looks around again, almost seeming to view their surroundings with...


"I'd appreciate going somewhere I could change."

"What is it about this place that bothers you more than the side of a busy highway with state troopers just waiting to make trouble for the teenagers in the ridiculously expensive car?"

Tom's expression is narrow and shrewd -- and then blank.

"You're about to lie to me."

"I was thinking about my answer," Tom says, shaking his head and smiling. "It's a lot less fun when it's not my *own* adolescent rebellion. And I've never cared for being dirty."

That's... fair, but whether it was completely honest... It's difficult to be sure. Lex nods. "Come closer."

"At what point do you tell me to bark like a dog? I'd like to have enough warning to change my flight back to Gotham."

Lex smiles. "Clever. I want you to come."

"The idea had occurred to me, as well, but --"

"Humor me. I'll let you come on the car if you'd like."

Tom closes his eyes and smiles again, and it's -- intriguingly soft. Fond, almost -- in a way that makes *Lex* feel like the pet in this relationship. The wind gusts again, and this time it takes a long time to slacken. There's rain in the air, and...

And he really, really wants to see Tom wet and dripping. He doesn't have to be naked. Just... water in his hair. Perhaps a drop on the tip of that entirely boring nose. "Come *closer*," Lex says, and gestures at the car.

"Somehow I doubt your ability to make the threat in that gesture a reality."

"When we get home, I'm going to fuck you so hard your *teeth* rattle, Tom. But for now, you're going to vastly enjoy my hand," Lex says, and thinks about making it an order, thinks about the almost *fey* mood Tom is slipping in and out of --

How close is he to losing it to his own grief, again?

Too close, judging by the entirely *wrong* sort of tension showing in his shoulders -- he wants Tom in his *bed*. "Please," Lex says, and it comes out far too *gritted* --

It makes Tom *snap* to attention, search him --

Lex takes the opportunity to pat the hood of the car again, and watch the wind turn Tom's hair into something like a bird's nest. A bit of hairspray and some makeup and they've got one hell of a *club* date --

And Tom comes closer, and plants his hands on the hood of the car. "Or did you want my cheek on the finish?"

"No, this is..." Gorgeous. "Acceptable," Lex says, and moves around behind him, pressing close and loving the height difference for the way it allows him to lick and kiss the back of Tom's neck above the collar.

Tom shivers. "Lex..."

"Yes," and this position makes it easy to open Tom's pants, to let them fall to Tom's ankles, exposing very boring boxer shorts which *also* look much better around Tom's ankles.

Tom's very slim and well-*turned* ankles -- focus.

Focus on the heat of Tom's cock -- shorter and somewhat slimmer than his own, which is comforting in ways that make Lex feel like a *caveman*, but, again, accept and move on. His balls feel tight and sweet in his other hand, and Tom --

Is already panting.

"Are you thinking about having me inside you, Tom?"

"Among -- other things," Tom says, and grinds his ass back *against* Lex, which makes his cock want to sit up and *beg*, but it's still a bit too -- blown -- to do it. Thankfully.

"Do tell," Lex says, and starts to stroke.

"I'm -- ah. Wondering who *washes* these cars --"

"Underlings at the garage -- who still make more than their counterparts at other garages, though not by much. And?"

"What are you. What is this doing for you? This -- focus on me."

Cutting it rather close, don't you think, Tom? Though... Lex supposes it's a *fair* question. It's just that he doesn't intend to answer. "Enjoy it," and Lex adds a squeeze to the end of every stroke --

"You -- make it difficult. This isn't very. Casual --"

"A fuck at a construction site? I don't think I'd care for your definition of *romance*, Tom..."

Tom laughs -- gasps and laughs again, more than the joke deserves, and yes, his earlier estimation of Tom's mood was dead on. Time to... pour it on, a bit.

"Your cock fits so *nicely* in my hand, Tom. Rather as if you were just waiting for this..."


"No? How many other boyfriends do you have on your hook, Tom?"

"I -- I don't. Please, faster --"

"All right," Lex says, stroking faster *and* harder --

Tom cries out, and the first patter of rain hits Lex's cheek, his scalp --

"That's it, Tom, that's good..."

"Fuck, *rain* --"

"You aren't sugar and you won't melt," Lex says, and gets hit by a memory of his mother, matter-of-factly toweling off his scalp and smiling quiet and fond. Her skin had already been stretched taut over her bones by the cancer, and the pain had never, ever left her eyes -- no. "Make that sound for me again."

"I -- I don't -- God, Lex, your hands --"

"Yes. *My* hands, and you're going to be feeling them rather a lot over the next couple of days --"

"Promises --"

"Or threats," Lex says, and licks Tom's neck one more time before backing off enough that the rain can have Tom a little more --

Tom shivers, perhaps for the loss, perhaps for the feel of rain slipping beneath his collar, perhaps for something else. Lex feels a satisfaction he can't -- quite -- put words to --

Oh, it's the sense that he *will* know, that -- given time -- he'll know everything there is *to* know about Tom, about this boy who feels far too good, tastes like so much Lex wants, *feels* -- hm. Lex uses his free hand to cup Tom's ass, to squeeze it and feel the muscle of it, the flex as Tom begins to thrust into his hand --

"Lex. Lex..."

"No one else," Lex says, and smiles for the feel of the rain soaking him, cool and clean with spring. The clay smell is much stronger, now, but it matches well with the faint ozone and the teasing hints of Tom's arousal --

"I -- *fuck*. Good. That's --"

"I know. But you should always feel free to be... vocal," Lex says, and slips his fingers into Tom's cleft --

"God, I -- in the rain? *Really*?" And there's a laugh in Tom's voice again --

"Call it 'al fresco.' Come on, make that sound," and Lex pushes in with one finger --

And Tom's cry is sharp and loud, his clench somehow even *louder* --

"Or that one. You're going to enjoy me fucking you."

"I -- *yes* --"


"*Please*," Tom says, and works himself back on Lex's finger, throws his head back and moans --

Beautiful. Taut and sleek, wet and -- perhaps -- painfully aroused. His, if only for this moment, and the only consolation for the fact that he has no choice whatsoever about fucking and stroking Tom faster is that there's no objective reason not to.

"*Lex* --"

"Come for me," Lex says, and feels himself wanting again, feels his cock *wanting* to get hard, to already *be* hard --

Tom growls and moans, works his hips and shakes, and Lex tries and fails to imagine anyone else giving him this, *all* of this without also being only out for their own pleasure -- or faking in one way or another.

"You... could make anyone feel like a truly magnificent lover."

Tom laughs again, shouts and *shudders* --

And it feels cruel to crook his finger inside Tom with no lubricant to speak of, but --

"*Lex* --"

Oh, the only thing keeping that from carrying to actual civilization is the rain, and there might not *be* enough of that... Lex does it again, squeezing hard --

"Please -- *please* --"

Again, and he wants Tom to beg, wants him on his knees again, wants him --

He *wants*, and that's enough reason to take, isn't it? Tom is *available* to him, and has yet to demand a price for that availability --

Except, of course, for the price Lex has to pay internally for wanting someone like this, for wanting someone *male* like this, and he'd promised himself he wouldn't think about the *difficult* time he'd had his first night home with no Tom above him, without the lingering hints of his scent, without his small, miserly smiles --

That *is* a price, and perhaps doing him like *this* is just another way to share the cost.

Tom is soaked -- they both are -- and fucking himself on Lex's finger, into Lex's fist --

"*Come*. I'm -- getting bored," he says, and the lie *has* to be the most transparent one he's ever told, but it makes Tom grunt and *flex*, twitch --

And Lex knows that feeling, knows --

Tom comes, and the sound of it hitting the car is almost lost under the rush and roar of the rain. His knees buckle, but he has no need of Lex's assistance to keep from falling.

The fact that Lex regrets noticing that *before* he could wrap his arms around Tom and hold on -- it's another fact he has to deal with, but not just yet. Lex brings his hand to his mouth and tastes -- Tom and rain. More of the latter than the former.

Tom pushes back onto his feet, wincing as he drags up his wet clothes -- shivering extraordinarily attractively. "Lex?"

If anything, he looks even smaller than usual right now. Vulnerable in ways... that he really, truly isn't. But he lets Lex pull him in for a kiss, for the feel of cool wet fabric sliding against Lex's skin and, presumably, Tom's as well --

His mouth is hot, open, *willing* --

And Lex has had *just* enough time to recover that it's honestly difficult not to push Tom back down to his knees -- he'd be *in* a puddle -- and force him, somehow, to suck Lex back to hardness, take Lex again --

*Tom*, and the want doesn't go anywhere, doesn't give Lex time or space to focus on other potential conquests, doesn't do anything but persist in being itself --

But he can fuck Tom's mouth with his tongue, and tug his shirt out of his pants, stroke and pet, squeeze and test and Tom hums his pleasure, his acceptance --

Tom grabs his ass.

Lex pulls back. "*Not* today --"

"I really was just... feeling you," Tom says, and his smile is sardonic and too old, once again.

Lie? Truth? Something of both? Lex steps back and considers and rejects raising his eyebrow. He doesn't need Tom to elaborate. What he *needs*...

Tom is searching him, hair plastered to his skull and water dripping from... the line of his jaw. Lex doesn't lean in and lick him.

"Get in the car. Please."

"I... don't suppose you have a towel in the trunk?"

"The interior is wonderful leather -- it can handle it."

Tom frowns -- it's nearly a moue -- and, after a moment, sighs. And gets in the car. On the passenger side. Hm. Lex slides -- and squelches, somewhat -- into the driver's side and starts the car, turning on the heat and repressing a shiver at the initial blast of cold. Tom does the same, showing only the barest hint of tension along the pale expanse of his throat.

Lex touches him there. "You don't like driving in the rain...?"

"Not when it's someone else's car," Tom says, smiling -- and turning to lightly kiss the back of Lex's hand.

Lex represses that shiver, as well, and strokes up to Tom's cheek -- he wouldn't look any better with stubble, which pretty effectively kills the idea Lex had had that he might have difficulty resisting a truly manly sort, someone covered with the hair he'll never have, someone positively *bristling* with it --

He moves his hand and fastens his seatbelt, and Tom does the same, a somewhat secret smile on his face.

"Are you hungry?" Lex starts the car and takes them out on the road, letting the Spider do what it wants only to a *certain* extent, as it's not a car built for extreme conditions. Or even moderately iffy conditions, if one is going to be honest.

"A little. Did you want to go out...? I'm afraid I didn't bring very exciting clothes."

The few non-school items Tom had brought with him to Exeter had all been of high quality, but had said nothing at all about his personality. Lex has suspected for some time that that *wasn't* a fluke. "I think you'll find our chef's offerings adequate," Lex says, and slows down enough that the windshield wipers can do their job.

"I'm sure I will. Ah... Lex?"

Lex smiles. "Small talk getting to you?"

"Perhaps if you were to call me 'darling' a few times I'd feel more comfortable."

"I assure you, Tom. Your... comfort is my highest priority."

Tom laughs quietly, shifts -- winces again. "I'm really looking forward to a shower hot enough to make me look like a lobster and then? A towel. Perhaps several towels."

"Well -- darling -- I intend to provide just that. And then... hm. Dinner in bed. Something light."

"Lex. Are we... dating?"

Lex -- doesn't swerve. That's. That's really --

Lex feels himself starting to frown much too hard and *stops*. There. He's not. *They're* not --

They're really, really not --

"I didn't mean for that to be a difficult question," Tom says, and his voice has just a bit of an acid pucker to it, the amusement of someone who has found himself with the upper hand despite not trying to attain anything of the kind.

Lex can't do anything about the flush other than hate it. "It's not a difficult question. We *aren't* dating."

Tom raises a hand and makes a pushing motion. "Just checking."

"Again, your definition of romance -- it gets worse and worse," Lex says, feeling awkward and a bit verbally *lame* --

"My girlfriend used to say the same thing," Tom says, and --

That was absolutely an offer to change the subject -- using a source of terrible pain to make it happen. Or... to make Lex sure that he's willing to change the subject? That he's just that dedicated?

"She... well, I think she would've *hated* you, but that's neither here nor there," and Tom rubs at his chin with his thumb and forefinger, taps on his knee with his other hand -- an arrhythmic tattoo.

This frown feels a little better on his face. "We don't have to talk about her if you don't want to, Tom."

"No, of course not," he says, and taps his knee a little faster, harder -- "It's just that I think that's how I'm going to get through -- this. Steph was murdered. She died just -- horribly. And she was a major part of my world, and one of the few people I could be truly myself with -- heh," and Tom stops tapping and *grips* his knee, instead -- and bites the thumb on his other hand.

And stops --

And stares at his thumb -- "She was the *only* person I could be myself with *comfortably*. Sometimes we would lie together on her bed and just -- hold on to each other. I'd be surrounded by her scent, by all the things that helped make her who she was..."

"Tom..." He doesn't know what to do with this. He feels as though he *ought* to -- it's perhaps the longest bout of *honest* Tom has ever given him -- but.

"A moment, if you would," Tom says, and flashes a smile at him that... does and *doesn't* reach his eyes. Or...

It's just that when the smile *does* get to Tom's eyes, it changes to something bleak, chilled and hard as bone -- Lex is *not* going to shiver. "Then go on."

Tom nods. "So -- I'm just going to think about her closed casket when I think about my -- my other loss. If I survived knowing that her mother wouldn't even be able to see her face one last time, then I can survive everything else. I have a good life, interesting new friends, my health, a *deeply* exciting sex life --"

"I rank below your *health*?"

Once again, Tom laughs more than he really should, and it makes Lex --

It makes Lex want to have Tom in his bed, between his sheets and naked. Held. By him, he supposes, though making that work might be challenging -- he doesn't frown again. "What else, Tom...?"

"I'm going to be okay. I don't need -- we can just have fun together, Lex. It's terribly uncomfortable to think of you working to fix my mental health. And that's *before* I start thinking about your methods."

"There's *nothing* wrong with my methods a few more screaming orgasms won't cure -- or at least make you forget about."

"Lex --"

"Relax, Tom. I told you -- I'll let you know if you're boring me. And... tell me more. She would've hated me?"

"You're not very friendly. You lie as a matter of course --"

"So do you --"

"Not to her. Never..." Tom sighs, and when Lex glances, his eyes are closed again. "I had to lie to her for quite some time, but she forgave me, and told me matter-of-factly that we'd have a new start. We did, and I never lied to her again. Not if I could help it."

Hm. "Help it?"

"If I'm busy lying to myself about something, I can hardly be honest about it to someone else," Tom says, and starts tapping his knee again. "I loved her."

"But you're not... you were hardly compatibly oriented."

"'Compatibly oriented.' Hmm. I like that. I... I could've spent the rest of my life with her, just the same --"

"With no sex? Forgive me, Tom, but I don't think you're really *built* for that --"

"I was a virgin when I was with her. It's -- hmm. Before I knew what sex was like? I think it would've been possible. If she would've asked that of me."


"She knew that I was sexually attracted to men. That I was -- far -- more attracted to men than I was to women. I think..." The tapping is faster again, but there *is* a rhythm to it.

It's just that it's very complicated, like a song with multiple harmonies. Hm. "Tom, again --"

"Wait. Just -- wait."

Lex nods and drives, and tries to recognize the song -- if it is one. This is good. This is *honest*, and he'd hardly had to do anything to get it out of Tom. Unless... would he try to give Lex honesty in an attempt to get Lex to stop asking? Stop *trying*, and... yes, he absolutely would.

*He* certainly would, and Tom wouldn't be nearly as interesting as he is if they didn't have quite a bit in common.

Lex takes his right hand off the wheel and strokes it over the back of Tom's left, not trying to interrupt the rhythm so much as *feeling* it --

"Before I was in her life, she had... bad boyfriends. Uncaring ones," Tom says, and there's a deep, low anger in his voice...

"She was... abused?"

"Yes. And -- she had a child. She was pregnant when we met."

That's -- Lex blinks. "She... gave the child up for adoption?"

"Yes. I was there for the birth. She never even let me tell her it was a little girl... anyway. I'm getting afield --"

"Your family can't have approved of the relationship."

Tom smiles broadly enough that Lex can see it with his peripheral vision. "I kept her... something of a secret. For a while. She didn't seem to mind, and, well... I didn't want to hear from anyone else. She was like no one else I'd ever met, bright and strong and beautiful. Uncompromising. Conservative and determined. Funny, smart, and... extraordinarily disinclined to deal with my bullshit."

"She sounds -- perfect, actually."

"She was. Especially because she had rage issues, a lack of formal education, certain prejudices --"

"You're making *me* want her," Lex says, entirely honestly. "What did she look like?"

"Slightly taller than me. About ten pounds heavier. Curvaceous with -- hm. *Thick* musculature --"


"Somewhat," Tom says, and smiles again. "I never knew what she saw in me, what it was that made her decide to come *after* me."

"She pursued you."

"Relentlessly. Endlessly. Determinedly. It was... my teacher knew her, as well, and it was a source of amusement to him. He... did what he could to help us be together."

And... there was a lie in there *somewhere*, but Lex can't quite tease it out. He strokes Tom's hand again. "Tell me more about this idea you have that she might not have asked you to be wholly faithful to her."

"I... Lex. I don't really --"

"She went after you with a single-minded focus. Once you decided to give in, you gave in *entirely*, even helping her through a pregnancy caused by another boy. What makes you think she would've allowed you out of her grasp?"

And Lex gets silence for long enough that he wonders if they'll be back to the LuthorCorp tower before Tom says another word, and -- he doesn't want that. He isn't sure if it *is* the atmosphere of the car that's causing Tom to share, if there's something about the combination of drip-drying and movement, an alchemy of hot air and enclosed spaces...

He's not sure, but he knows he wants more of this, wants more pieces for his life-sized Tom puzzle. He'd already known that Tom enjoyed being pushed and led to the places where Tom wanted to go, but knowing that there's a history there makes it all that much richer. Ditto for the fact that he enjoys *being* honest, having the excuse to do it... yes, *richer*.

"It wasn't -- she wasn't abused only by her boyfriends. There was a history... and I can't say more than that. Even though she's dead. And -- no."

"All right," Lex says, as mildly as he can manage. "She didn't try to push you, is what you're saying? She allowed you room to be as much of a homosexual as you were -- and are?"

"Yes," Tom says, and the song -- or whatever it is he's tapping changes to something slower and, perhaps, harder. "Yes. I -- I think it didn't take her very long to see the truth of my sexuality. And I think that was part of the attraction for her, after everything she'd been through."

"Mm. Even the most egregious wounds heal eventually, Tom -- assuming they don't kill you."

"This never would've killed her, no. I..." Tom covers his face with the hand that isn't busy tapping. "I suppose it would've come up sooner or later," he says, muffled and low.

And then you would've been up the proverbial shit creek with a paddle your lovely, wonderful girlfriend wouldn't have been able to use. Well. *That* wasn't the best idea he'd ever had, but there'll be other ways to help Tom, while also making him open up, *give* --

"I would've let her be with anyone she wanted..." Tom laughs harshly, dragging his hand down off his face. "Except, of course, for me."

"You... were saying something about how thinking of her would help you?"

Another laugh. "I was, wasn't I? Well, here it is: I lost her and I kept going. I didn't let it break me, even though I wanted it to. I kept *going*... and I can keep going now."

"Tom... I." Lex frowns and curls his fingers around Tom's tapping hand, squeezing it. "I'm hardly an expert at this, but you're allowed to... slip, from time to time."

"And you're offering me a safe space to do it in, Lex?"

Is he? What exactly would he do if Tom wanted to cry in his arms? And what, exactly, had he lost that would compare to having the girl he loved *murdered*?

"Don't hurt yourself thinking about it, Lex," Tom says, and takes his hand away. "I don't plan to fall apart while I'm here."

"We're -- friends."

"Are we?"

Well -- ouch. *But*. "Yes, we are," Lex says, cool and sure. "If we weren't, I wouldn't have invited you here." Confidence, confidence... "And you wouldn't have accepted."

Tom hums quietly, and a glance reveals a light in his eyes that he might actually consider a smile -- "I might have merely been looking for distraction. A way, you might say, to start my graceful spiral."

"But you weren't," Lex says, because *that* tone in Tom's voice speaks of a very specific sort of surrender. "We like each other, and I really don't see any point in pretending otherwise."

"All right, Lex," and Tom crosses his legs. "I'm willing to allow myself room to like you."

"Don't hurt yourself, darling..."

And that gets him both a laugh and a hand on his own, which...

He'd asked for *just* that level of intimacy, and Tom is nothing like the assorted girls of good family who sometimes choose to drape themselves over Lex for the whiff of scandal and taboo.

There's nothing wrong with enjoying this.

Lex gives the attendant instructions on how to care for the car while Tom wanders around examining the others. Lex makes a point of being slow and detailed about it to give Tom the time he seems to need -- since he has no intention of letting Tom down here again until it's time to take him to the airport.

They take the elevator up to the penthouse, and Lex gives Tom the tour, waiting for comments about how the decor would be far better suited to a manor house than to an apartment, but... Tom takes it all in without a word of insult, which, perhaps, Lex should've expected.

He sends Tom to the shower while he instructs the chef about dinner, then goes to join him, and that...

Yes, he *does* like Tom wet.

Wet and hard is even better.

Wet, hard, and moaning Lex's name means it's time to get out of the shower and take Tom to his bedroom.

"Where do you want me, Lex?"

Everywhere. Absolutely... "First," he says, "go to the bureau."

Tom does it without another word, bracing his hands and spreading his legs like...

Like everything Lex wants. Right now. The second he'd walked into his bedroom after arriving here from school, he'd been struck by the *height* of the bureau, and the way it would allow Tom to comfortably rest his elbows while bending just enough, and --

His spatial reasoning was as perfect as ever.

"Move things until you can rest your elbows."

Tom does it, and then looks back over his shoulder with something of a slow and lazy smile. "There's lubricant in the inner pocket of my duffel."

"Did you think I wasn't ready for you, Tom?" Lex smiles back and goes to his bedside table to pull out the tube. "I've been told that the texture could be better, but... this *is* what you prefer?"

"Until such time as there are better options... yes," Tom says, rising up on his toes and then settling again.

Calves, thighs... ass.

The perfect triangle of his back makes Tom seem larger than he is, but the illusion only lasts until Lex is close enough to stroke those shoulders, to taste, again, the back of Tom's neck -- water, only.

"Tell me how to make you sweat, Tom. I find myself hungry for the scent. And the taste."

"You could... ah. I don't think I've ever considered that particular question, Lex --"

"Do it now."

Tom closes his eyes and lets his head hang. "You could... play with my sac. I think enough of that would do it."

Lex presses close, shifting until his cock is between Tom's legs --

"Oh -- Lex."

"And if I want faster?"

"I'm not altogether sure. Possibly... my nipples? I've never really -- I'm going to sweat no matter *what* you do -- *oh* --"

Tom's nipples feel very, very good in Lex's fingers, hard and giving at once, small but not awkwardly so --

"That feels." Tom laughs. "Yes, I think you'll make me sweat if you keep that up."

Lex hums and rubs them with his thumbs, trying to gauge the point at which the sensation would become more maddening than pleasurable --

"Lex. I --" Tom licks his lips and shifts --

"Keep your legs spread."

"You might enjoy my closing them --"

"Quite possibly, but I can wait for that sort of sensation until my cock is in your ass."

"Ah -- noted," Tom says, pushing up on his toes again, arching -- into Lex's touch.

Lex twists *hard* --

"*Fuck*, Lex --"

"Is that a no?"

Tom shakes his head and pants, and Lex is tempted to ask for a better answer, but it's infinitely *more* tempting to twist in the other direction --

And Tom's scent rises dramatically, going from practically nothing to something which makes Lex's mouth water. Just -- he smells so *male*, and Lex likes women, the scent and softness --

He doesn't even care for his *own* scent this much, which is *why* he owns so many different colognes -- though not why he chooses the brands he does --

"Damn," Lex says, and leans in, pressing his face against the join of Tom's neck to his shoulder and breathing deep, wanting --


"Nothing. Or -- nothing that has anything to do with *you*," Lex lies, and winces internally, and fights it *down* --

And licks a stripe up the side of Tom's neck to the space just behind his ear. There's not *enough* of the right taste, yet, the one he's craved --

He lets go of one of Tom's nipples and takes his sac in hand again, squeezing it roughly against his palm and going for heat --

"*Hnh* -- Lex. God, please --"

"Are you going to beg me to fuck you?"

Tom's laugh is cracked and -- already -- a little hoarse. "Ah -- probably?"

"You give me so *many* reasons to like you," Lex says, and *bites* Tom's shoulder. His shirts will cover it --

"Don't -- I don't want to be marked --"

"Why *not*?"

"*Because*," Tom says, and shakes his head. "The answer is no," and his voice is too flat, *too* sure --

Lex growls and squeezes Tom harder --

"God, *yes* --"

Which, the sane part of his mind wants him to know, is probably the best possible response anyone could hope for to his reflexive desire to *punish*. He has to be careful with this. He can't let himself lose control, no matter how good this feels.

It had been the same with his first woman -- as opposed to his first *girl*. Older and infinitely more experienced, and she'd goaded him every way she knew how, urged him harder, teased him and laughed when he came too quickly --

And the sense memory of sliding deep into her cunt hits him *hard*, makes him twitch and shudder with the need for slick heat, *broad* scents rather than sharp -- "Fuck, but you should be a woman --"

"I *disagree*," Tom says, laughing at him again, and -- this can't last.

He's going to want to take his *time* in Tom's ass, and that means -- he lets go and steps back --

"Lex --"

"I'd tell you to be patient, but -- no. Feel free to be as desperate and demanding as you'd *like*."

Tom looks back over his shoulder. "You make me regret every time I've masturbated silently."

Me, *too* -- "Well. You know better now, don't you."

Tom narrows his eyes, licks his *lips* -- and turns back around, spreading his legs a little wider. The swing of his balls should, by rights, be *deeply* ridiculous, but the best his mind can offer is that it's *not* impossibly sexual --

And that's a lie, because soon enough *Lex's* sac will be slapping against Tom's, and the sensation will be --

Lex bites back a groan and slicks his fingers -- and, after a moments thought --

"Spread yourself for me."

Tom reaches back and does it, balance perfect and muscles flexing and shifting...

Perhaps if he finds himself a woman obsessed with physical fitness. An athlete, perhaps. They're out there, and she could be... oh, a gymnast, perhaps. Compact and muscled all over with small breasts and slim hips --

No, he'd only be encouraging himself. Lex slicks Tom's hole generously, noting the way Tom shivers for it, the soft sound he makes when Lex slips in slowly with two fingers...

"Have you missed this, Tom?" It's been nearly two *weeks* since there's been *time*, between mid-terms and the way Bruce and Harvey have just *monopolized* Tom's time --

"Y-yes. I have. Lex."

"You're tight for me. I can't help but approve."

Another laugh. "Happy to oblige."

"Let go and put your arms back on the bureau. For now."

Tom nods and does it, and there's something about the way his cheeks almost seem to *grip* Lex's hand, the limitation of movement...

Every other time they've done this before today, Tom has been on his back, changing things dramatically. Making it easier? "Tell me how you feel about this position?"

"I... there seems to be more... vulnerability. Which is odd, as -- ah. Ah. Lex --"

"Keep going," Lex says, and keeps twisting his fingers, pushing and pressing against the inner walls --

"God, I -- shouldn't be. There shouldn't *be* more, but there is --"

"You can't see me without turning."

"That's. Part of it. Fuck --" Tom shudders and shifts on his feet --

"I think I'd like you to try to stay still," and --

Lex watches *avidly* as Tom tenses, muscles flexing and shifting as he considers that request...

Should Lex have made it an order? Does he want -- no, he *knows* he wants to top Tom, to 'dom' him, as it were. But whether or not he wants to do it *now* is still a question, as is *how* he wants to do it --

"It could be -- difficult. Lex."

"Just keeping your feet in place? I don't mind what you do with your hips. In fact, I rather *like* what you do with your hips."

"You're -- reminding me of Gotham," Tom says, laugh cracked and a little high.

What *has* he been doing there? *Who* has he been doing? Can he really be screwing Harvey? *Bruce*?

He's *protective* of Bruce, but not so much that he doesn't laugh when Lex makes a joke. But Bruce is attracted to Harvey -- according to Tom -- and really, once Lex had given the matter some thought, he could see it very clearly, indeed. Harvey *is* visiting Wayne manor this week, and, instead of staying to be a good host, Tom had come *here*.

Which certainly *implies* that Bruce and Harvey are screwing -- and that Tom has no role in that particular play.


"I'd rather not remind you of anything in particular --"

"Anything not *you*, you mean --"

"Perhaps," Lex says, and leans in to bite Tom's throat -- lightly. Dammit. He licks, instead, sucks and kisses --


That sounded... luxurious. Some variety of satisfied -- but he already knew Tom's throat was sensitive. He gives it a little more attention, changing the rhythm of his fuck to something not *very* slow and steady. Hard.

Tom's hips move perfectly for it, with a brilliant physicality Lex thinks he probably *wouldn't* be able to appreciate as much if he were already inside Tom. As it is, though --

You're beautiful, he doesn't say. I'll make you understand how badly you *really* want to be mine -- not that, either. "Do you have any requests for when I fuck you?"

"Nothing -- nothing comes to mind that I'm not sure you wouldn't do -- ah. Fuck. Anyway. Anyway --"

"*Tell* me, anyway --"

"Hard. A different variety of relentless. Mm -- Lex --"


"No quarter given," he says, and there's a smile in his voice -- he turns his head and lets Lex *see* it, and --

They haven't kissed enough, Lex realizes. There's something to be *said* for making out, and they just haven't done it. A little in the rain, a little in the shower...

Perhaps after dinner -- and in the shower, again.

Lex kisses the back of Tom's neck and nuzzles there, enjoying the feel of the short hairs, the almost velvety nature of the skin there --

"Please, Lex --"

The way it -- and everything else -- makes Tom beg. He uses his free hand to stroke Tom's cock a little -- not giving him much in the way of force or speed and deliberately doing it off-rhythm to the fingers he has in Tom's ass --

Tom moans and shudders again, clenches and *thrusts* --

Good *boy* -- no, no, no. Not again, anyway. "Honestly, the way you've made me wait for this --"

"*School*, Lex. Nnh -- *bunk* beds --"

"Bureaus. Lubricant. And? *Desire*," Lex says, pulling out and letting go --

"Oh, God --"

"Think. Shall I give you three fingers or my cock? How much do you want it to *hurt* when I fuck you?"

"*Please* -- fuck. Hell -- Lex, I. I don't really know. At the moment --"

"But you have to make a decision, just the same. After a count of three, *I* decide. Look at it this way -- either way you'll have --"

"*Fuck* me, Lex, you -- you don't have to wait, anymore --"

"And if I want to?"

Tom snorts and shakes his head, shuddering more -- "You *don't*. You're hard for me, *ready* for me --"

"So I am," Lex says, gripping Tom's hair and yanking his head back for a hard and messy kiss that Lex wants and hates at once. It should be deeper than this, more serious, more --

Sure? Friendly?

He can't really say, at this point, and Lex files it under 'things to think about when he's not hard enough to seriously consider fucking inanimate objects.'

Tom moans into his mouth, though, and that can't ever be anything but good, wonderful --

Their first kiss --

The way he could *feel* Tom tensing and seizing for it, so *unsure* but wanting so much --

Lex lets go and pushes Tom's head down -- carefully -- until his forehead is against the bureau. "Reach back and spread for me again."

He does, and Lex steps back until he can have a better view.

Small, puckered to the point --

What is that going to *feel* like on his cock? Lex grunts a little helplessly and slicks himself --

And *strokes* himself when Tom clenches, hole seeming almost to disappear entirely, leaving only that uneven skin --


Tom gasps and clenches even harder -- flexes open, and Lex doesn't wait, *can't* --

And can't hold back the groan at the feel of *resistance* --

"Lex --"

"*Open* --"

"I'm trying, God, just -- *thrust*, Lex --"

His hips don't bother to wait for his mind, and -- "Oh, *fuck*." Heat, pressure all around his cock, tighter than anywhere he's ever *been*, harder, less give --

This can't *possibly* feel right for Tom, and yet he's done it, he likes it, likes Lex's fingers and *wants* Lex's cock --

And when he's in, the slap of his sac against Tom's own is light, but still feels like the straw that broke the camel's back. Or possibly the straw that made the camel come all over itself, because *tight* --

Tom is panting, breath *hitching* every few inhales --


"Hnn. Lex. You --" Tom shakes his head like a *dog*. "You're so *thick* --"

"You were --" Lex takes a breath and feels himself *shake*, fuck -- "You were expecting something smaller?"

"A part of me was. Ah..." Tom moves his hips, working back and forth in *small* motions --


"Not yet --"

"*Yes*, yet, *more*, Tom, you feel -- you feel incredible," Lex says, and grabs Tom's hips --

And gets a moan, long and low. "Lex --"

"More. Or -- I do it myself."

More panting, tension -- "God, I --" And Tom shakes his head again -- and pushes forward away from Lex's hips until just the head is lodged inside him, fucking *throbbing*, *pulsing* with the tightness --

And when Tom shoves himself back they both groan, both *shake* -- "*Again*, Tom --"

"*Lex* --"

"*Please*," Lex grits, squeezing Tom's hips hard and trying to think of something other than the feel of this, the way the pulse seems to take his whole body, the way it would feel to just *take* --

Tom pushes forward --

"*Yes* --"

Tom shoves himself back and cries out, high and wonderful, *hurt* --

"Fuck, you're perfect," Lex says, and has enough of himself that he can hate for it, growl for it --

"Oh, God, Lex, oh -- oh, God, *please* --"

"Again, Tom. You can do it. You can --" Lex growls and squeezes Tom's hips again to keep from shoving in, keep from doing anything that won't let Tom *prepare* himself for this --

"Yes. *Yes*," Tom says, and this time he doesn't stop, doesn't --

It doesn't feel like there's enough *lubricant* for Tom to be fucking himself on Lex as much as he is, as *hard* as he is, but there's no hitch, no real *painful* friction -- for him.

Just one slide after another, like the best possible hand-job, like -- completely unlike fucking a woman, but he's clearly going to have to convince the next woman he *does* fuck to let him try it in her ass. Just -- this should be softer, more *tender* feeling, more --

*Not* vulnerable, because all of the hard muscular *force* just makes Lex convinced that he's going to tear Tom, damage him somehow --

"Tom, I -- easy."

"Don't -- *not* easy," he says, and he's curling his fingers in against the top of the bureau, he's shuddering and *moving* --

"I'm --" What could be *convincing*? How is he supposed to make his mind work when Tom feels this good, this hot and sweet -- "I want to do this *again* --"

"You *will*," and Tom just keeps going, keeps working himself, and Lex feels something loop like a noose around his spine, possibly around whatever's calling itself a soul inside him --

"*Fuck*," and he's holding Tom's hips too hard, he's making his own hands *ache*, but he can't hold Tom still -- or himself --

"God, *Lex* --"

"Again, don't -- don't stop saying my name --"

"Lex, please, Lex -- God, do it fast, faster than I was doing --" Tom cries out like a wounded animal, a bird of prey --

And Lex is fucking him, at last and finally, perfectly --

He can't stop and he can't slow *down*, even though it doesn't get any easier --

*Because* it doesn't get any easier. Tom is so -- God, he *can't* have done this very often. It's just not *possible*, given the information he's picked up here and there about the relative lack of resiliency in the muscle --

Fuck, the *force* of Tom around him, the press and clench --

And Tom is shouting his name. Just --

Once for every *thrust* practically, interspersed with pleas, gasps --

Groans and cries --

Shudders and the *failed* attempts to match his rhythm, because. Because this is actually too *much* for Tom in some way, too hard or too -- painful? He can't make himself let go of Tom's hips to turn Tom's head, but he can see that Tom has a white-knuckled grip on the bureau, can hear the *jaggedness* in his cries, but --

"I can't stop. I can't -- I feel. Should I apologize?"

What he gets for that is wordless, shamelessly -- helplessly? -- loud --

"I think -- I don't think I have a choice, Tom. I have to -- nnh. Take that as a *no*," Lex says, and leans in to licks Tom's neck again, suck too lightly for the acid tang of need in his mouth, scrape his teeth and feel Tom shudder more --

More --

Reach-around. He should really --

He has to *pry* his hand off Tom's hip to do it, but once he has Tom in hand --

Once he can *feel* how hard Tom is, how hungry for this --

Oh, Tom, so perfect, so good and so *perfect*. Oh -- *more*, he thinks, and thanks whatever part of his mind is in control enough to keep him from saying that aloud and sounding like a *complete* idiot -- "I want you to come for me."

Tom *sobs* and nods, bracing his feet and trying to find Lex's rhythm again --

*Failing* again, and Lex strokes him hard and fast, *gives* it to him, and he'd rather have finesse for this, rather be able to *work* Tom the way he's being worked solely by having Tom *be* here, take this --

"So good, Lex, so -- please don't *stop* --"

"I don't have a *choice*," Lex says, and hates that it's true, that he's this close --

Tom's sound -- it's almost a *wail*, just --

"Fuck, Tom, stop -- stop being this *good* --"

Tom laughs -- "Oh, *fuck* --"

Tom comes all over his hand, clenching hard enough to make Lex's vision blank out for a terrifying heartbeat --

Another --

So slick, so fucking --

Lex wants to rub Tom's come all over his cock, wants to *use* it to fuck him harder, take him over the edge *again* --

Tom is shaking and slumping, holding himself up by sheer *will*, and Lex can feel that, too, feel everything, absolutely --

And the next clench makes him shout, makes him squeeze Tom and get another wail, perfect, so perfect --

And he doesn't *want* Tom to be quiet, but he can't stop himself from shoving his slick fingers deep into Tom's mouth --

"Fucking *taste* yourself --"

Tom groans and sucks, still working his hips off-rhythm --

No, that's *him*, because he's just that ragged now, just that close to --

Oh, God --

Oh, *God* --

Coming takes his vision again, makes him open his mouth --

Is he shouting? He can't *tell*, because he's spilling into Tom's ass, spurting and twitching, *needing* --

"*Yes*, Lex --"

And he's back in his body again, shocked dumb by the pleasure rolling through him, by the ache --

He's still *thrusting*, and that has to stop before he --

Lex whimpers and curses again, growls again --

Lex *stops* and stands there panting, legs spread to keep himself from falling over. He licks Tom's neck and gets a shiver, gets the *right* taste, full of salt and *Tom*, the only one, the only --

No, he's fine, he's -- Lex growls again --


"One. Moment," Lex says, and bites Tom's shoulder again. Fucking -- lightly.

And -- Tom reaches back and strokes Lex's hips and thighs, soothing. Soothing *him*, because he can tell how --

Control. He needs control right *now*, and he just --

Lex calls up his father's face and feels himself softening immediately, this close to slipping out -- he pulls out the rest of the way --

Tom grunts and shudders again.

"Sorry," Lex says reflexively. "I -- sorry," and he presses a kiss to the back of Tom's neck.

"It's all right. Are *you* --"

"I'm fine," Lex says. "I'm... once again --"

"I'm a fantastic lay...?" The smile in Tom's voice is gentle enough to make Lex's *skin* feel scoured, raw.

"You know you are," and Lex knows his voice sounds accusing -- oh, let's see. Yes, he can picture his father the last time he'd called Lex on the carpet, working him over and over about his -- slightly -- less than perfect grades, about the future he's squandering --

Lex takes a deep breath.

And spins Tom around to face him.

Tom is flushed pink, lips parted and tongue showing -- he licks his lips and raises an eyebrow, and Lex -- can't. The kiss is hard until Tom pushes him back a little and softens it, and --

It's all right if Tom wants it to be that way, he can be giving, magnanimous in his triumph, his pleasure --

Tom wraps his arms around Lex's neck and presses close, giving Lex the feel of his hard and hard-worked body, *demanding* touch in his way --

Lex can give that, too, and he walks them over to the bed and lets them stand there for a moment, another -- holds them in the kiss until he can feel his heartbeat starting to slow and his breathing starting to roughen for a new reason. Tom shows no compunction about moaning into Lex's mouth, or stroking the back of Lex's head not *quite* lightly enough to tickle.

He'd never trained Tom in that, but then Tom has never been anything but careful and *correct* about Lex's scalp. Perfect, he'd thought. Over and over.

He's *not* perfect. He's just -- a teenaged boy with a sore ass. A *dripping* ass, given how much semen *seemed* to come out of his cock... no, it wouldn't have been much. Not after this afternoon, this morning, last *night* after speaking to Tom on the phone --

Lex bites Tom's lip and pulls back. "Get comfortable. I'll bring in a tray for us."

"I'm willing to dress and eat in the dining room --"

"I'm not," Lex says, and gives Tom a slight push -- that Tom turns into something that only *looks* like an uncontrolled fall.

"You *beast*."

Lex snorts. "Behave or I dump ipecac in your share."

Tom... flips him off.

Good enough. Lex stops in the bathroom to wipe his cock clean first, and can't decide whether he's disappointed or relieved not to see blood -- there's always the next time.

He slips his robe on and heads to the kitchen, and exchanges a bit of small talk with Chef Elle as well as making sure she knows what sorts of snacks he'll want to be in the refrigerator for after she goes off duty. There's something in the oven and he can't think what that might be, but he really doesn't care.

Possibly Elle is experimenting with something new. His father tends to like it when he can throw a dinner party and show off her skills. And -- there.

Evan appears to take the tray before Lex can so much as touch it. "The bedroom, please."

"Sir," Evan says, quiet and correct -- except that he doesn't turn to go.

Lex raises an eyebrow.

"Your visitor, sir..."

"His name is Tom Wayne, and he'd probably prefer it if you were to call him 'Tom' or 'Mr. Wayne,' Evan. 'Sir' is unnecessary with him."

"Yes, sir. Ah... your father has returned."

That -- of course his stomach hasn't actually relocated itself, but -- "I see," Lex says, and moves in a *quick* walk back to the bedroom. The door is closed.

He opens it, and --

His father is sitting on the bed. Tom is under the duvet, but apparently hadn't had time to get under the sheet before --

"Ah, Lex," his father says, and his smile is smug, knowing, and altogether disagreeable. "I was just getting to know your new... friend."

"I see," he says again, and a quick glance -- Tom doesn't *look* horrified, but Tom doesn't look anything at all, really. He's blanked his expression entirely. An excellent tactic where his father is concerned, but he can't help wishing for a cue as to what they've been discussing.

"Tom, is it...?"

"Yes, Mr. Luthor," Tom says, quiet and correct, and -- he sits up and lets the duvet pool down around his waist. Brazening it out? Or just surrendering to the inevitable?

And -- at the moment, Lex can't think of a damned thing to help him. Tossing him a robe would just force him to shift and move more, be more *obvious* --

"That wouldn't be Tom *Wayne*, would it? You're *rooming* with my son this semester, yes?"

"Yes," Tom says, and doesn't break eye contact.

Definitely brazening, and Lex is tempted to cheer him *on* --

His father hums and leans in, reaching over to tap Tom's knee through the duvet. "You're something of a mystery, you know, Tom."

Tom... raises an eyebrow. "Am I?"

His father hums again -- and *grips* Tom's knee through the duvet, shaking it back and forth. "You know you are. There's hardly a sign of your existence beyond your being born near San Francisco."

"I haven't led an especially exciting life," and -- there's some distaste creeping into his eyes. Anyone else in this position --

Everyone else who has found themselves in this position -- whether or not Lex had brought them back *here* -- has looked to Lex for help, by now. He's let them sink or swim as they would, knowing --

Knowing, full well, that the more interest and care he showed in their well-being, the harder it would be to *detach* his father from them. And there are so many different ways to interpret that last statement, and Lex lives in fear of the ones his father hasn't demonstrated *yet*.

There have to be some, right? Lex... puts his hands in the pocket of his robe and does his best to look casual. "They seem to be quite a private family, Dad."

"Seem to be?" And that was absolutely a slap for not knowing for sure --

"Are," Lex says. "Sorry, I misspoke."

Lionel sits up and tugs *playfully* at the duvet --

Tom raises his eyebrow higher. Bravo. Really --

"I take it the two of you have become close, Tom?"

"Your son is brilliant and fascinating, Mr. Luthor --"

"Please, call me *Lionel*. Since we're all going to be so very close," he says, and his smile could almost be called paternal. If one ignored...

Once, when his mother had still been alive, she'd taken Lex to the Metropolis Zoo for the day, and Lex had insisted on seeing every possible animal, coming close to throwing tantrums when one or another of the animals refused to come out into good light. There had been...

There had been lizards, that day, and they'd fascinated Lex with their small, alien faces and flat eyes. His father never looked like that back then -- he remembers that clearly, and will never allow himself to forget -- but right now...

"I'd feel more comfortable continuing to refer to you by your surname, Mr. Luthor," Tom says, and corrects his posture by the millimeter or two it's possible to do so. "I was taught that it was a sign of respect, and I have nothing but respect for how you've turned your business into something rivaling --"

"Your family's, Tom?"

"The finest, most powerful businesses in the world. I've been informed that Wayne Enterprises has been somewhat stagnant in that regard since Thomas Wayne's murder."

No, no, no, you're just going to make him *interested*, Lex doesn't say. He -- he tries to *will* it into Tom's mind --

But his father's eyebrow is already up. "You've been informed? You didn't know for yourself?"

"I'm from a different branch of the family," Tom says, and turns his hand. "While I might play a role in the business as I get older, I doubt I'll be making the decisions."

"They'd be foolish not to take you on," Lex says before he can stop himself, before he can *think* -- and he knows he's blushing.

And there's nothing he can do about the way his father looks at him, the way he *sees* --

"Why, Lex. Is that what the two of you were doing? Discussing the business world? I didn't know --"

"No," Tom says, "we were having sex. I apologize for disrespecting your home -- if you feel we've done so -- but I rather think the games are unnecessary at this point."

Dear -- every god he doesn't actually believe in. Lex bites the inside of his lip to keep from laughing --

And bites harder when his father -- blinks. First, yet. And then he stands and straightens his suit. "Admirably straightforward, Tom. And here I'd been thinking that my son had simply found himself another pathetically useless blueblood to stick his cock in."

Lex winces -- internally, dammit --

"His taste has clearly improved," and his father turns to look at him. "Get dressed. I have work for you."

"We were going --"

"Lex. Did you or did you not express to me -- repeatedly -- that you wanted more of a hand in the business?"

"Yes, I did. I'll be dressed in a few minutes."

"Good. And don't worry about your friend -- I feel sure he can find ways to entertain himself while he waits," his father says, and, if anything, it's more of a lizard smile than ever, but --

If he passes this chance up, how long will he have to wait for another? Lex nods. "If you'll excuse us, Dad?"

"Of course," he says, and claps Lex -- hard -- on the shoulder. "Don't keep me waiting."

And he's gone, just like that. After a moment, Evan walks in with a tray and then leaves again, and -- they're alone.

"Should I apologize? I couldn't quite tell what the best tack to take --"

"You did far better than anyone else has -- ever," Lex says, and allows himself a moment to take a breath, another. "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for," Tom says, and slips out of bed, coming close and -- yes, that's a hand on his shoulder.

Offering comfort he doesn't deserve and can't fucking *take* -- "No," Lex says, and brushes Tom's hand aside. Lightly. "I -- I have to do this. I'm --"

"I understand," and Tom sounds... accepting. Perfectly so.

Lex searches him, aware that he's frowning too much. Tom just raises both eyebrows and nods toward Lex's closet.

"It's all right, Lex. I *can* entertain myself. I'll just start making terrible assumptions about your life by poring over your library."

"*I* didn't choose all of the books. My favorites are all in storage while I'm still in school --"

"Lex. Get dressed," Tom says, and leans in to *kiss* Lex's shoulder. The robe shouldn't be there. He should be able to feel that, or --

"Then eat something, please --"

"I will."

There's nothing else to say. It feels like there *should* be, but there isn't. Lex gets dressed, quickly and conservatively -- right down to the cologne.

When he's done, Tom looks both amused and appreciative, which --

"Do *not* develop a kink for this," Lex says, and straightens his tie.

"No promises," Tom says, and finishes dressing himself -- jeans and a polo shirt. *He's* on vacation.

With *him*, dammit --

Lex takes a breath and goes. The work turns out to be the last stages of a contract renegotiation with one of their better marketing agents. It's the work of human resources -- but rather high up that particular chain. There's no way to turn it down, as it *does* confer a great deal of respect on a sixteen-year-old.

His father gets to provide 'the personal touch' without lifting a finger. And -- he doesn't say a word about why he cut his trip short or what he plans to do while Lex is out on his errand, and Lex already knows there's no point in asking.

Tom has proven -- beyond the shadow of a doubt -- that he can take care of himself.

And this won't take long.

Lex goes, taking a Mercedes and a briefcase with the preliminary contract. He'd memorized what he could and couldn't offer before he left his father's office, and the man they're wooing already has a good idea of what he can get. He *will* get the contract signed, and then he can go back to --

To Tom.

And the meeting goes the way it should, Lex taking the impersonal and somewhat fatuous comments on his maturity and how he's grown in stride, and accepting a half-measure of very good bourbon.

The rain sheets down outside the man's -- quite staid -- home office, and Lex plays the game. He asks about golf (the bag is prominent in the corner of the room), the man's young children (the pictures are right there on the desk), and generally makes himself appear well-informed and business-like.

Enough so that the man sounds a bit less fatuous -- and mentions certain comments his father had made about him, and how he's pleasantly surprised.

Lex smiles his own lizard-smile, fighting back the self-loathing and rage, and modestly suggests that everyone needs to grow up sometime.

The contract gets signed, he allows himself to be toured around the man's perfectly decorated -- for certain values which have much to do with middle America -- home. He refuses the offer to stay for dinner, explaining that the business day doesn't really end whenever he wants it to.

That gets him a laugh and a *level* look, and --

Lex realizes that he's made himself an ally. It's tentative, of course, and the man will be watching closely, but the next time his father says something derogatory, *this* man will remember their meeting. And perhaps look at Lex's father in the light Lex wants him to.


And really, as far as Lex is concerned, his father can give him opportunities like this as often as he likes. It all gets him closer to where he needs to be, and --

There's some suspicion there. If his father knows him at all -- and he wouldn't be nearly as much of a thorn in Lex's side if he didn't -- then he has to know at least some of what Lex plans.

It really would be just like him to allow Lex *in* this far and no farther, to give Lex a lovely view of the Promised Land and no real way to access it. But it would *also* be just like him to throw Lex on errands like this just to keep him on his toes, to watch him try and fail and thus prove to himself that he'd sired a weak reed in Lex, thus justifying everything he does and doesn't do *to* Lex.

There are times when it's hard to keep the future out of his eyes when he deals with his father, to pretend to be only the obedient, willing son, focused on nothing more than fitting himself into the roles his father wants him to play.

For one thing, they both know Lex *is* pretending, but for this... Lex has to always have a fairly good idea of what his father *thinks* is the truth.

Right now, he has to believe that Lex is somewhat cowed by the weight of all that LuthorCorp responsibility, that he's eager to prove himself but still has doubts about whether he can do it.

Lex *needs* the man to believe that Lex is only a somewhat smarter teenager than most, that he's truly not ruthless at all, that he wouldn't ever...


The fact is, Lex hasn't decided *what* will be his checkmate, the last move he makes before taking over.

(But he has, oh, he *has*. It's just a matter of making it play right, making it seem accidental or at least tragic --)

He hasn't decided, and the future -- while it gets closer by the *moment* -- is still quite far away. Let his father think, please, that Lex is only shining himself up *for* his father.

Let him not realize that Lex has considered the question of allies.

Let him *never* realize -- until it's too late -- that LuthorCorp *will* be LexCorp one day.

No matter what he has to do to make it happen.

When he gets back to the tower, the Spider has already been taken for maintenance, and he spares a moment to be friendly to the attendant, and joke about how he'll have a much easier time with the Mercedes. Then he goes upstairs, delivers his report to his father, and thinks about dinner.

Tom might want to go out now, and Lex makes a mental list of five restaurants he'd like to introduce him to. And then... well, maybe they can make an appearance at a club or something. How long is his father planning to *stay*?

"Is there anything else I can do, Dad?"

His father looks up, casual and distracted and, for a moment -- he could be any father anywhere, busy but loving -- "You did well with this, Lex. For a while Mathers was trying to get me to jump another five k for his salary," he says, and the predation in his smile is aimed only at the foolish people who try to get more money out of him than he intends to give.

"I... he seemed to want, mostly, proof that his contribution to the company was appreciated," Lex says, and folds his hands together.

"Mm, they always do, sooner or later. You're enough like your mother that you can make things like that happen, son, and I -- appreciate it," and his father is inviting him to share the joke at both of their expenses.

Lex smiles. "Thank you. But..."

"No, I don't have anything else for you -- nothing that wouldn't keep you busy until well past the time you need to be back in school. And I think I like seeing that sort of disappointment on your face."

Lex blushes --

"Yes, very *much* like your mother. Well. I won't take any more of your time, Lex. Enjoy your vacation."

Lex nods and stands, and -- pauses, because there's something --

He needs. He rests his hand on his father's desk. "Thank you for the opportunity, Dad."

"You're welcome," his father says, and doesn't bother to look up from the report he's looking over.

It's -- enough.

It's enough. Lex heads for the library and finds it empty of all life, though his old copy of the The Prince is out on the chaise. He frowns and puts it back where it belongs -- Tom is usually much neater than that -- and heads to his bedroom, which --

Is empty.

Completely empty, with the bed neatly made once more, and no sign of Tom's duffel. He starts to feel distinctly cold, distinctly...

What had his father done?

What could he have said or done that was more awful than how he'd began with Tom? What.

He uses the intercom to buzz Evan's room --

"Sir. I didn't realize you had returned --"

"Where -- where did Tom go."

"Ah. He mentioned the Chilton, sir. He also mentioned the Spectrum."

"Did he say -- no. That's. Thank you, Evan."


What --

The images are too much, too three-dimensional and full of sounds, scents --

His father --

No. He'll wait until Tom tells him. Nothing is *real* until Tom says what he has to say, and so there's nothing to be concerned about. Lex breathes deeply and packs a small suitcase, making a point of doing it slowly and carefully, since he has the strong suspicion that he won't want to come back here for some time --

No. He doesn't know. Tom could've just decided that he didn't want to stay here, that he'd rather see how the City of Tomorrow chose to interpret the hospitality industry --

What had his father *done*?


"Dad. I thought you were working," Lex says, calm and quiet and *not* turning around --

"If you run to him now, Lex, you will *always* be following him. We both know you don't want that."

"I have an *agenda*, Dad --"

"You have a toyboy," his father says, walking into the room by the sound of it -- Lex can see him stopping by the bureau out of the corner of his eye, and --

Lex isn't going to be sick.

"While I can't fault your taste in picking a Wayne for your little experimentation, he really is a little high-strung for you."

High-strung. What in the *hell* would make Tom even *appear* to be high-strung? No, he's packing, not thinking, *packing* --

"Be reasonable, son. You know you'll have to give him up if you plan to get anywhere in life --"

"I -- want his company," Lex says, and thinks -- yes, that would please his father, *ease* things for him --

His father laughs, low and rich. "Oh, son. You want his *ass*, and there's nothing particularly wrong with that, save for the fact that you're really going to have to show a bit more control."

"The current heir is completely useless, Dad. A cipher -- who listens to everything Tom tells him. Who *does* everything Tom tells him to," and Lex goes to get his travel-kit of toiletries, the things he needs for his skin that not even the best hotels offer --

"Really. Interesting -- and intriguing. But you really mustn't try to lie to me -- or yourself -- about your motivations. He's reasonably attractive -- if a bit on the scrawny side."

"Dad --"

"I suppose it's the sort of thing that just tends to happen at a school like Exeter sooner or later. Especially given the little games you like to play with makeup and your little frills."

It suits a *purpose* -- no, he's not going to get into that argument. "He's extraordinarily useful --"

"To your *cock*, yes, Lex, I know. He really did make some *inspiring* sounds earlier."

He's not. Going to be *sick*. "Fine, Dad, I want him. We're sexually compatible, and we're both sixteen years old. Just -- let me get it out of my system, all right?" And when Lex looks, his father is laughing behind his eyes, clearly amused by every *ounce* of emotion Lex is failing to hide --

Control, and once his breathing is correct, he raises an eyebrow.

"You've been a very permissive father, Dad, and I appreciate it. I don't plan to hang myself with this rope."

"You just plan on letting him call the shots. Son, I'm trying to *help* you, here. People like that are used to running roughshod over the rest of us, and making us all dance to their tunes. The fact that this one's a little smarter and tougher than the rest of his kind... well, really, that just makes him more dangerous."

"He isn't a distraction, Dad. My grades are better than they've ever been --"

"Your conduct is slipping."

"My *conduct* is meaningless when grades like mine -- and money like yours -- are available, as we both know."

"Touché. And if I said I'd stop supporting you if you insisted on running after your little catamite?"

*Catamite* -- focus. Focus. The fact is, that it isn't time for that. He's not ready -- and even showing that he's considering it puts him in a worse position. Really -- Lex snorts and shakes his head. "You'd die before you let yourself be *that* bourgeois, Dad."

And that makes his father laugh again, smile *broadly* -- "If I had had an education like yours... perhaps I'd want a Wayne to warm my bed, too. Does he have a sister?"

"No. I *checked*," Lex says, and turns back to his suitcase, double-checking that he'll have everything he needs --

"Son --"

"Dad," Lex says, and smiles until it feels like it will make him bleed. Maybe it already is. "One day, Tom Wayne is going to be one of the most powerful men on the eastern seaboard -- despite the fact that he's as queer as a three dollar bill. That's just how Wayne Enterprises works. We're talking about a company where the same man has been running things for nearly a decade in *stewardship* for a boy who was eight years old when the CEO died, without once doing a thing to take more power for himself. And yet he remains as powerful as he ever was, and the company is running so far into the black that even the wage-slaves can take three week vacations every year."

"You've been doing your research," his father says, and his expression is -- shrewd. Measuring. Proud.

"Of course I have. I've been in school with Bruce for years. I know exactly who he is, and what he can and can't do. I've never been able to get close to him, but Tom *has* --"

"I've often thought that Bruce was a little light in his loafers --"

"Yes, he is. And has a few bats in the belfry, too, since we're going to keep throwing stereotypes and worn axioms at each other --"

"You did start it, son," and his father smiles, folding his hands --

"Well. As I've said -- I have an agenda. The fact that it includes my getting laid by." Keep going. Keep *going* -- "By the best fuck I've ever had does *not* mean that it's not a *useful* agenda."

His father hums and, after a moment, nods. "All right, Lex. I take your points. Go after your little boy and convince him that all is well, and that he truly, truly loves Metropolis -- and you. Just remember who your family is."

Lex inclines his head. "I never plan to forget." What. Did. You. *Do* --

Lex watches his father go, and forces himself to wait until he's calm again, until he can *think* again --

And then he looks over his suitcase one more time.

And then he goes.

There's a convention at the Chilton -- something he could've checked if he'd been up to staying in the penthouse for one *moment* longer, which means that the Spectrum is his last choice before he sits in a lobby with a phone book and the hope that he won't have to *present* himself in person at every decent hotel in town in order to get answers.

The name *Lex* Luthor only goes so far at this point, and the idea of using his father's influence makes him want to vomit.

Perhaps in the pockets of his father's favorite suit jacket.

He gets lucky, though, and there's a key waiting for him at the Spectrum, and --

There is, honestly, a part of him which wants to smack Tom down in some way for having that kind of *confidence* that Lex would come after him. It's just that that part is the one which had convinced Lex's father to let him go, and he can't --

He can't. Not right now.

And, when he gets to the room, Tom is waiting on the couch -- with a stiff drink he appears to have consumed half of.


"Lex," Tom says, and the smile on his face looks brittle and ugly. *False* --

*Damn* -- "Tell me what he did."

"I'd really rather not," and he's in the hotel robe, still wet from a shower --

"Tom --"

"I'm fine. I'm skeeved beyond the telling of it, but I'm fine." And Tom knocks back the rest of the drink.

Skeeved? Is that California slang? Neither of them are much for *using* slang -- when they're alone with each other -- but. He can guess the meaning from context. Oh, he has a great *deal* of context to work with. Lex does his best to wipe most of the frown from his face and grabs another couple of bottles at random from the well-stocked bar.

"Planning to get me drunk?"

"Planning," Lex says, "to join you. How many have you had?"

"I've only been here for an hour and a half --"

"How many."

"Two and a half. I thought the half would do it before I took my shower -- Lex, can we leave this at 'all right, now I know exactly what an ass your father is?'"

Can they? Can *he*? Lex pours himself a drink and knocks it back, not bothering to taste it. Then he pours himself another and knocks *that* back --

"Lex --"

"A moment," he says, and pours *half* a drink. This one he sips slowly, and blinks past the fuzz that wants to take over. He hasn't eaten. He -- "Let's get room service. Something ridiculous for a hotel like this. A cheeseburger. Fries. Ice cream."

That gets him a better smile. "All right." Tom moves to the phone and orders for both of them, and a part of Lex is only watching the way he moves, watching for --

His father wouldn't have *hit* Tom, and if he'd tried, he would've wound up with broken fingers. It -- it couldn't have been that bad. His father *wasn't* injured, and Tom would never stint to defend himself. Would he? "Tom..."

"He hit on me. He waited until I was reading your notes in The Prince, and then he put his arm around my shoulders. I backed away, and asked him what he was sending you to do. He proceeded to *stalk* my personal space and ask about our sex life. If I liked being fucked. If I always -- screamed like that," Tom says and turns enough to give Lex his profile. He's frowning and crossing his arms, and the tension runs right through him. Right --

"He was. He *hit* on you --"

"He put one hand on my shoulder and the other on my -- groin."

No. He wouldn't -- Tom's not even --

He *wouldn't* --


"We don't have to talk about this, Lex. It's -- I suppose it's possible that I misinterpreted," Tom says, and smiles at him ruefully, looking much too young, much too --

"He touched you."

"Lex --"

"He *touched* you --"


And Lex realizes that, for the first time in a very *long* time, he doesn't know what to do. He could have his father arrested. He *should* have his father arrested. He's an *adult*, and Tom is sixteen, and -- it would take the company down in an instant. Everything he's worked for, everything he's planned --

Lex looks at the glass in his hand and tries to will the alcohol to work faster, to give him something --

Did his father think he wouldn't *believe* Tom? That he wouldn't care enough to get upset? The latter is more likely, because isn't that what he's *led* his father to believe?

Lionel. His name is Lionel, and he came back home because Evan has always played a double game. Gentle and helpful with him -- but Lionel would never have kept him on if he wasn't *useful*. He'd called Lionel as soon as Lex had made that phone call, and his father had come up with something to get him out of the house so he could.



"I honestly couldn't say, Lex. Look, I've been dealing with people trying to get me to do things I didn't want to do for years. I'm small and reasonably attractive --"

That was out loud. That -- "Don't say that. Don't -- that's how he described you. To me. When we talked," Lex says, and sets the glass down to keep from throwing it, crushing it in his fucking *fist* --

"Oh. I see. He -- the two of you talked?"

Lex nods and stands, and lets himself pace the way he'd never dare in his own -- his own *fucking* home --

Never let him see you upset.

If that's not possible, then never let him see the *depth* of it.

Never --

("Oh, sweetheart, your father's just never been very *good* at affection. He loves you, though. He loves you more than anything in this world.")

Lex growls -- stops. Tom shouldn't see him like this right now. This isn't -- this isn't part of the *plan*. He hasn't even -- "Tom. Are you all right?"

Tom raises an eyebrow. "I'm fine. As I *said*. There've been all sorts of people who've touched me inappropriately, Lex. The only thing different about this is that I didn't feel comfortable breaking his arms."

"Why *not*?"

Tom blinks at him. "Because he's your *father*, Lex --"

"Yes, he's my father, and I say you should've -- God, if he *ever* touches you again --"

"I *don't* plan to give him the opportunity."

Meaning... what? He'll never come to Lex again? He'll never -- Lex growls again and covers his face with his hands. Think. Breathe. Focus.

"Lex --"

"Wait." Think. Breathe. Focus.

Walk, not pace, to the couch. Sit down. Pat the cushion next to you.

Think. Breathe. Focus.

Focus on the whisper of the robe against Tom's skin, on the way he doesn't hesitate before sitting down next to you, on the way he's there, right there --

"What. What do you want me to do, Tom," he says, and looks --

Tom is worried, obviously so, that line on his forehead cutting *deep* -- he rests a hand on Lex's shoulder. "I'm going to be calm about this... soonish. I'd like you to be calm, as well."

"He --"

"Yes, he did. But it only took one *good* shove to get him to back off --"

"He laughed at you."

Tom frowns. "Yes."

"I could -- we could go to the police," Lex says, and feels his stomach try to turn itself inside out, feels -- he's letting Tom call the shots. He's dangling his future over a fucking *ledge* --

"I'm sixteen, not twelve, Lex. If I wanted to call the cops on your father, I would have. You --" Tom shakes his head, closing his eyes for a moment -- when he opens them, they're clear and light. "He's an asshole, but he still takes no for an answer."

"And that's *enough* for you?"

"Frankly? No." Tom squeezes his shoulder. "But you're going to take his company right out from under him one day, and I... I'll be there, in whatever way I can manage. And he'll loathe that until the day he dies."

And what if he died *sooner* than what you're imagining, Tom? What if... oh, he'd always been just a little too touch-y with Lex's acquaintances, hadn't he? He'd never gone this *far*... but then, he'd never *been* there to hear Lex fucking any of them. And it had never been a *friend*.

What if Lex brought in a ringer, somehow? Someone on his payroll and *only* his payroll?

What if that ringer could seduce the seducer? And then... Lex smiles.

"You're thinking about it," Tom says. "It's quite attractive to see."

"He'll pay for this, Tom. I -- it won't be tomorrow, but. I invited you here so that the two of us could have fun, relax --"

"A few more drinks ought to do it."

Lex laughs. "You don't *drink*. But you have one hell of a tolerance for someone who doesn't."

"You only *think* I'm firing on all my cylinders, Lex. The truth is that I strongly suspect that I'm going to pass out... oh, let's say sooner rather than later."

"I don't believe you," he says, because he doesn't, because Tom's eyes are *just* that clear -- "But I think you're allowed to lie to me tonight."

Tom's smile quirks and he raises both eyebrows. "A free pass? Just because your father made me want to kneecap him?"

Lex takes Tom's hand off his shoulder and just -- holds it. No, he has to stroke it, note the prominent knuckles and the scars, the calluses -- "I *planned* to make you feel better."

"You have. In several different ways," Tom says, and strokes the center of Lex's palm.

Lex shivers. "Tom."

"Lex. I can honestly say that I haven't thought about my... problems in quite some time," and he cocks his head to the side, exposing the line of his throat, the pale skin Lex isn't allowed to mark because --

Of something.


"You're too attractive."

Tom snorts. "That's -- new."

"You are. To me. There's no sane reason for it. You're hardly a classic beauty."

"Thank you."

"You -- know what I'm talking about." Is *he* getting drunk? Should he possibly shut up right *now*? "You keep finding ways to *be* someone who I'd like to have in my life."

"We could call it friendship and leave it at that, Lex --"

"I've never --" Lex closes his mouth and bites down on his tongue, and tries -- and fails -- to repress the *next* shiver when Tom strokes his palm with his fingertips, when he shifts closer -- "I want you naked."

"Lex --"

"And I'm fully aware that my timing is absolutely horrible. Let's -- we can numb our brains with television while we wait for food?"

Tom looks worried again, lets Lex *see* the worry -- he nods, and they move into the living room, where there's a much better couch and a television that could easily cause death were it to fall on someone. Lex turns on a news program -- pauses.

"Are there any... do you *watch* television?"

"Not as a rule, no," Tom says. "Pick anything we can mock."

"The news it is, then," Lex says, and joins Tom, wanting... his head in Lex's lap. Or his legs. Or -- "I want to massage you."

"I'm -- willing."

Lex nods, something small and sharp in him satisfied -- and more satisfied when Tom starts stroking Lex's hand again.

They -- aren't dating. This is just two friends together, one of whom with assorted horrible memories, both of them more than a little tipsy -- Tom isn't really drunk, at all, but perhaps this is what he does when he pretends to be.

Lex sits back and relaxes as much as he can, making a command decision to think of nothing deeper than terrible ties and reporting 'skills' that would make Edward R. Murrow come back to life just to find a way to kill himself publicly.

When their food arrives, Tom doesn't seem to eat less or more than he usually does, and he seems... as calm as he said he was. Which is...

He hadn't been in very good shape when Lex had arrived, but perhaps it was helpful for him to talk about what happened? Or -- to see Lex's reaction to it, and, perhaps... know that Lex cared. It's really too soon for that, too *much* for what he's been given -- excellent sex or no.

They hardly *know* each other, and -- "Are you going to be going back to California when the school year ends?"

"No," Tom says. "I... I'll be staying in Gotham indefinitely."

That -- "What about your family? Your parents?"

Tom smiles, dark and -- all of his usual age is right back on his face. "My parents have lives of their own. I'm not a part of that."

And this... is he close to what had brought Tom to Exeter so suddenly? Lex wants -- badly -- to know exactly where the line is, so he can know when and *how* to cross it. "What... will you tell me what you did?"

"The unforgivable. I can't talk about that --"

"Is it because you're gay?"

"I hid my life --" Tom shakes his head. "For all intents and purposes, my family, now, is Bruce and Alfred. It could... there could maybe be, one day, a reconciliation..." Tom frowns. "Please, Lex."

Lex turns on the couch to face Tom, putting distance between them -- more distance than he wants. He takes Tom's hand in his own. "Whatever it was --"

"What's done is done. I can't go home."

Would Lionel ever push him off on distant cousins? He doesn't *have* any, but... could it happen? Somehow, he can't quite picture it. He's known since he was a child that he wasn't the son Lionel wanted, but -- is that what had happened a few weeks ago? Hearing that he was neither expected nor *wanted* back in San Francisco? "Tom --"

"Please," he says again, and looks up into Lex's eyes --

The hollow is back as if it had never left, and there's an essential truth to it, a loss more real than, perhaps, anything in Tom's *life* -- Lex nods. One day Tom will trust him enough. That's -- what friends do. He might not be able to *do* anything --

("You can't fix me.")

He'll *find* something he can do, and Tom will be grateful, and -- something. Right now. "Let me kiss you, Tom."

Tom smiles and leans in, and the kiss is much slower than their usual, much more --

He supposes he could call it gentle, or easy -- no. It's not easy. It makes Lex feel naked, exposed to the crowd of his memories and fucking *issues* --

It feels good, and he keeps it up, licking Tom's mouth and pushing a hand into his hair --

Tom moans, and Lex rolls up onto his knees and tilts Tom's head back, pets his throat and tugs his hair lightly, kisses *deeper* and promises himself more of this, and more, and *more* until he can make the different parts of himself agree, make them all understand that Tom is --

A friend.

And Tom's hands are on Lex's shoulders, stroking him --

He's still wearing the ridiculously conservative suit. He backs out of the kiss and starts to strip, waiting for a protest, a demur so he can insist that they don't have to have sex, that they can just -- something.

But Tom is eyeing him avidly, *enjoying* the sight of him the way he has from the beginning. He'd hid his life from his family? How could he, when he could never hide *this*?

He supposes they could be ignorant, or just that unobservant, that they could've produced a child like Tom through blind luck and the genetic *lottery* --

When he's down to just his pants and boxers, he kisses Tom again, and lifts Tom's hands back to his shoulders -- "Touch me."

"Happily," Tom says, and starts to stroke him, starts to mark out Lex's musculature until Lex wants to start working out the way Tom does. Lionel would undoubtedly start making comments about Lex's vanity, while also pointing out that no one in the business world wanted a fop to lead them.

He could use worse words --

He's not going to think about Lionel.

He kisses Tom again and cups his face, *holds* him for it, still and perfect for Lex's tongue and teeth --

No, no biting. Not *yet*.

He licks Tom as much as he wants, drops lower and pushes Tom's head back so he can kiss his throat, mouth him, nuzzle and *taste* --

"Lex -- Lex, wait --"

"I -- would rather not."

Tom laughs and pulls back, and there's so much in his eyes. They're soft and *full*, and Lex is faced with the devastatingly simple fact that he had made them that way, that this expression is for *him* --

"I want more of you."

Tom -- it's not quite a gasp, but it's close enough to make Lex harder, make him need to stroke Tom's sharp cheekbone, his wet and swelling mouth --

It swells fast, it *heals* fast -- "Your mouth is a marvelous toy."

Another laugh. "Lex. I -- shall we use the very large bed?"

That -- "You should be in *my* very large bed --"

"But that's not going to happen. Unless and until you can give me proof that your father is, say, imprisoned in Cambodia."

"You always have the most *wonderful* ideas," Lex says, and takes another kiss, another one -- it's possible that he *is* a little drunk, but he feels neither ill nor ridiculous. It's not like --

He's not saying anything he thinks he'll regret --

He pulls back -- he leans in and *nips* Tom's lower lip, and it makes Tom jump interestingly. "Naked?"

Tom stands up and shrugs the robe off his shoulders. He's not as hard as he could be, but he looks --

Lex *lets* himself look, and Tom... poses. Hipshot, one leg bent up with the toe pointed. His lips are pursed, and -- "I should've brought my makeup."

"You would've been disappointed."

"Is it so wrong to want lipstick smears on my cock?"

"When you want them to come from my mouth? Yes," Tom says, slipping out of the pose and offering his hand.

Lex takes it and stands, moving close enough to kiss but not *quite* doing it, as opposed to breathing Tom's vanilla ice cream- and whiskey-scented breath and nuzzling --


"Never? Even if I ask politely?"

Tom smiles. "It depends on just how polite you get."

"Oh... let me show you how polite I can be," Lex says, and kisses Tom one more time, sucking his lips one after the other and walking Tom back to the bedroom. He gives himself the feel of Tom's hips, the faintly drugged look in his eyes that has absolutely nothing to do with the alcohol he'd consumed and everything to do with how much Lex is making him want. "I'll touch you... more, I think."

"All right."

"How long can you wait to come?"

"There have been nights that I've... worked out with an erection for upwards of six hours. But I'd rather not."

Worked out? What about *that* was a lie? Lex shakes off the question and keeps moving them. "You won't have to wait that long, but I suppose if I ever find myself inclined to fit you for a cock ring we'll be in good shape."

He likes it when Tom laughs, the way it gets breathier and somehow *easier* if he makes it happen multiple times in a short period...

"Lie down on your stomach?"

"I should say... I don't think I could handle you fucking me again, tonight?"

A pang for that, and, yes, he's feeling a bit like a caveman again. "That's -- I can live with that."

Tom's smile is almost shy for a moment, and Lex wants to know why -- Tom crawls onto the bed and lies flat, spreading his legs *slightly*. Just enough to expose his sac, and Lex wants...

Too much at once. For the moment, he follows Tom onto the bed and straddles his long thighs, thinking about scented shaving cream and straight razors and pressing his thumbs to the back of Tom's neck. "I won't tell you to relax, but I would like for you to enjoy this as much as you can. I want --" Too *much* --

"All right, Lex," Tom says, and Lex starts massaging, searching for tension and finding it in too many places. Of course he knew that it said something that just about everyone he's done this for had been inebriated in some form or another, but Tom weighs practically nothing and had *had* two -- and a half -- stiff drinks not that long ago.

He doesn't want to, but he's really going to have to deal with the fact that he's just not going to be able to leave Tom limp and pliant for him -- more pliant than he already is, or -- no. He's *willing*, and that's a different thing entirely.

That's --

Tom moans. For the feel of Lex's hands on his shoulder blades, or... he could ask, but he really doesn't want to be all *that* needy. It's enough that it was a very good moan, and that he should keep going, keep doing just this.

He'd studied anatomy during his briefly passionate fling with the idea of becoming a physician, and he doesn't tend to ever *forget* what he's studied. It's helpful, for this, to know just where all the muscle groups are, even if he doesn't have any intention of doing this more seriously than... this. This moment, with Tom beneath him...

They're in the wrong bed, but in the right moment. *This* is what he'd wanted, and realizing that makes him want to hit himself, but not more than he wants to wallow. The opportunity to examine every *inch* of Tom with his palms and fingers, to learn him this way, and to, perhaps, inure himself --

Tom's breath hitches on another moan --

He's not going to inure himself tonight. Especially since that moan had seemed almost *distressed*, and he can't -- "Tom...?"

"I -- it's good, Lex. I'm all right."

He's lying again, but -- he'd given him a free pass. That doesn't mean he can just *ignore* it. "Do you need me to stop?"

Tom sighs and turns his face, letting Lex see the tension in his jaw, the fact that his eyes are squeezed shut --

"Tom --"

"My teacher. My other teacher --"

"The puppy lover," Lex says, and calls up the image Tom had given him of the man -- older, brotherly, and, at least to some extent, unattainable --

"You're just going to *keep* calling him that, aren't you?"

"You might consider giving me a name. It doesn't have to be real," Lex says, and moves back up to Tom's shoulders, which are, if anything, more tense than they had been when Lex had started --

"I can't. But you're... he'd touch me -- massage me this way. Sometimes."

That was... honest. "And yet the two of you never had sex. I wasn't aware my touches seemed clinical," Lex says, and just strokes Tim for a moment, pressing him down against the bed before dragging his thumb up the shallow dip of Tom's spine.

Tom shivers. "They're not... but neither was he. He was never... even when I was injured and he was bandaging me up or yanking one of my shoulders back into the socket, he was warm. Affectionate."


Tom squeezes his eyes shut tighter. "Yes."

And Tom is never going home to him, perhaps thinks he'll never see the man again -- his brother. Lex feels himself frowning and does his best to put a stop to it. "I... can stand to remind you of him. To a certain extent."

Tom's laugh is a little strangled. "*Good*. And don't worry -- I won't be foisting any puppies upon you."

"I much prefer cats," Lex says, and leans in to kiss the back of Tom's neck, to nuzzle and *feel*.


"You... can think about him, if you'd like. There's nothing wrong with fantasy."

"I prefer imagining things I can have."

"That didn't stop you with him, though. For how long...?"

"Years," Tom says. "Before I was actually pubescent."

That... "But you weren't studying martial arts then."

"No. But I knew him," Tom says... and utterly fails to elaborate.

It's better than a lie, and it... helps. Despite being raised in wealth, Tom had clearly spent a lot of time moving through San Francisco, and perhaps had lived every important part of his life there -- away from his own family. Hm. "You feel stifled at Exeter."

Tom smiles. "You don't?"

"I do, but... you attended different sorts of schools."

"Yes. My parents believed in public education. For a while, anyway."

"Perhaps I might've met a better class of people had Lionel felt the same," Lex says, and uses the flat of his tongue to lick a stripe from the base of Tom's neck to his hairline.


"It's either that or 'my sperm donor,' and that provides images I don't need."

Tom laughs quietly and -- relaxes.

"Yes, like that," and Lex kneels up and starts massaging again.

"I really -- like this, Lex. I didn't expect it from you."

"Perhaps you should've."

Tom hums. "Is this an example of your... politeness?"

"Something like. I'm also just enjoying your body."

"I've enjoyed your enjoyment these past few weeks."

"You know exactly how hard you've worked to... hm. *Craft* this body."

"I do. But... I've never really thought of doing it for sexual purposes."

"Again --"

"Perhaps I should've, yes," Tom says. "I -- lower."

"You're still tense."

"I'm also still *me*. Lower, please."

"Noted," Lex says, and shifts to working on Tom's lower back --

"God, I always love it there --"

"You don't have many scars here, but... an old injury?"

"I'm sensitive there in general, but... yes. Trying to do things I wasn't flexible enough for -- at the time," and Tom spreads his legs as far as he can with Lex straddling them -- hm.

"Wait," and Lex moves until he's between Tom's legs. This time, Tom spreads *exactly* as far he's able, which is... "Impressive. *When* do you stretch?"

"Usually when I'm spending time with Bruce. You know I've been training him."

For some reason, that makes Lex feel a lot more jealous than the idea of Tom fantasizing about his old teacher -- well, no, it makes sense. Bruce is, after all, right there.

And would probably suck Tom's cock in a heartbeat if Tom told him to -- or. No. Harvey. Sometimes he thinks he'd like Harvey more if he could tell himself that he *was* sucking up to Bruce for his money.

He knows he's *wrong* about that, but it's a satisfying sort of thought, just the same.

"You know, I do believe this is the first time you've *ever* refrained from saying something cutting about Bruce when I've given you the opportunity."

"Enjoy it," Lex says, and starts massaging Tom's ass, "while it lasts."

Tom's laugh is more of a hum than anything else, this time. "As replacement families go... he's been wonderful."

"I suppose he does seem like your type. I imagine if you gave him a puppy, he'd provide it with all sorts of love and attention. Or stare it grimly for hours at a time as he attempts to discover how it works -- one of those."

"*There's* the Lex I know and... like."

"Don't ever forget," he says, and -- feels himself blushing at the honesty of that statement -- "You're still too attractive."

"I suppose you could punish me for it."

"I left my paddle in my other pants," Lex says, and he wants...

He hasn't let himself think about it since that very friendly gentleman in the leather chaps had mentioned it as an option. He'd told himself at the time that he'd skip it, that it wouldn't come *up*.

But... Tom *had* just showered. Probably *extremely* thoroughly, considering both what they had been doing earlier and what Lionel had done --

Tried to do --


He's still not thinking about Lionel, especially not when Tom *sighs* at the feel of Lex spreading his ass --

"Lex, we can't really --"

"There are other things," Lex says, and leans in close *slowly*, expecting to balk at the scent, expecting Tom to know what he's doing and balk, himself --

Tom smells like -- very, very good -- hotel soap.

And he feels... that pucker, like a particularly tight *mouth* --


"Yes," Lex says, and realizes that he means it to be an answer to questions he can't bring himself to *think* about, much less vocalize --

"Wait, Lex, you -- we really don't -- oh, *Christ* --"

He doesn't -- quite -- taste like soap, but he also doesn't taste the way shit smells, so Lex thinks he can probably call the experiment a success up to this point --

"Jesus. Lex. God, why -- oh God, that feels --"

Anything that makes Tom sound like *that* --

"Lex. *Talk* to me for a moment -- oh, don't -- *fuck* --"

Pulling *back* also has some lovely effects, and yes, he's getting *quite* hard again. "About what?"

"Ah -- ah. Rimming. We -- I don't need you to do that."

But he knows what it is, what to *call* it -- "You are remarkably well-informed."

"San *Francisco*. Also -- do you really want? To do that?"

"It seemed like something worth trying," Lex says, as casually as he can...

"Worth --" Tom's laugh is cracked. "Um. I liked it --"

"Yes, you did. It usually takes a little more effort to get you to curse like that."

"Like I said, it's not something I -- need," Tom says, and tries to look back over his shoulder at him --

"Relax --"

"You were tonguing my *ass*, Lex --"

"And I think... yes, I'm going to do it again," Lex says, spreading Tom *wide* --

"Fuck, you really, God, Lex -- *fuck*, oh, God, oh, *God* --"

Faster, then, and harder --

Tom humps the bed and gasps --

Lex *steels* himself and shoves his tongue *in* --

"*Hnn* -- *Lex* --"

No one has ever done this for him before -- that much is clear -- and there's something eminently *thrilling* about that, something that calls to both his caveman-self and the part of him which simply *appreciates* Tom, what he *has* in Tom --

"Ohn -- oh, please, oh, *please* --"

The way he *begs* without shame or hesitation, the way he *surrenders* without ever losing the core of himself, the part of him which *can* fight, and taunt, and tease --

"Lex, oh *fuck*, I think -- I think I change my mind about you fucking me --"

Lex pulls back -- "How much of that is because this is... hm. Freaking you out?"

Tom gasps and *pants*, shuddering all over, and clawing at the blandly patterned duvet. "I. I feel I should have *an* answer to that question, but, again, you've been tonguing my *ass*."

Lex smiles and *squeezes* Tom's ass. "I think I'm enjoying myself rather a lot."

Tom moans and grinds against the duvet -- and flips over onto his back, closing his legs a little.

Lex frowns and pushes them wide again. "I wasn't done."

"I don't. Lex." Tom squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. "That was too much."

"How so?"

"I --" Tom opens his eyes, and there's a plea there, similar to the one which comes out whenever Lex pushes too hard about his past.

"Tom, it's just -- it's *sex*. You haven't balked at anything --"

"Perhaps -- perhaps I have a boundary or two. That I didn't know about."

Lex feels himself frowning harder -- stops. If Tom doesn't want this... well, it's not the most sanitary thing he's ever done, and it's not as though it does anything for --

No, he was about to lie to himself.

"All right," Lex says, and kneels up. "We don't have to."

"I -- thank you. I just. I couldn't," and Tom rolls with perfect grace onto his own knees. "Is there... something else you wanted?"

That... Lex laughs. "You want to express your gratitude for me *not* rimming you."

Tom smiles ruefully. "I liked -- it wasn't that I didn't like it. Just the... intensity."

Lie, and Lex raises an eyebrow before he can think about free passes.

Tom blushes and looks down. "You know, when I'm *not* incredibly turned on by you calling me on my bullshit, it's actually deeply frustrating."

Lex cups Tom's chin and lifts until Tom is facing him again. "You don't have to tell me."

"I don't *have* to tell you anything --" Tom growls and turns his head away again --

"Tom --"

"Lex. You're being very. I think I'm balking at the intimacy."

Intimacy. Lex turns the word over in his mind like the bomb it is, with slow care and as much deliberation as he can bring to bear. If he was asking for -- demanding -- intimacy, then...

Isn't that what friends have with each other? Certainly it always seemed...

He thinks about Harvey's arm around Bruce's shoulder, about the way they'll turn to face each other and be close enough to breathe each other's breath *without* looking as though they're about to climb down each other's throats or come all over themselves --

He's frowning again.

"I -- should I apologize." He can't quite make it a question, but --

"No. You shouldn't. You --" And Tom's breath hitches -- "Fuck. I --" Tom *slaps* his hands against his face and *sobs*.

Fuck. What --

Another sob, and Tom drops down to sit on his heels and pants, sucking air --

"Tom --"

"I'm not. Going to do this," he says, and his voice is terrible, loud and cracking -- "Excuse me."

And then Tom rolls off the bed and stalks to the bathroom, closing the door behind him -- and turning on the water.

What *would* a friend do, right now? He'd considered Tom losing his grip enough to cry, but he hadn't done it with the sense of himself as Tom's friend, the person who should theoretically be most qualified to deal with it, or at least ready and *willing* to deal --

Lex waits for the water to stop running, but it doesn't, and.

It doesn't. He could call Tom -- but that might lead to hearing that voice again, that -- should he be trying to talk to him?


Or should he just put the pieces together -- no, it's not hard. All of that *loss*, and today had to have been *intense* for Tom, something of a roller coaster, ending with Lex not acting the way Tom is used to, taking (giving?) intimacy and reminding him of someone he believes he won't get to see again --


Lex moves off the bed and to the bathroom door, pausing with a hand on it -- he can't hear anything but running water. He can't --

He pushes in, and Tom is just standing there, staring at his reflection and looking almost gaunt with everything going on in his mind --

"You should wait. For me to cope."

Is this what's beneath all of Tom's other layers? This -- "You look like you've just walked through a concentration camp, Tom."

Tom's mouth twitches, and -- he'll be damned if he'll call that a smile.

"Tom --"

"You should wait. It won't take long," Tom says, and tilts his head back, blinking --

"Tears don't actually go back *in* that way --"

"Know that from experience, do you?"

Lex frowns --

"Sorry. That wasn't... appropriate," Tom says, and his voice is flat, but better, and he almost seems to... draw himself *out*, not up. Every breath makes him that much less shaky, that much more *familiar*, until the smile on his face is merely rueful. It even seems to reach his eyes. "I'm sorry, Lex. That was rather bad form."

Lex blinks.

Tom raises an eyebrow.

"You're kind of fucked-up mess, aren't you?"

"Only if you look too closely," he says, and runs a cloth under the water before using it to wipe his face.

And yes, his eyes are red-rimmed and he's paler than Lex has ever seen him... but only if he looks closely. Lex wants to shake his head like a dog, or possibly bang his head against the mirror until it breaks into his *eyes* --

"Lex --"

"What -- am I supposed to do, Tom?"

"Nothing you don't want to --"

"*No*. It's not that easy, Tom --"

"It *is*. Trust me," Tom says, and reaches out to run two damp fingers down Lex's cheek.

"Tom. I -- may be new at this friend thing," he says, and ignores the feeling of the ground shifting beneath his feet, *yawning* beneath his feet -- "I know it doesn't work this way."

"Are you sure? Darling?"

"I'm not asking you to -- fucking weep in my *arms*, Tom --"

"That's a *good* thing."

Lex growls and bangs his fist against the door -- and Tom doesn't so much as blink. "You -- you're like a *doll*, right now. Dead-eyed and nearly as creepy as your *cousin* --"

"It's not perfect, yet. I -- I'm working on it --"

"Let me, Tom. Let me -- blunder through this *with* you. I want you. I want --"

"You want to help, and I -- appreciate that. More than I know how to say. It's just that there's really nothing you can do other than just... deal with me. As I am."

"That's what I want --"

"As I am *now*, Lex, because I'm not -- I can't break again. That would be... unacceptable."

And for a moment Lex can't help but think about every time a teacher had reached out, flailing and awkward and *obviously* afraid of getting in too deep with the token freak with all the bruises. All he'd wanted was for it to stop, for the attention to be *away* from him -- unless it was attention he could control. "I know you," Lex says, and watches Tom's nostrils flare, watches him not *quite* rear back, away --

He's so tense it almost has to *hurt*.

Lex nods and moves closer. "I know you. I know what *that* feels like --"

"You shouldn't tell me this --"

"*You* -- shouldn't tell me what to do."

"Lex --"

"I think if I tried to hug you right now I'd wind up bleeding on the *floor*... but there are things. Other *touches*," Lex says, and *grips* Tom's face, pressing hard enough on a pressure point to make Tom narrow his eyes in the slightest possible wince. "I'm not letting you run."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"You know *exactly* what I'm talking about," Lex says, and kisses Tom hard, expecting a bite, a shove --

What he gets is all of the above and then some, because he's staggering, slamming back against the tiled wall, grunting into Tom's mouth as Tom bites Lex's tongue before *fucking* Lex's mouth with his own, hard and ruthless, hands on Lex's hips and squeezing just that hard --

Tom pushes up on his toes and starts thrusting against him, too hard and fast to be arousing -- as opposed to painful and a little intimidating, but --

It's touch.

It's *touch*, and he can give Tom this and maybe take it for himself, as well. He shoves Tom off him --

He *tries* to shove, and Tom catches his wrists and uses his considerable strength to push Lex's arms out to the sides, pinning them against the wall while he darts in to bite Lex's throat --

Again --

*Again*, and then the bites are almost too fast to count, brief and vicious, frightening until he wills them not to be, until they're just the sex they're *going* to have --

"*Bed* --"

"*Fuck* the bed," Tom says, and releases Lex's wrists to get a grip on Lex's cock and sac --

"What are you planning to do with those?"

"What I want," Tom says, and starts to stroke, starts to squeeze -- he's snarling, focused on nothing save for what he's doing and whatever it is that's driving him this *instant* --

And it's easily one of the sexiest things Lex has ever seen. "Then do me," he says, and lets himself slump into a lean, raising his arms over his head -- "*Fuck* --"

And getting his nipple bitten, sucked, bitten again --

And the stroke needs lube, needs to be a little slower so he can work up the slick himself --

It needs to be *exactly* what it is, because grunting makes Tom moan against his chest, makes him lick and squeeze and mouth at him like he just can't *find* Lex's nipple --

"Go on, bite me again -- *ah* -- that's right, Tom, give it up for me --"

Tom *licks* up his chest, right between Lex's pecs --

Tom sucks his throat hard, and if *he's* not allowed to leave a damned mark -- but he really, really doesn't want to break the mood, and Tom's mouth isn't just a marvelous toy, it's the *best* toy, hot and wet and full of even white teeth --

And his hands are brutal, selfish and demanding --

"Always. I *always* knew you had this in you --"

"Shut *up* --"

Lex laughs and fucks Tom's fist just a little faster than the stroke he's getting, ratcheting himself up higher and *harder* --

Until Tom's squeeze shuts him down and makes him grunt again --

"Don't *be* that way, darling. Just think of all the nice things I'm going to do for you as soon as you get me off..."

*Tom* grunts and knocks his forehead against Lex's shoulder, bites there and moans and starts to stroke again, and --

Fuck if his vision isn't going out on him, if his *knees* aren't starting to feel a little too watery -- "You should *let* me rim you, Tom. Let me make you lose all your precious control --"

"You're one to *talk* --"

"I really am, I really -- mother*fuck*, you have good hands --"

"Then *come*, you asshole --"

"Pretty -- pretty fucking soon. Bite me again. Show me what you have --"

And Tom lunges up and bites Lex's *lip*, holding it between his teeth and *glaring* into Lex's eyes, which -- it doesn't make him laugh again, but that's *only* because he's too close to do anything but *look*, see Tom, all that rage that doesn't have a damned thing to do with him, and so is --

The safest thing in the world. Lex leans in for the kiss, and deliberately makes it as gentle and *sweet* as he can manage with his lip still between Tom's teeth --

Tom shudders all over and groans, hands moving restlessly on Lex, almost aimlessly -- if anything that fast and *rough* could be considered aimless.

He *has* Tom, perhaps more fully than he's ever --

God, *his*, and maybe this friendship thing can work *out* -- so long as he gets to own a little piece of the friend in question, a jerking and shuddering piece, an *excellent* piece --

And when Tom kisses him back, the moan is continuous, seeming to *fill* Lex's mouth --

Tom's cock in his mouth, right where he can have it, control every possible sensation --

Yes --

*Yes* --

Lex comes shouting, into Tom's mouth and then into the air because Tom is sucking his throat again, because Tom's hands never fucking *stop* --

Squeezing --

Fucking *milking* him --

Until Tom pushes off and drops into a crouch. And Lex considers -- on a very, very shallow level -- whether to let himself slide down the wall, but... he's good.

And perhaps a little *high*. Lex laughs when he can stop gasping *enough*, and then hauls Tom back to his feet. Tom isn't looking at him, but he doesn't have to -- yet.

Lex walks him back into the bedroom, and, when he pushes, Tom crawls onto the bed.

And stays on his hands and knees, right *there*, waiting for him. Which is -- very fucking tempting. But no. "On your *back*."

Tom tenses --

Tom turns, eyes closed and cock reaching for his abdomen, dripping -- no, that's *his* come on Tom's chest and stomach. Lex crawls onto the bed and licks a stripe through the mess, then another, and then moves up to shove his tongue into Tom's mouth.

Tom sucks like it's a reflex, and Lex thinks that if he keeps grunting like this, he's just going to have someone *make* him a fur loincloth and nice club. The club could be oh, say... mahogany.

For now, it's enough that Tom's still shaking for this, still achingly hard for him and -- whatever he might do. Lex pulls back. "Let me do what I want."

Tom *squeezes* his eyes shut --

"And open your *fucking* eyes -- there," Lex says, and then lets himself stare. Tom is almost *glassy-eyed*, and while Lex knows that's not *all* lust...

Sometimes it's just fine to pretend.

"Say *yes*, Tom."

"Yes," Tom says, quiet and *soft* -- but not flat, at all.

Lex kisses him for it, cupping his face and lifting his head off the bed so he can make it as deep as possible, so he can taste himself in Tom's mouth and know that he'll have *that* again, too.

Perhaps just as soon as his cock gets back from its little vacation.

*Now*, though -- "I'm *going* to make you come."

"Yes --"

"You're going to... oh, I think you're going to lose it for me. Scream, yell, buck, curse --"

"Yes --"

"Are you ready?"

And Tom's eyes *focus* on him for a sharp, terrifying moment. They're hard and clear, deep and -- pleased on a level Lex isn't sure he can touch.

But he'll try. "Are you *ready*?"

"Yes," Tom says, and the smile on his face looks like something Lex can live in, like something, perhaps, that he already *has* lived in --

And he realizes, with something like an internal temblor, that he wants better than that for... his friend. "This isn't -- it's not *punishment* --"

"I never said it was --"

"It's not even -- all right, I *want* to control you, but that isn't what *this* is about."

Tom raises an eyebrow. Eloquently.

"Damn you. It's not *all* that it's about --"

"Lex," Tom says, and stretches his arms over his head, lifting his hips --

Lex pulls back to *watch*, noting the interplay of muscles, the way the light gleams mellowly off the come on Tom's belly that isn't dry, yet, the way Tom is *presenting* himself, like a cat in heat --

He *likes* cats, but --

"What are you trying to say? Exactly."

"That it's all right. That I -- get your point. That I'm yours... right up until you make me come. And perhaps until after I come *down* from all the endorphins."

"*That's* too easy --"

"I'm here. I'm not -- I'm not hiding anything, right now. And if you don't touch me soon, I'll make a sincere effort *not* to beg."

There's more. Or -- he thinks there *should* be more, something for one of them to say, the other of them to do --

But he wants to make Tom scream down the hotel.

"Bend your knees back to your chest," he says, and Tom does it with quick, graceful ease. For a moment he imagines, again, what this would be like if Tom were a woman, but -- that's not where he's going to be sticking his face. Yet.

Except that it's possible there's a little too *much* here for him. When he was more aroused, he had a more immediate focus, and --

And it's something needful to take Tom's cock in hand, to bend it back toward himself and just *hold* it there against its anatomical will. To breathe on the head --


To lick, and admit to himself that he doesn't just tolerate the taste, that he's used to it *enough* by now to like it, to want it as something else that's all Tom.

Will other men ever affect him this way? Given the way human male sexuality *works*, the odds are good that it will happen --

And perhaps he'll be able to recover from this, then, perhaps the need to take Tom *into* his mouth won't be so great, so *large* within him until he feels like he's being choked from both sides of his throat, *stuffed* --

Tom moans and shudders, and he really is just that close. He *could* just make Tom come this way -- and the thought *makes* him suck the head hard --

"*Lex*," and Tom pushes a little with his hips, does it again and *stops* himself, holding himself still either out of an urge to be polite or an urge to keep control. At this point, Lex frankly doesn't know where to lay his money, and the taste is so *thick*, heavy and faintly gamy -- something like an *older* woman, but not close enough to pretend.

He has Tom's *cock* in his mouth. He's a cock*sucker*. He may not be *much* of a faggot, but he's sure as fuck one for Thomas Wayne, and right now, that's just fine, because Tom is making soft little 'oh' noises for every pulse of suction, Tom is rocking for him, wanting --

Lex scrapes the head with his teeth --

And then there are hands on his scalp, short nails digging *in* --

Oh, really. Lex does it again, and Tom shouts, *bucks* --

Again, and he gets another buck, a groan --

A gasp, and, "Lex, don't, I'll come too fast, please don't -- *fuck* --"

Lex pulls off with a slurp that only feels gratuitous until he sees -- and *feels* -- the way Tom shudders for it. "I'll be keeping *that* in mind," he says, and smiles when Tom laughs, throwing his head back and bucking into the *air*. He grabs one of Tom's hips, wanting inside for the feel of his thumb sliding into the crease between Tom's thigh and abdomen, the warm sweat --

His, Tom had said, just as if he knows exactly what sorts of thoughts run through Lex's mind when control is a joke. And really, why shouldn't he?

"My friend," and Lex runs his thumb down Tom's cleft, pausing to *press* against his hole --

"Ah -- Lex --"

"No please?"

Tom laughs again, but -- "Please. Fuck me. Tongue me. Fucking *make* me beg -- oh, *yes* --"

Thumb inside, and Tom is hot, smooth --

Tom clenches around him and *straightens* his legs until his feet are against the headboard --

"Show-off --"

"Is it *working*?"

The smile feels hard on his face, exhausting and perfect -- though less so than the feel of Tom's *rhythmic* clenches. "Are you encouraging me to fuck you?"

"Certainly -- nnh. The idea had occurred."

"You find so many *ways* to beg," Lex says, slipping his thumb *out* --

"God, *fuck* you --"

"Not today," Lex says, and bends, leans in -- *shoves* in with his tongue and gives it an experimental wiggle --

"Fuck, that doesn't stop being -- *Lex* --"

He pulls out for only long enough to get a grip on Tom's cheeks so he can spread them wide, but Tom still growls and bucks again --

And almost croons when Lex thrusts in again, when he starts to thrust for *real*, because Tom had wanted to be *fucked*, and this is just another way to do it.

There's a hint of salt at the edges from his sweat, but the rest is a kind of *musk* that makes Tom again seem older, darker --

He's the *first* one to have this, and he'll be the first to make him come from it, because Tom is already wordless, *whimpering* --

And shouting again when Lex pulls out and sucks a kiss to Tom's hole, when he can *feel* the swelling from earlier in the slight give to the pucker --

"Oh, please, Lex, please don't stop --"

Lex groans and shoves in again, starts *fucking* again, and Tom is shaking for him --

And that sound *has* to be Tom kicking the headboard with some force. Just -- bent in *half* and he can still --

Beautiful, Lex thinks, perfect for him, because he knows that Tom isn't thinking of anyone else, right now. Not his apparently ludicrously attractive teachers, not his poor, dead girlfriend, *not* whoever it is who'd given him that suck-mark --

Lex groans again and tries another kiss, making it deeper, stretching his tongue in as far as it will go --

More whimpers, and something very *close* to a sob, and it's possible that that sound shouldn't wrap itself around Lex's spine and squeeze, but it does. Like this, *doing* this --

Nothing else matters but Tom's pleasure. Nothing else *could* matter, and if all of Lex's ghosts and demons were to walk in -- they'd have to *wait*. It's *not* as good as fucking Tom with his cock, but it also manages to be better. His choices, his motions, his *control* --

And... intimacy?

Perhaps as a side-effect -- or side *dish*. There's a warmth to doing this that he hasn't quite felt before, a sense of not just having Tom exactly where he wants him, but *how* he wants him: sweating, begging, and making the sorts of sounds which make Lex want to...

Keep him. *Hold* him, somehow?

He's not sure, but he could easily keep doing this --

"*Lex* --"

That was a wail, cut off sharply by a gasp --

Silence and shuddering --

Tom is about to come, he realizes, and slips out, replacing his tongue with his thumb and taking the head of Tom's cock into his mouth --

"*No* -- oh --"

And Tom is coming in his mouth, hot spurts and a twitch on Lex's tongue. Lex hums and doesn't bother trying to swallow it all, letting some slip back out of his mouth and down the length of Tom's cock while he sucks in hard pulses and waits --

"Hnn -- hnn -- Lex, *please* --"

Lex pulls off and kneels up, and -- he doesn't want to blink.

Tom is still folded in half, but now it looks like he's feeling the strain a little -- no, he's just come-addled, sticky and slick, shiny with sweat, flushed all the way down to his treasure trail...

"Lay your legs down on the bed, Tom..."

He does it, but he can't seem to keep himself from bending one knee up. He's a messy *sprawl* of a boy, and Lex is the one who had done this to him, who had made him *like* this.

*This* should be at the core of him, this soft and moaning *thing*, this beautiful --

Sexy --

Lex licks his lips -- pauses. "Stay *right* there. I'm going to go brush my teeth and wash my mouth out."

"Anything... you say," Tom says, smiling and shifting, arching up --

Lex bends in one more time and bites Tom's nipple --

Tom grunts and *cups* the back of Lex's head, strokes Lex's scalp --

Right. Teeth first.

He takes care of it as quickly as he can while still being thorough, and when he gets back to the bedroom...

Tom has shifted up to rest his head on one of the pillows, but otherwise he's still sprawled. *Available*.

"Have I mentioned that you're a very good boy?"

Tom smiles without opening his eyes, showing his teeth -- "Once or twice."

Lex hums and moves onto the bed beside him, tracing small circles around his nipples and then tapping them, a little, squeezing --

Tom moans and shakes his head. "I need -- more time than this."

"Don't worry about being ready for me. I'm just... playing you like an instrument, a bit."

"Are my sounds sweet music to you, Lex?" And when he opens his eyes, his lashes are a little wet, clumped together --

Too *attractive*. "They're better when they have a rhythm to them. A beat I can dance to, as it were."

Tom laughs quietly and takes Lex's moving hand in his own. "That was intense."


"And *intimate*," Tom says, and the frown line is back on his forehead. "Are you sure you... no, it's too late. You've already... rewritten me, to a certain extent."

That sounds... delicious. Horrifying. "Notes in your margins?"

"Mm. All over the place," Tom says, and sits up --

"Do you have to do that right now?"

Tom blinks, but gives Lex a level look. "Drying semen isn't really my *look*."

"I disagree," Lex says, and pushes on Tom's shoulder until Tom shakes his head and lies down again. "I think I may want art."

That makes Tom laugh so hard he snorts.


"Ah -- well. Bruce likes to draw. Me. And Harvey."

"He *draws*? And doesn't use the blood of farm animals or anything?"

Tom laughs more and pushes at Lex's chest a little. "Yes, he does. He's actually quite good for someone without any formal training."

"Hm. I wonder what I could give him for naked pictures of you I could plaster all over my walls at school."

"Lex, I thought you *didn't* want me to set your things on fire," Tom says -- and flips him off again.

Lex hums. "I suppose I could get him to draw you in full makeup. Perhaps a lovely frock."

Tim moves his hand back and forth. "I'd rather you not give him any ideas he doesn't need."

And what does *that* mean? "What, has he drawn you naked with a bowl of fruit? Riding a horse? Romping through a field of wildflowers?"

Tom makes a face and bangs his head back against the pillow once, twice -- "Okay, now you're hurting my soul. I'd rather you only do that by convincing me to oh, say, drop to my knees in the mud."

"That was *good* for your soul -- though you should have the cleaners take those pants if you have any intention of keeping them."

"Already done," Tom says, and -- yawns hugely. "Um. Wow. Excuse me."

"I'm wildly offended. Does this mean you'll continue to fail to stretch for me?" And, perhaps, show me *how* --

"Mm. I was getting some good workouts while Bruce and Harvey were hanging out together, so I wouldn't feel *too* bad about slacking off, but..." Tom rolls out of bed and moves to a clear space -- and drops into a split.

"Jesus fucking *Christ*, Tom."

"I don't see how that was especially dramatic, considering what I was doing on the bed," he says, and bends over his leg.

Lex looks him over... and decides to make himself comfortable. "I'm back to thinking you should be a woman."

"But then how would we have *met*, honey?"

"I'd have lured you outside during a dance and taught you to love your cunt. Darling."

Tom snickers. "Ooh. Sex against a wall in the middle of winter. You *Casanova*."

Lex smiles a little lazily and strokes the warm place on the bed where Tom was. "Are you saying you *wouldn't* be that kind of girl?"

"I might've been a lesbian," Tom says, twisting and bending like a dancer over his other leg.

"A tragedy for the world. Which is, of course, represented by my nice, thick cock."

"It *is* very nice," and Tom's breathing is even and steady, just as if he *hadn't* just come his brains out. "But how worldly is it, really?"

"Mm. I've had my share," Lex says, and thinks about that one summer traveling through Europe. Bucharest and Rome, Nice and Barcelona... 

"When did you... never mind."


"I was about to ask a question I wouldn't be able to answer if you posed it to me," Tom says, and shifts into a different, easier-*looking* position.

That *would* be frustrating, but... "I think I'd like to know what you were going to ask, whether or not I choose to answer."

Tom looks up and searches him for a moment, and then nods. "It's not very... I just wanted to know when you started having sex."

And he doesn't want to answer the same question. Interesting. Was there abuse? He had mentioned inappropriate contact... Lex files it away for another time. "When I was a gangling, freakish twelve year old," he says, and remembers Hanne, who had been four inches taller and three years older than he was, awkward and *perverse*. She'd had more sexual fantasies than anyone Lex had ever met, before or since, and they had tried... many of them.

Until her parents had found out and hustled her away to some school in Switzerland. She'd never written, and --

And he doesn't need to think about her. "Anyway, it was something of a revelation. I gained a new hobby."

Tom nods. "Thank you. For answering."

Lex nods back. "You've... been in love, before."

"Yes. I seem to have something of a gift for it," Tom says ruefully, and moves into another position, graceful and smooth...

How does it work -- no. "You weren't taught how to stretch... clinically."

"I was, actually -- initially. My very, very large teacher was quite ah... boring about it. The other... he treated it like a meditation. And since he was so much more flexible than *anyone* else, I decided to try it his way."

How does it *work* -- "When you say you have a gift for falling in love..."

Tom looks up and smiles, raising his eyebrows. "Don't worry, Lex. I won't be composing poetry to the gleam of sunlight off your scalp. Well, not often, anyway."

"You're *not* in love with me," Lex says, and feels himself *wanting* to blush -- *no*.

"Mm, no. I don't think so. I'm going to stick with 'firmly in like,' though. I... that really helped tonight, Lex. I feel... cleaner inside. Or perhaps I mean significantly less full of screaming."

That's... better. Easier. And he's never going to bring that up again. But -- full of *screaming*? That sounds... too familiar. Lex shakes it off. "You're welcome," he says, and scratches a place on his thigh which has a little too much dried sweat on it. As ever, the welts show up red and obvious immediately, swelling just a bit. Hopefully, the welts Tom had left on his *scalp* are already gone --

"Your skin is very sensitive."

"There are times when I've thought I just have fewer layers of it than anyone else. And the metaphor gives me the urge to strangle people if you're tempted to make it."

"My lips are sealed. I do wonder, though. I mean, you *could* wear hats --"

"No. Never," Lex says, and -- yes, his voice was a little sharp. It always is when the topic comes up, and that's the best way to shut it right back down again. But -- it hasn't come up with a friend before.

"All right," and Tom's voice is mild and accepting as he moves into yet another position --

Damn. "My mother... she had a *collection* of hats made in my size. Stylish hats, dramatic hats, funny hats, ridiculous hats... and all of them just made it look like I was trying to hide who I was, what I was, what had happened to me..." Lex shakes his head. "Never."

"The world should take you as you are or go fuck itself?"

"With a rusty pipe, if at all possible," Lex says, and stretches in a very undramatic fashion, crossing his legs at the ankle.

"I do think you'd look good in a nice... hm. Fedora."

"Just as soon as you put on a dress and heels for me. I'll take you out dancing."

"Noted," Tom says, laughing and sitting up tailor-style -- no. *Lotus*. "I... you brought a bag."

Shouldn't I have? "I like to be prepared."

Tom nods and -- blushes, looking down --

"I don't have to stay," Lex says, and fights back the tension in him, the -- *everything* --

"No. No, you don't. Um. But I'd like you to."

Oh. He didn't... oh. "I'll stay." I wanted to, anyway --

"Thank you," Tom says, and he's still looking down --

"I -- had hoped to stay. Anyway," Lex says, and there's the pitch, the yaw of the universe -- "If nothing else, we rarely get *enough* opportunities to take advantage of our morning erections."

Tom laughs, a breath of air. And when he looks up, his eyes are full...

But not of screaming. Lex swallows, knowing it's too obvious, and pats the bed beside him.

And when Tom comes, Lex thinks that, perhaps, his agenda is proceeding the way it should.

Man, there's a lot of stuff that goes in here. YEARS of it, even.

There are times when Clark wonders when his powers will stop increasing, but mostly he tries not to think about it. When it's night in Metropolis and there's nothing to do (and the idea of sleep seems more alien and strange than anything else in his entire existence), he travels to the other side of the world, and works on teaching himself more languages. There's an old woman in China who has been painstakingly teaching him a dialect of Cantonese spoken only by her and the other forty-two people in her village, none of them under the age of forty.

The dialect will be gone in little more than a generation, but not from *his* memory. And that memory -- and the facility with languages both human and otherwise -- is a power he greatly appreciates, though it makes even less sense for something apparently due to the vagaries of solar radiation than the rest.

Sometimes, Clark thinks he would like to give some of this time he spends doing next to nothing in some well-stocked laboratory somewhere. It wouldn't have to be an American lab, though he suspects there'd be a lot of the wrong sort of commentary if he picked one in, say, the U.S.S.R. He's rarely allowed to work as freely there as he is in most other countries, *anyway*, but --

Well, he'd like to be understood. By *someone*, if not necessarily himself. Humans know so much about the whys and hows of their lives, while Clark still isn't entirely sure why he doesn't photosynthesize. *If* he doesn't photosynthesize. He'd gone nearly a month without eating once, just to *see*, and there didn't *seem* to be any major changes to anything, but he'd also been incredibly cranky and hungry, and it had been much harder to control his powers.

And his parents had been very, very annoyed with him.

Understanding is, he thinks, something that many people take for granted, and so he tries to apply it -- in every way he can -- to all the people he meets. He has friends, now -- closer friends than he'd ever felt he'd had when he was trying to hide his powers from everyone -- and while many of those friends only know him as Superman or Kal-El, there are *some* who know him as Clark, too, *understand* him as Clark, and that...

Well, it means more than anything else.

Except for how...

Well, two of those friends are Bruce and Tom Wayne. *The* Batman, for all that there are two of them. The rest of the League hasn't learned that secret -- or any of their secrets -- though sometimes Clark wonders how J'onn has managed to avoid it. Clark doesn't really *agree* with the idea of keeping secrets within the League, but there *is* always the danger of one of them being captured, tortured --

No, he doesn't like to think about it, which is one of the reasons why he appreciates his ability to hear and recognize voices at great distances. He'd been able to save Hal (and he tries not to think of him as Hal, not to think of any of them by their given names, but it's difficult) -- and help stop an invasion that had been beginning -- just by hearing Hal curse especially vehemently.

He --

He's not using his hearing to save anyone, right now.

He doesn't think he's understanding anything, either.

"Bruce, oh -- again --" 

And then there's *that* sound, a gurgle that sounds strangled because it *is*, because Bruce is squeezing Tom's throat with his large, humanly powerful hand --

He'd seen, once. When the sound had seemed too impossible, too *wrong*. He'd flown over Gotham, over the manor --

And then he'd flown closer, because it *was* impossible. He's seen Tom disarm -- and nearly *disable* -- a room full of gunmen using only his fists and feet, and yet there he was, allowing Bruce to choke the *life* from his body --

While Bruce squeezed and stroked Tom's penis.

It's --

Clark *does* understand the concept of sexual games. He and Diana often make love while her lasso is wrapped around him, and that alone has been enough to make him think more positively of magic in general. He also knows about spanking, about pretending to be other people -- it's extremely *embarrassing* to realize what so many of the adult-sized Superman costumes are being used for, but he knows about it, and can even understand.

It's just... the rougher things. The more --

Well, he'd been heartily embarrassed the day he'd interrupted the two young women who had... with the *bullwhip* --

He's a lot more careful now, and he's read everything about the topic that he's been able to get his hands on. He'd *learned* German and Latin just to read the Psychopathia Sexualis in its original languages, and -- he's studied. He's learned to be suspicious of works which try to draw too many conclusions as opposed to simply presenting the data, and Clark Kent has interviewed many, many people for a truly exhaustive series of articles that he's reasonably sure Perry will never want to publish.

There simply *are* people who enjoy being hurt -- even *injured* -- in some ways, people who consider a limp or a wince a sign of a wonderful, loving interlude --

"*Hard*, Bruce, do it -- ow, *fuck*, don't fucking *stop* --"

Clark swallows. He's not going to fly close tonight. He doesn't have to see again, to --

"My love, oh, my love --"

To know this, to --


He has never been a party to this secret, though they've also never taken pains to hide it from him. This --

At first, it had been a kind of revenge to learn everything he could about Bruce and Tom, to poke his *nose* in and discover that Tom wasn't Bruce's brother, at all, as opposed to a distant cousin who had been legally adopted into Bruce's branch of the family...

And so there had been guilt the day -- three months ago, now -- when Bruce had told him the truth *behind* the truth, that Tom had been ripped from his own universe and brought here. They *are* brothers -- nearly as close as brothers *can* be.

Twins, and he knows --

He wonders, sometimes, if that truth arouses them as much as all the other things. They love each other, and they *make* love nearly every day, to the point where the sound of it can slip in somewhere beneath Clark's conscious mind and rouse him, *move* him before he realizes what's making him need to touch himself, to stroke himself to the rhythm of Bruce's harsh breaths, Tom's *fervent* cries --

It's not abnormal to be sexually attracted to people you care about, and Bruce and Tom have inspired him, frightened him, cared for him, taught him, saved his life from villains with kryptonite, comforted him when he's felt alone --

Has he taken too much from them? Does he *demand* too much? Even now --

"From the very first moment I saw you, from the first time we touched --"

"I love you, I love -- come closer, give me your *weight* --"

Perhaps it's only a different *sort* of natural for them to be as they are. They'd witnessed the greatest tragedy a child ever could, and who knows how they might've turned out if they *hadn't* cleaved to each other?

Bruce has told him that sometimes Tom *aches* for the loss of his Bruce, that he worries and wonders how the world he'd lost had moved without him, and *that's* surely natural. And the way they love...

It's not always with pain. There's the way they look at each other when they come home from their separate patrols, the way they kiss when Tom steps out of the transporter after a mission with the League, the way they know each other so well that they can move as one *being* when it's necessary --

*That*, Clark has only seen once, on the night of a mass prison break when Gotham had been so full of screams and alarms that Clark had *had* to fly over, stopping what crimes he could while the sound of the Batman *relentlessly* pacifying the city had filled his senses. He'd moved closer and closer through the breaking wave of violence until they had been there, back to back for mere moments before moving, leaping --

And Tom had almost seemed to *fly* when Bruce had tossed him, and Clark was there to see, hear, and almost *smell* when the momentum of that toss had ended with one of the escapees having four broken ribs and a terrible concussion.

These men, and the life they lead is full of blood and pain. Their bodies are covered with scars and are always gaining new ones -- Clark had once personally stitched a terrible wound on Tom's back, and then had been able to do nothing but urge him back into their battle, knowing him as vulnerable and human, knowing that there was nothing he could do to make himself stop remembering the scent of Tom's blood, and the feel of it drying tacky onto his fingers.

Again, perhaps it's merely another sort of natural that all of the violence would seep into other aspects of their lives, that they would come to *need* a touch lesser (saner?) men would find horrifically brutal.

"Will you sleep now?"

"Lie on me, please. Let me feel your heartbeat against my own."

"Shall we meditate together?"

"Oh, yes..."

Perhaps it's what *allows* the tenderness?

He --

Clark tunes out the other sounds as best he can (and that, too, has only become easier), until he can listen to Bruce and Tom synchronize their breathing and then, in a feat few humans could ever duplicate, their heartbeats.

Clark flies.

Over the next several days, he finds himself thinking of them more and more. He's known them for just about two years, now, and they grow closer every time he sees them.

They've never rejected a visit from him -- not since that very ugly first time -- and he *could* go see them again. It would even probably be better to do so now that he has nothing on his mind but the desire *to* see them, as opposed to having a problem or question.

But... there is the *quality* of the thoughts to be considered.

From the beginning, Tom has been welcoming of him. Even when they hardly knew each other at all, when Bruce's suspicion of Clark's alienness had kept him from offering anything of himself, Tom always seemed to have a smile for him, a small, firm touch or a kind word. Or both.

Clark has been *attracted* to Tom from nearly the beginning, has wanted to offer pleasure, and to see if the warmth of his body would rouse Tom's own. There are times when he finds himself lost to the image of kissing Tom over and over while slowly peeling away the layers of armor and protection, the image of Tom's body naked for *him*, available to be viewed without his X-ray vision.

There are the showers on the Tower, but while Tom has never been shy with his body there, it's not the same. He has never been *close* to Tom when he's been aroused, and he wants that --

Sometimes he thinks he wants that more than anything, especially since Tom *isn't* monogamous. It's just that the games he plays with Lex Luthor are even more *intimidating* than the ones he plays with Bruce.

Luthor is never gentle with him, and there are no words of love. They're almost *cruel* with each other, for all that they laugh and smile and touch with familiar hunger. He just doesn't know what he can *offer* Tom, since he can't ever imagine making him cry out in pain without immediately needing to stop, even though --

His cries have come to be arousing in and of themselves, inextricably connected in his mind with sexuality, human heat and the pulse and rush of blood so close to the skin --

And then there's Bruce, who is easily one of the most beautiful men Clark has ever *seen*. He's nearly as tall as Clark, but his musculature is perfectly defined, and his torso is covered with dark, sleek hair. Clark has never been with anyone like that --

Well, Clark has only ever made love to Diana, and Mark, in college. Mark had wanted to do a lot of things which made Clark worry about his control and possibly accidentally hurting Mark -- or exposing his secret. As such, they'd done very *few* things, and eventually Mark had gotten bored of him, though he still writes from his home in California.

Bruce, though...

He'd been cold at first, and distant, and even somewhat annoyed with Tom for befriending Clark and consistently inviting Clark to their home. Clark's response to that... well, he'd *wanted* to be the Batman's friend, to have their regard and even affection. To that end, he'd been somewhat manipulative. Whenever Tom had deliberately left him and Bruce alone in order to work on the large, state of the art computer system (which seems to fill him with a quiet, frustrated sort of rage more often than not, and sometimes he's thought he could seduce Tom with the use of his AI alone), Clark would go to whatever part of the Cave Bruce was training in and quietly, carefully, talk about the things Tom had done on the tower, or in their last mission.

He'd mention the way Tom had helped Dinah intensify her powers by suggesting she take operatic voice lessons, or the particularly spectacular fighting move he'd used in battle, and Bruce -- grudgingly at first -- would offer his own memories of the things Tom had done over the years, correcting Clark whenever he used the wrong terminology.

Eventually that became thoughts on *why* Tom had given the orders he had, or how he'd come to his deductive conclusions.

*That* became memories of their shared adolescence, and Clark...

Clark had fallen in love with both of them. With the Tom Bruce saw to the exclusion of all other possibilities and with the Bruce who could speak of his love, his *brother*, so eloquently, with such passion and poetry.

He's never felt this way about anyone he's actually been allowed to *be* close to, though whenever he thinks about Lois Lane something warm and bright *pulses* within him and his heart beats faster. She has no interest whatsoever in Clark Kent, though, and so doesn't fit within this calculus of emotion.

He is --

He wants them.

He wants to make Tom throw his head back and cry Clark's name. He wants to hear Bruce speak about *him* the way he speaks about Tom, or just touch him the way --

The way.

Bruce doesn't have any other lovers Clark can observe him with -- and it's a *curious* thing to wish for -- but what if he needs to be able to cause discomfort in order to be aroused?

He doesn't always *hurt* Tom, but he's at least choked him every time Clark has observed them making love, and he can be a very *dominant* sort of man. For all that his working relationship with Tom is an equal partnership -- both on and off the street -- nearly everything about him...

Well, no. It's *Tom* who seems to need to control things outside of the bedroom, who *does* lead in every way. Could Bruce enjoy being made love *to*?

Oh, Clark would like to touch him, to stroke his beautifully hairy chest and bury his face in the dark, thick curls at his groin as Bruce stroked his hair, *gripped* his hair --

Clark *wants*, and sometimes he thinks it could be satisfying if they just all *spoke* about it, if he was given leave to confess his desires, if he could know, with all of himself, that *they* knew. That they accepted him just the same, and didn't want to distance themselves...

It's not that he thinks he's been especially subtle -- Diana has described his subtlety as being akin to that of Clark's *uniform* -- but neither of them has ever mentioned it. They seem not to notice when Clark stares, when he swallows at the sight of Bruce lifting hundreds of pounds or Tom doing a routine on the pommel horse.

Just the other day he'd watched Tom sparring with Dinah, his every move vicious and precise as Dinah had circled and struck and kicked --

He'd watched, and after the spar, he'd been unable to keep himself from following them to showers, unable to look away from the flex and shift of the muscles in Tom's back --

And Tom had asked Clark -- asked *him* -- if he could rub the tension out of Tom's back --

He'd done it, as clinically and professionally as he'd been able to manage, hovering while Tom sprawled with apparent comfort on a bench. Tom hadn't made a sound other than a relieved sigh when Clark had eased the knot, and all Clark had been able to think about was how easy it would've been to spread Tom's cheeks and dip in with his tongue, to taste his musk and oils the way he'd seen Luthor do --

He'd been hardening when he'd finished, all of his control *useless*, but Tom had only looked into his eyes for a long moment before thanking Clark and going to continue his battles with the computers *there*.

Sometimes Tom will call his name from the Cave, and ask him to visit if he's not doing anything else, and Clark will finish whatever he's doing *just* slowly enough to avoid causing damage and fly there, but it's been three weeks since the last time, and.

He could go. If they were busy, he could just watch them train and --

" -- Clark."

"What about him?" And Bruce's tone is curious and mild in a way it just wouldn't have been only a year ago --

"You've noticed, haven't you? That he's attracted to us?"

Oh. Oh --

" -- attracted to *you*, Tom, but I don't think --"

"You have *always* managed to be oblivious to your effect on people. I'm frankly not sure how you manage it," and Tom's laugh is fond and quiet, even for the distance --

He shouldn't listen, not to this. It's -- it's *private*, and they need to make their decisions, and --

He wants so *badly* --

The clank of the weights is somehow *neat* on top of being even and regular, and Bruce's breathing is steady -- "All right, now that I think about it, he does tend to... look."

"Usually while you're doing that. Or talking. Or *existing* --"

"Do you -- I know you're attracted to him, Tom. I think you were before you *knew* you were."

Tom sighs, and the chair at the console has always had a slight creak where the foundation meets the stone. "It's possible. He was so *young*, then --"

"He's only a little older than that now."

"But a lot more mature. I know you see that."

"Yes. I. He's a good friend."

They *know* he can hear them. They know as much about his powers as *he* does, since Tom has always insisted that Clark give them updates. Bruce has even suggested uses for his powers that Clark hadn't thought of --

Bruce thinks of him as a friend. It's -- he'd known that --

He'd *hoped* that what he felt was shared, that they could be more than allies now that they don't have to talk about Tom in order to get along. Sometimes Bruce asks questions about *Clark's* childhood, frowning thoughtfully and demanding more detail, and more, as if there was nothing more fascinating than growing up on a farm in the middle of Kansas.

Sometimes --

" -- another lover, Tom?"

"I honestly don't know. I mean, I've been thinking about how to have this conversation for quite some time --"

"Sometimes I think we wouldn't get along quite as well as we do if we didn't both have the habit of *practicing* conversations."

And Tom laughs again, pleased and amused -- "It's really the only *sensible* way to handle things, Bruce. You can't just leave this sort of thing up to chance."

"Yes. I often have no idea whatsoever what would come out of my mouth if I left it to its own devices."

"I *was* joking --"

"I know," and the smile in Bruce's voice is just as pleased. "I was, as well. Mostly."


"A little," and Bruce is laughing *behind* his voice, somehow...

And Clark wishes he were more surprised to find himself hovering over Gotham and hard. They're so close to the *heart* of the issue, and it was a lie that he only wanted them to know, it --

He wants them to *want* him, to share their love with him, and -- he'd find a *way*. He knows the human body far better than even the best physicians. He could find ways to cause Tom pain that wouldn't damage him, that would be less risky than what he *usually* does.

And Bruce --

Clark has never *tried* making love with Kryptonite nearby, but he could -- he'd *given* Bruce a sample of it to study, and to *have* just in case he were ever being mind-controlled or --

"In the end, Bruce, I really don't *know* if I want another lover. I'm not sure it would be fair to divide my time even more than I already do --"

"I only need you to always come home to me, Tom. I've known that your needs were different for quite some time."

Tom sighs again, shifts enough to make the chair creak -- "There's something about the desire of a good, strong man. About being the *focus* of that desire, that *need*... it makes me feel incredibly narcissistic, but when I look into Clark's eyes, when I *feel* how much he wants me --"

"Is it always the same? Even with Lex and me?"

"It's the same every time and it's *different* every time. There's always that rush, that feeling of *answer*... but it's never the *same* answer."

And their silence seems to blanket the world, seems to take everything away save for the ambient sounds of the Cave and their breathing.

Clark feels as though he could hear them *thinking* if he just tried hard enough, or found a new way to focus --

They have to know he *hears* them, that this is the best and worst possible tease --

Except that they have to be allowed to talk about him privately, don't they? Just because he *can* hear them doesn't mean --

But they're his friends, and they *know* --

It's a muddle, a knot, and it's the sort of thing he'd go to them for, begging advice and perspective until they almost have to look at him as too young. The first time they'd made love, Clark had been twelve years old and only just *beginning* to look at the other boys and girls, to understand *anything* about the way love worked as an adult --

"-- share him with you, Bruce."


" -- not since... since Harvey got engaged."

"It's true. And I know you've always hoped that we would meet a woman we could agree on --"

"It was so very *good* with John and Mary --"

"When I was drunk out of my mind on ouzo, yes. But Bruce -- would you? Would you ever want to?"

*Please* --

"He's so... bright. The sun is more than just his source of power."


"When he's here with us, I sometimes want to flinch from that, Tom. He makes me wonder about the life we lead, about the world we've made... You told me years ago that the darkness inside me was all right, that I only had to work to keep it from taking over, and most of the time I think I've managed that."

"And then Clark comes over, and you wonder if you've tried hard enough?"

That sound is Bruce rising from the weight bench, moving as close to silently as any human can, and --

The slide of skin on skin, the wet suck of a kiss both slow and sensual --

Clark moans, and he's looking down through the manor before he can consciously tell himself to move, watching Bruce slide his hands down Tom's sides as Tom pushes his hands into Bruce's hair and tugs, presses close --

They're so beautiful, and anyone could see that they belong together, that nothing could separate them and that no one should *try*.

It's just that even if Bruce decided he didn't want Clark, Clark would still *need* Tom, need every firm touch and the sliver of his time he could reasonably be allowed --

Bruce pulls back, and his eyes are solemn and dark. "He is beautiful."

"He won't ever stop being bright."

"How is it that you don't fear being burned, Tom?"

Tom smiles, rueful and small. "Because I know from experience that nothing will touch the core of me, the part of me which belongs to you, to this Cave, and to our Mission. It's what makes me myself -- and I've always known that you were the same."

"Brother," Bruce says, and presses a kiss to Tom's forehead before pulling back. "Do you suppose he's been listening?"

"Assuming there's nothing horrendous going on... I'm reasonably sure he's quite close," Tom says, and shifts a folder on the console to show... a blinking red light.

*Bruce's* smile is rueful. "How long have you known?"

"I didn't *know* until just now... but I know Clark. Bruce..."

"Yes," Bruce says, and steps back, looking up. "Clark. If you're not busy --"

And Clark corrects for his wake, but nothing else. He manages to keep it down enough that he only ruffles their hair and presses their workout clothes to their bodies -- "I'm sorry," he says, and looks between them. "I'm sorry that I listened --"

"It's understandable that you would," Bruce says. "It's not the kind of conversation I'd find easy to ignore."

"Precisely," and Tom moves close the way he always does when he wants Clark to be at ease, to feel welcome -- he rests his hand on Clark's forearm. "Are you all right?"

He's hard and somewhat in shock. He's having a difficult time not crushing them both against his body and an even more difficult time not asking them if they're *sure* -- Clark smiles ruefully. "I didn't -- I never expected --" Clark swallows. "I've been thinking about both of you for a very long time."

Bruce nods slowly. "I've been very lucky with my lovers. I haven't had to... wait."

"Mm. More than two years for Harvey..."

And Bruce's smile for Tom is soft and rueful. "It makes a difference that I didn't know what I was waiting *for*."

Who...? Oh. "Harvey Dent? The DA the two of you speak about?"

"Yes," Tom says, and strokes Clark's inner forearm with his fingertips. The uniform is in the *way* -- "He was our lover for quite some time before he became seriously involved with the woman who became his wife."

"He was wonderful, and my first true friend."

Tom smiles back over his shoulder at Bruce. "He still is wonderful. If unavailable."

Bruce reaches out and strokes Tom's cheek. "I miss his skin, sometimes. The way it looked against my own, the way he moved..."

Clark swallows. "He's... very beautiful?"

"Yes," they say together, and their attention is fully on him.

Are they waiting for him to say or do something in particular? "I don't..." Clark feels himself blushing, but he manages not to shuffle his feet. They *already* think of him as being very young. "I've studied sexuality quite a lot, but I don't have much... experience."

Tom nods. "Diana and who else?"

"Mark Welker. I -- um. He was a friend in college. He's still a friend."

They both nod once, and Tom moves his hand from Clark's forearm to his chest, resting his palm flat against the shield. "You understand that we don't have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable?"

Clark nods, but -- "I want. I want to give you both pleasure. I'm willing... I would try anything," he says, and knows that he sounds desperate, hungry --

Bruce moves closer -- he cups Clark's face with his hand, his big, *hard* hand, and strokes Clark's cheek with his thumb. The touch is so gentle --

Clark moans --

"Clark," Bruce says, and his voice is low and rumbling, and the kiss is gentle, too, soft the way Diana never touches him --

Bruce tastes like coffee and something Clark thinks he can tentatively call desire. It's a sharp thing and familiar *enough*, and the feel of Bruce's tongue in his mouth --

Bruce is *kissing* him, and Tom's hand is still resting on his chest between them -- Tom moves his hand, slides it down and down... to Clark's abdomen, where he pauses. It makes Clark want to pant, to *beg*, to *touch* --

But which of them? How should he do this to make them both feel as wanted as they are? Do they want him to *not* touch right now? But -- he doesn't think he can. Clark reaches out tentatively, resting one hand on Bruce's waist and the other on Tom's shoulder --

"Clark," Tom says, sounding pleased. He curls his fingers in against Clark's abdomen and *scratches*, and, when Clark moans into Bruce's mouth, Bruce pushes a hand into Clark's hair and tugs -- lightly. *Testingly*, and Clark wants to tell him that it's all right, but he doesn't want to stop this *kiss* --


Tom uses his free hand to take the hand Clark had on his shoulder and bring it to his mouth, his --

He's *sucking* Clark's fingers, taking them in deep, and Clark is *immediately* lost to the image of Tom on his knees for Luthor, humming and moaning for the feel -- taste? -- of the man on his tongue --

Bruce starts to *thrust* his tongue, and that --

Clark can't quite keep his hips still. He's not really *humping* (like a teenager, though he'd never gotten the chance back then) Bruce, but he could be. He *wants* to be --

Tom hums and stops sucking, pulling Clark's fingers from his mouth with a soft *slurping* noise, and Clark is very, very happy that the trunks and tights he wears are *forgiving* things --

"You taste... different," Tom says, laughing quietly and dragging Clark's wet fingers over and over his mouth --

Bruce pulls out of the kiss and hums. "Yes, you do, Clark. Though I can't quite put my finger on how."

"Perhaps somewhat less -- ah -- conventionally male, Bruce?"

Bruce nods and searches Clark thoughtfully -- "Did you enjoy that kiss?"

"Oh -- very much. I'd like to -- um." Clark squeezes Bruce's waist. "Did *you* like that?"

And the smile on Bruce's face is broad and gentle, narrowing his eyes until there's a slight crinkle at the corners. "Clark. Would you like to come upstairs?"

Just -- *oh*. They're both looking at him again, and they seem patient and utterly in control --

And Tom is dragging the hand he has on Clark's abdomen lower --

Tom *cups* him through his uniform and squeezes. "There's a kind of obscenity in the way you never even wear a cup, but I appreciate it."

Clark squeezes his eyes shut --

Bruce presses his thumb against Clark's temple, and -- Clark opens his eyes and swallows. "I'd like to -- anywhere. And I always found the cups more uncomfortable than they're worth."

Tom makes a sound like he's filing the information away. As if, perhaps, he'll be inputting it into his files on Clark along with everything else. He can *easily* picture Tom adding detail about the way Clark is pushing against his palm, the way Clark can feel himself almost *needing* to sweat for it, to be naked and close -- "*Tom*..."

"Come upstairs with us," Bruce says, and covers Tom's working hand with his own, pushing his fingers between Tom's and making the squeeze much harder --

"Please, I -- I could stay here. If you both wanted --"

"Beds," Tom says, and now he must be using *all* of his strength -- "Are better. For some things."

"I've seen you -- I." Clark blushes and bites his lip, shaking his head --

Bruce leans in and kisses Clark's ear, breathes damp and hot there until Clark is shivering -- "How much have you watched the two of us, Clark? How *often*?"

"Yes, Clark. Do tell," and Tom's voice is sharp, *amused*, and while Clark knows that he *has* blushed this hard several times since he was in middle school -- Diana had been so *blunt* about her desires -- it's still making him feel desperate in the wrong *way*.

"I'm sorry. It's just. The sounds you make," Clark says, and he doesn't know which of them to plead to, so he just -- "Please let me." And being on his knees feels right, proper --

Or perhaps it's just that the Batman should always be looking down from a great height on the rest of the world -- but they're both frowning at him now.

"Is it the intimacy, Clark? Do you not want to be in our bed?"

Bruce pets Clark's forehead. "We'd much prefer having you there. The Cave can be... impersonal."

"Not -- not for the two of you," and Clark shifts on his knees -- stops and resists the urge to squeeze himself, to strip himself -- "I just want to be a part of you. Both of you."

"We can have that," Bruce starts, but Tom stops him with a hand on his arm.

"It's all right, Bruce. The Cave is familiar for Clark, our bedroom is not."

Bruce frowns, but he nods, and turns enough to tug Tom's workout shorts and jock down and out of the way.

"Oh. Tom..."

"Suck me, Clark. And let -- *hnn*. Let Bruce hold your hair, oh -- your *mouth* --"

Tom's *taste*, and it's not exactly the way he smells. It's richer, somehow, more complex, deeper --

And Clark forces himself not to just swallow Tom, forces himself to wait until Bruce is behind him and has a grip on his hair --

Bruce *pushes* Clark to take Tom deeper and then holds his head there while Clark swallows and swallows and fails to take Tom all the way *in*. It's a hungry kind of pressure at the back of his throat, something that causes a flutter that Clark knows would be the beginning of a gag for most humans --

"Heat. Oh -- Clark, you're making me --" and Tom's growl is almost an accusation --

"Suck him, Clark," Bruce says, quiet and even. "Show him... show us both --"

And Tom's cry is harsh, *high*. Tom tends to use the Batman voice whenever he's on the Tower or the street, but this is his *real* voice, a sardonic tenor which often seems too thin to *allow* Tom to do the things he does with it. It's --

It's what he'd *wanted*, and Bruce is working Clark's head back and forth, demanding a rhythm much, much slower than what Clark can give, what he *wants* to give --

And it's making him harder by the *instant*. The control of this, the domination -- he feels as though he should've been prepared for it, but while Bruce is relentless, he's also still being gentle about it, as if this sort of thing doesn't have to involve *pain*, at all --

"Clark. *Clark* --"

Clark opens his eyes and looks up, and Tom is showing his teeth in a smile which makes him seem almost demonic, powerful and *focused* on Clark, on the stillness he's managing to maintain despite everything Clark is doing, everything Bruce is helping him do --

"His mouth, Tom..."

"Wet. *Hot*. The suction is stronger than what -- nnh. What a human could comfortably manage, but... no pain."

"Should he suck you harder?"

Clark shakes his head as much as he can -- and Bruce tightens his grip on Clark's hair.

"You've watched us, Clark. You know what Tom likes."

Clark squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn't want to hurt, he doesn't --

"It's all right, Bruce. This is... mm. I suspect Clark isn't very ah. Comfortable --"

"With inflicting pain," Bruce says, and sounds thoughtful. "In retrospect that should've been obvious."

Tom's laughter is threaded with gasps, he shudders -- "I f-forgive you. Faster, please -- *ah* --"

Bruce's grip in his hair is as much goad as he could ever need, but he wants to go even faster than this, wants to feel Tom's penis slamming against the back of his throat as he works himself, as he begs with his body --

Tom's eyes are closed, and Clark can't stop himself from staring. There's a line of deep concentration on his forehead and his lips are parted, full from the way he's biting them --

Tom opens his eyes and smiles at Clark again. "Very -- very good. Shall it be Bruce's turn next?"

Clark moans and cups Tom's hips, strokes them until they start becoming slick with sweat --

Tom starts to pant, and there are moans which he isn't quite letting out, there are -- he could be doing something more --

"Would you like to suck me, Clark?"

Bruce, oh -- Clark nods as much as he can without dislodging Bruce's hands --

"I think," Tom says, and this moan *does* make it out --

Clark presses his tongue up *hard* against the underside of Tom's penis, using a fraction of his strength to carefully *push* it up against his palate --

"*Yes*, Clark, I -- Bruce, I think you should. Should *fuck* Clark's mouth --"

Clark groans and lets go of one of Tom's hips so he can grip himself, squeeze --

"Don't make yourself come," Bruce says, and tugs hard enough on Clark's hair that a human would be wincing, maybe tearing -- "Please."

Yes, *please*, and he wants to tell them everything, wants to talk until they shut him up with their bodies --

"Close. I'm --" Tom growls and *shoves* his hips forward, and then he's lodged in Clark's throat. "Hell. *Fuck* -- Clark, keep me, *keep* me --"

Clark nods again and holds his throat in the *middle* of a swallow, a clench that makes Tom slam his mound against Clark's face over and over while Bruce holds Clark's head still, while Tom's sac bumps and slides against Clark's chin --

It had taken so long to get Mark to do this to him, for him, to convince him that it was all right, that Clark could *take* what he gave --

And the memory is of, more than anything else, Mark's sleek, tea-colored skin, and the way the streetlights would shine through the window and gleam on his sweat as he thrust, as he cursed and apologized and thrust *harder* --

Here, now, it's fluorescents and the deep flush on Tom's cheeks, it's the feel of callused fingertips stroking his cheek restlessly, it's the dark sweep of Tom's lashes as the pleasure makes his expression twist, darken --

And then Tom opens his eyes wide, but Clark can tell he's not seeing anything, not able to focus on anything but --

Oh, the sweetly cool spatter of come in his throat, the twitch of Tom's penis and the way he seems to be holding himself upright by sheer force of will as he thrusts and thrusts and *thrusts* --

"Oh, Tom," Bruce whispers, low and *hungry*, and what if Bruce wants to have Tom after this and not him? He *should* be satisfied with what he's been given -- and maybe there'll even be another *time* -- but he won't be. He --

He knows it, and it makes him groan when Tom pulls out, makes it *difficult* not to *hold* Tom in his mouth, press with his lips and milk him for more --

Clark groans *again*, and Tom is staggering on his feet, shaking his head and shuddering --

And then Tom is as steady as Batman always should be -- and Bruce's hands are still in his hair.

Clark closes his eyes and resist the urge to squeeze himself, to -- no, he *wants* to beg. "Please. More?"

Bruce tugs his hands free and hums.

Tom looks down and searches him, a slash of a smile on his face and an even sharper one in his eyes. "You should take your clothes off, Clark. Let us see you."

"You've seen -- I mean. Um."

"I haven't," Bruce says, and his fingertips are gentle and light on the back of Clark's neck.

Clark shivers and nods, because he's seen all of them, he hasn't been able to keep himself from looking at *all* -- he strips, and rests his uniform in a small pile between the chairs at the console. And then he stands between them and tries not to blush too much --

"You're... shy?" And Bruce seems honestly curious.

"I -- a little. I've tried not to... I mean, the communal showers on the tower have..." Been incredibly intimidating. "Helped?"

Tom's smile is gentle. "My first experiences with communal showering were a bit on the traumatic side. But I've always found that they helped foster camaraderie and comfort."

"And you're very beautiful," Bruce says, and looks him over with an almost critical eye, occasionally reaching out to caress, trace, *mark* with just his fingertips. "Would you like us to be naked, as well?"

"Oh, yes. I mean -- please," Clark says, and *still* doesn't shuffle his feet.

Mark had always wanted to make love with the lights on, or in the middle of the day with the blinds wide open, or, once, in the park just as the sun went down. He'd made love to Clark slowly with only his mouth, lush lips moving over and *over* him --


"A memory. Ah -- I was thinking of Mark."

Tom nods and takes Clark's penis in hand, squeezing roughly --

"Oh, *please* --"

"I'd like to watch you sucking Bruce, Clark, but I'm not sure I want you on your knees."

Clark swallows, and for a moment he can only stare at Tom's smallish, capable hand around him, and the way it seems -- it *is* -- that incredible pleasure is right there *waiting* -- think. He can think. "I could... I could lift? Him?"

Tom smiles and raises an eyebrow --

"That would be an *interesting* experience," Bruce says, and looks thoughtful again.

"Do you have... I mean. Would it be all right?"

"I think I'd be more comfortable if we were against a wall. I trust your strength, of course, but I haven't been lifted since I was a small child," and Bruce smiles. "Well. Not for any *pleasant* reasons."

Tom hums a laugh, and --

What enemies do they *have* who could lift Bruce and -- presumably -- throw him? Should he be watching Gotham more carefully? He --

"Let's go over by the showers," Tom says, letting go and making Clark whimper --

"Oh. Yes," Bruce says, but first pulls Clark into a *deep* kiss. It's hard and demanding, and Clark can't decide if he'd just like to feel it or if he wants to give it *back* --

It's over too soon, but Bruce smiles at him, searching and seeming pleased, once more --

And then he turns and starts to strip as he walks, and -- Tom does the same. For a moment, Clark feels *riveted* to the stone where he's standing, struck by the fact that the *Batman* is preparing to make love to him, that they've already begun and want *more* --

And then he's moving too fast, too close to Bruce, who has to step back in order to get the rest of his clothes off. It changes the scent of the world subtly, their good, clean sweat and the heaviness of Bruce's arousal -- "I want. I think I want to be in a smaller room."

"That can be arranged," Tom says, and wraps his arms around Clark from behind. "Your warmth has always been... a temptation," he says, and strokes down to Clark's mound, bracketing Clark's penis with his hands. "You feel incredible."

"I -- thank you. You do, too," Clark says, and pushes back against Tom just *slightly* --

"Mm. Of course, your muscles are more *full* than either of ours, but you're as hard as some sort of stone."

"I could -- if I paralyze myself, I feel softer. More human --"

"Don't," Bruce says, and backs against the tiled wall in front of him, crossing his arms over his chest and just -- watching.

"Oh -- I. All right --"

"There have been times," Tom says, "when I thought about only biting you somewhere. Your lip, your shoulder, your ass..."

"Oh, Tom, I -- you can always -- I always want --"

"I'd like to test my teeth against you, bite down harder and harder until my jaw ached from the strain," and Tom's voice is a little lower than it was before, rougher and closer to the Batman's --

"I think I would like to do the same," Bruce says, and *his* voice is even lower, *darker*. He spreads his legs and *leans* against the wall, and his thighs are architectural structures, his penis thick and hard, as big as his own but, again, *darker*. With blood, with the differences in their skin tone --

"Please," Clark says, because he can't think of anything else -- "oh, *please* --"

And Tom is stroking him *slowly*, squeezing hard -- and biting his *back* --

Clark can feel Tom's soft penis pressed against his thigh, the slickness of his own saliva --

Tom pulls back with a hum. "You should touch yourself for Clark, Bruce..."

*Bruce* hums. "Would you like that, Clark? Or would it be a terrible tease?"

"I want -- I want." Clark blushes again. "Would you show me how you... you masturbate?"

Bruce smiles. "I don't very often. Tom considers that sort of thing... wasteful."

"To be fair," Tom says, "*you* don't let me masturbate very often, either --"

"*Because* it's a tease," and Bruce takes himself in hand. "Like this, Clark," and he begins to stroke himself with quick efficiency, long strokes which speak of familiarity and casual pleasure --

"Oh. Bruce -- *Tom* --"

Tom is *scratching* Clark's penis with his short nails, up and down and up again --

"Do you like it, Clark?"

"Yes, Clark. Tell us."

"Please -- I mean yes. Yes, I -- I think I'd like to come. I think -- I'll be hard again very quickly --"

Tom growls and bites him again, licks and sucks *hard* on Clark's shoulder blade -- pulls back. "Should we let him come, Bruce?"

Bruce sighs and squeezes himself, and his eyes are distant, unfocused -- "It would be the friendly thing to do, Tom."

"Hm. I want... Clark, how much muscular control do you have in your rectum when you're this aroused?"

"I've never -- I mean. I want to, but I've always been afraid... um. I broke one of Diana's... toys."

Bruce blinks and pauses in his stroke.

*Tom* pauses in his scratch.

"Um. She had others? Which we used more successfully." And the one he'd broken had been ivory, harvested many years before elephants were at all endangered, but there had still been a kind of satisfaction to it -- which he'd taken great pains to hide. "Perhaps... ah. After I have an orgasm?"

"Great endeavors require great risks," Tom says, and starts to stroke --

"Oh, yes, *please* --"

"Watch Bruce, Clark. Look how perfectly formed he is --"

"Oh, I wish -- I've wanted to look at him like this for such a long *time* --"

"Look at his arousal, the way his hand is slick with his own pre-come..."

"Beautiful. I -- I can smell him, almost taste --"

"You *will* taste him soon, Clark," Tom says, and the motion of his hand -- he's using the same stroke Bruce had used on himself. "Think about that..."

"I *am*. I want... want to press my face against his mound, feel --"

"He can be very warm... though not as warm as you, Clark. The feel of him in my throat makes me hard -- or harder -- every time. And sometimes he closes his thighs around me, takes my head in both hands --"

"I've *seen*, and it was so beautiful, so -- I masturbated. I'm sorry --"

"*Don't* be sorry," Bruce says, and he's stroking himself more slowly even as Tom strokes faster, *better* --

"He's allowed to apologize for trying to *hide* it, I think," and Tom is licking him again, he --

Clark is sweating, and that means the same thing it always does: his control has slipped out of his grasp and won't return until after he's had at least one orgasm. Bruce and Tom always make him *sweat* --

"To be -- mm. To be fair, Tom, we've hidden our attraction from him --"

"I'm not interested in being *fair*, Bruce," Tom says, and that was so close to the voice he uses for Batman --

Clark is thrusting into his fist now, and he knows he won't be able to stop, won't be able to do anything but slow himself enough to keep from giving Tom a friction burn --

"So fast," Bruce says, and he sounds admiring, wondering --

"Please -- oh, please -- *oh* --"

Tom squeezes him hard and stops stroking --

Tom comes around in front of him and drops to his knees --

"Tom, I can't, I -- please don't --"

"Just this," Tom says, and opens his mouth, aiming Clark's penis toward himself --

"Oh, *Tom* --"

"Beautiful," Bruce says, touching his tongue to his upper lip and squeezing himself rhythmically. He's still leaning against the *wall*, and Clark doesn't know how he can stand it, how he can *see* Tom on his knees and not want to --

Have to --

Oh, Tom's *hands*, because the other one is on Clark's sac, squeezing and rolling it, and Clark can feel every callus as something vicious, dangerous and deadly --


*Batman* --

And his body warns him the way it always does, making him tense until *he* feels like the stone Tom had mentioned, stone with a vast and living *urge* inside it instead of a person --

"*Yes*, Clark," Bruce says, and it's an order like any other, an imperative --

Clark hears himself shout, tries and fails not to close his eyes and ends up relying on his X-ray vision -- flickering with the cruelty of *tease* -- to see his semen entering Tom's mouth, spattering Tom's chin and cheek as Tom loses control of Clark's penis --

As Tom squeezes *harder*, muscles working in his arm and shoulder --

*Oh* --

And then Clark is himself again, and he can lift Tom into his arms and both of them off the ground. He can lick Tom *clean* while Tom laughs --

"Clark, we *do* have towels and facecloths. Several of them, even --"

"We also have each other," Bruce says, and somehow he'd managed to get close without making a sound. He's reaching out, and Tom laughs again when Clark hands him to Bruce, twisting to wrap his body around Bruce's own, to move and *grind* as *Bruce* licks his face. They kiss, just like that, rough and loving, and Clark can only watch, and wonder if he'll ever have someone like that, a partner and friend and lover --


He doesn't know, but it's an ache in him, a loneliness that feels *both* irrational and inescapable --

Until Tom jumps down and they both beckon him close. The kisses, then, are messy things, filled with laughter and sweetness that seems too much -- and more perfect than anything Clark has ever felt.

Especially once Bruce turns Clark to face him and *thrusts* against him -- oh, he's still so *hard*. He --

Clark pulls back and licks his lips. "May I?"

Bruce smiles again. "Yes."

And then it's just a matter of lifting Bruce by the hips and moving him, holding him against the wall, and oh, his hair feels just the way Clark thought it would, thinner and less wiry than Mark's, far *curlier* than Tom's --

"Clark," Bruce says, and pushes his hands into Clark's hair, grips and tugs at it again, but Clark has to *smell*, has to breathe Bruce in and know that he's one of the very few who has ever had this opportunity, that he's *achieved* this, so human and so *male* --

"Inspiring," Tom says, and he's behind Clark again, cupping Clark's buttocks --

Scratching them until Clark shudders and groans. Just --

*Both* of them, and Clark can't think of anything more *right* than taking Bruce into his mouth as Tom works two cool, slick fingers inside him --

Oh. He's wearing the *gauntlet*, and while Clark knows that Tom's considerations had only been practical, it's still --

*Batman*, and at some point Clark is going to slip and say that out loud, and then --

He doesn't know. Diana doesn't appreciate being called Wonder Woman when they're making love, but maybe the two of them...?

Maybe, and this -- oh, it's always the *same*. The sense that Tom's fingers are much longer than they are, much *thicker* --

The feel of Bruce in his mouth, the twitch and *flex* of him as he paints the back of Clark's throat with pre-come --

As Tom *thrusts* --

As Bruce moans, long and low, and wraps his legs around Clark's sides, digging his knees in against Clark's underarms, scratching and *stimulating* Clark with his hair against Clark's skin, against Clark's *lips* --

"Warm. Even through the *gauntlet*," Tom says, and he sounds like he's speaking of a questionable *miracle* --

"His mouth... consumes," Bruce says, and they moan together, thrust --

*Thrust* together, and it's so perfect that Clark has to fly off the ground a little to keep from shaking them both too hard, too *much* --

"I want... I've never wanted to fuck him before, Bruce. I -- somehow..." Tom laughs --

Bruce *groans* and laughs -- "He could -- ah. Probably manage. For a time. Clark?"

Clark nods, helpless and hungry, wanting, and there's no way to tell them that he'd rather be on his knees for it -- they didn't *want* him that way, but if Tom wants to be inside him --

He pulls off, groaning for the loss -- "Please, Tom, Bruce, I -- let me be on my knees?"

They're silent for a moment, breathing not *quite* in time -- which means he's excited Tom very much, that --

Oh, that sound is Tom stroking himself, and if he concentrates he can hear the shift in the sound of his blood flowing, the way it's moving -- "Oh, Tom --"

"It's. Terribly unfair that I can't see that," Bruce says, gritted out low and *hard* --

"Ah -- I promise I'll make it *up* to you, Bruce --"

"Brother," and Bruce's voice is seductive, loving, *possessive* --

And Clark is getting hard again, already halfway *there* -- "Please, both of you --"

"*Down*," Tom says, *Batman* says, and it's everything he wants to follow the order, to lay Bruce carefully down on the stone and take him in again, show that he can be *good* --

"*Clark* --"

"Oh, Clark," and Tom enters him again with his fingers, pushing in *deep* and making Clark feel helpless, open, *vulnerable*, and he always wants just this, to be closer to human and *held* --

Diana and the way she *takes* him, growling and cursing in Attic Greek --

And this isn't that *hard*, but it's more insinuating, somehow more *insinuating*, because Diana never has a full grip on her control when she does this, but Tom --

He can *smell* Tom's arousal, the fresh sweat on his skin mingling with all of Bruce's scents until he feels intoxicated, surrounded, *grounded* in the deep earth with two of the most wonderful men he knows -- but Tom is still controlled, working to stretch Clark even as he thrusts, and Clark --

He relaxes himself as best he can, feeling the internal alarm and sense of weakness, feeling himself even closer, even *better* as Bruce slips deeper into his throat --

As Tom grunts and pulls out -- and comes back with his penis, pushing in deep and warm, hard and perfect, so --

Clark whimpers around Bruce and shudders, fights himself to stay relaxed, to keep from *gripping* Tom with his body --

"*Clark*," Tom says, and it's another order, but Clark doesn't know what he's supposed to do other than take this, *have* this --

And Bruce thrusts once into Clark's throat, thrusts again and *grits* Clark's name, cups the back of Clark's head and takes --

Tom takes --

Oh, he's never *had* this, never imagined having both of them at *once* like this. *This* is what Tom had meant when he said he wanted to share Clark with Bruce, and maybe --

Maybe the way they make love to a third person *has* to be different from the way they make love when it's just the two of them. They've made a *space* for Clark between them and he's filling it, *being* filled --

The fullness, the way he can't imagine calling time to take a breath unless he could also shout, cry his pleasure and beg them to never *stop* --

"Hot. Hot around me --"

"*Yes*," Bruce says, and he's stroking Clark's face with one hand and gripping his hair with the other --

"Unbelievable. Almost -- too much. *Bruce* --"

"Brother, my brother -- is -- tell me this is what you *wanted* --"

"*Yes*, Bruce, always -- oh, *Clark* --"

And Clark nods, feeling more helpless with every thrust, every push deep inside him --

He wants to *breathe*, but only so he could smell them all like this, know the way his own scent changes when it mingles with Bruce's and Tom's --

"How *long*, Clark. How long do I have before. Before you start to *clench*."

And the word nearly makes him do it, the sound -- oh, and how it would *feel*. The friction would be so sweet, so --

Except that Tom wouldn't be *able* to move --

"*Clark*," and that was Bruce, and of course he'd want the answer, too, want to protect Tom as much as he could --

Clark holds up a hand, and -- he *thinks* he could manage two minutes, but that's not good enough. He puts up one --

And Bruce and Tom start to take him hard and *fast*, taking their pleasure of him while they can, and --

They're moving in the same *rhythm*, and of course they can do that. They've been lovers since before Clark could *fly*, and it shows, expresses itself, sings itself through him until all he can do is moan deep in his chest and shudder and need --

And need *more* when Bruce loses the rhythm --

"*Brother* --" And he sounds anguished, desperate --

"*Here*, Bruce, always -- oh, *fuck*, Clark, that -- you *slipped* --"

Not a *true* clench, but he had, he --

"So -- *tight* --"

"Tom, does it --"

"*Hurts*," Tom says, and *laughs* --

And Bruce comes in his throat, in his mouth when he pulls back --

"Oh, *God*, Clark --"

He'd slipped again for the taste, for the feel of Bruce's perfect heat, his thick and male *humanity* --

And Bruce pulls him off by the hair, panting and gasping -- stopping and giving Clark a *hard* look. "Does Tom need to pull out?"

No, *please* no --

"*Answer*, Clark," and that was Tom --

"B-Batman -- I want --" So badly, so *much*. He's so *close* -- but that thought brings *reason*, for all that it's unwelcome. "Pull out," Clark says, and cries out at the loss, at the feel of himself clenching around nothing, at the *fact* that there are things he can't have because of his powers --

But Bruce is stroking his face and Tom is jerking himself off behind him --

"What do you need?" And Bruce's voice is gentle, *caring* --

"More, please. Just -- touch me, take -- *mm* --"

Bruce's fingers in his mouth, long and hard, tangy with sweat and human oils --

"We'll teach you new methods of control," Bruce says, and starts to *thrust* --

"We'll find a -- a *solution*," and Tom is stroking himself so quickly, so *brutally* --

And all Clark can do is nod, suck and beg with the motions of his tongue, the noises he can't help making --

"Oh, Clark, I -- "

"Come for him, Tom. For both of us --"

"*Hnn* --"

And Tom's scent becomes broader, almost *sweeter* -- and his semen splashes cool and perfect on Clark's back.

"Beautiful," Bruce says, and strokes Clark's cheek with his free hand, allowing Clark to keep sucking until he can think again, *be* again.

When he can, he kneels up, and tries to ignore the ache in his penis. "That was so wonderful, both of you. I -- I'm sorry I lost control."

"It's all right, Clark," Tom says, and comes to kneel beside Bruce. "That was... very intense. Pleasurable."

Bruce nods. When they're this close, Clark can and can't see the family resemblance. It's in their cheekbones and mouths, but not in the general shape of their features, and of course not in their builds. It's in their eyes, but only because of the people they are inside, the weaponry of their personalities. He wants --

So much more. Clark frowns and looks down at his *inconvenient* erection. He's already taken so much --

"Clark...?"  And Tom rests a hand on his shoulder. "Is there something wrong?"

"I should. I should go."

"I disagree," Bruce says, and lifts Clark's chin. "You have... hm. So much more to give?" The smile in his voice is amused and so much *older*, even though they only have a few years on him.

He should take what he's been given and *go*. Just -- even *Diana* grows weary of his attentions, and her stamina nearly matches Clark's own --

"Clark," Tom says, and the Batman voice is gone, but not its clipped cadences. "Come upstairs with us. Let us be with you."

"Yes," and Bruce strokes Clark's cheek. "I'm having a difficult time believing you don't want more... and you are lovely."

Clark blinks and tries to think of something to say to that, tries to come up with some way to protest -- but, in the end, he's still right *here*, and they know him. "I -- I'll come upstairs."

They both smile at him and stand, and they both offer him a hand. He takes both of them, and takes a moment to be glad that he's past the phase when he would've wanted to ignore the gesture and just fly up. Amateur theatrics like that would likely turn both Bruce and Tom *off*, and that's the very last thing he wants to do.

They give him one of Bruce's robes, and he follows them up the stairs, and moving through the manor he's looked into and through countless times feels a little surreal, new and old at once. There are the scents to consider -- rich and aging fabrics and even older wood, the delicious-smelling and decidedly not vegetarian meal Alfred is cooking for them -- but there are also many sights.

He doesn't know if Bruce and Tom have continued the habit, but their ancestors had clearly been art lovers. There are paintings which wouldn't look out of place at the MMoMA, sculptures that make Clark want to linger and examine --

"It's unconscionable that we haven't had you in the manor proper before this," Tom says, and rests a hand on Clark's forearm. "You'll just have to come more often."

"Oh, I --"

"Yes, Clark," Bruce says. "I've been told that I lead tours like a funeral director, but I'm more than willing to try to improve my affect."

"Clark can *help* with that."

"I think you might be correct," and Bruce smiles at both of them as they move up to the second floor. Clark knows that the majority of the many, many doors in this hall lead to bedrooms and bedroom suites --

He can't decide whether it would be better or worse to take the lead and expose once and for all just how much he's been watching. They both *know*, and have taken that in stride, but it seems like too much, somehow, *too* embarrassing -- and Tom has his hand on Clark's forearm again, smiling at him as they walk --

"I know," Clark says. "I -- I watch. A lot."

Tom nods and Bruce makes a soft sound of interest --

"It's only that the two of you are my closest friends, and I want... I want to spend more time with you. It doesn't have to be sex, or... it doesn't have to be anything like that."

"We can try to spend more time together," Tom says --

"Yes," Bruce says. "You know how much we train, but you also know that we can train with... an audience."

Clark smiles because he has to, wondering if the dim hall takes some of the intensity away from one or both of them -- "That would be wonderful," he says, and Bruce pushes open the door to his bedroom.

The bedroom he shares with Tom, even though Tom keeps most of his things in the one next door.

As soon as they're inside, Bruce and Tom strip off their robes and turn to him. Clark feels a little ridiculous fiddling with the tie, and so he takes off his robe, too, and resists the urge to hunch in on himself, to wonder if he should take a quick flight through the clouds over northern New Jersey --

"Lay down," Tom says, and -- it's *almost* a question.

Clark nods and does it, and Bruce and Tom come to lie on either side of him. Just -- he sighs and lets himself relax the way he wants to, lets himself be *focused* on his erection, and the pleasure he's taking from the air currents that curl and move around them all, that *change* as Bruce and Tom shift to touch him everywhere.

His thighs, his hair, his *feet* --

And Bruce seems only interested in learning everything he can about Clark's body --

Tom kisses Clark over his ribs before looking up to meet Clark's eyes with a smile --

"I --"

"Will you draw him, Bruce?" And Tom never looks *away*, and his smile gets wider as Bruce hums --

And *licks* the top of Clark's foot, pausing at Clark's ankle to suck and scrape his teeth.

"Oh, that's -- I don't know if I like that or *not*," Clark says, and Bruce nips him before pulling back --

"It has always seemed so strange," Bruce says. "What possible reason could there have been for... hmm. Parallel evolution. Clark could be human -- so long as humanity lacked imperfections."

Tom nods. "It's true. It's always the little things that stop me. Thirty-two teeth. External genitalia. Ten fingers and toes..."

"I had *reason* for my suspicions," and Bruce strokes Clark's shins, cups Clark's knees and spreads them wide. "How do we *know* that Clark isn't merely a more *dedicated* shapeshifter than the Manhunter?"

Clark frowns -- and Tim brushes it away with his fingers. "There is always trust," he says, and leans in to suck Clark's nipple, to suckle and *hum* --

Clark moans and tries to *focus* -- "I -- I -- you're both welcome in the Fortress. There's so much -- more information than I could ever access on my own without leaving the world for months, years -- *ah* --"

Those are Bruce's *teeth* on his scrotum, hard and -- not vicious. Not... he's making *love* to Clark with his teeth, with his tongue and the hands holding his thighs apart --

He could -- say more. Something. "The images -- oh, please don't stop --"

Tom pulls off and licks his lips. "You just be sure to let us know when you need more *direct* contact."

Clark nods and opens his mouth -- "Please. Please suck again --"

Tom hums and moves to Clark's other nipple, lying across Clark in a way Mark had always been uncomfortable doing --

("You make me feel *tiny*, Clark, I -- that can't be *comfortable* --")

Tom bites just as Bruce does, and Clark arches, floats --

Bruce tugs him back down and *licks*, and Clark wants to taste them again, wants to hold them down, hold them open --

He was saying something. "I don't -- I look like my -- my biological father, except for my eyes," he says, and Tom hums a question --

Bruce hums more *deeply*, *squeezes* Clark's thighs and makes Clark feel warm, *warmer*, harder --

"Most of the Kryptonians had appearances like -- like mine," Clark says, and remembers to breathe, to think -- "There were no people with red hair, no people with brown skin --"

Tom pulls back again and Clark's nipple *aches* at the loss --

"Please, Tom --"

"Had this always been the case, Clark? Or were there purges? Genocide?"

"I can't -- I don't know, Tom. The AI makes certain eras of history very difficult to access. Would you -- I need --"

"I'm sorry," Tom says, and he looks thoughtful --

And he reaches back to cup the back of Bruce's head, making Bruce hum again, bite even *harder* --

Tom scratches Clark's chest with his other hand -- "You should feel free to tell us more about yourself and your people," and then he leans back in to take Clark's nipple in his mouth, sucking so hard that Clark feels something like a hot wire coiling down and down around his spine, around the base of his *neglected* cock --

But Tom wants more. "The Kryptonians -- ah. They had full control over their genes. I *could* change my appearance, and I've -- oh, *Bruce* --" The suck --

The *moan* --

"I don't know what it would do to my powers. I -- I've been trying to see if it can be modified for. Humanity --"

*Tom* moans and bites him hard, and Clark can't --

He thrusts into the air, does it again because the motion feels so good, because, perhaps, one day he could be inside one of them --

Both of them --

More. Tom wants *more*, and he can -- "It was. The government was something between a republic and an oligarchy -- mm --" Tom's petting his mouth, now, shifting on him and kissing and biting his way down Clark's chest --

Closer to Bruce, but... does he want Clark to stop talking? He isn't pushing his fingers *in*, but they move over and over Clark's lips, petting and *pressing* --

Clark *takes* Tom's fingers into his mouth and sucks because it's too wonderful not to, because he can still smell and taste Tom's *penis* on those fingers, as well as lingering hints of the gauntlets he'd taken off before stroking himself.

Batman, and of course the proof of him would be here, as well, would be *tangible* even as Clark loses himself more and more to their touch --

Bruce grunts and Clark realizes that his last thrust had led him to float again, leaving the bed. Bruce pulls on his thighs *hard*, and Tom is pushing --

"Sorry, *oh* -- you both feel --"

Bruce pulls *off* -- "I think I will draw you, Clark. If you don't have any objections?"

"Ah -- um." Clark blushes and *wills* himself back down to the bed, sitting up a little as Tom kneels at his side. "Naked?"

"It can be a bit strange at first," Tom says, and strokes Clark's chest while Bruce shifts closer -- "But, after a while, it becomes... restful. A way of marking time, the days that pass -- there will always be a record of the time spent with Bruce, that particular quiet, intimate moment."

And that sounds wonderful, really. Peaceful. But -- "Does it *have* to be naked?"

Bruce smiles and wraps one hand around the base of Clark's penis. "I'd prefer it. My sketches of people with their clothes on always seem to be missing something to my eyes. Perhaps because I *started* with nudes."

"*Extraordinarily* nude nudes, at that," Tom says. "The first time he drew me I was masturbating against a door."

"My skills were very, very crude at the time, but I've never been able to bring myself to discard that one," Bruce says, and his smile is fond and full of memory.

Masturbating... Clark bites his lip. "Would you let me... see? Or... any of the others you've done of Tom or yourself?"

"Getting Bruce to draw himself is a bit like how it would feel to try to pull one of *your* teeth, Clark... but there are a few." And Tom turns to raise an eyebrow at Bruce.

Bruce nods. "I'll show you some of my favorites, and you can decide for yourself," he says. "Though I already have a few rough sketches of you. Images of you in flight, one of you lifting a truck... basic things."

Clark blushes. "That's very... I'm glad I've been in your thoughts. Flattered, I mean."

Bruce smiles again. "How would you like to come, Clark?"

He swallows and -- blushes harder. "In your mouth? One of your mouths?"

Tom sighs and rubs the head of Clark's penis with his thumb --

"Oh -- or that. Your hands are so *wonderful* --"

"Would you ever want to fuck one of us, Clark?" And Tom has an eyebrow up. "Both of us?"

"I've never been able to... to picture it. Not without ejaculating much too fast. Um. I would -- yes," Clark says, and tries not to imagine Tom straddling him, riding him, *taking* him --

Or Bruce, and the way he would smile, the way he would *touch* --

Clark groans and shifts, trying to push into Bruce's fist -- "I -- please. I need --"

"Why not now?" And Bruce's tone *is* curious, but it's also -- very, very seductive.

"You -- I. Neither of you are aroused. Aroused *enough*," Clark says, because it would be terrible if either of them just *gave* him their bodies, if they *weren't* also taking --

"All right," Tom says. "Another time, then," and he moves, leaning in -- and his mouth makes Clark shiver and his tongue makes Clark *groan* --

And Bruce starts to stroke, looking directly into Clark's eyes as he does it -- "Like this?"

*Yes*, he wants to say, wants to *mean* because they're so good, so *beautiful* -- "Harder," Clark whispers, *grits* --

Bruce does it, *gives* it to him, and Tom takes him in all the way to the top of Bruce's short strokes, Tom sucks and scrapes his *teeth* --

"Oh, please -- please, I -- I've *wanted* --"

"It's all right, Clark. It's... I've missed, badly, having someone to share with Tom."

"You should *always* -- I. With everyone, everyone you *want* --"

Tom *laughs* around him, slurs and mutters something Clark can't understand --

And Bruce *grins*. "I believe Tom has doubts about his stamina."

Which is *reasonable*, but Clark doesn't want reason right now, can't take -- "It's just that you'd be so -- so beautiful with Diana --"

Tom shakes his head --

"Ah -- oh. Hal? Hal is very... he's handsome and funny, so *warm* --"

"There are secrets to consider, Clark," Bruce says, and starts to stroke faster, and -- oh --

Good, *hard*, and of course he can stroke himself as hard and fast as he wants, but it has always been better from someone else, whether or not they're as strong as he is.

It's *intimate*, somehow even more so than what Tom is doing with his mouth, or -- is it the control? The *practice* Tom is showing with -- oh, the rhythmic motions of his lips as he sucks, as he puts everything *into* the suck he can --

"Both -- both of you --"

"With you, Clark. Our friend."

"*Love* -- I -- I think --"

And Tom makes a sharp sound, *bites* --

"I know I shouldn't, I know, but -- I need you, I think, need you to be close --"

"We're right here --"

"*Stay* close, oh -- oh, God, I'm *sorry*," Clark says, and starts to thrust into Bruce's fist, into Tom's wet and perfect mouth --

"That's good, Clark, that's perfect --"

And the groan makes him throw his head back, makes him clutch at the duvet -- he mustn't tear it, or push his fingers down and down into the mattress --

Tom hums loud and *long*, and it pushes everything away for a moment, takes him out of himself until all he's aware of are his own groans and gasps and the low murmur of Bruce's voice saying soothing things, wonderful things about how attractive he is, how much Bruce wants him --

But --

"I don't -- I don't mean to be so *young* --"

"It's all *right*, Clark. The first time Tom and I made love I was... incredibly naive, desperate and fumbling, clutching for everything I could have --"

"That -- I -- oh, I want to hold you, both of you, please -- oh --"

Tom wraps his arms around Clark's thighs, and Bruce comes to kneel beside him, wrapping his free arm around Clark's shoulders --

"Love -- my friends --"

Tom nods and Bruce presses his lips to Clark's ear, licks *in*, and the shiver leads to him shaking all over, shaking the *bed* --

And they just hold him tighter, giving him this, too, as if Clark's greed is *acceptable*, somehow --

So good --

"I promise, I -- anything, please, *anything*. Anything either of you want, or need --"

"I understand, Clark --"

"No, I -- I want to *give* -- mm --"

And it's possible that Bruce just doesn't want him to talk, anymore, but the kiss is hard and good, deep and wet, *lush*, and Clark can't trust himself to cup Bruce's face without causing injury, can't -

He lets go of the duvet and clenches his hands into fists, surrendering to the need to buck his hips, to the pleasure and tightness of Tom's mouth, the rough *goad* of Bruce's hand --

He never wants this to *stop*, but he can feel himself approaching the edge, *rushing* toward it as if something is yanking the whole of himself through time and space to something wilder, stranger than anything he knows --

It's *always* like this, and he's wondered if humans feel the same way, if they ever wonder if they'll be able to come *back* from their orgasms, if they ever fear --

*Please*, he says, but it's only a whimper into Bruce's mouth, only something that makes Bruce stroke faster, makes Tom *work* himself as if there's no discomfort at all --

*Please*, and he keeps trying to say it, keeps whimpering and *sobbing* --

Loving --

And the orgasm takes him before he can think to warn Tom, before --

He's floating as he comes, forcing Bruce and Tom to hold *on* to him, but he can't --

He gasps into Bruce's mouth and spasms, jerks and shudders as he spurts *again*, again --

He's back in his body and shaking, struggling to make his hands work well enough that he can stroke Tom's hair, his face --

And Bruce kisses him harder, pushes him until he's flat on his back --

Until Tom is crawling up over him with a *wry* smile on his face --

"I'm sorry --"

"Stop that," Tom says, and works his jaw in slow circles.

"Yes, do," and Bruce lies down beside him.

"I -- I really. It's just that I meant to --"

"It's all *right*, Clark," and Tom stops when he's straddling Clark's waist. "Trust us."

"The way we trust you."

Clark suspects he looks both pleading and *frustrated* -- he'd meant to be so much *better* -- but he nods. And licks his lips for the taste of Bruce's own -- oh. He could kiss *Tom*. He reaches out. "I -- please?"

Tom's smile gets briefly narrow. "And what if I'd like to keep your taste to myself for a while...?"

Clark's penis twitches *hard*, making him grunt --

And making Tom raise a speculative eyebrow. "Clark?"

"I -- I'm all right. It's just... the thought of you. Um. *Savoring* --"

"There have been times when I've wondered if Tom was somehow designed to enjoy the taste of semen," Bruce says --

Tom *snorts* --

"Perhaps chemically he's engineered to take certain health benefits from it," and Bruce is smiling again. "Do you feel... refreshed, Tom?"

"Ready to take on the world -- as ever, Bruce. Though don't you think Clark's alien nature would somehow negate the benefits of my semen dosage...?"

Clark blushes very, very hard. "Um --"

"I suppose we're simply going to have to study it in detail."

Oh. "I -- I'd like that *very* much."

"Good," Tom says, and strokes Clark's chest with long, graceful motions, and --

Clark realizes that both of them have been *moving* differently, with something more casual, more... soft?

"Yes, Clark?" And Bruce strokes Clark's forehead, where undoubtedly what his father had always called his 'cogitatin' line' had shown up.

"Ah... you're different when you make love. Both of you, but especially Tom."

"We believe in placing a *firm* line between business and pleasure," Tom says -- and blushes for some reason.

Business? Luthor?

And when he looks, Bruce's expression is somewhat wry -- "Sometimes, in any event," Bruce says, and reaches to stroke Tom's forearm.

"Mm. I -- I do think it would be a mistake to lose oneself too much to the *lures* of our heroic identities."

Bruce nods, and --

"Oh. I think I've finally realized why Diana gets so annoyed when I call her Wonder Woman when we're making love. I. Hm. I can't *imagine* making love to anyone as Superman."

Tom makes a face Batman never would. "Disturbing. Yet also reminiscent of school, somehow..."

"Yes, I rather think it would be akin to making love to a dorm mother," Bruce says --

And the expression on Tom's face becomes a lot more intense. Which --

"You -- both of you -- seem so much more carefree," Clark says, and blushes again when they look at him. "Or -- perhaps I'm wrong --"

"I don't think so," Bruce says. "Sharing someone with Tom always makes me a teenager again. A very, very happy teenager."

Tom gives Bruce a fond look. "I feel... something like the same thing. Though the truth is that sex in *general* tends to make me relax."

Which makes a lot of sense, but... "You don't. Um. You don't normally make love... this way."

Bruce smiles and strokes Clark's cheek. "We don't normally have another lover with us."

"Yes, but --"

"I think what Clark means," Tom says, and shifts slightly in his straddle, spreading his legs a little more, "is that we haven't shown him our more pain-intensive activities."

Bruce hums. "Would you like us to do so?"

Before he developed his heat vision, there were times when Clark's blushes made him feel as though his face were on *fire*. He knows otherwise, now, but the feeling is still the same. "Um. I -- I'm not sure. I want both of you to be satisfied, and to be as excited as it's possible *for* you to be."

They nod together, and Tom taps Clark's chest between his pectorals. "We could always experiment, Clark, but I'm honestly... I'd rather not take you too far out of your comfort zone. This is for *your* pleasure, as well."

And... it *was* arousing to clench around Tom's penis, but *not* because it hurt him. That could've been *terrible*, and -- no. Clark nods. "This -- all of this -- was wonderful."

Tom smiles, soft and pleased. "Sex is a wild and varied thing. If it were always the same -- no matter who you were with -- it would quickly lose at least some of its wonder --"

"And, perhaps, you'd spend a little less time in Metropolis," Bruce says, but he's smiling, and Tom's smile gets a little sharper --

"Perhaps," he says, and turns back to Clark. "How much time do you have?"

He's already written the article he plans to turn in *just* before the deadline tomorrow, and the world, as he listens, is a quiet *enough* place. "As long as you can give me."

Bruce hums and strokes until he can cover Tom's hand on Clark's chest and squeeze. "An hour, then. I'll get my sketchbooks."

"Oh -- thank you," Clark says, and watches Bruce move gracefully out of the bed. Tom takes his place immediately.

"Have you gotten -- some of -- what you needed, Clark?"

Clark nods, and -- "Yes. Thank you. I don't know how to tell you... it was so much."

"It always should be," Tom says, and closes his eyes. "I'm going to doze, but you don't have to worry about waking me up -- I'll be getting my real sleep much later."

"I -- all right," Clark says, and turns on his side so he can pet Tom, feel his hardness, his sharpness and somehow *pointed* beauty.

Batman, but --

Not right now. He feels as though he's been given something greater than simply the love and affection of two good friends. Something like understanding, and everything that means.

Clark kisses Tom's forehead and waits for Bruce.

For art.

Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'...

Living with Bruce and Tom is nothing like living with the circus. Dick had known it wouldn't be, but more from his memories of exploring various American and Mexican towns and cities than from his memories of the season he and his parents had spent in Gotham.

Bristol, rather, because Gotham is the sprawl of lights and noise over *there*.

It's not a bad sort of different --

(Except for how it's always bad, always *wrong* not to know his parents are right there, or over there, or curled up together *there*, in the back of the trailer, whispering things Dick can hear well enough and laughing. Always laughing.)

But it's not a *terrible* sort of different, because they don't ever stop him from climbing up onto the roof -- they've even kept the trees near the house unpruned so Dick can go up anytime he likes -- and there's always something for him to do, something for him to *learn*.

Bruce and Tom are *Batman*, and while a part of him knows that that isn't as cool as Superman...

Well, they're *friends* with Superman, and sometimes he comes over. Usually it's with League business for Tom, but sometimes it's for other things --

(And they tuck themselves away in Bruce's bedroom with the door closed, and it's hard to hear anything that way unless Dick's own door is open and he's in the doorway, but there are whispers and laughter, always laughter, and that's good, that's *home*.)

Superman -- Dick's supposed to call him Clark, but it's hard to think of him that way -- is always very, very nice. He takes Dick flying over the city -- and once as far as New *York* -- and he asks Dick how he is, and always seems interested in the answers. It's a little weird to be treated that way by an adult who isn't... isn't, but he has to admit that he's gotten used to it with Bruce and Tom.

Mostly Bruce.

Bruce is almost *always* there. They eat together, and he trains Dick more often and more thoroughly than Tom can, with all of his responsibilities...

What he *does* remember of Bruce and Tom when he was little is the way both of them had always been right there when he wanted a hug, the way Bruce had seemed so *huge* -- bigger than Ivo the strongman, even -- and the way they'd smiled at him --

Especially Tom.

There are things he doesn't really understand about Tom. He's always kind, but sometimes he's not...

Sometimes it seems like the warmth Dick always feels just isn't there for Tom, that the uniform --

It's never a costume, and sometimes Dick wonders if he'd understand Tom better if he understood why that was so, but --

The uniform, he thinks, never quite comes off of Tom. Even when he's happy -- like when he's dancing with Bruce in the ballroom or kissing Bruce in the Cave -- he's still not *warm*, and while Dick knows that some people are just like that, it seems wrong for Tom to be. Dick thinks it must have something to do with what Bruce had told him about where Tom came from (and *that* is just the strangest and wildest thing ever, but sometimes Dick has to wonder if there are any worlds where Haly's just didn't go to Central City, at all), but it also seems as if there has to be more to it than that.

There's a *look* Tom gets when he's watching Dick sometimes, like maybe Dick isn't who he's supposed to be, or *he* isn't who he's supposed to be...

Dick doesn't know, but he always tries to work harder and be *better* when Tom looks at him that way, even though that never seems to make the look go away. As soon as Tom starts looking like that, *Bruce* starts spending even more time with Dick, doing things like taking him to ball games and riding with him in the car to school, and Dick knows that Tom is going to disappear for a few days, and it won't be to be with the League.

He's never met Lex Luthor, but he's figured out that he's Tom's *other* other boyfriend, that he has been for *years*, and that that makes Bruce sad. He *isn't* sure how Superman feels about it, and he has no idea how to ask. He's never known anyone who needed more than two boyfriends -- or girlfriends -- as opposed to needing to have a lot of people who weren't their boyfriends or girlfriends, at all, and --

Whenever Tom comes back from Metropolis -- as near as he can tell, Superman always comes *here* to be with Bruce and Tom -- he seems a little warmer and happier, and it feels like the whole manor breathes a sigh of relief.

Tom spends more time with Dick, then, and tells Dick stories about what it was like to learn the things he's teaching, and about the places in Gotham he loves the most.

He *touches* Dick more, then, as if he'd been held back all those other times by a force neither Dick nor Bruce could see, much less help with, and Dick likes it. Wallows in it, he thinks, like that one time Haly's had gotten rained out outside of New Orleans and they'd all ran and tumbled through the mud until none of them were recognizable...

Will he ever have a day like that, again?

Even the games they play are training, and the fact that Tom had told him it would be like that the day he'd gotten shot (and the blood, sometimes, is in his dreams) --

He has bad dreams a lot. He'd thought for a little while that they would be better once he was living with Bruce and Tom, but sometimes the only thing he can see when he closes his eyes is blood in sawdust, or...

Or his mother, bleeding all over a kitchen floor while she tells Dick that his life is going to be hard from now on --

Or his father, head loose and horrible on his neck as and he calls Dick's name *angrily*, demanding that Dick fix his mistake, find the man who had done this to him, to all of them --

He knows that Flash is still looking for the man who'd murdered his parents, but *he* wants to look, too, wants to find him and --

He doesn't know what he'd do once he found the man, but he knows that it would hurt, that the perfect thing would make the man cry and scream at night, make him feel *alone* the way Dick is, now --

And maybe Bruce and Tom let him onto the roof because they know that he always comes back in, eventually. That he'll drink Alfred's cocoa and go, as he does now, to his huge bedroom.

Bruce and Tom are out patrolling, but it won't be long before they come back, and then --

Then he doesn't know. He's too old to crawl into bed with them, but sometimes he does it, anyway.

Tom always wakes up first, expression blank as he nods and makes room between him and Bruce. Bruce always seems to wake for that movement, blinking at Tom and then at Dick before smiling ruefully and *patting* the space, which is warm and smells of both of them. It makes Dick feel small and held even before they put their arms around them, and once they do --

Well, that's where the *other* problems come in. Sometimes Dick goes right back to sleep, soothed by Bruce's and Tom's even breathing and the warmth that runs through him at having both of them close, the friends who will, one day soon, be his partners. It's just that there are other times, and --

He knows all about sex. There were animals at Haly's, and there were also *people*. Athletic, healthy people, who, as his father said, liked to have athletic, healthy sex --

("You'll understand *more* when you're older, Dickie. You understand a lot now, because you're a good, smart boy who knows how to *look*, but ah -- the things you'll understand in a few years? They will make everything else seem *small*. You trust your papa?")

He does, and that was only a year ago, but he thinks... he thinks he knows what his father was trying to say. He's known that Bruce and Tom were boyfriends on top of being brothers since that day when he'd asked his parents why they didn't have wives --

(His mother hadn't wanted to tell him; his father had taken him aside and done just that.)

He's known about them, and once he told them that it was all right, that he understood... well, they don't *make love* in front of him, but they kiss and touch and dance together, and ever since the first time he'd *watched* them dance...

Tom had been wearing a very pretty dress and a lot of makeup that made him look both older and younger than he was. He'd worn heels, too, which made the muscles in his legs stand out even as the dress seemed to make all the muscles in his upper body seem softer and more subtle. Bruce had told him that sometimes Tom went undercover as a woman, but it was hard to see him making it work --

("You have far, far more experience with transvestism than the average person, Dick," and Bruce had smiled and ruffled his hair.)

They'd *danced*, slow and graceful, Bruce leading Tom around the floor and telling Tom that he was beautiful, enchanting, everything he wanted, and Tom had...

Well. Tom had made his laugh softer and his smiles more mysterious, and Dick doesn't know why, but looking at that had made him hard and hot under the skin, hungry and *confused*.

And it would be one thing if he had a crush on *one* of them, he thinks, if he just wanted to be the one dancing with Bruce or the one with Tom's hands -- nails painted expertly for just the one night -- on his shoulders, but --

He'd wanted to push between them, wanted them to keep moving so he could be pressed, crushed a little --

He'd left, gone to his room and tried to pretend that it was *his* bed they'd be making love on, that all the warmth and *goodness* would be right there for him --

And he'd barely begun to stroke before he was moaning and coming all over his hand and the tissue, and -- he knows it's wrong. Bruce and Tom will never be his parents, but they're *like* his parents. Bruce had even told him that they would formally adopt him if Dick wanted them to, and that means they think of him like a son at least some of the time.

Doesn't it?

He's afraid of the question, a little, and he wishes like anything that he'd realized *all* the ways he liked Bruce and Tom while his parents were still alive so that he could ask them for advice. Just -- he knows that his father had wanted Dick to grow up and marry someone else from the circus -- or one of the other circuses they compete with, even -- and to have many, many children.

There'd been something wrong inside his mother, something that didn't make her feel bad or sick, but which kept her from having more than one child. It had made his parents sad, sometimes, and Dick will always feel guilty for the number of times he begged for a younger brother or sister before he understood that he couldn't have one. He'd promised his mother not long before they were killed that he *would* have lots of children, and that she and his father could play with them whenever they wanted, and it hadn't seemed like a hard promise to make.

There were so *many* pretty girls around a circus, either performing or coming to see the shows, and Dick had collected kisses from all over the country. Nothing *more* than that, so far, but --

He doesn't think he's gay the way Tom is. Bruce had explained that he was still attracted to women, but had never met one who'd made him want to have a relationship who wasn't already *in* a relationship, and that he hopes, one day, there will *be* a woman who Tom would want the way Bruce did, or at least be in love with.

Dick doesn't really think it works that way -- it hadn't with any of the gay people *he'd* known -- but Tom *isn't* like anyone else, really, and Bruce *had* said that Tom was in love with a girl once, when he was near Dick's age.

Maybe he's just *barely* bisexual or -- something. Dick doesn't know, and thinking about Bruce and Tom isn't getting him any closer to getting to sleep tonight. He has training before school in the morning, and that means that at least one of them will be staying up even later instead of crashing as soon as they come in (and make love).

If he has nightmares again --

He always *promises* himself that he won't crawl in with them, tells himself that he's much too old and that his body is *proving* it to him with all the times, now, that he's gone to sleep between them only to dream of bodies and touch, or sharp smiles and crushing warmth, *smothering* warmth --

And to wake up with a *raging* erection which he has to struggle to hide as he wriggles out of their bed again. It's just that they *smell* so good, like strong, grown men and the nice soap that everyone here uses every day. Like clean sweat and *sex*.

When he leaves like that, Bruce will murmur his name in a question Dick hasn't figured out a good way to answer, but --

Tom will just watch him in the dark. Tom --

Dick can *feel* the way he watches, feel something like the lightest possible touch between his shoulder blades -- only it doesn't stop until he's back in his own bed again, until after he's stroked himself to the fastest orgasm he can manage while wanting Tom to be *there* to watch him, for Bruce to hug him and hold him while Tom stares, *wants* --

He knows what it *looks* like when they want each other, or Superman. He knows the way the lights in their eyes seem to almost become hard, like something which could break into a million sharp pieces at the lightest touch. He knows the way their breathing loses its steadiness and the way they just seem to *gravitate* toward each other, closer and closer until one or both of them grips Dick's shoulder and promises to return as soon as possible.

And oh, he wants that grip to *stay*, wants to be led to their bedroom and held *down*, *forced* to stay --

Dick whimpers and takes off his pants. It -- sometimes if he masturbates before he goes to sleep, he gets *less* of an erection when he crawls into bed with Bruce and Tom --

He's not *going* --

He just wants to hold them both, to touch them as much as he can and *be* touched against the day he'll lose them --

*No* --

Dick bites his lip and takes himself in hand, wondering when he'll start growing big (enough to be attractive), wondering what Bruce's or Tom's strong hands would feel like instead of his own --

Years of flying have left him with as many calluses as they have, almost, but not the *strength*, but --

He can squeeze himself a little harder, and tuck his head down against his chest (and pretend that he's sitting on Bruce's lap, that Bruce will kiss the top of his head the way he does when they're reading something in Latin and Dick gets an especially difficult word) --

But oh, Bruce could kiss the back of his neck, lick him and maybe *bite* his neck the way Heather had in Newport News, or Lisa in Austin --

He doesn't *want* to be their son except for the times when that seems like the second greatest thing in the world --

Tom never kisses him, but his hugs, when they come, are hard and *tight*, crushing the breath from his lungs and making his heart beat faster, hungrier --

And Dick is jerking himself hard and fast, now, he's *close*, he wants --

His heart is beating like it does when Superman *hauls* him into the sky, and it feels like it's pounding against his sternum, feels --

Maybe -- maybe Su -- *Clark*, and the way *he* hugs, touches and smiles like night is something that only happens to other people --

Oh, all *three* of them, and he'd find a way to be good for them, to be sexy and beautiful and *right*, somehow --

*God* --

"*Please*," he says, and his voice cracks high, making him shudder --

He comes *hard*, pumping into his own fist and arching, jerking --

Panting, and he needs --

He brings his slick-sticky hand to his mouth and licks it clean, wondering if maybe he's just a freak for wanting his *guardians*, or --

("Grief is a strange and powerful thing, Dick. You must always come to at least one of us if you find yourself worrying that you're... hm. If you find yourself feeling as though you're losing yourself, somehow...")

If I feel crazy, Bruce? If the only thing I want in the world is to have you touch me the way you touch Tom?

("*Whatever* you're feeling, Dick, it's all right. Bruce and I have both suffered losses of people we loved, and we know what it's like from the inside. You're not alone. You're not *ever* alone.")

Except for right *now*, because who is he supposed to talk to about this? *Superman*? The kids at school who all think he's weird, anyway, because he'd grown up in a circus as opposed to a city?

And Dick knows that he's about to start sulking, and he *hates* that, so he goes to get cleaned up, bringing in one of the face cloths to carefully dab away the spots of semen on the comforter -- on the duvet.

Sometimes, when he dreams, he's almost a different Dick altogether, tall and strong enough to spar with Tom and do all the amazing and dangerous things they've been teaching him. But those dreams always end the same way, with Tom pinning him against the mats and smiling Dick's favorite smile. The one that makes him look exactly as *scary* as he is, while also making him look happy.

He tells Dick that he's done well, that he's ready to join them on the street, and then he kisses Dick slow and hard, pushing Dick down with his body and starting to rock and grind --

And he tells Dick that he's a good boy, that he's the best boy they've ever known, that he loves Dick and always has --

And Dick wakes up sticky and moaning, and it feels like only *luck* that he hasn't had that dream when he's actually in bed with Bruce and Tom. It's --

He won't go.

He won't.

Except that he has to sleep, and so he has to dream. It's his mother *and* father this time, and he can see every bone they broke, see the way his mother's hair falls the wrong way over the part of her skull which had been crushed, see his father's left leg bent the wrong way as they walk to him, limping and dragging themselves across the sawdust until it's not sawdust, anymore --

Until it's the carpet in the study, only the study stretches as wide as the big top --

Only his parents are moving much faster than they should be able to, and he has to stay away from them, because if they touch him then he'll have to --

He'll be --

If he can get down to the Cave, he'll be all right. There are things down there which could help him, even though he doesn't know what they are and the clock is melting because his mother had brushed against it. He has to *run* --

He has to --

He's too slow and too small and too young, and his parents are going to get him because he didn't practice enough, because he's not good enough and never will be.

The clock is gone, but maybe if he just doesn't cry they won't hear him. If he can keep from crying he can still be okay, even though Bruce and Tom are trapped in the Cave and are dying slowly --

He doesn't have anyone. He doesn't have anyone.

He doesn't have anyone, anymore, and it's all his fault --

Dick wakes with a shout that doesn't actually make it out of his throat. That's the first thing he'd learned how to do with the dreams, because he couldn't stand to wake Bruce and Tom up, couldn't --

His body tells him that it's late, that they're home, now, and maybe one of them will be in the Cave. Going down there isn't like crawling into bed with them. It's for the Mission, and that's different.

That's better.

He strips off his sweat-soaked pajamas and puts on the robe that fits him as perfectly as only his costumes ever really did --

("Look how fast you grow! Soon you'll be like Ivo, and the ropes, they won't *hold* you!")

But he doesn't grow fast. He grows at an *average* pace according to Bruce, and that means it'll be *years* before he's big enough to *really* be useful --

They both say it will be sooner than that, though neither of them have given him *specifics*, so he doesn't really believe it.

He steps out into the hallway and listens -- nothing. Maybe both of them are in the Cave? He moves quickly, trying to convince himself that if he moves quickly *enough*, Alfred won't catch him and send him back to bed. He makes it to the study without incident, opens the clock, and runs down the stairs --

"You're early," Tom says, only -- he sounds like Batman.

He's never sure what to call Tom when he sounds like that. Bruce almost never sounds like Batman where Dick can hear him unless a call comes in from the League, but Tom...

Tom is on the mats and stretching. He's nearly as flexible as Dick is, himself, and Bruce says he has been since Bruce has known him. He --

He doesn't know what to say, so he joins Tom and stretches, too, trying for every last centimeter he can get and trying to do it without the grunts and sighs which make doing it so companionable with Bruce. Tom is always silent when he stretches, even when he has an injury.

It's something that takes up time, and he's grateful for every minute, but it doesn't last forever. He does his last stretches with Tom standing above him, with Tom *watching* him, and so he *does* get an extra centimeter here and there.

When he's done, he looks up, and... Tom's eyes are shadowed. It shouldn't be possible for him to do that under fluorescents, but he always seems to manage it when he wants to, and --

Dick swallows and scrambles up to his feet. "What next, Batman?"

Tom -- tenses, and when he shifts... somehow he's not Batman, at all, even though his eyes aren't shadowed. "Dick..."

"I -- I'm not tired. I slept, before, and I want -- well, isn't it training time, anyway? Almost?"

Tom's smile is small and dark. "In about two and three-quarter hours," he says, and rests a hand on Dick's shoulder. "At your age, you need your rest --"

"I won't. I won't sleep. I can't," he says, and he knows he sounds panicked and maybe even whiny, but -- "Please, Tom."

"There is a particular temptation to physical exertion. It can be an outlet for the things which hurt us, or it can simply be a distraction from that pain," and he squeezes Dick's shoulder hard. "But it's a bad habit to get into, and can lead to injuries both physical and emotional --"

"I don't -- I don't want to dream. Please."

Tom makes a sound and drops into a crouch, looking up at Dick and *stroking* Dick's shoulder, the side of his neck --

"I -- *please*, Tom --"

"Dick. Tell me about your dreams."

"It's just -- it's my parents, over and over --" And he's struck by the image of his father's leg, his mother's *head*, and all the blood, so much blood all over everything -- "I don't want to. It just brings it all *back* --"

"There will be blood in your life, Dick," Tom says, just as if he was reading Dick's mind. "You've yet to see us coming back from a bad night since the first time, but sometimes the stink of it covers everything else, *obscures* everything else until it seems to be in my nose and coating my throat."

"Um. Ew."

Tom smiles ruefully, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Precisely. But there will be blood, Dick -- and more. You'll come home with the sound of cracking bones echoing in your ears, with the screams of the dying filling your thoughts, with the knowledge -- inescapable and true -- that if you'd only been stronger, faster, and better, you could've saved someone pain. Or a life."

And Tom *had* explained that the very first night before passing out in his *own* blood, but somehow... "Oh."

"You understand a little better now, don't you?"

"I still -- I haven't changed my mind!"

"I know you haven't. I know you *won't*, because that's not who you are. And who you are... it doesn't change, whether or not. Whether or not it should," Tom says, and he's squeezing Dick's shoulder *hard*, searching him and looking almost *hurt*, or *anguished* --


Tom sucks in a breath and looks down, away -- but he doesn't move his hand, and, after a moment, "Dick, I love you very much."

Oh. He's never said. He didn't -- Dick blushes and tries to push against the hand Tom has on him, tries to move *close* --

Tom won't let him, and he's still looking *down* --

"Tom, please -- I love you, I love you, too. Ever since I was small, and now I feel --" He's blushing harder, but -- he has to *say* it. "It's so much more, now. You and Bruce are everything to me --"

"I know," Tom says, and he sounds like he's... acknowledging an *accusation* --

"It's *good*, Tom, I promise. It's just -- sometimes the nightmares are too much --"

"Give them to me," he says. "Give me all of them, because they belong to me, as well. To *both* Bruce and me, because we could've protected your parents if -- if we'd been better."

He's still looking *away* -- Dick reaches out and touches Tom's face, feeling like he's flying without a net with --

He's not going to think about frayed ropes. He's *not*.

It's just Tom, and his smooth skin which only needs a razor every few days, unlike Bruce's.

It's Tom, and the way he turns suddenly and presses a kiss to Dick's palm --

"Oh --"

"Come upstairs with me, Dick," he says, and his voice is low and dark but not like Batman's, at all. "You'll sleep between Bruce and me, and, in the morning, when it's light, we'll *all* talk about your nightmares. It's -- it's time. Past time," he says, and stands, taking Dick's hand in his own.

It feels good, and warm, and Tom would only have to move his thumb a *little* to be rubbing the spot he'd kissed. *Dick* wants to hold his palm to his mouth, but he knows that's not --

He knows that's not what he *should* do, and sometimes that's enough. But --

"What about training, Tom? We were supposed to --"

"This *is* training. At least as important as the rest," he says, and leads Dick toward the stairs. "More important, in some ways."

Dick frowns and tries to think about it, about something other than Tom's strong hand, and the way he's only wearing a t-shirt and boxer briefs -- he *trains* in a t-shirt and shorts all the time, and while none of those shorts are as tight as the boxer briefs, it's still. Still.

"You don't believe me?"

That's *not* it, but -- it's better than Tom knowing what he was *really* thinking. "Um. It seems... difficult to believe. I mean, I'd just be whining about --"

"You'd be sharing your dreams. You *will* share your dreams, and Bruce and I will share some of our own."

"But... how is that supposed to *help*?"

Tom's smile is sharp and a little distant. "We -- Bruce and I -- comfort each other as much as we can when we have terrible dreams. We reassure each other that we're not alone, we remember, together, the good parts of this life..." He sighs, and when he turns to Dick, his smile is much softer, but still... *bright*, somehow.

Harsh? Maybe? He doesn't know.

"We love, Dick, and I know you know that, already, but... I think that we underestimated how much you would need us --"

"I'm not --" Dick tries and fails to tug his hand away. "I'm not a *baby* --"

"I never said you were. And Bruce wasn't being a baby the first time --" Tom tenses -- relaxes, deliberately.

Every time he's seen Tom do that it's made a part of him want to hide for at least a few hours while the rest of him wants to move *closer*, try to -- something.

"Bruce wasn't being a baby the first time I held him as he wept. And I -- much to my own sense of disbelief -- wasn't being a baby the first time I went to Bruce to *be* held," and Tom opens the clock and steps through, tugging Dick with him.

"Okay. But -- I don't *want* to cry --"

"And if we lived anything resembling a normal life, you'd probably have the opportunity to encourage that sort of thing within yourself. The *luxury*. But that's not the life you've chosen, Dick. Sometimes the tears have to come out, and the screams, and the moments of pure, irrational violence -- why do you think we have *three* extra heavy bags?"

Dick thinks about it, and tries to imagine Tom just... letting everything loose, letting *go* in ways he can't with Bruce or Superman or even that Lex guy. He knows it shouldn't make him aroused, but... he thinks he wants to see that, wants to see everything that lives under Tom's armor -- and Bruce's, too.

And Tom leads him up the stairs to the bedrooms, and there's still no sign of Alfred. Maybe he knows that Tom is taking care of him, or... something.

Bruce had said that Alfred and Tom don't always get along, but sometimes he sees them laugh together -- or. Alfred doesn't really *laugh*, but sometimes a light dances in his eyes when he talks to Tom. Sometimes, not all of the time.

He wonders if he'll ever have the right to ask about that.

He wonders if he'll want to know the answer.

When they walk into Bruce's and Tom's bedroom, Bruce wakes up immediately, turning over onto his back and smiling.

"This is a surprise. I get to have both of you, tonight?"

"Oh, I think that's best," Tom says, and for a moment he and Bruce just look into each other's eyes, loving each other.

It shouldn't make him *want* to stay as much as he does -- oh, he needs pajamas. He's still just wearing a *robe* -- he tugs at Tom's hand again, and both Bruce and Tom look at him. "I need -- um. Pajamas."

Tom blinks. "Ah -- yes, that would be helpful," he says, and lets go of Dick's hand. "Dress quickly."

Sometimes, he really wants to call Tom 'sir.' He nods and jogs to his room, pulling out another clean set of pajamas and getting into them before coming back, and --

Bruce and Tom are kissing, and it looks soft and it looks really, really beautiful. Bruce has one hand on Tom's shoulder and Tom is nuzzling up closer to make the kiss deeper, lips moving and --

There's a flash of his tongue, just a moment of pink that makes him --

Makes him --

They pull out of the kiss together and turn to smile at Dick, Bruce throwing the covers back and Tom beckoning. It's *just* like how he's imagined them being with Superman, and it's a really good thing that he'd masturbated twice today. Dick swallows, nods, and crawls into bed between them.

Bruce turns off the light.

Tom rests a hand on his chest, right over his heart.

Dick listens to them breathing until he can't tell which one of them is which, until he's sure that Bruce is asleep and equally sure that Tom won't really sleep, at all --

He listens to them, and tries to hold onto himself, to his *resolve* --

He sleeps.

He knows it's a dream immediately, because he's taller than he should be, and his hands and feet are noticeably bigger. There's a mirror, but he can't see anything but smoke and flashes of red, of gold and green --

He reaches out to try to steady the mirror, and suddenly he's looking at Bruce. He's *behind* the glass, and beckoning, and Dick knows if he's just right, if he's perfect, somehow, he'll be able to reach through and touch him.

But he's older, and that means he *can*, so he touches the glass (it's not cold, it's not smooth) all over until he can feel something give, and then he walks through into a large, flat field which would be perfect for setting up a circus -- but there's no one there. He opens up his senses the way Bruce had taught him, living in the world with all of himself, but it's silent, and the only thing he *can* sense is the wind ruffling and tugging his hair --

Not this, the world says, the dream says --

Then what? His voice is deeper, so much so that it hardly seems to be his voice at all --

You're *not* alone, Batman says, and presses himself against Dick's back. He's tall and strong and the armor scratches and whispers against his clothes --

Against his skin, because he's always naked for Batman, because Batman always *sees* --

Good boy, and Batman's fingers are too smooth and *sleek* against Dick's nipples, somehow, but that must be the gauntlets --

(He'd always thought they'd be cold --)

They're in the Cave, and Alfred is setting down a tray for them, and Dick is on Batman's lap. He can't move and he can't look around, so he doesn't know which Batman it is, even though he should. If Batman finds out that Dick isn't sure, he'll put Dick down, and then there'll be nothing he can do, nothing he can have --

And then he's in his bed, and it seems a lot smaller, seems like Batman is taking up every possible square inch of space as he spreads Dick's legs --

They're in the Watchtower, and his cheek is leaving an imprint against one of the trophy displays -- except that he's never been there, and only knows what it looks like from Bruce's and Tom's description --

And then he's in his *bed*, and Batman is forcing Dick's knees back to his chest as Dick cries *out* --

As he gasps, because he's awake, and hard, and -- he bites back the whimper. He's not sure *how* long he's been asleep, but sunlight is peeking through the slight gap Bruce and Tom keep in their curtains, and --

He has to go.

He's so hard, so -- he *aches*, like there's something wrong with him down there, like maybe he was hard from the moment the dream *began* --

He has to go, before Bruce and Tom wake up and see him like this and realize how ridiculous he is, can't even *grieve* properly --

Tom's hand is on his chest., and Dick freezes all over, squeezing his eyes shut and trying not to squeeze his *dick* --

"Stay," he says, and it's not -- it's barely a *breath*, so much so that Dick isn't sure he heard it right, but -- Tom is *pressing* down on Dick's chest with his hand --

Tom is holding him down -- and Dick's dick twitches. Just -- he feels it, and he knew it was going to happen, and maybe that's why he was able to hold back the moan. Any moment now, Bruce is going to wake up, and then they'll both know that he's aroused, that he couldn't even keep himself from --

No, they have to just chalk it up to Dick's being a teenager, don't they? Bruce had gone over sex and puberty with him *thoroughly*, and Tom had told him that it was all right to call time on his training to *deal* with his erections --

It's okay. They'll understand -- or they *won't* understand, and that's even better --

"Dick," Tom says, and it's another breath, but it's... it's a different kind of low than he's used to, a little like Tom's voice had been when he'd told Dick he loved him, when he was looking *away*. It's a *strained* sort of tone, like maybe Tom hurts somewhere that can't be soothed.

Dick nods to show he'd heard Tom --

And Tom strokes down Dick's chest to the waistband of Dick's pajama bottoms. Tom -- he folds them *back*, and Dick's penis pops out, and Dick has to squeeze his *eyes* shut, because now it's even more obvious than it had been, even in the dark, now --

God, maybe Tom *does* know. Maybe --

"Dick," he says again, and it's low and harsh --

"I'm sorry --"

"Shh." And then Tom wraps his hand around Dick's penis and starts to stroke, and there are no thoughts in Dick's mind, at all. There's nothing, not --

It's *Tom*, and his body knows the feel of that hand from strained muscles, from comfort --

He wants to moan, but he's supposed to be quiet, and -- is he not supposed to wake Bruce? Is --

Tom's hand is so strong, so *firm*, and he's not stopping, not pausing or --

"Do you like this." Another breath, so quiet it's hard to hear over the pound of Dick's own heart --

Dick nods, and he can't make himself stop, can't -- he's *arching*, trying to thrust into Tom's fist, to get *more*, and he should just be still and take this, have it so he can remember --

Somehow --

Oh, *please* he doesn't say, doesn't *shout*, because it's good, better than anything, harder and -- and *hotter*, and maybe that's why he feels himself flushing all over, *sweating*, and he's managing to keep himself from whimpering, but he's not sure *how*.

Just -- he's panting, eyes squeezed shut and he thinks he might cry, or scream, or beg --

Please, *please*, and Tom is shifting -- Dick can feel it -- and suddenly there's one hand back on his chest, holding him down as Tom keeps stroking, the same rhythm, the same *pace*.

He needs faster, or -- he doesn't *know*, because the only reason he hasn't come yet is that he thinks he might be in *shock*. Except -- isn't that supposed to feel cold? More float-y than -- than *desperate* --

"*Oh* --"

Bruce's hand over Tom's on his chest, Bruce leaning *in*, eyes wide but *focused* -- "Are you all right, Dick?"

He wants to answer. He wants --

He's *coming*, spilling out over Tom's hand and making noises with a lot of vowels, and he can't stop, can't *stop* --

He feels so good and so *confused*, and he can't stop --

He's jerking and *thrusting*, and he can't stop --

He --

He slumps against the bed and pants and whimpers, and tries to be small, and good, and quiet, because --

He doesn't know.

And when he opens his eyes, Bruce and Tom are staring at each other, the thin band of sunlight highlighting a fraction of both of their faces. Bruce looks as confused as Dick feels. Tom looks -- hard. Not angry, but maybe determined? Should he ask?

He shifts, trying to get a better position -- and Tom pushes Dick down against the bed again, holding him there just like -- just like he's dreamed. Wanted. Will he get hard again?

And Bruce is still staring at Tom, frowning a little now --

Tom brings his messy hand to Bruce's face, though, and Bruce's nostrils flare as he makes a soft, low sound --

"Share this with me," Tom says, and it sounds like an order, like something Tom *needs* --

"Tom, I -- are you *sure*?"

"I never am. I always am. I --" Tom laughs, low and *strange* -- and then he looks at Dick. "You want us."

It's -- not really a question. Is it? Dick nods --

"No, Dick. You have to say it," Tom says, and presses harder on Dick's chest.

"I want -- I want both of you. Please, I -- I know it's wrong --"

"We're family," and Tom smiles down at Dick ruefully, though there's something almost wild in his eyes. "Whether or not we should be."

"Tom... I don't think I *understand*," Bruce says, and he's searching Tom with his eyes even as he... breathes in deeply. Tom's hand is still so *close* to Bruce's face --

"Don't you, Bruce?"

"Tom --"

"We. I think we can have this, too," Tom says. "I think we... need to. I need to. I need so *much*," and his voice cracks in the middle, and --

Dick wants to hug him, wants to tell him that it will be all right, that he can *be* old enough, good enough to give Tom what *he* needs --

"Tom," Bruce says, and his voice is low and soothing, *careful* -- "Tom," he says again, and takes three of Tom's fingers into his mouth, slowly and *deliberately* --

And Dick can't hold back a moan, but Bruce and Tom are only looking at each other, Tom nodding and pressing his lips tight together as Bruce sucks --

As Bruce closes his eyes and *tastes* Dick, making soft noises and being thorough, pulling back to lick and reaching to wrap one hand around Tom's wrist, to hold it *still* --

Dick shivers all over -- and *then* they turn to look at him, Tom's fingers still in Bruce's mouth --

"Please," Dick says, and he feels tired and horny and confused and hungry and a dozen other things at once --

Tom nods and takes his fingers from Bruce's mouth, dragging them wet and warm over Dick's cheek and then over the other one. It feels like gaining war paint, or like the first time his mother had made him up for a performance.

It feels like being old *enough*, like the change had happened sometime when he wasn't paying attention --

"Beautiful," Tom says. "Beautiful boy."

*Bruce* shivers -- and leans in to kiss Dick, starting out dry and soft on Dick's forehead before he makes it to Dick's mouth and -- oh.

So deep, so much *different* from any kiss he's ever had, and the taste of his own come is part of it, but it's also --

Bruce's mouth is so *big* against his, so hard even though Dick can tell that he's not making it be that way. It's as gentle and careful as all of Bruce's touches have been, but it's gently and carefully *sexual*, and Dick feels himself blushing again, feels his skin prickle with sweat and his dick *try* to twitch again --

Tom moans softly and it just gets worse, or better -- he doesn't know, but he can't open his eyes, can't -- if he opens his eyes, Bruce will *stop* -- no, that's dream logic, and he already knows that dream logic isn't any good. He opens his eyes --

And immediately gets lost in Bruce's. Bruce is *studying* him, but there's a sleepy kind of heat in his eyes, as if maybe he's aroused, too. Like Amber in Salinas, or maybe Latisha outside of Montgomery. Dick closes his eyes again and reaches up to hold Bruce's big, strong shoulders, to feel them shift as Bruce does, and now some of his weight is on Dick.

It's not enough to be uncomfortable, but it's *exactly* enough to make Dick think about Bruce being *all* the way on top of him --

"Bruce," Tom says, and he sounds strained again, sounds --

Bruce pulls back and *moves* Dick, turning him toward Tom, who --

Oh, the *kiss*. It's not gentle, at all, and it's making Dick feel young again, too soft and too small --

Tom moans into his mouth and kisses Dick *harder*, wrapping his arms around him and lifting him up -- onto his *lap* --

"*Dick*," Tom says, and shifts --

Oh. That's -- Tom's *hard*, and hot through his pajamas, and he wants -- he wants *him*, and --

Dick moans and wraps his arms around Tom's neck, squeezing as hard as he can and pressing close until Tom's dick is against his abdomen with just a thin layer of fabric between them. And -- he kisses *Tom*, trying to do it hard, trying to show Tom everything he's *learned* --

Tom pushes one hand into Dick's hair and tugs Dick's head back, making the kiss *deeper*, and now it's not even a little like all the kisses he's had before. Maybe he should've tried to kiss boys, too?

Or maybe this is just what it *means* to be kissed by someone like Tom, maybe he *should* be as confused and out of control as it feels like. How *long* has Tom wanted this? He --

He *tries* to pull back, but Tom kisses him harder, and now he has a hand on Dick's *ass*, squeezing and lifting Dick against him --

"Tom," Bruce says, low and *serious*, and Tom makes a *noise* into Dick's mouth --

And lets go, throwing his head back and panting. It looks like every muscle on his body is tense. It *feels* like every muscle is tense --

Bruce rests his hands on Dick's shoulders. "Dick. I think... I think you should talk to us, a little, about what you want."

Dick turns enough that he can see Bruce, and it seems like he can feel every *millimeter* of lost contact with Tom. "I want -- I'm not sure what I want, but you. Tom seems so --"

Bruce squeezes Dick's shoulders. "It's important to think about your needs, Dick. Not -- not Tom's."

"I --"

"He's right," Tom says, and he sounds like *Batman* again -- no, Batman always sounds like he's in control, and Dick is pretty sure that Batman has never been this hard -- Tom puts his hands on Dick's hips and pushes until Dick isn't straddling Tom's lap, anymore --

"Wait, no, I want -- um."

Bruce kisses the top of Dick's head. "It's all right, Dick. You don't. You don't have to make a decision right now."

That sounds a lot like *stop*, like maybe Bruce is going to tell him to go back to his room and then...

Then he'll have Tom to himself, and they'll be touching and holding each other, making each other feel, making *love*, and Dick -- Dick shakes his head. "I want -- more. Of this," he says, turning back and forth between them. "I'm all right."

"Are you," Tom says, and it sounds like an order, but it also sounds like... like a lot more sex, and he's --

"I'm... a little confused," Dick says, and reminds himself not to look down, even though he's blushing again. "You -- do both of you... want me?"

Tom cups Dick's chin and holds him that way. "I want to make love to you every way I know how," he says, and Bruce -- moans quietly.

"I want --" He squeezes Dick's shoulders again. "You're a very beautiful young man, Dick. I thought, perhaps, that I would wait," he says quietly --

And Tom closes his eyes again. "A part of me knows... that waiting is the right idea. The *good* idea."

And that's... Dick *knows* logic when he hears it, and responsibility, and he remembers what Ivo had done to the man who'd done *something* -- he never knew what -- to Lissa the lion tamer's daughter. He knows, now, that it was a sexual thing, but Christie was younger than he is, now, and maybe hadn't wanted... "I. Every time I touch -- every time I masturbate, now, I'm thinking about both of you."

Tom *shudders* -- and clenches his hands into fists. "I'm being irresponsible. I'm being --" He opens his eyes. "Dick, you should. You should go back to your room, now."

Bruce lets *go* of Dick's shoulders, and that --

"No! Please. We -- we can just keep kissing? If you wanted to wait for other things, I mean. I -- I really *liked* the kissing, from both of you --"

"Dick..." And he can *feel* Bruce behind him so close -- not close enough.

"I think about you holding me down, Tom, and Bruce --" Dick turns again. "Sometimes when you let me sit on your lap I start getting hard --"

"I know," Bruce says, and smiles ruefully. "When we were your age... no, I didn't know Tom when I was your age. I used to become aroused very easily, sometimes for no reason at all --"

"It's *not* -- I *know* the reason why. And I know I got scared, but Tom wasn't hurting me. *Neither* of you were hurting me --"

"It's not just about physical pain," Bruce says, and kisses the top of Dick's head again --

"Don't -- don't treat me like a *child* --"

"I'm sorry --"

"And Tom, you can't -- you *can't*. I want to make *you* happy, and give you pleasure. I want to make love, and -- and dance with you, and keep training, and tell you everything --"

"Dick," Tom says, and his hands are on Dick's face again, warm from being clenched into fists, and he remembers -- he turns and kisses Tom's palm, and then the other, the way his father would sometimes kiss his mother --

Tom *grunts* --

"*Dick*," and Bruce's voice is a little sharp. "You should leave *now*, so that I can --"

"He doesn't want to go, Bruce," and Tom's smile is rueful and looks a little shaky on his face. "And I don't want to let him."

And Bruce is silent for a long moment before he sighs, and puts his hands back on Dick's shoulders. "We have to be very careful, Dick. Do you... do you understand?"

He doesn't for a moment, because he knows Bruce and Tom would never hurt him -- oh. "I can't tell anyone."

Tom winces and nods.

"I wouldn't -- there's no one I *would* tell. The kids at school all think there's something wrong with me --"

"There's *nothing* wrong with you," Tom says, *gripping* Dick's face --

"I *know*. They wouldn't understand. They don't understand *anything*. Not the way you guys do, and I won't... I know you love each other, and *you* can't let anyone know, either --"

"There are differences," Bruce says, and his thumbs are on the back of Dick's neck, stroking and pressing --

"I know -- I know that, too. I won't ever -- you don't have to worry about me trying to get you to be apart, trying to have just one of you -- I love you so much."

"Whenever I see you, Dick, something warm inside me grows to the point of pain, and I ache," Tom says, and the kiss comes faster than he was ready for, but it's much softer than what had come before, like maybe Tom has more of his control back.

And Dick realizes that he'd liked the other kisses better.

He presses close to Tom again, crawling until he can straddle his thighs again, feel him -- and he can feel Bruce moving closer, too.

Tom hums and slips his tongue between Dick's lips, teasing Dick's tongue and gripping Dick's hips again, and --

Dick pulls back and licks his lips, and watches Tom raise an eyebrow. He really is going to start getting hard again *soon*. "You can touch my -- my bottom again. If you want to."

And Tom's smile is almost *dark* --

"*Oh*." Those are *Bruce's* hands on his ass, cupping and squeezing, stroking and *holding* --

"You like that," Tom says, and his eyebrow is still up.

"It feels -- Bruce's hands are so much *bigger* than yours, Tom."

"They always have been. And I've always taken a great deal of pleasure from that," and Tom leans in to nuzzle Dick's face, dragging his mouth over Dick's lips, his chin and his cheeks, and --

Oh. He's unbuttoning Dick's pajama top. Dick helps as best he can, but he thinks he feels clumsier now than he did when his father first started teaching him how to tumble, like buttons have somehow become something new and *complicated* --

And once Dick's top is off he feels... a little cold, maybe? He's not sure, but he shivers --

And shivers more when Bruce kisses the back and sides of his neck.

"That's -- I like that. I -- oh, *Tom* --"

Tom's fingers are on his nipples, and he's just rubbing them, but --

"Do you ever do this when you're masturbating, Dick?"

"I -- sometimes I just. Move. So my nipples drag against whatever I'm wearing."

Tom nods and *pinches* them, and it's not hard, but it makes Dick kneel up and bite his lip, because the feeling seems to go straight to the base of his *dick*, or -- somewhere behind his dick, maybe --

Tom does it again, and Dick gasps --

And Bruce squeezes his ass again before moving his hand to the waistband of Dick's pajama pants, which are still around his thighs. He pushes them down, and Dick wriggles and moves to help as much as he can without dislodging Tom's hands --

Tom lets go, and that makes it easier to get the pants *off*, but -- "Please? Please touch my nipples again?"

Tom nods, but -- he seems to pause, all over.


"Lie down for me, again?"

"Oh. I wanted -- I like being on your lap. Um -- straddling you."

Tom's smile is soft and full of so much *affection* --

Dick hugs him, because he *never* looks that soft, and because it feels so good to have Tom's body against his own. Tom's still wearing his boxer briefs, but they don't keep his *heat* away from Dick, and that's what he wants --

Except that Bruce is scraping his *teeth* against Dick's throat and he wants that, too --

And Tom's hand on his *sac* --

And Bruce's finger pushing into his navel --

And then it's all moving too fast for him to be sure of. Their hands seem to be all over him, and he's being kissed *hard*, and he knows that's Tom because Bruce is *biting* his neck right over the pulse point --

And Tom is squeezing him, moving him --

Bruce is hugging him close and *lifting* him -- oh, that's Bruce's *mouth* on his nipple --

Tom kisses his way up Dick's spine until he's biting the *other* side of Dick's neck --

Hands on his ass, *spreading* him --

"*Oh* -- oh, God, *please* --" And he doesn't know what he's begging *for*, but there's wetness in his ass, pushing and making him shiver, flex --

And he realizes that it's Tom's *tongue*, that he's *licking* Dick there, and --

He'd said he wanted to do it every way he *knew*, but that -- "*Tom*, I -- oh, that feels so *good*!"

Tom hums --

*Bruce* hums, and lifts him higher like it's the easiest thing in the world, and higher than that -- "Put your legs on my shoulders, Dick," he says, right against Dick's *groin* --

"Hnn -- hnn -- *oh*, I don't -- are you *sure*?"

"Yes," and Bruce sucks the *side* of Dick's penis, and Dick feels himself twitching and shaking --

Tom's licking in again and *again*, almost *fucking* Dick with his tongue, but he can still move his legs, and he does --

And then Bruce is sucking him *hard*, deep into his mouth, and Dick wants to be *bigger*, but then this might not be so *easy* for Bruce, and it's hot --

So hot and *wet* --

"*Please*," Dick says, and he's terrified that one of them will ask him to *specify*, and he can't even imagine the words, but --

Tom spreads him wider --

Bruce sucks *harder*, and Dick wants to hold them, wants to have something that could *ground* him against this feeling that he thinks will shake him *apart*.

He tries to say please again, to say *something*, but all that comes out is *noise*, and Dick is shaking his head, reaching --

His hands are in Bruce's hair, and he's pulling --

He has to *stop* that, but he can't seem to work his hands, anymore, and Tom --

Tom *moans*, and it makes the shaking worse, makes it better and awful, makes Dick *helpless*, because now he's hard again and Bruce is exhaling through his nose right on Dick's *mound* --

Tom is fucking him *faster*, and -- he said *every* way, which maybe means that he'll want to put his *dick* inside him, want to --

("There will be blood, and pain...")

Dick shouts and *jerks* in Bruce's hands, but he doesn't come, and maybe they won't stop until he does, maybe this will just go on and *on* --

They're making him feel like liquid inside and like something impossibly hard *outside*, like maybe he'll break and spill all of himself everywhere --

They *want* him to spill, and he can't, because he just *had* an orgasm, and there's no pain, but the *pull* of Bruce's mouth on his dick --

The stab of Tom's tongue --

Dick throws his head back and -- he thinks that sound was a *howl*, but he can't imagine being quiet for this, can't --

Oh, what if they wake *Alfred*? Will he be mad at them? This has to be a secret, but did they mean from Alfred, too? *Can* this be a secret from Alfred? He doesn't know, God, he doesn't know *anything*, and --

Bruce pulls back --

"Oh, no, no -- I mean -- Bruce -- oh, *Tom* --"

"Lay him down, Bruce."

"Tom --"

"*Please*," Tom says, and kisses the base of Dick's spine quick and *hard*. "I won't hurt him. You -- please trust me, Bruce --"

"*Always*," Bruce says, and then he's moving Dick, stretching him out on his back --

And Tom flips him over onto his belly in a *heartbeat*, and it's easy to forget how strong Tom is when he's working out all the time with Bruce, but --

Oh, Tom is on top of him, thighs spread over Dick's own as he kisses Dick's neck again and again -- stops. "I'm going to thrust between your thighs, Dick."

"Oh -- okay? You can -- you can put it in me if you want -- oh, *ow* --"

Tom *pants* against Dick's throat, *holding* Dick in his teeth --

And Bruce strokes Dick's hair. "Not tonight, Dick. Not... not tonight."

Dick bites his lip and shivers, just -- Tom's teeth *hurt*, and he thinks they might leave a mark, but -- "Okay. I won't -- say it again --"

Tom groans and pulls back, kissing the spot several times before licking, licking up to Dick's *ear* --

"I love you, Tom, it's okay --"

"*Dick*." And it sounds like another order, but --

"What should I do? When you're between my thighs, I mean --"

"Hold them together tightly. And know how much I *want* you."

Dick doesn't think he can know anything *else*, but -- he can do it, and then maybe... he doesn't know. And the feel of Tom guiding himself between his thighs is strange and a little scary, but it doesn't hurt, and it *must* feel good to Tom, because he moans and *shakes* on top of him.

Dick bites his lip again and squeezes as tight as he can --

"*Yes*," Tom says, and starts to thrust immediately, stroking his way up Dick's arms until he can hold Dick's wrists against the bed, until -- "Oh, God, *Bruce* --"

"I've got you," Bruce says, and Dick wants to know what he's *doing*, but --

There are wet sounds, soft and quiet and *fast* --

"Yes, *in* me, Bruce, do it *hard* --"

"Yes," Bruce says, and Tom stops thrusting --

And then he thrusts *hard*, sliding up against Dick's sac, pulling back and then *in* again, between again, rhythmic and fast, and Tom cries out for every thrust, and --

"Is Bruce --"

"Inside me. Taking me. The way I want *you* --"

"Oh, Tom --"

"Soon," he says, and it sounds like a promise, and feels like even more of one when he squeezes Dick's wrists hard enough to make it feel like the bones are grinding together --

"Tom," Bruce says, and he sounds strained, hungry --

"*Harder*," and Bruce gasps, and Tom cries *out*, thrusting even faster, and --

Soon, he'd said, but Bruce had said not tonight, and -- what would it feel like? His tongue had been *amazing*, and maybe that would make him wet enough to take it? He *wants* to, wants to make Tom sound like that --

"*Dick*," Tom says, panting and gasping -- "*Flex* your thighs --"

"Oh -- yes, I -- like this?"

"*Yes*," and if anything it's even faster, even more --

Bruce is making a sound like he's being *hit*, and it's nothing like the sounds Dick usually hears from his room. It's rougher than he'd ever *expected*, and that's scary, but it feels --

Oh, every time Tom slides against his sac it feels like he's getting higher --

And Tom is crying out every time, now, he's -- Bruce is fucking Tom *into* the space between Dick's thighs, and maybe he could fuck Tom into *him* just this hard, until *both* he and Tom are making noises like that --

"*Please*," Dick says, "please don't stop --"

"I *love* you," Tom says and squeezes Dick's wrists even harder, shouts --

"It's all right, it's -- it's all *right*," Bruce says, and that's his hand on Dick's hip, holding it --

But not holding it *still*, and Dick realizes that's he's humping and grinding against the bed, that he can't *stop*. He doesn't *want* to come this way, but it feels so necessary, feels --

"Oh, God. Oh *fuck*," and Tom shudders, loses his rhythm -- until Bruce gives him another one, and these thrusts are short and *sharp*, jarring to the point that the *bed* is moving --

"I won't let you go, Tom, I won't -- it's -- I promise --"

"I promise, *too*," Dick says, and he tries to flex his thighs harder, faster --

"Need you, *need* you," and Dick doesn't know which of them Tom is referring to, but maybe *he* doesn't, either, and --

He wants to be up on his hands and knees, he wants Tom to touch him everywhere, to do everything he wants without Bruce there to stop him or try to make him be gentle.

He wants *Bruce* to want him the way Tom does, and he wants both of them to take him like this, or whatever way they *want* to, so long as they don't stop --

And now *Tom* sounds like he's hurting, like this is too much for him, but he never stops --

Bruce never stops --

Dick thrusts one more time against the bed, and then he's shaking and coming, crying out --

"*Dick* --"

"Hold *on*, Tom --"

"No," he says, taking his hands from around Dick's wrists and kneeling up -- "Turn *over*, Dick."

Dick scrambles to do it, orgasm making his limbs feel stupid and weak -- and Tom is sitting on Bruce's lap. Sitting on Bruce's *dick* -- "Oh. I want --"

"You'll *have* it," and Tom starts stroking himself, dick dark in his hand --

"Tom," Bruce says, and his *hand* is around Tom's throat --

Tom *bucks*, and Bruce grabs Tom's hip with his other hand and *pulls* him back down while Tom gurgles and *shakes* --

And never takes his eyes off Dick.

"Oh. You -- like *that*?"

Tom nods and the motion is *small* because of Bruce's big hand, and he's stroking himself faster, *harder* -- he's not *blinking*, and Dick shakes his head, licks his *lips* --

"I can't -- you both look so *good*," Dick says, and tries to wipe some of the come off his stomach and just succeeds in making more of a mess --

Bruce lets go without moving his hand --

Tim sucks in a deep breath -- "Clean your fingers, Dick. With your tongue, Dick --"

"Oh -- all right," and Dick does it, watching and trying to keep from blinking himself because Bruce is thrusting again, doing it *hard* --

And choking Tom again, like it's normal, like it's something they just *do*. Dick *sucks* his fingers --

And Tom grabs him by the hair --

"*Tom* --"

"Would you. Do you want to taste me, Dick?"

Dick feels his eyes going wide -- and he can't stop himself from looking at Tom's dick. Just -- he's just *holding* it now, and if Dick was that hard he wouldn't be able to keep from stroking himself even if he was in *math* class --

"Tom, be *careful*," Bruce says, and *pets* Tom's throat --

Tom nods again, and every one of Bruce's thrusts is *moving* him, making his dick jerk in his hand -- but his eyes are *focused* on Dick -- "Suck me, Dick. Give me your -- your *mouth*."

Dick nods and pulls his fingers out of his mouth, crawling close and -- it looks so *big*, but he knows Bruce is even bigger, and Tom can take him in his *ass* --


Dick moans and wraps his lips around the head --

Tom grunts and *pushes*, and it's only a little bit deeper, but Dick's mouth feels *full*, and his teeth are digging in against his lips --

And then Bruce starts fucking Tom faster, again, because Tom is thrusting, and it feels like he's pushing deeper every time, even though his hand is there, pushing against Dick's mouth with every thrust, with --

Tom wants him to *suck*, so he does --

And Tom shouts again --

"Oh, Dick," Bruce says, and when he looks up, Bruce is staring at him, managing to look both turned-on and *worried*. Dick nods and thinks about giving Bruce the thumbs up --

But then Tom's dick *bumps* against the back of his throat and Dick coughs, fights against the urge to gag because Tom wants this, Tom is petting his hair, tugging just a little and petting *more*.

Dick swallows, but he can't keep himself from drooling, can't --

"*Dick*," Tom says, and groans. "It won't. Be long --"

Dick nods again, coughs and listens to Tom moan, to the wet sound of Bruce *fucking* Tom hard --

And he thinks his lips might be swelling and he *knows* he's blushing, that he must look at least a little ridiculous --

But Tom tastes *good*, impossibly *sexual*, and that should've been obvious, but it *wasn't* somehow, and -- he wants Tom to come in his mouth.

He tries sucking harder -- Tom *grips* his hair and now he can't move, at all, now it's just the way Tom is thrusting into his mouth and the fact that, even though it's *hard*, Dick knows that it could be even harder than that, it --

Tom makes a *gurgling* sound and that means Bruce is choking him again --

Bruce is panting and moaning, longer and lower every time --

Tom makes a *hitching* sound that must mean he's *trying* to breathe and that Bruce isn't letting him. Would *he* like being choked? Would Tom ever do it just because he wanted to?

His heart is still pounding from *before*, and it's *hard* to breathe with Tom so close --

Dick can't *smell* anything but Tom and all of this *sex*, and he's sweating again, wanting --

He looks up again, and Tom is staring down at him, eyes narrow and teeth *digging* into his own lower lip --

"*Come*, Tom --"

Tom squeezes his eyes shut and starts stroking himself again, and that makes his dick *move* in Dick's mouth, makes it harder to hold it and keep it from the back of his mouth --

He coughs again, and this time he *can't* hold back the gag --

And Tom pulls him *off* by the hair --

"No, wait, I'm -- "

And then Tom's coming on his *face*, hot and wet, slick and -- Dick squeezes his eyes shut and shudders, feeling marked, feeling --

"Oh, *Tom*," and when Dick opens his eyes Bruce has both hands on Tom's hips and is *moving* Tom, lifting him and hauling him back down over and over again, doing it *fast*.

Tom still has one hand in Dick's hair, but the other is on his own knee, gripping white-knuckled as he pants and -- whimpers.

"Tom. I -- does it hurt?"

"*Yes*," Tom says, and when Dick looks up Tom's eyes are *completely* wild. "Just -- hn. The way I like it to, Dick."

Dick bites his lip -- Dick tastes Tom's *come*, and he's not sure if he's supposed to wipe his face or *not*. He gets the stuff that was about to drip into his eye and leaves the rest --

"Dick," Tom says, and it sounds like a whole sentence and *feels* like a hand around -- not his dick. His *spine*.

"Yes, Tom -- I. Whatever you want. Anything you want is *okay* -- *oh*."

Bruce is biting Tom's throat so hard that the skin shows white around all the pink --

And when Tom closes his eyes, Dick knows that Bruce is coming. Just -- how would that even *feel*? Dick edges closer and tries to wrap his arms around both of them. He manages to get his hands on Bruce's sides, but can't do more than that. It -- he can hear Tom's *heartbeat*, and how it's even faster than his own, and he can't stop himself from rubbing his cheek against Tom's chest, even though he knows he's just getting Tom messy.

After a long moment, Tom eases the grip he has on Dick's hair and starts to pet him, instead, and Dick takes what feels like his first *deep* breath in hours. Bruce reaches around to pet Dick, too, and they stay that way for a little while.

Long enough for the come still on his face to start to dry in what feels like the itchiest possible way. Dick tries to scratch and swipe at it without making it look like he wants to move --

Tom pushes him back, anyway -- and kneels up with a hiss.

"Tom..." And Bruce strokes Tom's hips. There are red marks there from his fingers which might bruise.

"I'm all right," Tom says, and smiles at Dick, wiping away more of the come. "I'm all right. How about you, Dick?"

"Yes! I mean -- yes. Will we... you said... some of the things you said --"

"You can have this anytime you'd like," Tom says. "I promise -- well, almost anytime. You have to get ready for school, now, and Bruce and I need to get more sleep."

Dick nods and... wants another hug. But. Maybe not now?

"What is it, Dick?" And Bruce looks concerned as he moves to kneel beside Tom.

"No, I'm -- I'm good. It's just." Dick looks down, and Tom puts a hand on his shoulder.

"You never have to ask for a hug, Dick. And I'm sorry if I ever made you feel that way," Tom says, and pulls him close again.

"I feel the same," and Bruce comes around behind Dick so they can press him between their warm, scarred, perfect bodies.

One day he's going to be like them, and the thought makes him happy enough to feel guilty, sometimes. Not now, though. Now is just...

Just what he wanted. Dick takes another deep breath and squeezes Tom as hard as he can before pulling back to lean against Bruce and... rub a little.

Bruce kisses the top of his head again -- "Oh. You don't like that. I'm sorry --"

"No -- it's all right. It's only... only when you're thinking of me as a kid that it bothers me."

"You are very young, Dick," Tom says, and his smile is rueful and wry. Calm. "But I learned a very long time ago that it doesn't really work to treat some people like children."

And Dick thinks he can *feel* Bruce looking at Tom, maybe asking a question... but Tom is only looking at him.

"Will... will the two of you talk about this?"

"Yes," Bruce says, and Tom nods.

"We'll exclude you from as little of that conversation as possible," and Tom sits back on his heels. "You can shower in our bathroom."

"Um. All right. I *do* want to get cleaned up as fast as possible," Dick says, and starts to move. Bruce rests *his* hand on Dick's back, but all he does is stroke it before giving Dick a very slight push. 

"It will... be all right," Bruce says, and his voice is dark, but still sure.

"Yes," Tom says, and when Dick looks back from the bathroom door, they're looking into each other's eyes. He *knows* they're still aware of him -- they're *Batman* -- but he thinks the parts of them which aren't Batman at all are only focused on themselves.

Dick walks into the bathroom and turns on the shower. And...

Maybe they'll *both* take him to school today.