Disclaimers: None of them are mine.

Spoilers: Major ones for "A Better World," minor ones
up through "Wild Cards."

Summary: Wally knows he shouldn't.

Ratings Note/Warnings. NC-17. Possible disturbing
content.

Author's Note: I was all ready to give things a rest,
but Shrift *reminded* me that Lorder!Batman was,
actually, still right *there*.

Title from Hilda Doolittle's "Eros":

... Where is he taking us
now that he has turned back?
Where will this take us,
this fever,
spreading into light?

Acknowledgments: To Shrift, Weirdness Magnet, the
Spike, and Jack for audiencing and encouragement.

*

He was going to tell someone about it.

Really.

On one side, there's the whole thing about how Wally
often feels like he's always about one wrong sentence
away from getting set up on blind dates by Superman --
and possibly the Princess. On the other side, there's
the fact that... okay, it's weird.

Or maybe not weird enough.

It isn't like he doesn't *know* who it is, even though
he never turns the lights on, even though he's never
wearing --

He knows, and it's fucked up, and probably insanely
dangerous.

Definitely insanely dangerous.

He knows them, all of them, and can -- obviously --
get to them anytime he wants to.

Anywhere.

Wally never thought he'd wind up thinking of his own
freaking *apartment* as just another potentially deadly
location where the Flash -- the whole damned League,
maybe -- might be needed, but he does, now.

And that's one *more* reason why he really ought to
tell someone about his occasional, random night
visitor.

He doesn't want to.

He... *really* doesn't want to, and part of it is the fact
that he probably -- definitely -- should've said
something the first time, or at least the third. At this
point, he's pretty much stuck hoping they believe him
if he says that it just hadn't *occurred* to him that
there might be a problem about a random (not
random, he knows, he knows and now he knows
what he tastes like, too) guy who shows up in his
apartment no matter how many locks he puts on, no
matter how many spiffy, expensive alarms he buys.

Yeah, that would pretty much be the opposite of all
things cool.

'Oh, that Flash! Brainless as always, ha ha.'

GL would probably just say something about how he
needs to start thinking with his *other* head. And
glare.

Assuming he wasn't just... elsewhere, at the time.

John's doing a pretty sweet job with the 'elsewhere,'
these days. Not that he blames him. It's not like *he*
wouldn't --

He patrols a lot these days. At home, even.

The League doesn't always need him, but there's
always *crime*. Central City isn't Detroit or Gotham
or anything, but it's not paradise, either. Just because
he doesn't have, like, an insane asylum full of psycho
supervillains to deal with doesn't mean there isn't --

So, okay, maybe he's rescued more than his fair share
of kittens from trees lately. In the suburbs. Of San
Francisco.

Still. He's got a lot of energy to burn up, and maybe,
just maybe, he doesn't always want to go home right
away.

It's not like he's *afraid* of his apartment -- that
would be just a little *too* insane, thank you very
much -- it's just...

*He* tends to show up after dark -- big shock -- but
never too late. Sometimes he's there when Wally gets
back after ten or so, sometimes he wakes Wally up
with... a kiss or a touch or just *being* there,
*looming* there in the dark until Wally's dreams shift
 to small places, closed places, airless and dark and
he wakes up gasping and *then* there's the touch,
the kiss --

If Wally doesn't get back to his apartment until dawn,
or nearly so, then he won't be there.

Wally's never seen his face in daylight.

Wally's never seen his *face*, period, because the
few times he'd 'accidentally' left a light on -- even out
in the kitchen -- it was always off by the time *he*
showed up.

The last time, he'd woken up to find every light bulb
in the house partially unscrewed. He got the point.

And it's not like his body doesn't know --

He skids to a stop in an alley. He's not breathing
hard -- he needs to log a few hundred more miles,
or maybe just a hundred or so at really high speed
before that happens -- he just feels like he should be.
His heart feels like it wants to seize up in his chest,
and he's hard.

Not for the first time, he thinks about designing some
kind of funky, repressive groin armor, because, really,
if he has to rescue any little old ladies or whatever like
this, he's going to have to take a jog off a cliff or
something.

It's not like he's surprised that thinking about it --
about *him* -- gets him hard. It's just... really
inconvenient. And uncomfortable.

Just another part of how this whole thing is fucked-up
beyond *all* human comprehension, because... it's
good.

And he shouldn't be running from something that's
good, except for how it's good in that really-shouldn't-
do-this way, should be scared, should be *ashamed*,
because this is a *bad* guy and...

It's not like he's doing anything. No world-takeovers or
urging Wally to vote Fascist. He doesn't even wear the
suit (sometimes he's naked, maybe right now, maybe
waiting), and even J'onn has his little not-really-shorts-
at-all-don't-think-about-it pants on when he fights
crime, and... and.

It takes about four minutes to get back to his
apartment. Long enough to think 'I want this,' and
'mine,' and 'maybe it isn't --'

It's late (not too late) and all the lights are off, all the
doors are closed as he zips up the stairs and down the
hallway. He braces his hands on the door and stares.
Red gloves on wood.

Just wood.

The plating on the '3' of his '37' is starting to chip. He
rubs at it, but no more comes off. He'll have to get
that replaced. Maybe next time he's feeling
unbe-fucking-lievably anal and also like dealing with
the super, who is eight feet tall and five feet wide and
who looks at Wally like two-day-old anchovy pizza
and he wonders if other people babble in their heads
and he wonders if he has anything interesting in the
refrigerator and he opens the door and he walks inside
and it's dark.

He didn't leave any lights on before he left this
morning, of course, but there are all different kinds of
dark, and this kind slams the door with Wally's body
and bites his throat through the suit hard enough to
make him gasp and kisses him.

Presses Wally's shoulders back against the wall and...
licks him. It just feels like another kiss at first, but it's
obvious when he moves, when that tongue slides just
over the *outside* of Wally's mouth, and it's not like
it's too fast to catch -- not for *him* -- but he can't
make his body cooperate. He can't make it do more
than just...

Wally turns his face into it, tilts his chin up and he --
he licks at him like an animal, like he isn't tasting
Wally at all, as opposed to just finding another way
to kiss him. To *tell* him.

Wally twists in his grip, just enough to loosen the
hold, just enough so he can feel -- it's just a t-shirt.
Jeans when Wally slides his hands down. Sometimes
it's a business suit. Sometimes it's skin. Wally wants
skin, and he tugs at the t-shirt until he can *have*
it.

Wiry hair and muscles and hot skin and *scars*.

"Wally," he rumbles, half-purrs against Wally's ear,
and bites him. The side of his ear, the lobe, that
little spot under and behind it, and Wally's body
beats a fast tattoo against the door because that
spot always makes him vibrate.

Makes him clutch at him -- *him* -- and he purrs
again:

"I missed you," he says.

Six days -- nights -- since the last time. Wally doesn't
ask if he was looking. Waiting, watching -- whatever he
does. He doesn't want to know. He *doesn't*. He --
"I know your voice," he says, and winces. Wally's read
this fairy tale.

But he just... laughs. A low, relaxed (*wrong*)
chuckle, and strokes his way down Wally's chest, down
and down to where the suit's top angles down over his
crotch.

"Oh --"

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't. Or maybe he would."

"*No* --" And Wally was going to say something,
something *important* about how he won't --
*can't* -- go there, but he's pulling and pushing up the
top of Wally's suit and rubbing the back of his hand
against Wally's erection. "Don't stop," he says instead.

"I won't."

"Tell me why."

Another laugh. "Because I don't want to."

"No, I mean -- fuck --" *Stroking* him, and still holding
him back against the door, and Wally spreads his legs
and --

"You want to talk?"

"No. Yes. We never -- who *are* you? Don't -- oh
God please --"

He kisses Wally again, slow and hard and in nothing
like the same rhythm as the hand on Wally's dick. It's
the difference between circles and angles, between
something -- the kiss makes Wally want to melt into
a Wally-shaped puddle on the floor. The hand makes
Wally want to climb him, ride him. Both methods
have been equally successful. He never says stop, or
don't.

He wants -- Wally doesn't *know* what he wants,
except for this, and maybe that's part of it. Because it's
not like he's the smartest crayon in the sixty-four or
anything, or that he's ever been that good at
relationships, but he'd never thought he'd ever have
this much sex with someone and *still* have no clue.

Wally manages to push and turn his way out of the kiss,
but he can't do a thing about his hips. He can't --

"*Fuck*," he hears himself say, and comes with his
hips jerking, with his hands clutching at -- *him*. No.
"Tell me your name."

"You know what to call me --"

"*No*. Tell me your *name*."

And he... stops. The fist around Wally's dick is still,
steady. Waiting, because he *knows*. The hand on
Wally's shoulder isn't -- quite -- squeezing.

Wally lets go for long enough to push his cowl back
over his face, to scrub his hair back out of the flat,
damp tangle it always gets itself in. And forces himself
not to reach out again. Not to lean in and nuzzle and
taste -- Batman always smells like armor.

It's not like he can get close enough to -- he *can't*.

"Tell me," Wally says again, and balls his hands into
fists.

"Is it important?"

"Is it -- are you *serious*? No, are you --" Insane.
He's not going to actually say that. He wouldn't say
that to *anyone* who was holding his dick. Because
*he's* not insane.

And he -- *squeezes*.

Wally's knees try to buckle, and he's not trying to
squint into the darkness anymore because it's a
battle just to keep his eyes open, to keep from --
Wally bats at the hand, pushes at it, doesn't wrap
his own hand around it and guide it the way he wants.
*Doesn't*. "No," he says. "*No*."

"Wally --"

"*Tell* me -- oh -- *oh* --"

And for a moment Wally thinks he won't, thinks he's in
*trouble* now, and then he doesn't really think much
of anything, because he's getting jerked hard, *fast*,
just like he likes it, like he can't *do* for himself
because he always loses control, he can't ever *keep*
it, but of course *he* can, no matter what Wally
wants, because even when Wally can make himself
twist, struggle, *fight* --

"Don't -- no..."

It sounds too much like yes. It *feels* like yes, with
his hips pumping into it, the *hurt* of it, because it's
too soon for him, and those hands are big and hard
and *rough* on him, and he's aching all over, and he
can't make him *stop*.

"Don't," he says again, and pushes at him, at all that
heat and muscle and *evil*, because even though
he'd changed his mind, even though he'd helped
Wally and the rest of the League escape, he was still
the *wrong* one, the *bad* one, and it's like maybe
Wally needed to learn the lesson with his body.

Needed to be *taught*, and Wally bites his lip and
shoves harder, because at least he can do that, at
least his arms will listen even if his fuck-stupid hips
won't. He can still --

"Wally, please,"

"Please *what*?"

And he stops. Lets go. And Wally hopes all the
shaking looks like vibration, because at least people
are used to that, *he's* used to that, but Wally
doesn't think it looks like anything but what it is.

He clenches his fists again to keep from hugging
himself, to keep from yanking his tights up.

"Wally --"

"All I wanted was a *name*, man! I can't keep --
you can't keep *coming* here and *doing* this like
some... freaking *succubus* or something!"

"Incubus."

"What?"

"It's -- never mind. I..." He reaches out, and Wally
flinches, but all he does is stroke Wally's cheek.
Softly.

His hand is shaking, and Wally wants to hold it still.
He -- he shouldn't shake. Even if -- Wally grits his
teeth and settles for just holding it against his face,
and doesn't stroke the knuckles with his thumb. "I
just want this to be a little less fucked-up. I don't --
I need a reason not to..." Have the League hunt you
down and lock you up with the rest of your psycho
team. "I need a reason to trust you."

"And if you shouldn't? Trust me."

Wally breathes. "Your voice... it isn't always like...
his."

"Because he won't let it be," he says, and steps
closer, presses his hand against Wally's cheek harder.
"I have no such compunctions."

"Do you have *any*?"

"You're still here, aren't you?"

No lights, but it's been long enough that the
streetlights from outside add something. More
shadows, mostly, but there's a faint gleam off his
teeth. His smile. Wally shivers. "How much are you
joking?"

"As much as I ever do. Wally."

"Tell me --"

"It won't matter." And he's closer, close enough that
Wally can feel his breath on his mouth. Taste it.

Wally takes a shuddering breath and tenses, and he
stops. Wally breathes some more and swallows. "It
does matter. To me."

Another one of those smiles. "I only have *one*
real name, Wally."

"Oh --"

The kiss is hard, wet and fast and impossible not to
sink into.

"Fuck --"

"And you already know what it is. Don't you."

Wally whimpers, and realizes he's fisting the back of
his t-shirt again, pulling and clawing at it, arms
wrapped around Bat -- around his back and dick
rubbing hard and wet all over Batman's -- all over
his stomach --

"Say it, Wally."

"No --"

"Do it for me," whispered against his mouth, or
maybe licked into the flesh of Wally's lips, and Wally's
vibrating again, thrumming with it, wanting --

"Don't make me --"

"Wally..." And the kiss is deep and slow, too slow,
so wet, and Wally moans and arches into it, sucks
on his tongue and thrusts against him, and there's
something *wrong*.

It isn't the kiss, or the feel of all that skin and
muscle against him, it's --

Light. And he opens his eyes before he can think, and
he *sees*. Everything he's been feeling on him, over
him. The soft, thick hair is black, the hard mouth is
red, the hot skin is pale, paler where it's scarred, and
the eyes --

"Oh, God."

It shouldn't mean anything. He's never seen Batman
without the cowl, and he's never even *tried* to
imagine the man in normal clothes, except for that
one time with John and all the tequila, and -- it
shouldn't *matter*.

Except that he'd also never imagined Batman's
*eyes*, but if he had...

They'd be just like this. Lasered in on him with focus
that had no right to be human, bright and wild and
sharp and -- crazy. Definitely crazy.

Nobody sane could look like that.

Nobody sane could look at him like that.

"Batman...?"

And those eyes *flare*, just for a second, just for
long enough to make Wally's heart pound harder,
for him to gasp -- and he hits the door hard, again,
and he -- and Batman yanks at his tights, pushes
them down until they're puddled over the tops of
Wally's boots, and Wally manages to kick the left
one off, lifts his right leg up to yank at it, but
Batman -- *Batman* just pushes him back against
the door and does it himself.

And then he slides his hands up Wally's thighs,
squeezing and stroking them, strokes up to Wally's
ass and down a little again and --

"Lift them," he says, and Wally stares into those
eyes and does it, wrapping his legs around
Batman's waist, curling up and in on himself, and
Batman just... stares.

"Please," Wally says.

Batman cups his ass again and -- *fuck* -- one finger
in his cleft, sliding down slow, *slow*, and he's
*watching* Wally, and it feels stupid that it's so
good, so *much* to see his eyes.

It is, though, because now he can *feel* them, too.
The weight of that hot, hungry *look*, all over his
body like a caress. Like *possession*.

"Batman --"

"*Yes*," he grits, and pushes in.

Dry, hot, *big* finger, and he's used to it, he's *felt*
it, but not up against a door, or folded up *quite*
like this, and no, *no*. His stupid brain is making
excuses. It's incredible because the lights are on,
because he can *see* Batman doing it, and see the
way his face changes, *hardens* when Wally lets
his head thump against the door and groans.

He likes this, he *likes* it, likes making Wally twist
and move like this, likes making him moan and beg
with his body. Making him *beg* --

"Harder, Batman. Do it -- oh *God* --"

And there's a muscle flexing in Batman's jaw, and
he's barely even *blinking*. Neither is Wally.

He licks his lips and squeezes Batman's shoulders,
holds on and tries to work himself faster into it. He
keeps losing the burn, and oh fuck that's the best
part.

"*Wally*."

The second best.

The best is the voice, and the look, and Batman --
the other Batman has *never* sounded like that.
Never sounded that open and hungry for him, or
maybe not for *anyone*, and Wally gives up and
slides one hand off Batman's shoulder and wraps it
around his own dick and Batman pulls out fast and
comes back faster, two fingers --

"Oh *God* --" and Wally can't stop saying it, can't
stop bucking and yelling, and Batman *twists* and
Wally comes screaming, thighs flexing around
Batman's waist.

Batman holds him, pets him in hard, even strokes
until he stops vibrating. Pulls out and sets him
down on his feet. And Wally kisses him. He still
can't close his eyes, but now he's wondering if
Batman ever *did*.

"You look -- what do you need?"

And *that* makes Batman close his eyes, squeeze
them shut for a long moment that makes Wally
want... he isn't sure what he wants. He just knows
that it feels like *more*.

He wraps his arms around Batman's neck and
kisses him, presses close until he can feel how
*hard* Batman is through the jeans.

Batman slides one hand into Wally's hair and cups
the back of his head, making the kiss deeper. Wally
walks them back toward his bedroom, and it's not
surprising that even though this is *his* apartment,
and the lights are on, and *he's* the one facing
forward, he's still the one stumbling.

It doesn't matter.

They get there, and Batman lets Wally shove him
back onto the bed. Lets Wally crawl on top of him
and straddle him and stroke his hands up under
that t-shirt, through the sparse hair and over all
those scars. Lets him and *watches* him, like he
thinks --

"I'm not going anywhere," he blurts, and... no. He
doesn't want to wince. It's exactly right.

"Wally, you -- all I did was turn the lights on."

"No, it's..." He forces himself to stop petting the man,
and it takes effort. "It's more than that. I can... um.
See you." And it comes out lame, but it's nothing
but the truth.

"Don't trust me."

"What?"

And Batman flips them over and kisses Wally again,
bites his mouth and his chin and his throat, *growls*
against his throat and shoves his hands under Wally's
back and pulls him up, yanking hard on the top of the
suit. Wally hears something tear and reminds himself
that he *does* care, and shoves Batman back just
enough to get it off himself.

And then Batman pushes him back down and strokes
his chest, over and over, twisting hard on Wally's
nipples and -- fuck -- hard again, harder when he
sees the hunger back on Batman's face. Wally
reaches back and holds on to the pillow and goes
with it. Sometimes it's like this, sometimes Batman
makes him come again and again, and it's familiar,
his body *knows* it, but it's still so *good*.

So much better to be able to *see* this. Batman's
eyes and the faint flush staining the hard planes of
his face.

His -- Wally can't even call it a perfectly normal face,
because it isn't. He's *handsome*, someone who
people take pictures of or something, and it's almost
hard to look at, because it seems *wrong*.

Until he gets another look at those eyes.

They make it easier to breathe, somehow. Easier to
just be here, in this bed that hasn't felt like *just* his
in months now. Like he belongs and -- Wally closes
his eyes against the thought and turns his head.

Or tries to. Batman has his chin in one hand, and --
he isn't squeezing, or not very hard, but it's still an
order. He's *used* to taking orders from... Wally
shakes it off and opens his eyes and... that's an
order, too. Something huge and wordless and
impossible not to obey, because...

Batman needs to see him, too.

Whatever's in his *own* eyes -- and he knows.

Wally swallows and Batman nods slowly. And lets
go, slipping off the bed --

"Wait --"

Batman smiles at him, narrow and honestly amused.
And strips off his shirt.

"Oh."

And the jeans, and -- he wasn't wearing *shoes*.
And somehow that's the biggest thing, or the *new*
biggest thing. Batman wandering around his
apartment in *jeans* and no *shoes*, like he --

Wally laughs helplessly and Batman raises an
eyebrow at him, like he's ready to share the joke, and
it's just one hit after another, one massive, deadly
*thing* after another, and Wally shakes his head.
He's not laughing anymore.

He reaches out and Batman comes back to him,
kneels over him, big and hard all *over*, and Wally
says "yes," and Batman wraps his fist around the
base of his own dick and slides the head over Wally's
open mouth, again and again, and it doesn't feel like
a tease. Because those eyes are on him, and Wally
knows how much he *wants* this. All of it, every
touch.

And it's just as much as *he* does.

He groans when Batman pushes in, finally, and slides
his hands over Batman's thighs and sucks, staring up
at him. *More* he thinks, and the first thrust makes
him drool, and the next makes his dick twitch, and
then it's just one after the other, and the slick, heavy
weight of Batman on his lip, on his *tongue*, and
Wally lets his eyes roll back in his head and bucks his
hips up into nothing.

Batman slides his hands into Wally's hair, and he's
not really pulling so much as just petting him hard,
moving Wally's head almost incidentally. Making love
to him with his hands and fucking him with his dick,
taking him and *having* him, and Wally whimpers
around Batman's dick and squeezes the hard muscles
of Batman's thighs.

Swallows, again and again, and tries to make himself
care enough to breathe. He doesn't, he can't, and
Wally's heart pounds and the shadows fade in on his
vision. That doesn't matter, either. Every thrust
makes his eyes roll back again, and --

"*Wally* --"

He moans and slides his hands up to Batman's hips,
urging him on faster, *harder*, and then just keeps
moaning because Batman never needs to be told
twice. Not in this, not in *anything*, and Wally
stretches for better access and Batman holds his
*head* and gives it to him.

Fucks him until his lips are numb and the spit slides
down his chin, the pre-come slides down Wally's
dick and down Wally's throat, and every sound he
makes is muffled and choked. He was embarrassed
the last time, flushing every time he heard himself
sound like bad/good porn, but not now.

Now it feels like one more way of turning on the
lights.

Batman gasps and comes down his throat, and Wally
shoves at his hips so he can catch the last shots on
his tongue, so he can taste it, lick it all over Batman's
dick and keep licking until Batman gasps again and
pulls out and shifts away.

"Batman," he says, and stops at the hoarse and the
*raw* of his own voice.

And Batman leans in, curls in beside him and tugs
him into a messy, hard kiss and jerks him off.

Just as slow.

"Wally," Batman says again, and it sounds like a
million deep, important, terrifying things.

Wally whimpers into Batman's mouth and thrusts
into his fist.

Batman sucks his tongue for a slow, hot second.

"I won't tell," Wally says, and Batman tenses. "Don't
stop, I just -- I just --"

Even when Batman looks *sad* his eyes are sharp
enough to bleed on.

"I need this," Wally says. "I need --"

"Don't --"

"Trust you. I know. I won't. Just don't stop."

And now Batman isn't sad so much as *serious*, and
the kisses are harder, and Batman's hand is --

"So good, so --"

Wally groans into the kiss and comes again, panting
and vibrating and trying to stop, trying and failing
and finally he just gives up and rolls into Batman,
sliding his arm under Batman's own and vibrating
against Batman's body until Batman rolls them both
back down, until he's pressing Wally down to the
mattress.

Wally gasps out an exhale and can't breathe in as
deeply the next time.

He holds on tighter.

"You still can't stay," he says, so Batman won't have
to.

"No. Not... not tonight."

Wally closes his eyes. "Okay."

And Batman kisses his throat, sliding one hand up to
Wally's face again and tilting it out of the way.
Holding it.

Wally relaxes into the touch, and wonders when he'll
have to start lying.

end.