(FIC) Pyre of his heart (Superman/Batman, NC-17)
Nghhh I am sorry this if finished so late! I got to say I probably bit more than I could chew, sex pollen is.. nghh. Fight scenes and smut! @.@ But last night I sat down and wrote about three thousand words of smut, haha, so, erm. Here it is. I am sorry for the weirdness. It was 3 am. But I had a blast! It was a lot of fun, and I think after, what, five years in S/B fandom? a sex pollen fic was long overdue.
To whoever requested F53 (Clark and Bruce's trees and their ornaments), I'm sorry I'll be even later to post that, but I am working on it! sorryyyyy :/
Title: Pyre of his heart
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Superman/Batman
Word Count: 6100+
Summary: Clark and Bruce are attending a gala in Gotham, and Poison Ivy interrupts their night.
Prompt: F9 Sex pollen! Clark and Bruce are in a relationship, but get dosed with pollen somewhere inconvenient/risky/semi-public--like on a stakeout, or at a party or a meeting. They resist as hard and long as possible before eventually giving in (preferably remaining undiscovered, though!)
Unbeta'ed! Point and I shall correct!
Bruce smiled and turned around, giving a parting nod to James Beckmann, CEO of IronKey Security, one of the biggest players in the west coast in the security business. Beckmann's date gave him a barely appropriate look under her lashes as she sipped her champagne, and Bruce flashed her a playful smile that was definitely not appropriate.
It would be rude to ignore her flirting, and it would only insult Beckmann to imply his choice for a date wasn't good enough for Gotham's infamous playboy. Such was the life of the decorative dates. He walked towards the next group of people he really had to talk to, and hadn't he heard? They were planning a golf tournament for charity, but couldn't decide where to play it, and should be on Sunday or Saturday, what did he think? He had to be there, of course, Karlie would be there, didn't he like Karlie? She had been in the cover of Vogue last month, very darling, all of it.
He kept smiling, barely following the conversations around him as he looked around the crowd. Nygma was by the hors d'oeuvre, following an animated discussion between two of the most renowned neurosurgeons on the country, nodding along every now and then. He looked completely enthralled by their conversation, and Bruce felt his curiosity piqued. He would have to ask Edward later what they had been talking about. It will give him an excuse to check on him.
On the other hand, of course he will be at the golf tournament, Karlie was stunning, no, really, she was a very interesting and talented woman, he was most taken with her work, and yes, he would not miss a chance to see Erin Wintermoor's daughter on stage this season, he had heard fantastic things about her performance in New York, though surely New York wasn't Gotham. The Gotham theater crowd was a completely different creature, capricious, yes, but also much more refined, always expecting avant-garde, that was why the Gotham scene was so trendsetting. Why, Bruce had attended at least a dozen shows the past season where he had not understood a single minute of it! Absolutely fantastic, all of it.
He excused himself as Laura Kessler walked by in the arm of Erik -Erik? no, not Erik, E... Emerson? Ernest? well, E-something Banks- and turned to intercept them in their way to the dance floor. Quick greetings, brilliant smiles, all teeth and no heart. Bruce knew how to play this game as well, the cold appraisals, the cruel jokes, the barbed jabs. It required a bit more energy than the clueless sybarite, but it was equally important to play the field where the social power struggles were held.
Money and a pretty face didn't make the Prince of Gotham. It was alright if models and benign matrons thought Bruce Wayne was darling but not terribly bright, but there was a circle who knew that Bruce Wayne could cast you into the social wastelands with a venomous comment or a contemptuous stare. He could make or destroy reputations depending on where he went and whom he ignored.
The social ladder was full of desperate wolves, and they played aggressively, barely concealing themselves with silk and pearls, sweet voices and perfectly rehearsed laughs.
Laura was a quick climber, and he liked her, more or less. She was passionate, even if her cause wasn't one Bruce had any inclination on -regulation on the types of vegetation in Robinson Park, which meant planting Gotham-native life and displacing the non-native species that were strangling the growth- and could-be-Erik was her new functions partner, though as far as Bruce remembered, Banks didn't really care all that much about greenery.
Laura had beautiful brown eyes, though. He was sure Banks had noticed as well.
He turned to the left and quickly made his goodbyes, sidestepping Mrs. Hanshaw and Mrs. Olbrich with a boyish grin and a half reverence, getting motherly smiles from the matrons as he slid to the side of the room in a more or less direct fashion -a quick turn here to grasp an extended hand; a couple of pats in the back; two old widows to meet and kiss hands, turning up the roguish charm and turning down the boyish smiles, getting knowing looks and open laughs for his performance.
As he reached the marble column nearest the wall, Clark finished disentangling himself from the two iron tycoons chatting loudly a few steps away, and with the grace of a consummated performer he stumbled into Bruce, shoulders touching, hands brushing, breath mingling for a second before he pulled away, muttering to himself. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking, sir."
Bruce smiled, looking around them, seeing the crowd move before them like a living creature. "Liar," Bruce said softly. "I know you're always looking. I can feel your eyes on me."
Clark pushed his glasses up his nose and straightened his jacked. "Maybe I wouldn't trip with you so often if you weren't always stalking me, Mr. Wayne."
"Voyeur."
"Exhibitionist," Clark said, glancing around the crowd. "What were you telling those women? I swear they were ready to take you home."
"I live to serve."
"Nuh-uh, they better find their own boytoy. This one's taken."
"How early do you think we can skip this place?" Bruce asked, looking at Clark with an almost bored expression. Bruce Wayne had a reputation of being kind to reporters, but also of having a very short attention span, so he couldn't really spend much time with Clark before returning to the sea of people and their endless dance.
"I don't know. Are you almost done with your royal duties?" Clark said with a mocking smile.
"That's no way to speak to your magnificent lordship."
"Oh, lord of all fashion gossip, master of all golf courses, protector of this land, are you almost done with your court duties?"
"Not really. Do you have enough for your article yet?"
"Almost. Maybe in half an hour we can check again? The fountain by the banquet room?"
"It'll take me more than half an hour to waltz all the way there."
"I thought you liked challenges."
"You know there's nothing I love more than filling my agenda with banquets and balls as I shake hands and kiss babies."
"I don't see many babies in this crowd."
Bruce rolled his eyes, turning towards Clark and reaching out to fix the knot of his tie. "There, Mr. Kent. Kent, is it? See, I didn't forget this time. Well, there you have it, that's how you keep your tie if you want to survive parties like this. It just doesn't pay to anger the fashion police."
"You know, that's the second time I hear that today. My boyfriend was very insistent earlier about the exact same thing when I was getting ready."
"A man of discerning taste, no doubt. You look fantastic tonight, if you don't mind me saying."
Clark smiled warmly at him, his blue eyes bright with laughter. "Perhaps I'll run into you again before the night is over, Mr. Wayne."
"Perhaps."
----
Bruce was almost to the banquet room -and with five minutes to spare- when the murmur broke through the crowd. First it was surprise and curiosity, which could be easily explained by a late unexpected arrival to the ball, but it quickly turned into revolt and fear. He turned, looking for the source of trouble, but he couldn't see anything out of order, just people walking away from the open windows, panic starting to spread.
Torn between checking things out and changing into the cape and cowl, he looked around for Clark, searching his eyes for a second-long coordination. They didn't need more, years of working together, the friction of every day arguments, the practice of a thousand fights, they all tuned them to each other's movements like a synchronized dance.
A flash of unearthly blue eyes in the middle of the crowd. Bruce nodded towards the windows and Clark nodded back, his lips twitching with a suppressed smile. Bruce made his way into one of the alcoves in the hallway, getting out of sight before he darted into the room where he had stashed the batsuit. Clark's smile pulled something inside him, something between laughter and exasperation. He grunted to himself. Another bet lost. He should know better than to bet no one would hit the gala, but perhaps he liked losing to Clark sometimes.
Screams sounded in the main hall, voices full of fear and then voices full of hope. Superman had arrived. He closed the last clasps of the suit and pulled on the cowl. As he ran towards the hall, all the voices fell silent. One second, two. Glass breaking, the sharp cacophony even more striking in the absolute silence.
He assessed the situation. There were about two hundred guests and another hundred as staff. One third of the staff would be in the kitchens, and some of the guests would have been by the terraces. For all of them to fall completely silent, at the same time, it would have to be a multiple target tactic, one that could cover a large area. That meant mind control, some kind of gas. Massive teleportation. He touched his cowl, looking for energy signatures.
No energy disturbances. Infrared accounted for everyone, and there seemed to be no casualties. Good.
No movements. No sound. Paralysis, he concluded. Yet he wasn't affected. The agent hadn't been fully deployed then? He pulled a gas mask, covering his airways.
If it was mind control, and it was an attack by local rogues -who wasn't accounted for in Arkham?- Hugo Strange. Outside of Gotham, it was harder to tell who was at large. The Key. Grodd.
Mad Hatter was unlikely. So was The Shade, since he couldn't detect his energy signature.
Who could take down Superman?
He swallowed, ignoring the gnawing fear in the pit of his stomach. Clark would be alright.
He walked into the main hall. Clark had to be alright.
---
Clark saw the shadows moving on the other side of the room and felt his heart speed up. This was bad.
He couldn't move, couldn't talk. If only he could catch Batman's eyes, he could, maybe... but then, one glance at the windows and Batman wouldn't have problems identifying their attacker. He cursed himself for not being more careful -getting captured would make it harder to celebrate winning their bet. He felt heat building in his throat, the fine sparkling dust landing on his hair, his skin, his suit. It was impossible not to breathe it in.
He held his breath, trying to contain the damage -sure, he was paralyzed and had mostly lost control over his body, but at least he could still think. He could warn Batman, and he would, as soon as he caught sight of the black-clad figure, his smooth and silent movements around the room concealing him, wrapping him in shadows, his velvet cape like liquid darkness, embracing him, tight and warm, a whisper of movement and- and-
He swallowed, heat like honey down his throat. Oh, this was very bad. This was terrible. This was dangerous. Bruce would be so mad. He would growl at him when all this was over, his voice low, the sound a silky caress to the base of his skull, and he would pace while he ranted, talking about strategy, about proper preparation, circling him like a panther, pushing him, touching him, telling him that he needed-
He needed-
Or maybe he would make light of this, maybe he would laugh, a smile dancing in his eyes, the cold steel blue burning with mischievous joy, smug as he chided Clark, a strange pride that laced his voice when he talked about Gotham's ability to change and challenge them. He would stand close to him, so close, undoing his costume as he talked, those deft hands pulling at hidden clasps, bearing him to Clark, his black orchid blooming, making an offering of the pale flesh, the smell of leather and Kevlar and cologne, the taste of the night on his skin, his dark bloom-
He took a deep breath, the glittering dust making its way to his lungs as he tried to clear his head. It was the sex pollen talking. Poison Ivy's influence was making him loose track of his thoughts. Not that he didn't desire Bruce, or like he didn't fantasize about him, dark and competent and elusive, always ready for anything, for anyone, ready to take action, to bring hell on Earth if someone he loved was hurting, if a criminal -and there his voice would drop, become icy danger, reminding him of the passions tightly reigned by his lover- dared step into his city, dared to prey on the innocent, dared to challenge him. His body an incredible weapon, a beautiful sword forged in the fire of an inescapable purpose. So strong, and yet so vulnerable. So pliant under the Kevlar, hard muscle and strong bones, skin softly shifting as he touched him, always cool at first, slowly warming as he gave in to Clark's touch until he burned, his body flushing as he coaxed him, explored him, teased him, his skin damp with good, clean sweat, his pupils dilating, his lips reddened and swollen and soft, so soft despite all those hard edges, all that strength, soft under the armor, vulnerable and pliant and giving, so ready to give...
He was breathing hard, and the heat that suffused him was delicious, making him aware of every inch of his body, of his skin exposed to the artificial warmth of the room, of the cold winter air blowing through the broken windows, the clean fresh air a chilly caress against hot skin, the smell of the pines outside clearing the suffocating fragrance of a hundred different colognes and perfumes. His own suit shifting almost imperceptibly against his skin with each breath he took, the friction delicious as he shivered. He wanted to move. He needed... he needed...
He needed to warn Bruce. Rao, he needed...
His lips trembled as he opened them, a whisper threatening to spill. Bruce. He stopped himself -Batman, he had to warn Batman, had to help him fight Poison Ivy, not let himself get lost in the sensuous warmth of the pollen.
He swallowed again, trying to get past the honey taste, past the cloying sweetness. "Batman," he said, his voice husky and low, and he closed his eyes, cursing himself for his lust.
"Don't worry, Superman. Batman will be joining us soon, I'm sure. And he'll be so surprised..." Poison Ivy said sweetly, smiling. "Now, where were we? Fern. Horsetail. Bring the bitch to me."
Two barely anthropomorphized creatures moved along the guests and grabbed a young woman, green branches looping around her arms and legs, pulling her up, and then dragged her through the crowd.
"You think," Ivy said, her voice making Clark itch inside, "that you have any right over the Green? Do you think you can decide what to uproot and what to trim, you think you can shape the Green? Gaia doesn't bloom when she's told to. She doesn't grow where she's ordered to. She doesn't care what you want, what you wish, what you plan. She decides what will thrive and what won't. And you think, you disgusting meatbag, you THINK you can decide what will LIVE?" Ivy's voice had been growing more and more angry, her aggravation like thorns against his skin, her anger burning like acid. She took a deep breath, her body trembling with rage. "In MY city?"
Superman gritted his teeth. They were connected to Ivy, her emotions washing over them, her words compelling them to obey. The desire that had been running down his veins became ravenous, a hunger that blurred his thoughts and made him hurt.
He wanted, he needed, he craved... but behind the pain he could think. Poison Ivy was furious, her emotions interacting with the cocktail that had been delivered earlier, the pheromones and the sex pollen and who knew what else, linking them together, binding them to her will. But her anger made her careless, her focus on the woman before her and not on the crowd. Clark pushed past the pain, past the torpor and the desire, and he lashed against one of the plant creatures. Batman was to his right, concealed in the shadows, he would take care of the ones behind him.
"Damn you!" Ivy yelled. "Hawthorn! Keep him quiet!"
Batman tackled Horsetail and sprayed it with something that made the creature screech, then he rolled to his feet, aiming a batarang to the green branch holding the woman before Ivy. Fern attacked him, branch-limbs trying to hold him. Superman turned and shoot his heat vision at the Dark Knight's attacker, then lifted in flight to meet the creature approaching them from the windows.
"She wants to destroy Robinson Park!" Ivy yelled at Batman. "She's the one you should be fighting, she's the criminal! This human wants to uproot my babies, to kill them, and you think you have to stop me?" She closed her hands and her skin hardened, a gray bark protecting her like an armor, thorns growing along her arms. With an inhuman growl she threw herself at Batman, what remained of Fern and Horsetail flanking him.
Superman herd Batman's muffled alert one second too late. He punched Hawthorn and though the thorns in its body couldn't harm him, a thick sap oozed from the broken bark, numbing his hands first, and then reacting with whatever chemicals he had been dozed with, making his skin burn and making the fog in his mind thicken.
Young branches full of thorns wrapped around him, catching on his suit, tearing it as he struggled. More sap touched bare skin, and he screamed. He shot his heat vision, and the hold of the Hawthorn tightened as the creature burned. It stopped moving after too long -Superman clenched his jaw against the pain, the thorns grazing already hypersensitive skin as he tried to break free.
"Get him! You, all of you, plant killers! get him!" At her command, all the people in the room started to walk, their movements clumsy at first and then vicious, running past him on their way to Batman. Behind him, the Hawthorn was blooming; deep, dark pink blossoms quickly filled the branches around him, the air filling with the smell of the flowers.
One of the widows that had been playfully flirting with Bruce earlier tore his gas mask off, one of the elderly matrons clawed at his face. The sea of people kept pushing him towards the back wall while he tried to stop them without hurting them. "S! Get Ivy!" He yelled at him, deflecting the blows, moving with the flow. If anyone fell to the floor, if he left anyone unconscious, they would be trampled by the mob.
Clark turned around, looking for Ivy. She was up on the bandstand, looking at him intently. She held his gaze for a moment, daring, and then she smiled, a slow, seductive smile. The bark protecting her body dissolved, the thorns were reabsorbed. Blooms and new leaves covered her body, revealing more than they concealed, dark pink buttons entwining in her hair. He took a deep breath and walked towards her, feeling her desire, her complete attention on him, wanting him, her love a balm on his wounds, enflaming him, pulling at the heat inside him. She smelled of late spring, not nubile or innocent but heavy with the promise of summer.
Superman stopped before her, his head at the level of her waist, and her smile deepened. Clark smiled back. He rose, his feet leaving the floor, his torn cape billowing behind him, until he was towering over her. "It was never you I wanted," he said, his voice low and sweet. Her face transformed from a teasing smile to an angry glare.
"You can't resist me." She said, and the blossoms in her hair opened, more chemicals filling the air. "Destroy him," she said, pointing in Batman's direction while holding his gaze.
"Most definitely not," Clark said, a quick jab to her throat rendering her unconscious. His hands were trembling as he caught her and put her on the floor. He turned around, looking for Batman, but as soon as Ivy had fallen unconscious her control over the mob had dissolved, leaving them in the chemical trance. His feet touched the floor and he feared they wouldn't hold him up, uncontrollable shivers going through his body.
Batman approached him and he moved back, giving him space to truss Ivy up. Clark couldn't look away, each breath he took brought him the smell of leather and Kevlar, the rubber of his boots, sweat of the battle, Bruce's cologne, the smell of oil and burned jet fuel that clung to the suit from every night of patrol. His teeth were chattering, his hands were trembling, but his mouth tasted sweetly of honey and light and he wanted, he needed...
"Don't look at me," Batman said through gritted teeth. "The pollen, it's... you are... just, just stop looking at me. I can feel it," he said, his voice full of yearning. "I can always feel it."
Clark turned his head, trying to look away, his jaw clenched tight. He could smell Bruce's arousal, he could almost taste it, he was so close, and he would taste like moonlight, like steel, like danger itself. He stared at the half burned hawthorn creature, his remaining branches full of blooms. The pollen.
"We have to get out of here," Superman said, his eyes never leaving the tree.
Batman made a sound that was halfway between a moan and a growl. He took a couple of breaths before he nodded, his body tense. Clark saw the motion out of the corner of his eyes. "We should alert the police," he said, almost conversationally, like he wasn't burning from the inside out, like he couldn't see Bruce's hands trembling with desire. "The flowers, I think. They're... they're the danger."
"So dangerous," Batman said lowly, his voice like velvet. Clark shivered. "So beautiful and dangerous." They stood in silence for a moment, not touching, trying to control the chemical waves of lust. It was a lost battle from the start. Batman reached for the communicator in his cowl. "O, inform the police the gala is a biohazard. Poison Ivy. She's out. There's... there's people... affected. Standard decontamination protocols. B out."
He turned to face Superman, drinking in his sight. Clark looked at the way his lips parted, his breath uneven, the twitch of his hands. The taste of summer in his mouth was overwhelming, and he wanted more. He wondered, just for a second, if Bruce would taste of summer too, and then his lips were brushing violently against Batman's, a low moan shared in the kiss, and he didn't know if it was Bruce or if it was him, and he didn't care because no, of course Batman didn't taste of summer, he tasted of wine and darkness, and the sweetness in his mouth wasn't the sweetness of chemical desire, it was Bruce, and it was real, and it was his. Batman's gloved hands were in his hair, pressing them closer together, their bodies fitting against each other perfectly, one of Bruce's legs pressing against his thighs, the friction the most delicious torture.
He deepened the kiss, sucking on Bruce's tongue, forgetting about breathing, about Poison Ivy, about the cops. He ran his hands over the seams of leather, ghost tracing scars that he had memorized long ago, the armor smooth against his fingers.
Bruce was clawing at his torn costume, kissing him and growling and moaning, filling him with light and warmth and pulling at the heat inside him, claiming it.
Batman broke the kiss, panting and with handfuls of his shredded cape in his hands, pulling him closer. "We have-- we have to go," he said, and then he was kissing Clark's throat, biting his earlobe, kissing that spot behind his ear that he knew could reduce Clark to incoherence.
Clark grabbed him by the waist, his other arm going lower still, pushing him closer to his body and taking his weight as he lifted up, heading for the windows that lead to the balcony. The air outside was cold, but it did nothing to cool them down. He landed because he could barely think when Bruce did that with his tongue, and he needed to touch him, skin on skin, he needed to taste him, needed... he needed...
Batman was pushing him against a wall, hiding them from the windows, taking refuge in the shadows, and then he was pushing down Superman's tights, careful not to catch his erection with the fabric. He went to his knees in front of Clark, taking him in his mouth without preamble, his hands kneading his thighs, the heat of his mouth burning away every last thought from Clark's mind. Bruce moaned around him, the sound vibrating through Clark while gloved hands cradled his balls, each touch demanding and knowing, pleasure running through his body as Bruce swallowed around him, his tongue circling his shaft. Drops of sweat fell on Batman's cape, and Clark just stared while Batman sucked him, the sight pushing him to the edge, sandstone crumbling under his fingers. "Bruce," he whispered, then bit his lip at the slip -the wrong name, Rao, Bruce, Bruce, he couldn't--
But Bruce didn't stop, lost in the act of giving pleasure, pushing Clark until he came, fire engulfing him, the taste of Bruce and honey sweet on his tongue, his world loosing coherence for an infinite moment, nothing but the heat inside him and the overpowering pleasure.
And then Bruce was supporting him, pinning him against the wall, kissing his throat again, biting and licking and just waiting, waiting for Clark to recover, unable not to touch him, unable to let go. Clark knew exactly how he felt because he couldn't get enough of him, he needed to get him out of the suit now.
"B," he murmured, prompting Bruce to claim his mouth again, but he broke the kiss, his hands looking for the clasp that he knew was at each side of his ribs. "I want you now, I want... I want... you, Rao, how do we..." he trailed off, tugging angrily at the chest piece of the suit, the reinforced vest under it getting in his way. He growled.
Bruce shook his head, trying to clear it. "This is... barely better," he said hoarsely.
Clark grunted. "I know," he said, proceeding to tear the armor off. Bruce grabbed his hands.
"No. I mean... this place. We're too exposed." Clark could feel the cold night air against his exposed skin and he raised an eyebrow. "I can't--" Bruce growled, pushing himself against Clark, his whole body tight with tension. "I can't wait--"
Clark nipped his jaw, wanting to ease the tension, wanting nothing more than to give him what he wanted.
"Kal. Stop." He took a couple of trembling breaths and then he was tucking Clark away, carefully readjusting his uniform. "Home. Now." The last word left his lips with an urgency that made Clark ache, the heat inside him coalescing in need.
He gathered Bruce in his arms and they were flying, the police cars arriving to the building bellow them, the body of his lover a solid weight against him. He kept a firm grip on his back, Bruce's lips against his throat, and he grabbed his ass, pushing Bruce against him, inviting him to thrust. He knew the uniform was constrictive and uncomfortable but Bruce's breath was hitched and his heart was beating too fast, and Clark ached to give him what he needed.
Clark leaned his mouth close to the side of the cowl. "She said... she wanted me to destroy you. And I said no. I could never. I want.. I want to give you everything you won't ask for. I want to make you happy, and I want to make you moan and cry, I want you to say my name, to hold to it like a lifeline. I want you to always return to me. I want.. I need you to trust me, to give me what you won't give anyone else. I need you to let me in, let me worry about you, let me touch you and help you and watch you and love you. I need you. I want you."
Bruce grunted, an aborted moan, his hips pushing against Clark's thigh. "You're-- a terrible dirty talker," he said shakily, and then he chuckled, kissing his shoulder.
"Yes, because more stimulation is what we both need. I'm this close to just make you fuck me up here."
Bruce groaned, and Clark sped up, the idea of being the only thing between Bruce and Gotham while they had sex, keeping him from falling into his cursed city, a fall that would only destroy him, literally, it made the heat inside him stir violently. "I'm going to shut up now," he said huskily.
"God, please do. You're killing me."
He landed on the balcony of Bruce's room and they were kissing again, desperate and hungry, pushing the glass windows open and walking into the darkness of the room, the familiar smells and textures. Clark ripped the armor, not bothering with the clasps and catches, tearing the vest while Bruce removed the cowl, throwing it to the side, letting Clark expose him, undress him, superhuman strength ripping through all the layers of armor and protection without meeting resistance, either from the materials, which were no match for him, or from the man, who was. Bruce's trust always made him want to do things to him, to touch him and claim him, to protect him, to give himself to him.
It was terrifying, to want him so much. The strange sweet heat the made his head light and his body so heavy with lust only made those feelings more intense, and he could hardly think when skin met skin, Bruce quickly getting rid of his shredded uniform, fingers entwining as he pulled him to the bed; fair, pale skin flushed with desire, red marks where the armor had dug into his flesh. Bruce pushed him to bed and opened their nightstand with hands so shaky he was unable to open the small bottle of lube.
He took a deep breath, then laid on the bed next to Clark, supporting himself on his elbows. "I don't think that's going to work."
"Well, it better," Clark said. He wanted... "I want you. Now. Ten minutes ago. So, just, you know..." Clark motioned vaguely with his hands, and Bruce laughed, then he bit his lip. Clark reached out to kiss him again, one hand wrapping around Bruce's erection, knowing he wasn't far from the edge. He knew Bruce's body almost as well as he knew his own, knew all the little telltale signs of crashing pleasure, the change of his breathing, the spiking of his heartbeat, the flush on his skin that reached down his chest, the rhythm of the waves of tension going through body, the absolute abandon of his kisses, the curve of his arching back. He let himself get carried in the moment, grinding against Bruce's hip, starved for touch, needing to get lost in the suffusing heat, in the honey sweetness of the pollen high, wanting to ride the high with Bruce, get lost in oblivion together, burn together, crash together and be made whole anew.
He kept tugging at his lover's cock, spreading slickness while he waited for Bruce's breathing to normalize, drinking in the look on his face, completely careless for a moment as he rid the last waves of pleasure. "Better?" he asked softly.
"Not really. Of all the gimmicks..." he trailed off, pursing his lips and looking at the void, then he shook his head and met Clark's gaze. "I want you. Everything you said, back... when we were flying, I mean. I. I want to give you that. I need you to know that you... you have it. Everything I can give you. I know it's not enough some days-- no, let me finish-- I know it's not enough because it's never... it's never going to be everything, because I can't. But I know that you understand, and I know that it will never be everything for us, because there's, well, there's a world out there that needs you and a city that I... it's..."
"Your city."
Bruce chuckled, and pushed Clark onto his back. "Yes. It's my city. And it needs me, but I need it too, and I can't... be me, without it. And you can't be you, without... everything else. And that's okay. But everything else, everything, Clark, my heart, my home, my life, I-- you're welcome to it. You... know that. I hope." He pushed Clark's legs up, his hands more steady this time as he slicked them, and he started to massage his thighs, Clark's legs propped up his shoulders, his hands warm and wet, his caresses long and reassuring. Clark smiled.
"I know that."
"Good."
"Is the sex pollen going to coax the L-word from you? Should I get worried?"
Bruce slapped his leg playfully. "It has nothing to do with the sex pollen. You're the one who springs things like 'I want to make you happy' and 'I want you to always return to me' on me when I'm clearly addled from a chemical attack." He crooked his fingers inside him and he made Clark gasp, working him slowly open. Clark couldn't believe they were having this conversation right now.
"I hate your self control so much."
"Hmmm?"
"Just. Fuck. Me. Already."
He could feel Bruce shuddering. "Yes. That." He pulled from Clark, reaching again for the bottle of lube, preparing himself. Clark wondered how long would the effects last, how long would he feel like this, like Bruce's touch was reaching a fire inside him, like his voice and his smell and his taste were the building blocks of everything, his presence the only thing he could focus on, the only thing solid, real.
"About three or four hours," Bruce said, his steel blue eyes dark with desire as he stared down at him.
"Ah."
Bruce pushed in, slowly, his hands closing over Clark's hipbones almost painfully, iron self-control keeping him over the fog of the pollen. Clark pried his hands open, entwining their fingers, pushing Bruce closer to him with his legs. "Bruce. Let it go. Just... let it go. For a few hours, let us burn."
Bruce bowed his head for a heartbeat, two. Then he nodded, and he lowered himself to kiss Clark, burying himself deep inside him, moaning into the kiss. The heat inside Clark flared, meeting its mate, the light filling his chest, his lungs, his heart. Each thrust just a little bit sweeter, rippling pleasure going through his body, each caress, each kiss, each bite making him shudder and want more.
"I do love you," Bruce whispered in his ear. "I want to make you happy. I want you to always return to me. I want you to hold to me like a lifeline, I want you to trust me, I want you to be the only one who knows, the only one who sees the things I won't show anyone else... and I want to be the only one who sees you like this. So beautiful. I want to have everything you can give me. And then I'll push for more."
"Yes," Clark heard his own voice, feeling it was strange that he could talk when he was burning. "Yes. Bruce." The name rolled off his tongue over and over, the thrusts hitting him just right with the ease of a hundred nights where he had memorized Bruce's body and Bruce had memorized his.
Clark clung to him, clawing at his back just hard enough to make Bruce growl, that perfect low growl that made Clark lose it, their bodies entwined without knowing where the pleasure started, just the friction of touch, mouths clashing, their hearts beating strong in Clark's ear, like the crackle of a roaring fire.
In the fire, in the pyre of his heart, Clark let himself burn.
Bruce burned with him, and they were made anew over and over again.
To whoever requested F53 (Clark and Bruce's trees and their ornaments), I'm sorry I'll be even later to post that, but I am working on it! sorryyyyy :/
Title: Pyre of his heart
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Superman/Batman
Word Count: 6100+
Summary: Clark and Bruce are attending a gala in Gotham, and Poison Ivy interrupts their night.
Prompt: F9 Sex pollen! Clark and Bruce are in a relationship, but get dosed with pollen somewhere inconvenient/risky/semi-public--like on a stakeout, or at a party or a meeting. They resist as hard and long as possible before eventually giving in (preferably remaining undiscovered, though!)
Unbeta'ed! Point and I shall correct!
Bruce smiled and turned around, giving a parting nod to James Beckmann, CEO of IronKey Security, one of the biggest players in the west coast in the security business. Beckmann's date gave him a barely appropriate look under her lashes as she sipped her champagne, and Bruce flashed her a playful smile that was definitely not appropriate.
It would be rude to ignore her flirting, and it would only insult Beckmann to imply his choice for a date wasn't good enough for Gotham's infamous playboy. Such was the life of the decorative dates. He walked towards the next group of people he really had to talk to, and hadn't he heard? They were planning a golf tournament for charity, but couldn't decide where to play it, and should be on Sunday or Saturday, what did he think? He had to be there, of course, Karlie would be there, didn't he like Karlie? She had been in the cover of Vogue last month, very darling, all of it.
He kept smiling, barely following the conversations around him as he looked around the crowd. Nygma was by the hors d'oeuvre, following an animated discussion between two of the most renowned neurosurgeons on the country, nodding along every now and then. He looked completely enthralled by their conversation, and Bruce felt his curiosity piqued. He would have to ask Edward later what they had been talking about. It will give him an excuse to check on him.
On the other hand, of course he will be at the golf tournament, Karlie was stunning, no, really, she was a very interesting and talented woman, he was most taken with her work, and yes, he would not miss a chance to see Erin Wintermoor's daughter on stage this season, he had heard fantastic things about her performance in New York, though surely New York wasn't Gotham. The Gotham theater crowd was a completely different creature, capricious, yes, but also much more refined, always expecting avant-garde, that was why the Gotham scene was so trendsetting. Why, Bruce had attended at least a dozen shows the past season where he had not understood a single minute of it! Absolutely fantastic, all of it.
He excused himself as Laura Kessler walked by in the arm of Erik -Erik? no, not Erik, E... Emerson? Ernest? well, E-something Banks- and turned to intercept them in their way to the dance floor. Quick greetings, brilliant smiles, all teeth and no heart. Bruce knew how to play this game as well, the cold appraisals, the cruel jokes, the barbed jabs. It required a bit more energy than the clueless sybarite, but it was equally important to play the field where the social power struggles were held.
Money and a pretty face didn't make the Prince of Gotham. It was alright if models and benign matrons thought Bruce Wayne was darling but not terribly bright, but there was a circle who knew that Bruce Wayne could cast you into the social wastelands with a venomous comment or a contemptuous stare. He could make or destroy reputations depending on where he went and whom he ignored.
The social ladder was full of desperate wolves, and they played aggressively, barely concealing themselves with silk and pearls, sweet voices and perfectly rehearsed laughs.
Laura was a quick climber, and he liked her, more or less. She was passionate, even if her cause wasn't one Bruce had any inclination on -regulation on the types of vegetation in Robinson Park, which meant planting Gotham-native life and displacing the non-native species that were strangling the growth- and could-be-Erik was her new functions partner, though as far as Bruce remembered, Banks didn't really care all that much about greenery.
Laura had beautiful brown eyes, though. He was sure Banks had noticed as well.
He turned to the left and quickly made his goodbyes, sidestepping Mrs. Hanshaw and Mrs. Olbrich with a boyish grin and a half reverence, getting motherly smiles from the matrons as he slid to the side of the room in a more or less direct fashion -a quick turn here to grasp an extended hand; a couple of pats in the back; two old widows to meet and kiss hands, turning up the roguish charm and turning down the boyish smiles, getting knowing looks and open laughs for his performance.
As he reached the marble column nearest the wall, Clark finished disentangling himself from the two iron tycoons chatting loudly a few steps away, and with the grace of a consummated performer he stumbled into Bruce, shoulders touching, hands brushing, breath mingling for a second before he pulled away, muttering to himself. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking, sir."
Bruce smiled, looking around them, seeing the crowd move before them like a living creature. "Liar," Bruce said softly. "I know you're always looking. I can feel your eyes on me."
Clark pushed his glasses up his nose and straightened his jacked. "Maybe I wouldn't trip with you so often if you weren't always stalking me, Mr. Wayne."
"Voyeur."
"Exhibitionist," Clark said, glancing around the crowd. "What were you telling those women? I swear they were ready to take you home."
"I live to serve."
"Nuh-uh, they better find their own boytoy. This one's taken."
"How early do you think we can skip this place?" Bruce asked, looking at Clark with an almost bored expression. Bruce Wayne had a reputation of being kind to reporters, but also of having a very short attention span, so he couldn't really spend much time with Clark before returning to the sea of people and their endless dance.
"I don't know. Are you almost done with your royal duties?" Clark said with a mocking smile.
"That's no way to speak to your magnificent lordship."
"Oh, lord of all fashion gossip, master of all golf courses, protector of this land, are you almost done with your court duties?"
"Not really. Do you have enough for your article yet?"
"Almost. Maybe in half an hour we can check again? The fountain by the banquet room?"
"It'll take me more than half an hour to waltz all the way there."
"I thought you liked challenges."
"You know there's nothing I love more than filling my agenda with banquets and balls as I shake hands and kiss babies."
"I don't see many babies in this crowd."
Bruce rolled his eyes, turning towards Clark and reaching out to fix the knot of his tie. "There, Mr. Kent. Kent, is it? See, I didn't forget this time. Well, there you have it, that's how you keep your tie if you want to survive parties like this. It just doesn't pay to anger the fashion police."
"You know, that's the second time I hear that today. My boyfriend was very insistent earlier about the exact same thing when I was getting ready."
"A man of discerning taste, no doubt. You look fantastic tonight, if you don't mind me saying."
Clark smiled warmly at him, his blue eyes bright with laughter. "Perhaps I'll run into you again before the night is over, Mr. Wayne."
"Perhaps."
----
Bruce was almost to the banquet room -and with five minutes to spare- when the murmur broke through the crowd. First it was surprise and curiosity, which could be easily explained by a late unexpected arrival to the ball, but it quickly turned into revolt and fear. He turned, looking for the source of trouble, but he couldn't see anything out of order, just people walking away from the open windows, panic starting to spread.
Torn between checking things out and changing into the cape and cowl, he looked around for Clark, searching his eyes for a second-long coordination. They didn't need more, years of working together, the friction of every day arguments, the practice of a thousand fights, they all tuned them to each other's movements like a synchronized dance.
A flash of unearthly blue eyes in the middle of the crowd. Bruce nodded towards the windows and Clark nodded back, his lips twitching with a suppressed smile. Bruce made his way into one of the alcoves in the hallway, getting out of sight before he darted into the room where he had stashed the batsuit. Clark's smile pulled something inside him, something between laughter and exasperation. He grunted to himself. Another bet lost. He should know better than to bet no one would hit the gala, but perhaps he liked losing to Clark sometimes.
Screams sounded in the main hall, voices full of fear and then voices full of hope. Superman had arrived. He closed the last clasps of the suit and pulled on the cowl. As he ran towards the hall, all the voices fell silent. One second, two. Glass breaking, the sharp cacophony even more striking in the absolute silence.
He assessed the situation. There were about two hundred guests and another hundred as staff. One third of the staff would be in the kitchens, and some of the guests would have been by the terraces. For all of them to fall completely silent, at the same time, it would have to be a multiple target tactic, one that could cover a large area. That meant mind control, some kind of gas. Massive teleportation. He touched his cowl, looking for energy signatures.
No energy disturbances. Infrared accounted for everyone, and there seemed to be no casualties. Good.
No movements. No sound. Paralysis, he concluded. Yet he wasn't affected. The agent hadn't been fully deployed then? He pulled a gas mask, covering his airways.
If it was mind control, and it was an attack by local rogues -who wasn't accounted for in Arkham?- Hugo Strange. Outside of Gotham, it was harder to tell who was at large. The Key. Grodd.
Mad Hatter was unlikely. So was The Shade, since he couldn't detect his energy signature.
Who could take down Superman?
He swallowed, ignoring the gnawing fear in the pit of his stomach. Clark would be alright.
He walked into the main hall. Clark had to be alright.
---
Clark saw the shadows moving on the other side of the room and felt his heart speed up. This was bad.
He couldn't move, couldn't talk. If only he could catch Batman's eyes, he could, maybe... but then, one glance at the windows and Batman wouldn't have problems identifying their attacker. He cursed himself for not being more careful -getting captured would make it harder to celebrate winning their bet. He felt heat building in his throat, the fine sparkling dust landing on his hair, his skin, his suit. It was impossible not to breathe it in.
He held his breath, trying to contain the damage -sure, he was paralyzed and had mostly lost control over his body, but at least he could still think. He could warn Batman, and he would, as soon as he caught sight of the black-clad figure, his smooth and silent movements around the room concealing him, wrapping him in shadows, his velvet cape like liquid darkness, embracing him, tight and warm, a whisper of movement and- and-
He swallowed, heat like honey down his throat. Oh, this was very bad. This was terrible. This was dangerous. Bruce would be so mad. He would growl at him when all this was over, his voice low, the sound a silky caress to the base of his skull, and he would pace while he ranted, talking about strategy, about proper preparation, circling him like a panther, pushing him, touching him, telling him that he needed-
He needed-
Or maybe he would make light of this, maybe he would laugh, a smile dancing in his eyes, the cold steel blue burning with mischievous joy, smug as he chided Clark, a strange pride that laced his voice when he talked about Gotham's ability to change and challenge them. He would stand close to him, so close, undoing his costume as he talked, those deft hands pulling at hidden clasps, bearing him to Clark, his black orchid blooming, making an offering of the pale flesh, the smell of leather and Kevlar and cologne, the taste of the night on his skin, his dark bloom-
He took a deep breath, the glittering dust making its way to his lungs as he tried to clear his head. It was the sex pollen talking. Poison Ivy's influence was making him loose track of his thoughts. Not that he didn't desire Bruce, or like he didn't fantasize about him, dark and competent and elusive, always ready for anything, for anyone, ready to take action, to bring hell on Earth if someone he loved was hurting, if a criminal -and there his voice would drop, become icy danger, reminding him of the passions tightly reigned by his lover- dared step into his city, dared to prey on the innocent, dared to challenge him. His body an incredible weapon, a beautiful sword forged in the fire of an inescapable purpose. So strong, and yet so vulnerable. So pliant under the Kevlar, hard muscle and strong bones, skin softly shifting as he touched him, always cool at first, slowly warming as he gave in to Clark's touch until he burned, his body flushing as he coaxed him, explored him, teased him, his skin damp with good, clean sweat, his pupils dilating, his lips reddened and swollen and soft, so soft despite all those hard edges, all that strength, soft under the armor, vulnerable and pliant and giving, so ready to give...
He was breathing hard, and the heat that suffused him was delicious, making him aware of every inch of his body, of his skin exposed to the artificial warmth of the room, of the cold winter air blowing through the broken windows, the clean fresh air a chilly caress against hot skin, the smell of the pines outside clearing the suffocating fragrance of a hundred different colognes and perfumes. His own suit shifting almost imperceptibly against his skin with each breath he took, the friction delicious as he shivered. He wanted to move. He needed... he needed...
He needed to warn Bruce. Rao, he needed...
His lips trembled as he opened them, a whisper threatening to spill. Bruce. He stopped himself -Batman, he had to warn Batman, had to help him fight Poison Ivy, not let himself get lost in the sensuous warmth of the pollen.
He swallowed again, trying to get past the honey taste, past the cloying sweetness. "Batman," he said, his voice husky and low, and he closed his eyes, cursing himself for his lust.
"Don't worry, Superman. Batman will be joining us soon, I'm sure. And he'll be so surprised..." Poison Ivy said sweetly, smiling. "Now, where were we? Fern. Horsetail. Bring the bitch to me."
Two barely anthropomorphized creatures moved along the guests and grabbed a young woman, green branches looping around her arms and legs, pulling her up, and then dragged her through the crowd.
"You think," Ivy said, her voice making Clark itch inside, "that you have any right over the Green? Do you think you can decide what to uproot and what to trim, you think you can shape the Green? Gaia doesn't bloom when she's told to. She doesn't grow where she's ordered to. She doesn't care what you want, what you wish, what you plan. She decides what will thrive and what won't. And you think, you disgusting meatbag, you THINK you can decide what will LIVE?" Ivy's voice had been growing more and more angry, her aggravation like thorns against his skin, her anger burning like acid. She took a deep breath, her body trembling with rage. "In MY city?"
Superman gritted his teeth. They were connected to Ivy, her emotions washing over them, her words compelling them to obey. The desire that had been running down his veins became ravenous, a hunger that blurred his thoughts and made him hurt.
He wanted, he needed, he craved... but behind the pain he could think. Poison Ivy was furious, her emotions interacting with the cocktail that had been delivered earlier, the pheromones and the sex pollen and who knew what else, linking them together, binding them to her will. But her anger made her careless, her focus on the woman before her and not on the crowd. Clark pushed past the pain, past the torpor and the desire, and he lashed against one of the plant creatures. Batman was to his right, concealed in the shadows, he would take care of the ones behind him.
"Damn you!" Ivy yelled. "Hawthorn! Keep him quiet!"
Batman tackled Horsetail and sprayed it with something that made the creature screech, then he rolled to his feet, aiming a batarang to the green branch holding the woman before Ivy. Fern attacked him, branch-limbs trying to hold him. Superman turned and shoot his heat vision at the Dark Knight's attacker, then lifted in flight to meet the creature approaching them from the windows.
"She wants to destroy Robinson Park!" Ivy yelled at Batman. "She's the one you should be fighting, she's the criminal! This human wants to uproot my babies, to kill them, and you think you have to stop me?" She closed her hands and her skin hardened, a gray bark protecting her like an armor, thorns growing along her arms. With an inhuman growl she threw herself at Batman, what remained of Fern and Horsetail flanking him.
Superman herd Batman's muffled alert one second too late. He punched Hawthorn and though the thorns in its body couldn't harm him, a thick sap oozed from the broken bark, numbing his hands first, and then reacting with whatever chemicals he had been dozed with, making his skin burn and making the fog in his mind thicken.
Young branches full of thorns wrapped around him, catching on his suit, tearing it as he struggled. More sap touched bare skin, and he screamed. He shot his heat vision, and the hold of the Hawthorn tightened as the creature burned. It stopped moving after too long -Superman clenched his jaw against the pain, the thorns grazing already hypersensitive skin as he tried to break free.
"Get him! You, all of you, plant killers! get him!" At her command, all the people in the room started to walk, their movements clumsy at first and then vicious, running past him on their way to Batman. Behind him, the Hawthorn was blooming; deep, dark pink blossoms quickly filled the branches around him, the air filling with the smell of the flowers.
One of the widows that had been playfully flirting with Bruce earlier tore his gas mask off, one of the elderly matrons clawed at his face. The sea of people kept pushing him towards the back wall while he tried to stop them without hurting them. "S! Get Ivy!" He yelled at him, deflecting the blows, moving with the flow. If anyone fell to the floor, if he left anyone unconscious, they would be trampled by the mob.
Clark turned around, looking for Ivy. She was up on the bandstand, looking at him intently. She held his gaze for a moment, daring, and then she smiled, a slow, seductive smile. The bark protecting her body dissolved, the thorns were reabsorbed. Blooms and new leaves covered her body, revealing more than they concealed, dark pink buttons entwining in her hair. He took a deep breath and walked towards her, feeling her desire, her complete attention on him, wanting him, her love a balm on his wounds, enflaming him, pulling at the heat inside him. She smelled of late spring, not nubile or innocent but heavy with the promise of summer.
Superman stopped before her, his head at the level of her waist, and her smile deepened. Clark smiled back. He rose, his feet leaving the floor, his torn cape billowing behind him, until he was towering over her. "It was never you I wanted," he said, his voice low and sweet. Her face transformed from a teasing smile to an angry glare.
"You can't resist me." She said, and the blossoms in her hair opened, more chemicals filling the air. "Destroy him," she said, pointing in Batman's direction while holding his gaze.
"Most definitely not," Clark said, a quick jab to her throat rendering her unconscious. His hands were trembling as he caught her and put her on the floor. He turned around, looking for Batman, but as soon as Ivy had fallen unconscious her control over the mob had dissolved, leaving them in the chemical trance. His feet touched the floor and he feared they wouldn't hold him up, uncontrollable shivers going through his body.
Batman approached him and he moved back, giving him space to truss Ivy up. Clark couldn't look away, each breath he took brought him the smell of leather and Kevlar, the rubber of his boots, sweat of the battle, Bruce's cologne, the smell of oil and burned jet fuel that clung to the suit from every night of patrol. His teeth were chattering, his hands were trembling, but his mouth tasted sweetly of honey and light and he wanted, he needed...
"Don't look at me," Batman said through gritted teeth. "The pollen, it's... you are... just, just stop looking at me. I can feel it," he said, his voice full of yearning. "I can always feel it."
Clark turned his head, trying to look away, his jaw clenched tight. He could smell Bruce's arousal, he could almost taste it, he was so close, and he would taste like moonlight, like steel, like danger itself. He stared at the half burned hawthorn creature, his remaining branches full of blooms. The pollen.
"We have to get out of here," Superman said, his eyes never leaving the tree.
Batman made a sound that was halfway between a moan and a growl. He took a couple of breaths before he nodded, his body tense. Clark saw the motion out of the corner of his eyes. "We should alert the police," he said, almost conversationally, like he wasn't burning from the inside out, like he couldn't see Bruce's hands trembling with desire. "The flowers, I think. They're... they're the danger."
"So dangerous," Batman said lowly, his voice like velvet. Clark shivered. "So beautiful and dangerous." They stood in silence for a moment, not touching, trying to control the chemical waves of lust. It was a lost battle from the start. Batman reached for the communicator in his cowl. "O, inform the police the gala is a biohazard. Poison Ivy. She's out. There's... there's people... affected. Standard decontamination protocols. B out."
He turned to face Superman, drinking in his sight. Clark looked at the way his lips parted, his breath uneven, the twitch of his hands. The taste of summer in his mouth was overwhelming, and he wanted more. He wondered, just for a second, if Bruce would taste of summer too, and then his lips were brushing violently against Batman's, a low moan shared in the kiss, and he didn't know if it was Bruce or if it was him, and he didn't care because no, of course Batman didn't taste of summer, he tasted of wine and darkness, and the sweetness in his mouth wasn't the sweetness of chemical desire, it was Bruce, and it was real, and it was his. Batman's gloved hands were in his hair, pressing them closer together, their bodies fitting against each other perfectly, one of Bruce's legs pressing against his thighs, the friction the most delicious torture.
He deepened the kiss, sucking on Bruce's tongue, forgetting about breathing, about Poison Ivy, about the cops. He ran his hands over the seams of leather, ghost tracing scars that he had memorized long ago, the armor smooth against his fingers.
Bruce was clawing at his torn costume, kissing him and growling and moaning, filling him with light and warmth and pulling at the heat inside him, claiming it.
Batman broke the kiss, panting and with handfuls of his shredded cape in his hands, pulling him closer. "We have-- we have to go," he said, and then he was kissing Clark's throat, biting his earlobe, kissing that spot behind his ear that he knew could reduce Clark to incoherence.
Clark grabbed him by the waist, his other arm going lower still, pushing him closer to his body and taking his weight as he lifted up, heading for the windows that lead to the balcony. The air outside was cold, but it did nothing to cool them down. He landed because he could barely think when Bruce did that with his tongue, and he needed to touch him, skin on skin, he needed to taste him, needed... he needed...
Batman was pushing him against a wall, hiding them from the windows, taking refuge in the shadows, and then he was pushing down Superman's tights, careful not to catch his erection with the fabric. He went to his knees in front of Clark, taking him in his mouth without preamble, his hands kneading his thighs, the heat of his mouth burning away every last thought from Clark's mind. Bruce moaned around him, the sound vibrating through Clark while gloved hands cradled his balls, each touch demanding and knowing, pleasure running through his body as Bruce swallowed around him, his tongue circling his shaft. Drops of sweat fell on Batman's cape, and Clark just stared while Batman sucked him, the sight pushing him to the edge, sandstone crumbling under his fingers. "Bruce," he whispered, then bit his lip at the slip -the wrong name, Rao, Bruce, Bruce, he couldn't--
But Bruce didn't stop, lost in the act of giving pleasure, pushing Clark until he came, fire engulfing him, the taste of Bruce and honey sweet on his tongue, his world loosing coherence for an infinite moment, nothing but the heat inside him and the overpowering pleasure.
And then Bruce was supporting him, pinning him against the wall, kissing his throat again, biting and licking and just waiting, waiting for Clark to recover, unable not to touch him, unable to let go. Clark knew exactly how he felt because he couldn't get enough of him, he needed to get him out of the suit now.
"B," he murmured, prompting Bruce to claim his mouth again, but he broke the kiss, his hands looking for the clasp that he knew was at each side of his ribs. "I want you now, I want... I want... you, Rao, how do we..." he trailed off, tugging angrily at the chest piece of the suit, the reinforced vest under it getting in his way. He growled.
Bruce shook his head, trying to clear it. "This is... barely better," he said hoarsely.
Clark grunted. "I know," he said, proceeding to tear the armor off. Bruce grabbed his hands.
"No. I mean... this place. We're too exposed." Clark could feel the cold night air against his exposed skin and he raised an eyebrow. "I can't--" Bruce growled, pushing himself against Clark, his whole body tight with tension. "I can't wait--"
Clark nipped his jaw, wanting to ease the tension, wanting nothing more than to give him what he wanted.
"Kal. Stop." He took a couple of trembling breaths and then he was tucking Clark away, carefully readjusting his uniform. "Home. Now." The last word left his lips with an urgency that made Clark ache, the heat inside him coalescing in need.
He gathered Bruce in his arms and they were flying, the police cars arriving to the building bellow them, the body of his lover a solid weight against him. He kept a firm grip on his back, Bruce's lips against his throat, and he grabbed his ass, pushing Bruce against him, inviting him to thrust. He knew the uniform was constrictive and uncomfortable but Bruce's breath was hitched and his heart was beating too fast, and Clark ached to give him what he needed.
Clark leaned his mouth close to the side of the cowl. "She said... she wanted me to destroy you. And I said no. I could never. I want.. I want to give you everything you won't ask for. I want to make you happy, and I want to make you moan and cry, I want you to say my name, to hold to it like a lifeline. I want you to always return to me. I want.. I need you to trust me, to give me what you won't give anyone else. I need you to let me in, let me worry about you, let me touch you and help you and watch you and love you. I need you. I want you."
Bruce grunted, an aborted moan, his hips pushing against Clark's thigh. "You're-- a terrible dirty talker," he said shakily, and then he chuckled, kissing his shoulder.
"Yes, because more stimulation is what we both need. I'm this close to just make you fuck me up here."
Bruce groaned, and Clark sped up, the idea of being the only thing between Bruce and Gotham while they had sex, keeping him from falling into his cursed city, a fall that would only destroy him, literally, it made the heat inside him stir violently. "I'm going to shut up now," he said huskily.
"God, please do. You're killing me."
He landed on the balcony of Bruce's room and they were kissing again, desperate and hungry, pushing the glass windows open and walking into the darkness of the room, the familiar smells and textures. Clark ripped the armor, not bothering with the clasps and catches, tearing the vest while Bruce removed the cowl, throwing it to the side, letting Clark expose him, undress him, superhuman strength ripping through all the layers of armor and protection without meeting resistance, either from the materials, which were no match for him, or from the man, who was. Bruce's trust always made him want to do things to him, to touch him and claim him, to protect him, to give himself to him.
It was terrifying, to want him so much. The strange sweet heat the made his head light and his body so heavy with lust only made those feelings more intense, and he could hardly think when skin met skin, Bruce quickly getting rid of his shredded uniform, fingers entwining as he pulled him to the bed; fair, pale skin flushed with desire, red marks where the armor had dug into his flesh. Bruce pushed him to bed and opened their nightstand with hands so shaky he was unable to open the small bottle of lube.
He took a deep breath, then laid on the bed next to Clark, supporting himself on his elbows. "I don't think that's going to work."
"Well, it better," Clark said. He wanted... "I want you. Now. Ten minutes ago. So, just, you know..." Clark motioned vaguely with his hands, and Bruce laughed, then he bit his lip. Clark reached out to kiss him again, one hand wrapping around Bruce's erection, knowing he wasn't far from the edge. He knew Bruce's body almost as well as he knew his own, knew all the little telltale signs of crashing pleasure, the change of his breathing, the spiking of his heartbeat, the flush on his skin that reached down his chest, the rhythm of the waves of tension going through body, the absolute abandon of his kisses, the curve of his arching back. He let himself get carried in the moment, grinding against Bruce's hip, starved for touch, needing to get lost in the suffusing heat, in the honey sweetness of the pollen high, wanting to ride the high with Bruce, get lost in oblivion together, burn together, crash together and be made whole anew.
He kept tugging at his lover's cock, spreading slickness while he waited for Bruce's breathing to normalize, drinking in the look on his face, completely careless for a moment as he rid the last waves of pleasure. "Better?" he asked softly.
"Not really. Of all the gimmicks..." he trailed off, pursing his lips and looking at the void, then he shook his head and met Clark's gaze. "I want you. Everything you said, back... when we were flying, I mean. I. I want to give you that. I need you to know that you... you have it. Everything I can give you. I know it's not enough some days-- no, let me finish-- I know it's not enough because it's never... it's never going to be everything, because I can't. But I know that you understand, and I know that it will never be everything for us, because there's, well, there's a world out there that needs you and a city that I... it's..."
"Your city."
Bruce chuckled, and pushed Clark onto his back. "Yes. It's my city. And it needs me, but I need it too, and I can't... be me, without it. And you can't be you, without... everything else. And that's okay. But everything else, everything, Clark, my heart, my home, my life, I-- you're welcome to it. You... know that. I hope." He pushed Clark's legs up, his hands more steady this time as he slicked them, and he started to massage his thighs, Clark's legs propped up his shoulders, his hands warm and wet, his caresses long and reassuring. Clark smiled.
"I know that."
"Good."
"Is the sex pollen going to coax the L-word from you? Should I get worried?"
Bruce slapped his leg playfully. "It has nothing to do with the sex pollen. You're the one who springs things like 'I want to make you happy' and 'I want you to always return to me' on me when I'm clearly addled from a chemical attack." He crooked his fingers inside him and he made Clark gasp, working him slowly open. Clark couldn't believe they were having this conversation right now.
"I hate your self control so much."
"Hmmm?"
"Just. Fuck. Me. Already."
He could feel Bruce shuddering. "Yes. That." He pulled from Clark, reaching again for the bottle of lube, preparing himself. Clark wondered how long would the effects last, how long would he feel like this, like Bruce's touch was reaching a fire inside him, like his voice and his smell and his taste were the building blocks of everything, his presence the only thing he could focus on, the only thing solid, real.
"About three or four hours," Bruce said, his steel blue eyes dark with desire as he stared down at him.
"Ah."
Bruce pushed in, slowly, his hands closing over Clark's hipbones almost painfully, iron self-control keeping him over the fog of the pollen. Clark pried his hands open, entwining their fingers, pushing Bruce closer to him with his legs. "Bruce. Let it go. Just... let it go. For a few hours, let us burn."
Bruce bowed his head for a heartbeat, two. Then he nodded, and he lowered himself to kiss Clark, burying himself deep inside him, moaning into the kiss. The heat inside Clark flared, meeting its mate, the light filling his chest, his lungs, his heart. Each thrust just a little bit sweeter, rippling pleasure going through his body, each caress, each kiss, each bite making him shudder and want more.
"I do love you," Bruce whispered in his ear. "I want to make you happy. I want you to always return to me. I want you to hold to me like a lifeline, I want you to trust me, I want you to be the only one who knows, the only one who sees the things I won't show anyone else... and I want to be the only one who sees you like this. So beautiful. I want to have everything you can give me. And then I'll push for more."
"Yes," Clark heard his own voice, feeling it was strange that he could talk when he was burning. "Yes. Bruce." The name rolled off his tongue over and over, the thrusts hitting him just right with the ease of a hundred nights where he had memorized Bruce's body and Bruce had memorized his.
Clark clung to him, clawing at his back just hard enough to make Bruce growl, that perfect low growl that made Clark lose it, their bodies entwined without knowing where the pleasure started, just the friction of touch, mouths clashing, their hearts beating strong in Clark's ear, like the crackle of a roaring fire.
In the fire, in the pyre of his heart, Clark let himself burn.
Bruce burned with him, and they were made anew over and over again.