SuperBat fic: Call Me If You Need Me (NC-17)

[the_diggler]

Title: Call Me If You Need Me {also at AO3}
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Superman/Batman
Genre: angry smut with a dash of angst? some fluff to make up for it.
Warnings: bottom!Bruce, sex machines, dirty talk
Word Count: 2.9k
Summary: Batman is suffering the effects of Poison Ivy’s lust dust, but Superman refuses to help the way Bruce wants him to. At least Bruce still has his toys...
A/N: Probably the closest I'll ever get to writing bottom!Bruce, since the inspiration for this particular dynamic comes from a lot of strange sources (which are explained in the end notes). Expect bottom!Clark hereafter ;)
Disclaimer: Superman and Batman ain't mine. *sobs*



~

“All this time you’ve been chasing after me, trying to get into my pants, and now that I’m throwing myself at you, you deny me?” Batman growls, hands clawing at sleek blue material for purchase. His mouth is bursting with the feel and flavor of perfect, invulnerable skin, and he wants nothing more than to re-attach his lips to the muscle of that thick, strong neck and suck.

“I’m sorry, Bruce,” is the reply, yet again. And there’s something sad marring the expression on that usually super-smug face, something that sure looks a lot like pity to Batman.

“Damn you!” he roars. “You’re always rushing in to save the day when I don’t want or need your help. You’re always there!” he yells, struggling ineffectually against the iron grip keeping him at arm’s length. “And now that I need you… Now that I want you…” he trails off, panting. “I thought you would enjoy seeing me beg!”

“I can’t, Bruce.” Again! “Not like this,” Superman whispers, so softly Bruce questions if he was meant to hear it at all.

“Not like this?” he echoes, voice rising again. “Then like what?” he hisses, twisting backwards out of that steel grip. “Like this?” he sneers, yanking at the dark material of his own costume now. Cape, cowl, and gloves are thrown to the ground, and when his chest is finally bared, the cool air of the cave is so soothing across his over-heated skin.

He reaches for his belt next, needing more. Needing so much more.

“What about… that actress you’re with? Miss Madison?” Superman sputters.

“Julie?” he huffs. He cares about Julie, yes, but mostly Bruce Wayne had merely needed to appear as if he was settling down, giving up his womanizing ways to provide a stable environment for a young ward. It was the best way to prevent any unwarranted speculation over Dick Grayson’s presence in his home.

Thank God Dick isn’t here now. Batman had ordered Robin to make sure Ivy and her incompetent henchmen were successfully transported to Arkham after being booked at the police station, a process that would hopefully take the whole night, and cover the time it would take for the aftereffects of Ivy’s ‘love dust’ to wear off.

More like ‘lust dust’.

The first time she’d hit him with it, the compound had been subtle, its effects easy to shake off. All it had taken was a simple application of logic. He’d been having dinner with Julie at the Manor, unaware he’d been affected at the time, and when he’d kissed her he’d called her Ivy instead. Julie had been understandably upset, but it had finally alerted him that something was amiss. Loathe as he was to admit it to himself, he usually thought about someone else when he was kissing Julie – just not Poison Ivy. Her name was not the one usually running through his head, a constant undercurrent, always there. And that realization alone had helped him maintain his self-control enough to ignore the effects of Ivy’s pollen.

“Yes. Julie,” Superman replies, tracking the progress of Bruce’s fingers on his belt buckle with wary eyes. “Perhaps I should call her.”

“No!” he snarls, throwing his belt to the floor. As if she could give him what he really needs.

“I don’t understand. I thought you had an antidote,” Superman says, bewildered.

“Already administered it,” he grinds out, kicking off his heavy boots.

The second time Ivy had dusted him, she’d increased the potency of her pollen. So much so, that Bruce could no longer rely on his mind alone to hold the pollen’s effects at bay. He was driven into such a frenzy of lust and desire that focusing his mind on the delicate process of synthesizing an antidote was an impossibility. So he’d had to resort to more brute methods to get through the pollen’s effects. He’d armed himself with the basic tools he’d required, time-locked one of the cave’s high-security storage vaults so he couldn’t get out and do something stupid, and then he’d constructed a… machine.

It was a very basic device, easy to piece together, even in his heated state. A strong steel pole attached to a pistoning engine, mounted with fleshy silicone. A fucking machine.

And though he was loathe to admit certain things to himself before, that time he used the knowledge. Grasped onto it like a lifeline as he knelt to all fours and let the machine drive it into him, pounding the false desire out of his system until he was so weak and sated, he passed out.

When he woke and was himself again he finally managed to create an antidote, but the damage was already done. Even though Ivy had increased the potency of her pollen a third time, Bruce no longer has any desire to run into her arms. His thoughts now immediately turn to the man in front of him.

“Takes some time for the anti-venom to work,” he gasps out, palming desperately at the bulge in his pants. “I need you now,” he begs, beyond caring.

“Bruce. Oh Bruce,” Superman whispers, shaking his head.

Batman snarls in rage, stomping towards his computer to punch in the command that will unlock the vault he needs. “Get out,” he seethes, heading deeper into the cave without a backward glance.

The machine is still there of course. Just in case. And if he’d used it once or twice after that first time, well, no one had to know. There’s a reason he picked the vault lined with lead.

Bruce strips the rest of his costume off as he goes, so he’s already naked by the time he gets there, the cooler air in the depths of the cave so, so good on his burning flesh. He doesn’t even stop as he hits the button to close the vault door behind him, striding towards the shelf with the lube and squirting it all over the flesh-colored dildo, shoving a few slick fingers inside himself at the same time. Within moments he’s climbing onto the cot in front of the machine, sinking back onto it with an agonized groan of relief.

“Bruce?” Superman calls from the still-closing vault door, voice full of concern.

Batman can’t even find the wherewithal to curse his own carelessness. He was too quick. And the door was too slow. And he should’ve known Superman wouldn’t leave when he told him to. So of course Superman had come rushing to see what was wrong when he’d heard the groan.

“…Bruce?” Superman gasps, his voice strangled in his throat with shock.

And then the vault door finally slams shut, the electronic locks clanging into place, sealing them inside together.

At least until the pre-programmed time-release lets them out again, anyway. And he’s sure Superman could pry the vault open with his super-strength or cut it open with his heat-vision… but he doesn’t. No, Superman just stands there, mouth hanging open, watching him.

It should make Batman furious, but he’s too far gone now, lost in the throes of sensation as the machine fills him and fucks him, promising sweet relief. And he feels Superman’s gaze like it might actually be heat-vision, burning across his skin as he frantically grips himself, pumping his needy flesh with all the loose coordination he can muster.

It’s so good. And all he can do is take it as the dildo splits him open, relentless and so deep. The force of it steals his breath away, his cries of pleasure ripped from his throat and reduced to trembling whimpers, pathetic mewls of overwrought need. He presses his face into the mattress, attempting to stifle the embarrassing noises, but he cannot for the life of him stop making them. It’s just so damn good. And all he can do is take and take and take it.

He comes twice before he can pull himself together enough to speak again, his refractory time near non-existent. He isn’t sure if that’s because of Ivy’s enhancements to the pollen or because of Superman’s continued presence, though. Or both. But when he looks up again, there’s that sad look marring the other man’s face again, only more intense. More than just pity, more like…disgust.

“I told you to get out,” he finally manages to growl, hips automatically beginning to thrust back on the machine as he hardens again.

“Bruce,” Superman says, voice nearly choking on the words. “You’ll hurt yourself,” he says, crossing towards the bed and picking up the discarded bottle of lube. Bruce moans as some of the cool liquid lands on his feverish skin, pounding his fist uselessly against the cot. Superman’s probably right, damn him. There’s only really one setting on the machine – hard as nails. But the man pours so much lube onto the rubber extension that Bruce can hear it squelching inside him with every thrust, slick and wet and sloppy.

He hears another choked sound, another moan, but he’s so far from in control of his body’s responses he knows those sounds must be coming from his own mouth. Perhaps in an attempt to shut him up, a bottle of water appears in front of his face, freshly opened from the box he usually keeps stocked under the cot.

Bruce instantly attaches his lips to it, drinking it down greedily, though it doesn’t do much to stop his groans of relief. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until now, sweating out all his body’s liquids as the pollen burns through him, mouth dry from panting and gasping in pleasure.

But now that Superman’s standing right in front of him, Bruce can see how aroused the other man is, straining against the red material of his costume. And the sight of it has Bruce licking lasciviously at the end of the bottle, even long after the water’s all gone, needy little sounds escaping his throat as he suckles the tip in mimicry of what he desperately wants to do to that cock.

“I’m still thirsty,” he rasps, finally pulling his lips of the bottle.

“Let me get you some more water,” Superman says, voice thick with his arousal.

“That’s not what I meant,” Bruce replies, licking his lips again in obvious invitation.

Superman abruptly chokes, sputtering as the implication clicks.

“Come on, Superman. I know you like what you see,” Bruce husks, arching his back like Catwoman in heat.

“Bruce, no,” Superman exhales, pained. He must be, the way his erection visibly throbs at Bruce’s words

“Something tells me you’re lying,” Bruce replies, looking pointedly at Superman’s crotch. “Something tells me you want this as much as I do.”

“You’re just saying that because of the pollen,” Superman replies softly, looking away. Bruce growls, punching his fist against the mattress in frustration.

“Maybe so,” he concedes. “Or maybe I’ve thought about it before. Maybe I come in here, and it’s all I can think about – you, holding me down and pounding into me, steady and deep like… like a machine,” Bruce huffs sardonically. “But you would be better, so much better – the feeling of your heat, deep in the heat of me…”

Superman makes a small, agonized sound, and Bruce smirks triumphantly.

“I’ve even imagined you watching me, just like this, getting fucked from behind as you fuck my mouth. God, I want to feel your heat with my lips, taste you… So many things I’ve imagined, so many different ways of having you. And then I come over and over again, on this… machine.” Bruce huffs again. “I call it the Man of Steel, you know.”

“Bruce,” Superman chokes out. “Are you trying to punish me?”

“No. Yes. Why won’t you fuck me?” Bruce replies, but the words come out sounding more plaintive than angry. He curses, beating his fist against the mattress again. “You just get off on watching me suffer, is that it?”

“Never,” Superman hisses vehemently.

“Then why are you here, tempting me with everything I want? Tormenting me!” Again, too plaintive.

Superman heaves a deep sigh, that look on his face again.

Bruce grits his teeth and forces himself to look away, tightening his grip on his cock until the slight edge of pain forces him to focus.

Unfortunately, that’s when the other man finds the fresh towels Bruce keeps stocked in the vault as well. And by then Bruce is so focused on feeling that his whole body shudders at the first touch of soft terry-cloth against his skin.

Superman falters at that, hand momentarily freezing before hesitantly resuming his strokes, wiping the sweat off of Bruce’s body. He’s drenched in it. And he hadn’t really noticed until the other man had started toweling him off. But now that he’s realized it, he starts to notice other things as well, like the thin layer of ice covering the ceiling and shelves lining the walls. Bruce always keeps the air filtration system running a little cold in the vault, but Superman must’ve been keeping the air even cooler with his ice-breath, all this time.

And yet, Bruce still burns. And now Superman’s efforts seem to be doing more damage than good, as every swipe of the towel on his body seems to inflame him even more, every soft touch slow and sinuous against his skin and driving him to delirium. It’s overwhelming, and yet it’s still not enough. It’s never enough. Bruce groans helplessly, his eyes rolling as he tries to thrust back harder onto the dildo.

“Bruce, you’ll hurt yourself,” Superman says softly, but Bruce is far past caring anymore, desperate for release.

Discarding the towel, Superman kneels on the ground in front of him, and wraps his arms around Bruce’s body, holding him still in a steel-strong embrace.

It’s finally enough. The touch undoes him, the feel of Superman’s body pressed against his own, forcing him to just take the cock thrusting into him, makes Bruce come so hard, he passes out.

~

When Bruce wakes again, he finds himself in his bedroom up in the Manor, clothed in his silk pajama pants and smelling clean in a way that tells him someone must’ve bathed him before dressing him and putting him to bed. Bruce knows Alfred is a miracle worker, but when he rolls over he sees the more likely culprit, sitting at his bedside.

“What are you still doing here,” he rasps, rolling back over.

“I wanted to make sure you’re okay,” Superman replies softly.

“I’m fine,” Bruce grounds out, willing the man to just leave.

He doesn’t. Of course. Instead, Bruce hears a heavy sigh behind him, the sound of a hand running through thick wind-swept hair, and Bruce knows the other man is gearing up to say something. Something Bruce probably – definitely – doesn’t want to hear.

“Bruce…” Superman starts. There’s no escaping it. A quick check tells Bruce his legs won’t carry him very far. His body’s exhausted. Gritting his teeth, he resigns himself to bearing the humiliation.

“Get on with it,” he growls.

“I know you won’t admit it, but you’re probably feeling a little embarrassed right now,” Superman continues. “If it hadn’t been for Ivy’s pollen, you probably would’ve never told me any of those things you said last night.”

Damn straight.

“So let me just… even the playing field, so to speak.” Superman pauses, taking a deep breath. “I don’t want to have sex with you.”

Clearly.

“I want to… I want to make love to you.”

What.

Bruce’s brain stutters to a halt.

“I want to… to touch every inch of your beautiful body. To learn every scar on your skin and kiss each one with my lips. I want to taste and explore and worship every part of you. But more than that, I want to hold you in my arms as you sleep, watch over you and chase away your nightmares. Then I want to kiss you awake in the morning, and be allowed to make love to you all over again. And again and again. Bruce. Do you understand? I couldn’t do what you asked of me last night, no matter how much I wanted to – God, how I wanted to. But I want to be able to tell you how I feel when I make love to you. I want to show you.”

Bruce clenches his fists in his pillow, trying his damnedest to keep his breathing even.

There hadn’t been a single shred of the usual smugness in the other man’s voice. Nothing of the irritating arrogance Bruce had become accustomed to the many times Superman had bantered – flirted – with him. There was only heartfelt sincerity, genuine remorse, and… And suddenly, that look of pity Bruce thought he saw last night, that look of intense disgust... suddenly Bruce sees it for what it really was – a sad longing, an intense yearning, the agony of restraint in the face of a desire that made mockery of all the… feelings Bruce didn’t know the other man had. Refused to know. So he just didn’t see.

“Okay, well, I guess we’re even now.” Another sigh. “You probably need more rest,” mumbled quietly, quickly, followed by the sound of footsteps, walking towards the door.

“Clark, wait…” Bruce says, turning towards the other man.

His entire posture is defeated. Tired. As tired as Bruce feels.

They could both use some rest.

And maybe then… Well. What Clark said.

Bruce slides himself over to the left side of the bed, and reaches for covers to his right, turning them down in invitation.

~ fin

A/N: I tried to write some straight up-smut, and ended up with something a little more angry/angsty. (Dammit, Bruce). The initial idea was inspired by the old Batman & Robin movie with Poison Ivy. And it’s highly possible my brain then connected George Clooney with certain things from Burn After Reading. But the antagonistic relationship with Superman is inspired by the Lego Batman movie, where I became convinced that the reason Batman gets so annoyed about Superman is because Superman is totally flirting with him. And it’s so obvious, that Robin teases Batman about it mercilessly, all the time, to the point that all Robin has to do is drop Superman’s name and Batman gets all grouchy about it. (See here!) Then finally one night in a sleepless delirium I came up with this prompt. Which was also filled beautifully here. But as usual, my brain just couldn’t let go, and I'm trying to get all my random ideas out of my system instead of letting them rot half-formed on my computer :s