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"--capitalist, chauvinist, earth-raping swine." Poison Ivy finished her litany of insults and smiled sweetly at her captive, standing against the wall with all four limbs spread and firmly shackled. A bright beam of sunlight slanted down from a dusty warehouse window between them, bathing her form in gold.
Bruce Wayne resisted the temptation to roll his eyes and tried to look alarmed and cowed instead. All right, admittedly this wasn't the best of circumstances: kidnapped while in a business suit for some silly function, no access to his equipment. But Isley was no killer. He'd be able to get out of this eventually. "Wh--what do you want from me?" he quavered.
Isely produced a small silver box etched with leaves. She opened it and Bruce could see it was full of a sort of glittering dust. He felt his first real qualm.
"It's not what I want from you," said Poison Ivy with satisfaction, "It's what you are going to want from me."
She removed a heaping pinch of dusty pollen, holding it in the palm of her hand. Then she puckered her lips in a cruel parody of a kiss and blew dust all over Bruce.
He held his breath and closed his eyes, feeling the pollen settling in his hair and eyelashes, knowing he was merely prolonging the inevitable, but feeling he had to try.
"Hmph," sniffed Ivy. "I rather hate to do this, but--" A sudden fist in his solar plexus and he involuntarily sucked in a breath, laden with pollen, so thick he could taste it.
It tasted like sunlight.
As if the blow were a cue for an offstage actor, there was a crashing noise. Eyes still tightly closed, Bruce could hear one of Ivy's henchwomen burst in. "Mistress, it's Superman! He's tearing the place apart!"
Poison Ivy heaved an exaggerated sigh, and Bruce felt her take a step away. "This was going to be so much fun, too," she muttered. Her words were dim and far away. He struggled to drop into a meditative state, but his mind couldn't seem to calm down. The sunlight in his mouth tasted so good. He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help but roll his tongue over the pollen coating the roof of his mouth, savoring the hot, bright taste, all the while cursing his weakness. But after all, it was too late anyway, he'd already breathed in more than enough, why not enjoy the taste just a little? Just a little bit. That made sense, and he swallowed again, feeling it burning sweet as honey down his throat, trailing to his stomach and lower, filling him with urgent light. Light and need.
He opened his eyes then, but Poison Ivy was gone. Through the haze of light around and inside him he remembered the words of the other woman. Superman was on his way.
Any moment now, Superman was going to come bursting into this room and find Bruce Wayne shackled to a wall. Bruce Wayne with his lungs full of pollen, his throat full of golden light and his body full of the growing, aching, agonized craving that was starting to work its way through him, twisting into him like tendrils, vines of lust, prying him apart.
Any moment now, Superman was going to come through that door, or that window, or that wall, his eyes burning red with fury or bright blue with concern, and find Bruce here helpless. Helpless. Was there still pollen in the air? Would Clark be affected by it? Against his will, Bruce imagined Clark burning with lust, with the same fire that seemed to be turning him, agonizingly slowly, to radiance from the inside out. What would Clark do to him then? Bruce realized suddenly that he was panting. He closed his mouth and swallowed more light. The flavor was almost gone from his mouth now. He wished there were more of it.
Any moment now, Kal would be here, the Man of Steel, strength and brightness personified. To save him, to take him away, to take him. Take him. Bruce's finely tailored suit felt rough and cruel against his skin, against the light pressing outward from him, seeking release. If he could just get a hand free, just one hand, he could relieve some of the pressure before Kal got here. But he knew that wouldn't help. He wanted more than that. He was filled with sunlight, aching, throbbing. But he wanted more.
Where the hell was the damn Kryptonian, anyway?
As if his thought had summoned him, Kal-El knocked down the door and strode into the warehouse. He walked into the center of the room, looking about warily. He was bathed in sunbeams from the skylight above, his dark hair gilded, his perfect form sheened in golden glow. Bruce couldn't possibly look away. Light. So much light.
When Superman saw Bruce, his eyes brightened and he smiled.
The smile hit Bruce like a direct jolt of electricity, and he felt his head fall back, his body spasm in rapturous, uncontrollable climax. Small sounds escaped his gritted teeth as light spiked through him, impossibly hot and good. So fucking good, Kal... He dragged in a shaky breath, tasting the pollen falling from his hair, bright and sharp, as the waves of pleasure rippled through him, closing his eyes and forcing his face back into stillness.
At least now he could function better, Bruce thought with relief, with the worst effects of the pollen over. His desperate need for Clark would abate now, he wouldn't be aching with lust every time Clark touched him, wouldn't be thinking about how good it would feel to take Clark's length into him, all of it, filling him with heat and light, imagining Clark's weight on him, wanting it so much it hurt, ached, the light like honey in him, sweet, wanting more, craving it so much, so much...
"Are you all right, Mr. Wayne?" Clark's puzzled voice, warm and soft, broke into his reverie and he shuddered all over at the sound, opened his eyes to meet sky-blue brightness and realized that the climax he had just experienced hadn't been an ending at all.
It had only been a beginning.
: : :
Superman looked cautiously at Bruce. He had arrived at the warehouse on a tip and found it swarming with thugs. He had rounded up most of them but failed to spot the villain, so he was still in the dark as to who had kidnapped billionaire Bruce Wayne, or what exactly the situation was. Seeing Bruce apparently lapse into some kind of seizure when he arrived was alarming as well. He seemed all right now, but there was something about his face that appeared...off. He didn't look annoyed or contemptuous to see Superman, he hadn't made any cracks about being able to get out of this on his own, thank-you-very-much-you-big-blue-oaf. In fact, there was very little of the Bat in his face right now, which seemed almost sleepy, a smile tugging at the corners of the mouth, eyes half-lidded.
Superman looked around. Were there hidden cameras or observers, some reason why Bruce had to stay in playboy mode? He saw nothing beyond the sparkling dust motes in the sunlit air between them, but he had better play it safe. "Mr. Wayne? I'm here to help."
The half-smile on Bruce's face became a lazy, almost drunken grin. "Sounds...sounds good," Bruce whispered, his voice thick.
Clark frowned, hesitating despite knowing the best thing would be to simply break Bruce free of his shackles. The look in the other man's sapphire eyes had been shot through with some deep meaning, as if there was some message he was trying to send. Maybe it was important he stay bound? Clark couldn't think of any possible reason why Bruce Wayne would need to remain shackled, spread-eagled, to a wall, but there was obviously something Clark was missing here. He took a deep breath, pondering. Bruce watched him, his dark blue eyes smouldering with--with something. "Are you...all right?" Clark asked politely, buying time, aware of how insane it was to ask that of a man pinned and helpless to a wall. Bruce looked surprisingly vulnerable that way, his dark hair up against the wall, those deadly strong arms and legs held down. Spread and held down. Open. Clark blinked. Where had that come from? The dusty sunlight on him felt very warm.
"I'm..." Bruce closed his eyes and swallowed, leaning his head back against the wall. Clark watched his throat move. "I'm fine, Superman. How...how are you?" He looked back at Superman, his eyes shadowed.
There was definitely something wrong here. Clark stepped forward. "I'll have you out of here in a moment, sir." He hesitated again, holding out his hand halfway to the other man. "Is it...all right? To...touch you?" He wasn't sure why he put it quite that way.
Bruce licked his lips. "...touch me," he echoed, his tone somewhere between a repetition of Clark's last words and a command. "Yes. Yes. You can. Touch me." His teeth were clenched as if preparing for a blow, the words coming out in gasps.
Superman reached out to break the shackle holding Bruce's right hand in place, but somehow his hand ended up on Bruce's wrist instead, the skin warm under his hand. At his touch Bruce...moaned, a sound like none Clark had ever heard from the man before, a sound of intense agony. Bruce's head snapped back, his breath hissing, back arching, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. His teeth bit sharply into his lower lip and Clark watched in appalled fascination for a moment before backing off a few steps, alarmed.
Bruce hung in the restraints, gasping, his face flushed, eyes still closed. Clark was suddenly afraid to touch him again. "Did I hurt you, Mr. Wayne?" When the other man said nothing, he repeated more urgently, "Bruce...did I hurt you?"
Without opening his eyes, Bruce muttered, "Didn't hurt. Felt so...oh." His voice faltered. "You didn't hurt me," he added in a low voice. "But it's not enough. Need...need more."
Needed more what, Superman wondered. More time? Damn Bruce and his opaqueness anyway. As far as Superman was concerned, he could stay in those shackles until Clark figured out exactly what the hell was going on. Trying to hide his confusion, he crossed his arms and glared at the other man. "Mr. Wayne, are you going to tell me what you want from me? Just what do you need so much?" Come on, Bruce, give me a damn hint here. "Or am I going to have to leave you bound against the wall, helpless and at the mercy of anyone who happens by?"
He was hoping to spark some of the Bat back into Bruce's eyes with his words, but the playboy merely lolled his head against the wall and smiled lazily at him. "I'm helpless," he whispered huskily. "I throw myself on your--on your mercy." He was such a good actor, Clark thought, impressed as always. How someone as dangerous as Batman managed to look so vulnerable out of costume amazed him.
Why exactly Bruce was acting this way Clark had no idea, but he felt...foolish, having Bruce look at him like that, like there was some secret joke Clark wasn't part of. He glowered, his arms still crossed sternly. "Why should I show you any mercy? You're the one who let yourself get trapped here." He raked his gaze up and down Bruce's body. He had meant to do it dismissively, as if he were actually dealing with a foppish, foolish playboy, but somehow he ended up spending a surprising amount of time actually examining Bruce: the strong, muscular legs that he knew were beneath the tailored pants, the lean torso and narrow waist, the broad shoulders and powerful arms. "Isn't it your own fault you're pinned to the wall now, forced to wait until someone stronger than you comes along and frees you?"
Bruce took a sharp breath. "Keep talking," he said, his voice tense with some strong emotion. "Don't...don't stop. It's..." He bit his lip, cutting off the flow of words, clearly wanting to continue, struggling with himself. "Need...more," he choked out before falling silent again.
Clark knew exactly what Bruce was saying now, though: Go ahead and keep talking. I need more to kick your ass about later. Bastard. "Maybe I won't even bother to get you loose, Mr. Wayne, have you considered that? Maybe I'll just leave you hanging there and admire you a while longer." He took a few steps to one side, then the other, taking a good long look at the other man. If he wanted to act the playboy, Clark could play along with that.
Bruce stared at him, his breath short and fast, every muscle in his body tense, nearly shaking, waiting for something. He made such a perfectly handsome fashion plate with the costume off. His dark hair looked so soft and fine, spangled with some sort of sparkling dust. There was dust on his eyelashes, too. Such long eyelashes. No wonder he wore a mask, thought Clark rather dreamily: no one would fear a vigilante with eyelashes like that. With eyes like that, so dark and beautiful. Passionate eyes. Bruce looked good up against that wall, the thought came to him through a haze of light and confusion. Bound and restrained and burning with passion. Waiting for Kal. Waiting for Kal to--to do--something. He looked so good. Dark and soft and dangerous, shadows and edges, waiting. So good. Tethered darkness, captured here for Kal at last, no escape for him now.
Bruce made a sound that from any other man would have been a whimper. "No escape," he repeated in a voice like smoke and honey.
Clark's head was spinning--how much of that had he said aloud? He shouldn't even be thinking that, much less announcing it. He definitely should not be thinking about how gorgeous Bruce was, how completely delectable, his arms and legs spread wide, there for anyone to look at, anyone to--Clark took a deep breath, feeling dizzy, realizing suddenly how aroused he was, how hard, his erection pressing firmly against his costume, rubbing against slick, soft fabric, filling it and pushing, demanding release. Release from the confining cloth, release. Release. Distantly, dimly, he felt like he should be embarrassed or ashamed to be staring at Bruce and responding like this. But even as the thought flickered through his mind he knew it was ridiculous. How could there be anything embarrassing, anything shameful, about admiring Bruce? It was the most natural thing in the world. He would be perfectly happy to stand there all day and look at Bruce, he thought. Just look, simply feast his eyes and enjoy the sensations surging through his body like waves, a riptide of glory.
As he thought that, though, Bruce's gaze trailed like fire down his body, past the red and yellow emblem and lower, and he licked his lips slowly, languorously, craving etched on his features.
And Clark knew he wouldn't be perfectly happy to just stand there and look at Bruce. Not at all.
It was five steps back to where Bruce was, and at every step Clark felt like he couldn't possibly get more frantically aroused. Bruce's eyes were still fixed on his crotch, so Clark reached out and took hold of the perfectly knotted tie, hooking his fingers into the plum-colored silk. He loosened the knot, pulling gently upward so Bruce's chin was lifted as well, savoring the sound the other man made as Clark's fingers came into contact with the skin of his throat. Sapphire and turquoise met and sparked, the world falling off into flames around Clark, nothing but those eyes, those lips curved with desire. "If I didn't know better, Mr. Wayne," he breathed, "I'd say you were trying to seduce me."
"And...how am I doing?" asked Bruce languidly. The question faded off into a throttled moan as Clark leaned forward and pressed against him in answer, hip bones against erections like matching puzzle pieces of lust. Bruce tugged wildly on his restraints. "Get me out of here," he hissed.
"Not yet," Clark said, and dropped to his knees in front of the other man.
Bruce inhaled sharply as Clark unbuckled his belt and pulled his pants down, then hooked his fingers into the waistband of a very damp pair of silk boxers. "You started without me, you bad boy," Clark said teasingly, touching his tongue to the clinging fabric, Bruce's taste and scent filling his senses nearly beyond bearing. He was poundingly close to climax already, unsure how much longer he would be able to hold off, the fabric of his costume stimulating him intolerably, the very nearness of Bruce filling him with urgency. He pulled the boxers down as well and knelt for a moment, trying to control himself enough just to continue.
"That's not...that's not what I need," Bruce whispered harshly, even as his hips thrust against Clark's hands.
Clark buried his face in curling hair, licking around the base of Bruce's cock luxuriously. "Oh, I know that. But it's what I need," he said. He trailed his tongue lightly along Bruce's erection, glancing up to see Bruce staring down at him as if hypnotized, eyes dreamy and bright. Clark felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. He hovered, waiting, still looking up. "Do you like that?" he asked softly. "Seeing the most powerful man on earth on his knees in front of you? Kneeling before you? Getting ready to do this?" He slipped his mouth over hot silky skin, filling it with heat and velvet and Bruce.
Bruce writhed in the shackles holding him. "Superman," he said wildly. "Kal." A stuttering moan broke from his lips. "Clark." It was too much, too much heat and pleasure and sensation, and the sound of his name--of his names-- in Bruce's fervent voice drove him into mindless white climax, kneeling there overcome, his mouth filled with the taste of desire itself, his body filled with brilliance. From far away he heard himself making broken, ecstatic noises; he shuddered and sucked hard, his tongue wrapping and caressing, and Bruce arced against him, liquid sweetly salty in his mouth, starlight and heat.
Clark stood up, still shaking, licking his lips and staring at Bruce. The other man threw back his dark head, eyes half-closed. "Good, so good," he said throatily. "But not--what I needed. Clark." He gnawed his lower lip, bright teeth on soft skin, and with no transition at all Clark was ripped open by desire again, harder and needier than before, which was impossible, impossible, but Bruce just laughed, a dark chuckle that lapped Clark in longing. "Get me out of these," and he was out of the shackles, metal fragments falling all around, and Clark had him on a table before they finished chiming against the floor.
Clark fumbled with his uniform, yanking the pants down with clumsy urgency, how could he have delayed this moment, how had he possibly lived without knowing what it felt like to be inside Bruce, inside the man who was darkness and burning passion embodied? He pushed inward and Bruce cried out, and Clark meant to stop and ask if he was all right, if they should take it slower, but the sound of that cry seemed to rob him of any ability to speak, or to stop moving, thrusting, darkness and flame wavering at the edges of his vision. He could feel the other man's erection against his skin, Bruce was talking in scattered spurts of language about need and want and now, now, now...he felt Bruce coming against him and the flames ravaged through him again, taking him to some new place where the only thing that existed was their two bodies. Their two souls.
Drifting, emptied of all need, he rested against Bruce. For a long, still moment they just lay there, collapsed against each other. Then Bruce moved against him, brought his lips to Clark's for the first time. Bruce tasted faintly of honey, of grass, and Clark found himself exploring the other man's mouth with his tongue, gently at first, then urgently, greedily. Need rose in him once more, as fresh as before. The kiss broke off and Bruce smiled, smug and beautiful and glorious.
"More," he said imperiously.
: : :
Some sun-drenched and splendid time later, the two of them were panting, sprawled on the table. The intervals between waves of racking desire had started to lengthen, enough that Clark was starting to find it possible to think again. Now and then, at least.
He didn't like what he was thinking.
"Bruce, what's going on?"
Bruce smiled sleepily. "I do believe we're fucking the living daylights out of each other."
Clark groaned in pleasure as his body responded to Bruce's language. "This is not physically possible, Bruce."
Bruce sighed. A trace of the detective returned to his face and voice. "It's Poison Ivy. Seems to be a variety of sex pollen. The effects should last...another few hours, at least."
"Oh." The information, the realization, swept over Clark and left him desolate. This had nothing to do with Clark. It was just chemicals. Anyone would have done in his place. He was surprised at the depth of his dejection. Still, he tried to keep his voice neutral and steady as he responded. "Well, in that case, while we have a moment, maybe we should split up, try to find more...appropriate partners while it burns off."
To his surprise, rage flashed across Bruce's elegant face. He grabbed two fistfulls of Clark's blue tunic and knotted his hands in it angrily. "Who in this world is more appropriate for you than me?" he demanded furiously. "And why the hell should I ever settle for less than you?" When Clark didn't answer, he shook the Kryptonian. "Answer me, Clark!"
Clark broke himself out of his shocked silence. "No one," he said hoarsely, "And...and I can't possibly imagine why."
Bruce blinked, then nodded decidedly. "Good. That's settled, then." He looked up at Clark, satisfied.
No, not satisfied.
"I'd estimate I have about four minutes left before I need to have sex with you--" the emphasis on the pronoun was distinct, "--so badly I can't wait any more."
Clark nuzzled Bruce's hair, tasting light and heat, desire blooming again in his mind and heart and body. The pollen, yes--and more. "I don't think I have four minutes," he said, his voice shaking.
Bruce's smile was complacent. "Then I suggest you get me home as soon as possible, Clark."