Sex-pollen didn't make them do it

Clark looks at the drone and doesn’t allow himself to burn a noisy device on the spot. He wants to, oh, he wants to. It takes him no time to realize what is going on, what’s going to happen and what he’ll have to do to cover up his identity. This ridiculous pollen is no threat to him, and yet. And yet. For a split-second he wishes for the pollen to take away his will, so he’d have no choice but to have sex with Mr. Wayne, to touch him, kiss him, fuck him and not have a single thought or any doubt. It’s a small weakness, like a gush of a wind. He’s better than that. He should be grateful that at least one of them would be in a semblance of control. He should be grateful, but he isn’t. Clark rubs his eyes, hoping to come up with an alternative plan, with any plan which doesn’t involve losing another piece of himself and stepping on his own throat for the good of nameless people. Clark feels ashamed, he was raised better than that. What’s another small sacrifice in a long line of much harder ones? He’ll do whatever he must, even if he knows it’d cost him something that has no name and definition. He’d probably get blacklisted from every big Metropolis event after having a fling with Gotham’s finest bachelor, what a loss. Clark almost laughs when he realizes how many girls would’ve wanted to take his place to get a chance at winning a heart (or at least a cock’s interest) of glorious Mr. Wayne. Who keeps standing by a window, looking as generic as every billionaire that had graced covers of financial magazines. There’s no way to soften the blow, to play it down - Clark have read reports about previous sex-pollen cases. They were quite brutal and inhuman in its nature. They had destroyed lives and damaged relationships. Clark’s going to make sure that whoever created this pollen would be stopped and would face the consequences of their actions. Right now Clark has to face Mr. Wayne, and it fills him with dread. It’s a battle unlike any other he’d fought before and there’s no winning strategy in sight. Clark starts moving towards the billionaire when he notices how tense the man looks and it stops him in his tracks. Clark should’ve known better than to presume that he’d just have to endure the other man’s advances (Clark refuses to think of the word “sex”, though it beats like a drum at the far corner of his mind). Because Clark’s life is never that easy. When was it ever? Of course the notorious playboy that changes girls faster than tabloids could keep up with - of course he wouldn’t want to get down and dirty with a guy, let alone a low-life reporter. Clark can almost see Mr. Wayne’s inner struggle between a pollen’s pull to have sex with anyone and his repulsion at having to do it with Clark. A flare of anger passes over Clark, quickly being replaced by pity and then shame - after all, the other man didn’t choose to be in this predicament either. He might not even be homophobic, and Clark chastises himself for thinking it in the first place. He wishes he could spare the man regretful coming to senses after whatever they’ll have to do, Clark isn’t thinking about it yet - but he can’t risk knocking the billionaire out. The pollen doesn’t erase one's memories - making it harder to rebuild one’s life when everything is over. So there’s no possibility of a humble reporter suddenly becoming aggressive enough to damage Gotham’s finest till the craze passes over. It was actually one of the first ideas that flashed in Clark’s mind, and it was dismissed just as quickly. It's not Clark’s fault that he thinks of it again, even just for a brief, desperate moment. Clark takes off his glasses, puts them away on the table, along with a notepad and a pen, and makes himself move, one step at a time. He can’t prolong it any longer. Up close, Mr. Wayne is looking less like a cutout from a magazine and more like a real, tired, wary man. Clark doesn’t dare to stare at the man for too long, so he places a hand on Mr. Wayne’s face, as if placating a skittish animal, and puts all his aching love for imperfect humanity into a tender kiss. Clark waits for a heartbeat, getting no reaction from the man, and then feels foolish and oh-so-human when Mr. Wayne manhandles him against the sturdy table and kisses him. Oh! Oh. Clark grabs Mr. Wayne’s shoulders to steady himself, and it’s so easy to slide fingers down, down, down, till they rumple up an expensive suit, till they’re holding closer a very firm body radiating heat through the thin layer of a smooth shirt. It’s just equally easy to kiss back as good as he gets. Lois always said that Clark was a sentimental guy - and isn’t it the perfect time to remember Lois, wonderful, incredible, gorgeous Lois, who managed to remain his best friend after their amicable and quite predictable break-up. Clark knows that she’d pat his back with teasing “told you so” if she was here. Clark is feeling way too much when all he has to do is be a decent lay for a horny billionaire. It's not fair that a simple act of kissing makes Clark question everything that he learned about this pompous, shallow man so far. Clark feels like he’s being shown another side of the man and it’s thrilling, it’s unexpected and exciting to see how Mr. Wayne speaks through a kiss. How he dominates the conversation but listens to what the partner has to say, how he leads and then ups the ante, only to pull back and tease, but not long enough to annoy, just to get a reaction and then kiss it over. It’s a whole body experience, with Mr. Wayne’s shameless hands remapping Clark’s body as if they were in a dark room and whoever gave the best description of the partner's body at the exit, would win the prize. Mr. Wayne is winning and Clark is tagging along, not quite daring to touch and explore the other man’s body. It’s intriguing, but Clark isn’t sure if he’s allowed. It’d be an indulgence, and Clark can’t let himself enjoy this moment, not really. It’d feel off, like he’s taking advantage of Mr. Wayne’s sudden interest in him. It’s all because of the pollen's chemicals, and the less Clark would go off the script of a proper intercourse, the less awkward they would feel in the end. Clark hums his approval when Mr. Wayne kisses his neck, biting lightly and licking offended places with wonderful eagerness. Clark isn’t made of stone. Besides, it’d be suspicious if he wouldn’t be into this whole ordeal. He’s supposed to be under the influence of the pollen after all. If he keeps repeating it, he might actually believe that it’s okay to enjoy the way the other man feels, pressed into Clark’s taut body. Self-deprecation never helped him in the past, but Clark can’t shake the nagging feeling of wrongness, of his own deficiency even in such a simple task. Clark is lost in thoughts, berating himself and trying to will his libido into submission, so he doesn’t understand what is going on for a second too long, until Mr. Wayne is already sitting on his knees in front of Clark’s cheap and suddenly too tight trousers and is sliding firm fingers over Clark’s thighs. Clark feels like such an idiot. He wasn’t prepared for that. He was a damn fool for thinking that he’d know what to do. Suddenly, everything feels too real. Just this morning his biggest problem was another looming deadline, and now he has to decide if this charade is worth keeping up. His identity was a secret not for his own convenience but for the safety of people closest to him. And yet at this moment Clark is questioning if he's made the right decision. Mr. Wayne slows down his movements and squeezes Clark’s thighs, getting him to look down at him. It is a small pause, a slight delay in an otherwise very fast-moving progression. Clark sees as his hand, on its own accord, moves to touch Mr. Wayne’s face. It’s a simple gesture and Clark doesn’t know what he wants to say with it. He just allows himself to feel the line of the other man’s cheekbone, the way his temple feels tender under his touch. Clark runs his fingers through Mr. Wayne’s surprisingly soft hair and finally brings himself to return the billionaire's questioning gaze. Clark wonders if the other man looks like that when he’s really into someone, when he’s truly himself, a willing participant and not just hormones-driven version of himself. Clark holds Mr. Wayne’s hair tighter, a sudden urge to focus him, to shake him, to guide him, to challenge him, to wake him. Clark can see how Mr. Wayne pupils dilate, almost eating out the bright blue part of it. It’s a gorgeous sight, and Clark feels like he’s got punched in the solar plexus. It should be painful, this sudden realization that he’s compatible with this gorgeous, prideful man, sitting patiently on the knees in front of him. That he’d be willing to risk his broken and not quite mended heart just to get a chance to learn if this hunch, this intuitive knowledge is true. If Mr. Wayne is much more complicated than he’s allowing others to see. If the energy that he gives off right now is not a fluke, but an intricate, deliberate result of making choices, sacrifices and hard decisions, shaping himself into the man he is today. Clark knows that his grip must be borderline painful now, but he can’t stop. He looks for his own answers - selfishly, desperately, hungrily. Whatever Mr. Wayne sees in Clark’s eyes, it makes him shudder almost imperceptibly, and he gets back to what he was doing before, but this time he moves faster, sharper and without much care for the state of Clark’s clothes. He tugs at Clark’s zipper and Clark feels elated by such eagerness, so he helps with the belt and then resumes his ministrations with Mr. Wayne’s hair while the other man frees Clark’s cock and takes a couple of quiet breaths before licking it. Clark tightens his grip - again - and Mr. Wayne doesn’t seem to mind, if his brilliant, hot, incredible mouth moving on Clark’s cock is any indication. Clark isn’t really a vocal guy, all his life he was trained to control himself and his reactions. Well, turns out when you get your cock sucked in a middle of a meeting room after not getting affected by sex-pollen - it might change a guy. Clark whispers “mister” and doesn’t really get to breathe out “Wayne” part when the man in question stops abruptly, gets off Clark’s cock with an indecent popping sound, Clark’s glistening head still touching Mr. Wayne’s reddened lips. Clark doesn’t have time to panic, as Mr. Wayne says with a most obnoxious grin “I think you can call me Bruce now”, then winks at Clark, winks! - and goes down on Clark’s cock deeper than before. Clark has trouble breathing, or thinking, but it’s not here not there. So he grabs Mr, no, Bruce’s hair, earning himself a careful but deliberate teeth’s grazing over the tender flesh of his cock, and closes his eyes shut. There’s risk of burning some ugly shapes in the ceiling if he doesn’t, and he’d rather avoid it, thank you very much. Clark allows himself to be carried away by a wonderful, burning hot feeling that is consuming him and making him feel good, oh so good. Like he deserves it, like he’s worth all that trouble, like his pleasure is all that matters. Bruce hums something with Clark’s cock still buried in his mouth, vibrations of the sound making Clark use his free hand to steady himself. There might be finger-shaped dents in Bruce’s table now, but it’s hard to tell with everything around Clark feeling like the universe is breaking on its seams, like he’s going to explode and obliterate everything in a supernova. Bruce continues to suck, lick, pump and hum into Clark’s skin, sometimes grazing Clark’s pubic hair with his nose. Clark knows that it should be weird or at least embarrassing, instead he moves his fingers from Bruce’s hair to his jaw, trying to feel it, as it moves over Clark’s cock. Bruce doesn’t seem to mind, though he glances at Clark once, pausing to lift his head a little, and Clark yearns to own, to have, to tear, to feel every atom of that gorgeous man in front of him, staring back with dazed eyes, flushed cheeks and overused, glistening lips. Bruce tears his eyes away only to slowly, carefully take Clark’s cock as deep as his throat would allow. Clark feels the movement where his hand is touching Bruce’s jaw and it’s so impossibly hot, so physical and indecent, that Clark moans at the sight. Bruce’s eyes are watering with effort, yet Clark can’t bring himself to stop it, he’s not that strong. He wants this with the fire of the burning sun. Bruce gags a little, releasing Clark’s cock and Clark wipes at saliva that’s running from Bruce’s mouth. It’s scary how much Clark wants to get everything that Bruce is willing to give. Clark wants to kiss the man and to continue fucking into his mouth. He wants to touch him, rough him up and lick every part of him till he trembles. Clark’s a mess. Bruce starts swallowing Clark so much faster than before and Clark doesn’t mind. He feels the waves of distant pleasure finally getting to him - from his toes to his neck, up and outwards. He thrusts his hips as far as Bruce’s steadying hands would allow. He whines, deep, honest sound reverberating through his being, and he surrenders, shutters and feels reborn as white strips of his cum draw random constellations over Bruce’s face. Clark registers that Bruce keeps working his cock with sure fingers, not bothering to wipe cum from his cheeks or nose or lashes. So Clark does it for him. And it seems natural to lick his fingers afterwards, it’s faster. Bruce groans and finally, finally stands up to give Clark a sloppy, lazy kiss. Clark's hand moves to Bruce's still covered in clothes cock. It feels wonderfully alive and firm under Clark's touch. Bruce bites Clark's lower lip, tags at it, then drops his head into Clark's shoulder and silently comes, as Clark massages his palm over Bruce’s twitching cock. Clark wants to see and taste, but he's distracted by Bruce’s hands scratching over Clark’s stomach, then going back under the shirt and up, up, till both of them are pressed so tightly into each other it should hurt, but it feels like pure bliss. Bruce presses his forehead into Clark’s temple and takes shallow breaths. Clark is drawing big circles over Bruce’s sturdy back. It’s heady. It’s simple. Clark never wants it to end. So naturally it ends just then - with a loud knock on the door, followed by “Mr. Wayne, we are going in.” Clark barely has time to make himself presentable and is tucking his shirt in when men in hazmat suits bust in. Bruce is already staying a respectable distance away, looking as disheveled as Clark feels. It’s all a blur of unimportant events afterwards - a small briefing, clothes’ decontamination, a ride home on a taxi (Mr. Kent, I insist), a bland-tasting dinner, an empty bed. Clark doesn’t jump in his shabby work-chair the next day when someone turns up the volume of Mr. Wayne’s press-conference. He doesn’t. But he gives up pretending he doesn't care and looks up at the TV. Mr. Wayne looks good. Unaffected. Posh and just a little sleazy. He tells that sex-pollen is being dealt with by the best scientist he can hire. He smiles and even winks once, though he tries to maintain somber mood in the face of an illness that can ruin other people’s lives. He also says one line that makes Clark's pulse accelerate - “I was interrupted before I could make another mistake of the day,” reporters in the audience laugh weakly and politely, “but I know others weren’t so lucky and I’m sorry. That’s why I’m using all my resources to...” Clark didn’t expect any other comment, and yet he can't stop playing the part about “another mistake” in his mind like a broken record. He can almost taste the words, their meaning feeling bitter and poisonous. He knew that Mr. Wayne would like to swipe whatever happened between them under the rug, erase it from his memory and make sure that no one would know about this particular transgression. Yet hearing it out loud, plain and simple, is hurtful. Clark tries to reason with himself, to remind himself that the other man must feel disgusted, repulsed and violated, and at the same time Clark can't shake the feeling that there was something real between them, something that no amount of hormone-altering drug could make them do. That Clark caught a glimpse of a true side of Mr. Wayne (and no, he can't bring himself to call him Bruce. It feels too personal, too full of hope, too foolish). Clark notices that his phone is ringing, picks it up and feels his blood freeze when he realizes who’s on the other end of the line. “Mr. Kent,” the other man's voice is smooth, professional and toneless. The greeting tells Clark everything he has to know about the call. He rubs the bridge of his nose, takes off his glasses and braces himself for the inevitable. “Mr. Wayne, how are you today?” Clark wants to bang his head on the desk after asking that question. It implies that yesterday had happened and it didn't. It most definitely didn't. “Good, good,” Mr. Wayne is dismissive and Clark is grateful for that. “I wanted to make sure that you're...” there is a slight hitch in a polished, casual inquiry, “Fine.” Clark pauses. He was preparing himself for a possible “damage control” talk, yet it feels almost insulting to actually be on the receiving end of it. He'd never out the man or sell salacious tales to the highest bidder. But Mr. Wayne doesn't know that, and Clark tries to erase any hints of hurt annoyance from his voice as he replies. “Yes, I am, thank you,” Clark feels almost proud of how professional and curt he sounds. Then, because he can be a masochistic idiot sometimes, he adds, “It's a mistake that you shouldn't worry about.” Clark listens to a heavy silence with almost gleeful satisfaction. “I see,” Mr. Wayne doesn't sound relieved or reassured. He sounds tired and Clark doesn't know why, “Goodbye then, Mr. Kent.” Clark holds the phone tighter and replies automatically, “Goodbye, Mr. Wayne.” The line goes dead and Clark feels like his stupid, irrational heart does the same.