30/30 - Want
Disclaimers and other information in "Opening Credits"
The lighting was no better, dark but punctuated by strobes and laser effects that skewed the perceptions.
Almost as uncomfortable as the tight hug of leather to his skin, form fitting, but not in the same way as the kevlar weave that was built to give and stretch with him. More... displaying then protecting.
Neither he nor J'onn had been entirely sure whose ideal date this was, but it was ... different. Almost desperate in its anonymity, both in terms of the poster and the scenario. Bruce had instantly reacted to cross it off the list, but something made him hesitate just a split second - and J'onn had seen the hesitation.
So Bruce Wayne had concocted a disguise - a subtle one. An old scar across the chin - rakish rather than deforming. A bit of added height to the cheek bones. A rougher, more devil-may-care hairstyle. Colored contacts, shading blue eyes to a dark grey.
He'd put on the leather pants - sans underwear - and tucked the white T-shirt into them. He'd thrown a black biker jacket over the ensemble and taken one of his less noteworthy bikes into the city - to this... place.
He could feel the eyes on him the moment he entered, appraising, hungry. Somewhere among them were the eyes he wanted to see, but they hadn't shown themselves yet.
So now he sat at the bar, sipping at a coke that had earned him a look but not a comment from the bartender. He tendered a five for the two dollar drink and told the man to keep the change. A lithe young man, bare-chested but for a leather harness, had watched the exchange with sudden interest and began to move toward him.
Bruce gave a Bat glare, and the man changed course as if he'd been heading elsewhere anyway.
A sudden cloying scent of perfume enfolded him and a footstep half-muffled by the throbbing bass was heard too late to prevent the sudden rest of a chin on his shoulder. Blonde curls twisted around a dreamy eyed face as an arm snaked around his body, a hand found its way to his lap.
The hand gave a squeeze and Bruce hooked a finger into the studded collar around the woman's neck. "Not interested," he growled, drawing some startled semblance of awareness briefly into distant eyes.
But only for a flash, because then she was back in her daze. "Okay, sugar," she agreed easily, letting him go.
He tried to force his shoulders to relax, to pretend that he belonged there.
He ordered another coke.
The bartender supplied with due speed, alert to the half raise of Bruce's hand.
What made someone want this, Bruce wondered? The air was heavy, almost unbreathable. Somewhere in the dark he was sure there were drugs changing hands, favors being purchased. Nothing overt. Nothing quite to catch the Bat's radar. But he was sure it was happening.
And the noise, the lights. The hunger. The knot between his shoulders grew tighter.
A touch of fingers at his wrist, trailing up his arm, across his shoulders, down the other side. Long, red nails applying just enough pressure to suggest things they could do but weren't. He caught the pale hand as it traveled past, locking his fingers around the wrist.
A sudden soto move, and he was half pulled off his bar stool, his balance shaken. He looked up into pale - so pale - green eyes as blood red lips leaned toward his ear. "So you want to play rough?"
He swallowed hard, aware of the sudden rush of blood to his groin. What if this wasn't - no, it had to be. The balance as she moved, the strength - it didn't quite add up to human.
She drew him forward, and he felt teeth on his ear, nipping hard enough to hurt a little. "I have a booth," she whispered.
Then she was moving ahead of him, leading him forward in a daze. This wasn't - there - J'onn wasn't like this. Ordering, imperious. There had been something in those eyes...
The press of people seemed to part before her, and he felt the stares. He could feel the way they wanted him, wanted her...
He almost ran into her when she stopped, the blood pounding in his ears enough to distract him from everything else. It even canceled out the music. He caught himself just in time, found himself staring down at the long length of straight black hair, sleekly polished. He leaned forward to catch the mingled scents of patchouli and sandalwood... and Mars.
She turned and caught him by the throat, slim fingers spanning just above his collar bone, pressing just enough to make him feel the danger. "Sit," she hissed, steering him back until his knees hit the edge of something and his legs folded.
He wanted to protest, object that this wasn't - but he could feel the blood surging in his cock, and it was so hard to swallow...
Her red lips descended, claiming his roughly, tongue forcing open his mouth. Her hair draped over both their faces, sealing them into a darkness that was just heat of their mouths and the sudden bite of her teeth on his lower lip. She was pushing him back deeper along what he realized was just a standard restaurant booth, but the lights, the music, the dark...
His back was against the wall, the back of the booth on one side, the table on the other, and in front of him, forcing his shoulders against the plaster...
He gasped suddenly as her weight pulled away, his eyes opening in surprise. He licked his lips and tasted copper, startling, confusing his muddled senses for that he didn't feel any pain behind the blood. He shook his head, trying to reclaim his mental acuity, to...
Below the table, his knees were pushed apart, making space for the heat of a body. The soft cotton of the T-shirt caressed his skin as it was pulled from waistband of the now much too tight pants, and in the wake of that caress came the raking pressure of sharp nails.
Bruce sucked in his breath. "Wait-" he began, desperate, torn between churning anxiety and something more feral. It wasn't like this with J'onn. "Wait -" he tried again, his brain scrambling to find a name to call the woman kneeling between his legs.
The button on his pants was undone, the zip pulled slowly down. "You want this," her voice curled up to him, somehow cutting through the music and the haze.
"No-" he started to protest, but then her nails found the faint scars on his side, four evenly spaced cuts, old, invisible unless you knew where to look...
She traced them with just enough pressure to leave a burning trail in the wake of each nail, to revive the memory of Selina Kyle... a rooftop... years ago...
"You want this," she repeated, and her hands spread open the leather that had shielded his cock, exposing him to the heat of her breath.
He gasped, feeling two fingers slide down along side his cock to hook under his balls, to pull them free from the constricting leather. The zipper bit into the underside of his sack, but somehow that only made him harder as a tongue lathed across each testicle in turn. Then there was suction, and she claimed first one ball and then the other, working each in the heat of her mouth, letting her teeth scrape across them to remind him of her power - and her restraint.
He raised his hips involuntarily, and the pants were whisked down to his thighs, trapping his legs. He squirmed a little, and a hand squeezed around his cock, freezing him.
He could feel the edges of her nails digging slightly into his flesh.
"You want this," she said again, and before he could object he felt her swallow his cock.
He wanted to scream, to tell her to stop, that she was wrong. He wanted to scream because her mouth and throat were undulating along every molecule of his cock, and he had no control over it, and he wanted it.
God, he wanted it.
His hands fisted at his sides, refusing to touch her, to encourage that mouth and ... oh god... that tongue... which no human could've sent to roll his balls while still maintaining such a hold on his cock.
Another tongue, slenderer...
Flicking across the skin under his balls...
Slipping between the cheeks of his ass...
"No," he moaned through clenched teeth, wanting, god, wanting to feel...
Her hands caught his wrists, pushing them back against the seat back, pinning them. She leaned her weight forward so his knees were held down by her arms.
Her mouth continued its steady massage of his cock, his balls were palmed and bathed and cradled.
He strained forward with what little leverage he had, unable to really buck his hips where he sat, unable not to.
He hadn't wanted to touch her; now he couldn't. He could just feel her, wrapped around his cock, fondling his balls...
Sliding a thin slick digit into his asshole...
He felt her purr deep in her throat, the vibration traveling through his cock, through his balls...
Through the probing digit that brushed suddenly across his prostate, setting every nerve on fire...
He gasped and the grip on his wrists tightened fiercely, painfully, and a voice echoed in his head. "Now."
He didn't want to. He didn't. He wouldn't let... couldn't let... he was in control... he was...
He was coming, just as she ordered, exploding into her throat as she stroked slowly over his prostate and swallowed his cock impossibly deeper.
Blood rushed through his skull as he forgot to breathe, forgot to move, forgot everything but the pressure at his wrists and around his cock and in his ass. His perception greyed at the edges, and he was dimly aware of withdrawal.
Gentle kisses replaced harsh commands. His hands were lying limp at his sides.
He could feel the bass beat of the music...
The club. He opened his eyes in alarm. He had forgotten they were in the club...
It took him a moment to focus, to breathe. He scanned the crowd crazily, but no one was paying any attention to him.
A soft, out of character smile was playing on the lips of the woman who had just ravaged him. He realized he had been reclothed, settled back into his pants, his shirt tucked back in. Had he passed out? Or was this woman just so adept...
She brushed the backs of her fingers over his cheek, letting the satin smoothness of the surface of her nails tingle across his skin.
"Are you okay?" she asked softly, her pale green eyes lit with something far less predatory than they had been only moments before.
He swallowed hard and nodded, not trusting his voice. He could feel the way his eyes were staring desperately at her, begging reassurance.
She gently stroked at his hair. "You want to go home?" she asked.
Again he nodded, wanting her to hold him. Just hold him.
Her arms pulled him forward, wrapping him gently to her breasts, letting his cheek rest against her half revealed bosom. He closed his eyes, and he felt her wrap more securely around him.
She rocked him for a moment, then urged him up. She took his hand again and led him out, out past the hungry eyes, past the desperate passes and lonely looks. He couldn't feel them anymore, only her. Just her hand, anchoring him. In control.
He wanted this.