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browngirlTitle: A Beguiling Bouquet: Six Sex Pollen Ficlets
Rating: PG-13 through NC-17.
Fandom: DC Comics
Warnings/Categories: Slash, het, femslash, a threesome, the breakdown of social order, tentacles, and occasional disturbing content.
Main Pairings: Robin/Superboy (Tim/Kon), Grace/Wonder Girl (Grace/Cassie), Robin/Spoiler (Tim/Steph), Superman/Superboy (Clark/Kon), Nightwing/Kid Flash (Dick/Bart), Changeling/Kid Flash/Wonder Girl (Gar/Cassie/Bart), author/crack. A few others mentioned.
Summary: The nice thing about sex pollen is never having to say "they wouldn't do that!"
Beta of Brilliance:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
keelywolfe
Disclaimer: DC uber alles.
A Strange Shade
"Kon---"
Kon isn't listening. He's ignoring Tim, as he has been since Tim made the mistake of applying logic in their latest disagreement. The rest of the team watched with amusement (Bart even made popcorn); when they were called away to investigate a paranormal disturbance in a deserted town, everyone cracked snide jokes during the entire trip, and on arrival promptly left Tim and Kon alone together. They're probably watching from a distance to see if he and Kon kill each other, and if so how entertainingly.
Kon continues "investigating", which mostly consists of flying around a foot off the ground with his back to Tim. Tim shrugs and pokes around the abandoned barn, as full of cobwebs and dry rot as the rest of the buildings in this ghost... village, really, it doesn't even rate as a town.
Movement in Tim's peripheral vision makes him look up, but he sees nothing but a plant growing through one of the holes in the wall. Except that this plant is closer to blue than to green; Tim toggles the lenses on his mask to one that enhances color separations, and that really isn't a chlorophyll color. Also, the pinkish buds seem kind of familiar.
"Hey!" Kon crouches, prodding something. Tim walks a few steps around him and sees that it's another one of these strange plants, growing along the ground and over some debris. Growing fast. Growing towards Kon, who's poking at it with bare fingers. "Wow, this is weird."
"You probably shouldn't do that," Tim says, uselessly. Kon's shoulders tense. "I think---"
"I think you should shut up," Kon growls. At least he's talking to Tim, now. "I am, not that you ever remember, not entirely helpless and even invulnerable---"
The plant grows even faster, and its foremost pink bulbs swell up, darken, and then explode. Holding his breath, Tim flips clear; Kon gasps and flies back over his shoulder. A cloud of iridescent powder surrounds the plant as it settles down again, and Tim realizes what it reminds him of. Poison Ivy is locked up, at least according to his latest information, but she isn't the only known person with power over plants, and unknowns crop up all the time.
Above and behind Tim, Kon sneezes.
To a cursory glance Kon looks fine, drifting down slowly, except that as he sinks through a shaft of sunlight Tim can see a faint shimmer on his face and hands. "Superboy, are you all right?" Tim pitches his voice towards coolly professional. Kon nods slowly, staring at his hands, held up in front of him. He looks OK---
His shoulder slams into Tim's gut, and they're skating over the floor so low Tim's ankles bump into things, then swooping up and through the roof, ow, and into the bright sunlight. Kon stops short in midair and Tim's stomach lurches; he sets Tim on the roof much more gently than he'd picked him up. "Tim?" He sounds strange, slurred and bright all at once.
Tim sits up on the angled, crumbly wood roof, a few feet from the hole they made. Kon's cheeks are pink and darkening like the bulbs, and there's hardly any blue in Kon's dilated-black eyes. Oh, great. Reaching for his belt with both hands, Tim says in his firmest command voice, "Kon. You've been---"
Kon kisses Tim, openmouthed. Kon slams him flat, grabbing his wrists and pinning them to the roof, which creaks beneath them, laying all his weight on him as if he's forgotten he can fly, sucking his tongue into his mouth. Kon tastes warm and male, and he smells like sunshine and spandex and something oddly sweet, and Tim needs to figure out how to disable him and get them off the roof, how to warn the others about the strange psychoactive-pollen-spewing plants.
So of course Tim's body turns against him. This is about the worst time ever for him to be turned on, but he's already getting hard, his heartbeat speeding up, and Kon's weight on his chest and between his legs is helpfully, incredibly unhelpful. Kon's grip on his wrists hurts, he should concentrate on that and how to throw Kon off while he is obviously too distracted to use his powers---
Kon bites Tim's lower lip, and grinds down against him, and it hurts wonderfully. Kon's hair brushes Tim's forehead, and he's squeezing Tim's wrists rhythmically, and Tim vehemently hopes that the roof gives way beneath them as he kisses Kon back.
Sunlit Fizz
Grace totally should have been an Amazon. With her red hair and her tattoos, she'd fit best with the wild Amazons from Artemis' tribe, Cassie thinks, as she flies back as fast as she can. Grace threw her off the balcony, nearly as far as Diana threw Kon off the Tower that time.
Cassie remembers that, and giggles. Her brain feels carbonated, like soda, her muscles feel hot and tingly inside. Is this what being drunk is like? That pink powdery stuff tossed at them by the Poison Ivy Wannabe, as Tim and Nightwing both called her, didn't really stop either team from smashing up her plants or kicking the crap out of her. It just seems to have made them all uncoordinated and giggly now that they're back at Outsiders HQ, except for the Bats, who were of course prepared for anything, and that android chick (who killed Donna but no it's not her fault), who looked confused at the rest of them till her boyfriend the morphing guy led her away.
At the edge of her vision Cassie can see Kon and Bart take off somewhere. Maybe running and flying around will get it out of their systems. Maybe this is how Bart feels all the time. Since today's fight, whenever Cassie stands still her head spins; it's disorienting and awful, and only moving clears it, only moving helps.
Maybe this is more like being stoned would be. Cassie spreads her arms and spins, feeling like she could fly forever, faster and faster, spiraling into the sun. The sunlight slides like hot water over her face and arms and midriff, and she wants to feel it all over every inch of her skin. To think that when she became a superhero Cassie had thought she'd have to never try drugs, because she'd have to be responsible, after all.
She's reached Grace by now, and flies circles around her head in a way she knows is annoying. She shouldn't be doing this; she should have taken Grace's parting advice as she tossed Cassie, to "fly away! Get outta here!"
Maybe, but Grace is seven feet tall and has red hair and Cassie wants to see every one of her tattoos, and--- movement through a window catches Cassie's eye, and holy crap, is that Nightwing making out with Arsenal? Maybe he was more affected than she'd thought. Hopefully the rest of the Titans, who are nowhere to be seen, are taking the Ivy Knockoff chick to proper custody, because all the Outsiders Cassie can count look busy and---
---whoops. Grace catches Cassie's ankle and yanks her out of the air. "Didn't I tell you to go the fuck away?" she insists, grabbing Cassie's upper arms in a grip so tight it'd probably hurt an ordinary girl.
Cassie's not an ordinary girl. Grace is seven feet of magnificence in a torn red top. Wait till Cissie hears about this! "Yeah, you did," Cassie says, grinning the way Kon does when he's trying to be charming. It usually works; it seems to be working now, as Grace growls again but also smiles. Despite the smile, Grace shakes Cassie a little, and it makes her brain whirr in the opposite direction, but it's a good whirling, like flying.
Grace smells like an Amazon, like battle and sweat and burnt sugar, and she's holding Cassie really close now, peering at her with narrowed eyes that almost hide her blown pupils. "You shouldn't be here, little girl," she says, but she's purring like a lioness, the way Kory sometimes does. Cassie really wants to feel that purr. "I'll squash you."
"You won't squash me, and I'm not a little girl." Cassie watches Grace's breasts move as she breathes, shallow and quick, and wonders if she should just wrap her legs round Grace's head. She could do it from where Grace is holding her. They shouldn't be doing any of this. She completely can't make herself care.
"Okay, then." Grace pushes Cassie up a little, nuzzling her belly, the purring a warm buzz against her skin; then she grabs Cassie's belt in her teeth and rips her pants right off. The sunshine warm on her legs, Cassie laughs and throws her head back, and Grace's hair is surprisingly soft in her hands as she grabs it and holds on.
Push and Pull
Tim is never pushy, Steph thinks with the small bit of her brain that still can. Probably the left ventricle-- no, that's part of the heart, and speaking of hearts, hers is pounding. Tim's is, too, so hard she can feel it through his suit; he smells like smoke and eagerness, tastes like peppermint gum and winning. He's kissing her like he wants to climb inside her, and his arms are wrapped around her waist and back so tightly she can't breathe. Not that Steph minds, the way Tim's kissing her.
Tim is shy. Robin is bossy, sometimes, but he listens, and he's cute and kicks a metric buttload of ass and still is kind of shy. Steph liked that, not least after Dean, who was so pushy the entire time they were dating. So she chased Tim, and got him to date her, and whenever he kissed her it was gentle and warm and kind of delicate, even when he used tongue.
There's nothing delicate about this. Tim's hand slides, pressing hard, up Steph's back to wind in her hair and hold her head still, and the kiss is wet and messy and great. She slips along the car's seat and it squeaks as she falls back, and Tim just falls with her, not letting go, not even trying to catch them. Wrapping her legs around Tim's hips, Steph reaches back to steady herself against the car door; Tim lets go of her hair to catch her wrist and stroke her arm, hard, pressing fingers in as he drags his hand all the way up her arm, and her breath catches as she thinks if he squeezes her breast that hard it'll hurt.
He doesn't. He's Tim, after all. He cups her breast, and when she gasps he swallows the sound and shakes atop her and rubs his thumb over her nipple, not quite hard enough through the costume. Steph arches into his hand and this time he rubs harder, perfectly harder, and when she moans he does too, like he thinks she sounds sexy.
This isn't like Tim, and it is, and it's awesome. He's always so gentle with her unless they're sparring, unless he's teaching her, but tonight's just different. When the smugglers set the warehouse on fire he sent her out while he searched it, and when she heard the bottles of whatever-that-drug-was start exploding she'd thought her heart would stop.
But Tim came out again, smoky but unhurt, dragging a guy twice his size; then he actually kissed her, hard and enthusiastic like he had that time with the armored car (and her dad, ugh, Steph, don't think about him), in front of the smugglers and everything. One guy even laughed; one thought they were distracted and tried to escape, and Tim made him sorry with a solid kick without even letting go of Steph's hand.
And now they're in the back seat of the Redbird, and Tim's nicely heavy atop her, kissing her like he'd rather kiss than breathe. Even though Tim's all over her Steph almost can't believe it, she has to run her fingers through his hair and stroke the hot skin below his sleeves and kiss him hard enough to be sure over again she's not dreaming.
This is probably the furthest they've ever gone. Steph kisses Tim back, clutching his arm and his hair where she can feel him and not just his suit; she wonders how far they might go, and if she's going to pass out from lack of air. She doesn't really think she'd mind, not with Tim finally kissing her like he actually wants to go somewhere with it.
Tim pulls his mouth from hers, so fast the pop is really loud; Steph's eyes press shut as she gasps, and before she can get them open to look at him he shoves his face into her neck. If they could just stop for a moment, they could get more off than just their gloves, but that would mean stopping. Steph pushes her face into Tim's hair instead, feeling him mouthing her neck; he can't be tasting anything but her suit but he's doing it anyway. Underneath the smoke his hair smells weirdly chemical and sweet, and Steph wonders if Tim got dosed with something when all those bottles blew. That would explain how eager he suddenly is. Better than how cute she's not, anyway.
The thought makes her freeze, because they may been teenagers but they're still heroes with a job to do, and because she should have known better. "Tim," Steph says, tugging gently on his hair till he lifts his head. She wonders what his eyes look like beneath those lenses.
She wonders what hers look like, with her mask off.
Tim looks at her with blank white eyes and a kiss-wet mouth. "Steph?"
"I--" The questions jam in her mouth.
Tim takes his hand off her breast, and she really should have known better. But then he uses it to toggle his lenses, and his pupils are pretty wide, but his eyes are blue and hers. "Steph," he says, and he smiles, and his hand is bare and warm on her cheek; the questions dissolve, Steph can't worry anymore. Tim's alive and he's with her and she can believe he wants this for real. She tilts her chin up with a smile of her own, and he kisses her again.
Part of the Job
OK, Kon isn't like some people. Most, really. Cassie and Rob chose the hero life; as far as Kon can tell all the Bats did. Batgirl is a little more like him, because her freaky father raised her to be an assassin, but she still chose the side of the good guys. Then there are people like Bart, whose parents had him for whatever reason people have kids, but not to make a new superhero; he was born with his powers, but not because of them. Kon was born, hatched, cooked up, whatever, in order to be a superhero, he's got the job no matter what. And as he's been told by people from Dr. Westlake to Gar, weird is part of the job.
This is definetely weird. Kon thought all that randomness while staring into the sun, because his head's tilted back and sideways so Superman can get at his neck, muttering into Kon's skin as he bites, holding him up in the sky with two big hands on his hips. Kon's a little surprised he can think; by now, shouldn't he be mindlessly humping Superman's thigh and out of his head? How many people would have come in their pants already if they were here where he is?
It's not like Kon's not turned on. He's incredibly turned on. He's got eyes, and Superman is huge and gorgeous and everything Kon wants to be and needed Kon specifically out of all the people in the world. But this is also incredibly weird, because of who they are, and not least because what Clark--- God, no, Superman, if Kon thinks of him as Clark that'll just be too weird. It makes no sense, but it just would. It's more than weird enough that what Superman is muttering into Kon's skin between hard tingly bites that would actually hurt if Kon weren't a meta, is "I'm sorry, Conner, I truly am, I'm sorry."
Kon really wishes he couldn't hear that. He clings to Superman's neck, glossy hair thick under his fingers, and hangs in Superman's grip and concentrates on how it feels to ride Superman's thigh, even through briefs and jeans and a suit, how it feels to be pressed against a chest that wide and big when he's usually bigger than the people he kisses, how it feels to have his neck bitten nice and hard in all the right places. It's pretty shallow to deliberately think with his dick like this, but it's pollen, it's weird, weird is part of the job.
Who knew that a plant that made humans cheerful would affect metahumans more, not less? Kon wonders if Kory knew, when she took some of her Tamaranian flowers with her when she went to talk to Superman and Wonder Woman about the dust-up last weekend. Apparently she and Wonder Woman are really thoroughly making up, and Kon's grin at that mental image opens into a gasp when one of Superman's hands folds around his waist to palm his ass. If it were up to him he'd've joined them. Maybe that's not Superman's style, but it couldn't be much more kinky than scooping Kon up and dragging him into the sky for some nookie.
After all, it'd take a lot more for Superman to hurt Kon than it would a non-meta (don't think about her don't). And this probably means he's forgiven for torching the cape. And --- holy shit, that's Superman's hand inside Kon's jeans, warm and hard and really big on his ass, and the other pressing down his chest, pushing across his nipple, making it even harder to breathe. All this time Superman's been kissing Kon's neck, murmuring and shaking; now as his hand slides into the front of Kon's jeans, and Kon jerks and flails like an idiot from the sheer sensation, he kisses Kon's cheek, soft and gentle as if Kon were his kid or something, not his clone/cousin/whatever whom he's fucking in the sky.
"Kon." Superman says, warm breath over Kon's cheek, and Kon turns his head to look right into blue eyes wide enough to fall into, till you hit those little flares of red deep within. "I just want you to know---"
He's still apologizing. Kon wishes he knew how to explain that that's the weirdest part of all this, but it's not like he can even talk, not with Superman's hands squeezing his dick and stroking into the crack of his ass. When he opens his mouth a moan falls out, and Superman stops talking, just for a moment, and stares at Kon's mouth.
For once, Kon manages to think when it's actually useful. He groans and pushes his mouth onto Superman's, and Superman shudders against him and squeezes him with both hands and kisses him back.
Whiteout
In the wake of the second orgasm Dick realizes he can think again, that he remembers what his name is, who and what he is. Recalling the immediate past is more difficult; when Dick looks into his memory for clues to how the latest craziness erupted and how they ended up wherever they currently are, flat on a smooth plastic floor, all he finds is a fuzzy dark blank. It isn't helping that he's still drugged to the gills, sweating all over and gasping erratically, with the gravity cranked up and someone solid and hot atop him. Under these conditions, thinking is like swimming upstream through molasses, but at least now he can do it.
In fact, thinking is like swimming through pulsing, simmering-hot molasses. The person---a man? no, a boy--- with him (using 'with' to mean "riding him and clutching his shoulders with damp hard hands", and it would be funny but it's so not) is vibrating in a way that means "speedster" and moaning in a voice Dick doesn't want to recognize and oh God is he still hard? They need to---
---Bart vibrates harder, and Dick doesn't want to see, he never wanted to be doing this like this, but his eyes fall open as his body disobediently responds. Nothing's before his eyes but blank whiteness and Bart in hyperfocus, every absurdly long eyelash and swinging strand of his hair and drop of sweat on his forehead, the exact pattern of the flush on his peachfuzzed cheeks and the way he shivers when he groans.
Bart arches above him, head thrown back, and Dick had never wanted to know the way his throat curves or how sleek he feels or how he sounds crying out, spattering Dick's chest with blood-hot come. He'd never thought of Bart like this. He's a kid, a responsibility, Dick's responsibility, and Dick should have kept him out of this, shouldn't be so damned turned on he can't pry his own hands off Bart's sleek hard hips, shouldn't be so hard for it that when Bart bites his lip and gasps and shakes around him Dick comes again, mind blanking beneath a flood of white fire.
White fades to black to awareness as Dick surfaces, trembling and heaving for air. All his discipline is completely gone, he can't breathe deep enough or fast enough. Atop him Bart wobbles, eyes pressed shut, and whimpers as his arms give way, as he collapses onto Dick's chest. If anything, he's sweating more than Dick, shaking more, and he whimpers again, pressing his face into Dick's neck.
"Shhh," Dick murmurs, stroking Bart's damp mop of hair. Bart shakes harder till Dick's teeth chatter, then starts to calm down, his chest tacky-damp against Dick's as his breathing evens out and his pulse slows, his spine bumpy beneath Dick's other hand. Dick's nipples throb between them, he's aching and sore all over. It would be worse if they weren't naked, Dick thinks, and winces, and wishes he could shut his brain off. Why had he been so relieved to be lucid? Right now all he wants is a blunt weapon to bash himself into oblivion. Dick tries the floor, but his head feels so heavy he can't lift it high enough, and when it merely drops again under gravity the floor yields just enough to keep the impact from hurting sufficiently.
Bart's just a kid. Dick wonders how quickly Wally's going kill him.
They should get up and find something to wear and a way out of the featureless room (and a way not to ever remember this would be good, too), but all Dick can do is lie here, his muscles aching and useless, and stroke Bart's hair; Bart makes a tired little snuffly noise and presses his face more firmly to Dick's neck.
Dick is so doomed. Wally might not even get to kill him, because Tim might reach him first.
Bart begins to snore softly. Dick isn't sure, but it feels like he's drooling, warm wetness on Dick's already damp shoulder.
After awhile, Dick quietly starts to laugh.
Something Wild
"Gar, it was wild! You should have seen yourself!" Bart waves his arms so fast they blur, the words hitting Gar's sore head like rocks. "I never knew you could do that as an octopus!"
"Forewarned would've been eight-armed." That was weak. Gar rubs his aching face and groans. His could have locked his room, so of course he staggered out to get something to drink and collapsed on the common room couch, where Bart began babbling at him. If he weren't so hungover he'd morph into something small enough to hide from everyone, but even his hair hurts. At least he'd been so stoned on whatever-it-was that he doesn't have any memories of the incident, beyond the occasional flash of tentacle and wet heat and shrieking teammate.
Thank God for small mercies, and Vic's nasty medicinal tea, and Bart is, of course, not shutting up. "It was like that Japanese print, in this book about Asian art I read, except that instead of two octopi and one lady there was one of you and me and Cassie and we couldn't get away but pretty soon you made us not want to. I mean, wow, you're good at that, so how come you never go on any dates?"
Without looking up, Gar pitches the spare pillow in Bart's direction. A moment later it's tucked back beside his head, so he pulls it over his face. Blessed darkness, even if Bart's voice still comes through. "I never saw Cassie like that before, I mean, I'd seen her almost naked, costume malfunctions and all that, but that was totally dif-- EEP!"
A thud sounds across the room. Gar peers from beneath his pillow, though the light stabs through his eyes into his brain. Cassie is hovering up by the ceiling, one hand on her hip and the other round Bart's throat, sizzling out to the ends of her hair. "Bart," she hisses through clenched teeth, "shut. UP."
At least she puts him back down on the floor rather than letting him drop, and he promptly vanishes in a crackling blur. She bobs angrily, both hands on her hips, her chest heaving. Gar makes a small accidental noise that is not a whimper, and Cassie flashes a blue glare at him that drives him back beneath the pillow, then flies out of the room so fast the concussion sends papers skittering and the curtains fluttering. When Gar dares to peek out again, he's alone .
He rejoined the Titans, why? In the old days---
---OK, in the old days it would've been every last bit this weird. Or weirder.
Safe in the underpillow darkness, Gar reflects on the fact that once he's recovered enough for her to consider it fair, Cassie is totally going to kill him. On the other hand, she is pretty gorgeous. So is Bart, in his way, but Gar's not going to let himself think too much about that at the moment. Morphing into a squirrel, Gar winces at the throb of headache, tucks his tail over his nose, and closes his eyes.
Rating: PG-13 through NC-17.
Fandom: DC Comics
Warnings/Categories: Slash, het, femslash, a threesome, the breakdown of social order, tentacles, and occasional disturbing content.
Main Pairings: Robin/Superboy (Tim/Kon), Grace/Wonder Girl (Grace/Cassie), Robin/Spoiler (Tim/Steph), Superman/Superboy (Clark/Kon), Nightwing/Kid Flash (Dick/Bart), Changeling/Kid Flash/Wonder Girl (Gar/Cassie/Bart), author/crack. A few others mentioned.
Summary: The nice thing about sex pollen is never having to say "they wouldn't do that!"
Beta of Brilliance:
keelywolfeDisclaimer: DC uber alles.
A Strange Shade
"Kon---"
Kon isn't listening. He's ignoring Tim, as he has been since Tim made the mistake of applying logic in their latest disagreement. The rest of the team watched with amusement (Bart even made popcorn); when they were called away to investigate a paranormal disturbance in a deserted town, everyone cracked snide jokes during the entire trip, and on arrival promptly left Tim and Kon alone together. They're probably watching from a distance to see if he and Kon kill each other, and if so how entertainingly.
Kon continues "investigating", which mostly consists of flying around a foot off the ground with his back to Tim. Tim shrugs and pokes around the abandoned barn, as full of cobwebs and dry rot as the rest of the buildings in this ghost... village, really, it doesn't even rate as a town.
Movement in Tim's peripheral vision makes him look up, but he sees nothing but a plant growing through one of the holes in the wall. Except that this plant is closer to blue than to green; Tim toggles the lenses on his mask to one that enhances color separations, and that really isn't a chlorophyll color. Also, the pinkish buds seem kind of familiar.
"Hey!" Kon crouches, prodding something. Tim walks a few steps around him and sees that it's another one of these strange plants, growing along the ground and over some debris. Growing fast. Growing towards Kon, who's poking at it with bare fingers. "Wow, this is weird."
"You probably shouldn't do that," Tim says, uselessly. Kon's shoulders tense. "I think---"
"I think you should shut up," Kon growls. At least he's talking to Tim, now. "I am, not that you ever remember, not entirely helpless and even invulnerable---"
The plant grows even faster, and its foremost pink bulbs swell up, darken, and then explode. Holding his breath, Tim flips clear; Kon gasps and flies back over his shoulder. A cloud of iridescent powder surrounds the plant as it settles down again, and Tim realizes what it reminds him of. Poison Ivy is locked up, at least according to his latest information, but she isn't the only known person with power over plants, and unknowns crop up all the time.
Above and behind Tim, Kon sneezes.
To a cursory glance Kon looks fine, drifting down slowly, except that as he sinks through a shaft of sunlight Tim can see a faint shimmer on his face and hands. "Superboy, are you all right?" Tim pitches his voice towards coolly professional. Kon nods slowly, staring at his hands, held up in front of him. He looks OK---
His shoulder slams into Tim's gut, and they're skating over the floor so low Tim's ankles bump into things, then swooping up and through the roof, ow, and into the bright sunlight. Kon stops short in midair and Tim's stomach lurches; he sets Tim on the roof much more gently than he'd picked him up. "Tim?" He sounds strange, slurred and bright all at once.
Tim sits up on the angled, crumbly wood roof, a few feet from the hole they made. Kon's cheeks are pink and darkening like the bulbs, and there's hardly any blue in Kon's dilated-black eyes. Oh, great. Reaching for his belt with both hands, Tim says in his firmest command voice, "Kon. You've been---"
Kon kisses Tim, openmouthed. Kon slams him flat, grabbing his wrists and pinning them to the roof, which creaks beneath them, laying all his weight on him as if he's forgotten he can fly, sucking his tongue into his mouth. Kon tastes warm and male, and he smells like sunshine and spandex and something oddly sweet, and Tim needs to figure out how to disable him and get them off the roof, how to warn the others about the strange psychoactive-pollen-spewing plants.
So of course Tim's body turns against him. This is about the worst time ever for him to be turned on, but he's already getting hard, his heartbeat speeding up, and Kon's weight on his chest and between his legs is helpfully, incredibly unhelpful. Kon's grip on his wrists hurts, he should concentrate on that and how to throw Kon off while he is obviously too distracted to use his powers---
Kon bites Tim's lower lip, and grinds down against him, and it hurts wonderfully. Kon's hair brushes Tim's forehead, and he's squeezing Tim's wrists rhythmically, and Tim vehemently hopes that the roof gives way beneath them as he kisses Kon back.
Sunlit Fizz
Grace totally should have been an Amazon. With her red hair and her tattoos, she'd fit best with the wild Amazons from Artemis' tribe, Cassie thinks, as she flies back as fast as she can. Grace threw her off the balcony, nearly as far as Diana threw Kon off the Tower that time.
Cassie remembers that, and giggles. Her brain feels carbonated, like soda, her muscles feel hot and tingly inside. Is this what being drunk is like? That pink powdery stuff tossed at them by the Poison Ivy Wannabe, as Tim and Nightwing both called her, didn't really stop either team from smashing up her plants or kicking the crap out of her. It just seems to have made them all uncoordinated and giggly now that they're back at Outsiders HQ, except for the Bats, who were of course prepared for anything, and that android chick (who killed Donna but no it's not her fault), who looked confused at the rest of them till her boyfriend the morphing guy led her away.
At the edge of her vision Cassie can see Kon and Bart take off somewhere. Maybe running and flying around will get it out of their systems. Maybe this is how Bart feels all the time. Since today's fight, whenever Cassie stands still her head spins; it's disorienting and awful, and only moving clears it, only moving helps.
Maybe this is more like being stoned would be. Cassie spreads her arms and spins, feeling like she could fly forever, faster and faster, spiraling into the sun. The sunlight slides like hot water over her face and arms and midriff, and she wants to feel it all over every inch of her skin. To think that when she became a superhero Cassie had thought she'd have to never try drugs, because she'd have to be responsible, after all.
She's reached Grace by now, and flies circles around her head in a way she knows is annoying. She shouldn't be doing this; she should have taken Grace's parting advice as she tossed Cassie, to "fly away! Get outta here!"
Maybe, but Grace is seven feet tall and has red hair and Cassie wants to see every one of her tattoos, and--- movement through a window catches Cassie's eye, and holy crap, is that Nightwing making out with Arsenal? Maybe he was more affected than she'd thought. Hopefully the rest of the Titans, who are nowhere to be seen, are taking the Ivy Knockoff chick to proper custody, because all the Outsiders Cassie can count look busy and---
---whoops. Grace catches Cassie's ankle and yanks her out of the air. "Didn't I tell you to go the fuck away?" she insists, grabbing Cassie's upper arms in a grip so tight it'd probably hurt an ordinary girl.
Cassie's not an ordinary girl. Grace is seven feet of magnificence in a torn red top. Wait till Cissie hears about this! "Yeah, you did," Cassie says, grinning the way Kon does when he's trying to be charming. It usually works; it seems to be working now, as Grace growls again but also smiles. Despite the smile, Grace shakes Cassie a little, and it makes her brain whirr in the opposite direction, but it's a good whirling, like flying.
Grace smells like an Amazon, like battle and sweat and burnt sugar, and she's holding Cassie really close now, peering at her with narrowed eyes that almost hide her blown pupils. "You shouldn't be here, little girl," she says, but she's purring like a lioness, the way Kory sometimes does. Cassie really wants to feel that purr. "I'll squash you."
"You won't squash me, and I'm not a little girl." Cassie watches Grace's breasts move as she breathes, shallow and quick, and wonders if she should just wrap her legs round Grace's head. She could do it from where Grace is holding her. They shouldn't be doing any of this. She completely can't make herself care.
"Okay, then." Grace pushes Cassie up a little, nuzzling her belly, the purring a warm buzz against her skin; then she grabs Cassie's belt in her teeth and rips her pants right off. The sunshine warm on her legs, Cassie laughs and throws her head back, and Grace's hair is surprisingly soft in her hands as she grabs it and holds on.
Push and Pull
Tim is never pushy, Steph thinks with the small bit of her brain that still can. Probably the left ventricle-- no, that's part of the heart, and speaking of hearts, hers is pounding. Tim's is, too, so hard she can feel it through his suit; he smells like smoke and eagerness, tastes like peppermint gum and winning. He's kissing her like he wants to climb inside her, and his arms are wrapped around her waist and back so tightly she can't breathe. Not that Steph minds, the way Tim's kissing her.
Tim is shy. Robin is bossy, sometimes, but he listens, and he's cute and kicks a metric buttload of ass and still is kind of shy. Steph liked that, not least after Dean, who was so pushy the entire time they were dating. So she chased Tim, and got him to date her, and whenever he kissed her it was gentle and warm and kind of delicate, even when he used tongue.
There's nothing delicate about this. Tim's hand slides, pressing hard, up Steph's back to wind in her hair and hold her head still, and the kiss is wet and messy and great. She slips along the car's seat and it squeaks as she falls back, and Tim just falls with her, not letting go, not even trying to catch them. Wrapping her legs around Tim's hips, Steph reaches back to steady herself against the car door; Tim lets go of her hair to catch her wrist and stroke her arm, hard, pressing fingers in as he drags his hand all the way up her arm, and her breath catches as she thinks if he squeezes her breast that hard it'll hurt.
He doesn't. He's Tim, after all. He cups her breast, and when she gasps he swallows the sound and shakes atop her and rubs his thumb over her nipple, not quite hard enough through the costume. Steph arches into his hand and this time he rubs harder, perfectly harder, and when she moans he does too, like he thinks she sounds sexy.
This isn't like Tim, and it is, and it's awesome. He's always so gentle with her unless they're sparring, unless he's teaching her, but tonight's just different. When the smugglers set the warehouse on fire he sent her out while he searched it, and when she heard the bottles of whatever-that-drug-was start exploding she'd thought her heart would stop.
But Tim came out again, smoky but unhurt, dragging a guy twice his size; then he actually kissed her, hard and enthusiastic like he had that time with the armored car (and her dad, ugh, Steph, don't think about him), in front of the smugglers and everything. One guy even laughed; one thought they were distracted and tried to escape, and Tim made him sorry with a solid kick without even letting go of Steph's hand.
And now they're in the back seat of the Redbird, and Tim's nicely heavy atop her, kissing her like he'd rather kiss than breathe. Even though Tim's all over her Steph almost can't believe it, she has to run her fingers through his hair and stroke the hot skin below his sleeves and kiss him hard enough to be sure over again she's not dreaming.
This is probably the furthest they've ever gone. Steph kisses Tim back, clutching his arm and his hair where she can feel him and not just his suit; she wonders how far they might go, and if she's going to pass out from lack of air. She doesn't really think she'd mind, not with Tim finally kissing her like he actually wants to go somewhere with it.
Tim pulls his mouth from hers, so fast the pop is really loud; Steph's eyes press shut as she gasps, and before she can get them open to look at him he shoves his face into her neck. If they could just stop for a moment, they could get more off than just their gloves, but that would mean stopping. Steph pushes her face into Tim's hair instead, feeling him mouthing her neck; he can't be tasting anything but her suit but he's doing it anyway. Underneath the smoke his hair smells weirdly chemical and sweet, and Steph wonders if Tim got dosed with something when all those bottles blew. That would explain how eager he suddenly is. Better than how cute she's not, anyway.
The thought makes her freeze, because they may been teenagers but they're still heroes with a job to do, and because she should have known better. "Tim," Steph says, tugging gently on his hair till he lifts his head. She wonders what his eyes look like beneath those lenses.
She wonders what hers look like, with her mask off.
Tim looks at her with blank white eyes and a kiss-wet mouth. "Steph?"
"I--" The questions jam in her mouth.
Tim takes his hand off her breast, and she really should have known better. But then he uses it to toggle his lenses, and his pupils are pretty wide, but his eyes are blue and hers. "Steph," he says, and he smiles, and his hand is bare and warm on her cheek; the questions dissolve, Steph can't worry anymore. Tim's alive and he's with her and she can believe he wants this for real. She tilts her chin up with a smile of her own, and he kisses her again.
Part of the Job
OK, Kon isn't like some people. Most, really. Cassie and Rob chose the hero life; as far as Kon can tell all the Bats did. Batgirl is a little more like him, because her freaky father raised her to be an assassin, but she still chose the side of the good guys. Then there are people like Bart, whose parents had him for whatever reason people have kids, but not to make a new superhero; he was born with his powers, but not because of them. Kon was born, hatched, cooked up, whatever, in order to be a superhero, he's got the job no matter what. And as he's been told by people from Dr. Westlake to Gar, weird is part of the job.
This is definetely weird. Kon thought all that randomness while staring into the sun, because his head's tilted back and sideways so Superman can get at his neck, muttering into Kon's skin as he bites, holding him up in the sky with two big hands on his hips. Kon's a little surprised he can think; by now, shouldn't he be mindlessly humping Superman's thigh and out of his head? How many people would have come in their pants already if they were here where he is?
It's not like Kon's not turned on. He's incredibly turned on. He's got eyes, and Superman is huge and gorgeous and everything Kon wants to be and needed Kon specifically out of all the people in the world. But this is also incredibly weird, because of who they are, and not least because what Clark--- God, no, Superman, if Kon thinks of him as Clark that'll just be too weird. It makes no sense, but it just would. It's more than weird enough that what Superman is muttering into Kon's skin between hard tingly bites that would actually hurt if Kon weren't a meta, is "I'm sorry, Conner, I truly am, I'm sorry."
Kon really wishes he couldn't hear that. He clings to Superman's neck, glossy hair thick under his fingers, and hangs in Superman's grip and concentrates on how it feels to ride Superman's thigh, even through briefs and jeans and a suit, how it feels to be pressed against a chest that wide and big when he's usually bigger than the people he kisses, how it feels to have his neck bitten nice and hard in all the right places. It's pretty shallow to deliberately think with his dick like this, but it's pollen, it's weird, weird is part of the job.
Who knew that a plant that made humans cheerful would affect metahumans more, not less? Kon wonders if Kory knew, when she took some of her Tamaranian flowers with her when she went to talk to Superman and Wonder Woman about the dust-up last weekend. Apparently she and Wonder Woman are really thoroughly making up, and Kon's grin at that mental image opens into a gasp when one of Superman's hands folds around his waist to palm his ass. If it were up to him he'd've joined them. Maybe that's not Superman's style, but it couldn't be much more kinky than scooping Kon up and dragging him into the sky for some nookie.
After all, it'd take a lot more for Superman to hurt Kon than it would a non-meta (don't think about her don't). And this probably means he's forgiven for torching the cape. And --- holy shit, that's Superman's hand inside Kon's jeans, warm and hard and really big on his ass, and the other pressing down his chest, pushing across his nipple, making it even harder to breathe. All this time Superman's been kissing Kon's neck, murmuring and shaking; now as his hand slides into the front of Kon's jeans, and Kon jerks and flails like an idiot from the sheer sensation, he kisses Kon's cheek, soft and gentle as if Kon were his kid or something, not his clone/cousin/whatever whom he's fucking in the sky.
"Kon." Superman says, warm breath over Kon's cheek, and Kon turns his head to look right into blue eyes wide enough to fall into, till you hit those little flares of red deep within. "I just want you to know---"
He's still apologizing. Kon wishes he knew how to explain that that's the weirdest part of all this, but it's not like he can even talk, not with Superman's hands squeezing his dick and stroking into the crack of his ass. When he opens his mouth a moan falls out, and Superman stops talking, just for a moment, and stares at Kon's mouth.
For once, Kon manages to think when it's actually useful. He groans and pushes his mouth onto Superman's, and Superman shudders against him and squeezes him with both hands and kisses him back.
Whiteout
In the wake of the second orgasm Dick realizes he can think again, that he remembers what his name is, who and what he is. Recalling the immediate past is more difficult; when Dick looks into his memory for clues to how the latest craziness erupted and how they ended up wherever they currently are, flat on a smooth plastic floor, all he finds is a fuzzy dark blank. It isn't helping that he's still drugged to the gills, sweating all over and gasping erratically, with the gravity cranked up and someone solid and hot atop him. Under these conditions, thinking is like swimming upstream through molasses, but at least now he can do it.
In fact, thinking is like swimming through pulsing, simmering-hot molasses. The person---a man? no, a boy--- with him (using 'with' to mean "riding him and clutching his shoulders with damp hard hands", and it would be funny but it's so not) is vibrating in a way that means "speedster" and moaning in a voice Dick doesn't want to recognize and oh God is he still hard? They need to---
---Bart vibrates harder, and Dick doesn't want to see, he never wanted to be doing this like this, but his eyes fall open as his body disobediently responds. Nothing's before his eyes but blank whiteness and Bart in hyperfocus, every absurdly long eyelash and swinging strand of his hair and drop of sweat on his forehead, the exact pattern of the flush on his peachfuzzed cheeks and the way he shivers when he groans.
Bart arches above him, head thrown back, and Dick had never wanted to know the way his throat curves or how sleek he feels or how he sounds crying out, spattering Dick's chest with blood-hot come. He'd never thought of Bart like this. He's a kid, a responsibility, Dick's responsibility, and Dick should have kept him out of this, shouldn't be so damned turned on he can't pry his own hands off Bart's sleek hard hips, shouldn't be so hard for it that when Bart bites his lip and gasps and shakes around him Dick comes again, mind blanking beneath a flood of white fire.
White fades to black to awareness as Dick surfaces, trembling and heaving for air. All his discipline is completely gone, he can't breathe deep enough or fast enough. Atop him Bart wobbles, eyes pressed shut, and whimpers as his arms give way, as he collapses onto Dick's chest. If anything, he's sweating more than Dick, shaking more, and he whimpers again, pressing his face into Dick's neck.
"Shhh," Dick murmurs, stroking Bart's damp mop of hair. Bart shakes harder till Dick's teeth chatter, then starts to calm down, his chest tacky-damp against Dick's as his breathing evens out and his pulse slows, his spine bumpy beneath Dick's other hand. Dick's nipples throb between them, he's aching and sore all over. It would be worse if they weren't naked, Dick thinks, and winces, and wishes he could shut his brain off. Why had he been so relieved to be lucid? Right now all he wants is a blunt weapon to bash himself into oblivion. Dick tries the floor, but his head feels so heavy he can't lift it high enough, and when it merely drops again under gravity the floor yields just enough to keep the impact from hurting sufficiently.
Bart's just a kid. Dick wonders how quickly Wally's going kill him.
They should get up and find something to wear and a way out of the featureless room (and a way not to ever remember this would be good, too), but all Dick can do is lie here, his muscles aching and useless, and stroke Bart's hair; Bart makes a tired little snuffly noise and presses his face more firmly to Dick's neck.
Dick is so doomed. Wally might not even get to kill him, because Tim might reach him first.
Bart begins to snore softly. Dick isn't sure, but it feels like he's drooling, warm wetness on Dick's already damp shoulder.
After awhile, Dick quietly starts to laugh.
Something Wild
"Gar, it was wild! You should have seen yourself!" Bart waves his arms so fast they blur, the words hitting Gar's sore head like rocks. "I never knew you could do that as an octopus!"
"Forewarned would've been eight-armed." That was weak. Gar rubs his aching face and groans. His could have locked his room, so of course he staggered out to get something to drink and collapsed on the common room couch, where Bart began babbling at him. If he weren't so hungover he'd morph into something small enough to hide from everyone, but even his hair hurts. At least he'd been so stoned on whatever-it-was that he doesn't have any memories of the incident, beyond the occasional flash of tentacle and wet heat and shrieking teammate.
Thank God for small mercies, and Vic's nasty medicinal tea, and Bart is, of course, not shutting up. "It was like that Japanese print, in this book about Asian art I read, except that instead of two octopi and one lady there was one of you and me and Cassie and we couldn't get away but pretty soon you made us not want to. I mean, wow, you're good at that, so how come you never go on any dates?"
Without looking up, Gar pitches the spare pillow in Bart's direction. A moment later it's tucked back beside his head, so he pulls it over his face. Blessed darkness, even if Bart's voice still comes through. "I never saw Cassie like that before, I mean, I'd seen her almost naked, costume malfunctions and all that, but that was totally dif-- EEP!"
A thud sounds across the room. Gar peers from beneath his pillow, though the light stabs through his eyes into his brain. Cassie is hovering up by the ceiling, one hand on her hip and the other round Bart's throat, sizzling out to the ends of her hair. "Bart," she hisses through clenched teeth, "shut. UP."
At least she puts him back down on the floor rather than letting him drop, and he promptly vanishes in a crackling blur. She bobs angrily, both hands on her hips, her chest heaving. Gar makes a small accidental noise that is not a whimper, and Cassie flashes a blue glare at him that drives him back beneath the pillow, then flies out of the room so fast the concussion sends papers skittering and the curtains fluttering. When Gar dares to peek out again, he's alone .
He rejoined the Titans, why? In the old days---
---OK, in the old days it would've been every last bit this weird. Or weirder.
Safe in the underpillow darkness, Gar reflects on the fact that once he's recovered enough for her to consider it fair, Cassie is totally going to kill him. On the other hand, she is pretty gorgeous. So is Bart, in his way, but Gar's not going to let himself think too much about that at the moment. Morphing into a squirrel, Gar winces at the throb of headache, tucks his tail over his nose, and closes his eyes.
