mithen: (Misty Batman)
[personal profile] mithen
When in Rome (4021 words) by Mithen
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: DCU (Comics)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne
Additional Tags: Public Sex, Orgy, First Time

Superman and Batman are invited to a grand celebration in honor of negotiating a peace treaty on an alien planet. As it turns out, however, this planet's customs for such celebrations are a little different from Terran ones.

“We can never thank you enough, honored heroes. Your help in bringing about peace after so many decades of war is truly--” High Chancellor Dheaeval’s long, dark fingers fluttered in the air between her and Superman as if attempting to express the ineffable.

“Batman and I can’t take that much of the credit, High Chancellor,” Clark said. “It was your people’s desire to achieve an end to the hostilities that made the difference.”

“But you traveled across the galaxy to mediate, to help us find common ground at last. We can never, never repay our debt to you.”

“Seeing your planet at peace is the only repayment we could desire,” Bruce said smoothly, executing a perfectly-calibrated Aehtaeasean bow, complete with exquisitely proper finger motions. Clark stared at him in some envy--he’d never quite managed to get the bow correct during the week they’d been on Aehtaeas, and the frustration had dogged him through the peace proceedings. On the plus side, the giggles from both sides as he’d struggled with the form had broken the ice and provided a source of shared merriment among the old foes, so Clark couldn’t regret it that much.

He hoped Bruce thought he’d been doing it on purpose.

“You will, I hope, do us the honor of participating in the lielthal tonight?” Dheaeval asked. “There will be songs, and food, and all the usual revelries to celebrate such a momentous occasion. Your presence would be a constant visual reminder of our new peace and the burgeoning union of our peoples.”

Later, Clark would realize that what he had taken to be accidental innuendo was anything but. At the time, however, he smiled and said “Of course we would be honored to attend, High Chancellor.”

Bruce pulled a sour face as Dheaeval moved away to spread the good news that the alien ambassadors would be attending the lielthal. “Thanks a lot,” he muttered. “As if I don’t have to attend enough pointless parties on Earth.”

“Oh come on,” Clark said. “Don’t be a grouchy old fogey. At least this one is a celebration of the end of a war. You don’t get to attend those kinds of parties every day.”

Bruce looked thoughtful for a second, then smiled: a slow, thoughtful smile that made Clark’s heart turn over oddly. “I suppose,” he said. “But don’t blame me when you end up bored to tears.”

“I’m sure it won’t be boring,” Clark said. Because you’ll be there, he wanted to add, but resisted the temptation.

“It’s a diplomatic dinner,” Bruce sighed. “They’re required by galactic law to be boring.”

As it turned out, it was anything but boring.

“What in the world--” Clark lifted the cloth from the box, staring in some astonishment at the shifting, silky fabric.

“Are the colors unright, sir?” The Aehtaeasean messenger looked concerned, tilting his head to the side, ears twitching.

“No, they’re perfect.” And they were exactly the right shades of blue, red, and yellow. “But--” He looked up and met Bruce’s amused gaze, which fairly shouted: Who’s the old fogey now? “It’s perfect,” he said more firmly.

“The crafters worked quite hard to create something lielthal-appropriate,” the messenger said. “If it is not to your liking, we can--”

“Please tell your crafters that the clothing is flawless and I am very happy with it,” Clark said.

The messenger opened his opalescent eyes wider and smiled in delight, then turned to Bruce. “And you, sir?”

Bruce looked up from an armful of silvery-gray cloth. “It’s exquisite,” he said gravely, with no laughter or irony in his voice at all. “You even included a mask. Thank you.”

The messenger shrugged in a way that suggested it was no one’s business if the honored ambassador preferred to conceal his face. “I shall pass on the good news,” he said. “All are looking forward to seeing you tonight.”

“Well,” murmured Bruce as the messenger hurried away. “This may not be boring after all.”

“This...doesn’t leave much to the imagination,” Clark said dubiously, holding up his clothing. “And they didn’t include any undergarments. One strong breeze and I’m going to create an intergalactic incident.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Bruce said, but did not elaborate further as he pulled off his Batman suit with crisp and methodical motions, stripping down to the skin and pulling the swirling robe over his head. It hid most of his body, but seemed to shift like smoke, revealing random slopes of muscle and whispers of shining scars as he moved. He picked up the mask, which was made of some kind of black metal filigree, and slipped it over his face, then looked at Clark, raising an eyebrow. “Well?”

The metal was like lace, obscuring Bruce’s features while allowing glimpses of his face and eyes to glint through tantalizingly. Clark realized he was staring and looked away hastily. “It hides your face well enough,” he said.

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” said Bruce. “But aren’t you going to put yours on?”

“Right,” said Clark. “Hm.”

He tried to aim for the same nonchalance as Bruce in stripping off his costume and slipping the robe over his head, but felt like his motions were clumsy and uncertain. “Oh geez,” he said, looking down at the scarlet cloth as it rippled around him.

“You look exquisite,” Bruce said. Clark shot him a sharp look, but Bruce’s mouth remained free of any sardonic tilt. “Shall we?” he said, gesturing toward the door.

“I just hope we can get through this without destroying the treaty through some terrible faux pas,” Clark said dubiously.

“We’ll be fine,” Bruce said. “When in Rome, do as the Romans and all that.”

“What were you saying about doing as the Romans?” Clark said an hour or so later, looking around the banquet room.

“Well,” said Bruce, with just a hint of laughter in his voice, “if I remember my history lessons correctly, Rome was famous for its orgies.”

The air was heavy with musk and perfume and the sounds of lovemaking; Clark tried to avert his eyes politely from six places at once. He was the only one doing so, he realized. In fact, some of the more… acrobatic sets of lovers had appreciative audiences. “My history classes never covered that,” he muttered.

“Ah, Kansas public education,” Bruce said sorrowfully.

“Shush,” said Clark. “So what do we do now?”

As if on cue, High Chancellor Dheaeval came bounding up to them, radiant with delight. “Ambassadors!” she called out. “What an honor to have you here at the lielthal.” She bowed and added with the air of a ritual phrase, “May your pleasure be a seal unto all our hearts.”

Someone behind Clark cried out in rapture, a throaty sound of abandon, and delighted applause rose up in response. “May it indeed,” Bruce said to the Chancellor. “But Superman and I have to admit that we do not have a ceremony like the lielthal on our home planet, and we are unsure how to best participate.”

“No lielthal?” The Chancellor seemed taken aback. “How in the world do you finalize important treaties and agreements?”

“A hearty handshake?” Clark muttered. Bruce’s elbow managed to find a gap in the silken robe and hit his ribs. Clark hoped he’d banged his funny bone.

“Is this…” Dheaeval’s voice faltered. “Is this offensive to you in some way? Have we--”

“Not at all, not at all!” Clark put all the sincerity he could muster into his voice, hoping to wipe out the alarm in Dheaeval’s eyes. “We just were hoping you could educate us about what our role would be in this.”

“Explain it to us as though we were children being told about the lielthal for the first time,” Bruce added.

“Well…” The High Chancellor cast her eyes upward as though searching for the right words. “When great conflicts are finally put aside, a lielthal is held to celebrate the new harmony and joy. The lielthal ends when all the participants have achieved their fullest potential pleasure at least once, for all to enjoy.”

Another deep groan of bliss reached Clark’s ears, so intensely satisfied that his toes almost curled. I wonder what Bruce would sound like--

He cut the thought off brutally and made himself pay attention to their Lielthal for Alien Dummies lecture.

“More than once is perfectly acceptable, mind you,” Dheaeval said, holding up a didactic finger. “But it only needs to be publicly vouched for once. Some, of course, like to show off a bit and be vouched for many times. Why, there was a lielthal three years ago where my sister was vouched for ten times before the night was over.” She shook her head in affectionate exasperation. One of her aides came up behind her and put its--Aehtaeaseans had at least three sexes and this was one of the ones Clark didn’t know the pronouns for--arms around her, nuzzling the back of her neck and slipping long fingers under her robe; she gave it a playful swat and murmured “Not yet, dear.”

“Are participants required to have any specific partners?” Bruce asked as though they were discussing which fork to use at a formal dinner.

“Not at all,” Dheaeval said. “You may have only one or as many as you like; formal mate-bonds are not considered binding for the lielthal. Invitations can be given freely, but also rejected freely. Parents and siblings are taboo, but beyond that all is allowed for the sake of the pact and the pleasure.” She smiled at Bruce, then at Clark. “Of course, you two need not worry about being close family with anyone here. If you are interested, I offer myself as a partner with either or both of you. It would be a delight to give you pleasure to seal the alliance you helped build.”

“Oh, I-- I don’t know if-- I-- I mean, it’s not that you’re not, uh--” said Clark, then stopped himself from stammering anything even more stupid.

“I invited Superman just before you arrived, Chancellor. My regrets,” Bruce cut in.

“The regret is entirely mine,” smiled Dheaeval. “But somehow I shall console myself--where did Cerdeph go?” she murmured to herself, raising an arm to flag down the aide who had embraced her earlier. “Cerdeph has been hoping for a lielthal since we started working together,” she said to Clark and Bruce as her co-worker came bounding up, beaming. “And I confess I’ve been wanting to see just how inventive--” Her voice broke off as Cerdeph went to its knees in front of her, pushing aside the silvery robe and bending close to the curly golden hair exposed at her crotch. “Oh,” she murmured, a flush rising to her cheeks and her eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

“Well then,” said Clark, “we’ll just be going--”

“Mmm,” said Dheaeval. Her voice had gone husky. “Stay and vouch for my pleasure, Ambassadors, as it is my first--oh.” She slipped her fingers under his robe to caress herself and then Cerdeph’s head, and Clark heard Bruce swallow hard.

It probably should have been agonizingly awkward, watching the High Chancellor be pleasured by her aide, and yet when everyone else in the hall was either fucking or watching--or sometimes both at once--the only truly awkward thing was having Bruce standing so very close to him as Dheaeval made increasingly broken sounds of rapture, her knees giving out until she sank to the marble floor, back arched in pleasure. Bruce was about a foot behind him to the left, near enough that Clark could touch him if he just reached out, near enough that Clark could practically feel the heat of his body. And he’d invited-- well, he’d said he had; did that count as an actual invitation? Clark wondered. Were they really going to--

Dheaevel gasped and shuddered with a sharp, climatic groan, eventually going limp as Cerdeph moved to nuzzle at her neck, arms wrapped around her. Polite applause broke out; Clark joined in and heard Bruce do so as well. She opened her eyes and smiled up at them. “Thank you for vouching for me,” she said in a warm, satisfied voice as she pulled Cerdeph closer.

“Well,” Bruce said. Clark turned to see Bruce looking at him. “Our turn?” He looked around the hall, spotting an unoccupied piece of furniture that was close to a chaise longue. “I’d rather not be on the floor,” he murmured, and reached out to take Clark’s wrist.

Clark bit his lip as a stab of lust went through him at the warmth and pressure of Bruce’s fingers, letting himself be drawn over to the chair.

“Sorry about laying claim to you like that,” Bruce said in English, dropping the Interlac. “I figured you might be uneasy about not knowing Aehtaeasean biology or anatomy and wouldn’t want to risk a diplomatic incident.” He sat down on the chair, almost primly. The smoky black robe drifted around him.

“Oh,” said Clark, feeling somehow deflated. “Yes, that was quick thinking.” He sat down next to Bruce, who was still holding his wrist. “So how are you going to make it look like we’ve--you know--”

Bruce tilted his head, puzzled. “Look like?”

“I’m sure you’ve got a plan to--so we don’t--”

Bruce’s face went through a variety of different emotions very quickly, settling into a somewhat pained grimace. “Clark, that’s not something I feel comfortable faking. Not when it’s so important to this alliance that the pleasure be legitimate.” The grimace shifted into something more tentative, almost vulnerable. “Do you not… I can ask Dheaevel to come back and--”

“No,” Clark managed. A variety of Aehtaeaseans were looking at them--some obliquely and some directly. “No, this is good.” Bruce looked at him and Clark heard himself say again, like his voice belonged to a stranger, “This is good.”

“Well,” said Bruce. He was almost smiling beneath the mask. “I hope it will be, at least.”

He leaned in and kissed Clark, and Clark could feel the cold metal of the mask press against his skin for a moment before it warmed between them. The kiss was tentative and gentle right up until the moment it finally, truly dawned on Clark that he was actually kissing Bruce Wayne.

Shortly after that, Clark found himself straddling Bruce, who was flat on his back on the sofa. Clark pulled back and stared at him for a moment, realizing that both of them were breathing heavily. Bruce’s hair was a wild tangle against the beige brocade, and Clark blurted out, “I never get to see you masked but with your hair showing. It’s like-- It’s like you’re both of you at once.”

Bruce’s slow smile knew exactly what Clark’s jumbled words meant. “I don’t often get to see you without either the glasses or the costume,” he said. He drew Clark’s hand to his mouth and kissed the knuckles, an oddly courtly gesture. Clark blinked at him. Then Bruce tugged him down close and Clark felt his earlobe being gently tugged into the warmth of Bruce’s mouth. “We have to put on a show and I assume it’s best if it looks as spontaneous as possible,” Bruce murmured in English. “So rather than have a long awkward conversation, tell me quickly how you want this to go.”

“I, uh…” Bruce’s tongue flicked at his ear and Clark was finding it very hard to concentrate. “I guess what I’d like is for you to maybe… you know.”

“I don’t know,” Bruce said with just a hint of battish growl in his voice. “Obviously.”

The silken robe was doing nothing to conceal Clark’s arousal, and he was vastly relieved to feel Bruce’s erection pressing urgently against his hip as well. “Well, I think what might work best would be…” There were a dozen or so people watching them, smiling warmly at this display of alien courting rituals; Clark smiled politely back and tried to string together a coherent sentence. “Overall, I’d be fine with anything, but…”

Bruce’s teeth closed on his earlobe in a way that would be painful to any human and still managed to startle Clark. “Clark,” Bruce said.

“Fuck me,” Clark almost yelped. “I’d like you to fuck me.”

There was a short silence in which Clark heard his own heart hammering and realized that he had somehow gotten even harder. Then Bruce dropped back onto the brocade pillow and smiled up at him, a lazy predatory smile that blended playboy and vigilante in terrifyingly exhilarating ways. “You have no idea how much I was hoping you’d say that,” Bruce murmured.

Clark was, in turn, fairly certain Bruce had no idea just how many times he’d imagined Bruce looking at him like that, as if he’d finally gotten something he’d wanted for a long time. He stared, entranced, as affection and tenderness and fierce desire all came and went on Bruce’s face.

“Would the gentlesirs care for lubricant?” Clark bit back another yelp as a smiling Aehtaeasean carrying a colorfully-painted box seemed to materialize next to the couch. “We have several types, as well as aphrodisiacs and virility-enhancers…”

“We will take your least-scented lubricant,” Bruce said without hesitation. “We won’t be needing the rest at all,” he added with a smug grin at Clark that sent shivers down Clark’s spine. Taking a small silvery bulb from the vendor, he dropped it on a small table next to the couch. “But let’s start slow. Give them a show.”

Clark tried not to look around at all the bright, eager eyes watching the exotic aliens get it on. “I… never really wanted this to happen for the first time with a hall of people watching us,” he murmured. “It feels kind of…”

Bruce’s smile was wry and gentle. “It wasn’t exactly my first choice either,” he said. He pushed Clark’s robes out of the way, his hand sliding up Clark’s thigh. “But think of it this way. Remember all those times Darkseid or Mongul or some other tinpot galactic dictator tortured you in public?”

“Um.” Bruce’s thumb was caressing just the very edge of his balls; Clark felt them tighten at the touch. “Yes. So?”

“Well, if you were willing to endure being tortured for the amusement of a crowd, isn’t it substantially better to be pleasured for the joy of these kind people? To celebrate peace?”

“When you put it that way,” Clark said, trying to keep his head clear and mostly failing. He wanted it so much--“I guess I should do my best to relax and enjoy myself, huh?”

“I think I can help with that,” Bruce said, and shifted his touch to encircle the base of Clark’s cock, jerking him off with confident ease.

Clark almost cried out at the touch--so long-desired, so still-unexpected--and Bruce smiled at him as if he understood exactly what that stifled sound meant. A murmur of appreciative delight went through the watching crowd, and Clark fought a sudden impulse to pull his robe around him more tightly and hide the evidence of the effect Bruce was having on him. We’re celebrating peace, he reminded himself, but he felt anything but peaceful, he felt arousal shuddering through him in great waves, magnificent and undeniable. “Slow down,” he managed to say, and the delicious friction eased enough that he wasn’t afraid he was going to come right then and there.

Bruce reached out with his free hand and unerringly picked up the little silvery packet of lube, never taking his eyes from Clark’s face. Clark could feel his erection pinned between them, nudging imperiously at Clark’s body. “Feel free to do the honors,” Bruce said.

The alien lube was slightly warm and silkily frictionless. “Oh,” said Bruce in some surprise as Clark grasped his cock with slippery fingers, “I should get the formula for this, Wayne Enterprises could make a killing. I could call it GothLube--”

“Shush,” said Clark, stroking, and Bruce shushed for a moment, biting his lip.

“Or,” he went on, his voice breaking slightly, “the uses for the Justice League of a nearly-frictionless liquid are--”

Shush,” Clark repeated more firmly, and started to lower himself onto Bruce’s cock, inch by inch.

This caused Bruce to shush, but only in the sense of cutting off his words, because he made a sharp growling noise and grabbed at Clark’s hips. A scattering of spontaneous applause rippled around the hall--Clark didn’t know if it was meant for them and thought it wiser not to check--as they moved together, tentatively at first, then with more confidence. They went slowly, building tension, teasing it--the desire for completion, connection, the yearning for an end to the friction. Clark could feel eyes on him, but he was past caring as he looked down at Bruce’s face, flushed and fierce under the mask of metallic lace. Bruce’s hands on him were imperative and coaxing at the same time, Bruce’s body within his an electrifying pleasure.

“You’re so good,” Clark said without thinking, and Bruce made a startled noise, as if he’d never imagined anyone saying something so simple and direct to him. He bucked up hard against Clark’s body--once, twice, three times--and his hand tightened on Clark beyond what any human could have borne, but was perfect, perfect, it was all perfect-- Clark tipped his head back and felt their combined pleasure as one flawless thing, the bright gazes on them only amplifying it, somehow. For a moment he transcended any embarrassment and simply was there.

And then the moment passed and he realized that he was sweaty and sticky and sitting on top of an equally sticky, sweaty teammate as people applauded happily. He looked down at Bruce and wished he had a mask to hide his own face--though the wry smile Bruce tilted toward him hinted he felt as exposed as Clark did at the moment. Clark looked around at the joyous, approving faces and dredged through his scattered thoughts until he found the phrase the High Chancellor had used: “Thank you for vouching for us.”

The applause brightened for a moment in delight that he had remembered the correct phrase, and Clark breathed a sigh of relief. He looked back down at Bruce, who was looking up at him with something that looked almost like bemusement. “Kiss me,” Bruce whispered in English, and Clark leaned in and put his mouth to that sweetly stern curve, sighing into the kiss as he felt Bruce slipping from his body.

By the time the kiss ended, the attention of the party had shifted elsewhere and they were no longer the center of attention. Bruce swiped at Clark’s sticky skin with his robe, whistling in astonishment as sweat and semen were absorbed by the cloth with no trace. “Humans may have invented Teflon and velcro to get to the moon, but this planet has made huge technological advances in the service of diplomatic orgies,” he said, staring at the fluffy, dry cloth. “On the whole, I think they may have the better deal of it.”

Clark pushed him slightly aside to make room and sank down beside him on the couch, half-draped across him. “I’m sure you can describe a host of pragmatic, useful ways we could use that cloth.”

“Oh, I could,” Bruce said, tugging experimentally at Clark’s robe. “The medical uses alone--” He broke off as he looked at Clark’s face. “But I won’t right now,” he said.

“That’s good,” said Clark. He closed his eyes.

“Are you really going to take a post-coital nap right here in the middle of this party?” Bruce sounded amused.

“Actually, I find it pretty peaceful,” Clark said.

He felt Bruce wrap his arms around him; a kiss was dropped on his temple. “You know what?” Bruce said. “You’re right.”

They lay there together, hearing the orgy unfolding around them. Clark listened to the cries and moans of pleasure, the approving applause, the vendors hawking aphrodisiacs, and Bruce’s soft breathing, and what he heard was peace, peace, peace.

(no subject)

Date: 2017-02-17 05:41 pm (UTC)
mekare: (doctor who brilliant)
From: [personal profile] mekare
*reads pairing* *does happydance*
*reads additonal tags* *HYPERVENTILATES LIKE A MADWOMAN*

(no subject)

Date: 2017-02-19 08:39 am (UTC)
mekare: (bamboo bat)
From: [personal profile] mekare
Mission accomplished.

Have you read my proper comment yet?


mithen: (Default)

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