Title: The Chemicals Between Us

Word Count:

Rating: Very, very R

Spoilers: Assumes familiarity with up to Season 9.

Warnings: m/m, language, adult situations

Summary: If Oliver knew how much fun Clark was when he was like this, he would have gotten him drunk long before now.

And I want you to remain
The power of children can amaze
I'll try not to complain
I know that's a pisser baby

If Oliver knew how much fun Clark was when he was like this, he would have gotten him drunk long before now. Deep in the part of his brain that he hadn't spent the best portion of the night pickling, he knows something is wrong. Clark is never this free, never this exciting. He's dull and run-of-the-mill and tiresomely wholesome. But that part of Oliver's brain is tiny, and the rest of Oliver is finding it hard to care. Clark has manhandled him several times in very exciting ways, effectively distracting him from giving a shit about how not-normal this was for Clark.

Call-Me-Kal is sex on legs and hell on wheels. Oliver will never admit it, but he struggles to keep up.

They are separate now. Oliver waits by the bar, unsteady on his feet, as he sips his Out of This World. He is watching Clark stride through the sweaty, heaving throng on the dance floor, a god accepting adulation from the lesser minions he deigns to gift with his presence. The bass thrums through the club, a heavy sultry beat. Oliver can feel it through the soles of his shoes, can feel it in his blood. His eyes slide to half-mast, swaying unconsciously with the beat. It's hypnotic, seductive, and dammit, where the hell did Clark go? He slams back the rest of his drink, feeling it tingle pleasantly all the way down, as he scans the dance floor.

A hand grabs his hip and spins him around. Before he can do more than suck in a breath, he's flush against a very solid chest (super-ultra-mega XL, his brain supplies helpfully), staring into glittering eyes. All the blood rushes south and he's clinging to biceps big enough to make an elephant jealous before he realizes this isn't Clark.

They grow them big in Vegas goes through his bewildered mind as he tries to process the military-short black hair, the strong jawline and the fuck-me pout of heavy lips. The guy is good-looking, no doubt about that, and on another, lonely night, Ollie might have taken him up on his very explicit offer to visit a dark alleyway for a quick romp in the smog. But tonight, Ollie is waiting for a Greek god muscled from a lifetime of farm chores and sweaty from hours on the dance floor. And he is definitely not interested in anything less than that Greek god. Not even Adonis.

But Adonis leans in and whispers in his ear, suggestions that, with the hint of a Kansas twang, would make his blood spontaneously combust, and it doesn't matter because his blood is burning and his cock is rising and he's nodding his head emphatically, saying yes yes yes let's do it and he doesn't know why.

He's drunk and he knows it, knows he should call for Clark, Kal, whoever he is today, because he obviously cannot make sound decisions for himself. Self-destructive Ollie, Oliver fucking Queen, running out on the finest piece of ass he could ever hope to moan under. Skulking like a sheep out the side door with someone he shouldn't even be looking at twice.

He knows something is wrong, screams it in the back of his head with the same voice that knows there's something wrong with Clark, but he follows the blond out the door, clammy hand clutching smooth, warm fingers.

What. Am. I. Doing?

His back hits the rough brick of the alley, and Adonis kneels in front of him, and his fingers are running along the rough peach-fuzz of Adonis's buzz cut. His heart trip-hammers in his throat, and he can't catch his breath. A pleasant fog has settled over his mind, humming with pleasure as Adonis lifts him out of the strangling confines of his pants and engulfs his entire length in a hot, wet mouth and holy shit there goes thinking for the foreseeable future.

His breath hisses out from between gritted teeth, and his hands are petting frantic streaks in Adonis's hair. Oliver's head slams back against the bricks as the tip of his cock nudges down Adonis's throat, and it's hard enough to cut through the fog. Just for a moment, he can think clearly. Drunkenly, maybe, but clearly. And he knows that, no matter how expert Adonis is at sucking dick, this is not the mouth he wants around him. As the fog overlays his mind again, he has the wherewithal to exhale a single name:

Kal…

And then Kal, Clark, whoever the hell he is tonight is there, a wrathful deity picking up Adonis with one massive hand and flinging him away. His support abruptly gone, Oliver slides down the wall, dick hanging out of the opened zipper of his pants, staring up at Clark with adoring awe.

Clark stares back down at him, all unreadable eyes and chiseled cheeks. He doesn't look happy, that much registers in Oliver's brain, but he reaches down and hauls Oliver back up on his feet anyway. "What the hell was that?"

Oliver shakes his head, and the world swims dizzyingly. "I don't know," he manages to say, closing his eyes against the spin. Nausea chokes his throat, but it isn't too-much-to-drink nausea. He knows the burn of that. This is different, this is new. This is not something he has ever felt before. This is-

Oh. Oh.

With a start, he realizes it's shame.

He opens them again as Clark's hand slides against his cheek, and blinks to refocus them as Clark's face is very close, closer than Oliver expected it to be. There's something readable there now, lurking behind blue eyes, something that speaks of possessiveness and want.

"I don't share, Ollie," he says. His voice is soft but hard, an audible Mount Everest in weight and implacability. "I thought you knew that."

"I don't… I didn't…" Oliver is confused. He is trying to process what has happened so far, but gets tangled up around the bar and the guy who isn't Clark and it's all a haze after that. And then it all gets derailed when Clark presses against him, pressing him into the wall, holding him there with his chest and legs and arms.

"You belong to me now," Clark says, and Oliver is nodding, yes, yes he is. Because the confusion is leaving now, and certainty sets into its place. Oliver Queen is nobody's pet, nobody's plaything, but maybe he isn't Oliver Queen because he knows that all those rules are thrown right out the window when it comes to Clark.

But he is Oliver Queen, Oliver fucking Queen, and he has to push the limits. He doesn't know any other way to be. Maybe it's the booze, maybe it's just Clark, but somewhere, Oliver finds the wherewithal to clear his throat, look up and say, "Don't keep me waiting, then." He knows it's wrong, he knows it's the pressing buttons and shoving at the boundaries of this thing that's happening tonight, but he can't help himself. His mouth has the leash now, and it's running away, and he wouldn't even begin to know how to stop it if he tried. "I get easily distracted. I'm very high-maintenance."

Clark stares down at him, and Oliver resists the urge to squirm, to writhe, to beg in abject humiliation for forgiveness. But then Clark's mouth twists up in a sideways grin that would melt steel, and all is right in Oliver's world again. "Fair enough," he murmurs, and his mouth is so close to Oliver's he's having trouble thinking again. "But there's a problem."

"Problem?" The only problem Oliver can fathom at the moment is that they're both still clothed and not sweaty and loud in a bed in his penthouse suite at the Four Seasons.

And then – oh god – Clark's hand is sliding down his chest and Oliver quivers with anticipation, knowing the path those fingers are traveling. Clark takes his time, lingers over Oliver's abdomen, tracing the lines of the six-pack Oliver has to work like a beast to maintain, and then he's got Oliver's cock in his palm. His skin is warm, hot, sun-seared, and Oliver's hips buck forward, his shoulders slamming back against the wall. A moan breaks free from his throat and his eyes flutter in his head. His body knows the touch of its master, and it's embarrassing, but if Clark keeps doing that for thirty more seconds, Oliver is going to have a mess to clean up.

But Clark squeezes, lightly. Part of Oliver likes that very much, and a high whine emerges, nasally and needy. But the rest of Oliver is suddenly very aware that Clark can punch through an asteroid if he's in the mood, and Oliver's favorite body part is cupped in hands that could pop him like a grape.

(The first part of Oliver still likes this very much, and sends a new surge of arousal screaming through his veins. Oliver isn't sure what he's supposed to be listening to now: the raging lust, or the terrified self-preservation.)

"This is mine," Clark is saying, his breath hot on Oliver's earlobe, and the flick of a hot, wet tongue sends Oliver careening to the brink of orgasm. A shudder wrenches his spine, delicious and helpless. He can barely hear Clark over the moans coming from him, the moans of a wanton thing. "No one else touches it, do you understand me?"

"Fuck, god, whatever you say, Clark." He is gasping, can barely get the words out. His hips are pistoning, trying to pump his length through Clark's hand, but Clark holds him still with a warning squeeze. The urge to spurt everywhere like a horny teenager dies off a bit, enough that Oliver can open his eyes and think a little straighter.

Clark is smiling as he tucks Oliver back into his pants and condescendingly zips him back up. Oliver makes a noise of protest, once the action processes through his lust-addled brain, but Clark just pats Oliver's crotch and grins wider. "Good boy. The night is still young, and I still want you naked and moaning at the end of it. Can you keep up?"

Oliver isn't sure he possesses the verbal skills to answer, so he settles for a very enthusiastic bout of nodding. He spares a single glance towards the part of the alley where Clark threw Adonis, and confusion –or maybe the booze—swirls the world around him again. He still doesn't know what happened there, but he decides he doesn't care right now.

Clark wants him to keep up. Oliver is an overachiever by nature. He'll fly if he has to.