Wally can taste the coppery tang of blood along Roy's gums where he tried to scrub out the dregs; the pollen, that fucking pollen out of Roy's mouth sucking insistent and rough on his tongue.
The air in the room smells like fever—aggressive and whimpering and human, blindly human, blindly consuming; the room tastes like sex, like dried come, like gratuitous, heated fucking for hours.
For an hour… they were fine. They were coherent. One slip-up. It wasn't even their fault. One slip-up and the steel toe of the goon's shoe dug into a crack in the cement floor. The wood crate he had been trying to smuggle out broke open. What rolled out—what looked like a small, hand-painted enamel urn—scattered its contents at Roy's feet; the shimmery, gold-orange pollen had already contaminated their airspace. Roy clamped his fingers over his nostrils at the time, coughing, desperately trying to not breathe it, scrambling a hand over Wally's mouth and nose, guiding him out.
An hour before the effects set in. It hit finally. Wally could feel the tiny hairs prickle on the base of his neck, on his sandy freckled arms resting on the living room couch and Roy's eyes were so dark.
Sweat gathered on his forehead, dripping. An hour before, they were kicking asses and taking names on the east end of town. In Roy's apartment, Wally's heart rushed to poundpoundfaster when Roy dreamily removed his towel and climbed over him on that piece of shit couch. Wally could see where on Roy's strong jaw and his face and all of him bruised red from the harsher temperature of his shower, from the harshness of scrubbing. Wally's skin didn't bruise that easily, even from the same temperature and harshness twelve minutes prior.
Roy's forehead wrinkled in silent discomfort; he didn't move from his spot, his naked thighs seated to Wally's sides, his erect cock straining a dusky red. Roy's fingers carded slowly through Wally's damp hair. Wally's arms twitched from lying at his sides, alive, grasping Roy's thighs closer.
The sounds of the room don't change — the garbled television static; the ragged, escalating measure of Roy's heavy breathing above him, of Wally's breathing; the slick, disgustingly loud noises of flesh-against-flesh. Wally can feel himself metabolize the stronger effects of the pollen quicker than Roy when the sun begins to peek through the wrecked shade from the living room window. His head clears from that fucking never-ending roar and his limbs are heavy — Roy's hands still steadily caress the expansion of muscles below Wally's ribcage; unabashed; meaningful in exploration.
Wally's mouth fills with saliva. Roy shifts over him, legs cradling Wally's sides. He calls Roy's name under his breath, carefully, and waits until Roy's hands halt their ministrations before calling again.
Roy's dark eyes screw up tightly, and then open, eyelashes trembling apart. Blue irises thicken. Roy's pupils shrink to a normal size.
He's starting to come down.
Both of Roy's hands fly over his head. His fingers, crusted with — god, Wally didn't even want to think about it anymore — scrap down into his scalp until Roy's knuckles whiten.
His voice cracks.
"I know," Wally murmurs, pressing his cheek against a couch cushion, and he sounds more levelheaded than he should feel. Roy's knuckles clench and clench. Everything is so heavy. "It's okay."
"It's going to be okay."
This is my second-to-last Christmas present. Whooo. This one is for shadowinthedark13~. Prompt request: "Roy/Wally." I added the sex pollen cause I'm sooo original. xD