“You’re wearing a mask. Take it off,” the alien commanded, as his hand ghosted over the side of Bruce’s uncovered face. His other hand was shoved between their bodies, scrabbling for the catches on the Bat’s armor.
The Bat shook his head. No. No. Oh no. The mask he was wearing was deeper than metal or skin.
He saw the moment when Kal noticed his fist swinging towards his face. He had pulled the punch, delivered it at half-speed. Kal ducked out of its path, reconsidered, and then resumed his original position. The fist smashed into skin denser than any human’s; the Bat’s knuckles throbbed indignantly.
“Let me see that,” Kal murmured, bringing it up to his face. “Is bruising your knuckles foreplay to you?
The Bat struggled, and Kal let him whip the hand out of his grasp. They squared off in front of each other, their chests the barest inch apart. He was breathing heavily, and Kal—Kal looked nothing like a god.
Kal rested a hand against his chest, softly. “How does—” he took a deep breath, panting the difficulty of the question. Difficult! For Him! Kal made everything seem effortless, even desire. “—the armor come off?”
“I wanted to kill you tonight Kal,” the Bat said, as though it was an answer. It had been years since the Bat had spoken without the voice changer. The odd rasp of the Bat’s voice tasted like gravel in his throat. His eyes devoured Kal, and saw the shiver the voice sent through his spine. Good. It eased the squirming discomfort deep in the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t the only one out of control here. “I still might.”
“What—?” Kal was cut off suddenly as the Bat slammed his shoulder into the center of his chest. He put as much weight into it as he could, and they rocketed across the rooftop, and smashed through the skylight. Superman’s cape fluttered up around them. It cocooned them as they smashed through to the warehouse floor. Glass and wood slipped harmlessly to the floor.
Bruce looked up into Kal’s face, as Kal unwrapped his arms from around his neck. Kal had cushioned his neck. Because Kal didn’t want him dead. Idiot.
“Feel better?” He asked, humor dancing in his eyes.
“Fight back,” the Bat snarled, dizzy with lust.
“You like it that I don’t,” Kal whispered hotly in his ear, and god, yes, Bruce was so hard he could barely see straight. His hand groped out to find the edge of Kal’s face, and he slammed his head into the nearest crate.
Or at least, that was the plan. He couldn’t even budge the kryptonian. It felt like he was pressing against the gravity of a planet.
Bruce’s pulse hammered in his veins, and he knew, it was going to happen here, now, there was no stopping it. His fingers found to the catches inside of his gauntlets, and disengaged them. They fell to the floor with a portentous thunk. His hands were on top of Kal’s in a second, snaking them over the surface of his armor, pressing the kryptonian’s fingers into all of the invisible places where the suit came apart. The armor peeled away in sections, leaving Bruce in his black, skin-tight undersuit.
Kal licked his lips, and gave him a tight look promising dark, vicious things if he so much as tried to throw a punch now.
Hot fingers raked over his erection, and Bruce flared his nostrils. Through the heat-proof fabric, designed to reduce friction and compress his muscles, he had felt Kal’s desire.
“Touch me,” Bruce groaned. “Let me feel your fingers,”
Kal frowned. He said slowly, as though he was worried Bruce was missing a key information. “I am touching you. Right now.”
“No, goddamnit,” Bruce tried to tug Superman’s hands to the uncovered skin of face. “Let me,” he did not whine.
Kal relented. Bruce slid the palm of the man’s hand over his bare skin, and he could feel it now—the deep, burning core of heat that had only been tepid in his last touch. Bruce felt his skin scald under the touch. It could never, ever be mistaken for a human temperature. He nuzzled into it like a warmth-starved cat.
“How do you take off the suit?” The Bat rasped, because finally, everything inside of Bruce was on-board with this plan. He would fuck the kryptonian in the warehouse. He couldn’t stop himself at this point. Kal would have to stop him, if he didn’t want this.
Slowly, Kal’s hands trailed up to his shield, and he depressed it with his fingers. The suit tiled across his skin, peeling up in small pentagons, revealing inch after inch of unblemished flesh.
Bruce’s head bounced, as he fell to his knees. Lust choked out the last of his reason. He kneeled on ground that he would not cede. The kryptonian would be his, or the Bat would die.
He watched as the suit uncovered disappeared from his hips, his chest, the shockingly deep v below his abdominals. He had wondered how much of the physique was stylized armor, how much of it was Kal’s body; now, Bruce had his answer.
Kal held up the now-small crest that sat on his shield, complete naked. He tossed it into the tangle of the Bat’s armor and his cape.
Bruce groaned as if Kal had physically touched him. He felt his erection strain against his undersuit, the strange frictionless slip of the material over his cock.
“You have the oddest kinks, Batman,” Kal teased, his body language turned oddly shy, as though he had expected Bruce’s hands to be all over him right away. Bruce balled his hands into fists on his thighs, pinching deep into his own flesh. As haze-soaked as he was with desire, Bruce waited. It there was any mastery to be had over his body, it was for Bruce to wait for some goddamn permission to touch.
“It was always going to end up this way,” The Bat said. “When god meets man, one of them has to be on their knees.”
He smirked then, all Bruce Wayne.
Kal’s spine drew tight like a bowstring. “Your mouth, on me,” Kal ground out. “Now.”
Bruce’s hands slid up the man’s thighs, the smooth expanse of skin achingly pliant under his hands. He dug his fingers into the skin, and surprised himself by finding that Kal’s flesh let him.
“Don’t mistake this for surrender,” he warned, then braced himself against the ground, and swept Kal’s feet with a rough-and-dirty hook-kick. They crashed to the ground together, and Bruce got his mouth around Kal’s length and swallowed it down.
Kal arched up, his jaw working itself soundlessly open, shocked by the pleasure of it, then thrust up sharply into the waiting heat of Bruce’s mouth. The force of Kal’s thrust stunned him, but he kept his jaw around his cock, rode out the thrust, then pulled back with a long, trailing stroke of his tongue.
“Bruce,” Kal cried out brokenly.
Bruce grabbed at one of Kal’s hands, and shoved it into his hair, showing him how to grip Bruce’s head. Obligingly, Kal curled his fingers, but he only carded his fingers, feather-light, through the sweat-slicked strands. Christ. This gentleness was a gut-punch.
He reared back, and used both of his hands to shove Kal where he wanted him to go. He wanted that crate. He had ideas about that crate. Kal landed heavily on it, and it splintered under the force of their combined weight. Kal threw his head back and laughed, delightedly. He pushed them off it without even touching ground.
Oh god, but that was hot. He bobbed on Kal’s cock, and swallowed him down as deeply as he could.
He slapped at Kal’s thigh, who tensed, and fuck, it felt like he was slapping a girder. That wrist would need a splint tomorrow.
“Sorry, sorry,” Kal bit out.
Bruce gave him another good smack, and he reveled in the feel of Kal’s flesh giving way under his hand. Kal bucked forward, driving his cock deep into Bruce’s throat, and that’s exactly what he wanted. Kal tried to slide out, but Bruce just smacked him to drive back in.
Finally, Kal got it, and set up a steady rhythm of shallow, but powerful thrusts that scraped his throat raw.
He felt tension build in Kal’s body, felt his cock swell impossibly larger, and then spasm. Bruce pulled back, letting the few threads of come spill down his chin. Bruce slid back to sit on his heels. He had a question about that, he was sure, something searching and profound about kryptonian sexual biology, but all he could think was that he surely was broken, as he burned to do that again. With Kal. Now. Yes. Why was it so hard to think?
He didn’t even need an affectation for the Bat’s voice. He rolled his shoulders, and with a controlled swallow, he angled his face away from Kal. He kept his voice steady. Kal didn’t need to know this was the only thing he’d done tonight that had terrified him. Turning his back, willing, to his enemy. To his—his— “Unzip me,” he said, weakly.
Kal’s hands slid up over his shoulders. “You’re shaking,” he whispered against Bruce’s hair.
“That’s because I need you to get me out of this goddamn suit—”
“No, Bruce, you’re—” a hitching of his breath, and in that span of time, Bruce wondered what Kal had seen. “—You’re going into shock. You’re temperature’s dropping.”
He hadn’t remembered being injured. He hadn’t sustained any injuries, had he? The fight with the monster seemed so dim, now. Something trickled down his face. He swiped roughly at it with the heel of his hand. It came away bloody, and dripping.
“Bruce! Bruce!” He felt hands framing his face, gentle hands, infinitely careful hands.
“Alfred,” he said as clearly as he could, and then he surrendered to darkness.
There endeth chapter one. Author-anon would like to express her deep regretful for everything, like you wouldn't believe. Maybe we'll get some more actual hate-sex in the next chapter? I feel like I'm falling down on the 'hate' part.
FILL: Regroup (3/many) -- Bruce/Clark, rough hatesex
“Coward,” Kal taunted, when they parted for air.
The Bat only grinned in response.
“You’re wearing a mask. Take it off,” the alien commanded, as his hand ghosted over the side of Bruce’s uncovered face. His other hand was shoved between their bodies, scrabbling for the catches on the Bat’s armor.
The Bat shook his head. No. No. Oh no. The mask he was wearing was deeper than metal or skin.
He saw the moment when Kal noticed his fist swinging towards his face. He had pulled the punch, delivered it at half-speed. Kal ducked out of its path, reconsidered, and then resumed his original position. The fist smashed into skin denser than any human’s; the Bat’s knuckles throbbed indignantly.
“Let me see that,” Kal murmured, bringing it up to his face. “Is bruising your knuckles foreplay to you?
The Bat struggled, and Kal let him whip the hand out of his grasp. They squared off in front of each other, their chests the barest inch apart. He was breathing heavily, and Kal—Kal looked nothing like a god.
Kal rested a hand against his chest, softly. “How does—” he took a deep breath, panting the difficulty of the question. Difficult! For Him! Kal made everything seem effortless, even desire. “—the armor come off?”
“I wanted to kill you tonight Kal,” the Bat said, as though it was an answer. It had been years since the Bat had spoken without the voice changer. The odd rasp of the Bat’s voice tasted like gravel in his throat. His eyes devoured Kal, and saw the shiver the voice sent through his spine. Good. It eased the squirming discomfort deep in the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t the only one out of control here. “I still might.”
“What—?” Kal was cut off suddenly as the Bat slammed his shoulder into the center of his chest. He put as much weight into it as he could, and they rocketed across the rooftop, and smashed through the skylight. Superman’s cape fluttered up around them. It cocooned them as they smashed through to the warehouse floor. Glass and wood slipped harmlessly to the floor.
Bruce looked up into Kal’s face, as Kal unwrapped his arms from around his neck. Kal had cushioned his neck. Because Kal didn’t want him dead. Idiot.
“Feel better?” He asked, humor dancing in his eyes.
“Fight back,” the Bat snarled, dizzy with lust.
“You like it that I don’t,” Kal whispered hotly in his ear, and god, yes, Bruce was so hard he could barely see straight. His hand groped out to find the edge of Kal’s face, and he slammed his head into the nearest crate.
Or at least, that was the plan. He couldn’t even budge the kryptonian. It felt like he was pressing against the gravity of a planet.
Bruce’s pulse hammered in his veins, and he knew, it was going to happen here, now, there was no stopping it. His fingers found to the catches inside of his gauntlets, and disengaged them. They fell to the floor with a portentous thunk. His hands were on top of Kal’s in a second, snaking them over the surface of his armor, pressing the kryptonian’s fingers into all of the invisible places where the suit came apart. The armor peeled away in sections, leaving Bruce in his black, skin-tight undersuit.
Kal licked his lips, and gave him a tight look promising dark, vicious things if he so much as tried to throw a punch now.
Hot fingers raked over his erection, and Bruce flared his nostrils. Through the heat-proof fabric, designed to reduce friction and compress his muscles, he had felt Kal’s desire.
“Touch me,” Bruce groaned. “Let me feel your fingers,”
Kal frowned. He said slowly, as though he was worried Bruce was missing a key information. “I am touching you. Right now.”
“No, goddamnit,” Bruce tried to tug Superman’s hands to the uncovered skin of face. “Let me,” he did not whine.
Kal relented. Bruce slid the palm of the man’s hand over his bare skin, and he could feel it now—the deep, burning core of heat that had only been tepid in his last touch. Bruce felt his skin scald under the touch. It could never, ever be mistaken for a human temperature. He nuzzled into it like a warmth-starved cat.
“How do you take off the suit?” The Bat rasped, because finally, everything inside of Bruce was on-board with this plan. He would fuck the kryptonian in the warehouse. He couldn’t stop himself at this point. Kal would have to stop him, if he didn’t want this.
Slowly, Kal’s hands trailed up to his shield, and he depressed it with his fingers. The suit tiled across his skin, peeling up in small pentagons, revealing inch after inch of unblemished flesh.
Bruce’s head bounced, as he fell to his knees. Lust choked out the last of his reason. He kneeled on ground that he would not cede. The kryptonian would be his, or the Bat would die.
He watched as the suit uncovered disappeared from his hips, his chest, the shockingly deep v below his abdominals. He had wondered how much of the physique was stylized armor, how much of it was Kal’s body; now, Bruce had his answer.
Kal held up the now-small crest that sat on his shield, complete naked. He tossed it into the tangle of the Bat’s armor and his cape.
Bruce groaned as if Kal had physically touched him. He felt his erection strain against his undersuit, the strange frictionless slip of the material over his cock.
“You have the oddest kinks, Batman,” Kal teased, his body language turned oddly shy, as though he had expected Bruce’s hands to be all over him right away. Bruce balled his hands into fists on his thighs, pinching deep into his own flesh. As haze-soaked as he was with desire, Bruce waited. It there was any mastery to be had over his body, it was for Bruce to wait for some goddamn permission to touch.
“It was always going to end up this way,” The Bat said. “When god meets man, one of them has to be on their knees.”
He smirked then, all Bruce Wayne.
Kal’s spine drew tight like a bowstring. “Your mouth, on me,” Kal ground out. “Now.”
Bruce’s hands slid up the man’s thighs, the smooth expanse of skin achingly pliant under his hands. He dug his fingers into the skin, and surprised himself by finding that Kal’s flesh let him.
“Don’t mistake this for surrender,” he warned, then braced himself against the ground, and swept Kal’s feet with a rough-and-dirty hook-kick. They crashed to the ground together, and Bruce got his mouth around Kal’s length and swallowed it down.
Kal arched up, his jaw working itself soundlessly open, shocked by the pleasure of it, then thrust up sharply into the waiting heat of Bruce’s mouth. The force of Kal’s thrust stunned him, but he kept his jaw around his cock, rode out the thrust, then pulled back with a long, trailing stroke of his tongue.
“Bruce,” Kal cried out brokenly.
Bruce grabbed at one of Kal’s hands, and shoved it into his hair, showing him how to grip Bruce’s head. Obligingly, Kal curled his fingers, but he only carded his fingers, feather-light, through the sweat-slicked strands. Christ. This gentleness was a gut-punch.
He reared back, and used both of his hands to shove Kal where he wanted him to go. He wanted that crate. He had ideas about that crate. Kal landed heavily on it, and it splintered under the force of their combined weight. Kal threw his head back and laughed, delightedly. He pushed them off it without even touching ground.
Oh god, but that was hot. He bobbed on Kal’s cock, and swallowed him down as deeply as he could.
He slapped at Kal’s thigh, who tensed, and fuck, it felt like he was slapping a girder. That wrist would need a splint tomorrow.
“Sorry, sorry,” Kal bit out.
Bruce gave him another good smack, and he reveled in the feel of Kal’s flesh giving way under his hand. Kal bucked forward, driving his cock deep into Bruce’s throat, and that’s exactly what he wanted. Kal tried to slide out, but Bruce just smacked him to drive back in.
Finally, Kal got it, and set up a steady rhythm of shallow, but powerful thrusts that scraped his throat raw.
He felt tension build in Kal’s body, felt his cock swell impossibly larger, and then spasm. Bruce pulled back, letting the few threads of come spill down his chin. Bruce slid back to sit on his heels. He had a question about that, he was sure, something searching and profound about kryptonian sexual biology, but all he could think was that he surely was broken, as he burned to do that again. With Kal. Now. Yes. Why was it so hard to think?
He didn’t even need an affectation for the Bat’s voice. He rolled his shoulders, and with a controlled swallow, he angled his face away from Kal. He kept his voice steady. Kal didn’t need to know this was the only thing he’d done tonight that had terrified him. Turning his back, willing, to his enemy. To his—his— “Unzip me,” he said, weakly.
Kal’s hands slid up over his shoulders. “You’re shaking,” he whispered against Bruce’s hair.
“That’s because I need you to get me out of this goddamn suit—”
“No, Bruce, you’re—” a hitching of his breath, and in that span of time, Bruce wondered what Kal had seen. “—You’re going into shock. You’re temperature’s dropping.”
He hadn’t remembered being injured. He hadn’t sustained any injuries, had he? The fight with the monster seemed so dim, now. Something trickled down his face. He swiped roughly at it with the heel of his hand. It came away bloody, and dripping.
“Bruce! Bruce!” He felt hands framing his face, gentle hands, infinitely careful hands.
“Alfred,” he said as clearly as he could, and then he surrendered to darkness.
There endeth chapter one. Author-anon would like to express her deep regretful for everything, like you wouldn't believe. Maybe we'll get some more actual hate-sex in the next chapter? I feel like I'm falling down on the 'hate' part.