A/N: It's been a few years since I've written fic (and even longer since I wrote smut), so forgive any rustiness! I welcome (and would really like to read) others' takes on this prompt.
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It shouldn't work. Really, it shouldn't. Bruce - Batman - had spent most of their short acquaintance valiantly attempting to defeat him, and Clark in turn had done the same. But then Clark was back, and Bruce was there, and things just happened. Clark had wondered what to call it once, sitting up in bed and staring down at his clothes strewn across the bedroom floor, trying to parse out whether or not he ought to get dressed and leave or not. Bruce had told him to stay or leave at his own discretion; what they had was an arrangement, nothing more, nothing less. They're both men with a lot on their plates. They've certainly got to blow off steam somewhere.
What that had led to was a lot of sex, and a little something else, something neither of them knew how to define, and something that Clark didn't dare give voice to. Thankfully, he found that they didn't get a whole lot of talking done, so it was more or less immaterial in the long run.
And hell, the sex was good. It was damn good. Whenever Clark had seen Bruce sway his around one party or another, limbs loose and languid, a suggestive smirk tugging at the corner of his lip, he could only imagine him in bed as a slow lover, someone who would take his time meandering his way to pleasure. He couldn't have been more wrong. Instead, what he got was every ounce of Batman's laser focus, hot and heavy, and one hundred percent on him. Bruce seemed to regard getting Clark off as a job, and one he intended to do well. He was demanding in the way he fucked into Clark in a way that would have been painful if he were nothing but human, fingers digging deeply into his shoulders and teeth scraping against Clark's upper lip.
It would probably insult Bruce to know that Clark could ever become distracted during one of these sessions, but he did. His legs are wrapped around Bruce's midsection, and his cock is hard and leaking against his abdomen, but somehow, Clark can't keep his eyes off of Bruce's face. Bruce's eyes are focused somewhere on Clark's chest, a deep look of concentration written all over his face and in the furrow of his brow, and there's something almost feral, almost vicious in it. Clark's had his whole life to discover what human limits are, and when he closes his eyes, he imagines what it would be like if he could feel like they could. He would have bruises where Bruce's fingers are digging into his hips, and Bruce's thick, heavy cock inside of him would be just on the right side of painful. Even the steady slap of Bruce's hips against his ass would make its mark over time, making his cheeks ruddy with the sheer prolonged pressure of it.
Bruce starts to groan, unable to take it any longer, and his fingers press in deeper. In his mind's eye, Clark can see Bruce's fingernails dig into his flesh and -- and they would draw blood, wouldn't they? He takes in a huge, gulping breath as he remembers the feeling of the kryptonite spear digging into his cheek, the deep, immediate sense of pain, and that's enough to make his body convulse as he shouts, "Oh, Christ!" and comes longer and harder than he can ever remember doing before.
He lays there in a fuzzy sort of haze as Bruce lazily rolls out of him, groaning, and drags himself to his feet to throw out the condom. He pads across the floor and drawls, "Didn't know you country boys took the Lord's name in vain that easily."
Clark doesn't have the same quick response to that as he normally would, nor does he even have the wherewithal to appreciate the beautiful curve of Bruce's ass like he usually would, the way those broad shoulders were battered and scarred from years and years of fighting. No, instead he's slowly sitting up, dragging the tips of his fingers through the judicious amount of come settling on his chest, rubbing it in a little as he realizes, aghast, exactly what had made him come so hard.
And then, immediately afterwards, because he's not nearly as good as everyone would make him out to be, wonders how it can happen again. World's greatest detective or not, Bruce doesn't seem to read too much into Clark's silence, instead of collapsing back on top of the covers, expression slack and peaceful in the way that it only gets immediately after orgasm.
The words are out of Clark's mouth before he can consider the many, many ways this is a bad idea. "Hey, Bruce... do you still have Kryptonite?"
He's never seen anyone's expression shut down so fast, not even Bruce's. Incisive reporter Clark may be, but Bruce's face is unreadable save for a deep and insistent unhappiness when he sits up again, frowning at Clark.
"You ask that now?" He snaps, gaze somehow making Clark feel naked even though they're both in the nude. "If that's what you're thinking about while we're fucking, you can -- "
"No! No, that wasn't what I was thinking," Clark says hastily, eyes widened with alarm. "I mean, it was what I was thinking, but..."
Bruce's eyes narrow. "But what?"
"It's, uh... more relevant than you think it is. I was just thinking that we could use it. Here."
Lowly, Bruce replies, "You want to use the weapon that can kill you to get off. Is this - " and Bruce leans over to swipe his fingers through the come on Clark's chest and begins rubbing it between his fingers, and Clark should be feeling embarrassed or pissy, but holy hell that's hot "- not good enough for you?"
"It's not about good enough, it's..."
But that's exactly it, isn't it? No matter how roughly he gets fucked, he'll never feel it. It had never been a problem until he'd met Bruce, and all of a sudden, not feeling it just wasn't enough. Too aggravated to voice it, Clark gets up and out of bed and rolls his eyes upon looking at Bruce's unhappy expression, and trod into the washroom.
"You know what? Never mind. I'm taking a shower."
Bruce doesn't join him for round two like he sometimes does, and Clark doesn't ask him to. After he's showered, he gets dressed and leaves, expecting to get the cold shoulder for at least another few days.
A week later, he's busy typing out some damned fluff piece Perry's forcing him to write when his phone buzzes. Almost idly, he flips it over to see what it says.
The cave. 9 PM. Don't be late. -B.
It's stupid, perhaps, but his heart leaps into his throat the moment he sees it. It must show on his face, because Lois laughs, leaning over from whatever great scoop she's working on, and asks, "What's going on, Smallville? You look like someone just bought you a present."
Clark laughs, then demurs, "I wish. I got an interview lined up, that's all."
"Then I expect to hear all about it," she says, but Clark's saved from saying anything more by Perry storming back into the office, yelling about this and that.
Clark's not listening. Instead, he's rubbing his cheek and remembering wet, hot blood.
FILL 1/?
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It shouldn't work. Really, it shouldn't. Bruce - Batman - had spent most of their short acquaintance valiantly attempting to defeat him, and Clark in turn had done the same. But then Clark was back, and Bruce was there, and things just happened. Clark had wondered what to call it once, sitting up in bed and staring down at his clothes strewn across the bedroom floor, trying to parse out whether or not he ought to get dressed and leave or not. Bruce had told him to stay or leave at his own discretion; what they had was an arrangement, nothing more, nothing less. They're both men with a lot on their plates. They've certainly got to blow off steam somewhere.
What that had led to was a lot of sex, and a little something else, something neither of them knew how to define, and something that Clark didn't dare give voice to. Thankfully, he found that they didn't get a whole lot of talking done, so it was more or less immaterial in the long run.
And hell, the sex was good. It was damn good. Whenever Clark had seen Bruce sway his around one party or another, limbs loose and languid, a suggestive smirk tugging at the corner of his lip, he could only imagine him in bed as a slow lover, someone who would take his time meandering his way to pleasure. He couldn't have been more wrong. Instead, what he got was every ounce of Batman's laser focus, hot and heavy, and one hundred percent on him. Bruce seemed to regard getting Clark off as a job, and one he intended to do well. He was demanding in the way he fucked into Clark in a way that would have been painful if he were nothing but human, fingers digging deeply into his shoulders and teeth scraping against Clark's upper lip.
It would probably insult Bruce to know that Clark could ever become distracted during one of these sessions, but he did. His legs are wrapped around Bruce's midsection, and his cock is hard and leaking against his abdomen, but somehow, Clark can't keep his eyes off of Bruce's face. Bruce's eyes are focused somewhere on Clark's chest, a deep look of concentration written all over his face and in the furrow of his brow, and there's something almost feral, almost vicious in it. Clark's had his whole life to discover what human limits are, and when he closes his eyes, he imagines what it would be like if he could feel like they could. He would have bruises where Bruce's fingers are digging into his hips, and Bruce's thick, heavy cock inside of him would be just on the right side of painful. Even the steady slap of Bruce's hips against his ass would make its mark over time, making his cheeks ruddy with the sheer prolonged pressure of it.
Bruce starts to groan, unable to take it any longer, and his fingers press in deeper. In his mind's eye, Clark can see Bruce's fingernails dig into his flesh and -- and they would draw blood, wouldn't they? He takes in a huge, gulping breath as he remembers the feeling of the kryptonite spear digging into his cheek, the deep, immediate sense of pain, and that's enough to make his body convulse as he shouts, "Oh, Christ!" and comes longer and harder than he can ever remember doing before.
He lays there in a fuzzy sort of haze as Bruce lazily rolls out of him, groaning, and drags himself to his feet to throw out the condom. He pads across the floor and drawls, "Didn't know you country boys took the Lord's name in vain that easily."
Clark doesn't have the same quick response to that as he normally would, nor does he even have the wherewithal to appreciate the beautiful curve of Bruce's ass like he usually would, the way those broad shoulders were battered and scarred from years and years of fighting. No, instead he's slowly sitting up, dragging the tips of his fingers through the judicious amount of come settling on his chest, rubbing it in a little as he realizes, aghast, exactly what had made him come so hard.
And then, immediately afterwards, because he's not nearly as good as everyone would make him out to be, wonders how it can happen again. World's greatest detective or not, Bruce doesn't seem to read too much into Clark's silence, instead of collapsing back on top of the covers, expression slack and peaceful in the way that it only gets immediately after orgasm.
The words are out of Clark's mouth before he can consider the many, many ways this is a bad idea. "Hey, Bruce... do you still have Kryptonite?"
He's never seen anyone's expression shut down so fast, not even Bruce's. Incisive reporter Clark may be, but Bruce's face is unreadable save for a deep and insistent unhappiness when he sits up again, frowning at Clark.
"You ask that now?" He snaps, gaze somehow making Clark feel naked even though they're both in the nude. "If that's what you're thinking about while we're fucking, you can -- "
"No! No, that wasn't what I was thinking," Clark says hastily, eyes widened with alarm. "I mean, it was what I was thinking, but..."
Bruce's eyes narrow. "But what?"
"It's, uh... more relevant than you think it is. I was just thinking that we could use it. Here."
Lowly, Bruce replies, "You want to use the weapon that can kill you to get off. Is this - " and Bruce leans over to swipe his fingers through the come on Clark's chest and begins rubbing it between his fingers, and Clark should be feeling embarrassed or pissy, but holy hell that's hot "- not good enough for you?"
"It's not about good enough, it's..."
But that's exactly it, isn't it? No matter how roughly he gets fucked, he'll never feel it. It had never been a problem until he'd met Bruce, and all of a sudden, not feeling it just wasn't enough. Too aggravated to voice it, Clark gets up and out of bed and rolls his eyes upon looking at Bruce's unhappy expression, and trod into the washroom.
"You know what? Never mind. I'm taking a shower."
Bruce doesn't join him for round two like he sometimes does, and Clark doesn't ask him to. After he's showered, he gets dressed and leaves, expecting to get the cold shoulder for at least another few days.
A week later, he's busy typing out some damned fluff piece Perry's forcing him to write when his phone buzzes. Almost idly, he flips it over to see what it says.
The cave. 9 PM. Don't be late.
-B.
It's stupid, perhaps, but his heart leaps into his throat the moment he sees it. It must show on his face, because Lois laughs, leaning over from whatever great scoop she's working on, and asks, "What's going on, Smallville? You look like someone just bought you a present."
Clark laughs, then demurs, "I wish. I got an interview lined up, that's all."
"Then I expect to hear all about it," she says, but Clark's saved from saying anything more by Perry storming back into the office, yelling about this and that.
Clark's not listening. Instead, he's rubbing his cheek and remembering wet, hot blood.