Waiting For The Dark Outside. (DC Universe, Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne)
Originally posted on October 18th, 2006.
Title: Waiting For The Dark Outside.
Fandom: Superman/Batman, not really following any canon.
Warnings: Slash, PWP.
Characters/couples: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne.
Summary: It's the drugs fault completely. Nothing to do with desire at all.
Rating: NC17.
Waiting For The Dark Outside.
The clothes he's wearing are too tight, making it almost hard to breath. They had to get rid of their suits, least the liquid kryptonite covering them would, actually, give Superman a heart attack.
Clark’s arm is around his waist, trying to keep him up but he’s still too weak after the encounter with the kryptonite, and Bruce knows, for the labored breath of the other man, how much it’s still affecting him.
Probably as much as the drugs that are in his own system are affecting him; Bruce grits his teeth, tries to stand up straight but stops when the stitches over his side threaten to open again.
“How far are we?” Clark asks, leaning him against the wall of an alley as he takes deep breaths, hands on his knees, sweat over his brow. Bruce tries not to be amused at the idea of a picture like this of Superman and Batman by one of those tabloids that seems to hate them. The pain and trying not to lose his mind after the drugs help him fight it.
“Not far enough.” Bruce answers, looking around. No cab runs around here, and there’s no way he’d be able to get in touch with Alfred without risking a phonecall. He looks towards Clark, who's also leaning against the wall. “Have the effects of the kryptonite lessened?”
“I won’t mess up your clothes anymore, if that's what you mean.” Clark answers with a grin, even if he still looks pale. Bruce doesn’t take his eyes from him and then Clark finally rolls his eyes. “Still a little shaky. And I still can’t fly. Brave pair of superheroes we do, eh?”
“Eh,” Bruce agrees with a half smirk of his own, even if they shouldn't be acting so calmly. He's still weak because of the drugs and trying to keep his mind focused is taking more out of him than he would ever admit; Clark’s strength and vulnerability right now are almost those of a human, and they’re in one of the nastier parts of Gotham - even if that's already saying something - and he doesn’t want to risk it.
Clark smiles and moves his arm around his waist, Bruce's arm around the other man's shoulders again and Bruce bites again on the inside of his cheek to avoid saying something stupid because of that fucking truth serum, like how wonderful it is to have someone - besides Alfred, of course - he can trust again now that Harvey is a criminal, or how it is that Clark is one of the few persons that still can make him smile.
“Then we should hurry,” As an afterthought, Clark adds. “I hope you realize that I’m spending the night at your place.”
“I promise I won’t sell the story to Louise Lane.”
“Ha-ha.” Clark snorts while they start moving, but then his eyes widen and he looks at him. “Three cars, two over the right, one over the front, they’re looking for us.”
“Fuck,” If he had his belt, he could have them out of here in seconds, but it was one of the things he had to throw to the water to avoid poisoning Clark, and if Clark wasn’t still dealing with the effects of the kryptonite, they wouldn’t be there.
The pentotal makes him want to laugh hysterically and he bites the urge before making a decision.
“Follow my lead,” he tells Clark, and before Clark can ask, he pulls the other man down and crushes his mouth against his, taking advantage on having surprised fucking Superman to slip his tongue between his lips and press as close as possible.
Later he can blame it on the drugs clouding his ability to make plans, on the situation or even a thousand and one things that hopefully by the time Clark asks he will have thought of, but for now the one reason he can think is how Clark’s knee presses between his legs, how when he starts kissing back he presses him against the wall, hands over his waist to keep him pressed as close as possible.
Even without special abilities he can hear when the men get close and he breaks the kiss to suck on Clark’s neck, hoping that that helps hide their faces. Clark groans, hands moving to his ass and Bruce hisses when Clark presses closer to him, his erection against his hip. It’s not even a victory in that ‘Stupid Chauvinistic Male Behavior’ game that Diana accuses them of frequently falling into, because he's just as hard, grinding against Clark’s thigh, acting as an eager teenager; he doesn’t want to wonder how much of it is because of the people searching them and how much of it is just because of what he wanted. Desire is something dangerous and it leads to stupid behavior after all; as the Batman, he can’t allow them to control his will as the drug wants to do, can’t allow the craving he gets with Clark’s hands roaming over the clothes as if being unable to choose where to touch.
But right now he can get away with some of it, even if it’s only to calm down Wayne’s need, and it’s to help protect their identities, just like Kent uses glasses and he pretends to be a playboy; right now, that they keep kissing and moaning and touching is their disguise, and if there’s something that he hates more than succumbing to his desires is the idea of losing, of not doing his best in a situation, drugs be damned.
He gets his hands inside the wife-beater Clark is wearing, rubs his thumbs over his nipples and hears Clark moan. The other man drops his head to his neck and, just where his pulse is beating, bites down hard enough that he knows it’s going to leave a mark that won’t be hidden by his shirt.
“Bastard,” he mutters, but Clark sort of laughs against his skin, breathless and still grinding against his hip, putting his hands over the wall before he kisses him again, tongue sweeping over his bottom lip and against his tongue before Clark pulls a bit back and grins.
“Nope, sorry. Both sets of parents were married, thanks.”
Bruce rolls his eyes and gets his hands over Clark’s ass, tries to pull him closer than they already are. “You’ve spent too much time with Flash.”
Clark moves his head to a side and Bruce takes advantage to nuzzle against his neck, close his teeth around his ear and gently pull, testing how much he can do without the defenses around Clark’s body reacting against him. “Uh… they’re gone…”
“You want to stop?” Bruce asks, and if Clark says yes, even if he’s probably the one person besides Alfred and Dick he could call friend at the moment, once they stop, Bruce might have to kill him. Thankfully, the horrified look he receives is enough answer and he struggles for a moment to open the jeans Clark’s wearing and wrap his hand around his arousal. Clark gives a low moan against his neck before he’s pushing the pants he is wearing over his thighs, warm, big fingers trailing for a moment over his erection before they wrap around him, too.
They move together, stroking hard and fast and Bruce tries to keep from moaning too much; Clark is gasping against his neck, hips moving against his; he clutches to the other man’s arm as tight as he can when he feels his orgasm approaching, speeding up; it might be a stupid chauvinistic behavior, but he's not going to come first.
Clark comes first by seconds, thankfully, spasms running down through him and his semen coating his hand before Clark all but collapses against him; Bruce follows after that, allowing himself to moan and to the light exploding behind his eyelidss to take over his mind for a few wonderful moments.
After a few moments, Clark moves away, wiping his own hand on the back of his jeans before fixing his clothes. Bruce blinks a few times before doing the same, trying to stand up straight before the pain of the wound reminds him he can’t. He raises a hand to stop Clark from rushing after that.
“Just the stitches. No one is waiting for us?” he asks, feeling over the wound to make sure the stitches still are there. Clark looks up, eyes wide, before he shakes his head.
“They’re gone. We still have to walk?”
“I’m afraid so,” Bruce says, a hand over his side as he smirks, cocking his head to a side. “Tired, Kent?”
Clark snorts, and Bruce thinks he might be keeping himself from laughing. “Hardly. Before you even took me out for dinner. Really, Mr. Wayne, you’re losing your touch.” Clark says, grinning and Bruce rolls his eyes, a half smirk over his lips now that his mind feels a little bit clearer than before.
Bruce doesn’t complain when Clark supports him again even though he could probably walk on his own now, and he just goes back to directing him through the mace that are the streets over there.
Title: Waiting For The Dark Outside.
Fandom: Superman/Batman, not really following any canon.
Warnings: Slash, PWP.
Characters/couples: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne.
Summary: It's the drugs fault completely. Nothing to do with desire at all.
Rating: NC17.
Waiting For The Dark Outside.
The clothes he's wearing are too tight, making it almost hard to breath. They had to get rid of their suits, least the liquid kryptonite covering them would, actually, give Superman a heart attack.
Clark’s arm is around his waist, trying to keep him up but he’s still too weak after the encounter with the kryptonite, and Bruce knows, for the labored breath of the other man, how much it’s still affecting him.
Probably as much as the drugs that are in his own system are affecting him; Bruce grits his teeth, tries to stand up straight but stops when the stitches over his side threaten to open again.
“How far are we?” Clark asks, leaning him against the wall of an alley as he takes deep breaths, hands on his knees, sweat over his brow. Bruce tries not to be amused at the idea of a picture like this of Superman and Batman by one of those tabloids that seems to hate them. The pain and trying not to lose his mind after the drugs help him fight it.
“Not far enough.” Bruce answers, looking around. No cab runs around here, and there’s no way he’d be able to get in touch with Alfred without risking a phonecall. He looks towards Clark, who's also leaning against the wall. “Have the effects of the kryptonite lessened?”
“I won’t mess up your clothes anymore, if that's what you mean.” Clark answers with a grin, even if he still looks pale. Bruce doesn’t take his eyes from him and then Clark finally rolls his eyes. “Still a little shaky. And I still can’t fly. Brave pair of superheroes we do, eh?”
“Eh,” Bruce agrees with a half smirk of his own, even if they shouldn't be acting so calmly. He's still weak because of the drugs and trying to keep his mind focused is taking more out of him than he would ever admit; Clark’s strength and vulnerability right now are almost those of a human, and they’re in one of the nastier parts of Gotham - even if that's already saying something - and he doesn’t want to risk it.
Clark smiles and moves his arm around his waist, Bruce's arm around the other man's shoulders again and Bruce bites again on the inside of his cheek to avoid saying something stupid because of that fucking truth serum, like how wonderful it is to have someone - besides Alfred, of course - he can trust again now that Harvey is a criminal, or how it is that Clark is one of the few persons that still can make him smile.
“Then we should hurry,” As an afterthought, Clark adds. “I hope you realize that I’m spending the night at your place.”
“I promise I won’t sell the story to Louise Lane.”
“Ha-ha.” Clark snorts while they start moving, but then his eyes widen and he looks at him. “Three cars, two over the right, one over the front, they’re looking for us.”
“Fuck,” If he had his belt, he could have them out of here in seconds, but it was one of the things he had to throw to the water to avoid poisoning Clark, and if Clark wasn’t still dealing with the effects of the kryptonite, they wouldn’t be there.
The pentotal makes him want to laugh hysterically and he bites the urge before making a decision.
“Follow my lead,” he tells Clark, and before Clark can ask, he pulls the other man down and crushes his mouth against his, taking advantage on having surprised fucking Superman to slip his tongue between his lips and press as close as possible.
Later he can blame it on the drugs clouding his ability to make plans, on the situation or even a thousand and one things that hopefully by the time Clark asks he will have thought of, but for now the one reason he can think is how Clark’s knee presses between his legs, how when he starts kissing back he presses him against the wall, hands over his waist to keep him pressed as close as possible.
Even without special abilities he can hear when the men get close and he breaks the kiss to suck on Clark’s neck, hoping that that helps hide their faces. Clark groans, hands moving to his ass and Bruce hisses when Clark presses closer to him, his erection against his hip. It’s not even a victory in that ‘Stupid Chauvinistic Male Behavior’ game that Diana accuses them of frequently falling into, because he's just as hard, grinding against Clark’s thigh, acting as an eager teenager; he doesn’t want to wonder how much of it is because of the people searching them and how much of it is just because of what he wanted. Desire is something dangerous and it leads to stupid behavior after all; as the Batman, he can’t allow them to control his will as the drug wants to do, can’t allow the craving he gets with Clark’s hands roaming over the clothes as if being unable to choose where to touch.
But right now he can get away with some of it, even if it’s only to calm down Wayne’s need, and it’s to help protect their identities, just like Kent uses glasses and he pretends to be a playboy; right now, that they keep kissing and moaning and touching is their disguise, and if there’s something that he hates more than succumbing to his desires is the idea of losing, of not doing his best in a situation, drugs be damned.
He gets his hands inside the wife-beater Clark is wearing, rubs his thumbs over his nipples and hears Clark moan. The other man drops his head to his neck and, just where his pulse is beating, bites down hard enough that he knows it’s going to leave a mark that won’t be hidden by his shirt.
“Bastard,” he mutters, but Clark sort of laughs against his skin, breathless and still grinding against his hip, putting his hands over the wall before he kisses him again, tongue sweeping over his bottom lip and against his tongue before Clark pulls a bit back and grins.
“Nope, sorry. Both sets of parents were married, thanks.”
Bruce rolls his eyes and gets his hands over Clark’s ass, tries to pull him closer than they already are. “You’ve spent too much time with Flash.”
Clark moves his head to a side and Bruce takes advantage to nuzzle against his neck, close his teeth around his ear and gently pull, testing how much he can do without the defenses around Clark’s body reacting against him. “Uh… they’re gone…”
“You want to stop?” Bruce asks, and if Clark says yes, even if he’s probably the one person besides Alfred and Dick he could call friend at the moment, once they stop, Bruce might have to kill him. Thankfully, the horrified look he receives is enough answer and he struggles for a moment to open the jeans Clark’s wearing and wrap his hand around his arousal. Clark gives a low moan against his neck before he’s pushing the pants he is wearing over his thighs, warm, big fingers trailing for a moment over his erection before they wrap around him, too.
They move together, stroking hard and fast and Bruce tries to keep from moaning too much; Clark is gasping against his neck, hips moving against his; he clutches to the other man’s arm as tight as he can when he feels his orgasm approaching, speeding up; it might be a stupid chauvinistic behavior, but he's not going to come first.
Clark comes first by seconds, thankfully, spasms running down through him and his semen coating his hand before Clark all but collapses against him; Bruce follows after that, allowing himself to moan and to the light exploding behind his eyelidss to take over his mind for a few wonderful moments.
After a few moments, Clark moves away, wiping his own hand on the back of his jeans before fixing his clothes. Bruce blinks a few times before doing the same, trying to stand up straight before the pain of the wound reminds him he can’t. He raises a hand to stop Clark from rushing after that.
“Just the stitches. No one is waiting for us?” he asks, feeling over the wound to make sure the stitches still are there. Clark looks up, eyes wide, before he shakes his head.
“They’re gone. We still have to walk?”
“I’m afraid so,” Bruce says, a hand over his side as he smirks, cocking his head to a side. “Tired, Kent?”
Clark snorts, and Bruce thinks he might be keeping himself from laughing. “Hardly. Before you even took me out for dinner. Really, Mr. Wayne, you’re losing your touch.” Clark says, grinning and Bruce rolls his eyes, a half smirk over his lips now that his mind feels a little bit clearer than before.
Bruce doesn’t complain when Clark supports him again even though he could probably walk on his own now, and he just goes back to directing him through the mace that are the streets over there.