(Upload) Prey - Happy birthday, Sasha_anu!
Happy Birthday Sasha!!!
I failed at Smallville fluff, but I got you something else. I'm still working on the Smallville fluff! honest! I hope you have a great day, thanks for everything! It's been an incredibly fun ride, a lot thanks to you :)
On unrelated news, a bit of advice: If a friend tells you that perhaps the slope is too steep to roller skate it, listen to her. Chances are, she was right. I ended up with torn pants and an ugly asphalt burn. But I'm glad to say that, in the face of impending doom, I don't panic, I go 'Oh crap. I'm so dead.' I signed up for the semester this morning. Had to wake up at stupid in the morning. I'll have stupid classes, but it wasn't so bad. It was just a very long day, but I couldn't go to bed without wishing Sasha a happy birthday!
Fandom: DC (animated)
Pairing: Superman/Batman
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Clark is hunter, Bruce is prey.
Spoilers: For Dead Reckoning
Notes: Beta by amazingly and too awesome for words tmelange. I had this bunny since I first watched the episode because there’s no aftermath for it, and that always seemed wrong to me. The bunny initially implied a lot more cuddling and comforting, but the Bruce!muse didn’t want to subject itself to fluff.
Word count: 1991
Started on July 21st 2006 at 5:10 pm
Finished on July 22nd 3006 at 1:09 am
Prey
“Bruce,” Clark pleaded, “talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to say,” Bruce answered, his words clipped and dry. He clenched his jaw; Clark was only making things worse with his innocent eyes and his kindness.
“Liar.” Clark’s voice was half endearment, half reproach. Bruce’s heart was beating loud in his ears, he felt raw and high-strung.
“Yes, Clark. Among many other things.” Failure. Hypocrite. Murderer.
Clark reached out to him, grabbing his shoulder and making him turn. A stern look in his eyes, disapproving of all the titles that Bruce could think of for himself, made him close his hands into tight fists. There was a primal feeling running through him. Fight. Run. Fight.
“You’re wasting my time,” he growled, shrugging off the hand on his shoulder. Run.
“You are not leaving the Watchtower like this,” Clark said, his voice calm and firm. He crossed his arms in typical ‘I’m Superman’ fashion. If Clark thought it would have some effect over him, he was mistaken.
“Who’s going to stop me?” Growl. Chin up, eyes narrowed. Fight.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Bruce. I don’t want you to hurt yourself. You need to talk about this.” Clark was trying to be reasonable and it only made things worse. The thump of his own heartbeat was maddening and he was breathing hard.
“You can’t hurt me, Clark. You’re just an annoyance.” Fight. Hurt. Fight.
Clark took one step back, like he had received a physical blow. “Fine, be like that. You’re still not going anywhere.”
Bruce realized he had walked into his quarters without noticing, and Superman was blocking the entrance. He could hardly get enough air by breathing through his nose. He felt disoriented. He had retired instinctively into his quarters as a security measure. He should be safe here, but Clark wouldn’t leave.
He couldn’t run. There was nowhere to run unless he could take Clark down. He had to fight.
Fight Clark. Hurt Clark. Make Clark go.
Run away. From Clark, from the Watchtower, from the guilt.
Run. Fight. Run.
No.
He sat down, defeated, and took off the cowl. He looked at it with disgust and threw it against the wall. The small ‘thud’ of expensive communication devices and vision enhancers against the metallic walls did nothing to appease him. His hands were shaking.
Clark just stared at him from the doorway, blocking the view from anyone walking in the hallway.
“Shut the goddamn door,” Bruce spat. He needed to get out of the batsuit, and Clark was just staring at him, like a god from above, in silent contempt.
He tried to control his breathing. His heart was trying to leap out of his chest, and it hurt. For a couple of minutes, he sat there, his eyes closed, wanting more than anything to be alone when he opened them.
Clark was still there when he looked again, his face unreadable. It was even worse than the calmness and the reasonableness and the kindness of before. It felt like judgment.
“Stop staring at me!” he lashed out, tackling Clark. He wasn’t going to be judged, he wasn’t going to lose this fight. He couldn’t run, there was nowhere to run, but he could fight.
Clark was taken by surprise by his sudden wild moves. They crashed against the closed door, and then fell to the floor. Bruce growled when his fist connected with an iron cheekbone, pain flooding his system. Clark pushed him, a shocked look on his face, and Bruce landed a few feet away. Bruce felt like he was burning, shivers running down his body like electricity. He lunged at Clark again, and Clark grabbed his wrists before he could hit him and hurt himself further. The growls leaving Bruce’s throat were turning feral, and in his shock, every movement he had taught his body through years of practice was done instinctively.
Superman had no choice but to handle him roughly, trying to stop a man who had been taught hundreds of ways to kill, but who shunned that knowledge as a conscious act. But Bruce was far from acting consciously now and he didn’t know anything other than he was still being held, and it hurt, everything hurt. The growls turned to sobs and labored breathing as Clark pinned him against the wall, wrists above his head, hurting, legs together and rendered useless from powerful knees trapping his, the rest of him being held in place by the firm pressure of a stronger body.
Clark’s face was unreadable for a moment, and then sad. He didn’t say anything, and Bruce couldn’t bear to look at him anymore. He had lost the fight, he was trapped, caught, no way to run. He threw his head back, fully exposing his neck. He relented, his body going instantly limp.
He was breathing fire, and he thought he might have been wailing. It was hard to tell with the drum of his heart drowning everything else. He closed his mouth, swallowing hard, and tried to speak.
“Hurt me,” he sounded as raw as he felt.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Bruce.” Clark’s voice was rough, but he didn’t sound mad, or angry, or victorious. It was just Clark.
Bruce stretched against the wall, closing his eyes against the tears that were threatening to spill. His breath caught in his throat when he felt Clark’s lips on his neck, barely touching his pulse point. Caught, he was caught.
Run. Fight. Run.
No.
“If I don’t hurt you, Bruce, will you look for someone who will?” Clark’s voice was still rough, but it was whisper low, his lips brushing against his skin.
Run. Run.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Bruce couldn’t find the air to articulate the words that Clark was demanding. He was hurting, his body hurt, his head hurt, his heart hurt. Murderer.
“Because you won’t,” he whispered shakily.
Clark bit him through the Kevlar where his neck met his shoulders, and all the hurt he felt resonated with the sting of teeth in flesh.
Bruce needed to fight, to get away from the weight in his chest that made breathing so hard. But he couldn’t, fighting wasn’t an option anymore. He had run as far he could, and then he fought until he lost, and now he could only be still, waiting for the killing blow to land.
Clark sucked, bit, and kissed up his neck. Bruce gasped, and then Clark’s lips were gone. Clark was staring at him again, no longer sad, judgmental or calm. One hand cupped his chin, and brought his face down. Up close, the inches that Clark had over him were obvious, and he had to look up to meet his gaze.
Clark’s eyes were wild and alien, maybe somehow resonating with his own primal needs. This was his hunter, and he was Clark’s prey.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Clark asserted, a Kryptonian accent creeping into his words, like he too was forgetting himself.
No more fighting. No more running. Bruce suddenly knew what it was like to be a deer frozen in the headlight of an oncoming car; Clark’s azure eyes commanded him to look at the open display of strength and lust. It was impossible to look away.
Clark captured his mouth with more force than necessary, and if Bruce thought he had been having trouble breathing before, he hadn’t known the first thing. Clark’s left hand released his wrists, cupping the back of his neck, bringing them closer.
Bruce was melting in the fire that was Clark. A hot tongue probed and dipped into the depths of his mouth, unforgiving, and all Bruce could do was suck at the soft flesh, accepting his fate. Clark was his hunter, and he had been caught.
Clark sucked at his lower lip, and bit him lightly, teasing. He went back to tonguing him, and then licked his lips playfully. Bruce’s mind was reeling, trying to understand. Clearly, he was being claimed, yet he was also being invited to play. He bit down on the tongue in his mouth and then sucked at it, and was rewarded by a low moan in the deeps of Clark’s mouth.
Clark was his hunter. He was game, and Clark was playing with his prey. It wasn’t over, not yet.
He fought. His wrists came down from above his head, and he touched Clark wherever he could, wherever Clark allowed it. Clark pressed him against the wall, and thrust against him, hard beneath the flimsy fabric of his costume.
He pulled at Clark’s cape until it gave, throwing it to the floor. Clark’s hands were busy fondling his ass and trying to get rid of the belt. They undressed each other as fast as they could, barely breaking the kiss. Bruce felt lightheaded, his heartbeat was still the loudest thing in the room and he felt like he was drowning in Clark’s heat.
Naked, Clark pinned him against the cold wall. His hunter took his wrists again, and pushed them forcibly above their heads. Clark kissed him thoroughly, taking control of the kiss, letting him know that playtime was over. No more fighting. No more running.
Just Clark.
Clark thrust, their erections trapped between their bodies, and Bruce hit the wall hard with the momentum. The sound of Bruce’s body hitting the metal behind them drowned their own voices, and Bruce was glad his heart wasn’t the loudest thing in the room anymore.
The encounter wasn’t meant to last, and Bruce felt the tension in his body coalescing in his belly. His body sang along with the song the Kryptonian’s body hummed, and he hooked his legs around Clark’s hips. Clark came hard, biting him in the same place he had at the beginning, and Bruce promptly followed him, throwing his head back, offering Clark his neck like a sacrifice.
When Bruce opened his eyes, they were sitting on the floor over the heap of their clothes. His legs were still hooked around Clark’s waist, and he was sitting on his lap, his hands still over his head.
He looked disoriented for a minute, then moved his hands down, placing them on Clark’s shoulders. Clark laughed.
“Of all the things I have asked you to do, you chose to listen to me about keeping your hands up. What am I going to do with you?”
Bruce leaned over, placing his forehead over one of his arms on Clark’s shoulders. “Whatever you want to do,” he whispered, tired.
“I want you to listen to me then,” Clark said, his voice smooth and clear, holding him close. “What happened today, it wasn’t your fault. I need you to believe me.”
“I killed him,” Bruce told him, sounding hoarse even to his own ears.
“Deadman killed him. If he had taken control of me, and killed him while he was in my body, would you be blaming me?”
“…no.”
“Then why should it be different because it was you?”
Bruce shrugged, tears rolling down his arm and splashing into Clark’s chest. Clark nuzzled his hair, and placed a kiss on his temple. “Believe me. Please.”
Bruce nodded without looking up.
“I’m Superman. I never lie and I’m always right,” Clark teased him, trying to bring Bruce back to him and away from that dark place in his mind.
Bruce’s chuckle was a little too hysterical to be reassuring, so he tried to find his voice. “So, you’re going to come clean to J’onn when he asks you what you did to calm me down? ‘I got Batman laid, J’onn, don’t worry, he’ll be fine’?”
Clark smiled against his temple. “Well, no.”
“Whatever you tell him, it’s going to be a lie, and Superman doesn’t lie.”
“You must be rubbing off on me, then.”
Bruce turned his head, and met Clark’s gaze with red, ragged eyes, but his smile was warm and fond. “Right. Rubbing off.”
Clark returned the smile cheekily. “Among other things.”
I failed at Smallville fluff, but I got you something else. I'm still working on the Smallville fluff! honest! I hope you have a great day, thanks for everything! It's been an incredibly fun ride, a lot thanks to you :)
On unrelated news, a bit of advice: If a friend tells you that perhaps the slope is too steep to roller skate it, listen to her. Chances are, she was right. I ended up with torn pants and an ugly asphalt burn. But I'm glad to say that, in the face of impending doom, I don't panic, I go 'Oh crap. I'm so dead.' I signed up for the semester this morning. Had to wake up at stupid in the morning. I'll have stupid classes, but it wasn't so bad. It was just a very long day, but I couldn't go to bed without wishing Sasha a happy birthday!
Fandom: DC (animated)
Pairing: Superman/Batman
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Clark is hunter, Bruce is prey.
Spoilers: For Dead Reckoning
Notes: Beta by amazingly and too awesome for words tmelange. I had this bunny since I first watched the episode because there’s no aftermath for it, and that always seemed wrong to me. The bunny initially implied a lot more cuddling and comforting, but the Bruce!muse didn’t want to subject itself to fluff.
Word count: 1991
Started on July 21st 2006 at 5:10 pm
Finished on July 22nd 3006 at 1:09 am
Prey
“Bruce,” Clark pleaded, “talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to say,” Bruce answered, his words clipped and dry. He clenched his jaw; Clark was only making things worse with his innocent eyes and his kindness.
“Liar.” Clark’s voice was half endearment, half reproach. Bruce’s heart was beating loud in his ears, he felt raw and high-strung.
“Yes, Clark. Among many other things.” Failure. Hypocrite. Murderer.
Clark reached out to him, grabbing his shoulder and making him turn. A stern look in his eyes, disapproving of all the titles that Bruce could think of for himself, made him close his hands into tight fists. There was a primal feeling running through him. Fight. Run. Fight.
“You’re wasting my time,” he growled, shrugging off the hand on his shoulder. Run.
“You are not leaving the Watchtower like this,” Clark said, his voice calm and firm. He crossed his arms in typical ‘I’m Superman’ fashion. If Clark thought it would have some effect over him, he was mistaken.
“Who’s going to stop me?” Growl. Chin up, eyes narrowed. Fight.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Bruce. I don’t want you to hurt yourself. You need to talk about this.” Clark was trying to be reasonable and it only made things worse. The thump of his own heartbeat was maddening and he was breathing hard.
“You can’t hurt me, Clark. You’re just an annoyance.” Fight. Hurt. Fight.
Clark took one step back, like he had received a physical blow. “Fine, be like that. You’re still not going anywhere.”
Bruce realized he had walked into his quarters without noticing, and Superman was blocking the entrance. He could hardly get enough air by breathing through his nose. He felt disoriented. He had retired instinctively into his quarters as a security measure. He should be safe here, but Clark wouldn’t leave.
He couldn’t run. There was nowhere to run unless he could take Clark down. He had to fight.
Fight Clark. Hurt Clark. Make Clark go.
Run away. From Clark, from the Watchtower, from the guilt.
Run. Fight. Run.
No.
He sat down, defeated, and took off the cowl. He looked at it with disgust and threw it against the wall. The small ‘thud’ of expensive communication devices and vision enhancers against the metallic walls did nothing to appease him. His hands were shaking.
Clark just stared at him from the doorway, blocking the view from anyone walking in the hallway.
“Shut the goddamn door,” Bruce spat. He needed to get out of the batsuit, and Clark was just staring at him, like a god from above, in silent contempt.
He tried to control his breathing. His heart was trying to leap out of his chest, and it hurt. For a couple of minutes, he sat there, his eyes closed, wanting more than anything to be alone when he opened them.
Clark was still there when he looked again, his face unreadable. It was even worse than the calmness and the reasonableness and the kindness of before. It felt like judgment.
“Stop staring at me!” he lashed out, tackling Clark. He wasn’t going to be judged, he wasn’t going to lose this fight. He couldn’t run, there was nowhere to run, but he could fight.
Clark was taken by surprise by his sudden wild moves. They crashed against the closed door, and then fell to the floor. Bruce growled when his fist connected with an iron cheekbone, pain flooding his system. Clark pushed him, a shocked look on his face, and Bruce landed a few feet away. Bruce felt like he was burning, shivers running down his body like electricity. He lunged at Clark again, and Clark grabbed his wrists before he could hit him and hurt himself further. The growls leaving Bruce’s throat were turning feral, and in his shock, every movement he had taught his body through years of practice was done instinctively.
Superman had no choice but to handle him roughly, trying to stop a man who had been taught hundreds of ways to kill, but who shunned that knowledge as a conscious act. But Bruce was far from acting consciously now and he didn’t know anything other than he was still being held, and it hurt, everything hurt. The growls turned to sobs and labored breathing as Clark pinned him against the wall, wrists above his head, hurting, legs together and rendered useless from powerful knees trapping his, the rest of him being held in place by the firm pressure of a stronger body.
Clark’s face was unreadable for a moment, and then sad. He didn’t say anything, and Bruce couldn’t bear to look at him anymore. He had lost the fight, he was trapped, caught, no way to run. He threw his head back, fully exposing his neck. He relented, his body going instantly limp.
He was breathing fire, and he thought he might have been wailing. It was hard to tell with the drum of his heart drowning everything else. He closed his mouth, swallowing hard, and tried to speak.
“Hurt me,” he sounded as raw as he felt.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Bruce.” Clark’s voice was rough, but he didn’t sound mad, or angry, or victorious. It was just Clark.
Bruce stretched against the wall, closing his eyes against the tears that were threatening to spill. His breath caught in his throat when he felt Clark’s lips on his neck, barely touching his pulse point. Caught, he was caught.
Run. Fight. Run.
No.
“If I don’t hurt you, Bruce, will you look for someone who will?” Clark’s voice was still rough, but it was whisper low, his lips brushing against his skin.
Run. Run.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Bruce couldn’t find the air to articulate the words that Clark was demanding. He was hurting, his body hurt, his head hurt, his heart hurt. Murderer.
“Because you won’t,” he whispered shakily.
Clark bit him through the Kevlar where his neck met his shoulders, and all the hurt he felt resonated with the sting of teeth in flesh.
Bruce needed to fight, to get away from the weight in his chest that made breathing so hard. But he couldn’t, fighting wasn’t an option anymore. He had run as far he could, and then he fought until he lost, and now he could only be still, waiting for the killing blow to land.
Clark sucked, bit, and kissed up his neck. Bruce gasped, and then Clark’s lips were gone. Clark was staring at him again, no longer sad, judgmental or calm. One hand cupped his chin, and brought his face down. Up close, the inches that Clark had over him were obvious, and he had to look up to meet his gaze.
Clark’s eyes were wild and alien, maybe somehow resonating with his own primal needs. This was his hunter, and he was Clark’s prey.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Clark asserted, a Kryptonian accent creeping into his words, like he too was forgetting himself.
No more fighting. No more running. Bruce suddenly knew what it was like to be a deer frozen in the headlight of an oncoming car; Clark’s azure eyes commanded him to look at the open display of strength and lust. It was impossible to look away.
Clark captured his mouth with more force than necessary, and if Bruce thought he had been having trouble breathing before, he hadn’t known the first thing. Clark’s left hand released his wrists, cupping the back of his neck, bringing them closer.
Bruce was melting in the fire that was Clark. A hot tongue probed and dipped into the depths of his mouth, unforgiving, and all Bruce could do was suck at the soft flesh, accepting his fate. Clark was his hunter, and he had been caught.
Clark sucked at his lower lip, and bit him lightly, teasing. He went back to tonguing him, and then licked his lips playfully. Bruce’s mind was reeling, trying to understand. Clearly, he was being claimed, yet he was also being invited to play. He bit down on the tongue in his mouth and then sucked at it, and was rewarded by a low moan in the deeps of Clark’s mouth.
Clark was his hunter. He was game, and Clark was playing with his prey. It wasn’t over, not yet.
He fought. His wrists came down from above his head, and he touched Clark wherever he could, wherever Clark allowed it. Clark pressed him against the wall, and thrust against him, hard beneath the flimsy fabric of his costume.
He pulled at Clark’s cape until it gave, throwing it to the floor. Clark’s hands were busy fondling his ass and trying to get rid of the belt. They undressed each other as fast as they could, barely breaking the kiss. Bruce felt lightheaded, his heartbeat was still the loudest thing in the room and he felt like he was drowning in Clark’s heat.
Naked, Clark pinned him against the cold wall. His hunter took his wrists again, and pushed them forcibly above their heads. Clark kissed him thoroughly, taking control of the kiss, letting him know that playtime was over. No more fighting. No more running.
Just Clark.
Clark thrust, their erections trapped between their bodies, and Bruce hit the wall hard with the momentum. The sound of Bruce’s body hitting the metal behind them drowned their own voices, and Bruce was glad his heart wasn’t the loudest thing in the room anymore.
The encounter wasn’t meant to last, and Bruce felt the tension in his body coalescing in his belly. His body sang along with the song the Kryptonian’s body hummed, and he hooked his legs around Clark’s hips. Clark came hard, biting him in the same place he had at the beginning, and Bruce promptly followed him, throwing his head back, offering Clark his neck like a sacrifice.
When Bruce opened his eyes, they were sitting on the floor over the heap of their clothes. His legs were still hooked around Clark’s waist, and he was sitting on his lap, his hands still over his head.
He looked disoriented for a minute, then moved his hands down, placing them on Clark’s shoulders. Clark laughed.
“Of all the things I have asked you to do, you chose to listen to me about keeping your hands up. What am I going to do with you?”
Bruce leaned over, placing his forehead over one of his arms on Clark’s shoulders. “Whatever you want to do,” he whispered, tired.
“I want you to listen to me then,” Clark said, his voice smooth and clear, holding him close. “What happened today, it wasn’t your fault. I need you to believe me.”
“I killed him,” Bruce told him, sounding hoarse even to his own ears.
“Deadman killed him. If he had taken control of me, and killed him while he was in my body, would you be blaming me?”
“…no.”
“Then why should it be different because it was you?”
Bruce shrugged, tears rolling down his arm and splashing into Clark’s chest. Clark nuzzled his hair, and placed a kiss on his temple. “Believe me. Please.”
Bruce nodded without looking up.
“I’m Superman. I never lie and I’m always right,” Clark teased him, trying to bring Bruce back to him and away from that dark place in his mind.
Bruce’s chuckle was a little too hysterical to be reassuring, so he tried to find his voice. “So, you’re going to come clean to J’onn when he asks you what you did to calm me down? ‘I got Batman laid, J’onn, don’t worry, he’ll be fine’?”
Clark smiled against his temple. “Well, no.”
“Whatever you tell him, it’s going to be a lie, and Superman doesn’t lie.”
“You must be rubbing off on me, then.”
Bruce turned his head, and met Clark’s gaze with red, ragged eyes, but his smile was warm and fond. “Right. Rubbing off.”
Clark returned the smile cheekily. “Among other things.”