Running Hot and Cold: Commentary

[shankie]

Response to the commentary meme, the annotated Running Hot & Cold for jen_in_japan.

Batman/Superman, NC-17, and since this contains the actual text, so's this.


It was earlier on in the summer, and I was on a roll with this whole fanfic deal, but despite the fact that I could pretty much conceive of anybody getting down and dirty, I hadn't worked my head around the biggest pairing in the slash end of the DC fandom; Batman and Superman.

It should have been obvious, but the dynamic totally threw me. I'd pretty much only done Bruce/Wally with some random few other pairings thrown in at that point; I don't think I'd even finished A Flash by Any Other Name yet. So when merfilly pointed in the direction of slashfest, I was like, hey, I'll just grab up something new. And lo, sasha_anu had requested Bruce/Clark with a twist.

Precautions only work when the the danger is anticipated. Bruce was hurdling through the air, and this was his first thought.

His second was that the kryptonite ring was in the utility belt he'd been in the process of taking off, and now was laying uselessly on the floor of the cave next to his cowl.

For the first month of its life, this was what the story was. Just these two lines, sitting sadly in my dock. They got some tweaking, I'd go back and re-do some of the wording, stare at my blinking cursor, and put it away for another time. This went on for quite a while.

The third was that Clark hadn't said a word, even as he was holding him in the bound steel of his arms, not in any way he'd been carried by the man before... but clutched against the wide chest. Not merely transportation. Possession.

'Possession' is one of those words I can't get enough of. Which is why I made it the title for my favourite piece of fic I've done to date, heh.

When I finally wrote this paragraph, I was being very... careful about my treatment of Clark's whisking Bruce away. Still not used to their dynamic, still gunshy about it, and throw in that Clark's not really himself? It took a while for me to be happy with this paragraph. Not have Clark be some super-powered incubus... although that still kinda happened.

He thought all of these things, then smirked to himself.

Continuing with the idea of the whisking-off, the slow, grinding gears of writing-ness just couldn't give me a clear and good way for Bruce to respond to all this. I tried out everything from struggling to angsting. And then it hit me, that this whole scenario was like a wet dream, and if Bruce had ever wanted Clark, he wouldn't be entirely unhappy with being abducted for ravishment.

They rose higher in the atmosphere, and the sharp wind sent his limbs full of chills and unable to keep his eyes open. He longed for his cowl and shut them, leaning his head against the shelter of Clark's shoulder, basking in the warmth he could feel radiating from his body despite the cold.

At first, the description of Bruce's discomfort due to altitude/being squeezed by invulnerable Kryptonian/cowllessness was much more intense. Most of it got deleted when I realized it was getting in the way of the hotness.

Much more about discomfort and sometimes painful or disgusting realism goes into my work before it actually gets a final cut. Especially when it comes to the actual smut-ness. It gets in the way.

He wasn't surprised when he opened them again to find they were above Antarctica.

Clark shielded him with one arm, and punched headlong through the ice with the other, sending a spray of shards over them both.

This image is one I just couldn't resist; Clark is so impatient he can't bother to use a door, and just punches through the wall. Heh.

Bruce's legs were numb, and he growled with frustration when he had to be caught to prevent falling in an ungraceful heap on the ice floor.

"Clark, what is this..."

He stopped as the grip on his arms became hands on his ass that lifted him up, and Clark licked the Bat symbol on his chest, trailing his tongue up under his neck, wet and hot as it grazed over tender skin and faint stubble there. Bruce sucked in a quick breath as his groin got tight and arousal blossomed over his skin in a tingling wave.

Didn't take long to hit another section that got re-written a million times. I couldn't get rid of this image of Clark just chaining Bruce up and going for it, but I also knew that was a little much. I was trying too hard for physical ways to actually subdue the Bat, then tried out the more mental/emotional/sexual path. It worked out much better.

It also marks the point where I really got these two, and I marked it by adding the licking of the Bat symbol, for my own posterity and such.

"We've been dancing for far too long, Bruce," Clark breathed into his ear, "I want you."

Bruce moaned as their bodies slammed into the icy wall, shuddering as the wet cold trickled down his back.

"We have... to..." Bruce gasped again, cut off by fingers vibrating over the armour shielding his crotch. "Clark... work together..."

"Mm, that's what I have in mind."

He realized there was an unfamiliar, wicked gleam in Clark's eyes, that made him swallow hard. He wasn't going to listen to the excuses and the pushing away, not now, not this time.

I was in one of my Foreigner obsession phases when I wrote this, and the song Urgent was being looped throughout much of the time when I actually took off running with this, at about this point in the story. Up until around here had been the long, drawn-out, painful process of it. It got much more fun and easy after this.

Music really influences my writing in a big way, and something about that song was really working for this. All about a driven sexual relationship that's out of pure need for each other, with all other aspects and entirely secondary.

Also a big help in the process at this point was this very porny bit of Bruce/Clark art by goss. I'd gotten the vibe, and things were great. The smut could truly begin.

Bruce closed his eyes and felt... liberated.

Sometimes, when it takes me a while to find the right word, I write it as if the character also had trouble finding it. This was one of those instances, and my hesitation over word choice paid off, as the running metaphor of freedom/captivity was well received.

He found Clark's lips and worked his hands under the back of the blue tights, over perfect sculpted flesh, over skin that burned for him, felt the little rumbles in his throat, frantic breath on his skin.

"This isn't you," the weak, last little shreds of denial whispered.

Not only the last shed of Bruce's denial, but the last remaining survivor of a virtual dialogue holocaust that happened in this section; Bruce's protest was much stronger originally. Mostly because he wasn't in control of the situation. It conflicted with my secret belief that Bruce has a kink for lovers who can control him.

"It's the me I've pushed aside too long, my Bat. My king of darkness," he replied with a smile playing on his lips, his voice becoming gravelly and low. "Mine."

I have a thing for writing Clark really cheesy dialogue when he's in a sexual context. I blame Byrne's influence on me. And the fact that he prolly would be this corny in bed; I've seen the evidence.

Bruce dug his fingertips into skin that would withstand the weight of the world and they sucked on each other's tongues greedily. Years of the denial fell away into burning hunger, a longing to free the uncomfortable uncomfortably tight prison he'd locked himself away in.

Basically tried to sum up the whole story, including backstory, in one paragraph, again with the whole running metaphor of imprisonment. I think this is my favourite bit of the whole piece.

"It's... cold in here," he murmured when he came up for air. "Oh god..."

"I thought you didn't believe in God," Clark said, wrinkling his nose as he grinned.

"The subject just came up for review."

When I asked for help, many, many times in getting their dynamic right, I got one thing over and over; SNARK. While this is very tame snark, I did, indeed, find that it was exactly the right way to have these guys deal with each other, especially when comfort levels and boundaries are being ripped apart.

Clark laughed and they were sailing through the gleaming halls, to the long corridor that made up the Fortress's menagerie. With one hand, Clark held Bruce close, with the other, he slid a glass panel open and into the warm artificial sunlight, the rich grass and short trees of the enclosure, over to a small pool of water edged with smooth stones.

Originally the sex was going to take place in the Fortress proper. I foresaw technical difficulties due to cold, and changed my mind. Bruce is, after all, only human; and it is, after all, Antarctica.

Bruce didn't waste much time wondering what was living here, and wasted less freeing his hands to pull off Clark's shirt, as his own pulled away, their capes fluttering onto the grass. Clark knelt down and put his mouth over Bruce's crotch-guard and made it that much more of a relief when his erection was freed, moaning as it was given the same attention while his boots and the rest of his uniform came off.

Obviously, this is not the slamfucking section I'd first envisioned it to be when I first claimed this sucker.

He was set down in the warm grass and Clark's tights were gone, leaving nothing between them.

No masks, no games, no world to save.

I feel it's important for Bruce to sometimes not be Batman, and that it happens quite rarely.

Clark pinched one of his nipples gently, rolling it between his fingers and sucked on the other with a nip of teeth that sent little jolts through Bruce's body, made him sigh and curl his toes into the ground.

Toe-curling is one of my favourite things about smut. I have to be careful and not use it too much, because it'd be way too easy for my sex scenes to just turn into a repeated use of the image.

"Mm, wait." Clark sat up, grabbing his blue shirt off the ground. He slipped it over Bruce's head and arms, slightly loose on him. "I've always wanted to do that," he said, narrowing his lust-darkened eyes. "Now you're my Superman."

I think anyone putting on a costume on a regular basis is going to develop, if they didn't already have, a uniform fetish. It only makes sense. I also liked the idea that Clark was surrounding Bruce in a symbolic way by doing this.

Bruce laughed, fingering the S on his chest as Clark leaned down over him, then pinned his wrists over his head with one hand and pushed up one of his legs, pressing hot erections against each other, grinding together slowly.

And elements of the first notion come back into play. Clark can easily dominate Bruce physically, and he's in a mood to. Again, this section was altered a few times to keep with the mood.

"Oh Bruce..." Bruce arched in Clark's grip and made a sound something like a plea, somewhere distantly noticing that Clark's skin less like musk, and more like sandalwood. "I need you to sit tight now, if you want more."

Something I think about is, how are aliens in the DCU different in little ways? Clark's body is very different from your normal Homo sapiens sapiens, and I wanted to throw some of that in, subtly, by making him smell different.

"Please," he whispered.

I got corrected on the initial grammar of this ("Please." He whispered.) and realized I'd been getting dialogue wrong everywhere. Have since gone back and done quite a bit of editing of older stories because of this.

He found himself tangled in knots of Clark's tights, bound to the thick trunk of a tree, straining without any real attempt to free himself, rubbing his thighs together in the frustration of aching desire.

I didn't want to totally write the bondage aspect out of things, and Clark's uniform was readily available at the scene...

"What the hell is taking you so long..." he growled.

"Impatient," Clark said, hovering over him with a smirk. "I don't think you've ever looked better."

"Thank my tailor."

Who is actually Martha Kent, and I really hated myself for writing a line in that made me think of Clark's mother in the middle of smut, and I'm very sorry if now you can't not think of it, either. In the end, I liked the line more than the connexion bothered me.

Clark set something on the ground as he landed, settling above him. He braced himself up with his arms and sucked on the dark trail of hair above Bruce's navel, then made him arch hard into the ground again as he took the head of his erection in his mouth.

Bruce made helpless noises of pleasure and pushed his thighs apart, which Clark took as an invitation to gently push slicked fingers up into him, fucking him with them slowly as he continued pleasuring him relentlessly.

"I'm... oh God... Clark..." he breathed.

Dominated Bruce is so hot. Writing Bruce/Wally really plays up him being the dominant one, and it was a lot of fun to make a reversal; and have since done it quite a bit. This was the first time I played with that dynamic.

Clark pulled away then, lubricating his own erection from a tube on the ground, fondling himself as he looked down at Bruce, his lips slightly parted and his eyelids heavy over dark blue.

"I want to hear you say it."

"Damn you..."

"Say it. I want to hear you beg." Clark said, biting his lip, squeezing his dick in his hand.

"Clark... you bastard..." Bruce groaned and pulled against the knots of fabric. "Are you... just going to sit there..." He dug his heel into the dirt and squeezed his eyes shut. "Clark," he choked out.

"Bruce."

"Just fuck me already!"

Heh. This dialogue was much looked at, and still is a bit off to me. But it's really hot, so I don't care.

Clark pulled him up on his side, throwing one of Bruce's legs over his shoulder, teasing the puckered skin that he could feel throbbing with anticipation.

Bruce's head lolled back and he made a faint breathy sound as Clark rose against him, guiding himself inside with sweet, sharp persistence. Somewhere under the terrifying pleasure were welcome twinges of pain both mixed together as Clark was buried in him with a long groan and an expression of bliss.

Still one of my favourite images from my sexy fic. The word 'persistence' gave me trouble, and I ended up bugging a few people, including merfilly, for help trying to find it until I did. The use of 'terrifying' as an adjective for 'pleasure' was entirely off the cuff, and worked surprisingly well.

He watched him as best he could from the angle, as Clark's dark eyelashes fluttered ever so slightly, his mouth open as he breathed out a sigh. He seemed to glow in the artificial light, like an earthbound god in impossible perfection.

A thrust, and Bruce shuddered in his own bliss... and let go, let himself cry out and live in each long thrust as they became faster with their mutual abandon, pushing back in arrhythmic harmony. Every sensation and motion becoming etched in his memory. The long denied was overwhelming and surpassed any promise made by idle fantasy of the past.

It's hard to put a lot of back story into a fic this short. I figured that confirmed reference to the fact that Bruce had fantasized about Clark in the past would help explain his easy acceptance of the situation.

Clark began stroking his erection again, pushing him into a shattering orgasm, the two of them uttering strangled moans, pushing tight against each other, Clark's fingers digging into his hips, his own hands clenched and his toes digging up the grass until he fell back panting.

See? Again with the toes!

Bruce's skin was slick with sweat as Clark's uniform was carefully taken off his skin and they dipped into the pool of water.

They wrapped themselves around each other and Bruce did nothing to stop the languid sleep overwhelming him, resting his head on Clark's arm and drifting off to the sensation of warm water on his skin and fingers brushing through his hair.

I'm such a sucker for post-coital cuddling. One of these days I'll write something different. But there's just something great about tired, ravished Bruce getting all wrapped up in his lover, trusting like that.

He woke up some time later, moved out of the water and up onto the grass, where a dodo-bird squawked at him in irritation.

Heh. The dodo-bird is always the first thing I think about when it comes to the Fortress of Solitude; strange, I know. Blame the DCAU for putting it there. And me, for having a need to throw the absurd into everything.

Bruce raised an eyebrow and looked around, finding only his uniform in a neat pile next to him... and no sign of Clark. He dressed swiftly and walked back into the chill of the Fortress halls, toward the sound of muttered words he couldn't make out.

Clark was standing in front of a sweeping alien computer console, touching the screen with terse flicks as he went through menus written out in Kryptonian's geometric alphabet. Bruce walked over just behind him, his hands under his cape and the naked feeling of being without his cowl somehow less... unwanted.

"There was red kryptonite in the bunker Diana and I found Metallo hiding in. I was exposed before we realized it, I wasn't..." Clark's head dropped.

Bruce put his hand on Clark's shoulder, fingering the red cape. It prompted him to turn around and look Bruce in the eye uncertainly.

A smirk drew up in the side of Bruce's lips and he tilted his head to one side, but he said nothing. A puzzled flicker went through Clark's deep blue eyes, the vivid colour unmatched in anyone else Bruce had ever seen, and he doubted he'd ever find it again.

Yeah, I know. I focus on eye colour quite a bit when it comes to Bruce being into someone. It's in my brain's characterization of him for some reason.

"Clark."

Clark sighed.

"Bruce..."

"Shut up."

Bruce worked his hands behind Clark's head and kissed him, the uncertain surprise becoming impassioned reciprocation, relieved of his tension. Clark wrapped his arms around Bruce's waist, and they were hovering in the air.

With Clark, he could fly.

The first line and the last line of a fic are the ones I work on the longest, usually. To set the mood, really sum things up so that the reader enters and comes away with just the right tone. This one is dangerously corny, but I liked it, and kept it.

So that was all that. Final thoughts? Hm. Well, I was overjoyed when I actually finished this. It ended up being much shorter than I expected, and indeed, shorter than if felt like while it was being written... simply because of how long it took.

I angsted, and bitched, and whined to anyone who would listen about how much this story plagued me, up until the point it all came together, the day of slashfest's claims being due. It started out as an attempt to understand a pairing better, and that's what I came away with.

Along with the lovely reception it got, that alone made this something of an accomplishment. Even if it did make it so I missed the deadline with the other claims.

Like everything I write, this was written... everywhere. Bits were done all over my apartment, in coffee shops, outside...