Title: Mind Over Matter
Theme/Topic: Sex pollen porn
Rating: NC-17 (WTF)
Spoilers/Warnings: Sex pollen! (Rimming, dubcon, probably OOC, randomness)
Word Count: 5,380
Summary: Batman is always right.
Dedication: For Irene, who requested sex pollen fic and bottom Bruce. WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO ME.
A/N: OH GOD PORN. I mentioned before that I am bad at this, right? VERY BAD AT IT. THIS IS NOT SEXY AT ALL, BUT GROSSLY COMICAL. UGH. Also, all I know about either Superman or Batman continuity pretty much goes as far as general knowledge from my youth and a huge love of the JLA/JLU series. So there.
Disclaimer: No harm or infringement intended.
It is one of those rare, quiet nights in Gotham, the record-breaking summer temperatures of the last two weeks constantly flirting in the mid one hundred and teen degrees during the height of the day and settling into the low one hundreds after sunset, though only once the city's blacktop has spent a couple of hours cooling in the dark. The heat, combined with the sixty to seventy percent humidity determinedly rolling in off of the bay serves to form a cloying, oppressive kind of weight in the atmosphere around Gotham, a kind of heavy, damp fog that makes you tired just from breathing.
It's the kind of weather that makes most people think twice about moving. They stay in their homes mostly, crank the air conditioners up, and do a good job of staying out of trouble on nights like these. Villains with elaborate world domination schemes probably put them off in light of weather like this. It's just too hot to give a damn.
For most people.
Batman is not most people.
He lingers in the open air of Gotham after dark, determinedly crouched in the shadows of a high rooftop, carefully ensconced in the shadows between a pair of gargoyles that share his bad posture and his gruesome expression. Chances are nothing too untoward will happen tonight, but he'd rather be here all night and have nothing come of it than go home assuming nothing will happen and have the world explode around him in the meantime, just because he'd decided to get some sleep for once.
So he watches, even if there is nothing to watch. He is the Batman, still and silent and ever alert. The rest of Gotham rests, too oppressed by the summer weather to be belligerent. Bruce, not for the first time since the heat wave had settled in, feels that his city is a great, sleeping beast.
He knows from experience that it doesn't ever sleep for very long, though.
The hours trickle uneventfully past and before long it's midnight, the first minutes of a new day ticking by in a hazy silence that is only occasionally broken up by the sound of a car driving past or stray cats knocking over trashcans in the alleyways. Bruce feels individual beads of sweat trickling down the back of his neck and along the side of his face as the time passes, making slow, wet progress along his skin, causing the fabric of his suit to stick to him in unpleasant ways. He doesn't move though, not even to wipe his eyes; instead he tells himself that shadows don't sweat, that there is nothing there and the sensation of wetness on his skin is simply a distraction, an illusion. He is not human in this suit. He is vengeance personified.
He is definitely not a sticky, sweaty, musky mess with leg cramps and a burning desire to eat a sandwich and take a nap.
He's the goddamn Batman.
This is what he tells himself anyway, what he always tells himself whenever he feels his eyes start to flutter closed after three days of no sleep, or whenever his stomach rumbles fifteen hours into a stakeout. He tells himself the Batman doesn't sleep, doesn't eat, doesn't sweat or cry or cramp or break. He doesn't give off an odor, doesn't sneeze, doesn't itch, doesn't piss. He doesn't love or hate or feel at all. He is the dark hand of justice and nothing more.
Clark laughs at him when he gets into these phases of mind over matter, when he tries to trick himself out of succumbing to his own mortality, his own humanity. The Kryptonian's eyes crinkle with mirth whenever he catches Bruce in one of these moods, the big blue Boy Scout insisting that Bruce's mind might be able to convince itself of some things very well at the moment, but that his body will only suffer for it later, if not now, then in years to come. The last time they'd talked about this specifically, Clark had brought hamburgers with him like an ass and had bid Bruce to eat with him to help keep his strength up. Bruce, in a fit of pique at the smell of cooked meat and the smug look on Superman's face, had been all the more determined to hold out, to ignore the temptation and to prove Clark wrong. He'd gone without food for twenty more hours after that, much to the Kryptonian's dismay, and even though Bruce had been slightly delirious and probably a little bit more than casually dehydrated at the end of his stubborn demonstration, he had reveled in the sudden rush of triumph that usually came with proving his friend wrong.
The Batman, Bruce determines, should always be right. Superman's powers include being bullet proof, flight, keen hearing, laser eyes, super strength, and a thousand other things. Batman's one power is to never be wrong. It's only fair that the two of them even out somehow, especially considering how many times Bruce has nearly been shot in the face by one of the ricochets bouncing harmlessly off of the Man of Steel's impenetrable S-covered barrel chest.
Bruce feels his eye twitch involuntarily in annoyance at that reminder, and clenches his jaw again, expertly forcing his emotions to fade into the background of his machine-like surveillance of the greater Gotham metropolitan area. He knows that while Superman is probably fast asleep, Batman is still working.
It is because something is going to happen tonight; Bruce can feel it deep in his bones. The thing that makes it so that Batman is always right is the gut instinct of the world's greatest detective. It's telling him now that despite the quiet, there is action to be had tonight. Things are always brewing in this city.
All he has to do is wait.
Of course nothing happens until well after two am, while he's busy brow-beating himself into believing he's not sleepy or stinky or hungry or achy. But it does happen, just like he'd known it would. Batman is always right.
It starts with a quiet rush of displaced air and the fluttering of cloth caught in the wind. These quiet warnings draw the Dark Knight's attention to the rooftop behind him just as someone else alights there in a slightly clumsy, stuttered stumble. Bruce's hand tightens around a batarang under his cape as he turns slowly, movement almost imperceptible in the darkness, his cape cloaking him in ripples of shadow.
However, what he sees when he turns around is not an enemy. It is wholly unexpected, but no less unwelcome at this time of night than the Joker or a hostile alien invasion would be.
"What do you want?" he says abruptly, voice carefully annoyed as he tucks the batarang away and stands to his full height to look Superman over. Clark crouches rather breathlessly on the rooftop and doesn't answer him right away.
Then, "Bruce," he murmurs gruffly, sounding unlike himself, not at all calm and confident. Instead he sounds slightly out of breath—which should be impossible—and when he finally fixes his gaze on Batman's his eyes seem wild in the dark somehow, both incredibly, feverishly bright and with fully dilated pupils that dart from side to side like an overexcited animal's. His skin is flushed too, or at least, seems that way in the dim light of the open rooftop, where he kneels, making an enormous, primary colored target of himself without fear or consideration of the possible repercussions.
"What are you doing here?" Batman asks, keeping his voice low. On closer inspection, he realizes that Superman is shaking, almost imperceptibly. Batman frowns and steps closer, though warily. "Clark? What happened?"
Superman runs a hand through his hair, the result of which makes his dark locks look as wild as the rest of him, and when he moves like that, Bruce can detect a faint shimmer along his friend's skin, flecked bits of pink and gold glitter all along his neck and strewn carelessly across his face and in his hair. Did Clark go to a strip club? Unlikely.
Batman keeps himself from advancing any further, in case this is some kind of trap, or hoax, or worse, a very stupid joke, probably prompted by Wally. "What happened to you?" he repeats, when Superman doesn't answer and he begins to grow impatient.
Superman shakes himself blearily, expression hazy as his gaze follows every one of Batman's movements in a jittery, speculative kind of way. "Ivy," he manages, and twitches.
Bruce's eyes narrow; he knows that Poison Ivy had been taken to Star Labs in Metropolis earlier in the week to help some of the researchers there develop a plant based anesthesia that the staff had been trying (unsuccessfully) to synthesize for years. The city of Gotham had promised leniency on her sentence if she agreed to cooperate with the Metropolis authorities to do this work, even though Batman had protested at the thought of moving her and giving her access to top secret medical research. But given that she was going to Metropolis, Superman had assured him there would be no cause for alarm. "I'll handle it, Bruce," Clark had said casually over the phone, and Bruce remembers gritting his teeth and wishing Superman would realize that just because he is invincible on the outside it doesn't give him an excuse to be a complete moron on the inside.
And so here they are; Batman had been right, go figure. "What did she do to you?" Bruce asks, and closes the distance between them for a better look at Clark's symptoms. If he can figure out which one of her compounds she'd used on him, he can probably synthesize a cure back at the manor. But to do that, he needs to observe its effects properly. So he crouches beside Clark on the rooftop, careful to keep his tone to one of long-suffering as he looks his friend over and mentally assesses his myriad symptoms. It always does him well to hide his worry with ire. Batman understands anger, and the last thing Superman needs is to know Bruce worries for him sometimes.
Clark trembles slightly under Batman's thoughtful gaze, though it is not a fearful shaking, but rather one that reminds Bruce of an overexcited dog kept on a tight leash. Clark's eyes sharply track the movement of Bruce's legs as he moves to the Kryptonian's side. "I don't know what happened exactly," Clark begins, while Batman studies him. "She tried to escape by stunning the guards in her holding cell; I got to her before she broke the gates, but she hit me with something pink and shimmery that she'd been keeping in her hair. It smelled like pomegranate and perfume," he admits, still looking over Bruce like he's never seen the Batman costume before. Absently, as he talks, Clark's hand drifts up to trace the edge of Batman's cape where it touches the floor beside him. He huffs a breath of disbelieving laughter. "Nothing happened at first, so I figured I was immune."
Superman has a bad habit of assuming that all the time. It's why he runs into situations without thinking first and very often, why Batman gets broken ribs running in after him to save him.
"When did the symptoms start?" Bruce demands, and pulls his cape out of Clark's reach. Warning bells are starting to go off in the back of his head as his friend's hands begin to fidget, like he's fighting back the impulse to grab something.
Clark doesn't seem to notice Batman's growing concern. "Felt fine until an hour ago," he says, and shifts his focus from Batman's cape to Bruce's thighs.
Bruce frowns. "Delayed onset?" That seems useless for Ivy unless she's trying to make a point. From what Clark had said, she'd just been trying to make an escape.
"Maybe it takes longer to work on me," Superman manages, and manages a very strange smile at Batman that's part bluster and part something else. His eyes still have that unfocused, hungry quality to them that automatically sets Bruce's Fight or Flight mechanism on call; this is a look he's seen many times before, most predominantly on the faces of the many models, actresses, and debutantes he meets at Wayne Enterprises functions, the ones who would like to be seen with Gotham's most eligible bachelor and sometimes dream of ending his bachelorhood altogether. This is the look of someone sizing up potential prey.
Batman does not like that one bit, especially coming from Superman. He can only hope that Ivy hadn't given him some sort of rage serum. "Clark," he growls, "quit staring." He snaps his fingers in front of Superman's face once or twice to get his attention again. "Focus."
Clark swallows. "Right. Uh…after I started feeling dizzy…I uh, I came out to find you," he explains. The back of his neck seems to be flushed and red now; Batman wonders if Clark is starting to get feverish. "I thought," Clark breathes, while Batman is busy composing the mental list of his friend's symptoms, "you'd be the only one who could help me."
Bruce can't blame him for that line of reasoning; it's probably the first sensible thing Clark has done all night. Absently, he reaches out to rest a hand against Clark's forehead, trying to gauge his temperature. He does feel slightly warm, but it doesn't seem potentially dangerous at this stage. Under his hand, Clark shivers, and Bruce supposes that means he has chills as well. Best to get him back to the lab to see what's going on under a microscope.
"Alright," he mutters, even though he is loathe to abandon his vigilance at this point. He removes his hand from Clark's forehead, causing the afflicted hero to make a sound in the back of his throat suspiciously like a growl. That probably isn't good either. Batman moves to summon his jet. "Meet me at the cave in fi—"
He doesn't get to finish that sentence because Superman has suddenly lurched forward and grabbed both of his arms in vice-lick grips.
And then he shoves his face right into the curve of Batman's throat. It is unexpected.
For the first time in a long time, Batman has no immediate idea of what to do. "Clark?" he asks warily, and feels every muscle in his body tense instinctively under Superman's steely hold on his arms. "What are you—"
It seems like this is one of those nights where he's destined to be cut off a lot, because before he can finish that inquiry, he feels Superman's tongue dart out to lick a single bead of sweat off of the curve of his jaw.
"What are you doing?" Batman growls, and manages to get it all out this time.
Clark starts, as if remembering himself, though he doesn't release his hold on either of Bruce's wrists. Bruce can feel Clark's breath, hot and damp, against his skin. He does not like where this is going.
"Sorry just… hmmm," Clark murmurs unintelligibly, and pushes closer still, inadvertently using his great bulk to knock Bruce on his back and pin him down with his legs. "You smell good, Bruce. I just realized you smell good."
Bruce is pretty sure that isn't true. He's sweaty and gross and hasn't showered for nearly thirty hours. In the sweltering one hundred and five degree heat. Superman doesn't seem to care; he is much more preoccupied with mouthing over every bit of Bruce's damp, exposed skin he can get to (which, admittedly, isn't much).
When Superman is determined to do something, it is very hard to stop him.
Batman clenches his jaw and hates everything. Under the light of the moon, he can see the faint pink shimmer of Ivy's handiwork glowing softly along Clark's skin. "Well," he says, and manages to repress a shiver—the Batman does not shiver—when his friend runs curious fingers over his ribcage, still bruised and tender from a fight two days ago with Bane, "I think I know what she hit you with now, at least."
"Really?" Clark murmurs, sounding completely uninterested at this point. A tearing sound makes Batman wince as his chest is suddenly exposed to the cloyingly warm night air. The sad thing is, more allies ruin his suits than enemies these days. Kevlar that cost a lot of money to make is torn like paper under Superman's ministrations. Bruce makes a mental note to charge him for it later.
Batman's first order of business however, is to try (however futilely) to throw Superman off of him. Quite frankly, this is uncomfortable. And will probably lead to awkwardness before very long, because those spores still seem alive on Clark's skin, and if he continues to touch like he is, then they'll probably get into Bruce's system too, and he knows it won't take nearly as long to affect him.
Plus he just had his suit ripped off of him, and they're in the middle of a public rooftop. Superman is wearing brightred, blue, and yellow.
"You're thinking too much," Clark protests after a minute, chest to chest with Batman and grinning. "I can practically hear it, Bruce." He bites down lightly on the skin right above Bruce's sternum, just enough to sting but not enough to break skin. There will probably be a bruise tomorrow. Just one more to add to the collection.
"You're obviously not thinking enough," Bruce counters automatically, and resents all of this very much, despite the fact that he's starting to feel a little warmer himself, in the kind of way that has nothing to do with the temperature or the humidity. Superman is getting spores everywhere. This is Superman's fault.
It usually is.
Superman huffs a breath of laughter against Bruce's ear at the expression on his friend's face, and in the moment it takes him to do that, Batman has already calculated all three of the possible ways he can deal with this.
He can one, try to distract Superman and get to the kryptonite in his belt. Though at this point, the only type of distraction that will probably work involves thrusting of some kind and possibly letting Clark's tongue into his mouth.
Two, he can struggle and outright try to fight Superman, hope that he'll get lucky with Clark being in the state he's in, and then…well, and then nothing, because outrunning Superman is impossible, beating him up is equally impossible for the likes of Batman, and at this point, calling in any of the other League members would just be painfully embarrassing, because Batman has only been left with a shredded suit and his boots.
The third, and most likely of the options, is that he can just lie here, close his eyes and think of England, and hope that whatever aphrodisiac Ivy hit Clark with earlier will make its way out of his system with time and probably an orgasm or two.
The sound of his utility belt clicking open and hitting the ground somewhere to his left rules out option one.
The insistent pressure of Clark's solid, powerful weight on top of him pretty much rules out option two, which hadn't been much of an option in the first place, especially once his costume had been shredded by two very insistent hands and what Bruce suspects is some heat-vision aid, if the smell of melted Kevlar means anything (which it does).
The fact that all the blood in his body seems to be very determinedly moving from his head to his groin in the meantime kind of makes option three the shoe-in by default. Bruce is not very happy with his penis right now; he did not give it permission to get hard while he'd been thinking and yet here they are. Clearly he needs to work on his meditative techniques, because mind over matter means nothing when Clark is panting in his ear and rutting against him like an animal in the open air of a lonely Gotham rooftop. The fact that he might be thrusting back is clearly evidence that Ivy's aphrodisiacs are clouding his judgment.
He tells his dick to stop being such a shameless slut.
It does not listen to him though, instead reveling at the sensations induced by slotting right up against the line of Clark's hip and sliding wetly along the smooth cloth of Superman's costume. The part of Bruce's mind that still stubbornly refuses to give up and give in without a fight says that it is not fair that Superman is not naked yet. Almost as unfair as his cock is being for not listening to him and standing the hell down.
He prepares to say some very uncharitable things to Clark right away.
"Mmmph," is what comes out of his mouth instead of words though, because that is when Clark's very large, very solid hand is finally wrapping around his neatly exposed erection.
He may or may not let out a sound that is the bastard child of a hiss and a sigh right after that happens. Also, his head feels a little bit hot, and he may be a little bit dizzy, so he can't help it when he shifts obligingly to allow Clark the perfect angle to give his cock a long, slow pump that makes his hips stutter upwards and his vision white around the edges. This is not how his evening was supposed to go at all.
"Stop that," Bruce growls stubbornly. He tells himself again that he's Batman, and Batman doesn't get horny. Even if sex pollen is clearly in play. Batman is justice, goddammit. Not an aching, writhing slut alternately clawing at Clark's shoulders and thrusting up into his rhythmically pumping hand.
"No," Superman answers, voice low and wrecked as he simultaneously grabs Bruce's wrists with one hand and pins them above his head, before pulling a brilliant upstroke on Bruce's cock with the other. "You like this."
"It's the aphrodisiac," Bruce answers, though the last syllable of the word comes out sounding uncomfortably like a groan, when Clark thumbs the head of his cock, swirling the pad of his thumb against Bruce's slit. Precome, thick and tacky, smears over the sensitive skin there, and Clark smiles against Bruce's neck when Bruce shudders convulsively against his chest. "Ivy's compound is making us… aroused," Bruce insists even then, and Clark chuckles against him, the vibrations of Superman's chest against Bruce's skin making the muscles in his calves flex involuntarily. He isn't sure if it's out of anticipation or a fervent desire to run. Possibly both, if he's being impartial.
"I'm going to fuck you," is Clark's only answer to Bruce's theories, which is just proof that he's under the influence of something untoward, because Clark never swears. Bruce finds it makes a shiver of something run down his spine, and he is about to bite out a retort to that, except the pressure on his wrists is suddenly gone, along with the delicious pressure on his cock.
He—much to his horror—finds himself whimpering instead.
Clark sits back then, a fierce, speculative look in his eye, and Batman regards him wearily from his position on his back before there is a familiar whoosh of air and a rustling of fabric; before he quite knows what happened Bruce sees that Clark's clothes are gone and that he is crouched between Bruce's legs, looking anticipatory and still incredibly wild, his hair a mess and his eyes gleaming hungry curiosity.
Bruce thinks this—if any—would be his chance to escape. His belt is resting on the rooftop nearby, a little over an arm's length away, and if he could just get past the feverish feeling in his head and the boiling blood low in his belly, he could grab it and…
He grunts when Clark suddenly throws both of Bruce's legs over his shoulders, pushes a hand under his ass. Much to Bruce's dismay, the Kyrptonian only has to lift from there, and then to dive in at his leisure.
And so Batman is suddenly just like that, his legs in the air, his head still resting against warm cement, and enduring the wet slide of Superman's tongue as it very eagerly begins to explore its way into the darkest regions of Batman's ass.
His cock—clearly in possession of a mind of its own now— bounces jubilantly against his stomach as Superman guilelessly laps at the tight ring of muscle guarding his entrance, making his entire body shudder and clench, and to his horror, he finds it is all completely anticipatory.
He has to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning out loud at the first curious thrust of Clark's tongue inside him as he finally deigns to breach the surface of the muscle and thrust into previously unexplored depths. Bruce can taste blood in his mouth at that moment, hands in tight fists at his sides as the explorations continue, slow at first and shallow, but gradually deeper and faster as Superman grows bolder. Before long a finger is added alongside Clark's tongue to the loosened muscle, causing Bruce to tense up again; he lets out of hiss of breath that isn't entirely irritated, and Superman's free hand squeezes the outside of Bruce's thigh reassuringly before that finger is pushed in, all the way to the third knuckle and crooked ever so slightly. What happens next is a rush of blood roaring through Bruce's ears and his vision going positively white for a brief, bright moment; Bruce forgets himself then and lets out a deep groan as he feels himself skirt the very edge of orgasm, his forgotten cock slick and leaking hopefully against his belly as the proceedings continue.
"There we go," he hears Clark say against the skin of his thigh breathlessly, and Bruce grits his teeth and demands, "Would you get on with it?" as gruffly as he is able, despite the happy stars still floating on the outskirts of his vision.
Superman growls something unintelligible in response but complies; from there the second and the third finger are rushed affairs at best, barely spit-slicked and slightly painful going in. But Batman knows pain intimately, is too used to it and too proud of his own strength to complain, and before long the burning ache of them inside him stretches into something sublime instead, when Superman strokes his prostate with unerring precision and makes Bruce bite his own tongue to keep from keening out breathless demands for Superman to just fuck him already.
The next thing he knows, he is being flipped, and when he blinks again he is on his hands and knees and Superman is behind him, lining himself up, and before Bruce can wonder if his friend has suddenly developed a power for mind-reading to add to all the others, Clark gives an indecipherable grunt and thrusts hard inside of Bruce, bottoming out on the first stroke and letting out a triumphant sound of satisfaction even as Bruce winces, body going still and inner muscles clenching painfully tight around the intrusion.
Clark doesn't seem to notice Bruce's initial discomfort, or if he does, knows better than to draw attention to it. He only hesitates a moment before reaching out to tangle his fingers in Bruce's sweat-soaked hair.
The pace Clark sets from there is pounding, unrelenting, and altogether thrilling, Bruce feels every ache and sting and burst of red hot pleasure behind his eyelids each time Clark pulls back and slams in again, the wet slap of their bodies coming together rhythmic and intoxicating in the otherwise quiet night air. Bruce fists his own cock in his hands, stroking himself quickly and efficiently while determinedly thrusting back against Clark, as eager to impale himself on the hard length of his friend as Clark is intent on pushing in to him, because Batman is always about giving as good as he gets, if not better.
Much to Bruce's satisfaction he feels Clark come first some minutes later; it happens when Clark suddenly breaks their rhythm and the Kryptonian's hips stutter suddenly, his fingers clamping down hard enough to bruise on either side of Bruce's hips, their hold forbidding him to move as Clark groans and spills into Bruce in a series of hot, thick spurts. Bruce clenches tight around him as he does, startling a hiss from Clark as he goes still inside of Bruce, his breath hot against the back of Bruce's neck.
This concession is enough; Bruce, feeling victorious, gives himself two more rough strokes and comes over his own hand, sticky and hot and—thankfully—silent in his shudders of pleasure, with Clark slumped over him, limp but still buried deep inside, as if he is suddenly too lethargic to pull out.
Silence reigns for a moment then, and Bruce feels inordinately exhausted but at the very least, is bearing it with equanimity. He still feels slightly warmer than he ought to, mind pleasantly foggy, and as he feels Clark finally separate from him with a shudder, he is allowed to sit up and regain some of his dignity, however naked and sore and stinking of Clark's sweat and come he may be at this point.
He turns to look at his friend warily. "Well?" he demands after a moment, voice low and sarcastically calm despite what had just transpired between them. "You finished, then?"
Clark, breathing slowly and regarding him with an odd look in his eye, runs his hand through his own hair again and laughs a little. He seems slightly breathless even now, though the desperate, mindless air from earlier has since faded from his eyes. Or at the very least, eased into a low simmer.
Batman keeps a watchful eye on his face.
Clark leans back and regards Batman no less calmly. "To tell you the truth," he murmurs, eyes raking over the myriad scratches, small bruises, and not-so-subtle hickies dotting Bruce's body, "I think I might need another round or two before I'm back to normal."
Bruce tenses. "You're kidding."
Clark looks down into his lap.
Bruce's eyes follow him. He scowls when he sees that Clark is already hard again, the head of his cock angry and purple like they had only just breached the surface of this whole ordeal. Bruce sighs. "You're not kidding."
Clark doesn't deign to respond from there; he just wordlessly reaches out to pull Bruce on top of him and licks a wet trail up his throat, one full of equal parts apology and promise. Bruce grunts and shifts his weight obligingly, deliberately sinking his very sore, well-pounded ass down onto the throbbing length of Superman's persistent erection. He hisses at the burning stretch of it while Clark hums in satisfaction against his skin, and despite how tired, sweaty, sticky, and aching Bruce is right now, he fights past it to set a bruising, steady pace because he knows there isn't anything left to do but to ride this whole ordeal out to completion.
Let it be said that Batman always does whatever is necessary of him, no matter how seemingly impossible it might be for one who is just a man and nothing more.
And as he feels the blood—impossibly— start to rush back into his own groin again, making his formerly spent and exhausted cock perk and swell at the pounding pleasure of Superman thrusting up into him, he knows that everything is really just an exercise in mind over matter. He can do whatever he tells himself he can do, from seventy two hours straight without sleep, to a week without eating, to two very athletic, very insistent rounds of sex, one after the other in the middle of the night in one hundred degree weather.
Clark never believes he can pull this kind of stuff off, or that he should, but then again, Clark is kind of an idiot.
Besides, between the two of them, Superman may be the bullet proof one with superpowers, but Batman is the one who's always right.