AN: So I mostly wrote this just to prove I could.
Takes place in the DCAU's Justice Lords Universe, after the Justice Lords have taken over, but before the Justice League shows up.
Lois groans and looks very much as though she wants smash her head on her keyboard. "Nothing, Smallville, not a single thing to write about. Ever since those Justice Lords took over, there haven't been any really juicy sink-your-teeth-into-them stories."
"That's because all the juicy stories are when something goes wrong, and since then nothing has," Clark answers.
"There's definitely something wrong," Lois mutters, which Clark pretends not to hear. He couldn't have without super-hearing anyway.
"We could always do an exposé on Le-" Clark cuts off the words that had been falling from his lips, automatically and without a thought, literally biting down on his tongue until he could taste the blood beading up.
"What?" asked Lois, expression curious.
"No, it's nothing."
"I hate you."
"Why do I find that hard to believe?"
"You killed Flash!"
"Yes, I killed Flash, you killed me, and it all means a lot less and a whole lot more than you pretend it does."
Clark flies above Metropolis, patrolling the city. He doesn't need to do it like this anymore, the Justice Lords had far better ways of keeping an eye on things, but he still likes to sometimes. It's nostalgic.
Almost lazily, Clark begins x-raying buildings at random, looking for trouble. It wasn't until after he scans the fifth one that he realizes who all of them used to belong to.
Every single one is empty.
"I have to give you a hand; you do iron-fisted dictator much better than I ever could."
"We're doing this for humanity's own good. We have to protect people from themselves."
"Whatever you say, love."
Leaning forward, Clark bites into the shoulder above him, tasting the salt and sweat and skin, feeling the corded muscles. He squeezes his arms in, pulling the other's body until they are crushed together and his partner lets out a moan. But moans of pain soon give way to pleasure as the two of them thrust together, movements becoming more and more erratic with each spike of sensation.
Suddenly, Clark jerks awake, orgasm screaming through him and leaving him gasping for breath. His hand reaches toward the bed beside him, but there's nothing to grasp, save cool sheets.
"I miss you."
"And whose fault is that?"
Sometimes, when Clark is walking down the hallways of Watchtower by himself, the sound bounces back on itself in such a way that sounds like two sets of footsteps instead of one.
He doesn't look behind him; he knows there's no one there.