Chapter Text
Present day
Wayne Tower, Old Gotham
Contrary to popular belief, it's Wednesdays that are arguably the worst invention in human history, worse than Mondays. Or maybe it's emails. Conference calls are also high up on the list… Bruce isn't exactly sure which of these things he hates the most as he sits in his office on the top floor of Wayne Tower on a Wednesday night, working his way through a report from his marketing team, but he's sure that he does hate Wednesdays. Very much so. Surprisingly, it has nothing to do with the presentation he's clicking through, about how the ad campaign they launched the week before has been received so far. It's also not the fact that he has to use that data to try and estimate how much revenue this new product line is likely to generate so he can use that money to set some of his more elaborate plans for Gotham into motion. After all, there are more than a few orphanages and youth centers around the city in desperate need of funding.
No, what Bruce hates about Wednesdays—and emails and conference calls—is that, in his experience, something unexpected will inevitably happen every single week . He doesn't know how or why, but something will always come up that derails his plans for the week. It's happened often enough to become a pattern, which is incredibly irritating, and if Bruce knew how to do it without sounding like a child, he would ask Zatanna if there is some kind of cosmic force at work on Hump Day.
In any case and in true Wednesday fashion, Bruce is knee-deep in his spreadsheet when he hears a knock. Frowning slightly, he looks up from his screen. The sound didn't come from his door. He turns around and—
Superman. Ah. Bruce isn't really surprised, to be honest. He'd known that a member of the Justice League would approach him sooner rather than later, ever since the news broke that Wayne Enterprises was planning a line of Justice League action figures. It was inevitable. That doesn't mean that Bruce has to like it, or that turning around to find an angry looking Superman floating outside his window like a displeased god isn't the definition of throwing a wrench into his plans.
Not that Superman has a reason to be angry. Bruce on the other hand… After the way their last League meeting went (another Wednesday disaster) he has every right to be furious. Kal didn’t know he was insulting Bruce Wayne to his face, sure, but Bruce didn’t pride himself on being reasonable. Not all the time, anyway.
He simply stares at Superman a moment longer before he gets up. And maybe it's petty, a selfish little bit of revenge, but he takes his sweet time approaching the balcony door. He can see Superman's jaw working as he floats alongside him the entire way, narrowed eyes fixed on Bruce, and it's such a contrast to the way they usually act around each other that it manages to throw Bruce off a bit. He's used to people disliking the Brucie Wayne he presents to the public, but it's different somehow to face that kind of animosity from someone like Kal. Someone Bruce has come to think of as a friend, someone who usually always sees the best in people even if they don't deserve it.
Wrestling the strange feeling rising in his chest back under control, Bruce pulls the balcony door open and steps back to make space. “Superman,” he says. “What an honor.”
Kal doesn't answer, and instead continues glaring at Bruce, who Bruce suppresses a sigh, and returns to his desk, deliberately painting the picture of casual indifference as he leans against the edge of it, his feet crossed at the ankles and his hands stuffed in his pockets.
In contrast, Superman looks stiff and uncomfortable, like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world as he stands in the middle of Bruce's office. He's got his arms crossed tightly over his broad chest, shoulders pulled up to his ears and an impressive frown on his handsome face. His hair is windswept, that one stubborn curl hanging into his forehead, cheeks slightly reddened. He looks unbearably beautiful.
Not helping , Bruce reprimands his libido, and firmly gets his head back in the game. Still, it takes effort to keep his body from reacting like it usually does, his heart wants to pick up its pace whenever he looks into Kal's eyes, and that only serves to make Bruce more prickly than usual.
“Not gonna talk to me, handsome?” he asks, one eyebrow arched imperiously for the sole reason that it will piss Superman off. “If this is supposed to be some kind of riddle for me to figure out why you're here, it's not very good. No offense, but maybe you should ask Riddler for help next time.”
Predictably, Superman's expression darkens further. “This isn't a joking matter, Mr. Wayne.”
Bruce laughs. “I should hope not. But why don't you enlighten me what kind of matter this is , hm? I'm a busy man and I don't usually take unscheduled meetings,” he says, and as his own anger gets the better of him he adds, “Not that I could've stopped you.”
The blow lands as intended and Superman's posture instantly loosens up as he takes a step back, giving Bruce space. However, it doesn't feel like much of a victory. Not when Kal doesn't even know that the harsh words from the week before still hang between them. He has no clue that Bruce heard every single judgment he passed on him. But even if he knew… Kal's worst nightmare is people being scared of him, and it was cruel of Bruce to use it, immature. He doesn't regret it, though, not really, and what kind of person does that make him?
“I'm sorry to intrude on you like this,” says Kal, and it grates because he so obviously means it. Despite his animosity, he genuinely feels bad for inconveniencing Bruce. Perhaps that feeling roiling in Bruce's stomach is regret after all. “But we—that is, the Justice League—have an important matter to discuss with you, Mr. Wayne. A matter that cannot wait.”
Bruce debates playing dumb, like Superman undoubtedly expects him to, if just to make this encounter as irritating as possible. Ultimately he decides against it, however. He's made enough of an ass of himself and it's better to have this over with quickly.
“The action figures, I'm aware.” Bruce waves his hand dismissively. “I've been waiting for one of you capes to contact me.”
Superman blinks. “You have?” The surprised tone is beyond insulting. It shouldn't get to him, but Bruce actually has to grit his teeth and count to ten, before he can answer in a normal tone. “I'm the CEO of a multi-billion dollar company. I have dealt with trademark issues before.”
For a second, Superman seems taken aback, clearly, the idea of Bruce Wayne having dealt with anything himself is novel for him, but then he nods. “You know that we can't just let you produce and sell action figures of us. It's against everything the Justice League stands for.”
Bruce pushes away from his desk and walks towards Superman. “Well, maybe you should have taken steps to prevent it then. Besides, the argument is moot. The idea is out there and if I don't do it, someone else definitely will, I guarantee it.” He stops right in front of Kal and reaches up to brush nonexistent lint from his shoulder, smile sharp enough to cut glass. “So aren't you just lucky that I'm willing to include you in the process?”
Frowning, Superman takes a step back, out of Bruce's reach. “What exactly do you mean by including us in the process?”
Bruce sighs. “I'm not explaining this more than once. Let's schedule a meeting with the rest of your friends and I'll relay the legalities. Well, I'll repeat what my lawyers told me, but if I understood it, then I'm sure you will, too. Then you can ask all the questions banging around that pretty head of yours. I'll even let you pick the location. Just don't make it too early, I need my beauty sleep.”
Superman's mouth flattens into a line of displeasure, prompting a sick sense of satisfaction from Bruce. He didn't think Kal's low opinion of Bruce Wayne affected him this much, but clearly, it did.
“Fine,” he says after a moment of deliberation. “We'll meet on Friday, at six pm. On the Watchtower. A League member will pick you up.”
Bruce scowls. He wants to snap that he can find his own way and doesn’t need any help. But not only does no one in the League know his identity, they also don't know that he's the one who built the damned Watchtower in the first place and thus is perfectly aware of its location. Logically, he should allow one of them to pick him up. But then again, he remembers the conversation Batman and Superman had the Wednesday before and pettiness wins out. “No need. I'll find my own way there.”
Predictably, Superman looks annoyed. “You can't do that, Mr. Wayne. You don't even know where it is! And even if you could get there on your own, I'm not about to give you directions.”
Bruce smirks. “Oh, but I'm not going on my own. I said I’d find my own way, not that I’m doing that alone. Batman will take me.”
Now Superman looks downright furious, but after a moment of deliberation he gives a curt nod. It’s impressive how he manages to control his ire. “Fine. I will ask Batman and as long as he agrees–”
“He will,” Bruce cuts in with a wink, before he lets his expression morph into a bored mask. “Now, if you would be so kind as to leave me to my work, Boy Scout. There is a lot to do before the action figures can go into production.” He turns, and without looking at Superman, sits down at his desk and pulls up his spreadsheet again.
Kal lingers for a moment, hands curled into fists at his side. He clearly wants to keep arguing, or maybe his ego is a little bruised because he was dismissed by a ‘shallow, self-centered airhead’—his words, and they still make Bruce’s blood boil in a way they really shouldn’t—but eventually he strides out onto the balcony, closing the door behind himself before flying off.
A part of Bruce (his wounded pride mostly, not that he will admit to it) thrives on the victory, but another part of him dreads what he will have to do now. He’s effectively maneuvered himself into a corner, one he can’t get out of on his own. Because Bruce Wayne and Batman will have to be in the same place at the same time and after what happened during the last League meeting, he's not about to reveal his identity to any of them. So with a heavy sigh and a headache building behind his eyes, he picks up his phone and dials. It only takes a few seconds for the call to connect.
“Bruce?”
“Hello, Dick. Are you free this Friday? I need your help with something.” Bruce rubs at his temple. Maybe it's Fridays, after all, that are the bane of his existence…
™™™
2 months earlier
LexCorp, New Troy, Metropolis
“You have four minutes before the security guards are circling back to your location, sir.”
“Understood,” answers Bruce as he slips through the door to the server room and quietly closes it behind him. He works quickly and efficiently, copying as much data as he can in the short timeframe. It would be easier to establish a standing connection but not only would that take more time than Bruce has right now, it's also more likely to be discovered, which could cause Luthor to change his plans and would defeat the point of this whole maneuver. Bruce needs to know what Lex is up to.
“One minute, sir,” comes Alfred's warning, and Bruce hums to show he heard. He's about to pull his data drive out and leave when a file labeled ‘Justice League’ grabs his attention. It's not encrypted. Bruce frowns, briefly debating if he should take it—it might be a trap after all—but in the end he decides the potential reward outweighs the risks. He'll take measures to protect his own system, but if this file holds a clue to what Luthor is planning, Bruce needs to have it. So he quickly copies the file as well, knowing he will definitely run into the guards now, but he can come up with a believable excuse.
Pocketing the flash drive, Bruce tugs on his clothing and ruffles his hair, makes sure he looks suitably disheveled, and then slips out of the server room. He hasn't made it two steps before the guards spot him.
“Hey!” one of them shouts. Bruce makes sure to sway and stumble as he turns towards the man.
“Hello there,” he slurs, grin bright and lopsided, and he knows he looks more than a little bit drunk. He feels a flare of satisfaction when the guard rolls his eyes heavenward in exasperation before coming closer.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Wayne?”
“Looking for the bathroom,” he improvises, and ignores Alfred's derisive snort at the uncreative excuse. “There was this reporter, a real cutie, you know? He wanted to meet me there for an interview , if you know what I mean.” Bruce waggles his eyebrows and drunkenly waves his hand around. He lets the movement nearly overbalance him, catching himself on the guard's shoulder, who lets out a grunt followed by a huff as he helps to steady Bruce.
“Don't know about any reporters, Mr. Wayne, but the bathroom's this way. May want to take it easy on the champagne when you get back to the party, yeah?”
“How thoughtful,” comments Alfred dryly, which Bruce ignores as he thanks the guard profusely and then stumbles off through the door the guard indicated. Once inside, Bruce makes sure that he's alone and checks the room for any surveillance equipment – He wouldn't put it past Luthor to bug the bathrooms. Finding nothing, he pulls out the flash drive and inserts it into the hidden port on his phone.
“Can you access the data?”
Alfred hums. “I am downloading it as we speak, sir.”
“Good. I'll have to get back to the party before anyone gets suspicious. Tell me if you find anything interesting?”
“Of course, sir.”
The rest of the night sees Brucie Wayne making a spectacle of himself. Bruce would never admit it out loud, but he's having fun doing it. Maybe it's because this is Luthor's party he's ruining, and bribing the DJ to play Billy Idol's Dancing with Myself as Bruce crashes the obnoxiously large ice statue of Lex himself to the floor feels like a bit of revenge for all the grief Lex has caused the Justice League over the years.
Bruce already knows that Kal, specifically, will get a kick out of it, and it's another thing that Bruce would never admit to but it's that thought as much as the vein popping out of Luthor's forehead that makes him topple the champagne fountain as well.
“Having fun, sir?”
“You keep telling me to, so I thought I'd give it a try,” answers Bruce, hiding his mouth behind yet another champagne flute on his way out. “What do you have for me?”
“Apparently, Mister Luthor has plans to create a line of children's toys, sir.”
Blinking, Bruce takes a sip of his drink to cover his surprise. “Toys?”
“That's right. The last file you uploaded contains plans to produce children's toys of the Justice League.”
Bruce suppresses a curse, fighting his eyebrows trying to furrow. “That's a PR nightmare waiting to happen. Has Luthor filed for a trademark yet?”
“No, sir. Shall I call Miss Ergun and ask her to get the process started?”
Bruce scoffs. “You know very well that Merve is already at home. I'll head into the office and do it myself. Nice try, though.”
“It was worth a shot, sir. I'll send the car around.”
Humming his agreement, Bruce makes his way towards the exit, but he's not really listening anymore. He's preoccupied with the trademark, pissed that he didn't think to file for it years ago. At least there's still time to remedy that, before LexCorp starts to profit off of them.
So Bruce spends the rest of the night filling out the necessary paperwork and then all of the next day trying to come up with something to do with that trademark. The problem is that he actually has to use it in commerce now or risk losing it again. But what of the Justice League is there to sell? The mere idea goes against everything the League stands for.
In the end, he figures that Lex didn't have such a bad idea of it. Children's toys are probably the least deplorable thing a company can do with the names and faces of the Justice League, and it gives Bruce the perfect excuse to start on a few of the charity projects he's been planning.
By the time Merve comes in to say goodbye for the day, Bruce has finally—with the help of his lawyers—set everything into motion to steal the trademark right out from under Lex's nose.
Seeing him still at his desk, Merve rolls her eyes with a huff. She crosses the distance between them in a few short strides, the colorful fabric of her hijab rustling, and then she slams her purse down in front of Bruce's keyboard. It's only Bruce's lightning fast reflexes that save his fingers from getting caught under the heavy bag. When he glares up at her, she doesn't look the least bit fazed.
“You will go home right now,” she orders, and Bruce really should protest—she’s his executive assistant, she works for him— but he’s never quite figured out how to do that. It’s what makes her so good at her job. Well, part of it. She’s also highly intelligent and probably the most competent employee the offices of Wayne Enterprises have ever seen.
“I haven’t even taken a look at the proposals you’ve sent me,” he tries, but Merve only raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, and Bruce instantly caves. “Alright, fine. I’ll head home.”
He shuts off his computer and stands, much to the displeasure of his back, apparently, because a twinge of pain moves up his spine. Trying not to wince, he stretches subtly and proceeds to gather his things, but he can tell by the way Merve is smirking that she definitely noticed. “It’s almost like sitting at your desk for nearly twenty-four hours is bad for your health,” she comments, and Bruce grumbles.
“As soon as Neziah is old enough, I’m firing you and hiring her. At least then I’d get to attend the occasional tea party.”
Merve scoffs to hide her smile. “You know as well as I do that my daughter would be a lot harder on you than I am.” She grabs her handbag and herds Bruce out the door with practiced ease. “She is obsessed with you.”
Bruce grins, feeling more relaxed now that the Justice League’s reputation won’t be ruined by whatever PR nightmare of a children's toy LexCorp would’ve produced of them. “She has taste.”
“She thinks you’re incapable of taking care of yourself. There’s a difference,” corrects Merve, the twinkle in her dark eyes softening her words, but then she grows more serious. “You do work too hard, though. You should think about taking tomorrow off, get some rest.”
“I will,” answers Bruce, though they both know he won’t. Merve never stops suggesting it and Bruce never stops considering it without actually following through. It’s part of their routine by now.
They part ways in the lobby shortly after, with Bruce headed towards the garage and Merve stepping out into the busy streets of Gotham. Now that he’s not hyperfocused on his task, Bruce realizes how tired he is. But thanks to Merve, he now has enough time for a nap before he has to be at the Watchtower for monitor duty.
He really should talk to Lucius about giving her another raise.
Chapter Text
Present day
The Daily Planet, Downtown Metropolis
Clark’s day really isn’t going so great. First, he slept right through his alarm and had to hurry through his morning routine. Because of that, he accidentally broke his favorite coffee mug when he put it in the sink with a bit too much force, and then he wound up late anyway because someone decided to rob the bodega down the street.
And now, this.
“You can't be serious, chief. I don't write about Gotham.” Which is only half true, but…
Perry glares at him and stabs a finger in his direction. “You're covering Wayne Enterprises’ newest business venture, and that's final! I want to know what the Justice League thinks, if Wayne got their permission and what not. You know the drill. And you better give me something good. Now. Lane, you're on those oil rigs outside of–”
Clark stops listening at this point. It takes all of his will power not to protest further. Honestly, if he thought for a second that Perry might actually reconsider the assignment, he totally would. But Perry never does. All asking would do is get Clark on his boss’ bad side even more, and that’s the last thing he needs right now. But Jesus Christ does he not want to spend any more time thinking about Bruce Wayne! That man is a menace, and the visit Clark—or rather Superman—paid him two nights ago only confirmed it.
Clark suppresses a grimace. Well, that's definitely something that would make Perry reassign him. If only he knew what a conflict of interest this story is for Clark. He'll have to juggle the things he learns through League meetings with information he could (and will) reasonably find out through research and interviews. It's a tightrope act. Also, he's just not sure that Wayne didn't have a point.
“So aren't you just lucky that I'm willing to include you in the process?”
What if Clark's article somehow makes it impossible for Wayne to go through with the toy line and the next person to try and use the League for profit is even worse?
“You're in a good mood,” comments Lois, eyeing him critically as they make their way back to their desks.
“Is it because of the Wayne Enterprises thing?” asks Jimmy from Clark's other side, producing a pack of Red Vines from who knows where. “Because I would've thought you'd jump at the chance to take another billionaire down a few notches.”
Clark grimaces. “I just really don't want to deal with him,” he says, and then quickly redirects the conversation back to Lois and Jimmy and their new assignments. They obviously know what he's doing—he isn't being subtle about it—but they let him get away with it for now. Thankful, Clark chatters with his friends and lets himself be distracted by the familiar banter as they refill their coffee cups. But in the back of his mind, his thoughts are still circling around Bruce Wayne and as soon as he sits down at his desk, his mood sours again.
Maybe it's for the best, he tells himself, absently picking up a pen to keep his fingers busy. The League meeting with Wayne is scheduled for later tonight and this way Clark will know exactly what to expect (even though he's pretty sure he already does). News coverage isn't exactly sparse where Gotham's favorite son is concerned; there are more than enough headlines to go around. And even that nickname grates, because in Clark's opinion, Gotham's favorite son is out on her streets every night fighting for her people. It's the stoic man who has devoted his life to protecting the city, not a spoiled playboy with more money than he knows what to do with.
The pen in Clark's hand snaps as his irritation rises and he has to take a deep breath. Dropping the pieces into the trash, he picks up another, and forces himself to focus. He starts on his research, determined to find something new, unusual, useful, anything.
The first dozen or so pages Clark navigates all contain articles of Wayne's infuriating escapades over the years, the most recent of which was him drunkenly crashing Lex Luthor's party two months ago. Apparently, he toppled an ice sculpture of Lex himself as well as his gauche (and way too high) champagne fountain. And Clark has to admit that the pictures of that night do get a chuckle out of him, if only because Lex is so purple in the face with anger that it makes his bald head look like a plum. The rest of it, though…
Ugh.
Bruce Wayne visits Iceberg Lounge – Billionaire’s arrest for public indecency leads to drug bust.
Wayne heir charters yacht and sails up to a burning oil rig, invites the trapped workers to party with him and coincidentally saves their lives .
Draw me like one of your Gothamites: Bruce Wayne’s pinup worthy displays show more than just skin.
Fast and Fortuitous: Gotham Prince’s drunken fender bender saves the major.
It seems that chaos and debauchery follow Bruce Wayne wherever he goes, and it's just infuriating. All that money and the man wastes it on parties and alcohol, on yachts and expensive cars… Clark clenches his fists and then makes himself continue, ignoring the strange feeling pushing against his ribs, the one that tries to tell him there could be more here than meets the eye. After having talked to Bruce Wayne himself Clark is sure that his instincts are wrong on this one. Bruce Wayne is just as shallow as the media portrays him to be, there's no doubt about that.
Clark is rudely drawn out of his inner rant by the next few articles he finds, dating a good few years back. They're so vastly different that his stomach turns as he reads.
Jason Todd, adopted son of Bruce Wayne dies under mysterious circumstances.
Violent outburst! Bruce Wayne loses it when asked about his son, beats reporter bloody.
The orphan who has everything? Let's take a deep dive into the tragic past—and present—of Gotham's most eligible bachelor!
Sympathy tries to worm its way into Clark's heart. It's easy to forget, with the way Wayne acts, that his life is defined by loss and pain. Mother and father shot dead in front of him, raised by the family butler, his son brutally murdered…
Clark can't quite wrap his head around the pain of that, can only compare it to the utter loneliness of growing up different, the grief of spending years thinking that his biological parents didn't want him. The gut punch of finding out the truth, finding out that he was the only Kryptonian left in existence. Of course, that was before he met Kara, but that didn’t erase years of pain. He can empathize with Wayne is the thing, at least to an extent. Clark doesn't have the hubris of thinking he knows what the loss of a child or the trauma of watching your loved ones die violently in front of your eyes feels like. Nevertheless, there's a spark of kinship there, and he hates it. He doesn't want to have anything in common with the likes of Bruce Wayne.
Maybe, thinks Clark as he reads another article about Wayne buying out entire restaurants for his escapades, about sex tapes and naked pictures, about Wayne Enterprises buying up property by the bulk and driving companies out of business, or swallowing them up like some kind of leviathan. Maybe that kinship is exactly why Wayne's choices make him so angry. Despite the air-headedness there's obviously potential there, the capacity, ability, and means to do good, yet Wayne decides to squander it all in favor of mindless hedonism. Clark just can't understand it.
By the time five o'clock rolls around, Clark has gathered more facts about Bruce Wayne's life than he ever wanted to know and he's thoroughly pissed off that in just a few short hours, he will have to see the man himself again. The meeting with the Justice League, necessary as it is, couldn't come at a worse time for Clark. To put the cherry on top of his already bad day, he just had to contact Wayne’s assistant and ask for an interview like he actually wanted it. He was sick and tired and would love nothing more than to curl up on his couch with a good book.
Shutting off his computer, he thinks there's only one thing that will cheer him up now.
“I'm going to Pilio's,” he says as soon as he's close enough to Lois and Jimmy for them to hear him. “Want to come with?”
Lois and Jimmy, whose desks are opposite each other, share a look over the top of their monitors, before turning to Clark almost as one. It's slightly disconcerting. “What's gotten into you, Smallville?” asks Lois, and looks at him like she might find the cause for his weird mood written on his face somewhere.
“Yeah, no offense, but you've been acting weird all day,” adds Jimmy. “You worked right through your lunch break and didn't even react when Brenda asked you if you wanted something from the bakery downstairs. You've just been staring at your screen.” He nods in the direction of Clark's desk. It's on the other side of the small corridor that leads from the elevators at one end of the bullpen to Perry's office at the other and divides the room into two rows of desks. And then Clark realizes that Jimmy isn't actually looking at his desk but at the trashcan next to it. Specifically, the pile of broken pens that has accumulated there.
Clark's brows draw together, heat rising up the back of his neck. He feels strangely defensive. “Do you guys want to join me or not?”
They share another look and Clark knows they're not even trying to be subtle. They're doing it on purpose, wanting him to see how concerned they are, and it's annoying because it works. He's starting to feel guilty . Ugh. “Fine, I'll tell you what's going on. Now will you come with me? I don't want to eat alone.”
Lois grins, pleased, and gathers her things. “When have we ever said no to Greek food? You're paying, by the way.”
“Yeah, alright”, answers Clark, because it’s only fair.
™™™
9 days earlier
Watchtower, Earth's atmosphere
“Have you guys seen this?!” are the first words out of Green Lantern's mouth when he bursts into the meeting room, fifteen minutes late as usual. Also as usual, Batman's mouth pulls down into a displeased frown. His face is notoriously hard to read but every time Hal does something B finds unprofessional, he can't quite hide his irritation. It's endearing. Clark imagines it's what having a younger sibling must be like, and the thought always amuses him. He can't help but find it adorable. Not that he'd ever say that to Batman's or Green Lantern's face. They'd both have his head.
“Seen what?” asks Arthur, tilting his head in curiosity. Out of the corner of his eye, Clark sees Batman's hands slowly curl into fists. The meeting hasn't even started and somehow Hal has managed to disrupt it. That's got to be some kind of record. B is probably furious. And sure enough, as Hal pulls out his phone and starts scrolling, muttering “You won't believe it,” and “This is so cool,” Batman loses his patience.
“Will you get to the point, Lantern? You've already delayed the meeting enough with your tardiness.” Clark has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling.
“Relax, Spooky! I'm getting there.” Hal rolls his eyes. After a moment he goes, “Aha!” He swipes over his phone screen and then an image is projected onto the wall. At first Clark doesn't know what he's looking at, then he feels his jaw drop.
It's a social media announcement by Wayne Enterprises, a new product line they're planning to launch next year. And it's got ‘Justice League’ written on it in bold metallic font, with the words ‘Coming Soon’ underneath.
Anger flares to life in Clark's chest at the sheer audacity. “They’re using our name to sell something?” he asks through gritted teeth. Batman sends him a sideways glance, but strangely doesn't comment.
“That's the best part,” answers Hal. He bounces a bit on his feet and taps on his phone again, excitement obvious. The projection on the wall changes, showing a new image, and Hal makes a ‘Ta-Da!’ gesture towards it. “We’re action figures!”
Barry whoops, but Clark's anger only burns hotter. “We need to put a stop to it.”
“He's right,” says Wonder Woman, frowning. “The Justice League cannot be for sale.”
“Come on, guys! Don't you think you're being dramatic?” whines Hal. “What’s so bad about that? It's action figures, children’s toys. It’s not like he’s stamping our names on missiles or something.”
“He very well could be,” snaps Clark, and he's grinding his teeth so hard his jaw starts to hurt. “This goes against everything we stand for. Wayne is using us. He's using our names to sell toys to children and line his own pockets. It looks like we sold out, like we can be bought and are working for that shallow, self-centered airhead!”
Barry whistles lowly. “Wow, Supes. Way to tell us how you really feel. I’m not the guy’s biggest fan either, but… What did Wayne do to you?”
Crossing his arms, Clark glares at the projection on the wall. “He has all that wealth, the connections, and what does he do with it? He parties and thinks of new ways to earn himself more money. He's not helping anyone. He's a selfish bastard, just like the rest of them. The Justice League shouldn't be connected to someone like him.”
Shocked silence follows Clark's words. They're not used to him getting riled up like this—he rarely loses his temper—but there isn't much that makes Clark as angry as the wasteful and selfish indifference of the rich and famous
Slowly, Diana nods. “I have nothing against Bruce Wayne, but these action figures will send the wrong message. People might start to believe we can be bought or that we are doing this for money or fame.”
“Yeah, I don't know about that,” argues Hal. “I mean, sure, Wayne's a pretentious asshole and dumber than a bag of bricks, but have you guys looked us up online recently? There are tons of people selling Justice League merch on Etsy. There’s this one guy who’s been making these plushies of us for years, and no one thinks we're affiliated with him.”
“True, but this person does not have the public standing and influence of someone like Bruce Wayne,” counters J’onn reasonably, glancing at Batman as he says this. “While I won't jump to conclusions about Mr. Wayne's motivations—” Here, J’onn turns his reproachful eyes on Clark, but Clark refuses to feel bad. He's been listening to Cat, who works the celebrity beat at the Daily Planet, complain about Wayne's flightiness for years now. “—I'm not happy about this development. However, I would very much like to talk to Mr. Wayne directly. Maybe we can come to an understanding. What do you think, Batman?”
With that, J’onn turns his attention to B, staring at him intently, like he's willing him to say something. Did Batman already know about the action figures? Is there a connection between him and Bruce Wayne that only J’onn is aware of? The thought sits uncomfortably in Clark’s stomach, but B has been conspicuously silent so far…
Batman glares at J'onn, and shifts in his seat, just a tiny motion, but it makes Clark’s frown deepen. Batman isn't usually one to fidget. “I'll talk to Wayne,” he says eventually, a finality to his words as if that would just end the discussion right there. As if they'd all just accept that and move on.
“How?” asks Green Arrow, snorting derisively. “Are you just going to walk into his mansion and ask him why he's making toys of us? And you think that'd work?”
“It will.” Batman carefully lays his palms flat on the table, pressing against the surface with each individual finger, which is something Clark has seen him do over the years when he's getting genuinely frustrated. He’s definitely hiding something, something to do with Bruce Wayne. An ugly and jealous feeling rears its head in Clark's chest, adding fuel to the fire of his ire towards Wayne. He tries to push it down, but the feeling won’t be contained. “You know him,” he says, and he doesn't mean for it to sound like an accusation. Except that maybe he does. It feels like a betrayal.
Batman turns his glare on him, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “He will talk to me. That's all you need to know. The how or why is irrelevant, and frankly, none of your business.”
“I would have preferred to talk to him in person,” says J'onn very pointedly. “But that is good enough for me.”
Barry and Arthur voice their agreement. Thankfully though, Diana, Hal and Green Arrow still seem sceptical. As they should be. Clark can't believe Batman of all people is siding with a billionaire. Especially when it's about something like this. Making sure the Justice League stays a neutral and trustworthy organization that doesn't have obvious ties to any one country or institution is what Batman does . Clark can't count the number of times he's lectured them all on this exact topic. To have him stay silent now is highly suspicious.
“This concerns all of us. So I think we should talk to Bruce Wayne together,” says Diana, obviously finding Batman's behavior strange as well. She scrutinizes him like a bug under a microscope, and Clark watches Batman's hands curl into fists again, the leather of his gloves creaking. He looks like he'd want nothing more than to argue, but eventually he gives a jerky nod.
“Fine. I'll arrange a meeting.”
“Yeah… I don't think you should. I don't know what your deal with Wayne is but you seem a little too close to this guy. No offense, Spooky,” says Hal before Clark can, and Batman starts grinding his teeth so hard that Clark can hear it across the table. Everyone agrees with Hal, and that seems to be the final straw.
“Fine!” spits Batman, pushing his chair back and rising to his feet. “In that case, my presence here is no longer needed. Contact me if something actually important happens.” Cape snapping behind him, he whirls around and strides away, leaving Clark with a mix of concern and jealousy churning in his gut and the rest of the League to stare after him in confusion.
Chapter Text
Present day
Wayne Tower, Old Gotham
By the time Friday rolls around, Bruce's mood hasn't improved in the slightest. Organizing the toy line has only added to his already overwhelming workload, and his meeting with the League tonight has been hanging over him like the Sword of Damocles. In fact, he needs to leave now if he doesn’t want to be late meeting up with Dick. But first…
Rising to his feet, Bruce strides into the private bathroom, hidden behind a false bookcase in his office. There’ve been enough late nights that its addition has been money well spent. Not to mention the number of times Bruce has had to patch himself up again because he accidentally tore his stitches or something else Alfred would scold him for during the work day.
Bruce checks his reflection, quickly adjusts his tie, and fixes his hair. He needs to look the perfect mix between disheveled and presentable, harmless and competent, if he wants to optimize the chances of this meeting going well. And of no one besides J’onn catching on to who he really is.
When he steps back into his office again, Merve is sitting at his desk, one leg crossed over the other, tapping out an impatient rhythm with her blood red nails on one hand as she scrolls through her tablet with the other.
“Making yourself comfortable?” he asks, shrugging into his jacket.
“You obviously are, so why shouldn’t I?”
“In that case, you might call it an early day. I’ve got a meeting and I don’t expect I’ll be back.”
Merve lowers her tablet and gives Bruce her full attention. “A meeting I don’t know about?” Then her eyes narrow. “Are you skipping out on work because of a date?”
Bruce has used that excuse before, so he guesses he can’t be mad at Merve for reaching that conclusion. “It’s not a date,” he corrects. “And I’m not skipping out on work. In fact, it is very much work related.”
Merve scoffs, and shakes her head, muttering, “Wallah, this man…” under her breath. Louder she says, “I know everything that happens in this company. At this point, I am your calendar. If you have a meeting, I know about it.”
“Not if I’m the one he’s meeting with,” replies Dick in an uncanny imitation of Bruce’s Batman voice, as he closes the balcony doors behind him. He’s dressed in Bruce’s batsuit, cape swishing behind him, and if Bruce didn’t know any better, he’d never be able to spot the differences between Dick and himself in costume.
Merve jumps about a foot into the air and whirls around, spitting curses in Turkish and English. “What the fuck, Bruce?!”
Maybe it’s juvenile of him, but Bruce can’t help but laugh as he steps up to Dick. “I told you it’s about work. I’ll see you tomorrow, Merve.”
Merve rises on unsteady feet and points a threatening finger at Bruce. “If you leave before signing off on any of these interviews, I swear I’m quitting on the spot! The requests have been flooding my inbox for days, and the marketing department has been hounding me, too. You need to pick someone to talk to.”
Bruce smirks as he grips Dick’s elbow with one hand, saluting Merve with the other. “Surprise me,” he says, and before Merve can say anything else, a zeta beam takes them away.
™™™
Present day
Watchtower, Earth's Orbit
As he walks into the Watchtower meeting room, Bruce summons all the arrogance he can muster, wrapping it around himself like a cloak. He's anxious, more anxious than he should be, considering he's walking into a room full of people he considers to be his friends. Well… Batman's friends. But right now, Bruce isn't Batman, which is something he wouldn’t have thought to matter two weeks ago.
He chances a glance to his side, where Dick is perfectly imitating Batman's posture and body language. It's eerily like looking into a mirror, and pride at his son's capabilities swells in Bruce's chest, giving him some much needed confidence.
He knows it's ridiculous to dread this encounter so much. This is the Justice League, there is not a single member that would harm him, of that he's absolutely certain. Aside from that, Bruce knows he's in the right here. The action figures are happening, whether they want them to or not is irrelevant. Better to control it than leave it up to people like Luthor. Bruce is reasonably sure the others will come around once he's explained the situation. But after the disaster that was their last meeting, doubt has festered inside of him, eating away at his certainty. Before that, he wouldn't have thought it possible for Superman to speak about someone with such disdain in his voice.
It leaves Bruce wondering… What if they don't believe him? What if their animosity wins out? He’ll have to find a different way to thwart Lex’s plans, and fast, which would be a nightmare to pull off. And that isn’t even taking the emotional toll into account.
Way too soon, they stop in front of the wide double doors leading into the conference room. Dick turns to him, surreptitiously moves his hands to form the word, Ready? Bruce gives a minute nod, and then they're through the doors.
Everyone is already waiting for them, their gazes ranging from curious— J’onn and Hal, which in and of itself feels like an insult —to openly hostile— Superman, which hurts more than Bruce wants to admit —and Bruce mentally readies himself like he would for a fight. He lets his lips curl into a smirk as he and Dick sweep into the room, and he can't quite stop himself from patting Dick's armored shoulder in a much too familiar way. “Thanks for the ride, Batman.”
True to his role, Dick says nothing. He simply nods, takes the seat next to Superman, and waits, fingers steepled. Bruce allows himself one last look at his son, before he sits down across from Dick, and turns to address the room at large. “Nice place you've got here. Not exactly easy to reach, but I guess that's the point, right?”
“Uh, thanks?” answers Barry slowly, awkwardly clearing his throat. He looks around like he's asking for someone else to please take over the conversation. After a moment, Diana does. She leans forward and folds her hands on top of the table.
“Thank you for meeting with us, Mr. Wayne.” She fixes Bruce with a piercing stare, seemingly taking in every single detail of his person and weighing its worth. It's more difficult than Bruce thought it would be to keep up the facade in the face of her scrutiny, but he manages.
“How could I refuse such a handsome invitation?” he counters, and winks at Superman, whose expression darkens.
“This isn't a social call,” snaps Kal, crossing his arms over his chest. Bruce catches the split-second of surprise on Dick's face at the sheer hostility in Superman's tone, and weirdly enough, a flicker of shame rises in Bruce's chest. Superman has always been his son’s hero, from the first time they met, just like he has been Bruce’s. “We expect you to take this matter seriously, Mr. Wayne.”
“Enough,” growls Dick in a perfect imitation of what he has long ago dubbed Bruce's Batman voice. Then he himself turns to Bruce. “Let's get to the point of this meeting.”
“Well, if you insist.” Bruce laughs his Brucie laugh, the one that's high and fake and always makes him a bit sick, before allowing his features to morph into something more business-like. “I know you're all unhappy about Wayne Enterprises newest business venture,” he starts, because it’s best to get it out of the way. “But like I've already told Mr. Big, Blue, and Angry over there, you should be thankful that I'm the one who's registered the trademark.”
Arthur tilts his head to the side, thankfully more curious than challenging. “Why's that?”
Bruce holds Arthur's gaze and pauses for dramatic effect—because that’s something Brucie does —before he answers. “Because I've stolen it right out from under Lex Luthor's nose.”
The words have the expected effect, and the League members all exchange concerned glances. “Explain,” demands Diana, and so Bruce does.
“There were rumors that LexCorp was planning something new, something big. Obviously I wanted to see what that was, so I had my team do some research. It took a little finagling—” here Superman interrupts him with a loud scoff, which visibly annoys Dick to no end. He'd have to be asleep to not pick up on the weird animosity in the room, and it’s clear he doesn't like it. His hands are curling into fists on the table, he looks like he’s seconds away from coming to Bruce’s aid, and it's heart-warming to see. Whatever happens Bruce still has his family, To keep the others from noticing Dick's reaction, however, Bruce quickly forges on, “—but we managed to find out what Lex was up to and decided to put a stop to it. Since none of you have any protections in place for your names, which is a big oversight I might add, the only way to do that was registering the trademark first.”
“So… why the action figures then?” asks Green Arrow, and Bruce has to fight the urge to roll his eyes at being interrupted yet again. Anyone with even an ounce of common sense should understand this.
“Because you actually have to use trademarks. Meaning, if I don't use the Justice League and its assorted heroes in commerce somehow, I'll lose the trademark, and then we're right back where we started.” Obviously! he silently adds, and feels a twinge of satisfaction when he sees J'onn's lips twitch up into a smile. As uncomfortable as Bruce was, at first, to have a mind-reader on the team, J'onn has proven time and time again how trustworthy he is and how seriously he takes everyone's privacy. And in situations like these, J'onn's ability ensures that Bruce at least still has one friend sitting at the table.
Well, still two , he thinks as Dick glares around at the other heroes, and says, “If we could let Mr. Wayne continue uninterrupted now, we’d actually get somewhere,” before nodding at Bruce, who can't quite hide his amusement.
“Thank you, Batman, but I think it would be best if everyone asked their questions now. I'm sure you have to have some. But nothing too personal, please.” He winks, and Superman's brows draw together unhappily. He looks between Dick—or rather Batman—and Bruce like he can't possibly fathom why Batman wouldn't be just as hostile towards Bruce as he himself is. God, is Bruce getting tired of this! Prior to this stupid trademark scenario, he considered Kal and himself best friends. He even thought about finally revealing his identity! Now, he's glad that he never did. It seems the ditzy facade he's putting up as Brucie has clearly worked a little too well if this is the reaction his mere presence elicits. Who knew whether Kal would even take him seriously anymore if he learned the truth?
“Of course we have questions!” says Superman, turning his icy glare on Bruce, who feels his own anger rising in turn. It's childish, but for one brilliant moment, he considers ‘accidentally’ posting a series of tweets about his love for Superman on his official Twitter account and letting the Boy Scout deal with the fallout. It's this fantasy he clings to when Kal continues.
“Why children's toys?” he asks, and before Bruce can so much as open his mouth to answer, he's already firing off more questions. “How and where are you going to produce these toys? And you said you would include us in the process—what does that entail? We can't and won't do any kind of advertising for you. What happens with the profits? Are you taking measures to ensure people don't think that the Justice League has become commercialized? After all, we can't have people believing that we can be bought—”
“Superman,” says Wonder Woman sharply, cutting him off, much to Bruce's satisfaction. “Mr. Wayne is not on trial here, and for him to answer those questions, you need to let him speak.”
Kal nods, muscles in his jaw working. For a moment it seems like that's all he's going to do, but then he takes a deep breath, and with a sideways glance at Dick—Batman—who looks absolutely furious by now, he relaxes. “I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne. I let myself get carried away.”
Despite the anger still rumbling through Bruce, something in him softens. The fact that Kal cares so deeply about the League is one of the things Bruce admires about him. And yet he can't quite stop himself from showing his claws just a bit. “It's alright. All this business talk can confuse even the best of us. It’s not easy to follow,” he answers magnanimously.
J'onn intervenes before a fight can break out, and cuts off whatever Kal was about to say, aiming a telepathic Behave! at Bruce for good measure. “The questions Superman asked; I think I speak for all of us when I say we would be very interested in the answers, Mr. Wayne.”
“Of course. Let's see…” Leaning back in his chair Bruce recounts the points with his fingers. “I chose children's toys, because one, I knew it would piss off Luthor to no end, and two, it seemed like the most harmless and wholesome venture for the Justice League to be affiliated with, however loosely.”
Arthur snorts with amusement, apparently agreeing with Bruce's petty reasoning. Bolstered by this, Bruce moves on. “As for the production itself, we're aiming at producing the toys locally, in one of our factories in Gotham, but we're still evaluating if that's viable. The expected demand is high and we need to be sure the factory and the workers there can handle the increased workload. Long term, we're aiming to open an entirely new factory or two, solely dedicated to superhero toys. If you're asking about the work environment at our facilities, I invite you to drop in unannounced anywhere anytime. Just make sure to follow safety protocols because we're taking those incredibly seriously, and I will not tolerate you endangering my employees.”
Strangely enough, it's Green Lantern who nods here, like Bruce has somehow earned his respect. Bruce shudders. At a questioning look from Flash, Hal explains, “I knew a guy who worked for Wayne Enterprises. He said that they're the only ones following all the regulations when it comes to testing their vehicles.”
“Superman mentioned ‘including us in the process’,” starts Dick, likely trying to move things along and bring this meeting to a close soon. “How?”
“That's up to you,” replies Bruce, inclining his head. “At a minimum, I was thinking that I or my executive assistant would keep you in the loop through regular updates. If you want to be involved beyond that—regarding the design of the toys or a tour of the facilities for example—that can be arranged as well.”
Diana hums. “That sounds reasonable, but as Superman mentioned, we will not be advertising these toys for you. We recognize the necessity, but we do not and cannot support this endeavor to make you money.”
Bruce bites the inside of his cheek, and reminds himself that he's worked hard to mold his image into that of a shallow playboy. Wonder Woman has no reason to expect anything different from him right now.
“You won't get around preparing a statement,” warns Bruce, just to get that out of the way. Seeing Superman's eyes flash, he holds up a hand to stop him from interrupting. “It doesn't matter what I do or say; unless you speak out yourselves, there will be speculation.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right,” comments Green Arrow with a grimace, and a few others murmur their agreement. Then he leans forward, a calculating expression on his face. “For now, that leaves only the question of what you're going to do with the profits. We can't exactly have you financing warheads or something, and we won’t take any money from you.”
Before Bruce can fire back, Dick beats him to it, voice tight with barely controlled anger. “I know you're perfectly aware of Wayne Enterprises’ businesses and products, Arrow. There's no need to be this antagonistic when we're the ones who failed to protect ourselves from this scenario.” Even through the white lenses of the cowl, his glare is so unmistakably Alfred that Bruce has to suppress a snort of amusement. Despite the fact that Dick's protectiveness creates a closeness between Bruce Wayne and Batman that Bruce would rather not be there, he already knows he'll save the security footage of this meeting and show it to Alfred later.
“No warheads in planning, no. At least as far as I know, but I’ll ask the board about it,” jokes Bruce, trying to diffuse the tension. “I was thinking more along the lines of having a percentage of the proceeds go to a charity of your choosing. Makes it seem like you're allowing me to do this to support people instead of gaining money or publicity for yourselves.” Shrugging one shoulder, Bruce leans back and waits. He doesn't mention that he's already planning on giving all of the proceeds to charity anyway, just not to one of the League's choosing. He has his own projects he plans to support. But they don’t need to know all that.
Once the League’s murmuring starts to die down again, Bruce looks around the table. “So… what's it going to be?”
Chapter Text
Present day
Wayne Tower, Old Gotham
Clark taps his foot impatiently as the elevator climbs higher and higher, bringing him ever closer to Bruce Wayne’s ostentatious top floor office. All because on Monday, Clark came into work to find an email from Bruce Wayne's executive assistant waiting for him, confirming his interview request and suggesting a meeting for the very next day. The timing is not that unusual—the topic of WE's new action figures is blowing up on social media and it makes sense for the company to capitalize on that—and yet it doesn't quite sit right with Clark. He doesn't know why. Maybe it just feels too easy, maybe he just doesn't want to see Wayne again…
On the one hand, it's definitely a stroke of luck. Not only will he be able to gather first-hand information and quotes for his article to keep Perry happy, but if he's lucky he might also get to snoop a little, get more of a feel for if what Wayne said on Friday was in any way genuine. It sounds good, loathe as Clark is to admit it. It sounds as if Wayne is really doing this to help the League, as if he thought about what would make them look good and adjusted his plans accordingly.
But Clark doesn't trust that. He can't. Wayne is still a billionaire, he's still making money off of them, and they have no way to stop him, not immediately and not before the damage is already done.
Besides, Clark strongly suspects that some (if not most) of what Wayne suggested might have actually come from Batman. It would make sense for B to feel somewhat responsible for Wayne, and that he would coach him in some way to mitigate damages. And this feels like one of B's plans. Clark has been part of enough of those to be able to tell the difference, or so he likes to think.
And yet…
Clark would rather be anywhere else in the world right now. He spent his entire weekend replaying Friday's League meeting over and over in his head. Every single time, he got stuck on this strange closeness he witnessed between Wayne and Batman, this ease they seemed to share, the way they arrived and left together. He knows Diana clocked that too.
Suppressing a sigh, Clark watches the numbers on the elevator’s display climb higher. He's way too close to all of this, too personally invested in this story, and he knows it will be difficult to act like he's not. This entire assignment is a nightmare.
Finally, the elevator comes to a gentle stop. The doors open with a soft chime, and the security guard next to Clark steps out. “Follow me,” he says, and leads Clark down a long hallway. Curiously, there's only three doors leading off from it. One frosted glass door to the left, which looks like it belongs to a conference room, and two doors on the right. One is partially open to show a kitchen behind it, and the other has the word ‘bathroom’ embossed in gold letters on its front.
As they round a corner, Clark spots a fourth door behind a large reception desk at the end of the hallway. The desk’s front is a sleek, glossy black with the Wayne Enterprises logo etched in gold into the top left corner. It's elegant but nothing too ostentatious, not what Clark would’ve expected. No one’s behind it, but what surprises him even more is the virtual jungle spilling from the shelves behind the desk, surrounding it, and creating a sort of green oasis among the black, white and gold design of the building. The wall is barely visible anymore behind all the greenery.
There are snake plants, aloe vera, spider plants, succulents and even a large foliage plant right next to the desk, which Clark knows to be even more high maintenance than the succulents. Two pothos plants are hanging suspended from the ceiling, their spindly vines sprawling out and curling in on themselves. On the desk itself are yet more pots in all colors of the rainbow, and from where Clark is standing he can make out basil as well as several different types of cacti.
It honestly looks a lot like his parents’ living room back on the farm, which gives this space a strange homey feel and him whiplash.
“Ms. Ergun?” calls the security guard next to Clark once they've come to a stop, but there's no answer. “Where is she?“ he mutters under his breath, and walks back a few steps to peer into the kitchen. Frowning, he returns to Clark's side, but just as he opens his mouth, the squeaking of shoes can be heard coming closer from the elevator.
Seconds later, a tall woman comes striding around the corner. “I apologize,” she calls, walking a bit faster still, and Clark has no idea how she even does that while looking so unbothered. Almost like she's not moving at all, it’s eerie. “I hope you haven't been waiting long.”
The woman is wearing a tan colored hijab that matches her perfectly tailored pantsuit, long red nails glinting at her sides, the same shade as her lipstick, and white sneakers. She kind of reminds him of Lois, with her aura of confident competence.
“Thank you, Cash. I've got it from here,” she tells the security guard as soon as she's caught up to them. Cash nods, and with a “See you later, Ms. Ergun,” he leaves them alone.
Once he's gone, the woman fixes Clark with a probing stare that seems to reach right into his soul. “Clark Kent, I presume?”
“Yep.” Smiling, Clark lifts the lanyard he's wearing around his neck, showing her the visitor's pass dangling from it, before he reaches out to shake her hand.
Ms. Ergun nods after studying the pass, and briefly clasps his palm. “Welcome, Mr. Kent,” she says, “I'm Merve Ergun, Mr. Wayne's executive assistant. The interview will be conducted in Mr. Wayne's office. You've got thirty minutes. The topic of Mr. Wayne’s children is off-limits and will result in your immediate removal. Now, this way please.”
Clark feels the strange urge to salute her but manages to squash it. Instead he smiles. “Thank you.”
Without another word, Ms. Ergun turns towards the door behind her desk, and Clark follows her. He's suddenly feeling inexplicably nervous, something he can only attribute to the fact that talking to Wayne like this brings his two identities into much closer contact than he'd like. He'll have to play this very carefully. So, with his stomach churning, Clark steps inside the office—
—and immediately comes up short. This is probably the last thing he expected to be greeted with upon his entry. Because Bruce Wayne is in the middle of having a tea party with a child.
Clark blinks, but the image doesn't change. This is definitely Bruce Wayne, sitting on a small wooden chair that is clearly made for children, a matching table in front of him. The way his knees and back are bent has to be uncomfortable, but he doesn't show it.
Across from him sits a girl in a bright pink dress who can't be older than seven. She's got her small hands curled around the handle of a brightly colored teapot and is currently refilling the equally colorful cup Wayne is holding out to her.
Wayne, for his part, is dressed in one of his customary suits, but he's abandoned the jacket and tie, leaving him in a dark blue vest and white dress shirt, the sleeves of which are rolled up to his elbows, exposing surprisingly toned forearms. What really draws Clark's attention, however, is the tiara sitting slightly askew on his head and the small, almost tender smile on his face as he listens to the girl. Clark's stomach squirms. He doesn't know why, but he's got the distinct feeling that not many people get to see Wayne smile like that, and he's not sure he should be the one to witness it. It feels too intimate.
“It's positively dreadful,” he hears Wayne exclaim, “A betrayal. Whoever came up with them had absolutely no taste.”
The little girl nods vigorously, her dark curls bouncing. “I know!” she shouts. “How can anyone like raisins ? I mean, why would you even make cookies that aren't chocolate chip?! It's disgusting!”
The girl's outburst startles a dog lying in the corner, a German Shepherd Clark didn't notice before. The dog wakes up with a snort and looks around, before getting to its feet. Lumbering over to the girl, it sniffs her leg as if reassuring itself that she's okay, and then presses its head against her. The girl giggles, puts the teapot down, and pats the dog's head. “Ace doesn't like raisins either. I bet he'd much rather have chocolate chip cookies, too,” she says with utmost confidence, to which Wayne snorts.
“Maybe, but dogs aren't allowed to eat chocolate. Or raisins. They both make them really sick.”
“Really? That's so sad.” The little girl looks so devastated by the news that Clark has to bite his lip to keep himself from laughing. Next to him, Ms. Ergun makes an exasperated noise in the back of her throat. “Wallah, you two are unbelievable! I can't leave you alone for a second .”
The girl freezes, caught, and slowly turns her head, a sheepish look on her face. “Hi, anne. We were just, uh…”
“We were having an important meeting about the quality of our vending machines,” Wayne cuts in smoothly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Clark is annoyed that he actually finds it charming and is only too happy to distract himself by greeting Ace as the dog comes trotting over to him.
“Mhm, and I bet this meeting also has nothing to do with the cookies Mr. Torgue was kind enough to give you for your birthday when we got in today, Neziah,” says Ms. Ergun, and then sharply nods her head at the door. “We need to go, canım. Bruce has work to do.”
It seems like neither Wayne nor the girl have noticed him standing in the doorway until now, seeing how they both whirl around to look at him. And for the first time since Clark's arrival, Bruce Wayne's eyes find his. A sudden shot of electricity goes through him at the contact, leaving him feeling even more off-kilter and with a bitter taste in his mouth. Clark doesn't know what to make of the scene in front of him, doesn't know what to think. It's so entirely out of the scope of things he's expected to be walking in on, that he can barely process it. He doesn't want to like Wayne, especially not now when so much hinges on Clark staying on his toes, but in his mind's eye he can still see the softness in Wayne's expression when he looked at little Neziah across the table. It's messing with his head.
The moment is broken a moment later by Neziah herself, who jumps up and runs to the door, but she doesn't stop in front of her mother, like Clark expected. Instead, she comes to a halt directly in front of him, squinting as she studies his face.
“Are you working with Bruce?” she asks.
“In a sense.” Clark crouches down as he answers, so that Neziah won't have to strain her neck. “I work for a newspaper, but I'm here to interview Mr. Wayne.”
“Will you be nice to him?” asks Neziah, eyes narrowing further in suspicion. The move is so exaggerated and deliberate that Clark has to bite down on a smile.
“I'm from Kansas, I'm always nice,” he answers in reflex (his midwestern manners are a running gag around the office), but the joke seems to do the trick, because Neziah nods.
“Okay,” she says, and turns to take her mother's hand, leading her out of the room.
“Thirty minutes,” Ms. Ergun reminds them, before following her daughter out of the room, and then the door falls shut behind them.
Silence descends in their wake as Clark and Wayne are left staring at each other. Abruptly, Clark becomes aware of the fact that he's still kneeling on the floor and hastily climbs back to his feet. Ace huffs and returns to a soft-looking bed next to Wayne's desk where he curls up into a ball, his back turned on them.
One corner of Wayne's mouth ticks up. “Always nice, huh?”
Clark shrugs, refusing to feel embarrassed. “At least, I try to be. I find that kindness usually gets you further in life, and makes it more pleasurable, too.”
Wayne's smile widens, and he gestures at the tiny chair Neziah vacated, indicating for Clark to sit down. Clark waits to see if this is some kind of joke, but Wayne simply waits and takes a sip of his tea. After another moment of hesitation, during which Clark seriously considers leaving (or sitting down on the couch in the opposite corner and simply yelling his questions at Wayne), he crosses the distance between them. Gingerly, he sits down, praying that the tiny chair will hold his weight.
“I think Lex Luthor might argue that you weren't very kind to him in your last article,” comments Wayne, as soon as Clark is settled, that infuriating half-smile still in place. Just like the cheap, plastic tiara.
Clark scowls, and slips up for the second time in the span of ten minutes: “He started it.”
Wayne chuckles, and finally plucks the tiara from his head, twirling it around between his fingers. “I never said he didn't. Either way, it was a good article. Very well researched and very political.”
Clark narrows his eyes, trying to find the insult in that statement. “Is there something you'd like to ask, Mr. Wayne?”
“Maybe there is. Maybe I'm wondering why someone whose work is built on uncovering social injustice in all kinds of sectors is suddenly concerned with action figures. It seems like a waste of your skillset.”
Clark shifts in his seat, and tries to get his bent knees into a more comfortable position. The compliment sounds genuine enough, but again Clark doesn't know what to do with that. He had such a clear idea of who Bruce Wayne is and what to expect of him, that this is throwing him off. After all, his meeting with Wayne as Superman went exactly as expected. This deviation shouldn't rattle him so much. And yet, it does.
So Clark doesn't answer. Instead, he gets out his notebook and pen, and starts the interview. Mostly it's the same questions the League already asked, with mostly the same answers given. Except that Wayne obviously doesn't admit to stealing the idea from Luthor and instead claims to have stumbled across it while browsing Etsy looking for a birthday present, because apparently his oldest son is quite the fan of Superman…
It's such an outrageous lie, one that Clark can't challenge without giving too much away because Wayne is a good liar, and not for the first time does he ask himself what exactly Bruce Wayne is getting out of all of this. Where is the catch? What is he hiding? And what does this have to do with Batman?
Clark can't seem to shake these questions, so for the last part of the interview, he decides to go a slightly different route. “When are the first action figures hitting the stores? Have you planned on releasing any similar hero-themed products? And of course, I have to ask which hero is your favorite.”
Wayne leans back and crosses his legs as much as he's able to in this position, the tiara lying forgotten on the tiny table between them. And it's absolutely ridiculous, the way they're sitting here, hunched in these child-sized chairs, conducting an official interview like there aren't tea cups with pink flowers painted on their sides and chocolate chip cookies on the table between them.
“No plans as of yet, no. Why? Eager to get your hands on something—or someone—specific?” Wayne waggles his eyebrows for emphasis. “Because I'm open to suggestions.”
Clark flushes as an image of Batman immediately drifts through his mind. “You haven't answered the questions,” he says hastily, trying to dispel the thought. “Have you set a release date for the action figures yet? And who is your favorite?”
Wayne's smile turns smug, but strangely it doesn't seem as honest anymore. Has he guessed some of what is going through Clark's head? It seems ridiculous. And yet the question tugs at the suspicions Clark already harbors of what's going on between Wayne and Batman, the ones he doesn't dare name.
“You haven't answered mine, either, Mr. Kent, but it's okay. I understand the need to keep some things private. Anyway, a few weeks ago I would've said Superman, but I suppose I have to show some city pride now. So the Bats are my favorites, any of them. All of them. Take your pick.” He shrugs, and while Clark is still trying to figure out the subtext of that answer—because he's certain that there is one and that it's a not-so-subtle dig at Superman—he continues. “As for your last question, there is no set date yet. Of course we want to get them out as soon as possible and we'd love to capitalize on the Christmas business, but the quality of our products and the wellbeing of our workers have the highest priority.”
Shelving the subtext-mystery for now, Clark forces himself back into the interview-mindset, and writes Wayne's answer down. “Can you elaborate on that?”
Wayne sighs, put-upon, making the hairs on Clark's arms stand on end. He's more sure than ever that the man is showing a mask, that he's hiding something, but Clark just can't figure out what that is.
“Well, the HR department would riot, wouldn't they? The increased workloads and extra shifts to meet the deadlines necessary for releasing the action figures before Christmas…” Grimacing, Wayne waves his fingers around, and the itch Clark feels to rattle that ditzy mask intensifies. “It would be such a hassle.”
“Right,” answers Clark, and jots down more notes for his article to buy himself some time. While his mind is brimming with questions, none of them are about the action figures anymore. He wants to grill Wayne about the fact that he obviously researched Clark prior to this interview, that he knows more about the Bats of Gotham—specifically Batman—than he should, and he wants to know what his real motivations are behind the action figures (he also wants to ask about his kids, how he’s holding up after losing his son, but the sympathy he feels for this man only serves to annoy Clark further).
So maybe it's lucky that Ms. Ergun chooses that moment to knock on the door, pushing it open without waiting for an answer. Maybe Clark needs time to regroup and do some more research.
“Time's up,” she says, arms crossed in front of her, long red nails tapping on her forearm. The effect is somewhat ruined by Neziah peering around her mother's legs, pink dress ruffled and streaked with something that looks like tomato sauce. A dull thumping indicates that Ace is wagging his tail and a moment later the dog is trotting over to Neziah, licking the girl's face, who enthusiastically returns the greeting with pets.
“Well, time sure does fly when you're having fun,” announces Wayne with a wink, and gets to his feet, unfolding his tall frame gracefully from the tiny chair in one fluid movement. Thanks to his enhanced senses, Clark hears the way his joints are practically screaming in protest, and he winces in sympathy, but quickly follows suit, and stands up as well. The urge to x-ray Wayne and make sure his bones are all still where they're supposed to be is disturbingly strong.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Wayne,” says Clark, holding out his hand for Wayne to shake, and surprising him yet again, Wayne does. But he doesn’t stop there. He pulls Clark’s hand close, and presses a featherlight kiss against his knuckles. It's not just the gesture itself that startles Clark into blushing like a schoolboy, but the scars and calluses he feels on Wayne’s fingers where they close around his own. Yet another question Clark adds to his inner catalog he’s compiled today. Wayne is turning more and more into a mystery he is itching to solve.
“I'm looking forward to reading your article,” says Wayne, not letting go of Clark's hand as he holds eye-contact, his glacier blue eyes boring into Clark's own.
“You're running late, Bruce,” interjects Ms. Ergun, sounding exasperated, and very much like this is a reminder she has to give her boss constantly. Clark quickly snatches his hand back from Wayne's, feeling inexplicably embarrassed.
“Right, then. I won't keep you any longer. I'll, uh, send you a copy of the article. Goodbye, Mr. Wayne.” Hiking his bag up his shoulder, Clark makes for the door, petting Ace’s head, who is still sitting in front of Neziah, as he passes.
™™™
Present day
New Troy, Metropolis
Clark's apartment is quiet when he returns from Gotham. His thoughts, in contrast, are anything but. He tries for about an hour or so to organize his notes into some kind of order, maybe write a few sentences for an exposé he can show to Perry, but he can't seem to focus. Inevitably, he'll find himself doodling in his notebook, drawing little bats on the paper as his mind wanders back to Gotham again, to Batman and Wayne and the connection they share, until eventually Clark gives up.
He stretches, and begins to half-heartedly clean his kitchen, letting the past weeks replay in his mind while he washes the dishes. He tries to reconcile the image he's had of Bruce Wayne, the things he's read about him in his preliminary research, with what he's seen of the man today. Irritatingly, he keeps seeing the soft way Wayne looked at Neziah, the fact that he had that tea party with her in the first place. The child-sized furniture, suggesting this to be a regular occurrence. That darn tiara…
Cleaning doesn't help, so after a while Clark decides a different kind of distraction is in order. Maybe a trip home will help him clear his mind, it usually does. He changes into his suit and climbs out the window, and a moment later he's off like a shot, leaving nothing but a sonic boom in his wake.
Only, when he arrives at the farm, his parents aren't home. Stretching his senses, Clark finds them at the bingo hall in town with their friends, laser-focused as they tick off numbers on their cards. Clark snorts with amusement. Ma and Pa always claim to hate bingo, and act like their friends make them go, but once they're in that hall they're the most competitive people in the room.
Intending to wait for them inside, and maybe busy himself with some other inane task, Clark rounds the corner and finds Krypto lying on the front porch. He's dozing, his big fluffy head resting on his front paws, and Clark thinks he’s found his distraction. When he gets closer, Krypto's ears perk up, eyes snapping to Clark, and his tail starts to thump against the wooden floor boards.
Clark smiles. “Hey, boy,” he says, bending down to scratch the dog behind the ears. “Want to go for a walk?”
Krypto yips happily and jumps to his feet, making Clark laugh. “Alright then, let me just leave a note for Ma and Pa and then we can go.”
™™™
Present day
New Troy, Metropolis
After a few laps around the Earth, during which Clark and Krypto helped with some minor incidents—fires, a collapsed building, a flood—they return to Metropolis. Hovering over the bay, Clark just watches the city.
The sun has set by now, but Metropolis is far from asleep. Traffic, chatter, laughter, music… all the sounds of daily life waft up to Clark. For a long moment, he just floats over the water, Krypto at his side, and lets the noise fill him with its energy, the humanity and hope contained within.
It's definitely too late to work on his article, but he finds he doesn't really mind. He's feeling better, barely even thinks about Wayne and the looming problems associated with his action figures anymore. He’s confident he’ll figure this out, one way or another.
Breathing out slowly, Clark opens his eyes, finally ready to head home. “How do you feel about staying with me tonight?” he asks Krypto, scratching between the dog’s ears.
In answer, Krypto presses his head into Clark's palm and licks his wrist, tail wagging all the while. “Alright then, let's go, boy.”
Instead of sending Krypto back to the farm like he'd originally intended, Clark takes his dog home. Curling up on the couch and burying his hands in that soft white fur sounds absolutely perfect right now. Clark doesn't like to admit it, not even to himself, but he’s been feeling lonely lately. Maybe it's that he's been single too long, maybe it’s that Lois and Cat finally stopped dancing around each other and started dating. Or maybe it’s more abstract than that, maybe he just longs for someone who knows his identity and can relate to the whole hero business. Lois and Jimmy are amazing friends, and he can always talk to them, but there's only so far they can stretch their imagination. And some of the things Clark sees on a daily basis… he just doesn't want to put that on them. He’s already burdening them enough as it is.
As he and Krypto fly closer to the docks, Krypto's ears suddenly perk up and he freezes in mid-air, nose twitching. A second later, he's off like a shot, racing towards the warehouses at the waterfront. They're not far from Clark's apartment, but Krypto is going too far east for him to be headed there. Cursing under his breath, Clark quickly follows after his dog, only to freeze himself when he finds what, or rather who, has caught Krypto’s attention.
“Down,” orders Batman, trying to get sixty pounds of excited dog off his lap, but there's an unmistakable smile in his voice. Clark's stomach flutters, and he almost doesn't want to move closer for risk of losing that smile. The hesitation lasts only a moment, however, before he shakes himself out of it, and whistles sharply to get Krypto to back off.
With a huff, Krypto obeys, but his body is still vibrating with excitement, head butting happily against Batman's chest. Clark has never been jealous of his dog before but he guesses there’s a first time for everything.
As he floats closer, he actually hears Batman chuckle, and then he's lifting his shockingly bare hands to pet Krypto, and there goes the flutter in Clark's stomach again, stronger than before, accompanied by a warm feeling spreading through his chest. Swallowing, he shakes himself.
“Sorry about that.” Clark, touches down on the roof next to Batman, and tries not to stare as those long, elegant fingers card through Krypto's fur. B seems strangely naked without his gauntlets, vulnerable. It makes Clark feel like a voyeur as he keeps fixating on those capable hands.
“It's fine,” answers Batman, and then looks up at Clark, eying him critically. “What happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“You don't usually patrol. So for you to be out and about, something must have happened.” Batman tilts his head, and for some reason the warmth in Clark's chest intensifies, threatening to spread to his face.
Looking away, he shrugs. “I just had a lot on my mind, and took Krypto for a fly to clear my head a bit.”
“Hn.” Batman hums, and still Clark can feel B’s eyes on him, studying him. He keeps his gaze resolutely on the water, but the sound of Batman’s strong fingers carding through Krypto’s fur is distracting.
“Did it work?” asks Batman eventually, and, still trying to avoid that probing gaze, Clark turns and lets his own eyes sweep over the empty rooftop.
“Somewhat, yeah.”
“Want to talk about it?”
A jolt runs through Clark at the mere thought of sharing his concerns about Wayne. After last Friday he can already imagine how that conversation would go and he'd rather not get into a fight. Besides, it would carry the risk of revealing his own identity, something Clark has thought about more and more as of late but is not sure he's ready for. It feels too… intimate, somehow. Like he’d be baring himself completely, opening himself up for attack.
Before he can decide on his answer, however, Krypto shifts and crawls into Batman's lap again, clearly thinking he's not getting enough attention. His shift reveals a stack of papers lying on the ground next to B and Clark's gaze snags on it. At first he's not sure why, but then his mind catches up to his eyes, and he feels his jaw go slack, knees growing weak.
“Is that… is that a drawing of me ?”
There's a split-second in which Batman freezes before he reaches out to quickly gather up the papers, but Clark is faster. He snatches the drawing out of Batman's hand and sure enough, it's him. Several times over, actually. And very good ones at that. From different angles too.
“It's a design sketch,” replies B, and if Clark hadn't known him for years already, hadn't paid as much attention to him as he did, he would've missed the tension stealing over him, the near imperceptible tremble in his voice.
“A design sketch,” repeats Clark slowly, heartbeat picking up speed as a bad feeling takes root. “For what?”
B visibly clenches his jaw, and doesn't respond for a while. Finally, he says, “Someone needs to make sure they get it right.”
Just like that it clicks into place, and Clark's heart stops. “This is for Bruce Wayne.”
Batman gently pushes Krypto from his lap and stands up. “It's for Wayne Enterprises,” he corrects, and reaches for the papers in Clark's hand, “and like I said, I don't want them to mess it up.”
Clark's not sure why this irks him so much, only that it does. He frowns, and doesn't let go of the drawings as Batman grabs them. “So you just came here to… what? Draw me? Without telling me?”
Batman audibly grinds his teeth. “I came here for a stakeout. It turned out to be a bust, so I decided to take a break and sketch. I don't understand why that is such a problem.”
Clark runs his fingers through his hair, and starts to pace. Krypto yips and follows him, obviously sensing that something is up and wanting to stick close, even if he doesn’t understand what’s going on. Eventually, Clark stops with a sigh, and confesses, “I don't like how close you are with Wayne.”
“Well, you'll have to deal with it,” snaps Batman. “It was an oversight not to protect our names and he's found a solution. I know you think all billionaires are the same, and mostly they are. Hell, maybe there is something darker lurking under the surface with Bruce too, but he's not as bad as you're making him out to be. He's not Luthor.”
Clark's stomach dips uncomfortably. “You seem to know him well.”
“I do.” Batman looks away. “And he's more important to me than I realized.”
Heart aching, Clark lets his shoulders drop and finally loosens his grip on the papers. He really doesn't want to fight, not tonight. Even if he just doesn't understand Batman. Quietly, he says, “This is really good, by the way. You're talented.”
Batman takes the olive branch Clark offered, and looks down at the sketches. “Accuracy is what's important. I… I don't want the League to regret this.”
Biting down on a sad smile, Clark nods. “I do appreciate it. And you know, you have the perfect opportunity to ensure that accuracy right now.” He gestures at himself, and for some reason that makes Batman clutch the paper tighter.
“I appreciate that,” he eventually echos, and Clark's bruised heart starts to pound against his ribs. Too bad that Batman seems to be in love with Bruce Wayne…
“How do you want me?” asks Clark, trying to shake off the thoughts, and immediately has to resist the urge to slap himself in the face. Instead, he quickly strikes a pose he often uses when talking to the press after an emergency: back straight, hands on his hips, chest slightly puffed out. It projects confidence, and people have come to expect that of him.
But Batman shakes his head. “Not like that.” His voice is uncharacteristically hoarse, and the sound sends a shiver down Clark's spine.
Standing up, Batman comes closer. He reaches for Clark, and, bare hands only a breath away from Clark's biceps, he pauses. “May I?”
Clark can only nod mutely, anticipation for B's touch suddenly thrumming under his skin. And that feeling is a revelation, a shock to his system. Clark has always known that he feels strongly about Batman, that there's a kinship here he doesn't share with anyone else in the League. But only now does he fully understand how deep that goes. Only now that B's hands are grazing his arms, closing around his wrists before gently pulling them down into a more relaxed position, does it occur to him how badly he wants to kiss B.
Clark's breath hitches, gaze involuntarily going to Batman's mouth. B’s face is mere inches from his own, hot breath puffing softly against Clark's lips, and it takes every ounce of strength in Clark's body not to let himself tip forward, to close the distance and press his lips to Batman's.
Apparently satisfied with Clark's hand placement, B looks up, and even though Clark can't see his eyes through the lenses of the cowl, it feels like their gazes lock. “Smile,” whispers Batman, and clears his throat. “I–it's better if you smile. For the kids.”
Clark does smile. The fondness swelling in his chest makes it impossible not to. It pushes against his ribs, makes him feel lightheaded, and—
They're kissing.
It registers belatedly, slowly filters into his awareness. Clark doesn't know which of them moved. If they moved at all or if this was something more fundamental, something like gravity pulling them close.
Clark's senses are abruptly overwhelmed by Batman. By the sensations ( stubble scratching against his cheeks, hot breath ghosting over wet lips ), the taste of B’s mouth ( minty, clean, something that is so intrinsically Batman that Clark starts to chase it, to try and define it ), by the sheer knowledge that these are B’s lips so softly pressing against his own.
Gasping, Clark tilts his head and deepens the kiss, feeling like he's being lit up from the inside. A supernova, so bright and beautiful it's almost painful.
And it's over just as quickly.
Abruptly, Batman pulls back, stumbling in his sudden haste to put distance between them. They stare at each other, wide-eyed and red-mouthed. Batman’s chest is heaving. He opens and closes his mouth two times without a sound emerging, before he eventually growls, “This never happened!” He whirls around, grapple gun at the ready, and jumps off the side of the building, without a single backwards glance. Krypto barks and runs to the edge of the roof, watching him go. He looks back at Clark, as if asking him why they're not following, but Clark can only stand there and stare, lips still tingling and feeling hollowed out, as Batman disappears into the night.
Chapter 5
Chapter by Murmeloni, thegoldenageofinfluenza
Chapter Text
Present day
Batcave, Gotham City
Bruce panicked, there's no other way to describe it. He kissed Superman out of a stupid impulse he couldn't control and when he realized what he'd done, he fled without a word. He's not proud of it. Nor of the fact that he's been avoiding Superman ever since, as much as he can anyway. It's not easy to avoid someone when you're working on a team together, but Bruce has managed it pretty well over the past month. He's changed rosters around so they wouldn't be on monitor duty together and made sure to always either drag someone else into the conversation as soon as their meetings ended or to leave a little early, just enough that Kal couldn't instantly follow without being rude. The strategy works surprisingly well, but Bruce is more than aware that the only reason he's getting away with it is because Kal isn't even trying to corner him.
Which he shouldn't be annoyed by, but most definitely is . It just drives home how thoroughly Bruce fucked up and how much Kal didn't want to kiss him.
Fortunately, Bruce doesn't have time to dwell on it too much. The action figures—on top of everything else—are keeping him busy enough to forget about the fear pulsing at the back of his mind, the terrifying prospect that he might have destroyed his years-long friendship with Superman and all because of a kiss. Because of a moment of weakness in the face of those expressive sky blue eyes. Because of a lapse in judgment when Kal had looked at him like that, a slip of his control when they were standing so close that Bruce could smell him and feel the warmth radiating off of his body…
Bruce doesn't understand it. It's like his common sense simply packed its bags, tipped its hat and disappeared, leaving his libido in charge of his decision-making. Which is such a horrible idea, but Bruce has no idea how to get his reason back. Every time he thinks he's got his feelings on lock-down, all he has to do is be in the same room as Kal and suddenly his resolve goes up in a puff of smoke, leaving him wondering what Superman's skin tastes like, if it would change after he went flying around the world or lounging out in the sun. He wonders if Kal would let him keep a record of all the different ways they could touch each other, if he could get away with another kiss... It's incredibly distracting and frustrating as hell, but Bruce has yet to find a way to combat those strange impulses. He's helpless against his desire, and that's a feeling he despises.
Almost as frustrating as the strange limbo his actions have put his relationship with Superman in, and another source of stress, is Clark Kent. Bruce just doesn't understand the man.
Two weeks ago, an advanced copy of Kent's article on the action figures was sent to Bruce's office. Printed. With a yellow sticky note stuck to the front that read:
For your afternoon tea, Princess. It’s not a tiara, but maybe you’ll enjoy it.
- C. Kent.
It had a little crown and a teacup drawn below the signature, and it's—
It's just so infuriatingly quaint and charming that Bruce doesn't know how to deal with it. Especially because it's a really good article. Somehow, Kent took Bruce's rather generic answers and wove them into a compelling piece that highlights the pitfalls of consumerism, touches on concerns the Justice League might have (without speculating on their involvement), and balances all of that with the joy and excitement buzzing across the internet about the toys. It even praises Wayne Enterprises’ commitment to its employees and the slower approach they're taking with production.
Kent's article isn't inherently positive or negative. It's about the dangers and joys of producing this kind of merch in general and betrays Kent's own scepticism, yes, but it's not moralizing or sensational. It's pretty much perfect.
And that's exactly what makes it so suspicious.
The article reminded Bruce of what he'd forgotten over the entire kiss-debacle with Superman: his investigation into Clark Kent. After that first interview, something about Kent had tugged on Bruce's brain, urging him to know more. There was a familiarity there that unnerved him, one he couldn't quite place. He’d already done some research and found that Kent usually covers different stories, stories about injustice, and about how corporate greed impacts communities. Clark Kent tries to help and give a voice to marginalized groups, that much is obvious. And while it's entirely possible that his editor simply assigned him to the interview with Bruce because no one else was available, it seems unlikely. Cat Grant and Angela Chen, who cover gossip and finance respectively, are the people Bruce usually deals with, and as far as he could tell, they should've been free.
The only thing Bruce can think of is that Kent suspects the action figures to be a front for something, but if that's the case, then why didn't he immediately ask for a follow-up interview? It's a mystery Bruce can’t afford to leave unsolved. So he made the decision to investigate, starting with paying a visit to Metropolis and staking out Kent's apartment. Except that Kent wasn't home. Bruce waited, and decided to use that time for the action figures' design sketches, and then… well... then he went and fucked everything up. Including, apparently, his research into Kent.
Which is something that needs to be rectified. (And, no, he's not just trying to distract himself with another project, no matter what his kids say. Not that they know what happened…)
“Sleeping on the job, old man?”
Startled, Bruce looks up to find Jason leaning against the console only a few feet away, a tray laden with tea and finger sandwiches next to him. Catching his look, Jason shrugs. “Alfred asked me to take it down with me. Says you've been holed up down here all morning.”
“Thanks.” Bruce didn't even realize how hungry he'd gotten, and quickly reaches out to take one of Alfred's cucumber sandwiches.
“So… Wanna talk about it?”
Instead of answering, Bruce takes a deliberate bite out of his sandwich and chews slowly, careful not to look at Jason. He does it a few more times until the plate has pretty much emptied, but Jason is still looking at him, still waiting, and his expression says that he's happy to stay right where he is until Bruce caves.
“Talk about what?” Bruce eventually replies, sighing. Jason snorts.
“Please. You've been acting weird for the past month. Case in point, you didn't even react when I came down the stairs just now. Usually, you would've known I was there the moment I crossed the property line, maybe even earlier—which is creepy, by the way, but creepy is your default setting, so...”
Immediately admitting defeat, because there's really no point in denying it, Bruce leans back in his chair. He runs a hand through his hair, thinking about how much he wants to reveal, and eventually settles on, “I did something incredibly stupid that impacted my friendship with Superman and I don't know how to fix it.”
Jason waits a moment, giving Bruce time to elaborate. When he doesn't, Jason makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat. “And? Come on, B, I know that's not all.”
Bruce grinds his teeth. “ And Kal doesn't seem interested in fixing it either. We haven't spoken. At all. And he doesn't seem to care.”
Jason raises his eyebrows. “Let me get this straight. You did something creepy-weird and now Supes is pissed at you, but you're pissed that he's not taking the first steps to make things right? Phew! What a conundrum!”
Bruce runs his fingers through his hair. “You can lose the sarcasm, Jay. I know I need to be the one to take the first step.”
“Then what's stopping you?” Jason throws his hands up. “Apologize! It's not that deep.”
Bruce is silent for a while, staring down at the table. “I don't know how. The conflict that started this mess is still there, and neither of us has changed his mind.”
“So this is about the Brucie thing.”
Bruce looks up sharply. “Dick told you.”
“Yeah, of course. He told all of us. Shit like that is one of the main reasons we even have that group chat without you. He was pretty pissed at your friends, especially Superman.” Jason shrugs, and crosses his arms, pointedly looking away. “Not that he's wrong. The Boy Scout was being an ass.”
Bruce smiles faintly, heart swelling at the protectiveness of his kids especially from Jason. “He was. But he meant well.”
“Doesn't change the facts, does it? Wait.“ Jason squints at him. “If this is about the Brucie thing, why would you need to apologize? What exactly did you do?” he asks, but then quickly shakes his head. “You know what? I don't wanna know the details. Just talk to Superman, apologize, let him apologize, and be done with this mess. The longer you let this drag on, the worse it's gonna get.”
Bruce hums noncommittally, and takes another sandwich. Jason makes it sound so simple… Could it really be that easy to come back from all of this? “Maybe you're right. I promise I'll think about it. But first, I need your help with something else.”
Jason regards him suspiciously. “With what?”
“With this,” says Bruce, and pulls up his file on Clark Kent, before he launches into an explanation of the situation. Jason nods along, eyes scanning over the screen as he listens intently.
“Why not just stake out his apartment?”
“I tried,” answers Bruce, keeping his tone pointedly unaffected, praying that Jason won't pick up on the tension that suddenly steals over him. “Kent wasn't home, and I got interrupted by Superman before he got back. Besides, it's impractical. I can't leave Gotham for what could be several nights in a row on the off chance that Kent really is onto something.”
Jason's brows draw together. “Well, I can't either. I've got my own shit to do—”
“That's not what I'm asking,” interrupts Bruce quickly, before this can escalate into an argument. “I don't think Kent has anything truly nefarious planned, but a hunch isn’t enough. I want to get a better feel for his character, and find out what he's working on. My plan is to schedule another interview, get him to stay in the city overnight and see what he does. Of course, I'll schedule the interview early in the morning, but…”
“But you need an extra incentive to get him to take a hotel room here.” Jason nods slowly. “You said he usually focuses on social justice, exposing the rich and all that, right? So why not give him exactly that?”
Curious, Bruce tilts his head. “What do you have in mind?”
Jason grins. “Well, if there were rumors that Black Mask was up to something and trying to expand his business into Metropolis… someone like Kent wouldn't be able to resist looking into it, right? He'd use his time here to snoop around.”
“It's highly likely,” agrees Bruce, and Jason rubs his hands together, his grin widening,
“Great! I'll handle it.”
Bruce's knee-jerk reaction is to argue and demand more of an explanation than that. Not because he doesn't trust Jason; he just likes to know every step of the plan. But he knows if he does that, his son won't see it that way and he'll likely not see him for a good few months after. So, Bruce swallows back his need for control, and simply nods.
“Thank you, Jay. I appreciate the help.”
“Yeah, well.” Jason looks away, clearly uncomfortable. “Don't make a big thing out of it, old man. I just like pissing off Roman, nothing more.”
“Alright,” agrees Bruce, biting down on his smile as he shuts off the Batcomputer, and stands, grabbing the design sketches and info packet he prepared for today’s meeting. “I have an appointment at the factory in Burnside. Feel free to use whatever you need down here in the cave.”
Briefly, he rests his hand on Jason's shoulder as he passes by, refraining from asking whether Jay will stay for dinner tonight. The fastest way to get him to bolt is to make him feel cornered in any way. So Bruce keeps his mouth firmly shut, and makes his way upstairs.
After all, Bruce Wayne has a factory to inspect.
™™™
Jason sits down in front of the Batcomputer as soon as Bruce leaves. He intends to start his rumor campaign to lure Clark Kent to Gotham, make him stay a day or two. Roman is always up to something and there’s definitely been more activity down by the shipping yards lately. Getting Kent interested should be easy as pie.
It’s still weird though, even for Bruce. This has to be the strangest favor the old man has ever asked of him; Jason doesn't see what's so suspicious about this journalist, but then again he's not going to complain if it means Black Mask gets taken down for whatever evil shit he’s cooking up at the moment. Besides, Jason’s certain he can use this as blackmail somehow.
He pulls the keyboard closer, ready to get started, when he finds something that makes his time here so much more worth it. There are more of Bruce’s sketches strewn across the desk, which in and of itself isn't that incriminating. However, the fact that there are three times as many sketches of Superman—or Superman and Batman together—in much more careful detail than the rest (and a few border-line compromising situations) definitely is.
A slow grin spreads across Jason’s face. “Oh ho ho, you are so gonna regret this, old man,” he murmurs, and gleefully takes pictures of the sketches for the group chat.
™™™
Present day
Burnside, Gotham City
“Bruce!”
As Bruce climbs out of his Aston Martin, he is greeted by the voice of Kahoru Akiyama, production manager of the Wayne Enterprises’ factory here in Burnside. She's waiting for him by the main entrance, neon pink wheelchair parked in a patch of sunlight.
“Kahoru,” replies Bruce as soon as he's close enough. Smiling, he bends down to kiss her cheek. “It's a pleasure to see you as always, but I would've met you in your office.”
Kahoru looks at him dubiously. “And not take the opportunity for a little break and a sunbath? Do you know when the last time we had a sunny day was? If I could, I'd have worked out here all day.”
Bruce smiles. “What I'm hearing is that we need to renovate your office.”
“You said it, not me…” Laughing, she turns around and moves towards the door. “Now come on, bossman, I don't have all day.”
Just as Bruce moves to follow her, there's a telltale whoosh behind him, making him stop in his tracks. He allows himself a second to close his eyes, already knowing who it is before he turns around.
“Superman,” he greets, keeping his tone pointedly cheerful as he faces the last person he wants to see right now. “Here to take me up on my offer of a personal tour? I knew you'd warm up to me eventually.”
The twitch in Kal's jaw is gratifying, but the feeling is overshadowed by Bruce's own annoyance. Kal looks so damn beautiful as he stands there, skin glowing golden in the rare afternoon sun, eyes shining bright. It’s almost as if he’s brought the light to Gotham, and that stupid suit leaves nothing to the imagination. He's simply gorgeous. It makes Bruce's stomach swoop. Suddenly all he can think about is that kiss, heat flaring to life in his belly.
And that pisses him off.
“Mr. Wayne,” answers Superman, looking from Bruce to Kahoru. “Is this a bad time?”
“It's perfect timing, actually. Kahoru and I were just about to discuss the production of the action figures.”
Kahoru eyes Bruce dubiously, but doesn't comment. “Nice to meet ya, Superman,” is all she says, deadpan, before once again turning toward the entrance.
“After you.” Bruce gestures for Kal to go first. He hesitates, but after a moment he follows Kahoru inside, Bruce bringing up the rear.
They move along the hallway, earning doubletakes from the workers as they pass them by. Calls of “Hello, Mr. Wayne!” trail off into curious murmurs, and Bruce does his best not to let it get to him. It's difficult, not least because with every employee he greets, Superman's gaze on him feels heavier, more judgmental if that is even possible.
“I've crunched the numbers,” announces Kahoru once they’re in her office. She expertly maneuvers her wheelchair behind the desk. While Kal and Bruce sit down in the chairs across from her, she wakes up her computer, clicks the mouse a few times, and then turns the monitor so that Bruce and Kal can see it too. “It's not gonna be cheap. Or fast, for that matter. We need to hire a bunch of new people, get additional machines and materials… It'll be a few months at least. Though, the good news is that we have enough space here to accommodate all of that.”
Nodding, Bruce studies the list Kahoru has compiled. “A few donations might speed up the process,” he murmurs, thoughtful. “That way we can get those machines delivered more quickly.”
“Sure,” replies Kahoru, drawing out the word as she drums her fingers against the desk. “But that still leaves the fact that we don't have enough employees right now. My people would have to work twice as many hours.”
Superman shifts next to him, and out of the corner of his eye Bruce sees his expression pinch into a frown, as if he expects Bruce to demand the increased work hours. He’s so ready to judge... It takes effort—Bruce values Superman's opinion and the suspicion hurts—but he ignores it, focusing on what's important right now.
“Tim actually had an idea about that.” Reaching into his suit jacket, he pulls out a stack of papers and hands them over to Kahoru. “There's an employment program with the Peter Swan Correction Facility. It's designed to help inmates adjust and lead a normal life after their sentence is over, integrate them into society and give them some work experience.”
Kahoru nods slowly as she thumbs through the info material Bruce handed her. “That's a good idea. It'll take a little while to set up, I mean we do still have to train them properly, but it will definitely speed things up. Have Tim call me about setting that up, yeah?”
“I will,” answers Bruce, relieved that Kahoru is so on board with the program. He didn't expect her to react badly, but he's been asking a lot of her since the whole action figure business started, and this is just one more thing she'll have to coordinate.
“The best way to keep people from returning to a life of crime is to give them an alternative and people to connect with. A job is a good way to achieve that.” Superman's voice is low, but Bruce can't quite decipher his tone. When he turns to look, those deep blue eyes are fixed on him, studying his face. The intensity of it is unsettling, addicting, and Bruce finds he can't look away. He feels it in the pit of his stomach, a pull he can't resist, drawing him closer—
“Have we settled on designs yet?” Kahoru speaks up, startling Bruce and severing the strange connection he so embarrassingly got lost in. “We need them in order to figure out the specifics, test different materials, et cetera.”
“I have the sketches for you to look over,” replies Bruce, barely resisting the urge to look at Kal again, to gauge his reaction. The sketches always remind him of their kiss. He tried to excise that moment from his brain, went so far as to sketch it over and over again in a futile attempt to cast it out of his mind— him and Kal on that rooftop, wrapped up in each other like nothing else existed —to no avail. “But I haven't gotten the go-ahead from the Justice League yet.”
“I've seen them,” says Superman, gaze still drilling holes into the side of Bruce’s head. “And I think I can speak for the League when I say that they have our approval.”
Bruce can't stop his head from snapping around, and their eyes meet, sending a strange jolt of electricity through Bruce’s system. “That's quite the vote of confidence.”
“I trust Batman's judgment,” answers Kal stiffly, and finally looks away. The I don't trust you , remains unspoken but rings loud and clear in Bruce's ears anyway. He expected it, of course, but it still stings. After a moment, Bruce manages to get himself back under control, and turns back to Kahoru. He clears his throat. “I'll leave the designs with you then.”
She looks between them, eyebrows raised, but clearly decides she's got better things to do than get involved in this mess. Shaking her head, she jots down a few notes in her calendar, and accepts the drawings from Bruce. “Alright. Once I've looked these over, we can see about producing a few prototypes and go from there.”
They talk a bit more about budgeting, about the finer details of a potential production schedule, pros and cons of certain materials and methods… Boring but important things, and through it all Superman's presence remains a distraction. By the time the meeting comes to a close, Bruce is thoroughly pissed. Kal is so unaffected. He's obviously still not Bruce's biggest fan but he keeps things perfectly civil the entire time, and only asks the occasional question. It's maddening, and evokes the childish desire in Bruce to rattle him somehow, to strip away the calm veneer and get to the truth underneath.
And sometimes, Bruce's famed impulse control is pretty much nonexistent, so before Kal is halfway down the corridor Bruce hears himself call, “How about that tour, Superman? Or did you just come here to see me?”
Kal stops, and turns back to face Bruce. “I think I've got what I came for.”
“I insist,” answers Bruce, irritation flashing through him as he quickly bridges the distance. He hooks his arm around Superman's, making a show out of squeezing his bicep.
Superman's jaw tightens, but he allows Bruce to drag him along. “I've taken enough of your time today, Mr. Wayne—”
“Call me Bruce.”
“Bruce,” he amends, nostrils flaring. “I really need to get going.”
The evidence that Bruce is finally getting to Kal is thrilling, exhilarating in a fucked up way, and even though he knows he should stop this, that he's only going to hurt himself in the end and ruin any chance of salvaging their friendship, it's impossible to stop.
So he keeps going, steps closer to Kal until their chests are pressed flush together. Trailing his hand up to his shoulder, he cups the back of Kal's neck, putting on his most seductive smile. “You wanted to be involved, Big Blue. This is me, involving you. Or is this too hands-on for your taste?”
“ Rao , you're infuriating,” growls Superman, and with a suddenness Bruce's brain struggles to comprehend, his back hits the wall. The air is pushed from his lungs by the impact, and before he can orient himself, Kal's lips are on his. To call it a kiss would be misleading. It's a desperate attempt to shut Bruce up, to get him to submit, fueled by the unwanted attraction simmering under Kal's skin.
Bruce doesn't care. He's been longing to feel Superman's mouth move against his own again for a month, and he's not about to waste the opportunity. Letting himself sink into the sensations, he moans, and parts his lips, tongue darting out to trace the shape of Kal's mouth. Because he's Bruce Wayne and not Batman right now, he can get away with shamelessly grinding his hips against Superman's, clinging to him like he so desperately wanted to for years now. He never admitted it to himself, never allowed himself to really think about it. Finally giving in now is freeing, in a way, but constricting in another. On one hand, he can't be this vocal or needy as Batman, can't let himself be led, but as Brucie, he can simply allow Superman to take the reins and enjoy the ride. He doesn't have to be on his toes.
The flipside of that, the thing that almost brings Bruce to his knees, is that Kal doesn't really want him . He doesn't want Bruce Wayne. There may be some measure of attraction there, but ultimately the animosity is going to win out. Besides—
“You're thinking about someone else.” Bruce pulls back, and lets his head fall against the wall, watching Superman out of heavy-lidded eyes while his heart pounds against his ribs. Logically, he knows that Kal won't confide in him of all people, just like he knows that Superman is not thinking of Batman either. If he was, all he would have needed to do was talk to Batman after their kiss.
Superman's jaw works, and he glares at Bruce, defiant. “That's none of your—”
“None of my business? If that's the case, then why are you still holding me against the wall?”
Superman lets go of him like he's been burned. It seems he only now realizes what he's done as his eyes grow wide. He takes a stumbling step back. “I'm sorry,” he says, looking around like he's searching for the nearest exit. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—”
“You didn't mean to kiss me?” Bruce laughs without humor, and he can't quite summon the will to change that. He feels dirty all of a sudden, used. “Don't worry, you’re not the only one.”
Kal's brows draw together. “I don't understand,” he says, and Bruce sighs, running a hand through his hair.
“People are attracted to me; they don't want me. There's a difference, and apparently, that also applies to all-powerful aliens.”
A part of Bruce wants to dig his heels in and drag this out, wants to pay Kal back somehow because that's twice now they've kissed, one initiated by Bruce and one by Superman himself, but both times, Bruce wasn't who Kal really wanted. It hurts. But it's not Kal's fault. Well, it is this time, but the first kiss was entirely Bruce's doing. He brought this on himself. He never should’ve opened Pandora's box.
“Kahoru will be able to answer whatever questions you might still have about the factory. I'll tell her to expect you,” says Bruce, and busies himself with straightening his clothes, keeping his eyes fixed on his shirt. He's giving Superman an out here. And he doesn't want to see the relief in his expression.
“Bruce,” starts Superman, and Bruce stiffens involuntarily at the use of his first name, even though he’d insisted on it. Another mistake in a long row of them. It feels like too much, too intimate, and it scrapes uncomfortably against the already tender spot on his heart.
“I have another appointment I'm already late for. I'll see you around, Big Blue.” Bruce can't quite resist briefly resting his palm against Kal’s broad chest, feeling the muscles shift beneath that suit, before he strides away without a backward glance.
Superman doesn’t stop him.
Chapter 6
Chapter by Murmeloni, thegoldenageofinfluenza
Chapter Text
Present day
New Troy, Metropolis
“So let me get this straight,” says Lois, to which Jimmy snorts and mumbles,” Good one Lo,” making both of them giggle like children for a moment. Though that could also be the beer they’ve been drinking tonight. Clark really doesn't know why he's even friends with them at this point. Except it’s been two weeks since he kissed Bruce Wayne, and he’s not been coping well on his own. He needed to finally talk to someone about it, so he invited Lois and Jimmy over after work. A big mistake, it seems.
Still grinning, Lois turns back and waves her beer bottle in his direction. “You kissed Batman—who is apparently in love with Bruce Wayne, which is a story I really need to hear because that seems unlikely—and then, since that turned out to be such a brilliant idea and totally didn’t lead to you not talking to your best friend for the past month and a half, you went ahead and kissed Bruce Wayne, too.”
Face burning, Clark can only nod, and both Jimmy's and Lois’ expressions turn pitying.
“I'm really not judging you,” says Jimmy after a moment, and this time it's Lois who interrupts him with a snort and a, “I certainly am.”
Jimmy tries hard to frown. “Not helpful, Lo.”
“I never claimed to be. I'm here to gloat.”
“Can we please get back to the problem at hand?” Clark quickly asks, before Lois’ and Jimmy's bickering can pick up steam. “I'm leaving for Gotham in the morning; how the heck am I supposed to face Bruce after everything that happened? Or Batman?”
Lois rolls her eyes. “I thought Superman was the one who did the kissing. Neither Batman nor Brucie know Clark Kent. So I don't see the problem.”
Both Jimmy and Clark stare at her in disbelief. “Clearly he has a problem,” says Jimmy, “or he wouldn’t have kissed them in the first place.”
“That’s a different problem than going to Gotham,” says Lois with a shrug, and then she studies Clark, gaze sharpening. “Why did you kiss Wayne? You’ve been in love with Batman for as long as I’ve known you, so I get why you kissed him . But Wayne I don’t understand.”
“Well, he is hot,” comments Jimmy as he goes to get himself another beer from Clark’s fridge.
Clark groans, hiding his face behind his hands. “Gosh, he really is. And he's infuriating.”
“Infuriating is one word for it. You’ve done nothing but say what an idiot that man is,” exclaims Lois, and chucks a pillow at Clark's head. He quickly snatches out of the air before it can hit him square in the face, and proceeds to knead it with his fingers.
“That’s just it. I don’t think he is. There’s something in his eyes, something sharp, and his remarks are always a little too pointed, too effective, you know? Like they’re supposed to turn people away, make them underestimate him.” When Clark looks up from his lap where his fingers have turned the pillow into a lumpy mess, he finds both Lois and Jimmy staring at him with wide eyes.
“Are you crushing on Wayne?” asks Lois, incredulous, and Jimmy whispers, “Is this going to turn into one of those threeway situations? With you, Wayne and Batman?” He doesn’t sound shocked by that, more intrigued than anything, and Clark doesn't know what to make of that.
The tips of Clark’s ears burn as he emphatically shakes his head. “No! No, it’s not that at all! I just… I can understand why Batman is so clearly taken with Wayne is what I'm saying.” Even as the words leave his mouth, though, images are flashing before Clark’s eyes. Of him, Bruce and Batman, tangled up together, trading lazy kisses and touches, bodies slippery with sweat. He quickly shakes his head to dislodge them, and stands up. “I'm taking an early train tomorrow, so I’m going to go pack my bags,” he announces, and practically flees into his bedroom.
“You’re not exactly making yourself look innocent, Smallville!” Lois calls after him. Clark pretends not to hear her, which is… yeah. They all know he couldn’t have not heard that if he tried.
Krypto is lying on Clark’s bed, head snuggled into his pillow. He blinks one blue eye open as Clark enters, and his tail begins lazily thumping against the mattress. Clark pauses next to the dog, scratching him behind the ears. Ever since their outing six weeks ago, Clark hasn’t been able to get himself to send Krypto back to his parents. He likes having someone to come home to, a warm, living body to share space with and talk to, one he doesn’t need to be careful around. Besides, their long morning and evening walks have done wonders for Clark’s mental health, cliché as it sounds.
It’s another thing he has to thank Bruce for. Clark might not have realized how much he missed Krypto if he hadn’t seen Ace and Wayne playing with Neziah the day of the interview.
“Need any help?”
Clark isn’t surprised by Lois’ question. He heard her and Jimmy’s footsteps approach the door, and knew they wanted to check on him. He’d been hoping for it, honestly. “Sure,” he answers, straightening up. Walking over to his closet, he pulls the doors wide. “I could use some help figuring out what to wear.”
Lois and Jimmy move closer, studying the clothes instead of him, giving him space. “How are you really feeling, Clark? Have you and Batman talked yet?” asks Jimmy, and Clark sighs. “No. He’s been avoiding me, and I…”
“You let him,” Lois finishes the sentence.
“Yeah. I’ve been too scared to hear him say it, but I don’t think I can avoid it any longer, not after what happened at the factory.” Clark rubs the back of his neck, and shakes his head. “I could just see it so clearly, you know? Why Batman wants him. And then Bruce flirted with me, and—I guess I wanted to be a part of that somehow, steal a piece of it for myself. Just to know what it would be like.”
And he’d gotten so much more than he’d bargained for. People are attracted to me; they don't want me. Bruce’s words have been haunting Clark ever since. They betrayed a loneliness, an inner pain that called to Clark’s own on a visceral level. Clark can’t get them out of his head, can’t forget the look in those icy blue eyes, and at the same time it feels like the utmost betrayal of Batman’s trust. If he even still has that. It’s been six weeks since Bruce Wayne first visited the Watchtower. Six weeks since he and Batman exchanged any meaningful words, and, heartache aside, Clark simply misses his best friend.
Lois hums, thoughtful. She pulls out a dark blue suit from Clark’s closet, holds it up in front of him before nodding and laying it over the back of the armchair by Clark’s window to be packed later. Eventually, she meets Clark’s gaze. “I think you need to talk to Batman, tell him how you feel. Lay it all out there, unburden yourself. Clearly keeping these feelings bottled up hasn’t done you any favors, Smallville.”
Clark swallows, and looks away, stroking Krypto's head. “What if it goes badly? We work together, I'll have to keep seeing him. It could make things with the League so much more difficult.”
Jimmy lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. “What if it doesn't go badly? You clearly need to get this off your chest. Besides, you’re already not talking to each other—how much worse could it get? At this point, keeping things to yourself isn’t going to save your friendship.”
Clark takes a deep breath, and stands up. He grabs two plain white t-shirts from his closet, laying them down on the armchair, too. “You’re right. I can’t put this off any longer. Thank you, guys.”
“That’s what friends are for. Gloating, advice and ice cream. Or pizza and beer in this case.” Lois bumps his shoulder, and on his other side, Jimmy squeezes his arm, “Exactly. Which means we’re packing your bag, and then we’re taking Krypto for a walk to the pizza place down the street.”
“And we're getting ice cream after.”
“That sounds great.” Clark’s heart nearly overflows with fondness. He wraps an arm around each of their shoulders, hugging them tight. Behind them, Krypto lets out a low bark, and jumps off the bed. Never one to be left out of cuddles, he presses himself against their legs, tail wagging happily through the air.
Maybe he’ll really be alright, he thinks, even if his talk with Batman goes badly. He’ll still have his friends and family. But first he has an investigation and an interview to conduct. Black Mask, Bruce Wayne, and Batman. This is promising to be an interesting weekend.
™™™
Present day
Grand Central Station, Gotham City
Bruce spots Clark Kent as soon as he steps off the train that Friday morning. Dressed in worn jeans and a too big flannel shirt, he blends right in among the rush of people, but to Bruce he stands out like a sore thumb. He’s too clean, too radiantly beautiful as he picks his way through the crowd, smiling and careful not to bump into anyone, mid-western manners on full display. It shouldn’t be as charming as it is, and yet Bruce finds himself staring, a strange tightness in his chest, when Kent shows off his dimples to an old woman as he goes out of his way to help her maneuver her walker onto another train.
On Jason’s insistence, Bruce has scheduled their interview for early Monday morning, giving Kent enough time to snoop around the city over the weekend and in doing so, reveal something about himself. The plan seems to have worked: shortly after Bruce's request was accepted, Bruce found out that Kent booked a train ride and a hotel room for the entire weekend. It’s not that surprising; the rumors Jason started about Black Mask are convincing and concerning enough to capture every journalist’s interest. Add to that Kent's apparent interest in Wayne Enterprises’ and their newest business venture, and he pretty much didn’t have another choice but to spend the weekend here.
From his position near the main entrance, disguised as one of the many homeless people seeking shelter from the elements, Bruce has a perfect view of the entire station and the platforms below. A perfect view of Kent, who steps onto an escalator, adjusting the shoulder strap of his bag.
As he approaches the entrance, Kent slows his steps, gaze roving over the ten or so people huddled in old sleeping bags and layers of clothing, old coffee cups set up in front of them to receive enough change for something to drink, a meal, anything. He frowns, pulls out his wallet, and seems to count its contents. Then, to Bruce's surprise, he proceeds to not only distribute his money between the people but stops to chat with them, too. Eventually, he reaches Bruce, who huddles deeper into the blanket he's got wrapped around himself, subtly drawing it over the lower half of his face.
“Morning,” says Kent, painfully chipper and genuine as he sticks a five dollar bill into the paper cup in front of Bruce. He nods at the newspaper open on Bruce's lap. “Anything interesting?”
Bruce shakes his head, not daring to speak. He can't risk getting recognized, but Kent doesn't seem bothered. He chuckles, like Bruce has just made a funny joke. “I figured,” he says, and leans closer, before adding in a conspiratorial tone, “Between you and me, the Gotham Gazette isn't exactly known to print more than gossip. I find the Herald much more interesting. Anyway, I have to run. You have a nice day, yeah?”
With one last jaunty wave, Kent exits the station, leaving Bruce reeling. Looking at the people around him, he sees his bewilderment mirrored on their faces. Who knew that the way to rattle a Gothamite is unabashed acts of kindness.
™™™
Over the next several hours, Bruce follows Clark throughout the city. He watches as Clark checks into his hotel, spends a while working on his laptop, before heading back out again with a confident stride.
As soon as he's gone, Bruce quickly slips into Kent's hotel room. He searches through his things as well as his laptop, installing a tracker for good measure when he finds nothing of interest.
He knows where Clark is likely headed and even if he didn't, it wouldn't be that difficult to find him again. With the kind of rumors Jason's spread there are only a few places that would make sense for him to go, all of them near the docks.
Once the hotel room has been sufficiently searched and bugged, Bruce slips out again, letting the crowds carry him towards the nearest subway station. Within an hour he's found Clark again, just in time to watch him draw information out of a group of dock workers. He's dialed his awkwardness up to eleven, and somehow, despite his broad frame and his height, manages to look as unthreatening as a puppy.
By the end of it, he's learned which warehouses belong to Sionis, and that not all of his workers are here by choice. Bruce makes a mental note to relay that information to Jason later and let him know that Sionis really was up to no good (shocker). While the rumors of Black Mask's expansion into Metropolis may be false, his criminal activities are very real.
It's another few hours of this, during which Clark—and by extension Bruce—learns more about the human trafficking ring Black Mask has set up, the way he's extorting people into complicity. It has rage boiling under Bruce's skin, and he's itching to take Sionis out of business. Unfortunately, the information they have gathered so far won't hold up in court, not yet. They need more. Bruce has a half-formed plan in the back of his mind, a way to free the enslaved and gather more information and then deliver that intel to both the police and Kent. After all, more public scrutiny means a higher probability of getting a conviction, and if nothing else, Bruce trusts Kent to do the right thing.
By early evening, it's time for Bruce to tear himself away from Kent and go on patrol. It's surprisingly difficult to do, which is why he forces himself to stay away for the rest of the night too. He has his hidden cameras and listening devices installed, if Kent does anything that might jeopardize the action figures or Bruce's identity, he will know it. Though his mind frequently wanders back to Clark throughout the night, wondering what he's doing, if he's already working on an exposé on Black Mask he can pitch to his editor. Bruce just can't get the man out of his head and sees his smile from that morning flash before his eyes on more than one inopportune occasion during his patrol.
As dawn approaches, Bruce finds himself circling back to the docks. They need more evidence, yes, but letting these people suffer any longer isn't an option either. He'll just have to make sure to find something worthwhile or get a confession out of someone.
When Bruce reaches the Sionis Shipping Yard, however, he's met with an unwelcome surprise. There, hovering above the warehouse in front of him, is Kal. Gritting his teeth against the emotions welling up in his chest, Bruce shoots out his grapple gun and propels himself forward.
“Superman,” he greets, and it shouldn't be this difficult to keep his voice even and his heart rate in check.
“Batman.” Kal nods, looking uncharacteristically nervous, and once again Bruce regrets every single life choice that led him here. He pushes all that aside, in favor of focusing on the mission ahead.
“You're here because of Black Mask, the trafficking ring.”
Kal seems surprised for a moment, before he nods again. “Yes. He needs to be stopped. The people here are suffering.”
Narrowing his eyes, Bruce wants to ask how Superman knows that, wants to ask since when he doesn't trust Batman to handle these things anymore, and if it's because of his proximity to Bruce Wayne. He doesn't do it though. Partly because they're wasting time that should be spent rescuing people, yes, but he's also just afraid of the answers he'd get. So he forces his mind away from Superman's unusual appearance in Gotham, a seemingly impossible task.
“We can't just barge in. They keep people in several different locations. If we're spotted before all of them are out, Black Mask might be tempted to…” Bruce tries to pick his words carefully, but there's no good way to put it. “... destroy evidence. ”
Superman grimaces, but doesn't protest. “I can free the people while you focus on taking out Black Mask and gathering evidence. I'm faster than you, and we need something to convict him on.”
I know! Bruce wants to shout, but he manages to bite his tongue. He doesn't know what it is about this situation that puts him so on edge, only that he feels seconds away from snarling at Kal like a wounded animal. It can't just be the fact that Superman has kissed him twice in the past two months, that they've barely spoken since that first kiss—at least as far as Kal is aware—or that Superman doesn't seem all that affected by any of it. It would be pathetic if that's all it took to make Bruce lose his cool like that, ridiculous! So he violently wrenches himself back to the old comradery they shared before all of this started, and smirks at Superman, going so far as to clap a hand on his shoulder.
“Intel suggests that Sionis should be in his office right about now. You better have everyone freed by the time I get there.”
™™™
Present day
Sionis Shipping Yard, Gotham City
Clark’s shoulder still tingles. Even as he’s knocking out guards and pulling open shipping containers at a speed too fast for human eyes, he can’t quite shake the feeling of Batman’s hand on him. It was a light touch, platonic, and one they’ve shared hundreds of times before, but in light of recent events it doesn’t feel like that. It feels new, dangerous, and too much like Clark is taking something not meant for him. Shaking those thoughts off as best as he can, he redoubles his efforts and within ten minutes he’s got Sionis’ men bound and incapacitated and the people they trafficked freed.
That’s when the real work begins. Over the years, Clark has built a network of NGOs and other organizations he can call in situations like these. He’s learned quickly that calling the police without anyone else present will only cause more problems and most likely result in the refugees being sent back into the precarious living conditions they tried to escape from. Besides, he needs to be sure they have the evidence they need to not only shut all of this down for good, but also to make sure Black Mask goes to prison for what he’s done.
Next, Clark calls an ambulance—these people definitely need medical attention, severely malnourished and injured as they are—and then they all wait.
Clark does his best to comfort everyone. Some of them are in bad shape, some too young to even fully understand what is going on, and a vicious anger flares to life inside of him as they haltingly tell him what they’ve been through, collapse into his arms or just silently keep their distance and stare off into space. Clark ruthlessly pushes the feeling down to be dealt with later. The last thing these people need right now is an angry Superman.
It’s only when Ruhina arrives, the founder of an organization dedicated to helping refugees Clark has worked with often before, that he goes to find Batman. He left Black Mask’s men tied up further back in the shipping yard, far away from where he brought their victims, so he’s not worried about the situation escalating in that direction. Even if the men would have deserved a taste of their own medicine.
Stretching his senses, Clark easily locates Batman’s steady heartbeat in one of the warehouses and a quick look shows that B is in an office on the top floor, sitting in front of a computer. Black Mask is nowhere in sight. With a burst of speed, Clark bridges the distance between them, glides in through the open window and touches down behind Batman.
“Found anything?”
If Batman is surprised his body doesn't betray it. His heart beats on, perfectly calm like a metronome, and he doesn't even look up when Clark's abrupt arrival makes his cape flutter.
“Enough to get Roman a one-way ticket to Blackgate.”
Clark tilts his head, curious, and peers over Batman's shoulder. “But?”
B's mouth pulls down, and he practically glares at the monitor in front of him. “But we still need more. This operation is bigger than I expected, which increases the risk of city officials having been bribed and blackmailed…”
“So if we want the charges to stick, we have to figure out which officials they're targeting and with what.”
“Exactly.”
Clark nods, even though Batman can't see it; he's too focused on the monitor still. Clark admires his focus, always has, but especially in situations like these. After what he's seen tonight, he wants nothing more than for Black Mask to be locked away for good. Which reminds him…
“Where is Sionis?”
“He fled. Oracle is tracking him through the city and Red Hood and Red Robin are in pursuit. They'll catch him.”
For a moment they're both silent, the only sound in the room the occasional clacking of the keyboard. It makes Clark nervous, makes it all too easy to focus on the cut of Batman's chin, his lips, the elegant shape of his neck, those broad shoulders… And just like that all the things that have been left unsaid between them these past two months suddenly seem unbearably loud to Clark, unavoidable. They're sitting at the tip of his tongue, and if he doesn't want to just blurt out everything, he'll have to keep himself occupied somehow.
“Anything I can do to help?”
The typing pauses for a second, and Batman looks at him. With a mix of exasperation and curiosity he says, “You could stop distracting me.”
Clark winces, knowing he's only drawing this out with his nervous energy but unable to stop it. As if sensing this, Batman's posture softens the slightest bit. “Just pull up a chair.”
After a brief hesitation, Clark does, and Batman pushes a black notebook towards him. “Sionis left it behind. The code it's written in isn't complicated but it details his plans for Metropolis. It seems Red Hood's intel was solid.”
Clark raises his eyebrows. “You sound surprised,” he teases, slowly relaxing into the familiarity he's missed so dearly. This is the most they've talked in nearly two months, and it feels good to have his friend back. Even if that might not last very long, considering what he'll have to say later…
Batman only hums, and says, “We need to get this done before the police arrive.”
For the next few minutes they work in silence, combing through Black Mask's notes. Clark commits everything to memory, stomach turning with each word. The plans are much more detailed than he expected. It seems Sionis was almost ready to expand his operations. Frustratingly, there's nothing linking him directly to any of the crimes in Metropolis, and the more Clark reads the deeper his frown gets. That is, until Batman sits up straighter all of a sudden, tapping his comm.
“Oracle, come in.”
“Batman?” comes the immediate response. Clark has heard Oracle's voice often enough but unlike Nightwing and the others, he's never met this ally of B's before.
“I'm transferring files to you. Evidence and blackmail. I need it to be found by the right people and I need it public.”
There's a slight pause, then, “I see it. I'll make sure the GCPD doesn't mess this up, and leak it to the press—”
“Clark Kent,” Batman cuts in, and Clark freezes, his heart stopping in his chest. Panic floods his system until he feels dizzy with it. Oh, Rao. Does Batman know? Has he somehow found out who Clark is? If so, why hasn't he said anything?
Questions and scenarios chase themselves around in his head, each one more depressing than the last, but then Batman continues, and Clark doesn't know if what he says next is a relief or if it makes everything so much worse. “He works for the Daily Planet, and recently interviewed Bruce Wayne. He's good. Send the information to him, and he'll do the right thing.”
So Batman doesn't know, but he's talked about him with Bruce Wayne… Clark can't quite hide his grimace at that, his heart giving a painful twinge.
“Right,” agrees Oracle. “Anything else?” Clark barely hears her anymore. He doesn't know what to think or how to feel. It seems everything with Batman comes back to Bruce Wayne in one way or another. Which means, he can't put it off any longer. He has to talk to B, come clean, and hope they can somehow remain friends afterwards.
“What's the status of Red Hood and Red Robin?” asks Batman, and begins shutting down the computer. It feels like the clock has started ticking down to Clark's heartbreak, and all he can do is watch it happen.
“Black Mask is in custody. They caught him in his penthouse in the Diamond District, likely trying to dispose of evidence. They're searching the place now.”
“Good work. Tell them we'll debrief tomorrow. Batman out.”
There's a faint click as the connection shuts off. Clark doesn't know if the sudden silence as they stand up from the desk and make for the exit is only this oppressive to him or if Batman feels it too. B reaches for the door, pulls it open, and suddenly, without having made the conscious decision to do so, Clark finds himself in front of him, blocking his exit.
“I'm sorry,” he blurts out, but he can't quite bring himself to look at Batman, too scared of what he'll find. “I'm sorry, I messed things up between us. That kiss… after the meeting on the Watchtower I knew how you felt about Bruce Wayne. I shouldn't have done that to you—”
“Stop,” interrupts Batman sharply, and Clark's mouth clicks shut in an instant. His stomach twists until he feels sick with it. There's a tense moment of silence, and then, “Look at me, Kal.”
Reluctantly, Clark does, and promptly feels the breath catch in his throat. As always, he can only see the lower half of Batman's face but he's become adept at reading him over the years. The shape of his mouth, the tightening of his jaw… he knows it better than he knows his own reflection, knows that it gives Batman away. And right now, B looks softer than Clark has ever seen him.
“There is nothing between me and Bruce Wayne.”
Clark frowns, opening his mouth to argue because last time Batman said—
“It's not like that, Kal,” B explains gently. “Wayne and I have worked together for years, and we've known each other even longer, but there's nothing romantic going on. Besides.” Batman stops, mouth tightening, and even though Clark can't prove it with the white lenses obscuring his view, he has the distinct feeling Batman is avoiding meeting his eyes. For a brief moment, Clark's chest aches for Wayne. After the factory— People are attracted to me; they don't want me —he's pretty sure that Bruce wouldn't agree with this statement. However the thoughts are chased from his mind when B straightens his shoulders, and says, “ I was the one who kissed you . So if anyone has ruined anything, it'd be me.”
Clark stops breathing. Distantly he thinks that, to an outsider, the way he's staring at Batman would probably be hilarious, but nobody's laughing here. “What?”
B's jaw works. “I'm saying that I owe you an apology, Kal.”
“No, you don't.”
“Yes, I do ,” he growls, mouth flattening into a thin line.
“No.”
Throwing his hands up in exasperation, Batman shouts, “I'm trying to make things right here, Kal! Why won't you let me?”
“Because I wanted you to kiss me!” he shouts back, just as frustrated as Batman seems to be. Their faces are only inches apart now, breaths mingling between them. For one second they’re both silent, tension crackling between them, waiting. The calm before the storm. In the next second, Batman surges forward and presses his lips to Clark's.
Clark groans as jolts of different sensations go through him, too fast to hold onto anything concrete outside of the warmth pooling in his chest, or the fact that he desperately needs more . He cups his hands around B's face, gently holds him in place and proceeds to plunder Batman’s mouth. He deepens the kiss, and lets his tongue trace the outline of Batman’s lips, before he bullies his way inside the wet heat of his mouth. He licks over B’s teeth, twining their tongues together with a deep groan. B’s taste is intoxicating, addicting, and Clark already knows he wants to do this for hours and hours and hours. His cock twitches.
Batman moans, and grows soft and pliant in Clark’s hands as he does his best to return the kiss, to keep up with Clark’s fervor. His fingers curl into the front of Clark’s suit, holding him close and holding on, like he’s afraid one of them will disappear if he’s not careful. It ignites a fire in Clark’s belly, arousal burning hot and bright like phosphorus, consuming him. Before Clark even knows what he’s doing, he wraps his arms around Batman’s waist and hoists him up.
B makes a surprised sound, and pulls back but quickly wraps his legs around Clark’s middle to hold on. There’s another moment where they just stare at each other, sharing panting breaths, and assessing if this is truly what the other wants. Then B experimentally rolls his hips down, the hard material of his protective cup dragging along the ridges of Clark’s slowly unfurling cock, and Clark abruptly realizes how aroused he really is. After that, something inside him simply snaps, and the rest of his self-control evaporates in a puff of smoke.
With a growl, he uses his superspeed to walk them backwards until he can unceremoniously dump Batman on Black Mask’s desk. B scrambles to rise up on his elbows, causing papers to fly in every direction, and the keyboard falls to the floor with a loud clatter.
Neither of them cares as Clark roughly pushes B’s strong thighs apart, and steps in between them. He lets his hands rest on Batman’s hips, caressing the shape of them, before he tightens his grip and yanks B closer. His fully unfurled cock strains against the material of his suit, presses against the hardness of B’s cup, and the sensitive nubs on the underside slide against the unforgiving plastic.
Rao, Clark would love to see his cock rub against Batman's bare flesh, see its pale gold would complement B’s creamy skin beautifully... Clark might look human everywhere else, but not there. In looks, texture and density, his penis is closer to the arm of an octopus, mellable but muscular and with a bit of a mind of its own. He usually keeps it curled up close to his body, mimicking the bulge of a human penis, but he can't contain himself, not now. Not with Batman finally writhing underneath him.
Clark’s cock undulates and pulses against Batman's cup, the pouch at the base—where his knot will inflate, and isn't that a dizzying thought, his knot this close to Batman—is especially sensitive as it rubs along the plastic. The ridge of small nubs that lines the underside of his cock, starting right above the knot and climbing almost all the way up to his already leaking slit, sends sharp pinpricks of sensation through him, and lust licks up his spine. They’re perfectly aligned like this, but as it is, the cup prevents B from getting much friction at all. He shouldn’t feel much more than a vague pressure. Somehow, that only makes it all the hotter when he moans like a whore.
“You have no idea,” pants Clark, bending down to mouth at the side of Batman’s neck. It’s covered by the cowl, all he can taste is B’s personal blend of spandex, kevlar and latex but somehow that still makes his cock ache and pulse with the need for release, his knot already inflating. He is starting to feel feverish with desire, like an animal in heat, and yet they've barely even done anything.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this, B. Fuck, the amount of times I’ve imagined this exact scenario—you, spread out on a desk for me, mine to do with as I please, completely at my mercy and loving every second…” Clark shudders. “It’s obscene .”
“Yes,” says Batman hoarsely, and tilts his head to give Clark better access. He’s squirming on the table top, thighs squeezing Clark’s waist as he’s held immobile by the weight of Clark’s body pushing him down. “I want it, Kal. Come on.”
Clark’s hips start moving of their own accord, grinding unrelentingly against Batman’s. It shouldn’t feel this good. His erection is trapped in his suit, pressed almost entirely flat against his belly by the unyielding fabric, and yet every drag of his cock against B’s cup has him seeing stars.
And Batman doesn’t seem to be faring any better.
Due to the cup he shouldn’t get much friction at all, and yet the slivers of his skin Clark can see are flushed a bright red, his breaths panting out of him. His entire body arches towards Clark’s, hips twitching helplessly into each thrust, searching for more...
Every time Clark ruts forward, B makes these punched out, desperate little sounds. Sounds so quiet and repressed no one but Clark would be able to hear them. It only feeds the frenzy building in Clark’s blood, the arousal that pounds like rage through his body with every beat of his heart. Moaning, he bites down on the juncture where B’s neck meets his shoulder, and quickens his pace, fucking against B faster and faster as his orgasm builds.
Batman shudders in his arms, tries his best to participate and gets nowhere. He just has to lie there and take whatever Clark gives him. The only thing he can do is tangle his fingers in Clark’s hair, pulling tightly at the strands like he’s afraid Clark will leave him. Never, thinks Clark fiercely, and with another growl, he bites down harder. There is a faint pop! and then his teeth pierce the material of Batman’s suit, digging into his bare skin until they're sure to leave bruises. B jolts like he’s been electrocuted, and a sharp, broken moan tears itself from his throat. His heartbeat thunders in Clark’s ears, faster than he has ever heard it.
“Kal,” pants Batman, and he sounds wrecked . “Fuck. Faster, come on. More . I need more!” His deep voice is strained, reedy, and a savage kind of pride flares to life in Clark’s chest. He made Batman sound this way, and from barely anything at all. They’re basically just rutting against each other like teenagers. He knows he’ll never forget it for as long as he lives.
Clark growls again. He starts lapping at the skin he uncovered on B’s neck, sucks at it with the sole goal of leaving his mark. His fingers tighten on Batman’s hips, he thrusts harder, and the desk starts to slide across the floor with the force of it. There’s a telltale tingling at the base of his spine, his knot swelling as he careens closer and closer to the edge.
“Fuck,” he says, pressing the words into the bits of Batman’s skin he bared, feeling delirious with want. “Fuck, you feel so good , B. I should just keep you like this. Tie you down on your back with your legs spread, just waiting for me to use you.”
B cries out, and a second later the scent of cum hits Clark’s nose. That, combined with the knowledge that this is Batman coming in his pants like an overeager teen, is what sends Clark over the edge as well. A final bite to Batman's already mutilated neck—this time piercing skin—a last pump of his hips, and his orgasm slams into him with the force of a freight train. Knot throbbing, he spills inside his suit, thoroughly soiling the material with his spent as Batman twitches and writhes in pleasure underneath him. And that should be it, they should come down together, trade lazy kisses and soft touches, but…
…Clark isn’t done. He barely pauses after his orgasm shakes through him. He's too fired up, has waited for this for too long. So, he simply drops down to his knees and yanks Batman forward by the hips until only his upper back remains on the desk, his ass suspended in the air by Clark’s hands. B yelps in surprise, fingers scrabbling over the wooden table top in search of something to hold onto while his feet do the same on the floor. In the end, he has to go up on tiptoes to make contact with the floor at all. “Kal! What the hell are you doing?”
Clark doesn’t answer. He can smell B’s arousal, can hear the way his blood rushes through his body, and knows it isn’t actually a protest. Besides, he has a very specific goal in mind. Shifting Batman’s weight into one hand, Clark uses the other to quickly unfasten B’s pants, and drags them halfway down his legs, just enough to free his crotch. Next goes the cup, which Clark simply rips from the suit, and then, finally, he finds his prize.
Licking his lips, he allows himself a moment to take in the glorious sight.
Wet fabric clings to the outline of B’s limp cock, which is big even like this, and the sizable wet patch only grows as his cum seeps into his underwear. The scent of him… Sweat and seed, kevlar and latex, and something intrinsically Batman that once again provokes the animal living in Clark’s chest.
A low rumble rises in Clark's throat, and gripping Batman’s ass with both hands, kneading the firm muscles, he dives forward. He drags the flat of his tongue over the wet spot, moaning as the taste of B’s cum bursts across his palette.
Batman struggles weakly above him, trying to push himself up but only succeeding in pushing Black Mask’s computer to the floor with a loud crash. There is a faint trail of blood on his neck. “Kal— Superman —I can’t,” gasps B, squirming as Clark traces the outline of his limp cock with his lips and tongue, gently sucking the sodden material of his underwear into his mouth.
Clark only hums in response, and keeps going. His own erection hasn’t flagged for a second. Despite the orgasm his cock stays unfurled and his knot inflated, but he barely pays it any mind. He's too focused on getting as much of Batman’s taste as he can.
Clark falls into a kind of trance, licking and sucking B’s cock through his briefs, grazing his teeth over the head before dragging the flat of his tongue over it in firm strokes. Batman’s moans grow increasingly desperate, the tips of his boots slipping over the floor as he alternates between trying to get away from Clark’s mouth and pushing himself closer.
Clark’s heart is hammering in his ears, and the only thought banging around his brain is to get Batman hard again, to feel him come against his tongue. He has no concept of how much time passes like this, but eventually B’s cock twitches back to life, slowly thickening against the press of his lips.
With a shuddering breath, Clark once again shifts his grip on Batman’s ass. He reaches up, and unceremoniously rips away B’s underwear, exposing his crotch to the cool air of the room.
Fuck.
Clark stares. B’s cock is fat, thick and long, curving slightly to the left, and so hard it looks painful. It’s bright red, the head almost purple, and a steady stream of precum dribbles from the slit, beckoning Clark like a siren's call.
His eyes dart up to Batman’s face, and the picture he paints is nothing short of art. Clark’s breath catches. “Look at you,” he croons, barely recognizing his own voice. The growl shaking his ribcage increases in intensity. He feels like an animal.
Chest heaving, face flushed and sweaty, Batman is staring open-mouthed back at Clark. He’s stopped struggling, but now that Clark is looking at him, he reaches out one trembling hand. Exhaling a shaky breath, Clark intertwines their fingers, and squeezes as gently as he can, before turning his attention back on B’s straining erection.
“You’re perfect, B,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of Batman’s cock. There’s still a storm raging inside him, arousal so sharp it hurts, but there’s also this unbearable tenderness, the need to protect B, and take care of him, to hold him close and never let go. Clark needs an outlet for those feelings, and he desperately needs release—his own cock is drooling a steady stream of precum; the entire front of his suit is soaked through—but first he needs to taste Batman fully.
Diving forward, Clark wraps his lips around B’s cock and swallows him in one go, sinking down until his nose meets Batman’s pubic hair. B shouts, his fingers tightening around Clark’s, and then his moans grow more high-pitched, a mix of curses, pleas, and Clark’s name falling from his mouth with increasing desperation as Clark sucks him down with single-minded focus. He bobs his head in an unrelenting rhythm, teases his tongue into B’s slit, and lightly grazes his teeth along the underside of his cock.
Like this it’s surprisingly quick, bringing B to the brink a second time.
Barely a few minutes pass, before Batman’s entire body goes stiff, back arching as he shouts out his release. Cum hits the back of Clark’s throat, and he greedily swallows every last drop. He only lets up, when B seriously starts to squirm away from him. “Kal, stop. It’s too much,” he yelps, voice hoarse, and reluctantly Clark relents. He pushes B up onto the desk again, and staggers to his feet. Lust is still battering his senses, and the sight of a thoroughly debauched Batman—flushed and sweaty, his pants halfway down his thighs, his underwear ripped and stained with cum—isn’t helping matters.
Batman looks at him, breath stuttering slightly as his gaze snags on Clark’s undulating erection, his pulsing knot. “Let me,” he says, and tries to push himself up on shaky arms, but Clark shakes his head and presses him back down with a palm to his chest, right on top of the bat symbol.
“Just stay like that,” he says. When B nods, Clark pulls his pants down just enough to free his cock, grips it with a tight fist, and steps back between Batman’s legs. Staring at the mess he’s made there, the drying cum and spit, the torn underwear, he quickly jerks himself off, fingers squeezing the ridged underside, thumb digging into the tapered head.
B murmurs soft encouragements, wiggles his hips enticingly, and within seconds, the coil of arousal inside Clark snaps a second time. Sparks explode before his eyes, and he roars at the ceiling as rope after rope of iridescent cum hits Batman’s crotch, adding to the mess, and laying claim to B in yet another way.
For a while after that, the only sounds in the room are their panting breaths as they come down from their highs. Clark can’t stop himself from idly playing with the seed painting Batman’s body, rubbing it into the skin of his crotch. It soothes a primal part of him, and with a touch of embarrassment he realizes that he’s actually purring. He hasn’t done that in a long while, thought he’d grown out of it, in fact, but apparently not. Batman doesn’t seem bothered, though, so Clark doesn’t try to stop.
“I suppose Boy Scout isn’t the right nickname for you, after all,” muses B after a while, as he gingerly sits up on the desk. He looks down at his groin, mouth pulling into a slight grimace when he sees the pearly shimmer of Clark's seed sticking to his skin. “Definitely not the right nickname.”
Clark feels the tips of his ears grow hot. He knows he should probably apologize, but he doesn’t really want to. He’s not sorry about what happened between them. Instead he asks, “Need a hand?”
Batman huffs, and shakes his head. “Unrepentant,” he says, and he’s trying to sound stern, but it comes out far too amused to be believable. Clark grins.
“That makes two of us then.”
This time B outright smiles. “I suppose so.”
There’s another brief silence, during which Batman gets off the desk and starts hunting around for something to clean up with. He’s just located a few napkins on top of the mini fridge Black Mask keeps in his office, when the sound of sirens blaring in the distance catches their attention.
“Are they headed this way?”
Clark uses his x-ray and telescopic vision to quickly locate the squadron of police cars racing through the city streets. “Looks like it.”
“Then we better hurry.”
Clark nods, and turns to inspect the desk, seeing if they’ve left any traces of themselves behind. B joins him, pants still hanging open, and hands him a small bottle he pulled from his belt. “Spray the surface of the desk and the carpet surrounding it. That should take care of any traces of DNA.”
Clark does as he’s told, and his brain slowly starts to emerge from the pleasant haze it's been swimming in. He can’t quite wrap his head around the turn tonight has taken. Only an hour ago he was convinced his confession would drive B away for good— Clark freezes, heart suddenly pounding in his chest. Shit. He quickly straightens up, and turns to face Batman.
“There’s something I need to talk to you about. It’s important,” he says hesitantly, dreading what he’s about to do. Revealing that he kissed Bruce Wayne could very well destroy everything, and now that he’s had a taste of B, he’s not sure he could survive that.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t have another choice. He can’t lie to B, not about something like this, and keeping his mouth shut is just another form of deception in this case.
Batman hums as he fastens his pants, prompting Clark to continue. Stomping down on the question of what B did with his ruined underwear or the cup and the subsequent wave of arousal that rises within him, Clark takes a deep breath and steels himself. “It’s about Bruce Wayne. I, uhm, I met with him two weeks ago, at his factory in Burnside. We talked about the action figures, and while I was there—”
“Stop!” interrupts Batman sharply. “I don’t want to hear about it!” Clark’s mouth snaps shut again at the icy vehemence of his tone. Seemingly noticing the hurt look on Clark’s face, B deliberately relaxes his posture, but his jaw remains tense. “I trust Bruce, and I trust you. Whatever happened, whatever the reason you hate him, that’s between you and him. I don’t want to hear about it or anything that happened between you. Is that clear?”
“But—”
“Is that clear?” repeats Batman, baring his teeth, and reluctantly, Clark nods.
“I understand,” he answers, chest tight with emotion. Silently, he watches Batman put himself back together, the bloody bitemark at his shoulder a glaring reminder of what they just did, one B can’t smooth away as easily. Clark knows, logically, that he and Batman weren’t together when he kissed Bruce at the factory. There hadn’t been any promises made between them at the time. He didn’t cheat.
Clark still feels guilty.
And not just because of Batman, he realizes with a sinking feeling, but because of Bruce, too. He strongly suspects that while B might not view his relationship with Bruce as romantic, the billionaire does . It’s painfully easy to read once you look deeper into those icy blue eyes. If Bruce knew what Clark and Batman just did, it would likely break his heart.
Clark doesn’t quite know when he came to care about Bruce, only that he does, and the thought of hurting him makes him slightly nauseous. Bruce might put up a front of uncaring aloofness and sleazy hedonism, but under that surface he cares deeply about the people around him. He’s more dedicated to the citizens of Gotham than anyone realizes, and while he could certainly do more to help, his heart is in the right place, and Clark finds that he admires the man for it.
Fully dressed now, Batman hesitates next to the window. The sirens are growing louder and louder as the police cars come careening towards them. They’re running out of time. Still, Batman lingers, gazing searchingly at Clark. “The next League meeting is in one week,” he says, and the fact that he’s stating the obvious like that endearingly gives away his insecurity. Tenderness rises in Clark. Jesus, he is so gone on this man.
“I will see you there, B,” he promises, and on impulse he quickly adds. “Unless I switch shifts with Flash. Then I’d see you on Tuesday. For monitor duty.”
There’s the faintest uptick in Batman’s heartbeat. “Flash might enjoy a break,” he says, and Clark can’t control the grin that spreads over his face.
“It’s a date then.”
Another stumble in B’s heartbeat as he inclines his head, and then he flings himself out of the window without another word, disappearing into the night. Clark stares after him for a moment longer, happiness bubbling in his chest, before he tears himself away, and flies back to his hotel room.
As he climbs in through the window, a touch of nervousness joins the giddy feeling in his stomach. After all, now that Black Mask is dealt with, Clark has an interview with Bruce Wayne to prepare for. And he doesn't know how on earth he's supposed to face the man, after what he and Batman just shared.
Chapter 7
Chapter by Murmeloni, thegoldenageofinfluenza
Chapter Text
Present day
Wayne Tower, Gotham City
“Are you sick?”
Blinking rapidly at the nonsequitur, Bruce stares at Merve. “What? No. Why would you think that?”
Unimpressed, she crosses her arms over her chest. “Because you didn’t hear a word of what I just said and instead have been staring off at the clock like you’ve seen a ghost for the past fifteen minutes. It was either sick or mad. I suppose I have my answer now.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Bruce sighs. “I’ve not gone mad, either, Merve. I'm simply tired.”
With a glint in her eye that screams ‘bullshit !’, Merve drops a stack of papers onto the desk in front of Bruce. “In that case, there is no reason for you to be slacking off, is there?”
Bruce hesitates, biting his tongue to keep the question from slipping out. He fails miserably. “Is Mr. Kent here yet?”
“No,” answers Merve, and he does not like the calculating look that comes over her face. “Though, he should have checked in downstairs ten minutes ago. I'll call the Daily Planet to see if they know anything.”
Bruce hums, forces himself not to seem too interested—failing once again—and reaches for the first document Merve needs him to sign. Embarrassingly, his hands are shaking slightly with nerves, as they have been since Friday night, when he reviewed the footage he got from Clark Kent’s hotel room. Ever since that life-changing, world-shattering discovery he still can’t wrap his head around, he’s felt off-kilter, like someone has pulled the rug out from under him. But there’s no doubt about what he’s seen.
Clark Kent is Superman.
Just thinking about it now, sends a spike of adrenaline through Bruce's body, his next signature coming out a little more jagged on the paper. He can feel Merve’s eyes on him, but he ignores her until she eventually leaves with a shake of her head. Guilt joins the toxic cocktail of emotions in Bruce's gut, but he can't focus on it. There’s too much else going through his mind.
After returning to the cave Friday night, legs still shaking from arguably the most intense orgasms he’s ever experienced, Bruce immediately went to check the footage from the cameras in Clark's hotel room. He was eager to distract himself from the warm excitement pulsing through him, the anticipation he suddenly felt at the mere thought of Kal.
What Bruce had gotten instead was Superman climbing in through Clark Kent's window, which in and of itself sent an icy chill down his spine. As Bruce watched with a pounding heart, Kal proceeded to take off his suit, making a beeline for the bathroom. Hands curling into fists, Bruce sat in front of the Batcomputer, torn between giving Kal the benefit of the doubt, and the feeling of betrayal tearing at his soul. Right up until Kal walked directly in front of the multiple cameras Bruce had installed, allowing him a perfect view of Superman’s face. Bruce never thought there was anything to uncover—after all, Superman didn't wear a mask—but apparently he was wrong.
Oh, how wrong he was.
Bruce's first reaction had been a panic attack. The second, after he'd climbed out from under the desk again, was rapidly going over his contingency plans and being appalled at himself for not having foreseen something like this. With the way his feelings for Superman have developed over the years, there has always been the chance of them sleeping together and secret identities getting in the way. Bruce just never thought it would be Kal's identity causing the problems. It’s not the most likely scenario, but Bruce has planned for worse odds before.
Maybe it’s better though, that he didn’t plan for this; he doesn’t think anything could have prepared him for the way seeing Kal turn into Clark made him feel.
There is the passion and sensuality of Kal, the way he stared up at Bruce so hungrily, almost adoringly… And on the other hand Clark Kent, who seemed suspicious of Bruce Wayne when they met but not as much as Superman, who looked so charmed by Neziah and her disdain for raisins, charmed against his will by the plastic tiara Bruce had worn in an effort to make Neziah smile. Whose articles are so smart and thoughtful. To think that they could be the same person…
No, Bruce could never have prepared for that. Which doesn’t exactly make it easier to figure out what the hell he’s supposed to do now. The right thing to do would definitely be to tell Kal— Clark , that he knows. They’re friends, after all, and he can’t see Kal reacting badly to the fact that Bruce has figured out his identity.
Except, that they slept together, which inherently complicates things. Add to that the means through which Bruce found out Clark’s identity in the first place, not to mention that he will likely expect reciprocation… Fuck . There is no way Bruce can reveal his identity now, not after he’s experienced first hand how much disdain Kal holds for him.
The bite mark on Bruce’s neck itches. All weekend long he’s found himself touching it, idly scratching a nail over the scabbing. A physical manifestation of the turmoil within. As if his subconscious wants to make the mark permanent, wants to keep Kal from casting him aside, when that’s the last thing it should do. The bite is a mark of shame, the very visible nail in the coffin of his and Superman’s friendship, that is barely kept hidden by the high-collared shirt and tie he’s put on today. And yet Bruce catches himself laying a hand over it again, squeezing until the purpling skin around it aches.
With a frustrated noise, Bruce snatches his hand away, and reaches blindly for the next document—Lucius is going to give him hell, because he hasn’t read a single thing he’s signed so far—only for his fingers to meet the cool surface of his desk. There’s nothing left. The rather sizable pile Merve had thrown in front of him is already gone without him even noticing. He looks at the clock hanging on the wall across from him, and the uneasiness in his stomach intensifies.
Clark is now officially forty-five minutes late.
Bruce's teeth worry at the cut in his lip, courtesy of last night's patrol. What if Clark has already figured it out? If he knows just who Bruce is, and is, at this moment, preparing a League meeting to get him kicked out?
As soon as he thinks that, Bruce is already calling himself an idiot. No matter his personal feelings, Kal would never make a decision that could negatively impact the Justice League. It’s not who he is .
Thankfully, Bruce can’t stew in his anxiety any longer. There's a brief knock, and then his office door flies open, revealing a frazzled looking Clark Kent. He comes stumbling inside, posture hunched, hair disheveled, and cheeks dusted a slight pink, and yet all Bruce can see is Superman, bright and shining, and so utterly unattainable. Except that Bruce somehow managed to attain him. He just doesn't know at what cost.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne,” says Clark. “There was a car accident right in front of the hotel. I couldn’t get away.”
It’s a lie. Of course it’s a lie. Superman would never be trapped by something like a car accident, not literally at least. The more likely scenario is that he switched out the too big, dark blue monstrosity of a suit he’s wearing now for his red and blue uniform and was busy helping whoever needed it. Bruce shouldn’t fixate on it, it’s stupid and it's not fair. He himself is lying constantly, in one way or another, especially to save his identity. And yet his mind is stuck on the ease with which the excuse is rolling off of Clark's tongue.
“It’s fine,” he makes himself say, flapping his hand around in a vague gesture. “I barely even noticed.”
Clark tilts his head, just a tiny bit, but now that Bruce is looking for it, he can recognize it as one of Superman’s mannerisms. This one right here, means that he’s caught some inconsistency, and is trying to parse out its meaning. “That’s very generous of you,” he replies, and Bruce makes himself laugh, high and fake.
“Hardly,” he says. “Now come on, sit down. I can’t say I have the same stylish setup for you as last time, but I promise that the leather couch is also very comfortable.” He winks, and stands from behind his desk, gesturing at said leather couch situated in front of the window. Across from it is an armchair in the same style, and a glass-and-steel coffee table sits in the middle of the two.
Bruce chooses the armchair. Usually he would sprawl in it with a practiced mix of elegance and laziness designed to put people off, but he can't quite bring himself to do that. He's hyperaware of Clark watching him from the leather couch, notepad already balanced on his knees, ready to hold whatever nonsense Bruce is going to spill. The thought is depressing.
Fuck, Bruce needs Clark to leave. It's obvious now why he was so interested in Wayne Enterprises, and Bruce in particular. There's no mystery to uncover, this entire interview has become unnecessary, maybe even dangerous. With every second he and Clark spend in the same room, the probability of Clark recognizing him rises. Bruce can't let that happen.
But as usual, Superman surprises him in ways that leave Bruce utterly defenseless.
“Are you alright, Mr. Wayne?”
The question throws Bruce more than it should, mostly because it’s so genuine . Clark really cares about Bruce’s well-being, regardless of the misgivings he has with him as a person. As a result, it takes Bruce just a beat too long to chuckle, and wave the question away for it to be believable. “Of course I am! Why wouldn't I be?”
Clark clearly notices that too. “We can reschedule, if—”
“No,” interrupts Bruce quickly, because this has to be the last time Clark Kent interviews Bruce Wayne, and postponing the inevitable would be the coward's way out. He just has to think of another way to get rid of Clark, that's all. One that ensures he leaves of his own volition and doesn't come back while not arousing new suspicions… Bruce's stomach turns. He knows what he'll have to do, and he already hates every second of it. Even so, he smiles and says, “It’s really nothing, Kansas, but it’s sweet of you to care. Now, let's get this show on the road, shall we?”
“You remember where I’m from?” Clark's brows climb up his forehead, and the surprise is evident in his tone.
“Neziah liked you. It left an impression,” hedges Bruce, fighting the tension that wants to steal over him at the blunder. Instead, he deliberately angles his body, crosses his legs, and lets himself smolder at Clark. Knowing that this is Kal, sitting here in front of him… It makes flirting easier than it should be. And so does the slow smile that steals over Clark's face.
“Neziah, sure,” he says, stretching the words to ensure Bruce knows he doesn't believe him for a second. “How is she, by the way?”
Again, Bruce feels his facade start to crack as warmth fills his belly. The problem is, he can see it so clearly. Sitting with Superman, telling him about the people in his life without leaving out crucial details, allowing Kal— Clark to know the people in his life. “She's great,” he answers, trying to keep it at that and failing miserably. “Last week she took finger paint to the conference room down the hall because she thought the black and white decor was too boring.”
Clark chuckles. “Oh Gosh, I can imagine that was quite the mess to clean up.”
Bruce grins, helplessly charmed all over again. “Not at all. She was right, so I left it as is.”
“Ha! I bet she was delighted,” replies Clark, pushing his glasses up his nose, but even those thick frames can't hide the twinkling in his eyes. “I'd love to see it.”
“I'll tell Merve to show it to you on the way out. It's beautiful, Neziah is quite talented. I'm not sure I would've used red to paint the teddy bear's bowtie, but we put up a sign, explaining that it's not, in fact, a slit throat, so it's fine.”
At this, Clark breaks out into full-bellied laughter. There are tears in the corners of his eyes, as he bends over to hold his stomach, looking so incandescently happy , so beautiful , that for the first time Bruce lets himself contemplate revealing his identity again. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, he thinks. Maybe Clark would let him explain, maybe he'd understand…
But then, as Bruce is still frozen by the sudden feeling of possibility, Clark wipes at his eyes and straightens up. Within moments he's composed again, gaze turning calculating as it fixes on Bruce. He looks like a bloodhound who’s picked up a scent. “Why am I here, Mr. Wayne? Don't get me wrong, I'm glad to hear Neziah is doing fine, but that can't be why you requested this interview.” Gaze practically drilling into Bruce's skull now, he leans the slightest bit forward, like he doesn’t want to miss the tiniest of reactions from Bruce. “Is there something you neglected to mention during our last meeting? Something you'd like to get off your chest?”
And just like that, Bruce's fantasy of revealing his identity crumbles until there's nothing left but dust. Clark might not outright hate Brucie anymore, at least not to the degree he used to, but he's certainly still convinced of his deviancy.
Which means Bruce has no other choice, but to reinforce that belief if he wants to keep Superman in his life.
Stomach roiling, he gets to his feet, and starts to round the coffee table, pasting on a seductive smile that makes him want to claw at his own face. The bite mark on his neck pulses painfully with each step, as if to physically drive home what he's about to throw away. “What if I did forget something?” he purrs, and plants himself right in Clark’s lap, straddling him on the couch.
“What are you doing?” asks Clark, hands reflexively grabbing onto Bruce’s waist and their firm grip is nearly Bruce’s undoing. They feel so good on his body, so right… And Clark is not letting go. Shit. Bruce needs to end this now, or he might do something incredibly stupid. Like telling Clark everything. The thought alone incites panic in Bruce, so strong that he immediately springs into action.
He winds his arms around Clark’s neck, and presses their lips together. It’s not nearly as coordinated or skillful as Bruce’s kisses usually are, just pure desperation tinged with fear because he knows this will ruin everything. Just as intended.
To Bruce’s shock, Clark doesn’t push him away, though. He doesn’t freeze or turn his head. Instead, he groans and pulls Bruce closer, immediately takes control of the kiss, and if Bruce hadn't realized before just who he’s dealing with, this kiss would have revealed it. The taste, the passion, the sheer domineering force… That could never be anyone else but Superman.
Bruce knows he should put a stop to this. Pull back, make more cheesy comments to ensure that Clark leaves and doesn’t come back. A part of him can’t believe that Clark is even entertaining this, but the rest of him is solely focused on the euphoria cursing through his veins as Clark’s hands stroke up his spine, tugging his shirt loose as they go. He moans, presses into the contact while licking over Clark’s lips, and—
“No!” As abruptly as it began, their kiss ends, and Bruce finds himself getting pushed off of Clark's lap. He crashes onto the coffee table, and pain shoots up from his hip. He almost overbalances further. Arms flailing, he manages to catch himself before tumbling backwards off of the table and onto the floor. Not that Clark notices. He’s busy hastily packing up his notebook and pen, both of which had fallen to the floor when Bruce climbed on top of him, and stuffs them into his messenger bag.
“I can’t believe you,” he hisses, voice trembling with barely controlled fury. Bruce flinches back. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Clark this angry before. “Is this really why you called me here? Jesus, I’m so stupid! I thought you actually cared about this project, that you were doing something good for once! Guess you fooled me, huh?”
“Clark,” starts Bruce, even though he knows he needs to keep his mouth shut. This is what he wanted to happen! He needed Clark Kent to lose interest in Bruce Wayne so that things could go back to the way they were before. But seeing Clark like this, having his disgust aimed at him, is tearing Bruce apart worse than he could have imagined. On top of that, Clark seems genuinely hurt by his actions, and Bruce can’t stand to see it. Fuck it, he thinks wildly. I already ruined it, might as well go all the way. “Let me explain—”
“Shut up!” Clark burst out, cutting him off. His lips are pulled into a terrifying snarl. “I don’t want to hear another word!” Shaking his head, he hikes his bag up his shoulder, seemingly wrestling to get his anger back under control. Bruce thinks he doesn’t deserve that consideration after what he just did. Still, he has to try.
“Clark, listen to me. Please. There’s something I have to tell y—” Again Bruce is cut off. “Save it, Mr. Wayne . You can look for someone else to try and fuck. From the looks of it you shouldn't have any problems with that.” Clark points at Bruce’s neck, and with a sinking feeling, Bruce realizes that the bite mark is now on full display, thanks to Clark messing with his shirt.
Swallowing back the bile rising in his throat, he tries again to explain everything to Clark, consequences be damned. This entire mess has dragged on long enough, and it can’t seem to get any worse. But Clark sharply shakes his head, and the venom in his glare steals the words from Bruce before they can fully form. “Goodbye, Mr. Wayne. Don’t ever contact me again.” And with that, Clark storms out, leaving Bruce to deal with his broken heart.
™™™
Present day
Wayne Tower, Gotham City
Clark barely looks where he’s going as he storms out of Bruce’s office. He doesn’t know why he’s so furious— except he does, he knows exactly why, and it’s because he liked kissing Wayne, liked it so much more than he should —and he needs to get out of here right now. He hears more than sees Merve jump out of her chair as he rushes past without a word, but he’s too distracted to care about being rude. He’ll feel bad about that later, no doubt. The vicious part of him thinks that Merve is likely used to it, because her boss apparently can’t control himself and just goes around climbing into everyone’s laps…
Taking a deep breath, Clark ducks into the elevator. He hits the button for the ground floor with a little more force than necessary, and closes his eyes. He’s too agitated right now, he’ll draw too much attention if he steps out into the lobby like this, but his usual methods for calming himself down don’t seem to work, so he doesn't have a choice. He'll just have to be fast. The thing is, he can still taste Bruce, still smell him, feel those powerful back muscles under his palms, vicious scars discernible even through his shirt—
Clark’s brain comes to a screeching halt as the puzzle pieces fall into place. No , he thinks, heart suddenly beating in his throat. No, it can’t be. He doesn't notice the people bumping into him or sending him rude glares as he stands rooted to the spot in the busy lobby of Wayne Tower. His entire focus is directed inward, at the memories playing in front of his mind's eye like a newsreel.
Batman under him on Black Mask’s desk morphs into Bruce above him on the couch, Batman’s smirk transforms into Bruce’s grin. It all makes sense. How close they always seemed, how one always knew what the other was up to… Now that Clark’s looking for it, he finds so many similarities, too. Gestures, looks, turns of phrases… the scars. Nothing that would point to Bruce being Batman on its own, but combined? And with the vivid memories Clark has of them both, the data that only senses as sensitive as his could gather? Like the fact that Bruce’s and Batman’s scents are almost exactly the same, how they taste the same, feel the same… Then Clark’s brain decides to deliver the killing blow, and zeroes in on the bite mark, presenting it to Clark with startling clarity. There is no doubt that his own teeth left that mark on Batman’s skin not three days ago.
Bruce Wayne is Batman.
The realization shocks Clark to his core, finally spurs him into motion, and he practically runs from the building. As soon as he’s outside, he ducks into the closest alley, and then he’s off, shooting into the sky with carefully controlled speed to avoid a sonic boom. The last thing he needs is for Batman to come and investigate what Superman is doing in Gotham. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he was confronted with him now.
His first instinct is to visit the farm, find comfort with his Ma and Pa, but a quick glance shows that his parents aren’t alone. They’re having a BBQ with the Frasers and the Bensons, and the last thing Clark wants right now is to pretend that everything is okay.
For a while he flies aimless laps around the planet, racing faster and faster until he can’t stand it anymore. Nothing makes sense, and the restless energy just won’t leave him. He feels that if he can’t calm his mind soon, he’s going to go insane.
As he flies across the Pacific again, he makes a split-second decision, and with a faint splash, he dives down into the ocean. He lets himself sink like a stone until he’s at the bottom of the Kermadec Trench, roughly thirty-three thousand feet below the surface. Down here it’s cold, icy really, but that doesn’t bother Clark, just like the pressure that would kill a human in moments feels more like a nice, strong embrace to him, grounding. The silence, the impenetrable darkness even his eyes can’t pierce… they finally allow him to just sit on the sandy bottom of the ocean and be . It’s such a relief.
Something swims past Clark, disturbing the cold water. He feels it rather than sees it, but he knows he’s not alone. He can hear a slow heartbeat and tentatively reaches a hand out, fingers brushing against something soft, before it quickly slithers away. Swallowing, Clark closes his hand into a fist, and pulls it back into his lap.
It’s time to go about this more rationally, he decides. First, the things he knows for sure:
- Bruce Wayne is Batman.
- Bruce doesn’t want Superman (or any of the other League members) to know his identity. When the whole action figure mess started he went so far as to get someone else to play Batman to avoid revealing himself, even though it would have made things a lot easier.
- Batman slept with Superman, and shortly after that Bruce Wayne kissed Clark Kent.
- And maybe most damning of all… Clark is in love with Batman, but his feelings for Bruce aren’t as clear cut as they used to be either. And he really should stop thinking of them as two people.
Clark immediately skips the first item on his list because he can’t deal with that on its own, so he focuses on the others. Why didn’t B reveal his identity? Why would he rather go through all of this trouble than talk to his teammates? What stopped him— Clark almost lets out a loud groan. Of course. They had all been harping on about what a terrible person Bruce Wayne is, especially Clark. It’s no wonder B didn’t want to tell them and that he grew so distant afterwards! To think Clark was jealous…
Another question comes to him then. If Bruce Wayne is Batman, and both Batman and Bruce Wayne were present on the Watchtower that day, then who was that under the cowl? And why did Clark not notice it was someone else under the cowl?
Burying his fingers in the sandy seafloor, Clark ponders the question for a while in favor of confronting his own horrid behavior, but he doesn’t get very far. He doesn’t know who could’ve donned the Batsuit, has no idea who would know B well enough to impersonate him so perfectly. It has to be one of Gotham’s other vigilantes, but who? Nightwing, maybe? Clark grimaces at the thought of having been jealous of someone B views as his kid, and lets the sand run through his fingers.
Eventually though, he has no other choice but to think about the awful things he said about Bruce Wayne, right to the man’s face. As they’ve so often done these past two months, Bruce’s words from that day in the factory flit through Clark’s mind again— people are attracted to me; they don't want me— and this time Clark’s heart really does break, because what if he contributed to Bruce thinking that? If his callous words hit a wound that was already raw and vulnerable?
Which brings Clark to items number three and four on his list.
For a moment, he allows himself the reprieve of listening to the creature still swimming unseen through the dark water around him, a safe distance away after Clark touched it, but still close. It’s strangely comforting that even down here he’s not truly alone, and he can use all the comfort he can get. Tentatively, he reaches his hand out in the direction of the beast and waits.
It takes a few moments, but then he feels the water move as it slowly swims closer. Strangely soft scales touch his fingers, before they disappear again. Whatever this beast is, it’s big, likely bigger than Clark, but it seems perfectly peaceful. A minute passes during which Clark holds perfectly still, and tries not to think too much about Bruce or Batman. He only has minimal success with the latter, but his efforts with the sea creature are rewarded when it gently bumps against his back and rubs its scaly body against him. Smiling faintly, Clark lets the beast explore him. It grows bolder with every push, and surprises him with a happy sounding trill right before it nips at his arm. Its teeth are sharp, that much Clark can feel even through his suit, but the beast is incredibly gentle as it keeps up its playful behavior.
Grinning, he indulges the beast for a while, but he can’t hide from the last items on his list forever. He has to figure this out. What the heck am I supposed to do? He wants to ask his new friend, stroking his palm over a head that feels less like a fish’s than Clark thought it would. That is definitely a snout of some kind, not that it matters… The beast trills again, like it’s prompting Clark to go on. Maybe that’s what gives Clark the courage to finally confront his feelings, maybe it’s the darkness down here, or the pressure. It’s a safe little cocoon where no one can judge him. It’s just…
Clark has been in love with Batman for years, even if he didn’t realize it until recently. The feelings were there. And now he suddenly has to reconcile that with everything he knows about Bruce Wayne. The parties, the meaningless flings, the tragedies, his children—Clark pauses, blinking owlishly into the darkness as the beast tugs on his cape. Bruce has children. Five boys and one girl, with one of the boys having died three years ago, according to the last article Clark read, and Jesus wept , that has to have been the second Robin. Clark remembers him. The bright little boy, who had so much wonder for the world around him, before that slowly started to morph into bitterness.
Gosh, why does this all have to be so complicated?
The beast—and Clark should really name the creature, shouldn't he—makes a low rumbling noise, and finally lets go of Clark's cape. Instead, it starts butting its massive head against Clark's chest, not unlike a cat demanding pets. Clark is only too happy to indulge. He needs something to hold onto.
The thing is, he sees the parallels between Bruce Wayne's life and Batman's. They both are centered around family in one way or another, both come with a mask, using deception to help others, often to their own detriment. Clark remembers the articles he read what feels like ages ago now. All those incidents where Bruce was ‘accidentally’ at the right place and time to help or save someone while playing it off as a billionaire's eccentricity. It's such a clever, and carefully crafted ploy, isolating too. Clark can't help, but admire it. He thinks he understands what drives B forward in all of this, even why he felt he couldn't share any of that with the League yet. It only makes Clark love him more, and therein lies the real problem.
He doesn't know if Bruce feels the same. They haven't exactly talked about any of this, and while they did agree to switch shifts so that they'd share monitor duty—which sounded like a date to Clark at the time—Bruce turned around and kissed Clark Kent only a few days later.
Did he know who he was kissing? Has he figured out that Clark is Superman? But if that's the case, then why didn't he say anything? And worse than that… What if he doesn't know?
Clark's stomach sinks, and he reflexively wraps his arms around the sea creature's head and hugs it to his chest. The beast gurgles happily, and starts nipping at Clark's suit again.
If Bruce didn't know, and kissed Clark anyway, then… then what they shared on Friday means nothing to him. Just a hook-up, a way to de-stress. And it's not that Clark blames him for that. Gosh, with all the pressure Bruce is under, he deserves to find relief however he wants! It's nothing shameful. The problem is that Clark didn't sign up for that. If he'd known that all he'd get with B is one night, he doesn't know if he'd have said yes.
Jesus, this is such a mess , thinks Clark, squeezing the sea creature a bit tighter. The beast takes the opportunity to start biting at his neck and shoulder, tickling him with its sharp teeth, and Clark finds himself laughing through the tears stinging his eyes .
“I see you’ve met Lucy,” says Arthur from behind Clark, startling him so bad he actually flinches.
He whirls around, and as soon as he does a low light starts to emanate from Arthur’s trident, bathing the three of them in a soft golden glow. After having been in the dark for so long, even the low light feels blinding. Lucy—apparently that’s the sea creature’s name, and it’s oddly fitting, despite her truly terrifying appearance—hisses at the light, and nips at Clark’s arm one last time, before darting away with a few powerful undulations of her long body. She looks similar to an Oarfish, except that she’s colorful, with vibrant blue and pink stripes running down her sides. She has long, wispy fins protruding from all along her body, and a head that looks more like that of a dragon than any deep sea creature Clark has ever seen, complete with a long snout, razor sharp fangs, and a row of nearly translucent fins framing her face like a popped collar. She’s quite beautiful.
When Clark turns back to Arthur, his friend is raising an eyebrow at him. He points towards the surface, wordlessly asking to talk. Suppressing a sigh, Clark nods, and together they swim upwards. Clark feels the sun’s rays a few moments before he notices the water growing lighter around him, a tingling shot of energy hitting his skin all at once. After his time in the Kermadec Trench it doesn’t fill him with as much restlessness anymore, he feels calmer, even if he still has no idea what he’s going to do about any of this.
“Is everything alright?” asks Arthur, as soon as they breach the surface.
Clark nods. “Everything’s fine,” he answers, sucking in a deep lungful of salty air, and letting it out slowly, allowing himself to adjust to breathing again. “I just needed a quiet place to think some things over.”
Instead of seeming relieved, the furrow between Arthur’s brows deepens. “Because of whatever happened between you and Batman?”
For a second, Clark panics but then he remembers that to the League, he and Batman have been politely keeping their distance from each other for the better part of two months now when they’d been inseparable before. Of course, they would all know something is wrong.
“Look, I don’t mean to pry,” says Arthur, before Clark can come up with a response that’s more coherent than just ‘I insulted him to his face, we fucked on Black Mask’s desk, and now I don’t know if he wants to date me’. His blue eyes are boring into Clark’s like he’s trying to read his thoughts, completely belying his words as they drift in the water. “It’s clear that something happened, and that’s it’s to do with Bruce Wayne. This entire thing started when he showed up to that first meeting. Whatever it is, my advice is that you speak to Batman, hash it out, and soon. We need you united. Plus, everyone is curious about the action figures, and they want to invite Wayne back.”
Clark feels his stomach drop, but tries not to let it show on his face. He nods. “I’ll talk to him,” he promises, not sure if it’s a lie or not. “I, uhm, I switched shifts with Flash, so B and I are together tomorrow.”
“That’s good,” replies Arthur, and his relief is so obvious that Clark feels even worse about the ordeal. It seems the entire League was more affected by his and Bruce’s fight than he thought. Arthur claps him on the shoulder. “I’ll make sure no one bothers you.”
A hot flush crawls up Clark’s neck and over the tips of his ears as inappropriate images dance before his eyes. Quickly, he floats out of the water, away from Arthur, before he notices anything. “Thanks, Arthur. I should get going.”
“You’re always welcome in the ocean.” Arthur nods, expression still serious, but there’s a faint smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “In fact, I believe Lucy will demand that you visit. She seemed fond of you. Good luck, Kal.” Having said his piece, he disappears below the waves, leaving Clark to hover awkwardly in the air.
There’s a low thrum of panic in his blood as he rises higher, and begins his flight back towards Metropolis. He’s not ready to face Bruce tomorrow, has no idea how to even broach the subject, but he also knows that he doesn’t have another choice. B will likely hate him after this, they’ll never be the same. But he deserves to know the truth, and besides, Arthur is right, they have to clear the air before things get even worse.
One way or another, this will end tomorrow, and Clark is terrified.
Chapter Text
Present day
Watchtower, Earth's atmosphere
Bruce is early. He thought that might be easier, give him a chance to get lost in his work enough that Clark’s arrival won’t be such a shock, but he was wrong about that. God, was he wrong.
He’s aware of Clark’s every move from the moment the door to the monitor room opens. Suddenly, he doesn’t even know what he’s looking at anymore. His vision blurs, his heart is racing in his ears, and his entire body is frozen in place, every sense zeroed in on Clark.
“Hey, B,” says Clark, the tiniest waver in his voice. There's a loaded pause at the end, like he means to say more but decides against it at the last second. Bruce abruptly realizes that he’s not the only one here who’s terrified and thrown off-balance. Of course it’s not the same; Clark is merely nervous about how their dynamic has changed after last Friday. He has no idea who he’s really talking to, doesn’t know that he's faced with the man he hates, nor that Bruce has figured out his biggest secret and is essentially betraying his trust with each day he stays silent…
“Kal,” answers Bruce, carefully keeping his voice steady. He doesn’t look up, pretending to be engrossed in work he can’t even remember anymore. The monitors have all melted into one giant glowing blob in front of his eyes, indiscernible from one another. Bruce wouldn’t be able to say what’s happening in the world if someone pointed a gun at his head.
There’s a quiet sigh behind him, the sound of footsteps coming closer, and then the faint rustling of a cape as Clark slides into the chair next to him. Bruce’s fingers spasm on the keyboard, but he keeps his gaze trained on the wall of monitors. Unfortunately, ignoring Clark seems like an impossible task right now. The feel of him is still so fresh on Bruce’s mind. The way his teeth pierced Bruce’s skin last week, biting through the reinforced material of the suit like it was nothing. How he immediately took charge of their kiss yesterday, putting Bruce in his place…
Right before he shoved you off! Bruce reminds himself sternly, and the sting of rejection hits him all over again. Clark doesn’t like him, not all of him, and the sooner he accepts that the better. He should probably just get it out of the way now, reveal his identity and be done with it. After the spectacular failure that was their interview yesterday, Bruce is resolved to put an end to this farce today, to come clean and beg Clark for forgiveness if he has to. Anything to get them back to a somewhat even footing, somewhere they could start fresh from. Of course, Bruce will never forget the mind-altering pleasure they shared, the absolute bliss of being held by the man he loves so dearly, but if never repeating that means he has a chance of getting his best friend back, he'll gladly do it. But now…
Now that Clark is here, obviously dejected by Bruce’s lack of enthusiasm, Bruce suddenly can’t bring himself to go through with it anymore. He can’t . His mind is devoid of the words he spent all night rehearsing, and all that’s going through his head is a mantra of you’re going to hurt him! until he can’t stand it anymore. It’s as if something breaks inside him, a rubber band that has been pulled taught one too many times and finally snaps in two, unable to hold the tension any longer.
Bruce swallows a few times, pulse pounding in his ears as he tries to talk himself out of it, pleading with himself to just say the words. But he doesn’t listen. Instead, he abruptly turns to face Clark. He’s not sure what he’s expecting to find, but the quiet desperation practically oozing out of Clark as he stares blankly at the screens is his undoing. Without a word, Bruce gets up, and glides between Clark and the desk, startling him.
“B?” he asks, so unsure that Bruce wants to rip his own heart out and offer it to Clark, to make sure there is no doubt about his devotion, but that would be foolish. It’s not what Clark wants, not from him anyway. And since Bruce still can’t find the words he so desperately needs to say, the words Clark deserves to hear from him, he falls to his knees between Clark’s legs.
Putting his hands on Clark’s thighs, he gently massages the powerful muscles. “I missed you,” he says, voice made rough by everything that hangs between them. “Please, let me.” What he means is Please, let me be useful to you , but even that is too much. Too dangerously revealing. Bruce is selfish to his very core, greedy, and right now he wants to make Clark feel good, wants to see his face screwed up in ecstasy and commit that image to memory. A treasure he can hold close when all is said and done. Once Clark figures out who Bruce really is, the things Bruce has kept from him, there will be no going back, and if Bruce crashes and burns no matter what he does, he might as well enjoy the high while it lasts…
“What are you doing?” whispers Clark, but his pupils are already widening with arousal, swallowing his irises until his eyes appear dark. He’s so indescribably beautiful that simply looking at him makes Bruce’s chest constrict. With that stubborn curl falling into his forehead, the dimples in his cheeks, his strong chin and broad mouth, and most of all those expressive eyes, swirling with a blue so bright it defies earthly description… Bruce swallows. Absolutely irresistible .
“I’ve been thinking about this since Friday,” answers Bruce, evasive but truthful. It’s not all he’s been thinking about, and if he’s wanted to get on his knees for Superman for far longer than that, he’s not about to admit it.
Clark shifts in his seat, gaze flickering to the monitors above Bruce’s head. “We’re on duty.”
“Watch the monitors then, and let me do the rest.”
Biting his lip, Clark stares down at Bruce. The idea clearly excites him; Bruce can see the growing bulge in his pants, the slow undulations of that alien cock Bruce has been dreaming about since he first caught a glimpse of it in the Watchtower locker rooms a few years ago, but something is holding Clark back. Finally, he says, “There’s something we need to talk about first."
Bruce's lungs seize, a surge of panic tearing through him that he squashes ruthlessly. “Later,” he says, half command, half plea, and his hands involuntarily squeeze Clark’s thighs tighter, fingers digging into the muscle. Above him, he hears Clark’s breath hitch, so clearly affected. It feeds Bruce’s determination. Whatever they have to discuss, let them do it after, once Bruce has stolen himself something to hold onto during the fallout.
“I don’t think it can wait, B. It’s important,” Clark valiantly tries again, hands curling around the armrests of his chair, but he’s not even trying to stop Bruce, and more importantly, he’s not saying no.
Leaning forward, Bruce inches his hands up Clark’s thighs, splays his fingers and presses them into Clark’s flesh, slowly massaging those powerful legs. “Please,” he repeats, and licks his lips. “Let me do this, Kal. Please .” He rests his chin on one of Clark’s knees, slides his fingers up further, and that finally seems to do the trick.
Clark’s breath rushes out of him in a shuddering exhale, and the tension drains from his shoulders. “Okay. Okay, yeah, but we really need to talk about this, B. It’s important,” he says. Reaching out, he rests his hand on top of Bruce's head, right between the ears of the cowl. Despite giving in, he still looks pained, like he knows he’s doing something he absolutely shouldn’t but just can’t stop himself.
That makes two of us, thinks Bruce, and slides his hands further up Clark’s legs until he meets the crease of his hips. He’s all too aware that this is likely the only time he’ll be allowed to do this, but he pushes that thought as far from his mind as he can. Right now he just wants to focus on Clark and the pleasure he can bring him, not the inevitable pain of rejection he’s soon to feel again.
“Just keep watching the monitors, Superman. Don’t want anything to escape our notice,” orders Bruce, but Clark still hesitates. It takes a moment but then it finally clicks for Bruce. “I’ve already seen what you’re working with, Big Blue. Don’t worry, I can take it.”
Clark shudders faintly, but his gaze is searching Bruce’s face—as much as he can with the cowl on. Eventually, he nods. “Alright, but tell me if it gets to be too much.”
Bruce just smirks, and waits until Clark turns his attention to the screens with an exasperated huff, before he lets his hands continue their upwards journey. Slow and steady, he maps out the shape of Clark’s powerful legs like he’s wanted to do for ages, enjoying the power contained under his fingertips. He skirts around the undulating bulge between Clark’s legs for a moment to instead caress Clark’s hip bones and lower belly. Exploratory touches, meant to lure Clark in and let him settle. Only once Clark seems engrossed in his work, does Bruce move on to the hidden opening at the front of Clark’s suit he knows is there. With nimble fingers, he opens the fastenings, eager to get to his prize.
Clark sucks in a sharp breath, the hand that still rests on top of Bruce’s head twitching. “You really have been watching closely,” he murmurs, thumb brushing over one of the cowl’s ears.
“I told you,” replies Bruce, heart racing when the front of Clark’s pants falls open, revealing tantalizing glimpses of golden skin. “Now back to work, Superman. Don’t want anyone to catch you slacking off.”
“And what will they say if they find you here like this?” counters Clark, but it sounds breathless.
“They’ll say I’m doing my job. Unlike you.” Bruce pointedly looks up at the wall of monitors behind him, digging his nails into Clark’s thighs to get his point across. Clark’s leg jerks, a bitten-off curse falling from his lips, and the way his gaze practically snaps back to the monitors is immensely gratifying.
Bruce waits a moment more, just to make sure that Clark is really working, before he lets himself explore again. Carefully, he pulls Clark’s pants open further, and is rewarded by the almost heart-shaped tip of Clark’s cock pokes out from between the fabric like it has a mind of its own, like it’s eager for Bruce’s touch. Just like Bruce is eager to get his hands—and mouth—on it.
He gingerly curls his fingers around the appendage and pulls it out the rest of the way, relishing in the way the muscles of Clark’s stomach tense and flex at even this small contact, but Clark dutifully keeps his gaze fixed on the screens. A tingling excitement races through Bruce from his head all the way to his toes, leaving him dizzy and breathless as he watches the alien cock unfurl in his hand like a leaf. It’s pale gold in color, the weak light of a winter sun, and a few viscous drops of iridescent fluid are beading at the tip, threatening to run down the underside and onto Bruce’s waiting palm. Clark’s cock is more malleable than a human penis, but it has considerably more weight, lying heavy in Bruce’s hand, the skin warm and soft as silk to the touch. It undulates slightly, pulsing in his grip, and Bruce’s mouth waters with every second he allows himself to take it in.
Clark’s erection is magnificent, longer than anything Bruce has encountered before. He doesn’t have balls, instead there is a bulge near the base that looks like it might inflate into a sort of knot, which seems to serve the same purpose. A ridge of darker colored nubs lines the underside of Clark’s penis, starting right above the knot and climbing almost all the way up to the sluggishly leaking slit.
A built-in Jacob’s ladder , thinks Bruce, and arousal pools hot and heavy in his belly, his own cock twitching eagerly against the newly repaired cup of his suit.
“Are you just going to stare at it?” asks Clark, shooting a quick glance at Bruce, and if it wasn’t for the touch of nervousness in his tone, Bruce might have teased him about being impatient. As it is, he can’t bring himself to do anything besides being almost brutally honest.
“I’m savoring the moment. You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this, Kal,” he says, taking a shuddering breath. And then, because Clark’s eyes soften and his hand strokes so lovingly over the top of Bruce’s head, Bruce pitches himself forward, and catches a stray drop of Clark’s precum with his tongue. He licks from the base all the way to the head, dragging his tongue over the ridged underside, and moans as the sweet taste of Clark bursts across his tongue.
“Fuck, you taste good” he mutters, breathing heavily against Clark’s erection as shivers race down his spine. Goosebumps raise the skin on his arm, his insides heating up. He closes his eyes, unable to stop himself from mouthing at the twitching cock, trying to get as much of the taste as he can. “I think your cum is an aphrodisiac.”
Clark groans. “I thought you knew what you were working with,” he says, and that growl that drove Bruce to the brink of madness on Friday is back in his voice, making Bruce’s stomach clench as a wave of lust rolls over him. Definitely an aphrodisiac.
Clark tries to push him back, but Bruce lets out a growl of his own, fingers digging into Clark’s legs. “Don’t you dare!” he hisses and as if to prove his point, he dives forward again closing his lips around the head of Clark’s erection. More of that sweet taste hits his palette, and Bruce moans.
Another growl rumbles through Clark, a vibration Bruce actually feels in his mouth, and—God, maybe he really didn’t know what he was getting into, but he won’t let that stop him. He’s too far gone, his entire body burning with lust, and the need for more . Sucking in air through his nose, Bruce sinks deeper onto Clark’s cock, each nub that drags across his tongue sending tiny jolts of electricity through him. Soft golden flesh writhes in his mouth as if it’s trying to get deeper, and then Bruce’s lips hit the pulsing knot at the base of Clark’s cock, and he feels his brain white out.
Shit. He wants that in him.
“B, slow down,” says Clark, voice strained, and strokes the back of Bruce’s head with shaking fingers. Bruce wishes he would rip the cowl off, bury those fingers in his hair, and pull , maybe hold him in place until Bruce would have no other choice but to take everything, until he’s choking on the sweet taste of his cum…
The thought makes a whine rise in Bruce’s throat, and he finds himself sucking harder on Clark, hollowing his cheeks as he tries to work that knot into his mouth. It’s not that much thicker than the rest of Clark’s penis, but considering how girthy it already is, it presents quite the challenge. Bruce’s teeth graze along the ridges on the underside, and Clark hisses, fingers spasming against the back of Bruce’s head.
“B, go slow ,” orders Clark, and the stern tone once again goes straight to Bruce’s own cock like it’s a physical touch. He’s leaking into his cup, can feel his underwear clinging wetly to his erection, and a shiver wracks his body. He feels stupid with desire, overheated, and so desperate to get Clark off, to taste his release…
He pulls away with a gasp, jaw aching pleasantly, and meets the luminous blue of Clark’s stare. “You’re not paying attention, Superman,” he murmurs, and his voice is absolutely shot. He feels like a bitch in heat, and he’s reveling in it, only too happy to let himself sink into the sensations, the mindless pleasure.
Clark’s eyes flash dangerously. “Is that so,” he says, fingers pressing into the back of Bruce’s head, slowly guiding him back into his lap. “Well, then maybe we should switch things up a little bit, make sure I can stay on task.”
Bruce is too stupid with lust to sense the danger, and happily swallows Clark’s undulating erection back down, shuddering as the sweet taste bursts across his tongue once more. The heart-shaped tip hits the back of his throat, writhing, and he makes himself relax, lets it slide deeper. Drool starts to run down his chin, but Bruce doesn’t care, too busy mindlessly grinding his tongue into the underside of Clark’s knot. It’s only when he tries to pull back again, intent on giving Clark’s head the same attention, maybe dipping into the slit to get at more of that sweet precum, that he grasps the full meaning of Clark’s words. Bruce only gets far enough that he can breathe through his nose again before the grip Clark has on the back of his head suddenly tightens, keeping him in place with his lips stretched around the knot, the tip of his nose pressed into the dusting of fine hairs on Clark’s lower belly.
Gaze darting up, Bruce finds Clark already looking down at him, a truly devious grin tugging at his lips that makes Bruce’s pulse pound even faster, cock spitting more precum. “Nuh uh, B. I’m not done with my shift yet, and until I am you’re staying right where you are. Can’t let myself get distracted, now can I?”
Bruce whines as his erection gives a painful throb, arousal tearing through him like a wildfire. Fucking hell … He nods his assent as much as the position allows, and shuffles closer, getting more comfortable on his knees. He’s suddenly determined to make this good for Clark, to be good for him, and the idea of sitting here, keeping his cock nice and warm and wet while Clark works... God, Bruce can’t think of anything he wants more right now.
“Good,” says Clark, stroking his fingers over the top of Bruce’s head, and he barely even feels it through the cowl, but the knowledge that Clark is petting him like that, almost absently while he turns his attention back to the monitors punches a moan out of him. “You’re doing great, B,” murmurs Clark, spreading his legs a little more as he settles in to work.
Bruce quickly loses himself in it, in just… existing like this. His sole purpose is reduced to sitting here, head resting against Clark’s thigh, with Clark’s fingers on the back of his head as he holds that alien cock in his mouth. It’s freeing, in a way, and even as shivers run down Bruce’s spine, his own erection not having flagged for even a moment, he relaxes into it completely. Into the weight of Clark’s cock, the way those ridges on its underside press into his tongue, how it undulates in his mouth as if it’s trying to press itself deeper. Bruce’s jaw aches fiercely by now, mouth held wide open by the softly pulsing knot at Clark’s base as it pumps a steady stream of precum directly into Bruce’s throat, but he barely even notices the pain.
Dimly, Bruce is aware that he’s making noise, quiet moans and whines, that Clark keeps absently shushing as he gently strokes the back of his head. His attention never leaves the wall of monitors, and even as he’s calling Flash over comms to deal with an incident, he remains focused, giving nothing away. The only sign that Bruce is affecting him is the occasional hitch in Clark’s breathing, the way he sometimes tenses his thighs, and—Bruce’s favorite—the stuttering sighs he can’t quite suppress.
It simultaneously feels like an eternity and no time at all passes before Clark gently cups Bruce’s face, thumbs stroking the skin below his eyes. “God, B. You’re perfect,” he rumbles. “You did so good for me.”
He tries to tug Bruce back, but Bruce refuses, shakes his head slightly, and sucks on Clark’s cock. Hard. “Shit,” curses Clark, hips jolting upwards. His erection writhes against Bruce’s tongue, the knot pulsing faster. He has to be close. The thought makes Bruce moan louder, igniting the arousal burning in his gut all over again, making it burn so bright that Bruce can barely think about anything else. He feels like one touch to his cock might be all it takes to make him explode.
“Okay, alright. Do it,” says Clark, leaning back again. His hands are shaking when they stroke Bruce’s cheeks. “Go on, B. Take your reward, and make me come down your throat. You earned it.”
Bruce doesn’t need to be told twice, and practically throws himself into the task. Sucking on Clark’s cock, he firmly rubs his tongue against the ridged underside, before pulling back up until only the head is resting between his lips. He licks over the slit, presses the tip of his tongue inside, and then he’s sinking down again.
“Fuck, B, just like that,” rumbles Clark above him, that growl shaking his chest again, and Bruce’s poor, neglected cock gives a needy twitch. Somehow, hearing Clark swear is the most obscene thing about this entire situation, and with every expletive that falls from his mouth, Bruce feels himself stumble closer and closer to the edge as well.
Redoubling his efforts, Bruce bobs his head faster, uses his hands to cover the underside of Clark’s knot his lips can’t quite reach, and is rewarded by Clark losing himself just a little more. His fingers tighten around Bruce’s face as his hips start thrusting up in stuttering jerks, barely controlled as he practically fucks himself into Bruce’s mouth.
Bruce relishes in it, goes limp in Clark’s grip and lets himself be used. When Clark comes with an animalistic sound only moments later, Bruce surprises himself by following him over the edge as soon as the first spurts of sticky sweet cum hit his tongue. With a broken keen, he undulates his hips, instinctively trying to get some friction as his orgasm tears through him.
He’s panting by the end of it, sweaty, and exhausted with yet another mess in his underwear, but he's so satisfied he can’t bring himself to care.
“Batman,” says Clark, and then stops, and before Bruce knows what's happening, he's being lifted into Clark's lap, strong arms wrapping around his middle. His heart leaps in his chest. An unmistakable purr vibrates through Clark's body as he buries his face in Bruce's neck, inhaling deep.
“Superman,” echoes Bruce and swallows. Tentatively, he winds his fingers into the short hairs at the base of Clark's skull. “That was quite the ride.”
Clark chuckles, hot breath ghosting over the side of Bruce's face, and Bruce feels his arousal stir yet again. Definitely doubles as an aphrodisiac, he thinks, lips twitching into a smile.
“I don't want to move,” admits Clark after a moment, and this time Bruce can't stop his laughter.
“We could just stay like this, see what Green Lantern and Aquaman have to say when they come to relieve us in—” Bruce chances a glance at the clock on the wall. “—about ten minutes.”
He feels Clark's mouth move against the side of his neck, hears in his voice that it's because he's smiling. “Excellent idea.”
Bruce snorts, wishing desperately that they could really just stay here like this forever, where none of the things keeping them apart could reach them. But…
“Five more minutes,” he concedes, and sets about committing every detail of this moment to memory.
™™™
Present day
Watchtower, Earth's atmosphere
With a deep sigh, Bruce cards his fingers through Ace's fur, and stares at the prototype of the Superman action figure Merve handed him that morning. He’s been staring at it all day, unable to take his eyes off of it for longer than a few seconds and sometimes completely spacing out.
The action figure is perfect. Somehow, the fierce kindness Kal shows to the world shines through even in that plastic face, and Bruce just can't stop staring even though his chest constricts painfully every time he makes eye contact with it.
Tracing the outline of the House of El symbol on the figure’s chest, Bruce heaves a deep sigh. He is one of the few people to whom this kindness doesn't extend, and yet as Batman he takes it again and again, even depends on it. None of it is fair to Clark. He should know just who he's been sleeping with, and yet, selfishly, Bruce can't bring himself to say the words. He was so close to doing it during their last interview, and if Clark had stayed a second longer he would have. Unfortunately, Bruce lost his nerve after that.
Ace huffs, and shuffles closer, one paw coming up onto the sofa where Bruce is currently wallowing—Alfred’s words not his. In his opinion he is merely assessing his options after everything that happened between him and Clark. Trying to find a way to fix it.
With a whine, Ace presses his wet nose into Bruce’s arm. They stare at each other, while Bruce's fingers idly play with toy-Superman's cape, letting the material catch on his calloused skin.
“Alfred doesn’t like it when you're on the furniture,” he tells his dog, but Ace's tilted head and big brown eyes make a compelling counter argument. After a full minute of this silent stare-down, Bruce's already weak resolve crumbles like a wet paper bag. Sighing, he pats the cushion beside him. “Come on, boy. Up.”
Ace doesn’t need to be told twice. He jumps up, squeezing his sixty-something pounds between Bruce and the back of the sofa, head coming to rest on Bruce’s chest. The weight is comfortable, soothing, and Bruce succumbs to the urge to bury his face in Ace's fur, the action figure still clutched in one hand. He hasn't been able to put it down all day. It helps him think (or so he tells himself). Even if he's thoroughly sick of doing that, he has to finally figure out what to do with Clark. He'd fully intended to come clean at the Watchtower yesterday, but one look at Clark and he suddenly couldn't go through with it anymore.
Bruce is weaker than he thought, where Superman is concerned, always has been, but now that he knows what those lips taste like, how that invulnerable skin feels under his fingertips… Bruce is powerless. If his silence would end up only affecting himself, he wouldn't hesitate in keeping it. However, since Clark will inevitably get hurt as well, guilt is churning in Bruce's gut. Turning his head, he once again meets toy-Superman's blue eyes. The shade is the slightest bit off, but Bruce doubts there is a pigment on earth that could replicate the complex color to its fullest extent.
“Wow, that bad, huh?” asks Duke from the doorway, sounding sympathetic but also like he's holding back laughter.
Bruce doesn’t dignify that with a response. He’s not in the mood for a lecture, especially not from his kids. He’s very much aware of how badly he fucked up. Besides, he came into the library to be alone . He keeps his focus on Ace, gently scratching between the German Shepherd’s ears with one hand. However, just to be safe, Bruce surreptitiously hides the Superman figure behind a pillow.
“I told you that Father has been sulking,” comments Damian from the window to Bruce's right, making no effort to hide his distaste. Bruce breathes in slowly. He won’t do his children the favor of acknowledging them.
“Yeah, you weren’t kidding,” replies Jason, and before Bruce’s brain even has the time to fully register the fact that his second oldest is at the manor, Ace is already jumping from the couch to race over to Jay, greeting him with enthusiastic yips and whines, kicking Bruce in the stomach as he goes. Traitor , thinks Bruce, crossing his arms over his chest, but otherwise refusing to move. Abandoned by his last ally, he fixes his gaze on the ceiling and sets his jaw.
“Do you think he can hear us?” asks Steph in a stage-whisper, “Or is he sulking so hard he’s entered some kind of trance?”
Exasperated, Bruce rolls his eyes. He’s not that bad! Yes, he’s been a little less himself since this all started, a touch more moody, he’ll admit to that, but that’s to be expected! He has a lot on his mind. Getting the trademarks registered, and starting pre-production on the action figures was no easy feat in such a short amount of time. There was so much to organize, so many meetings to be had, and conversations to navigate with shareholders, employees, the press, and not least of all with the Justice League. (Bruce very pointedly does not think about Clark, but even without that the situation has been far from easy).
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” mutters Tim, and Dick immediately retorts with, “Can you blame him? This is Superman we’re talking about.”
A chorus of surprisingly dark mutterings and curses answers him, among them some rather creative threats to Clark’s well-being, and that’s it, this is getting ridiculous. They're acting like he's a target to be interrogated, and they don't seem like they're going to leave again anytime soon.
“Is there anything I can help you with?” he asks, finally sitting up on the sofa to glare at his children. When he turns his head, Bruce realizes that it really is all of them, forming a united front, and strategically positioned to cut off his exits. They definitely planned this , he thinks, a reluctant swell of pride in his chest. No matter the circumstances, seeing his kids work together never fails to move him. Even if they’re working against him.
Surprisingly, it’s Cass who breaks the silence that settled over the room after Bruce's question. She's perched like a gargoyle on top of a bookshelf to Bruce's right. “Who are you taking to the Watchtower?” she asks, cutting straight to the chase.
While Bruce is still wondering how his children even know he might need one of them to come with him to the Watchtower—because he himself only got the call that Bruce Wayne was to attend next week’s meeting about an hour ago—Jason cuts in: “Well, the old man needs someone to play Batman, so the only options here are Dickface and I, and since Dick got to go last time, it’s my turn now.”
There’s a sinister look in his eyes, foreboding, and he’s cracking his neck as if readying himself for a fight.
“I’m not taking any of you,” says Bruce, changing his plans on the spot. He'd actually intended to ask Jason or Dick for their help, but looking at them now, Bruce is suddenly certain that going alone is the right decision. Admittedly, he would want nothing more than to have all of his kids with him, at the very least so that he won’t be alone with people who simultaneously are his friends and hate his guts, but after this, he doesn’t think it would be a good idea.
He’s reasonably sure they would break out the Kryptonite.
“What?” exclaim Dick and Duke at the same time, while Tim narrows his eyes, studying Bruce with a calculating stare. “Why?”
Bruce refuses to feel bad. The last thing he needs is for the kids to cause an incident at the Watchtower. “It's simply not needed. The first meeting was a success, this will only be a progress report with follow-up questions. It wouldn’t be unusual for Batman to be too busy for that, especially if I insinuate that Batman already has that information.”
“Maybe,” says Cass, tilting her head as she studies Bruce. “But it’s not why.”
“We want to support you,” adds Steph, and Bruce’s heart nearly melts when they all nod their agreement. Right up until Jason opens his mouth again, honest to a fault as always. “These losers maybe, I just think someone needs to teach Superman that he can’t treat you like that.”
“Todd,” warns Damian, but Jason is undeterred.
“What? It’s true! We all know the old man has been pining for him for ages. And then he turns around and insults B like that? Aside from the fact that that's our job, it's just plain rude.”
Bruce is mortified, but also undeniably touched. Still… “I appreciate that all of you care about my emotional well-being, but I don’t need protection. Kal has good reasons for his dislike of Bruce Wayne, and I don’t want any of you doing anything rash. Understood?”
There's a tense silence, and the longer it lasts the more Bruce is sure that his kids will outright refuse and he'll have to call in reinforcements (read: Alfred). Thankfully, the kids eventually relent. One by one they nod or murmur their reluctant agreement, and Bruce nearly sags with relief but catches himself at the last second. Dick takes a step forward to pull Bruce into a quick hug. Quietly, he says, “I think if Kal knew it was you he’d change his mind. Which isn’t to say that he doesn’t still need to apologize, he acted like an absolute jerk, but… Talk to him. You’re clearly not happy, Dad.”
The word ‘dad’ goes through Bruce like a bullet and he holds Dick that much tighter. “It’ll be okay,” he promises, and lets go of his son again. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
“You know that’s not how it works,” answers Dick, and makes his way to the door. Before they all disappear, Damian stops in the doorway to meet Bruce’s eyes across the room. “I will be standing by. Just in case you need backup.” With that, they all file out of the room. All except for Jason. Again.
“Jay,” starts Bruce, exasperated and not at all in the mood for a fight, but Jason cuts him off, expression uncharacteristically serious.
“You’re hurting yourself, B. I don’t know why you think that’s the way to go, and it's not like I really care , but I can tell you it’s only gonna blow up in your face.” Ace is still happily leaning against Jason’s leg, looking between Jason and Bruce with his tongue lolling out, not a care in the world.
“I know what I’m doing, chum. I promise.”
“That’s just it, B. I don’t think you do.” Pulling his phone out of his pocket, Jason crosses the distance between them, and angles the screen so that Bruce can see it. Instantly, Bruce feels himself blush bright red. Those are the sketches he made, the ones of him and Clark kissing…
“Where did you get those?” he asks hoarsely, unable to take his eyes off of the phone screen. Recent memories flicker before his eyes, of him resting in Clark’s lap after warming his cock during monitor duty, the lazy kisses they traded as they shared a shower afterwards, how Clark was so reluctant to let go of him. Bruce still wonders what it was that Clark wanted to talk to him about so urgently but figures it can’t have been that important after all, seeing as he never brought it up again.
“That’s just it, Bruce. You left them lying around the cave when you told me I could use the Batcomputer to set up the whole thing with Black Mask. You didn’t even notice.”
Bruce almost winces. “I’ve had a lot on my mind…”
“We both know that never stopped you from being a control-freak before. Which is why I’m coming with you to the League meeting next week, end of discussion. You need someone there who has your back.” A dangerous glint enters Jason’s eyes then, his mouth pulling into an evil grin. “Besides, if you try to stop me these will be all over the family group chat within the hour. So. What will it be?”
Bruce's nostrils flare, a surge of panic going through him. He'll never know peace if these drawings reach the others, but… He squares his shoulders, and meets Jason’s gaze head-on. “They won’t believe you. There is no evidence that I drew these.”
Jason’s grin widens. “Isn’t there?” he asks, and his thumb casually swipes over the screen of his phone. A video starts playing, one that Bruce immediately recognizes as security footage from the cave, and his heart sinks. That’s clearly him, working on the sketches, and even though what he’s drawing is not recognizable in the video, it will be enough to convince the others. Why didn’t he think to delete it? Fuck. Grinding his teeth, he weighs his options. Unfortunately, there aren’t many, and only one that will leave a modicum of his sanity still intact.
“Don’t be late,” he tells Jason finally, tone stern to keep a modicum of control over the situation.
His son has the audacity to laugh, a sound that’s rarely as genuinely amused as it is right now, and to Bruce’s immense annoyance he finds himself almost glad for this mess, if only because he got to see his Jaylad like this. “I wouldn’t dream of it, old man. See you at the Watchtower.”
He leans down to scratch Ace behind the ears one last time, causing the dog’s tail to wag furiously. Straightening up, Jason aims a two-finger-salute Bruce’s way, before he saunters out, whistling happily as he goes. In the doorway he pauses again. “Oh, and you might want to find a better hiding spot for your boy toy. The cape is sticking out from behind the pillow.”
Mortified, Bruce closes his eyes. There is a headache budding behind his eyes as he wonders how he's going to get through the next League meeting with his sanity (and his heart) intact, especially after what happened between Batman and Superman—
Bruce freezes, stomach twisting. Oh, no, he thinks desperately, and seriously considers jumping off the top of Wayne Tower. Because as far as Clark is concerned, Superman and Batman are an item, at least sexually, and having Jason show up on the Watchtower dressed as Batman…
With a groan, Bruce flings himself dramatically back onto the couch, covering his eyes with both hands. Why is this his life? Ace comes trudging over, and nudges his side, pressing his wet nose into the bare skin of Bruce's belly where his shirt has ridden up. Bruce twitches away from the contact, but otherwise ignores his dog, because… Because he just came to the realization that, come Friday next week, he will have to figure out how to keep his lover from unwittingly flirting with his son without giving up their secret identities. While also making sure, said son won't wreak havoc during his performance.
Jesus fucking Christ… Sometimes, Bruce really hates his life.
Chapter 9
Chapter by Murmeloni, thegoldenageofinfluenza
Chapter Text
Present day
Watchtower, Earth's atmosphere
“Hi, J’onn.” Clark waves at J’onn, who’s already seated at the round table. “I see you’ve brought snacks.”
“Hello, Superman.” J’onn inclines his head, before reaching out to snatch a Choco from the box in front of him. He doesn’t offer and Clark doesn’t ask if he can have one; he’s too anxious to eat anyway. It’s been a few days since he and Batman had monitor duty together, and they haven’t seen each other. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to act now. He can’t do anything that would give away how much he knows, because that could mean potentially outing Bruce’s secret identity in front of the entire League, and while Bruce is more forgiving than people give him credit for, even he would have a hard time forgiving that .
A quiet crunching sound reminds Clark of J’onn’s presence as he happily munches on another Choco, and he pushes his worries down before J’onn can pick up on them. He doesn’t want to burden his friend with all of that. Taking his seat at the table, Clark hastily strikes up a conversation, asking about his colleague’s last mission to distract himself. It works, to an extent, and he feels himself relax as he talks with J’onn and then the others as they arrive.
Right up until Bruce and whoever he has with him to play Batman today come striding through the door, a fashionable twenty minutes late…
Rao , the sight alone has something ugly pushing against Clark’s ribs, eyes zeroing in on the man at Bruce’s side. This mystery person knows Batman’s identity. They’re trusted enough to accompany him to the Watchtower like this, to wear the suit, where Bruce has done everything in his power to keep that information from Clark... And it might even be someone Clark has met before, one of the other vigilantes in Gotham, perhaps.
Whoever it is, the resemblance to Bruce is uncanny. If Clark didn’t know to look for the differences this time—the slightly off-rhythm heartbeat, the hint of makeup on Batman’s jaw that replicates the shape of Bruce’s chin and mouth perfectly—he wouldn’t have noticed the difference.
It betrays a level of understanding between Bruce and whoever this stand-in is that goes beyond simple friendship, and again that ugly feeling of jealousy rears its head in Clark’s chest. It stays there for the rest of the meeting, the contents of which Clark only half pays attention to. He’s been talking to Bruce the most about updates on the action figures and even visited the factory, so none of this is new to him.
Instead, he keeps his focus on ‘Batman’, and watches the way this man positions himself, how he stares at the other Leaguers almost like he’s daring them to challenge Bruce in any way. It’s unmistakably protective, and Clark’s jealousy grows. This is ridiculous, he reprimands himself. Batman would have told you if he was involved with someone else. He wouldn’t have slept with you without bringing that up. But Clark’s heart isn’t swayed, arguing that he and Bruce aren’t a couple, that B doesn’t owe him anything, and so Clark keeps staring at this stranger who looks so much like the real Batman.
Until he’s noticed, because of course he is. Nothing escapes Bruce.
“Anything you’d like to add, Big Blue? Any questions?” asks Bruce, one eyebrow raised in challenge, and Jesus Christ Clark wants to lunge across the table and kiss that expression off of his face until he looks dazed and soft again, like he did when he was sat in Clark’s lap only last week… He wants everyone here to know Bruce belongs to him.
Next to Clark, J’onn reaches for another Choco, and the rustling of the packaging effectively pulls him back to the present. Fighting down a blush, he clears his throat. “Not right now, no. Please continue.”
There is the barest hint of a snort coming from not-Batman, which Clark does his best to ignore. After a moment, Bruce gets back to the presentation he prepared for today. Looking at the neatly organized slides now, Clark wonders how he didn’t realize before that they practically have Batman written all over them. The way they’re structured, how everything is labeled and accompanied by a set of graphs or statistics… It’s endearing, and oh Clark really is in trouble if he’s swooning over the slides of Bruce’s powerpoint presentation, isn’t he?
Bruce presses a few keys on the laptop he brought with him and a map of Metropolis is projected onto the wall, alongside the picture of an old brick building. “As I was saying, the original plan was to start production at our factory in Burnside later this year, but after Black Mask’s trial started, some of his properties have been seized and sold to pay for damages. Wayne Enterprises was able to acquire one such property in Metropolis. It’s an old cannery near the harbor that can be converted into a toy factory with relative ease, meaning we can start production much earlier than anticipated. Which brings me to this,” says Bruce, and changes slides yet again. For a moment Clark isn’t sure what he’s looking at, then the new images start moving, music blaring from the speakers, and he realizes with a start that it’s a commercial.
The clip shows cartoon versions of the Justice League fighting a villain who bears just enough resemblance to Lex Luthor to be recognizable, but not enough to cause legal trouble. The fight is flashy and over the top, complete with cheesy one-liners, but relatively short. It advertises every hero’s powers and how they’re incorporated into the toys—Superman’s eyes, for example, can be turned red with the push of a button. By the end of the fight, the heroes are shown landing in front of a group of cheering kids, and while Superman gives a thumbs up and smiles into the camera, Green Lantern creates silly faces with his constructs as Flash zooms around to make the children laugh. Wonder Woman bends down to pet a little girl’s dog while J’onn pulls out a tin of biscuits, and Green Arrow shoots confetti arrows into the air. Batman himself sits on a gargoyle, positioned above the others, and watches everything silently.
It’s wholesome and hopeful and just a bit silly. Clark desperately wants to kiss Bruce because this, too, has his involvement written all over it. The commercial is action-packed but with a clear focus on the Justice League’s true purpose: helping people who can’t help themselves.
“This is the first batch of toys we will be producing,” explains Bruce once the clip has ended. “The goal is to eventually have an action figure of every member of the League, but we don’t have the resources to produce all of them at once. We’re looking into expanding the old cannery, but that will obviously take time. We estimate that every hero will have a toy of themselves in about three years time.”
The stunned silence that follows Bruce’s words is rudely broken by an appreciative whistle from Green Lantern. “You know, Brucie, I was pretty pissed that you and Spooky made us wait at the start of this, but one, J’onn brought cookies, and two, you made me look so cool in that commercial. Man, I can’t wait to get the whole set!”
Bruce’s mouth ticks up at the corner, a playful light entering his eyes. Clark feels his stomach tighten. “Are you that eager to play with yourself, Lantern?”
As if the flirtatious comment isn’t bad enough, not-Batman glares at Bruce in response, almost like he’s jealous too, and Clark… Rao, Clark is battling the urge to just jump up and fling Bruce over his shoulder. He wants to carry him off like a caveman to remind him who he belongs to. He wouldn’t let B leave until he was begging…
Mortified by his own thoughts, Clark crosses his arms over his chest, reminding himself that Bruce Wayne is known for flirting with people. It could be part of his cover, it doesn’t necessarily have to mean anything. Which is something that Clark could just ask him. If he ever manages to work up the courage of coming clean, that is.
“You know that I’ve had my doubts about this arrangement, Mr. Wayne,” says Diana, smiling slightly. “But I have to say that the work you’ve put into this so far has been admirable.”
“Yeah,” agrees Flash. “And that commercial wasn’t just about us fighting the bad guys, which is really cool! I mean, I know that’s a big appeal with action figures and all, but we’re here to protect people…” He trails off with a shrug.
It goes on like that a bit more. Diana and Green Arrow have more questions about the employment program of the Peter Swan Correction Facility Bruce mentioned earlier, while others want to know when the commercial will air and if Bruce has planned the official statement to the press yet, if he’s detailed the extent of the Justice League’s involvement in all of this, and so on and so forth. Clark mostly stays silent through it all, only adding his input if absolutely necessary. Since finding out who Bruce Wayne really is, any reservations he had about the action figures have vanished. He trusts Batman implicitly, he always has. Of course finding out that his secret identity is a known himbo playboy billionaire has been a shock, yes, but it never made Clark’s belief in his friend waver.
“That’s enough chit-chat,” growls not-Batman suddenly, cutting off Hal, who was not so subtly trying to secure himself an invite to ‘Brucie’s next shindig’, as he put it. “We don’t have all night, and there are still the charities to discuss.”
“Batman is right,” says Clark, trying to keep his own irritation with Hal’s blatant flirting at bay. “We should go around the table. Why don’t you start, Flash?”
“Sure, okay,” answers Flash, sitting up a little straighter. “Uhm, there is this organization that collects money to help victims of crimes cover legal costs…”
Not-Batman keeps watching like a hawk as League member after League member explains which cause they want to support and why. Bruce just nods to all of that, taking down notes, but not-Batman fixates everyone with laser focus, and it’s eerie because this is exactly the look Bruce gets when he’s in a bad mood.
After another twenty minutes of this, the meeting finally draws to a close, and while the heroes all get up to mingle, not-Batman leans over to Bruce. “You didn’t tell them that all proceeds will be going to charity,” he says, barely audible over the general chatter, and Clark freezes in place. Bruce is giving everything to charity? Does that mean he’s paying for the action figures out of his own pocket? “Why did you let them think you’re making money off of this? It’s no wonder they were pissed last time.”
“It’s none of their concern,” answers Bruce in the same hushed tone. “Besides, it wouldn’t be a good look for Bruce Wayne to do something without expecting a return. I’ll support each of their causes, but I have a few projects of my own, and the donations to those will be anonymous.”
“Yeah? Like what?” asks not-Batman, sounding suspicious. His voice almost slips into another register here, out of the customary Batman growl and into something much younger, but he catches himself at the last second.
“There is a youth center in Crime Alley,” starts Bruce, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant, as his eyes briefly flick up to meet not-Batman’s eyes. “They focus on keeping kids in school, providing resources and tutoring, a warm meal...”
Not-Batman opens and closes his mouth, seemingly at a loss for words, and it looks like such an intimate moment that Clark can’t take it anymore. He’s not proud of it, in fact he hates himself a little, but that doesn’t stop him from using a burst of speed to get across the room where Bruce has finished packing up his laptop and notes, and interrupting them.
“I’m glad you could make it, Mr. Wayne. The meeting was rather short notice,” he says as he comes between Bruce and not-Batman. He reaches out his hand in greeting, and his arm brushes against not-Batman’s as he does.
“Of course,” answers Bruce, who seems a little caught off-guard but shakes Clark’s proffered hand nonetheless. He looks from Clark to not-Batman, eyes catching on where their shoulders brush, and Clark’s stomach sinks.
Right , he thinks, Bruce doesn’t know that I know that that’s not really him in the Batsuit … Just thinking that is giving Clark a headache. What he needs is to get Bruce alone somehow so that he can finally explain. He opens his mouth to ask for a private word, but of course that’s when Green Lantern sidles up to the three of them, slinging an arm around Bruce’s shoulders like an obnoxious fratboy. “So how about it, Brucie?” he asks, grinning brightly. “Do I make the cut for your next big party? Am I the new action figure poster boy for your company?”
“Lantern,” growls not-Batman, and builds himself up in front of Hal, effectively herding him away from Bruce. “You’re on monitor duty. I suggest, you stop molesting our guest and get to work .”
Hal rolls his eyes, but wisely takes a step back, holding up his hands in surrender. “Always such a stick in the mud, Spooky. I'm just making conversation. Besides, rich people always have fundraisers and stuff, don’t they? One of us showing up there might bring in more money for people who actually need it.”
Bruce was surprisingly quiet during this exchange but now his expression turns thoughtful. “That’s actually not such a bad idea... Do you think your colleagues would be willing to attend such a gala?” His gaze sweeps across the room, assessing. “Ideally it would be one of the better known heroes, to draw more of a crowd, you know?”
Hal places his hand on his chest in fake offense. “What? I’m not famous enough to draw a crowd?”
Looking back at him, Bruce blinks, feigning confusion. “Not really, no,” he answers, like it should be obvious, making Hal sputter. Clark has to hold back laughter, and judging by the slight tremor in not-Batman’s shoulders, so does he. They’re still standing close enough that the movement makes their arms bump, and again Bruce’s gaze zeroes in on the contact. Deciding to test the waters (and feeling like a scumbag about it), Clark leans in the slightest bit, smiling at not-Batman, and immediately there’s a fire flickering to life in Bruce’s icy blue eyes. More than that, he steps forward, and (to Clark’s shameful delight) lays a hand on his bicep.
“I didn’t get a tour of the Watchtower the last time I was here, Big Blue” he says meaningfully, lips pulling into a pout as he completely dismisses Hal.
Clark instantly feels heat crawl up his neck, his higher brainfunctions shutting down. “Let me show you around then,” he hears himself say, and is only slightly embarrassed when both not-Batman and Hal stare at him like he’s lost his mind. He can’t blame them. It’s very likely that he has... On the other hand, this is the perfect opportunity to get Bruce alone and finally talk things out. The thought effectively curbs the heat that’s been gathering in his gut, replacing it with anxiety instead.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” asks Hal quietly, at the same time as not-Batman glares and says, “I’ll come with you,” and if Clark didn’t already know that this isn’t the real Batman this right here would have tipped him off. Bruce would never allow anyone who isn’t a League member to get a tour, no matter the circumstances. He would have torn Clark a new one.
“That’s not necessary. I’m sure you have to get back to Gotham, and Superman can take me home.”
“Bruce…”, starts not-Batman, but Bruce waves him off, seemingly nonchalant if not for the steely glint that enters his eyes, a command to be heeded. “I’m in Superman’s capable hands here, there’s nothing to worry about.”
“I’ll bring him back safe, I promise,” replies Clark, a flush creeping up his neck because that sounds like he’s taking Bruce to prom. The guilt of playing into this charade and lying to Hal’s face is eating at him, but he needs to do this. No matter how terrifying the prospect of hurting Bruce like this is, of losing him as a friend for good, he can’t put it off any longer.
“What the fuck?” mutters Hal. “This is too weird, even for me.” Shaking his head, he turns around and simply stalks away without a backward glance. Not-Batman watches him go before he turns back to Bruce, chin raised defiantly. He suddenly looks so young that Clark is a bit taken aback. Following that feeling comes the dawning realization of just who might be under that cowl, and abruptly Clark feels like the rug has been pulled out from under his feet.
Bruce has children, several of them. Roughly as many as there are vigilantes running around Gotham, if Clark isn’t mistaken. Some of those kids are even the right age and height to step in for their father...
Clark is going to be sick. He doesn’t hear a word of what is being said between Bruce and not-Batman over the rushing of blood in his ears, and he only comes back to reality when Bruce hooks an arm around his own. “Let’s get going, Big Blue.”
Clark and Bruce walk down the hallway leading off from the conference room, a direction picked at random. The other League member’s voices are a faint murmur behind them, and Clark swears he can still feel not-Batman's eyes on them. The thought of how that is very likely one of Bruce’s sons still freaks Clark out, and so he starts rambling nervously, explaining what the purpose of each room is (which Bruce already knows; Clark has no idea why he asked for the tour in the first place).
He is trying to find the perfect moment to confess, but about twenty minutes into the tour, he still hasn’t managed it. He just doesn’t know where to start! Then they wind up in front of the monitor room, neither of them having paid attention to their path, and the mood changes instantly. They both stop as if in unspoken agreement, silently staring at the door. Clark thinks they’re both reliving that last monitor duty they shared, and strangely enough it’s that that finally makes him pluck up his courage. He won’t get a better opportunity than this. It’s now or never.
Heart hammering against his ribs, he keeps his gaze fixed on the light grey metal of the door, and listens to the faint humming of the space station’s machinery, soothing in its familiarity.
“I didn't agree to the tour without an ulterior motive,” he starts, voice trembling slightly. “We need to talk.”
Out of the corner of his eye he sees Bruce stiffen. “I don’t know what you mean. We’ve discussed everything during the meeting. If you weren’t listening—”
“Bruce , please. Just listen? It’s about what happened at the factory.”
At that, he actually hears Bruce's teeth grind together. “There's nothing to talk about,” he snaps, before forcing his voice back into a more bored tone. “We've already established that it was a mistake. Haven't you read the papers? I make a lot of those, you're hardly anything special. We’re good.”
And Clark knows Bruce is lying, can hear it in the faint stumbling of his heartbeat, but the words still grate, picking at his fears and insecurities. “Be that as it may, there's something you don't know, something I owe you—”
“Spare me,” Bruce interrupts, harsher than Clark ever heard him. “I know what you and Batman have together. Pity me all you want but you don't owe me a thing.”
“That’s not— Just listen to me!” Frustrated, Clark grips Bruce's shoulder, and turns him around, pushing him back into the wall so that he doesn't have another chance but to face Clark. He just wants to make Bruce understand! Unfortunately, he makes the mistake of meeting Bruce's eyes, and seeing the sadness in them, the vulnerability hiding in those icy depths, is almost too much to bear. The urge to kiss Bruce is so overwhelming that he subconsciously leans forward.
“Don't,” says Bruce, his voice barely above a whisper and frighteningly close to begging. “Don't say it again. I know it was a spur of the moment kiss, that it didn't mean anything. I know you're doing this—” he vaguely gestures at the Watchtower surrounding them “—for Batman's benefit. I don't need it spelled out—”
This time Clark is the one to interrupt Bruce, but it’s not with words. He kisses him. Unable to stand the self-loathing dripping from Bruce’s words, he ends up making everything so much worse. Which isn’t an excuse exactly, it’s barely an explanation. And yet, he kisses Bruce anyway. He can’t not. No amount of Kryptonite could keep him from trying to chase that sadness away, trying to show B how wanted he is.
Clark presses his lips against Bruce’s, as soft and tender as he knows how, and Bruce practically melts into his chest. Like he’s helpless not to, like he’s been waiting for this just as much as Clark has. It’s intoxicating. The last few times they've done this it was all urgency and force, violence even. Clark smoothes his fingers over Bruce's throat, over the almost healed bite mark, and gently deepens the kiss, coaxing Bruce's mouth to open up for him.
When Clark eventually pulls back, Bruce looks just as dazed as he himself feels, lips swollen and glistening pink. Rao, but he’s everything Clark wants. Driven by this thought, he straightens his shoulders but leaves his hand where it is, caressing the side of Bruce’s throat with a barely-there touch of his fingers. “I know who you are,” he confesses, the words seeming to echo too loudly in the empty corridor. “And I don’t care. I want both you and Batman.”
Bruce freezes for a split-second, before he’s suddenly pushing Clark’s hand away and slipping out from between him and the wall. Clark’s chest cracks open, his heart splattering onto the floor, leaving him feeling cold as Bruce backs away from him.
“You don’t want me, Big Blue,” he says, gaze fixed on a point somewhere over Clark’s left shoulder. He looks hunted suddenly, which only serves to splinter the mangled remains of Clark’s heart even further. “I’m easy on the eyes, and you feel bad for me, maybe you regret misjudging my intentions. I know you overheard me and Batman earlier. But it’s not the same as actually wanting me. You should stick with Batman. Or maybe look for someone else entirely. That’d probably be healthier for everyone.”
Clark is reeling, chest aching so badly he feels hollow with it. By the time his numb brain finally manages to parse the words, to understand that he’s not been rejected but severely misunderstood, Bruce is long gone.
Chapter 10
Chapter by Murmeloni, thegoldenageofinfluenza
Chapter Text
Present day
New Troy, Metropolis
When Clark was younger, he was scared of hurting people. His developing powers were unpredictable and he was still learning to control them, so when Luke Ward decided to punch him and broke his own wrist in the process, Clark was devastated. Even if Luke was a bully, the mere fact that Clark had caused this much damage without meaning to, without even knowing he could, absolutely terrified him. He didn’t go to school for a week, didn’t say a word to anyone and hid away in the hayloft instead. No amount of pleading from his parents, nor the mournful meows of Fuzzball as the kitten prowled back and forth below him, could draw him out. He just sat there, unmoving, feeling more and more how different he was from everyone else when the first day passed without him feeling even the slightest bit thirsty or hungry.
On the second day, Pa pulled up a ladder and climbed into the loft with him, and as soon as Clark saw his father’s kind face, he broke down. He told him what happened, how scared he was, and how he shouldn’t be allowed near humans anymore. Pa wanted to hear none of it. Of course he listened to Clark’s fears, he didn’t tell him he was being stupid or irrational, but he made it clear that Clark was a blessing to his parents and that whatever he was going through, they would figure it out together. All he had to do was come talk to them and they’d find a solution. It helped, and by the end of the week Clark was starting to figure out how to control himself, to cope with being different.
He thought he’d learned his lesson back then, but if his time with Bruce has taught him anything, it’s that he really really hasn’t. Which is why he’s knocking on Lois’s door this Thursday night. He’s desperate for someone who will set him straight, and he knows Lois’ won’t mince her words, won’t spare his feelings in this, and that’s exactly what he needs.
“Smallville?” asks Lois as she opens the door, lifting one curious eyebrow. “Something wrong?”
“Sort of.” Clark rubs the back of his neck. “Mind if I come in? Or is this a bad time?”
The second eyebrow joins the first at Lois’s hairline as she looks him up and down. “I’m meeting Cat for dinner in an hour. You can talk while I get ready.”
Clark breathes a sigh of relief, and follows Lois inside, pushing the door shut behind him. “Thanks, Lo.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I have a feeling, you might regret talking to me,” she warns over her shoulder as she makes her way to the dressing table in the corner of her living room. The space is cozy, all dark blues and light browns with books and magazines strewn across every available surface.
“That’s, uh, sort of the point. I’m in way over my head with this one.” Wringing his hands, Clark sits on the sofa, trying to figure out where to start.
Lois sighs, long and deep. “This is about Batman, isn’t it? Or Bruce Wayne, you’ve been acting weird about him, too.”
Clark doesn’t ask how Lois knows; she’s a Pulitzer-Prize-winning journalist. He wouldn’t insult her like that. “It’s about both, actually.”
“Well? Spill, Kansas, I’m not canceling on Cat for you.”
Clark smiles weakly. This is exactly why he came to Lois with this and not Jimmy. Her affection for him won’t stop her from calling him a dumbass. And so he tells her everything that happened since the last time they talked about all of this, right before he went to spend the weekend in Gotham. Jesus, that feels so long ago now when it’s not even been a full month… But for now, he focuses on the important parts: Black Mask’s office, the second interview with Bruce Wayne and that fateful monitor duty that followed. And, of course, the second League meeting with Bruce.
Once he’s ended his sordid tale, Lois stares at him in utter disbelief, eyeliner halfway to her eyes. “Are you serious, Smallville? This is why you came here? Because you fucked Bruce Wayne and then got jealous of him talking to some other guy?”
“Technically, I fucked Batman,” he says, and immediately wants to run away when Lois just laughs in his face. Clark winces, not quite able to meet her gaze in the mirror. “You don’t seem surprised by that.”
“By what? Bruce Wayne being Batman?” Lois shrugs, and goes back to applying her eyeliner. “I had my suspicions back when you talked about your research into Wayne. Hearing all of those headlines back to back, made me realize how suspicious it was for him to always conveniently be at the right place at the right time. Plus, even he couldn’t be as stupid as he made himself seem. It had to be some kind of ploy.”
“And you didn’t say anything?” groans Clark, giving into the urge to bury his head in his hands. “You could have saved me a lot of trouble, you know.”
“It was only a hunch. Besides, you fucked Batman all on your own. Now tell me the rest of your sordid tale. I have to leave in twenty minutes if I don’t want to be late. What did he say when he found out who you are?”
“Well…,” starts Clark, peeking through his fingers. He immediately wants to shrink into the sofa cushions at the look Lois levels him with in the mirror.
“Tell me you didn't,” she says flatly.
“Uhm…”
“Clark!” Turning around, she hits him with a full glare. “Didn't you want to talk to him? Come clean? That's what you said after you let him suck your cock at work . A month ago, I might add! What in God’s name have you been doing all this time?”
Flinching, Clark stares down at his hands. “I did tell him. Sort of. It's just. Difficult.”
“You didn't seem to have any trouble explaining it to me . Why didn't you just take him aside after that meeting and laid everything out? Seriously, Smallville, that would've been the easiest thing in the world!”
“I did! I said I’d give him a tour of the Watchtower to get him alone, but it's complicated,” hedges Clark, fidgeting, and Lois’ eyes narrow dangerously.
“You've got eighteen minutes left to tell me the rest and convince me you're not a complete douchebag or Cat is going to hear every word of what you’ve just told me. I’ll even help her write the article. You know Perry would publish it in a heartbeat.”
Clark swallows, closing his eyes as humiliation and shame wash over him all over again, tying his stomach into knots. “It's Green Lantern's fault,” he starts, and he knows how petulant that sounds, but it's the truth, darn it! “I fully intended to talk things out, I swear.”
Lois only arches a single eyebrow, and says, “Please tell me all you did was give him that tour.”
Clark fixes his gaze on the ceiling, cheeks burning, and says nothing.
Lois sighs. “Sometimes I really don’t know why I’m even friends with you. Jimmy never pulls shit like this.”
Clark’s gaze snaps down to find Lois’ in the mirror. “I’m sorry, Lo. I shouldn’t have—”
She waves him off. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll make so much fun of you for this. But you still didn’t explain why you let the perfect opportunity to talk pass you by.” Looking at the clock on the wall, she adds. “Ten minutes. And after that you’re flying me to the restaurant. Without messing up my hair. ”
Clark breathes a sigh of relief, even as his chest constricts because now comes the part where he really fucked up, where he continued to fuck up ever since, and he doesn’t know why , except that just the thought of seeing Bruce's expression crumble, of hearing him say they're through, utterly destroys him. He licks his lips, and once again keeps his gaze on the ceiling where a small spider is busy weaving its web.
“We kissed.” he says, and then, because he can't lie to Lois, he adds, “And we’ve been doing more than kissing since then.”
She groans. “You really don't make it easy on yourself, do you?”
Clark shakes his head, replaying the scenes in his mind, before he sets about telling Lois exactly what they’ve done these past four weeks since the League meeting...
™™™
3 weeks earlier
City Hall, Gotham City
Bruce swings himself up onto the gargoyle on the east corner of City Hall, and checks the police scanner yet again. Gotham has been suspiciously quiet recently, giving Bruce decidedly too much time to think about Superman and the way they left things on the Watchtower.
It’s been a few days—five, to be exact—and Bruce is beginning to wonder whether Kal is going to take Bruce Wayne’s advice to call things off with Batman for good. He must realize that them being together in any way, even if it’s just sexual (and maybe especially then) will affect them working together. Bruce himself has thought about it ad nauseum, but came to the very damning realization that he doesn’t care, not enough to stop at least, and that he will deal with the fallout once it happens. He’s in this for as long as Clark wants him.
Obviously, he knows it would be objectively better if Clark called things off, but, selfishly, he doesn’t want him to. He wants a repeat of what they did on Black Mask’s desk, of the monitor duty they shared, but more than that he just wants to be allowed to be close to Kal again. He doesn’t care that he’s not the only one Kal wants, and he’s self-aware enough to know he won’t be able to resist a second time. If Clark really wants both Bruce Wayne and Batman, then Bruce will give that to him. Because if this entire ordeal has taught him one thing, it’s how much he loves Clark.
Which is a bit ironic, given that this all started with Clark insulting him…
“Slow night?”
Bruce does his best to keep his excitement in check when he turns to look at Superman descending from the sky beside him. “I’m assuming your presence here means that that’s about to change?”
“Something like that.” Clark rubs the back of his neck, floating in front of Bruce, and the sight of him casually flying hundreds of feet above the ground, cape billowing behind him, is enough to make Bruce dizzy with how beautiful he is… “I thought, if you weren’t too busy, maybe you’d like to come to the Fortress with me?”
Bruce blinks. After the way things ended on the Watchtower, this is the last thing he expected. “To the Fortress?” he repeats, mind racing through several different scenarios, one worse than the last. “Do you need help with something?”
Clark chuckles, and floats a bit closer, close enough that Bruce can smell him. Reaching out, he brushes his fingers over the exposed part of Bruce’s cheek, tracing the shape of his cheekbones. “Not exactly,” he says, hand sliding to the back of Bruce’s neck. “I would just like to spend some time alone with you.”
Bruce swallows. This shouldn’t be as hot as it is , he thinks desperately, and finds himself swaying closer to Clark anyway. “We could do that,” he answers, licking his lips. “Anything specific in mind for what we might do once we’re alone together?”
The hand at the back of Bruce’s neck exerts the slightest bit of pressure, drawing him to Clark until their lips are almost brushing. “A few things, actually.”
“Well then, Big Blue, what are you waiting for? Take me away.”
Clark didn’t need to be told twice.
™™™
Fortress of Solitude, Antarctica
Clark’s heart is pounding as they touch down inside the Fortress, the doors closing behind them with a quiet hiss. He wanted to go see Bruce for the past week but didn't dare approach him again, not so soon. There was that lingering fear in the back of his mind that Bruce really was just trying to let him down gently, but in the end he figured it wouldn’t hurt too much to try. Worst case scenario, he figured, was Bruce being a little more obvious with his rejection, but then at least he’d know.
And now here they are.
“Do you, uhm, maybe want to watch a movie or something?” asks Clark as he leads them deeper into the Fortress, towards the area that Lois and Jimmy jokingly call his summer home. It started out as a place to sleep when he needed to be at the Fortress for longer periods and somehow morphed into a kind of apartment over time, complete with a bed (obviously), a mini fridge, a toaster oven, and a TV. It was cozy.
The corner of Bruce’s mouth ticks up. “Sure, why not? It’s been a while since I did that.”
Clark can’t help but grin, feet briefly leaving the ground in his excitement. “Great! You pick, then. I have a bit of a collection here.”
Bruce tilts his head. “What? No FlixNet in Antarctica?” he asks, but he’s still smiling, and Clark catalogues the sight of that. He loves Bruce’s smiles, all of them. He could probably fill several databases just by indexing the different ways Bruce moves his mouth… Rao, what he wouldn’t give to be able to see his eyes right now.
“Maybe, I’m more of an old school kind of guy,” he counters to distract himself from thoughts of Bruce’s lips. Yes, he would very much love to be intimate with Bruce again, but that’s not what this is about. He missed Bruce, and just wants them to spend time together.
“I can see that,” replies Bruce thoughtfully, and Clark laughs.
“I’m deciding to take that as a compliment.”
Bruce shakes his head. “You’re too easy, Big Blue.”
“Only for you,” replies Clark, and then, because that was a bit more honest than he meant to be, he lengthens his strides to pull ahead of Bruce and hold the door for him, effectively derailing the conversation.
A moment later, Bruce is settled on the floor of Clark’s room, browsing his DVD collection with a slightly bewildered tilt to his lips. He’s currently holding Sunshine in his left, and the boxset of Hart of Dixie in his right hand.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t seen these before,” comments Clark, plopping down next to Bruce with his back against the foot of the bed.
Bruce holds up Sunshine. “This is about a team of scientists— ” his tone implies that he does not agree with that designation at all “—who are trying to reignite the sun by throwing an atomic bomb at it.”
“It’s a very good movie.” Clark bites down on his smile, afraid that it’s too revealing. The fondness he feels for this man is simply too big for his body to contain.
“Hn.” Bruce turns his attention to Hart of Dixie instead, and Clark can’t stop himself from blurting out, “That one’s my favorite shows.”
He expects Bruce to joke about the plot, too—the big city doctor inheriting a practice in Alabama, planning to stay no more than a year only to fall in love with the small town and its people—but instead he wordlessly holds the box out to Clark.
“Are you sure?” asks Clark as he accepts the DVDs.
“I’m curious.” Bruce shrugs, and it looks so ridiculous how he’s sitting on the floor with his legs crossed, dark cape fanning out behind him like a massive shadow. Despite the armor, he makes it look almost lazy.
“Okay. But tell me if it’s not your speed, yeah? We can always watch something else…”
“Just start the first episode, Kal.”
And so Clark does.
Surprisingly, Bruce seems enraptured from the first moment on, in spite of him frequently pointing out medical inaccuracies. They end up sitting sprawled on the floor, with Bruce leaning against Clark’s shoulder, and his hand on Clark’s thigh. He doesn’t know how it ends up there, but he’s far from complaining about it. If it were up to him, he’d just pull Bruce into his lap, wrap his arms around him…
Biting his lip, Clark debates it. Would it be too much? Too sexual? He doesn’t want to make Bruce uncomfortable... Then Bruce’s hand inches another bit up his thigh, and that pretty much makes the decision for him. He slings an arm around Bruce’s middle and hauls him into his lap, resting his chin on Bruce’s shoulder and his hands on B’s belly.
Bruce sucks in a surprised breath, but immediately relaxes into the hold, going so far as to lean his cheek against Clark’s. They watch a few more episodes like that, with Clark breathing in Bruce’s scent, feeling Bruce’s weight pressing down on him, listening to the pattern of his breathing, his heartbeat…
It’s distracting to the point that Clark completely loses track of the show. Instead, he finds himself skimming his nose up behind Bruce’s ear, his fingers tracing patterns on Bruce’s stomach. There is a slow-building heat inside him that grows with every touch Bruce allows him to get away with, to the point that he finds himself growing hard. He thinks about hiding it for all of two seconds before Bruce is grinding his ass back, and all thoughts flee his brain.
“B?” he asks, hips twitching up helplessly to get more friction. It’s embarrassing how aroused he already is.
“Yes?” replies Bruce, and there is a delicious breathlessness to his voice that has Clark tightening his grip on B’s waist. The scent of arousal grows thicker in the air…
“Fuck.” Unable to stand it any longer, Clark lifts Bruce and turns him around until he’s straddling his lap. “You’re irresistible,” he murmurs hotly, and then he’s kissing Bruce. He tries to gentle himself, to give them a slow build-up, but he can’t. That restless thing in his chest is back and it demands more. So Clark practically devours Bruce’s mouth, licks into it with animalistic fervor as his fingers set about freeing their cocks.
Gratifyingly, Bruce is already hard as well, his erection practically springing free as soon as Clark manages to drag his pants down far enough. He’s hot and heavy in Clark’s palm, fat with blood and pulsing faintly with each beat of Bruce’s heart.
“Fuck ,” repeats Clark, more emphatically, trailing kisses from the corner of Bruce’s mouth down the side of his neck, licking over his Adam’s apple, until he reaches the pink mark his bite has left. He should feel bad for that, and a part of him does, but the bigger part of him is thrumming with satisfaction. Bruce is his , and his alone .
Moaning, Bruce tilts his head to give Clark better access. “Yes,” he hisses, and his hands abandon their hold on Clark’s shoulders in favor of burrowing into his hair. “Come on, Kal. I need more.” He thrusts into Clark’s fist to emphasize his point, breath hitching as his cock pushes through the tight tunnel of Clark’s fingers.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” growls Clark, and closes his teeth over the scar on Bruce’s neck as his free hand fumbles to get his own pants down. Bruce whines, pumping his hips faster and causing shivers to race down both their spines. Clark smells B’s precum before he feels it slicking his palm.
Cursing, he finally manages to free his cock. The fire in his blood is already reaching a boiling point, lust pounding through him with surprising force, considering that this is barely more than a teenage make-out session. However, Clark’s body doesn’t seem to care. He’s practically gushing precum as he shifts his grip to hold both Bruce and himself.
Their erections touch and then press together, Clark’s fingers caging them in, holding them tight. Shivers run down Clark’s back, the coil of arousal in his lower belly pulling ever tighter, pushing him closer to the edge. Bruce’s erection jumps and drools more fluid, causing Clark’s cock to writhe and rub against Bruce’s.
“Shit,” gasps Bruce, bucking into Clark’s fist. He pushes his neck into Clark’s mouth, like he’s begging for another bite. The thought sends a thrill through Clark, making him growl into Bruce’s skin. “Please, Kal, move .”
“One day I’m going to make you beg for real, B,” rumbles Clark, in between licking and sucking on the bite mark. “I’m going to make you cry for me. But right now I want you to cum .” With that, Clark starts jerking them off in earnest, his fist stripping their cocks with brutal efficiency. He wants to see Bruce fall apart in his arms, wants to feel it, smell it, taste it…
“Kal!” shouts B, back arching as he does his best to hold on for the ride. His fingers are curled tightly into Clark’s hair. If Clark were human, he’d probably lose more than a few strands but as things are, Clark only moans and swipes his thumb over the head of Bruce’s cock in retaliation. His knot is starting to swell, adding yet another sensation to the mix. The pressure is heavenly, and judging by the way Bruce can’t seem to catch his breath, how erratic his movements are getting, it feels just as good for him.
All it takes is one twist of Clark’s wrist, his thumb pressing into Bruce’s slit, and then Bruce is coming, shouting out his release. Clark follows closely after him. As soon as he smells Bruce’s cum, and feels it hitting his skin, it’s over for him. The coil in his belly abruptly snaps, colors exploding before his eyes as his knot inflates fully. He rides out the waves mindlessly rutting against Bruce, sucking kisses into his throat and murmuring a mix of praise and endearments.
“Is that your usual reaction to that show?” asks Bruce after a while, voice still gratifyingly rough. “If so, I think we should make this a regular thing.”
Laughing, Clark pulls back. He can’t resist pressing a kiss to the cowl, right above Bruce’s nose. “You can just say you’d like to do this again, you know?”
Bruce hums, but otherwise doesn’t respond, and Clark finally loses the battle with his willpower. He uses his x-ray vision to peek under the cowl. His breath catches in his throat. Bruce has his eyes closed, looking relaxed and close to falling asleep, and a pang of tenderness stabs Clark’s heart.
For a wonderful moment, he imagines picking Bruce up, stripping him off his suit before tucking him into his bed, and joining him there. Clark pictures wrapping an arm around Bruce’s waist, falling asleep together, and waking up the next morning to share some pancakes. But he quickly dispels those thoughts. For any of that to even be a possibility, he will first have to talk to Bruce again, make sure he truly understands this time that Clark knows who he is under the cowl.
Anxiety threatens to drown out the post-coital bliss and contentment of holding a vulnerable Bruce in his arms, so Clark allows himself to table that entire mess for a later date. He will talk to Bruce again, he has to. He’ll lay it all out, make sure Bruce understands and then he will beg for forgiveness, but right now he just wants to hold on to this little piece of happiness, just a little while longer.
Surely, his heartbreak can wait a few more days.
So Clark closes his eyes as well, and drifts off to the sound of Bruce’s heartbeat and Zoe Hart’s adventures in a town called Bluebell.
™™™
2 weeks earlier
Arts District, Metropolis
Clark is curious, that's all. Batman never skips a debrief. In all the years Clark has known him it hasn't happened once . But it happened today, and after they fought off an alien invasion no less. Granted, it wasn’t a very well coordinated one and they had it handled pretty quickly, but still. It’s not something B would normally do. So of course Clark wants to know what’s going on. It’s only natural to be worried about his friend. He just didn't expect this .
“Did you really skip the debrief to go to a concert? Or are you anticipating a threat?”
Bruce doesn't answer, doesn't even turn to look. He's standing by the edge of the rooftop in full Batman gear, watching the crowd below. There can't be more than a hundred people down there, all swaying and bobbing in front of the stage to the sound of guitars and drums.
Clark touches down behind Bruce, and leans against the roof access, watching B, who seems to be completely absorbed in the music. Only when the song ends does Bruce acknowledge Clark's presence. “I didn't skip it, I merely postponed the meeting.”
“Of course you did.” Clark shakes his head fondly. “So was it a coincidence that you postponed our post-mission debrief—for the first time ever, I might add—on the same day that Nada Surf are in Metropolis?”
“It may have been a contributing factor,” admits Bruce reluctantly, briefly glancing at Clark. Jesus, a grown man shouldn’t be this adorable.
“Mind if I join you? I haven’t listened to them in years, but I used to love their music back in highschool.”
Bruce faces him fully, turning his back on the Metropolis skyline behind him. “ You listened to Nada Surf?”
Clark raises an eyebrow. “Why not? You weren’t the only angsty teen out there.”
“How do you know I was ‘angsty’?” asks Bruce, putting the word in air-quotes. Ridiculous, ridiculous man, thinks Clark, trying to keep his smile from getting too big. He just wants to enjoy this time with Bruce, wants to savor seeing him as relaxed as listening to his favorite band has apparently made him. So he exaggeratedly rolls his eyes instead, pushing all the things he should be saying and doing right now to the back of his mind.
“As if you could have been anything else. Now… would you like some company? Or do you want me to leave you alone?”
Bruce turns back to the stage where the next song is starting up, and for a moment Clark thinks he’s actually being sent away, but then B quietly says, “You can stay.”
Heart thumping against his ribs, Clark floats closer to Bruce, until his chest is pressed flush against B’s back. With the armor and cape between them, Clark barely feels the heat of Bruce’s body as he wraps his arms around him, but he doesn’t mind because B doesn’t move away. Instead, he leans into the contact, relaxing further, and they watch the rest of the concert like this, with Bruce in Clark’s arms.
And when Clark later sinks to his knees in front of Bruce, whose back is pressed flat against the roof access, one hand over his mouth to muffle his moans, Clark thinks that this evening, in spite of starting out with an attempted alien invasion, has been nearly perfect.
Nearly, because he can’t shake the guilt churning in his gut, the feeling that he’s deceiving Bruce by not trying harder to talk to him. Clark is certain now, that he was misunderstood when he tried to explain things on the Watchtower, and yet he can’t bring himself to destroy the peaceful moment.
Not tonight , he tells himself as he swallows Bruce down, tasting sweat and musk and something uniquely Bruce on his tongue. Soon, but not tonight.
™™™
Present day
New Troy, Metropolis
Lois is silent for a long while. Her hair and makeup are done to perfection, despite her listening to Clark pouring his heart out all the while, and the red dress she’s wearing makes her skin glow. He feels guilty all over again, but he can’t regret coming here tonight. He genuinely needs Lois’s help. He’ll just have to make it up to her.
“And you didn’t broach the subject again the entire month, and just… kept fucking him when he was Batman?” she finally asks, brows furrowed. The worst part is that she doesn’t seem exasperated or angry. She seems concerned. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” answers Clark truthfully, pulling on the ends of his hair in frustration. “I can’t explain it. I know that it’s messed up! Sleeping with him without revealing that I know who he is, without saying who I am, and then continuing to do it… It's wrong , and I know I need to talk to him! I just...” Clark lets out a gust of air, the pressure in his chest rising and threatening to climb up his throat. “What if Bruce knew perfectly well what I meant back then and was trying to let me down gently? Or what if he didn’t get it after all and me telling him now will destroy whatever chance at salvaging our friendship we had?”
Lois’s frown deepens. She stands up from her dressing table, and crosses the room to crouch down in front of him. “Look, Clark. I'm aware of Bruce Wayne's reputation, but these aren't the actions of a playboy. Neither is this what the cold and calculating creature of vengeance Batman likes to paint himself as would do. This is a man so afraid and so desperately in love that he's willing to cling to whatever piece of you he can get. Keeping silent, and letting him avoid the topic? That's not sparing him pain, that's actively hurting him.”
Clark doesn’t know what his face is doing then but if it shows anything close to what he’s feeling it has to be bad. Lois squeezes his knee. “You're not a bad person, Smallville. You’re scared and fucked up, which, considering all that you've been through, isn't that surprising. Despite what some people might think, you're only human.”
“All that I've been through?” he repeats, feeling strangely caught out, a pit opening up in his stomach.
“Clark,” starts Lois gently. “You’ve lost your entire planet, and I know you felt lonely and alienated for a big chunk of your childhood, terrified of what you could do, of what would happen if people found out where you’re from and you still have to hide so much of who you really are… It’s a wonder you don’t have more issues with emotional intimacy, really.”
“Oh,” is all Clark can manage as Lois’s words bore into his mind like splinters, recontextualizing a lot of what’s been happening between him and Bruce, and why it was so difficult for Clark to actually talk about it. He's not just terrified of hurting Bruce and losing him. No, he's terrified of how vulnerable he has to make himself in the process. Baring his soul like that, revealing his secrets… That feels like the most dangerous thing he's ever going to do.
“There we go,” she says, and pats his cheek. “You can make this right, Clark, I promise. But you need to talk for that to happen. It'll be worth it, I promise. Now.” Straightening up, she smoothes her hands down the front of her dress. “Let’s get going. I don’t want to keep Cat waiting.”
“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” Clark clumsily gets to his feet, but now that he's moving he can't stop. That restlessness is back in full force, his mind racing. Slinging his left arm around Lois’s middle, he grabs her purse with his free hand, and then they’re off. He follows her directions, making sure to take it slow so as not to mess up her looks, but never stopping. It's a relief to be flying like this, to not be stationary, and with the reassuring presence of one of his best friends in his arms, the wind whipping their faces, he almost feels like himself again. He lets Lois’s presence distract him from the storm still raging inside his ribcage, just for a little bit.
Only five minutes later, they touch down in front of the restaurant, and Clark has to reluctantly let go. “Have fun, Lo. You deserve it. And tell Cat I said hi,” says Clark. He's still reeling, feeling dazed. A part of his mind is busy going through each of his interactions with both Bruce and Batman and how he was the one to always pull back in the end, how he hid behind his assumptions to avoid confronting certain fears of his…
“Hey.” Lois bumps his shoulder with hers. “It’s going to be okay. Just talk to your man. Oh, and before I forget: you’re buying me coffee every day for the next month.”
Throat abruptly tight, Clark pulls her into a hug again. “Thanks, Lo,” he rasps into her hair. “You’re the best friend anyone could ask for.”
“I know,” she replies, patting Clark’s back, and Clark hears the smirk in her voice, which only makes him tear up more. He's so lucky to have her in his life, her and Jimmy. “Now go and get some sleep while I romance my beautiful girlfriend.”
Clark nods, and pulls back. He watches Lois go, watches through the window as she and Cat embrace, love shining in their eyes, and longing fills his chest. He wants that, too. He wants a date like this with Bruce, to be allowed to be soft and open with him, even if a big part of him is still so terrified of that.
So instead of going home, Clark rises into the air again and flies towards Gotham.
Chapter Text
Present day
Somewhere in Gotham
“Am I correct in assuming that you will not be coming home for dinner, sir?”
Bruce suppresses a sigh, and slightly adjusts his position. Rain is beating down on him, where he’s perched on one of Gotham’s many gargoyles, and the concrete is getting slippery. He activates his comm to reply. “I don’t have time for that today, Alfred.”
Silence follows his words, but Bruce knows Alfred is still there. He’s proven correct a moment later when his surrogate father speaks up again. “You haven’t had time for a proper meal in over a month. At this rate, I’m afraid the fearsome Batman will collapse from exhaustion sooner rather than later.”
“I’m not starving myself,” replies Bruce through gritted teeth. “I have simply been busy. Now is there anything else you want to say or can I get back to my patrol?”
Alfred sniffs, and Bruce can picture his disapproving frown perfectly. “There are a lot of things I would like to say, Master Wayne, but I shall refrain for now. All I am asking is that you please eat something more substantial than the protein shakes you have been ingesting as of late. The children and I are worried.”
This time there is the distinct click! of the connection being cut, and it’s just like Alfred to say his piece and then let Bruce stew in his guilt. It’s an unfairly effective tactic. Bruce tries to resist for all of an hour, stopping two attempted muggings near Grand Street and Canal Road, before he gives in, and drops by the Batburger down in the Bowery. It's a hike all the way across town but the employees there couldn't care less about who they're serving. They hate each customer equally, and Bruce finds that to be a refreshing change of pace.
No one bats an eye when he walks in, and the dead-eyed college student behind the counter basically tells him to fuck off as he places his order. Once the food is done, the young man thrusts an already grease-stained paper bag at Bruce, and before he has even fully accepted it, he’s already glaring at the terrified customer behind Bruce.
Biting back a smile, Bruce leaves a generous tip, and swings up onto the roof of the building. He sits with his legs dangling over the side, looking out across the city. Sirens blare and blink in the distance, but the police scanner doesn't show anything serious, so he settles in, and unwraps the first of his two cheeseburgers. He groans at the first bite, not realizing just how hungry he was until now, and the savory, cheesy taste is just what he needed.
“This seat taken?”
Bruce quickly swallows his bite, before craning his head, finding none other than Clark standing behind him. Which isn't that unusual in and of itself. Ever since that first, disastrous hookup they've been gravitating towards each other, colliding over and over again in passionate moments. Each time, Bruce tells himself that this is the last, that he'll finally put a stop to it and tell Clark who he really is, but each time he backs out at the last second, lets himself get swept up in the heat of the moment…
“Everything okay?” asks Bruce, studying Clark intently. While this visit itself isn't strange, the nervousness radiating off of Superman in waves definitely is. Besides, he normally tends to stay away from Gotham when Bruce patrols. Something is wrong.
“Not exactly, no.” Clark rubs the back of his neck. He doesn't elaborate, just stands there and looks at Bruce like it's the first time he's seeing him (or maybe like it'll be the last but Bruce pushes that thought down ruthlessly; there is no sense in breaking his own heart, at least not yet). Superman's cape rustles in the breeze, making him look like the picture of the All-American hero, and so utterly unattainable to Bruce. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, and he's suddenly not all that hungry anymore.
“Burger?” he asks as the silence stretches on, holding out the paper bag to Clark, whose shoulders loosen the slightest bit. Like he’s grateful to put the reason for his visit off just a bit longer. Bruce’s stomach turns.
“Yeah. Starving, actually.” Clark plops down next to Bruce, their shoulders bumping as he accepts the cheeseburger.
They eat in silence for a while, both staring out at the city below, glittering in the darkness of the night. The dull yellow coming from apartment windows mixes with the blues and pinks from the neon signs and the nearly white glare of the street lamps, shining through the fog perpetually hanging between the buildings to create an almost dreamlike vista. No stars are visible due to the light pollution, but it still feels strangely romantic to Bruce, like it's just him and Clark up here. Which is probably the stupidest thought he's ever had. With the way Clark keeps shooting glances at him, how he nervously taps his foot against the side of the building as he very deliberately eats his cheeseburger, it's entirely possible that he's here to call things off between them for good.
And it's… Well, for one thing, Bruce thought he'd have more time. They've been friends for years before adding sex to the mix, and despite the heartache underlying each of their interactions for Bruce this past month, he's been happy , ridiculously so. Clark's frequent visits have quickly become a highlight for him, a bright spot in his days. It hasn't all been about sex between them either, even though that's always where it ended. It was so much more.
It was about shared dinners and conversations, about working on cases together, venting and laughing about Luthor's latest scheme and the memes that inevitably followed online. It was about Clark introducing Bruce to his favorite show, and listening to Bruce rant about modern music. Just them being together, sharing the same space.
Of course the sex has been mind-blowing, something that Bruce finds his body has started to crave, but the intimacy they've shared these past weeks has gone far beyond that. It makes it hard to keep that last bit of distance separating them, to not just reveal that last big secret standing between them, even if Bruce knows that would end things instantly. There is this pesky, stubborn bit of hope in his chest that just won’t leave him.
Balling up the empty wrapper of his cheeseburger, Bruce stuffs it into the paper bag and sets that down between him and Clark. Not great as far as barriers go, but at least their thighs aren’t touching anymore, and it’s embarrassing how much power such a small bit of contact has over Bruce.
Finally, Clark pushes the last bit of burger into his mouth and crumbles up the wrapper as well, stuffing it into the paper bag to be disposed of properly later. It’s such a him thing to do, that Bruce’s heart aches fiercely with it. Clark is just so good , without even trying.
They’re quiet for another minute, carefully not making eye-contact, before Clark shifts. Turning to face Bruce, he says, “We need to talk.”
Bruce tries not to flinch; he’s known that this thing between them would end eventually, he always has. The ‘tour’ of the Watchtower Kal gave Bruce Wayne only seemed to cement that fact. Just thinking about it—the kiss, followed by that damned request to fuck both Bruce and Batman—still makes Bruce feel sick. Clark couldn't have made it more obvious that he's not interested in a proper relationship if he tried. He only wants sex, and that’s okay. Bruce knew what he was getting into. He simply figured he’d have more time before everything inevitably fell apart. Apparently, he overestimated how desirable Clark finds him. His only hope is that they can stay friends for a little while longer, because he isn't ready to give that up, too. He swallows. Maybe he won’t have to. If Clark really has decided he's had enough of sleeping with Batman, the chances of him figuring out Bruce’s identity are much lower. Things could go back to the way they were before.
The problem , Bruce thinks, as he sits there, analyzing the leaden feeling in his chest, is that I don’t want that. Yes, coming clean about who he is will destroy their friendship and that will be a devastating blow he doubts he’ll recover from, but he also realizes now that that ship has sailed. After being as close as they were, after getting a taste of Clark, Bruce doesn’t think he can go back to keeping himself at arm’s length anymore. It has come down to all or nothing for him, so he might as well make this easier on the both of them and take the first step.
“We do need to talk,” he agrees. Heart beating in his throat, he reaches up, curling his fingers under the edges of the cowl.
“B?” asks Clark, a note of panic in his voice, but it’s too late, Bruce is already pulling back the cowl. The cool night air hits his sweaty skin, and he runs shaking fingers through the bird’s nest that is his hair. Adrenaline pumps through his veins, more adrenaline than when he’s fighting Killer Croc, and fuck, but he is terrified. Still, he makes himself turn to face Clark and wait for his judgment.
“Oh Bruce,” says Clark, eyes tracing over Bruce’s exposed face. Bruce can’t quite place his tone, but… he doesn’t seem surprised. Something that his next words only confirm. “I already know who you are.”
Bruce stiffens, his blood running cold. Why didn’t you tell me? , he wants to ask, but before he can get his voice to cooperate, the police scanner crackles to life: “Calling all units to Robinson Park. A group of masked individuals is attacking civilians, they’re armed and dangerous. Exact numbers unknown. I repeat—”
With a growl, Bruce jumps to his feet, and pulls the cowl back on. “Stay here,” he snaps at Clark, whose eyes are already fixed at something in the middle-distance. Without waiting for a reply, Bruce flings himself over the edge of the roof, letting his cape snap taut so that he’s gliding between buildings. Robinson Park isn’t far away, but the roads leading there are too winding for the Batmobile.
A familiar blur of red and blue enters Bruce’s periphery just as he shoots his grapple gun to propel himself forward. “I told you to stay back,” he bites out once he’s level again, knowing Clark will understand him perfectly even over the roar of the wind rushing past them. Predictably, Clark doesn’t listen, and stubbornly follows Bruce towards the commotion at Robinson Park.
As they reach the park, they’re greeted by screams and gunfire. A group of roughly fifty people in various halloween-themed masks have gathered around the fountain in the middle of the park and are attacking everything that moves. They’re carrying anything from knives and automatic rifles to flamethrowers, but thankfully they are uncoordinated, giving the remaining civilians a better chance at escaping. Just as Bruce thinks that, the woman holding the flamethrower lights up the surrounding trees, creating a wall of fire behind the panicked civilians, effectively trapping them.
Bruce curses under his breath, but he knows if anyone had been in danger of getting seriously hurt Clark would have intervened before this, Bruce’s orders be damned. The thought is simultaneously reassuring and infuriating.
“Get them out of here,” he barks, and then he’s throwing himself into the fight, diving right into the thick of things. He dodges bullets while kicking the knife out of one man’s hands, before ducking under the fiery burst of the flamethrower to swipe the feet out from under the woman holding it. She crashes to the floor, and Bruce quickly kicks the flamethrower out of reach.
“The civilians are safe,” announces Clark, appearing next to Bruce. “They’re being checked over by EMTs, and police have created a perimeter around the park.”
Bruce grunts in acknowledgement, and his next punch is maybe a little more forceful than necessary, knocking the man clean out. He sees Clark wince out of the corner of his eye, which only serves to infuriate him even more. How dare Clark judge him? After lying to him for who knows how long?
“You can go, Superman ,” spits Bruce, whirling around to catch the wrist of a man who’d been trying to stab him in the back. He squeezes his attacker’s wrist until he cries out and drops the knife, before he takes him out with a swift punch to the solar plexus. Gasping, the guy crumbles to the floor, revealing Clark’s disapproving frown.
“I’m not just going to leave you alone. Especially not in the middle of a fight.”
Lip curling, Bruce throws a batarang, hitting one of the men carrying an AK47 in the arm and throwing his aim off the slightest bit so that the bullets harmlessly ricochet off of Clark’s chest. “So now that you know who I am, you’re doubting my competence?”
“What? I never said that!” Brows drawing together, he bends down and begins to pick up the discarded weapons. One by one, he breaks them apart, doing so almost absently as his eyes never once leave Bruce, who is fighting three people with baseball bats at once.
“Oh no?” snarls Bruce, and headbuts one of his assailants to give himself some breathing room. “Did you forget all the things you said about me when you thought I couldn’t hear you? And here I thought you had an eidetic memory, Superman.”
“I’m sorry about that, B. I never should have judged you that harshly,” answers Clark, sounding so genuinely contrite that Bruce’s anger only flares hotter. He feels unbearably vulnerable, and he knows he’s being a hypocrite, but it feels different . Clark is always kind, always understanding, and maybe that’s an unfair expectation on Bruce’s part, but he thought that kindness also extended to himself. If anyone would be able to put up with him it would be Kal, or that’s what Bruce thought. He’d been this close to revealing his identity on his own, for crying out loud. To have that certainty snatched away left a lasting mark. Clark’s harsh words from all those months ago still hurt, loath as Bruce is to admit it.
“Should we really be hearing this?” whispers one of Bruce’s attackers, pausing with his bat raised. Even through the zombie masks he and his companion are wearing, the uncomfortable look they share is blatantly obvious.
“I dunno, man. Seems like something you should discuss at home, no?” he says with a shrug. “I mean, I never bring my fights with Ceilia to work.”
Bruce uses their distraction to disarm them, and swiftly moves on to the next targets. Some people have started abandoning their weapons and running for the trees. Like Bruce expected him to, Clark used his ice breath to put out the fire when he helped the last civilians get to safety, leaving the runaway criminals to slip and stumble on the frozen ground and Bruce to take care of the last assailants still willing to fight.
He shoots his grapple, the line wrapping around a statue in the middle of the fountain, and then he's propelled forward, using the momentum to slam into two men with shotguns and knocking them to the ground. Clark awkwardly floats after him. “I really am sorry about what I said, B,” he tries again. “I was prejudiced, and let that cloud my opinion. I was being an ass.”
And it’s not fair , Bruce knows it isn’t. Brucie Wayne is designed to be unlikable. A wasteful and spoiled airhead, barely worth anyone’s time outside of forming business connections. People are not supposed to want to get close to him. But that doesn't stop it from hurting when he hears his friends—the man he loves—talking so derisively about him. He doesn't want to be fair or rational right now.
“Since when,” he demands. Using one woman's momentum against her, he does a flip over her head to land right behind her, knocking her out with a jab to a pressure point at the side of her neck.
“Batman…” says Clark, so clearly reluctant to share this bit of information, and Bruce swears his vision is turning red around the edges. Has Clark been playing him? Has he known from the start who Bruce is and just never said anything? Well , the bitter part in Bruce pipes up, he said a lot of things, it's just that none of them were nice. So… what? Has this all been a game for Clark? A way to stick it to Bruce?
Heart aching and humiliation burning in his gut, Bruce takes down the last two criminals, knocking them flat on their backs, before quickly tying them up.
“The ones who fled?” he asks, and Clark sighs, hands twitching at his sides like he wants to run them through his hair. Or maybe punch a wall. “They ran right into the police. They're being arrested as we speak.”
Grunting his acknowledgement, Bruce goes around and ties up the remaining criminals, removing their various monster masks as he goes, but there is no familiar face among them. Unfortunately, Bruce let himself get carried away, meaning no one is conscious enough to be questioned. Gritting his teeth, he contents himself with taking blood samples for now—since there is no clear affiliation with any major player and nothing to rob in Robinson Park, he can't rule out that some drug was at work here. Once that's done, he sends a quick message to Alfred, asking him to get the GCPD files as soon as they're in the database.
Superman, of course, has been waiting close by the entire time. As soon as he realizes Bruce is done securing the scene and gathering evidence, he floats closer. “Can we… Can we talk about this? Somewhere private? I’d like to try and explain. I didn't mean to let this go on for so long. I meant to tell you right away, I swear.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” snarls Bruce, and mentally goes over every interaction of theirs to see how he could have missed this, where he slipped up so badly that Clark figured him out. If he's said or done anything that could be used against him now. Aside from sleeping with Clark, of course… Brue doesn’t like being at a disadvantage at the best of times, and this is infinitely worse. “Since. When.”
Clark looks around uncomfortably, eyeing the people lying at their feet and likely checking if they’re still unconscious. “The second interview,” he eventually confesses, and Bruce sees red.
Gritting his teeth so hard that it’s a wonder they’re not cracking, he gets right up in Clark’s face. A part of him is aware that he's overreacting, that it's hypocritical to be this angry, seeing as he himself has known Clark's identity for a while and hasn’t said a word, but this is different. He was never cruel to Clark. “Was that before or after you called me a slut?”
Clark flinches, and averts his gaze. “After,” he says quietly, looking for all the world like a kicked puppy, and… And Bruce can’t do this. It’s too much. He feels raw, like a cornered animal with its vulnerable underbelly exposed. He’s been in love with Superman for years, barely allowing himself to think about it and never believing anything would come of it, and now that he’s closer than ever to actually being with Clark, he’s simultaneously never been farther away.
“I hope getting your dick wet was worth it,” he hisses. Ignoring the gasps and murmurs coming from some of the tied up criminals at his feet, who aren’t as unconscious as they appeared to be—
“Holy shit.”
“The Boy Scout called Batman a slut ?”
“Are we sure this isn’t Clayface putting on a performance?”
—Bruce whirls around, ready to hole himself up in his office and lick his wounds. He would prefer the comfort of the cave but he’s not up for company right now. However, before he can take more than one step, Clark’s fingers close around his wrist, holding him back.
“Please, B. I understand that you don’t want to be with me anymore, but I can’t lose you. You’re my best friend, and I just.” He exhales harshly, fingers flexing around Bruce’s wrist. “Please let me try and make this right.”
Bruce’s heart seizes, and longing fills him, presses against his lungs until breathing is a chore. A part of him wants nothing more than to give Clark what he’s asking for, to let him explain and apologize and go back to business as usual. But the other part of him recognizes what a bad idea that would be. He’s not in the right headspace to listen, not even close. He’s too reactive, too stuck between his flight or fight responses for this to be productive.
“Not yet,” he says, hating how vulnerable he sounds, hating how Clark’s expression seems to crumble before his eyes. “I’m not saying no, Kal, but I need some time.”
“I understand.” Clark’s fingers fall away from Bruce’s wrist and he takes a step back. Bruce feels cold all of a sudden. “Call me when you’re ready, B. Anytime, okay? I’ll be keeping an ear out.” He gives Bruce one last, lingering look, and then he’s gone, leaving only a gust of air behind.
“Are you really gonna talk to him, Bats? After he insulted you like that?” asks one of the women, the one with the flamethrower from earlier.
Bruce lets his lips pull into a smile he knows looks ominous, and crouches down next to her. “Since you’re so eager to talk, I’ve got a few questions for you. And I suggest you answer truthfully.”
™™™
Present day
Wayne Tower, Gotham City
Bruce doesn’t get a wink of sleep that night. After interrogating the woman on why she and her companions were shooting up Robinson Park—and finding out that there is apparently a new player in town, hellbent on drawing attention to themselves for reasons Bruce can’t quite understand just yet—he leaves the criminals in the care of the GCPD and returns to his office.
Stowing away his suit in the hidden safe he personally installed for just that purpose, he takes a shower in the ensuite, washing the sweat and grime away and letting the warm water massage his sore muscles. But those aren’t exactly engaging activities. Writing up his report takes a little more time and occupies slightly more brainpower, but that, too, is over far too quickly. Speculating about this new threat seems pointless with how little he has to go off of at the moment, there are just too many variables. He'll need to investigate further, before drawing any conclusions.
Which means that all too soon Bruce is left with nothing to do but think about Clark, and this entire mess they've created for themselves.
He ends up spending the entire night pacing the length of his office, thoughts running in circles, and by the time the first swirls of pink and red appear on the horizon, he’s not gotten any closer to having ordered his thoughts. The only thing he realized is that Clark would never have slept with him just to get back at Brucie somehow. It was Bruce's biggest fear upon hearing how long Clark has known his identity. That all of this has been some kind of gotcha! where Clark works through his billionaire-shaped frustrations by fucking Bruce, making him fall for him, and then leaving him heartbroken. Bruce can recognize now that those were just his own fears and anxieties talking, his cynicism. Clark wouldn't do that.
But what does that mean for them? Is there even a them? Has there ever been one? Would Clark be interested in a relationship with him? Would Bruce?
Bruce doesn't have an answer to any of those questions. Add to that the fact that he himself has yet to come clean about knowing Clark's identity, and he's just not sure what to do anymore.
A knock coming from the balcony door pulls Bruce to an abrupt halt. His head snaps up, and there, floating outside, is Clark. His hair is a mess, his suit dirty and he looks like he hasn't slept a wink either.
Bruce’s heart skips. He doesn't think. Without hesitation, he rushes over, his fingers clumsy on the lock in his haste to open the door. Once it's open, however, he's just standing there frozen. He can't look away from Clark, and doesn't know what to say. He suddenly feels so stupid for his outburst earlier.
“Hey, Bruce,” says Clark, sounding unsure as he slowly drifts closer, and yet his voice resonates inside Bruce, warming the places that have been left cold in his absence. “I know you said you needed some time, but—”
Bruce doesn’t let him finish. He grabs the front of Clark’s suit and drags him into a kiss, going on his tiptoes to press their mouths together. Clark makes a surprised sound against Bruce’s lips, but then his arms are wrapping around Bruce’s waist, pulling him against that broad chest. Bruce feels dizzy. Clark’s scent fills his nose as their lips move against each other, breaths coming faster through their noses as they hold on to each other.
Eventually, Clark pulls back. He swallows as he rests his forehead against Bruce’s. His eyes are closed, and Bruce feels strangely bereft that he can’t see the unearthly blue of his eyes, can’t read the emotion in them. Because Clark is still holding him tight, almost desperately so. As if he’s afraid Bruce might disappear again. The thought makes Bruce’s stomach clench uncomfortably.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, tightening the hold he has on Clark’s suit in turn. It’s laughable. He could never keep Clark where he doesn’t want to be, but he can’t stop himself.
“No, B, I’m sorry. I was being so unfair to you, and then I didn’t even have the guts to come clean right away—”
“You’re not the only one who lied.”
Clark’s eyes fly open. “What do you mean?”
Breathing out, Bruce forces himself to uncurl his fists and let go of Clark, wanting to give them space, but Clark leaves his arms where they are, keeping them close. “You didn’t call me a slut.”
Clark’s brows furrow. “What are you talking about, B? You don’t need to make excuses for me….” He trails off, sharp gaze snapping to Bruce’s. “Oh. Superman didn’t call you… that . Clark Kent did.”
Bruce grits his teeth against the trembling that starts in his limbs, tries to contain the emotions pushing against his ribs and to get himself to explain, but all that comes out is, “I’m a hypocrite, in that your first judgment of me was correct.”
Clark swallows. “How long did you know?”
Bruce can’t quite place his tone, but he draws hope from the fact that Clark hasn’t let go of him yet. They’re still close, Clark’s arms wrapped around Bruce’s waist, their chests pressed flush, and the situation is so absurd that Bruce feels hysterical laughter bubbling up inside him. He closes his eyes against the feeling. “The day after Black Mask.”
Clark’s eyes go unfocused for a moment, in a way Bruce recognizes as him sorting through his memories. He waits with baited breath for Clark’s judgment, for the moment he realizes what Bruce has done, how much he really invaded Clark’s privacy.
Eventually, Clark’s gaze clears. “Oh Bruce,” he says, and then he starts to laugh. “You’re ridiculous! That was you at the train station that morning, wasn’t it? I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you. And was it really necessary to install cameras in my hotel room?”
Bruce’s breath catches at the beautiful sight and sound of Clark’s laughter, the way he seems to glow with happiness, so it takes him a moment to parse Clark’s words. “You’re not angry?” he asks, genuinely surprised. Even his kids, despite regularly spying on him in turn, aren’t happy with his interventions.
“Maybe a little,” replies Clark, but his eyes are sparkling with mirth. “I’m just happy we finally got to talk. Though I hope cameras in my room won’t become the norm from now on.”
Bruce feels the tips of his ears grow hot. “No promises.”
“Yeah, I figured,” answers Clark, looking so unbearably fond.
Clearing his throat, Bruce looks away. Or he tries to anyway. Clark has yet to release his hold on him, making hiding himself impossible. “How did you figure out that there were cameras?” asks Bruce, trying to distract himself.
“They make a distinct sound. I was too distracted when I got back to my room after we, uh. After Black Mask. I did hear it, but I just chalked it up to something else. There are so many sounds in a city like Gotham. It’s hard to keep track sometimes.”
“You need to be more careful,” says Bruce, frowning. “If it had been anyone other than me—”
“I know, B. I’ll pay better attention next time, don't worry.”
“Hn.” Bruce is already planning ways to train Clark’s subconscious to better pick up on these things. This is a weakness they need to account for.
Clark’s fingers start absently drawing patterns on Bruce’s shoulderblades, making him shiver. “So,” he says eventually, “We both know the other’s identity now.”
Leaning back, Bruce meets Clark’s gaze. “We do.”
Clark licks his lips. “And we’ve been sleeping together.”
“We have,” replies Bruce, heart rate picking up.
“I want to keep doing that. I want to—” Exhaling sharply, Clark cuts himself off, before he tries again. Bruce’s heart is hammering so hard he’s surprised his ribs haven’t cracked yet. “I want to be with you, Bruce. And not just for sex, even though that’s a part of what I want. What I’m trying to say is—”
“I love you,” says Bruce, cutting Clark’s—frankly adorable—ramblings short. He has no idea where the words came from. He definitely didn’t plan on confessing his feelings, and certainly not so soon. A paralysing feeling of panic grabs him, making it suddenly hard to breathe. What if that wasn't where Clark saw this going? If it's too much too soon? If—
Clark's lips crash into his. He sweeps Bruce off his feet, and the kiss is, if possible, even better than the ones before. It feels more open and honest, like there's finally nothing holding them back.
“I love you, too,” breathes Clark between kisses. “ So much . Jesus, B, I was so scared I'd ruined everything. I was such a coward.”
“We both were.” Bruce chuckles weakly. “But maybe we should take this inside? I can't see it going over well for you if Superman is caught kissing Bruce Wayne, especially with the action figures on the horizon.”
Clark's grip on Bruce shifts, his hands gliding downward until he's cupping Bruce's ass. He pulls him closer, pressing their groins together. “I'd say I'm willing to risk it, but I want you to myself,” he murmurs, teeth grazing the skin below Bruce's ear. Bruce shivers, fingers tunneling into Clark's hair as arousal builds in his gut.
“God, I need you to fuck me.”
Clark curses, his entire body jerks, his cock starting to swell against Bruce's leg. Heat spreads through Bruce, anticipation stealing his breath, and it's all he can do not to rub himself all over Clark like a cat in heat.
“ Now , Big Blue.”
“Yes,” says Clark, teeth briefly pressing into the scar on Bruce's neck. “ Rao , yes.”
There is a rush of wind, and then they're suddenly on the couch, Bruce on Clark's lap. It's a dizzying change, but a welcome one, and Bruce doesn't dwell on it long. Instead he lets his palms glide over Clark's broad shoulders, his chest, enjoying the firm muscles under his fingertips. He takes his time, tracing the House of El symbol, before he slides his hands to the back of Clark’s neck and tangles his fingers in his cape, pulling him into another kiss.
Clark is fully hard now, his alien cock pulsating against Bruce's ass and—He grinds his hips down, lust licking up his spine at the thought of getting fucked by the tentacle-like appendage, getting stretched by that knot. “God, Big Blue, if you don't get that thing in me I'm pulling out the Kryptonite.”
“Yes! Jesus, yes,” breathes Clark, teeth briefly closing around Bruce’s bottom lip, sending a spike of arousal through him, but then Clark hesitates. Leaning back slightly, he asks, “Will you let me see you first? All of you?”
Bruce shivers at the naked want in Clark’s eyes, the almost pleading note in his voice. “Thought about this often, have you?”
“Of course,” answers Clark immediately, unselfconsciously, which is a powertrip all on its own. His hands tighten on Bruce’s hips. “I’ve been dreaming about this. Seeing you completely bare, just for me, when you’re usually covered from head to toe…” He shivers, and Bruce’s cock twitches eagerly in response.
“I suppose it would be cruel to make you wait any longer,” murmurs Bruce, voice growing husky with desire. That he apparently has such an effect on Clark of all people is mind-boggling, heady, and something Bruce absolutely needs to explore. “Just sit back and relax.”
With that, Bruce extricates himself from Clark, climbing off of his lap. He doesn’t go far, however, just barely out of Clark’s immediate reach. After all, they can’t let this be over too soon.
The way Clark sits there, in his full Superman suit, but with his hair disheveled and his legs spread obscenely wide, lust burning in those otherworldly eyes, emboldens Bruce even further. Addressing the voice controlled computer systems he installed in his office, he says, “Activate protocol five-seven-six-nine.”
The lights in the office dim to a muted glow and music starts playing from the speakers hidden throughout the room, low and intimate.
“What are you doing?” asks Clark, but his pupils are blown wide, fingers digging into the leather of the couch as if he has to hold himself back from grabbing Bruce and dragging him close again.
“I’m giving you a show, Boy Scout. Just enjoy it.” Closing his eyes, Bruce lets the music feed his arousal. He’s nervous, it’s been years since he’s done anything like this, but the sensual croon of Sade never fails to affect him. Besides, the thought of teasing Clark in this way is too appealing. So he kicks off his shoes and starts to move, swaying his hips to the slow beat.
The jacket goes first, then the tie and vest, and Bruce can feel himself getting lost in this. He’s immensely glad that he decided against more comfortable clothing after his shower. Clark’s eyes are glued to his every movement, cock straining against the material of his suit as he watches Bruce dance for him. Fuck, but Bruce is painfully hard himself. He hasn’t put himself on display like this in ages, hasn’t felt comfortable enough with someone to do it, but with Clark it’s so easy .
By the time Bruce starts unbuttoning his shirt, hips undulating in time with the music, his breathing is labored. He’s so aroused, he’s suddenly not sure if he can get through this striptease without embarrassing himself, but he’s determined to give Clark the show of his life.
Slowly, he parts the shirt, revealing glimpses of his chest and stomach, before he drags the material down his arms and throws it away. He trails his hands over his belly, and up to his chest, goosebumps rising in the wake of his rough palms. When he pinches his nipples, he can’t hold back his sounds any longer and a moan spills from his lips.
A growl draws Bruce’s attention back to Clark, and what he sees makes another moan catch in his throat. Clark’s gaze has turned molten, fixed on Bruce’s exposed skin with unwavering focus. His teeth are bared, nostrils flaring as his fingers rip through the leather of the couch with ease. He doesn’t even seem to notice the destruction he’s caused.
Arousal pulses through Bruce, as his fingers trail downwards, making his own muscles jump in their wake before he grabs his belt. The growl grows louder, and Bruce swears he feels it rumbling through his bones, causing precum to leak from his cock, seeping into his underwear. Unprepared for the jolt of lust, he closes his eyes again. Dancing for someone has never affected him like this before. He’s found it enticing, yes, but he’s never felt this need build in his gut, the breathless excitement and anticipation.
With trembling hands, he unbuckles his belt, draws it away from his body with aching slowness, before he drops it to the floor. His skin feels like it’s been set on fire, and a whine builds in his chest the longer Clark keeps staring at him with that animal intensity.
To give himself some reprieve, Bruce turns in a slow circle, swaying his hips to give Clark a perfect view of his ass when he finally begins unbuttoning his pants. He pushes them down to show the swell of his ass before teasingly pulling them back up, and the fierce growl that earns him from Clark has him groaning.
He almost stops what he’s doing to press a hand to his aching erection, desperate to get some relief, but the desire to push Clark further, to see when he’ll reach his limit and what happens when he does, keeps him gyrating his hips as he pushes his pants down. The drag of the fabric against his skin is almost too much. His underwear is clinging wetly to his leaking cock by now, and—
A gust of wind hits Bruce’s overheated skin and when he opens his eyes Clark is right there. Practically vibrating with tension, he’s standing in front of Bruce, gaze so intense it feels like a physical touch.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says roughly, eyes all pupil as he crowds closer, dragging his gaze over every inch of Bruce’s exposed skin. His chest is heaving, sweat beading on his forehead. Bruce wants to lick it off. “I need to fuck you, B. Rao, I’m sorry, Princess, but I can’t wait any longer.”
Despite the urgency of his words, Clark keeps his hands to himself, curled tightly into fists at his sides. He looks like he’s barely holding himself back, like he wants nothing more than to throw Bruce to the ground and ravish him. But he also looks like he won’t lift so much as a finger unless he gets Bruce’s express permission to do so, and— Fucking shit. Bruce swallows thickly, a fresh wave of arousal threatening to take him under. This is the hottest thing he’s ever experienced. Someone as powerful as Clark putting himself at Bruce’s mercy like that… Only belatedly the nickname Clark used for him registers and once it does, any thought of dragging this out leaves Bruce’s mind at once.
“Princess?” he asks, taking a step back to dislodge the pants from around his ankles, but Clark follows him. He looks so much like a predator that Bruce instinctively keeps backing up. Until his back hits one of the floor-to-ceiling windows spanning one wall of the office. Clark stalks after him all the way, only stopping when their chests are mere inches apart.
“You are,” he rumbles, lowering his head. “My pretty Princess, dancing for my pleasure.” He buries his nose in Bruce’s neck, and inhales deeply, a shudder going through him that jostles the cape. “Jesus, the way you smell.”
Bruce has to bite his tongue to keep a—frankly embarrassing—whine from slipping out. “That doesn’t make me a Princess,” manages Bruce, needing to regain control of the situation somehow, but Clark only laughs.
He skims his nose up the side of Bruce’s neck until he reaches his ear, and whispers, “You forget that I can read your body like an open book, Princess.” Bruce trembles, and closes his eyes, breathing going ragged. He hears Clark inhale again. “I can smell your arousal, can hear your heartbeat stutter every time I call you pretty or Princess. You love it. You want to be my pretty Princess, Bruce, and I don’t see why I should deny us that.”
“Fuck.” Bruce gasps, and lets his head fall back against the window as another wave of lust rolls through him. “Please, Clark. I—”
“Shh, Princess,” rumbles Clark and he’s once again mouthing at the scar he left on Bruce’s neck. God, Bruce hopes he’ll leave another one. Maybe on the inside of his thigh. “I’ve got you, and I know exactly what you need.”
Suddenly, Clark is stepping back, and Bruce’s eyes fly open, alarmed, but Clark isn’t gone. He’s just standing there, staring at Bruce. When their gazes meet, he twirls one finger through the air in front of him. “Come on, Princess, turn around for me.”
Biting back a moan, Bruce does.
™™™
Present day
Wayne Tower, Gotham City
Clark feels like a slavering beast when heat flashes in Bruce’s eyes before he turns to face the window. Bracing his hands against the glass, Bruce lets his forehead hang between his arms. He spreads his legs slightly, putting that perfect ass on full display. He’s presenting , thinks Clark and the animal part of his brain howls in satisfaction. “Perfect,” he mutters as he drops to his knees behind Bruce. Hooking his fingers into the waistband of his black boxer briefs, Clark barely stops himself from simply ripping them off of Bruce. Instead, he slowly slides them down those perfectly toned legs, delighting in the feeling of fine hairs and rough scars tickling his fingers. Bruce’s body is that of a warrior, trained to fight, hardened to withstand and endure, and yet it is so unimaginably soft under Clark’s hands. The urge to mark Bruce’s flesh rises inside him, his teeth actually ache with it, but he holds himself back—for now—and contents himself with stroking his palms up Bruce’s legs. From his ankles to his hips and back down again. When he feels more in control of himself again, he moves to Bruce’s inner thighs, delighting in the hitched sighs that earns him.
“I’m going to make sure you never even think about anyone else again,” murmurs Clark, cupping Bruce’s heavy balls in his hand and massaging them gently.
“Yes,” groans Bruce above him, tipping his forehead against the glass and spreading his legs further. “Please, Clark. Do it.”
Jesus wept, hearing Bruce beg like that… How could Clark resist? Releasing Bruce’s balls—much to Bruce’s distress if the whine is anything to go by—he slides his hands to Bruce’s ass, cups his cheeks and pulls them apart, and then he buries his face in between.
Bruce shouts, obviously torn between pulling away and shoving his ass back into Clark’s face. Not that Clark leaves that choice up to him. Growling, he tightens his grip on Bruce, keeps him still until he stops his squirming, panting breaths fogging up the glass. Only then does Clark return to the task at hand. Without warning or building up to it, he licks a broad stripe over Bruce’s hole.
Above him, Bruce moans, his thighs shaking, and the scent of his arousal thickens in the air, grows almost cloying in its intensity. Clark loves it, breathes in deep, and sets about taking Bruce apart.
He licks and sucks at Bruce’s hole, pushes his tongue inside before pulling back and nipping at the sensitive ring of muscles. He doesn’t let up, barely gives Bruce time to catch his breath, until he’s practically sobbing with every exhale.
Eventually, his fingers join his tongue, first one, then two, then three pushing into Bruce’s willing body with nothing but Clark’s spit to ease the way. It has to burn, but Bruce meets each thrust with a wanton moan, his balls full and already drawing close to his body. He’s close, that much is obvious, but Clark won’t let him come yet. He keeps his ministrations up until Bruce is on the cusp of his orgasm, screwing three fingers into him, bullying his prostate with each thrust, but just when B’s muscles tense, ready to release the tension in a rush of ecstasy, Clark pulls back.
“No!” sobs Bruce, frantically trying to turn around. “No no no, please! Don’t stop.”
Clark shushes him, rubbing his hands up and down Bruce’s flanks and pressing kisses to his hips and lower back. “I won’t stop, Princess, but you’re not coming unless I’m inside you.”
Bruce’s entire body jerks at that, erection jumping between his legs, and Clark has to stop himself from simply fucking into him right then and there. Lube , he reminds himself, swallowing back another growl. Condoms. Can’t hurt Bruce.
“Come on, Clark,” whines Bruce, once again trying to turn around. “I need you.”
Clark releases a slow breath. “Not without lube. I’m not hurting you.”
It’s Bruce’s turn to growl. “Bathroom, second drawer on the left. Hurry. ”
Fighting down the urge to bite Bruce and leave another mark, make him go pliant again, Clark gets to his feet. “Don’t move,” he orders, searching the office with his x-ray vision to locate the bathroom. He quickly spots it behind the bookshelf across the room, locates the hidden lever by the desk and with a burst of superspeed he’s inside, searching the drawers in a matter of seconds. He locates the lube immediately but can’t find any condoms, and doesn’t realize he’s growling to himself until Bruce appears in the doorway.
“Everything alright?”
Frustrated, Clark runs a hand through his hair. “I can’t find any condoms.”
Bruce frowns. “Why would we need those? We can’t get each other sick and I can’t get pregnant.”
Clark’s cock writhes tellingly at that last word, which is— a discussion for a later date, fuck . “You said it yourself, my, uh, ejaculate is an aphrodisiac, Bruce. We don’t know what will happen if I…” He swallows. The thought alone is making his skin feel too tight. “If I come inside you.”
“I swallowed your semen before,” says Bruce reasonably, but with a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice. “If anything happens at all, it’s that I’m horny, which,” He gestures at his erection that, miraculously, hasn’t flagged in the slightest. “Is already the case.”
Clark’s gaze snags on Bruce’s cock, curving towards his belly, flushed bright red and glistening at the tip. His nostrils flare, mouth watering, and with a nod he finally gives in. “Get back to the window,” he says, grabbing the lube from where he placed it on the counter.
Bruce raises an eyebrow? “Obsessed with the view, are you? Is this some kind of exhibitionist kink we need to discuss?” Clark debates telling the truth but in that second he’s already hesitated too long, and Bruce picks up that there’s more to this than he thought. Gently, he adds, “You can tell me, Clark. I won’t judge.”
Clark briefly closes his eyes. “You belong to Gotham. Always have, always will. This… It’s…”
“You laying your claim to me, Big Blue?”
Blowing out a long breath, he admits, “...Yes.” The thought alone makes his insides squirm. He wants everyone to know that Bruce belongs to him now. And Bruce, bless him, only smirks in the face of his possessiveness. “In that case, we should skip the condoms anyway, don’t you think? Having me walk around with your cum inside me, dripping down my thighs, would send the message nicely. Everyone would know.”
Images dance before Clark’s eyes, one more enticing than the last. Bruce exhausted but sated, dripping with his cum, thoroughly claimed. He sucks in a shaky breath. “I love you, Bruce.”
Bruce’s gaze softens. “I love you, too.” He reaches out a hand towards Clark. “Now come on, I need you to claim me.”
Arousal licks up Clark’s spine, and he bridges the distance between him and Bruce, relishing in the heat flaring brighter in Bruce’s eyes. A growl rumbles through his chest, and then he has Bruce in his arms. “Hold on tight,” he orders, wrapping his cape protectively around Bruce’s naked form.
“What are you…?” Bruce’s question is cut off when Clark uses his superspeed to whisk them away. He thought of something better than the window in Bruce’s office, overlooking Gotham, something that will satisfy the possessive beast inside him: Wayne Manor. Clark has never been there before, but he knows where it is, and once there it’s not difficult to find Bruce’s room; his scent is strongest there.
All in all, it takes less than a minute until they’re touching down at the foot of Bruce’s giant four-poster bed. With another burst of superspeed Clark finally divests himself of his suit, carelessly throwing it onto the floor. His erection is pulsing painfully, oozing precum with each frantic beat of his heart. He feels each drop as it slides down the underside of his cock, the small nubs especially sensitive after being confined in his suit for so long.
“Fuck,” curses Bruce next to him, grabbing onto one of the bedposts to keep himself upright. “Warn me next time!”
Clark doesn’t respond. He's too busy basking in the feeling of rightness that comes with being here, in Bruce's space, about to claim him in the most primal way. Another growl rises in his throat, and while Bruce is looking around, frowning a little as he clearly recognizes his own bedroom, Clark is crowding close once more.
“What happened to the window plan?” asks Bruce, sounding gratifyingly breathless as his gaze trails achingly slow over Clark's naked body. From his toes, over his legs, his stomach, to his chest and shoulders, like he’s trying to memorize every inch. Bruce's cock twitches as he stares, and Jesus , Clark wants to devour him.
“I had a better idea.” He takes another step closer, until his chest touches Bruce's, hot breaths mixing between them.
“Yeah? What’s that?” Bruce snakes his arms around Clark’s neck, pupils blown as he meets Clark’s gaze.
“Let me show you,” growls Clark, and then he’s grabbing B's ass with both hands, hoisting him up his body as he claims B’s mouth in a bruising kiss. Bruce’s cock presses into Clark’s stomach, smearing his skin with precum.
“Fuck,” he mutters into the kiss, one hand sliding to the back of Clark’s neck while the other cups his cheek. “ Fuck , I need you, Big Guy. I’ve wanted this for so long, but—” Bruce cuts himself off with a moan, and licks over Clark’s lips, rutting against his belly as much as he can with his ass still held firmly in Clark’s grip. And Clark gets what he means. He himself has been dying to get inside B, to feel the heat of his body surrounding him, but as long as the identity thing still stood between them, it didn’t feel right. Now though… Now, he can finally stop holding back, and a fresh wave of pure want floods Clark’s system, making him feel almost feverish with lust, out of control.
With a snarl on his lips, Clark sets Bruce down on the massive bed, and immediately crawls on top of him, unwilling to leave any space between them. “I’m gonna make this so good for you, Princess,” he promises, kissing and sucking on every part of Bruce he can reach, sucking on his nipples before returning to his face.
Bruce groans, and stretches like a cat. He spreads his legs, making space for Clark while his hands grab hold of Clark’s shoulders, holding him close. With shaking hands, Clark reaches between them, probing Bruce’s entrance to make sure he’s stretched enough to accommodate his girth.
“I’m ready,” urges Bruce, fingers digging into Clark’s skin. If Clark were human, that would definitely leave marks, and the thought sends a fission of heat down his spine. A groan tears itself from his throat as he blindly gropes for the lube he threw on the bed earlier. Finding it, he pops the cap open with his teeth, and pours a generous amount onto his fingers before he returns them to Bruce’s hole, carefully pushing two fingers inside.
Bruce makes an impatient sound, and bucks his hips. “I’m ready,” he snaps. “Come on, Clark, get on with it!”
And Clark knows he should probably make sure, knows that Bruce needs proper stretching if he’s supposed to take his knot, but the last thread of his patience snaps. He pulls his fingers free, smears the remaining lube over his pulsing cock, shuddering at even this perfunctory touch, and then he’s lining himself up. The tip of his cock slips into Bruce of its own accord, stretching him. They moan in unison.
Bruce wraps his legs around Clark’s waist, digging his heels into Clark’s ass to get him to move, and Clark lets himself pitch forward the slightest bit, mouthing at the scar on Bruce’s throat as he slowly pushes into his waiting body.
The heat is incredible. Bruce is so tight around him, basically sucking him in. Each nub that pops past Bruce’s rim makes shivers race through Clark’s body until he thinks he might come before he’s even fully inside Bruce. It's so much more intense than he could have imagined.
B isn’t faring any better. He’s panting under Clark, writhing and undulating his hips. “Please,” he groans, shaking from head to toe. “ Please, Clark. Move. Claim me, come on. You promised you would.”
Gritting his teeth, Clark keeps his pace slow and steady until he’s seated fully inside Bruce. Sweat is dripping down his temple, a novel sensation for how rarely it happens, and it only adds fuel to the fire raging in his blood.
He grabs B’s hands, gently unlatching them from his shoulders so that he can push them into the mattress next to Bruce’s head, twining their fingers together tightly. “Hold on,” he tells Bruce, barely recognizing his own voice, made rough by his arousal as it is. He leans back, looks into Bruce’s dazed eyes. Only then does he draw his hips back, agonizingly slow, until only the head of his cock remains inside.
Bruce whines, a pitiful sound that makes the possessive beast in Clark’s chest sit up and take notice. He tries to lift his hips, to get Clark back inside, but Clark refuses to speed up. All they’ve done these past few weeks is rush things. Even if the slow pace is killing him, making him feel overheated and way too sensitive and pretty darn close to losing his mind, he’s determined to see it through. Bruce deserves tenderness in his life.
When he finally thrusts back into Bruce’s waiting body, it’s just as slow and measured. Once he’s bottomed out, he lets himself grind deep, making B feel every inch of him. Bruce throws his head back with a shout, and Clark repeats the entire process again. He keeps his rhythm even, his thrusts slow and deep, powerful, and it’s not long before tears are leaking from the corner of Bruce’s eyes. He makes these punched-out little sounds every time Clark rocks into him with deep, powerful thrusts, holding his hands all the while. And when Clark’s knot eventually starts to swell, starts catching on Bruce’s rim, Bruce chokes on a sob.
“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” pants Clark, resting his forehead against Bruce’s as pleasure burns through him, making him feel light-headed. Rao, he’s so close… “So pretty and smart, so strong.”
“Clark!” Bruce cries out, hips jerking up to meet Clark’s, a fresh wave of tears running down his cheeks. Clark kisses them away, hungry for each of Bruce’s reactions, desperate to taste and feel all of him.
“Come on, Princess,” he murmurs, rolling his hips just the slightest bit faster, shuddering as his swelling knot pops past Bruce’s rim once more. “I want to feel you cum, before I fill you up and breed you until it takes.”
A part of Clark is mortified by what he’s saying, but the bigger part feels the way Bruce clenches around him, smells the burst of precum as it hits his stomach, and wants nothing more than to make his words reality. “I’ll keep you on my knot all day,” he pants, thrusts gaining more momentum. “Fuck a baby into you, keep you full.”
With a shout, Bruce tumbles over the edge, back bowing off the bed as he comes. His body clenches tight around Clark, practically milking his cock, and whitehot pleasure explodes before his eyes as he follows Bruce into the abyss. He ruts mindlessly into Bruce, never pulling out fully until his knot finally pops, tying them together. Spurt after spurt of his cum fills Bruce, who is sobbing under Clark, thoroughly overstimulated.
When the waves of ecstasy finally abate, Clark gently wraps his arms around Bruce and rolls them until he’s on his back, with Bruce resting on his chest. B is boneless in his arms, moaning weakly as the movement jostles Clark’s knot inside him but otherwise acting like a ragdoll. Pride fills Clark. He’s never seen Bruce this relaxed before. To witness it now, the loose way he’s draped over Clark, the lack of tension in his shoulders and the almost serene expression on his face, feels like the greatest blessing.
Carefully, so as not to disturb Bruce, Clark runs his fingers up and down B’s spine, humming quietly to himself. He doesn’t know how long they lay there like that, but it’s long after his knot has gone down, his cock slipping free of Bruce’s body, that Bruce stirs again. Involuntarily, Clark’s arms tighten around him.
“Sleep,” he says, and presses a kiss to the top of Bruce’s head. “Whatever you’re thinking about can wait until tomorrow.”
Bruce wrinkles his nose adorably as he shifts on Clark’s chest. “It's morning. And we need to shower. I’m leaking all over you. It’s gross.”
Clark shrugs. “I don’t mind.”
“Of course you don’t,” mutters Bruce. “You’re a pervert.”
Laughing, Clark takes pity on his boyfriend and speeds them into the bathroom. “I didn’t hear you complaining,” he says, as he sits Bruce down on the lip of the giant tub, and starts fiddling with the taps. “In, fact, if memory serves, you were all for it.”
Bruce grumbles to himself, but doesn’t actually argue, and there is no protest when Clark carefully maneuvers both of them into the tub, Bruce’s back to his chest.
“Are you happy now?” asks Clark, and without really meaning to, he’s asking about more than just their hygiene. Something Bruce definitely picks up on. He turns around in the water, straddling Clark’s legs, and meets his eyes with a serious look on his handsome face.
“I am. I never would have imagined…” He trails off, and shakes his head, trying to avert his eyes, but Clark cups his face with both hands before he can.
“What were you going to say, B?”
Bruce bites his lip. Eventually, he admits, “I never thought you’d feel the same. It’s why I didn’t say anything after I found out who you are. I was too scared that you would push me away, and I didn’t want to lose you. It wasn’t sustainable, I knew, but selfishly I wanted to keep you for as long as I could.”
Clark’s chest seizes. “Oh, Princess,” he breathes, and draws Bruce into a tender kiss. “I’m sorry I let this drag on for so long. I should have said something as soon as I figured out your identity.”
“You did say something. I was simply being obtuse,” retorts Bruce, a furrow forming between his brows. Reaching up, Clark smoothes it out again with his fingers.
“No, B, this isn’t on you. I wasn’t trying very hard to be understood.”
“Why?” asks Bruce, a bit of tension stealing back over him. “Did I—?”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Clark quickly interrupts. “That was entirely my own fault. I didn’t realize it until later, but I wasn’t just scared of losing you, but of letting you close. As long as we didn’t talk about things there was this distance between us, a barrier that kept the intimacy at bay and protected me from getting hurt when things would inevitably blow up. Or at least that’s the lie I told myself.”
Bruce hums, looking thoughtful as he studies Clark’s expression. Then, to Clark’s utter amazement and relief, he smiles. “It seems we’re more alike than I thought, Boy Scout.”
“It seems so, yes.” Clark smiles too, but it soon fades again. “What does that mean for us now? I don’t want to put any pressure on you, I know this is brand new, but…” Clark pauses, takes a deep breath and steels himself, before taking the plunge. “...I want to be with you, Bruce. I love you. I’ve loved you for a while, and I want to see where this goes.”
He barely has the last word out before Bruce is kissing him, framing his face with both of his hands like he’s something precious. “God, yes,” he says, tipping his forehead against Clark’s. “There’s nothing I want more.”
Chapter Text
Present day
Wayne Manor, Gotham City
Bruce wakes up slowly, his body sore and aching in ways he’s not entirely unused to. It’s just been a while and he doubts he’s ever felt quite like this before. It’s not unpleasant, far from it, but it is disorienting. Still, he can’t help but smile, utterly satisfied. He and Clark finally talked things out. More than that, Clark actually returns his feelings. They’re together. After years of pining, it feels almost surreal to even think that.
Reaching out, Bruce’s fingers meet warm flesh, and he delights in tracing the muscled outline of Clark’s back. Because he can do that now, he can touch without fear of rejection or repercussions. A thrill runs through him. To be allowed this close, without any barriers between them…
Clark hums, pushing into the contact. “Morning, Princess,” he murmurs, voice deep and rough with sleep. Bruce shivers, and presses a bit closer still until his chest is flush with Clark’s back. He drops a kiss to the topmost knob of Clark’s spine.
“It's afternoon, Big Blue.”
“I don't care as long as we're staying in bed.” A low rumble starts emanating from Clark, vibrating through his back and into Bruce’s chest. It’s not loud or demanding like his growls have been but softer, more like… “Are you purring for me?” asks Bruce, amused and maybe a bit smug. He lets his lips brush against the smooth skin of Clark’s shoulder. The purring gets louder, intensifies, and the first stirrings of arousal curl low and warm in Bruce’s stomach.
“I am,” answers Clark. Bruce hears him breathe in through his nose, and then Clark is suddenly facing him, face pressed into the crook between Bruce’s neck and shoulder. “And you like it.”
“I do.” Bruce feels suddenly breathless, and tilts his head to the side to give Clark better access. After their second round in the bathtub last night, he’s still pretty sore and probably shouldn’t be this eager, but he can’t help it. Having Clark press kisses into his throat, feeling his naked chest push against his own, vibrating with soft purrs that buzz against Bruce’s sensitive nipples… It’s bliss.
Clark hums into the side of Bruce’s neck, teeth once again grazing over that bite mark. “I don’t think it took last night,” he says, and rolls Bruce onto his back.
It takes Bruce’s mind a moment to understand what Clark means, muddled with the remnants of sleep and arousal as it is, but when he does, lust lances through him like lightning. It's humiliating.
“Clark, stop it,” he protests weakly. “You know damn well that I can’t get pregnant.”
A violent shudder goes through Clark, and his purring intensifies even more. He lies on top of Bruce, letting his weight press Bruce into the mattress, making the vibrations of his purrs even more intense. Fuck , thinks Bruce, squirming as he feels himself starting to get hard already. It’s like he’s holding a vibrator to my nipples.
“Do I? Hmm. No, I don't think so. I believe we just need to try again. Pump you so full there's no chance it doesn't take,” he rumbles, and the look in his blue eyes is scorching hot. Like he could get Bruce pregnant with the sheer force of his will alone.
It shouldn't be so damned alluring.
Bruce opens his mouth—a token protest, really; he's embarrassingly hard now—when Clark dips down and seals his mouth over Bruce's, stealing the words from his tongue. He melts into it immediately. It's like a switch has been flipped. As soon as Clark kisses him, all thoughts flee his head. So he slings his arms around Clark's shoulders, holds him close and spreads his legs. Clark slots right between them, deepens the kiss, and the pleased growl that shakes his torso only serves to further Bruce's own desire. A molten heat that spreads through his body like a wildfire, utterly untamable.
Clark's erection unfolds against Bruce's groin, the nubs on the underside gently nudging his skin. Bruce's hips twitch up. It should be impossible to be this riled up again after the two orgasms of that morning, but here he is, already desperate to be fucked again.
“God, I need you,” he whimpers between kisses, squeezing Clark's hips with his thighs, trying to line him up and failing. “Your stupid—” Bruce drags the flat of his tongue over Clark's mouth, before he bites his lip. “Aphrodisiac—” Bucking and twisting his hips, Bruce manages to switch their positions so that he's straddling Clark's waist. “ Cum .”
Clark moans, and grips Bruce's hips, steadying him. “Can't say it's looking bad from my end.”
Exhaling shakily, Bruce reaches behind himself, and curls his fingers around Clark's cock. It pulses and quivers in his grip, undulating not unlike a snake, and God. The way Clark's cock seems to act on its own accord sometimes, like it's seeking Bruce out by itself, really shouldn't be as sexy as it is.
“I have to admit that the view from up here isn't too bad either,” says Bruce, breathless, and lets his gaze roam over Clark's naked torso, those pretty pink nipples, the fine dusting of hair leading down to the vee of his hips… Bruce knows he should prep himself—taking Clark's knot is no easy feat—but he's too impatient. The stretch from that morning will have to be enough. So he lines Clark up, feels the way the head of his cock squirms against his rim, and sends a quick prayer to the heavens that he's still loose enough to make this work.
Biting his lip, he tries to relax and begins to sink down. The stretch isn't too bad and all too soon the heart-shaped head of Clark's cock pops in. Pleasure zings up Bruce's spine, sharp and bright, and with a gasp he curls forward, braces his hands on Clark's chest, fingers digging into those strong muscles.
One of Clark's hands slides up Bruce's back, over his shoulders, until it buries itself in his hair, lightly gripping the strands, while the other remains at his hip, holding him steady as he slowly takes more of Clark. He feels every single nub on the underside of Clark's cock as it pops past his sensitive rim, ratcheting up his desire each time. When Bruce's hips are finally flush with Clark's, he's a panting, sweaty mess, shudders wracking his body.
“Easy there, Princess,” says Clark, but he doesn't look—or sound—any more put together than Bruce does. He is flushed, eyes glassy, and the purr shaking his ribcage has only grown louder, sending delicious vibrations through Bruce everywhere they touch. The hands on Bruce's hip and the back of his head flex, as if Clark is barely holding himself back from moving him, using him like a doll… At the thought, lust licks up Bruce's spine, and he moans, clenching around the writhing cock inside of him. It's utterly overwhelming, but so perfect.
He starts to move, tentatively at first, but soon gaining momentum and building a rhythm. Clark encourages him with murmured words, broken up by purrs and growls. His hips buck up into Bruce, driving his cock that much deeper.
He hits Bruce's prostate on every stroke now, sending electric shocks of pleasure tingling through Bruce's entire body. He's panting above Clark, staring down into that beautiful face, and he's so fucking close already…
“Bite me,” he says, surprising himself with the breathless demand, but now that the idea is out there, his thoughts are consumed by it. “Please, Clark. Bite me, make me yours.”
A foul curse falls from Clark's lips as his hips stutter, followed by a fierce growl that Bruce feels in his core, and then he's suddenly yanked forward by his hair. Clark draws his knees up, taking more leverage for himself to fuck into Bruce with reckless abandon. At the same time, he uses his grip on Bruce's hair to tilt his head to the side, expose his throat… “Mine,” he growls, and then his teeth are in Bruce's neck. Pain blooms, the scent of blood hits the air, but all of that pales in comparison to the white-hot ecstasy exploding behind Bruce's closed eyelids.
He's only vaguely aware that he's coming all over Clark's chest, barely registers how Clark's thrusts pick up speed, the growing stretch as his knot begins to swell. He's lost in his pleasure, wracked by aftershocks, and only comes back to himself when Clark's knot fully pops inside him, locking them together as spurt after spurt of hot cum fills his hole.
Clark's growls taper off into quiet rumbles as he continues to lick over the fresh bite mark on the side of Bruce's neck, lapping up his blood. Bruce just lets himself go completely boneless in his lover's arms, basking in their connection. They stay like that until Clark's knot deflates, but when Bruce tries to get up—he's in desperate need of another shower before he meets his kids for dinner—Clark pulls him back down. Bruce's knees are still too wobbly for him to put up much of a fight and so he finds himself under Clark once again.
“What are you doing?”
There's a gleam in Clark's eyes, one Bruce has come to recognize over these past few weeks. It makes his stomach clench and his toes curl but right now, so close after his orgasm, even that feels like too much.
“I told you I'd make sure it takes this time.”
“Don't be ridiculous,” manages Bruce, even as a wave of arousal, too sharp to be entirely pleasant, rolls over him.
Clark hums, breathing in deep, and the realization that he can likely smell Bruce's lust, only makes things so much worse. There is no way Bruce can get hard again this quickly, no matter how much his lizard brain is trying to convince his body that it's possible.
“I'm just being thorough,” Clark eventually replies, but it's distracted, and then he's sliding down Bruce's body. He hooks Bruce's legs over his shoulders, bringing his face dangerously close to Bruce's leaking hole. Hot air puffs over the used ring of muscle, but when Bruce tries to squirm away, Clark places one strong palm in the middle of his chest, right over his wildly beating heart, keeping him easily contained.
Staring down the length of his own body, covered in sweat and cum, and seeing Clark's beautiful face—those broad shoulders—between his quivering thighs overheats Bruce's blood even further.
“Just tell me to stop if you don't want this,” says Clark, nipping at the skin of Bruce's inner thigh, making him shiver violently. “But I think you won't. I think you want me to breed you, B.”
Bruce feels dizzy as he tries to make himself say the words, but he just can't get them out. The thought of Clark defying the rules of biology and logic, and getting him pregnant by sheer force of will, by tenacity alone, is so hot that he can't speak. It's like his brain has been wiped clean, his intellect replaced with animal instinct.
Clark clearly picks up on it as a smirk slowly curls his lips. “Thought so Princess,” he murmurs, his purr growing louder. He turns his head, pressing a lingering kiss to Bruce's knees of all places, and it shouldn't feel like anything but it sends a shock of sensation up Bruce's leg and right to his groin.
Full-on grinning now, Clark removes his hand from Bruce's chest, and hikes his hips up a little higher, tipping them closer to his mouth. He stares intently between Bruce's legs, a faint red light starting to glow in the depths of his eyes. Bruce can't see Clark's hands, but he feels only one of them supporting his lower back. He understands why a moment later when two of Clark's fingers stroke between Bruce's cheeks, from his tailbone to his hole.
“Can't waste a single drop,” rumbles Clark, and with a start Bruce realizes that Clark is dragging his fingers through his own cum, scooping it up... Just as that realization makes it through his foggy brain, Clark pushes those two fingers into him, basically stuffing his cum back into Bruce's body and—
“Clark!” Bruce shouts, arching off the bed. It's just too much. He's so sensitive still, his nerve endings so tender that his entire body feels like a livewire.
“Shh, it's okay sweetheart,” says Clark, pressing more kisses to Bruce's knee, licking over the side of it, as he screws his fingers deeper, immediately hitting Bruce's prostate. The bundle of nerves feels bruised and tender, but that only seems to amplify Bruce's pleasure. Goosebumps raise his skin, tingling shivers racing from his head to his curling toes as he simultaneously squirms closer and away from Clark's unrelenting touch.
“Gosh, you're perfect, Princess. So beautiful and strong and smart.” Clark kisses the words into Bruce's leg, sharp teeth grazing his skin as his fingers fuck his cum into Bruce's body. “A perfect mother. You'd look so good with your belly all round and soft, tits full of milk…” Clark trails off. His hot tongue travels down Bruce's inner thigh, making the muscles jump, until he reaches Bruce's flaccid cock.
Despite the absolutely mind-breaking pleasure, Bruce knows he won't get hard—he's in his forties for crying out loud—but that won't stop him from bucking into Clark's hot mouth, into the tongue laving his soft cock with attention while those long fingers relentlessly push into him. The wet squelching noises as Clark keeps stuffing his cum back into Bruce's body make him flush red hot, embarrassment churning in his gut as the pleasure keeps building and building. He's hurtling towards another, more violent orgasm, feeling like he can't quite catch his breath anymore.
“Clark!” he gasps, head thrashing on the pillow as he grabs for anything to hold onto, and finally buries his fingers in Clark's hair. “ Please !” His voice breaks on a sob, and it's only now that Bruce realizes he's openly crying. Tears stream freely down his face while Clark continues his assault, licking and sucking on Bruce’s soft cock as he fucks him with the relentlessness of a machine.
“It's okay, Princess,” murmurs Clark, twisting his fingers, jabbing them directly into Bruce's prostate over and over again. He hasn't stopped growling since they started, and the sound has only intensified. It travels along Bruce's nerve endings like an electric current, making him feel so overwhelmed he starts to lose himself completely. “You're doing so well. Just let go, sweetheart, it'll take this time. It'll take, I promise.”
“I can't,” sobs Bruce, tugging on Clark's hair and swiveling his hips restlessly. “I can't. ”
“You can, honey. You can, and you will. For me.” Clark thrusts his fingers in, three this time, keeping them pressed against Bruce's prostate, and then he starts to vibrate them.
It’s instantly over for Bruce. Stars explode and are reborn in front of his eyes as his body is engulfed by a pleasure so intense it swallows everything else. It’s a transcendental experience as he comes for a second time—his fourth orgasm in the span of twelve hours—and promptly passes out.
™™™
When Bruce comes to again, he feels like he’s been going ten rounds with Bane. Every muscle in his body aches, and his brain is slow, thoughts lazily circling around nothing in particular. He’s aware that he’s lying in someone’s arms—Clark’s most likely—but he doesn’t yet open his eyes to check. He’s warm and content, a broad hand stroking up and down his back, and he just feels so cherished and protected. Like he’s something special.
“Back to the land of the living?” asks Clark, and Bruce realizes that he’s purring again.
“Hn.” Bruce grunts and buries his face deeper between Clark's pecs. He’s not sure he’s capable of words just yet. Clark merely chuckles, and keeps stroking his back.
“It’s almost six,” he tries again, and that grabs Bruce’s attention. He’s supposed to meet his kids in the city for dinner at seven. Fuck . With a groan, he forces himself to sit up, but it feels like he’s moving underwater. His head is spinning a little. Clark, the absolute bastard , has the audacity to laugh.
“You’ll be lucky if I ever let you touch me again,” threatens Bruce darkly, which only serves to make Clark laugh harder. Frowning, Bruce swings his legs over the edge of the bed. “I’m breaking up with you. Or worse, I’m telling my kids that we’re dating. See how much peace you’ll get then.”
“Aw, don’t be like that, Princess,” says Clark, slinging his arms around Bruce’s middle from behind. “I just wanted you to feel good.” His hands caress Bruce’s stomach, soft and careful, similar to how some people stroke a pregnant woman’s belly. Bruce flushes, unwilling to admit just how good Clark made him feel. There is no need to encourage him further.
“You’re a fiend,” he mutters instead, fishing his favorite pink robe from the hook on the wall next to the nightstand. “A dirty old pervert with a breeding kink.”
“I didn’t hear you complain when you were impaling yourself on my cock.” Clark growls playfully and sits up behind Bruce, taking the back of his neck between his teeth, reminding Bruce of his latest bite mark. And as if the wound has only waited for him to acknowledge it, it starts to throb.
Carefully, Bruce lifts his fingers and traces the outline of the crusted over mark. He doesn’t regret it for even a second. He enjoys the reminder of what they’ve done, the tangible proof that he belongs to Clark—not that he’d admit that out loud. But he has no idea how he’s supposed to hide this from his kids…
Only one way to find out.
“You need to let me go, Big Blue, or I’m going to be late,” says Bruce, affectionately squeezing Clark’s hand. With an adorable grumble, Clark does as he’s asked, and Bruce quickly shrugs into his robe before he can change his mind about going out and simply stays in bed all night.
Just as he’s done tying the belt of his robe around his waist, the door to his bedroom suddenly bursts open, hitting the wall with a resounding bang.
“YOU’RE FUCKING SUPERMAN?!” shouts Dick, barging into the room. To Bruce’s utter dismay, it’s not just his oldest standing in the doorway but all of his kids. Thankfully, Stephanie isn’t with them today, like she so often is; he doesn’t know if he could have survived her special brand of sarcasm with how floaty and slow his thoughts still feel. Or how embarrassed he is at having been caught in bed with his boyfriend like he’s sixteen again.
“Hello Dick,” replies Bruce evenly, inwardly steeling himself for a confrontation. After these past few months he has no idea how his kids feel about Clark anymore. They seemed supportive enough about the relationship, but Clark’s animosity towards Bruce’s public persona has put quite a damper on that. “It’s usually considered polite to knock before entering a room.”
“Who cares?” snaps Jason, and pushes past Dick into the room. “Are you out of your goddamned mind, old man?”
Bruce scowls, feeling his hackles rise. He’s not a child! And he doesn't appreciate being treated like one.
“What Jason is trying to ask,” interjects Tim, shooting his brother a dirty look, “is if you’ve really thought this through, Bruce?”
“Yeah,” adds Duke, once again cutting Bruce off before he can do more than open his mouth to reply. “Isn’t it super risky for Bruce Wayne to publicly date Superman? Especially with the action figures and all that?”
Bruce’s scowl deepens, a feeling of foreboding creeping up his spine. “How do you know that me and Superman are together?” he asks slowly. It’s only been twelve hours, even for his kids that is an impressive timeframe to have found that out. “And who said anything about publicly dating him as Bruce Wayne?”
“The Gotham Gazette,” answers Cass, and Damian, who has remained suspiciously silent during this exchange so far, throws a copy of today’s newspaper on the bed. That foreboding feeling turns into a very bad one as Bruce reaches out and tugs the paper closer. He unfolds it, and sure enough, there are Superman and Bruce Wayne, on the balcony of Wayne Tower, caught up in a very passionate and unmistakably romantic embrace.
“That’s a pretty good picture,” says Clark with barely hidden anxiousness, and Bruce flinches. The silence in the room is suddenly absolute and oppressive. It seems he isn’t the only one who forgot that Clark is actually here in the room with them. His heart starts to race, and it only gets worse because silence never lasts long with his kids.
Very slowly, Damiann pulls out a knife from behind his back. He points it at Clark like it’s a sword, and says, “If you hurt father again, I will make you regret it. Don’t think I don’t know how to obtain Kryptonite if needed.”
“Duly noted,” answers Clark, inching closer to Bruce like he’s seeking protection. It really shouldn’t make Bruce’s heart melt the way it does. And he knows he should probably panic more about the situation or at least go into crisis mode, prepare some damage control, because Superman and Bruce Wayne dating is not a good look for either of them, but he can’t muster the energy right now.
“Wait,” says Duke, and stumbles a half-step back, looking wildly around the room, eyes snagging on the discarded Superman suit on the floor. “Did we interrupt you guys? That’s so gross!”
Jason snorts in amusement. He’s leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, seeming pleased by everyone’s discomfort. “What did you think they were doing? Playing mahjong? After the way the old man has been pining?”
“You were pining?” repeats Clark, sounding way too smug, and Bruce levels him with a withering glare. “If you’d have come clean as soon as you figured out my identity I wouldn’t have had to.”
“He figured out your identity?” asks Dick, sounding torn between being impressed and offended.
“We figured out each other’s identity,” replies Clark, rubbing the back of his neck. “And I’m actually glad to see you guys, even if the circumstances are… less than ideal.”
Tim raises an eyebrow. “ You wanted to meet us?”
Clark nods, so painfully earnest, and dear God, if Bruce wasn’t in love with him before he would be now. “I wanted to apologize to you guys. I never meant to hurt your dad. I know I was acting like a right fool, especially during that first League meeting when one of you came to fill in for him as Batman. I’ve not been a good friend and you all were probably worried. For that I’m sorry.”
Cass steps forward, eyes fixed on Clark, reading his every move. The others all look to her, knowing she’ll be the best judge of Clark’s sincerity. After a tense moment, she nods. “We accept the apology. But if you hurt him again…” Cass doesn’t finish the threat, and instead simply gestures at Bruce’s assembled children, who all immediately start to posture. It's ridiculous, and yet Bruce actually feels tears rising to his eyes.
Which is of course when the sound of claws scratching over hardwood floors reaches them from the hallway, and a moment later, sixty pounds of German shepherd come barreling into the room. Ace doesn't stop to look around. Instead he simply launches himself onto the bed, pushing into Clark's lap like a spoiled house cat. He's whining and butting his head against the underside of Clark's chin and all around making a nuisance of himself, which Clark doesn't seem to mind at all. Delighted, Clark starts to cuddle the dog and whisper praises to him, and it shouldn't be endearing, dammit. Ace isn't even allowed on the bed.
“Of course you just had to join this circus too,” murmurs Bruce with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. He knows he's not fooling anyone, however, a fact that the happy wagging of Ace's tail only seems to underline. There is a fluttery feeling rising in his chest, one he's sure is plain to see on his face, so he clears his throat and changes the subject.
“Now that that's settled, you lot can get out of here,” he says, and makes a shooing motion at his kids. “I'll get dressed and meet you downstairs in ten minutes. We can still make our reservation.”
The kids share a look, a silent conversation Bruce and Clark are not part of, before Dick nods. “Alright, sure. We’ll wait in the kitchen. But if you're not there in 10 minutes we're going without you.”
“I think it would be proper for Mister Kent to join you as well,” says Alfred, seemingly appearing out of nowhere in the doorway, like he so often likes to do. He's stealthier than any of them if he puts his mind to it. There is a stack of fresh sheets in his arms and he levels Bruce with the most unimpressed look known to man. “Since Master Bruce has kept this entire affair mostly to himself, a little more talking would not go amiss, don't you think? Besides, it would give me a chance to straighten up in here.” Alfred casts a meaningful look at the messy bed and the clothes on the floor, and Bruce instantly wishes for the ground to open up and swallow him whole.
Jason, predictably, cackles in delight. Clapping Alfred on the shoulder, he aims a shark-like grin at Clark. “Sure thing, Alfie. We’ll take the lovebirds off your hands for a bit. I'm sure we all have lots of questions for Supes over here.”
With that, the kids file out of the room, Alfred following closely behind after pointedly setting the folded stack of fresh sheets down on the dresser. As soon as they’re alone again, Clark falls back onto the mattress, hiding behind his hands. “They hate me,” he groans in despair, sounding like a child who's been told that Santa isn't real. Bruce can’t help but smile.
“They really don’t. You're just being dramatic.”
Clark glares at Bruce from between his fingers. “They literally threatened me.”
“It’s their love language,” answers Bruce with a shrug. “If they really hated you, they wouldn't have said anything at all and they’d definitely have brought the Kryptonite with them.”
“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is, Bruce. And how did they even know who I am?” whines Clark, making Bruce roll his eyes fondly. It feels like the smile is permanently affixed to his lips when he’s around Clark.
“They recognized you, obviously.”
“I know they did! But how? It’s not like I’m famous.”
Snorting, Bruce bends down, and drops a kiss on Clark’s forehead. “I raised them. Do you really think they didn’t do a background check the moment you requested that first interview with me?”
Clark whines again. “Your family is so weird , Bruce.”
“I guess you’ll fit right in then, Big Blue. Now go get dressed. I’m starving and I’m not missing our reservation because of you. I've been craving sushi all week.”
Sighing, Clark climbs out of bed, but he stops next to Bruce on his way to the bathroom, and pulls him in for a passionate kiss. “I love you, Princess.”
God, Bruce’s insides melt. He doesn't know if he'll ever get used to that. “I love you, too.”
™™™
6 months later
Wayne Tower, Gotham City
Clark lands on the balcony outside Bruce’s office, and hurriedly dusts off his suit before pushing the door open. He expects to find Bruce and the other League members waiting for him, but the room is empty except for Merve, who is busy gathering a stacks of papers from Bruce’s desk. She looks up when Clark enters, narrowing her eyes at him.
“You’re late,” she says, and Clark has to fight the urge to cower behind the sofa. That woman's aura is scary.
“I apologize. There was a fire—” he starts to explain, but Merve holds up a hand to stop him.
“Another time. The others are waiting for you in the conference room down the hall, and I really don't have time for this. I have to water the Bruce's, before the press gets here.”
She continues muttering under her breath, questioning the sanity of holding a press conference up here instead of the press room downstairs, but that's not the part that makes Clark blink at her in confusion. He's almost too afraid to ask. Almost. “The Bruces?”
Merve pauses and hits him with the most deadpan stare Clark has ever been on the receiving end of, before she turns around and leaves the office. Tentatively, he follows after her, pulling the door closed behind him. As soon as she's at her desk, she sets the papers down and points at one of the succulents on the shelf behind her. “This is Bruce senior,” she explains and from there she moves down the row of different succulents. “Bruce Junior, Bruce the Second, Third and Fourth, morning-Bruce, no-coffee-Bruce, and—” She points at the large foliant plant on the floor beside her. “Brucie.”
Blinking, Clark tries to keep his expression straight. He probably fails miserably. “You named your plants after your boss?”
Merve crosses her arms and raises her chin. “Of course. They frequently make me want to throw them out of the window with their dramatics and yet I can never seem to make myself go through with it because I have become irrationally attached to them. So, they're basically Bruce.”
Hysteria bubbles up Clark's chest but he manages to keep it at bay. “And Bru— Mr. Wayne knows about this?”
If possible, Merve looks even more unimpressed. “I’ve seen the pictures, Superman, I know you two are fucking, so there's no need to be so formal,” she says bluntly, nearly giving Clark a heart attack. The urge to frantically look around and make sure no one overheard is overwhelmingly strong. “Besides, he's the one who named this bastard plant here,” she adds, waving her hand at the large foliage plant again.
“Right,” answers Clark, not really sure what to say to that. He hooks his thumb over his shoulder, retreating a few steps. “I’m going to join the others, they’re probably waiting already. It was nice to see you.” With that, he books it down the hall and slips into the conference room.
As expected, everyone is already there. Bruce sits at the head of the table, wearing one of his perfectly tailored suits, his legs folded gracefully. Diana has taken the chair to his left, while the one to his right remains empty. J’onn, Green Arrow, Black Canary, Flash, Hal and Aquaman take up the remaining seats on either side of the table.
“Took you long enough!” greets Hal obnoxiously as soon as Clark walks through the door, and Clark exasperatedly rolls his eyes. Before he can say anything, however, Bruce beats him to it. “I thought emergencies of any kind would take precedence,” he says, in a tone that suggests he’s questioning Hal’s intelligence.
“Can we focus?” interrupts Green Arrow. “I’ve got shit to do after this.”
“Batman isn’t here yet, so it doesn’t really matter that Supes was late,” says Flash, hand darting out to take a cookie from the tray in the middle of the table. “Where is he anyway?”
Clark’s heart jumps in his chest, eyes meeting Bruce’s across the room, who gives a subtle nod. Okay then, thinks Clark, and strides across the room to take the seat next to Bruce. Under the table, he takes Bruce’s hand in his, and laces their fingers together.
“Batman is already here,” he says, and swallows the lump of nerves rising in his throat when every eye in the room turns to him.
“What are you talking about?” asks Arthur, and Hal nods frantically. “I second that. Where the hell is Spooky supposed to be hiding? In the vents?”
Clark hears Bruce suck in a deep, steadying breath before he says, “I’m right here.” All pretenses of lazy aloofness are gone from his posture, and his voice has dropped to his Batman register. It’s such a subtle and yet such a drastic change.
The room goes silent as they all turn to stare at Bruce. It’s so quiet that Clark is actually tempted to check if everyone is still breathing. The tension ratchets up until it’s almost palpable, raising the hairs on the back of Clark’s neck. Bruce’s fingers tighten around Clark’s. Clark squeezes right back, trying to reassure B.
“How is this possible?” asks Diana eventually, almost at the same time as Green Arrow, of all people, says, “No fucking way! You and Batman were in the same room together!”
Sitting up straighter, Bruce grips Clark’s hand even more tightly, to a point where it would be painful for a human. His eyes only briefly dart to Green Arrow, before they snap back to Diana. He clears his throat. “I asked my sons to stand in for me during these last League meetings to keep my identity intact.”
Arthur’s brow furrows. “No offense, but this sounds made up.” He looks at J’onn. “Has he been brainwashed?”
“Batman’s mind has not been altered,” says J’onn calmly, picking up a cookie to inspect it. He’s the only one in the room not fazed by the news. Which is understandable, considering his abilities. He’s the only one who knows everyone’s identities.
“Wait!” exclaims Hal, sounding absolutely horrified. “Does that mean Batman has kids ?”
Flash scratches his head, and shrugs. “I mean… That’s public knowledge, isn’t it? Bruce Wayne has like, six kids or something.”
Next to Clark, Bruce has grown so tense his body might as well be a piece of furniture. Diana studies him for a little while longer while Hal and Flash suddenly hone in on Clark, accusatory expressions on their faces.
“Did you know?” asks Flash, and Hal nods emphatically. “You guys have been dating for what, like six months?”
Before Clark can answer, Bruce growls, and snaps, “That is irrelevant!”
Arthur tilts his head, and crosses his arms. “Then why did you decide to reveal yourself? If you don’t want us to know anything about you?”
Bruce takes a deep breath, rolling his shoulders to forcibly relax them. “With the press conference happening in an hour and the release of the action figures later this week, I simply decided it was time you knew who I am. My sons won’t always be able to stand in for me.”
Clearing his throat, Clark nods. “Yes, we figured it would be better if you were in the loop. Which is why I decided to, uhm, reveal my identity as well.” He swallows, nerves fluttering in his stomach. “I’m Clark Kent.”
“Are you kidding?” asks Green Arrow, throwing his hands up. Bruce’s eyes zero in on him, his expression turning thoughtful as he studies the other hero.
Hal, meanwhile, frowns. Leaning closer to Barry, he whispers, “Should I know who that is?”
“He’s a reporter,” mutters Arrow darkly, and while Clark still tries to figure out how and when he offended his friend, Bruce suddenly leans forward. “I knew it,” he says, triumph flashing in his eyes. “I knew I recognized you.”
Everyone looks confusedly between Bruce and Green Arrow, who are locked into a kind of staring contest. Eventually, Arrow throws up his hands, before ripping off his domino mask and throwing it onto the table. “Fine, you win! Happy now, Bruce?”
Bruce snorts, but he sounds decidedly amused. “Hardly. Working with you on school projects was bad enough.”
“That was one time,” snaps Arrow, but Clark barely listens. He's too busy staring at the face of yet another billionaire in their midst. Is he the only one not filthy rich here? “I missed a deadline one time .”
“One time is more than enough,” retorts Bruce with a haughty sniff, a move Clark definitely saw on Alfred during these past six months.
“I was ten!“ shouts Arrow, exasperated, and looks to his wife for support, but Black Canary only shrugs. “I'm not getting involved.”
“ You're Oliver Queen?” asks Clark when he finally finds his voice again, cutting off whatever reply Oliver was about to give. Clark understands the offense from before now. A year or so ago he wrote a rather cutting article when he was forced to take over the celebrity beat for Cat while she was out sick.
“So you at least remember your victims, that's good to know,” replies Oliver, apparently glad to jump on the change in topic.
Clark can't help but roll his eyes. “Victim is overstating it quite a bit, don't you think? You kept talking about America's Next Top Model, derailing every question about your company! What did you expect?”
“I had a concussion!”
“How was I supposed to know that?” Reflexively, Clark turns to Bruce. “Can you believe this guy, Princess?”
There is a split-second of silence as everyone processes his words, enough time for mortification to fill Clark, quickly followed by horror. Then the room dissolves into utter chaos.
“Princess?! Are you kidding me?” shouts Ollie as Black Canary—or rather Dinah—wolf-whistles.
“Oh God, I thought that picture of you guys kissing was fake,” whines Barry, while this almost manic grin spreads over Hal’s face. “Batman is a pillow Princess. This is the best day of my life.”
“Congratulations, you two,” comments Arthur, leaning back in his chair with a pleased nod. “Lucy will be happy to hear it. You should bring Bruce the next time you visit her, Clark.”
“Lucy?” asks Bruce, and Clark finally dares to meet his love’s eyes again after the slipup, relieved to find no anger in them. His shoulders loosen.
“She’s a sea-monster I befriended. After I figured out who you are I needed time to think, so I dove into the Kermadec Trench. She kept me company and was really sweet. I’ve, uh, been visiting her every couple of weeks or so.”
“Lucy is very fond of him,” adds Arthur, sounding like a proud father, happy that his child has made a friend.
Bruce’s eyes shine with a smile that just barely curves his lips. “In that case I’ll be glad to meet her. But we should take Damian, too. He’d never forgive us if he didn’t get to see Lucy.”
Clark swallows nervously. “Your youngest doesn’t like me very much.”
“That’s not true,” says Bruce, squeezing Clark’s hand. “If he didn’t like you, he’d have threatened you with Kryptonite again by now. It just takes him a while to show affection.”
“He held a sword to my throat two nights ago.”
Bruce shrugs, his smile widening. “Are you or are you not the Man of Steel? He knows it can’t hurt you.”
A warm feeling of hope blooms in Clark’s chest. “I just want your kids to like me.”
“They do, Big Blue. Don’t worry,” answers Bruce, leaning against Clark’s arm as he lets his thumb draw circles on the back of Clark’s hand.
“God, you guys are sickening,” groans Hal, and claps his hands over his eyes. “It’s like looking directly into the sun.”
A loud snort of amusement sounds from Clark’s left, but it’s not Bruce who made the sound. Leaning forward the slightest bit, he sees Diana, a hand over her mouth as she tries to stifle her laughter. As soon as their eyes meet, she loses the battle with herself and bursts into loud, unrestrained giggles. She slaps the palm of one hand onto the table as she practically doubles over.
“Are you okay?” asks Bruce, an expression of concern replacing his smile, but Diana is laughing too hard to respond.
Surprisingly, it’s J’onn who answers for her. “She is perfectly fine,” he says. “I merely pointed out the resemblance of this meeting to an episode of the Kardashians’s we have recently watched.”
There is a beat of silence, and then everyone is joining in on Diana’s laughter.
“I knew this felt familiar,” gasps Hal, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. Barry snorts, giggling harder. “With this many billionaires in our ranks we really shouldn’t be surprised by the drama.” Another burst of laughter follows.
Clark slings an arm around Bruce’s shoulders and pulls him close. “This went better than you expected, didn’t it?” he whispers in Bruce’s ear, who cuddles closer and rests one hand on Clark’s knee.
“It did,” agrees Bruce, and his relief is palpable. “It helps that Ollie’s public persona is almost as much of an airhead as mine is.”
“I like yours better,” murmurs Clark, and turns his head, briefly pressing his teeth against the permanent bite mark at the side of Bruce’s neck before pulling back again.
“You’d better,” replies Bruce, shivering slightly in Clark’s arms. Clark can smell the faintest hint of arousal coming off of Bruce, and smug satisfaction blooms in his stomach. The others are too busy arguing over the Kardashians now to notice anything, so Clark allows himself to pull Bruce just that bit closer, hold him just a bit tighter.
Which is of course how Merve finds them, a select group of journalists hot on her heels. They spent weeks preparing for this press-conference, crafting their announcement for the release of the first batch of action figures to perfection and hand-picking the right publications to invite. Not only has all of that hard work gone down the drain now, but there is also no mistaking the position he and Bruce are in, wrapped up in each other as they are. There won’t be any denying their relationship anymore. They’ve just confirmed it to the world, which will create a host of whole new problems for them.
Somehow, Clark doesn’t mind any of that one bit. This chaos feels more like their speed than everything going smoothly.
“Ready?” he asks Bruce, dropping a quick kiss to his temple.
Bruce’s grin is sharp for just a second. “Aren’t I always?” he whispers back. Then his expression turns vapid and he stands up to address the slack-jawed journalists, who look upon the Justice League—sprawled across their chairs, relaxed and mirthful—with pure disbelief. “Come in, come in!” he tells them, like this is a party and not a press conference. Clark has to bite back his laughter. “Take a seat, eat some cookies. We have milk too.”
In the doorway, Merve pinches the bridge of her nose. “Wallah, I’m really not getting paid enough for this,” she mutters, and firmly closes the door behind her.
“Is that a teddy bear with a slit throat?” asks one of the journalists in a horrified voice, staring at the wall to his right where Neziah’s painting is still displayed proudly.
“It’s obviously a bowtie," replies Ollie, frowning at the man. Thankfully, he’d been smart enough to put his domino mask back on earlier. “There is a sign and everything.”
Diana clears her throat, gesturing towards the empty seats at the table. “Please, let us begin. I am sure you have many questions for us.”
The group of journalists exchange wide-eyed looks before they follow Diana’s invitation. Clark can practically see them rewrite the entire catalogue of questions they prepared for today on the fly.
Oh yeah , he thinks. This is going to be a disaster.
Strangely, he's kind of looking forward to it. After all, no obstacle is too big as long as he has Bruce and their friends by his side.
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