Chapter Text
Batman didn’t do best friends.
He tolerated allies. Trusted a handful of people with his life. Worked well with others when the mission required it. But best friend implied something else entirely, something personal, unguarded and unnecessary.
And yet, Superman had slipped past every line Bruce had drawn.
His relationship with him had been complex and complicated in the past. After years of shared missions, rooftop talks, and long monitoring shifts, they had grown close. They trusted each other with their lives, standing back to back when an enemy struck. They knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses, the emotions flickering across the other’s face, the slightest change in tone of voice. They knew each other like the back of their hand.
World’s Finest, they called them.
Before the name and the reputation, they had just been friends. Best friends.
Batman trusted everyone in the League, some more than others. He even considered Diana, Wonder Woman, to be close to him, someone he could call a friend.
But she wasn’t Superman. She wasn’t Clark Kent.
And even though Batman and Superman were complete opposites, somehow, it worked perfectly for them.
Bruce sat in the monitor room during his shift, carefully preparing a report from their previous mission. He was alone, lost in thought, with only the soft hum of machinery surrounding him. He was still wearing his suit, but the cowl had been set aside, its smooth black surface reflecting the glow of the computer screen.
He heard the noise behind him, but he knew the sound of those footsteps. Bruce didn’t bother tearing his eyes away from the monitor when someone stopped right beside him.
“Clark,” he said simply, fingers speeding across the keyboard.
“Hi, B,” Superman replied, placing a cup of hot coffee right in front of Bruce’s nose. Bruce only grunted in thanks. “How was your day?”
“Good,” Bruce said flatly, eyes still on the screen as he took a small sip. Black, no sugar. “Yours?”
“Well, I barely met my deadline today.” Clark dragged a chair closer and sat beside him. “After yesterday’s attack, I had almost no time to finish my draft. Perry would’ve killed me if I hadn’t sent something in.”
“I’m glad he didn’t.”
“Yeah. And sorry for being late. I had to help a cat get down from a tree.”
At that, Bruce shot him an unimpressed glance from the corner of his eye. “Again?”
“Yeah! He was meowing so loudly I had to step in. Or she. The cat was orange, so I assumed it was a boy.”
Bruce shook his head slightly and turned back to his report.
“Oh- and Ma says hi,” Clark added. “She’s inviting you to her birthday next month. You can bring Alfred too, of course.”
Batman only grunted in acknowledgement, returning to his task and letting the silence settle comfortably between them. And it was like that with them. Even being quiet in each other’s presence felt nice.
Their conversations never felt fake, wrong, or boring. Clark was more cheerful and talkative, and Bruce liked the sound of his voice, listening carefully to his stories. Sometimes Batman himself shared something, the words leaving his mouth on their own. He felt comfortable enough to show small pieces of himself, and each time he did, Clark gave him his full attention. Like Bruce’s monologue was the most important thing in the world, even when he was talking about something science-related.
Clark’s presence glowed like the sun, his warm smile and kind eyes dissolving the cold shadows lurking in the dark corners.
The Bat, the shadow himself, didn’t feel threatened. He felt warm.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this way, before Clark.
Sometimes he thought that he had let the other man into his life too easily, too recklessly. He had spent most of his life alone, he was used to loneliness. He had Alfred by his side. He didn’t need anyone else. And yet, somehow, Clark had made it through. He had crumbled the thick walls Bruce had built around himself, brick by brick, until warmth and kindness washed over Bruce’s cold body. If there was anyone with enough will, strength, and pure stubbornness to do that, it would definitely be the strongest man walking the Earth.
Superman. Kal-El of Krypton. Or just Clark Kent.
“Lois is insufferable these days,” Clark said after a while, both of their coffees nearly finished. “I’d much rather do an interview with Lex Luthor than sit next to her at the office.”
Bruce quirked an eyebrow at that.
He had met Lois Lane a handful of times. She was a brilliant reporter, though sometimes too stern and loud, qualities that more often than not landed her in trouble. She knew exactly how to rile people up, Bruce himself could serve as proof. Still, he respected her sharp mind and relentless curiosity. It was what made her one of the best reporters in the city.
She was also Clark’s colleague and best friend, one of the few people who knew his secret identity.
Batman’s as well. Unfortunately.
“She’s set a new goal for herself,” Clark groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “She wants me to go on a blind date. Or get hammered and go clubbing. And- surprise, surprise- I can’t get drunk.”
Bruce stopped typing, though his eyes remained on the screen. His full attention was on Superman now.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. She says I need to loosen up or something.”
“You don’t have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, Clark.” Bruce frowned slightly, turning his chair to face him properly.
“I know. And I get where she’s coming from,” Clark said, a hint of irritation slipping into his voice. “But it’s still getting on my nerves. She wants to set me up with someone. She said she can’t stand looking at my miserable, lonely self anymore.”
Bruce bit the inside of his cheek, his expression carefully neutral. He understood Clark’s frustration all too well, he’d had similar conversations with Alfred more than once.
But unlike him, Clark was handsome, warm, easy to talk to. He didn’t carry the same kind of visible damage. There was nothing obvious standing in his way, nothing that should have stopped him from meeting someone new.
Bruce could think of only one thing that might complicate Clark’s dating life.
“You could date someone,” he said finally, his tone precise and measured. “Even as Superman. I know I said during one of the League meetings that it was risky, but I know you. You’d take every precaution necessary.” He paused, fingers curling slightly against the armrest. “Your costume isn’t standing in the way of… love.”
The word left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.
He wasn’t familiar with it - the concept of love. Even the bare thought of it made something unpleasant settle deep in his gut. But he was used to that feeling. He had grown up without it, detached from the very idea. He didn’t need it. He didn’t need another obstacle.
Batman was different from everyone else. He had been sculpted from cold stone, darkness, pain, and fear. And Superman was everything he was not. Unconditional love was rooted deep within Clark: in the way he smiled at strangers, helped an elderly woman cross the street, or carefully coaxed an orange cat down from a tree.
Love had always looked like a liability to Bruce. Clark saw it as a necessity, like breathing.
And Bruce would never deny him that.
Clark chuckled softly, sending a quick smile in Bruce’s direction.
“Thanks, B. Although that’s not what’s actually stopping me from dating.”
“Then what is?” Bruce asked, genuinely invested now, his investigative instincts already stirring. “Can I help somehow? Is it related to you being from Krypton?”
Clark closed his eyes, a frustrated groan slipping past his lips as he brushed a hand through his hair.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “You guessed right. I’m an alien. I’m different from every other human. I’ve spent my whole life hiding parts of myself, staying restrained. And even if I met someone I wanted to be honest with… I couldn’t. I’d be scared of hurting them.”
“With your strength,” Bruce said.
Clark let out a short, helpless laugh. “You’re annoyingly good at this.”
Bruce didn’t react. “You’re afraid your control would slip. But you’re also a really touchy person. So maybe you’re scared of… intimate moments.”
Clark’s face heated instantly. He looked down, fingers nervously fiddling with the empty coffee cup in front of him.
“Um- yeah. I mean- maybe? I think so?” He winced. “I’ve never actually… You know.”
Bruce watched him in silence, taking in the rigid posture, the way Clark tried, unsuccessfully, to make himself smaller in the chair.
“You’re a virgin.”
“Gosh,” Clark groaned, dropping his head into his hands. ”You didn’t have to say it out loud!”
Bruce furrowed his brow. He observed Clark quietly, the stiff posture, the way the flush of red crept even up to his nape. The embarrassment was thick in the air. So Bruce turned back to the monitor, focusing on the screen in front of him. He typed a few lines, giving Clark the space to steady himself. A few minutes passed. Batman still watched him from the corner of his eye, waiting for Clark’s breathing to slow, for the color in his face to finally fade.
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Bruce said calmly, once he was sure Clark was ready to continue. “It’s perfectly normal.”
Superman shot him a look, a faint blush still lingering on his cheeks.
“That’s easy for you to say,” Clark muttered. “You’re Bruce Wayne.”
“And? I’m no different from you.”
Silence followed.
Bruce returned to the almost-finished report, fingers moving steadily across the keyboard, until Clark made a strange, choking sound beside him. He rolled his chair closer, mouth opening and closing uselessly, like a fish out of water.
Bruce let out a deep, tired sigh and rubbed at his temple with his glove.
“Speak,” he grunted.
“You- you mean that-” Clark took a sharp breath, his voice coming out thin, like air slipping from a deflating balloon. “You’re also a virgin?!”
Bruce regretted engaging in this conversation instantly. It could have been such a peaceful night.
“I’m not interested in engaging in intercourse of any kind.”
Clark nearly fell off his chair.
“B-But you’re Bruce Wayne! The billionaire! Gotham’s Prince!”
Batman turned fully toward him, not bothering to hide his grimace. He looked Superman over, taking in the flushed face, the wide eyes, all the way down to the red boots planted awkwardly on the floor.
Bruce knew how he must have looked in that moment. He wasn’t the polished version of Brucie Wayne, perfectly groomed, glowing under spotlights, charming and effortless. He didn’t look like Batman either, his cowl set aside, his voice stripped of its practiced rasp.
This was the closest he ever came to being just himself. Just Bruce, whatever that meant beneath all the layers, all the masks.
And he was tired.
Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his bluish eyes, barely hidden under smudged black makeup. His jaw was dusted with uneven stubble, he hadn’t found the time to shave in three days. His lips were chapped and dry, a small healing cut tugging at the corner of his mouth, a souvenir from the last fight. His hair was a mess, tangled from the cowl and restless hands, a few early strands of gray threading through the dark.
He wasn’t Gotham’s Prince. Not even a little. And something in his stern gaze seemed to make Clark realize that, too.
“I don’t have time for that. Nor do I want to,” Bruce said, his voice heavy. “Brucie Wayne is an act, and you know that.”
“Yeah. Sorry, you’re right.” Clark relaxed a little, offering him a small, apologetic smile. “I just… can’t wrap my head around it. You look like sex on legs.”
Bruce rolled his eyes.
The reason was simple. Growing up, Bruce never had time to socialize. He hadn’t just grown up without love, he had grown up without connection. Alfred had tried to teach him, to show him that letting someone into his life could be a good thing. But Bruce never learned. He wasn’t familiar with gentle touches, warm hugs, or casual kisses pressed to his cheek. And he didn’t miss them.
The same went for sex. Yes, he could feel desire, his body reacted like anyone else’s, but he had never felt the need to spend the night with someone. Intimacy came with risks, getting close meant exposure. Bruises, pale scars, crooked bones, half-healed wounds, his body carried too many stories he couldn’t afford to tell.
Batman was written all over him.
But Brucie Wayne was a good actor.
He was always seen with beautiful people, models, singers, socialites. Gender never mattered. There were photographs of him slipping out of hotels in wrinkled clothes the next morning, tabloids spinning stories of nights he had never actually lived. It was all a performance.
And Clark, brilliant reporter that he was, had fallen for it too.
“I select people who are already drunk,” Bruce explained calmly, right as Superman nearly hovered a few inches above his head in disbelief. “Sometimes we drink a little more in a hotel room. They usually fall asleep, and I spend the rest of the night working. They don’t remember much the next morning. When I rearrange the scene, they believe we slept together.”
“That’s… actually really clever,” Clark said, genuine admiration clear in his voice.
Bruce tilted his head slightly. “And you’ve never been involved with Lois Lane?”
“Gosh, no!” Clark rubbed the back of his neck. “Why does everyone assume that? We’ve always just been friends. Nothing more.”
“Hm.”
Clark seemed to want to add something, words hovering on the tip of his tongue. Bruce remained silent, returning to his work as if the conversation was over. Their shift was slowly coming to an end; the next team would arrive soon to take their place.
Superman was still lost in thought, barely sparing a glance at the monitors in front of him.
He opened his mouth, closed it again. Took a breath.
“It would be easier if it was with someone I already trust,” Clark said quietly, his voice barely louder than the hum of the machinery. “Like you.”
Bruce said nothing, but his brows furrowed, and Clark immediately felt the heat rush back to his face.
“I-I mean- I didn’t mean-”
Some thoughts took root in Batman’s mind, already sprouting fast. His brain kicked into overdrive while the Superman beside him seemed to melt into his chair.
“You wouldn’t hurt me.”
Bruce realized, distantly, that his hand had tightened into a fist. He didn’t remember deciding to do that.
“What?” Clark looked at him sharply, hands freezing mid-motion as he stopped tugging at his hair.
“You wouldn’t hurt me,” Bruce repeated, his fingers now tapping a slow rhythm against the surface of the desk as he carefully chose each word. “You trust me. I trust you. We already know each other’s limits. We know each other’s background.”
“B, you can’t seriously be considering-”
“Why?” Bruce shrugged. “Virginity doesn’t matter to me at all. I can give you mine. But if you’d prefer someone else, then-”
“No!” Clark stood up so quickly his chair scraped against the floor. He stepped closer, stopping right beside Bruce and placing a hand on his shoulder. “I mean- obviously I’m fine with you, but… are you actually open to this idea?”
Superman’s hand was large and surprisingly warm. Batman could almost feel the heat through the layers of armor.
“It’s not a bad idea,” Bruce said evenly. “This is clearly something that’s been bothering you. And I could also get rid of some… excess tension. Our productivity might even increase, assuming there are no complications.”
Clark swallowed hard, Bruce could see the movement of his throat.
“Okay. Yeah. Sure,” Clark said, breathless. “If- if you’re really okay with it, then so am I.”
“Good. It’s decided, then. I’ll contact you about the next steps.”
“You sound like this is just another mission to you.”
Bruce only grunted.
Glancing at the clock, he stood up, forcing Clark to step back. Bruce left the room without another word, leaving dumbfounded Superman behind. He returned moments later holding a small paper bag, which he silently handed to Clark before turning back toward the monitor to retrieve his cowl.
“You said you had a hard day,” Bruce said. He gestured briefly toward the bag. “I ordered from your favorite fast food place in Gotham.”
Clark stood there, hair completely disheveled, a few dark curls falling over his light blue eyes, utterly stunned. Then a warm, almost shy, smile spread across his face, dimples appearing.
“Thanks, B.”
His eyes were the kind of blue Bruce associated with daylight, gentle, warm, impossible to hide behind. Like the summer sky.
Batman nodded once and left the room. He passed Arthur and Barry in the corridor as they arrived to take over the shift. Batman greeted them with a brief nod before leaving the Watchtower to begin his other patrol - Gotham.
It still felt strange, even after all this time, to have a best friend.
Bruce used to hate his home. The manor was old, passed down through generations of Waynes, large, dark, and cold. The walls that had once heard a child’s laughter and hurried footsteps were now bare, wrapped in complete silence. Happy memories from Bruce’s early childhood were buried here, lost in the darkness of unused corridors. The last traces of his parents were locked away in their old bedroom, a place Bruce rarely entered, only in moments of weakness. The manor felt like a grave, the remains of happy souls that had once lived there. A monument to Bruce’s past, to the boy he had once been.
Now, it felt as though the mansion reflected his insides. Hollow and empty. That was all he was.
And so the place he lived in had grown close to him, dear, in its own quiet way. Alfred cared deeply for it too.
“Alfred,” Bruce said one morning a few days later, slowly sipping his bitter coffee from a mug. He sat at the kitchen table, scanning his schedule. “Could you prepare dinner for two tonight?”
“Of course, Master Bruce,” Alfred replied. “And who might be our guest?”
Good old Alfred, the man who had saved Bruce from self-destruction. A steady, parental presence in his life. The only person who knew Bruce better than Bruce knew himself.
On his stoic face, it was hard to spot any reaction. Bruce had learned to keep a perfect poker face early on, trained by necessity and years of discipline under his care.
“It’s just Clark.”
And yet, the smallest movement of his brow, the nearly imperceptible twitch of his eyelid, was more revealing than an entire book. Bruce knew that spark in his eyes well. It was the same one that appeared whenever he did something that went against his usual restrained nature.
Alfred continued washing the dishes as if nothing at all had happened.
“Mr. Kent is a wonderful young man,” Alfred commented, his voice as casual as ever.
Bruce quirked a brow in his direction. That was how they usually communicated, entire conversations carried without unnecessary words.
“It’s just a simple dinner. I’m helping him with something.”
“I’m simply glad you have a friend, Master Bruce.”
And a dear friend he was indeed. When Bruce called him later that day, Clark sounded just as bright and energetic as always.
“Hi! What’s up?” Bruce could hear the background noise, Clark was still at work.
“Come to the manor today. Around six.”
“Huh? Why?”
Bruce sighed, loosening the tie at his neck. He was in his office, stealing a brief moment between meetings. His schedule was packed, but this time he had something to look forward to. He knew he’d appreciate Clark’s company after a long day.
“Alfred will prepare dinner. You’re invited.”
“Sure! Is there any occasion? Should I bring something?”
“No. Just bring yourself. And the occasion is you losing your virginity.”
There was a sharp crack on the other end of the line.
“O-oh God-” Clark muttered. “I just destroyed my pen. Ink everywhere. And my shirt is ruined. Great.” Papers rustled in the background, he was clearly trying to dab the stain with a tissue.
A glimpse of a smile appeared on Bruce’s lips for a second. “Leave it. I’ll buy you a new one.”
“You absolutely will not.” Clark replied quickly. Then, more hesitantly, “And… um- you’re still okay with this… arrangement?”
“Of course.” There was a knock at Bruce’s door, his break was over. “I have to go. See you at six.”
Bruce actually thought about it a lot during the past few days. He was always prepared, he was Batman, after all, but this time he had put considerable effort into his research. He wasn’t completely clueless about dates, intimacy, or sex, but his lack of personal experience definitely worked to his disadvantage. And Batman never backed down from a challenge, especially when it involved Superman. Bruce genuinely wanted to prepare everything for Clark, to give him the best experience possible.
He didn’t have the time to think about why he cared so much, nor did he particularly want to. Something deep inside him simply wanted to do something in return for Clark. Maybe to deepen their friendship, or to express a long-overdue gratitude.
He had given Alfred the evening to himself. After preparing dinner, the butler patted Bruce’s shoulder lightly.
“Enjoy your time, Master Bruce,” he said, a flicker of amusement passing through his eyes before he disappeared into the darkness of the manor.
Bruce didn’t reply, his gaze drifting to the clock on the wall. He wasn’t nervous. He had shared many dinners with different people, romantic ones and strictly business-related ones alike. He was used to putting in a bit more effort than usual, especially before pulling on the cowl.
Bruce was wearing fitted dark trousers and a simple black button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled up and a few buttons left open at the collar. His hair wasn’t styled perfectly, not the way it was when he played Brucie, but he tried to keep it neat, even though his impatient hand kept messing it up slightly. He had even put on cologne, trying to rid himself of the scent of Gotham’s alleys that seemed to cling to his skin. He sat down at the table prepared for two, his leg bouncing restlessly as he scrolled through his phone, occasionally checking the time.
It was just Clark, his friend, but somehow a tension lingered beneath his skin, the fine hairs at the nape of his neck standing on end.
The sudden knock at the door made him stand up abruptly. Bruce straightened his shirt as he walked over, reaching for the handle to let his guest in.
Clark stood right in front of him. He had his thick-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, his cheeks dusted with a faint red and a small, nervous smile playing on his lips. His black hair wasn’t slicked back the way he usually wore it in costume, instead, soft locks fell freely onto his forehead. He was dressed in a white button-up and dark blue trousers, clothes slightly too big for his frame, his usual trick for hiding his super-muscles beneath loose fabric.
Bruce let him in, closing the front door behind him, but he froze mid-step, his gaze drawn to the bouquet of red roses clutched in Clark’s hands.
“Hi, B…” The blush on Clark’s face deepened as he clumsily presented the flowers. “I didn’t want to come empty-handed and… uh- you prepared special dinner, and I thought flowers would be appropriate for this… occasion.”
Bruce studied his face for a moment, brows furrowing slightly, before a quiet chuckle slipped past his lips and the tension eased from his shoulders.
“Thanks,” he said, shaking his head as he took the bouquet. He admired the delicate petals, brushing them lightly with his fingertips. “I don’t remember the last time I got flowers. And of course I invited you for dinner. I’m a gentleman.” His mouth curved into something smug. “I’m not taking you to my bed without a proper meal.”
Bruce turned and headed toward the dining room, a faint smirk still on his face, while Clark, once again flushed bright red, followed him in quiet, flustered silence.
Before Clark could sit down at the prepared table, Bruce stepped ahead of him and gently pulled the chair back, offering it without a word. Clark froze for half a second, surprised by the gesture, before lowering himself into the seat. Bruce wasn’t lying. He truly had been raised as a proper gentleman.
Clark murmured a quiet “Thanks,” his fingers brushing briefly against the back of Bruce’s hand as he settled in. The contact lasted less than a second, accidental and fleeting, but it lingered in Bruce’s awareness far longer than it should have.
Bruce took his own seat across from him. Alfred had prepared a simple pasta dish, plated neatly, steam still rising in soft curls. The scent of garlic, herbs, and something warm and familiar filled the air, wrapping around them like a quiet welcome.
“It smells incredible,” Clark admitted, smiling at the plate in front of him, like it was the best thing somebody has ever prepared.
Bruce watched him carefully. Clark always reacted like that, to small things, to kindness, to warmth. He wasn’t human, but he was more human than anyone Bruce had ever met.
“Alfred outdid himself,” Bruce said, bringing his fork to his mouth.
They fell into conversation easily after that. They spoke about small things at first, Clark’s work, a minor League mission, an article Lois was currently obsessing over. Clark talked more, as he usually did, his hands moving slightly as he explained something about an editor’s unreasonable expectations. Bruce listened, occasionally adding a comment or asking a question, genuinely engaging in the conversation.
It was familiar and comfortable. They had shared meals before, countless times, after missions, during quiet nights at the Watchtower, in the Batcave. But something was different. Some tension lingered in the air. Bruce found himself paying attention to Clark more carefully than usual. The way his shoulders tensed whenever their hands came close across the table. The way he wasn’t able to maintain eye contact with Bruce for more than a few seconds. The faint flush that never fully left his cheeks.
Bruce was aware - aware of Clark’s presence in a way that felt sharper than usual. The way his presence melted the coldness of the mansion. His smile was the brightest thing that had filled these walls in a very long time.
Then Bruce stood up once they had finished, Clark observing his every move. Bruce stepped closer, extending his hand, the smallest tug at the corner of his lips, something almost like an olive branch.
“Are you ready?” he asked quietly. “Want to change scenery?”
He saw Clark swallow hard, and even though his hand trembled slightly, his gaze was steady and certain.
Bruce’s cold hand met Clark’s warm one when Clark took it. Bruce’s hands were well cared for, nails cut short and clean, but even the best hand care couldn’t hide the brutality of Batman’s work carved into his skin. His scarred, calloused hand felt unfamiliar in Clark’s smooth one. Bruce frowned slightly at the new sensation, quietly leading them toward his master bedroom.
When the door shut behind them, Clark stopped in the middle of the room awkwardly, his gaze deliberately avoiding the large bed on the other side. Bruce observed him closely, every small movement, his blue eyes unreadable.
“Clark,” he said quietly, coming closer. “You’re nervous.”
Clark didn’t even try to deny it. “Well, of course I am. Who wouldn’t be?”
Bruce exhaled slowly.
“We don’t have to do this, if you don’t want to.”
“No, I- ” Clark rubbed his eyes under glasses, then looked back at him, something soft forming on his lips. “I want to. I’m just nervous… because it’s you. And I don’t want to hurt you.”
Bruce didn’t understand. But something in Clark’s eyes told him that he didn’t have to.
Bruce moved and stood right in front of Clark, not taking his gaze away from his eyes. He gently placed his calloused hand against Clark’s cheek, realizing the other man was slightly taller than him. Searching for approval, he stepped closer, and when he felt a warm hand settle on his waist, he closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to feel the heat of Clark’s body.
“B,” Clark whispered, his eyes tracing the path between Bruce’s lips and his eyes.
Under the intensity of Clark’s gaze, Bruce licked his suddenly dry lips. Clark’s other hand rose to his neck, gently pulling him closer. Their lips barely touched at first. Their breaths mingled, warm and uneven, shared between them. Bruce could feel Clark’s heartbeat, or maybe it was his own, loud and unsteady in his chest. He wasn’t sure who moved first. But suddenly, they were kissing, for the first time.
His breath stuttered in his chest, fingers tracing small circles on Clark’s cheek, while his other hand slowly tangled into his silky locks. The kiss was shy, both of them testing the waters, perfectly aware of each other. But then Bruce tilted his head to the side, catching Clark’s lower lip between his teeth and tugging gently, his fingers tightening slightly in Clark’s hair. Clark made a soft sound and Bruce froze for a second, then tightened his grip.
Their tongues met, hesitant at first, then bolder, exploring each other’s mouths, breaths growing heavier. Clark’s large hands began to roam on their own, touching everything within reach, his arms, his neck, his hair, his chest, his waist. One of his hands slid lower, grabbing Bruce’s ass, fingers pressing firmly into the muscle as he pulled him closer, their hips flush together. This time Bruce let out a quiet, breathless moan, his trousers suddenly far too tight as he pressed closer in return, his lips trailing down to Clark’s neck, leaving small, lingering kisses along the warm skin. And when he felt Clark’s arousal against him, something hot and electric sparked beneath his skin, spreading outward like fire.
Bruce froze for a second, his lips still pressed against Clark’s neck, his breath uneven. He wasn’t used to this, to the intensity, to the warmth, to the way Clark kissed him. He wasn’t used to the burining lust in his veins and to actual feeling being wanted.
No one had ever held him like that before.
Clark seemed to notice his stillness immediately.
“Bruce,” he whispered softly, his voice no longer shaky, but careful. His hands, which moments ago had moved without hesitation, now rested gently at Bruce’s waist. Waiting. Trembling slightly.
Bruce lifted his head slowly. Their faces were close. Clark’s eyes were glassy, lips swollen, clothes rumbled. He stood perfectly still, not moving an inch, his whole body tense.
Bruce realized then that Clark was holding himself back. For him.
The thought settled deep in his chest, heavier than anything else that night.
Bruce reached up, his fingers brushing against Clark’s jaw, feeling the tension there. Superman could break steel without effort, and yet he stood here, unmoving, waiting for Bruce to decide.
Clark was the most gentle person he has ever met. Bruce trusted him with his life.
He leaned forward again, this time slower, pressing a softer kiss to Clark’s lips.
“I’m fine,” he murmured. “Don’t stop.”
Clark exhaled against his mouth, relief and something deeper slipping through the sound, and his hand tightened slightly on Bruce’s waist, still careful. Then he kissed him back, all desire and pure want on his tongue. Bruce closed his eyes, pouring everything he couldn’t say back into the kiss. Clark shifted, and the heat of his clothed dick pressed directly against Bruce’s. They swallowed each other’s moans as Clark began to move clumsily against him, sending sparks of pleasure through Bruce’s body. Bruce tried blindly to unbutton his shirt, overwhelmed by the unfamiliar sensations. His lungs burned from lack of oxygen, his lips tingled, and his cock throbbed painfully in his tight trousers.
Bruce broke the kiss with a sudden gasp and pushed Clark back, making him fall onto the bed. And God, if he hadn’t already been hard, he definitely would have been in that moment. Clark looked like a sin.
Bruce had somehow managed to unbutton most of his shirt, exposing the golden tone of his smooth skin. His black hair was a mess, soft locks falling in every direction, his lips red and wet, glasses crooked slightly on the bridge of his nose. But his sky-blue eyes looked at Bruce intensely, like they could burn straight through him. He lay on the bed, supported on his forearms, lust clear in his gaze. Bruce’s mouth went dry at the sight of the impressive tent straining against Clark’s trousers.
“Shit,” Bruce muttered to himself, for the first time in his life wanting somebody so intensely.
Bruce followed, slowly climbing onto Clark’s larger body, drawn forward like a moth to a flame.
And he let himself burn. For the first time.
He let his body move, his hands roam, his mouth kiss. All of this was new for both of them, and yet something deep within Bruce seemed to know exactly what he wanted to do. He left open-mouthed kisses along Clark’s thick throat, careful at first, testing the pressure of his teeth against the warm skin. But Clark’s breathy groan made something inside him snap, made him press closer, bolder.
Even though he knew he had the indestructible Superman beneath him, his touch remained careful, deliberate, focused entirely on Clark’s pleasure.
Then he moved lower. With slow fingers, he slid Clark’s shirt off his shoulders, pushing the fabric aside and exposing more of his skin. A small smile tugged at Bruce’s lips as he watched goosebumps rise beneath his touch.
Clark was sculpted like a god. This was nothing new. Bruce had seen him countless times before, in battle, in the Watchtower, under harsh lights and distant skies. But this was different. His muscles were large and powerful, covered in smooth, golden skin that seemed to glow even in the dim light of the room. He was soft beneath Bruce’s hands, not hard and uneven like Bruce’s own body, not scarred or broken. Strength wrapped in velvet.
There wasn’t a single imperfection. Not a scar. Not a flaw.
He was perfect.
Bruce bit his lip, silencing the weird thought before it could grow any louder. He buried his face against Clark’s chest, between the firm planes of muscle, leaving a slow trail of wet, open kisses there.
When he moved lower, toward the pink, erect nipples, his gaze lifted and met Clark’s. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Bruce’s fingertips traced over one of them, slowly, experimentally, before giving a gentle tug. He watched carefully, a quiet spark igniting in his eyes, as Clark’s head fell back, his teeth sinking into his own lip, his Adam’s apple moving in an attempt to hold back any sound.
Bruce noticed the tension, the control Clark clung to so desperately.
“Let go,” Bruce said quietly, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin as he spoke. “Let yourself feel.”
Bruce felt like he was slipping further with every sound that escaped Clark’s lips. Each breath, each quiet, broken groan unraveled something inside him, loosening the tight grip he had kept on himself for his entire life. He had always been precise, calculated, every movement deliberate, every decision measured and controlled. Control had kept him alive, had made him Batman, had made him into a person he is today.
And right this moment it was fading. And he didn’t stop, didn’t want to.
Clark’s reactions guided him more surely than any plan ever could. The slight tremor beneath his hands, the uneven rise and fall of his chest, the way Clark said his name without words, through breath and touch alone. Bruce followed it instinctively, letting himself exist in the moment instead of observing it from a distance.
For the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking three steps ahead. He wasn’t anticipating threats, outcomes, contingencies. He wasn’t protecting himself from what he might feel.
He was simply there. With Clark. He let himself yield, just enough, allowing Clark to be the one in control, trusting him in a way Bruce trusted no one else.
Bruce moved lower, guided purely by instinct, his nose tracing the faint happy trail along Clark’s lower stomach. When he reached the waistband of his trousers, Bruce looked up, silently asking for permission. Clark met his gaze, biting his lips before he gave a shaky nod. Bruce leaned forward and pressed a small kiss to his hip before sliding his trousers and boxers down.
The scent of musky arousal hit him immediately, warm and overwhelming. Clark’s cock stood proudly near his cheek, flushed and swollen, droplets of sticky precum glistening at the tip. Bruce’s breath caught.
It was the first time he had ever seen someone like this. Fully and intimately. And the first time he had a bare alien from Krypton beneath him.
He reached out carefully, wrapping his fingers around Clark’s shaft, silently admiring the weight and heat of him. Clark was definitely above average. And his cock looked human, nothing out of the ordinary, except for the amount of precum slowly rolling down, tracing the deep line of his v-line.
Clark whimpered quietly when Bruce began moving his hand up and down, adjusting his grip experimentally. He moved his fist the way he used to take care of himself, then tried different motions, watching closely to see which ones Clark responded to the most.
“Bruce,” slipped from Clark’s mouth, followed by another muffled moan. Bruce almost moaned himself at the sound, hearing how broken and hoarse Clark’s voice had become.
Because of him.
The thought made something tighten in his chest.
Then Bruce felt brave. He leaned closer and left a small, tentative lick along Clark’s shaft, tasting the precum gathered there. Clark’s thighs trembled instantly beneath him, encouraging him to continue. Bruce licked slowly upward, from the base toward the flushed, angry-red tip, his tongue collecting the sticky liquid pooling there. The taste surprised him. It wasn’t as salty as he expected. There was something softer to it. Warmer. Almost sweet.
Bruce wanted to taste more.
He lifted his gaze.
Clark had his eyes shut tightly, his hands gripping the sheets beneath him like an anchor.
Bruce realized then that Clark hadn’t touched him since they had fallen onto the bed.
“Hey, Clark,” Bruce said quietly, his voice lower than before. “Open your eyes.”
Clark obeyed slowly, blinking down at him, his glasses still slightly crooked, unable to hide the glassy look in his sky-blue eyes.
“You can touch me,” Bruce said softly, leaving a small, reassuring kiss against his thigh, never breaking eye contact. “You’re not going to hurt me.”
“B-But Bruce…”
“Touch me,” Bruce whispered. “Please.”
Clark released the sheets and reached out with a trembling hand. Bruce took it gently, squeezing it once before guiding it upward, placing it carefully into his hair. Clark’s fingers tightened instinctively.
Bruce moved forward then, his breath warm against Clark’s skin, his mouth closing around him slowly, carefully. He tried to adjust to the unfamiliar weight and taste on his tongue, swallowing experimentally around the shaft. Precum and saliva pooled in his mouth as he pushed further, his lips burning from the stretch. Clark’s one large hand moving gently to brush the dark strands of hair away from Bruce’s eyes.
Bruce forced himself to breathe through his nose as he pushed down as far as he could, the tip of Clark pressing against the back of his throat. Heat gathered behind his eyes, his lungs burning from the lack of air. His body reacted instinctively, pulling back with a sharp gasp when his gag reflex finally took over.
Bruce knew he wasn’t good at this. Not yet. But the sight of Clark above him, flushed, lips bitten raw, chest rising and falling unevenly, made something fierce and determined settle inside him.
Bruce wiped the thin strings of saliva connecting his mouth and Clark’s cock with the back of his hand before leaning forward again.
Whatever he lacked in experience, he made up for in focus.
Bruce was a fast learner.
He started slowly, licking, sucking, adjusting his rhythm, using his hand to stroke what he couldn’t take fully into his mouth.
Clark’s hand tightened in his hair, still careful, guiding him without force. His hips moved slightly, tentative at first, as if afraid to cross an invisible line.
“Rao,” Clark breathed, his voice hoarse and wrecked. “You’re so good…”
The words sent goosebumps racing across Bruce’s skin. Instead of stopping, he moved faster.
His mouth ached, his jaw sore from the unfamiliar strain. Tears blurred his vision, slipping down his cheeks, only to be gently brushed away by Clark’s thumb. But Bruce refused to stop. He was determined to see this through. To bring Clark to the edge. To be the one who did this to him.
Clark’s body betrayed him completely now. His hips moved sharply, desperately, his breathing rugged. His hand tightened in Bruce’s hair, never forcing, but holding on. His heels dug into the mattress, his entire body tense.
“I’m close-” Clark gasped, his hand moving instinctively, trying to guide Bruce away.
Bruce’s grip tightened around his thighs, fingers digging into warm skin, holding him firmly in place. He didn’t move.
But Bruce almost pulled away when he felt the sudden warmth spill into his throat. The sensation caught him off guard, making him gag slightly as more tears gathered in his eyes. He forced himself to stay still, swallowing around Clark, his throat working carefully as he tried to take it all. The texture was unfamiliar, not entirely pleasant, but the taste surprised him again. It was really warm. Softer than he expected. Really sweet.
He stayed there for a moment longer, his mouth still wrapped around dick, tongue moving instinctively, catching the last faint traces. He didn’t want to waste any of it. Didn’t want to break the moment too quickly. Only when Clark’s body finally relaxed beneath him did Bruce pull away.
He lifted his head slowly, his lips swollen and wet, mind still catching up with what had just happened.
Clark looked completely undone. His chest rose and fell heavily, his face flushed deep red. His hand still rested loosely in Bruce’s hair, fingers trembling faintly, like he hadn’t yet returned to himself. Like his soul just left his body.
Bruce had done that. He had brought Superman to this. Something dangerously close to pride settled deep in his chest.
He felt almost lightheaded.
And terribly horny.
“I need a sample of your cum later,” Bruce said instead, painfully aware of the hard ache in his trousers. “I believe it may have some sort of aphrodisiac properties.”
Clark took off his glasses and placed them beside him, his other hand dragging slowly across his face. When he looked back at Bruce, his gaze was clearer, and a bright, almost boyish smile spread across his lips.
“I’ve never come that hard in my life,” he admitted, his voice still dazed, heavy with aftershock. Then he frowned slightly. “And why does it smell so strongly like you here? Especially the bed?”
“Well,” Bruce replied dryly, “because it’s my bedroom.”
Clark froze. He sat there on the bed, completely naked in all his glory. Golden skin, flushed and warm, muscles still tense beneath the surface. He was the complete opposite of Bruce, who was still fully clothed, armor of fabric and restraint intact.
“I- We-” Clark swallowed. “You brought me to your actual bedroom?”
Bruce’s brows furrowed as he looked at him, as if Clark had suddenly lost part of his brain.
“Yes. What is so surprising about that?”
And then something shifted in Clark’s expression. Something warmer. His smile softened, growing wider. He moved closer, reaching out slowly. Clark’s large hand cupped Bruce’s jaw, thumb brushing gently over his swollen lips. He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss there, barely more than a breath.
Bruce didn’t react. So Clark kissed him again. Properly this time. And this kiss was different. There was no urgency, hunger or desperation. Only something quiet, careful and unbearably gentle.
Maybe Clark’s cum really had caused some kind of chemical reaction in his body, Bruce thought distantly, as he leaned into his warmth, his hand tightening slightly in silky locks.
Clark’s hand moved to Bruce’s chest, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his wrinkled shirt, trying to finally uncover him. He didn’t get the chance.
Two sharp alarms rang out at once.
They both froze. The sound cut through the room like a blade, shattering the fragile softness between them. Their comms followed immediately, signaling an emergency at the Watchtower.
Everything changed in an instant. With a rush of wind, Superman stood where Clark Kent had been just seconds before. The nervous, flushed reporter vanished, replaced by the Man of Steel. His posture straightened, his expression sharpened, though the faint redness on his cheeks still lingered.
He moved toward the window, opening it in one smooth motion. Then he stopped. He looked back at Bruce, there was a question in his eyes.
“Go,” Bruce ordered, his voice dropping, roughening, already shifting into something darker. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Superman nodded and then he was gone.
Bruce followed immediately, his movements automatic, precise, stripped of hesitation. Years of training took over. He pulled on his armor, piece by piece. The black cowl slid into place, covering his face, hiding his eyes, hiding Bruce.
Leaving only Batman behind.
Because before everything else, he was Batman first.