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This game was familiar territory for the Bat.

The thrill of the hunt, adrenaline pounding through his veins, the sharp knowledge of what waited at the end of it. Fear was as much a weapon as his fists or his gadgets, and often a more powerful one at that. The fear of being followed, of being caught, and worst of all maybe the deceiving flicker of hope that escape was possible. That this could end in any other way than defeat.

The difference was that for the past twenty years, the Bat had been the hunter, not the prey. Fear had been something he instilled in others, not something that crackled down his own spine like bursting ice, opening up freezing depths that threatened to swallow him whole. And like all the worst fears, knowing that it was irrational didn’t dampen its intensity – knowing that he was in no real danger didn’t lessen the pressure on his temples, the exhaustion of keeping his heartbeat from hammering itself into a frenzy. Fear was too primal to be entirely controlled, and after all the point of this was to wallow in it as much as to conquer it.

He hadn’t seen even a glimpse of red for the past half hour – and he had to remind himself it hadn’t been longer than that, to focus on his reliable inner clock rather than on the part of his brain that stretched minutes into hours, that made the anticipation of being caught feel as if it would never end. But just like any prey animal knew it was being followed, he could tell that he hadn’t lost his pursuer. No matter how many dark alleys he slipped through, how many buildings he crawled up, how many rooftops he sneaked over – all the tricks he’d learnt, all his skill at disappearing in the shadows, making himself a part of his city, were worth nothing against a creature that could smell him from a mile away, that could hear his heartbeat from the other end of the city.

Once he’d heard the swish of a cape not too far behind him, the eerily familiar sound of wind billowing it as the Superman hovered in the air, but when he’d glanced back over his shoulder, the black, starless Gotham sky was empty. Fear could distort things – make the creaking of an old house sound like an intruder’s steps, the whisper of the wind in the trees like the wings of a hundred bats – but the Bat knew his senses were too sharp, his mind too alert to imagine things.

He headed further towards the river, even though he knew it was foolish to hope that the foul smell would make it any harder for the Superman to find him. The air around was thick with smog and pollution – from nearby factories, from traffic, from the small fires the homeless in the area lit. An easy area to disappear in, to slip into a house entrance and emerge in a shadow two blocks further without anyone the wiser, but if any mortal man had been following him, the Bat would have lost him long ago.

Still, it went against everything he was to give up just because defeat seemed inevitable. He slipped soundlessly into one of the abandoned warehouses – being inside at least removed the Superman’s advantage of watching him from high up in the sky. His x-ray vision remained, of course, but there was enough lead in these old buildings to provide at least a sliver of cover.

Once he heard the crack of an old door being torn out of its frame despite being barred with thick wooden boards, the Bat knew that the hunt was over. But even though he heard where that sound came from, even though he had time to brace himself for the attack, he barely saw more than a blur of red and blue before he was slammed back into the nearest wall. A painful reminder of how little chance he would have stood against the Superman in their first fight if he hadn’t held back at first. Of course, had this been a real fight, then the Bat would have come prepared, with heavier armour and kryptonite. But this being a game didn’t stop his heart from beating faster in his chest, nor his breath from hitching when he looked into blue eyes in that pale marble face, one strand of black hair curling into Superman’s face just like it had that first night.

Coming in here had been an invitation, after all. A secluded place where they were unlikely to be disturbed, the ideal spot to bring the hunt to its conclusion. The kind of place where a hunter could devour its prey in peace, not that anyone would ever be foolhardy enough to try and take his prize from the Superman’s hands.

He needed only one hand to keep the Bat pinned to the wall, his arms twisted painfully above his head, the Superman’s fingers keeping him from accessing any of the weapons hidden in his gauntlet. Bruce had taught him that grip, one night in the caves, but Clark had been so much more careful then, almost as if he was scared of bruising him. No such concerns now. A burning ache spread through his arms as the Superman lifted him from the ground, leaving him dangling like a deer over a campfire. If he’d been fighting a man, the Bat would have known a hundred ways to free himself – to twist his way out of that grip, to kick or knee his attacker into a dozen sensitive places. But there was no escaping the Superman’s grip, and attacking him would only shatter his bones against that invulnerable, alien body.

“Enough of that,” Superman said. His voice was hard, commanding – not quite the same angry tone as in Bruce’s nightmares, but close enough to send a prickle up his spine. Fear, but it was mixed with the sharp tingle of temptation. The kind of fear that led a man to stand too close to a chasm, just to see how far he could go without falling.

The Bat struggled and turned his head to the side, but he couldn’t stop the cowl being pulled off his head, baring dishevelled hair and sweaty skin – human and so very fragile compared to the monster from whose grip he was dangling. Superman studied the mask with a disdainful look. It was easy to guess what he saw – the mask without the Bat was just a useless piece of equipment, just like the Bat without the mask was just a man. They needed each other to be more than that, but the Superman pulled them apart at the seams as if they both were nothing.

He discarded the cowl without another glance, then put his hand on Bruce’s chest with the firm confidence of a predator finally closing its teeth around its prey. The Bat – no, Bruce now, because the Bat was never this helpless, never reduced to a trapped body filled with fear and angry desire, Bruce looked down at that hand and part of him expected it to push into his chest even now, to prove to him that he’d been right to fear Superman, to mistrust him, that no man with so much power could resist abusing it.

But it wasn’t his skin that was ripped open, merely the kevlar of his body armour and along with it the fabric he wore underneath, peeled aside effortlessly to reveal skin, marred and bruised and vulnerable. Bruce stayed quiet because he didn’t want to hear his own voice, the modulator having been ripped out along with the cowl, but he knew that Superman did not need him to talk to read him like an open book. He could hear Bruce’s heartbeat, slightly accelerated despite his best attempts. He could feel every small twitch of Bruce’s muscles when he brushed his knuckles over Bruce’s chest and then pressed them firmly against a purple bruise they found there. He could hear the sharp intake of breath, smell the sweat that pooled in the hollow of Bruce’s throat. If Bruce stayed quiet, it was only for the sake of his own pride.

There was something almost disinterested about the way the Superman touched him – fleeting, casual, each touch burning briefly on Bruce’s skin and then leaving him aching for more even as he tried to flinch away. It was worse still when those strong fingers brushed over clothed skin, their touch barely perceivable through the Bat’s body armour, until they finally cupped Bruce’s cock through the material and squeezed so hard something in his armour cracked.

Superman smiled, a god delighted by a new toy, then set Bruce down on his feet and in the same movement crowded him more firmly against the wall. The height difference did nothing to make him seem less imposing; if anything the body in front of him was more immovable than the stone behind him.

“Keep your hands where they are,” a short pause, a moment’s hesitation as if he had to figure out where his threat was going, but his voice stayed as smooth and hard as before, “or I’ll have to chain them.”

Bruce’s fingers twitched, but then he curled them into the rough edges of the brick behind him. It was easier than resisting the urge to touch the flawless lines of muscle he could see under Superman’s suit. There might not be any rules to this game, but Bruce at least had some unspoken ones for himself. Being too eager would defeat the purpose.

The next squeeze drew a sharp gasp from his throat before he bit his lip hard. Again Superman smiled, without any warmth in his eyes, and then slowly tore another hole into the suit to pull Bruce’s cock out. The cold air felt like ice for a moment, or maybe that was simply the contrast to Superman’s too hot skin, touching and squeezing curiously before he curled his fingers around Bruce’s cock. It felt ridiculous – Bruce Wayne had been exposed that way often enough, dressed in a bespoke suit, a few shirt buttons undone and his slacks open while a beautiful stranger knelt between his legs, but the same amount of skin uncovered while he wore the Bat’s suit, his armour … it felt like something far more than just fabric was being stripped off him.

Superman was close enough now that Bruce could feel his lips against his earlobe – lips that were perfectly smooth and soft, though there was a light scratch of stubble that didn’t quite fit his inhuman perfection.

His voice was barely more than a whisper, maybe more directed at himself.

“Is this what you dreamed about, Bruce?”

Bruce startled, flinched away and then instinctively held still again when Superman’s free hand grabbed his throat, pushing his head back against the bricks. But his voice had sounded too soft for a moment, almost more like Clark than like Kal-El. It didn’t make Bruce any less tense – in a way, it felt more humiliating to have that smiling Kansas farmboy know about Bruce’s darkest fantasies than the alien he’d tried to kill. If Superman did this to him, they were even. But Clark … it didn’t feel right to drag him down into this.

So Bruce kept his mouth shut and pointedly didn’t look at him, just in case he’d see anything in Superman’s eyes that neither of them could want him to see. Maybe Clark had caught himself too, or maybe Bruce had only imagined that hint of something else, because he didn’t say another word, just kept a firm grip on Bruce’s neck that bruised him without choking him, not allowing him to black out for a sweet moment, forced to feel every touch of those too strong fingers on his cock. He was more careful there, his movements almost teasingly slow as he stroked Bruce, but there was still an implicit threat in the strength of his hands, in the knowledge that he could tear Bruce’s body to pieces like a doll.

Bruce dug his fingers harder into the brick wall, hard enough that he would have broken skin if not for his gloves. His hips twitched into every stroke, and that barely noticeable movement was all he allowed himself even now, teeth burrowed into his bottom lip to stay quiet, eyes pressed shut. He still came faster than he could remember in a long time, his orgasm so sudden and intense that his knees buckled and for a moment all that seemed to keep him on his feet was Superman’s hand on his throat, pinning him to the wall while the other hand stroked Bruce’s oversensitised flesh, rubbing his come into his skin until Bruce could barely stand it anymore. He turned his head to muffle his pained groan against his own shoulder, but he knew Superman had heard him, had probably felt that Bruce was coming apart before he’d even realised it himself.

He’d barely found his balance again before he was turned around, manhandled until he leant against the wall with his cheek pressed against the bricks. The position was uncomfortable even before Superman shoved his legs further apart and then tore through the back of the Suit like it was made from the thinnest silk. It ended up constraining Bruce even further, ruined bits of body armour and fabric hanging around his thighs. For a moment he struggled on pure instinct, then froze when he felt come-slick fingers push against his ass, barely giving him a moment’s warning before they shoved inside him. It burnt, the way his whole skin seemed to burn wherever those hands touched him, inevitable like a force of nature.

At least Superman seemed too close to look at him now, to watch his fingers push relentlessly into him, but then who knew what other things his senses could discern – Bruce’s laboured breathing, the desperate clenching of his muscles, the way he strained to hold still rather than push back against the intrusion. He didn’t mind the pain, or the way his arm and shoulder muscles strained to maintain their position. If anything, he welcomed the way it heightened his own senses, like a dizzying echo of what Superman might have been feeling.

Against his neck he felt hot breath, faster than before, hitching every now and then when his fingers drew a choked moan from Bruce’s lips. They were close enough now that Bruce could feel Superman’s cock pressing against his thigh, hard and hot through the oddly textured alien fabric of his suit, a maddening contrast between something so mundane and something so foreign. He was rocking against Bruce, at first only a little while his fingers forced Bruce open, then more impatiently, in time with the sharp, painful thrust of his fingers. But he didn’t pull them out to push Bruce onto his cock instead. Bruce wasn’t sure if that was teasing or a small mercy, because he could barely take those thick fingers fucking him, forcing a few more drops of come from his aching cock. It was too much, the pleasure far harder to bear than the pain in his limbs or the rough brick against his cheek. When he came a second time, clenching around Clark’s fingers and moaning loud enough that it seemed to echo through the empty warehouse, his whole body shook from the intensity. For a few moments, everything seemed far away – the quiet, muffled moans against his neck, the way Superman kept rubbing against him, the sudden emptiness when his fingers withdrew.

And then he was gone, stepping away from Bruce and leaving him to find his balance again. Bruce took a deep breath, savouring the bone-deep exhaustion he usually only felt after a night of patrolling and fighting, but this time combined with just a few bruises rather than serious injuries. Once he trusted himself to keep his expression neutral again, he glanced back over his shoulder.

Superman was still standing there, just two steps away. He was flushed, his lips parted, his eyes wide – even with his perfect features and his sculpted body, he seemed less like a god now. The look in his eyes was more shame than arousal. Bruce glanced down at his crotch, and although the fabric didn’t look any different than before – no treacherous wet spot to give him away – the fact that Clark blushed even deeper all but confirmed Bruce’s suspicion.

“I should,” Clark started and interrupted himself, then licked his lips nervously. His gaze flitted over Bruce’s body, over the torn Suit and all the places it left exposed. Bruce turned around to face him and raised an eyebrow. Clark pressed on. “I should fly you back to your lakehouse. You can’t exactly … like this …”

Clark’s voice trailed off. He looked away and yet couldn’t keep himself from glancing back at Bruce again and again. Bruce let him stew in his embarrassment for a few more moments before he shook his head.

“I’ll be fine. I’m not letting you carry me around.”

Clark didn’t look even remotely convinced, but even he was learning that it was pointless to argue with Bruce about some things. Still he didn’t move.

“Are you –“

“Fine, I told you.” Bruce covered himself as best he could, if only because it was odd to have Clark looking at him this way while his cock was out. “Now go. I’m fairly certain it’s past your bedtime, Kent.”

Clark stared at him in disbelief for a moment, then shook his head. But that was still preferable to him looking worried, or to having to have some kind of talk about any of this. Things between them were complicated enough without that. It wouldn’t do for Clark to start assuming he and Bruce could be anything akin to friends, not after all the things Bruce had done.

“Suit yourself, Bruce.” For a moment Clark looked as if he wanted to add something, but then he seemed to think better of it. A moment later he was gone, disappeared out of the warehouse and up into the night sky.

Bruce let several seconds pass, as if to reassure himself that he wasn’t coming back, or maybe simply to catch his breath before he activated his earpiece.


He didn’t have to wait long for a reply. “Ah, Master Wayne. I was wondering where you’d gone off to.”

“I need you to send the car to my coordinates,” Bruce said. He could hear the raised eyebrow and questioning look at the other end of the line. “Don’t ask. You don’t want to know.”

“I usually don’t, Master Wayne, and yet …”

Bruce settled back against the wall, idly pulling at the ruined pieces of his Suit and wondering if any of it could be salvaged, and while he waited for the car to come pick him up, he very much did not think about the look in Clark’s eyes just before he’d left.