Bruce had accepted long ago that loving Clark would always make him foolish.
It was a gradual procedure of breaking his own set of rules. He lived a different life and he made peace with that long ago, and for it he built defenses, failsafes, backups for his backups, an airtight structure that left near to zero possibility for errors to emerge. This… was what he had to do so he could fulfill his mission.
And then he met Clark.
“Clark Kent, Daily Planet,” the man had introduced himself, that memorable night.
Bruce was much too old to fall for a pretty face. That was what he told himself, before he met a reporter from Metropolis at one of Luthor’s parties. Of all the places. The reporter was a tall specimen, wearing an ill-fitting brown suit over a plaid shirt stretched over an impressive set of shoulders. He had cocked his head to the side and Bruce wondered for a good moment how a man who looked like a goddamn marble statue came to life worked for a newspaper. Bruce gave Clark a slow appraisal that gave a flush to the man’s cheeks, one that Bruce replied to with a quirk of his lips and a smooth one-liner trademark of Ole Brucie.
The older man set his eyes on that strong jaw while he pretended to wait for a response, thinking about how the man had lips like he should make money off the shape of his cupid's bow. But what he'd never forget, he thought, was dragging his eyes upward to meet a pair of blues behind a black pair of spectacles. He saw an unexpected sharp astuteness in an otherwise friendly face and found himself… intrigued.
He mulled that over when pretty little (hah) Mister Kent sneaked in a question about Batman of all people, and Bruce chuckled with a sort of surprise. The sleeping lion had been poked with a stick by an intrepid reporter. His curiosity was piqued, and this was a vice he could never quell.
So… he indulged himself.
Bruce had originally planned to show face and then leave as fashionably as he could. He was finished pulling strings and didn’t want to prolong his stay. But Clark had already derailed him as early as the first time they'd met. The reporter had flashed him with his baby blues first, and then stunned him with a peek of that intelligence. Bruce stepped closer, like any man who saw someone worthy of a chase would. What started as an inane quote-taking evolved into perhaps something more, notably when Clark folded up his little notebook in his suit jacket to join him over to the bar.
“Come on, sweetheart. Enough about caped crusaders. Come with me and drink the bar dry—you won’t refuse a poor old man, will you?”
“You’re hardly poor, Mister Wayne.”
“Son, if I knew the guy, I wouldn’t say. I’m a Gothamite through and through. Now catch me when I’m asleep and I might say a word or two—put that on your Metropolitan headlines.”
He somehow managed to get the goody-two-shoed young man flustered, and Bruce reveled in disarming him. Once Clark eventually dropped the Batman topic, they inevitably veered to politics, current events. To the machinations of high society, to ethics and grey areas, to trying to do the right thing in a world that rewarded you for doing the opposite.
They sat comfortably next to each other, shoulders brushing, watching Luthor’s guests get progressively drunker by the minute. Bruce had whispered to his ear whose spouse was fucking who, who was having an affair with which married people, scandalous things that he could whisper in public without being direct. Any reason to achieve physical proximity, any reason to see the blush spread on those cheeks.
What he didn’t expect, however, was Clark turning his head, his nose brushing Bruce’s on his way. His eyes were serious, and out of his mouth—his pretty, pretty mouth—were words that were surprisingly but characteristically serious. “Have you?”
“Have I what?”
“Have you slept with a married woman? Or… man.”
Bruce looked at him with calculating eyes, too sober for someone who was supposedly on his merry good way to being utterly sloshed. He realized this was important to Clark. “No. Never.”
“Oh. Good.” Then he dropped his eyes to his hands, gentle and clean. Bruce wondered if they ever knew violence.
The older man willed his eyes upward. “Have you?”
Clark whipped his head up. Bruce expected a gosh, no, I would never, in that accent that Bruce knew not to be entirely Metropolis. Clean-cut, well-mannered Clark Kent, one whose eyes shone too bright and too honest. Why would he ever?
Clark’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. A beat too long without an answer, and there hadn’t been. Bruce thought he must be warring between his truthfulness and Midwestern manners. Some part of Bruce died at the implication, but cynicism had always been his shadow. Of course. Nobody was so perfect. Suddenly he didn’t feel so dirty wanting to fuck the handsome young reporter on the bar where everyone could see.
Bruce stood up and straightened his jacket, fixing his cuffs. Clark looked up at him with those eyes, earnest, and Bruce found he couldn’t resist him. He extended a hand towards the younger man and offered. “You know, I don’t quite believe you when you said the stars in Metropolis are brighter than in Gotham. Metropolis can’t be better at everything. Should we bet on that right now?”
Clark beamed at him, and Bruce felt something inside him shift that he decided must be the beginnings of a possible coronary. Mentally, he filed an appointment with his physician. Then he put a hand on the space of Clark’s back and shepherded him out of the mansion.
He lost the bet, of course. The sky was littered with stars, every twinkle unaccounted for. Bruce paid them no heed. If there ever was something out there, he could not give a shit. There was nothing out there that would interest him more than what was down here. The moonlight shone upon his companion, and the stars were in his eyes. Clark was looking at the night sky, telling him if he wasn’t an investigative journalist, he would have been in the field of science. Clark caught him staring and seemed to catch himself. Bruce knew the question before it left his lips. “What would you have been, in another lifetime?”
If he wasn’t an old man posing as an aged playboy, a businessman and philanthropist. If he wasn’t a vigilante dead-set on dedicating his life to defending Gotham, knee deep in the shit of its gutters. If he wasn’t who he was, standing right in front of a reporter, playing games within games, trying mask after mask until they blur together, taped to his skin. He’d been asked this question many times with a different answer on the tip of his tongue, but the script failed him this time. He found that Clark’s honesty could be a contagious thing.
“A doctor. Like my father was.”
Clark seemed to think it over, his face blank like a statue of an angel. Bruce refused to look away, wanting to dig deep in his mind and fuck around in it. He found himself endlessly curious. Then the young man looked up again, a smile to his lips. He reached for Bruce’s hand blindly and the older man stared down at their fingers interlocked, his eyes blank. Bruce looked up in askance.
Clark lifted it to his lips, the fingers pressing against the soft skin. Bold, but the expression on the reporter’s face remained sweet. Then Clark put Bruce’s hand against his cheek and Bruce had the hysterical thought of those cheekbones cutting his knuckles. The younger man’s eyes slipped closed, taking a moment. Bruce tried to understand where he was going with this.
Then Clark’s eyes opened. “Healing hands. It would suit you.”
If Clark only knew. On his hands, there was only phantom grime and blood caked under his nails, bruises on his knuckles and calluses, skin split open and reknit, split again. Violence was a language they’ve been honed to speak. On the skin of his fingers were indents of someone’s teeth, stains of someone else’s blood. And he was smearing it on Clark’s cheek, marble white and uncracked, the blood was red like his mouth, open just so…
Bruce leaned in first — that’s what he remembers. He gave him a simple kiss, wanting to taste, wanting to feel. But it was Prometheus teaching humans how to wield fire: once it was done, it was wildfire from there. He dared not pull away his hand, but he cradled Clark’s jaw, his other hand holding the younger man’s nape. And he kissed him again, their mouths slotted together. Bruce had no measure for perfect. Nothing ever was. But he pulled tighter on Clark’s curls and his mouth opened wider. He had no words for what it was except for the unequivocal feeling that his spirit was in such a vice grip, and that he slipped his tongue between Clark’s lips, wanting to invade him as he had been invaded. It was retribution.
He pulled back and Clark followed for one more peck. The space between them was next to nil, crevices filled by their breaths intermingled. They parted just so Bruce could look at him, and there were a hundred things he could say. Can I have your number? Can I see you again? What are you doing to me? Who are you and what have you done with who I’m supposed to be?
Who gave you the right?
His chest tightened with something hot, like rage or passion, indistinguishable in its intensity, and it made his lips feel numb. He didn’t know how to deal with it.
A long second before he spoke.
“Can I take you home tonight?”
The younger man gawked. “M-mine, or yours?”
“Mine,” Bruce’s eyes darkened, and speaking was easier in monosyllables. That single word a growl so unlike Brucie’s irritating and braying tone. Clark’s eyes widened, seeming to catch that sliver of authenticity from Bruce’s many, many confusing layers. “Mine,” the older man reiterated, his hand squeezing Clark’s shoulder meaningfully. He didn’t want to leave things uncertain.
There was a line of tightness in Clark’s shoulders, and Bruce thought for a long second that he may have miscalculated the younger man’s advances. He leaned down to look in those blues and counted the thoughts that must run behind them. The older man dropped his gaze, his hand trailing down Clark’s thick arm. He caught a limp hand, interlacing their fingers. When he looked up, Clark visibly softened.
“I’ll take care of you,” Bruce said, sealing the deal.
That smile again, suddenly unhesitant and free. “Of course,” Clark said, as if he’d forgotten it, as if Bruce had said it before. “Of course you will.”
The ride back to the lake house was silent. They kept their hands to themselves, but Bruce stole glances. Their jackets were taken off and folded on top of each other between them. Clark sat on the passenger’s seat with the window rolled down, looking up, always looking up. He knew Clark knew he was staring. The younger man’s lips quirked before he dragged his eyes from the sky, catching Bruce’s. He playfully reached out and nudged Bruce’s jaw back to the road.
When they got home, Clark took one look at the lake house and laughed. “Glass walls in the middle of the forest, Bruce?”
“I hadn’t realized you were interested in architecture.” Bruce closed his car door, joined him on the lawn, slipped his hands around that tiny waist, and kissed his cheek. Clark chuckled softly and the vibration tickled Bruce’s chest.
“Just concerned. How do you feel secure?”
“Mmm…” he gnawed on Clark’s ear, thinking it over. Apart from having the top-of-the-line security system he put in himself, monitored at all times, any guy who was lucky enough to pass through the security would meet Batman’s wrath himself. “The view beats any false sense of security. You’ll see in the morning.”
“Will I?” Clark pushed at his chest, that playful look in his eye.
“What did I say? Now before that morning view…” Both of his hands slid down that ridiculous dip of Clark’s back and grabbed a handful of that plush ass. Firmer than it looked. He swore internally, feeling himself harden. By the sharp intake of breath, he imagined Clark felt it too. Bruce rasped, “We better get inside before I fuck you open on my lawn.”
One disadvantage of being old was that his back would probably thank him if they make it to a bed. Though he reckoned he could lift Clark against the glass wall and fuck him open with his cock if he so wanted. Clark would have to hold on to Bruce’s neck and he’d have no other way but to sink further, fucking himself on Bruce’s dick. It’s a pretty image.
“You’re not fucking me on your couch,” Clark laughed when Bruce trapped him against it, mauling his mouth. The younger man disentangled, his cheeks bright pink. “However lovely said couch looks.” It would look priceless with him sprawled on it. Pushed against the corner and forced to take all of Bruce’s cock…
It must’ve shown on his face, Bruce thought, when their eyes met and Clark’s breath caught. But the moment was somewhat broken by the image of the younger man’s glasses pushed up against his face. Bruce took them off with careful dexterity, folding them up and tucking them inside Clark’s breast pocket.
The younger man grinned at him dazily. “Come on, Bruce.” Clark walked ahead of him despite having no clue where the bedroom was, and the fact that he was now rendered half-blind. Bruce followed him and caught him muttering under his breath. “…should save up for LASIK… so I won’t run into billionaires’ glass walls…” Bruce’s mouth twisted, mirth bubbling in his chest. He found that it won’t go away as he pulled the younger man’s hand, leading him to the right hallway.
The bedroom door slammed close and Bruce captured Clark’s mouth, pushing him against it. Clark’s hands roamed on Bruce’s wide shoulders, a hand on his chest. Bruce helped him pull the shirt off, their mouths locked together as he unbuttoned. One agonizing button after another. The younger man pushed him towards the bed and he complied, watching Clark as he walked backwards, sitting the minute the back of his knees hit the mattress. Clark followed, standing between his legs, and he was a vision bathed in the moonlight streaming through the wall. Clark looked down on him as he pulled off his own shirt, his shoulders flexing. Bruce reached up and touched his chest, his fingers running through the thin layer of hair, tweaking a nipple.
Clark threw his head back, a sigh on his lips. When he looked down at Bruce, he had a lazy smile on his face. His hand caught Bruce’s and lifted it to his lips. Bruce had a déjà vu of their moment earlier outside Luthor’s residence. Only this time, he sucked in two digits in that warm wet mouth, the tongue sliding around and in between. Suddenly it made sense and he chuckled, pulling Clark’s waist closer with his free hand, unbuckling his belt.
“You like my hands,” Bruce said.
Clark only nodded, sucking on them deeper. Not a little bit ashamed at being called out, although his cheeks were red. Bruce couldn’t get the younger man’s pants off him fast enough. “I’m gonna have you ride my fingers if you like them so much,” he said, planting his lips on Clark’s hip, intending to suck the skin until he left a mark. I can put my fist inside you if that’s what you want, he thought, imagining Clark squirming, impaled on his fist and utterly ruined. Clark moaned and let go of Bruce’s fingers with a wet sound. Then he pushed Bruce’s shoulder, pulling back to part Bruce’s thighs, kneeling on the floor.
He leaned back on his hands, watching Clark’s fingers unbuckle his belt, unzipping his pants. Clark pulled his waistband impatiently, his firm hand grabbing his cock until he was all for Clark’s perusal. “Oh, Bruce.” The younger man’s eyes flitted back to him with something like delight, his hand stroking Bruce’s cock from base… to tip. The older man’s boxers were pulled under his balls, and Clark licked the skin with that pink tongue, dragging it upwards to mouth at the tip.
Bruce hissed as Clark’s lips closed over the head, lowering down and down. He tangled a fist on the younger man’s curls, a savage want to pull until eventually the younger man whimpered. Clark only got halfway and was jerking the rest with his fist, his hand firm and slick with spit and precum. He pulled back up and down and Bruce watched with satisfaction that settled in his bones, hips lifting and fucking up that warm mouth. His soft lips tightening around the veins of the older man’s shaft.
“Jesus, sweetheart, I’m not gonna get harder than that.”
Whatever Clark said in response got muffled around Bruce’s cock. Bruce breathed raggedly. The younger man's cheeks bulged, his lips shiny. The feeling of Clark’s tongue dragging up his shaft felt just as good as seeing Clark’s mouth stretch at the size of it. He traced a finger down the side of Clark’s marble-like cheek as his head went up and down, and he cradled the jaw that was stretched to its limits.
Clark had a twinkle in his eye. He pulled back and gave the head a little kiss before sucking the shaft deeper, tighter. The room was filled with the wet sound of the younger man’s mouth on his cock, humming happily. His eyes slipped closed in an undeniable expression of utter content. His spit was wetting the sides of his mouth, and Bruce wondered if he could pull Clark even closer to take all of him, watch his eyes open in shock and roll back, his spit run down his chin…
Bruce hissed, reaching under and squeezing the base of his cock as a precaution, not wanting to cum. The younger man opened his eyes, looking up at Bruce. He could barely discern their color now with only the moonlight as his aid, but the dazed look felt like a vicious punch to his lower belly. He grabbed a tuft of soft black hair and pulled Clark’s head off him, his dick slipping out of his mouth with a wet sound. He slapped Clark’s cheek with it, painting the skin with the pre-cum, and felt a harsh laughter in his chest. The younger man whined and leaned forward to have himself one last lick, catching the head with his lips. Bruce pulled away.
“Please… more.” Clark said, throat a little raspy and raw.
“You’ll have more when I tell you.” His hand pressed against Clark's neck, squeezing oh so lightly. Clark’s pulse point jumped. He leaned in on Clark's ear like he had a secret to tell. "I’ll fuck you open with it. You’ll feel it in your goddamn throat. Up.”
The younger man scrambled to rise, hitting the bed on his side and making the mattress bounce. The younger man’s thigh, thick and muscled, spread open like an invitation. His cock laid on his stomach, and the tip was wetting his abdomen with his own precum. It was tempting, like the rest of him, hard, pink and cut. He reached out to Bruce, shaking lightly, as if he was afraid the older man would leave.
Oh, Bruce would be here all night.
Bruce stalked closer, pushing Clark’s other thigh open. His hand slid down between Clark’s legs and slipped a finger under his heavy sack, between his cheeks, pressing at the furled hole. Bruce uncapped the bottle of lube from his nightstand and watched the fluid drip onto Clark’s opening, felt like salivating like a dog as he coated his digits with it. The older man leaned over and kissed Clark’s mouth, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth as he circled the hole teasingly. Bruce lapped at that sweet mouth and slid the first finger in.
Clark’s body shuddered, his form shaking against Bruce’s hold. What came out of the younger man’s mouth was a cross between a groan and a sigh that dug into Bruce’s head like a siren’s song. His thighs lifted, spreading himself further. Whatever Clark wanted to say was lost around Bruce sucking his tongue, and the only thing discernable was a high whimper that sounded as if it tore itself out of his chest. His hole was warm and hot and tight, the muscle clinging onto Bruce’s knuckle as he pulled out and pushed in, picking up speed.
The older man slid in another digit and Clark gripped his shoulders, his hips rolling in time with Bruce’s fingers fucking in. Bruce let up for air, and Clark threw his head back with a sob as his mouth was finally free. Bruce left a trail of wet kisses from his cheek to behind Clark’s ear, where he licked at the skin and felt the younger man clench around his fingers. He pulled back and Clark looked up at him with half-lidded eyes, knitted brows, lips open. A litany of Bruce, oh, please, more-more-more…
He complied with another finger. Clark shut his eyes with a choked gasp, his thighs tensing with the urge to close them around Bruce’s arm. The older man trapped the younger man’s legs against his chest before he got to do so, bending him nearly in half. He leaned his weight onto the back of Clark’s thighs, watching with something base settling in his chest as his fingers continued to fuck the tiny hole, pink around his fingers. He dug deeper, faster. From before he was only fingering Clark’s ass at the pleasure of seeing him stretched, but now he expertly curled his digits until he found the spot…
Clark’s eyes opened in shock, hand curling at the arm between his thighs and holding Bruce’s wrist. The older man chuckled, leaning down to lap at his nipple. He fingered him faster and Clark’s body shook against him. He looked feverish, his mouth slack in pleasure. Bruce rubbed at the spot fiercely. Clark cried, his free hand moving down to jack himself off, the head of his cock red and leaking, his balls tight and full.
“Want to cum, baby?” The older man’s voice was a parody of Brucie’s croon, the sweet words roughened by a seemingly animalistic growl.
“P-please…” The word was nearly unintelligible. He didn’t look like he could think straight, nor speak clearly. Bruce felt a smirk widen on his face.
“What’s that? Hm?” He pressed at the spot insistently. Clark looked ready to combust.
“Bruce… oh G-god…”
Bruce let go of his thighs and they fell open. Clark leaned on his free elbow to look at the older man’s hand between his thighs, fingers lodged in his ass. He stroked himself fiercely, fist tight around his shaft until he came with a guttural groan, cum shooting between his knuckles. Clark twisted his own wrist, wringing out a few more as he whined, eyes screwed up like he was in deep pain. His stomach and heaving chest were streaked with his own cum when he was finished, and Bruce found, with great pleasure— some of his seed splattered on his own jaw.
Bruce let the moment hang. And then rubbed at the spot again. Clark whined, his thighs quivering. The older man pulled out his fingers and closed them around Clark’s cock, stroking it a few more times just because he felt like being a bastard, and then he let go.
Clark twitched and then slowly untensed, melting onto the bed as Bruce sat between his lax thighs. The younger man peeked at him, slow breaths whistling through his bitten-red lips. Bruce leaned down and dragged his tongue up Clark’s body, lapping up the trail of cum until he reached the younger man’s face. Clark chuckled, but it died down as Bruce kissed him, licking inside his mouth. Here, this is what you taste like.
The younger man grabbed hold of his hair, yanking Bruce’s head closer to him. So he still has some fight left in him. Clark’s cum-covered hand grabbed southwards and gripped his cock, smearing his seed up and down Bruce’s shaft. The older man groaned against Clark’s mouth, pulling off with a wet sound and finding a grin on the younger man’s face.
The fucking rascal. He hitched Clark’s leg over his shoulder, watching as the younger man lifted his other thigh against himself, exposing himself to Bruce’s perusal. The older man watched as the pads of his fingers circled the pink skin around his opening, stroking Bruce’s cock in tandem.
Maybe Bruce liked watching him a little too much.
Bruce pulled his hands away and Clark held his waist, fingertips hot against his skin. Bruce's hand ran up and down the younger man’s leg, gripping the meat of his thigh as he pressed the tip of his cock against Clark’s opening. Like a filthy, wet kiss. He slid in inch by inch, watching Clark’s face twist at the intrusion. As if he didn’t want to miss a thing. Bruce pulled back and sawed in forcefully, sheathing himself completely.
They groaned in unison. Clark threw his head back, rolling his hips against Bruce’s, letting out a filthy moan.
“Fuck.” Bruce dropped his forehead against Clark, watching the place where they were joined. He was hot, wet, and unbelievably tight. He pulled back and fucked in again, jostling the younger man. His hard red cock disappeared inside Clark’s hole, stretched around his shaft.
“G-god, you’re huge.” Clark’s voice was strained, his brows knitted and his chest flushed pink. Bruce thrusted in and out, entranced at the vision, the feel of the younger man’s ass squeezing him. He took in a ragged breath and rammed in repeatedly, his hips smacking against Clark’s ass.
“Oh… oh my god…” Clark held onto the back of Bruce’s neck, taking all of Bruce like he was meant for it. He looked near perfect getting pounded on Bruce’s sheets, grasping the cloth with his fist and his words dying out from incoherence, lapsing into short abrupt whimpers that sounded completely pornographic.
Bruce found himself wordless, the room echoing with Clark’s moans and the harsh slapping noise of his hips against the younger man’s body. He slid his arms under Clark’s knees, grabbing onto his waist and pulling him flush in tandem with his thrusts. Clark yelped, putting a hand on Bruce’s chest, but the older man only fucked him harder.
Clark’s cock was thickening again, spilling precum on his tight stomach. Bruce’s sweat was dripping from the tips of his hair onto Clark’s chest. His hands planted onto the bed on either side of Clark, the younger man’s knees up to Bruce’s shoulders. Bruce had a dark look on his face, determined to ruin Clark in every way permissible.
“Look at you.” His voice settled like a rough wave over Clark’s skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “You were made for my cock, weren’t you?” He punctuated with a vicious thrust, grinding his cock inside the younger man.
Clark nodded vehemently, squirming against Bruce’s onslaught. He grabbed Bruce’s forearm, his body sliding on the bed from the force of the older man’s thrusts.
“Come on,” The older man’s voice was strained. “Let me hear it.”
The younger man opened his mouth and it took a moment before he found the words. Garbled around his moans, he said, “I-I’m.. I’m made for you—ah!” Bruce hit his prostate with his fat cock, ramming mercilessly against it. Bruce laid his weight against Clark, rendering him immobile as he rolled his hips faster, focusing on that spot.
Clark sobbed against his ear, his arms scrabbling to hold Bruce. His nails made their mark on his back, and the pain only made Bruce faster. Bruce pulled back slightly just to look Clark in his eyes, murmuring, “That’s right… yeah… you feel so fucking good…” He was panting and his muscles were burning but he could hardly notice around Clark’s vice grip on his cock. “You’re fucking begging for it, aren’t you? Yeah? Can you come for me like this?”
The younger man nodded, nearly in tears. Bruce gave him a brutal pounding for a few more, every slam punctuated with Clark’s cries. Bruce had to hold him down for all his squirming, until finally Clark came untouched with a strangled shout, arching his back. His legs were wide open and his cum painted both their torsos in streaks of white. The older man fucked him through it as he squeezed the older man’s cock, his body shaking against Bruce. Clark’s trembling fingers turned Bruce’s face closer to him and sought for his lips. The older man acquiesced, slowing down and letting Clark lick in his mouth.
Clark was shivering lightly in the aftershocks. Gradually he sank into the sheets, except for his rump resting on Bruce’s lap where they were still connected. Their lips parted with a soft wet sound. Bruce held his gaze for a moment longer before he resumed his thrusts, picking up speed. Clark made a tiny noise but otherwise was more relaxed, letting Bruce use his body for his own pleasure. Bruce laid his forehead next to Clark and could think of nothing else but the way that Clark massaged his dick with his ass, clenching for his enjoyment. The younger man mouthed at his neck, worrying his teeth over the skin. Bruce slammed his cock forcefully and Clark’s breath hitched.
The younger man’s hand settled on his waist, urging him on. “Yes… Yeah, Bruce, just like that, right there…” Clark spread his thighs further for Bruce, and the older man fucked that perfect little hole with a savage delight. He was so goddamned close. When it came, he felt the sensation crawling from his toes, and the intensity felt like a punch to his gut. His balls tightened; his guttural groan buried in Clark’s neck. Clark murmured sweet nothings in his ear and he replied with a violent thrust, the force making Clark grunt. He forced himself balls deep inside Clark’s body, grinding his hips against his ass until he was finished painting Clark’s insides white with his seed.
Bruce blanked out for a couple of minutes. He stayed there for a long while and didn’t hear a peep from Clark, so the younger man must’ve been able to take his weight. As easily as he had been able to take his cock, Bruce assumed. Their chests were breathing in tune, both of them catching their breath. Slowly he regained control of his limbs and pulled away to see that Clark’s eyes had slipped closed, though not asleep, his curls sticking to his forehead.
Without thinking, Bruce reached out to push the curls back. Then he froze, his brain catching up and questioning if that was the right thing to do. His hand hovered for a long second. Bruce pulled away.
Clark peeked at him, one eye cracking open and Bruce had the ridiculous feeling that he was being measured. The feeling died as Clark’s lips parted into a smile. White as the Gotham moon.
Bruce didn’t chuckle, but there was a tiny smirk on his face that he couldn’t deny.
Clark stroked his rump, the cold sending shivers down his skin. The younger man had a peaceful look on his face that twisted into a wince as the older man slipped free. His hole was red and gaping, trickling with seed. Clark put an arm over his eyes. He must’ve felt it escape him.
And because Bruce couldn’t help himself, he wiped the fluid and pushed it back in, screwing his fingers in that stretched opening. It looked downright obscene and he contemplated pushing his cock back in just to see his cum foam around Clark’s rim. Clark was biting his lips, keeping the soft sounds from rushing out, as if he wasn’t screaming himself raw just several minutes prior.
Clark, for his part, let Bruce have his way with him.
Once Bruce had his fill, he wiped his fingers on Clark’s thigh. He fell on the bed beside Clark shoulder first. As an afterthought, he grabbed a towel from the nightstand and passed it to Clark to clean himself with. With half-lidded eyes, he watched the younger man’s hand travel from his chest to between his thighs, wiping the evidence of their coupling.
The younger man turned and wiped at Bruce’s torso in turn, much to Bruce’s surprise. Bruce observed him, his touches gentle but firm, words unspoken. Clark met his gaze and angled for a kiss. Bruce bent forward and licked his lips, tasting sweat, semen, and something entirely Clark. He huffed with a surprise when Clark took this moment to wipe his cock, fondling it from base to top through the cloth. Bruce pulled the towel away from him and threw it behind him before he shared one last languid kiss with Clark.
The last thing he remembered before sleep took him was the heavy weight of Clark’s arm across his waist.
The Wayne Manor laid behind him, barely, its ruins a glaring vision on the sprawling fields. Its eyes followed him on his path, gaze heavy like the world on Atlas’ shoulders. It’s October, November. It’s yesterday, it’s never happened before. What time was it? The Gotham sky was as pale as the edge of the moon, hanging between light and darkness. Bruce trudged through the overgrowth with a bouquet clasped in his fist, like a lamp through a corridor. Burs caught the hem of his overcoat, and when he blinked, he could see mud and blood caked on his tattered cape.
Through the distance, he heard a chilling laughter. As undeniable as the sound of clapping thunder cutting through the sky. He heard the metal drag through the floor. It’s etched in his memory, smoke rising from the flesh, burning like a brand. Panic filled his chest. Bruce broke into a run towards the mausoleum, shouting his son’s name. Jason shouted back, his voice as damnably clear as that April night.
Bruce ripped the doors open, eyes searching. Too late, Batsy. Too, too late. On the edge of his vision was the image of his son’s body, mangled, his face drowning in the puddle of his own blood. His arm was outstretched to him. Bruce looked down in his arms, suddenly heavy.
The Robin suit, the fabric drenched and torn. The cape spilled onto the floor like a waterfall in the night. The white letters, stark against the dark armor. Bruce shook with rage. He trembled with grief. His heart shattered again, like pearls scattering onto the pavement, slipping into the alley gutters anew. He looked up and his son was gone, he’s gone again, before I could even hold him, and what remained was the stillness of a mausoleum long last visited.
In his ear, Jason cried again. He couldn’t hear what he was saying, but deep inside he knew it was his name.
Bruce woke up with little to no fanfare. The morning light filtering through the glass was a pale blade cutting through the heavy atmosphere. He felt like crawling out of his skin, as if he wanted to run or hit someone. But most of all, he felt a pervading ache in his chest that stung like a fresh wound being pried open. Inch by inch. His flesh was tearing.
He sat up on the bed, resting his forehead on his hand. Moving felt no different. He looked over the bed to figure out how to get to his whiskey — and on the way, his eyes fell to his companion.
Clark was sleeping on his front, his arms folded under his head, cushioned by the pillow. His head was turned to Bruce. He looked peaceful. His eyelashes laid on his carved cheek, and his lips were slightly open. Atop his head were a mess of jet-black curls, akin to a bird’s nest. Bruce’s gaze trailed on the muscled shoulders, following the dip of his back and to his ass, covered by the blanket. He looked vastly different bathed by sunlight. Bruce absently pulled the edge of the blanket higher, and his hand rested on the curve of the covered rump. Clark felt warm through the fabric, even by the morning chill.
Bruce didn’t know how long he was staring. He could have been frozen for hours. He felt rather than saw Clark wake, shifting under his palm. The younger man stretched like a sinuous cat before settling back again, embracing the pillow tighter. A few more moments passed before his eyes blinked open, and there it was again. Summer skies.
Clark’s gaze travelled around the room before meeting his. Bruce bore witness to the pink flush that bloomed in his cheeks, accompanied by a lazy smile that scrunched his eyes into slivers of blue. “Hey.” His voice had taken on a raspy tone, and if Bruce were feeling any amorous, he would linger on the fact that it was because Clark spent the better part of last night screaming.
Bruce didn’t feel much like talking. He thought Clark would fall back to sleep, but the younger man’s face was suddenly marred by a look of uncertainty, wiping the smile from his lips. He sat up, clearly still half asleep, putting a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. He frowned as he took Bruce in. For someone with a shitty vision, he apparently had no problem analyzing Bruce.
To his surprise, Clark encircled his arms around his waist, resting his head on Bruce’s shoulder. He took a deep breath and for a long moment he was silent. Bruce thought he fell back to sleep. He sat there with a hundred thoughts in his head, and yet the only thing he could register was Clark’s weight on him.
“Bad morning?” Clark eventually murmured. His arms around Bruce tightened, as if remembering he was awake. Bad morning, Bruce thought with a huff. The day is what you make of it. And yet he couldn’t deny that he woke up and felt like a knife was goring through his sternum. With every breath the blade was digging deeper.
“Go to sleep, Clark.”
“Hm.” The blanket was twisted between them. There was something in his voice. Clark’s thumb swiped over his hip, it felt like a balm. He wondered if he put Clark’s hand on his chest it would reknit itself.
“So you do know my name.”
Outside the glass walls, the lake passed undisturbed. The sky was crisp grey, the fog draped on the treetops in the forest across the waters. Everything felt still. Bruce could count the very few moments he felt like this on one hand. His cover was blown. In his head, the alarms were blaring. He supposed he should be more surprised, but he knew that he flirted with danger. A reporter.
This close he could see the slope of the younger man’s nose bridge, a dusting of freckles that were faint in the cold light. He had to make a decision right there, and yet it hardly felt like one. He pulled Clark’s arm off his waist gently, and the younger man peered over to see him running his palm over the veins, spanning the length of his forearm until their palms were touching. Fingertips placed on each other’s pulse.
“Clark Kent,” Bruce said. In the distance, a leaf fell onto the water, sending gentle ripples in its impact. So infinitesimal, and yet.
There was a tiny smile pressed against his shoulder. “Clark Kent,” the younger man agreed.
They stayed like that for what seemed like a long minute unchecked by time, taking in the morning view. The day had only started. The possibilities were endless. The space between them was nonexistent, filled with neither breath, nor light, nor shadow. It was all Clark’s body pressed tight against him, his chest rising and falling in tandem with Bruce’s.