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where we had thought to find an abomination, we shall find a god;
where we had thought to slay another, we shall slay ourselves;
where we had thought to travel outward, we shall come to the centre of our own existence;
where we had thought to be alone, we shall be with all the world.
Dawn has always been Clark’s favourite time of day. He loves the smatterings of red and orange across the sky, the sweet birdsong and fresh air that accompanies a new beginning.
But dawn on a lake in Gotham County is a bit different. The sky is almost always grey, melding with the cryptic mist floating off the still waters. Leathery wings flutter as the bats retire to their cave for the day. A steady breath rises and falls beside Clark. He smiles privately, tries not to wonder what he’s done to deserve such perfect mornings.
The light outside casts soft shadows on Bruce’s sharp face, now lax with sleep. Clark can’t resist planting a kiss atop his forehead, just shy of the dark bangs falling into his eyes.
“Clark.”
Damn, he should have known by now that nothing gets past the Gotham Bat; even if he’s only slept for three hours. His eyes bore into Clark, warm browns like caramel.
“I’m sorry, go back to sleep,” Clark says, an errant hand running through Bruce’s hair.
“S’okay, I’m awake,” He says into his pillow. Clark sometimes hates seeing Bruce get up from bed—seeing him groan in pain from sore muscles and ageing bones. Its a stark reminder of his morality that is so incongruous with Batman’s solid presence.
Bruce throws his head back to dry-swallows his pills. Clark speeds to the kitchen—which is only a couple steps away in the bachelor-sized Lakehouse—and returns to crouch in front of Bruce with a glass of water.
His eyes widen in slight disbelief. “Thank you,” He says politely, and takes the glass.
Clark watches his throat work. “Bruce, I-” He exhales, not exactly knowing how to find the words to a question he’s wanted to ask for some time now.
Bruce stiffens, glass still in hand. There’s fear in that gesture.
“I want to ask you something,”
Bruce raises a brow. The fear has subsided, morphing into curiosity. Clark is a fast learner, and he’s learnt all of Bruce’s minuscule gestures over the past two months they’ve spent as more than colleagues. He chalks it up to the sheer number of hours he spends simply looking at Bruce, something he’ll never admit to out loud.
“Could we- I mean, we haven’t-”
Bruce’s brow inches higher.
“We haven’t exactly, you know, done it before.” His Midwestern upbringing won’t allow him to form the words.
“You want to have penetrative sex?” Bruce hedges.
Clark nods, resigning, still resting on his haunches on the floor at Bruce’s feet, as if he were a dog.
Then there are lips on his, lips cold and soft like fine leather.
When they part, Bruce cups his face and stares at him levelly. “Are you sure?”
Clark can’t help but chuckle a little, “We’ve been together for two months, Bruce. I cherish our time together, but I want… more, I guess.”
He doesn’t say that he craves that sacred connection, the idea that Bruce has taken him. He doesn’t say he needs the consummation he’s wanted for so long but only realised until Bruce’s mouth crashed onto his. He doesn’t say he wants his first time to be with Bruce Wayne.
“I’ll send you some reading material. If you’re still interested, we can try it next weekend.”
Clark gapes, “Next…? Wait, are you seriously giving me homework?!”
Bruce is already in the kitchen, cupboards opening and shutting. “I thought a reporter would be able to handle some light reading,” He chides.
Clark whines in response, following him to the kitchen. “That isn’t fair, I don’t need instructions on how to have sex.”
“Yes, you do. In fact, everybody does.” He replies, switching on the coffee grinder and effectively shutting out Clark’s childish sounds of dissent.
“You can’t hurt me, remember?” Clark argues, once the grinder’s off.
“It isn’t about that. Its about setting expectations.” Bruce says. Clark absently admires the way his biceps shift as he tamps down the coffee grounds into the portafilter.
“Its not like I haven’t watched porn before.”
“Not the same.”
Clark sighs dramatically, throws his hands up. Its probably too early for Bruce to be arguing right now, so he relents. “Fine, next weekend.” He can wait that long, he’s waited four weeks, what’s another one?
It turns out one week is pure torture.
Between the sex articles and lit-erotica Bruce sends him—to his work email, nonetheless!—and his own ‘research’ in the privacy of his apartment, Clark spends the week in a state of teenage-level sexual frustration. He’s snappy with everybody, frowns constantly, and at some point, Lois has to take him aside and asks him to consider the possibility that Kryptonians have menstrual cycles.
It doesn’t help that he barely sees Bruce that week, since he’s in the weeds with the architecture and physics of building the Watchtower, and Clark’s on politics that week which is always hectic during election time.
So when Saturday finally rolls around, Clark can hardly wait to be at the Lakehouse. As he floats across the lake, there’s a warm glow from behind the expansive glass. Bruce stands on the deck, wearing a pristine three-piece suit in a dark navy, coupled with a crimson tie. He looks perfect, like he’s in a magazine—Clark feels inadequate, even in his the formal Kryptonian garb he had the Ship create just for tonight.
“Welcome, stranger.” He greets, smiling slyly.
“Hi,” Clark replies, nervous suddenly as he touches down.
“I like the outfit. You look very dignified.” He nods at the flowing material as Clark touches down. It’s a long dress, essentially—not unlike what Jor-El had worn on Krypton, except without the extra armour and cape, accentuating Clark’s figure. The shade is a midnight black, though the jagged lines of the fabric and the shining House of El crest make it glow, silver and chrome.
“Speak for yourself,” He leans into Bruce, cradling the side of his face and kissing him, chaste for now.
“Come on, I’ve cooked tonight,” Bruce says, leading him through the glass door.
“Uh oh,” Clark teases—he can’t imagine a billionaire with an English butler would make a very good chef.
Bruce just scoffs, because of course there isn’t anything Batman can’t do, and the food is perfection incarnate. The menu is classic French bistro—starting with oysters mignonette, and a steak tartare that melts in Clark’s mouth. The main is a duck confit with orange sauce and smooth potato mash that feels like pure luxury. Dessert is sumptuous yet simple; poached pear with chocolate and Chantilly cream. Apparently Alfred had only grocery shopped for him, and he’d spend the entire day preparing their dinner. Clark swoons, because he’s so, so perfect it hurts.
He decides the least he can do are the dishes, and physically sets Bruce down with his glass of port in front of the fireplace while he rushes through clearing the table and loading the dishwasher.
Once he’s settled beside Bruce he stuffs his face into the crook of his neck. “So, when do we start?”
Bruce laughs, warm and airy. “We just ate, Clark. I haven’t even finished my port.”
“I can give you something sweeter to drink,” Clark mumbles, smiling into Bruce’s neck because he’s a little embarrassed he said that in front of Bruce Wayne.
He laughs again and it sounds like floating on clouds—Clark would know. “God, what have I created,” He lifts Clark’s chin up to meet his gaze. “So, what have you decided? Pitching or catching?”
Clark flushes a little, because he hadn’t even expected to talk about this with Bruce—he’d expected Bruce would already know. “Uh, catching.”
He raises his brows. Surprise, then. “I wasn’t expecting that.” Bruce says.
“Why not?” Clark frowns, leaning out of Bruce’s hands.
“Well, you’re Superman. You were straight…”
“Just because I’m Superman that makes me, what, some kind of Ubermensch?” He argues, “Plus, I never actually, you know… with Lois.”
Bruce blinks. “Never actually what.”
“We fooled around plenty, but I couldn’t do that to her. I didn’t want to hurt her.” He says softly.
“So you’re a virgin.” Bruce deducts.
“Well, define virgin.” He says, defiant.
Bruce just huffs, “If you have to say that then you are one. Jesus, Clark.” He sighs, finishes the last of his wine, and stands up, “Better get started then.”
Clark beams.
Superman lays naked, hard and leaking, on Bruce Wayne’s plush bed. He writhes at the hot mouth ravishing every inch of his body—along his pulse, down his chest, across his stomach, all the way to the soles of his feet.
“Come on, Bruce,” He moans. They’ve been on the foreplay stage for an hour and Clark is growing impatient.
“I didn’t skip patrol tonight to not indulge myself.” He says, lips inches from Clark’s hipbone.
“Damn it, can we just- ah!” Bruce laves the underside of his red cock in a long, slow lick. The wetness sends a jolt of electricity up his spine, and he arches his back in response.
Bruce works his way along Clark’s length in tortuous licks, until he finally reaches the head and collects the spurting precome on his tongue. “Bruce!” Clark yelps.
“Sh, relax.” He orders, then takes Clark’s cock into his mouth—his velvety, burning hot mouth. It pushes against all the fluid he’s been leaking, dribbling out of Bruce’s mouth and along his hip. Clark moans wildly, sounds escaping him he wasn’t aware he could make.
He bucks up wildly, chasing more of that soft heat. Bruce places his large hands on his hipbones to ground him down against the mattress. Clark fists the sheets.
“God, Bruce… I-I’m so close,” He whispers.
Bruce hums in amusement, but the vibrations do something to the sensitive skin of Clark’s cock and he comes, flooding Bruce’s mouth. He keeps up with all the fluid, just barely, and his chin is a glossy mess by the time Clark has stopped shaking from the raw intensity of his pleasure.
Bruce leans across his body and pries his mouth open, and Clark gets a healthy dose of his own come, sweet and tart, and he groans loudly. He’s always glad Bruce lives alone in a completely secluded estate, but its times like these that he truly appreciates it.
“Are you tired?” Bruce asks, forehead resting on his.
Clark smiles, “Was this your plan all along? An hour of foreplay so I wouldn’t want to have you inside me?”
Bruce pushes air through his nose. “The things you say, Clark.”
“No, I’m not tired. Please, Bruce… fuck me.” He knows how much Bruce loves when he curses.
“Turn over.” The Bat growls.
Clark gets on his hands and knees on the bed and spreads his legs, excitement coiling in his belly and his cock twitching. He hears Bruce uncap the lube from behind him.
“Are you ready?” He asks.
“Yes, Bruce. God, yes.” He replies. A large hand grabs his ass cheek and spreads it. Clark is half-hard already and his pulse races.
Bruce’s finger circles the puckered muscle, and Clark drops his head, moaning. He clenches involuntarily, it feels so good- just a touch, but its such an intense feeling already. Some part of his brain isn’t sure he’ll be able to make it through this, that the sensations will be too much for him. He ignores that part of his brain and relishes in the touch.
“I’m going to insert my finger now, it will feel strange.” His level voice, deep and factual, sends a rush of blood straight to Clark’s cock.
Then his finger breaches Clark’s hole, and he clenches again, breath caught in his chest.
“Don’t do that,” Bruce warns him, “Not when I’m stretching you, it will make this more uncomfortable.”
“Sorry,” Clark mumbles. And he’s right, because clenching on the intrusion, as involuntary as it is, reminds him that it shouldn’t be there in the first place. It doesn’t hurt, because Superman can’t get hurt, but it feels odd and slightly uncomfortable, though the threads of pleasure are there, they are just out of reach. Its unlike anything he’s ever experienced before.
“Breathe.”
Clark does as he’s told, and all of a sudden feels the webbing of Bruce’s hand against his hole. His entire first finger is in. The muscles inside Clark throb and beat wildly.
“How does that feel?” Bruce asks.
Clark takes a few heavy breaths, “Weird. Good.”
“Okay. I’m going to start thrusting.” Bruce says, and Clark is grateful for all the warnings and check-ins.
Bruce’s finger pulls out, not without some straining, Clark can tell, because his hole is so tight and it seems to just suck in Bruce’s finger. Then he pushes back in, slowly, and Clark shudders, shoulders shaking.
“Are you okay? Clark?” He sounds alarmed, and starts circling his back soothingly with his free hand.
“I’m fine,” He breathes. “That feels… nice,” Somewhere in the back of Clark’s mind, he remembers being a writer and laughs at himself.
Bruce continues to pull out and push in, just with one of his thick fingers, until Clark’s huffing and puffing, little moans escaping his mouth. He feels himself becoming completely hard.
“God, Clark, you’re perfect.” Bruce exhales, “Another finger?”
Clark looks over his shoulder and is met with the lustful gaze of Bruce Wayne, eyes dark in the moonlight. “Yes.”
Bruce slicks up his middle finger and teases Clark’s pucker with it. “This will feel odd, again. Please tell me if its too much and I’ll stop.”
He bites his lip. “O-okay,”
Bruce’s second finger wedges in with his first, his short nail scraping lightly against Clark’s rim. He yelps at the intrusion. “Bruce, it- oh, it feels so strange…” He clenches again.
“I know its hard, but try not to clench.” Bruce advises, “Is it too much?”
Clark stares at the bed sheet below him, takes a breath. He can do this. “No, its not.”
“Good, son. You’re doing very well.” Bruce coos.
Clark shudders at the nickname, whilst his middle finger continues its agonisingly slow ascent into his anus. Clark can feel his rim stretching, straining to accommodate the girth of the probing fingers.
“I’m going to open you up a bit,” Bruce says, “You’re so tight.”
Bruce’s fingers press against his walls, then join back together in the middle. Out, in, out, in. Its the scissoring motion he read about in Bruce’s homework, and he can’t believe he’s able to recall that in such a heated moment.
His fingers push and pull as Clark moans. He can feel every callous, scratch, hair, whorl, on Bruce’s fingers. He can feel the heat radiating from him, the scent of sex in the air of the bedroom.
“Ah, oh,” Clark gasps.
“Tell me how it feels,” Bruce asks, voice low and dark.
“So good, I- I’ve never felt- God, Bruce,” And numbly Clark wonders what he had been doing before this, now that he’s explored this strange and taboo place of his body.
Bruce hums. “Lets see if Kryptonians have a prostate, then.”
Clark’s cock leaks helplessly on the sheets, excited by the promise of heightened pleasure. Then Bruce’s fingers curl and twist, searching, and Clark groans, his breath erratic.
“Breathe.” Bruce reminds him.
He exhales slowly and then- it feels like a puzzle piece clicking into place. Raw satisfaction sparks in every nerve ending in his body.
“Oh! Bruce, Bruce!” He exclaims.
“I suppose they do,” Bruce says, amusement in his voice. His fingers breach that spot, pushing against it lightly. Clark writhes against Bruce’s grip, knees weak.
“Keep still, please.” He instructs, and how is he so collected right now, when Clark is seconds from becoming jelly?
His fingers continue their assault, pressing the gland as if it were a button, and the pressure elicits a high-pitched whine from Clark. He doesn’t even register the third finger working its way in until it bottoms out and stretches his rim again.
“Ah!” He yelps, “Bruce, please-” He’s ready, God, he’s so ready. Release teases him, beckoning him to step off the precipice.
Then, completely unlike their insertion, Bruce pulls his fingers out swiftly. Clark lets out a whine, he feels so empty. Incomplete. He sticks his ass out back towards Bruce, the back of his mind realising just how lost he is in his own lust. Still, he looks past his shoulder at the only man who could play his body like an instrument.
Bruce smiles, and it dazzles Clark. He crawls up to meet Clark’s lips in a tender kiss. “You did so well, Clark. I’m proud of you.”
Clark practically vibrates at the praise, but a thought makes him frown. “That wasn’t it, was it? You didn’t-”
Bruce sends him a smirk before turning to the nightstand. “Its not over yet, son.”
He rolls a condom onto his hard cock, standing proud against his belly, and Clark isn’t sure he can take it all. Its thick, thicker than a couple fingers. And the head is a bulbous thing, round and red.
“A-are you sure it’ll fit?” Clark asks, gingerly. He chews his lip.
Bruce kneels beside him, brushes the errant spit curl from his face. “You can do it, Clark. We’ll go slow. Unless you aren’t up for it?”
“No! No, I can take it.” He insists.
Bruce kisses him, licking at the bottom lip he’s bitten. “You can always change your mind later. Remember to breathe and try not to clench; actively relax your muscles.” He says from behind Clark, the lube clicking open again. Clark’s heart races, the sound elicits somewhat of a Pavlovian response in him.
“Got it.” He breathes.
“Good boy.” Bruce praises. Clark feels his cheeks burn.
Then his cock is teasing Clark’s hole, lube dripping between his cheeks. “Ready?”
“Yes, Bruce. Please,”
Bruce presses more firmly at Clark’s entrance, and he inhales sharply. “Oh Clark, you’re fucking tight-”
Clark pushes back towards Bruce, biting his lip so hard it breaks skin, as he searches for that connection he’s yearned for—the joining of bodies that will make them whole. His rim stretches and stretches, and it doesn’t hurt but through the thick haze of lust, there’s a thought that this is wrong, like he’s abusing his body somehow.
Bruce’s cockhead pops through, and Clark screams.
“Clark?!” Bruce gasps.
Its even more uncomfortable than the fingers. Its a hot-cold of contrast, his body rejecting the discomfort but craving the pleasure that Bruce’s cock promises. The headiness sends him leaking in great spurts.
“I’m fine,” Clark exhales, “Fine, Bruce- please keep going.”
Bruce caresses his cheeks, then grabs at his hipbones and inches deeper. Clark responds immediately to the hot skin melting within him, with him, panting as drops of saliva fall onto the pillow.
There’s a brief brush against that special spot before he can feel the heat of Bruce’s body against him.
“Okay? I’m all the way in.” Bruce’s voice is hoarse, barely restrained pleasure lurking beneath the surface.
“You’re so big,” He whimpers, feels his rim strain to accommodate Bruce’s girth. He doesn’t clench, he doesn’t—as much as his body wants to, needs to suck all of Bruce inside him.
“Can I move?” Bruce asks, on the verge of desperate.
“Yes, please.”
Bruce’s fingers dig into his hips as he pulls out, and Clark can feel himself being dragged slightly back with Bruce. Then he thrusts forward again, slow, languorous, as if he had all the time in the world. Clark whines.
“Clark, fuck, you’re sucking me in,” Bruce says, drawing into Clark again, their connection magnetic.
Its odd, but the oddness stands to the wayside of pleasure, those threads knitting together into something substantial, tangible, something familiar that he feels in the pit of his stomach.
The pace of the thrusts quickly devolves into something hungry, needy; slaps of skin echoing throughout the room. Strings of praise escape Bruce’s lips, filthy talk no one would ever expect from this refined member of high society, no matter how promiscuous his reputation is. The careful and courteous boyfriend is gone, and a possessive and intense man has taken his place. It makes Clark’s cock weep.
“Wanted to pound that ass for so long, Clark,” He tightens his grip on Clark’s hips.
“Gonna make you scream, son.” His balls slap Clark’s.
“No one will ever take you like this, I won’t let them.” He thrusts hard and pushes Clark into the mattress, so his chiselled body engulfs Clark’s posterior. It leaves his cock trapped between the mattress, the friction too much and not enough.
He can only moan and blush at the comments, and wonder if there’s truth in any of it—hopes, prays, that there is.
Now he’s pressed against the bed, Bruce has a deeper angle into Clark, and his cock finally, finally, breaches that sweet spot inside him. The one that makes this all make sense, like missing information that turns your worldview upside-down.
“Fuck! Bruce!” He cries out, eyes hot with tears.
“You like this, don’t you? You like me holding you down like this.”
“Oh, yes, yes!” Clark yelps, muffled, so turned on by Bruce’s unexpected dirty talk.
“Are you gonna come for me, Clark?” He growls, biting at Clark’s ear.
“Yesyesyesyes,” Clark hisses, drooling all over the pillow.
“Go on then, son.” He says, hitting that spot again and again.
A sudden shudder overcomes Clark, and he’s stepped off the precipice, diving into the sweet abyss of pleasure. Tears stream from his face. Distantly he’s aware of Bruce’s tongue lapping them up, leaving a cold, wet streak along his cheek.
He’s shouting Bruce’s name, tremors wracking his body as he comes. All the while Bruce is pounding into him, praising him, “Just like that, son. Give it all to me,” His voice sounds warbled, as if they’re underwater, drowning in pleasure.
Clark feels like his lungs have been wrung out by the time Bruce comes, biting down on the skin on Clark’s shoulder to muffle himself. His soft grunt is intoxicating. Then he slumps onto Clark, panting, idly licking at the spot he’s bitten.
They lay there, Bruce’s weight on him, his cock softening inside Clark, making him feel oddly safe. Its a blissful moment not unlike that of dawn at the Lakehouse; Bruce breathing beside him, the world outside a mysterious, icy grey.
“Are you alright, Clark?” He asks, and it seems the concerned boyfriend is back. Reality sinks in—though it isn’t too bad a reality, Clark thinks, admiring Bruce’s abs as he ties off the condom.
Clark sighs, rolls over to a dry spot on the expansive bed. “I’m more than alright, Bruce. Why haven’t we done that earlier? All this time…”
Bruce chuckles, and a damp cloth is produced from seemingly nowhere, wiping at Clark’s torso. “You never asked until last week,” He points out.
“I’m a fool, then.” He sighs, burying his face into the crook of his elbow.
Bruce lays on his side, facing Clark. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, kid.” He says, amused. Butterfly kisses dance along Clark’s elbow.
He turns to face Bruce, relishes the gorgeous, just-fucked flush of his skin. They lay there for some time, not bothering to change the sheets, content to breathe in each other’s faces.
“Bruce?”
Bruce’s eyes are half-lidded. “Hmm?”
“Was it good?”
His eyes snap open. “It was the best sex of my life, Clark.” He states, easy, like it were an accepted fact. His hands tenderly hold Clark’s face.
Clark laughs, “No need to be so dramatic.”
“I’m serious.” His eyes are dark. “Thank you.” He whispers. Its as close as Bruce will get to those three little words.
Clark throws his arms around his lover and pulls him close, so close he hopes they will fuse, meld into one being forever and ever.
“I love you, Bruce.”
Dawn feels far away as his vision drifts into blackness. As long as Bruce lies beside him, though, Clark knows dawn will arrive—and when it does, it will feel like realising you aren’t alone anymore. That you are with all the world.