Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“C’mon Clark, please!” Cat’s distinct perfume wafts through the air as she hugs my arm. “Just this once help a girl out!” She begs.

“Cat as much as I like you, I hate those gala’s more.” Responding I try to sit down, yet it feels like her claws are sticking into me, Cat is the perfect name for her.

“Free coffee for a month, take it or leave it.” She offers.

“Leave it.” 

“Free front row seats to The Mighty Crabjoys” She sighs.

“How?! They don’t even perform anymore! They stopped in-” Seemingly Cat seems to understand that the tangled ramble in my head was about to spill out, promptly she covers my mouth with her hand, swiveling her head around the office to make sure no one was lurking.

“Tell anyone and you're dead.” She looks down at me, Nevermind Cougar is a better name for her. Wait, that sounds weird! Sorry Cat, you just look super scary right now, not in a dick eating way but in a kill me way. Well you just said that you would kill me so that makes sense- crap! forgot to answer her! 

I nod.

“I’ve got an ongoing… thing with a few of the members.” Shrugging sheepishly she lifts her hand off my mouth.

“WHA-” I begin to shout, her hand returns with a hard slap. 

“What about telling no one did not to go through those curls?!”

“Sorry.” My voice comes out muffled under her touch.

“Just cover the gala okay?” Huffing, she backs off.

A beat passes.

For the ultimate punk rock band The Mighty Crabjoys?

“Fine.” The words feel foreign on my tongue.

“You’re the best Clark!!” She rubs her cheek on me, probably getting some foundation on me.

“Yeah, yeah.” Sighing, I nod her off.

Shoot.

I gotta spend a whole night surrounded by rich cornsuckers who simply make this world worse, yay me. 

But!

The Mighty Crabjoys.

Worth it.

“Done talking to yourself mr. mumblesworth?” A familiar voice cuts in.

“Lois! Ah didn’t see you, was I talking a lot again? You know how I get lost in thought.” I feel my cheeks tinge with embarrassment.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever we all know you’re a big nerd.” She grins, “So Cat roped you in for tonight?” 

“Sadly.” I tell her.

“Whata gonna wear?” She probes further.

I glance down at my baggy gray suit, “this dashing thing.”

“Clark! Look I got a hot fucking date with this girl tonight, so you know what I do? Dress up! Maybe you should try it sometime.” She exclaims, and as fun as the occasional dress up would be, that is superman’s job, mine is too well, dress down.

“Well I wish you the best with your hot freaking date.” 

“You’re hopeless!” She exaggerates, at least I think she is exaggerating. 

* * *

“You got this!” I prep myself mentally, ready to walk up to the doors being held open by two men. Really? Paying people to hold a door?! 

With a huff I walk through, saying thanks to the… um what are they called? Gentlemen who keep the door open.

The interior of the gala is, of course, stunning, with tall chandeliers trickling down into the main section. Tall dark wooden tables spot around the marble floor, with every variation of rich snob giggling a pitch too high circling said tables. 

Alright, who to target first..? 

“Mrs. Jaw!” I wave my hand to the lady smack in the middle.

“I’m sorry, do we know each other?" She says, eyeing my build, or the suit, probably the suit.

“No but I’m Clark Kent, born and raised Kansas farmer turned reporter.” I take her hand in mine.

“Not really in the mood for questions, Mr. Kent.” Fair on her part, but no need for the attitude.

“And you think I’m here to work? God, I am here to relax and get a drink for once!” I laugh, and the lies coming out of my mouth feel like poison slithering through my veins.

“Oh, I just assumed… I apologize, Clark.” Her warm smile doesn't reach her eyes.

“Eh, not the first time people's assumptions were off.” I grin.

“Pray tell?” Her grin causes crows feet to pop out.

“Now you wouldn’t believe this but. . .”

* * *

Bruce Wayne

“Alfred please.” I grunt, feeling cramped in this short fucking limbo.

“Mr. Wayne please.” He echos back.

“I want a day of peace without gala’s.” Sharpening my tone I bite back.

“Well you have 7 too many broken or fractured bones to be the bat tonight sir, so it is time to work on Bruce Wayne’s image.” He states with that stoic face. 

“God fucking, fine, 30 minutes then I’m out.” I brush past him, opening the door to the car and climbing out.

With a smile I walk up the stairs, the assault of flashing cameras making it feel impossible to see where each foot lands.

Who’s ready to be the life of the party.

“So you saved a cow, chicken, cat, and hamster at the same time?!” Mona Jaw’s high pitched animal squeal of a life cuts through the air.

What. The. Fuck. 

There he stands, a burly man, surely over 6 '5”, loose curls, and a suit that does nothing for his frame, captivating a whole room of people who love the smell of their own shit. People who only pay attention to gossip and underhand comments, now suddenly a wackjob is in here entertaining these people?!

But holy hell, I gotta give him something… 

That smile, he is lighting up this place more then those damn tacky chandeliers. It’s impossible to take my eyes from him, he truly is captivating, such a big man, yet he looks like a puppy. Something so soft and sacred, something that would never hurt you. And fuck, he is so my type. Big hands that would run over my thighs. That smile that would creep up as we kissed and I ran my hands through those curls. Fuck those curls, locks I want to grab and use as I rock his head up and down-

What the actual fuck am I thinking.

Shit, I need to get laid.

“Brucie!” That squealing voice seems to have found its next target.

“Mrs. Jaw!” I smile widely, bringing her in for a hug, “It seems you’ve found good company for the night.” I turn inching closer to him. My foot hitting his, and somehow it feels like my whole body caught aflame, for a man whose foot I am barely touching, for a man whose name I don’t even know.

“This is Clark Kent, Kent this is Bruce Wayne.” Clark Kent, it suits him.

“Mr. Wayne! A pleasure to meet you.” He brings his hand for a handshake.

“Please call me Bruce, and trust me, the pleasure is all mine.” I take his hand and bring it to my lips, placing a soft kiss over the scarred knuckles.

“I- um! Well nice to uhm meet you mr- I mean Bruce.” I can practically hear the system malfunction noise in his brain.

Fuck he’s cute too.

I give a small nod, never breaking my eyes from his, a deep blue.

“So what did Clark do, I can call you Clark right? Say to captivate a lady such as yourself.” Even though Clark wasn’t paying attention to me, and my message was for Ms. Jaw, I still couldn’t find the strength to rip my eyes from him.

“Telling me all about his farm stories! A Kansas cowboy sure has seen it all!” She giggles.

“A cowboy?” I tilt my head in response.

“Mrs. Jaw, you flatter me.” His cheeks, fuck, they’re the perfect shade of pink, I wonder if his nipples are the same soft shade, or brown? Wonder if they would harden in my mout-

“I’ve always wanted to meet a cowboy.” I grin, inching closer.

“I.. um... well I guess I can ride a horse or two.” He shrugs.

“No need to be bashful Clark, you seem like a man who was born to ride.” Holy shit I just said that outloud.

“Brucie! God he is always like this.” Mrs. Jaws rolls her eyes and scoffs, and it brings me back to reality, the fact I’m not alone in the room with Clark, and instead around stupid annoying rich people. (hypocritical I know).

“What? I’m simply a man who appreciates what's in front of him.” I give my signature billionaire smirk and shuffle a tad closer to the warmth radiating off the giant next to me.

“Yeah, yeah, a flirty bastard. Anyways, I see Mr. Jaw calling for me so I’ll leave you Brucie.” She leans in for a hug kissing both cheeks, and I reciprocate, although it feels begrudgingly on my part.

Once she is far away I lean in and lowly tell Clark, “God her perfume is nauseating." And he laughs, not some polite chuckle, but a hearty laugh from deep in his burly chest, and holy fuck it sends my stomach doing some aerobics.

“I’m glad we agree Mr.. um Bruce.” His gaze flicks away from me as his cheeks dust with a soft pink. 

Clark takes a half-step back, his glasses slipping down his nose, and he pushes them up with his finger. Clark stands their, simply staring, for about a minute before he blinks in rapid succession, turning a shade of crimson.

 “I uh, I’m sorry,” he stammers, clearly trying to regain his composure after what could only be described as an emotional overdrive a few moments ago. “I wasn’t expecting... all this,” he waves his hand around vaguely, eyes darting over my suit, then back to my face like he’s not quite sure where to land.

I can’t help it. The guy is adorable.

“It's okay, Clark,” I say with an easy smile, leaning in a little closer, letting him feel the weight of my presence. “You don’t have to apologize for being… impressed.” Fuck that was smug, too smug? Like he gets it was half a joke right? Shit I’m fucking batman! Get it together!

His eyes flick to mine, then quickly away again, as if looking at me for too long might just short-circuit him.

“I—uh, I’m not…” He starts, then freezes. “I mean, I didn’t—” He lets out a nervous chuckle, his hands fidgeting with the glass in his hand, clearly not sure where to land.

Oh nevermind overthinking, I love this.

“Hey, relax,” I say, softening my tone just a little, like a bedroom voice. “You’re doing fine. Just… be Clark Kent.” I give him a knowing look, the kind that promises I’m not actually as intimidating as I seem.

“But I don’t—uh, I mean, I am being myself,” Clark stammers again, eyes wide behind his glasses. 

“That explains why I feel drawn to you then.” I slip out the words, am I screaming, I want you to fuck me shitless a bit too much?

He looks like a deer caught in headlights, and I can’t help but find it… charming. “It’s just… I’ve never really been to one of these before. Gala stuff. Suits. I don’t—”

“Really?” I cut in, grinning. “You? A cowboy, and you’ve never been to a gala?”

He blushes a little, visibly taken aback. “I mean, not exactly a cowboy.” He rubs the back of his neck, awkwardly shifting on his feet. “I just… I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do here. It’s… a lot of fake conversations, y’know? Just slow conversations with cornsuckers, like hey, how’s the weather?”

I lean in, crossing my arms, letting my smirk do most of the talking. “First off cornsuckers may be my new favorite word,” I chuckle with a breath and continue, “ But fake conversations, huh? Well, I’m really glad I’m having one with you, Clark.”

He looks up, startled, and I catch the briefest flicker of his lips turning up before he quickly forces himself to look away again.

“What no! I am talking to you I like talking with you Bruce!” He practically yells it out, catching a few glares.

“I’m glad I’m not that kind of cornsucker to you then.” Am I trying to flirt with the word cornsucker?

“Uh, well, yeah. I guess you’re not exactly ‘small talk’ material,” he says, managing a shy smile. “You’re more… intense.”

“I do have a certain reputation to uphold,” I reply, tapping my fingers against my chin thoughtfully. “But don’t worry, Clark. I promise I’m not as intimidating as I look.” I flash him a teasing grin. “You’re making me feel like a mystery.”

Clark blinks, as though that’s the first time anyone’s said something to him. He clears his throat, his voice a little breathless now. “I uh, I mean, it’s not like that. It’s just, well… I didn’t expect you to be so… relaxed, I guess?”

“Relaxed?” I lean in just a bit, letting my voice drop lower, almost sultry. “Clark, I live for the tension.”

He blinks again. “Tension?”

“Oh, yeah.” I step just a hair closer, letting my eyes roam over him just a little more slowly than necessary, letting him feel the heat between us without saying another word. “You ever wonder what it’s like to really relax?” I take one step closer and lean into his ear, in a low rumble I continue, “To let someone like me show you just how much fun it can be to forget everything else in this room?”

Clark’s breath catches, and I can practically hear the mental gears grinding behind those glasses of his. But now? Now he’s not as awkward. Now he’s intrigued.

“I… I think I’m starting to get the picture,” he says nodding, voice a little hushed, his shoulders shifting like he’s trying to adjust to the sudden charge in the air. He doesn’t back away. In fact, he seems to lean in just a little.

I smile, watching him carefully. He’s definitely still got that shy reporter thing going, but there’s something else there too. Curiosity. Interest. Maybe even something a little… raunchy?

“Well, good,” I say, a little breathless myself, “because if you really want to get to know me, Clark… I’m going to make sure you enjoy every minute of it.” I end my thought with grabbing his glass and bringing the cup to my lips, my mouth ghosting where his was.

For a long moment, the world seems to fade away, leaving just the two of us locked in this small bubble of electric tension. His eyes never leave mine, and I swear I can see a flicker of something dangerous in them now. Something playful.

He takes a deep breath, then shrugs like he’s trying to act casual, though his lips are twitching upward. “So... where are we going, then? If we’re really going to break all the rules?”

“Well,” I begin, the words slipping out as easily as I breathe, “how about we skip the rest of this circus and go somewhere quiet? Somewhere where we can just… be ourselves?”

He glances at the crowd, then back at me, as though weighing his options. Finally, he exhales and nods, his smile wide and genuine now. “Yeah. I think that sounds… perfect.”

I give him a look that promises I’m up to no good. “Follow me, Clark. I’ll show you how a billionaire really knows how to let loose.”

And with that, I lead the way through the crowd, Clark following closely behind, his smile now the only thing I can focus on.

* * *

Clark Kent

Holy mother of Mary! The Bruce Wayne is leading me somewhere to bang! Frick did I shower? Yes I did. Ok shave? Hmm I’m trimmed, wait who is gonna bottom? Are we gonna go that far?

“You know you mumble to yourself?” Bruce asks as we walk towards a hallway.

“Oh yeah my friends always tease me over it, heh, sorry about that.” I use my freehand that is not in Bruce freaking Wayne’s hand, to soothe the embarrassment crawling up my neck.

“Never apologize for being cute Clark.” He gives me a grin and opens up a door in a hallway. Luckily the room is dark so Bruce can’t see the burning blush I feel forming.

“I um thanks, but where are we?” I ask, sweeping the room with my eyes I see a broom among shelves.

“A cleaning closet, I know it isn’t the best but we can still have fun right?” He finally drops my hand and the lack of heat is immediately noticed.

“S-sure.” I swallow the sudden dryness in my throat.

“I was tested last month and haven’t been with anyone since, I’m clean, are you?” He asks, and I blink, a bit surprised.

“Oh, yeah.” I swallow hard.

“Okay.” Bruce smiles and his hands land on my chest as we stand, “If you ever want to stop or if things are going too fast just let me know okay?” He soothes a hand along my neck.

“Yep!” I squeak, since when can I squeak?!

“Fuck you’re adorable.” Bruce groans out, his lips slowly leading from the crook of my neck up along every pulse point, slowly nibbling and mapping out every sensitive point of mine. 

“L... look at you.” I try my best to respond but it seems my limited body count has done nothing to improve my dirty talk.

He groans in response leading his lips to mine. His are hot and wet, as he sucks my lower lip taking it into his mouth. I practically moan at the feeling and Bruce just slides his hand up to my hair, tugging me into him.

His tongue plays at the seam of my lips, and slowly I let him in. Our tongues darting and barely meeting and it is so good. It dosen’t feel like other people, like sticking a frog in your mouth while kissing, no, with Bruce it is fast dashes of slivers of tongue, or the slow methodical suck of lips, or the sudden sharp pang of Bruce biting down. It dosen’t taste gross either, no, two mouths that simply taste of champagne intertwining into one.

We separate for a moment, catching our breaths.

“Hey cowboy?” Bruce says above a hushed whisper.

All I can do is mumble in response, some warm feeling of bliss overtaking my thoughts.

“I’ma give you some options and you tell me what sounds best, can you do that?” 

I nod and Bruce gives me a peck.

“You can be a good boy and suck my cock, or I can get on your pretty fucking thighs and we can cum together, or I can make you weep my damn name as I take you all the way in the back of my throat.” His voice is dry and husky, yet the image he paints are so clear.

“All the above?” I chuckle lowly.

“Fuck cowboy, if only we had time.” He tugs my hair so he can get next to ear, “If I had time I’d blow you, eat you out all nice and slow, then I’d work myself open with your cum and you’d be at my mercy as I fuck myself down on your thick cock, all ready and whinyfor me. You’d wanna touch me, fuck me so hard, but I’d hold your arms as I take exactly what I need from a gorgeous fuck toy like you.” 

In response to Bruce’s. . . explanation, I feel myself grow harder, a familiar throb becoming near painful with lust.

“Bruce please.”

“Please what? Use your words big boy.” He caresses my freshly pulled hair.

“Anything, everything, just fucking touch me please.” If anyone heard us, they would think Bruce was bigger and stronger, yet here I am, practically wobbling at his every word.

“Hmm, have you ever blown anyone cowboy?” I shake my head no.

“Well guess I’ll have to teach you.” He says before kissing me once more. In the slow methodical way that picks apart every bit of sanity. 

But as soon as his kiss appears, does it disappear, his lips falling to my neck as he shuffles off my clothing. I can tell he is taking his time but the ache in my cock only grows needier. I shake off my jacket and go to unbutton my shirt but instead I receive a harsh grab onto my dick.

“S..shit!” I curse.

“Fuck… you curse?” Bruce giggles, rubbing his hand. “As much as I’ll enjoy the sight of Clark Kent naked, I want to take my time with you big boy, unraveling this pretty fucking present infront of me.” His hand moves away from my dick and I whimper, instead his hands slide up my body in unison tracing every covered inch of me, as he slowly, oh so slowly, unbuttons my shirt. The feeling of his hot kisses seems to trail while he slowly undresses me, and I hear a groan when he gets to my chest. 

In contrast to his slow movements, the moment he gets to my chest I look down to see his wide eyes, he rips my shirt buttons popping open, “fucking knew they would be all pretty and pink” he mutters, immediately clamping his mouth around my nipple. W-wait has he thought about my nipples?!

The zing of shock, pleasure, and the bite of pain that courses through me rip a sharp groan from the back of my throat.

Bruce removes his mouth to look up at me with a devilish grin, “gotta be a quiet cowboy, we don’t want people to know that Clark Kent loves his nipples getting sucked do we?” He punctuates his thought with a twist at my other nipple. I moan again, this time biting my hand.

“Hey, hey, none of that, if you feel like you can’t keep quiet, bite this.” I look over with pleading eyes to recognize Bruce swiftly undressing, first the coat, then the buttons, then he rips off his undershirt with one hand. My eyes immediately roaming around the open skin, scars and creamy skin rippling across sculpted muscles. Before I can process the borderline greek god in front of my I feel the warm fabric of a tank top at my mouth, I open and Bruce stuffs it in.

“God Clark you are gorgeous” Bruce lets a low grumble erupt from his chest as his hand works my pants down. I feel my cheeks and sensitive skin begin to light up at his words, whimpering into the wetting cloth in my mouth. I barely notice the long pause he takes to stare at the scar on my leg, Lex and I got into it and if it wasn’t for Batman I would have been in serious trouble that day.

He pulls down my pants, freeing my aching cock and I groan as it bobs back up, hitting my chest.

“Fuck, even your cock is pretty.” He mumbles, moving my cock to look at it, as if I wasn’t standing here, becoming a whimpering mess.

“Make sure to pay attention pretty boy, you’re getting a free lesson.” Bruce smirks up at me, as he slowly sinks on to his knees. Time seems to slow as he moves his mouth and hands in tandem, moving my cock up so he can lick long strokes from the bottom of my shaft up to the covered tip.

He pulls back my foreskin, leaving a trail of kisses down my tip behind. I whimper and jerk at every movement, precum dripping from dick leaving Bruce’s lips wet and shiny in the sliver of light shining underneath the door.

His fingers graze up and down, nothing more then a slight tickle as he teases me. With every slight touch I thrust my hips, searching hopelessly for some form of friction to be met with nothing.

Bruce seemingly noticing the rising urgency in my thrusts puts his hand on my thigh and gives me a grounding squeeze, while the other hand holds my shaft and he laces my head with more kisses.

Then it happens, I feel my cock enter that wet lush heat, so hot I feel like I’m melting on his tongue as it swirls around my tip. Slowly Bruces makes his way down, his free hand exploring my body, tugging at my balls, rubbing my ass in soothing circles. Before he gets halfway down, he pulls himself off with a wet pop!

“You don’t understand how much I love a slutty cock like your’s.” Bruce tells me as his fingers go back to gently tracing the veins on my throbbing dick. He grins and looks up at me, “Getting all sensitive just from my mouth? I can just imagine how fucking needy you’d be, a whore all nice and ready to be used, isn’t that right baby?” His fingers move to rub at my glands, the precum being more then enough to ease any roughness.

“Sorry, forgot you couldn’t speak you’re to busy being a horny little bitch.” I whimper at the degradation, and at no point in my life have I been little or a bitch, but in this moment, I would be anything Bruce asks me to be. 

I nod hastily at his words.

“Fuck you’re such a good boy aren’t you?” Bruce eyes my cock with ravenous eyes.

I moan a hasty sounding, “yes” into the cloth although it barely sounds like a word.

“You wanna be a good boy then? Then come in my mouth, give me every fucking drop of you’re cum like the good cowboy you can be Clark.” He says before putting his mouth back on me. 

This time it isn’t slow, it isn’t methodical, he hurries down my shaft, swallowing every inch until he nears the base. The feeling is euphoric, the sheer pleasure of it overwhelming all my senses. As if the very feeling of Bruce’s tongue is satisfying an itch I didn’t know I have, and every second I grow closer it feels as if that itch gets worse and better in the same instant. 

A low heat starts at the throbbing in my cock as Bruce takes more of me, slightly gagging as saliva drools around my thick dick in his mouth. My thighs begin to twitch, slowly my whole leg follows in tandem, and nothing can keep me quiet. The silent sound of gagging accompanied by an assortment of moans fills the room. The scent of cologne, sweat, and sex filters around us and yet my brain can’t seem to focus on any of that.

I can’t focus on anything but the heat that pulls my muscles tight and loose, over, and over, and over. Bruce continues to pull me into his mouth and he hollows his cheeks, creating a suction that pulls me into the back of his throat. 

I yelp when my dick goes down Bruce’s throat, every fiber of my being coming apart before being put back together at the very sight below me.

A shaky Bruce Wayne, tears clinging to the edges of his eyes, hollow cheeks, and the neediest look to him, as if he was a starving man and his only substance was making me finish.

“Cumming!” I yell, getting muffled by the tank once more, yet Bruce seems to understand as he nods and bobs his head faster.

My sensitive tip hitting the back of his throat, again, and again, and again, each time throwing me closer to the edge, I feel a soft caress of pleasure enter my skull and then with a snap my sanity I grab Bruce’s head pulling him all the way onto my dick, sliding down his throat with a guttural moan.

Every muscle goes tight with tension, and I spurt down his throat with loud uncensored moans before falling limp. Bruce swallows around my overstimulated dick, before pulling off, with a cough he looks up at me with that same fucking smirk.

“Who knew you had a dom bone in you big boy?” He laughs, and holy fuck, his voice, a raspy low mess that sounds borderline pornographic. I let the cloth fall onto my hand I throw it on the pile of jackets nearby.

“I- um I’m so sorry! I don’t know what came over me! Did I hurt you?” Coming through the haze of pleasure I bend down to look at him, grabbing his face with my hand I feel his stubble.

“Never apologize for something like that, I fucking loved it, seeing you all sweet and whimpery before switching and fucking my mouth was so hot.” He puts his hand on my forearm and I blush at the words, the touch, at everything about Bruce.

I stare at him, before wandering my gaze towards the floor. I want to return the favor and try and blow him just as good as he did to me, although that may be impossible. 

“Spit it out, what is it?” Bruce seems to catch my brain mid thought and I turn to look at him once more.

“C- can I um, return the favor?” I swallow hard at the words, never thinking I would get this far with a man even though I’m bisexual.

“You know I could never refuse a cowboy.” He grins.

“I’ve never um you know, with another guy, so I’m really sorry if I’m no good.” I glance up at him to see the hungriest gaze I’ve ever experienced piercing back at me.

Suddenly I don’t feel like the strong 6’5 superman, no, now I’m pray for Bruce Wayne to feed upon and take from. And sitting here, watching Bruce rise to his feet, his hand on my chin as he lifts my head, I could never be happier.

“I’ll try and go easy on you.” I note the word try leaving his mouth.

“No! Y- you can be rough! I um kinda like it.” I try and turn my head away from him, a sense of bashfulness filling me, yet Bruce’s hand stays put, keeping me in place.

“Be careful what you say.” Bruce says, and there isn’t a single person who could hear his voice and think he was a bottom, he oozed the word dominance from every pore.

“I know what I can handle.” I spat back at him.

“Uh-huh, coming from the guy who has never done this.” He tsks down at me and it sends hot blood straight downward.

“I know what I want though.” I pout, feeling a new feeling, I think the word for it would be rebellious? No, maybe bratty.

“Sure, so lets say I let myself loose, you know what that entails?” Bruce lets go of my face and lowers himself to just above my eye level where I kneel below him.

“Y... you um you know…” Saying the words fuck my mouth, feel to vile.

“What? What do I know? Hmm?” He presses further.

“You f.. fuck my mouth.” I stammer out.

“Hah!” He laughs at my words, “In simple terms yeah, but I wanna lay it out for you, a good innocent boy like you should know what kind of trouble he’s getting into.” The words good innocent come out like an insult and my cock begins to twitch back to life.

“First I’d have you open you’re mouth nice and wide, and then spit in that hole and have you thank me for treating a whore like you so nicely.” Bruce begins, and I swallow hard at the thought, “Then I’d stuff my cock in your mouth, starting slow, letting a pure boy like yourself get used to the stretch of a dick around your cheeks. I’d teach you how to suck me off, then just as you get into a rhythm I’d take over, pounding you, taking every drop of pleasure I need from you, not caring a bit about the slutty mess gagging around me.” Without meaning to, I put my head on his thigh, near his crotch and nuzzle my head in.

“Heh, seems like you like my plan?” He asks and I nod. “Well just some ground rules first okay? Then you can have your reward.” I frown but listen, feeling any sense of language leaving my brain. Only knowing the urges flooding my brain.

“Since you won’t be able to speak, tap my legs 2 times if you wanna stop, slow down, or need something to change. I won’t be disappointed a single bit if you tap out okay? The best cowboys know when it's time to get off the ride.” We both smile at the other at his play on words, and I nod giving him a sloppy grin.

“Alright now open those pretty fucking lips.” I oblige, that need to be bratty washing away quickly at Bruce’s command.

He towers over me, quickly letting spit from his mouth into mine, and the moment it hits me, I let the feeling of humiliation wash over me. This shouldn’t feel this good.

He tasted like champagne as I swallowed his saliva, quickly I look up at him to just see his blown out eyes staring back at me, the thinnest ring of blue surrounding huge pupils.

“T- thank you sir.” The words fall out naturally and I praise whatever higher being there is because Bruce looks up to the ceiling, abs stretching, as he runs hands over his face as he groans into them. He looks unreasonably sexy, like the type of man who would get voted sexiest man alive 50 years even if it wasn’t fair.

“I’m so fucking happy I actually came here tonight.” He tells me, stroking my hair. I smile and then open my mouth for him.

“How’d I get so fucking lucky to find a good little whore like you huh?” He asks as his thick tip slowly enters me. His cock is above average for sure, but the sheer girth of it is what sends waves of excitement through my veins. 

“Alright now close your lips.” He instructs me and I oblige happily, his low whimper sounding like an angelic harmony to my ears.

“Good job,” He draws out his words as he slides deeper, “alright now hollow out your cheeks like I did earlier.” I try to copy what he did, knowing to avoid nicking him with my teeth.

“F-fuck! Just like that Clark. Fuck that’s perfect.” He groans, accidentally thrusting deeper into my heat. 

“Alright now try and suck me off, just do what feels right, I trust you.” His hand runs through my curls, scratching caringly. A warm rush falls over me as the feeling of trust put onto me.

I start off slow, getting used to the feeling of him in my mouth, a heavy weight on my tongue, slowly I explore, hands in tongue in a rhythm trying to figure out every inch of his skin.

Under his cut head he is extra sensitive, causing him to leak salty pre cum onto my tongue. He twitches as I leave a stroke up his slit, letting out a sigh. He gets sensitive when I use my hand with my mouth, stopping his petting of my hair as his breath hitches. 

The thick vein on his undershaft causes him to let out a groan as I trace it with my tongue or finger. He yelps softly in pleasure as I tug on his balls, neatly trimmed hair surrounding his shaft.

Then an idea hits me.

I pop my head off his cock, and he looks down at me confused. Slowly, trying my damn hardest to be seductive, I put two of my fingers in my mouth, sucking with earnest intent as I soak then with spit. 

His brows furrowing shows it hasn’t click yet, with my other hand I put him back in my mouth, but with my spit covered fingers I slip around and tease his entrance. Nothing much, just a slight rubbing to the tight ring of his ass.

He groans, loudly, the raspiness of sucking me off earlier coming through the sound.

“Holy fu- Clark don’t stop.” He whimpers out to me, and I enthusiastically continue.

He begins to grip my hair and move me up and down, and I feel a tug of sadness pull at my core, I move my fingers from his ass and double tap on his thigh.

He pulls out immediately and looks down at me, “What’s wrong? He asks, concern lacing his voice.

“N- nothing I just um wanna explore you a bit longer.” I admit, the feeling of shame long vanishing in this room of filth. 

He giggles at the words and just nods, “I won’t say no to that.”

I smile widely before getting back to work.

“Such a good boy for tapping out you know that? So strong for speaking up.” Bruce praises as my fingers find their way back to his front and back. 

I moan around him at the words, and Bruce jolts in pleasure.
“You like that? Like being praised for the perfect little whore you are?” He asks and I nod with a groan, looking up at him.

“S-shit, don’t look at me like that Clark.” His gaze doesn't break mine even though his words contradict that.

“You sure you haven’t sucked a guy off before? You feel fucking amazing.” He lets his head fall back, showing off the slow movement of his adams apple as he swallows sharply.

I feel the ring of tight muscles react, as I rub wet fingers into the ridges, I feel his right leg shake a bit.

“Clark! Fuck fuck fuck! That feels good.” He practically yelps.

I continue to give Bruce everything he wants, sucking enthusiastically as my fingers poke and prod him closer to the edge.

“P.. please don’t stop, feels good, so good, mmMHM!” He is a moaning and whimpering mess, and a sense of pride fills me, even as I begin to get tired.

“Clark please, please let me fuck you’re tight throat. Please let me let loose, fuck i’m beggin you Clark. God- fuck!” His own hips start to move without meaning to.

I look up at him, and the moment he looks back down at me I nod, giving him the go ahead. 

He lets out a low, sexy gravely groan as his fingers thread through my curls. He grabs my hair and dosen’t let go, I keep my mouth nice and tight as he opens me up on his cock.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking perfect.” The words that come out of his mouth are limited to curses and praises as he barrels forward to the edge.

I look up at him with pleading eyes as I press deeper into his ass. In response Bruce thrusts harder, hitting the back of my throat with every movement. I moan and gag around him, feeling a rush of blood and ecstasy course through me at the feeling.

“S-shit gonna come! Can I come in your mouth? Wanna fucking coat your insides, mark a- mmmMHM!  M-mark a whore like yo- you as mine!” His words come out sloppy as he moans, using my mouth however he pleases.

I moan and nod around him the best I can. Please fucking make me yours I think to myself.

“Thank you thank you thank you!” He chants, his thrusts are fast, hard, erratic, and he looses himself in the feeling. 

“Best fuck toy I could ever ask for-” He praises before letting his head fall back, muttering a chant of close under his breath.

There is little to no care for me anymore, and the thought makes my gut purr with pleasure, being nothing more then his favorite toy to use. My eyes sting as my brain loses oxygen, the benefit of my alien nature kicking in as I hold my breath longer and longer. Yet the feeling of it all still sending me hurdling towards a state of peace.

With a final shout I feel long hot spurts of come make there way down my throat and I swallow. Letting Bruce thrust into me shallowly as he chases off his high. He eases his way out of my mouth, and I bring my hand back down to my lap from his ass. I wipe off my chin and lips and look up to the man infront of me.

“T-thank you sir.” I mirror my response from earlier and Bruce chuckles with a hearty laugh.

“Holy shit, anytime.” He responds.

***

Bruce Wayne 

I look down to the man before me, a pink and red mess of flesh and fluttering feelings. 

“You did so fucking good, that felt amazing.” I praise him earnestly, “Honestly I’d love to do that again sometime if you want to.” I tell him as I look around and grab napkins that are in the closet, I open them, wiping him and I up, luckily not much to fix up.

“R-really?” He looks like a kid in a candy shop and I smile.

“I mean I would love that- of course if you didn’t mind! It was amazing and I got this awesome floaty feeling in my head and th-” Clark begins to mumble on about the experience, half listening I bring my attention to the scar on his thigh, remarkably in the same position superman was injured not less then a year ago.

“People call that subspace, the floaty feeling, kinda rare for some people, I think you were just barely starting to reach it. But yeah I wouldn’t mind a single bit if I got to see a pretty cowboy like you again.” I smirk up at him and he looks back at me blushing heavily. 

“W-wow I didn’t know that! You learn something new everyday!” He says.

He’s so fucking adorable.

“O-oh thanks.” He responds, looking away.

“Shit did I say that outloud?” I ask him.

He nods and in return I pet his head.

“Sorry didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“N-no! You didn't, I just um aren’t really what most people think of as cute.” He shrugs and I sit next to him on the ground.

“Well guess I'm not most people.” I smile before bringing him in for a kiss. Not like earlier, not sexual tension burning the room alight. This kiss, this one is slow, sweet, a ritual to show appreciation from one person to the other.

We spend awhile kissing, hugging and enjoying the afterglow in this dungy closet.

Eventually curiosity gets to the best of me, “Where did you get this scar?”

“Work.” He shrugs, a sense of sleepiness covering his features.

“Reporting that dangerous?” I rub his back with my hand softly.

“No- was saving-” he pauses, as if coming to the realization he was going to spill some secret, “saving up money awhile back so worked a second construction job.” He tells me, and I can see through his lie.

Yep, he is superman.

My gut tells me, and well I didn’t earn worlds best detective title for nothing. I make a mental note to do research on Clark and Superman to make sure I’m not off. But based on looks alone it seems to add up, the scar not helping his secret stay quiet ether.

“Sorry I know its ugly.” Clark looks down at his leg, only his boxers pulled on.

“Never said it was.” I move my head and look him in the eyes, bringing my hand to have him stay looking at me.

“I think it’s awesome, I get how difficult it can be working so hard and well, it’s a hot badge of honor now.” I grin at him and he initiates the kiss this time, something sweet, and it felt like his lips were trying to tell me thank you.

“Thank you.” He tells me again when we break apart.

“Anytime Clark.” I tell him, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t miss being the bat, I don’t miss the cowl, to happy, warm, and content with the big pretty boy next to me.

I don’t wanna let go just yet.

Chapter Text

“Nothings wrong Lois, it’s just been a week and I’ve heard nothing ok?” I finally grunt out annoyed.

“Well Bruce Wayne is a busy guy and I’m sure that's why he hasn’t contacted you!” She attempts to soothe my wounded pride. I wrap the blanket on my shoulders tighter, the warmth of the fireplace heating my spot in front of my couch where I sit.

“Nope, it was a one time thing and I was stupid and a blushing little freak and he never wants to see my stupid dumb face again!” I retort, making sure to be loud enough she can hear me on call. The crackle of distant thunder and the patter of rainfall cause me to turn her up on speaker.

“You are so dramatic.” I can practically hear her eyes roll over the call.

“Am not.” I pout back, “I simply thought we both enjoyed that… night, and it turns out it was one sided and that just you know, stings.” I admit.

“Mhm well I got stood up a week ago and you don’t see me moping building a 5,000 piece batman figurine lego set in my apartment, wearing batman pjs, drinking warm milk.” She teases me.

“Wh- what!” I stutter out, “How did you know that I was working on my legos…” Goodness gracious, I sound like a nerd!

“Because instead of having comfort food and shows like a normal person, you go do literally anything Batman related.” She deadpans. The rain falls harder against my rickety windows. 

“His good deeds make me feel better!” I defend.

“And a 5,000 piece figure of him also makes you feel better?” She asks, as if that is a bad thing. (It’s not)

“Lois if you aren’t gonna be of any usefulness I am hanging up.” I huff, rolling my eyes.

“Look I just don’t want you to be butthurt over this okay?” Her voice softens.

“As much as I appreciate-” My voice trails off with the sudden crashing noise against my sliding door to my tiny balcony.

BANG!

BaNG!

BanG!

bang…

The shaking of the abused glass door begins to slow and become weaker, I tentatively try and see, but am met with the blackness of the night.

Intruder? Villain? How would they know my address? Has my location and identity been compromised?

“Clark? Are ya there?" Lois asks.

Don’t worry Lois, she can’t know.

“Yeah sorry! I think a bird flew in my window, I’ma go check on it okay? I’ll call you back later.” I lie to her, that can’t be a bird, Lord forgive me for my lies, but they are for a good cause!

“Oh! Uh cya Clark.” She sounds taken aback, I quickly hang up and rush towards the door, opening it with caution. 

I look around seeing nothing, taking a step out I feel something warm hit my batman slipper.

“Batman?!” I crouch down to see a familiar cowl. He is curled in a ball, soaking wet. A mix of red and clear liquid leaching across the concrete of my balcony. Under the sound of the heavy assault of rain I can hear quiet groans of agony escape his lips. He looks like a kitten left alone on the side of the road, and my heart shatters into pieces I don’t know could ever fit back together.

Wait, why is Batman here? Our secret identities?! Is this a coincidence? No Batman doesn't do coincidences. Did he figure it out? Of course he did! Why did he come here? What happened? How bad is the bleeding? What should I do?! Batman!

All my worries come crashing forward into my mind, yet the seize to a halt when the dying man in front of me grabs my collar and brings me down lower to him.

“Superman.. No.. Clark. Bl-eeding..” He takes a breath to cough and my chest hurts in tandem at the sight, “Chest-” He sucks in a harsh gulp of air, “back, thigh, lacerated, no poison, deep wounds, need stitches.” He tells me hurriedly before the strength holding us both together seems to vanish.

My thoughts begin to grow into powerful waves once more.

Okay! Batman knows Superman is Clark Kent. Um no big deal! He is dying in front of me! I need to move!

Gameplan… 

• Bring inside and get warm

• Get first aid and towels

• Apply first aid and um stitch up Batman?!

• Nurse him until other plan arises

*Note: Do NOT get distracted

I bring my arms around the torso of the bleeding man in front of me and put him where I was resting, in front of the couch, near the crackling fireplace. I rush to get towels and a first aid kit, and when I come back I see him with droopy eyes, looking around like a lost puppy, dripping, shivering, and alone on the rug. 

“Gim- agh fuck!” He curses out, grabbing his side.

“Batman!” I crouch near him.

“What is it? What do you need?” I ask needily, as if I’m the one bleeding out.

“Smelling salts.” He coughs out.

I look through the bag and open the container of smelling salts, keeping my nose far away from it, I put it under his, and I see the man before me come back looking like a ghost.

“W-why would yo-?” I begin to question him but he cuts me off.

“Gotta be awake too make sure you don’t fuck up the stitches, I know more about my body then you.” He grunts out, taking deep breaths.

What in God’s green earth is happening?! Batman and I don’t do this!

I remember working together in the justice league, joking once or twice, but always putting work first, giving each other a hand when needed, and leaving it at that. Never ending up at one another's doors, never knowing each other, never dying out, never-

He begins to take off his cowl and my jaw drops.

“W-wait! You don’t have to take that off if you don’t want to. No pressure!” I blurt out and he gives me a look that says, shut the fuck up.

As he lifts it off my eyes widen in… horror? Shock? Joy?

The man underneath the suit is none other then Bruce Wayne. He dosen’t look like he did at the gala, not the smoothly shaven charmer with flushed cheeks and a warm smile. No, he looks deathly here, a sickly paleness with sunken cheeks and pained eyes.

“Bruce?!” I shout.

“We can talk while you stitch, I need alcohol and the best pain meds you got first,” he begins to say, noticing my stalling brain he rolls his eyes before continuing, “Chop chop cowboy!” Even as this man before me is dying, he still has the heart to be cheeky. 

Using my super speed and flight, I make my way in record time grabbing my strongest pain meds, a glass of water, an extra blanket, and clean clothes from my room. Making it back to Bruce freaking Wayne sitting in my living room in 30 seconds.

He quickly snatches the bottle from my hands, dry swallowing 6 pills.

“Um I don’t think you should take that many…” I ask wearily.

“Yeah less yapping more stitching.” He grunts out, exhaustion, wearing his features.

I quickly crouch down to his level and with shaky hands I grab the needle.

I’m crouched over Bruce freaking Wayne, whose blood is currently soaking into my rug. I’m holding a needle and surgical thread like I’m about to perform open-heart surgery with spaghetti noodles for hands. My blanket, my Batman pajama pants, my half-finished Batman LEGO figure... they’re all bearing witness to the absurdity of this moment.

"This is insane," I mutter under my breath, thread slipping from my fingers for the third time. "This is actually happening." My fingers are shaking, and I curse my alien jeans for making my hands so big it makes putting thread through a needle impossible! 

Bruce is slumped against my couch, blanket wrapped around his shoulders like some kind of brooding burrito, his cowl off and tossed haphazardly onto a nearby pillow. His hair is wet, dark strands plastered against his forehead, and his face is pale… too pale. And still, still, he has the audacity to raise a single eyebrow at me.

"You're muttering," he rasps, voice like gravel in a blender.

"I'm panicking," I correct him, voice a little too high-pitched for my liking. I force myself to breathe. "That’s allowed when Bruce freaking Wayne just crash-lands onto your balcony and bleeds all over your favorite rug."

“It’s polyester,” Bruce points out with a shrug, glancing down briefly.

“What?”

“Your rug. Polyester blend. Machine washable.”

I blink. “You identified the fabric of my rug while you’re actively bleeding to death?”

“Part of training,” he says simply, as if that explains anything.

I gape at him. "You... you have rug-identification training?"

“No. But I do have a working knowledge of common home furnishings.”

I stare at him. “You’re delirious.”

He shrugs once more or tries to. It ends in a wince this time. “And you’re stalling.”

“Right.” I swallow, hands shaking as I finally manage to thread the needle, thank Jesus! “Okay. Here we go. Stitching. Stitching time. You’re gonna be fine. I’m totally qualified for this. I read the manual.” I mumble, more for my comfort then Bruce’s

“You read a manual?” Bruce asks, deadpan. “On what? First aid for dummies?”

“No, MeTube!” I snap, then immediately regret how that sounded. “I mean.. no, wait, not just MeTube, I’ve done field med training! A little! A few sessions! With Diana. Once.”

Bruce actually smiles, faint but smug. “I’m in good hands, then.”

I groan and stretch my neck to the ceiling in annoyance. “Why are you like this?”

“Near-death experience. Brings out the best in me.”

He’s smiling. Smiling. Even with a gaping wound in his side.

“You’re ridiculous,” I mutter, pulling the pillow away and dabbing at the blood on his torso with a towel. He hisses sharply through his teeth, and my stomach clenches. “Sorry. Sorry! I’ll be gentle. Like.. like a cloud. Or a kitten. A nice cloud kitten!”

“I don’t want a cloud kitten stitching me,” Bruce mutters.

“Well, you’ve got a nervous alien in Batman pajamas, so... welcome to the multiverse, I guess.” Why am I joking right now?! He is dying!

He lets out a rough, huffed sound that might actually be a laugh. I freeze at the sound, startled, and glance up to meet his gaze. His eyes are half-lidded but sharp, still watching me, still assessing.

“Nice legos.” He points out, and I can tell he is trying to ease my mind, as if I was the one dying.

“My friend- Lois- got them for me, for my birthday, I was a huge Batman fan and so I um do them when I feel sad.” I admit sheepishly.

“What do you mean ‘was a huge Batman fan,’ are you disappointed now you know the man underneath?” He questions and I turn bright red.

“N- No!” I stutter out, accidentally stabbing him with the needle one too many times, he glares at me and I feel like a dog in trouble. I mumble out a quick apology, “It was more disappointing to get ghosted.” The words slip out before I can think and my mouth opens to apologize for the passive aggressive comment, but Bruce beats me to it. 

“Why me?” he asks first, voice quieter now, serious.

“Huh?” I’m halfway through the first stitch, fingers trembling.

“At the gala,” he clarifies. “You could’ve left it as a one-night thing. No names. No faces. Just... a moment. So why do you care that I haven’t called?”

I hesitate, needle pausing mid-air.

“Because,” I say slowly, “it wasn’t just a moment. Not for me.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Bruce exhales, long and tired. “Knew you’d say something like that.”

“Well, excuse me for having feelings,” I mutter, tying off the first stitch. “Sorry I’m not emotionally dead inside.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “I’m not emotionally dead. Just... emotionally minimalist.”

I snort. “Sure. That explains the black cape and ‘I only work alone’ attitude.”

Another faint smirk, and I hate how much it makes my stomach flip. “You’re the one who wears tights to work,” he murmurs.

“I do not!”  I pause, glancing across the room to see my suit hanging on the doorway. “Okay, that’s fair.”

There's a beat of silence, and in the quiet, my hands begin to shake as my thoughts creep back in, oozing with doubt.

“You’re doing fine, by the way,” he adds, nodding toward the wound.

I glance down. One wound stitched. Another to go. “You mean that?”

“Yes.”

“Even though I poked you twice and made you bleed more?”

“Still better than patching myself up in a Gotham sewer.”

I pause, horrified. “You’ve patched yourself up in a sewer?!”

He shrugs again, barely. “Once. Or twice.”

“Bruce!”

“What? You think I keep a cozy fireplace in every city I collapse in?”

“You should! That’s-That’s… God, you’re such a maniac.”

“I’m resourceful.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re chatty.”

“I’m nervous!”

“I noticed.” He smirks at me and I turn red with embarrassment. 

We fall into silence for a few moments as I clean the next wound, his thigh, and I try very hard not to think about the fact that I’m gently peeling skintight, mostly destroyed bat-armor off of Bruce Wayne’s thigh. Bruce, meanwhile, just watches me with mild amusement, as if I’m the flustered one, which I am, but he doesn't need to know that.

“I knew it was you, by the way,” he says suddenly.

I blink. “Knew what?”

“That night. At the gala. I knew who you were. Superman.”

I freeze, heart leaping into my throat. “…What?”

“I knew,” he repeats, looking up at me with calm certainty. “I figured it out.”

My stomach drops. “You knew… the whole time? While we were, while we?”

He pauses, “Had my suspicious at the start, and they were confirmed by the end.” He tells me.

I throw down the towel. “BRUCE.”

“You weren’t exactly subtle. Plus Superman and Clark Kent have a very similar flustered look to them. Blushing every time I look at you.” I roll my eyes as he teases me.

“I wasn’t blushing!”

“You were a tomato in a tux.”

“Oh my god.”

“You also used your superman voice.”

“No, I didn’t!”

“You did.”

“I heightened the pitch! I… I did the thing!”

“You did not do the thing.”

“I tried to do the thing!” I groan and bury my face in my hands. “This is so embarrassing.”

“You’re adorable when you’re panicking.”

I peek through my fingers, deadpan. “I’m literally elbow-deep in your blood right now. Don’t call me adorable.”

“Too late. Already said it.”

I groan. “This is not how this was supposed to go.”

Bruce’s head shifts against the couch, and his brow quirks like it’s a full-body effort. “Define ‘supposed to.’”

I gesture helplessly around the room. “I don’t know! Maybe something with less blood? Less... trauma? Maybe a text beforehand? A calendar invite?”

His lips twitch, barely. “Sorry. My assistant’s on vacation.”

“You are the assistant, Bruce.”

He grunts, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “No wonder I’m exhausted.”

I huff, carefully dabbing away some fresh blood from the second wound. “I just... didn’t think I’d be stitching you together a week after you kissed me and then disappeared.”

His eyes open again, hazy but sharp, locked on mine, seemingly frustrated at my comment. “I didn’t disappear.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“I had your number.” He begins to defend himself.

“Mm-hmm.”

“I was going to call.”

“Oh, you were?” I scoff, finishing the last of the thigh stitches. “What happened, then? Gotham swallowed your phone whole?”

He’s quiet for a second. The kind of quiet that means he’s thinking. Not dodging. Not evading. Just... trying to find the right words.

“I wanted to,” he says, softly. “Every day. I thought about it. Wrote the message. Deleted it. Tried to clear a night. Failed. Told myself I’d reach out when I could actually show up the way I planned to."

I blink, still holding the bloody towel, caught completely off guard by the honesty.

“Oh,” I say quietly.

He shifts again, pain flickering across his face, and I immediately ease him back down, grabbing a pillow to tuck under his leg.

“I’m sorry Clark,” he mutters.

“No… no, I’m sorry,” I say quickly, guilt climbing my spine. “I was sitting here whining in my pajamas like some rejected fanboy and you’ve been... what, juggling three city-wide threats and a blackout in Crime Alley?”

“Four threats,” he corrects, a ghost of pride in his tone. “And a major data breach. And Scarecrow. Again.”

“God, your life is exhausting,” I murmur, brushing hair back from his forehead without thinking. And sure I’m a hero too, but not in Gotham, and not a human who is broken and battered 97% of the time.

He stills under my touch for half a breath. Then, softly, “You were the only place I could go.”

I pause.

“I could’ve gone to the cave,” he says slowly. “But Alfred’s in London with family. Dick’s in Blüdhaven. Barbara’s out of the country, and Jason’s not talking to me right now.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What about Diana? Hal? J’onn?”

Busy. Off-world. Missions.” He swallows, voice tightening. “And I didn’t want medical attention. Clark if I’m being honest I just really fucking wanted-”

He stops, the softest flush crawling from his cheeks up to his ears.

“What?” I ask, softer now.

His gaze flicks to mine again. Unreadable. Except it’s not unreadable. Not really. Not when I already know what he’s saying without saying it.

“I really fucking wanted to see you,” he says, finally.

My breath catches in my chest.

Not because it’s romantic. Not really. Not yet. But because it’s so bare. So unguarded. Like a tiny part of the mask has slipped just far enough for me to see what’s underneath someone just as wrecked as I feel.

“Oh,” I say again, because my brain is completely fried and that’s apparently the only word I remember how to use.

“Not that I expected you to roll out the red carpet,” Bruce adds quickly, glancing away. “I thought you might slam the door in my face. Or fly me back to Gotham with a passive-aggressive note attached.”

“I almost did,” I admit, cheeks warm. “But then you looked like a wet cat that got hit by a truck, so I panicked.”

He snorts, actually snorts, and then winces in pain.

“You’re not allowed to laugh right now,” I scold gently, helping him ease back into the blanket.

“Then stop being funny.”

“I’m not trying to be! You just make it very hard to take this seriously when you’re sitting in my living room bleeding out and giving interior decorating notes.”

“You’re the one who keeps Batman brand LEGO sets in your apartment,” he mutters.

“They’re limited edition, thank you very much.”

Another silence falls between us, but it’s warmer now. Not as heavy. I find myself slowly easing back, kneeling beside him on the rug as the fire crackles softly in the corner.

“I wasn’t mad that you didn’t call,” I admit after a moment. “Okay, maybe I was mad. But not just about that.”

Bruce glances at me, tired and curious.

“I think I was just embarrassed,” I continue, fiddling with the corner of a towel as I run it across his bare skin, cleaning the dry blood. “That night at the gala, I was… Gosh, I was so obvious. And you were so cool, and charming, and perfect, and then I went home thinking, like, maybe something would happen. And when it didn’t, I assumed I’d made it up in my head.”

Bruce’s expression softens. Not dramatically. Not so you'd notice if you weren’t already watching him like I was. But it’s there. That flicker of regret, or apology, or something between the two.

“You didn’t make it up,” he says quietly.

I nod. “Yeah. I figured that out around the time you collapsed on my balcony.”

“I make a strong second impression,” he deadpans.

“Oh, sure. Nothing screams ‘I like you’ like blood loss and identity reveals.”

“I did bring my own dramatic soundtrack,” he adds, nodding toward the rain.

“And props. Like a cowl and twenty pounds of body armor.”

He exhales through his nose, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Was it too much?”

I smile too, despite myself. “Honestly? Perfectly on brand.”

He lets his head rest back against the couch, finally relaxing or maybe just giving in to the exhaustion. I watch him for a moment longer, still stunned that this is real. That Bruce Wayne, the actual Batman, came to me, not just because he needed help, but because he needed... me.

Not Superman. Not the League. Not a battlefield partner.

Just... Clark.

He’s falling asleep when I murmur, “Next time, just text. I don’t need a rooftop entrance and an arterial bleed to know you care.”

His lips barely move, but I hear the faintest whisper of, “Didn’t want to seem clingy.”

I blink, then let out a soft, helpless laugh. “You’re literally unconscious in my blanket. I think the clingy ship has sailed, Bruce.”

He makes a vague grunt of acknowledgment, head lolling to the side again. He looks completely wiped out, but something about the way his shoulders keep tensing tells me he's not fully relaxed.

“Hey,” I say softly, crouching beside him again, brushing damp hair from his temple. “You’re freezing. You shouldn’t sleep out here like this. Come on, bed.”

His eyes crack open, bleary and unfocused. “I’m fine here.”

“You’re half-drenched and you’re going to get neck pain sleeping against my couch,” I say gently. “Also, you’re bleeding through the blanket. My landlord’s gonna murder me.”

“I’m already lying down,” he mutters, but even as he protests, his body twitches slightly, like he’s thinking about getting up.

“I’ll help,” I offer. “Just lean on me, okay?”

He hesitates.

Then, with a resigned sigh, he nods.

It takes some effort to haul him to his feet even with my strength, he’s solid and dead weight and stubborn but I manage to loop an arm around his waist and get him steady. He leans heavier into me than he probably means to, but I say nothing. I just wrap my arm tighter around his back and steer us slowly down the hallway.

“You have a nice place,” he says, voice slurred with exhaustion as he glances at the framed photos on the wall. “Surprisingly tidy.”

“It’s hard without the world's most famous butler.” I grin.

We reach my bedroom and I help him sit on the edge of the bed. The bedroom is bathed in a low, golden light, the glow of the hallway lamp casting soft shadows across the wood floor and the folds of the comforter. Outside, the rain has quieted into a slow, rhythmic tapping against the window, like the world is settling down for the night right along with us. Everything smells like cedar and faint laundry detergent, warm and clean and home. The air is thick with calm, the kind that only comes in rare, fleeting moments when the chaos takes a breath and lets you rest.

It’s a little surreal. Bruce Wayne, in his undersuit, wrapped in my softest throw blanket like a rogue superhero burrito, sitting on my bed and looking like he’s trying not to pass out. His hair’s still damp, and the bandage around his side is already spotting with red. But there’s something gentler about him now, a looseness in his posture I’ve never seen before.

He exhales slowly. “You don’t happen to have a spare Kevlar-lined undersuit lying around, do you?”

“No, but I do have a flannel from my teenage years that would fit,” I say, moving toward the dresser. “I wear it when I’m sad and want to pretend I’m in a Christmas movie.”

“...Comforting.”

I glance over my shoulder. “You’re not sleeping in blood-soaked armor, Bruce. You’ll freeze. Or give my sheets tetanus.”

“That’s not how tetanus works.”

“Not the point.”

I dig through the drawer and pull out the softest flannel I own red-and-black plaid, worn-in, I toss it to him.

He holds it in one hand, staring at it like I just handed him a clown suit.

“This,” he says flatly, “is enormous.”

“Yeah. I’m enormous.”

He doesn’t argue that part. Just looks down at the shirt again like it’s personally offended him. Then back at his half-armored, half-bandaged torso. And sighs.

“…Help me get the rest of this off?” he mutters, not meeting my eyes. I can tell asking for this, whatever this is, pains a part of him.

I swallow not from nerves, but from the trust in that question. That tiny crack in his armor, no pun intended.

“Of course,” I say gently, setting the first-aid kit aside and stepping back toward him.

I kneel in front of him, careful and steady, and begin unlatching the remaining pieces of his suit. The armor’s lighter than his usual full batsuit, something stealthier but it’s still dense, still jagged in weird places, and under it is bruised skin, surgical scars, and far too many bandages for comfort.

He flinches as I peel one piece back, and I pause.

“Too fast?”

“No. Just... not used to this.”

“Letting someone help?”

He doesn’t respond.

I don’t press.

Eventually, I get the last bit of armor off, and he’s left in black compression pants and gauze. His chest is a roadmap of scar tissue and new bruises, ribs rising and falling unevenly.

I offer the flannel.

He stares at it again like it’s a wild animal, gesturing vaguely toward the sleeve, and I get it. He can’t lift his arm without tearing a stitch.

He grunts a low, “Clark?” asking for my assistance.

“Yeah,” I say. “Just lean forward a bit.”

I help ease the shirt over his shoulders, carefully maneuvering his arms through the sleeves. It swallows him. The hem falls to mid-thigh, and the sleeves go well past his hands. He looks like a very grumpy flannel ghost.

“You’re not allowed to take any photos,” he warns.

I grin. “You look cozy.”

“I look ridiculous.”

“You are ridiculous,” I murmur, brushing a bit of lint off his shoulder. “But you’re also warm now. And not bleeding all over my rug.”

He sighs. “Small victories.”

I pull back the covers and help him slide under, adjusting the pillow behind his head. He settles more easily this time, his body finally accepting that it’s allowed to rest.

The flannel bunches at his elbows and billows over his chest, and the contrast is so absurd I have to bite my cheek to stop from laughing. Bruce Wayne. Gotham’s dark knight. Dressed like a lumberjack going through a breakup.

“Don’t say it,” he mutters, eyes closed.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You thought it.”

I chuckle softly. “I’m just saying, you make flannel look... emotionally complex.”

He huffs out what might be the smallest laugh I’ve ever heard from him. Then, after a moment, more quietly: “Thanks. For... all this.”

I blink, caught off guard.

“Of course,” I begin to say, admiring his features.

He looks... different like this. Not the way he did at the gala, all polished and perfect and smirking like he owned the night. Not like Batman either, all shadow and steel and untouchable presence. No, right now, in the dim light of my bedroom, he looks soft. Human. His face is pale, the sharp angles of his cheekbones smoothed a little by exhaustion, a faint flush rising under the skin where the heat from the blanket is finally sinking in. There are bruises along his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble on his chin, and a small, healing cut near the corner of his mouth that tugs slightly with each slow breath. His lashes, unfairly long, rest gently against his cheeks, twitching every so often like he’s still half-aware of the world. Even his hair, usually slicked back or masked under the cowl, has curled at the ends from the rain, soft and dark and just a little unruly across his forehead.

And then there’s the flannel, bright red against his pale skin, loose and oversized in the most ridiculous, heart-wrenching way. The collar’s half turned up, one sleeve falling well past his hand. He looks smaller in it. Not weak, but... settled. Like someone who hasn’t had to be on guard in a long, long time. The kind of quiet vulnerability you don’t usually get to witness unless you’re trusted to see it.

And I’m seeing him.

Not the mask. Not the myth. Just Bruce.

And somehow, that’s more intimate than anything else could ever be.

“Here anytime you need it.” My voice is nothing more than a whisper above the crashing of rain outside.

He doesn’t respond. Not with words, at least.

Instead, he shifts, just a bit, and when I sit down on the bed beside him, he leans.

Not dramatically. Not all at once. But slowly, like a cat testing if it’s safe to fall asleep on your lap. His shoulder nudges mine, then stays. A minute later, his head finds my arm. Then my shoulder. And then the world goes still.

His breathing deepens. His body finally relaxes.

Bruce Wayne, wrapped in red flannel, is curled against me in my bed like it’s the safest place on earth.

And something about that, about him, here, in my space, in my clothes, wraps around my heart like a thread pulled tight.

It feels... intimate. Not sweep you off your feet romance, exactly. But tender. Quiet. Real.

Like he’s not Batman, and I’m not Superman, and the world isn’t waiting for us to fix it.

Just Bruce.

Just me.

Just this moment.

And I don’t move.

Not because I’m afraid of waking him, though I am.

But because if he trusts me enough to fall asleep here, like this, then the least I can do is be still. Be steady. Be here.

Because whatever this is, this strange little moment we’ve stumbled into, it matters.

Maybe not forever. Maybe not tomorrow.

But tonight?

Tonight, it’s everything.