Archive of Our Own

Being an alien was difficult, sometimes.

Clark was by no means ashamed of his heritage. He’d come to terms with being different, with having to hide part of who he was. He understood the need for secrecy, and he had enough people around him who knew the whole of him that he rarely resented hiding. But the tough part was always that there was an implicit power imbalance between him and the rest of the world – and moreover that, if he wanted Superman to exist, there was nothing he could do about that. It helped that he did truly believe that he was helping, and that the world was a better place with Superman in it. But no matter how many people he saved, no matter how many crises he averted, or how many kind people told him he’d inspired them, there would always be fear there. Fear from people like Luthor, who saw him as a threat to his own influence – but also from ordinary people, people who knew what a power like Superman’s could do in the wrong hands.

It was one thing to know the effect he might have on villains and faceless strangers, though. It was another to see it in his potential allies.

Case in point: Batman was clearly terrified of him.

To his credit, he was doing an excellent job of not showing it. When Clark had touched down, a healthy 6 feet away from the man, nothing about his outward demeanor had changed. His eyes had tracked Clark carefully from behind the cowl, scanning over him with a cool, assessing gaze, likely checking him for potential weaknesses. His mouth was flat and emotionless, placid and yet somehow threatening. Draped in his long cloak, his body was a wall of unmoving black.

But one of the awkward things about supersenses was that he couldn’t always help but invade other people’s privacy. And he could hear that, despite his aggressively neutral bearing, Batman’s heart had started to race the moment he’d appeared. It seemed that controlling his autonomic nervous system was a feat beyond even the Dark Knight himself.

Clark felt a little guilty for noticing, but, well, the cat was already out of the bag. The least he could do was try to be reassuring and show Batman that he wasn’t a threat. He kept his smile bright and friendly and his posture relaxed. “Hello, Batman. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Get out of my city,” Batman growled menacingly.

Clark’s smile faltered. Okay, so maybe friendliness wouldn’t be enough.

“I am really sorry for barging in like this,” he said with genuine apology. Almost without realizing it, he’d slipped a little into Clark Kent: wide, hopeful eyes and rounded shoulders. A smaller and more unassuming version of himself, one that was hopefully less threatening. After all, he hadn’t meant to scare the man. If anything, he wanted to be his friend. As far as he could tell, Batman was just trying to do what was right, just like he was. For all their differences, they seemed to be very much on the same side.

(That thought did make the implicit rejection sting a little harder, though.)

“I can be out of your hair in just a moment,” Clark reassured him. “But you may have noticed the, uh, giant gorilla running along the highway into Gotham?”

For the first time since their conversation began, Batman dragged his eyes away from Clark to glance in the direction of the offending gorilla. He looked back at Clark.

“Oh, that gorilla?” he said dryly. “It had come to my attention, yes.”

Clark’s mouth pulled into a tentative smile. Even though, judging from Batman’s heartbeat, his fear had only escalated since Clark had started talking, he was still making the effort to crack a joke. Or at least, the weird, dry, Batman equivalent of one.

Clark felt almost hopeful.

“Yup, that gorilla. He’s one of mine,” Clark explained. “He managed to cross the border into Gotham before I could catch him safely. But if you’re okay with it, I’ll just catch him and take him out of here. I’ll make sure he’s contained with absolutely minimal fallout. You have my word on that one.”

Batman stared at him for a long moment. Clark stared back, doing his best to project trustworthiness.

And then:

“What happened to your suit?” Batman asked out of nowhere.

Clark blinked in surprise. “Huh? Oh, that was the gorilla. I think he has a magic, uh, beam thing? It burned up parts of the suit.” He glanced down at himself and grimaced. Gosh, he looked sillier than he’d thought in his torn suit. He shrugged helplessly, plucking at the ripped fabric over his abdomen. “It’s not a great first impression, I know. But I didn’t have any spares handy.”

“Hn,” said Batman. And didn’t say anything else.

Bravely, Clark soldiered on. “So, anyway. Would that be alright with you?”

Batman stayed quiet for another long moment. Then he said, “You came over here to find me – mid-fight – just to ask permission to pick up your rogue and take him back to Metropolis.”

His tone was too flat to read any emotion from, but his heart was still pounding with fear. Even faster now than before, actually. Bathump. Bathump. Bathump.

Clark had to resist the urge to curl in on himself even more; Superman still had to be Superman, after all. “Yes? I mean, I know you have a no metas in Gotham rule. I didn’t want our first meeting to be me stepping on your toes.” He glanced over towards the highway again and frowned. “Although if it’s alright with you, I should probably get going soon, or he’ll get too close to the city proper.”

Clark looked back at him expectantly. Batman was still staring, that assessing gaze running over Clark’s body. But eventually, he half-turned so Clark could only see his profile, stern and forbidding.

“Take your gorilla and go. And don’t break anything,” was all he said before he grappled away, apparently done with the conversation.

“Thank you, Batman!” Clark called out to his retreating back.

He was too busy speeding away to notice Batman pause on a nearby rooftop, let out a deep breath and mutter softly, “Jesus Christ.”

Over the next several months after that slightly awkward initial meeting, he and Batman slowly slid into a tentative working relationship.

Very tentative. Batman was standoffish, fiercely independent and protective of his own cases. And he was clearly still not comfortable around Clark. Every time Clark appeared, he could hear Batman’s autonomic nervous system respond: a stutter of his pulse or the barest increase in the rate of his breathing. But still, he noticed that Batman seemed especially uncomfortable at seeing Clark use his powers. And he never liked to freak anyone out, but he could hardly not stop that school bus from falling into the harbor, could he?

Batman landed beside him in a crouch and, silently and gracefully, rose to his full height. “Superman. Need a hand?”

“I’d definitely appreciate one,” he said with a grateful smile. He had one hand clenched in the front of the bus and both heels dug into the concrete, but the back end of the bus was still dangling over water. “I can’t really pick this up without jostling the kids inside, and I don’t want to scare them any more than they already are. Could you evacuate them while I hold the bus steady?”

Batman’s eyes flickered over him for a second before he gave a curt nod and disappeared inside the bus.

There went Batman’s pulse again. Clark suppressed a sigh.

He couldn’t complain, really. Despite his discomfort, Batman was cordial enough with him – at least by his standards. He was clearly not a fan of metas, judging by the fact that he forbade them from even entering his city. But despite that, he seemed to accept that Superman was there to help and was willing to work with him.

Clark appreciated the effort, at least.

It was just a shame, he thought to himself as he watched Batman gently lead a parade of scared elementary schoolers out of the bus, that they’d probably never be anything more than colleagues. He’d really come to look up to Batman the more he’d worked with him. But Clark could only hide so much of what he was. And if Batman was still anxious around him after all this time, maybe even still saw him as a threat, there was little chance of them ever becoming real friends beyond the occasional team-up.

“All the children have been evacuated,” Batman announced, appearing beside him.

Clark glanced over his shoulder. A small crowd of little kids were standing a safe distance away with the bus driver, watching them with nervous anticipation. He smiled and gave them a friendly wave, and they chittered with excitement.

“Okay, give me a second,” Clark said. He dug his hand more firmly into the metal of the hood and gripped the underside. “It might be better if you stood back.”

Batman sank back a few steps. With a soft grunt of effort, Clark gently levered the bus up by its front until the back end was hovering well above the concrete, straightened, turned, and carefully lowered the whole thing back down to the ground. The kids cheered.

He let go, straightened and dusted off his hands with a smile. “There! That should do it.” His smile turned to a gentle frown when he spotted the very obvious imprint of his grip in the torn metal of the bus. “It’s a shame about the damage. Do you think insurance will cover that?”

Batman let out a soft grunt. He wasn’t saying anything that could give him away – but Clark could still hear his real feelings through his heartbeat. Bathump. Bathump. Bathump.

Clark winced. Maybe he shouldn’t have drawn attention to the fact that he could crush steel with his grip. He wasn’t exactly projecting a non-threatening image here.

“I’ll handle it,” Batman said, and then for some reason clarified, “The bus, I mean.” His voice was unusually tight. “Good work, Superman.”

Clark’s answering smile was only a little weak. “You too, Batman. Thanks for the help. See you around?”

Batman nodded brusquely, which for him was almost friendly. Hopefully that meant he hadn’t messed up too badly.

A lot of things changed after the League formed. Clark wasn’t working alone as much as he used to, which was honestly a welcome change: the team were great, and there was something uniquely wonderful about finally having a group of people around him who truly understood the struggles of superheroism. It had only been a couple of months since they got their base of operations established and they didn’t see each other all that often, but Clark was already starting to think of them all as real friends.

Well. With one possible exception. Batman was still a work in progress.

The more Clark got to know the man, the easier it was not to take it personally. It was clear that his style of vigilantism was, for better or worse, deeply paranoid. It was his nature to plan and scheme and assess for weaknesses, to see the potential threat in any situation so that he could counter it. This was a man whose response to the creation of the Justice League was to create contingency plans to neutralize his allies in case they went bad – something said allies had been less than pleased to discover.

But Clark understood. What must it feel like to be the only normal human on a team of people who far surpassed normal human limits? He’d felt for himself the kind of fear Batman felt for him, and saw how hard he tried to suppress it. Clark didn’t love that there was anything to suppress, but it was still kind of admirable of him to put the mission above his own discomfort.

It was definitely worst with Clark, though. He noticed that Batman’s pulse stayed steady when he was talking with Diana or the Flash, but sometimes ratcheted up when Clark entered the room. It made sense, he supposed. Superman was, all told, the most physically powerful member of the League, and thus Batman had the strongest physical disadvantage against him. It was perfectly logical.

So he tried to give Batman space, when he could, to avoid making him uncomfortable. But although he generally tried to avoid it, sometimes he couldn’t help but get close. Like for instance:

“I could use a little help, here,” came Batman’s flat voice through the comms. Clark glanced over and— Oh, gosh. It seemed that Batman was plummeting from the sky. That seemed pretty urgent.

“On it!” Clark called out, speeding over to Batman’s location. He managed to pluck Batman carefully out of the air at the relatively safe distance of 100ft from the ground, scooping him up in a bridal carry. He smiled. “You alright there?”

“Do you have to hold me like this? It’s demeaning,” Batman grumbled.

“You’re welcome,” Clark said wryly. Privately, he thought that Batman still looked pretty damn imposing in any position, but he didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable. Obligingly, Clark shifted him so that he had one arm wrapped around his waist. Batman’s own arms automatically tightened around his neck.

Clark kind of regretted it as soon as he’d done it, because like this Batman was pressed all along his side and it felt kind of, uh, really nice, even with all the armor and Kevlar he was wearing. He felt himself flush and politely tried not to think about what this would feel like without the suit on.

“Better?” he asked, trying to seem calm and not at all inappropriately flustered. Batman didn’t respond, just wordlessly fixed him with that intense gaze of his. And wow, Batman’s face was really close – he could see the faintest shadow of stubble on that sharp jaw and smell the barest hint of a very pleasant cologne beneath the acrid stench of smoke rising from their impromptu battlefield. He couldn’t help but notice that Batman’s lips looked surprisingly soft for such a severe man.

And that’s when he noticed something else. Batman’s heart was starting to thump in his chest again.

The pleasant warmth fizzing in Clark’s chest went flat in seconds. Right. He hadn’t been focusing on the sound of Batman’s heart among the gentle chaos of battle, but like this he could feel it through Batman’s armor. Feel his very physical discomfort with Clark being so close to him.

Batman hadn’t been afraid when he was falling to his potential death, Clark realized. Then his pulse had been steady as a rock. But now that Clark was here, supposedly saving him…

Clark grimaced. It was a sobering thought.

“Let’s get you down,” he said gently and kept his gaze fixed firmly ahead of him.

Batman didn’t say anything until his feet were in contact with the ground once more and he was several feet away from Clark. When he did, it was a simple, “Thank you, Superman. For your help.”

Perfectly polite, despite his clear discomfort with Clark’s presence. He was clearly trying not to let this get in the way of their professional relationship.

It was, all said, an admirable effort. Clark couldn’t fault it.

“Of course. Happy to help,” said Clark, which was only partially a lie. He was never happy making someone else uncomfortable.

He flew back into the fray without another word, trying not to let his disappointment show.

He’d thought maybe Batman’s discomfort with Superman would get better after the League revealed their identities to each other, and he saw that Clark Kent was, at the end of the day, just a normal guy who happened to have a bunch of superpowers. But no such luck. If anything, it had gotten worse. And that was a real shame, because ever since Clark had found out what was under the cowl, the vague feeling that Batman was a good hero and subtly kind and surprisingly funny and gosh, that was a really good jawline, and how good must his muscle definition be if it showed through Kevlar—

Well. It had sort of…spiraled, a little. Because it turned out the Dark Knight was Bruce Wayne, who was all sorts of unfairly gorgeous, and up close his eyes were a really fascinating blue-gray that went a little turquoise in the right lighting, and the fact that Clark was noticing that kind of thing did not bode well for him at all. And now Clark couldn’t stop thinking about him in ways that were definitely inappropriate for a trusted colleague. Especially one who didn’t even like him, really. Although, in his defense, Batman had really incredible thighs. And arms. And, um. Everything.

Maybe it was a wasted effort, but Clark found himself even more eager to make Batman – or Bruce, as he called him now, they’d made at least that much progress – feel comfortable around him. He tried being more friendly, giving him a reassuring (but gentle!) squeeze on his shoulder now and then, or a casual invite to a diner after a mission so Bruce could get to know him better – which Bruce even accepted, from time to time. But even something as inoffensive as a cheerful smile when they passed each other in the hallway seemed to make Bruce’s pulse stutter.

Clark was reluctantly coming to terms with the fact that the endeavor was a hopeless one.

The final straw, though, happened just after a mission debrief. They were all a little worse for wear after rescuing a bunch of hostages from an alien spaceship: Green Lantern’s ring was practically out of energy, Hawkgirl was bruised all down her side from getting slammed against a wall, and Flash’s stomach was grumbling loud enough that the team felt collectively guilty for not stocking more snacks in the shared kitchen. Clark himself was fine physically – the benefit of being invulnerable – but he was feeling mentally drained. He was definitely looking forward to just slumping at his apartment and putting the day behind him. He’d taken his singed cape off so that a couple of the more lightly dressed hostages could use it as a blanket, and it wasn’t as if he regretted it, but he was already dreading having to head to the Fortress after this meeting to pick up the replacement.

It definitely didn’t help that Bruce had been giving him strangely intense looks ever since they rendezvoused after the mission. It was all just a little depressing.

They’d just wrapped up the debrief. Bruce was positioned at the head of the table, cowl off, making notes on a small writing pad. Even though he seemed as cool and collected as ever, the dark circles beneath his eyes and the barest tremor in his writing hand suggested that he was feeling pretty tired too. As Clark approached to say a polite goodbye, Bruce’s hand jerked slightly and the pen he’d been using to write with slipped from his grasp and rolled under the table.

Bruce sighed and muttered a quiet, “God damn it,” under his breath.

Bruce always hated to show any weakness, even something as minor as this. Clark flashed him a sympathetic smile. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s been a long day, huh? Let me get that for you.”

“You don’t have to—” Bruce began. But he cut himself off with a strange, strangled noise when Clark bent over to pick up the dropped pen.

Bathump. Bathump. Bathump.

Clark straightened abruptly, mortified. It was one thing for Bruce to be afraid of him when he was actually doing something, but…but his back had been turned then! Was his butt scary too?

He turned back to Bruce and held out the pen. “Here you go,” he announced, but he couldn’t quite meet his eyes. He wasn’t entirely sure whether his face was pale or bright red. Was it somehow both? Was that possible?

When he felt the pen gently leave his grip, he smiled weakly somewhere over Bruce’s left shoulder. “Anyway, gotta go. Bathroom.”

He fled. Distantly, he could hear Diana ask confusedly if something was wrong, and someone – Bruce – let out a deep sigh.

He ignored them and hurried to the bathroom. When he reached the sinks, he immediately turned on the tap and splashed his face with water.

God. So much for winning Bruce over. The man could barely even stand to look at him.

Feeling defeated, he stared at himself in the mirror and tried to see himself how Bruce – and everyone else who was afraid of him – probably saw him. His ma told him he had kind eyes, but he knew they didn’t look so kind when they were glowing red with burning heat. He turned around to inspect his back in the mirror and grimaced. Without his cape, his alien musculature was all too obvious. He looked big. Powerful. Even ignoring his powers, there were definitely people who’d see his hulking frame on a dark street somewhere and worry what a man like that could do to them. Within the context of his superstrength, it was a grim reminder of just what he was capable of. And the effect was not diminished if he bent over a little, as Bruce would have seen him just moments ago—

The door to the bathroom opened and a near-silent set of footsteps came to a noisy stop at the threshold.

“Superman,” came Bruce’s voice, sounding more than a little strangled. “Why are you looking at your own ass in the mirror.”

Clark quickly straightened. “Batman! I, uh. Wasn’t expecting anyone else to come in here.”

“So I guessed,” Bruce said. He was still looking at Clark with that oddly penetrating look in his blue-gray eyes. Clark sighed. Maybe the best thing to do was to just to address it. That might be the only way to clear the air between them, once and for all.

“I’m sorry, Bruce,” he said. When Bruce just continued to stare at him expressionlessly, he explained, “I…I know how you feel about me.”

That got a reaction, almost imperceptible but clear as day to Clark’s enhanced senses: a creeping, full-body tension.

“Do you,” he said finally.

Clark nodded. “Yes. I wasn’t listening in on purpose. But I can pick up your heartbeat. I try not to pry, but it’s hard to ignore sometimes.”

Bruce said nothing. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

“So I can hear how your heart rate increases when I’m around,” Clark continued somberly. “I know that you’re…afraid of me.”

At that, Bruce’s head snapped up. He stared blankly at Clark for a long, intense moment.

“Say that again,” he said slowly. “You think that I’m…afraid of you?”

“Yes?” Clark said, frowning. The way Bruce was talking, it almost seemed like… “I mean, I know you don’t trust metas. I know you see people with powers – and me especially – as a potential threat. It’s just in your nature. I mean, you have all these contingency plans for if we go rogue. I get it, even if I wish it could be different. And you’ve always made an effort to work with me anyway, which I do appreciate! But I thought maybe—”

“Clark. Stop talking,” Bruce said flatly – so flatly that Clark’s mouth instinctively clamped shut. Bruce closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose and said, with poorly disguised exasperation, “You’ve completely misunderstood. I’m not afraid of you.”

Clark blinked at him, confused. He was sure he hadn’t misheard Bruce’s heartbeat. But then again, Bruce didn’t seem like he was lying.

“You’re not?” he tried.

Bruce glanced around the hallway and, seeing that it was empty, slipped into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He grimaced.

“Please understand that I wasn’t planning on telling you this. I was hoping that, if you noticed, you’d be kind enough never to bring it up. But I can’t let you keep thinking I’m some kind of…of xenophobe.”

Clark’s mouth fell open in shock. “What? I-I wasn’t trying to say that you were—”

“You’re suggesting that I’m afraid of you because you’re an alien. At least etymologically, that’s the exact definition of a xenophobe.”

“Ah,” Clark said. “I mean. When you put it like that, I guess maybe you have a point.”

Bruce let out a sigh. “We can address how apparently okay you are being the target of said xenophobia another time,” he said coolly. “For now, I just need to clarify: I was never afraid of you. I’m just attracted to you.”

Clark’s mind abruptly screeched to a halt.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “You’re…what?”

Bruce folded his arms. “Attracted to you,” he said again. His index finger was tapping against his bicep. “Extremely and unreasonably so.”

“Oh,” Clark squeaked. Bruce still didn’t seem like he was lying, but Clark was struggling to wrap his head around this incredibly unexpected development. “So you mean, with the pen thing just now, your heart rate increased because you thought, in the moment, that I was—”

“—hot,” Bruce said.

Clark flushed, feeling heat curl in his stomach. He’d been planning on saying ‘attractive’. “And that time with the school bus, you weren’t scared of my strength? You thought it was—”

“—hot,” Bruce confirmed.

“And. And the first time we met, with the gorilla,” Clark said. “Even then, you thought I was—”

“—hot, yes,” Bruce said impatiently. “You were wearing maybe 30% of a torn Superman suit, which already doesn’t leave much to the imagination. Surely you can put the pieces together yourself.”

Clark didn’t quite know what to do with this information. “But…what about all the other times? Just saying hi or smiling at you in the hallway. Was that, uh. ‘Hot’?”

Bruce glanced away, eyebrows furrowed. “Not exactly. That was more…” He clenched his jaw and ground out, “You have. A very beautiful smile.”

“Oh,” Clark said weakly. Of all the bombshells Bruce had dropped in the past couple of minutes, that was the one that set his own pulse racing.

Geez, he’d really misread things this time around.

“So, uh. Does that mean you’re interested in me?” he asked lamely.

Bruce rolled his eyes. “If you still need it spelled out for you, then yes. I’m interested in you. But don’t worry, I’m not expecting anything to come of it. I have no desire to compromise our working relationship.”

Despite his detached tone, there was a subtle tension in the line of his shoulders. Once, Clark would no doubt have missed what that really meant. But now…

He cleared his throat. “I see. But just to clarify: you wouldn’t be averse if something did come of it. Right?”

His tone was undeniably hopeful, which he was pretty sure Bruce would pick up on. Sure enough, Bruce sucked in a breath. There was a subtle uptick in his heartrate again – not fear, but anticipation.

“Clark,” he said lowly. Dangerously. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Bathump. Bathump. Bathump, went his heart.

“I might be,” Clark said. “Come over here and find out.”

His nerves made it come out somewhere halfway between a question and an invitation, but Bruce didn’t seem to mind the less-than-suave delivery. At least, judging by his response. Because within seconds, Bruce had crossed the short expanse of the bathroom, and Clark was being kissed within an inch of his life.

He let out a muffled noise of surprise, even as his arms settled around Bruce’s waist. He was the one who’d invited this, but he already felt like he was playing catch-up to Bruce. But then, a lot had changed for him very quickly. Five minutes ago he’d been convinced that Bruce all but hated him. Now the same man was doing his very best to see if he could suck Clark’s brain out through his tongue. And, most impressively, it seemed to be working.

It was a lot to process.

Thankfully, it wasn’t long before Clark’s brain got with the program the rest of his body was already running. Bruce, to no-one’s surprise, was an incredible kisser. And god, his lips were even softer than they looked and his mouth was wet and eager and his hands were everywhere, running down his back and up his chest, tracing his biceps, pushing through his hair. And then those hands were sliding down to his ass and squeezing and Clark couldn’t help but let out a fractured moan, head tipping back.

Bruce was moaning as well, a rough, sharp thing. “Fuck. Your ass,” he hissed, almost angrily. “How can you look like that and be so nice. It’s ridiculous.”

“I’m sorry?” Clark said uncertainly, or maybe it should have been ‘thank you’, but it was hard to think straight because Bruce was attacking Clark’s neck with biting kisses and oh, wow, had it only been a couple of minutes since Bruce had started kissing him? Clark felt almost light-headed.

He stumbled back, a little weak-kneed. Bruce followed him seamlessly, apparently determined to put a hickey on Clark’s invulnerable skin. “Bruce,” he gasped, one hand coming up to clutch at his shoulder, the other gripping the edge of the sink. “I can’t. Can we. Stall?”

He felt a little too dizzy for coherence when Bruce was doing that thing with his tongue. So sue him. Bruce seemed to understand what he meant anyway, because Clark was being tugged away from the sinks and guided into one of the stalls. As soon as he sat on the closed lid of the toilet, Bruce was on him again, straddling his lap and kissing him, open-mouthed and messy. Clark melted against him, hands sliding up beneath his cape to skate along the broad expanse of his back.

Even Bruce had to breathe sometime, though. He pulled back after another long, delicious minute, breathing hard. Looking down at Clark with blown pupils and kiss-swollen lips and color high on his cheeks.

Clark had never seen him look so disheveled. He couldn’t look away.

“I’m not moving too fast, am I?” Bruce asked softly.

“Maybe a little, objectively speaking,” Clark said. “But I think I’m, uh. More than okay with it.”

“Good,” Bruce said firmly. His eyes dragged over Clark’s body hungrily. “Sorry for being so…aggressive. I was impatient after today.” His voice dropped to a growl as he added, “You in that suit without a cape should constitute a war crime.”

Clark swallowed thickly. God, how had he ever thought this man was afraid of him? If anything, Clark was the one feeling a little scared right now with those oh-so-intense eyes on him – albeit scared in a very, very good way. Being the object of Batman’s undivided attention was a heady feeling.

Inspired by Bruce’s unexpected candor, he decided to be bold. Voice low, he said, “Wait till you see me without the suit on.”

Bruce’s eyes fluttered closed. “Fuck.”

He untangled himself from Clark and stood up. For a brief, dismayed moment, Clark thought that he must have messed up somehow. But then he saw that Bruce was taking off his suit, and his pulse started pounding anew as he watched the layers of armor peel away to reveal miles of pale, scarred skin dusted with dark hair and oh, wow, he really was just that muscular under there, huh? Stomach and chest and shoulders and arms corded with thick muscle, no deception in his strength. Clark could probably stare at him all day and not get bored.

“Hurry up and strip,” Bruce told him. Clark blinked dazedly. Right. Getting naked. He should definitely do that. When he’d obligingly tugged off the top half of his suit, Bruce added, almost casually if not for the thundering of his heart and the heat in his eyes: “I want to ride you. Would you like that?”

Clark felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

“Yes. Yup. Works for me,” he managed, dropping half of his suit on the ground distractedly. Before he could do much more than tug his suit pants below his hips, Bruce was settling onto his lap again – this time gloriously naked, huge, solid thighs straddling his own. And at their apex was Bruce’s cock, red and wet and curving towards his stomach, just barely brushing against Clark’s own. Clark was aware he was staring again, but he couldn’t make himself stop.

At least this time, Bruce was staring too. “I knew it,” he muttered under his breath, eyes fixed on Clark’s cock. But before Clark had a chance to ask what he meant by that, a slick hand – Bruce’s hand – was closing around him.

“Oh my god,” Clark said on a sound that definitely wasn’t a whine. When had Bruce even had time to slick up his hand? Where did he even get lube from? Did he just carry it around with him at all times? But Clark couldn’t quite bring himself to care because then Bruce was taking Clark's right hand and slicking up three of his fingers and guiding it behind himself and, quite frankly, Clark was a hell of a lot more interested in the sound Bruce made when he slid that first finger inside him than he was in thinking about logistics.

“Fuck, that’s so good,” Bruce groaned breathlessly, pressing back against the firm pressure of Clark’s hand. “Your fingers are so thick. Give me another.”

Clark’s ignored the way his aching cock throbbed between his legs and did as he was told, working his middle finger in along with his index. Like this, Bruce felt even hotter and tighter around him, but his fingers still slipped in so, so easily.

“Like that?” he murmured.

“Just like that. But I need more,” Bruce breathed. He brought his hands up to cup Clark’s jaw with strong, calloused fingers. “Not so innocent now, are you? Want to wreck you. Want you to wreck me.”

Clark’s mouth was very, very dry. God, but Bruce had a filthy mouth. He was sure the mixture of arousal and embarrassment had turned him an unattractive shade of red by now. “Bruce,” he said pointlessly instead of something meaningful, but that was to be expected since he seemed to have forgotten most of the words that weren’t Bruce’s name. 

Bruce was still spewing filth, even as he rocked back against Clark’s touch with a low growl of a moan. “Now you know what it does to me, just being near you. God, Clark, I’ve wanted this for so long. Wanted you to—” He sucked in a sharp breath and shivered. “To…bend me over and just… take me—”

Clark had to shut him up with a kiss there, because if Bruce kept going like this there was a non-zero chance Clark would just shoot all over his stomach before they actually got anywhere, and he was pretty sure that wasn’t what either of them wanted. Bruce didn’t seem to mind the interruption, huffing a soft laugh into Clark’s mouth and tangling his fingers in his hair. Clark was convinced now that Bruce had been trying to rile him up on purpose. But hell, he wasn’t about to complain. When he slipped in a third finger, Bruce groaned sweetly and ground his cock against Clark’s own, leaving a wet smear of precome on both of their stomachs.

Clark couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this hard.

Wordlessly, Bruce reached behind himself and pulled Clark’s fingers out by his wrist. His solid weight left Clark’s thighs and he positioned himself over him. And then Clark’s cock was being engulfed by a slick, tight heat.

If he hadn’t hazily remembered that they were in a bathroom on the Watchtower, he might have shouted. Instead he gripped Bruce’s hips and choked out, “Fuck, Bruce, you feel so…so tight. Aren’t you too tight?”

“Don’t care,” Bruce said breathlessly, working his hips relentlessly further down. “Want it to burn.”

“Christ,” Clark said emphatically. When his hands tightened on Bruce’s hips, Bruce let out a soft gasp, cock jerking against his stomach. “Christ,” he said again.

“Fuck,” Bruce breathed. Finally, he managed to slide all the way down so that his hips were flush once more with Clark’s. And there he stayed, breathing hard, thighs trembling.

Clark shut his eyes and tried very, very hard not to move. He rubbed a soothing thumb on the base of Bruce’s spine. “You good?”

Bruce shivered. “Yes. Just…god, you’re huge. Need a moment.”

“Alright. Take as long as you need,” Clark said with an encouraging smile. Bruce buried his face in Clark’s neck and muttered something about Clark being a boy scout and “too fucking nice”, and Clark chuckled and stayed carefully still beneath him. Tried not to think about the glorious pressure around his cock. Summoned a saintly patience he hadn’t known he was even capable of.

And then eventually, Bruce took a breath and said, “Okay. Okay.” And then he started to move.

Perhaps he should have expected Bruce to be intense even in this. Rather than building up from a slow grind, Bruce lifted himself using Clark’s shoulders as leverage and dropped his hips in rough, sharp thrusts, quick and dirty and perfect. Head tipping back with a desperately groaned, “Clark,” when he finally found the angle he wanted. And lord, after only a few minutes of that, of feeling every drag over his cock like a lightning flash of pleasure up his spine, Clark was just as desperate.

“Bruce,” he echoed breathlessly. His hands slid lower, fingers digging into the soft, flexing muscle where ass met thigh. Almost without conscious intent, he tightened his grip and lifted him just like that, so that he could slide Bruce’s body up and down on his cock.

The reaction was immediate. Bruce full-body shuddered, letting out a agonized groan as his cock jerked between their stomachs. “Oh fuck,” he rasped. “Clark, that’s…fuck.”

"Yeah?" he breathed. It was so, so good like this. Bruce was a glorious pressure around him, slippery with lube and Clark’s own precome, clenching around him with every thrust. “Having fun?”

Bruce just moaned wordlessly in response. It felt like kind of an unbelievable achievement to render Batman, of all people, speechless. He experimented with the angle until he found the one that punched a soft whine out of him on every thrust and stuck to it, until Bruce couldn’t do much more than moan and take what Clark was giving him. His hands scrabbled at Clark’s shoulders, no longer trying to help move himself but just hanging on for the ride. Encouraged, Clark shifted his grip so he could lift Bruce one-handed and wrap the other around his cock.

Bruce moaned again, head dropping forward to tip against Clark’s shoulder. “Close,” he slurred. “Fuck, so good. So hot. You’re so— Can’t— Oh god, Clark, Clark, can’t—”

A few more pulls of his cock and he tensed all over, shuddering one final time, spurting hot all over Clark’s belly with a truly obscene moan, low and guttural like it was ripped from his chest. Clamping around Clark’s cock as his orgasm took him by force, such a tight, perfect heat to fuck into. It only took a few more thrusts before Clark was coming himself, quite possibly harder than he’d ever come before in life, all his enhanced senses reduced to blank and overwhelming pleasure. It took him several seconds to realize that was his voice he could hear, wrecked and chanting Bruce’s name.

They both took a moment to catch their breath in the slumped and sweaty aftermath. Or, well, Bruce did. Clark didn’t really sweat and didn’t really need to breathe, in general. But after that, he still definitely needed just. A minute.

Eventually, Bruce pushed himself upright so Clark could see his face. “Christ,” he said.

Clark nodded dazedly. “Yup,” he agreed. “We’re doing that again, right? At some point?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Good. And if it wasn’t clear, I’m definitely interested in you too, Bruce. Extremely and unreasonably so, as you put it.” He paused, chewing his lip. “And, uh. I realize that fucking you in a bathroom at our place of work might have sent kind of the wrong message, but it’s the whole package I’m interested in, not just this. So if that’s something you’d be interested in, too…”

Clark trailed off awkwardly. Bruce regarded him carefully, considering. “You want us to date,” he said.

He kind of wished Bruce didn’t let all the inflection drain from his voice when he said these kinds of things. It made him very difficult to read. “I…I would, yes.”

“Okay.”

Clark looked at him with surprise. Whatever answer he’d expected, it hadn’t been such an easy agreement. But Bruce didn’t seem to be pulling his leg. Bruce was returning his wide-eyed gaze with that familiar, even stare of his.

“Really?” he asked hopefully. “That's a yes?”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “Yes, Clark. That’s a yes.” He tipped his head to the side and added wryly, “We already have a head start. I think our first date went pretty well, don't you?”

If Bruce wasn’t still sitting on him, Clark was pretty sure he’d floating.

Moment apparently over, Bruce finally lifted himself up. Clark’s softening cock slipped out of him with an obscene squelch that would have made Clark blush if he hadn't still been pink already from coming his proverbial brains out. Bruce, on the other hand, already looked almost his usual self, apart from the sweaty mess of his hair and the blooming bruises on his hips and upper thighs and the come streaking his belly. But his expression was nearly as calm and collected as ever.

It was impressive, to be honest. Clark was sure he still looked wrecked.

Bruce turned around to pick up the discarded pieces of his armor from the floor. Clark watched with a mixture of fascination and guilt as his come leaked out of Bruce’s ass. “Sorry,” he said apologetically. “We probably should have used a condom. Now you’ve got to walk out of here like that.”

Bruce shrugged. “No, that’s alright. It’s better this way. I like that you left me messy.”

God. Fuck. The man was shameless.

“Oh my god Bruce, you can’t just…say things like that,” Clark said, genuinely scandalized even as his cock gave a tired twitch. “Were you just. Like this? This whole time?”

“Yes. The whole time,” Bruce confirmed easily. He wasn’t smiling, but he still looked amused. “You might have found out sooner if you hadn’t so wildly misinterpreted things, boy scout.”

He'd already had the thought earlier but: “I can’t believe I ever thought you were afraid of me,” Clark grumbled to himself and reached down to pick up the top half of his suit.

“My thoughts exactly. Now hurry up and get dressed so we can get out of here.” He was already pulling on the bottom half of his suit. “If you’re amenable, I think I’d like our second date to be in about 15 minutes and someplace with a shower. I’ve always wanted someone to fuck me while holding me up against a wall. Maybe we could try that this time.”

Clark’s cock gave another tired twitch. Good lord, Bruce was going to be the death of him.

“Sounds good,” he managed eventually. They both cleaned themselves as best they could with toilet paper and pulled on the rest of their clothes. When they were both decent, he added nervously, “Although, uh. Could we also have a date date at some point? You know, where we go out somewhere. Maybe have dinner, even. Or just hang out somewhere together, someplace a little more atmospheric than a bathroom on a satellite.”

Bruce watched him carefully as he talked. And slowly, his lips stretched into a smile - a real smile, rare enough that Clark had never seen it on him before.

“Sure,” he said softly, almost fond. “That can be our third date.”

Clark beamed.

“Great! I already can’t wait.” He stood and followed Bruce out of the stall, feeling a little giddy. “I guess we should get on with date number two then. Up against a wall, was it?”

“Yes. If it’s not too much trouble,” Bruce said without inflection. But clear as day, Clark could hear his pulse picking up again. Bathump. Bathump. Bathump.

Hearing that now, Clark felt nothing but excitement.

“Oh, I think that can be arranged,” Clark said with a grin. “Lead the way.”