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On some level, Clark is aware that Bruce Wayne is transgender. There wasn’t a journalist in the country who could have missed the scandal of his return to the world—six years older with a new face and a new name that rapidly became synonymous with the most coveted attendee at my high society event. The more conservative media outlets could hardly keep up with the scandal, in those early days of Bruce’s return—there was barely enough time between the slew of paparazzi images of Bruce caught in various compromising positions with partners of various genders to write articles hand-wringing about chromosomes and children and bodily mutilations. Bruce was hardly one to bring it up, and certainly never in the context of his League duties, but it certainly wasn’t a secret.
All this to say: Clark is abstractly aware that Bruce is trans, but there are other, more interesting things about the man beneath the cowl that he likes to think about—his intelligence, his determination and dedication, his quiet selflessness, his unwavering leadership. A good man in the shadows of Gotham, nevermind how that man came to be. Clark might even pride himself, a little, on not caring; prides himself on principle for always striving to be a good friend and a respectful teammate. He is abstractly aware that Bruce is trans, but it’s not something he thinks about much, if ever.
Until now.
Like many things, it starts with an alien invasion.
It’s not a difficult battle, all things considered. The aliens in question spill out of the mothership in a large swarm, but their acid-based weapons are laughably ineffective against the League, only eating away at inorganic materials. Bad news for the skyscrapers below them, and half the League gets tied up in citizen evacuation, but all in all it’s quick work to dispatch and drive away the attackers. Clark even makes it out with most of his suit intact, though the same cannot be said for all of his teammates.
Bruce, for instance.
Clark doesn’t really take notice of it until they’re back at the Watchtower. Most of the League has scampered already, save Bruce who's standing at a workstation, no doubt writing up an excessively thorough report of the day's happenings. Clark himself is about to break off in the direction of the locker rooms—he could fly straight home, but the showers here are so much nicer than the one in his rinky-dink apartment—when he finally gets a good look at the sorry state of the Batsuit.
The acid has done a phenomenal job—assuming its purpose was to share the sight of Bruce’s abs with the world. What's left of the suit doesn't leave much to the imagination. The cowl has mostly survived, but the rest of the black kevlar and leather outfit has not been dealt with so generously. The black cape has been reduced to tatters, and most of the left side of the suit has been burned away, revealing an impressively defined arm and Bruce’s scarred chest, the leftover material just barely clinging to the cut of Bruce’s hip before once again revealing all-too-much of a thick, muscled thigh.
Clark catches himself drinking in, somewhat greedily, the map of Bruce’s scars. It's oddly intimate. He’s never really seen Bruce in less than the undersuit, if you discount the slightly racier images of Bruce that float around online. Even then, now that Clark is thinking about it, he never appears fully shirtless, preferring provocatively unbuttoned shirts and excessively low V-necks even in his most risqué magazine appearances. It makes sense; there’s only so much makeup can do to cover up the concerning amount of angry stab-marks between Bruce's left flank and shoulder alone, not to mention the vicious slash down his upper arm which Clark vaguely remembers as a gift from the last alien invasion and its army of poison-taloned creatures, or the—
—or the massive, scarred rectangle of flesh that seems to have been carved away from Bruce's left forearm?
Clark stares at the wound, feeling a little nauseous. It looks healed, older than a lot of Bruce’s other marks. What makes Clark’s stomach roil is that it’s not a battle scar; it’s too even, too intentional to have happened in the heat of a fight. It looks like torture. Clark racks his brain—when was Bruce last kidnapped? There was that incident this year, but that would have been too recent. Two years ago? But Bruce had been laughing when Nightwing and Superman had burst in to dispatch his uncoordinated group of attackers; he’d hardly seemed in pain. Unless—
“Are you done looking?”
Clark startles guiltily, ripping his eyes away from the large scar. He meets Bruce's eye, shame-faced, his mouth stuttering around an excuse that doesn't seem to want to come out.
“I'm so sorry—I didn't mean—”
Bruce's face does something complicated.
“Hm.”
“I just—” Clark has no idea what he just even as he starts saying it. “It’s none of my business.”
“But you're curious.”
“You're my friend,” says Clark, not sure that it answers anything. “It looks like it was serious.”
Bruce lets out a near-inaudible huff, which Clark knows now to be a laugh.
“It was serious alright,” he says. “Clark, it’s from the sex reassignment surgery.”
“On your arm?” Clark asks without thinking, his brain still stuck on the horrifying scenarios he was picturing. Then, mortified, realizing what Bruce is saying, he tries to backtrack: “I mean—thank you for telling me. I know you don’t—it means a lot. You don't have to answer—”
“They have to take the tissue from somewhere,” Bruce says with that same quiet huff.
Clark stares at him, at a loss for words. He's not entirely confident that he’s not dreaming right now—how else can he explain a world in which he’s casually talking to Bruce, to Batman, about the man’s junk? More importantly, did he understand right that Bruce’s forearm became his…
Bruce Wayne’s dick is kind of ruining his life.
It's a week later and he's trying not to think about it, really, he is. He doesn't know why it's so hard to stop.
Clark likes Bruce, respects him, admires him. He's always known that Bruce was a beautiful man, and maybe he’s noticed a particularly attractive editorial shoot here and there, but he’s never had cause to think about him in an explicitly sexual light before. Now that he does, it's like the floodgates have broken open. He feels warm when the latest paparazzi photo of Bruce Wayne looking debauched with some heiress comes across his timeline; he ends up honest-to-God burning a hole into his phone (his work phone, no less, that's going to be a fun one to explain to the guys in IT procurement) staring at the place where she's straddling Bruce's lap, wondering what Bruce’s dick feels like under her ass…
His mouth goes dry as he watches Bruce train in the Watchtower gym, stripped of the kevlar armour, his undersuit leaving nothing to the imagination, and suddenly Clark is shattering the travel mug his mom gave him for his birthday last year from how hard he clenches his fist to prevent himself from doing something stupid like marching in there and begging Bruce to let him mouth at his bulge through the stupid undersuit, to let Clark make him cum like that…
His blood all but leaves his brain on their next off-world mission when a nearly naked and thoroughly tied up Batman (God, these aliens really are out to torture Clark and Clark alone) growls—do what I say, Kal—at him while he's gaping at the sight of Bruce in nothing but his cowl and a particularly revealing example of the local fashion, a garment being comprised mostly of flimsy gossamer-like strips that just barely cover Bruce's modesty in a way that makes him look like the most delicious present just waiting to be unwrapped. It's only the fact of being Superman that saves Clark from a shattered skull when he trips over his own feet and most of the way down a cliff face, his mind suddenly wholly preoccupied with other scenarios in which Bruce might be ordering him around while mostly undressed.
Bruce dick is so ruining his life.
The problem with this new fixation is that Clark has no idea what it looks like. He just can’t picture how that big scar on Bruce’s forearm gets turned into…
He’s losing sleep over it. Well—he’s losing sleep jerking himself raw every night to the thought of frotting his cock against Bruce’s, and then lying there shamefully covered in his own cum while cursing himself out as the worst friend in the world. And actually, is it worse that he’s getting off to his best friend, or that he’s mis-imagining said friend’s dick as something it isn’t when he does? He’s not sure, but the mind-blowing, toe-curling orgasms almost make the dirty, despicable feeling he’s left with worth it.
It takes him a week and a half of this nightly torment—he’s never laundered his sheets so much in his life—to realize that the internet probably has an answer to his latest burning question. Before long, he finds himself going down a rather enlightening research hole.
Wikipedia is helpful, and the medical diagrams and surgery pictures are certainly interesting, but it’s only when Clark stumbles on a specific online forum that the itch of his curiosity is finally scratched. Clark feels weird about it for all of two minutes—look, it is a little odd to casually look at strangers’ genitals online, doubly so when you’re doing it to better picture your best friend’s dick—before his logical brain takes a backseat to the inquisitive (and guiltily horny) part of his mind.
It's a revelation. He wasn’t sure what to picture, to be honest—the surgical pictures, while informative, were rather more gory than dicks tended to look, and his imagination wasn’t quite up to the task of bridging that gap. But the healed results…
Well, they’re kind of just dicks.
A bunch of new medical jargon floats around on his screen, but at the end of the day, it’s not much different from what Clark is working with.
Unfortunately, this knowledge only makes the fantasies harder to deal with. With this new frame of reference, the fantasies become much more detailed, and much harder to control. Bruce walks into a room, and Clark is helpless to do anything but picture what it feels like to stroke his cock, whether the scar would feel smooth under his hand, how it would feel filling his ass. He forgets that he spends time around literal mind-readers until one mortifying League meeting in which he mostly loses track of reality thinking about keeping Bruce hard and making him cum again and again until he cries, wondering if Bruce leaks pre-cum—those anonymous forums really were a treasure trove of information. He’s adjusting the tablet in his hands to try and hide his hard-on when he makes eye-contact with J’onn across the table—and promptly blanches at the pained grimace the Martian is aiming in his direction.
Bruce’s dick is ruining his life.
For all that Clark is a decently good liar—has to be, between the investigative journalism and the Superman of it all—he’s never been able to hide how he feels. Bruce is kind enough not to say anything at first, but when a month passes of Clark constantly spacing out, going red, and running away, even he has to confront it.
He has the kindness not to do it at the Watchtower. Instead, Clark is laying in bed one night, already working himself up over the unfairness that is Bruce Wayne’s latest publicity stunt in the form of a tantalizing underwear shoot—bare legs, tight trunks, and an open collared shirt that reveals just enough chest to be indecent, God, what Clark wouldn’t give to bend him over the big desk in his penthouse office—when Bruce calls. Not his phone, or his League communicator; just his name, half-whispered, carried to him from Gotham with the knowledge that Clark would be listening for it. He doesn’t sound like there’s an emergency but Clark reacts like it anyways, dressing at superspeed and shooting off towards Gotham faster than a speeding bullet. He’s there within seconds, touching down on the Manor’s front steps. Bruce is already waiting for him, framed by the imposing front doors, watching him without a word.
“Is everything okay?” Clark asks after a few beats of silence.
Bruce cocks his head towards the Manor’s interior, sidestepping the question.
“Let’s talk in the study.”
Clark breaks without any prompting.
All Bruce has to do is sit down across the imposing oak desk and raise one inquisitive eyebrow at him, and Clark starts word-vomiting his confession out faster than he can think it up.
“I should come clean—I shouldn’t have done it at all actually—I never wanted to, to abuse your trust or make things weird but—and now it's affecting our relationship and the League, or at least J'onn, I'll never be able to look him in the eye again, and—”
“Breathe,” Bruce says impassively. Clark sucks in a useless gulp of oxygen. “What shouldn’t you have done?”
Clark buries his face in his hands, unable to look at Bruce while he says this.
“Remember a few weeks ago when I saw your…scar, and you explained what it was?” he asks into his palms. Bruce hums his agreement. “I looked up photos of other guys with the procedure so I could know. And stop feeling guilty about picturing the wrong thing when I pictured you while—while.”
The silence that follows his statement is only broken by the sound of Bruce’s heart stuttering in surprise.
Clark tries his level best to remove his face from his hands and meet Bruce’s eyes; he manages to raise his head, but the second he catches Bruce’s steely blue stare, he flinches away. He picks an interesting knot in the desk’s wood to stare at instead.
“Interesting.” Bruce’s voice is dry. “You’re sorry that you did research so that you could accurately picture my penis.”
“Um—” Clark feels his face flush. “I—yes.”
“While masturbating.”
Clark’s gut twists in humiliation. Of course Bruce wouldn't have any qualms about saying it so plainly. Clark keeps his eyes glued to the oak desk, fearing the expression they would find on Bruce’s face.
“…yes.”
Is the desk even oak? Surely someone like Bruce Wayne would spring for a more exotic wood—
“Clark, look at me.”
“I don’t really want to right now.”
“Kal.”
Clark is helpless to obey.
He meets Bruce's eyes miserably, finding Bruce's usual inscrutable expression before him.
“And?” Bruce asks.
“And—I’m sorry?” Clark tries.
Bruce quirks his eyebrow, his mouth flat.
“That's all?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn't have done it. I don't really know what else to say.”
“You're not going to tell me what you thought?” Bruce asks.
Clark blinks at him.
“I—what?”
Bruce rolls his eyes.
“What did you think, Clark?” He leans back in his chair, and Clark can’t help but notice the way his pristine white dress shirt strains across his chest. “You went to all that trouble, surely you have an opinion of what you saw.”
“Bruce…” Despite himself, Clark feels a slow heat pool in his gut. He wets his lips, catching how Bruce’s eyes drop to his mouth with an intensity in his gaze that makes Clark feel a bit dizzy. “I don’t know what’s happening.”
“I’m offering a more hands-on kind of research,” Bruce says casually. A sly smile creeps onto his face. “If that’s what you want.”
The gears in Clark’s brain are grinding to a screeching half, but he manages to nod, so aggressively he thinks his head might fall off. His slacks are, unsurprisingly, straining against his cock, which has taken a distinct interest in the current turn of events.
“Bruce—please, I—Can I?”
“What do you need, Clark?”
“I want—can I see it?”
Bruce stands up in one fluid motion. He looks perfectly composed, as opposed to Clark’s devastated dishevelment.
“Come on then,” Bruce says. His voice is flat, but there’s a devilish quirk at the corner of his lips. “Unless you’d rather I take care of it on my own.”
Clark is pretty sure he shatters a couple windows with how fast he speeds them into Bruce’s bed.
If Clark thought that those anonymous photos online were a revelation, then a naked Bruce might be heaven itself. Clark had always known that he was powerfully built—if he could keep up with the rest of the Justice League without powers, then there had to be more under the suit than just vanity muscles. Bruce’s arms are folded carelessly under his head, his upper body propped up on silk-covered pillows, the muscles of his shoulders bunching in a way that Clark finds unfairly pornographic. He’s littered with Batman’s scars, jagged lines running along pale skin, some still red and angry, some barely visible silver lines. Clark absently notes the large rectangular scar on his arm again, but most of his attention is focused elsewhere, at the junction between Bruce’s powerful thighs.
His dick is soft, nestled in a thatch of dark curls. The head is flushed, the shaft veined—Clark’s brain faintly conjures up the words “medical tattooing” from his research hole—and it’s all Clark can do to not whimper at the sight.
“You like it?” Bruce asks in that dry, amused voice.
It’s a rhetorical question; with the way Clark’s own dick is straining against his fly, “like” is probably an understatement for his feelings on the matter.
Bruce drags a hand down his chest to cup his balls.
“Want to see it hard?”
Clark does whimper then. Unconsciously, he shuffles closer to the bed, until his knees hit the edge of the mattress, not quite daring to breach the last barrier and join Bruce on the sheets. Bruce is gently massaging his balls—his cock starts to plump up under Clark’s eyes. Bruce spreads his legs to give Clark a better view, letting him just barely glimpse the tight furl of his hole. Clark watches as Bruce moves to casually stroke his hard cock and faintly thinks to himself that he wants to tongue the pink scar running up the underside of his shaft.
“Bruce…” he chokes. He can fly through the vacuum of space without difficulty, but right now he feels like all the air’s been sucked out of his lungs. “Please, let me—”
Bruce just hums, the sound low in the back of his throat, stroking his length again with a nonchalance that Clark would be offended by, if there was any blood left in his brain to think about it.
“Use your words, Clark,” he says, his dark eyes fixed on Clark, his long fingers curling around the pink head of his cock.
Words. Clark can do that.
“I wanna blow you,” he blurts out. “Please, Bruce.”
Bruce’s eyes darken.
“Whatever you need, Clark.”
Clark finally kneels on to the bed. He shuffles closer to Bruce, finally close enough to touch—Bruce gasps quietly when Clark’s hands land on his thighs, parting them even further, running along the thick, solid muscle shifting under the skin. Clark doesn’t give him enough time to get used to it, focused entirely on the object of his weeks-long obsession.
Bruce’s cock fits in his mouth like it was made to be there. Clark barely notices Bruce’s groan or the way he bucks against Clark’s iron grip on his hips. No, he can’t think of anything beyond the way Bruce’s cock fills his mouth. It’s everything he dreamed—better, even. His tongue traces the ridge of Bruce’s cockhead, feels the firmness of the length, and suddenly he’s never been more grateful for not having a gag reflex, because he’s never needed anything more than he needs to take Bruce’s cock all the way.
He's vaguely aware that he’s moaning as he fucks his throat down onto that perfectly thick length. He instinctively tries to swallow when he feels Bruce bump the back of his throat, instead just managing to massage the cock in his mouth while he drools around it. He feels sloppy, dirty, so desperate for it that he’s grinding his still-clothed cock into the mattress while he tastes Bruce on his tongue. Clark loses all track of time, sliding his lips over the soft skin of Bruce’s cock, one of his hands coming up to fondle Bruce’s balls, his fingers stroking further back over his taint until they reach his hole, rubbing his index over it in a firm, gentle circle that has Bruce thrusting his cock deeper in his throat. He feels Bruce’s hands in his hair, feels his thighs tense, hears the way his usually so controlled voice breaks over Clark's name—
And Clark cums harder than he ever has in his life, stars in his eyes, his mouth full of Bruce’s cock, spilling in his pants like a teenager, better than any dream he’s ever dreamed.
Clark comes back to himself with a faint sense of embarrassment over his needy display. He eases himself off of Bruce's dick with a flush, chancing a glance up to find the man watching him with wide eyes and blown pupils.
“You came,” Bruce says, his tone unidentifiable.
“I’m sorry,” Clark answers automatically. He sits back on his haunches. God, he didn’t even try to make it good for Bruce, should’ve taken his time instead of falling on the man like that. “Can I—Can I get you?”
“You’re sorry.” Bruce mutters incredulously. “Clark, you nutcase, do you have any idea what you looked like? Moaning like a slut around my dick, cumming while you blow me. You got me.”
The embarrassment that had started to recede floods back in full force, this time accompanied by a hearty dose of arousal. Clark’s brain is full of static and the echo of Bruce’s tongue curling around the word slut. He’s still hard in his pants, a fact that Bruce seems to be realizing as well.
“You know,” Bruce starts matter of factly, a glint in his eye, “I don’t have a refractory period either.”
Yeah, Bruce Wayne’s dick is ruining his life.