What Bruce doesn't do is show softness. When they're at the watchtower he’s not sneaking glances at him with slightly flushed cheeks like Clark is. So when he’s beneath him with Clark's name on his lips naked, desperate and writhing, something so vulnerable and beautiful that it takes every ounce of inhuman strength not to make a mess of him. He wants to make Bruce feel good, wants to make him continue making those noises, and whimpers, and pleas.
He should be with someone else. Someone that will pull him in instead of chase him away. He should be with someone else but he wants it to be Bruce because what is super strength worth if he can’t knock down these walls he’s erected? He always asks himself if it’s selfish.
Overwhelmed by the feel of Bruce's heat around him he whispers a soft “You’re mine,” his hips are stuttering, legs shaking and he forces Bruce to look at him, eyes boring into him. Too overcome by the warmth in his chest he doesn't think about the slip, how honest he just was. How much he wants those words to be true.
When he looks into the fire burning in his gaze he understands why Icarus soared towards the sun. He could feel his own wings melting, spiraling towards the ocean blue in the eyes that would break him apart. If Ovid wrote this it would be less heartbreaking.
That reporter from The Daily Planet is a disease. One permeating every single cell of his body. One that, so far, feels positively incurable.
“Mr. Wayne.”
It could be anyone, calling Bruce’s name. He’s heard it constantly at the gala tonight, like a stay at home mother hearing “mom.” It’s starting to grate.
“Bruce.” He replies, gruff. “Call me Bruce,” he says, turning around.
The body attached to the voice immediately quells any residual feelings of annoyance, but instead brings about the type of feeling that Bruce usually tries to ignore.
The reporter (according to the Daily Planet badge clipped to his breast pocket, directly in Bruce’s eyeline) nervously pushes his glasses up his nose, clearing his throat. There’s ink stains on his thick fingers, and Bruce wonders distantly if they’d smudge off with sweat.
When he doesn’t open his mouth again, Bruce sighs. He’s got to get better at dodging the press.
“..Yes?”
There’s a pad being pulled from the inner pocket of the reporter’s suit jacket, his other hand outstretched. “I’m Clark Kent, a reporter at the—,”
“Yes, Mr. Kent, I can see that.” He interrupts. “What’s your assignment about this time? My supposed ‘sexual’ escapades? My support for Gordon as Police Commissioner? Rumors that I’m a hermit?”
“..Err, no, Mr. Wayne.”
He lets the silence sit, almost like he wants Bruce to reflect on his tone.
“I was hoping to discuss your philanthropy in regards to Gotham’s orphaned children.” It’s then that he clicks his pen, his gaze steeled behind the thick lenses of his off-kilter glasses.
This is surprising, a complete diversion from the first read Bruce had gathered from him. His body language, his clothing, his demeanor—none of it says no-nonsense journalist.
Yet there he was: not letting Bruce frustrate him to the point that he turns tail and leaves.
And this, this revelation, only furthers the feeling that he’d been trying to quell down earlier.
“Then let’s discuss. Ask your questions.”
His brusk tone garners a laugh from Kent—one that’s deep, warm, and happy. In polite society, nobody laughs because they’re happy.
Bruce’s cock twitches in his expensive boxers, under his even more expensive suit pants, and his cheeks flush.
“They’ve got you wrong, don’t they? You’re focused business over pleasure, clearly. Don’t you know that all work and no play’ll make you dull?” Clark’s overfamiliar, teasing words are punctuated with a wide grin, and it’s all Bruce can do, really, not to return it.
This proves worse, for Bruce. No one talks to him like this anymore. No one ever thinks they can, like he’ll bite off someone’s head for making a joke. It’s lonely, being feared.
“I’ve been told, yes,” Bruce deadpans. He can feel his eyes crinkling when a smile cracks over his face (involuntarily) and Clark’s shoulders visibly drop from where they were sitting at his ears. “Shall we find somewhere quieter, for your interview?”
“I’d hate to take you away from the party like that,” Clark replies, looking rather nervous again. “We can always arrange for another time, or a phone call.”
“Nonsense.” Bruce says. “Follow me.”
Gray light filters through the gauzy curtains pulled over the windows of the master bedroom, casting an illusory quality to the scene playing out in the middle of the room, on the bed.
Clark’s long since over working to stretch Bruce out, his big hands now gripping into the back of Bruce’s thighs as he fucks into him.
“Please,” Bruce says, his voice sounding too much like a whine for his own taste. “Let me, fuck, let me touch myself?”
“You remember what I said, Bruce.”
Bruce can’t help the way his eyes roll, nor can he help the way his cock jumps at Clark’s deep voice saying his name like that. Like a reproach.
“Mmphf,” Bruce hums, a sneer on his lips as he clenches his eyes shut, breathing heavily through his nose.
And there’s that laugh again. Clark seems to think his pleading is funny, his laughter indulgent as one of his ink-stained hands moves to fiddle with the head of Bruce’s cock.
“Aw, don’t be upset,” Clark says, the smile on his face evident in his voice.
A moan rips from his lips as Clark’s hand moves, his fingers tight around the tip, still teasing as his hips piston into Bruce’s.
“You’re horrible,” Bruce pants, sounding like it’s a revelation he’s just come to. But he appreciates it. Likes being told what to do, letting his brain shut off as he’s fucked senseless. No one ever lets him let go, like this. Not be in command.
“No one will believe you.” Clark replies, his glasses fogging up. Bruce can’t help but watch the way his abs ripple, the veins in his forearm flex as their bodies move together. “Maybe if you’re nice, I’ll suck your cock after.”
The thought of Clark’s pink lips and smart mouth wrapped around his length makes Bruce’s eyelashes flutter as his eyes roll back, finishing so strong his back bows off of the bed. He’s nodding, saying yes, begging please, unable to think of anything, really, as stars supernova behind his eyes.
“I’m barely even touching you, baby. Real easy, aren’t you?” Clark goads, leaning closer to Bruce as his hips work, chasing his own orgasm while Bruce clenches around him.
“Oh, that’s right,” he growls, eyes on the pleasured grimace on Bruce’s face below him. “Y’like it when I’m a little bit mean.”
Bruce’s come glistens in the hair on Clark’s stomach, a sight that feels altogether too satisfying to Bruce. His body is heavy, relaxed, Clark’s arms wrapped tightly around him as his eyes fall closed, a faceful of pectoral more than enough to pull him into sleep.
However, the only thing that greets Bruce Wayne when he wakes up with the sunrise is the subconscious grinding of his hips into the mattress, and his black boxers wet with come.
from the author: NO happy ending. so sorry. NOT!
this was my first time writing these two, and what these two, um, did, and i had so much fun. don't take me as a super serious whole hearted shipper, (c'mon this is an x reader fan fiction account,) but i really enjoyed being a dabbler.
lmk what you thought and if you want more, and if you enjoyed, PLEASE REBLOG!
"You just want her as a step-mom," Tim says immediately.
"Name one thing wrong with Wonder Woman," Jason shoots back.
"Um. The topic at hand is for Bruce. To set up with Bruce."
"So?"
"She has been with Steve Trevor?"
"They might break up."
"They've been together since like the 1940s."
"I do see your point."
2.
"Hey, what about that guy?" Duke asks Dick. "The one you told us about, the one that Bruce was super close to while training growing up. And then they had some major falling out. And then they made up, recently."
"Khoa?" Dick asks. "That might... fly. I mean, they're on good terms but they avoid each other? I'm not sure where he even is, actually."
With a room full of Batman trained kids, it's not hard to find out where he is: in bed with a man and two women.
"We have about fifteen seconds before his Ghostnet detects us," Oracle says. "I'm just gonna exit... I'm super uninterested in seeing this."
"So Ghostmaker is off the list?" Tim says.
"Yeah that's a safe bet, Timmy," Dick grimaces.
3.
"You know, why look too far?" Tim says. "What about Catwoman?"
The entire room stares at him.
"What?!"
"Timmy, you could learn a thing or two about life," Jason begins. "About passion that warms your nights but doesn't fill the hole in your heart, and the flame of-"
"I get it! Shut the fuck up!"
4.
"What about Mother?" Damian says seriously.
"I could get behind that," Jason says. "If I didn't think she was too good for him."
"Hey!" Dick says.
"What I mean," Jason says, "is that things went bad last time, and if we're looking to find someone for B to settle down with, for the good of both parties, it's just statistically better to avoid people he's been... volatile with. Ghostmaker falls in that category too, it's not just his preference to sleep around why we vetoed him."
"That's... surprisingly smart," Tim says, frowning. "I actually don't have anything to add to that. That was well said."
Someone clears their throat. Alfred.
"Is he back early?" Dick asks, tensing.
"No, you're safe to continue your matchmaking sessions," Alfred says. "His meetings at the Metropolis HQ at the company will run long. I only come bearing gifts." He places the platter of sandwiches and huge jug of orange juice on the table. "Although, it would be remiss of me not to say that perhaps the answer is right under your noses young sirs and misses." And he makes his exit.
"Well... that was super helpful and not cryptic at all," Steph grumbles.
5.
"Right under our noses... I think that means Alfred has a dog in the running!" Tim says.
"New betting pool going around?" a new voice asks. Everyone jumps straight out of their skins, but it's only Uncle Clark.
"Kinda," Dick says. "But not really. What's up?"
"Came by to drop off some confidential files. Bruce will be at the Watchtower another day," he says. "What's the bet? C'mon tell me."
"We think," Cass says slowly, with narrowed eyes, "Bruce is seeing someone."
"We do? Ouch, okay, we do!"
"Oh!" Clark says, voice a pitch louder. "Oh, um. Okay. I don't think I should participate."
"Wait a second," Dick says. "Do you know who it is?"
"I need to get back to the Watchtower," Clark says, backing off while the kids advance on him. "Bye kids! Make sure to swing by the next League Open Hall!" He hightails it out of the Cave pretty quickly.
"If Uncle Clark knows, and Alfred knows, and he mentioned Bruce's trip to Metropolis..." Tim says seriously. "I think it's a reporter... I think it's Vicki Vale, didn't she move to Metropolis a few months back? I have not seen one of her catty articles in a while-"
"No!" Cass interrupts. "You're stupid about this. I know who it is."
"Well?"Dick says.
"The culprit," Cass says, "just left the room."
+1.
"That's crazy, but I guess Superman as a step-dad would be pretty awesome too..."
"Jason... I'm starting to think your priorities coming into this weren't set straight."
"But it makes sense! The visits to Metropolis, us running into Uncle Clark on patrol, his increased visits to the Cave." Tim looks troubled. "I just can't believe Alfred figured out before me."
"It's not an achievement," Damian says slyly. "You're a crappy detective, Drake."
"Shut up! How do we confirm?"
"We don't have to," Cass says. "He'll confirm it if we ask."
"Are you sure?" Dick says. "If Bruce finds out about this campaign..."
Cass walks over to the Batcomputer and dials up a Justice League line.
"Batgirl," Bruce answers. "Everything okay back in Gotham?"
"Yes," Cass says. Tim is biting his nails, and Dick is watching with horror on his face. "How long have you been dating Superman?"
Silence on the line. For five seconds... seven... ten... Dick is about to jump in and apologize, when-
saw your rbed the soft prompts post so if you ever felt like writing anything with (17. fixing the other persons clothes absentmindedly or like tucking their hair behind their ear U KNOW WHAT I MEAN THAT SOFT STUFF) or (38. anything else that makes you SOFT) for superbat or anyone bc i love your writing :DDDD
I don't know what happened here, it got longer than what I was going for, oopsie. Thank you for prompting me something soft and sweet, dear anon! (if anyone else wants to send me a soft prompt (no promises but this was fun), here's the list)
--
“You’re going to mess that up if you keep picking at it,” Bruce says. His voice is gentle, but it makes Clark flinch anyway. Since when did Bruce get out of the shower? And how is he already dressed? It’s taken Clark like seventeen minutes just picking out his outfit. And that’s even after Bruce has already laid it out for him on the bed.
“Huh?” is Clark’s very intelligent reply.
“Your tie.” Bruce gestures towards the crumbled fabric in Clark’s hands.
“Oh,” Clark breathes and lets go. It’s all crooked but at least he didn’t pull it apart. Yet.
“You don’t have to be nervous,” Bruce tells him as he reaches out to fix the tie. He works efficiently at pulling it apart and tying a new knot. A fancy one, no doubt.
“I’m not,” Clark argues weakly. A blind man would be able to tell that he’s 90 percent nerves at this point. He might even be shaking a little bit.
“You’re a bad liar.”
“Well, you’re-” Clark starts and then sighs, because who is he kidding? “Yeah, no, you lie just fine.”
“That I do,” Bruce agrees easily. He pats Clark’s chest affectionately before taking a step back. “With you on top preferably.”
“Bruce,” Clark groans.
“What?”
“Stop being mean.” Stop teasing me, stop making me more nervous than I already am, Clark wants to say, but words are a little hard when he isn’t even sure he’s blinked in the last ten minutes. People blink. Clark has never had an issue blinking, why is he not blinking? He blinks twice just for good measure.
Bruce looks at him funny. “I’m never mean,” he says, thankfully not commenting on the weird face tic Clark is doing.
“You’re mean at least half the time.”
“That is not true, you idiot.”
“Don’t call me an idiot,” Clark pouts.
“Fine,” Bruce concedes. Too easily. “That’s not true, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that either,” Clark says with less confidence. Bruce only ever calls him sweetheart when he’s being overly affectionate. Which isn’t often. And it makes Clark weak in the knees every single time.
“Why not? You love it when I call you sweetheart,” Bruce teases.
“Exactly. I don’t need jelly legs right before we go out there.” It’s just his luck that Bruce decided to hold their damn engagement party at the manor. Why would he do that? He never lets people this close to the cave. Or his home, even.
“Stop panicking,” Bruce tells him with a smile. “Superman doesn’t get jelly legs.”
“Clark does though.”
“How very human of him.”
“Stop making fun of me,” Clark whines. He doesn’t mean it, obviously, because he’s stopped shaking. And he hasn’t forgotten to blink since Bruce started teasing him.
“I’m not. I’m helping distract you.”
“You’re doing a shitty job.”
“Language, Clark, there might be kids out there,” Bruce says with a chuckle. Like he doesn’t know exactly who is in his house and when they got here and the most likely time they’ll leave.
“God, I hope not,” Clark says, even though he could technically just take a listen. He doesn’t though because he doesn’t want to start panicking again.
“Ready?” Bruce asks as he holds out his hand.
“Not in the least,” Clark says but takes Bruce’s hand, nonetheless. He’ll probably never be ready, but he would go anywhere as long as Bruce is there.
“I’m right here with you.”
“It’s the only reason I haven’t run away yet.”
It’s not that Clark doesn’t want to make their relationship public; he very much does. But making it public for him means telling his parents and friends. Meeting Bruce’s kids, introducing himself officially to Alfred. They’ve already done that though and there’s only one thing left. Telling Bruce Wayne’s world about them. It’s terrifying in a way that no superpowered villain has ever been to Clark. He’d rather go a round or two with Darkseid than smile at cameras and answer strangers’ questions about his and Bruce’s love life for an entire evening. Okay, so maybe he’s exaggerating a tiny bit, but he’s nervous, it’s not his fault his mind works faster than the average human’s.
It still works slower than Bruce’s though, because of course nobody can think quite as far ahead as Batman. Which is probably why Bruce is trying to get a rise out of him - it’s awfully hard being nervous about a party when you’re arguing with your boyfriend. Fiancé. And that word still sends a chill down Clark’s spine. He can’t believe Bruce asked before he got the chance to, the sneaky bastard.
Clark knows he has nothing to worry about. Bruce has more than enough experience for the both of them. He brushes off the more inappropriate questions like a pro; gives just enough of a smirk to get away with not answering. He makes sure to keep Clark close, jumps in when Clark panics and splutters a stupid - or too honest - answer to the many inquiries.
Bruce is… scarily good at this. Clark just follows his lead. It’s something he’s both used to and unfamiliar with. Following, that is, not following Bruce. He really would follow Bruce to the edge of the universe if he asked.
A few hours in Clark tugs at his tie; he’s tired but it’s not in a bad way. Despite the comments and questions from virtual strangers, he’s having a good time. Mostly because Bruce sticks to his side through it all. Ma and pa are here as well, and Bruce makes sure they spend time with them and Clark enjoys watching all of Bruce’s little bats trying to impress his parents. Like they aren’t already completely sold on having a handful of grandbabies.
“So, how did you really meet?” A woman – Wendy, Clark thinks? – asks, and before Clark can put his foot in his mouth (he really is a bad liar), Bruce swoops in with a practiced story that’s more or less true.
“Through work,” he says and then turns to smile softly at Clark. His eyes land on Clark’s chest and he reaches out and straightens his collar, never once faltering in the conversation. He does it like it’s second nature, like he’s not even aware how intimate a gesture it is.
Clark finds himself relaxing and grinning like the fool in love he is.
By the end of the night Clark feels like he’s talked to every single citizen in Gotham, even though he knows that can’t be right. There’s only a couple of hundred people here but it feels like thousands. He’s about ready to fall into bed. Bruce looks like he’s getting there as well, running a hand through his hair more and more, pulling at his own tie.
When Bruce downs his third glass of champagne, the product in his hair has all but vanished. His bangs are falling in his face, and he’s never looked more beautiful.
Clark brushes the stubborn strand of hair out of Bruce’s eyes, just because he can. Because he’s allowed to do so. Because he said yes when Bruce asked if he wanted to marry him. As if there was ever any other answer.
SuperBat/ClarkBruce (Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne or Superman/Batman)
Warnings: none!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He knows strange. He’s a superpowered alien who’s friends with more superpowered aliens, and give or take a couple of regular guys. He saves the world as frequently as the average human brushes their teeth; at least twice a day if they’re good ones.
Humans, that is. Good humans. Yes. He knows strange. He knows how to live with it, to adapt and to condition. He prides himself on this - on his abilities, his connections, his identity; his Kryptonian and Smallville roots alike. He knows strange. He gets over strange.
But this? This is different.
This is the first time anything even remotely close to intimacy (along with permanence) has weasled its way into poor old Clark Kent’s lousy little life. But then again, this isn’t Clark Kent.
Clark Kent is not bundled up in a thousand-dollar duvet, nor is he bombarded with the scent of expensive shower gel and the slight hint of blood. It is not Clark Kent who carefully opens his eyes to gaze upon his morning companion, just as it is not the billionaire playboy on last week’s front pages of both The Planet and The Gazette’s papers who shifts in his sleep, perceptive even when essentially unconscious.
No, it is not Clark Kent. It is not Superman. It is not Brucie and it is not The Bat.
It’s just Kal, who isn’t from around here. And Bruce, who decided to change that.
Kal (he prefers Clark, although he can’t help but recall the jolt of energy which coursed through him that night when Bruce had referred to him by his traditional, given name) knows strange, yes. And this? This should be strange. And really, it is, technically. It is strange that the man with the great big ‘S’ on his chest has slept in, and has awoken to find himself in the grip of not an enemy, but of his teammate and good friend - very good friend.
His mind drifts to the headline, and he feels himself smile softly into the filtering sunlight. Who knew the Dark Knight left his blinds open in a show of admittance toward the morning sun? Perhaps it was for him? For Clark Kent? The thought would have melted him, had the sun not been rejuvenating him.
‘BRUCE WAYNE: THE BISEXUAL(!?) BILLIONAIRE IS NOW IN A RELATIONSHIP WITH AN OUT-OF-TOWN REPORTER - CLARK KENT?’
He won’t tell the man beside him - the same one who he has yet to become accustomed to the hardcore cuddling skills of because, really - Batman? A cuddler? - that he has The Planet’s article stowed away somewhere in the depths of his apartment, but he’s sure he already knows.
Jason has it framed in his rarely inhabited room in the manor, where the Superman just so happens to be; the place where he engages in procedures such as sparring with Batman and talking over important data and JLA operatives and beating him in Mahjong and watching him brood before offering to take him to that fancy Mexican place that makes the country boy feel impoverished and very, very white, all before fighting over the love life of his third adopted son and subsequently tiring each other out by entirely unrelated means down in the master bedroom - you know, the usual teammate stuff.
And it’s strange that the pair of them should be able to engage in such behavior. It really is, but it isn’t bad. It means that the world is changing and, however daunting change may be, this change is for the best. Earth is reforming at long last, and the World’s Finest are a very, very large part of this executed eventuality. And so they find solace in this, in the sum of the fortune which they have waited years upon years to be repayed.
That article was published three years ago on a Monday morning. This day exactly, Clark thinks. It was strange then. So new and so fragile. And it is fragile still. However, he has now come to the realization that it is not strange to sink into the arms of your lover in the shining light of the early morning.
Superhero or not, Kal who is long since from around here has that right, and he is perfectly aware of it. It is not strange for Bruce Wayne to be faithful, to be happy and to be healthy; for Batman to finally find the right notes in the harmony, to work with his team - with his beloved.
It is not strange when Clark buries his nose into soft, dark hair so very similar to his own and yet completely, devastatingly unique. It is not strange when he allows his eyes to flutter shut and to focus on the stuttering heartbeat of Bruce Wayne as he awakes, groggily grasping his partner’s forearm and leading it to lay atop his muscular abdomen. No, it really isn’t strange.
“I love you,” Clark says, slightly still hampered. Even without any super capabilities, he can see Bruce smile. Who knew Batman smiled? Kal.
Kal did.
“Mmh,” is his reply. Bruce leans into the tender kiss which is planted on his temple as his Superman holds him close, like Clark is afraid his Bat will fly too close to the big ball of light right before their window. Clark loves him. He hates to quote his cousin, but Great Rao does he love him.
Batman falls deeper into his silk pillows and almost nuzzles his way somewhat under Superman’s head, his hot breath on the shell of the man’s ear.
“Kal,” he whispers.
“Mmh,” said man grins, opening his eyes. He is met by eyes the color of the sky after … a hurricane. And that- that is okay. He loves him.
Bruce brings a large hand up to his face - cradles him, the near invulnerable Man of Steel - and brings their lips together in a sweet, lingering kiss. It’s more effective than any dosage of morning coffee. “Kal." His eyes flutter closed while he breathes against Clark, lashes brushing his bruised cheekbones.
“Clark,” he inhales. “Clark, I believe- I believe I have to marry you.”
A beat. A few more, with the appearance of some particularly chatty birds down below in the courtyard outside. Clark grins widely, pointedly gazing into the dark circles of his fiance’s shut eyes.
“Have to?
The man sighs, running a hand down the entirety of his bone structure - which is very good, even Superman says so - before meeting Clark's eyes once more. Bruce grumbles, but Clark knows him, knows the raw sincerity in his rasp and the emotion in his clear eyes. “I want to, Clark. I want to marry you.”
No, he tells himself, knows himself. It isn’t strange at all.
“Then I guess I’ll have to make a trip to the thrift shop for a new suit,” Clark kisses his future husband, “Something vintage, maybe ‘73?”
Bruce scoffs. “I retract my offer.”
“Well, I retract your retraction!”
“You can’t-”
“I’m calling Dick.”
“Clark-”
“I’m calling Jason. I'm getting up to do it right now."
“Bruce? Can I leave my cat with you for a while? I have to go on a mission into space and someone has to feed him. I also can’t leave him in the Fortress-”
“Yeah, because of that dog.”
“So, can I leave him here? His name is Bruce by the way.”
The cat rubs his head against Clarks cheek and purrs. Bruce (not the cat) sighs defeated. He can’t say no to Clark. “Okay.”
“This is the last time,” Bruce says, hazy, voice thick with want. He feels Clark smile against his lips. The last, last time was supposed to be the last time.
“You say that every time.” Bruce presses his hand to Clark’s length to feel how hard he is and to also shut him up with the moan that crawls up his throat.
The more they kiss, the more Clark tastes like sweet pomegranate that will keep him trapped there. His hands are like vines twining around his body, anchoring Bruce to him. He wants those lips everywhere. Leaving trails of goosebumps in their wake as he maps out his body with his mouth. Like he’s trying to commit his shape to memory to have something to hold onto when this is inevitably all over.
Clark had kissed Bruce before but this felt different. Corded muscles wrapped around his torso pulling his immoveable weight in close. The way Bruce's tongue slid across his bottom lip tasted like everything he's been craving for the past 10 years. It isn't the first or the second but it felt like the way he imagined the red sun on Krypton. Warming his skin and freckling his cheeks. Something sweet and tender and probably the closest he's ever felt to home.
