hello! i'm glad to know you're well, friend!! i have no idea what season your country is in rn but LAWD IT IS HOT AS HELL for me, at least so... summer themed superbat, to distract me (i don't know why but like lemon honey drinks come to mind. bruce is the lemon, clark is the honey)
hypothetical power outage perhaps? with lack of AC? shirtless clark and bruce? mayhapsably
alternatively, pool clark and bruce? a water fight with the lil guns! or water balloons oh my gosh
-🦖
HII DINO ANON!!
ya it's actually boiling where i am, and the air quality has been shit too so i am avoiding the outdoors for the time being 😭
but summer superbat!! how could i resist!!
(also i'm writing both of these prompts because they're good and i'm greedy)
power outage:
they're stuck in clark's apartment after he's been depowered for the foreseeable future after a run-in with a sorcerer that they'd rather not relive. bruce insists on staying over to keep an eye on clark, and clark hardly puts up much of a protest when he has the chance to spend more time with bruce.
and then the power goes out. the a/c, the lights, the fridge—everything.
and clark, for the first time in his life, actually feels hot for an extended period of time. and then he starts to sweat. at first he thinks something's wrong—he's only ever sweated when exposed to kryptonite or magic or some other nefarious plot—but bruce explains with a healthy dose of teasing: "that's what happens when people get hot, clark. they sweat."
clark huffs, says, "i know that," and resigns himself to being annoyingly moist.
bruce just chuckles and tells him to take his shirt off, it'll cool him down.
and then clark does, and bruce is faced with a perfectly healthy clark, his skin tanned and practically glistening with sweat, all huffy because of the heat and the lack of powers. every time he moves his muscles bulge and shine and god, bruce is definitely drooling.
(he tries to make a move on clark, but clark adamantly refuses to do anything that could make him hotter, already overwhelmed. though he does really enjoy the rosy tint that has settled over bruce's nose and cheeks from the heat, especially so when it spreads over his chest.)
water fight:
clark flies over to gotham on a warm friday evening, eager to find bruce and hang out after a gruelling week. he follows the sound of bruce's heartbeat to the pool in the backyard, where bruce is picking up scraps of rubber.
he lands at bruce's side and presses a kiss to his temple. "what's all this?" he asks.
"water balloons. dick had his friends over after school, and these are the leftovers. but he's gone off to roy's for the weekend, so i'm on cleanup," bruce explains, turning to give him a proper kiss.
"i can help," clark says, eyeing the smattering of scraps all along the pool deck.
bruce hums, shifting away to collect more balloons. "you've had a tough week. i can handle it."
clark smiles, shaking his head. only bruce would refuse superspeed cleanup to let clark rest that much sooner. "it's really alright, bruce. it'll only take a moment—"
a water balloon cuts him off—and by cuts him off, he means it collides directly with his head, splashing water all in his hair and down his face.
bruce outright laughs at clark's expression, head thrown back, the sun catching the long column of his throat. "i can handle it," bruce repeats, smirking at him.
wiping his face with his hands, clark smiles despite himself, laughing along. but he doesn't let that stop him from finding an intact balloon of his own and nailing bruce in the back.
bruce shouts in surprise, shoulders bunching from the shock of cold water, and then it's an all-out brawl.
clark takes cover behind a lawn chair, speeding around the pool when it's safe to collect more full balloons. bruce still manages to pelt him with at least three, appearing to have his own endless supply of water ammo. clark can't wipe the grin off his face, delighted by the impromptu fun. it's so rare for him and bruce to get a chance to unwind like this.
it ends with an ambush. clark is too preoccupied with searching for another balloon that he doesn't realize bruce is behind him until he's got a bucket full of water spilling down his back.
clark turns on a dime and sweeps bruce off his feet into a kiss, laughing too hard to take it further.
"okay," bruce says when they separate, pushing away from clark and setting his eyes back to the pool. "now let me get the rest of the—" bruce sighs, shoulder's dropping. "clark."
clark tucks his lips into his teeth, rocking on his heels as he pointedly glances over to the pile of broken balloons, all collected and set aside neatly.
bruce shakes his head with a budding grin. "i cannot believe you," he says, and lunges forward, taking clark by surprise. he drags them both back until they crash into the pool, a tangle of limbs.
they spend the evening in the water, relaxing together as the sun sets (with the occasional splash to keep things interesting).
clark makes breakfast, its pancakes, eggs, bacon etc etc, a full spread the whole shebang
and for once, a clingy, groggy bat!!!!! he kind of just goes glorp onto clark's back and clark wants to scream but he knows if he reacts too much bruce will leave and so he shuts up mentally n settle for screaming internally merry christmas everyone
-🦖
hello again dino anon this is such a cute little treat!!
in my mind i’m thinkin it’s the morning after their First Time, and they’ve been dating a while but never took it further before. and clark, with manners practically tattooed on him by ma kent, wants this morning to be special, too—to show bruce that he’ll be good at caring for him in more ways than one.
he’s so focused on making the breakfast good that he doesn’t notice bruce shuffle in, all groggy and squinty-eyed. he almost startles when bruce settles on his back—almost. he can't afford to react too much for fear of jostling bruce. clark mutters a warm good morning, and gets an incoherent grumble in return as bruce buries his face between clark's shoulder blades and tugs them closer together.
bruce hardly ever initiates physical contact. clark knows for a fact that he likes it, but bruce has never been one to ask. he wonders if bruce's lack of hesitation is because of the early morning, because he's not quite awake yet. either way, clark certainly won't complain, not when it feels like he's been given a rare gift.
the cooking continues. clark's ears are definitely burning, and he can't quite keep the smile off his face, but he does nothing to make bruce move, content with the weight on his back.
when breakfast is finally ready, clark mourns bruce's closeness as he plates their food and sets the table. but then bruce frowns and starts grumbling again—face adorably scrunched, his bare chest heaving as he huffs a breath—before he sets everything on a serving cart and grabs clark's hand.
they end up on the back porch, pressed up against each other with plates in their laps, watching the sun rise over the treetops in the yard. when they're finished eating, bruce sets the dishware back on the cart and practically burrows into clark's side. it's not long before he's snoring softly against clark's chest.
and clark, who's felt the power of a yellow sun rush through him, has flown through fires and touched lava and experienced heat that would kill most beings, has never felt warmer in his life.
i know in my heart that clark needs constant attention from bruce, and he'll do anything to get it, kind of like a puppy 👀
there's no one left in the room after a league meeting, and clark is getting restless because bruce hasn't spoken to him all day.
"bruceee"
"clark do you know what 'im busy' means?"
bruce, walks over to the zeta-tubes, wanting to finish some work in the watchtower. two of clark's fingers curl under his utility belt, and he follows bruce to the tubes, silently pleading with him not to leave just yet.
with a sigh, bruce turns around and finally faces clark, who visibly lights up under bruce's stare.
clark gives a bashful grin to his boyfriend, and bruce can't hide his amusement at clark's eagerness.
with an amused huff, bruce brushes a loose curl behind clark's ear and cradles his warm face
"youre like an excitable dog"
the pink flush on clark's neck makes its way to his cheeks, almost matching the colour of his upturned lips "mhm"
"yeah? are you my little puppy clark?"
clark groans at the endearment, but can't bring himself to hate it as bruce pulls him in for a kiss.
★ synopsis — after a drunken kiss Bruce Wayne is forced to face his feelings towards Metropolis’ golden boy (inspired by i’m scared i’ll never sleep again by 5 seconds of summer)
★ warnings/tags — angst, dubious consent, alcohol intoxication, bruce has internalised homophobia, miscommunication, making out, physical intimacy (touching), hurt/comfort, fluff, happy ending, this is my first fic pls be nice!
Gotham wasn’t the nicest place, being nicknamed the crime city could tell you that much, though it didn’t seem half as bad when there were quiet moments like these.
Bruce took a swig from the bottle, some sort of expensive alcohol he didn’t care enough about to read the label of. The bustling streets of Gotham had become hushed as Bruce relished in the burn of the liquid as it hit his throat, finding his eyes wandering to the man beside him.
Clark Kent.
Clark, the kryptonian turned country boy that vowed his life to Metropolis despite their hatred for anything ‘different’.
‘Different’ wasn’t even a word that began to explain Clark Kent. Clark was hopeful, kind, generous, optimistic. He was beautiful. He was everything that Bruce wasn’t.
He was the one that insisted they should celebrate their recent ‘victory’ with a shared bottle and a quiet rooftop spot, because of course he was.
Bruce reluctantly agreed, though now he regretted it as he felt a burning sensation in his chest that wasn’t just from the alcohol.
Clark was close. Too close. His gaze was fixed on Bruce as if he were the most important person in the world, glazed over eyes flickering over his features in a way that made Bruce swallow harshly.
What he was feeling was wrong. Bruce knew that, but he couldn’t help his heart stuttering as Clark leaned that little bit closer.
They were both tipsy, still aware but the walls they had built were lowered now. Maybe that’s why Bruce didn’t fight it at first when Clark placed a soft kiss on his lips and a firm hand on his thigh.
The kiss was sweet, it really was, but as Clark pulled back with that goofy smile Bruce didn’t return it. Instead his breath became heavy, heart hammering against his chest as he scrambled to his feet.
“what’s wrong?” Clark asked innocently, his expression one of deep concern as his brows knitted.
“i’m not-“ Bruce shook his head, focus darting to anything that wasn’t the man who had just kissed him.
Clark let out a soft “oh.” in response, head dropping down in a moment of guilt.
“i’m sorry.” he murmured softly, adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he lifted his gaze to meet Bruce’s eye.
Bruce simply stared back at him, lips parting as if he wanted to say something. Anything.
The silence that filled the space between them was harsh and crawling with unspoken words.
Clark didn’t say anything more, just glanced back at Bruce one last time before his feet lifted from the rooftop.
Bruce watched as he flew away, jaw clenching as he allowed his tongue to glide over his dried bottom lip.
“fuck.” he muttered beneath his breath, hands shaking slightly as he took the grappling hook from his utility belt.
Bruce collapsed onto his bed with a disgruntled huff, cool air brushing against his bare skin as a reminder of the lack of warmth in his bed.
The streetlights near Wayne’s manor crept through the gap in the curtain, the soft light casting a glow around his room.
He found himself glancing to his bedside table, his phone lying there with the promise of a phone call.
Bruce ran his hands over his face, the black eyeshadow he didn’t bother to wash off leaving a dark residue on his fingertips.
He sat there alone with his thoughts as he stared up at the ceiling, wishing he wasn’t so drunk.
His skin crawled with the lingering feeling of Clark’s touch, his kiss. The thought of it made his stomach churn, as if something inside of him was rotting.
His eyes fluttered closed, breath steadying for a moment as he allowed himself to relax, forcing the night’s previous events to the back of his mind.
Despite his best efforts, the night was spent tossing and turning as an attempt to stifle the way his heart raced and his face became warm whenever Clark appeared in the forefront of his mind.
He couldn’t close his eyes without Clark in his head. Perhaps that’s why he was now here at his door.
A small apartment complex in the heart of downtown Metropolis stood silently, almost as if it were taunting him.
Bruce knocked on the door before shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, silently pleading for Clark not to open the door.
Alas, his pleas were not answered when he was met with a tired looking Clark Kent sporting low hanging plaid pajama pants and an old band tee.
The area around his eyes were red and sore, the way they softened into a regretful squint sent a shiver through Bruce as he stepped inside.
“Bruce..” Clark began, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as he closed the door behind them. “listen, whatever happened earlier was-“
Bruce furrowed his brows, his hands balling into fists inside his pockets as he shook his head. “don’t make an excuse.”
At that, Clark frowned, guilt gnawing deeply into his bones. “i just wanted to apologise.”
“Don’t apologise either.” Bruce’s voice was quiet, more softer than usual. He avoided the taller man’s gaze as he looked around at nothing in particular.
“if you apologise that means it wasn’t real.” he commented with a humourless laugh. “and i have to deal with the fact that I’m-“
Bruce clenched his jaw, turning to face the other man with a deep sigh. Conflicting emotions spun around his head, sleepless eyes heavy with longing.
Clark’s brows lowered, gaze flickering over Bruce before he placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “it was real, Bruce.”
Bruce tensed under his grasp, stiffening at the increasing heartbeat in his chest. Clark smiled softly at that, being a superhuman definitely had its perks.
“i’m sorry for pulling away.” Bruce grumbled reluctantly, dropping his eyes in shame. “i was…scared.”
The word felt like venom on his tongue, the rush of heat from embarrassment made him shift uncomfortably.
“i was scared of what-of who i was.” he corrected himself, finally plucking up the courage to stare at Clark.
Clark’s gaze weighed heavy on Bruce, the mixture of understanding and worry on his face leaving a deep burn in Bruce’s heart.
“you don’t have to be.” Clark hummed gently, his large fingers absentmindedly rubbing patterns on Bruce’s shoulder. “not with me.”
Bruce nodded, expression softening as his breath hitched, hands moving to cup Clark’s face. His placed a hesitant kiss on his lips, before melting into it with a huff of relief.
Within an instant, their hands were on eachother, exploring the warmth of bare skin.
Heavy breaths mixed together in a desperate need for contact and closeness. Bruce found himself growing more confident in his movements, blindly guiding clark to the bedroom before they both fell onto the bed.
Clark grinned slightly with a deep exhale, hands resting on Bruce’s hips. “you’re beautiful…” he whispered with pupils the size of the moon.
“shut up.” Bruce replied, his voice soft with affection as he leant down to place another passionate kiss on Clark’s lips, earning a soft chuckle from him.
Summary: Bruce Wayne is no stranger to flings and one night stands. He is an attentive lover, good at grand gestures, but it’s almost always come from a place of performance. Now, with Clark, he knows how to have sex, how to show him off at parties…But affection still feels foreign to him. (My lovely mutual @fickle-tiction sent me an idea via DMs and I ran with it. I hope you enjoy it!)
Bruce knows how to be romantic.
He’s never been in a long-term relationship, obviously. How would he explain the late nights, the myriad of injuries, and why he suddenly disappears whenever the bat-signal is in the sky?
But he’s dated. Well, he’s had flings. Affairs. One night stands.
Bruce knows how to have sex with one or two strings attached, more accurately. He can take a woman on a fancy date to an expensive restaurant, hold the door open for her, pay the tab. He can make sure that the paparazzi snap a photo or two of her on his arm. He can fuck her good and hard before sending her on her way without a phone number for her to reach him at, because he doesn’t really do second dates.
He supposes that doesn’t really count as romance — it’s more like a carefully constructed transaction: The women get to say they fucked Bruce Wayne, the richest man in Gotham, and tell all their friends how polite he was, how intelligent the conversation was, and how mind-blowing the sex was. And Bruce, in turn, gets the reputation of a player, a womanizer, a man who uses his wealth and status to get the girls and can always get them off.
It’s all part of his Brucie Wayne persona, the version of him that the tabloids love, the paparazzi drool over, the general public of Gotham hate or revere, depending who you ask.
He exists within these two states: Bruce Wayne, the philanthropic heartthrob, and Batman, an enigmatic vigilante. And the man in between…Well, he’s not sure he knows who he is without these two extremes.
There’s no particular thing about Bruce that he feels screams who he is. His home is finely decorated with expensive, minimalistic things. He drives cars because they are fancy and expensive, not because he necessarily likes them. His clothes are finely tailored, but show no personality. He doesn’t remember the last time he sat and listened to an album, watched a movie, or tried something new just for the hell of it.
He doesn’t have interests or hobbies, the way that the average person does. He works out, to maintain the strength and stamina that being Batman requires. He pretends like he does all these extreme sports to explain away the injuries and scars; he has technically paraglided and skydived before, just under very different circumstances than one would imagine. It wasn’t for the adrenaline rush or a fun vacation activity, it was necessity.
Yesterday, Clark asked him what his favorite color was, and Bruce couldn’t give him an answer.
“Black?” he said after a long stretch of silence. “But I’ve never thought about it before.”
Clark had stared at him like he had three heads. “I thought everyone had a favorite color.”
Bruce wasn’t sure why it made it feel so defensive. “Well, I guess I don’t.”
He cares what Clark thinks about him, tries his damndest to treat him with a sort of kindness Bruce usually reserves for the children, and even then, he knows none of them would consider him nice. Sure, he loves them and they know it, but it’s an unspoken thing that lurks in the way he trains them, protects them, worries for them.
But he wants Clark to think he’s nice.
All of this to say, Bruce has feelings for Clark Kent that are confusing and frankly annoying, because Bruce has better things to do, i.e. saving the world, than pining for his…friend? Well, he supposes that he and Clark are friends, and he knows that they should probably stay that way.
Because he doesn’t know how to do romance right, and Clark deserves better than this, his inability to express his emotions, his lack of an instinct for physical affection.
Clark is the human equivalent of an excitable Labrador, and Bruce’s energy is more that of a black cat who has been hit by several cars and still refuses to die.
They won’t work, and Bruce accepts that rather quickly, because what he does have a natural instinct for is suppressing his emotions.
***
Clark is going to be the death of Bruce Wayne, one way or another.
Whether it’s a Justice League mission gone wrong, Clark turning on him one day (which feels unlikely, but Bruce has learned to be prepared for anything), or a heart attack caused by those goddamn puppy-dog eyes, Bruce has accepted his fate.
Speaking of puppy-dog eyes, that was all it had taken for Bruce to agree to bring Clark as his plus-one to an event, which otherwise was not allowing the press inside.
So now, he’s standing in a new suit, nursing a glass of champagne, and biting his tongue as some pretty actress fiddles with Clark’s tie, clearly into him and too drunk to go about it tactfully.
Envy is a more unfamiliar emotion than most for Bruce; he has just about everything a man could want, in terms of wealth, reputation, and tangible objects.
When he was a child, the only thing he ever felt envy towards were the children who had living, loving families. Seeing a father scoop up his daughter at the playground, a mother kiss her son’s bruised knee while he went about his life used to make pain twist deep in his gut, and he would find himself thinking: Why does that child deserve parents, and I don’t?
He had learned early on to bury that feeling, too.
But now, watching Clark stumble over his words as he talks to this woman, Bruce feels absolutely pissed. He walks over before he can think it through, turns on that Brucie Wayne charm, and puts a hand on Clark’s shoulder.
“Did you want some more champagne, baby?” he asks, offering his glass.
Clark turns from the woman to him and back again, looking bewildered. “What?”
The actress has finally stopped touching him. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you were…with someone,” she says, eyeing Bruce curiously.
He gives her a smile. “I mean, who could resist this face?” he replies, taking Clark by the chin and squishing his cheeks between his thumb and fingers.
Bruce can feel the warmth of Clark’s blush on his fingertips.
Clark offered the actress a smile before she walked away, her plans foiled.
“Baby?” Clark says.
“You looked uncomfortable. I figured pretending you were taken would be the easiest way to get her to go away,” Bruce replies, like it was the obvious solution, a perfect plan.
Clark blinks at him, clearly still confused, but going along with it like the good sport he is. “You do know that she’s gonna take that information straight to the papers, right?”
Well, Bruce hadn’t really thought that part through, but whatever. He doesn’t care what the papers say; the persona he displays to the public is that of a playboy, anyway. Nothing he does to keep up the thrill-seeking businessman act embarrasses him anymore, and he certainly isn’t going to be embarrassed at the idea of being associated romantically with a good-looking, successful person simply because he happens to be a man.
He shrugs. “Well, we might as well give them something good to write about,” he replies, wrapping an arm around Clark’s waist and pulling him close.
With anyone else, this action would have meant nothing. He could have done it without a second thought, without even needing to be attracted to or interested in the person. But with Clark, the touch makes Bruce feel more conscious of his every move, more cautious than he normally would be.
Clark is one of the few people in this world that Bruce would utter the word friend in reference to, and truly mean it. He understands how a friendship is supposed to work, from an outsider’s perspective, and he’s pretty sure that fake-dating isn’t a normal activity that friends participate in.
There is no rulebook, no manual, no scientific study, and no perfectly scripted act that he can turn to now. It’s very rare that Bruce ever feels unsure of himself, but in this moment, touching Clark, he feels out of his element.
Two plans emerge before him in his mind: First, he could drop the act now that the woman is gone, stop touching Clark, clear his throat, and continue on with the night. Let the papers try to run the rumor, allow it to settle down and die when no one can prove it, and then he’ll be seen with a different woman next week, and he and Clark can forget it ever happened.
The second option is that he can put on his charm, flirt with Clark like it means nothing to him, every move methodical—fix his glasses right when the camera comes out, adjust one of those curls swooping down onto his forehead as a group whispers, make sure they all see what an attentive partner Bruce Wayne is, and then at the end of the night, he and Clark can pretend it never happened.
Strangely, he finds that he wants to do neither. He wants to keep touching Clark, without the prying eyes and flashing cameras, and he wants to mean it. He doesn’t want to flirt with Clark as the version of himself that the general public sees, to be fake with him. But he doesn’t know how to make it sincere, to turn off the carefully crafted persona and tell Clark how he feels.
Bruce knows that Clark can hear his heartbeat, but sometimes, he worries that Clark can read his mind. Perhaps it’s just the over-pouring amount of empathy that Clark has that makes Bruce feel that way, but it still surprises him when Clark leans close and murmurs, “We don’t have to stay.”
“You’re here to get a story,” Bruce replies, arm still wrapped around Clark’s waist.
He throws his arm over Bruce’s shoulder, squeezing him back in a one-armed hug. “I think anything I write will be overshadowed by our love affair, now,” he teases.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce says, and the words feel so foreign on his tongue, but Clark deserves an apology for this, letting his emotions get in the way of both of their jobs tonight.
Clark chuckles. “For what? I got to see one of these fancy parties, made some connections…And I got to see you smile, even if it was fake.”
Bruce suddenly feels very warm, and he removes his arm from around Clark’s middle. “It’s going to look even more scandalous if we leave early, you know.”
Something in his stomach flutters when Clark just grins.
Bruce can hear the clicking of cameras as they not-so-subtly sneak out of the event, fingers interlocked. The minute they’re outside, he drops Clark’s hand, and he thinks he imagines the disappointed look on Clark’s face.
***
Bruce is trying to not think too hard about what this means.
Clark is…Well, he’s Clark, he’s fucking Superman, and he’s beautiful. Don’t get him wrong, Clark’s a nerd, with bizarre music taste and too-big suits and crooked glasses, but his curls fall so perfectly in his face when he’s not smothering them in gel, and he’s grinning at Bruce so innocently, as if he didn’t just have his cock inside of him.
This is one of the few times in his life that Bruce feels that sex meant more to him than putting on a performance, adding a notch to his bedpost, with the added benefit of a little stress relief.
Sex is easy for him, while intimacy is not, and yet everything about the way Clark had touched him, how he’s looking at him now feels so intimate. Bruce has never allowed someone to have such power over him like that, and it’s the first time he’s ever felt that vulnerability made something better.
But now, Clark is seemingly trying to cuddle with him, and that is too much for Bruce to handle for one night, so he gets out of the bed and gets redressed.
But when he turns around and sees the look in Clark’s eyes, that kicked-puppy little pout, he sighs and crawls back into the bed, laying flat on his back, with a few inches of distance between them.
“Why do you do that?” Clark asks.
“What do you mean?”
“When we’re in public…In front of the cameras, you’re so touchy. Even when we’re around the League, you’ll touch me…A hand on my shoulder, at least. But when we’re alone, you never reach out first.”
Physically intimacy, he’s good at, in the form of rough, passionate kisses and wandering, steady hands. Even with the unfamiliarity of doing it with a man, Bruce had known his way around their earlier endeavors.
This is the part he’s awful at. Talking about his feelings is not something he’s ever really done, never had much of a reason to, and now he’s scared he’s going to fuck this up.
But he’s going to try to explain himself anyway, because Clark is the only person who has ever made him feel this light hopefulness in his chest, has made unable to swallow the instinct to smile. He figures that that’s as close to romantic as he’s ever gotten.
“When we’re in public, I’m always pretending to be someone I’m not,” he replies simply. “Either I’m playing up Bruce Wayne’s ‘whirlwind romance’ for the press, or I’m showing that Batman is a supportive teammate and friend. I’m never myself when there are other people around.”
“So, do you…not like it when I touch you?” Clark asks.
Such simple words feel ridiculously awkward coming out of his mouth. “I do,” he replies. “It’s just…Not in my instinct to do it back. Or first. I don’t know how to act like…your boyfriend. I’m not good at this.”
Clark tentatively scoots over on the bed, their shoulders brushing. “That’s okay. We’ll figure it out. Together.”
Together is also a word that rarely leaves Bruce’s mouth, but he echoes it back anyway, before capturing Clark’s lips in a kiss.
***
Bruce trails his fingers lazily over Clark’s back, almost absent-mindedly.
He’s surprised when Clark flinches away with a soft gasp. His fingers freeze in mid-air, eyeing the other man with curiosity and concern.
“Are you okay?”
Clark gives him a sheepish smile. “Yeah, just ticklish.”
“Oh.”
Bruce pulls his hand away then, awkwardly folding them across his stomach. Of course, when he tries to be sweet, he finds a way to mess it up.
Scooting closer, Clark says, “You don’t have to stop; it still felt nice.”
Then, upon seeing the apprehensive look on Bruce’s face, he backpedals. “Unless you don’t want to, it’s fine—“
There’s a fond smile threatening to tug at the corners of Bruce’s mouth, and instead of fighting it back, he allows it to spread. “I can keep going.”
Clark’s face looks pink in the dim light of the room, and Bruce returns his fingers, tentatively, to his back, still unsure of himself and unfamiliar with the tenderness of it all.
He hears the contended sigh of the man beside him, feels Clark practically melt under the touch, like a cat being pet. It’s sort of adorable, a word which had never really been in Bruce’s vocabulary before.
A rare feeling overtakes him: Mischief.
Clark is such an open book, and Bruce finds it incredibly endearing. He’s working on his ability to be open, too, but honesty comes as easy to Clark as breathing.
If Clark so willingly provided the information that he’s ticklish, then it wouldn’t be so bad if Bruce were to explore it, would it?
He lightens his touch, and Clark twitches slightly. He brings his fingers closer to Clark’s side, and hears a little huff of air, like he’s holding back a laugh.
Bruce pulls him closer, a newfound confidence in his actions surging through him. He presses his face into the side of Clark’s neck, brings all ten of his fingers to Clark’s sides, and strokes them slowly, softly.
The touch is so gentle, and yet Clark barks out a laugh immediately.
“Bruce!” he says.
“Yes?” Bruce replies, feigning innocence.
“It tickles.”
“I know. Do you want me to stop?”
Clark’s answer only comes in the form of giggling, and so Bruce doesn’t stop.
He keeps his touch gentle, exploratory. He traces his blunt nails all over Clark’s sides, his ribs, his stomach. He presses a few firm kisses into the crook of Clark’s neck, which also seem to cause bubbly laughter.
Bruce doesn’t even realize how hard he’s smiling until he finally lets Clark breathe, which he knows he technically doesn’t need to do, but still.
He gets the urge to pull away then, to stop touching him, maybe even apologize. But before he can do any of those things, Clark wraps his arms around him and hugs him close.
“That was mean,” he murmurs, but his body language speaks to the contrary.
Bruce lets himself relax into Clark’s hold, feels the heat radiating off of his blushing face, the way his chest rises and falls a little more rapidly than usual. “You could have easily stopped me,” he replies softly. “If it was really that mean.”
Clark tweaks his side, and Bruce flinches.
Their eyes meet.
“Don’t,” Bruce says, his voice barely a whisper.
Clark hesitates. “Actually?”
His instincts are telling him to say yes, actually, don’t you dare. If he sets the boundary, Clark will listen. But those instincts are the same ones that told him not to pursue this happiness, to stop touching Clark at that party, to shut himself off from other people and the world.
He’s trying to ignore those instincts more now. To stop putting on an act all the time.
The word feels awkward, heavy in his mouth, but Bruce says, “No.”
And Clark grins, and pounces.
It turns out that the laugh Bruce usually gave at parties, pretending to find some unfunny joke hilarious, sounds nothing like the real thing, the breathy giggling that escapes him when Clark’s hands latch onto his hips and squeeze them.
Before Clark came into his life, romance was just an act that served one of his alter egos well. But Clark has brought out the man between his personas, the Bruce that resides between playboy and vigilante.
And for a first time in a long time, this happiness is not an act.
Most Gothamites assume that the Bat and his flock are fearless.
They see the swift, sharp blows being thrown by the vigilantes. The see the lack of hesitation when Robin sprints into a burning building to pull civilians out. They watch in both awe and horror as the Red Hood puts down drug lords in the streets, and their jaws drop when they watch a visiting Nightwing jump and dive between rooftops- like that’s where he was born to be.
But, they’re wrong.
The fact of the matter is that they’re not fearless.
They’re just determined- no, desperate- enough to see a positive change in Gotham that they’ve learned to ignore the anxiety that pounds through their heads and brings nausea to their bellies. They’re kept up all night, not only by the caffeine that they guzzle, but also by the nightmares that plague their unconscious hours.
They train and they train and they train, just so they can destroy themselves some more.
The first night that Clark slept over at the Manor, he was horrified. Lying in Bruce’s bed, curled around his lover with his face between Bruce’s shoulder blades and his hands resting on his belly, his super hearing let him pick up the sounds of the Manor.
The sound of Tim mumbling about an investigation to himself. The sound of Jason (who was reluctantly visiting for the week while he healed from some wounds) pacing downstairs, half conscious and anxious. The sound of Alfred in the kitchen, preparing tea to soothe Jason’s insomnia, adding a sprinkle of crushed up sleeping pills. He could hear Cass and Damian in the Batcave’s gym, training intensely.
The only one sleeping soundly was Bruce, his heart rate slow and pleasant- but Clark was highly aware of the fact that Bruce’s peaceful state was only because of his presence.
Needless to say, Clark didn’t sleep that night. He spent the hours until morning just holding Bruce, grateful to provide some temporary relief.
He only wished that the rest of them could feel the same comfort.
Or, at least, that’s how the general public perceives him. He’s made sure that that’s how they perceive him. He crafts scandals, paying massive sums to whoever can put the most dirt on his name. Whatever will keep “Bruce Wayne is Batman?!” conspiracy theorists out of the headlines.
But, really, he shivers as Clark’s hand lazily skims over his hip, pushing up the thin fabric of his white pajama t-shirt. His hands clench slightly into fists as his lover’s callused fingers glide over his scarred ribs. His breath catches when he feels Clark’s chest against his back, even if they’re both still clothed. It’s been a long, long since he’s actually been with anyone, and even then, most of the intimacy that Bruce has experienced has been fast and lusty. This is… slower. It’s so pure and so unfamiliar in a way that just makes Bruce’s chest ache.
“Are you okay?” Clark senses Bruce’s hesitance- his sensitivity- and murmurs the question against Clark’s shoulder. He places kisses over the cold skin, his own flesh warm in comparison.
“I am.” Bruce replies quietly, but there’s a slight pause before his words. A pause that tells Clark everything he needs to know.
“What are you thinking about?” Clark presses. He’s a reporter, so he usually has no trouble reading people- but Bruce is an entirely different story. There’s no hint of what’s going on in the man’s head, and his heart beat is so controlled that even Clark can’t tell when he’s lying.
“Just…” Bruce trails off. He wants to be honest, wants to tell Clark that he’s never felt this safe or calm before. But he doesn’t. “Just enjoying this.”
The answer, though not entirely accurate- Clark can tell that much- satisfies Clark. He returns to kissing Bruce’s shoulder and rubbing his sides. “Well, we…. can do it more often.” He proposes quietly. “We can just cuddle like this. That’d be okay.”
A long period of silence follows, but eventually Bruce finds the words.
I bet Clark Kent is big on hand kisses. And Bruce loves it.
Like it probably started out as a joke—maybe a cute little callback to Bruce’s royal ancestry, or because Clark had seen Bruce do it to the ladies at a gala and wanted to treat his similarly aristocratic lover correspondingly. Either way, it somehow became Clark’s #1 Favriote Form of Affection because he can do it anytime.
Not allowed to kiss in the JL meeting? Whelp, B never said that Clark can’t take his hand and give him a lil peck through the glove. (B might grumble but he can’t change his rules without looking like a hypocrite.)
Hasn’t finished his coffee, and is still too grouchy for a kiss before Clark leaves for work? Hand kisses for the win. It makes the kids giggle and Bruce’s palms are always warm from his mug—and Bruce usually isn’t verbal in the morning so it’s not like he can complain.
At a gala, when they’re out as Brucie and Clark Kent? Hand kissing is the perfect way to show affection without the allowing the tabloids the opportunity to peer too far into their personal life.
And you know Bruce grumbles and complains and pulls his hand away sometimes because he is not in the mood, Clark… but it still makes him loved.
