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Entry tags:
FIC: Serious Games
Title: Serious Games
Pairing: Clark/Bruce
Continuity: Toonverse (specifically before the JLU episode "Starcrossed," in which Flash learns Batman is Bruce Wayne.)
Notes: The fourth and probably final installation in the series "Game, Set, and Matches," in which Clark develops unsavory connections to Matches Malone.
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sex, some rough roleplaying.
Summary: Clark goes to the Manor under cover of night and surprises a playboy in bed.
Word Count: 3500
"I'm bored," said Flash, a bit redundantly since his super-speed pacing around the Watchtower's observation deck was making Superman dizzy.
"We should be glad it's a slow night," said Superman.
"Uh-huh, yeah, great," said Flash. "How's it going?" he asked, leaning over Batman, who was on his back on the floor, head and torso buried in the monitors. From within the computer came intermittent sparking noises. Three of the dozen monitors were currently showing only snow.
"Not bad. It would be going faster if you weren't asking me every five minutes."
Flash sighed, then picked up a remote. "Well, let's see what's on the news." He flipped around at a breakneck pace for a bit, then stopped. "Oh, Gossip Town," he said. "I love this show."
"--had the pleasure of interviewing Bruce Wayne this morning," Vicki Vale was saying. "And now I get to share that interview with you, our loyal viewers."
"Oh, this should be good," said Flash. "This Wayne guy's got more money than God, but he's a total moron. Vale loves having him on, he's always a total scream."
"Oh?" Clark said nervously, looking over at Batman, still deep in the guts of the computer.
"Oh yeah, he's hysterical? A bit light in the loafers. Always good for a laugh." Wally sat down and watched the television avidly.
On the screen, Bruce Wayne was sitting in a comfortable chair, his legs crossed, wearing a lavender sweater. Vale asked him about some of his latest charity work, and Bruce answered in a careless drawl, his hands waving languidly. "All right," said Vale, "Let's get to the good stuff. Are you seeing anyone regularly right now?"
Bruce's eyes glinted. "Oh Vicki, I'm far too complicated a man to ever limit myself to one person."
Flash snorted. "Complicated? That guy?"
"No," Bruce was going on, "I'm seeing a variety of fascinating people. There's the country boy with the sweet smile that I've corrupted, the brilliant writer in Metropolis who won my heart..." He leaned forward, tapping Vale's arm and lowering his voice to a mock-whisper. "Why Vicki, I'm even seeing a member of the superhero community sometimes. And he is yummy, let me tell you!" He fanned himself dramatically as Vicki's eyebrows arched.
"So...will we be seeing you at the premiere of the new production of La Boheme this Friday? All of Gotham's glitterati seem to be planning on making it."
"Friday night?" Bruce's smile was slow and lascivious and sent a chill all the way down Clark's spine and to much more private regions. "I'm afraid I've got plans for Friday night. Plans I'm very much looking forward to. The world will have to make do without me, I'm afraid."
"Can you believe that guy? 'Dating a superhero.' As if. Like any of us would be interested in someone like that." scoffed Flash.
"Friday night...show the billionaire nancy-boy a good time...he likes it kinda rough." The phrases from Matches's note to Clark rang in Superman's ears so he could hardly hear the Flash. "Uh," he said vaguely, trying not to dwell on images of Bruce naked and pliant beneath him. Or maybe not so pliant. Bucking against his grip, panting a little, grinding...
"He's from Gotham. Maybe he's dating you, huh, Bats?"
Superman almost yelped as he realized Batman had emerged from his work and was standing right behind him, looking up at the image of Bruce Wayne on the screen in his lavender sweater. "Impossible," grated Batman.
"Yeah, I know," said Flash. "What a brainless himbo." He shook his head in disgust. "Gonna make some coffee. Be right back." And he was gone.
There was a moment's silence as Clark and Batman watched Bruce Wayne on the screen, his head tilted back and laughing, his eyes jaded and knowing. Clark angled a little closer to Batman. "Actually, I think he's very attractive."
"You do?" Batman sounded honestly surprised.
"Definitely. Look at those eyes. That's a man who knows what he wants, for all his teasing."
"And just what do you think he wants?"
Clark lowered his voice a bit more. "I think he just needs someone to take him in hand, show him who's boss. He wants someone to set some limits, force him to behave. And I think he'd behave very well in bed for the right man."
Batman was staring at the screen, seemingly lost in thought. He took a long, slightly shaky breath. "Tell me more," he said, his voice very low. "Tell me." His hands were clenched in the black silk of his cape.
"He's got a beautiful voice," Superman noted, keeping his voice nearly clinical, just the slightest bit of lust darkening it. "I think he'd love to be driven into screaming his lover's name as he got fucked."
Batman made a small sound that might have been shocked disapproval at Superman's coarse language, or might have been a different kind of reaction entirely.
"Coffee!" announced Flash, carefully holding three paper cups, and Superman moved away from Batman's side to check the monitors. Flash held out a cup to Batman, but Batman ignored him entirely, staring into space, black cloth still tight in his fists. "Yo, Bats?"
"No time for coffee," Batman said brusquely, brushing Flash aside. "I've got work to do." He strode out of the observation deck, his breath a bit fast, his cape swirling around him.
"What a killjoy," said Flash, handing Superman a cup and draining Batman's in a quick gulp, then starting on his own. "That's a man who has no idea how to have a good time."
Superman hid his smile in the cup. "He does seem that way, doesn't he?"
: : :
Friday night. Clark made his way toward the back door of Wayne Manor, dressed in a black turtleneck and slacks. The glasses were off. He wasn't sure exactly who he was right now: he wasn't exactly Clark Kent, he wasn't Kal-El, and he sure as hell wasn't Superman.
All the lights were off in the Manor; it loomed, dark and impressive, against the starry sky.
The back door was unlocked, as Matches had promised it would be. Clark slipped inside. There was a heartbeat on the third floor, Bruce's bedroom. It skipped, stuttered at the sound of the door opening two floors below, then evened out into a slightly-faster-than-normal pace.
Clark made his way through the darkened halls, across the elaborate Persian rugs, and to Bruce Wayne's bedroom door. He paused outside for a moment, then pushed the heavy oak door open and went inside.
The room was dominated by a massive four-poster bed in dark wood. Black silk draperies hung from it, not quite concealing the figure lying apparently fast asleep in the middle of its vastness, burgundy cloth pooled around him like blood. The silk rose and fell with his slow breaths, and his eyes were closed.
Clark moved to an armchair on the far wall, facing the foot of the bed, and sat down, still unable to tear his eyes from the sleeping man. Bruce's hair was tousled, dark strands disarranged on the pillow. One bare shoulder was outside the sheets, pale skin and corded muscle. Everything about him looked completely relaxed, vulnerable in sleep, only the tiniest flutter to his heart-rate betraying that he knew full well he was being watched.
He never had the chance to really watch Bruce, Clark realized. The other man was always in motion, always in flux, never at rest. Clark stared and couldn't seem to get enough: the dark-winged eyebrows, the curve of the hand on the coverlet, the lips relaxed and slightly-parted, the very faintest of smiles on them, as if he were dreaming of something pleasant. Clark stared, devouring Bruce with his eyes. A sweet, slow heat was building in his body; not the sharp flash of lust he usually felt around Matches or Batman, but a deep, liquid burn rising. He sat, feeling desire simmering in him, transforming his body with slow arousal, the tightening in his groin a pleasure not yet demanding release.
"Mr. Wayne," he finally whispered.
Bruce's eyes snapped open and he stared around the dim room wildly until his eyes fell on Clark. He pulled the silk sheets up to cover himself in an almost comically prim movement. "Who the hell are you?" he gasped. "Get out of here!"
Clark tried to keep from smiling--and then smiled anyway, a slow and assessing smile. "Matches sent me," he said.
Bruce tossed his head. "I don't know what you're talking about. Breaking and entering is a crime, you know--"
"--I didn't break and enter. The door was unlocked. And Matches told me you wanted me here." Clark leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. "You know Matches Malone, don't you, Mr. Wayne?"
Bruce seemed to relax just the tiniest bit, his grip on the sheets slackening ever so slightly. "Matches Malone is a horrid, horrid little man," he announced indignantly.
"Oh, I beg to differ about the little," said Clark with just a touch of a leer in his voice; unbelievably, Bruce cast his eyes down and looked flustered, almost blushing. "And despite your protests, Mr. Wayne, I'm afraid I won't be leaving here tonight without having my way with you. Because Matches Malone told me to come here and give you a good time. And I always do whatever Mr. Malone tells me to do."
Bruce suddenly leaned over to the nightstand and pressed a button on it. "Alfred! Alfred! Come here at once!" he cried. "There's a strange man here threatening me!"
Clark found himself on his feet, feeling rather alarmed. He certainly didn't want to deal with Alfred...
Then Bruce's shoulders slumped dramatically. "Oh dear," he murmured, "I've given Alfred the night off. And the boys are both out of town." He raised limpid eyes to Clark's. "It appears I am utterly at your mercy, you wicked brute. There is not a soul in the house to hear my desperate cries." With a slight shrug, he reached for a jade bowl of sweets on the nightstand and picked out a chocolate-covered cherry. He bit a hole in the dark chocolate and slowly lapped up the oozing liqueur, keeping one eye on Clark. His tongue darted into the chocolate, rolling the cherry around inside its shell, prodding at its sweetness.
Clark sat down again slowly in the armchair, prompting a flickering raise of Bruce's eyebrows as he continued to tease the cherry. "Are you not going to ravish me now, scoundrel?"
"Maybe I feel like making you wait a little longer," said Clark.
Bruce extracted the fruit from the chocolate and swallowed, then licked his lips slowly. "You're not brave enough to do the heinous deed," he scoffed, his eyes slightly taunting.
It was all in jest, yet Clark felt some part of him tighten at the jibe. "I fully intend, you spoiled brat, to pin you down on that bed and fuck you senseless." Bruce's eyes glinted and Clark found himself unable to stop. "You'll find out just how helpless you are against me when I take what I want from you and plunder that sweet body of yours until you beg me for mercy. No matter how hard you fight, there is no way you can stop me." He was breathing heavily now, and the color in Bruce's cheeks was very sharp--not a blush, but the dark red flush of arousal. "I am going to fuck you so hard. I want you to know it's coming, and make you wait for it, until your treacherous body is begging for it--it is, isn't it, Mr. Wayne?" Bruce bit his lip, his eyes bright. "You're sitting there in your silk getting hard, thinking about how it's going to feel when I force you wide open and fuck you."
Bruce made a small sound in his throat and twisted his body against the silk sheets without seeming to realize it. "No," he said.
"Oh, yes," said Clark. "Look at you. Your eyes, your body. You want it so bad. You're wondering how much I'm going to hurt you. And you're wondering how much you're going to like it." He dropped his voice. "You're afraid you're going to like it a lot."
"Ah," breathed Bruce, his eyes sliding half-closed. "Just...just do it and get it over with." His hands kneaded the silk sheets aimlessly as he took a jerky breath, then curved around his erection, pulling the red silk taut against it.
"Don't touch yourself," Clark said sharply, and Bruce groaned. "No one gets to touch you but me now."
"You're not touching me, you bastard," moaned Bruce, but his hands shifted away.
"You're going to fight me," said Clark. "But it won't do any good. That's why Matches hired me, you know. Because he knew he had taught me an very important lesson."
"What?" Bruce breathed, almost reluctantly.
"He taught me that there is a certain pleasure to being forced to do what you want to do. To fighting it every step of the way and being forced to submit and enjoy it." Clark stood up then, undoing his belt, pulling his sweater over his head until he stood naked and erect at the foot of the bed. "Like you're going to enjoy this."
"No," Bruce said. "No." And then Clark was on him, pinning him onto the bed, hands on his shoulders, one leg heavy across Bruce's thighs, holding him down. Bruce gasped and convulsed against him, but without Kryptonite Clark was an immovable object, a force stronger than nature itself, crushing him gently onto the bed, as gently as velvet, irresistibly.
Bruce broke against him like a wave, a desperate surge of motion, and Clark kissed his neck as he struggled, nipping gently. Bruce pummelled him, but his blows were those of an untrained playboy, wild and unfocused. They rained on Clark's face and chest like frantic beats from butterfly wings. There was a liquid tearing noise as Bruce's hand caught in one of the black silk draperies, and black silk fell down around them, draping across Clark's back like nightfall all around them. "You're beautiful when you fight," Clark said, hearing his voice break, meaning it on every level, and kissed him.
Bruce bit his tongue as it entered his mouth, bit hard enough it would have drawn blood from anyone else, but Clark merely laughed into his mouth, exploring the soft slickness of it, the tender ridges on the roof. There was a taste of dark chocolate and sweet cherries and the soft burn of liqueur, and Bruce bit and moaned in an ecstasy of vain resistance, his body twisting and thrusting against Clark's. He grabbed a pillow and tried to cover Clark's face with it, pushing; Clark grabbed it away and feathers filled the air now, drifting like stars or snow, sticking to Bruce's sweat-damp skin.
"Nn," Bruce said, "Let me go." His eyes were wild, transported, his breath hitching in his throat. "I'm rich, I can give you anything you want."
"Oh, you are so right," Clark chuckled. "And you're going to." With a quick motion, he flipped Bruce over on to his stomach and re-pinned him. Pulling open the nightstand with one hand, he pulled out the bottle of lube x-ray vision had revealed there. "Did you think I wouldn't find this, Mr. Wayne? Did you think I wouldn't be brave enough to use it on you?" Pressed against Bruce's bare flanks, he pushed against the backs of Bruce's thighs, letting him feel heat and hardness.
Bruce bucked against him as well as he could while held nearly immobile, making muffled cursing noises. "You should be relieved I'm going to use this at all," Clark noted idly, then slipped a slick finger into Bruce's body, not too gently.
It was hot, hot and tight and oddly silky--Clark hadn't been sure what he had expected, but the soft, yielding tightness made him bite back a moan of surprise and rising anticipation. "No, no, no," Bruce was saying over and over. Clark added another finger, plunging deeper, and Bruce's protests sharpened and then shattered: "No, no--yes--no, please no--" then much more lowly, "--don't stop..."
Clark didn't stop. "I'm...Oh. Oh my God," he whispered, struck with the enormity of it, the vulnerability. Bruce just moaned and tossed his head against the undamaged pillow, feathers starring his dark hair. "I can make you--make you feel--" He wasn't sure what he meant anymore; he crooked his fingers and Bruce gasped sharply, going rigid. "Can make you scream." He couldn't wait any longer.
Bruce moved against him as Clark entered him, pushing sharply against him, refusing to let Clark go slowly. "Make me scream," Bruce muttered. "Yes."
"My name, " Clark agreed, keeping his movements steady, inexorable. "I want to hear it."
"I don't--" Bruce broke off into a groan, continued: "I don't know your name. I don't know... Tell me your--Tell me--"
He wanted to tell Bruce, he really did, but there seemed to be nothing left of him but the sensation of heat and pressure, building past all endurance. He couldn't seem to remember his own name--which one, there were too many choices, they all fled his mind like a cascade of feathers, like ripped cloth, there was nothing but the need to move harder and make Bruce make that sound again, he was lost.
"Clark," gasped Bruce, a sharp inhalation: "Clark." And then he screamed it, over and over, and Clark was lost in a different way, they were lost together.
When Clark could think again, he found himself with Bruce tucked up against him, head buried in the crook of Clark's neck. Bruce was breathing heavily, long, almost moaning breaths. They lay in silence, gathering the pieces of themselves up.
"You know what I'd like?" Bruce's voice was small against Clark's skin. "I'd like to be with my best friend in the world. I'd like him to come by and see if I'm okay, and I'd make him a cup of coffee and we'd talk all night." Clark could feel Bruce's lips moving against his shoulder. "And I'd want to tell him how much he means to me, how precious he is, but I know he already knows. So maybe I'd just kiss him instead." He exhaled, a small puff of air, not quite a sigh. "My best friend in the world."
Clark gently disentangled himself from Bruce's body, damp and relaxed. "You've been fun, Mr. Wayne, but I do have to get going," he said softly. "Mr. Malone wouldn't want me to spoil you."
Bruce pulled the sheets over his body as Clark got dressed, watching him intently. "You'd do anything that horrible little man told you to, wouldn't you?" he asked.
Clark leaned over the bed and kissed his shoulder. "He owns me, body and soul."
Bruce stretched like a lazy cat. "But who owns your heart, my handsome ravisher?"
Clark turned at the door and smiled. "My best friend in the world, of course."
Ten minutes later Clark Kent--wearing his glasses and a baby-blue cardigan sweater--knocked on the front door of Wayne Manor. Bruce opened the door wearing a Gotham Knights sweatshirt and sweatpants, his feet bare. His lips were a bit swollen and there was a small rosy bite mark on the side of his neck. "Clark," he said. "I was just thinking about you."
"I couldn't sleep," said Clark. "Thought you might like some company."
Bruce smiled. "Come on in, I'll put on some coffee." He turned away to pad across the marble floor and Clark could see a downy feather still caught in his hair.
"I hope I didn't wake anyone up," said Clark as Bruce puttered around the kitchen.
"Everyone's out for the night," Bruce said. He looked back over his shoulder as he reached for a couple of mugs. "It's just you and me now."
They sat and talked--about the monitors Batman had fixed at the Watchtower, about Clark's latest story assignment, about Bruce's latest modifications to the Batmobile. There were crickets singing outside the kitchen window. Bruce took a long breath. "Clark," he said. "I have to tell you--"
"--I know," said Clark. "I do know." There was a long silence. "You're supposed to kiss me now," Clark said, smiling.
"I want to tell you anyway. I don't want you to think I'm not serious. I play games, but they're...serious games. And under it all, every person I am...belongs to you."
"I know," said Clark. "But thank you for saying it." He didn't say the same was true for him; the World's Greatest Detective was always impatient when people stated the obvious.
Bruce leaned forward and kissed him, a slow, almost awkward kiss.
His mouth still tasted of chocolate and cherries and liqueur: dark and sweet and intoxicating.
Pairing: Clark/Bruce
Continuity: Toonverse (specifically before the JLU episode "Starcrossed," in which Flash learns Batman is Bruce Wayne.)
Notes: The fourth and probably final installation in the series "Game, Set, and Matches," in which Clark develops unsavory connections to Matches Malone.
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sex, some rough roleplaying.
Summary: Clark goes to the Manor under cover of night and surprises a playboy in bed.
Word Count: 3500
"I'm bored," said Flash, a bit redundantly since his super-speed pacing around the Watchtower's observation deck was making Superman dizzy.
"We should be glad it's a slow night," said Superman.
"Uh-huh, yeah, great," said Flash. "How's it going?" he asked, leaning over Batman, who was on his back on the floor, head and torso buried in the monitors. From within the computer came intermittent sparking noises. Three of the dozen monitors were currently showing only snow.
"Not bad. It would be going faster if you weren't asking me every five minutes."
Flash sighed, then picked up a remote. "Well, let's see what's on the news." He flipped around at a breakneck pace for a bit, then stopped. "Oh, Gossip Town," he said. "I love this show."
"--had the pleasure of interviewing Bruce Wayne this morning," Vicki Vale was saying. "And now I get to share that interview with you, our loyal viewers."
"Oh, this should be good," said Flash. "This Wayne guy's got more money than God, but he's a total moron. Vale loves having him on, he's always a total scream."
"Oh?" Clark said nervously, looking over at Batman, still deep in the guts of the computer.
"Oh yeah, he's hysterical? A bit light in the loafers. Always good for a laugh." Wally sat down and watched the television avidly.
On the screen, Bruce Wayne was sitting in a comfortable chair, his legs crossed, wearing a lavender sweater. Vale asked him about some of his latest charity work, and Bruce answered in a careless drawl, his hands waving languidly. "All right," said Vale, "Let's get to the good stuff. Are you seeing anyone regularly right now?"
Bruce's eyes glinted. "Oh Vicki, I'm far too complicated a man to ever limit myself to one person."
Flash snorted. "Complicated? That guy?"
"No," Bruce was going on, "I'm seeing a variety of fascinating people. There's the country boy with the sweet smile that I've corrupted, the brilliant writer in Metropolis who won my heart..." He leaned forward, tapping Vale's arm and lowering his voice to a mock-whisper. "Why Vicki, I'm even seeing a member of the superhero community sometimes. And he is yummy, let me tell you!" He fanned himself dramatically as Vicki's eyebrows arched.
"So...will we be seeing you at the premiere of the new production of La Boheme this Friday? All of Gotham's glitterati seem to be planning on making it."
"Friday night?" Bruce's smile was slow and lascivious and sent a chill all the way down Clark's spine and to much more private regions. "I'm afraid I've got plans for Friday night. Plans I'm very much looking forward to. The world will have to make do without me, I'm afraid."
"Can you believe that guy? 'Dating a superhero.' As if. Like any of us would be interested in someone like that." scoffed Flash.
"Friday night...show the billionaire nancy-boy a good time...he likes it kinda rough." The phrases from Matches's note to Clark rang in Superman's ears so he could hardly hear the Flash. "Uh," he said vaguely, trying not to dwell on images of Bruce naked and pliant beneath him. Or maybe not so pliant. Bucking against his grip, panting a little, grinding...
"He's from Gotham. Maybe he's dating you, huh, Bats?"
Superman almost yelped as he realized Batman had emerged from his work and was standing right behind him, looking up at the image of Bruce Wayne on the screen in his lavender sweater. "Impossible," grated Batman.
"Yeah, I know," said Flash. "What a brainless himbo." He shook his head in disgust. "Gonna make some coffee. Be right back." And he was gone.
There was a moment's silence as Clark and Batman watched Bruce Wayne on the screen, his head tilted back and laughing, his eyes jaded and knowing. Clark angled a little closer to Batman. "Actually, I think he's very attractive."
"You do?" Batman sounded honestly surprised.
"Definitely. Look at those eyes. That's a man who knows what he wants, for all his teasing."
"And just what do you think he wants?"
Clark lowered his voice a bit more. "I think he just needs someone to take him in hand, show him who's boss. He wants someone to set some limits, force him to behave. And I think he'd behave very well in bed for the right man."
Batman was staring at the screen, seemingly lost in thought. He took a long, slightly shaky breath. "Tell me more," he said, his voice very low. "Tell me." His hands were clenched in the black silk of his cape.
"He's got a beautiful voice," Superman noted, keeping his voice nearly clinical, just the slightest bit of lust darkening it. "I think he'd love to be driven into screaming his lover's name as he got fucked."
Batman made a small sound that might have been shocked disapproval at Superman's coarse language, or might have been a different kind of reaction entirely.
"Coffee!" announced Flash, carefully holding three paper cups, and Superman moved away from Batman's side to check the monitors. Flash held out a cup to Batman, but Batman ignored him entirely, staring into space, black cloth still tight in his fists. "Yo, Bats?"
"No time for coffee," Batman said brusquely, brushing Flash aside. "I've got work to do." He strode out of the observation deck, his breath a bit fast, his cape swirling around him.
"What a killjoy," said Flash, handing Superman a cup and draining Batman's in a quick gulp, then starting on his own. "That's a man who has no idea how to have a good time."
Superman hid his smile in the cup. "He does seem that way, doesn't he?"
: : :
Friday night. Clark made his way toward the back door of Wayne Manor, dressed in a black turtleneck and slacks. The glasses were off. He wasn't sure exactly who he was right now: he wasn't exactly Clark Kent, he wasn't Kal-El, and he sure as hell wasn't Superman.
All the lights were off in the Manor; it loomed, dark and impressive, against the starry sky.
The back door was unlocked, as Matches had promised it would be. Clark slipped inside. There was a heartbeat on the third floor, Bruce's bedroom. It skipped, stuttered at the sound of the door opening two floors below, then evened out into a slightly-faster-than-normal pace.
Clark made his way through the darkened halls, across the elaborate Persian rugs, and to Bruce Wayne's bedroom door. He paused outside for a moment, then pushed the heavy oak door open and went inside.
The room was dominated by a massive four-poster bed in dark wood. Black silk draperies hung from it, not quite concealing the figure lying apparently fast asleep in the middle of its vastness, burgundy cloth pooled around him like blood. The silk rose and fell with his slow breaths, and his eyes were closed.
Clark moved to an armchair on the far wall, facing the foot of the bed, and sat down, still unable to tear his eyes from the sleeping man. Bruce's hair was tousled, dark strands disarranged on the pillow. One bare shoulder was outside the sheets, pale skin and corded muscle. Everything about him looked completely relaxed, vulnerable in sleep, only the tiniest flutter to his heart-rate betraying that he knew full well he was being watched.
He never had the chance to really watch Bruce, Clark realized. The other man was always in motion, always in flux, never at rest. Clark stared and couldn't seem to get enough: the dark-winged eyebrows, the curve of the hand on the coverlet, the lips relaxed and slightly-parted, the very faintest of smiles on them, as if he were dreaming of something pleasant. Clark stared, devouring Bruce with his eyes. A sweet, slow heat was building in his body; not the sharp flash of lust he usually felt around Matches or Batman, but a deep, liquid burn rising. He sat, feeling desire simmering in him, transforming his body with slow arousal, the tightening in his groin a pleasure not yet demanding release.
"Mr. Wayne," he finally whispered.
Bruce's eyes snapped open and he stared around the dim room wildly until his eyes fell on Clark. He pulled the silk sheets up to cover himself in an almost comically prim movement. "Who the hell are you?" he gasped. "Get out of here!"
Clark tried to keep from smiling--and then smiled anyway, a slow and assessing smile. "Matches sent me," he said.
Bruce tossed his head. "I don't know what you're talking about. Breaking and entering is a crime, you know--"
"--I didn't break and enter. The door was unlocked. And Matches told me you wanted me here." Clark leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. "You know Matches Malone, don't you, Mr. Wayne?"
Bruce seemed to relax just the tiniest bit, his grip on the sheets slackening ever so slightly. "Matches Malone is a horrid, horrid little man," he announced indignantly.
"Oh, I beg to differ about the little," said Clark with just a touch of a leer in his voice; unbelievably, Bruce cast his eyes down and looked flustered, almost blushing. "And despite your protests, Mr. Wayne, I'm afraid I won't be leaving here tonight without having my way with you. Because Matches Malone told me to come here and give you a good time. And I always do whatever Mr. Malone tells me to do."
Bruce suddenly leaned over to the nightstand and pressed a button on it. "Alfred! Alfred! Come here at once!" he cried. "There's a strange man here threatening me!"
Clark found himself on his feet, feeling rather alarmed. He certainly didn't want to deal with Alfred...
Then Bruce's shoulders slumped dramatically. "Oh dear," he murmured, "I've given Alfred the night off. And the boys are both out of town." He raised limpid eyes to Clark's. "It appears I am utterly at your mercy, you wicked brute. There is not a soul in the house to hear my desperate cries." With a slight shrug, he reached for a jade bowl of sweets on the nightstand and picked out a chocolate-covered cherry. He bit a hole in the dark chocolate and slowly lapped up the oozing liqueur, keeping one eye on Clark. His tongue darted into the chocolate, rolling the cherry around inside its shell, prodding at its sweetness.
Clark sat down again slowly in the armchair, prompting a flickering raise of Bruce's eyebrows as he continued to tease the cherry. "Are you not going to ravish me now, scoundrel?"
"Maybe I feel like making you wait a little longer," said Clark.
Bruce extracted the fruit from the chocolate and swallowed, then licked his lips slowly. "You're not brave enough to do the heinous deed," he scoffed, his eyes slightly taunting.
It was all in jest, yet Clark felt some part of him tighten at the jibe. "I fully intend, you spoiled brat, to pin you down on that bed and fuck you senseless." Bruce's eyes glinted and Clark found himself unable to stop. "You'll find out just how helpless you are against me when I take what I want from you and plunder that sweet body of yours until you beg me for mercy. No matter how hard you fight, there is no way you can stop me." He was breathing heavily now, and the color in Bruce's cheeks was very sharp--not a blush, but the dark red flush of arousal. "I am going to fuck you so hard. I want you to know it's coming, and make you wait for it, until your treacherous body is begging for it--it is, isn't it, Mr. Wayne?" Bruce bit his lip, his eyes bright. "You're sitting there in your silk getting hard, thinking about how it's going to feel when I force you wide open and fuck you."
Bruce made a small sound in his throat and twisted his body against the silk sheets without seeming to realize it. "No," he said.
"Oh, yes," said Clark. "Look at you. Your eyes, your body. You want it so bad. You're wondering how much I'm going to hurt you. And you're wondering how much you're going to like it." He dropped his voice. "You're afraid you're going to like it a lot."
"Ah," breathed Bruce, his eyes sliding half-closed. "Just...just do it and get it over with." His hands kneaded the silk sheets aimlessly as he took a jerky breath, then curved around his erection, pulling the red silk taut against it.
"Don't touch yourself," Clark said sharply, and Bruce groaned. "No one gets to touch you but me now."
"You're not touching me, you bastard," moaned Bruce, but his hands shifted away.
"You're going to fight me," said Clark. "But it won't do any good. That's why Matches hired me, you know. Because he knew he had taught me an very important lesson."
"What?" Bruce breathed, almost reluctantly.
"He taught me that there is a certain pleasure to being forced to do what you want to do. To fighting it every step of the way and being forced to submit and enjoy it." Clark stood up then, undoing his belt, pulling his sweater over his head until he stood naked and erect at the foot of the bed. "Like you're going to enjoy this."
"No," Bruce said. "No." And then Clark was on him, pinning him onto the bed, hands on his shoulders, one leg heavy across Bruce's thighs, holding him down. Bruce gasped and convulsed against him, but without Kryptonite Clark was an immovable object, a force stronger than nature itself, crushing him gently onto the bed, as gently as velvet, irresistibly.
Bruce broke against him like a wave, a desperate surge of motion, and Clark kissed his neck as he struggled, nipping gently. Bruce pummelled him, but his blows were those of an untrained playboy, wild and unfocused. They rained on Clark's face and chest like frantic beats from butterfly wings. There was a liquid tearing noise as Bruce's hand caught in one of the black silk draperies, and black silk fell down around them, draping across Clark's back like nightfall all around them. "You're beautiful when you fight," Clark said, hearing his voice break, meaning it on every level, and kissed him.
Bruce bit his tongue as it entered his mouth, bit hard enough it would have drawn blood from anyone else, but Clark merely laughed into his mouth, exploring the soft slickness of it, the tender ridges on the roof. There was a taste of dark chocolate and sweet cherries and the soft burn of liqueur, and Bruce bit and moaned in an ecstasy of vain resistance, his body twisting and thrusting against Clark's. He grabbed a pillow and tried to cover Clark's face with it, pushing; Clark grabbed it away and feathers filled the air now, drifting like stars or snow, sticking to Bruce's sweat-damp skin.
"Nn," Bruce said, "Let me go." His eyes were wild, transported, his breath hitching in his throat. "I'm rich, I can give you anything you want."
"Oh, you are so right," Clark chuckled. "And you're going to." With a quick motion, he flipped Bruce over on to his stomach and re-pinned him. Pulling open the nightstand with one hand, he pulled out the bottle of lube x-ray vision had revealed there. "Did you think I wouldn't find this, Mr. Wayne? Did you think I wouldn't be brave enough to use it on you?" Pressed against Bruce's bare flanks, he pushed against the backs of Bruce's thighs, letting him feel heat and hardness.
Bruce bucked against him as well as he could while held nearly immobile, making muffled cursing noises. "You should be relieved I'm going to use this at all," Clark noted idly, then slipped a slick finger into Bruce's body, not too gently.
It was hot, hot and tight and oddly silky--Clark hadn't been sure what he had expected, but the soft, yielding tightness made him bite back a moan of surprise and rising anticipation. "No, no, no," Bruce was saying over and over. Clark added another finger, plunging deeper, and Bruce's protests sharpened and then shattered: "No, no--yes--no, please no--" then much more lowly, "--don't stop..."
Clark didn't stop. "I'm...Oh. Oh my God," he whispered, struck with the enormity of it, the vulnerability. Bruce just moaned and tossed his head against the undamaged pillow, feathers starring his dark hair. "I can make you--make you feel--" He wasn't sure what he meant anymore; he crooked his fingers and Bruce gasped sharply, going rigid. "Can make you scream." He couldn't wait any longer.
Bruce moved against him as Clark entered him, pushing sharply against him, refusing to let Clark go slowly. "Make me scream," Bruce muttered. "Yes."
"My name, " Clark agreed, keeping his movements steady, inexorable. "I want to hear it."
"I don't--" Bruce broke off into a groan, continued: "I don't know your name. I don't know... Tell me your--Tell me--"
He wanted to tell Bruce, he really did, but there seemed to be nothing left of him but the sensation of heat and pressure, building past all endurance. He couldn't seem to remember his own name--which one, there were too many choices, they all fled his mind like a cascade of feathers, like ripped cloth, there was nothing but the need to move harder and make Bruce make that sound again, he was lost.
"Clark," gasped Bruce, a sharp inhalation: "Clark." And then he screamed it, over and over, and Clark was lost in a different way, they were lost together.
When Clark could think again, he found himself with Bruce tucked up against him, head buried in the crook of Clark's neck. Bruce was breathing heavily, long, almost moaning breaths. They lay in silence, gathering the pieces of themselves up.
"You know what I'd like?" Bruce's voice was small against Clark's skin. "I'd like to be with my best friend in the world. I'd like him to come by and see if I'm okay, and I'd make him a cup of coffee and we'd talk all night." Clark could feel Bruce's lips moving against his shoulder. "And I'd want to tell him how much he means to me, how precious he is, but I know he already knows. So maybe I'd just kiss him instead." He exhaled, a small puff of air, not quite a sigh. "My best friend in the world."
Clark gently disentangled himself from Bruce's body, damp and relaxed. "You've been fun, Mr. Wayne, but I do have to get going," he said softly. "Mr. Malone wouldn't want me to spoil you."
Bruce pulled the sheets over his body as Clark got dressed, watching him intently. "You'd do anything that horrible little man told you to, wouldn't you?" he asked.
Clark leaned over the bed and kissed his shoulder. "He owns me, body and soul."
Bruce stretched like a lazy cat. "But who owns your heart, my handsome ravisher?"
Clark turned at the door and smiled. "My best friend in the world, of course."
Ten minutes later Clark Kent--wearing his glasses and a baby-blue cardigan sweater--knocked on the front door of Wayne Manor. Bruce opened the door wearing a Gotham Knights sweatshirt and sweatpants, his feet bare. His lips were a bit swollen and there was a small rosy bite mark on the side of his neck. "Clark," he said. "I was just thinking about you."
"I couldn't sleep," said Clark. "Thought you might like some company."
Bruce smiled. "Come on in, I'll put on some coffee." He turned away to pad across the marble floor and Clark could see a downy feather still caught in his hair.
"I hope I didn't wake anyone up," said Clark as Bruce puttered around the kitchen.
"Everyone's out for the night," Bruce said. He looked back over his shoulder as he reached for a couple of mugs. "It's just you and me now."
They sat and talked--about the monitors Batman had fixed at the Watchtower, about Clark's latest story assignment, about Bruce's latest modifications to the Batmobile. There were crickets singing outside the kitchen window. Bruce took a long breath. "Clark," he said. "I have to tell you--"
"--I know," said Clark. "I do know." There was a long silence. "You're supposed to kiss me now," Clark said, smiling.
"I want to tell you anyway. I don't want you to think I'm not serious. I play games, but they're...serious games. And under it all, every person I am...belongs to you."
"I know," said Clark. "But thank you for saying it." He didn't say the same was true for him; the World's Greatest Detective was always impatient when people stated the obvious.
Bruce leaned forward and kissed him, a slow, almost awkward kiss.
His mouth still tasted of chocolate and cherries and liqueur: dark and sweet and intoxicating.
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