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The day starts off with a half-restful sleep, coming out to the kitchen to see Alfred already having a simple breakfast out, phone next to the plate. “Thanks,” Bruce says with a grunt, drinking his coffee in one gulp as Alfred washes the plates, no doubt having already eaten.
Checking his phone, Bruce only sees the League chatting casually, nothing world-ending coming up while he was sleeping. Then he squints at the reminder on his phone for 11am―“what?”
“Ah yes, some droll photoshoot because of your standing as CEO of Wayne Enterprises,” Alfred replies dryly. “Terribly unimportant, I know, but it’d be stranger if you didn’t appear to give a few soundbites. The dress code is up to you, though.”
Grunting, Bruce goes through his plan for the day. Banal photoshoot, and then… well, he does plan on working on more upgrades for his suit, so nothing too fancy. They’ll allow him eccentricities to not show up in some expensive suit, considering.
Taking a quick shower, he forgoes shaving the stubble as he picks out his clothes. Black jeans, a black shirt with the Superman symbol and WWSD What Would Superman Do? on it. Leather jacket with fur lining, and then he looks around as he considers the light scar on his neck. There’d no doubt be make-up artists there, but he did recently get a cut there due to a rare moment of clumsiness.
The clumsiness being because Clark Kent keeps visiting while he’s working on whatever upgrades needed and apparently Clark smiling joyfully at him was enough to―
Not important, Bruce scowls and goes over to his collection of collars, looking over the various colours and styles before choosing a simple black one with an O-ring at the front, stalking out of the wardrobe to go down to the cave to see what he might need for repairs before Alfred inevitably comes down to take (drag) him to the photoshoot.
The photoshoot and associated interview only took an hour, with him begging off after his obligations had been met, instead of staying with the other CEO’s for mid-day foie gras or whatever they planned. He thinks he disassociated through the last half, only faintly remembering the excuse of― a ‘hangover from all the partying the night before.’ Of course.
And he should really think about the upgrade he’s trying to do on the still-prototype yellow sun blasts, considering Clark’s recent visit to the hidden spaceship at the Antartic gave him more information on what can affect a Kryptonian that grew up with a yellow sun, like Clark. And if it can make it easier to not kill Superman (again), then he’s happy to get all the ways he can conceive of in his belt.
Bruce is only interrupted through his testing and upgrading when Alfred leaves his post to make dinner, staring at him until they sit down to eat at a clear spot on the table. Alfred has a rule about dinner, with Alfred himself only having dinner when Bruce is eating with him. It’s very effective.
After that, and a quick patrol he goes back to working on his prototypes, feeling tiny bits of accomplishment he refuses to think on as he continues to work on something that could save Clark’s life one day, then the opposite.
There’s a split-second of the alarms going off, and he looks up to see Clark arriving. Speak of the devil, he thinks. Clark looks around, not in his suit, so he goes back to working on the prototype.
“Bruce?”
He grunts, looking at the tiny wires inside the prototype as Clark leans on the table near him.
“What’s that?” Clark leans down, hovering over the prototype briefly.
“A project. Why are you here?” Bruce grimaces, voice coming out sharp from disuse as he looks up at Clark.
“Uh. Just wanted to check in,” Clark smiles, abashed and Bruce mentally kicks himself.
“Okay,” he manages to sound softer this time, to his relief.
Clark sits on the edge of the table, and he can feel the eyes on him like a brand. “Nothing big happening?”
“No, though that’s usually not a good thing,” he scowls, putting the prototype down as Clark continues to stare at him… or his throat, it seems. “What?”
“Why the, uh―“ Clark gestures at his throat, eyes not moving from Bruce’s neck.
“It’s called an accessory, Clark, surely you’ve heard of it,” he says dryly, tugging the O-ring on the collar. Clark’s eyes widen.
“I―I know what an accessory is!” Clark’s voice is a pitch higher than before, interesting. “So, uh, being quiet is bad?”
Bruce absently works on the prototype, keeping an eye on the other man, “it’s the calm before the storm, I’ve found.”
“Right,” Clark seems to give him a few once-overs in the span of a second, lingering on his jacket before again settling on his throat, and it’s only his upbringing which prevents from smirking. “They’d be planning.”
“Exactly,” Bruce does smirk this time, bringing a hand up to fiddle with the O-ring of the collar, “all hell enjoys breaking loose after. It’s quite annoying.”
Clark nods, eyes not moving from his throat and his hands twitching. Does he even need to blink? “Alright. I’ll be―I should―I’ll be on the lookout, then,” Clark smiles, stepping away before disappearing.
Still smirking, Bruce files the information away for further use as he starts to work on the prototype again. “Didn’t even say goodbye. How rude,” he chides softly.
Now, the fact that Clark is attracted to him is quite odd to think about, considering their history. He feels like he’s already dodged a bullet with surviving past Steppenwolf, and even though he’s sure Clark is some paragon of goodness, he still struggles to accept it.
And sure, he knows he’s attractive, knows how to make himself attractive and whatever else is needed for galas and high society, or to subtly retrieve information as people are distracted by his looks, but he is a bit out of practice, considering he only used it when he was younger, and less―
The information revealed shows that Clark is at least attracted to him, but it doesn’t have to mean anything, can barely wrap his head around anything more. The pause in his life of Clark Kent’s death and resurrection may have given him―deep affection ―for the Kryptonian, but he never entertained any long-term fantasies of settling down with him or something equally absurd.
Even with the new information, he’s still sure that keeping his emotions under wraps until his body gives out is the best option. If changes happen, he can adapt.
Clark Kent may have given him back his hope in people, given him endless love affection and faith in Clark Kent, but he’s still the same Bruce Wayne.
After a few weeks of, as he said, all hell breaking loose for the League, things seem to settle down to a normal baseline instead of dead quiet, and Bruce manages to find some time to help with the Manor rebuild. The League decides to work on it themselves when they have time, especially considering the League members' various abilities that’d make rebuilding not take forever, with the final touches being Bruce’s very discreet high-end contractors.
Entering the Manor, Bruce follows the sound of thumping to see Clark tearing a wall out on the second floor, and he takes a deep breath to control his reactions to it. After Lois and Clark’s amicable break-up, he’s started spending a lot of time here to help out. Bruce has spent an inordinate amount of time controlling his arousal these past few days rather than actually helping. “Anything worrying?”
Clark looks up at him, and fumbles with the piece of wall he's holding before gripping it again, “um. No. I’ve already―“ Clark turns around and tears down another piece of wall, resolutely not staring at him, “there’s no termites or asbestos, which is extremely lucky.”
Bruce hums and fiddles with the O-ring of the simple dark blue collar he put on, much like his black one. “Perhaps the fire was good for something,” he says a touch sardonically.
“Bruce,” Clark turns around to frown at him, thoughts obviously stalling on his face as Clark’s eyes go to his throat. “I―are you sure you want to take down all these walls?”
Coming closer, Bruce kicks the piece of wall with his boot, compartmentalizing his long-held grief as he looks at the burnt slab. “Better to rebuild from something new in some cases,” he says as he glances at Clark. Who’s caught on the collar still, and Bruce squashes down the urge to preen like he used to.
Clark only replies once he looks away, crossing his arms, “if you think so.”
Before, his head was filled with nightmares of a Superman chaining him up, and he still has those, but they’re more pleasant than his brain creating endless worst-case scenarios, or perhaps some eerie foreshadowing that passed as the League formed, phasing out as things changed.
Now, his dreams, when he remembers, are filled with his head pulled back as Superman pulls him along by the collar, black as Superman’s suit around his lake house, not for some weird power-play, but because he wants to.
Superman pushes him against the wall of the kitchen, all-encompassing and lightly using the collar to cut his breath, eyes dark. Bruce can only whimper, holding onto Clark’s wrist as his arousal heightens, never getting the satisfaction in these dreams as Clark stops, allowing him to breathe.
Clark uses his free hand to roughly grip his hair, pulling him into a dominating kiss, helpless to follow along.
“Bruce,” Clark growls, parting to look up at him as he tears the collar to pieces, and he ever wonders how Superman could be evil as he stares at the blue eyes― with sectoral heterochromia, brown in an upper section of his left eye― as Clark tears off his clothes, thumb pushing into his mouth as Clark stares and stares―
And then he wakes up. Never any satisfaction, he thinks bitterly as his cock throbs.
Considering the gun leveled at his head, Bruce thinks he’s doing okay. He’d love to get to his car to change into his Batsuit, but considering the people holding him and everyone else at the charity gala hostage, he’s done well so far to bring too much attention to himself. Until a goon saw him near the door and now there’s a gun pressed to his temple. Not ideal.
With the amount of goons surrounding them, he’s not willing to risk fighting one of them without his Batsuit, starkly aware of how human he is whenever this happens, and hating it.
“Superman is on your way,” Diana says through his comm just as the roof bursts open to show the alien in question, and it’s only a matter of seconds before the gun is nowhere near his head. In fact, all the guns are in a melted pile in the corner, with the criminals tied up using the red rope used to cordon off sections.
Superman floats ominously above the criminals, arms crossed and face in his no doubt ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’ look he’s perfected, before he turns around to assess the hostages. “Is everyone okay?” Superman asks, voice carrying easily through the room, and everyone nods as Superman locks eyes with him.
And. Well. “Superman, my hero!” Bruce gushes, running forward to catch Superman’s hand to shake it. Superman’s facade cracks, faltering in the air visibly.
“Um―it’s― nothing, Mister Wayne,” Clark looks down at his hand in confusion.
“Nonsense! Why,” he pulls the floating Kryptonian closer, looking up through his lashes. Vaguely, he hears someone scoff, going ‘of course he’d flirt with Superman.' “I’d be happy to thank you privately,” he purrs quietly, and is delighted to see Superman start going as red as his old cape as he gives Superman a once-over, heart rate spiking as he stares at all the black-clad muscle.
“That’s―that’s,” Superman coughs, “a nice offer, but I should refuse, there are,” Superman gestures vaguely at the sky through the roof he went through with his free hand, eyes wide. Bruce wonders if Clark’s seen the small line of black leather around his throat, with a ring on it of course, hidden under his shirt collar. “People need my help,” Superman squeaks before jetting off, and he marvels at his empty hands for a moment, the control required to not hurt…
Lady Adeline pats him on the shoulder and starts going on about how ‘it was a nice attempt,’ and he affects a small pout before turning around to see if everyone’s okay, turning his brain to damage control.
Bruce sighs, squinting up at the undercarriage of the Batmobile, when he hears a familiar sound. Rolling out from under the car, he looks up at Clark, “Clark! Excellent timing, can you lift up my car?” He stands up as Clark freezes momentarily, a deer-in-the-headlights look on his face. Why use a car-lifter when you have a Kryptonian around?
“Uh. Sure,” Clark quickly looks away to lift up the Batmobile.
“What brings you here?” Bruce asks as he gets some tools, putting some in his pockets as he starts to work on the underside.
“Well. Um,” the car shifts a little and he glares at Clark, who looks sheepish, eyes drawn to the jewel-studded collar around his throat. “Sorry. Uh. My ma, she. Wants you over for dinner?”
Bruce hums as he goes back to work, “sure. Just tell me when.”
“... Yes? You’re―yes?” Clark asks, baffled. “You don’t―just yes?”
“Just like that,” he says dryly, finishing up with the part which was frustrating him, deciding to work on another part that needs tweaking closer to the Kryptonian. “Your mother is lovely, you know.”
“Of course I know!” Clark snaps defensively, “sorry. Sorry,” Clark looks at the car, checking it if he crushed any of it before heaving a sigh. “I was expecting you to be more… against it.”
“Did you have arguments lined up?” Bruce smirks as he continues tweaking, feeling Clark’s heat from this close.
“Maybe,” Clark pouts.
Bruce hums again, moving to change some of the tools― when he slips on something liquid―and his breath catches as he’s caught by Clark, finger in the O-ring. His pulse spikes as he stares at Clark in surprise as Clark brings him closer, shoes skimming the floor before he finds purchase.
“Bruce,” Clark whispers, car gently being set on the ground, hand still on his collar. He stands still as Clark’s hand goes under his collar, and Bruce bites his tongue to stop any sounds from escaping. Fingernails scratch against his adam’s apple, and Clark must make a decision, face becoming intense as he leans closer―
“Master Bruce, the parts you ordered came in,” Alfred’s voice echoes throughout the cave, and the next thing Bruce is aware of is cold, Clark disappearing between one breath and the next.
Heart hammering, Bruce hovers a hand over this throat, still feeling the press of heat and skin, and swallows.
“You should stop being so mean to him,” Diana mentions as she stacks files from their recent meeting.
“To who?” Bruce stacks the rest of the files, everyone else leaving with their busy schedules. Clark went earlier as he heard a call for help.
“To Clark.”
Bruce hums, stacking the files on the corner of the round desk they use while encroaching on his Batcave. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says lightly.
Diana sighs, “so, you know nothing about the sexual tension between you, and the fact that Clark spent more time staring at your neck than at the files we were looking over,” her voice is sharp, and he represses a flinch, keeping his face placid and surprised.
“Why would he be looking at my throat?” He asks in faux confusion, fiddling with the O-ring of the red collar.
He receives a flat stare in return, Diana’s lips pursing. “Don’t make me get the lasso,” she threatens.
Bruce scowls, crossing his arms. “It’s just a bit of fun.”
Diana glares at him, “this better not be a game to you. Clark deserves better than that, you know this.”
“It’s not a game, I assure you,” he sighs, staring at the table.
Diana heaves a long-suffering sigh which reminds him of Alfred’s, “then why not ask him out, explain your feelings, instead of―this?” He looks up to see Diana pinching her nose.
“Uh. No. I prefer my plan,” Bruce grimaces.
“You won’t spontaneously combust if you talk about your feelings like an adult, you know,” Diana says, voice dry.
“You don’t know that,” he reels back, horrified and Diana shakes her head.
“Well. Good luck,” Diana says before she leaves. With everything sorted into some sort of proper place, Bruce looks forward to the time when the Manor will be complete, unused to so many people in his cave. Even if he does care for them.
Walking upstairs, he stops in his tracks, heart jumping at seeing an imposing, floating figure in his lounge area. “Clark.”
Clark looks down at him, arms crossed and face impassive as he floats, looking intimidating in blue jeans and flannel, fake glasses tucked away. “You have feelings for me,” his voice is as impassive as his face, and Bruce opens and shuts his mouth as he considers lying.
“Yes.” He licks his lips, "you were listening?"
"I was heading home and heard my name," Clark says, cocking his head as he looks down at Bruce, narrowing his eyes.
"It seems we have feelings for each other, maybe we should get to the dating and sex now," he offers with a smile as Clark floats closer to him.
"Only if you tell me what feelings you actually have for me first," Clark replies, lightly smirking.
Bruce crosses his arms, frowning up at the other man, “so you do have feelings for me,” he says instead, hardly believing that this conversation is happening.
Clark moves closer, then suddenly he’s facing the ceiling, reaching out to grab Clark’s arm as his blood rushes south, and he can feel a finger holding him in place by the collar. “Bruce,” Clark says softly, and he shivers, shutting his eyes.
“Somehow I fell in love with you while you were dead, and it’s very surprising that you have feelings for me,” he croaks out, the words flowing out like they were already waiting to be said.
“Surprise? Why?” Clark’s voice is still soft as he brings Bruce a bit closer by the collar, toes just touching the floor as he whimpers.
“Well, me as a person,” he chokes out, digging his fingers into Clark’s arm, thinking that the only thing to stop him from crashing―kneeling― on the floor is Clark.
Clark’s feet touch the ground, and he takes a deep breath as he rolls back onto his feet. “I had to research this,” Clark tugs at the collar, and Bruce’s head falls back, eyes fluttering as he stares at Clark, “and considering you as a person, I’m pretty sure I’ve caught on,” Clark holds eye contact, “am I right?”
“Maybe,” he rasps. “Was this before or after listening to that conversation?”
The only answer he gets is to be pulled forward into a kiss, and he lets go of Clark’s arm to grab his shoulders. Clark’s mouth is hot and chaste―at first, and he relaxes into it before a tongue joins in. As Clark moves away, he follows until Clark stops him, putting a hand on his jaw. “We should have a safeword before we continue, I think.”
Bruce groans, of course. “Banana muffin, then,” he throws out, and Clark gives him a look. “The traffic light system would also be useful,” he points out.
Clark smiles, kissing him briefly, “okay. Red for stop, yellow for slow down, and green for go, right?” Bruce nods, and the next thing he knows, his breath is knocked out of him as they’re suddenly near a wall, with Clark biting around his collar. “Bruce you, smart, maddening, beautiful idiot,” Clark slowly floats up again, pulling the collar up. “Colour?”
“Green,” he wheezes, and then Clark pulls him up more, collar straining and digging into his throat momentarily before Clark lets go. The wall is the only thing keeping him up as he massages his throat, looking at Clark, “still green.”
“You were like this when we fought, weren’t you,” Clark states, seemingly amused.
“Probably,” definitely, under all the fear. Bruce wonders if there’s something that Clark can pick up on that tells him so.
Clark chuckles and picks him up by the collar again, “how angry would you be if I tore this off?” The Kryptonian wonders, fiddling with the O-ring and Bruce attempts to stop his heart from jumping, though with how Clark glances up at him, he’s not that successful.
“I have a drawer full of them in my wardrobe,” he shrugs.
Clark rolls his eyes and kisses him deeply, and Bruce gets sidetracked with putting his hands through Clark’s curls. “Another time,” Clark says into the kiss and biting his lip, slowly going down his jaw to his throat, “I’m still deciding,” Clark sounds like he’s choosing which brand to buy from the store, and anger flashes through him. Then Clark grips his hair roughly, on the edge of pain and he whimpers, “how about you kneel to start with.”
Gasping, his knees hit the floor before he’s aware, staring up at Clark, hands going to the other’s jean-clad thighs.
“Very good,” Clark whispers, a thumb tracing a path below his eyes, and he lets out a whine, stare becoming pleading. “What about…“ Clark licks his lips, “you suck me off, and not making yourself come while doing that. Then I fuck you. Colour?”
“Green. Are you sure this is your first time?” Bruce scratches out, eyes focusing on the bulge in front of him, mouthing at the jeans and humming in satisfaction as Clark bucks against his mouth, pulling him back by his hair as he smirks. His own arousal is faint in his mind, with only Clark’s words reminding him of it.
“Yes, I’m sure it’s my first time with these sorts of rules,” Clark groans as Bruce manages to lean forward enough to pull the zipper down with his teeth. “Fuck,” Clark whimpers as Bruce mouths him through black underwear, with Clark soon pulling the pants and underwear down.
Bruce’s mouth waters as he stares at Clark's long, thick cock, already feeling a phantom pain in his jaw just looking at it. Bruce grips Clark’s thick thighs as he gets to work, closing his eyes at the bitter pre-come on his tongue and throat, swallowing half of it as Clark moans above him, hair being clutched tighter.
He may be a bit out of practice, but it starts to come back as he begins the rhythm of moving back and forth, Clark’s constant moans like music in his ears. Bruce’s mind fuzzes, slowly taking even more and more of Clark’s cock, humming at the deep musky smell and Clark whimpers, bending in half to rest his head on Bruce’s.
Licking Clark’s slit as it rests on his lips, he’s happy that the length reaches into his throat as he swallows again and again, and Clark’s whimpers rise even more, Bruce’s own arousal tugging at his mind, only somewhat aware that he’s ruining a pair of pants with his pre-come.
Usually, an accidental scrape of teeth would get a watch it! from someone else, but in Clark’s case it makes him shiver, the hands on his head pulling his hair to the point of pain, which makes him moan and file the information away for later.
“Fuck,” Clark cries as he comes down his throat, hot and salt, and it’s almost a struggle until Clark pulls out, coating his face and throat. Licking his lips, Bruce opens his eyes as he hears Clark’s gasps, blinking as he still sees that Clark’s hard, and his cock twitches in sympathy. “Bruce,” Clark whimpers, joining him on the floor to kiss him deeply. “You’re amazing,” Clark whispers as he begins to pepper kisses all over Bruce’s face and throat, cleaning up some of the come as hands following after.
“Good to know I haven’t lost my touch,” he croaks, voice gravelly and throat already starting to feel pleasantly sore, not to mention his jaw.
Clark drags him up the wall, covering him as they share more kisses. “Lube. Where’s your…“ Clark trails off, distracted by biting Bruce’s ears, then neck.
“Bedroom. Bottom drawer―“ it takes less than a second for Clark to appear with the lube in his hands. And naked, Bruce notes absently with all the skin and muscles on display. Useful.
“Clothes or no?” Clark asks as he unbuttons Bruce’s waistcoat, then his dress shirt, eyes on the wet patch on Bruce’s pants.
“Clothes,” Bruce groans, and even with Clark’s superspeed, it’d take time away from―he gasps into Clark’s mouth as Clark cups his groin before undoing his pants and pulling it and his underwear down and Clark's other hand under his collar to grip his throat.
“Good―colour?”
It takes a moment for his brain to comprehend the question as Clark pauses, waiting for his answer. “Green,” he answers, and suddenly there’s pressure on his throat, and a slick finger entering his hole and he moans, holding onto Clark’s shoulders, forcing himself to relax from the intrusion.
“I’m not―like this,” to emphasise, Clark digs into his throat, cutting off some air before Clark stops, and Bruce’s mind floats helplessly, “with others―Bruce,” Clark whimpers as he starts to move down on Clark’s finger.
“Their loss,” he manages to smirk, feeling proud as his arousal spirals higher, taking a hand off to use the wall as leverage as he grinds onto Clark’s finger.
Clark moans and adds another finger, and Bruce swallows as Clark starts scissoring his fingers, getting used to the feeling again. Between the soft kisses, the pressure at his throat and the fingers inside, Bruce realises he won’t last long as the pleasure arcs through him.
“Clark,” he pleads, with another finger soon entering him, brushing against his prostate. “Need you,” Bruce whimpers and the hand on his throat tightens, adding a sweet layer of pain-pleasure and the hand on Clark’s shoulder moves to grab Clark’s wrist, just holding on.
“Want to, but don’t want to hurt you,” Clark groans and stretches him more, squeezing his throat lightly and Bruce hopes the marks will last for days as he continues grinding down. “Another first,” Clark pants before adding another finger, stretching him more and occasionally brushing against his prostate.
“Now,” he grounds out and Clark cuts off his air again, hand a vice around his throat, “Clark.”
Clark loosens the hold on his throat and whimpers, “fuck. Okay, okay,” Clark takes his fingers out and Bruce groans at the loss, body clenching around nothing. His arousal stalls as Clark breathes, biting at his lip. Then the hand around his throat tightens, nails biting into his skin and pulling him up the wall, and Bruce gasps, hearing Clark moan as he prepares his cock.
He’s held in place, gasping as Clark’s thick head breaches his hole, Bruce taking deep breaths as Clark’s hand just holds him up lightly so he can't take more of it. “More,” he demands as Clark nips at his chest, wall rough against his back as Clark slowly impales him, and it seems an age passes before Clark is fully inside, breath punched out of him at the feeling as he gets used to it.
“Bruce,” Clark pants, bringing him into a meeting of mouths, “Bruce, please” he pleads, and it takes a few moments for Bruce to realise that Clark’s pleading to move.
“Yes, yes,” he chants, words becoming moans as Clark moves out slowly, whining at the loss before Clark goes back in, starting a slow rhythm that he can’t make faster due to Clark holding him up.
Clark whimpers, breaking their not-really kiss as his other hand comes up to his jaw, slick from the lube he used, and Bruce chases it, biting and licking Clark’s fingers clean. His moans are muffled as Clark starts speeding up and he cants his hips, stars exploding behind his eyes as Clark hits his prostate.
There’s the sound of words, going “there” and “yes” and “more,” and it takes him time to realise that it’s him as Clark nails that spot inside him with accuracy, the only thing Bruce can do is sob and hold onto Clark’s shoulders, nails scratching impenetrable skin as everything crescendos, orgasm impossible to stop.
Bruce reaches consciousness slowly, a stark difference from how he normally wakes up, he notes as he feels the cool sheets on his bed. Stretching a bit and categorising the various aches from Clark with pride.
Then a familiar sound happens, a swooshing of a cape, and he realises Clark isn’t in bed with him―well, he opens his eyes blearily as he sees Clark taking off the suit, freezing as he catches Bruce’s eye. “Uh, there was―“ Clark gestures to the window.
Bruce grunts and burrows into the bed, lazily pulling Clark back into bed as he hears the Kryptonian come close.
“Go back to sleep,” Clark whispers as he comes in, wrapping their arms around each other and kissing his forehead.
[Fin]
