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Showing up at each other's home uninvited is not something that happens between them.
Well, Clark wouldn’t dream of showing up at the Lake House without at least calling first, without giving Bruce a chance to avoid him, should he so choose. Batman shows up uninvited when and how he wants, on the roof of the Planet and in Clark Kent's living room, and Clark is convinced that half the time Bruce isn't doing it so much to pass him information as to observe Clark while doing it.
Sometimes Clark would like to give in to the urge to check Bruce's heartbeat, assess where he is and simply fly to him, with no other emergency than the desire to lean on his shoulder and think of nothing. No world to save, no truth to expose because it is the right thing to do even if it will inevitably end up hurting someone. It would be nice.
Tonight it would be exactly what Clark need. But Clark has been instilled good manners and he knows that Bruce is made of rules and limits and safety distances. So he pulls his phone out of his cloak pocket and calls, first of all. "Hey," he greets, and he is a little out of breath. "I just wanted to... are you home?"
It's two in the morning and Batman may already be back at the Cave as much as just starting the night's work. But if Bruce had been lurking on a roof he wouldn't have answered, would he?
"I just got back," Bruce replies lightly.
Clark hears him moving around the house, judging by the noises. He doesn't sound hurt (not that Bruce wouldn't go out of his way to hide it, in that case; but Clark is getting good at reading him, even without superpowers), but he might need some rest.
Clark hesitates, opens his mouth, but Bruce beats him to it: "Do you want to pass by?"
Clark closes his eyes. “… Yes,” he sighs. "Yeah."
"I’ll wait for you."
Bruce is leaning against the doorframe overlooking the dock when Clark arrives. He steps aside to let him in and closes the door behind him. The way he moves confirms to Clark that the Bat’s night didn't lead to any injuries.
"Bad week, mh?" he offers to Clark.
Obviously Bruce knows what a nightmare Clark's week has been, because he always knows everything, there is no information about Superman or their teammates that escapes him. But maybe it was enough for him to look at Clark in jeans and t-shirt (no glasses, no jacket, because he really wasn’t in the headspace for details and disguises) in the dim light of his living room at quarter past two in the morning, to free Clark from having to retort, to try to joke, throw in an 'at least it's friday' or something like that.
Clark covers the distance between them and leans against him, his face against Bruce’s neck, and Bruce doesn't need anything else.
Some time later, Bruce is finally inside him, on top of him, keeping him safe between soft sheets and golden light in his immense bed, he squeezes Clark reverently and fucks him slowly, languid and sweet.
"Perfect," Clark sighs. He can't stop sighing that night.
"Mh, like this?" Bruce murmurs against his collarbone. Clark hears him smiling between kisses. "Nice and soft?"
Clark shivers, focusing on the liquid heat that Bruce seems to be pushing deep inside him. “Yes, yes,” he pleads. "Don’t stop. Make it last. God, keep me here the whole weekend."
Maybe he would blush if everything weren't so perfect.
"I'm afraid the whole weekend is beyond my abilities," replies Bruce, amused.
But he continues to fuck Clark for the good part of an hour, dragging his pleasure until Clark feels like he's about to lose his mind. And once done, he allows Clark to cling to his back, wrap his arms around his chest, and fall asleep like that.
Clark wakes up feeling the sheets sliding down his chest, along with Bruce's fingertips, with his stubble and a hint of teeth from time to time.
When he opens his eyes Bruce is looking at him, his lips resting under Clark's navel.
"Give me some room?" he asks, grabbing Clark below the knee, pushing him to roll onto his back.
Clark grins. "Good morning to you."
Bruce gently takes the base of his penis between his fingers and begins to lick it.
Clark bites his lip. These days it is almost a habit for Bruce to wake him up like this. And it's a great way to wake up, Clark would never dream of complaining, but it's also a shame. Because it means that Bruce is awake and, after giving Clark a blowjob that he will think about all day, he will probably go to take a shower and then lock himself in that immense walk-in closet to emerge dressed and ready to go out to take care of something important (or absolutely nonsensical: with Bruce Wayne you can never tell).
Clark decides to enjoy the moment, however: spending the night with Bruce has worked wonders for his mood, he feels firmer and lighter.
He places a hand behind Bruce's neck and one on his shoulder and allows himself to make all the noise he wants while Bruce starts sucking the tip of his cock. If Bruce didn't take it deeply right away, perhaps Clark would notice that it's still too early for Bruce Wayne to have something scheduled on a saturday: it i s morning, but it's december and it's still dark outside. But Clark has his eyes shut and his mouth wide open and Bruce swallows around him with too much satisfaction when Clark let out a curse. Clark can't help but pull his hair a little and sink into his mouth carefully, calling his name with a moan when he comes.
Bruce lets Clark’ cock slide out of his lips, grabs it and jerks him off, chases every drop of cum as if Clark wants to deny him. At that moment, Clark couldn't deny him anything. He has ran out of voice to groan when Bruce, breathing faster and two tears on his cheeks, reaches down on Clark’s lower abdomen to clean up a strip of cum with his tongue.
"Oh God." He takes Bruce's face in his hands, wipes his cheeks with his thumbs. "Was it too much? Did I h— "
"No," Bruce reassures him, right away. He kisses the palm of Clark’s hand. “I'm going to take a shower,” he announces, standing up.
Clark remains where he is, dull and boneless. Bruce is not hard and it is not surprising, given how much they fucked the night before (or just over four hours ago, according to the clock on the bedside table). And Bruce is only human, and to use his own words: "How can I put this, Clark... the newspapers are starting to call me a mature playboy...". Clark chuckles.
When he hears the bathroom door open again he leaps to his feet and fly to Bruce in the doorway. He steals a kiss from him and then another. Bruce hasn't dressed yet and Clark takes the opportunity to caress his shoulders, his hips.
Bruce grabs his hands. "I'll never understand all this enthusiasm so early in the morning, Kent."
"Well, someone made sure I got up on a good foot," Clark retorts with a last kiss. “I'll be quick,” he adds, walking into the bathroom.
“It's saturday, Clark. I was hoping to catch up on some sleep," Bruce says. He drops back onto the bed. "You have to work?"
Clark turns, one hand on the doorjamb. "Nothing urgent..." No one expects him at the Planet until Monday morning, at least.
So Bruce doesn't have to go anywhere. The idea of seeing Batman idle paints an idiotic smile on his face.
"Then no one is in a hurry," Bruce says from under the sheets.
Clark nods, even though Bruce isn't looking at him. And even though he is in a big hurry to get back to bed now.
Clark is about to go back to sleep. But his phone rings with the ringtone reserved for Lois and he decides to take a look. He knows it's a bad idea to check the news afterwards, but he just can't resist peeking at least a few headlines. He throws the phone back in the direction of his clothes and lies down again, huffing a little.
"You're not still thinking about the Kramer affair, are you?" Bruce asks, sliding face to face with Clark on the mattress.
Clark smiles a little. “No, not really. I did what I thought was right. The truth can hurt, but continuing to hide it would only do more harm. I'm not… doubting myself, or anything."
"Is the press the problem, then?"
Clark shrugs: there were always news, articles, controversies about Superman. “Usually it doesn't bother me. But it's the first time Clark Kent is involved too. Since I can't be honest about Superman, I thought I'd give him some strong opinions about him."
"And some appreciated Clark Kent's opinions even less than Superman's doing."
"Yeah."
"But you're not doubting."
Clark smiles a little more. “I'm not doubting. I'm fine, Bruce, really."
Bruce looks at him. "Last night‒"
"Now I'm fine."
"Mmh," Bruce murmurs, nodding, and closes his eyes. He slips a little closer and Clark does the same.
Obviously the idyll could not last.
The world doesn't stop suffering because Clark feels overwhelmed. He can carve out a few hours when he can no longer resist, he can close his super senses to the outside world for a while, focusing only on the silence of the Fortress of Solitude, or on the work at the farm, or on Bruce's proximity, in this case. These moments are necessary, if the race he runs is to be a marathon: Clark does his best not to feel guilty when it happens.
He’s dozing when he hears a roar of water falling downstream, no longer contained by a dam. Superman is in the cold sky of deep Canada before Bruce could even acknowledge the movement of the mattress, probably.
He assesses the situation: blocking the water is impossible, diverting it would mean digging the mountain. Clark is content to evacuate whoever is in its path.
It is an outpost of woodcutters, there are few huts, the most serious damage will be the loss of equipment. Acceptable.
He takes the dozen men who worked in the valley to safety and awaits the arrival of rescuers with them. He gets away with it quickly, afterwards, because his help is not needed to rebuild and clear out much, he just removes a couple of trailers from the top of the trees, giggling to himself. Then he’s free to return to the Lake House.
It's eleven o'clock now, and maybe Bruce has got up in the meantime. Clark wants to drop by and wish him a good day before leaving him alone and going home.
But when he lands in front of the glazed door, Bruce is reading the newspaper, leaning against the headboard of the bed. There is a mug on the bedside table next to him.
"There's coffee in the kitchen," Bruce informs him, continuing to read.
And the thought that he has made enough coffee for Clark, too, assuming (or hoping) that he would come back to the Lake House for a moment pins Clark on the spot. But it is only a moment.
He takes off his uniform, drops it to the floor as he marches towards the bed. He wraps his arms around Bruce's waist, hides his face on his belly (he crumples the bottom of his newspaper like a mischievous cat, too) and inhales deeply the smell of skin, coffee and ink.
“Maybe later,” he replies with a sigh.
They have lunch around two o'clock with sandwiches Alfred must have made while Clark was in Canada, and continue to waste the day in bed.
Clark can't help but be fascinated by Bruce's behavior. It is a contradiction: even if he incredibly had nothing pressing to do, Bruce normally hates waiting, the idle time while he waits for a search to yield results, for the components of his technological gadgets to be built.
As Batman, Bruce is impatient, despite all his meditation skills and techniques and the endless stakeouts. The only use of his money that is valid is the one that manage to speed up processes, pave the way, because Batman has little time and an endless work to do. His race has never been a marathon, but a rushed headlong.
While as Bruce Wayne, money is only a means of passing time. Bruce Wayne has more free time than he can handle, he has the patience to watch the days slip away aimlessly.
But those stolen hours, shared with Clark, what do they mean? Who is next to him? Bruce Wayne loves to waste time, but why should Bruce impersonate him at the Lake House? For whose benefit? He has already allowed Clark to see beyond that mask, resigned himself to his insistence after Clark refused to settle for a blank smile, a pat on the back, a joke ("I bought the bank.").
Either way, it's a shame to waste time mulling over why Bruce is there with him now, especially if Bruce looks at him in that intense way.
"I'm realizing the dangers involved in leaving a man of action like you too much time to think."
"Oh, really? I thought that at the last meeting your complaints concerned the fact that I throw myself into the fray without thinking... "
“And without keeping the plan in mind. But I have an idea to give you something to focus on and practice following directions, if you're interested."
Clark feels a shiver. "I am very interested."
The windows are getting darker and Clark fucks Bruce, kneeling in front of him, while he clings to the headboard. Clark studies his hunched shoulders, his head thrown forward and his own cock going in and out of Bruce, as Bruce orders him how to move, how to fuck him, with low-pitched exhortations and hushed growls.
The thought that Bruce has Superman ready to obey his every order and is using him to get fucked in the exact way he wants makes Clark's head spin a bit and reassures him at the same time: that's a thing relatively new between them, and Clark needs some guidance.
When Bruce's orders settle into a series of satisfied 'yes', Clark grabs him by the hips and gets lost in the fast, springy pace they've created. His cock comes out of Bruce halfway every time Clark retracts his hips, it slides in to the base with an obscene sound of skin and lube rubbing with each thrust.
Clark throws his head back, "B-bruce," and the orders become 'more', 'harder'. He obeys, continues to obey as he comes, pushed over the edge by the way Bruce's breath changes when his orgasm is approaching, because it's an instant that Clark has come to recognize, and it's a knowledge he wouldn't trade for anything else in the world.
He keeps thrusting, burying his semen deep inside Bruce as he feels him coming too. He collapses against his back, drained, and once again it’s Bruce who holds him up. Clark rests his forehead on his sweaty shoulder and Bruce runs his fingers through Clark’s hair, reassuring him as he catches his breath. "Clark."
Clark groans, then swallows, pulls out of him. The vision of Bruce’s hole contracting makes his cock jerk, still semi-hard.
Bruce pulls his hair, makes him press his face against his neck. “Come with me,” he tells him after a minute and gets up. He takes Clark by the hand and leads him to the bathroom.
Clark follows him, his head floating and his feet too light on the floor.
Bruce turns on the light above the mirror, makes Clark settle on the soft carpet in front of the shower while he turns on the water. The continuous splash on the tiles lulls Clark's thoughts.
Bruce strokes Clark’s wrist with his thumb, studies him frowning slightly. Clark tilts his head back and lets himself be watched, as he lets himself be gently dragged under the jet of water, among the swirls of steam. Bruce gets in with him, backs him up with his mass, very close even if the shower could accommodate half a swim team.
Clark abandons himself against the tiles with a sigh, the contrast between the cool ceramic against his back and the water and warmth of Bruce against chest his just perfect.
Bruce retrieves some pungent-smelling bubble bath and begins to stroke Clark, rubbing his hands on his chest, around his shoulders and along his arms, hips, thighs. He kneels to slide them over his calves, squeezes his ankles. He lifts first one foot then the other, encouraging Clark to put his hands on his shoulders while he washes him.
When he gets up he washes himself efficiently as well, then takes Clark further under the jet and rinses the scented foam off every inch of his skin and still doesn't stop stroking him.
Clark is still clinging to his back, supported by Bruce's chest and the wall and that’s barely enough when Bruce starts kissing him, slowly sucking his bottom lip. Clark's erection, full again, rubs easily against Bruce's pelvis and for Clark it would be enough to stay that way. But Bruce takes him in his hand, masturbates him slowly, at the same rhythm with which his tongue touches Clark's.
Clark doesn't know how long it's been, when he comes again: every breath is a mouthful of warm, moist air, a caress against Bruce's cheek, millions of drops of water crashing around them and the glare of the lights on the crystal of the shower.
There are drops of water on Bruce's lashes. Clark catches them with his thumb, stares at Bruce until Bruce looks down, takes a step back and turns off the water.
He wraps Clark in one of those fluffy white robes he always has on hand, in the bathroom of the Lake House, but also down in the Cave and Clark can't help but smile.
"What?" Bruce asks, also with a half smile, as he dries Clark's hair and then his own. He wears another white bathrobe, while Clark shakes his head.
"Nothing. It's just…” he spreads his arms out. "I think this is the epitome of luxury, in my mind. The maximum of indulgence, you know? A very soft bathrobe to laze around in some five-star hotel room... " He is sure that the image comes from some movie, but he finds it fitting for Bruce Wayne.
"Mmh. It's not a bad way to indulge oneself,” replies Bruce, indeed. "Some details are missing, however." He contemplates the bed once back in the room. “Clean sheets,” he suggests.
They make the bed and it's such a domestic and unthinkable moment with Batman that Clark can't get an idiotic grin off his face the whole time.
"Champagne," Bruce continues after a few minutes, returning from putting in the washing machine the other sheets with an ice bucket and a bottle.
"Are you serious?" laughs Clark.
"Obviously." Bruce joins him on the bed. "Let's see, what else... a movie, company, the absolute, decadent intention to ignore any wonderful city may exist beyond the range of room service…"
“Ignore the whole world,” Clark whispers.
Bruce hands him a flute. "Exactly."
Clark shakes his head again. He snuggles up next to Bruce and looks for a movie to watch on the large retractable screen above the bed: Bruce refrains from commenting, but manages to make him understand how little he is struck by his cinematic tastes with just his expression. Clark laughs and chooses the most ridiculous option only to annoy him. They watch 'Home Alone’ and a couple more movies before Clark falls asleep.
"Where's Alfred?"
"Day off. It’s been too long since he took a little rest." Bruce is intent on cutting fruit for breakfast, waiting for the coffee. He turns halfway, looks at Clark with a raised eyebrow: "Don't you trust my cooking skills?"
"Actually, no," Clark grins, getting up from the counter and joining him. He wraps his hands around his waist and kisses his cheekbone.
They still wear the bathrobes. Clark could drop by his apartment and retrieve some clean clothes. Even if the current situation has some advantages, he thinks, poking his fingers under the fabric: Bruce is so reachable .
“I promised you a full breakfast to make up for last night. I'm a man of my word."
The champagne (and 7up for Clark, after the first glass of wine, because Bruce knows him) and the peanut butter cookie dough bites from the night before cannot be considered a dinner.
"I just want to help out."
“Then you can take care of the pancakes. They’re not exactly my strongest point,” Bruce confesses.
Clark laughs. "I'll handle that."
Clark imagines that he has no one but himself to blame, while Bruce presses his face, his chest against the windows overlooking the lake, rubbing his erection between his buttocks: Clark has spent all breakfast teasing him.
“Tell me you want it,” Bruce growls in his ear, grabbing his hair.
"I want it," Clark gasps. "Give it to me, I need it, Bruce."
Yes, Clark has no one else to blame and is quite pleased with himself, when Bruce gives him exactly what he wants, pounding into him against the windows, the hand in his hair forcing him to arch his neck, the other on his side keeping him still to take Bruce's cock, until Clark comes against the glass with a scream.
Bruce releases him and he drops his forehead against the cold surface and tries to catch his breath. But Bruce doesn't let him more than a second: he drags Clark to the bed, throws him on it, folds him almost in half. Clark finds himself with his knees on either side of his ears and Bruce resumes fucking him, brutal and relentlessly until he is reduced to a sobbing rag. Bruce comes inside him, his breath catching for a moment, and when he pulls out of Clark he holds him still, watches his own cum smear Clark’s opening. Clark comes again, suddenly, when Bruce uses his thumb to push some back into him.
A few minutes later, Clark glances at the window: imprints of his hand are perfectly recognizable (so many, everywhere, as if he had frantically searched for a handhold), as of his cheek, his chest, and further down, oh god.
“We have to clean that up,” he tells Bruce, who has just finished wiping a wet towel over Clark’s belly and pecs.
Bruce turns to look. "Mh. I don’t know. I could keep it as a memento for a few days,” he says seriously. Then he laughs almost to tears at Clark's shocked expression.
Clark, sitting cross-legged, works on a draft of an article on his laptop, which he has picked up along with some clothes he hasn't had a chance to wear yet, and texts Lois from time to time.
He doesn't feel that guilty about getting on with the work for the week‒ it’s wise, as he's likely to suffer the aftermath of the Kramer affair, and he’s almost sure that Bruce is watching surveillance footage on his cell phone. Bruce’s shin presses absently against Clark's buttock from time to time.
As the afternoon progresses Bruce becomes more grave, sharper, more taciturn. Night’s falling, and the Bat is calling.
Bruce's phone rings for an alert from the Cave and Clark closes his laptop. He turns completely to Bruce, who wore clothes the last time he got up. "You have to go," Clark says.
Bruce stares at his phone with his brow furrowed, focused, for a second more. Then he meets Clark's eyes and his expression becomes a little embarrassed. "Yes. I... I told you that the whole weekend was not feasible— "
"It's all right," Clark cuts him off. He smiles, getting up to get dressed. "I let you work."
When he is ready, the laptop bag over his shoulder, Bruce gets close to him. "Clark..."
"It was great. Thank you for... putting aside all this time to stay with me. I know how complicated it is."
And Bruce looks away, as if this, of everything they did that weekend, is what makes him shy. “You just have to ask,” he murmurs.
Clark holds him in his arms, presses his face against his throat. "I know."
He could tell Bruce that the same goes for him. But Bruce doesn't ask, it’s what he finds most difficult. Clark knows this and says nothing. He lets him go, because now Bruce belongs to Gotham: Clark can share him with the city, if every now and then, when he needs it, when they both need it, he can steal a few hours, ignore the whole world along with Bruce.
Bruce nods at him. “Give me a call, tomorrow night. If you want,” he says, already turning his back.
Clark stares at him, amazed for a moment, then smiles. "Of course."