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Not for the first time, Clark questions his life choices and his friendship with Bruce.
I have a file on… everyone in the League. Security precaution. And…understanding group dynamics, individual motivations, possible weaknesses. I needed to know.
Clark squeezes his eyes shut for a moment to gather himself. The absolute invasiveness of it. The sheer arrogance to just…. just helping himself to people’s – no – colleagues and friends – private sex lives. Their orientation, proclivities, desires. It is a moral affront of huge proportions. The journalist in Clark thinks about ethical dilemmas on a daily basis; as Superman it is a clear-cut wrong; and as a Kansas boy, it makes him blush.
Diana: female. Orientation: fluid, evidence for bisexuality; long periods of celibacy interspersed with taking a lover, most recently in Paris, a young woman pursuing a PHD in Archaeology. Preferences/proclivities: pegging, riding, outdoor sex. Serial monogamist.
Arthur: appears traditionally cis male. Orientation: straight/Het. Preferences/proclivities: relationship with Mera appears traditional (Atlantean), monogamy; water sports, anal, vers, shoe fetish.
Barry: gender fluid; recently lost virginity; enjoys cross-dressing with girlfriend’s clothes. Premature ejaculation -reason for medical appointment last month. Breast fetish. Crush on Diana – pos issue in field?
Clark: Male (? Assuming Kryptonian biology matches human); Orientation: straight, but pos closeted (Kansas); serial monogamist; appears to enjoy being dominated by girlfriends (exhibit A: L.L.); Proclivities/preferences: demonstrates sensory seeking and tactility – enjoys touching others (including colleagues) albeit in ‘friendly’ fashion; and being touched in return. Voyeurism? (Evidence: x-ray vision, super vision and hearing). Exhibitionism? (Evidence: The Suit). Repressed. Vanilla.
Clark opens his mouth to speak, shuts it again. “Vanilla?! That’s what you think of me? A repressed, closeted peeping tom who gets thrills feeling up his colleagues!”
Bruce shrugs, “Those are just notes, reasonable conclusions based on observation and patterns of behaviour. You come from a traditionally conservative background. You do hug and touch all of us. Frequently. And are you telling me, that as a teen you never, not once, checked anyone out using your vision?”
The slight pink to Clark’s ears could be his outrage. Bruce goes on, “Given Ivy’s penchant for sex pollen, it is useful to know how things might play out if one – or all- of us are affected. And how to handle things if we were affected.”
And this, exactly this, is what irritates Clark: that these are actually plausible reasons for violating everyone’s privacy. But it is still not okay. “Do they know? Because that’s where your justification falls down, Bruce. If it were so reasonable and for everyone’s safety, then why not put it on the agenda of the next League meeting? Hey Diana, Arthur, everybody, can you please just update and confirm the accuracy of your League sex file. Yeah, that would go down real well.”
*
For a long time Clark can’t explain it; the way the anticipation of the mission debrief tightens his sac and heat curls low in his belly. It feels like shame, the way it makes him shift in his seat and struggle to maintain eye contact with Bruce. It’s just a conversation, after all. Except it isn’t. At all. It’s a
Scolding
Clark feels the heat ignite in his lower belly.
“Clark. Look at me. This is the third time you’ve just charged ahead and launched into kryptonite. When are you going to listen? What will it take for you to follow the plan, to follow instructions?”
It’s a reprimand.
A rap over the knuckles.
Losing himself to the fantasy, hot with shame, Clark follows it down:
When will you learn to mind me? Bruce has his hand under Clark’s chin, lifting it to meet his gaze. What do you have to say for yourself? Do I need to treat you like a child? Maybe you’d be more inclined to listen if I did.
In his fantasy, sometimes all of the Justice League is there looking on. Arthur, curious and looking at Clark, hungry. Victor, unreadable but observing, analytical, recording. Barry’s sympathetic half smile, and Diana – Rao, Diana! – who stands, regal, hands on hips, nodding in agreement with Bruce.
Clark’s thoughts take a detour involving the lasso, bound tight around his wrists, as he kneels, bare, before the pair of them, eyes focused on heavy combat boots and elegantly fashioned greaves.
“Kal El. The Lasso of Hestia compels you to tell the truth,” Diana’s voice, low and exotic, “does it please you to be on your knees before me?”
“Yes,” Clark gasps, hardening.
“Yes, what?” her tone sharpens as she nudges Clark’s thigh with the toe of her boot.
“Yes…Princess?” He hopes that’s right.
The guilt he feels over such dreams and fantasies is laced with confusion: it’s one thing to think about a liaison with either Bruce or Diana; both very attractive people with charismatic personalities. The shared danger and bond of loyalty, the intensity of their work together also justifies some of the attraction. No, what churns Clark’s gut is the recurrent theme of submitting, certain words rocketing from his head to his groin…and just the humiliation of some of it. Surely those are negative feelings? Why is it so dick-hardening to think of being humiliated by that arrogant asshole, Bruce?
The first time Clark had encountered Bruce Wayne in all his fuckery, at Lex’s Library benefit gala, Bruce had been a condescending bastard:
“Don’t believe everything you hear, son.”
Clark had wanted to slap the smugness right off his gorgeous face (then get on his knees and - okay, it had triggered something that was frustrating and hot all at the same time).
In the fantasy, Bruce sounds amused, but the Bat edge to his voice has not worn off yet; it’s vaguely menacing and seductive all at once.
“I like you like this, Clark. You kneel like such a good boy. Do you like being a good boy for me?”
“Yes…” what comes next? Clark panics a little. Is it “Yes, Bruce,” (too familiar, not in this context); or “Yes, Batman,” (ridiculous, they are not in the field); or “Yes, Mr Wayne,” (it’s not an interview, he is not Clark Kent, intrepid reporter, he is… someone else, someone in-between). None of those feel quite right…
*
The answer to the Clark’s question eventually surfaces after a successful mission, but one that had resulted in the detonation of a kryptonite weapon. Diana managed to shield Clark from the hail of green fragments, while Barry and Bruce took Professor Emil Hamilton into custody.
Alfred finishes meticulously picking fragments from Clark’s shoulder, while Bruce paces around the med bay. Clark shakes his head, “I honestly thought I could reason with him; he has a brilliant mind -
Bruce holds up a hand, raises his brow, “There was a plan, you should have stuck to it. Instead, you rushed in and you were injured,”
Annoyed, Clark begins, “I got all the hostages out so- “
“Are you actually going to talk back to me on this?” Bruce shakes his head, takes a deep breath, and then pins Clark with a glare, eyes narrowed. “You know that chair near the desk in my study?
Clark nods.
“Go up and sit there, when I’ve finished the mission report, I’ll come up.”
Clark flushes. He is being sent out like a child. “For how long? Why?” he protests, cringing inwardly at how whiny he sounds.
“To see if you can just follow straightforward instructions for once. Everything does not require debate. And I’m about out of patience. Get yourself up there and wait.”
Bruce crosses his arms, expectant. Clark thinks about refusing. Storming off and telling Bruce to go fuck himself.
Because it will mean something if he does this.
His legs feel heavy. The flush across his face prickles as he stares down at the flecks in the polished concrete. Clark swallows past the lump in his throat. Twice.
“Go on,” Bruce’s tone is softer, his expression unreadable. Clark takes a step, halts. He can’t buckle to this demand; defiance swells his chest and brings his chin up. Then Bruce grips his bicep – not hard, just firm - and turns him towards the door,
“Now. I’ll finish up and then I’ll deal with you.”
So now Clark sits in the wing back chair, poking the studs around the burgundy leather upholstery. Blue Jays and chickadees draw his attention to the dusk falling around the lake outside.
Bruce’s footfalls on the staircase sets Clark’s pulse racing. Ridiculous, he tries to shake off the sense of being in trouble, about to be chastised. Especially since it’s making him hard.
Bruce has changed into civvies and the waft of soap and cologne only compounds Clark’s arousal, triggering a memory:
Alfred had just brewed the tea and was busying himself setting out the cups:
“Well, it’s Wedgwood, Gio Gold, of course Master Clark, do you think your mother would like a set?” Clark settled at the wide kitchen bench, waiting for Bruce.
“Ah, he’s indisposed, but I will let him know you are here, Sir. Of course, he knows you were coming, and his disregard is unforgivably rude. He can pour his own damn cup.”
At the sound of voices and footsteps, Clark looked up to see Bruce draping a pink suede jacket over the shoulders of a dark-haired woman. She was impossibly lithe and finely featured, standing on tip toe as she kissed his cheek, “Do svidaniya lyubovnik.”
“Do svidaniya krasivaya, tantsevat’ dlya ya snova skoro,” Bruce responded, lips pressed to her forehead. And as she sashayed past with a shy nod, Bruce’s hand at her back, the soft scent of cardamom, tobacco, and something sweet trailed in his wake.
Later, Clark had been intrigued enough to ask, “What’s that cologne you wear, Bruce?”
“Mine? Or his?” referring to the more dissolute Brucie Wayne persona. Turns out Bruce’s own cologne was a bespoke creation while Brucie was much more obvious in Henry Jacques, Blue Vanille. Both were intoxicating and sensual. It had been hard to concentrate, afterwards, seeing Alfred on the periphery, tutting over spilled wine bottles:
"Apparently emptying the wine cellar before you die is now a distinct possibility. Congratulations Master Bruce, what an achievement.”
Thoughout their meeting, thoughts of the coupling, scant hours ago, kept disrupting Clark’s train of thought. Years of restraint had taught him to ignore his super senses when they revealed very private information; however, it was impossible to ignore the musky scent of sex that drifted like a weather front of high banked clouds, from Bruce’s bedroom, salting the air.
Bruce strides into the study and clears his throat; Clark sits up straight, jerked out of his reverie.
“Look, I’m sorry,” Clark begins to apologise and rises from the chair near the window.
“Sit. Down.” Bruce cuts him off with one raised hand.
Leaning against the mahogany desk, he pins Clark with steely glare. Then he softens and sighs heavily, closing his eyes.
“You’re sorry, yes, okay. But sorry won’t protect Barry or Diana from Ivy’s spores if you break into her stronghold without precautions. Sorry won’t help Victor if you’ve caused an EMP to go off by ignoring my pre-mission notes.”
The swirls and lines in the woodgrain of the polished floor appear to be of great interest to Clark, who keeps his head bowed, biting his lower lip.
Bruce continues, “Sorry won’t undo magic that you accidently unleash by storming into one of the traps set by Enchantress. Sorry won’t bring Superman back if he dies. Again. And sorry will be piss poor comfort for your mother, Clark. It’s not good enough, is it?”
There’s a slight sense of panic as Clark recognises the prickling sensation in his eyes. He blinks rapidly, and realises Bruce is waiting for him to answer.
And Clark Kent, journalist and wordsmith, can give no nuanced response. Superman is also silent, providing no reassurance or noble platitudes. Instead, the Kansas farm boy in him responds, whether to the weight of Bruce’s authority, the stern tone of his voice, or the simple sense that this lecture is well deserved. With gaze still downcast, voice hoarse, the words are pulled from a sticky pit of guilt;
“No, sir.”
Like a depth charge in the deepest waters, there is not a ripple on the surface, but underneath, everything shifts sideways, their relationship taken apart and remade, redefined.
Where the actual fuck did that come from? Clark is mortified at the words that fell from his lips. And he can’t rewind, can’t cough, mumble and pretend it was something else. Worse, he’s still in the suit, and he’s fucking hard. Clark shifts on the chair and looks up to find himself eye level with Bruce’s crotch.
Can, in fact, see the outline of Bruce’s cock, and see it flex in his pants.
Oh.
Bruce reaches out and hauls him up, close, whispers, “Clark,” and kisses him hard.
*
Clark turns away from the image, stares at the reflection in the floor to ceiling window of the gallery.
It feels so hot in here….
“I want – I can’t,” Clark looks away. How is he having this conversation with Bruce, of all people? Not even Lois knew about the things Clark thinks about and burns with shame for wanting. That’s not to say sex with Lois or indeed Lana, wasn’t good, it was. Great at times. It was sweet and full of gentle kisses, soft touches and, well it was nice. Nice. But part of Clark, for a very long time, doesn’t want nice.
And Bruce is many things - brilliant, brave, protective, loyal - but nice isn’t one of them.
The artwork in the Mapplethorpe Retrospective unsettles Clark. Imagine posing like that, for everyone to see: naked, bound and lashed. Collared and led. Bent over with a whip handle up your ass. In its day, some of the work had been deemed obscene. Is Clark obscene? And it isn’t simple embarrassment he’s feeling. There’s something he has held inside for so long being reflected back by the images, one after another, like recognition, like imagine doing that, and not caring what anyone thinks. He feels the edges of the box he’s so carefully pushed these most secret of his desires into; tight and dark and constricting. Oh to lose himself, to give over and let go, to choose absolute vulnerability and follow his pleasure down and down. Because he is never vulnerable, unless through some villainous action or encounter with Kryptonite, or where it was about killing him.
Clark sometimes lies in bed, touching himself, imaging what it might be like to actually feel the impact of a riding crop, to be criss-crossed with red welts, skin hot and tender. To be the whole focus of someone’s attention; the tantalising, burning shame of exposure.
Once, he and Lois stayed at The Royal Hotel, and while Lois was in the shower, Clark had sat, naked, on the black leather sofa. He’d closed his eyes and pressed into it, imagining, shamefully chasing a sensation, an association with submission: cool and full of potential threat, against his thighs, ass and back. Later, Lois riding him on it had doubled his pleasure; the thrill of the leather underneath, like a secret lover in an illicit ménage-a-trois.
He wants to be taken, roughly held, stripped, bound, ravished. Lois laughed at the romance novels, ‘bodice rippers’, but Clark understands exactly their appeal, even if he isn’t the target audience. Most of all, he wants to submit and be seen, exposed with someone he trusts, someone worthy who would know what to do, and how to do it. Why can’t he have this?
But then, that’s why Bruce brought him here, isn’t it?
*
Bruce hums thoughtfully, strolling around Clark, who is standing naked with his hands clasped behind his neck.
“Shoulders back, that’s it. Good.” The last word is a purr, as Bruce runs his roughened fingertips from the top of Clark’s bare shoulder to the cleft of his ass. Bruce is attired formally, in a dark grey suit and black shirt, with the bespoke collar pin glinting at the edge of Clark’s vision as he moves to stand in front of him. The soft rustle of silk on wool; Clark is hyperaware, all senses dialled up. The scent and sound of Bruce, his attention and authority, enveloping and overwhelming.
“So beautiful for me…arms down,” Bruce murmurs, before reaching behind Clark’s head to grasp a handful of hair, tugging it back. He uses his grip to steer Clark towards the ensuite. The two are reflected in the wall of glass facing the lake: imposing masculine figures, one clothed and slightly taller than the other one, who is entirely nude except for the leather laced around his cock, holding it down.
Dappled, coppery sunlight hits Clark’s curves, biceps, muscled thighs, his sharp cheekbones; a figure in burnished gold, Grecian, he should adorn a vase or be carved in marble in some museum of antiquities. Or a temple. Bruce is the shadow at his side: savagery sheathed in civility, wrapped in wealth.
In the bathroom, luxuriant and tiled in Italian marble, surrounded by gilded mirrors, Clark sees an exquisite set of matt black amphorae with the Wayne insignia engraved in silver script. No doubt these are responsible for the perfumed air, heavy and redolent of sandalwood, oak and vetiver.
“On your knees, wrists offered, head proud,” Bruce releases his grip, and right at Clark’s eye level, unbuckles his belt. It’s supple Italian leather, black, with a finely crafted palladium silver buckle. Bruce wraps it around Clark’s wrists.
Clark watches as Bruce rummages in the vanity. He produces several toiletry items; small golden cases and in various metallic tubes and containers. Cosmetics, of course. Playboy Bruce Wayne has a cache of items and ready supplies for women who spend the night - luxury toiletries they might require or enjoy. Bruce examines them and they click on the countertop. Turning to face Clark, he dips his thumb into a palette of eyeshadow and smooths a deep bronze across Clark’s lids, smudging underneath as well. In the mirror Clark sees how it intensifies his blue eyes, face heating up. He looks down at the floor, need and shame tugging at his pride.
“Colour, sweetheart?” Bruce rumbles, concern lining his brow.
A heavy blink, audible swallow, then Clark nods, “Blue.”
Dropping a soft kiss on Clark’s forehead, Bruce picks up a kohl liner. Tilting Clark’s head and resting the heel of his hand on Clark’s stubbled cheek, he delicately traces a line and adds a wing to each eye. Rouge follows, though Clark hardly needs any more blush to his cheeks. A luxuriant, creamy scarlet Chanel lipstick is pressed to his lips next, Bruce intently focused on filling the plumpness there and carving the cupid’s bow, just so. Bruce’s large hands work with surprising precision. A flash of memory spears Clark: the press of concrete at his back, soaked in the rain, the gauntleted fist, the snarl... He blinks. Here, in this sanctum, Bruce is thumbing his cheekbone, smoothing it, like a scholar savouring the finest vellum upon which sacred words are scribed.
Pleased with his artistry, Bruce moves behind Clark to face the mirror:
“Pretty boy,” he growls against Clark’s ear.
Clark flushes at the term, feeling more exposed with this makeup on, than if he were simply naked. Bruce tugs his head back and kisses him full and hard, biting his lower lip and sucking his tongue. When they pull apart, Clark sees the lipstick has smeared across his cheek; he looks slutty, wanton. Bruce dips his finger into the smoky black eyeshadow on the vanity, crushing the stylised, embossed Dior, and swipes it carelessly across both of his eyes. The effect is so different: he looks even more masculine – dangerous, rockstar, rakish. It’s not out of place with his suit, and as Bruce Wayne, he might even get away with it at a nightclub. But on Clark, well, it’s just…obscene; he looks like a freshly fucked, muscular femboi.
The sound of Bruce’s zipper jolts Clark from the mirror. Bruce rubs the head of his thick, hard length, wetting his fingers in silky pre-cum, then presses them to Clark’s lips, wrecking the tenderly applied lipstick even more with the indecent slick.
A whimpering, choked off sob: Clark realises he’s the one making all those sounds, and parts his lips for more.
*
And later, on the rich soft rug of the bedroom, when he kneels, chest to floor, knees spread, wrist cuffs locked to his ankles, offering himself…the lipstick stains the wool and the tears mix with eye makeup, at the rough and tender fucking. Bruce’s hard slippery cock sliding hot between Clark’s thighs, the smooth hilt of a whip teasing, then being… Pushed. Slowly. In.
Begging to come with the leather whip handle penetrating his hole, Clark turns his head to see, reflected in the wall of glass, what is both the nadir of his shame and zenith of his pleasure, rolling heavy as a thundercloud over his skin, and down his spine to throb between his legs.
“Ask nicely,” a harsh whisper, Bruce’s fingers biting into Clark’s hips,
“Please sir, … need to come, please...”
Gasping, sobbing as the whip handle is drawn out. The shock of emptiness, then the relentless burn of Bruce pushing his cock in, while he reaches around, loosening the leather. Clark’s cock springing free, painfully hard and leaking. The exquisite sensation of his sac tightening towards inevitability; tears fall freely now, as Bruce covers him, a weight on his back, silk shirt rubbing, hot mouth on his nape.
“Kansas, you’ve been so good for me. Such a good boy… come for me,” Bruce panting in his ear, arm around his chest, as Clark jerks hard and spills, hot.
*
After, in the falling dark, Bruce leans up on one elbow and wipes Clark’s face with a warm washcloth.
“Shh now, there. Hold still, let me… quit fussing,” murmuring over Clark’s half-hearted protests that he can wash his own damn face.
Then he lets Bruce curl around him on the smooth, soft sheets, arm over his waist, hand pressed to his heart.
*
Bruce watches intently, as Clark unwraps the gift.
Coiled in the tissue paper is a fine, hand-made leather flogger, a blue riding crop and something that looks, to Clark, like earrings. No, they’re, oh - he blushes even deeper.
Nestled in the centre of these items is a stoppered metal flacon in midnight blue. Clark lifts it like it might detonate any minute, and looks at Bruce with a brow raised.
“It’s an isotope of blue kryptonite; the molecular structure is too large to pass through the epidermis, but the hybrid silicone lubricant is bonded to a rare earth ore - neodymium, which keeps it on the surface, and it will remain where we want it until we wash it off,” Bruce explains. He takes the flacon, unscrews the stopper and tips a little of the slick balm onto his fingertips. It has a slight sheen in the low light.
Clark strokes the silver script that embellishes the bottle. “What does the H stand for?” he asks, tracing the delicate lettering.
Bruce smiles, rubbing the liquid onto Clark’s nipples,
“Humility. Or Humble, and I do mean the verb. Because I will use it to humble you, and to teach you humility.”
He attaches a diamond encrusted, weighted clamp. “Would you like that, Kansas?”
Clark gasps, his mouth dropping open in surprise at the sharp pinch and drag.
“Yes, Sir.”
*
Item update:
Sexual proclivity profile:
Clark: gender: Male (well-endowed, spectacularly functional); Orientation: bi, leaning gay; serial monogamist; appears to enjoys being dominated; Proclivities/preferences: demonstrates sensory seeking and tactility – enjoys touching others (including colleagues) albeit in ‘friendly’ fashion; and being touched in return. Voyeurism? Evidence: x-ray vision, super vision and hearing; exhibitionism? evidence: The Suit. Repressed. Vanilla.
Bruce: gender: male. Orientation: bisexual. Proclivities/preferences: promiscuous. Enjoys BDSM, tends to dominance but can enjoy switching, vers-top, shibari, leather, impact play, oral, anal, threesomes, role-play, suspension, edging, choking, body worship, rough sex, shower sex, blindfolds, docking. Prefers athletic body types in partners. Ideal sexual partner: male, muscular build, strong jaw, dark hair, full lips, intelligent, physical strength and pos heroic attributes.