Chapter Text
We yearn for eternity—but inhabit only time.
–Pascal
1—
Six days ago, late at night . . . at the Fortress of Solitude . . .
Superman—Clark—set them down lightly in the entranceway to the Fortress, the end of their journey illuminated by a wash of brilliant moonlight that bounced off the crystal pillars, silvering the space between them. Batman—Bruce—stepped backwards, out of the circle of his arms. The stillness, the sound of a heartbeat, the sensation of his lungs filling and emptying, filling and emptying—all seemed enveloped in a feeling of escalating panic. Clark closed his eyes and held his breath against an intolerable urge to call the whole thing off. His muscles tightened in preparation, ready to send them spiraling into the sky, back to the Watchtower, back to reality. It was only the hand that reached out to touch his chest that stemmed the tide; only the fingers that cupped his face, gently, and the man who leaned towards him, gazing into his eyes with the intensity, the confidence that only Batman seemed to possess. Those eyes—they were a lighter shade of blue than his own, almost the color of blue-tinged ice. In this diffused light, they looked practically translucent.
Clark could not move. He was held in place by an intense desire to know what would come next. And next. And next—he shivered at all the things that could come next.
Bruce did not keep him waiting.
A hand trailed from his chest and across his arm, then behind and along the line of his shoulder blades as Bruce circled him like the darkness. Clark held himself still, tried to slow his wildly racing heart; stopped breathing as a strong arm wrapped around him from behind, and the entire length of Bruce's body pressed against his backside, making his stomach clench and his face flush with heat. Nibbling on his neck, mouth pressed to tender skin, Bruce whispered, "Clark," and the dark sound made his stomach lurch—made him feel like he was careening in a car with no brakes, and was way out of his league.
But Bruce only tightened the circle of his arms and brought a hand down the front of him, across the flat plain of his stomach, and breached the waistband of his shorts. Clark inhaled sharply as fingertips lightly brushed his erection. All at once, the panic seeped right out of him, replaced by a frantic need to move before he embarrassed himself. Clark spun around, just in time for his teammate's lips to claim his own possessively and with a passionate press that demanded entry into his mouth, demanded his entire concentration. Fingers tangled in his hair, a hand moved down his backside, sending electric currents up and down his spine, and pulled him closer—so close—it was as if Bruce intended that they would never be separated again.
Too many sweet sensations, the pressure between them building, building, so different this time from their stunted and aborted gropings at the Watchtower that had led them to this extremity, more tender but still urgent and tight. Bruce kissed his neck, licked the salt from the hollow of his throat with a tickling tongue, and all Clark could do was close his eyes and concentrate on each sensation, determined to commit every fluttering feeling to memory, in case Bruce came to his senses and this was the last time—the only time—they could ever do this.
"Wait."
Clark froze, afraid that what he wanted most was about to be taken from him; that the dream would end, abruptly, with only the memories of a week of sticky, sweaty, inchoate promises, a week of promises unfulfilled.
"Not here."
Then Clark understood. This was not a good place to start this—in the open-air antechamber with the enormous statues of his biological mother and father as witnesses and no provisions for comfort—though Clark wondered what Bruce would do if he just dropped to his knees and escalated the situation the way Bruce had last week in the shower. But Clark didn't want to rush this time. He wanted to know Bruce tenderly, leisurely, without feeling stressed, without the need to be circumscribed or covert. Better to impress Bruce with the wonders of his house, his own version of a Batcave—his Fortress of Solitude. Better for everything to be slow, and intimate, and perfect.
He held out a hand. "Come."
Bruce took it.
Clark placed the other arm around Bruce's waist and lifted them into the air. "I know you've been here before," he said, smiling, "but I have something to show you that I've never shown anyone."
Bruce returned his smile with that little ironic, worldly twist, and to see the way the corners of his eyes crinkled made Clark that much more grateful that Bruce had divested himself of the cowl . . . somewhere. Clark couldn't remember when Bruce had taken it off—at the Watchtower, perhaps?—but to have an unimpeded view of the man's whole face, and to feel that soft hand sneak from Clark's shoulder to his hair to play with a curling lock made Clark feel like he had died—was dying in increments—and had gone to heaven.
"Holding out on me?"
"Never."
They landed in Clark's inner sanctum, the part of the Fortress that was his own, that couldn't even be seen when he had visitors; the place that, more than any other place he had ever lived, most closely reflected the complex nature of his soul. The Fortress computer, practically a living thing, was so attuned to his needs that Clark knew the sanctum would be exactly how he'd want Bruce to see it: startling, awe-inspiring, absolutely beautiful—just like Bruce.
Clark's faith in the computer was rewarded. Bruce could only stare.
"Where are we?"
Clark smiled, wistfully. "This is the night sky as it used to be over Krypton on the day I was born. It is something no one else on Earth has ever seen, or will ever see again." I give it to you.
"Is this a hologram? It feels like we're floating—"
"Of a sort. It's real, in a way. The Fortress computer can do amazing things, and the things it creates can exist outside of the laws of time and space as we know them. It's sort of complicated. If you want, I'll tell the computer to explain it to you . . . later."
Bruce leered. "So where's the bed?"
Clark pointed at a low-flying cloudbank. "You're joking." Bruce shook his head at Clark's blush. "Okay. If you say so."
"Are you hungry?" Clark asked, embarrassed. "Thirsty? I can have the computer—"
As the words left his mouth, there appeared on the other side of the expanse a table with all manner of delicacies. Bruce walked over to it slowly, shaking his head in amazement, took a grape and popped it in his mouth. "Is this some sort of teleportation? Did the computer make this? Why haven't you ever mentioned that the Fortress could do this?"
"Well, it never really came up. The computer—"
Suddenly, Bruce raised a hand, halting Clark mid-sentence. "You were right, Clark. We can talk about this later."
Clark's eyes widened as Bruce proceeded to disconnect his cape and let it fall out of the sky. Unbuckled his belt and let it find its own way to wherever with a muffled thud. Pulled the top of his suit off over his head and worked his way out of the rest of his body armor, creating a haphazard pile of expensive equipment floating, and a naked billionaire, standing there in all of his substantial glory.
Thus disrobed, Bruce proceeded to stalk across the sky like a shooting star, unabashedly naked. Beautiful. Clark stood with his mouth gone completely dry at the sight—of his friend's broad shoulders, the chiseled expanse of chest, the tight torso, his beautifully long legs, the skin that was smooth, luminous, radiant, and, of course, his jutting erection that seemed to draw the eye like the sight of something marvelous but taboo. Somehow, it was different seeing Bruce completely naked by moonlight, completely different from the impressions gleaned when Bruce exited the showers at the Watchtower or in a rush of stolen intensity while expecting someone to catch them in a passionate embrace.
Bruce was standing close enough to touch and the softest hands in the world found his face, his mouth. Flushed and excited, Clark sucked at those long fingers, shuddered with anticipation as he felt hot breath whisper in his ear; shuddered again as one tender earlobe was captured by mouth, caressed by tongue, nibbled on by sharp teeth.
"Your suit, Clark."
Faster than a bolt of lightning, Clark was as naked as his teammate. Not to be outdone by Bruce's natural aggressiveness, Clark closed the distance between them again and swept a hand lightly over Bruce's chest. Nipples went hard and round under his fingers, and Bruce's head lolled back.
"Damn," Bruce whispered.
He shifted, and Clark's heart slammed in the confines of his chest, certain that Bruce was about to say enough and push him away, but all Bruce did was reposition their bodies so they could get closer, so that all their most sensitive parts fit together like a puzzle.
Their bodies—damp with sweat and heat—pressed tightly against each other, granite-hard cocks trapped between hips moving in desperate need. Not wanting to wait any longer, Clark pressed them back until they both fell onto a cloud that floated by in response to his desire. Never separating, bodies close enough to be chiseled from the same piece of marble, though Clark made sure that he landed on top.
This might be his only opportunity to show Bruce how good they could be together, to stave off the objections he knew Bruce would raise as soon as sense returned: they were teammates, with a working relationship, that would be complicated by sex and the creation of attachments. Not to mention Bruce's control issues… Clark knew that this might be his one chance to prove to his friend that Bruce could trust him enough to hand over his legendary control, to convince him that he wanted to. So Clark made sure he landed on top and began his assault upon the brightest star in his sky.
Clark traveled down Bruce the way he would fly across an open expanse in a new, undiscovered country, slowly, avidly, paying a reverential attention to every small detail, licking, biting, sucking. Making his way down. Blowing on the curly hair of his chest. Down. Making Bruce's nipples as erect as small stones. Down. Running his face against the soft, smooth skin of his belly, nuzzling, licking the small indenture that was his belly button. Making his way down.
Bruce's pubic hair was as coarse and aromatic as summer grass before it was cut to make hay. Clark buried his face in that hair, breathing deeply as one hand restrained Bruce's jerking hips and the other wrapped itself around the thick barrel of his cock, exploring the texture, coaxing pearls of moisture from the tip and spreading that creamy liquid around the head.
Lightly, Clark began to lick his balls.
Bruce arched his back helplessly. Clark's insistent tongue laved him in exactly the right places, around and around his balls, lapping, fierce, rhythmic, along his stem, and below that, licking and sucking at the tight rim of his anus, pressing his tongue to the small hole, working it open, moistening that small space while his hand stroked the length of Bruce's cock, jerking up and down in a motion as inexorable as the rising of the moon at night. Just a thought directed at the computer produced what he would need to stretch Bruce, and Clark took only a moment to dribble some oil onto his fingers in preparation…
Clark smiled triumphantly as Bruce moaned, begging, sighing, when he slowly slipped a finger inside, then two, while his mouth took over for his hand and engulfed Bruce's engorged tip, then the entire shaft. Clark began a rhythmic pumping with his fingers—now there were three fingers inside—with his mouth full of what had to be, in Clark's mind, the world's most beautiful cock.
Bruce grabbed a handful of Clark's hair, pulling, trying to hold that mouth in place as his hips jerked up and down. Clark clasped those hips with both hands, sucked harder, just as Bruce, with a shout, exploded like a volcano.
Though ready—and more than ready—Clark couldn't do what he desperately wanted to do without explicit permission from one of the only men in the world that he admired as an equal.
"Bruce—"
"Just do it, Clark," he growled. "Now."
Quickly, Clark pushed Bruce's legs up until they were resting on his shoulders. Using strong fingers to spread his cheeks, Clark slowly, so slowly, sheathed himself, balls-deep, in Bruce's body.
It was almost too much for him, the tightness, the heat, the incredible dark heat that enfolded him, engulfed him, as if it would never let him go. Carefully, Clark set a rhythm of long and deep strokes, shuddering with the exquisite feel of it all. He tried desperately to keep control of the pressure rising in the pit of his stomach as he picked up his pace, moving faster, harder, deeper, slamming into Bruce's body, trying to reach that one special place . . . finding it, banging into it again, and again.
Delirious, Bruce called his name, and taunted, and urged him on.
For a moment, Clark was aware of the harsh sounds they made, in counterpoint to their thrusting, and then he forgot everything but the exquisite contractions, the taste of flesh, the multi-hued lust filling him.
"It feels—" Clark gasped.
"You feel—" His breath caught in his throat.
"—so good!" he yelled, slamming into him. Clark hesitated for just an instant, giving Bruce a moment to catch his breath, before sliding back into a slow rhythm, an aggressive, escalating motion.
"No . . ." Bruce whispered, his voice deep and low in his throat. "Don't stop . . . Clark . . . Please . . . Don't stop…."
Clark was now in full control. He leaned over, capturing Bruce's mouth with his own lips, sucking on his tongue as he thrust, and thrust, and thrust himself home.
Nothing had ever felt as good as this. Nothing.
Too many sensations—the smooth texture of skin, the pressure of Bruce's hands, one on his shoulder, the other tangled in his hair; the rush of breath in his ear; the inexorable tension building in Clark's stomach. Far too many sensations. Clark realized he would have to do this again just to count them all. And again. And again.
His breathing became ragged and he moved faster. With each deep and shattering thrust, with every one of Bruce's breathless invocations—Clark—it all fell into its proper balance: perfect, pleasing, impossibly simple and elegant. Transcendent. Clark felt his soul ease into a state of purest peace—as he had never experienced in any other way. Afterwards, breathing erratically, lying at the top of a sweaty press of bodies, a glorious entanglement of arms and legs, part of the sky that was the home in his soul, he was sated. He was serene. He was as happy as he had ever been.
Much later, he lay at last at peace, with Bruce sprawled bonelessly across his chest. Restively, with his thumb, Bruce stroked his side.
"Is it hard for you?" Bruce asked abruptly, his voice intense with shadows.
"What?"
"Do you have to keep a part of yourself separate, to keep control?"
Clark hesitated, unsure of the proper response, what Bruce wanted to hear—when he, more than anyone, knew the answer. "Always," he admitted. "I can't just—"
"I want you to lose that control with me, Clark," his voice was dark, delicious. "I won't break."
"But—"
Bruce hushed him, raising a finger to his lips. "Let me think about it," he said. "I'll find a way."
Clark quieted, wanting more than anything right then to be whatever Bruce wanted him to be, whoever his long-time friend and new lover thought he needed. He wanted to believe that Bruce was right—that there would come a time when they could be just Bruce and Clark but without costumes and disparate abilities, or just Batman and Superman but without a world waiting to be saved, or just a young man from Earth and Kal-El of the planet Krypton.
"Superman." The Fortress computer, always on alert, programmed to broadcast any call from another member of the Justice League.
Clark sighed, wistfully. "Diana. Seems our time is up."
Bruce nodded but instead of letting Clark up, he took him in his arms and kissed him sweetly. Then they both got up and got dressed and headed back to reality where they were expected, once again, to save the world before saving each other.