Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bonus: Suit styling

Chapter Text

A few weeks ago, he had this recording of Clark's voice, not the first, but certainly of many more since months back. 

This one is interesting, there's a drawl in Clark's, Superman's voice, as the man called him. It was after their little double life mishap, but finally coming clean to each other after months of hinting and stalking was bound to happen.

However, it was not in his calculation that he would be caught like a rat on the round table of sweet fruits. Weird allegory, in short he actually became more infatuated with Clark after having his suspicions confirmed. Like its meaning, that word didn't last long, it turned into obsession almost, if not accounting for his teenage years excessive studies on Superman.

And it was not in his plan to jerk off to said man's voice calling his name. Right after patrol and before a meeting at nine no less, but at least he has a few hours to spare.

---

He's definitely drunk, three martinis are overkill even if he happened to somehow remedy his body to build immunity to alcohol. But he didn't, and now he's high... and having Clark Kent in bed with him.

His ass would be lying if he didn't grossly fantasize about this. He isn't repulsed by sex, he also had no reason to feel guilt satisfying his own body. He's having post nut clarity while finally getting to fuck his crush. He just came once from Clark fingers and that was barely ten seconds ago, that checks.

And Clark probably knows Bruce has recordings of his voice.

---

Chapter Text

A few weeks ago, he had this recording of Clark's voice, not the first, but certainly of many more since months back. 

This one is interesting, there's a drawl in Clark's, Superman's voice, as the man called him. It was after their little double life mishap, but finally coming clean to each other after months of hinting and stalking was bound to happen. Recordings are always encrypted on his devices, this one, a singular voice record on this phone, is an exception. 

Paranoia drops-in at his cave way too constantly, even if there’s another password alongside two other biometric scans to access the files on his phone. “KE.CK”, Kent, Clark. Unusual naming convention, and it should be “CL” if he uses “KE”. Again, the result of his fears. “KECK” sounds better than “KECL” anyways, and it’s similar to “cake”, he may or may not tend to associate the older man with pastries more than he should. Clark often smells like vanilla though, especially on the weekends.

Clark Kent, as he is, has this midwestern flair to his voice, a warm, honeyed voice that Bruce started to notice just a while ago, and something like a lick of the old transatlantic accent, the “Good American Speech”, drapped over his natural tonal intonations. Something a man does to fit in the confines of a commercialized Eurocentric place. Metropolis, the States. He came from cornfields and loving ideals of a couple somewhere out of nowhere, further back, he came from the stars, unknown to the West, to humankind. 

In reality, if a person come across you and start dishing out their Hollywood Americana swing, it would turn several eyes rather than wooing someone. Mr. Kent however, even though it’s cliché to say, does it just enough, barely there, like the earthy smell of wheat on his neatly pressed yet oversized suit.

He used to think a lot about the way Clark dresses… used to is not quite right. How the man’s suits are always faded, worn, but still fits him like a glove to a hand. Not in the measurements sense, but like a good pair of typeface and shape layout. Even as Superman, at first glance he is… kind, approachable. If you smile at him he’d smile back, if there are good intentions, sincere but not too ingenuous. Dependable, under the guise of a teddy bear. 

Bruce, thinks before he acts, he overthinks. Clark is also the same, rather, Bruce studied that from him. But also unlike him, Clark jumps into action the instant it calls for him, dire kinds of work, and in such circumstances acting after having a concrete plan is not optional. It’s a run to win against death. Sometimes things go out of calculation, sometimes a simple carpet tool is right there, sometimes we don’t know, forget, about the use of a “tucker” due to our ignorance.

However, it was not in his calculation that he would be caught like a rat on the round table of sweet fruits. Weird allegory, in short he actually became more infatuated with Clark after having his suspicions confirmed. Like its meaning, that word didn't last long, it turned into obsession almost, if not accounting for his teenage years excessive studies on Superman, and he has approximately no less than ten PDFs to show for it, each with at least two dozen spreads, bare minimum.

And it was not in his plan to jerk off to said man's voice calling his name. Right after patrol and before a meeting at nine no less, but at least he has a few hours to spare.

“Even if you didn’t die from that fall, a dislocated knee wouldn’t be the only thing you’ll walk away with.”

It’s diabolical to get off from this kind of talk. Yet he likes the way how each syllable Clark said danced around in his ears. 

“Bruce.”

The last time he slightly felt this sort of churn in his stomach was from Selina stroking his cowl, caressing his face, and her calling him “baby”, a common term of endearment. Now Clark called his name, the name that he was severely detached from for years, despite it existing way longer than “Vengeance” did. The name that he only recently gave thought to again.

His hand, now coated a layer of his own spent, mixed with some bit of saliva. Normally he would have used some lube, toys, normally he would masturbate as a way to get his frustrations off his mind, a less destructive form of venting, and he was on his bed since thirty minutes ago.

He is so fucked.

--- --- ---

“If something happened to me within the past twenty minutes, are you able to bring me to the hospital?”

A trivial hypothetical, given the tone of the man who was just done pulling out his underwear, who had also already kissed Bruce several times despite Clark’s prior concern of transmitting the poison. His own actions were in the heat of the moment, Clark gave the initiative… But was it actually Bruce who gave it, after all he knows Clark probably didn’t need that ibuprofen, given his solar powered biology. 

He hands Clark a pill; rounded, a shade like burgundy. His voice seems inaudible in his head, mumbling. Clark caught it anyways, he always does. 

"It's ibuprofen... but you don't have to take it if you don't want to."

The comment was not assume Clark has no medical knowledge of what Bruce was handing to him. Rather, it's something like a reassurance, a reminder, soft and gentle. 

'I know you aren't familiar with this kind of physical discomfort, I hope this helps.'

“My car is underneath this tower so...”

There’s a deliberate freeze in Clark’s actions, the older man looks at him like he’s a mouse that knows how to fly. Why did he thought of that allegory.

“You brought your batmobile over..?”

“I parked it here last night.”

“Ever the man with a plan aren’t you...”

His turbo engineered sports car isn’t named “batmobile” perse, it’s a comical name. At least Clark didn’t call it a “batwagon” or something.

He’ll consider it.

He is aware of his staring, he can’t really pull his eyes away from Clark, even if his entire body is bare for the man to see, what does he have to hide at this stage anyways. 

And those ill-fitting shirts always conceal Clark’s body exceptionally, he should have had a note to write down a class act in disguise right before him. Clark is… human, from afar, to up close. His body is flesh and blood, tender and warm, built deltoids yet a soft abdomen, stature  of a Greek god, Herculean features, somewhat blunt but down to earth manner of speech, terribly gentle but firm. There are no signs of sweat, a slight curve at the lips, controlled breathing, dilated eyes.

He keeps eye contact with those blues, they should become a pantone. Clark would probably win him in an eye staring contest, there isn’t much probability in it anymore now that he had thought about it. The contact doesn’t break as fingers trail intently along the scars beneath his chest, mapping them. Clark can remember all of his scars with just a few looks… he might be reaching, it hasn’t been tested, but he has more evidence than doubt. 

"Are you worried about me?

There’s a smirk somewhere in that sentence, they know the notion of him being worried yet never voicing it verbally is not new to Clark, it’s more like teasing. 

"Of course I am, you just drank a lethal poison."

Clark’s laugh is like tangy sweet honey, drizzled straight into his ears.

“Your heart is racing, hon. Did the three martini glass got you that bad?

“What the hell Clark... You aren't looking so good yourself.”

--

Any concern of poisonous narcotics flew out of the window though. 

His observations acted as the core argument for him to come to that conclusion. 

His body would deny that bullshit instantly.

He's definitely drunk, three martinis are overkill even if he happened to somehow remedy his body to build immunity to alcohol. But he didn't, and now he's high... and having Clark Kent in bed with him.

His ass would be lying if he didn't grossly fantasize about this. He's having post nut clarity while finally getting to fuck his crush, it’s a whole new record to have lasted only ten seconds from Clark’s fingers. There are days that he wouldn’t be able to get off within thirty minutes. 

Jesus fucking Christ.

It took Clark significantly less effort to make him come than he ever could himself… somewhere in his head he hopes Clark doesn’t think differently of him. That’s also irrational, the man would never have a sliver of that thought. He’s being self conscious, and he could care less.

When that moonlight hidden by the clouds a moment ago caught his attention, his own hand had found itself on his forehead, he’s catching his breath. Maybe he is needlessly reflecting from cumming, maybe it’s because he has been wanting this for so long.

He’s been wanting Clark. 

There’s a smug grin on the old man’s face, he most likely has been listening in on the too obvious thumping of Bruce’s heart. He’s embarrassed, there’s the familiar habit of wanting to be defensive too, he’s sure Clark could pick up all that from the past minute or so, and he’s strangely fine with that knowledge.

The hand that held his face lingers, firm and just hard enough to keep his face from turning away, not that he had any intention to, Clark isn’t the only voyeur in this room. He feels irked at the sudden thought of being so vulnerable in any other circumstance… or rather, he feels safe, because it’s Clark.

Before he can make sense of the enlightenment, that hand on his jaw is now on his neck. Clark teases his slit, the man’s girth lined up against Bruce in a way that touches the younger’s cock. Bruce was maybe too out of it from his high to notice Clark tearing the rubber packet and lubing them up a few moments ago. Or he did saw that, but the older man was too fast for him to catch. Super-speed brick shithouse… improper use of his powers, but Bruce finds it attractive either way.

Clark can see Bruce’s arteries, it adds a significant layer of safety to him having his hand on the other’s neck. Bruce had thought about this, pretending his own hand was Clark’s some few days back.

Clark probably knows Bruce has recordings of his voice.

The room is strangely dead silent, save for Bruce’s ragged breathing, that pitch in his ears finally ceased. The sounds from below aren’t that loud, but it’s enough to be a reminder of their mark on his mind. 

The next few seconds he has to many things to pay attention on. Clark’s eyes, his hand on Bruce’s throat, the increased thumping somewhere, the slow but steady fullness filling him, Clark’s weight on him. Now he hears his heart in his throat.

It’s good. He had thought of this way too many times than he’s willing to admit. Even before he knew Clark Kent’s dual identity in the cold of Christmas, ever since the interviews in the heavy floods of Gotham.

Then Clark stops, his hand loosened, still as a statue, eyes wide, concerned.

“Bruce? Should I stop?”

“…Huh?”

“Does it hurt? Do you feel dizzy?”

“No… I… “

He brought his hand up to his face instinctively. There was no prior thought for this action, except a faint muscle memory and a pull somewhere in the backrooms of his head.

Oh.

That’s… so unprompted?

Why would he cry like this? Clark didn’t hurt him, there wasn’t any discomfort, Bruce thought that he was enjoying this too much, even.

“We don’t have to continue if you-“

“No- I mean, I don’t mind if we continue- fuck- I want to continue…”

Somewhere in his head there is a call to exit the stage, get the hell outta here, but why the fuck would he do that. What even set off the alarms? Every action, every notion has been consensual, Clark was so patient to him, still is. Clark has already gone soft for five seconds. 

He’s all naked, okay, but Clark already seen half of him since a month ago, not accounting for the countless times he could have taken a peak or two to check for his injuries since the flood. What is different. Sure, those times he felt like there’s a disregard for privacy, they were all in urgency, but Bruce himself also overstepped the boundaries, it’s all mutual… This time the “invasions” are slower, constant glances and touches to reaffirm but at the end, nothing is too new… 

Alright, that’s a stretch, who is he lying to, he’s banging the man he’s been pining after for months for fuck’s sake, this space is unfamiliar but all that he had felt was safety, nervousness is also there but it only exist as a certain corner in this room all decorated with soft pillows and flowers, he isn’t a big fan of the later but both are so goddamn nice. Who the hell is he proving himself to, that he’s unfeeling? He isn’t slick, he is clumsy with emotions, but he feels them, he knows what he feels, he would just rather run away from it like a stubborn asshole.

And then there’s silence. It’s thick, awkward and unnerving and that alarm is still annoyingly pushing him to bail. But it’s in his head. In front of his eyes, Clark is breathing, his heart is here, he is still here. Clark didn’t leave him. Clark never left him, even if the past ten seconds or something felt so damn uncomfortable. That humiliation is only in his head, no one is here, only Clark.

“Then why are you crying?”

There’s a furrow on Clark’s brow, and Bruce feels this sinking pit in his stomach, and frustration, not at Clark, definitely… it’s at himself. Okay, that’s it, he doesn’t want to run anymore though, twenty years of running is already long enough, his ankles had been sprained countless times and it’s a miracle he hasn’t ended up doing some permanent damage to his leg muscles.

Clark had given him everything, and the man continues to give. Bruce, on the other hand, has no idea if he had given Clark anything. 

So he should reciprocate right now.

“I… I think I’m happy?… Fuck, that sounds so weird… I was just thinking about you and this… that we are doing, I feel safe and I didn’t know- I swear I’m not making this up even if it sounds so fucking awkward and I’m honest, you did not hurt me at all.”

The weight in Bruce’s throat leaves and pulls, he fights through it.

“Clark.”

And it stops, seconds beat like the gnarling hammer against metal in his head. Approximately five seconds, then the smallest blow of air on his face.

Clark reaches to cup his face, a thumb wiping the tear hanging heavy on his eye. Those pretty blues visibly soften.

“You swear?”

“Yeah, yes… I swear.”

He should reciprocate.

“Clark… I love you.”

His eyes feel so heavy. It’s the simple three words, “I love you”, it’s so fucking corny and awkward. 

Yet it’s the universal language for affection of this place, in a Eurocentric coat, but he’d be lying to his own grave if he wasn’t embarrassed as hell. He doesn’t even remember the last time he verbally said those words, the notion of saying it is so old fashioned in the current state of things where being nonchalant and acting as if we don’t care is considered the norm, it’s fucking ridiculous.

And he didn’t stop it, why would he stop it, given the circumstance they are in, even with alcohol in their bodies, when Clark kisses his forehead and licked away the tear on his cheek.

“I love you, I adore you too, Bruce.”

There’s a burn in his throat, he swallows it down. Bruce tries his best smile at that, probably the effects of alcohol, or he just wants to because has Clark been smiling and reassuring him endlessly, despite everything, despite every circumstance, even in that time when the older man’s life was on the line. And Clark finally giggled.

“You know, baby? I saw your file on me the other day. T’was a very interesting study, though I have to say some of your conclusions are way off.”

“…Okay, to be fair I made that ten years ago, I know I can’t really prove it now but my views on you have changed. Considerably.”

“I can tell. Though I’d love to see the more recent ones you’ve made.”

“Sure. But that’s gonna have to continue later, I’m not letting you leave me hanging like this.” 

Clark laughed with his whole heart, and the kiss that immediately crashed landed on Bruce lips was more teeth than lips. He likes everything Clark gives him.

Chapter Text

Hearing the circulation of another person isn’t too different from having a constant pitch in his ears. It takes time to adapt to, like the noisiness of Metropolis streets when he first came to the city about thirty years ago. Flying back to Smallville every three or four days was a regular occurrence, it was excessive, but it helped his heart and mind. 

The quietness is dear to him, but what calms him are the familiar heartbeats in the home he grew up in, of the barn animals and the occasional whistles of life from the plants. Of the heavy midwestern dialect in his Ma and Pa’s manners, something like a lullaby that would let him rest his nerves for a few short hours. Even if he doesn’t go home, Ma and Pa would call him everyday, back then and now, he needed it, he still does.

The homesickness never left him, his visits are less frequent now, once every two weeks and he would stay for the entire weekend if the world allows him to. Being Editor-in-Chief capitalizes his time more than anything on his plate, but he would still choose it again if he got returned to that point in time. 

There are many choices he had wondered, how would they have turned out, would they be any different, if he didn’t leave to find that place which was taken from him since he didn’t even know how to talk. Sixteen years ago, every thought on that matter would tear at him if he didn’t busy himself with what he needed to do- another column in the pages, helping anyone he could, stopping one more accident. It was work, and work, and work, and work- until Lois forced him to go on a trip somewhere, anywhere. 

“Come on, take a week off, or two. You look like you’re trying to atone for something.”

There is a smile on her face, yet there was also a mili-second of that unreadable shift. He feels it in his throat, the same guilt, a scalding dread somewhere, his eyes being uncomfortably heavy, all the things he felt on his spaceship the moment he realized the warp jump had gone wrong, as it had already stolen one Earth-year of his time. He wasn’t able to contact her for months before it.

“Let’s go to Saigon, do a tour from North to South of the entire country even, I haven’t been there since 1986, betcha don’t know what it’s like to ride on a road full of other motorcyclists.”

There was a glint in her eyes, a full twenty years since she last visited her mother’s home. She’s ecstatic, and she’s worried all the same. He answers before he rationalizes the decision.

“That sounds cool, let’s do it.”

He would rather continue living than standing still. And there was finally relief in her weary lilac-brown eyes. He couldn’t even imagine the sleepless nights she has had the past five years. But he can, and her ego would never let him cross the fences, not now, at the very least. 

He catches the beat of her heart slowing down, as if a weight has finally cease tormenting it.

--- --- ---

It doesn’t really come across his mind often, but Bruce’s heart, as pretty in its ruggedness as it can be, also scares the shit out of him at times.

Only the bloke would know how many crash accidents he has committed on himself before Clark stepped into his house. The fact that Bruce will probably, no, never, stop being active every night may causes more grays to grow from his scalp. And that is physically impossible.

There are measures that Bruce would go to in order to successfully carry out his calculated outcomes, even if it involves injecting a form of undiluted epinephrine substance straight into his body, or hiding a lockpick within his palate. If Bruce were to have a serious infection from that, maybe he would have had something to use against Batman to stop him from practicing diabolically reckless choices. Pros and cons, no matter what he wouldn’t stop pestering, perhaps he would nudge even further into the young man’s territory to find out what else Bruce hides from him-

“How’s the piece on your sugar daddy?”

“Lo.” 

“What? You were starin’ at him like some lovesick schoolgirl. You’re going to that banquet in February right?”

“You wouldn’t ask me that for small talk, what’s on your mind?”

Her smile is practically beaming, the light coat of red on her lips adds to that unspoken quip. This is approximately the twenty-third time he has let her indulge on the Wayne philanthropist, and counting. 

“Anh nghĩ sao nếu mà thằng nhỏ mua luôn cái toà soạn này?” 

(What do you think if the boy signs his name to this office?)

“Chắc cũng chả khác mấy đâu, đằng nào anh cũng là người đứng ra kí hợp đồng mà, trừ khi em muốn nhận chức?”

(I doubt it would be different, I’ll still be the person reading through the fine print, unless you want to take my position?)

Her lax attitude diminished immediately as he spoke the word “nhận chức”, “promotion” is what he meant; “be inaugurated”, translated literally. The Chief position might as well be one of her Achilles’ heel, even if they both know she would rock the job.

“Gods no, Smallville, I still prefer getting to places rather than being stuck at the desk all day like you.”

“You asked for my thoughts, Lois.”

He smiles at her, returning that peppy soft red that she has been throwing at him. She shrugged, the “Well, I did” swimming out in defense. 

One more second and he pushes aside the clutter on his desk. Lois doesn’t hesitate from the invitation, sitting onto the now neater surface and taking out the claw-clip holding her hair in place. 

“We should get you another chair.”

“Will you use it whenever you crash into my place though?”

“Chắc là không.”

(Maybe not.)

Lois’ reading flows into his ears, a habit they picked up from each other, or did she do it because of him. He knew that Ma and Pa tend to read aloud texts and letters, perhaps ever since working with Lo almost thirty years back, he had started to become more comfortable with himself. It’s also convenient for proof-reading each other’s works though, he doesn’t have any protest.

“Mm, does he ever pay you to write a whole article like this?”

“He insisted.”

An immediate swat flies onto his arm, she bursts a laugh at the notion.

“Xạo lồn!!”

(Phony!!)

“Ơ, anh xạo chi.”

(Huh, why would I kid about it.)

“Bullshit, you didn’t accept it?” 

“Well, he was building a good cause from that auction, the more noises it gets the more impact. And, we are Metropolis’ biggest editorial office, we’ll have an advantage if we talk about him first.”

He turns to look at her when the silence persisted for more than three seconds. What is on her face is describable as her finding out the secret parallel third timeline where all of her predictions for the future had became true. 

“Ối trời ơi…”

(Oh heavens…)

“Yes, Lois?”

“Anh yêu nó thật rồi.”

(You are really in love with him.)

“Ừm… ye- yeah, anh yêu nó thật…”

(Uh huh… I do really love him…)

“Yêu”—“Love”, at this point it isn’t just camaraderie or crusading companionship anymore. 

It took him minutes to fully recontextualize that word, when the smell of concrete petrichor was all that surrounds him, the piercing pain right of his abdomen had finally ceased its machinations, and he saw fresh crimson blossoming from it.

Not even that sight haunts him like the glassy steel blue of Bruce’s eyes. Perhaps the dull sting of that formulated antiseptic gave his system some sort of anesthetic due to the shear pain it produced. All he heard was his own breathing, his strangely steady circulation, maybe Bruce’s heart too, the poor thing was freaking out. He saw Bruce’s eyes holding back the heaviness on their waterlines, yet every move his hand conducted was almost robotic, absolute precision. 

He wondered if the younger knew those weren’t his sweat.

A cheeky finger snap pulls him out of his daydream.

“Hello? Earth to Clark Kent?”

“Here, here.”

“So when is the wedding? Will I get to be your maid of honor?”

Her manicured French tips taps rhythmically against the wood veneer. Both Lois and him knows the possibility of the matter is close to none, but it is fun to indulge once in a while.  

“It’s a bit too soon for all that, doncha’ think? And I’m certain the paperworks won’t go smoothly either.”

“Oof, makes me kinda glad we didn’t reach that stage.”

“Haha! Even if we did I highly doubt we would present any documentation.” 

She snickers at their self-jab, a “Damn right” slipping out under her breath. A shift in her posture from the corner of his eyes, and she’s looking at the monitor again, still the spread of his just-finished article. One final review before he sends it down to type, he should really apologize the intern working their ass off worrying why his piece hasn’t turned in on time. Poor kid.

“I’m still salty that I won’t get to write about Bruce Wayne being the infamous Bat-boy of Gotham.”

“Oh? I’ll tell him to let you write about his public persona’s escapades then.”

“Hell no, send those to Cat, she’d love those more than I’ll ever do.”

“You are on first name basis with miss Grant now?”

Lois sticks the post-it notes straight onto the temple of his face.

“It’s been ten years, Kent, she’s hardly an intern anymore. If anything it’s way less concerning than your generation gap with Brucie here, you should worry more about your own flowers rather than mine.” 

“Alright, alright, my apologies for trespassing your garden miss Lane.” 

Her hand pats then ruffles playfully at his hair part.

“Bag a piece on LuthorCorp’s deal with Wayne Enterprises for me and I’ll forgive you, Chief.”