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arysteiaFic title: That Which We Call A Rose
Author name: arysteia
Verse: DCU, but feel free to mix and match your favourites
Pairing(s): Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne/Superman, Superman/Batman, Batman/Clark Kent *g*
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 12,028
Warnings/Spoilers: Apparently Big Bang fics can involve long, complicated plots? This fic... Is not that fic. Explicit sex, no spoilers.
Summary: The course of true love never did run smooth. When Clark Kent met Bruce Wayne. And Bruce Wayne met Superman. And Superman met Batman. And Batman met Clark Kent. And Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne finally got their acts together...
Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne, Gotham City, 1995
Winning the Wayne Foundation Scholarship to intern at the Gotham Star for a semester, all expenses paid, is a dream come true – should be a dream come true – for a small town boy like Clark Kent, but it’s also a nightmare. It’s hard, and it’s scary, and he misses Smallville and the farm and his folks so very much it hurts if he lets himself think about it too long. Gotham City makes Metropolis look like Smallville; all the traps and pitfalls of the big city that Pa had warned him about when he went away to Met U suddenly seem like quaint and whimsical charms by comparison.
Where Metropolis flaunts her excesses – glass and mirrored spires, hard edges and clean lines, and endless miles of bright, polished lights – Gotham is all shadows and sculpted stonework, art deco and gargoyles and gothic arches blending seamlessly into the night. It’s easy to imagine there’s something out there in the darkness, creeping. Clark feels like more of a fish out of water than ever, and he knows that running away solves nothing, his problems are still back at home waiting for him, but in that awkward, tortured moment where it seemed his entire life was a lie, he’d had to get away. Away from the questions, away from the uncertainty, especially away from Lana and her pained understanding and her gentle, sad, knowing smile.
His so-called colleagues at the paper have a very different attitude to Chloe and Lois; it’s not that they’re any better at their jobs, they’re not, not by a long shot, they just seem harder, somehow more brittle. They’re a constant, seething mass of gossip and innuendo, who’s slept with whom, who’s up for promotion or for a permanent position, whose star is fading. They hound him to go out with them on Friday nights after work, never taking no for an answer, but it never seems like they actually want his company, more that they’re afraid he’ll somehow one-up them in the eyes of the editor in chief, a grizzled old alcoholic who makes Perry White seem sweet tempered by comparison.
He politely demurs as often as he can, but there’s no way he’s getting out of it tonight; they’ve all been invited to a charity function at Wayne Plaza and it’s understood that anyone who’s anyone, or anyone who wants to be anyone, or indeed anyone who ever wants to work in Gotham will attend with bells on. That’s not exactly the sort of thing that interests Clark, and the prospect of a job offer is certainly not an enticement; he has no intention of staying in Gotham any longer than he absolutely has to. Bruce Wayne himself is supposed to be attending, though, and given how generous he’s been with the whole internship programme, even if it has been in an off-hand, impersonal kind of way, Clark figures it’s only good manners for him to attend. Ma and Pa would certainly think so.
The party is even more dire than he could possibly have imagined, full of ambitious interns and Wayne Enterprises employees, and equally ambitious socialites, all of them with few exceptions as empty and superficial as each other. He can’t imagine anything worse than spending his whole career attending parties like this, and he thanks his lucky stars he’s already decided to major in international news, not metro. He can’t imagine the entourage surrounding local boy made good Lex Luthor in Metropolis is much better. Speaking of the young tycoon himself, Bruce Wayne is conspicuous by his absence. The introductions and welcome to the function were done by Lucius Fox, the CEO of Wayne Enterprises, and the room is abuzz with rumours as to the whereabouts of the young heir, and bets as to whether he’ll turn up in time to hand over the novelty cheques himself, or whether that will fall to the long suffering Fox as well.
The gossip Clark can’t help but overhear suggests Bruce Wayne has been absent from such functions more and more often of late, for reasons unknown. The rumour mill suggests a steady decline into dissipation, absent the stabilising influence of his parents. Clark can’t help feeling that kind of judgment is a little harsh – Bruce is only a couple of years older than he is, and he can’t imagine losing Ma and Pa now, or indeed ever, let alone as a defenceless nine year old. Whether it’s the natural sympathy for the underdog Ma and Pa instilled in him growing up on the farm in Smallville, or just the kindred spirit of orphan calling to orphan, he can’t help feeling protective whenever Bruce Wayne’s name is mentioned; and it is, often, and from most people not with any generosity of spirit.
He makes his excuses and slips out, barely noticed, intent on heading back to the hotel where Wayne Enterprises is putting him up. It’s way too flash, and no doubt ridiculously overpriced, but when he’d tried to talk his way out of it, insisted he’d be just as comfortable staying somewhere cheaper, he’d been politely but firmly told there was no way that such a thing would be possible. Being safe and solitary in his own room is oddly depressing, and he heads back down to the lobby to go get himself a coke and some magazines. He could just as easily call room service, but it doesn’t seem right, making someone come up when he’s got two good legs and can perfectly easily walk down. Mission accomplished, he steps back into the elevator, and straight into another young man, too preoccupied by his cell phone conversation to pay attention to where he’s going.
“I didn’t feel like it,” the man snaps into the phone, nodding a non-apology at Clark and not looking up. “I told you already. Yeah, well that’s the thing, isn’t it? When you say that I have to, I really don’t, do I? Yeah, I thought not. No, I’ll stay in town tonight. No, no, you don’t need to come and get me.” His voice softens perceptibly. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. Yeah. Good night, Alfred.”
Clark stares at the elevator buttons and tries not to shuffle his feet awkwardly. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the young man staring at his phone, an oddly lost look on his handsome face.
“Are you okay?” he asks at last.
The man looks at him incredulously. “Am I okay?” he repeats, as though it’s the strangest question in the world.
“You look upset,” Clark forces out, feeling uncomfortably pinned by the man’s steel blue eyes. He’s starting to wish he hadn’t said anything.
“I’m fine,” the man says in a voice that implies he’s anything but. “I’m just sick of all the bullshit.”
“Were you at the party?” Clark asks, noticing for the first time the man’s impeccably cut tuxedo.
The man looks at him quizzically for a second, then shrugs. “Couldn’t face it.”
Clark smiles. Any ally is a good one, in the face of abject social failure. “Yeah, I lasted all of an hour. Bruce Wayne didn’t show up at all.”
The man looks at him again, one eyebrow slightly cocked. “Bruce Wayne?”
“Yeah,” Clark jokes, “Prince of the city, owns half of Gotham?”
The man barks a harsh laugh. “Oh. That jackass. Right.”
Clark starts guiltily, regretting his feeble attempt at humour. “I don’t think that’s quite fair,” he insists. “He gives a lot of money to good causes, he must be a good person.”
“Are you for real?” the other man snorts. “He’s a spoiled brat. Sleeps all day, parties all night, and throws money around because he’s never had to work a day for it in his life, and there’ll always be more where it came from.”
The elevator halts with a sudden chime. Clark realises he’d forgotten to press the button for his floor and stands aside awkwardly to let the other man out.
The doors are halfway closed when the man turns back suddenly and shoves his hand in between them, making them bounce open again with an outraged ping. “You want to come in, have a drink?” he asks.
“Me?” Clark blurts, surprised. There’d been nothing welcoming in the man’s tone, and there isn’t really anything in his posture either. But it beats another long night alone with his thoughts.
He follows the other man to his room. It’s a suite, and makes Clark’s look small by comparison.
“I’m Clark, by the way, Clark Kent,” he says, falling back on good manners.
“B,” the other man grunts, barely looking at him as he undoes his cufflinks and flings them carelessly onto a sideboard.
“Bee?” Clark asks, unsure he heard right. Bea? The other man only shrugs.
They order room service after all, Clark’s bag from the newsagent abandoned, and when he offers to pay half, despite the huge dent it’ll put in his per diem, Bee just laughs and waves him off.
Despite the awkward start, the night actually progresses quickly and surprisingly enjoyably, and they shift from the dining area to the couch with barely a pause. Bee’s a witty and urbane conversationalist, and can match Clark on just about any topic. He drinks more than he really should – that becomes apparent immediately; he finishes the wine by himself when Clark declines, and moves on to whiskey after – but it’s hardly Clark’s place to say so, and it’s not like he’s going to be driving anywhere.
They talk about anything and everything, politics and current affairs giving way to more personal topics, and Clark finds himself confiding the whole miserable tale of his final break up with Lana, and the mine field that is negotiating his feelings for Lois and Chloe, or more accurately, their feelings for him. There’s something liberating about just pouring it all out to someone who doesn’t know any of them, and cares even less, and therefore takes Clark’s part entirely, nodding mournfully where appropriate, and making surprisingly bitchy comments when required. Bee’s quite drunk by the end of it, cut crystal tumbler hanging loose in his hand, and Clark feels positively giddy himself from the pure abandoned freedom of it all. Whatever he says, Bee just nods and smiles wryly, and manages to top it with an embarrassing escapade of his own.
“I’d better go,” Clark says at last, loathe though he is to say goodnight.
“Stay,” Bee says quickly.
“What?” Clark asks, momentarily unsure just what’s on the table.
Bee answers that question pretty unequivocally when he leans in and presses his mouth hard against Clark’s.
Clark pulls away, shocked.
“Um... I...” he stammers. “I don’t...” It’s not that he’s never imagined such a thing, it’s just... Well okay, he’s imagined plenty, but it never occurred to him that that sort of fevered daydream might actually become a reality.
Bee laughs, a sad, brittle sound without much humour in it, and undoes his tie one handed, pushing himself up off the couch with the other.
“Stay or go,” he says, “but don’t pretend you don’t. You’ve been looking at me like a rare steak all night, and there’s a pretty obvious common denominator to all your tales of romantic woe.”
Clark flushes scarlet. “I’ve never...” He breaks off again.
“Ah,” Bee concurs, “well that’s completely different. I’ve been around the block a time or two, just follow my lead and I’ll show you the ropes.”
It’s surprisingly, shamefully easy to take his extended hand and follow him into the bedroom. Bee helps Clark out of his clothes, shucking his own with the elegance of a snake shedding its skin. He’s all long lines and lean muscle, lightly tanned and much slighter than Clark despite their being of a height. Clark trails a hand across his shoulder and down his biceps, reminding himself that Bee is still so fragile compared to him, closer in strength to Lana despite his far greater bulk.
They roll onto the bed, kissing again, more enthusiastically this time. Bee kisses like it’s a battle, biting at Clark’s lips and sucking hard on his tongue, resisting any attempt to gentle or slow down. He breaks away suddenly to shimmy down Clark’s body, licking a warm wet line down his torso and onto one thigh. Clark shudders as he breathes hot and humid over his groin, then moans aloud as he swallows him whole. He slides up and down with the ease of obvious long practice, and Clark spares a thought to be grateful he’s already got the stammered embarrassing confessions out of the way, because there’s no way he’s ever going to live up to this.
Bee pulls off suddenly, leaning over Clark to swipe a blue glass jar of something very expensive looking off the bedside table.
“Um, hey...” Clark stammers, nervous again. “I don’t know if I...”
“Relax,” Bee interrupts. He opens the jar one-handed, scooping a liberal amount of a thick white cream onto his fingers and applying it to Clark’s clearly still interested cock. Clark shudders, the sudden cool a shock to his overheated skin. Bee strokes him a couple more times, then rises to his knees and moves to straddle Clark’s lap.
“Hey, wait,” he blurts as Bee positions himself and starts to sink down; even his furtive exploratory library searches are enough for him to know they’re skipping over a vital step or two. Bee just grits his teeth and forces himself down, moist flesh clamping around the head of Clark’s dick as it penetrates him.
It’s almost uncomfortable for a second, a thick drag despite the lubrication, then Bee’s flush against his hips, and Clark’s all the way inside, and it’s hot and tight and glorious, and he couldn’t keep from moving if he wanted to, all good intentions be damned. It flicks through his mind that they should be using a condom, the literature was very clear about that too, not that there’s any risk between them, but Bee doesn’t know that, and especially if he does this kind of thing a lot, he’s so smart and good looking and confident, and, and, it’d be unforgivable to give someone a lecture on safe sex when you’re inside them, and, and-
Bee picks up the pace, muscles in his long thighs clenching, rising to his knees then sliding back down. His open hands press hard against Clark’s shoulders as he drives himself back, and as he settles into the cradle of Clark’s pelvis he shifts his hips and tightens his internal muscles in a way that makes Clark’s head swim. His whole body shakes with the effort, and Clark comes back to himself enough to take a gentle hold of his hips and support him, do some of the heavy lifting, and as their eyes meet Bee’s face loses its pinched look.
“Yeah, that’s it, that’s good,” he moans, and Clark takes it as encouragement, pushing up with little shifts of his own hips, and the way Bee groans and throws his head back says that that’s a good thing, so he does it some more. He only lasts a couple more minutes, and he’d be embarrassed, but Bee just grins and starts slowly stroking himself, Clark still buried half hard inside him. He comes with a quiet grunt and collapses onto Clark’s chest.
They sleep for a while, and when Clark wakes to find Bee leaning up on an elbow, looking down at him with a puzzled look on his face, he surprises himself with his own forwardness, shoving Bee down into the rumpled bedclothes and rolling on top of him. Bee laughs and spreads his legs obligingly, and Clark fits between them like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He slides back inside Bee with no difficulty at all, the way slippery with cream and sweat and semen, and loosened from their earlier activities.
He’s more confident this time, knowing just how hard he can push, how much Bee can take, and he gives it everything he’s got, shoving his way inside until his balls are snug against Bee’s ass, holding him in place with an arm around his waist and a hand on his shoulder, thrusting hard into his willing body. Bee arches his back and pushes into the thrusts, fingers clutching at Clark’s sides, nails scraping against his impenetrable skin. Clark lasts a lot longer this time, and manages to make sure Bee comes first, something even a Smallville near-virgin knows is important. The feeling is incredible, Bee’s body clenching tightly around him, pulling his own orgasm out of him, and he comes with a loud cry, clutching Bee to him and kissing him hard.
When he wakes for a second time, Bee’s on the other side of the room, glaring at his reflection in the floor to ceiling mirror. He’s fully dressed, but while his suit’s as impeccable as ever, his hair is wild, and there’s what can only be a bite mark on the side of his jaw. His eyes look a little glassy too, and as he steps forward to straighten his tie there’s an obvious stiffness in his posture, and a barely suppressed wince. He suddenly notices Clark looking at him, and flinches.
“You’re leaving?” Clark asks, trying not to sound bewildered.
“Yeah,” Bee shifts awkwardly. “Alfred was right. I’ve got to show my face at this thing.”
“Oh, okay,” Clark says, casting his eye around the room wildly, looking for his underwear, and trying not to wonder jealously who the heck this Alfred person is. “Hang on just a second and I’ll come with you.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Bee sighs. “There’ll be reporters everywhere.”
“Um...” Clark suppresses a guilty flinch. Somehow, in all their conversation, the whole internship thing didn’t come up. “Okay. I’ve got the day off tomorrow, we could meet for lunch?”
“I’m busy,” Bee answers without meeting his eyes, focused on doing up his cufflinks, in a tone that doesn’t sound remotely convincing. “Sorry. The suite’s paid for; stay as long as you want.”
He walks out of the room and doesn’t look back, door closing quietly behind him. It’s surprisingly painful, despite the fact Clark didn’t really have the right to expect more. He sighs and rolls back over, trying to get comfortable in the massive bed, but sleep won’t be coming any time soon. He really should go back to his own room, but a desperate, naive hope stops him. He sits up instead, and reaches for the remote. The television flicks on to KCGN, and as the late news starts the first story is coverage of the party, and the late arrival of an obviously inebriated and visibly debauched Bruce Wayne. As he staggers up to the podium, and smiles vapidly at the delightedly chattering crowd, Clark’s horrified to recognise the man who’d just left. He phones the offices at Wayne Enterprises the next day, but Bruce Wayne is in a meeting and unavailable to take his call.
Clark finishes out the internship with flying colours, and gets offered a starting position in the Star’s investigative division after graduation. It’s a plum opportunity, one anyone his age would kill for, and it doesn’t take enhanced vision to see the anger and jealousy on his erstwhile colleagues’ faces. The looks turn to confusion, and then open contempt, when he turns it down and returns to Metropolis without so much as a farewell drink. Gotham is an amazing city, and he could be anything – anyone – there. It’s just not anyone he wants to be.
Part II
Author name: arysteia
Verse: DCU, but feel free to mix and match your favourites
Pairing(s): Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne/Superman, Superman/Batman, Batman/Clark Kent *g*
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 12,028
Warnings/Spoilers: Apparently Big Bang fics can involve long, complicated plots? This fic... Is not that fic. Explicit sex, no spoilers.
Summary: The course of true love never did run smooth. When Clark Kent met Bruce Wayne. And Bruce Wayne met Superman. And Superman met Batman. And Batman met Clark Kent. And Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne finally got their acts together...
Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne, Gotham City, 1995
Winning the Wayne Foundation Scholarship to intern at the Gotham Star for a semester, all expenses paid, is a dream come true – should be a dream come true – for a small town boy like Clark Kent, but it’s also a nightmare. It’s hard, and it’s scary, and he misses Smallville and the farm and his folks so very much it hurts if he lets himself think about it too long. Gotham City makes Metropolis look like Smallville; all the traps and pitfalls of the big city that Pa had warned him about when he went away to Met U suddenly seem like quaint and whimsical charms by comparison.
Where Metropolis flaunts her excesses – glass and mirrored spires, hard edges and clean lines, and endless miles of bright, polished lights – Gotham is all shadows and sculpted stonework, art deco and gargoyles and gothic arches blending seamlessly into the night. It’s easy to imagine there’s something out there in the darkness, creeping. Clark feels like more of a fish out of water than ever, and he knows that running away solves nothing, his problems are still back at home waiting for him, but in that awkward, tortured moment where it seemed his entire life was a lie, he’d had to get away. Away from the questions, away from the uncertainty, especially away from Lana and her pained understanding and her gentle, sad, knowing smile.
His so-called colleagues at the paper have a very different attitude to Chloe and Lois; it’s not that they’re any better at their jobs, they’re not, not by a long shot, they just seem harder, somehow more brittle. They’re a constant, seething mass of gossip and innuendo, who’s slept with whom, who’s up for promotion or for a permanent position, whose star is fading. They hound him to go out with them on Friday nights after work, never taking no for an answer, but it never seems like they actually want his company, more that they’re afraid he’ll somehow one-up them in the eyes of the editor in chief, a grizzled old alcoholic who makes Perry White seem sweet tempered by comparison.
He politely demurs as often as he can, but there’s no way he’s getting out of it tonight; they’ve all been invited to a charity function at Wayne Plaza and it’s understood that anyone who’s anyone, or anyone who wants to be anyone, or indeed anyone who ever wants to work in Gotham will attend with bells on. That’s not exactly the sort of thing that interests Clark, and the prospect of a job offer is certainly not an enticement; he has no intention of staying in Gotham any longer than he absolutely has to. Bruce Wayne himself is supposed to be attending, though, and given how generous he’s been with the whole internship programme, even if it has been in an off-hand, impersonal kind of way, Clark figures it’s only good manners for him to attend. Ma and Pa would certainly think so.
The party is even more dire than he could possibly have imagined, full of ambitious interns and Wayne Enterprises employees, and equally ambitious socialites, all of them with few exceptions as empty and superficial as each other. He can’t imagine anything worse than spending his whole career attending parties like this, and he thanks his lucky stars he’s already decided to major in international news, not metro. He can’t imagine the entourage surrounding local boy made good Lex Luthor in Metropolis is much better. Speaking of the young tycoon himself, Bruce Wayne is conspicuous by his absence. The introductions and welcome to the function were done by Lucius Fox, the CEO of Wayne Enterprises, and the room is abuzz with rumours as to the whereabouts of the young heir, and bets as to whether he’ll turn up in time to hand over the novelty cheques himself, or whether that will fall to the long suffering Fox as well.
The gossip Clark can’t help but overhear suggests Bruce Wayne has been absent from such functions more and more often of late, for reasons unknown. The rumour mill suggests a steady decline into dissipation, absent the stabilising influence of his parents. Clark can’t help feeling that kind of judgment is a little harsh – Bruce is only a couple of years older than he is, and he can’t imagine losing Ma and Pa now, or indeed ever, let alone as a defenceless nine year old. Whether it’s the natural sympathy for the underdog Ma and Pa instilled in him growing up on the farm in Smallville, or just the kindred spirit of orphan calling to orphan, he can’t help feeling protective whenever Bruce Wayne’s name is mentioned; and it is, often, and from most people not with any generosity of spirit.
He makes his excuses and slips out, barely noticed, intent on heading back to the hotel where Wayne Enterprises is putting him up. It’s way too flash, and no doubt ridiculously overpriced, but when he’d tried to talk his way out of it, insisted he’d be just as comfortable staying somewhere cheaper, he’d been politely but firmly told there was no way that such a thing would be possible. Being safe and solitary in his own room is oddly depressing, and he heads back down to the lobby to go get himself a coke and some magazines. He could just as easily call room service, but it doesn’t seem right, making someone come up when he’s got two good legs and can perfectly easily walk down. Mission accomplished, he steps back into the elevator, and straight into another young man, too preoccupied by his cell phone conversation to pay attention to where he’s going.
“I didn’t feel like it,” the man snaps into the phone, nodding a non-apology at Clark and not looking up. “I told you already. Yeah, well that’s the thing, isn’t it? When you say that I have to, I really don’t, do I? Yeah, I thought not. No, I’ll stay in town tonight. No, no, you don’t need to come and get me.” His voice softens perceptibly. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. Yeah. Good night, Alfred.”
Clark stares at the elevator buttons and tries not to shuffle his feet awkwardly. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the young man staring at his phone, an oddly lost look on his handsome face.
“Are you okay?” he asks at last.
The man looks at him incredulously. “Am I okay?” he repeats, as though it’s the strangest question in the world.
“You look upset,” Clark forces out, feeling uncomfortably pinned by the man’s steel blue eyes. He’s starting to wish he hadn’t said anything.
“I’m fine,” the man says in a voice that implies he’s anything but. “I’m just sick of all the bullshit.”
“Were you at the party?” Clark asks, noticing for the first time the man’s impeccably cut tuxedo.
The man looks at him quizzically for a second, then shrugs. “Couldn’t face it.”
Clark smiles. Any ally is a good one, in the face of abject social failure. “Yeah, I lasted all of an hour. Bruce Wayne didn’t show up at all.”
The man looks at him again, one eyebrow slightly cocked. “Bruce Wayne?”
“Yeah,” Clark jokes, “Prince of the city, owns half of Gotham?”
The man barks a harsh laugh. “Oh. That jackass. Right.”
Clark starts guiltily, regretting his feeble attempt at humour. “I don’t think that’s quite fair,” he insists. “He gives a lot of money to good causes, he must be a good person.”
“Are you for real?” the other man snorts. “He’s a spoiled brat. Sleeps all day, parties all night, and throws money around because he’s never had to work a day for it in his life, and there’ll always be more where it came from.”
The elevator halts with a sudden chime. Clark realises he’d forgotten to press the button for his floor and stands aside awkwardly to let the other man out.
The doors are halfway closed when the man turns back suddenly and shoves his hand in between them, making them bounce open again with an outraged ping. “You want to come in, have a drink?” he asks.
“Me?” Clark blurts, surprised. There’d been nothing welcoming in the man’s tone, and there isn’t really anything in his posture either. But it beats another long night alone with his thoughts.
He follows the other man to his room. It’s a suite, and makes Clark’s look small by comparison.
“I’m Clark, by the way, Clark Kent,” he says, falling back on good manners.
“B,” the other man grunts, barely looking at him as he undoes his cufflinks and flings them carelessly onto a sideboard.
“Bee?” Clark asks, unsure he heard right. Bea? The other man only shrugs.
They order room service after all, Clark’s bag from the newsagent abandoned, and when he offers to pay half, despite the huge dent it’ll put in his per diem, Bee just laughs and waves him off.
Despite the awkward start, the night actually progresses quickly and surprisingly enjoyably, and they shift from the dining area to the couch with barely a pause. Bee’s a witty and urbane conversationalist, and can match Clark on just about any topic. He drinks more than he really should – that becomes apparent immediately; he finishes the wine by himself when Clark declines, and moves on to whiskey after – but it’s hardly Clark’s place to say so, and it’s not like he’s going to be driving anywhere.
They talk about anything and everything, politics and current affairs giving way to more personal topics, and Clark finds himself confiding the whole miserable tale of his final break up with Lana, and the mine field that is negotiating his feelings for Lois and Chloe, or more accurately, their feelings for him. There’s something liberating about just pouring it all out to someone who doesn’t know any of them, and cares even less, and therefore takes Clark’s part entirely, nodding mournfully where appropriate, and making surprisingly bitchy comments when required. Bee’s quite drunk by the end of it, cut crystal tumbler hanging loose in his hand, and Clark feels positively giddy himself from the pure abandoned freedom of it all. Whatever he says, Bee just nods and smiles wryly, and manages to top it with an embarrassing escapade of his own.
“I’d better go,” Clark says at last, loathe though he is to say goodnight.
“Stay,” Bee says quickly.
“What?” Clark asks, momentarily unsure just what’s on the table.
Bee answers that question pretty unequivocally when he leans in and presses his mouth hard against Clark’s.
Clark pulls away, shocked.
“Um... I...” he stammers. “I don’t...” It’s not that he’s never imagined such a thing, it’s just... Well okay, he’s imagined plenty, but it never occurred to him that that sort of fevered daydream might actually become a reality.
Bee laughs, a sad, brittle sound without much humour in it, and undoes his tie one handed, pushing himself up off the couch with the other.
“Stay or go,” he says, “but don’t pretend you don’t. You’ve been looking at me like a rare steak all night, and there’s a pretty obvious common denominator to all your tales of romantic woe.”
Clark flushes scarlet. “I’ve never...” He breaks off again.
“Ah,” Bee concurs, “well that’s completely different. I’ve been around the block a time or two, just follow my lead and I’ll show you the ropes.”
It’s surprisingly, shamefully easy to take his extended hand and follow him into the bedroom. Bee helps Clark out of his clothes, shucking his own with the elegance of a snake shedding its skin. He’s all long lines and lean muscle, lightly tanned and much slighter than Clark despite their being of a height. Clark trails a hand across his shoulder and down his biceps, reminding himself that Bee is still so fragile compared to him, closer in strength to Lana despite his far greater bulk.
They roll onto the bed, kissing again, more enthusiastically this time. Bee kisses like it’s a battle, biting at Clark’s lips and sucking hard on his tongue, resisting any attempt to gentle or slow down. He breaks away suddenly to shimmy down Clark’s body, licking a warm wet line down his torso and onto one thigh. Clark shudders as he breathes hot and humid over his groin, then moans aloud as he swallows him whole. He slides up and down with the ease of obvious long practice, and Clark spares a thought to be grateful he’s already got the stammered embarrassing confessions out of the way, because there’s no way he’s ever going to live up to this.
Bee pulls off suddenly, leaning over Clark to swipe a blue glass jar of something very expensive looking off the bedside table.
“Um, hey...” Clark stammers, nervous again. “I don’t know if I...”
“Relax,” Bee interrupts. He opens the jar one-handed, scooping a liberal amount of a thick white cream onto his fingers and applying it to Clark’s clearly still interested cock. Clark shudders, the sudden cool a shock to his overheated skin. Bee strokes him a couple more times, then rises to his knees and moves to straddle Clark’s lap.
“Hey, wait,” he blurts as Bee positions himself and starts to sink down; even his furtive exploratory library searches are enough for him to know they’re skipping over a vital step or two. Bee just grits his teeth and forces himself down, moist flesh clamping around the head of Clark’s dick as it penetrates him.
It’s almost uncomfortable for a second, a thick drag despite the lubrication, then Bee’s flush against his hips, and Clark’s all the way inside, and it’s hot and tight and glorious, and he couldn’t keep from moving if he wanted to, all good intentions be damned. It flicks through his mind that they should be using a condom, the literature was very clear about that too, not that there’s any risk between them, but Bee doesn’t know that, and especially if he does this kind of thing a lot, he’s so smart and good looking and confident, and, and, it’d be unforgivable to give someone a lecture on safe sex when you’re inside them, and, and-
Bee picks up the pace, muscles in his long thighs clenching, rising to his knees then sliding back down. His open hands press hard against Clark’s shoulders as he drives himself back, and as he settles into the cradle of Clark’s pelvis he shifts his hips and tightens his internal muscles in a way that makes Clark’s head swim. His whole body shakes with the effort, and Clark comes back to himself enough to take a gentle hold of his hips and support him, do some of the heavy lifting, and as their eyes meet Bee’s face loses its pinched look.
“Yeah, that’s it, that’s good,” he moans, and Clark takes it as encouragement, pushing up with little shifts of his own hips, and the way Bee groans and throws his head back says that that’s a good thing, so he does it some more. He only lasts a couple more minutes, and he’d be embarrassed, but Bee just grins and starts slowly stroking himself, Clark still buried half hard inside him. He comes with a quiet grunt and collapses onto Clark’s chest.
They sleep for a while, and when Clark wakes to find Bee leaning up on an elbow, looking down at him with a puzzled look on his face, he surprises himself with his own forwardness, shoving Bee down into the rumpled bedclothes and rolling on top of him. Bee laughs and spreads his legs obligingly, and Clark fits between them like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He slides back inside Bee with no difficulty at all, the way slippery with cream and sweat and semen, and loosened from their earlier activities.
He’s more confident this time, knowing just how hard he can push, how much Bee can take, and he gives it everything he’s got, shoving his way inside until his balls are snug against Bee’s ass, holding him in place with an arm around his waist and a hand on his shoulder, thrusting hard into his willing body. Bee arches his back and pushes into the thrusts, fingers clutching at Clark’s sides, nails scraping against his impenetrable skin. Clark lasts a lot longer this time, and manages to make sure Bee comes first, something even a Smallville near-virgin knows is important. The feeling is incredible, Bee’s body clenching tightly around him, pulling his own orgasm out of him, and he comes with a loud cry, clutching Bee to him and kissing him hard.
When he wakes for a second time, Bee’s on the other side of the room, glaring at his reflection in the floor to ceiling mirror. He’s fully dressed, but while his suit’s as impeccable as ever, his hair is wild, and there’s what can only be a bite mark on the side of his jaw. His eyes look a little glassy too, and as he steps forward to straighten his tie there’s an obvious stiffness in his posture, and a barely suppressed wince. He suddenly notices Clark looking at him, and flinches.
“You’re leaving?” Clark asks, trying not to sound bewildered.
“Yeah,” Bee shifts awkwardly. “Alfred was right. I’ve got to show my face at this thing.”
“Oh, okay,” Clark says, casting his eye around the room wildly, looking for his underwear, and trying not to wonder jealously who the heck this Alfred person is. “Hang on just a second and I’ll come with you.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Bee sighs. “There’ll be reporters everywhere.”
“Um...” Clark suppresses a guilty flinch. Somehow, in all their conversation, the whole internship thing didn’t come up. “Okay. I’ve got the day off tomorrow, we could meet for lunch?”
“I’m busy,” Bee answers without meeting his eyes, focused on doing up his cufflinks, in a tone that doesn’t sound remotely convincing. “Sorry. The suite’s paid for; stay as long as you want.”
He walks out of the room and doesn’t look back, door closing quietly behind him. It’s surprisingly painful, despite the fact Clark didn’t really have the right to expect more. He sighs and rolls back over, trying to get comfortable in the massive bed, but sleep won’t be coming any time soon. He really should go back to his own room, but a desperate, naive hope stops him. He sits up instead, and reaches for the remote. The television flicks on to KCGN, and as the late news starts the first story is coverage of the party, and the late arrival of an obviously inebriated and visibly debauched Bruce Wayne. As he staggers up to the podium, and smiles vapidly at the delightedly chattering crowd, Clark’s horrified to recognise the man who’d just left. He phones the offices at Wayne Enterprises the next day, but Bruce Wayne is in a meeting and unavailable to take his call.
Clark finishes out the internship with flying colours, and gets offered a starting position in the Star’s investigative division after graduation. It’s a plum opportunity, one anyone his age would kill for, and it doesn’t take enhanced vision to see the anger and jealousy on his erstwhile colleagues’ faces. The looks turn to confusion, and then open contempt, when he turns it down and returns to Metropolis without so much as a farewell drink. Gotham is an amazing city, and he could be anything – anyone – there. It’s just not anyone he wants to be.
Part II
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Date: 2010-05-24 12:49 pm (UTC)“Hey, wait,” he blurts as Bee positions himself and starts to sink down; even his furtive exploratory library searches are enough for him to know they’re skipping over a vital step or two.
I really like this chapter being from Clark's point of view, the way he can glimpse Bruce's personal demons but doesn't seem able to keep up with him (not that Bruce is willing to slow down for him at all, either). This sentence is a great summary of the whole sex scene, lol. It seems very like Bruce (especially a movieverse Bruce at this point in his life) to skip right to the intimacy while keeping it as un-intimate as possible...
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Date: 2010-05-26 12:29 am (UTC)I really did have a lot of fun with the permutations. My first draft (I don't know if you saw the author's notes, but I was madly plotting on a long haul flight!) had every encounter as a clean slate, and then I had to go back and figure out who knew what when and add it in in hopefully subtle and effective ways.
I wasn't specifically thinking of movie!Bruce when I plotted the story out, but it did grow more and more towards him, I think, especially once the timeframe inevitably made him older on his return to Gotham. He's such a lost boy in those early movie scenes, in a way that the comics!Bruce generally isn't, and that gibed really well with where my Bruce was coming from.
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Date: 2010-06-06 05:49 pm (UTC)I liked Part I a lot. Clark is as adorable and likable as ever and Bruce is full of self-loathing which is his default.
I can't wait to read about more of their encounters.
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Date: 2011-01-03 02:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-05 03:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-06 04:43 am (UTC)As for Clark... I think I was consciously shying away from considering him the same guy I used to write about in my Smallville days, because I was a pretty committed Clex shipper back then, and I find it hard to break up my OTPs, even in retrospect. Elements certainly did creep in though, to the extent that I felt compelled to make the universe shift clear in chapter five... hence Bruce got the bitter ex instead. ;-p
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Date: 2010-09-06 04:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-06 05:16 am (UTC)I'm always amazed, and a little irritated, frankly, when I read fic that claims to be set in a Smallville based universe, that doesn't deal with that 400lb gorilla. it's the absolute beauty of DC that you can find a universe to suit any purpose, and I love doing it, but you have to at least try!
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Date: 2010-09-06 05:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-20 07:25 pm (UTC)