Date Night for Titans

Okay– so last night I started a SuperBat fic and sent it out and went, “Sorry, no sex!”

But I ended it RIGHT BEFORE they went on a date.

So their date has been playing out through my head all day.


You’re welcome.

*  *  *

Superman kept him wrapped in his cape for the trip, torpedoing them through the stratosphere fast enough to freeze them both if he didn’t.  Bruce didn’t even ask where they were going–he assumed there was only one place they could go and be themselves that wasn’t Gotham and wasn’t the Eye in the Sky, and if Clark wanted to spend the odd night at his place that was fine.

As long as they were both spending the night at his place, because they spent enough nights out fighting crime and not by each other’s side that Bruce got crabby about squandering any possible time together period.

Clark touched down lightly and Bruce tried to move from his chest.

“Stay,” Clark whispered, and the embrace, which had been purely functional, so that Bruce Wayne might not fall through his lover’s arms and freeze to death, became tender.

“Mm…” Bruce rested his head on Clark’s shoulder again. Damned farm boy alien was really frickin’ tall.

“You know I’m proud of you,” Clark said softly. “For not just letting bad things happen to good people. It’s a good part of you. I like it.”

“You have the same part,” Bruce objected–but he didn’t move.

“Yes, but yours is more personal. I’m all about saving Metropolis. You’re all about saving the kid living in the poor part of Gotham who got screwed over. Maybe together we can save the world.”

Bruce smiled and raised his face to Clark’s for a kiss. “Save the world later. Save me now.”

Clark chuckled and gave him a quick, hard kiss on the mouth, and then stepped back.

“I’ll save you later,” he said, gesturing to the interior of the Fortress of Solitude. “Right now, we should eat.”

Bruce took in the living area and gasped appreciatively.

Everything–furniture, bookshelves, video screen, technology– was configured with a Kryptonian polymer. It’s density could be controlled–so the couches were comfy and the table didn’t sag in the middle–but it was all transparent, like perfectly frozen and sculpted ice. Fun to look at, but the effect was a little… cold.

It was modeled to look like an ice castle on the outside. Go figure.

Clark had decorated, just for this date.

The “table” –which was normally a big block of polymer–had been covered with a scarlet cloth, and white roses sat in the middle, in a perfect state of bloom.  It was set, a big tureen of soup in the middle and various covered dishes around that. Bruce assumed that the food in the platters was warmed and had been warming since right before Clark had come to get him.

Very clever. Bruce had no idea how long he’d been in the air but he was pretty sure he was going to sit down to a hot dinner.

“Who cooked?” he asked impishly, and Clark managed to look sheepish.

“Alfred,” he sighed. “I told him we’d be gone all night if he could make something good for dinner here. I think you need to let him update the kitchen at your place. He almost cried when he saw mine.”

Bruce grimaced. “Yeah… I don’t think we can replace gas with Kryptonite powered flame, buddy. Some new pots and a rack I can get him. I think your power source would burn down my house.”

Clark chuckled a little, and a crescent of pink appeared on his cheek. “You’re right, of course. Here–you take off your coat and I’ll go…”  He gestured to his uniform.

“Please tell me you’re putting on the millionaire day-wear pajamas,” Bruce said, knowing his eyes had gotten big and excited.

Clark rolled his eyes. “I’m putting on slacks,” he said, that eternal prissiness that Bruce loved about him very much to the fore. “Because we’re dressing for dinner, dammit. Now hang up your coat, wash your hands, and open the wine.”

Bruce had to admit it. He got hard when Clark got bossy like this. “Of course,” he said mildly. “White or red?”

“It’s prime rib,” Clark said, knowing Bruce sometimes did his own thing with wine.

“Red it is. Now go change. If we’re going to dine, we’re going to do it right.”

Clark smiled warmly and float-glided through the dining room to the bedroom. You could actually see into the bedroom–there was a doorway but no door, and the walls were lightly frosted over. This was a fortress of solitude. If Clark invited someone over, they either didn’t mind seeing him naked, or slept on the couch with no hard feelings.

Bruce business himself with the wine, and Clark came out in caramel colored slacks and a dark red dress shirt. No tie, and he was barefoot, but… but…


“What?” Clark adjusted his cuffs and tried not to blush.

“That’s not your broke reporter outfit,” Bruce said. A little bit hard had just changed to a lot hard, and he took a hasty sip of wine while handing Clark his glass.

“No. You keep putting money in my bank account. It’s embarrassing. I finally spent some.”

Bruce chuckled a little. “Careful, farm boy, people are going to think you’re a kept man.”

“Shut up and sit down,” Clark muttered, but his cheeks were still pink so Bruce knew he was pleased.

They sat and ate–and the food was amazing, but of course it was. Alfred had done it–when was Alfred not amazing?

But what was better than the food was the… the effort. 

“What?” Clark asked during a lull in the conversation. They’d both finished their steak and crossed their utensils, and Bruce couldn’t help it. He needed.

“I want you,” he rasped. “So damned bad. Tell me no, right now. Tell me dessert won’t keep. Tell me my dick’ll fall off if I take you here. Give me a reason, or I will have you bent over the table so fast it will feel like I’ve got super speed.”

Clark stared at him, eyes going big and round, cheeks flushing completely.

And then he licked his lips, sinking his teeth into the pillowy bottom one.

Bruce shoved the plates out of the way and pulled him up by the back of the pants, licking at his ear as he did so.

“No reason?” he demanded. “No reason you can think of?”

“You don’t fuck me over the table at your house,” Clark taunted, and Bruce nipped his earlobe hard.

“This material’s impervious to anything but an alien invasion,” Bruce muttered. “That monstrosity at my house is an antique. And if Alfred walked in on us fucking on an antique, he’d die.”

And with that, Clark bent over the table, arms spread submissively, ass thrust out.

Bruce let out a happy little keen and tugged at those pretty, loose fitting slacks.  The puddled at Clark’s feet and Bruce gave a chuckle.

“Why Clark Kent, you are naked under your pants.”

“Nungs…” Clark wiggled his ass. Actually wiggled his ass. 

“Are you sure you don’t want dessert first?” Bruce asked, stripping off his jacket and his shirt while toeing off his shoes. He had a few items in the pocket of his slacks, and he pulled them out and put them on the table in front of Clark’s eyes before removing the slacks and socks completely, draping them all on the giant comfy piece of acrylic polymer that doubled as a chair.

“Eating dessert now could be grounds for divorce,” Clark moaned as Bruce ran fingertips down his spine and along his flanks.

“Not if I tied you up like this and dripped ice cream on your cock,” Bruce sang, parting Clark’s cleft with his thumbs, and Clark bucked up against the table a few times.  “Now hold still. Nobody can hear you scream out here, and I want to know what’s going to give first. Your pride or my tongue.”

And with that he sank to a naked crouch and began to lick between Clark’s asscheeks.

Clark didn’t hold back.

He moaned, he begged, he whimpered–but he didn’t scream.

Bruce reached around and teased his cock, pinching the head, flicking the frenulum gently, rubbing a careful thumbnail between his testicles.

Clark buried his face in his arm and moaned, his thighs shaking with the effort to hold him upright, to keep himself calm.

Bruce’s own cock was leaking copiously, hard, so painfully hard, but Clark had gone to so much trouble.

Bruce needed to give him the best dessert possible.

He reached to the table for the objects there and picked up the silk scarf first.

“Tying around your eyes,” he decided. “Because it’s pretty, and I know you can use heat vision but you won’t so you won’t wreck it.”

Clark grunted and allowed himself to be blindfolded, and Bruce grabbed his necktie from his clothes pile.

“Now I’m going to tie your wrists, and we both know you can make a hash out of this in a heartbeat, but you bought me this tie and I love it and I wish you wouldn’t.”

This time Clark whimpered. This was playing dirty.

“And now…” Bruce drizzled just a little bit of lubricant into the crack of Clark’s ass and took the other item– a four-inch, flared base vibrator–and teased him with it. “Now, I’m going to give you not enough.”  He thrust the thing in, waiting for the sound Clark made.

A full on, groin rumbling groan that shook the floor.

But not a scream.

“Close,” Bruce teased, grabbing the thing by the handle and tugging. “Now to the bedroom, my man. We’ve got some shit to sort.”

Clark didn’t float-glide this time. He walked. Painfully. Knees obviously having trouble working. Sweat breaking out over his naked lower half.

By the time they got to the bed, Bruce’s hands were shaking. He was going to have to give in. He was good at self-denial. Great at it in fact. But this was supposed to be fun for both of them.

He turned Clark so he sat on the bed, sat on the soft rubber handle, pushed the plug as deep as it could go. Clark moaned again, and Bruce could swear he felt the floorboards rumble under his bare feet.

He got to his knees before Clark and took his thick, dripping cock into his mouth.

Clark started to beg.

“This is good, oh God, I love your mouth, but please, please Bruce, this thing in my ass, it’s… it’s not you. Please, I’ll scream if you fuck me, I promise, I just need you inside me and I’ll scream!”

Bruce paused, puffing gentle air on Clark’s exposed flesh.

“So, I can fuck you,” he said, the tremor in his voice betraying his arousal, “but I won’t get to taste your come.”

Please!” Clark begged, and if they’d been home, he would have rattled a couple of windows with that word.

Bruce pulled him to his feet and turned him around, bending him over and yanking out the plug before the vibrations completely eased.

He surged inside Clark’s body with enough force to shatter another man, but not Clark.

Clark screamed, raw and guttural, the air around them blurring with the volume of his need.

Bruce fucked him without mercy, throwing his body forward with everything, brutally ravaging him with all the desire in his heart.

Their climax–their climax–took him by surprise. Clark moaned, and then screamed again, and clenched so tightly around Bruce’s invading flesh that Bruce was thrown over in a heartbeat.

They both screamed, waves of pleasure, waves of orgasm, crashing into their bodies and shattering their souls.

Bruce collapsed over Clark’s back, fumbling with the tie around his wrist so he could move.

Clark shoved his rumpled dress shirt up over his head, taking the blindfold with it and Bruce fell out of him, come running generously down the back of his thigh.

With a groan, Bruce fell on top of him again, never wanting to leave.

“That was… amazing…” Clark breathed. “That was worth the trip.”

“You went to all that trouble.” Bruce was never sure if he could convey what this meant to him. “Just… just for us. All we do, try ing to make the world better for other people. That was just for me.”

“It was my pleasure,” Clark murmured, voice serious as Bruce kissed the back of his neck and burrowed under his hair for his ears again.

“Just felt like dessert was the least I could do,” Bruce told him, loving when his chuckle rumbled through them both.

“Get into bed, Bruce,” Clark ordered gently. “We’ve got the kind of dessert you can eat.”

Clark Kent, guileless farm boy, Superman, planet saving alien superhero, walked naked from his bedroom to the kitchen, Bruce Wayne’s come marking his skin.  When he came back he had a plate filled with a confection of delicate pastry and ice cream and chocolate layers that was meant to be cleaved in half and served on delicate plates.

They ate it in bed, side by side, sharing the same fork.

They made love slowly, face to face, when they were done.

They promised to do it at least once a month afterward. Have time for both of them, here where nobody could intrude.

They made it maybe every two, sometimes once a season, but that was okay.

“A visit to the Fortress of Solitude” became Justice League code for, “A trip to get laid.”

They sort of treasured that.

Date night–even superheroes need one.

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