Happy times together
by Te
July 31, 2007

Disclaimers: No one and nothing here is mine.

Spoilers/Timeline: We're back in the Golden Age, here. No spoilers.

Summary: Clark has waited for a day like this one.

Ratings Note/Warnings: Sexual content some readers may find to be disturbing.

Author's Note: Somehow, this is Petra's fault.

Acknowledgments: To Petra, Pixie, and Jack for audiencing and encouragement.


Clark doesn't 'listen through keyholes.' It would be wrong -- perhaps even evil -- to use his powers that way, when humanity is so very vulnerable to that sort of thing. It would be all too easy to *abuse* his powers --

The word is a telling one, pushed to the forefront of his mind and -- there. In Gotham, Bruce is settling himself in the back of one of his many vehicles. The sounds are familiar -- fabric on leather, the creak of weight applied to a seat -- Bruce, Clark knows, has a board meeting this morning. Dick has no school.

Dick --

The truth is, Clark has waited for a day like this one, for an opportunity beyond their casual, useful, *helpful* partnership, for a time when he could catch Robin alone. He has waited --

He doesn't like to think about how long he has waited, but he must. It has been nearly three weeks since Dick made a sound in the night which registered as something... different. Something beyond Robin's admirable range of high-spirited shouts and calls, beyond Dick's exuberant laughter. (He knew what the sound was.) A sound -- he'd gone to see, of course. Not quickly, not immediately -- there had been no hint of alarm.

He had, however, gone to *see*, and to this date he can't be quite sure of what he *had* seen beyond the bald, basic -- naked --

Of course, Bruce and Dick share a bed from time to time. The beds in the manor are all quite large, and he's come to understand that Batman and Robin's work can be lonely and quite difficult. It's one of the reasons why he's been so grateful to have the chance to work with them as often as he has.

He likes to think he can make things easier for them, both of them, that he can take some of the weight of their often terrible --

Clark can understand the need to be warm, and even held. He's never thought less of them for it, and he has to admit there have been times when he's been... envious. Dick is generous -- perhaps even somewhat profligate -- with his affections, but of course Clark can't always take advantage --

Oh, dear. He's broken the handle off his refrigerator. He needs to -- he welds the thing back together. It's crooked now. It's.

Dick is, when Clark checks, making the soft sounds which mean he is close to waking in the bed he has come to share with Bruce rather more often -- well, Clark had checked again, of course. He had to be sure. There could've been, oh, any number of reasonable explanations for the way Dick seems to almost fly into Bruce's arms, for the long kisses which, even from a distance, speak of wetness, depth --

And Bruce, while quite a solid, serious man, surely can't be expected to be entirely immune to Dick's desire to be -- affectionate. Yes, that. Clark had spent most of a week rolling that term around in his mind, testing it against everything he could hear, every image he could place against the *sound*, bright and clear, of Dick saying, "oh!"

He hasn't -- he's done everything in his power not to *spy* on them like some dirty, sneaking, criminal, but 'affection' came to be too inadequate a word all too quickly.

The next time he'd flown over Gotham --

The time after that --

Clark isn't ignorant, of course. He understands that, for whatever reason, in whatever way, Bruce and Dick have thrown aside all propriety -- all *appropriateness* -- and become -- lovers. If Dick has spent any of the last several nights in his own bed -- or even far enough to the other side of Bruce's bed that their bodies, their flesh couldn't whisper with the friction of contact --

Of course, Clark has many of his own duties to perform, but he has been paying *attention*. They are -- having sex. And -- he has seen this, too -- they don't always restrain themselves to Bruce's bed.

They don't even always restrain themselves to their civilian *identities*, and the shock of that -- he doesn't think it will ever stop making him blush, and frown. Batman has held Robin against the car with one gauntleted hand, while the other insinuated itself between Robin's shorts and his skin. It was --

It is --

For heroes to behave that way --

For *his* heroes to -- though, of course, they belong to themselves. It's just that Clark's partnership with them, however unofficial, had still always been quite real. To him, in any event. Now, though -- had he ever known Bruce, at all? Surely he should've been able to see this deviance, this need to act against all tradition, *goodness*, right --

Dick's yawn is as quick and soft as it usually is unless the three of them have been working a very long and complicated case, but it still cuts through the miles between them, through the troubled fog of Clark's own mind. Especially since the sound is followed by the sound of two bare feet hitting the carpeted floor, footsteps --

("Oh, *Bruce*!")

There is a light cracking sound, and Clark realizes that he's dangerously close to destroying the tall, extra-thick glass Dick had given him a few months ago. The shield of El is depicted, in painstaking detail, on either side of it.

Clark finishes his milk, washes the glass gently, and sets it to dry. He gets dressed, and he -- waits.

Dick is taking a shower, undoubtedly as cool as both he and Bruce prefer. The sound of his sleepy shiver changes the cadence of droplets just enough -- Clark can't make himself wait any longer.

Clark *is* capable of flying slowly, or, at least, more slowly than has become his usual -- it's what allows him to carry (Bruce, Dick -- Lois) humans without injuring them, and he had been hoping it would allow him to make his arrival at the manor timely. Unfortunately, even after giving himself time to dress as Clark Kent once more, he has not been slow *enough*.

Dick answers the door wearing only his robe -- monogrammed, thick, *short* --

"Clark! What are you doing here? Is there some emergency?"

Even if Clark hadn't been able to *hear* it, it would've been obvious that Dick had rushed right from the shower to the door. Water is running down his short, admirably well-muscled thighs, and his hair is quite plastered to his scalp. "Dick..."

"I can be ready in half a shake! Just let me go call Bruce," he says, starting to turn --

Clark stops him by the simple expedient of placing himself in Dick's path -- and catching him by the shoulders when he seems about to just barrel on. "It's not -- it's not like that," Clark says, and squeezes.

"Oh. Are you *sure*? You never just drop in for a visit," Dick says, and there's a hint of a frown on his forehead, though none makes it into his voice, of course.

Of course. Abruptly, Clark very much wants a hug, forgiveness for something -- he really isn't sure, at all. "I wanted -- I need to talk to you, Dick," he says, and settles for patting his shoulders through the robe.

"Well, okay -- is it about a mission? We could go down to the Cave, if you wanted to."

The gauntlet on the back of his neck must've been very -- cold. Clark blinks. "Here is fine, or... perhaps the study?"

"Okay!" Dick immediately turns to lead them there, sure and quick, confident even wearing only a robe.

Clark realizes he should've suggested Dick take the time to dry off and get dressed, but he can already feel his resolve beginning to crumble. They'll have to do this as they are, and that's that.

And, once in the study, Clark starts to feel a little better. The manor is full of dark, serious rooms, but the study seems to take the general atmosphere much farther, as if it is in some way affected by the hidden entrance to the Cave. Clark nods to himself and sits in one of the chairs.

Dick sits in the chair beside him, and edges forward enough that his feet don't dangle very -- very much.

"What did you want to talk about, Clark?"

Clark clears his throat, shifts -- and resists the urge to toy with his tie.


"Your -- you and Bruce are very... close," he says, curling his fingers against the arm of the chair and trying to make something of a point about turning enough to meet Dick's eyes --

Dick is smiling. Dick is -- beaming, actually. "He's my best friend in the whole world. Just like you're my *other* best friend."

"Yes, I... yes," Clark says, and wonders if he shouldn't have, perhaps, written some of this down.

Dick swings his legs and frowns -- perhaps at their dampness. It would probably be more comfortable for him to curl them under himself, or... something.

"I thought we could talk about *how* close the two of you are," Clark says, and he thinks that may have come out in something of a rush -- Dick looks confused -- but it's rather a relief that it had come out at all. Clark folds his hands in his lap.

"You mean... did Bruce say something? Or... hey. This isn't about my birthday, is it? Bruce said he had something special planned, but he won't tell me *anything*."

"Your -- birthday?"

Dick braces himself on his hands and *swings* his legs under himself. He's kneeling on the chair now, and -- "*Please* tell me, Clark! It's driving me crazy to think about it, and Bruce won't even *hint* --"

It feels necessary, in ways Clark can't quite define, to reach out and squeeze Dick's shoulder again. Of course, once he does it, he understands why. Dick stills almost immediately, sitting back on his heels and looking somewhat contrite.

He has seen Bruce use this... tactic any number of times. It shouldn't make *Clark* feel so...

Clark clears his throat again. "It's -- not about your birthday. And I -- I wouldn't want to ruin Bruce's... surprise. Even so," and Clark can feel himself blushing, but there's something about the mild disappointment on Dick's face, the breadth and clarity of the emotion -- it's difficult to remember how to clamp down on the blush.

Clark moves his hand to his lap -- to the arm of the chair.

"Dick, I know about -- the two of you." There, he'd said it. He --

Dick blinks at him.

Clark blushes -- more. "I mean..."

"What is it, Clark? I mean, of course you know about me and Bruce. You know *everything* about us," Dick says, frowning a little again, and -- he reaches out to pat Clark's hand. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, it's just that --"

"You don't *look* fine," Dick says, and sits back on his heels. "You're all flushed, the way Bruce gets sometimes when... well."

"The way Bruce... gets?"

Dick's smile has more than a hint of Robin's sly good humor. "*You* know," he says, and pats Clark's hand again. "I think sometimes Bruce *forgets* that we can make love, *too*."

The chair is, of course, much sturdier than the glass, but Clark very badly needs to remember that these things are relative --

And Dick is kneeling up again, reaching for Clark's forehead with his wrist, and -- he stops himself with a gasp and a giggle. "I don't even know how anyone could *tell* if you had a fever," he says, and leans back again. "But what *did* you want to talk about?"

"Making -- making love. You -- and Bruce," who, come to think of it, has never seemed to find it strange that Clark Kent is so very awkward. Clark sits back, folds his hands -- perhaps he should be standing?

"You wanted to talk about *that*? Oh, but. You don't have a partner."

The sudden sadness -- it's close to *dismay* -- on Dick's face feels as stunning as a blow enhanced with Kryptonite. It's -- perhaps 'compelling' would be a better word, and Clark is almost afraid to know the *reasoning* behind it, but. "It's true that I work alone when we aren't all together, but -- Dick, did you mean that if I had a regular partner, the two of us would... er."

"Well, I'd hope so!"

"You --"

Dick is only a little damp, now. This becomes obvious once Dick is in Clark's lap, hugging his neck and staring at him deeply, earnestly -- "*Nobody* should be alone," Dick says, and shifts until he can situate his knees to either side of Clark's thighs.

There's a certain -- brush. A greater degree of warmth than the rest of Dick's body, and when Clark looks -- he has to look -- the robe has ridden up high on Dick's hips, exposing the full length of his thighs, the degree of stretch within them, and of course --

Of course -- "Dick," Clark says, and he isn't sure if anyone -- even someone very generous -- could find in Clark's voice anything even close to the degree of stern-ness Clark had been looking for. *Trying* for.

"What did you want to know, Clark? I mean, Bruce has taught me a *lot*, but I'm not sure..."

"A... a lot?" His voice *feels* small and the chair is creaking under his hands, and --

Dick's smile is brilliant, pleased -- *happy*. "Well, *yeah*! Before we started making love, all I could figure out was that I wanted Bruce to be touching me everywhere, but I could never really picture more than that."

"No, I imagine... I." It's not an improvement that his hands are on Dick's hips. This seems to be a thought worth holding on to, meditating on --

Dick hums and wriggles. Enough that the robe shifts even more, exposes more. The *purpose* of this is difficult to find, or even imagine, but then Dick releases his neck and tugs on one of Clark's hands until Clark's touch is really more of a -- cup.

"Oh, I. Dick --"

"Mm. Bruce holds me this way a lot, especially when I'm on his lap."

"You enjoy it." No, that was too flat, too -- something. "I mean, it's something you -- want Bruce to do?"

Dick nods seriously. "Most of it is because I know he'll start touching me other places, too, soon, but it also just feels really good. Do you like how it feels?"

Does he -- Clark swallows, takes a deep breath -- oh. He had known, of course, that Dick and Bruce use the same kind of soap, but somehow that knowledge is greater, now. Deeper... Clark catches himself leaning in and *stops*.


"What does... how long..."

Dick's expression is serious and patient. Any moment now... He squeezes Clark's neck with his arms and -- it's not quite a bounce. It's a sigh using as much of his body as possible. "If you tell me what you want to know... I mean, it's *private*, but that doesn't count with *you*."

"I -- I'm glad," Clark says, and Dick's smile tells him that it hadn't been just a thought -- Clark is *squeezing* his hips, now, firming his grip, Dick's skin is so *smooth* against his thumbs. "And you should... why don't you tell me..." Everything. "Whatever comes to mind? I -- I'd like to know."


For a moment, it seems strange that *this* would make Dick unsure, but Clark is not so caught up in his own... *feelings* that he can't make himself see. *Dick* is flushed, and his eyes are somewhat wide. "Really," Clark says, and squeezes Dick's hips again --


Bruce is a very good friend -- Clark's closest friend, and the man around whom Clark feels most comfortable. They share each other's secrets (more of them, now), and they help each other however and whenever they can. Dick is Bruce's partner, of course, and --

Of course, it's very easy, right now, to imagine Bruce laughing at him. Perhaps that low chuckle which comes with a shaken head, a hand on Clark's shoulder. He has been somewhat foolish, if not actively silly. He has been... naive, about himself, about --

"Dick," Clark says again, and perhaps it wouldn't be too much to move one of his hands, to let it slide over one strong, sturdy thigh.

"Oh, that's... your hand feels so *different*."

He's touched Dick's skin before, of course. Difficult not to -- there are times when he has carefully bandaged, when he has carried a sleeping Dick to some place where he could rest comfortably. It shouldn't seem -- Clark strokes Dick's thigh purposefully, squeezing Dick's hip with his other hand --

"I -- I mean --"

"What -- what do you mean, Dick?"

Dick's arms flex and twist to either side of Clark's neck. The flush on his cheeks is deeper, and the robe is open enough that Clark can see it spread and move.

"Please tell me?"

"You -- I mean, Bruce touches me that way, sometimes, but his hands are -- harder. Not as warm as yours."

Clark nods, breathes -- Dick hasn't begun to sweat, but there are hints of it in the air. "How else does he touch you?"

Clark can hear Dick's heartbeat begin to speed, feel the rhythm of it almost everywhere they're touching. Clark feels himself stiffening in his pants, and, when he looks, Dick's penis is doing the same.

"You..." Clark shakes his head. He isn't sure what else he wanted to say, right now. The idea -- the want -- is much too large for that kind of focus. Turning his hand just enough to brush the soft, *naturally* bare skin of Dick's inner thigh with his fingertips --

"That -- he does. That, too," Dick says, and, "Clark -- oh," Dick says, and it seems like such a small way to acknowledge the feel of Clark's fingers against his scrotum, and the way Clark can feel it tightening as he rubs, touches -- *lightly* --

"Dick," and Clark's voice sounds rough to his own ears, shamefully so. He never wants to speak to Dick harshly, or --

"There are kisses. I mean -- he kisses me, and I kiss him, too, and --"

He doesn't have far to lean in. It isn't -- it feels as though Dick is moving painfully slowly, squeezing his eyes tight and opening his mouth, tensing all over, rocking his hips --

When their lips touch, the world seems to move normally again. It's -- it's almost a peck, quick and soft -- "Oh, *Clark* --"

And then neither. Dick's eyes are moving, roving behind the soft skin of the lids, his arms are flexing again -- and then Dick is holding Clark's face, kissing him hard enough that Clark worries he might hurt his mouth. He pulls back --

"Wait! You... you could kiss me, too, if you wanted to. I mean -- I'd like to kiss you. For you to kiss me," Dick says, and it's hard -- impossible not to see himself, to know himself in this moment.

"I'd like to, Dick. You're very. You're very attractive," Clark says, and Dick's smile takes the sting out of the sense that he's being too slow, too *awkward* for the boy in his lap, for any of this.

Clark pats Dick's hip and hopes it counts as something of a warning, because he doesn't think he can say, out loud, that he plans to cup and squeeze Dick's buttocks, to feel the easy movement of muscle, to -- just to watch, for a moment, as Dick's smile softens on his face, loses its focus, and --

And Clark has kissed people before, deeply and passionately, but there's never quite been this *edge* to it. Robin is... Dick is all but naked in his lap, erect and eager, hopeful -- no. He'd only said he wanted to be kissed.

There's every reason to limit himself to that, no matter how many thoughts and images, *feelings* -- He hadn't given Dick time to brush his teeth after his shower, and there's still the faint, sour hint of sleep in his mouth when Clark breathes him in. More when he slips his tongue inside --

Lois, he thinks, and clutches Dick harder, tries to fight the memory of her sharp, *roving* tongue, the feel of her breasts pushed hard against his chest --

She had been under the influence of that terrible Doctor Mento, and would never have done anything of the kind --

Dick shudders and moans, curling his fingers against Clark's cheek, and it's almost a relief to focus only on that, or, rather, to focus on the sound, the feel of Dick's mouth, the way it's beginning to swell and heat against Clark's own, the soft skin against his palm, cupped in his other palm...

Suddenly, the most clear thought in Clark's mind is the fact that he knows, now, that it would be easy to give Dick an orgasm. He would barely have to go any farther than he already has, and it would be, if not *just* what Dick wants, than at least close to it.

Clark licks Dick's tongue and -- lets himself. Forces himself -- Dick's scrotum feels so perfect in his hand -- and *then* lets himself. When he wraps his hand around Dick's penis it all but jumps in his hand, leaking slickness, warmth so powerful it seems more than human --

Dick pulls out of the kiss.

"Dick --"

"Oh, Clark, I'm gonna -- oh please oh please -- you're -- I'm going to *ejaculate*," Dick says, and *shudders* in Clark's arms --

And kisses him again, over and over. Clark would like Dick to slow down, to make it possible for Clark to taste at his leisure, but there's a different sort of temptation to just being here, like this, still save for the rhythmic squeeze he's giving to Dick's penis, and the brief motions of his mouth as he takes one quick, heady kiss after another --

"Clark, please please *please* --"

"Yes," and he thinks he might mean 'anything,' but it's difficult to be sure. His own erection feels like something -- like it's maybe more alive than the rest of him. There's sweat beginning to bead on the back of Clark's neck, Dick's knees are pressed hard against the outsides of his thighs --

"Oh, you're so -- so *handsome*, Clark, I -- I can't --"

He wants to ask what it is that Dick thinks he can't do, he wants to reassure, stroke, touch everywhere, but most of it becomes clear when Dick starts to *thrust* into his hand, shameless and greedy --

"Oh, please more --"

Clark squeezes harder and matches the rhythm of Dick's hips as carefully as he can --

And then Dick is clutching him, pushing close, moaning and shaking his head -- the brush of his hair against Clark's chin is soft and almost, almost feathery --

And Dick cries out, high and desperate --


The spill of his semen over Clark's hand -- the splash of it on Clark's *shirt* --

It's all the warmth in the world, and recognizing that he's being foolish again isn't enough to stop the *feeling*. Dick is so small in his arms, so strong and brave and *giving*. It is, perhaps, too much to lift him this way, but he only wants to kiss Dick again, to give him more of the soft and quick things he seems to prefer.

After a moment, Dick's hands settle on Clark's shoulders, and he starts to return the kisses, making them last somewhat longer -- giving Clark what *he* prefers, perhaps.

"Oh, Clark, that felt *amazing*."

*Good*, but -- "I didn't -- do very much, Dick. You must be used to... more."

Dick hugs him tightly once more before settling back on Clark's lap. "Sometimes, that's *all* Bruce and I do. Well, mostly that's what it was in the beginning, but..."

Clark licks his lips and thinks -- he's never seen Bruce's penis. There are any number of times, of course, when he might've done so, might have abused -- his powers. "Would you tell me about it? Does he... do you like touching his penis?"

"Oh, yes. He's -- well, you know Bruce. He's so *big*, all over. Just like you," Dick says, and if Clark's blush wasn't obvious to himself, the way Dick touches his cheek would've made it so. "Sometimes..."

Clark turns his head enough to kiss Dick's palm. There are countless tiny scars on his hands. The inevitable result of all the training, all of their hard *work*. Dick's handshake is quite firm, and Clark wonders -- no, he knows it must be intimidating to some of the older heroes. So -- young. But. "Sometimes...?"

"Well, I don't know how much Bruce likes it, since we don't do it very much. But -- I like to put my mouth on him. He does it to me all the time, but usually I don't get to return the favor," Dick says, and the shyness in his eyes...

Clark thinks he knows that particular shyness now, or -- certainly, he can guess. Even though guessing makes him... his hands barely feel under his control. He's holding Dick by the hips again, squeezing, not quite pulling him in... Clark swallows, again, and tries to remember -- something.

Perhaps a time when he didn't simply want *more*.

"Would you like to use your -- to put your mouth on my penis, Dick?"

Dick nods, never taking his eyes away from Clark's own -- the nod isn't as *important* as the way Dick licks his lips.

"Oh, I... Dick --"

"You don't -- you don't taste like Bruce, at all, and I didn't really expect you to, but -- can I?"

He can't -- Clark can imagine it, but he can't *picture* it -- and then he can, and he recognizes that he's nodding dumbly, but the motion doesn't register, doesn't have *meaning* against the smile on Dick's face -- the quick, humming kiss which is somehow too fast to allow Clark to slip his tongue in once more.

*This* wriggle is purposeful, and while it isn't designed to bring Clark back to himself -- he doesn't know where that could *be* -- it works, somewhat.

Dick wants to leave his lap, and that's --

"You -- you really want me to, right, Clark?"

"Yes, but." He doesn't want to lose this *touch*. He has images, barely a handful -- Dick curled up in Bruce's arms, pressed close, small and bright and containable, like a flame which somehow lacks the need for oxygen and space -- no.

Clark lets go, Dick smiles at him once more, and then Dick is on the floor between Clark's legs. There's no hesitation before he reaches for Clark's pants, and his fingers are as quick and deft at this as they are at anything, everything else. He has done this for Bruce -- *to* Bruce.

Bruce has, perhaps, sat right where Clark is sitting now and watched this, felt the way those fingers -- they aren't teasing. It's matter-of-fact and careful the way Dick opens his pants, the way -- no, there's something more to the feel of Dick's fingers on his uniform, something almost reverent, even though -- Clark catches Dick's hands. "You're *my* other best friend," he says, and squeezes Dick's clever fingers, lets himself feel the very smallest scars -- the ones most humans wouldn't perceive on themselves, much less on another. Even Dick may not know they're there.

"Oh, I know, and I get to see you change into Superman all the time, but it's usually so *fast*," Dick says, jumping up and leaning in for another kiss, another -- "*Superman*," he says, and before Clark can protest, Dick is tugging on his hips just as if he were strong enough to move Clark --

Of course he is. It feels awkward and somewhat ridiculous to scoot to the edge of the chair like this, but he has to admit that it makes things easier for Dick. He pulls down pants, shorts, and tights and *climbs* on them, holding them down against the floor with his weight and his knees, and Clark feels...

The air is cool on him, of course, but not as icy as his penis wishes to insist. And it only seems like a small eternity before Dick wraps his hand around the base of his penis -- Bruce. Dick has *done* this, has been used for this, used -- no. Dick makes love, and it's part of the continuum of his life. Something he wants to *give* to Clark -- "Dick --"

"Oh, please don't change your mind," he says, and "I --" The kiss to the tip of Clark's penis is exactly the same as Dick's other kisses, brief and sincere, teasing -- tempting.

"I -- I won't. Dick, you can -- I won't stop you."

"Oh, you sound... are you really aroused? I mean, when *I'm* this hard I am, but sometimes Bruce --"

"*Dick*," he says, and it's terrible -- on top of farcical -- that all of the stern-ness he couldn't find earlier is coming out *now*, but surprise makes Dick's expression softer, makes him open his reddened mouth --

And *grin*, once more, as he leans in, as he opens wider --

His breath --

His *tongue*.

Clark breathes and forces himself not to twist his hips, not to thrust, not to grab Dick by the hair and *pull* --

Human heat, close enough to his own to feel like welcome, invitation, taste -- he has no way to be sure what he tastes like to a human, of course, but -- had Lois sensed something strange when she'd kissed him?

Would Lois want to... to...

Dick *hums* around him, loud even around his... his *mouthful*. Appreciative and eager. He works his mouth as if he *wants* Clark to thrust, and it's almost impossible not to give in to that. He's been mostly erect for what feels like hours, days, but Dick is making him harder, making every time Clark has used his own hand seem like a poor joke. He feels --

He's --

"Hmm. Are you enjoying that as much as it looks like you are, Clark...?"

Bruce -- *Bruce*, and Clark hadn't even heard him coming, hadn't been paying *attention*, but now Bruce is close enough to *smell*, standing behind the chair. Inhaling deeply brings Clark the taste of cologne, the undertone of adult human male that *is* Bruce, the *difference* that is Dick, what Dick smells like when he's doing *this* -- Clark reaches to push Dick's head away, to make himself -- "I -- I'm sorry," he says, and looks --

And Dick's eyes are wide and focused beyond Clark's shoulder, and -- he isn't stopping.

Clark watches his own hands seem to -- perhaps it's the physical equivalent of a stutter, or -- he knows he hadn't meant to *cup* Dick's head, but --

Bruce's hands are broad, and it's clear that he's using quite a bit of his wonderful human *strength* to squeeze Clark's shoulders, to press and stroke down over the lapels of his jacket --

"Oh -- Bruce," he says, and perhaps it's enough that it still sounds like an apology as much as it sounds like... like...

"It's important," Bruce says, "to make sure Dick understands how much you like this."

"I -- he --"

Dick moans and pulls back against Clark's touch --

"*Please*, Dick," and there's no excuse for the way he's holding on, especially since Dick only seems to have wanted to use his tongue more, to lick Clark, tease him -- Bruce's hand is under Clark's chin, pulling and urging. Clark closes his eyes and lets Bruce move him, feels Dick, oh, *moving* --

Bruce has his tongue in Clark's mouth before the touch resolves in Clark's mind into a kiss, a -- kiss. Bruce... it feels like Clark is being coaxed, or soothed, or -- just given something more than what he has already taken for himself. The pleasure of Dick's mouth has become only one part of a strange sort of 'everything,' a tapestry Clark doesn't feel qualified to know in more than glimpses, or --

Perhaps just flashes of *feeling*. The first push of his own tongue into Bruce's mouth leads to it being sucked, *held* as much as the kiss itself is being held. Keeping his head in this position feels awkward, but Clark can't seem to respond to that thought with more than just the way he's firming his grip on *Dick*.

He feels disconnected and more than a little confused. This isn't what he's *here* for, and yet Bruce and Dick seem so *sure*. "Please," he says, when Bruce pulls away. Attempting to focus on the man's eyes leads to an excellent view of his skull, and then of the muscles in his face shifting into a smile.

Clark closes his eyes, searches past the lids -- Dick is a solid sort of ghost, moving with rhythmic perfection -- no. He opens his eyes again, and there is only Dick, forehead creased in a single line of concentration. His mouth --

"His *mouth*," Clark says, and, of course, there is no stubble on Dick's hollowed cheeks to tease Clark's fingers, and no makeup to leave him marked and wanting -- Clark shakes his head. "I can't --"

Bruce hums and squeezes Clark's shoulders again before letting go --

"Oh, don't --" But that makes Dick open his eyes again, and the worry within them --

It's too much not to stroke Dick's hair, nod at him, touch his cheek -- there's hardly any flesh at all between Clark's fingers and his penis. Pressing there makes Dick's eyes roll up before he closes them again, makes Clark need to hover off the chair for just a moment, press deeper --

Dick *swallows* him, engulfs him in welcome heat, flexing muscle -- Clark drops back down into the chair, pets Dick more, strokes his ears where they've begun to flush, chases a glimpse of shadow movement --

Bruce is behind Dick, now, dropping gracefully to his knees.

"What -- you. Please," Clark says again, and breathing has become difficult. Watching has become --

Bruce strokes Clark's hands, presses them harder against Dick's head --

"Don't -- don't do -- *Bruce* --"

And then Bruce is pushing Clark's hands, urging them to let *go*. The part of Clark which is bundling itself at the base of his spine, which wants to push outward and find *refuge*, doesn't want to cooperate. There are still hints of dampness in Dick's hair, and that scent isn't on his hands *enough*, yet --

"Trust me," Bruce says, soft and firm. It's a reminder, of course. He has been invited and welcomed, but this is not where he lives, and Bruce only wants -- no, he can't be sure of that.

There's no satisfaction in moving his hands back to the arms of the chair, and the sound Clark makes when Bruce begins tugging Dick's head back, *away* -- there are no words in it, only the most helpless sort of want. If Clark heard a sound like that from a distance, he wouldn't be able to help listening more closely, he thinks, looking for signs of trouble and *hurt* --

And perhaps he would find it in the rapid, uneven rush of -- Dick is breathing through his nose, almost panting. Of course he hadn't been letting Dick breathe, he'd been selfish, wanting --

"Oh, more, please, both of you --"

The look in Bruce's eyes makes Clark float again, *drop* again --

And then Bruce *pushes* Dick's head back down, ignoring the high, muffled whine in Dick's throat -- pushing too *slowly* --

Clark can't place the impulse which leads him to pluck and tear at the buttons of his shirt, to pull and -- and *tear*, but Dick's eyes are wide open once more, focused on Clark's chest --

("We're a *great* team, Superman!")

He can't strip himself farther, if that's even what he had wanted. He can't alter this in any way, and not wanting to risk its end is only a part of the -- the *concern*. The sound Dick made had *changed*, just before he'd cut himself off --

Before Bruce had *quieted* Dick with Clark's penis. He is not -- Clark has refused himself this in every way he's been able to. This -- this desire he has seen in the eyes of people who only know Superman. It doesn't feel like hypocrisy to give in to it, here --

"Superman," Bruce says, and his voice belongs in the night, or perhaps simply at Superman's *side*. And Robin --

Robin is on his knees, holding himself open and ready, offering himself and his incredible skills to -- to both of them, but especially to Superman, right now. Swallowing constantly, unfettered by the feel of saliva running down his chin, confident with the feel of Batman's hands holding him exactly where they need him to *be*. *This* time he can hold himself steady in the air when he floats.

This time thrusting is only the natural motion of his hips. Robin is strong enough to let Clark be weak, to let Superman *take* this -- this wonderful *thing* --

To have *this* welcome, too, and -- oh, to use it.

There is no sense of focus in Dick's gaze, anymore, no sign that he's truly seeing anything, anymore, but --

But Clark knows that the last thing he saw, the last thing he *knew* was Superman's shield. And that --

He --

He pushes *deep*, sacrificing his view of Dick for the wonderful feel, for the sense and sensation --

"Oh," Clark says, and trusts to his own powers to keep him safe and close as he loses what seems to be absolutely everything. All of himself, and everything Superman couldn't have before Bruce and Dick had shown him *how*. The pump of his hips is impossible to control, though, and he slips *out* --

And the first thing he can hear and *understand* is the slap and patter of his semen on the skin of Dick's face, the --

The further slip of Dick's robe, Bruce's hands in Dick's hair, the shift of knees on carpet --

"Superman," Bruce says again, laughing easily and tugging Dick into his arms, into a sprawl over his lap. Clark moves in close, once more, and reaches for Dick's face.

"He -- are you all right, Dick?"

"You've made a terrible mess, Clark," and Bruce strokes through the semen on Dick's cheek and -- holds his fingers up next to Dick's face. Dick is working very -- diligently to improve the rhythm of his breathing.

"I -- I'm sorry," and Clark isn't sure what to do about the fact that it had come out sounding like a question.

Bruce's response is more laughter. Dick smiles -- "Bruce, oh -- mm. Bruce almost never ejaculates on my *face*."

It's a curious feeling to know one *should* be blushing when one isn't. It feels like waiting for a conversation that simply isn't happening, if such a thing could be entirely internal. Clark nods, instead, and focuses on Bruce's slick fingers. He can -- smell himself. "Bruce is very good at a lot of things." And Clark can see the edges of Bruce's smile behind and to the sides of those -- fingers.

"I'm not very skilled at the art of removing myself from Dick's mouth while... in extremis."

And *now* Clark is blushing. "It wasn't -- on purpose."

"Oh, I..." Dick turns and wriggles in Bruce's grip, leans toward those fingers -- he can't reach. "I thought it was neat. It was like you were... oh, I don't know. Like those times when Bruce *bites* me."

Bruce -- Bruce's *teeth*, and all of that soft, smooth skin...

"Clark," Bruce says, and it's quite close to the same tone of voice he uses when there's something very important Clark -- Superman -- needs to see -- oh.

Dick is stretched as far toward Bruce's hand as he can manage, and Bruce is allowing him his -- fingertips. Just the tips. "Oh, that's --"

"Mmm," Dick says and twists -- impressively. The end result is a mass made of Dick's naked limbs and, apparently, laughter. Giggles *and* low chuckles, Bruce's clothed limbs shifting, moving to *contain*, the two of them rolling -- Bruce's clean hand in motion --

And the somehow *bright* crack of that hand against Dick's bottom --

"Ow, no fair!"

When they stop -- mostly stop -- Dick is curled against Bruce's chest, sitting in his lap and holding Bruce's wrist in both hands as he diligently licks and sucks at -- Clark's semen.

There are light streaks of it over Dick's sides, and his face is still quite --

Bruce squeezes Dick in a casually powerful hug that makes Dick hum around Bruce's fingers, and Bruce is smiling at Clark again. And licking Dick's face. Which is --

Well, of course Bruce's vision and concentration *set* the human standard for perfection, but he simply can't see everything Clark can. This is more than enough reason to join them, and to help, though he must admit this sort of help is only going to make all of them very sticky, albeit in somewhat different ways.

Dick hums a giggle when Bruce begins to help Dick lick Bruce's own hand, and moans when Clark gets distracted by the flushed shell of his ear. This close, the only possible way to distract himself from the flow of blood within Dick's body is to focus on Bruce's, and -- it doesn't quite seem to be the *time* for that. Not when Clark can confirm what his other senses are telling him with a hand between Dick's legs, and not when the way he shifts causes Clark's fingertips to brush against the material of Bruce's trousers.

Again and --

"A moment," Bruce says, lifting Dick and -- with Dick in his arms, everything seems much more fitting, somehow. He begins to sweat in earnest --

"Oh, Clark, you're even warmer than *usual* --"

-- though this is, of course, only partially because of Clark's own heat. Dick's penis is both slick and sticky, making it seem deeply necessary to stroke and shift and keep doing so until Clark finds the position and rhythm which both feels best to his hand and makes Dick start to move purposefully, wonderfully --

"Oh -- oh, but -- Bruce," he says, and, when Clark looks up, he has to agree. *Bruce*.

Bruce has removed his tie and jacket, and Dick *twists* in Clark's arms until he can reach Bruce's shoes. This necessitates another shift in angle, perhaps a squeeze --

"Bruce, *oh*, Clark's hands are so *smooth* --"

"You've shaken hands with him before, Dick," Bruce says, and raises his eyebrows at Clark.

"That's *different*," and Dick pushes Bruce's shoes neatly out of the way, one after the other.

Clark thinks there's something he might be *supposed* to say at this point, but he can't think of what it might be. Bruce's smile seems almost wild around the edges, more dangerous than it should be -- this is not why Clark clutches Dick tighter to himself, though the act may be why Dick lifts his legs and spreads them to either side of Clark's own.

"And also -- also -- mmm," Dick says, and lifts his arms until he can settle them around Clark's neck. "Bruce, you -- please take your pants off?"

Bruce stands and -- toys with his belt. The scent of it adds an animal undertone to the rest, masculine and sharp. "Just my pants?"

"And and -- whatever you have under them! You should... oh... oh, Clark -- Clark should touch *your* penis, too -- *oh*!"

Clark *means* to apologize for that squeeze, but it comes out as a groan. Dick is pumping his hips faster, and Bruce is stepping out of his pants and boxers at once, leaving nothing but his shirt, half-unbuttoned and -- "Come here. Please," Clark says, and the sound of his own voice is, really, no more desperate than the reach of his hand.

He brushes the tail of Bruce's shirt, grabs for it, and Bruce's smile is almost humbling in its raw *desire*. Clark tugs and Bruce nods and comes to them. Much too slowly, much too --

The flex and shift of the muscles in his thighs and calves is nothing Clark hasn't seen before, but it feels that way when Bruce comes to kneel beside them. In *reach*.

"Clark --"

He has already taken Bruce in hand, of course, moving quickly enough that the invitation doesn't break or change in Bruce's voice. The reaction -- soft and thrilling -- is in the breath he takes afterward, and the sound the breath catches on in exhale.

The feel of him seems too basic for the moment, as if there isn't enough *said* in the slickness of Bruce's pre-ejaculate, the soft skin and firmness of arousal.

"Like that, oh -- Bruce, do you *see*?"

"Yes, I -- I think so. Mm," and Bruce's smile has become wetter, more *broad*, focused in on Clark like -- precisely like a weapon. "How good *is* your concentration, Clark? I don't enjoy quite the same -- mm. Rhythm."

A challenge, bald and clear. Clark knows that Bruce often uses them to push Dick to his limits and beyond them, that *Bruce* knows that it's often the very best way to coax the very best out of an already extraordinary boy. It's not the same with him, though, for all that sometimes Clark wishes it were.

To *impress* a man like Bruce would be --

But of course it says much that Bruce can and will simply play with him, as if Clark has already proved impressive enough... he can't be. Not for this, not *here*. While Clark has both the control and the senses to know that *this* stroke, slow and hard, is the one to use for Bruce, while *that* one is best for Dick as he approaches his climax --

His senses are *eroding* his control, flooding him with information about Dick's wordless cries, the scent of sweat both new and aging, the ruthlessly blunt feel of arousal -- *he* is aroused, once more, and it's difficult to be sure if he ever wasn't. Surely there had been a moment?

He wants to touch himself, to show them both how *lost* he is, but the concept of letting go of either of them is more alien than he's ever felt himself to be. He -- "I -- oh, I'm not -- I'm not *strong*," he says, pleads, and Dick is scratching at Clark's thigh with his short fingernails, getting his fingers tangled in the *clutter* of Clark's tights and shorts, the utterly irrelevant trousers. He looks to Bruce --

And Bruce's mouth falls open on a groan that feels like still another weapon, something else to break Clark down, open --

He might've tracked the vibrations of it, found the wavelength, duplicated it -- but right now there is only the chance to experience it, to hear it played over and over within his own mind, to measure it against the feel of Dick ejaculating once more, pushing at Clark's grip, whimpering --

Clark lets go, hissing at the loss of sensation as much as at Dick's relieved groan, the sight of him crawling away -- *away*, no --

"*Dick*," Bruce says, hungry and *deep*, and Clark feels the hand he still has around Bruce begin to shake in the moments before Dick stops, straightens, looks to Bruce and crawls back. Dick's eyes are dazed, but his motions are precise and graceful seemingly despite -- everything.

Without enhancement, Clark can see the way his genitals swing as they soften, loosen themselves, can mark their shine in the light -- "Dick," he says, as well, but he doesn't mean to distract or shift his... his *trajectory*. Clark shakes his head when Dick pauses, again when Dick *smiles* --

And gets caught by the sight of Bruce letting his head fall back --

And again by the feel of a hand -- hands -- on his own erection. His senses --

Everything is too fast now, blending and bleeding together -- the pound of his own heart is drowning him --

And Bruce's smile has moved entirely to his eyes when he snaps his head forward once more. They seem everything Clark knows of extremes, hot and freezing, cold and -- Clark groans and looks away, but looking down gives him the sight of Bruce's hand covering Dick's own on his erection, twining with it, dwarfing it --

He has to *separate* the sensations to know them, to truly understand the way that both of them have hands much rougher than his own, that while they lack both the speed and strength he normally uses, what they do have is more than enough. "So -- so *human*," he says, biting his lip --

Bruce's hand on his face feels like a gift, the brush of his fingertips over Clark's mouth the perfect sort of heightening. Clark kisses it, follows the scent of salt with his tongue, turns -- and the kiss shakes him, changes everything -- *he* is going to climax soon, and this time he'll have both of them, their hands --

He moans against Bruce's lips and realizes they're swelling, changing with his touch -- he's kissing Bruce much too hard, but Bruce's fingers -- wet and slightly cool with Clark's own saliva -- brush against his ear, into his hair -- Bruce pulls and demands -- more.

Right now, it's as much of a revelation as everything else. They want everything from him, everything he can give without causing hurt --

It's all he's ever wanted, and this is something he ought to have understood. He wants to *tell* them this, but the only way he can, now is with the motions of his lips, his tongue, his teeth against the almost plush *fact* of Bruce's lower lip.

"Oh, Clark -- Bruce -- I want to kiss, *too*," Dick says, and Bruce and Dick's hands *twist* on Clark's penis, drive Clark to lose himself to scent, sound --

And the feel of Dick pressing close, soft and sweaty skin, the *scent* --

And the feel of his tongue, licking at them both (the sound, quiet and perfect, of Dick's tongue stroking up against the grain of Bruce's stubble) until Clark turns, and Bruce turns --

"Robin," Bruce says, and there *is* room within this sort of kiss for speech, but Clark has no words. They are too beautiful, and he can't know himself as anything but one of them. He does have a free hand, though, and it's warmer once he can hold them both, pull them slightly closer --

Try and fail to catch both of their tongues between his lips at once, try again --

Bruce's breathing has gone ragged, and there's something touching Clark's hand -- Dick, working both of them now, stroking and urging --

"Yes," Dick says, "oh, yes!"

Bruce shudders and gasps, and there is a moment, once more, when Clark can have all of this: Dick's eager smile and Bruce's almost pained expression, the scent of all of them mingling into one intoxicating mass, the stutter of Bruce's heartbeat, the hands on him moving not quite in time -- and then Bruce spills over their hands and the kiss shifts to something slower, more focused, or --

Clark wants to be kissing them both when he climaxes. It's something he'd never considered, but all of this is, and the way Bruce is panting, shuddering again as he *works* to catch his breath is making it more difficult, more --

Clark *also* wants to just focus on this, and on the way Dick is tugging Clark's hand away from Bruce, holding it tight in his own, smiling --

Clark realizes that he's shivering and moaning, pleading without words -- and then Bruce catches Clark's face between his hands and kisses him slowly, deeply -- squeezes him, triggering a squeeze from Dick, and again, and Bruce -- Clark pulls back and Dick is there to kiss him, too.

They're trading him, back and forth, each taking the kind of kiss they like best -- does he know this, now? Is this something...? He can't think, all he can feel is the warmth, the pleasure, the --

"Dick," Bruce says, and that's Dick's hand squeezing him again, harder this time --

Clark moans -- and moans again, because Dick isn't there to kiss him when Bruce lets him go, this time. Dick -- Clark looks down --

Dick's smile is quick and broad -- "I already know you *like* it," he says, and takes Clark *in*, again, down to Bruce's fist.

Oh -- "Bruce," Clark says, helplessly --

"Yes," and Bruce kisses him again, holding him there and tasting, stroking Clark's mouth as he tries not to float, twist, *thrust* --

Every time he fails, Bruce squeezes him, hums against Clark's tongue and -- there's laughter there, and even if it isn't designed to goad Clark on and push him further, it *does*. Clark's hand is far too disreputable for him to push it into Dick's hair, but the back of his neck is already damp with sweat. Smooth skin, warmth and motion --

Dick is *sucking* him, and Bruce is swallowing every groan Clark can't help but let free -- yes, Clark thinks, and lets go of himself, of every perception which has more nuance than good, mine, *yes*. Sometime, perhaps, one or both of them will let him feel this thing, this *encompassing* (the spatter against the back of Dick's throat which is almost exactly unlike rain) --

For now, Clark can only give into it and let himself flow, ride, and *give*. It's over much too quickly, but even though both of them release him, they don't go far. They are -- right here.

And so is he.

When Clark reaches, Dick immediately snuggles into his arms. Bruce is less effusive, but the arm-clasp is nearly as wonderful -- especially once Bruce kisses his palm.

He isn't sure how they do *this*, beyond never having heard -- or seen -- them leave the bed to shower when they make love *in* a bed. Still, neither of them seem to mind Clark taking a moment just to enjoy the feel of Dick in his arms, and the sight of Bruce right there, nude and -- "Beautiful," Clark says. "You're both..."

Dick giggles in his arms. "Then *you* must be superbeautiful." This comes with a squeeze, and -- Bruce seems to have no compunction about using *his* hand to tousle Dick's hair.

They are -- filthy.

"Perhaps we... should shower?"

"Yes," Bruce says, and Dick wriggles in Clark's grasp until Clark lets go.

"If we mess up the furniture or the carpets, Alfred will be *mad*."

Clark blinks and nods. Yes, of course. Alfred already works very hard. "I... I can use the clouds above Gotham --"

"Oh, no, don't leave," Dick says, gripping Clark's shoulders and squeezing. "Please don't, not yet."

Bruce sets his hand on *Dick's* shoulder, and Dick bites his lip. "We can't keep Clark from his life and work forever, Dick," he says, soft and chiding.

Dick nods. "I know. It's just... maybe he can stay for a little while longer?"

In Metropolis, Clark Kent is already very late for work, it's true, but --

"Can you?" Bruce's voice is -- only welcoming. Open and sure and -- tempting.

Clark coughs into his hand -- and stops, because the scent of Bruce on his fingers is overwhelming. Bruce and Bruce's *sex*. "Perhaps... perhaps for a shower," he says, and surrenders to the urge to *lick*.

"Mm," Bruce says, and Clark doesn't need to look up to know that he's watching. He does so, anyway, and finds himself lost, once more. Bruce's eyes are a blue completely different from his own, and a part of Clark is *insisting* that he hasn't spent enough time looking at them.

"Oh, and maybe breakfast, too?" Dick's expression is hopeful, eager --

He hasn't spent enough time on -- anything, with the two of them. Clark smiles and thinks about calling in sick. A lie, but he thinks a forgivable one. For now, he stands up to keep himself from reaching for another hug, watches Dick *bound* to his feet, and helps Bruce to his own, and --

And the kiss Bruce pulls him into feels like winning something, like friendship and partnership and everything warm, everything good.

When he finds Bruce's hand on Dick's right shoulder, he moves his own hand to Dick's left.

And keeps it there.