Off Page Six
by glossolalia

"Champagne, Mr. Wayne?"

The waitress is a beautiful Hawaiian girl, hair loose over her shoulders, an elaborate flowered sari wrapped around her ample curves.

The Batman does not drink, or otherwise indulge.

Bruce, however, accepts the flute of champagne and nods his thanks.

The party tonight, as with so many of his engagements, is a charitable fundraiser. Whom it shall benefit -- rare native orchids? Perhaps coastal erosion -- he cannot recall.

Wandering through the small crowd, he does what Bruce Wayne does best: smiling, establishing connections, flirting with the young and old, the male and female. Small talk with the state commissioner for cultural affairs, three trophy wives, local magnates, Japanese real-estate speculators, and the like. The people at such parties are always the same; only the faces change. Wherever they are geographically -- tonight, the outskirts of Honolulu -- the world is always the same.

This is a modern day floating world. It glimmers against the velvety Pacific night, the champagne's bubbles as they riot upward reflecting the twists of pearls and diamonds around the women's throats, the stars overhead glinting across the surface of a koi pond.

Two young women drift up to him. Pamela and Poppy, or Marianne and Melinda; he can't remember their names. That doesn't matter, not here. He stands tall in a pale summerweight suit and acts his part. Their laughter and perfume weave through the night. Warm hands with sharp nails on his shoulders, cooing giggles and coy gazes. They test his muscles, inquire after his sojourn here, arrange without his consent to have lunch tomorrow.

He downs another flute of champagne. The bubbles rise from the soles of his feet to burst against the inner curve of his skull.

Another woman joins them, this one in red. Priscilla, or Melanie, as shiny, well-groomed, and clinging as all the rest. Bruce makes his apologies -- "Can't go thirsty, you know" -- as he waves his empty glass, stepping backward, intending to go hide at the bar.

He doesn't get very far at all. An explosion, shattering glass, the sudden stink of sulphur: Bruce has just enough time to stumble towards the women again, shield them with his body and push them into the pool, before the heat hits them.

Instinctually, he tugs at his collar as he gets to his feet, his shirtfront soaked, ready to strip down to the uniform.

Which is still in Gotham. On Dick's back.

There is no Batman here. None that can be seen, at any rate.

Behind him, someone calls "Superboy!"

Bruce is uncertain whether to be relieved there is a hero on hand, or envious. Instead, he helps the ladies out of the water, apologizing profusely as he pats ineffectually at their streaming hair and ruined gowns.

Sirens wail, a helicopter rakes the grounds with its spotlight, and the women will not release him. Not until their husbands hurry over, brushing glass and dirt from their suits, hustling them to waiting limousines.

"Wow, that was so cool--"

Bruce wheels around to see.

Him. The clone, the impostor. One of many, the youngest, all dark tumbling curls and a grin that shines even in the dark of the shrubbery. Glows when the searchlights hit it.

The clone appears to be no older than Tim, but he's taller, nearly as tall as Dick. Not as tall as Clark, but otherwise: Yes. Like Clark, similar, but not identical.

And Bruce Wayne should not, cannot, know any such thing. So he tugs at his wet shirtsleeves, then offers his hand with that vapid smile. "What's so cool?"

The clone shakes his hand, squeezes it several moments too long. Lingering, but then -- test tubes do not come equipped with etiquette manuals. "You totally dunked them, and they were still all over you. Stud. Stud to the max."

"Bruce Wayne," he says. Though the time for introductions is past, the clone is still holding his hand. "You're Superboy."

The clone looks down at his costume, fingers brushing over the S-crest -- the one they stole from Clark -- before he adjusts the tilt of the two belts. As he glances back up, he seems to grin even more widely. "You're, like, a genius detective there, aren't you?"

He nudges Bruce with his elbow, then links their arms, tugging him toward the police-tape wrapped around the site of the explosion. "Like I don't know who you are. I read Vanity Fair and OK!, you know."

Which is...strange, to say the least, for any teenager, let alone a superhero one. Bruce looks around the site, the cops milling around, the still-glowing debris. "What happened here, anyway?"

"Bad guy," Superboy says briefly. "Mad bomber."

"Was anyone hurt?"

"Nah. He was kind of a creampuff, actually."

"You sound disappointed."

"Well, yeah." The clone huffs out an exasperated sigh and bounces on the tips of his toes. "He just crumpled up and cried for his mommy. Cops didn't even have to cuff him. Totally pointless."

When Superboy tilts his head and narrows his eyes, Bruce restrains himself from taking a careful step away. Batman protects his personal space, guards against metahumans, but Bruce Wayne would not. He isn't intelligent enough; he is far too trusting.

He remembers all too clearly being tackled by this clone, back in Metropolis, half a year ago. The heat off his narrow, muscled body, the half-crazed grin he wore as he pummeled yet more impostor Supermen.

That heat is dispersed here in the humid night air, but not by much.

"What're you doing here, anyway? Page Six said you were in -- Majorca?"

He pronounces the name incorrectly, a hard 'juh' for the J; Bruce notices that fact first, before he can wonder again why Superman's clone is reading the gossip pages. "Traveling," he replies belatedly. "Here and there."

"Yeah, I know how that is." Superboy steers Bruce towards the remains of the bar. "On a world tour myself. Just can't seem to leave."

One-handed, he vaults over the bar and ducks down to retrieve an intact bottle of vodka. "Let me welcome you to Hawaii, then. Aloha and all that."

Bruce takes the bottle and sets it aside. "You can't be old enough to drink. What do you think you're doing?"

That ought to chasten the child. Allow Bruce to step back, regain some measure of control over the situation.

It does not. Antic energy shimmers through the boy's body, marring those perfect features. It hunches up his shoulders and tightens his stance before he unfolds, spreading his arms and, somehow, drawing Bruce in with only a fingertip on Bruce's wrist.

Powers appear to stem from tactility, verging into a sort of manufactured telekinesis, Batman's files read. Supplemented by information from STAR and Oracle, no one outside of Cadmus has a better idea of what this boy is capable of.

And yet Bruce still isn't prepared for the force -- gentle, but irresistible -- of Superboy's touch. He'd like to blame the champagne fizzing through his system, the jetlag, even the altitude, but it is none of those things.

It's Superboy's voice, suddenly low and very grave. "I'm trying to pick you up, Mr. Wayne. What'm I doing wrong? Huh?"

Oh, God. Bruce closes his eyes.

"Nope, just me," the clone says and Bruce opens his eyes to see Superboy's face only centimeters from his own, feel the heat off his skin.

He spoke aloud. He couldn't have. "I -- I'm --" Batman. Twenty years older. Bruce Wayne.

There are no reasons to refuse. None but all of them. This isn't Clark, this is worse, a clone and a hybrid. Utterly inhuman, a ridiculous boy in bright lycra and whispering leather.

"You were checking me out," Superboy says. "Totally admiring the goods. I saw you." He juts out one hip and grins. "And who could blame you?"

Reconnaissance, Bruce thinks. Detective work, surveillance. Nothing like admiration or interest.

So why hasn't he pulled away? He can see the thought occurring to Superboy, see his smile widening -- all those white teeth, perfect white teeth -- and something hums between his ears.

"Never heard you went for guys," Superboy is murmuring, ghosts of words and lips moving over Bruce's face.

Bruce can move again, suddenly, just like that. His hands push through the boy's thick curls, fingertips skating over the buzzed bristle on the back of his skull, down the strong cords of his neck. He moves, touches, and pulls, until they are kissing for real, finally, as if he's been waiting hours. Superboy's mouth is hot and slick, opening already, drawing him in.

"Don't," Bruce says, breaking the kiss and straightening up. "Believe everything you read."


He returns to his hotel and waits for the clone there. Superboy has no secret identity, no disguise, and Bruce Wayne, playboy millionaire, is not about to be seen taking an underage superhero up to his suite. He will give that superhero his room number, of course, but there are rules. Among the first is, "don't make a scene".

There is time to reconsider, then, but he does not. Rather, he strips off his soaked clothes, changes quickly, and before he can lift the decanter of whiskey from the side table, he hears the knock on his window.

Tugged aside, the curtains reveal Superboy hovering just outside. Grinning, thirty-eight stories in the air, and when he sees Bruce, he turns a slow somersault.

Showing off, and his tight uniform stands out starkly against the night, clinging to the long muscles of his legs, the curve of his ass.

Bruce strides to the balcony and leans over the railing. "Come in."

The air lifts in a sudden breeze as Superboy flies the short distance over, turns another somersault, and then lands lightly as a cat beside Bruce.

"When I said I didn't want to make a scene --" Bruce begins, but Superboy is already wrapping one arm around Bruce's waist, pulling at him, kissing him again.

When they break for breath, Bruce can only gape at the clone. At his face.

He has seen this before. That expression, this reckless flight. It's something effusive, spangled with manic energy, joyful. Not on Clark -- Clark's joy is quiet but thorough, far more deeply settled than this -- but on Robin.

Both of them.

Not on Tim, whose face can smile but never grin, not like this. But on Dick. And Jason.

"Thanks for having me." Superboy's grin slides into a leer as he grinds lightly against Bruce's thigh. A hard ridge beneath the lycra, beneath the athletic cup. "Have me. Get it?"

He's a child. The Batman would grind his teeth and remain unmovable, but Bruce is --.

Right now, Bruce is not Batman. He remembers how to be, remembers down to his bones. But Dick is Batman now and Bruce is here, thousands of feet in the air, kissing Superboy so hard that the clone bends backward, fingers scrabbling over the back of Bruce's shirt, stumbling a little as they hurry back into the suite.

Dick is Batman. And Bruce, Bruce is hungry.

"Oh, you get it, all right," Superboy gasps as Bruce pushes him against the nearest wall, kissing again, teeth clacking, sucking the boy's tongue up against his own palate, palm sliding over the slick fabric across Superboy's crotch.

Bruce is not Batman. This is not Superman. Not Clark, or Kal, but a boy without a name, only an identity. Just a costume, bright as the American flag, red and blue and -- white teeth, bare skin exposed, leggings tugged down around his thighs.

Bruce is on his knees, grasping the boy's narrow hips, feeling the muscles of his abdomen flex and contract as the boy sucks in a breath and looks down. Curls in his eyes, blue eyes, white teeth, red tongue over his lips, red cock standing out, brushing against Bruce's cheek.

"I get it," Bruce says. Or lies. Confesses?

The boy shouts as Bruce's lips close around the head of his cock. It's slick already -- how long has he been hard? -- and sweat-salty-sweet. His head thumps back against the wall. Bruce hasn't done this in a while, but all time is relative. He is remembering how nearly as quickly as he had started needing to do this.

He cups the clone's testicles in one hand, rolls them in his palm, pushes his mouth down, and then down farther. The riot of breathing above him grows louder, more syncopated. Hands close in his hair, cup his skull, as his licks his way back up the shaft.

Superboy's nails rake over his scalp, push-pulling him down, tugging his hair. The heat and weight of the cock in his mouth burns and scrapes his tongue, fills him up. Bruce hums back as the cock nudges the back of his throat, threatening, promising.

In the past, Bruce might have choked, sputtered, but he has trained himself for years to remain calm, confident, in control. So now he opens his throat, his jaw aching as his tongue pushes up the length of Superboy's shaft. Swallows, and works at the delicate skin, the tensile heft. Works out the sounds of songs and pleas that fall around, past, him in a shower, a torrent.

He makes the boy work himself into Bruce's mouth, strokes the damp passage from balls to ass, rubs a knuckle just...there. He gets another shout, mumbled curses, and presses slightly in. Takes it all, transforming the sound and ragged motion of bucking hips into something better, purer (Clark) than he ever is.

It's fast and dirty. Delicious. Superboy is, physiologically at least, still a teenager, after all. Bruce digs his nails into the hard muscles of the clone's hips and tips back his head. Opens his mouth.

The boy's body jerks as he starts to come; he smacks Bruce's cheek when Bruce circles his tongue just below the head, then holds him by the ear. Bruce stays in place, his mouth open for the hot, jagged spray that comes. Then comes again, filling him up before he swallows. Swallows again, tasting it, as he sits back on his heels.

Before him, Superboy slides down the wall, his leggings tangled over his boots, around his ankles. His head lolls, his eyes are closed.

Heat without a source seems to be flowing over, then through, Bruce's skin. Arousal, of course, but it feels like something more. Different. Something to do with the boy.

Before he can get hold of his thoughts, however, he is being tugged in toward the clone. Touched, overpowered, pulled up against the boy's heaving chest, petted with slowly roaming hands.

Kissing him now is different -- Superboy is now very much a boy, tousled and shivering. His mouth is open, yielding and warm as a bruise. All traces of his power are gone -- save for this insistent, warm flow beneath Bruce's skin -- replaced by this graceless, hesitant petting.

(He blanks out his mind: smooth white parchment, a shred of hypnosis. Does not acknowledge [DickJasonRobin] what will not change, what he will not take.)

"Mmm." Bruce licks the corner of his lip, braces his fist on the wall next to the clone's head. Not a fist, no. He fans out his fingers, drawls out another murmur. "How do you do that?"

"I like to call it TK," Superboy says, arching away from the wall, mouthing Bruce's throat. "Short for tactile telekinesis. Trademark pending."

That's just...ridiculous. Bruce chuckles anyway. At the earnestness in the boy's voice, the plain conviction that one can, in fact, be this bald, this cocky.

"I don't even know what to call you."

Superboy grins at him. Even that expression is slower than it had been. His eyelashes are spangled with sweat. "My friends, they call me. Kid. Or 'you'."


"As in, hey, you! Stop doing that."

"But I don't want you to stop." Bruce rocks gently forward when Superboy's hand nears his groin.

Another slow grin, quirking up half his face. "Heh. Cool."

"So I'm your friend, then?" Flirtation: Bruce Wayne is known for it. Legendary, some might say. Have said.

Kid looks away. Bruce is blocking the light, casting a shadow, but even so, he can see the flush staining Superboy's cheek. "Yeah. Yeah, of course."

How many times has Clark squeezed his -- Batman's -- shoulder like this? Clark trusts their friendship, trusts that it exists in a way that Br--Batman never can allow himself to.

And now Bruce Wayne, indolent flirt, mimics Superman. Perverse, more perverse than anything they've already done, have yet to do.

Kid looks back at him. Still flushing, but smiling as well. That Kryptonian openness slices through Bruce; it's a kind of emotional honesty never seen on Earth.

Unless it's on Robin's face. Even -- especially -- then, Batman cannot allow himself to see it.

Flirtation and charm bring with them their own dangers, landmines and faults. Better to keep to the body and its insistent needs.

The boy's hands are surer, firmer, now, moving up Bruce's chest, pulling at his collar. "What about you, huh? What do I --" He lets out a short, frustrated noise at the buttons.

"I'd prefer somewhere more...comfortable," Bruce says and stands, offering his hand.

Kid leans against him, struggling with his leggings, cursing once, under his breath, over his boot buckles.

"Wouldn't it be better -- that is, easier if --. Wouldn't you rather wear normal clothes?" Perhaps it's the fault of that agent; perhaps Rex Leech requires the costume as some kind of marketing ploy.

The boy shakes his head. "These're normal. For me, anyway."

"Ahh," is all Bruce can say. "All right then." He watches Kid bend over to unbuckle his boots and kick off his tights. It's easier than anything to touch. Bruce cups the curve of Kid's ass: firm, barely more than a palm's worth, smoother than anything real.

Kid barks out a laugh and pushes into Bruce's hand. He wiggles, the laugh decanting down into a sigh.

Bruce gets a sudden vision of what he could do. Of that ass, open to him, the pink cleft shining with sweat, the hole distending for Bruce's cock, stretching open, sucking him in.

His balance dips, sways, and Kid steadies him. "You okay?"

"You're beautiful," Bruce tells him.

"Best that modern science can make." Another grin and Kid slips his hands under Bruce's shirt. "You're still too -- dressed."

Bruce pushes into the touch, briefly, then turns them toward the bedroom. "All in due time."

He wants the boy in his bed. Wants him -- yes. Just like this, naked but for the crest, sprawled on his back, fingers teasing the length of his hardening cock. He kneels between Kid's legs, strips off his shirt and opens his pants.

Kid sits halfway up, arms crossed to tug his jersey off over his head. Bruce squeezes his kneecap. "Leave it on."

He expects...some kind of reaction. Another crude joke, something like that. Not this, Kid's arms falling back to the mattress, eyes closing, head tilting back, exposing his throat.

"Yes," Bruce says, and he lowers himself over Kid, licking at his throat, long thin stripes up to his chin, finding his mouth. Open mouth, pulling him inside, and Kid's arms wrapping around him, fingertips pushing down Bruce's back. "Superboy."

Another long sigh, this time ending in a grunt, as Kid pushes Bruce back up to his knees and follows, hands on Bruce's chest. Touching Bruce, his eyes wide as his nails scratch through Bruce's chest hair, pluck at a nipple, sink down to cup Bruce's aching cock.

There is very little deliberation in Kid's touch, even less seduction. Bruce feels as if he is an exhibit, a specimen, some strange new land to be mapped with impatient hands and slick, roving mouth.

"Lotta scars, huh?" Kid murmurs into Bruce's shoulder.

"I'm a klutz."

Kid grins at him, touching a knot of scar tissue like he touched the nipple a moment ago, scratching at it. Pinching.

"Very clumsy," Bruce adds and silences himself, both of them, by pressing his lips to Kid's.

The clone likes to kiss. That much is clear. Likes it even better when Bruce pushes his hips forward and strokes his cock. Kid's tongue flutters, caught in Bruce's teeth, when Bruce pushes his hand down into his cleft, rocking his fingers. The skin there is so soft, sticky with come, obscenely soft.

"Oh --" Kid grunts and lies back, spreading his legs wide. "Oh, man, wow --"

Bruce folds himself over, trapping his cock between belly and thigh, relishing the sore, grinding throb of denial and delay. Spreads the clone's ass with one hand and licks him clean. Long, hard strokes that work down and back. And he shouldn't be surprised when Kid lifts a few inches off the mattress, hovering, granting him access.

He isn't surprised. He does wonder, for a moment, if Superboy is even aware of what he's done. Floating here, spread open, his hips pushing at Bruce's face.

"Man, what're you --?" No more words as Bruce sucks at the skin around his hole, pulsing his tongue, nudging it in. No words but these ragged gasps, little grunts that break off sharply, high soprano wheezes. The slick-smooth skin warms more, heating and sliding, in Bruce's mouth.

He tastes male, sweaty and horny. And, somehow, darkly sweet. Blackstrap molasses and salt, and as his cock grinds and burns, Bruce is drunker than ever.

He could push Kid over onto his knees. Fuck him with his tongue, then his fingers, hear all of this, feel him from within. Push his cock inside and snap his hips, grind out frustration and need until the clone sings for him, until there's nothing but skin.

His cock pulses, spits precome at every image and each thrust that's below words, and he fucks his tongue as deep as he can. His thighs are shaking, his lips are going numb, and he's holding the clone's shins so tightly that anyone else would bruise.

Anyone else but Clark. Bruce groans against Kid's hole, his chin running with spit, and the last vestiges of control, of any illusion and any haunting, burn away.

"Wha--?" Kid drops to the mattress, surprise on his face. He reaches for Bruce, skimming fingers over Bruce's wet cheek. Bruce catches two fingers in his mouth, sucking at the tips while he shoves down his pants and undershorts.

Kid's eyes wink closed, then open, as Bruce bites his knuckles.

"Killing me, man, you're --" Kid mutters, tugging Bruce down with another (unconscious?) telekinetic touch. "It's -- you're --"

This brash, arrogant boy -- unnatural and eerie, a beautiful, loud pantomime -- is reduced to stuttering and twitching below Bruce's body.

Batman would be proud.

Bruce, however, kicks his pants from around his ankles and bites at Kid's shoulder. "I want you to fuck me."

It comes out in someone else's voice. Gravelly and low, and the sound of it shoves Bruce's hips against Kid's belly.

"Um --"

"Do it."

"Wow. Okay, way past killing me --" Kid digs his head into the mattress, eyes searching Bruce's. "I --. Dude, are you sure?"

Bruce rolls off him, onto his stomach, then up onto his knees. "Table drawer. Lube--lubricant."

All the heat that has been soaking him, blanketing him from within, drops and curls until he is...empty. Kneeling like this, cheek on his arms, cold air pressing around him. Hot inside, an empty cone that hollows him out, pushes his ass higher in the air.

Batman could suck a boy off. Tongue his ass, bend him over, fuck him hard.

But this--no. Batman can do anything except need. And he certainly can't ask. Not for anything.

"Lube. Okay--" Kid drops down behind Bruce. The wet squirt of lube on skin is suddenly very loud. "And. Um." He snorts and Bruce hears the sound of a fist scrubbed through hair.

He looks over his shoulder. If he was unsure before, the slack jaw and nervously darting eyes on Kid's face are more than enough. Curiosity mingled with desire, overlain with anxiety; his jersey is rucked up his chest, deforming the S, but his face is...unchanged. Beautiful.

Unbidden, Bruce's hips buck at the sight. "Fingers first. Then --"

Superboy nods quickly. "Got it. And --" He whispers the last -- "Thank you" -- but it is nearly lost in the sudden, blunt pressure of two fingers against Bruce's hole.

Two is too much. Bruce grinds his teeth and presses back. He needs this, and he's going to get it, and there's nothing to stop him. Them.

He concentrates on breathing. That heat, hollow and deep, subsides before the pressure, going deeper, stretching him out and in. Bruce can hear Kid's breath hitch when he tests the hold and drops his ass, hear a muttered curse as he pushes up again and back. Superboy brings his own heat, thicker and surer than Bruce's champagne-flirtation-idiot drunkenness, and his fingers slide out, then push back in, stroking.

"You're --" Superboy says and Bruce fucks himself backward. To shut him up, to turn off his own mind, something, and the angle catches, sensation blazes past his eyes.

"Do it," he grinds out and hears more wet skin, harsh breaths, and then. "Fuck."

Because Superboy--Kid--the boy is pushing inside. Bruce can feel the head of his cock, the brush of his knuckles, and he flattens out against the mattress, raising his ass, forgetting to breathe. Flexing around Kid's dick, blind and shaking.

He has no breath, it's pushed out his lungs with the rest of him, but he's grunting anyway. Kid jabs in and pulls out, and Bruce feels his hips drawn upward, his knees leaving the bed. And Kid thrusts back in, larger than ever. Fingers bruising Bruce's hips and he's getting the rhythm, such as it is, jab-hold-stroke.

There's a tornado in his chest, his hands are numb and cold in the sheets, and Bruce wantsneeds more. His head's hanging down, chin bouncing on the sheet, as his body hovers in Kid's hold, opens and closes and sucks the boy inside. He wants this, he has to, or else he wouldn't be taking it, and Kid speeds his hips, shoves until Bruce is swinging through space.

And then he stops. Stays inside Bruce, the thunder of his breathing obscuring the racket of Bruce's own heartbeat.

"Man, I --" Kid gasps and Bruce finds himself being turned -- flipped -- in the air, landing like a feather on his back on the mattress. "Wanna see you."

Which ought to be too much, far past the limits and boundaries that even Bruce Wayne needs, but Bruce goes with it. Kid is folding up Bruce's left leg, stroking his shin, and fucking deeper inside again. Slower now, the strokes much surer. His blue eyes fasten on Bruce's, hold them open. Kid's cheeks are stained red, shining with sweat. Bruce arches his back, driving his cock up against Kid's belly. Tendrils of...heat, telekinesis and something else, wrap around his dick, squeeze the base, suction out pleasure.

Bruce pushes into the invisible grip, half mouth, half fist, and drives back onto Kid's dick. Swings again, up and down, and Kid's mouth is set in a lopsided O, watching him. His abdomen flexes and tightens with the effort of fucking, but his face is -- pure. Blue eyes, sweat and flush, flicker of warm pink tongue.

And he has tugged down his jersey. Bruce drops his gaze, concentrates on the S close enough to touch. Kid has him bent at the waist, ass several inches off the bed, driving into him until all Bruce can do is clutch at sheets and watch and feel. The pressure and the bright, widening pleasure spinning up his spine and clenching at his cock. Around it, inside him, everything melting and running together.

The grins of Robins, blue eyes of them and Kid and Kal, streaking past and through him, and he's going to come, he feels himself driving upward into the invisible heat, feels the torque of orgasm wrenching out his balls.

The first spurt hits the S and come runs down Kid's chest, off the jersey, as Bruce keeps coming, and he's thinking of all the people Bruce Wayne has never met, and all those he has needed, and wanted, like this, but the name that leaves his lips as he collapses, as Kid's eyes close and he stills and shrieks, is "Batman".

Too low. There is no record of the clone possessing the full range of Clark's powers. Of his hearing. He ought to be safe. But he rolls away, the cock tugging free, and covers his face with a pillow.

Because that's the last thing he wants, the very last thing he could ever need. Menacing blackness inside him, taking him, and he cries out when Kid strokes a hesitant finger down his arm.

Raspy, almost shy: "Mr. Wayne?"

None of this is safe. Not this life, not here.

But Bruce Wayne is an act. Easy, stupid, and spoiled. He can school his features, uncover his face, roll back. Kiss Superboy with gentle, open mouth and say hoarsely, "You really are one of a kind."

The worst lie of the night, but the clone is...pure. So his eyelashes flicker over sleepy eyes and he stretches like a cat. "Something like that, anyway."

Bruce kisses the boy's forehead, cupping the sharp jut of his hipbone, then kisses his lips. They're both swollen, soaked with sex-stink, but Superboy is almost asleep.

Bruce leaves him there, curled on his side in the wide hotel bed, and moves -- carefully, because his legs are wobbly and his ass is still clenching erratically with the aftershocks of orgasm -- to the shower.

Naked and clean, and he uses up the hibiscus-scented bath gel.

Bruce Wayne is a sensualist. And a chimera. A role, illusion, and an act, but a persistent one.

Occasionally, he is allowed to have what he wants.

It keeps him in check.


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