(FIC) Brightest of Lights (Jason Blood/Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent, R)
You know who fails at smut? I do, I do! ...I do know, and I do fail!
I couldn't even get them undressed here, damn it! I'm not.. sure it makes sense outside my head. I'm sorry, just, the sole concept of the Jason/Bruce/Clark threesome was unbearably hot for me to write. As far as I'm concerned, this story is made of me smashing the keyboard and dancing happily. Sooo.. erm. if it doesn't make too much sense.. you know. Blame it on the muses. I couldn't bear to write more than 400 words at a time, my brain would just shut down. And in the end.. I couldn't write the smut. Clark muse, why won't you let me write you smut? damn youuu!
Also, this is for sasha_anu's birthday! Late, I know, m'dear, but I hope you had a good one!! Yaz, you can call this a placeholder until I get your present proper!
Okay. Here it goes. Not betaed. Not even makes sense. Point, I correct. This is all Jen's fault, I swear!!
Also, if you want to see the song that got me through this whole brain melt (the story itself makes no sense, but damn, the threesome!), it was my Bruce/Harvey song until it turned into my J/B/C song. Monologue by She Wants Revenge.
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Jason Blood/Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Rating: R
Summary: lksdfklsdfklsdfl. Brain melt! Sequel to Riptide
Word count: 2300+
Brightest of Lights
This is the time of night when the moonlight shines down and we can reveal who we truly are
Within the darkest most depraved
Of joys
This is not the first time that Clark has found himself in Jason’s room. Every time, he has learned something new -sometimes about himself, sometimes about the magician. They have both tried to keep it impersonal for as long as possible, but their cravings demand more and more out of each other every encounter. They have indulged for too long, perhaps, but Clark doesn’t want to quit yet.
When he approaches Jason this time, he expects to be turned down. They are getting dangerously close, something neither of them wanted. They are starting to know each other too well, and knowledge is dangerous when it rests in wrong hands.
Clark knows neither of them is confident enough to go further with their explorations. Jason’s offered solution is perhaps the only one that will allow them to extend the limits of their strained trust.
Clark takes a deep breath as he begins to unbutton his shirt. The scent of sage subtly permeates the air, incense burning in one of the corners of the room. Jason is busy lighting candles in every flat surface available, the fire casting strange shadows over his features and even stranger glints from his eyes. Clark watches him, unable to turn his attention to the new variable in the room. Still, he can feel Bruce’s heavy gaze on him as he begins to undress, and he can’t suppress a shiver.
Bruce brings change to a scenario Clark has gotten to know in all of its glorious and raw forms. He has debased himself here, he has also found enlightenment and parts of himself he never thought existed. He has found a confidence in himself that is born out of understanding; he doesn’t underestimate the darkness inside him, yet he’s no longer afraid of it taking control over him. But his knowledge of his desires is similar to his knowledge of Jason: he thinks he understands them, but he doesn’t entirely trust them.
Clark trusts Bruce with his life.
Jason comes to stand beside Bruce, and Clark’s gaze follows him. Jason’s smile is a warm knowing one, and Clark feels his heart flutter as Bruce smiles back, a grin full of mischief. There’s an undercurrent of fondness that feels like a breath of fresh air in the fragrant room.
Clark carefully folds his shirt and leaves it over a chair, his eyes never leaving the other men. Jason breaks the silence as he reaches out and runs a hand through Bruce’s hair. “You look pleased, Dark Knight.”
Bruce’s low laugh rumbles in the room. His voice is rich and dark, black velvet over Clark’s skin. “Can you seriously blame me?” Bruce turns to lay piercing blue eyes on Clark, unspeakable hunger lacing his gaze. Clark hadn’t expected to be so wanted. Bruce’s smile grows wider. “I hope I won’t intrude too much, Jason. I know you have your methods.”
Jason grabs a fistful of raven black hair, and Clark wonders if it is as soft as it looks. “Don’t play coy, Bruce. We both know how well you fit my methods. I wouldn’t have considered you if I had thought you would detract from the experience,” Jason pauses, turning to look at Clark, and nods to him. “I don’t think either of us minds.”
Clark has learned how to control his breathing through countless battles, but he feels a little out of breath. He didn’t expect to want this so much. “I don’t mind at all,” he manages, his voice sounding lust-laden to his own ears.
Something changes in Bruce’s expression, and Clark knows that he would be being kissed senseless if Jason wasn’t holding the detective’s hair. Jason’s smile turns just a bit cruel, and when he speaks, his voice has an edge that Clark has learned to appreciate. “Will you do as I ask of you, Bruce?”
Bruce’s eyes never leave Clark’s, and the Kryptonian doesn’t think he can look away. “If you want me to submit, I’ll submit,” Bruce pauses, closing his eyes and chuckling lowly. “I’ll be an instrument of your will, if you no longer can trust yourself.”
Bruce’s voice seems to cut Jason like a blade, and Clark recognizes the same brand of cruelty that Jason so often offers himself. Jason let’s go of the detective’s hair, and his voice is clipped and controlled. “Undress him and tie him up while I prepare the spell.”
Bruce has an air of victory around him. He approaches Clark slowly, every move a question for permission that isn’t really waiting for an answer. Clark can’t move, hypnotized by the other man like the prey of a cobra. When Bruce’s fingers splay over his chest gingerly, fingertips caressing softly and dancing over his skin, moving ever lower to the waistband of his pants and the buckle of his belt, all Clark can do is stare at the slightly parted lips of his partner in crime fighting, his equal despite all differences, the only person he trusts with the worst of himself. Behind them, Jason is whispering in a language Clark doesn’t understand but recognizes from dozens of other nights.
“I wish I could have helped you before,” Bruce whispers, and the longing in his voice pulls at something inside Clark.
“I needed-“ Clark tries to explain, but as soon as he opens his mouth, Bruce is pressed against him, soft lips against his, his tongue tasting and probing Clark like there’s nothing that he has wanted more. The smell of his cologne is all over Clark, and he reaches to cup the vigilante’s face, but Bruce holds his hands at his sides, pulling them firmly behind Clark’s back, a silent order to stay still.
A soft hiss of leather and Bruce has taken Clark’s belt off and he shivers. Fingertips brush the skin at the waistband, the gentle explorations of his hands in contrast with the fierceness of the kiss. Their tongues dance a primeval dance of supremacy, and for once -Clark is always happy to fight Bruce in any level when there is no ill blood between them- he doesn’t mind losing the fight. He almost gives up, but Bruce is biting and growling and demanding him to resist, to fight, almost like…
Like he wants to be overcome.
Clark growls back at the thought, thinking it could be Bruce in his place on that bed, bound and open, making an offering of his darkness and his fears, and knows it wouldn’t be a first for the vigilante. Jason knows Bruce the way he knows Clark, and somehow that doesn’t seem fair.
Clark will have to even the odds later on.
Bruce has undone his pants, and he tugs at them until they fall. He breaks the kiss, biting his way down Clark’s jaw and throat, lingering where his neck meets shoulder, tongue darting out to taste, leaving a wet trail as he sinks lower and lower and he’s on his knees.
Clark looks down at the mop of black hair, following Jason’s movements out of the corner of his eye. Jason never makes him feel like this. With Jason, Clark can keep his wits about him, he can think through the lust. Jason’s power rests on their emotional distance, their physical contact more a reminder of who’s in charge than a need for connection. Clark had thought Jason had been playing his mind -his very soul, perhaps- on every level, and that all that was left was growing closer to a flame that can only burn him.
He thought they had brought Bruce into this so Clark wouldn’t get burn, so their dark sides wouldn’t consume them both, yet Bruce’s brand of dominance seems laden with a primeval darkness, the need to mark and be marked, to belong and find acceptance, and it is deeply physical, branding like fire. He will accept Clark, he will take him and mark him, he will understand. He blurs all of Clark’s desires with his own, or maybe it’s the other way around. Bruce’s eyes gaze up from his place in front of Clark, and the beating of his heart is like a war drum in Clark’s ears, every thrum a promise: ‘I will deliver you to that which you desire but can’t name. I know you. I know you.’
The trance-like fixation of their gazes is broken as Jason speaks again. “Stand aside,” he orders Bruce, and the shoulders of the Prince of Gotham slump, his head bowed like he has received a blow and kneels now defeated. “Finish undressing already, Clark.”
Clark’s hands tremble a little as he reaches for his boxers, and just as he bends down to take them off, Bruce straightens and begins to stand, their breath mingling for a second, their lips almost meeting, opposite poles tugging at each other with irresistible force, but Bruce stands and Clark crouches and the distance between them seems more logical now in the recesses of Clark’s mind, Bruce towering above him like a forgotten god he has yet to learn to worship.
Clark reaches out, crouching naked by his new lover, and runs his hands up Bruce’s calves, feeling the texture of the fabric of his pants whisper against his palm, strong muscles below it. Jason is standing beside them, and a strong hand grabs Bruce’s chin, turning him to face ruby red eyes. “I didn’t bring you here for this. If you want to bond yourself to him, do it on your own time. This is not about you,” he says sternly.
Bruce growls and gasps, his eyes fluttering closed, though if it is because of Jason’s words or because Clark’s hands have wondered upwards, Clark doesn’t know. He looks at them both for a moment, Bruce’s breathing slowly returning to normal, and when his eyes open and meet the magician’s, it’s like a veil has been pulled over, tight control over the spell of lust that had befallen them. Clark’s hands bunch Bruce’s pants, and he tries to keep from lashing at the magician, tries not to yell that it is about Bruce as much as it is about Clark, or even if Jason won’t admit it, as much as it is about himself.
Jason’s gaze never wavers, ignoring Clark’s small show of displease. Any other day, this indifference would remind Clark his place in this room, remind him that his power here is over nothing but himself, but this time around, a new discovery is made.
So far Jason has kept this place safe, safe enough that Clark had begun to think that he was the only one to blame or praise for his control over the darker fragments of his soul. Jason provided a safe haven, taking physical control from Clark, only to grant him greater control over himself on other levels.
This time, Bruce is here. Bruce, who would first die than give up, who would shoulder the weight of the world if entrusted to him, who shields a whole city under a cape and an ember of a heart. Bruce strokes Clark’s dark desires and fears, and he could make them his own, if Clark allows it. This is dangerous, of course. This is what he feared would happen if he allowed this affair go further with Jason. Clark wonders if Jason is afraid too, if he too guards his dark desires from the calm pool of black that is Bruce, afraid that he will swallow them and drown him in the cool, soothing waters.
Clark is about to speak, to give Bruce permission to do as he pleases, lose and find himself with them -and there’s nothing that Clark wants more right now than to find himself in Bruce and lose himself in passion- but the vigilante looks down at him, tight control cooling the suffocating thrall of lust, and Clark finds his promise again in cold blue eyes. ‘I know you.’
Clark can hear it as clear as if it’s spoken, and thus he answers, his words a fevered whisper that thrills him to no end. He has never known a surrender that is carried on through fighting, but he suspects that is the fight that Bruce has been waging with him all this time. “I don’t think… I don’t think we need to fight anymore.”
Jason laughs, and this time his presence doesn’t break the spell, but enhances it. Clark feels all his anger and unacknowledged jealousy evaporate even as the redhead’s hands reach for the buttons of Bruce’s shirt and begin to undress him. “You’re a quick student, Clark. It took me months to teach Bruce to give up fighting when I was concerned.” Jason opens the wine colored shirt; the folds like petals of blood, pale skin crisscrossed with scars like the heart of an exotic flower. “He still struggles with it,” he says, a satisfied smile crossing his lips as the detective arches his throat and Jason’s hands are lost under the fabric. “I know you can learn a lot from each other. You just require-“ he pauses, shifting to stand behind Bruce, his body pressing against the vigilante’s, and Clark takes this chance to run his hands down Jason’s tights, nuzzling Bruce’s crotch and feeling the cold metal of the buckle against his forehead; “-proper supervision.”
Bruce’s hands run through Clark’s hair, fingertips brushing his ears and his neck, sending shivers down his spine, and Clark knows that if he looks up he’ll see slivers of cold steel looking down at him from half lidded eyes, the ardor behind them betraying the blue ice chips they resemble. He knows without looking, and he finds himself knowing that, for as long as this lasts, he will know a lot more that doesn’t need eyes to be seen, or ears to be heard.
Only flesh and skin to whisper and listen.
Overwhelming darkness and scorching hellfire.
Clark won’t drown and he won’t be consumed; he’s starting to suspect he will mark them as much as he will be marked by them, his essence as ruthless as theirs when not tempered by kindness. He smiles.
Brightest of lights.
I couldn't even get them undressed here, damn it! I'm not.. sure it makes sense outside my head. I'm sorry, just, the sole concept of the Jason/Bruce/Clark threesome was unbearably hot for me to write. As far as I'm concerned, this story is made of me smashing the keyboard and dancing happily. Sooo.. erm. if it doesn't make too much sense.. you know. Blame it on the muses. I couldn't bear to write more than 400 words at a time, my brain would just shut down. And in the end.. I couldn't write the smut. Clark muse, why won't you let me write you smut? damn youuu!
Also, this is for sasha_anu's birthday! Late, I know, m'dear, but I hope you had a good one!! Yaz, you can call this a placeholder until I get your present proper!
Okay. Here it goes. Not betaed. Not even makes sense. Point, I correct. This is all Jen's fault, I swear!!
Also, if you want to see the song that got me through this whole brain melt (the story itself makes no sense, but damn, the threesome!), it was my Bruce/Harvey song until it turned into my J/B/C song. Monologue by She Wants Revenge.
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Jason Blood/Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Rating: R
Summary: lksdfklsdfklsdfl. Brain melt! Sequel to Riptide
Word count: 2300+
Brightest of Lights
This is the time of night when the moonlight shines down and we can reveal who we truly are
Within the darkest most depraved
Of joys
This is not the first time that Clark has found himself in Jason’s room. Every time, he has learned something new -sometimes about himself, sometimes about the magician. They have both tried to keep it impersonal for as long as possible, but their cravings demand more and more out of each other every encounter. They have indulged for too long, perhaps, but Clark doesn’t want to quit yet.
When he approaches Jason this time, he expects to be turned down. They are getting dangerously close, something neither of them wanted. They are starting to know each other too well, and knowledge is dangerous when it rests in wrong hands.
Clark knows neither of them is confident enough to go further with their explorations. Jason’s offered solution is perhaps the only one that will allow them to extend the limits of their strained trust.
Clark takes a deep breath as he begins to unbutton his shirt. The scent of sage subtly permeates the air, incense burning in one of the corners of the room. Jason is busy lighting candles in every flat surface available, the fire casting strange shadows over his features and even stranger glints from his eyes. Clark watches him, unable to turn his attention to the new variable in the room. Still, he can feel Bruce’s heavy gaze on him as he begins to undress, and he can’t suppress a shiver.
Bruce brings change to a scenario Clark has gotten to know in all of its glorious and raw forms. He has debased himself here, he has also found enlightenment and parts of himself he never thought existed. He has found a confidence in himself that is born out of understanding; he doesn’t underestimate the darkness inside him, yet he’s no longer afraid of it taking control over him. But his knowledge of his desires is similar to his knowledge of Jason: he thinks he understands them, but he doesn’t entirely trust them.
Clark trusts Bruce with his life.
Jason comes to stand beside Bruce, and Clark’s gaze follows him. Jason’s smile is a warm knowing one, and Clark feels his heart flutter as Bruce smiles back, a grin full of mischief. There’s an undercurrent of fondness that feels like a breath of fresh air in the fragrant room.
Clark carefully folds his shirt and leaves it over a chair, his eyes never leaving the other men. Jason breaks the silence as he reaches out and runs a hand through Bruce’s hair. “You look pleased, Dark Knight.”
Bruce’s low laugh rumbles in the room. His voice is rich and dark, black velvet over Clark’s skin. “Can you seriously blame me?” Bruce turns to lay piercing blue eyes on Clark, unspeakable hunger lacing his gaze. Clark hadn’t expected to be so wanted. Bruce’s smile grows wider. “I hope I won’t intrude too much, Jason. I know you have your methods.”
Jason grabs a fistful of raven black hair, and Clark wonders if it is as soft as it looks. “Don’t play coy, Bruce. We both know how well you fit my methods. I wouldn’t have considered you if I had thought you would detract from the experience,” Jason pauses, turning to look at Clark, and nods to him. “I don’t think either of us minds.”
Clark has learned how to control his breathing through countless battles, but he feels a little out of breath. He didn’t expect to want this so much. “I don’t mind at all,” he manages, his voice sounding lust-laden to his own ears.
Something changes in Bruce’s expression, and Clark knows that he would be being kissed senseless if Jason wasn’t holding the detective’s hair. Jason’s smile turns just a bit cruel, and when he speaks, his voice has an edge that Clark has learned to appreciate. “Will you do as I ask of you, Bruce?”
Bruce’s eyes never leave Clark’s, and the Kryptonian doesn’t think he can look away. “If you want me to submit, I’ll submit,” Bruce pauses, closing his eyes and chuckling lowly. “I’ll be an instrument of your will, if you no longer can trust yourself.”
Bruce’s voice seems to cut Jason like a blade, and Clark recognizes the same brand of cruelty that Jason so often offers himself. Jason let’s go of the detective’s hair, and his voice is clipped and controlled. “Undress him and tie him up while I prepare the spell.”
Bruce has an air of victory around him. He approaches Clark slowly, every move a question for permission that isn’t really waiting for an answer. Clark can’t move, hypnotized by the other man like the prey of a cobra. When Bruce’s fingers splay over his chest gingerly, fingertips caressing softly and dancing over his skin, moving ever lower to the waistband of his pants and the buckle of his belt, all Clark can do is stare at the slightly parted lips of his partner in crime fighting, his equal despite all differences, the only person he trusts with the worst of himself. Behind them, Jason is whispering in a language Clark doesn’t understand but recognizes from dozens of other nights.
“I wish I could have helped you before,” Bruce whispers, and the longing in his voice pulls at something inside Clark.
“I needed-“ Clark tries to explain, but as soon as he opens his mouth, Bruce is pressed against him, soft lips against his, his tongue tasting and probing Clark like there’s nothing that he has wanted more. The smell of his cologne is all over Clark, and he reaches to cup the vigilante’s face, but Bruce holds his hands at his sides, pulling them firmly behind Clark’s back, a silent order to stay still.
A soft hiss of leather and Bruce has taken Clark’s belt off and he shivers. Fingertips brush the skin at the waistband, the gentle explorations of his hands in contrast with the fierceness of the kiss. Their tongues dance a primeval dance of supremacy, and for once -Clark is always happy to fight Bruce in any level when there is no ill blood between them- he doesn’t mind losing the fight. He almost gives up, but Bruce is biting and growling and demanding him to resist, to fight, almost like…
Like he wants to be overcome.
Clark growls back at the thought, thinking it could be Bruce in his place on that bed, bound and open, making an offering of his darkness and his fears, and knows it wouldn’t be a first for the vigilante. Jason knows Bruce the way he knows Clark, and somehow that doesn’t seem fair.
Clark will have to even the odds later on.
Bruce has undone his pants, and he tugs at them until they fall. He breaks the kiss, biting his way down Clark’s jaw and throat, lingering where his neck meets shoulder, tongue darting out to taste, leaving a wet trail as he sinks lower and lower and he’s on his knees.
Clark looks down at the mop of black hair, following Jason’s movements out of the corner of his eye. Jason never makes him feel like this. With Jason, Clark can keep his wits about him, he can think through the lust. Jason’s power rests on their emotional distance, their physical contact more a reminder of who’s in charge than a need for connection. Clark had thought Jason had been playing his mind -his very soul, perhaps- on every level, and that all that was left was growing closer to a flame that can only burn him.
He thought they had brought Bruce into this so Clark wouldn’t get burn, so their dark sides wouldn’t consume them both, yet Bruce’s brand of dominance seems laden with a primeval darkness, the need to mark and be marked, to belong and find acceptance, and it is deeply physical, branding like fire. He will accept Clark, he will take him and mark him, he will understand. He blurs all of Clark’s desires with his own, or maybe it’s the other way around. Bruce’s eyes gaze up from his place in front of Clark, and the beating of his heart is like a war drum in Clark’s ears, every thrum a promise: ‘I will deliver you to that which you desire but can’t name. I know you. I know you.’
The trance-like fixation of their gazes is broken as Jason speaks again. “Stand aside,” he orders Bruce, and the shoulders of the Prince of Gotham slump, his head bowed like he has received a blow and kneels now defeated. “Finish undressing already, Clark.”
Clark’s hands tremble a little as he reaches for his boxers, and just as he bends down to take them off, Bruce straightens and begins to stand, their breath mingling for a second, their lips almost meeting, opposite poles tugging at each other with irresistible force, but Bruce stands and Clark crouches and the distance between them seems more logical now in the recesses of Clark’s mind, Bruce towering above him like a forgotten god he has yet to learn to worship.
Clark reaches out, crouching naked by his new lover, and runs his hands up Bruce’s calves, feeling the texture of the fabric of his pants whisper against his palm, strong muscles below it. Jason is standing beside them, and a strong hand grabs Bruce’s chin, turning him to face ruby red eyes. “I didn’t bring you here for this. If you want to bond yourself to him, do it on your own time. This is not about you,” he says sternly.
Bruce growls and gasps, his eyes fluttering closed, though if it is because of Jason’s words or because Clark’s hands have wondered upwards, Clark doesn’t know. He looks at them both for a moment, Bruce’s breathing slowly returning to normal, and when his eyes open and meet the magician’s, it’s like a veil has been pulled over, tight control over the spell of lust that had befallen them. Clark’s hands bunch Bruce’s pants, and he tries to keep from lashing at the magician, tries not to yell that it is about Bruce as much as it is about Clark, or even if Jason won’t admit it, as much as it is about himself.
Jason’s gaze never wavers, ignoring Clark’s small show of displease. Any other day, this indifference would remind Clark his place in this room, remind him that his power here is over nothing but himself, but this time around, a new discovery is made.
So far Jason has kept this place safe, safe enough that Clark had begun to think that he was the only one to blame or praise for his control over the darker fragments of his soul. Jason provided a safe haven, taking physical control from Clark, only to grant him greater control over himself on other levels.
This time, Bruce is here. Bruce, who would first die than give up, who would shoulder the weight of the world if entrusted to him, who shields a whole city under a cape and an ember of a heart. Bruce strokes Clark’s dark desires and fears, and he could make them his own, if Clark allows it. This is dangerous, of course. This is what he feared would happen if he allowed this affair go further with Jason. Clark wonders if Jason is afraid too, if he too guards his dark desires from the calm pool of black that is Bruce, afraid that he will swallow them and drown him in the cool, soothing waters.
Clark is about to speak, to give Bruce permission to do as he pleases, lose and find himself with them -and there’s nothing that Clark wants more right now than to find himself in Bruce and lose himself in passion- but the vigilante looks down at him, tight control cooling the suffocating thrall of lust, and Clark finds his promise again in cold blue eyes. ‘I know you.’
Clark can hear it as clear as if it’s spoken, and thus he answers, his words a fevered whisper that thrills him to no end. He has never known a surrender that is carried on through fighting, but he suspects that is the fight that Bruce has been waging with him all this time. “I don’t think… I don’t think we need to fight anymore.”
Jason laughs, and this time his presence doesn’t break the spell, but enhances it. Clark feels all his anger and unacknowledged jealousy evaporate even as the redhead’s hands reach for the buttons of Bruce’s shirt and begin to undress him. “You’re a quick student, Clark. It took me months to teach Bruce to give up fighting when I was concerned.” Jason opens the wine colored shirt; the folds like petals of blood, pale skin crisscrossed with scars like the heart of an exotic flower. “He still struggles with it,” he says, a satisfied smile crossing his lips as the detective arches his throat and Jason’s hands are lost under the fabric. “I know you can learn a lot from each other. You just require-“ he pauses, shifting to stand behind Bruce, his body pressing against the vigilante’s, and Clark takes this chance to run his hands down Jason’s tights, nuzzling Bruce’s crotch and feeling the cold metal of the buckle against his forehead; “-proper supervision.”
Bruce’s hands run through Clark’s hair, fingertips brushing his ears and his neck, sending shivers down his spine, and Clark knows that if he looks up he’ll see slivers of cold steel looking down at him from half lidded eyes, the ardor behind them betraying the blue ice chips they resemble. He knows without looking, and he finds himself knowing that, for as long as this lasts, he will know a lot more that doesn’t need eyes to be seen, or ears to be heard.
Only flesh and skin to whisper and listen.
Overwhelming darkness and scorching hellfire.
Clark won’t drown and he won’t be consumed; he’s starting to suspect he will mark them as much as he will be marked by them, his essence as ruthless as theirs when not tempered by kindness. He smiles.
Brightest of lights.