Heroes of the Squared Circle 29: The Dark Knight Descends
Title: The Dark Knight Descends
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Joker, John Stewart
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion ( click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: NC-17
Word Count 4300
Summary: Clark and Bruce's relationship moves forward, and Bruce makes his debut against the Joker.
No wonder young men were beating one another silly. Nowhere else did they gather in such great numbers to watch a show of nearly naked men tussling in one another’s arms until, in the end, they lay on the mat like exhausted lovers. It had to be unsettling, if only unconsciously, watching a kind of highly ritualized performance of male intercourse. --Thomas Hackett
"God damnit, you've got a lot of nerve," said Bruce as the hotel door closed behind them and he grabbed Clark's hands, slamming him against the wall. He buried his face in the crook of Clark's neck, kissing and biting in equal measure. "Giving me those looks. I almost took you right there in the locker room showers, did you know that?"
"You are the one who stripped all your clothes off right there in front of me," Clark said.
"It's a locker room, Clark--it's where people are supposed to get undressed."
Clark tangled his fingers in Bruce's soft, clean hair and pulled his head back with some effort--Bruce hissed with pleasure and pain, and when Clark let go he latched greedily onto his mouth.
"Getting undressed," Clark said with some effort between kisses, "is not the same as stripping. And you were definitely doing the latter." Bruce chose this moment to bite his lower lip in the middle of a kiss; growling, Clark tried to steer them into the room and onto the bed, but it was difficult when Bruce's leg kept getting between his, setting him to rutting up against him with breathless abandon. Bruce's hands fumbled at Clark's belt buckle as they thumped into another wall, undid his fly as they knocked over a floor lamp, shoved his jeans down as they collided with a chest of drawers, and managed to get his underwear off before the edge of the bed caught him at the back of the knees and he tumbled backwards onto the bed, followed by Clark.
"I'm on top," Clark observed triumphantly, then gasped as Bruce's hands groped under his t-shirt, flicking at his nipples.
"Yes, I can tell you're totally in control of the situation," Bruce observed. "That's why you're half-naked and I'm still fully dressed." He grabbed Clark's bare hips and scooted upward until he was sitting up against the headboard, Clark still straddling his lap. "I want to look at you," he said.
"You've seen me naked hundreds of times," protested Clark.
"Not like this," said Bruce. "Not hard for me, not wanting my touch." He reached out almost tentatively and stroked his index finger slowly along the length of Clark's cock, circling the head.
"Trust me," said Clark with a groan, "Every time you've seen me, you've seen me wanting your touch."
"Such a romantic," murmured Bruce. "So, now that you've got me pinned and helpless--" At the last word he wrapped his fingers around Clark's cock, smirking as Clark made an inarticulate noise, "--what are you going to do with me?"
Clark was no longer exactly sure; all concrete plans had disappeared into the rush of sensation Bruce's touch was eliciting. He shifted his weight against Bruce's denim-clad body, just heavy enough to pull a gasp from him. "Thought I'd make you come," he said.
Bruce made a small, breathless sound, halfway between a laugh and moan. "I'll make you come first," he said, and started to jack Clark off. His hand was warm and strong, just rough enough to add extra pleasure, and Clark bit his lip hard.
"Has everything got to be--" A particularly deft stroke made him stop and catch his breath, "--be a competition with you?"
"Yes," Bruce said, as if surprised Clark had missed something so obvious. "But on the plus side, it's a competition in which we get to work together to enjoy ourselves. Because even after I bring you to a screaming climax, I do expect you to return the favor."
Clark shook his head, reaching down behind his back to cup Bruce's balls through his jeans. "No no," he said. "A gentleman always finishes last."
Bruce snorted and bucked his hips to delightful effect. "You're a heel, Clark. Breaking kayfabe is a serious offense, I should give you a major tongue-lashing for that."
"Oh God," said Clark. "That would be hot. Do it."
Bruce changed hands, and the fleeting lack of contact made Clark whimper. "Okay," he said breathlessly, "You've got some weird bedroom kinks. I like that. I'm saving that idea for later."
"This isn't fair," Clark observed, trying to keep his voice even as he rotated his hips. "You've still got clothes on."
"Where did you get the idea this was fair?" Bruce laughed, but the laugh was interrupted by a small gasp of pleasure. "It's all--all rigged," he went on. "The winner is pre-determined. You might as well give up now."
Indeed, it was getting difficult to focus on anything except Bruce's touch. "No way," he managed to pant. "I've finally got you where I want you, and I'm not--not giving in." Except that his body didn't seem to give a damn about this bizarre competition, and the point of no return was rapidly dwindling into the past. He made an inarticulate noise and ground up hard against Bruce's body, no longer aiming for any specific reaction, just enjoying the feel of it.
"Clark," said Bruce, his voice nearly a gasp. But his tone of voice was much less important than the fact that his hand had stopped moving, which was unbearable--
"Don't stop, please," Clark stammered, shuddering, rocking back and forth, wanting.
Bruce growled something and stroked him hard: once, twice--and then it was too much, and heat shot through him, his climax shaking him until he finally was able to collapse sideways as if he'd taken a Kesagiri chop to the neck, all his muscles going blissfully lax.
It took him a moment to collect himself, but finally he was able to reach out and undo the button on Bruce's fly. "You said I'd have to return the favor," he muttered blurrily when Bruce grabbed his hand.
"No need," said Bruce, and the sheepishness in his voice made Clark prop himself up on an elbow and narrow his eyes.
"Do you mean--"
"--Let's just call it a tie," said Bruce.
"A tie."
"It was...well, it was really close."
Clark snorted as Bruce got up and disappeared into the bathroom. There were tantalizing sounds of running water and rustling cloth, and then Bruce re-appeared by the bed.
"That's my bathrobe," Clark said.
Bruce spun around, spreading out his arms. "No feathers or sequins, but I think it suits me. At least it's purple, which is fairly garish."
Clark snagged the end of the sash as it went by and tugged. "Come here."
Bruce crawled back into bed and Clark wrapped his arms around him. "You know," said Bruce after a while, "You don't know much of anything about me. You haven't met my foster-father, you haven't seen my--"
He stilled as Clark kissed him. "It's okay," said Clark. "We're not married or anything, you know? This is…" He broke off as a yawn seized him. "This is all good. We can just have fun and be friends, we don't have to be soul mates. Don't worry about it, just enjoy it."
Bruce was quiet for a moment. Then he pulled Clark closer, pressed a kiss into his hair. "I intend to enjoy every minute," he murmured. "Especially if you can ever get that armbar right."
Clark was a little afraid at first that this new status quo between him and Bruce would lead to awkwardness, but nothing major seemed to change. They spent a lot more time together--working out, practicing moves, hanging out backstage during downtime, then having sex until they fell asleep exhausted in each others' arms--but once they found a way around the problem of getting turned on while practicing, everything mostly went smoothly.
Bruce's solution to the problem turned out to be "make sure to have sex a couple of times just before practice," and that was a solution Clark could live with.
"I just wish they'd put you in an angle against me," Clark complained one evening they lay tangled together in a seedy motel room in Boston. "What are they waiting for? Dick's wrestling, why haven't they put you into any matches?"
"Luthor says they're talking with the Japanese League about whether I'll be able to keep the El Murciélago name," Bruce said. "It got over really big there, but they don't want me to use it in the States. That's okay, though, I've got a different take on the basic idea I'd love to try anyway."
"Also bat-based?"
"Of course."
"Of course?" Clark propped himself up on one arm and squinted at Bruce. "Have you got some kind of bat-fetish you didn't tell me about? Because I think I deserve to know about that."
Bruce chuckled and drew his finger across Clark's bare chest in a sweeping, swooping motion. "Okay, here's the story. For a while when I was younger I worked for a promotion in Nepal."
"There's professional wrestling in Nepal," Clark said in disbelief.
"Well…" Bruce grimaced. "It was a little more vicious than that. It was shoot fighting--people tended to get hurt for real. I was traveling around, just kind of hitchhiking wherever the road took me, and the promoter took me in. Said he saw promise in me." There was a bruise on Clark's shoulder; Bruce leaned forward and kissed it briefly. "I worked for him for a while. Longer than I'm proud of. He was very intense, and he seemed to have the answer to everything. He told me to make a gimmick of what I feared the most, that there was a power in that. And I fear…" He paused and shuddered. "I fear bats."
"So you had a bat gimmick because some mystical guru promoter told you to embrace your fear?"
Bruce didn't seem to find that statement dubious. "And he was right, Clark," he announced, his eyes shining. "When I became the Bat, I could feel the power of my own fear channeled outward, strengthening me. It was the first time I had felt at peace in years. He was right about that." A deep, slow breath. "He was wrong about a lot of other things, though. When he told me to deliberately break a man's leg in the ring, I told him to go to hell and walked away."
"I have to say, your training is a lot more interesting than my practicing suplexes on a mattress in my basement," Clark said.
"Ah, but your power comes from your pure heart, while mine comes from my fears."
"My pure heart," Clark snickered.
"Don't be cynical," said Bruce, kissing him. "It doesn't suit you."
Brainiac flinched away as Hal Jordan was joined by another figure in green at the top of the entrance ramp, also brandishing a ring. "A Green Lantern never stands alone!" announced John Stewart.
"The Kryptonian will crush both of you!" blustered Brainiac as the Kryptonian glowered from inside the ring.
"And what if there are more?" said Kyle Rayner, joining them.
"Your malign influence will never triumph while good men are here to stop you!" cried Jordan.
"And not just men!" The crowd erupted with applause as two women came to stand beside the three men and they recognized Jade, daughter of Alan Scott, and Soranik Natu, daughter of Sinestro. Jade smiled and continued, "The Green Lantern Corps will stand against you, Kryptonian!"
In unison, they saluted and started to chant: "In brightest day, in blackest night--"
Clark twisted his face into contorted fury as they went through the oath, the audience joining in until the rafters shook. I hope Guy doesn't see this, he'll be livid. Creating a cadre of Green Lanterns to stand against the Kryptonian was the next step in the storyline, according to Luthor--when Bruce heard the news he had whistled, impressed. "The Kryptonian is taking on the current belt-holder and he needs a stable of people to fight back? That's the big time, Clark."
"The Kryptonian demands that you fight him! He is willing to fight you all at once!" yelled Brainiac.
"That wouldn't be fair," said Stewart. "Any one of us can send him crying back to his home planet." He strode forward, contempt written plain on his face, and got into the ring. "Fight me, Kryptonian! You'll see we won't be intimidated by you."
The bell rang and the two foes surged forward to clash in the middle of the ring as the audience shrieked.
The script called for the Kryptonian to lose--a rare event indeed, especially to a wrestler new to the promotion. But as Clark worked with him, he could see why Luthor had chosen Stewart to be his most recent rival--Stewart had an uncanny ring sense, always knowing exactly where the ropes and turnbuckles were, never missing a spot. The Kryptonian got him into a half-nelson, twisting his arms up from behind, and it looked like the match was over. But then Stewart seemed to make a tremendous effort of will and threw him off, swiveling to deliver his Architect of Destruction, a running swinging neckbreaker move.
The Kryptonian toppled like a tree, and Clark could hear the announcers yelling in excitement as Stewart covered him for the pin. As the three-count came off, Stewart jumped up and pumped his fist. As he turned his back on his fallen foe, the Kryptonian lashed out with a vicious kick that caught him in the back of the legs. The rest of the Green Lanterns swarmed forward in outrage and a free-for-all followed in which the enraged Kryptonian threw Kyle and Jade out of the ring before a panicked Brainiac managed to calm him down enough to stop the brawl.
"Good match," John Stewart said backstage later, holding out his hand.
"The first of many, I hope," said Clark, taking it.
On-camera, the Kryptonian was terrorizing and tyrannizing the entire DCW. Even Lex Luthor wasn't safe from his malign influence--there was a sequence of segments where Brainiac, rubbing his hands together and leering, would inform Luthor of some match the Kryptonian wanted booked, some action he wanted performed. "Put Azrael in a match against Mr. Miracle." "Make that match between Wonder Woman and Poison Ivy a falls-count-anywhere match." In vain would Luthor protest that Mr. Miracle was injured, that Poison Ivy's ability to mind-control the audience would give her too large of an advantage: Brainiac would just cross his arms and smile. Each segment ended with the Kryptonian suddenly appearing behind Luthor to glare silently at him until the sweating General Manager let him have his way.
"Kind of ironic, considering I'm only playing this heel role at his command," Clark said a trifle bitterly, stabbing a baked potato. "Does he get pleasure at pretending I'm the one calling the shots?"
"That poor potato never did anything to you," Bruce said, and Clark put the knife down with a sigh. "I found out who I'm going to be going against in my debut angle," he added.
Clark put away the hope that it was going to be the Kryptonian: Bruce would never have waited so long to mention it if that were true. "Yes?"
"The Joker. I'm not going to be officially signed by the company, I'm going to play a mystery outsider who shows up to interrupt some of his Comedy Routines."
Clark shuddered at the mention of the Joker's modus operandi, in which after defeating an opponent he would mock them mercilessly while walking around them and kicking at their defenseless body. "That should be satisfying."
Bruce leaned forward, suddenly animated. "It will, won't it? The mysterious stranger coming in out of nowhere to halt cruelty and end sadism? The crowd will get a lot of satisfaction from that. Napier's a good worker, we should be able to have some good matches. Terrible sense of humor, but boy, can he sell. And I cleared it with Luthor that I can enter via harness, coming down from the rafters--I checked with Dick too," he added at Clark's involuntary twitch, "and he says he doesn't mind, we can't have a ban on that kind of entrance forever. Imagine it, Clark--Joker is beating some unfortunate up when suddenly, swooping down from above on a flutter of shadowy wings--The Dark Knight!"
His face was rapt, far away. Clark watched it for a moment. "Is that your new name?"
"I hope so. What do you think?"
"It sounds good." Clark knew his voice sounded grudging; he smiled to try and add enthusiasm. He wasn't sure if he was more jealous of Bruce for getting to finally fight bullies while he was still stuck being a bully, or of Napier for having a chance to work with Bruce in the ring. "It sounds...really good."
Bruce looked at him for a moment, then covered Clark's hand with his own, briefly. "You'll have your chance," he said, and Clark wasn't sure if he meant at being a face, or at working with him.
Probably both, knowing Bruce.
"Did you hear?" Dick Grayson vaulted over a couch in the common room and landed between Clark and Bruce. "Zucco changed his plea to no contest to involuntary manslaughter. The judge gave him ten years."
"No trial, then?" Clark punched the arm of the couch. "I would have liked the chance to testify against him."
Dick grimaced and shook his head. "I don't know. I--" He broke off and stood up, pacing across the room restlessly. "I didn't want to testify," he blurted out. "I didn't want to relive that night for a bunch of staring strangers, I didn't want to have to hear the questions about my family's 'unique and colorful profession,' I didn't want to have to be the pitiful orphan boy. I--maybe I'm just a coward," he finished bitterly, smacking a fist against the wall.
"Never," snapped Bruce, with a vehemence that startled Clark. "Not you, Dick. Your parents would be proud of you." He stopped and looked at Dick, whose back was still to them, as if he suspected he should say something more but wasn't sure what. "I know I am," he finally said, almost apologetically, as if ashamed to offer something so paltry.
Dick whirled and flung himself onto the couch to hug Bruce. "Thank you," he muttered.
Bruce patted him on the back and looked at Clark with an expression of panic that would be almost humorous if it weren't so transparently sincere. What did I do? he mouthed at Clark over Dick's shaking shoulders.
"You idiot," said Clark, and reached out to ruffle his hair roughly.
Bruce's debut as the Dark Knight was everything he could have hoped for. Clark watched it unfold on the monitors: Joker terrorizing a cringing Killer Moth, one of their third-tier heels; a silent swoop out of the shadows, and Clark could hear the audience catch its collective breath as a figure in a black cowl and a cape of rippling silk descended from the ceiling. "Is he a friend of Killer Moth's? Is he some old rival of the Joker's?" Clark heard the announcers speculate breathlessly as the two squared off in the ring and the hapless Killer Moth squirmed under the ropes and away. "Who is this silent guardian, this dark knight, and what does he mean for the DCW?"
The confrontation itself was short--"Leave them wanting more," Bruce had said--and inconclusive. Joker used his Joy Buzzer suplex on the interloper, but the Dark Knight shook off the jolt of electricity. He tossed something on the mat and there was a flash, a gout of smoke--the stadium lights went out, and when they came up again the Joker was alone in the ring, baffled and furious.
The announcers began a spirited argument about whether that escape had been a cowardly action or a canny ninja strategy. It was all all part of the marketing of the storyline: no one was supposed to be sure at first if this Dark Knight was actually a face or just a heel with a grudge against the Joker. But the audience didn't need the announcers to pique their interest, Clark could tell just from watching their faces as the Dark Knight and the Joker had fought. They were riveted and rapt, on the edge of their seats. He had them, Bruce finally had them exactly where he'd always wanted them: along for the ride, carried breathlessly on the wings of vengeance.
There was spontaneous applause as Bruce came into the locker room. He stopped and bowed, laughing, his hair damp and rumpled from the cowl.
"Nice work," said Jack Napier. He had wavered on whether to resent the storyline or not and eventually settled on a tone of amused condescension. "Your timing was a bit off on the second clothesline, but I'm sure you'll shake off the ring rust soon."
"That cape is a nice touch," said Hal, emerging from the showers with a towel around his waist.
"If it fit my gimmick I'd totally have a cape," said Ollie, absent-mindedly flicking his towel at Hal's posterior as he went by. "The ladies love capes. You just watch, you'll have fans lining up to come back to your hotel room and get busy on the cape. It's like a silk sheet but better."
"Is that so?" Bruce replied, shooting Clark a speculative look.
"I'll vouch for that," said Billy Batson, and attempted to go into detail before the rest of the locker room made it clear in no uncertain terms that they did not want to hear his stories of cape-related sexual prowess.
It was, Clark was happy to confirm later, indeed like silk sheets but better.
The Dark Knight continued to appear and disappear, interrupting unfair matches--usually interfering with the Joker, but sometimes with other heels. People noticed that he was more likely to swoop in when Robin was the victim, and there was speculation: were they brothers? Knowledgable fans pointed out he was probably the same person as that wrestler from Japan who'd teamed up with Robin there, but the average fan, unaware of the international scene, just thrilled to the daring rescues. Now and then they even tag-teamed, with the Dark Knight arriving always at the very last moment, wrestling unspeaking at Robin's side, then vanishing again.
Bruce seemed to be having the time of his life. He was always working on some new pose, some more expressive glower. He was finally exactly who he wanted to be.
"But--I think this is really working." Bruce's voice was almost forlorn as he stared at Dick. "I think it's perfect."
"Perfect for you, sure." Dick sighed loudly and leaned against his locker. "But for me--how can I make you understand this? I'm tired of being the Boy Hostage, Bruce. I'm tired of having other people always swooping in to save me, as if I'm a child who's incompetent to save himself."
"I don't--"
"--I know you don't think that," Dick said. "It's just--I need to get out from under your shadow. I need to be my own wrestler, not a sidekick."
"I've never thought of you as a sidekick," said Bruce. His voice was quiet but there was a lurking hurt in his eyes that anyone who didn't know him well might have missed entirely.
Dick shot Clark a look that revealed he hadn't missed it at all. "Bruce, I--"
"No, you're right," said Bruce. "Times change. Gimmicks change. We could even make an angle of it." He nodded, the hurt--not fading, but tucked away, hidden beneath the familiar kindling of enthusiasm. "Have the Dark Knight come to the rescue and have Robin chew him out, tell him he needs to stand on his own two feet and can't become his own man like this."
"Bruce--"
"--Maybe they can even have a good brawl over it--we've never worked a match together, it would be a good opportunity. I bet we could put on a show they'd never forget. I'll pitch it to Luthor, I think he'll love it--he's a big fan of dissention in the ranks and all that." Bruce paced the room, manic energy driving his steps. "Are you thinking of changing your name?"
"Yeah," said Dick. "I was thinking maybe Nightwing."
Bruce stopped and looked at him.
"If you--" Dick looked at the wall. "--I mean, robins and bats don't actually have much connection, and I kind of wanted to pick a name that would reflect how--how much you've taught me and how important you've been to me. Just a little. If you don't mind."
"I don't mind," said Bruce. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I'd be honored."
"Really?"
Bruce nodded wordlessly. Clark wondered if he should tell Dick later that Bruce had a hard time with words when they really mattered, but when he saw Dick's expression he realized he wasn't going to have to.
As if throwing his worries aside, Dick beamed at them both. "Let me show you some of my ideas for a costume!" he announced, grabbing a notebook and riffling through pages of yellow and bright blue sketches.
Clark managed to keep Bruce from revoking his approval after seeing Dick's costume plans, but it was a near thing.
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Joker, John Stewart
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion ( click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: NC-17
Word Count 4300
Summary: Clark and Bruce's relationship moves forward, and Bruce makes his debut against the Joker.
No wonder young men were beating one another silly. Nowhere else did they gather in such great numbers to watch a show of nearly naked men tussling in one another’s arms until, in the end, they lay on the mat like exhausted lovers. It had to be unsettling, if only unconsciously, watching a kind of highly ritualized performance of male intercourse. --Thomas Hackett
"God damnit, you've got a lot of nerve," said Bruce as the hotel door closed behind them and he grabbed Clark's hands, slamming him against the wall. He buried his face in the crook of Clark's neck, kissing and biting in equal measure. "Giving me those looks. I almost took you right there in the locker room showers, did you know that?"
"You are the one who stripped all your clothes off right there in front of me," Clark said.
"It's a locker room, Clark--it's where people are supposed to get undressed."
Clark tangled his fingers in Bruce's soft, clean hair and pulled his head back with some effort--Bruce hissed with pleasure and pain, and when Clark let go he latched greedily onto his mouth.
"Getting undressed," Clark said with some effort between kisses, "is not the same as stripping. And you were definitely doing the latter." Bruce chose this moment to bite his lower lip in the middle of a kiss; growling, Clark tried to steer them into the room and onto the bed, but it was difficult when Bruce's leg kept getting between his, setting him to rutting up against him with breathless abandon. Bruce's hands fumbled at Clark's belt buckle as they thumped into another wall, undid his fly as they knocked over a floor lamp, shoved his jeans down as they collided with a chest of drawers, and managed to get his underwear off before the edge of the bed caught him at the back of the knees and he tumbled backwards onto the bed, followed by Clark.
"I'm on top," Clark observed triumphantly, then gasped as Bruce's hands groped under his t-shirt, flicking at his nipples.
"Yes, I can tell you're totally in control of the situation," Bruce observed. "That's why you're half-naked and I'm still fully dressed." He grabbed Clark's bare hips and scooted upward until he was sitting up against the headboard, Clark still straddling his lap. "I want to look at you," he said.
"You've seen me naked hundreds of times," protested Clark.
"Not like this," said Bruce. "Not hard for me, not wanting my touch." He reached out almost tentatively and stroked his index finger slowly along the length of Clark's cock, circling the head.
"Trust me," said Clark with a groan, "Every time you've seen me, you've seen me wanting your touch."
"Such a romantic," murmured Bruce. "So, now that you've got me pinned and helpless--" At the last word he wrapped his fingers around Clark's cock, smirking as Clark made an inarticulate noise, "--what are you going to do with me?"
Clark was no longer exactly sure; all concrete plans had disappeared into the rush of sensation Bruce's touch was eliciting. He shifted his weight against Bruce's denim-clad body, just heavy enough to pull a gasp from him. "Thought I'd make you come," he said.
Bruce made a small, breathless sound, halfway between a laugh and moan. "I'll make you come first," he said, and started to jack Clark off. His hand was warm and strong, just rough enough to add extra pleasure, and Clark bit his lip hard.
"Has everything got to be--" A particularly deft stroke made him stop and catch his breath, "--be a competition with you?"
"Yes," Bruce said, as if surprised Clark had missed something so obvious. "But on the plus side, it's a competition in which we get to work together to enjoy ourselves. Because even after I bring you to a screaming climax, I do expect you to return the favor."
Clark shook his head, reaching down behind his back to cup Bruce's balls through his jeans. "No no," he said. "A gentleman always finishes last."
Bruce snorted and bucked his hips to delightful effect. "You're a heel, Clark. Breaking kayfabe is a serious offense, I should give you a major tongue-lashing for that."
"Oh God," said Clark. "That would be hot. Do it."
Bruce changed hands, and the fleeting lack of contact made Clark whimper. "Okay," he said breathlessly, "You've got some weird bedroom kinks. I like that. I'm saving that idea for later."
"This isn't fair," Clark observed, trying to keep his voice even as he rotated his hips. "You've still got clothes on."
"Where did you get the idea this was fair?" Bruce laughed, but the laugh was interrupted by a small gasp of pleasure. "It's all--all rigged," he went on. "The winner is pre-determined. You might as well give up now."
Indeed, it was getting difficult to focus on anything except Bruce's touch. "No way," he managed to pant. "I've finally got you where I want you, and I'm not--not giving in." Except that his body didn't seem to give a damn about this bizarre competition, and the point of no return was rapidly dwindling into the past. He made an inarticulate noise and ground up hard against Bruce's body, no longer aiming for any specific reaction, just enjoying the feel of it.
"Clark," said Bruce, his voice nearly a gasp. But his tone of voice was much less important than the fact that his hand had stopped moving, which was unbearable--
"Don't stop, please," Clark stammered, shuddering, rocking back and forth, wanting.
Bruce growled something and stroked him hard: once, twice--and then it was too much, and heat shot through him, his climax shaking him until he finally was able to collapse sideways as if he'd taken a Kesagiri chop to the neck, all his muscles going blissfully lax.
It took him a moment to collect himself, but finally he was able to reach out and undo the button on Bruce's fly. "You said I'd have to return the favor," he muttered blurrily when Bruce grabbed his hand.
"No need," said Bruce, and the sheepishness in his voice made Clark prop himself up on an elbow and narrow his eyes.
"Do you mean--"
"--Let's just call it a tie," said Bruce.
"A tie."
"It was...well, it was really close."
Clark snorted as Bruce got up and disappeared into the bathroom. There were tantalizing sounds of running water and rustling cloth, and then Bruce re-appeared by the bed.
"That's my bathrobe," Clark said.
Bruce spun around, spreading out his arms. "No feathers or sequins, but I think it suits me. At least it's purple, which is fairly garish."
Clark snagged the end of the sash as it went by and tugged. "Come here."
Bruce crawled back into bed and Clark wrapped his arms around him. "You know," said Bruce after a while, "You don't know much of anything about me. You haven't met my foster-father, you haven't seen my--"
He stilled as Clark kissed him. "It's okay," said Clark. "We're not married or anything, you know? This is…" He broke off as a yawn seized him. "This is all good. We can just have fun and be friends, we don't have to be soul mates. Don't worry about it, just enjoy it."
Bruce was quiet for a moment. Then he pulled Clark closer, pressed a kiss into his hair. "I intend to enjoy every minute," he murmured. "Especially if you can ever get that armbar right."
Clark was a little afraid at first that this new status quo between him and Bruce would lead to awkwardness, but nothing major seemed to change. They spent a lot more time together--working out, practicing moves, hanging out backstage during downtime, then having sex until they fell asleep exhausted in each others' arms--but once they found a way around the problem of getting turned on while practicing, everything mostly went smoothly.
Bruce's solution to the problem turned out to be "make sure to have sex a couple of times just before practice," and that was a solution Clark could live with.
"I just wish they'd put you in an angle against me," Clark complained one evening they lay tangled together in a seedy motel room in Boston. "What are they waiting for? Dick's wrestling, why haven't they put you into any matches?"
"Luthor says they're talking with the Japanese League about whether I'll be able to keep the El Murciélago name," Bruce said. "It got over really big there, but they don't want me to use it in the States. That's okay, though, I've got a different take on the basic idea I'd love to try anyway."
"Also bat-based?"
"Of course."
"Of course?" Clark propped himself up on one arm and squinted at Bruce. "Have you got some kind of bat-fetish you didn't tell me about? Because I think I deserve to know about that."
Bruce chuckled and drew his finger across Clark's bare chest in a sweeping, swooping motion. "Okay, here's the story. For a while when I was younger I worked for a promotion in Nepal."
"There's professional wrestling in Nepal," Clark said in disbelief.
"Well…" Bruce grimaced. "It was a little more vicious than that. It was shoot fighting--people tended to get hurt for real. I was traveling around, just kind of hitchhiking wherever the road took me, and the promoter took me in. Said he saw promise in me." There was a bruise on Clark's shoulder; Bruce leaned forward and kissed it briefly. "I worked for him for a while. Longer than I'm proud of. He was very intense, and he seemed to have the answer to everything. He told me to make a gimmick of what I feared the most, that there was a power in that. And I fear…" He paused and shuddered. "I fear bats."
"So you had a bat gimmick because some mystical guru promoter told you to embrace your fear?"
Bruce didn't seem to find that statement dubious. "And he was right, Clark," he announced, his eyes shining. "When I became the Bat, I could feel the power of my own fear channeled outward, strengthening me. It was the first time I had felt at peace in years. He was right about that." A deep, slow breath. "He was wrong about a lot of other things, though. When he told me to deliberately break a man's leg in the ring, I told him to go to hell and walked away."
"I have to say, your training is a lot more interesting than my practicing suplexes on a mattress in my basement," Clark said.
"Ah, but your power comes from your pure heart, while mine comes from my fears."
"My pure heart," Clark snickered.
"Don't be cynical," said Bruce, kissing him. "It doesn't suit you."
Brainiac flinched away as Hal Jordan was joined by another figure in green at the top of the entrance ramp, also brandishing a ring. "A Green Lantern never stands alone!" announced John Stewart.
"The Kryptonian will crush both of you!" blustered Brainiac as the Kryptonian glowered from inside the ring.
"And what if there are more?" said Kyle Rayner, joining them.
"Your malign influence will never triumph while good men are here to stop you!" cried Jordan.
"And not just men!" The crowd erupted with applause as two women came to stand beside the three men and they recognized Jade, daughter of Alan Scott, and Soranik Natu, daughter of Sinestro. Jade smiled and continued, "The Green Lantern Corps will stand against you, Kryptonian!"
In unison, they saluted and started to chant: "In brightest day, in blackest night--"
Clark twisted his face into contorted fury as they went through the oath, the audience joining in until the rafters shook. I hope Guy doesn't see this, he'll be livid. Creating a cadre of Green Lanterns to stand against the Kryptonian was the next step in the storyline, according to Luthor--when Bruce heard the news he had whistled, impressed. "The Kryptonian is taking on the current belt-holder and he needs a stable of people to fight back? That's the big time, Clark."
"The Kryptonian demands that you fight him! He is willing to fight you all at once!" yelled Brainiac.
"That wouldn't be fair," said Stewart. "Any one of us can send him crying back to his home planet." He strode forward, contempt written plain on his face, and got into the ring. "Fight me, Kryptonian! You'll see we won't be intimidated by you."
The bell rang and the two foes surged forward to clash in the middle of the ring as the audience shrieked.
The script called for the Kryptonian to lose--a rare event indeed, especially to a wrestler new to the promotion. But as Clark worked with him, he could see why Luthor had chosen Stewart to be his most recent rival--Stewart had an uncanny ring sense, always knowing exactly where the ropes and turnbuckles were, never missing a spot. The Kryptonian got him into a half-nelson, twisting his arms up from behind, and it looked like the match was over. But then Stewart seemed to make a tremendous effort of will and threw him off, swiveling to deliver his Architect of Destruction, a running swinging neckbreaker move.
The Kryptonian toppled like a tree, and Clark could hear the announcers yelling in excitement as Stewart covered him for the pin. As the three-count came off, Stewart jumped up and pumped his fist. As he turned his back on his fallen foe, the Kryptonian lashed out with a vicious kick that caught him in the back of the legs. The rest of the Green Lanterns swarmed forward in outrage and a free-for-all followed in which the enraged Kryptonian threw Kyle and Jade out of the ring before a panicked Brainiac managed to calm him down enough to stop the brawl.
"Good match," John Stewart said backstage later, holding out his hand.
"The first of many, I hope," said Clark, taking it.
On-camera, the Kryptonian was terrorizing and tyrannizing the entire DCW. Even Lex Luthor wasn't safe from his malign influence--there was a sequence of segments where Brainiac, rubbing his hands together and leering, would inform Luthor of some match the Kryptonian wanted booked, some action he wanted performed. "Put Azrael in a match against Mr. Miracle." "Make that match between Wonder Woman and Poison Ivy a falls-count-anywhere match." In vain would Luthor protest that Mr. Miracle was injured, that Poison Ivy's ability to mind-control the audience would give her too large of an advantage: Brainiac would just cross his arms and smile. Each segment ended with the Kryptonian suddenly appearing behind Luthor to glare silently at him until the sweating General Manager let him have his way.
"Kind of ironic, considering I'm only playing this heel role at his command," Clark said a trifle bitterly, stabbing a baked potato. "Does he get pleasure at pretending I'm the one calling the shots?"
"That poor potato never did anything to you," Bruce said, and Clark put the knife down with a sigh. "I found out who I'm going to be going against in my debut angle," he added.
Clark put away the hope that it was going to be the Kryptonian: Bruce would never have waited so long to mention it if that were true. "Yes?"
"The Joker. I'm not going to be officially signed by the company, I'm going to play a mystery outsider who shows up to interrupt some of his Comedy Routines."
Clark shuddered at the mention of the Joker's modus operandi, in which after defeating an opponent he would mock them mercilessly while walking around them and kicking at their defenseless body. "That should be satisfying."
Bruce leaned forward, suddenly animated. "It will, won't it? The mysterious stranger coming in out of nowhere to halt cruelty and end sadism? The crowd will get a lot of satisfaction from that. Napier's a good worker, we should be able to have some good matches. Terrible sense of humor, but boy, can he sell. And I cleared it with Luthor that I can enter via harness, coming down from the rafters--I checked with Dick too," he added at Clark's involuntary twitch, "and he says he doesn't mind, we can't have a ban on that kind of entrance forever. Imagine it, Clark--Joker is beating some unfortunate up when suddenly, swooping down from above on a flutter of shadowy wings--The Dark Knight!"
His face was rapt, far away. Clark watched it for a moment. "Is that your new name?"
"I hope so. What do you think?"
"It sounds good." Clark knew his voice sounded grudging; he smiled to try and add enthusiasm. He wasn't sure if he was more jealous of Bruce for getting to finally fight bullies while he was still stuck being a bully, or of Napier for having a chance to work with Bruce in the ring. "It sounds...really good."
Bruce looked at him for a moment, then covered Clark's hand with his own, briefly. "You'll have your chance," he said, and Clark wasn't sure if he meant at being a face, or at working with him.
Probably both, knowing Bruce.
"Did you hear?" Dick Grayson vaulted over a couch in the common room and landed between Clark and Bruce. "Zucco changed his plea to no contest to involuntary manslaughter. The judge gave him ten years."
"No trial, then?" Clark punched the arm of the couch. "I would have liked the chance to testify against him."
Dick grimaced and shook his head. "I don't know. I--" He broke off and stood up, pacing across the room restlessly. "I didn't want to testify," he blurted out. "I didn't want to relive that night for a bunch of staring strangers, I didn't want to have to hear the questions about my family's 'unique and colorful profession,' I didn't want to have to be the pitiful orphan boy. I--maybe I'm just a coward," he finished bitterly, smacking a fist against the wall.
"Never," snapped Bruce, with a vehemence that startled Clark. "Not you, Dick. Your parents would be proud of you." He stopped and looked at Dick, whose back was still to them, as if he suspected he should say something more but wasn't sure what. "I know I am," he finally said, almost apologetically, as if ashamed to offer something so paltry.
Dick whirled and flung himself onto the couch to hug Bruce. "Thank you," he muttered.
Bruce patted him on the back and looked at Clark with an expression of panic that would be almost humorous if it weren't so transparently sincere. What did I do? he mouthed at Clark over Dick's shaking shoulders.
"You idiot," said Clark, and reached out to ruffle his hair roughly.
Bruce's debut as the Dark Knight was everything he could have hoped for. Clark watched it unfold on the monitors: Joker terrorizing a cringing Killer Moth, one of their third-tier heels; a silent swoop out of the shadows, and Clark could hear the audience catch its collective breath as a figure in a black cowl and a cape of rippling silk descended from the ceiling. "Is he a friend of Killer Moth's? Is he some old rival of the Joker's?" Clark heard the announcers speculate breathlessly as the two squared off in the ring and the hapless Killer Moth squirmed under the ropes and away. "Who is this silent guardian, this dark knight, and what does he mean for the DCW?"
The confrontation itself was short--"Leave them wanting more," Bruce had said--and inconclusive. Joker used his Joy Buzzer suplex on the interloper, but the Dark Knight shook off the jolt of electricity. He tossed something on the mat and there was a flash, a gout of smoke--the stadium lights went out, and when they came up again the Joker was alone in the ring, baffled and furious.
The announcers began a spirited argument about whether that escape had been a cowardly action or a canny ninja strategy. It was all all part of the marketing of the storyline: no one was supposed to be sure at first if this Dark Knight was actually a face or just a heel with a grudge against the Joker. But the audience didn't need the announcers to pique their interest, Clark could tell just from watching their faces as the Dark Knight and the Joker had fought. They were riveted and rapt, on the edge of their seats. He had them, Bruce finally had them exactly where he'd always wanted them: along for the ride, carried breathlessly on the wings of vengeance.
There was spontaneous applause as Bruce came into the locker room. He stopped and bowed, laughing, his hair damp and rumpled from the cowl.
"Nice work," said Jack Napier. He had wavered on whether to resent the storyline or not and eventually settled on a tone of amused condescension. "Your timing was a bit off on the second clothesline, but I'm sure you'll shake off the ring rust soon."
"That cape is a nice touch," said Hal, emerging from the showers with a towel around his waist.
"If it fit my gimmick I'd totally have a cape," said Ollie, absent-mindedly flicking his towel at Hal's posterior as he went by. "The ladies love capes. You just watch, you'll have fans lining up to come back to your hotel room and get busy on the cape. It's like a silk sheet but better."
"Is that so?" Bruce replied, shooting Clark a speculative look.
"I'll vouch for that," said Billy Batson, and attempted to go into detail before the rest of the locker room made it clear in no uncertain terms that they did not want to hear his stories of cape-related sexual prowess.
It was, Clark was happy to confirm later, indeed like silk sheets but better.
The Dark Knight continued to appear and disappear, interrupting unfair matches--usually interfering with the Joker, but sometimes with other heels. People noticed that he was more likely to swoop in when Robin was the victim, and there was speculation: were they brothers? Knowledgable fans pointed out he was probably the same person as that wrestler from Japan who'd teamed up with Robin there, but the average fan, unaware of the international scene, just thrilled to the daring rescues. Now and then they even tag-teamed, with the Dark Knight arriving always at the very last moment, wrestling unspeaking at Robin's side, then vanishing again.
Bruce seemed to be having the time of his life. He was always working on some new pose, some more expressive glower. He was finally exactly who he wanted to be.
"But--I think this is really working." Bruce's voice was almost forlorn as he stared at Dick. "I think it's perfect."
"Perfect for you, sure." Dick sighed loudly and leaned against his locker. "But for me--how can I make you understand this? I'm tired of being the Boy Hostage, Bruce. I'm tired of having other people always swooping in to save me, as if I'm a child who's incompetent to save himself."
"I don't--"
"--I know you don't think that," Dick said. "It's just--I need to get out from under your shadow. I need to be my own wrestler, not a sidekick."
"I've never thought of you as a sidekick," said Bruce. His voice was quiet but there was a lurking hurt in his eyes that anyone who didn't know him well might have missed entirely.
Dick shot Clark a look that revealed he hadn't missed it at all. "Bruce, I--"
"No, you're right," said Bruce. "Times change. Gimmicks change. We could even make an angle of it." He nodded, the hurt--not fading, but tucked away, hidden beneath the familiar kindling of enthusiasm. "Have the Dark Knight come to the rescue and have Robin chew him out, tell him he needs to stand on his own two feet and can't become his own man like this."
"Bruce--"
"--Maybe they can even have a good brawl over it--we've never worked a match together, it would be a good opportunity. I bet we could put on a show they'd never forget. I'll pitch it to Luthor, I think he'll love it--he's a big fan of dissention in the ranks and all that." Bruce paced the room, manic energy driving his steps. "Are you thinking of changing your name?"
"Yeah," said Dick. "I was thinking maybe Nightwing."
Bruce stopped and looked at him.
"If you--" Dick looked at the wall. "--I mean, robins and bats don't actually have much connection, and I kind of wanted to pick a name that would reflect how--how much you've taught me and how important you've been to me. Just a little. If you don't mind."
"I don't mind," said Bruce. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I'd be honored."
"Really?"
Bruce nodded wordlessly. Clark wondered if he should tell Dick later that Bruce had a hard time with words when they really mattered, but when he saw Dick's expression he realized he wasn't going to have to.
As if throwing his worries aside, Dick beamed at them both. "Let me show you some of my ideas for a costume!" he announced, grabbing a notebook and riffling through pages of yellow and bright blue sketches.
Clark managed to keep Bruce from revoking his approval after seeing Dick's costume plans, but it was a near thing.