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The Fourth Wall The Fourth Wall The boy Superman in black and white, zoom lens, stark relief. Pants around his knees and tshirt pushed up above his nipples. Right hand resting on his barely hairy belly while his left jerks furiously at his already sputtering cock. His eyes are closed and he's chewing on his bottom lip; it's full and round and pink, like a woman's. Clark is hardly the first pretty boy that Batman has watched jack off in this bed. Jaw sharp enough to cut steel, pony long legs and he's still not even the prettiest. Maybe the youngest, but Bruce doesn't like to think too much about that. About the endless parade of codpiece wearing, fey young men who've worn the bird suit, stalked dim, graffiti covered alleyways with him, then crawled into the master suite's bed at night and called him "Daddy". Clark doesn't call him Daddy, and Clark most certainly doesn't crawl anywhere, which is a shame actually, because he would look lovely on his knees. Instead, Clark lays sprawled and half naked in the guestroom, atop the four poster, king sized bed with its ever clean, white sheets and carefully obscured video surveillance camera. And Bruce sits in his den, watching Clark little-boy wanking, with a glass of gin in his fist and the grandfather clock ticking away the night's hours. Bruce doesn't sleep much anymore, and the darkness fades everything to gray, like the colorless image of Clark in front of him. It's almost better without the color. Sometimes Bruce's eyes just need the rest. All his so called colleagues with their flashy suits and shiny toys, gemstone greens and reds, sunset blues and golds. It's like a goddamn illustrator's wet dream and it makes Batman's skin itch under the suit. He hasn't dreamed in color since his parents died. Clark tosses his head against the pillows, and his hand finds a quicker pace. The other tugs his pants down just a bit further, tangling his ankles in flannel and cotton. Bruce puts his drink down to watch as Clark sets a rhythm, palm open, slapping his balls from below as he fists his dick. He wonders if a certain little bald freak taught him that trick too. Bruce brings up Lex every so often, just to be an asshole, just to watch the muscle in Clark's jaw jump. The billionaire got a decent start on breaking the boy, but apparently never did get around to finishing the job. Bruce spends a lot of time wondering what it would take to finish the job. Ash sized bits of Kryptonite brushed over a leather clad fist, maybe some carving tools. Clark with his hands bound and his knees up, on Bruce's bed. He's got utility belts full of handy things; he can climb walls and crush skulls, jump from planes and disembowel a man in one yank. But there's nothing on this world that would leave a mark on that baby fine skin of Clark's. And he thinks maybe that's the crux of his problem with this kid. How is he supposed to trust someone he can't even *hurt*? He can't possibly be for real, with all that truth and justice crap. The boy isn't even *human* let alone American, and it's just a matter of time before the people all turn on him. Foreign heroes receive only brief and wary welcomes, and benevolent saviors are always the first to the stake. One day Clark's special weakness will be the make The National Inquirer's front page. They'll come after him then, with their torches and little pieces of shiny alien rock. Red blood, white skin and blue bruise. It will all be very fucking patriotic. He likes the noises Clark makes when he gets close to coming. They sound - authentic, grounded, and true, in a way that nothing in any of their lives are. Costumes and alter egos, mansions under the earth and castles in space. It's all so ridiculous, the drama and the tragedy of their lives, that sometimes Bruce swears he is going to wake up at any minute and realize he is living inside of someone's very twisted and very poorly written play. That everything in his house is a prop, and that everyone, right down to Alfred and his god damned dog is actually just waiting around to see how long Bruce will buy into the absurdity. But when Clark comes? He sounds real. Clark says Wayne Mansion doesn't look real. Says it's like a museum, not a home. Calls it cold. Impersonal. Bruce visited Clark's house in Metropolis once. There was a kitchen with a white formica table. Ripe fruit in a bowl. A fireplace with pictures on the mantle. Friends, Clark said. His parents. Bruce thought Clark's mother looked much too young to have eyes so old. "You should come and meet them, Bruce," Clark had said, earnestly. Clark's default setting is earnest. "They'd like you." "That's how I wanna spend my weekends off. With cows and the people who enjoy them." Clark laughed, his eyes blue and clear, and said, "You'll change your mind one day." Bruce hasn't changed his mind. Last year, Clark's father nearly cut his arm off in a farming accident. The doctors weren't sure he was going to make it through the night. Diana showed up at the mansion just before midnight. "You coming?" For a dyke, she has a hell of a mothering instinct. He refused, of course. There were enough of them traipsing to Kansas, they didn't need one more. Besides, if the Supervillian of the month wanted to take out the entire Justice League, now all he had to do was drop a bomb on Smallville General Hospital. But what came out of his mouth was, "Parents die. Kid's gotta learn that sometime." For a minute he thought Wonder Woman was going to hit him. He was kind of looking forward to it. But she walked away, and Bruce went back to his gin, and he never did go to Smallville. He figures if the old man dies, he'll attend the funeral. At least that way he won't have to look him in the eye. None of the Boy Wonders ever had real fathers. It made things much simpler. Clark would never fit in the Robin suit. But Bruce has told him he ought to consider getting a mask, at the very least. Male super heroes wear masks, damn it. It's just how it's done. "I don't have anything to hide, Bruce," he always says. Earnestly of course. But Bruce knows that, at least, is bullshit. Everyone has something to hide. He just can't fathom the whole concept of no disguise. A pair of glasses and a pair of tights do not alter anyone's appearance that significantly. Granted, Clark looks larger somehow in the uniform. More strapping, more virile. Bruce finds it terribly amusing that Clark manages to actually look more masculine while wearing stockings, yet still labors under the delusion of heterosexuality. He plans on bringing it up one day, just like he plans on bringing up the fact that no one has ever met this Lana woman, and that when Clark kisses Lois they have all the chemistry of well, Clark and any woman, really. "Clark," he'll say, smiling under the leather mask, "do you fuck her from behind and tell yourself it's just so she won't see your real face?" There are other ways to leave scars besides knives and branding irons. Clark's hips rise off the bed, and his pajama bottoms slip off one ankle. Bruce watches slim hip bones twist as Clark chases orgasm with his wide eyes focused sightlessly on the ceiling. When those lips part in one long, silent moan and his thighs drop apart, Bruce watches him come. Clark's eyes and mouth and legs are all open, and somehow that's the most intimate part of all of this. He does not look away from the screen until Clark's eyes close. A few moments later Clark grabs his shirt, wipes his hands and stomach, and disappears into the bathroom. Bruce hears the shower click on, listens to the rush of water. Then the bathroom door creaks open, and Clark climbs back under the covers, skin ruddy and damp, wearing fresh pajamas. He is asleep in seconds. Bruce pours himself another drink and turns the camera off. The room goes dark and still. A cave. He pushes rewind, watches the scene in fast backward motion, pause, play. Another viewing, another bottle of gin and maybe he'll be able to figure out what he resents the most. The stubborn innocence, the easy rest, or the fact that Clark couldn't even be bothered to stain the sheets. -End Feedback Back to Kita's fic |