The Fake Boyfriend

Wet Dreams

The notification on his phone was Tim, his current Robin, letting him know that he needed him back soon. A teenager couldn't protect Gotham alone, and although he'd held the fort well, he didn't want this to drag on.
Bruce lets him know he's leaving in the morning and then strips down. He could put on the expensive pajamas Alfred laid out. But he's tipsy, tired and instead collapses into bed in his boxers.

Bruce opens his eyes. He's wearing his Batsuit. Clark, in his Superman suit, kneels in front of him, his chest heaving. Their suits cling to them tighter than usual because they're soaked. "Congratulations, you defeated him. Now come here, we don't want you to catch a cold." He hears himself say in his steely batman voice. He removes his cowl and kneels in front of Clark before reaching out to pull him into his lap. Bruce speaks in his normal voice, this time it's rough with need. "I love you, Clark." Clark says it back in a soft, needy voice and shivers in Bruce's arms. Bruce smiles, and leans down to kiss Clark's neck and jaw. Their eyes meet for an intense moment before their mouths meet in a searing kiss and Clark's hands slip up under Bruce's shirt. Bruce tears Clark's shirt off, longing to pin him down and lavish him with attention. He kisses Clark again before setting his sights on his gorgeous chest, and lowering his lips to kiss and suck on the ample exposed muscles. Clark makes a gorgeous sound and squirms, trying to hide how hard he is. But Bruce pulls him close. So close that they can feel each other's throbbing erections through their clinging suits. "Bruce!" Clark moans as his lover covered his chest in kisses.

And then he opens his eyes for real. His heart is still racing and he can almost still feel Clark's lips and chest and ... well everything else. Bruce feels embarrassed for having so little self control as to wet dream about him so soon. Let alone the I love you bit..
The blanket is tented in front of him and he flushes with a fresh wave of embarrassment. He's never, ever, been this way. Not since he was a teenager at least. Grown men should be in control of their bodies and minds.
The blanket stays tented as if to taunt him. And he caves in. Slipping his hand into his boxers, he strokes and rubs. He teases himself nearer and nearer to release, holding himself back for a moment, as if to prove he really is in control of himself, and then he cums. He moans Clark's name and collapses back to catch his breath.
And then he's up and marching to the shower. Still trying to forget that vivid and arousing dream.