Life is cruel, Batman knows.
Right now, it's particularly cruel, what with having the spectre of his dead butler following him around for the rest of his days.
Magic is a bitch, he thinks far too frequently.
Thank the gods that not too many other people can see him.
Damn the gods that one of those people is Clark.
At least Alfred pretends not to be there most of the time. Except when he thinks Batman needs pointers, which is rarely on the streets and mostly in terms of his home life.
Specifically like right now, when he is sucking Clark's cock down his throat.
"That's not all you can take, Master Bruce. Relax. More of Master Clark's penis will fit in your throat if you stop focusing on whether you can breathe."
It would be a mood killer, except except-.
Clark likes being watched.
He supposed he should have known, what with the man's propensity for saving large masses of desperate people from falling buildings and like.
"No, no, Master Clark. Master Bruce can take you right now. He does not need another finger in his rectum."
Above him, Clark moans and pulls his fingers out.
"Alfred, please," Batman groans out, clenching his eyes shut to block out the very disturbing image of his mentor sitting and taking notes beside them.
Clark doesn't seem to be bothered by them as he presses deeply into Batman's body with a cock that feels larger than life.
He groans again as the very edge of pain slices through his mid-center.
"Angle up a bit, Master Clark," Alfred says from beside them.
His pained groans turn into pleasure as his cock finally begins to fill again.
"Very good, Master Clark. Now, put your back into it, young man. Otherwise, Master Bruce will have too much time to think."
He can barely to remember to breathe after that. Clark has turned animalistic above him, growling with each thrust and making him take it.
All of it.
"Should I touch him to make him cum?" Clark manages right when he feels that he is getting close.
"Yesss," He hisses out, glaring furiously up and then over to his mentor.
Alfred looks impassively down at him and then, with the same half-smile he always wore when pulling painful shrapnel out of Batman's back, he gives his answer.
"No. Make him ejaculate on your penis only."
"Alfred -," He bites out desperately.
"It's good for you, Master Bruce."
. . .
Alfred sometimes disappears afterward, not wanting to intrude on Batman's very real need for sleep.
Unfortunately . . .
"You've made him a mess, Master Clark," Alfred says, a smirk playing just under his perfectly straight mustache.
"I kind of like seeing him this way," Clark answers, running a finger across Batman's slightly gaping hole.
"If you insist, Master Clark. Make sure to wash the sheets soon or they'll need to be thrown out."
"Yes, sir," Clark answers, grinning dopily down at him.
"Shut up," He growls, not caring who listens.
His eyes are shut and he's quickly dropping into something near sleep.
"Don't make me take you over my knee, Master Bruce."
"Or I could do it for you, Alfred," Clark helpfully suggests.
Batman pulls a pillow over his face, and thinks very seriously of getting psychiatric help.