Just Best Friends?

Clark thought that Klarion just thought that it'd be funny to turn one of the Justice League's leaders into an underage boy.

Currently, Clark was sitting on his desk chair in his quarters in the Watchtower, looking at a sleeping figure in his bed. Bruce Wayne, looking no more than twenty years old, was in his bed, sleeping as if he were in his own room in Wayne Manor. Clark found himself liking the sound of Bruce's relaxed breaths and steady heartbeat.

Zatanna said that it might be dangerous that Clark brought young Bruce up to the Tower, but Clark wasn't going to risk turning up at Wayne Manor with a de-aged Bruce. It was like telling Alfred, 'Would you like to raise Batman a second time?'

He stood up when Bruce moved. A moan escaped the boy's mouth. "Bruce?" called Clark softly, sitting on the edge of his bed.

The light from the sun was enough for Bruce to see that he wasn't at home—that he wasn't anywhere near home. He looked at Clark. "Who are you? Where am I?"

Clark was thankful that Bruce didn't look or sound alarmed. "I'm Clark Kent. You're in the Watchtower," answered Clark, "The headquarters of the Justice League,"

Bruce sat up. "Why am I here?" he looked at his hands, and he discovered he was in clothes more than twice his size. "Are these your clothes?" he noticed that he was wearing the same dress shirt as Clark was, and it was enough to cover most of him. The sleeves covered his hands, and it completely covered his bottom. And there was the other thing he recognized—he didn't have any underwear.

"Yes, uh," said Clark uncomfortably, "You shrunk out of your uniform and we didn't have anything to put on you so—"

"Are we friends?" Bruce asked, "Am I supposed to know you?" Bruce thought this man looked familiar, like he was supposed to know him well.

Clark nodded. "Best friends, actually. Well, when you get older,"

"Best friends?" Bruce repeated, "Wow, if you're only my best friend when I get older, I must be pretty damn stupid,"

"I beg your pardon?"

Bruce got on his knees one by one undid the buttons of the dress shirt. "Wait—" he started to back up towards the foot of the bed when the teenager started to straddled him. "Bruce—"

"Sshh," whispered Bruce, cupping Clark's cheek and bringing the older male's lips to his as his other hand snaked its way from Clark's chest to the buckle of his belt. Bruce thought this man's heat was intoxicating, and he felt that he was doing a good job since he was feeling Clark's length hardening under the soft skin of his hand. Bruce smiled into the kiss and pulled away. "Good boy,"

"Wait—Bruce, you can't—" Clark shouldn't be getting hard from this. He really shouldn't. But he was, and didn't know if he could measure the trouble he was going to get in after this.

"Oh, but I can," Bruce whispered breathily against Clark's ear with a smug grin as his hand made its way past the button, zipper and into Clark's pants.

Clark looked at the sleeping body next to him, comfortably curled up under the sheets. He had sex with an underage boy. An underage Bruce Wayne. "Alfred is so going to kill me for this,"

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