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Clark bit his lower lip, his heart sinking between his ribs. He felt stupid and small, still standing in front of the man who had just rejected him. The pain was suffocating, cold, and sharp. He knew tears were welling up in his eyes. He didn't know if he could formulate a response that wouldn't sound broken, that wouldn't reveal that stupid hope bleeding all over the floor between Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne.
Bruce was clear and direct in his rejection. No consoling apologies, no blatant cruelty. Just a clean rejection—a clean cut, bleeding across the younger man's body, but that wasn't Gotham's hero's fault. It was Clark's fault. It was his fault for wanting Bruce, wanting Bruce to want him.
Clark forced something onto his face that might have resembled a smile, but it held no trace of happiness. The words seemed to come from someone else, for Clark felt as if he were disconnected from his own body. A small, broken "Sorry" escaped, followed shortly by "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, I misread our…"
'Our’ what, after all? A relationship? Clearly not. Friendship? Were they close friends, or was it another illusion of the younger man?
"I'm sorry, Bru-Batman," he stammered, numb with grief. Then, after those few awkward sentences, he left to escape the heavy silence that had settled in. The travel from the Tower to his apartment barely registered in his mind, but the moment his feet stepped into his bedroom, sobs tore from his chest.
God, how stupid he was. He really thought that... What? That The Batman was in love with him too? That their whispered conversations during the nights were more than polite? That the way Bruce's hands lingered on his face, his shoulders, or his injured hands were more than just well-meaning concern? Did he read too much into the secret smiles directed at him? After all, how could Bruce Wayne—generous, trusting, kind, handsome—see Clark as a partner in a relationship? Clark was stupid to think that Bruce's acceptance as his coworker was worth more than what it was: Work, obligation, professionalism... How stupid to fall in love with a man who would never see him as an option.
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Bruce was harsher than usual with the criminals that night. Every time his fist came down, he saw that pair of blue eyes, desolate because of him. Before the disaster, Clark had spent the day smiling so beautifully at him; that afternoon, his cheeks were constantly flushed, and his cheerful blush covered the small freckles across the bridge of his nose. Dimples adorned his face, those damned adorable dimples, which seemed to beg to be sweetly kissed. Bruce tried so hard to be normal around Clark, afraid to let his interest, his fascination, show, but every time he looked at Kent, he noticed some small new detail, and every detail fueled his obsession, his possessiveness, his maddening passion. At the end of their shared night of vigil, the sweetest words echoed to his ears:
"Would you like to go with me?" the dark-haired man asked after they'd chatted for a few minutes about a new restaurant in Metropolis that Clark wanted to try. "I'm asking you out on a date, in case it wasn't clear…" he laughed shyly. "I… I really like you, B… A lot."
How can a man fall into pure agony upon hearing the words that could open the gates of heaven?
"I'm not interested."
Liar. Coward. Stupid. God, Bruce hates himself. He wants to take back the words, dig his fingers into the younger man, bite his neck, and hold him between his teeth. He wants him to be his, Bruce feels the need to keep him as his, only his. His pulse quickens at the image of Clark on his knees, wants the sweet man to beg, wants to see his tears, and wants to be his comfort. But Bruce knows this isn't good, knows his feelings can't be good. When has Bruce ever received a blessing and not destroyed it? His chest aches, but he's rejecting Clark for his own sake. He can hold this selfish monster for Clark, because the young man deserves better, deserves someone good. Still, that doesn't mean he doesn't hate himself for the tears he caused.
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A little less than two months passed before the other members of the team began to notice the growing distance between the heroes. When they began avoiding each other, the League found it strange, but not overly so—Batman was naturally taciturn and elusive, and Superman seemed overwhelmed with both civilian and heroic work, so the distance between them didn't seem intentional. Especially since everyone knew that Batman and Superman shared some kind of deep connection—some were betting on a secret romance between the men, but others saw the bond as almost spiritual, as they seemed to be able to communicate with simple glances, moving and gravitating toward each other naturally, and there was a sense of a kindred, and frankly, bizarre, nature that the other members of the team didn't understand.
"Like Achilles and Patroclus, once," Diana said, which might not mean much to some, but to her, who had seen them in another life, it meant a lot.
Given all this, the gossip mill was a bit agitated while the men were somewhat distant, but these misunderstandings happened to anyone, even the most passionate. So no one was too shocked until they saw Superman—yes, the Superman with the "puppy eyes every time Batman is six feet away"—dodge Batman. The League held their collective breath. But Superman just smiled at them as if nothing had happened. The man of steel sat next to Diana, the spot between Wonder Woman and Green Lantern (Hal Jordan), and asked who would start the reports that night.
The seat next to Batman was empty.
If Bruce himself lost his footing for a moment, you'd have to be someone like Alfred Pennyworth to notice, so for the other members—even those most invested in the gossip—he simply naturally lowered his hand, which should have been resting on Clark's shoulder—a tactile greeting unique to his beloved angel. No one else saw the torturous, self-loathing crisis Batman was facing that night—but Gotham's criminals would feel it later, no doubt.
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Clark was moving on. Clark was doing great, thank you. Giving up on Bruce and moving away from him wasn't gnawing at his spirit, or hurting his heart with every breath, or anything like that, of course not. This one month, three weeks, and two days were perfectly fine and ordinary.
Lois Lane, his best friend, was staring at Clark Kent again. She was using intimidation tactics against the younger man; she no longer believed (if she ever had) his excuse about tiredness. Her brown eyes had been following him like lasers around the office for almost half an hour today (a new record, Clark would add), waiting for him to confess everything. It was during lunch that he gave in, because she'd touched his soft spot: she'd threatened to call his mother.
Clark mumbled what had happened as he dejectedly rolled his chopsticks against his fish cakes. It took Lois five minutes to diagnose Clark with a "broken heart" and recommend "crazy, casual sex" as a remedy—the latter part was ignored by the man. The words "broken heart," however, tightened his grip on that mentioned organ. Was he suddenly in some kind of pulp fiction?
He didn't have the courage, however, to describe to the woman how much worse his feelings were than a simple broken heart, a common heartbreak. It felt like grief. It tasted like blood. No, he wouldn't admit, even to his own reflection, what kind of obsessed man he was. Who would understand his mourning for a living man who simply “wasn't interested.” What kind of madman wants to rip open his own chest and give away his beating heart anyway? How can he explain that he'd rather Bruce kept him, even if he didn't care for him? Something is wrong with Clark, so he holds back, pulls away even when he wants to pursue, keeps quiet when he wants to beg. He can't be selfish, nor risk hurting Bruce, for the only sin is not wanting Clark. No, restraint and longing are just his penances to endure.
____________
Like all the best and stupidest ideas within the League, it's Hal Jordan who suggests a happy hour to "strengthen the team's bonds," and definitely not out of any kind of curiosity or desire to see the members of said team drunk and embarrass themselves. How the idea gains traction until it's accepted and a date is set, on the other hand, is a mystery. But, well, it's been six months since the strange separation between Superman and Batman, so it seems the natural order of life is already out of whack, so what's one more little thing out of the ordinary?
They (minus Arthur, who's grounded by his wife) end up at one of Gotham's most exclusive bars, because if Bruce Wayne shows up, it better be in a setting he can control and ensure he doesn't arouse suspicion when interacting with them. What most people don't know is that this is, in fact, one of Bruce Wayne's properties, for when Brucie Wayne needs a more controlled environment to carry out his duties. Diana knows, but Diana is suddenly starting to seem like she knows everything, so she doesn't count.
The bar is one of those low-light, central dance floors, couches in the corners, and secrecy along the walls. There are bouncers, waiters, and bartenders. Entrance is for those VIPs within the VIPs, plus those Brucie needs to show up. It's a nightclub, but officially it's called a bar for marketing reasons. Regardless, it's private enough, but it's also a "casual environment" for "team bonding," of course.
Bruce wonders if he's losing his mind to agree to something like this. Well, he's been feeling a little crazy these past few months, so maybe that's it. Or maybe he's being nice; the team wanted to hang out informally, and he could provide that, so why not?
...Who is he kidding? That's not what happened. It was those beautiful blue eyes—which no longer looked at him—the pretty red mouth—which no longer smiled at him—and the sweet voice—which no longer said his name—that convinced Bruce. The Wayne was deprived of Clark, like an addict deprived of his drug. So, when the slightest chance to be near him for longer presented itself, Bruce couldn't let it slip away—let Clark slip away.
Clark said he'd like to be a part of Jordan's ridiculous idea. It was Clark's wish that Bruce wanted to fulfill. Bruce thinks that, at this point, if Clark had merely hinted at a passing interest in the moon, he'd already be going to get it for him—or bidding at an auction, at the very least.
When Wayne made the selfless (idiotic) decision to spare Clark from his obsessive desires, he didn't think he'd be giving up every little piece of the Kryptonian had ever given him. It started with his presence, increasingly difficult to glimpse. Then came the diversions of his touch—his hands tremble involuntarily every time he sees a stray curl fall into those baby blue eyes. Then he gradually lost the glances, the smiles, the voice, his name—God, what he wouldn't give to hear a soft "Bruce" or a shy "B" again, outside of the professional, yet rare, "Batman." Even his scent seemed to be detaching from the billionaire, and he hadn't even noticed before how much the strawberry scent of his shampoo, the honey of his soap, and the distinctive sweetness of his particular scent had clung to Bruce until they were no longer there.
So, yes, he was going crazy. Gotham's crime rate was at its lowest levels in a decade because no one wanted to risk encountering the crazed bat. Hell, Joker asked if he was okay the last time he saw him, and Bruce broke both of the idiot's legs.
Bruce drank the whiskey from his glass. He'd arrived earlier than planned to check on security. The bar was busy, but it would be twice as bad by the end of the night, and Bruce was already regretting choosing the nightclub. The best (and perhaps the only good) thing growing older brought him was the end of the wild Brucie Wayne years. No one expected Bruce in his late forties to behave like he did in his twenties—they are not surprised when he does, but they were no longer interested in his every move (so Bruce didn't have to work at creating and maintaining a facade, not like he did back then).
On the other hand, his lizard brain thought, there were advantages to being there. One advantage, specifically. The sight of a beautiful angel with dark, unruly curls, dressed in tight pants and a light gray shirt with the top buttons undone, revealing his collarbones and neck of pale, soft flesh. Nor were there any glasses hiding the pair of enchanting blues. Clark looked stunning beside Diana, smiling at her as he listened to her talk. Bruce wanted to scream, "Why don't you smile at me anymore?"
Clark barely speaks to him, and when he does, it's in a polite, distant tone—Bruce wants to scream again. The night progresses calmly, but tortuously. The League members sit at a table in the most private part of the venue, drinking and laughing about each other's weirdest and funniest missions—Bruce wants to reach out and touch Clark's rosy, smiling cheeks. There's a lot of quality drinks on the table and at some point Barry leaves and returns with fries and nuggets from some cheap fast food joint in the neighborhood. Bruce spends his time quietly, with few mumbles here and there. He prefers to observe, always had, and the fact that his spot at the table gives him a direct view of Clark Kent is enough. It's obvious, however, that the peace was doomed to fail sooner or later. And, again, it wasn't a shock that Bruce was responsible—unintentionally—for that.
He didn't really want to leave his observation perch. However, the group of women who entered were "friends" of Brucie Wayne. And, once again, it wasn't as exhaustive facade as it once was, but it still needed to be maintained and cared for. Therefore, he couldn't ignore the women who had, more than once, been good sources of information.
Clark watched as Bruce stood up and went to greet a group of newly arrived women, kissing their cheeks and hugging their bodies. Diana, at his side, quietly argues about "keeping up appearances, no big deal" and that Clark shouldn't suffer for it. Clark doesn't even want to imagine what his appearance did to make her read him so easily.
Hal and Barry, oblivious to the drama, laugh about the bat's "arduous" task of entertaining a group of slender models. Victor mutters a warning to the older men, but blushes when he observes the scene. Shayera just rolls her eyes and heads to the dance floor. Bruce is sitting on a couch, with at least two models on each arm, laughing and flirting in the style of Brucie Wayne, the playboy and prince of Gotham.
Clark can't even put into words the weight on his chest, but he refuses to cry, refuses to make a scene. So he lets Diana pull him toward Shayera in the sea of people dancing and jumping in a sensual and libertine manner. Then, the voice in his head—the one that sounds like a little devil on his shoulder, the one that sounds like Lois Lane—reminds him how he has to move on, and what better way to forget one dick than go to jump on another?
Clark felt his heart pound. Would he do it? Could he? Diana looked at him and smiled, oblivious to his internal debate, pulling away slightly with Shayera in her arms. Clark decided to let himself relax, just once. He wanted to move on, didn't he? Well, even if he didn't, he had to. For the peace of the team and for B, so they could be normal again with each other. So, with a new mission, he doesn't even mind people's hands tugging at his hips or trying to wrap themselves around his waist. He allows it, letting the sensation of moving with the crowd overwhelm him, the sound of the beats guiding the rhythm of his movements, the smell of alcohol and cigarettes dulling any inhuman senses, but Clark doesn't let anyone kisses reach his lips. He doesn't want them. Not from these people.
Diana is still worried about him; his behavior isn't typical of him, but Shayera distracts her with her lips and whispers. Hal, Barry, and Victor are in states of arousal, embarrassment, and trauma, respectively, as they watch Superman sensually move his hips on the dance floor, with more and more people trying to steal a piece of him. But Bruce? Bruce feels the glass nearly shatter in his hand from the force of his grip. His blood feels like lava, jealousy rises like a monster in his stomach, his teeth almost gnashing with fury. He can't look away, no matter who tries to get his attention. He wants to get up, go to Clark, and drag him away, so that no one else can even look at the brunette again, much less put their hands and bodies against him. He needs to take a deep breath and remind himself that it's because of this maniacal possessiveness that he has to restrain himself, that he must protect Clark from this.
Clark doesn't know how much time passes, but he feels thirsty, so he dodges the wandering hands and the dancing against his body and walks to the drinks counter. He feels eyes following him, many in fact, but he tries not to look back at any of them. He sips his water slowly, then one of the waiters taps him on the shoulder.
"A drink from that gentleman, sir," and hands him a fruity pink cocktail.
Clark follows the gaze to where the waiter points. His heart stops for a second. Tall, muscular, black hair, a roguish smile... but green eyes. Clark swallows hard. He looks at the drink still on the waiter's tray, then looks back at the man who sent it.
If he were honest, the men weren't really alike beyond those more superficial features. Still... If he squinted, the silhouettes were similar enough... The green wasn't even a third of the stormy gray beauty, but... His eyes searched Bruce. No. He stopped. He didn't look at Bruce.
Bruce didn't want him. He had to get over.
Clark bit his lip in a final moment of doubt, straightened, and said, "Take it back, please." He blushed before adding, "Tell the gentleman I don't like sweets, I prefer... rougher." The waiter blushed, stealing a glance at Clark, the double meaning obvious in the words.
Clark sipped his bottle of water, his body feeling on fire. He wondered if he was about to have sex with a stranger in a nightclub—but then again... Tall, dark, and confident... his pussy throbbed with desire. Yes, they were doing it. His fingers wouldn't be enough today, not with an option so close to what he desired available.
Th mysterious man, Clark observed surreptitiously, chuckled, throwing his head back as the waiter relayed the message. His eyes (so green and so wrong) darkened, and he began to walk over to where Clark was sitting.
"Hi, beautiful," said a deep voice, a strong body almost pinning Clark between him and the bar.
Fuck, yes. He was definitely going to get laid today or he might die.
“My name is—”
“I don’t care,” he said quickly and a little harshly. But it was true; the green was wrong enough; a name might be too much and break the fantasy.
The man laughed.
“Hmm, I see. Need a distraction, hottie?” His hand squeezed Clark’s clothed thigh. “I don’t mind, you know? I bet I can make you forget anything when I fuck you tonight”
Clark felt the back of his neck tingle, as if something were striking him from behind, but he didn’t look. He focused on the man in front of him, on the tantalizing promise of his words. Then he tried to incarnate all his desire for Bruce (that desire that turned him into a kitten in heat, begging and submissive) to the man who wanted him, who was interested in him.
“Please,” he said slowly.
The other man smiled like a shark. Clark stood up with a new adrenaline rushing through his veins, a slight dampness between his thighs. The green eyes followed every movement, comprehension dawning as the footsteps began to follow Clark.
Clark, overcome by a sudden feeling of being hunted, turned his back on him, the pounding of his own heart drowning out every other sound. He enjoyed the feeling even if he didn't understand where it came from, as he was merely guiding the other man to the bathroom, but it didn't feel like just that. He felt an achingly good thrill, like prey waiting to be caught.
____________
Clark doesn't know if it was an hour or a minute, but he waited anxiously inside that bathroom stall, trying not to second-guess his own decisions, because he didn't even have alcohol as an excuse. His back was to the door of the tiny stall. He wanted that man, because he knew that with his back to him, bent over, with his senses numbed by pleasure, it would be as if he were Bruce there. Yes, he could admit to himself that it wasn't a healthy decision, he knew it was almost openly offensive—but he wouldn't be open about it, and it would be a one-night stand; he doesn't plan on marrying the guy. On the contrary, he just wants to be bent over and fucked without any strings attached—which the other seemed to agree with without a problem.
So, he doesn't expect the intimacy implied in the other man's hands. How his rough fingers tug at his clothes, while the other hand maintains a tight grip on his throat. Lips and teeth drag against the curve of his shoulders. God, even the smell of his sweat and cologne is reminiscent of Bruce's. Not that he has time to analyze this deeply, because even as he thinks, his body begins to vibrate with pleasure as two slow but firm fingers curl into his pussy.
"B," he moans, and immediately feels ashamed, feeling dirty for calling the older hero's name, but the pleasure is so good, and the fingers feel stronger inside him, leaving his thighs and his mind in a mess. So, he doesn't hold back as much as he'd like, not when everything feels too real. "B-Bruce, I need… Uh-h."
"Say it. Or I'll stop."
Clark froze, his overheated body suddenly filling with ice, because that voice was unmistakable. Suddenly, he understood why the body covering him from behind felt so right, why his scent was comforting, why the rough fingers felt so familiar even though they were touching areas they'd never touched before. His subconscious recognized the man before his overstimulated mind could. He finally dared to break free from the grip on his throat that held him still (not by brute strength, but by power, and that should have been his first clue because submission felt so natural only when Bruce was taking it from him).
There they were. Gray. Almost overtaken by the black of his pupil, but it was the perfect gray. Gray from every one of Clark's dreams.
"Were you really going to let him touch you like that?" Bruce growled.
Clark didn't know how to respond. On the one hand, he thought he would, but he also doubted he could—he'd never been the type to have one night things—but he wanted to try, wanted to believe he was bold and sexy and that he could take a step (even a false one) that would be a "recovery," that would be a "moving on." Deep down, he didn't know if he would have been so responsive if, unconsciously, his body hadn't recognized Bruce.
"He wanted to, why not?" he replied sullenly, frowning.
The fingers inside him twitched. Damn, Bruce was going to fight him with his fingers resting comfortably in his pussy. This shouldn't have turned him on. Not at all. But he felt the wetness growing, and he doubted Bruce didn't feel it too. He blushed and pressed his lips together to swallow the moan in his throat. Bruce was having none of it. He pushed his thumb sloppily against his clit, making the needy sounds escape from his throat.
"Were you going to let him put those dirty hands on you?" he growled, pressing their bodies together and rubbing his cock against the top of the other's ass. "Fuck your pussy like he deserve to even dream of it, huh?"
Clark tried to open his mouth to respond. But the authoritative voice and the heat on every patch of skin in contact were making him dizzy. The Kryptonian thinks he took too long to try to stutter out a response, because Bruce gets impatient and rips his shirt (and must do the same with his own) because suddenly his back is pressed against Bruce's chest.
Clark whimpers pathetically and trembles. He can feel the heat rushing from one body to the other, feels the ripples of muscle and the depressions of the Earth's champion hero's scars. Bruce groans and licks the back of his neck before biting. Clark feels his body relax, and the mark sinks in with pleasure—not enough to bleed, but enough to hurt good and leave a temporary mark. Finally, a third finger sinks into his needy pussy.
Clark throws his head against Bruce's shoulder. Their eyes meet, and the hunger within Bruce seems a reflection of his own. A different side of the same coin. Bruce's mouth invades his, his tongue subduing his sighs. Bruce's teeth are like those of a ravenous beast, biting and tearing at the sensitive skin of his lips. And when a tiny red bruise appears on his lips, the older man's pupils seem to explode.
Clark suddenly understands. Clark sees Bruce. The man who is obsessed with violence and care. Clark feels how both extremes inadvertently blend in his gray eyes. He realizes how Bruce wants to punish him for Clark (almost) giving him to another man while simultaneously hating himself for wanting to possess Clark to the last drop. In the back of his mind, an "oh" of understanding dawned.
Bruce wanted him. Bruce wanted him in the same almost sickening way that Clark wanted him. Maybe worse. However, since the man must have the best-worst self-esteem on the planet, he thought it would be "better" to deny it. To deny what they both wanted. Clark was furious, but a part of him also wanted to laugh at the stupidity of it all. Another just wanted to spread his legs and welcome Bruce home, finally.
His Bruce. His Bruce (foolish, stupid, and selfless) who wanted him so much he felt like a mad dog at the mere thought of Clark having another man in his body, in his mind, or in his heart. Bruce who (in a condescendingly idiotic yet sweet way) thought he should spare Clark from himself, when all Clark wants is to be trapped in his clutches and never be allowed to go away. Clark would give his soul and body to Bruce to do whatever he wanted and thank him for it—be it kindness, cruelty, or pleasure. Fortunately, Bruce seemed inclined toward pleasure at the moment.
“Do you know how many people I’ve wanted to mutilate today? How many hands have touched you? That you’ve let touch you, while I can barely breathe near you before you run away?”
“And whose fault is that?” he snapped like a brat.
“Were you punishing me, love?” Bruce growled.
“No… but I should have,” Clark murmured with a pout.
Bruce withdrew his fingers, and Clark whimpered at the loss. But Bruce quickly turned him in his arms and stole his breath with a kiss. Their lips collided eagerly, then trailed down his throat, leaving a fiery trail across every freckle dotting the younger man’s skin. Clark was startled when Bruce fell to his knees and hissed at the sight.
The strands of his short, straight black hair were disheveled, and without hesitation, Clark's hand tangled in them. Bruce rubbed his cheek against his wrist, looking at him from beneath his lashes with adoration and longing.
"You need to be honest with me, B. You can't make decisions for me."
"I—"
"Promise me, B. Be honest with me or leave."
His gray gaze grew teary, and Clark caressed his face with his thumb tenderly.
"I promise, I'll try, I promise." The older man's hands began to move up from his ankles, feathering over his calves until they were firmly gripping his soft thighs.
Clark tugged involuntarily at the dark strands when Bruce lifted one of his thighs to rest it on his shoulder, leaving wet kisses along the inside of said thighs.
"I want you so much. You're mine," he murmured. "Say it. Please, baby."
"I'm yours, B. Only yours. I only want you."
Bruce surrenders himself like a thirsty man against his pussy. Clark throws his head back and his legs tremble, balanced only by the older man's hands on him. One of them rested possessively against his ass, pulling and maneuvering his body to fit against Bruce's mouth. Clark felt tears escape from his eyes as the fingers of the other hand penetrated him again. Bruce growled at the sight, vibrating the sensitive flesh of his clit.
"Fuck— B— I'm going to—"
With those words, Bruce's determination seemed to multiply. His tongue in his folds descended to follow the fingers inside his hole. The two fingers moved like scissors so the man's tongue could bury itself in the moist, sweet aperture. The movement to pull away was involuntary, but also unsuccessful, as the hand on his ass pulled him back brutally.
His orgasm came like an intense wave against his weak body. His vision filled with black spots. It must have taken him a few seconds to regain his composure, because he didn't notice Bruce standing up. On the other hand, he could perfectly see the smug, self-satisfied smirk that graced his face.
"You're so sweet, baby," Bruce said, wrapping his hands around Clark's and kissing his neck tenderly.
Clark didn't know what to say, so he just pulled the man's strong body closer to him in a lovers' embrace.
"I think I just found my new favorite flavor," Bruce teased some more.
"B," Clark protested embarrassedly.
Of course Bruce Wayne liked to eat pussy; it was almost obvious just by looking at him. Clark just hadn't expected him to be so vocal about it.
"Such a wet pussy, so desperate for my fingers, for my tongue, isn't it, my love?"
Clark shook his head, his stomach churning with embarrassment at the new rush of arousal nearly dripping down his thighs again. A mewl escaped him as he felt the outline of Bruce's clothed cock against his vulva.
"Will you take my cock so eagerly, baby? Will you let me fuck that tight pussy of yours, love?"
"Y-yes, B... I'm yours... Plea-please I- I need you, B, everything you give me, please."
"Fuck." Bruce rolled his eyes.
His hands went straight to unbuckling his belt.
Clark could barely see because of the close proximity of their bodies, but he could feel the bare heat against his skin. Bruce's cock was leaking pre-cum, leaving a wet spot on his pelvis.
"Hold tight, baby."
Clark wrapped his arms around Bruce's shoulders and neck, mewling at the older man's display of strength as he lifted him onto his lap. Bruce kissed his shoulder, his neck, and then captured his red mouth, making the younger man taste himself on Bruce's lips. Bruce watched him as he caught his breath. His gaze was filled with lust. But also filled with... something... was there a better word to describe it than pure adoration?
"Mine. Mine. Mine," Bruce whispered reverently against his skin, while Clark gasped as he felt his pussy open around Bruce's cock.
"B-" he moaned softly.
"Shh, my love, I got you," he murmured, sounding as broken as the other. "My heart, my beautiful angel, huh? Taking me in so well, like you were made to take my cock," he growled as he finished thrusting into the younger man. Clark's pussy felt like it was being sculpted as it received Bruce's thick, drooling cock.
The men moaned together at the sensation of the first slow thrust. Clark almost saw stars, every point of contact felt like embers in his body, in his soul, and feeling Bruce so intimately inside him was making him dizzy and flush—it felt right, so good, and so perfect. Maybe he was made for Bruce after all.
Bruce backed him tighter against the wall, so he could wrap his hand back around his throat and guide his lips to his. Every movement of the older man's hips pushed him against the porcelain tile wall, making the walls of his pussy shrink, trying to keep his throbbing cock inside him, as if it were unacceptable to keep him away for even a second.
The thrusts seemed to gain strength every time Clark thought it impossible to get any stronger; Bruce felt beastly against him. For a second, the brunette swore he felt Bruce touch his cervix, which wasn't possible due to their position... right? It didn't matter. His mind and mouth could only form prayers with Bruce's name. Every time his eyes filled with tears of pleasure, his mouth was claimed by the older man's possessive teeth and tongue.
"B-b, please, I-"
"What, baby? Tell me, my love, whatever you want is yours."
"I- I want you, B- I want- I need you to come inside me- I want- I want to be yours, B."
The sound that came out of Bruce was anything but human. Clark's words went straight to fueling that obsession beneath Bruce's scarred skin. Clark scratched Bruce's back a little harder than he intended when he felt (without a doubt) his cock bump against his cervix. Bruce groaned like a satisfied beast. He thrust his tongue back into Clark's mouth and wished he could draw blood from that soft, delicate, yet resilient skin. Bruce felt irrational with desire and pleasure as he watched the small movements of Clark's hips, trying to rub his clit against his abdomen. Clark clenched his thighs as one of Bruce's hands descended on his needy flesh.
"B-bruce—"
"Come for me, baby."
Clark let out a whore's moan as pleasure detach in his belly and raced through every nerve ending. His mind and ears buzzed. The sensation of Bruce's cock still stretching his clunge was almost painful, but in a good, maybe a bit masochistic way. The overstimulation made him moan softly and tears well up in his eyes, but the sensation of Bruce cumming through his walls, the warm liquid filling his body and claiming his pussy, was perfect. Clark shivered as a third, intense, but quicker orgasm raced through him, and Bruce chuckled, husky and satisfied.
"A greedy pussy, uh, baby?" Bruce growled (clearly proud of his own job) in his ear.
Clark tried to deny it, but complete, meaningful sentences seemed too laborious. Bruce laughed.
"J-just for you," he replied, breathless and broken.
"Fuck, you're right." He confirmed possessively, "Only mine, baby. Mine. No one will ever come within a meter of you again, not even if I have to tie you to my fucking bed. If any hand dares to touch you, if anyone tries to flirt with you…" He pulled Clark's chin toward him, his burning eyes contrasting with Clark's wide, wet ones. "I don't know if I can fucking answer for my own actions."
"I don't want them. I didn't want them. I only want you, B. No one else, I swear," he replied before kissing Bruce sweetly.
Bruce's nails felt like claws against him at this point. Bruce's intensity, almost always reserved for his hood, seeped out of him. The threat of violence fueled by jealousy and passion shouldn't have Clark feeling so smiley. Not if they weren't complementary pieces in this mess of feelings.
Clark kissed his cheeks.
Bruce stops. Bruce, who deep down still harbored a small fear of scaring Clark and pushing him away forever, felt comprehension finally dawn. The dark-haired man from Kansas saw it happen in slow motion and smiled in amusement at Bruce's shock at realizing that, who would have thought, his feelings were truly reciprocated on every level—even (especially) the most fucked-up ones.
"The best detective in the world, huh?”