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Bruce wakes up to the sound of heavy rain pattering against a window. It’s disorientating at first, overwhelming in its unfamiliarity because he hasn’t heard that type of noise for a long time, not since he was a child and deathly afraid of storms and forced Alfred to double-pane the glass of every window in his bedroom because it sounded too much like war, too much like bullets hitting—
He startles upright, or as upright as he can really get in the tiny space he’s been appointed to. It’s a single bed, barely big enough for a teenager, let alone a grown man of thirty-nine who’s in the midst of a crisis. A crisis involving some fragmented memories of a building collapse, screams, a gust of wind and the shock of red and blue, all thick muscle and careful hands, carrying him before everything went fuzzy and dark.
‘Clark.’ He whispers into the empty room.
It’s not the first time he’s woken up with the man’s name on his lips, but he can’t think about that right now.
Cream walls, fresh linen sheets, white curtains, fluffy rug; he’s seen this room before, in the aggregate backgrounds of family photos that Clark had shared with him despite his protests. Having felt mocking and bright in the pictures, a reminder of something he was never even given a chance to understand, it feels different in real life. Lively, golden, almost reverent. He can’t be here.
‘Clark!' He’s shouting now, anger finally catching up to him at the stark contrast of his dark suit, filthily rich threading without even one daring wrinkle, worthless against these clearly loved sheets, in a clearly loved room with a man who he—
‘What’s wrong? Bruce?’ Clark is at his side in an instant, those strong hands reaching out to grasp his own. Warm and calloused, meeting cold and trembling.
If it weren’t for the predicament he’s currently found himself in, Bruce would probably laugh at the way Clark fills up the room, impossibly big and strange, like some type of Victorian-style wardrobe in a tiny, modern studio.
Well, he wouldn’t laugh, because then Clark’s eyes would soften and sparkle in the way they always do when he manages to amuse Bruce in some way, but he would certainly refrain for a few hours only to laugh in the privacy of his own study. He looks funny, really; big doe eyes hesitant and unsure, petulant frown and kneeling beside him like Bruce is on his deathbed or something, and not just mildly freaked out at the thought of Superman bringing him to his childhood bedroom, his safe space, his home.
‘Get off.’ He says instead, shoving Clark away and trying to avoid the flicker of hurt he's met with as he attempts to stand up without looking too panicked. It’s still raining outside, dense teardrops dripping, dripping, dripping. It’s so loud.
‘Why am I here? What did you do?’ A beat of silence, then Clark’s rambling.
‘There was an explosion in the building near yours, you were in a meeting and I didn’t think—' Clark cuts himself off suddenly, a sheepish hand rubbing the back of his neck.
He’s still on his knees. It’s unsightly, a man of his position, powerful enough to lift a house off of its foundations and catapult a car into space without breaking a sweat, kneeling in front of him and about to apologise for saving his life.
‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Don’t be mad, okay? Green Lantern was at the scene, he helped with the civilians.’
Stupid boy.
‘You left people behind to take me to a farm in the middle of nowhere? Have you lost your mind?’ Bruce hisses, hates the way it makes Clark flinch. ‘Do I look like a fragile damsel that requires rescuing?’
Clark’s timidly meeting his gaze now, eyelashes fluttering, hands suspended in air near Bruce’s knees, as if he wanted to touch and coax him to sit or lay back down, but stopped himself short.
‘I didn’t. I wouldn’t. You know I wouldn’t— I helped them all down, there wasn’t even that much rubble.’ He mumbles, all pouty and upset as if Bruce’s opinion of him matters more than the reporters’, the people he’s saved, the government even.
Hands cautiously falling to Bruce’s ankles, he wraps around the fabric of his trousers firmly and very obviously waits to be shoved off again. His thumbs rub against the material, catching the jut of Bruce's bones every few seconds. Something about the gesture makes his head spin in dizzy circles, so he allows himself one single moment of insanity and moves to sit on the edge of the bed, soft duvet crinkling underneath him.
It has yellow stars on it, slightly dull and faded as if they’ve been washed over and over again.
There’s a pit in his stomach that's deepening by the minute, something dangerous and hungry rearing its head when it should be staying hidden in the way it usually does.
Clark is still looking at him, body shuffling closer to rudely make a space for himself in between Bruce’s knees. Except it’s not rude; it’s maddening and pathetic all at once, so Clark-like in its immaturity that it shocks Bruce into accepting it before he’s even aware of what he’s allowing.
Clark is good, so capable and so young, so unlike him that it’s daunting.
He still hasn’t replied, tries to let the silence speak for itself. Pointless, of course, because Clark’s filling it with his muttering again.
He had never understood the man’s obsession with him. What had felt like childish curiosity akin to hero-worship in the beginning, a mild fascination with Batman, slowly morphed into something raw, obsessive, an almost suffocating devotion towards Bruce Wayne instead.
Bruce had rebuked it since the moment they had first met, when Superman was still Superman, and Clark Kent was a nobody; a bright-eyed, excitable reporter who wouldn’t leave him alone until Bruce had no choice but to acquiesce. He curses that memory now, wants to go back to stop it from ever happening because it had spiralled to an article, then two, then five, then coffees together, then Clark showing up to his house injured in that godforsaken Superman suit, then Clark’s eyes following him at every event, and now—
‘I’m sorry.’ Clark mutters against him, voice hushed and careful as he rests his chin against Bruce’s knee. He hates the familiarity of it, can’t stand how comfortable Clark is with a man like him. ‘Was worried ‘bout you. Won’t do it again, okay?’
Breath hitching slightly, Bruce feels smothered. This room is too goddamn small, and Clark is too goddamn big and he’s staring up at him like he’ll cry if Bruce doesn’t comfort him, doesn’t tell him it’s okay that he abandoned city clean-up to fly a completely healthy man hundreds of miles away to plop him on his bed like a fucking princess. Stupid Clark, stupid—
‘Stop.’ He sighs in exasperation, a hand fumbling its way to cover his own face.
Rubbing at his eyes until they hurt, he deems it necessary to escape Clark's stare. He smells clean, like soap and cotton and fresh air. If Bruce was to peek down at the man right now while he's grovelling on his knees, he'd be tempted to forget every self-righteous belief that he’s cautiously instilled into himself since he made a promise to the city, to the people that rely on him. Forehead burning feverishly against the touch of his cold fingertips, he rubs the temples in even circles and recites his makeshift manifesto of rules, a monologue that's been practiced over and over again in recent months.
No touching. What would Clark's fingers feel like against his bare knees? No touching. Would they make indents on the insides of his sore thighs if he asked for it? No touching. Would they be demanding on his tongue, pressing down until he choked at their authority? No touching.
‘Don’t touch me.’ He bites out, pretending he’s scolding some useless employee and not speaking to the only man who has ever made him want to throw all his rules in the trash and destroy decades of work just for a taste.
It’s pointless, he reasons. Everybody wants Clark Kent; it’s a fundamental truth of the universe.
Therefore he can’t be blamed for the way his heart stutters when he’s in his proximity, or the way he’s only allowed himself to sigh Clark’s name into his pillow when he’s alone and near blackout drunk, or the way that nothing, nothing, nothing makes this feeling go away unless he’s cumming into his fist and pretending it’s Clark touching him instead.
But this is all normal, and fine, because everybody wants Clark Kent. One glance at him and he’ll quickly be reminded of how easy it is to fall into that trap, and he can’t do that.
His hand tightens, hot skin protesting at the desperation. It’s the only defence he’s got left.
‘Are you mad at me?’ Clark whispers, and his daring fingers are running up Bruce’s legs until they rest at his hips. Bruce allows it to happen, because he would jump off of a bridge if the man requested it in that tone, with that warmth seeping through onto his skin. His eyes are still covered, so it’s alright. ‘Don’t be mad, please.’
He shouldn’t be here.
‘Stop. I’m leaving.’ He replies, although it sounds just as deplorable as he feels.
Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.
They’ve done this a hundred times before, each time grating at Bruce’s nerves more and more. It’s ridiculous; Clark has no shame. He will poke and prod, stalk, whine, kneel, plead with Bruce at every opportunity he gets with absolutely no shame. In fact, he’s probably smiling right now. Sadistic bastard.
‘Don’t touch me.’ He repeats, with about as much force as he’s currently putting into standing up and actually leaving. The rain’s so loud and his mind wanders to his mother the way it does every single time he’s about to make a mistake. Old habits die hard, and it keeps him out of trouble for the most part, so he welcomes the thought with open arms.
‘Bruce, look at me. Y’never want to look at me.’ Clark says, ignoring his catastrophic ponderings.
He’s pushing at Bruce’s thighs, massaging the worn muscles, forcing their bodies into an even greedier alignment. Shameless. He’s like a child who’s never been told ‘no’ before, a bratty, snot-nosed child who never knows when to shut up, when to stop—
‘Must you constantly force yourself into any place you don’t belong?’ Bruce snaps cruelly. ‘I’ve told you a thousand times; leave me alone.’
‘Y’don’t mean that.’ Clark sighs, squeezing soothingly.
‘I do.’
‘Please.’
‘Get the fuck off of me. You’ve been running around after a man over a decade older than you for nearly a year now. Are you so bored with your life that you feel the need to seek excitement in the most infantile way possible?’
‘Please.’
‘Shut up.’ Bruce hates the way his voice raises and shakes in moments when it shouldn't.
‘Please.’ Clark insists, sulky but determined.
‘Shut the fuck up.’ Bruce spits, finally splintering open. He looks before he can stop himself, before he can argue against indulging in Clark’s widened eyes, bitten lips and downright gleeful expression as he finds himself roughly gripping the man's chin up so that he can finally make it clear to him that he needs to stop this silly obsession. He wants to rip it out of him, snarl his way out of that fond smile so he can go back to the way things were, when he wouldn’t spend every free moment either looking up at the sky or looking down at his phone.
Bruce isn’t a good man, wouldn’t be gentle or kind, and Clark needs to see the rage in his eyes firsthand if he’s ever going to get over this pitiful crush. He prays that his harsh words will scare him off for good this time, because he’s so close to breaking and falling off of this precipice that it makes him want to do something ridiculous, like punching Superman in the face, or something suicidal, like kissing Superman until he really does shut the fuck up for once in his life.
Clark just keeps staring up at him, licking his lips absentmindedly. Eyes sky-blue, all starry with mischief and affection. A quick flash of pink, and then his tongue’s gone but Bruce probably won’t be able to stop thinking about it for the rest of his life.
‘Bruce.’ He says, whines really. He’s pathetic, a grown man sitting between Bruce’s legs like an obedient dog, playfully nudging his hand with a warm cheek as if he can force it to pet him with sheer will alone.
He’s in regular clothes, which is sort of a shock because it means that Bruce almost definitely has a concussion, because it means he’s been staring, then pointedly not staring, then once again staring at Clark’s face so intensely that he didn’t notice the man wasn’t in a gaudy, eye-fucking skinsuit but rather in a knit sweater and old, worn blue jeans. It makes this worse, a million times worse. He should have left already, needs to leave now.
‘Don’t be mad at me. I love you.’ Clark continues, and that—
That makes Bruce groan out loud, an uncharacteristically needy noise escaping him before he’s managed to stomp it down because the man's said a lot of things to him before, but never that.
Clark’s skin is molten where it grazes Bruce’s fingers, still stroking himself. No sign of stubble, all pristine and soft. Bruce must look like a mess in comparison; unkempt hair, bags under his eyes from the restless nights he’s had trying not to think about his reputation, Gotham’s future, crooked dimples and pretty smile—
‘Clark.’
He feels the man sigh with relief at the sound of his name. It’s infuriating how much he wants to hear it again.
‘This is a bad idea.' He hesitates, trying to phrase his thoughts carefully, but probably indirectly ends up quoting some self-help book for losers instead. 'You’re young, and this is just a crush. You’ll get over it.’ He says, an attempt to keep a level head because it’s the first time he’s ever acknowledged this tension between them, the first time he’s made the world aware that he knows what Clark feels for him and how badly he wants it to stop before it drives him completely crazy.
Clark huffs in indignation, rolling his eyes.
‘I’m not that young, and it’s not a crush. I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you.’ It's terrifying, the way Bruce can feel himself instantly getting hard at the words. He wants his hand back, wants to cover his eyes again but it's probably too late.
Would it be breaking a rule if he indulged Clark just this once? Just a few questions, nothing out of the unsafe category and strictly to satisfy his own curiosity. Nothing more.
‘Since you chased me down for an interview?’ The words fall from his lips before he can swallow them down. He’s losing control of his body; if it wasn’t obvious from the way his thumb has now started patting at Clark’s plump, bottom lip after having moved from his cheek subconsciously, then it would be from the wavering of his (what he’s heard being described as annoyingly monotone and unwavering) voice.
‘’S not the first time I saw you.’
‘No?’ He’s an idiot. Stop talking.
Clark exhales, all resigned and dispirited.
‘First time I saw you was at that ball. Reichenbach’s or something.’ He mumbles.
Bruce feels his stomach drop at the words.
‘What? That was years ago, you weren’t even—'
‘I was only an intern then.' Clark interrupts, peering up at him through his eyelashes. Long, full, sinful. 'Perry sent me as a punishment for talking back to him or something. He said I didn’t have what it takes, wouldn’t be a good reporter if all I noticed was action. That the best scandals are quiet, in some rich man’s basement and—’ He stops, chewing at his lip and looking away.
It’s the most shy he’s ever seen Clark, and he’s leaking in his trousers because this is all too much.
‘And what?’ He’s such an idiot. Stop talking, please.
Unfortunately, the thought is not enough to stop himself from tapping at Clark’s cheek to get his attention. It's a reprimand, maybe. Something worse, also maybe.
‘You were there.’ He sighs, breath setting a trail of goosebumps across Bruce’s skin. ‘I knew I had to meet you, I just knew. Y’know?’ No, Bruce doesn’t know.
He can barely stop the urge to roll his eyes at a notion as ridiculous as understanding what the fuck goes on in Clark’s brain when he thinks about Bruce.
‘But you wouldn’t have talked to me then, so I waited until I was better.’ Clark continues.
‘Better?’ It’s captivating, thumb gathering just the slightest of sheen on Clark’s lip and spreading it. How do people manage to have a conversation with this man on the daily without resorting to tracing his words straight from the source? It's addictive, impossible to ignore now that he knows how it feels to see Clark's spit filling up every tiny ridge on those full lips. They shine, even in the darkness of the room.
‘A better hero.' Clark interrupts. 'So you’d respect me. How else was I going to compete with everyone?’ Every word is heavy and thick, mumbled because Bruce is so focused on that pretty mouth that he can’t let the man speak properly.
He’s only shocked still when Clark’s statement catches up with his poorly equipped brain.
‘Compete for what? With whom?’ He asks, trying to put some authority back in his tone. Clark won’t look at him again, so he presses the pad of his thumb more forcefully, this time a clear and certain chastisement. Just knowing what it feels like to have Clark's teeth scrape at his skin sets that hand on fire. A few more moments, and then he’ll leave and never allow this again.
‘You.’ Clark admits. ‘Everybody wants you. What else was I supposed to do?’ Clark’s hands slide up his thighs to grip his waist and bring him closer, material fighting against the sudden white-knuckled display of strength. ‘Please?’ He whispers, all wide eyes and desperate.
Bruce can handle this, it’s all fine. It’s the first time Clark’s been quite this honest, true, but it certainly won’t be the last and that’s fine because he won’t be fooled by it, won’t—
‘I’ll be good, I promise. I’ll make you feel good, okay?’ He says, and there's a moment of white-hot static where neither of them dare to move, dare to even breathe. 'I'll take care of everything. I'll do whatever you want.'
Bruce can’t breathe because he’s fisting a hand into that hideous sweater in an attempt to shove the man out of his space, and leave. It's bound to make him look like a petulant diva, ungrateful and rude in the face of such a caring man inside such a caring home.
He tries not to lose his mind completely when he hears, feels, Clark’s lips parting and gasping against his own instead. He shouldn't be doing this, should be clawing his way out of this room right now but his body moves on autopilot despite his brain screeching at him to stop. He's practiced this, knew that Clark would chip at his psyche time and time again so he would need to be the one to do the right thing and go.
Unsure of where exactly all that practiced, dedicated patience had suddenly disappeared to in the light of Clark's excitable whimpers, he resigns himself to his fate and bends to deepen their kiss instead. Just one, because he's leaving soon and this kiss is a reward for doing the right thing and stopping all of this before it escalates.
Heart thudding dangerously fast, he can’t think about anything other than how soft and wet Clark’s mouth is, how he’s downright shivering in Bruce’s hold and how he tastes like coffee and sugar. Just one kiss, it's fine. A soft sigh glides against his lips in a desperate attempt to entice him out of forcing himself away. Stupid boy.
Are Clark's lips always this warm? It kills him to know he has to stop this at some point, that now that he knows what it feels like, he'll crave it forever. One more kiss won't kill him, won't put anyone in harm's way. He's jealous of himself from a few seconds ago; what a naieve fool he had been complaining about his life, having not known about this yet.
Would they taste like this tomorrow morning in the light of day? Or after a dinner in his study in a few months' time? Or a few years down the line when—
'Do it properly.' He scolds, because Clark's clumsy, too clumsy for this to feel this unbelievably good. He stops entertaining whatever the fuck Clark is attempting to do with their mouths and takes over, kisses him rough and fast, leaving no room for anything other than letting himself take what he’s guiltily and subconsciously sought after for months now.
The second that Clark’s tongue traces the seam of his lips, he decides that he’s done with their previous meaningless chatter.
It’s inconceivable, the way the man kisses; all sloppy and juvenile, but so thorough and eager that Bruce is groaning and sinking his hand into those unruly curls to press them impossibly closer. Clark's pawing at the fabric of his dress shirt, like he doesn't know what's allowed just yet but can't stop his hands' descent regardless. Bruce shouldn’t be doing this, can’t justify it but—
‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’ Clark’s chanting against his lips in between kisses, and Bruce wants to hang his head in humiliation at the way his body reacts to Clark’s unnecessary gratitude. There's a dewy string of spit connecting them when Clark moves back to meet his eyes; it makes his insides buzz, makes every cell in his body feel like a live wire that's had water poured on it.
It’s abhorrent, horrifying to think about how sweet Clark tastes when he’s thanking Bruce for something that anyone in the world would happily give him for free. But he doesn’t want anyone, he wants—
Clark’s moving, clumsily pushing him to lay back on the bed and straddling him within a second, that superhuman strength being used for evil once again. There's barely any room on the bed, and he's heavy, a huge block of muscle reminding Bruce that it would only take a single finger of his to hold Bruce down, to force him to lay there and take it.
Before he can even register what’s happened, he’s getting kissed again. Clark’s planting messy kisses on the corners of his lips, cheek, chin, anywhere he can get to and Bruce is far too old to deal with the fumblings of some impatient kid and his pornographic fantasies.
Holding Clark by the jaw an inch away from his throat, he forces him back and away. Striking blue eyes, but pupils dilated so black it’s uncanny. They’re both breathing hard, and Clark is almost definitely about to start apologising again so Bruce has no choice but to cut his tangent off early.
‘Do it properly, or I’m leaving.’ He’s full of shit, really.
But Clark doesn’t know that, and he likes toying with him to buy himself some time to think. He’d do it during their interviews sometimes, spit out some sarcastic line so that Clark would look away all apprehensive and shy, and allow Bruce a moment of respite. Maybe if he’s mean enough, Clark will finally come to his senses and never bother him again.
That train of thought suddenly doesn’t matter, because Clark’s sliding down, down, down that ridiculously tiny bed until his face is pressed right against Bruce’s clothed cock and his arms are gripping his hips to hold him down like a vice. ‘Can I? Do it properly?’
He’s stroking his nose along the outline, uneven breathing making Bruce throb in shame.
He stays silent, allows himself to look at Clark petting him eagerly, lips catching on the seam of his trousers but not daring to take them off without permission. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It’s unfair.
He's about to make the biggest mistake of his life, and can only watch from a distance as he does it.
‘Lube.’ He commands, watching Clark snap his head up to stare at him with dewy eyes. When the man makes no effort to move, Bruce nods his head towards the bedside drawer that he prays is blissfully empty so that they can call it quits and never speak about this again. He wouldn’t be disappointed, wouldn’t want to beg for Clark to slide his fingers inside with the man’s spit instead. It’s improbable, an absurd notion that he's certainly never thought about because that would be insane and irresponsible.
Clark follows the trail with his eyes, widening slightly before he starts nodding in understanding. ‘Oh my God— okay. Okay. Really?’
At Bruce's mean scoff, he's moving lightning fast, half-empty bottle of lube thrown onto the sheets and scrambling to rip Bruce’s suit off faster than he can blink. As always, being in his presence is nothing short of whiplash at any given moment.
There’s a deafening ring in Bruce’s ears as he watches it all happen, watches Clark discard his dress shirt with a piercing rip of fabric and an apologetic glance towards him, watches Clark stumble to remove his own clothing with such haste that he doesn’t even realise what he’s scrutinising until he’s making eye contact with stocky, rippling muscle.
All 230lbs of Clark Kent is bashfully perched above him, naked and gorgeous. His cock’s devastatingly pretty, thick and full and pink, with a glistening tip and a curve that makes Bruce want to die.
‘Beautiful.’ Clark mumbles, eyes taking in every centimetre of Bruce’s exposed body, which he hadn’t actually realised was also completely naked because he hasn’t been able to take his eyes off of what appears to be the most handsome man he’s ever seen.
It's almost heartbreakingly sexy; the slope of his waist and even more so, the veins protruding with what can't be exertion because Superman doesn't get exerted. All the more magnetic, knowing that Clark wants him, wants this so bad that it's taking actual physical effort to not pounce and do with him as he pleases. The thought is not exactly unwelcome as it boils and bleeds and settles under his skin.
He knew Clark was handsome, it’s not exactly a surprise to anyone with working occipital lobes, but this is—
‘Get me ready.’ He orders.
‘Ready?’ What— what do you mean?' Clark's whispering, as if anything in this world could possibly make Bruce change his mind about getting fucked into the matress like a common whore right now, let alone the voice that's been headlining his dreams and nightmares for months now.
‘Are you going to fuck me, or are you just going to stare and write about it in your journal later?’
He silently hopes for a pinch of anger, some aggression in Clark's reaction that would make it easier to digest the obvious love in his eyes. It's horrifying; too much, not enough. Instead, Clark swallows the bite of Bruce's voice with a loud laugh, and drops to pepper his chest with slow, languid kisses. It's irritating, the way he's impossible to provoke, always knowing when to push at Bruce to make him bend.
A little lick here, a nip there. It’s like he’s mapping the entirety of his skin, making it warp to his charm.
Bruce feels the trail linger long after Clark’s moved on to another part, but it doesn’t feel real. He’s convinced that this is all just a dream that he will wake up from soon enough, cold and alone in his own bed and that the way Clark’s studying his every reaction will have to be shoved far, far down because things this good don’t happen to him and they never will. It’s fake, an unjust combination of fantasies that his brain’s allowing to cope with the concussion he must surely have. Or worse, he’s in a coma and—
‘Can’t believe I get to have you like this. Tastes even better than I imagined.’ Clark laments with a boyish grin, delighted eyes squinting like he's staring straight at sunshine and not at Bruce, a man who sees expressions drop whenever he enters a room, a man who has lied, stolen, killed in the name of honour without second-guessing the decision.
Blinding smile, hopelessly comforting.
Despite the obnoxious enthusiasm, Clark's movements are gentle. His hand drips with a generous amount of lube, and he pauses before finally breaching a thick finger past the rim, studying Bruce’s face for approval. He’s clearly having a hard time concentrating, flicking between wanting to watch the undoubtedly obscene way he’s molding Bruce’s body to fit his, and also not wanting to miss any signs of discomfort. It would be condescending, if it wasn’t also a little adorable.
‘More.’ Bruce orders, thankful that his voice doesn’t betray him. Clark obliges instantly, meticulously stretching him out on his fingers until he’s squirming underneath him, roughly digging his nails into the man's arms. He’s soothingly rubbing the inside of Bruce’s thigh with one hand, eyes now completely blown out in desire, lips glossy and bitten red.
Enough.
‘Get on with it.’ Bruce demands, because he hates being the centre of attention and having Clark continue tormenting him with the possessiveness of those touches is making heat pool in his stomach faster than he can will it away. 'Have all those rom-coms rotted your brain?' How is he going to ever look Superman in the eye again after this without wanting to fall at his feet?
‘So wet.’ Clark’s voice catches, ignoring him completely. ‘Does it feel nice?’
He’s still fingering him all slow and sloppy, as if he’s never seen anything like it before. A thumb catches on the rim, carefully coaxing his other fingers in. It's rushed and it hurts a little, but Bruce needs the occasional sting to keep himself grounded. Warningly, he pats at Clark's hand and shoves his fingers out, suppressing a disturbingly feeble noise at how empty and cold he feels without them inside of him.
Clark’s frozen now, patiently waiting for instructions, but at least he's finally attempting to listen. He keeps staring at his own lubed fingers with intense focus, flexing them slightly before suddenly placing one in his mouth, tongue taking kitten licks for a taste.
Out of all the embarrassing things that Bruce has had happen to him throughout his life, it serves him right to have this be the moment that he blushes. Blushes like a school-girl, like some type of teenager that clutches at a magazine with paparazzi photos of Superman and promises her friends that she'll be the one to marry him someday. Bruce should know, because he's overhead enough of that over the last few months and he nearly never gets over the vomit-inducing wave of jealousy it brings him.
But this, this is worse.
'Amazing. Sweet everywhere.'
He's watching Clark sigh at the taste, this annoyingly happy quirk at the corner of his mouth as he sucks on two fingers like he's completely unaware that it's turned Bruce's brain into mush, made his cock throb so painfully that he is actually a little impressed his body even possesses enough blood and shame for a blush.
‘I told you to get on with it. Inside.’ He demands, because for a man who's been desperately trying to fuck him for years now, Clark's certainly not being very time-effective. 'Clark, now.'
Clark's hand pauses mid-movement, eyes flashing over to him. A range of emotions are on display; the usual fondness, tenderness but also ... something predatory. Deep, sick and twisted enough that it makes goosebumps rise, makes Bruce want to submit just to appease him for a moment.
Before he can even bark out an insult at being oggled, Clark’s moving, moving so fast it's terrifying. He’s guiding his cock without hesitation, one palm pulling up both of Bruce's knees at the same time to give him easier access, and then he’s keening, a sigh of relief slipping out while the tip nudges at Bruce's rim clumsily and bullies its way inside.
It’s intoxicating, having a man of his stature curled over him and trying not to move because he’s scared of not being gentle enough.
The gesture’s sweet and all, but Bruce doesn’t want sweet right now; he wants to be fucked into the mattress by pure strength, clench on that cock until Clark finally loses his patience. He’s smiling, perfect white teeth on display like this is the greatest moment of his life or something, like he’s being rewarded. It makes Bruce momentarily dizzy. He wants to see him snap, and the only fighting chance he’s got is the element of surprise.
Locking his thighs around Clark’s hips firmly and unceremoniously shoving out one of his elbows from underneath him to make the man falter in his stance, he crams their bodies together.
‘What the fuck are you waiting for?’ He says, before thrusting up. He can’t help the noise he lets out when Clark’s cock fills him properly, but he doubts anyone could if they were in his position; it’s melting him from the inside, a perfect amount of pain and satisfaction all at once. If he could just start moving now, that would be—
‘Ah! ‘M sorry, does it hurt?’ Aggrevating bastard, with his tiny, shallow thrusts apologising for nothing.
He’s holding back too much, and Bruce can’t wait to wipe out this inhibition completely, leave nothing but the raw, needy hunger that he’d seen in the man a few times before. Always towards him, but never quite like this. He’s frustrating, all that power kept behind some thinly veiled ideals of what a gentleman should be like; Bruce knows how to strip it just enough for him to break.
‘Move.’ He pushes at Clark’s shoulders, trying to keep his head void enough to not focus on the slow drag of his thick cock inside. If he squeezes just right, he can feel the veins. He's grinding against Clark, fucking himself on his cock, abs flexing at every shove upwards because Clark's muscles and perfect, thick cock are clearly useless and all for show, and he needs to take what he wants instead. 'Fucking move.' He spits, glaring up at him.
Clark's muttering nonsense again. They’re both flushed, sweltering heat building at every bit of exposed skin.
‘Wait, you’ll get hurt.’ Clark stutters, and attempts to kiss him. Stupid, stupid boy; always thinking of others first, always treating Bruce like porcelain and never just taking what’s rightfully his.
‘Clark. Fuck me.’
Clark stiffens, expression darkening instantly.
‘Make me cum.’ He adds, because he’s found the man to respond well only to direct instructions.
Even something as nonsensical as a coffee order, a request for space, an order to sit down instead of pacing around his study like a temperamental puppy, is enough for Clark to obey instantly. He’d thought himself lucky then, getting to treat the most powerful man in the universe like his personal assistant, but seeing the way Clark adjusts his grip and slams into him is something else entirely. It’s fucking filthy, how Clark doesn’t let him move a centimetre as he’s brutally held down.
There’s nothing left to do, nothing left to think about; all he can do is just take what’s being given to him, take what others would probably kill for just to be in this position, pray that Clark doesn’t find—
‘Fuck, right there.’ He breathes shakily, because Clark’s nudging his prostate now, milking it over and over again with the head of his cock and the pressure is killing him, numbing every other feeling and forcing him to focus all his effort on breathing. 'There.' He pants encouragingly.
He doesn’t talk during sex, never felt the need to before this at least but seeing Clark’s face light up at the indirect praise makes him want to abandon his principles if it means keeping him brushing against that spot. ‘Don’t stop.’
‘Ah—ah! You look so good, feel so good. Bruce— ah! Can’t stop. Is it good?’ He’s running his teeth along Bruce’s throat now, little bites near his pulse while he keeps talking. ‘Want it to be good for you, want—want to do this forever.'
He’s being shoved into a loose mating press before he realises it, completely oblivious to how his body complies with all of Clark’s whims before his mind even has the chance to process them. Has he always been this pliant? He can't remember.
Lewdly leaking pre-cum all over his stomach, he can't bring himself to care because he’s thought about this so many times and yet he never could have imagined how it would actually feel to have the man sink deeper and deeper inside him, sweat clinging to their skin, teeth nipping at his collarbone before being soothed away by a wet tongue.
Clark’s loud, each thrust having him sighing and preening whenever he manages to draw any small sound from Bruce. He's being manhandled like he weighs nothing; if it weren't for Clark's babbling need for reassurance every few moments, he'd feel no better than a toy being used solely for his pleasure.
Everything’s hazy, and it’s not long before Clark’s moans get higher, needier and he presses his forehead against Bruce’s.
‘’M close, but I want you to cum first. Okay?’
If Bruce hadn’t been close before, he definitely would be now because Clark sounds like that, grateful and patient like Bruce is doing him some kind of favour, and then he’s twisting an arm around so he can touch Bruce’s cock with such a characteristic lack of coordination that it’s scrambling his thoughts. He's barely coherent.
Clark's cock is teasing his prostate every second, massaging it incessantly despite his thrusts being uneven and desperate. It's animalistic, hypnotising how Clark can make the most difficult task look effortless, can lift and placate Bruce's body with no strain whatsoever. He was made for this, made to fuck Bruce and only Bruce until he's a drooling mess.
He doesn't want anyone else to see Clark Kent like this ever again, wants to keep the man tied up in his house and never let the public so much as dare to look at him.
His thrusts are still harsh and completely debilitating, but he’s stroking Bruce slow, thumb smearing pre-cum around the head gently.
Squelching, wet noises filling a room like this, a loving room where Clark spent most of his loving childhood in, should be something unthinkable, but it just seems to spur Clark on more to feel the sheets wrinkle underneath them while he keeps fucking Bruce like their lives depend on it, like he'd die if someone were to tell him to stop. Bruce hates him, can’t think of a better sentiment at the moment until he’s so close that he can taste it, skin overheating in anticipation and—
‘I can’t believe this is happening, I love—’ Clark's panting and sniffling, movements not faltering for a second while he plants a lingering kiss on Bruce’s cheek, breathless sobs bordering on obscene.’—love you so much.’
It’s all too much, and Bruce is suddenly overheating, cumming so hard that his breath is punched out of him instantly while he clenches around Clark’s cock and feels thick, wet streaks drool over their chests.
He probably blacks out for a second, because the next thing he notices when he opens his bleary eyes is Clark staring, lips parted all pretty and body patiently still. Bruce suddenly aches with something foreign, something like adoration because Clark’s setting him down gently against those goddamn starry sheets and the rain’s stopped, and he deserves—
‘Come here.’ He mutters, because he’s a brave man, but only just barely brave enough to face that radiance head on and make it out alive. He guides Clark’s cock back inside of him, hears him gasp and shiver in shock. It's overstimulating, not something he would ever allow with anyone else.
Clark's off rhythm a bit, twitching slightly and it’s so obvious that he’s close to losing it but still wants to be kind with Bruce’s sensitive body. So sweet, so good.
‘Sweet boy.’ He lets the words slip out before he can stop them and then Clark’s sobbing, arms shaking, bending over to capture his lips one last time in a hasty, imperfect kiss before he’s filling him up, cumming inside him with weak thrusts. He's licking into Bruce's mouth like it would kill him to not share the same breaths for even a moment.
Clark's cum inside of him is a scorching heat, and Bruce finds himself addicted instantly, despite his aching body's protests. The man collapses on top of him, body weakened and supple.
He's a brick wall, cuddling and melting against Bruce hopelessly without a single care for the outside world, anyone beyond these walls, and it should be suffocating and disgusting because he’s still inside of Bruce, half-hard and reluctant to let any of his cum drip out, but it’s just sort of endearing instead.
Bruce stares up at the ceiling, not wanting to consider the implications of what he's just done. Would it help ease his conscience to trust Clark just this once, believe him whenever he says that he wants this, needs Bruce as much as he says he does? Would it make him an even worse man to hope that these insane, childish feelings might translate well into their regular lives, that maybe there's a possibility that their two worlds can co-exist without it killing the image of a hero that Clark has always seen in him?
He's exhausted.
As with all things Clark Kent, Bruce’s logic and reasoning take second place. He allows himself a moment of peace and acceptance, just this once, and runs gentle fingers over the sturdy length of Clark’s back while the man hums happily and hides his foolishly giddy and content face in the crook of Bruce’s neck.
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When Bruce wakes up foggy and confused hours later, it’s still pitch-black outside and the rain’s started up again, thumping threateningly against the glass even more incessantly than before. It feels close to shattering, but it won't. He barely registers it anyway, with Clark’s steady breathing lulling him back to sleep just a few moments later.