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Bruce studies the cufflinks in his hand and sighs, decides against them. It wouldn’t have mattered for most people but for Bruce, it is always the subtle details. He has learned over the years that that’s the way he can sell the show. Bruce Wayne wouldn’t wear chunky, black cufflinks with a nice graphite wool suit; the outfit itself is more of a classic and needs a simpler touch. His eyes gravitate towards the always-safe options when he feels someone looming over him.
Years ago, it would have triggered every fighting instinct in him. Now, it is a calming presence.
Bruce lets himself wander a little, knowing Clark will voice an opinion soon enough. When it doesn’t come, Bruce attributes it to the hour. Physiologically Clark doesn’t need sleep like humans do, doesn’t suffer from the same side effects, at least on a human timeline. He once asked him how long had he gone without sleeping and Clark mumbled something about university and finals, and Bruce found his curiosity peaking, like it usually does with Clark. He wonders about how many days it would be when Clark would start getting irritable and easily distracted, mind fogging and thoughts leaving, never to return.
Batman prides himself on knowing every one of his limitations but Superman has so few that he doesn’t have to test himself.
The sleepiness in Clark is learnt, conditioned. It is the effect of after years of living as a human. Clark has left some of these behind but he still holds on to some. He likes to roll around in bed after he has woken up, like he would prefer to go back to sleep. He drinks coffee and adds all kinds of ridiculous things into it, drinks it with a bright smile while he is working on an article, says it helps him focus. He likes these little things, things he can’t quite understand but wants to have. It is such a joke sometimes how much they want the opposite, a comedic reversal. Bruce would trade his slumber anytime.
He turns to face the man floating in air, thinks about something absurd to say that will make Clark giddy, knowing this side of Bruce is pretty much always dormant. Instead, the body on the air is gone and Bruce feels a check plastered to his crotch.
Fuck.
It is not like Bruce doesn’t want this. If anything, with the way his cock is swelling at Clark’s attention, he wants it way more than he should but he can’t. He has to go. Lucius rarely asks of him to make appearances on board meetings and whenever he does, Bruce is always on his best behavior. He lets the gossip on the streets and the papers run wild, knows how to turn a match flame into a forest fire with the right touches. It is all about the little things, after all. That’s why people do business with him; they ignore his social life and he is always the charming professional, when it is needed. Wayne Enterprises would stay afloat even if people didn’t approach them; it is an entity on its own right but appearances matter.
He indulges Clark, and himself, for some time. He lets Clark nuzzle against his pants, both of them content with this. Within seconds though, he loses control. His button is unfastened, zipper undone and his briefs pulled down low enough for him to be hanging out. Bruce would be annoyed, when they started doing this but this is their rhythm now. Clark, whether he is in the red-blue suit or wearing his glasses, seems to be agreeing with Bruce’s plans until he decides to have a change in course.
He should tell Clark to stop when he sees him moving down a little lower, his tongue making an appearance. He really should, but fuck, how can he when he knows what is coming?
Clark sweeps his tongue under his cock, deliberately and antagonistically slow, and when he finally takes Bruce into his mouth, Bruce wants to grab a handful of those wonderfully thick strands and forget every kind of responsibility that he has. When Clark – the man who has millions chanting for him, the person that everyone seeks in the face of fear, Kal from House of El of Krypton – looks up at him; he almost forgets everything, let alone responsibilities. He doesn’t gaze at him seductively or have a tantalizing expression, no, he looks hopeful.
The most powerful being on the face of the Earth has a pleasant softness in his eyes when he is sucking Bruce off. Like there is no rush in their lives, like they could not get interrupted with a life-changing threat any second, like this right here is the only thing that matters. He never knew that would be the thing that turns him on the most but Bruce learnt a lot of things being with Clark.
When Clark moves a hand to his hip, Bruce grabs him by the wrist. It is more of a soft embrace than a hold. “Baby.” They don’t use pet names for each other daily, at times Clark likes to get raunchy with absurd nicknames to tease him, but let moments like this slide.
It is an emphasis, a means to show affection and whisper an apology at the same time.
When Clark’s only response is to do amazing things with his tongue, Bruce holds him a little tighter. “I have to go.” He is getting there and knows that Clark is quite aware of this; his biological response is a guide he uses mercilessly to crack Bruce’s will. Bruce sighs, which is more of a moan than an exhale, and uses all of his force to grab Clark’s wrist. It would bruise sourly on others but it is just pressure for Man of Steel. At least that’s what Bruce thinks. Clark, on the other hand, must be thinking something else.
Most people would have missed Clark’s reaction. Bruce has trained himself and his senses to perceive anything to the fullest and Clark is a study he has a degree on. The amazing suction around his cock doesn’t change much but Clark shudders, just briefly but it is there. Bruce feels smug about this finding, is always amazed when he gets to see new things about the man on his knees, giving him a blowjob that ruins Bruce for anyone else, his Clark. He stores this newly acquired information for some other time and focuses on getting out of there.
***
“Alfred told me you were down here – oh.”
Bruce doesn’t need to be looking at Clark to know he has seen the bandages. He has told the man in shock that Alfred insists on too many and Alfred, in his deadpan, snarky British manner, told him Master Bruce would look like the undead if they put on the right amount. Bruce wants to sigh but catches himself.
If he knew Clark was coming earlier than his regular time, he would have bothered to put a shirt on. It was a rougher night tonight, trying to deal with Penguin and The Riddler at the same time. He knows Clark worries, even though he is voicing his worries less nowadays, and Bruce doesn’t want to give him any more reasons. His human fragility is a topic of tension between them, always has been. Bruce now understands Clark was concerned with him passing the point of no return, for good. He is teaching himself not to take it too personally and Clark is trying to not push the point too hard. They are trying to adapt to each other’s perspectives and in the end, that’s all what they could ask for.
The last ones are Diana’s words, not his but Amazonian is one of the few people Bruce always listens to, no matter how it seems.
He doesn’t acknowledge Clark’s presence, knows he doesn’t have to. He picks up the boxes he was going through; old ideas and useless gadgets cluttered up in cardboard. At nights like this, he declutters around the cave. It distracts him from the physical complaints and calms his mind, doing something so mundane.
“Do you need a hand?” Clark appears in his peripheral, eyes wide, expression nervous. Is being with Bruce like being on a minefield, never knowing which step could blow up in your face? Bruce supposes it is a good thing explosions can never faze Superman.
“It’s fine.” He says matter-of-factly because it is. The contents in the boxes are indeed heavy and with his injuries, might not be the smartest idea to carry them but when has Bruce let stuff like that stop him? He would have had to quit being Batman on the second day.
Bruce carries the boxes; puts them in places that seems appropriate for inoperable contraptions, some hidden away tucked under the darkness of the cave and some shelved higher in case of a renewed interest.
When something decides to fall from the third box he is placing, a binocular prototype for adjusting to every possible wavelength that always fried itself after twenty seconds of usage, he catches it swiftly. He steadies himself; a hand out holding the binocular, the other clutched around the box, as he is standing a few good feet off the ground on a countertop. Batman might not be the strongest hero but he always finds pride in his agility combined with his strength.
His eyes perceive something his brain doesn’t decipher into coherent thought right away, lets him instincts guide him as he looks over at where Clark is standing.
It is curious that the man in question has made no comment on how careless Bruce is being with his injuries and doing all this stuff together, that he didn’t come into the binoculars or Bruce’s rescue when it decided to fall off.
No, Clark is standing there like someone had replaced him with a statue of Superman. His eyes are fixated on Bruce but that’s not the only thing he notices, no. Even through the dim lighting of the cave, he can see a nice pink color around the other man’s face. He can even see how Clark’s cock has hardened, not to full mast but is definitely not soft. Clark is what anyone would call well gifted but Bruce has the pleasure of knowing when he is straining his pants and when he is not.
Clark’s blush only seems to intensify when they lock eyes and Bruce can’t help but give a vicious smile. It is not predatory but somewhat victorious. They don’t say a word as Bruce continues to organize the boxes but Bruce is nothing if not patient. He knows when to strike and waits for the time to be right.
***
It takes a week for Bruce to act on his findings. They see each other nearly daily but it is always in League capacity or an emergency. Their lives can be chaotic as it is so when they make time for each other, it is quite mellow. It used to be as wild and frantic as it would be expected on paper; all that pent-up energy and emotions about each other came alive when they first got together. Now, even though they have their moments, it is somewhat… domestic, if Bruce has to confess. Sometimes they don’t touch each other more than a simple peck, as Bruce does his research while Clark is reading a book next to him. They eat dinner and talk about everything they can’t talk with other people, talk in ways their personas do not allow.
In very busy days, sometimes Clark just drops by to kiss the air out of him and mutters ‘I miss you’ and he is gone when Bruce blinks. In very busy days when Bruce can’t escape from Gotham, he sends Clark a very recommended new book or some very fine wine without a note. He has never been very good at using his words.
That day, though, Bruce feels like talking because they get to have the night to themselves. It is rare for him to not patrol while he is healthy and abled but he took the night off, just for this. He knows the other man is very aware of this and it gives him a thrill better than bringing justice.
They eat dinner, talk about small stuff, and drink rest of their wine at one of the libraries. Whenever Clark puts on an expecting expression, Bruce acts like nothing is going on which makes the other man look like a confused puppy each time and it almost makes Bruce laugh every damn time but he persists. He lets Clark think that this is just an ordinary night they get to spend together.
When they exist the library to go to the master bedroom, however, that’s when Bruce goes in full offense.
He pushes Clark to the nearest wall, starts kissing him like there is no tomorrow. Clark is surprised, at first but he is always the fast adaptor, gets on with the program. They don’t touch each other roughly, no; it is not that kind of night. Their hands wander at each other’s bodies; Clark finding new scars and bruises that weren’t there before and caresses them with his fingertips as Bruce traces the outlines of Clark’s muscles with his unmarked skin radiating promising heat even with clothing. They have seen each other naked, know how they liked to be touched, it is not a competition over who gets to make the other one lose it first. It is sensual in a way that makes Bruce flush in a way being sexual can’t.
Then, he grabs Clark’s thighs in a swift move and feels a familiarity wash over him as Clark wraps his legs around him immediately. It is a testament to how they know to read each other, even though they haven’t been together that long.
He kisses Clark’s neck before he whispers in his ear, “We should do it standing up.”
Clark nods, his eyes closed, expression smoothened with relief. He gets like this whenever they get to have nights like these and Bruce has to be careful about where his crotch is for the next few seconds or he might accidentally finish something before he even begins.
When Clark tries to untangle himself from his waist, Bruce tightens his grasp considerably. He leans against Clark’s ear again, mumbles as he rubs his stubble against Clark’s cheek. “Like this.”
He can feel Clark’s subtle erection jerk into life. It is moments like this that rewards Bruce for cheating death.
When he pulls away to look at Clark’s face, it is a nice crimson color starting from his neck. His deep ocean eyes looks youthfully hopeful and complacently delighted as he is chewing on his lower lip. Beautiful is not a word Bruce uses liberally but Clark might be the exception to that rule.
The vicious smile from the cave returns to Bruce’s lips and that’s when Clark finally, finally, speaks. He sounds frustrated, like when someone is pushing Superman to the edge and it makes Bruce to want to shiver. “Oh you bastard! You… You saw it and you didn’t say anything and I didn’t know how to… and I didn’t know if you would understand…” He is breathless by the end and considering breathing isn’t essential for Clark, he must be doing something right.
He uses his full power when he squeezes Clark’s body against the wall as his smile grows. “What? That you might have a strength kink? I don’t really understand it but you know I don’t judge things easily.”
Clark’s arms, which had been holding onto Bruce since he lifted him up, shift as he pulls him closer. Their faces are very close but Bruce doesn’t dare to go in for a kiss, not while Clark’s expression has changed into something serious, like he is going to tell him something vital. “I… I don’t really have strength kink. I have a you kink. You talk about how we are strong and we don’t understand how it is to be around beings that halts car and catches airplanes but Bruce fuck… You are like the epitome of strength. You use your potential to the fullest and just, seeing your body move and work…”
Bruce wasn’t expecting this. He was partially aware that Clark liked it on Bruce but he didn’t think it was a special occasion for him. Clark, it seemed, never failed to find new ways to render Bruce speechless.
“So we have about ten to fifteen years that you will find me extremely attractive?” He is trying to make a joke to create a distraction, like a smoke bomb but for someone who can disperse smoke with their breath, it doesn’t work.
Clark removes a hand away from his shoulder as he touches Bruce’s face. It makes Bruce feel exposed but he works through it. Clark has always been worth these little emotional discomforts. He tries a real joke this time, something light-hearted. “Does this mean you will have a hard-on every time I squeeze your wrist a little too tight or carry around a particularly heavy box?” It seems to accomplish the desired effect as Clark’s expression softens and he blushes, turning his face a little to the side.
When Clark looks back at him, he has that soft expression that makes Bruce’s heart flutter. “You are very attentive.”
“I tend to notice when I care about things.” It is not a confession, not by a long shot, but the implication is there and it sits between the very tight space of their bodies. Clark bites his lips again as he makes a sound close to a whimper. “Please.” He says in a gentle voice. “Please.”
Many things happen at once after that. Clark unwraps his legs and Bruce lets him this time as he reaches for the little bottle he has put at the windowsill. Clark’s eyebrows shoot up as a deep laugh shakes his chest. “I was going to say I was surprised but that would imply I forget you plan for everything.” Bruce shrugs his shoulders as he undoes Clark’s pants and the laughing is immediately gone. Bruce coats his fingers in lube, warming them a little while Clark gets rid of the underwear. He presses two digits into Clark’s entrance, looks for an affirmative expression on the other man’s face before he proceeds. Clark has absolute control over his body, doesn’t really need to be prepped but Bruce likes to do this, like to feel how Clark relaxes and responds to his touch.
Clark is trying to grab Bruce’s shirt to get it off but Bruce holds a wrist in response. Clark just holds on for the rest off the ride after that, much to Bruce’s delight. He lifts Clark’s plaid shirt to see the way his muscles ripple with Bruce’s touch, and, fuck, it is one of the most satisfying sights Bruce has ever been able to witness. When he finds the right spot inside Clark, the man’s legs shake as he tries to move his hips but Bruce doesn’t let him.
In theory, he can’t really do anything to Clark that Clark isn’t letting him but with their newly found dynamic, he knows theory flies out the window. In practice, Clark writhes against Bruce’s arm like he has been bonded; making these little incredible sounds that strikes a cord with Bruce’s possessive streak.
He goes down on his knees without ever stop moving his fingers nor removing his arm around Clark’s hip and places a kiss on his left thigh. Clark stares at him with widened eyes and gasps like he is a few seconds from coming and that compromises Bruce’s composure.
He looks at Clark’s cock, and almost doesn’t believe this is real but he gets that impression every time. Every time Clark lets Bruce do whatever he wants to him, he feels like this a daydream, waiting to be broken by reality but that moment never comes. A darker side whispers to him that reality hasn’t caught up yet but this darker side has no place in a good fellatio session so Bruce pushes it away to a deeper place in his mind.
He loves sucking Clark off. It is such a tantalizing thing; Clark looking at him like he is the most powerful being on this planet and while doing this, Bruce believes that look. Sex in itself isn’t something intimate; Bruce has gone many avenues in pleasure of the flesh and knows how to navigate there but this a whole other world. Fucking Clark with his fingers while having him in his mouth feels like a religious experience, being on his knees for him and showing a different kind of worship: Bruce repents and absolves at the same time.
Clark touches his hair but doesn’t grab, no, today he is letting Bruce do all the holding. Instead he moans and makes an accidental indentation at the wall, which Bruce finds glee while glances at the marked space. He wants Clark to lose himself, just enough that he is doing things he normally would be so careful about, things like leaving marks and causing damage. When Bruce takes him deeper, his gag reflex wants to kick in but he breathes through it, helping himself relax.
“Bruce. Please, please, oh god, just, please.” Clark repeats his name again and again, and Bruce finds himself at a limit where he has to know how this is going to go. He pulls himself away which makes Clark whine impatiently but even then; he still holds his hips plastered to the wall. Bruce looks up at him and wonders if he looks as disheveled as Clark does.
“Do you want to come like this?” Clark looks at him for a good moment, like this is the greatest conundrum of his life, like he can’t decide what to do. “No.” It is a simple statement but it is enough for Bruce.
He gets up on his feet and releases Clark, only to touch his dark red plaid shirt. He is not a big fan of flannels with plaids and he has let Clark know in more than several occasions. The lumberjack style requires a beard, he once told him and the Kansas boy just shrugged at him. He wants to destroy most of them but doesn’t. Bruce is more careful with Clark’s stuff than vice versa, not because Bruce wouldn’t replace it, but because Clark cares about his things and Bruce doesn’t.
It is quite liberating, Bruce has to admit, when he gets to grab Clark’s shirt and it rips under his hands quite effortlessly. Many years of training has come into tearing some fabric but with Clark’s flustered face, it is so worth it. He gets the shirt completely off as he touches the flawless skin of Clark’s shoulders, lets the dark red plaid pool around them. It is a nice change for once, something other than crimson of blood pooling around them. When Clark tries to do the same to him, he grabs his hand and kisses it.
He undoes his zipper as he pulls himself out, going commando for the special occasion, easier access is much appreciated in these situations. His cock has turned into a darker color and swells under Clark’s gaze, always responding to the man more than it should. Bruce pumps himself with the leftover lube in his fingers, contemplating whether he should use more lube or not. When Clark grabs his shoulders again and Bruce sees his pupils has turned his blue irises into slivers, he decides they are good to go.
He grabs Clark’s thighs again and when they are wrapped around each other securely, Bruce walks away from the wall.
Clark’s cock hardens against Bruce’s abdomen as the other man gasps in surprise and Bruce feels like he has accomplished something without ever penetrating him. He waits Clark to tell him something, anything, as he likes to comment on everything but Clark is gone far at that point. He manages to secure Clark with a single arm, which is quite something but he has been training simply for this moment for days now. He aligns himself with Clark’s opening and thrusts.
Bruce really wants to last; he needs to see this through. He trusts his unwillingness to quit for that but Clark is not making this easy on him. He writhes against Bruce, making these incredible, little sounds that Bruce wants to be able to remember forever, his body losing its composure as it is getting pounded harder. If Clark was merely human, Bruce is sure that his fingers would have dented the skin for good.
With the way Bruce’s body slightly shakes and muscles ache, it has only been a few minutes but he believes this is his new eternity. He could stay in this moment forever. Clark being complacent in his arms, holding onto him, burying his face in the crook of Bruce’s neck as he thrusts further into him. He leaves marks on Bruce’s neck, his sounds getting more desperate by the second. Bruce thought that he had tested his will’s threshold many times but this is a new kind of bar for him.
If he manages to last, he might even steal The Man of Steel title.
Clarks comes untouched, unannounced, and very sudden; like an unexpected storm. He tightens impossibly around Bruce but still holds enough that he doesn’t squeeze his cock out of commission, as he spurts all over Bruce’s clothed body. He pants wildly against him, like people do when they ran marathons, shuddering all over. Bruce stops moving as he brushes his lips against Clark’s shoulder. He doesn’t pull out but waits for some time, as they just hold each other and Bruce feels something inside his heart that he doesn’t really know how to express with words.
When Clark gains some composure, he pulls himself back a little and looks Bruce dead in the eyes. He is using some of his flight, Bruce can tell but he doesn’t have it in him to fight over for dominance. His muscles are screaming at him and he needs to come, desperately and feels like this is Clark’s show now rather than his. When Clark starts to move, Bruce starts again, too. His desire for release is almost palpable but there is something missing, something he can’t quite place.
That’s the moment Clark decides to smile.
Clark has a nice smile whether he is being the nice reporter or the glorious hero but this kind of smile is rare, even for him. It is the embodiment of undiluted joy; like nothing bad has ever happened or something remotely evil has ever occurred, like there is somewhere to reach for peace, where little children doesn’t lose their parents in dark alleys or seek refuge from the destruction of their home in other places. Bruce’s body simply decided to orgasm then because Clark happened to put on the most incredible smile in the world. He blames his body because it is easier but he knows that it is the mind that controls the flesh, in the end.
He stays put even after his tidal waves of pleasure subside because he can’t move. His legs can’t obey him; after minutes of physical exertion and release, they are cramping up in a way Bruce knows time is the only remedy for. It is a good think Clark can stay afloat because Bruce is pretty sure he is staying perpendicular to the ground thanks to him. Clark laughs at his face, though. “Let go you stubborn idiot.” He can’t, he is not even sure if he can unwrap his arms from Clark’s legs.
In the end, they end up on the floor. Bruce’s body is protesting him but that is a common occurrence in his life. Clark could take them bed but there is no rush. They just lay together on the ground, looking at each other. Clark plays with Bruce’s hair that is sticking to his forehead and Bruce is way too tired to even make a sound about it. “That was…” Bruce didn’t realize his eyes were closing but those are the only two words that could cause them to open back. Clark seems at a lost for words, which is always a nice thing, and combines that with such a serene look that the word peaceful means something.
“Someone’s happy.” Bruce’s voice sounds deeper and more wrecked than it should but he doesn’t care.
“Oh, that’s good for you.” Clark sounds sarcastic enough but Bruce still responds, raising a single eyebrow. “For me?” Clark’s laugh is vibrant and adds at least a few weeks to Bruce’s life. “Yes because for me, that was… Not even a set of words seems to cover it.”
His response makes Bruce want stupid things like go on a victory lap but he is quite sure he couldn’t take a single step for the foreseeable hours so he settles to tease. “How are you a reporter again?” Clark’s flicks his forehead with his fingers but there is no heat to his word, only laughter. “Jerk.”
He seems to have dozed off because suddenly, he is lying on soft sheets, Clark closing the curtains of their bedroom. He knows Clark will come back because that’s what he always does and this knowledge is proven when the mattress dips a little with some weight. Bruce wants to open his eyes, move, say any kind of thing but he can’t.
“Clark.” He mutters so low that even he barely hears it but he knows the man in question will. Clark pets his hair softly as he whispers down next to his ear, soothing like he always is. “Sleep, Bruce.” He says those words like he can hear the wheels turning inside Bruce’s mind but Bruce doesn’t mind that Clark is aware, he preens under his gaze and touch. He would never let anyone pet him like this, never. He would not relax like this, even if he was beaten to a pulp.
“Thank you.” Clark sounds like he is trying not to laugh when he answer. “No, thank you.”
No, Bruce thinks. For such an observant man, he can be very oblivious sometimes. He will tell him, maybe in the morning, maybe next time they do something like this but Bruce knows he will tell him. It will escape him somehow, all these feelings he has kept under wraps for so long. It should scare him, it really should but he almost feels relieved in the idea.
Oh, how love has corrupted him.
He wouldn’t mind being corrupted a little more, if it meant he got to keep Clark as long as he could.