Work Text:
Agreeing to go on vacation had been the stupidest decision Bruce ever made. Even if it was only as far as the Kent farm with Clark and only for a weekend, he could barely sit still.
This is what he gets for listening to Alfred and Dick telling him to practice self-care and to rest every once in a while.
...To top it all off, Clark was too busy with actual farm work and hadn't paid attention to him all day. Bruce had entertained himself with the Kents' old picture albums and book collections.
Eventually, finally, evening turns into night and Bruce can slip into bed and hopefully into a good-long sleep...
-
...The crickets are too loud; the mattress too stiff; the pillow too warm... Bruce throws the sheet off himself and sits up. Fuck it. A walk might help. Alfred has often advised him to take one when the insomnia strikes.
Bruce puts his pants back on, deciding to forego the shirt because holy shit it's so hot and creeps down the stairs and out the back door. He wanders around through the cornfield for a while, the rare breeze calming his overheated skin. The crickets are still there but aren't annoying anymore; it feels more natural to hear them when standing outside with them. Windows should block noise. Isn't that the whole point of windows?
"No, it's not," Bruce argues with himself inanely for a brief second then drops the thought. Enjoy the vacation.
But the cornfield isn't interesting to look at for long, so Bruce turns back, making straight for the farmhouse. He's not sleepy yet, not really, he realizes as he stares at the white paneling, shining in the full moon; he turns toward the barn. It should be dark and calm inside and maybe he can stick his head in a pile of hay and maybe that would block out some of the noise. Or maybe there's an old tractor engine he could fiddle with. Anything would do.
-
Bruce is looking over a stack of old magazines that are nearly impossible to read in the unlit space, when he hears a snapping noise from outside.
The door creaks open, automatically making Bruce slide into the shadows as he turns to look. Clark is standing in the doorway, barely illuminated by the single dim bulb hanging overhead that he must've switched on. "Bruce?" he asks.
He can see well enough. Bruce steps out of his hiding place next to a shelving rack of, apparently, canned food, and slouches against it. "Me. Did I wake you?"
Clark shakes his head, then: "Can't sleep?"
"Yeah."
Pursing his lips, Clark stays quiet for a moment. "Could I help?"
Bruce snorts. "Yeah, come knock me out and I'll be grateful." He's only half-joking. It's only then that he sees the faint blush on Clark's cheeks, well-obscured by the dim light. It's fading, Clark fixing him in a deadpan look. "Uh..." What's a good way to remedy this?
Bruce doesn't have to think too hard because Clark is wonderful and benevolent and clearly likes him a lot for some odd reason and says, "I meant something more like...maybe we could—" he visibly takes a moment to swallow hard, "—lose some sleep together and that would make you sleepy later?"
Happy to play along, Bruce walks nearer. "Well, let's try. Though, looking at you I wouldn't think you've ever missed even a single hour of sleep." His tone is meant to be light and joking but his voice comes out low and breathy.
Clark smiles at him, something sharp, a lot sharper than anyone would expect him to be capable of. "You'd be surprised at how much sleep I've missed."
Bruce steps toward him. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Clark keeps smirking in that captivating way as he gets closer, crowds Bruce, his smile softens, and he slowly and gently presses his lips to Bruce's.
It's a soft kiss and yet somehow, they end up falling onto a pile of hay, panting into the narrow space between them as they grind against each other. Bruce is on the hay, Clark above him, thighs arranged perfectly to get friction. Bruce clings to Clark, hot and desperate for this man, for his muscular arms and his warmth and—the hay is poking him everywhere and distracting him from Clark's delicious lips.
Just then, as if reading Bruce's mind, Clark pulls him up. Bruce blinks and the next thing he sees is Clark standing in front of him with a fuzzy blanket in his hands.
"Oh, you're so nice to me," Bruce sighs as Clark spreads it over the hay.
"No, I'm romantic." And Clark grabs Bruce gently and floats them down to continue.
And he really is romantic with the way he captures Bruce's lips and lightly nibbles on them, keeping Bruce from running his mouth any more; the way he pets Bruce until he's panting into Clark's mouth and rutting against his leg once again.
Clark isn't too composed either, tugging at Bruce's clothes and nearly ripping them right off. Bruce's cock is hot and every time it brushes Clark it gets hotter and...it needs to not be in his pants. Clark is working on it, tugging on Bruce's zipper with an uncoordinated effort, clearly distracted squishing his pecs and mouthing at his nipples. So Bruce helps with his zipper and Clark's too and takes them both in his fist and tugs.
"Bruce!" Clark gasps, pushing back into Bruce's hand before reaching down himself to help.
It's not too long after, Clark's mouth is hot and also everywhere on Bruce's skin, from his nipples to his neck to his lips and somehow, adorably, even up to his forehead. Bruce can't really fight to prolong the inevitable. Clark is all but slumping on top of him, moving with gentle inexorable force, panting right into Bruce's ear.
And then Clark spills in a hot second over their hands and that's really all Bruce can bear. He comes then, Clark's name on lips and Clark nuzzling into him.
-
The morning Sun finds them snuggled on the blanket atop the hay.