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Clark wouldn’t describe his recent habit of staring at Bruce’s crotch as purposeful.
It’s just always there—snaring his attention the second Bruce’s firm thighs part like he’s honing in on a beacon across the globe. Whether he’s tinkering over a workbench, typing at one of the computers in the cave, or conducting a meeting around the Hall's table, Bruce sits with his legs wide open, and Clark finds his gaze rapt on the sight.
At first observation, Clark chalked it up to being one of the Bat’s mannerisms. Most of the time he spends in Bruce’s presence involves their suits, so he thinks that perhaps it’s comfortable for Bruce to relax that tight hold of his limbs in such a way after hours on end.
Bruce Wayne, however—Clark isn’t around him that often. Depending on the other attendees and if it lines up with a relevant report he’s working on, they’ll end up at the same charity functions or socialite gatherings, but there isn’t really an excuse to sit down in these sorts of settings.
He still watches Bruce at these events of course, only without the opportunity to blame his behavior on a friendly curiosity rather than a blatant, borderline obsession.
Then Cat is out sick one inconspicuous morning, so Clark gets relegated to taking over the social pages—including an exclusive with Bruce Wayne in regard to the upcoming Martha Wayne Foundation’s expansion into Metropolis.
Opening his office door, Bruce seems rather amused to find him standing there instead, but he nonetheless beckons Clark inside with a wave of his hand.
He’s not nervous to be alone with Bruce here. He’s capable of behaving professionally in the face of Bruce’s shtick as he sits down behind his desk, and once the interview commences, Clark shows restraint.
For the most part.
Forcing his eyeline to remain level, he listens attentively, taking notes and pressing Bruce where it counts. He’s been around Bruce long enough now that he’s able to hear the clues when Bruce wants him to probe deeper and read further into what he’s saying.
Except the longer Clark stares at his gesturing hands, he so desperately wants to peek. He wants to look straight through the desk and figure out if Bruce adopts the same seat posture here, but to what end?
He can’t necessarily do anything with the knowledge other than resolving his own curiosity, yet it gnaws on him, digs into his mind like everything else he doesn’t know about Bruce.
Does he only do it with people he's comfortable with, or is that irrelevant and Bruce sits the same in board meetings with shareholders and executives? A lesser acknowledged, selfish part wants to know if Bruce only does it with him—but it’s not like Clark can walk up to Diana or Victor and ask if they’ve noticed as well, simply because of the foolish nature of the question.
Late at night, alone in his bed with his fingers teasing himself and grazing down the length of his thighs, he wonders in a mixture of shame and arousal if Bruce’s cock is just that big where he needs to sit in that position.
Not exactly the thoughts suitable to have about his now friend and teammate, yet Clark’s been a lost cause in regard to him for months now. Each time he witnesses the tempting, wide open spread of Bruce’s legs, the need in the pits of his stomach only grows deeper, hungrier, and unable to continue ignoring.
He’s yearned for Bruce since Bruce was able to meet his eye without a sliver of guilt shining through those carefully constructed expressions. Now, Bruce laughs at him—mostly mid-argument when he believes Clark is being incredibly obstinate instead of storming out of the room.
So, they’re alright now. Clark wants them to fuse and meld until he obsessively understands nothing but Bruce and who they can be together.
A natural lull happens near the end of the interview. He watches Bruce turn his head to the side, gazing out towards the windows connected to his office balcony. He’s wearing a black turtleneck today, perfectly fitted to meet the light gray slacks at his waist. As always with the right amount of five o’clock shadow and his soft appearing strands loose on his forehead.
Not for the first time, Clark wonders what he’s thinking about; if Bruce closes his eyes for a moment to seep in the warmth of a rare Gotham sun filtering in through the clear glass.
He’s such a handsome man sitting here. It’s all too easy to imagine Bruce calling him closer, perhaps guiding Clark to stand at his side or between his legs with a gentle palm to the nape of his neck.
Bruce could continue working that way, and Clark would be with him. All of his senses, captured by Bruce alone. He caught a whiff of Bruce’s cologne on the way in, spiced and rich like a burning fire that momentarily stole Clark’s breath. He wants to inhale it up close, to skim his nose down the column of Bruce’s throat and breathe him in.
Unable to help himself any longer, Clark glances through the desk and shifts in his seat, his fingers clenching around his pen because sure enough, Bruce is sitting with his legs open and his groin on display.
Not on display, Clark thinks with a tinge of guilt. He wouldn’t know half the time if he didn’t take advantage of his ability to see.
When Bruce returns his attention towards him with a soft smile that is pure Bruce, desire surges through Clark so severely that soon, he fears it won’t allow itself to be denied for much longer.
*
Another opportunity to see Bruce doesn't arise until late into the dusky evening on Friday. With a chorus of aggravated car horn honks, Clark's in the middle of lifting and setting a wrecked vehicle out of the way of halted traffic. He focuses on the sound of his comm clicking on—Bruce, in an abnormal urgent tone, requesting for anyone to get over to Gotham as soon as possible.
Frigid water flicks up against his front as Clark zips across the bay, listening to Bruce's rushed explanation of the situation. An up-and-coming gang has apparently decided to make their presence and threat known to the city. Underneath various highways in each corner of the city line, they've planted counting down explosives.
Once Clark arrives at the scene, he finds Bruce repelled upside down with his hands deep in one of the bomb's wiring. Bruce snaps at him which direction to go first, so Clark instantly takes off again to fly towards the east area. Victor and Barry announce themselves only minutes later, and they split up to disarm the bombs before anything catastrophic commences.
By the time they finish reporting with the local police, it's well past the midnight hour; dark gray clouds swelled with imminent rain and various cruisers dispersing to tackle another obstacle. Clark's cape snaps in the wind while watching Bruce stalk towards the Batmobile. Without a thought, he's following the squealing tires in the direction of the lake house.
Down in the depths of the cave, Bruce hops out, shucks off his cowl, and merely spares Clark's presence a brief, sideways glance before walking up the stairs towards his various equipment.
Biting his lip around a pleased smile, Clark drifts after him and sits down in an open chair next to him at the computer. He's unable to recall a time when Bruce protested or turned him away, yet being implicitly welcomed into Bruce's most private space never loses its distinct shine.
Bruce simultaneously pulls up about twelve different tabs on his monitor—no doubt to report on and research into the gang further—and predictably, spreads his legs wide open.
Instead of following the inclination to stare at that created space, Clark busies himself with the unique freedom of watching Bruce at work.
It's not the first time he's hung around Bruce down here. On a normal night, he'd stop at home, change out of his suit and perhaps grab his own laptop, but after a week without him, Clark found himself too eager, out of his mind over Bruce, and impatient to wait.
Bruce never seems to care either way when Clark merely sits by his side. Besides the mouse clicking and rapid keyboard typing, they're left in a companionable silence—seeds of a sprouting rapport that he doesn't want to selfishly rush to grow faster.
A few times, Clark's unable to help the desire to hear Bruce's voice and asks questions about the files or footage on the screen. Bruce either grunts an affirmative or shoots him a dry look for having to explain, but the minuscule acknowledgement is more than worth it.
Soon, most likely to be more comfortable, Bruce takes off his gauntlets and gloves to set off to the side near his cowl. Exposing his bare hands—the jut of his ruddy knuckles, the faint white scar near Bruce's wrist, something about the sight activates Clark's compulsion. With a rash, downwards slant like a moth to a flame, Clark stares between his legs.
The skin-tight armor emphasizes how solid, thick and taut Bruce's thighs appear. No doubt they'd be strong enough to crush an object, and Clark imagines that force on either side of his head, trapping and holding him captive. He believes they'd have the capacity to be soft as well—wordlessly beckoning like the rest of Bruce whenever Clark wedges himself into his vicinity.
Thoughts wandering on the possibilities, Clark zones out until snapping into focus at the sound of Bruce's low voice.
"It's like your very own signal," he mutters, offhand and without taking his attention away from the computer screen.
Perplexed, Clark's forehead creases as he swivels in his chair to face Bruce in full. "What?"
Bruce jerks a nod down at his own lap. "The Bat signal. I go when it shines, you stare at my dick when I sit down." Glancing to his second monitor, Bruce arches an eyebrow. "Or did you think that I hadn't noticed?"
He swears one of those bombs goes off underneath him from the way his stomach drops. "Jesus, Bruce," Clark mumbles, pinching his nose bridge in a measly attempt to conceal the flames licking up his throat.
It's not as if he didn't expect Bruce to pick up on his recent behavior—Clark's rather obvious about it—but the words come out so incredibly direct in a manner Bruce rarely if ever speaks to him in.
Once he manages to stop contemplating the possible repercussions of ripping a hole through the cave ceiling in a cowardly escape, Clark gives the statement a considerate thought.
Although not posed as a question, it is one—and if Bruce hasn't figured it out on his own or manipulated the conversation to receive the answer, he must be truly stumped by it.
Clark isn't sure how it's not obvious. Why else—as Bruce so eloquently posed—would Clark stare at his dick?
"You've kind of backed me into a corner here."
"I'm not trying to embarrass you," Bruce says, unrelenting in his pursuit while clicking on a clip of CCTV footage, "but I am curious."
"Aren't you the detective?" Clark mutters, crossing his arms over his chest. Since the beginning of the conversation, his heart hasn't stopped racing, choking his throat in a thick lump.
"Clark."
"I—what do you expect me to say?"
"An explanation for starters, or I can continue ignoring how distracted you've been recently. It's your choice."
"My choice," Clark repeats, shaking his head while huffing a humorless laugh. "How benevolent of you."
It's hypocritical for Bruce to call him distracted, but Clark can't find the courage to call him out on it. While Bruce doesn't stare in an identical fashion, he watches Clark just as much, if not more. Most of the time it's with that neutral, bland expression that conceals depths, yet sometimes, a tinge of warmth bleeds through when Bruce believes Clark isn't aware of him.
Clark sighs in defeat at the continuing silence. "You sit with your legs spread open," he begins in a quiet, confessing voice. He braces himself for an unknown reaction. "It's distracting."
Bruce's typing ceases. For the first time since speaking, Bruce turns his head and stares at him with an abrupt, intense focus that makes Clark's abdomen clench in anticipation. Perhaps Bruce didn't grasp just how uncomfortable he feels—too caught in the hunt for an explanation like the Bat's lingering. Clark's almost fond of it despite his worry.
"I'm—sorry," Bruce says, sounding unsure of himself. He slowly moves his legs shut like he's just become aware of it. "Forget I said anything."
"No," Clark blurts out. With an awkward clear of his throat, he relaxes his arms and scoots his chair closer. Embarrassment hasn't abandoned him entirely, yet it wanes at the sight of Bruce closing off from him. "Don't do that. I just—is it comfortable to sit that way for you, or…?"
Bruce shrugs. "I suppose… I haven't given it much thought."
Bruce's attention gravitates towards him again with another blatant, searching look. Instinct tells Clark to shelter in a way Bruce has never needed to with his form, fumble an excuse to leave and apologize for his behavior. Bruce's slight frown keeps him here however, the indent between his brows and his sweaty strands hanging over his forehead.
Clark doubts he's upset per se, more like an unabashed attempt to figure him out when Clark believes he's laying his vulnerabilities open. Bruce isn't responsible for his desires though; they've got nothing to do with him. The nights without sleep to claim him, pondering what would happen if he somehow, someway earned Bruce's affections remains Clark's problem. In his dreams, Bruce's mouth finds his as natural as every wild thing moving and surviving.
That is until Bruce widens his legs once more in a slow, purposeful sprawl.
"Come here, Clark," Bruce says in a testing, careful tone. Far from an order or demand, yet it calls to him, cascades steaming and smooth down his spine like a dip in a hot spring.
For Bruce, it's a guess, and it's right.
Clark's lips part—astonishment in his hesitant rise from his seat. With his nerves thrumming in his veins, he closes the short distance to stand next to Bruce's chair. Even though Bruce is the one gazing up at him, Clark feels contained, acquiescent in a brief glimpse of what could effortlessly turn addictive.
Intrigue glints in Bruce's hazel eyes. Still a bit unsure—wading on unfamiliar grounds, yet he's wholly focused on Clark now in such a gratifying yet disarming way. A quiet, caught noise leaves Clark's throat as he bows into the timid palm placed on his hip, his pulse no less rabbiting in his throat.
Bruce's lids lower, looking at him with a hunger that has the power to satiate the one in Clark's stomach. There's wonder as well—a rivaling, deep longing that baffles Clark over how he's missed it this whole time.
Perhaps he'd been too caught staring down when all he wanted was a simple upturn away.
"Bruce," Clark whispers. For months, he's ached for more of Bruce's time, his attention, but it's always felt like a distant fantasy that'd never blossom into fruition. He's tangled in it here, in the sensation of Bruce's thumb sweeping back and forth across his hipbone. "Can I—I want to—"
"Whatever it is, you can have it."
He hears no deception in Bruce's tone, just a gentle patience so sudden, so intimate it nearly frightens Clark from the complete contrast to beforehand. Yet he remains at ease—knowing, trusting Bruce in the moment to give in and possibly soothe a collective burning desire.
Clark nods. "Okay," he whispers, releasing a shaky breath. "Okay. Can you roll back your chair a bit?"
As soon as Bruce acquiesces and before he's able to second guess, Clark folds and fits himself into a kneel underneath the desk in between Bruce's spread legs. For a split, damning second, Bruce's heartbeat skyrockets before he reigns it under control. Clark still hears the quiver throughout his lungs, witnesses the surprise in Bruce's eyes, and god, if Clark felt vulnerable earlier, it's nothing compared to the present.
Clark feels himself blush as he reclines on his haunches. "Is this okay?"
Bruce's chin dips in a silent nod. It's permission as any to lift his hands and slowly glide them from Bruce's ankles up to his thighs, savoring the dragging sensation of Kevlar on his palms in case it's snatched away.
He's so damn firm—muscled and strong. Already, Clark's consumed by the allowance given over, the unspoken freedom to do as he pleases here. He acts on pure instinct as he tugs the chair back in and rests the side of his face right there on Bruce's inner, right thigh.
Clark allows his eyes to drift shut. Listening to Bruce's blood flow directly beneath his ear rushes an unforeseen contentment—a reprieve from all the responsibility except for this specific sound. Uncertainty remains, but with Bruce, Clark's always felt some semblance of ease since returning, whether Bruce believes he should or not.
After the initial shock of what's transpired must pass, he hears Bruce resume clicking away at his work above. Bruce's free hand tentatively falls to rest on the curve of Clark's jaw, and the initiation of touching him in return completely evaporates any ambivalence.
With a soft sigh, Clark nudges into it to signal its welcomed, so Bruce's fingers begin a mindless rhythm of carding through the hairs near his ear.
Fantasizing about these sensations didn't prepare for the bliss of experience. A wave of overwhelming gratefulness passes through him because he feels so deeply understood.
He wasn't turned away, made the fool or othered—and Clark should have known Bruce would embrace this in kind. Without the blinders of his unsatisfied wants, he's able to comprehend the depths of Bruce's own solely by the way Bruce relaxes minute by minute, a brush of his fingers at a time.
It’s comfortable—serene almost to simply be here with nothing to do but lay his head down. There’s no expectation, no rules or guidelines to follow except allowing himself to feel—to remain in the still of his mind.
Clark's own hands have drifted down to rest in his lap, slightly turned onto his knees in a lax position. He wants to know what Bruce's face looks like, but his eyelids feel unfamiliarly heavy with a need to remain closed in quiet resting. He listens to the clack of Bruce's keyboard instead, shifting his cheek further up Bruce's thigh in a slight nuzzle.
"That's good, Clark," Bruce murmurs.
Up until hearing Bruce's voice, arousal hasn't been a conscious factor to him, but the slight gravel in it—all because of him, forces his blood to course straight to his groin. He rejuvenates off of Bruce's quiet praise like he's flown right through a swathe of sunlight across a meadow and he'd do anything to receive more of it.
Unbridled heat roils up his spine, thickens a haze over his mind, and Clark acts without thinking.
On the next idle pass of Bruce's hand down to his jawline, Clark turns and takes Bruce's thumb into his mouth.
Like a ricochet to his senses, Bruce's pulse upticks, and it's the sole indicator to Clark of what he's done. Bruce goes still, his thigh muscle tensing beneath Clark's face; the cave silent yet flooded with a humid atmosphere.
Just as he's about to retreat, scramble for a way to repent for his greed, Bruce removes his thumb, only to replace it with two fingers. Clark moans as they slowly insert and press down on the back of his tongue. Saliva fills his mouth from the taste of Bruce's warm skin, the residual leather from his gloves and the lingering presence of the Bat caught between his teeth.
Clark digs his nails into his palms at the unquestionable whiff of Bruce's fresh and sharp arousal. Realizing Bruce is getting off on this—on him, that he finds Clark desirable, ignites an electric thrill from Clark's brain down to his curling toes. He wants to shove a hand between his own legs, press on the rapid ache for a semblance of relief, but his muscles feel sluggish, unwilling to take an ounce of his focus away from suckling on Bruce's fingers in his mouth.
Bruce allows him to do as he pleases. It's still slow, quiet without urgency, yet he experiments with the sensation, teasing his wet tongue around the digits. It feels good to have the pressure to focus on, to have Bruce's thigh remaining beneath him and a part of him inside. His own little bubble of just Bruce as his cheeks hollow and hollow.
He's not sure how long he kneels and suckles. Time passes almost without him, his mind floating like fallen leaves in a constant, flowing breeze. He's not susceptible to any ache in his knees or cramps from the position either. Clark could stay like this indefinitely as the seasons change; his cock a constant throb between his legs and his mouth filled to the brim.
A tiny, muffled and wet gasp escapes his lips as Bruce's fingers begin barely moving back and forth across his tongue like he's gently thrusting into Clark's mouth. Clark's eyelids flutter, inhaling a deep breath and releasing it out in full through his nose. Somehow, the sensation rouses him further, galvanizing him to bob his head on the fingers teasing into his throat.
With a considerable effort, Clark manages to flit his eyes open, and he stares at the large bulge in Bruce's suit. It must be uncomfortable to be trapped inside, but Bruce's lower body hasn't moved or shifted an inch, almost as if he's trying to not disturb Clark's newfound peace between his legs.
Sneaking a glance up through the desk, he expects to find Bruce focused on the computer, tapping away at the keyboard. Clark jolts at the sight of Bruce looking directly back—even though Bruce can't actually see him as well.
A deep flush dusts Bruce's cheekbones, his breath a bit faster and his lips pinked like he's bitten them this entire time. For a man so self-contained, it's an expression of unadulterated lust mixed with a remaining awe at the circumstances bestowed.
Witnessing the sight sinks the reality impossibly deeper into Clark's skin that he's here—kneeling in his Superman suit in the cave with nothing but Bruce above, all around, within him. Grasping Bruce's ankle in one hand, Clark moans in a soft yet high-pitched noise he's never heard from himself. Messily, he swirls his tongue around Bruce's fingers and swallows down until his lips kiss the last knuckle.
"Christ," Bruce whispers in a barely audible sharp breath.
Clark can't control himself at the sound. With each push of the envelope met with a step further, he's consumed by a raw, passionate fever for more. Wet strings of saliva follow him as he releases Bruce's fingers and darts forward to bury his face against Bruce's crotch. For weeks, months, it's enticed and teased him and Clark inhales the heady scent with greed, mindlessly mouthing at the firm fabric with laps of his tongue.
Bruce's uneven gasp slices through his haze, and he seizes Clark's hair in his fist before wrenching him backwards. Rolling out the chair, Bruce stares at him with another unfiltered look of surprise. There's a clench in his jaw that speaks of his outright desire however, pupils expanding and his arousal permeating the air further. Clark licks his hips, his chest heaving in anticipation, and Bruce tracks the motion with a keen focus.
Again, Clark can't fathom what else Bruce thought he wanted by kneeling underneath his desk and sucking on his fingers for the better half of an hour. But perhaps that isn't what the shock is about—perhaps Bruce is just as overwhelmed by him, and the possibility has Clark's fingers clenching around Bruce's calf muscles.
"Bruce, I—"
"Hush," Bruce says. He soothes any potential turmoil by loosening his grip in Clark's hair and resumes his reverent pet through the strands. Having Bruce's scrutinizing eyes on him again after what he's done makes Clark want to squirm, yet he remains teeming with arousal over it.
He cups Clark's jaw with his other hand and thumbs at his bottom lip, his gaze considerate, calculating almost.
Clark tries to be patient and allow Bruce the moment he needs to parse through their reality, but he feels so empty, his mouth at loss of what to do without a piece of Bruce to hold safe inside of it.
Bruce must sense it, or it's written plain as day across Clark's face. "I need to finish a couple more things," he murmurs, his voice returned to that leveled control. "Are you comfortable?"
Clark nods. His face tingles from the constant caresses. "Yes."
His voice sounds so light—airy to his own ears. Bruce releases him to reach for a mechanism on his belt, and the sound of it unclasping echoes throughout the cave. Clark watches it get set aside on the desk and his breath increases in renewed anticipation.
"Take my boots off," Bruce says softly.
Clark swallows thickly, sensing his own saliva lingering on his jaw and chin. Lifting each individual foot, he tugs on the heels and guides Bruce's boots down and off of him. Holding Bruce's curious yet searing stare while undressing him might be more sensual than tonguing the webbing between his fingers. He takes the act with a serious importance as he places the boots to the side of the desk.
"Good," Bruce murmurs.
Clark shudders.
There must be an emergency clasp or pull to allow the suit fabric to part at the waist. Clark watches as Bruce tugs down the bottom half with his briefs, and he helps to ease it off of Bruce entirely.
"Jesus," Clark whispers, biting his lip at the sight of Bruce's cock engorged and resting against his hip. It's thick just like the rest of Bruce, his balls full and slouched near his thigh. Already, Clark knows it's going to split his jaw in a delicious stretch. He wants it—he's hungry for it, and Clark flicks his gaze up at him. "I won't need to breathe. I can hold it."
Something unnameable flickers through Bruce’s fervent expression at that. With an inquisitive tilt of his head, his palm magnetizes back to Clark's jaw. "You have a nervous system, don't you?" Bruce questions.
Clark tugs in his brows. "Yes?"
Bruce's thumb travels to the hollow of his throat and presses inwards. He must feel Clark’s rapid pulse—the stark evidence of how Bruce affects him so entirely. "Breathing does more than put oxygen in your lungs," Bruce murmurs. "It grounds us into the present and calms us down. If you need to breathe, I want you to do it, Clark. Alright?"
It's not as if he expected Bruce to fully take advantage of his physiological difference, yet Clark's breath gets stolen anyway from the unforeseen tenderness.
He's still learning Bruce—how his mind works and what Bruce truly feels or thinks about him. It's been an array of lessons and observations since returning to his life, and Clark doesn't believe he'll ever stop noticing new things.
But to be cared about with that level of direct consideration from Bruce specifically… Clark wants to commit another rash deed like shooting up from his kneel to kiss him.
"Alright," he whispers instead.
Bruce nods, and after another probing stare, rolls his chair back in close. Strong legs bracket Clark's shoulders, confining him once more exactly where he wants to be enclosed. He glides his palms up the coarse hairs with the simple desire to touch and feel them against his skin.
With the hold to his jaw, Bruce guides him towards his groin and releases a nearly inaudible sigh as Clark parts his lips and takes his cock into his mouth.
Just as he predicted and hoped, it splits him so much further than two of Bruce's fingers. Clark's eyes close again, returning and succumbing to that earlier tranquility throughout his mind.
He tastes the salt of Bruce’s pre-cum and the thick, hot length of him pressing down on Clark's tongue. It feels like a culmination of all he's desired—the final point where he's allowed to drift in thought and focus on nothing but Bruce overtaking him entirely.
Clark tightens his lips to suck him off proper, about to reach his hand up to hold until Bruce's thumb presses in on his cheek. "Don't move," Bruce murmurs, "just keep it warm for me."
Clark doesn't register the full extent of what Bruce means until he hears him resume his typing on the computer. A low, wanton groan tears out of his throat around the weight of Bruce in his mouth. He swallows on a reflex as Bruce's cock twitches, but Clark forces himself to settle and center on what Bruce wants, on what he's asking Clark to do between his legs.
"Good," Bruce says, giving an almost condescending light tap to Clark's cheek.
An addictive sensation of pure humiliation burns across Clark's nape. He feels the blood roaring in his ears, his own cock almost numb from the lack of reprieve or attention. If he believed Bruce's fingers were satisfying, it's nothing compared to the euphoric intimacy of simply holding the most vulnerable part of Bruce's body between his lips.
He feels so useful—heeled and servicing while Bruce focuses on whatever task he's completing above. He could be doing anything up there and Clark wouldn't care as long as this remains, as long as he's allowed to seep Bruce's pleasure in slow drips down the column of his throat. He wants to please Bruce—to be good for him in however Bruce demands, anything he wants, and Clark finds himself nearly shaking in slight tremors from it all.
It doesn't take long for his head to rest on Bruce's thigh again. Every so often, he can't help the slight movement of his tongue on the underside of Bruce's cock. It feels so good to have something solid to rub it against, yet Bruce doesn't scold or stop him.
Clark swallows a few more times as well. He’s not used to having something in his mouth for this long, especially something so large, and his throat works to accommodate the weight and intrusion. He’s not trying to tease, yet he hears the evidence of how he’s affecting Bruce in the unsteady rise of his breaths.
More time passes just like this—doing as he was told with brief interludes of Bruce’s fingers through his hair or resting on Clark’s cheekbone. It pleases him to a severe intensity that Bruce can’t seem to stop touching him throughout the act. He wants to be connected as much as they’re able, alone together in this little haven of yielding servility.
Drool escapes and drips down his chin to his throat; he's unable to stop it, and the wet sensation only adds to his intense embarrassment. It's exquisite in its own right, primal and debased in such a potent, human aspect. Clark's never felt anything like this before, and all of it is without a doubt the hottest thing to ever happen to him.
He's not sure what eventually does it. Perhaps it's the constant, heavy rigidness of Bruce's cock, the smell of his sweat and arousal or Clark's own merciless ache between his thighs. But he tests, ever so slightly, by taking Bruce as far he's able until his cockhead tickles Clark's throat. He doesn’t apply any suction, but Clark tongues at the base, his nose buried in Bruce’s pubic hair, then licks the barest bit where he can reach Bruce’s sack. A long, drawn out moan sounds throughout their space, and Clark only distantly realizes it comes out of him.
With his throat stuffed full, Clark can’t contain himself—almost blinded by the savage want—and he squeezes Bruce’s cockhead on a harsh, unrelenting swallow.
He startles out of his reverie when a palm slams against the desk. "Fuck," Bruce groans, frantic and broken. "I can't—"
Bruce abruptly rolls back the chair, and the motion forces his cock to leave Clark in a noisy, wet gasp. Before Clark’s able to understand the sudden shift, Bruce grabs his jaw, pulls him up straight, and licks inside Clark’s mouth with a near violent need.
With an uncontrollable shiver, Clark squeezes his eyes shut and whimpers as Bruce’s tongue plunders inside of him. He grips the chair arms in both hands, attempting to keep up with the filthy kiss and the wave of overwhelming lust that springs tears to the corner of his eyes.
Bruce isn’t masking the brutal pound of his pulse now. After a parting suck to Clark’s lower lip that makes him whine, Bruce breaks the kiss and huffs for breath. He’s never once witnessed Bruce so consumed, so untamed and Clark feels caught in that fierce, single-minded attention.
"Suck me," Bruce whispers, hoarse and guttural.
Clark almost comes right there. He doesn’t spare a second; as soon as Bruce leans back in the chair, he darts down and swallows his leaking cock until it’s returned to his throat.
Bruce’s drawn out moan of pure satisfaction spurs him on—overcome with the pulsating desire to make Bruce feel good, to do anything to make him come. Grasping Bruce’s sack in his palm, Clark fondles him and pulls him impossibly deeper, sucking the firm length of him with increasing pressure.
Hands move all over him—through Clark’s hair, down his shoulder blades, grasping the sides of his neck. Each touch carries a gentle adoration, a clutch for stability, and the sensations force his tears to cascade down his cheeks.
Bruce’s thumb drags through the salt, tugging on the delicate skin, and it has Clark flitting open his eyes to look up at him.
He’s only given a split second to take in the disheveled mess he’s made of Bruce. With an almost viscous jerk of his cock on Clark’s tongue, Bruce tosses his head backwards on a ragged moan. As soon as it sounds, Clark’s mouth floods with his cum, bitter and so completely the taste of Bruce that it makes Clark want to drink him dry.
It must be an intense one as Bruce shudders hard and curls over him, holding the back of Clark’s head down. Clark pets his upper, twitching thighs and swallows the best he’s able, savoring the force of Bruce’s orgasm.
"Goddamn it, Clark," Bruce exhales. "Fuck."
Clark whines again at that, milking the entirety of Bruce’s pleasure out of him with unwavering pulls of his lips. It was him who did so well, who made Bruce out of his breath and his hands shake in Clark’s hair through the stimulation.
Even if it’s only for this moment here in time, Bruce is his—Clark’s to have and to find rapturous relief in after a rough night. He’s drifting on another realm and at peace with Bruce’s softening cock on his tongue, until he senses a few tugs to his scalp.
With a deep inhale, Clark releases him, licking the escaped drops of Bruce’s cum on his lips and feeling Bruce’s thighs shake again. He goes to speak, unsure of what, but then Clark’s eyes widen, his breath ceasing once Bruce’s foot presses on his groin.
He’d forgotten about his own arousal entirely—absorbed in ensuring Bruce got his own, but now, Clark’s already on the precipice of orgasm. He squeezes his thighs around Bruce’s ankle, and Bruce, through his panting, manages to smirk at him.
“Bruce,” Clark gasps, white spots dancing behind his eyes. “Please—”
“Come here.”
Clark hurries to obey and out of his kneel, moving into a straddle across Bruce’s lap. It’s a tight fit for two men of their sizes but Clark’s adept at making himself small, floating the barest to not impose until Bruce tugs him down.
Clark grips the top of the chair in both hands, trying with all his effort to settle and not explode at the sight of Bruce squeezing up his thigh muscles.
“How do I get you out of this?” Bruce asks, swirling his finger around the suit etchings near his hip.
For a long moment, he’s unable to answer—tongue-tied and nearly vibrating with his desperate need to come. He still senses Bruce in his throat, tastes the remnants of his cum once he swallows, and Clark almost doesn’t know what to do with himself here.
Bruce’s finger curls in and presses underneath his chin. “Clark,” he murmurs, grounding his attention to the present.
Taking a deep breath, Clark stares at the soft, almost fond glint in Bruce’s eyes and the satiated glow to his flushed skin.
Clark wants to kiss him again, so he does, following where desire pulls and finding Bruce’s mouth willing and opening beneath his lips. Having the freedom to touch helps center him further, calming him one kiss at a time. He cards his fingers through Bruce’s sweaty hair and guides Bruce’s hand to his waist.
“Pull it,” Clark whispers against his swollen lips.
He watches Bruce’s intrigue as the suit molecules part to reveal his skin. Cool air meets his tepid flesh and Clark sighs at the relief, the full brunt of his arousal bare and exposed for Bruce’s viewing.
Bruce’s palm lifts under his mouth, almost expectantly, and once Clark catches on to what he wants, a light-head inducing flush blooms across his cheeks. Clark spits a few times to coat Bruce’s hand in his saliva, his belly twisting nervously to finally feel Bruce’s touch on him.
He’s not given any time to remain in anticipation. Like a mirror of Clark’s eagerness, Bruce grips his cock and pumps his fist down the full length of him. It’s still a bit dry yet perfect, the drag of Bruce’s callouses making his balls twitch and tighten up against him.
“Bruce,” Clark whimpers, snagging his bottom lip in his teeth around another flustered whine. His hands cling to Bruce’s shoulders, watching with his jaw dropped while his flushed cockhead appears on every stroke.
Bruce hums. “Like this?”
Clark nods, mindlessly and agreeable to anything Bruce gives him—any pressure, any speed is the right one as long as Bruce keeps touching him. Somewhere in there he hears Bruce chuckle, yet Clark’s too distracted by the wet sound of his spit and pre-cum mixing on Bruce’s skin.
His thighs quiver at the onslaught of pleasure, having stood on the cusp of orgasm for what feels like hours now. He’s once again almost fearful to feel the entirety of it, to let himself go and experience the full, blissful nothingness teasing the edges of his mind. But then he remembers Bruce has him, that he’s met Clark’s desire each step of the way, and god, Clark wants to come for him so desperately.
Bruce begins speaking again, and the sound of his deep, erotic voice might be Clark’s biggest weakness of them all. "You're unbelievable," Bruce murmurs, almost to himself while watching Clark’s hips fuck into his hold with an unconcealed hunger. "Kneeling under my desk, holding me in your mouth." Bruce shakes his head. "God, Clark, the look on your face. What'd I do to deserve that?"
"Bruce—"
"I didn't get a single thing done," Bruce continues, twisting his fist with an abrupt tightness. "From the moment you got under there, I was done for."
A strangled noise rips out of him, pawing at Bruce's shoulders for any sort of different sensation than the one pulsating throughout his pelvis. He's leaking all over Bruce, down his wrist and to his thighs, an absolute mess of overwhelm, and any second now he's going to—
Bruce’s hand possessively cups his cheek, bringing their lips a mere inch apart. "C'mon, Clark," he whispers. "Be good and come all over me."
Clark groans in near agony and crashes their mouths together, his abdomen muscles spasming as his orgasm explodes and dissolves in each of his nerves. Pleasure coasts through his blood stream all the way from his hair line down to his feet. His hips stutter into Bruce’s fist on their own, ropes of spend shooting out of his cock. It’s truly an obscene amount, coating Bruce’s hand and up to the Bat symbol on his suit.
He’s not sure if he’s making noise anymore, his body convulsing on the shockwaves of warm stimulation. He’s more or less mouthing at Bruce’s lips as well, but Clark can’t help it, at a loss of control that he already wants to beg Bruce to make him feel again.
Blinking through the white over his eyes, Clark whines at the dizzying and owning sight of his cum on Bruce’s suit—marking such a vital and personal part of Bruce with himself. He notices how pleased Bruce looks as well, conniving and attractively arrogant at having rendered Clark to such a sopping mess in his lap.
"Bruce," Clark gasps, leaning into the palm still on his face. "It's so—"
"I know," Bruce soothes. "You're alright."
The continuing low murmur of Bruce’s voice eases him through the remaining sensations. Eventually, Clark slumps in spent exhaustion, nerves tingling yet slower, more bearable. It grows quiet except for their twin, quickened heartbeats in his ears and the catch of Clark’s unsteady breath. Bruce’s palms his nape as Clark rests his forehead down on his shoulder.
“Can you stand?” Bruce whispers after a few minutes. Clark nods. “Come with me.”
Clark doesn’t particularly want to extract himself from Bruce’s lap. He’d luxuriate in the feeling and the scents of their pleasure for hours if he was allowed, but he understands he’s made quite a mess of them both. So Clark obeys with a deep sigh, his mind still in that far away area yet aware of Bruce at the same time.
Once Bruce stands up from the chair, Clark blushes again at the ruined suit covered in cum streaks, but Bruce doesn’t seem to mind. He sheds out of the remaining articles, so Clark mirrors him and removes his own.
He remembers Bruce words and follows him through the cave, his mouth watering as he stares at Bruce’s naked form in full for the first time. It's a breathtaking sight, his packed on muscle and the scars Clark wants to trace with his tongue. He’s still half-hard, but Clark’s long used to arousal lingering after he’s had an orgasm, the insatiable nature only Bruce manages to bring out of him.
Bruce turns slightly to grab his hand before guiding them both inside the shower he has down here. Turning on the spray by the handle, Bruce chuckles at Clark’s satisfied groan from the hot water pounding on his spine.
It’s divine. Tenfold once Bruce begins washing his abdomen clean with a bar of soap that smells like Bruce’s familiar rugged and cedar wood scent. Clark stands still, watching through glassy eyes as Bruce massages every inch of him, slow and devout to the task of getting him clean.
Perhaps he should touch Bruce in return, but his arms feel heavy again like earlier while kneeling beneath the desk. He’s content to stay just like this, to shiver from Bruce palming his ass with greed and to feel the warm water glide down his body.
Throughout his floating inattention as the bathing continues longer, Clark senses the buddings of something off—a distance that wasn’t present when he was held in Bruce’s lap and murmured soft affections through his pleasure.
“Why are you getting weird on me?” Clark mumbles near Bruce’s temple.
Bruce’s hands pause on his shoulders before resuming like nothing is amiss. “Just taking my time now that I’ve soothed your curiosity.”
Blinking past the droplets in his lashes, Clark leans back to see Bruce’s face clearly. While it’s still open and warm towards him, there’s a new, careful aspect, almost like Bruce is bracing himself for something.
All at once, Clark remembers how they got to this point, and of course Bruce’s mind would jump and latch onto any explanation except for how Clark truly feels.
“Bruce—” Clark begins, shaking his head. “No, that’s—that's not what this is about. Yes, I was—I was curious about the man spreading thing, but that's not…"
Bruce gazes at him patiently. "What is it about, then?"
"I want to be around you,” Clark confesses in a quiet voice. “I always wish you were with me when you're not and I—I want to be with you."
Perhaps it’s more honest than he means to lay out in such a bared way, but after all that’s transpired tonight, Clark isn’t capable of anything resembling deception. He’s already given over his most vulnerable desires—the depths Bruce is capable of bringing out of him.
Where else is there to go but towards the truth? It’s gotten Clark this far since he admitted his distraction in the first place.
Only the noises of the shower beating down to the tile sound in the small, steaming area for a long moment. Clark stands in the spray, staring off behind Bruce’s shoulder and trying not to shift his footing at the silence.
His pulse flutters in his throat because if he’s somehow misread the situation—if Bruce doesn't return—
Gentle fingers push back Clark’s hair off his forehead before Bruce tilts his head, kissing him softly in a barely there brush of lips. Clark sighs into his mouth and tentatively rests his hands on Bruce’s waist. He’s weak in the knees with the craving to return down to the floor, to have Bruce tip his chin upwards and be pleased at the worshipful sight of Clark there.
"You're always welcomed," Bruce says in a near whisper. "When you're not here—you can be. Whenever you want."
From Bruce, it's a declaration—a promise of more in its own right. Clark feels himself smile, wide and creasing his eyes with the exciting prospects of time ahead, and leans in to weave their lips together again.
*
Later, as the night begins meeting dawn, Clark’s laying in Bruce’s bed with him—catching his breath after experiencing his third orgasm deep inside of Bruce’s body.
Bruce is lax on his stomach by his side, his one arm stretched over his head and his other a dead weight on Clark’s chest. With his gaze traveling the enticing arch of Bruce’s spine, Clark stares at the globes of his ass and wonders if he’s managed to empty Bruce’s stamina completely yet.
“So…”
“What?” Bruce grunts.
“In all seriousness, what’s with the leg spreading?”
Bruce chuckles and lifts his head from the pillow. An orange sky backlights him through the clear windows as Bruce props himself up on his elbow, his fingers beginning to play through Clark’s chest hair. He commits the sight to memory even with having the plans and the assurance to see it again.
“Perhaps it was all a ruse to get you where I wanted,” Bruce murmurs.
Clark raises an eyebrow. “Was it?”
He wouldn’t put it past Bruce to have somehow constructed this entire night, but it’s a lot of effort, months worth of it, to get what he could have just asked for upfront. Clark really doesn’t care either way once Bruce drapes over his chest and begins kissing up the column of his throat.
“I guess you’ll have to find out the next time I sit down,” Bruce whispers.
Clark groans at the tease, and with the sound of Bruce’s amused laugh in his ear, flips him over onto his spine.