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"You keep staring at his photo like that and Perry's going to fire you." Lois teases, kicking him under the desk.
"I know." He still strokes his fingers over the screen. "He's just so pretty."
She rolls her eyes. "He looks like a kitten in soaked cardboard box, but to each his own."
"That's because you haven't seen him train, or punch people." He sighs dreamily.
"Should I get you a notebook to doodle in, future Mrs. Wayne?" She pokes his cheek with a smirk.
"That'd be great."
She cackles, throwing a pad of sticky notes at his head. "You're hopeless."
"Completely." He sighs again, dropping his head down onto his fist as he scrolls through the pictures Cat Grant hadn't used in her article on the Martha Wayne Foundation gala.
"Eugh, go home to Gotham, Romeo." This time, she hits him with paperclips. "Get your nasty on with your boytoy."
He sputters. "Bruce isn't-!"
She hums, mock-thoughtful. "I suppose since he's the rich and famous one, you can't be his sugar daddy. So what is it then, daddy up front and sugar on the side?"
He groans. "Why do you do this to me, Lois? I thought you liked me."
"I do, Smallville. But the gasket Cat is going to blow when Vicki Vale inevitably gets the scoop on your relationship before her will be a work of art. Perhaps even the high note I retire on." Her smirk is devious. "She'll take a chunk out of you, though."
He winces. "I hope she never finds out."
"Shouldn't have fallen for a celebrity." Lois shrugs, unsympathetic.
"Easy for you to say." He pouts. "You're not the one he turns those puppy dog eyes on."
"I like my men like I like my wine - aged." She winks. "You just wanna eat off the vine. Don't use the grapes being tempting as an excuse."
He flushes hotly. "You make it sound like I'm cradle robbing!"
"Cuz you are." She laughs. "Were his parents even together when your little rocket ship landed in Kansas?"
"Eugh, don't make me think about that." He grimaces.
"At least he's athletic." She continues, since her affection for him has never once equated to mercy. "I bet he can ride for hours."
"Bendy."
"Hmm?"
"His best attribute - he's very, very bendy."
She cackles again. "Kinky already? You move fast."
"I didn't-! It's part of his nightlife, to be able to move like that."
"Sure, sure." She's grinning. "At least he's young and bendy enough to keep up with your stamina. Make good use of him while you've got him."
He looks back at the pictures of Bruce, looking as uncomfortable and scared as a dog in a shelter commercial. It makes him want to jump Bruce, run that black eye makeup himself. "Oh, I intend to."
"Gross." She deadpans. "Go give him a limp, then, tiger."
Bruce is still ... new to the concept of cooperation and team-playing, even though he's very good at it. Perhaps it's the strategist in him, or all his time working with Lieutenant Gordon. He and Diana have a soft spot for him, being both the youngest and most recessive of all the members. (It's also cute when he's standing between them. Even though he's just under 6'0" tall in his boots, he's still four inches shorter than Diana and six inches shorter than him.)
But Bruce plays much nicer when he's on his own turf, so Clark comes out to Gotham to see him. It's also convenient that Wayne Tower is so tall, since no one sees him zip by during the night.
He takes note of how well the new sea wall is coming along and reminices about his first time seeing the infamous Bat in person. The morning after the bombs, the League had arrived to help clear rubble and find survivors (or bodies). Batman had been on the roof of Gotham Square Gardens, loading injured onto helicopters, completely filthy and exhausted. He'd almost collapsed when Diana clapped his shoulder. (A paramedic told them later he took a shotgun blast to the chest at close range.)
Bruce has grown a lot since then, perhaps most notably in his own home.
"Ah, Mr. Kent." Alfred stands with a smile as Dory takes his hat and coat. "Glad to see you back. Shall I ring for Bruce?"
"Thanks, but no. He knows I'm supposed to be here." He smiles. "Has he surfaced from the Cave yet?"
"Might 'ave done. I was doin' the ledgers, myself." Alfred replies, but Clark startles when a hand appears in his periphery and plucks the glasses from his face.
"I'm here." Bruce mumbles, shoving the glasses on his own face, his wet hair sticking to the lenses. They're way too big and heavy for his face, sliding down his nose almost immediately. But Bruce's affection comes in the fashion of theft - two of Alfred's old coats are in Bruce's closet and at least six of Clark's shirts along with two silly ties.
"Hello, honey." Clark says, unable to keep his eyes off Bruce's svelte form, even under the baggy shirt.
"Blueberries are in the fridge, as is the chicken breast." Alfred says with a good-humoured side-eye at Bruce. "I'll be back tomorrow afternoon. Don't let him spraypaint the hardwood while I'm gone."
Bruce groans. "You're never going to forgive me for that."
"Absolutely not." Alfred shakes his head. "You'd think I raised a baboon."
Bruce pops a blueberry into his mouth, sullenly silent.
"Hmm, he's more like a lemur than a baboon."
Alfred laughs. "Have a good night."
"You too."
Alfred and Dory leave for the guest apartments on the floor below, where Dory already lived and Alfred used when he needed some peace for himself.
Bruce swallows, suddenly bashful in the quiet. Looking up through his lashes, he speaks. "What did you want to do?"
He can't help but grin. "Anything you'll let me."
Bruce's mask covers his cheekbones, which is good, because he blooms red there when he's flustered right up to the tips of his ears. He ducks his head to hide behind his fringe. "Right to business, then."
"Oh no." He slides up behind the younger man, tipping his head back and pressing a berry between his parted lips. "If you'll let me, I'll do anything and everything, for as long as it takes."
Bruce's swallow is thick and he gets the pleasure of watching his eyes dilate through the thick glass of the lenses. His jaw clicks shut, rendered speechless, and his heart rate picks up. Bruce likes him forward and eager, but is hopeless in reciprocation. That's okay, though - Clark loves to chase, especially when that chase ends in surrender rather than domination, so much sweeter for being willingly given. And Bruce? Bruce is one of the most obstinate and mercurial people he's ever known, embattled on the streets and in his mind, yet kitten-sweet under his hands. He years for the touch he's afraid of, but when the longing overcomes the fear ... he becomes positively luminous, basking in the moonlit sheets like some playful nymph, the cool white satin nearly as seductive as the man himself.
Bruce's lips part, attempting to respond, but his voice hitches and dies when the hand Clark had used to tip back his head slides back down and settles in a gentle grip around his throat, more weight and promise than pressure. With the other hand, he slips another blueberry into Bruce's mouth, just to watch the unconscious way Bruce's tongue plays with it. He hums appreciatively as he watches, thumb pressing into the underside of Bruce's jaw and making the man's breath stutter.
"Be a good boy," He rumbles, "and eat the berry for me."
Already hazy, Bruce does as he's told, a shiver ripping through him when he swallows and it presses his trachea more firmly into Clark's hand.
"There's my baby, sweet as honey." He purrs, letting his chest vibrate with it. Bruce's bare arms break out into goosebumps. "What else would you swallow if I asked?"
Bruce still doesn't manage words, only a willing and slightly bereft gasp. His eyebrows, perhaps his most expressive feature, scrunch together and pitch upwards.
"So needy." He says, popping two berries into Bruce's mouth unexpectedly and smirking when he chokes at the unexpected fruit. His throat spasms, but he doesn't pitch forward or spit them out, he just gets them back into his mouth. "Now that's a sound I like to hear."
Bruce flushes again, quickly chewing and swallowing. He flexes his fingers and is pleasantly surprised when Bruce sways forward into the hold, eyes fluttering shut with a moan.
"Well now." He chuckles darkly, using his grip around Bruce's neck and the arm snaked around his waist to plaster the younger man against his chest. Bruce gasps, violently shivers (as much as he can in the iron hold) and exhales a moan. "Does my baby like my hand on his neck?"
"Yeah." Bruce manages, sounding a little drunk.
"Can you tell me why?" He prompts.
Bruce has a few false starts, but manages to put together his thoughts long enough to speak. "You could kill me."
His voice is decidedly less warm now. "Explain."
Bruce, however, is still lost in the heat radiating off Clark's body and the weight against his neck. "You could kill me so easy, but you don't. So gentle with me ... when you don't have to be."
His rigid posture eases, wrapping his looming form around Bruce again. "Of course not. I want you soft for me, just like this."
Bruce's lips quirk up. "It's nice ... feels so safe."
Ah, he understands now. He licks up the uncovered bit of Bruce's neck, right up behind his ear. Bruce groans, dropping his head forward despite the pressure it puts on his neck. "I'll always take care of you, baby boy. I'll give you anything you want, anytime you want it. You're so good, so behaved for me."
Bruce whimpers, words failing him again. But he doesn't need them now - Clark can take over. The arm around Bruce's waist slithers under the baggy black shirt to find the waistband of his sweatpants. He dips under it, hunching down so his hand can cup Bruce's dick full in his hand. It jumps at his attention, leaking copiously. Bruce hardly ever took care of himself when he was single, but since he's gotten with Clark, he complains in mutters about how it just doesn't compare anymore. He fondles Bruce for an indulgent moment, rubbing at the glans under the head and pressing a pinky against the base of his cock, but then slides further back. Nudging his balls out of the way, he hooks his hand around the floor of Bruce's pelvis.
Then he lifts Bruce up.
Bruce yelps in surprise, but he has nowhere to go - he's supported by the palm of Clark's hand digging into his perineum and the other hand balancing him by the throat. He can't help but jolt and twitch at the sudden and intense stimuli. It's only a few seconds before Clark has then on the couch, back-to-front, and the pressure leaves. He slumps back against Clark, who's started pressing kisses and nips to his shoulder. His legs are splayed over Clark's own, spread wide and lurid even while clothed.
"That's it, honey." Clark purrs. "Ride it like you want to."
Three of his fingers abruptly dig insistently into Bruce's perineum and Bruce spasms, limp hands slapping down onto Clark's arms and digging his nails ineffectually into the impenetrable skin. His eyes are squeezed shut and he's bitten his bottom lip. That cute brow furrow almost looks like pain.
He bites Bruce's earlobe and tugs gently. "None of that. I want to hear you."
Bruce lets go, but clenches his teeth, making that chiselled jawline jump. He licks along it, just because he can. Bruce must have shaved in the shower, because there is no trace of stubble at all.
"C'mon, honey. I told you to ride it." He coos, jabbing inward in a short, sharp thrust. Bruce keens, arching his back as if he was trying to escape, but his hips start to swivel, jerky little motions that are partly involuntary and partly overwhelmed. He does almost feel bad - this is a lot of stimulation right away, and he knows Bruce is always strung tight like a bowstring. Bruce's left hand flails out for a new handhold, eventually slapping backwards and gripping tight in Clark's hair. He uses it as leverage, pulling himself up so he can rotate more fully on Clark's fingers. He pants rapidly as he moves, uncoordinated and instinctual. If Bruce is so sweet right at the beginning of their night like this, he's going to be a delight for the rest of the evening, without a doubt.
Right as Bruce starts to release these little whines between his panting, Clark smirks against his neck. His left hand, pressed against the perineum, begins to rapidly vibrate and the hand around Bruce's neck closes enough to restrict the blood flow but not his breathing. Bruce violently convulses, strong enough to have ripped out a normal man's hair and torn open their skin with his nails. He can't manage to make a noise as his body seizes, rigid like a plank over Clark's lap. For almost thirty seconds, Bruce remains suspended like that, the only movement being the heavy contractions of his cock as he comes, soaking Clark's wrist and forearm.
Bruce's first gasp of air signals Clark to slide the fingers of his left hand away and stop vibrating them and the right one to relax the grip on his neck. Simultaneously, Bruce's body gives out on him and he collapses into a delirious puddle on Clark's lap, so high on endorphins and the rapid pace of his breathing he doesn't even stop to swallow back the drool that slips from the corners of his mouth.
"Mmm," He tilts Bruce's head so he can kiss the corner of his mouth, "thank you for that, honey."
Bruce's blown-out gaze, with significant effort, meets his. The thin ring of blue makes Clark ravenous - he wants to fuck Bruce unconscious every night, wring him out. He would, if it wouldn't be too much on Bruce's body. Even young as he is, it's no match for Kryptonian constitution and the constant drive to own Bruce's body. Kara and Jor-El had warned him before that those kinds of possessive feelings are common to Kryptonians, but he'd still been taken aback at how strongly Bruce inspired it in him.
He chuckles, nuzzling their noses together. "You should wear my glasses more often."
Bruce blinks, confused. He'd completely forgotten he was even wearing them.
He gathers some of Bruce's copious come onto his fingers, then spreads his own thighs. Bruce slips down slightly, his sweatpants stretching over his thighs, and he presses the pads of his first to fingers to Bruce's hole. Bruce's eyes widen, gaze snapping down to where Clark's hand is hidden under the dark fabric. His mouth drops open in shock when Clark presses enough for one to peek in.
"Don't worry." He reassures. "I'll let you recover first. But in the meantime, I'm going to play with you and get you ready for me. What do you think, honey?"
Bruce whimpers, dropping his head back onto Clark's broad shoulder to stare sightlessly at the ceiling. He's still panting like a marathon runner and his heart is hammering, but his body is limp and yielding. Clark moves his right hand from Bruce's neck and as his fingers play with Bruce's hole, he presses his index and middle fingers into Bruce's mouth. At this, Bruce moans, wrapping his lips a little half-heartedly around the digits as he starts to lazily suck them. He turns his head just enough to stare at Clark, lips parting so he can see the way Bruce's tongue plays with the fingers.
"Now, isn't that very pretty of you." He coos, deliberately and slowly pushing in until he can trigger Bruce's gag reflex. He only toys with it - he likes the sound Bruce makes, the moan always tacked on the end, but doesn't like the tenseness Bruce's body gets when he's actually choking. He gets that sweet sound a couple more times before he pulls back and lets the younger man resume casually fellating his fingers.
Awareness is bleeding back into Bruce's eyes, so he starts getting really noisy, little gasps and groans and whines that always drive Clark crazy. Carefully, body still a little too loose to control, Bruce starts to grind down on those playing fingers. But it's not the fingers he wants - the top of his ass and his lower back are in the perfect position to press on his cock, still trapped and unattended in his suit pants. Bruce's lips, not nearly red and kiss-swollen enough for his liking, quirk up into a grin as he rolls against it, all his natural lithe grace and control going into getting Clark's to snap.
"Oh, so that's how you want to play, hmm? Dirty like that?" He pulls the fingers from Bruce's mouth and pulls the lube he brought from his jacket pocket. "Take off your clothes."
Bruce doesn't try to dislodge his fingers, just kicks off his pants, then sits up enough to pull his shirt off. He lays back down like a good boy, anticipatory.
Clark uses Bruce's pelvis as leverage once more, lifting him up to he can pull off his belt and open his pants, wriggling them a little down his thighs so it'll be comfortable. Bruce's brow furrows in confusion, since Clark usually likes being skin-to-skin.
"You're being impatient, honey." He teases. "Can't have that."
Bruce's frown is turning into a scowl, but he jolts when Clark presses the nozzle of the lube bottle right against his hole. One of Clark's fingers is holding it open, so it squirts nice and thick inside of him. Bruce hisses at how cold it is, but stays still. Two of Clark's fingers slip in easily now, with a third quick to follow.
"On the couch?" Bruce manages to ask.
"Oh no. I'll fuck you on your bed like you deserve. But we have something to do first."
"Huh?" Bruce watches him coat his own cock in lube, then lift and angle Bruce's hips so he sinks down smoothly. The breath is punched out of Bruce again, both for the abrupt change and the sheer girth of Clark. Once Bruce is seated, Clark's left fingers start stroking around the stretched hole and coating his perineum in lube. The touches are gentle, more like petting than real strokes.
Bruce blinks, bewildered, when the tv flicks on and Clark presses the remote into his hand. "Pick a show."
"I- What?"
Clark feigns innocence when he gazes back. "I wanna spend time with you, Bruce, but you're always in such a hurry."
Bruce's eyes widen then narrow in understanding. "You bastard."
"Aww, that's not very nice, honey." He steals a kiss and can't help but smirk. "When I offered to let you pick and everything. You should pick something that's at least an hour, though."
"An hour?"
"Don't tell me you have a case or something you need to work on?" His puppy eyes fool no one. But Bruce wouldn't be Bruce if he wasn't also sufficiently devious. He picks a documentary about space and turns the volume down. They both know Clark can hear it and that Bruce doesn't care. But Bruce gamely plays along, sitting speared with his legs pulled wide open.
More the fool was Clark, letting him choose. The predominantly black backdrop of the documentary means he can see the reflection of his cock inside Bruce on the screen. Bruce lays back, draped like a sheet more than a human being. For the first while, he considers and re-evaluates his plan, surprised Bruce would just take this without a fight. He should have known better.
At exactly the thirty minute mark, Bruce's right hand casually slides down his own chest. He doesn't play with his nipples, but traces the scars and valleys of his own body. Clark waits for him to grab his own cock when he gets low on his abdomen, but instead Bruce cocks his hips backwards and presses his whole palm down in the gap between his pelvis and Adonis belt. Clark jolts with the unexpected sensation, realizing too late that he's big enough for Bruce to play with from the outside too.
Bruce's teeth snag on his earlobe and his exhale is deliberately heavy. He rolls his hips up into his palm, sighing directly into Clark's ear. "Can you feel me? How do I feel all around you? Am I tight and wet enough?"
He groans into Bruce's shoulder. "You're perfect."
Bruce grabs Clark's right hand and replaces his with it, so he can feel his own rock-hard cock through Bruce's flesh. Bruce moans like a whore, licking at his ear. "Can you feel the way you rearrange my guts, Clark? There's so much of you, but you've made a space just for you inside me. Is this something you've always wanted to do? Sit me on your cock, speared like a prize? Am I pretty like this?"
"Oh, honey, the prettiest."
Bruce's left hand winds back into his hair and he slithers closer, forcing his hand down harder on his abdomen and sticking his tongue into his ear. The sound is so filthy he can't help but groan, shifting his own hips to grind up into Bruce's ass. Bruce keeps his mouth close when he pulls his tongue back, breathing warmly onto the cooling saliva and dropping the tenor of his voice. "Do you dream about doing this to me when you're back in Metropolis? Am I like this, at your desk in the Planet? Or in front of WE's shareholders in one of those stuffy boardrooms?" Bruce groans low in his throat when Clark's palm presses his prostate into Clark's cock. "Or do you want to keep me on it once I've passed out, only pulling out in the morning? Do you think about the way my little hole wouldn't be able to close?"
He grinds his teeth together, unwilling to answer. He would ruin Bruce - body, mind and soul - if he was given the chance. He'd never let Bruce know a pleasure that came from anyone but him ever again. He'd never let Bruce get off his cock, always kept just like this-
"Am I distracting you?" Bruce pulls back and stills. "Sorry."
"What?"
"I'm distracting you from the show. I'll stop now."
Clark should have known better, and now it's his fault he's going to have to sit here for another twenty-six minutes, leashed and desperate.
Clark always preferred being able to kiss his partners when he was having sex with them and Bruce was no exception. The only difference with him was that he never tried stopping Clark, never tapped out when he got tired.
Even now, when his muscles have long since given up on him, Bruce moans into Clark's kiss, pliant to Clark's probing tongue. His body is limp and soaked in sweat, the scars glistening in the moonlight and casting long shadows over his pale skin.
"Clark-" He begs, barely coherent. His mouth is bruising, he's been kissed so much and tracks from overstimulated tears run down his cheeks. They're up on their knees, but Bruce is far passed supporting his own weight and is being held up entirely by Clark, who moves him as he sees fit. "-Clark, please."
"I know, honey. Just one more." He promises. He's not tired, by any means, but he's more than satisfied with how tonight turned out. Bruce is exhausted, completely emptied and on the verge of collapse.
Bruce's eyelashes flutter, muttering please over and over again.
It only takes a few more well-aimed thrusts before Bruce flinches through his second dry orgasm of the evening. Clark follows not long afterward, panting as Bruce shivers, then his eyes roll up into his head and he becomes dead weight.
He lowers his young lover down onto the bed, watching in satisfaction as he leaks from Bruce's abused hole, twitching and red-hot. Bruce's thighs are also splattered with seed and he's probably going to need a proper shower to get it all sorted. Maybe a bath, if his lower back isn't up to standing. Clark almost feels bad.
He cleans them up as best he can without moving Bruce, then snuggles up and calms his own heart down to match the rhythm of Bruce's.
He's the first to wake up the next morning so he just gets to enjoy seeing Bruce's naked body stretched out in the rare Gotham sunny day.
"You ruined me." Bruce mutters in complaint. "Why am I subjected to sunlight."
"You're not gonna melt."
"No, I'm going to get a sunburn."
"Nah, you're stronger than that."
Bruce peeks a contemptuous eye out from under the sheets. "I'm pale, Clark. You should be lucky I'm not a redhead, or I'd have sunburn already."
"You're dramatic." He chuckles.
Bruce pulls the covers back up. He laughs and leans down to kiss the blankets where Bruce's head is.
"I'm going to make breakfast. Did you want anything specific?"
"Coffee. And espresso."
"I meant as in food, but okay." He kisses the top of Bruce's head once more and ambles away. He loves Bruce so much.