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“Transfer’s pending,” Clark heard Tim say from the kitchen, his voice muffled by the wall between them. “Any chance you’re open for a repeat contract?”
Clark paused on the Cave stairs, one hand on the banister. Tim didn’t sound distressed, and he wasn’t in the Cave, so it wasn’t vigilante business. Wayne Enterprises business, maybe?
He continued up toward the Manor, shrugging off the strange feeling of crossing from one world to the other as he took the landing through the butler’s pantry and into the kitchen.
“Hey, Tim, have you seen Bruce?” Clark asked. Tim would know where Bruce was, at the very least. Or he’d have an idea. “I’ve been calling him all morning. We were supposed to go over the --”
Clark cut off as his eyes landed on Slade Wilson -- Slade Wilson -- on the other end of the kitchen island, feet kicked up onto a stool like he owned the place. Tim was seated to his right, bent casually over a mug of coffee.
Slade was freshly showered, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends. His good eye flicked up at Clark’s arrival, scanning him briefly before dismissing him as a threat.
Clark could feel his eyes begin to burn, instincts prickling at the idea of Slade -- Slade -- in Bruce’s house. In his kitchen. Just the sight of Slade put his teeth on edge.
“Slade,” Clark said, from between gritted teeth. His shoulders pushed back, fists clenching at his sides as he prepared for whatever this was about to be -- a fight, a hostage situation, anything in between.
The other man seemed to ignore him entirely, pushing off of the stool. He set his mug -- mug? -- on the island, giving Tim a nod that might have, once upon a time, been called respectful.
“Let me know when he wakes up,” Slade said to Tim, eye flicking briefly toward the ceiling. “You have my number.”
There was little confusion in Clark’s mind as to who he was. His mind instantly sorted through several possibilities -- Bruce being injured, incapacitated, or tied up somewhere -- and discounted them as he located the familiar heartbeat in the back of his mind, steady as ever.
Bruce was upstairs in the master bedroom, likely still asleep. And Slade Wilson was in his kitchen chatting up one of his kids like this was a typical occurrence.
Tim, taking after his other siblings, looked amused instead of intimidated by Slade’s antics. “I do.”
“Good.”
With little preamble, Slade turned on his heel and headed for the front door. Clark watched him like a hawk as he went, waiting for the other man to take one step out of line.
“Oh,” Slade paused on the threshold, craning his head over one shoulder. “Tell Bruce he’s almost out of shampoo, yeah?”
Clark went still, processing the pointed admission. Slade’s movement toward the door had kicked up more of his scent, and now that he knew to look for it --
That was Bruce’s scent. Bruce’s shampoo, Bruce’s sweat -- Slade smelled like Bruce, even after he’d clearly taken a shower.
Clark felt his face begin to heat up, a knot of emotion building in his chest. Slade’s good eye flicked back to him, full of obvious amusement even if the man didn’t outright smile.
Tim’s gaze swung lazily between the two of them. His lips curved into a smile, genuine and yet utterly Bruce-like. “Will do. Later, Slade.”
“Later, kid,” Slade said to him. He winked at Clark. “Big Blue.”
It felt like years before Slade cleared the property entirely, though it had likely only been a few minutes at the most. Clark forcibly relaxed his shoulders as he felt Slade’s heartbeat cross the property line, eyes slowly dimming as the threat diminished.
Alfred set a mug of hot coffee on the island next to Tim. Clark took the implied suggestion, seating himself as his body struggled to remember how to be human.
“Well,” Tim said, making a face at his phone. “That was fun. And expensive.”
“What was he doing here?” Clark asked, reaching for his coffee. He closed his hands around the mug, feeling the ceramic creak slightly in his grip.
Bad. Very bad. If he broke one of Alfred’s mugs, it was all over.
Tim opened his mouth to reply, only to be cut off by the near-soundless tap of footsteps on the stairs. Clark caught a flash of something he’d almost call glee before Tim looked away, busying himself with his phone again.
“Clark?”
Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Bruce in a knee-length robe and nothing else, pushing a hand back through sleep-rumpled hair. The other man padded barefoot into the room, bringing a wave of scent with him as he headed for the stove.
Slade’s scent.
“I didn’t expect to see you until later,” Bruce continued, not waiting for Clark’s response. “Diana said we could push that meeting until three. We’re still waiting on the final resolution to be submitted, but it shouldn’t be any later than midday here.”
Despite Bruce’s casual attitude, it was the most bare skin Clark had seen on the man that wasn’t photoshopped on a magazine or covered in blood from an injury. Even when he’d come over for coffee in the mornings before, Bruce had still been fully dressed. Dressed down, certainly, but not like this.
Bruce poured a healthy mug of coffee from the carafe, putting his back to the island. His head tilted to the left as he set the carafe back on the stove, revealing the stretch of his bare neck.
There were marks on his neck -- red nips and darkening bruises just under the robe’s collar. Not injuries -- they were too shallow to be injuries. But that meant--
“Clark?”
Clark blinked, realizing that everyone in the room was looking at him. “I. Uh. I got your message about reviewing the draft resolution early. But when I went to the Cave, you weren’t there.”
Bruce made an indecipherable sound, glancing over the rim of his mug at Tim. Tim stared back at his adoptive father, perfectly expressionless.
“My apologies,” Bruce said, turning back to Clark. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
“Please don’t rush on my account,” Clark said quickly, Midwestern instincts rising to the surface. “We can reschedule--”
“Ten minutes,” Bruce said, already heading for the stairs. His mug was full and brimming, perfectly balanced in one hand. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Clark’s protests died on his tongue. He deflated as the door to the stairs shut behind Bruce, sinking back into the kitchen stool.
Slade’s scent lingered on the air, intermingled with Bruce’s shampoo and sweat. It dug into his nose, strengthening in intensity the longer Clark tried not to think about it.
“Hey.”
Clark looked up. Tim was waving a hand in front of his face, eyebrows raised. “Y-yeah?”
Tim made a vague, circular gesture at his eyes. “You’ve got some…”
Clark shut his eyes, feeling his cheeks begin to burn all over again. “Right. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
Bruce arrived in the Cave exactly ten minutes later. To Clark’s horror, he hadn’t showered -- or even stuck his head under the tap, it seemed -- and had dressed in a loose t-shirt and sweatpants.
It was the most rumpled and underdressed Clark had ever seen him. And yet, Bruce made even the most threadbare and casual of clothing seem like haute couture.
The logical part of his mind desperately wanted to review the implications of Bruce finally meeting with him in something other than a turtleneck and slacks. The emotional part of his mind wanted Bruce to march back upstairs and get fully dressed, if only for his own sanity.
He still smelled like Slade, even with the new clothing. When he sat down in the monitor chair across from Clark, more scent released into the air, making Clark’s nose wrinkle.
“Something wrong?”
“Thought I heard something in -- uh, Mexico,” Clark lied, quickly trying to backpedal. “All good now. Anyway. Did you want to look at the resolution?”
Mercifully, Bruce’s eyes shifted to the screen. He reached out, tapping at the keyboard to bring up the draft resolution. “I reviewed it last night. I didn’t have any additional notes from our last draft, unless you did?”
You had time to review it last night? a traitorous part of Clark’s mind asked. What exactly was Slade doing, then?
“I wanted to look at the clause in section three again,” Clark said, his eyes catching on Bruce’s neck as the other man looked up at a higher screen. “I -- uh. I thought the numbers looked a little wonky again.”
“Wonky?” Bruce asked, still not looking away from the screen. His lips curved slightly, which was basically a full-fledged smile from him.
“Wonky,” Clark said, defending the word choice with a frown. “I don’t know, what’s a better word for that? It’s wonky.”
Bruce exhaled through his nose, making an amused sound. Clark’s brain skittered off its tracks again, losing the loose hold he’d had on their conversation.
Bruce was happy. When was the last time that had happened? They’d all been stressed lately, Bruce especially. Gotham, Earth, the League -- it ate up his time and then, inevitably, his body, leaving his face thinner and lodging dark circles under his eyes that never seemed to disappear.
Now, even in the blue glow of his monitors, Bruce looked well-rested. Rumpled, slightly dirty, and smelling offensively of Slade Wilson, but -- happy. Relaxed, even.
Clark let himself stare as Bruce scanned through the section he’d pointed out, reviewing his changes. His eyes roved over the man’s disheveled hair (sweaty, uncharacteristically out of style), his neck (marked up on all sides), noting the way Bruce seemed to sit ever so slightly forward in his chair, putting the majority of his weight on his legs and not his glutes.
If he listened closely, he could hear the sound of something slowly dripping between Bruce’s legs, dampening the seat of his underwear under the sweatpants.
Heat flushed through him, hot and dizzying. The realization left him struck dumb, focused only on the sound -- and smell -- of Slade’s come between Bruce’s legs.
“Clark?”
Clark re-focused on the conversation, drawn away from feverish dreams of hunting Slade Wilson down and lasering him into chunks. Bruce was holding out a stylus to him, gesturing at one of the tablets hooked up to the screens.
“Map out the figures from the last draft?”
Clark nodded, drawing up the figures from memory. He sketched them out on the tablet, carefully waiting for the tablet to catch up with each stroke so he didn’t overload the application.
Next to him, Bruce shifted slightly in his chair. A hand drifted down to his hip, nudging absently at a handprint Clark could see hidden under the thin fabric of his t-shirt.
Bruce let out a subaudible sigh, eyes fluttering. The stylus snapped in half in Clark’s hand, scattering metal and plastic across the table.
Fuck. FUCK.
“Too fragile again?” Bruce asked, not floored in the least. He squinted at the pieces. “I thought I made this batch less brittle.”
Clark’s face was on fire again. He ducked his head, scooping the pieces of stylus into his hand.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Bruce said, waving him off. “I’ve got a whole box of them in the other room. Let me grab another one.”
Clark was treated to the torturous sight of Bruce pushing up from the chair, a hand drifting to the small of his back. A thin sliver of skin peeked out from under his t-shirt, releasing even more scent into the air.
He closed his fist around the shattered stylus, eyes sliding shut in defeat. There was something hot and churning in his gut, but for the life of him he couldn’t pull apart what was lust and what was anger.
Lust, he could deal with. He’d hidden the improbable, inappropriate crush he had on Bruce for years. But anger wasn’t something he was used to carrying around with him. At least, not for long periods at a time.
“Here.”
Clark accepted the stylus Bruce held out, not meeting the other man’s eyes. Bruce sat down next to him, glancing back up at the screens.
“Clark?”
“Right,” Clark said, feeling immensely stupid for the fifth time that day. He added the final set of figures at the bottom, holding the stylus like it was made of glass. “I think that was everything from the previous draft.”
Bruce made an approving noise, scanning through the figures. Did he sound slightly hoarse? Was Clark just imagining that?
“I see what you mean about the wonky numbers,” Bruce said after a moment. “We should call Diana. Those stats in column three don’t match up at all.”
The last thing Clark wanted to do right now was call Diana. She would see right through him. “Cool.”
“...Cool?” Bruce asked, spinning his chair to face Clark. “Did you just say cool?”
The full focus of Bruce’s attention was almost more than he could bear. Clark tried to hold the other man’s gaze, mimicking Tim’s unaffected expression from earlier. "Um."
“Why aren’t you breathing?” Bruce squinted at him, head tilting.
Clark immediately took a breath, trying not to choke as Slade’s scent hit the back of his throat. “I--what? Of course I’m breathing.”
“You weren’t, just then.” Bruce’s lips pressed together, slightly swollen from their usual size. “Is something wrong?”
Yes, Clark thought frantically to himself, I’m going insane.
“I saw him leave,” Clark said, mouth moving before he could fully process what he was saying. “Slade. Earlier.”
Bruce’s expression tightened. His posture went from relaxed to wary in less than a second, hips subtly shifting to let his bare feet find the purchase of the Cave floor.
“Oh?”
“What the hell was he doing here, Bruce?”
As soon as the words left his mouth, Clark regretted them. Bruce’s jaw clenched, chin drawing up like he was facing down an opponent. His expression shuttered, locking him out.
“That,” Bruce said quietly, “is none of your business.”
Clark recognized Bruce’s League voice -- the colder, authoritative tone that told errant members and fledgling superheroes to drop it, now. A part of him wanted to fold immediately, and do just that.
The rest of him was on fire. And he forged ahead with it blistering it under his skin.
“You’ve said it yourself a thousand times -- he’s dangerous. You won’t let the League work with him. You won’t let Dick near him,” Clark took a breath he didn’t need, regretting it immediately. “So why the hell would you let him--”
“Finish that sentence and you’ll regret it,” Bruce cut in, eyes brighter and colder than a winter’s day in Smallville. “What I do in my house is my own business. What I let people do in my house is my own business.”
“But--”
“Drop it, Kal.”
The sound of his Kryptonian name drew him up short. Clark shuddered, fists clenching in his lap. He wanted so much in that moment -- though whether that was to pummel Slade into the lithosphere was frustratingly unclear.
Bruce stood up before Clark could formulate a response. He shut off the monitors with a single keystroke, dismissing him without another word.
Shame flooded through him, hotter and stronger than anything else he’d felt that day. Clark pushed to his feet, stumbling after Bruce before the other man could reach the stairs.
“I’m sorry,” Clark said, gratified when Bruce hesitated at the foot of the stairs. “I’m -- look. I shouldn’t have said that. I’ve been going out of my mind worried something happened and I wasn’t thinking straight. Whatever happened, I know you had it handled. I trust your judgment.”
Bruce finally turned around. His eyes landed on Clark’s face, softening ever so slightly. Glacial indifference, melting by a tablespoon under his babbling apology.
Deep down, Clark still knew how to apologize to the Bat. He was the closest thing outside of the family to an expert, after this many years.
Any implication that Bruce didn’t know how to handle something was taken with the utmost offense -- and usually, Clark had learned, well-deserved offense.
“I did,” Bruce said quietly. “Have it handled, that is.”
Clark closed his eyes, willing away the images that sentence brought up. “Yeah. I know.”
A hand slid under his chin, tilting it up. Clark blinked his eyes open, utterly confused.
“You’re hard,” Bruce said, clinical and matter-of-fact as ever. His gaze dipped down to Clark’s jeans, pointed. “Is that for Slade?”
The world seemed to go still around him, drawing to a point around the fingers tucked under Clark’s chin. “W-what?”
“You’re aroused, Clark,” Bruce clarified, tapping at his jaw. “Are you jealous of me, because I slept with Slade?”
“I’m jealous because you slept with Slade?” Clark repeated, shaking his head minutely. “You -- you have it all wrong. Jesus, Bruce.”
“Elucidate it for me, then.”
Clark stared at him. Bruce stared back, defiant to the end. They were frozen at the foot of the stairs, facing off like the Cave was a battlefield.
The fire burned in his chest, emboldening him again. He wanted, more than anything.
“I am jealous,” Clark reached out, sliding his hand around the handprint Slade had left on Bruce’s hip, “of this.”
This close, he had the pleasure of watching as Bruce’s pupils dilated from the contact, black expanding across the solid blue of his iris. He inhaled ever so slightly as Clark’s hand slipped under his shirt, pressing against bare skin.
That. That smelled like arousal, completely independent of Slade’s scent.
Clark pulled his hand away, taking a step back. He cleared his nose with a shake of his head, trying to regain something close to clarity.
He was making a move on his best friend. He’d touched Bruce, without permission. And Bruce still hadn’t said anything.
Clark cursed Slade Wilson’s name. He wanted to find Slade and throttle the man for being able to so easily have what was utterly forbidden to Clark.
What Clark would never see ever again, in all likelihood: Bruce, unrestrained, trembling under his fingertips. The scent of Bruce’s arousal in his nose, knowing he was the cause of it.
“I’m sorry,” Clark said, regretting it all. “I shouldn’t have -- I’m sorry.”
Bruce’s hand snagged his wrist, a symbolic effort to stop him from leaving. Clark sagged under his touch, defeat surging through every cell in his body.
Somehow, Bruce’s disappointment was always worse than his anger. And Clark knew, without even looking at Bruce’s face, that he wouldn’t be able to withstand it this time.
Lips pressed to his cheek, whisper-soft. Then to the corner of his mouth, there-and-gone. Plush lips, soft skin, the smell of coffee, gone before he could remember to chase it.
Clark’s eyes flew open, his self-hatred abandoning him in one swift motion. He grabbed the back of Bruce’s neck, bringing their lips together in time with the next kiss.
They ended up pressed against the wall of the stairs, Bruce’s legs wrapped up and around his hips. They kissed desperately, like long lost lovers. Like familiar partners. Like this was all just one more step forward, when they already knew so much about each other.
Clark kissed away the remnants of Slade’s scent from Bruce’s mouth. He covered Slade’s marks on Bruce’s neck with his own, sucking into the delicate skin under Bruce’s jaw until the man shuddered against him, making a noise he’d never heard before.
They were both desperately hard when they broke for air, Bruce’s legs still wrapped around his waist. Clark tipped his head forward, breathing in at the juncture of Bruce’s neck and shoulder where his scent was strongest.
“Bedroom,” Bruce said, sounding slightly breathless. “Now.”
Clark tumbled them into Bruce’s bed, speeding them up the stairs and past the rest of the Manor in the blink of an eye. The second his hands hit Bruce’s sheets, he realized his mistake.
The room smelled like Slade. The sheets reeked of him. There was an open container of lube on the nightstand, displayed for all the world to see.
Bruce shifted them so he was in Clark’s lap, smoothing out the line between Clark’s brows with his thumb and a slow drag of his hips against Clark’s groin.
Clark stared at the crown molding on the ceiling, harder and more uncertain than he’d ever been in his life. He wanted to crush Slade Wilson’s head between his hands. He wanted to hold onto Bruce and never let go of this moment.
“So that’s what it looks like.”
Clark refocused on Bruce’s face above him. “What?”
“Jealousy,” Bruce said, trailing a hand down Clark’s chest. “That’s what you look like when you’re jealous.”
Clark grabbed Bruce’s hand before it could reach his waistband. Bruce’s eyes flicked up to his face, coy.
“Are you,” Clark swallowed, clearing his throat. “Are you teasing me?”
Bruce cast a dismissive glance around the room, lingering briefly on the pillows and sheets kicked off the bed onto the floor. “Explain.”
“The room smells like him.”
“Hn,” Bruce said, wrist still frozen in Clark’s grasp. Still hard against him, pressed up along Clark’s thigh. “So I still smell like him.”
“You’re not helping.”
“Maybe,” Bruce’s other hand returned to his chin, tilting it back up, “I want it to bother you, a little bit.”
Clark looked up at him, laid bare. His eyes flickered intermittently, beholden to some instinct far beyond him in this moment.
“It does bother you,” Bruce said quietly. “Doesn’t it?”
Clark didn’t dare breathe. He nodded as much as Bruce’s hand would let him. “I want to fuck it out of you.”
Bruce’s smile came easily, like the dawning sun. Like the smile in the Cave, earlier. With relief.
“Please do.”
It took less than a quarter of a second to flip Bruce onto his stomach. Clark spread his legs apart, tugging the sweatpants down with frantic, blurry hands.
“Not a fan of missionary?” Bruce asked, cool as a cucumber. Clark knew better. His heartbeat was starting to pick up, capillaries dilating and rising to the surface of his skin.
“Not today,” Clark, splitting Bruce’s t-shirt down the back and casting that aside too. Underneath him, Bruce made a soft, interested noise.
“And if I want to do more than just get fucked again?”
Clark shrugged one shoulder as he slid Bruce’s underwear down, ignoring the damp patch spread along the back. “Fuck the mattress, then.”
He could tell how that jab landed just from the way Bruce’s back rippled, muscles shifting as he spread his legs further apart. Clark’s hand slid down the curve of his ass, fingers dipping into the crease.
“We didn’t use a condom,” Bruce said, clearly not too put out by it. “If you want to, we--”
Clark plunged two fingers into Bruce’s ass, testing the stretch. Bruce shuddered beneath him, muscles tensing as they slid deep into him.
He tried not to think about how easy the slide was. About how open and wet Bruce still was. About what, exactly, was slicking him from the inside, this many hours later.
A third finger slipped in with only the slightest hint of resistance. Clark curved them upwards, slowly scissoring them as Bruce let out a measured breath into the sheets under his face.
He didn’t need to ask if it felt good. He could smell Bruce’s pre-come leaking up into the air between them. He could feel the way Bruce’s hips tried to push back against the intrusion, seeking out deeper purchase. He could see the outline of his cock through his body, trapped against the mattress and filled with swirling blood.
Clark reached for the lube on the nightstand, swiping from the side that hadn’t been used. It was clearly expensive, smooth and slick between his fingers where normal lube was faintly grainy.
When he added a fourth finger, Bruce let out an amused noise. Clark paused, concerned he’d missed something. A sign of pain, or discomfort.
“Nothing,” Bruce said, slightly muffled. “Keep going.”
Clark had never been one to ignore direct orders from the Bat. He slid four fingers into Bruce, waiting until they could stretch fully before he withdrew.
It took a moment to slide his jeans and boxers off, and then he had a slick hand closed around the length of his cock. He shuddered again, feeling the heat rising up in his gut again as he positioned himself along Bruce’s back.
Bruce gripped the mattress edge as Clark pushed into him, making a strangled noise in the back of his throat. His cock slid in inch by inch, Bruce hot and slick and open around him, trembling underneath him.
“Did he fuck you like this?” Clark asked, taking a breath as he bottomed out.
“He fucked me in a lot of ways, Clark,” Bruce said, sounding slightly exasperated. Clark could tell he was smiling even without looking. “It was a long night.”
That was a challenge, if he’d ever seen one. Or maybe it was just bait. Clark’s mind couldn’t tell the difference right now.
“It took him a whole night to get you that relaxed?” Clark asked, giving Bruce a few moments to adjust. They were both holding themselves still, bodies taut against each other.
“I think that was mostly the eight hours of consecutive sleep,” Bruce said, pushing up onto his elbows. He was remarkably composed, considering how he felt around Clark. “Are you going to start? Or am I going to have to do all the work?”
Slade might have fucked Bruce within an inch of his life, but Clark could worship him in a way Slade never could. The man was too heartless -- too self-involved, too carnal, too animal.
Clark began a slow, dirty grind of his cock up into Bruce. Bruce sighed into the sheets, relaxing fractionally against him. Every drag of his cock pushed Bruce’s hips into the mattress, grinding the man’s cock into the sheets.
His hands skimmed up Bruce’s back, ghosting up and down the outline of his spine. He slowly increased the pace of his thrusts, fucking into Bruce in gentle, swelling movements.
It wasn’t fucking, if Clark had to defend it later. It was lovemaking in the most carnal of ways, slick and sensual, between a partner who cherished and one who wanted to be cherished.
He kissed down the sides of Bruce’s neck, digging in his teeth when Bruce moaned. He sucked his pride and praise into the other man’s skin, overlaying Slade’s marks one by one. He slid his hands under Bruce’s chest, cradling the outline of his pecs and circling the pads of his fingers around his nipples.
The smell of arousal increased in the enclosed room. Bruce’s noises became more and more vocal as he continued his onslaught, breathy sighs becoming outright moans and, eventually, something that might have been Clark’s name.
Every time he felt Bruce’s body tense around him, preparing for orgasm, he slowed his thrusts, removing his hands from the man’s skin. No matter how Bruce twisted against him, hips bucking, legs twitching with impressive muscle, Clark didn’t relent.
One day, he would fuck Bruce through the night. But today, he wanted to make this one orgasm count -- drawn out and teased as it was. He wanted Bruce’s scent to overwhelm all traces of Slade, newfound pleasure pushed into all of the corners of the room, chasing out the stale remnants of arousal and sweat.
The fourth time Clark headed off an orgasm, Bruce let out a wet, trembling breath into the mattress. For him, it was as close to an admission of defeat as he’d ever verbalize.
“You’re beautiful,” Clark whispered, pressing a kiss into the top of Bruce’s spine. “You’re so beautiful like this. Every inch of you.”
The praise seemed to have a physical effect on Bruce. He pushed his face into the mattress, canting his hips back in a silent request.
Clark began to thrust more steadily, fucking long and deep into Bruce.
“Fuck,” Bruce moaned, muffled against the mattress. “Fuck, Clark, fuck--”
It was dizzying music to Clark’s ears. He fucked Bruce as fast as he dared, cherishing the slick slide of their bodies against each other, fitting together so perfectly, it seemed impossible. He knew Bruce, knew how close he was coming just from the way his breath stuttered in his throat, knew how angry Bruce would be if he denied him yet another time.
He reached down under Bruce’s body, grasping his cock. He jerked Bruce off in time with their thrusts, feeling the other man go rigid against him as he finally began to come.
Bruce’s orgasm was a beautiful, unfolding thing. He clenched down around Clark, coming over his fingers in a series of spurts as his hips thrusted wildly, seeking stimulation in both directions.
Clark released the hold he’d kept on himself, thrusting up two, three more times and coming deep inside of Bruce. He buried his face in Bruce’s neck as he came, pushing his come as deeply as he could into the other man.
When he could think again, he peppered kisses up Bruce’s sweat-slick back. The other man was breathing heavily, heart hammering in his chest like he’d just run a marathon.
It felt like the ending of a great era, the dawn of a new one right on its heels. Bittersweet and glorious, all at the same time.
Bruce rolled onto his back, uncaring of the mess around him. His lips curved upward, eyes painfully soft as they landed on Clark’s face.
Clark wanted, and he finally could. The noise Bruce made when their lips connected hit Clark like a gut punch.
Clark kissed him with the morning sun warming his back, and spared a passing thought for Slade Wilson.