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Need. Clark’s entire life was dictated by it.
At his job:
“Kent, I need that piece on that missing fighter pilot now!”
“Hey Clark, can you to look over these photos with me before I show them to Perry, help me pick the best one? I don’t want to get yelled at again today.”
“Smallville, where the hell were you? Superman fights off Livewire right outside the Planet and you’re AWOL again!”
At his real work:
“Superman! Over here! Please, oh God, hurry, they need your help!”
“You’ll need to try harder than that if you want to stop me, Son of Krypton!”
“Superman, could I have a word with you about this space station that Batman has proposed as headquarters for the League? I have concerns. Many.”
Even in his off time:
“Come on Clark, you promised that the next time you came over we could work on that “Flying Grayson” aerial combo I came up with. Pleeeease?”
“Clark, honey? It’s Mom. I really hate to call you so late, but it’s just so hard to get a hold of you in the daytime, and well…sometimes a mother just needs to hear her son’s voice to know he’s all right.”
“Kal-El, I know Kansas was no Themyscira, but if you hope to best an opponent who is as well-versed in the art of war as I, you must expand your knowledge of martial weapons. Try again, this time, grip the sword higher up the handle.”
Needs. Demands. Always.
“Please, help us!”
“Fight me!”
“Emergency staff meeting in five!”
“Do you have a minute?”
“Smallville, I need you to—”
“Clark, I want—”
“Kal-El—”
Noise. Need. Constant, unending.
“Kal—”
Never enough. No matter what he gave, it was never enough, it never stopped--
“My boy, l want you to look at me.”
Bruce’s voice, dark and rich, wrapped itself sweetly around Clark’s mind. It muffled the constant chorus in his mind, repressed them as surely as the kryptonite ring on his finger repressed his superpowers. A hand clad in a black leather glove caressed the line of Clark’s cheekbone, cradling his face and forcing him to look up. Bruce’s eyes were bright, the ice blue piercing through Clark’s core to the secret heart of himself.
“Tell me, boy. Tell me what you want.”
Clark took a deep, steadying breath. He was kneeling at Bruce’s feet, naked save for an intricate series of blue leather straps connected by chrome-plated rings. He felt exposed, especially in contrast to Bruce’s black leather outfit that covered him from the neck down, save only for his muscled arms. He’d ached for this moment, this feeling, for what felt like forever.
“I want to surrender to you, Sir.”
The scar on the top of Bruce’s lip twitched up as he gave a quick, little smirk. Clark’s heart leapt. Years they’d been doing this, playing these games, honing these roles, and each time he still thrilled at just how very lucky he was to have found a such a kindred spirit in Bruce. Unconditional love, unconditional trust.
The hand cradling Clark’s face tightened. “Oh, I already have your surrender, boy. I had it the moment you dropped to your knees and offered your neck up to my collar.” Bruce’s other hand tugged at the ring attached to the thick, leather collar encircling Clark’s throat. “I can see it in your eyes, my boy. You need something special tonight.” Bruce leaned down, just enough to graze his lips across Clark’s earlobe. “Tell me what you want, and it is yours.”
“I want to forget.” The words slipped from Clark’s lips before he could stop them, pulled from his heart by Bruce’s silken rasp.
“And what would make you forget, my boy?” Bruce hummed. He didn’t ask what Clark wanted to forget—he already knew. Clark knew he felt exactly the same.
My duty. My responsibilities. My mission. My past. My future. My names. Myself.
“Fire,” Clark whispered. “I want…I want to burn tonight.”
Bruce grinned, dark and eager. When Bruce smiled like that, Clark knew he was in for a memorable night. It made Clark’s belly flutter, anticipation racing through him in a shivering current.
“Then burn you will, my boy. When I’m done with you there’ll be nothing left in that beautiful mind of yours but dancing flames. Is that what you want?”
“Yes, sir.” Clark sighed. He leaned into Bruce, drinking in his warmth, his solidness. He breathed in deep, relishing the earthiness of polished leather mingling with Bruce’s musky sweat. Clark lived for this secret scent, raw and rich. Already he was forgetting who he was, what he was. Here, like this with Bruce, he was just flesh and want.
So much want.