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Bruce Wayne was not the type to be desperate.
If anything, desperation was something he dealt with constantly, usually in other people. Men and women alike tripped over themselves for his attention, mistook proximity for intimacy, mistook desire for entitlement.
They wanted him. No actually, most of them begged.
So this strange, gnawing sensation in his chest and gut unsettled him. It felt foreign. Unwelcome.
Almost humiliating.
He had never quite realized how much sexual frustration he carried with him, packed away neatly like everything else in his life. Even when he did sleep with someone -and he did- often enough satisfaction never followed. No matter how skilled or eager his partner was, the feeling faded too quickly, leaving him hollow and bored out of his mind.
No one ever lived up to the expectation. Women, men, it didn’t matter. No one felt enough for someone like Bruce Wayne.
Women had always been part of the equation, of course. Publicly, they were the safest option. Privately, though, he leaned more towards men, at least physically. Still, that didn’t mean much. None of the men he slept with ever felt worth keeping around. Dating was laughable, impractical at best. Being Batman didn’t leave room for emotional attachments, and Bruce had long since convinced himself he didn’t want them anyway.
That night, he returned to the manor later than usual.
Patrol had been brutal, unusually sloppier, angrier. He’d come home with fresh bruises and a couple of new injuries, all of which Alfred dutifully patched up while delivering his familiar, disappointed commentary about Bruce’s age and recklessness. Bruce barely listened.
Even after the pain dulled and the adrenaline wore off, something else lingered.
He was frustrated.
He was unbearably, distractingly horny, far more than usual, and he couldn’t pinpoint why. Maybe it was the heightened intensity of the mission.
Whatever the cause, the sensation clung to him stubbornly.
Still, he wasn’t in the mood to deal with it.
Lying in the dark, he let his thoughts wander despite himself. What did he even want? Lately, the image of an ideal partner had been intruding more often than he cared to admit.
Someone strong, physically imposing. Bruce was no small man, nor a weak one, but the idea of someone bigger, taller, someone who could match or overpower him, sent an unwelcome spark down his spine.
Blondes didn’t usually do it for him unless they were women. He liked someone outwardly friendly, effortlessly extroverted and a tad dorky, someone he could be around without constantly performing, that would have a contrasting personality to his more quiet and reserved one.
And yet, that same person would be dominant, sharp-edged, unapologetically mean once the bedroom door closed.
…That sounded uncomfortably familiar.
Superman.
Bruce scoffed quietly at himself.
No. Absolutely not. It had nothing to do with Clark Kent.
Sweet, unbelievably innocent and lovely Clark, who was about as straight as an arrow. A poor choice of words, considering Oliver Queen existed, but still. Clark was his best friend. Untouchable. Off-limits in every conceivable way.
He was desperate, sure…but not that desperate.
Annoyed with himself, Bruce shoved the thoughts aside and slid beneath the covers, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow, he had a Justice League meeting: patrol reports, inter-city coordination, discussions about funding. And, as always, the bill would come out of Wayne Enterprises’ pocket.
Eventually, exhaustion won out.
His eyes finally closed, and with the way his body ached and his mind throbbed, he allowed himself to hope, just a little, that sleep would come quickly and without dreams.
Bruce’s wrists were bound behind his back with a beautiful red ribbon, silk-smooth, tied with deliberate care. Not too tight to hurt, not loose enough to escape.The fabric pressed gently into his skin, warm from his body heat.
Beneath him, a soft blanket cradled his back, its texture so soothing that for a brief, dangerous moment, his mind tried to accept the sensation as comfort.
Then awareness snapped into place.
Panic followed immediately.
His breath hitched as he took in his surroundings, his thoughts scrambling to make sense of where he was. This wasn’t his bedroom. It looked similar enough to confuse him, dim lighting, expensive fabrics, but everything felt wrong, slightly blurred at the edges, like a memory rather than a place.
“Aren’t you cute, Bruce?”
The voice came from behind him, low and familiar. A large hand slipped under his chin, tilting his face upward with infuriating ease.
Bruce’s heart lurched.
Clark stood in front of him.
Superman, Clark Kent, Bruce’s -stupidly attractive- best friend, looked exactly as he always did: calm, impossibly kind, smiling with that soft warmth that had disarmed half the world. His thumb brushed along Bruce’s jaw, unhurried, almost too gentle.
Bruce stared up at him, mind short-circuiting, caught somewhere between disbelief and outrage.
“What did you just call me?” Bruce snapped, irritation bleeding through his voice.
“Cute?” Clark echoed, smile widening slightly as he let his hand fall away.
“Who the hell do you think you’re calling cu—” Bruce started, but the words died in his throat.
Clark suddenly grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked him closer, the shift so abrupt it stole Bruce’s breath, leaving only an inch or two at best between their noses.
“I don’t think I appreciate that tone,” Clark said mildly. His expression never changed. That gentle smile stayed firmly in place, making the moment infinitely more unsettling.
Bruce’s thoughts spiraled: confusion, anger, something far worse twisting together in his chest.
He was aroused by it.
“I’ll call you whatever I please, whenever I want. Understood, Whore?” Clark continued calmly, not letting go of Bruce’s hair.
He pushed Bruce back against the bed with effortless strength, sitting in front of him and pushing the older man’s hips onto his.
Clark slid a hand on Bruce’s chest, gently pressing one of his pecs, looking hungrily at him straight into his uneasy and almost confused eyes.
“I’m sure by the end of this,” Clark added softly, “you’ll be as obedient as a puppy.”
Bruce woke with a sharp inhale, sitting upright in his bed long before his mind caught up to his body.
His heart was pounding. His skin felt too warm, with sweat dripping from his slightly wrinkled forehead.
It took a few seconds for him to realize where he was, his real bedroom, the familiar darkness, the steady silence of Wayne Manor. The dream clung to him stubbornly, vivid and humiliating in its clarity.
He lifted the blanket cautiously and let out a quiet, irritated sigh.
At his grown age? A wet dream?
Unbelievable.
He stripped the sheets from the bed and bundled them into the laundry with more force than necessary, silently hoping they’d be cleaned and dried before Alfred noticed anything suspicious. Explaining that was not on his agenda.
After a quick shower, he headed downstairs for breakfast, though it was closer to brunch, given how late he’d slept in.
“You slept incredibly peacefully last night, Master Bruce,” Alfred remarked pleasantly as he set a plate in front of him. “I didn’t hear you wake even once.”
“I guess” Bruce muttered, poking at his food with little appetite.
He finished quickly and retreated to the Cave, suiting up with mechanical efficiency. Gear checked. Utility belt stocked. Thoughts firmly locked away. The Zeta Tube activated, and moments later, he arrived at the Watchtower.
Everyone else was already there.
Several heads turned in surprise, Batman was rarely late, quite the opposite, he usually arrived first.
“Well, look who finally made it,” Hal quipped, and Batman leveled him with a glare sharp enough to wipe the grin right off his face.
“I overslept,” Bruce said evenly as he took his seat. “Patrol was rough last night. My apologies.” Everyone moved on pretty quickly considering this was a first for the bat.
The meeting continued as usual, reports, patrol zones, logistics. Everything felt normal.
Until Bruce looked up.
Oh no.
Superman stood across the room, bright and relaxed, laughing easily with the others. The same warm smile from the dream was there, harmless and familiar.
Bruce felt his stomach drop.
And suddenly, sleep didn’t feel restful at all.
It was gonna be a long day.
The meeting wrapped up within an hour or two. Frankly, everyone had better things to do, cities to protect, disasters to prevent, and Bruce’s only real contribution had been swiping his credit card and openly criticizing every suggestion Hal made. Some habits never changed.
At some point, Bruce found himself drifting.
His attention settled on Clark as he delivered Metropolis’ patrol report, standing tall at the center of the room, posture relaxed but confident.
God.
He was so hot.
Bruce’s gaze dragged slowly over him, an instinctive, lingering judgement he didn’t bother fighting anymore. Clark was striking in a way that felt unfair even to someone like him: broad shoulders, an easy stance, and a presence that filled the room without trying. Bruce had seen beautiful people his entire life, had been surrounded by them, desired by them, but Clark was different.
Clark’s smile alone could light up an entire room.
It was genuine. Always. Never practiced, never calculated. Not the polished, camera-ready expression Bruce wore like armor at galas and board meetings. Clark smiled because he felt like it, because joy came easily to him.
He was adorably dorky, too, soft around the edges in a way that made people underestimate him. He looked like he should be clumsy, like he’d trip over his own feet.
And yet, he never was.
Not like the Clark Bruce’s mind had betrayed him with the night before.
That Clark felt the same at his core, warm, familiar…but wrapped in something…Sharper, Dominant.
Bruce’s thoughts spiraled despite his best efforts.
He imagined Clark forcing him down, the sheer ease of it, the way he’d look up at him from the ground, angry, bratty, breathless, stripped of control. He imagined that infuriating smirk, Clark’s quiet amusement at how thoroughly he’d reduced Bruce Wayne to something small and pliable.
Like he owned him.
The thought sent an unwanted shiver down his spine.
He wondered if Clark would be into spanking. How those broad, gentle hands would feel striking hard enough to leave him breathless, eyes watering, stars bursting behind his eyelids.
And then his thoughts drifted somewhere else entirely, that maybe the size was just as proportional somewhere under the—
“B! Wanna hang out with us?” Bruce snapped back to reality as a familiar, warm voice cut through his thoughts. A large hand settled on his shoulder.
Too solid. Too real.
His hands… are way bigger than I remembered, Bruce thought helplessly.
He was grateful for the cowl, for the way it hid the flush that had crept up his cheeks and stubbornly refused to fade.
“You never stick around this long after a meeting,” Clark continued cheerfully. “We were thinking of going for—”
Bruce slapped Clark’s hand off his shoulder.
“I’m busy,” he said curtly, far more embarrassed than he meant to sound.
If there was one person he needed distance from right now, it was Clark.
Kryptonian fantasies were not something he could afford to entertain.
“You never want to hang out with me, B,” Clark said, pouting slightly. “So much for being best friends.”
Sometimes, Bruce thought Superman was just a very large dog. When Clark didn’t get his way, he defaulted to physical affection, crowding Bruce’s space, wrapping him up in unyielding warmth.
And sure enough, Clark pulled him into a hug before Bruce could react.
“Clark—let go,” Bruce hissed, trying to pry himself free.
Clark ignored him completely.
“Can I come over?” Clark pleaded, tightening his arms. “Please, Bruce. Pretty please?”
The pressure wasn’t painful, Bruce barely felt it, even with fresh stitches, but that wasn’t the problem.
The problem was that Bruce was painfully, undeniably hard under the armor.
“…Fine,” Bruce muttered tightly. “Just…let me go.” He said a little too helpless, wondering what was wrong with him that day.
Clark released him immediately, beaming like he’d just won something, entirely pleased with himself for securing time with his notoriously reclusive best friend.
“But i am actually busy Clark, if you’re gonna come over, do it tomorrow.” the bat scoffed at how eager his best friend wanted to be around him, especially considering the circumstances.
Bruce watched him walk away, dread pooling low in his stomach.
It was going to be an even longer day.
Clark worked faster than usual, fingers flying over his keyboard as he powered through his remaining tasks.
He wanted to get done as much as possible so he could just sprint to Wayne manor the next day without having to stay late at the office.
Even if he did some overtime, Metropolis and Gotham were only a ferry ride apart, but that didn’t stop him from worrying about the time.
Bruce wasn’t someone you kept waiting, not because he’d say anything, but because Clark knew he noticed.
It wasn’t every day he got to spend time alone with his best friend, and Clark wasn’t about to let his mildly stellar reporter career get in the way of that.
Clark had always liked Bruce a little too much.
You could call it a crush, if you wanted to be gentle about it.
You could call it a quiet, aching kind of love he never gave a name to, because naming it would make it real, and real things demanded to be faced.
Bruce lived in his thoughts more often than Clark ever admitted, slipping in between moments of work, patrols, quiet mornings, always there, steady and unmovable.
What unsettled him most was that it had nothing to do with certainty.
Clark had never been sure he even liked men like that.
Desire, for him, had always been rare, conditional, something that came and went with strange rules of its own.
But Bruce was different.
Bruce didn’t fit into categories, Clark understood.
Bruce was everything others weren’t.
Strong-willed, sharp, unyielding in a way that demanded respect without ever asking for it.
He carried the weight of the world with a straight spine and tired eyes, and still found room to be kind when no one was watching.
He was beautiful in ways that had nothing to do with symmetry alone, though Clark noticed that too.
The strong lines of his face, the icy blue eyes that saw far too much, the body marked by scars that told stories Bruce never spoke aloud.
And yet, for all of that, he was unreachable.
Not because he didn’t care, Clark knew better than that, but because some lines felt sacred once drawn.
Bruce was his friend. His partner. One of the few people he trusted completely.
Wanting more felt wrong, greedy, like trying to take something precious and make it his own.
Clark Kent, savior of the world, felt like the most selfish man on the planet for wanting Bruce Wayne in a way he was never meant to have.
Because he loved being with Bruce. Not Batman. Not billionaire playboy Brucie Wayne. Just Bruce.
With Clark, Bruce softened in a way no one else ever saw. He was quieter, calmer. Still sharp, still guarded, but not performing.
They could talk for hours, sit through a movie in companionable silence, or disappear to some quiet corner of the world where paparazzi couldn’t reach him. Clark suspected Bruce didn’t even realize how different he became.
Or maybe he did, and maybe that was exactly why he didn’t like it.
Being himself, in front of someone.
As Clark wrapped up another article, a flicker of doubt crossed his mind. Had he pushed too hard earlier? Bruce had been unbelievably busy lately, even by his standards. Clark had missed their evenings together more than he cared to admit.
Did Bruce actually want this visit?
Clark leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a moment. Then, inevitably, curiosity won.
He did what he did best.
He listened, after all, he had super hearing for moments like this too.
Bruce’s voice filtered through the air, tense and unmistakable.
“And why are you telling me this?” The woman on the other end sounded far too pleased with herself.
“Selina,” Bruce snapped, pacing audibly. “Who the hell else am I supposed to talk to about this? It’s a fairly unique… problem.”
Clark blinked.
Catwoman.
Well. That was unexpected.
Bruce didn’t talk about her often, even when they were dating she wasn’t much of a topic in their conversation.
All Clark knew is that after she left Gotham, they eventually reconnected, simply as good friends.
“He’s my best friend,” Bruce continued, his voice tight. “I feel guilty even thinking about him that way…and don’t laugh. I can hear it in your voice.” Bruce sounded adorably flustered, Clark thought to himself, before he realized who he was talking about.
Clark froze, heart stuttering.
Thinking about who?
“Well,” Selina drawled, utterly amused, “Superman huh…you truly have always been the submissive type.”
Bruce groaned audibly.
“I’m hanging up if you’re not going to be helpful.”
“All right, all right,” Selina relented. “So what’s the fantasy? Is it really that bad you wouldn’t even consider asking him? I mean…Superman would do almost anything for you.”
Clark swallowed.
“As if I could ask him anything like that!” Bruce let out frustrated.
“How am i supposed to help if you’re not gonna tell me?” She teased, with a tone a bit too flirty for Clark’s liking.
Bruce hesitated.
“He… tied me up.” Bruce almost felt sick at himself for saying something like that about his friend dearest.
Clark’s breath caught.
Confusion flared immediately, tied him up? Why would he, had Bruce been a danger to himself?
Clark’s concern spiked, but he forced himself to stay still, to keep listening.
“He grabbed my chin,” Bruce continued quietly. “Called me cute. Then he pulled my hair when I tried to argue.”
Clark’s pulse thundered in his ears.
“He said he’d make me as obedient as a puppy by the time he was done with me…”
Bruce fell silent.
When he spoke again, his breath shook slightly.
“He…oh god how do I even continue?”
Clark stood frozen in place, the office suddenly too quiet.
He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more, the content of the fantasy… or the undeniable truth settling heavy in his chest.
Bruce had been thinking about him too.
And Clark wasn’t sure he could pretend he hadn’t heard a word.
“Do you want him to do that to you?” Selina pressed gently, her voice lowering as she heard Bruce melt off embarrassment on the other end of the line.
“Well, if I’m being honest, I don’t know…i need a drink.” Bruce let out, frustrated with himself. “Nothing makes you more honest than a glass of——“
Clark flinched as something lightly smacked the side of his head, snapping him violently back into the present.
“Smallville,” Lois Lane said sharply, standing over him with a raised brow, “is that draft finished?”
Clark turned to her, clearly flustered. He was never good at hiding his reactions, his ears burned red, his expression open and panicked. Lois studied him for a second, suspicious.
“Is something wrong kansas boy?” she asked. “You left your stove on or—”
Before she could finish, Clark grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the nearest empty office, shutting the door behind them.
“What do I do,” he blurted out, words tumbling over each other, “if someone I’m very close friends with wants to sleep with me?”
Lois blinked.
Then smiled.
“Who is this about?” she asked, clearly entertained.
“I can’t tell you that,” Clark said quickly, already regretting opening his mouth.
“Oh, it’s absolutely Batman,” Lois said without missing a beat. “I knew it. Though I thought you’d be the one to—”
“Lois!” Clark cut her off, running a hand through his hair. “Can you please stop and listen?”
“You didn’t say no, so it is about Batman!” She grinned slightly, leaning back against the desk.
“He wants me to—oh gosh I can’t even say it,” Clark groaned, covering his face. “He just—he—”
“Finish the sentence, Micheal Jackson.” Lois said sarcastically. “I don’t have all afternoon.”
“He wants me to tie him up,” Clark rushed out. “And—be rough and mean!” He peeked at her through his fingers, mortified. “I don’t even know how I could do any of that.”
Lois smiled slowly, knowingly.
“So,” she said, “You want to do it.”
Clark straightened. “What? No! That’s insane!”
A knock at the door cut the moment short, Jimmy’s voice reminding them that if they didn’t get back to work, Perry would have their heads.
Clark returned to his desk on autopilot, Lois’s words echoing far too loudly in his mind. She hadn’t helped at all.
So he did the only other thing he could think of, flustered on his seat.
He listened, more.
Bruce’s voice drifted through the air again, lower now, looser, unmistakably tipsy.
“God,” Bruce muttered, a soft, humorless laugh following. “I’ve never wanted someone to fuck me this badly. Is it really that terrible to want to let go?”
Clark pressed his forehead lightly to his desk, mortified. Why him? Why would Bruce want this from him?
And worse, why did Clark feel that dangerous pull toward saying yes?
The answer came easy.
Clark loved Bruce.
He didn’t lust over him or want something out of him, he just relentlessly loved his best friend.
So this definitely came as a surprise to Clark.
He cared about Bruce. Deeply. The idea of hurting him, even accidentally, made Clark’s chest tighten painfully.
Bruce laughed again, quieter this time. “This is stupid. We’re talking about a guy who says ‘holy hay’ and ‘frick.’ What am I even thinking?” He sighed. “I’m being ridiculous.”
Clark clenched his jaw.
Was it really so impossible to imagine him as capable of more?
After all, he could fly and shoot laser beams from his eyes, being a little rough in bed wasn’t so unrealistic.
Plus, Clark surely had his own fun back in his college days.
“He’s a country bumpkin,” Bruce continued, clearly trying to talk himself down. “My expectations are way too high.”
Selina’s faint laughter echoed through the phone.
That did it.
Clark grabbed his bag, ended his shift early, and headed straight for home, thoughts racing.
If he was going to figure this out, if he was going to do right by Bruce…
He had some research to do.
Clark’s expression was troubled.
He stared at the screen, brow furrowed, utterly baffled by what he was watching. How could anyone enjoy this? The aggressive pacing, the lack of tenderness, the way everything seemed to begin without context or care. It all felt rushed, hollow and uncomfortable.
He’d already had to come to terms with the fact that sleeping with men wasn’t nearly as simple as he’d once assumed.
And judging by the way Bruce talked -about being put in his place by a strong and mean superman- Clark knew, with a strange mix of certainty and nerves, that he wouldn’t be the one on the receiving end.
And he wasn’t about to disappoint.
Still, none of this felt right.
He was in love with Bruce and he always treated him like he was made of glass.
Clark always contained his strength and made sure to be tender and gentle with the other, and now he was finding out that he’s been wanting the exact opposite.
Every video he found jumped straight into something already happening, no buildup, no connection. Just bodies and words thrown together with an intensity that made Clark’s shoulders tense.
The harsh language alone made his stomach twist. He couldn’t imagine himself ever speaking to someone in such a degrading way, especially not someone he cared about.
There had to be a reason. People didn’t wake up one day wanting to be treated like that.
A few careful searches led him down unfamiliar language, articles talking about control, vulnerability, the psychological weight of responsibility. Trauma. Conditioning. The way some people sought release not through pleasure, but through surrender.
Bruce was Batman.
He took hits every night, faced cruelty Clark rarely encountered, and bore the weight of an entire city on his shoulders. Gotham wasn’t Metropolis. Its villains weren’t theatrical, they were vicious. Twisted.
Maybe it had finally caught up with him.
Maybe Bruce didn’t want pain.
Maybe he wanted to let go, not be in control all the time.
The thought made Clark’s throat tighten.
None of what he’d watched stirred desire in him. If anything, it made him feel inadequate, too gentle, too soft, too much of the farm boy Bruce had laughed about.
Maybe Bruce was right. Maybe imagining Clark in that role was ridiculous.
The irritation surprised him.
Clark wasn’t someone who got annoyed easily, the idea that Bruce saw him as incapable, as harmless to the point of not being able to roleplay a bit, struck deeper than he expected.
He exhaled slowly, rubbing at his chest.
Desire had always come slowly to him, if at all.
But Bruce was different.
And pretending he hadn’t heard anything, pretending nothing had changed was impossible now.
After all, he was already three out of four steps in.
And frankly, Bruce never asked him for anything. Ever.
Yet Clark could list a dozen moments where Bruce had been there without hesitation.
Like when he sobbed pathetically on the phone after breaking up with Lois.
And even if she told him that he could obviously stay at their apartment, he was now sitting out in the cold on a bench, after lying that he already had somewhere to go and didn’t wish to stay.
And Bruce came, sat next to him and comforted him, even helped him find a new place, besides buying him dinner to cheer him up.
Bruce wasn’t good with words or feelings, sure, but when he needed him, he was always there for him.
Batman, brutal and relentless, had been impossibly gentle with him.
It hadn’t always been that way.
Bruce had distrusted him at first, and had every reason to. Clark had been too strong, too unknown, too alien. It had taken years of missions, of earned trust, of quiet understanding before Bruce had let him in.
They were opposites, night and day.
And maybe that was why this terrified him so much.
Clark did the only thing he knew to do.
He listened, once again.
Bruce’s voice drifted through the air, higher than usual, breath uneven, stripped of its familiar growl. Clark’s heart leapt painfully.
Was he hurt?
Then—
“Clark…”
Really Bruce? At this hour? Clark thought to himself, blush already showing up on his cheeks.
The way Bruce said his name made Clark’s breath hitch.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic.
It was vulnerable.
Clark covered his mouth with his hand, frozen, unable to tear himself away. He could hear movement, fabric shifting, breath catching and the realization of what Bruce was doing sent heat flooding up his neck.
He should stop listening.
Yet, he didn’t.
Bruce sounded nothing like the man the world feared. His voice was gentle, needy, almost shy as if unsure he was allowed to want this. It wasn’t obscene. It wasn’t crude.
It was intimate.
And somehow… so erotic.
The guilt hit him hard, sharp and immediate. This was wrong. Bruce would never forgive him for listening. Clark hated himself for it.
And yet…
His mind filled in the rest anyway. Bruce on his bed. The familiar sheets. The scars Clark knew by heart, each one earned, each one proof of what humanity owed him.
The thought of them only made his chest ache more.
He imagined touching Bruce carefully, reverently, kissing every scar, every place that carried history. The desire surprised him with its intensity.
He thought of Bruce in ways he could never forgive himself for, but frankly, who could blame him?
Clark remembered that scent vividly.
He remembered holding Bruce close while flying, Bruce’s fingers digging into his suit, trusting him completely.
And that trust…
That was what scared Clark the most.
Heat crept through Clark’s body, rising far above his usual temperature, enough that he actually noticed it. That alone should’ve been alarming, considering his body temperature is higher than the average man.
This was too much for him.
None of the exaggerated sounds and artificial performances from the videos on his screen compared. They felt fake, disconnected, and boring.
Nothing like Bruce’s voice. Nothing like the way his name sounded when Bruce said it.
Maybe it wasn’t men in general that stirred something in him.
Maybe it was just Bruce.
Clark couldn’t remember the last time his body had reacted like this. Desire had never come easily to him. Outside of rare, biologically driven cycles, arousal simply wasn’t something he dealt with. He never woke up with it, never felt it randomly, it always required very specific circumstances, if he was teased enough to feel it.
And this… this was definitely one of them.
He swallowed hard, ashamed of how intensely he was reacting, how quickly his thoughts betrayed him. His imagination filled in what the videos couldn’t, replacing unfamiliar faces with one he knew far too well. Bruce’s hands. Bruce’s breath. Bruce looking at him the way Clark had never imagined before.
Out of everyone in the world.
Bruce.
The guilt hit him sharply, even as he continued listening. Bruce’s voice, soft and strained, calling for him without knowing.
It was impossible to ignore.
Clark wondered what he was thinking about. What version of him existed in Bruce’s mind.
His hand shamefully slid into his pants, he imagined Bruce’s calloused and pale hands on his manhood, slowly stroking him while looking up at him with needy, innocent eyes.
To be fair, the older man wasn't any less guilty.
Clark moved his hand faster and faster. breathing heavily on his desk, he slowly unzipped his pants lower and without a second thought lifted his shirt up and held it with his teeth. He looked at the video still playing on his computer.
The guy was frail, with a ball gag on his lips and he was being treated so painfully aggressively that Clark had to close his eyes once in a while not to feel guilt.
Would Bruce like being gagged? Or was being tied up the best he could do?
Clark’s mind started betraying him, as he kept pumping his hands on his cock, without any self restraint.
he let out a heavy breath and he finally unloaded all over his hands and bottoms.
The screen in front of him blurred into irrelevance. The scene playing felt crude, wrong. The men on it lacked care and intention. Clark knew, instinctively, that whatever Bruce wanted, that wasn’t it.
He could do better.
He let out a sigh, embarrassed and ashamed of himself, he got up from his chair, set to clean up the mess he just ended up making.
The clean up was as uncomfortable as it was quick, and he sat back down disappointed in himself.
The realization settled heavily in his chest as the moment passed, leaving him breathless and shaken. When it was over, Clark leaned back, staring at the ceiling, face burning with embarrassment.
What had he just done?
He stood abruptly, needing distance, from the screen, from his thoughts, from himself and focused on grounding reality again. Cool air. Solid floor.
At some point, without realizing when, he’d accepted the idea of him and Bruce crossing that line.
Now there was only one problem left.
Not the intimacy.
Not the closeness.
But the part Bruce wanted most.
The lack of control, the degradation.
And Clark had no idea how to reconcile that with the way he cared about him.
But he had to do it.
For Bruce.
Bruce, meanwhile, was not doing any better.
After ending the call with Selina -and giving in far too easily to the thoughts that followed- he swore, quietly and bitterly, that he would never drink alone again. Alcohol loosened his control far too much, stripped him of the discipline he relied on to function.
He washed his hands, bracing himself against the sink as he stared at his reflection. The pink flush on his face stood out starkly against pale skin and sharp blue eyes.
What would Clark think if he saw him like this?
The answer came easily, cruelly.
Clark would be disgusted, hurt, violated, even. No matter how deep Bruce’s desire ran, he couldn’t ask something like this of Clark.
sweet, earnest Clark, who still said “holy hay” and meant it.
Bruce exhaled slowly.
Maybe he could find someone else. Someone similar enough to scratch the itch without tearing his life apart.
But where did you find another Clark Kent?
The charm wasn’t just physical. It was who Clark was. Someone who could make your knees weak one second and then smile, soft and dorky, like nothing had happened at all.
Bruce shook his head, forcing himself back into reality.
Nothing was going to happen. Clark was coming over the next evening, probably to watch a movie, maybe complain about work at the Planet. And Bruce would listen, like he always did.
He needed to get himself together. For Clark’s sake, and for patrol that night.
And sure enough, afterwards Bruce was exhausted.
He was Gotham’s Prince, yet the city never returned the favor. It took from him endless blood, sleep, sanity and never offered anything back.
He showered, letting the hot water strip the grime and sweat from his skin, grounding him. He went through his meticulous skincare routine and pulled on boxers and nothing else. The night air was warm, unusually gentle.
Sleep took him almost immediately.
For the first time in days, it felt peaceful.
Big, warm hands brushed over Bruce’s scarred skin.
The sensation pulled him under instead of waking him, his mind slipping easily into the dream. He became aware of himself slowly, too slowly.
He was sitting on the floor.
Bare.
The only thing touching his skin was a collar around his neck.
Oh.
So that was how this dream intended to go.
“I didn’t take you for the type to like this sort of thing.” Bruce said lightly, a teasing smirk tugging at his mouth.
It vanished instantly.
Clark’s hand tightened around the leather, pulling Bruce onto his lap with humiliating ease. The position was degrading, in a way that made his face burn.
Bruce Wayne, reduced to this. Too old. Too proud.
“Did I say you could speak?” Clark’s voice was low, steady, stripped of its usual warmth. “You’re shameless.”
It was the timber of voice Clark used when he was Superman.
He looked different here, hair neat, perfectly styled. A fitted black shirt, a matching tie, and his glasses on.
He didn’t have his usual dorky smile, he looked different…
He looked like someone in control.
Bruce shifted uncomfortably as one of Clark’s hands settled at the base of his back, anchoring him there, while the other toyed with the collar, teasing,
reminding him it was there.
Hearing words like that in Clark’s voice sent a jolt straight through him.
The touch along his back was gentle. Almost careful.
Too careful.
Then, suddenly—
A sharp sensation bloomed across his skin.
Bruce gasped.
It felt real. The heat lingered, unmistakable. Another followed immediately after, stealing his breath.
“You like this?” Clark said calmly, almost amused. “What a pervert.”
Bruce’s breath stuttered, his body reacting faster than his pride could keep up with
His boner pressed softly on Clark’s lap, while the younger man caressed softly the bruise he just marked him with.
And somewhere, deep down, he enjoyed this more than anything else he ever dared to let himself enjoy.
Clark’s fingers tracing the edge of the collar with deliberate slowness, as if savoring the way Bruce tensed beneath the touch.
“Look at you,” Clark murmured, voice calm, almost thoughtful. “You had so much confidence just a minute ago.” His thumb pressed lightly beneath Bruce’s chin, tilting his face up. “And you give it up so easily.”
Bruce swallowed hard, heat pooling low in his stomach.
The humiliation bruised him, but the arousal it caused was too good to fight back.
Clark leaned closer, close enough that Bruce could feel the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing. It was overwhelming and so unlike him to feel this small, this exposed.
“Looking so pathetic for me, Doll.” Clark continued quietly. “It suits you so well.”
The words struck deeper than anything else.
Bruce’s shoulders sagged, tension bleeding out of him in a way that felt almost painful. His eyes fluttered shut despite himself, his body responding to the permission he’d never let himself ask for.
Doll.
Clark’s southern drawl added a charm to it so unique it made Bruce weak.
Clark noticed.
A faint smile touched his lips.
“Oh, you like that?” he said softly. “Doll?”
The soft voice sent a shiver straight through Bruce, and the dream blurred at the edges.
sensations bleeding together, the room dissolving into warmth and pressure and the steady certainty of being held exactly where Clark wanted him.
While humiliating, it felt weirdly
Safe.
The darkness closed in gently after that, the dream slipping away before it could go any further, leaving only the echo of Clark’s voice behind.
The next morning, Bruce woke feeling oddly weightless.
For once, there was no sharp jolt of adrenaline, no immediate mental checklist, no instinctive reach for anything particular.
Instead, there was a lingering warmth, a softness in his body that left him relaxed, slightly dazed, floating somewhere between sleep and awareness.
Reality caught up with him a second later.
He sighed quietly, pushing the sheets aside and carefully stripping the bed yet again, cheeks heating with faint embarrassment as he tossed them into the hamper. It was ridiculous, truly, but the dream had left him unsettled in the strangest, most pleasant way.
His schedule was clear.
Actually clear.
Dick and Jason were gonna cover patrol that night, and for once Bruce hadn’t argued. With most of Gotham’s worst locked away in Arkham, there was little justification for him to push himself further. Not with the state he was in.
Bruce Wayne did not take breaks unless they were forced on him.
And this one very much was.
The medical scans at the Watchtower still lingered in his mind, too many injuries left to heal improperly, microfractures ignored, internal stress markers that concerned even the most battle-hardened members of the League. Everyone had voiced their objections. Loudly.
He hated that they were right.
His body ached in a dull, familiar way as he stood, the kind of pain that only came from long neglect rather than a single fight. It grounded him, reminded him he was still human, something he almost forgot, considering the crowd he hung out with.
He made his way to the bathroom, turning on the lights and studying himself in the mirror. Tired eyes. Faint bruising along his ribs. Scars layered over scars.
And yet,
There was something softer in his expression this morning. Something unguarded.
Bruce turned on the shower, letting the steam fill the room, fully intending to enjoy the rare luxury of a day off. No alarms. No cowl. No city clawing at his back.
Just quiet.
And, uncomfortably, the lingering echo of a dream he wasn’t quite ready to let go of.
Clark woke up a mess.
His sheets were twisted around his legs, his heart still racing as the remnants of his dreams clung stubbornly to his mind.
The dream was so vivid, overwhelming, and far too detailed for his liking.
He laid there for a long moment, staring up at the ceiling, heat pooling low in his stomach and creeping up his neck.
Pleasantly embarrassing didn’t even begin to cover it.
He groaned quietly and pushed himself out of bed, avoiding his own reflection as he gathered the sheets and stuffed them into the washing machine, his cheeks burning a furious red. This never happened to him. Not like this. He never woke up hard, like ever
Not in his teens, not during his relationship with Lois, not even on mornings that were supposed to be intimate. His body simply didn’t work that way.
And yet.
The images replayed without mercy the moment his mind drifted.
Bruce on his knees, vulnerable in a way Clark had never seen while awake. Gagged, eyes glassy, brushing his cheek along Clark’s leg as if seeking reassurance as much as permission. Crying, not in fear, but in desperate need…for Clark to take care of him.
The contrast was what shattered him the most.
Bruce Wayne, sharp-tongued and controlled, reduced to need. Stripped of pride and every shred of control.
Needy. Desperate but trusting.
It was a beautiful sight, terrifying in how deeply it reached into Clark’s mind.
Clark pressed his palms against the cool edge of the washer and exhaled slowly, trying to steady himself. He had faced collapsing buildings, alien invasions, and gods with less confusion than this. Whatever this was, it had settled under his skin, unwelcome and undeniable.
And worse than the embarrassment was the realization he couldn’t shake:
It wasn’t the situation that stirred him.
It was Bruce.
Clark wanted to hold him as much as he wanted to push him on the floor and rail him until his legs gave out.
The evening didn’t take long to arrive.
Clark flew higher than usual, far above the familiar air traffic lanes, dressed in his civilian clothes and wrapped in the quiet of the upper sky. The wind tugged gently at his jacket, cool and steady, grounding in a way the suit never quite was. He made sure he was high enough that not even passing planes could spot him, just another shadow drifting through the deepening blue.
He didn’t feel like suiting up tonight. If anything went wrong, if an emergency called for him, he could be back in Metropolis in less than a blink anyway. This flight wasn’t about duty or vigilance. It was personal, and that alone made his chest feel tight.
Cradled carefully in his arms was a bouquet of flowers.
He’d tried to keep it simple at first. That had been the plan. But the moment he explained, awkwardly, with his ears burning, that the person they were for had a rather gothic taste, the florist’s eyes had lit up with sudden inspiration. Clark hadn’t had the heart to stop her.
Black roses, dusted with fine, sparkly glitter that caught the light just enough to shimmer without being gaudy.
They practically screamed Bruce.
Even Clark, who didn’t pretend to understand aesthetics, could see how perfectly they fit him. Dark, dramatic, a little theatrical, but undeniably elegant, just like his friend.
They were a bit pricey, enough that Clark hesitated for half a second before handing over his card, but the thought barely lingered. Bruce deserved the very best. Always had.
Factually, he’d planned on getting chocolate too. That had been his first instinct. But standing in the store, staring at shelves upon shelves of brands and flavors, he realized with a dull pang that he didn’t actually know what Bruce liked. Not well enough. And that bothered him more than it probably should have.
What he did find, tucked away near the register, was a small bat plushie.
It was soft, a little silly, and honestly kind of adorable. Clark hesitated, then gently rested it atop the bouquet, adjusting it so it didn’t slip. The contrast made his chest ache in a strange, tender way.
Plus, after what he was planning to pull tonight…it felt like the bare minimum.
The thought alone made his stomach twist.
His heart beat harder as Gotham’s skyline came into view, dark spires cutting into the horizon like jagged teeth. He slowed just a bit, hovering, forcing himself to breathe. He was so incredibly nervous it almost felt ridiculous. He’d faced beings that could shatter worlds without flinching.
But this?
How would Bruce even react to Clark showing up with flowers?
The thought looped through Clark’s mind on the way there. Surprise, confusion, maybe even quiet amusement, he pictured every expression, wondering if he’d survive the sight of Bruce making fun of him like that.
Not that Bruce would ever make fun of him, not really, but even the possibility made his stomach twist.
Clark tightened his grip on the bouquet as he approached the familiar building. Every flight over Gotham felt longer than it should, every shadow of the city stretching his nerves taut.
He told himself it wasn’t a mistake. It couldn’t be.
He heard what Bruce wanted from him, he could do this one thing for his best friend.
Or perhaps he was the one waiting for a chance.
Just as he expected, Bruce’s reaction was immediate, and unmistakable.
The faint pink flush across his cheeks told Clark everything he needed to know: Bruce genuinely, unexpectedly, liked them. The older man held the bouquet delicately, looking at it in silent adoration.
“I hope they’re not too much…” Clark said, voice barely above a whisper, afraid to shatter the delicate moment.
“No, not at all…” Bruce murmured, lifting the bouquet slightly and inhaling the faint scent, careful not to press his nose too close to the glitter-dusted petals. “What for, though?”
Clark’s chest tightened. “Oh, I just… wanted to get you something nice…as a recovery gift! Everyone likes flowers, so… if you don’t like them, I’m—”
Before he could finish, something completely unexpected happened.
Bruce stepped forward and hugged him.
Clark froze for a moment, stunned by the sheer weight of it.
The warmth of Bruce’s body, the faint scent of his cologne, made Clark who just landed, feel like he was still mid air.
“Thank you,” Bruce whispered against his shoulder, voice low but sincere. “They’re really beautiful.”
Clark was as red as a tomato, so nervous he couldn't breathe properly.
“Is everything alright?” Bruce asked, worried for the other man’s reaction.
Clark choked a half-assed “yeah” while trying to compose himself.
He watched as Bruce’s blue eyes lingered back on the black roses for a moment longer than necessary, the faint blush still coloring his cheeks.
He then carefully handed the bouquet to Alfred, who had quietly appeared in the doorway to greet the younger man.
The evening settled in quietly.
The warmth of the lights of Wayne Manor and the soft hum of the city outside created the perfect romantic atmosphere.
They dined quickly, Bruce being surprisingly relaxed for the vigilante’s standards.
“Come on,” the older man said, voice soft. “I’ve already got the movie queued.” He gestured for Clark to follow him to the home theater.
The movie was a Thriller, not surprising since they both loved the genre to death, considering their line of work.
They talked occasionally, voices low, comments punctuated by small laughs. Bruce leaned back into the cushions, his usual intensity softened almost playful.
Clark noticed the way Bruce’s eyes lit up at the funny parts, the way he leaned forward just slightly when he laughed, shoulders relaxing in a way that made Clark’s chest tighten.
“This is too easy, i already figured out who the killer is” He laughed, slightly cocky in his tone.
“Already? There’s still like an hour left.” Clark looked at his friend baffled. “I think you’re just messing with me.”
“Wanna bet?” Bruce grinned, and Clark wasn't the type to refuse.
“Bets are on the daughter.” Bruce said, and Clark scoffed dramatically.
“That makes zero sense, it has to be the ex wife, I mean, she has every reason to.” Clark says, dead serious, while Bruce laughs at how naive the other is.
The movie kept going, dramatic as any old noir movie could be.
At one point, during a quiet scene, Clark shifted closer, so close that Bruce felt the brush of his arm along his own. Both froze for a second, a shared awareness that neither spoke aloud.
Bruce’s heart began to beat faster. He could see every detail of Clark’s face in the dim light, the faint red flush lingering across his cheeks, the sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his lips.
Neither of them moved right away.
His heart thudded in his ears, loud enough that he was convinced Clark was listening to it.
and he was.
Clark cleared his throat, eyes still fixed on the screen, though it was obvious he wasn’t watching anymore. “Relax,” he muttered, a teasing edge to his voice that didn’t quite mask the tension. “I don’t mind.”
Bruce let out a quiet, nervous huff, but he didn’t shift away. If anything, he stayed exactly where he was, shoulders brushing, legs just barely touching.
“I’m relaxed,” he said, far too quickly.
Clark hummed, amused. “You don’t sound relaxed.”
The movie droned on in the background, dialogue filling the silence neither of them wanted to acknowledge. Clark stole a glance at Bruce from the corner of his eye. His posture was looser than usual, one arm draped casually over the back of the couch, jaw unclenched, expression soft in a way Clark rarely got to see.
A sudden plot twist made Clark scoff under his breath. “Okay, that part made no sense.”
“You’re just mad because I’m right.” Bruce chuckled, turning his head toward him.
Clark opened his mouth to argue, and stopped.
Bruce was closer now. Close enough that Clark could see the faint lines at the corner of his eyes when he smiled, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. Their faces were angled toward each other, conversation forgotten, the bet completely put aside.
For a moment, neither of them seemed to remember how to move.
Bruce’s gaze flicked down, just briefly, to Clark’s lips, before snapping back up again. The change was subtle, but Clark caught it, and it sent a shock straight through him. His breath hitched, chest rising as instinct pulled him forward without permission.
He leaned in before he could stop himself.
Bruce didn’t pull away.
Instead, his hand shifted on the couch, fingers curling into the fabric as if grounding himself. His eyes softened, lips parting just slightly, and for a heartbeat, just one, it felt inevitable. Like gravity had finally decided to stop fighting them.
Their noses brushed.
Clark froze, every nerve on fire. “Bruce?” he murmured, barely audible.
“Clark…” Bruce swallowed, voice low and unsteady.
Clark felt his heart skip a beat, it sounded even better in person.
Finally, Clark found the perfect moment to prove himself.
Or so, he thought.
And Bruce suddenly turned his head, breaking the moment just enough to breathe. He leaned back into the couch, running a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly like he’d just surfaced from deep water.
“Wow,” he said quietly, forcing a smile. “That… would’ve been awkward.”
Clark stared at the screen, which had long since stopped making sense, his face burning. “Yeah,” he agreed, though the word felt wrong.. “Super awkward.”
The tension lingered anyway, thick and unspoken, settling between them like a shared secret. Bruce didn’t move away, though. He stayed right there, shoulder still pressed to Clark’s, close enough to remind him that the moment hadn’t been imagined.
Eventually, Bruce nudged him lightly with his elbow. “So,” he said, tone carefully casual, “I was right about the killer, you owe me.”
Clark smiled despite himself, glancing over. “And when am I right?”
Bruce met his gaze, eyes gleaming. “Never.”
When the movie ended, Bruce clapped for the lights to turn back on.
“I can’t believe you were right,” Clark said at last, crossing his arms, genuinely disappointed in himself. “ I really thought it was the ex-wife.”
Bruce let out a satisfied hum as he stood up, stretching lazily like a cat waking from a nap. His back arched just slightly, arms lifting over his head, shirt pulling tight in a way Clark very deliberately did not stare at. “I told you,” he said, smug but playful. “You always overthink it.”
“Says the man who lives three steps ahead of everyone else.” Clark huffed.
Bruce turned to face him, that familiar sharp smile softening at the edges. “So,” he asked casually, hands settling on his hips, “what did I win?”
“…Win?” Clark blinked.
“The bet.” Bruce reminded him, clearly enjoying this far too much.
“Oh. Uh.” Clark shifted, suddenly very aware of himself. “We didn’t decide on anything.”
Bruce tilted his head, considering him. For a moment, Clark thought he might let it go, but then an oddly specific look crossed Bruce’s face
“Well,” Bruce said slowly, stepping closer, “that just means I get to choose.”
Clark’s throat went dry. Bruce stopped just short of invading his space, close enough that Clark could feel the heat radiating off him again, close enough to make his heart start racing for no good reason at all.
“And?” Clark asked, voice quieter than he intended.
Bruce’s gaze flicked to the other man’s body, just for a fraction of a second, before returning to his eyes. His smile was small now, almost shy beneath the confidence. “Relax,” he said lightly. “I haven’t decided yet.”
Clark stayed frozen on the couch for a second longer than necessary, staring after him, pulse loud in his ears.
Yeah.
Whatever Bruce decided later… Clark had a feeling he wouldn’t mind paying up.
“Well, that was fun. Thanks for the evening.” Clark said, pulling Bruce into a warm hug that lingered just a second longer than usual.
Bruce returned it easily, his hands settling against Clark’s back, steady and familiar. “Glad you had fun, at least,” he replied, tone light, but his fingers curled slightly, betraying him.
Clark pulled back just enough to look at him.
“Bruce.” His voice shifted, softer but unmistakably serious. He took Bruce’s hands in his own, large and warm, thumbs brushing over his knuckles. “Is there anything you want to tell me? Anything you want me to do for you?”
There was something almost desperate in his expression, wide-eyed and open in a way Bruce wasn’t used to seeing.
Bruce swallowed.
If he was honest, the biggest distraction wasn’t the question: it was Clark’s hands. Tan, strong and gentle, holding his like they mattered.
“I don’t…” Bruce started, then faltered, confusion tightening his chest. “I don’t know what you mean.”
And he truly didn’t.
Clark had brought him flowers. Hugged him. Nearly kissed him. Now he was standing there, holding Bruce’s hands like he was afraid to let go, asking him something that sounded dangerously close to a promise.
“It’s okay, If you can think of anything just hit me up, alright?” Clark slowly let go of the other man’s hands, a tad disappointed.
He wanted to make Bruce happy, and if it wasn’t gonna be this time, that was okay with Clark too.
Bruce thought about the consequences.
Clark wasn’t just a friend. He was a teammate. Someone he trusted with his life. Someone he confided in, someone who had seen him at his weakest and never once looked away.
Clark didn’t deserve someone as complicated as him. Someone broken, tired, stitched together with scars and bad habits. Clark deserved someone gentle. Someone unburdened. Someone as good as he was, if such a person even existed.
But tonight had already been different.
He had taken a break. Let himself rest. Let himself want. So what was one more reckless thing?
Was letting go such a bad thing when Clark was the one who was looking at him like he was the last person on the planet?
Yet when he let go of his hands, it hurt way more than Bruce wanted.
That was enough for him to finally let go and before he could overthink it, Bruce leaned in.
Clark barely had time to register it before their lips met, soft, and most importantly real.
It was a short innocent and soft kiss, everything that Bruce was not.
When Bruce pulled back, his face burned.
“Please…” he murmured, voice barely there as he tucked his face into Clark’s chest, hiding. “Don’t go.”
Clark froze.
Then he lost it.
He wrapped his arms around Bruce, pulling him close, kissing him again with all the frustration and longing he’d been burying for far too long. It wasn’t rough, just intense, desperate in the way only restraint could make it.
For the first time in a long while, neither of them was backing out.
They kissed like they’ve been holding their breath for years.
It wasn’t neat, not one bit, just desperate and honest, all pent-up feeling finally spilling over. His hands slid up Bruce’s back, strong but careful, pulling him closer as if afraid Bruce might change his mind if given the chance. Bruce made a soft, surprised sound against his mouth before melting into it, fingers curling into Clark’s shirt, not letting him go for a second.
Bruce kissed back harder, sharper, teeth grazing Clark’s lower lip in a way that sent a bolt straight through him. Clark inhaled sharply and deepened the kiss without thinking, tilting his head, fitting against Bruce like it had always been this easy.
Their tongues moved together, unhurried but intense, like they were trying to memorize each other.
Bruce’s hands came up to Clark’s jaw, thumbs brushing his cheeks, grounding him. He kissed Clark slower now, more deliberate, like he was testing how far he could go without everything slipping out of control.
They broke apart only for air, foreheads resting together, breaths mingling.
“Clark…” Bruce whispered, voice unsteady. “I want my bed.”
Clark kissed him again before he could finish, softer this time, almost reverent. He pressed one last lingering kiss to the corner of Bruce’s mouth, then another to his cheek, like he was afraid to push too far and ruin it, and then lifted him up like he weighed nothing.
Bruce let out a quiet, shaky laugh, eyes half-lidded, utterly undone.
“You know I can walk, right?” Bruce teased, while Clark pressed another kiss
“Not for long.” Clark responded, serious in tone.
Bruce blinked twice, what did country bumpkin Clark just say?
Not long after, Bruce was laid down on his bed, with Clark settled between the other man’s legs, idly playing with the soft fabric of his cashmere sweater.
Bruce looked around, noticing that Alfred had left the bat plushie tucked between the cushions of the bed. He grabbed it playfully, hiding behind it.
Clark smirked and grabbed the little bat, holding its wings between his fingers.
“I am vengeance! I am the night!” he said, smirking as he moved the plush around, making Bruce chuckle.
“Horrible impression, I don’t sound like that,” Bruce laughed, yanking the plushie back from the other man.
“That is exactly how you sound, mind you,” Clark teased, finally placing his hands on Bruce’s now bare hips.
The older man shivered slightly at the warm touch, feeling completely helpless.
He slowly let go of the little bat, focusing instead on connecting his hands with the handsome guy in front of him.
Clark placed a soft kiss on his stomach, guilt creeping up the back of his neck. He didn’t like lying to Bruce -or anyone, for that matter- but this was just a little white lie.
“Bruce… I have a confession,” Clark let out, so embarrassed he could die. Hopefully, Bruce would think he was just shy instead of realizing he was being lied to.
“I’m into some… slightly concerning stuff,” he laughed awkwardly, as if it wasn’t a half truth.
Or a half lie, depending on interpretation.
Bruce arched a brow in confusion, head tilting slightly as he looked down at Clark with open disbelief.
“You? Into kinky stuff? Yeah, right.” He laughed, a little louder and more careless than usual, too much for Clark’s liking.
“I’m serious!” Clark said quickly, heat rushing up his neck, ears practically burning. Was it really that hard to believe? That he could want something more complicated than soft smiles and quiet nights?
Bruce shook his head, amused. “What are you gonna do,” he snorted, “make me count sheep?”
That did it.
Clark’s hand came up fast, fingers cupping Bruce’s jaw and holding his face still before the joke could turn into something worse. Bruce stilled instantly, breath hitching at the sudden closeness, blue eyes locking onto Clark’s.
“I wouldn’t take me so for granted, you brat,” Clark said, sharper than he meant to. The words slipped out edged with frustration, and guilt followed immediately, but he didn’t let go.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then Clark swallowed, his grip loosening just a fraction as his voice dropped. “Turn… around.”
Bruce blinked. A slow, disbelieving smile tugged at his lips.
“Are you asking me?” he murmured, letting the moment stretch, enjoying the way Clark’s jaw tightened.
Oh. Clark was done.
Before Bruce could tease him any further, Clark moved, guiding Bruce over and flipping him at an amicable speed, careful not to hurt him. Bruce let out a quiet, surprised sound as his back met Clark’s crotch, the sudden change stealing the air from his lungs.
Clark’s body was solid behind him, heat unmistakable.
His hands settled on Bruce’s wrists, pinning them gently but with enough firmness to make the message clear. Bruce could feel every steady breath Clark took, could feel how close he was, how intentional the hold was.
Firm.
But still gentle.
Bruce’s pulse picked up, a shiver running through him that had nothing to do with fear, and everything to do with anticipation.
No way this was happening.
“It’s quite obvious you’ve never been put in your place.” he said, dead serious for once, making Bruce almost shake with excitement.
Clark’s eyes scanned the room before settling on Bruce’s suit at the edge of the bed. He didn’t let go of Bruce’s wrists, but he shifted slightly, brushing the fabric with his fingers before picking up the tie, tying it up gently around Bruce’s pale hands.
Bruce watched him with that infuriating calm, smirk playing at his lips. “Shouldn’t you take my shirt off first? Or do I have to ruin a twenty-grand sweater?”
Clark froze for a heartbeat, cheeks heating, undoing the knot. He tried to keep his eyes on the tie, but Bruce’s gaze followed him, unrelenting and teasing.
Embarrassed, he gently turned Bruce onto his back again. His hands hovered for a moment before sliding the sweater up over Bruce’s head, to then gracefully turn him around once more.
Clark exhaled sharply, embarrassed, and finally managed to loop the tie properly around Bruce’s wrists. He gave it a careful tug, making sure it was snug but not too tight, then paused, eyes flicking up at Bruce for any sign of protest.
Bruce let out a small, playful sigh. “I thought I needed to be put in my place?”
Clark suddenly tightened the knot, making sure it bruised, making Bruce groan slightly.
Bruce laid there, chest rising steadily, smirk softened into something quieter, almost curious, watching Clark with just enough mischief to make him stumble internally. Clark felt his pulse spike, hands frozen for a moment, unable to look away.
Bruce’s scarred body was strangely beautiful in the dim light, and Clark felt that familiar pull, a desire to close the distance, to touch him, to explore, but unsure where to even start.
“It’s fine, we have all night anyways,” Bruce said with a huff, slipping in another snarky comment just to break the tension.
Clark exhaled, trying to steady himself, then gently grabbed the hair at the back of Bruce’s head, nudging him forward onto the sheets. A touch too careful to let Bruce know he meant business.
“You speak when I tell you to,” Clark said, voice steady though still tinged with uncertainty. “You’re so disobedient.”
“Or what?” Bruce replied, eyes glinting, teasing, clearly trying to provoke a reaction from the man he trusted most.
Clark snapped. For a moment, all hesitation drained away, replaced by that rare mix of determination and exasperation.
He didn’t quite know what Bruce needed to take him seriously but this, he decided, might be it.
He pulled the other man’s pants down firmly, filling his hands with his soft skin and spreading his bottom.
A firm hand slammed against Bruce’s back, grounding him. The heat and pressure made him flinch slightly, his smirk finally got wiped off his face.
Clark’s strength, honed from years of flight and lifting far heavier than his own weight, was held just on the edge of restraint. Bruce’s body reacted despite himself, and even now, he couldn’t help but notice the intensity behind those steady hands.
a few more spanks followed, loud but somewhat sweet, at least in intent.
Bruce was left trembling, his entire back covered in red hand prints.
Clark was insanely aroused by the look of it, he finally started to get the appeal.
He turned the other man on his back again, locking eyes with him, as he leaned closer, brushing a lock of hair away from Bruce’s forehead, letting his lips ghost over the skin for just a second.
Bruce shivered and hissed softly, tilting his head just enough to press his cheek against Clark’s, teasing, daring him to do more.
Clark swallowed, then pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to Bruce’s temple, then down to his jawline. Each kiss slow, and a tad frustrating. Bruce let out a quiet, amused chuckle, though his breath hitched slightly, betraying his calm facade.
“You’re… persistent.” Bruce murmured, voice low, teasing.
Clark’s hands slid from Bruce’s back to his sides, brushing his fingers in the curve of his torso, thumbs pressing lightly over his toned muscles. “I’ll make sure you learn your lesson tonight.” he whispered, voice low.
Bruce tilted his head back slightly, trying to hide a light flush, giving Clark better access. He let his fingers trail along Clark’s arms, tugging him closer, letting the tension coil tighter between them. “I’d love to see that…” he teased, lips brushing Clark’s as he spoke.
Clark leaned down, capturing Bruce’s mouth in a slow, searching kiss. Bruce responded immediately, tilting his head, lips moving against Clark’s with a mixture of mischief and need. Their mouths moved together.. Every press of lips, every soft sigh, drew them closer.
Bruce’s hands found Clark’s shoulders, gripping lightly as if to anchor himself. He pressed again, deeper, teasing the edge of Bruce’s lips. the older man’s breath hitched, melting into quiet moans muffled against Clark’s mouth.
Bruce arched slightly into him, teasing with quiet whispers. “You really think you can handle me?”
“I don't think so.” Clark grinned, lips brushing against his ear. “I know.”
Clark’s hands slid around Bruce’s sides, pressing him closer, feeling the subtle warmth of his skin under his fingertips. He traced slow, teasing circles along the curve of Bruce’s waist, careful to tease.
Bruce let out a low groan, closing his eyes.
“You like this, don’t you?” Clark purred, lips brushing against the sensitive skin just beneath Bruce’s ear.
Bruce smirked, embarrassment rising quickly. “Im not telling you.”
Clark’s hands wandered higher, fingers grazing along Bruce’s torso, teasing along scars and muscles alike, to then gently cup his chest, before slowly leaning down to gently kiss and welcome Bruce’s nipple in his mouth.
Bruce arched instinctively, his hands now slightly grabbing Clark’s hair and groaning.
“Oh, you’re sensitive.” Clark teased, playing with his both nipples, feeling him squirm underneath him.
Clark gently pressed and twisted Bruce’s chest, enjoying the physical reaction the other man is trying a little too desperately to hide.
Bruce’s breath hitched, chest rising faster as Clark’s lips and hands continued their deliberate teasing. He squirmed slightly, the thrill of being so close making the older man’s usual composure slip.
“You… you’re enjoying this way too much,” Bruce murmured, voice shaky and teasing, trying to keep some of his usual timber.
“Oh, I think you enjoy it more.” Clark whispered back, eyes glinting, lips brushing Bruce’s in another soft, demanding kiss. He pressed just enough to make Bruce tilt his head, giving him better access, hands following every curve, every line.
After their lips parted ways, Clark finally let go of his own clothes, revealing a pair of nicely fitted black boxers that Bruce couldn’t stop staring at.
holy fucking hell.
Saying Clark’s…”””friend””” was huge, was downplaying it.
Clark himself was sure just as worth looking at, with his tones muscles and tan lines, Bruce felt almost blessed to be in that situation.
Before he could even comment, Clark’s hands were firm yet surprisingly careful as he scooped him up with a quick, smooth motion, lifting him in his strong arms.
“This is the last time I’m going to be gentle with you until we’re done. Ready?” Clark’s voice was steady, but there was a hint of uncertainty, a vulnerability that made Bruce’s smirk deepen.
Clark pressed a soft, teasing kiss to Bruce’s temple “…Safeword?” Clark whispered in the other man’s ear, a nervous smile tugging at his lips, speaking like someone who had absolutely no clue what he was doing.
Bruce raised a brow, amused, and decided to humor him. “Bat,” he said, grinning, letting the word linger in the tense air between them.
Clark blinked, then snorted, half-laughing at the irony of it. “Seriously?” He shook his head, shaking out some of his nerves as he finally set Bruce down on the floor, carefully untying his wrists from the tie.
“All right… on your knees, now,” Clark commanded, voice low and a lot more stern.
Bruce didn’t move. Not an inch. He simply sat there, smirk in place, eyes glinting as he tilted his head slightly, daring Clark to insist.
Clark exhaled slowly, hands resting on his hips. “I’ll give you a second grace,” he said, arching a brow with exaggerated patience. “You know, since I’m apparently so kind… and so spineless in your eyes.”
Bruce’s smirk widened, leaning back slightly, watching Clark carefully. He finally sat upright, meeting Clark’s gaze.
With zero hesitation, Clark walked slowly towards his jacket and slipped his hand into the left pocket, pulling out a sleek black dog collar.
“This was for Krypto,” he said, a small teasing smile tugging at his lips, “but he didn’t like the color.” He glanced at Bruce, eyes twinkling. “It’s black… your favorite.”
Bruce’s brow quirked, curiosity and something hotter flickering in his gaze.
Clark squatted in front of him, deliberate and confident now, and with a sharp, precise tug at Bruce’s hair, he elicited a soft, pained groan. Bruce bit his lip, trying to hide it, but failing spectacularly. Clark slid the collar around his neck, adjusting it carefully, the leather cool against Bruce’s skin.
“It even has my crest on it.” Clark said, fingers brushing over the insignia, eyes locked on Bruce’s face, taking in the flush creeping over his cheeks and the subtle catch of breath. “As a reminder… that you belong to me now.”
This time, his voice carried a certainty and firmness that made Bruce’s mind spin. He opened his mouth to argue, to tease, to push back, but the truth was, he didn’t want to. Not now. Not with Clark looking at him like this.
His body betrayed him. The light tension of his arousal had grown, pressing insistently beneath him, and Clark’s smirk widened as his eyes flicked downward for a moment before returning to Bruce’s face.
Clark tugged lightly at Bruce’s hair again, coaxing him forward, guiding him onto his knees. Bruce’s throat went dry, gulping audibly, a mixture of nerves and desire pulsing through him.
“It’s fine,” Clark murmured, voice soft but commanding. “I don’t mind a little fight, Doll.”
Bruce’s stomach fluttered, heart hammering, and he realized, somehow, Clark always seemed to know exactly what to say. The teasing nickname, the gentle yet firm control… it made him dizzy with want.
Bruce’s lips parted slightly, a shaky breath escaping. “Please…” he whispered, though his voice was thick with something other than surprise.
Clark’s grin only widened. “What is it angel?” he replied, leaning just slightly closer, letting his presence press against Bruce, keeping him exactly where he wanted him.
Clark stood above him for a moment, taking in the sight before him: Bruce, trembling slightly, cheeks flushed pink, on all fours, wearing the collar. His chest rose and fell in small, uneven breaths, every movement betraying a mix of defiance and need. Clark’s heart skipped; he could stay right here forever, satisfied just by the view.
He lowered himself onto the bed, sitting down, and motioned for Bruce to come closer. and he obeyed, slowly, to Clark’s surprise.
Bruce rested his face gently near Clark’s lap, just shy enough to tease, as if testing the limits. Clark’s hands moved softly to Bruce’s hair and shoulders, stroking with care, grounding him while letting the intimacy grow, slowly biting and sucking on the fabric of Clark’s boxers, trying to hint at what he wanted.
“Look at you…” Clark murmured, voice soft, warm, fingers brushing lightly along Bruce’s jaw and down his back. “Looking desperate suits you, Doll.”
Bruce’s lips parted slightly, pressing harder against the fabric of Clark’s crotch, his hands rested on Clark’s thighs, tentatively, sending a clear message.
Clark’s let a quiet chuckle escape him. He leaned down slightly, lips brushing over the side of Bruce’s head, nuzzling the hair he held, voice low and gentle. “Such a needy…slut.”
Bruce shivered at the words, pressing closer in response, no way Clark just said that.
Frankly, Clark didn't believe he said that either, but Bruce wasn't looking at his idiotic expression anyways, so he was proud of himself for finally letting out something besides “Holy Hay”.
Clark slowly pulled out his shaft, letting it slightly hit Bruce’s nose on purpose, who made a displeased noise in response.
Clark’s cock was throbbing with pre-cum already, smearing on Bruce’s soft pink lips.
He pressed the tip of his tongue shily, as Clark gently caressed his hair, groaning lightly as Bruce kissed his tip before slowly starting to slide further onto Clark’s shaft.
Bruce wasn’t going to lie, this thing was as big as his forearm, but he sure wasn’t scared to get another scar, perhaps one that wasn’t visible to anyone else but Clark.
He leaned in further, brushing the roof of his mouth on the skin, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the reaction. Clark’s breath hitched immediately, his hand holding his hair more firmly, fingers tightening just enough to show encouragement rather than force.
Clark’s touch softened again, making eye contact, as if silently asking the same question he always did: are you okay?
Bruce answered by staying exactly where he was.
“Easy…” Clark murmured, voice rougher now, less rehearsed. He wasn’t pretending anymore.
Bruce responded instinctively, pressing closer, his breath warm, not being able to fit everything in his mouth alone, and thankfully this was one of the many situations where Bruce was grateful about having no gag reflex.
Every reaction he pulled from Clark felt like a victory.
For someone so impossibly strong, Clark was somewhat unsteady, every slight movement drawing a sharp inhale.
“Look at me,” Clark said quietly.
Bruce obeyed.
Their eyes locked again, Clark’s thumb brushed along Bruce’s cheek while looking down at his best friend.
“How obedient, aren’t you being such a good boy?” Clark murmured with a quiet chuckle. Bruce’s response was immediate, teeth pressing just enough to test patience, to provoke.
“Oh, so that’s how you want to play.” Clark replied, amusement curling into something sharper. His grip tightened, control snapping firmly into place as he set the rhythm thrusting with full force down Bruce’s throat.
The sudden change caught Bruce off guard. His breath stuttered, eyes widening as he struggled to match the pace, surprise flashing across his face before melting into Clark’s hands. It was clear that the man didn't intend to slow down, clearly intent on making his point.
Bruce adjusted as best he could, one hand drifting down his own body, grounding himself through the intensity, clinging to the overwhelming sensation.
He slowly pushed his own hand down his own erection, slowly pumping it, letting out small groans as he took all of Clark.
The strain in his throat burned, every second overwhelming, every sensation blurred together until there was nothing but heat and pressure and Clark’s presence anchoring him there, to feel every bit of texture and vein.
He finally let a thick load down Bruce’s throat, slowly pulling out, leaving a line connected between his shaft and the other man’s lips, leaving Bruce dazed, flushed, and trembling in the aftermath.
Clark watched it all, jaw tight, utterly satisfied.
“So,” he said, amusement lacing his voice as he caught the collar and tugged Bruce closer, close enough to feel each slow breath against his skin. “Who said you could touch yourself, you dirty whore?”
Bruce froze in place.
“I don’t remember giving permission.” Clark said, with a light, fake pout, gently tapping Bruce’s cheek with his free hand.
Clark slowly pushed his fingers in between the leather and the other man’s neck, teasing gently while smiling at Bruce’s worried expression.
“Well…i don’t take orders from—-“ Bruce felt the air leaving his lungs when Clark pushed him onto the floor, his back now making full contact with the expensive carpet.
“I don’t remember allowing you to speak either.” Clark slowly pressed his foot on Bruce's throbbing cock, peaking from his boxers.
It was gentle, but authoritative enough to finally shut Bruce up for good.
Both boxers were quickly turned to the side, as Clark started brushing his fingers brushing slowly against every vein of Bruce’s manhood.
He wasn’t by any means less gifted either, but compared to Clark’s hands, he felt ridiculously small.
Clark cupped Bruce’s cheeks once again, fondling them as he slowly started keeping slow pace with his hand on the man’s shaft.
Bruce’s cock still twitched in his hand, slick with cum that Clark smeared deliberately over Bruce's thigh, marking him. 'Look at you, Doll,' Clark murmured, his voice low, laced with that filthy affection that made Bruce's skin prickle.
“Coming without my permission. You know better than to touch what's mine like that.'
He grabbed the discarded tie from the floor, the same silk one Bruce had used earlier to bind his own wrists in a desperate bid for control, and twisted it tight in his fist.
Bruce's breath hitched, his chest heaving as Clark loomed over him, all broad shoulders and unyielding ho strength.
Without warning, Clark picked up the other and flipped him onto his stomach on the rumpled sheets of the bed, pinning him down with one massive hand between his shoulder blades. The weight was inescapable, a reminder of who owned this moment.
“Time for your punishment.” Clark whispered, his lips brushing the shell of Bruce's ear, hot breath sending shivers down his spine.
“'Gonna make you feel every bit of it.” He looped the tie around Bruce's head, stuffing the knotted fabric into his mouth as a gag, tying it secure behind his skull.
Bruce's muffled groan vibrated against the silk, his eyes widening in the dim light of the room, but he didn't fight it, couldn't, not with Clark's soft voice wrapping around his ears like chains.
Clark's free hand came down hard on Bruce's ass, the sharp crack echoing off the walls.
Bruce jerked, his body arching instinctively, but Clark held him firm.
Another spank followed, then another, each one landing with precise force on the reddening flesh.
“This is for sneaking that hand down there without asking.” Clark growled, his palm stinging as it connected again, leaving handprints blooming across Bruce's skin.
“And this for all the talkback.” The slaps were rhythmic, punishing yet tender in their intent, Clark's fingers occasionally soothing the heat before delivering the next strike.
Bruce's hips bucked with each impact, his cock hardening again despite -or because of- the pain, trapped against the mattress.
After a dozen spanks, Clark paused, his hand rubbing circles over the tenderized cheeks.
“'Good boy,” he cooed filthily, leaning down to nip at Bruce's earlobe through the gag.
“Taking it so well for me. But we're not done. I need to get you ready... make sure you're open and begging for it.” He spread Bruce's legs wider with his knee, exposing him completely.
Clark grabbed a bottle of lube from the drawer, pouring a generous amount on his tanned fingers and warming in between them.
One thick finger traced the cleft of Bruce's ass, teasing the tight ring of muscle before pressing in slowly, just the tip at first.
Bruce whimpered around the tie, his body tensing as Clark worked him open with deliberate patience.
The finger sank deeper, inch by inch, curling to brush that sensitive spot inside.
“Oh my, you're tight.” Clark breathe. “Gonna loosen you up nice and slow, love. Feel that? That's me owning this hole.” He added a second finger, scissoring them apart, stretching Bruce with unhurried thrusts.
The preparation was torturous, Clark's digits pumping in and out, slick with lube, twisting to hit that prostate over and over until Bruce was rocking back against his hand, desperate and muffled pleas escaping the gag.
“That’s it, push back on me.” Clark teased, his free hand kneading the spanked flesh, cupping his burn.
“Show me how much you want me. You're mine to prepare, mine to toy with.”
He finger-fucked Bruce steadily, building the rhythm until the other was a trembling mess, ass clenching around the intrusion.
Only when Bruce was panting and slick did Clark withdraw, his own cock throbbing hard against Bruce's thigh.
He yanked the gag free just enough to hear Bruce's gasp, then positioned himself at that prepared entrance.
“You took your punishment so well.” Cllark whispered, nipping his neck. “Time for a reward.”
Without waiting, he thrust in deep, no barriers, just skin on skin.
Bruce cried out, the stretch burning sweet as Clark bottomed out in one relentless push.
Clark didn't give him time to adjust, he hammered forward immediately, hips snapping with brutal force, pounding into Bruce's ass like he owned every inch.
Each thrust was punishing, Clark's cock dragging against Bruce's walls, hitting deep and hard.
“You feel so good Doll.” he growled into Bruce's ear, his voice a filthy mess. “This is what you wanted, my dick buried in you, filling you up.”
“You feel so good clenching around me, Angel.” His arms caged Bruce in, one hand fisting his hair to arch his back, the other gripping his hip to pull him back onto every brutal plunge.
Sweat slicked their bodies as Clark fucked him relentlessly, whispers turning dirtier with each slam. 'Love how you take me, baby. So tight and perfect for me. Cum for me again, show me you're sorry.”
Bruce's moans filled the room, his body surrendering completely as Clark drove them both toward the edge, owning him body and soul.
Clark's thrusts slowed just enough to pull Bruce back from the brink, his cock still buried deep, pulsing inside that clenching heat.
He leaned in close, lips grazing Bruce's sweat-dampened neck as he murmured, “Not yet, love. We're switching things up. I want to see that pretty face while I make you beg.”
With a firm grip on Bruce's hip, Clark withdrew slowly, the drag of his thick shaft leaving Bruce gasping around the gag, his hole twitching emptily.
He manhandled Bruce effortlessly onto his side, one massive arm hooking under Bruce's knee to hike his leg high, spreading him open wide.
Bruce's ass was on full display now, red from the spanking, slick and ready, his cock hard and leaking against his thigh. Clark positioned himself behind, pressing his body flush against Bruce's back, that unyielding chest like a wall of heat.
His free hand tangled in Bruce's hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat. “Look at you, all spread out for me.” Clark whispered into his ear, his breath hot and teasing. “Legs open like a good slut. But I need to hear it from those lips, admit you wanted this.”
Bruce whimpered through the tie, his body trembling as Clark's cock nudged back against his entrance, teasing the rim without pushing in.
Clark rocked his hips lazily, smearing pre-cum over the sensitive skin. He spanked Bruce's inner thigh lightly, the sting making him jolt, then soothed it with a rub.
“Come on, Doll,' he coaxed, leaning in and nipping at his earlobe. “Tell me you jerked off thinking of me owning you. Admit you needed me to set you straight.” His fingers dug into Bruce's hip, holding him steady, denying the thrust Bruce arched for.
Bruce’s eyes widened, now locked with Clark’s.
He knew.
The gag muffled Bruce's pleas, but Clark wasn't satisfied. He tugged the tie loose from Bruce's mouth, letting it dangle around his neck like a collar, his hand clamping over Bruce's jaw instead to force eye contact over his shoulder.
Bruce's chest heaved, cheeks flushed, but the words tumbled out in a broken rush. “I... I wanted this. Needed you…I’ve been fantasizing... Fuck, Clark, please…make me yours.”
Clark's growl of approval vibrated against Bruce's skin as he slammed back in, filling him to the hilt in one brutal stroke.
The new angle let him grind deeper, his cock hitting that spot relentlessly with every snap of his hips.
He kept Bruce's leg pinned high, pounding into him from behind, balls slapping against ass with wet, obscene sounds.
“Oh, Bruce…” Clark whispered dirtily, his free hand sliding down to wrap around Bruce's cock, stroking in time with his thrusts.”If i knew, I would've done this much sooner.”
His pace turned savage, owning every inch, whispers turning to filthy praises- 'So tight for me, taking it like you were made for me. Cum on my hand while I breed you, love. Show me how much you wanted this.”
Bruce's moans echoed louder now, body surrendering as Clark drove them harder, the admission hanging heavy in the air like a vow.
Bruce blinked slowly, the haze lifting bit by bit as the weight of what had just happened settled in his chest.
Oh.
He liked it.
No, he really liked it. In a way that made his head feel light and his thoughts stumble over each other.
It wasn’t just good, it wasn’t just intense; it was… right. Unsettlingly so. The kind of right that left him exposed in ways he wasn’t used to admitting, even to himself.
Clark sat quietly beside him, close but not crowding, like he was giving Bruce space without actually leaving.
There was no smugness there, no victory, just calm attentiveness, eyes soft, hands careful. At some point Bruce realized he’d been gently cleaned up, methodically and respectfully, as if it mattered. As if he mattered.
And then Clark stayed.
An arm around his shoulders. Warmth pressed against his side. Steady breathing that Bruce found himself unconsciously matching. No rush to fill the silence, no awkward jokes to deflect what lingered between them.
Bruce swallowed, a strange tightness forming in his throat.
He felt warm. Safe. Cared for.
That, more than anything else, was what unsettled him.
Bruce Wayne wasn’t used to being held without expectation, without the sense that he needed to be something more than he was in that moment. And yet here he was, wrapped in quiet affection, heart slowing, body relaxed in a way it almost never allowed.
He turned his head just enough to look at Clark, who glanced back immediately, like he’d been waiting.
“…You okay?” Clark asked softly.
Bruce hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah,” he said, voice lower than usual. “I think I am.”
Clark smiled, not teasing. Just warm.
Bruce leaned into him a little more, letting himself stay there, even if just for the night.
another realization thought, dawned on him.
“Tell me you jerked off thinking of me owning you. Admit you needed me to set you straight.”
“…You spied on me.”
Clark winced, sheepish. “M-maybe… a tiny bit.” He admitted it quietly, his arm draped over Bruce’s shoulder as they lay tangled together, the room still warm and heavy with shared breath.
“Using your super-hearing for such filthy reasons,” Bruce added, not quite accusatory, more amused than anything.
“I’m sorry, okay?” Clark said quickly, tightening his hold just a little. “I’ve liked you for a long time, Bruce.”
Bruce stilled. “…You did?”
Clark blinked, surprised. “Yeah. I mean…I thought it was obvious.”
Bruce huffed a soft laugh. “How was I supposed to know?”
“Well, I don’t know!” Clark protested, flustered. “But what matters is that we’re both on the same page now.”
Bruce tilted his head, studying him. “What do you mean, we’re on the same page?”
Clark hesitated, then asked it anyway, voice small but hopeful. “You… like me back too. Right?”
“…What?”
The word landed heavier than Bruce intended. Clark’s smile faded, something fragile cracking behind his eyes.
Bruce sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s not that I don’t care. I just, never thought about it that way.”
Clark swallowed. “Could you… think about it then?”
Bruce glanced at him again, slower this time. “I feel like I spent the evening with two different men.”
Clark frowned. “What do you mean?”
“One second you’re shy and apologizing,” Bruce said quietly. “The next, you’re making me beg.”
Color rushed to Clark’s cheeks.
“…Was it too much?” he asked carefully. “Did you not like it?”
Bruce snorted. “Oh, it’s definitely happening again next time you come over.”
Clark broke into a wide, relieved smile.
“Well,” he said, trying, and failing, not to sound smug, “on one condition.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Go out with me.”
Bruce blinked. “…Are you asking me to be your boyfriend?”
Clark rubbed the back of his neck. “Sort of. Maybe. I mean…maybe we start with a proper date?”
Bruce smiled, then another thought quickly lingered.
“How’d you know about the collar?” He asked, his eyes sharpening.
“Oh I brought it thinking it could’ve been a nice addition.” Clark flustered, smiled looking everywhere but at Bruce. “Why? Did you fantasize about something similar?”
Bruce’s ears turned red instantly, turning his head to not let Clark see his face burning.
Clark grinned widely. "Oh."
“What the hell, why not." Bruce ignored him, then still not looking at him, murmured. "You can take me on a date.”
Clark’s grin softened. “You said it, no walking back from this now.”
Bruce hummed, settling closer. “Don’t get mad at me when you realize how much of a terrible boyfriend i am.”
Clark laughed under his breath. “Bruce, you literally prepare contingency plans for everyone you care about.”
“That’s not exactly boyfriend material.”
“That’s… what boyfriend material is to me.” Clark countered, tightening his arm around him.
“You show up. You listen. You worry. Sometimes too much, but…” he paused, gentler now, “…I don’t need perfect, i need you.”
Bruce glanced up at him, searching his face like he was looking for hesitation. “I don’t want you to regret anything.”
“I’ve known you for years,” Clark said quietly. “Nothing is a surprise.”
Bruce exhaled, slow and steady, the tension easing out of his shoulders. “I don’t do… normal. Dates, feelings, all that.”
Clark smiled, brushing his thumb along Bruce’s arm. “Good thing I’m terrible at normal.”
That earned him a small smile, real this time. “So what,” Bruce said, voice low, almost shy, “you’re just… okay with this?”
“With you?” Clark tilted his head. “Yeah. Very.”
Bruce was quiet for a moment, then muttered, “I’m bad with these kinds of feelings, i don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” Clark replied. “Just, stay.”
Bruce shifted closer, their legs tangling, his head resting against Clark’s chest like it had always belonged there. “I can do that,” he said softly.
They leaned in slowly, careful this time, their kiss gentle and a little clumsy, both of them laughing quietly against each other’s lips at how strange and perfect it felt.
“So…Do you actually have these kinks or did you make research just for me?” Bruce smirked, playing with Clark’s hair.
“Next question.”