Archive of Our Own

"You're pathetic, you know that, right?"

Clark was, unfortunately, highly aware of that fact already. He didn't need Jimmy pointing it out to him, but he was too busy wishing his already expansive powerset would suddenly develop a new ability that might allow him to sink through the floor, down into the earth.

Unfortunately, that wasn't happening any time soon, so Clark contented himself with feeling the cool grain of his wooden desk press against his cheek and trying not to think about…the thing he couldn't stop thinking about.

"Seriously!" Jimmy sat against the desk next to him. "You don't even know the guy's real name! Do you even know what he looks like, under all those shadows and stuff?"

Clark sighed, covering his head with his hands. He didn't know any of that. He didn't know his name, or what color his eyes were, or whether his hair curled or lay flat once it was set free from the cowl.

But he knew Batman, he knew the person beneath all of the leather and Kevlar. He knew the way he thought, how deeply he cared, exactly what it took to make him crack the barest hint of a smile. He knew when he was bluffing, and when he needed Clark to step out of the way so he could strike.

He knew the smell, the metallic tang of his blood, knew what it felt like to desperately fight to prevent him from bleeding out.

Some days, he could still feel Batman's blood soaking through his clothes, could still smell the iron in the air, could still hear the ragged breathing and desperate pleas for someone to check on Robin if he didn't make it home.

Clark hadn't realized what he'd been feeling towards the man was love until that moment, until he'd almost lost him. Until Batman had looked at him, pale even for him. Clark could feel the desperation even through the white-tinted lenses of the cowl. "Please," he'd begged.

All Clark knew was that he had to stop the bleeding. It was a risk—he could do more harm in the long run if he fucked up, but Batman nodded. They both knew what had to be done.

"Do it, Kal-El."

Clark didn't know at the time what drove him to it, but he took Batman's hand in his, lacing their fingers together. "Squeeze," he instructed. "If you need to. I can take it."

Batman nodded once, grit his teeth, and squeezed Clark's hand tight enough to break the bones of a normal human man as Clark forced himself to look directly at the gaping wound, remove the pressure he was holding down on it, and shoot his eye-beams directly at Bruce's flesh.

The scream he heard in that moment would never leave his mind as long as Clark lived, he was sure of it. Neither would the smell—the acrid, foul burning.

Batman passed out from the pain, and Clark was almost relieved that he wasn't awake to feel it anymore. Clark blew a cooling breath over the burnt flesh, then, without conscious thought, leaned forward to kiss the spot.

He looked around, embarrassed, but there was nobody else there to witness.

That was the moment everything clicked into place.

A month later, Batman was back on duty, and Clark didn't know what to do.

He could barely look at the man without wanting to…

Actually, there was so much he wanted to do he couldn't isolate a single one. He wanted to touch him again. He wanted to kiss him, to erase the taste of blood from his memory and replace it with whatever Batman's skin tasted like underneath it all.

He wanted to know the color of his eyes. He wanted to know whether his brows creased when he frowned in thought. He wanted to feel his hair—would it be soft under his fingertips, or did he keep it cropped short, a practical stubble?

"Deeply pathetic," Jimmy repeated. Clark sat up, running a hand over his face.

"I'm aware, Jimmy. Doesn't help me figure out what to do."

"I mean, you could say something?" Jimmy offered.

"Batman doesn't do personal. There's a reason he insists we all stay as masked as possible. Something like this…he wouldn't take it well."

Jimmy hummed. "So then it sounds like you've gotta either pine after him forever, or start getting over him." He crossed his arms and looked at Clark. "For the record, one of those options is significantly less pathetic than the other."

Clark knew he was right. He knew there really was only one good option here, but that didn't mean it was one he liked.

Clark was in love with the man, and he wasn't someone who liked to give up without at least trying.

But he knew Batman. He knew what the outcome would be, if he asked him out. If he flirted, if he made any kind of move.

How did he go about moving on from someone he'd only just realized he was in love with?

"You're working that Wayne Foundation thing this weekend, right?" Jimmy asked.

Clark nodded. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"It's a party, man! Go, get your quotes or whatever, then talk to people. Normal, non-caped vigilante people. Who knows, maybe meeting a real person could help you, you know…take the first step?"

Clark shrugged. He doubted it, but Jimmy was right. He had to at least try.

Clark didn't like formal events. He didn't like the stuffy suit, the crowds, the people with more money than sense parading themselves and pretending they cared about whatever cause they happened to be fundraising for.

He was much more comfortable following a lead on the streets, digging into a story that affected real people in real ways.

All the same, it was part of the job, and so he found himself in a stuffy ballroom Friday night, trying his best to fade into the background. He looked around, thoroughly disinterested in any of these people. He was sure some of them were perfectly nice individuals, but they just seemed…dull, compared to the one he really wanted.

He shook his head. Whether or not he managed to flirt with any non-Batman people tonight, he was still here to work. While nobody in the room caught his eye on a personal basis, there were plenty of recognizable faces milling about—at the very least, a good quote from a headline-worthy name would keep Perry off his back when he went into the office on Monday.

He made his way through the crowd, asking questions, getting rote answer after rote answer. He kept looking around, watching for the one person who—if he could wrangle a quote—would let him leave early and go to bed.

Bruce Wayne was one of those men—not that Clark had ever met him—but he was the kind of man who was always talking, but never really said anything worth printing. If Clark could get a decent quote from him, Perry wouldn't care what else he brought back with him.

That was, if the guy actually bothered to show up to his own event.

Clark kept mingling, gathering meaningless quotes about the charity's work and why it supposedly mattered to the people who barely managed to look away from their drinks long enough to speak to him.

There was a commotion across the room, and Clark looked up to see the man of the hour, finally swanning his way in. His tie was already loose, and he looked like he'd been making the most of the minibar at whatever hotel penthouse he'd be staying in while he was in Metropolis.

Clark gave the room time to settle, waited until Wayne was on his own at the bar, and sidled in next to him.

"Mr. Wayne." Clark kept his voice steady, and he was taken aback when his simple opening had Bruce Wayne startling as though Clark had accused him of some sort of horrible crime.

"What the—" He stopped himself once he saw Clark, expression morphing from shock to idle disinterest. "Sorry. You sounded like—never mind." Bruce Wayne looked Clark over, clearly checking him out, but his eyes stopped on the badge that declared Clark a member of the press.

"Clark Kent. Daily Planet." Clark held his hand out, and Bruce Wayne took it, shaking with a surprisingly firm grip.

"Bruce."

"Okay, Bruce. Nice event you've got here. Got some time to talk?"

Bruce shrugged. "Is this on the record?"

"Why else would I be here? I'd love an interview, if that's something you'd be interested in."

Bruce popped the olive from his martini into his mouth. Except… Clark couldn't smell any alcohol from the beverage. "I'd prefer a drink, honestly. Off the record."

Clark choked on air. Bruce Wayne was flirting with him. How had he ended up here? This wasn't what he wanted—he wanted to get a quote, and to get home.

Bruce was staring at him, waiting for an answer with an idle half-smile on his face. Clark might not know the man, but he knew a bluff when he saw one. Bruce might find him attractive, but he wasn't really looking to take him out for a drink. He wanted to scare him off, come on too strong and send Clark running. How long had Clark been quiet for? Why hadn't he already rejected Bruce's advances and gone to look for a story elsewhere?

"I could go for a drink," he found himself saying. He wasn't sure why he called the bluff—it wasn't as though anything Bruce said from here on out could be printed, now the offer was on the table.

Bruce's eyes widened a fraction, then his gaze intensified. He looked around, then nodded to himself. "Give me ten minutes, then meet me at the door. Lose the press pass."

Bruce licked his lips, winked at Clark, and then vanished into the crowd, leaving Clark staring dumbstruck after him.

Clark ordered another drink, tucked his press pass into his pocket and began to count.

This was silly. He wasn't interested in Bruce Wayne. He wasn't going to get anything he could print from this little rendezvous. He really should stay, find an angle to present Perry with in the morning. He drank the club soda he'd ordered slowly, then stood and walked towards the front entrance.

Bruce had discarded most of his tuxedo, save for the shirt, which hung open halfway down his chest, and the extremely well fitting pants.

Bruce smiled at him and began walking, not giving Clark a chance to so much as stop to say hello. Clark followed.

They wound up in a bar, just a few blocks away from the event but a world apart, aesthetically. Clark wouldn't call it a dive bar, not exactly, but it was certainly not somewhere Clark would expect someone like Bruce Wayne to frequent. It reminded Clark of the bars he used to let himself be dragged to in college, the kind of place you went to get drunk without caring about the atmosphere.

Bruce leaned casually against the bar. "What'll you have, Mr. Kent?"

"Clark." Clark cleared his throat. "And I'll just have whatever you're having."

Bruce ordered two Shirley Temples, then looked at Clark as if he was daring him to say something about it.

"Why are we here?" Clark asked, as the bartender searched for a dusty bottle of grenadine behind the bar.

"I hate those big Galas," Bruce explained, fiddling with a beer mat on the bar. "Wanted to get out of there, had to leave with someone."

"So, what—I was just convenient?"

Bruce smiled at him. "Exactly. So, why did you say yes?" Bruce leaned closer.

Clark wished he knew the answer to that. "Curiosity," he settled on the answer just as two glasses were set down in front of them. Bruce put a card down on the bar, and nodded toward a booth in the corner.

"Start a tab, please."

They settled in the booth, and Clark sipped the almost sickly sweet drink. He watched Bruce carefully—there was something to him, something to the way he held himself that intrigued Clark. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but it made him want to dig.

"Why leave with me, rather than any of the people in there who would have fallen over themselves to sleep with you?" Clark asked.

"I thought this wasn't an interview?" Bruce shot back with a smirk.

"It's not." Clark took a breath. "We could sit in silence until we finish these drinks, I suppose."

Bruce took a long sip, then nodded to himself. "Can I be honest with you, Clark?"

"I'd like that."

"Well, the truth is I am deeply, pathetically in love with someone and the idea of sleeping with anyone other than him is of absolutely no interest to me." Bruce spoke with a disinterested air, smiling like he was making a joke, but his mouth twisted, his eyes glinted and each word rang with an air of truth.

Clark nodded once, then held up his glass. "I'll drink to that," he said.

"You too?" Bruce guessed.

"Yeah. A…a coworker. You?"

"Something like that. Associate, I guess."

Clark's chest twisted. "You wanna tell me about him?" he felt his heart race as he extended the offer. If Bruce accepted it, then he'd probably ask Clark to do the same. Could Clark talk about Batman without giving himself away?

"He's hard to describe, honestly. Too good for me by far, but he…" Bruce shook his head. "He frustrates me to no end, but at the same time he makes me want to be a better person."

"I know what you mean," Clark agreed. "Sometimes when we argue, I can't decide whether I wanna throw a punch or—"

"Or drag him in for a kiss," Bruce finished the thought for him.

Clark laughed. "Yeah. Yeah, exactly."

As they talked, Clark felt something in his chest loosen. Talking to Lois and Jimmy about this was good, of course, but they didn't understand—not the way Bruce did.

An hour later, the table of the booth was littered with glasses and cherry stems, and though neither of them were drinking, Clark felt drunk on the conversation. They'd commiserated at length about their unrequited loves, but the conversation had strayed from there. They spoke about books, about politics, about print media and charitable work, and even when they disagreed, arguing with Bruce was fun.

He wasn't what Clark expected—sure, he was a privileged playboy, and that shone through occasionally, but it felt as though the moments between that, when Bruce spoke about feeling responsible for using his money to help people, when he told Clark about his adoptive son, when he admitted he pretended to get drunk more than he actually did—that all felt like the more genuine version of Bruce Wayne.

Clark had said he was curious, but that curiosity only grew deeper as they spoke. His lack of interest in anyone but Batman was actually being tested. When Bruce stood to use the restroom, Clark found himself watching as he walked away, eyes dipping to check out his ass.

He wanted Bruce.

How rare was that, these days?

Maybe he'd be silly not to at least try.

When Bruce returned, Clark waited for him to settle back in the booth before leaning close. He heard Bruce's heart tick just a little faster, felt his body temperature rise, and the clear reaction gave him confidence.

"Look," Clark began, "I know this isn't…neither of us had any interest in hooking up with someone tonight, but—"

Clark saw Bruce's throat bob. Those icy blue eyes dropped to Clark's lips, and he nodded. "Come home with me," Bruce insisted, voice barely above a whisper. "Please."

Clark nodded, swaying towards Bruce just as Bruce stood again, making his way to the bar to settle the tab.

The reason Bruce had chosen this place became evident when he didn't try to hail a cab or call a car—he led Clark right across the street to a residential building with a doorman.

"Mr. Wayne. How was the event tonight?"

Bruce pulled Clark's arm around his shoulder and winked at the doorman. "A rousing success!" he declared, slurring his words.

He stumbled and Clark had to be careful to catch him just a fraction later than he wanted to—human reflexes could be difficult to imitate.

"You aren't drunk," Clark pointed out, once the elevator doors had closed behind them.

"I know," Bruce agreed. He didn't offer up any explanation for his performance out there. Clark watched him carefully as he pressed a button for the penthouse and swiped a key card. If he were to guess, he'd say Bruce was putting on an act, showing people what they expected to see—but why?

That line of curiosity faded fast as Bruce turned to face him again. "Are you checking me out, Clark?"

Clark took a step toward him. "You definitely wanna do this, right?"

Bruce answered by curling a hand around the back of Clark's neck and reeling him in for a cherry syrup-sweet kiss. A yes, then. Clark smiled against his lips, pulling him closer.

As the elevator pinged, letting them out directly into Bruce's penthouse, a thought occurred to Clark. He hadn't slept with many strangers in his life—any strangers, actually. It wasn't usually his thing, for more reasons than one.

The biggest of which became evident as he pressed Bruce against a wall, kissing down his exposed throat. He could pick Bruce up—he wanted to pick Bruce up, but how much effort would an average person need to expend in order to do that?

Clark slid his hands down Bruce's body and grabbed his thighs, ready to lift, but Bruce pushed him away before he could.

"Is everything—?"

"Good," Bruce confirmed. "Just—bed." He grabbed Clark by the tie and led him into the bedroom. For the first time, Clark noticed a slight limp in his walk. Had that been there before? Was he hurt in some way? Had Clark hurt him?

Bruce sat on the bed, looking up at Clark with naked want in his eyes. He tugged at the knot of Clark's tie and tossed it aside, then started unbuttoning the shirt, kissing a trail behind it. Clark closed his eyes, relishing in the gentle tease of Bruce's lips on his skin. His fingers tangled into Bruce's hair.

"You—" Bruce mumbled, between kisses, "are deceptively muscular. You work out?"

Clark was too turned on to think of a lie. "Grew up on a farm. Lots of—mmm—manual labor. You know, hefting bales? Raising barns."

Bruce kissed over his stomach, then nosed at the hair which trailed down into his pants.

"Hot," he said. "You work shirtless out there? All sweaty and golden in the sun?"

Clark moaned as Bruce unbuckled his belt, then opened his fly. Clark didn't need to pretend to let his breath hitch as Bruce kissed the tip of his dick through his underwear. "Please," he whispered. "B-Bruce, please." His tongue slipped on the name, thoughts drifting to a different Gothamite for a moment before he re-centered himself, just as Bruce tugged down his pants and underwear in a single fluid motion.

Clark stepped out of them, kicking them aside and then standing stark naked in front of Bruce.

"Fuck, it's—you're—" Bruce shook his head, then wrapped his lips around Clark, sparing no energy on teasing or taking his time.

Clark cried out as the sudden wet heat enveloped him. He had to use every ounce of willpower to ensure his fingers didn't clamp down hard enough to hurt Bruce as they spasmed with pleasure.

It was good—too good, if Clark wanted to do more tonight.

And boy, did he want to do more. It shocked him, how much more he wanted to do. Specifically, how much he wanted to do with Bruce Wayne.

He put a hand on Bruce's shoulder, careful not to push too hard, but using just enough pressure for him to pull back, a string of spit still hanging between his still open lips and Clark. He looked up, eyes glazed and cheeks pink.

Wow.

Clark pushed him down onto the bed and climbed on top of him. Why was he still fully dressed, when Clark was completely naked? Not that Clark wasn't relishing in the way Bruce looked at him, but he was ready to even the playing field a little.

He kissed Bruce, straddling his thighs as he unbuttoned the shirt, fingers shaking with the effort it took not to tear them off altogether. Clark paused when he felt Bruce tense beneath him, and he saw why right away—scars, a multitude of them, decorating his torso.

"How—"

"I—Extreme sports, mostly. Had a bit of a destructive streak in my youth," Bruce explained in a tense voice. Clark wasn't sure he believed the explanation, but he was too far gone to push for something more truthful—if Bruce didn't want to share, Clark wouldn't force him—lord knew Clark had enough secrets of his own to keep.

Clark kissed him again, a silent promise not to pry, and Bruce hummed against his lips, an arm wrapping tight around Clark's shoulders. The sound reminded Clark of—

Clark fumbled blindly with Bruce's belt and got his pants open just enough to shove a hand inside, taking Bruce's hard length in hand. He smiled when Bruce's hum turned to a moan, mouth falling open in pleasure.

This was Bruce Wayne. Nobody else. Clark refused to do him the disservice of thinking of someone else.

Bruce hadn't planned on this—any of this.

He didn't do this. Yes, he flirted, and he teased, and he asked people out for drinks as an excuse to leave events but he didn't actually take those people home.

He didn't sleep with random strangers—he didn't really have any interest in anyone but Kal, these days.

But then there was Clark, and he took Bruce's flirtations in stride, called his bluff, and actually got him to open up about something he'd never revealed to anyone else.

About Kal, Superman—no names, of course, but Clark was in a similar position—he'd avoided any details about the subject of his own desire, even skirting the use of pronouns, but it was easy enough for Bruce to put two and two together and come up with Lois Lane—a highly competent coworker, someone with an independent streak, undeniably gorgeous and well known. It fit almost too perfectly.

But he wasn't here with Lois Lane—he was here with Bruce, broad and golden and stronger than he looked.

Bruce had a type, didn't he?

He tried not to imagine that Clark was Kal, and it was easy enough for the most part. Despite their physical similarities, Clark was all fumbling fingers and shy smiles, stumbling over his words, avoiding eye contact—a vast difference to Kal's larger-than-life confidence.

But still, there was something about Clark. Something irresistible.

Despite his fumbling, he kissed Bruce with an intense sort of confidence. He could easily manhandle Bruce, if he wanted to—all those years on the farm, there was no way he couldn't. Bruce wished he would.

He knew he wouldn't—Clark Kent was gentle, and controlled. He was careful with Bruce. He had been careful ever since Bruce had dodged the attempt to pick him up, and Bruce was cursing himself for that now.

It was his leg—the wound was mostly healed, it didn't hold him back, but it still ached from time to time. When Clark had grabbed his thigh, he couldn't help but to flinch in anticipation.

And Clark had backed off.

Bruce held him close, moaning as Clark wrapped strong, capable fingers around his cock. For a man raised on a farm, used to hard labor, his hands were surprisingly soft and uncallused.

That was the last rational thought he had, before he was lost in Clark's touch, in his lips on Bruce's skin, his strong, capable fingers.

And then he was gone, kneeling at Bruce's feet, staring down at him with glasses askew.

"Pants off," he instructed.

Bruce didn't need to be told twice. He shimmied out of the suit pants, arching his back, displaying himself for Clark.

Clark's fingers wrapped around his ankles, then pushed his legs up until his knees hit his chest. Bruce ignored the sting of pain from his scar.

He knew it looked rough, and he knew Clark would take pause at the sight of it, but he didn't expect the wide-eyed, horrified look on Clark's face. "I—"

"I know," Bruce grunted. "It's…not as bad as it looks." It's worse. "Car accident. Clark, please, I need—"

Clark nodded, ducking down and pressing his lips to the scar.

Bruce couldn't help the memory that flashed across his mind, the memory of Kal, staring at him with fear in his eyes. He'd thought Bruce was going to die.

Bruce had thought he would die. There was no way they'd reach a medical facility in time, even with Superman's speed.

The memory was hazy, but Bruce remembered losing his focus. He remembered rambling about something or other, his primary concern being what would happen to Dick, if he didn't make it home. Alfred would look after him, surely, but…

Bruce hadn't wanted him to lose another parental figure.

Another…parent.

Kal-el had stared at him, whispered something Bruce couldn't hear. He'd touched Bruce in a way he never had before.

Then he remembered searing pain—worse than almost anything he had felt before. He'd learned later it was Kal—that he'd cauterized the wound with his eyes, that he'd saved Bruce's life.

Clark kissed from the scar, up Bruce's thigh to his ass, hot tongue working over his hole, bringing him back to the present. The corner of Clark's glasses frame pressed against his skin, and Bruce couldn't help but be endeared by the fact that he was still wearing them.

Bruce closed his eyes. He was grateful for that sharp little point of plastic. If it wasn't for that, he could forget this was Clark. The attention to Bruce's scar had shaken him more than he could have anticipated, blurred the lines between Clark and—

A finger joined the tongue, pressing inside of him, opening him up.

"Fuck, Kal—" Bruce moaned, then he froze. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Clark's mouth vanished. The finger vanished. Bruce opened his eyes slowly to see him there, staring down at Bruce, glasses in his hand.

Except, no. Clark was—

"B?" His voice was faint, eyes wet.

"Kal," Bruce repeated, but this time it wasn't a slip of the tongue.

Clark was Kal-El. He was Superman.

"B," Clark smiled, and there it was—the radiant, beautiful smile Bruce had fallen in love with.

Bruce reached up, pulling Clark—Kal—back down by the neck into a kiss.

"Bruce," Clark sighed against his lips. His touch wasn't hesitant anymore—he was still holding back, but not as much as before. He knew now—he knew he didn't have to hide his strength.

"You still want this?" Clark asked. Bruce laughed, wrapping his good leg around Clark's waist, pulling him close enough that they were pressed together, chest to hip.

"Who the fuck do you think I was talking about, Ka—Clark?" He worried, for a moment, that this was a mistake. That Clark wouldn't want him anymore, that his feelings for Lois—no.

Not Lois, never Lois. Clark's words hadn't been about her after all, had they?

"Me too," Clark assured him. "I—"

"Can we talk about this after you fuck me?" Bruce demanded.

Clark beamed. 

And then, unbelievably, it got better. If Clark had been enthusiastic before, it was doubled now. He picked Bruce up, pulled him into his lap, settling him with tremendous care, avoiding the scar on his inner thigh. A finger trailed over the scar. "Let me know if you—"

"I will, just, fuck, Clark, please—"

"I've got you, Bruce. I've got—Ahhh…" The words trailed away as Bruce wrapped his hand around Clark's dick. Clark fumbled with a bottle of lube, taking the hint and returning his fingers to what they'd been doing before Bruce's little slip of the tongue.

Bruce missed his tongue, but there'd be time for more of that later—or at least, he hoped so.

For now, Clark's mouth was otherwise occupied, tongue gliding against Bruce's as he worked a finger, then two inside of him.

Bruce moaned as Clark found that spot, as he worked his fingers over it again and again. Precome was dripping from Bruce's cock, every nerve on fire with Clark's touch. It wasn't that he hadn't enjoyed himself before, when it was just Clark Kent, reporter for the Daily Planet, but knowing who he was, recognizing him fully, it set Bruce alight.

He loved him so much. His eyes burned with tears, and he didn't make an effort to wipe them away. It was everything—it was having Clark here, it was being held by him, touched by him, loved by him—all of it was more than Bruce could ever have known to want.

Then Clark's fingers were gone and Bruce was being lifted again without even a trace of effort from Clark. He'd make a joke about Clark being indecisive if he didn't love the way Clark manhandled him—anyone else, any other situation and Bruce would hate it, but this was Clark—Clark, hair a wild mess of curls, eyes bright.

He lay Bruce on the bed, then tried to roll him over to his stomach. Bruce protested.

"B, your leg…this'll be—"

"No," Bruce insisted, pulling Clark down, wrapping his legs around Clark. "Need to see you, baby."

Clark stared at him—how had Bruce not recognized him before? Those eyes were unmistakable. He'd have to look at those glasses later—surely there was something to—the thought faded as Clark lifted his hips and pressed into him.

Clark's lips kissed his cheek, his jaw, then the side of his neck as he slowly filled Bruce, the stretch painful but in the best way, and then Clark's kiss turned to a bite, nipping at Bruce's skin and soothing the spot with his tongue.

Bruce cried out, back arching into the touch.

The pain—the sharp sting of Clark's teeth, the slow burn of the stretch—all of it mingled with the pure bliss of Clark's touch into a complicated, twisting, beautiful sensation that pulsed through his body. Nothing existed outside of this bed, nothing mattered but where Clark might kiss him next, how Clark might touch him next.

Bruce tangled his fingers through Clark's hair, gripping tight and feeling the vibration in Clark's throat as he moaned against his skin.

The bed rocked as Clark pounded into him, setting a bruising pace, one that Bruce knew nobody else would ever be able to live up to. Nobody else could fuck him like this, and it wasn't just the super-strength. It was Clark. It was the way he knew exactly what Bruce could take and wanted him to have it, the way he held Bruce—so careful and so firm all at once. It was the way Bruce knew Clark could snap him in half without an ounce of effort, but knew he never would.

Nobody else would ever—could ever—compare to Clark, and Bruce hoped they would never have to.

Clark hit that spot inside of Bruce again and again, waves of ecstasy washing over him. Clark licked over his sternum, nipped at his chest, then found his way to Bruce's nipple, sucking it into his mouth and rolling it between his teeth. Bruce's hand clamped down in Clark's hair, his leg pulled him closer by the waist, holding him buried inside, filling Bruce, tip of his cock pressed against his prostate.

Bruce moaned, jaw falling open as he came, spilling ropes of come onto his chest, whole body trembling with the intensity of it.

Clark's kisses turned softer, as Bruce came down from his orgasm, fluttering brushes of lips over his skin. He made a move like he was going to pull out, but Bruce held him tight. "Keep going," he demanded. "Want—need to feel you. Please, Kal."

Clark rose up, breaking free of Bruce's grip on his hair, staring down at him with flushed skin and glazed eyes. Slowly, he shifted his hips, a slow drag that ached inside of Bruce. Clark kissed him, open-mouthed, and Bruce's eyes flitted closed, the sweetness of the kiss a delicious contrast to the overwhelming ache as Clark fucked him. He could feel Clark's rhythm faltering—he had to be close. Bruce's hands tracked over his spine, fingernails grazing over impenetrable skin.

He was so perfect, so impossible, but he was here—he was real and solid and beautiful, and he was Bruce's.

All Bruce's.

Bruce slid his hand forward to Clark's chest, scratching through the hair scattered there, the soft, unflexed muscle of his pecs. Clark grunted, buried inside of Bruce, and came with a shuddering gasp.

Bruce kissed him through it, holding him close and not letting go, even as Clark collapsed on top of him.

The world was silent. Bruce's body thrummed, feeling his pulse all the way to his toes. He was used to exertion, used to the ache in his bones and the bruises on his skin, but this was different. This wasn't returning home from a night of tight scrapes and fighting for his life, this was new.

Clark stirred, pulling out of Bruce. Bruce hissed at the loss, but didn't fight it. He couldn't move, not yet. Clark rolled off of him and Bruce could feel the way he stared.

"Oh no," he whispered, fingers reaching out, but not quite touching the marks on Bruce's chest. "Did I—"

It took everything in him for Bruce to lift his hand and rest it on top of Clark's, pushing it down to rest over his chest. Clark was still staring at the mess, and Bruce could see the guilt in his eyes. "You didn't do anything I didn't want from you, Clark."

Clark looked up at him, then—their eyes locked, and time slowed to a stop. "I love you so much, B."

Tears sprang to Bruce's eyes again at the words—he'd known, of course. It was obvious, looking back, but hearing the words now…Bruce had kept this inside for so long, never imagining someone like Superman could see him like that, never believing he had it in himself to be what Kal—what Clark—deserved.

But the way Clark looked at him…it made Bruce believe he could.

"I…" The words caught in his throat, but he had to say it. "I love you too." He squeezed Clark's hand and forced himself to laugh, or he might sob. "Now get the fuck back down here—I know you want to cuddle."

Clark smiled, a beautiful sight, and he dropped himself back down onto the bed, pulling Bruce into his arms. Bruce's breath trembled as he let himself be enveloped by Clark. "Sure," Clark said into his hair. I'm the one who wants to cuddle. You hate it."

Bruce grumbled, burrowing himself further into Clark's chest. "The worst," he lied.

"We should get cleaned up," Clark pointed out. "We're a little…"

Bruce grunted, but didn't move. He wasn't sure he could, even if he wanted to.

"Ten minutes," he decided. "Ten minutes, I'll get up."

Bruce must have dozed off at some point, because he woke up to sunlight streaming in the floor to ceiling window of the penthouse. He grumbled. It was too hot and too bright. He'd slept through the night? What was—oh.

Clark moved underneath him, waking as Bruce tried to shield his eyes from the light.

"Morning," Clark said. Bruce sat up, wincing at the ache in his core, the dull throbbing pain in his leg, the itchy dried up mess on his chest. Clark had been right—they should have cleaned up the night before.

"I still can't believe I did all of that to you," Clark said, staring at him.

Bruce stretched, relishing in the way Clark watched. He was gross and messy and littered with bruises, and Clark wanted him. Kal loved him. "I've got a bathtub here, you know?" he suggested. "A big one."

"Is that right?" Clark asked, eyes tracking over Bruce's body.

Bruce hummed. It was difficult to act sexy, trying not to wince as he swung his legs off the bed. He hadn't reopened his leg injury, but it ached, almost enough that he didn't want to put weight on it. Clark was at his side in an instant, kneeling in front of him, inspecting the spot. His fingers probed the area, looking for signs of further injury, most likely.

Bruce grunted. "You know, if you're gonna kneel in front of me like that, I'm gonna start getting the wrong idea," he joked.

"Not the wrong idea," Clark corrected him. His eyes flicked from the wound to Bruce's dick, already halfway to hard from the mere proximity of Clark. "But I thought you wanted a bath?"

Clark stood, helping Bruce to his feet. They kissed, in the middle of the room, next to the bed. Again, in the doorway. They made out like teenagers while waiting for the tub to fill, and slid into the warm water together, Bruce sitting in the vee of Clark's legs as the warm water soothed his aching body.

Clark kissed the spot just behind his ear. "I guess you have to go back to Gotham soon, yeah?"

Bruce hummed. "Before dark, sure. Plenty of daylight left, though."

Clark's hand wrapped around Bruce's cock, drawing a moan from deep in his gut. By the time they got out of the tub, Bruce's fingertips were wrinkled from the water, and Clark's skin was as pristine as ever.

Bruce grunted at the sight, as he wrapped himself in a soft robe.

"What?" Clark asked, toweling his hair.

Bruce shook his head. He wanted to mark Clark back, to show the world he was his. He'd figure it out—research, he was good at that. But he'd figure it out some other time. For now, his stomach rumbled, and he had Clark—beautiful, naked, wonderful Clark right in front of him.

"I was gonna ask if you knew any good breakfast spots, but I actually think we should order in." Bruce stood and walked over to Clark, pushing him back against the wall with a hand to the chest before dropping to his knees.

Clark grinned down at him. "I like that plan. I—ohh!"

There was a lot they could do, before Bruce had to go home—and what they couldn't do today, well…

They had a long time to get to it.