Archive of Our Own ^beta

Bruce is staring at Clark from all the way across the ballroom. It is the first time Clark has seen him alone all night, freed from wealthy donors who demand to be entertained by him before opening their checkbooks. Though the face he wears for them is warm and his personality is dazzling to the men of his class and reporters alike, his mask slips when he stares at Clark. He wears that typical cold and unyielding look of his while downing what remains of  his champagne in one fell swoop. From across the room, Clark can hear his heartbeat thumping away steadily in his chest, but it’s a little faster than normal.

The eldest Robin joins his side at the starch white pillar he’s halfway hidden behind. As he and Dick chatter about something that Clark doesn’t feel the need to listen in on, Bruce keeps staring straight at him. He only looks away when he turns to Dick and says something. His son laughs, then rolls his eyes, and quickly waves his father off.

Bruce exchanges his empty glass for a new one and strides towards Clark. Through the flatness of his expression [which he does not care to change] the reporter can see something hungry looking in his eyes, and his heart starts beating out of his chest. His palms start to sweat a little, and he shuffles awkwardly as Bruce bears down on him; they have done this song and dance a dozen times, maybe more, and he still doesn’t know what exactly to say. Bruce always likes to play out in the open like this. He may as well be a peacock showing off his fan of feathers whenever he spots Clark in the wild, and though Clark is fully aware of his intent and where this ride will take him if he chooses to get on, he never knows what sort of performance Bruce wants from him.

Clark swallows whatever anxiety he can once Bruce is in front of him. The two stand at a high top table together, and without saying a thing, Bruce places the champagne on the table and props his head up with an elbow, looking up at the reporter and softening his gaze a little bit.

Clark takes out his pen and flips to a clean page on his yellow notepad. “Any comment, Mr. Wayne?” 

Bruce tilts his head like a confused dog and bats his lashes, and Clark takes this to mean that the man must be pleased. “I can’t think of much to say, Mr. Kent.”

“Why don’t you tell me about this lovely fundraiser of yours?”

Bruce shrugs noncommittally. “Well, we both know that the Wayne foundation takes public health very seriously,” He rattles off in a tone full of falsified severity. “As in, our philosophy dictates that any and all life saving care should be free, and I’m sure you’ve heard that all of the lobbying and discussions I’ve had with the mayor for–”

“–Keeping gender affirming care in the public health package, correct?”

“–Correct, well I’m sure you know that it was all unsuccessful. And off the record,” he leans in a little so that he’s just a whisper away from Clark’s face. “Hustling his blood money piece of shit friends for a few dollars is my favored form of retribution, but on the record, any responsibility our mayor refuses to fulfill will be cared for by the Wayne family and its kind donors.” Bruce smiles, but through his rambling and joking, the calculated, ravenous glint in his eyes remains completely unshaken.

Clark looks up from his yellow notepad. “Verbatim, Mr. Wayne?”

He nods. “Verbatim, Mr. Kent.”

At least his column will be interesting next week. 

“You’re having a nice evening, I hope,” Bruce says. He turns up that seemingly genuine charm of his, the one that Clark knows is wholly falsified, and flashes his billion dollar smile, as if to taunt him.

“Nice enough, I could have ended up on the sewage system case.”

Bruce pouts a little, and then pushes the untouched glass of champagne towards Clark. “Well, surely I can help improve it.”

Clark tries not to blush and shakes his head, pushing the glass back to him, as tempting as it is. “I couldn’t. Not while I’m on the job.”

“What more could I say to help you get it finished?” Bruce takes the glass and downs it before straightening, signaling to Clark that he’s ready to leave. “I’ll tell you just about anything you want to hear, Smallville.”

Clark shoots Bruce a look that says insists he has broken the rules of engagement in this game of make-believe they play where they know nothing about one another, things like where they’re from, what their drink of choice is, or what they look like without any clothes on. Bruce takes the yellow card on the nose, turns his back, and does a quick headcount on his kids, assuring that none of them are lying to journalists or swinging from chandeliers. Pleased to see that Damian is being wrangled by Tim who is being supervised by Dick, he decides that he’s done enough pretending tonight, and wags his fingers at Clark before disappearing around a corner.

The few minutes that Clark has to wait to slip out of the gala are agonizing, they always are. He scribbles on his notepad, recording the last few words that Bruce said to him while considering interviewing a donor or maybe even one of Bruce’s children. He looks down at his watch a few times, and his impatience seems to make the eight minutes and thirty-two seconds that he is willing to wait stretch into hours.

Once free from his endless waiting game, Clark disappears into a stairwell and circles around to a backdoor he scouted out earlier in the evening. A cool breeze strikes his face as soon as he steps outside, and he decides to savor it, if only for a moment. It is a huge relief after being stuck in such a stuffy room with stuffy people for hours on end. 

His phone vibrates in his pocket.

Bruce: Hurry up.

Clark has to laugh at the man’s impatience. He hurries around the side of the building and finds Bruce waiting in his car with the engine running. He’s staring at him through the side mirror with a look in his eyes, one that beckons Clark to come play a new game with him. When they’re alone together, the rules to their games shift greatly.

Clark walks over to the passenger side door and opens it, but he doesn’t get in. He leans into the car door and grins at Bruce, who cranes his neck towards him impatiently. “Mr. Wayne,” Clark grins while refusing to step into the car. If there’s anything in this world that he adores, it’s teasing Bruce. 

Bruce looks somewhat agitated by Clark’s coyness, and he rolls his eyes. “How long are you planning on keeping this up?”

“Oh, you don’t want to play anymore?”

“Not that stupid game.”

“You’re so impatient, petulant–”

Bruce reaches over the passenger’s side and grabs Clark by his tie, and the stronger man of the two yields instantly. He lets Bruce use his tie like a leash. “You of all people know that I don’t like to waste time, Clark.”

Clark can’t control his blush this time. He sits down in the passenger seat and shuts the door behind him before Bruce pulls off. He drives fast through the Gotham city streets, winding through roundabouts and speeding into various right turns before he finds his straight shot to the Wayne manor. As they’re pulling up the long driveway towards the house, Bruce starts loosening his tie with one hand while steering with the other. 

“You’re eager,” Clark laughs.

“You have no idea.” Bruce parks at the steps of the manor next to the fountain near the entrance and gets out of the car, waiting for Clark to climb out before proceeding into the house. In lieu of his army of children, Bruce’s home is terribly quiet, and while it creeps Clark out a little bit, Bruce doesn’t seem to be phased. This is likely the first night in a while that he doesn’t have to be worried about them daring each other to do double and triple backflips off of the grand stairwell.

While Clark is busy taking in the sight of the mansion, Bruce takes it as an opportunity to grab the reporter’s hand. He doesn’t look back at him for a second while leading him up the stairs, and he tugs on his arm insistently like he’d pull it out of its socket if he could.

When they make it to Bruce’s bedroom door, they both somehow lose their shoes, and Clark doesn’t think he can control himself anymore. He leans some of his weight onto Bruce and sighs into his neck before planting a kiss. His lips linger for a few moments, and he parts them to bite.

Bruce pulls away. “I’m too old to have hickies on my neck, Clark.”

Clark mumbles something incoherent and needy sounding under his breath, the vibration of his voice rumbling through his chest as he speaks. Bruce pushes the door open and turns to face Clark, who seems to be enraptured by his scent. He can’t peel himself away from the other man, feeling as though if he holds onto him for long enough, he’ll be granted the serenity of drowning in him.

Bruce walks backwards as Clark makes quick work of undressing him, first removing his tie and blazer before unbuttoning his starch white shirt. As Bruce falls backwards into the bed, he grabs Clark by his tie again and yanks him down with him. With Clark’s blazer only halfway off, Bruce becomes agitated with the clothing that stands between the both of them being undressed together and undoes his tie before quickly discarding his button down, undershirt, and blazer. His calloused hand runs up Clark’s side feeling the softness of his skin and the powerful muscles that lie beneath it, and then he unbuckles his belt for him, and they do away with his pants.

Clark scoops Bruce up and pulls his heavy body off of the bed with one arm before starting to kiss a puckered scar on his shoulder and pressing his nose into his collarbone. Bruce strokes his hair gently, massaging his scalp while he plants a thousand kisses on the upper half of his body. Clark runs his thumb over one of the twin scars that sit parallel to one another just above his ribcage and pulls his nipple into his mouth.

“Clark,” He says through a quiet groan. The hair on his arms stand up on end, and his face feels terribly hot.

“Hm?” The other man hums mindlessly while kissing both scars and working his way towards his waistline.

“Chop chop.”

Clark sighs into Bruce’s diaphragm and sets him back down on the bed before realizing that he can’t push past his want to eat the other man alive, and decides that he has to settle for the next best thing. Clark lifts Bruce’s bottom half and pulls his pants off before kneeling in front of him. Bruce is already hard, his clit peeking out from beneath his mound. Clark plant’s a kiss on another scar that curves up from the inside of his thigh and towards his hip.

“Clark,” Bruce whines again.

He grins and looks up at Bruce. “What is it you’d like, my love?”

Bruce doesn’t say anything and grabs Clark by his hair. The Kryptonian allows the other man to guide him to wherever he wants. Clark buries his face between Bruce’s legs and runs his tongue along the very end of his clit before getting to sucking him off. 

Bruce shudders at the sensation and his head tips back before he lets out a satisfied sounding groan. He hikes his legs up at the end of the bed and his hips buck, but Clark anchors him to the bed using one arm and keeps working his tongue against him.

“Fuck— Clark,” he breathes, grabbing his hair and pulling his head back from him. “Slow down,” he scolds. 

“I figured you’d wanna get straight to business,” Clark grins. He gets up from where he kneels and leans over Bruce again while placing hickey’s on his pelvis and pushing one of his fingers into him. 

“I—“ Bruce grunts when Clark’s finger curls inside of him. “—am gonna cum on your face if you keep acting like that.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Fucking freak.”

“Slut.”

“I need you to hurry up and fuck me, you asshole.”

“So what will it be,” Clark says, fully giving into the urge to keep teasing Bruce. He pulls his fingers out of him and leans his head against the inside of Bruce’s thigh, tracing hearts and circles up his leg. He finds his neediness beyond amusing. “You want me to slow down or hurry up?”

Bruce grabs Clark’s wrist and pulls his fingers into his mouth, first running his tongue along each finger and then sucking them clean. As Clark looks down at him, he sees something almost like drunkenness light up in his eyes. “I want you to fuck me correctly,” Bruce pontificates. “And promptly.” 

“Yes sir,” Clark concludes. Enough teasing, Bruce has had his fill of it. He rests one of Bruce’s leg’s on his shoulder and pushes into Bruce after stroking himself a few times, bringing his hips down on him gently at first before beginning to pick up his pace. He lets go a huff, near shuddering with the immensity of his satisfaction. 

“Harder,” Bruce insists halfway through his panting, and Clark complies. He’s hyper-aware of the other man’s fragility, but Bruce seems to have absolutely no regard for it, as per usual. “Harder,” he begs. The headboard thumps on the wall at first and then knocks against it hard with the next thrust, and Clark hopes to God he hasn’t broken it. 

Bruce doesn’t have a single care in the world. He looks like he’s in heaven as guides Clark’s hands towards his pelvis and pushes it down just above his mound. “Press— hnn,” he can barely breathe as Clark hits him at just the right angle, but manages to grit out another command. “Press down.”

Clark pushes the heel of his palm into Bruce’s pelvis, adding an almost un-gentle pressure, and Bruce cries out. Staring into the Kryptonian’s eyes, he’s overcome with the urge to kiss him and grabs him by the hair again, pulling him close to his face and biting his lower lip before forcing his tongue into his mouth. Clark lets out a soft moan as Bruce kisses him before his voice breaks into a whine. Entangled and wrapped up with and in his lover, his eyes have glazed over and he has given into his base urges almost completely. 

Bruce claws at Clark’s neck a little and then pushes him back before gasping for a breath of fresh air. He’s teary eyed and red in the face while he breathes like he’s just been submerged in water, and Clark realizes what he’s just done mid thrust and slows down again, leaning into Bruce’s shoulder and listening to the thumping of his heartbeat. 

“Sorry,” he breathes, giving a gentle laugh. “I got too excited.”

Bruce grabs him in an attempt to keep them both pinned together and holds Clark’s head down close to his so that his mouth can sit close to his ear. 

“Keep fucking me,” he says in a low growl while holding onto Clark’s neck for dear life. Clark thrusts into him, but it must not be enough for Bruce’s tastes. “Fuck me like you hate me, Kal-El.”

Clark’s eyes roll back and show their whites as Bruce talks, whispering complete filth in his ear. “I’m close,” Clark murmurs.

“Cum in me,” Bruce says quickly, wrapping his legs around Clark’s hips. Clark groans at the sensation of Bruce’s thighs against him and pulls him closer, his vocalizations tapering off into a whimper. Bruce keeps praising him. “Good boy, just like that— cum in me, cum in me—“ Clark strains and then follows orders before letting almost all of his weight fall into Bruce. Bruce pants beneath him, and they lay there chest to chest like that for a few moments while their heads clear from the rush of excess dopamine. 

Then, Bruce sits up and Clark pulls out. He lays there, panting for a few seconds, and then looks down between his legs as if he’s just now realizing what’s just occurred. He leans back on his elbows and groans in slight annoyance.

Clark plants a thankful kiss on his cheek. “What, were you possessed?”

“Just thinking with my dick, honestly. Get me a towel.”

Clark pouts.

“Freak.”

“What if I said pretty please,” He pleads, lifting Bruce up again and pushing him further up into the bed. He runs one of his hands up Bruce’s side in smooth circles and makes pretty blue puppy dog eyes at him. 

“‘Pretty please,’ my ultimate weakness.” Bruce rolls his eyes. “Get going, Big Blue.”

Clark gleefully sinks into the soft bed and pushes his face into his lover’s lap, first kissing his inner thigh and then running the tip of his tongue ever so lightly against the very opening of his cunt. Using his tongue to split him open, the taste of both of their sexual fluids mixed together seems to drive Clark positively insane. He drags his tongue up Bruce’s labia, pushing his nose past the underside  of his dick a few times for good measure, and then gets to sucking him off again. Bruce's head knocks into the headboard softly, and he shoves his hand into his mouth, biting down roughly on his own thumb.

Clark lets go of his hold on him for a second and runs his tongue up his labia again, this time faster. The sensation makes Bruce’s hips buck up into the air as he twitches, and his legs squirm beneath Clark’s elbows. Clark pulls Bruce’s dick back into his mouth and continues on his merry way. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Bruce groans. He runs his fingers through his hair, claws at the side of Clark’s face, grips at his bed sheets in search of reprieve from the seemingly endless sense of pleasure Clark has brought upon him. It’s no use; tears start running freely down his cheeks and his eyes roll into the back of his head. Pressure builds between his legs, and it feels a little bit like he has to piss. His hips buck again, and Clark holds him. “Wait— stop, stop, stop.”

Clark freezes and looks up at Bruce, cocking his head at the sight of his tears. He sits up and scrambles so that they’re nose to nose, and his brows arch in concern. 

“I feel— like I—“ Bruce is panting too much with effort to speak, twin rivers of tears streaming down the sides of his face in perpetuity in spite of Clark’s attempts to wipe them dry. He shuts his eyes to stop them from flowing, as if it’s an embarrassment. His face burns tomato red. “I’m gonna cum,” he says shortly, and Clark understands what he means instantly. 

He lifts Bruce up from the bed and places him on the cool wooden floor. “Is that better?”

Bruce nods hurriedly, but he keeps his eyes closed tight. His pale face looks more than beautiful in the dimmed light, and something tugs in Clark’s stomach before knotting. It’s like he is sympathetic to Bruce’s overwhelm. 

This isn’t the first time they’ve had sex and Bruce has ended up crying, and it’s not the second time either. Each time it’s happened, Bruce has seemed absolutely mortified. It doesn’t bother Clark at all, in fact, it makes perfect sense to him. It just worries him a little bit; it makes him think that he’s being too rough with Bruce.

Clark cups Bruce’s cheek in his hand, leaning over him and rubbing the ends of their noses together. “Can I kiss you?”

Bruce nods again, and their lips connect. When Clark pulls away so that Bruce can draw breath, he finally opens his eyes, and Clark smiles. “There you are.”

“Sorry.”

“No, don’t be—“

“—I don’t know what it is, I can’t control it,” Bruce stammers awkwardly. The knot of anxiety in the pit of Clark’s stomach promptly releases. “I don’t normally let anyone go down on me because it freaks people out—“

“It doesn’t freak me out. Can I be honest?”

Bruce freezes in anticipation of what Clark is going to say. “Clark, I don’t know if it’s because you’re from Krypton or Kansas, but you—“

“It’s kind of hot.”

“—are nasty as fuck.”

“I guess we’ll never know.”

“It’s okay. I like it.”

“I know, B. Now can I…?”

“Please.”

Clark sneaks a hand down between Bruce’s legs and presses a thumb down onto his clit. Bruce grunts and sits up a little bit, kissing Clark hard and holding his head down close to his in search of a little more suffocation. They work their way back up to where they were before, and Bruce’s thigh raises against the side of Clark’s head.

Somehow, Bruce can never seem to avoid pulling Clark’s hair. As he works away at Bruce’s clit, licking and sucking as he pleases, he has a grip of Clark’s dark hair in his hand, and he pulls so hard that he’d tear it out if he were human. Bruce’s chest starts into a quick and rhythmic rise and fall.

“Shit,” Bruce whines, and his moans break out into a strangled sounding cry. Clark eases up and kisses him just below his waist. He feels his muscles tense up again against his face when he pushes two fingers inside of him and curls them against his g-spot. 

Bruce is a wet, crying, whimpering mess, and Clark thinks he’s beautiful like that. He puts another hickey on Bruce’s chest. 

“You’re okay, let it out,” Clark says before going down on him again. Bruce moans, and then lets out a loud sob, and then there’s a release. He pulls back from Clark and presses his legs together, a stream of clear liquid spilling out of him. He gasps, then opens his legs again and sucks his fingers before using them to rub against his clit roughly, intent upon achieving a full release. Clark puts his fingers back inside of him, and that’s enough to fully push him over the edge.

Another stream of squirt jets out of him, and the two have made a transparent, pale colored puddle beneath them. 

Clark’s hand sneaks over Bruce’s stomach, but the once soft and kindly sensation feels like a knife against his skin. He grabs Clark’s hand and holds it down there for a moment. 

“Hold on,” he says through his heavy breath, and he lets his eyes fall shut. He squeezes Clark’s hand, and they sit like that. 

Bruce disappears into the ether for a few minutes. He lays there and just breathes while squeezing Clark’s hand so tight he may hurt his own. He counts each breath he draws, feels the cool hardwood beneath him, and listens to the sound of his and Clark’s somewhat asynchronous yet rhythmic breathing until the world around him resharpens, and he’s back. 

“Sorry,” Bruce says when he looks up at Clark. He sits up and rests his head against Clark’s collarbone, savoring the feeling of his body heat and the smoothness of his skin against his face. He grazes his cheek along his skin. “I just get— everything is a lot, after—“

“No, I understand,” Clark says. He rubs the nape of Bruce’s neck, hoping to be a comfort. “It’s a lot.” 

Bruce wipes tears from his face and looks up at Clark for a moment. He stares hard, as if he’s memorizing every curve and angle of his face, counting the freckles on his nose, and taking into account the specs of green in his eyes. 

“I love you,” Bruce says finally.

“I love you too.”

“No, Clark,” he grabs him by the hand again and squeezes. The charisma that he showed earlier that night at the charity gala, his coyness and his incredible smile, his insistent need to impress each of his guests and leave them enchanted by his kindness and friendliness is completely gone. It feels like a second skin has completely melted off of him and been dumped down the drain for the night. “I love you.”

He says it again, deathly serious, and with more urgency this time, as if there’s no other way to describe what he feels with words. In that moment, Clark realizes that he has found himself a strange human. His alienness doesn’t feel more okay because of it— it feels right. 

“I love that you love me,” Clark says finally after a moment’s rumination. 

Bruce seems rather pleased with this response, and nods before getting up and disappearing for a few seconds. Upon his return, he throws a towel on the floor. 

“We should get cleaned up.”

Strange human indeed.