Archive of Our Own

Bruce has only one condition when he agrees to stay the night at Clark’s place: he has to leave first thing in the morning. There’s an early meeting scheduled at Wayne Financial and he’s long past the years when he used to deliberately arrive late, dutifully performing the benevolent carelessness that the world expected from a young billionaire playboy with no sense of responsibility. Now that his age finally allows him to approach his role in the company with all the gravity it deserves, he’s become a fixture at the meeting table whenever he gets the chance, arriving early more often than not so he can make his rounds with plenty of time for small talk. His only complaint, really, is the commute. When he’s not taking a helicopter or hurtling down the roads in a custom-built souped-up tank, driving to Metropolis like an ordinary civilian is kind of a pain in the ass.

Hence Clark’s suggestion that he should just spend the night in the city and save himself the hassle in the morning.

It’s a sensible enough idea— which in hindsight should have been Bruce’s first clue that Clark had ulterior motives. His second clue should have been that split-second flicker in Clark’s eyes as he nodded along to Bruce’s terms, the sort of flicker that usually means Clark is planning something, something that he would probably describe as a pleasant surprise. Not that Bruce has anything against surprises as a concept; it’s just that he doesn’t have much experience with the pleasant kind. Still, the opportunity to avoid starting his day with a long, tedious drive is too good to pass up. Bruce dismisses the flicker and accepts the offer, texting Clark as he sits in his car on the ferry and receiving picture after picture of the delicious home-cooked meal that awaits him on the other side of the bay.

Dinner is, of course, wonderful. After dinner is even better. Although Clark tends to keep his favorite toys at the lake house these days, he still has a sizeable portion of his collection at his own place, meaning the nights that they do spend there always have that little extra element of spice, whether it’s something new or just some old friends that Bruce hasn’t seen in a while. Tonight it’s a leather body harness that features a waist cuff with doubled rings at all four cardinal points on its circumference. Once the matching cuffs have been affixed at Bruce’s elbows and wrists, this allows Clark to clip the former at their respective sides and the latter at their opposites, binding Bruce’s forearms in two parallel lines across his back and leaving him helpless as Clark turns him over and puts him prone on the bed. Then Clark slicks up his cock and Bruce’s thighs and settles on top of him, pulling Bruce back against him with the harness across his chest as he ruts between his legs, Bruce locking his ankles behind him and whining as their doubled body weight grinds his cock into the towel they put down over the sheets. By the time they’re finished they’ve made an absolute mess together. Clark cleans them up when they’re done.

It doesn’t even occur to Bruce that he’s being worn out on purpose until he wakes up in the morning and finds himself alone.

Clark is never the first one out of bed. He’s rarely even the first one awake, but if he is then he’s never in any hurry to go anywhere, perfectly content to doze at Bruce’s side for as long as Bruce is willing to allow before the duties of the day call him away. That’s why it’s so unusual when Bruce turns over to see that Clark’s pillow is already empty, the space beside him vacated while he slept, a maneuver that could have only been achieved with literally superhuman levels of stealth. Bruce’s eyes flare wide for just a split-second before narrowing in suspicion. This is… a surprise.

He hears it at the same time he smells it: the savory sizzle of bacon frying just beyond the bedroom door. Instantly Bruce’s uncertainty clarifies into understanding. Of course. Clark, ever the sentimental domestic type, must have slipped out of bed early so he could make Bruce a proper breakfast before his meeting. Now that really is a pleasant surprise. Bruce gets dressed in a hurry, leaving his jacket draped over the foot of the bed and rolling his sleeves to the elbows before he opens the door and heads towards the kitchen. There’s a short hallway with the bathroom on his left, the living room ahead of him and his destination up on the right. With every intention of striding in with an appreciative declaration that it smells good, Bruce reaches the corner, turns on his heel, and gets paralyzed on the spot.

There’s Clark, standing at the stove with his back to the doorway, one hand resting on the handle of a frying pan and the other using a spatula to poke idly at the bacon crackling within. He’s framed in the heavenly glow from a nearby window, the angle just right to cast the morning sun across the kitchen in a spill of light that paints a perfect bright square on the wall beside him and crowns his dark curls with a halo of gold. Any single one of these details would already be enough to take Bruce’s breath away. It seems impossible, then, that all of them combined don’t even come close to matching the impact of the last and most crucial detail of all.

Clark is almost completely naked, his entire gorgeous body laid bare except for the sheer black bra and matching panties of a custom set of Gucci lingerie.

It’s a lot to take in. Bruce stands in the kitchen entryway, one hand resting on the doorframe, his face blank and his brain an inert pile of kindling until Clark casts an idle glance over his shoulder and touches him with the lit match of his eyes.

“Oh, good,” he says, smiling serenely. “You’re up.”

It was a trap, Bruce realizes, the epiphany distant and faint while his brain goes up in flames. Clark holds the eye contact just long enough to let Bruce see that smile go from serene to sly before he returns his attention to the stove, his voice drifting back over his shoulder with perfect, practiced nonchalance.

“I hope you brought your appetite.”

Bruce tightens his grip on the doorframe, his voice hoarse with restraint.

“I have a meeting.”

“You do?” Clark makes a show of cocking his ear towards Bruce but doesn’t turn around again, too busy using the spatula to flip a piece of bacon in the pan. “Really?”

“Quarterly board review.” Bruce stares at the bra clasp lying flat and snug in the middle of Clark’s back; perfect fit. “Wayne Financial.”

Another flip, punctuated with another spike of sizzling. “That was today?”

“Uh huh.” The waistline of the panties dips at the base of Clark’s spine, dimpled by the downward pull of a slender triangle of embroidered black tulle, which in turn is dimpled by the cleft of Clark’s ass. “In about forty-five minutes, actually.”

“Well, then,” Clark says, his tone still maddeningly casual, like Bruce just walked in and found him in a t-shirt and sweats. “I guess I better hurry up with breakfast, huh?”

And as he finishes turning the last of the bacon, he lazily crosses one ankle behind the other, making the twin curves of his rump into the top of a long, slim heart shape that ends at his upturned bare heel.

Bruce can’t get to him fast enough.

In a matter of strides he’s across the kitchen, his hands going straight for Clark’s hips to bring their two bodies flush against each other, Clark’s back pressed against Bruce’s chest and his ass pressed firmly against the front of Bruce’s pants. With his chin tucked over Clark’s shoulder, Bruce is looking straight down into the main attraction: two cups of black tulle crisscrossed with a pattern of the Gucci double-G, capped with little satin bows and filled to the brim with Clark’s huge, hairy pecs. When Bruce looks farther down he can see the matching panties at a similar capacity, stuffed to bursting with the heavenly swell of Clark’s cock, every last detail of him clearly visible through the latticework of embroidery on the sheer material. It really is a stunning set of lingerie, elegant and enticing, a classic design cut perfectly to complement this magnificent body. Only a creation that was custom-made could ever look this good.

Bruce would know. He’s the one that had it made for him.

“I really don’t have time for this,” Bruce groans, his hands already traveling north of their own accord, fingertips trailing over Clark’s bare belly.

“Time for what?” Clark wonders innocently. “Breakfast?”

Bruce groans again and buries his face in the crook of Clark’s neck, where a tasteful hint of exquisite cologne is waiting to ambush him in a fragrant wave of rose and amber. It’s Christian Dior, the kind of thing that starts at a hundred bucks an ounce but generously levels out at four hundred and fifty if you buy the big bottle. Bruce would know. He bought that for him, too.

“God,” he huffs, drawing in a deep inhale as he noses at Clark’s throat. “Are you wearing the Ambre Nuit?”

“Mmhmm,” Clark hums, the sound punctuated with a smug chuckle. “Among other things.”

He’s just so unmistakably pleased with himself. Flustered past the point of coherence, Bruce can only offer his rebuttal through action, skimming his right hand up over the nearest bra cup to find Clark’s nipple through the tulle and give it a quick, scolding pinch. With a satisfied gasp Clark instantly arches back against Bruce’s body, his hands going tight on the handles of the spatula and frying pan as he pushes his chest up and out in a shameless demand for further attention. Bruce is all too glad to indulge him, the pinch released so he can flick his index fingertip back and forth instead, coaxing the object of his ministrations into a hard little bud while Clark’s shoulders heave and shudder with enjoyment, his breath already starting to come in short, shallow pants. Bruce has just switched from flicking to a light clockwise rubbing motion when the timer on the microwave rudely interrupts in a clamor of shrill beeping.

“Ah,” Clark says, breathless. “That’ll be your coffee.”

At Bruce’s subsequent questioning look, Clark gives a purposeful nod, directing his gaze over to the countertop perpendicular to the stove, where a French press sits with a raised plunger poised over a full beaker, ribbons of steam drifting up from the spout.

“Do you mind getting that?” Clark gives another indicative nod down at his bacon in progress. “My hands are full.”

“What a coincidence,” Bruce says, shifting his grip so that both palms are cupped over Clark’s chest, his head bent so he can mouth at the bra strap on Clark’s shoulder. “So are mine.”

Clark squirms at the effort but will not be deterred, his voice a low, insistent murmur.

“Better not let it sit too long,” he advises, nuzzling his cheek against Bruce’s temple. “It’ll get bitter.”

Demurral is pointless— just as it would be pointless to lament the poor timing of the microwave’s disruption, as if Clark wasn’t following the sound of Bruce’s heartbeat from the moment he got out of bed, tracking his approach so he could pour the hot water and set a four-minute ticking clock that would leave Bruce just enough time to pull up a chair to the feast before Clark had the perfect excuse to send him away from the table again. Oh, good. You’re up. Bruce thinks about the way Clark positioned himself with his back to the doorway for the most effective possible reveal and wonders for not the first time how the rest of the world would react if they knew that Superman could be so devious.

“Hmm,” Bruce mumbles against Clark’s skin. “Well, we wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

He’ll comply, but not without protest. First he sets his teeth around the slender black band and pulls it out far enough that his sudden release sends it back to Clark’s shoulder with an audible snap, drawing a sharp inhale of acknowledgment from its intended target. That’s enough to satisfy Bruce for now, though it still takes a tremendous effort for him to force his starving hands to give up their prize, like trying to wrestle a favorite toy out of the jaws of a riled-up dog. It’s easier when he’s moving with a new target in mind, his attention focused entirely on the nearby countertop until he reaches his goal, at which point he’s finally able to turn and look back the way he came.

They’re facing each other now, Bruce getting his first proper look at the whole spectacle, his eyes already running through a complete head-to-toe scan before Clark cuts him off with a wag of his finger, pointing again at the French press that awaits Bruce’s attention. Bruce relents with a huff, glancing away just long enough to situate the palm of his hand over the cap of the plunger.

“Remember,” Clark exhorts in a purr. “You’re gonna want to press that down nice and slow.”

Bruce gives a theatrical groan of affirmation, his fingers curled into a fist of restraint as he carefully sets the plunger into a measured, steady descent. At least it gives him plenty of time to admire the view. It’s funny, but now that he has the full picture of Clark at the stove, the bra seems especially incongruous— not because of what it is, but simply because Bruce is so used to seeing Clark bare-chested while he cooks. Still, the sheer tulle doesn’t leave much to the imagination, neither above nor below, the glory of his nakedness only enhanced by the way the delicate trim draws attention to all the highlights. Bruce lets his eyes wander like a pair of connoisseurs in an art museum, marveling at all the masterpieces framed in lace.

“Jeeeeesus,” he says in a long exhale. “Look at you. Fits like a glove.” He shakes his head, admiring the custom sizing of the cups over Clark’s powerful chest. “Like a goddamn glove.”

Clark gives a modest smile as he switches off the burner in front of him. “That Mr. Gucci really knows how to cut a suit.”

Bruce raises one eyebrow in amusement. “Among other things.”

That gets a laugh, Clark nodding along in agreement while he uses the spatula to start airlifting the finished bacon out of the pan, moving one strip at a time over to a plate with a paper towel laid over it to catch the excess grease. Every gesture he makes only gives Bruce more angles to appreciate, from the graceful curve of his shoulders as he turns back and forth from the pan, to the glimpses of thick dark hair in his armpits every time he reaches out to lay another piece of bacon on the plate. Bruce is so lost in his study of the slender arc of tulle painted over the rise of Clark’s bare hip that he scarcely notices when the plunger bottoms out and he’s left clutching the French press in a motionless daze, his voice hoarse with feeble accusation.

“I thought you said you were saving this set for a special occasion.”

Clark spares him a knowing glance as he gets the last of the bacon laid out to cool.

“Well,” he says airily. “Maybe I’m feeling special today.”

He leaves the spatula in the pan so he can reach up to open a nearby cupboard, his hand dipping inside and reemerging with a bright blue coffee mug that has the El crest emblazoned across the front in cardinal and gold, along with a banner of block text that declares the bearer to be a Super Fan. Clark slips the handle over one crooked finger and lets it dangle, offering it to Bruce with an idle shrug.

“Here— I think this one’s yours.”

Eyes narrowed in playful indignation, Bruce nonetheless reaches out to accept, closing his grip around the body of the mug and drawing it back towards him at a deliberate downward angle that keeps the handle firmly lassoed around Clark’s finger. Clark makes no effort to resist; if anything he puts a little extra sway in his hips as he saunters along in the mug’s wake, closer and closer by tantalizing degrees until Bruce can finally get a hand on the back of his neck to haul him the rest of the way into a passionate, deeply appreciative kiss. The hands joined on the coffee cup are now trapped in the middle of the embrace, leaving Clark with one hand free and just enough space to wriggle it between them and grab hold of Bruce’s tie, his fist clutched just below the knot so he can pull him in tight, urging Bruce to kiss him as hard as he can. Bruce doesn’t need to be asked twice, his fingers plowing up into the hair at Clark’s nape to brace him against the enthusiastic onslaught of his mouth. Under the shadow of the fancy cologne he can still smell Clark, all warm skin and fresh air and sunshine, as clear and crisp as if he just swept down from the sky with the clouds still caught in his tousled curls.

Bruce kisses him until the tension on his tie goes slack, Clark releasing him from his demands while his head twitches against the pressure of Bruce’s hand, letting him know that it’s time to come up for air. They separate with a great deal of mutual reluctance, Bruce chasing after Clark’s retreating mouth for one last nip before he finally pulls back to admire his handiwork. Clark’s eyes have already gone hazy and half-lidded, his cheeks flushed with color and his lips too wobbly for a moment to even smile. Bruce is starting to think that he might have even achieved some kind of upper hand in this little game—

—but then Clark does smile, the shape of it starting in the middle of his mouth and curving all the way up to one side with such palpable guile that Bruce quails before it.

“So,” Clark smirks. “How would you like your eggs this morning?”

Before Bruce can even attempt to answer, Clark has swiftly disentangled himself and slipped out of reach, moving over to the refrigerator so he can retrieve the Mason jar that contains his leftover bacon grease, meticulously saved for future cooking endeavors. Bruce wrinkled his nose the first time he saw it; he was familiar with the practice in theory, but he’d never seen such a quantity of the stuff collected before. Clark was quick to sing the praises of this precious commodity, immediately rattling off a list of its potential uses, from stirring it into mashed potatoes to using it as a butter substitute in various baked goods to lend them a savory kick. You can make a pie crust with bacon grease, Clark advised him, or you can just spread it on toast and you’ll end up with the best BLT you’ve ever had. When Bruce later told Alfred about this astonishing habit, he was shocked by Alfred’s immediate delight, followed by a request to inquire if Master Kent might be willing to share a portion of his riches so they might make Yorkshire puddings. Clark was, of course, happy to oblige.

Left with empty hands and an empty mug, Bruce can at least attend to the latter, settling it on the counter so he can pour in the contents of the French press and fill the air with the aroma of fresh coffee. No need to fuss with cream or sugar; Bruce takes it black, and he hooks one finger through the handle of the cup to raise it up and blow the steam from the dark surface before he takes a sip. Clark was right— he did let it steep too long. Well, that’s hardly his fault. He was distracted. Right on cue Clark reaches down to open one of the lower cupboards, bent at the waist with his legs kept straight so his ass is presented on a pedestal as he retrieves the mesh strainer from down below. Sometimes Bruce wonders how the hell he got so good at this.

“I really do have a meeting,” he reminds them both, one hand on the coffee mug and the other purposefully anchored on the nearest countertop.

“So you’ve said,” Clark acknowledges, putting the strainer to one side and reaching for the Mason jar.

“It’s a big one.”

“Mmm.”

“They’re expecting the CEO to be there.”

“I’ll bet.”

Bruce watches as Clark delicately twists off the outer ring and pries up the lid, then nestles the base of the strainer into the jar’s open mouth. There’s a thrilling dichotomy between the mundane activity and his lush, provocative attire; thousands of dollars’ worth of Gucci lace and Christian Dior cologne, and here he is peeling a fresh paper towel off the roll and laying it in the strainer to ensure that no crispy bits end up in his collection of grease. Bruce takes a big gulp of his still-too-hot coffee, slapping himself on the wrist with the bitterness and heat.

“Okay,” he croaks after the swallow, pausing to clear his throat before he continues. “Okay, look. If I leave now, we can start as soon as we have a quorum. I’ll be back before lunch.”

“That’s nice,” Clark says. He’s taken up the spatula again, preemptively scaping all the bacon residue to one side of the pan. “You won’t have to work too long.”

“Right.” Bruce licks his lips, wondering if it could be that easy. “Will you… still be here?”

“Of course.” Scrape, scrape. “I live here.”

Bruce has a feeling he already knows the answer to his next question, but he has to ask it anyway.

“Will you still be dressed like that?”

Here Clark finally looks up from his task, raising his head and turning to show Bruce his smug, indolent smile.

“Nope.”

Bruce makes a sound that’s halfway between a groan of dismay and a rueful chuckle. “So you’re giving me an ultimatum, huh?” He clicks his tongue in a scolding manner. “Not the kind of behavior I would expect from Superman.”

“Maybe so,” Clark concedes, his smile getting even wider. “But Superman’s not here right now.”

He says it with a wink, but even so Bruce is abruptly struck by the simple profundity of the observation. Superman’s not here right now. Batman isn’t here, either. Neither is the billionaire playboy that the world knows as Bruce Wayne. It’s just Bruce, feeling more like himself than he has in years— an achievement that becomes even more astonishing when he considers the fact that it comes from something he never thought he would ever be allowed to have in his life. There were too many sacrifices that had to be made, too many doors that had to remain closed. The world needed Batman and Batman needed Bruce Wayne. It didn’t seem possible for Bruce to have anything for himself. Now that beautiful impossibility is standing right in front of him, smelling like heaven and gift-wrapped in lace, an open invitation just waiting for Bruce to reach out and accept.

And after all, Clark went to all this trouble to pull off this surprise. It would be a shame to let so much effort and ingenuity go to waste. While Clark carefully tips the frying pan over the strainer and uses the spatula to coax the contents into the jar below, Bruce sets aside his coffee, retrieves his phone from his back pocket, and calls his executive assistant.

“Hi, Grace, it’s Bruce.” No need for Clark to turn his head to eavesdrop; Bruce knows he can already hear every word, even with his attention ostensibly on the task before him. “Listen, I just wanted to let you know that I won’t be able to make it in for the meeting today. Something’s come up.” There’s a little furrow of guilt in Clark’s brow at the answering spike of worry in Grace’s voice, but Bruce is quick to put them both at ease. “It’s fine, everything’s fine. It’s just, ah— there’s a personal matter that requires my attention.”

Here Clark can’t disguise his swell of triumph, his chin tucked to his chest in a futile attempt to hide his giddy grin. Grace tries to say something about having the meeting notes brought to his desk as soon as they become available, but Bruce’s brain has already clocked out for the day, leaving him with barely enough professional courtesy to manage a “thank you, Grace, that would be great” before he hangs up and immediately switches the phone to Do Not Disturb. Clark has just finished with his pour, and he sets the pan and spatula back on the stove before he moves the open jar up towards the tile backsplash so it can cool before he puts the lid on again. Then he turns to face Bruce, one hand propped on the edge of the counter so he can tilt his body into a nonchalant lean, the other hand coming to rest idly on his hip.

“So,” he says. “Does this mean you’re staying for breakfast?”

Without a word, Bruce reaches over to deposit his phone next to his coffee cup, setting it down one end after the other with a deliberate tap, tap. He might not be able to hear Clark’s heartbeat, but he can still see the moment when it skips and starts to speed up, the exquisite Gucci bra heaving up in a quick intake of breath as Bruce begins to slowly advance towards him.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Clark says, the words cocky but the voice already climbing in pitch, well on its way to going high and breathless. “Did you— how did you want those eggs, again?”

“Hmm,” Bruce rumbles, his eyes roving over Clark’s body like he’s reading the menu. “I’m thinking… sunny side up.”

“Good choice.” Clark huffs out a skittish laugh as the distance closes between them. “Specialty of the house.”

It’s a small kitchen and Bruce is a big man. Another step and he’s right up in Clark’s personal space, close enough that he has to tilt his chin down to watch as Clark’s hand falls from his hip to grope blindly for the countertop behind him, a move that leaves him effectively braced into a corner. Bruce lets his eyes take their time on the way back up, giving them all the latitude they need to fully appreciate the remarkable configuration of hair that covers this remarkable body. Clark isn’t wearing any of his stocking and garter belt sets today, but even so his legs don’t want for adornment, dressed in a luxurious downy coat that starts at his ankles and doesn’t stop until it reaches the deep, dense thatch concentrated in his groin. The panties make a valiant effort to contain what they can, but they’re delicate by design and Clark is bushy by nature, the overflow spilling over the front of the slim waistband and peeking out in tufts around his inner thighs. From there it spreads up into the field of dark fur that fills the valley of his Adonis belt and keeps going, rising into a tapered point that ends just above his navel and exposes his phenomenal abs in a striking swath of bare skin that arches from hip to hip, crowned at its peak by the full glory of his magnificently hairy chest, where the cleavage created by his imposing pectorals is only further emphasized by the framing of the exquisite black bra. Bruce has just enough conscious thought left in his brain to make a mental note to reach out to his contacts at Gucci with his compliments— along with his awestruck, everlasting gratitude.

“You know,” Clark interjects into his reverie. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

Bruce looks up at his face, dazed. Clark hasn’t shaved since yesterday, his handsome jawline shadowed with stubble and his hair still rumpled like he just rolled out of bed. At Bruce’s ongoing stare, he raises one mighty shoulder in a coy shrug, his head cocked at a distinctly beguiling angle.

“I, uh— I hope you’re hungry.”

There’s an answering bloom of heat in Bruce’s belly, his mouth welling up in anticipation. “Starving.”

Clark makes a show of reaching half-heartedly for the frying pan. “Should I get started on those eggs, or…?”

Bruce beats him to it, his hand darting out to seize the handle and crank the pan in a sharp turn so that it’s out of Clark’s reach. Clark’s hand retreats from the sudden advance, fluttering up to touch his chest instead, fingertips trailing down through his cleavage to find the point where the two bra cups meet over his breastbone.

“Forget the appetizers,” Bruce tells him. “I’d rather skip to the main course.”

Quick and forceful, he steps in and takes hold of Clark’s hips, thrilling at the way Clark yields instantly to his subtle tug to pull him closer. They’re almost nose to nose, Clark staring up into Bruce’s eyes and all but quivering in expectation, his lips parted and his face tilted back to offer Bruce his mouth. It would be so easy to give him what he wants— but right here, right now, Bruce would much rather give him what he needs.

For a moment he lets them linger, even leaning in slightly like he’s about to seal the deal. Then, with a sudden heave of effort, he tightens his grip on Clark’s hips and twists him around, pivoting him into an abrupt about-face that ends with Clark’s hands instinctively fumbled out to catch himself on the counter. Before there’s a chance for him to process what’s just happened, Bruce hitches up his pantlegs and drops to his knees on the kitchen floor behind him, looking up just in time to catch Clark’s head swiveling back over his shoulder, his gaze automatically directed to a point about six feet above the ground before it sweeps down in confusion to land on Bruce’s upturned face. Now it’s Bruce’s turn to wear the smug smile, both hands raised with the palms turned outward, the fingers slightly curled with unmistakable intent.

“Mind if I dig in?” he wonders. “I’m famished.”

The reaction is everything he could have hoped for, Clark’s eyes popping wide with excitement before they roll back and flutter closed in rapturous anticipation. Bruce gets a glimpse of that full bottom lip being drawn in and caught between those perfect pearly teeth before Clark swivels his head forward again and sinks down to his elbows, a shift in position that leaves his forearms splayed on the countertop and his ass tilted up in offering.

“By all means,” he exhorts, with a little wiggle for emphasis. “Help yourself.”

Until this point Bruce has been looking up along the length of Clark’s back, his gaze angled over his shoulder so as not to miss any crucial reactions or lose a single precious moment of eye contact. Now that Clark is settling in, however, it’s time for Bruce to do the same. After a deliberate exhale to prepare himself, he slowly sinks back to sit on his heels, his gaze tracking down the channel of Clark’s spine in a long, lazy curve until his eyes finally come to rest on the spectacle directly before him.

Clark Kent has an ass that redefines the term natural wonder, a phenomenon so flawlessly designed and perfectly formed that it’s almost enough to make a lifelong atheist believe in a higher power, if only to explain the existence of such an immaculate creation. To embellish this creation with custom-made lingerie is the equivalent of setting a gilt frame around a painted masterpiece; an addition of something beautiful that only serves to enhance the existing beauty, one piece of art meant to celebrate the other. The whole spectacular array is so impeccable that Bruce can hardly believe he’s even allowed to touch it, let alone actively encouraged to do so. And yet right on cue, there’s Clark with another emphatic wiggle, this one not so much inviting as it is a tiny bit impatient.

“C’mon, now,” he wheedles. “Don’t let your breakfast get cold.”

Bruce loves him so much in that moment that he almost laughs out loud with the force of it. Only a lifetime of practiced restraint allows him to contain it in a muted snort of amusement, shaking his head to dispel the last of it in a shiver that runs out through his arms and into a quick flex of his hands like a maestro about to take up his favorite instrument. Then he shifts forward onto his knees so he can reach up as far as he can along Clark’s back, where he brushes his fingertips against the naked shoulderblades and then skates them down over the band of the bra like a Lamborghini cruising over a speed bump, his momentum unchecked as he glides on towards his destination. When he gets there he fills his palms with the supple fullness of Clark’s rump, his fingers pressed into the warm, bare skin while his thumbs nestle together over the sheer black tulle. And after taking one last moment to savor the full scope of the view, Bruce leans in and buries his face right in the middle of it.

“Mmmmm,” Clark hums, his heels popping up from the floor as he rises onto his toes. “That’s more like it.”

There’s no hesitation on Bruce’s part; after everything Clark has done to make the morning go exactly according to plan, Bruce has no doubt that he’s already prepped and ready for play. It’s easy to imagine that he might have cheated with the superspeed for that step, just to make sure that he didn’t get caught in the act and spoil the surprise. Neat little trick, that. Bruce has expressed his envy of the ability more than once; it takes him a bare minimum of thirty minutes in the shower before he feels sufficiently clean. Not that he minds the work— in fact he’s more than happy to do it— it’s just that sometimes he wishes he didn’t have to make Clark wait so long.

He’s not going to make him wait any longer now. Still, that doesn’t mean he can’t start slow. Bruce takes his time nuzzling at his prize, his nose rubbing over the raised embroidery, every inhale a greedy sniff and every exhale released from his open mouth in a deliberate puff of heat against the gusset between Clark’s legs, using his breath to quite literally get him warmed up before they begin. God, he smells even better down here than he did up there.

“Ohhh, yeah, yeah,” Clark sucks in a breath, his forearms going from splayed to pigeon-toed, his hands bunched together and his head bowed between his shoulders. “Ugh, god, your stubble— I was so— ah— I was so worried you would shave for the meeting.”

Bruce lets out a hot gust of laughter underneath him. “What meeting?”

With that he turns and nudges his chin into the inner slope of Clark’s right buttock, digging in at the point just outside the bounds of the black panties so he’s pressed against the naked skin. There he starts vigorously scraping up and down, sanding at him hard enough to polish a diamond. Instantly Clark emits a high, quavering moan, his toes fidgeting on the kitchen tile as he eagerly pushes back into Bruce’s ministrations. Bruce is obliged to shift his grip forward to Clark’s hips in order to brace himself and maintain the pressure, his arms straining with the effort to keep his chin buried in the cleft of Clark’s ass. The longer he rubs at him the louder Clark gets, his volume going up along with the enthusiasm of his squirming until at last Bruce can’t stay locked on to that single point any longer.

Shaken loose from his detail work, Bruce switches to broad strokes across a wider canvas, dragging the entire lower half of his face back and forth across the span of Clark’s ass like a cat claiming his territory, complete with a low, ongoing growl that rumbles out of him without any conscious intent. Between Clark’s squirming and Bruce’s rubbing, they really are dancing cheek to cheek, the one fuzzy with eiderdown and the other as coarse as sandpaper. There’s never any danger of playing too hard with this one; Bruce can be as rough as Clark wants him to be without ever having to worry about going too far. Anyone else would have been scoured raw by now.

“Yeahhh— yeahhh—” Clark lets out a series of muffled whines before lifting his head from the cradle of his arms to make sure Bruce can hear his next request. “Put your mouth on me, babe— I want your mouth—”

Failure to specify, Bruce thinks, as he moves without hesitation to sink his teeth into the meat of Clark’s rump, screwing his jaws together with enough force to make his molars ache. He’s rewarded with a delicious yowl of surprise, Clark’s head thrown back and his whole body jolting with astonishment, his cock jumping so urgently in answer that Bruce can feel the tug in the waistline of the panties over Clark’s hip. That only makes Bruce snarl and bite down harder, his neck tensing in an emphatic thrash while Clark whimpers and taps at the countertop with one trembling fist that’s just this side of smashing the entire cabinet to rubble. Bruce holds on until he hears a threatening creak in his inner ear that just might be a filling about to crack. When he finally wrenches his jaws away, it releases them both to come up for the same wild, heaving gasp of air, their bodies shuddering in mutual relief.

Clark slumps forward while Bruce slumps back, his mouth hanging open and welling with drool. He leaves one hand braced on Clark’s hip while he brings up the opposite wrist to scrub at the worst of the overflow, his eyes moving fast to catch the barest glimpse of the fading indentation of his teeth marks on Clark’s ass. There in an instant, gone in a flash— Bruce rubs his thumb over the unblemished skin, then draws his hand back to deliver a resounding spank that gets him a startled, shivery giggle.

“Okay,” Clark pants, his grin evident in his voice. “Okay, that was on me. I should have been more specific about the mouth thing.”

“I warned you,” Bruce chuckles as he switches to massaging the point of impact. “I’m starving.”

“So you keep telling me,” Clark sighs with no small amount of petulance. “But you still haven’t eaten your breakfast.”

“Let’s be specific, now,” Bruce chides, his mouth quirked in amusement. “What do you really want me to do, Clark?” His voice drops slightly, the playful edge softened by genuine sincerity. “I’ll do anything. All you have to do is ask.”

He looks up like a mariner lost at sea, willing the clouds to part and show him the light that will guide him home. Soon enough his prayers are answered, as Clark props himself up on the counter to look back over his shoulder, his two blue eyes a pair of perfect lodestars.

“All right, Bruce,” he says, cool as can be. “I want you to spread my ass and lick me until my legs shake.”

Without thinking and without breaking eye contact, Bruce compulsively drops one hand between his legs to press hard against the sudden wrenching ache of his own arousal. Clark’s hum of approval does not go unnoticed.

“I want you to put your tongue inside me,” he continues, determined to answer Bruce’s question with all due attention to detail. “Then I want you to use your fingers. Then, if you’re so inclined, I would really, really love for you to fill me up with that big, beautiful cock.” Clark raises his eyebrows in a guileless shrug. “Is that specific enough for you?”

Bruce clears his throat, his voice hoarse. “It’s not that big.”

A burst of delighted laughter pops out of Clark like a champagne cork, his head reflexively ducked down to contain himself before he looks back again to show Bruce his enamored, adoring grin.

“Not to you, maybe. To you it’s just proportional.” The size of the grin shrinks as he bites his bottom lip, the unchanged force of the expression now straining at the seams. “But I mean, babe— just look at your proportions.”

The comment sets a blowtorch in front of Bruce’s face and flicks the ignition, turning him bright-red and burning-hot in a matter of seconds. He’s spent the last two decades thinking of his size in a strictly practical sense, from the level of force behind every punch to the amount of weight on the end of every grappling line. After that came the logistical challenge of presenting this monumental frame in a manner that wouldn’t draw too much attention or invite too much speculation in the elite social circles where he maintained his cover. When he did hear the occasional comment from his one-night stands, it was always in a tone of unmistakable surprise, sometimes even with a hint of vague alarm, as if they’d just taken the Ferrari-branded car cover off of a Ferrari-shaped vehicle only to discover an M1 Abrams battle tank waiting underneath. Between all the time spent maintaining it as a tactical asset and all the effort that went into neutralizing it as a threat to his secret identity, it never once occurred to Bruce that his body might also have the capacity to be seen as an object of desire.

And now the most beautiful man in the world is looking at him like he’s never wanted anything more.

For the second time Bruce gives his cock a quick, unconscious squeeze, compelled by the same instinct that drives people to pinch themselves to make sure they’re not dreaming. Instead of waking him, the act only further intensifies the living reality of the present moment— at which point Bruce tightens his grip in a third, deliberate palpation to remind himself that he might just be the luckiest son of a bitch in the history of the human race.

“So,” he says, a single syllable and somehow his voice still manages to crack anyway, leaving him obliged to clear it with a self-deprecating cough. “Until your legs shake, huh?”

Still grinning, Clark confirms his demands with a smug nod. “Mmhmm.” He lets his head tilt back and his gaze go heavy and half-lidded, a single eyebrow arched in challenge. “You think you’re up for it?”

Bruce licks his lips and wipes his palms on his thighs. “Only one way to find out.”

Clark all but purrs with anticipation. “Okay, then.”

He gives Bruce a saucy wink as he reaches up to push the tangle of the curls back from his forehead, then turns forward to brace both hands on the counter again, his feet pointedly scooching just a fraction further apart to give Bruce all the room he needs to get in there and get to work. As if that wasn’t clear enough, his voice drifts back over his shoulder in a tone that’s half-invitation, half-command.

“Come and get it.”

Bruce forces out a sharp exhale to make sure he’s still breathing. His first impulse is to sit up on his knees, but on second thought he leaves one knee rooted in place and raises the other to plant his foot on the floor, a position that allows for better balance and a wider range of motion. Eyes on the prize, he takes a moment to clasp his hands and vigorously scrub the palms together, infusing them with heat to ensure maximum comfort before he finally lets himself reach out and place them on the bountiful feast that’s waiting before him. There’s far too much bounty to hold with just two hands, but Bruce does his best, his fingers splayed out towards Clark’s hips while his thumbs meet in the middle, pressing the embroidered Gucci logo into the dimple that marks the top of the cleft of Clark’s ass. As Bruce’s grip fills with warmth, so too does his mouth, his salivary glands activating in an uncontrollable rush that would make Pavlov proud. He can’t help it. If there’s anything he loves more than the way Clark smells, it’s the way he tastes.

“Yeah,” Clark says with a steep inhale. “Ohhh, yeah, come on, now—”

He shivers and bites back a whine as Bruce moves his right thumb off the slender triangle of black tulle and proceeds to slip the digit under and around it, the fine material now hooked over the first knuckle. With that secured, Bruce nudges both thumbs down into the valley together, as close as they can get and as deep as they can go. Once he’s wiggled them all the way into the warmth, he reduces the closeness but keeps the depth, drawing his thumbs apart and drawing Clark apart along with them, the panties tugged inexorably off to one side until Clark is fully spread open and laid bare in his hands.

“Hnnn,” Bruce breathes, his voice husky. “There you are.”

His eyes flick towards a sudden movement— down in the cradle of the gusset, he sees Clark’s balls give a sharp lurch upwards, while at the same time he hears a strangled, staccato yelp and the threatening creak of the counter’s edge being clutched with a significant amount of force. When Clark releases a shivery exhale a moment later, Bruce realizes that he’s only just managed to keep himself from coming on the spot. Flustered and amazed, Bruce tightens his grip on Clark’s ass like he’s stilling a plucked guitar string, cutting the sound to silence.

“Whoa, easy, Smallville,” he murmurs, his tone that of someone attempting to soothe a skittish horse. “The ride hasn’t even started yet.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Clark pants, his shoulders heaving. “It’s just— hah— I’ve been really looking forward to this.”

The sheepish admission only serves to underline the considerable amount of time and thought that went into the construction of this morning. Bruce can only imagine how long Clark has had everything in position and ready to go, the box all propped up on the stick and just waiting for the day that Bruce had an important early meeting at Wayne Financial and Clark could place the proximity of his apartment down in the center of the box’s shadow, the perfect bait to lure Bruce inside before he pulled the string and let the trap fall into place. Clark might not have the best knack for strategy on the battlefield, but by god does the man know how to plan his way around the bedroom. For twenty years Bruce considered himself a tactician without equal. It’s only now, in this arena, that he’s finally met his match. It was inevitable, of course, that Bruce would be outwitted sooner or later— he just never could have predicted that he would enjoy it so much.

“Oh, you have, have you?” he chuckles, marveling at both the circumstances and the view. “Well, in that case, we better make it last. ”

“Yeah,” Clark nods, still panting. “Yeah, okay.”

“We’ve got plenty of time,” Bruce assures him. “I cleared my schedule, remember?”

Clark quavers out a shuddering laugh of acknowledgment, still nodding as he struggles to get his breathing back down to a manageable tempo. Bruce leads the way with a loud, performative inhale, giving Clark a gentle squeeze on the exhale to indicate that he’s meant to follow along. They take the next breath together, steadying and deep, the tight curve of Clark’s clenched muscles already starting to relax under Bruce’s hands. Bruce is still astounded at the close call, shaking his head as he guides the two of them through another long, slow sigh.

“Honestly,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I can’t believe you’re still this riled up after letting off all that steam last night.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Clark huffs with an audible smile. “Last night was amazing. It’s just—“ He lets out another short laugh, clipped and breathless. “God, I love it when you eat me out.”

Now Bruce is the one who has to catch his breath, reeling not just at the unabashed candor of the statement but at the undeniable veracity of it. He’s seen more than enough evidence to know that truer words have never been spoken— and to make things even more remarkable, this is a truth that they both happened to discover at exactly the same time.

It started with Bruce in one of his favorite places to be and engaged in one of his favorite things to do; the former being with his head between Clark’s thick, hairy thighs and the latter being sucking Clark’s glorious cock like both of their lives depend on it. Clark was sprawled back against the headboard of the lake house bed and Bruce was sprawled down between his legs, working him over with lips and tongue and greedy throat, pulling Clark all the way in before slipping him all the way out again to cover his cock with worshipful kisses and fierce, hungry licks. He just couldn’t get enough of Clark’s taste, his tongue stroking from root to tip and back again, pushing down to lap at Clark’s balls before his ravenous momentum led him to the inner juncture of Clark’s thighs, a deep delve towards one of the last remaining points on that beautiful body that Bruce had yet to properly explore. An egregious oversight, considering the extraordinary perfection of Clark’s ass— and all at once he could think of nothing more important than finally showing that ass the appreciation it so rightfully deserved.

With an inspired effort he managed to pry his mouth away from Clark’s skin, raising his head and giving the underside of Clark’s thighs a quick, coaxing pat.

“Okay, I’ve been neglecting the assets,” he said. “I think it’s time for us to fix that.” He gave another little pat, adding just a touch more pressure behind his left hand to steer the anticipated rotation. “Roll over.”

He’d grown so accustomed to Clark’s instantaneous acquiescence to any kind of direction in the bedroom— everything from lean forward to put your feet up on my shoulders— that the subsequent moment of hesitation was as jarring as a face-first impact into an invisible forcefield. In a flash Bruce was on high alert, his shoulders going tense and his eyes going sharp with concern, scanning Clark’s expression and body language to analyze the reaction.

“If you want to,” he amended hastily, mortified that he’d made assumptions. “It’s fine if you don’t like it. I just didn’t want you to think that I wouldn’t. Because, uh, I would. If you wanted.”

Clark was already shaking his head at the halfway point, propping himself up on one hand and reaching forward with the other to reassuringly cup his palm against Bruce’s cheek, the anxious hazel eyes raised to meet the comforting blue.

“It’s fine,” Clark soothed, his thumb brushing across the cheekbone before coming to rest over the dark blemish that he insisted on calling a beauty mark. “You’re fine.” His hand stayed in place while his gaze darted up to the ceiling, his mouth slanting into a bemused half-smile. “It’s not that I’m— I mean, it’s not that I don’t want— it’s just—”

He forced out the last of his breath and took another one, pausing to collect his thoughts. When he lowered his eyes again, he found Bruce’s waiting for him under a brow furrowed with concentration, so keen to understand that even a global catastrophe couldn’t have divided the focus of his attention in that moment. He was entirely riveted as Clark bashfully lowered his lashes, the powerful shoulders raised in a sheepish shrug.

“I don’t really know if I like it or not.”

After a beat to process the meaning of this admission, the furrow in Bruce’s brow grew even deeper, not only with concentration but now with a touch of genuine confusion as well.

“But I thought you said that you and Lois…?”

“Yeah, me and Lois,” Clark confirmed with a nod. “But she never, um— she would just— she used her fingers. You know, to get me ready.” His tone shifted, a hint of protectiveness behind it. “And it was great! It was perfect, for us, for what we— anyway.” He cleared his throat, his focus now fully back on Bruce. “Just fingers. Then the toys. She never—”

Here Clark dropped his gaze along with his voice, his manner not so much embarrassed as simply, endearingly shy.

“No one’s ever used their mouth before.”

Bruce blinked up at him, his mind temporarily stalled as it struggled to absorb the enormity of this information. It’s funny, but for all of his decades of playboy sexual experience, a part of Bruce has always felt like Clark is still the more experienced of the pair when it comes to the practice of genuine physical intimacy. More often than not it’s been Clark leading Bruce through first after first, from his first participation in mutual masturbation (Bruce nearly drowning in emotion when he saw how kindly Clark handled himself) to Bruce’s first ever booty call (his own hoarse “Am I crazy if I say that I need you right now?” answered with a sonic boom outside the lake house windows). Now all at once they’d reached a point where Bruce would be the one taking the lead. The feeling was not dissimilar to that of following a trusted guide through miles and miles of uncharted wilderness, only for said guide to abruptly stop in his tracks in the middle of nowhere and announce that he has no idea where he’s going. How fortunate for both of them, then, that Bruce recognized the landmarks. He’d been here before.

“Oh,” he said, still blinking. “Well.” He swallowed hard. “Would you like someone to do that now?”

Clark’s expression softened, his hand still cradled against Bruce’s face.

“No, Bruce,” he said. “I want you to do that now.” His mouth quirked, his gaze flicked askance. “If, uh, if you want.”

Bruce felt his head nodding almost in slow-motion, like he was underwater or maybe even in a dream.

“Yes,” he said. “I want.”

The profundity of those two words hit him like a sledgehammer, freezing him in place just long enough for Clark to shift his weight over to one side, his eyes darting about self-consciously.

“So, um— should I roll over now?”

On sheer instinct Bruce’s hands darted up to grab hold of his hips, keeping him pinned on his back. Clark sucked in a breath, his own hands fluttering automatically to rest on Bruce’s wrists, waiting for the cue as to what he should do next. The most powerful being on the planet and here he was, putty in Bruce’s hands. Bruce wondered if he would ever stop being blindsided by it. It took him a beat to find his bearings every time, but this time when he did, he knew exactly what to do. Moving with sudden purpose, he retracted his hands from Clark’s hips so he could slide his arms under Clark’s thighs instead, elbows bent to let his hands settle right back where they started, Clark’s legs now hooked in his grip.

“C’mere,” he grunted, and Clark yielded without hesitation.

Time to put all of his hard-earned strength to good use. Quick and forceful, Bruce shouldered his way backwards and drew himself up onto his knees, bringing Clark along with him like a leopard hauling its quarry into a tree. The shift in position pulled Clark down from the headboard and across the mattress, his body curling over itself as he was raised by the hips until his head and shoulders were left on the bed and his back was pressed against Bruce’s stomach, his knees bent towards his face and his feet pointed towards the ceiling. Bracketed by Bruce’s kneeling thighs, Clark immediately grabbed on to them for balance, while Bruce slid his left arm across Clark’s shuddering belly for the same purpose, hugging Clark’s tailbone against his chest. From there he looked down through the frame of Clark’s splayed, dangling legs to find Clark staring up at him in a state of what seemed to be total amazement.

“Oh,” Clark squeaked out. “Wow.”

Bruce reached down with his right hand to find Clark’s by touch, nudging up the grip on his thigh to twine their fingers together instead. He smiled when he felt Clark squeeze back: still here.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, adding a slight indicative hug around Clark’s belly. “Is this okay?”

He saw Clark’s wide eyes go distant as he checked in with himself, his feet absently flexing in the air and his cock twitching against his stomach in consideration. When he met Bruce’s eyes again, it was to give a small but decisive nod.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, this is okay.”

“Good.” Bruce squeezed his hand. “I want this to be good for you. And if you don’t like it, you just say the word and we stop. Yellow and red, yeah?”

“Yellow and red,” Clark murmured back, confirming their safe word system; yellow for pause and assess and red for full stop.

“Okay.” Bruce tightened his grip one last time before he let go of Clark’s hand, reaching up to skim his palm along the underside of Clark’s thigh instead. “You ready?”

Clark licked his lips, his chest heaving. “Uh huh.”

The mission was simple: give Clark Kent the first rimjob of his life and make damn sure the experience absolutely rocked his world.

At last Bruce allowed the focus of his gaze to drift away from Clark’s face far below and settle instead on the beautiful sight more immediately before him. As his palm finished tracing its way down Clark’s thigh, Bruce let it slip into the cleft of his ass to cup the cheek and spread it open, exposing the pearl at the heart of the oyster, the clenched ring of muscle quite literally quivering with anticipation. Bruce took a moment to consider the work before him; the painter considering the blank canvas, the sculptor considering the block of marble. There are some things that just can’t be rushed.

“Okay,” Clark panted, his belly shivering under the iron band of Bruce’s arm. “Okay, I’m ready.”

Bruce smiled down at him, his eyes crinkling with affection. “I know, baby. I know.”

By way of confirmation, he lowered his head until he could rest his chin against Clark’s upturned rump, where he began to nuzzle back and forth at a slow, deliberate pace.

“I’m gonna take such good care of you,” he breathed, not even sure himself if he was talking to Clark or to Clark’s asshole. “I’m here now. I’ve got you.”

“Bruce—” Clark whined. “Bruce—”

He’d been kept waiting for far too long already. Without further ado, Bruce sealed his lips together and flexed his jaw, sucking his teeth to draw up a fresh well of ink into which to dip his pen. Then he opened his mouth and pressed the broad flat span of his tongue directly over Clark’s asshole, drenching it with a generous coat of saliva. Clark’s subsequent ragged cry started high and then shot up higher still, a rising wail that ended in an outright yelp.

“Ohhhhh fuck!”

There was a spasm of movement down below as he flung both arms over his face, wrapping them around his head so that his next howl was muffled into the cave of his crooked elbows, his hips bucking against Bruce’s chest. Bruce just hugged his belly tighter, his other hand still braced on Clark’s spread rump to hold him steady as he began to lick him, heavy and slow, his tongue pressed hard into every forceful stroke. There would be no teasing, no holding back today— his only intention was to completely overwhelm, and to do that he had to come in at full strength right from the jump. God, the taste was even better than he could have imagined. Bruce took his fill of it, alternating between long, full laps and a total embrace, his tongue swaddled over the knotted muscle to rub at it like a palm cupped over a magic lamp. The saliva was running freely now, the sound of his work growing increasingly loud and sloppy, the mounting lather accompanied by his own rough breathing and Clark’s shrill, stifled keening. The only thing that could have possibly torn Bruce’s mouth away from his task at this moment was the vital importance of the following words.

“Come on, baby,” he growled, turning his head to nip at Clark’s inner thigh. “Don’t be shy. Let me hear you.”

Clark was already too far gone to unclench the cage of his arms from around his head, his body racked with the effort to keep from exploding up off the bed and blasting clear through the ceiling of the lake house. However, at Bruce’s request he managed to shift the focal point of his restraints, ratcheting his arms back to cover his eyes instead, exposing his mouth and all of its music to the open air.

“God— god— ohhhh my god—” Clark’s throat convulsed in a wobbly gulp that did little to curb the rill of drool leaking over his quavering lower lip. “Hnnnnh, Bruce, that’s— that’s— oh— fuuuuuck fuck fuck—”

He broke off into an incoherent yowl as Bruce set the tip of the tongue against the center of the ring and pushed, pushed again, then finally pushed his way inside. It was a shallow foray at first, a fingertip grazing over the surface, but the second try went deeper and the third went deeper still, the downward angle allowing Bruce to use his own weight to drive the effort, the momentum rolled up through his shoulders and down through his powerful neck, all that strength poured directly into the taut, pointed extension of his tongue. As he burrowed his way into the trembling heat, Bruce’s hand crept inch by inch along the upturned underside of Clark’s thigh, opening his dangling legs while he opened his ass. The motion spread Clark’s knees apart even as it drew his heels together, the circuit closed when Clark deliberately crossed his ankles and flexed his feet, locking them like a pair of joined hands, holding on to himself for dear life.

“Bruce, Bruce, Bruce,” he babbled, his head snapping back and forth under the shelter of his arms. “Ah god yes Bruce yes yes yes please please—!”

It was the first rimjob of Clark Kent’s life and Bruce made sure it was one for the books. He licked, he sucked, he made a crooked finger of his tongue and slipped it in so deep that he was beckoning from the inside. He worked until his lips were swollen and his jaw burned from the strain, until his neck ached and his back was soaked in sweat. After ten minutes Clark was incoherent; by twenty he was crying. He came for the first time when Bruce reached around to jerk him off, the come splattering over the concave curl of his shuddering chest. In the end Bruce didn’t quit until Clark was screaming, his second orgasm triggered by Bruce’s tongue alone, his cock jumping untouched against Bruce’s arm across his belly.

Clark was as spent as Bruce had ever seen him by the time he laid him down on the bed, tugging a pillow under the sweat-drenched curls before he carefully settled himself on top of him, covering Clark with the grounding weight of his body. He marveled at the tremor in Clark’s arms as they threaded their way over his back, hugging him close and breathing him in. Bruce pressed a series of soft, reassuring kisses to his temple, one hand reaching up to gently pet Clark’s hair.

“You did so good,” he murmured. “That’s my good boy. You opened right up for me. That was beautiful. God, you’re so good for me.”

“Bruce,” Clark sighed, nuzzling contentedly at his shoulder. “My Bruce.”

“Beautiful,” Bruce sighed back, kissing his temple again and again. “Beautiful.”

The breathing slowed. The heart rates eased off the throttle. Eventually they were nestled together, Bruce on his back and Clark curled up against his chest, each of them absently tracing their fingertips over the other. Bathed in the soft hum of the afterglow, Bruce turned to look down at Clark’s dazed expression tucked at his collarbone.

“Well?” he wondered. “What did you think?”

After a thoughtful beat, Clark flung his arm over Bruce’s chest and sang in a full-throated falsetto: “Oh, sweet mystery of life, at last I’ve found you!”

Bruce threw back his head with a delighted guffaw, both of his arms winding around Clark and hugging him with every ounce of strength he had.

“Good!” he laughed, almost dizzy with relief. “Oh, good. I’m so glad you liked it.”

“Liked it?” Clark twisted to look up at him, his eyes huge. “Bruce, I loved it.”

“Oh.” Bruce blinked at him, his mouth quirked in a flustered smile at the sheer intensity of Clark’s enjoyment. “Well, uh, good.” His eyes darted away, suddenly and absurdly self-conscious over the fact that he’d just spent the better part of an hour eating Superman’s ass and loving every single second with every fiber of his being. “Me too.”

“Good,” Clark sighed, sounding equally relieved himself. “That’s good, because, uh, I am definitely gonna want you to do that again.”

“Well,” Bruce smiled, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “Consider this a standing invitation.” His voice dropped in pitch even as the heat rose by degrees. “It would be my genuine pleasure.”

And it has been, every single time, from the nights in the lake house to that delirious afternoon when Clark somehow convinced Bruce to take him on the desk in his private office at Wayne Tower, Bruce in his leather executive chair and Clark on his hands and knees over the scattered pages of the latest financial reports, the red cape spilled off to one side and the blue Kryptonian chainmail tessellated open from his tailbone to the back of his thighs. (Clark promised to be quiet, but in the end it took Bruce’s tie between his teeth to keep him from singing like a canary.) God, the things that this farmboy from Kansas has been able to get Bruce fucking Wayne to do— things that the Bruce of a previous lifetime would have never even thought to consider, because he would have never even thought them to be possible. In a hundred lifetimes he never could have even imagined that he might one day be coaxed into calling out of a crucial board meeting because his boyfriend got all dressed up in his fanciest lingerie in the hopes that Bruce would stay home and give him a rimjob instead.

Hell, it’s happening right now and he can still hardly believe it.

“You want to know something?” Bruce says, digging his fingers into the warm, solid reality of Clark’s ass waiting before him. “I love it when you let me eat you out.”

And with that, he leans in to press the broad flat span of his tongue directly over Clark’s asshole.

“Mmm!” Clark goes straight-armed on the countertop, his spine arching instantly towards Bruce’s touch, his head drawn back towards his tailbone like a strung bow.

“Nnhnn,” Bruce drones back through his nose, his parted lips currently unable to form a proper affirmative humming sound.

With his mouth set firmly in place, he starts off by moving everything else instead, swiveling his head in a slow, purposeful roll that hinges on his tongue in the same way that a tightrope walker centers their equilibrium on the ball of their foot. He grips the anchor beneath him with a similar intensity, the flat of the muscle clenched over Clark’s asshole like his life hangs in the balance, like he’ll die if he slips off. And to think that it wasn’t even that long ago when he would have accepted such a fate without a second thought, perhaps even with a touch of relief. Now, for the first time in years, he wants to live, and he’s going to do everything in his power to show Clark that he’s the reason why.

The mission is the same as it ever was: give Clark Kent a rimjob that absolutely rocks his world. The only thing that’s changed since the beginning is the fact that now Bruce knows exactly how he likes it.

First things first: the embrace. There are few things in this world that Clark enjoys more than being held, whether it’s Bruce’s arms around his body or Bruce’s hand around his hand. That same desire to be cradled and kept can be translated to this arena, Bruce’s mouth sealed over him like a fist closed around a precious jewel, his tongue palpating Clark’s asshole like he’s squeezing the gem against his palm to make sure it’s still there. He wants Clark to know that he’s got him, he’s got all of him— and judging by the sounds that Clark is making, it would seem that he’s definitely getting the message, from the rapid acceleration of his breathing to the slow scrape of his fingernails curling into fists on the countertop.

“Oh, Bruce,” he pants, his voice faint and tremulous. “Bruce, yes— yes—”

At his encouragement, Bruce finally starts to move, his tongue sliding up just a fraction and then down just the same, a shift that would be almost undetectable to a human but that he knows will land like a shockwave for a hypersensitive Kryptonian. When he repeats the action, the distance between the two points increases by the tiniest margins, and again, then again, the massage intensifying as the span of each stroke grows by gradual degrees. Soon enough he’s rubbing at a brisk pace, his up and down tempo matched by the in and out of Clark’s gasping, harder and faster until at last Bruce runs the whole length of his tongue in a vigorous upwards swipe that ends with a flick of the tip against the center of the bull’s eye, giving it his first full, proper lick.

“Ah!” Clark’s spine rebounds instantly from a concave dip to a convex arch, his head dropped low between his shoulders. “God, yes, do that again— please—”

Although Bruce already had every intention of doing so, he finds his pleasure doubled by the fact that it’s now at Clark’s direct request, his mouth leaping to obey the command with an enthusiasm that could only be described as unbridled. The next thing he knows he’s got his nose buried in the cleft of Clark’s ass, his tongue lapping at him in a finely-calibrated application of speed and force, the former brisk and steady while the latter has just enough pressure to add a slight tug to every pass. Now begins in earnest the slow, sweet process of working Clark open to let him inside; slow because it’s what Clark wants, sweet in every sense of the word.

“Bruce,” Clark keens, high and tremulous. “Bruce, Bruce—”

There’s an almost alchemical power in the way Clark says that name. Somehow he’s able to transform a single arbitrary syllable into a psalm with a thousand verses, as though every recurrence of Bruce’s name is an individual ode to its own facet of Bruce himself— a man who, by nature and by design, is a mirror ball of such astonishing complexity that Clark will never reach the end of his recitation. Not that Clark seems to mind. When the one-night stands of Bruce’s playboy days used to repeat his name over and over, it was always with the distinct impression that they simply didn’t know what else to say. When Clark does it, it couldn’t be more obvious that he doesn’t want to say anything else, maybe ever again.

If Clark can turn every echo of his name into a song of praise, then Bruce is going to turn every stroke of his tongue into an act of worship. Every recurrence is a prayer of gratitude, an offering on the altar, a stone laid in the foundation of the temple; brick after brick, lick after lick, building towards glory even as he takes Clark apart. With limitless patience and infinite care, Bruce smoothes away the tensility from that taut ring of muscle while Clark heaves and shudders above him, his locked arms gradually turned from pillars to jelly, wobbling at an increasing frequency until they finally give way and Clark crumples to one elbow with a gasp. The other hand stays glued to the countertop, his shoulder, elbow, and wrist all at right angles and his head bent so low that Bruce can just imagine the dark curls as they spill forward, falling over the clenched fist now braced on the laminate surface.

“Ohhhh shit,” Clark moans. “Mmm— mmm—!”

Bruce answers with a hum of his own and another shift in tactics, following the embrace and then the licking with a combination of the two, his mouth fixed in place while his tongue never stops moving, the back and forth massage shifting into a vigorous clockwise swirl like a fingertip tracing around the rim of a wine glass to make it sing. It’s definitely making someone sing— Clark is as vocal as ever, though at this point he’s no longer verbal, his entire vocabulary reduced to a series of garbled, unintelligible cries. While Bruce has no issue with the lack of coherence, there’s an odd muffled quality to the sound which suggests to his trained ear that Clark is reflexively holding back the worst of the noise by either biting his lip or else covering his mouth with the hand propped up from the counter. Neither option is acceptable, of course. Bruce could say something about it, but, well, if Clark isn’t going to use his words, then Bruce won’t either. In lieu of a spoken correction, he instead seals his lips over Clark’s asshole and hollows his cheeks to pull hard, jolting him with a quick yank of suction.

“Ah!” Clark yelps, both elbows slammed to the countertop and both palms slapped down flat, his mouth wide open and unguarded. “Hnh, god—!”

That’s more like it. Bruce rewards the outburst with another pull, then another, his jaw working up and down as he sucks on Clark with all the ravenous intent of drawing the rich, tender marrow from a cracked bone. A part of him is distantly astounded by the sounds his own mouth is creating, a cacophony of wet friction and rough, hungry grunts of effort, all of it accompanied beat for beat by Clark’s husky moans of “oh, oh, oh—” as Bruce takes his fill. The rolling motion tugs relentlessly on Bruce’s salivary glands, his mouth flooded with an excess of drool that he attempts to contain by swallowing it down. But the more he swallows, the more he seems to produce, the spit recirculating through him like a water fountain and his gullet laboring to keep up with the overflow. If he can’t stem the tide, then he at least needs to give himself a little more leeway to contend with it. Without taking his mouth away from its task, Bruce takes his right hand away from its post, reaching up to hook his index finger behind the knot of his Gucci silk tie, ratcheting it loose from the base of his full, straining throat.

Although the gesture does grant him some relief, it also costs him his grip on the panties. Once released, the stretched tulle immediately rebounds into Bruce’s face, the elastic of the left leg hole now lodged against the right side of his nose. Bruce snorts but makes no attempt to remove it, his free hand currently occupied by the task of undoing his top two shirt buttons, giving him all the clearance he needs to maintain the continuous pumping action required to combat the deluge in his mouth. In all honesty, he really doesn’t mind the placement of his new lace halter. What he does mind is the fact that when the panties shifted position on this end, Bruce distinctly felt them shift position on the other end, too.

It’s about time for both of them to take a break, anyway. Bruce needs a chance to rest his jaw and Clark needs a chance to cool down a bit before he gets pushed too hard too fast into overstimulation. With a loud, wet pop of suction, Bruce finally peels himself away from Clark’s asshole and comes up for his first actual inhale since Clark said “do that again.” As he stabilizes his breathing and scrubs at his soaked chin, he lets his gaze drift over the downy thighs and calves to watch Clark’s heels sink back to the floor, the tension draining from his body until his chest settles against the lip of the counter, his forehead bowed to rest against the cool lamination between his hands. He’s already so visibly flushed with heat that Bruce is half amazed that he doesn’t see actual steam rising from the surface of his skin. If they wanted to stop and have breakfast now, they wouldn’t even need to bother with the stove; at this point Bruce could probably fry an egg between those shoulder blades, the golden yolk cooked to perfection between the dainty straps of the black Gucci bra.

In the lull between the waves, Bruce takes the opportunity to appraise the stability of Clark’s legs. Not shaking yet. For tactile confirmation, he reaches out to glide his palm along Clark’s haunch, testing for tremors and feeling only the deliberate tilt of Clark leaning instinctively into his touch. Bruce smiles and hums in acknowledgment, his hand pausing to deliver an affectionate squeeze before it continues on its way, no longer tracing down but drifting forward, fingertips blindly following the anterior curve of muscle until he discovers the reason why the panties have shifted in the front: Clark’s cock has popped free of its lacy black cradle, jutting out from underneath the delicate trim to hang, hard and heavy, over his left thigh.

“Hmm, nice try,” Bruce rumbles under his breath. “But you’re not going anywhere just yet.”

For this next part he’s going to need a bit more room to maneuver. Bruce starts with his foot on the floor, scooting it forward another few inches before he tightens his thighs to drag the opposite knee along with it, transposing his kneeling position that much closer to Clark’s fixed point. Then he leans in closer still, his head turned to rest his cheek against the cushion of Clark’s ass while his arms reach up to wrap around Clark’s hips and meet on the other side, giving him the full range of motion he needs to work up in the front. He’s so familiar with the terrain that it doesn’t matter that he can’t see what he’s doing. By touch he finds the head of Clark’s exposed cock, the fingers of his left hand curling around it while his thumb probes gently at the slit, gliding through the ample accumulation of precome like a sleigh through freshly fallen snow. With his right he takes hold of the shaft itself, filling one hand with the thick, solid proof of Clark’s arousal while the other toys with the slick, liquid correlation of the same.

“Mmmhmhm,” Clark shivers, his ass squirming against Bruce’s face. “Oh, yeah, that’s nice.”

“Yeah?” Bruce palpates his right hand, rolling the foreskin in his grip. “You like that?”

“Yeah,” Clark sighs. “Yeah, I do.”

“Good.” Bruce gives him one full, proper stroke, drawing out one full, proper moan before he decisively scrapes his stubbled cheek against Clark’s rump. “Then you won’t mind waiting for it.”

While Clark gives a theatrical groan of betrayed disappointment, Bruce uses both hands to return the escapee to the holding cell, guiding Clark’s cock back under the cover of the panties at an upward angle off to one side so that it’s pinned against his hip by the snug black tulle. There Bruce holds it in place with one hand while the other reaches back to once again hook his thumb under the lacy strip of material that stands between him and the object of his attention. This time when he tugs the obstruction off to one side in the back, he makes sure to pull it tight enough to keep Clark’s cock trapped under the same lacy material in the front.

“Careful,” Clark sucks in a breath, his body going tense with caution, all too aware of what happens when a vulnerable object meets his invulnerable frame. “Careful, this set is— ah— it’s delicate.”

Bruce raises his eyebrows, then purposefully pulls even tighter, the stitches groaning in protest in his grip. “I’ll buy you a new pair.”

Clark lets out a laugh so flustered that Bruce can hear him blushing, the automatic restraint dissipating in an instant, his body once again relaxed and pliable under Bruce’s touch. “Oh, Mr. Wayne, you’re so generous.”

“You think so?” Bruce wonders, licking his lips in anticipation. “Honey, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

And with that he digs his fingers into Clark’s ass and spreads him wide open, lunging in to fix his mouth right back where it belongs. He can feel the contact travel up through Clark’s spine like the crack of a whip, though the sound it produces is less of a snap and more of a high-pitched “mmmph!” that Bruce answers with a low-pitched “hnnn,” taking a moment to savor his prospects before he throws himself back into his work with renewed gusto. After all, he’s not just down here for his own amusement. He’s a man on a mission, and he won’t rest until that mission has been thoroughly and definitively accomplished.

The tactical combinations continue to escalate. This time it’s an alternation between the previous two, the contrasting elements of friction and suction played against each other in a pattern that maximizes the impact of both. Swirl swirl swirl suck, swirl swirl swirl suck— Bruce maintains the rhythm with the precision of a man performing CPR, the sequence and pacing every bit as crucial to a successful outcome. Much like CPR, the targeted action reverberates throughout Clark’s whole body, his hips jerking and his head dropped down to grind his forehead against his bunched fists, the breath punched out of him again and again in sharp, wordless gasps. Bruce keeps at him, hammering away at Clark’s endurance with a repetitive precision so intense that it actually starts to rebound, hammering away at his own conscious level of composure. The borders of his attention, so often set around the city of Gotham and occasionally expanded to the entire planet, are now irising down to a single apartment— to a single kitchen— to a single body— the scope of everything suddenly fits in his mouth, his purpose clarified into a simple, ceaseless rhythm of friction and suction, friction and suction. He’s dimly aware, but aware nonetheless, that his mind is on the verge of going completely blank.

He’s about to drift into the fog when the sudden application of external pressure sends him hurtling back to his senses, his newfound ability to find peace in pleasure no match for his decades of survival and combat training. In an instant Bruce’s reflexes skyrocket to high alert, his eyes flared wide and his body braced for a fight. In exactly the next instant he realizes what’s just happened, and the instant after that he almost dissolves on the spot.

Clark has just reached behind him to grab at the back of Bruce’s head.

“C’mon,” Clark rasps, his voice rough and heated. “C’mon, get in there.”

Bruce can’t stop the convulsive roll of his eyes as they tip all the way up and over into his skull, his neck going slack with submission as he allows Clark to shove his face into that perfect ass, his nose crushed so deep into the crevice that it becomes useless for respiration. What little oxygen he’s getting now comes in sporadic, shallow gasps out of the corner of his mouth, his head turned just enough to snatch fractions of air like a marathon swimmer. And just like that marathon swimmer, he’s determined not to come up to the surface until he’s won the gold, even if that means pushing his lungs to their absolute limit. It’ll all be worth it in the end. In the meantime, he’s got work to do.

It’s time to test the efficacy of all his previous efforts. If Bruce has done his job properly, then what might have once resisted should now yield, the natural constriction soothed into something soft and pliable, the clenched fist coaxed open until the fingers are only loosely curled towards the palm. Bruce swabs his tongue one last time around the circumference of his target before he sets the tip against the center and pushes hard, hard, his neck and jaw tight with exertion. God, it’s like he can feel Clark’s hand on the back of his head all the way in the back of his throat, their combined force pressing his tongue forward until finally, finally, he breaches the knot of Clark’s asshole and slips inside.

“Ahhhhhaha—!” Clark’s hand spasms into a fist in the hair at Bruce’s crown. “Ah, god, yes— yes—!”

Bruce surges against him, every inch of his height and pound of his weight thrown behind the endeavor, flexing his jaw and shoulders to leverage his full strength into the task of burrowing his tongue into Clark as deep as he can go. He’s not sure if he’s actively thrashing his head from side to side or if it’s Clark grinding his face into the cleft of his ass, but either way the rolling motion is extremely conducive to his work, like wiggling a beach umbrella back and forth to push it deeper and deeper into the sand. It also helps, Bruce has learned, to move not only back and forth but in and out, withdrawing his tongue by certain increments so that he can double down again and push it farther than before. It doesn’t take long for Clark to catch on to this particular tactic, and as usual, once he figures out what Bruce is trying to do, he’s ready and willing to follow his lead. The next time Bruce draws back, he can feel Clark draw back, too, and when Bruce thrusts in with his tongue, Clark thrusts back with his hips, sheathing Bruce inside of him like a sword.

“Hngh!”

Clark’s strangled howl harmonizes with Bruce’s messy snarl of approval, his head nodding fervently in Clark’s grip to signal that they’re going to do that again. Reeling and gasping, Clark nonetheless takes the direction, twitching forward and then shoving back to meet the next charge, the base of his spine arched to open the cradle of his pelvis while he pushes back into Bruce’s grip, spreading himself in Bruce’s hands. The resulting windfall of latitude allows Bruce to drive his tongue so deep inside of Clark that he almost chokes on the unexpected yank that it triggers in the back of his own throat, as though he’s extended the muscle so far out of his mouth that it’s about to pull his esophagus inside out. Far from being discomfited by the thought, Bruce is instead overcome by a visceral surge of pleasure and pride; it’s all the proof he needs to know that Clark is getting every single centimeter that he has to give.

There’s no reason to worry about his teeth causing any harm, but even so Bruce can’t stand the thought of them possibly being a source of discomfort or even a distraction from the stimulation that really counts. He keeps his jaw stretched as wide as it can possibly go, far enough to cause an ache in the hinges under his ears and the skin at the corners of his lips, the joints and seams on the verge of splitting from the strain. At this point any attempt to contain the endless torrent of saliva would be almost laughably futile. Bruce makes no attempt to hold back the rising swell as it pours out all over his face, smeared into his cheeks and chin, bubbling under his nose when he jets out the occasional puff of trapped carbon dioxide. He’s not even sure how he’s actually breathing anymore; it’s entirely possible that he’s only staying conscious through sheer willpower. The only thing that matters is that Clark is thrusting his hips back again, again, and all Bruce needs to do is keep thrusting his tongue into him with everything he’s got, fucking Clark with his mouth while Clark opens for him like a flower, his head thrown back to let out a shameless stream of full-throated acclamation.

“Bruce, Bruce, Bruce—!”

By now Bruce is fairly certain that everyone in a three-apartment radius must know his name, along with the fact that he’s very, very good at what he does. Still, it’s not a vocal affirmation that he needs. No, he’s under very specific instructions to strive for a very specific goal, and he’s not giving up until he gets there. Bruce keep working in a fever, his sweat-drenched shirt sticking to his back and his sweat-drenched hair sticking to his forehead. With his grip on the panties he can feel every desperate jerk and throb of Clark’s cock as it squirms against its gauzy restraints, which only prompts Bruce to twist those restraints even tighter, wishing that he could see the twin wet spots undoubtedly forming around the drooling head; one bright and shiny as the precome streaks against the skin of Clark’s hip, the other dark and damp as it seeps into the elegant latticework of the custom embroidery. The only thing Bruce can really see right now is the taut black waistline stretched across his field of vision, a field that’s starting to go dark at the edges due to a prolonged lack of oxygen. And just when it seems like he won’t be able to hold on for much longer, Bruce is finally rewarded with a glimmer of success on the horizon— under the ardent grip of his hands, he detects the first tremulous flicker of an oncoming and unmistakable seismic event.

“H’ohhhh, Bruce—” Clark whines, in the exact quavering tone of someone who realizes they’re just about to lose their balance and topple right off the tightrope. “Bruuu-uuce—!”

It ripples through him in a shockwave. First Bruce feels the shuddering clench around his tongue, almost as though Clark is trying to grab on to him to keep from falling. Bruce just thrusts even harder against it, and then all at once he can feel the impact break through and radiate down into Clark’s gorgeous legs, his thighs jerking and his knees buckling with a convulsive lurch that forces him to snatch his hand away from Bruce’s head so he can grab on to the edge of the counter to keep from collapsing entirely. The resulting flood of exhilaration galvanizes Bruce almost to the brink of frenzy, and in a wild spasm he seizes Clark by the hips, holding him steady so he can keep working at him, wrenching his tongue around inside like he’s trying to claim absolutely every part of him that he can possibly reach. He can feel Clark bobbing and weaving in his grip, the first wrenching quake now echoed by wave after wave of aftershocks, the ongoing upheaval accompanied by a cloudburst of wordless, wailing cries, the delirious incoherence broken only by the occasional interjection of Bruce’s name. Bruce keeps going until he’s sure that Clark’s legs haven’t just been shaken; they are well and truly shaking, entirely and exactly as requested. Then, and only then, is Bruce able to convince himself that he can let go.

Even with his own permission granted, Bruce still has to brace his hands and push back with his arms in order to pull his mouth away, extricating himself with all the stubborn reluctance of a tree being pulled up from its roots. He’s so out of breath and flooded with adrenaline that he actually feels dizzy, his raised knee dropped down to the floor so he can sit back on his heels, face flushed and tongue lolling out as he labors to catch his wind. It gives him the perfect vantage point to watch Clark’s beautiful brawny legs as they shiver and sway in woozy contentment, his hips rocking from side to side while his ass clenches and unclenches in a rhythmic palpation, milking the last of the aftershocks for all they’re worth. Bruce basks in the spectacle, enjoying the actual view almost as much as he enjoys the sight of Clark enjoying himself. In all his life he never thought he could ever experience so much pleasure just from seeing someone else’s.

When his tongue finally cools down enough to reel it back in, Bruce is greeted with a faint tickle against the roof of his mouth, prompting him to stick it back out again so he can reach up and pinch at the slick surface with his forefinger and thumb. He comes away with a dark curl of hair on his fingertip, sparing it one idle glance to confirm its removal before he flicks it off onto the floor, as unbothered as a man who just dug a seed out of his teeth after eating a nice big bowl of freshly-picked raspberries.

“Well, Mr. Kent,” he says, his voice unexpectedly hoarse before he coughs to clear the bubble of saliva from his throat. “I believe that concludes the first item on our agenda. Would you consider the matter resolved to your satisfaction?”

“Mr. Wayne,” Clark wheezes, his head hanging low between his heaving shoulders. “I think we can agree that the conditions have been met.”

“Then let’s move on to the next order of business, shall we?”

They’ve already made such excellent progress on Clark’s list of specifics. Technically Bruce did combine the first two items on the ticket, but still, he has a feeling that Clark isn’t going to call him out on the details. What really counts is the fact that Bruce got those legs shaking with his tongue alone. With that challenge met and accomplished, he’s ready to proceed on the course laid out for him. Bruce shifts his position so that he’s up on one knee again, raising the opposite of before so that he can give it a break from the hard wooden floorboards. Then he raises his hands to place them on Clark’s flushed pink rump, weighing it in his grip, kneading it like a cat. There’s still plenty of drool left on his face and streaked down his neck, and Bruce reaches up to swab his thumb through a particularly generous smear before he reaches back to rub the slippery pad against the tender bud of Clark’s asshole, smiling when it twitches eagerly at his touch.

“You know,” he remarks as he considers his approach, “this would go a lot smoother with a little help.” In his mind’s eye he can already see the slender black bottle on Clark’s nightstand, the label promising a fragrance-free water-based intimate lubricant. “Let me just go and get—”

He cuts off when Clark abruptly straightens up from his slump, leaning forward to reach for a nearby cupboard. For a second there Bruce wonders if Clark has actually planned the morning to such absolute totality that he had the foresight to stash a bottle of lube in his spice cabinet. Instead Clark tugs the door open and dips his hand inside to emerge with a small plastic jar with a bright green lid: coconut oil. He nudges the cupboard door closed again and turns to extend his hand towards Bruce, offering the jar with a coyly raised eyebrow.

“How about this?”

Bruce raises both eyebrows in response, his head cocked in a mixture of amusement and admiration.

“Very resourceful,” he commends. “Excellent use of the materials available to you in your current environment.”

“What can I say?” Clark shrugs, a twinkle in his eye. “I learned from the best.”

Bruce makes a noncommittal sound of acknowledgment, unable to accept the compliment but too canny to outright deny it, which of course would only make Clark double down on his everlasting insistence that Bruce is extraordinary. When Bruce reaches out to accept the jar, he’s not surprised at all when Clark makes damn sure their hands touch during the pass, avidly nuzzling his fingers into Bruce’s waiting grasp. Even just that brief contact makes Clark light up with delight, leaving him suddenly unable to relinquish his grip, the jar caught and suspended between their joined hands. Bruce lets out a pointed, patient sigh, his head tilting from one side to the other as he holds Clark’s gaze. Not that he’s in any hurry to let go— it’s just that Clark is going to get his fill of Bruce soon enough, with the soon hinging directly on how quickly he lets Bruce get back to work. After a long beat, Clark relents and surrenders the hostage, his brow furrowed in reluctance as Bruce’s hand withdraws from his reach. From the restless twinge of his empty fingers, Bruce can tell that Clark’s tactile instincts have been riled but not satisfied. Yearning for more, Clark reaches even further behind him to graze his fingertips over Bruce’s face, brushing back the damp hair that’s become stuck to his forehead.

“God,” Clark murmurs, an audible pang of emotion in his voice. “You are so beautiful.”

Bruce doesn’t have to say anything; he knows that Clark can hear the thunderous blow of his heart detonating like a grenade in his chest, neither skipping a measure nor speeding up but instead delivering one single beat so monumental in scope that Bruce can feel the impact in his teeth. It’s all he can do to draw one soft, quavering breath, his eyes locked with Clark’s in helpless silence. Sometimes it’s almost as though Clark’s love for him has a physical weight, something so vast and colossal that only the Superman himself would be able to bear it. And every once in a while, when he’s sure that Bruce has the strength for it, Clark will let that weight settle in its entirety onto Bruce’s shoulders. He leaves it there just long enough for Bruce to know how enormous, how awe-inspiring the size of that love really is. And just before that weight becomes too much for Bruce to bear, Clark will lift it with a laugh or a nod or a knowing smile. He’s happy to carry that love for the rest of his life. Sometimes he just wants to remind Bruce that it’s still there, still real, and still bigger and brighter than the sun that gives him the power to fly. This time he lets Bruce off with a wink, his smile turning from sweet to suggestive, his voice lowered into a lascivious purr.

“I just wish I could have been watching you work back there. I’ll bet you looked gorgeous.”

It’s an opening that activates every single highspeed reflex Bruce has developed and honed over his two decades of driving the tank, his instincts hardwired to trust his gut and floor it when he spots even the slightest window of opportunity. There’s his exit ramp, his chance to sweep Clark’s feet right out from under him and put himself back in control of this situation. Bruce doesn’t hesitate.

“Well,” he replies without missing a beat. “You can watch me now.”

It works like a charm. In a flash Clark’s smile drops off his face while those ridiculous blue eyes go saucer-wide, his lips parted in soundless disbelief. Emboldened, Bruce steps on the gas and charges ahead, schooling his expression into something cool and confident, his chin raised to an imperious angle.

“I want you to watch me.”

The knot of Clark’s throat bobs up and down before he manages to give a tiny, amazed nod. “Okay.”

Bruce nods in return, holding Clark’s gaze for a long beat of emphasis before he looks down at the jar in his hands. The lid comes off with a few quick twists, Bruce reaching past Clark to set it on the counter, his knuckles deliberately brushing against Clark’s right hip on the way back. With the jar in his left, he uses the first two digits of his right hand to delve inside the open mouth and scoop out an ample portion of their improvised lubricant, reaching forward to set the jar aside and balancing the scales by brushing Clark’s left hip as he goes. Coconut oil is a funny thing, solid in its resting state but reduced to a shiny slippery grease with only the slightest friction or heat. Bruce’s fingers produce both as he rubs them together, dissolving the gritty white substance into something he can use. When he raises his eyes again, he finds Clark staring back at him, their gazes drawn together like magnets.

“Are you watching?” Bruce asks him, their eyes locked.

Clark nods again, his attention riveted. “Uh huh.”

Bruce holds that eye contact as the oil melts in his hand, his thumb stroking up and down the length of his index and middle fingers until they’re coated from the tip of the nail to the base of the last knuckle. Clark’s gaze darts back and forth between Bruce’s eyes and his hand, the pace of his breathing increased by gradual degrees while his pupils blow wide in anticipation. He has both hands braced on the counter again, his neck craned around and his chin tucked against his shoulder to keep Bruce in his sight. Bruce makes it easier on him by leaning over to that side, his right hand angled into Clark’s field of vision while his left stretches out to hook his thumb under the slender strip of tulle that is by now completely saturated with his own saliva, getting a good grip on it before he settles his palm fully over the inward curve of Clark’s ass. As he spreads him apart one-handed, Bruce can see Clark’s eyes start to flutter and roll, his breath catching in a reedy whimper. Bruce’s voice is low and calm.

“Watch me, Clark.”

With a giddy shudder of effort, Clark forces his eyes open again, the dazzling blue momentarily clouded over in a haze before sharpening into focus, the entirety of that global-spanning attention now devoted to Bruce’s face and his raised, glistening fingers. Bruce rewards his obedient spectation with a fitting spectacle, holding Clark’s gaze as he bows his head and purses his lips to drip a thick glob of saliva onto the tip of his middle finger. It’s a purely performative gesture, a superfluous addition to a more than adequate layer of lubrication, but for once Bruce isn’t operating from his usual purpose-driven mindset. The only purpose of this action is to drive Clark absolutely out of his mind, and in that regard, it’s an undeniable success, those blue eyes going wider than ever and that full bottom lip caught between his teeth with enough force to bite through reinforced steel.

Bruce holds that eye contact until the last possible second, his gaze averted only when he has to look down and get a visual lock on his target, his hand outstretched to press the pad of that middle digit against Clark’s asshole. It’s already soft and slick with spit, shuddering under his touch in a spasm that tugs at the whorls of his fingerprint, hungry to draw him inside. It’s all Bruce can do not to be pulled in on the spot, the remaining digits braced on either side of the beckoning heat like a tripod suspending a kettle over a campfire. Once he’s lined up and in position, he raises his eyes back up to meet Clark’s, which at this point look like they’re about to pop out of his pretty little head.

“You ready?” Bruce wonders, as if he has to ask.

The subsequent full-body tremor is more than enough of an affirmative answer, so it’s just the cherry on the sundae when Clark screws his eyes shut and gasps, “Bruce, please.”

That’s all he needs to hear. Quick and practiced, Bruce tilts up the pad of his finger so that the very tip of it slots into the subtle indentation at the center of the ring. Then, as the remaining digits curl back into his palm, he twists his wrist in the manner of someone turning a key, the motion accompanied by just enough pressure to push through any lingering constriction and slip inside. There’s no resistance, no tension; Clark is as wet and welcoming as an open mouth and twice as warm, swallowing Bruce down to the second knuckle without any effort at all. No matter how many times Bruce is granted this privilege, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the way that warmth somehow seems to envelop every part of him. It travels up his arm and spreads out through his chest and belly, down to his legs and up to the crown of his head until his whole body is bathed in the glow.

“Ohhh, yes,” Clark breathes, his closed eyes clenching even tighter before they flutter open again, visibly swimming with the effort to find Bruce and bring him into focus. “Oh, Bruce, that’s— hnh— that feels so good.”

There’s an unexpected pang in Bruce’s chest at the words. It’s not just the verbal confirmation that he’s doing a good job, even though he needs that more than he needs oxygen. No, it’s the fact that Clark knows that he needs that verbal confirmation, and he’s going to do everything he can to make sure that Bruce gets it, even if he’s so overwhelmed that he can barely manage to string together a coherent sentence. All he ever does is take care of Bruce, even when Bruce is supposed to be the one taking care of him. It’s not fair. Then again, maybe Bruce should have known exactly what he was getting into when he fell in love with a man who’s decided that it’s his personal responsibility to take care of every human being on the entire planet.

“I’m glad, baby,” Bruce says, knowing how important it is for Clark to have that verbal confirmation of his own pleasure and comfort level. “I’m so glad. Now I want you to relax, okay? Relax and let me take care of you.”

Clark gives him an endearingly conflicted look, torn between his obvious desire to keep watching and the visceral impulse to fold like a bad hand of cards. Bruce answers with a nod of encouragement, directing him towards the countertop with a reassuring smile.

“Go ahead. I’ve got you.”

That only makes Clark’s brow crease with emotion, more determined than ever not to take his eyes off of Bruce’s face, his elbows locked to keep himself twisted around in this position. By way of a nudge, Bruce gives the submerged tip of his middle finger a small but decisive wiggle, prodding Clark with a gentle touch of the spurs. Clark sucks in a breath, holds on for approximately two point five seconds, and then collapses forward without a single ounce of grace, his chest touching down on the countertop between his braced hands, leaving his elbows stuck straight up in the air. Good. There’s really no sense in either of them trying to maintain eye contact at this point. Clark is better off focusing all of his attention on the feeling of Bruce’s finger inside of him, which means Bruce gets to focus all of his attention on the sight of it.

And what a sight it is. Now that his face isn’t buried in the middle of it, Bruce is able to once again marvel at the full glory of Clark’s ass, from the immaculate rosy skin to the impeccable gilding of fine dark hair that haloes every luscious curve. Even without these naked details, the shape alone would be enough to inspire a whole collection of sonnets, verse after reverential verse until the author exhausted every possible synonym for full and round. It’s funny, but for all the times Bruce saw him in a skintight bodysuit, it wasn’t until he actually saw Clark out of it that he realized just how ample and ripe that peach really is. He doesn’t know how he never saw it before. Must have been the cape. Well, that and the decades of deliberate self-repression that kept him from looking at another man’s ass in any context, for any reason, ever. The latter obstacle did prove to be a little trickier to shed than the former, but still, they got there in the end. Now the cape has been hung up for the day and the repression has been thrown out for good. Bruce is free to look as much as he wants, drinking it all in like a plant under a grow light, nourished by the proximity alone.

The only trouble is, the more he looks, the harder it is to process the incongruity of something so beautiful with the adornment of his own brutal hands upon it. The contrast grows more surreal by the moment, the reality so impossible to believe that it almost causes a rift between the sight and the sensation, Bruce’s brain so busy struggling to comprehend the one that it barely has any space left to register the other. He has to reboot the connection with a conscious effort, testing the link in the same way that one might wave at a window in order to verify their own reflection, confirming that the two are indeed one and the same. With his eyes locked on his half-submerged finger, Bruce directs all of his concentration onto how it feels as he slowly, slowly pushes it the rest of the way inside.

“Mmmmhmhm,” Clark lets out a throaty hum of approval, followed by a hiss of satisfaction. “Yes— ye-e-es—”

Bruce sucks in a breath, his lips parted in amazement as he perceives the heat creeping up the length of his finger like the mercury in a thermometer, the rate of its thermal climb matched exactly by the rate of its visible physical descent, the reality confirmed, the truth undeniable. He’s fully present in body and mind as the whole set of his knuckles sinks into the meat of Clark’s rump, his middle finger now burrowed as deep inside of him as it can possibly go. There Bruce rolls the digit gingerly from side to side, thrilling at the way Clark shivers and squeezes around him, clenching Bruce’s finger in an eager embrace. His level of control is truly staggering; it would take only a fraction of overexcitement for him to shatter every single phalanx bone in his grip. Not that Bruce would really mind if he did. In fact, sometimes he might even want Clark to do it, if only to prove that he’s capable of driving Clark past the limits of his control in the same way that Clark is so often able to drive Bruce past his. Clark probably wouldn’t be too happy about it, but Bruce would consider a broken finger a small price to pay for the enormous privilege of making the Superman forget, even for just one second, that he’s the Superman.

There’s no danger of going too fast and causing harm, but even so Bruce is determined to treat Clark with all the same care and consideration that he would show to any human partner. That means taking it nice and slow, his finger delicately withdrawn to the halfway point and pausing there to let Clark take a breath before he gradually inserts it again, easing his way back down to the same depth, his own measured exhale echoed by Clark’s loud, lusty sigh. The sound makes Bruce smile, his mouth tugged up to one side as he counts another beat of rest and then starts the process all over again, setting the pace and the pattern at the same time. He pulls back until the ring of Clark’s asshole is stretched around his second knuckle, the muscle hugging the joint like the pursed lips of someone attempting to sip a very thick milkshake through a very thin straw. Another beat, and then Bruce pushes in; another beat, and then he pulls back, smooth and steady and without the slightest bit of haste. He wouldn’t even call it a thrusting motion yet. It’s more like a delving, the action not yet meant for erotic purposes so much as it is for simple excavation, meticulously clearing the way for the real action that will follow.

Of course, that doesn’t mean that the process itself isn’t enjoyable.

“Oh, Bruce,” Clark moans, enjoying every second of it. “Mmm. Mmm.”

From the muffled quality of his voice, Bruce can tell that Clark is facedown, his forehead and nose grinding against the countertop while his panting breath builds up condensation on the glossy laminate surface. Encouraged by the feedback, Bruce starts to pick up the pace, working the ridges of his knuckles in and out in a steady corkscrew motion, massaging Clark from the inside. At the same time his other hand massages Clark from the outside, squeezing and kneading that flawless ass with increasing levels of force. He’s still astonished after all this time that it can be so firm with muscle and yet somehow still so soft. Sometimes Bruce thinks he could lay his weary head down on this ass and sleep for a thousand years— and the really extraordinary thing is, Clark would let him if he asked.

(Maybe he’ll ask someday. Maybe just for an hour.)

Even with both hands full of Clark’s ass and both eyes feasting on the spectacle, Bruce is growing increasingly aware that it’s still not enough. He wants more. In all his years, he’s never craved a body the way he craves this body, compelled beyond reason or control to saturate every single sense with every sight, sound, and smell until he loses himself entirely in the act of experiencing Clark. Sometimes he can barely comprehend the reality of just how much Clark turns him on. Bruce didn’t think that he was even physically capable of this level of carnal attraction to another person, and now here he is, staring at Clark Kent’s ass and struck by a tangible sensation as urgent and undeniable as a hunger pang, his body telling him that he must acquire this sustenance or else suffer the dire consequences of deprivation. No time to overthink it. In the next instant, Bruce lunges in and fastens his aching mouth onto the inner curve of Clark’s left cheek, sinking his teeth into the warm, fuzzy flesh between his hands.

“Oh!” Clark yelps in a satisfying combination of surprise and pleasure, his hips bucking and his elbows dropped from their raised position to point straight down, his hands now clutched on the counter’s edge. “Ugh, fuck— hnnnh—!”

“Hnnnh,” Bruce growls in answer, tightening his jaw for emphasis.

He holds on for a good long squeeze before releasing his grip, easing off with his teeth so he can set in with his tongue, laving at Clark’s hairy ass with all the affectionate fervor of a cat thoroughly grooming its mate. Under his ministrations, the fluffy tickle of Clark’s pelt is wetted and smoothed, Bruce pausing between every few licks to nuzzle his mouth and nose against the spit-slick fuzz. Let them say what they want about Georgia— he knows for a fact that the best peaches are grown in Kansas. Bruce would eat it with a spoon if he could, no sugar necessary, the flesh already ripe and sweet as ambrosia. It’s one of those rare delicacies that tastes even better than it looks, which is no mean feat when it looks so damn good. Clark makes a habit of sleeping in the nude, often on his belly, which means more often than not Bruce wakes up and it’s right there, all that delectable glory served up fresh on a bed of rumpled sheets. He’s tempted every time to wake Clark up with the ravenous attentions of his mouth; but he would have to know for certain that it’s something Clark wants, and the only way to find that out would be to ask. And, well. Maybe someday.

In the meantime Bruce is going to enjoy this opportunity to feast, the licking interspersed with fierce little nips until he’s outright biting again, biting hard, his nose wrinkling from the strain while Clark gasps and shakes under the onslaught. Bruce was never much of a biter in the bedroom before, already too worried about causing accidental damage to his partners to even think about the intentional application of this kind of force. Even when he ended up with a partner who completely eliminated the risk of any accidental damage at all, it still wouldn’t have occurred to him to incorporate this particular element into their lovemaking. Clark was the one to introduce the concept, choosing the perfect heat of the moment to guide Bruce’s hungry, seeking mouth to the juncture of his shoulder and murmur in his ear, “Use your teeth. I want to feel it.” As it turns out, Bruce was a biter in the bedroom all along. He just never thought he would ever find a partner who could take that kind of attention from him, let alone a partner who would want every last bit that he can give. But Clark wants all of it, all of it or none of it, the strength and the size and the whole constellation of scars besides. He’s made it clear that he will be satisfied with nothing less than everything, which works out just fine, since Bruce won’t be satisfied until he’s given Clark exactly that.

As a matter of fact, there’s more that he can give him right now. Bruce can feel that it’s time to keep going, but even so he stops to ask, his right hand coming to rest with the middle digit pushed in to its maximum depth, the fingertip stroking lightly at the inside.

“What do you think?” he rumbles, tilting his head to rub his bristled chin against Clark’s rump. “You ready for another one?”

“God, yes,” Clark whines, flexing himself around Bruce’s finger. “Yes, please.”

He lets out an involuntary groan of dismay at Bruce’s withdrawal, his asshole clenching and shuddering as though holding its breath in protest at being abandoned. Bruce has no intention of making him wait, pausing just long enough to verify that both digits are still nice and slick before he braids his index and middle finger together, then brings the joined tips right back to rest against the threshold.

“Okay,” Bruce murmurs, giving Clark’s ass an encouraging squeeze with his left hand, the panties still hooked to one side on his thumb. “Here it comes. Deep breath in, and—”

They exhale together, Clark opening up as Bruce presses in, awestruck all over again by the way this impervious body yields to his humble mortal touch. He’s awestruck, too, by the way Clark’s hands creep up over the countertop and cross from one side to the other, his fingers curled into the crooks of his elbows and his face buried in the cradle of his forearms as Bruce bottoms out, the ring and pinkie knuckles digging into Clark’s right cheek and the heel of his thumb digging into the left.

“H’yeah,” Clark keens, rapturous. “Yeah, yeah, yeahhh—”

His cries of affirmation dissolve to incoherency as Bruce begins to move. This isn’t delving anymore— this is definitely thrusting, the action now fully intended to induce as much pleasure as possible. The doubled helix of Bruce’s fingers adds not just an increased girth to his instrument but a more nuanced shape as well, the complex contours of the entwined digits only furthered emphasized by the deliberate spiraling motion of Bruce’s wrist. He’s swinging for the fences now, the first few thrusts heavy and slow before the tempo starts to climb, faster, harder, every impact strong enough to make Clark’s balls bounce against the gusset of black lace between his legs. The rising intensity is echoed by Clark’s outpouring of shrill, inarticulate noises of enjoyment. At first he’s able to match Bruce’s tempo, letting out one high, clipped yelp for every thrust of Bruce’s fingers. As the pace accelerates, the cries get a little higher, a little more clipped, until finally he can’t keep up anymore. The rapid staccato gives way to a series of low, protracted howls, the sustained notes undulating to the pounding rhythm of Bruce’s hand.

“Nnn-nnn-nnh—!” Clark wails into his forearms. “Hahh-ahhh-ahhh— fuhh-uhh-uhh—!”

Bruce pushes him right to the edge, right up until he sees the sharp, bolting tremor that means Clark’s knees are on the verge of buckling entirely. That’s the exact moment that the tempo peaks, hitting its maximum speed before Bruce starts to ease off the throttle, bringing the pace back down again at a careful, measured descent rather than outright slamming on the brakes. The second the pressure comes off Clark collapses into a shuddering heap on the countertop, heaving for breath while Bruce pets his trembling body in long, loving strokes that run from the middle of Clark’s back, over the lace on his hip, and all the way down his thigh. The gesture means releasing his grip on the panties, the strip of tulle rebounding towards the vertical center, the material now stretched enough that it offers little resistance as it jostles against the gentle thrusting of Bruce’s joined fingers.

“There we go,” Bruce coos, warm and reassuring, the motion of his hands working in a soothing counterpoint. “I’ve got you, baby, I’ve got you. You’re good. You’re so good. God, I love the way you open up for me.”

Clark responds to the praise with a full-bodied shiver that tugs at Bruce’s fingers as they slow to a halt, savoring the complete submersion in Clark’s warmth before pulling back out into the light, the open air as brisk and bracing as getting out of a hot spring on a cold day. Bruce quickly cups his palms over Clark’s ass the same way that he would hold them out to a crackling fireplace, filling his open hands with a welcome heat that spreads through the rest of his body in a heady rush. His breath catches as he feels Clark nuzzling back into his caress, reminding Bruce all over again that his touch is not merely allowed or tolerated, but eagerly, actively desired. It’s a fact that Bruce believes to be impossible and yet knows to be true— and if that’s not the definition of a miracle, he doesn’t know what is.

“Bruce, please,” Clark quavers, compounding wonder on wonder. “I want you. I want your cock.”

Bruce almost startles at the answering twitch between his legs, his attention so utterly focused on Clark’s arousal that he’s barely given a single thought to his own. Now it hits him in a tsunami wave, his trapped cock scraping against the inside of his zipper like a match being dragged over sandpaper, the friction leading to instant conflagration. In a spasm Bruce’s hands clamp down over Clark’s ass, holding on for dear life as his cock jumps so hard he can feel it in the pit of his throat, the impact bursting out of his mouth in a tight, strangled groan. They both know that Clark heard the exclamation— along with the sudden meterotic spike in Bruce’s heart rate— but Clark pretends that he heard neither, his voice taking on a desperate, pleading edge as though Bruce hasn’t responded at all.

“Please, Bruce, please,” he pants, squirming his flushed rump in Bruce’s death grip. “I need it. I need it.”

Dizzy and reeling, all Bruce can think to do to anchor himself is lean in and shove his face between the frame of his hands, his nose catching in the black lace to bury it deep in the crevice of Clark’s ass. With his eyes screwed shut, he takes a heavy drag through his nostrils, flooding his senses with the rich, musky scent. It is a genuine fact that he could stay down here all day and never once feel that he needed anything else for his own satisfaction. That being said, he would be a liar if he said that making love to Clark Kent isn’t one of the greatest pleasures he’s ever experienced in his life.

“Okay,” he breathes, nudging his forehead at the base of Clark’s spine. “Okay. Let’s get these out of the way.”

He takes a good grip on the panties with his right hand, fully prepared to tear them away in one swift, powerful yank. In the next instant Clark twists around and reaches back to grab his wrist, their eyes finally making contact again after far too long without. God, Clark is a gorgeous mess, a tangle of curls plastered to his sweaty forehead and his ears and cheeks almost the same color as his cape. He meets Bruce’s gaze with a flustered grin and an imploring shake of his head.

“Oh, c’mon, don’t. They have… sentimental value.”

Bruce relents with a huff, his grip going slack but not quite letting go. Instead he adds his left hand to the equation, fingers curled around the waistband at each hip and prepared to tug downwards. But before he can follow through, Clark shoos him away with a wave, a directive that Bruce obeys without question, both hands retracted and held up in submission as he waits to see what Clark does next. It starts with a scolding wag of his finger, the dark eyebrows raised and the plush lips curled in a coy smirk.

“I told you,” Clark tuts. “This set is delicate.” The smirk widens. “Let me do it.”

As soon as Bruce realizes what’s about to happen, he immediately drops his raised knee to the floor so he can sit back, the better to take in the entire dazzling view as Clark shifts into a leisurely turn, pivoting on the balls of his bare feet without lifting them from the floorboards. By the time he completes the about-face, Clark’s legs are crossed one over the other, a pose that deliberately emphasizes the honeyed curve of his hips and the magnificent prominence of his cock, which he’s somehow managed to keep tucked under the panties at an angle that leaves the head wedged up along the leftward slope of his Adonis belt. With the same calculated intent, he reaches his hands behind him to once again rest on the countertop, drawing down his shoulders in the front and pushing his pectorals together to ensure that the cups of the lacy black bra are filled to the brim. The thing is, it’s not just the fact that Clark has the most incredible body on the planet— it’s the fact that he knows exactly what to do with it.

“Look at you,” Bruce marvels, dazed and desirous in equal measure.

“That’s right, Bruce,” Clark smiles, his eyes like sapphires catching the light. “Look at me.”

He makes a show of maneuvering delicately, thumbs and forefingers pinched with the greatest of care at the tulle stretched over each hipbone so that he can shimmy the material down by agonizing degrees, inch by dainty inch, making sure to keep the tension in the front so that he drags his cock down along with it. He holds on to the reveal for as long as he can, all the way until the garment reaches his thighs and his cock finally slips free of the waistband and springs up into the open, leaping to attention with such force that it’s left bobbing and swaying as though in a stiff wind. As soon as that happens Clark releases his grip on the panties, allowing them to slip down along his legs until they land in a gauzy puddle around his ankles. From there he adroitly extricates one naked foot, planting it again just outside the boundary of lace. Bruce expects the other to immediately follow suit, but instead Clark holds out both hands for balance and centers his weight over this new focal point, allowing him to gradually raise the remaining foot with all the dramatic fanfare of Aphrodite rising from the sea. Then, rather than place it next to its mate, Clark nudges his toes into the crumpled heap of tulle from which they emerged, curling them tight and using that grip to raise the garment up into the air. With exquisite control, he extends his leg in Bruce’s direction, offering him the panties with a nonchalant expression.

“Here,” he says, blithe as can be. “Would you mind holding on to these for me?”

Impressed beyond words by the performance, Bruce reaches out with his left hand to catch Clark’s heel in his palm, holding it in place as he bows his head to press a kiss just above the base of his toes. With his right hand he accepts the article in question, releasing Clark to settle back on his feet while Bruce settles back on his heels, the panties instantly brought up to his face so he can bury his nose in the lingering warmth. Clark smiles at the savoring, the predictability of the reaction making it no less pleasurable to witness.

“Thank you for doing that,” he purrs, one hand on his hip and the other raised to idle at the deepest point in the plunge between the cups of the bra. “I’d hate to leave them on the floor.”

“No trouble at all,” Bruce replies, the words muffled by the bundle of embroidery over his mouth. “Happy to be of service.”

After one last greedy huff, he shifts up onto his knees so he can slip the fistful of damp tulle into his hip pocket. The change in position brings him so close to Clark’s exposed, erect cock that everything else abruptly turns to static and white noise, Bruce so overwhelmed by the sight and the smell of it that he promptly forgets all about the rules of the game they’re playing today. It’s the literal definition of instinct— a natural or innate impulse, emphasis on the impulse— a sudden, involuntary inclination that leaves Bruce already leaning in and opening his mouth before he even knows what he’s doing. For one staggering moment the only thing that matters is getting Clark’s cock inside of him as soon as possible. He might have gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for Clark’s meddling hand reaching down to catch him by the chin, holding him at bay without the slightest bit of effort.

“Ah, ah,” Clark admonishes, meeting Bruce’s raised eyes with a wink. “Not today. Save it for next time.” He twitches his fingers to coax Bruce upwards instead. “Now c’mere, stud.”

Bruce relents with a sigh, dropping his full weight into the cradle of Clark’s hand and allowing Clark to draw him to his feet with just the careful grip on his jaw. That’s well over two hundred pounds of solid muscle, and yet Clark lifts him like he isn’t a burden in the slightest. The transition leaves his upturned face in the perfect position for Clark to lean down and kiss him as he rises, their mouths staying connected even as the angles are reversed, Clark gradually tipping his head back as Bruce hits the full apex of his daunting height. It’s a position so familiar that Bruce doesn’t even have to look down in order for his hands to find their way to Clark’s hips, drawing him in close as both of Clark’s hands grab fervently at the front of Bruce’s shirt, his thumbs curled inside the open collar while his tongue darts in and out of Bruce’s open mouth. It’s kind of astonishing, actually, that he could still be so enthusiastic when that mouth was glued to his asshole only a few minutes ago. Then again, this is the same man who once came on Bruce’s face and then proceeded to lick him clean, happily skimming up every last drop while Bruce gasped and shuddered in total bewilderment. If the Kents were trying to raise Clark to be unafraid of his remarkable body and everything it produces, then all Bruce can say is that they did a damn fine job.

He has a job of his own to do, if he can manage to find his bearings. That’s no easy feat when Clark kisses him like this, all needy tongue and breathless keening, pulling on Bruce’s shirt like he would climb right up into his mouth if he could. Somehow Bruce finds the presence of mind to move beyond this beguilement, spurring his hands into motion and steering them down past Clark’s hips, fingertips brushing over the curve of that gorgeous ass as he goes. He has to stoop slightly for this next bit, his face once again canted at an upward angle to leave the kiss unbroken as he cups his palms around the back of Clark’s thighs. Then, when he has a good, solid grip, he pushes forward and lifts, sweeping Clark off his feet and hoisting him up to perch his ass on the edge of the kitchen counter.

“Oh!” Clark breaks the kiss with a startled laugh of delight, his arms flung around Bruce’s shoulders to steady himself in this new position, visibly amazed by the way Bruce is able to heft him around. “Big man! That’s my big man.”

“Hmm.” Bruce skims his palms along the thighs that are now hugged around his waist, his mouth askance at the praise. “I’m just trying to hold up my end, pretty boy.”

He almost does a double-take at Clark’s reaction, the blue eyes flaring wide before they’re hastily downcast, the knot of that handsome throat bobbing in a hard swallow. Even Clark’s ears somehow manage to flush another shade darker, the invincible Superman completely undone by two simple words spoken by one human man. Captivated, Bruce leans into it, the next words coming out of him in a low, intense murmur.

“Don’t look so flustered. You know you’re pretty. Look at you. You got all prettied up for me.”

With a sudden burst of determination, Clark jerks his gaze up to meet Bruce’s, his voice clear and decisive.

“It is, Bruce. For you.” There’s another bashful flicker in his eyes, his tone dropping to a sweet mumble. “I… I wanted to be pretty for you.”

Bruce barely manages to hold on to his game face, his extraordinary willpower on the verge of being completely decimated by the all-consuming urge to drop everything else and just stand there telling Clark in every possible way that he is the most beautiful thing Bruce has ever laid eyes on in his life. The fact that Clark should then see fit to bestow that beauty upon someone so exceptionally unworthy is almost enough to send Bruce crashing right back down to his knees again. It’s all he can do to draw in a deep, steadying breath, letting it out in the measured pace of what he hopes passes for a contented sigh and not someone desperately trying to contain a litany of disbelief.

He has to focus. He has to filter. He can’t fixate on Clark saying for you or he’ll fall apart. What he can zero in on is Clark saying I wanted. That’s what matters here. That’s really all that matters to Bruce, in the end— what Clark wants, and what he can do to make it happen. In this particular scenario, he just happens to know the answer to both.

“Oh, really?” Bruce wonders, his head tilted in bemusement. “Is that… all you wanted?” He furrows his brow in a pantomime of concentration, even as his hands begin to creep back up along Clark’s thighs, inexorable and intent. “I could have sworn you said you wanted… something else…”

He emphasizes the query with an unsubtle thrust of his hips, rocking his weight forward so that the hard outline of his clothed erection bumps against the underside of Clark’s balls, jostling his naked cock against his belly. At the moment of contact Clark sucks in the ragged gasp of a human being touched with a live cattle prod, his thighs abruptly clenched in a spasm so powerful that for a split-second Bruce’s brain flashes to the image of a wishbone being pinched instead of pulled, wondering which wing of his pelvic cradle will be the lucky break. In the next instant Clark melts away from him with a shuddering exhale, his legs falling open and his hands falling back to catch himself as his ass cants up from the counter in welcome.

“Yeah,” he breathes, low and husky. “Yeah, I want it.”

Failure to specify, Bruce thinks, as he moves without hesitation to slip the still-slick fingers of his right hand into Clark’s waiting asshole. He doesn’t bother to braid the digits this time, giving Clark their total breadth as he pushes in all the way to the hilt with one smooth thrust. At the same time he reaches up with his left to catch the nape of Clark’s neck, steering him into a kiss that allows Bruce to draw in Clark’s subsequent full-throated moan as his next breath. He holds him there as his hand begins to move in a lazy beckoning gesture, fingertips placidly stroking at the sweet spot as Clark shivers and whimpers into his mouth, one hand leaping up to Bruce’s nape in answer while his parted knees flutter like a pair of butterfly wings. It couldn’t be more obvious that he’s reveling in every second of this; not just the torrent of physical attention, but the way in which that attention is being manifested. They both know that Bruce understood exactly what Clark meant by that request just now. The fact that he chose to pretend otherwise demonstrates not a breakdown in communication, but rather a rare glimpse of a playful side that few people in the world would ever suspect the Batman to possess. Until a short time ago Bruce would have counted himself among that number. There’s just no limit to the ways in which Clark continues to bring out the best in him.

There is a limit, however, to how long Clark can be teased before he can’t take it anymore. Bruce listens for the tell, his hearing tuned to the pitch of Clark’s vocal feedback, waiting for the key change from giddy whimpers to raw, needy whines. Right before Clark is about to break the kiss and start begging, Bruce magnanimously gives way, separating their mouths so he can press their foreheads together instead, his fingers digging in before drawing out, one long sigh shared between them both at the release. They stay close for a long, silent beat, brows touching and eyes closed, the kitchen now so flooded with sunlight that Bruce can see the glow from behind his eyelids.

“Okay,” he murmurs, nodding his forehead against Clark’s. “Okay.”

When they pull back enough to make eye contact again, Bruce can feel the same dopey lovestruck expression on his own face that he can see on Clark’s, each of them looking at the other like he’s just returned from a journey that kept them apart for weeks. On impulse Bruce reaches for him, only to realize at the last moment that he’s about to smear Clark’s face with the tenacious remnants of coconut oil still glistening on his fingers. He aborts the action in the nick of time, reaching instead for the roll of paper towels on the nearby countertop, tearing off two sheets so he can give his hands a quick, cursory wipe while Clark chuckles and shakes his head.

“You don’t have to do that. I don’t mind a little mess.”

Bruce can’t resist the set-up, gesturing at himself with a wry smirk. “Case in point.”

Clark makes a face, half-exasperated and half-enamored, leaning his weight back on one hand so he can use the other to reach up and tap his index finger against the tip of Bruce’s nose. “Shush.”

Bruce doesn’t say another word but can’t quite shake the smirk as he sets the paper towels aside, leaving both hands free and clear to cup his palms at Clark’s jaw and steal another insatiable kiss. He holds on with his mouth while his hands move on to other things, reaching down between their entwined bodies to find his belt buckle and start threading the leather tongue towards release.

All at once Clark jerks back from the kiss, his breath hitching with urgency as he blurts out, “Wait, wait.”

He doesn’t need to ask twice; at the first “wait” Bruce stops on a dime, his hands once again raised in submission and his eyebrows raised in expectation. With the determined wriggle of a salmon swimming upstream, Clark pitches his weight forward until he’s sitting upright on his perch, his heels braced against the cabinets below so his hands are no longer required to brace on the counter behind him. Now it’s his turn to reach down between their bodies, thumbing at Bruce’s belt buckle with palpable intent.

“Please,” he entreats. “Let me do it.”

As if Bruce could ever deny him anything. This boy could ask for permission to carve out Bruce’s heart and Bruce would offer to sharpen the knife for him first. It’s the least he can do to give a nod of approval and say, “Go ahead.”

What he expects is for Clark to immediately open his belt so they can get right down to business. What he gets is Clark pausing to take a good long look at him, as thoughtful and considerate as a student of art in the presence of a painting by one of the great masters. Thoroughly discombobulated, all Bruce can do is let his hands come to rest on Clark’s thighs, grounding himself in the naked warmth under his palms. After a long beat, Clark reaches up to burrow his fingers into the knot of Bruce’s tie.

“First things first,” he murmurs.

With great care not to damage the silk, he gently extracts the broad end of the tie from the frontmost loop of the full Windsor, drawing it all the way up and out at the collar. His brow rises with endearing confusion as he realizes that the knot is more complex than he expected, then furrows with determination as he sets about undoing it turn by meticulous turn. He’s so focused on the task that Bruce doesn’t have the heart to interrupt and tell him that the whole thing would release itself if Clark pulled up on the short end instead. He just watches and lets Clark do it his way, and when the puzzle finally opens Clark can’t contain his involuntary sound of triumph, his expression undeniably pleased as he tugs both ends until the tie hangs evenly from Bruce’s neck.

Next comes the waistcoat, the buttons picked apart until the second article is left ajar in the same manner as the first, the way now clear for Clark to begin undoing the buttons that remain on Bruce’s shirt, the first two having already been dispatched. He works with the delicate precision of someone who’s been thoroughly reprimanded after one too many garments required mending, though Bruce did insist to Alfred that he was the one who always told Clark to rip it, just rip it. When Clark reaches the point where the shirt tucks into Bruce’s slacks, he leans in to slide his hands under the waistcoat and around to the small of Bruce’s back, gathering two fistfuls of the material and plucking it up and out of its restraints. He frees it again over Bruce’s hips before he returns to extricate the last two buttons from behind Bruce’s fly, fumbling them apart so he can throw the shirt open like he’s flinging back the window shutters to take in his favorite view.

“Mmmm,” he hums, a deep rumble of admiration. “Look at you.”

Bruce tightens his grip on Clark’s thighs to combat the reflexive urge to cross his arms over his bare chest. It still feels strange to be so exposed in so much light, his muscle memory ingrained with the knowledge that the truth of his body must remain concealed, whether by clothing, Kevlar, or the cover of darkness. Now the full brightness of morning spills over his unprotected skin, piercing the veil of secrecy and highlighting every brutal muscle and ugly scar in brilliant gold. In the early days of their relationship Bruce could never seem to stop apologizing for what he’s done to himself, his shape molded by decades of purposeful training and his skin marked by everything he decided to do with it, the sum total already thoroughly used and irreparably damaged before Clark ever even got a chance to see it. It took a long time for Clark to teach him how to stop saying I’m sorry every time the truth is laid bare. Although he doesn’t say it out loud anymore, Bruce can sometimes still feel the words forming in his mind and his heart— but a part of him believes, against all odds, that one day Clark will be able to teach him how to stop that, too.

There’s no apology today, not even as a passing thought. Bruce has too much to marvel at to be bothered by Clark marveling at him in return, his gaze downcast from those wondering blue eyes to focus instead on the fit of the custom Gucci bra, the cups sized perfectly to the ample swell of Clark’s broad, full chest. Whether by intentional design or incredible chance, the criss-cross pattern of the embroidery falls in just such a way that his nipples are framed in their own respective diamonds, visible through the tulle and marked at each cardinal point by the crest of the double-G. At a glance it would seem that the cups of the bra are trimmed in lace, but a closer look proves that this is an optical illusion created by the overflow of hair feathering out from underneath the slim black bands. It’s hardly the most elaborate piece in Clark’s modest collection of intimates, but there’s an elegance to the simplicity that only serves to underscore the natural beauty it contains. In Bruce’s opinion, Clark looks his absolute best when he’s wearing nothing at all, but when it comes to the occasional adornments, less really is more.

Bruce would certainly rather be wearing a bit less right about now, his cock still trapped under belt, button, and fly while Clark takes his time appreciating the progress he’s made up until this point. Far be it from Bruce to rush him in any way, but he also knows all too well that Clark is susceptible to that distinctive farmboy habit of becoming lost in idle contemplation, content to stare for hours at the object of his attention. It might be in both of their best interests if Bruce were to give him a little nudge. He does it with a deliberate squeeze of Clark’s thighs, his fingers curled just enough to touch his nails against the skin.

“Go on, then,” he prompts, clarifying with a nod of his chin. “Finish what you started.”

Clark stirs as if shaken from a dream, his hands fluttering up like a pair of startled birds before swooping down to fasten onto Bruce’s belt buckle, already halfway through getting it undone before he even seems to consciously realize what he’s doing. Once his brain catches up to the process, the hasty fumbling turns into a slightly more measured approach, Clark drawing the tongue free of the clasp with the same care that he showed to Bruce’s tie, the hitch gingerly taken apart to expose the fastenings underneath. Where before this meant an entire column of buttons, now it’s just the one, easily popped and parted so Clark can find the tab of the zipper and peel it downwards, taking it one slow, sweet tooth at a time. There’s no lace or tulle or delicate embroidery waiting for him on the other side— just a sensible pair of boxer briefs in black cotton, unadorned except for the brand name emblazoned along the elastic waistband. In one deft motion, Clark tugs out that waistband to slip his warm hand into the warmer interior, his fingers closing at last around Bruce’s hot, hard cock.

Bruce sucks in a sharp inhale at the same moment Clark lets out a long, careful exhale, his lips parted and his eyes closed as if he wants to shut out everything else in the world and just focus the entirety of his extraordinary senses on the entity within his grip. It makes Bruce reflexively bite his tongue and keep silent, the instinct not to disturb Clark’s reverie overriding the initial impulse to blurt out a shield of self-deprecation, his defense systems unavoidably triggered by the sheer, staggering vulnerability of his position. Clark could amputate him at the root just by closing his fist. Hell, he could cut Bruce half just by bringing his knees together. This is a hand that could quite literally tear the planet to pieces, and yet as absolutely certain as Bruce is of this terrifying fact, he is somehow even more certain of the fact that it will never, ever be willfully used against him. He can rely on that as surely as he can rely on the law of gravity to keep him tethered to this earth, both phenomenons of such invariable permanence that they could only be altered by the interference of a catastrophic anomaly. As long as Clark is Clark, there is quite simply a zero-percent chance that he would ever intentionally cause Bruce harm. A statistic like that doesn’t even seem possible, but then again, Clark does the impossible every day. Just look at what he can do with the law of gravity.

Though his senses might not be as powerful, Bruce still takes a page from Clark’s book and decides to consciously direct them towards the point of connection, his lips parted in a similar attitude of concentration but his eyes wide open, unwillingly to miss a single moment of Clark’s face before him. He watches the flickers of emotion rippling through the dark brows and shuttered eyelids, the spectacle only heightening the experience of the grip between his legs, the feedback loop between sight and sensation now attuned to a frequency of such intensity that it almost sets his ears ringing. The longer Clark holds him like this, the smaller and safer Bruce starts to feel, the totality of his awareness cradled entirely in the palm of Clark’s hand. And just when he thinks he can’t feel any more cherished, Clark raises his opposite hand to settle it gently on Bruce’s bare chest, placed with absolute surety over the focal point of Bruce’s beating heart.

Now Bruce is the one who can’t wait any longer. And since both of Clark’s hands are so decisively occupied, Bruce will just have to take matters into his own. Relinquishing his grip on Clark, he shifts to hook his thumbs inside the elastic over his hips, his fingers curling around his belt to gather up the waistband of his slacks in the middle. Then, before Clark has a chance to raise an objection, Bruce pushes the whole thing down along his thighs, exposing his ass in the back and using Clark’s grip in the front to guide the boxer briefs over the obstacle of his arousal. He doesn’t bother pushing it any farther than the bare minimum required for full access, but once it’s released the weight of the belt ends up carrying the tangle all the way to his knees, hobbling him as effectively as a set of leg irons. The hindrance doesn’t bother him in the slightest, since he has no intention of moving from this exact spot any time soon.

“C’mere,” he breathes. “C’mere.”

His hands move with a will of their own, the one shooing away Clark’s hold on his cock while the other reaches for Clark’s cock instead. In the next instant he’s brought them together and pressed them flush against each other from root to tip, cocooning them both in the considerable span of his left hand as Clark lets out a high, shuddering gasp of elation. He’s got both hands clutched at the nape of Bruce’s neck by the time Bruce is able to settle his right over the focal point of Clark’s beating heart, his palm pressed over the tulle while his fingertips nestle in the exposed swath of hair just outside the boundary of the bra. And as their foreheads tilt together to meet in the space between them, Bruce is overwhelmed with the certainty that he has never been more connected to anyone else in his entire life.

“Oh,” Clark murmurs, hushed and reverent. “Bruce.”

“Clark,” Bruce murmurs back, nuzzling at his forehead before he adds, softly, “Kal.”

It’s a name that he doesn’t use nearly as often as he should, the sound still unfamiliar enough that it causes Clark to twitch back from the embrace, drawing away so that he can meet Bruce’s gaze with a surprised, quizzical expression, his hands now resting loosely on Bruce’s shoulders. Bruce isn’t entirely sure how to articulate his reasons for using it in this moment, struggling for the words to explain how it feels to see Clark in his entirety; to know that he is comprised of names and places and parents and powers that all come together to form a miraculous whole, a sum total that wouldn’t be possible if it weren’t for every single miraculous part. He wants Clark to know that he sees all of it, from the Kansas farmboy to the Kryptonian refugee— and yes, even the most famous part of all. With a tender smile, Bruce raises his hand from Clark’s chest to cradle it against his face, his voice thick with emotion.

“My Superman.”

Clark’s breath catches while his expression crumples, one hand darting up to cover Bruce’s and hold it there as he nestles into his palm.

“Yours,” he affirms, his eyes all but pleading with Bruce to believe it. “Just yours. All yours.”

Bruce nods his assurance as he strokes his thumb against that lovely cheekbone. “I know, baby. I know.”

He’s already leaning forward when Clark lunges in for the kiss, their lips sealed together in mutual agreement that there’s nothing left to say, all promises made and all pledges accepted. At the same moment Bruce tightens his left hand, squeezing them together and giving a slow tug upwards that almost sends Clark reeling right back out of the kiss again, his mouth reflexively yawning open in a guttural moan that gives Bruce all the space he needs to thrust his tongue inside and slick it over Clark’s in a fierce, ravenous caress that turns the next moan high and keening, Clark’s hands fumbling blindly to burrow into Bruce’s hair. It goes on and on, their mouths working passionately together while Bruce’s hand works them together, drunk on the feeling of Clark’s cock jerking and throbbing against his own, Clark’s customary abundance of precome smearing under his thumb as he rubs it from one slit to the other. The intoxication only deepens when Clark wriggles his own hand down there to take hold from the opposite side, fitting his grip into Bruce’s to complete the circumference and close the circuit. Between their conjoined hands, they’re now entirely held.

The motion slows to a halt, the kiss breaking at last so they can once again rest their foreheads together and breathe each other in. Bruce doesn’t even realize he’s closed his eyes until Clark prompts them open again, brushing the tip of his nose against Bruce’s until Bruce is blinking back at him, his gaze coming into focus on Clark’s soft, familiar smile.

“Hi,” Clark says, the single syllable packed with a sonnet’s-worth of depth and meaning.

“Hi,” Bruce answers, putting the weight of his whole world behind the word.

Still smiling, Clark leans in to give him a little kiss right as he gives him a little squeeze, pressing four perfect fingerprints onto the shaft of Bruce’s cock. Bruce groans into his open mouth, his hips lurching forward as he bucks into the sheath of their entwined grip. Clark lets out a huff of approval, breaking the circuit so he can slip his fingers around Bruce alone, greedily hoarding every throb and twitch for himself, curling Bruce possessively against his palm. Bruce returns the gesture, taking Clark in his hand to hold him for just that much longer before it’s time to move on.

“Well,” Clark says, right on cue, his free hand slipped under Bruce’s shirt collar to cup at the crook of his neck. “Go on, then.”

When Bruce pantomimes an inquisitive look, Clark clarifies with a smug nod of his chin, indicating Bruce’s position between his open legs.

“Finish what you started.”

Bruce gives a low hum of acknowledgement, allowing himself one last fondle of Clark’s cock before he slides both hands to Clark’s waist, thumbs pressed at his hipbones and fingers digging into his ass.

“Oh, yeah?” he rumbles, palpating his grip. “Are you ready for me, pretty boy?”

“Mmm.” Clark licks his lips and nods his head, tugging at the back of Bruce’s neck even while he tightens his hand between Bruce’s legs. “Come on, big man. Come fill me up with that big, beautiful cock.”

Bruce can’t contain his automatic deflective snort. “It’s not that—” At Clark’s sharply raised eyebrows, he manages a last-second pivot. “—beautiful.” He averts his gaze, his voice dropping to a bashful mumble. “I guess it is pretty big.”

His face is red-hot in an instant, so scalding to the touch that only an invulnerable Kryptonian would be able to cup a palm against his cheek the way Clark does now, applying just enough pressure to steer that stubborn head back around to meet his eyes.

“It’s both,” Clark says, his tone warm and sincere. “Just like you.”

“You’re beautiful,” Bruce protests weakly, a counterstrike so feeble that it barely even qualifies as an attempt.

Clark bites his lip against an infatuated grin, visibly smitten by Bruce’s total discombobulation.

“Aw, shucks,” he simpers. “I’ll bet you say that to all the extraterrestrials.”

The sheer sassiness of the remark is enough to galvanize Bruce out of his flustered tailspin, his internal grapple catching on the urge to wipe that cocky look off of Clark’s face, even if it’s just by making him laugh. As it happens, Clark just gave him the perfect set-up. Bruce plays into it with a bob of his shoulders, offering his best impression of a careless shrug.

“J’onn seemed to like it,” he smirks. “You ever see a Martian blush?”

The tactic pays off, Clark tossing his head back with a hoot of delight before he shakes it in amused denial, his eyes full of affection.

“I can’t say that I have, no.”

“It’s quite a sight,” Bruce assures him, then leans in slightly, his tone turning confidential. “Almost as good as seeing a Kryptonian in custom lingerie.”

Clark’s fond expression turns heated in a heartbeat, aroused by both the flattery and the power it gives him. It makes him sit up a bit straighter, his hands settling on Bruce’s shoulders for balance while he squares his own with a little shimmy, raising his chin and displaying himself like a peacock unfurling the full glory of his feathers.

“Oh, yeah?” he wonders, breathy with titillation. “And, ah, what about a Kryptonian that can’t wait to have your cock inside of him? You ever see one of those?”

“Funny you should ask,” Bruce swallows hard. “Because, uh— I think I might be looking at one right now.”

“The World’s Greatest Detective strikes again,” Clark winks, scritching lightly at the nape of Bruce’s neck. “So what are you going to do about it?”

With slow, deliberate intent, Bruce leans in so he can slide his arms around him, his hands crawling from Clark’s hips to fully grab his ass, the natural curves only further plumped by their perch on the counter. The shift in proximity pushes Clark’s hands up into Bruce’s hair, the fingers curled into fists at his crown as their cocks are pinned together between their bodies, Clark’s eyes going wider and wider without ever breaking away from Bruce’s gaze. Bruce gazes back at him, his voice a husky murmur.

“I’m going to give him exactly what he wants.”

Clark makes a soft sound of anticipatory gratitude, his shoulders heaving with emotion and his mouth instinctively angled forward for a kiss. Bruce almost lets him have it, but at the last moment he turns his mouth aside and leans back instead, one index finger raised in the universal signal to wait. He knows if they start in with that again then they’ll never get anywhere. Before Clark has time to look too disappointed, Bruce reaches past him and off to one side, his arm stretched over the countertop to snag the coconut oil. As he straightens up again and Clark sees what he’s holding, the blue eyes shoot wide with excited comprehension, his hands leaping out of Bruce’s hair to flutter eagerly in the space between them.

“Wait, wait,” he blurts. “Let me d—”

“You know what,” Bruce cuts him off with a knowing smile, offering him the still-uncapped jar. “How about I let you do it?”

Then he gets to watch a Kryptonian blush, Clark’s ears going bright pink as he sheepishly accepts, his gaze downcast to track the motion of his finger as he traces the lip of the jar in a self-conscious gesture. When he does manage to look up again, he finds Bruce staring at him with an expression of such open, unguarded adoration that it actually makes Clark hold his breath, his face going from flustered to amazed to absolutely lovestruck before he finally releases that breath in a sentimental huff.

“Shut up,” he smiles.

“I didn’t say anything,” Bruce smiles back.

Clark wrinkles his nose at him, flashing the tip of his tongue between his teeth before he returns his attention to his task, mimicking Bruce’s process and using the first two fingers of his right hand to delve into the jar and scoop out a plentiful dollop of the solid oil. Setting the jar aside, he then brings his thumb up to soften the substance in much the same way that Bruce did. But rather than spread it over his fingers, he instead reaches out to spread it over Bruce’s cock, carefully stroking up and down until the whole length of him is shiny and slick in preparation. Bruce watches in reverent silence as Clark anoints him, his hands resting on Clark’s thighs and his heart racing in his chest. They both react in amazement when a glistening bead of precome suddenly wells up from Bruce’s slit, Clark with a moan of satisfaction and Bruce with a ragged hiss of disbelief, still astonished every time his body demonstrates its true capacity for genuine arousal. Pleased and admiring, Clark presses the pad of his thumb right into the heart of the pearl, then raises his eyes to meet Bruce’s awestruck stare.

“Well,” he breathes. “Are you ready for me, big man?”

Bruce nods, his throat so tight he can barely speak. “Ready when you are, pretty boy.”

Clark nods back, holding on to Bruce’s cock for one last, long squeeze. Then he withdraws his hand, giving it a cursory wipe on his bare thigh before he reaches down on either side of him to grab the lip of the counter, bracing his weight as he rocks back the cradle of his hips and raises his feet in the air, his legs spread wide and his ass tilted up at the brink. Bruce lets his hands drift with the motion, his palms skating along the inner curve of Clark’s thighs until they end up cupped against the undersides, halfway between his rump and the back of his knees. It’s not in Bruce’s nature to freeze in the heat of the moment, but for several seconds all he can do is stand there, riveted by the sight and rooted to the spot, his brain on the verge of total sensory overload. With infinite patience, Clark sets him back on track with a simple, direct command.

“Let me be specific,” he says. “Fuck me, Bruce. I want you to fuck me.”

Bruce exhales, his calibration flipping instantly from borderline chaos to practiced control. Somehow Clark always seems to know exactly when he just needs a little guidance. It fills his hands with purpose, the left descending along Clark’s thigh to get a proper grip on his ass, the right withdrawn so Bruce can take hold of the base of his cock, angling it down until he’s pointed directly at his target. With his left thumb he spreads Clark to one side, clearing the way for him to shift closer and nudge the head of his cock into the divot of Clark’s asshole, poised and waiting at the threshold. Then, when everything is lined up and ready, he threads both arms around Clark’s waist to plant his hands on the counter behind him, catching his weight as he leans forward and pushes in, his eyes raised to watch Clark’s face contort with rapture as he takes Bruce all the way to the hilt.

“H’ohhh my god,” Clark moans, one hand fumbled up to clutch at Bruce’s nape, the other holding on to the edge of the counter like it’s the edge of a cliff and he doesn’t know how to fly. “Bruce— Bruce—”

“I’m here,” Bruce assures him, brushing his mouth at Clark’s temple, his breath in Clark’s ear. “I’ve got you.”

The words trigger a monumental shudder of relief, Clark’s face buried in Bruce’s throat even as his legs wrap around Bruce’s waist, ankles crossed together at the small of his back so he can dig his heels into Bruce’s ass and pull him in as close as he can get and as deep as he can go. Bruce crowds against him without hesitation, their bodies pressed so tight that Clark’s cock is as good as held in a fist, pinned between one heaven-sent hairy midriff and one man-made wall of muscle. With Clark’s open mouth panting at Bruce’s collarbone, it puts him at the perfect angle for Bruce to turn his head and burrow his nose into the thick, dark curls, drinking in the heady combination of Clark’s natural musk and his hard-earned perspiration, all chased down with a wave of the exquisite Ambre Nuit. Overcome, Bruce brings a hand up between Clark’s shoulder blades to cradle this living miracle against his chest, blessed beyond reason or belief that he should be the one that gets to hold him in this way.

“I’ve got you,” he repeats, confirming it for his own benefit as much as for Clark’s. “I’ve got you.”

Clark shivers and sighs in his arms. “I know, babe. I know.”

In typical Clark fashion, mere words are not enough. He needs to give a tactile affirmation, and to that end he noses his way up along Bruce’s neck until he reaches his mouth, where he purposefully bestows a long, lingering kiss. There’s no frenzy this time, no urgent desperation; Clark doesn’t even use his tongue, just a slow, gentle palpation of his lips, his head turned from one side to the other to cover Bruce’s mouth with his smile. Bruce tries to keep his eyes open the whole time, but in the end he has to close them before he starts to weep. The effect is not unlike damming a river, the emotion pooling behind his eyelids and growing deeper by the second, the unshed tears flooding into the rest of his body until he’s quickly filled to the breaking point. If he doesn’t let off the pressure soon then he’s going to burst, but he can’t think of a single thing to say— wouldn’t even trust himself to speak if he did— he can’t think— then Clark gives just the tiniest, most imperceptible twinge of his thighs, and in a breathtaking rush of clarity Bruce knows exactly what to do.

As their mouths still linger together, Bruce pulls back with his hips, drawing his cock out to the halfway point before he drives it all the way back into Clark in one forceful, decisive thrust.

“Ah—!” Clark breaks the kiss as he throws back his head with a cry, his raised hand clutching at Bruce’s shoulder for balance. “Yes, yes—!”

Bruce keeps his own hand braced between Clark’s shoulder blades, holding him close as he thrusts again, then again, the pace slow but the pressure hard and deep, every stroke met with a yelp and every recoil accompanied by a wheezing gasp for breath. The spectacle alone is almost too much for Bruce to take, from Clark’s straining, exposed throat right at eye level to his gorgeous chest heaving and shuddering in the dainty black bra. It looks so good that Bruce just has to lean in and taste it, fastening his mouth at the point just below that ridiculous jawline so he can lick and suck his way down the length of Clark’s neck, his teeth catching in the occasional nip while Clark moans and pants and lolls his head from side to side in delirious enjoyment. As Bruce’s mouth moves lower and lower, Clark can’t stop his chest from swelling in anticipation, his body gradually arching up until he can’t keep his ankles locked together any longer, his legs abruptly falling open like two ends of a bow bursting apart from a broken string. The sudden shift in equilibrium almost sends him pitching backwards into the cabinets before he drops both hands to the lip of the counter to catch himself, his head jerked upright to meet Bruce’s gaze with a wide-eyed burst of giddy, startled laughter.

“Oh, shit!” he giggles. “That was close!”

There is something unbearably precious about seeing an alien who is literally not bound by the earth’s gravity still somehow manage to almost fall on his ass. Bruce doesn’t know how he does it, but somehow this gravity-defying alien remains to this day the most human man he’s ever met in his life. Clark’s little fumble ended up dislodging Bruce’s hand from the counter, but that just leaves it free to cup at the back of Clark’s corresponding knee instead, encouraging Clark to give him the weight of his leg. The hand that was between Clark’s shoulders now rests at his hip, the motion between them slowed to a halt as Bruce lets them adjust to the new position.

“Nice catch,” he chuckles, both thumbs rubbing at their respective points of contact on Clark’s skin. “You okay?”

Clark nods his head with enough vigor to make his curls bounce, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

“I’m okay, I’m okay, just— don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

The plea is accompanied by a bout of insistent squirming on Bruce’s cock that makes Bruce bite his tongue and count backwards from ten, so overwhelmed so quickly that he almost comes in a startling, blind bull rush. He’s never experienced anything like this with another partner. Truth be told, back in his playboy days he was more concerned about whether or not he would be able to come at all, completing the performance with the mandatory climax. Now he’s hanging by a goddamn thread, his teeth clenched and his eyes screwed shut so he doesn’t have to see Clark’s eager expression as he begs for Bruce to keep going with ardent, unmistakable desire. In a surge of helpless instinct, Bruce tightens his grip on Clark’s hip in a futile effort to hold him still, his voice coming out in a strained rasp.

“Easy, easy,” he pants. “Just— gimme a second, here.”

Right away Clark calms under his touch, the fidgeting halted and the pleading obligingly silenced. He doesn’t move a muscle or make a sound until Bruce is finally able to open his eyes again, at which point Clark greets him with a tender smile, using the heel of his unsupported foot to gently touch the small of Bruce’s back.

“You okay?”

Bruce nods, his control coming back to him as he catches his breath. “I’m okay.” He huffs out a laugh as he shakes his head. “God, you’re sexy. You’re so fucking sexy.”

“Hmm.” Clark flushes with pleasure, his gaze going hazy and half-lidded. “You’re not so bad yourself, stud.”

He sucks in a breath as Bruce’s hand starts to travel from his hip, fingertips climbing along his belly and over the bra, lingering there just long enough to give the nipple a firm tweak through the tulle before moving up to settle at the back of Clark’s neck, supporting his head to hold him upright and make sure he stays close. Clark nuzzles into his grasp, his own hands still clutched at the counter’s edge for leverage so he can keep his legs spread apart and raised aloft, his position aided by Bruce’s grip braced under one knee. As soon as Clark feels Bruce’s hand at his nape his lips immediately part in expectation, his mouth already open and waiting when Bruce leans in to cover it with a kiss.

Although he’s long since lost track of how many kisses they’ve shared today, Bruce is nonetheless certain of the fact that every single one of them has been different from the one that came before. There are physical changes, easily measured— the level of pressure behind the lips, the varying motions of the tongues, the tempo, the breathing— but there are other changes, too, harder to catalog but no less concrete. Bruce is keenly aware of an unprecedented amount of ineffable factors, from urgency to intensity to deep, deliberate intimacy. It’s as though every kiss is an endeavor between the two of them to find a new way to say something that they can never quite manage to fully express. It reminds Bruce, distantly, of the old wives’ tale that the Inuit language includes over fifty words for snow. There’s a reason that the myth has persisted for so long; it’s because, at its core, it offers a tangible illustration of a concept too difficult to explain otherwise. The truth is, some things can become too vast to be contained in a single word, or even a three-word phrase. Sometimes a thing exists in a quantity so great that it blankets the whole world in white, or else fills the whole heart with absolute devotion, too big and bright and beautiful to describe with a single name. Bruce doesn’t know how many different ways they’ll have to kiss before they’ve covered it all, but he does know this: they’re way, way past fifty at this point.

Bruce doesn’t want the conversation to be interrupted just yet, and to that end he tightens his grip on Clark’s nape to keep him from leaning back, fully aware that Clark could brush past his effort without even noticing the attempt. But Clark does notice the attempt, every time, notices it and cherishes it, basking in the way that Bruce manhandles him without fear or restraint. When the Superman yields, it’s not to the brute strength of Bruce’s body, but to his stunning, singular force of will. Clark allows Bruce to hold him in the kiss as Bruce pulls back for another thrust, pushing in with enough force that it makes Clark jerk reflexively against the restraint, his neck arched and his moan released directly into Bruce’s mouth. Bruce kisses him through the next thrust, and the next, drinking in every subsequent huff and whimper as Clark submits to the onslaught, one heel bouncing against Bruce’s tailbone while the other bobs rhythmically in the air, swinging from the cradle of Bruce’s hand under his knee.

Clark stays in the kiss for as long as he can, his neck straining with the effort to remain upright when Bruce knows all he wants to do is throw his head back and let go. At last Bruce can deny him no longer, his mouth crushed against Clark’s for one last voracious taste before he wrenches his own head away with a ragged gasp for breath. In the same moment he releases his grip on the back of Clark’s neck, his hand slipping around to rest at the base of his throat as it immediately unfurls, Clark’s face tilted all the way up and over like a wolf about to let out a howl meant for a packmate ten miles away. Bruce has just enough time to spare a half-hearted apologetic thought for everyone in a three-apartment radius before Clark empties the entire contents of his lungs in a torrent of lusty acclamation.

“Oh my god Bruce yes Bruce fuck me I want you to fuck me—!”

His next gulp of air comes out in a juddering wail as Bruce rushes to indulge him, his hand clutched at Clark’s throat and his hips charging instantly into a double-time pace. As Clark pants and whines, Bruce lets his gaze track the length of his quaking body, all the way down until he can watch his own cock as it thrusts in and out of Clark’s plush, perfect ass. Some things just have to be seen to be believed. Bruce is so amazed by the sight that it actually takes a second for his gaze to properly refocus on Clark’s cock in the space between them. Unattended and left to its own devices, it’s currently bouncing against Clark’s stomach at the tempo set by Bruce’s hips, leaving the dark field of his belly hair dappled with tiny dewdrops of precome. As soon as Bruce sees it there all alone, he immediately swoops to the rescue, his hand skimming down from Clark’s throat to wrap his cock in a warm, reassuring embrace. He grunts in satisfaction when he feels the grateful throb against his palm, prompting him to squeeze hard and accompany his next thrust with a firm, purposeful tug that makes Clark yowl at the doubled stimulation.

Encouraged by the result, Bruce is about to repeat the action when Clark abruptly shifts his raised leg into the stirrup of Bruce’s grip, steadying his balance while he reaches up from the edge of the counter to catch Bruce’s wrist, stilling his hand.

“No, no, don’t,” he wheezes, his eyes raised to meet Bruce’s in an expression that’s both playful and pleading. “I want your cock. Just use your cock.”

Bruce can feel his eyebrows rise up to his hairline, taken aback both by Clark’s candor and by his challenge. He has to recover from the former before he can fully process the latter, at which point he obediently retracts his hand from between Clark’s legs, adding a purposeful twist to the gesture so that he’s now holding Clark’s wrist instead. Then he steers Clark’s hand right back down to the edge of the counter, planting it like a seed and giving it a firm pat to indicate that it should stay there.

“Okay,” Bruce murmurs. “Hold on.”

He makes sure to keep his weight pressed forward so that his cock doesn’t slip out of Clark while he changes their position, sliding both hands under the inside Clark’s legs and curling his palms up and around to press over the top of Clark’s thighs. The gesture pulls Clark’s ass deep into the cradle of Bruce’s hips, locking him into position when the backs of his knees slot over the crooks of Bruce’s elbows. Clark defers entirely to his direction, staring up at Bruce in mounting astonishment as he’s guided into this new configuration, mouth agape and brows shot so high they all but vanish under the tousled curls. Once Bruce has a good, firm grip on Clark’s legs, he looks down to meet that wide-eyed gaze, his own heavy and heated with intent.

“Lock your elbows,” he instructs. “And hold on.”

He waits for the visible catch of Clark’s arms bracing into pillars of support. Then, with a determined surge of effort, Bruce takes a step back and heaves up, hoisting Clark’s ass off the counter and taking the bulk of his weight in the legs hooked over his elbows. A remaining portion of Clark’s weight finds a natural counterbalance over his locked arms, which leaves the rest of him free to sit squarely on Bruce’s cock, where he lets gravity do the work of pushing him in so deep that Clark’s asshole ends up nestled into the thatch of hair at the base. Clark sinks onto the ingress with a low, protracted groan, his head lolling back and his cock twitching defenselessly against his upturned belly, which shivers with every shallow gasp for breath. To the uninformed eye, it would look like this position puts Clark entirely at Bruce’s mercy. Bruce, of course, knows better than that.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t play the part.

“How’s that, pretty boy?” he rumbles, pressing on Clark’s thighs to drive him all the way down onto his perch. “Is that enough cock for you?”

“Fuck— mmh— yes—!” Clark gasps, the words directed to the ceiling before he manages to raise his head and meet Bruce’s keen, waiting eyes. “I love it— I fucking love it—” He’s already starting to squirm, rocking himself impatiently in the cradle of Bruce’s arms, his voice a reedy whine. “Ohhhh, fuck me, Bruce— fuck me ple-e-ease—”

The sound he makes when Bruce flexes his arms and gives him his first good bounce is somewhere between a shout of acclamation and a sob of relief, his eyes rolling over in his skull and his jaw going slack as he drops instantly into a state of utterly intoxicated bliss. His submission is absolute, offering neither resistance nor aid as Bruce uses the momentum of that effort to haul him up for another go, letting Clark hit the summit of his rebound before he drives him back down again, meeting him at the deepest pitch of the plunge in a forceful upward thrust that buries his cock to the vanishing point. From there it’s a simple question of physics to set the pendulum into motion, allowing Clark to swing on the hinges of his knees over Bruce’s elbows as his ass bounces up off of Bruce’s hips, the recoil lifting him away before gravity catches him at the peak and brings him back down to do it all over again, and again, and again. With his arms braced and his legs held, the only extremity left at loose ends is Clark’s head, which bobs and reels like a jack-in-the-box on the end of a spring, creating a microcosm of the Doppler effect as every ongoing thrust discharges another fervent, full-throated cry.

“Hnh—! Ah—! Ah—!”

The unintended effect of this vocal demonstration is as unwelcome as it is inescapable. In a sudden, involuntary flash, Bruce recalls the first time he ever wrenched a cry of impact from Clark’s lungs, a lifetime ago and yet so close that he can still feel the ache of his knuckles inside the armored gauntlets. From a purely technical standpoint, the sounds that Clark made on that miserable night aren’t so different from the sounds he’s making now, a striking combination of gasps and yelps that come from an unmistakably primal place in his chest and throat, his body racked by previously unknown levels of physical stimulation. The similarities in pitch and duration would be almost too agonizing to endure if it weren’t for the extraordinary, undeniable difference in tone. Where before Bruce heard only pain and fear, now he hears what can only be described as the exact opposite, in every possible way. This is an outpouring of pleasure and encouragement, every exclamation meant to assure Bruce that he’s doing everything exactly right. After he once treated this body with such cruelty and rage, Bruce can still hardly believe that he’s now allowed to handle it with all the tenderness and devotion that it so rightfully deserves. This is more than a second chance; it’s redemption, plain and simple, and for that Bruce is going to give thanks with every ounce of passion that he can muster.

As the momentum between them builds and builds, so too does Clark’s stream of affirmation, his voice providing the perfect audible illustration of his rapid ascent towards climax, each outcry higher and more desperate than the last. His clamor is now accompanied by the counterpoint rhythm of Bruce’s jangling belt buckle, jostled every time he bounces his knees to catch Clark’s weight, the tempo climbing like a sprinter’s heartbeat. While Clark wails and pants and thrashes his head, Bruce keeps one eye on the sole dancer to the music they’re making together: Clark’s cock, bobbing and dipping against his belly, moving to the rhythm of Bruce’s mounting pace. He’s as hard as Bruce has ever seen him, flushed and dark and throbbing in anticipation, so close to orgasm that Bruce can practically taste it. It pushes him to move just that much faster, his hips pumping and his lungs working like a furnace bellows to maintain the assailment. He keeps hammering away until Clark’s head suddenly goes still, his face upturned and his eyes wide and unseeing, the gaze directed entirely inwards.

“Oh—!” he gasps. “Oh—! Ohh-hhh—”

All at once his eyes screw shut and his head snaps forward, chin to chest and teeth clenched to contain his muffled howl as Bruce brings him to orgasm from the inside out, his hips shuddering in a massive convulsion before his untouched cock bucks and shoots his release into the open air. With Bruce still pounding away at him, the rocking motion sends thick jets of come splattering all over Clark’s belly and chest, the aftermath clinging to his body hair and garnishing the lovely Gucci bra with a string of glossy pearls. Every lustrous strand is visible proof of Clark’s pleasure and fulfillment. It’s not often that Bruce gets to see it like this, being much more accustomed— and indeed, preferring— to take it inside of him, bypassing the need for visual confirmation with the overwhelming physical sensation of being tangibly filled with Clark’s warmth. Still, it is nice to look at it. The only thing that Bruce really misses is the taste.

He keeps going until he’s sure Clark is completely spent, his drained cock left wobbling around in the mess it’s made, his locked arms quavering on the verge of collapse. Then Bruce brings them down nice and easy, clicking his way back up the bar of the metronome beat by beat, each swing spaced further apart than the last. He knows how much Clark hates to stop cold, preferring instead to be coaxed through every last wave of the aftershocks, gently palpating Bruce’s cock inside of him in a series of long, lazy squeezes. Once they’ve finally coasted to a halt, Clark lets his head loll forward and his eyes peek open, hazy and blinking in the light. Bruce smiles and hugs the tops of Clark’s thighs, his cock still safe and warm within.

“Hi there.”

“Mmm.” Clark tilts his head to one shoulder with a dopey smile of his own. “Hi.”

Bruce tilts his head in the opposite direction, rubbing his thumbs over Clark’s skin. “How are you feeling?”

Clark lets out a soft huff of laughter. “I’m, uh— I’m feeling pretty good.” He shifts his head over to mirror Bruce’s, his smile turning immensely pleased. “Pretty damn good.”

“Good,” Bruce nods, more satisfied by that verdict than he would be by any orgasm of his own. “Good.”

He can feel Clark going heavy in his arms, settling his weight onto Bruce’s cock while his feet dangle loosely in the air. At the same time his braced arms give another significant shake, not from anything so mundane as human exhaustion but from the simple, satiated urge to relax. The thing is, even if Bruce were to guide him back down to sit on the countertop behind him, he would still be obliged to keep his hips canted up at a considerable angle in order for Bruce to stay inside of him. Bruce troubleshoots the issue in a split-second, gaming out the solution with all the resources at his disposal. All it takes is a gentle squeeze on Clark’s thighs.

“Here,” he murmurs, his tone a soft directive. “Lighten up for a second.”

Not only does Clark understand the instruction immediately, but he obeys without hesitation. In the next heartbeat his body goes buoyant, his weight abruptly lifted from Bruce’s support, his quizzical expression turned towards Bruce in trusting expectation.

“Hands up,” Bruce advises, prompting Clark to let go of the counter, leaving him tethered by Bruce’s grip on his legs and his own grip on Bruce’s cock.

Quick and effortless, Bruce turns Clark in midair, angling him away from the counter’s edge and over towards the point where it joins the other in a perpendicular intersection. Then he carefully steers him backwards until Clark is hovering just above the juncture, where he presses down on his thighs to indicate that it’s time to come in for a landing.

“Easy,” he soothes. “Easy.”

Under his guidance, Clark lets gravity bring him down to rest with his rump spread on either side of the angle, his asshole sitting over the open corner and Bruce still tucked snugly inside. The new position elicits a hearty sigh of approval, Clark settling back with his legs spread wide so he can plant his heels on their respective countertops, his hands now free to reach out and clasp together at the nape of Bruce’s neck. It’s a gesture meant partially to hold himself upright but mostly so he can draw Bruce towards him for yet another entry in their neverending catalog of kisses.

“C’mere,” Clark breathes, his eyes drifting closed in contentment before their lips even touch.

Bruce gets a hand up between his shoulder blades to support him, the other reached out to brace himself on the counter so he can lean into the kiss without toppling Clark over backwards. Not that Clark actually needs the help, but in this state he’s liable to forget just about everything, including the fact that nothing can budge the Superman if the Superman doesn’t want to be budged. He’s already come perilously close to tumbling ass over teakettle once today. No need to tempt the Fates any further; especially not when Bruce is more than happy to give him all the support he needs.

“Yeah, baby,” he assures in the space between kisses. “I’m here. I’m here.”

Clark makes a tender sound of acknowledgment, his tongue lingering against Bruce’s in one last caress before he tips his head forward to rest their foreheads together, the sweat-damp curls tangled into Bruce’s tousled forelock.

“Hey, listen,” he murmurs, his hands sliding past each other until both forearms are draped around Bruce’s neck. “I know I’ve already asked for a lot today, but I was wondering if I could ask you for just one more thing.”

“Anything,” Bruce answers, without a second thought. “Anything.”

There’s a sudden shiver down his spine as Clark threads his fingers into his hair, holding Bruce’s head in place as he turns to tilt his mouth right up against Bruce’s ear, the next words poured directly into his brain.

“I want you to come inside me.”

Bruce can’t contain his ragged groan of disbelief, staggered not just by Clark’s actual request but by how freely and frankly he’s able to express his desires, no matter how vulnerable or how intimate. It’s a talent that Bruce has yet to master, his jaw locked like a tetanus victim’s around any and all attempts to put his want into words. Of all the remarkable feats that he’s ever seen Clark perform, it often seems like this is the one that Bruce is the least likely to ever be able to emulate, beyond even heat vision and flight. He’s fairly certain that he would have an easier time trying to lift the Batwing over his head than he would telling Clark that he wants to be choked to the cusp of a blackout by Clark’s cock down his throat. Hell, he doesn’t think he could say it out loud in a soundproof room by himself, not even with an ironclad guarantee that not a single living soul would ever hear a syllable of it. He’d probably swallow his own tongue if he even tried.

Clark makes sure to give Bruce plenty of time to process the request before he draws back to confirm it, his eyes so radiant with affection that Bruce can feel his pupils contract in the light as their gazes meet.

“So how about it?” Clark wonders, his fingers curled at Bruce’s nape and his thumbs nestled behind Bruce’s ears. “Can you do that for me, Bruce?”

Bruce’s first attempt to speak comes out as a feeble, incoherent croak of “uh.” He has to clear his throat and take another breath before he can give his answer, his voice hoarse with the effort to keep from cracking.

“If you insist.”

The smile that Clark gives him is one of pure intemperance, his voluptuous mouth stretched into a broad curve and his eyelashes lowered to half mast, shielding Bruce from the full searing heat of his ravenous gaze.

“I do,” he breathes, low and emphatic. “I really, really do.”

No amount of throat-clearing could enable Bruce to speak at this point, his neck and jaw clenched so tight that it doesn’t matter that he wouldn’t even know what to say, anyway. He’ll just have to take a page from Clark’s playbook and let his body do the talking. With the careful exhale of a runner shifting into start position, Bruce plants both hands decisively on the counter on either side of Clark’s body, his forearms pressed over Clark’s hips and his thumbs tucked under the curve of Clark’s ass. His initial groan of displeasure when Clark lets go of his neck turns into a growl of approval as Clark braces his hands on the counter behind him instead, allowing him to cant his hips just that much higher and let Bruce sink in just that much deeper.

“Yeah,” Clark urges, already whining in anticipation. “Give it to me, Bruce. I want it. I want all of it.”

His exhortation clips off into an open-mouthed moan at the first heavy thrust, Bruce flexing his hips and knees in a rolling motion that draws his cock out and down before driving it up and in, his weight thrown forward onto his hands for the momentum to bury himself all the way to the hilt. He does it again at the same carefully measured pace, making all the necessary calibrations to ensure that he maxes out his potential for depth, speed, and force. Clark is squirming with desperation after only two strikes, so of course Bruce has to put him through one more, just to make him gasp and bite his lip to keep from begging. Bruce might have even tried to drag it out a little longer, if not for the sudden, sharp tug in his groin that he belatedly recognizes as his own undeniable need for release. He’s still not entirely used to the sensation, so accustomed to the idea of an orgasm as an obligation on his part that he keeps getting taken by surprise every time Clark just goes ahead and gives him one. He doesn’t have to think about it, he doesn’t even have to try. All he has to do is let go.

The epiphany hits him like the crack of the starting pistol. In the next instant Bruce explodes up from the line, hips surging at a double-time pace as he throws himself into a hard-driving sprint that won’t end until he reaches the finish. As the pounding starts in earnest, Clark lets his head tip back with a long, guttural sigh, the prolonged sound wavering at the tempo set by the hammering of Bruce’s cock. On his next inhale he bobs his head upright again, staring up at Bruce with an expression of slack-jawed, hazy-eyed ecstasy, his face flushed with pleasure.

“God, I love your cock,” he pants, nodding and swaying to the rhythm. “I love— hnh— I love how you feel inside me. Feels so good— fuck— fuck, Bruce, you fuck me so good—”

“Fuck,” Bruce grits out, barely able to form the word. “Fuck— Clark—”

By now he’s absolutely drenched in sweat, his face and chest all slick and shining with exertion, his open shirt plastered to his back and soaking into his waistcoat. They both notice a drop beading up on a tendril of the forelock that hangs between their gazes, both sets of eyes tracking it when it falls and lands in the lush coat of hair on Clark’s chest. In his peripheral vision Bruce sees Clark’s eyes flick right back up to look at him again, but his own gaze remains resolutely glued to the point of impact, mesmerized by the sight of his single silver droplet gleaming amongst all the thick white pearls of Clark’s release. Clark glances back and forth between Bruce’s stare and what he’s staring at, his eyebrows raised and his lips parted in dawning comprehension before the expression is eclipsed entirely by a sly, indulgent smile. Brazen and deliberate, he shifts his weight to lean back on one hand, the other raised to trail his fingertips through the glistening mess, smearing the splatter into his skin.

“Look at that,” he marvels, half exhorting and half admiring. “You did that, Bruce. That’s how good you make me feel.”

Bruce’s inarticulate sound of astonishment is even louder than he anticipated, startling him with the awareness that his mouth is literally hanging open in longing, the tip of his tongue braced behind the back of his teeth to keep it from rolling down over his chin like a wolf in a Tex Avery cartoon. Flustered and incredulous, he hastily snaps his jaws together with an audible clack, his eyes scrambling to avert themselves from the source of the stimulation before he actually starts drooling. He’s spent decades learning how to conceal all outward signs of weakness, training his body to push through gunshots, stab wounds, and just about every form of impact injury that the mind can conjure. But in all those years of discipline, he never once learned how to conceal the crippling vulnerability of uncontrollable desire. It’s a contingency he never thought to prepare for, something he would have considered as far-fetched and unlikely as an alien invasion from outer space. To say that Clark has surprised him would be an understatement of almost cosmic proportions. Even the word surprise is insufficient for a divergence of this magnitude. There isn’t a word in any language Bruce knows that could truly capture the scope of the ways in which Clark has changed his world, but if pressed, he’d say that revelation might be a good place to start.

At any rate, he’d have an easier time hiding a shattered femur from Clark than he would hiding how badly he wants him right now. Even with his eyes turned away and his teeth clenched, Bruce can’t hold back the hot red flush that spreads from the back of his neck to his ears and cheeks and throat; he can’t disguise the frantic throbbing tempo of his heartbeat; and at this point he doesn’t think he could stop the desperate thrusting of his hips even if he wanted to, even if he tried. With his fiftieth birthday looming on the horizon, he has finally reached the adolescent milestone of insatiable horniness, an experience that has proven to be as terrifying as it is shockingly, sublimely thrilling. He never would have been able to navigate it without Clark by his side; not just because of his infinite patience and understanding, but because he finds the entire journey to be equally, earnestly thrilling, reacting with genuine wonder and excitement every time they reach another one of Bruce’s new horizons. Not once has he ever made Bruce feel embarrassed for his long-delayed awakening. All he ever does is make Bruce feel embraced and applauded— and, most of all, actively encouraged.

“Hey,” Clark says, his tone somehow managing to be both cajoling and a command.

With enormous effort, Bruce drags his gaze back towards him, fully aware that he’s about to see something that will make him lose his goddamn mind. Clark has a unique talent for that sort of spectacle— but even so, he really outdoes himself this time, looking down to find the biggest streak of come on his chest and run his first two fingers through the thick of it, then looking up to meet Bruce’s eyes and hold those fingers out to him in offering.

“Here,” he says, and without hesitation Bruce parts his lips to allow Clark to slip the two digits into his mouth, smearing his tongue with the taste of Kryptonian ejaculate and coconut oil.

“Hhnngh,” Bruce whines, his teeth sinking into the impenetrable skin, his jaw tightened like a vise around the unbreakable phalange bones.

“Yeah?” Clark breathes, his fingers hooked behind Bruce’s lower incisors. “You like that?”

Bruce answers by biting down and sucking hard, his tongue greedily swabbing up every last drop of Clark’s come that he can get. Clark watches with visceral appreciation, his chest heaving and his head nodding to the rhythm being pounded into him, the motion once again forceful enough to generate a distant jingle of Bruce’s belt buckle on every rebound. He lets Bruce lick him clean before he uses his grip behind Bruce’s teeth to draw his head down to press their foreheads together, nuzzling against him as he tugs his fingers loose to trail them down along Bruce’s throat, his hand splayed over Bruce’s chest.

“Does it feel good, Bruce?” Clark entreats, drawing back so his gaze can sweep all over Bruce’s face for any sign of affirmation. “Tell me— tell me if it feels good.”

He’s not asking because he doesn’t know the answer. He’s asking because he wants to hear Bruce say it. He wants to know that Bruce knows, too; that it’s about more than just a mechanical act of physical release; that’s it’s allowed to feel good; that it’s supposed to feel good. Clark doesn’t want Bruce to come for the sake of his ego, as proof of his own attractiveness or his skill in bed. He wants Bruce to come because it feels good, a motive of such sentimental selflessness that Bruce would have thought it impossible to be sincere if he didn’t feel the exact same way about Clark in return. As for whether or not Clark is succeeding, well— talk about an understatement of cosmic proportions. Still, it’s better than incoherent babbling, so Bruce will just have to make use of the materials available to him in his current environment.

“It feels so good,” he chokes out, his eyes raised to meet Clark’s, putting all the meaning he can into the word. “You feel so good.”

Clark bites his lip and arches back in bliss, reaching behind him to brace both hands on the counter to support the raised cradle of his hips. In the space between their bodies, his softened cock bounces in a delirious stupor, still so aroused by their ongoing exertion that he’s already halfway hard again after only a few minutes of convalescence.

“C’mon, big man,” he urges, his voice quavering on the cusp of a moan. “Come for me. I want you to. I want you to.”

If Bruce wasn’t already at the edge of breaking, those four words would have been enough to get him there in an instant. After a heavy, heated climb, all at once he’s reached the peak, his balance suspended at the summit just long enough to recognize the plunge awaiting him on the other side. In a reflexive spasm, his fingernails scrape into fists on the countertop, his stomach leaping up into his throat and his eyes shooting wide in disbelief.

“Clark,” he rasps. “Clark, I’m— I’m gonna—!”

It’s like Clark can feel his orgasm before Bruce does, his gorgeous face contorting in ecstasy a split-second before Bruce’s climax breaks over him in a wave, drenching his whole body with the overwhelming sensation of release and relief. He used to think an orgasm was a localized event confined to the groin, a tightening of the balls followed by the discharging of the cock, pleasant enough but not really that exceptional. Now he can feel it from the top of his skull to the soles of his feet, the exhilaration streaming through his fingers and toes as he comes and comes, his cock buried to the hilt and pumping surge after surge of acclamation into Clark’s warm, willing ass. From the way that Clark reacts, one would think that he was having a second orgasm of his own, his eyes rolling back and his jaw working soundlessly as he hones all of his superhuman senses onto the feeling of Bruce’s come flooding into him, filling him with the tangible proof of Bruce’s pleasure and fulfillment.

“Oh, yeah—!” he gasps, one hand fumbling up to clutch at Bruce’s shoulder. “Yeah— give it to me— ah—!”

Bruce fumbles up a hand of his own to the crown of Clark’s head, fingers fisted in his hair as he shoves Clark’s face into the crook of his neck, his own face turned to bury his nose in the dark, sweaty curls as his body wrenches and shudders, first with all the catastrophic force of an earthquake but then, slowly but surely, dwindling to the shivers and twitches of the aftershocks. By the time Bruce settles to a spent, breathless halt, Clark has one arm flung around his neck and the other wrapped around his back, his spine arched and his thighs hugging Bruce’s hips to keep Bruce’s cock inside of him, soft and safe. Bruce slumps towards the hand he still has anchored on the countertop, the other drifting down to rest between Clark’s shoulder blades, holding him close and breathing him in. He can feel the heavy warmth of his own come pooled over the head of his cock, plugging the dam and keeping Clark filled to the brim with everything he had to give. Clark’s face is still tucked against his throat, his mouth pressed so deliberately over the carotid artery that Bruce knows he’s listening to his heartbeat while savoring the feedback loop of the pulse against his lips. Bruce has never felt more closely held, or so dearly cherished. When he shuts his eyes, all he sees is light.

“I love you,” he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of Clark’s ear. “I love you.”

With a hitched inhale, Clark tightens his arms and legs around him, folding Bruce’s body into the shelter of his own.

“I love you, Bruce,” he whispers back, his voice cracked with emotion. “So much. So much.”

They hold each other in the sunlit silence, Clark clinging on with all four limbs while Bruce anchors them both over one braced arm, his free hand now moving idly over the lush landscape of Clark’s body. He starts with his fingertips tracing circles at Clark’s nape, but soon enough his touch wanders inexorably to the slim black strap of the Gucci bra, following the line down to the band of sheer tulle that crosses the span of Clark’s glorious naked back. Bruce opens his eyes to admire the view, looking down over Clark’s shoulder to watch his hand trace from one end of the bridge to the other before it returns to the center, his touch dipping down just far enough for him to nudge his middle fingertip into the subtle channel of Clark’s spine. Then he pushes up again, sliding his hand into the space between Clark and the clasp of the bra, Clark shuddering in satisfaction as Bruce uses the snugness of the band to bind his touch against Clark’s skin.

“Mmm,” Clark sighs, palpating his full-body hold on him. “That feels amazing.”

“You look amazing,” Bruce murmurs back, nosing at his hair. “You are amazing.”

Clark makes a sound that’s somewhere between a chuckle and a hum, a low purr of acknowledgment as he turns his face to press a series of lazy kisses against any part of Bruce he can reach.

“You know what’s really amazing?” he breathes, a lingering edge of heat to his tone. “The fact that I weigh two hundred pounds and you can still pick me up like I’m a goddamn cream puff.”

Bruce has to clear his throat to cover his flustered hiccup, one set of fingertips digging into Clark’s back while the other curls to stab his nails into the countertop.

“Come on,” he mumbles, his rising blush hidden over Clark’s shoulder. “Like you couldn’t flip me with a pinkie finger.”

The sound that Clark makes is definitely a chuckle this time, in the same fond tone that he uses whenever Bruce is missing the point.

“Okay, Bruce,” he says, “but I can do that to anybody.” He allows the possessive constriction of his arms to loosen just enough for him to lean back and meet Bruce’s gaze, his mouth quirked with affection. “You’re the only one who does that to me.”

His choice of words is as sweet as it is deliberate. He doesn’t say that Bruce is the only one who can pick him up; in a world of gods and titans, even the strongest human man on the planet would be a low bullet point on the list of beings capable of such a feat. Instead, he says the much more accurate and even more important truth: Bruce is the only one who does. Just as Clark has made the choice to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, so too does he choose to trust the weight of his body to Bruce’s arms, his confidence so absolute that he never once cheats with his hold on gravity, not unless directly asked. From the very first time that Bruce held this heavenly body on that hellish night, he knew that he would never again carry a burden more precious, or more meaningful. That holds true to this day. Even if Bruce were to hang up the cape and cowl tomorrow and never venture into the cave again, he would still maintain the exact same level of diet and discipline, working and training every single day to make sure that he never lost the ability to make the Superman feel like a goddamn cream puff.

“Well,” he says, his lips tugging into a crooked smile, half bashful and half proud. “Like I said, I’m just trying to hold up my end, pretty boy.” His gaze flicks askance, his voice dropping to just under his breath. “I mean, you’re the only one who does that to me, so. Now we’re even.”

With the back of his hand pinned under the band of the bra, Bruce flexes his fingers to give Clark a gentle pat-pat, the signal that it’s time to start the process of getting disengaged. They’ll have to take extra care to ensure that they don’t make a mess in the kitchen, spilling Bruce all over the counter and cabinets below— maybe it would be best to have Clark lighten up again so Bruce can more easily maneuver them both into the dingy little apartment shower before they pop the cork. Before he even has a chance to make the suggestion, however, Clark responds to the signal with a shudder and a whine, his thighs immediately tightening around Bruce’s waist in protest.

“No, no, wait,” he demurs, renegotiating the position of his arms so he can clasp both hands at Bruce’s nape, his expression pleading. “Not yet. Stay. Stay with me.”

Locking his fingers together at the back of Bruce’s neck, he leans back and lets his weight tilt down the curve of his spine, the momentum rocking him forward to press his ass into Bruce’s hips, urging him not to pull out just yet. Bruce relents without question, any attempt at withdrawal instantly halted, his balance once again shifted forward to the hand still planted on the counter. The only thing that he does pull out is the hand that was under the bra, raising it up between Clark’s braced arms to brush the tangle of curls from his forehead, his smile warm and teasing.

“Aren’t you hungry, baby?” he wonders, his tone fond. “What about breakfast?”

“None for me, thanks,” Clark grins, the tip of his tongue poking between his teeth in a flash of pink. “I’m full.”

He emphasizes this declaration with a demonstrative squirm of his hips, squeezing Bruce’s cock and sloshing the deluge that it’s currently sealing inside, the discharge holding temperature thanks to the thermal insulation of Clark’s body. Bruce has to bite the interior of his cheek to hold back his shudder of overstimulation, his attention furiously diverted into the task of finding a distraction that will keep him from buckling and moaning like a wounded animal. As luck would have it, their move down the countertop has brought them within arm’s length of the plate that Clark set aside all the way back at the start of their morning. Inspired, Bruce leans over and reaches out to snag a piece of bacon, bringing it back up and drawing it under his nose like a cigar before he takes a pleased, performative bite. A second later and his smug expression collapses into genuine satisfaction, the morsel long since gone cold and yet still giving way with a spectacular crunch, followed by a succession of smaller crunches as his teeth break it down and his tongue is flooded with waves of salt and hickory smoke.

“Mmm!” Bruce exclaims, unable to disguise the pleasure in his voice. “Extra crispy. My favorite.”

Clark beams at his reaction, reaching in to snap off one half of the remaining strip in Bruce’s hand, then popping it into his mouth with a triumphant smirk. “I know.”

Bruce follows suit and pops the other half into his own mouth, the two of them chewing in harmony while Bruce’s gaze drifts over the extraordinary view, taking in everything from the thick undulation of Clark’s throat as he swallows to the artless drape of his beautiful spent cock as it sprawls in the dense field of hair on his belly. And there, suspended in the space between, is the perfectly-tailored Gucci bra, cut and stitched to cling to every curve of those outrageous, impossible pectorals. Struck by the craftsmanship, Bruce places his index fingertip at the juncture between the two cups, his touch climbing along one convex curve until it reaches the point where it meets the strap that stretches down from Clark’s shoulder, the juncture crowned with a delicate satin bow. Bruce strokes the pad of his finger over the dainty adornment, his brow furrowed in thought.

“So, what do you think for the next set?” he muses. “Red lace? Blue, maybe?”

Clark scoffs at the suggestions, both arms once again looped decisively around Bruce’s neck as he tosses the curls back from his forehead with a resolute huff.

“No way,” he declares, his expression turning impish and sly. “I want it in black.”

Bruce’s hand goes still, his fingertip lingering over one little satin loop before his palm abruptly flattens against Clark’s chest, pressed hard into the space above his beating heart. When he raises his eyes, he finds Clark’s waiting for him, their gazes rushing to meet each other like long-lost lovers.

“My favorite,” Bruce murmurs, his voice soft with gratitude.

Clark smiles like the sunrise, bright and warm and full of promise. “I know.”

_end.