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It starts off pretty well: Clark manages to enter the meeting room of the Watchtower with steady confidence and take his usual seat without any trouble. He concentrates on his breathing, the whirr of machinery and the ventilation system, the buzz of electronics, the heartbeats of the other League members in the room. He hopes he’s doing a good enough job of acting normally to not rouse any suspicion, despite basically going insane on the inside.
“Bats still out of commission?” Hal asks, leaning closer to Clark. He props his chin on his fist and regards Clark through the blank lenses of his Lantern mask, mouth curved down into a frown.
“Yes,” Clark says lightly. Under the table his hands are clenching into fists.
“Damn. Must’ve been one hell of a mission if he’s still down for the count.”
“Ah, yeah. But he’s fine, just—indisposed.” It’s a miracle his voice remains steady. He’s not entirely sure what his face is doing, but he tries to force a neutral expression. Although maybe he’s overdoing it. Is he overdoing it? Is Hal looking at him weirdly or is that just his imagination?
“Which almost never happens. Hope he’s okay, wherever he is.”
Clark shifts discreetly in his seat. He clears his throat and looks down at the meeting itinerary, but he’s not able to read a single word of what’s written. Thank god J’onn isn’t present today; there would be no fooling him with everything currently running through Clark’s mind. That would’ve been an incredibly embarrassing ordeal. But not as much as this one will be if he can’t compose himself.
“Right. Let’s get started. Diana?” Clark says cheerily. Was that too much? Oh god, that was too much. Fortunately no one seems to be paying him any mind, already zoning out as Diana brings up expense reports and personnel reassignments and something about Watchtower repairs which all sounds very important. But Clark’s too busy trying to keep his cool to focus on whatever’s being said, only managing to provide a sage nod every now and then during an appropriate moment.
He can do this. Just act naturally, relax, and don’t think about—
“Batman would be best suited, when he returns to duty. Don’t you agree, Superman?” Arthur says, and Clark barely keeps his leg from kicking out in surprise.
He nods in reply, looking intently at the holographic map at the center of the table. “Absolutely,” he says, having not the faintest clue what he just agreed to. He swallows thickly and feels a flush traveling up his neck.
“Are…you okay?”
Clark blinks and looks at Arthur. “Yes. Sorry, I was keeping an ear on a wildfire in California, but they seem to have it under control.”
They all seem to buy the lie—except for Diana, who shoots him a shrewd glance. Clark stares at the table and feels his eyes slowly glaze over.
“Is that all? Does anyone have more to add?” he says, and then finally the meeting adjourns. Clark leaves just a bit too fast to be casual, practically fleeing the room, but he doesn’t have the time to worry about that right now.
In a blink, he’s sped to his quarters, the doors barely shut behind him before he shoves a hand down his pants.
Cool air rushes into the enclosed space, prickling over Bruce’s sweaty skin. He squints upwards. After being in the dark for so long, the light seems blinding. He gasps for a breath of fresh air, but it’s soon pressed from his lungs again as giant fingers replace the wall of fabric at his back. Finally. He thought that the meeting would never end. Clark’s hand wraps around Bruce and the enormous dick he’s been clinging to for the past hour, squeezing him against searing hot flesh. His entire world is jostled as Clark presumably pulls his pants and underwear down to expose his cock, and Bruce with it.
When Bruce suggested this, he hadn’t really expected Clark to go through with it. Not that he’s by any means vanilla—they’re both fond of experimenting, switching it up, trying new things—though they tend to keep work separate from play. But something about Bruce’s current condition seems to go straight to Clark’s head, and Bruce didn’t even need to persuade him. It’s as if he can’t get enough of Bruce like this, literally in the palm of his hand. Well, that makes two of them. Bruce is light-headed and restless with arousal after being up close and personal with Clark’s cock for so long but unable to actually get anywhere with it. Bruce tries to buck, desperate for some relief, his cock a burning ache between his legs that has gone unanswered for too long.
“Oh my god,” Clark breathes, his fingers tightening over Bruce’s back. He starts to say something more, but breaks off with a moan when Bruce starts to writhe. He strains against the delicious pressure, swearing and panting and nearly going out of his fucking mind in his attempt to get Clark off. He’s been trying for the past hour with little to no luck despite using the entirety of his miniscule body. There was not enough room inside Clark’s underwear for any proper attempt at stimulation and so he’d mostly rocked and rubbed against Clark’s stiffening cock, feeling it grow and swell against him. Trapped in Clark’s underwear, Bruce’s entire world narrowed down to the fabric against his back and the cock and balls at his front. The rush of blood made the air so hot he practically had to peel himself off of Clark’s skin, something that was not made easier by the pre-come that was steadily dripping down to soak him until he was sticky and wet with it. Bruce is impressed Clark had held it together through the entire meeting while Bruce was unraveling into a sweaty, disheveled mess in his pants.
He might’ve been worried for his pride if he wasn’t too busy being used as a tool to jerk off Clark’s huge cock. It’s hard to think about anything at all when he’s caught in the curve of Clark’s knuckles and pushed against his immense cock, oppressive heat bearing down upon him until he breaks out into a fresh sweat. The hand strokes upwards, bringing Bruce to the head of his cock, and rubs him against the leaking slickness there. The salty-sweet taste on his tongue sends a pulse of heat straight to Bruce’s cock, the heady taste of pre-come sliding down his throat. Clark’s scent fills his lungs, an intoxicating aura that drives Bruce wild with its familiar musk. It’s inescapable, he’s submerged in it. Bruce is lost at sea and Clark is the ocean.
“You feel so good down there,” Clark whispers, fingers clenching harder around Bruce. “It was all I could think about, in the meeting. Knowing you were there. Helpless under my cock.”
Ah, maybe Clark hadn’t been as composed as Bruce imagined him to be. Bruce can picture him in the conference room, hard as nails and struggling to keep up the impassive mask while Bruce’s tiny body stimulates him under the table, hidden in his pants. The illicit circumstances just makes it hotter. Bruce groans at the mounting pressure of Clark’s hand.
God. Clark is rarely this rough with him at their normal size, his strength kept in check at all times. He’s always so careful, but Bruce never forgets how easily Clark can toss him around and hold him down, and what little Bruce can do against him if that’s what Clark decides he wants to do. And now, feeling his fingers tremble from the effort to stay in control, it sends a thrill shooting straight up Bruce’s spine. It’s driving him crazy: the unrelenting pressure of Clark’s hand, the sheer fucking size of the cock weighing down on him. It’s at least twice as big as Bruce’s diminished form. Bruce isn’t used to feeling small, and certainly not in this way. But it’s impossible not to when he’s facing the largest cock he’s ever seen. And because it’s Clark, more of Clark than he’s ever experienced, a wave of arousal crashes through him, his pulse running wild with excitement.
A moan ripples through the air like rolling thunder, vibrating through Clark’s body, reverberating in Bruce’s chest. Bruce looks away from the red, swollen tip of Clark’s cock and up, up, up the massive expanse of Clark’s torso. Up the great column of his throat, up to his vast face and the awe in his wide-eyed, heavy-lidded gaze, staring down at Bruce with darkening lust. Bruce swallows, feeling dizzy from the intensity of the hunger in the way Clark’s looking at him, as if he’s good enough to eat.
“Oh, fuck—Bruce…” he gasps, and Bruce feels the breeze from his breath flicker across his skin. Clark’s fingers shudder and squeeze him even more firmly, just on the verge of crushing him. Fuck yes. Bruce feels a moan trapped in his chest that he doesn’t have the air to voice. “I have to, I can’t, I—“
The world roils around him, becoming a blur of pressure and motion and heat and vibration. Clark’s solid fingers are clamped over his back while the slick, burning skin of his immense cock slides over his entire front again and again. Bruce is reduced to nothing more than a simple toy, an object purely for Clark's pleasure, a mere plaything for Clark to get off with.
Bruce groans. He’s harder than he’s ever been in his life, his cock mercilessly ground between his body and Clark’s. If Clark keeps this up—just a little more, Bruce is so close—
A louder, deafening groan and the motion stutters. The cock jerks against him, pulsating with each powerful throb of Clark’s tremendous orgasm. Bruce closes his eyes when the flood of come rains down on him, drenching him in it until he’s coated in a thick layer of the salty, sticky mess. He just barely manages to avoid drowning in it, holding his breath until Clark’s hand gives one last pleasurable squeeze before releasing himself. He carries Bruce away and lets him scrub a hand over his face to wipe away the come so he can breathe. At this size it feels thicker, more viscous, blanketing his entire body in wet warmth. Christ, it’s everywhere. Kryptonians produce copious amount of ejaculate, but at this size Bruce is practically swimming in it. It’s not comfortable, but Bruce can’t help the rush of arousal washing over him at the thought that he's covered in Clark’s come.
He rubs his eyes clear and opens them. Clark has brought his cupped hand to eye-level, putting Bruce face-to-massive-face with Clark’s intense, piercing gaze. It makes Bruce feel small and defenseless. Exposed and vulnerable on Clark’s palm, coated in his seed. His life is literally in Clark’s hands and his tiny cock is still hard and aching and begging for release. Under Clark’s all-consuming gaze, he feels impossibly more aroused, his dick twitching from underneath layers and layers of come. The anticipation thrums across his skin and Bruce waits eagerly for Clark’s next move.
“Look at you,” Clark rumbles, alluring baritone trembling through the air. “What a mess. Let’s get you cleaned up, hm?”
The hand beneath Bruce moves closer to Clark’s colossal face. His enormous mouth opens before Bruce like a dark cave, his warm breath sweeping gently across Bruce’s sticky skin. Rows of white, sharp teeth gleam within, and Clark’s massive tongue slides out, descending on him.
Bruce has a split second to brace himself before he gasps at the slick heat rolling across his skin. “Fuck,” Bruce groans, then repeats himself a dozen more times as Clark’s tongue advances over his thighs, groin, and torso in one long, drawn-out motion. The unyielding wet pressure of Clark lapping up his own come has his eyes rolling back into his head, overcome by its warmth and its bulk. The tip of his tongue curves up Bruce’s throat and chin, and retreats.
The next drag of his tongue drags over him from toe to head, pressing down on him with force. Bruce squirms, hips jerking forward, desperately seeking more of that incredible pressure. God, please he tries to say, but only manages an incoherent babble of sound, words torn apart to moans.
A pleased hum surfaces from Clark’s chest and shivers in the air, vibrating through his tongue and straight into Bruce’s core. Bruce is mindless with it, overwhelmed by Clark’s immeasurable presence, his god-like being. He is completely at Clark’s mercy. He always is, really. But like this? God, everything is magnified, every sensation amplified by their difference in size, by knowing just how much power Clark wields over him. And not just knowing it—feeling it, seeing it made so obvious now that Bruce is just a tiny thing cradled in the palm of Clark’s hand.
The tongue pulls back and Bruce almost growls in frustration, but gasps instead when the tongue shifts and curls. The tip nudges at his cock, wet and firm. It covers his entire pelvis, engulfing his cock and pushing down with the perfect amount of pressure and heat, sparking pleasure so intense Bruce can feel it radiating up his spine. He thrusts into it mindlessly, hands scrabbling across the ridges of skin of Clark’s palm in an attempt to brace himself as he chases his release while Clark’s broad tongue strokes him with wicked accuracy and prowess.
The pressure mounts and swallows him whole, earth-shattering bliss devouring him from the inside out. Bruce manages to bite down a shout, but instead a small, desperate noise slips out between his clenched teeth. Clark’s gigantic tongue laps up every tiny drop, milking his cock for all it’s worth. His orgasm leaves him wrung out and drained and utterly spent, boneless and limply spread out on Clark’s palm. An amused huff of warm air blows across Bruce’s skin as Clark pulls back, a content smile on his handsome face. He licks his lips, looking at Bruce with crinkled eyes, hazy through the afterglow of orgasm.
Bruce distantly thinks Clark might be looking a little too pleased with himself, but he’s not going to tell Clark that. He’s not sure he can manage any words at all, exhausted as he is. He's shivering from the cool air brushing across his skin, which is tacky from Clark’s saliva starting to dry.
“Hold on,” Clark whispers. He brings up his other hand and cups it over Bruce, encasing him in darkness and protecting him from the cold air. He feels the swaying movement of Clark’s great steps, the faint vibrations of his feet hitting the ground. When Clark removes his hand, they’re in the en-suite of Clark’s quarters, fluorescent lights dimmed. Clark turns the tap and dampens a washcloth with warm water. His thumb absently pets along Bruce’s arm and over his chest.
It’s nice. Clark is nice. He washes Bruce carefully, rubbing him clean and dry with the washcloth. Clark leaves him wrapped up in a dry and warm cloth while Clark cleans himself off. It’s only for a minute or two, then Clark cups Bruce in his hands again and peers down at him with amazement. Clark’s brilliant smile fills the sky.
“You’re cute like this,” he murmurs, brushing a finger along Bruce’s torso and ignoring the way he bristles at Clark’s remark. “It’s a shame the spell will wear off soon. I could put you in a cage, keep you in my bedroom. Keep you safe and sound. Pamper and spoil you like a good pet and have you at hand whenever I need some quick relief.”
Bruce swallows as heat pools low in his gut. Clark’s voice washes over him warmly, soothingly, and there’s nothing but gentle, loving affection in his eyes. Bruce wishes he could stay cradled in Clark’s hands forever. But Clark has other plans and his hand shifts, carrying Bruce downwards.
“I need to get going, and you need to be put somewhere safe. Okay?”
Bruce wouldn’t have protested even if he’d had the energy or the presence to—Bruce trusts Clark, knows that he will keep him safe. Knows that in any case, it’s not currently up to Bruce anyway. Clark opens the waistband of his underwear and carefully tucks Bruce between his balls and his soft dick, snug and secure. Bruce huddles into his place there as the waistband closes and seals him in darkness. He’s reassured by the warmth and comfort of Clark’s skin, knowing that no harm will come to him here. Knowing that he’ll stay safe and close for as long as he’s in Clark’s care.
Because for now, it’s where he belongs.