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“When did you first realize you’re attracted to men?”
Clark wasn’t sure what prompted him to ask the question. Likely nothing more than the simple fact that he didn’t know the answer. It was his reporter’s instinct, to ask questions he didn’t know the answer to, especially ones he really felt he should know the answer to.
Bruce was the only person Clark had ever dated who’d been his friend first, for years and years, before they were ever anything more. And so, when they’d finally gotten together, they’d largely skipped the “getting to know each other” part of their relationship. They already knew so much about each other. They’d fought side-by-side and saved the world together. What more was there to know?
But every so often Clark would find a gap in his knowledge of Bruce Wayne. And he’d just realized that he didn’t know how Bruce had come to the conclusion that he was bisexual, and Clark didn’t think he’d ever volunteered that information about himself either.
“Very early on,” Bruce said, rolling onto his side to face Clark, propping himself up with his elbow. They were in bed together. It was early enough that Bruce hadn’t left on patrol, but late enough that the midsummer sun had gone down. The only light was Bruce’s bedside lamp, casting a soft, golden glow.
Most days, Clark flew to Wayne Manor after work and spent the evening with Bruce. Sometimes they went out; usually they stayed in. Often Bruce asked him to spend the night.
“You know I got into fights at school,” Bruce elaborated. Clark nodded. Yes, Bruce had told him this. He and Bruce had very different histories, but they both had experiences with childhood bullies. The difference was, Clark had always avoided getting into physical fights to keep his powers a secret. Bruce, on the other hand, had not developed his self-restraint until later in life.
“I was fifteen. There was one boy I couldn’t help but pick fights with. Constantly. I never started a fight without a good reason, except with him.” Bruce smirked a little at the memory. It wasn’t often that one of his older memories brought him anything resembling joy, so Clark knew this had to be a good one. “He infuriated me and I didn’t know why. It took Alfred threatening to send me to public school to get me to clean up my act. Anyway, we ended up giving each other hand jobs in the locker room after class, and that was when I knew.”
Clark laughed. Everything about that story was so very Bruce: not knowing what he was feeling for someone and assuming it must be anger, repeatedly getting into fights with that person, and stumbling into having his first sexual encounter in a locker room with a boy he thought he hated. “So your flirtation style hasn’t changed,” Clark observed wryly. “You pick fights with a guy and it means you want to fuck him.”
Bruce was unashamed. “It’s an effective strategy.” He leaned forward, a hand cupping Clark’s face, and kissed him unhurriedly. Clark reciprocated.
Bruce had a point: His courting methods were unorthodox, but Clark couldn’t argue with his results. After all, they’d worked on him.
“What made you realize?” Bruce asked after he pulled away, turning the question on Clark.
“It took me a lot longer,” Clark explained. “I was in denial through all of high school. I had a girlfriend, and I was so preoccupied with keeping my powers in check and getting good enough grades to get a scholarship. So I was in college by the time I figured it out.”
“Let me guess,” Bruce said, the corners of his mouth curving up in a small smile. He gave away smiles so easily when they were alone like this. “Roommate?”
Clark shook his head. “Not even close.”
“Classmate?”
“Nope,” Clark said. “Professor.”
Bruce’s eyes lit up with interest. “Really?”
“Bruce, you know what I like.” Clark thought it was amusing how intrigued Bruce always was to hear the more salacious details of Clark’s life. (“I spent the first several years that we knew each other thinking you were a total Boy Scout. If only I’d known.” “Yeah, but you haven’t thought about me like that in a long time.” “First impressions die hard.” “That’s not how that saying goes.”)
“I didn’t realize you were so consistent,” Bruce replied, his smile turning mischievous.
“So are you,” Clark pointed out. He leaned in close. “You’re attracted to people who infuriate you. I’m attracted to older men.” He kissed Bruce again, but this time Bruce pulled away after only a few seconds.
“We’re nearly the same age,” he said, like he always did. “You just stopped visibly aging at thirty. There’s a difference.”
“Tell that to the tabloids,” Clark countered.
Bruce hummed, like he was pretending to consider it. “I don’t think I will. I like it when they call you my sugar baby.” (This was a lie; Bruce hated when the media called Clark his sugar baby. But he did like to tease Clark about it, and Clark liked to tease him about it too.)
Another kiss. “Tell me about your professor. What subject did he teach?”
“Shakespeare,” Clark said.
“Of course. What was his name?”
“He was one of those professors who wanted us to call him by his first name. Mark.”
“Mark what?” Bruce said this casually, like he was only curious, but Clark knew him better than that.
“You’re not seriously going to look him up.” Bruce gave him a look like, Who, me? “I won’t tell you his last name. You’re a good enough detective to find him without it.” There couldn’t be that many Shakespearean literature professors named Mark who’d taught at Metropolis University while Clark was an undergraduate. Even someone without Bruce’s skill set could easily find him.
“What did you like about him?”
“He had that line between his eyebrows, like you do,” Clark said, indicating the line on Bruce’s face that stood out when Bruce was deep in thought. “I think it makes you look intelligent.”
“I know,” Bruce said. It wasn’t arrogance; it was the fact that Clark had said this to him before, many times. That line between Bruce’s eyebrows was Clark’s favorite.
“And his hair was starting to go gray, like yours is.” Clark reached out to run his fingers through Bruce’s hair, and Bruce allowed it. “I like that you leave it the way it is.”
“I like that you like that.” Bruce’s voice was a low rumble, deep in his chest, and that reminded Clark of something else he liked.
“And he had this deep voice,” Clark said, “And when he read Shakespeare, even the classics, it was like hearing it for the first time.” He remembered his professor reciting Henry V’s “Once more unto the breach” monologue as a revelatory experience.
“Darling,” Bruce said, his hand on Clark’s face again, thumb tracing his lips. “You are so predictable.”
“He was one of those professors who didn’t tolerate any bullshit,” Clark continued, even though the way Bruce was looking at him was more than a little distracting. “But if he liked you, he’d invite you to his office hours and you could talk Shakespeare with him all afternoon.”
“While you daydreamed about him gagging you with his tie so you wouldn’t make too much noise and then bending you over his desk and fucking you until you cried,” Bruce completed.
“Bruce,” Clark scolded, although Bruce wasn’t wrong. “He was married.”
“Unfortunate,” Bruce said.
“And he wouldn’t have abused his position like that.” Clark tongue darted out to wet his lips, and Bruce’s eyes followed the motion. “But I wanted him to.”
For a second Bruce seemed to take this in. And then he said, “I can work with that.”
Clark frowned. “What do you mean?”
They waited until they had the Manor to themselves. They’d learned their lesson the one (and only) time Damian accidentally walked in on them, getting a little too into each other on the hood of the Batmobile, and these days they were careful. Tim was with the Titans, Cass was with Steph, Damian was with Dick, God only knew where Jason was, and Alfred had been given the evening off.
Clark had chosen his outfit carefully, wanting to look the part. He didn’t put much effort into his appearance in his college days, because no one else did, and the name of Clark’s game had always been blending in. He had on his most comfortable pair of jeans and sneakers, and he’d left his hair a little messier than he usually did, a few extra curls falling in his face. He’d fished out one of his old college t-shirts. It had once been loose on him; now it was a size too small. Bruce would like that.
He checked his appearance in Bruce’s full-length mirror. He knew Bruce was waiting for him downstairs, but Bruce was patient.
Satisfied that this was as close as he would get to passing for his nineteen-year-old self, Clark went down to Bruce’s study and knocked on the door. He could have used his x-ray vision to peek, but he didn’t. He wanted it to be a surprise.
“Come in,” Bruce called out. Clark opened the door and stepped inside.
Bruce was sitting at his desk, frowning at his computer. He looked up when Clark entered. Clark knew instantly that Bruce had done his research; “Mark the Shakespeare professor” must have been more than enough information for him to go on, because he’d absolutely nailed the look. Light blue button-down, rolled up at the sleeves, and a gray herringbone jacket slung over the back of Bruce’s desk chair. And glasses. Bruce had a pair of reading glasses, and when he wore them Clark liked to tease that they looked like “a couple of nerds” (which was exactly what they were), but in truth he thought they suited Bruce very well.
Clark noticed with a sharp spike of lust that Bruce was even wearing a ring, a simple wedding band. The idea of fucking a married man hadn’t appealed to Clark – he never would have actually done it – but the knowledge that the object of his desire was unavailable had added an extra dash of the forbidden to his fantasies.
“Kent,” Bruce said, gaze sweeping over Clark’s body. It was a carefully disinterested stare, except in the way it lingered just a second too long. And the choice of name – “Kent” instead of “Clark,” even though Clark’s old professor had always used first names – Clark knew that was deliberate, because Bruce wanted this to feel different from their usual routine. (Although Bruce hardly ever called Clark by his name during sex; he had an endless list of other things to call him, depending on what the circumstances called for.) “I thought it might be you. Have a seat.”
Clark took a seat in the chair Bruce had left facing his desk. Bruce waited for him to do so, then glanced back at the computer, closed what he was working on (or pretending to work on, although leave it to Bruce to get actual work done when they were about to have sex), and gave Clark his full attention. His hands were folded on his desk. “What brings you in here today?”
“I’m applying to an internship,” Clark said.
Bruce nodded approvingly. Clark remembered how he’d used to crave his professor’s approval, and he let it wash over him like it was real, like he was nineteen again and Bruce was the man he most admired, the smartest person in the world as far as Clark was concerned. (It wasn’t hard to pretend; Bruce was the man Clark most admired and the smartest person in the world.) “Building out your résumé. Good. I’m glad to hear it. What sort of internship is this?”
“It’s with a newspaper.”
“Exactly where you want to be working someday, isn’t that right?”
“It is.” Clark would have been flattered, at nineteen, that his professor had remembered the things he’d told him about his career ambitions, so he acted flattered now.
“And what is it you need from me?”
“A letter of recommendation. I only need one, and I wanted it to be from you.”
Bruce raised his eyebrows. “Why is that? I don’t teach journalism.”
“You’re my favorite professor.”
“You flatter me.” Bruce smiled fondly, and his gaze flicked over Clark again, fast enough that Clark wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been looking for it.
Bruce’s smile faded, and he leaned forward a little. Clark leaned forward too, like there was a string connecting them and Bruce had just tugged on it. “I’d love to write you a letter of recommendation, Kent, but unfortunately, the quality of your work has gone downhill these past few weeks,” he said gravely.
Clark’s eyes widened. “It has?” If his professor had said something like that to him as a freshman, he would have felt a cold rush of panic. He had a stellar work ethic and was fastidious about his grades. Anything less than perfect was unacceptable. He needed to keep his scholarship, and get a job when he graduated. Journalism was a competitive field, especially at the level he was aiming for.
“I’m sad to say that it has,” Bruce confirmed. “You’ve seemed… distracted. Has something been going on in your life? Family troubles? Girl troubles?”
Clark felt his heart pick up the pace of its beating and he looked away. He was surprised to feel a blush coming on. He was really getting into this. It was the way Bruce was looking at him, all buttoned-up and wearing a ring on his finger, concern on his face and in the tone of his voice. It was that, combined with what Clark knew they were about to do. It was the anticipation.
Bruce’s voice was impossibly lower when he spoke next: “Boy troubles?”
“You could say that,” Clark muttered.
“Tell me. Maybe I can help.”
That honeyed tone made Clark want to answer. He could already feel his cock give a twitch of interest. Bruce hadn’t even done or said anything overtly sexual yet. His presence was sexual, though. “There’s this guy I can’t stop thinking about.”
“Have you asked him out?”
“I can’t.” Clark’s eyes found the faux wedding ring. “He’s in a relationship.”
“Unfortunate.” It was the same thing Bruce had said in their bedroom, when they’d first discussed Clark’s fantasy. The reminder that this was Bruce didn’t take Clark out of the scene, though. It only added to it. He never would have actually done this with Mark. But God, he would do it with Bruce, and Bruce would do it with – for – him. That was something special.
“It is. Because otherwise I think he might be interested,” Clark explained, meeting Bruce’s gaze. There was heat there now. It was exciting. “The way he looks at me, sometimes I feel like he’s undressing me with my eyes.”
Bruce didn’t flinch from the accusation. He welcomed it. “You’re a very attractive young man, Kent. I’m sure he can’t help himself.” A pause. Tension building. Clark’s cock gave another twitch. “You really want this internship?” Bruce asked.
“It would open so many doors,” Clark said, pleading.
“And you want me to write your letter of recommendation?”
“Like I said, you’re my favorite professor.”
Bruce gave a short nod, decision made. “I would be willing to do that for you.”
“Thank you—” Clark began, but Bruce cut him off with a hand.
“But first, I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything,” Clark promised breathlessly. His heart was pounding. His face was flushed. He swallowed.
“Be careful, Kent,” Bruce warned. “Do you really mean that?”
Clark meant it. Clark really, really meant it. He would do anything for Bruce. “I do.”
Another long pause. Or maybe it just felt that way. Clark was on the edge of his seat.
“I have been undressing you with my eyes.” Something in Clark’s chest started to uncoil. “How does that make you feel?”
“Excited,” Clark answered honestly. Bruce smiled. He liked when Bruce smiled.
“Good,” Bruce said, that single word feeling like a trophy.
Clark was a people-pleaser. He fought against those instincts these days, when he knew they weren’t serving him well, but in his younger years he hadn’t known how. All he’d done was give and give and give, anything anyone needed or asked from him, until he felt like he had nothing left, and then he gave some more. And all he’d wanted in return was the assurance that he was doing the right thing.
When Clark had first met Bruce, Bruce hadn’t always trusted him to do the right thing, and Clark had taken that very personally, and taken it as a challenge. He’d done everything to prove to Bruce that he was trustworthy and good, and Bruce had finally been convinced, and now Bruce trusted him more than anyone else in the world and wouldn’t tolerate a bad word said about him. He believed in Clark more than Clark had ever believed in himself.
Bruce had been unsurprised to discover Clark’s praise kink when they’d gotten together. “You’re chronically underappreciated, Clark; of course you’d like it when someone finally gives you the credit you deserve.” And Clark thought that was a very nice way of putting it.
“I’d like to see you undress yourself,” Bruce said.
“I would do that for you,” Clark told him.
“I know you would.” Bruce sounded so sure of himself. Clark loved when he sounded like that. “You said you would do anything for me. So do it.”
Clark feigned surprise. “Here? Now?”
“Lock the door first.”
Clark got to his feet, clumsy, and locked the door to the study. When he turned to face Bruce again, Bruce was leaning back in his chair, Clark’s audience of one. “Now,” he said in a firm tone, “Strip.”
Bruce had seen Clark in various states of undress countless times. Clark had stripped for him before. He’d taken Clark’s clothes off himself. But in the context of the scene, Clark was nervous, and his hands shook as he grabbed the hem of his shirt and started pulling it upward.
“Slowly,” Bruce instructed. “I’m not in a rush. I’d like to take my time with you.” That sounded like a promise.
Clark lifted his shirt, slowly, over his head. He untied his shoes and slid out of them, took his socks off, unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans and tried to remember how he was supposed to make this look sexy. Although it didn’t look like he needed to worry about that too much; Bruce was taking in every inch of him, devouring him with his gaze, watching the slide of denim against the bare skin of Clark’s legs as his jeans dropped to the floor.
Clark was standing in the center of the room in his underwear, and there was no mistaking how his body felt about this. The hard line of his cock was painfully visible through his underwear. “You weren’t lying about being excited,” Bruce said.
“No,” Clark managed, his throat dry.
“Have you gotten excited in my class before, Kent?” Bruce’s eyes tore away from Clark’s cock to look him in the eyes.
“I have.”
Bruce smiled. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Do you sneak away to the men’s room after to take the edge off? Do you touch yourself while thinking of me?”
“I think of you every time I touch myself,” Clark said. It was the truth. He hadn’t jerked off to the thought of anyone but Bruce in years. “I can’t help it.”
Bruce looked smugly satisfied. “Finish undressing for me.”
Clark stepped out of his underwear, and his cock sprang free. “Oh, darling,” Bruce said, and Clark was a writer but he didn’t have words to describe how Bruce sounded right now. “Pleased” didn’t come close to covering it. “Is that for me?”
“Yes,” Clark answered.
“And I haven’t even touched you yet.” Marvel. That was the word for what Bruce was doing: He was marvelling at Clark. Bruce had always looked at Clark like he was too good to be true.
Bruce straightened in his chair. “Come here,” he said, and Clark obeyed, crossing the room to stand in front of him. “On your knees.”
Clark knelt in front of Bruce, and if he hadn’t been hard already, he would be now, with Bruce looking down at him, reaching out to touch Clark’s face like he’d done in their bedroom, and then running that hand through Clark’s hair. “Do this for me,” Bruce promised, “And I’ll write you that letter of recommendation. Do we have a deal?”
“Yes.” It was the only word Clark could even think of right now.
“Good.” Bruce unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, and pulled out his cock. He was hard too. He’d gotten that way watching Clark strip. The thought made Clark dizzy, and he was abruptly glad he was already kneeling. “Get to work.”
Clark didn’t need telling twice. He leaned forward and greedily took Bruce’s cock into his mouth. He knew the taste of Bruce by heart, the familiar weight of him. His tongue circled the head, lapped at the slit, and then he swallowed down the entire length of it until it hit the back of his throat and his eyes fluttered closed of their own accord and the hand in Clark’s hair tightened, nails digging into his scalp.
For a moment, Clark remained still, savoring the feeling, Bruce inside him like this, overwhelming all five senses. He was used to sensing everything, everything around him for miles, the whole world invading his space at all times, but when he was like this, with Bruce’s cock in his mouth and Bruce’s hand in his hair to ground him, everything was still and quiet and perfect. He wondered if Bruce thought Clark did this just for his pleasure; Clark knew a lot of people treated giving head like that. It wasn’t that way for Clark. It was a mutual exchange.
When he was ready, Clark started bobbing his head up and down in a steady rhythm. He didn’t need to breathe, couldn’t choke, so this was easy for him, especially given how much he enjoyed it. He lost track of time in moments like these, the same way he lost track of the world around him. Everything focused in on the here and now, how Bruce was making him feel and how he was making Bruce feel and how perfectly they both fit together.
It could have been minutes or it could have been hours before the hand in Clark’s hair pulled him back, and he sucked in air out of habit, filling his lungs. He wondered how he looked right now, lips red, a thin string of drool still connecting him to Bruce’s cock.
“Beautiful,” Bruce said, wiping Clark’s mouth with his free hand, and then letting his fingers linger there, the pad of his thumb on Clark’s lower lip. He pushed forward against Clark’s teeth, and Clark darted his tongue out to taste Bruce again, a different flavor this time, a different part of him.
Bruce’s cock, spit-slick, was bobbing against his stomach, and it reminded Clark of what he was supposed to be doing. “Let me finish,” he nearly whispered, nearly begged.
“No,” Bruce told him, and Clark was inexplicably devastated.
“But you haven’t—”
“I know, baby.” Bruce’s tone was so soothing that Clark let his protests die on his lips. On his knees like this, he was easily convinced. (In an actual argument with Bruce, he was a hell of a lot more stubborn.) “I have a suggestion. This isn’t for your letter of recommendation; I think you’ve earned that.” Clark disagreed; if he hadn’t even earned Bruce’s release coating the inside of his mouth, then how could he have possibly earned a stupid letter of recommendation? But Bruce continued speaking: “This is for you and me.”
Clark did like the sound of that. Some of the best things in his life were just for him and Bruce. So he listened.
“I want to fuck you,” Bruce said. Clark would never get over the way the word fuck sounded when Bruce said it. “I know you want that too.”
“I do.”
“Good.” Bruce took his hands off Clark, the hand in his hair and the hand on his face. “Stand up.”
Clark rose shakily to his feet. He could still taste Bruce on his tongue.
Bruce gathered up the papers on his desk into a neat pile and slid them into a drawer. He closed his laptop and tucked it away in its carrying case.
“Hands on the desk,” Bruce instructed. Clark gripped the far side of the desk with his hands, leaning forward. Bruce regarded him almost scientifically. “Elbows, actually,” he amended, and Clark went down to his elbows. “Spread your legs.” Clark spread his legs. “A little more.” Clark spread them farther apart. “Perfect.” Perfect.
Bruce had called Clark “perfect” before. Sometimes teasingly (“We can’t all be perfect,” and then an affectionate look, “Like you”), sometimes adoringly (“I don’t understand how anyone could be this perfect”), sometimes reverently (a hand trailing down his chest and stomach, toward where Clark wanted it, and when Clark arched up into his touch: “Perfect”).
Clark felt incredibly exposed, naked and bent over while Bruce was still almost fully dressed, cock out. He couldn’t see what Bruce was doing without changing his position, and he didn’t want to do that, because Bruce had said his current position was “perfect.” So he interpreted the sounds he was hearing: Bruce taking his belt all the way off. Was he going to use it? Clark briefly wondered – Bruce couldn’t hurt him or cause him pain, but he was pretty sure that was exactly what Bruce liked, he liked that he could do whatever he wanted to Clark and Clark could take it – but then he heard Bruce set the belt aside, probably on the chair with his jacket. That made sense. Bruce hadn’t set the scene up in a way where the belt made sense.
Then Clark heard Bruce taking his tie off, and he asked himself the same question: Was he going to use that? And this time he got a different answer when Bruce reached forward to stuff the tie in Clark’s mouth and tie it around the back of his head. It wasn’t the most effective gag – it would prevent Clark from forming words, but not from making noise – but that wasn’t the point. The point was how it felt against his lips and teeth and tongue, something to focus his senses on, like Bruce’s cock in his mouth focused him.
“I can’t have my colleagues overhearing what I’m doing to you in here,” Bruce said into Clark’s ear, his breath hot against Clark’s neck. “I wouldn’t want them to get the wrong idea. I told you, Clark” – it was the first time during the scene that he’d said “Clark” instead of “Kent,” which Clark knew meant something – “This is for you and me. I don’t want anyone else to know. I don’t want them to think they can use you the way I do. You’re mine.”
Clark shuddered. He was. He was Bruce’s. He had been for a long time, even longer than they’d been together.
Clark could hear Bruce doing something again, but he couldn’t assign actions to these particular sounds, until he saw, in his peripheral vision, Bruce set a tube of lube down on the desk next to him. Clark wondered why Bruce hadn’t opened it. Still, just in case, he leaned forward a little more, spread his legs just a little bit wider, arched his back invitingly. He was ready.
“You’re not the only one who’s been distracted these past few weeks,” Bruce said, his hands coming to rest on Clark’s hips, the first he’d touched him anywhere but his face (and yet Clark was already leaking). “Do you know how many times I’ve thought about doing this? I think about you when I touch myself too, Clark.”
Clark knew this was the truth, because Bruce had called him and texted him and sent pictures when they were apart. Thinking about you, the texts would say, three innocent words with an obscene photo attached to them.
Bruce’s hands spread Clark’s cheeks and he leaned down, and Clark knew now why Bruce hadn't opened the lube yet. “Have you ever had someone else inside you before?” Bruce asked.
Clark shook his head. Obviously Bruce knew the real answer was yes, because he’d been inside Clark before, but as a freshman in college, the answer had been no. Clark had never been with a man, and he hadn’t yet been acquainted with the concept of pegging.
“You’ve been saving yourself for me,” Bruce said, sounding immensely pleased. “I intend to ruin you for other men, Clark. You’ll never be able to have anyone else inside you again without thinking of me.” As if that wasn’t already true.
The first swipe of Bruce’s tongue wasn’t a surprise, but Clark let out a noise like it was. Bruce teased him, tracing wet circles around Clark’s hole, pressing the flat of his tongue against it, licking him, but never going inside, not until Clark let out a long whine that was the closest he could get to begging for it with Bruce’s tie in his mouth.
Bruce took pity on him, and Clark felt the tip of Bruce’s tongue enter him, and then more teasing licks and circles, and then – finally – that tongue penetrated him, fucked him, ate him out, getting him all wet inside, making him tremble, making his hands clench the desk. He whined again, grateful this time, prompting Bruce to pull away just long enough to say, “Baby, you taste so good. Do you feel good?”
Clark nodded, and Bruce smiled against his skin and went back to work.
Bruce’s promise had been that he would fuck Clark until he cried. Clark wasn’t there yet, but he was somewhere. Bruce’s tongue flexing inside him had his arms shaking and his knees buckling; Bruce’s hands supported him by his thighs, thumbs rubbing back and forth soothingly, as if to say, I got you, baby, I got you. Bruce was the only person who had ever done this to Clark. Clark thought that was for the best, because he couldn’t imagine anyone doing it half as well as Bruce did. The things Bruce could do with his mouth were indecent.
But as much as he loved Bruce’s tongue inside him, Bruce’s spit dripping out of him, there was something else Clark wanted even more. Bruce’s cock could get much deeper, fill him up much better, and Clark wondered how he was going to communicate this need without words. He couldn’t think straight, though; his brain was already thoroughly addled. He tried words: “Bruce, please,” but it came out without any of the consonants. It didn’t make any sense, and still Bruce knew, because he always knew what Clark needed.
He took his tongue out of Clark, gave him one final lick for his own satisfaction, and stood, tilting Clark’s head toward him. Clark took in the sight of him eagerly. Bruce’s chin was wet, his eyes were dark with lust. His breath smelled like Clark. “Good boy,” he said, and Clark preened. “You’ve done such a wonderful job keeping quiet. I need you to keep doing that. This stays between you and me. Especially if you ever want it to happen again.”
Clark nodded. He wanted it to happen again. It hadn’t even finished happening yet and he already wanted it to happen again. He would follow any rule Bruce set for him, especially one as easy as keeping quiet.
The lube opened with a click. Bruce squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers and warmed it up in his hands. He placed one hand flat on Clark’s back, pressing down, and the other hand went down to Clark’s hole. Clark was already a little loose and very wet; Bruce’s first finger slid in easily.
“So tight for me, even after I fucked you open with my tongue,” Bruce said. “Have you done this to yourself before, Clark? Have you fingered yourself like this?”
Clark nodded. Outside the scene, Bruce already knew the answer. He’d watched Clark finger himself, asked or ordered him to do it while Bruce sat back and stroked himself, telling Clark when to add another finger, and then replacing Clark’s fingers with his cock when he decided Clark was ready.
“I bet it didn’t feel as good as it does now,” Bruce said confidently. Clark shook his head. No, it didn’t. It always felt better when Bruce did it for him. Everything felt better when Bruce did it for him, did it to him.
A second finger joined the first. Bruce probably could have started with two, but he always liked to take this part slow, even though he couldn’t hurt Clark by skimping on the preparation; he knew it felt better this way. “When you got yourself all wet and loose, did you wish I was around to fill you up with my cock?”
Clark nodded. He would never understand how Bruce could say things like that in such a calm, casual tone. There was a seductive edge to it, of course there was, but Bruce’s voice never trembled or shook, the way Clark’s did when he wasn’t gagged like this, when Bruce let him beg for it or asked him to describe how he felt or what he wanted. Bruce maintained his composure. It felt like he was giving Clark permission to lose his composure entirely: You fall, I’ll catch you. The opposite of how it was when they were on a mission; if Bruce fell, Clark would catch him. A perfect give-and-take.
Bruce’s fingers moved inside of Clark, working him steadily open, and his mouth kept running. “You’re going to feel what that’s like today, Clark. For the first time. Mine will be the first cock inside this pretty little hole, and you’ll never want to have anyone else’s after you’ve had mine.”
Clark already didn’t want anyone else. No one could make him feel the way Bruce made him feel. No one else understood him as deeply as Bruce understood him. What they had was special. Clark knew he’d have to be crazy to give it up. He’d give up everything else in his life before he gave up this.
Bruce added a third finger, then asked, “Is this enough lube, baby? I want you to feel good.” Clark nodded. Everything felt good. Really good. “Good. You’re almost ready. Do you want one more after this, or do you think you can take me? It’ll be a stretch. Do you think you can handle it?” Clark nodded again. “Good boy. I know you can.”
As if to reward Clark for giving the right answer (as if “good boy” wasn’t reward enough already, didn’t make something curl up satisfied in Clark’s chest), Bruce’s three fingers brushed against his prostate, and Clark keened. Bruce massaged the spot intently, drawing broken-off sounds from Clark’s throat, who kept reminding himself that he was supposed to be quiet. But he wasn’t loud enough that anyone in the next room over could hear him, so he figured he was okay.
Bruce fingered Clark until Clark was seeing stars in front of his eyelids, until the tension in his whole body had melted away and he was perfectly relaxed, barely holding himself up, no thoughts, only pleasure.
Content that Clark was loose enough to take him, Bruce withdrew his fingers, and Clark felt bereft, still buzzing inside. His cock was wet and dripping onto Bruce’s desk. His hole was wet and open. He was running out of words to describe how he felt other than really, really good. Distantly, he remembered that he was supposed to be a writer, but he wasn’t a writer right now. He was a college student about to get fucked into a desk by his hot, older, married professor, who had a line between his eyebrows like Bruce and salt-and-pepper hair and a low voice that read Shakespeare. He remembered how many times he’d furiously jerked off to a scene much like this one, in his dorm room after Mark’s office hours, thinking about the way his professor read the opening soliloquy from Richard III, “Now is the winter of our discontent.”
He then remembered how many times he’d furiously jerked off after a Justice League mission, flying home to his Metropolis apartment and replaying the way Batman said his name, low and gravelly, “Superman” or, if Clark was lucky, “Kal.” Or after a society event Clark was covering that Bruce had attended, where they spent the night carefully avoiding each other; no one could know they were friends. Clark would drive himself to distraction wishing Bruce would pull him into a coat closet and shove him up against the door and whisper filthy things in his ear while his fist pumped Clark’s cock.
“I think you’re ready,” Bruce said. “Are you ready?”
“Mhm,” Clark said. He didn’t think he could present himself any more than he already was, but he tried, tried to make his ass more inviting, so Bruce would give him what he needed.
“Look at you,” Bruce said, picking up on Clark’s eagerness. “Already so desperate for it. Show me those pretty blue eyes.”
Clark craned his neck to look over his shoulder. He wanted to look at Bruce’s face – around this time in any scene was when Bruce’s real emotions started to break through to the surface, like he couldn’t help it, and Clark saw care and affection and desire in his gaze, more than befitted a professor fucking a student for the first time, but perfectly suited to a man giving the love of his life exactly what he wanted – but he also found his gaze drawn to Bruce’s cock, thick and red and leaking.
“Gorgeous,” Bruce said, and Clark looked up at his face again, smiling around the tie. “I’m going to give you what you need.”
Bruce slicked himself up and lined up with Clark’s hole. Clark flexed his fingers where they were still gripping the edge of the desk. When he felt Bruce start to sink into him, he closed his eyes and lost himself in the sensation: Bruce taking him, claiming him, filling him. It always felt so right.
“Come on baby,” Bruce said. “You can take me. Lean forward a little bit more.” Clark did, and Bruce slid the rest of the way in more easily. “That’s it. I know it’s a stretch. You’re so tight inside. It feels so good. You feel so good. I’ve been dreaming about this for so long.” Each compliment washed over Clark like the waves of the sea on a warm tropical beach. “You ready for me to start moving?”
“Mmm,” Clark managed, hoping it sounded enough like an affirmative that Bruce would know.
He did. He always knew. He started moving, pulling out slowly and then sliding back in, out and in, the hand on Clark’s back sliding up his spine, settling where Clark’s neck met his shoulder, his other hand gripping Clark’s waist. He set a slow pace, and Clark took the opportunity to let go of any rationality still left inside his fuzzy, fucked-out brain, losing all sense of time the way he’d lost it with Bruce’s cock in his mouth.
This was the best part, when all of Clark’s usual cares and responsibilities fell away. He carried the world on his shoulders most of the time, and even with his super strength, it was a heavy weight. He had all this incredible power, but he was still only one man, and there were billions of people on Earth and at any given moment hundreds or thousands or millions of them needed saving, and he could never save them all. This was something Clark used to torture himself with.
And then he’d met Bruce, and gotten to know him, and had that comforting realization: I’m not the only one. Bruce felt the same way he did. Bruce felt responsible for Gotham the way Clark felt responsible for Earth, but he too was only one man, and he couldn’t bring every criminal to justice or prevent every tragedy. He tortured himself with it too.
It had been so easy for Clark to see how irrational it was that Bruce held himself to this standard. “You already do so much good,” Clark had said to him once, when Bruce was beating himself up for his perceived failures. “You can’t expect yourself to do everything.” And it hadn’t struck him at first how ironic it was that he would give that advice when it was the same advice he needed.
Neither of them had yet figured out how to quiet the voices that told them they would never be enough. Not permanently, anyway. But they’d figured out that the voices were a lot quieter when they were together. And they were almost completely silent when Clark was like this, and all he could hear was Bruce’s heartbeat (the background sounds of Gotham were so distant now) and all he could feel was Bruce driving inside of him and all he could taste was Bruce’s tie in his mouth and all he could smell was the heady scent of sex and he’d closed his eyes so all he could see was a warm and pleasant darkness.
There weren’t any other people in the world right now. Just Bruce and him.
“How am I going to look at you in class tomorrow Clark?” Bruce’s voice was distant. Clark had almost forgotten about the scene. “Now that I’ve had you like this. You’ll have to come by my office every day after class. I’ll never have enough of you.”
That last part sounded like a promise. Clark hoped it was.
After… a period of time (Clark had no way of knowing how long), Bruce’s hands both settled on Clark’s hips and he picked up the pace, driving deeper into him, harder. He adjusted Clark to change their angle slightly, and his cock nailed Clark’s prostate, and Clark let out a muffled groan. Bruce repeated the motion again, and again, and again, until Clark didn’t feel fuzzy anymore. He felt wound up tight. His cock throbbed. He needed—
“Are you getting close, baby?” Bruce always knew. “Do you need me to touch you?”
“Mhm,” Clark answered, desperate, aching, balancing on a wire. Bruce’s hand wrapped around his cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. Clark felt heady, overstimulated, tears pricking the corner of his eyes.
“Come on, baby,” Bruce instructed. “Come for me.”
Clark did as he was told. He hurtled over the edge, crying out. He felt like he came for hours, then shook through another eternity of aftershocks, and when he finally floated back down to earth, back into his body, he felt completely new again.
Bruce had stopped moving inside him. He pulled out, and Clark made a noise of complaint, but Bruce didn’t listen to it. He reached forward and pulled the tie out of Clark’s mouth. Before Clark’s disappointment – Bruce still hadn’t finished – could coalesce, Bruce indicated the streaks of white under Clark on the desk. “Clean it up,” he said.
Clark did as he was told, aware of the fact that Bruce was watching him; he licked his own release off the polished wood surface and looked back at Bruce for approval. Bruce smiled at him.
“Turn around,” Bruce told him. Clark turned around. “Lay down on the desk.” Clark briefly worried that the desk might not support his full weight, but Bruce wouldn’t have told him to lay down on the desk if it was going to break. So he laid down on his back. “Legs around my waist,” Bruce said, and Clark wrapped his legs around Bruce’s waist. “Good. I’m gonna finish inside of you. That’s what you want, right?”
“Yes.”
“Stay quiet. I know you’re sensitive. You’re doing so good.”
Bruce slid inside him again, and he was right, Clark was feeling very sensitive right now, right on the border of too sensitive, but he screwed his eyes shut and breathed through his nose and let Bruce fuck into him again, and again, and again— “Tell me you want me to come.”
“I want you to come,” Clark repeated, blinking his eyes open, looking up at Bruce.
“Ask for it nicely.” Bruce’s thrusts were getting erratic. His tone was a growl. He was so close.
“Please come,” Clark said. “Fill me up. I wanna feel it, please.”
One last thrust, and Clark felt it. He felt Bruce twitch and empty himself deep inside him, and spill out, and overflow. That was it. That was the last step. Clark was Bruce’s, completely, inside and out.
Bruce took a shaky breath. He stayed in Clark for a few long moments while Clark started to feel the world come to life again around him. Cars and people in the distance. Across the harbor, it was raining, a storm heading in their direction. Bruce was watching him. Clark blinked and felt a couple tears slide down his cheeks. He wondered if he’d actually been crying or if his eyes had just been watering. Bruce had said he would fuck him until he cried. Clark might have to call him on the technicality.
“Was that what you wanted?” Bruce asked once he could tell Clark was lucid.
“Yes,” Clark said.
“Sorry, I should have clarified. I’m asking that as Bruce.”
Clark smiled. “Yes, Bruce. That was what I wanted.”
“Good.” Bruce pulled out of him, tucked himself back into his underwear, and zipped up his pants. He found his belt on the chair but didn’t put it on, just slung it over his shoulder with his jacket. Clark sat up, then stood up. Bruce wiped down the desk, and then he turned his attention to Clark, holding his chin in one hand, closely inspecting the corners of his mouth where the tie had dug in. Of course there wouldn’t be any marks left behind.
“I’m fine,” Clark reminded him. “You can’t hurt me.”
“I know,” Bruce said. “Do you want to take a shower?”
Clark hooked his fingers through Bruce’s belt loops and pulled him in for a kiss. They hadn’t kissed during the entire scene. He thoroughly explored Bruce’s mouth, and Bruce indulged him. “Only if you come with me,” Clark finally said, once he was sated.
“I thought that was implied.”
“Is that something you’d be interested in trying again, in the future?” Bruce asked once they were clean and in bed.
“Which part?” Clark clarified.
“Any of it.”
Clark considered this. “The roleplay, only on special occasions,” he decided. “Most of the time I just want you to be you. So next time, Bruce Wayne can gag me with his tie and fuck me over his desk.”
Bruce smirked. “He’d be more than willing to do that.”
“Good.” Clark reached for Bruce’s hand under the covers and threaded their fingers together. “Did you like it?”
“Of course I liked it,” Bruce said instantly. And then, because he knew Clark wanted specifics and not just comforting words, “I especially liked the change of location. It was refreshing. Maybe we could try it at my office at work next time.”
Clark raised his eyebrows. “You would do that?”
“After hours, sure.”
“How will you ever get any work done in that office again?”
“I’m very good at compartmentalizing,” Bruce told him. “Besides, I already get distracted thinking about you all the time.”
“Well, I’m not letting anything happen in my cubicle at the Daily Planet.”
Bruce looked like he agreed. “I’ve seen that desk. I don’t think it could take either one of us.” He paused, thoughtful. “Your boss’ desk, on the other hand—”
“Absolutely not,” Clark interrupted firmly. “You’re disgusting.”
Bruce grinned. “That’s not what you were saying twenty minutes ago.”
“I wasn’t saying anything twenty minutes ago; I had your tie in my mouth.”
“I should have left it there,” Bruce teased.
“Then I couldn’t do this.”
Clark leaned forward, and kissed him.