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The stellar sex didn't change much, if anything, about them.
Bruce was still Bruce — highly secretive, paranoid and self-sacrificing to the point of absurdity, committed to being The Batman above everything else, including his own health — and it was still like pulling teeth to get any meaningful, personal information out of him. Most of the time, Clark managed to get Bruce to talk only when they were naked and sweaty and needed a breather between rounds.
As for Clark himself, well, he hadn't changed all that much either; he'd picked up almost where he'd left off before he died — racing around the world to give aid, trying to keep up with his assignments at The Planet, and burning the candle at both ends until even his extremely generous energy supply ran out. Not to mention keeping an eye on Ma and the farm as best he could in whatever free time he still had left. Which didn't leave much time for a relationship.
They saw each other at League meetings and when a situation or crisis called for both of them to work together, but time they could call their own was few and far between. Bruce still tended to go out on patrol every night until almost dawn and Clark had a day job he loved. And yes, they made things work, because they both were stubborn and motivated, but Clark would be lying if he'd said he didn't sometimes wish that either of them had a less hectic schedule, or that outside demands didn't tend to bleed into the few free evenings they managed to scrape together.
Which was why Clark had gone to great lengths earlier in the day to make sure that they wouldn't have any interruptions tonight. Not that Bruce knew why tonight was special, but Clark had never forgotten the date of that long-ago first kiss, and getting the chance to celebrate that anniversary with Bruce was too tempting to pass up. Diana had already agreed to keep an eye on Metropolis, and Victor and Alfred had both offered to keep watch over Gotham — and if Clark's ears still went red when he remembered Alfred's knowing smile after Clark had stammered out his request, at least he could comfort himself with knowing that Alfred agreed Bruce was due for a night off. And, for once, Lois actually owed Clark a favor, so she was covering the City Hall planning commission meeting and emailing him her notes.
Now all that was left was for Bruce to agree that they'd earned a night to themselves. He knew that Bruce rivaled the Rock of Gibraltar when he thought he was being manipulated, but it was a risk worth taking.
The Thompson Hotel in West Gotham wasn't Clark's usual choice (too trendy, too expensive, and far too conspicuous for his tastes), but it had the advantage of being next to the office building where Bruce had meetings all afternoon, so Clark sat himself at the rooftop bar and ordered the cheapest beer they had on the menu — which was still almost out of his price range. The sky overhead was clear for once, not a bit of fog or clouds in sight, so Clark took advantage and soaked in the late afternoon sunlight, enjoying the spectacular view of the Financial District off to his right, and Gotham Bay in the distance to his left. Maybe Diana and Lois were right, and he should slow down every once in a while and reconnect with the planet he was so invested in protecting.
He heard murmuring from the patrons near the elevator, and glanced up, his gaze colliding with warm brown eyes that narrowed for a fraction of a second before softening into a languid, appreciative look. Bruce strolled across the roof like he hadn't a care in the world, attracting eyes and turning more than a few heads in his tailored slacks and jacket, chest-hugging vest, and fitted white dress shirt. Clark allowed himself a moment to admire the fluid way Bruce moved — not Batman's lethal grace, but a ballroom dancer's elegance, old money and privilege and the surety that came from having plenty of both.
He also used the time to do a quick x-ray scan of Bruce's body for injuries, mentally apologizing the entire time for examining Bruce without permission — but his plans wouldn't mean much if Bruce was in any way incapacitated. He breathed an inward sigh of relief at finding just a few yellowing bruises — nothing Bruce couldn't handle, and nothing that would interfere with Clark's vision for the evening.
Bruce slid into the seat beside him, and ordered a Redbreast 15 year, neat, from the waiting bartender. "You know, when you texted to ask if I was free for a drink — and here of all places — I thought you were joking," he said, with an insouciant grin.
Clark just raised his pint glass in a salute. "I guess it's good to know I can still surprise you."
"You surprise me every day, Clark," Bruce replied, with a heated, appreciative look that made Clark shiver all over, and tapped his glass against Clark's before taking a lingering sip of his whiskey. He made a small noise of approval, then focused back on Clark. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"It's just been a while, that's all."
"Hmm." Bruce took another sip of his drink, studying Clark out of those far-too-perceptive eyes. "And if the date today happened to coincide with a certain incident that might have occurred at an Alaskan resort, that's just coincidence?"
"You knew," Clark groaned, slumping forward to rest his elbows on the bar. He should have known better than to think he could have kept anything from a man as analytical and persistent as Bruce. "I'm sorry, you probably think it's silly —"
"On the contrary, I find it...nice."
"Nice?" Clark perked back up. It was hardly a ringing endorsement from anyone else, but this was Bruce, so it was high praise indeed.
"I haven't had much in the way of conventional relationships," Bruce explained, haltingly, with a self-effacing shrug. "And maybe we don't entirely fit the definition ourselves, but it's nice that you want to celebrate the little milestones."
Was it any wonder Clark was so gone on this man? "Well, then," he murmured, swaying towards Bruce like a flower following the sun, "happy anniversary."
Bruce's small smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Happy anniversary."
He signaled for another round, and Clark took the opportunity to look Bruce over again. It was nice seeing Bruce so relaxed. Giving in to the urge, he reached out and tucked a loose strand of graying hair behind Bruce's ear. It took everything he had not to grin at the look Bruce gave him. "What?"
Bruce tugged gently at Clark's hand, fully exposing the wrist cuff Bruce had made for him almost a year ago. Clark thought he might burst into actual flames from the heat in Bruce's gaze. "If this was how you wanted to celebrate, why are we here and not at our suite at The Meredith?" Bruce asked, his voice a low slither of need that sent sparks shooting along Clark's spine.
Clark raked his fingernails across Bruce's palm as he slid his hand free and tugged his shirt sleeve back over the leather. "Because right now I'm having a drink with my best friend and enjoying a rare night off without any outside obligations," he said, as mildly as he could manage. "That —" he tapped the cuff "— is for later, if you're willing."
"If I'm willing, he says." Bruce shook his head in what Clark knew was mock sadness. "If the past year has taught you anything new about me, it should be that I will always be willing where you're concerned."
Clark didn't bother to hide his pleasure at hearing Bruce's statement. The fact that he had any part of Bruce's attention and time still thrilled him like nothing else ever could. "That makes two of us."
"When you're ready, then," Bruce replied, and sipped slowly on his new drink. "I take it Alfred already knows not to expect me on patrol tonight."
"Does that...it's not a problem, is it? That I asked, I mean?" Clark clarified. Bruce didn't look upset, but it never hurt to be sure.
Bruce chuckled. "Not at all. Saves me the trouble of calling him myself."
"He said you weren't in the middle of anything important, but if you still need to suit up, I understand," Clark said, feigning a nonchalance that he knew didn't even come close to fooling Bruce.
"I think the GPD can handle things for a night," Bruce said, lightly. "And we both know you'll keep an ear out anyway."
A promise Clark was happy to make. "Of course I will," he said, then cast about for something to talk about that wasn't work. "How's Barry doing?"
"Still eating me out of house and home, but I've gotten used to having him around," Bruce replied, those full lips twisting ruefully. Clark knew that was the closest Bruce would ever come to admitting he liked Barry's company. "And Arthur's been coming by more."
So, the rumors were true. How interesting. And delightful. "Diana did mention they've been out for drinks a few times."
Bruce's brows furrowed. "I didn't know you paid attention to gossip."
"They're our friends. I want them to be happy."
Bruce hummed again, low and thoughtful. "They haven't said anything directly, but the signs are all there," he admitted.
"And are you going to be the one to give Arthur the talk?" Clark said, lightly pressing against Bruce's shoulder.
"The what?"
"The shovel talk," Clark said, and smiled, sunny and wide, at Bruce's decidedly un-Bruce-like confused frown.
"Barry's an adult. Whatever they do is for them to navigate. They don't try to interfere with us or our relationship."
Clark's smile grew. Bruce could not have given him a more perfect opening. "I do love it when you use that word," he said, making a show of raking his gaze over Bruce's body.
Bruce's gaze grew heavy-lidded and dark in a way that made Clark shiver in anticipation. "And speaking of —"
"Finish your drink," Clark ordered, feeling no qualms at cutting Bruce off mid-sentence. Now that they'd made the requisite small talk, he wanted to spend the rest of the night enjoying himself, and Bruce. In as many different ways as they could manage. Knowing Bruce's imagination, there were a lot of possibilities, and Clark meant to make every second of their evening together count.
Bruce tilted his head back and polished off the whiskey, throat working as he swallowed. Clark sat back and appreciated the view, mentally debating with himself about which part of Bruce's body he wanted to get his hands on first. Now that he'd been given tacit permission, he was in the mood to be greedy.
Bruce stood and pulled out his money clip, then peeled off enough bills to cover their tab and a very generous tip. "You coming?" His tone was even enough, but Clark could see the careful way he was holding himself, like he wanted to pounce on Clark right then and fuck him by the pool. Clark had half a mind to let him.
"Not yet." Clark winked, and stood. "But I have no doubts you'll help to correct that."
Bruce let out a pained noise, but his hand was warm against the small of Clark's back as he guided Clark to the elevator hallway. "You're as bad as Barry with your puns."
"Oh, I'm way worse," Clark admitted, balling his hands into the pockets of his jeans as they waited for the elevator.
Bruce snorted out a laugh. But before he could reply, the doors opened, and they took a step back to allow the small crowd to emerge. Clark slipped inside, slouched against the railing with a casualness he didn't feel, and smiled at Bruce.
"Besides," he added, "you like me because I make you laugh."
"That's not the only reason."
As the doors slid shut, Bruce loomed closer, but Clark didn't wait for him to make the first move. He tangled his hands in the lapels of Bruce's jacket and straightened to his full height before crushing their mouths together. They'd waited long enough.
Bruce tasted just as dark and intoxicating as always, and Clark filled every one of his senses with Bruce — rough lips, a soft tongue, the way he always smelled like carbon and Kevlar — until he was drowning in sensation. By the time Clark lifted his head, after a quick bite of Bruce's lower lip, he was already hard and aching. "Much better," he commented with a grin, as the elevator came to a stop.
Clark could feel Bruce's eyes narrowing on him as they made their way out of the lobby and outside to the waiting valet. "You know, I'm beginning to wonder if you actually want me to collar you tonight."
Clark grinned as Bruce handed the valet his ticket. He didn't dare look in Bruce's direction. "Oh, I want the collar. But later. After I've peeled you out of that very nice suit of yours and laid you on a bed and fucked you until you can't move. Then you can do whatever you want to me for the rest of the night."
Bruce's body tightened delightfully. "Bold words."
"Well, if you don't think you're up for it..." Clark had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing at the peevish expression on Bruce's face. "I'm driving, by the way."
"In every aspect, as always," Bruce commented, his lips quirking up in a smile that didn't fool Clark for a second. He could feel the slow burn building between them, and wanted nothing more than to fan the flames. As Clark climbed into the driver's seat, Bruce quickly slipped the valet what looked like another very generous tip, then eased down into the passenger seat.
Putting the car into gear, Clark waited just long enough to pull away from the curb before sliding his hand along Bruce's thigh.
"Clark..." Bruce growled. It was both a warning and an invitation.
"You want me to move it?" Clark asked, even though he already knew the answer.
"Only if you're planning on moving it higher."
"All in good time," Clark chuckled, and made the left off of Whitmore onto Larraby.
Bruce placed his hand over Clark's, but didn't attempt to nudge it along. "If you're trying to torture me, it's working."
"Not at all. Just enjoying the anticipation. It's been a minute since we've had an entire night to ourselves."
"Yes, it has. Too long."
Clark glanced over and saw that Bruce had closed his eyes and was relaxing against the seat cushions. He looked good like that — like a lion sunning himself: dangerous, but tame enough if you knew where to scratch. "We've both been busy," Clark finally said. "And it's not like either of us is good at prioritizing the softer things in life."
Bruce squeezed his fingers over Clark's. "I know. And I appreciate that you understand my mission will always come first. But I have missed this."
It was plainly stated, no frills or embellishments. But Clark's soul sang like it was a flowery speech worthy of Shakespeare himself.
"So have I," Clark replied, just as plainly. There was a warm glow inside him that had nothing to do with lust. Without thinking about it, he turned off Larraby, taking random turns up the hills until he found a dark, mostly deserted street.
"This isn't the way to the hotel," Bruce observed. His voice was thick with amusement, like he knew what Clark was planning and more than approved.
"No," Clark said, stopping the car and shutting it off before twisting in his seat and dragging his hand up to cup Bruce's inseam. "But I've waited long enough to taste you."
"Finally," Bruce groaned, and yanked Clark to him for a scorching kiss that had Clark fumbling as he tried to simultaneously return the kiss and tug Bruce's zipper down.
"Push the seat back," he managed, when he could tear himself from Bruce's mouth, and waited until Bruce did as he'd asked. Then he closed his hand around Bruce's length, and bent forward so he could wrap his lips around the head, sliding down until his mouth met his fist. Bruce moaned again, burying his hands in Clark's hair to hold him in place.
It wasn't the best blowjob he'd ever given — the car was too small for two men of their bulk; the position Clark was twisted up in was truly uncomfortable and cramped; and he was too far gone to take his time and make Bruce work for it — but he figured they'd have time later on for him to slow things down. Right now, all he wanted was to feel Bruce come apart for him and because of him, and he applied every bit of his skill and knowledge of Bruce's body towards that one task.
He could feel Bruce straining, fighting to control himself, trying to drag the pleasure out as much as he could, but that wasn't the goal. Clark shifted in an effort to get a better angle and was rewarded by a sharp inhale. The sound rocketed straight to Clark's crotch, making him even harder. He redoubled his efforts, wondering if it would be a race to see who came first — Bruce, because of the blowjob, or Clark himself, because of the noises Bruce was making.
"Let go, Bruce." It was a whisper, soft and determined, and Clark accompanied it with a light graze of his teeth up Bruce's length.
That did the trick. Bruce came with a wordless gasp that Clark heard as clear as a bell, spilling deep down Clark's throat. The instant the first, bitter taste hit his tongue was all it took for Clark to come as well. He slumped against Bruce's thigh, boneless, sated for the moment, breathing in air he didn't need just to cool his overheated system. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so satisfied by a simple blowjob (although there had been the night a few months ago when he'd surprised Bruce in the shower after Bruce had come back from patrol, and had pinned him against the tiles and pleasured him until the hot water had run out.)
"At this rate, you might kill me before we even get to the hotel," Bruce lazily remarked, pulling Clark back to the present.
He let out a wheezing laugh and finally lifted his head. Bruce's suit was hopelessly wrinkled and his tie skewed. He looked as wrecked as Clark felt, and twice as debauched. It was a damn good look on him. "I know better," Clark said, and leaned in for a quick kiss. "I think I'll keep you like this."
"Like what?"
"All blissed out. It's a good look on you."
Bruce's grin was a sly thing of beauty. "I might not object."
"Oh, your one true love Gotham will call out to you sooner or later." He sat up and glanced down at his lap with a rueful shake of his head. He debated flying home quickly to change — he would only be gone a second — but decided against it. Bruce could have the honor of peeling him out of his now very sticky jeans.
Bruce's laughter filled the car as he set himself back to rights, tugging and zipping until he was more or less respectable. "Touché."
"I do know you, Bruce," Clark agreed, and restarted the car. The sooner they got to the hotel suite, the sooner he could get out of his clothes.
Bruce reached for Clark's free hand again, thumb stroking the soft skin at Clark's wrist in a curiously soothing motion. "I'm glad you suggested this."
"Me too." Clark guided the car expertly along the winding curves with one hand, and glanced at Bruce out of the corner of his eye. "And I'm glad you said yes."
"Always, for you," Bruce replied, and — once again — the simplicity of his words made Clark's heart soar in his chest.
They were comfortably silent on the rest of the drive, until Clark pulled into the parkway that led up to the hotel, then shut off the engine. "You remember what I told you earlier?" Clark asked, leaning in and dragging his fingertips up Bruce's thigh. Delighting in the way rock-solid muscles tightened beneath his touch.
"A little hard to forget," Bruce replied, voice husky, eyes dark.
Clark nuzzled at the smooth skin just below Bruce's ear, breathing deep. "Let's get inside."
Bruce just smiled and scraped his thumb across Clark's jaw before climbing out of the car and heading towards the private elevator that led up to the Penthouse Suite. Clark gave himself a moment to collect his bearings before tossing the keys to the valet and following in Bruce's footsteps.
Once they got up to the suite, Clark shut the door behind them. Bruce made short work of taking off his jacket and tie, then tossed both to the floor. He spread his hands out to his sides. "So, where do you want me?"
The reply was swift, tossed out before Clark even had a chance to think about it. "Underneath me."
Bruce's accompanying smile was lazy and amused. "This isn't me objecting."
Clark took the invitation and stepped in close, crowding against Bruce as he steadily worked at vest and shirt buttons until he could slide them off and Bruce's chest and arms were bare to his gaze. His mouth went dry at the sight, the way it always did. He didn't think he'd ever get used to how big Bruce was, the way every muscle was clearly defined and maintained, each one perfectly honed for its purpose.
Bruce returned the favor, unbuttoning Clark's shirt as Clark walked them both into the spacious living room. He pushed Bruce onto the sofa cushions, and shrugged out of the shirt, unable to help the smile when Bruce made an approving noise.
"Like what you see?" he asked, shooting Bruce a coy look. Relishing that he and Bruce could tease each other like this now.
"Always," Bruce replied, then lifted an inquisitive eyebrow. "Should I finish undressing myself?"
Now there was a thought. "If you want to, by all means. I'll pull up a chair and watch."
"Have a seat then." Bruce motioned at the coffee table behind them, and flicked the button of his slacks. "And then we'll see if I can entice you into helping me out."
Clark settled on the edge of the table after toeing off his shoes. His eyes roamed over Bruce's body, greedily drinking in every inch of skin as Bruce elegantly slithered out of his slacks and briefs. Clark grinned, delighted that Bruce was indulging his wishes like this, and then his breath caught as Bruce slid a hand over his stomach and down to curl loosely around his cock.
"You're welcome to join in at any time." Bruce's smile was teasing and light, belied by the hungry look in his eyes. Every drop of blood in Clark's body scrambled south towards his crotch, where his jeans were now drying and chafing uncomfortably. But he stayed still and smiled back, determined to take pleasure in the moment. In the gift that Bruce was giving him. In the way Bruce was indulging all of his wishes to the letter.
He was a very lucky man.
"In a minute," he finally said out loud. "Right now, I'm just enjoying the view."
"As long as you don't forget your promise," Bruce said, then dropped his head to the back of the sofa, eyes fluttering shut as he started an easy, slow rhythm over his cock, designed to beguile as much as to please.
"I won't," Clark rasped, gripping the sides of the table to keep from going to his knees between Bruce's thighs and feasting. There would be plenty of time for that, he told himself. And, in truth, seeing Bruce like this — open and gorgeous and splayed out just for him — was more than enough incentive to stay put.
The muscles in Bruce's thighs bunched with each stroke, his stomach quivering as he hit a sweet spot. He reached down to fondle his balls with the other hand, rolling and pinching them expertly between his fingers as he tightened his grip. His breaths went shallow as a moan escaped parted lips. Clark couldn't remember the last time he'd seen anything so beautiful.
"You look good like this."
One eye slitted open just enough for Clark to see a slight gleam through dark lashes. Then it closed, and Bruce smiled again. That smile was all it took for Clark to give in to one of his urges. He slid to his knees, eyes fastened on Bruce, fingertips reaching out to gently stroke the side of Bruce's throat. Clark lingered over Bruce's pulse, filled every sense with the feel of Bruce, trembling and vulnerable, underneath him, with that much-vaunted control holding on by the thinnest of threads.
Bruce's body tightened on the next upstroke, bow-string taut, and Clark made his move, shoving his jeans and underwear off (with only a mild grimace) and reaching for the bottle of lube he knew was stashed in the drawer of the lamp stand. "You ready for me?"
In answer, Bruce just spread his legs wider, offering himself to Clark.
"Christ, Bruce," Clark breathed, "you're gorgeous like this."
"You talk too much sometimes." Bruce's voice was amused, but his eyes were hot, as he pulled Clark down for a blistering kiss.
With a silent apology for the lack of any preparation — but knowing Bruce was just as impatient as he was — Clark slicked himself up, shifted, and started to press home, sliding inside Bruce's ass inch by slow inch. When he was finally seated, and buried as deep as possible, he stopped and gave himself a moment to savor the feeling. Bruce felt just as good as he always did, all tight heat and barely leashed power, just waiting for Clark to set it free.
"You ready?" he asked again, and without waiting for an answer, pulled back and then pushed back in, starting a measured, steady rhythm that had the sofa groaning underneath them. Bruce, in return, wrapped those strong thighs around Clark's hips and arched into every thrust, meeting Clark halfway. They traded kiss after messy kiss, Clark yanking on Bruce's hair to hold him in place, sweat already starting to slide along his chest as he moved.
Clark could feel the tension building, could feel the tremors start to ripple up the base of his spine. He wanted more, wanted rougher, wanted to leave some sort of mark on Bruce to remind him that he was Clark's, now (and forever, if he had his way). The need surging inside him was pervasive, all-encompassing, and he gave in — just a little bit, just enough for Bruce to handle — to that urge. Without breaking his rhythm, his hands found Bruce's hips, gripping tight enough to leave bruises, as he looked down to watch his cock slide in and out of Bruce's ass.
Bruce arched beneath him, reached up to grab onto the back of the sofa, and tightened his muscles. Clark felt his control start to fray and splinter, and he fought to hold on, wanting to draw this out as long as possible. The sofa slid along the hardwood floor with a creaking groan of noise, and Clark jerked forward, held on tight to Bruce as he rocked faster and faster, sensation after sensation pummeling him until he could feel nothing else except Bruce beneath him and around him.
He came with a hoarse shout, orgasm ripping through him like a tsunami, leaving him battered and bruised in its wake. Winded, bones feeling like jelly, he slumped over Bruce's body, barely able to keep his eyes open. He smiled tiredly when he felt Bruce's cool lips brush across his brow.
"Was it good for you?" Bruce teased, sounding breathless and very pleased with himself.
"Very much," Clark concurred, with a soundless laugh. "I feel fucking fantastic."
"That makes two of us." There was a small pause, and Clark could feel Bruce's lips curve into a wicked smile. "Did I wear out the great Superman already?"
"Superman, no. Clark Kent, possibly." Clark pushed up just enough to look Bruce in the eye. "Why do you ask?"
"Oh, no reason." Callused fingers brushed the hollow of Clark's throat, then slipped up to curl around it in a loose grip. Clark shuddered, reflexively swallowed. "I just seem to remember you saying something earlier about the collar," he said, with a meaningful glance at the cuff still on Clark's wrist.
"I did," Clark managed, returning Bruce's look as calmly as he could. "Why, you think you're up for it?"
Bruce's fingers tightened fractionally. It wouldn't do anything to mark him, but they both knew that wasn't the point. "Only if you're ready."
Clark scooted closer, tilted his head back just enough to bare his throat even more. An answer in and of itself. "Then why don't you put it on me and claim what's yours?"
Bruce held the grip for a few more seconds, then gentled his hold until his fingers just brushed the underside of Clark's jaw. "Go get it."
It only took a moment for Clark to find Bruce's discarded slacks and to pull the small drawstring bag out of one of the pockets. He couldn't stop the warm glow that spread through him at the thought that Bruce always had the bag on him, just in case Clark wore the wrist cuff. A part of him loved the fact that Bruce was just as much his slave as he was Bruce's.
When he turned around, he saw that Bruce was still sitting on the sofa, sprawled as redolently as ever, but this time, there was nothing of surrender in his pose. Now, he looked every inch a warrior, accustomed to his every command being obeyed.
Clark tossed the bag Bruce's way, then dropped to his knees on the expensive Persian rug. Anticipation coursed through his blood, better than any other rush. "You planning on just sitting there?"
"I might," Bruce said, raking Clark with a proprietary look. "Make you do all the work."
Clark knew better, but he bit his tongue as Bruce stood and stretched, showing off every inch of his remarkable body. Clark remained completely still as Bruce circled him. Then cool, smooth leather touched his throat, tightened, and Clark had to swallow the moan that tried to escape his lips.
"So pretty like this," Bruce commented, fingers sifting through Clark's hair. "Naked, collared, on your knees for me. Mine to do with as I please."
"Yours," Clark answered, even though it wasn't really a question. He closed his eyes and swayed into Bruce's touch. "I'm yours."
Gentle fingers stroked under his chin, tilting it up, and his eyes fluttered open to see Bruce smiling down at him like a benevolent god. "Good. Now prove it."
Gladly, Clark thought, and put himself completely in Bruce's hands. He knew Bruce would take excellent care of him.
***