Chapter Text
The sky beyond the window was what Bruce thought telephone static would look like.
Infinite droplets of water scattering the moonlight, dragging themselves through the wind in a violent rush towards gravities incessant pull below. A dull haze of noise could be heard, the constant thrumming of the rain pattering on the ground, in puddles ankle deep, only muted by the glass. It would be a calming melody, perhaps, until broken by the cracking of thunder, the lightning flash echoing in its shadow. A song and dance from mother nature that maybe humans once mimicked in order to create a chaotic waltz.
If he paid attention closely enough, he could taste the salt in the air, despite being indoors. Gotham was often like this during storms. But this storm in particular was a brash, unrelenting one. At least Bruce thought so, considering it had barely been cloudy for the majority of the day till dusk came and set the horizon on fire, then nature finally decided to unleash all its anger at once, like letting go of a rope with heavy weight on the other end.
It was bad enough that Bruce could still hear some of the storm from inside the shower, later on in the night after he had finally deigned to set aside his casework and the folders of projects he had to look over for the R&D department of WayneTech. He had spent the entire week knee deep in paperwork, meetings, and project proposals. A new serial killer had shown up, and left three bodies in just as many weeks in their wake. The lull of the curious white noise was mixing and muddling with the hot spray pouring over him as he stood there, staring at the porcelain beneath his feet. It had been a long week. The number of them had been increasing ever since the League had come together, Bruce knew this would happen at some point. It was only natural. Law invites chaos: they whisper and laugh sweetly to each other in a carefully crafted macabre dance between dusk and dawn.
His sleep schedule certainly did not agree with it. Not that he had a steady sleep schedule to begin with. Exhaustion had crept into every nook and cranny, and even when he did manage to get a little more than four hours of sleep, the sluggish, sickly taut wire feeling in his bones did not go away. Bruce had hoped Alfred’s insistence on spending at least one night a week at the manor, not running around patrolling the streets would at least get the older man to worry a touch less about Bruce. And maybe, perhaps, something would improve. A voice deep inside of him dared to hope so anyway, considering the cynical detective was not one for asking favors from the gods or fate. The dark circles were getting harder to hide every day.
Vaguely, he wondered what Clark did when he was feeling a little burnt out? Bruce banished the thought with a sigh as thunder boomed in the distance. It didn’t matter, really. Bruce would figure it out or ignore it until the problem went away. Physical and mental exhaustion be damned, he had work to do. And he filed away the thought of Clark, because honestly Bruce had been thinking of him often recently. Little things like the way he held himself at League meetings, or the subtle way his mouth dimpled in a small smile. They had had more cooperative missions in recent months and were working together more often. Bruce was the most comfortable working with Clark than anyone else. They were actually friends outside of their ‘work’. Had been friends just before the League had been formed a little over a year ago.
But these little lingering thoughts…
Enough, Bruce told himself, and mentally swatted the thought away. He was just tired. That's what all the commotion in his thoughts were from. It’ll go away at some point.
There was at least the small comfort of the rain’s song. He didn’t particularly care one way or another about the rain, but he almost found it…soothing, in a way. Like the caress of an old friend whose name has been lost to the back alleys of one's own mind. A nostalgic comfort. It wasn’t always like this, but today it felt that way.
At that thought, and realizing the spray was slowly growing ice cold, Bruce dragged himself back from the pondering corners of his mind and finished his shower. He tried his best to roll the exhaustion out of his shoulders as he dried off, and threw on his boxers and a loose button up shirt. A stubborn part of him was still trying to fight off the tired feeling. Distantly, he thought maybe it would lose, and he might actually go to sleep tonight.
He was still drying off his hair with the towel as he walked out from the bathroom, into his hazy moonlit bedroom that seemed to dance in the light and the rain, when suddenly the empty space between him and the bed was occupied by a person standing in shadowed blue and red. The movement had been imperceptible. Like a glitch in reality itself.
The sound of the rain outside had brightened. Bruce barely heard the glass scattering on the floor before he realized it was because one of the windows in his room was now in broken shards far behind the figure standing in front of him. He momentarily lost grip of the towel in his hand and it fell from his hair to the ground with a soft thud. Clark was normally not that eager to destroy things, much less a window, and he usually came in through the door with a sturdy knock and a smile, so when Bruce’s icy eyes raised up to stare into those familiar azure ones, he did so with concern.
Lightning flashed, and Bruce felt his mouth fall open in a silent gasp from the scene before him. Clark was in his uniform still, familiar blue and scarlet looked to be marbling together on his right side abdomen, a strange mahogany stain seemed to lay there, hued with a faint purple from the light. Had he been hurt? The familiar metallic tinge of blood grazed Bruce’s nose, and he inhaled sharply.
Clark looked stone faced, his lips pressed in a steady line with a gaze that had a look as if the kryptonian was seeing right through Bruce, beyond him.
Before Bruce could say anything Clark stepped forward, arms reaching out; one grabbed Bruce's right wrist that was still hanging in the air and forced it backwards, the other planted itself firmly on the wall behind Bruce and suddenly the detective found himself forced into backing up flat against the wall, trapped there. The grip on his wrist was tight, tighter than usual. Unrelenting. Clark’s usual restraint seemed to have been left out in the rain. Bruce made a mental note that Clark didn’t seem all that wet, so he must have flown pretty fast from Metropolis to either avoid getting soaked, or had flown so fast any water on him simply vaporized. His bet was on both.
Bruce hadn’t done anything particularly stupid recently, and he had only vague guesses as to what could possibly be the reason Clark was here. None of them were promising. Was Clark angry about something? That was the immediate thought that came to mind, but Bruce hadn’t ever seen the kryptonian quite like this. And Bruce didn’t quite feel…anger, coming from Clark. It was something else…Something he couldn’t place just yet. Blood was still soaking into Clark’s uniform ever so slowly, and Bruce dared to glance at the wound on the side of the kryptonian’s chest. It looked like a knife wound of some sort, or as if he had been cut by some kind of ragged sharp blade. Kryptonite was a clear answer, but Clark always got extremely weakened and feverish after exposure to it. The hand digging into Bruce’s wrist said otherwise.
Something else had happened then, but what?
“Clark? What’s wrong?” Bruce asked under his breath. His growing concern only caused the blood in his veins to hitch. The stone faced stare before him did not budge, not even a millimeter. He had to tilt his head back a little against the wall to look properly at the face cloaked in shadows before him. The smell of blood was stronger now. ”You’re injured.”
It was only then that Bruce could see Clark’s eyes, his pupils were almost completely constricted. Like he had tunnel vision. But upon closer inspection, his usual azure gaze had a strange circular ring of pink on the outskirts of the irises.
Bruce’s eyes widened a fraction. That was new.
He heard no reply. It didn’t seem as if Clark really cared about the gash in his side. The silhouette before Bruce was unnaturally still, the only movement being the cast light of the moon dancing off the rain outside and falling over the darkened room. There was only the intensity of the gaze, and something that was hidden inside of it seemed primal, instinctual. An eerie feeling of something inextricably wrong shot through Bruce’s spine. He ground his teeth a fraction of an inch in his mouth when Clark leaned in slowly, gaze never leaving Bruce’s icy eyes.
A low growl came tumbling out of Clark’s throat. He was so close now that their noses were half an inch apart. One could smell the blood mixing with a faint scent of soap and mouthwash. Suddenly, a thigh was being slotted between Bruce’s legs and pressing against his groin, earning a surprised gasp from the detective. He had his free hand pressed back into the wall behind him, and Bruce was now scratching at the wallpaper with his nails, trying to press himself further into the faded pattern. The vice on his wrist seemed to tighten.
None of this bode well, and the gears of Bruce’s mind seemed to click into place with a startle as the hot flesh between his legs was ground upwards steadily into his groin, and a moan he couldn’t quite bite back in time escaped into the static sound of the air. His blood rushed to his ears, heartbeat quickening. The stone gaze before him flickered with a strange light. Then the buttons loosely holding Bruce’s shirt closed were being popped off at the force of Clark yanking at the material, ripping the article open and part-way off Bruce’s shoulders to reveal the scarred flesh beneath. The distance between the two evaporated as Clark practically lunged at the detective’s lips, a violent bruising kiss drowning out a muffled shout.
The nails that were digging into the wallpaper were now abruptly clawing into the material of Clark’s right shoulder, trying their best to push back. A worrying jolt of pleasure shot down Bruce’s spine, and he was shocked to find he was getting hard.
Of all the times he didn’t have that stupid green rock on his person, this was probably the worst, Bruce thought. It had occurred to him once or twice that he should hide some around the manor in accessible lead lined boxes, and he did, but his bedroom was not one of those places he had pondered for emergencies. And certainly not emergencies like this.
Clark was never like this, he would never…the wound. The strange magenta color of his irises. Something had happened. But Bruce couldn’t figure out what, especially when his mind was racing a little too fast, his heart rate increasing, the gasp of shock seemingly an invitation for Clark’s tongue to force its way down into Bruce’s throat and he tried to turn his head away. Clark’s free hand shot up to grip harshly at the detective's jaw, anchoring him in place. Bruce struggled in the tight hold while Clark’s thigh rubbed a pattern against Bruce’s cock, which was hardening rapidly against Bruce’s adamant wishes his body would listen and stop. A particular motion stole another muffled moan from his throat, and he felt saliva run down the side of his chin.
After a minute or so of the crushing pressure against his lips and his lungs starting to scream for air, the crude kiss was broken. He didn’t expect time to be on his side as Bruce tilted his head back and gulped down a mouthful of air. Clark’s free hand roamed across his bare chest momentarily, earning a hiss from Bruce as a finger grazed one of his nipples.
“Clark, what are you–” He tried to choke out, but was cut off. His sentence was finished for him with a small yelp, as Clark had quickly turned and thrown Bruce onto the bed like a rag doll, still holding tightly onto his wrist as scarlet and blue blurred and Bruce found himself pinned to the bed with Clark atop him. He was kneeling on either side of Bruce’s hips, staring down at him with an animalistic intensity, like the proverbial tiger eyeing down a steak, the moment the predator leaps and kills the prey. But there was also something else in those strange pink hued eyes.
Heat.
That curious little something in his gaze that Bruce couldn’t place before, because it had seemed so strange for Clark to wear in his expression when looking at Bruce, was lust. Desire.
It’s not like he needed to ask. He wasn’t blind or ignorant enough to not know what this was. Bruce knew where this was going, and a rush of fear and some strange obscene desire bolted across his nerves and straight down his spine. The room was getting colder. Goosebumps were already littering his skin. Thunder cracked outside, the lightning flash illuminating the figure above him for a brief moment. The wound on Clark’s side was still bleeding.
Bruce had known Clark for a while now, had known him to be a genuinely kind person on and off the field. Had even entertained a thought or two about the man in subtle moments, like Bruce letting his gaze settle on Clark’s lips for a second or two longer than he should have, the touch of their hands resting on one another when he was being helped to his feet after being knocked down. Or perhaps something more even Bruce dared not think about, afraid of going that distance, of crossing a line drawn in thin salt atop sand. But he had never seen Clark anything remotely like this, not even in momentary little daydreams or illusions. Not even in nightmares.
Something about it shot a jolt of pleasure to Bruce’s cock, and he wished intently that it was just the adrenaline pounding through his veins, a result of mixed signals and chemical reactions and not some deep set desire he had locked away in a mental box somewhere and tossed into the void. There wasn’t much time to think about that though, as a second later Clark was leaning down. His tongue reached out and licked at a relatively new scar Bruce had acquired on his right shoulder. The wet, intimate feeling on his skin caused Bruce to try to arch his back away from Clark, his throat groaning out a garbled “C-Clark! Stop!”
Clark’s response was forcing Bruce's wrists into the mattress above his head with one hand, while the other unceremoniously raked itself down toward Bruce’s hip bone, dragging nails along the way and scratching harshly at Bruce’s skin. Red welts were starting to appear. The hand on his hip caught the edge of his boxers, shredding them in one swift motion. It was hard to bite back the gasp in his throat. The cool air on the heat of his cock made him shudder, while he glared down at the strange primal face peering down at Bruce. The vice grip around his wrists tightened when Bruce jerked and tested the limits of his movement. A low growl could be heard from above, melting with the pounding of the rain outside the shattered window.
Struggling wasn’t going to help him much, but struggle he did. There was no help from a little green meteorite this time, so the only option Bruce saw as viable was to resist. He flailed as much as he could with the weight sitting down on top of him. This was not something Bruce wanted, he desperately echoed inside his head. But the strange exhilarating rush in his veins and his length responding to a whispered nothing in the back of his mind, that he was liking it, said otherwise.
Everything was spiraling down and that made it just that much harder to try to remain somewhat calm. Clark could easily snap bones like twigs, and that still held true as the desperate struggling Bruce produced only earned a tighter grip which was starting to drive pins and needles into Bruce’s hands, and Clark leaning down to clamp his teeth on the far side of Bruce’s left shoulder, teeth easily breaking the flesh. Bruce cried out, eyes wide.
The detective knew nothing about what possibly could have caused this. But in the static of Bruce’s mind, he had a general guess. All of this seemed awfully animalistic, like instincts taking over. The single-minded look in those azure-tinted-pink eyes, the way Clark didn’t seem much for conversation but predatory growls. Perhaps something was forcing his kryptonian instincts into overdrive? Bruce vaguely felt something cool drip onto his chest and remembered the wound that was still bleeding.
Clark was hurt, exposed to something like kryptonite, but also entirely different. Bruce had to wrack his brain for a plan as white hot pain shot through his shoulder and a moan mixed with a shout was ripped out of his throat by force. The more Bruce fought at his cage, the tighter the hold, the deeper the bite went. He could feel blood running down his shoulder and onto the sheets below. Distantly, he registered Clark’s free hand holding his left hip down on the bed with bruising force, attempting to keep him still.
Pure instinct, that’s what it seemed like Clark was running on. Bruce wasn’t sure if it was because of the horrid wound the kryptonian had, or an outside factor. Probably both. All he knew was Clark had come here, chosen him for some reason to let loose on. Like a predator about to tear their prey apart. But then there was the unmistakable lust in those eyes. He could feel Clark’s clothed hardness pressing down on top of Bruce’s and the invasion caused his heart to skip a few beats. He jolted, a shuddering gasp trailed off into a low whine from the teeth in his shoulder trying to twist.
A predator demanding submission, then? Vaguely, he chilled at the quick thought that if Clark hadn’t come here, he would have gone somewhere else. Done this to someone else. He forced the thought away, turning his head to the right despite the pull of the teeth, and pressed up into the hand holding his wrists down. He could barely feel his fingers now. Bruce wasn’t really afraid of dying, but he would not allow himself to die just yet. Batman was still required. He also did not want to have Alfred find his corpse later on. Something needed to change.
Something needed to give.
If Bruce couldn’t fight his way out of this, then perhaps he would have to play along. It was the only real option he had besides being stubborn and fighting back only to be ripped apart. Besides, it had been a long while since he had been in a bedroom with anyone. If he played his cards right, and perhaps listened to the strange allure of a subdued desire he had stowed deep down inside of him, Bruce might not really be considered to be losing anything at all.
A want to strangle Clark with his own stupid cape surfaced into his mind. Bruce filed it away for later. He also loathed the fact that this was most certainly not the time to be learning a new kink he might have.
Christ.
If he was guessing right, maybe the instincts were only responding to other instincts, and a dominant personality encountering another dominant personality would only tempt violence. There was no room for an impasse, the strength causing his wrists to creak and the bones to grind together did not allow for there to be one. He was never one for giving up and submitting, not even to Clark, but this one time he would have to.
He forced himself to lay still, panting around the pain and strange, forbidden pleasure. He hoped human instinct and kryptonian weren’t all that far off.
The curly mop of dark hair next to Bruce’s chin stirred. The teeth in his shoulder were slowly sliding out. When Clark pulled back enough to look down at Bruce with those same constricted pupils, assessing the change in behavior, Bruce licked at his swollen bottom lip that tasted of blood, then slowly tilted his head back into the pillow to bare his neck to Clark. An interesting, almost indescribable feeling settled into Bruce’s gut, and he felt his face flush a bit at the notion, but all he did in response was force his eyes to close and wait.
One moment passed. Then two. His heart was thundering in his ears, waiting patiently for an answer. An almost soft, approving sound was heard hidden in the rain. Then Bruce felt Clark move, and he felt lips pressing into the side of his throat. He gasped just barely, and the kiss slowly turned into Clark sucking at the skin there, a slight gentleness that wasn’t present before was appearing now. It’s working, Bruce thought.
The sucking lasted for half a minute, then Clark moved onto another part of Bruce's neck and sucked a bruise there as well. Bruce bit down a little on the inside of his mouth and tried his best to keep quiet. It was already too much that he had made such wanton noises before out of shock and barely reeled them in. The flush in his face darkened, but he did not open his eyes. Not yet. The hand on his hip lessened its grip and slowly moved upwards across his scarred chest, ghosting a nipple before lowering itself back towards Bruce’s cock and ever so slowly wrapping itself around the neglected flesh.
The warmth of that hand made Bruce tilt his head back further, groaning behind tight shut lips. He bit down harder on the inside of his mouth when the hand moved, stroking slowly up and down his length. Couldn’t help the arch of his hips following that pleasure. The lips marking his neck were moving down his chest, licking at old scars. A drip of precum was smeared across the head of his cock and he choked back a filthy sound.
This was getting obscene, even he had never quite felt this kind of immense thrill during sex before. Normally he was always the one in control, guiding and giving and making sure the other party got what they wanted. It was like a transaction.
This was different. This wasn’t quite sex, either. He had no control here. He could only take what was given, even if he didn’t want it. But yet, he wanted it. A paradox. Hypocritical. The hand removed itself from his cock suddenly, and Bruce felt his chin being grabbed, forcing his eyes open to meet the intense leer above him. He tasted blood inside his mouth where he had bitten himself to stay quiet, the only thing he had any modicum of control over. The lips above him were bloodstained as they opened.
“...Hear you.” It was a harsh, gravelly whisper directed at Bruce’s widened gaze. So he could talk, how lovely. Or maybe it was difficult to force out words when your instincts were screaming at you to breed? Maybe there wasn’t room for anything else inside a mind that far to the brink. Bruce wondered how cognizant Clark even was right now. How much of this figure bearing down on him was Clark, and how much was the possessive predator marking its prey? He wondered if Clark would remember every moment of this later, or would he block it out. Bruce supposed it didn’t matter, what will be will be. Whatever the magenta hue in Clark's eyes reflected, Bruce couldn’t say for sure. But it was demanding that last stubborn part of him he clung to, the last thing he held back for himself.
Was it Clark or the beast within that demanded his voice, he wondered, as the grip on his chin grew tighter. The thumb was being pressed into the side of his mouth. Bruce held on for a second longer in a last act of defiance, before prying his own mouth open.
“Okay.” He was panting deeply now, out loud, the sound filling the chilled room with salacious music. He squirmed just slightly in the hold, his face flush with a new wave of heat. Clark simply blinked, softening his grip on Bruce’s jaw. Then he leaned down and pressed a rough kiss into the parted lips below. Bruce considered that as gentle as Clark could muster at the moment, and remembered to make sure his quiet moan was audible. Not that it mattered, Clark could hear all these muffled sounds in his throat no matter how hard he tried to hide them.
Clark wanted Bruce to surrender this to him. So Bruce will.
The grip on his wrists wavered a bit, pulling back ever so slightly. He could feel some sensation returning to his fingers. Bruce didn’t bite back the moan when the hand returned down to his leaking cock, even when it was a particularly loud one. He didn’t know what all about this experience caused him to react so strongly, but a quiet murmur in the back of his mind didn’t want it to stop.
He thought he saw Clark’s lips twitch up into a smirk for a second, before Bruce realized in an instant that Clark wasn’t wearing his uniform anymore. The wound on his side was still bleeding, but not as badly. It looked rough, angry; the blood spilling down his right side to his hip as Clark leaned back above Bruce. That’s when Bruce’s eyes glanced at Clark’s erection standing swollen and proud above his own leaking cock. An uneasy thought occurred to Bruce that he hadn’t bottomed properly for another guy before, and Clark wasn’t in the mindset of prepping either. It didn’t matter, because Clark wasn’t going to give him any time to dwell on it.
Clark removed his hand from Bruce’s length and pushed the detective’s thighs apart, settling in-between them. Bruce could hear his heartbeat in his ears again, thundering along with the rain outside that seemed to pound down impossibly harder. The bite on his shoulder ached.
“Clark…” That free hand was resting on his thigh now, reaching under his knee and lifting Bruce up. A growl emerged from Clark’s throat, but it wasn’t a warning. It was almost impatient. Bruce’s left wrist was freed from the tight grip keeping it above his head as the man above him leaned forward, pressing Bruce into the bed with his back bent. He felt a familiar heat slide between his ass, pressing against his entrance.
“Wai–!” Another strangled gasp leaped from his throat as Clark’s cock began to enter. Flesh yielded to flesh, and as slow as Bruce assumed Clark could tolerate, he shoved his length into Bruce with a possessive animalistic growl. An intense pain rippled through him, tore him asunder, but it was equally contended with a surge of pleasure that echoed along his spine, sparking through him and mirroring the lightning flashing outside the windows. It was so warm. Bruce threw his head back and screamed, free hand shooting up like a flare to grab at Clark’s shoulder, digging nails into marble flesh. He felt one of his nails crack and break.
His back was aching, bent like a cupids bow—only his shoulders were touching the mattress. The sleeve of his shirt slid down his left arm and again his shoulder throbbed in time with the pulse of his erratic heart pounding. Bruce’s ears were ringing, he could barely hear the storm anymore. His mouth was agape, panting between unsure mewls and filthy little sounds as he tried to swallow air. A distinct whine was emanating from the back of his throat as Clark bottomed out, hips flush against Bruce’s ass.
He felt something wet touch the side of his face, and he realized his eyes had snapped shut at some point. When he gingerly opened them, he saw Clark had leaned down and was kissing the side of his mouth. Clark’s hand was holding onto his hip tightly, keeping him pinned despite Bruce noticing his legs were wrapped around Clark’s hips as if they were locked in place. Then the hand began to move, rubbing a little hard into his flesh, but it still carried a soothing gesture. Azure eyes stared down into Bruce's, and he noticed they were more dilated within the pink hue.
“Breathe.” Clark whispered down at Bruce, an order. He was giving him time to adjust to the influx of sensation, at least. An animal calming their mate. The hand gliding along his hip moved over, and Bruce squeaked out a moan as his cock was stroked once more. He tried to control his breathing. It was hard to accomplish when he had a throbbing cock pulsing inside of him, giving him new reasons to lose his breath. Alongside the dull pain now burning in his ass.
Clark seemingly waited a few seconds before bearing down far enough that he could nuzzle his head into the crook of Bruce’s neck, soft dark curls gifting kisses of their own to the flesh there. Lips were sucking at his collarbone this time, and while the man above him was so close, Bruce wrenched his trembling hand from the iron hold he had on Clark’s shoulder and reached upwards, wrapping it around his broad back instead.
After a minute or two, his breathing ebbed. Clark wasted no more time as he pulled his hips back, the motion of the cock within him punching out a seedy moan from Bruce’s open mouth, before the kryptonian snapped his hips forward. Bruce thought his neck might snap from the whiplash of throwing it back into the pillow behind him. The moan he made was downright obscene. He had to dig his nails back into the marble flesh he was gripping onto, clawing down so he wouldn’t bring his hand to his mouth to try and cover up the sounds.
Clark set a steady pace of plowing into Bruce, one that was mirrored by the pouring rain outside. Like there was no more time in the world beyond this one moment. Bruce was at least thankful his keening was drowned out by the sound of the rain, or he feared a certain someone would be bursting into his room at any moment and he really did not want to deal with that thought right now.
The moonlight that danced upon their bodies looked like flower petals scattering in the wind. He heard the wet, filthy sounds of Clark fucking into him, and felt the blood from Clark’s wound dripping down onto his chest. The hand on his cock upped the pace in time with the thrusts, which earned louder obscenities falling from Bruce’s mouth. Something stung at the corner of his eyes as he held on for the ride, thighs clamping down around Clark’s hips hard enough to bruise any regular human.
Those damned eyes peered down at him, so filled with heat and lust. Clark was sweating now, which was something Bruce had never seen before. He briefly attributed it to whatever the hell caused Clark to act like this, or the wound that wasn’t healing like it should on the kryptonian’s side. Something strange reflected back in those eyes, and Clark gritted his teeth together for a particularly deep thrust that sent fireworks exploding behind Bruce’s eyes. He could barely hear himself wailing, but he knew he was. The pleasure that pierced him like a gunshot was new, and unmistakable.
He felt something wet on his face again, and Clark leaned down and licked from the side of Bruce’s left temple to the corner of his eye, a move which confused Bruce at first. His thinking was out of order, erratic, every thought he had was being violently replaced by another in between pain dancing around pleasure. When Clark did it to the other side of his face, he realized he had begun weeping. Bruce wasn’t sure if he should be embarrassed or mortified, so his hazy mind opted for both.
Clark made the new discovery of Bruce’s prostate his target, and pounded it relentlessly. The kryptonian was getting more visibly debauched every passing second, groaning heavily and apparently drinking in all the sights and sounds of Bruce below him. Bruce watched as he started to falter in some of his movements. Maybe the blood loss was catching up with him. Or maybe he was getting to his limit as well.
The burning hot flesh carving into the detective pulsated, and the hand stroking him just as mercilessly was undoing whatever chains and locks Bruce normally kept tight on his mind. He had been drawing his nails across Clark’s skin, but it was only serving to crack his own nails and make them bleed, leaving bloodied streaks in their wake. Bruce could still feel the tight grip on his right wrist as he was driven back into the bed, every thrust seemingly deeper than the last. He had saliva dripping down the side of his mouth as he alternated between panting and moaning, his vision was getting hazy at the edges. Every sensation compounded and multiplied, the pain mixed with pleasure and wrapped back around again in a never ending helix in his flesh. Bruce was painfully hard now, it wouldn’t take long before he came.
He tried his best to pull Clark down further towards him, the immovable stone above yielding and closing the distance. The ungodly high pitched wail he let out from a thrust unmade his entire being. Words spilled forth from his mouth when he could form them around choked sobs of sickening delight.
“K-Kal!” Bruce tried to swallow air but the immense thrust that tore into him practically punched the air back out. He had to gather himself as much as he could and try again. “Kal… Ah! Close… Ngh! ” It felt as if it took momentous effort just to speak. And he wasn't sure why he was talking at all, it's not like Clark was really listening anyway. He wasn’t certain why he was calling Clark by his kryptonian name, either, but he felt he needed to. It was important.
Bruce felt the world trying to spin around them, a macabre dance of the rain and moonlight festered with the thunder cracking so loudly in the air that he thought lightning had struck the manor. The hand on his member shot upwards towards his throat and tightened, clamping down to drag Bruce only an inch closer to Clark’s face. A momentary thought graced his mind that they might melt together this way.
“Mine.” The animal was growling, every bit as possessive as before, but all he saw was Clark in those eyes, those beautiful eyes twisted with magenta and boring down into his soul. Bruce could only struggle a nod in the hold on his jaw, all logic and reason casting away to the torrent of wind outside the shattered window.
He wanted it to be true. That broken little thing inside of him that he kept breaking and breaking, trying to discard the pieces into a void of emotionless nothing was screaming at him to gather them up, piece them back together again. All the stolen little moments Bruce had of Clark over the past year flashed before his eyes; all the lingering touches and looks and the swipe of his tongue over his bottom lip as he caught the last drop of coffee from his cup, the way his eyes shone in the morning light at dawn after they had been awake all night fighting terrorists and gangbangers, the warmth of his hands as they gently grazed Bruce’s fingers while grasping the case file in his hands. All of this and more—he’d wanted to bury the feelings, the intricate sensation of something so much more than friends. Wanted to cut out the elevation of his heart rate every time one of these moments passed that he knew Clark could hear if he wanted to. He had wanted to rip them out and throw them away.
But Bruce couldn’t.
He didn’t want to.
He raised his bloodied hand to the back of Clark’s neck, pulling him ever closer, struggling to breathe around the bruising force on his own neck, but his heart still fluttered at the thought there would be a bruise there later. Something physical to remember this moment. Where he finally let go for a second and said what he really wanted.
“Yours.” Clark’s gaze tightened, and he groaned out into a fierce kiss as he claimed Bruce’s lips for his own. Bruce was practically slammed back further into the bed, and he’s sure some part of the frame cracked, but he couldn't focus on that with Clark’s tongue sliding down his throat. The hand still wrapped around his neck gave a steady pressure, and Bruce had to fight to breathe. The thrusting inside of him was so powerful that it felt like he was being torn apart, arching into the mattress and blood as if his spine was going to snap in half.
It felt so good. As if he had drunk ambrosia of the gods and it was unraveling his entire being into pure pleasure. That sickly taut wire of his body sung out, and he felt a hot liquid break out inside of him with a scream from above, sending him over the edge, the wire snapping in two. Stars of every color burst and imploded in his vision, behind his eyes, and somehow he felt it in every pore of his body. The stars melted into a static haze. An angel’s forbidden song hung high in the air. He felt and heard the sharp snap of his bones in his wrist breaking, the pain soaring along with the high of ecstasy he was floating on, like they belonged together—
Without warning, he blacked out.