Chapter Text
Clark wasn’t in Gotham often. Not because of the whole no metas in Gotham thing or the whole he technically has no reason to be in Gotham thing except for the whole Bruce Thing, but just because he wasn’t in Gotham often. He spent his days in Metropolis, at the Fortress, the Watchtower, or the farm.
He spent his days with Jimmy and Lois and to-go burgers. With phones sounding off with calls hour after hour, pens scratching on paper, keyboards clicking. Coworkers chattering, Perry yelling, someone smoking, someone talking, and someone else laughing. An endless expanse of buildings as far as the human eye could see, glittering and shining like a sun-crested sea.
Clark loved Metropolis. He loved Jimmy and Lois. He loved his shitty apartment. He loved the lively streets and the honking cars and the street vendors and the families playing. Clark loved Metropolis, for all its liveliness and shininess, but sometimes it was too much.
He didn’t spend too much time at the Fortress of Solitude - rarely ever craving just that. He spent a few days there with Kara, whenever she popped in, and the bots. Krypto would dart between the Fortress and the farm, but a day with Krypto was enough to last Clark for a week. Clark usually sought out the Fortress for silence, and, well, solitude. When he felt like he was crumbling under the weight of the universe, or pulled in too many directions with not enough help.
Not to say that Clark never had any help - he did. He really, really did. Kara helped. Jor-el was helpful. Krypto was… there. Kon-el, after trial and error and Clark putting his own foot in his mouth and learning to get over his own grievances from Batman of all people, wanted to help. Ma and Pa helped in their own unique way. The Justice League helped.
But Kara had her own duties. Krypto… well, was Krypto. Clark wanted Kon-el to grow and learn and experience his own life before being thrust into the shadows of Clark’s duties that he failed to keep contained, even if that’s where he’d come from. Jor-el was a hologram with an attitude. The Justice League was for world-ending or unknown threats, composed of people with their own duties. And Ma and Pa were human, and not in the way Batman was.
So, the Watch Tower was nice, sometimes, because Clark could talk about snarky young adult and teenage protegees that he was woefully unprepared for, and the usual exhaustion that accompanied living a double life. He could talk about not knowing how to balance his secret identity from his real identity, about not knowing which one was Clark Kent and which one was Superman. And while he couldn’t talk to every single hero about Clark Kent, he could talk to Batman about Clark Kent.
Because, no matter if he was willing to admit it, no matter if it was Clark Kent or Superman, Batman was his best friend. After ages of working together, and months of tension between a mostly accidental identity reveal, Clark’s confident enough to say that Batman, that Bruce, is his best friend. In fact, Clark would be willing to bet on it, because he doesn’t invite anyone else from the league to come down to the Kent farm, on the assurance that Kara and Kon won’t be there.
And even if Bruce doesn’t say anything back, Clark knows he agrees because he shows up, in his awful, overpriced, sleek cars, dressed to the nines in what looks to be a simple business casual of slacks, dress shoes, and sweaters that he just knows would be enough to buy his parents’ house. He shows up with tired eyes and crooked grins and bruised knuckles and a dish or two from Alfred, already regaling stories of his kids.
Clark’s favorite days are spent at the farm, even if it’s just him, Ma, and Pa. Being at the farm means that his loved ones have open invites to come around. Being at the farm means things are simple and good. The farm means family dinners, whether it's the three of them, Lois and Jimmy, Kara and Kon, or Bruce. Ma and Pa love it, too, whenever they come around. Lois and Jimmy are a hoot, forces of nature in their own right, downright torturous together, and Ma and Pa are threatening to show off Clark’s baby photos every time as Lois and Jimmy tear up from laughter.
Having Kara and Kon around, for Ma and Pa, must be like having two kids come visit from college. They soak up every second, make sure they’re doing well, make sure they’re eating well, and then grill them about any and every potential relationship or trouble they could’ve gotten into. Kon comes around more often than Kara and is usually saved from the constant questions and concerns, but the conversation circles back to him at least three times every meal.
Dinners with Bruce are no less enjoyable. Every time, without fail, there is a routine. Clark will meet him outside, bound up to him like an energetic dog, stopping a moment too late, just a hair’s breadth away from him. He’ll look into Bruce’s tired blue eyes, shining brightly under the sunlight, like glittering ice, shining sea, pure skies, like anything blue that exists in the world, because looking into Bruce’s eyes will always make Clark’s brain pleasantly numb and thoughtless. Large, warm, sun-kissed hands will come up to clasp him on the shoulders, and even though Clark will try time and time again, they will trail up to his neck, cradle it gently, and brush his thumbs over Bruce’s strong jawline, whether it’s freshly shaved, stubble forming, a bruise blossoming, or a small cut.
Every time, without fail, Bruce will let it happen. He’ll let Clark touch him, hesitantly at first, and then his eyes - they don’t so much as flutter shut as they more so soften, but Clark soaks it up like sunlight all the same. In this routine of theirs, Bruce will sink ever so slightly into Clark’s hands, and Clark will relish in, not holding the weight of the world in his hands, but the weight of his best friend, the weight of his world.
Over time, Clark will forget to stop himself. He will lose control, still achingly human and full of love, but threaded heavily with passion and desire. He will move from cradling Bruce in his hands to cradling him in his arms. To pulling the man, only a scant inch shorter and no less wide, into his arms and soothing one calloused, tanned hand over the broad expanse of his back, dipping lower each time, until it rests over the two small dimples in Bruce’s lower back that Clark has seen, touched, tongued in his dreams-
His other hand will find its way up Bruce’s back, cupping at his nape, and even though Clark can hear his heartbeat from anywhere on the planet, even though he can see it, feeling it thrum beneath his fingers is something else entirely. Clark’s fingers will touch at the neatly trimmed hair, brush the thrum of his pulse, the shell of his ear, any sliver of exposed skin that he has ever tracked with greedy eyes.
Clark will hold his entire world amongst the golden wheat fields and cerulean skies. Amongst soft earth and softer grass and the gentle breeze carrying the scent of home and heart and pie.
He’s taken out of his musings when the crowd bursts to life. A rush of heat and cold comes over him at once because he knows what that means.
Eyes scan the room and, oh -
Oh.
Bruce looks good. Better than good, really, but like usual, Clark finds himself at a loss for words.
He’s freshly shaved and bright-eyed, pink lips smiling, showcasing shiny, white teeth. Heat coils in Clark’s guts, and his heart flutters. Before he even realizes, he raises the camera he’s holding for Jimmy and -
Click!
There’s a flash of light that goes unnoticed in the room, but Bruce’s smile twitches minutely and his eyes glance in Clark’s direction. Clark comes back to himself with a sudden sinking embarrassment, saved only by Jimmy and Lois’ return.
“You’re not falling victim to the Brucie Wayne, are you?” Lois asks, a smug smirk on her lips. Jimmy snorts into his champagne class, fumbling a bit when Clark nearly shoves his camera at him.
“Clark pining after Bruce Wayne?” he repeats, “If it were the other way, we might be able to get a story out of it.”
The memory of skin on sweat-slick skin flashes across Clark’s mind, and he blushes red instead of responding.
Lois raises her brow, and Jimmy chokes a little.
“Seriously? That’s Bruce Wayne-”
“I didn’t know Metropolis reporters had eyes in the back of their head,” a smooth voice interrupts, “I thought that was a Gotham thing.”
That’s Bruce Wayne indeed, Clark thinks, as the man appears behind Lois and Jimmy, looking straight at Clark, great going, Jimmy.
Lois Lane, a goddess amongst mortals, is already schooling her face.
“Mr. Wayne, Lois Lane from the Daily Planet,” she greets, “Lovely gala, lovely outfit. Would you be available for a comment?”
“No photo?” Bruce asks, feigning hurt, “I must not look lovely enough if your photographer doesn’t want me.”
Jimmy stands still as eyes turn to him, eyes comically wide. “Uh,” he says, as a piece of Clark shrivels and dies, “No, uh, no, you look good - really good, Mr. Wayne, sir.”
Before the group can bask in Jimmy’s fumble, Bruce turns to Clark. His lips curl into a smirk.
“Why, hello handsome,” he greets, voice lowering, “I’ve seen my fair share of good-looking people at these events, but I must say, you take the cake. Are you free later?”
Clark swallows a whine. Yes, yes, a hundred million times yes, Clark is free later. But from the looks of it, the lady Bruce came in with, Bruce isn’t free later.
God bless Lois Lane, who takes control again.
“I don’t think Miss Carmine would be happy about that, Mr. Wayne,” she nods to the beautiful lady approaching their group.
“Ah, Mel,” he greets, throwing an arm over the woman as something dark and heavy settles in Clark. His fingers twitch with the urge to rip Bruce away and his stomach clenches, heavy with desire. His eyes track the slope of Bruce’s shoulder, settling on his neck as his gums ache with the need to bite.
Clark wants to leave enough marks on Bruce that Miss Carmine knows he’s taken, and looking at that stupid, cocky smirk on Bruce’s face, he can tell.
Clark’s willpower shatters - sue him, he’s Superman, not a Green Lantern - and he’ll regret this later, but for now, he’s going to give it as good as he’s got.
“Mr. Wayne,” Clark greets, taking the man’s hand in his, “It’s a pleasure to officially meet you.”
If Bruce wants to play, Clark can play, dammit.
“Ah,” Bruce says, and even though his lips curl into a smooth grin, Clark can feel his heartbeat stutter from where his fingertips rest firm on his radial pulse.
“Forgive me,” Clark practically purrs, surprising even himself, “How could I forget my manners? Clark Kent, from the Daily Planet.”
There's a choking sound next to him, and a quick glance shows a red-faced, bug-eyed Jimmy, and a shrewd Lois looking at him as if he'd sprouted horns. Miss Carmine looks a little interested, but mostly peeved at the lack of attention from Bruce.
Good, a primal part of Clark’s hindbrain whispers, that man isn’t yours.
“Mr. Kent,” Bruce says, voice dropping an octave, eyes darkening, “Trust me, the pleasures all mine.”
They both grin with entirely too many teeth.
---
“What the fuck was that, Clark?” Lois whispers-shouts the moment Bruce leaves with his inamorata.
“I-” Clark tries to get out.
“Dude, if you wanted to bone Bruce Wayne, you should’ve told me!” Jimmy interrupts, ignoring Lois’ hiss of so not the point, Jimmy, “I totally would’ve wingmanned for you.”
“That’s not-” Clark tries again.
Lois interrupts this time, “You could’ve at least gone feral after I got a quote from him!”
“Jeez Louise, guys!” Clark says, “I didn’t mean to, okay! I just- got jealous, and- and-”
Clark catches Bruce’s eye from across the room. He’s managed to detach himself from Melissa Carmine, and when his mouth moves, Clark hones in on him.
Straight down the hall, Bruce’s lips say, and Clark can hear his low murmur amongst the chattering socialites, Two rights, and a left. I’ll be waiting.
“And I have to go,” Clark says faintly, handing his flute of champagne to Jimmy.
---
“You-you fucking minx,” Clark practically growls, man-handling Bruce against the wall. “Here I am, trying to do my job, and you come in and ruin everything.”
Bruce moans, grinding his hips down, and Clark can feel his blood rush south.
Clark gums ache with the need to bite, and he tosses his head back and prays as Bruce mouths at his neck. Every faint scrape of teeth sends sparks of arousal straight down his spine. He can feel the wet heat of Bruce’s tongue, the plush of his lips, and suddenly, desperately, wants it on his cock.
“On your knees,” Clark murmurs. Bruce’s pupils are so big they’re swallowing up any blue, but somehow, at Clark’s order, they dilate even more. Clark watches his throat bob, and sees the pink of his tongue swipe a line against his lower lip. Slowly, so, so gently, Bruce gets on his knees.
By Rao, Clark swears, and threads thick fingers through Bruce’s hair. Bruce grabs onto Clark’s hand, and he pulls it to cusp his cheek, nuzzling into before sucking Clark’s thumb into his mouth.
He laves at it with his tongue, wrapping plush, pink lips around it. Bruce's eyes flutter and he hums as Clark presses down, holding his mouth open.
“I wanna see,” Clark murmurs, entranced. Bruce's mouth falls open, and Clark sees what heaven must be.
Bruce, on his knees, palming at the tent in his pants. Mouth open, pink tongue poking out, ripe for the taking. Eyes wide and teary, hair unruly, a whimpering mess.
“Sweet mother of pearl,” Clark says quietly, pulling his cock out, almost frantic. It’s heavy and thick in his hand, and Clark watches Bruce’s eyes go lidded.
Clark swallows back his moan, removing his finger from Bruce’s mouth and strokes himself, slicking himself up. Not that it makes a difference, because Bruce licks up his cock, presses a kiss to the head, and swallows him in one go.
Clark does moan this time, instinctively gripping Bruce’s hair. The dark tresses are soft in his hand, and he jerks Bruce’s head back and forth, fucking his mouth.
He pants with every stroke, revelling in the feel of Bruce’s tongue laving the underside of his cock. Hisses with every faint touch of teeth on his sensitive head. It should technically hurt, but it just makes him harder. Every time he yanks Bruce back down, the man lets out a soft choking sound that makes lust coil in his gut, igniting a fire throughout his entire body.
Pleasure melts down his back, and Clark is so close to coming, but he really, really doesn’t want to. He wants to come deep in Bruce, and let him drip throughout the rest of the gala. Not that there’s much time left.
It’s when his cock pulses that Clark manages the willpower (hey, maybe he could be a Green Lantern) to pull Bruce off his cock. It trembles, tremendously, when Bruce lets out a quiet, desperate whine and looks up at him with red-rimmed, wet, pleading eyes.
“Bruce,” Clark says lowly, “I'm going to pick you up, shove you against a wall, and fuck you until you can't walk.”
“C'mon Smallville,” Bruce teases, Clark's spit-soaked finger trailing against his bottom lip. “Put your money where your mouth is.”
Clark nearly whimpers his adoration.
“Sugar,” he groans, and Bruce kisses his way up Clark's chest with a grin.
“You don't even have to prep me.”
Clark moans. He hears the clicking of Bruce's belt, the unzipping and sliding of his pants, and Bruce turns around, pulls his underwear down just far enough that it emphasizes his ass.
Clark palms each cheek, kicks Bruce's legs apart a little bit more, so that he's spread open. Normal people wouldn't be able to see in the dark of the closet, but clear as day, Clark can see the glint of the plug.
This time, Clark does whimper with his adoration.
“Darlin’,” Clark whispers, shooting off a quick plea for mercy. He thumbs at the plug, pushing it in deeper, rotating it, grinding it against Bruce's prostate and Bruce reacts beautifully.
His breath hitches and a noise escapes him as he digs his fingers into the wall. He rocks up on his tiptoes trying to escape the sharp burst of pleasure, before he settles down, and starts grinding on it.
Don't get Clark wrong - Bruce's movements are always fluid, but the way he moves his hips is obscene. It's titillating, the circling of his hips, over and over again, pushing back against Clark like the needy, desperate thing he is.
Clark's brought out of his musings when Bruce arches against him, threads a steady hand through his coiffed hair, and brushes his lips against his jaw. His mouth opens with a gasp.
“I believe I told you to put your money where your mouth is,” Bruce nips at his jaw, “I'm not in the interest of losing investments.”
In likely any other situation, Clark would apologize and follow the command. Not this one.
“Patience,” Clark chides, pinching Bruce's nipple. “You'll be up all night anyways, and no one's looking for us. And besides,”
Clark buckle is undone within seconds, cock spring out of his boxers, thick and dripping. It settles right in between Bruce’s cheeks, and Clark gives an experimental thrust, nudging the plug with his cock. Bruce shudders.
“You're going to be sweet for me, won't you? I'm, personally, not in the interest of treating my sweet baby like a slut,” he gives another harsh pinch and tug to Bruce's nipple, “But if that's how he wants to act, then that's just what he'll get.”
“Hn,” Bruce moans, eyes fluttering, “I'll be good, Clark.”
Clark kisses him on his nape. “I didn't ask if you were going to be good, I asked if you were going to be sweet.”
He pulls the plug out, ignoring Bruce's plea for more, and sets a steady grind of his hips.
“I could do this all night, Bruce, even if you were good. Sweet boys get my cock up their ass, not good or bad boys.”
Clark could not do this all night. He is, in fact, lying out of his ass, and Bruce probably knows that. Clark's hard and throbbing, tip beading pre-come at the swipe of Bruce's tongue over his bottom lip. Anything Bruce wanted, Clark would give him if he asked.
And Bruce does ask, this time.
“I'll be sweet, Clark,” Bruce promises, voice wet. Clark knows he's laying it on thick, Bruce's scent only carries the spice of arousal, not the damp of depression, but when he turns him around and sees glistening eyes, he cooes.
“I know you will, Bruce,” he says, nuzzling into the crook of Bruce's neck, sucking kisses up to his jaw and down to his shoulder. “You always are.”
And he slides home.
If Clark were a lesser man - if Clark were just a man - he's damn sure his knees would've buckled. If it hadn't been the tight, wet heat wrapping around his cock, it would've been the expression on Bruce's face.
It would be the hazy eyes and bitten lip. The flushed cheeks and the silvery tracks of tears.
But Clark isn't just a man, and thank the lord for that.
He spares no time, slamming in deep with heavy thrusts. Bruce gets shoved against the wall a little bit more with each one, but doesn't seem to mind, if the punched out little gasps say anything.
“So sweet for me, baby,” Clark groans, “And you are good. So precious, so perfect. You're all I need.”
Clark is distantly aware that he's getting a tad too emotional for what's supposed to be casual sex. Sue him, okay?
“Hah, ah, hmm, ah, ah, ah,” Bruce is moaning, each one rising in pitch. Clark could write poems about how he sounds when he's getting fucked. He could sing hymns.
“Clark,” Bruce moans, and Clark gives a little grind on the slide in, fucking deep. He helps Bruce turn around in his arms, so he can get a good look at him. “More.”
Clark's hips stutter. He's a weak, weak man. “Sweetheart,” he pleads, “Anything you want, just tell me.”
“I wanna feel you, all the way in here.”
He's vaguely gesturing to his abdomen, alarmingly high up, a space which Clark has no conceivable, safe, sane way to fuck, but he would if he could, because Bruce asked.
“Make love to me,” Bruce lilts, fucking himself further down Clark's cock.
Clark lets out a noise that could be mistaken for a sob. Before any questions are asked, he's bracing Bruce's head with one hand, grabbing his hip with the other, and fucking far deeper than he thought was possible.
Because Bruce deserves the best things in the world, Clark makes sure that every thrust gets a deep, slow grind. He's going to mould Bruce's ass into the shape of his cock, so that no one else will every be able to fuck him the way he wants. If Bruce ever sleeps with someone else and wants them to rearrange his guts, he'll be left unsatisfied, thinking about Clark.
After a harsh thrust, one where Clark is too wrapped up in his own thoughts, Bruce keens. It’s a guttural sound, deep in his throat, and so, so loud in the silence. Clark would panic about getting caught, except Bruce tosses his head back, baring his neck, and clenching tight.
Clark groans, eyes rolling back and that’s it for him. He’s balls-deep in Bruce when sparks burst behind his fluttering eyelids and he comes. Pleasure strips him away from the human plane, taking all sensation. When he comes back from cloud nine, all he hears is heavy breathing and faint moaning and wet kisses -
Oh, wait, that’s him. During his mind-blowing orgasm, he’d been sucking hickies across Bruce’s neck and chest, even on his chin a little. Bruce isn’t complaining though, just let out soft little moans and running his fingers through Clark’s hair.
“Bruce,” Clark mumbles out, not really stopping his kisses. “Mmm, sweet thing, precious thing.”
He’s slurring his words a bit, and he sounds a little rumbly too. Normally he’d be worried about it, except Bruce has a small smile and is looking at him so softly. He can’t help but melt a little more.
“Hi, Clark,” Bruce says, sounding a bit amused. He presses a kiss to Clark’s temple, and he should really pull away from the man’s chest now, but he just can’t.
“Are you back with me, baby?”
“Mmm n’yes,” Clark says distractedly, muffled into Bruce’s chest.
“Okay, okay. We’ll stay here, just for a little bit.”
It’s a good twenty minutes later, when Clark really comes back to himself. He should be embarrassed, but post-orgasm Clark just feels soft and goopy. The gala’s definitely over, and Lois and Jimmy might be looking for him, except he’s pretty sure they know where he is. Or at least, what he’s doing. Or well, who he’s doing might be more accurate.
“Bruce,” he says, trying not to sound jealous. “What ever happened with your date?”
“Oh, Melissa?” Bruce smirks, not bothering to adjust his tie. “Let’s just say she was rather taken with that photographer of yours.”
Jesus, Clark really owes Jimmy one.