Work Text:
Our story starts with our two heroes in the literal closet; a clumsy rendezvous point that would get both of them caught.
Clark listens out for anyone outside while he keeps his back pressed to the door, knowing no one could get in if he was the one blocking it. His arms strain to cross in the tight, admittedly not tailored suit. It was one of his own because he had refused to wear anything that could trace himself back to Wayne, no matter how insignificant the connection. These people were sharks desperate for a story. He was not going to give it to them. The kryptonian cocks his head to the side to show Bruce he’s listening, despite his eyes not directly meeting the billionaires in that moment. He was too busy looking at the sky and counting his patience at Bruce’s accusations.
“Why are you here? You already got my interview.” He’s half joking, but his deadpan expression makes it difficult to pick up on. “I'm working tonight.”
Clark can only reply with a sigh and an almost condescending answer. “Okay, Bruce, but you're not… the only rich important person in Gotham. Because I am also working tonight.”
“I know that.” Though he blinks as if it hadn't occurred to him even once that Clark could be here for someone else. That honestly kind of irritates him - Bruce could forget so easily that one of them had a legitimate job they were supposed to be doing. “Who is it?”
Clark pinches the bridge of his nose, glasses lifted just slightly from his face. Bruce looks up at him in confused silence. He really didn't know what he was doing wrong in interfering with work so often; despite being the world's greatest detective. Turns out the richness sometimes crossed the other stuff out. “An up and coming politician.” He finally answers, pressing his lips tight together. “It's really important and I need you to promise me-”
“You really think I'm going to interfere?”
The reporter exhales slowly. “You kind of are… right now.” Silence from the other end. A shuffle. He sees his eyes narrow in slight defence, and Clark waits for the typical Batman quip to push him away.
He instead leans forward in the tight space, fixing a poorly tied windsor knot from around Clark's throat. He tugs on it just slightly, the way one might to fix a leash, and the annoyed reporter can only flush in reply. It's even more irritating when Bruce pretends not to notice his impact. “I'll be perfectly behaved and professional, Mr. Kent. I just expect you to do the same.”
Licking his lips, the hero can’t help but take the bait. “I’m not working long tonight.” It's an open ended suggestion that's rewarded with another impossible smile and a quiet hum of approval.
“Neither am I.”
They leave at separate times.
“...But you already know all about that.” The reporter nervously smiles as he realizes that someone has been talking to him for a few moments now. He forces his attention away from watching a distant Bruce Wayne mingle, knowing he had come here to do a job that he currently wasn't doing. Eyes fall on an interesting looking man instead, with sandy blonde hair and a handsome smile. His build and stance was quite similar to Bruce's - that overconfident energy and stance, broad straight back and shoulder with a cocky grin - but he had a certain extra ounce of something Clark couldn't place yet.
Not that it mattered. This was who he was meant to be interviewing tonight. “Mr. Dent! Yes, it's such a pleasure to finally meet you.” He holds his hand out to shake his. “I understand that this isn't an official interview for your campaign,”
“Pish!” Harvey grabs his hand and clumsily pulls him into a half hug. Though Harvey doesn't actually pull Clark into a hug so much as he flops against the impossible to move man, arm draped around him for a moment before pulling away to get a good look. “I'm not doing official interviews right now anyways, too stuffy. I just want two paragraphs - maybe even one, I'm not the boss, man; you are bossman - about my favorite Gotham Creamery and how funny you think I am.” Clark takes a second to nod along to all of this, ignoring the glaring man in the distance. “Just a little sweetening so the people on Metropolis know Gotham isn’t all bitter.” He jabs a thumb at an old friend standing in the distance, a familiar face. Bruce Wayne, who was currently slightly scowling. Someone had been unhappy about the drunken embrace. Privately, Clark feels a win. He was on his best behavior, but could Bruce manage?
Their conversation lingered past ice cream when Harvey got his second champagne glass, whispering to Clark (on the record, he kept insisting, because it was such a good idea) about his plans to ‘fix’ Gotham. Clark hums and listens with eager excitement as his story beats with life for the first time, a truly interesting headline emerging the more Harvey spoke at length about institutionalizing half of the city and changing the wages of the other. His rantings and ravings would switch forth quickly between concepts, as if he was constantly balancing multiple ideas at a time and couldn't decide which one he'd actually go through with until it was right before him. A few times, Dent stops himself midsentence to ask Clark a personal question, which the reporter then has to rummage for fake answers for. He tries to keep it decently impersonal without lying, not wanting to flip the interview into anything the politician could use later.
He's half finished with jotting a quote down when a group of several beautiful women and one particularly beautiful man brush past him to find a table. They’re distant enough that they don’t touch, but it's obvious Bruce was doing a little brief recon of his own. He withholds from saying anything, only giving a polite nod to them as they passed. It's to his dismay when Harvey excuses himself as well, “If you’ll excuse me a moment, it was wonderful speaking with you,” the ringing from his pocket obscuring his voice and reminding Clark how unbearable it was to be at these things and able to hear every detail.
Almost as if waiting for his attention to be freed, he hears a voice murmuring in his ear over all the noise, despite Bruce being a distance away. He strains to hear what he’s saying. “Got everything you need?”
Clark scratches his left ear before coughing in a way that looks like a nod. When his eyes flicker over again to Bruce’s, he’s rewarded with a handsome smile.
“Good.”
Thinking that was the end of it, that maybe they’d get a cab down the block after the party, his attention starts to move away and onto other things. Until Bruce slyly unbuttons the top of his shirt whilst eyeing the other man from across the room. He rubs at his neck absent-mindedly; still speaking to the women beside him as if he weren't eye screwing Clark. “It's just so hot, you don't find?” He pretends to fan himself, lowering his collar and opening it just enough. Clark stops cold in his tracks to listen.
One of them is quick to flicker their eyes to a revealed throat and shoulders, immediately reacting to the giant, dark hickey that sat at the base of his neck like a bruise. “Oh, my!” She starts, chortling in entertainment. “Mr. Wayne, you might want to cover up your…” She wiggles her fingers subtly and Clark pulls his hat further over his head when he realizes what they're discussing. The other womens’ eyes soon fall on it as well, all giggling and gossiping with their friend about who could possibly be leaving such possessive marks.
“Who could have left such a thing?” The brunette inquires.
Bruce only pulls his lips into a fuller smile, showing just a bit of his teeth before sipping on his bubbling champagne. Maybe, surely, hopefully, he was drunk. That was why he was acting this way; Clark mentally pleaded. “Ladies! You know a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell,” The billionaire swishes his glass for a moment. He darts his cold steely eyes over all of them; who each in turn meet his gaze with anticipated silence. “...But you also know I'm no gentleman.” He earns a round of laughter and small, victorious whoops.
The ginger, with curling long hair that draped across her small, small back - not that Clark was jealous, because he wasn't, - presses a pale finger to the mark before commenting, “It looks as if you've been accosted by an animal of some sort.”
Bruce, unexpectedly, encourages this. “I'd describe it as more of a mauling.” Another round of raucous laughter, and the clinking of glasses. They were cheering this behavior. No wonder he was so… Wayne.
“What sort of beast was this? A woman with claws, a man with fangs? Or some other such scandal?”
Clark watches in abject horror as Bruce tilts his head slightly to the side, champagne glass in hand, pretending to think about but answering almost well practiced, “He's more of a well-mannered dog.” This earns a few ooos and aahs.
The farm boy is stunned that someone would so blatantly express same sex attraction without any modicum of fanfare or confetti first. He was used to it being kind of a thing. It wasn't much of anything right now, making him feel a little sordid. Maybe he wanted a little fanfare in reaction, a little shock that the Bruce Wayne was also into men. But these women knew his proclivities as well as anyone else who's read the paper. And everyone knew that just because his new interest was a man didn't mean that he was anything special. Including Clark.
“Are we ever going to meet this pup?”
Bruce's eyes pretend to roll before meeting Clark's for a moment; who completely turns red at being caught listening so attentively. “He's gonna need a little more home training first, but I wouldn't mind bringing him around.”
The kryptonian looks for the bathroom, suddenly needing a second.
The sink is loud in the closed environment, the chatter of outside attendees just barely muted behind the swing door. He looks at himself in the mirror, half admiring and half critiquing, pushing his glasses closer to the center of the counter when he realizes they might fall. Water drips down his face and hands, and he wipes both off quickly with a paper towel when he hears the swing of the door to the right of him, dawning his glasses as quickly as he had taken them off. He exhales a little when he sees it's just Bruce, who's eyes are set squarely upon him.
For a moment he's quiet, just closing the space between them. His eyes bore into his with an impossible searching, questioning look. He starts with a simple question, not wanting to push the kryptonian further than he already has. “You think you got a good article?”
“Mr. Wayne.” Clark starts, whispering, pressing a hand to the door to keep anyone else from coming through. He looks down at him with a slightly embarrassed but eager scowl. Like he didn't know what to think or feel.
Bruce doesn't mind telling him. “Ooh, okay.” He pretends like he's finally caught onto something. “Yes, baby?” He asks gently, as if Clark had called him sir in a less professional setting. There's a flash of storming conflict behind those beautiful, stark bright eyes. If Bruce had superhearing he'd know for a fact that Clark's heart rate had gone up.
“Bruce.” His dog growls lowly, and the playboy's fingers go to gently pluck at the tie dangling from his shirt collar. “Are you messing with me?”
He tights the tie just a little too tight, watching for a reaction and getting one. Another slight flush, deeper this time. “Well no, Clark. I'm at work too, you know. I'm a professional.” He looks up at him through his lashes, voice dark. He watches the man's eyes waver between his adams apple and his lips, knowing he wanted him. Smiling to himself. He honestly just wanted a little up in the situation after having embarrassed himself by presuming Clark would only be here for him.
The only way to fix that was to make sure Clark *was* only thinking about him by the end of the night. And it seemed to be working so far. He waits for a reaction, a break. But instead Clark straightens his back and chews at the top of his lip, moving the door so it swings open. “Great, then. After you.”
He narrows his eyes before walking through the door, noticing Clark once more lagging behind as to not get caught. He was careful, and Bruce respected his wishes on not wanting anyone to know… anything. Even if he didn't personally have the same reservations. Frankly hookups helped hide his alias; but Clark wasn't a one night stand who could have a blurred photograph on a magazine with no career ramifications.
He narrows his eyes even further when, not even ten minutes later, Harvey Dent has made his way around again and back to the dorkishly handsome and delightfully fun to tease Clark Kent. The caped crusader frankly wanted this to end right now, but knew that Clark had already gotten a bit miffed about interfering. And he was working tonight. His eyes glance over to his target; a small brunette sipping wine at the bar alone. She was wearing a watch she wasn't wearing before, gold and shiny and new. He glances over at the person currently chatting with an exposed watch tab line; a Falcone goon who somehow schmoozed his way into the establishment. His establishment.<
Before Bruce can get up to confront the woman, and the man, maybe with the help of Alfred to escort them and keep his public good graces; he sees something quite terrible. Harvey Dent with a hand wrapped around Clark Kent's broad, handsome shoulders, chatting away and showing him something off his phone. He pauses. How immediate of a threat was the situation around him? Who was this mystery woman hurting? He had tracked her for weeks now, and it was always petty thefts in galas like this against people like that. Could he fault a Gothamite for needing the dough? He had brought kids into his home for less.
All this to say, he was really, really rationalizing approaching the two men rubbing shoulders and sides. But he doesn't. Instead he watches.
Clark giggles at a particularly lame joke, leaning his head away from the light remnant of champagne emanating from the politician's breath and wishing he could have the benefit of getting a little buzzed and losing himself too. But instead he just smiles and nods along, hoping that in this more inebriated state he could get a little extra information out of him before the night ended.
“Let me get you a drink?” Harvey pauses, waving someone over. “You must try the bellini.” When Clark agrees, mostly because he wouldn't mind pretending to be inebriated to make Dent more comfortable. The rich affluent was halfway through ordering himself one already; having pulled a waitress from her route back to the kitchen, her hands full from a tray of empty champagne flutes. Clark apologizes with a glance and a few dollars when she returns, which she takes before quickly darting off. He turns his attention to the bitter drink and the smiling gentleman. The hand on his shoulder is flirtatious, but well meaning. Feeling a bit childish, he leaves it there and hopes that Bruce can see. He promises the drink tastes delicious, though he keeps a bit of his rugged farmer boy act up when he notices Harvey eyeing just how well he filled out the suit.
He notes bringing that up with Bruce later, knowing it'd bother him that the ill fitting suit actually had a purpose outside of annoying him for not wearing one of his.
“What do you do for fun, Clark? Surely it's not all interviews with you.” The not so gentleman murmurs, his warm smile pressing Clark into a bit more honesty. He was still careful, of course, but he didn't need to be so cagey. But what did he do for fun? The only thing he can think of was,
His eyes dart over to Bruce, who seemed to be staring hard at the conversation the two were having. He wondered how badly the other wished to have super hearing right now. Serves him right. Keeping his smile, he drifts his gaze back to meeting Harvey's.
“I like to walk around the city, visit the local library.” He answers honestly, trying to make it seem like he wasn't answering about work.
“A regular boy scout, aren't you, Mr. Kent.”
He flushes a bit, rubbing the back of his neck, looking away. “Something like that.”
The hand on his shoulder reaches and gently, subtly touches one of the curls at the nape of his neck. It tickles and makes him react with just the slightest shiver of surprise. “Come on, don’t tell me a guy like you is just born looking like this. No gym? Maybe wrestling? Boxing?” Clark’s eyebrows knit for a moment. Bruce had asked him the exact thing- did rich guys have a thing for professional fighters? What was up with that?
“Uh, no, sir. Nothing like that.”
“No rock climbing or anything? You really -” “What the hell are you doing?” “-to me.” He blinks, realizing he had missed the middle section. There was a voice whispering harshly nearby that had suddenly grabbed at his attention. “What’s your secret?”
The whisper returns, “You fuck every single person you interview now?” and Clark flushes and tugs at his ear. He’s no longer listening to anything Harvey Dent is saying, eyes tracking down the source of that buttery voice. A jealous Wayne was sitting by the elevator doors, drink in hand, a hand over his mouth to hide his murmurs from anyone else.
“Uhm, jeez, Mr, Dent, I'm really sorry… But I actually really do need to be getting going now.” He apologizes profusely and shakes his hand, ignoring the growing excitement making his chest hammer. He watches Bruce’s back retreating into an elevator towards the exit and follows, keeping his eyes on the floor.
As soon as the door closes, there’s a sharp, taut pull on his tie. “What the fuck was that? That’s you being professional?”
The overwhelming tension of the night bursts out of Clark at once, his voice turning into a slight shout that he can’t help. “You started it! You were being all… I was just trying to do my job until you started it with…” His cheeks glow red, an almost childish frown on his face. His hands are running through his hair, petting curls into something more disarrayed.
“I was praising you. Which I shouldn’t have wasted my time doing, considering you take that dick out for anyone with a heavy enough wallet.” He shoves the tie out of his hand as the door opens, the both of them returning to cool, soft expressions as the doorman offers them their coats. Clark keeps his draped over his arm, stepping into the cold night air and after a Bruce who was quickly waving down a cab. He pulls Clark in after him wordlessly.
The journalist squirms in his seat, glancing from Bruce to the uncaring taxi driver to Bruce again. The billionaire takes out a few fifties and passes them to the driver before closing the partition and turning to face Clark, really looking at him. “He won’t talk. Go ahead.”
“...I wasn’t… worried about that.”
“Bullshit, Clark. You want to marr my skin and then hide in the corner like a mutt with his tail tucked between his-”
“Why are you being so *mean*?!” He interrupts, exasperated, pulling his curls back and out of his face, looking at him hard. Bruce isn’t even sure himself. He wasn’t supposed to have left the event early and he wasn’t supposed to have dragged Clark right in after him. He’d have to fix that later. Alfred wouldn’t be happy about it.
“Harvey Dent, Kal? Come on.”
He scowls. “Yes, Harvey Dent. I told you I'm writing an article about him.”
“Oh sure,” He starts, a leg crossed over the other as he looks out the window and into the night. Bruce tries to pace himself. He felt like a petulant, stupid teenager. “Make sure to put in the headline how good his dick felt rubbing on your thigh-”
“*Bruce*.” Clark growls in a low whisper, looking at the taxi driver who couldn't even hear them through the plexi. His eyes are dark and dangerous, though his body is slumped in his chair in an attempt to seem less agitated. “You were the one who was talking about having rough animal sex with a bunch of beautiful strangers at a party.” His arms are crossed over his chest, glasses dropping low on his nose.
“Sex with you, you seem to be forgetting,”
“That you didn't have to bring up!” He throws his arms in the air, letting them land in his lap. There's a beat of silence as Bruce chooses his next words carefully.
“Might I remind you, you're the one who wanted it to be known I was sleeping with someone else. You just didn't have the guts to say that. You wanted me to walk around with your hickies, your bites, your bruises, but all with your name protected.”
“That is not fair.” Clark is wiping his hands on his dress pants, barely even noticing that the car has started to come to a stop. “Firstly, my job is actually on the line here, and some people need a salary to live,” Bruce is getting out and, in the passion of the argument, Clark quickly follows.
“You act like I wouldn't step in to help.” They're home. Or- no, not home. They're at Bruce's home. Clark had been once before but only briefly, and that was to drop something off as Superman.
“Yes, well, that actually brings me to the second problem.” He whisper shouts, glancing down the street. The rich brunette holds open the door for the both of them; letting Clark enter first. He continues his rant once the door is closed, with his eyes looking over the impressively large foyer. It was a full apartment building that had been refurbished just for one boy; and it was obvious that the building had grown with him.
“You think your money just fixes everything. Which, it doesn't.” Clark drapes the jacket that he was holding across his arm on the coat rack by the front door, quickly taking Bruce's from him and hanging it up as well. All whilst still furrowing his brow. “You think your image can soften any issue, which it wont.” Bruce's hands hook into the belt loops of Clark's pants, a move of possessiveness. He pulls his own body forward until their hips are flush, knowing he couldn't shift Clark even if the man wanted to be shifted. “I could really… get in trouble.”
Bruce looks at him squarely before blowing air out of his lips softly, a dark smile on his face. “Oh, I see. It's easier if I'm the one making the first move because then you can tell yourself you're doing a good job; that you're being a good boy.” He watches Clark fidget.
“I really need this job, Bruce.”
“But when you see me flirting with a bunch of ‘beautiful strangers’, you'll risk that same professionalism to get my attention.” More fidgeting, a red face. Bingo. “You're a hypocrite.”
Their faces are so, so close. Noses almost touching. Breath shared. “My… job…”
“That you endangered to get here.” Clark presses his head into the nook of Bruce's shoulder, feeling very exposed. It was easier to do this with Lex, who was more than happy to pretend like Clark was some innocent pup ripe for perverting. Bruce refused to let this Superman hide behind his excuses, however, and fully expected him to admit both his jealousy and his perversions. “Kal,” He starts softly, earning a quiet croon from the man pressed into the sweat of his neck. “Baby, did you want me to see you with Dent?”
A slow, gentle nod. The kryptonian shivers when he gets a tsk in reply.
“Did you want me to feel jealous? And leave early with you?”
Another slow, anguished nod. He refuses to be seen.
“...wanted you… all night…” He finally murmurs, his lips tasting the sweat as they move against his throat. He earns an almost condescending chuckle from Bruce, who's hands haven't shifted from holding his pelvis still.
He's tsking at him again, “And instead of telling me, you let some guy dry hump you in public?” He purrs. Clark feels like the man is truly, really hyperbolizing just how bad it was. It was a few innocent flirty moves and a touch to the back of his neck. It hadn't gone any further than that. And he knew that too, he had seen the whole thing. But Clark doesn't argue. He just whimpers and lets Bruce guide him.
“I wanted you so, so bad.” He promises, rocking his hips lightly, feeling the sway of Bruce against him. He was so handsome in his suit. He stills when the other opens his mouth, purring,
“Let me fuck you.” Bruce calmly asks, pressing himself hard against him, Clark feeling just how much they wanted each other through the strain of their pants. His knees feel like buckling.
“Uhm, well, I've never…” He flushes, quickly adding, “I'd want to! I just, I'm usually… because of my size, I've always been good for, uh,”
Bruce takes his hands gently, curling their fingers together, intertwining them. He wanted to take care of him after teasing him all night. “You'll be so good as my cocksleeve, won't you, baby?” Unable to hide behind his now taken hands, and with eyes flushed and just sparkling with tears, he quickly nods.
“No I can, I can do that. I can be… good for you.” His voice is a low hum, a whimper. Bruce tucks a curl behind his ear with an intertwined hand before kissing those pouted lips.
The leash dangles from Bruce's wrist and leads up and to the kryptonite dosed collar around Clark, who was bent over the edge of the bed and hiding his face in the plush Egyptian cotton that covered it. A sinful tongue is lapping at the tight ring of muscle keeping Bruce from his prostate, creating a strange new sensation that made Clark shake and tear at the sheets. He tries to refrain from actually ripping through the mattress, the collar only keeping his superhuman strength in check. He was still decently strong regularly. His crotch, bare and weeping, pressed against the same bed and strained for warm contact. He wanted desperately to feel Bruce, and he was, but not in the way he was used to. He strains and presses his face further into the bed when a finger enters him, crooking.
“Are you okay, Kal? Do you need anything?” The voice mocks him as he writhes and moans on the two fingers now inside him, feeling them press against sensitive spots he hadn't known he had. He's nodding and trying to say yes, yes he's fine, but he knows Bruce wants a verbal answer and was willing to stop to get it. He had made Clark stop much closer to his release before for much, much less.
“Yes, no, I'm, I'm good, I'm so good. Really,” His body rocks hard against the mattress after a third finger, gently, slowly enters, stretching him further. “You don't have to… I can't even get *hurt*.” He stresses, trying to breathe through what he thought was an impossible pressure. A tongue brushes against the underside of his taint, his thighs pulsing with tension. His head swims.
“I'm just taking care.” He promises, letting a fourth finger wiggle in. Honestly he just… didn't think he'd get this far. And he wanted to see how far he could take it. He was fingering Superman, watching him writhe and squirming and wriggle on his bed, in his sheets, because of him. It felt good seeing someone so perfect, so publicly known, beg and whine and whimper. “Just keep being good for me. You're doing so, so well.” When Clark trembles particularly roughly because of a petted spot, Bruce starts to abuse it gently. He goes quiet, the sheet beneath him wet, his nose sniffling, his crotch hot and unbearably untouched against the mockingly soft sheets.
“...Please…” He starts, low and rumbling, pressing his thighs together. The man stops entirely.
“Please what? What do you want?”
Clark wasn't even sure what he wanted. Something hot around his dick. A tongue in his mouth. Hands on his chest. “Just, please…”
He feels something hard rock against him. Quickly, Clark scrambles to sit up, realizing exactly what he wanted. “I want to… I want to face you.” He explains, twisting and angling until he's looking up at him with those soft eyes and thick lashes, beautiful and impossibly large in physique. Muscles rippled below him, though they gave the appearance of being quite soft and malleable. Clark seemed to like to have a sort of soft appearance to mask his strong form, and that all the more appealed to Bruce. His shame in his strength was so easy to play with.
To make it worse, to play with him even more, Bruce lifts Clark's legs until they're above his head, bent in half in the same way he was always doing to Bruce. He looked extremely vulnerable like this, expectant, up at Wayne with a straining, weeping cock. He tugs on the leash between them. “Give me a little bark.” He urges, knowing Clark was already pushed pretty far right now, seeing the impossibly dark stain of his cheeks. After some hesitance, he runs a single finger across the begging member between them, smearing precum over the tip and between two fingers. He opens his mouth and gently laps at the substance, earning a pathetic low growl from Clark. “You can do better than that, baby, don't you want it? You pushed me all the way here tonight, the least you could do is tell me you need my cock.” He watches those beautiful eyes dart up to the ceiling for some kind of shelter. “Look at me, Kal.” He snaps his fingers until those eyes, now wet and shining, meet his again. Bruce himself was so close to breaking, wanting to give him exactly what he wanted, but he knew how rare of a chance this was. He wanted to see it through.
Clark wets his lips and lets out another low growl, this time leading into something of a small yelp. A tear spills over and reaches his lips, the journalist tasting his own shame and salt. He barks again, better this time. Louder. If he knew that these walls weren't as thick as they looked, he probably would have been much quieter. But Bruce rewards him with a shallow, gentle thrust. It's a new, overwhelming kind of pressure that he hadn't even known could exist. It punches the air out of him for a moment out of just surprise, his body trembling in reaction.
The reaction he earns is exactly what he had wanted. Clark curls upward with a gasp, eyebrows knit in a strange concentration as his dick twitched between his legs. His back arches and every muscle in his body strains, weak against the kryptonite dosed collar but still kissing small bruises into Bruce's hips. His hands are dug into the sheets below them, blunt nails quite literally ripping at the linen. He barks again, pathetic and eager and slipping so easily out of his mouth, followed by a series of moans that Bruce had never heard him make before. They were slightly girlish and pretty, soft and low, and Clark really seemed to be so into it that his whole body reacted to every thrust in eager submission. He was perfect. So, so perfect.
“‘m close.” He begs, whining, pressing himself hard against Bruce, his untouched cock still twitching between them. “Close, close, ‘m close, Bruce, sir,” He's quietly babbling, forehead pressed into Bruce's collarbone as he continues to thrust into him. He licks a bead of sweat from Bruce's chest, earning a small tug of his leash. When he ignores it to suck a hickey onto his shoulder, he earns a sharper tug. He rolls his hips in an eager reply, enjoying any bit of roughness Bruce gave him. He always treated him so, so gently.
“Go ahead baby, come for me.”
His eyes squeeze shut, unable to unclench his hands, unable to touch himself. “Can't-” He starts, and he’s so sure of it, that there's no way he can come completely untouched.
A set of teeth are pressed into his shoulder until they break skin; the intrusion pressing onto his prostate from within simultaneously. He squeals and moans, a horrible innocent and vulgar noise that erupts from his mouth as he comes, hard, loud, and long. “Good boy, Kal, you're such a good boy,” He's blinking back stars and trying desperately to think or even to let go of the tension in his muscles, feeling every single one of them rolling in pleasure as Bruce rubs his orgasm out of him. He's dizzy and gasping for air, room spinning.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you so much,” He starts, watching as Bruce settles himself between his thighs. He follows obediently when two strong hands motion for them to be pushed together and, to his pleasure, he watches as Bruce slides his still covered member between the pressed together muscles. The lube coated latex runs against his still sensitive shaft, running itself over his skin and sending fresh pleasure through his body. He watches Bruce's face closely now that he can bother to think, eyes focused in hard on how perfect his expressions were, how concentrated he seemed to be. He was making his own quiet, small grunts, and the focus in his eyes was so endearing that it made Clark's heart skip a beat.
When Bruce comes, absolutely silently with the exception of a small low grunt, he crawls right beside the other man and plops himself lazily down on the sheets. He breathes hard, lust staining his cheeks pink, eyes glowing in post pleasure. “Alfred is going to be so, so pissed.” He finally decides, recollecting just how unprofessional he had been. He glances over at the nervous reporter, who seemed to be feeling similarly.
“Would you want to be a consultant for Wayne Industries?” He tugs on the leash playfully, watching the collared man struggle to process if that was even a real job offer. “You keep your old job, get to come over to Gotham and tell me what to do in front of people, interview people at my events…”
Clark gives him a long, hard look, trying to decide how to reply. This was exactly what he was talking about earlier. Did consequences even exist as a word to him? “Bruce… fuck you.” He finally sighs, flopping his head back onto the bed and looking up at the ceiling. He doesn't remove the leash, but he does pull the man in with ease until their sides connect. “But maybe.” He refuses to glance over at his reaction, but he can hear his heart quicken. It's a little sweet. “We'll talk about it tomorrow.”