Archive of Our Own ^beta

The clattering keys of The Daily Planet employees chattered into the air, the conversations about deadlines and new leads almost overbearing. Clark Kent hunched over his keyboard, fingers flying across the keys as he typed up his latest clause on the city's new mysterious respiratory illness—something going around for this flu season.

His mind, however, was miles away, focused on the low thrum of a Batmobile engine he’d sensed blocks away; He heard it before it even entered the neighborhood. Then, the main doors swung open with a heavy thud, and Clark’s head snapped up. There he stood: Bruce Wayne, clad in an impeccably tailored suit that seemed to outline his strong, muscular physique, his sharp features set in an expression of polite distraction. He moved with predatory grace, a stark contrast to the hurried reporters around him. Beside him, Perry White beamed, clapping a hand on Bruce’s broad shoulder.

“Gentlemen, Bruce Wayne is here to discuss a new Wayne Tech initiative we’re covering!" Perry’s voice boomed, cutting through the office noise. Clark felt a familiar warmth pool low in his belly, a reaction he’d long since learned to resent. He forced his gaze back to his screen, pretending to be absorbed in his article, but every muscle was tense. He could feel Bruce’s eyes on him, even from across the room, a silent, heavy pressure that made the hairs on his arms stand on end. Focus, Clark. Just focus. The words blurred on the monitor, them turning into an amalgamation of black.

Bruce’s meeting with Perry stretched into an hour. Clark tapped his pen restlessly, his eyes darting towards the boss’s office door every few minutes. He watched Bruce’s silhouette move behind the glass, saw the confident gestures, the way his voice carried even through the thick wood. Each minute felt like an eternity.

Finally, the door opened. Bruce emerged, Perry trailing behind him with a handshake and a hearty laugh. Bruce’s dark suit jacket shifted as he moved, revealing the powerful lines of his shoulders beneath. He didn’t look at Perry, his eyes locked directly onto Clark’s desk as he walked past. Clark’s breath hitched. Bruce paused for just a fraction of a second beside his desk, a slow, deliberate smile touching his lips, a look that held layers of meaning Clark couldn’t decipher but felt viscerally—a promise, a challenge, an acknowledgment of the hidden fire between them.

It’s been days since their last pairing, the fire and burn between that moment still fresh in their heads. The way Bruce’s strong, confident persona fell as soon as Clark’s warm lips touched his neck. The stutter in his bottom lip when Clark took him in his warm mouth—using the faintest scrape of teeth to amplify the pleasure. When he shook in his arms, the quieted gasps and his eyes rolling back…

It was the look Bruce always gave him when they were alone, stripped of their public facades. Then he was gone, the heavy office door swinging shut behind him, leaving Clark trembling with a mixture of frustration and intense arousal. God damn him. Just… damn him.

The minutes crawled by after Bruce’s departure, and Clark followed his footsteps, his heartbeat. He couldn’t help but be infatuated with the man. Bruce was in his car now, but it didn’t drive away.

“I know you’re listening, Clark.” The words were whispered in his car, a small teasing tint in his voice. He knew Clark was listening. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

Clark’s mind went blank, eyes staring blankly at his screen, his mind replaying that seductive tinge in his request. He needed air, needed to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the office and the memory of Bruce’s proximity. Standing up, he stretched with an exaggerated groan.

"Perry? I think I’ll grab an early lunch, clear my head," he called out, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet that had fallen over his section.

Perry barely looked up, waving a dismissive hand. "Fine, Kent, just get back by two."

Clark grabbed his jacket. He walked out of the newsroom, the city sounds—the honking horns, the distant sirens—washing over him. He didn’t head towards his usual sandwich shops. Instead, he turned down a narrow alley between two brick buildings, one bathed in perpetual shadow, the other catching the harsh afternoon sun. He leaned against the rough brick wall, closing his eyes, trying to steady his breathing.

A sleek, black sedan, tinted windows obscuring the interior, sat silently in the mouth of the alley, stopped just out of sight from the street. The driver’s door opened, and a man in a dark suit stepped out, lighting a cigarette. He leaned against the hood, pointedly looking away, giving them absolute privacy. Then, the rear passenger door on Clark’s side opened. Bruce Wayne emerged from the shadows within the car, his silhouette framed by the dim interior light. He stood in the alleyway, the narrow space suddenly feeling charged, alive with lust.

He didn’t speak. He simply extended a hand, palm up, towards Clark, his dark eyes fixed on him, holding an unspoken command. The scent of his cologne—something dark and expensive, like sandalwood and Caribbean alcohol—drifted on the still air, wrapping around Clark like a physical embrace.

Clark’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the alley’s quiet. He hesitated for only a second, the rational part of his brain screaming at him to walk away, to return to his office. But the pull of Bruce, the magnetic intensity of his presence, was undeniable. He took a step forward, then another, until he stood before him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from Bruce’s body.

He felt what Clark felt as well: The seduction, the lust, the want. And who was Clark to deny his prince of what he owned?

Bruce’s grip was firm, possessive, as he gently pulled him towards the open car door. "Get in, Clark," Bruce murmured, his voice a low, velvet rasp that vibrated through Clark’s entire being. Bruce gestured towards the plush leather seat beside him. The driver remained a silent sentinel by the open door, a bodyguard guarding their privacy. It was just them two in the moment, nothing else could be filtered through.

The moment Clark’s lips crashed against Bruce’s, the billionaire’s carefully constructed facade shattered like glass. Bruce moaned into the kiss, a raw, desperate sound that vibrated through Clark’s chest. His hands flew to Clark’s shoulders, not to push away but to pull impossibly closer, his body arching off the seat as Clark’s mouth moved from his lips to the sensitive skin of his neck.

Bruce moaned, a high-pitched, strained whine escaping him as Clark’s teeth nipped and sucked, leaving a trail of angry red marks in their wake. "God, Clark," Bruce choked out, his voice thick with need, "take me. Please, take me." He offered no resistance, simply melted under Clark’s demanding touch, his own hands fisting in Clark’s shirt, claws digging into the fabric as if anchoring himself to the overwhelming sensation.

Clark moaned low in his throat, the sound primal and possessive. He needed skin, needed more. He yanked his mouth from Bruce’s neck, his eyes dark with lust as he stared down at the disheveled billionaire. His fingers fumbled frantically at the buttons of Bruce’s pristine white shirt, trying to get the shirt off immediately.

"Rip it," Bruce moaned, his voice a breathless command, his hips already canting upwards seeking friction. "I'm not going anywhere after this."

The permission was all Clark needed. With a surge of strength that made the car shudder, he grabbed fistfuls of expensive silk and linen and ripped the shirt open down the middle. Buttons scattered like shrapnel across the floor. Clark’s hands immediately found the exposed skin of Bruce’s chest, his fingers digging into one hard, defined breast, squeezing, not gently, but with the inhuman strength he usually held so carefully in check. The pressure was immense, enough to surely leave deep, purple bruises blooming across the pale flesh.

Bruce cried out, a sharp, pained gasp that morphed into a low groan of pure ecstasy. His body bucked into the punishing grip, his nipple hardening instantly under the assault. Clark felt the response, felt the way Bruce’s body welcomed the pain, and it sent a fresh wave of arousal through him. He released the bruised muscle only to replace his hand with his mouth. His mouth clamped down on Bruce’s other nipple, teeth grazing the sensitive peak as his tongue laved over it, sucking hard.

Bruce’s hands flew into Clark’s dark hair, holding him there, pulling him closer, encouraging the rough treatment. His breaths came in short, sharp pants, “Fuck, Clark—”

The taste and feel of Bruce’s skin, the sounds he was making, the utter surrender – it all fueled Clark’s dominance. With a surge of strength that made the car rock slightly on its suspension, Clark grabbed Bruce’s hips and effortlessly flipped him over. Bruce landed face-down on the wide leather seat, cushioned but utterly immobilized by Clark’s hold. A low, throaty moan escaped Bruce’s lips, muffled against the leather, a sound of pure, unadulterated excitement at being manhandled so easily.

Clark knew Bruce loved this, the loss of control, the feeling of being overpowered. Reaching down, Clark grabbed his own ID card, still attached to its lanyard, which had somehow remained around his neck through the initial tussle. He didn’t hesitate, wrapping the tough nylon cord tightly around Bruce’s forearms, binding them securely behind his back.

Bruce didn’t struggle; he simply pressed his cheek harder into the seat, his bound hands clenching into fists, presenting himself further. Boy… What a slut he was for being manhandled. And how easily Clark gave into Bruce’s fantasies.

Clark’s fingers went to Bruce’s tailored trousers, the expensive fabric offering no resistance as he ripped them open and shoved them down along with Bruce’s boxer briefs in one rough movement. Bruce’s bare ass was exposed to the cool air of the car, and Clark’s eyes widened slightly. Nestled between the pale, firm cheeks was a sleek black buttplug, the base glinting faintly in the dim light.

It was clear Bruce had prepared himself, eager to skip the preliminaries. A surge of heat went through Clark. He wouldn’t tease; he couldn’t. Bruce’s need was too palpable, too real.

Clark’s large fingers hooked into the base of the plug. He pulled it out slowly, deliberately, watching Bruce’s body react. The tight, pink muscles of Bruce’s hole clenched and spasmed as the thick intrusion was withdrawn, stretching obscenely wide around the girth before snapping shut, leaving it pulsing and empty, slick with lube. Bruce whined, a high-pitched needy sound, his hips pushing back instinctively, seeking the emptiness only Clark could fill.

The confined space of the car became a furnace of raw need as Clark’s gaze dropped, zeroing in on the thick, undeniable pressure straining the front of his own trousers. He didn’t bother with finesse; he didn’t bother undressing himself. With a low growl, he freed his cock, the heavy, flushed springing free, already weeping pearlescent precum onto the other’s skin.

He gripped the thick base and, with a grunt of pure possession, smacked the heavy, wet head against Bruce’s exposed, slick hole. The sound was a wet, obscene slap in the quiet alley. Bruce’s bound body jerked against the seat, a choked whimper escaping his muffled lips.

"How bad do you want it, baby?" Clark rasped, his voice roughened with lust. He gave his shaft a few sharp, possessive strokes, spreading the leaking fluid over the crown, making it glisten in the dim light.

"In me—" Bruce gasped, the words muffled and desperate against the leather. "Need it in me so bad. Please, Clark." His hips pushed back, a silent, pleading demand, the muscles of his ass clenching hungrily around empty air.

Clark positioned the broad head at Bruce’s entrance, the pressure immense as he began to push inside. Bruce’s body resisted, the tight ring of muscle stretching taut around Clark’s girth. Bruce winced, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth, his knuckles whitening where his bound hands clenched into fists. He was still sore from their last encounter, a deep, lingering ache that flared with the intrusion, but the pain was secondary to the overwhelming, desperate craving for Clark’s cock to fill him, to claim him, to erase the emptiness.

"Shhh," Clark soothed, his voice a low rumble against Bruce’s back. He rubbed a large, calloused hand over the heated curve of Bruce’s ass cheek, a brief, grounding touch. "Relax, baby. Just a few more inches. Take it." He pushed steadily, relentlessly, the thick muscle forcing Bruce’s body to yield, inch by burning inch.

Bruce cried out, a raw, guttural sound that was half-pain, half-relief, as Clark finally bottomed out. He trembled, sweat beading on his temples, tears welling in the corners of his eyes but not yet falling. Then, slowly, the tension eased, replaced by a bone-deep, shuddering satisfaction as he accommodated Clark’s immense size, filled. Filled so good, so deep, so obscene.

Clark felt the subtle shift in Bruce’s body, the way he arched back slightly, seeking the deep connection. He knew Bruce’s needs intimately. This wasn’t about softness, about gentle lovemaking. Bruce wanted to be taken, to be overwhelmed, to feel the raw power of Clark’s strength driving into him, claiming him without reservation. And Clark, fueled by the sight of Bruce bound and vulnerable, by the scent of his sweat and arousal, wanted nothing more.

Without warning, Clark pulled back until only the thick head remained buried inside the tight, clutching heat. Then, with a grunt of effort, he slammed forward. The force was brutal, the car rocking on its suspension with the impact.

Bruce cried out, a sharp, pained cry that tore from his throat, tears finally spilling over and tracing hot paths down his cheeks. The plush leather of the seat swallowed the sound.

Clark didn’t pause. He withdrew again, almost completely, and drove back in, harder this time, setting a punishing, relentless rhythm. Each thrust was a deep, punishing piston, driving Bruce’s body further into the seat, the leather creaking in protest. Clark’s large hands gripped Bruce’s waist, fingers digging in like steel clamps, his thumbs pressing deep into the soft flesh just above the hips.

The pressure was immense, surely leaving deep, bruising fingerprints in the pale skin. He used that grip to pull Bruce back onto his cock with every brutal plunge, ensuring maximum depth, maximum impact. His other hand came down with sharp, stinging smacks against the already reddened curve of Bruce’s ass, the sharp cracks echoing in the confined space.

"That feel good, baby?" Clark grunted, his voice strained with effort and lust. "Like being mine?" Each word was punctuated by another deep, jarring thrust and another sharp smack to the vulnerable flesh.

Bruce could only moan, a continuous, broken sound of pain and overwhelming pleasure, his body writhing helplessly against the leather as Clark claimed him completely, leaving no doubt who held all the power in this shadowed alley.

The relentless rhythm finally pushed Bruce to the precipice. His moans, once guttural and demanding, dissolved into ragged, muffled sobs pressed deep into the leather. His body clenched around Clark’s cock, the muscles spasming uncontrollably, but Clark didn’t relent.

He drove into the convulsing heat harder, deeper, using the leverage of a hand gripping the back of Bruce’s neck, fingers digging into the sweat-slicked skin to pin him down and force him to take every punishing inch. The car rocked violently, a symphony of leather creaking and flesh slapping against flesh. Then, with a choked, shuddering gasp, Bruce shattered. His entire frame seized, a tremor starting deep in his core and erupting through him. He came untouched, thick ropes of spend spurting onto the black leather beneath him, painting a stark, glistening mess.

The shuddering intensified, whole-body tremors wracking him as he cried, harsh, broken hiccups escaping his lips, his lungs struggling to pull in enough air between the sobs and the aftershocks of his climax. The utter helplessness in his sounds, the complete surrender, pushed Clark over the edge.

With a moan muffled against Bruce’s back, Clark drove in one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he erupted deep within Bruce’s ass, flooding him with heat. He held Bruce pinned, listening to the broken sounds of his release, feeling the tremors subside into boneless exhaustion, ensuring his spend remained buried deep inside, a warm, possessive reminder.

After a minute where the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the distant city hum, Clark carefully pulled out. Bruce hissed at the emptiness, a low, pained sound. Gathering the trembling man in his arms, Clark pulled Bruce upright against his chest, cradling him.

He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Bruce’s sweat-dampened forehead. "Easy," Clark murmured, his own breath still hitching. "You okay?"

Bruce shifted, leaning into the embrace, but his breathing was still uneven. He burrowed his face into Clark’s shoulder for a moment before pulling back slightly. "Time," Bruce rasped, his voice thick. "You need to get back. It’s been thirty minutes."

Clark cursed under his breath, glancing at his watch. "Damn it. But look at you, Bruce. You’re a mess."

Bruce pulled away fully, sitting up on the leather seat, wincing slightly as he moved. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, a flicker of his usual composure returning. "I’m a big boy, Clark. I enjoyed myself immensely. And I can get myself together." He gave a small, almost imperceptible smirk.

As Clark began hastily straightening his own clothes—tucking his shirt back in his trousers and zipping up, his movements still slightly shaky—Bruce lunged. He grabbed Clark by the tie, pulling him down for a searing, brief kiss that tasted of salt and spent desire. Then, with a surprising shove that was more playful than forceful, given Clark’s strength, he pushed Clark towards the open car door.

"Bye, baby," Bruce said, his voice now smooth, controlled, tinged with amusement and something else entirely, as he leaned out the rolled-down window.

He watched Clark stumble slightly on the alley pavement. The window whirred shut with a thunk, sealing Bruce inside the confines of the car, leaving Clark standing alone in the alley, the vivid, chaotic memory of the last half-hour burning behind his eyes and the lingering scent of Bruce’s arousal clinging to his clothes as he hurried back towards the oblivious noise of the Daily Planet.