Archive of Our Own ^beta

Even Metropolis has its seedy underbelly. Hidden amongst the crystalline, clinically clean skyscrapers and office buildings lies a hornet’s nest of unsavoury activity, poised to take advantage of the inhabitants of the slums that the elites shamefully obscure from the view of the average Metropolitan. Gotham’s influence seems to bleed through like black ink pipetted into water, its veins pumping through the depths of Metropolis like a virus. Shadowy figures hide under the veil of the bass that thrums from bars and clubs, the beating, rotten, corroded heart of Metropolis, preying on the vulnerable, the lonely, the downtrodden with promises of good times enveloped in a convenient little pill - or crystal.

Petrichor and rainbow gasoline cling to a pair of brogues that are too small for Clark - lent from Jimmy. His hair curls in the rain like memory foam, betraying the stubbornly slicked back style Clark had attempted. He stands at a distance before a tacky neon sign of interlocking Mars symbols that flicker aposematically red in the murky night, like a deterrent, screaming at Clark to stop, turn around, proverbial tail between his legs. Clark doesn’t need to use his heightened sense of hearing to make out the drumbeat of the club pulsing and he can’t help but imagine the building swelling with music and bursting open, spilling the litter-ridden streets with crimson. He can’t begin to imagine how loud it’ll be inside. 

He hadn’t been too sure what he was supposed to wear for a place like this. And after various not so comfortable conversations with Lois and Jimmy, and embarrassing Google searches on his incognito tab, including the website of said club (Clark had remarked how audacious that was) he had settled for something fancy - which is difficult for him. Any well tailored suit would reveal his physique, raise too many brows, bring too much attention to himself. But an ill fitting suit would look cheap. Loose-fitting jeans, a pleather jacket, a knock-off Giorgio Armani t-shirt (no one would be able to tell if they didn’t look too close), and a faux gold chain is what Clark had settled for after staring at himself in the mirror for ten minutes - or was it twenty? His pockets bulge out awkwardly, a thick wallet (prepped ahead of time) in one, and a mask weighing heavy in the other, a taunting reminder of the task that lays out in front of him.

Clark’s frenzied research found that the website of the club in question displayed a few rules: don’t touch the strippers unless they touch you, don’t harass the staff, and a few more that Clark had skimmed over. Anonymity: that’s the rule that stood out to him. A mask of sorts was mandatory. He had scrambled through his belongings, not sure if he even had anything like that in his repertoire. A crappy venetian mask, laden with dust and golden ribbons was found tucked away in the back of his too-full, too-small wardrobe, a piece of memorabilia from a long forgotten work party.

The anonymity rule extended to no electronics as well, meaning no recording equipment. A notepad and pen would not look inconspicuous at all, so Clark had planned to rely on his memory, which is excellent. On the record sources weren’t needed when the mission itself was finding the names of sources he could research and interview, Clark had reasoned.

So he finds himself on those Gotham-esque streets, staring at the box office with a scruffy taped up sign reading ‘CASH ONLY’ and metal detector. A small table with a plastic, grey tray sits beside it. Before Clark emerges from the shroud of darkness, he adorns his mask, following the dresscode, although he doesn’t believe his status as a humble news reporter would make him particularly well known. He steps out into the magnifying glass of the streetlamps, takes a deep breath, and tentatively strides up to the entrance, where the man in the box office wordlessly holds out an open palm: a $10 entry fee. Clark finds it extortionate. Anything for the job, he supposes. The same man holds out a portable safe, assumably for his electronics, so Clark sends one last text to Lois:

‘I’m going in. Wish me luck’

before placing his phone in the box in exchange for a plastic card, resembling a hotel room key with a number that coincides with the number on the safe. He tucks it in his wallet which strains against the overpacked dollars folded haphazardly within. His belt, wallet, chain, and jacket are placed in the grey tray and he receives a nod from the bouncer on the opposite side as he breaches the precipice between turning back and commiting, passing through the metal detector that remains steadfastly quiet. He still receives a patdown nevertheless. He dons his discarded items and takes one last look at the soggy street behind him - and enters, heat and music seeping through the miniscule gaps under the door like a leaking washing machine.

His senses experience a full on assault when he opens the door. The same LEDs that were used outside cut through the dark, and his eyes strain against the overwhelming onslaught of red, casting everyone in sunset shades, reminiscent of a thermal imaging camera, making everyone look incredibly warm, which it is. It reeks of sex, sweat amplifying the musky, borderline tropical atmosphere, as several different designer colognes clash and battle for dominance. There’s a bar and booths where masked socialites with superficial friendships spew out canned laughter and clink crystal glasses. A runway with a pole at the end takes centre stage, lined with those same obnoxious lights, topped with smooth marble flooring. Clark cannot attest to the safety of it, taking a moment to lament the poor performers who may or may not have broken an ankle on that slippery looking surface. Accent tables are dotted around the runway, offering the best view, accessorised with armchairs with bamboo woven around the metal reinforcements, upholstery encased in crimson cotton.

Too much red.

Clark forces himself to take a seat at one of those tables. He wants to shy away, tuck himself into the deepest recesses of the club, but he’s working, needs to talk to people. Scantilly clad men are either walking around with cocktails and drinks perfectly balanced on bar trays, or entertaining patrons. Superman doesn’t really sweat, but even this is making Clark feverish, warmth spreading up his neck and face like a rash as a waiter in a scarlet snakeskin outfit approaches him, heart-shaped top adorned with spiked studs and corset lacing, and Clark crosses his leg over the other, straightening himself up.

“Oh, someone’s nervous.” The waiter’s flirtatious tone doesn’t help. “Have you ever been to a place like this before?” Clark shakes his head, voice threatening to betray him and crack and shatter. “Don’t you worry, sweetheart, we’ll take care of you, we don’t bite. Well, I don’t.” He winks, and it reeks of insincerity, he can tell the man is putting on a show. “Let me get you a drink. On the house. It’ll help you relax.” It won’t. The only time Clark had ever gotten drunk was on a boat, poisoned from a case of mistaken identity of a billionaire Gothamite.

“Thank you,” is all Clark can muster in a wavering voice as the waiter saunters away. He doesn’t even know what he’s getting. 

The service is exquisite. Clark finds himself waiting at least twenty minutes for a drink in mainstream restaurants, but here, it takes them five. The same waiter returns with a martini glass, garnished with a twisted citrus peel, and, fuck, even the drink is red.

“Enjoy, handsome,” and the waiter doesn’t give him time to say much else, leaving Clark a stammering mess, not used to such blatant courting.

“Darn,” he mutters, floundering at the one job he has tonight: intel gathering. He takes a sip and grimaces, extremely bitter, tasting vaguely like vomit on his sensitive tastebuds, probably attributed to the unfortunate combination of Cointreau and vodka. He sets it down, and stares at the candle in the centre of the table, the only source of natural light in the room, basquing its surrounding surfaces in a gentle, glowing light, easier on Clark’s eyes.

The music and LEDs switch off, save for the ones lining the stage, making Clark blink at the abrupt shift in lighting, vision adjusting immediately. An artificial, yellow toned spotlight brings the pole into focus as someone materialises from the pitch black, along with a sultry saxophone and double bass duet, the white light making his latex bunny suit look like a disco ball. The red lights illuminate the outlines of soft muscle and his cock from underneath with an ominous glow, brightly coloured markings like a venomous warning sign. He takes heavy steps down the catwalk in the thickest boots Clark has ever seen, boots that look like they take forever to put on. His walk is brutally precise and calculated, devastatingly toned legs wrapping around the pole like a spider. Clark can’t believe how gracefully he moves for someone with such heavy shoes. He lifts himself up like he weighs nothing, twirling round the pole which Clark doesn’t know is spinning, not the performer himself. Various men can be heard hooting, dollar bills being thrown onto the stage. The man’s torso hangs upside-down, black eyes peering from beneath a leather bandit mask that seem to immediately lock with Clark’s. Clark leans forward, mildly intrigued by how the bunny ears remain on his head.

He reminds himself of why he’s here: whispers of a new designer drug in circulation which The Daily Planet has taken responsibility to report on, a blood-red crystalline substance. Both as Clark and as Superman, he feels a duty to protect the citizens of Metropolis from this potentially new threat, and whoever’s behind it. He’s on the clock here, can’t afford to get distracted. But the man is so captivating, an inaudible sonar pulling him in uncontrollably like a magnet. He takes a big gulp of his cocktail, forgetting how awful it tastes, promptly splutters as the performer drops low and slowly stands upright, dragging his crotch against the pole. His movements are a little stiff, but his body speaks for itself - Clark is no better than any other man as his gaze hones in on his ass that’s highlighted by the LEDs and oiled latex. His curtains cling to his forehead as he sweats under the stagelights, the floor more money than stage, he must be a favourite. 

Clark can hear his heartbeat, it remains steady, almost professional sounding. Mechanical. He grunts with each exertion of muscle, shifting under his translucent moonlight skin. Clark tries to ignore the tightness in his jeans, thighs clenching. The man seems to notice Clark’s discomfort, starts staring at him again - it’s almost predatory. Clark places a dollar bill on the stage, tries to blend in, but it looks undeniably awkward. He catches the tiniest hint of a smirk on the man’s face, hears a huff, a ghost of a laugh. 

The stagelights and music fade away into the club’s default as the man finishes his performance and stalks off the stage, white cottontail bobbing with each step. A member of staff gathers up the cash from the stage which has been all but ignored by the patrons now that the man has gone. Clark returns to his drink, not wanting to offend the waiter from earlier. He tries to get it over with, but it just makes him shudder as he downs it.

“Enjoy what you see?” Clark feels the cocktail stinging the back of his nostrils as he startles, so out of sorts, so overwhelmed by the overstimulation of the club, that he doesn’t notice the approach of a man, the performer from mere moments ago, black attire ruthlessly cutting through the endless red sea. It doesn’t even sound like he’s asking a question.

“Exc- excuse me?” Clark coughs, trying to clear the pain in his nose.

“You’ve never been here before.” His monotony is matter-of-fact, straight to the point, stance rigid and trained. There are scars on his exposed skin, both faint and deep, now more visible upclose. He doesn’t look like he belongs here - neither of them do. He remains silent, a gruff, breathless voice hanging in the air, like he’s expecting a response, but Clark doesn’t really know what to say.

“Uh, yeah, no,” Clark rubs his neck, fiddling with the ribbons tied behind his head, “wanted to try something different.”

“That much is obvious.” The man takes a step closer, not sounding particularly convinced, Clark’s knees brushing against those impossibly thick boots, all buckles and matte black leather, squeaking as it makes contact with the denim of Clark’s jeans. 

“Um,” Clark stammers, “I was looking for…” He trails off, face to face with what can only be eloquently described as the man’s clothed penis, the angle unfortunate, head perfectly level with it. “My friend told me about a drug,” he trains his eyes on the floor, “something that elicits immense states of euphoria, a red pill? She said I could find it here. I could really use something like that right now…” He’s not even lying. Anything to get him to loosen up would be muchly appreciated, although he’s dubious as to whether it’ll have any effect on him at all. He feigns ignorance, purposefully misremembering what his source has told him. A microexpression, something impossibly subtle, flickers in the man’s eyes, and he emboldens.

“A red pill? I can show you a better time,” he lifts his leg, puts his foot on the upholstery of the chair, leans in close so that Clark can feel the man’s breath on his nose. He doesn’t really sound particularly amorous. “May I?” Again, he lacks the intonation of a question, but he hovers ever so politely. By the way the man’s pulse elevates ever so slightly, and the glint in his eye, Clark can tell he’s on the right track. Or maybe he’s just pulling at strings, because if he’s honest, he’s immensely curious about the gorgeous man in front of him, wants him to get closer, wants to feel him. It’s inexplicable. Maybe the atmosphere is working its magic, maybe the drug is being pumped through the vents as they speak. All Superman knows is he can’t think rationally in this moment, face to face with the manifestation of desire and want. He swallows heavily, nodding, and the man settles on his lap immediately, forcing Clark to uncross his legs as his thighs are straddled. “Mhm…” He hums knowingly and Clark thinks he’s going to die of embarrassment, erection straining uncomfortably against the man’s inner thigh, denim creating a painful yet delicious crushing sensation. He thinks this must’ve been orchestrated for him, because of course he melts at the face of an intoxicating stranger, lured in by a siren in black, and yet he’s barely uttered a word. 

Clark barely holds back a groan when he starts to move, hips gyrating against his denim-clad cock, the unwavering resolve of Superman crumbling beneath the friction of someone’s ass. His hands remain fast against the cushions of his chair, fingernails clinging to the fibers that threaten to tear, trembling. Superman doesn’t tremble. Superman shouldn’t tremble. But he’s holding himself back. Something inside him is bubbling up, something foreign, never experienced before, inexplicable.

“Why are you scared?” He says, hands that were once bracing themselves on the backrest now delicately holding onto Clark’s wrists, guiding him to take hold of his waist, which is easily eclipsed by the size of Clark’s hands. He finds it incredibly difficult not to clamp down on the man’s hips in a bone-crushing grip, hold him there and rut up against him, so he overcompensates, a feather-light touch as he relinquishes the control he so sorely wishes he could keep.

“What’s your name?” He deflects, and the bandit mask shifts as the performer raises a brow, Clark’s innate desire to connect and befriend, as well as the pressure in his groin, making his brain short circuit, forgetting what the very bandit mask itself represents.

“You can call me B.”

“Must be short for Bare Minimum.” Clark quips, sighing as B runs his fingers down the broad expanse of his chest, cupping at the soft meat of his pecs.

“If you want,” B rests his forehead against Clark’s, wetting his lips with his tongue and Clark gulps. It’s almost comical, the heat conducting through their close proximity.

“I’m Kevin.” He stares at the glossiness of B’s lips, unabashedly. 

“I hope not,” he doesn’t drop the ball, quick witted, “I’m not calling you that,” B pushes Clark’s jacket off his shoulders, letting gravity drop it and pool on the chair. Clark hears B suck in a breath like a gas leak, hissing softly. “You must work out.”

“Uh, yeah,” he chuckles awkwardly, not used to such blatant compliments, “naturally.” B squeezes at Clark’s bicep which instinctively flexes underneath the weight of his fingertips. B looks like he’s making calculations in his head, gaze passive, unfocused. 

As the tension grows, and Superman becomes more daring, he recalls an interaction between him and Lois:

“Perhaps Jimmy could go with you if you’re not comfortable going by yourself?” Lois had asked, reliably thoughtful at the sight of Clark’s discomfort.

“No!” His voice cracked, “no. It’s fine. I’ll go by myself,” he said. He couldn’t imagine a more awkward place to hang out with a friend.

He’s exceptionally glad Jimmy’s not here now, B’s clothed erection insistently rubbing up against his, it sets his brain ablaze, awakening something innate, carnal, something Clark hasn’t grappled with before. He’s already irritatingly aware of the eyes on him, the lucky patron who’s receiving a lapdance from a fan-favourite performer, and it mortifies him. But it also sends tingles down his spine, makes his mouth water, teasing touches and searing-hot fingers, the prospect of escalation becoming an urgent requisite. Clark becomes inpatient, moves his hands down, crowning B’s ass, soft but firm, an almost possessive grip, stinging, as Clark struggles to hold back the peculiar primal urge in his guts. B whimpers in Clark’s ear, hot breath fanning over the shell of it. Clark shivers, leaning his head back. B lunges, going straight for his neck, licking a long stripe up the column of his neck, and up to his earlobe, nibbling and tugging on it. Clark doesn’t even care about potential hickies dissipating too quickly as B moves back down and sinks his teeth into the flesh of his Adam’s apple. 

“You like being watched?” Clark’s cock throbs. “Obviously.” B mutters, lips brushing against Clark’s skin. “You don’t belong here do you?”

“I’m sorry?” Clark asks, words stuck in his throat.

“Don’t apologise,” Clark blinks, confusion glazing his eyes, “the clientele here are… wealthy: CEOs, businessmen, politicians. Your jacket is fake leather.”

“Can’t a rich man be concerned about the ethics of leather production?” 

“It’s unheard of. And your Giorgio Armani…” He scoffs, humming as he runs his hands along the fabric of Clark’s t-shirt, deliberately lingering over the peaks and valleys of soft muscle. “That’s fake too, the vinyl print glares too much, I could see it across the room.” Clark doesn’t say anything, a little dumbfounded. “Someone of your stature, they’d usually want to show that off. But you’re desperate to hide it as much as possible. But everyone’s watching you now.” There’s a whisper of glee in B’s voice, it’s the most expressive Clark has heard him all night. 

“You don’t belong here either,” Clark deflects, “Your skills on the pole are excellent but…” Clark’s fingers knead at the flesh of B’s ass, “you don’t move like a dancer, you move like an assassin, careful, stiff, trained. Yet you’re the most popular one here, why is that?” Clark thinks back to the stage carpeted in dollar bills like a forest floor.

“Would you like to find out?” B whispers, scorching hot in Clark’s ear and he sighs, sinking into the chair. He claws at B’s ass, growling.

“Oh gosh yes.” Getting B alone would be ideal, despite how desperately Clark wants to get laid. The corner of B’s lip twitches as he promptly gets off Clark’s lap, in which Clark hisses from the lack of contact. His wrist is grabbed as he’s taken to a door at the edge of the club, jacket abandoned on the lone chair. They’re followed by whistles and whoops from the other patrons and it makes Clark’s cheeks burn. The door swings open, and then shut, in one swift motion, as B shoves him into a side room, an air of desperation about him. 

Clark takes a microsecond to appreciate the fresh air before it’s replaced by the humidity of the B’s mouth, the mood lighting ever present, but swapped with the warm gentle glow of bedside lamps with wonky shades and winding rose-gold stems. It’s small, closely acquainted. A round bed sits in the centre of the room, chocolate brown leather instead of linen, screaming an ulterior motive: easy cleaning, sterility. Sandy tulle curtains drape from the wooden armature fastened to the eggshell ceiling. A cocobolo bachelor chest nestles in the corner, a bin next to it. He hears a sharp, purposeful click behind him as the B locks the door, promising debauched affairs, hidden behind closed doors, immersed in intimacy, a room designed for things that would make Clark blush.

“What are you really here for?” B says against Clark’s lower lip, catching it between his teeth. 

“I told you, that red pill.” Clark feels emboldened by their new found privacy, firmly pulling B towards him as B pins him against the door, their crotches flush. 

“I think you’re after intel, I meant it when I said you don’t belong here.”

“Couldn’t the same be said for you? You’re clever, strong, you overcompensate by…” Clark huffs, suddenly shy, “having… relations with the guests of this club, right? You’re not just a performer are you?” Clark sees B smile. It’s just small, but he looks excited, almost relieved.

“You’re something else.” B lunges forward, tongue diving into Clark’s mouth. Clark simply lets him, B running his tongue along his teeth and gums, lips impossibly soft and sweet tasting, floral. “the drug you’re asking for is why I’m here.”

“You’re looking for a high too?” Clark maintains a strange balance of feigned ignorance and actual insight. But his tenacity is slipping away from him with each flick of B’s tongue. 

“That would be unprofessional.”

“And being undercover isn’t?”

“I need to know who’s supplying it in this area.” B simply says, pausing the incessant grinding to reach forward and squeeze firmly at Clark’s generous erection. “You’re so big…” He mutters under his breath.

“I- In…” Clark clears his throat, chest tight, “this area? So it’s being supplied in other cities?” He ruts up against B’s hand, grabbing onto his wrist to keep it there. “Tell me what you know.”

“Information comes with a price.” The denim of Clark’s jeans means the friction is just not enough and Clark pushes his weight forward, but the gratification just doesn’t come. 

“Hah…” Superman is already breathless, and he inwardly chastises himself for letting himself go so easily, “I have a source… They have friends who frequent gay clubs such as this. They all gossip, a new drug was mentioned.”

“I need a name.”

“What are you going to do to them?” Clark leans forward and bites at B’s neck, 

“If I can talk to your source, they can point me towards those who’ve had a fix, find out where they got it from.” He’s breathy, trying to hold back the noises that Clark desperately wants to hear. It seems straightforward enough, but Clark looks uncertain. 

“I need to talk to my source first. Have you got a contact so we can stay in touch? I just… I don’t feel right telling a stranger the name of a potentially vulnerable person. Especially after things they’ve been through.” Clark grimaces, he knows Eve can hold her own, but Lex is still brutal, albeit pathetic. Even though she’s strong, Clark still has an innate sense to protect her, like with all of his friends. B’s mouth forms a thin line as he considers Clark’s offer, and Clark continues to suck and bite purple-red bruises into Bruce’s neck. 

“What a convoluted way to ask for my number.” He sighs, a pretty little noise, angling his chin. Clark’s face goes red, comically so, and B marvels at the absurdity of the situation. “Calm down,” B takes a step back, undoing the string behind his head. It’s a calculated risk, but it creates room for negotiation. His hair somehow neatens as he pulls his mask back, pushing his messy bangs out of his face and letting the bunny ears drop to the floor. His black eyeshadow sits heavy around his eyes and waterline, hiding how large they really are, mottled at the edges like capillaries.

“Gosh,” Clark says quietly as he immediately recognises the man before him. “It’s incredible what a mask can do, Bruce Wayne.”

“The drug is a crystal called Bliss, orally ingested. Oswald Cobb, alias: The Penguin, is the current manufacturer.” Like he has been all night, Bruce gets straight to the point. With the mask stripped away his voice seems to have softened somewhat. It’s barely noticeable, but Clark can hear the difference starkly. “It originated in Gotham and I’ve been monitoring its movements. But it’s somehow seeped into the depths of Metropolis. The Penguin probably saw a clientele in those who experienced the brunt of the damage caused by Lex Luthor’s interdimensional rift.” Bruce crowds Clark’s space again, and Clark’s hands happily return to settle on Bruce’s ass. “If you’re after an interview, I wouldn’t recommend it. Gotham would eat you alive.”

“And yet a billionaire playboy finds himself in a club like this,” Clark has to hide a snort and nudges his nose into the crook of Bruce’s neck. “What business would you even have with Bliss?”

“I happen to own some of the- ah! Fuck,” Bruce cries out as Clark’s teeth sink in again and tug at the tender skin where his shoulder meets his neck. Clark’s dick twitches. Bruce Wayne: moaning, coming undone because of him, blessing Clark ears. It’s less performative now that they’re somewhere private, more unstable, imperfect, gorgeous. “I own some of the clubs in Metropolis. If there’s a potential a drug could sneak its way into one of them I need to prevent that from happening.” It’s much deeper than that, Bruce’s obligations as Batman giving him stronger ties to The Penguin and therefore Bliss, but he doesn’t need to divulge that.

“It’s an unorthodox way of going about it…” Clark’s voice is muffled around the skin between his teeth, desperate to drag out more of those delicious noises coming from Bruce, desperate to mark his already marred skin even further. 

“And yet… I’ve chosen to disclose my identity to you. I trust that you won’t tell anyone about my endeavours. And in return, you need to trust that I won’t harm your source.”

“You don’t want to give me your number? I’m wounded, Bruce,” Clark’s voice is low, sucking bruises across Bruce’s neck and chest, “It’s Eve Teschmacher.” Bruce whimpers, letting himself be vulnerable little by little. 

“I can feel your fingers trembling,” Bruce whispers seemingly satisfied with the information he’s acquired, “you’re holding back. I can take it.”

“I don’t… I don’t think you can.” Clark’s brows knit, and Bruce frowns at him, like he’s offended. 

“Don’t patronise me.” And Bruce reaches out, unbuckling Clark’s belt, which lands on the floor with a dull thud. His jeans come next, button undone and fly pulled down. His jeans crumple to the floor, revealing a stubborn farmer’s tan that just won’t go away. He palms at the bulge in Clark’s boxers, the stark white almost translucent, the blush pink of Clark’s tip peaks through. Bruce’s lips moisten. Clark’s chest heaves, and it feels like his body is pumping with energy, like he’s holding back. Bruce crouches, mouthing at Clark through the fabric of his underwear. “You can let go.” Bruce’s voice is thick with something else, and it makes Clark’s pupils dilate, jaw clench, the baby hairs on his neck prickling. Clark looks at his hands like they don’t belong to his body, gaze flicking back and forth between each hand, and then down at Bruce who’s working a wet spot on Clark’s boxers, nudging his nose against his dick. He turns his hands over, staring at the faint hair on his knuckles that bristle. The most apt comparison is drunkenness, but Clark’s been intoxicated before, and this is beyond that, his entire body poised to pounce, but it’s not adrenaline, there’s no threat here. 

He buries his hand in Bruce’s hair, stray grey hairs glinting in the warm light, giving up on figuring it out his incomprehensible emotions. Clark hears a mere suggestion of breath as Bruce silently gasps, and Clark lifts him up to his feet like he’s nothing. Latex creaks under Superman’s grip, and he tears it apart like autopsy incisions. It’s liberating, forgetting to hide his strength. Bruce’s face is unreadable, not scared but surprised. Maybe. The ruined garment collapses to the floor, revealing a lack of underwear on Bruce’s part. And it does nothing to stop Clark’s frenzy, manhandling Bruce back onto the ground, knees crashing to the floor. The boots stay on. Clark doesn't want them off. He doesn’t waste time freeing his dick from his boxers and Bruce doesn’t waste time, lunging forward to wrap his lips around Clark’s tip, but Clark catches him, left hand in that jet black hair again. 

“Wait.” He says, testing both of their patience. “Sit still.” He uses his spare hand to keep his dick steady, holding it at the base, tip beading with pre, swollen, eager. He smears it across Bruce’s cheek, and his heart leaps gleefully, drowning in the giddy thrill of ruining that pretty face. “Open your mouth.” And Bruce does, sticking his tongue out like a trap, tantalising. Clark rests his heavy tip on Bruce’s tongue, just letting it sit there. And he sighs at the heat of it, the wetness of Bruce’s mouth growing harder and harder to ignore. Bruce isn’t sure what he’s waiting for, tries to move forward to swallow him down, and Clark feels the way Bruce’s muscles tense, but doesn’t let him move an inch, holding him steadfast. “I told you to sit still, Bruce.” Clark’s voice is eerily level, too calm, but his eyes are wild, pupils blown, using his name like a reprimand. Bruce’s jaw starts to ache under the weight of Clark’s cock, impossible to swallow down the saliva pooling underneath his tongue, letting it dribble along the underside of it. “You look like a dog.” Again comes Clark’s scarily even voice. Bruce doesn’t know what to do about it, nor can he respond, mouth preoccupied. “Mouth all wet, tongue out, just for me. See how much of me you can take.” He grants Bruce permission to move, punishing grip releasing from his hair. Bruce pushes himself down onto Clark’s cock a bit faster than he’d like to admit, testing how far he can go. The girth, the length, it’s incredible. Bruce takes it as a challenge, ignoring the way his throat protests at the intrusion. 

He jerks back, no longer able to ignore the gag reflex that had threatened to rear itself. Bruce opens his mouth wide while he retches, head lurching forward. Clark is panting, again staring down at the beautiful sight before him. 

“It’s really thick.” Bruce wipes his mouth of the spit, not aware of the feral look in Clark’s eyes. Desperate, poised. His dick is tantalisingly close to Bruce’s vacant mouth, wet and cold. He braces his hands on the back of Bruce’s head and plunges forward, not giving him time to recover before his mouth is unceremoniously occupied. 

“You enjoy teasing me, slut?”

Where did that come from?

Bruce can’t respond as Clark sets a brutal rate, and all he can do is just let it happen, and God does he want it to happen. His head remains stationary, Clark holding it perfectly still with an effortless strength. His throat burns, and his eyes sting, and his cock weeps. 

“Fuck, finally. That’s it, that’s it.” Clark swearing is a rare occurrence, but he’s still more likely to curse as Clark Kent than Superman. And disregarding the feverish effects of lust, this feels like an appropriate occasion. Clark’s smell invades Bruce’s senses, mostly cheap cologne, detergent, and something inherently musky. The warmth of the billionaire’s mouth is delicious, it feels like Clark’s dick is melting. 

Clark’s tip hits the back of Bruce’s throat, still not yet bottomed out. But he mercilessly keeps going, and Bruce looks up at him, forcing his eyes to widen, pleading, desperate. Bruce’s eyes are always like that, always big and sad-looking in the photographs taken of him and plastered on tabloids and newspapers alike.  

“Take it.” Clark is blunt, pushes further and Bruce’s throat clamps around him as his gag reflex kicks in. “You said you could take it.” Bruce rolls his eyes and anger wells up inside him, heat raising up his shoulders and neck, his abdomen tightens. With one final shove, Clark’s fully enveloped in Bruce’s mouth, replacing any empty space inside with cock, lungs aching. “You should have no problem holding your breath, you said you could take it,” Clark reiterates for the first time. 

And granted, Bruce probably can, vigilante life throwing various injuries and broken bones his way. But the mystifying power that somehow radiates off the man who looms over him is something else, otherworldly. He was shy, mild mannered, terrified even, but Bruce can sense the switch in behaviour plain as day. Bruce is strong too, eager to prove himself, and his stare on Clark hardens, burning into his retinas. They stay like that for a good while, Bruce loses track as his eyes involuntarily water, black staining his cheeks. 

“Wow… You look incredible like this.” Clark breathes as Bruce kneels, worshipping (warming) Clark’s cock, kneecaps aching on the hard floor. When Clark grows bored, he starts thrusting again, giving Bruce the privilege of milliseconds of breath, like he’s barely able to keep his head above water. 

When was the last time this guy fucked?

Clark’s abdomen tightens, heat coiling deep within himself, and he speeds up, chasing that feeling, cock swelling cruelly in Bruce’s mouth. His eyes roll into the back of his head, jaw and chest gnawing at him. 

“Is it painful?” Bruce can’t answer, merely grunting with something akin to alarm and defiance. “I can’t begin to imagine what it feels like!” He’s so overtaken by lust, voice airy and delirious. Doesn’t even register how unlike him this all is. His birth parents never told him much about Kryptonian biology, a volatile cocktail of unknown hormones raging through his body, poised and ready for procreation and harems. He’d had many an awkward conversation with Ma and Pa about human reproduction, leaving Clark red in the face, head in his hands, eyes trained to the ground. They were sat on that rusty bench, him and Pa, paint chipping off like crumbs onto the floor. Even all these years later, Clark remembers cleaning it up afterwards so the birds wouldn’t eat it. Those conversations feel like a waste now, not worth the cringe of it all, as his lack of understanding of Kryptonian behaviours really hammers home when his dick is shoved all the way down Gotham’s princess’s throat. He looks natural like this, eyes wide and watery.

“Oh fuck.” Clark growls, low and loud and angry, as he pumps into Bruce’s throat, “take it nice and deep for me.” The amount is unprecedented, and Bruce physically can’t hold it all, cum dribbling down his chin and out of his nose, desperately trying to swallow to compensate for the volume of it all. But with Clark’s cock so deep in his mouth, it’s impossible. Bruce feels like he’s drowning. All Superman can focus on is the incredible heat, the relief, thigh’s clenching. “There’s… There’s still more.” 

He starts thrusting again, the sensitivity from his recent orgasm only spurring Clark on more. Bruce’s mouth is uncomfortably, impractically full, the murky salty bitterness of Clark’s cum stubbornly remaining. It doesn’t take long for Clark to reach his peak again, that familiar, sharp tingling alerting him of how close he is.

“Ready?” Clark is irritatingly cryptic, but Bruce knows exactly what he means. Clark slows, moving his hips more languidly, trying to prolong it. The feeling is incredible: tightrope walking between bathing in pleasure and spilling into Bruce once more, a delicate balance that Clark is trying to maintain not so gracefully. When Bruce’s vision starts to go blurry around the corners, he’s given another dose, this time Clark burying himself as far as he can go while Bruce’s nose buries itself in Clark’s wiry pubic hair. It goes directly into his stomach. They both shudder together, Bruce painfully hard and desperately cold, wants to be enveloped in Clark. Clark stays there, still, aside from the twitching of his hips and ass, as he continues to pour himself into Bruce. All Bruce can do in return is stare up at him, big, round, defiant eyes, putting all their focus on trying not to suffocate or choke, and when Clark finally, finally, pulls out, Bruce hunches over and wretches, as Clark’s dick brushes up against the top of his mouth, a mixture of cum and saliva splattering onto the floor. He wipes his nose of cum and snot, lets himself dry heave and breathe, none the wiser to Clark’s approach, as he’s promptly shoved to the floor, cheek firmly pressed into wet linoleum. “Are you serious, Bruce? So ungrateful. Clean up your mess. It’s disgusting.” 

Bruce can’t move his head under the weight of Clark’s hand, only able to squeeze his tongue past his lips and lick the best he can. It should taste awful. It’s unremarkable in comparison to other flings he’s had in the past, same old bitter, musky, strange flavour. But Bruce somehow loves it. He recalls people he’s seduced to get information out of, or to dissuade any conjecture of his relations to Batman, or one night stands with men and women and people alike to sate his touch-starved soul. Cum has always tasted the same to him, save for slight differences in diet, sometimes sweeter, sometimes saltier, but they always left that odd bitter aftertaste. Clark’s is no different, and yet Bruce can’t get enough of it. 

Either Clark is satisfied or bored because Bruce is yanked up by the hair, and thrown onto the bed in the centre of the room, tulle curtains flaring open and settling back down, caught under Bruce’s ass. His scalp smarts, grunting from the impact, shuffling awkwardly to free the curtains from underneath him. He wants to put up a fight, enjoys the back and forth dynamic, but can’t physically resist even if he tried, Clark’s strength unwavering.

“Where did this come from? A man like you, quivering in your brogues, way out of your depth. You possessed or something?” Bruce can still quip at him, chip at his ego, and Clark scoffs, kicking off said brogues and removing his boxers and jeans completely. 

“Still don’t know what to call me do you?” Clark approaches Bruce, an absolute beast of a man, solid muscle under soft fat, big. And Bruce takes him in as Clark stalks him, eyes glinting red, almost white, animalistic. 

“I’ll see what comes naturally, sir.” Bruce tastes it on his tongue. Sir. It feels good. But it could be better. Clark, though, clearly seems to like it, cock bouncing, still hard, despite cumming twice. It sends a thrill down his spine, having the control handed to him on a silver plate. It’s almost too easy. 

“You’re awfully obedient.” Clark removes his t-shirt, accidentally tearing an armpit seam in the process, pecs soft looking and pillowy, a farmer’s tan makes itself evident as a slightly paler torso is revealed, arms darker.

“Perhaps I already know what I want.” Clark stares, standing over Bruce who has propped himself up on his elbows, legs wide open from when he was thrown onto the bed.

“And what if I don’t give it to you?” Clark’s lip quivers, a smirk threatening to poke through, “regardless of your obedience, I don’t appreciate you manipulating me into giving you what you want. You haven’t earned it, nor is it your call to make.” He crawls on top of Bruce, parting the curtains to settle his thighs around Bruce’s, body hair dark but soft looking and wispy. His back flexes, shoulder blades spreading out like wings. 

“You will.” Bruce doesn’t get much time to react before his dick is crushed by Clark’s knee. He wails under the pressure, an octave higher than he’s ever heard himself before. 

“Tell me. What do you want? I won’t know unless you tell me.” There’s something sickly about Clark’s voice. Way too excited to be causing so much pain. But despite the nausea, the sharp pain in his balls, his cock twitches eagerly under Clark’s weight, and a high pitched moan escapes his lips wantonly. 

“I want-...” Bruce can’t quite get the words out of his mouth, getting caught in his used throat.

“Speak, boy.” It’s utterly disarming, hearing Clark speak like that. It feels like Bruce has known Clark for years, long enough to know that this is completely out of character. Bruce tears up for the second time that evening, squirming underneath Clark’s knee.

“I want you to f- fuuuucck,” he groans again, wiggling his hips, and if Clark didn’t know any better, he’d think that Bruce was grinding down against him. “Fuck m- me…” The pressure lessens, Clark’s head perking up, as if he’s waiting for elaboration. “I want you to destroy me, take whatever you want, oh shit, I haven’t had this for so long.” Clark cuts him off, kisses him deeply. There’s something tactical about it, like Clark’s savouring everything Bruce’s mouth has to offer, like he’s trying to taste himself on Bruce’s tongue. He does, catching the lingering salt, the acidity. Slowly, ever so slowly, Clark’s knee relents, and returns to its place framing the outside of Bruce’s thigh, pulling away from the kiss and being met with an indignant whine from Bruce.

“Would you want me to go slow or fast, Bruce?” It sounds like an order. Bruce is struggling to comprehend it all. 

“It’s not up to me.” Bruce is careful with his words, feeling like he’s being tested. “I told you, take whatever you want from me. However you do it is not up to me,” he sounds breathless, still recovering. Clark’s expression softens somewhat, like he’s proud.

“Fast learner.” He mutters, opening up Bruce’s legs and awkwardly positioning himself in between them, tempted to hover, but doesn’t, stops himself, even in his drunkenly lustful haze. “You have no idea how desperately I want to take you like this, right now, watch you split open from my cock, no prep, watch you bleed.” He’s mostly saying it for show, he knows that it would be an unpleasant experience for both of them, too tight for either of them to feel good, although, he’s pretty sure Bruce’ll bleed anyway, just from the sheer size of it all. But he revels in the reaction he gets out of Bruce, a simultaneous look of fear and intrigue, and excitement. He doesn’t miss the way Bruce’s cock twitches with anticipation. “I won’t do that, though. I’d probably kill you,” he chuckles, and it’s eerie, Bruce unable to figure out whether it’s worse or better that Clark is genuinely laughing, no sarcasm detectable in his voice. It’s probably worse. 

“I doubt that.” Bruce can’t hold back the cockiness for long. He knows his strength, confident in his resolve. But he doesn’t know what he’s in for, can’t begin to comprehend it at all.

“Slow down, boy, see if you can take my fingers first.” He reaches forward, index finger outstretched and prodding at Bruce’s lips for entry. His back straightens at attention, Clark not waiting for his mouth to open before rudely prodding inside, pressing his index and middle finger onto the flat of Bruce’s tongue which curls around and wets them profusely, lips creating a tight seal. “You already know what to do, slut like you, must’ve done this before.”

“You think thish ish a shtruggle f’ me?” Bruce manoeuvres his voice around Clark’s fingers, “nothin’ cohmpared to your-...” An awful guttural sound comes from Bruce’s throat as Clark shoves his fingers farther down than his cock could go, thinner and nimbler, but still pretty thick. 

“Stop talking.” There’s a look on Clark’s face, scary, uncontrollable, like he’s not about to let up. Bruce’s eyes widen pathetically, a fresh, shiny sheen upon them, chocolate button eyes pleading. Clark pulls away, resting his fingers on Bruce’s tongue again, forcing his mouth open, and he can’t swallow, forcing him to drool on himself like a dog. They stay like that for what feels like too long, and Bruce can’t tear his eyes away from Clark’s, utterly captivating, magnetic. Clarks hums for a second, then pushes in again, brushing them up against the roof of Bruce’s mouth, ticklish, choking him on his fingers. “Think they’re lubed up enough?” He asks, knowing Bruce can’t answer. All Bruce can do is hold his breath, and focus on not vomiting. Clark scrutinises him, and this weird standoff lasts for an indeterminable amount of time. then his fingers withdraw altogether. 

He flips him over, Bruce grunting softly as his chest hits the bed. His back forms a whorish curve as he arches his back. Clark sits on his heels between Bruce’s legs.

“That’s it. Know exactly what to do,” Clark mumbles to himself, preoccupied with cupping Bruce’s left arse cheek, noticing bruises blooming from where he’d grabbed him earlier. He stares at his spit-slick fingers for a second before nudging his index against the rim of Bruce’s hole which instinctively tenses at the intrusion. 

“Oh my God…” Clark barely whispers, almost inaudible. 

“Almost. Relax, sweetheart. Or it’ll hurt more.” More. Bruce’s stomach drops at that. Clark circles his asshole, teasing. The room stills, quietens, even the thumping bass seems to dull down. All Clark can hear is Bruce’s breathing, which seems to gradually slow down, deepen, a self soothing gesture. Clark pushes in, a little resistance at first, a consequence of insufficient lubrication. His cock jumps against his thigh, thinking about what it’ll feel like putting it inside. Each of his knuckles act as markers and Bruce can feel the bump of each one as his finger slowly enters, and once he counts one, then two, and feels the bump of a third sitting against the outside of his hole, Bruce knows it’s buried to the hilt. 

Bruce whimpers, thighs trembling, as Clark pulls (tears) his finger out, and Bruce keens at the burn of it. Clark’s finger is pulled out to the tip, before he pushes back in again, more smooth this time. He curves it, and it ghosts against a bundle of nerves that makes Bruce’s hips hitch. Clark senses it, pulls away immediately, and with each thrust, he stops just shy of it, leaving Bruce a shaking mess, his dick crushed over his own weight, rubbing raw against the leather, grinding feverishly for some kind of friction. It’s too much for him, yet not enough. It hurts, but it’s all he has.

“Look at you. Completely undone by just my fingers. Where’s that confidence gone? Realise how utterly screwed you are yet?” Clark boasts, because he can, and then pushes harder, hooks his finger more to press properly against Bruce’s prostate. And Bruce sobs, hole reflexively clenching around Clark’s finger. He thrusts it in and out a few more times, hitting Bruce’s prostate dead on each time, bathing in the silky, seductive noises he makes. Bruce’s eyes water for the umpteenth time, losing track of how many times, tears spilling onto his forearms that his forehead is resting on.

And Clark pulls his finger out, and Bruce can’t believe the sound he makes, whining petulantly, feeling unpleasantly empty. But it doesn’t last long, Clark’s fingers returning two-fold, the burn and resistance returning, scissoring and pumping his hand back and forth, still jabbing at that delicious bundle of nerves inside Bruce. They both unravel, becoming more desperate by the minute, Bruce growing overstimulated, paradoxically from the lack of stimulation, only gratification coming from the way that Clark bullies his prostate, doesn’t leave it alone. Clark is growing impatient, moving his fingers a bit too quickly, leaving Bruce’s ass sore.

When Bruce thinks it’s over, Clark adds a third, leaving Bruce wailing with both disappointment and excitement, arms sopping with saliva and tears. Each brush against his prostate becomes more and more painful, and Clark gets dizzy with it, continuing to stretch Bruce out, only to hear him muttering to himself, feverish, almost incoherent. 

“What do you want?” Clark is effortlessly authoritative, fingers stilling inside Bruce, and Bruce can’t tell if this is worse.

“I- hnnh… I want you to f- fuck me.” A slight exhale comes out of Clark’s nostrils, amused. 

“Then beg for it. Surely Gotham’s Princess knows how to say please and thank you.” Bruce’s cheeks (face) burn, cock weeping against the bed and his stomach. His shoulders tense, hesitating, mustering up the courage to stoop so low. 

“Please.” Bruce says meekly, and Clark is baffled. It’s pathetic, sad even. He smacks his ass before Bruce can even realise, and his hole clenches at the point of impact, the slap ringing out, only to stop short by the size of the room itself.

“Gone quiet now? Stage fright? I know you can do better.” It’s disingenuous, aiming to make Bruce feel as ashamed of himself as possible. The silence prolongs, and Bruce breathes harder, he should be able to do this, years of masking at galas and charity auctions should make this easy, but under this much perusal, from, essentially, a stranger, sets Bruce’s brain on fire, and he forgets everything he knows. Clark takes advantage of the moment to press all three fingers against Bruce’s prostate again, and he screams, screams, and grinds his ass up against Clark’s fingers, and then back down onto the bed, groans and it’s downright pornographic, reminiscent of those amateur videos Clark browses in the deep recesses of the room. Lights and volume turned down low, despite being in the confines and privacy of his own apartment. 

“Daddy, please! Fuck me with that f- fat cock of yours! I- I… I can’t take it anymore, my cock hurts. I need you to fi- fill me so bad, daddy. Please?” Clark definitely takes note of what slips out of Bruce’s mouth, and his dick notices too. 

“Daddy issues, huh?” He murmurs, fingers receding, and Bruce sighs, relieved. But Clark doesn’t grant him what he begs for, using both hands to completely spread Bruce apart. Doesn’t guide his dick. Leans forward, tongue licking a long stripe from his sack to his asshole. Bruce cannot control the obscenities that come out of his mouth, babbling incoherently, back arching to meet Clark’s face. And Clark pushes his tongue into Bruce’s loosened hole. 

It’s indescribable. It’s so close but far from what Bruce wants. Hot and wet. Bruce doesn’t taste like anything. But Clark is loving how it makes Bruce squirm, whine, push his ass back. 

“Please, please, please, please…” He chants, over and over, begging, praying for what he wants so desperately, “need your cock, daddy, wanna satisfy you, just use me, please,” any decorum Bruce holds is lost, proper pronunciation, ‘etiquette’, gone, ebbed away over the course of the past thirty minutes. And Clark is finding it hard to ignore how painfully hard he still is, how desperate he wants to fill Bruce up with him. He pulls his tongue out, circles it around Bruce’s hole, plunges it in again, teases him with it. Tries to prolong it as much as Clark possibly can before he completely loses control. 

By the time Clark pulls away, Bruce has gone almost completely silent, save for the occasional gasp as he rucks his cock up against the leather.

“You’re a mess.” Clark sounds almost fond, and he shuffles on his knees so he’s closer to Bruce’s ass, spreads him apart with one hand and holds his own cock in the other, guiding it to press his blunt tip against Bruce, who arches his back against. “Stay still. Or else I won’t give you what you want.” Clark doesn’t hold him down this time, confident that he’s worn down Bruce’s resilience enough that he’ll just obey. And he does, remains deathly still as Clark’s tip smears pre all over his entrance. It’s incredibly hot, welcoming for his cock. He pushes, and it slips, still just a little too tight, and Clark just a little too big. He tries again, holding his cock stable and pushing almost rudely, watching Bruce’s hole struggle around his girth. Bruce whines beneath him, fingers digging into the bed beneath him, creaking under the pressure, while Clark’s fingers dig into Bruce’s ass cheek. “Breathe. You can take it.” It sounds more like an order than reassurance, and his hips give a sharp, brief shove, and his tip slips in, and even the sensation of just his tip in Bruce’s ass could make Clark come if he’s not careful. Bruce hisses at the burn, while Clark groans, low and possessive and blissful, at the sensation of his boy squeezing around him. “Even now, you’re so tight. Ever had someone this big before?” 

Bruce can’t speak, can’t get his breath out, as Clark continues to push, doesn’t give Bruce time to adjust. And he reaches the widest section of his cock, and Clark continues anyway, and it feels like hours. He’s halfway in when Clark’s cock bumps into his prostate.

“Oh fuck! Jesus f- fuh… fucking Christ, it’s too much! It’s incredible! It feels like I’m on fire, you- you’re tearing me apart!” He can’t help but move, it’s instinct, as the pleasure overwhelms him, tingles all the way down to his toes, cockhead almost purple with how desperate he wants to come. 

“I told you I would. C’mon baby, stay still,” he’s still pushing in, letting go of his cock to run his hand along Bruce’s back, finding a home at the small of it, pressing firmly. A few more minutes go by, Clark slowly, torturously inching forward, and Bruce sobbing into his arms. 

He bottoms out. And Clark growls, a deep rumble in his chest, satisfied with the way that Bruce’s heat encapsulates him, so warm and wet. 

“Nice ‘n tight for me, gonna ruin you for everyone else. Gonna ruin everyone else for you. Every time you fuck, every time you touch yourself, all you’ll be able to think about is me. How good my cock feels. How good you feel. And how no one else will be able to make you feel like this. How you’ll be too loose for anyone else after I stretch you out…” Clark is practically drooling as he hunches over Bruce’s back, feeling the wetness pooling in the subtle dips of back muscle. Bruce just hums desperately, unable to move from the hand pushing him down. He tries to angle his hips, Clark can feel the shift of muscle beneath his palm, but to no avail. “Breathe through it. Breathe.” Bruce can’t. Well he can but it takes way more effort than Bruce wants to exert. Until Clark runs his hand up and down, up and down, fingernails digging in ever so slightly, running over scar tissue and the bumps of his spine. “Breathe, doll.” A deep Southern drawl pokes out from the woodworks, which Bruce can’t help but clench over, and Clark doesn’t miss that. 

Eventually his hand drags over Bruce’s skin to hold his wrist, bringing it down, squeezing between the bed and Bruce’s abdomen, pressing his hand against it. Bruce can feel the outline of Clark’s cock, the curve of it, firm inside him. Bruce groans at the sensation of it. 

“So full…” His voice is thick with lust, sweet and rich like honey. His eyes glaze over, like he’s hypnotised. All he can do is drool all over himself as Clark lets go, goes back to pinning him down. 

“Keep feeling it, don’t you dare touch yourself,” Clark draws his hips back, drags them back painfully slowly, and Bruce’s body sinks down, like he’s melting into the leather. Clark stares at his own cock unsheathing from Bruce’s ass, stained crimson. Clark snaps back, slams into his prostate with his swollen head, Bruce feeling it slide back in roughly through his hand. 

“Fuck! Oh fuck, I’m going to die.” Bruce babbles, unable to do anything but just take it. 

“Might do,” Clark bends over Bruce, growls as he drags his teeth across his shoulder blades and bites, ragging at the skin, brings both arms to wrap around the man’s chest, hold him impossibly tight, as his legs hook around Bruce’s knees, pushing all of his weight on him - Bruce’s arm goes numb under his own and Clark’s mass. 

Clark begins an even, steady pace, chain jangling rhythmically against the hollow of his neck, ripping strained whimpers and sobs out of Bruce’s who still hasn’t adjusted to Clark’s sheer size. But Clark can’t find the ability to care, nailing his prostate every time. The way Bruce becomes overwhelmed, non-verbal from the pain that he feels, makes Clark’s movements become more fevered, and the bed shifts and groans from the force and speed of Clark’s thrusts. He fucks him wantonly, buring his nose into the back of Bruce’s neck, licking him. It tickles, almost, and Bruce loves it. 

He’s been getting off solely from Clark’s cock knocking into him and the friction of the bed rubbing him sore. He’s sure his cockhead is purple from how desperately he wants to cum. The pleasure-pain amplifies with each stroke, and he’s sure the lubrication isn’t just coming from the spit and pre-cum, narrowly picking up the sour tang of iron that has wafted into the room. The absolute devastation this man has caused him causes a lopsided smile to spread across his face, eyes and nose scrunching up with each nail of his prostate. He can’t find his words, going dumb on Clark’s dick, thick, long, uncut. He can feel his balls smacking against his taint. It’s too perfect, all of it. It’s all Bruce has ever wanted, previous suitors treating him like glass, the orphan who lost his parents at a young age, alone to deal with his family’s fortune, alone to keep the fortune going. But this stranger, this frankly eccentric, bizarre man, splitting him apart with no regard, using him like a toy, only using him for his own pleasure; it makes Bruce feel euphoric, floaty, like he doesn’t have to worry about anything, let Clark guide him, take control, look after him.

Bruce has been getting progressively louder, and progressively more high pitched, and Clark can sense that he’s close with the way his hole keeps clenching. Clark’s close too. 

“You gonna cum untouched, huh? My cock that good?”

“Yes, hahh…” His voice comes out breathy, lungs straining under the heaviness of them both.

“Yes to what?” Clark tries to get him to talk more, if only just to taunt him more with how strained, how trapped he is underneath him. 

“Both. ‘M gonna cum, daddy,” Bruce chases the feeling of that amplifying pressure building up in his guts, ready to uncoil and explode. Clark also feels that pressure, ready to crash over them both. His thrusts slow, deepens, and it becomes impossibly more painful as Bruce takes the time to grind against that bundle of nerves inside him. His right arm fastens around Bruce’s neck, squeezing just hard enough to block a certain amount of airflow, but not enough to fucking kill him. It doesn’t take long after that, the lack of oxygen only accelerating his approaching orgasm. Bruce’s voice all but malfunctions, jittering and cracking, gasping, hiccuping, as he spills onto the bed and soils his stomach. He doesn’t think he’s come that hard in his life, a string of mindless “daddy, fuck, so good, fill me up, please, please, please”s spill out of him like the cum spills out of his cock, messy, uncontrollable, unbearably hot. 

“I’ll fill you up alright, baby boy. Take it nice ‘n deep, yeah?” He doesn’t give Bruce much more warning than that as he gives one more thrust, that Bruce notes feels more final than the others, as Clark presses particularly hard, as if he’s burying himself inside as deep as possible, and he cums with a throaty groan, pumping him with it, painting his insides a foggy white. The amount still shocks Bruce, even after cumming multiple times already, he still feels his insides grow heavy. He feels physically full, Clark thrusting shallowly as he rides out his own orgasm, until he gradually slows, and stops, arm loosening around Bruce’s neck.

He pulls out abruptly, and Bruce wails at the loss, only to be flipped over onto his back, finally getting a good breath of air now that Clark’s not on top of him, cock an angry red, softening against his messed up abdomen. His face is a mess, shiny, wet, from tears, snot, and spit, hair that was once perfectly coiffed now plastered to his face and sticking up in every direction. His eye shadow is smudged terribly, resembling war paint. 

“You pretty little thing,” Clark leans down, lifting Bruce’s ass slightly as he kisses him, tenderly. And he shoves his cock back in, and Bruce gasps raggedly against Clark’s lips, which Clark takes advantage of, plunging his tongue into his mouth. Take it, take it, fucking choke, Clark thinks, like he’s trying to suffocate Bruce with his tongue. Bruce snivels, legs instinctively wrapping around Clark’s waist, the leather of his boots rubbing Clark's hips in a beautiful way, as he thrusts harshly, reaching full speed alarmingly quickly. And it hurts so goddamn much, Clark deliberately bullying his prostate as Bruce spasms from the excessive sensory input. 

“Too much, t- too much, I’m seh… Sensitive, fuck!” Bruce tries to speak, but is ultimately overpowered by Clark’s lips, teeth, tongue, and he can barely get a gasp in, head spinning, light-headed.

“You said you could take it. Let me take care of you,” Clark pulls away from the kiss and Bruce sighs, lets himself return to that floaty, mindless euphoria. Feels like he’s sinking and levitating at the same time. 

He might actually be. 

Clark wraps his hand around Bruce’s cock, searing, slick from cum, pumping him despite the keens coming from Bruce, welcomes them. Clark just fucks him, doesn’t let up for a second, chasing his third (fourth, fifth?) orgasm, thoughts halted when he hears a broken cry from Bruce, and his cock throbs, pulse racing, as he cums again, dry, cock only weeping a pathetic dribble of pre-cum. His cock is so hot in Clark’s hand. 

“It’s my turn now,” Clark says matter-of-factly, and Bruce doesn’t know if he’s physically capable of taking anymore. But that’s not for him to worry about. All he needs to do is let Clark take care of it all. 

His head has never been this blissfully empty, only focused on Clark’s dick, rubbing his insides cruelly, attacking his prostate over, and over, and over. And Bruce’s body tingles all over from it. Clark grabs the underside of Bruce’s thighs, pushing them down so his knees are touching the bed, bending the poor man in half. His tongue runs along the expanse of Bruce’s pecs, nipples, taking a moment to focus on them for a moment, capturing his left in between his teeth and nibbling, Bruce squeaking and inhaling sharply. 

“Your tits are so pretty, Brucey,” Clark murmurs, almost maliciously, sucking his nipple into his mouth. “I want to fuck them next time.”

Next time?

Bruce doesn’t catch the implications of that, merely focused on how everything is too much, in such a perfect way, mind completely gone, firmly settled into his new role as an object of pleasure, Clark’s (daddy to Bruce) object of pleasure.

Clark’s orgasm takes Bruce by surprise, missed the telltale swell and throb of his cock which is now pumping him excessively with more and more cum.

“Holy- Bruuuuce, your ass is so amazing, such a good fucking boy for me, baby, hah,” Clark pants, letting Bruce’s nipple go as he sits up to stare down at the man below him, admires his work, how he’s reduced Gotham’s playboy to a wet, bruised mess. Bruce looks down, his stomach distending from the outline of Clark’s cock that’s still nestled inside him. It’s borderline unrealistic, Bruce has never seen anything like it. Clark is right. Sex is ruined for him now. No one else will be the same. 

Finally, Clark’s cock softens, flops out of Bruce’s ass unceremoniously as cum dribbles out. No time is wasted, Clark burying his tongue into Bruce’s ass, licking his own seed. It borderline feels like torture at this point, completely wiped out from the incessant, merciless stimulation. 

“Shame there isn’t a plug,” Clark mutters, savouring his own taste, salty, bitter, mixed with the flavour of Bruce’s insides. He’s there for a while, there’s lots of cum, and Bruce just whimpers the entire time, thighs trembling, Clark not giving him the breathing space to come down. “Could do this all day,” Bruce groans, praying he doesn’t, but also praying that he does. 

“Next time,” Bruce bites out sardonically, propping himself up on his elbows. 

“Next time,” Clark repeats, lifting himself up from Bruce’s ass, cum still on his tongue, and he kisses him, slowly this time, deep, chaste even, focusing on letting Bruce savour the taste of Clark’s ejaculate. Bruce lets him, finally letting his body relax, feeling a sense that it’s all over, noticing Clark’s body language shifting, touches no longer cruel or bruising, instead squeezing and stroking his biceps, rubbing his tongue almost soothingly against Bruce’s. “Sorry,” he whispers, moving down to press closed-mouth kisses along the column of Bruce’s neck, “I don’t know what came over me.” The post-nut clarity sets in, and Clark cradles Bruce’s head, stroking his hair down in a vain attempt to tidy it up. 

“It’s-...” Bruce coughs, voice caught in his throat, “it’s okay. It was good. Really good.” His eyes water again, smiling deliriously at the absurdity of crying at all. “You’re right, I don’t think I could ever have sex with anyone else,” Bruce hiccups, an awful pain settling in his throat as he tries to stop himself from sobbing, “without thinking about how amazing you are.” Clark lifts his head up, eyes blown wide when he sees the state Bruce is in, eyeshadow thinning even more from the free-flowing tears.

“Hey, hey,” Clark panics, kissing at his face over and over, “‘m sorry, are you okay? I’m here, I’m here.” What he says doesn’t really make sense, Clark never left, but it’s the tone of voice that seems to soothe Bruce. Sex really is ruined. Not only was Clark incredible, but he cares too. Bare minimum. “Are you hurt?” Bruce blinks the tears away, staring at the ceiling that’s bathed in a warm lowlight. His legs and arms fall limp onto the bed, and cum is still (unbelievably) dribbling out of him. “Bruce?”

“I don’t know why I trust you so easily.” Bruce says, “I don’t trust anyone.”

“Thanks I guess? I’m flattered.” Clark is a little dumbfounded, unsure of what to say.

“I usually just tell people to get out, but…” His throat wells up again, hurts, “I don’t want you to leave.” 

“I won’t.” And Bruce believes him. 

EPILOGUE

The cleanup is awkward. Bruce has nothing to wear, outfit completely destroyed in the throws of Clark’s passion. The bachelor chest is examined: paper towels, disinfectant spray, lube (that would’ve come in handy in retrospect). Surfaces are wiped down, Bruce is wiped down, ass still cum stained, paper towels binned, along with Bruce’s torn bunny suit.

Clark truly feels awful about destroying Bruce’s outfit, to which Bruce insists it’s fine, that it was hot, incredibly fucking hot. But it doesn’t solve the problem. Superman toys with the idea of using his heat vision to melt the latex, welding it back together. Too risky. How would he explain that to Bruce, even if he asked him to close his eyes? The aftermath of Clark’s actions is sobering. 

“I have a change of clothes in the performer’s changing room,” Bruce breaks the silence, “I just need to get there.” Clark lends him his clothes, an awkward puzzle, a back and forth.

Clark waits in the room, naked, while Bruce traverses the club in Clark’s clothes that are way too big for him and the mask that he ties back in place, anonymity and whatnot. Hot. Gets changed, returns in a perfectly tailored black suit, hair back in its place, and eyes cleaned. Clark’s outfit is folded neatly in his arms, allowing him to get dressed too. They both leave that sideroom looking like nothing had happened, trying to ignore the curious stares of club patrons. 

“I want to see you again,” says Bruce before Clark can. 

“Me too.” Clark responds as Bruce escorts him to the exit of the club.

“Well I’m always here, maybe less so now that I’ve got the intel I need.”

“Are you saying you want to work here for fun?” Clark’s eyebrow quirks up with amusement. Bruce doesn’t respond, follows Clark down the stairs with a hand on his shoulder. What a gentleman. They arrive at the ticket booth where Clark hands the man his ‘hotel key’ and the safe is returned, along with his belongings, phone displaying one message from Lois: a thumbs up emoji. 

Clark turns to face Bruce, smiles sheepishly as he’s hit with just how much he’s ravaged Bruce’s skin, neck covered in angry bruises, burst blood vessels. Bruce rummages in his pocket, hands him something.

“Here’s my card.” He must’ve written on it in the changing room, a couple of X’s added in biro for good measure, completely flat in contrast to the gold embossed text: ‘Bruce Wayne’ and his number, on an otherwise plain, black, silky smooth business card. His heart jumps a little, dissimilarly shy to how he was earlier. “Or you can just meet me here.” 

“Thank you.” They don’t kiss goodbye, even though Clark really wants to, professionalism and all that. He’d hate for the club’s favourite performer to get fired or reprimanded. He’ll probably already be in trouble for ruining his costume. Shame blooms in his chest. “Goodbye Bruce. I’ll see you,” he smiles, unsure, bashful. Outside of sex, Bruce is infinitely more confident than Clark. They hug, and Bruce pushes his thigh in between Clark’s legs to boot. “My name’s Clark, by the way,” he says, breathy and shaky in Bruce’s ear.

“Good to know,” Clark can hear the smile in Bruce’s voice, and Bruce thinks he’s heard that name before somewhere. Familiar.

They part ways. For now. Clark gets his phone out, sends a quick text to Lois as he hails a cab:

‘Got what I needed!’ 

Clark ignores the double entendre, climbs awkwardly into the taxi, a little too tall for the low hanging door.

Shit. 

He forgot his jacket.