Chapter Text
Bruce is pretty sure he’s never orgasmed that hard before, at the very least he’s never actually passed out afterwards. He’s still not even sure if he really passed out or not, but he definitely felt more like he was floating rather than standing - leaning? - against Superman’s chest. He was also pretty sure he lost his hearing for a bit, too, as that slowly started to come back before he even really noticed it was gone.
His muscles slowly stopped twitching and the sensations of being alive started to return. It was only then that he realized his back was cold, no longer propped up against Clark’s warm and steady chest. He couldn’t hear Clark’s voice anymore. He couldn’t hear him breathing. He couldn’t hear his suit ruffling as he moved. He fucking left. Clark super-motherfucking Kent super-sped off after he super-fucked him against the super-goddamned wall. His breathing grew more ragged as his cum-struck brain gave way to anger, clenching his fists into- Wrists?
Confusion quickly replaced anger, which was just as quickly replaced with the realization that Clark hadn’t left. He was still there behind him, silently waiting for Bruce to react. Whatever had caused his condition appeared to be gone, or at least was fading of its own accord, as the compulsive word vomit and apparent need for physical contact had both receded significantly. His chest no longer pressed against Bruce’s back, his erection no longer cradled between Bruce’s cheeks, and his hands now hovered to Bruce’s sides. The only thing keeping him in place was Bruce’s death grip on his wrists.
“Clark.”, he said, a little more gruff and stern than he originally intended. He had just experienced the most life altering orgasm he could ever imagine from the man he had been harbouring an unhealthy and unrequited(?) crush on for years. All while he was supposed to have been in the kitchen discussing suit alterations with Alfred. Alfred, who Bruce only now realizes, made a very deliberate decision to leave Bruce behind to be absolutely ravaged by a clearly compromised Superman.
It was also Alfred who had been trying to coach Bruce on making better choices in regards to his emotions and how he expressed them to others. Far too many misunderstandings in his life - especially within his family - could have been avoided if he was more open and honest when expressing himself. He knew he didn’t need to be like Clark, a literal bundle of sunshine incapable of lying. He also didn’t need to be Brucie Wayne, playing up every fake emotion like he was aiming for a Nobel Prize in Masking. He definitely needed to be less like Batman, at least in his day to day life, because well adjusted adults who were trying to foster healthy relationships had more social tools in their proverbial toolbox than growling and scowling. He needed to be Bruce. A well adjusted, confident adult living with his chosen family. A man who knew how to accept others' love and express his own love in return, in ways that they could understand.
Clearly he needed more work on that cause his brief bout of anger was probably the most visible emotion right now, if Clark’s silence was anything to go by. Clark had always given him time and space when he was angry, prioritizing Bruce’s emotional sensitivities over his own social needs. He regrets not taking his conversations with Alfred more seriously before, because he really did want Clark to see the absolutely fucked out bliss radiating throughout his chest. A bliss that he hopes to have more of in the future. To do that, he would need to choose his words and tone of voice very carefully. Clark deserved better than growls and scowls.
Too bad his voice had been utterly and thoroughly wrecked by the voice of his intended conversation partner. Fuck. Bruce was going to have to use his currently fucked out voice to force Clark to use his sexy fucking voice so they could talk about their kinky voice sex. Fuck.
“I’m sorry. I- I didn’t mean to- I just-” Superman’s panicked voice came in sharp gasps from behind him. Years of training and hands-on experience flipped a switch in Bruce’s brain, pulling him out of his carefully formulated conversation plans and refocusing on Clark’s spiraling panic. He didn’t need overanalyzed plans, he needed to observe his surroundings, assess the risks, and take action.
Bruce spun around, careful to switch his grip so that he could face Superman without letting him go. Bruce knew what this voice was. It wasn’t Superman’s “save the day and bring hope to the people” voice. It also wasn’t Clark Kent’s “innocent and flustered” voice. It definitely wasn’t whatever fucking voice he had been listening to just minutes prior. This was Superman’s “panic and bolt” voice. The voice he used when he believed he had done something wrong, or that he might hurt someone, or that he had already hurt someone. The voice that he adopted seconds before bolting off to the stratosphere where he thought he could keep people safe from himself, like he was some sort of weapon to be feared.
“Clark.” Still too gruff, but getting better. Under normal circumstances he knows Superman would be able to tell the difference, but these weren’t normal circumstances.
“I’m so, so sorry. You didn’t- And I- It’s all my fault. I should go. I’ll go. I leave you alone. I won’t come back, I promise.” Superman wouldn’t look him in the eye, he just kept staring at where Bruce was holding him. Bruce knew that Superman could break free of his grip and leave whenever he wanted. Bruce also knew that in Superman’s current state, he wouldn’t risk hurting Bruce, and apparently he thought that pulling his wrist free would somehow rip Bruce’s arm out of its socket or something stupid like that.
“Don’t leave… and yes.”
“But- I-”, he began to say, until his eyebrows began to furrow and he looked back up at Bruce’s face. Not meeting his eyes just yet, but getting closer. “...Yes?”
“Yes. And next time, you don’t have to ask.” Once his cum-struck brain had been replaced by his more functional “World’s Greatest Detective” brain, Bruce had caught up to the startling and wholly endearing realization that Superman, even while at the mercy of whatever it was that had compromised him, had never actually done anything he didn’t have permission to do. Superman had asked if he could kiss him, and while Bruce didn’t say no, he didn’t say yes, either. So Superman never kissed him. Instead, Bruce told him to talk, and by god did he talk, eliciting even more permission from Bruce to escalate. Bruce made a mental note to be more careful about what he wished for.
“Ask what? Next-”
Taking advantage of Superman’s confusion, as well as his reflexive habit of giving into people pushing and pulling him around to avoid harming them, Bruce switched their positions in a blink of an eye. Shock overtook Superman’s face as he found their positions reversed, pinned to the wall, chest to chest with Bruce. Bruce smirked at this little win, because it’s always a win when he can use his trained-but-still-technically-human abilities to surprise the man known for being faster than a speeding bullet.
“Yes, you can kiss me. And next time, you don’t have to ask.”
Without giving him time to think, Bruce dove straight into a deep and dirty kiss, swallowing the surprised squeak that came out of Superman’s mouth. He could feel Superman’s hands instinctively return to Bruce’s hips, and just as he started to reciprocate the kiss, Bruce smirked into his lips. God he was going to enjoy this next part.
Bruce tightened his grip on Superman’s hip while caressing Superman's neck, sliding up even further to grip a fistful of hair. He pulled gently and tilted Superman’s head back, kissing along his jaw to suck at the same tender spot used on him earlier. Roles reversed, Superman moaned into the sensation as his erection twitched between them. Of course, ever the Boy Scout, he had prioritized taking care of Bruce’s needs over his own. Or was it… Oh. Bruce had forgotten about that part of the conversation.
Bruce squeezed his hip, telegraphing his intentions to rectify this miscommunication. He dropped his voice low, letting the vibrations of his words course through Superman’s body, “Same goes for when you want to come with me .” Driving the point home, Bruce squeezed hard and ground his spent cock directly onto Superman’s erection, punctuating the words with a Batman growl.
Superman moaned out the dirtiest “Bruce” he had ever heard, and if it hadn’t been so soon after the most earth shattering orgasm he had ever experienced, that would have sent him over the edge again. Instead, he relished in what he was able to do to Clark, letting out a little moan of his own from grinding on his oversensitive cock. He felt Clark riding his orgasm out while squeezed up against him. He heard aborted gasps between mumblings of his name. He saw a red flush across his ears and neck. He pulled back to follow that flush to rosy cheeks and intense blue eyes. Ah, there they are, he had missed them.
For a horrifying second, Bruce remembered that he was supposed to talk to Clark, not fuck him against the wall in a bout of petty yet blissful revenge. After that second passed, he resigned to work on that particular skill set another day, and because Bruce apparently hadn’t already been petty enough this evening, he followed his actions up with a sassy grin, “God, your eyes are pretty.”
Clark’s face once again shifted through a series of quick emotions, eventually settling on a shocked but genuinely happy smile that reached right up to those big blue eyes. The smile grew as he leaned forward, chuckling lightly into a chaste kiss without even asking for permission first.