Archive of Our Own

The office was quiet. 

Not in the sterile, clock-watching way most city offices are by 5 p.m., but in the kind of quiet that settles thick in the air when two people are trying too hard to pretend it’s still business as usual. 

Outside, the sun was sinking into Metropolis, casting a golden haze over steel and glass. 

The hum of the city filtered faintly through the windows, but here — inside the private interview room tucked away on the top floor of the Daily Planet — it’s just the low rustle of paper and the occasional scratch of a pen against the notepad.

Bruce Wayne sat in the too-small chair opposite Clark Kent, one leg crossed loosely over the other, his body angled ever so slightly toward the window as if the skyline might be more comfortable to look at than the man across from him. 

He was already regretting saying yes to this interview. 

Alfred had insisted it would “humanize him” in the eyes of the public. Lucius had promised it would boost confidence in their Metropolis initiative. 

But Bruce knew better. 

He knew exactly why he agreed to this. 

And the reason was currently seated across from him in a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, top two buttons undone, and a look in his eyes that sees far more than it should.

Clark Kent was calm - dangerously so. He moved like someone who’s made peace with chaos. His words were careful, paced, and deliberate. His gaze never lingered too long but always landed just long enough to make Bruce feel like he’s being dissected with every sentence.

- So, Mr. Wayne, - Clark began, the baritone in his voice smooth enough to pass for disinterest if Bruce wasn’t already paying attention. - Wayne Enterprises has made several significant investments in Metropolis over the past quarter - clean energy, infrastructure, educational grants. There are whispers you’re looking for something more permanent.

Bruce shifted in his seat, eyes narrowing just slightly. - Whispers like that tend to start in buildings like this.

Clark didn’t flinch. 

If anything, the corner of his mouth twitched with the threat of a smile. - Fair enough.

For a moment, the only sound between them was the faint tick of the wall clock. Bruce studied him — the firm set of his jaw, the way his fingers hold the pen, the subtle tension in his shoulders despite his relaxed posture. There was something coiled in Clark Kent. 

Something restrained. 

It was the same energy Bruce saw in himself when he glanced in the mirror before a gala, fully suited, perfectly masked.

- You’re not just a reporter, - Bruce said, quietly but without accusation. 

It was a statement. An observation made like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.

Clark arched his brow, eyes meeting him. - Excuse me?

- You ask good questions. But you’re not here for answers. - Bruce leaned forward slightly, his tone lower now, quieter, but heavier. - You’re studying me.

Clark paused, pen suspended in midair, then slowly he set it down. - And you’re deflecting. Classic Wayne maneuver — charm, brood, evade.

Bruce smirked faintly, just for a second. - You missed ‘defend.’

Clark’s voice dipped, barely above a whisper. - I wasn’t sure if that’s what you were doing… or if you were baiting me.

That made Bruce pause. 

He didn’t show it - not really - but something behind his eyes flickered. In another setting, another city, another life, Bruce might’ve found it easier to dismiss. But here, in this quiet room with the sun casting fire across Clark Kent’s profile, he didn’t want to dismiss it. 

Not yet.

He rose slowly, walking toward the window as if to shake off the weight of the moment. His reflection stared back at him faintly in the glass - tired eyes, tailored armor, a man who never fully lets his guard down even when he wants to. Especially when he wanted to.

- I didn’t come to Metropolis for business, - he admitted, his voice low, measured, like it’s costing him something to admit.

Behind him, Clark remains seated.

Still. 

Waiting. 

Not pushing.

Bruce turned. - Not really.

Clark looked up, and there’s something different in his expression now - softer, maybe, but no less focused. - Then what did you come for?

Bruce didn’t answer right away. He moved back across the room until only the desk was between them. - Curiosity, - he said finally.

It’s a small word, but it settled like a stone between them.

Clark’s notepad was forgotten, closed, shut behind the world. 

He studied Bruce, gaze slow and unreadable. 

Then, with a deliberate kind of calm, he stood. The shift in proximity felt immediate. Like the temperature in the room changed by a degree or two. The desk was still between them, but it felt irrelevant now.

- I should finish this interview, - Clark said, his voice low and tinged with something that sounded more like hesitation than professionalism.

Bruce’s jaw tightened, his gaze flickered to Clark’s mouth before returning to his eyes. - Then ask me something real.

Clark exhaled, slowly. - Alright, " he said, the barest breath of tension beneath the word. - What do you want, Bruce?

There was a silence that followed - not awkward, but charged. And when Bruce answered, it was not with words. He stepped around the desk until nothing separated them. 

His hand brushed against Clark’s wrist - slow, deliberate - not demanding, but testing.

Clark didn't pull away. If anything, he stood closer, until their shoes almost touched. - If you kiss me right now, - he said quietly, - this stops being an interview.

Bruce didn’t look away. - It already has.

And when their lips meet, it isn’t sudden. It’s inevitable.

The kiss was slow - the kind that smolders instead of burns. A press of mouths that carried more tension than relief, like two people who have been orbiting each other too long, too aware of the lines they shouldn’t cross. Bruce’s hand curled around the back of Clark’s neck, pulling him closer with restrained intensity, while Clark’s fingers found Bruce’s hip, anchoring them both in the moment like he didn't want it to end.

It was hot. And hungry. And a shared understanding of how dangerous this truly was.

When they finally pulled apart, breath short and lips flushed, the city was awash in amber behind them. The light made everything look softer than it is. Easier than it ever will be.

Neither of them spoke right away. There was no need for it.

Clark tilted his head, voice hoarse with something deeper than arousal. - So… what happens now?

Bruce met his gaze, his thumb brushing just once over Clark’s jaw. - Now, - he said, - you stop pretending you weren’t hoping I’d do that.

And Clark, with a crooked, breathless smile, replied, - I wasn’t pretending.

Clark didn’t speak again. Not with words.

Instead, he kissed Bruce like he’s been holding back for weeks - months - maybe longer. 

The air between them shifted from slow burn to spark-and-flame as Clark’s hand fists in Bruce’s shirt, dragging him back in like gravity’s stopped pretending to be subtle. Bruce stumbled slightly, then pushed forward, lips finding Clark’s again, firmer this time. 

More certain. More claiming.

The desk behind them creaked slightly as Clark’s back hit its edge, but neither of them cared. 

Bruce was already sliding his hand down Clark’s side, fingers grazing the soft cotton of his shirt until they found the line of his belt. He didn’t undo it - not yet - just let his fingers rest there like a promise. 

His other hand was at Clark’s jaw, thumb brushing along the sharp line of his cheek as their mouths parted and met again, deeper now, tongues brushing with a low sound caught in both their throats.

Clark’s hand found the back of Bruce’s neck, pulling him in with rough need, nails lightly scraping across skin. 

- Tell me this isn’t a mistake,- he murmured against Bruce’s mouth, breathless, but not pleading. Like he needed the words to ground them both.

Bruce leaned in close, mouth at his jaw. - It is, - he said, voice hoarse, " but I don’t care.

Then he bit - not hard, just enough to make Clark gasp softly - and that’s all it took.

Clark pushed the clutter off his desk in one sweeping motion - not reckless, just impatient. Pens scattered, notepad flipped open, and a glass of water sloshed dangerously near the edge but held. Bruce chuckled low in his throat, just once, before Clark’s hand was at his belt now, tugging him forward between his legs, and the laughter died into something darker.

Bruce pressed Clark back onto the desk, not fully - just enough to lean over him, their chests brushing, the weight of years of restraint snapping between them like thread pulled too tight. 

Their kisses grow frantic, raw, less polished now. 

Bruce nipped at Clark’s bottom lip. Clark gripped Bruce’s hips. Their bodies grind together, caught between fabric and friction and something heavier than either of them wanted to admit.

Bruce’s jacket hits the floor. 

Then his shirt is halfway undone, buttons parting under Clark’s impatient hands. Clark’s mouth dragged along his collarbone, tongue flicking over the sharp edge of it before Bruce caught his jaw and brought him back up to kiss him like it’s the last thing he’ll ever be allowed to do.

The desk groans beneath them. The sun outside has dipped into dusk, shadows spilling across the floor like spilled ink. The city didn’t matter right now. The names they carried - Wayne , Kent , Batman , Superman - none of it mattered. Here, there are no capes, no masks, no public expectations.

Just mouths. 

Hands. Breath. Heat.

Bruce’s voice was rough in Clark’s ear as he ground against him. - Been thinking about this since the last time we met.

Clark arched up, gasping, - That press conference?

Bruce huffed a laugh. - You wore those stupid glasses and that tie I wanted to pull off with my teeth.

Clark grabbed him by the hair, dragging him in for another kiss that stole the air from both of them. - Then shut up and do it.

And Bruce did.

He kissed down on Clark’s throat, nipped at the exposed skin just above the loosened collar, then worked the rest of the shirt open, slow but deliberate. 

His hands roamed over the warm skin, broad chest rising and falling beneath his touch, fingers pausing over the faintest scar near Clark’s rib - something even he wasn’t supposed to have. Something human. 

And for a moment, Bruce lingered there, grounding himself in it.

Clark’s voice was lower now, wrecked and wanting. - If we do this... there’s no going back.

Bruce looked up, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling like he’s been fighting the urge far too long. - Wasn’t planning to.

Then Clark pulled him down again, and this time, it was more than heat.

It was surrender. 

It was hunger. 

It was every restrained look, every passing touch, every moment of silence that ever meant more than it should have - unraveling it all at once.

And the office, the city, the world - all of it vanished away.

Bruce’s shirt hit the floor. 

His belt is next - a soft clink as it coils beside Clark’s discarded tie. There was a rising urgency in the air now, thick with heat and unspoken need. The city glows just beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of Clark’s office - gold bleeding into blue, lights flickering on as the sky deepens into night.

And against that glass Bruce found himself, breath caught as his back pressed softly against it - palms flat, shoulders rising, head tipping back.

Outside, Metropolis moved on, unaware.

Down below, people moved like ants, walking home with coffees, briefcases, backpacks. Some glanced up, momentarily distracted by the penthouse glow of The Daily Planet’s top floor - but none of them saw. 

Not really. 

Not what was happening behind the glass. Not Bruce Wayne, shirtless, lips parted, chest heaving, bathed in the glow of city lights and desire.

Inside, Clark stood in close, impossibly close. 

His hands - steady, reverent - trailed along Bruce’s ribs, fingers splayed over sharp muscle and quiet tension. One hand slid down on his abdomen, the other curling behind his neck, pulling him into a kiss that burned like a match held too long.

- You okay? - Clark murmured, voice low, velvet against Bruce’s lips.

Bruce didn’t answer with words. He nodded once, desperate and unguarded in a way that should feel foreign - but it didn't.

Clark’s breath hitched at the sight of him like this - undone and pressed against the glass. Then, slowly, he drops to his knees.

Bruce gasps, a low sound punched from his throat as Clark’s mouth explored him, slow and consuming. One of Bruce’s hands slammed against the window for balance - an open palm print catching the light, fogging slightly from the heat of his skin. He tried not to let the view outside distract him, but there was something impossibly filthy about it. The thought that he could be seen , that someone might look up and catch the outline of this moment - Bruce Wayne, flushed and trembling, his body arching forward as Clark worked him with maddening precision.

It made his knees shake.

Clark pulled back after a moment, lips glistening, and said, almost too softly, - Turn around.

It wasn’t demanding, or dominant. But it was something so deep within Bruce that made his inside tremble, the way this man from Kansas was controlling him.

Bruce hesitated - but only for a second. Then he did what he was asked.

His chest met the glass, hands braced beside his head, forehead resting against the cold pane as the warmth of Clark returned behind him. The contrast was dizzying - the cool slick of city night through the glass, and the molten heat of Clark Kent’s breath on the nape of his neck.

And then - Clark’s hand slid down on his muscular back. 

Lower. 

Lower.

Bruce jerked when fingers pressed between him, then into him - slow, deliberate, cruel in how careful they were. The thickness of them all filled him up slowly, easing him into a space that was only meant for him and Clark.

- God - Clark - Bruce bit his lip, one leg bracing wider instinctively, chest rising and falling in short bursts. - Don’t - don’t make me wait -

But Clark’s other hand was on his waist, anchoring him, his voice patient and deep. - You’ll take it slow, Bruce.

Bruce gritted his teeth, the frustration and arousal tearing through him in equal measure. - You’re killing me.

- You’ll live.

Another finger joined, stretching him with a rhythm that was gentle but maddening. The glass beneath Bruce fogged with each breath he exhaled, his forehead slick, his spine arched slightly. He let out a sound - half a gasp, half a groan - as Clark hit just the right angle, and his knees nearly buckled.

- Please, - Bruce said, the word ragged, pulled from somewhere deep. 

He’s never begged. Not like this. 

But Clark dragged it out of him, making him sweat, tremble, melt into something unrecognizable.

Clark leaned in close, breath hot against his ear. - Tell me what you want.

- You, - Bruce rasped. - Now.

Clark finally pulled his fingers free - slick, deliberate - and Bruce heard the rustle behind him, and felt the shift in energy. There was a pause - a breath held between them - and then Clark pressed back in. With more firm movements, and more confidence.

And Bruce fell apart against the glass.

Clark moved behind him like a storm rolling in - heavy, inevitable.

Bruce shivered when he felt Clark's lips press softly to the base of his spine, then trailed lower. 

Warm breath ghosts over his skin, the kind that makes nerves spark to life just beneath the surface. Bruce shifted against the glass, legs trembling slightly, hands splayed flat against the window, as if holding himself in place will stop the way his body was starting to come undone.

Then Clark bit down.

Not hard - a nip, really - at the curve of Bruce’s ass, his tongue following close behind, soothing, licking, claiming.

Bruce gasps. - Clark - 

Another bite. 

Then a kiss. 

Then the slow drag of his tongue that made Bruce arch his back with a ragged sound, forehead pressing harder into the cold pane. The sensation coiled heat in his stomach, unbearable in its slow build.

- God - Bruce breathed out, sweat slipping down the back of his neck, his body vibrating under Clark’s mouth. - You’re driving me insane.

Clark’s voice came low, hot, and breathless. - That’s the idea.

Bruce’s mind was hazy and white static. He has never been touched like this. 

Never been worshipped and ruined in the same breath. And not like this - not while the city stretched out below him in quiet indifference. 

People were still moving, lights blinking, conversations happening just floors beneath where Bruce Wayne was being brought to his knees - literally and figuratively - by the one person who can make him fall apart without even trying.

He moaned into the glass, unable to help himself. It wasn’t loud, but it was desperate - a sound that surprised even him. 

He knows who he was. What he was supposed to be. But here, now, like this, he was nothing but flesh and want.

Clark rose behind him, slow and steady, his big frame shadowing Bruce completely. He didn’t rush. He just pressed in, the weight of his chest meeting Bruce’s back, breath warm at his ear.

- Are you ready? - Clark asked, voice gravel-dipped in whisper.

Bruce nodded, confidently. - Please.

Clark entered him in one slow, stretching push - a burn that made Bruce grit his teeth and groan deep into the windowpane. His forehead tapped the glass again. His knuckles went white against it. 

He took the pressure, the pain, the fullness - clinging to it, needing it.

- Jesus - Bruce choked out, jaw slack. - You are huge Kansas. Don’t stop. Don’t you fucking stop.

The stretch was sharp at first, the kind that pulls everything taut inside him - but the ache melted quickly into something hotter, deeper, wrecking. Clark stilled only for a breath, allowing Bruce to adjust, his hands steady on Bruce’s hips as he moaned himself into the pleasure of Bruce’s body in front of him.

- You’re doing so good, - Clark murmured, voice shaking with restraint.

Bruce moaned again - louder this time - not caring if someone heard it, if someone down below glanced up and wondered what’s happening behind the sleek office glass.

Because that didn't make it worse. It made it exciting.

Better.

Hotter.

The thought that anyone walking the sidewalks of Metropolis could look up and see the outline of Bruce Wayne, bent and sweating against a window, body moving in rhythm to something filthy and human and real , made him groan again, louder, shameless now.

Clark thrusted - slow, firm - and Bruce bit down on a sound that threatened to break him apart.

- Harder, - Bruce gasped, not recognizing his own voice. - Please.

Clark gave it to him. 

The rhythm building, pace picking up, and Bruce could barely hold on. His body rocked with each motion, glass cold against his chest, his breath fogging up the surface as moan after moan escaped his throat.

The city watched. Unaware. Or maybe not.

But Bruce didn’t care anymore.

All he could feel was Clark, pressed behind him, inside him, holding him like he’s something breakable. Like he’s something worth ruining. The friction, the pressure, the want — it teared through him like wildfire.

And Bruce let go.

Clark lost the last thread of restraint inside him.

His thrusts grew rougher, deeper - paced with urgency and an edge of something primal.

Bruce was gasping now, voice hoarse, head turned to the side as his body took each wave of Clark’s power. One of Clark’s hands snaked up across Bruce’s chest, pulling him back into the heat of him, while the other gripped his hip, grounding him, keeping him where he was — pressed to the glass like a secret screaming to be found.

Then - Clark’s mouth found his neck.

It was not a kiss this time. It was a bite.

Teeth sinking just beneath Bruce’s ear, not enough to break the skin but enough to make him whimper , spine snapping with the jolt of pleasure and pain. The kind of bite that marks. That claims.

Bruce shuddered under it, dripping with sweat, chest heaving. He’s never been taken like this. Never let anyone have him like this. And he was on fire for it.

- God, Clark - he gritted out. - You’re- fuck, you’re stronger than you -

Clark growled into his skin. - I can’t help it.

The rhythm didn’t let up. 

Clark’s strength was raw, unfiltered, every motion nearly lifting Bruce off the floor. The room smelled like sex and heat and the sharp tension between two men who were used to controlling everything - except this .

But then - Bruce moved.

He pressed a hand against the glass, pushed back hard, and forced Clark to pull out.

Clark stumbled slightly from the sudden loss of contact, eyes wild, mouth open like he might say something - but Bruce was already turning, flushed and shining and glorious in the low light of the office. 

He didn’t speak. 

Just grabbed Clark by the front of his shirt and shoved him backward, sending him down into the leather chair behind the desk.

Clark landed with a surprised grunt, spread wide, utterly wrecked.

And Bruce climbed into his lap.

Slowly. Deliberately. 

His knees settled on either side of Clark’s thighs, sweat beading down his temples, his chest rising and falling like he’s just sprinted through hell and back.

- Now, - Bruce said hoarsely, leaning in close enough, their mouths almost brushing, - you sit still.

And then - Bruce lowered himself.

Clark choked on a breath as Bruce sank down on him, inch by inch, grinding slowly until he was filled to the brim. Bruce let out a low sound, broken and wanting, as his fingers dug into Clark’s shoulders.

He started riding him.

Up and down, slow at first, his thighs working with practiced control. He set the rhythm now - one that burned . That made Clark groan and grab at his waist, only for Bruce to slap his hands away.

- No, - Bruce hissed, sweat dripping from his jaw. - You watch . You feel what you do to me.

Clark looked up at him like he has never seen anything more devastating. His hands twitch at his sides, body trembling with the effort of holding still while Bruce rocks on top of him, head thrown back, muscles taut, mouth parted in ecstasy.

Every thrust brought a ragged gasp from Bruce’s throat, but he didn't stop. He rode harder, faster, until both of them were panting and soaked with sweat, the chair creaking beneath them, the desk shaking.

Below, Metropolis lived on. No one looked up.

But if they did, they’d see a god in an open suit, undone beneath a man built from ruin and rage - Bruce Wayne , riding him like salvation.

Bruce rocked against him with practiced rhythm, riding every inch of him with a mix of control and desperation. Each movement wringed a low groan from Clark’s throat, and Bruce swallowed them all, crashing their mouths together again and again in kisses that were more heat than structure - teeth and tongue and breath.

Clark’s hands clutched at Bruce’s hips now, strong fingers digging into sweat-slick skin as if anchoring himself. But he wasn’t guiding. 

He was just holding on . Like if he were about to let go, he’ll lose the grip on whatever this was between them.

Bruce broke the kiss with a gasp, forehead falling against Clark’s. They’re both drenched, chests heavy, strands of hair sticking to their temples.

- All the suits, - Bruce whispered, breath ghosting against Clark’s lips. - The stupid gala speeches. The brushed shoulders. The way you’d look at me across a crowded room like - He moaned, hips grinding down harder, chasing friction. - like you knew exactly how to ruin me.

Clark let out a groan in response, his grip tightening. - I did.

Bruce let out a shattered laugh, breathless and high.

- And now look at you, - Clark said roughly, eyes half-lidded as he tilted his head back against the chair. - Riding me like I’m the only thing keeping you upright.

- You are , - Bruce hissed, lips brushing against Clark’s. - Don’t stop - don’t you dare stop -

Their mouths crashed again, messier this time, moans echoing into one another as the pace built. The chair creaked beneath them. The office was thick with heat, the scent of sex and sweat clinging to every surface. The city sprawled behind the glass - none the wiser, none invited.

Clark bucked up into him, thrust meeting thrust, eyes burning. He knew how much Bruce has held back over the years. How many times they circled each other in the dark, pressed tight into tuxedos and rules and restraint.

But there was none of that here.

Here, Bruce was all gasping for breath and flushed skin, trembling as he drove down onto him over and over, crying out into Clark’s mouth every time their bodies met just right. And Clark was undone beneath him — undone by the man who walked through every ballroom with a haunted gaze and a jaw tight with secrets.

- Say it, - Clark said between kisses, between shaky breaths. - Tell me.

Bruce pressed his lips to Clark’s jaw, moaning there, body trembling. - I wanted this from the moment I met you, - he admitted, raw. - When you smiled like you knew something I didn’t. I hated it. I hated how much I - he gasped, legs quivering. - how much I wanted you.

Clark pulled him down again into another crushing kiss.

- Same, - he growled. - Every time you walked into the room, I felt like I was about to lose control.

- You did, - Bruce whispered, voice cracking. - You are .

Their lips locked again, teeth clicking, bodies moving faster, harder - until the tension snapped again, stars behind eyelids, heat blooming in their guts, their moans breaking into the stillness of the room like thunder.

Bruce melted into him, forehead pressed to Clark’s shoulder, shivering slightly. Clark just held him there, arms  wrapped around his waist, gripping like his life was depending on it, like someone was about to take the man away from him.

Bruce barely had time to catch his breath.

One heartbeat. Two.

And then Clark moved.

He stood in one swift motion, lifting Bruce with him - strength effortless, expression darkened by something deeper than lust. Bruce let out a startled gasp as his back pressed onto the cold surface, his hands bracing himself against Clark’s broad shoulders. Now the table was slick with sweat and warmth, and the edge bit into his thighs as Clark stepped in close, chest pressed down to his chest. Body meeting body.

- Mine, - Clark breathed, voice a gravelled whisper against the shell of his ear.

Bruce shuddered.

Then Clark drove into him again - firm, relentless, no hesitation now. It wasn’t cruel, but it was close to feral , and Bruce loved every second of it. His head dropped backward, hitting the wooden surface, mouth open in a soundless moan.

The windows were still wide and clear behind them. The city was still unaware. The world, for all its chaos, narrowed to this.

To them.

To the sound of skin and breath and the low, half-muttered curses falling from Clark’s lips as he lost himself in Bruce.

Clark’s hands found his hips again, holding him steady, guiding each motion with bruising intensity. Every thrust sent a jolt through Bruce’s body, his legs trembling, his fingers curling against the desk’s edge until his knuckles went white.

He was shaking. Gasping.

- Clark - he chokes out. - You’re -, God -

But he couldn’t finish the thought, not when Clark leaned in and kissed his neck, not when that same mouth moved down and pressed into his shoulder like a brand. 

Like a promise.

- I know, - Clark breathed. - I know.

Clark couldn’t remember when his breath had started coming in short, desperate pulls - or when his hands had begun shaking. Maybe it had been the second Bruce arched under him, bare skin glistening with sweat in the amber wash of city light spilling through the office windows. Or maybe it was earlier - when Bruce first looked up at him, completely exposed, pupils blown wide, lips parted, silently asking for everything.

He gave it.

Clark’s shirt hung open, clinging to his shoulders, wrinkled and damp where Bruce had grabbed at him in a daze - one hand at his collar, the other digging into the small of his back like he’d fall apart without something to hold on to. 

His pants were shoved down around his ankles, forgotten, the sharp sound of the zipper echoing briefly before being swallowed by breathless silence. He was half-dressed, undone in every way that mattered, and still felt overdressed next to Bruce.

Bruce was naked .

Stretched out across the desk, chest heaving, head thrown back. His body bore the proof of their want - red marks blooming along his ribs, his thighs, the curve of his hips. Clark had touched him everywhere, had felt the strength beneath his skin begin to melt, and it had broken something in him. Not just lust. 

Reverence.

Every shift of Bruce’s body made Clark’s heart hammer harder. 

The way his knees bent to sides of his, holding Clark firm. The way his back arched when Clark’s thrust forward. He was all sharp angles and soft skin, muscle and tension, shaking like he wasn’t used to letting go - like surrender tasted foreign in his mouth but he craved it anyway.

Clark stood over him, breathless, his open shirt flaring slightly with each movement, his body slick and burning. He couldn’t stop looking. Couldn’t stop feeling .

This was Bruce Wayne - guarded, unreadable, untouchable - now splayed across a desk with Clark inside him, whispering his name like it was the only truth he had left. 

His body trembled with every motion, every shift of Clark’s hips, every stolen breath. And Clark - half-dressed, wild with need, feeling his own control fray - was lost in it.

One of Bruce’s hands clawed blindly for him, finding the open collar of his shirt, pulling him down until their foreheads touched. Clark gripped Bruce’s thigh in response, hard enough to bruise, and the soft groan it earned made heat curl low in his spine.

Their sweat mingled. Their bodies stuck together.

The world beyond the glass went on - cars, pedestrians, late-night workers filing through the lit-up buildings below - but none of it mattered. The office was cast in gold and shadow, and in it, they were the only thing real. The friction, the gasps, the moans muffled into skin - it was heady, uncontainable.

Clark kissed the side of Bruce’s throat. - You don’t even know what you do to me.

Bruce’s mouth curved into a broken grin. - Show me.

And he did.

Clark let out a quiet breath, one hand still curled around the back of Bruce’s thigh, the other bracing against the desk for just a moment longer. But the hunger in him surged again, unrelenting, and something raw crossed his face - need tangled with devotion, reverence laced with something darker. 

Without a word, he leaned in and kissed Bruce again, slow and messy, then gripped him under the thighs and lifted him off the desk in one fluid, breath-stealing motion.

Bruce let out a gasp that caught in his throat, arms automatically wrapping around Clark’s neck, his legs dangling for only a second before they locked around Clark’s waist. 

And then Clark was guiding him down again - sinking into him with a force and precision that made Bruce shudder against him.

Clark’s shirt hung open, clinging to his slick chest; his pants were still around his ankles, but none of that slowed him. Standing there, buried inside Bruce, holding him as if he weighed nothing, he started to move - slow at first, just enough to make Bruce whimper softly into his shoulder, then harder. 

Deeper . 

Until the new angle knocked the breath right out of Bruce’s lungs.

Bruce’s head fell back, jaw slack, a low, guttural moan escaping as Clark struck something devastatingly perfect inside him. 

Again. 

And again.

- Clark - he choked out, voice strained, more sound than word.

Clark’s grip tightened around him, mouth finding the sweat-slick curve of Bruce’s neck. - I’ve got you, - he murmured, low and rough, like a promise - like he’d tear the world apart before letting Bruce fall.

Every thrust sent Bruce spiraling. 

There was no desk to cling to now, no surface to ground him - only Clark’s arms, Clark’s body, Clark’s breath against his throat, anchoring him as everything else unraveled. The way he was held, the way Clark moved inside him, made the room tilt around the edges. 

Made reality blur.

He was dizzy with it - with the stretch, the heat, the sheer depth Clark reached now. Every movement felt like it scraped pleasure straight from his spine, and it was overwhelming in the best possible way. There was nowhere to hide, no pretense to wear. He was bare, vulnerable, trembling, and full of Clark in every way that mattered.

And the world was still watching from below. Thousands of windows. Thousands of lives.

But up here - it was only them.

Clark, unstoppable and shaking with the weight of everything he felt.

Bruce, clinging to him like a man on fire, begging without words, moaning into his shoulder, undone.

And in that moment, standing in a glass office with nothing to shield them from the city or from each other, Bruce had never felt so wrecked - or so alive.

Clark didn’t slow down.

He couldn’t.

The heat had settled into his spine, low and burning, every nerve ending alight as he drove into Bruce with deep, staggering rhythm. His hands gripped Bruce’s thighs like a lifeline, strong fingers digging into sweat-slick skin, guiding him up and down on every thrust. 

Bruce was still clinging to him - legs locked tight around Clark’s waist, arms around his shoulders, mouth parted in gasping moans that grew more desperate with every second.

The air around them was thick with it - with heat and friction and breath. 

With the sharp scent of sweat, the quiet slap of skin, the groan of the floor beneath Clark’s boots as he shifted for more leverage. Clark’s shirt stuck to his back, half-sliding off one shoulder, his hair damp and curling against his temple. His pants tangled low around his ankles, forgotten, but he was too far gone to care - too full of the way Bruce trembled in his arms with every thrust, too consumed by the heat coiling tighter in his gut.

And Bruce…

Bruce was gone.

Head thrown back, mouth open, cheeks flushed a deep, ruined pink. His body shuddered with every movement, slick and pliant, breath catching each time Clark hit that perfect place inside him again. He’d lost any pretense of restraint - every moan was raw, every whispered “God, Clark” or “don’t stop” more broken than the last.

Clark adjusted his hold, shifted his angle - and that’s when it happened.

Bruce cried out, sharp and uncontrolled, back arching hard as Clark slammed into him. 

His nails dug into Clark’s shoulder, hips stuttering from the overwhelming wave that crashed through him. He blinked, dazed, breath coming in short, rapid bursts.

Clark felt it - that moment where Bruce tipped over from pleasure into something messier. Needier .

He gritted his teeth, wrapped one arm under Bruce’s back, and pressed him in closer. No distance now. No space left to hide. He was everywhere - deep inside, wrapped around, pouring every last bit of himself into Bruce like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.

- Stay with me, - Clark whispered, breathing hot against Bruce’s ear.

Bruce gasped something back - a sound, a plea, maybe just his name - and Clark gave in.

His movements grew rougher, sloppier. 

The rhythm lost its polish, became frantic, desperate. 

He was chasing the end now, chasing that inevitable snap in his spine that would take him under. Bruce’s voice rose in tandem - higher, more desperate - as Clark slammed into him again, and again, and again.

Their bodies slid against each other, slick with sweat. Clark’s muscles shook with the effort of holding him, thrusting into him, not falling apart too soon. But he was already close. 

Too close.

And Bruce - Bruce clenched around him like he was trying to pull him deeper, take every last inch, every broken breath, every ragged heartbeat. His body was molten, chest heaving, one hand tangled in the collar of Clark’s open shirt like he needed the weight of him, the pressure, to stay grounded.

Then Clark buried his face against Bruce’s neck, hips snapping forward one last time - hard, deep, brutal - and it hit.

The sharp gasp, the way Bruce’s body jolted and tightened around him, the utter chaos of sensation - it tore Clark apart.

He came hard, voice catching in his throat, arms locked around Bruce’s back like if he let go for even a second, they’d both fall apart completely. He spilled into him with a low, guttural groan that vibrated between them, hips stuttering, forehead pressed to Bruce’s damp skin.

Bruce moaned softly, breathless, still pulsing around him, body trembling in the aftermath.

They stayed there - locked together, bodies trembling, sweat cooling on their skin - the city still glowing around them through the glass. The office was filled with the smell of sex, the quiet echo of what they’d just done, and the weight of everything left unsaid.

Clark finally pulled back, just enough to look at him - at Bruce’s flushed face, his red mouth, the dazed, glassy look in his eyes.

And in that silence, thick and trembling with afterglow, Clark kissed him again - deep and slow, reverent.

Not just because he had to.

But because he needed to.

The hallway was quieter than expected.

Maybe it was the time of day. Maybe it was luck. Or maybe the world just hadn’t caught up yet to what had happened behind that frosted glass office door.

Clark’s steps were steady, controlled, but there was a tension in his shoulders - like his body still remembered what it felt like to have Bruce trembling in his arms. He walked slightly behind him as they exited the office, his hand resting low on Bruce’s back in a touch that could be read as gentlemanly… or possessive. 

It was both.

Bruce, still re-buttoning his coat with careful fingers, didn’t say much. His expression was schooled into something calm, unreadable to most. But his skin still glowed faintly, flushed in places the lapels didn’t quite hide. 

His lips were a little too red. His hair, usually in his eyes, hiding him, shielding him was a bit disheveled. And his eyes… they flicked to Clark when he thought the other man wasn’t looking.

The elevator ride was silent. 

Tense. 

The kind of silence that buzzed.

By the time they hit the lobby, the cool air was a shock. Glass and marble surrounded them again. The world of power and polish and public masks had returned.

Clark walked him to the revolving door.

Bruce turned, about to say something - but paused when Clark offered his hand.

Not brusquely. Not like a reporter concluding an interview. But slowly. Warmly. Like he didn’t want this to be the end. Like he wasn’t entirely ready to let him go.

- Thank you for your time, Mr. Wayne, - Clark said, voice quiet, edged with something rougher. His gaze didn’t waver. - For the… interview.

Bruce looked at the hand. Then at Clark’s face.

The tension between them shimmered like a current, visible only to them.

He took it.

Their hands met in a firm shake - meant to be professional - but neither of them let go right away. Bruce’s fingers flexed slightly, brushing the calloused edge of Clark’s palm. Clark’s thumb ghosted against his wrist as if memorizing the pulse.

Their eyes locked - gray and blue - and the space between them felt suddenly full again. Not with movement, not with heat, but with everything they couldn’t say in front of a lobby full of strangers.

Bruce tilted his head, the corners of his mouth twitching just faintly, like a private joke was sitting on his tongue. - If you ever need a… follow-up, - he said, low and dry, - I’m sure I can make time.

Clark’s jaw flexed. That grin Bruce wore was lethal. - I’ll keep that in mind, - he said.

Neither of them moved for a second longer. The world kept turning. Phones rang. Journalists passed by. No one knew.

But they did.

And as Bruce finally pulled his hand away and turned into the crowd - Clark watched him go like he already missed him.

Because he did.

The glass doors whispered shut behind Bruce Wayne, and the world outside swallowed him in dark humes and city noise. He didn’t look back, of course. 

He never did. His figure moved with that same controlled precision, every step confident, measured - a billionaire on his way back to Gotham with rumpled clothes, a loosened tie, and the faintest trace of Clark Kent’s touch under his collar.

Clark stood there at the entrance of the Daily Planet lobby, hands in his pockets, eyes following Bruce’s silhouette until the black vehicle he came with blurred into the crowd. His heart still beat a little too fast, his skin still buzzing faintly beneath his shirt. 

If he focused, he could feel it - the shape of Bruce's body against his own, the raw heat of him, the sounds, the way he had clung to him like something sacred.

And God, it wasn’t enough.

It already wasn’t enough.

He exhaled slowly, trying to shake it off, to pull the mask of casual calm back into place.

- Hey, - came a voice beside him. - Are you alive, or do I need to call Gotham PD?

Clark flinched just slightly, caught off guard as Jimmy Olsen strolled up next to him, half a coffee in one hand, his camera slung over his shoulder. He raised an eyebrow, chewing on the stir stick as he followed Clark’s gaze through the glass doors.

- Was that Wayne just now?

Clark blinked. - Yeah, - he said, clearing his throat. - Interview ran a little long.

Jimmy let out a laugh that was way too amused.

- A little? Clark, that was nearly two hours. Perry was about to send someone up to check if you two hadn’t killed each other. Or, you know… - His grin widened. - Started round two of the billionaire brawl.

Clark’s ears went red instantly.

Jimmy caught it, of course. He always did. - Oh no, - he said, eyes lighting up. - Oh no. You’re blushing. What the hell kind of interview was this?

- It was... thorough, - Clark muttered, turning just enough that Jimmy couldn’t see the full shade of pink spreading across his cheeks.

Jimmy snorted into his coffee. - Right. Thorough. Well, whatever you said, it clearly left an impression. I’ve never seen Bruce Wayne look like he actually enjoyed human conversation. Or walked like he’d just run a marathon.

Clark froze.

Jimmy was still rambling, but Clark had stopped listening. His brain was stuck on Bruce’s mouth, his voice, the way he’d said “Show me,” like it meant something bigger than the moment. Like he was daring Clark to come back for more.

And the thing was - Clark knew he would. He wanted to.

The taste of Bruce was still on his tongue. His fingerprints were still invisible across Clark’s chest. There had been no promises made - no dates set, no flirtatious parting words - but something had cracked open between them. Something quiet and dangerous and impossible to forget.

Clark Kent had flown across the world. He’d faced gods and monsters. But nothing had ever gotten under his skin like the man he’d just watched disappear into the street below.

And deep down, he already knew.

There was no way he could ever get enough of Bruce Wayne.

Not now.

Not ever.