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Bruce is, for lack of a better term, in the thick of it.
He hates seeing things through that perspective. And he hates how desperate he sounds because of it. But it is, at the end of the day, the hard cold truth.
If there was a storm happening, he would be in the eye of it.
All of that because of one thing. Rather, because of one person and one person only: Clark fucking Kent. The man he has called partner ── as a hero, a colleague, a teammate and no other way ──, the man he has called best friend for three years.
Bruce has grown to hate that word.
Not that he doesn’t agree with it. Clark is his best friend, despite how childish it sounds for men their age. And Clark is a good one at that. He has been there for Bruce, and for Batman. He has proved time and time again that he is as reliable as they come, and that he can be Bruce’s support system in the midst of a hurricane.
What Bruce hates, despises even, is what that makes him. Not only Clark Kent’s own best friend, his partner even. But the cliché tale of the best friend who is secretly, and quite desperately, in love with him.
To be fair, something Bruce rarely ever is to himself, he is getting better at hiding his own feelings. It was difficult at first, a few years back, when the mere realization sent him down a spiral he wasn’t able to handle at first. Fuck, he fully stopped showing up for League meetings and ignored Clark so much they had to pull some sort of intervention on him to make sure he was okay.
After that, Bruce started to come to terms with his own feelings. Accepting their existence, and what they meant for him, before finding a way to deal with them head on.
Now, he is better at hiding it. For most part he is able to act as if nothing ever happened. As if his heart doesn’t start to race as soon as Clark walks into a room, as if he doesn’t get sweaty as soon as Superman shows up in costume. As if his mind doesn’t shut down for a few seconds when Clark platonically winks at him. Those things still happen to this day, with the same intensity they did when his feelings first began. But he knows they are coming, so he knows how to deal with them head on.
That is… Until, what? Twenty minutes ago?
That sounds about right. It makes sense.
It adds to his… Being in the thick of it shit.
Because an integral part of his plan, the one that keeps him going, is that he knows what to expect from himself. His feelings are strong, they are ruthless. But if Bruce is expecting them, there isn’t a problem he can’t face. He knows when to avoid certain things, when to look away, and he knows how to stop his brain from functioning like a teenager would.
Twenty minutes ago, when it all first went down, he wasn’t expecting it. In his defense, he didn’t even know that it could even affect him the way it did. He only figured that one out when his heart was nearly exploding out of his chest, and the hardness of his uniform was the one thing keeping everyone from noticing the hardness of his cock.
In the middle of a fucking fight, even.
Pathetic weak little man, is what he keeps calling himself. Away from the world, hidden in his cave. Feeling painfully unworthy of his own damn uniform. Of his mask. Of his title.
If Bruce stops with the self degrading for a second or two, he will think back to Clark. To his ripped uniform and something too close to blood splattered around the exposed skin. Gruesome? Maybe not as much as it could be. But enough that Bruce feels even worse about it.
About how he felt when Clark stood there, in front of him, after taking a hit that was meant to have killed Batman. His heavy breathing. Those blue eyes focused on Bruce, who was still kneeling on the floor. The way Clark, still standing tall, dared to touch Bruce’s face as if it wouldn’t alter his brain chemistry right then and there.
The fighting was close to an end ── he is sure he checked on it before running away ──, his teammates not only had it covered. But were actively stepping away. Most had their hands free and were simply assessing their own job. Bruce and Clark were the only two still finishing things off. He could leave if he wanted to. And that’s what he did.
Rather, that’s what his legs did before he could even begin to comprehend what was going down.
In fact, Bruce is sure he passed out at some point in time and only came back to it when his body drove itself into the Batcave. When he was hit with the familiar sounds of his computers, and the familiar lingering scent of Alfred’s afternoon tea. When he was sure he was safe. And that no one else could get to him.
No one else could, or would, witness his pathetic little moment.
And, to be honest, for a while no one does.
He is alone in there, mask still on, hands plopped on the computer table. And he is just trying to find any sense of normalcy. Anything that will get him to feel human again. Because this, whatever this is, can’t be normal.
And he is going through it in a way he has never done it before.
Until he hears it. The doors, opening and closing back again.
See, he senses Clark’s presence even before he is able to hear the man’s voice. As if his body is so helplessly linked to Clark’s that he can’t help but feel it in his bones whenever Clark steps into a room. It is sickening, and most of the time he can pretend it isn’t there ── even if the first thing that happens to him in moments like these is his heart beating painfully fast.
But he can’t… He can’t ground himself enough to deal with it here.
Because all he wants is to…
Maybe if he just turned around and…
He could even try to…
No, no, no. He fucking can’t.
And his heart aches at the thought of how much he wants to. His entire body burns with it. His hands shake, and all he has to do for it to end is… Touch him. He has to touch Clark, and it will all be okay again. He will survive this. He has to.
But he can’t, can he?
He can’t just… Turn around and touch him. He can’t end the distance between them, however grand it may be. He can’t just go for it and leave everything else in the background. He can’t forget who he is, who they are.
“Bruce,” Clark says.
Bruce doesn’t turn around. Too afraid of what his body might do if he does.
He has half a mind not to say anything too. Knowing his next few words will either be: please come closer or get the hell away. Unsure of which one could possibly be worse, he feels safer in silence.
“Bruce,” Clark insists. “We need to talk.”
He hates those words. He hates how they feel like the end of something, something they haven’t even started to begin with. Something Bruce is sure he is able to hide enough so that Clark ── in his somewhat unaware nature ── won’t notice.
“I’m not here to talk to Batman,” Clark says. “I’m here to talk to Bruce Wayne.”
What is that even supposed to mean?
“Take that damned mask off, or I will take it off for you.”
And, well, isn’t that an unfair thing to say?
Not only because Superman could take him in a physical altercation, albeit not easily. But because it sounds so fucking attractive Bruce’s brain short circuits for a moment. Just like it did in the field, when he had to simply run away from his desire for his best friend. His partner.
So, yes, Clark bringing that same feeling back ── in Bruce’s own safe space now ── is incredibly unfair.
And it leaves him with no choice.
“Fine,” he sighs. Taking off his mask and leaving it close to his computer.
He knows Clark wants him to turn around. And he is smart enough to do it before he says anything about it. But it doesn’t make things better. Seeing Clark, standing tall in all his glory. Those blue eyes seemingly follow Bruce’s every move. Looking just like he did when Bruce last saw him.
When their eyes meet, Clark sighs, “Bruce…”
He doesn’t say anything else. He simply breathes out Bruce’s name, as if he had been keeping it lodged in the back of his throat for too long. As if he’s been waiting to say it, fully say it, for years at that point. As if it means something.
And it comes out sounding so raw and intimate that Bruce’s heart stops for a second.
Picking back up a moment later, beating as aggressively as it did before.
Bruce wants Clark to say something, anything, simply so the sound of his own voice will make it impossible for Clark to hear his heart. But he doesn’t do it. Clark doesn’t say anything else. What he does do…
Oh.
Oh.
Clark ends the distance between them so quickly Bruce is sure he flies towards him. The impact of his body is enough to get Bruce to hit the table behind him. Something Clark clearly doesn’t care about as one of his hands goes towards Bruce’s waist. And the other touches the nape of his neck.
Just like that, Clark leans in.
They are kissing before Bruce is fully able to process what is happening.
And, to be completely honest, Bruce has pictured kissing Clark Kent many times before. He would stay up late, imagining how those lips must feel, how sharp his tongue can be. The concept of kissing Clark is not foreign to him. At least not in the depths of his mind, where most of his secrets lay.
Still, nothing he has ever imagined before could compare to this.
The kiss feels like the first sight of food after an eternity of starvation. Like the first drop of rain after a drought. The first sip of water after ages crossing the desert. It feels like coming home too, in the smallest bits of softness it carries. But it mostly feels like salvation.
It is almost devastating to know he can’t spend the rest of his days there.
The more they kiss, the more he feels the softness of Clark’s lips on his, the more he enjoys the taste of Clark’s tongue… It feels impossible to let go. His lungs slowly start to burn, his breathing feels heavy, and the air around them feels scarce. But Bruce doesn’t let go.
He holds Clark in, arms wrapped around his neck, he pulls him impossibly closer.
He allows himself just this. This brief moment coming right out of a dream.
“I can hear it…” Clark says, as he is responsible enough to let go. “I could always hear it…”
“What?” Bruce asks, chasing Clark’s lips again.
They kiss once more. And it is as groundbreaking as it was the first time. It is devastatingly beautiful too. It feels… Almost as if nothing else could ever, would ever, compare. It’s Clark. His lips, his teeth ── his fucking teeth ──, his tongue. And it is all of the things they do to Bruce.
“Your heartbeat,” Clark tells him, breathing heavily as he pulls away again. “I thought you’d do something about it sooner.”
Bruce stops, fully stops, for a second.
He eyes Clark carefully, “You knew.”
“Not always,” he chuckles. “My own heart was too much of a mess for me to notice yours.”
Clark caresses his cheek. Gentle, almost as if he had imagined how to do it many times before.
“I gave you time to come to terms with your own feelings.”
“Clark…”
“But I couldn’t wait anymore,” Clark presses him against the table. And Bruce notices ── and feels slightly dumb for taking him so long to do so ── how hard Clark is. “You looked so pretty on your knees…”
Bruce finds himself whimpering slightly at the memory. At the promise.
This time, when Bruce kisses Clark, there is no lingering softness to it. It is rough, it is filled with this ancient desire he has held onto for dear life all those years. It is… So much more.
It isn’t only groundbreaking. But an Earth ending, life altering kiss.
He slides his tongue past Clark’s parted lips, and he all but moans at the taste. He bites down Clark’s lower lip, he deepens the kiss by pulling Clark in. He positions himself in a way that Clark is nearly consuming him whole.
With his right hand, Bruce scratches the nape of Clark’s neck. It doesn’t do much ── in fact, it doesn’t do anything ── but it is enough to get Clark’s attention. Clark who, then and there, grabs Bruce by the waist fully. And plops him down at the computer table. The metal makes an awful sound with the force Clark puts on it.
Bruce wraps his legs around Clark, pulling him in a way their erections are pressed together.
And Clark, fuck, Clark fucking moves.
He rocks his hips against Bruce’s. Creating friction in their sensitive spots, and dragging whimpers out of Bruce. Sounds he, himself, wasn’t even aware he could make until then. Until him.
Bruce is quick to follow. He moves his hips towards Clark’s in a rhythm that forces them even closer. The friction grows stronger and more constant with each movement. Which only serves to get them both to turn even more aggressive during the kiss.
To be fair to both of them, they aren’t thinking when it happens.
They are clearly lost to the sensation, lost to the desire that had been eating away at them for years. One Bruce is still incapable of believing to be mutual.
So, when Clark moves his hands down Bruce’s body and rips his uniform… Well, no one says a word. Especially not when Clark is so precise about it too. Creating a big hole in the middle of Bruce’s legs, one that goes all the way to the back at the same time it reveals the wet spot on Bruce’s underwear.
Revealing how much precum has been escaping him.
Clark isn’t gentle about it. They are both so drunk in desire Bruce is not sure they could be, even if they wanted to. And, yes, some part of him wants it to be soft and loving. Wants it to be romantic, and border adoration. But… He has wanted this for so long. He has lived for this moment, for the mere promise of it, for ages. He can’t allow himself kindness, especially since it doesn’t come natural to him.
Brue doesn’t look down, he is too lost in Clark’s lips to do so.
So, he misses the moment Clark finds his way around his own suit. He misses whatever kryptonian power is necessary for him to free his own hardness, and he simply feels it. The moment Clark presses his unclothed cock against Bruce’s own.
“Fuck…” Bruce moans, moving his hips forward.
And, again, Bruce is sure there must be better preparation for what comes next. He is sure this could go smoothly and mostly painless. But none of them think about that now. Clark tears Bruce’s underwear with ease, and lifts Bruce’s body just enough to position himself in Bruce’s hole.
Clark invades him raw, and without any ounce of preparation.
And it fucking hurts.
To the point Bruce can immediately feel tears bubbling in his eyes, making his vision blurry ── as he tries to look Clark in the eyes once more, just to capture the moment.
And it is one of the best things Bruce has ever felt.
Clark moves inside him slowly at first. Even if not much. But he is strong with each thrust. He bottoms out a few times, only lowering Bruce against the table once he is sure he can truly move with ease.
Then, he is fast.
Bruce is not sure if he moans or screams first. Both sounds come out as one. He supports himself on the table with one hand, while he uses the other to grab onto Clark’s shoulder. Pulling him in as much as he tries to push him away in pure instinct.
Clark holds Bruce by the waist with one hand. And supports himself against Bruce’s fucking keyboard with the other. He is quickly able to find a rhythm. Moving back and forth with enough strength to make Bruce shake from head to toe.
“You look so hot, baby,” Clark moans out.
And Bruce notices what he means a second too late.
Clark is not looking at his body, or anything that might warrant such a compliment. In fact, Clark is looking directly at Bruce’s face. And Clark Kent is trailing down Bruce’s tears with intent. With such raw desire it hits Bruce straight to the groin.
“Can’t you handle me, Brucie?” Clark asks, moving inside him.
Bruce cries out. A sound a bit too similar to a sob coming out of his throat.
The tears are messy. They run down Bruce’s cheeks with the black makeup, making him look used up and fuck beyond oblivion. And Clark clearly enjoys that. Fuck, Bruce can feel him getting even harder because of it.
Still, none of that seems to be enough for Clark.
Who, starving as he is, leans in and licks one of Bruce’s tears.
Moaning as he does so.
“You taste so good,” Clark praises him.
“You are ruining me,” is all Bruce can find in himself to say.
Clark chuckles, looking him dead in the eye, “Good.”
Moving one hand to Bruce’s neck, Clark forces him down against the keyboard. The keys hurt a little, but Bruce doesn’t mind. Especially when that position seems to leave more room for Clark to use him in any way shape or form that comes to mind.
Especially when Clark’s grip tightens.
And Bruce can’t breathe.
It doesn’t happen immediately. In fact, Clark simply applies enough pressure for it to be slightly above bothersome. But the pressure, alongside the way Clark moves inside him and what that does to his breathing already… Oh, that makes his lungs burn quite quickly.
Bruce can feel his own skin bruising under Clark’s firm grip. He can feel his bones nearly cave in under the amount of pressure he puts. And he knows, he just knows, Clark has him by the throat in the exact spot he is supposed to.
Bruce’s breathing comes harder, and he feels himself gasping for air at times.
And it is the most delicious thing Bruce has ever experienced.
But he can tell, and quite quickly even, that Clark is holding himself back. Whatever thing Clark is feeling, whatever desire is consuming him, he is forcing himself to not let out as he looks down at Bruce.
Still, whenever he gets a glimpse of Bruce’s tears he slows down.
Because if he doesn’t… He might just break Bruce in half.
With his free hand, Clark supports himself on the keyboard right next to Bruce’s head. And Bruce is quite literally able to hear ── despite all the moaning and heavy breathing ── some keys breaking at the weight of his hand.
None of that makes Clark want to stop.
Bruce is glad for it.
In fact, finding a new place to direct his strength to, gives Clark the chance to move with even more precision. He invades Bruce time and time again, nearly gaping him at each thrust. Opening him up like he is nothing more than an object meant to be used.
With one of his hands, as he feels his own orgasm approaching ── despite still being left untouched ──, Bruce touches Clark’s one on his neck. Begging to be allowed some breathing room as his conscience threatens to leave him.
The more he can’t breathe, the more he cries.
And the more Clark wants him.
It’s a vicious cycle, one he is glad to be part of. One that is set to take away the last bit of his dignity. But he can’t… He can’t stop. He is crying, Clark is leaning in to lick his tears from time to time. He can’t breathe. He can’t stop his computer from breaking. He can’t.
All he can do is enjoy this.
Is moan, and cry, and pull Clark in.
Is move his hips against Clark’s as he feels his body tensing up.
And then, all he can do is cry out as he finds his release. Coming completely untouched, getting both of their uniforms dirty with his hot liquid and… Fuck, all he can do is feel his hole getting tighter due to his orgasm. And all he can do is feel as Clark uses that to go over the edge.
Clark lets go of Bruce’s neck only a few seconds before coming.
He does so because he isn’t able to hold his strength any longer. And, with both hands on Bruce’s expensive equipment, he breaks everything on his way as he tips over the edge. Forcing himself to gain back consciousness to hold onto Bruce as the table underneath them gives in and falls to the floor. Metal ruined as if it’s nothing but a sheet of paper.
Pulling Bruce in, Clark kisses him senseless.
“Fuck…” Bruce moans, as Clark licks another one of his tears. “You… Fucking hell, Clark…”
“I’m sorry for your computer…”
Is the one thing Clark seems to be able to say, forehead pressed against Bruce’s.
“You think I care?” Bruce breathes out, chuckling.
“It looks expensive.”
Gently, Clark moves his lips down Bruce’s neck. Kissing him softly on top of the bruises left there. As Bruce is given a few seconds to breathe, Clark busies himself with making him feel loved. Cared for. Wanted in ways no one had ever dared to do so.
Bruce hums, “It is…”
Clark chuckles, “Send me the bill.”
“On a reporter’s salary?” Bruce asks, eyebrow raised. “I doubt it.”
Clark looks at him, smile on his lips, “It’s money enough to take you out on a proper date, Mr. Wayne.”
Bruce rolls his eyes, “We’ll see about that, Mr. Kent.”