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Clark has been looking at his mouth all morning in a way he probably thinks is subtle and is instead unfortunately arousing. So Bruce isn't surprised when after the League Meeting he suggests going back to the penthouse to debrief and Clark, rather than demur and suggest they stay on the Watchtower, nearly beats him to the zeta in accepting.
They don't speak or touch, not in the elevator up to the 26th floor or in the entryway or the walk down the hallway towards the bedroom. The energy builds between them; Clark is already stripping off his cape, his boots, tugging at his shirt and pants, and Bruce can't look away from the way the muscles in his back bunch as he bends, the mouthwatering curve of his quads. He wants to fuck Clark's thighs almost as much as he wants to get his mouth on him. His own hands fumble with the armor as he feels for buckles that should be second nature by now; he feels like something shedding its shell.
And then they're in the bedroom. Bruce hadn't bothered to turn on the lights, and the heavy curtains are still closed, so the light comes in slivers and cracks across the expanse of Clark's chest, the hair trailing down his stomach, his hardening cock. The air feels heavy, dreamlike. He can't hear any of the lifebeat of Gotham moving below them, though Clark surely can. They could be the only people in the world, here in the semi-darkness.
Bruce tugs the last piece of his suit off, and then they're both naked, and Clark is on him like a whirlwind. They're on the bed before he fully realizes how they got there, and Clark is kissing him with that singleminded fierceness that always makes Bruce melt.
He moves to touch Clark, to get his hands all over that beautiful body. He grasps the poetic muscle of Clark's shoulders for a moment, and then– "No," Clark says, and blurs briefly, and Bruce's hands slam up against the mattress. Clark's hand circles around his wrists almost gently, but when Bruce flexes experimentally his grip is iron and unyielding.
"Here's what we're going to do," Clark says. He's looking down at Bruce with a little smirk on his face. You wouldn't think Clark could smirk, if you didn't know him well. But right now he looks like the proverbial cat. "You're going to keep your hands here, and your hips on the bed, and I'm going to touch you. If you move, I'll stop touching you. Got it?"
He's running a finger idly down Bruce's chest. Bruce has to concentrate to stop himself from arching into it. Clark lifts the finger away, one eyebrow raised, and Bruce realizes Clark is waiting for a response. "Yes," he says, and the end turns into a hiss as Clark twists his nipple between his fingers.
And then Clark's hands are everywhere, light, fast touches that blur into a steady rush of sensation on every part of Bruce's body. Clark is using his speed, he realizes, opening his eyes from where they've fallen shut, because as soon as he registers a touch on one part of his body (his thighs, his chest, his cock, the vulnerable inside of his arm) Clark is already touching somewhere else. It takes every ounce of his iron concentration not to buck his hips, or reach out and grab Clark and make him hold still, make him stop this maddening dance of not-enough.
Clark could hold him down. He's one of the few people on Earth who could actually immobilize him. But, Bruce realizes, looking at the smeared blur of Clark's wicked smile, that's not what this is about. It would be easy for Clark to hold his wrists down, to slam his hips into place whenever Bruce tried to buck against him. To be an implacable wall for Bruce to break himself against. But he doesn't need to. Because Bruce will hold himself there, as long as Clark asks him to. Bruce has to close his eyes against that knowledge, has to bite his lip to stifle the groan that builds in his chest.
"Hey," Clark says, stroking his hand up Bruce's face. His palm against Bruce's cheek is almost tender, until he grabs a handful of Bruce's hair to arch Bruce's neck back so that he can suck a bruise into it. "None of that. I said don't move, not don't talk."
"Technically I think moving my mouth is– mmph," Bruce says, because Clark's tongue is licking deliciously into his mouth, and that makes it hard to concentrate on much of anything. Clark grinds his thigh into Bruce's cock, and Bruce gasps into the kiss.
"That's it," Clark murmurs, pulling off to bite another bruise into Bruce's jaw, and Bruce is so focused on not grinding into the blood-hot muscle of Clark's beautiful thigh that he forgets to even grumble about Clark leaving marks above the collar. A problem for later Bruce. The white heat of Clark's mouth coalesces into a sharp burst of pain, and Bruce's whole body tenses in arousal, and then Clark is kissing him almost gently.
"You like that, huh?" Clark says, and Bruce closes his eyes against the heady knowledge in Clark's eyes. Everyone forgets that Clark Kent sees through facades for a living. Clark hums softly and drags his blunt nails down Bruce's ribs. It feels electric.
How can Clark know him so completely? It makes the part of him that lives in the cave want to curl up and hide the soft meat of underbelly, makes him want to hiss and bite and pull away like an animal run to ground. But he can't, because he told Clark he wouldn't move. And also because– as much as he tries to pretend otherwise– the small vicious animal part of him is only a part. He doesn't do any of this anymore– not sex during the day, not sex with someone who knows him, not sex he can't shrug off. And here he is anyway, because he wants to be; because he wants to be stripped away until all that is left is raw need.
His thighs are trembling with the effort of holding still; he can feel the sweat trickle down his chest. Clark has pulled away from his neck to sit back on his heels and look down at Bruce. "God," he says. The crack in the curtains is leaking afternoon light, and it drapes over Clark's shoulders like a lover, caresses him the way Bruce wants to. He flexes his fingers.
"Look at you," Clark says, his voice low and rough. "Look at you."
Bruce can't speak. He doesn't have words, suddenly. He's rarely talkative in bed, but what can he say, in the face of Clark, glorious and unselfconscious in his nudity, looking down at him like Bruce is something rare? There's nothing he could say, confronted with the line of Clark's hip, the soft gleam of hair along his thigh, the rise of his cock. Nothing. He only swallows, and looks back at Clark, tilting his head up to expose his throat. He lets himself be seen.
Clark's eyes darken, and he swoops down to capture Bruce's mouth again at the same time as he takes Bruce's cock fully in his hand. Bruce's hips slam upwards without his permission.
"Ah," Clark says, and pulls both his hand and his clever mouth away.
Bruce whines, his breath coming hard and heavy. "Please," he hears himself say, and embarrassment floods his cheeks at how desperate his voice sounds. Clark has barely even touched his cock. He just can't bear the loss. He can't bear to have Clark here, and not be touched by him.
"Hold still for me, then, baby," Clark says, and lowers his hand so so slowly towards Bruce's cock. It twitches at his approach, yearning towards the heat of his hand, and for a moment Bruce thinks Clark is going to count that as a movement. But he doesn't. He wraps his muscled palm around Bruce's weeping cock and begins to move, rubbing along the slit to spread the wetness around. He doesn't have a single callous. You'd think, to look at his body, that Clark had never been harmed. That he never could be.
Clark jerks him steady, and Bruce is just relaxing into it, letting his body release that thrumming tension he's been holding since Clark starting winding him up, when Clark reaches up and cradles his hand very, very gently over Bruce's throat. His fingertips press so softly against the sides of his neck, where the blood pulses hot and steady. Bruce gasps, and the muscles in his arms jump as he tries not to arch his whole body.
"Yeah?" Clark says. He presses down slightly, and twists his other fist on the upstroke, and Bruce closes his eyes again.
"Keep those open. I want to see you." And Bruce has to open his eyes and let Clark spit him on that steady gaze. He can see Clark's cock nearly purple against his stomach, but Clark seems content to just hold him here, his breath and his blood pinned in his two hands. Clark eases up on his throat, and Bruce heaves a gasp as Clark strokes his fingers down his neck and back up along the line of his jaw.
"Good," Clark says, and presses back down again. He does this– up and down, giving Bruce little sips of air– until Bruce is thrumming at the edge of orgasm, floating somewhere in the endless blue of Clark's unfathomable eyes, every muscle in his body tensed to avoid fucking up into Clark's inexorable hand. It's too much. It's not enough. He needs desperately to come.
"You're doing so good for me," Clark whispers into his ear, and Bruce moans against his shoulder. His own shoulders are starting to feel the strain of being in this position for so long, and the dull ache only makes him harder. "Just a little longer." And he pulls his hand away and trails his fingers around the tip of Bruce's cock, playing idly with the head, pressing a thumb against his frenulum. Digging his nail in just slightly, in a way that makes Bruce's cock pulse and his hips flex.
"Please," Bruce says again.
"Please what," Clark says. "What do you want, baby? You look so good like this."
"Touch me," Bruce gasps, and Clark smiles, that beautiful smile that lights up his whole face, and jerks Bruce off at the same time as his other hand descends back onto Bruce's throat. Bruce comes without warning, with a shout, his whole body arcing into Clark's like a magnet seeking home. It rushes through him like a black wave, obliterating, and when he swims back into awareness Clark is frantically kissing his way along Bruce's body. All that cool smiling control is fallen away, and he watches with some fondness and more arousal as Clark leans his forehead against Bruce's ribs and jerks himself with a hand still covered with Bruce's cum. The muscles of his back tremble, and tighten, and then he's coming, thick spurting pulses all over Bruce's cum-soaked belly.
Bruce grabs at Clark's shoulders, his hands clumsy from orgasm and heady arousal, and strokes down the line of Clark's spine. Clark's whole body is a heavy weight against him. In a moment Clark will roll off of him, and probably be very tender, and Bruce will bear his own desire for that too. But for now Clark is still shaking and shuddering against him, his Kryptonian orgasm carrying him like a wave, and so Bruce soothes him through it. Clark gasps into Bruce's neck, one choked-off inhale, and stills.
For a moment, neither of them move. And Bruce thinks this is the moment he would keep, if he could only keep one. Not the blinding joy of orgasm, or the heady intensity of Clark's gaze unraveling him, or even the reciprocal arousal of seeing Clark undone just from watching him. This quiet stillness, stripped of pretense and need and expectation, the smeared evidence of their sex still wet on Bruce's stomach. The afternoon light skimming over the gleaming rises and hollows of Clark's back.
Clark presses a kiss to Bruce's neck, and the moment slips away. He rises up and kisses Bruce, long and sweet and aching, rubbing feeling back into Bruce's arms even though they never really lost sensation to begin with. "God, Bruce," he says softly. He presses his lips to Bruce's knuckles, where they are scarred and beginning to swell on cold winter nights. "What you do to me."
Bruce knows he needs to say something; his inability to express himself has often led to Clark retreating behind a brittle, cheerful shell, and he can't bear the thought of this soft, open Clark packing himself away. But he can't think of anything that's not either stupid ("thanks!") or disastrous ("marry me") so instead he leans his forehead against Clark's so that they will breathe the same air. "You break me open," he says, and Clark makes a wounded little noise in the back of his throat, and Bruce has to hold him tightly so that he won't pull away. He's saying it wrong. "Every time, you get right to the heart of me. I don't know how you do it. I know I don't make it easy. I didn't think anyone could, anymore."
"Bruce," Clark says, hoarsely, and kisses him the way only a man who doesn't technically require air can.
The sun is beginning to slip lower. Soon they will have to turn on a lamp, and put on clothes, and return to a world that is always clawing for pieces of them. But just now, Bruce kisses Clark back and lets himself pretend this is all they are. Two people in a bedroom in the lazy late afternoon, kissing without a care in the world.