Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Clark Kent wasn’t sure if his shoes were too loud against the marble floor or if it just felt that way because the rest of the penthouse was so quiet. His reflection wavered in the gleaming surface, taller and more out of place than he’d like to admit. He stood frozen in the entryway for a beat too long, suitcase shoulders hunched in a jacket that wasn’t tailored, tie already skewed to one side as if it had given up on him halfway through the night.

The elevator doors slid shut behind him with a muted chime, leaving him alone with the kind of wealth he still wasn’t used to breathing around. The place smelled faintly of polished wood and something clean, like citrus or cedar. 

High above Metropolis, the city stretched out beyond floor-to-ceiling glass, lights scattered like stars caught beneath them. It was beautiful, dizzying - and Clark felt like he was about two heartbeats away from accidentally knocking something priceless over.

He adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat, then immediately regretted how loud the sound seemed. His mother’s voice echoed in the back of his head: stand up straight, honey, don’t fidget so much, people will think you’re nervous.  

He was nervous. He was incredibly nervous.

Meeting Bruce Wayne at the gala had been surreal enough. Clark had been there in his cheap suit, trying not to sweat through his shirt while Lois stormed the room like she’d been born in heels, while photographers angled for better shots of the city’s most important faces. Bruce had been magnetic in a way Clark couldn’t quite put into words - aloof but observant, detached but still somehow sharp enough to catch Clark’s stumbling attempt at small talk.

And now he was here, standing in Bruce Wayne’s penthouse.

He tugged at his collar and muttered under his breath, - Great. No pressure. Just, you know, don’t trip over the rug. Don’t touch anything. Don’t… break… anything. - His voice cracked halfway through, and he winced at himself.

His glasses slipped further down the bridge of his nose, and he shoved them back up too quickly, nearly smudging the lenses with his thumb. His bag knocked against the side table - lightly, but enough to make a crystal bowl tremble. Clark flinched like he’d committed a felony, steadying it with both hands.

- Sorry, - he whispered to no one in particular. His ears burned.

The view through the windows pulled his gaze then, and for a moment the nerves stilled. 

Metropolis glittered at night in a way that Smallville never had - alive, constant, humming with stories he hadn’t even begun to touch. It was the city he’d come to learn, to work in, to make his parents proud. And yet standing there in a penthouse that probably cost more than the Kent farm ten times over, Clark couldn’t shake the thought: I don’t belong here. I never will.

And that was exactly when he heard footsteps  - steady, confident, measured - approaching from deeper inside the apartment.

Clark froze, pulse thudding in his throat, his hands awkwardly clutching the strap of his bag like it might anchor him. He told himself to say something, anything, to not look like a lost kid from Kansas. All Clark could manage was a smile that was about three parts nervous and one part hopeful.

The door opened with the softest click, and for a moment Clark wasn’t sure if he had the wrong place after all. The penthouse was too quiet, too dark, too polished compared to anything he had ever stepped foot into. He almost retreated on instinct - he wasn’t meant to be here, surely - but then a shadow lengthened in the doorway, and Bruce Wayne filled the space like the room had been cut precisely to his proportions.

Bruce stood framed against the pale spill of the city lights behind him, tall and terribly composed, and Clark realized too late that he was staring. His hair was the first thing Clark noticed - longer than he’d expected, untamed but deliberate, dark strands brushing past his jaw in that way that looked both carelessly disheveled and impossibly intentional. A few loose locks caught against the sharp angle of his cheekbone before tumbling down again, as if they too refused to be ordered.

His eyes were darker still, deep-set, watching Clark with a weight that felt heavier than simple curiosity. There was smudged eyeliner in the corners, not neat but lingering like the memory of a night that hadn’t yet ended. The faint shadow of it framed the cold intensity of his gaze, softening nothing - if anything, the smudge made him look more untouchable, like someone who existed just beyond reach, a figure out of myth and sleepless nights.

Bruce was dressed in black from throat to shoe, and Clark had to force himself to swallow against the sight. 

The shirt - crisp, buttoned, the kind of thing Clark would never own, let alone wear - fit him with clean severity, outlining broad shoulders before tapering down to a lean, exact waist. The matching pants weren’t just tailored, they seemed engineered to follow the long lines of his body, to elongate the height he already possessed, turning him into something elongated, striking, a silhouette made for corners of ballrooms and the shadow of city skylines. Each detail was sharp, deliberate, and yet he wore it like it was incidental, as if clothing was only an afterthought draped over the reality of what he was.

Clark’s hands flexed at his sides, itching for something to hold onto - his bag, his glasses, anything - because Bruce didn’t just look at him, he looked through him. 

He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t frowning. 

He merely let out the faintest hum, low and unreadable, his mouth barely moving, lips brushing together in a sound more thoughtful than welcoming. It was not a word, not even an invitation, but it was somehow enough to draw Clark further inside, like a hand on his back pushing him over a threshold he didn’t know if he wanted to cross.

The space between them was already taut, stretched thin by silence. Clark felt it cling to his nerves, to his skin, to the beat of his pulse in his throat. Bruce said nothing else - no greeting, no casual comment, no explanation for why he looked like a painting that belonged in a museum and why Clark, a Kansas farm boy fumbling his way through Metropolis, was standing in his home. He only shifted slightly to the side, tall frame turning just enough for Clark to pass him, the air moving with him in a way that sent a chill down Clark’s arms.

And so Clark stepped forward, breath caught somewhere between his chest and his mouth, still burning with the memory of those eyes, that hum, and the quiet fact that Bruce Wayne - effortless, imposing, unreal - had looked at him.

Clark stepped over the threshold as though he had been invited into a cathedral instead of someone’s home. The first impression hit him like a sharp breath of cold air: height, space, an almost reverent silence humming through the penthouse. 

His shoes scuffed softly against black marble floors so polished they nearly reflected him back at himself, doubling his own awkwardness. Golden accents broke the darkness of the stone - the handrail of the staircase curving upward, the fixtures in the open-concept kitchen gleaming like starlight in the low glow of recessed lighting. And beyond it all, the balcony opened wide to the city: a wall of glass and steel parted into open air, Metropolis stretched out below in restless light. 

The city he still didn’t feel like he belonged to. The city he was supposed to be making his mark on.

He adjusted his glasses for the second - maybe third - time since stepping inside. His fingers itched for something to do: straighten his tie, fix his cuff, hold his notebook like a shield. Instead, he clutched the strap of his shoulder bag, knuckles whitening against worn canvas, and tried to remember how to breathe without making it obvious he was thinking about breathing.

- Uh - wow, - Clark managed finally, voice a little too high, a little too rushed. - This is… something else. The ceilings, and - the marble, and - He stopped himself before the rambling took on a life of its own, swallowing back the words. His ears were already burning. It felt like his Kansas roots were written in bold letters across his chest: the boy who had never stood in a place like this, the boy whose boots should be caked in dirt, not tapping across imported stone.

Bruce Wayne moved deeper into the apartment without a word, his silhouette all clean lines and deliberate disinterest. He didn’t gesture toward the kitchen. He didn’t bother with pleasantries. Just a soft hum from somewhere low in his throat, as though he were acknowledging Clark’s presence and nothing more.

Clark followed, each step too loud in the vast, echoing quiet. His shoulders hunched instinctively as though the apartment itself were judging him - every golden trim and sleek surface too rich, too sharp, too unforgiving. He cleared his throat, fiddled with the strap of his bag, and tried again.

- Thank you - for, um, agreeing to meet. For the interview. I know you don’t - His words tripped over themselves, caught somewhere between gratitude and self-consciousness. - You don’t usually talk to reporters. Especially not… new ones. - He finished with a sheepish smile that didn’t quite land, his glasses sliding just slightly down the bridge of his nose.

Bruce stopped near the edge of the living space, one hand sliding into his pocket, the other brushing absently at the cuff of his sleeve. He finally looked at Clark, and the weight of it was crushing in its lack of warmth. His voice, when it came, was as sharp and flat as the marble underfoot.

- Alfred said it’s for the best.

No elaboration. No emotion. No hint of whether he agreed, or disagreed, or even cared. The words fell between them like a locked door.

Clark blinked, his mouth opening on a nervous little breath. - Right. Of course. For the best. Alfred, he - he probably knows better than anyone. - He laughed lightly, awkwardly, then immediately regretted it, the sound swallowed whole by the cavernous space. His hand shot up to adjust his glasses again, though they hadn’t moved. 

He wanted to fill the silence, to push against that wall of cool dismissal radiating from Bruce - but every word he might say seemed doomed to trip over itself before it reached the air.

Bruce didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t offer even the smallest smile. He just looked at Clark like he was waiting - for what, Clark couldn’t tell.

Clark stumbled forward a little too quickly, his messenger bag jostling awkwardly against his hip. The strap slipped off his shoulder, snagged at his elbow, and for a heart-stopping moment he thought he was about to scatter his notes and recorder across the polished floor. His hand shot out just in time, clutching the bag tight against his side.

- Sorry, - he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to anyone else, as though apologizing to the silence would erase the clumsiness of it. His cheeks burned hot.

When he risked a glance upward, Bruce Wayne hadn’t moved. He stood just inside the broad expanse of the living room, one hand in the pocket of his black slacks, the other loose at his side. His expression betrayed nothing - not irritation, not amusement, not even acknowledgment of Clark’s little disaster. He might as well have been a sculpture: perfectly still, sharp-edged, carved out of shadow and expensive fabric.

Clark cleared his throat and adjusted the strap higher on his shoulder, wishing it didn’t squeak against the leather. - Uh… so -

- Where do you want to do this? - Bruce’s voice broke through before Clark could find the words, low and even, as though the question cost him nothing. His eyes flicked to the bag, then back to Clark’s face, unreadable.

Clark’s mind, already scrambled, went blank. 

For a beat too long, he just blinked at him, his thoughts stuttering between options. The elegant desk by the staircase? Too formal. The long dining table behind them? Too much space, too much distance. His throat felt dry, and he could already imagine his words catching if he tried to interview him across that kind of divide.

His gaze landed on the balcony - the wide glass doors half-slid open, letting in a whisper of cool air that stirred the hem of the curtains. The city stretched beyond, lights glittering like something alive, and Clark latched onto the idea as though it had been waiting for him all along.

- The balcony, - he blurted, a little too quickly, then tried to backpedal. - I mean - if that’s alright. Fresh air, you know. Helps… clear the head. - His smile felt crooked, too tight.

For a moment Bruce didn’t respond. He simply turned, unhurried, and crossed the space with slow, deliberate steps. When he reached the doors, he slid them open fully, the sound of the glass gliding against the track soft, almost elegant. The night air spilled in, carrying with it the faint hum of the city below. Bruce gestured slightly with one hand, not quite inviting but not dismissing either - more like it was simply protocol.

Clark followed, his bag bumping against his hip as he stepped onto the balcony. The sight made his breath catch. The city sprawled endlessly below, a quilt of lights stitched across the dark, each one glowing sharp and alive against the ink-black sky. For a fleeting second he almost forgot about the man standing just ahead of him. 

Almost.

Bruce had already lowered himself onto the black leather couch positioned against the balcony’s far side. Even seated, he carried the same effortless presence as when he stood - shoulders set back, hands resting loosely on his knees, his frame half-shadowed by the spill of city light. The couch itself gleamed, dark leather stitched with faint golden trim that caught the glow from the skyline, luxurious without announcing itself.

Clark hovered for a second too long before taking the seat across from him. He adjusted his bag to the side, fiddled with the strap, then clasped his hands together in his lap as though they’d otherwise give him away. His knees angled closer together than he’d meant them to, the nervous posture of someone who didn’t know where to put himself.

For a moment, there was only the city. The muffled roar of traffic below, a siren somewhere in the distance, the faint rush of wind threading through the silence. Up here, though, the air between them was heavy, drawn taut like wire.

Clark broke first. He cleared his throat again and pulled out his notepad, flipping it open to a fresh page though his pen wasn’t steady. - So, uh… - His voice cracked just slightly, and he winced at himself. - I guess… first of all, thank you for agreeing to this. I know you don’t - do interviews often. Or ever.

Bruce’s eyes lifted at that, sharp and cool. - I don’t.

The words landed like a stone dropped into still water - no ripple of humor, no softening at the edges. Just fact.

Clark nodded too quickly, scribbling a note he didn’t need just to keep his hands busy. - Right. That’s what makes this, uh… special. For the paper, I mean. For the Planet. And for me. - He laughed under his breath, a short, nervous sound that vanished quickly into the space between them. - So - um. No pressure.

Bruce didn’t smile. He didn’t frown either. He just studied Clark for a moment longer, his gaze dark and intent, as though weighing something unspoken. Then he leaned back slightly, settling deeper into the couch. - Ask what you came to ask.

The air shifted with the weight of it, and Clark felt his pulse jump. He clicked his pen once, twice, and glanced down at his notes, trying not to notice how unblinking those gray eyes seemed even when they weren’t fixed directly on him.

The balcony was open, the night alive all around them, but between the two of them it felt like a sealed room with no door.

Clark perched on the edge of the black couch like it might buck him off if he leaned too heavily. The balcony air swept in, warm and tinged with the faint hum of the city below - neon glow bleeding through the skyline, engines groaning far away, Metropolis alive while he sat here trembling. 

His bag had already betrayed him once, sliding halfway off his shoulder when he nearly dropped it on Bruce Wayne’s polished floor. He still felt the clumsy heat of that mistake in his ears, the flush climbing high up his neck. He smoothed his tie again, for what must’ve been the tenth time, his fingers fumbling against the knot. This was it. His first real, one-on-one interview. His chance. 

And, of course, it had to be with him .

Bruce Wayne was a presence, even in silence. Even in the way he lounged opposite him on the sleek, low couch, all careless lines and long limbs, the cut of his black shirt and matching slacks sculpting him like a shadow pulled into human form. The faint trace of smudged eyeliner at the corner of his deep-set eyes clung stubbornly there, as if to remind Clark he wasn’t prepared for whatever this was - this strange, magnetic force that made him both want to stare and look away all at once

Clark cleared his throat, clutching his notepad like a lifeline, pen trembling between his fingers. 

- So, um - His voice cracked, and he winced, willing his nerves down. He tried again, forcing steadiness. - So, Mr. Wayne - thank you for taking the time to speak with me tonight.

Bruce didn’t even blink. A faint hum left him, low in his throat, not quite agreement, not quite dismissal. - Mm.

That was it.

Clark’s pen nearly slipped from his grip, caught midair at the last second. He scrambled for his first question, scanning his carefully scribbled notes. Start simple, start safe, he reminded himself. His tongue felt thick in his mouth as he managed, - You’ve - uh - you’ve made some pretty significant investments in Metropolis over the last year. Some would say it’s a sign you’re shifting focus away from Gotham. Is that - he hesitated, eyes flicking up to Bruce’s impassive stare, - is that true?

For a long, stifling beat, Bruce said nothing. The silence stretched so taut Clark swore he could hear the blood rushing in his ears. Finally, Bruce exhaled, clipped and sharp. - Business expands. That’s all.

Clark blinked at him, waiting, but there was nothing more. That was his answer. Two words and an afterthought.

His chest tightened. He nodded quickly, scribbling it down though it barely qualified as usable. - Right. Of course. Business expands. That’s… good. - His nervous laugh cracked the air again, thin and brittle.

He tried another question, fumbling with the pages. - And, um - you’ve been… you’ve been known for your philanthropy, too. Many in Metropolis are curious if you plan to bring the same… initiatives here. Foundations, youth programs, that sort of thing.

Bruce leaned back, his posture loose in a way that wasn’t relaxed, but dismissive. He stared at Clark as though weighing how much oxygen the answer was worth. - Philanthropy, - he muttered, almost under his breath. Then, sharper, - If it makes sense. If it works here.

Clark swallowed, nodding again, though the hollowness of the reply made his stomach twist. He could feel his pulse thrumming in his throat, his pen stuttering against the page. 

He wanted to fill the silence, but Bruce’s presence pressed down on him, so heavy it pinned the words to his tongue. Every clipped response was like a wall slamming down, and Clark, fumbling and desperate, kept searching for cracks in the armor.

He tried to steady himself, offering a tentative smile that Bruce didn’t return. - So… you’re saying it depends on what the city needs?

For a flicker of a moment, Bruce’s eyes narrowed. Not anger, not annoyance, but something unreadable that cut straight through Clark. Then: It depends on what I decide.

The words landed like stones, final and immovable.

Clark’s breath caught. He nodded too quickly, scribbling again, though his notes were nearly illegible now with the way his hand shook. The tension sat between them like a third body, thick enough to choke on. He wanted - needed - to push forward, but Bruce’s clipped replies, the weight of that stare, made every word feel like walking into a storm.

And yet, Clark couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop trying.

The silence of the balcony pressed down harder than the night sky above it. Clark could hear his own heartbeat in his ears, loud and unsteady, as if his body were betraying the professionalism he was supposed to carry. 

His notepad felt suddenly too heavy in his lap, the pen slippery between his fingers. He adjusted his glasses with the practiced little shove up the bridge of his nose - an old nervous tick that only seemed more obvious when someone like Bruce Wayne was watching. Or maybe he wasn’t watching. Maybe he was just staring through him, the way he had been since Clark walked through the door. Either option made Clark’s stomach twist.

He cleared his throat, trying to summon confidence from thin air. The first questions had already been an uphill climb, Bruce’s clipped one-syllable answers sucking all the air from Clark’s lungs. Nothing flowed. Nothing came easy. Every word had to be dragged out of Bruce like a reluctant confession, and Clark hated how much it rattled him. Still, he wasn’t about to quit. This was his first big piece for the Daily Planet , and if he blew it now, Perry White would never let him hear the end of it.

Clark’s eyes flicked down to his list of questions, hastily scribbled but neatly underlined. He hesitated on the next one. His throat went dry. He could hear Lois’s voice in his head - be bold, Smallville, ask the questions no one else dares to. It sounded braver when Lois said it. Coming from him, in this moment, it felt like fumbling toward disaster.

Still, he took a breath. - Uh - Mr. Wayne, - he began, his voice cracking on the name. He winced, tried again, firmer. - Bruce. - The correction slipped out before he could stop himself. His ears burned. - People… people often wonder about your personal life. About - He faltered, fidgeting with the corner of his notepad, - whether there’s anyone… significant. Someone you share all this with. - He waved vaguely, as if the penthouse itself could stand in for the word loneliness.

The question lingered in the air like smoke.

Bruce didn’t answer right away. He leaned back on the black leather couch, one long leg stretching out in front of him, the other bent, his arm draped lazily across the backrest. His posture was all indifference, but his eyes - dark, rimmed faintly with the smudged remnants of eyeliner - shifted, catching Clark’s in a glance that was sharper than Clark expected. His mouth curved, not into a smile, but into something smaller, more dangerous.

- Is that what you came here for? - Bruce asked finally, his voice low, laced with the faintest scrape of amusement. - To ask about who warms my bed?

Clark’s face went red so fast it made his scalp tingle. - N-no! I mean - I didn’t - He fumbled, pen clattering from his fingers and rolling to the floor. He scrambled for it, nearly upsetting his bag in the process, papers sliding dangerously close to spilling across the glossy marble. His laugh was high, nervous, strangled in his throat. - It’s just - people are curious, and I thought - it’s part of the… the human interest angle - 

Bruce hummed, the sound more like a taunt than agreement. - Curious. 

He tilted his head, watching Clark’s struggle with an interest that wasn’t quite benevolent. - They’re curious about whether the rich, bored man in the glass tower has someone to keep him company. - His gaze flicked deliberately, tracing Clark’s flushed cheeks, the damp shine at his hairline. - Are you curious, Kent?

The words hit Clark square in the chest, knocking the air out of him. He stammered, opening his mouth, closing it again, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose with the motion. He pushed them back up quickly, the gesture betraying how rattled he was. His throat bobbed with a swallow. - I - I’m just asking what the readers want to know.

But the excuse sounded weak even to his own ears, flimsy in the face of Bruce’s low, deliberate tone. The tension between them coiled tighter, so thick Clark could almost feel it pressing against his skin. 

The city outside was alive with sound - horns, distant sirens, the pulse of nightlife - but here, on this balcony, the world had narrowed to the oppressive silence between two men, and Clark had never been more aware of how out of his depth he was.

And yet - beneath the fluster, beneath the way his hand trembled on the page - there was a tiny, shameful part of him that couldn’t stop wondering what it would mean if Bruce had been speaking to him, and not to the question.

Clark’s chest tightened, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way that made every breath feel conspicuous. He blinked, trying to gather his scattered thoughts, but the words tangled in his tongue like weeds. 

Bruce’s eyes weren’t just sharp - they were predatory, the kind that stripped pretense bare, leaving every nervy tremor, every slip of composure painfully exposed. He could feel the weight of them, heavy and exacting, as Bruce leaned forward slightly, elbows resting casually on his knees, and fixed him with that quiet, unrelenting stare.

- Or, - Bruce continued, voice softer now but threaded with a teasing edge, - are you curious yourself, Kent? Not the readers. Not the column. Not the world at large. Are you… curious about me? - The question wasn’t accusatory, but it carried a weight that made Clark feel like he had been dropped into an impossibly deep pool without a life preserver. Every nerve in his body screamed, and the notepad in his hand wobbled dangerously. His fingers clenched around it as if sheer willpower could anchor him to reality.

Clark’s throat went dry. 

He wanted to clear it, to form a sentence that wouldn’t betray him, but all he could do was blink, his mind a frantic carousel of “professional journalist” and “utterly infatuated human being.” His glasses slid down his nose again, and he shoved them back up, the repeated motion now a nervous tic rather than a corrective gesture. He could feel the flush creeping up his neck, across his cheeks, burning hotter by the second under Bruce’s gaze.

- I - I… uh… - His words were choked, stumbling out in fragments, each one smaller and weaker than the last. - I guess… I guess people want to know… and I - He shook his head, jaw tight, swallowing against the sudden lump that had formed in his throat. - I’m… I’m just asking questions. It’s - um - it’s my job to ask questions, not… not to - He gestured vaguely, a hand twitching like it could push the very air away. His chest felt constricted, each inhale shallow, uneven, as though Bruce’s presence had somehow rewired his lungs to betray him.

Bruce’s eyes softened ever so slightly, a flicker that made Clark’s stomach clench anew. But the softness was fleeting, vanishing almost as quickly as it appeared, replaced by that unnerving, sharp precision that could read a man like an open book. - Not for the readers, Clark. For you. Tell me - do you want to know? Or are you just hiding behind your notepad and your pen? - His voice was calm, deliberate, the words curling around the tension in the air like smoke, teasing, testing, pressing.

Clark swallowed again, painfully aware of the tremor in his hands, the erratic beat of his heart, and the fact that his eyes had betrayed him before his words could. He wanted to avert his gaze, to look anywhere but at Bruce, but his feet stayed rooted, and something inside him - a mixture of terror and fascination - kept him pinned in place. - I - I… I don’t… I mean… - His voice faltered entirely, the sound breaking into a high, sharp edge that made him cringe. 

He licked his lips, suddenly aware of how dry they were, how tense his jaw felt, how ridiculous he must look fumbling like this. - I - maybe… I mean… I want to know what you want me to know… I guess. I - I just… - He exhaled shakily, an almost audible surrender.

Bruce tilted his head, lips curving faintly at the corner, like he was both amused and intrigued by Clark’s unraveling. - Just maybe, Kent, - he said softly, letting the words linger, - you’re curious for more than just your column.

Clark’s stomach twisted. The notepad suddenly a cumbersome weight against his trembling knees. He tried to swallow again, tried to find a foothold in professionalism, in logic, but the words tangled and slipped through his grasp. Every part of him wanted to deny it, to retreat, but every nerve screamed that denial would be as futile as it would be dishonest. And somehow, amidst the chaos of nerves, shame, and the burning heat across his cheeks, a tiny spark of something thrilling and terrifying whispered that Bruce Wayne already knew the answer anyway.

- Come here.

Clark froze. The words - or rather, the way Bruce didn’t even frame it as a question - hit him like a lightning bolt. - Crawl to me, -  Bruce said, voice low, commanding, and impossibly intimate. The imperiousness of it, the absolute certainty, made every muscle in Clark’s body tense, and yet something in him stirred - something primal, desperate, reckless.

Clark’s mind spun, caught between instinct and reason. He could feel the pulse of the city outside the glass, cars honking, people laughing, oblivious to the tense, charged world unfolding here on the balcony. The neon glow of the skyline and the warm scatter of streetlights below painted Bruce in sharp contrast - shadows curling along the edges of his face, outlining the faint ridges of muscle in his arm, the slight sheen of eyeliner that caught in the lighting. Bruce didn’t move, didn’t shift, didn’t blink. He simply waited, letting the command hang heavy in the air, and the waiting was worse than any touch could have been.

Clark’s knees pressed into the marble floor, cool against his skin, and his hands shook slightly as he placed them forward, testing the distance, testing the reality of what he was about to do. 

He swallowed, feeling the dryness in his throat multiply into an almost painful ache. Every instinct screamed that this was absurd, reckless, and utterly his choice - but the raw magnetism in Bruce’s gaze, the dangerous pull of it, made him ignore every shred of caution. He moved, slowly, hands first, the faint scrape of marble under his palms loud in the quiet night.

Bruce’s eyes followed every inch of him, dark and intent, unyielding, as if he could see every thought, every hesitation, every burning nerve under Clark’s skin. Clark’s knees bent, dragging forward, and he felt the heat of Bruce’s presence swell, heavy and unavoidable. The world outside - the distant sirens, the muted laughter, the honking cars - faded further and further into insignificance, irrelevant to the pressure coiling tight in his chest.

The movement was excruciatingly slow. 

Clark could feel every tremble of his own body, every erratic beat of his heart. His glasses slipped again, and he pushed them back up in a flustered gesture, though he knew Bruce saw it, knew it made him look more exposed, more vulnerable. Every inch closer, every scrape of his knees against the cold marble, made him more aware of the scent of Bruce - the faint tang of expensive cologne, the subtle iron of adrenaline, the undeniable warmth that radiated in quiet waves from him.

Bruce shifted slightly as Clark neared, stretching an arm lazily across the back of the couch as if to claim him without touching. His gaze dropped, sharp and possessive, and Clark felt himself tighten, almost unable to breathe. The air between them was taut with anticipation, heavy with something dangerous and intimate, a coil that threatened to snap with the smallest provocation.

- Keep going, - Bruce murmured, the words not a suggestion but a promise, roughened by quiet amusement. His tone was patient and merciless at the same time, and Clark’s body betrayed him with a shiver he didn’t dare hide. He crawled faster, hands trembling, every movement a mix of shame and thrill, until finally, he knelt at Bruce’s feet. The leather couch beneath Bruce looked impossibly soft, impossibly inviting, and Clark could feel the heat of Bruce’s body even without touching him.

Bruce leaned forward slightly, the faintest curve of a smirk brushing his lips. - Eyes up, - he said, voice silk over steel. - Look at me, Clark. Not the floor, not the world below. Me. - His hand lifted slowly, a casual, deliberate motion, as if to claim Clark’s chin, to tilt his face upward. Clark’s pulse slammed against his ribs, wild, unsteady, as his eyes met Bruce’s, dark and smoldering, consuming.

The city continued on around them, oblivious, the neon bleeding into the night, but Clark was caught in this impossible gravity, the pull of Bruce’s command, the magnetic heat of his stare. Every rational thought had fled, leaving only the trembling, charged tension of proximity, of obedience, of surrender, and Clark knew he would crawl further, follow every word, obey every subtle command, because in this moment, nothing else mattered.

Bruce’s smirk widened just enough to let Clark feel the promise beneath it, the sharp, dangerous certainty of someone who knew exactly the effect he had. - Good, - Bruce murmured, low and intimate, letting the word linger. 

Clark’s chest rose and fell rapidly. He could barely breathe, barely think, and yet, somewhere beneath the nerves, beneath the flush of embarrassment, there was an undeniable, molten heat that coiled tight and refused to let go, right there at Bruce’s feet, under his command, and inescapably, deliciously, entirely his.

Clark’s knees pressed into the cool marble floor, his fingers curled slightly as if he could anchor himself there against the pull of his own thundering pulse. Bruce’s gaze, sharp and unwavering, burned into him, each second stretching longer than the last. The city hummed below them - sirens, traffic, the distant laughter of oblivious strangers - but on this balcony, all that noise was meaningless, a dull murmur beneath the charge crackling between them. 

Clark’s stomach twisted in nervous anticipation, every nerve ending alert, almost painfully aware of Bruce’s presence, of the weight of expectation, of desire.

Bruce leaned back slightly, just enough for his posture to remain casual, almost lazy, but the intensity in his eyes made the casualness a lie. - Do you want this, Clark? - His voice was low, deliberate, the question hanging between them like a challenge. - Do you… have my permission? - The words were loaded, sharp with an edge that made Clark’s chest tighten. - I want this to be clear. Under NDA. What happens here - between us - stays here. The penthouse, this balcony. Nothing else. You understand?

Clark’s throat went dry, his pulse hammering like it might shatter his ribs. His hands clenched the marble, nails pressing into the surface, grounding him to the moment, to the impossible tension coiling tight in the space between them. He nodded slowly, words failing him, his voice caught somewhere between breathless and broken. - Y-yes, - he whispered, the sound barely audible above the distant hum of the city, yet it carried all the weight of his racing heart. - I… I understand. I want this.

The admission, soft and shaky, seemed to satisfy Bruce. A flicker of a smirk curved his lips, almost imperceptible, but Clark felt it like a flame licking at his nerves. 

And then Bruce shifted, reaching down to fumble with the belt at his waist. The action was deliberate, unhurried, yet intensely intimate. The leather caught the light of the city’s glow, glinting as it slid from the loops, and Clark’s eyes were drawn like a magnet, every instinct screaming, his body betraying him with a shiver of anticipation.

Clark’s fingers tightened against the floor, nails pressing hard into the cool marble as his gaze followed Bruce’s movements. He could see the faint crease of concentration at the corner of Bruce’s jaw, the curve of his hip as he shifted slightly to accommodate the gesture, and the subtle rise and fall of his chest under the soft light. The sound of the metal buckle sliding, the faint rustle of fabric, filled the charged silence like a prelude, a tactile drumbeat to the unspoken rhythm between them.

Clark’s breath came in shallow bursts, the heat pooling low in his belly, a heady mixture of nerves and desire. He could feel the flush across his cheeks, the tremor in his hands, the tightening coil in his stomach that threatened to undo him entirely. He wanted to look away, wanted to retreat into propriety, professionalism, anything, but every fiber of him was drawn forward, caught in the gravity of Bruce’s presence, of Bruce’s intent.

Bruce paused, one hand resting lightly on his belt, looking down at Clark with a measured gaze that pierced through every defense, every hesitation. - You said you want this, - he murmured, voice low, laced with both amusement and something darker, more intimate. - Then show me. Don’t think. Don’t resist. Just… be here. With me.

Clark’s hands trembled visibly as he shifted slightly closer, the cool marble under his knees grounding him in the overwhelming, molten reality of the moment. His pulse thundered in his ears, every nerve screaming, every inch of his skin acutely alive as he watched Bruce, his body fumbled intentionally, teasingly, every movement a silent demand. 

The night pressed down around them, the cityscape glowing softly below, and all Clark could do was surrender to the shiver that ran through him, to the nervous, desperate heat pooling deep in his chest, and to the dangerous, tantalizing pull of Bruce Wayne commanding his full attention.

The air between them was taut, heavy with expectation, with the hum of desire and control, and Clark knew that nothing existed beyond this balcony, beyond the walls of the penthouse, beyond the whispered promise of privacy that Bruce had so carefully laid out. 

It was theirs alone, a dangerous, intoxicating world suspended above the city, and Clark’s own trembling body betrayed him, eager and unsteady, caught in the gravity of the man before him.

Clark’s knees dug into the marble floor, the chill of it lost beneath the fire rushing through his veins. He could feel his heartbeat everywhere - in his throat, in his chest, in his trembling hands as they hovered uncertainly over Bruce’s lap. The city below was alive, buzzing with neon, engines, and laughter, but up here it was muted, distant, nothing more than static. 

Their world had narrowed to this balcony, this silence, this unbearable heat between them.

Bruce watched him without moving, his posture deceptively relaxed - one arm draped along the back of the couch, legs parted just enough to draw Clark in like a current he couldn’t fight. There was something predatory in the stillness, a tension that told Clark every second of hesitation was being measured, weighed, judged. It made his stomach clench, made his breath short, made him want to flee - and yet his body leaned forward, helplessly obedient to the gravity of Bruce Wayne.

When his fingers brushed against the waistband of Bruce’s pants, he thought he might burn alive from the sheer intimacy of it. It was clumsy, shy, the kind of motion that betrayed his inexperience in moments like this, but Bruce didn’t stop him. 

Didn’t mock him. Instead, he let Clark fumble, his gaze heavy, dark, unreadable. That silence was more commanding than any spoken demand, and Clark found himself shivering under the weight of it.

The leather belt creaked softly as Clark worked at it, his hands unsteady, the sound swallowed in the thick air. His glasses slid down the bridge of his nose and he shoved them back up, the nervous tic embarrassingly obvious. He could feel Bruce smirk without looking up. His face burned hotter, his body betraying him with tremors, but he pressed on, tugging the fabric loose, loosening the barrier just enough. His breath came hard and uneven, fogging the space between them.

Clark wrapped his lips around him, head bobbing slightly, shallow at first, almost timid. His rhythm clumsy, the slide imperfect, but the heat of his mouth - wet, unsteady, desperate - was enough to make Bruce’s jaw clench. Clark’s glasses slipped down his nose as he moved, and he shoved them back with one trembling hand before bracing it against Bruce’s thigh, grounding himself.

Then he sank lower, his head moving more deliberately now, up and down, lips stretching around Bruce’s cock, saliva slicking the motion. He found a rhythm - slow at first, reverent, before speeding, his nerves drowned out by instinct, by the raw want twisting in his gut. Bruce’s hand caught the back of his head, not forcing, but guiding, grounding Clark in the motion as the pace built, heat thickening between them.

Every drag upward left Clark gasping, every push downward had his throat straining, and through it all his nerves screamed with the illicitness of it - the balcony, the city watching blind, the taste of Bruce heavy on his tongue. His head bobbed in a rhythm now, messy but devoted, each motion hotter, more desperate, until there was nothing clumsy left - only need.

Bruce tilted his head against the chair’s backrest, the weight of the evening air pressing down warm and heavy on his shoulders. From this angle, he could look down over the cut of his shirt and the mess Clark was making of himself at his feet. The sight burned itself into him: the great, broad-shouldered reporter kneeling like a supplicant between his legs, trying to gather his nerve, mouth stretched tentatively around him.

He was clumsy at first. His lips slid too shallow, his tongue unsure in its path. Bruce felt the hesitation, the way Clark’s jaw trembled as though every movement was new territory. But that only made it better - watching him struggle, watching him want so badly to please and still falter. 

The power of it curled like smoke in Bruce’s chest.

- Slower, - he muttered, his voice low and rasped, the kind of tone that carried not suggestion but command. He set one hand against Clark’s jaw, thumb dragging the wet edge of his bottom lip, then forced him lower. Clark’s throat closed around him, a muffled choke vibrating through his length. Bruce exhaled hard, eyes fluttering shut for a second before snapping open again - he wouldn’t miss a second of this.

Beyond the balcony rail, life went on oblivious: the hum of traffic below, the murmur of distant voices, laughter carried up like a ghost of some other world. But here, in the glow of warm city light and shadow, Clark was on his knees with his tie dangling down, saliva slicking his chin, Bruce’s belt hanging open against his thighs.

And then Bruce pressed the heel of his polished shoe forward - right into the hard outline in Clark’s lap. The reporter jerked, muffling a sound around him, the vibration spilling up Bruce’s spine like heat. - That’s it, - Bruce whispered, dark satisfaction curling his mouth into the ghost of a smile. - Pathetic, isn’t it? You’re hard just from this.

Clark’s eyes flickered up at him, wide and glassy, pupils blown black. 

He didn’t pull away. 

If anything, he sank lower, letting Bruce slide deeper, his throat flexing around him. The sight made Bruce’s chest clench, pleasure laced with something possessive, dangerous. He pressed harder with his shoe, grinding slowly against Clark’s bulge while guiding his head with a measured grip, forcing a rhythm that wasn’t gentle. Up, down. Up, down. Each motion smoother, wetter, as Clark found his pace under pressure.

Bruce let his head fall back, a low groan breaking out of him, but he didn’t relent his control. His hand clutched a fistful of Clark’s hair, angling him just so, while his shoe traced cruel little circles over the damp strain of his trousers. Clark’s body shivered with the conflict - pleasure and shame warring in every breath he dragged through his nose, every sound swallowed down.

- You’ll remember this, - Bruce murmured, his voice hoarse and ragged now, yet deliberate. He tugged Clark’s head back just enough to make him meet his gaze, mouth swollen, spit-shined and red. - On your knees. My cock in your mouth. No one out there will ever know. Only you. Only me.

And then he pushed him back down again, the rhythm resuming - harder, deeper, Clark’s head bobbing against his thighs in time with the lazy grind of leather against his arousal. Bruce’s breaths turned rough, sharp, but his eyes never left the kneeling figure before him: undone, humiliated, and beautiful in his ruin.

Clark’s knees ached against the hard floor, but he barely noticed it - every nerve was focused on the pressure of Bruce’s shoe pressed against his lap. The polished leather ground into him like it had every right to be there, like Bruce had mapped out the shape of him through his trousers long before this night. Clark couldn’t hide the way his hips twitched against it, couldn’t stop the instinctive shudder that rolled through his spine as the pressure shifted. Humiliation burned hot in his chest, tangled with something far darker, far hungrier.

His mouth worked clumsily, his tongue dragging, lips sliding, but every pull left him dripping with saliva, every breath harsher and wetter. It clung to his chin, slipped down his neck in slow, humiliating trails. Clark knew he must have looked ruined already - eyes glazed, hair sticking to his damp forehead, his jaw aching - and yet Bruce’s hand in his hair only pushed him further, kept him in rhythm like he was no more than an instrument to be played.

The city carried on beyond the balcony rail - horns, footsteps, laughter drifting upward. 

The world didn’t stop for this. 

No one knew that Clark Kent, the man who had walked into this penthouse with a notebook in hand, was now a mess on his knees, undone by the cold press of a billionaire’s shoe. And God, the secrecy made it worse - made it hotter.

His cock throbbed painfully against the leather pressing into him, every subtle shift of Bruce’s foot sending sparks through his nerves. He tried to muffle the whine that slipped out of him, tried to swallow it down, but Bruce heard. Bruce always heard. The man’s laugh, low and quiet, curled like smoke above him.

- Strip, - Bruce said. No hesitation. No softness. A single command that landed like a weight.

Clark froze. His chest heaved, his lungs clawing for air as his pulse hammered in his throat. Strip. The word alone sent a violent tremor through him, nerves lighting up with shame and heat all at once. He wanted to protest, to stall, to cling to some scrap of dignity. But Bruce’s shoe pressed harder against him, a cruel reminder of the control he held, of just how little room Clark had to pretend.

Clark’s legs felt like lead when he pushed himself up, knees reluctant to leave the ground, as though gravity itself wanted to keep him there between Bruce’s thighs. The absence of the shoe pressing into his lap was almost worse than its weight - the sudden emptiness a sharp ache that throbbed through him. He stood on unsteady feet, chest tight, eyes flickering down to the dark-haired man still sprawled in the chair, watching. Bruce hadn’t spoken again, not since the order. He didn’t need to. His silence carried the same authority as the command, daring Clark to prove himself worthy of stripping down under that stare.

His fingers went first to the jacket. The fabric felt heavy, suffocating against his overheated skin, clinging where sweat had dampened the lining. He tugged it off with slow, jerky movements, the sleeves catching against his wrists as if even the clothing itself resisted letting him bare more of himself. He draped it awkwardly over the nearest chair arm, though his eyes never left Bruce’s. Not once.

The tie came next - a neat, respectable knot that had seemed necessary only an hour ago when he’d prepared for the interview. Now it felt like a leash. His hands shook as he tugged it loose, the silk dragging against his throat, catching slightly on his Adam’s apple before he pulled it free. 

He didn’t know where to put it, so it slipped from his fingers, landing carelessly on the balcony floor. He barely noticed the faint hiss of fabric meeting stone; all he could hear was the pound of his heartbeat in his ears.

Then the shirt. That was harder. That was skin. That was real.

Clark swallowed, the muscles in his throat working visibly as he reached for the first button. His knuckles brushed the fabric like he was still testing the idea, still daring himself to cross a line he could never uncross. His fingertips trembled, fumbling with the tiny discs, slipping once, then twice, before he got the first one undone.

He let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

The next buttons came undone in uneven succession, each one a surrender. Bruce didn’t speak, didn’t tell him to hurry. He just watched - and the weight of that gaze was heavier than any touch, stripping Clark more efficiently than his own clumsy fingers ever could. His lips parted, dragging in shaky, shallow breaths as his shirt loosened with each motion, his chest gradually revealed.

By the time the last button slipped free, Clark’s vision felt blurred with heat. The shirt hung loose, the open V exposing the sculpt of his chest - broad and powerful, years of work and discipline carved into hard planes. His pecs flexed with each breath, the ridges catching faint glimmers of light. His nipples were already tight, hardened under the cool night air and the blaze of his own nerves.

He peeled the shirt back, the cotton whispering against his skin as it slid off his shoulders. 

Goosebumps erupted in its wake, a shiver racing down his spine that had nothing to do with the air. He stood bare to the waist, muscles shifting under the scrutiny, pecs lifting with each ragged inhale, the faint line of sweat trailing down from his sternum to disappear below his waistband.

He couldn’t hide. Not like this. His body was open, vulnerable, trembling under a gaze that seemed to catalog every detail. Bruce hadn’t moved, but Clark could feel the man’s eyes like hands, like a grip wrapping around him, dissecting, savoring, owning.

Clark’s lips were parted, swollen and wet, chin still glistening faintly with saliva. He looked like a mess - his chest flushed with color, his abs tensing with every shallow breath, his own arousal straining, betraying him.

And Bruce’s shoe hadn’t even touched him again.

Clark’s hands hovered at his belt now, fingers hesitant, unsure. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to keep going, to bare more, to let himself be stripped of everything until he stood ruined before the man in the chair. He wanted to, needed to - even as his pulse raced with nerves, even as his shame and desire blurred into something unbearable.

The night air pressed in around them, alive with the hum of the city below, but up here it was just the two of them - the silence, the stare, and Clark’s trembling body under command.

The air between them had shifted into something almost unbearable - thick, electric, as if every molecule in the penthouse balcony was tuned to the rhythm of Bruce’s will. Clark could still feel the ghost of the shoe against his hardness, the reminder that this wasn’t about rushing. It was about control. About Bruce’s control.

- Undo your belt.

The command cracked through the silence like a whip, low and unyielding. Clark froze for half a breath, his pulse battering against his ribs, before his hands moved to obey. His fingers trembled as they hovered over the buckle, the cool press of the metal almost mocking the heat that had built in his body. He fumbled once, twice, before the leather slid loose with a whispering sigh, leaving the waistband of his slacks vulnerable.

- Now the pants, - Bruce’s voice pressed in again, quieter this time, but no less absolute.

Clark’s chest rose and fell with ragged breaths as he tugged the zipper down, every motion louder in the hush of the night. He pushed the fabric down over his hips, the tailored lines of the garment pooling at his feet. He stepped out of them clumsily, nearly tangling himself, his ears burning hot with embarrassment that Bruce seemed to relish.

- Underwear too. - The words came like a final cut, stripping away even the last illusion of modesty.

Clark’s hands hesitated at the waistband, the cotton stretched tight over the unmistakable weight straining against it. His throat worked as he swallowed hard, caught between humiliation and the kind of desperate thrill he couldn’t quite name. Finally, with a sharp breath, he slid them down. The cool night air rushed against his exposed skin, stark and unforgiving. 

He was bare now - completely.

The fabric hit the floor, discarded, and Clark was left standing in front of Bruce with nothing to shield him. His muscles, sculpted from farm labor and years of discipline, caught the dim light - broad chest, thick shoulders, the ridges of his abdomen tightening with every breath. Yet none of that armor could disguise the vulnerability carved into him in this moment. His cock hung heavy between his thighs, flushed and aching, betraying him far more than any tremble in his hands ever could.

Bruce hadn’t moved. He didn’t need to. The weight of his gaze was enough, dragging over Clark’s body with the kind of precision that made him feel peeled apart, dismantled, owned.

The command came after a silence that stretched so long it burned. Bruce hadn’t shifted, hadn’t blinked, hadn’t given him anything but that devastating weight of his gaze - piercing, dissecting, savoring. Clark stood there naked, every breath shallow, his chest rising and falling as though the air itself resisted him. His cock ached, flushed dark and heavy, its arousal undeniable and humiliating all at once. He felt like every inch of him was on display - because it was.

- Touch yourself, - Bruce said finally, the words slow, precise, devastatingly calm. - I want to see how you fall apart when it’s your own hand.

Clark’s stomach twisted, heat flooding his veins. Shame licked at him, sharp and cruel, yet it only made the pulse between his legs throb harder. His hand hovered just shy of his length, the hesitation a confession in itself. Bruce didn’t move. He didn’t need to.

- Do it, - he pressed, voice quieter this time but far sharper.

Clark wrapped his fingers around himself with a shaky exhale, the size of his grip barely enough to contain the thickness of his cock. His palm was hot and damp, and the first stroke made his knees nearly buckle. His length was long, flushed, veins prominent against the skin as it twitched in his hand. Precome slicked the head already, catching in the moonlight, making every drag of his palm a humiliating display.

He couldn’t look at Bruce - he couldn’t. His head bowed, dark curls falling forward as he worked himself slowly, the wet sounds of his strokes obscene in the quiet night air. The shame of it made his chest ache, but beneath that humiliation there was a raw, undeniable pleasure, something deeper, darker, that only Bruce’s command seemed to unlock.

-  Look at me.

The order was enough to snap his gaze upward, blue eyes wide, glassy with lust and humiliation. The sight made Bruce’s lips twitch into something between a smirk and a scalding brand.

Clark’s grip tightened, his strokes lengthening, dragging from the thick base all the way to the swollen head. Every pump of his fist made his hips twitch, his body betraying the desperation he wished he could hide. He bit his lip, breath ragged, groaning low in his throat as his thumb swiped over the head, smearing the wetness, slicking himself further.

- Good boy, - Bruce murmured, and the sound of it made Clark whimper - a sound he hadn’t known he was capable of, spilling out of him like a secret Bruce had dragged to the surface. His cock throbbed in his grip at the words, harder now, heavier, the ache so sharp it bordered on unbearable.

And still, Bruce didn’t touch him. He only watched. Watched as Clark humiliated himself, stroked his long, thick cock with desperate hands, arousal written across every line of his body.

Every motion screamed surrender, and Clark knew it. He wasn’t in control here. He never had been.

Clark’s hand faltered for half a second, the shudder in his breath betraying him as Bruce leaned back just slightly, his posture unshaken, his eyes locked on him like steel. The tension in the air was unbearable - like the night itself was holding its breath, waiting to see how far Clark would debase himself under that gaze.

- Don’t stop, - Bruce murmured, quiet but cutting, a command that sank into Clark’s bones like a brand. - Keep stroking. I want to see you work for it.

The words made Clark’s hand tighten again around his cock, dragging his fist down the thick length in trembling obedience. Every movement was raw, obscene - the wet glide of his palm pulling a broken sound from his throat. His other hand hovered uselessly at his side, fingers flexing against his thigh as if searching for something to anchor him. Shame burned in him, bright and unbearable, but he couldn’t stop. Bruce wouldn’t let him.

Bruce’s hands finally moved - not to reach for Clark, not to grant him the mercy of touch, but instead to undo the first button of his black shirt with slow, deliberate precision. One by one, the buttons slipped loose, his pale chest revealed in increments, the hard lines of muscle and faint scars catching what little moonlight spilled across the room. His movements were unhurried, devastatingly calm, each one a reminder that he had all the time in the world to make Clark unravel.

- You look pathetic like this, - Bruce said, voice rough, almost contemplative, though the edge of approval curled around the cruelty. - On the verge, drooling, stroking yourself like you can’t help it. And you can’t, can you?

Clark’s jaw tightened, a shudder ripping through him as his cock pulsed in his grip, his strokes faltering just from the weight of those words. His answer came in the shake of his head, curls falling over his forehead as his chest heaved. He couldn’t deny it. He couldn’t speak at all.

Bruce slipped the shirt from his shoulders, letting it fall silently behind him. His eyes never left Clark, never once wavered from the sight of him kneeling, cock flushed and slick in his fist, his chest flushed red with humiliation. Bruce stood tall in his stillness, towering without moving, his control absolute even as he let his pants fall with a noise.

- Good boy, - he drawled, the praise of a sharp blade cloaked in velvet. Clark whimpered at it again, shame blooming deeper in his chest, but the sound spilled from him anyway. His strokes grew more frantic, his fist pumping faster now, slick and desperate as the pleasure tangled with the humiliation until he couldn’t tell one from the other.

Bruce’s underwear followed, discarded with the same quiet finality, leaving him bare, the heavy length of his cock hanging thick and dark between his thighs. He didn’t stroke it. He didn’t need to. The sheer sight of it - hard already, veins standing out, heavy with arousal - was enough to make Clark’s throat close around a broken moan.

- Look at you, - Bruce said, his tone lower now, threaded with amusement and cruel praise. - Standing there, fucking your fist while I undress. You look pathetic like this - messy, ruined, obedient.

Clark’s hand sped up despite the tremor in his wrist, every wet stroke sending fire through his spine. Saliva slipped past his lips, down his chin, his chest streaked with it, and still he couldn’t stop. He met Bruce’s gaze, wide-eyed, drowning in it, and the sight of that smirk - the quiet, devastating satisfaction curling at the corner of Bruce’s mouth - nearly undid him right then.

Bruce shifted, slow and deliberate, the leather of the sofa creaking under his weight as he leaned back into it, spreading out like a king on his throne. His shirt was already gone, tossed aside with a careless flick of his wrist, his chest pale in the moonlight, scars scattered like a brutal constellation across the skin.

- Keep going, - he said, voice low, dragging like smoke.

Clark’s hand didn’t stop, couldn’t stop - his strokes clumsy now, faster, shame dripping down his spine with every slick sound that filled the quiet. His cock was a desperate weight in his grip, flushed and straining, his own arousal wetting his hand until it slid too easily. His chest heaved, broad shoulders trembling with the effort of restraint, but Bruce’s command anchored him, forced him to obey.

- Good boy, - Bruce murmured, watching him unravel, the words rolling over Clark’s skin like a brand. - Look at you - red-faced, dripping, so desperate for me you can barely stand. You like humiliating yourself for me, don’t you?

Clark’s breath stuttered, a broken sound spilling from his throat. He wanted to deny it, to cling to some last shred of dignity, but the ache between his legs betrayed him, his cock twitching helplessly in his fist. Bruce saw it. Bruce saw everything.

- That’s it, - Bruce said softly, leaning back further, thighs spreading open in invitation and command all at once. His hand brushed down his own stomach, not to touch, but simply to rest against his thigh, as if his body itself was an afterthought. His attention was fixed solely on Clark, on the mess he was making of himself under nothing but words.

Clark’s knees nearly buckled. The sight of Bruce laid out, calm, collected, unbothered even in nakedness, was unbearable. He stroked himself harder, faster, desperate to spill, desperate to relieve the pressure burning in his gut.

Then Bruce spoke, and the world stopped.

- Enough.

The word cut like a blade. Clark froze, his hand stilling mid-stroke, cock twitching in protest. His whole body trembled, the air catching painfully in his throat. Bruce’s eyes were on him - sharp, unyielding, darker than the night itself.

- Come here.

Clark moved without thought, his body answering before his mind could catch up, until he stood between Bruce’s parted legs, towering above him yet feeling utterly small under that gaze. His cock hung heavy, flushed, the damp head brushing close to Bruce’s skin as he breathed raggedly, trying to hold himself together.

Bruce looked him up and down, unhurried, like a man inspecting his possession. Then his voice came again, calm, deliberate, devastating:

- Put it inside.

The words nearly made Clark’s knees give out. His stomach twisted, the shame sharp enough to cut, but the ache - the ache was unbearable. His breath shuddered, sweat dripping down his temple, as his hand hovered uselessly by his side.

Bruce didn’t move. He didn’t reach for him, didn’t touch. He didn’t need to. His order was enough, his authority absolute.

Clark swallowed hard, the taste of salt and humiliation thick on his tongue, and positioned himself as commanded, trembling, his cock throbbing with every heartbeat. His chest was heaving like he’d run miles, though all he’d done was stand there, every nerve in his body strung tight. Bruce was spread out on the sofa before him like a sin he wasn’t supposed to touch - legs parted, shirt discarded, the sharp cut of his body carved in shadow and pale light. His eyes never wavered, never blinked, that cold unwavering gaze holding Clark pinned as if he were shackled in place.

- Put it in, - Bruce said, voice low, deliberate, the words dragging across Clark’s skin like fire.

The command rooted itself deep in his stomach, twisting with something sharp and unbearable. Clark’s fingers twitched at his sides, and for a moment all he could do was stare at the place Bruce’s hand rested casually against his thigh, close to where he wanted him, where he needed him. His own cock pulsed at the words, thick and hard and aching from the shame of being on display. The request should’ve terrified him, but instead it burned through his veins with desperate heat.

He swallowed hard, wetting his lips. - I - uh - He felt clumsy, ridiculous, standing there naked in front of him, cock heavy and leaking, trying to find words that wouldn’t sound pathetic. His hand moved awkwardly toward Bruce’s knee, then stopped. - Don’t we - shouldn’t we - have something? Lube or -

Bruce’s mouth curved, not into kindness but something sharper, something that made Clark’s knees weaken. - Spit on it. - His voice was a blade, cool and cutting. - That’s all you need.

The words struck him like a physical blow. He faltered, heart slamming in his chest, shame prickling hot along his skin. His face burned, but the shame only seemed to tighten the ache in his cock, to coil his arousal into something messier, darker. He bit his lip and nodded, eyes darting down because he couldn’t bear to hold Bruce’s gaze just then.

Bruce leaned back slightly, one arm draped along the sofa as if he were perfectly at ease, perfectly in control. His legs spread further, inviting and commanding at once, his cock thick and hard against the flat plane of his stomach. - What’s the matter? - he asked smoothly. - Too much for you?

Clark shook his head quickly, words fumbling out. - No, I just - His voice cracked. He forced himself to breathe, to steady the trembling in his fingers. - I’ve never… I don’t want to hurt you.

That smirk deepened, darkened, Bruce’s eyes glinting with something merciless. - You won’t. You’ll do exactly what I tell you to. - His tone brooked no argument. He tilted his chin, eyes sliding down to Clark’s cock, then back up. - Now, spit in your hand and get on with it.

The sound Clark made was somewhere between a groan and a whimper, torn from his throat as his hand lifted hesitantly to his mouth. He spit into his palm, the crude act making his stomach twist with humiliation and hunger all at once. His cock twitched, desperate, as if his body betrayed how badly he wanted this, how much he wanted Bruce. He slicked himself with the spit, the wet glide of his palm over his length making his breath stutter. He couldn’t stop the flush that crawled over his chest and face as he stepped closer, towering over Bruce but feeling utterly small under the weight of that stare.

- Good, - Bruce murmured, the praise as sharp as the shame. - Now come closer. Line yourself up.

Clark’s knees nearly buckled as he moved between Bruce’s legs, his cock so hard it felt like every second of delay was a punishment in itself. He held himself in one hand, the other trembling against Bruce’s thigh, the heat of his skin burning through Clark’s palm. He looked down, the sight nearly undoing him - Bruce reclined and spread for him, unflinching, demanding. Clark’s breath came shallow, uneven, his cock brushing against the firm press of Bruce’s entrance, the promise of it making his head spin.

- Go on, - Bruce said, calm, devastatingly certain, his gaze fixed on Clark’s face. - Put it inside.

The words rang through him like thunder. Clark shut his eyes for a heartbeat, fighting for control, for courage, before forcing them open again. He couldn’t look away now. Not from Bruce. Not when every piece of him screamed that this was what he wanted - what he’d always wanted, even if the shame burned so hot it was nearly unbearable.

- Bruce… - he whispered, broken, needy, the last of his hesitation crumbling.

And then, with trembling hips and a choked gasp, he pressed forward.

Clark could hardly breathe as he watched it happen - the sight of Bruce leaning back into the sofa, body drawn tight with control, yet every line of him radiating command, possession. His thighs were parted wide, the black shirt gone, his pale chest bared to the dim light, hard muscles shifting as he braced one hand against the armrest. The other reached down, fingers wrapping around Clark’s wrist, guiding him forward, closer, until Clark had no choice but to sink into the heat waiting for him.

The first push was unbearable. 

Bruce’s body yielded with slow, measured resistance, every inch of Clark’s cock swallowed by a vice-like grip that made his head fall back and his eyes squeeze shut. The slick from his spit helped little - this was raw, tight, suffocating - and Clark thought he’d never felt anything like it. His hand trembled against Bruce’s hip, trying to steady himself, but his gaze was helplessly dragged upward. He couldn’t not look.

Bruce’s lips had parted, a slow exhale spilling from him, sharp and low, betraying the effort of his composure. His mouth hung open like an invitation, like a quiet promise that Clark was already unraveling. The sight hit him harder than any command had before - the world’s most impenetrable man, the mask stripped away, his sharp jaw tipped back against the sofa as he let himself be filled. His throat worked, a swallow visible, his breath hitching as Clark pressed deeper still.

- Don’t stop, - Bruce whispered, the words breaking like smoke from his lips, not quite a plea but a demand wrapped in velvet. His eyes cracked open, heavy-lidded and blazing, pinning Clark in place with the weight of their heat. - All the way. I can take it.

Clark groaned, the sound deep, guttural, pulled straight from his chest. 

He sank in further, the thick length of him forcing Bruce’s body to accept more, inch by slow inch. Bruce shifted his hips just enough to tilt his pelvis, opening himself further, welcoming Clark into that impossible heat. He looked transcendent in it, mouth parted wider now, a faint sheen of sweat glinting along his temples, his chest rising and falling in deliberate control. Every tiny twitch of his lips, every flutter of his lashes screamed of the euphoria surging through him.

And still, he was composed - commanding even in surrender. His hand slid up to Clark’s jaw, cupping it firmly, pulling his gaze down, forcing him to watch as Bruce’s mouth curved into something half-smirk, half-revelation. - You feel that? - he asked, voice low, burning with the certainty of a man utterly in his element. - You inside me. You filling me. That’s mine to take from you, and you’ll give it - every inch.

Clark shuddered, his body taut with restraint, but Bruce’s grip at his jaw, his voice, his expression - open and yet devastatingly sure - pushed him deeper, until he was seated fully inside. The heat was overwhelming, so tight it bordered on pain, but Bruce’s mouth opened again, a gasp spilling from him, wrecked and perfect. His eyes shut briefly, lashes fanning dark against pale cheeks, and when he opened them again the confidence had only sharpened.

- You’re perfect like this, - Bruce murmured, voice husky, breaking on a shudder that made his whole body tense around Clark. - Hard. Big. Helpless. And mine.

Clark’s hands clenched at Bruce’s thighs, nails digging into muscle, his breath wild as he tried to comprehend the sight before him - Bruce Wayne undone, lips parted, swallowing him whole, and somehow still holding the power.

Bruce shifted beneath him with a sudden, deliberate roll of his hips, a movement so calculated that Clark nearly lost his balance. The sensation was brutal and exquisite - tight heat dragging against him as Bruce set the pace with nothing more than that single motion. 

His breath punched out of him, ragged, but Bruce’s hand was already at his jaw, sliding up into his hair, fisting a thick handful at the roots. The tug was sharp, forcing Clark’s head down until their mouths collided.

The kiss wasn’t gentle, wasn’t forgiving - it was hard, bruising, the clash of teeth and tongues a battle as much as it was surrender. Bruce kissed like he fucked: measured, dominant, determined to bend Clark to his rhythm. His lips moved with punishing precision, devouring him until Clark couldn’t tell where his own breath ended and Bruce’s began. The pull in his hair was merciless, keeping him close, keeping him under control, every whimper and groan stolen straight from his mouth into Bruce’s.

- Move, - Bruce demanded against his lips, the word guttural, vibrating through Clark’s chest as much as it did in his ears. His hips rolled again, slower this time, but deeper, guiding Clark to feel the exact pressure, the exact pace he wanted. - You feel me? That’s how you fuck me. Do it.

Clark gasped into his mouth, forehead pressed hard against Bruce’s, eyes half-lidded and burning. His body was taut with restraint, terrified of pushing too far, but Bruce tugged at his hair harder, tilting his head back just enough to force his eyes to meet his.

- You won’t break me, - Bruce hissed, voice sharp, threaded with heat. - Don’t you dare hold back.

Clark’s control snapped. 

His hips surged forward, sinking back in with a force that made Bruce groan into his mouth, the sound vibrating through the kiss. Bruce didn’t flinch - he pulled him in deeper, lips opening wider, swallowing the sound of Clark’s surrender as his tongue tangled with his. Every thrust that followed was dictated by Bruce’s hand in his hair, pulling, directing, setting the rhythm. Too fast? A punishing tug slowed him. Too slow? A sharp pull spurred him harder. Clark was being led, commanded, every movement measured by Bruce himself.

The sofa creaked beneath them as Clark drove forward, sweat slicking their bodies, muscles straining. Bruce kept the kiss locked, fierce and consuming, their breaths mingling hot and ragged. His mouth was open, lips bruised, his teeth grazing Clark’s lower lip in a violent scrape that made Clark shudder.

- That’s it, - Bruce groaned into his mouth, his words swallowed between kisses, desperate and assured all at once. - You’re mine when you move like this. My pace. My rhythm. Don’t stop until I tell you.

And still - his mouth never let Clark go, dragging him deeper, devouring every sound, every fragment of breath, until Clark thought he might burn alive under the sheer demand of it.

Clark couldn’t think anymore. 

His body had taken over, every ounce of hesitation burned away in the fire Bruce had pulled out of him. His hips slammed forward again and again, harder each time, each thrust tearing ragged sounds from his own throat and dragging groans out of Bruce that were nothing short of devastating. The pace was brutal now, fast, almost frantic, the kind of rhythm that only came when restraint was completely gone. 

Sweat dripped down his temples, stung his eyes, but he didn’t care - every nerve ending was focused on the man beneath him, the tight, searing pull of Bruce’s body and the way he clung to him with such consuming ferocity.

Bruce arched against him, chest rising sharply with every hit. His nails dug into Clark’s shoulders, a counterpoint to the tugging fist still tangled in his hair. His mouth was open, gasping and demanding all at once, lips raw from their endless kissing, eyes half-hooded with heat but locked on Clark like he was daring him to give in further, to wreck him completely. Every thrust Clark gave only seemed to fuel Bruce’s confidence - he met each one with a tilt of his hips, with a groan that was half-pleasure, half-command.

Clark’s rhythm grew erratic, desperate. He was drowning in it, in Bruce’s sounds, in his heat, in the sight of his head falling back against the cushions, throat bared and glistening with sweat. The rawness of it hit him like a wave - he wasn’t careful anymore, wasn’t soft. He was taking Bruce like he’d wanted to, like Bruce had begged him to, fast and deep and unrelenting.

- Clark - Bruce’s voice broke into a groan, guttural and wild, his hands dragging across Clark’s back before locking hard at his neck. He pulled him in close, mouth brushing his ear, his words hissed, ragged. - Harder. Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.

Something snapped inside him then.

Clark didn’t stop to think - he bent down, arms sliding under Bruce’s thighs, and with a guttural growl, he lifted him off the sofa. Bruce gasped, arms instinctively tightening around his shoulders, but Clark didn’t pause. He sank down onto the sofa again with Bruce straddling him, their bodies never breaking, Bruce’s legs wrapping tight around his waist as Clark stayed buried deep inside him.

The new angle made them both moan, raw and broken, their chests pressed together, slick with sweat. Bruce’s mouth found his again in a brutal kiss, teeth clashing, tongues fighting for dominance, and Clark’s hips surged upward, grinding into him with relentless force. He held Bruce tight in his lap, one hand gripping the curve of his ass, the other pressing between his shoulder blades, forcing their bodies closer, tighter, until there was no space left at all.

Bruce rode him with a rhythm that matched his, his legs tightening with every thrust, dragging Clark deeper. The sofa groaned beneath their combined weight, but neither cared - every movement was heat and friction and need, their bodies colliding with a wet, desperate slap that echoed through the room. Bruce’s moans turned to broken cries as Clark lost himself completely, driving up harder, faster, his breath coming in guttural pants against Bruce’s neck.

Clark’s vision blurred. His world narrowed to Bruce’s lips, his sweat-slick skin, the way his body clenched tight around him. He couldn’t stop now, couldn’t slow down, even if he wanted to. The rawness consumed him, his hips jerking, Bruce’s legs locked around him like a vice, holding him there, inside, with no escape.

Bruce was the one in control - Clark knew it - but in that moment, he didn’t care. He let himself drown in the demand, in the pace, in the unforgiving grip of Bruce’s body against his. And it was fire, all of it - hot, raw, and unrelenting.

Clark had never imagined himself like this - never pictured the reflection he now made against the wide pane of glass, his body pressed down on the sofa, the faint tremble of his breath as Bruce dragged every inch out of him. 

His glasses still clung stubbornly to his face, crooked on the bridge of his nose from the force of Bruce’s kiss earlier, the lenses slipping lower with each shuddering thrust. They made him look like something absurdly human, something still tethered to the ordinary world, even while everything about this moment tore him away from it. His muscles, every line of them built from years of work and restraint, flexed under Bruce’s hands. His chest heaved, damp with sweat, his abs shivering as Bruce’s body moved against him.

Bruce was above him, on him, around him - everywhere. 

His legs, lean and powerful, were locked tight around Clark’s waist, ankles crossed at the small of his back, holding him in with a possession that felt both suffocating and euphoric. His head tipped back, hair damp, his lips parted on a sound that was more command than plea. The confidence radiating from him was blinding; he wasn’t asking Clark to take him, he was demanding it - guiding every movement, every roll of his hips, every gasp Clark made through sheer force of will.

Clark tried to focus on anything - on the rhythm Bruce was setting, on the slide of heat and tightness that threatened to split him in two, on the sound of their skin meeting in wet, brutal slaps - but his glasses betrayed him. 

Every flicker of light from below caught in them, every blurred smear of Metropolis traffic twisting into the edges of his vision. He could see the world still spinning beneath them: headlights crawling like ants, neon signs humming against the night, people living their lives with no idea of the storm raging above their heads. The anonymity of it should have given him relief, but instead it made him burn hotter, the thought of Bruce riding him here, of all places, while the city carried on oblivious, unraveling him with a shameful sort of pride.

Bruce leaned forward, his hands sliding up Clark’s shoulders before tangling harshly in the damp strands of his hair. He pulled Clark’s face up, dragging his lips into another kiss - hungry, bruising, one that had Clark gasping into his mouth. Bruce kissed like he owned every inch of him, like he could consume his hesitation and spit it back out as desperation. 

His teeth caught Clark’s lower lip, his tongue slid deep inside, and Clark’s moan was swallowed whole.

Clark moved faster, harder, his control gone, his body giving in to everything Bruce demanded. His grip on Bruce’s thighs was bruising, desperate, pulling him closer, deeper, wanting to drown in him. The sweat rolling down his spine, the fog on his glasses, the ache in his lungs - it all built to a frenzy. Every time Bruce shifted, the glass shuddered faintly behind him, and Clark thought wildly, recklessly, that the city below might feel it, might hear it, might know.

Bruce’s voice cut through the haze, low and sharp against his ear, - Harder. - It wasn’t a request, it was an order, and Clark obeyed without a thought. The pressure of Bruce’s body, the way his back arched, the pure pleasure etched across his features - it was too much, too beautiful. Clark couldn’t look away, not even through the blur of his glasses, not even as his vision swam with sweat and need.

He buried himself deeper, faster, each thrust raw and brutal, and Bruce clung tighter, his legs locked like steel around Clark’s waist, driving him deeper into the rhythm of destruction they were making together. Clark could feel the sofa vibrating faintly at his back, could feel the city lights flicker against his blurred vision, could feel Bruce unravel beneath him, above him, all around him.

And in that moment, Clark wasn’t a reporter fumbling through his notes, or a man awkwardly trying to fit into the world - he was raw, undone, claimed. With his glasses still perched crookedly on his face, he let himself be ruined entirely in Bruce Wayne’s arms, the city of Metropolis burning silently beneath them.

Bruce felt it from the very first push - Clark trembling beneath him, knuckles digging into his shoulders, heat coiling tight around his cock as he began to move. The feeling was intoxicating, commanding, addictive. Clark wasn’t holding back anymore; he was all motion and raw need, every thrust sloppy with want yet perfect in its desperation, and Bruce could feel himself unraveling under it. 

He shifted slightly on the sofa, legs tightening around Clark’s waist, ankles crossed at the small of his back to pull him in closer, to claim him fully, and Clark responded instantly, burying himself deeper, driving harder, losing all control and leaving Bruce with nothing but the exquisite friction of their bodies colliding.

Bruce’s hands tangled in Clark’s hair again, tugging gently, just enough to pull his mouth down into his for a bruising, desperate kiss. His lips moved over Clark’s with a rhythm that matched the pace of his hips, testing him, claiming him, and Clark moaned helplessly against him, a sound Bruce swallowed like fire. Every stroke, every jerk of Clark’s hips pressed him closer to the edge, closer to the raw, burning release that had been building since Clark had first knelt before him. 

The balcony was thick with sweat and heat, every sigh and grunt a testament to the power they held over each other.

- You’re perfect, - Bruce murmured against his lips, voice low and rough, almost drowned by the sound of their bodies. - So fucking perfect. - The words were praise, command, temptation all at once. He could feel Clark shudder beneath him, his grip tightening, cock pulsing with every word. 

Bruce leaned back into the night slightly, letting Clark drive into him fully, controlling the depth and angle, setting the measure of each stroke. Clark’s movement was frantic now, frantic but precise, and Bruce’s eyes closed briefly, savoring it.

He could feel it - the heat coiling tighter, the inevitable burn building. Clark was giving himself over completely, and Bruce was riding that surrender like a god taking what he was owed. Every inch Clark drove in, every wet, desperate press of his hips, sent another thrill through him, another shiver down his spine. He could feel the pulse in his cock, the tension in his thighs, the tight squeeze around him as Clark’s arms held him, body pressed to his in a perfect, raw alignment of need and power.

Bruce opened his eyes again just in time to catch the way Clark’s glasses had slipped, the dark curls damp on his forehead, lips parted in rapture, cheeks flushed like fire. The sight tore at him, made him groan, made him want to ride that desperation to the edge and beyond. He pulled Clark down into another deep, bruising kiss, letting their mouths clash with teeth and tongue, sucking the whimpers straight from Clark’s throat, tasting the sweetness of him.

- You’re mine, - Bruce hissed against him, voice low, deep, full of promise and command. - Every bit. Mine. Fill me. Give it to me, Clark. Don’t stop.

Clark’s pace accelerated, frantic now, and Bruce felt the last of his restraint slip away. Every shuddering motion, every desperate cry, every wet, sloppy press of Clark against him pushed him closer and closer, the coil tightening in his chest until the pleasure burned white-hot and overwhelming. And when the first wave hit, when his body clenched around Clark with a shuddering, guttural release, he rode him through it, lost in the euphoria of being filled, claimed, and utterly surrendered.

Clark’s hands gripped him, his body slick and trembling, yet he never faltered, never slowed, giving Bruce the final, exquisite measure of fulfillment. Bruce leaned back, teeth biting into his lip, eyes rolling with the intensity of it all, completely undone, utterly satisfied, every nerve screaming in harmony with the man astride him.

Bruce’s hands tangled in his hair, tugging him down into a bruising, desperate kiss that made Clark’s knees threaten to buckle. The moan that tore from his throat was jagged and wild, a sound born from complete surrender. He pressed himself deeper, burying every inch of himself inside Bruce, every pulse of his cock slick and hot, every thrust dragging them both closer to the inevitable collapse.

- I - oh God - Bruce, - Clark gasped, voice trembling, teeth grazing Bruce’s shoulder as the coil in his stomach snapped. His body convulsed, thighs shaking, every muscle taut as heat and pleasure and need crashed through him in a blinding wave. He clenched around Bruce, eyes squeezing shut, lips parting in a ragged moan as he spilled, filling him completely.

The sensation was overwhelming, exquisite, humiliating, and pure. 

Bruce’s body quivered over him, hands steadying him, guiding him even as Clark’s own tremors racked him. Every heartbeat, every gasp, every slick, heated press of skin against skin sent him spiraling further, until Clark was left trembling under Bruce, completely undone, utterly consumed by the intimacy, the pleasure, and the undeniable, scorching truth that he had finally given himself entirely.

- I - I’m sorry, Bruce - he gasped, chest heaving, face flushed with heat and embarrassment, glasses slipping lower on the bridge of his nose. His words were small, barely audible over the wet, greedy sounds of their bodies colliding. - I didn’t mean… I shouldn’t…

Bruce’s hand shot up, pressing hard against Clark’s jaw, tilting his face to force his eyes up. His voice was low, sharp, commanding, and made the tremor in Clark’s chest spike with both fear and lust. - Shut up, - he hissed, eyes dark and burning.

Clark swallowed hard, heat rushing through him as Bruce’s words burned into every nerve ending. He nodded, shivering, teeth grazing Bruce’s shoulder as he tried to focus. - O-okay, - he whispered, voice breaking. - I’ll… I’ll help you.

- Good, - Bruce said, a smirk tugging at his lips even as his body shook with need. - Then keep going. Don’t stop. Help me finish.

Clark’s hands slid over Bruce’s hips, sliding along the slick skin, pressing and squeezing where he was guided, all while moving with the thrusts, riding him, lost in the friction, lost in the smell and sound of Bruce’s heat and arousal. His chest pressed to Bruce’s, glasses fogged with sweat, his hair damp, lips trembling as he felt Bruce’s body tightening, quivering beneath him. Each groan and hiss from Bruce sent another wave of pleasure through him, and he moved faster, trying to coax the man over the edge.

- Clark… don’t stop, - Bruce groaned, voice ragged, teeth biting into his lip, hand tangling in Clark’s hair again to tug him closer. - Right there… yes… that’s it… help me…

Clark’s own breath came in ragged gasps, head falling forward slightly, yet eyes locking with Bruce’s when he could, desperate to see him, desperate to obey. Every thrust, every press of their hips together, every hand guiding him pulled them both closer, until Bruce’s entire body tensed in a trembling shudder.

- Clark! - Bruce cried, the word sharp and broken, voice raw with pleasure and release. - Now!

Clark obeyed, keeping himself pressed deep, hands firm on Bruce’s hips, helping him ride the wave until Bruce finally gave a shuddering, guttural roar, body spasming and trembling as he spilled down Clark’s chest. The warmth, slick and hot, coated him, sticky and intimate, and Clark’s own breath hitched, cheeks flaming. The sound of Bruce’s release - raw, primal, undone - made his own arousal spike even further, the thrill and shame of it all folding together, leaving him trembling and completely consumed by the moment.

Bruce collapsed his body meeting Clark’s, body heavy, legs still wrapped around Clark, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a haze of satisfaction, every muscle loose yet still taut from the intensity. Clark’s glasses were fogged and crooked, sweat matting his hair to his forehead, chest rising and falling as he tried to steady himself, heart still hammering wildly against his ribs, the weight and warmth of Bruce pressed across him leaving him utterly undone, both humiliated and exhilarated.

Clark sagged beneath Bruce’s weight, his arms trembling as he tried to shift slightly, but the man on top of him didn’t budge. The sofa creaked faintly under the shared weight, but there was no warmth in Bruce’s touch now, no softness, no lingering brush of skin or whispered reassurance - just the lingering heat, the sweat, the smell of sex hanging thick in the air. 

Clark’s glasses were still crooked, fogged and damp, sticking to his temple, and his chest heaved wildly as he tried to pull in air, each breath shaky and raw.

He wanted to look at Bruce, to see some trace of acknowledgment, some flash of connection in his sharp, dark eyes - but Bruce’s gaze was distant, almost bored, half-lidded in a haze that spoke of satisfaction already sated. His fingers loosened in Clark’s hair, but didn’t tug, didn’t caress, didn’t even acknowledge the mess he’d made of him. 

Clark’s body still shivered, the lingering pulse of arousal not yet faded, but Bruce had already begun to slide off him, legs uncrossing, back stretching, the motion precise and self-contained, as if Clark had been nothing more than a convenient vessel for pleasure.

Clark’s pulse was hammering, muscles taut, every nerve screaming from the aftermath of their heat, and yet Bruce shifted without a word, letting gravity pull him upright against the sofa. Clark’s hands clutched at his own chest, fumbling weakly for his shirt, trying to cover the slick, sticky mess of sweat and cum that coated him. He could feel every ache, every tremor in his thighs and core, and the silence in the room pressed down on him almost as heavily as Bruce’s weight had.

Bruce didn’t speak, didn’t offer anything, didn’t even look at him as he reached for his black shirt from the floor and began to dress with slow, deliberate motions. The casual, almost indifferent movement made Clark flush all over again - not with pleasure, but with shame, humiliation, and the raw sting of being used. 

The electricity, the fire of their bodies, the intensity - it had been entirely Bruce’s, all his. Clark had given, obeyed, been stripped bare, and now he was left with the residue of heat, alone in the quiet aftermath.

Clark swallowed hard, lips dry and trembling, trying to steady his breathing, but the sight of Bruce buttoning his shirt with measured calm, legs draped casually over the armrest, back stiff with satisfaction, left him reeling. There was no tenderness, no shared collapse, no whispered praise - just the sharp, cruel reminder that he had been a tool for Bruce’s pleasure, perfectly used and discarded, still sticky, still hot, still trembling, utterly undone, and fully aware of it.

The city outside glimmered through his glass, alive and distant, indifferent, and Clark realized he hadn’t just been made to surrender his body - he’d been made to surrender completely, leaving him raw, exposed, and completely consumed by the memory of it, long after Bruce’s presence became a shadow in the room.

Clark barely had time to collect himself before Bruce’s low, measured voice cut through the haze of sweat and shame. 

- Once you clean yourself off, leave, - he said, his tone casual but edged with command, like a steel blade wrapped in silk. There was no warmth in the instruction, no trace of lingering care, just the blunt assertion of authority that had been threaded through every second of their encounter.

Clark’s stomach twisted. He nodded, voice caught in his throat, barely a whisper: - Y-yes… 

His hands shook as he reached for his clothing, fumbling with the fabric as if it were a lifeline, dabbing at the slick residue of heat and sweat that still clung to him. Every motion felt exposed, clumsy, and inadequate, as though the act of cleaning himself only underscored the humiliation of being left like this, still raw and trembling, a body marked by Bruce’s pleasure alone.

From the corner of his eye, Clark caught Bruce moving away from the balcony, half-naked, the shirt open and draped over his shoulders. He could see the hard planes of Bruce’s back, the taut strength in his arms, and finally - his firm, unyielding cheeks, rising and falling as the man moved with slow, confident steps toward the inside of the penthouse. The sight burned hotter than any memory, a vivid reminder of how utterly used he had been, and how utterly consumed he still felt.

Clark’s pulse hammered painfully in his ears. 

Every nerve ending felt alive, raw to the smallest touch of air against his skin. He swallowed hard, heart hammering as the steam of humiliation wrapped around him tighter than the fabric in his hands. The thought that Bruce had left him here - sticky, flushed, utterly exposed - while he casually vanished behind the bathroom door, leaving only the fading silhouette of his body behind, made Clark’s stomach churn with a mixture of shame, frustration, and something darker, more primal.

He pressed the clothing harder against his chest, trying to ground himself, but the tremble in his hands refused to subside. His blue eyes flicked repeatedly toward the open house, toward the fading image of Bruce’s firm, unashamed body, and the realization hit him like a punch to the gut: this wasn’t over. 

Clark’s lips parted slightly, catching a ragged breath, and he shivered, torn between the desperate urge to flee the penthouse, to reclaim a fragment of his dignity, and the undeniable, humiliating craving that still coiled through his veins. Humiliation burned hot in his chest, but so did a pulse of desire he couldn’t suppress, leaving him frozen, his outfit clutched to his body, utterly undone, and painfully aware that he would carry the imprint of Bruce’s dominance far longer than he would ever admit to anyone.

A few days had passed, but the memory of Bruce’s weight on him, the relentless heat, the sound of his own moans, had not faded - it only pressed heavier in Clark’s mind. 

He sat at his desk in the Daily Planet, glasses crooked, sleeves rolled up, the soft hum of computers and printers filling the newsroom around him. He had a notepad in front of him, filled with scribbles, partial quotes, and tentative sentences, but no matter how hard he tried, every line blurred into the memory of Bruce’s body, of the way he’d been claimed, undone, used.

Clark pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to steady the flush creeping over his cheeks. 

He could hear the click of keyboards, the murmur of colleagues chatting about deadlines and meetings, but it was all drowned out by the vivid recall of Bruce’s hands, his voice, the sharp, commanding pull of him in the bedroom - no, the penthouse. Even thinking about the way Bruce had leaned into him, setting the pace, pulling him deeper into abandon, made Clark’s stomach tighten and his pulse spike uncomfortably.

Every word on the screen mocked him, every unfinished sentence a reminder of how his body had betrayed him. He leaned back in his chair, breath coming shallow and fast, as he imagined Bruce watching him now, those dark eyes sharp and calculating, lips curled into that smirk that had haunted him even in daylight. The memory of the sofa, of Bruce’s legs wrapped tight around his waist, of the hot release, made him flush so intensely he could almost feel the sticky heat on his own skin again.

Clark’s fingers twitched over the keyboard, trying to type, trying to focus on the professionalism, on the interview, but the words wouldn’t come. Every attempt was derailed by a flash of Bruce’s mouth, the hard tug of his hands in Clark’s hair, the relentless motion that had made him lose himself completely. He pressed a palm to his forehead, jaw tight, glasses slipping slightly down his nose, heart hammering in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine or stress.

He could hear Lois’s voice somewhere in the back of his mind, sharp and teasing: Focus, Clark. It’s just an interview. But even that felt impossible now. 

Every line of Bruce’s dialogue, every expression, every clipped word from the conversation had been transformed in Clark’s mind into something far hotter, far more personal, far more consuming. He flushed again, ears burning, as a rogue memory of the release - both theirs - hit him full in the chest. He couldn’t breathe for a moment, couldn’t think, couldn’t pretend that this was just “notes for an article.”

The newsroom continued around him, oblivious to the storm in Clark’s mind, and he knew, with a sharp, shameful thrill, that he was utterly undone by the memory, and that the article - no matter how many quotes he had - would be impossible to finish without being consumed by the ghost of Bruce Wayne’s dominance, his heat, and the way Clark had been broken entirely under him.

Clark pressed his face into his hands, knuckles digging into his cheeks, trying to will the heat and shame away. 

The hum of the newsroom seemed distant, distant and hollow, and every keystroke felt like sandpaper against raw nerves. And then the thought hit him, sharp, unwelcome, undeniable: he had given himself - entirely, completely - to Bruce Wayne. 

The first time, his virginity, stripped bare not with tenderness, not with care, not with any trace of affection, but to someone who hadn’t cared at all about him. Someone who had used him like a tool, like a toy, without hesitation or thought beyond his own pleasure.

The realization made his stomach twist, bile rising in his throat, but at the same time, his body betrayed him in the cruelest way. Even as shame coiled around him, he couldn’t deny that he had loved every second of it - the heat, the dominance, the relentless power Bruce had wielded over him. 

His cock pulsed beneath his slacks as if mocking him, every memory replaying with the clarity of a movie he both hated and craved. The sound of Bruce’s voice, the feel of his hands, the tight press of his body, the way he had been pulled apart and made to move, made him shiver and ache again, betraying the sickness and shame he felt.

Clark’s chest tightened, heart hammering erratically as he leaned back, glasses fogged with sweat he hadn’t wiped, hands pressed to his thighs to ground himself. The truth was unbearable: he craved it. 

He craved being used by Bruce, the thought of obeying, of being dominated, of being utterly undone. The shame wasn’t just that Bruce had taken him - it was that his own body had remembered, had responded, had wanted it all, had been undone by it, and even now, days later, he could feel the wet, desperate pulse of arousal that had never truly left him.

He swallowed hard, jaw tight, lips pressed together. He felt sick, humiliated, and… hopelessly, painfully alive. Every memory, every gasp, every shiver, made him realize that beneath the surface of his shame, beneath the layers of self-loathing for being used, there was a dark, quiet craving, a hunger he hadn’t wanted to admit even to himself. Bruce Wayne hadn’t just taken his body - he had taken something deeper, something raw, and Clark hated that he had wanted it, hated that he had lost himself so completely, hated that the memory made him burn hotter than anger, hotter than frustration, hotter than anything he could ever tell anyone.

Even sitting in the sterile newsroom, among the printers and the hum of computers, Clark felt it - a twisted pulse of shame, of longing, of unspoken craving that made him flush, made his chest ache, and made the article, the professionalism, the very world he lived in, feel unbearably small against the weight of what he had given up… and what he had secretly loved.

Clark’s mind was a storm, a relentless, scorching loop he couldn’t escape. 

Every sentence he tried to write twisted into flashes of Bruce’s dark eyes, the way his body had moved above him, the sharp, commanding tone that had left him gasping and trembling. And as he stared at the blinking cursor on the screen, the thought - dangerous, humiliating, impossible - slipped into his brain: what would Bruce want him to do right now, right here, with all these people around?

The idea was electric, burning. Clark imagined himself at his desk, glasses crooked, fingers trembling beneath the table, moving as Bruce commanded - jerking himself off, slick and wet, pressing into his own underwear, shivering with desperate need while reporters, editors, the very life of the Daily Planet carried on around him, completely oblivious. 

His stomach twisted, a knot of shame and raw arousal tightening inside him, cheeks flushing so hot he worried someone might see. Every imagined whisper of Bruce’s voice, every imagined smirk, made him shiver violently, tongue grazing the inside of his cheek as he tried - vainly - to pull himself together.

His fingers itched, twitching in his lap, and he shifted in his seat, heart hammering, the memory of Bruce’s hands, hips, and control pressing against him like a phantom. He was burning alive with frustration, frustrated at himself for even imagining it, frustrated at the helpless thrill of it, frustrated at the impossibility of letting go anywhere near this place. His thighs ached from tension, his stomach tight with need, and he pressed his palm into his knee to ground himself, willing the heat to subside.

- Kent!

The shout cut through the haze like a whip. Clark blinked, jolted, his face heating even further, glasses sliding slightly down his nose as he lifted his head. Perry White stood at the edge of the newsroom, arms crossed, eyebrows arched, voice sharp and impatient. - Get in my office. Now.

Clark swallowed hard, heart still hammering, the impossible fantasies retreating as he struggled to shove them into the back of his mind. He rose, notebook clutched against his chest like a shield, every nerve tingling from both embarrassment and leftover arousal. 

The hallway to Perry’s office seemed impossibly long, each step a battle against the lingering, feverish heat that Bruce had left him with. Clark practically sprinted down the narrow stretch of the Daily Planet newsroom, heels clicking against the tile floor. 

His mind was still a swirl of heat and shame, the lingering memories of Bruce pressing against him with every step. In his rush, his toe caught on someone’s abandoned bag, sending him stumbling forward.

- Ah - sorry! - he stammered, catching himself against the edge of a desk, cheeks flaming as a few nearby coworkers shot him curious glances. He muttered another quick apology and pushed off, nearly losing his balance again, before finally reaching Perry’s office.

He fumbled with the door, slapping it closed behind him with a hurried motion, breathing uneven, heart still hammering. The click of the latch sounded impossibly loud in the quiet of the office, and Clark pressed a hand to his chest as if it could still the rapid thrum of his pulse.

Perry’s voice cut through the tension, clipped and businesslike. “Kent. Wayne called. Wants another interview. Says it’s important, and he wants you personally. Set it up. Today. ”

Clark froze, breath catching in his throat. Another interview? The words should have been simple, professional, routine - but they weren’t. 

They were a jolt straight through his chest, igniting something that was equal parts dread, humiliation, and an undeniable, hot thrill. He could feel the heat creeping up his neck, his ears burning, as if the entire newsroom had suddenly turned its attention on him - even though he was alone in Perry’s office. His pulse thumped in his ears, sharp and chaotic, mirroring the frantic beat of memories that refused to leave him.

The way Bruce had used him, taken him, controlled him - it was still vivid, still raw, still scorching through Clark’s veins. His hands flexed at his sides, gripping the edge of his notepad as if it could anchor him, could keep him from collapsing under the weight of what he both dreaded and craved. The thought of seeing Bruce again, of walking into that penthouse, of sitting across from him and pretending to be just a professional reporter, sent a shiver down Clark’s spine. 

Every nerve in his body screamed in awareness, remembering the slick warmth, the command, the humiliation, and the way he had loved it, even as shame had twisted his gut into knots.

Clark’s glasses slipped slightly as he swallowed, eyes wide, trying to steady himself. 

Shame burned hot in his cheeks, shame that he had been used, that he had been undone, that the memory of Bruce’s dominance had been seared into him in a way he couldn’t erase. And yet… beneath that shame, deep and undeniable, there was a spark of something darker, something thrilling: excitement. The excitement of being called back. Of having the chance, again, to see that sharp gaze, to feel the electricity that had made him ache for days, to risk being undone once more.

His chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven breaths, mind spinning with a chaotic mix of fear, humiliation, and heat. Every rational thought about journalistic professionalism, about propriety and decorum, collided violently with the vivid, burning memory of Bruce’s hands, his mouth, the way he had driven Clark to the edge - and beyond. It was maddening, intoxicating, humiliating. 

He wanted to look away, to push the thought down, to act as though he were just following orders - but every fiber of his being tightened in response, remembering exactly how much he had craved Bruce’s control, how much he had loved being used.

Clark’s hand twitched, almost involuntarily, brushing against his thigh as if he could feel the phantom pressure, the ghost of Bruce’s dominance pressing against him even from across the city. He swallowed again, lips dry, heart hammering, and yet there was a spark of defiance - if only quiet, secret, and entirely his own. He would go. He would take the call, go to the penthouse, sit across from Bruce Wayne again, and try to carry himself as a professional. But he knew the truth, the humbling, embarrassing, consuming truth: part of him was already trembling with anticipation, aching to be undone, to be used, to be burned again by the memory he couldn’t escape.

As he straightened his glasses, ran a hand through his damp hair, and nodded at Perry, Clark realized the cruel, intoxicating paradox of it all. He had been humiliated, stripped bare, reduced to pleasure - and yet, beneath every sting of shame, beneath every hot pulse of leftover need, he wanted it again . 

The thought made him flush hotter, made his chest ache with heat and anticipation, made every nerve in his body hum with electricity. He swallowed hard, heart hammering, and whispered to himself, almost inaudibly, - I… I have to go.