Work Text:
The bedroom door had barely been shut — and properly locked, despite Clark’s super hearing; Bruce wasn’t about to risk Alfred catching sight of him like this — when he was pinned against it by Clark’s large, hot hands gripping his waist like he needed it to stay alive. It didn’t take long for Clark to tear off the thick, damp hoodie and the black shirt beneath it, stripping the layers from Bruce’s body like they had personally offended him.
Those hands dragged upwards for a moment, groping and tracing over soft yet firm muscles and faded scars and bruises before Clark pressed his face into the curve of Bruce’s neck.
He inhaled deeply — the heady scent of Bruce’s expensive cologne mixed with the faint sweat at his nape made something feral snap inside him — and growled before biting at the pale, easily marked skin with teeth too perfect to belong to any man. Bruce had rules about visible marks. He trusted Kent enough not to push it.
Not when they've been dating for a whole year.
Clark’s mouth pressed a kiss just beneath his ear, breath hot against the skin as he whispered: “I’ve been holding back for hours just not to do this, Bruce.”
Bruce smiled, small and nearly imperceptible. His reply came out low.
“I know. I wish you hadn’t.”
Clark let out a deep growl, lips moving down to bite harder into the younger man’s shoulder, enough to rip a strangled sound from Bruce — something between a groan and a hiss from the sharp ache turning into something filthier.
“You say that now.” Clark murmured against skin already heating with bruises, “But I know very well how you’d scold me if I even tried thinking about this in public.”
“Maybe.” Bruce admitted, voice husky. “But you seem to forget how much it turns me on when you break my rules sometimes.”
Clark’s hands wasted no time moving to the waistband of Bruce’s cargo pants, dragging them down in one brutal motion along with the black boxer briefs underneath. A shiver climbed Bruce’s spine at the sudden contrast of Gotham’s cold night air hitting his cunt already flushed and wet from Clark’s touch and his own filthy thoughts.
Clark’s breath hitched audibly as he sank to his knees on the cold, hard floor behind Bruce, fingers digging into thick, bare thighs like he needed to ground himself there or he would lose control entirely. The sight of his little bat, exposed and needy in the faint moonlight filtering through rain-smeared glass, felt almost cruel in how fucking perfect he was.
“Bruce…” Clark’s voice cracked under the weight of his own hunger. “Do you even know how beautiful you are?”
God.
Bruce had barely begun to form a reply, when Clark’s hands parted him without a shred of gentleness, thumbs pulling him open just enough to watch that flushed, needy cunt pulse under the cold air — and then the wet heat of Clark’s tongue licked from slick folds up to the tight, clenching hole.
Bruce’s breath collapsed in itself, fingers clawing at the edges of the heavy door, blunt nails dragging down hard wood. His teeth sank into his lip, fighting to keep in the sounds clawing up his throat as Clark repeated the motion again and again, groaning low against his skin.
Clark was good at this. Maybe too good. All Bruce could do was arch his back, knees threatening to buckle as he struggled to keep standing.
“Kent…” he panted, hips trembling when Clark dragged his thumb over the drenched entrance, teasing at slipping inside while other fingers toyed with his dick, mostly hidden beneath dark, sparse pubic hair. His mouth kissed over the curve of Bruce’s ass, biting at the flesh like it was begging to be devoured. “C-Clark..”
“I’ve been thinking about this pussy all fucking night..” Clark muttered darkly, sucking one of Bruce's delicate folds between lips far too soft for how devastating they were. “You’re getting soaked already.”
“F-Fuck—!” Bruce gasped, humiliated by the way the words broke apart into something high-pitched when Clark latched onto his cock and sucked with purpose.” ‘m not..”
“Oh, you are.” Clark practically purred, grinning against him — dimples cutting deep into flushed cheeks in a way that made Bruce’s head spin. His lips and chin were shining with Bruce’s slick, his smug expression practically glowing. “It's as if it's begging for me, B.”
Bruce’s head dropped forward against the door, gasping, hips pushing back shamelessly to grind against Clark’s face, desperation unraveling him fast.
Clark swatted at one cheek, light but sharp enough to sting, before diving back in with a hunger that felt starved. He licked and sucked like a man obsessed, wet, filthy sounds filling the otherwise silent room as his tongue worked relentlessly, collecting every bit of Bruce’s taste like he’d die without it.
Bruce’s thighs trembled, trying to wriggle free from Clark’s iron grip as heat coiled viciously in his gut. His voice broke, even lower than usual: “If you keep— I won’t… I won’t las..!”
Clark didn’t bother listening. He pushed his tongue in deep, slicking over Bruce’s pulsing engorged clit with fingers now pinching, rolling, merciless. Bruce bit down on his lip hard enough to feel the familiar taste of metal, swallowing every pathetic sound clawing up from his chest. It wasn’t enough. Clark pressed harder, faster, fucking him with his mouth until Bruce couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but shake.
Then two — thick, soft and long — fingers slid inside with no warning, curling cruelly until Bruce arched with a broken cry, pushing back into the touch like some ruined thing desperate for more. “Clark! T-Too much—!”
“Mmh,” Clark hummed, precise and knowing, finding his spot and pressing into it with brutal focus until Bruce was unraveling, little sounds leaking free despite himself trying really hard not to let them out. “Then cum for me, B. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
Bruce nodded, panting, face damp with sweat and stinging from the force of squeezing his eyes shut too long. He whined under his breath as his first orgasm in weeks snapped through him.
He barely had time to catch his breath before strong hands grabbed his waist again, sure enough to bruise, and flipped him — back hitting the warm door with a dull thud. Finally, he had a proper look at the man still kneeling on the floor. That classic suit, so blue it nearly blended with Metropolis’ skies on good sunny days. The obscene big bulge under the ridiculous red underwear. The, also red, cape dragged along the floor behind him with soft gusts of wind. Clark’s usually neat hair was a total mess, with the dark curls sticking to his forehead. His mouth gleamed with Bruce’s slick and his own spit, cheeks flushed pink and a smug gaze burning straight through him.
Bruce patted his head briefly before muttering a breathless "Show off."