Inspired by this amazing FanArt ~ Cred
This fic contains: Additional Tags:
Size Kink, Desk Sex, Power Imbalance, and Creampies.
The quiet was the worst part. The silence that often soothed him, made the air feel dense. Bruce stood in the cave as the echo of the Comps shutting down hummed in his ears.
He didn’t care. The emptiness roared, a familiar, gnawing void. He grabbed the old bottle of whiskey he never really drank from and poured himself a glass. The burn was a clean, simple path down his throat, a welcome fire that pushed the hollow ache into a corner. He thought about it. Calling Big blue. But he knew he wasn't gonna like what he saw. Clark hated when Bruce drank more than Alfred did. So it was no surprise when he was dialing before the second sip. The line picked up on the first ring. A gentle, impossibly steady voice. “Bruce?”
“My place. Now.” He hung up. No room for questions. No room for his own doubt. He just needed him. It took a minute but soon Clark arrived with a soft rush of air. He was still in his suit, the blue and red too bright, too hopeful, for the dim cavern. “Are you—” Bruce cut him off, taking another sip of his drink. The liquid courage—or maybe just the numbness—was the only thing that let him turn, letting Clark see the raw, unarmored want on his face.
Clark’s eyes softened. He understood this language. Taking the glass from Bruce's grip he set the glass down, the click on the console too loud. “Okay,” was all he said. Two simple syllables that unraveled the last of Bruce’s resolve. Bruce turned his back, a silent, vulnerable command. He heard the whisper of Kryptonian fabric. Then warmth, solid arms pressed against his back thick and corded with impossible strength, circled his waist. Clark’s nose nuzzled into the crook of his neck, his breath hot on Bruce’s skin. “I’ve got you,” Clark murmured, and the ache in Bruce’s chest twisted. It was the same tone, the same unshakable safety.
Bruce leaned back into the embrace, his head resting against Clark’s shoulder. “Don’t be gentle,” he whispered, his voice rough. “I don’t want to be gentle.” Clark’s hands moved, one splaying wide over Bruce’s stomach, pulling him flush, the other coming up to cup his jaw, turning his face. Clark’s lips found his, not gentle, but deep and claiming, tasting of . Bruce moaned into it, the whiskey-fueled haze melting into a sharper, more desperate hunger.
They didn’t make it to bed. Bruce shoved the monitor array aside, clearing the cold metal surface of the central console. Clark lifted him as if he weighed nothing, setting him down on the edge. Bruce worked his own pants open, pushing them off along with his boxers , his cock already hard and flushed against his stomach. Clark’s were next, and then he was there, thick and heavy in his hand, pulsing with a heat that was entirely his own.
Bruce looked back, meeting those big blue’s. They felt piercing on his skin. Hot even as they scanned his body. The looks of scars and healing wounds peppering his skin. The loneliness and the whiskey crested into a single, breathless plea. “Pin me down,” he begged, his voice cracking. “Pin me down until I stop thinking, till it’s silent.”
Taking a deep breath through his nose Clark sighed, He leaned Bruce back onto the cold metal, the cold sending small chills down his spine, but the feel of Clark's broad body was a welcome, crushing weight that held him in place. Slow soft kisses follow, while hands slide down his sides to his ass. “ fuck.. Bruce” he groaned, as he guided himself to Bruce’s entrance.
Usually Clarks is all for prep and usually would but today that’s not what Bruce wants and he knows it. There was no prep, no patience—just Clark’s spit-slicked fingers, and a quick, rough stretch that burned in the best way, and then the slow, relentless push of that impossible thickness.
Bruce cried out, a ragged sound torn from his chest. His back arched off the console, every nerve alight. It was a stretch that bordered on pain, a glorious, filling ache that mattered. It pushed the thoughts out, the mission reports, the casualty lists, the news reports, everything. Just silent in his head. All that remained was the searing heat of Clark inside him, and the flex of his muscles against Bruce’s back.
After a few seconds Clark began to move, slow at first to get Bruce adjusted as to not cause pain. “ Clark…go faster!” Blue eyes eyed his body, watching it tense and contract at each breath, "Please" taking Bruce's hand in his he started thrusting faster making Bruce lose all of his senses. He fucked himself back onto Clark’s cock, meeting each deep, driving thrust with a ragged gasp. The slap of skin on skin, Clark’s choked grunts in his ear, the creak of the console under their weight—it was a symphony of oblivion.
“That’s it,” Clark mumbled into the sweat-damp skin of his shoulder, his lips brushing the old scars . “You take it so well. Just for me.” The words, the sweet nothings from the farm boy, laced with possession, need...want even. Made Bruce’s stomach tighten. He was close. And Clark knew it. Each thrust, every touch against his skin burned. Because soon reality was gonna settle in and the realization of how wrong this was pinging in his ears. They're colleagues. Partners.Coworkers in a sense. And this? This was a terrible, reckless idea. But just when Bruce was gonna tell him to stop, Clark's hands slid under him, gripping his hips, holding him in place. "Don't push me away Bruce.. please" and just like that he gave in, into him, into this sick twisted thing they've got going on because he was being used, and Bruce wanted to be used. He wanted the emptiness filled, the silence shattered by the sounds of their bodies together.
“Fuck..” Bruce whined, the pleasure built, a coil tightening low in his gut. Clark’s thrusts became less rhythmic, more frantic, his own control fraying. One of his hands snaked between Bruce’s body and the console, wrapping around Bruce’s leaking cock. The touch was electric. “Clark—!”
“Come for me, Bruce,” Clark growled, his voice thick with strain. “Let go.” It was the command, the permission, that broke him. The orgasm ripped through him, white-hot and blinding. He shouted, his body seizing as he spilled over Clark’s fist and his own stomach, the waves of pleasure so intense they bordered on pain. He felt Clark shudder above him, a deep, guttural groan against his neck as he emptied himself deep inside, the hot pulse of it wringing a final, broken sob from Bruce’s throat.
They collapsed together on the console, a tangle of spent limbs. Bruce’s mind was blissfully, perfectly blank. The whiskey haze was gone, replaced by a bone-deep satiation and the warm, sticky evidence of their mistake cooling on his skin. Clark nuzzled his hair, placing a soft, almost chaste kiss on his temple. The tenderness was worse than the roughness. It promised things Bruce couldn’t afford for once.
Too priceless. Too pure. Too familiar.
As the cold of the metal began to seep into his bones, the first trickle of regret followed. He closed his eyes, memorizing the weight, the scent and the feel of Clark on his scent. The smell of hay and sunshine clinging to Clark’s skin.
He knew he was truly fucked.
When the sun broke through the windows of Bruce’s room hours later, Bruce was alone in his bed, clean and aching in places that had nothing to do with battle. The space beside him was cold. but the dent of him still remained, looking over to his nightstand he found a note ' Surprise in the kitchen' Bruce looked up from the note to see Alfred with fresh clothes for him "Master Bruce" he said, eyeing him. "don't say it." Alfred only smiled to himself and left the room. Walking to the kitchen he rubbed his eyes as he saw a cup of coffee and a muffin on the kitchen island in the manor, with another note written in painfully neat script.
‘Coffee’s fresh. Alfred’s taking care of your suit. Watch duty calls. —C.K’
Bruce smiled a little at the note, pure Clark was written all over it, but he liked it. Loved it maybe. Looking around he felt calm. No mention of it. No loud noises in his head, no expectations. Just… normalcy. Even when the ache in Bruce’s chest returned, it was different now. It wasn’t hollow. It was a hungry, delicious thing, simmering just under his ribs. He traced the words with a finger, a slow smile touching his lips. He’d have to call again. Soon maybe.
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