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Bruce was drunk.
He didn’t mean to get drunk; he was usually very careful with that sort of thing –he has not been a fan of numbing his senses since he stopped being an angsty, traumatized teen– but today he’d just wanted to loosen up a little. And he wasn’t above admitting that he wouldn’t be able to do that without outside intervention: be it a hit at the back of the head or controlled alcohol consumption. He chose the second, of course, never one to give up control of any situation he could possibly find himself in.
This decision, of course, had been brought about by recent events, namely, Superman making the most passive-aggressive comments regarding Bruce’s stress levels. He’d taken Bruce’s acceptance of their friendship and ran with it. The embodiment of give him an inch and he’ll take a mile, that man.
So here he was, drunk and actually enjoying himself amongst the crowd. And of course, he would. He felt like a damn siren with people flocking around him, eager to receive any attention he’d be willing to give, however minimal. He would never, ever, accept it –sometimes not even to himself– but he thought it was nice to bask in the feeling of being the most powerful man in the room.
If one knew Bruce, if one knew about his nightly activities, one could think that he was more Bat than Wayne, but that was simply not true. Yes, the Bat was an important part of him, but there had been a Bruce Wayne before The Batman –the development of his ditzy persona had been made almost simultaneous with the Bat–. As he’d done with most of the other components of his skillset, he’d devoted part of himself completely to this persona, and this particular skill of his was one he had enjoyed perfecting. It was dynamic, the social aspect of it all; exciting, the control he had over the perceptions others had of him, and it was especially rewarding to chat with the variety of friends he had made as Bruce Wayne, who only knew Bruce Wayne and who truthfully, thoroughly enjoyed his company even when he was not turning up the charm.
Testament to this not being entirely an act –just as Batman was not entirely an act either– when Bruce’s defenses were down like this, he was a giggly, touchy-feely sort of drunk. He’d always enjoyed connection, intimacy, and the touch of another –be it platonic or romantic–. Yet, since his parents were murdered, he seemed to have progressively forgotten what to do with any sort of affection. Suddenly what he had once craved, now made him feel too vulnerable. He could suppress the uncomfortable uneasiness that came with such vulnerability once in a while, but when he was drunk, he didn’t have to, it would suppress itself as soon as it came, and it felt great.
And that had taken him to his current situation: he had been eyeing the cute reporter intermittently since he’d first glanced at him halfway through the party. He didn’t look like much at first –that hideous ill-fitting suit wasn’t making him any favors and the hunched posture made him look so… inadequate, a travesty, really–, but when you really paid attention, you could see the man was big, and God if Bruce didn’t like a built man. That back was to die for; the sharp jaw and the cleft chin looked honestly adorable; his gelled hair looked as if his mother had been the one to do it, making him look parallel to the out-of-fashion idea old women had of looking sharp, and don’t even get him started on the glasses.
The thing that convinced him though, was that when a server had taken pity on the man, stopped ignoring him to offer a glass of champagne and, shortly after the server left, the man had tried pouring his drink on a plant and missed his mark, visibly panicking, seemingly apologizing to the –fake– plant and hastily making his escape to another part of the room. Taking all of this into account Bruce had slowly extracted himself from the little fan club he’d been amassing all evening and headed straight for Mr. tall-dark-and-handsome –well, he did make a little detour to get more whisky but that was neither here nor there.
As soon as he approached enough, the man looked up as if he’d been expecting Bruce and had just been waiting for the correct moment to acknowledge his presence. For some reason that sent a tingle down Bruce’s spine.
Maybe it was a little risky to try to get close to a reporter of all things, but one look at those sharp, ethereal blue eyes had him on his knees –figuratively, of course–. Up close the man was so much more beautiful than Bruce’s previous assessment suggested, and Bruce enjoyed the attention when he was like this, who better to give The Bruce Wayne that than, again, a reporter?
Bruce knew he was attractive, knew his hair was combed to perfection –right at that nice point where it looked intentionally, handsomely disheveled–, knew he looked well-groomed and sharp with his clean-shaven face, knew how his own eyes could be captivating, knew other people could see he exercised regularly with how his suit clung to his body in all the right places, knew his makeup helped him look just that little bit more perfect, knew he smelt good even with the alcohol he’d consumed. In short: he had reason to be as confident as could when he smiled one of his billion-dollar smiles at the man and started speaking.
“Hello there. Are you enjoying yourself mister…” Bruce glanced at his reporter badge and returned to mooning over those pretty eyes of his. “Kent? I couldn't help but notice you all alone in this corner.”
“Oh! um… hi, Mister Wayne, I-” He fumbled with his words and furrowed his brows, clearly not expecting his brain to go faster than his mouth and if Bruce wasn’t smitten before, he was now. He couldn’t stop smiling softly at the man “I actually have everything I need, for now, the party is almost over and lots of people have already left, not much to report now,” he said with a short sort of awkward laugh.
Bruce nodded. He would have taken his leave by now as well, if not for this man in front of him. There was also the fact that this was one of those days in which Batman would only make an appearance if there was an emergency, so Bruce didn’t have anything better to do at the moment.
“I happen to know most of the reporters who cover this kind of event, but I’m afraid your face doesn’t ring any bells,” said Bruce with a sheepish tilt of his head.
“Ah well, that’s because I usually cover other stuff, but a colleague asked me to do this one… uh… so, here I am.” Clark delivered that last sentence with a sort of ‘ta-dah’ tone to it and Bruce was enamored with how goofy it made him sound. God, he used to have such refined tastes, where had he gone wrong? Definitely, when he let his assistant convince him to try a hot dog from a street vendor, that had to be the moment this decline in his good tastes started.
Bruce let out a hum that sounded vaguely interested “And what is it that you usually cover, Mr. Kent?” Bruce needed to get a grip, just saying the man's last name made him feel all giddy and that just won’t do.
They talked at length about Clark’s work as an investigative reporter. Bruce didn’t exactly get bored, the man was a good conversationalist and pretty bright, but he was not interested in getting Clark to fuck him within an inch of his life anymore. Which honestly was a little disappointing.
Eventually, they parted ways and that was it. No phone numbers –nor bodily fluids– were exchanged as Bruce had planned before approaching.
Life went on and it wasn’t until three months later, that Bruce ran into Clark again.
He found himself in Metropolis because of some W.E. business he had to attend. It was 12:47 a.m. and he was at a convenience store paying for some chips because he’d been woken up by a nightmare and he felt like if he didn’t distract himself, at least for a little, he would spiral. He was tired and angry at not being able to go out as Batman that night and scared still because of his dream and everything was not very nice overall.
And then he saw the man. He had a box of face masks in each hand and seemed to be deep in thought. Bruce was just going to ignore him –nothing against the man, he just wasn’t in the mood–, but as soon as he had the thought Clark turned his head to look directly at Bruce and there was no way he didn’t notice how the billionaire did recognize him.
Bruce sighed internally as the man approached him and forced himself into acting more like his persona.
“Hey- uh no, hi. Um. Hello Mister Wayne, it’s nice to see you are well,” said Clark. And he sounded so earnest too. Bruce had to make an effort not to think of this man as attractive. He’d ruled him off, and there was no coming back from getting dismissed by Bruce Wayne.
“Likewise, Mister Kent,” replied Bruce smiling politely.
“Oh! You remembered!” said the man with a bright smile. He was just like a puppy, cute and excitable and Bruce had the sudden urge to squeeze him until he popped . But he couldn’t, so he allowed himself an amused chuckle in its place.
“And what would a brilliant investigative reporter be doing at midnight trying to burn holes into the mask boxes with his sight, hm? Got any hidden powers I should know about?” Now that he said it out loud, Clark kind of…
Before he could finish the thought, Clark’s awkward, forced laugh stopped him.
“It’s for the spiders.”
Okay, he’d revise the last thought later. For now, Bruce was confused. It must have shown on his face because Clark continued.
“You know, the ones at night?” said Clark slowly, obviously dumbing it down as if talking to a child and Bruce bristled at that. “There’s an article, well, various articles, actually, that say you eat twenty spiders a year during your sleep. I don’t want to hurt any spiders by accident, so I use masks when I sleep. Smart, yeah?” finished Clark, looking so damn proud of his smartness.
But actually no. No, what he said wasn’t smart at all. It was the dumbest thing Bruce had ever heard and he felt like getting on his knees and sucking off the man right there, right then, public decency be damned.
“I suppose so,” said Bruce politely. He covered his mouth with a hand to hide his soft laughter and fluttered his lashes at the man, making him blush slightly.
God, he wished he’d gone out looking sluttier. As it was, he just looked like a tired man running a 1 am errand. He had to get to his hotel room before Clark could say something actually sensible and ruin it.
“Well, Mister Kent, I really need to go now, but I'll be seeing you,” said Bruce in the most seductive voice he could muster as he turned to leave with a wave.
The man seemed dazed for a bit, discreetly –which wasn’t that discreet at all considering he was talking to the world’s best detective– checking Bruce out and waving back.
“Have a good night, Mister Wayne! Sleep tight!” that damn enthusiasm that late at night made Bruce think, yet again, that Clark really was like a puppy. Maybe he should get a collar and a leash, just in case. Clark would be such a good boy for him, Bruce was sure.
Bruce got to his hotel room, took out the handy lube he kept in his bag, and fingered himself till his legs were shaking and he couldn’t keep himself from making noise. He thought of a large man, with an unrealistically large cock –this was his fantasy and he wanted to be left gaping, sue him– fucking him enthusiastically while moaning adorably. He could almost hear how endearing the man’s desperate whimpers would sound.
The next time they met Bruce was at the Daily Planet. He owned the place, he liked to go there in person once in a while to check up on things. He had a meeting to talk about money and budgets, really something he could have fixed in half an hour at home, but the house was feeling especially cold, lonely, and oppressive and Bruce really didn’t want to examine how he felt about that while being subjected to it.
His phone buzzed inside his pocket. Alfred. Bruce got into the printing room and answered the call. The old man just wanted to let him know he arrived safely at the airport. He was gone to visit his daughter and he’d remain gone for a week. It was fine. Bruce was fine –abandoned, alone, sad, sad, sad –. He could take care of himself. He could feel at ease in his own home –cold, sad, dead, empty, too big, too big, why is it so quiet? Was he not enough for his only family left to want to be there? – without an issue.
He was pacing a bit when the glass door suddenly opened.
“Don’t show you’re in a hurry!” said Clark, forgetting himself and pulling Bruce to him smothering his face against the man’s chest. “Lois said they can smell your fear. She’s always saying it. You won’t get your copies if you pace like that!”
Bruce looked up and stared, awed, into Clark’s earnest gaze. To be fair, this wasn’t really the man being stupid, again, this was just being gullible –that’s what Bruce told himself anyway, deep down he knew the man was acting stupid–, but Bruce’s body didn’t seem to sense the difference either way because he could feel the excitement coiling in his gut and the tingly tightness in his pussy.
He wasn’t even going to print anything, the fact that Clark believed Bruce Wayne printed his own stuff at the building he owned –or anywhere but the Cave, really– was ridiculous and Bruce couldn’t take it anymore.
He moved the hands that had been pushed against Clark’s soft chest to the man’s shoulders and massaged him a bit.
“I wasn’t going to print anything, and I was pacing because my butler just called. He’ll be gone for a week you see, and I was anxious about him arriving safely to his destination.”
Clark, who’d gone lax from Bruce’s massage noticed his hands had traveled lower on Bruce’s back and were now almost on the man’s pert ass. Flustered, he stepped back quickly. He looked down at the floor, feeling chastised even when Bruce hadn’t complained.
Bruce was having a moment. He could picture clearly some dog ears atop this ridiculous man’s head. He could picture this puppy looking all sad, whimpering softly with his soft little ears lowered. Bruce was having a moment.
“Mister K- Clark. Would you like to go on a date with me?”
Clark blushed harder and stuttered for a whole half a minute. Bruce couldn’t get enough of this idiot.
“I- I don’t like mean jokes,” he said with his brows furrowed.
“No joke here, Clark,” said Bruce, raising his palms in the air placatingly. “I just think you’re very handsome and would like to get to know you more.”
“Pff, you’re a billionaire, there is no way you’d be interested in me.”
“Now, why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”
Clark squirmed in place under Bruce’s intense gaze and his disarmingly nice smile.
“Um- well- I can- I mean you’d- no, um, what I mean is that we should- Yes.” he finished lamely
“Yes, what?” asked Bruce, just to be mean.
“Yes, I want to date you.” a pause “To have a date! Go on a date! Not date you! Well, yes date you but I-”
Bruce’s bright laughter cut him off, and he was infinitely grateful for it. Not only because it stopped him from messing up even more but also because Bruce’s bright laughter and happy smile were one of the cutest things he’d ever seen, and he was overwhelmingly proud of himself for being the cause of it.
Bruce kept laughing as Clark stared at him adoringly.
Clark had been at it for 20 minutes now, he was making the most stupid mistakes and Bruce couldn’t get enough of the man. He had been sticking the tip of his tongue out and his brows furrowed in concentration and gotten a determinate glint in his eyes every time he failed, convinced he’d get the toy next time by sheer force of will.
He lost again, the toy slipping from the metal claw pathetically. Clark turned to look at Bruce with the most pitiful gaze, putting those baby blues in full puppy dog eye mode, and really, who was Bruce to deny his silly little puppy a stuffed Bat? No one, that's who. Bruce hummed excitedly, he was pretty sure his heart had sped up from watching Clark accomplish absolutely nothing in those last 20 minutes, but all good things must come to an end, he supposed.
“Can I give it a go, Clark? I’ve had some experience with those. When I was a kid, that is” That was categorically untrue, Bruce never once touched one of these when he was younger but some of his rogues had taken a liking to machines that worked quite a bit like this one. On a bigger scale, of course, but Bruce was confident in his abilities.
Clark nodded and stepped aside, standing close to Bruce, almost shaking in anticipation. Bruce was getting worryingly wet over this stupid, stupid dog. He got the bat and Clark retrieved it for him quickly. Bruce took it from his hands.
“Thank you, Clark,” said Bruce, and the other man beamed at him for it. Bruce had to fuck him; it was a biological imperative to have his puppy slobbering all over his pussy, right before sticking his dick inside Bruce, he had to. “But what kind of date would I be if I didn’t give you the things I get for you,” he said, offering the toy.
Clark took it excitedly and hugged it tightly to his chest. Bruce was worried for a second that he would damage it with his super strength, but he couldn’t exactly say that, so he just basked in the satisfaction of watching that ridiculously large smile on Clark’s face.
At the end of their date, Clark drove Bruce home and kissed him on the cheek shyly when they were at Wayne Manor’s door. Bruce couldn’t help but feel endeared by Clark and –what Bruce assumed were– his farm boy antics.
On their second date, Clark took Bruce to the countryside and made him get on a hot air balloon. He seemed to be fixated on providing for Bruce and no one had ever tried that, and of course, they hadn’t, Bruce was a billionaire, he was the one expected to provide the trips and expensive gifts. Not with Clark though, he wanted to woo Bruce.
When they were up in the sky Clark looked like he wanted to say something really badly. Bruce didn’t ask, it was funny and cute how the Man of Steel had trouble working up the courage to say whatever it is he wanted to say. Strangely, it made Bruce feel special, important.
Eventually, he took a fortifying breath and, instead of speaking, just stood behind Bruce, grabbed him by the hips, and pulled him closer. Bruce was a little disappointed that the cute, chivalrous courting had just lasted for a date, but he really wanted to fuck Clark, so he wasn’t exactly about to complain. Except that Clark didn’t ground his clothed dick against Bruce’s ass, didn’t whisper anything lascivious nor touched Bruce’s crotch. He just hugged him timidly from behind. Bruce leaned his head on Clark’s shoulder and put his hands over Clark’s –which were now clasped against Bruce’s stomach.
They stayed like that for a while just enjoying each other’s company and then:
“Isn’t it cool how you can see the Earth spinning just from the clouds?”
Bruce froze. He had to calm down, this was not that stupid. Part of a cloud's motion does have to do with the Earth's rotation. But he had to know if Clark meant that.
“It has probably more to do with the air, really.”
Clark didn’t answer, so Bruce turned around in the man’s arms. He was blushing furiously and staring at the floor –Bruce was not mourning the lost opportunity to let Clark accidentally stare at his ass in his embarrassed gesture–. Bruce used two of his fingers to lift Clark’s face by the chin.
“Everything alright?” he asked softly.
“Yes I- No, actually,” he let go of Bruce’s waist and covered his face with his hands “You must think I’m so stupid.”
Yes, and that was just the reason Clark was going to get on one side, the best blowjob of his life, and on the other, the chance to fuck Bruce’s hole until he was satisfied.
Bruce didn’t say that he just laughed softly and, taking Clark’s hands in his and pulling them away from the other man’s face, kissed him on the mouth. He meant for the kiss to be soft, but Clark apparently had been waiting for this moment eagerly because he was immediately attacking Bruce’s mouth with unexpected enthusiasm.
Their next eventful date was at a cooking class in Metropolis.
Clark had been meaning to impress Bruce with his cooking skills, make himself more desirable in his eyes, or something since he assumed a man like Bruce Wayne would be used to people doing this sort of thing for him. His Ma would have never let him leave on his own if he didn’t at least know the basics around the kitchen, so he went for something traditional from the Kent household –there would be no besting him because no one will know his recipe as well as he did, he thought it was genius.
The teacher was a friend of his, so he’d asked as a favor that they made Clark’s dish for that class, and the woman, while laughing at Clark’s flushed face, had agreed easily.
Now Clark was wondering where the fuck had he messed up on his genius plan. Bruce had just fed him a spoonful of his own rendering of Ma’s cooking and Clark was sure he had ascended for a second there. He would never tell his mother, but Bruce’s cooking was the best thing he’d ever had.
“Oh God, this is delicious! I didn’t know you knew how to cook so well,” he said earnestly while opening his mouth for Bruce to feed him again. He did.
“Hmm. Well, I figured my future husband and kids would love me more if I cooked delicious meals for them,” answered Bruce playfully.
Clark knew Bruce was just teasing. Knew he was being cryptic about his real reasons for being so skillful in the kitchen, as he was cryptic with other such simple things. But by God, if Clark hadn’t imagined himself being lovingly taken care of by Bruce while their children played outside.
Bruce put the spoon down distractedly and Clark took advantage of that by taking Bruce’s hand in his, lacing their fingers, and kissing the man. Trying to communicate how much he wanted that if in between the joke and sarcasm Bruce was actually offering that in the future.
Bruce took Clark by the hair with his free hand and pulled a little. After a while, they separated and stared into each other’s eyes. Clark looked down at Bruce’s lips and suddenly his eyes were shining red, quickly he moved his head up and stared up. Both froze for a second.
There went Bruce’s dramatic reveal. Oh well, he thought, he could still work with this. He leaned closer and, in Batman’s gruff voice, whispered into Clark’s ear.
“We’ll have to work on your control if it just takes one horny moment for you to do that.”
Clark’s head snapped down and he stared at Bruce for a whole thirty seconds.
“Ugh. You asshole!”
Bruce laughed and Clark couldn’t find it in himself to be mad at him, not when he looked that cute.
Apparently, Bruce didn’t have to wait until they were married for Clark to fuck him stupid –Bruce’s fantasies were right, the man’s alien dick was gigantic, and it felt amazing as Clark pounded desperately into him once they managed to get his hole loose and wet enough.
It was on one of those nights, right after Clark had pumped Bruce full of cum that he brought up the pet play idea. Clark didn’t see much appeal at first but was willing to try. Over the course of three months, Bruce started to get Clark accustomed to the idea of being Bruce’s puppy –Bruce thought of it as training, every time he rode Clark while the man was wearing a black collar and Bruce pulled on the yellow leash, or the times he’d make Clark bark if he wanted to be allowed to cum.
Bruce thought he was doing a great job of taking control while they were on their play. He enjoyed having command in every situation of his life so why would this be any different? Although it was worth noticing that the whole thing wasn’t as exciting as he’d pictured at first. It wasn’t bad at all, there was just something… not missing but… something that could make it all better. He just didn’t know what yet.
The answer came to him –to them both, really– when, on a mission together, they encountered red kryptonite. At first, it seemed to not affect Clark at all, they finished their business and took the stone to the Fortress to analyze it –Clark had let Bruce tinker with the stuff there and he was getting quite adept at using it as his lab, Clark didn’t mind his boyfriend looking all smart and interested in something that only Clark possessed.
While Bruce was doing that, Clark just hovered near him. He leaned back in the air and started ogling his boyfriend. Clark wondered again just how he’d gotten Bruce Wayne – The Batman– to fall in love with him, he still couldn’t believe he got to have this absolutely gorgeous, smart, and wholeheartedly good man for himself just by being Clark. Not Superman, not Kal-El, but Clark. Yes, he was all three, but Clark was just his most relaxed, it was the Kansas farm boy, not the alien, not the savior, but the man.
Inevitably and like every time he had allowed himself to think of how enamored he was with his boyfriend, Clark started thinking of all the things he wanted to do to Bruce, and he found himself as excited as ever. He just couldn’t get enough of Bruce. He loved how his lover’s pectorals would jiggle whenever he rode Clark, how his pussy clenched deliciously tight when Clark barked for him, when he begged Master to please let him cum inside his pussy –Clark was glad he’d never been made to admit how much he liked their scenes because while he would say yes, he would be mortified to say it out loud. Good thing Bruce just seemed to know him implicitly.
One thing he would like to have the courage to say though was how much he liked it when he got to fuck his love with abandon. Sometimes Bruce would just lay there looking pretty and allow Clark to get him comfortable before using his soft, pliant pussy. Clark would be allowed to just pound into Bruce and leave bites and hickeys all over his boyfriend’s tits and be called a good dog for it. It was intoxicating.
Clark would never force himself onto Bruce, would never make him submit like that, but… well, there was nothing wrong with having the thought once in a while, no? When Bruce would put on those ridiculously tight stirrup leggings and the tight undershirt –Yes, Clark understood why he wore the under the suit, and he still could find them unbearable to look at as they were slowly revealed when Bruce peeled the suit off piece by piece. Sue him.
Suddenly his lust seemed more intense than before. Usually, it was near unbearable, and he’d have to distract himself with something, but now he found he didn’t want to. Found that he actually wanted to act on his desires. Surely Bruce would forgive him, yes? Of course.
Clark upped the temperature inside the Fortress at intervals, slowly noticing how Bruce got increasingly uncomfortable in the suit. It took a long while before Bruce decided to start taking it off, which only served to fan the flames of Clark's already near-uncontrollable lust.
Later he’d know it had been the effects of the red kryptonite which made him act the way he did, but at the moment, he just pressed himself to Bruce’s back and started kissing the man’s neck. Bruce tried to push him off half-heartedly, but Clark could smell how he got increasingly aroused as well. Because that was the thing, right? Bruce wanted him just as badly, so this was fine. Clark was helping them both.
With that in mind, Clark started to rub Bruce’s clit through his clothes using his nails a bit to elicit those delicious little half-gasps from Bruce. He bit on the man’s lobe as he grounded his clothed dick to the man’s pert ass, who in response pushed back into Clark. Again, Clark’s lust increased with an uncharacteristic intensity, and he didn’t even question himself when he let go of Bruce’s hips –which he’d been clutching on to with barely restrained strength– and used his free hands to rip the whole crotch part of Bruce’s leggings.
Bruce was startled at that. He didn’t like it when Clark broke his stuff but this time, he seemed to allow it because not a second later he relaxed and leaned back into Clark’s chest while the man got his middle finger inside his sopping wet pussy.
Clark started fucking in the little space in between Bruce’s labia, grazing his own finger –which he refused to pull out from inside his lover– with each thrust, delighting at how wet Bruce was getting his dick. That gave Clark an idea.
Clark rarely fucked Bruce’s ass. Not because the man didn’t like it or because Clark didn’t want to, but simply because Bruce thought that it would be an unnecessary hassle to get fucked in the ass when he had a perfectly wet, hot pussy ready to be used. Clark never disputed this because he did adore sticking his dick inside Bruce’s pussy and feeling it pulsing deliciously with each orgasm he coaxed from the man.
But now he wanted to make a mess, he wanted to mount Bruce –he did always say Clark was his cute puppy, did he not? – and mark him up from inside.
He deemed his cock wet enough and started teasing Bruce’s little asshole. Bruce tensed up.
“Clark, stop,” he said stopping the rhythmic rocking of his hips he’d maintained until now. He pushed on the fingers Clark had inside of him, trying uselessly to get them out.
Clark would never force himself onto Bruce, would never make him submit like that… not usually, at least. Bruce screamed when Clark started feeding his cock to that puckered hole and making his fingers vibrate against Bruce’s G-spot. He leaned closer and whined directly to Bruce’s ear. Just like a dog. Just like they both loved.
Clark pushed his hips forward slowly, giving Bruce just enough time to adjust before he was pushing more inside. Bruce was whimpering adorably, and Clark thought he couldn’t be blamed for his loss of control when he bottomed out harshly and started fucking into the warm hole around him. He went slow, and then he felt Bruce’s first orgasm and he just threw caution out the window.
He pounded into Bruce with animalistic intensity. At one point Bruce’s knees buckled and Clark just lowered them both to the floor, pushing Bruce’s face down and his ass up. Fingers still vibrating inside Bruce, Clark placed a foot right beside Bruce and mounted the man. He hadn’t kept track of Bruce’s orgasms as he usually would so the first sniffle took him by surprise. Bruce was crying on his cock, trying to get away and unable to do so, Clark was just infinitely stronger than him. He thought of this as he pulled his wet fingers and fed them to Bruce. The man tried to bite down, but his heart wasn’t in it, they both knew he’d only hurt himself. Clark forced him to taste himself, smearing Bruce’s cum on the man’s tongue languidly.
After a while drool was sliding down Clark’s wrist. With the help of his other hand, Clark hooked two fingers of each hand on either of Bruce’s cheeks and pulled back towards him slightly as he kept fucking the man. Clark wished he placed had a mirror in front of them so that they both could stare at Bruce’s debauched expression as Clark used his body as he’d never done before.
Bruce had come again, he was crying harder, and Clark couldn’t stop himself from pulling the man to his –weak, trembling– knees to have better access to his soft tits, to his brown nipples, pebbled to hard nubs. Clark pinched them and rolled them in his fingers harshly. Bruce’s hole was clenching down and spasming.
He was so distracted he didn’t hear what Bruce said so he made a questioning hum to get him to repeat himself.
“B-bad dog. Such a- fuck - such a bad dog.”
Clark cupped Bruce’s fat tits in his hands and bit the man’s shoulder –not hard enough to break the skin but definitely hard enough to cause some nasty bruising as he came inside his ass. He usually came a lot –more than a regular human, Bruce had told him before– but this definitely felt exaggerated.
They stayed like that for a bit. Both breathing hard and Clark holding Bruce to his front by his hold on the man’s chest. Finally, Clark pulled out with a wet sound and Bruce moaned weakly when he felt the man’s cum dripping from his gaping hole.
Clark was apparently not done as he pushed Bruce to his back on the floor. Bruce tried to resist when Clark laid face down on the floor, leaving his face right in front of Bruce’s crotch. He tried to resist when Clark forced his legs open, gripping his thighs painfully, and started lapping up his own cum, coaxing it out of Bruce’s ruined hole with his tongue.
“Bad dog, bad dog” he kept repeating breathlessly. Unknowingly making Clark all the more eager to misbehave.
After, they would discuss how this new possible dynamic worked better for them, how they’d never felt better. Bruce will lock the red kryptonite where no one would ever find it.
As of now though, Bruce was passed out while Clark kept abusing his pliant body shamelessly, coercing Bruce’s asshole open with his fingers hooked on Bruce’s rim.