Bruce has dozed for ten minutes, may be twenty. Long enough for sweat to dry and the feverish heat of sex to fade, and enough that Clark has drifted off next to him, hands tucked against his face, hair in disarray against the sheets. He doesn’t need to sleep, of course, but Bruce appreciates the solidarity even as he resents how easily Clark can punch out.
He is tired, always is, but it’s the wrong kind of weariness. Physically exhausting himself generally works to knock him out cold; his best sleep is always after a long night of gruelling patrol. It switches him off at the plug and doesn’t give his brain a chance to boot up the static of his memories.
But with Clark and Diana on-side, there’s not so much heavy lifting to do. He hasn’t been coming home at dawn and dropping into a stone-cold stupor, and that’s the real kicker. Instead, he lies in bed as his mind dredges up whatever bullshit it wants to torture him with that particular morning and keeps looping over and over and over, wearing him out but not letting him go.
(That’s why Clark first came to him, heard him tossing and turning a city away.)
Bruce sighs lightly and closes his eyes again. Just a half-hour of peace. That’s all he asks.
After three hundred and forty-seven futile seconds, he rolls out of bed--lets the dipped mattress up gently--throws on some sweats and goes to beat the fuck out of his punchbag.
*
“It’s only just gone seven,” Clark says, leaning in the gym doorway. He scrubs his hair back, misbuttoned shirt riding up over his stomach, jeans slung low on his slim hips. He gives Bruce a sweetly bemused raise of his eyebrows, as if he hadn’t come on Bruce’s chest less than an hour ago.
Bruce lays a mean one-two into the bag, a dull thud-thud and the jangle of the chain. “Nowhere I have to be today,” he says, shakes the impact out of his knuckles. “And I can’t sleep.”
“Bats in your belfry, huh,” Clark says.
Bruce glances at him sharply, but there’s nothing but sympathy on Clark’s face. He batters at the bag a few more times, welcomes the burn in the muscles of his arms.
“Hey. Come back to bed.”
“And stare at the ceiling some more? No thanks.”
“Well,” Clark wraps one arm around the punchbag, stilling it. He draws a finger over Bruce’s sweat-slick collarbone. “I thought you might find a better way to wear yourself out.”
“Heh,” Bruce says, huffs out the breath like it’s a release valve. He tugs at Clark’s shirt collar, brings him in so he can kiss that earnest mouth of his and feel it curve into a smile against his lips. “Or we could stay down here.”
“Hmm.”
It certainly doesn’t take a genius to know when Clark is being accommodating, and the man allows Bruce to manhandle him into position, hanging on the punchbag, hips tilted back. “Spread ‘em,” Bruce growls in his ear, and slaps Clark’s hip when he gets gentle laughter in response.
“You say that to all the boys?” Clark says, over his shoulder.
“Only the troublemakers.” Bruce slides his hand over the broad expanse of Clark’s shoulders, down the slabbed muscle of his back and then around his stomach, over the solid geometry of his abdomen. When he thumbs the button of Clark’s fly, he’s already half-hard, hot against Bruce’s palm and stiffening quickly when Bruce squeezes him and lets go.
Clark makes a breathy sound and presses back, encourages Bruce to slip his jeans down over his thighs. “Best behavior, then,” he says, in a filthy murmur that has no right coming from that face. “Scout’s honor.”
Bruce drags two fingers over Clark’s lips and he opens his mouth, takes them in. Clark sucks obediently, tongue working over the digits, nips and scrapes of his teeth like he can glean all of Bruce’s secrets from his fingerprints.
Bruce grunts and takes his hand away, leans in to kiss Clark’s ear as he works his slicked fingers inside. Clark sighs and trembles and Bruce can tell he is trying not to clench; his thigh muscles are tight with restraint. Bruce doesn’t get to do this often--Clark is adamant that it’s dangerous either way, no matter how many times Bruce insists he can take it--and maybe this is just a pity thing, amelioration for his rough morning, but Bruce won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Bruce,” Clark is saying, arms tense where he’s gripping the punchbag. “Bruce…”
Between the adrenaline from his workout and the haziness of not enough sleep, Bruce realizes he’s been at a disconnect from his body, something that comes slamming back into place with Clark’s plaintive gasps. He is hard, straining in his sweatpants with an erection that easily qualifies him to challenge Clark for the Man of Steel title. He licks his palm, strokes himself. “Is it enough?”
“Fine, it’s fine,” Clark says, “come on.”
Bruce butts the head of his cock against Clark’s ass, eases in slowly as though he might actually hurt the guy. There’s a little too much friction but it feels good for now, satisfying in the same way that stitching up a wound is, or pulling out a splinter.
“Fuck,” Bruce says, under his breath, and Clark jerks his hips at that, seats him completely inside. Bruce spreads his hand on the small of Clark’s back, feels the interplay of muscles under his palm. He groans and slides himself halfway out only for Clark to push back onto his cock again.
“You’ll never get to sleep at this rate, Bruce.”
“I’m just warming up.” Bruce grabs his hips and gets deeper with a series of short thrusts that make the punchbag swing and Clark brace himself hard, muscles shuddering around Bruce’s cock. There’s something heady about taking Clark like this, to have the Superman gasping and vulnerable under him, and there’s also something humbling about how quickly Clark has come to trust him. Bruce wonders sometimes why he thought the amiable farmboy was an act and not as much the heart of him as the cape is.
(Bruce tries not to think about the boot on his throat, the fear in his eyes at his sudden mortality.
He fails.)
He picks up a relentless pace, one hand tight enough on Clark’s hip to leave bruises, if he ever bruised, the other curled into the hair at the nape of his neck. Clark’s turned his head, pillowed his cheek against the canvas of the punchbag. Maybe he can smell the musk of Bruce’s sweat there, or pinpricks of blood left by the imprints of his knuckles. Either way his eyes are closed, mouth parted, a determined set to his brow as though he’s concentrating on the pure sensation of it.
Bruce can’t blame him; he’s rapidly getting out of control, slamming into Clark just to hear the soft noises he makes, the way he bites at his lower lip. He presses his forehead against Clark’s back, grinds deep and his orgasm is like being hit in the spine with a crowbar, leaves him slumped over Clark’s body and blinking away dark blots at the edge of his vision. He can feel his pulse thundering, and under it in counterpoint, Clark’s steady, slow heartbeat.
He slides out, palms at the firm flesh of Clark’s inner thigh, gathers the slickness he’s left there. When he touches Clark’s cock, the man groans and shifts and the punchbag creaks. Fragments of plaster dust scatter from the ceiling.
“Steady,” Bruce says, even as his own legs are in danger of dumping him on the floor. His endorphins are settling to a satisfying ebb, and maybe if he closed his eyes he could sleep for a while, but he’d just be skimming. He needs to be put out of commission.
He works at Clark’s cock, rough twists of his hand over the head and slow, teasing strokes down its length. When he’s close, read in the telltale tensing and relaxing of his body, Bruce backs off, leaves him hanging there.
“Oh, you are not,” Clark says, and there’s the spark, there’s what Bruce is looking for. Clark wraps one arm around his waist, pulls flush and kisses him roughly, hand grabbing his ass, and Bruce breaks the kiss to flash him his best rakish Bruce Wayne, Billionaire Playboy grin.
The next thing he knows, he’s flat on his back in the bedroom.
*
(More porn to come soon. Lots more! Also happy for other anons to contribute misc debauched sex acts to the Fuck Bruce Wayne To Sleep Foundation.)
Fill: Fatigue is the Best Pillow (1/?)
He is tired, always is, but it’s the wrong kind of weariness. Physically exhausting himself generally works to knock him out cold; his best sleep is always after a long night of gruelling patrol. It switches him off at the plug and doesn’t give his brain a chance to boot up the static of his memories.
But with Clark and Diana on-side, there’s not so much heavy lifting to do. He hasn’t been coming home at dawn and dropping into a stone-cold stupor, and that’s the real kicker. Instead, he lies in bed as his mind dredges up whatever bullshit it wants to torture him with that particular morning and keeps looping over and over and over, wearing him out but not letting him go.
(That’s why Clark first came to him, heard him tossing and turning a city away.)
Bruce sighs lightly and closes his eyes again. Just a half-hour of peace. That’s all he asks.
After three hundred and forty-seven futile seconds, he rolls out of bed--lets the dipped mattress up gently--throws on some sweats and goes to beat the fuck out of his punchbag.
*
“It’s only just gone seven,” Clark says, leaning in the gym doorway. He scrubs his hair back, misbuttoned shirt riding up over his stomach, jeans slung low on his slim hips. He gives Bruce a sweetly bemused raise of his eyebrows, as if he hadn’t come on Bruce’s chest less than an hour ago.
Bruce lays a mean one-two into the bag, a dull thud-thud and the jangle of the chain. “Nowhere I have to be today,” he says, shakes the impact out of his knuckles. “And I can’t sleep.”
“Bats in your belfry, huh,” Clark says.
Bruce glances at him sharply, but there’s nothing but sympathy on Clark’s face. He batters at the bag a few more times, welcomes the burn in the muscles of his arms.
“Hey. Come back to bed.”
“And stare at the ceiling some more? No thanks.”
“Well,” Clark wraps one arm around the punchbag, stilling it. He draws a finger over Bruce’s sweat-slick collarbone. “I thought you might find a better way to wear yourself out.”
“Heh,” Bruce says, huffs out the breath like it’s a release valve. He tugs at Clark’s shirt collar, brings him in so he can kiss that earnest mouth of his and feel it curve into a smile against his lips. “Or we could stay down here.”
“Hmm.”
It certainly doesn’t take a genius to know when Clark is being accommodating, and the man allows Bruce to manhandle him into position, hanging on the punchbag, hips tilted back. “Spread ‘em,” Bruce growls in his ear, and slaps Clark’s hip when he gets gentle laughter in response.
“You say that to all the boys?” Clark says, over his shoulder.
“Only the troublemakers.” Bruce slides his hand over the broad expanse of Clark’s shoulders, down the slabbed muscle of his back and then around his stomach, over the solid geometry of his abdomen. When he thumbs the button of Clark’s fly, he’s already half-hard, hot against Bruce’s palm and stiffening quickly when Bruce squeezes him and lets go.
Clark makes a breathy sound and presses back, encourages Bruce to slip his jeans down over his thighs. “Best behavior, then,” he says, in a filthy murmur that has no right coming from that face. “Scout’s honor.”
Bruce drags two fingers over Clark’s lips and he opens his mouth, takes them in. Clark sucks obediently, tongue working over the digits, nips and scrapes of his teeth like he can glean all of Bruce’s secrets from his fingerprints.
Bruce grunts and takes his hand away, leans in to kiss Clark’s ear as he works his slicked fingers inside. Clark sighs and trembles and Bruce can tell he is trying not to clench; his thigh muscles are tight with restraint. Bruce doesn’t get to do this often--Clark is adamant that it’s dangerous either way, no matter how many times Bruce insists he can take it--and maybe this is just a pity thing, amelioration for his rough morning, but Bruce won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Bruce,” Clark is saying, arms tense where he’s gripping the punchbag. “Bruce…”
Between the adrenaline from his workout and the haziness of not enough sleep, Bruce realizes he’s been at a disconnect from his body, something that comes slamming back into place with Clark’s plaintive gasps. He is hard, straining in his sweatpants with an erection that easily qualifies him to challenge Clark for the Man of Steel title. He licks his palm, strokes himself. “Is it enough?”
“Fine, it’s fine,” Clark says, “come on.”
Bruce butts the head of his cock against Clark’s ass, eases in slowly as though he might actually hurt the guy. There’s a little too much friction but it feels good for now, satisfying in the same way that stitching up a wound is, or pulling out a splinter.
“Fuck,” Bruce says, under his breath, and Clark jerks his hips at that, seats him completely inside. Bruce spreads his hand on the small of Clark’s back, feels the interplay of muscles under his palm. He groans and slides himself halfway out only for Clark to push back onto his cock again.
“You’ll never get to sleep at this rate, Bruce.”
“I’m just warming up.” Bruce grabs his hips and gets deeper with a series of short thrusts that make the punchbag swing and Clark brace himself hard, muscles shuddering around Bruce’s cock. There’s something heady about taking Clark like this, to have the Superman gasping and vulnerable under him, and there’s also something humbling about how quickly Clark has come to trust him. Bruce wonders sometimes why he thought the amiable farmboy was an act and not as much the heart of him as the cape is.
(Bruce tries not to think about the boot on his throat, the fear in his eyes at his sudden mortality.
He fails.)
He picks up a relentless pace, one hand tight enough on Clark’s hip to leave bruises, if he ever bruised, the other curled into the hair at the nape of his neck. Clark’s turned his head, pillowed his cheek against the canvas of the punchbag. Maybe he can smell the musk of Bruce’s sweat there, or pinpricks of blood left by the imprints of his knuckles. Either way his eyes are closed, mouth parted, a determined set to his brow as though he’s concentrating on the pure sensation of it.
Bruce can’t blame him; he’s rapidly getting out of control, slamming into Clark just to hear the soft noises he makes, the way he bites at his lower lip. He presses his forehead against Clark’s back, grinds deep and his orgasm is like being hit in the spine with a crowbar, leaves him slumped over Clark’s body and blinking away dark blots at the edge of his vision. He can feel his pulse thundering, and under it in counterpoint, Clark’s steady, slow heartbeat.
He slides out, palms at the firm flesh of Clark’s inner thigh, gathers the slickness he’s left there. When he touches Clark’s cock, the man groans and shifts and the punchbag creaks. Fragments of plaster dust scatter from the ceiling.
“Steady,” Bruce says, even as his own legs are in danger of dumping him on the floor. His endorphins are settling to a satisfying ebb, and maybe if he closed his eyes he could sleep for a while, but he’d just be skimming. He needs to be put out of commission.
He works at Clark’s cock, rough twists of his hand over the head and slow, teasing strokes down its length. When he’s close, read in the telltale tensing and relaxing of his body, Bruce backs off, leaves him hanging there.
“Oh, you are not,” Clark says, and there’s the spark, there’s what Bruce is looking for. Clark wraps one arm around his waist, pulls flush and kisses him roughly, hand grabbing his ass, and Bruce breaks the kiss to flash him his best rakish Bruce Wayne, Billionaire Playboy grin.
The next thing he knows, he’s flat on his back in the bedroom.
*
(More porn to come soon. Lots more! Also happy for other anons to contribute misc debauched sex acts to the Fuck Bruce Wayne To Sleep Foundation.)