The door to Clark's apartment slams shut and Clark slams Bruce against it in turn. It forces an exhale out of him, a groan, and then he grins a sharp, knowing grin. Clark is suddenly taken with the idea of fucking him into the drywall. From what he knows about Bruce Wayne, the hedonist, the adrenaline junkie, it's not much of an extrapolation to assume he likes it rough sometimes.

Bruce tests the grip Clark has on his wrist. "Stronger than you look," he says. Clark hears the caution and slackens off a bit, only to drag Bruce's hands above his head and pin them there instead.

"I work out," Clark says, trying to not sound like a douche but with only partial success--probably not even possible with a line like that, but Bruce laughs at him anyway, as though it's not obvious that he's an inveterate gymrat himself. Clark kisses him to shut him up. Bruce smirks his way through it.

"Well," he says, once he's done dragging Clark's lower lip through his teeth. "Going to give me the tour?"

"Sure. This is my hallway," Clark says, and leads Bruce through to the dark of the living room. He doesn't bother getting the lights; with the drapes open there's enough ambience from the moon and the street for Bruce to not trip over anything. "And here's my couch."

He pushes Bruce down onto said couch. Bruce sprawls his legs wide, smiles languorously up at him. His head tips back as he starts unfastening his shirt from the bottom upward. "Is that it?"

Maybe he was expecting a drink first. All Clark has is some milk that's on the turn and a bottle of Bud Light that's been in the fridge since he moved out of Lois' place. Clark can imagine the face he'll pull at that, so he'll just have to go thirsty.

"For now," Clark says, and slowly straddles Bruce's thighs. He digs his fingers into the knot of his necktie and pulls at it, more clumsily than he means. Bruce gets his shirt mostly undone, spread open around him, just the collar held in place by a yard of charcoal silk. Clark could tear it like it's made of cobwebs. He leashes himself, his hands shaking with it. "I want you here."

Bruce moves him aside and unfastens the tie himself with a series of efficient tugs, and Clark pulls his collar away, leans in to span his mouth over Bruce's newly-bared throat in a wide, messy kiss. He smells faintly of lanolin and citrusy perfume, liquid soap from the restroom. Like he'd already encountered his chance to leave earlier in the night.

Clark feels the wrench of desire in his chest, and something uglier twining through it. He scrapes with his teeth, bites the base of his throat.

The noise Bruce makes is guttural. He arches against Clark's mouth and manages to shed half his shirt while he does, one arm trapped in a sleeve. Clark grabs his shoulders as he tries to shake it out, more interested in the taste of his neck and mouth for now, tightens his grip to keep him still, to just let him--

Bruce's groan is bare with pain, even as he's surging into it.

"God, sorry," Clark says in rush of mortification. There's a bruise clouding Bruce's arm, already yellowing enough that he can't have caused it, but he's leaned over to get the lamp before he's processed that it must have happened last week, when--

"No, don't--" Bruce says urgently, just as Clark snaps it on. "--stop." He sinks into the upholstery with a disgruntled sigh.

"Whoa," Clark says, impressed enough that his surprise sounds genuine. He traces the circumference of the bruise with his fingertips. Bruce doesn't make a sound this time, just draws his mouth into an impassive line. "What happened?"

"Ever been hit with a jeroboam of wine?" Bruce says. "Don't let anyone tell you that women are the fairer sex."

"I thought a drink to the face was more traditional."

"It was a... proportionate response."

Without his shirt, Bruce is littered with scars; testament to his thrill-seeking, his recklessness. Judging from his behavior Clark might have found the only thing he's self-conscious about. He wonders if the beautiful people he takes to his bed are offended when he insists on doing it in the dark.

Clark's fingertips glide up his arm, passing over a snarl of scarring on his shoulder.

"Automobile accident, back in '97," Bruce says without further prompting. He pushes Clark's shirt off his shoulders; apparently Clark hasn't managed to ruin the mood too thoroughly. He throws it down onto the floor and leans over to kill the light again, then rests his hands at Clark's waist.

"Nasty," Clark says, and kisses it, chasing his tongue over the ripples of healed skin.

Bruce inhales and tightens his grip on Clark's hips, rocking up against him, just once, briefly. "You have no idea," he murmurs.

Clark's hand slides down his side, following a raised seam across his ribs.

"Fencing mishap."

"Fencing." Clark takes a moment to imagine Bruce poised in combat, clad in a tight-fitting suit and a mask, and finds it redundant. "And this one?" It looks all the world like a bullet wound.

"New Year's, couple years ago. I tripped and fell on the companion set. Specifically, the poker."

This one, a minor incident in the R&D labs at WayneTech. That one from rappelling in Brazil, another from skiing in France. Here, he fell out of a tree as a kid. It was a very tall tree. The stories get more prosaic, his delivery more bored and Clark understands that he isn't so much self-conscious as he doesn't want to spend his evenings explaining his body instead of getting laid.

So. Clark drags his thumb across Bruce's nipple instead of finding another scar, which Bruce seems to appreciate a whole lot more, his breath catching and deepening. "You get yourself into a lot of scrapes," Clark says, just about managing to make it more suggestive than accusatory.

One corner of Bruce's mouth turns up. "I'm hoping this will be my tightest yet."

And--of course, someone like Bruce Wayne would make that assumption. Clark doesn't bother checking his annoyance.

"Or not," Bruce says, smooth but not quite ameliorating. Clark grudgingly forgives him, just a little, when he leans in to bite delicately at his earlobe. His voice has lost all of the flat disinterest of earlier, his register dropped into a dark strohbass. "What's your pleasure, Kent?"

His voice rumbles through him, and Clark forgives him the rest of the way. He hadn't considered much further ahead, just that he was hard and so was Bruce and it was good to touch him. Fumbling, kissing, rubbing until the inevitable happened--it seems hopelessly naive in the face of Bruce's raw lust.

"Alright then," Bruce says, and idly kisses Clark's ear. "I'll go first. Consider it an exchange of ideas." A small pause as Bruce licks his lips. Then, conversational: "I'd like to suck your cock. Would you like that?"

Clark's dick jerks, hard. He tries to swallow, his mouth dry. Apparently he would like that, yes. Quite a lot.

"Sounds good," he says faintly.

"Good," Bruce says, a laugh and easy eye contact as he grips Clark's thighs, encouraging him off his lap and to his feet. His hands slide up to unfasten Clark's belt and button and zipper.

For all of his control, Clark can hear Bruce's pulse accelerate as he palms him through his underwear. Clark gasps and presses into it, and Bruce immediately moves both hands to Clark's hips and starts mouthing at him instead, wetting the fabric. That warrants more than a gasp. It makes Clark choke on his own breath and lean over, bracing himself on Bruce's shoulders. He's not sure how Bruce's mouth can feel even hotter than his dick, but god, it does.

Bruce noses at him and takes a deep, greedy inhale, then sits back. He casts around until he comes up with his necktie, and loops it once around Clark's wrist. "May I?" he says.

Clark's never been--not in play. Bruce waits, outwardly patient despite his escalating heartbeat, until Clark nods.

"Turn around," Bruce says, soft but intent. "Hands behind your back."

Clark does as he says. The silk tie slips around his wrists, sleek and cool and so slack that he could free himself easily without using his strength. In fact, he has to hold his wrists a little apart so it doesn't slide right off. Either Bruce Wayne isn't good with knots, or he is expecting Clark to exercise a lot of restraint.

Bruce sweeps his hands over Clark's shoulder blades, fingers spread, exploring the musculature of his back as he works his way down. His hands are rough, unexpectedly calloused for someone who wears so much fine wool, and Clark--he exercises that restraint, shivering. Bruce's thumbs catch on the band of Clark's underwear and skims them off his hips and to the floor. Clark feels his warm breath and then the prickle of his stubble as he kisses the small of his back, hands completing their journey over the curve of his ass.

"You do work out," Bruce murmurs.

He thought he would sit and spread his legs so Bruce could get on his knees between them, but Bruce keeps him on his feet. He gets Clark to turn while he sits on the edge of the couch and closes his eyes, rests Clark's dick against his lips. He purses them tight, guiding Clark by the hips and encouraging him to push, to force his mouth open around him. It makes Clark think about--he's doing it on purpose, Clark realizes. Bruce wants him to think about how it would feel to be inside of him.

Clark groans and drives his hips and Bruce takes all of him with ease, like the god damn showoff he is.

Which doesn't by any stretch mean it's not working for him. If he had his hands free, Clark would have fistfuls of that silvering hair, would hold himself there in the tight grip of his throat, feeling him swallow. He clenches his fingers.

"My god. Bruce," he says, voice cracking. Bruce looks up at him, nose squashed to his stomach, eyes sharp and mouth stretched wide. There's sweat beading at his hairline, but he still manages to look eminently pleased with himself.

Clark can feel his breath coming in controlled bursts from his nose, warm over Clark's skin. Then he moves, drawing Clark out and swallowing him again in a tight rhythm, cupping and squeezing Clark's balls as he does. It's incredible, the wet heat and flex of Bruce's throat, his quiet surety, the way he seems--not into it, but so into Clark being into it. Clark feels his knees start to go, a dull roar building in his ears. If his hands weren't bound he'd be covering his mouth to stifle his moaning but he bites them back instead, embarrassed by the noises that do manage to escape him, how loud they are.

It's a lot, so much all at once, and--

Tonight is likely a one-time thing. Bruce Wayne is known to have the odd lengthy dalliance, but he doesn't have them with people like Clark. And Clark--he desperately wants things to last longer than this.

He makes an apologetic sound that was mean to be actual words and pulls himself from Bruce's mouth. The soft drag of his lips, the accidental scrape of his teeth almost puts paid to him and he pitches to his knees, dick heavy and wet between his thighs.

Bruce holds him steady, one hand on his shoulder. "Too much?" he asks. He's wry, but he's also touching himself, the heel of his hand pressed firm to his crotch.

Clark blows out a breath and laughs. His face feels like it's burning up. All of him does, and it doesn't seem fair that he's the only one naked. He shakes off the tie and scrambles forward to unfasten Bruce's belt with more aptitude than he'd give himself credit for at this point. "Hold on, hold on," Bruce says and then lifts up, helps Clark to pull his slacks and underwear off together.

As ever, Bruce's reputation precedes him, and Clark finds it's not all exaggeration. His cock is as substantial as the rest of him, reddened and glazed with precome. He watches Clark watching him and twitches, taut against his stomach.

Clark runs his fingers over the length of him, hot, soft skin jumping under his touch. Bruce hisses through his teeth as he thumbs under the head. When Clark leans up to kiss him, slow and shallow, it feels scorching between their bodies.

"So, had any ideas?" Bruce asks, still maddeningly smug.

"Yeah," Clark says. "One or two. I want--" he slides his fingers down, lower. "I--"

"You want to fuck me?"

"Yeah."

"Say it."

"I want to fuck you."

"And you think," Bruce says, gruff in a way that pulls the entirety of Clark's arousal into focus, "I'd let you do that?"