Clark exhaled explosively as the smooth length of him slid into Bruce's mouth, then said, "Bruce," disbelievingly when the head of his cock met Bruce's soft palate and Bruce just worked his throat and adjusted the angle of his neck and took it. "You don't," Clark said, "I -- oh God." He was meticulously still, a statue, but Bruce could feel Clark's hammering pulse in his mouth, feel the tension under the tranquility.
He eased back, running a tight circle of his fingers down Clark's cock as it emerged from his mouth. As promised, there was no bitterness of precome at the slit, but when Bruce tongued at the head anyway and squeezed just behind it, Clark's hand clenched in Bruce's hair and his hips twitched a second time and he pushed back into Bruce's mouth and then past it -- and for an exhilarating, uncertain instant Bruce was trapped with a cock in his throat, an immovable hand on the back of his head, and no idea when he'd be taking his next breath.
Clark withdrew at once. "Sorry," he gasped, too stricken to notice Bruce hadn't gagged, "sorry, are you--"
Bruce gave him a skeptical look from the other side of Clark's cock, an experience Bruce himself had always found fairly withering. It was, at least, enough to stop Clark mid-sentence.
"All right," Clark said instead, "of course you're fine. Sorry to impugn your...." He made a vague gesture and Bruce ratcheted his eyebrow a notch higher, but it wasn't enough to lead Clark into the thicket of trying to finish that sentence. Bruce stroked him, let the head of Clark's cock bump his mouth again, and probably could have pinpointed in video playback the moment that Clark stopped giving a damn about talking the matter out.
"Good," Bruce said, and parted his lips; his tongue met skin. Clark let his breath out long and slow, and stroked his flat hands over Bruce's hair, then rested them on Bruce's shoulders, as though that grip wouldn't be just as devastating if things went south.
Bruce met Clark's eyes and played his tongue down the length of Clark's cock. He worked his way back up with lavish openemouthed kisses, letting his lips catch at the skin, letting himself suck just a little. He worked his thumb in circles just under Clark's glans and rubbed his face along the shaft, followed his rough cheek with his soft mouth. Clark kneaded Bruce's shoulders, let his hips sway forward a little when it was safe, when it wouldn't be rude or too forceful; his cock slid wetly through the tunnel of Bruce's hand once, and Bruce felt the twitch against his palm.
Clark's balls were low and loose when Bruce cupped them, but his body was strung tight. So, nowhere near coming, but tense, anticipatory. He wasn't not enjoying himself, but the only time Bruce heard his breath catch was when a long lick would have framed the head of Clark's cock briefly against Bruce's open mouth, from Clark's perspective. He direly wanted Bruce to just suck him off already.
Bruce gave himself away with that one. Maybe his mouth twitched, but more likely Clark was cheating, just by his existence on Earth, just by being with a room with someone who could never match his perception or his strength. There was so much to conceal from him, Bruce could hardly remember how he had managed any of it.
"Oh my god," Clark breathed. It was not an exclamation of pleasure.
Bruce didn't have to take Clark out of his mouth to reply. "What?"
"Don't even try it."
"Try what?"
"You're still making fun of me," Clark said, ignoring the question. "I can't believe you."
"Fortunately, I have no reason to fear reprisal."
"Oh my god," Clark said again, but this time he was almost laughing.
He took Bruce's jaw in his gauntleted hand and his own cock in his bare one and rubbed it across Bruce's mouth -- and that was all it took, Clark doing it to Bruce instead of Bruce doing it himself. Here was the spark he'd been missing, the click. Bruce wanted to open his mouth but waited instead for Clark to push at him, for his thumb to press at Bruce's molars through his cheek, and then he capitulated and let Clark inside.
Clark hesitated when he hit the back of Bruce's throat; Bruce rolled his eyes and slapped Clark on the ass, just hard enough to shock the breath from him. He grabbed Bruce by the hair again and yanked him in until his nose touched Clark's stomach. Bruce wasn't sure how long Clark would hold him there, and if his pulse kept jumping and his body kept throbbing like this, if he kept giving himself away, it might be a while -- but no, Clark wanted to fuck him, not choke him. When he withdrew, it wasn't the guilty backwards jerk from earlier; he watched every inch emerge. Bruce kept his lips tight around Clark's cock while he could, followed the ridge of the underside with his tongue, and watched Clark's eyelids waver downward as he thrust back in.
Here also were the little sounds, the sighs and the bitten-off gasps. Bruce watched Clark's jaw clench and soften and his mouth tremble, and had to press his hand against his cock again before the unsatisfied ache of it overcame him. He worked his throat at the bottom of each thrust, curled his tongue with each withdrawal. When Clark leaned into him and pushed his shoulders lower, changed the angle and speed of his thrust so that BRuce swallowed him a little deeper and a little longer, Bruce groaned as soon as he had a free larynx to do it with. Oh, Clark liked that. He liked the vibration but mostly, Bruce would bet, he liked Bruce enjoying it: Bruce wanting something, after all, that Clark had been avoiding for fear of hurting him, or of a mismatch of desires.
When Clark took his hands off Bruce, Bruce almost grabbed fort them, to put them back in his hair, on his face, on his shoulders -- but there was a new tension in Clark, and Bruce waited a moment to find out what fresh bullshit this was going to be. Clark's thrusts were shallower each time and his breaths were shorter, shorter -- ah.
He pulled out of Bruce's mouth altogether when his orgasm hit him, and took a half-step back. Clark was almost motionless aside from that, clenched tight from head to foot, apart from the visible pulsing of his cock in his hand. A splash of come caught Bruce on the shoulder of his dress shirt, but it didn't seem to emerge with unusual -- say, dangerous -- force, and was mostly just running over Clark's fingers now. His other hand was at the back of his neck, curled into a fist so tight Bruce could hear the material of the glove creak. Bruce gave it a moment, until Clark was just past the crest of it, not quite coming down yet but not alert to Bruce again either -- until he was as vulnerable as anyone other than Bruce ever saw Superman -- and then he yanked Clark back in like he had earlier, by the knee and the waistband, and put his mouth to the still taut and quivering head of Clark's cock, and sucked.
And there was Clark's voice, for one astonished, full-throated cry. He threw his head back and thrust the last of his orgasm down Bruce's throat: one pulse, two, three -- either the Kryptonian orgasm ran long or this was a good one. Bruce's hands were on Clark's ass again, and he could feel the tension in Clark unspool as the spasms subsided and his hips slowed. Clark withdrew languidly, watching himself again, or perhaps Bruce's fac, with both hands buried in Bruce's hair; Bruce gave him a final squeeze and chased the head of CLark's cock with his tongue. Here he tasted something off, finally, a little too chemical, or in the wrong way. That might just have been Clark's atrocious eating habits.
Clark took a deep breath and let it out with a miniscule vocalization at the end, like the seed of a moan. Then he reached down for the collar of Bruce's waistcoat, and half stooped to meet him, half yanked him partway to his feet; a button popped off and bounced from one of the plates of armor that still lay around their feet.
"What the hell," he demanded, "do you have any idea how dangerous --" and kissed Bruce with no pause in which to mount a reply.
It was not as ferocious a kiss as Bruce was expecting. For a moment, yes, but then Clark seemed to get distracted by the act itself and fell into what Bruce took to be his first-kiss routine of testing and teasing to see what Bruce responded to best. Bruce let him get away with this for about fifteen seconds, then gradually stopped entertaining it, until the kiss was just Clark coaxing fruitlessly at Bruce's mouth with his lips and his teeth.
Clark started to laugh when he caught on. "Damn it, Bruce."
Bruce got his feet under himself properly and pulled Clark's body flush against his own, the whole height and breadth of him. Clark rose up on his toes just a fraction, and his still-hard cock slotted up neatly against Bruce's through the wool of his trousers. God, friction. Bruce didn't even know what he wanted. To come. For Clark to get him off. As swiftly and comprehensibly as possible, please and thank you.
For the moment he'd settle for some decent goddamn kissing, and he was getting it now that Clark had stopped treating him like they'd just met. Clark was as intent and sumptuous a kisser as Bruce could have asked for, if it had ever been safe to even let the thought form. Bruce pushed him and he pushed back, he bit, he sighed, he shoved up against bruce and grinned at the sound Bruce made into his mouth. Bruce was still holding Clark's bare ass in his hands -- he may have been digging his fingers into it, holding their hips flush; God, it took everything he had not to just grind against Clark to completion -- but Clark's hands were everywhere on Bruce, like he couldn't decide what he wanted to touch first. They ran through his hair and down his back and slipped just briefly past the waist of Bruce's pants, then up under his vest instead when that proved a non-starter that would require either working multiple fasteners or just ripping the pants off him. Bruce felt another of the less robust buttons on his waistcoat go, and thought he heard it land on the rug.
Clark pushed him back a step, and Bruce's heel touched one of the tactical suit plates, lying like a landmine on the floor just behind him. Both of them froze. Then Clark ran his hands down the backs of Bruce's thighs and lifted him up -- up off the floor and into the air, with his legs around Clark's waist. Clark skimmed across the room and placed Bruce precisely and with surprising gentleness on the edge of his own desk, then leaned into Bruce and swept the desk clear with his arm. Bruce picked the sounds of his pen cup and phone and whatever desk toy he was pretending to be obsessed with this month out of the generalized clatter.
"Most of that was expensive," Bruce said, with his lips not quite touching Clark's.
"You don't care."
"So good of you to finally join us."
Clark laughed against Bruce's mouth. He was holding Bruce's face now as they kissed, his jaw, the sides of his neck; the Clock King had left a shallow cut on Bruce's throat during tonight's festivities, and Clark's thumb traced it, too light to hurt. Bruce's hips jerked up against Clark's, against the solid hot pressure of his erection.
"You're still hard," he said into Clark's smooth cheek, and didn't bother to make a question of it. This wasn't Clark's cock taking a few minutes to subside; this was Clark demonstrably ready for round two, meeting every movement of Bruce's hips like he hadn't just come spectacularly down Bruce's throat. Bruce had never, under normal circumstances, seen Clark tire or weaken or waver. Maybe he just didn't; maybe he had no refractory period and Bruce could just keep him up in his office and hear those little noises and the wondering shout of his orgasm again and again and never have to stop or return to reality; maybe -- God, what could he do to Bruce with that kind of stamina? "How many...."
"It's more work each time, so the practical limit is lower than you're thinking," Clark said drily, and kissed Bruce in a transparent bid to stop him from pursuing the issue. Bruce tried opening his mouth as though to speak, just to see what Clark would do; the answer was, dig his fingers into Bruce's ass and roll their hips together with intent.
Bruce had been right about these boxers. He'd made a substantial wet spot, and it caught uncomfortably at the head of his cock every time they moved against each other. This would be a good time to try to get his pants off and maybe make the effort to do this with some shred of dignity. He dug his heels into the backs of Clark's thighs instead, and angled himself until their bodies were just right, until he could feel Clark's cock sliding along the trapped ridge of his own. Bruce tried to get a satisfactory grip on Clark with his hands, and couldn't; he'd designed the Batsuit to be hard to grapple, not anticipating he'd one day be stymied by this during sex.
Not that he hadn't had that dream, but in the dream it had been the Bat itself, not Clark, and Bruce hadn't been able to get a grip on it not because of the hard work of Wayne Enterprises materials engineers but because it was a twisting apparition of shadows and fury. Clark had been right to worry about someone realizing he wasn't the real Bat; he didn't even move right, didn't look at things right. He looked like Superman with an inexplicable bat on his chest.
"Wait," Clark said, but Bruce ignored him. He'd done his time in the mines of Clark's weird reticence already, he'd given Clark a pretty goddamn expert blowjob, and God, he was finally close; he could feel it gathering in his groin, drawing his balls up and his muscles tight. If Clark had to face-fuck him for the rest of the night to feel satisfied that was fine, but he needed this right now -- and oh God Clark face-fucking him for the rest of the night, he could push Bruce down flat on the clear surface of the desk and crawl up Bruce's body and his cock would be a wet red curve against Bruce's mouth--
"Wait," Clark said again. He pinned Bruce's thighs to the desk and leaned back until their bodies were no longer touching.
FILL: Convergent Evolution, Bruce/Clark, Clark in the Batsuit [2/4]
He eased back, running a tight circle of his fingers down Clark's cock as it emerged from his mouth. As promised, there was no bitterness of precome at the slit, but when Bruce tongued at the head anyway and squeezed just behind it, Clark's hand clenched in Bruce's hair and his hips twitched a second time and he pushed back into Bruce's mouth and then past it -- and for an exhilarating, uncertain instant Bruce was trapped with a cock in his throat, an immovable hand on the back of his head, and no idea when he'd be taking his next breath.
Clark withdrew at once. "Sorry," he gasped, too stricken to notice Bruce hadn't gagged, "sorry, are you--"
Bruce gave him a skeptical look from the other side of Clark's cock, an experience Bruce himself had always found fairly withering. It was, at least, enough to stop Clark mid-sentence.
"All right," Clark said instead, "of course you're fine. Sorry to impugn your...." He made a vague gesture and Bruce ratcheted his eyebrow a notch higher, but it wasn't enough to lead Clark into the thicket of trying to finish that sentence. Bruce stroked him, let the head of Clark's cock bump his mouth again, and probably could have pinpointed in video playback the moment that Clark stopped giving a damn about talking the matter out.
"Good," Bruce said, and parted his lips; his tongue met skin. Clark let his breath out long and slow, and stroked his flat hands over Bruce's hair, then rested them on Bruce's shoulders, as though that grip wouldn't be just as devastating if things went south.
Bruce met Clark's eyes and played his tongue down the length of Clark's cock. He worked his way back up with lavish openemouthed kisses, letting his lips catch at the skin, letting himself suck just a little. He worked his thumb in circles just under Clark's glans and rubbed his face along the shaft, followed his rough cheek with his soft mouth. Clark kneaded Bruce's shoulders, let his hips sway forward a little when it was safe, when it wouldn't be rude or too forceful; his cock slid wetly through the tunnel of Bruce's hand once, and Bruce felt the twitch against his palm.
Clark's balls were low and loose when Bruce cupped them, but his body was strung tight. So, nowhere near coming, but tense, anticipatory. He wasn't not enjoying himself, but the only time Bruce heard his breath catch was when a long lick would have framed the head of Clark's cock briefly against Bruce's open mouth, from Clark's perspective. He direly wanted Bruce to just suck him off already.
Bruce gave himself away with that one. Maybe his mouth twitched, but more likely Clark was cheating, just by his existence on Earth, just by being with a room with someone who could never match his perception or his strength. There was so much to conceal from him, Bruce could hardly remember how he had managed any of it.
"Oh my god," Clark breathed. It was not an exclamation of pleasure.
Bruce didn't have to take Clark out of his mouth to reply. "What?"
"Don't even try it."
"Try what?"
"You're still making fun of me," Clark said, ignoring the question. "I can't believe you."
"Fortunately, I have no reason to fear reprisal."
"Oh my god," Clark said again, but this time he was almost laughing.
He took Bruce's jaw in his gauntleted hand and his own cock in his bare one and rubbed it across Bruce's mouth -- and that was all it took, Clark doing it to Bruce instead of Bruce doing it himself. Here was the spark he'd been missing, the click. Bruce wanted to open his mouth but waited instead for Clark to push at him, for his thumb to press at Bruce's molars through his cheek, and then he capitulated and let Clark inside.
Clark hesitated when he hit the back of Bruce's throat; Bruce rolled his eyes and slapped Clark on the ass, just hard enough to shock the breath from him. He grabbed Bruce by the hair again and yanked him in until his nose touched Clark's stomach. Bruce wasn't sure how long Clark would hold him there, and if his pulse kept jumping and his body kept throbbing like this, if he kept giving himself away, it might be a while -- but no, Clark wanted to fuck him, not choke him. When he withdrew, it wasn't the guilty backwards jerk from earlier; he watched every inch emerge. Bruce kept his lips tight around Clark's cock while he could, followed the ridge of the underside with his tongue, and watched Clark's eyelids waver downward as he thrust back in.
Here also were the little sounds, the sighs and the bitten-off gasps. Bruce watched Clark's jaw clench and soften and his mouth tremble, and had to press his hand against his cock again before the unsatisfied ache of it overcame him. He worked his throat at the bottom of each thrust, curled his tongue with each withdrawal. When Clark leaned into him and pushed his shoulders lower, changed the angle and speed of his thrust so that BRuce swallowed him a little deeper and a little longer, Bruce groaned as soon as he had a free larynx to do it with. Oh, Clark liked that. He liked the vibration but mostly, Bruce would bet, he liked Bruce enjoying it: Bruce wanting something, after all, that Clark had been avoiding for fear of hurting him, or of a mismatch of desires.
When Clark took his hands off Bruce, Bruce almost grabbed fort them, to put them back in his hair, on his face, on his shoulders -- but there was a new tension in Clark, and Bruce waited a moment to find out what fresh bullshit this was going to be. Clark's thrusts were shallower each time and his breaths were shorter, shorter -- ah.
He pulled out of Bruce's mouth altogether when his orgasm hit him, and took a half-step back. Clark was almost motionless aside from that, clenched tight from head to foot, apart from the visible pulsing of his cock in his hand. A splash of come caught Bruce on the shoulder of his dress shirt, but it didn't seem to emerge with unusual -- say, dangerous -- force, and was mostly just running over Clark's fingers now. His other hand was at the back of his neck, curled into a fist so tight Bruce could hear the material of the glove creak. Bruce gave it a moment, until Clark was just past the crest of it, not quite coming down yet but not alert to Bruce again either -- until he was as vulnerable as anyone other than Bruce ever saw Superman -- and then he yanked Clark back in like he had earlier, by the knee and the waistband, and put his mouth to the still taut and quivering head of Clark's cock, and sucked.
And there was Clark's voice, for one astonished, full-throated cry. He threw his head back and thrust the last of his orgasm down Bruce's throat: one pulse, two, three -- either the Kryptonian orgasm ran long or this was a good one. Bruce's hands were on Clark's ass again, and he could feel the tension in Clark unspool as the spasms subsided and his hips slowed. Clark withdrew languidly, watching himself again, or perhaps Bruce's fac, with both hands buried in Bruce's hair; Bruce gave him a final squeeze and chased the head of CLark's cock with his tongue. Here he tasted something off, finally, a little too chemical, or in the wrong way. That might just have been Clark's atrocious eating habits.
Clark took a deep breath and let it out with a miniscule vocalization at the end, like the seed of a moan. Then he reached down for the collar of Bruce's waistcoat, and half stooped to meet him, half yanked him partway to his feet; a button popped off and bounced from one of the plates of armor that still lay around their feet.
"What the hell," he demanded, "do you have any idea how dangerous --" and kissed Bruce with no pause in which to mount a reply.
It was not as ferocious a kiss as Bruce was expecting. For a moment, yes, but then Clark seemed to get distracted by the act itself and fell into what Bruce took to be his first-kiss routine of testing and teasing to see what Bruce responded to best. Bruce let him get away with this for about fifteen seconds, then gradually stopped entertaining it, until the kiss was just Clark coaxing fruitlessly at Bruce's mouth with his lips and his teeth.
Clark started to laugh when he caught on. "Damn it, Bruce."
Bruce got his feet under himself properly and pulled Clark's body flush against his own, the whole height and breadth of him. Clark rose up on his toes just a fraction, and his still-hard cock slotted up neatly against Bruce's through the wool of his trousers. God, friction. Bruce didn't even know what he wanted. To come. For Clark to get him off. As swiftly and comprehensibly as possible, please and thank you.
For the moment he'd settle for some decent goddamn kissing, and he was getting it now that Clark had stopped treating him like they'd just met. Clark was as intent and sumptuous a kisser as Bruce could have asked for, if it had ever been safe to even let the thought form. Bruce pushed him and he pushed back, he bit, he sighed, he shoved up against bruce and grinned at the sound Bruce made into his mouth. Bruce was still holding Clark's bare ass in his hands -- he may have been digging his fingers into it, holding their hips flush; God, it took everything he had not to just grind against Clark to completion -- but Clark's hands were everywhere on Bruce, like he couldn't decide what he wanted to touch first. They ran through his hair and down his back and slipped just briefly past the waist of Bruce's pants, then up under his vest instead when that proved a non-starter that would require either working multiple fasteners or just ripping the pants off him. Bruce felt another of the less robust buttons on his waistcoat go, and thought he heard it land on the rug.
Clark pushed him back a step, and Bruce's heel touched one of the tactical suit plates, lying like a landmine on the floor just behind him. Both of them froze. Then Clark ran his hands down the backs of Bruce's thighs and lifted him up -- up off the floor and into the air, with his legs around Clark's waist. Clark skimmed across the room and placed Bruce precisely and with surprising gentleness on the edge of his own desk, then leaned into Bruce and swept the desk clear with his arm. Bruce picked the sounds of his pen cup and phone and whatever desk toy he was pretending to be obsessed with this month out of the generalized clatter.
"Most of that was expensive," Bruce said, with his lips not quite touching Clark's.
"You don't care."
"So good of you to finally join us."
Clark laughed against Bruce's mouth. He was holding Bruce's face now as they kissed, his jaw, the sides of his neck; the Clock King had left a shallow cut on Bruce's throat during tonight's festivities, and Clark's thumb traced it, too light to hurt. Bruce's hips jerked up against Clark's, against the solid hot pressure of his erection.
"You're still hard," he said into Clark's smooth cheek, and didn't bother to make a question of it. This wasn't Clark's cock taking a few minutes to subside; this was Clark demonstrably ready for round two, meeting every movement of Bruce's hips like he hadn't just come spectacularly down Bruce's throat. Bruce had never, under normal circumstances, seen Clark tire or weaken or waver. Maybe he just didn't; maybe he had no refractory period and Bruce could just keep him up in his office and hear those little noises and the wondering shout of his orgasm again and again and never have to stop or return to reality; maybe -- God, what could he do to Bruce with that kind of stamina? "How many...."
"It's more work each time, so the practical limit is lower than you're thinking," Clark said drily, and kissed Bruce in a transparent bid to stop him from pursuing the issue. Bruce tried opening his mouth as though to speak, just to see what Clark would do; the answer was, dig his fingers into Bruce's ass and roll their hips together with intent.
Bruce had been right about these boxers. He'd made a substantial wet spot, and it caught uncomfortably at the head of his cock every time they moved against each other. This would be a good time to try to get his pants off and maybe make the effort to do this with some shred of dignity. He dug his heels into the backs of Clark's thighs instead, and angled himself until their bodies were just right, until he could feel Clark's cock sliding along the trapped ridge of his own. Bruce tried to get a satisfactory grip on Clark with his hands, and couldn't; he'd designed the Batsuit to be hard to grapple, not anticipating he'd one day be stymied by this during sex.
Not that he hadn't had that dream, but in the dream it had been the Bat itself, not Clark, and Bruce hadn't been able to get a grip on it not because of the hard work of Wayne Enterprises materials engineers but because it was a twisting apparition of shadows and fury. Clark had been right to worry about someone realizing he wasn't the real Bat; he didn't even move right, didn't look at things right. He looked like Superman with an inexplicable bat on his chest.
"Wait," Clark said, but Bruce ignored him. He'd done his time in the mines of Clark's weird reticence already, he'd given Clark a pretty goddamn expert blowjob, and God, he was finally close; he could feel it gathering in his groin, drawing his balls up and his muscles tight. If Clark had to face-fuck him for the rest of the night to feel satisfied that was fine, but he needed this right now -- and oh God Clark face-fucking him for the rest of the night, he could push Bruce down flat on the clear surface of the desk and crawl up Bruce's body and his cock would be a wet red curve against Bruce's mouth--
"Wait," Clark said again. He pinned Bruce's thighs to the desk and leaned back until their bodies were no longer touching.