Archive of Our Own ^beta

Clark groans as a tongue swipes across his neck, and his head falls back against the car door with a painful sounding 'thump'.

He doesn't feel a thing, more focused on the heat of Bruce Wayne's thighs against his palms.

The limo rides smoothly, careening down the streets of Gotham while Bruce systematically takes Clark apart, with a brush of his tongue there, a press of his lips there.

Clark could barely keep up, nothing but whorish moaning in the rich man's personal car.

He… really shouldn't be here.

He was out of his element. As a first-year reporter, he was not high-class enough to be in bed with the Bruce Wayne.

And he wasn't even supposed to be at the gala tonight.

Yet, days ago, Lois had volunteered him for it.

Clark had only been in Metropolis for the better part of a year. With him making a name for himself as Superman, and finding his footing at the paper, he honestly hadn't gotten out much to actually explore beyond his city. Lois, not knowing about the other career, had quickly labeled him a hermit and declared loudly that she would 'get him out of his shell, so help her god'.

Lois Lane, five years his senior at the Daily Planet, and general thorn in his side when he inevitably gets dragged along into some convoluted plan to catch bad guys in the act.

Okay, Clark can't be mad at her for that; she just wanted to help people.

It just… led to a lot of anxiety. One of these days she was going to realize Clark disappeared from her line of sight right when Superman showed up to save her from would-be kidnappers.

In this instance, though, she entirely volunteered him just to get under his skin. He was not a hermit!

But Cat Grant, head of the gossip column, was out sick for the week; some type of bug got her bad. She'd be fine, but definitely couldn't complete her obligations.

So Perry had been divvying out her to-dos—but was stuck on one last piece on her agenda.

A gala, all the way over in Metropolis' sister city: Gotham.

Clark didn't know about it until Lois was tugging him out of the bull pen and into Perry's lair. Saying that he was great at interviews, even with the rich stuffy types. Fluffing him up, partially because she didn't want to be the one who had to stuff herself in some dress and mingle with rich folks who wouldn't normally give her the time of day.

She'd even said, 'If he uses that charming, farm boy smile of his, you might even get a few Bruce Wayne quotes.'

Golly, if only she knew where that smile of his got him tonight—

"Higher," A deep voice rumbles against his ear, in the present. "Touch me right here, sweetheart."

Clark's fingers are nudged high, until he's cupping Bruce Wayne's plump, muscular ass against his palms.

"Golly," Clark says, nearly choking on his tongue.

That warm voice laughs, something low and teasing that has Clark's head spinning. Was it possible to get drunk off of a voice? Clark thinks he's experiencing it.

"I can't wait to get you out of these," Bruce whispers to him, tugging at the collar of his shirt. "See just how thick these muscles really are. I saw the way your thighs stretched your slacks, the poor things. I can't wait to feel them flexing as I let you fuck me raw."

Clark has never in his life heard people talk like this, atleast not in such a way that made him melt like so.

He was entirely at Bruce's mercy and he really didn't want to be anywhere else, even if he couldn't gather the appropriate words to respond back, to say that he really really really wanted to show himself off for Bruce's eyes only.

"Would you like that, boy?" Bruce asks him, all seduction. He knocks their chests together purposefully, so that their noses touch.

"Yes, please," Clark is able to say, nodding uselessly. "Please."

Atleast it seems like Bruce enjoys the helpless flailing of Clark's tongue. He's able to reduce Clark to putty by just fluttering his lashes, and he's using it to his advantage with every kiss.

"I like how you beg for me, Kent. Maybe I'll let you interview me again while I'm riding your cock. We shouldn't keep these pretty noises of yours from the public."

It's overwhelming to imagine. He's embarrassed that he didn't realize he'd been moaning so loudly until Bruce was teasing him about it.

Christ, Perry would fire him so fast. Not to mention Lois would never let him live it down for the rest of her natural born life.

"Mmh, th-that's…!"

Clark is usually pretty alright at talking. He makes small talk with strangers all the time on the street, has swapped life stories with people (as much as he can) as Superman. Developed a rapport with all sorts of humans.

Bruce, though… Bruce was breaking him down one word at a time until he was nothing but noise and a hard-on to rival steel.

Bruce licks across Clark's collarbone, moaning at the taste of him. The limo shifts as they turn, and Bruce just ends up more firmly pressed against him, impossibly so.

"Almost home." Bruce nibbles on his ear lobe until Clark's eyes roll shut at the erotic feeling. His breath warms across Clark's skin as he speaks. "Keep touching me."

Obediently, Clark grabs Bruce by his hips and tugs him forward until their groins meet.

With an overwhelmed sigh, Clark's head falls back again and he succumbs to Bruce once more.

The gala, which Clark couldn't get himself out of attending in the end, was in Gotham.

Of course.

Metropolis wasn't really known for its parties despite being as populated as Gotham. You went to Gotham for the rich parties, you went to Metropolis to get actual sunshine.

Despite being in Gotham, though, it wasn't one of Mr. Wayne's parties. The well-known party animal that he is.

Clark hadn't even really expected the man to show up; he'd donated a generous amount to the charity that the gala was representing earlier that week. He'd had no obligation to show his face.

But he had, his presence taking up the space on the opulent staircase as he made his way to the party's front entrance. And Clark…

Clark was weak.

He'd never seen the man outside of video interviews and photos. Clark had always thought he'd had a handsome voice, nothing that he'd purposefully focused on (not unless he wanted to fluster himself). But his face, right there not twenty feet away from Clark…

He was… stunning, in real life. Like a marble statue painted and brought to life. He had eyes like a rolling, morning storm, grey and just as disarming. And a sharp jawline to undercut the casual, playboy nature of his grin. Thick lips, dusty pink in color.

Clark had stared at them for longer than was appropriate, evident by the way Bruce had laughed and licked them.

It's then that Clark even realized Bruce was talking to him specifically, glancing at the recorder Clark had reflexively held out to him. For a quote. For the Planet, oh gosh.

"I—sorry, what?"

"I said yes, son. I'll allow an interview. Or are you already tipsy?" The words are teasing, nudging at Clark until he straightens his spine and shakes the thought of Bruce's lips on him out of his brain.

"No, I, uh—I haven't had anything to drink. Sorry, I'm just… distracted. It won't happen again, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce quirks an eyebrow. His smirk is still set on his lips, and his chin tips up to look Clark in the eye. Now that he's straightened his spine, they're no longer eye level.

It seems to take Mr. Wayne by surprise.

"A polite one, aren't you." It isn't said like a question. "You aren't from Gotham."

Clark winces.

Bruce rarely interviewed with anyone outside of the Gotham papers, he remembers belatedly. Thought it was a waste of time when he tried to keep his affairs in the city.

Already dejected, Clark's shoulders drop again until he is at his usual height.

"No, I'm from the Daily Planet. Metropolis."

Grey eyes stare at him contemplatively, as if he's peeling back the layers of him to see what's hidden inside. Clark nervously stands still, though his fingers twitch against the recorder as he slowly pockets it.

Finally, Bruce smiles. It's a small thing, private.

"You're quite young. Don't tell me they're hiring straight out of high school."

"I'm twenty," Clark says, aghast. "I mean—I did the high school paper back in Smallville, but—"

Bruce laughs then, stopping Clark in his tracks. It's a melodic sound, about as rich as the man it comes from.

"Quite young," Bruce says again, though this time it's less probing and more teasing. "And here I thought the Daily Planet was more established than that. Trying to bait me in with someone bright-eyed so I won't send them away with their tail tucked between their legs again?"

That is also another reason Bruce didn't interview outside of publications in his city. It seemed no one else outside of the rough-and-tough Gotham had a thick enough skin for it when he was in a bad mood.

Clark blinks owlishly, lost. "Um…"

Bruce shakes his head, still smiling. "No worries, son. Just an old man musing aloud. Don't mind me."

"Old?" Clark snorts before he can stop himself. "Hardly."

"I'm fifty-six," Bruce hums. "Old, for you."

Something about the way he phrases it makes Clark pause in a completely different way.

For you.

Not in comparison to; for. It makes him swallow heavily, nervously tugging at his crooked bowtie. Bruce's eyes drop to follow the movement, and his eyes blink slowly and contemplatively as he watches Clark's fingers muss up the fabric further.

When he looks back up again, it's like looking into the eyes of a lion. Clark feels like the prey.

He's entirely out of his element, pinned before he's realized it. For what reason, he doesn't know. All he does know is that… he doesn't hate it.

"I'll still allow that interview," Bruce says, finally.

He lifts his hand and, almost as if materializing from nothing, a waiter comes and offers him a tall flute of champagne. Bruce's long fingers press against the stem, lifting it gently without even looking.

"Come along."

Clark, stumbles over himself as he follows, like a dog being led on a leash.

"Don't be quiet on my account, boy," Bruce commands. "Let me hear you."

Clark shyly shakes his head, mostly overwhelmed. It doesn't stop the stuttered moan that spills from him when Bruce tries to suck a hickey directly against his jugular.

The limo has finally rolled to a stop at Wayne Manor, though the driver hasn't gotten out and nobody has attempted to open the door to greet them. Clark is thankful for it, because Mr. Wayne doesn't seem like he's going to stop until Clark's skin goes bruised in the shape of Bruce's lips.

(Not that it ever will, Kryptonian-made as it is).

"M—" Clark's voice catches as Bruce rubs his fingertips across Clark's stomach, prodding at the way the muscles tense. "Mr. Wayne…"

"You sound so beautiful saying that," Bruce responds, pleased. "But it's making me feel old, young man. You don't want me feeling embarrassed about our age difference, do you?"

"N-no," Clark can't help but stammer. God, he's barely gotten an unbroken sentence out all night, but Bruce is overwhelming just like an earthquake. He can't seem to find his footing, and Bruce seems happy to keep making him stumble to catch up.

"Good. Call me Bruce."

Then, Bruce pauses. A cheshire grin slowly unfolds across his lips, and he finally looks up to stare Clark in the eye. "Unless… you're into that?"

"Into…?"

Bruce shakes his head, but the mischievous grin remains. "No, you're just much too innocent for that, aren't you? Look at you, my own personal incubus and you don't even know it."

Clark splutters, incredulously. Him?

Bruce nods resolutely, as Clark flounders. "I need you in my bed. Now."

Oh gosh, oh gosh—

"Mr. Wayne—Bruce, I mean," Clark hurries to say. "I need to confess something."

"Don't worry, sweetheart." Bruce's voice is like a lead chain wrapping around Clark and keeping him in place. "You can confess anything you like up in my room. I can be the priest to your altar boy, how about that? You, on your knees, confessing every little naughty thing you've ever done."

With every word, his lips tickle against Clark's collarbone. He swallows heavily, and he knows Bruce feels it because he smiles.

"I think five spankings for each of your little sins should be sufficient."

Clark doesn't even know how to take that, actually. Hardly knows what it means, really.

Bruce seems to realize this when he sits back with a pout, eyes breaking from where Clark's unmarred skin looks back at him, only to catch the confused furl of Clark's eyebrows.

That seems to be what gets him to calm, ever so briefly.

Bruce settles back fully, then, setting his rear on the cushioned limo seats to finally regard Clark in all his entirety.

His bowtie had gotten lost in the frenzy of kisses Bruce had bestowed upon him after their interview fell through, quickly becoming nothing more than a makeout session between strangers. Clark is honestly surprised his coat jacket had survived the onslaught of Bruce's fingers feeling every inch of Clark's upper half even before they were in the safety of the limousine, hidden behind the dark tint.

His hair, mussed by Bruce's fingers running through it, was all over the place. He could feel the curls tickling across his forehead.

And his cheeks felt hot, so he was surely blushing red as a tomato.

"Oh," Bruce says, softly.

He blinks his pretty eyes, staring at Clark's lips where he'd bitten him (gently, all things considered). "I… I must have forgotten myself for a moment. I do apologize, Mr. Kent."

Bruce clears his throat, then, and shifts. Clark watches as he presses his thighs together, and notes the erection beneath the expensive suit.

Had… had he gotten that aroused, just from kissing him?

Well, Clark certainly had. His own cock was twitching beneath his underwear, eager just from having experienced the weight of Bruce in his lap. But Bruce had been equally as affected? It seems unreal that a man as proficient as him would even give Clark the time of day. It's…

"I'm a virgin," Clark confesses, bashfully.

Bruce startles as if Clark had shouted the words.

The words float between them, swirling in the air, until they catch in Bruce's champagne-addled brain.

Then, he looks horrified.

"I will have my driver take you home," he says immediately, glancing up at the partition between them and the driver, before he begins to reach forward for the call button. "He'll drive you straight to Metropolis, don't worry."

"I—no, I didn't mean to—" Clark scrambles, grabbing Bruce's wrist before he can send Clark home with nothing to show but a softening erection and regrets.

Despite his panic, he's careful not to use too much strength as he gathers Bruce's palm in both his own to pull him back. The leather seats squish beneath them as he tugs Bruce back into his personal space. Their shoulders press together, then their chests.

"I just wanted to let you know that I… really don't know what I'm doing. It's my first time and I… d-don't… know how to respond. To show I really like all of this. I told you because I just didn't want you to think I was pretending, or-or lying."

"Lying?"

"About… you know. Wanting it. Because I really do."

Bruce looks at him, guarded. His face is painted pink around the edges, chest softly lifting and dropping as he catches his breath from the excitement.

Something about the fact that he'd been immediately willing to send Clark back home, to take care of him even at the cost of his own pleasure for the night, makes Clark's heart pound as fast as the beating of a hummingbird's wings.

Clark hesitantly leans forward, until he's just an inch higher than Bruce. Then he gently curls his fingers back around Bruce's waist, to lift him back in his lap. He fits perfectly in place, as if he never left it.

Then he kisses him. A simple, shy peck to Bruce's soft lips.

When they pull back, Bruce is slowly relaxing in his hold again. One arm has found purchase across Clark's shoulder, sneaking all the way around so that Bruce's cool fingers could tickle against Clark's nape.

"You've really never…?"

"Nothing more than this," Clark softly confesses. "And that was, um. In high school. In the parking lot, once."

Bruce laughs, then.

"Christ. I was about to devour you whole." He shakes his head, softly admonishing. "You can't let men like me run you over like that, son, you'd be snatched up in their greedy hands in a blink."

As he says this, Bruce looks Clark up and down. Slowly and methodically, as if he's outlining every bit of him and marking his favorite parts for later.

He must feel the way Clark's cock twitches, because he chuckles mirthfully. Clark is weak for it, weak for everything that is Bruce Wayne, apparently.

"What about yours," Clark says, licking his lips. He can still taste Bruce's tongue against them. "Would… are your hands greedy, too?"

It's as if Clark has ignited the heated air between them, with those words. He can't seem to catch his breath, chest trembling as he inhales deeply. It just makes Bruce's cologne torrent across his senses, leaving Clark even more vulnerable to it all.

"They are," Bruce confirms, after just a moment of sultry silence. "I'm possessive. I like you."

Clark perks up happily, and it makes Bruce begin to pet him again. Fingers glance across Clark's chest, passing across his nipples hidden beneath two layers of clothing. He's able to suppress his moan, but not the resulting tremble that courses through him.

"And I know my greedy hands won't let you go after just one taste of your body," Bruce continues. "I'm going to need more."

There's a slow, deliberate hum from him. Then,

"Perhaps in the morning you'll get a break."

Bruce's hands, right now, are doing a wonderful job of driving him crazy. They're doing nothing more than glissading across Clark's skin, but it's like each touch is arousing Clark in ways he's never felt before. It's maddening.

Clark wants to kiss him again and never stop.

"A-and now…?" Clark asks, voice pleading. Almost pathetic, even to him. "Even though I'm not… experienced, you still…?"

"Yes," Bruce confesses. It's like the sun meeting horizon, a promise for endless things. "I want everything you have for me, Clark."

Desire drowns him. Clark doesn't know what to do with his hands, his entire being, right now. Bruce is looking at him, unguarded. There are crow's feet at the edges of his eyes that crinkle when he offers Clark an alluring smile.

"I want you in my bed," Bruce continues, like he's reading a psalm. "Drowning in pleasure. I want you curled up against my silk sheets as my latest conquest. Looking up at me with your pretty doe eyes as you beg me to let you cum."

Clark opens his mouth to say yes, but all that comes out is a desperate, pleading noise.

"God, look at you… you really have no idea what power you have over me right now." Bruce dips forward, stealing Clark's lips once more.

They kiss slowly, despite the fervor that has staked them through. Bruce suckles on his tongue like he wants it deep in his throat, and Clark can only obey as best he can, eyes half shuttered just to be able to watch Bruce between the blur of his eyelashes.

And Bruce is beautiful, even this close. He is entirely focused on slotting his lips perfectly against Clark's. Tasting his spit like it's ambrosia. Never before has Clark felt so enthusiastically wanted.

Bruce rolls his hips forward, grinding his ass firmly against Clark's erection. The curve of it ends up passing across the hot, hidden part of Bruce's groin between his legs.

They break the kiss with a heated gasp, cocks throbbing.

"I might ruin you," Bruce rushes to say after rubbing his lips together to gather the last remnants of Clark's taste into his mouth. "I'm a terribly greedy lover—you need someone who will treat you nicely for your first time. I think I just want to tame you."

"Tame…?"

"Mm. Put you in cuffs. Hold you down while I ride you until you're stupid, 'til you can't think about anything else but stuffing my ass full of you. I won't stop until I've gotten my fill of you, sweetheart. I might break you on your first ride."

Bruce tilts his head. His silver hairs catch in the low light, warmth illuminating him from the golden light fixtures inset in the limo's roof. Not all of his hair is grey, he's not old enough for that, but the wisps of it are enough to be noticeable.

"You understand, son?"

Perhaps it's his age that makes Clark trust him despite the warning tone behind the words. Maybe it's because Bruce seems to have acute control over himself and his desires, and he was still looking at Clark like he wanted to eat him.

Whatever it is, Clark wants all that Bruce is willing to offer.

"M-Mr. Wayne," Clark says, pleading. "I want that."

Bruce grins, dipping forward to press their foreheads together. "You don't know what you're saying, boy."

"I do," Clark says, entirely lost in the warmth of his voice. Even if Bruce does nothing more than tease him with words all night, Clark will be remembering this for the rest of his life. "I want you to… to tame me. To show me how you like to… to…"

"To ride charming studs like you until you can't speak?" Bruce finishes the sentence for him.

"Yeah," Clark gasps.

The mental image alone. Bruce, sitting above him, back arched as he takes his fill of Clark's body.

A steady hand circles the back of Clark's neck, pulling him in for one more, drowning kiss.

"Mm. Very well. Come along, Mr. Kent."

The manor is opulent, gothic, and intense.

From the foyer, to the grand room, to the long, stretching hallways that lead deeper into the home like the branches of a tree. Clark kind of wanted to explore every part of it, trawling through the secrets and the architecture until he was satisfied.

A vast majority of him, though, was happy to be led by Bruce's fingers tangled in his hair as they hardly took a break between making out to stumble towards the main bedroom. Clark's back nearly knocks an ornate picture frame off the wall when Bruce shoves him against it, hoisting a leg up around Clark's waist to continue their grinding for just a few minutes.

The edge of a rug gets lifted and kicked out of place as Clark lifts him, letting his strong legs wrap solidly around Clark's midsection.

They almost don't make it through the door, Bruce's fingers scrambling for the knob without looking, too focused on Clark mouthing along his neck.

Somehow, they're able to stumble inside without falling, though Clark admittedly has to use his strength to counterbalance them properly as they kick their shoes off.

Goodness, his bed is huge.

It takes up a considerable amount of space in the room, which is saying a lot, and is rounded at the edges like a clamshell. The headboard is elegantly carved, real cherry wood of course. The sheets look like actual silk, like Clark will melt into them like warmed butter.

Bruce pushes him down, onto the sheets, and they both sink into the plush mattress. Bruce straddles his hips before Clark has even fully caught himself, palms flat behind him.

Like that, Bruce humps forward until Clark is nodding, eyes unsure of what part to focus on first. Bruce's face, eyes dark like liquid sin? His hands, crawling up Clark's chest with the intent to leave marks? Or the way his thighs tense as he lifts and drops his hips, grinding against Clark's covered length.

It feels greedy to be allowed all of it.

Bruce decides for him. He leans in until Clark can't see past the curve of his jaw, nudging their cheeks together until his hair tickles across Clark's skin.

Clark inhales slowly, deeply, to cement the scent of Bruce's conditioner in the recesses of his mind. Like cedarwood and ginger. Warm and rich.

"Kiss me properly," Bruce murmurs in his ear. "Or do I need to teach you how?"

If what they'd been doing so far wasn't proper kissing, Clark honestly might need the lesson.

He'd, of course, been kissed before. As he'd mentioned, he'd had that one instance in the parking lot with Lana, his high school girlfriend. And he'd kissed a neighbor boy, once, whose parents had sent him over to help out on the farm. They'd held hands the entire time, hiding in the wheat field as they tried to figure out how to use tongue.

But… but maybe Bruce was expecting more than the shy little kisses Clark had experienced.

Clark wanted to prove himself, regardless.

"Maybe show me once? I'm a fast learner, I promise."

Bruce, atleast, is amused by the demure reply. He nods his head, regarding Clark with a twinkling look, before he leans forward.

"Open your mouth, just a bit."

Clark obeys, shuddering as Bruce takes a deep breath. He can taste a vestige of champagne on it, somehow more than he could when they were pressing their tongues together.

"Relax. Don't purse your lips, just…" Bruce lets their lips touch with a gentle brush, nothing more. "… like this."

He does that a few more times, nothing more than tender skin glancing together like rainwater dripping off rose petals. Clark finds himself swaying in a slow, languid motion as he has to steadily stop himself from dipping forward into Bruce's space, to deepen the kiss before he's allowed.

Bruce's tongue darts out, between one peck and the next. Clark feels it leave a line of wet across his lower lip regardless, and can't help the soft, needy sound he makes.

Bruce grins and, finally, deepens the kiss again. Their lips join together, Clark's lower lip finding its place between Bruce's own. There's a soft, suckling motion, until Bruce has taken the sensitive skin to begin softly nibbling on it.

Clark's hands have found their way to Bruce's body again, unbidden. He thumbs across Bruce's sides, feeling where his pecs meet his abdomen beneath the layers of his expensive suit. At the feeling of the warm touch, Bruce responds by grabbing Clark by his own hips and tugging him ever so much closer across the silk sheets.

"Breathe," Bruce directs him. "Let me feel you."

Clark shudders in a deep breath, and embarrassingly almost chokes on it until Bruce quiets him with another deep kiss.

He hadn't realized he'd stopped until that moment, not that it mattered much. He could hold his breath for hours (if not longer). For Bruce, he'd be willing to test the limits of it if it meant he didn't break the kiss again.

"Bite down on my lip," Bruce says. "Gently, boy."

Making sure to take as much care as he can muster, Clark slowly clamps his teeth against Bruce's lower lip. The skin is plush and gives easily, but Clark doesn't try to push it further than that. He nibbles, once, then again when Bruce gives him an encouraging noise.

Their lips move together like that for a few more moments. Clark finds himself blinking his eyes open more often than not, just to see how Bruce is reacting to it. Just to memorize more of him.

When Bruce pulls back the next time, his eyes are dreamy, like he's starting to float a bit.

"Breathe," Bruce reminds him, a soft admonishment.

"Sorry."

"Hush."

Bruce kisses him again, and again and again.

A large, heavy hand rubs along Clark's spine until it finds a place against the expanse of his shoulderblades. Bruce presses down on it, to draw Clark closer. Still straddling him, Bruce is just an inch taller, but he uses it to his advantage. He lures Clark in with another kiss, another another another, leaning back the entire time until Clark is nearly floating from the bed to stay in his orbit.

He catches himself just in time and pulls back with a ragged gasp, falling back on his elbows. Bruce watches him, gaze heated, but there's not another reprimanding in store for him.

Instead, Bruce tilts his head.

A few strands of his hair have fallen out of place of his perfect hairstyle, and Clark reaches up to tuck them back. Bruce's eyes shut at the motion, as if he's expecting more touches, but Clark's hand falls uselessly back to the bed before he can lean into it.

"Aren't you precious," Bruce huffs. "Teasing me? Isn't that my job?"

"I'm not trying to," Clark hurries to say. "Sorry."

Bruce shakes his head, playfully rolling his eyes. "Forget a confessional. I'm going to have to spank all of those little 'sorry's right out of you, sweetheart."

Clark maybe thinks he looks at Bruce reverently, or at the very least adoringly, because Bruce smirks at him all over again.

"Now, for tongue."

Bruce leads with a tender kiss again, their lips finding their proper place together until he nudges Clark's mouth open with the tip of his tongue. It's soft, the way it slides between the seam of Clark's mouth, nudging it open more and more until Clark's teeth have parted to make way.

Bruce is careful in the way he envelops Clark's tongue with his own. They slide together messily, and Clark has to time his breathing with the pattern of Bruce's motions.

A lick against the roof of his mouth, and Clark slowly inhales. Bruce nudging the fat of Clark's tongue with the tip of his own, tickling it before he tries his best to coil them together, and Clark holds.

When he pulls back, urging Clark's tongue to follow him back into his own mouth, Clark shakily exhales.

"Wetter," Bruce moans, pulling back only a centimeter to speak. "Let me drink my fill of you."

Clark allows more of his drool to build up, and Bruce rewards him by squeezing him tightly with his arms wrapped around Clark's shoulders. There's not an empty space to be found between their bodies, their mouths, their cocks.

The kiss is loud and messy. Clark has never experienced anything like it. Bruce seems to love it, babbling sweet noises here and there as Clark fills up the space in his mouth with the entirety of his tongue.

Clark always knew tongue-kissing was intimate, but this seemed to go beyond it. It felt like the most erotic, silent conversation he'd ever had. Ever will have again.

They break apart when Bruce finally needs to catch his own breath. He looks serene, grey eyes darkened to nearly twilight black with how close their bodies are. Clark's shadow is across his face, thanks to the warm, lamp light behind him.

"Good." Bruce's lips are wet with it. Messy. He swipes at his own with his dripping tongue smearing across the mess of it as if he's tasting molten chocolate drizzled over fruit. "I'm impressed."

The praise, honestly, is enough to make Clark moan in response. He's been minutely adjusting against Bruce this whole time, little shifts that could be described as him humping the man. Not enough friction to get off, but enough to make Clark's throbbing cock yearn for more.

"I aim to please," Clark says, having paused only to watch Bruce clean himself up with all the innocence of a nymph bathing in a spring.

Bruce kisses him once more, chaste in comparison to the raunchy way he'd stolen Clark's tongue just moments prior.

"Don't get cocky," Bruce says, all velvet teasing. "I might have to put you back in your place."

As if to demonstrate, Bruce shoves him entirely flat. The bed is like a cloud, if clouds weren't permeable. Bruce leans with him, sinking into Clark's embrace with such practiced ease that it seemed like he was always meant to be there.

Clark grunts when a warm, graceful hand cups itself between his legs and feels his cock, partially tucked to one side and out of the way. As it had gotten harder and harder, it slipped from its proper place and was practically straining the stretchy elastic edge of his briefs with its need.

Bruce makes a pleased sound and says, simply, "Big."

Clark hides his face, embarrassment blooming across it until he's entirely red like a rose.

He's fondled, briefly, as Bruce measures the length of him without even pulling it out. His breath hitches, heart beating just that much quicker.

Clark responds in turn, one arm finding purchase curved around Bruce's waist. It feels powerful, muscular and toned yet no less elegant than his long, lithe fingers. He tugs Bruce closer, until they're face to face again, and kisses him reverently.

"Mr. Wayne," he whispers directly against Bruce's lips.

When he pulls away, Bruce blinks at him coyly, as if he hadn't just taught Clark all the ways he likes to be kissed.

Gosh, there are a few silver eyelashes that Clark has only just noticed, making Bruce look otherworldly. The sparkle of them only draws his eyes upwards, to Bruce's lovely crown of black and white speckled hair.

Clark… may be getting a bit obsessed with Bruce's greys. He feels the strands of his hair between his thumb and forefinger, his own mouth dropped open as he pants noisily into the open air. Bruce tilts his head up, letting Clark grab a handful.

Bruce opens his mouth to say something, maybe to tease Clark about his obvious hyperfocus on it, but Clark drops his thumb to nudge it against Bruce's flawless mouth before the words come out.

He's not entirely conscious of the action until Bruce has huffed, a soft and amused breath from his nose, before enveloping Clark's thumb with his pouty, kiss-swollen lips and sucking gently.

Like this, Clark's hand is curved against Bruce's face, cradling him gently. Bruce takes his thumb all the way down, letting it tickle the back of his molars as he wets it with his saliva. Those grey eyes don't look away from him, not once. Even as he swirls his tongue around the full heft of Clark's thumb, angling his throat to try to let Clark nudge against his uvula.

Bruce only pulls away when it becomes clear that Clark has gotten too distracted, going unnaturally still just to focus on the heat of Bruce's mouth.

Those lips stay parted for a moment, just to leave a kiss at the curve of Clark's thumb, before he sits up again.

"It looks like I'm also going to have to lead you through this, hm?" Bruce teases. "Too much to focus on for your first time?"

"Sorry," Clark mumbles. "You're just… stunning. It's like I'm getting lost in you."

At the genuine tone in his voice, Bruce begins to blush. It's a subtle thing, mostly just along the very apex of his cheeks.

It, impossibly so, makes him look even more handsome. The healthy flush of his skin, the way he presses his lips together in a thin line before they part again with a small, subdued smile. Bruce tips his head as a silent 'thank you' for the compliment, though he really doesn't need to. Clark was only being honest.

"Come here, farm boy."

Bruce tugs Clark with both hands to his shoulders, until he's rolled onto his back and Clark is the one straddling him. Laying down like this, Clark has to ease a knee beneath him so he doesn't crush the older man with his weight. Bruce seems to like what little weight he receives regardless, spreading his legs to make room for the bulk of Clark's waist.

"Now I can finally ravish you," Bruce purrs.

Fingers climb their way into Clark's back pockets, though maybe two or three of them end up outside of the fabric. Like that, Bruce squeezes his ass, until Clark has tightened the muscles bashfully.

A deep laugh rumbles out of the older man, then he squeezes again.

With that grip, he urges Clark forward. Their hips meet, not for the first time that night, but no less pleasurable. Clark groans as he feels the heat between Bruce's thighs right against him, Clark's dick seeming to twitch and quiver with need.

Bruce seems to feel it too, profusely. Clark hides his face against Bruce's neck just in time to hear his breath catch, pleasure undulating between them back and forth with every roll of their hips. Clark can feel himself leaking arousal, precum soaking into the cotton fabric of his underwear. He can hear it squelch when Bruce nudges him forward again.

"Bruce," Clark moans aloud, hands finding their way between them so that he can hold onto Bruce's waist again.

Bruce's thighs clamp down as Clark squeezes him, the fabric of their clothes shifting together as he doesn't let Clark move away for a single moment.

Lifting Bruce by his hips, Clark pushes forward again as if he's fucking him.

"Good puppy," Bruce groans, voice light and airy.

They both freeze, almost immediately.

The word seems to echo in the sudden silence, but Clark's mind is entirely blank.

Bruce's face is hidden against Clark's shoulder, from the way he'd embraced him just to fondle his ass. When Clark shifts his weight from one side to another, lost for words, Bruce slowly turns his head further away.

"Bruce…?"

"I—apologize," Bruce says, breathless. "I lost myself for a moment."

"Puppy?" Clark asks, light-headed.

Heat has rushed through him, up and down, and he would have lost his footing if not for how Bruce has gathered himself in Clark's arms just to feel him as they dry humped. His mind keeps replaying it, over and over until the heat nearly burns.

His cock twitches, unbidden.

Clark can only blink as Bruce gradually relaxes, sighing a near silent breath.

Clark fits his elbows beneath him so he can sit up to actually look Bruce in his eyes. Bruce's hold loosens on his shoulders to let him go, pensive.

"You remind me of one," Bruce confesses, slowly. "An eager pup looking for someone to teach him some tricks, so to speak. An excitable dog, with the way you're humping me."

"I'm sorry," Clark says immediately, but Bruce shakes his head.

"The fault is mine. Forget I said it, I won't slip again."

Bruce seems to mean it, too. He shuts the conversation down with a dip of his head, leaning back so that he can pinpoint the next part of Clark's body he wants to caress. Tries to shut it down, anyway.

"I… l-liked it," Clark confesses softly. "Being called puppy."

The sharp sound of Bruce's inhale makes Clark look away, embarrassed.

"Is that… okay?"

"It is," Bruce assuages him immediately. His eyes have committed themselves to Clark, blue meeting grey in a stormy sky. "But are you sure you know what you're asking, sweetheart?"

"Teach me?" Clark asks, perking up all at once. "Like… with the kiss?"

There's a positively enamored look on Bruce's face, then. He cups Clark's jaw in both of his hands, pulling him forward to leave a chaste kiss directly against his lips.

When he pulls back, Bruce looks mildly conflicted. Clark imagines it has to do with him being a virgin, but he honestly is interested in anything Bruce wants to show him tonight. The fact that being called 'puppy' seemed to make his entire body throb with need is a surprise but… but not an unwelcome one.

"… very well."

Then, Bruce stands. Slips from beneath Clark easily, like a shadow slipping beneath a closed door.

He sweeps forward, and as he goes he straightens his outfit in one effortless motion. As he rounds the bed, the nightstand seems to be his destination.

Clark watches him, twisting to sit properly on the bed, neck straining to watch as Bruce bends over briefly to tug open the bottom drawer, plucking a few items out of it before he shuts it with his foot.

He doesn't allow Clark to see said items as he turns around, instead commanding Clark's attention simply by standing in his space again, between his knees where they're angled off of the bed.

Clark sits up properly, back straight, as Bruce begins.

"I don't do things by half-measures," Bruce says, calmly. Like he's presenting a budget at a meeting. "If you're going to be my pet, you're going to do it right. There will be rules. It will be a lot, for your first time."

At the mention of Clark's virginity, Bruce's eyes go soft again. He combs his fingers through Clark's hair, until the other man is leaning into it.

"I—" Bruce begins, then stops himself almost immediately. He looks at Clark softly, gently like he's trying to soothe him. "I cannot promise I won't also fall into a… headspace, so to speak. I don't partake in pet play often, but often enough."

"It's called pet play," Clark practically gasps, looking at Bruce entirely enraptured. "I'd… you'd think of me as your dog? In… like as a slave?"

"Hardly," Bruce snorts. "I'm not into that sort." Bruce shakes his head then, lips curving up in a way that Clark's easily swayed heart almost takes to be enamored. "You'd be my cherished pet."

If that was meant to be a deterrent, Bruce Wayne really didn't know what power he held over Clark at all, tonight.

He seems to realize it himself when Clark stays contemplatively quiet, eyes wide as he looks back and forth between Bruce's irises.

Waiting for the instructions to begin.

Slowly, Bruce sighs.

"I can't promise I won't be intense, Clark," Bruce reiterates. "I will think of myself entirely as your Master, your handler. I'll train you the way I want my dog to be trained: obedient. Listening to every command without argument."

Bruce pauses, briefly, glancing away. His fingers have slotted together in front of him, forming a barrier between his body and Clark's. "I… may be mean, even."

"I don't mind," Clark says, softly. He lifts his hand up to curl it around Bruce's tangled fingers, until he can steal the spaces between them for himself. Bruce lets him. "I think I really don't mind that at all."

An incredulous noise slips from Bruce's lips. It may be because Clark is acting so easy for him, ready to give up a part of himself he doesn't even know just so that Bruce can take control of it. But something about it feels so right.

Bruce must feel it, too. He must, because his shoulders relax and straighten, and his sophisticated confidence returns to him as he tugs Clark forward by the lapels of his jacket.

"What a treasure you are, falling right into my lap," Bruce mumbles, mostly to himself. "I might have to keep you."

"Please."

Bruce laughs again. Clark is addicted to the sound, and preens happily at the fact that he's the source of it.

Bruce's fingers loosen against his tweed jacket, before they slowly smooth out the wrinkles. Then, he's fitting his fingers down past the shoulder, sliding the jacket down until it pools around Clark's back.

"The little stray wants me to be his Master then, hm?" Bruce says, not exactly kindly but not mean either as he strips Clark. "You'll have to prove yourself."

"Yes, I… yes."

"Yes…?" Bruce leads, head tilting. Fingers pausing.

Clark panics, almost immediately, until he recalls Bruce's earlier word. It's… more than Clark has called anyone, ever. The most had ever been 'sir' when he's being respectful. Maybe 'my lady' when he's teasing Lois and going to get her coffee. But he's never purposefully debased himself like that, firmly cementing himself at someone else's feet. At someone else's mercy.

No one has ever asked him to, really.

Clark chokes on the syllables for a second, just enough for his heart to dislodge itself from his throat. Then, he ducks his head down to shyly amend,

"Yes, Master."

A thrill seems to shoot through Bruce at the word, entirely pleased.

"Good puppy."

Clark shivers, too.

Bruce gathers the jacket and folds it neatly, sleeve to sleeve, neck overlapping the chest to protect the buttons from being caught on something. Then, he hands it to Clark with a silent look.

Clark holds onto it dutifully, watching as Bruce takes a step back.

He misses the warmth of him immediately, but Bruce simply folds his hands behind his back as he formally clears his throat.

Then, he begins.

"There are rules," Bruce repeats. "We will begin with four of them; I expect you to pay attention. If you resist the rules, I will stop the play immediately."

Then, with a frown belying annoyance at what must have been a former interaction, Bruce hisses, "I don't deal with brats."

Clark nods readily. "I'll listen. I'll be good for you, I promise."

Bruce regards him. His eyes sweep up and down, just one time, before he primly says, "I know you will."

Clark throbs in his pants. Perhaps it's the subtle confidence Bruce seems to have in him, despite this being his first time (in many ways). Or, perhaps, it's the silent promise that Bruce will correct him if he misbehaves.

Whatever it is, Clark feels his brain getting pleasantly heavy with it, until he's breathing in time with the subtle way Bruce begins to pace.

"Rule one. You will listen to my every word."

Well, that's an easy one. Bruce's voice carries, not thunderously so, in the bedroom. Rather, it pleasurably tickles at the back of Clark's brain as Bruce dictates to him in a well-practiced manner. Much like listening to a beloved professor, Clark nods, enraptured.

"I will not hurt you, not without warning and not without consent," Bruce continues. "But you will listen regardless of the threat of punishment."

"I understand."

Bruce lifts a hand to shush him, and Clark stills his lips. When Clark doesn't offer more than a few whispy, excited inhales, Bruce rewards him with a pleased smirk.

"Rule two: you will not take off your collar without permission."

Bruce is very serious when he says this, eyebrows pulling down until his eyes are set in a severe glare. Smirk, gone.

Clark, though, is reeling at the prospect of being put in a collar at all.

Not in a bad way. Really not in a bad way. He has to adjust himself a little bit when his cock twitches, as if trying to break free from its confines to join the play finally. When Clark swallows nervously, he can't help but wonder how the weight of a collar will feel against his Adam's apple.

"Rule three," Bruce says, as if he hasn't just given Clark a new fetish in less than five minutes. "I do not handle aggressive pups."

Pups. The word pins itself to Clark, clinging as if it's his new name. He squirms a bit, unsure what to do with himself as he suddenly imagines himself just like a dog.

A puppy, with a tail wagging excitedly as it's being spoken to by its owner. If Clark had one now, he's embarrassed to realize that it, too, would be wagging a mile a minute.

"You may bite me when given permission," Bruce is saying, contemplatively. "However, outside of that, no teeth. Growling is… acceptable."

Clark almost opens his mouth to argue that he would never want to hurt Bruce, especially not with his teeth, but he remembers the earlier correction Bruce had given and holds his tongue appropriately.

"And as for my final rule…"

Bruce finally relaxes, no longer militantly rigid in the way he stands. He drops his hands from behind his back, and then cups Clark's cheek against his warm palm as he settles down on the bed beside him.

"This one is the most important, Clark," Bruce says. He pauses until Clark has looked him in the eye, entirely focused. "Do not force yourself, at any point, to continue with play if you don't like how it feels. Mentally, or physically. Do you understand?"

At the direct question, Clark nods readily. "I do."

Bruce lifts an eyebrow, almost doubtful. Still, he continues softly "Be sure that you do. I want my pup to be happy, ultimately. I want to spoil you, not ruin you."

A grin appears, then, and Bruce's chuckle is like decadent wine. "Well… perhaps ruin you in the fun way. However, absolutely nothing harmful will befall you while you are in my care, son. I expect you to be honest with me when I check in."

For as serious as Bruce has been, stating his rules, Clark thinks they're entirely gracious. Though he didn't know what much to expect, they're… kind rules, in a way. Only meant to protect the both of them during this play.

It only cements Clark's desire further.

"I will be," Clark swears. "I… I won't disappoint you, Mr. Wayne."

Then, timidly, Clark's voice lowers as he reaches a hesitant hand out for Bruce to grab. "… Master."

Bruce's eyes flutter shut at his preferred title, and a barely there tremor is present when he cordially slides his hand into Clark's grip. It's warm. Grounding.

It's perfect.

Bruce squeezes him with that grip, once, until Clark glances up at him happily. Bruce returns his joy with a reserved tilt of his head, but it seems he can't resist giving Clark a soft kiss to his cheek regardless.

"Go to the nightstand and strip for me, sweetheart. I will give you a moment to collect yourself."

Then, Bruce slips from his side and goes over to the tall, ornate dresser. The mirror atop it is round and definitely gives Bruce a wonderful angle of Clark no matter where he would have sent Clark to undress in the room.

It makes Clark swallow heavily, his entire being ripe with need.

Still, he has an order to follow.

Clark stands after just a few moments without Bruce by his side, knees surprisingly shakily as he stands under his full weight. Like a freshly born doe, he stumbles over to the proper area, jacket still tucked at his belly like a shield. He has to take a moment to lay his shaky hands against the nightstand until he's steady again.

He's really doing this.

Clark closes his eyes before the items atop it overwhelm him, breathing in a few times until his heart settles.

Never before has he been so nervous. But he really wants to impress Bruce—wants to experience this with him. Wants to be claimed by him.

Clark stands up straight, eyes blinking open as he turns to face the bed, not yet ready to see what Bruce has prepared for him.

Instead, he focuses on actually following Bruce's direction, and starts stripping.

His hands shake as he's unsure what to take off first. His jacket is being choked by his bicep, his shirt is sweaty and slicked to his back a bit. His pants feel tight, but maybe that's just because his cock is the hardest it's ever been in his life.

Immediately overwhelmed, Clark finds himself scrambling. His fingers touch the buttons of his shirt. Then, almost in the same motion, drop to his fly.

Which would Bruce approve of first? Should… should he strip all the way down? Or was it better to just open up his zippers and buttons so Bruce can undress him fully in that way he seemed to like to earlier?

Nervously, Clark also begins to worry about if Bruce would even… like what's underneath.

"Could I keep my clothes on?" Clark asks shyly, just to see what Bruce says. "Or, just the shirt…? I, um—"

"Of course," Bruce allows easily, as if he hadn't whispered those filthy words earlier about how he wanted Clark naked and begging against his silk sheets. He's half a room away, but Clark can still see the unwavering way he glances Clark over, an eyebrow lifting though not judgemental. "Shy?"

"Um… I guess so."

Truthfully, he was also starting to get worried something about his physiology would tip Bruce off that he wasn't exactly human. His chest was naturally hairless in a way that he's pretty sure most humans' were not. There wasn't a scar or marking on his skin, not a mole or even a hickey where Bruce had kissed him. And Clark runs hot, even in the middle of winter—something to do with how he synthesizes the yellow sun.

All of it compounded together to point a neon sign at Clark: Not. Human.

And he really didn't want to ruin things by outing himself as Superman. He… he wanted this to last, atleast well through the night.

Maybe even more.

"That's fine," Bruce says softly, after a beat. He's turned away from the dresser to regard Clark properly, which Clark demurely takes note of despite the fact that he can't seem to lift his eyes any higher than the plush carpet. "You keep on as much as you like. No matter, I can still show you a good time."

Clark really has no doubt about that. He nods thankfully, eyes filling with sudden, relieved tears, and he watches blearily as the older man gives him a rare smile—not a smirk, but a simple, pleased smile.

"Now go on. Get yourself ready for me, son."

Clark shivers at the… petname? It makes heat build in his stomach regardless, and he nods again even as Bruce turns back, to prepare himself at the same time.

On the nightstand still sat Bruce's procured elements. Clark's eyes catch on them, drawn in like a black hole.

A fancy leather collar. It was a warm, deep brown color, all the way around, embroidered with black thread in a geometric pattern. a soft, gold o-ring at the front and center for… for the leash, which was yet unattached and sitting harmlessly beside it.

It was also brown in color, matched in stitching, but at the very end it was looped and was embossed with letters: B.W.

The owner of the leash.

And, by extension, the owner of the collared pet it would soon be attached to.

Clark swallows heavily, eyes fluttering shut as he imagines the weight of the collar around his neck, being tugged on insistently as Bruce called him over. It makes him bring shaky fingers up to press against his own jugular, nervous and excited. His pulse thrums inhumanly fast beneath his fingertips.

Clark reaches down with his other hand and feels the soft leather. Not a jagged edge in sight. Clark wonders how many others had been allowed to grace their necks with its opulence. Something like jealousy stirs in his belly until he remembers that it's him who's receiving the gift, tonight.

He wouldn't forsake such an honor.

With that thought bolstering him, he begins to strip properly. His outer coat, rumpled from Bruce's caresses and practically folded into a ball from where Bruce had handed it to him, falls in a lumpy pile at his feet.

He hesitates for a moment, before he hurries to gather it up and fold it neatly again, setting it on the floor beside the nightstand instead. Bruce would approve of that more.

He hesitates before undoing just a few buttons of his white undershirt. Enough that the planes of his bare chest were visible, but nothing past his nipples. Feeling the cool air of Bruce's bedroom tickling across it makes him shiver, until he watches the little nubs pebble beneath the thin fabric.

Shyly, he redoes one button. Then he turns to his lower half.

First the belt, which is also leather but definitely not as expensive as the collar. The buckle clinks as he removes it, but he keeps his eyes resolutely averted from Bruce's direction lest he lose his nerve and ruin things. He wraps it around his fist, before he leaves it in a circle atop his jacket.

Finally, his slacks.

Clark's hands tremble as he unzips, biting his lip.

Gosh, he'd… never had sex before. A rush of apprehension floods him suddenly.

For all intents and purposes, his body was human. Despite the oddities, it should be able to fly under the radar as being normal. But what if something… happened during sex that was weird? What if his body wasn't actually all right by human standards?

… What if Bruce wasn't attracted to what he saw when Clark was fully exposed? He must have seen so many beautiful bodies, ones that could almost rival Bruce's own he's sure. Clark… well, he's been called handsome before in magazines and newspapers as Superman.

But what could his little farm-raised body actually do to please Bruce?

"Calm down, Kent. I can hear you grinding your teeth over there." Bruce's smooth voice makes Clark relax almost immediately, shoulders dropping from where they'd been creeping up to his ears.

"I—sorry, Mr. Wayne. I just… I don't know."

Bruce hums.

Clark turns his head just in time to see Bruce taking a few, self-assured steps over to him.

Then, as if he'd never been across the room, Bruce's chest is against Clark's back.

He hovers a hand casually over Clark's, until Clark is sure the older man is finally going to strip him himself.

He doesn't find himself opposing the idea.

Instead, Bruce gently gathers one of Clark's palms in his own and rubs his thumb in a soothing circle against the tense skin.

So, maybe Clark wasn't entirely relaxed just from Bruce's voice.

"Like I said, sweetheart. Keep on as much as you like. I won't touch you anywhere you don't like. Won't push you—not more than you can handle." Bruce's voice is so close, right against the curve of his ear. The few inches of height Clark has on him means little when just the warmth of him is making his knees weak again.

"I just got nervous," Clark mumbles back. "I'm really sorry."

"New rule, no apologizing for no reason," Bruce commands sharply. "I'll let you know if you need to, if you offend me in some manner. That is the only reason you'd be apologizing for the rest of the night. Understand, pup?"

"I, but—"

Bruce tilts Clark's head to the side, then, his free hand nudging at Clark's chin until he obeys. "Clothed or not, I have confidence I can still teach my new puppy obedience just like this. You'll still leave with something to remember me by, when you're alone in your bed, humping your fist. Remembering how good your Master was to you."

Bruce lets go of him, then, but he doesn't pull entirely away.

Clark sways closer, reflexively, but Bruce steadies him with a suave grin, fingers caressing Clark's lower back. "I don't even need to touch. I'll just tell you how to be good for me and leave your pretty little brain nice and empty. Such an easy boy you are—it barely took anything to get you back here, and you're just so eager for it, hm?"

Clark nods helplessly, and Bruce laughs at him. It's sexy, deeper than the laugh he'd shown at the gala.

This one was low and smooth and just for Clark.

"You don't have to think about a single, little thing when you're my pet. Doesn't that sound nice?"

"Yes," Clark breathes, eyes half-lidded and staring at nothing. He imagines himself nestled at Bruce's feet, staring at him reverently even fully clothed. A hand in his hair, petting him lovingly while Bruce otherwise regards him teasingly. Just like a pet that has amused him for the night.

M-maybe even rutting against Bruce's feet, being allowed the shameful pleasure as Bruce cooed at him, called him cute.

"Yes, what?" Bruce asks after a heartbeat, encouraging.

"Yes, sir—Master. Yes, Master."

Bruce smiles, at both titles. Then he dips forward, seemingly unable to resist, and presses a gentle kiss against the nape of Clark's neck.

"Good boy."

This time, Bruce doesn't leave him. He's stripped out of his overcoat and his shirt, but his pants were still on, though unzipped to expose the dark fabric of his underwear.

In comparison to Clark, Bruce did have chest hair, like soft downy fur all across. It looked well groomed, the wisps of it curly and dark. As it trailed lower, though, it slimmed into a smooth line that bisected his stomach, which got denser and… and greyer. A salt-and-pepper happy trail pointing directly down his core, before it disappeared beneath his hem, hidden from sight.

Clark swallows heavily, catching himself staring as Bruce sits down on the edge of the bed.

He looked so handsome like that, though, lax as he glanced up at Clark, waiting for his next move.

Slowly, Clark hooks his thumbs in his belt loops, and tugs down until his pants are in a pile. When he steps out of them, Bruce leans down to help free his feet. His hands just barely touch Clark, balancing an ankle though Clark doesn't really need it, then gently letting it fall again. When he sits up, he's already folding the pants up and handing them off.

Clark hesitates more, when it comes to the underwear. Jeez, he should've just taken them both off at once.

As if sensing his train of thought, Bruce offers his hand. "Only what you can handle."

Emboldened, like he's just taken a shot of alcohol, Clark yanks his briefs off and hurries to fold them before Bruce can even offer to. There's a soft laugh, but it isn't mean; simply teasing.

Clark's exposed length sways in the air, heavy with need as he finally straightens again. Bruce's eyes catch on it, briefly, eyes almost shining with interest. He doesn't say a word, though, simply waits.

… Clark leaves the shirt on, but he unbuttons it all the way down. Somehow, that's enough to ease any lasting nerves. It makes him feel safer, like a cape he can hide behind if it gets overwhelming.

As humiliating as that is to think.

Bruce seems pleased, regardless.

Once Clark has placed his discarded clothing neatly off to the side, Bruce begins to spread his legs. The look in his eyes is beguiling, and almost draws Clark in to kiss him messily like they did earlier. Instead, Bruce deliberately breaks eye contact to instead look at the accoutrements on the nightstand, lying in wait.

Clark has only just started to glance over, to look at them with him, when Bruce speaks.

"Kneel."

A startled breath escapes him. Clark's eyes dart down to his feet, and watch as Bruce's spread just half an inch further apart. The perfect amount of space for Clark to settle into, on his knees.

Leather slides across wood as Bruce gathers the collar in his hands, waiting patiently for his new puppy to obey his first real command. He doesn't repeat himself, doesn't even look up to make sure Clark has heard him properly. He simply runs the tip of a finger across the inner part of the collar, feeling the soft of the material that will soon be resting against Clark's skin for the foreseeable future.

Clark lowers himself to his knees, neck lifted and bared to Bruce to accept his collar.

It's over almost too fast.

In a quick, but no less heated motion, Bruce has curled the leather around Clark's neck and fastened it at the back with a soft 'click'.

It isn't a lock, Clark could easily just take the thing off. Lift a hand to unlatch, shake his head, and it would fall into his lap uselessly.

But he won't. It's against the rules.

"Beautiful."

Bruce's voice is so elated, rapturous like he'd just unveiled a painting that has taken a lifetime to create. His fingers waver around Clark's neck, almost acting as a second collar as Bruce circles him. Then, they fall away, and Clark nearly chases. He's only stopped by the way Bruce's knee presses against his side, nudging him into the perfect position.

Once he's properly centered between Bruce's legs, Bruce slowly sighs.

"What a pretty puppy you are," he murmurs. "All mine."

Clark nods. The collar restricts the movement, only just. It feels right.

"Yours."

For a long moment, they do nothing more than breathe together.

Clark finds himself lost in the swirl of Bruce's intense gaze, swaying forward as if the collar is heavy, until his weight rests against Bruce's thigh.

His fingers curl, purely instinctive, around Bruce's ankle, but the other man doesn't push him away. Rather, he seems to be relaxing just as much as Clark is the longer they simply… sit.

Clark's eyes wander, when the gaze leaves him more breathless than not. Bruce makes a noise, something seductive that draws another layer of haze in Clark's mind like heavy smoke, but it's soft and encouraging.

Clark leans in close, until his cheek rests against Bruce's knee.

Like this Clark feels… small. For the first time in his life, he feels little and vulnerable and… and soft.

The collar helps to remind him of his place, gently nuzzling against Bruce's clothed leg as his eyes flutter open. When had they shut? How long has it been? Surely just a minute, but it feels like he's been here forever, curled up in Bruce's lap. Safe.

His eyes begin to slowly focus again, just as there's the soft sound of metal against metal. Bruce has clipped the leash to the o-ring. To him.

It shifts the weight of the collar forward, to the dip of bone at the very apex of Clark's sternum. Not heavy, but present.

He leans forward with it until he catches himself, face close enough to kiss the warm spot radiating between Bruce's legs.

Before he can, he's eased back down to Bruce's knee with a gentle touch, and another soft, pleased noise from his Master.

He glances up, having to blink a few times to see through his tangled eyelashes. Bruce is looking at him already, entirely unguarded. The most open Clark has ever seen him be tonight. There's a raw emotion that Clark can't name, not even with the encyclopedia of words and metaphors he'd memorized over the course of his life with his eidetic memory.

It's blinding. Clark blinks his eyes shut again, to guard himself with it as he drowsily rocks backwards, almost falling off his knees and onto his rear end until Bruce ushers him forward again with the steady hold he has yet to relinquish on the leash.

Is this what being drunk feels like? Clark thinks it's pretty darn close.

It's like he's lost control of his senses, even the special ones. In some moments, the world threatens to overwhelm him—traffic sounds, screaming, a tornado somewhere ripping apart a house, a casket being lowered in the dirt. In others, all there is for him is the rush of Bruce's blood beneath his skin, his heartbeat steady and calm like a buoy bobbing over an ocean wave. Calming and sure, pulling Clark back to here.

He opens his eyes again, but can't look at Bruce directly, skittish. Almost as if he's waiting for his Master to suddenly yank at the leash, send him reeling even more off balance. He's nervous, like an animal that's been caged.

Nervous, like a street pup that has just received its first collar in the warmth of its new home.

Clark shivers.

To calm himself, he focuses on the rest of Bruce's body, the new swathes of skin revealed to him that he's yet to see.

There have been many two-page spreads of Bruce in fashion magazines. None so staunchly unmodified by an airbrush as the real thing right in front of him.

Beneath the body hair, there are a few scars on Bruce's chest, Clark only just realizes. If he focuses on underneath, he can see the remnants of bone-scarring as well, where he'd broken his sternum, his ribs.

It looks retroactively painful, and Clark's heart clenches as he imagines what could have possibly happened to have hurt his… his Master so.

"Hush, little one," Bruce says quietly, when Clark makes a wounded noise. "Let me pet you for a moment."

Clark's eyes shut as fingers comb through his hair. It's a motion Bruce has done already tonight, but it's… different this time. This time, it isn't Clark the reporter being overwhelmed by Bruce Wayne.

This time it's a puppy and his Master, intimately sharing body heat.

Clark leans into it as Bruce scritches his scalp with carefully manicured fingernails. He has to suck his bottom lip between his teeth to stop from outright moaning, especially when Bruce doesn't stop as he murmurs sweet nothings below his breath.

Clark's chest feels heavy and full with something he can't exactly name at the moment. It's easy to breathe past it, but each breath seems to drag him further under this sudden daze as he inhales Bruce's scent.

Cologne, Bruce's natural smell of leather, the salty scent of his arousal that Clark can pick up because he's between Bruce's legs. All of it amalgamates in him and leaves him mewling. No, rumbling with a pleased chuff just like the puppy he's become.

"Master," Clark moans, when Bruce's hand dips lower to caress the bare skin of his shoulders.

"Good boy," Bruce praises.

Clark looks up at him, then. Bruce has slightly leaned over him, covering Clark in both shadow and warmth. His face is coated in a handsome blush, lips lightly parted as he breathes slowly, in and out, as he watches Clark fall deeper and deeper down. The rhythm of him is disarming. Clark shuts one eye as Bruce carefully runs his thumb across his cheek, feeling him just to feel him.

His hands are calloused and rough, but the fingers are soft in the way that they hold Clark so tenderly. He leans into Bruce's palm when it cups his jaw, and parts his lips when his head is angled up, just so.

"Look at how quickly you've become the perfect pet for me. You were made for this, sweetheart."

Clark shyly ducks his head, almost out of Bruce's hold until Bruce gently ushers him back up with a tug on his leash. He has Clark look him in the eye, hold gentle but firm.

He doesn't say a word beyond the praise, but Clark is hypnotized by him regardless. His own voice has caught in the back of his throat, stuck between wanting to beg for more praise, and wanting to lavish Bruce in his own.

They've only sat together, one being caressed by the other, and Clark feels like he's miles away from his body. Floating in the comfort of endless space, this time warm in comparison to the ceaseless cold outside the atmosphere of Earth. He tethers himself to Bruce by clinging to him shyly, hands carefully curved against his lower leg so that he doesn't actually float float float away.

"Mmh," Clark begins, eyes shutting as a cool fingertip traces the outline of his pink lips. His air puffs out of him when Bruce pulls away the hand at his jaw, but he forces himself to breathe steadily when it comes back again, lower and against his neck. Against his collar, feeling how the skin underneath is flushed and warm from the pure amount of arousal coursing through Clark's veins.

"Master," he whispers in the air between them, eyes averted down submissively. The word is the only thing that has the capacity, in this moment, to denote how Clark is feeling.

"I'm here, pup."

The floating is almost scary, but oh so comfortable. He's finally relaxed his thighs, sinking down a few inches so that they're tucked fully against his shins. He… he must look so silly, coming undone like this.

Bruce catches him, though, holding him steadily in place with his kind hands and a gentle, low hum.

"Open, pretty boy."

There's an insistent nudge against his mouth, until Clark has opened up.

Bruce's finger slowly slides in past the jut of his lip and found its place against the soft of his inner cheek.

Clark makes a needy noise, hungry at the taste of him. The finger rubs against him, edging over his teeth until it nudges against his tongue directly to let him taste more.

When he looks in Bruce's eyes again, there's something like greedy indulgence shimmering in his gaze.

Bruce smiles, and gives him more.

Slowly, a second finger slides into his mouth and parts like scissors, spreading until Clark surely must look ridiculous; his lips go taut around the digits, until he's having to dip his shoulders to angle his head up so he doesn't drool everywhere.

Bruce tuts at him. "Stay still."

Clark stays still.

The fingers grant him mercy and slowly close together again, working as one unit to continue exploring his mouth. They shallowly map the shape of his tongue, the nails nudge against the roof of his mouth until he whines, and then the tips go in deep.

Clark has never had a gag reflex, and it doesn't manifest now. His throat easily accepts Bruce's fingers down it until he's able to swallow them, throat working as spit builds up around the thick of them.

Gosh, they're so thick. Clark didn't realize Bruce had such large hands until now.

The leash tightens, tugging him closer so that Bruce can begin to nudge deeper. Clark sways forward, nearly spearing them all the way down his gullet in one motion.

He hears how Bruce's steady breathing has picked up in pace. One moment calm like a bastion, the next shaky with unspoken excitement.

Clark blinks, eyes focusing.

He finds Bruce's unrelenting stare stuck on him the same as before. Watching as he fucks his fingers in and out of Clark's throat.

Bruce licks his lips, and Clark's eyes jump down to follow the motion of his tongue. It makes Bruce's smile grow into a bold grin.

"Say 'thank you'," Bruce commands, fingers nudging against Clark's wet esophagus. He doesn't make a single move to tug them out. "Let me know how grateful you are that I'm training you, puppy."

Clark's mouth closes around Bruce as he tries to respond immediately, but Bruce is merciless as he begins to piston his fingers in and out. Testing the limits of Clark's throat.

"Nngh—" Clark gurgles against the onslaught. "Ff—"

Bruce coos at him, leaning in close until Clark goes cross-eyed to keep looking at him.

"Let me hear you, pup. Be good for me."

Clark stays still, even as Bruce's other hand circles the back of his neck and squeezes down encouragingly. His cock is throbbing, he realizes with sudden clarity, leaking precum directly against the tops of his thighs until they're all sticky. Some of it surely, by now, has even dripped into the carpet.

He shies away, hips tugging back as if Bruce can read his thoughts.

But his head is kept firmly in place as he, as ordered, tries to thank him properly.

There's a rough sound from his throat as Bruce slots a third finger in, stretching it intimately. "Ggh—ffhnk—"

Clark tries, he really does, to get the sounds out, but he can't around the bulk of the wriggling appendages. Overwhelmed, all he can do is babble and choke on them.

A soft noise erupts from Bruce, much quieter and controlled in comparison to Clark's impuissant noise. A pleased moan.

Clark's eyes roll back from the pleasure that it brings him to hear it. Distantly, he feels a warm tear drip from his eye, but Bruce pulls his hand from his neck to swipe it away. The curved grip of the leash tickles his skin when it brushes him with the motion.

Delighted, Bruce slowly extracts his fingers from Clark's throat. Spit drips from them as they go, leaving a mess of drool that Clark can't slurp away before Bruce has stolen them from his reach.

A quiet whine catches, but he clears his throat—thick with built up slobber—and pants loudly, just once.

Then,

"Th-aah… Thank you."

Bruce has made his face messy in just those few moments. Clark is abashed to realize it as he feels drool and more tears drying against the heated blush on his cheeks.

A line of spit drips off his chin.

"Did you like that, sweetheart?"

"Yes," Clark breathes, his head nodding jerkily. "I liked it."

Bruce takes his messy fingers, lets Clark watch as he casually observes the way they spill, before he brings them up to his own mouth and licks.

A moan punches its way out of Clark as Bruce cleans himself up, lapping at his fingertips easily until they're clean again. It had dripped down as far as his wrist, goodness, and he doesn't hesitate to lick that up as well.

Then, after swallowing in a way that Clark can only describe as arousing, he smiles at Clark once more. It seems when he's doing well, he's rewarded by the rare, guarded expression. Clark values it more than gold.

"Good pup. You're so calm, letting Master play with you as he pleases."

Bruce leans over, nosing at Clark's wet cheek before he leaves a gentle kiss against his lips. "Lay down for me?"

As if a spell of immovability has been lifted, Clark shudders and sways. Then he drops backwards with a dull thud, catching himself with one hand as he hurriedly swipes at his face with the back of the other.

Then he allows himself to fall completely, keeping eye contact with Bruce as he goes.

The collar goes taut but doesn't choke him. It probably can't, realistically, but Bruce is careful to keep the pressure gentle as the leash is tugged while Clark gets into the requested position.

He doesn't realize until an embarrassing beat later that his cock is now fully twitching in the open air. It sticks straight up, even, divulging just how much he's enjoying every moment of this.

Clark's hands hover, unsure, at his crotch without properly touching.

He drops them when Bruce raises a brow, a silent dare.

Instead, he settles his hands awkwardly against the carpet, letting his fingertips dig into the soft fibers as he lays, exposed.

"There we go," Bruce praises, warm. "Let me look at you for a moment."

Bruce sits on the edge of the bed, tipping forward until he's nearly pushed himself to standing. He watches the way Clark's dick drips its arousal, the way Clark's chest shakily rises and falls with overwhelmed breath.

How his entire body is beginning to blush pink, fingers digging into fists to resist lifting them to hide himself away.

"What a beautiful puppy," Bruce says, after a genuine moment of appraisal. "Now let's reward you."

Bruce stands. He looks imposing from Clark's new angle, reaching an endless height that Clark can only meet when he's not a dog laying on its back, exposing its belly.

"Spread your legs for me," Bruce says, palms splaying against Clark's thighs to help angle him properly, the way Bruce wants him to be. "There we are."

Clark is spread until his knees are bent, thighs almost straining as they're pulled apart as far as they can go. Then Bruce reaches up, curling Clark's arms until they're lifted in the air. Like a dog, presenting itself for belly rubs.

Clark swallows heavily. His hips twitch, unused to the position. It makes his tip nudge against his lower tummy.

Bruce nods, satisfied.

Then he reaches his hand down and rubs it across Clark's stomach, feeling the planes of it until Clark has tensed, squirming at the foreign feeling of being affectionately petted like so.

The reaction just has Bruce doing it again, letting his nails tickle across Clark's musculature until genuine pleasure has his toes curling.

Precum pools in Clark's belly button. It's just this side of humiliating, and Clark squeezes his eyes shut to keep from getting excessively overwhelmed by it all.

By belly rubs, of all things.

He tips his head back, letting it thump against the floor so that he doesn't have to look. But the image of Bruce's pleased smile, the sound of his amused huff, it just makes him feel it more.

Soon, though, Bruce's hand has slowed. He traces Clark's abdomen, the formation of his abs as he tenses again at the tickle. And then he allows his fingers to purposefully dip into the growing pool of slick that has dribbled all across his lower belly.

Clark whimpers. He can't help it. The noise spills from him as unbidden as the precum from his cock.

Bruce shushes him, spreading the mess until he's coated his palm in it. Clark realizes it's the same hand that had just been down his throat when he feels sticky, dried spit leave residue against him.

He swallows around the phantom feeling of Bruce's fingers in his mouth. His cock twitches again.

"Excited?"

He might cum if Bruce keeps speaking to him in that delighted tone, as if he's exhilarated and breathless simply from Clark's easy submission.

Clark nods slowly, eyes shutting. "Sir…"

Bruce's heartbeat ticks up in speed. Clark blinks his eyes open just in time to see Bruce break his gaze away from Clark's face to instead focus on his bobbing length.

With little fanfare, he gathers up the cock before him in his hand and strokes it once, from base to tip, thoroughly spreading the natural lubricant from his palm and onto the heated, hardened flesh.

"Ohh—!" The sudden pleasure is as much a shock as it is a welcomed reward.

Bruce slowly strokes him off, watching intently as Clark squirms, unsure of what to do with himself when he's not the one in control of the pace, the pressure.

In the end, he goes limp, tense thighs relaxing all at once to give Bruce more space to touch him. And touch him Bruce does, using his free hand to tug on the leash so that he can caress Clark's legs, his hips, his lower belly. The metal of the o-ring clinks pleasantly as Bruce slackens the grip, until he's bent over to feel along Clark's blushed pink chest.

"Mmm, um…" Clark pants softly. "Thank you, sir."

From base to tip his cock is stroked. Bruce's hand is so warm, like being enveloped by a warm summer night.

"So polite for me. You're welcome, puppy. Does it feel good?"

Bruce jerks him off like he can feel everything Clark feels. He speeds up when the pleasure stagnates, and slows when it almost overcomes Clark.

"Y-yes…!" Clark moans up to the ceiling. "It's—so good!"

He thumbs against Clark's weeping tip until his fingers are all messy with it, and then uses that lube to make it sound like Clark is fucking into a wet, loose hole. It sounds so raunchy that Clark can't help but embarrassedly stop himself from thrusting, though that doesn't stop Bruce from keeping up the pace in the slightest.

And the entire time, he talks Clark through it.

"That's a good dog, just let Master take care of you." And, "That's right, you can take more can't you? Your poor cock wants it so bad."

Clark lets out a hiccupy, overwhelmed moan with each phrase, unable to vocalize with how much he's feeling it.

"Next time I'll have a nice little tail ready for you, plugging up your little hole," his Master muses. "Would you like that? I can just imagine you wagging it like the cute little mutt you are. Feeling the weight of it while you hump my feet."

Clark can imagine it. He'd never had… anything inside of him like that, not in his life. He imagines if he had one now, a real tail instead, it would be curled and twitching against the carpet, trying its darndest to wag. To silently encourage Bruce to keep talking to him just like that.

The precipice of pleasure sneaks up on Clark, lost in his imagination so. He's staring at Bruce with his eyes half-closed, blending the present look of him with the dark, pleased visage that would greet him when he's clinging to Bruce's shins and trying to get himself off without touching at all.

Then the heat in his belly goes sharp, insisting. He swallows heavily, writhing as it builds and builds inside of him.

"I'm…" Clark breathes. "Ohhhmygosh…"

His fingers tighten into proper fists, the only thing he can grab onto being the carpet. Desperately, he breathes sharp, in and out, through his nose so that he doesn't accidentally disintegrate the floor with his super strength.

Bruce speeds up.

An embarrassing gurgle forces itself out of Clark's throat, his thighs slapping together as he tries to hide from the sensation. It does very little to quell it, not when Bruce simply repositions so that his fist can continue to fuck up and down Clark's length unobstructed.

"I'mggonna," Clark babbles. "C-Can I—ohh, uhnn—!"

"Ask for it properly." Bruce leans over until their faces almost touch. The leash is gathered up in his palm until its length has shortened considerably, and Clark is yanked up by his neck to meet him the rest of the way. Bruce nestles their cheeks together, both of them watching with the new angle as Clark's tip disappears and reappears with each thrust. "Beg me to let you cum. Be polite."

"Mnngh—" Clark nods helplessly. "C-Can… please can I cum, Master? You're t-touching me so… soo, ohhh…" The incoherency makes Bruce dig his thumb against Clark's frenulum, feeling the sponginess of the sensitive tip until Clark is seeing stars. "Please!"

"Beg," Bruce orders again. "Properly."

"Please let me cum, sir!" Clark cries out, gasping with every downward stroke. "Please let your puppy cu-uhhmm—! I've never felt like this before, it's… it's… I'm c-mmhngg!"

Bruce lets go of his cock, all at once.

Clark's moaning cuts off with an agonized whine, something sharp and grating. His feet plant flat on the floor, hips thrusting upward to chase after Bruce's lax fist.

"N-nnngho, please pleasepleaseplease," Clark sobs, eyes snapping open to watch as Bruce keeps himself purposefully out of Clark's range. He scrambles, fists tightening as his head smacks back against the carpet as he wails. "I'm—please!"

Bruce laughs at him cruelly, but it just makes another burst of pleasure pop across Clark's nerve-endings. His cock bobs and flexes in the air, pointed directly at his face, but only drops of precum leak from his tip, crying with him after his balls have been denied release.

"Good puppy," Bruce praises him genuinely, watching raptly as Clark falls apart. As soon as his hips drop back flat against the floor, he's gathering his length up in his dripping fingers and stroking again, slower this time. "You did so well, sweetheart."

"Pl-eaa… Pleasee," Clark chokes on the words, unsure what to do with himself.

He's never cut off an orgasm like that before. It hurt in a way, like when he keeps stroking himself after he's already cum. This is worse, though, because the feeling doesn't subside after a few moments, just dissolves back into that endless pleasure as Bruce begins to stroke him off all over again. His cock, immediately forgetting the cruel edge, eagerly throbs for Bruce's touch.

Lips leave a trail of kisses across his cheek, all the way down his collar-covered neck. "My good pup. You're all mine to play with, aren't you? Was that too much for you, puppy boy? Poor little crybaby."

Clark doesn't realize he's actually crying until he feels the tears cooling on his skin.

"Do you wanna cum, my sweet puppy?" Bruce asks him, breathless as he licks the salt of Clark's tears from his lips. His hand stays at a steady pace, though his grip tightens minutely when Clark can't help the overstimulated whines that spill from him. "Do you think you deserve it yet?"

"I-I…" Clark's entire being trembles with need. "I don't know—I can't—"

"Fuck my fist," Bruce orders. "Show me how you want to take me. Imagine it's my ass and I've just allowed you free reign to use it as you please. Prove to me that you can fuck me the way I like, and I'll let you."

"Gosh," Clark cries out.

His hands finally yank from their place against the carpet, fingers curling into fists as he hides his face from view. His final defense against Bruce's unending assault against his senses.

"Master…!"

His hips listen even as Clark gets overwhelmed. They jut upwards, awkward at first without the use of his legs to aid them. Those stay perfectly perched in the position Bruce had angled them in. Instead, Clark has to use his abdomen to piston himself up, fucking into Bruce's fist obediently.

Quick, and desperate.

"I'll let you," Bruce says again. "I'll let you this time, Master won't be mean anymore. I'm gonna drag it out of you until you can't think of anything but your Master."

"G-gghod—!" Clark shakes his head from side to side as Bruce breathes heavily. As if he were feeling it just as much, keeping his fist in place as Clark ruts into it. "Please don't stop!"

Clark can't look at him, his heart might beat right out of his chest if Bruce is looking him in the eye again.

"Just like that, puppy. Don't hold back." Bruce's voice tingles the entirety of Clark's brain, covering him like velvet. "Cum for me; show me how much you want to fill me up with every single drop."

Clark grunts as he tries to go faster. Tries to fuck into Bruce, i-into his fist, rather, to prove himself. It's hard, to keep up the pace and the angle, but it matters little when Bruce moans encouragingly.

Warmth blooms across Clark from head to toe. He's drooling again, mouth dropped open to spill his helpless moans all for Bruce's appraisal.

"I'm g-gonna…!" Bruce's fist tightens immediately, encouragingly. "I can't…!"

"You're adorable, love. My puppy," Bruce groans, palming himself with his free hand. "Cum for me. You deserve it, sweetheart—so fucking good for me."

Clark's back arches off of the floor. He presses his fist firmly against his mouth, trying to silence his wordless begging, his thanks, everything that escapes him unbidden. The link between his brain and his mouth has broken.

"Sir, ahhn—ohh, Masterrr, thank you, it feels so g-guh-ah—good…! I-I'm so closee—! P-Please don't sto-haah-p!"

There's no cruel edging this time. Rather, his pitiful begging makes Bruce kiss him directly on his lips. His hand is nudged out of the way and then his lips are captured, and Clark breaks. He moans directly into Bruce's mouth, unable to feel ashamed at the notion of it.

He cums so fucking hard that he blanks, brain exploding into a bright white nothingness.

His fingers find purchase on Bruce's shoulders to keep him steady, though a distant part of him wonders if he's allowed to touch like that when he's just a puppy.

But Bruce doesn't seem to mind, moaning soft encouragements as he picks up Clark's stuttered pace and strokes his cock up and down, wrist twisting to add another spark of pleasure to the end of each motion even as Clark's orgasm spills all over.

It's messy, it's wet, and it feels so good that Clark can't even be embarrassed.

He squeezes down, and Bruce grunts at the pressure as he kisses him deeper. He tongues against Clark, urging another spurt of cum from him just from that.

When he pulls back, they're connected by a line of spit that breaks and splatters against Clark's panting chest.

Clark's unseeing eyes blink uselessly as he mewls a few more times, body twitching with the aftershocks.

His hands fall, limp, from Bruce's shoulders a moment later. Right back into their proper position, folded over and presented like a dog's paw.

Like he's been reset, he falls back into the pose all at once, the only evidence that his body has been ravished being the flood of cum pooling in his belly button, the awkward stumble of his heaving chest, and the tears on his lashes.

Bruce's shadow casts over him like a blanket, and then disappears as he leans over Clark's waist.

Then a hot tongue is dipping across his abdomen. It gathers up his spend, until the wriggling appendage can't be covered anymore by the white semen. Only when he's just messily spreading it more does Bruce swallow, softly gasping as it coats the back of his throat and fills his senses with the purest taste of Clark that one could get.

He laps at him like that as Clark uselessly tries to catch his breath. Useless, because his chest hitches each time Bruce licks him, and holds in his lungs completely until they burn when Bruce circles his fingers along the base of him to lick up the cum that has leaked there, too. His jaw is rough against Clark's sensitive skin, shaved facial hair scratching not undesirably against his hips.

Traitorously, his cock jerks in interest, half hard even as he comes down from the razor-edged climax.

Bruce seems to be amused at the apparent lack of a refractory period, smirking directly against the hardening length. It's almost as long as his face is.

Bruce's tongue spills all the way out of his mouth, the tip still coated with a bit of Clark's cum. He laves it across the curve of the cock before him, leaving a torrid line of spit in his wake. Clark can only grunt, toes curling over at the sensual view.

It seems, though, that he's been granted mercy from more of the carnal torture. For now.

Bruce sits up, uncaring as he uses his messy fingers to slick back his hair that has been to fall from his pushed-back hairstyle. He watches as Clark, relieved, goes limp all over again. His thighs jump irregularly, flexing as if to prepare to thrust up into Bruce's hold again. Neither of them had noticed the drool that had mixed with Clark's tears down along his jaw, and Bruce quickly swipes it away with his palm, rubbing it into the fabric of his pants. His eyes are mostly unseeing, too, lost in the smooth, dark paint of the ceiling even through the obfuscation of his drying tears.

Altogether, he looks ruined. Just how Bruce wanted him.

"So perfect." Bruce leans over, planting his palm on the other side of Clark so that they're pressed chest to chest. Master above, puppy below. "Did I break you already, baby boy? You whined so prettily for me I couldn't help but tease you a bit."

"Nngh," Clark responds, throat bobbing as he tries to remember how to speak properly after all that wanton begging.

"I'm going to grab your hand," Bruce instructs. As he says this, he balances on one palm so that he can lift the other, hovering it above Clark's curved over paw. "Squeeze down if you can take more, love. Master just wants to spoil you more with pleasure, but if my puppy needs a break, we have all the time in the world."

Clark sluggishly parses through the words. Bruce takes Clark's hand, comfortably curved in his grip, and kisses at his knuckles. "You were so beautiful, taking all of it without complaining. You were made to be my little dog, weren't you?"

"Mhm," Clark weakly agrees. "Y'rs."

Bruce's smile looks like the glint of a knife in the darkness. Thrilling and dangerous.

"All mine."

Clark tilts his head, eyes fluttering shut. He takes one more deep breath, before he feels his head clear a bit.

Then he nods, squeezing down obediently on his Master's hand until the other man shivers with silent, deliriously thrilled delight.

"More. Please."

Bruce releases him, rolling onto his knees. When he stands, up to his full height, he becomes almost faceless with the dark shadow that paints over him. It's imposing, fierce. Like Bruce is darkness come to life. It makes Clark want to kiss him, a bit.

"Up," Bruce says, breathless. "Hands and knees for me."

In between one moment and the next, Clark has obediently twisted onto his belly, shakily fitting his knees beneath himself. He grunts when it makes his cock nudge against his thighs, still only half-hard.

Then he turns, crawling forward until he's at Bruce's heel, looking up at him with an expression that must be pathetically embarrassed.

"Master," Clark breathes. Bruce leans down to pet him, then stays hunched as he holds his empty hand out.

"Leash."

Clark glances down, surprised to note that Bruce had dropped it in the excitement. It's the first time tonight that it has hung limply in the air, uncontrolled by its owner. It makes something like nervousness nudge at the back of Clark's brain. He scrambles to gather it up, leaning up on his knees so that Bruce won't have to reach so much. Then he gently places the tether back in its proper place, in Bruce's control.

"Perfect," Clark is praised. "Follow."

Bruce doesn't take him far at all. He leads Clark forward, back to the edge of the bed, and sits primly on it as if sitting upon a throne covered in satin and gold. He spreads his legs, making room again for his oversized pup.

He pats lightly in the empty space between his legs, until Clark has taken up his proper place there, staring up at Bruce devoutly.

Bruce stares back, something so fond in his gaze that it's truly like he's looking at a pet he's fallen in love with at first sight. Clark grabs him, hands circling against Bruce's ankle all over again as if they'd never left this position.

"Now…" Bruce's hand drops down to adjust himself in his pants. He's still unzipped, and the swell of his cock is visible through his underwear. It looks like a pleasant mouthful, protruding enough that Clark could probably even try to take it between his lips through the thin fabric.

"Lick."

Bruce's fingers tangle against his scalp, but he's gentle as he urges Clark forward. He rocks onto the knobs of his knees, sniffing reflexively as Bruce's pure, unadulterated, aroused scent hits him full-force. Still covered, he can't tell if Bruce is dripping with arousal, but he can almost taste it regardless.

Not needing to be commanded twice, Clark drops his mouth open and tongues Bruce's cock through his black, glossy boxer briefs.

And immediately moans at the taste. It's heavy, like pure musk wrapping all around him. His eyes roll back as he licks again, hardly pulling his tongue back between his lips before he's shoving his face completely against Bruce's cock.

Bruce moans with him, head pitching back until all Clark can see is his tense jaw. He's biting down, holding back his noises, but that just encourages Clark to work him over more. He laps readily against Bruce's underwear, letting his spit soak through it until the thin, silky material is clinging like a second skin.

He doesn't stop, tracing the tip of his tongue all across the outline, until he's figured out the shape of it in his brain. Like Clark, he's only half hard, but it does nothing to rebut the fact that he's considerably thick. It feels like it'll stretch Clark's jaw, maybe even choke him a bit if he's allowed to suckle it deep down his throat once it's at its full potential.

Clark nips at Bruce's waistband, sitting up higher to reach. His hair must tickle Bruce's stomach because it tenses, and Bruce lets out an amused hum.

"So excitable," he teases. "Want more already? You've only just tasted me, sweetheart."

Clark wants more than a simple lick though. He bites on the spandex, yanking on the underwear until Bruce is begrudgingly reaching down to tug himself free, all at once.

"Just for a moment," he murmurs, mostly to himself.

Clark's lips press against the humid flesh, as it's revealed to him, until he's covered it with gentle smooches all the way down to its tip.

Bruce's cock is still soft, curving more down than standing proudly. Clark doesn't mind, happy to just be allowed to kiss it at all. He opens his mouth, tasting the sweat that has mixed with the precum before his tongue has even properly touched.

"Mm." Clark savors the taste of it, trying his darnedest to suck him to full hardness so it can spear down his throat and use him like a doll.

Bruce's palm lifts from the back of his head, instead planting on his forehead to push him back. Gentle, but insistent.

"Stick your tongue out," Bruce commands instead. "And look at me."

Clark whines softly, the noise nothing more than air escaping as he lets his tongue loll completely out of his mouth. His eyes dart up to Bruce's, catching there like a hook to a fish. He moans again, just because Bruce grins at him.

"Needy," he's teased. His eyes dart back and forth between Bruce's as his peripherals catch Bruce beginning to jerk himself off, right against the sensitive middle of Clark's tongue. "Greedy pup."

"Wan' it," Clark moans, hardly closing his mouth.

Bruce bites down on his lip, muffling a hoarse curse as he plays with his cock.

Clark wants to see it, but he obediently doesn't break line of sight. He watches, euphoria filling him up like helium in a balloon, as Bruce's eyes go hazy as the pleasure grows in him this time. Working himself up to his own climax, using Clark as the canvas he's going to paint white.

"Mmh," Clark encourages, curling his tongue up until he feels a cooled line of precum mixing with the drool spilling from the tip of his tongue. Bruce curses again, aloud this time, and squeezes his eyes shut.

Clark doesn't look away regardless, watching as Bruce chokes himself with his own held-back moaning. He watches the pretty flush of Bruce's cheeks grow all across his face, watches how his lips purse when he forces a burst of air out of his lungs so he doesn't pass out. He looks tense, simultaneously holding himself back as he drags himself up to climax.

It's so beautiful.

Clark crests forward again, without permission, and takes Bruce's tip in his mouth all over again. The soft head is still spongy when he suckles on it, but it does give a valiant twitch before a sluggish glob of precum follows. He swallows it down like it's the nectar of the sweetest fruit.

"Clark," Bruce groans. "Fuck."

Clark sucks harder, until his cheeks dimple in with the strength of it. Silently begging Bruce to fill the space with his cum instead.

He only pulls back when Bruce's hand, still against his forehead, pushes adamantly. When his cock pops free, Bruce jolts, as if he'd still wanted more, too.

Before Clark can sneak forward again, to finish the job, Bruce tugs on the leash. The collar tightens, restrictive, and Clark goes obediently still, head angled higher. Bruce's cock is right against his lips, still parted, still leaking drool.

Bruce sneaks his fingers between his cock and Clark's mouth, nudging him away. Hiding it from view.

When he opens his eyes again, they've lost that dazed mistiness. He's fully back: a stern, loving Master that almost got overrun by his excitable dog.

Clark curls in, making himself smaller and apologetically nuzzling his cheek against Bruce's inner thigh. "Sorr—um," he puffs, licking his lips all the way around to try and gather more of Bruce's essence. "I mean… it tasted good. So good."

"Mm. You know…" Bruce begins, breathing heavy all over again. "You're so big. You could pin me down and take me however you wanted, if you'd liked it. But you like it like this, don't you? Being my little pup, lapping at my cock and waiting for me to give you another command. That's all you need to be happy, hm?"

Clark nods, tongue still out and dripping. He isn't sure if he's allowed to stick it back in yet.

Bruce seems pleased, reaching his hand out, the one wrapped in the length of the leash, and rubs his thumb along Clark's wet upper lip. Letting him taste his own arousal directly from Bruce's fingers mixed with the taste of the leather.

"Good. I love you just like this."

Despite himself, Clark drowns in the words. It definitely isn't meant to be taken the way Clark's heart immediately takes it—I love you, I love you—but it satisfies him down to his core regardless.

A pathetic little puppy happy to be loved by his Master.

"I have one more surprise for you, you hyper puppy. Before I let you fuck me."

The promise of both makes Clark perk up. He nods eagerly, before he even knows what the surprise is, and settles back properly on his haunches.

"I spoil you," Bruce hums. "But perhaps you deserve it. Haven't you been so good for me tonight?"

Clark nods shyly. "Mm… wanna be good. For you, Master."

Bruce pets him. "Good. Now…"

He eases Clark back to lean over, digging in the treasure trove that is his nightstand once more. When he sits up again, he has something relatively small hidden in his grip. He thumbs across the texture of whatever it is, seeming to contemplate before he presents it for Clark's consideration.

When he does, Clark does nothing more than owlishly blink for a few beats.

It's… it's a bone. A soft, silicone bone toy. It doesn't look like it's made for a dog, the proportions exaggerated to fit around a more human-like snout rather than a dog's muzzle. But it's a toy bone regardless.

"Just for you, boy," Bruce murmurs. "Aren't you excited to play with me?"

Clark sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, unable to hide the timid smile that begins to grow. His heart thunders, excited just as Bruce has claimed.

"Yes," he breathes. "Please."

"Of course, puppy. We can play fetch for a bit."

Bruce thumbs the toy one more time before he's lifting his elbow and tossing it casually towards a corner of the room. Clark watches it bounce, once, before it settles against the plush carpet.

He glances up at Bruce, shy.

Bruce gives him a nod, eyes searching. The leash slowly slides from Bruce's grip, dropping between them. Clark dips his head, pressing one more time against the warmth of Bruce's thigh before he's turning and crawling slowly to get the bone.

He can feel Bruce's eyes on him the entire time, without having to turn back. The weight of it is like lead, like chains wrapped around him, tangled across every limb. He stumbles a bit, not used to being on his hands and knees like this.

Bruce makes a pleased noise when Clark makes it to the toy. He pauses, briefly, considering how to properly pick it up.

He… he'll have to use his mouth, if Bruce wants him to keep crawling.

And surely the older man does, by the way Clark can hear his heart rate increase. An unconscious noise, but an encouraging one nonetheless.

Clark blushes as he dips down, planting his hands flat to gather the bone up between his lips. The leash adds just the barest hint of gravity, something he wouldn't even take note of if the feeling didn't make him feel so aroused.

He bites on the silicone to keep it in place as he lifts again, carefully balancing it along his tongue. It's strangely difficult, and he has to open his jaw further to fit it properly without using his hands, tilting his head back to do so.

Bruce clicks his tongue, calling him back.

Clark bites down harder, not hard enough to damage the plastic, but enough to keep him from mewling out loud.

He clambers back to Bruce, quicker than he had left him. He stumbles only once, palms sweaty for one of the first times in his life.

When he returns, though, Bruce greets him with nothing but preening pride. He uses both hands to pet through Clark's hair, tilting his head up to even thumb across his bashfully red cheeks.

"Thank you, my pretty boy. Drop it?" Bruce holds his palm out beneath Clark's chin, for the toy. When Clark parts his lips, it falls directly into his grasp. A bit of spit has leaked onto it, and it must be an unpleasant feeling but… but Bruce seems to like all of it.

Clark likes all of it, too, breath hitching as Bruce lifts his hand again to toss the toy once more.

"Fetch."

Clark's knees move across the carpet quickly. He'd have carpet burn if he were able, but all he feels is the pressure of the crawling in his joints. A reminder that he's not a man right now, he's just a happy pup fetching for Master.

This time, he's back in less than ten seconds. His tongue follows the bone this time as he drops it, and Bruce's thumb nudges it as he accepts the toy with a grin.

As if it's the most natural thing in the world, Clark plays fetch with his Master a few more times. He gets more relaxed with each run, until it only feels natural to flip the toy with his nose so that he can get a better grip on it before he's bounding back towards Bruce with all of the excitement of a Great Dane.

And Bruce rewards him on each return, petting him a few times before accepting the bone back. Gently tucking Clark's messy hair behind his ears, wrapping the leash over Clark's back so that he doesn't trip over it as he goes.

It's easy to get lost, until Clark has fetched his bone for what must have been a dozen times.

"There we are. That's enough for now," Bruce hums. His voice sounds different, richer somehow. Not purposefully deep and erotic, but salacious all the same. Clark nods, disappointment quickly fizzling out once Bruce kisses him on his forehead as another reward.

"Now, I'm going to need you to use your words," Bruce says softly. "Tell me how that felt, pup. You're panting so hard."

Clark didn't notice he was until it's pointed out. He's panting exactly like a dog would after play, body rocking with it. He flusters himself with the realization, hands reaching up so that he can hide behind his fingers.

"'m okay," Clark mumbles. "I… I liked it a lot."

An apology almost follows the confession, but remembers rule five just in time. No more apologizing without Bruce's order.

He swallows it down, instead, and ducks his head. "Um… did I do okay?"

"You were enchanting," Bruce hums, easily swatting away any sudden insecurity that Clark had been building up towards. "So sweet for me. Look at me?"

Clark hesitates, but looks up when Bruce curls a finger under his chin. They lock eyes again for the umpteenth time that night, until Clark has fully caught his breath and remembered how to properly use his fingers when they aren't pressed down in the carpet as he crawls.

"There we are," Bruce repeats, a layer of finality to it. That tone of voice hasn't left, melodic and cadenced. So deep that Clark could drown in it. "Thank you for playing, puppy."

"Thank you," Clark rebuts, bashfully. "Sir."

Bruce offers him a gratified look in response. He wipes the toy clean, or as clean as he can get by pressing it against his pants, before he settles it on the nightstand, to be properly disinfected later perhaps.

Then he is slipping his hand back into the drawer. Another gift? Certainly not, Clark hasn't done anything to deserve it.

"Now… before I let you inside me," Bruce hums, voice shaky from barely-concealed pleasure. "I might have one more accessory for you, pup. Sit back?"

Obediently, Clark rocks backwards until most of his weight is off of his knees. Whatever it is, if it's anything like the collar, Clark is sure he'll happily adorn whatever accessory he's fitted with.

Bruce sits up, finally procuring his gift from the drawer. With little fanfare, he's plucking a complicated-looking bundle of leather out and presenting it all at once for Clark's view. Like the collar, it's all espresso brown.

Bruce takes a deliberate moment to untangle it, allowing the bound leather, ratcheted in place by gold accents, to take its proper shape.

Then, Bruce presents it to him.

A… muzzle.

Clark's mouth fills with saliva, and he nervously licks his lips before he swallows it back down.

"You don't have to wear it, son," Bruce assures. "You won't be able to talk with it on at all, just make those pretty noises for me. But—"

"I want to," Clark interrupts, though he honestly doesn't mean to. His head is swimming as he imagines the leather strap pressing down on his tongue, his teeth gnawing on it as he grunts and whines for everything Bruce has to offer. It's… probably humiliating, to most.

To Clark, it feels like he just found a missing puzzle piece.

"… please, sir."

Bruce quirks his lips up in a charming smile.

"Very well. Open?"

Clark parts his lips, ever so obedient, and then sticks his tongue out a bit when Bruce leans forward.

The leather tastes warm, in a way, the same way cinnamon can warm up someone's palate. He tongues at the soft stitching in the bit before it slots in place, as if perfectly measured to fit Clark specifically.

A shiver courses through him at the sheer idea of it.

"Look at you," Bruce says, voice no louder than a whisper. His eyes have gone hazy and dark, as if he's on the cusp of being inebriated. He's entirely in control, though, as he latches the muzzle snugly in place, then lets his fingers trace along the rigid planes of it, following it all the way to the tip of Clark's new snout to ensure the fit.

It protrudes just a few inches from his face. It'll entirely stop Clark from receiving any more kisses, something he realizes with sorrow very belatedly. But it also is shaped like a dog or wolf snout, completing the illusion appropriately.

Bruce minutely shivers. It would be undetectable if Clark didn't have enhanced vision. It makes him dip forward in response, desperate for Bruce to keep touching him even if it's on the leather parts of him.

He doesn't get admonished; Bruce allows him to nuzzle forward until his face is back against Bruce's lap and pressing against the insistent curve of his slowly growing erection beneath his briefs.

"Such a needy boy," Bruce says, tone dulcet as if he's praising him. Maybe he was. Clark nods regardless, and Bruce tangles his fingers in Clark's hair, to scratch pleasantly at his scalp until a pleased rumble comes unbidden from his chest. "My needy boy."

God, Bruce was ruining him.

"I would ask you to help me undress," Bruce says, low. "But from now on, I don't want you using your fingers. Keep those paws exactly where I tell them to be, understand?"

Clark nods, tongue working to respond verbally until he feels it pinned in place by the muzzle. He rubs his cheek against Bruce's thigh instead, to show his eager assent.

Bruce stands, once more that night. He carefully slips his thumb beneath the band of his pants, then beneath the snug fit of his underwear. As he drags it down, both articles of clothing at once, Clark is privy to how that happy trail of his gives way to an almost entirely grey bushel of pubic hair at the base of Bruce's cock.

He doesn't get to see the full length of it, though, before Bruce is turning away. He angles his hips just so, so that Clark's gaze is instead filled with the pert curve of his ass instead.

Clark would be licking his lips if he could fit his tongue past the muzzle. As it stands, all he can do is jerk forward until his snout presses against the newly bared skin, trying desperately to kiss it to show his elation at being allowed to see at all.

Bruce laughs, kicking his pants off in a messy pile in comparison to the neat way he'd encouraged Clark to fold his own clothes. Fully naked, other than the sock garters that were squished against his strong calves, Bruce climbs onto the bed with all the grace of a cat waking up from a nap. He stretches himself bodily until he's nearly climbed out of Clark's sight where he's still huddled on his knees, waiting for the next instruction.

Clark has only just begun whining when Bruce finally makes room for him, too, sliding back on the mattress until he's practically in the middle of the oversized king.

"Alright, alright," Bruce teases him. "Come up here, hop up."

Clark clambers up, not as difficult as one might expect without the use of his thumbs. As soon as he does, he tries to follow Bruce, to cuddle against him for whatever comes next, but he deflates with a pout when Bruce holds a halting hand up.

"Give me room, boy," Bruce orders. "And don't you move a muscle until I allow you to."

Clark sits, much like he had between Bruce's legs. Thighs tucked beneath him, curled-over fingers forming puppy paws that uselessly float before he finds a comfortable place to lay them against the curve of his knee.

Bruce nods, once, and then sets on repositioning himself.

He lays down on one side, stretching out in a way that shouldn't be so enticing. Clark can see how his powerful muscles flex and move beneath the skin, before they go lax again as Bruce finally finds the perfect pose.

He chooses to sit with his bare ass facing Clark, thighs drawn up almost entirely to his chest so that he can still watch Clark's every reaction. He's mostly reclined, though, having snagged a pillow to support his core while one arm is curved, elbow digging in so that he can support his head with his palm.

With a hum, Bruce nods. Content.

Then, he points over. "Grab that for me."

Clark follows the line of Bruce's finger, twisting until he's looking at the magical nightstand that, so far, has held everything Clark has ever wanted.

There's an innocent bottle of lube sitting atop it now. Bruce must have pulled it out when Clark was entirely focused on the muzzle, and left it there.

"Give me some, puppy."

Clark watches as Bruce holds out his fingers, pressed together so that whatever lube spills across them won't drizzle directly on the sheets.

Clark struggles to use his paws, one curled around the heft of the bottle and the other closing into a loose fist so that he can press correctly on the pump. He squirts three healthy dollops in Bruce's waiting hand, and the other man huffs out a laugh.

"You like it wet and messy, then," Bruce observes. "Good to know."

Clark gnaws on his muzzle as he gets a mental image of Bruce leaking for him, holding his hole open so that Clark can watch it drip out.

… Maybe he does like wet and messy.

"Now watch me, sweetheart."

Before the lube has even warmed up on his fingertips, Bruce is slipping those wet digits against his ass to spread it messily all across. He's uncaring as it drips down his crack, even coating as far down as the backs of his thighs.

It's only once he's passed over his hole once, twice, that he is purposeful with the way he touches. His fingers are still generously coated as he uses two fingers to pass across his furled rim, hardly even dipping against the taut hole before he's teasingly pulling the touch away.

Clark can only watch as Bruce massages his asshole, until the muscles have softened, and Bruce can more easily nudge the curve of his fingertips against it.

"Mm," Bruce moans aloud, whorishly. "God, it's been too long. If I don't stretch myself properly, I'll be feeling you inside of me for days."

Clark leans forward, pulled in by Bruce's orbit. He stays in place, but just barely, to avoid being admonished when he's been so good for this long.

"I'm sure that would make you happy," Bruce continues, breathy. "Knowing that I won't be able to take a step without the memory of you being such a good boy and fucking me until I gaped."

Slowly, with his two longest fingers, Bruce begins to penetrate himself. He doesn't go further than his nailbeds, careful with the way he lightly twists his wrists, letting himself feel how the hole strains. Barely anything, and it's straining.

Clark bites back his aroused grunt.

Bruce takes it as assent to his teasing words, smiling.

"I know you will. You'll use that big dick of yours and make my brain melt right out of my ears." The words are laughed, nigh incredulous. Bruce lifts his thigh, giving himself a new angle to work himself over with.

Bruce curls his fingers, before he repositions. Despite the teasing and prodding, the muscle still seems to resist as Bruce begins to spear it open with his finger all the way down, groaning as he goes.

A single thing, albeit thick because Bruce does have large hands, struggling to get into that tiny little hole. How on earth would Clark even be able to fit?

Bruce doesn't seem to have the same reservations. He simply increases the pressure until his body gives, shuddering with a soft breath as he feels it slide past his sphincter all at once. Clark can see the hole flexing, as if trying to milk the appendage of spend that will never come. Insatiable.

Clark rolls his shoulders back, spine straightening as he commits the scene to memory.

Bruce isn't looking at him, not exactly. Rather he is biting his lower lip, head hanging loosely until it's nestled against his shoulder. Blinking unhurriedly as he begins to ease his finger in and out, testing the give of his own hole.

He looks like an angel. Clark lifts a paw to scratch at the nape of his neck, suddenly craving the feeling of Bruce's fingers curved against it.

Bruce's eyes go aware again at the motion, steadily watching his pup while he preps himself.

"I might have to get four fingers in myself before I let you in," Bruce muses. "As soon as the tip thrusts inside, who knows how much you'll be able to hold back. Poor baby, you look so desperate to fuck me."

'I am,' Clark would profess, if he were able. As it stands, he can do nothing more than poutily yip, the noise garbled.

Bruce looks him in the eye as he leisurely slots a second finger inside of himself, hardly twitching. Clark is the one that ends up groaning, as if he could feel the rim around his own fingers, his cock. He watches as the tiny hole opens up easily, hungry for more it seems.

"Yeah? Puppy wants to breed me?" It's a taunt, and a promise all in one. Clark sits up on his knees, drawing himself until he's elevated in height. It's the most he allows himself to move, because if he takes his paws off of his legs he's going to disobey, disappoint Bruce with his inability to listen.

Clark forces himself back down, taut like a bow ready to shoot an arrow.

Eyes still locked, gazes still warring with unmitigated desire, Bruce inserts a third finger. It has him keeling at the growing pressure. They're crooked over into little hooks, so that the tips nudge directly at his soft inner walls.

"Touch yourself, pup," Bruce gasps. "I can't, nnh… c-can't wait. To feel you inside. Stretching the deepest part of me."

As he says this, he reaches for his own length. He only uses his fingertips to feel along it, though with the angle Clark can't see properly himself. Still, he can imagine it hard and convulsing with need, just as much as Clark's is. Trembling as Bruce tucks his fingers around the considerable thickness of it, so that he can fuck it the same way he'd allowed Clark to earlier.

Clark wants to touch, too. To be touched, by Bruce.

A high-pitched keen escapes him as he moves again, weight shifting from knee to knee. He settles for following directions, uncurling his fingers all at once and using his paw to get himself back to full hardness. Not that it was far off, he was just as hard now as he was when he'd started sucking Bruce's cock earlier.

Bruce clamps his thighs together, hiding more of himself from view. All Clark can see, now, is how his fingers piston in and out of himself, no longer focused on simply stretching him open. No, now he seems to be working himself up, voice flowing out audibly in a way it hasn't all night.

"Nngh," he barks, voracious for Bruce's attention. For his eyes to stare at him again, watching as Clark pleasures himself to the view of Bruce's body. "Mmph!"

With a sudden, exasperated snarl, Bruce yanks his hand away from his cock and instead plants it flat so that he can shove himself into a sitting position. He glares down at his cock, briefly, before he shakes whatever frustration had affixed itself to him off like it's dust.

With this new position, he's able to ride his fingers instead of simply thrusting them in and out.

And he looks so perfect that Clark is sure he's ascended at some point, gone to heaven to meet the angel of his dreams. Clark wants nothing more than to crawl forward and supplicate himself, to be consumed by all of Bruce's desires.

His pinky begins to slot at his hole. Clark nearly loses balance as he leans forward to watch.

Slowly, the tiny appendage sinks in past the buttery soft, slick rim. Finding its place in the folds of Bruce's ass with a simple, quiet sigh from the older man as he works himself open. "God."

Clark has to yank himself backwards again, eyes nearly crossing as he jerks himself off roughly, faster. He wants it, so bad. Bruce's ass wrapped tight around the swell of him, milking him for all he's worth.

"Clark," Bruce moans. "Puppy…"

"Mmrr—" Clark tries to respond, gratefully. "Mmnn."

Bruce's entire body shakes as he finally shoves all four fingers inside, all the way down to the base. It looks impossible. But it's proof that Clark will fit inside, will be able to fill him up all the way and thrust inside without hurting him.

Maybe even make him cum like that, making love to him.

Clark's other paw comes up so that he can hide behind it, overwhelmed.

"Pup," Bruce breathes out again, heavily. "I need you. C'mere, puppy; come get your reward."

Clark is crawling forward before Bruce has even finished speaking.

His paw, slick with precum, spreads its mess across the bedspread as he goes until it's dry and tacky between his fingers. Bruce accepts it regardless when Clark plants it directly beside his head, so that he can cover Bruce entirely with his body, pinning him down simply with his weight.

There's a wet, raunchy noise as Bruce's fingers pop out of himself, one by one. He makes little, pleading noises with each one, immediately bemoaning the losses. It's only when he's fully pulled out that he begins to shift his hips upwards, showing off how his loosened, wet rim is clamping down uselessly around its new gape. Clark can see the soft pink insides of him, deep inside.

Clark presses down harder, even as Bruce gets his knees beneath himself so that he can properly offer his ass up for Clark's use.

"Heavy," Bruce tuts. "Lift up, sweetheart. Don't you want to be in me already?"

Clark nods, head only a few inches from Bruce's spine.

He can still see the very edge of Bruce's hole from this position, watching it flex around nothing. Clark's cock isn't in the right position to simply sink inside and tie them together, but he's kind of happy to just nuzzle all across Bruce's skin and watch as his rim slowly goes back to its original, tight furl.

Bruce, however, is not that patient. He knocks his hips backwards, jolting Clark back with him. Before he knows it, his leash is gathered up and yanked, until he's almost off balance and has crushed Bruce for real.

He catches himself on his paws, whining. Like this, though, his muzzle is pressed directly against the skin of Bruce's cheek, so close that he can feel the older man panting heavily.

"Up, mutt. I need your cock now."

Bruce shimmies them down until his rim, blessedly, knocks against Clark's bobbing cock. It's astonishingly hot, even compared to Clark's blood-pumped length, and it makes Clark hump forward to try to get more of the sensation.

Bruce's fingers, the ones he used to finger fuck himself, reach between them with surprising flexibility. He has to twist his entire upper half to find purchase, until he's found the base of Clark's cock. Then he squeezes his fingers around it, forcing that twitching length steady.

"Be still," Bruce orders. "Be good."

Clark goes stiff as a statue in an instant. His belly goes taut, giving Bruce even more room to work as he uses the ring of his fingers to stroke Clark all the way up to his tip, before he slides it back down again, making sure he's sufficiently lubed up.

Then, keeping Clark steady, he begins to slowly, s l o w l y, lower himself back on it. His hole opens, spreads to accept it, though Clark has to incline his hips so that he can make it past the tighter, twitching sphincter that threatens to push him out again.

Like that, together, they ease the thickest part of Clark's cock inside of Bruce. It's only when half of him makes it inside that Bruce finally drops his grip, tangling his fingers in the bedsheet just to have something to hold onto as he's impaled on it.

The words seem to have gotten lost in the swirl of his brain as he takes it. Clark pants noisily against Bruce's ear, but Bruce is silent as he sways on his knees, easing just an inch in and out, in and out, until he can take it easier.

Clark digs his muzzle perhaps painfully into Bruce's skin. But it's all he can do to keep himself focused, going mad as his cock gets trapped inside an endless, soft heat. It overcomes him almost instantly, his brain emptying itself of anything and everything except being Bruce's pet.

"What a good dog you are," Bruce is panting, losing himself too. He still has that tight grip on Clark's leash, keeping them both steady. But his arms are fitted beneath him, making his back look taut and wild as if he's about to snap.

With that angle, though, his palms digging into the mattress, he's able to slide himself up and down the half of Clark's cock that he's gotten inside. He does so mercenarily, like Clark will fight him on it.

Clark welcomes it, hissing as the wet heat goes down lower with each jolt of Bruce's hips. He wants to kiss along the rigid line of his spine, but all he can do is press his muzzle-covered cheek against him instead, listening to the way his body moves. Blood rushing, muscles tightening and releasing.

Clark's cock is throbbing. He's not sure if it ever stopped since they've begun this addictive dance. He can only take it as Bruce rides him from below, carefully keeping his hips still until Bruce lets him move.

It's hard, though. Goodness above it's so hard. He wants to fuck him. Clark wants to just pin Bruce down and thrust and thrust. Bruce is ready for it, his hole clamping needily around the girth of him. He knows Bruce needs it just as much as he does.

But he stays obediently, rigorously still.

The leash pulls, easing Clark down directly across Bruce's back. He can feel how Bruce takes steadying breaths, lungs and ribs expanding as one. Clark moans from low in his throat, moving his paws closer together in mimicry of a hug from behind.

It makes his cock sink inside just by half an inch. It takes everything in Clark to stop at just that, immediately jerking back into his previous position despite the choking grip on the leash so that he can pant senselessly at the ceiling.

"God, you barely need any training," Bruce groans, pleased despite it all. "You're just eager—you need it so badly, don't you puppy? Just needed someone to put you in your place so you don't feel so lost. Don't worry, I won't let go of your leash for a long while, sweetheart. I'll have you trained up perfectly, just for me."

"Pl—mmf—" Clark tries to beg for it, stopped only by the muzzle. The word is entirely unintelligible, but Bruce moans regardless at the begging. "Mmngh—"

"Hush," Bruce says with a pleased gasp. "No barking."

Clark shuts up immediately, jutting his hips forward with a whine.

"That's it." It's an encouragement that Clark clings to, and takes as permission. He thrusts forward more, tossing the weight of his thighs forward until, finally, blissfully, he's fully stuffed himself inside of Bruce, all the way down to his balls.

Though he had taken a significant amount before, Bruce still goes breathless. He's wrapped both hands in the leash, letting the leather dig uncomfortably against his palms. The only thing he can properly hold onto as his body blazes with as much endless pleasure as Clark's is.

"Mmffh—" Clark moans.

"Yeah," His Master sighs, absolutely abuzz with desire.

The leash slackens.

It's all the permission Clark needs.

He pumps in and out, no build up. In one moment, he's letting Bruce get used to it; the next, thrusting without abandon inside of that heat.

"G-god, ohhfuck… Good boy!"

Their combined moans echo through the room as finally, finally, Clark fucks him.

Bruce reaches up, to grab Clark's hair. Then he yanks down, much like how he does with the leash, until he can messily pant against Clark's muzzle again. They're so close that Clark could potentially reach out with his tongue and lick Bruce's lower lip, if his tongue weren't currently pinned.

Somehow, Bruce must read his mind. Or Clark really just has a face that's an open book, but suddenly those grey eyes are staring him down, devilish.

Bruce takes control of the leash again, murmuring something sweet and sinful as he forces Clark to slow down those heavy thrusts almost as soon as they begin.

He makes Clark stop when he's balls deep again, but this time they don't fully pause in their love-making. Wetly, their bodies grind together, the closest they can possibly be.

Clark makes happy little noises, wriggling his hips from side to side as if he can somehow shove more of himself inside. Bruce nearly gets knocked off balance, but he uses his own muscles to keep himself steady, spreading his legs a bit until he's lowered himself just an inch off Clark's cock.

Then, he begins to bounce. He uses the new position to saw Clark's dick in and out of him, taking advantage of the fact that he controls the leash, no one else. He uses it to encourage Clark to meet him with each thrust, until their skin slaps together resoundingly.

"C'mon baby, show me you like it. Use those hips," Bruce orders him. His lips are pressed against Clark's muzzle, and Clark swears he can feel each kiss against his bare skin regardless.

"Hhng—!"

"Mhm, just like tha-ahht—"

Clark reaches around to paw at Bruce's cock. He knows he'll probably get in trouble, but he needs to get closer. Needs to feel all of Bruce, all at once.

His paw curls over as one unit, stroking at the soft skin between Bruce's legs.

And he frowns.

Because it is soft, entirely. Bruce's cock, the whole length of it, was unerect and quietly dripping. In fact, if it weren't for the coating of precum, Clark wasn't sure if he'd be able to tell if Bruce was aroused at all. Or… or had been aroused at some point?

Clark worries, biting down on the muzzle until it almost breaks. He can feel the leather fray, something leather shouldn't do, and he has to force his jaw to relax before he ruins it.

"Mm…?" Clark whimpers, nudging insistently at Bruce's cock.

The other man has gone flustered and quiet. His arms shake as he begins to push Clark's paw away, but Clark stubbornly doesn't give in.

It's… clear that Clark had misconstrued something, but he won't let it go on any longer. Determination flairs through him, stroking Bruce's soft cock one more time before he yanks on the leash.

He may have been selfish, taking all the pleasure for himself and uncaring of his Master's needs… but now that he knows, he'll make it right.

Clark flips them. He scoops Bruce up, both paws on his chest so that he won't flail too much, and drops back on his ass so that Bruce's body can pool atop him, gathered like a scrambled bouquet. Then, he twists.

It startles his Master, a sudden and ragged yelp tearing out of his throat at the sensation of being twisted on a thick, hard cock, but Clark can't help it. He wants Bruce to ride him until he's dumb, just like he promised, and he wants Bruce to feel all of it, at the exact pace he likes.

Clark wants nothing more than to do what Bruce likes—loves. And he won't stop until then.

"Christ," Bruce swears. His hole spasms around Clark with the new position, still reeling from the sudden sensation before.

He has to take a moment to catch his breath, looking torn between wanting to admonish Clark for being so hasty, and wanting to praise him for making it feel so good.

In the end, he settles on giving Clark an exasperated glare, still panting.

"Pup," he huffs out.

Clark responds with another pitiful noise, looking pointedly between their tangled legs. Bruce's thighs outline his own like ribbons on a present. He idly clenches them when Clark's paws find purchase against the full heft of his quads, but they go stiff with shock when Clark crawls one paw forward to nudge stubbornly at Bruce's soft cock.

"It… it happens sometimes," Bruce says, face red. "You're doing great, puppy, don't worry, nngh—"

He gasps at the sharp, upward thrust Clark gives him.

"Yeah, j-just like that, sweetheart. You're so big inside me, how could it not feel good?"

Clark whines again, urgent. He moves his paws again, to Bruce's hips next. Then, gripping gently so that he won't accidentally bruise him, he begins to lift and drop Bruce in his lap, persistent until Bruce has gathered himself and begun to pick up the pace.

Only then does Clark fall back against the mattress, giving Bruce full control again. Begging for it, really, his heart pounding as he watches the beautiful man above him slowly fall back into that heated rhythm.

Pure want stabs through him, the only reason Clark doesn't pull his paws away from Bruce's hips as well. Holding on, just to hold.

Bruce clicks his tongue. "Shouldn't have let my guard down," he laughs, incredulous. "Knew you were strong, but… ohh…"

Bruce lifts and drops himself on Clark's length, seeming to feel it that much more with this new angle.

"B-but… you really just picked me up like that." He laughs again, though this time it's touched with awe. "I'm never letting you go, baby. I have so much more I need from you."

Bruce begins to ride him properly. One hand drops down to Clark's belly, planting itself there as a foothold to keep himself steady. It also serves the dual purpose of hiding his cock from view, Clark realizes with a huff.

He doesn't have time to garble out a complaint around his muzzle before Bruce continues.

"Alright? Don't be scared when I keep you strapped to my bed," Bruce teases. "I'll be nice as long as you keep showing off like that, letting me see just how strong my needy little pup is."

And, well… how could Clark not melt? He nods, insensible in his ability to accept anything Bruce wants of him.

Clark reaches up, venerating. And Bruce gathers his paws in both hands, spreading Clark's sticky fingers so that he can use them as holds to easier fuck himself on his cock. He leans down until he's sharing Clark's breath, eyes shining dangerously, like fire about to blaze out of control.

"You want that? Wanna be my little bedwarmer?"

"Mhhm," Clark nods, adoring. It's like his heart is bleeding with want for it.

"Mm," Bruce hums. "Don't regret it, ahh—" He briefly interrupts himself with a moan. "I'm possessive of my toys."

His hips jump up and down, taking Clark with ease now that he's been spread properly.

The new angle has Clark moving across his prostate. He can feel how Bruce's breath hitches, voice stolen away, every time his tip nudges across those packed together, oversensitive nerve endings.

Excess lube has squelched out of him, leaving warm drizzles of oil to make a mess between them.

"Hhn—" Clark whines. He sits up, just a bit, on his elbows, noises hitching out of him with each plap of Bruce's ass against him.

"Mhm," Bruce encourages. "Faster?"

Bruce rides him even faster. His full weight leads the impact of the backs of his thighs against the tops of Clark's. It feels good.

Bruce has a pretty chest, his pecs bouncing as he goes harder. Clark's eyes dart down at it, watching how his bronze-pink nipples seem to have perked up, wanting attention. Clark would have licked along them if he had the use of his tongue, would have licked and suckled until there were pretty hickeys embedded in his skin. Reminders of the puppy that Bruce is ravishing, right in his bed.

Bruce's voice has gone broken and shaky. He's twisting, torso tight and clenched as he slows, focusing Clark's tip directly against his prostate. He uses it like he would a toy, squeezing down to keep Clark fucking him—

"Right. Fucking. There…!" Bruce cries, dropping Clark's paws to find something new to grip. He slaps his palms against Clark's bare chest, pushing so that he's sitting up straighter, choosing not to ride but instead grind down in little circles right against the base of Clark's dick. Clark's fingers flail uselessly in the air, searching, before he allows the tips of paws to nudge against Bruce's knees instead, just to keep touching.

Bruce's fingers end up tangled in the open edges of Clark's dress shirt, which has fallen in the midst of their passion all the way down to his elbows. He yanks, nearly ripping a button off as he uses that grip the same way he uses the leash.

Clark is tugged fully upward, welcomes it actually, until he's fucking Bruce deeper, carving open his insides just the way he's meant to. 

He circles his paws around his pretty waist, and his breath shudders out of him as he thumbs along Bruce's fuzzy happy trail.

"Fuck," Bruce is groaning, eyes open as he watches Clark take him. "Just like that, don't you dare stop for a second, pup."

Clark won't. He'll keep up this exact pace until Bruce cums, until the pleasure has built up and trapped him and washed over him and left him trembling.

It's the least he can do, as thanks to Bruce for taking him as his new pet.

With that grip on his waist, he makes sure Bruce feels all of him inside. He humps upward, holding his breath so that it doesn't break his rhythm. Bruce's cock nudges against Clark's abs, spreading pre across it until it's shiny and sticky.

"Puppy," Bruce moans, voice hoarse. He's still soft, but it's twitching as he nears his orgasm. Clark's own jolts inside of Bruce's ass, steady in time with his heart as he, too, approaches the apex of their combined pleasure.

"Mmnf—" Clark responds, low and deep. The growl of it vibrates through both of their bodies. Bruce's toes curl. "Nng, hh—ffck—"

Then, Bruce goes taut like a Venetian statue, a moment of boundless beauty caught in a single moment in time. An unrestrained, helpless moan slips out of him, drawn out as he loses himself.

When Bruce cums it's like watching a sunset for the first time in decades. Magnificent, in the way his body trembles and shudders. His eyes flutter closed, tight, and he tugs Clark up by his leash to kiss him. They meet in the middle, but the muzzle stops them from kissing. Clark whines, nearly howls at the need for Bruce's lips on his.

Still, the sound of Bruce panting directly against the leather, then feeling the heat of his breath tickling the lobe of his ear when his head reroutes there instead, it's all perfect.

There's a low whine, a chuff really, that builds in Clark's chest as he pants messily, drooling against the leather bit.

"'m cumming," Bruce whimpers in response, belated. "God, you're so good—you're making me cum, sweetheart. Your fat cock is so—s-so big, I can't—"

Bruce trembles again, head falling back as his back arches.

"Puppy!" He cries out again, entirely overcome with pleasure.

Clark's eyes drop down, to the diminished empty space between their bodies as Bruce rides him. He can see everything—everything, when he narrows his eyes.

His cock is so deep inside of Bruce that it looks inhuman, all the way up his guts. Clark watches Bruce's body cling around the girth of him, instinctively milking him for all he's worth. Clark wants to fill him up, and see how much Bruce's insides can really take.

Cum leaks sluggishly from Bruce's soft cock despite the way his orgasm hits him. Clark is enraptured by it, regardless, and almost uses his paws to gather up the chubby length of it so that he can lick it clean again once it's empty and satisfied.

He doesn't, staying obediently in position as Bruce cums on his dick and praises him.

His muzzle catches at the curve of Bruce's shoulder, as he dips forward helplessly to lick or bite or suck on the sensitive skin, forgetting that he can't at the moment.

Bruce's head lolls to the side to make room, a pleasurable gasp escaping him. His hips lift and drop, taking all of Clark deep inside, over and over, until he finally loses strength in his thighs and goes limp.

Bruce weakly grabs Clark's wrists and yanks them down, back in place against his hips instead of his waist.

"Cum inside me, pet. Fill me up with it, every drop."

This is a new tone of voice, too, something exhausted and pleased and breathless.

Clark nods, can only really nod and follow directions. He fucks Bruce's loosened rim like it's the only thing he's ever been meant to do. Each thrust is punctuated by a quiet grunt from his throat, little 'nngs, uhhs, mmphs' spilling unbidden.

He's gonna cum. He was a good puppy that gets to cum, deep inside of his Master. He shakes, excited for it, needy for it, mind breaking for it.

Clark bends over, until Bruce is scrambling to wrap his arms and legs around Clark so he doesn't fall flat on the bed. It just makes his legs spread wider, making more room for Clark's strong abdomen.

It makes his hole tighter, too, the insides softer all at once. The both of them cry out—both from overstimulation.

Bruce's head tilts back limply, but by his heavy breathing he's pleased to let Clark take what he needs from his body.

"Puppy, I want it—" Bruce is chanting. "Need it, need you deep in me, fill me up. Cum in me, cum in me, puppy, puppyyy—"

Clark is panting so heavily that their chests knock together. Bruce's fingers scratch along the planes of his back, a pain he can't physically feel.

Bruce yanks on the leash. It briefly chokes Clark—actually chokes him, stealing the already stuttered breath in his throat. It makes his pace falter, having been caught by surprise, and he loses his tempo all at once.

With a strangled sob, Clark scrambles to pick up the rhythm again. Bruce mewls, amused, and juts his hips forward to help him.

"Poor baby, c'mon—focus on me. Make me take it. Weren't you so close?"

"Yy-hn—!" Clark tries to agree, desperate. He was so close, his balls had begun to draw up, ready to spill.

Tears prick at his lashes. Clark hides his face as best he can against Bruce's neck, but Master must have seen it because he begins to properly ride him again.

"Feel how deep inside you are?" Bruce whispers directly against his ear. "I think you're breaking me, puppy boy. It's in my stomach, haah—j-just keep fucking me, that's a good boy. Good dog, fuck…!"

His orgasm, honestly, takes him by surprise. It felt like he was stuck at that crux, stuck in an endless feedback loop of humping like a broken, pistoning machine. He can't even let out a noise to warn Bruce about the imminent creampie, no—

All he can do is go tense, squeezing Bruce as tight as he dares, clinging to him as he cums. His belly swoops like he's freefalling. It's like being hit, flipped topsy-turvy by the impact. It's startling, it's good, i-it's… t-too much…!

He can feel the cum traveling up his cock, bubbling at his tip before it spurts deep inside of Bruce, so deep inside that it has the older man keening at the heat of it.

"Yes," Bruce gasps. "Claim me, puppy."

The muzzle was an excellent idea. Clark's gums ache with the desire to bite him, all of a sudden, to show everyone who glimpses at Bruce's neck that his excitable puppy had claimed him inside and out.

All he can do is whine for it and sob, paws stroking up Bruce's back to feel how he breathes, the only thing keeping him from fully breaking. His dick empties itself of its load, and Clark's lungs tremble with the force of his blubbering moans. Spurt after spurt leaves Clark reeling, until it nearly hurts as his cock throbs endlessly inside of Bruce's body.

"Oh, my poor pup," Bruce mumbles, still minutely clenching around Clark's length. Globs of cum are clinging to his inner walls, until they squelch out of place as Clark nudges in and out, unable to stop himself. He's rocking Bruce's entire body with the power behind each one.

But Bruce takes it all, even as his nerves vibrate from the excessive overstim.

"You bred me so deep," Bruce praises him, leaning forward so that Clark can hold him properly. He's no longer leaning back, held in place by Clark's shaking arms. Instead, they slowfall with a 'fwump' back against the mattress, Clark shaking. "Just like I told you to. What a good puppy I've found, you made Master so happy, pretty boy."

"Mmph-t'r," Clark cries to plead. "Pl-s…"

Bruce slowly lifts his hips. It makes Clark genuinely wail, yanking himself back though he has nowhere to go but deeper in the bed.

Bruce shushes him, distracted, as a deluge of cum rushes out of him, spilling after Clark once he's popped free of his stretched rim. Bruce has to stop to take a moment to breathe, and just feel it, almost as overstimulated.

Clark is still trying his best to hide, eyes squeezed entirely shut.

Bruce kisses him right against the bridge of his nose, just above where the muzzle ends. "Good boy. Hush, now."

Every time he moves, more of Clark's cum spills out of him. If the lube was messy, this was sloppy. His rim can't even close properly this time, fucked soft and red.

Bruce reaches back, briefly, feeling it until the influx of it finally quells to something manageable. The entire time, he leaves little kisses against Clark's face, his uncovered forehead, his trembling eyelids. Murmuring the sweetest of words that Clark can't even parse right now.

Finally, though, it stops. Bruce heaves a shaky sigh, slowly sliding out of Clark's lap. He doesn't go far, just off to the side so that his full weight isn't bared against Clark's hips.

Clark is soft, spent. Coated in cum from tip to taint. Bruce wipes his fingertips clean against his own bare thigh, carefully leaning over to whisper more little nothings in his pet's ear.

"You did so well for me, love. I'm so proud of you, being such a good pup like that. Master is so happy."

Bruce thumbs away some of Clark's tears, carefully fitting the tip of that finger against the muzzle. It's not so tight that he can't, but the feeling of it shifting out of place has Clark wriggling, shaking desperately.

"Mm," Bruce tuts. "It's time to come back down, pup. Come back to me."

He slides along the seam of the muzzle until he reaches the little clasp behind Clark's head. It falls away easily.

With it, the muzzle loosens from its proper shape and back into a simple bundle of leather straps. Clark's eyes blink, watching as the blurry shape of it passes across his vision. Bruce lays it gently on the pillow next to them, still too shaky post-orgasm to move all the way to the nightstand just yet.

Clark's chest still heaves, too many emotions built up at once. He can't stop it, hyperventilating a bit.

Bruce's fingertips pad along Clark's jaw, briefly, but Clark leans over to trap them between his chin and his shoulder, needing to feel Bruce against him all over, again. Bruce allows it, gentle in his caresses. He lets Clark soak in his warmth, leave a halting kiss against the heart line of his palm.

Bruce slips his legs beneath himself so that he can sit up, no longer so shaky. "Just one moment, love. Alright? I'm not going far, just wait for me."

Bruce climbs across the bed, to the opposite nightstand. The weight of him leaves, and the bed no longer dips.

Immediately, Clark feels like he's drowning. He chokes, reaching out, but all he is able to grab onto is the fading heat Bruce left behind on the bedspread.

Clark cries more, a shivering, miserable sound. Bruce responds with his own wounded noise, rushing as he gathers whatever it is he's looking for.

Then, he right back up against Clark's side, rubbing a hand up and down Clark's chest to feel him.

"C'me here," Bruce murmurs. "My pretty pup, let me spoil you? Sit up for me?"

"Mn…"

He sits up. Bruce is right there, immediately, climbing back into Clark's lap. Not to ride him, but just to get as much skin-to-skin in the shortest amount of time.

"Breathe, love. Can you do that?"

"H-haah…" Clark obeys, tenuously. "Hnn…"

Bruce breathes in deeply, perhaps purposefully exaggerating. Clark feels as his chest expands to copy the sound with his own lungs.

His head feels frazzled.

Bruce kisses him. Not directly on the lips, but more against the very edge of his mouth as he breathes in and out again. "Good. Good, Clark. Just calm yourself down, let it wash over you."

A few items roll onto the bed beside them, Bruce depositing them right next to Clark's thigh.

Clark doesn't realize he's shivering until Bruce is hovering over him with a handkerchief. His eyes are too full of tears to see properly, but Bruce's voice, still speaking in that soft sweet tone, keeps him grounded. Even as his nerves endings seem to pop like popcorn, overstimulated and dying all at once.

"A-ahh… Master," Clark babbles, unsure of what he wants. His tongue feels heavy and foreign in his mouth now that he's able to use it again. His lips, no longer stretched on the sides by the leather bit, feel empty.

"Shh. Come back to me, sweetheart." Bruce's hands cup against Clark's jaw, the soft terrycloth of a handkerchief following the curve of his chin. "You're safe, I'm right here."

Clark squeezes his eyes shut, sending another influx of warm tears across his cheeks to stain Bruce's palm. The older man leans in to kiss him against one of those tear tracks.

"You did so good for me, Clark," Bruce praises, so sweet that Clark's head lolls forward, his neck suddenly unable to hold up the weight of him. Bruce holds him regardless, gentle. "So perfect. Such a good boy."

"Nnn…"

Bruce nods along to the noise. "It's alright, baby boy. You just felt it all so much, hm? Was Master too mean to you?"

Fingers prod at his mouth, and Clark drops open his lips obediently to accept them inside. Bruce clicks his tongue, gently, and urges him to shut it again, instead feeling along his jawline. Making sure there were no marks where the muzzle dug in.

Clark affectionately rubs his cheek against Bruce's palm, nestling against it as if he could hide there from the entire world.

"Alright, love," Bruce's amused voice murmurs. "Just float for me for a while. I'm not going anywhere. You're safe right where you are, I swear to you."

As he says this, strong arms envelope Clark. They circle his back, tugging him until he's gathered up just like a little lap dog against Bruce's thighs. His eyes shut when Bruce nudges his head against Bruce's shoulder, and Clark inhales deeply against his skin.

Lips press against his crown, leaving gentle kisses until Clark shudders again and goes limp. Bruce, somehow, is able to handle the weight of him without even a single grunt. He simply readjusts, balancing the small of Clark's back against one of his strong thighs to keep them both upright.

"You're safe," he says again. "My good pup."

Bruce leans to the side, slow and methodical in the way he ensures Clark doesn't slip out of his hold. When he sits upright, there's a small jar of something in his palm, and another few handkerchiefs folded beneath it.

Clark blinks his eyes sluggishly, not truly seeing any of it. But his eyes follow the motion of Bruce untwisting the lid, setting it to the side before he dips two fingers into the opaque cream. He lets the lotion warm against his fingertips briefly, before he lowers his shoulder so that Clark's neck will droop in the other direction.

Bruce murmurs sweet little nothings as he slowly rubs the soothing cream into Clark's unblemished skin, as if he's worried about the potential for chafing. With his clean thumb, he reverently wipes away lines of drool and tears alike, cleaning him up as he goes. He uses one handkerchief to clean his hand of the mess, then uses another to gently blot at Clark's waterline until there are no more tears clumped along his lashes.

"Let me see your pretty eyes, baby?"

Clark is still a bit lost in his foggy headspace. But the lilt of Bruce's voice implies a question has been asked of him, so he puts in a bit more effort to roll his head back in place against Bruce's neck to signify he heard it.

Understood it? No. But he heard it.

Bruce chuckles at him. The warm sound makes his chest vibrate like a purr, and Clark falls back deeper into the recesses of his brain.

Large hands brush across the skin of his back and his sides. Wherever Bruce can touch without dropping him. Mapping out the divots of his skin to ensure there weren't any aches or bumps. Clark isn't sure if more lotion is spread across him there, his body too overheated to feel much of anything beyond the light pressure of touch.

He does feel when his hand is gathered up, Bruce's palm covered in even more lotion as he begins to massage each digit.

It's so gracious the way Bruce spends time on each knob of each segment of each finger, easing any aches that may have sprouted from being bent in 'paw' form for so long. Clark doesn't feel anything—other than blissful unawareness.

It's only when Bruce has finished, both the left and the right hand, and busies himself with closing up the cream and tossing it and the handkerchiefs onto the side table that Clark moves again.

He lifts his hand, now massaged and soft, and palms Bruce's chest, fingers weakly curled over right above his heart.

"'m here," Bruce whispers again, leaning into it. "Right here, Clark." The sheet beneath them is lifted, tugged until it's free to cover the bulk of Clark's back from the cool bedroom air. The lustrous threadcount is honestly like ecstasy in physical form.

A nothingnoise spills out of him, appraising. Bruce responds with another kiss to his cheek.

Bruce has settled them back against the headboard, though there's ample room around them to spread out in any direction on the monumental bedspread.

But Bruce seems happy that Clark is cuddled up to him as close as he can get, nearly overlapping the entirety of Bruce's body with himself. His head is still bunched against Bruce's neck, but he also seems to like that, too.

Clark inhales a few times, in between his idle counting of the beats-per-minute of Bruce's pulse.

"Did you…" Clark's voice croaks out of him. "Did you like it, too? Bruce?"

Using his name for the first time in what felt like hours is a bit awkward, but Bruce encourages it with a quiet hum and a nod.

Bruce pets his hand across Clark's head, smoothing the curls down into something tame.

"Of course."

"Mm." Clark plants his cheek against Bruce's collarbone. "You, mm. Weren't hard. … just wonderin'."

Bruce pauses. He doesn't freeze, per se, but his hand stops against the nape of Clark's neck, and the soft sounds that had been spilling out of him as Clark eased back into being a person slowly drifted into nothing.

Then, Bruce's chest lifts and falls with a silent sigh.

"I enjoyed myself." Clark feels Bruce lift his head so that he can let it rest against the headboard, exposing his jugular. "I promise, baby."

Clark hides his overjoyed smile at the petname, pressing his mouth against the back of the palm he has resting against Bruce's heart. As such, his voice comes out muffled next.

"It, well… you don't have to spare my feelings if it wasn't the best. Honest, Bruce."

Now that he's spoken, Clark's head feels clearer. He still sways a bit, and would probably be crumpling into a great big ball of nothing without Bruce holding him so steadily. It's why he's able to catch the enamored tone in Bruce's voice as he says,

"You were wonderful. I haven't felt like this in…" Bruce sighs again, wistful. "In quite a while."

Clark 'hms', only mildly doubtful.

They sit in silence for a few moments as Clark slowly blinks himself back to full awareness. It's difficult, especially when his skin finally registers the pleasant heat of Bruce's natural temperature. He keeps inhaling deeply, too, but it no longer feels like he's getting drunk off Bruce's scent alone.

Still feels good, though.

Bruce lets him, affectionate in the way he reaches down to hold Clark's hand. First he presses the tips of their fingers together, the barest hint of lotion transferring between them, then he slots his fingers in between the gaps of Clark's.

"Most of my… lovers," Bruce says eloquently, after a few minutes. "… don't seem to care about reaching for my cock in the throes of it. You are a surprising one, Clark."

Blushing immediately, Clark hides against Bruce all over again. Bruce laughs openly, the tone like the deep tremor of a cello.

"I just… wanted to make sure it felt as good for you as it did for me," Clark says, voice clearing. "Did I make you uncomfortable?"

"No." Bruce seems like he almost doesn't want to elaborate, but he eventually shrugs a shoulder. "I've come to terms with it. I'm simply surprised it didn't ruin the moment for you."

Clark finally stops hiding.

He lifts his head from the safety and warmth of Bruce's neck, and finally allows himself to look Bruce in his beautiful storm-grey eyes again.

"I… I just thought maybe you weren't as into it as you seemed. That you were doing it for me because I was, um. Your puppy. At that moment. So I started trying harder."

Bruce's lips quirk up, amused, as Clark stumbles over his words. His expression goes serious, though, as he glances off to the distance.

"It's simply…" Bruce turns the words over like they're sour in his mouth. "Erectile dysfunction. Comes with the territory of being as old as your father," Bruce teases, but it's a bit terse. "Believe me. I had a wonderful time, from start to finish, Clark."

He looks like he's expecting to be met with disgust for some reason.

But, honestly, Clark is just relieved. Bruce really had been enjoying himself; Clark had been doing it correctly after all.

"Okay." An ecstatic thrum tickles across Clark's nerve endings as he cuddles closer to Bruce all over again, pausing simply to kiss him on the cheek. "Okay! I'm glad it felt good, then. That makes me really happy."

He can't help but leave a few more kisses against Bruce's skin, pecking at him like an enthusiastic songbird.

He leaves a longer, tender kiss against where his carotid artery hides away, before he lets his nose nudge against it, finding comfortable purchase there.

Bruce is still a bit frozen, shocked it seems, but Clark can't figure out why until Bruce breathes an incredulous breath. "It truly doesn't bother you?"

"… what?" Clark blinks.

"The state of my body," Bruce confirms.

Clark lets his breath catch in his throat, confused. "The…? Of course it doesn't bother me, it's just the way your body is. It's just a condition."

"A demeaning condition," Bruce deadpans. "One that has often left my past conquests feeling… miffed. Slighted."

Clark feels a cold chill bite through the otherwise warm comfort that has bloomed around them.

The prospect of someone being upset over such a thing, when Bruce is so much more than that…

He forces the feeling down, though, shaking his head so resolutely that Bruce's frown softens until he's expressionless. Still carefully guarded.

"I don't mind at all," Clark assures him. "… Is it wrong to assume that it does bother you?"

Bruce frowns up, all over again. This time it's more of a scowl, really, and he turns his head away stubbornly. "Nevermind that."

This time, when Clark pulls away, he settles his own weight against his rear. Bruce chuffs at the loss of him, but Clark doesn't go far. Just enough that Bruce can see how earnest he is as he says,

"I liked how it felt in my mouth. It was soft, tasted good. Salty and sweet."

"Sweet?" Bruce looks horrified, aghast at the concept of any of him being perceived as sweet. His hands push against Clark's cheeks, fingers covering his lips to shut him up immediately.

Shocked, as if he didn't have the kindest heart that Clark has seen in Gotham so far. As if he weren't so gentle with Clark the entire night long. How he brought Clark to the edge of sensory overload, lightly pushed him over, and caught him all at once. Kind words spilling from him readily like butter into a pastry. Not a single time had Bruce raised his voice at him, made Clark feel like he was doing a single thing wrong. The entire night, human or pup, Clark had felt safe.

Not to mention the fact that Clark had looked into Wayne Enterprises many times, before tonight. He knows of the kind hand Bruce Wayne reaches out to try to lift up others, forging paths not only through his philanthropy but also in the benefits he allows through his company. Of the many billionaires in America, Bruce was the best of the crop, actually doing something with it.

It… might be a bit overwhelming for the older man, if Clark were to say something like that all at once.

Instead, he simply nods, smiling from behind Bruce's flustered hands.

"Sweet. It made me happy."

Bruce scoffs, looking away as he lets his hands drop. They look empty, so Clark leans forward onto his hip so that he can curl over and take up the space in Bruce's lap, blinking up at him happily.

His cheek lands against Bruce's sternum, and soon his scalp is being gently scratched by dulcet fingers all over again.

"Maybe… you'd let me taste it again? Sometime?"

Clark leans up, kissing against the curve beneath Bruce's ear as the other man tries to hide his growing, precious blush.

"Very well, puppy. Seems I've found myself an insatiable little thing."

"Definitely," Clark says, licking his lips. They taste, faintly, like Bruce's sweat and his cologne. "I think you're going to have to train me a lot more."

Bruce laughs.

He relaxes again, finally, accepting that Clark truly had as good a time tonight as he did. Clark chortles happily when he's gathered up and kissed all over his face again.

"Alright, my puppy."

In the morning, Clark blinks awake as Bruce sits down on the edge of the bed.

He's dressed, partially, in a set of pajama bottoms and a gossamer robe. His fingers prod at Clark's curly curls, letting the one at the forefront coil around the tip of his finger.

"Breakfast is ready," he says. "Come with me?"

Clark sits up, rubbing his eye with his palm.

The sun has risen, though it's not as strong as it usually is in Metropolis this early in the morning. Maybe due to the way Wayne Manor is angled, or maybe because of the thick, translucent drapes that have been drawn on Bruce's impressive balcony glass doors.

"Mmkay," Clark grunts, voice sleep-rough.

They'd talked for hours through the night. Clark hardly remembers all of it with his sleep-fog, but he does remember how wonderfully it felt. Like a flower blossoming in his chest. The feeling seems to have stuck, even throughout the night.

Bruce stands, having been awake for who knows how long.

He produces clothes for Clark, tugging the shirt over his head as he keeps sleepily blinking.

The pants, he lets Clark handle himself only when Clark squawks when Bruce yanks the covers back and exposes his bare cock to the cold morning air.

With an amused look, he steps away to let Clark get decent.

The clothes are a bit tight on Clark, but barely so. They must be Bruce's, all in the same shade of midnight black. But Clark doesn't mind. It makes something warm and fuzzy build in his tummy to know they could potentially share outfits in the future.

I-If there's a future to be had. Gosh, calm down heart.

Bruce is a lot more stoic in the morning. Those easy grins, teasing whispers, all of it disappear as soon as he's stepping past the threshold of his room with Clark ambling sleepily behind him.

His shoulders draw into an intimidating line, strong like he was expecting to have to throw a punch in a moment. And his gait was methodically, not silent but still purposefully measured. Like a soldier. It looks oddly familiar, in a way.

Clark listens to him more than he watches, still so tired that he is sure he's falling asleep between each footstep.

Eventually, though, he's herded into the dining room. There's a long, wooden table in the center of the room, decorated with season-appropriate flowers that smell real. Freshly picked, even.

There's a long runner across it, lace at the edges, and a stack of empty plates at one end.

Bruce ushers him to the other end of the table, pulling out a chair for Clark before he settles at the very head. Without fuss, Clark settles into his designated spot, arms crossing so that he doesn't immediately faceplant into the placemat.

It's only then that Bruce gives him a small smile, something reminiscent of the night prior. Soft and sweet.

"Let's get some food in you, and then you can rest again."

Clark is mildly surprised that Bruce isn't kicking him out, but no less happy at the offer. He nods excitedly, forcing his tired eyes open all the way to show his gratitude.

Fingers tangle in his hair and pet him affectionately, and Clark has to resist going back into 'puppy' mode immediately.

Bruce pulls away before it's an issue, reaching over for the newspaper that must have been laid out for him earlier that morning.

It was about eight in the morning, maybe, so whoever left it must be an extremely early-riser.

"Good morning, Master Bruce. Mister Kent."

Clark startles so hard that he bangs his knee against the table.

An older gentleman dressed in an ornate black suit has appeared in the doorway, stepping forward to leave a steaming cup of coffee in front of Bruce's spot. Clark rubs at his knee, more for show than anything, and bashfully ducks his head in greeting.

How he knows his name, Clark has no clue.

Bruce doesn't react, neither to Clark's flailing nor the butler's sudden appearance. He sips the coffee without even blowing on it to cool it, eyes glancing absently over the paper before he folds it back up.

"Good morning, Alfred," Bruce says, after savoring his first sip.

He's slightly turned in his seat, so that one of his legs can cross over the other. Still, his posture is immaculate, and it kind of makes him look like a prince.

Another cup of coffee is placed on the table, in front of Clark. Then, a glass carafe of milk and a similar one of sugar.

"I apologize for being unaware of your preferred order," the butler—Alfred says. "Do feel free to help yourself."

"Ah, thank you so much!" Clark ducks his head again, in somewhat of an awkward bow. The butler is so fancy that Clark doesn't know what to do with himself.

Bruce breathes an amused noise, and Clark busies himself with dumping an alarming amount of sugar in his mug to stop himself from shooting the man an enamored look.

They sit in silence for a moment, caffeinating themselves. It won't do much for Clark, caffeine never did, but it's a morning ritual he partakes in regardless. Plus, it's nice just being able to sit with Bruce for a while and enjoy his company for as long as he can.

"I, um. Thank you," Clark says. "For… last night."

"Of course," Bruce responds, easily. "It was enjoyable."

What an understatement. Clark's heart beats wistfully, and he only allows himself to waffle for a moment before he places his hand on the table.

Then, he uses his fingers to crawl it closer, until he's brushing against where Bruce's hand is lightly curled around his warm mug.

Bruce eyes him thoughtfully, first his hand, then his face.

Then he concedes, opening his palm so that Clark can steal the empty space between his fingers and tangle them with his own.

Clark grins, beams really, and squeezes. "Good morning."

Bruce looks back at him, shoulders relaxing from that stringent pose. "Good morning, Clark."

He's a lot more quiet compared to last night, too, voice soft but no less deep. As if a mask has slipped out of place, and he was simply too comfortable to refit it.

Clark really likes this side of Bruce, too.

"Morning, Alfie!" A chipper voice calls, before two bodies burst into the dining room with all the grace of a falling tree. Clark startles for the second time that morning but, just like before, Bruce doesn't react.

Two younger boys, maybe late teens or early twenties, wrestle their way into the room arguing about something that Clark didn't catch. In fact, he hadn't heard them at all, his senses focused entirely on the older man sitting beside him. Good gosh.

"Good morning, young masters," Alfie—Alfred responds, appearing again. He has impressively stacked four plates along his arms and arranges them across the table.

The two boys take the side of the table opposite to Clark, eyeing him curiously.

The taller one has long hair, which is swept into the messiest low bun Clark has ever seen. His blue eyes sparkle mischievously, but he doesn't say a word as he stares Clark down. Rather, he just grins in a way that makes Clark nervously begin to untangle his hand from Bruce's grip.

Bruce tightens their handhold before he can pull away, unashamed.

The other boy is the one that takes note of the subtle motion. He has dark eyes, a green so deep that they were, somehow, almost black.

Other than that, he looks exactly like Bruce, if Bruce were thirty years younger. He has a strong jaw, sharp eyes, and is bulky in comparison to the other boy's dancer-like litheness.

His sons, presumably. Clark didn't realize they'd be here, the morning after.

"Oh my gosh," Clark mumbles beneath his breath. "Um, hi."

The boys look at Bruce simultaneously, like owls that have set their sights on a mouse in the dirt.

"This is Clark," Bruce introduces.

And then says nothing further.

Clark wisely keeps his mouth shut as well, nodding politely.

It's the taller boy that breaks the unsteady silence choosing to ignore Clark's presence almost entirely. "Thank you for breakfast, Alfie. Could I have some apple juice, please?"

"Pfft. Baby."

"Jason," Bruce admonishes.

The Bruce-lookalike, Jason, rolls his eyes. "What? Dickie is a baby."

"Older than you, shorty. Taller, too."

"By an inch, asshole—"

"Language," Bruce pipes up. "We have a guest."

Clark, who had slowly been sinking into his seat while wishing he knew how to go invisible, sits up straight. He knows the panic must be palpable on his face because Bruce gives him an encouraging squeeze.

If he had known he'd be meeting his… his one-night-stand's (no, that doesn't feel right, not at all) his lover's kids the very morning after, he'd… well, he'd atleast have brushed his hair properly.

As it stands, he feels the frizzy way his hair curls across his ears and how his shirt—Bruce's shirt—squeezes tight against his biceps.

"Don't mind me, really. I just… Mr. Wayne and I, we—"

"Well, I can't be much older than Mister Clark over there," Dick says, all of a sudden. He blinks his big blue eyes at Clark in a way that could be described as innocent if not for the sharp glint in them. It draws everyone's gaze over to him, even Alfred's as he places a full glass of apple juice down. "Right?"

"Um."

It's a trap. Definitely. One that Bruce takes note of but doesn't spring. Rather, his eyes soften as he takes in Clark's nervous twitching.

"These are my sons, Dick and Jason," Bruce finally introduces them properly. "My other boys have already gone to their respective schools. These two are simply… visiting."

"More like recovering. I've got a busted knee and Dick over there almost broke his spine doing a backflip."

"Uh no, you almost broke my spine dragging me down with you. If I hadn't caught myself on a ledge, we'd both be blood splatters."

Alarmed, Clark looks over at Bruce.

Bruce is fixing the boys with a sharp look. But he must see Clark's movement from his peripherals, because he responds,

"They're in sports. It… was a tough season."

Bruce's heartbeat never wavers, steady. Clark isn't a lie detector, but there are certain, subtle ways that humans give themselves away when they're lying.

Bruce's tell is the way his eyebrow twitches, the muscle pinching below the surface of his skin.

Clark leaves it alone.

"Oh. Please be careful, then," he says to the boys, weakly. "That must have been… scary."

Jason scoffs. "Nothing to it."

"Mhm," Dick agrees. "Gotham isn't so scary these days. And a little sports injury won't do much to… intimidate us. Not when we have good ol' Batman around."

Bruce breathes in sharply, audible only to Clark's ears.

Dick picks up his glass and waves it around conversationally, though his calculating gaze doesn't leave Clark for a moment. "You know, he's quite protective of this city. Usually it keeps the strays out."

Clark blinks dumbly, wracking his brain.

Is… is he being threatened? Is Dick threatening to sic Batman on him for having sex with his dad? The Batman?

"Mm, actually, you don't look like you're from here." Dick is all smiles as he says this, while Clark silently panics. "And I don't think Dad has ever mentioned you."

Jason elbows Dick in his side, though he looks entirely too amused at the round-about threats.

He's leaning casually back, but his gaze is still that much sharper than Dick's. As though if Clark were to make a wrong move, he'd flip the table over in a second and try to snap his neck.

"Do steady your tongue and eat your food before it goes stale, young sirs," Alfred pipes up.

Then he sweeps out of the room, before anyone can even retort.

With it, the weirdly tense atmosphere pops like a bubble.

Almost guiltily, Dick picks up a knife to begin digging in. Breakfast is a high stack of french toast decorated with a rainbow of fruits, and a few browned sausages on the side.

Clark, extremely guilty, picks up his own cutlery, though he has to use the knife with his non-dominant hand when Bruce won't let him go.

In fact, the man is tense all over, staring at his boys as if he were mentally thrashing them.

"It's nice to meet you both," Clark says belatedly. "Sorry to interrupt family time."

"You didn't interrupt a thing," Bruce says. "My sons are simply overstepping. As they do."

"Someone around here's gotta protect your virtue," Jason pipes up. He's already polished off his sausages, and quickly snags one from Dick's plate despite the other man's outrage.

Bruce rolls his eyes. "Clark is harmless. Aren't you?"

He glances Clark over, and it seems like part of it is to make sure Clark isn't suddenly squeamish by the way his sons spoke to him.

But honestly? His nerves are quickly fading.

He takes note of how, as soon as Bruce's back is turned, Dick glances Bruce himself over in that exact same manner. Searching for anything concerning hidden beneath the surface that Clark might have inflicted on Bruce. Eyeing the way Bruce's hand is curled protectively in Clark's. How Bruce seems to lean into him rather than away.

And he notes how Jason, despite the casual way he's observed and teased, had sized Clark up before they even sat down. How he purposefully stole the spot directly across from Clark, in case he needs to cut in and yank them apart if he doesn't like what either of them sees.

They really are just trying to protect their father. It makes Clark's heart warm.

It may be overstepping but… but he's happy that Bruce has someone like that.

From what little he's learned, both last night and over the years as a reporter, the man deserves that safety net. Goodness above knows he's been kidnapped too many times as it is.

"Harmless," Clark agrees. "Mr. Wayne… Bruce, I mean, could probably benchpress me all day anyway, if I did something wrong to him."

Jason guffaws at the mental image. Though Bruce was just slightly smaller than Clark, they all seem to recognize that the man's strength was nothing to sneeze at.

If only they knew Superman was saying that, and meant it genuinely.

Pleased, Bruce goes back to his coffee.

His plate is a little less loaded than everyone else's, and Clark minutely frowns. He sweeps half of his fruit over onto Bruce's toast before the man can react, and gives him a cheeky smile that is met with an exasperated sigh.

This seems to be the final thing Dick needed to relax as well. He smiles brightly, nudging at Bruce beneath the table. The man fondly shakes his head but, when Dick points at the messy stack of blueberries, he obediently pops a few in his mouth.

"So, how old are you anyway?" Dick asks, eventually.

"I'm… twenty," Clark says, swallowing heavily. He winces when Dick perks up, clapping his hands.

"Hey, me too!" Dick chirps, giddy. This time it's less hostile, at least. "What a coincidence."

Clark immediately sinks down into his chair, flustered.

Bruce silently sips his coffee, but even behind the curved rim of the glass, his teasing smirk is visible.

It does nothing to diminish his interest in the older man, though. Rather, want flares up in him like a candle that has been relit. Dangit.

"Hey man, as long as you don't go around calling him Dad, it's fine." Jason shoves a bite of french toast in his mouth, chewing only twice before he continues, "I mean, just keep it in the bedroom at least. I do not need to add daddy kink trauma to my therapist's plate."

"Jay," Bruce admonishes. But he seems to have relaxed, finally, as his sons switch from threatening to teasing all at once.

"And I do not want to hear your weird sex stuff through the walls."

"The walls are soundproof," Bruce sighs. "You know this."

Clark did not know this and is suddenly relieved for a whole 'nother reason.

Still, he blushes his way through the meal as everyone falls into merciful silence.

Beyond the gentle sound of cutlery cutting into soft bread, glasses being lifted and placed onto coasters, and even the distant sound of Alfred cleaning up in the kitchen, Clark can hear how Bruce's heartbeat, something he's quickly coming to memorize, has fallen back into its regular, calm rhythm.

By the time they've eaten, plates mostly clear besides spots of syrup and butter, Clark has calmed too. He smiles easily as Dick makes small talk, little topics that Clark can't help but excitedly latch onto.

Apparently Dick was a gymnast and was looking for new ways to show it off. Clark mentioned a few connections he had thanks to being a journalist, where there were a few theaters looking for opening performances that Dick might be able to try out for.

Jason doesn't smile as much, like Bruce, but looks impressed when Clark ends up talking about an old article of his where he'd ended up stopping a bombing by complete accident. He… carefully omits the fact that 'Superman' is the one that actually disarmed the bomb, but Jason seemed to care more about the fact that Clark had been able to clear the business office before anyone could get hurt (completely out of hero uniform).

They actually seem to like him by the end of it, which feels even better than flying.

Bruce seems to think so, too, regarding Clark with a look that has him blushing again for an entirely different reason.

"Anyway," Dick declares, shoving his plate away as he stands up. "Me and Jay have… secret things to do. You enjoy your boytoy. And try to make this one last, he seems nice!"

Dick sweeps away with a cackle as Bruce barks out a flustered, "Dick!"

Jason snorts, shaking his head. As he does, he reaches over to steal Bruce's coffee and downs it all in one gulp.

"Watch your caffeine intake, old man. Don't want you having a heart attack on your date."

"Jay," Bruce groans. "Get out."

Jason's laugh, like Dick's, echoes in the dining room as he goes, but it has both Clark and Bruce smiling as it fades away to mirthful silence.

Then, in the aftermath of that tornado, they're alone again.

The pleasant smell of breakfast has Clark feeling cozy and soft. His hand is probably clammy in Bruce's grip, after having been so nervous. But the older man continues to hold him gently, even rubbing his thumb in a steady circle across the back of his palm.

"… Was that alright?" Bruce asks, after it's clear his sons are gone. "I do apologize for not warning you. I thought they'd be asleep until noon."

"No worries," Clark says easily. "They were nice."

Bruce looks at him so incredulously that Clark can't help but giggle.

"I'm serious!" Clark takes the opportunity to move his chair closer, until he's completely out of his proper dining spot and instead directly next to Bruce.

Then, he leans his head down and rests it against Bruce's shoulder, content with just feeling the warmth of him mingle with the delight of knowing Bruce wanted it to be okay.

"I'm serious," Clark says softer. "I know last night was kind of a surprise for both of us, but… it was really nice. And I'm glad that you feel good enough about me to introduce me to your family, even if it wasn't exactly on purpose."

"Of course," Bruce says. Then, almost shyly, he adds, "As I said last night, I do like you."

The reminder makes Clark melt.

Clark nonchalantly brings his other hand up to rest against Bruce's thigh. The older man twitches at the light touch, but doesn't move away.

"I like you, too. Maybe… we could actually add a date on the agenda? If you wanted, sometime?"

Bruce leans over, so that his cheek rests against the curve of Clark's head. He sighs, but it sounds fond.

"Mm. Very well. I'm sure I can make time."

He's smiling, Clark can hear it from the tone of his voice. It makes him smile, too, and he squeezes down on Bruce's leg until Bruce's heart has taken up an excited pace.

Even though they were doing this incredibly out of order… Clark couldn't wait to properly see this through. After all, he did need more puppy training.

Clark tilts his head to lay a kiss against the expanse of Bruce's shoulder.

"It's a date, then."