Archive of Our Own ^beta

His reaction is instantaneous.

The lamp sitting on the bedside table adjacent is switched on habitually, fingers deft in the movement from repeated experience. It takes only but a few moments for his eyes to completely adjust from the darkness, vision refocusing on the writhing form on the mattress next to him. There's an irritating ringing noise in his ears from sitting up so abruptly, but it's immediately drowned out by the shouts which seemed to echo off the walls in the enormous bedroom.

Bruce was never a heavy sleeper to begin with.

He distances himself respectfully from the flailing individual, avoiding uncoordinated thrashes of those long arms. A fractured wrist, three broken fingers, a dislocated thumb, and severe bruising on both his forearms was the price he paid from attempting to intervene in the past. Bruce snatches the main blanket and throws it aside before it could become tangled, shifts to his knees then sits back on his heels, watching with a practiced calm expression as the man before him succumbs to panic.

"I can't breathe—" the hoarse voice choked out, followed by a series of hyperventilate gasps. Clark's clutching at his chest like he's trying to tear his lungs from his very body.

"You don't need oxygen, Clark." Bruce reminds neutrally, his hands closing into fists on top of his thighs.

The fact that Clark states such silly things proves it's all mental. There's nothing ever physically harming him, and yet he always does the same thing. Wildly kicks and swats at the air, as if trying to push an invisible barrier away from him. There's a feeling Bruce can't quite describe that twists at his gut whenever this happens. He already knows the images Clark's mind continuously transpires yet never speaks such aloud. Bruce isn't prepared for that conversation yet. He's not quite sure he'll ever be.

Never would he imagine something as insignificant as the memory of a coffin terrorizing Superman. If anything, Clark should be fearful of Bruce, the person who all-too recently attempted to murder him ruthlessly. But he isn't. Nothing less should be expected, it was like Clark was simply incapable of holding a grudge. Funny how the one who originated from another planet is more emotionally human than a lot of people Bruce knows—himself included.

He wasn't positive if it was thought of death itself that caused Clark's night terrors, or merely the trapped, suffocating sensation from the memory of being buried alive that drove him into such a panicked state of mind. Bruce didn't have the heart to ask. It took weeks before he even mustered up enough confidence to suggest finding some psychological help—which Clark happened to kindly refuse in that damn polite and dignified yet non-arrogant mannerism he always upheld himself in. 

He claimed Bruce alone was enough. That him being there, sleeping beside him was all the healing he needed. Bruce thought otherwise. In fact, he was sure it was because he was there is why Clark was suffering so much, even though the other man claimed the tramautic episodes lasted in spans up to one hour if he wasn't present. It's not the sleepless night's specifically Bruce is worried about—Clark doesn't even need to sleep to function—it was because the man's mind wasn't getting any rest.

"Bruce..?"

"I'm here." He replies softly, a soothing, almost warm tone of voice that's specifically reserved for Clark and Clark only.

"C'mere." Clark mumbles, reaching out towards him.

Bruce obliges. He always does. He wordlessly moves across the bed, pushing away the rumpled sheets gathered in a mass at Clark's legs. There's a large hand pulling his night shirt, and suddenly a warmth on his chest as Clark presses his face to his torso, nuzzling him, inhaling his scent. They're quiet, motionless, for such a long time anyone would assume Bruce has fallen back asleep from his steady breathing. But he's more than awake, every single nerve in his body jittering with anticipation. 

He's almost sure Clark is listening to his rapid heartbeat. Without warning, that hand slides underneath the fabric of his shirt, caressing the blemished skin beneath, fingertips evoking an uncontrollable shutter to pass through Bruce's body. The first time it happened, Bruce didn't know what to make of it. He was led to believe it was another dream-like state, though the other mans eyes had been too piercing to be anything but alert. He next assumed it's some kind of sick prank, a tease, a taunt. A challenge, even. Bruce indignantly thinks, Clark is just fucking with him.

Turns out, that's literally what Clark was aiming for.

It became a pattern. A routine almost. He'd leave his bedroom window cracked open just enough—otherwise it'd be broken the next morning. Bruce would go to bed alone, then wake in the middle of the night to find a warm, solid body next to his own. And then there was the sleep terrors. Sometimes Clark would merely toss and turn, or whine and frown, other times he'd yell and thrash. It was only a matter of time before Bruce became the target of the other mans nightmares. 

It's concerning he doesn't have a problem with that. And then, almost like a relapse, Clark goes to Bruce and does exactly what he's doing now. His lids fell closed over his eyes as his shirt is torn like a piece of paper, the shredded fabric disregarded with a flick of Clark's wrist. There's that warm mouth exhaling against his chest, teeth grazing over a nipple before a tongue is licking up the side of his neck. He's already been hard for the past few minutes, knowing all too well what the near future had in store.

Bruce never protests. A part of him wants to believe its from the guilt, but Clark doesn't allow him to feel guilty. He nags at Bruce whenever he says something particularly depressing. Always mentions Ma and the farm, thanking Bruce repeatedly, like he was something to appreciate, to cherish. He wasn't. A part of him knows Clark will stop if he simply spoke the words aloud, but he doesn't. And he doesn't plan on it, either. Bruce hates himself for feeling anything. He isn't supposed to like it. Look forward to it. This wasn't for him, for his own selfish desires.

If by fucking him, Clark can find some peace of mind, then, well, that was that. 

There's a flash of Clark briefly using his super speed, and before Bruce knows it, his pants are snatched down his legs, boxers included, Clark's now equally naked form pressed against his own. He's lowered until his back connects with the plush mattress, his cock rubbing against Clark's between their stomachs, that warm velvety skin sending all types of sensations through Bruce's body. Curly dark hair tickles the side of his face while the other man is busy sucking a mark at the junction of his collarbone and shoulder, grinding his hips forwards.

Bruce's mouth opens, but no sound comes out—nothing ever does.

Something in the back of his mind tells him if he makes a noise, if he reacts significantly at all, Clark might snap out of it and stop.

Clark's hands are everywhere on him, the same as always, feeling every square inch of his body, like it was the first and last time he'd ever be doing so. Fingers capable of bending steel trace the lines of multiple scars, almost tenderly caressing the previously lacerated flesh. Nobody's ever given him such attention, treated Bruce like he was something so delicate, something special. Then again, nobody's ever been presented the opportunity to touch him, to embrace him in such a manner. The random models Bruce Wayne indulged for publicity purposes were all the same, willing to take whatever he gave them happily.

With Clark, Bruce didn't need to do a single thing, and yet somehow he's able to feel more than he'd ever felt in the past couple of decades. His heartbeat goes erratic when Clark is sliding off and turning him, laying on his side while plastering himself to Bruce's back like a second skin. There's two already lubed fingers circling around his entrance, moistening the puckered surface before delving inside, only stopping once they've reached the last knuckle.

Bruce arches, pressing against the hard contours of Clark's physique. The digits are pumping in and out of him with nimbleness, twisting then crooking, finding his prostate in a matter of seconds. Soft lips graze his upper back and shoulders, littering the surface in light kisses. Bruce can feel Clark's cock, thick and heavy, right up against his ass. His throat is tight with the effort to remain silent.

"Bruce." Clark exhales against the back of his neck, raising the fine dark hairs there.

There's another tentative finger pushing in with the other two, stretching, preparing him for what's to come. His hips move with the steady rhythm Clark has set. A subtle roll—nothing more, nothing less. Bruce grits his teeth when the fingers soon withdraw, leaving him feeling empty. One of his thighs is promptly lifted, and he can and hear and feel Clark repositioning behind him, his movements unhurried and gentle as he begins easing himself in.

The sheer pressure is unbelievable, and each time Bruce thinks he's adjusted, he's proven wrong. Clark is just.. there. Consuming every part of Bruce's being, in mind and body. His spine arches inward, breaths turning shaky as Clark continues sliding inside, filling him. Halfway, Bruce thinks he might die this time, and all the air is punched from his lungs when his ass finally comes into contact with the other mans pelvis. Clark is still a moment, then his hips flex forwards once, as if he's making sure every last inch of his cock is actually in.

"Bruce." Clark repeats his name, whispering it against his ear like a prayer.

Bruce clenches down, earning him a rumbling groan low in Clark's throat. He twitches when Clark's cock slowly drags out of him, shivers once it buries to the hilt again. A hand hooks his leg from underneath his knee, holding it there while Clark beings at a leisurely pace of thrusting. Bruce shuts his eyes, focuses on his breathing, forces his body to relax and maneuver however Clark sees fit.

Obscene wet sounds fill the bedroom air, mingling with Bruce's shallow breaths, but he can hardly hear anything over his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Clark's free hand glides down his stomach, palm splayed open against Bruce's abdomen. The appendage travels lower, fingers wrapping firmly over his erection. An electrifying pulse went through his body, and Bruce squeezes on Clark's cock again when the other man's thumb pad smudges the gathering precum on the tip of his own in slow circles.

Every one of Clark's actions are so fluent, so sure, so casual, like being buried balls-deep inside Bruce was always a common occurrence. The sheets which were clumped in a mass at Bruce's hands are moved when Clark repositions them again, settling between his legs. Even in the dim lighting those expressive, magnificent vibrant blues seemed to shine. Bruce avoids direct eye-contact, unprepared for what he might find lingering in the oceanic depths. 

Clark's expression reveals enough already, and he can hardly stand a glimpse. If anyone asked, he wouldn't be able to fully explain what.. this was. His thighs are spread further apart, and then the other man is leaning over him, hands on either side of Bruce's head. He cannot suppress the sharp intake of breath as the angle changes perfectly, a continuous pressure against his prostate, kindling the fire of roaring ecstasy burning within his gut.

"Bruce." 

"Hn?" 

"Look at me, Bruce." Clark says, and it's infuriating him how steady the other mans voice is, like he isn't fucking him with enough force to cause Bruce's body to lurch upwards on the mattress each time, the top of his head narrowly missing the large headboard.

His line of vision is glued to the toned upper body in front of him, watching the near mesmerizing ripple of Clark's abdominal region flex with each movement he made. Bruce bites his lip when one of Clark's hands touches the side of his face gently in a mock-lovers caress. He risks a glance upwards and is pinned by the sheer intensity in the other mans clear eyes. There's an emotion Bruce can't quite decipher lingering there, and he almost wants to shout in frustration. 

"You need to let go." The other mans thumb is running gently across his stubble coated cheek.

Bruce's heart palpitates in his chest. He can't be sure if Clark is referring to his obvious restraint during sex or if he means the let the incident go. Either way Bruce is close to breaking. If he's not swarmed with regret and shame each time he looks at Clark, not putting the burden on his shoulders, used as a way to forget the damage he caused, then what is there? A sound very similar to a whine is building in his throat.

"Let go, Bruce." Clark murmurs, accentuating his words with one particularly rough grind of his hips. "It's okay, I promise."

His hands can't decide if they want to remain bunched in the sheets or grab wildly at the body on top of him. That voice is so deceptively calm, so reassuring, like Bruce didn't have a million and one problems going on, and the mere thought of Clark actually caring just added about another five-hundred thousand to that list. Bruce's thighs squeeze Clark's sides with a force he knows would have a human rendered incapable of moving any further. Clark's fucking doesn't cease in the slightest.

"I've got you." It's a hushed whisper, hardly audible. A promise.

Nothing could've stopped the broken noise leaving Bruce's mouth at those words. He fights it, if not for a few moments longer, but the temptation is too powerful, and so he finally gives in. He's shaking, a tightness in his chest coiling to the point of near painful. The guilt, the sorrow, the desire, and every other feeling in-between he has long suppressed comes crashing down like an avalanche. Bruce knows he can't handle the fall—but that's what Clark is there for, right? 

"I know." He replies hoarsely, wrapping his arms around broad shoulders, pulling Clark closer to him, embracing the other for the first and what Bruce now knows is not the last time. "I know."