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Tongue-tied

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It was a stuffy event, countless reporters crammed into one of the side galleries of the Gotham Metropolitan Museum. Wayne Enterprises was funding the renovations of the museum and Bruce Wayne was there to answer the questions of the press. He wore a well-cut suit and a blasé expression on his face. He trotted out company-approved soundbites to the questions. Clark could read the boredom in the way he held himself and from the miniscule movements of his face, the vacant look in his eye disguised by heavy lids.

It was sex that had taught Clark to read him.

They had been sleeping together for the better part of six months. Of course, there was no sleeping involved, but Clark couldn’t bear to just think of it as hooking up. As the months had passed, Bruce had little by little dropped his defenses and let Clark see him. There was the sex and, later on, once Bruce had started to let him hang around the cave, small details that allowed Clark to realise things about Bruce that he had not known before. One of the things he had learned was that Bruce hated being bored and, although they weren’t anything, Clark hated to see him miserable.

Clark cleared his throat. 

‘Clark Kent, Daily Planet. At another press conference, you recently agreed with a female politician who expressed frustration at the fact that women are more often asked about their clothing than their policies. So in the interest of promoting journalistic fairness, please tell us who you're wearing.’

‘Well, Mr Kent.’ Bruce tossed a smile at him of the kind that he usually saved for models in six-inch heels. ‘I’m not sure if this is the appropriate forum for that question.’

'Surely, Mr. Wayne, you don't consider your sartorial choices above reproach?'

Bruce considered him from the podium. He pressed his fingers against the mahogany, his manicured nails white from the pressure. He lifted his head just slightly, and studied Clark beneath heavy eyelids. The silence felt oppressive where it stretched between them, and though Clark could hear the other journalists, their hearts and the rush of their blood and their breathing, but the room seemed to reduce to just the two of them.

‘Mr Kent, perhaps we can pick up this conversation when the reception starts? I would be more than happy to give you fashion advice. Let it never be said that I don't give to those in need. And you, you are obviously in need.'

Bruce sounded bored at the prospect and, as ever when he put on that facade, his voice dropped just slightly into that drawling Gotham accent that he otherwise stayed clear of. Clark knew better. He heard Bruce’s heart. He could smell Bruce’s arousal, indescribable and intoxicating. Another reporter asked a question and Bruce smiled genially without answering the question at all. Clark focused on the smell of Bruce and his slightly elevated heart rate, noticing the way Bruce’s eyes seemed to keep coming back to study Clark.

When the reception finally started, Clark stood in a corner and waited for Bruce to come up to him. Each time he left a conversation someone else caught him, glad-handing and schmoozing. It was a special kind of torture. Clark had resorted to clearing the junk folder of his emails when Bruce finally showed up.

‘Mr Kent.’ Bruce offered his hand for a handshake. ‘I believe I said we could continue our conversation. Come, let’s find somewhere a little more private.’

Brue skated his eyes over Clark and lingered on his lips for an eternal second before he put a hand in the small of Clark’s back to lead him away. The touch was possessive and performative, pressing the flat of Bruce’s palm against Clark’s polyester blazer. Clark could feel his warmth through the layers. Bruce led them deeper into the museum. In a corridor behind an exhibit on the history of organised crime in Gotham, Bruce pulled Clark to a stop by grabbing his shoulder. They had stopped in front of a plain-looking door with a plaque reading Maintenance only.

‘Are you aware, Mr Kent, how mouthy you are?’ Bruce asked conversationally, his free hand on the door handle.

‘Mouthy?’ Clark repeated. Bruce’s palm was heavy on his shoulder, his nails pressing into his jacket.

‘Yes,’ Bruce said and opened the door. ‘In you go.’

Clark stepped inside. A moment later, Bruce had closed the door behind them. He had Clark crowded up against the wall, crushing their mouths together, roaming his hands under Clark’s suit jacket, mapping out his body under his clothes.

‘Mouthy – and easy, too.’ He squeezed his palm against Clark’s crotch, his erection already pressing against his slacks.

‘Jesus, Bruce.’ Clark said, thrusting into the touch even as he complained.

‘Did you think about me? Did you wake up this morning and realise that you were gonna see me today?’ Bruce whispered, the words reverberating over Clark’s skin. Clark opened his mouth to reply but he could just gasp out a whimper when Bruce bit down on his neck and ground his hips into him. ‘Did it get you hard?’

‘Yes.’ It should be shameful, but admitting it made Clark only harder against Bruce’s thigh.

‘Did you jerk yourself off, wishing it was me? Did you wish I was fucking you?’ 

Bruce leaned his head back to study Clark. He had his hands pressed over Clark’s wrists, pinning him to the wall, and he lifted his leg to press his thigh firmer against Clark’s growing hardness. He raised an eyebrow, waiting for an answer.

Clark swallowed and swallowed again.

‘Yes.’

He’d woken up early and he’d brought himself off thinking about Bruce’s hands on him, Bruce spreading him open and filling him up, telling him what to do, letting him serve. He’d felt guilty afterwards, his fantasies always dirtier than their shared reality. The truth should be dirty enough. (Bruce had never called him a whore, but in his fantasies that morning he had told him he was the prettiest little whore he’d ever fucked, and Clark had come hard at the image of Bruce’s mouth forming the word, his gravelled voice delivering it.) Bruce almost smiled at Clark’s nervous grin, a dark hunger blazing in his eyes. He let go of Clark’s wrists and pulled away for a torturous second before he put his hands on Clark’s waist instead, turning him around, tearing off Clark’s jacket and pressing against him, luxurious custom-fit wool against Clark’s clearance-rack choice. 

‘You should have called me.’

He had his hands over Clark’s wrists, keeping him against the wall. His erection pressed against Clark’s ass, but Clark wanted him closer, deeper.

‘Called you?’ Clark had a hard time talking back at Bruce when they ended up like this. He wanted to ask what Bruce would have done if he had called. Would he have fucked him?

‘You start work at, what, eight thirty?’ Bruce rubbed his thumbs over the inside of Clark’s wrists, soliciting a whimper in response. ‘So let’s say you had a lazy morning. Let’s say this was eight am.’ Clark felt Bruce’s jaw move when he licked his lips. ‘I was in a meeting with French and German board members at eight. I didn’t need to talk much, mostly just be there. I was alone in my office. You could’ve called me. I could’ve listened to the pretty sounds you make. You could’ve turned your camera on and I could’ve watched you, told you what to do. The board members wouldn’t need to know.’ 

Clark whined at the mental image, at the idea of debasing himself like that, of being splayed out on Bruce’s phone, hidden from the other participants of the meeting but if Bruce were to unmute himself, speak up in the meeting, they would hear Clark’s needy moans, the sound of his hand on himself. Thus revealed, Bruce would grin and say that boring meetings necessitated something to get the blood going.

‘You’d like that,’ Bruce murmured in appreciation.

Bruce smiled into the kiss when Clark twisted his head, letting one hand go to wrap his fingers around his jaw, holding him in place. The kisses were slow and messy, tongues and spit and Clark’s teeth closing on Bruce’s lower lip and biting, enough to bruise, enough to let Clark taste copper. Bruce pressed closer and replied with a bite of his own, one that would have split Clark’s lip if he had been anyone else.

‘I’m not going to fuck you. Don’t have the time. I’ve got somewhere to be in thirty minutes.’

For a split second, Clark was mad, incensed that Bruce would deprive him of this. Then again, there was something heady and enticing about it, that Bruce decided what was good for him, decided what he needed. (Decided what he deserved. Like Clark was a pet and Bruce was a considerate owner.)

‘Yeah? With one of those Instagram models you’re dating?’ Clark asked.

‘I’m not dating any of them.’

Bruce had his forehead against the back of Clark’s head, rubbing his face against Clark’s hair. He knew what Bruce meant when he said this. He heard the words Bruce didn’t say. It hadn’t been difficult to notice that Bruce Wayne, well-known for changing girlfriends like others change their kitchen towels, hadn’t been seen on any dates for months. Not since, Clark knew, the first time he had made Bruce come, a messy handjob that had Bruce gasping into the shoulder of the Superman suit, repeating Clark’s name over and over. (Bruce had kneeled for Clark and Clark had almost come before Bruce even touched his cock, the image of Batman, cowl pushed back, on his knees for him. Bruce had sucked him off and Clark came fast enough that he had apologised afterwards. I take it as a compliment, Bruce smirked and licked his lips.)

‘Bruce…’

‘Shut up, Clark.’

Bruce’s tone started harsh, angry, but when he said Clark’s name his voice was softened to barely a whisper. He cleared his throat. Nibbled along Clark’s neck. Rolled his hips into Clark, teasing and slow. Reached an arm around Clark’s waist, undoing his belt with nimble ease. His voice shifted just as nimbly, down to a low deep purr, all temptation and danger.

‘Didn’t I say you were mouthy? Too mouthy for your own good?’

‘Yeah, you might’ve–’ Clark had to bite his tongue to keep the sudden, impossible sensation of Bruce’s palm pressing down on his cock from making him mewl again, ‘–mentioned, I think.’

‘Mmm, I might’ve. Don’t you think…’ Bruce dragged his hand back up, his thumb hooking into the waistline of Clark’s underwear. ‘... don’t you think we should do something about that?’

Clark couldn’t remember, later, if he’d said yes or if he’d just nodded or if he’d somehow managed both, but he remembered vividly the absence he felt when Bruce’s hand disappeared, feeling suddenly cold and exposed. He leaned his head against the wall and looked back at Bruce. Bruce acknowledged Clark with a slow thrust of fine wool against polyester. He had his collar bar in his mouth, one silver ball peeking out in either corner of his mouth. With his tie pin between his left index and middle finger, he was pulling off his tie, tugging at the silk with hurried hands. Clark didn’t remember putting his hands in Bruce’s hair, but his hair was on end, long grey strands falling into his face. The bruise on his lower lip was dark and purpling. When the tie hung free around his neck, he put the collar bar between finger and thumb.

‘First of all, I’m going to need you to keep my things safe.’ Bruce leaned in for a kiss, filthy and slow, tilting Clark’s head closer with a firm finger on his jaw. ‘Come on, son, open your mouth.’

Clark welcomed Bruce’s fingers reaching into his mouth and lapped his tongue over his fingers, tasting dust and hand sanitiser and the slight smell of Clark’s own arousal. He was surprised at the sudden cold metal touching his bottom lip. He couldn’t figure out Bruce’s sleight of hand, but that was his tie pin pressed under Clark’s tongue.

‘Tongue down. Keep your mouth open.’

Clark obeyed, the flat of the tie pin pressing against the underside of his tongue. Bruce pulled out his pocket square and folded it into a triangle. Folding it again, he lay it on Clark’s tongue. The silk of the square was unfamiliar in Clark’s mouth, soft and dry. Bruce looped the wider end of his tie around his right hand and then his tie was in Clark’s mouth, too, pressing down on the silk and his tongue, digging into his molars. Bruce grabbed the other end of the tie and pulled. Clark yielded and let himself be pulled back, Bruce pulling him down so the back of his head rested on Bruce’s shoulder. From this angle, Bruce’s slanted smile was menacing, intoxicating. He held his collar bar between finger and thumb, presenting it to Clark before placing it between Clark’s teeth.

‘Keep your mouth closed on that. I don’t want you to lose my things. Be careful not to damage them. Control yourself, Clark.’

Bruce’s voice was calm and collected, but the room was thick with the smell of sex. Clark keened when Bruce stroked his fingers down Clark’s throat, petting him like one would a skittish animal. Bruce moved Clark’s hands so he braced himself against the wall, palms flat. Bruce kept one hand on the tie, holding him in place. With the other, he tugged Clark’s slacks and boxer-briefs down to his knees.

‘I’m going to give you two options. Option one: I fuck your thighs. Option two: you kneel and watch me get off and I come on your face. Which do you want?’

Both, Clark wanted to say, but the silk wouldn’t let him speak, so he whined against the bridle, rolling his hips in search of more touch, more friction, but there was only empty air. Bruce had stepped away, waiting for an answer.

‘What was that?’ The second time, Clark half-managed to stutter both, the resultant sound close enough that Bruce understood. He tutted and patted Clark’s cheek, not quite hard enough to be a slap. ‘I gave you two options. I didn’t say you could have both. You can have one .’

Clark mewled. The metal in his mouth had grown warm, but it was smooth where the silk had grown coarse. Bruce skimmed a hand up Clark’s shirt, skirting rough fingertips over his back, dipping down to graze over his ass, fluttering over his thighs, the touches fleeting and soft. Clark made another sound.

‘Come on, Clark, which do you want?’ Bruce chuckled when Clark spread his legs, offering himself up. He patted his cheek again, softer this time. ‘Good boy.’

Bruce let go of the tie and Clark closed his eyes, listening to Bruce peel off his layers: first his jacket and waistcoat, then the dull metallic sound as he undid the clasps of his suspenders and the hiss of a zipper being undone. The slide of silk and wool down Bruce’s thick thighs was loud in Clark’s ears. He flicked the tip of his trapped tongue over the collar bar between his teeth, its warm smooth surface keeping him grounded. Clark heard Bruce twist something open and the scent of roses filled his senses, floral and sweet and cutting through the stench of sex.

‘It’s a lip salve,’ Bruce explained and took the ends of the tie again, not pulling, but holding Clark in place. ‘Best I can do.’

The salve was cool against the inside of Clark’s thighs where Bruce spread it over his skin. Opening his eyes, Clark looked back at Bruce. His eyes were dark, his eyelids heavy. Gone was the louche businessman from the press conference. No, this was Bruce, the real Bruce, scars and fuck-ups and all. Something proud and selfish twisted in Clark’s heart. He was allowed to see Bruce like this. Clark knew he would never ask, but he couldn’t imagine that he would ever have revealed himself like this to another lover. The thought that Bruce thought he was special, that he deserved to see the real him, was dizzying and almost unbelievable.

When Bruce pushed himself between Clark’s thighs, his mouth fell open and his eyes lost their focus for the barest moment. After a first slow thrust, he moved his free hand from Clark’s waist to circle fingers around his cock, mimicking the slow drag of his hips. Clark shuddered.

‘You’re going to have to make another decision, Clark.’ Bruce kissed Clark’s tragus as if in apology for making him have to choose. ‘The options are mutually exclusive. Should make it easier for you. Option one: You stay still and I fuck you. Option two, I stay still and you get us off. One sound for option one, Clark, two for option two.’

Clark thought about it. Bruce nipped his ear lobe and squeezed his cock, urging him on. Clark managed a low moan, the silk and metal muffling the nuance of the sound.

‘Well done, Clark. I’m proud of you.’

Bruce kissed Clark’s mouth, first where the tie bit into where his upper and lower lip met, then over Clark’s cupid bow. Bruce was proud of him. Clark wanted to make Bruce proud of him, to please him, to make him feel so good that he dropped his defenses to praise Clark, to touch him softly and show him – tell him – how good he was.

The pace of Bruce’s hips and his fist were at odds, the first slow and deep and teasing, the second hard and fast, like Clark’s orgasm was a prerequisite for Bruce to enjoy himself. Bruce knew exactly how to touch Clark. Early on in their – well, relationship was the only term for it – relationship, Bruce had sat down in his wing-back chair and told Clark to show him how to make him come. Since then, Clark had lost count of the number of times Bruce had spread him on his bed and milked orgasm after orgasm out of him, each one as mind-numbing and brilliant as the last. After the fourth or fifth, Clark’s senses would withdraw into himself and reality narrowed to the four walls of the room, the softness of the bed, Bruce’s hands on him, Bruce’s clothed body against his bare skin. It was such a relief to be free of the cacophony of the world, the constant terror and grief. It was selfish, so selfish, but Clark let himself be free of the world’s expectations and yield to Bruce. (Bruce needed to be in control. Clark needed not to be in control. It was perfect, really.)

Clark came fast, all his focus spent on not biting down on the collar bar, not crushing it between his teeth. Bruce laughed in that way of his that wasn’t a laugh at all, a hard exhale that still made Clark’s stomach swoop every time. He plucked the bar from Clark’s mouth, leaving a thin trail of Clark’s own cum against his lips. Clark did his best to lick his mouth clean. He tasted of metal and silk and cum. Bruce kissed his cheek and reached down to touch him again.

‘You’re doing so good.’

Bruce’s praise made Clark feel light, floating, even as his feet were still planted on the floor. Bruce had the collar bar between two fingers, and Clark could feel the silver balls press against his length, a delicious unyielding pressure. 

‘Can you even hear the people walking by?’ Bruce murmured in his ear. Clark couldn’t shake his head, not with the way Bruce had twisted the bridle in his grip, but he could whine. Bruce laughed and kissed his jaw. ‘What a sight you’d be. Some poor underpaid museum curator opening the door and there you are, dripping with cum, bridled like a beast. I’d come out scot-free, of course. But you … Everyone would always remember you as my bitch.’

Clark whimpered through his sudden second orgasm, biting into the tie, feeling the strands of fabric starting to split under his molars. Bruce wouldn’t want him to ruin his things, not without permission, so he forced himself to let up the pressure, even as Bruce didn’t, still touching him with the same intensity. 

‘One more, baby, can you give me one more?’ Bruce pulled at the tie and thrust his hips, flicked his wrist. ‘One more, Clark, and I’ll give you a reward.’

Bruce didn’t have to wait long for the third, Clark shuddering and mewling against the gag. Bruce praised him and carried him through the orgasm, telling him he was beautiful, that he was perfect, that he deserved a reward. A sharp tug of the tie, and Clark stumbled backwards. With the hand wrapped around the cloth, Bruce turned Clark around and forced him down on his knees. Clark fell willingly. Bruce pulled the tie from between his teeth and put his hand around Clark’s throat, tilting his head so he met Bruce’s gaze. Bruce looked down at Clark with blown pupils and with his other hand, slick with cum, wrapped around his cock. Bruce smelled of artificial roses and Clark’s cum and Clark wanted to taste him, lick him clean, mark him with his scent, be marked by him. When Clark relaxed his eyes, he could see Bruce’s orgasm building in his brain, neurons firing in silver and white. He was so close.

‘Please.’

Clark’s consonants were deadened by the pocket square but Bruce must have understood the intent, baring his teeth in a surprised gasp, his eyes wide as he came. With his glasses on, Clark didn’t need to close his eyes. Cum splattered over his face, his cheekbones and nose and mouth and the lenses of his glasses. Clark could feel Bruce shaking, his knees almost giving out. He pressed his palms against Bruce’s thighs and opened his mouth.

Bruce gave himself several seconds to come down before he let go of his cock and reached into Clark’s mouth, pulling out the pocket square and tossing it onto the floor. Clark flicked his tongue over Bruce’s fingers, closing his mouth around the digits, licking him clean. Bruce shivered.

‘You want to clean us up?’

Bruce’s voice didn’t have the calm confidence it so often had. He was breathless, his voice rough in a way that made Clark feel weak. Clark nodded and flattened his tongue against Bruce’s hand, working over him methodically. When his hand was clean, Bruce dragged his thumb over Clark’s face, feeding him his cum. Clark couldn’t explain it, but he loved this, the part of sex with Bruce that wasn’t even sex , but something bigger, something inexplicable. He loved the way Bruce looked at him like he was something rare, unique, like Bruce had never seen anyone like him before. Bruce pulled his hand away and plucked Clark’s glasses off his nose. He held them in front of Clark and he lapped his tongue over the plastic. Bruce laughed, his breath catching in his throat. He cleaned Clark’s glasses on the edge of his shirt as Clark leaned in and licked over Bruce’s cock. Even now, even when he was soft, he felt so good in Clark’s mouth, skin soft and smooth.

‘Careful, careful. Some of us don’t have your resilience. Softer, son. Yeah, like that. That’s good, good.’ Bruce stroked his fingers over Clark’s face, the touch tender and affectionate. He put his forefinger and thumb in his mouth and dragged them through one of Clark’s curls. He licked his fingers. ‘Got some in your hair. All better.’

Finally, after longer than Clark thought Bruce would allow, Bruce pressed Clark away, the heel of his hand against Clark’s forehead. He helped Clark onto his feet and, after plucking the tie pin from under his tongue, pulled him into a kiss, slow and unassuming, pulling Clark’s clothes back on and zipping up his slacks and re-doing his belt. Clark reached out to help Bruce with his clothes, attaching the suspenders and smoothing his hands down Bruce’s chest. Bruce was so strong, solid in a way that made Clark want to melt into him. He leaned his forehead against Bruce’s throat and Bruce wrapped an arm around him, holding him for long seconds before kissing his hair and pulling away.

‘How do I look?’ Bruce asked.

Beautiful, Clark didn’t say, but it was his first thought at the vision that was Bruce, his usually carefully-coiffed hair a mess, the top button of his dress shirt undone and the bruise on his lower lip an inviting shade of purple. Clark wanted to kiss it better, breath ice against it until Bruce sighed in relief and pulled Clark closer for another round.

‘Do you have a comb?’ Clark said instead.

Bruce grabbed his waistcoat and jacket and pulled out a comb from an inside pocket. He bowed his head so Clark could comb his hair into place. Clark felt Bruce’s skin prickle under his touch. When his side part was perfect again, Clark kissed Bruce again, close-mouthed and slow. Bruce answered with lazy kisses of his own, catching the comb.

‘You look good.’

Clark made himself pull away, but Bruce didn’t protest when Clark buttoned his waistcoat for him. Bruce combed Clark’s hair, the teeth of the comb pressing pleasantly into his scalp.

‘Did I go too far?’ Bruce asked.

‘No.’ Clark closed his eyes, leaning into Bruce’s touch. Bruce’s thumb caressed his cheek, his jaw, his cheekbones. Clark could stay there forever. ‘You could go further.’

‘Don’t tempt me.’ Clark could hear the laughter in Bruce’s voice, fond embarrassment and, underneath that, carefully restrained arousal.

‘I want to tempt you.’

Clark was surprised that Bruce tipped him into an embrace, wrapping both arms around him, holding him close before letting him go and taking a step back. Bruce, eyes dark and his suit perfectly stretched over his shoulders, smiled a crooked grin at him.

‘Be careful what you wish for, kid.’ He dragged his lower lip through his teeth and winced at the bruise. He prodded it with his tongue. Clark got the distinct impression that he was seeking out the pain, the sting of broken skin. ‘I’m leaving for Tokyo for a week tomorrow. When I’m back, we can discuss this.’

Bruce reached out and clipped Clark’s tie with his tie pin, the engraved silver W stark against his cheap red tie. Bruce slid his hand down Clark’s chest, brushing his fingers over the pin. He pocketed the collar bar in the inside pocket of his jacket.

‘Enjoy Tokyo.’ Clark said.

‘It’s work.’ Bruce swallowed, staring at the tie pin. His eyes flicked up at Clark. ‘I’ll send you the details of my hotel when I arrive. If you want me to.’

Bruce didn’t have to do that. Clark just needed to focus and he could follow the sound of his heart, his steady beat a beacon, a lighthouse that guided him home. Bruce knew this just as well as Clark did, but the offer meant he wanted Clark to find him. Bruce was letting Clark in.

‘I’d like that.’ Clark said.

‘Well.’ Bruce checked his watch and frowned. ‘I’m running late. I’ll see you later.’

Without waiting for Clark’s response, Bruce pulled him in for another kiss, hard and short. Then, without another word of goodbye, Bruce left. Clark gave himself a moment to gather himself, to dwell in the co-mingling scents of himself, Bruce, and fragrant roses, before he pocketed Bruce’s ruined pocket square and tie, opened the door, and made his way home.


The next morning, Clark arrived at work to find a package on his desk. He scanned it before he opened it up. A black mobile phone lay inside, sleek in a design that betrayed its origin even though there was no branding. There was also an envelope, inside of which there was a card, a message etched in Bruce’s elegant handwriting.

For the next time you think of me. B.