Archive of Our Own

The water beat down like warm rain, steady and hypnotic as it spilled from the showerhead above. It rolled over the broad planes of Clark’s shoulders and down the ridged length of his spine, cutting through the faint salt left behind by sleep. 

His skin glistened beneath the stream, every muscle line sharpened by the shine of steam-slick warmth. The water followed the deep furrow between his shoulder blades, gliding along the indentations of muscle like it knew the terrain by heart, like it had been here before. And maybe it had - morning after morning, in this same quiet space where the world couldn’t touch him.

Clark stood still beneath it all, his hands planted flat against the tile wall in front of him, his fingers splayed as if bracing against something heavier than the water. 

Head bowed, chin tucked toward his chest, the cords of his neck taut with the simplicity of stillness. The air was thick with mist, curling soft and ghostlike around his frame. Every deep inhale filled his lungs with eucalyptus and soap and the faint heat of lingering summer.

He liked to take his time in the mornings. 

Here, stripped down to nothing but skin and silence, Clark didn’t have to carry anyone else’s weight. No emergencies, no interviews, no invisible hum of trouble tapping at the edge of his awareness. Just him, warm water, and the beginning of a new day that hadn’t yet demanded anything from him.

His chest rose and fell slowly, water sliding in rivulets over his pectorals, down to his firm abdomen where every muscle twitched slightly with each shift in breath. Droplets traced the deep curve beneath his ribs and followed the subtle trail of hair that led from his navel downward, disappearing beneath the towel still hanging on the hook nearby. 

The water moved lower, streaming over the sharp lines of his hips, across the dense muscle of his thighs, his calves, until it reached the floor in a rhythmic tap, tap, tap against the porcelain basin.

The bathroom was filled with the steady murmur of falling water and the occasional soft hiss of steam escaping toward the ceiling. The mirror had long since fogged over, leaving nothing but the suggestion of a silhouette on its surface - a blurred echo of Clark’s form. 

His hair was soaked, dark and heavy, clinging to his forehead in loose waves, the drops that fell from it cold against his overheated skin.

Outside the small frosted window, dawn was beginning to stretch across Metropolis in gold and rose. The sun hadn’t fully risen yet, but the sky had begun to shift from navy to the soft blue of early morning. A breeze moved through the city - just barely enough to stir the trees on the street below. September had arrived without warning, slipping in under the heels of August like a secret. 

The air carried it - something crisp, not quite cold, but a reminder of things changing. The tail end of summer warmth still clung to the concrete, but there was a bite beneath it now, like the first exhale before autumn took over completely.

Clark tilted his head back slightly, letting the water strike his face directly. 

It cascaded down over his cheekbones and jaw, across his lips and neck, collecting in the hollow of his collarbones before sliding down the arch of his chest. His skin was flushed, tinted rose from the heat, but he didn’t move to adjust the temperature. He wanted to feel it soak in - to feel himself , fully and completely, before the day began.

He ran a hand slowly down his abdomen, across the sharp indent of his hip, his touch lazy, unhurried. There was no one to see, no performance here. Just sensation. Just the quiet pleasure of warmth on flesh, the pulse of blood moving languidly under his skin. The world could wait. Even Bruce could wait.

But then - his nose caught something.

Faint. Barely there. But wrong.

Clark stilled, his fingers halfway through smoothing his hand down his side. The scent filtered in through the rising mist and eucalyptus soap. It was subtle at first - hidden beneath the steam - but his senses were sharper than most. It only took a few seconds of silence for it to rise, curling in through the cracks under the bathroom door like a warning.

Smoke.

Not the kind that signaled danger, not quite. It didn’t carry the panic of burning buildings or electric wires. It was lighter. Thinner. Familiar in a domestic sort of way.

Burnt food.

Clark’s lips parted as a quiet sigh left him, amusement threading its way into the curve of his mouth. His brows lifted faintly, and a soft chuckle escaped his throat, low and chest-deep, resonating through the tiles like a secret shared with no one.

So Bruce was awake.

And cooking.

Clark reached for the knob and turned the shower off with a final hiss of steam escaping from the nozzle. The sudden silence was full, warm, heavy like a blanket pulled around the shoulders. 

He pushed back the glass door and stepped out into the bathroom, his body steaming faintly in the cooler air, droplets racing down his skin in thin silver streams. Every inch of him was flushed and glowing from the heat - the broad spread of his chest, the ripple of his abs, the damp trail leading down to the soft indent between his hips.

Clark wrapped the towel low around his waist, the fabric clinging damply to his hips as he dragged it tight and knotted it just above the dip of his pelvis. He ran a hand through his wet hair, sending a few heavy droplets scattering across his shoulders, and let out a slow breath as he stepped out into the hallway - barefoot, still warm from the shower, skin flushed pink at the edges from heat.

The hallway floor was cooler beneath his feet than he expected, a shock against his still-overheated body. One step forward, two - and then his toe caught on the edge of the bedroom rug that they messed up the night before.

- Shit - !

Clark barely caught himself, one hand slamming against the doorframe as he stumbled half-out into the hallway, nearly losing the towel entirely in the process. His calves tensed, every muscle from thigh to shoulder catching for balance. A string of muttered curses followed, all low and breathless, hissed under his breath as if the apartment might reprimand him for breaking its morning quiet.

He exhaled through his nose, teeth grazing his bottom lip as he pulled himself upright again. The towel had slipped lower, barely hanging on, resting just above the cut of his hip bones. 

Water still traced slow paths down his chest and across the hard ridges of his abs, disappearing beneath the white fabric in drops that left it clinging to him, semi-translucent where it touched the deepest hollows of his form.

He turned the corner toward the open-plan kitchen - and stopped cold.

There, in the soft sprawl of early light, stood Bruce.

The spacious apartment kitchen was full of soft shadow and gold - sunlight slanted through the tall east-facing windows, catching dust motes in the air and throwing long streaks of warmth across the polished wood floor. The overhead lights hadn’t been turned on yet; there was no need. Morning wrapped the room like a filter, like a film frame, making everything look too intimate, too close.

Bruce stood at the stove, barefoot, shirtless, and deeply concentrated on something that appeared to be burning in a pan.

Black sweatpants clung low to his hips, and lower still to the curve of his ass, drawing a deep V that led up the lean stretch of his bare back. His shoulder blades flexed beneath pale skin as he stirred - too aggressively - the contents of the pan. 

His hair was tousled and damp in a way that suggested he’d barely bothered with a towel. A muscle in his jaw ticked as he leaned slightly forward, brow furrowed, utterly focused in that too-intense, too-serious Bruce Wayne way that he applied to everything - whether it was dismantling a corporate boardroom or trying not to ruin scrambled eggs.

Clark lingered in the hallway for a moment, his breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

Bruce was beautiful like this.

Not “GQ spread” beautiful - not curated, not intentional. He was disheveled and unshaven, half-shadowed by the soft morning light, all wiry strength and sharp edges barely wrapped in soft cotton and domestic effort. The lines of tension in his body weren’t from battle or business - they were from trying not to let breakfast go up in flames. It was… absurdly endearing.

Clark’s eyes dragged from Bruce’s neck down to the stretch of his spine, the low sweep of his back, the gentle curve of his waist as it disappeared into the fabric of those sweatpants, worn-in and hanging just low enough to make Clark’s thoughts derail entirely.

He cleared his throat - quietly at first.

Nothing.

Then again, louder: - You’re cooking?

Bruce startled just slightly - enough to make the spatula in his hand scrape against the pan too harshly, a puff of smoke curling upward like guilt. He glanced over his shoulder, and his face immediately changed.

He froze.

Clark, still dripping slightly, was leaning in the doorway with one hand braced against the frame, towel slung impossibly low, chest heaving faintly from the rush of his earlier stumble. His skin caught the sunlight like gold leaf, kissed in color from the heat of the shower. 

Hair wet, mouth parted slightly, his eyes fixed not on the stove - but on Bruce.

- Trying to, - Bruce muttered, eyes flicking once - just once - down Clark’s body before he looked away, jaw clenching faintly. - Don’t expect anything edible.

Clark’s smile spread, slow and warm like honey melting in the sun.

- Oh, I never do.

Bruce didn’t answer. He turned back to the stove, lips pressed into a tight line as if focusing harder would un-burn whatever had already gone wrong. The spatula moved in slow, determined circles, but it was obvious - something was charred, the pan slightly too dark, the kitchen carrying just enough smoke in the air to make the whole scene feel like a comic mishap halfway to cinematic.

Clark stepped closer, slowly, feet soft on the floor. The air between them shifted with each step he took, and Bruce’s shoulders stiffened by degrees, aware of him before he even reached the counter.

And when Clark stopped - right behind him, the scent of eucalyptus still clinging faintly to his skin - he didn’t speak. He just watched him cook, towel barely hanging on, water still dripping from the ends of his hair onto the floor.

There was a pause.

Then Clark leaned slightly forward, voice barely above a murmur.

- You know that’s starting to smoke, right?

Bruce grunted.

The room was already too warm. Not from the stove. Not from the sunlight curling across the countertops or the thin curl of smoke lingering in the air. It was warm in the way that made breath catch in the chest and skin prickle with awareness - close, charged, intimate.

Bruce was still focused on the pan - sort of. He stirred with that signature intensity of his, as if sheer concentration might undo the already-slightly-burned scramble congealing in the middle. 

His jaw was set, lips a tight line, hair hanging a little wild over one eye. From behind, the muscles in his back flexed and shifted beneath pale skin as he moved, the overhead sunlight catching on the high ridges of his shoulders, the subtle dip along the base of his spine.

And then Clark moved.

Softly, like heat moving through a room. He stepped in - closer than before - until the faint mist of his skin’s residual dampness seemed to reach out and kiss Bruce’s bare back.

Before Bruce could register it, Clark’s arms came around him - slow, unhurried, wrapping around his waist with the kind of casual certainty that said this was normal . Natural. Like his place was here, like his hands belonged there, just under Bruce’s ribs, palms flat against the warmth of his stomach.

Bruce tensed, just slightly, at first contact - but not in protest. Not really. 

It was more the sharp intake of breath - the way his body instinctively reacted to the feel of Clark’s bare skin pressing against his back, the way the thin fabric of his sweatpants did nothing to mask the solid, flushed body behind him. Clark’s torso was hot, slick in the faintest way from the shower, his skin alive with leftover heat and the barest tremble of water still evaporating.

The towel wrapped around Clark’s hips was an afterthought at best.

Bruce could feel everything.

The broad, solid chest pressing into his spine. The rise and fall of Clark’s breath against his neck. The weight of each fingertip as it splayed against his abdomen - thumbs sweeping in slow arcs along the curve of his hipbones. It was not overtly sexual. Not yet. It was something more dangerous than that: affectionate.  

Familiar.

- Smells like you were going for eggs, - Clark murmured into the space just behind Bruce’s ear, voice low and full of velvet sleep. His lips were close enough to brush skin, but he didn’t - yet. - Did the eggs wrong you in some past life?

Bruce’s mouth twitched despite himself.

- They’re salvageable.

- Are they, though? - Clark teased, letting his chin dip just a little lower so that his breath tickled the back of Bruce’s neck. - Because this one looks like it’s trying to reincarnate as a hockey puck.

Bruce let out a breath, half a laugh, half a sigh of resignation. 

The tension in his shoulders began to ease beneath Clark’s touch. He set down the spatula with a quiet clatter, exhaling as he stared at the half-browned, half-abandoned contents of the pan. 

There was something ridiculous about the whole thing - standing shirtless in Clark’s too-large kitchen, the sun pouring in like melted gold, and Clark, still damp from the shower, practically wrapped around him like body heat incarnate, cracking jokes about eggs.

But the ridiculousness didn’t bother him.

What bothered him - what always unnerved him - was how easy it was. How natural Clark made it feel, this kind of intimacy. The silent claiming of space with touch, with warmth, with laughter wrapped in morning air. 

Bruce didn’t know what to do with ease .

Clark tightened his arms just slightly, drawing their bodies closer. Bruce could feel every inch of him through the thin barrier of sweatpants and towel - firm lines, smooth skin, the lazy, confident heat of someone who didn’t need to rush to make a point. Clark’s lips were at his neck now - close enough that Bruce could feel them hover just above the skin, not yet touching, but promising something.

- Let me help, - Clark murmured. - You’ve officially endangered at least two food groups.

- You know I don’t like being watched when I cook.

- You’re not being watched, - Clark said, voice dropping into something softer, more tender. - You’re being held.

Bruce closed his eyes for a second.

The stove clicked softly as Clark reached forward, one hand leaving Bruce’s waist for a moment to turn off the burner. The faint sizzle from the pan died away, and silence filled the kitchen in its place - dense, golden, laced with something unspoken.

Then Clark lowered his head.

The first kiss was barely there - just the brush of lips against the side of Bruce’s neck, just beneath the line of his jaw. Warm. Dry. Gentle.

Then another - lower, closer to the pulse point, slower this time. The kind of kiss meant for morning light and sleepy eyes and silence. A kiss without demand. A question, maybe.

Bruce didn’t move.

Clark’s lips moved again - trailing lower still, mapping the shape of Bruce’s neck in small, reverent presses. Between each kiss, the brush of breath. The soft scrape of his stubble. The way his fingers slid along Bruce’s stomach like he knew every inch of him in the dark.

Bruce swallowed.

- You’re dripping water all over the floor, - he said, voice quieter now.

Clark hummed against his neck, amused. - Yeah? Maybe you should mop it later.

Bruce smirked. Just slightly. The kind of expression that only surfaced when no one else was around to see it. He leaned back slightly into the solid warmth behind him, enough that his spine met Clark’s chest fully.

And Clark held him.

Not hard. Not possessive.

Just… close.

The kind of closeness that said I know you . That said I woke up wanting to touch you, not just fuck you. The kind of closeness that Bruce tried so hard to pretend he didn’t crave.

But this morning - this early autumn morning, with sunlight licking the floor and eggs dying slow deaths on the stove - he let himself have it.

He let Clark kiss his neck again.

And this time, he tilted his head slightly, just enough to make room for more.

Clark didn’t stop kissing him.

He kissed Bruce like it was his morning prayer - slow, reverent, lips dragging across the column of his throat, each press more molten than the last. His breath was warm against damp skin, his lips unhurried, barely parting with each kiss - just the barest brush, a sigh, the ghost of teeth when he wanted to feel Bruce twitch.

And Bruce did twitch. Beneath him. Against him.

It was subtle at first - little movements, shifts in his stance, the way his fingers clenched into the countertop like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to push Clark away or pull him closer. But his body betrayed him. Always did. Clark could feel the way his hips rolled back ever so slightly into him, slow, instinctual, like the blood in his veins was starting to boil beneath the surface.

Clark smiled against his skin.

- You always taste better in the morning, - he murmured low, voice husky from sleep, from hunger, from him . - Like salt and heat and something I missed all night.

Bruce didn’t speak. But Clark heard the hitch in his breath.

His hands slid lower, down from the warmth of Bruce’s stomach to the slant of his hips. His thumbs circled over the bone there, slow and grounding, then dipped further - under the waistband of those black sweatpants, soft and worn and too thin to stop him. His fingers slid along bare skin, over the ridges of hip flexors, until he reached the crest of Bruce’s ass.

Clark didn’t grab.

He caressed.

His palms smoothed over that curve, fingers spreading, pressing into flesh like he was committing the shape to memory. His touch was warm, sure, almost worshipful. One hand teased along the upper swell, the other dipping lower, skimming the divide with maddening patience. No rush. No demand.

Just promise.

Bruce shifted his weight, just slightly, his breath catching again - and Clark knew. 

He could feel it. The tension in Bruce’s back. The way his legs locked at the knees. The way he sucked in a quiet breath through his nose and held it like he was afraid to let go of control.

Control. Always control .

But Clark knew how to unravel it.

He pressed forward, his body flush against Bruce’s back now, his bare chest warm and slick from the shower, pressing into skin cooler, tenser, needing heat. The towel around his waist shifted with the movement, hanging looser now, barely clinging to the swell of his hips, the friction between them growing more charged with each second.

- You’re already hard, - Clark whispered against Bruce’s ear, his voice a velvet taunt, lips just brushing the sensitive edge.

Bruce said nothing, but his knuckles whitened where they gripped the edge of the counter.

Clark smiled again - darkly, gently - and let his right hand slip deeper, fingers sliding between those clenched cheeks, fingertips brushing lower, finding the softest part of him. Hidden. Waiting. Warm.

And wanting.

The reaction was immediate. Bruce’s body tensed like a bowstring, every line going taut beneath him, his back arching just slightly into the touch. He didn’t speak - but his body did. It told Clark everything he needed to know: that Bruce had been waiting, aching, for this kind of attention. Not something rough or punishing. Not the violent release of too much built-up need.

But this. Worship.

Clark didn’t push in. He didn’t rush. His fingers just ghosted along the cleft, barely applying pressure, dragging slow lines as if writing something invisible across his skin. His mouth never left Bruce’s neck - he kissed, sucked, bit gently, moving from just beneath the jaw to the tender curve where neck met shoulder. He lingered there, mouthing at the skin, teeth grazing until Bruce’s head tilted to the side involuntarily, giving him more access.

- You want it, - Clark whispered into the skin he was marking, his fingers teasing dangerously close to that heat below. - But you want me to take my time.

Bruce’s throat flexed as he swallowed.

Clark could feel his pulse hammering there - fast, loud, begging.

So he did exactly what Bruce needed. He slowed down further.

One hand still teasing at the waistband of his sweats, dipping deeper with each pass, the other hand wrapped loosely around Bruce’s waist, anchoring him - holding him in place like the gravity between them was just too strong to resist.

His kisses grew heavier. Wetter. He sucked on the flesh of Bruce’s shoulder until a mark would bloom there, a deep bruise of desire just beneath the skin. He dragged his mouth lower, tasting the salt there, and Bruce breathed - a low exhale, a ragged, shuddering thing that spoke of too many nights untouched, too many mornings alone.

Clark let his hips roll forward, slow and controlled, grinding the hard line of himself - barely covered by that slipping towel - against the swell of Bruce’s ass. It was a whisper of friction. A threat of what was to come.

- Say something, - he murmured, lips hovering just above Bruce’s skin. - Or I’ll keep teasing you until the eggs catch fire again.

Bruce finally moved - his hand coming off the counter to reach behind him blindly, grabbing Clark’s thigh, gripping it hard.

A response. Not in words, but in need.

Clark’s lips curled against his shoulder. And he kissed him again - lower now, closer to his spine, open-mouthed and slow - like a man about to sink to his knees and worship the altar he’d always known was his.

Clark exhaled against the base of Bruce’s spine - warm, slow, a breath that carried reverence more than lust - and with one final kiss, he began to move lower. His hands never left Bruce’s body, sliding from his waist to his hips, fingers curling under the hem of his sweatpants.

There was a pause.

A moment of silence before surrender.

Then Clark began to ease them down.

Not rushed. Not careless. His knuckles brushed against bare skin as he rolled the waistband down, over the strong curve of Bruce’s hips, the subtle indent where muscle dipped into shadow. The fabric dragged slow over his skin, kissed the backs of his thighs, and then slipped free - pooling around his ankles like a silk offering at Clark’s feet.

Bruce stood still.

Silent.

But the tension in him had shifted. No longer stiff from resistance, but tight with anticipation - like a wire strung taut, humming with the storm about to come. Clark could feel it in the way his calves flexed. In the way his toes gripped the tile. In the quiet quake of his exhale as cool air met newly bared skin.

Clark knelt.

His knees kissed the floor, towel loosening further around his waist, but he didn’t care. 

Not when Bruce stood before him like this - half-turned, bracing against the countertop, body flush and exposed in the golden early morning light. There was something unreal about it. 

Sacred. Like a painting from some forgotten cathedral. Flesh and shadow. Need and denial. The human form brought to its knees - and brought to be worshipped .

Clark’s hands slid up the back of Bruce’s thighs, firm and slow. 

He pressed kisses as he moved, mouth trailing from the base of one thigh to the other. He felt Bruce shift - his knees softening, muscles trembling under his touch. His breath now coming faster, rougher.

Clark let his hands rise.

One spread over the small of Bruce’s back, grounding him.

The other found what it sought.

Bruce’s cock was already hard - thick, flushed, curving slightly under the weight of blood and heat and need. Clark didn’t grab. He held. Gently, like he was testing the weight of something precious. His thumb brushed along the underside, slow, deliberate, drawing a sharp inhale from above.

Bruce leaned forward, both palms braced flat on the cool marble countertop, his spine a tight line of muscle and restraint. His sweatpants had long been peeled down - now forgotten around one ankle. His legs were parted, planted, and trembling just slightly beneath the weight of what Clark was doing to him.

Clark knelt behind him.

On his knees. Head bowed. Face between Bruce’s thighs like a man in prayer.

But there was nothing quiet about the way he tasted him.

Clark’s tongue traced a slow, purposeful path up the inner curve of Bruce’s thigh, warm and wet. He kissed just beneath the swell of his ass, bit gently, then soothed the mark with a flick of his tongue. Bruce twitched - hips jolting, a breath hissed between his teeth.

Clark’s hand curled around the base of his cock, now heavy and flushed and leaking into his palm, and held . Not stroking. Just there - controlling, anchoring - thumb rubbing slow circles into the ridge beneath the head, just enough to coax more frustration.

- Clark, - Bruce growled, low and barely held together, - don’t -

But Clark did.

His tongue dragged up, slow and hot, between the cleft of Bruce’s ass. A teasing, deliberate pass over his entrance that made Bruce’s head drop forward with a grunt, his forearms shaking as he braced harder against the counter.

Clark moaned softly.

He liked the taste of him. He let it be known in the way his lips parted again, tongue flattening, licking deeper now. His grip tightened around Bruce’s cock just enough to make him arch in response - but then stopped . Still. Immovable. A hand like steel, denying movement while every other part of Bruce’s body screamed to thrust, to grind into something.

Bruce cursed again. Lower this time.

Clark pressed his thumbs apart, parting him gently, reverently. The way someone would expose something rare and sacred. And then he licked again - slow, firm, tracing circles around his rim, tasting him with shameless hunger.

Bruce shuddered violently.

His knuckles went white against the counter, and a sharp moan escaped before he could bite it down.

Clark smiled against him.

There was power in this. Not domination. Not control for its own sake. But knowing . Knowing Bruce’s body so well. Knowing how to pull him apart, stroke by stroke, until the edges of him blurred into nothing but want.

And he wasn’t done.

One hand still cradled Bruce’s cock, thumb rubbing maddening, shallow strokes over the slick head. His other hand trailed inward, fingers ghosting between his cheeks, until his index finger pressed just at the rim - slicked from his tongue, sensitive from every slow lick.

Bruce tensed. Then bucked forward.

Clark didn’t allow him to retreat far. He held him in place with his grip, kissed him again - open-mouthed, tongue pressing harder now, circling his entrance while his finger teased with the slightest pressure.

Not entering. Just there. Hovering.

Promise without fulfillment.

Bruce let out a choked sound, something between a groan and a growl.

 - Clark - His voice cracked, his body vibrating with restraint. - I swear -

But Clark only murmured against him, breath hot. - You're not going anywhere.

And with that, he finally pressed in.

Just the tip of one finger, sliding into the heat of him, slow and careful and deep . At the same time, his tongue flattened and circled once more, and Bruce nearly collapsed against the counter.

His knees buckled. A groan tore loose.

Clark moved his mouth lower, letting his breath fan against the slick skin as his finger worked deeper, slow and gentle. Then another joined - the stretch gradual, relentless, surrounded by nothing but Clark’s mouth, his hand, and the low hum of pleasure vibrating in his throat as he worked him open.

Bruce was panting now.

Lost.

His hips jerked, trying to rut into Clark’s hand, to gain some friction on his cock - but Clark denied him. His grip tightened. His fingers stilled inside. And he pulled his mouth away just enough to speak.

- Not yet.

Bruce cursed - slammed one palm against the counter. The sound cracked through the room.

- You’re fucking cruel, - he rasped.

Clark chuckled under his breath, warm and dark. - No, - he whispered, pressing a kiss right back to his entrance, tongue flicking once more. - I'm giving you what you need.

He began to move his fingers again - slow thrusts, precise pressure, angling until he found the spot that made Bruce cry out - low, desperate, the sound of a man unmade.

And then - again , he stopped.

Right at the peak. Right when Bruce’s whole body tensed, hips rocking, back bowed. Clark’s hand on his cock loosened. His mouth pulled away. Bruce let out something raw - a snarl , something that belonged on a battlefield.

- Clark - fuck - don’t - don’t do that again -

But Clark was already kissing the small of his back, slow and soothing, like an apology wrapped in heat.

- You’re going to stay right here, - Clark murmured against his spine. - You’re going to let me have you like this. Begging. Shaking. Not allowed to finish until I say.

Bruce breathed so sharply it was nearly a gasp .

Clark licked again - one long, slow pass over his stretched rim - and pushed his fingers deeper, curling them inside, dragging them out again with deliberate, obscene slowness.

Bruce shook so hard the glass bowl on the counter rattled.

But still - Clark denied him.

Every time Bruce’s hips rolled forward in desperation, Clark’s hand adjusted - light grip, loose enough to frustrate but firm enough to tease. No friction. No release. Just pressure . Just heat and denial.

It was unbearable. And perfect.

Bruce was sweating now, his back damp, his thighs trembling, the muscles in his arms barely holding him upright. Every part of him burned. Ached. His cock so hard it throbbed in the open air, the slightest breeze making him shudder.

Clark nuzzled against him again, lips brushing over flushed skin. His voice was lower now, quiet and full of heat.

Bruce growled.

Clark licked him again.

And Bruce whimpered - actually whimpered - as Clark’s fingers fucked into him slow and deep, and his hand stayed soft and cruel around his cock, just enough to drive him mad.

Bruce gripped the edge of the kitchen counter like it was the only thing keeping him from slipping under. The cool surface pressed against his forearms, a stark contrast to the heat radiating through his entire body - heat that pulsed from every point where Clark touched him. 

His thighs were spread just enough to bare himself completely, the muscles in them trembling from restraint, anticipation, need. His breath came shallow, his spine bowed in surrender as Clark stood behind him, slow and deliberate.

Clark’s fingers were deep inside him, stretching him open with practiced patience, with reverent care. Two thick digits moved in unison - scissoring, curling, coaxing. He didn’t just prepare Bruce. He learned him. The way his walls clenched. The sounds that spilled from his throat when he hit just the right spot. The way Bruce’s hips bucked ever so slightly when the pressure was perfect. Clark was watching all of it, burning every reaction into memory like scripture, every twitch and tremble treated like gospel.

- Relax for me, - Clark murmured, his voice low and velvety, mouth hovering close to the back of Bruce’s spine. - You’re doing so good.

Bruce swallowed hard, jaw tight, knuckles white on the marble. 

His legs nearly gave out when Clark added a third finger - slowly, tenderly, easing it in with a slick glide that had Bruce cursing under his breath, eyes squeezed shut as heat licked up his spine. It wasn’t just the stretch - it was the sheer intimacy of it. The depth. The possessiveness in Clark’s hand as it cradled his hip, holding him in place, keeping him grounded while the other worked him open, carefully, patiently, like he was something precious. Breakable.

And he was. At that moment, he was.

Between Bruce’s thighs, Clark’s cock hung heavy and flushed, already leaking. The thick, ruddy tip pressed against the inside of his towel occasionally, every shift, every movement drove Clark crazier, more desperate to be inside the man he loved. 

He could feel the pulse of it - hot and eager and so close to where he needed it - yet still withheld. Still waiting. Still honoring the ritual of this moment.

Clark groaned softly under his breath as he watched his fingers disappear again, coated in slick heat, his member giving an impatient throb in response. The sight of Bruce like this - open and pliant, panting against the countertop, trembling under his hands - was undoing him. And still, Clark didn’t rush.

The towel hit the floor like a challenge, landing in silence, but speaking volumes.

Clark stood tall, slick from the shower, his skin kissed by lingering heat and a sheen of water that caught the morning light like oil over marble. His chest rose with the weight of his breath, heavy and controlled, muscles taut beneath golden flesh. 

That cock of his - thick, flushed, proud - hung between his thighs, twitching with every pulse of his heart, slick against the air, and already so hard it curved with weight and promise.

Bruce could feel it before he saw it. The heat behind him. The gravity in the room shift.

Then the press.

A low groan broke from his throat the moment Clark’s bare hips found the curve of his ass, that heavy, waiting length sliding in the cleft with devastating slowness. The contact was enough to burn. Enough to make his knees buckle.

Clark didn’t enter. Not yet. 

Instead, he rolled his hips forward in a measured grind, dragging that thick length between Bruce’s cheeks, coating him in heat, in want. The friction was maddening, hot skin on sensitive skin, a promise just out of reach. His fingers, strong and wide-spread, splayed across Bruce’s bare hips, dragging him back just enough to deepen the glide, holding him in place like prey under paw.

Bruce braced himself against the counter, fingers whitening around the edge, trying not to moan like something feral. The sweatpants were already halfway down, pooled beneath the curve of his ass, trapping him in the middle of the kitchen with his pulse rabbiting in his throat and his breath hissing through clenched teeth.

Clark leaned forward, mouth hovering over Bruce’s neck, not kissing yet - just letting the heat of his breath whisper threats against his skin. When he finally kissed, it was rough. Open-mouthed. Wet. 

A claiming.

- You have no idea what you do to me. - Clark muttered, voice thick, low, dangerous. He bit just under Bruce’s ear - not enough to mark, but enough to make Bruce shudder.

- Clark - Bruce’s voice was gravel, cut by arousal and an edge of warning. But there was no fight in it. Only surrender.

Clark kissed him again. This time slower, filthier. His hand slid forward from Bruce’s waist to his chest, palm splayed over his sternum, pinning him gently to the counter as he rutted forward again - slow, deliberate. That thick cock of his teasing, throbbing, so close and yet not enough.

- Do you want it? - Clark whispered, his voice like velvet over a knife.

Bruce didn’t answer. Not with words. Just a sharp inhale, a hitch in his spine as he pushed back - needy, desperate. Clark chuckled low against his shoulder.

- Then you can wait.

And then Clark kissed him again, dragged his teeth down Bruce’s neck, while his hips moved in that cruel, perfect rhythm - gliding his cock between Bruce’s cheeks, the heat building into agony.

Clark’s hand dipped again - between Bruce’s thighs this time - gripping him, stroking him in time with the rhythm of his hips. Bruce gasped, his body a bowstring drawn taut. But it wasn’t enough. Not yet.

Clark could feel how close he was. The trembling in his thighs. The flex of his jaw. So he stopped.

Just - stopped.

His hand slid away from Bruce’s shaft. His hips stilled. Bruce growled, frustrated, breathless.

Clark grabbed his jaw again, pulling his head back just enough to kiss him - slow, brutal, tongue claiming every sound Bruce tried not to make.

Clark didn’t move at first. He just stood there behind Bruce, breathing hard, trying to center himself against the maddening pull of the man bent over the kitchen counter in front of him.

The air was thick with humidity and lust, condensation fogging the place, clinging to their skin like sweat already earned. Bruce’s spine arched with an elegance that seemed unintentional - his shoulder blades catching the faint glow of the light above, his muscles taut beneath flushed skin. 

There was a tremble in his thighs that betrayed him, a fine vibration that ran the length of his frame like a struck chord. His breath came shallow, slow, lips parted where his forehead rested against the cool porcelain of the cabinet.

And Clark… Clark could barely breathe around the ache of it.

He felt Bruce everywhere. 

Felt him beneath his hands, in the low hum of heat rolling off his skin, in the tight coil of desire that sat just beneath his sternum. His hands, broad and reverent, settled with purpose on Bruce’s hips - palms splaying wide, fingers curling around the sharp lines of bone like they’d been made for this. Like they’d always known this shape.

Thumbs dragged slowly along the defined cut of Bruce’s obliques, dipping into that soft groove where hip met thigh. He felt the shudder ripple through Bruce, the barely-there buck of his hips in response. Just a little movement. Just enough. Seeking. Wanting. Wordless.

It was permission. It was surrender. It was invitation dressed in restraint.

Clark inhaled once, deep and slow, anchoring himself in the scent of sweat, heat, and the faint spice of Bruce’s skin. Then, without rushing, without faltering, he pressed forward - his hips easing flush against Bruce’s backside, his length sliding in inch by agonizing inch.

It wasn’t hurried. It was slow, deliberate - like worship.

A sound caught in Bruce’s throat. Not quite a moan, not quite a gasp - just breath, fractured and raw, exhaled against the countertop as his knuckles whitened against its edge. He didn’t speak. He didn’t cry out. He just breathed, ragged and stunned, the tension in his back giving way to something looser, deeper, like submission wrapped in iron.

Clark stilled once he was fully seated inside - his whole body pressed against Bruce’s, every inch of him molded into the man beneath his hands. The heat was dizzying, suffocating in the best way. Bruce was tight around him, pulsing, hot, alive. Clark could feel every flex of muscle, every tremor, every beat of Bruce’s heart thrumming in tandem with his own.

His forehead dipped forward, resting between Bruce’s shoulder blades. His breath ghosted over damp skin. - There you go, - he whispered, low and hoarse. His voice didn’t sound like his own. It was too deep. Too shaken. - That’s it… Take all of me.

Still he didn’t move.

He just felt .

Felt Bruce’s body stretch and adjust around him. Felt the closeness - not just physical but cellular, like their blood was learning the same rhythm. His hands roamed slowly, one sliding up Bruce’s abdomen, fingers parting over the tension there, feeling the way his stomach rose and fell with breath. The other hand stayed grounded on Bruce’s hip, holding him firm, tethering him.

And then, when the moment could no longer hold its own weight, he began to move.

It started as nothing more than a shift of his hips, a gentle roll, a slow, maddening sway. Each stroke was deep and unhurried, carved from want and patience, from something older than lust. 

Clark watched the way Bruce responded - how his body leaned into the rhythm, how he pushed back ever so slightly, hips tilting with every forward motion like he wanted to be claimed more fully, more completely.

Clark’s breath grew ragged. His jaw clenched.

The pace deepened. Not fast. Not frantic. But with more pressure, more gravity - like each thrust was a sentence in a language only their bodies knew how to speak. It was all friction and wet heat, skin against skin, the dull slap of hips meeting in time. Clark’s hand slid further up, over Bruce’s chest, fingers brushing his throat, then curling there - not to hold, not to restrain, but simply to feel .

To be closer. To be inside in every way.

- You’re mine, - he whispered, mouth pressed against the hinge of Bruce’s jaw. His voice cracked under the weight of it. It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t even a claim. It was a truth he had carried for too long, unspoken. - You always were.

Bruce didn’t answer - not with words. But his body answered in kind, pushing back with a need so quiet and desperate it nearly unmade Clark.

Clark kissed him again. Open-mouthed. Sloppy. Reverent. Down the side of his neck. Across the line of his shoulder. He was everywhere. He wanted to be everywhere - his chest flush to Bruce’s back, his thighs crowding behind Bruce’s, one arm holding them tight together and the other roaming, exploring, worshipping.

Clark’s pace sharpened. His hips snapped forward harder now, rhythm gaining urgency, each thrust deeper, dragging sweet, guttural sounds from Bruce that he tried to bury against the counter. But Clark heard them. He felt them. And they spurred him further.

Clark didn’t mean to lose control. 

But Bruce - Bruce - with the way his body moved, the way he offered himself without shame or hesitation, was too much. His back arched, muscles tight and trembling as he braced himself against the kitchen counter, knuckles white from the grip. 

His thighs were parted, one leg raised onto the counter’s edge at Clark’s insistence, leaving him wide open, exposed and slick and aching for more. Every breath he took was shaky, hitched, broken by the way Clark filled him again and again with slow, powerful thrusts, dragging the length of his cock along every sensitive nerve with ruthless precision.

Clark was right behind him, sweat sheening across his chest as it pressed flush to Bruce’s back, his body a furnace, his skin blistering with heat. The air around them was thick with humidity, clinging to their bodies like smoke. His jaw was clenched, his face buried in the crook of Bruce’s neck, teeth grazing, mouth trailing over the salty curve of shoulder with something close to reverence. 

One hand was anchored on Bruce’s thigh, gripping hard to hold the man open for him, while the other slid into his hair, twisting in the strands at the base of his skull, pulling just enough to make Bruce gasp.

And then Clark began to move - truly move.

The tenderness that had grounded him before was gone. 

All that remained was need. Not just sexual, but animal . Visceral. His hips snapped forward with a force that bordered on violent, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing off the kitchen tile. He drove into Bruce with relentless rhythm, each thrust deeper, harder, crashing against the curve of his ass with unrestrained hunger. Every roll of his hips sent a jolt through Bruce’s body, forcing out ragged, helpless noises - half-breaths, half-moans, as if language had abandoned him entirely. The stretch of it, the pressure, the depth - it left Bruce shaking, forehead pressed to the cold counter as he tried to hold on.

- Harder, - Bruce rasped, the word barely audible over the slick wet sounds of their bodies. - Clark - don’t stop - don’t you fucking stop.

That was all it took. The sound of Bruce’s voice breaking like that - sharp, begging, wrecked - pushed Clark past the edge of composure. His thrusts deepened, pace growing brutal. There was no hesitation left in him. Just rhythm. Just force. Just heat. 

His thighs slapped against Bruce’s with punishing tempo, his hand yanking Bruce’s head back so he could mouth at the stretch of throat exposed to him—biting, kissing, panting against the flushed skin like it would brand him.

- You’re mine, - Clark growled into his ear, the words dragged from the very bottom of his chest, rough and breathless. - You hear me? You’ve always been mine.

Bruce answered without thinking, his voice fraying. - Y-Yeah. Yes. Yours - fuck, Clark - please -

Clark's hands moved with urgency, one arm wrapping around Bruce’s waist, locking him tight against the unrelenting press of his hips, while the other slipped between his legs, finding his cock, hard and slick and leaking. 

He stroked him in time with the thrusts, his palm rough, his grip firm, dragging obscene sounds from Bruce’s lips that only made him fuck harder. Their bodies moved as one - grinding, shaking, straining. The kitchen filled with the slap of skin, the scrape of breath, the creak of wood and marble under their weight. Clark was everywhere - inside, around, beneath - and Bruce was unraveling under the weight of it, undone piece by piece.

Clark’s face twisted, mouth open as he groaned into Bruce’s neck, hips jerking harder, faster, as he pounded into him like it was the only thing keeping him alive. There was no rhythm anymore, just raw need and the desperate push toward climax, toward oblivion, toward whatever waited at the bottom of this abyss they’d willingly fallen into. And as Bruce cried out again, gripping Clark’s thigh to ground himself, Clark held him tighter, slammed deeper, and gave him everything - every inch, every thrust, every goddamn inch of himself.

Because Bruce was his. And he was never going to let him forget it.

Clark didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. 

The way Bruce trembled against the counter, body flushed and damp, eyes blown wide with hunger, already told him everything. There was nothing but raw permission in his gaze - permission, and the unspoken dare of do it.

Clark’s hands slid down the slick, sweat-kissed curve of Bruce’s back before turning the man around, gripping the underside of his thighs and lifting him - effortless, like Bruce weighed nothing at all, like Clark was born to hold him like this. 

Bruce gave a surprised breath, his arms instinctively circling Clark’s shoulders as he was carried back onto the marble countertop, his ass settling right on the cold surface, legs falling open like a gift.

The shift in temperature made Bruce gasp - sharp and involuntary - as the chill bit into his skin. 

But Clark was already there, stepping between his thighs, the furnace of his body chasing the cold away in an instant. He ran his hands up Bruce’s inner thighs, spreading them wider, guiding them around his waist. Bruce obeyed without hesitation, locking his ankles behind Clark’s lower back, dragging him in with force and need, like he couldn’t stand the distance between them.

Clark leaned in, one arm braced beside Bruce on the counter, the other hand gripping his jaw, tilting his head up so their foreheads touched. His lips hovered just above Bruce’s mouth - so close they could taste each other’s breath. - You ready? - he murmured, voice gravel and thunder.

Bruce’s answer was a low growl, pulled from somewhere deep. - Do it. Don’t make me wait.

Clark didn’t. He aligned himself, one smooth stroke of his cock sliding back into the heat of Bruce’s body, making them both groan, loud. Bruce’s fingers clawed at the edge of the marble for something to hold onto, muscles straining under the tension as Clark pushed in, inch by thick inch, until he was seated to the hilt  - deep , impossibly deep, stretching Bruce open around him in the most exquisite, full ache.

- Fuck - Bruce hissed, head falling back against the cabinets behind him, neck bared, chest rising fast. His thighs clenched tighter around Clark’s waist, keeping him locked in place. - Don’t you dare stop.

Clark didn’t. 

His hands found Bruce’s hips, gripping hard, thumbs digging into muscle as he pulled almost all the way out - slow, torturous - before slamming back in with a sound like thunder cracking through silence. The force made the countertop shake beneath Bruce, made him cry out, nails dragging across the marble as he tried to anchor himself. 

The kitchen echoed with every wet, slick thrust - the slap of skin on skin, the broken sounds of pleasure that spilled from Bruce’s mouth, the rough, ragged breaths Clark took as he lost himself in the rhythm.

He was fucking him like he owned him. Like the world outside didn’t exist. Like the only thing that mattered was driving into Bruce again and again, harder and deeper, until the only thing Bruce could feel was him. His cock. His strength. His weight. His goddamn claim.

- God, you feel - so good, - Clark growled, each thrust deeper than the last, his grip bruising, possessive. - You were made for this. For me.

Bruce’s legs tightened, heels digging into the small of Clark’s back as he arched into every thrust, sweat dripping from his brow, his mouth open and panting. - Then take it, - he bit out, voice hoarse. - Fucking take me -

That sent Clark over the edge of restraint. He snapped his hips faster, grinding into Bruce with raw force, fucking him so hard the counter creaked beneath them. Bruce couldn’t stay still - every thrust rocked him, pushed him back, made him feel everything. He was pinned, wide open, ruined and wrapped around Clark, his arms thrown over his head now, gripping the upper cabinet doors like handles as if that would keep him from falling apart.

He was full. So full.

Bruce could feel every inch of Clark inside him - thick, pulsing, buried to the hilt - stretching him open in a way that made his breath catch in his throat, that blurred the edges of pain and pleasure into one bright, unbearable thing. 

He was split wide open - body trembling, legs wrapped tight around Clark’s hips, heels digging into the small of his back to keep him in, keep him there , where he belonged. 

Bruce could feel every inch of him: the impossible girth buried to the base, the curve of it dragging along every nerve ending with slow, deep thrusts that made Bruce’s stomach tighten and his vision blur. There was no space between them now. Just slick, shivering contact. Just Clark, everywhere - under his skin, in his throat, inside him, pulsing, thick and hot and so fucking deep.

Bruce’s hands scrabbled at Clark’s shoulders, at the wet muscles of his back, still slick with sweat. The marble beneath him was cold against his thighs, but the heat of Clark between them made everything else fade. 

Every motion made Bruce’s body sing with pressure and ache - the drag of Clark’s cock in and out of him, the stretch, the pressure, the claim. His chest heaved. He didn’t know if it was from the effort or the need. Maybe both.

Then Clark’s hand found him.

Bruce jerked - a raw, involuntary gasp bursting from him as thick fingers wrapped around his shaft, already hard and leaking where it had been pressed between their bodies. The moment Clark touched him, it was like a live wire ran straight through his spine. The strokes started slow, cruelly steady - slick from the precome already weeping from Bruce’s tip - and each movement of Clark’s hips into him was perfectly timed with the drag of that hand, like Clark had memorized the rhythm of his undoing.

- You feel so good like this, - Clark growled low against his ear, voice all smoke and heat and possession. - Open for me. Wrapped around me. You’re fucking perfect, Bruce.

Bruce’s response was a broken moan, jaw clenched, his fingers tangled in Clark’s hair now, pulling, needing more. - Don’t stop - God, don’t stop.

Clark didn’t. 

His mouth was everywhere - dragging along Bruce’s throat, biting at the curve of his jaw, kissing him deep and messy and breathless - while his hand worked Bruce with growing urgency. Bruce could barely breathe. 

His cock throbbed in Clark’s palm, aching for release, hips twitching into the rhythm, even as every thrust of Clark’s hips shoved him further across the counter. His ass stung where Clark’s grip had held him still. The stretch was constant - every drag of Clark’s thick shaft making Bruce whimper, his inner walls clenching involuntarily around him.

His orgasm started as a coil deep in his belly. Hot. Desperate. Inevitable.

Clark felt it. Bruce could tell - the way his grip changed, the way he shifted to thrust deeper, grinding into that sweet, unbearable place that made Bruce see stars. The sound that tore from Bruce’s chest was wrecked, shameless, real.

- Come for me, - Clark growled again, voice breaking at the edges, - Come all over my hand, baby. Let me see it.

That did it.

Bruce arched hard, a low, guttural noise escaping him as the orgasm tore through him like a gunshot. His cock pulsed violently in Clark’s hand, ropes of come striping their stomachs, spilling over the ridges of Clark’s abs, slicking their skin. His whole body shook with it, muscles locking down around Clark’s cock still driving into him, milking him, keeping him deep, inside.

The spasms of release made him clench impossibly tight around Clark’s length, and Clark groaned , a shudder wracking his frame as he slammed in once more - deep, all the way - and came with a strangled moan, burying his face against Bruce’s throat as he spilled. 

Bruce could feel it - the hot, thick flood of come inside him, pulsing in waves as Clark ground into him, hips twitching with each aftershock, breath catching on the edge of something that sounded like Bruce’s name.

They stayed like that - locked together, breath tangled, skin damp and flushed. Bruce’s legs slowly loosened around Clark’s waist, but he didn’t let go. He couldn’t. Not yet.

Clark was still inside him, thick and softening, his hand still loosely curled around Bruce’s spent cock. Their bellies were a mess of sweat and come, their mouths swollen from too many kisses, their skin scraped from marble and muscle and need.

And Bruce felt… wrecked.

Not just in body - though his thighs trembled, his rim was sore and wet and aching from being stretched so full - but in something deeper. Something he didn’t have words for.

Clark was still holding him like he mattered. Still inside him like he belonged there. Bruce blinked up at the ceiling, then closed his eyes and exhaled. Deep. Shaky.

And Clark pressed one more kiss to his lips - soft this time. Reverent. Like he’d given something and received something just as valuable in return. Like he knew Bruce had come undone for him - and that he’d never be the same.

The kitchen was quiet again.

Not the silence of absence, but the kind that lingered after something raw and consuming - something that left the body too full to speak, and the heart too bare to cover up. Bruce remained where he was, perched on the edge of the cool marble countertop, chest rising slowly, his arms loose around Clark’s neck as the remnants of their breath mingled in the charged space between them.

Clark was still buried close, his grip firm beneath Bruce’s thighs, keeping him anchored as if he might fall apart otherwise. 

There was a tremble still hiding in Bruce’s muscles, an ache blooming deep in his hips and spine, but it was the good kind - the kind that reminded him he’d been unraveled completely and thoroughly by the man in front of him.

Clark’s head dropped to his shoulder with a soft, satisfied exhale. Then a pause. Then a small, barely-there huff of laughter against Bruce’s collarbone.

- I’m definitely gonna need another shower, - he muttered, voice warm and low, touched with self-deprecating amusement.

Bruce blinked, slow and heavy-lidded, the corner of his mouth twitching. - You think? - he rasped, voice scraped raw from breathless hours.

Clark eased back, but not far. Just enough to look at him - really look - and Bruce felt the weight of that gaze settle into his chest. There was hunger still in Clark’s eyes, but underneath it, something softer. 

Something proud. Humbled. Adoring.

And then Clark moved - gently, slowly, the motion deliberate. As he pulled out, Bruce gritted his teeth against the sensation, and the heat that followed was obscene, unignorable. A soft gasp escaped him before he could stop it, and he instinctively squeezed Clark’s shoulders, grounding himself in solid muscle as his body adjusted to the loss.

Clark stilled. His gaze dropped.

Bruce watched his pupils dilate again - watched his jaw tighten, his breath hitch, as his eyes locked on the mess slicking Bruce’s thighs, catching the way it glistened in the low light of the kitchen.

A breath. Then Clark’s voice, rougher now, almost reverent: - Jesus.

His fingers flexed slightly against Bruce’s hips. But he didn’t move, didn’t pounce. He only let out a quiet groan under his breath, shaking his head as if trying to ground himself again.

- You’re going to ruin me, - he murmured, half into Bruce’s chest. But the way he said it - it wasn’t overwhelmed. It was grateful. Like he was lucky to be ruined by this. 

By him.

Bruce didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His mouth was dry, and his body still felt like it was singing from the inside out. But when Clark finally lifted him from the counter - one strong arm behind his back, the other under his legs - Bruce let his head rest against his shoulder. No protest. No tension.

The walk to the bathroom was quiet. Only their breathing filled the space. The faint sound of the shower being turned on. The adjustment of water pressure. Clark set him down with care, hands lingering on Bruce’s waist, thumbs brushing bare skin with wordless affection.

When they stepped beneath the water, Bruce didn’t expect to feel anything at all. Just heat and steam and relief from the sweat and salt of what they’d done.

But Clark was there again - not taking, not teasing. Just holding him. Palming the curve of his lower back like he was something breakable. Pressing his lips into Bruce’s damp hairline, then resting his forehead there like a promise.

Bruce closed his eyes.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The steam curled around them like a cocoon, softening the harsh edges of their silhouettes. The spray of water drowned out the noise of the world beyond the bathroom walls.

Clark’s hands stayed steady. Warm. Real.

They moved slowly down the length of Bruce’s spine, fingers splayed wide, palms pressing gently as if memorizing the shape of him all over again. The pads of his thumbs traced the curves of Bruce’s back, dipping into the small of it, brushing the damp line where bone met muscle, where tension still clung faintly. The water fell in a constant, quiet cascade around them, heat rising in misty curls, wrapping them in a world that felt carved away from the rest of existence.

Neither of them spoke. There was no need.

The silence wasn’t heavy. It was full . Full of breath, of closeness, of the echo of skin against skin that still hummed between them. The air held the ghost of heat and hunger, the weight of what had just passed between them - not violent or desperate, but consuming, deep, like they’d fallen into one another and had forgotten where the rest of the world began.

Now, in the afterglow, the intensity lingered like a fine thread pulled tight between their chests. Bruce stood with his cheek resting over Clark’s heart, listening. The sound was steady - strong. 

A rhythm he could trust. That he did trust, though he rarely let himself admit it.

Steam painted the tile in soft, translucent strokes. Droplets beaded on their shoulders, their lashes, slid down the slopes of collarbones and ribs, following the natural contours of two men who had nothing to hide from each other in this moment.

Clark’s fingers curved gently around Bruce’s jaw, tilting his head just enough so their eyes could meet - close, unguarded, real. His blue gaze shimmered slightly from the water and the light, but beneath that shimmer was something older, deeper. A kind of reverence that always made Bruce feel both grounded and entirely undone.

He studied him in return - the way Clark’s dark curls clung wet to his forehead, the way the water slid down the strong line of his neck, across his chest, his shoulders. The muscles still taut from earlier strain, but soft now in the way only he was ever allowed to see.

Bruce didn’t say anything. He just breathed.

He let himself be held, surrounded by Clark’s arms, by the steam and the warmth and the strange, terrifying comfort of being known . There was no armor to hide behind here. No Bat, no mask, no edge sharp enough to wound. Just his body, raw and open, and the press of Clark’s lips against his temple - gentle, patient, as if reminding him he was still here. Still safe.

- I got you, - Clark whispered, voice low, reverent.

Then - without breaking the moment - he reached behind him for the shampoo bottle, pouring a dollop into his palm before smoothing it carefully into Bruce’s hair. He worked slowly, fingertips massaging the soap into his scalp, moving in circles that spoke of care, not obligation. It wasn’t about cleaning. It was about tending .

Bruce closed his eyes. Let the touch pull him further down into quiet. Into something that felt… domestic, almost. Sacred, even.

There was a difference between being desired and being cared for . He’d had plenty of the former. He’d been taken, fucked, claimed. But this… this was something else. This was a man who had devoured him only minutes before, but now held him like he was breakable, like he mattered . Like what had passed between them wasn’t just lust - but something binding. And that was true, it was love.

Clark rinsed the suds gently from his hair, his other hand trailing down Bruce’s side with slow, unhurried affection. Then came the soap, spread across his back, down his arms, along the lines of his chest. Bruce let him. Let him see everything - the faded scars, the fresh ones, the parts of him he never showed anyone. And Clark didn’t flinch. He never did. He just loved him through it. Quietly. Steadily.

By the time the water began to cool and the steam began to thin, Bruce finally opened his eyes.

Clark was still watching him. Still there , all of him - the strength, the tenderness, the unwavering gravity of a man who chose him every time.

A long breath passed between them.

Clark leaned in, pressing a kiss to his jaw, then lower, just over the wet, vulnerable hollow of his throat. He stayed there for a moment, lips barely moving.

- Come to bed, - he said softly. - I’ll keep you warm. We still have a few before the day truly starts.

There was no hesitation. Bruce followed.

They stepped out together, into the chill of the air and the hush of morning. Clark reached for a towel, wrapped it around Bruce first, then around himself, his movements gentle and instinctual. Another kiss followed - this time to the shoulder. Light. Familiar. Like a punctuation to something neither of them needed to say aloud.

And as they padded quietly across the apartment - skin damp, hearts full, and mind racing with what just happened in the kitchen - Bruce let himself believe, just for this morning, that love didn’t have to be a battlefield.

Sometimes, it could be as simple as this.