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Bruce had had a very hard day. Hard week. Hard life. He had a difficult go of it, which meant he struggled to find releases that actually worked with or around his trauma. He'd found, admittedly, the idea of being powerless sort of alluring. But he was already powerless in many ways and didn't need to be reminded of that- it was why he hadn't ever actually gone through with letting himself shrink down small and puny; he just didn't trust anyone to do it right. But he could try with Clark.
“I want to feel small.” The man starts, before correcting himself. He presses his fingers under the lapels of Clark's suit jacket, looking up at him with a steely gaze. “I want you to make me feel small.”
“I… don't know if that's possible.” When he doesn't receive a reply, Clark tosses his curls to the side; turning his head in question. Realizing that it was a serious request, the alien starts to think of all the ways that'd be a bad idea. His super strength. Bruce's public appearances. “I don't know if I can,”
Bruce wasn't one to beg, even when it was somthing he wanted. Especially if it was something he wanted. Defensive and trying to keep himself semi-walled, he blinks. “Okay.”
But Clark keeps going regardless, fidgeting with his hands, searching for the reasons like they’d somehow save him in a way; as if he was somehow even in trouble. “I don't want to hurt you because I did something careless or stupid,”
He quirks up an eyebrow before replying, wondering where this sudden hesitance came from. “Because with me, you're so careless and stupid?” Clark knew that he only had to say no to mean it. If he overexplained himself, hands wringing and eyes averted, it meant he was looking to be coaxed a little. It was strange- Bruce was sure a part of it for him was pretending like he wasn’t overjoyed to ravage his Batman.
“Sit.” The broad, impossibly large man hesitates for a moment, further contemplating his answer. But when Bruce produces a small nameplate for his collar, Clark feels his cheeks heat with excitement; dropping to his knees in a mouth watering immediacy. There was an extremely faint green glow to it, so minimal that even being this near to it made it undetectable to him. But his knees still shiver in the anticipation of being partially powerless. Bruce was serious about being dominated, then.
Superman couldn't overpower Bruce Wayne without it being lethal - that was common sense to the both of them. But Clark Kent, plain old Clark Kent, with the help of a tiny dose of kryptonite? “Now we're just two men. Or, a regular man and his misbehaving dog.” He pets Clark's hair, tussling through perfect, messy curls, seeing him looking up at the billionaire with anticipation and interest. He lifts his chin, letting the collar click gently around his neck. Immediately he feels himself loosen, becoming something less super. No leash, he notices. Bruce's confidence made him shiver.
Clark had been silent too long, maybe even forgot to blink in his thinking. Bruce had gotten concerned. “Are we okay? Am I… asking too much?” He was surprisingly easy to become insecure at a given moment; not in himself, but in them. Somehow even now he still managed to look larger than life, however.
“No! I mean, yes,” He could make him his. Really, truly his. “I want… to keep going.” No more of these hidden thoughts in his mind - he'd make it so he absolutely knew that when Bruce Wayne thought pleasure, he thought Clark Kent. When dark eyes search his for reassurance, he quickly gives it. “I'm being selfish, a little. I uh, I,” He rubs the back of his neck, just above his collar, at the small baby hairs stuck in the leather. When Bruce moves his own hand there, rubbing circles into his nape, he closes his eyes for a moment to collect himself. He’s still kneeling before him, trying to look into his closed eyes. “I think about… your dates…”
A pointer finger, impossibly strong, pulls him forward by the loop of his collar. “About my dates,” He pushes him to continue.
“And how s…how good you look.”
“Sexy.” He dares. He doesn't press when Clark ignores the reply, knowing his dog was being brave enough as is.
“I want to look at you… see you with someone else,” He's red and Bruce is gently tugging on the collar so there's just enough pressure on the nape of his neck to remind him he isn't alone, no matter how tightly his eyes squeeze. “And I want to see that I've been there. On you.”
Bruce hides behind his palm, recuperating. Restrategizing. He thinks about this big, soft round eyed puppy type trying to bargain with him about covering him in what he assumed to be; because of Clark's innocent simplicity; hickeys. He supposed in his mind it did seem like a big sacrifice. He doesn't mention the frequent use of concealer and how Clark had actually recently left a giant thumb print on the back of his neck that he had to cover. Running that hand over his face, he reloops it through the collar. The possessor of the item shuffles forward a bit more, sneaking some physical contact by pressing his arm against Bruce's knee.
Leaning down, pressing his lip to the hard conch of his inner ear, he whispers, “Can you misbehave for me?” Clark eagerly nods, licking Bruce's jaw, feeling the dark stubble there. He continues his verbal assault. “Then can you be a bad dog, and fuck me within an inch of my life? Mark me, devour me, take me?”
Bruce Wayne had the kind of mouth that could only produce the kinds of words people usually only read about. “Yes, yes, I can do that,” The alien whimpers and mutters some sort of simple prayer of his own making under his breath. “I want you, Bruce. I need you. I need… I, I just need to touch you. Please.”
Said man in question turns his head so they're kissing, his five o clock shadow creating a friction that wasn't usually there - Clark wondered if this, if he specifically, was a kind of stress relief. He seemed a bit more tightly wound than usual. He pulls away gently, nipping at the kryptonite's lip in a rougher display. Not that the act wasn't welcome, sending delight running through his veins faster than pumping blood.
Clark is quickly overtaking him in reply; pressing him into the bristle of the carpet, biting bruises into his adams apple. A finger runs through the line of Bruce's button up, the tiny plastic addendums popping off and flying as he rips them from their thread placeholders. A tongue is following this wreckage, warming freshly revealed skin with a trail of cooling spit. Bruce is mostly quiet as his head presses back against the hard floor, eyes shut as he lets Clark free roam.
Removing his belt, the dog presses kisses to his neck and jaw as he gently knots it around perfect, thick wrists. They're held high above his head, out of reach, the welcome discomfort of that and the floor forcing him to stay extremely present in the moment. The leather is thick and real and rough, and it makes it so any struggling chafes him beautifully. He runs his tongue over his teeth, breath ragged. “Someone's getting adventerous.” He replies to Clark's slight pout with a smile. When his eyes meet sweet, perfect Clark's, the currently domineering man blushes. He quickly covers Bruce's eyes with a hand, nibbling harshly against his throat until he's writhing beneath him and forgetting his comments.
“Don't… look at me…” He whispers, a strong finger gently loosening the tie that had gotten tangled around his neck and under his shoulder. His voice is husky and rich, like chocolate. When the silk slips off from around a bitten throat, he's kissed in the spot that knot had sat. Then promptly blindfolded. The silk is tied quickly and firmly around his eyes and keeps him from being able to see the hunky alien blush his way through the interaction.
In the darkness, there's nothing. Then a sharp, cool breath of air against his cock that splits his body in two. He careens into the abyss to try and reach the source of this, only for it to disappear. A warm hand gently pets his hip before disappearing as well. He sucks in his breath when a tongue, dastardly and awful, licks a single stripe up his closely trimmed pubes. “Clark-” He bucks, a choking moan erupting, when that tongue comes back down just to briefly touch the tip of his dick.
“Sir?” A voice whispers back, finding it's way into his ear as a weight shifts over him. Abs press against abs, chest to chest, muscle to muscle. Bruce's head swims from the inhuman stoniness of Superman's build; the genuine obedience in his voice despite being the one to tie him up only making it words.
“You're playing with me.”
There's a beat of silence as he feels muscle run against his bare skin; Clark adjusting himself to slide down and between his thighs, pulling them gently apart. “You wanted this, Mr. Wayne. Didn't you, sir?” Something about being treated professionally while his wrists strained against their restraints made his veins throb with blood.
He lets out a small moan of pleasure at the remark, feeling the words illicit goosebumps across his skin. He tries to imagine what the kryptonite will do next, will plan next, each fantasy becoming stark white nothing when a hot tongue is pressed between his legs.
He comes. Clark's barely entered him, tonguing against the tight ring with what he felt was teasing purpose, muscles twitching from orgasm. He shakes, his throat emitting unruly whines, tossing himself into the pleasure headfirst. Superman seems to either like or be encouraged by this change in demeanor, his fingers dancing across his thighs in a way that makes him squirm. He had assumed that Clark would have taken him and fucked the shit out of him.
He forgot Clark was Clark, he supposed.
A wet hand - god, did he spit on it? did he drool?- grazes his dick and sends another shock of lust through his body. When the tongue delves past that muscle and further into him, he lets himself loudly whine. When the tongue retreats he thinks maybe, now he'll be able to feel that thick heat enter him, maybe now he can thrash and sob in pain and pleasure. But instead two soaking wet fingers enter him whilst a familiar pair of lips cleans his cock, sending a frustrated whine from his throat and into the other's ears. They graze his prostate and start their own brutal pace, twisting him further.
“Clark!” The fingers and tongue immediately cease. In his minds eye he can see his obedient dog looking up at him from between his muscular thighs, waiting for their next order to spring from his lips. “...Kal?” He gets a small bark in reply. He shivers and holds back an inhuman noise. “Kal. I need you. Okay? Can you be a good boy?” The tongue returns slowly, tentatively. “Fuck-! No, I mean,” Another long, slow lick. A hand cups around his balls and he feels himself nearing another orgasm. “Your dick, Kal, I need your dick. I need you to fuck me. Fuck!” He squirms, Can you do that? Please?” He lets out another whine as he struggles to hold himself together, another finger entering him.
In reaction to his begging he's earned a low, growling noise that goes straight to his own dick. Clark was fucking with him intentionally, in multiple ways, and it was making his eyes sprig with tears. He comes with a shout this time, begging for Kal to just do him, literally to just do him, not understanding why he was holding out.
Suddenly and all at once, he's empty and alone and cold. Bruce searches the darkness around him for familiarity or even pressure, disappointed by the lack of anything. He waits in silence for a second, before uttering a small, “Kal?”
A tongue across his jaw before he's, like a sack of meat, flipped over on his stomach. He rests himself on his knees, ass pert in the air, feeling the struggle of the bonded wrists against his back. Bruce whines and shouts and pleas and begs into the air, enjoying the freedom of being unseen, of not being able to see himself, and of being able to beg so degeneratively to Superman of all men. None of it seems to reach the kryptonian who's lined up against his hips, not letting him adjust as he's thrusting in with what Bruce felt like (but knew wasn't) recklessness.
When he's all the way in, stomach pressed to Bruce's back, his mouth finds his ear. “You look so good like this.” It might very well have been the first time Bruce Wayne properly flushed red. He moans in reply to the compliment, rocking back, sobbing, whining, making whatever noise he felt like he could get away with and more. His mouth was just a cacophony of sound, only further encouraged and spurred on by a Kent who was whispering in his ear about how pretty he sounded. For someone who didn't cuss, he could manage to talk filthy when he wanted to.
“Need you so bad, sir. You feel so good - you sound so sexy. Are you okay? Is this okay?” He murmurs it as Bruce nods furiously against him, hands imprinted into his back as Superman presses his hard abs against them. This was more than okay, actually, with Wayne's head finally empty of it's stressor and allowed to move forward with new ideas. He'd have to be using Superman to brainstorm more often. There's bruises on his hips from where he's being fucked into, and he arches his back in an attempt to make them darker.
“Bite me.” He was aware it was the only way to get Clark to actually injure him. Anything more was asking too much of the kind man.
“Gosh, I dunno if,”
“Be a good fucking dog and bite me. Or do you want other dogs looking at me and thinking they have a chance?” It was a horrible analogy, and he was sure it'd do little to actually push Clark, but he feels the sharp pain on the base of his shoulder and he moans in painful joy, knowing his jealousy was a weak point of his. When he comes for the last time, with a shudder and tears dripping down his hot face, he has to force himself to gasp for air and find his thoughts again.
He presses his forehead against the cool floor until he's being slowly lifted up, untied, unblindfolded. The stuff is discarded to the side as he's looked over very closely for ‘injury’. As if it were possibly with a kryptonite dosed collar. Clark looks massively apologetic, maybe even mildly worried. Lazily, Bruce Wayne drapes his naked body across Clark's cheap couch, looking up at him. He looked like a Michelangelo there, perfect and statue-esque, glinting in the low lighting. “Come.” He beckons with a finger, watching as the man stumbles and kneels before him. He hadn't asked him to do that, tsking, but reminding himself that Clark was just good like that. Obedient.
Tucking a lock of hair behind his ear and lowering himself onto the floor, Bruce takes Clark into his mouth. It must have been extremely exciting for him - he comes immediately, barely even waiting for his tongue to press against the underside of his cock. “Aw, jeez…” The clumsy oaf murmurs, Bruce looking up at him through thick lashes.
“Good boy.”