Archive of Our Own

Clark had a problem.

It wasn't a work problem. In fact, in the nine months since Clark Kent had restarted work at the Daily Planet, work had been pretty fantastic. He'd been promoted last month and could now call himself a senior reporter, with a senior reporter's salary, and he almost received as many juicy stories as Lois did. Even the jokes from the bullpen about his misreported death and his amnesia cover story had almost stopped.

Superman didn't have any real problems, either. In the 12 months since the Justice League had stopped Steppenwolf and, by association, Darkseid, they had become a real team. They'd added a couple of new members to their ranks, and Superman had become their de facto leader. Wonder Woman and Batman also held senior roles in the League and were never shy in offering opinions or giving orders, but even they often deferred to Superman.

Clark was still amazed by how easily Superman and Batman could work together in the League. He had expected some residual anger or hatred to exist between them because of the circumstances that led to his death, but if Batman felt either emotion, he kept it well-hidden. Diana had hinted that Bruce had worked through most of his issues with Clark while Clark was still six feet underground in Smallville Cemetery, and Clark was willing to take Diana's opinion at face value.

After all, she had been there. Clark hadn't.

So, everything at the Daily Planet was fine. The Justice League was fine. Even working with Batman was fine.

The problem was Bruce Wayne.

The problem with Bruce Wayne was that the man drove Clark crazy. The problem with Bruce Wayne was that whenever Clark saw him in his stupidly expensive and perfectly tailored suits, Clark wanted to fall to his knees and suck Bruce's dick dry. Batman was his colleague and friend, but Bruce was the star of his X-rated daydreams. He didn't know when he'd started to feel that way, but Clark was fully aware that was how he felt.

Had it started when Bruce had put down six months' rent on a new apartment for him after he moved out of Lois' place?

Or was it when Bruce had done everything—including personally fabricating hospital admission forms and paying expensive attorneys—and Clark had needed to do nothing to officially bring Clark Kent back to life?

Maybe it was when Bruce bought a whole goddamn bank just to get the Kent farm back?

Or, had it really all started during that first meeting between a naive reporter and a flashy billionaire, when Bruce had sneered at him and called him "son"?

Clark didn't know. But he did know that there was something about Bruce Wayne's competency, authority, and bordering-on-arrogant confidence that made Clark want Bruce to fuck him through the mattress. Or a desk. Or anywhere, really.

"What you have, Smallville," Lois said, six months after they'd cried their last tears over each other, "is a genuine case of a daddy kink."

"A daddy— What?"

Lois ticked off each point on a finger as she spoke. "Bruce is older than you, he's rich, he's powerful, and he has a domineering presence. Some people find that combination highly attractive."

Lois' words stuck with Clark for a long time, as things Lois said often did. They sprang to the front of his mind whenever Clark Kent had a reason to interact with Bruce Wayne, and after a couple of weeks, he had to admit she was right.

He refused to call it a daddy kink though.

Clark's first interaction with Bruce after that conversation with Lois wasn't planned.

After the successful conclusion of another Justice League mission, Superman had made an offhand comment to The Flash that the rest of his afternoon would be spent trying to stop his kitchen sink from leaking. He hadn't known that Batman was in earshot, and even if he had, he wouldn't have thought anything of it. Superman didn't have a problem with Batman, after all. The problem was purely Clark Kent's, and it was only with Bruce Wayne.

Fifteen minutes after Clark arrived back at his apartment in Metropolis, and roughly three seconds before he was about to open the 'Plumbing for Dummies' book he'd borrowed from the Metropolis Library, Bruce Wayne arrived at his door. With a toolbox.

"I hear you have a problem with your sink," Bruce said as he stepped inside. "I can probably fix it."

Clark tried not to stare as Bruce efficiently rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt—who wears a dress shirt and slacks to do some plumbing?—to reveal his strong and muscled forearms. It was a battle that Clark knew he was going to lose. He was going to see those forearms in his dreams that night, holding him down as Bruce—

Clark cleared his throat. "I was going to do it myself. I got a book," Clark said, gesturing to the library book on his kitchen table.

Bruce barely looked at it. "It'll be quicker if I do it than if you read a book and try to figure things out."

"I'm Superman," Clark said. "I can read that book and fully comprehend it in about thirty seconds."

Bruce didn't respond. Instead, he turned on the faucet, opened the cabinet doors under the sink, and looked for the leak Clark had told Barry about. "I think your washers are worn out. That's an easy fix."

Clark may not have known much about plumbing, but he knew enough to understand that Bruce was right about it being an easy fix. "I can change them—"

"No need. I'm already here, and I have some that should fit."

Bruce pulled out the few cleaning bottles Clark kept stored under the sink and lay on the floor so that his head and upper torso disappeared into the sink cabinet. Clark didn't want to watch Bruce work. He didn't want to see Bruce's capable hands efficiently disassemble the connections under the sink and replace the washers. He didn't want to see those strong forearms flex with every twist and turn of Bruce's wrist either, so he looked away.

His kitchen was, unfortunately, very, very dull. The magnets and photos he usually decorated every fridge he owned with still sat in a box somewhere, and the window only displayed a view of the apartment block next door. So, Clark looked down at his 'Plumbing for Dummies' book, but as he did so, he caught sight of Bruce's shiny shoes.

Bruce's dress shoes led to his black socks. His black socks led to a hint of bare shins, because lying on his back with his knees bent had made his slacks rise. The way his slacks had risen led to a peak of sock garters.

Clark blinked. Was he really that far gone that he was now fantasizing about running his fingers along Bruce's sock garters and pinging the elastic?

Bruce shifted a little as he worked, and suddenly, sock garters were the least of Clark's worries. Bruce had moved to put his back and hips in a better alignment—his left hip caused him issues sometimes, Clark knew—but it had resulted in Bruce's bent knees falling ever so slightly more apart.

Clark looked down at Bruce, and all he could see was parted thighs and the way the material of Bruce's slacks clung to his crotch and the curve of his ass. No panty line, Clark noticed—was Bruce wearing anything? Bruce shifted again, and Clark mentally removed Bruce's slacks and whatever he was or wasn't wearing underneath.

Clark began to visualize Bruce in the same position, only this time he was waiting for Clark on his bed, with naked spread thighs, a hard cock, and a pretty little hole that was eager to be filled.

"Clark."

Clark jumped at the unexpected call of his name and lifted two feet off the ground. He couldn't look at any part of Bruce—not after the images that had just run through his mind—and stared at the faucet as he replied. "Yeah?"

"Turn the tap on so I can see if the leak is fixed."

Clark hoped the leak was fixed because that would mean Bruce could leave, and Clark could take the coldest shower possible. But another part of Clark hoped it wasn't, because it wouldn't take much water to make that white shirt see-through. Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how Clark looked at it—Bruce was as competent at plumbing as he was at everything else, and there was no longer any sign of a leak at all.

Bruce stood up and rolled his sleeves back down. He looked at Clark with a question in his eyes. "Are you okay, Clark? You look a little flushed."

"I'm fine," Clark said, not sounding very fine at all. "You fixed that very quickly."

"As I said, it was an easy fix, especially when you know what you're doing."

And that's part of the problem, Clark thought. Bruce always knows what he's doing, and it's unbearably hot.

"I have a meeting shortly, so it's time for me to leave," Bruce said.

"Is that why you fixed my sink while wearing a dress shirt and slacks?" Clark asked, doing his best not to mention the sock garters.

"Yes," Bruce replied after a short pause. He picked up his toolbox and headed for Clark's apartment door. "I'll see you on Wednesday."

"Wednesday?"

Bruce stared at him. "We have an interview scheduled."

Oh, Clark had forgotten all about that. It would be fine, though, Clark could and would be professional and would not let his mind wander to visualizing a naked Bruce waiting to be fucked like it had today. "Sure. Wednesday!"

Clark was not fine.

Due to Bruce's busy schedule, the interview had not been arranged for Bruce's office, a Wayne Enterprises building, or anywhere else that was sensible. No, they were having a working lunch together in the type of restaurant that didn't bother with unnecessary things such as having a sign over the door or prices on the menu. Clark wondered if his new and improved senior reporter's salary would be able to stretch to a glass of soda, that's if exclusive restaurants like this even sold it.

When he arrived at the restaurant, Bruce was waiting outside and casually leaning against the wall like he owned the place. And maybe he did, after all, Bruce owned all sorts of things, such as local Smallville banks. Bruce opened the door for him and ushered him inside with a firm hand on the small of his back. When the waiter showed them to their table, Bruce pulled out the nearest chair and gestured for Clark to sit down.

Oh, Clark was absolutely not fine. He was so far from fine that even his telescopic vision could no longer see where 'fine' ended.

Clark picked up the menu and studied it closely. He thought that staring at the menu was a safer option than staring at Bruce and his perfectly fastened tie, but the menu was almost incomprehensible to Clark. He understood every word printed on it, regardless of the language they were printed in, but the combination of ingredients and flavors made no sense to him. What was wrong with steak and potatoes?

"I can order for you," Bruce said. "I promise you'll like what I choose."

Clark looked at the menu again. He had identified three steak dishes, but the sauces, sides, and descriptions of cooking techniques on each dish remained a mystery to him. He placed the menu on the table and thought that letting Bruce make the decision would be the better option.

"Sounds good," he said.

Bruce smiled. It wasn't his usual flashy Bruce Wayne smile, all blinding teeth and utterly fake, but something smaller. Just a slight upturn of his lips on the right-hand side of his face. There was something a little predatory in that smile, and Clark felt his already stretched nerves snap a little. Bruce raised a finger in the air, and within seconds, a waiter was at their table. Clark was pretty certain that the waiter didn't look at him once, as all of the waiter's attention was diverted to the one with the power—Bruce.

Powerful and domineering was an attractive combination, Clark thought, paraphrasing what Lois had told him. Clark found that he couldn't disagree.

"I'll have my usual," Bruce said. He then gestured to Clark, "and he'll have the same."

The waiter took Bruce's order without either further comment or noting anything down. Clark hadn't realized that Bruce was such a regular here, but it was hardly surprising. Maybe Bruce really did own the place.

Clark waited for the waiter to leave before asking the question burning on his lips. "What's your usual?"

Bruce smiled that wolfish smile again. Clark resisted the urge to crawl under the table and face-plant into his crotch. "Don't worry, you'll like it. Let's start the interview while we wait for our meals."

The interview, thankfully, progressed without any issues. The Bruce Wayne that usually gave interviews was evasive, ridiculous, and oblivious in equal measures, and Bruce was no different for Clark. Clark knew it was a persona that Bruce adopted, one carefully crafted so that nobody would think to associate the clever and capable Batman with the playboy billionaire Bruce Wayne, and Clark had to admit that it was very effective. It had worked on him during their first meeting—when Bruce had called him "son."

Clark tried not to think about that first meeting too much.

The playboy billionaire persona didn't have much of an effect on Clark—"son" aside—as it presented a Bruce that was both vapid and borderline incompetent. Clark knew that Bruce was neither of those things, and he was grateful when the interview finished and Bruce became himself again. His clever, competent, and powerful self, who made Clark squirm in his seat a little because he was half-hard.

"Did you enjoy your meal?" Bruce asked.

Clark looked down at his empty plate. Bruce's 'usual' was a Wagyu steak that was cooked to absolute perfection, and Clark had enjoyed it immensely. "It was perfect, thank you."

Bruce's expression was both smugly satisfied and completely lacking in any surprise. "I knew you would enjoy it. Now, if you have everything you need for your article, I think it is time to leave."

Clark nodded to confirm that yes, he did have everything he needed to write another boring article about Bruce Wayne that did nothing to capture the true essence of the man, just as Bruce wanted. Clark had written so many articles in his mind that Bruce deserved, but he knew that they would always stay there.

Bruce raised another finger, and again, a waiter appeared within seconds. Their empty plates were quickly cleared, and a small black leather folder containing the check appeared on the table. Clark knew that Bruce wouldn't expect him to pay. At first, Clark had found Bruce's generosity to be a little embarrassing and demeaning, but eventually, he put aside his misguided pride and began to accept Bruce's generosity with grace. Besides, it was useless arguing with someone who knew your bank details and would simply deposit any money you paid back into your account.

Bruce didn't open the folder. He didn't look at the check. As expected, he didn't look at Clark to see if Clark would pay or they would split the bill, either. Instead, he simply placed his black American Express card on top without a second thought. When the waiter brought Bruce's credit card and receipt back, there were a couple of hundred-dollar bills waiting for him as a tip.

As they left the restaurant and weaved their way through the other dining tables and chairs, Bruce's hand rested in the small of his back again. Clark arrived at the exit first, but as he reached for the door, Bruce quickly reached out and beat him to it.

"Let me hold the door open for you," Bruce said.

Clark said nothing because his mouth was too dry and he didn't think he could make any noise other than a squeak. He was absolutely and completely not fine at all.

"I read your article about Bruce," Lois said to Clark three days later. "It was very boring. Well done."

Clark stared out of his living room window and focused his telescopic vision on a hotel room in Washington, where Lois was currently lying fully clothed on a pristine bed with her phone to her ear. She'd been in Washington for the last few days to cover an ongoing political scandal, and it was one story that Clark wasn't envious of. He found politicians and their scandals to be endlessly frustrating and annoying.

"Thanks," he replied. "I did my best to make it as boring as possible."

"How did the interview go?"

Clark thought back to how Bruce had taken charge of the entire interview, from opening the restaurant doors to ordering for him, and felt a shiver run down his spine. "It was— It was fine."

It didn't matter that there were a couple of hundred miles between them—Lois still heard the strain in Clark's voice. "Hm-hm. It must be very difficult to interview someone when you want to fuck them senseless."

"I don't want to—" Clark paused. He'd promised Lois he would never lie to her, and this wasn't a reason to break that promise. "He took me to an expensive restaurant, Lo'. He ordered for me and held open the doors."

"Ohh," Lois said sagely. "I'm sure that didn't help your daddy kink."

"It's not a daddy kink!" Clark said sharply. "It's a—" he paused. "A Bruce Wayne kink."

Lois laughed. "Maybe it is, Smallville. Now, what are you going to do about it?"

That was the billion-dollar question, wasn't it? He could continue as he currently was, spending time with Bruce while the inside of his mind was filled with images and ideas that were slowly driving him insane. Or, he could approach Bruce and say— what, exactly? Hi, Bruce, I keep fantasizing about you, so can we please get naked and fuck for an entire weekend?

Well, maybe he didn't need to be that blunt.

The problem with Bruce Wayne wasn't just that he drove Clark crazy, but that Clark had no idea how Bruce felt about him. Was Bruce's entire performance at the restaurant the behavior of someone trying to charm a date, or that of a powerful billionaire who was always used to taking charge? Had he fixed Clark's sink to impress him, or because he genuinely thought he was helping Clark out?

Clark couldn't decide.

One thing that wasn't a problem, thankfully, was Superman and Batman. Clark was certain that if he did approach Bruce and was rejected, it wouldn't lead to any awkwardness between their superhero selves. Clark might keep a distance from Bruce, but he would still be able to work with Batman, and he knew Batman wouldn't have any issues either. Some things were more important.

"I don't know what I'm going to do," Clark said eventually.

"I think you should tell him. He might be what you need."

"And what do I need?" Clark asked cautiously, dreading the answer.

"Someone to look after you," Lois said. Clark heard the sound of someone knocking on Lois's hotel room. "Oh, that'll be my room service. I'm going to send you a link to some information I want you to read, and then I'll speak to you tomorrow."

"What information?"

When Lois spoke, Clark could hear the amusement in her voice. "Just read it, Smallville. We'll speak tomorrow."

Clark kept an eye on Lois's hotel room to ensure it really was room service at her door—old habits die hard—and when he saw Lois gladly accept more plates than anyone her size should be able to consume, he pulled his attention away from Washington and back to Metropolis. Thirty seconds later, his phone lit up, and he saw that Lois had emailed him the link she'd promised.

It wasn't unusual for Lois to send Clark information related to her current story, as a fresh pair of eyes and a different perspective could reveal new lines of inquiry. Clark often did the same and sent information to Lois as well, so when he opened the email and clicked on the link it contained, he did it without much thought.

It wasn't until the linked webpage loaded that Clark realized Lois had sent him to a thread on a gossip forum. This still didn't strike Clark as being that strange, as people bound to strict NDAs sometimes dropped information anonymously to protect themselves. Then he saw the thread title.

Any info on bruce wayne :)

Clark quickly put his phone screen down on the couch next to him. He didn't need to read unfounded gossip about Bruce Wayne. Bruce was, despite everything that was happening, still his friend and was the sole reason why Clark Kent still had his job at the Daily Planet despite being legally dead for six months. He was also responsible for the nice apartment that Clark currently sat in; it would be wrong of Clark to read what random Redditors had to say about him in a thread that was several years old.

But Lois had sent him the link. Clark did not trust old gossip forums on Reddit, but he did trust Lois. Why would she send the link unless there was something worth reading? Clark took a deep breath and picked up his phone.

He nearly dropped his phone when he read the first reply.

I met him at a party a few years ago. He bought me some drinks and took me back to his penthouse. Very strong, likes it rough, good with his mouth, if you know what I mean XD Didn't take his clothes off, though

Clark wanted to write off the comment as the fake fantasy of someone with too much time on their hands, but the last sentence stuck in his mind. Bruce wouldn't take his clothes off with a one-night stand because of his Batman scars. That was too specific and rang too true. So, did that mean the rest was true? Did Bruce like it rough? Would he be rough with Clark? Clark hoped he would be.

Clark ran a hand over his face and groaned. This was not a good train of thought.

He read the next comment.

Nice cock. Solid eight inches and cut. Felt amazing when I was riding it

Clark closed his eyes. He felt the extra-strong case that covered his phone begin to crack in his hand. His other hand drifted to rub the growing ache between his thighs, and he barely noticed. All he could think of was how it would feel to sit on Bruce's thick thighs.

He sucks dick like his life depends on it.

The phone shattered into a thousand tiny pieces, but Clark didn't care. Not when it gave him a free hand to rip open his jeans and jerk himself off faster than he had since he was a horny teenager.

As Clark sat on his living room couch, with pieces of his phone scattered around his feet, and his hand covered in his own come, he thought that maybe Bruce Wayne wasn't the problem after all. Maybe the problem was him.

Three days later, Clark decided that the problem was definitely Bruce Wayne.

His article about Bruce had been as well-received as any article about Bruce ever was, and Perry requested a follow-up. The good news for Clark was that the second interview wasn't scheduled for a ridiculously expensive restaurant. The bad news for Clark was that he had to go to Bruce Wayne's office at Wayne Towers in Gotham.

Clark had thought that Bruce's office would be a good place for an interview. He quickly discovered he was wrong. Bruce was a powerful and successful man, and Clark knew this. But nothing highlighted exactly how powerful and successful like walking into a skyscraper with Bruce's name written on the side. Clark could hear the hundreds of heartbeats of the Wayne Enterprises employees as he rode in the shiny elevator that took him to Bruce's penthouse office, and it reminded him that Bruce and his money were largely responsible for keeping Gotham afloat.

It was all very intimidating. The problem was that Clark also found it very, very, hot.

Bruce's office was even more minimalist than his atrocity of a house. At least the Glass House had a few personal effects hidden here and there: a couple of photos, a well-worn book, and the occasional empty coffee mug whenever Alfred wasn't there. Bruce's office didn't even have those trinkets. It looked like a showroom, and for a moment, Clark thought it might be, but then his X-ray vision revealed a hidden compartment in the west wall that housed a Batsuit and various pieces of equipment.

Unlike the Glass House, the office wasn't a modernist nightmare. The few pieces of furniture were more classic, and Clark was pretty certain that Bruce's large, mahogany desk was older than the town of Smallville. It really was a large desk, Clark noticed. Plenty of room to crawl underneath or lie on top, even for someone as large as Clark.

Not that Clark was thinking about the non-work activities that could happen on that desk, obviously.

Bruce was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows when Clark entered the office, and he greeted Clark with a smile that was all Bruce Wayne before gesturing for Clark to take a seat on one of the two couches near the office door. The couches didn't look very comfortable, but Clark did as he was asked. He thought it would be safer to conduct the interview from the couches instead of from either side of that damn desk.

When Bruce sat on the same couch as him instead of the one opposite, Clark started having second thoughts. Bruce didn't crowd him, though. Bruce leaned back into the corner of the couch, crossed his long legs—don't stare at his legs, Clark—and looked perfectly at ease. Clark envied how comfortable and relaxed Bruce looked because Clark was neither. There was a respectable distance of a couple of feet between their bodies, but that was still entirely too close for Clark. He could smell Bruce's cologne and how the sweat of the day clung to his skin beneath it. Clark wanted to crawl into Bruce's lap and lick every scent from his skin.

Bruce shifted a little on the couch, and it caused the shoe on his crossed leg to slowly rub against Clark's shin and hike his cheap slacks up a little. An accident, Clark thought. Just an accident.

Bruce reached out and picked up three sheets of paper from the coffee table next to the couch. He passed them to Clark, and Clark wordlessly accepted them. He would accept anything Bruce was willing to give him.

"I tried to anticipate your questions and give suitably banal answers to them. If I've missed any, please tell me," Bruce said.

Clark looked at the papers in his hand. They were filled with neatly typed text, and as he forced himself to focus on the words—very difficult when Bruce Wayne was lounging next to him in a three-piece suit—Clark saw that it was a transcribed interview. Many of the questions he had planned to ask Bruce were there, and Bruce had already answered them. Had Bruce interviewed himself? Why?

"What's this?" Clark asked.

"Our interview. Doing it this way means that we don't have to waste time and can instead spend the time on other matters."

Clark scanned over the papers again. It was a decent interview. Not at Clark's standard, but if this was the quality of Bruce's journalism, he would make a decent junior reporter. But the question remained—why had Bruce interviewed himself? What did they need this time for?

Then Clark realized. Bruce Wayne's office wasn't only minimalist and intimidating (hot), but it was fully soundproofed and secure. It was a safe place for Batman and Superman to speak freely. "Do you want to talk about a case? Or the Justice League? We do have a Justice League meeting tomorrow and—"

"No," Bruce said, interrupting him. "I'm not stupid, Clark."

Clark looked at Bruce with honest confusion. Where had that come from? "I've never thought that you were."

Bruce smiled again, but it wasn't the flashy Bruce Wayne smile from earlier. No, it was the slightly wolfish smile Clark had seen in the restaurant. Clark felt his pulse quicken, ever so slightly.

"I've noticed the way you look at me," Bruce said. "How flustered you get sometimes. You're not the first person to act that way around me."

Clark's eyes widened in a mix of shock and embarrassment. He hadn't thought he'd been that obvious, but Bruce wasn't just a billionaire who wore sock garters and took charge in restaurants. He was also Batman, a great detective and one of the most intelligent men Clark had ever met, and Clark had overlooked that. Of course, Bruce had noticed how Clark's cheeks sometimes flushed red around him or how he sometimes stared at Bruce for a little too long. He was Batman.

Clark wanted a portal to the Phantom Zone to open up in the couch and swallow him whole. He wanted to fly away and not stop until he reached Saturn. He wanted to disappear and never come back. This was mortifying.

Bruce hadn't finished talking. "And I understand, Clark. I'm older than you, I'm more experienced, I'm rich and powerful, and you, more than anyone, know how competent and good at things I am."

Oh. That was what Lois said, wasn't it? She'd said that many people found that combination very attractive and that it was often part of a—Clark shuddered as he finished the thought—daddy kink

Clark did not have a daddy kink.

Clark forced himself to look at Bruce, and he didn't see any anger on Bruce's face. There was no disgust or disappointment either, and that was a relief at least. He wasn't sure what Bruce was thinking, but he was reasonably sure that Bruce wasn't going to mock him, throw him out, or push Kryptonite into his face.

Bruce leaned forward and took the typed sheets of paper out of Clark's slightly shaking hands and placed them back on the table. When he spoke, it was in a low and quiet tone that made Clark shiver again. "If you want me to fuck you, Clark, all you have to do is ask."

All logical thought ceased in Clark's brain. "What?"

Bruce's smile softened into something more genuine. "I've known how you feel for a while and was hoping you'd approach me first, but that's not how this is supposed to go, is it? So, Clark, we have an hour booked for this interview. The door is locked, and we won't be interrupted."

Clark felt Bruce's foot rub against his calf again as Bruce repeated himself. "All you have to do is ask, Clark."

There was no deception on Bruce's face. He looked calm, as if they were discussing something as mundane as the big game between Metropolis and Gotham, but Clark was Superman, and he could see beyond people's faces. Bruce's usually slow and steady heartbeat was racing, and Clark could smell Bruce's arousal.

Bruce genuinely wanted this. Not as much as Clark did because that would be impossible—Clark felt like he was on the verge of exploding—but Bruce wanted it, too.

Wanted him.

Clark licked his dry lips and noticed how Bruce's eyes darkened at the sight. "Will you—" Clark's voice was weak, so he coughed to clear his throat and speak more clearly. He closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath. "Will you fuck me?"

Bruce didn't hesitate to answer. "How could I say no to such a sweet request?" he said, reaching forward to lightly brush his thumb across Clark's parted lips. "The desk. Stand in front of it with your back to me, your shirt off, and your hands flat on the surface."

It took a few seconds for Clark's brain to fully process what Bruce had just said—no, had just ordered him to do. He was Superman, and his Kryptonian brain could process large amounts of information much quicker than any human brain could, but in that moment, all of his speed and his intelligence had deserted him. He didn't feel like Superman at all; he was just Clark Kent, a man who was about to get the one thing he wanted the most in the world and couldn't believe it was about to happen.

Finally, Clark slowly got to his feet. The anticipation of what was about to happen made him feel lightheaded as he walked the short distance to Bruce's impressive desk, and in the months to come, he would think about that walk more than he thought about anything else that happened that day. The anticipation of finally touching Bruce was almost as good as the actual touching.

But only almost.

Clark yanked off his tie with such force that the threads of the material tore, and it fell apart in his hands. He was a little more gentle when he unbuttoned his shirt—he only had a few shirts, so even on a senior reporter's wage, he couldn't afford to tear those—but he removed that quickly as well. With his chest now bare, Clark placed his hands on the desk. It was a little low, and he was a little too tall, so to place his hands flat as Bruce requested meant he had to bend at the waist slightly. When he realized that meant his back was curved, and his ass stuck out, he understood that had been Bruce's intention all along.

He heard the fabric and frame of the couch creak as Bruce stood up. Bruce was Batman, and he knew how to silently move across a room, even in his dress shoes, but he could never be silent enough for Clark. Clark could hear his footsteps, his heartbeat, and the soft rustle of the finest Italian wool as Bruce walked, and the material covering his thighs brushed against each other. Clark's fingers started to curl a little, but he forced them to remain flat for fear that his fingernails would gouge chunks out of Bruce's antique desk.

Bruce stopped right behind him. Clark felt one of Bruce's strong hands press lightly between his bare shoulder blades before running down his spine, past the waistband of his slacks, and shamelessly over his ass. It didn't matter that he was still clothed from the waist down —he felt the heat from Bruce's hand as easily as if his skin was bare.

The same hand slid around his side and pressed against his stomach. Clark could feel Bruce's warm breath against his ear and shuddered. Clark wanted to turn around, push Bruce to the floor, and ride him into next week. He wanted to pick Bruce up, throw him onto the couch, and dive between his thighs.

But he wouldn't. Bruce had asked him to stand here, like this, and Clark would do as he was told. This time, anyway.

Bruce unfastened Clark's belt with a confident efficiency that didn't surprise Clark at all. He was a little slower with the button and zipper on Clark's slacks, but they were soon on the floor and pooled around his ankles. Bruce didn't waste any time with his underwear, and one sharp tug saw them join his pants on the floor.

He felt Bruce's body heat diminish a little as Bruce took a step back from him. Clark remained where he was, slightly bent at the waist, feet hip-width apart, hands flat on the desk, pants around his ankles, and naked apart from his socks. A few seconds passed, and all Clark could hear was Bruce's heart, now several beats faster than normal.

Eventually, a hand curled around his right hip, and the other pressed into the small of his back. Bruce stepped forward again, and Clark felt Bruce's words against his ear as much as he heard them. "Step back a little, I want to see how far that back of yours can arch."

The hand on his hip pulled him back while the hand on his back pushed him down, and Clark did as they asked of him. Bruce knew, just as surely as Clark did, that if Clark didn't want to be moved, no force on Earth could forcibly move him without the aid of Kryptonite. Bruce also knew, just as surely as Clark did, that Clark would move however Bruce wanted him to.

Clark knew how he must look. His cheeks burned red with what he assumed was embarrassment before he realized the truth; he wasn't embarrassed at all. No, he was more aroused than he'd ever been in his life, and Bruce had barely touched him.

He heard the clicking noise of damaged knee joints rubbing together and realized that Bruce was now on his knees behind him. Clark's thighs twitched, and his stomach felt like it was turning somersaults. Just as it had been when it brushed over his lips only moments before, Bruce's thumb was gentle when it brushed over Clark's hole.

"Pretty," Bruce said softly.

Clark felt like he was dying, and as he'd already experienced that once, he knew what he was talking about. He'd been on the edge for days, weeks, months by this point, and every time he thought he'd reached his limit, Bruce pushed him a little bit further. Clark was a patient man with a strong will—two necessities when you were strong enough to literally tear the planet apart—but Bruce's slow and deliberate pace was testing even his resolve.

And it had to be the same for Bruce. On the rational level of Clark's brain—the part that was increasingly disappearing as Bruce continued teasing him—he understood what was happening. Bruce had correctly understood that his power, experience, and dominant personality had sparked something in Clark, and everything he was doing played into that. Clark might feel frustrated and desperate, but this was what he had wanted from Bruce all along.

Clark wanted to be taken care of. He wanted someone else to take the reins, hold him down, and fuck him, and most importantly, he wanted it to be Bruce.

Bruce knew that, and Bruce wanted it too, because he was a powerful, experienced, and dominant man who enjoyed his place in life. He also wanted Clark, for reasons that Clark was completely yet to understand, but was very thankful for. In the future—if they had one, Clark wasn't thinking that far ahead yet—they could have sex anyway they wanted. But this time had to be like this. It had to be Bruce ordering him around, and it had to be Clark following.

All rationality finally left Clark's mind when Bruce placed his hands on Clark's ass, exposed his hole, and ran the flat of his tongue over it. All Clark could think was that they hadn't even kissed yet, but here Bruce was, on his knees behind Clark and licking into him. Clark thought of the Reddit gossip forum that Lois had sent him, and the comment that Bruce was "good with his mouth," and he had to disagree because "good" was the understatement of the millennia.

Clark had seen on numerous occasions that when Bruce set his mind to a task, he pursued it with ruthless efficiency. It was that single-mindedness and laser focus that had nearly killed Clark once, and it was nearly killing him again now as Bruce teased his rim with his tongue. Clark was strong enough to lift mountains, but Bruce's mouth made his legs feel like they would collapse under the weight of the pleasure he was feeling.

Clark heard that painful-sounding clicking noise again as Bruce pulled away and rose to his feet. Clark took a few deep breaths as he tried to calm himself, but found it impossible because of how achingly hard he was. While Bruce's wicked lips were teasing his hole, Clark had been too distracted to notice anything else. Now that Bruce wasn't touching him, he could feel the demands of his body again. His cock hung hard and heavy between his thighs, and it ached to be touched. He didn't care how his cock was touched—any part of Bruce would be more than sufficient, and Clark had to fight the urge to take one of his hands off the desk and take care of it himself.

Then Bruce spoke, and Clark's own needs seemed less important. "You're being very good for me, Clark. Thank you."

Clark wanted to be touched, but more importantly, he wanted to be good for Bruce.

Clark heard Bruce take something out of his jacket pocket, and then came the sound of a cap being clicked open. Just as Clark's arousal-addled mind recognized that sound for what it was, he felt a lubed fingertip press gently inside his hole.

Later, Clark would realize that the prepared interview and tube of lube in Bruce's jacket pocket meant that Bruce had thought about and planned everything that was happening. As he came to visit Bruce's office more often over the coming months, he would also come to realize that although never cluttered, Bruce's desk was never as clean and clear as it had been that day.

At the time, though, and as Bruce's clever finger easily slid into him, all Clark could think about was how much he wanted Bruce to fuck him.

Bruce curled his finger as he spoke, and Clark saw stars. "You open up very easily. Is that a Kryptonian thing or just you?"

"I don't know," Clark muttered breathlessly. Clark had only had a limited amount of time with the data banks on the Scout Ship, and the sexual behaviors of Kryptonians had not been top of his research list.

"I think we need to research this further, Clark." Bruce removed his finger, much to Clark's unhappiness. "But not now."

There was a floor-to-ceiling window behind Bruce's desk that offered a stunning view of downtown Gotham. You could even see across Gotham Bay on a clear day, and Clark raised his head to look out of the window as he heard Bruce squeeze some lube into his palm and slick his own cock. Bruce's office was on the penthouse floor of the highest skyscraper in Gotham, so nobody could see into his office, but at that moment, Clark wouldn't have cared if they could. In a matter of moments, he was going to be fucked over Bruce's desk by the man he'd been pining for for months—nothing else mattered at all. Let the whole world watch.

Bruce leaned over him to whisper in his ear. The buttons of his vest pressed into Clark's bare back, and Clark could feel his hard and wet cock against the cleft of his ass. "Are you sure you want this, son?"

Clark didn't answer because his ability to form words had completely left him, but it had never been a real question anyway. The problem with Bruce Wayne, Clark thought, was that he was very skilled at identifying your weaknesses and knew exactly when to use them against you.

Bruce licked his ear once and then stood up. Clark dropped his gaze back to the desk and focused on the patterns of the grain as one of Bruce's strong hands tightly gripped his waist to keep him still. That was stupid, Clark thought. Why would he want to move when he was finally going to get what he wanted?

Clark felt the head of Bruce's cock press against his hole. It paused, Bruce's heartbeat spiked higher than Clark had ever heard it before, and then he pushed inside.

Bruce didn't take it easy on him, and Clark hadn't expected any less. The grip on his waist might have bruised an ordinary human, but Clark was far from ordinary, and Bruce knew it. Bruce's cock was hot and hard as it moved inside him, and Clark had never felt anything as good. He rocked his hips back, desperate to meet every one of Bruce's thrusts and pull him further inside, even though he knew that was an impossibility as Bruce's hips slammed into him with every other thrust.

Bruce didn't make much noise, but Clark hadn't expected he would. Bruce's breath sounded heavy and ragged, but that was all. At least, that was all anyone with human hearing might have heard. Clark, however, could hear Bruce's pulse thundering through his veins, and he could also hear all of those little grunts that started in Bruce's throat and never escaped. To him, Bruce was loud.

Clark arched his back a little more and was rewarded with a deep grind of Bruce's hips that made Clark's own breath catch in his throat. Oh, this was good, Clark thought. Just a relentless grind and force pressing into him, pushing against that spot that—

A phone started ringing.

Bruce stopped moving. He was deep inside Clark and did not attempt to change that, but he didn't move. At first, Clark wasn't sure where the ringing phone was, but the sound of Bruce pulling something out of the inner pocket of the jacket he still wore soon answered that question.

Clark looked over his shoulder. Bruce looked like he'd just walked out of all the wet dreams that Clark denied having about him over the last few months. He was still fully clothed from the waist up, his cheeks flushed, his graying temples sweaty, and his hair was disheveled and falling into his eyes. His bare hips were still flush with Clark's ass, and Clark had never been more grateful for his eidetic memory, as it meant that vision would stay with him until the day he died.

However, it was difficult to focus purely on how hot Bruce looked when he was not only taking his phone out of his pocket, but he seemed to be answering it. Clark glared at him, and Bruce, to his credit, sheepishly smiled back. "I have to take this," Bruce said. "Thirty seconds, that's all."

Clark turned back to the desk and allowed his head to drop until his forehead rested against the solid wood of the surface. If he left a Clark Kent-shaped dent in it, then he no longer cared.

"Lucius!" Bruce said into the phone. There was a slight strain to his voice—that's what happens when you answer phone calls while balls deep in someone, Clark thought—but Clark doubted that whoever this 'Lucius' was would hear it. "What can I do for you?"

Clark could have listened to the answering voice, but decided not to. Instead, he pulled his hips forward ever so slightly before pushing them back again. He heard Bruce's breath catch in his throat, so he did it again, only this time, he pulled away a little further and slammed back a little harder. Clark had been waiting for this for months, and no phone call was going to stop him from getting the fucking from Bruce that he wanted and he deserved.

"Excuse me for a moment, Lucius," Bruce said. The strain in his voice was more audible now, and Clark hoped that Lucius could hear it.

Bruce leaned down, his vest buttons pressing into Clark's back again, and whispered in his ear, one more time. "I'll be done with this call very quickly, so be a good boy, Clark, and stay still and stay quiet. Can you do that for me?"

Oh, Clark really wanted to be good. "Yes."

Bruce rolled his hips once. Clark nearly bit a chunk out of the desk. "I knew you would."

Bruce stood up straight again, but still didn't step back from Clark. Bruce might have sounded frustrated with Clark's actions, but Clark knew that, really, Bruce was finding this as hot as he was. If Bruce wasn't, all he had to do was pull out of Clark and make him wait until the phone call was over. Not for the first time, Clark realized this whole scenario was as much for Bruce as it was for him.

"Sorry, Lucius. Look, I have my hands full here, so I'm going to put you on speaker phone."

Clark heard a deep voice come out of the phone's speakers and begin speaking about the shareholders' meeting that was scheduled for tomorrow, but all of the words washed over him. The phone was no longer in Bruce's hands, because Bruce's hands—both of them—now had a tight grip on his waist again in an effort to hold him still.

Bruce's phone now rested in the middle of Clark's back. Bruce was still buried to the hilt inside him and was using him as a desk while he talked about quarterly reports and assured the voice on the phone that he would be prepared.

The arrogance of it was frustrating. It was maddening. It was rude and disrespectful, and Clark found it undeniably and indescribably hot as hell. He could feel the slight warmth of the phone between his shoulder blades and did his best to stay still so the phone wouldn't move. Luckily, his back was more than broad enough to safely rest a phone upon.

His cock was throbbing, but that didn't matter. Bruce had given him the job of staying still, remaining quiet, and keeping his cock warm and phone steady, and Clark was going to do that job well.

The phone call probably did only last around a minute, Clark thought later. At the time, though, it felt like hours. Clark was a mixed-up ball of frustration and bliss as the seconds ticked by and he concentrated on regulating his breathing as a way of distracting himself from everything else that was happening. It didn't take long for him to realize that he was timing his breaths to Bruce's.

Bruce's grip on his waist tightened even further. It was enough for Clark to focus back on the phone call. "Lucius, I appreciate your concern, but I promise, I will be ready for tomorrow. Now, can we wrap this up?"

"Bruce," the voice coming out of the phone said, "are you in the middle of," a pause, "something?"

Clark didn't need to look at Bruce to know he was smirking. He could hear it in his strained voice. "Always, Lucius. I'll see you tomorrow."

Bruce's blunt fingernails scraped against Clark's back slightly as he picked up his phone and ended the call. Clark heard Bruce put the phone back into his blazer pocket and tried not to groan when he felt Bruce's hands run up his body to cup his chest, and the press of vest buttons against his back again.

"Lucius might be the best Chief Operating Officer in the country, but the man does worry about me too much, sometimes," Bruce whispered into Clark's ear. "But, enough about him. You were very good for me, Clark, and that deserves a reward."

Bruce thrust into Clark with a lazy roll of his hips. After a few minutes of complete stillness, the simple action was enough to make Clark's nerves feel like they were on fire. It was the most delightful torture to be completely overwhelmed by Bruce like this—to feel Bruce's strong arms around his chest, and Bruce pressed against his back, while Bruce's hard cock slowly dragged against his inner walls and sensitive rim. Clark wanted more, but he also never wanted the torture to end.

Then the arms were gone. There was no warm body pressed against Clark's back. And even worse, that wonderfully hard cock was no longer inside him.

Clark whined in disappointment and then hung his head low in embarrassment. He'd never whined in his life and couldn't believe he had now. But, then again, he hadn't known how good Bruce Wayne's cock felt and how empty he'd feel without it, either.

"Turn around," Bruce said.

Clark, despite his embarrassment, did as he was told without hesitation. Bruce smiled softly and placed a hand on Clark's neck. The hand then moved lower until it came to rest in the center of Clark's chest, but Clark barely noticed. Instead, he stared into Bruce's eyes and was amazed by the desperation he found in them. Clark had seen Bruce standing in front of him before with anger and fear in his eyes, but he'd never seen Bruce hanging on by a thread like he was now. Clark knew that if he looked in a mirror, his own eyes would look the same.

Bruce's hand pushed him back a little. "On the desk. On your back."

Once again, Clark did as he was told. The desk was smooth and solid underneath his back, and he lay down with his long, muscled legs hanging off the edge. He thought back to his first instincts regarding this antique desk—that it was large enough to be fucked on—and silently congratulated himself for being right.

Bruce quickly took off Clark's shoes and removed his slacks and underwear from around his ankles, leaving Clark completely naked apart from his mismatched ankle socks. Before Clark could become embarrassed at wearing one gray and one navy sock on the day Bruce Wayne finally fucked him, Bruce grabbed his thighs, lifted his legs, and spread them wide.

"Look at you. All laid out and waiting for me," Bruce said. "I can't deny you anything, Clark."

There was something in Bruce's voice on that last sentence that didn't fit with their current situation, and Clark suspected it revealed more than Bruce wanted to. Bruce had gone above and beyond for Clark since his resurrection, and Clark thought that the problem with Bruce Wayne was that he was so scared of his own emotions that he hid them behind things like buying banks and paying for six months of rent. Why tell someone you care when you could just forge hospital documents to bring them legally back to life?

But those were thoughts for another time, preferably one when they were fully clothed and less distracted.

Bruce let go of one of Clark's legs, took his own cock in hand, and guided himself back into Clark's waiting and willing body. The press of Bruce's cock inside him, inch by glorious inch, was something Clark knew he'd never forget. It felt right somehow. It was similar to the feeling of the first time he'd flown or worn the colors of his Kryptonian house. It was something he hadn't known he was missing until he finally had it.

Clark didn't have much leverage to move while he was spread out on Bruce's desk, and he was too fearful of breaking it to move much anyway; it might be a strong antique, but he was still Superman. Thankfully, Clark didn't need to move at all as Bruce was more than capable of moving enough for both of them. Clark had seen Bruce train and knew how strong he was, and Bruce was pouring all of that strength into every thrust into Clark.

"Touch yourself," Bruce said, his voice heavy and out of breath. Superman had fought alongside Batman for hours and had never heard him sound so breathless. "For me."

Bruce had said that he could never deny Clark anything, but the inverse was true as well, so Clark instantly gripped his own neglected cock and gave it a couple of quick strokes. When he saw Bruce's eyes fixed on the sight of his hand working his cock, he stroked it again for good measure.

Clark didn't think it would last much longer. Bruce's hips were starting to lose their smooth rhythm, and those choked-off grunts that Bruce had kept in his throat were now starting to fall from his lips instead. Bruce still wasn't loud, but now, every time Bruce pushed inside him, Clark was rewarded with a deep groan that seemed to come from the pit of Bruce's stomach.

It was the hottest sound Clark had ever heard.

The hands holding his legs tightened their grip, and Clark felt blunt but perfectly manicured nails press into the meat of his thighs. He wished he could feel that grip properly, like a human would, or that it would leave bruises against his invulnerable skin, but his body wasn't built for that. He couldn't be scratched or bruised, or wear his lover's marks for days, and for the briefest of moments, he wished he could.

But then he remembered that he didn't need marks to remember this. He had a perfect memory. Who needed marks when you could relive everything in your mind in flawless clarity as many times as you wanted to?

Bruce's hips stuttered and then pressed flush against him as Bruce came, his eyes closed and mouth hanging open as a growled groan escaped his throat. The feel of Bruce's cock deep inside him and the look on Bruce's face was enough to push Clark over, and he came on his stomach as he saw stars behind his eyes.

Clark didn't move as Bruce gently lowered his legs and slowly pulled out. Bruce's not-yet-soft cock rubbed against Clark's sensitive rim, and although Clark hadn't cared about making noise while they fucked, he did everything he could to keep that groan inside. As he was still floating away on the high of getting exactly what he wanted, he couldn't be sure if he'd been successful.

It didn't take long for the high to begin to dissipate and for the real world to come crashing back in again. The sturdy desk beneath him started to feel uncomfortable, and the sounds of the outside world no longer took a backseat to the sound of Bruce's racing heartbeat.

Clark didn't know what to expect next. Or, more specifically, what to expect next from Bruce. He thought there was something between them that ran deeper than fucking in Bruce's office, but Bruce was a difficult man to predict. The problem with Bruce Wayne was that he was equal parts self-destructive and as stubborn as a mountain.

Clark didn't move off the table, but he did prop himself up on his elbows. He didn't say anything either; he simply watched as Bruce fastened his pants, wiped his hand on the handkerchief—or pocket square? Clark didn't know the difference—from his jacket pocket, and then ran his fingers through his hair in an attempt to brush it back into his usual style. Clark tried not to feel too triumphant when Bruce's hair refused to cooperate.

No, Clark didn't know what to expect from Bruce at all, but he was still stunned into wide-eyed silence when Bruce stepped back between his legs and reached out to stroke his fingertips across one of Clark's cheekbones. The touch was so tender and tentative, and Clark hadn't thought that Bruce was capable of either.

Bruce's fingers continued past Clark's cheek and into his hair. Without thinking, Clark leaned into Bruce's palm, and he was rewarded with the slightest of smiles. Bruce used his hand to nudge Clark into sitting up straight, and yet again, Clark followed where he was led. The desk was more comfortable now that he was sitting on the edge instead of lying down, but he was too transfixed by Bruce's face, now only a couple of inches from his, to notice.

With the hand that wasn't currently wrapped in Clark's hair, Bruce gently removed Clark's glasses. Clark hadn't realized he was still wearing them. "Superman takes care of the Justice League and the world, " Bruce said softly. "So let me take care of you."

"What do you—"

Bruce kissed the rest of Clark's sentence out of his mouth.

The problem with Bruce Wayne, Clark quickly discovered, was that kissing him was addictive, and now that he knew how it felt, he couldn't understand why they hadn't been kissing for the year since he'd come back to life. Or why they hadn't kissed before he died, instead of smashing each other into sinks. And why hadn't they kissed at Luthor's library benefit instead of trading barbs and Bruce calling him son?

So much lost time that could have been better spent kissing.

Bruce had a tight grip on his hair, and he used that hold to angle Clark's head exactly how he wanted it. Clark ran his tongue over Bruce's teeth and wrapped his bare legs around Bruce's clothed body; the feel of expensive Italian wool was exquisite against his skin. Maybe next time Bruce offered to buy Clark a new suit for journalism award ceremonies or billionaire galas, Clark would take him up on the offer.

It was Bruce who ended the kiss, but with an obvious reluctance. He didn't let go of Clark's hair or make any attempt to break the embrace of the thighs around his waist or the feet hooked behind his back. When they were this close, Clark didn't need his super vision to see through Bruce's concealer to the dark rings beneath his eyes.

"Let me take care of you," Bruce repeated.

"I'm my own man, Bruce."

"I know."

"I don't need you to take care of me."

"I know that, too." Bruce sighed and pressed a chaste kiss on Clark's forehead. "This isn't about what we need, Clark. It's about what we want, and I want to take care of you just as much as I think you want me to."

The problem with Bruce Wayne was that he had a horrible tendency to be right all of the time.

Clark kissed the tip of Bruce's nose and laughed when Bruce wrinkled his nose in confusion and surprise. "I do want that. But you have to let me take care of you from time to time as well."

"I don't need—"

"Want, not need, Bruce," Clark said with a grin.

Bruce scowled, but there was no anger or heat in the expression. "At least I know you listen to me."

"I always do." And that was true. Clark might not always agree with Bruce, but he always listened.

Bruce smiled and kissed Clark gently, one more time. "As much as I'm enjoying the view," he said, his gaze moving slowly and with exaggerated lewdness over Clark's naked body, "I do have some work to do this afternoon."

"I'm not stopping you."

"Clark, how much work do you think I'm going to get done while you're sitting naked on my very expensive desk? I might be Batman, but even I have my limits."

Clark laughed as he reluctantly released the grip his thighs had on Bruce's waist and stood up. There were no aches in his body from either the sex or from lying on the hard desk—he was Superman, he didn't get aches unless a glowing green rock or someone who hit as hard as Steppenwolf was involved—but his enhanced senses made him aware of the drying messes on his stomach and his thighs. His earlier scan of the office had revealed an adjacent, and private, bathroom that Bruce would almost certainly allow him to use to clean up, but he didn't want to be clean. Not this time; the first time.

"Get dressed," Bruce said. "Go home, shower if you want to, and be at my place for 6 p.m."

Clark picked up his underwear and slacks and looked at Bruce with a raised eyebrow. "Why? What do you have planned?"

Bruce waited until he'd sat down in his very comfortable-looking leather desk chair and had pulled out a stack of papers from a desk drawer before answering. "Be there, and you'll find out."

Clark used a touch of super speed to get dressed and gather his things in the blink of an eye. He picked up his glasses from Bruce's outstretched hand and put them on. Now that he was fully dressed again and Bruce sat behind his desk like a serious and respectful CEO, it would have been easy to think that everything that had just happened between them had only been another of Clark's very vivid daydreams. But the soft smile that still graced Bruce's lips said it all: it had happened, and it would happen again.

The problem with Bruce Wayne, Clark thought as he left Bruce's office, was that despite his secrecy, emotional unavailability, control freak tendencies, and utter disregard for his own health, Clark wouldn't change a damn thing about him.