Chapter Text
Selina was still naked beside me, smoking a Sobranie, the gold tip catching beneath the low light of my room. And all I could think about was Clark Kent, and how he was not the one next to me.
I closed my eyes deliberately, as if force alone might seal the thought away permanently. No. I was not thinking about him. I was not thinking about how it was not his body sinking the mattress beside me.
I remembered precisely the day I received the enrollment list.
His name. Still unfamiliar then, still unplaced.
“A journalism major?” I asked, not looking for an answer so much as giving shape to the thought.
“Kent enrolled in your class?” Selina said, half-sitting on my desk, shirt still partially unbuttoned.
“You know him?” This time, actually expecting an answer.
“You don’t?” She laughed, wiping the remains of her smudged lipstick. “I’m surprised, Mr. Detective. That’s easily the best student on campus. Every professor’s dream. He took Art History with me. Brilliant, exceptionally so.”
She paused, amused.
“And extremely handsome,” she added. “But don’t tell anyone I said that.”
A sudden movement woke me from my thoughts. Selina was already dressing.
“I have to finish grading finals,” she said. “I’ll see you Monday, Professor Wayne.”
Finals.
The semester had ended. And Clark Kent would be leaving soon.
It was eight in the morning when Selina left, late for her.
I remained in bed longer than I should have. Eventually, I rose. I had grading of my own to finish.
Monday morning arrived like a punishment.
Little sleep thanks to a late night drive, no time to adjust to the change of cities.
Usually, I welcomed it. I liked my work. I liked being in Metropolis.
Sundays followed a reliable pattern. I would leave early, pack what I needed, settle into the apartment before nightfall. I allowed my body time to recover from the drive, my mind time to prepare for the week ahead, for my class.
But this time I couldn't get myself to leave, to wake up and get ready. I just couldn't.
The semester was ending, and I wasn't excited at all for vacations.
Professor Pennyworth was already there, as always. In the faculty lounge, as if he didn’t have an office of his own, reading the newspaper, coffee in hand.
“Morning, Professor Wayne. You’re a little late, by your usual standards,” he said, mildly amused.
“I was tired,” I replied.
“I see. There’s more coffee, if you need it.”
“Thank you.”
“And Professor Kyle hasn’t arrived yet,” he added, glancing up. “In case you were looking for her.”
I smiled at him and left.
I had been hoping to find her. A brief distraction in my office might have done wonders for me that morning.
Nothing, it seemed, was inclined to cooperate.
Or so I thought.
Clark Kent was waiting for me outside my office.
His hair was untidy, curls never fully deciding what shape they intended to take. A blue sweater and those glasses that made me forget I was a teacher and he was my student.
He held his books too tightly. I noticed the strain in his hands before I meant to: the lines of muscle, the veins tracking sinfully down into fingers. Long fingers. Strong fingers, such a shape that made me spiral:
What else?
What else?
What else?
Nothing. There was nothing in that body for me.
There shouldn’t be.
“Kent!” My voice sounded far more surprised than what I had intended. “What are you doing here?”
He glanced down at the stack of books in his arms, searching through them, and my attention followed the movement despite myself. His fingers tightened briefly around the edges of the papers.
What else?
What else?
What else?
He handed me a folder. “The exams. I finished grading them.”
He smiled when he said it. Wide, beautiful. My eyes followed the dimples forming on either side of his mouth… his mouth, healthy teeth; what would it feel like to be bitten by them? His lips, pink, probably soft. I held my breath as I remembered who I was, and where we were.
Girls his age probably talked about him, about what it would be like to be with him for one night, to wake up beside him, to receive a kiss from him in the morning. His scent; brushing their nose against his neck and threading their fingers through his hair… girls his age. Not me.
What else?
What else?
What else?
What else was there in him that was not meant for me?
“Ah — thank you, Kent.”
I took the folder and pretended to skim through its contents, as though my attention were capable of staying there.
“An excellent assistant,” I added lightly. “I’ll certainly miss the help.”
I smiled at him, a measured thing, nowhere near as unguarded as his. “I won’t take any more of your time. You’re probably busy with finals.”
“Not really,” he said. “I finished early. Most of my professors have been very considerate, given that I’m leaving.”
He hesitated, then smiled again. “I just needed to give you that. I’m completely free now.”
“I apologize for keeping you, then.”
He shook his head quickly. “Don’t. I actually wanted to thank you, Professor. Your recommendation letter helped me secure the LuthorCorp scholarship, after all.”
He shifted the books in his arms. “If you don’t mind… I brought you something. Just a small gift.”
Clark hesitated, then reached into his bag.
“It’s nothing big,” he said quickly, already qualifying the gesture. “I just— I noticed you mentioned it once. In class.”
He handed it to me.
A book. Worn, not new. The cover softened by use, the spine creased in a way that suggested return rather than display. Dostoevsky. The Idiot. A modest edition, margins marked lightly in pencil.
I took it without letting our hands touch.
“You didn’t need to do this,” I said.
“I know,” he replied. “I wanted to.”
That was how Clark spoke about most things, not with insistence, but with certainty.
I glanced down at the pages. His notes were sparse, careful. Questions more than declarations. A habit I recognized. A habit I admired.
“This was mine,” he added, almost apologetic. “I thought about getting you a new copy, but… this one mattered to me.”
I closed the book slowly.
“That makes it less appropriate,” I said.
He smiled, faintly. “That sounds like something you’d say.”
Silence settled between us, not awkward, but aware.
“Would you like to come in?” I asked, already reaching for the door. “We shouldn’t be standing in the hallway.”
Inside, the office felt smaller than usual. Or perhaps quieter. The morning light cut through the blinds at a low angle, dust suspended midair. Clark stood near the door, uncertain where to place himself, as though any choice might be incorrect.
I set the book down on my desk.
“Thank you,” I said again, quieter this time. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know,” Clark replied. “I wanted to.”
He stayed standing. Too close to the door. Too far from me. As if he were waiting to be told where to exist.
I cleared my throat. “You can— sit, if you like.”
He did, slowly, perching on the edge of the chair opposite my desk. His knees brushed the wood as he leaned forward, forearms resting there, hands loosely clasped. Still. Patient.
The kind of posture that invited attention without demanding it.
“You’ll be leaving soon,” I said, because the alternative was silence, and silence was worse.
“Yes,” he answered. “After new years."
I nodded, unnecessarily. My gaze dropped; to the book, to my hands, to anything that wasn’t the way his voice settled into the room.
“I wanted to give it to you before then,” he added. “It felt… right.”
“That’s a dangerous word,” I said.
He smiled. Smaller this time. Careful.
“I know.”
The air shifted. Thickened. I became aware of how close the door was behind him. How easily it could be closed. How no one had ever interrupted my office hours at this time of day.
“Professor Wayne?”
The way he said it; careful, respectful, a little too soft that did something unpleasantly sharp to my crotch.
“Yes,” I answered, a beat too late.
Clark shifted in the chair, suddenly unsure of where to put himself. His hands unclasped, then clasped again. A nervous habit. New. Or maybe I had just started noticing everything.
“I didn’t mean to make things awkward,” he said. “With the gift, I mean. If it was inappropriate—”
“It wasn’t,” I cut in.
Too fast.
His eyes flicked up to mine. Searching. Measuring.
I exhaled slowly. “It wasn’t inappropriate,” I repeated, calmer. “I was… surprised.”
“Oh.” He nodded, lips parting slightly. “Right. Yeah. I get that.”
Silence stretched between us, thin and humming. The kind that made you hyperaware of your own breathing. Of distance. Of how easily distance could disappear.
“Why Dostoievski?” I asked, more so to save myself from the corrupted thoughts.
“You mention it in class.”
“I mention lots of books.”
He considered the question seriously, which I should have expected.
“He writes people who want to be good,” Clark said. “Even when the world doesn’t make it easy. Even when it costs them something.”
I nodded once.
“That’s a generous reading,” I said.
“It’s the only one that makes sense to me.”
I leaned back in my chair, folding my hands. This was familiar territory; ideas, literature, distance. Safer than acknowledging the fact that he would not be here next semester. Safer than the book between us, heavy with intention.
“You’ll do well abroad,” I said instead. “The scholarship is competitive.”
“I know.” He paused. “I wish the timing were different.”
I looked at him then, really looked, and felt the weight of everything that could not be said pressing against the room.
“So do I,” I replied.
The admission was small.
It still felt like too much.
Silence reached us eventually, cornering me into looking at him directly; without excuses, without deflection, into acceptance.
His face was young. Bright. Curious. In his eyes, that light;
what else?
what else?
what else?
The air was heavy, pressing against the desk between us. The wood creaked faintly, imported from somewhere I couldn’t name, some indulgence of mine. I wondered how it would sound beneath our weight.
My mind replayed, cruelly, every time he had called me Professor Wayne, the calm, masculine tone of someone just beginning to live. Countless times. Deliciously, unbearably so.
I felt the air struggle in my lungs.
Because he was leaving. Because the semester was ending. Because he was going to the other side of the world, without letting me really look at him, touch him, know his scent. Without letting me imagine him the way girls his age were allowed to.
What else, my God?
What else was there beneath his clothes?
What else exists after a night with him, waking up beside him?
He shifted in his chair. Just enough to remind me that he was there, that this wasn’t something happening only in my head.
“I have class.” The words escaped me, not really sure why.
“You still have an hour." His answer surprised me, and it seemed it did him too. “Oh! You must need to prepare for class, sorry for taking so much of your time professor Wayne.”
What else?
What else?
What else?
I wanted to know. I needed to know.
I stood up and turned toward the door then, deliberately, slowly, and closed it.
The click echoed far louder than it should have.
Clark froze.
“Don't apologize Clark, I enjoy giving you my time, take as much of it as you please.”
“What about your class?”
“I have an hour.”
His eyes flicked down to my mouth and then back up, guilt flashing across his face as if he hadn’t meant to let that happen.
“I—” He stopped himself. Swallowed. “Sorry. I’m probably reading this wrong.”
I didn’t correct him.
Didn’t reassure him.
Didn’t move away.
Instead, I tilted my head slightly and said, very softly:
“Are you?”
The kiss came fast—too fast. I barely had time to register it when he was already pulling away.
"I'm so sorry," he said, cheeks red. I would've ripped his clothes off in that instant, from that image alone, if I wasn't so busy trying to make sense of his actions. "I shouldn't have done that. I'm truly sorry, Professor Wayne."
I completely lost it. I cupped his face between my hands and kissed him back.
Strong. Desperate. For every day he sat in the front row of my class, looking at me with those ridiculously gorgeous blue eyes. Every time he was in my office, helping me grade essays, the only thing I could think of was his soft skin and delicious scent.
I could have died easily right there—would have gone happily. I don't know how I remained standing when his mouth opened for me, letting me taste him, feel his hot breath pierce through me, breaking past my teeth and melting in my tongue. His hands roamed my body with desperate curiosity, wanting me as much as I had been wanting him. He pushed me against my desk, the creak I had imagined coming to life. I sighed.
His kisses traveled down my neck—hungry, rough.
I allowed my fingers to savor his back, rising slowly to, losing themselves in his hair. I pulled slightly, impossible to contain myself, after so many nights of imagining tugging those curls while he whispered my name against my ear, like a prayer. He whimperd—no longer in my nocturnal delusions, but there, in front of me, with his lips melting into the skin beneath my jaw.
I was going to die, wrapped around Clark’s body. And if they found us there, if the world discovered us, I couldn't bring myself to care.
I wanted to touch every part of him —I needed to —, the idea of my hands pulling unknown sounds from his throat made my eyes blurry. The mystery excited me like a young man learning a new instrument. Our hips found a rhythm—slow, then urgent—building something neither of us had rehearsed. I didn't notice when I ended up on my back, the desk solid beneath me, papers scattering over the floor. We couldn't stop. Didn't want to.
Clark pulled away and the cold rushed in where his body had been. He yanked his sweater over his head, his shirt riding up with it, and the flash of that trail of hair below his stomach made my breath catch.
He pushed me hard onto the Ebony surface —or was it African Blackwood? I couldn’t remember with Clark between my legs, undoing my belt.
My cock was so sensitive now; the fabric of my trousers felt like a prison, and the faint rustle of Clark’s fingers unzipping me made me twitch involuntarily.
Clark smirked. That made my cock throb; a TA, the best student on campus. Always early, always helping, know it all, prodigy journalist, full scholarship Clark Kent, smirking at my crotch with anticipation.
"Professor Wayne," he said, voice low, testing the weight of my title in his mouth like something illicit.
I couldn't answer. My hand found his hair instead, those curls I'd been cataloguing for months, softer than I'd imagined. He leaned into the touch, eyes closing briefly, and I felt the small surrender in it—the way he wanted this too, had maybe wanted it just as long.
"Clark," I managed. Just his name. Nothing else would come.
His hands slid up my thighs, deliberate, unhurried. The kind of patience that felt obscene given how badly I needed him to hurry. He was watching me, reading every reaction like he read everything—carefully, thoroughly, committing it to memory.
"Tell me what you want," he said.
The audacity of it. Asking me to articulate this, to put words to what we were doing, what line we were annihilating.
"You know what I want."
My cock was out.
The air hit it first—cool, startling. Then awareness followed, sharp and disorienting. I was exposed. Completely. Not just physically, though that was undeniable—my dick hard and flushed against my stomach, precome already beading at the tip. But something else. Something I hadn't anticipated.
Vulnerable.
The word arrived uninvited, uncomfortable. I didn't do vulnerable. Vulnerability was a liability, a weakness to be catalogued in others and avoided in myself. Control was the architecture I'd built my entire life around.
And yet.
Here I was, spread across my own desk, trousers open, shirt barely hanging on, while my student—my brilliant, devastatingly beautiful student—knelt between my legs and looked at me like I was something he'd been starving for.
I was enjoying it.
Deeply.
"I want to hear you say it."
Journalist. Of course. He needed the quote, the confession, the thing that couldn't be taken back.
"I want your mouth on me," I said. "I've wanted it all semester."
The smile that spread across his face wasn't innocent. Wasn't the one he wore not even an hour ago, waiting for me outside my office, early morning.
"All semester?" he repeated, his hand wrapping around my cock. "I've wanted this since my first year here."
"You have?" I said.
"Yes."
I'd only known him for six months. Yet he'd been wanting me far longer—before he was even real to me, before he had a face, a voice, a name that mattered. All this time I'd been going crazy, cataloguing every detail, fighting every impulse.
He'd been crazy too.
The thought did something to me. Knowing I wasn't alone in this. That while I'd been white-knuckling my way through office hours, he'd been sitting across from me, wanting the same thing. Suffering the same way.
His mouth wrapped around me unannounced, the surprise throwing my head back.
“Fuck, Clark” I moaned.
What else?
What else?
What else?
Heat. Wet heat and pressure and the obscene sound of him taking me deeper. His tongue worked against the underside of my cock, tracing the vein there like he was mapping it, learning it. Of course he was. Clark didn't do anything halfway.
My fingers tightened in his hair, not guiding—just holding on, anchoring myself to something solid because everything else had become untethered. He hummed around me and the vibration shot straight up my spine.
"God—" I couldn't finish the thought. Couldn't think at all.
He pulled back slightly, lips dragging along my length, then took me in again. Deeper this time. Deliberate. His eyes flicked up to meet mine and the sight of him—Clark Kent, on his knees, my cock disappearing between those perfect lips—nearly undid me right there.
He knew it too. I could see it in the way his eyes darkened, pleased with himself.
"You're—" I tried. Failed. My hips shifted involuntarily and he let me, opening his throat.
What else could this mouth do? What else had I been missing all semester while he sat in my classroom, answering questions, taking notes, looking at me with those impossibly blue eyes?
He hollowed his cheeks, sucking harder, and my vision blurred at the edges. I'd had this before—of course I had—but not like this. Not in this way that felt so wrong, yet so exciting.
"Holy fuck," I moaned. It seemed as if my vocabulary had been reduced to: fuck, shit, God, and Clark. As if Clark was sucking the words out of me from the tip of my dick. Some sort of sexual newspeak, that simplified my thoughts, so that I could only think about Clark’s little tongue tricks on my urethra.
I wasn’t going to last much longer: my shirt completely unbuttoned, my tie barely hanging, Clark’s strong manly hands on my chest, my stomach. I needed more, I needed him inside of me.
I wanted to see his cock, taste it, feel it hard and thick inside me.
“Shit, Kent, Im—” the words couldn't materialize, not even letting the idea end. As it had been established already, Clark had sucked my whole understanding of language.
He pulled off just enough to speak, his hand still stroking me. "I want you to." The words vibrating on my member.
Holy. Fuck.
"In my mouth," he begged, and the directness of it —the sheer fucking audacity.
"Jesus Christ," I said, barely.
He smiled, then took me back in, deeper than before, and I felt myself hit the back of his throat.
He didn't gag.
Didn't pull away.
Just held me there, swallowing around me, and that was it.
I came hard, fingers twisted in his hair, my other hand gripping the edge of the desk so hard I heard the wood creak. Clark stayed with me through it, swallowing everything, not wasting a drop.
When he finally pulled off, his lips were swollen, wet. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—casual, like he hadn't just dismantled every shred of control I'd ever possessed.
I couldn't tell anything except that I was ruined.
My chest heaved. Everything felt distant, muffled—like I was underwater. I could still feel the phantom heat of Clark's mouth, the ghost of his tongue working against me. My cock twitched weakly, oversensitive, spent.
This was it, then. We'd done it. Crossed every line there was to cross.
I should move. Get up. Say something.
But my body felt heavy, boneless. Pinned to the desk by the weight of what we'd just done.
Then Clark stood.
And I saw it.
His cock straining against his jeans, the outline obscene and obvious. He'd been hard this entire time. Rock hard from sucking me off, from making me fall apart.
He wasn't done.
He unzipped his jeans—old blue denim, really Kansas of him—and pulled out his cock.
Big. Beautiful.
We weren't done.
Clark reached down, gripped the hem of his shirt, and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion.
And I—
I forgot how to breathe.
His body.
Christ, his body.
Pectoralis major, clean definition separating each side. Rectus abdominis, the six distinct sections leading down in a perfect line. External obliques cutting sharp angles at his hips. Serratus anterior, those beautiful finger-like projections along his ribs.
Anatomy so perfect it begged to be dissected—like I'd done a million times before in the morgue, bodies laid out cold and still beneath fluorescent lights. But this. This was different.
A breathing, living body.
Beautiful. Godly. Youthful.
Warm skin over muscle that shifted as he moved, as he breathed. Not a cadaver to be studied with clinical detachment, but a man standing in front of me, flushed and hard and very much alive.
I wanted to put my mouth on every muscle. Trace each line with my tongue. Map him the way I'd mapped corpses, but with heat instead of cold, desire instead of duty.
What else?
What else was there beneath that skin?
Deltoids rounded and pronounced at his shoulders—farm work, probably. All those years lifting hay bales or whatever the hell they did in Kansas. Biceps brachii flexing slightly as he moved his arms, the peak of muscle visible even relaxed. Triceps brachii on the back of his arms, the horseshoe shape perfect, textbook.
I could name every part of him. Label him like a diagram in an anatomy textbook.
He placed his hands on my thighs, tracing up and down slowly. His blue eyes piercing my soul, like a warning for what was coming.
I didn't need no fucking warning.
"Fuck me, Clark." I wasn't begging. I was ordering, from the deepest, purest part of my soul. Commanding.
"I'll need you to turn around, Professor Wayne."
The little fucker had caught on—how that title falling from his mouth made me twitch. For all I knew, he could've known all along, playing a mind game with me.
Not so innocent after all.
But I loved mind fuckeries. And that, he probably knew too.
I turned.
Palms flat against the desk, ass out. The wood cool against my overheated skin.
Clark's hands found my hips immediately—gripped hard, fingers digging in with enough force that I knew, distantly, I'd feel this later. Tomorrow. The day after. Purple-blue impressions in the shape of his fingers, a map of where he'd held me, claimed me.
I'd see them in the mirror while getting dressed. Feel the tender ache when I sat down. Be reminded, over and over, of this moment—of Clark Kent bending me over my own desk and—
He flipped me roughly, yanking my hips up higher, angling me exactly where he wanted me.
"Fuck—" The word punched out of me.
"Stay still," he said, and his voice had that edge again. The polite veneer cracking further.
His grip tightened. I felt my skin compress under his palms, felt the strength in those farm-boy hands that had spent years doing manual labor I could only imagine.
He was going to leave marks.
God, I wanted him to leave marks.
I heard him spit. Then his fingers were there—slick, pressing against me.
"Fuck—Clark—"
"Shh." His other hand pressed between my shoulder blades, holding me down. "I've got you."
One finger pushed inside and I bit down on my lip hard enough to taste copper. The stretch, the intrusion—it had been so long, too long, and Clark's fingers were thick, working me open with a patience that felt almost cruel.
"You're so tight," he murmured, almost reverent. A second finger joined the first and I couldn't stop the sound that ripped from my throat.
"Please—"
"Please what, Professor Wayne?"
Fuck.
"Please—fuck me—just—"
"Say it properly." He said, too close, his chest pressing onto my back, his hot breath on my ear, his fingers inside of me.
My forehead pressed against the desk. Pride warring with need. Need winning.
"Please fuck me, Clark."
"Good."
He pulled his fingers out and I heard the wet sound of him slicking his cock. Then the blunt head was pressing against me, pushing, and—
Oh God.
He pushed in.
Slow. Relentless. Splitting me open inch by fucking inch.
"Fuck—" The word tore out of me, guttural, broken.
"Breathe," Clark said, his voice tight with restraint. "Breathe, Bruce."
Bruce. Not Professor Wayne. Just my name, naked and raw between us.
I tried. God, I tried. But he was so big, thicker than his fingers had prepared me for, and the burn was everything—pain and pleasure blurring into something that made my vision white out at the edges.
"That's it," he murmured, one hand smoothing down my spine. "Taking me so well."
He bottomed out and we both went still.
I felt full. Impossibly full. His cock buried deep inside me, his hips flush against my ass, his breath coming hard against the back of my neck.
"Okay?" he asked, and there was something gentle in it. Something that made my chest ache despite everything.
"Move," I gritted out. "Clark—move—"
He pulled back. Almost all the way out. Then slammed back in.
The desk creaked. My hands scrambled for purchase against the wood. Papers slid to the floor.
"Yes—fuck—yes—"
He set a rhythm—hard, deep, unrelenting. Each thrust hit something inside me that made sparks shoot up my spine, made my spent cock try valiantly to get hard again.
His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise. I'd feel this tomorrow. Would see the marks in the mirror and remember—
"You feel—fuck—you feel so good—" Clark's voice was wrecked now, that careful control completely shattered.
"Harder," I demanded.
"I—are you sure—"
"Harder, Clark."
He obeyed. Of course he did. Good student.
The pace turned brutal. Punishing. Each thrust slammed me against the desk, the edge digging into my hipbones. I'd have bruises there too. Evidence everywhere.
"God, I'm sorry—I can't—" He was babbling now. "You're so tight, so perfect—I'm sorry—"
"Don't apologize," I gasped. "Just—fuck—just use me."
A broken sound tore from his throat. His fingers dug harder into my hips, yanking me back to meet each thrust.
"Like this?" His voice cracked. "Is this—fuck—is this what you want, Professor?"
There it was. That title again, filthy in his mouth now.
"Yes—"I whimpered, holding back the urgency of screaming his name. Because we were in my office, at school.
Fuck,
Metropolis State University, what a fucking filthy place it had become thanks to us.
"I've thought about this—" He was rambling, losing himself. "Every class, watching you, wanting to bend you over your desk. I'm sorry, I shouldn't—"
"Tell me," I ordered. "Tell me what you wanted."
"Wanted to—fuck—wanted to make you fall apart." His rhythm was getting erratic, desperate. "Wanted to hear you moan my name, see you lose control. I'm sorry."
"Stop apologizing—" I pushed back against him, meeting him thrust for thrust. "And fuck me like you mean it—"
Something snapped in him.
His hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back. The other arm wrapped around my chest, pulling me up so my back was against him, changing the angle completely.
"Fuck…" The new position drove him impossibly deeper.
"This what you want?" he growled against my ear, and God, his voice—"Want me to fuck you like I own you?"
"Yes—please—"
"Say it."
My head was spinning. Every thrust hit that spot inside me that made me see white.
"Fuck me like you own me, Clark, please."
He bit down on my shoulder—hard enough to bruise, to mark—and fucked into me with abandon.
"You're mine," he groaned. "Right now—in this moment—you're mine—I'm sorry—I shouldn't say that—"
But he should. God, he should.
Because I was letting him. Giving him permission. Orchestrating my own destruction.
Letting this brilliant, beautiful boy take me apart.
"Clark—" I could feel him trembling against me, his rhythm falling apart. "Clark, it's okay—"
"I can't—I'm going to—" His voice broke completely. "I'm sorry—I'm sorry—it's too good—you feel too good—"
"Then come," I said, and I meant it. "Come inside me, Clark."
"Bruce—"
His whole body went rigid. He buried himself as deep as he could go, grinding against me, and I felt him pulse—hot and wet, filling me up.
"Fuck—oh God—I'm sorry—" He was still apologizing even as he came, even as his hips jerked involuntarily, fucking his release deeper into me.
"Don't apologize," I gasped. "Don't—that's perfect—you're perfect—"
He collapsed against my back, panting, his arms still wrapped around me. His cock still inside me, softening slowly.
"I'm sorry," he whispered against my shoulder. "I should've—you didn't—"
"I'm fine," I lied.
I wasn't fine.
I was achingly hard again, my cock leaking against my stomach, every nerve ending on fire. Being filled with his come, marked inside and out, his weight pressing me into the desk—
"No you're not." His hand slid down my body, reaching for my cock.
"Clark, you don't have to—"
"I want to." He was still breathing hard, but his voice had that determined edge. "Please. Let me."
But his hand didn't go to my cock.
It went to my hip, holding me steady. And then he started moving again—slow, careful thrusts despite being oversensitive.
"What are you—oh—"
He angled perfectly, hitting my prostate with each deliberate stroke. Using his softening cock to work that spot, making me shake.
"I've got you," he murmured. "Just feel it. Let go."
"I can't—I don't—"
"Yes you can." Another thrust, precise and devastating. "Come for me, Bruce. Just from this. Just from me inside you."
Oh God.
No one had ever—I'd never—
"That's it," he encouraged, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "Feel how full you are? That's me. That's my come inside you."
His words, his cock still buried in me, the relentless pressure against my prostate—
"Clark—I'm—"
"I know. Let go."
And I did.
I came untouched, my cock jerking and spilling across the desk, my whole body seizing as pleasure ripped through me in waves. Clark held me through it, still moving gently, drawing it out until I was shaking and oversensitive and completely wrecked.
"Good," he whispered. "So good. You're so beautiful like this."
I couldn't speak.
Couldn't think.
What else?
What else?
What else?
Now I knew all.