There’s something to be said for the way that Clark never misses an opportunity to indulge. As soon as he hears that Martha is going out of town to visit her sister, he starts right in with the suggestions that nothing could possibly be better for Bruce’s health and wellbeing than a quiet weekend spent out under the Kansas sky. The next thing Bruce knows they’re out at the empty farmhouse, sipping coffee on the front porch on a Saturday morning while they watch the sun rise over the fields, slow dancing in the kitchen on a Saturday night while the dishes dry in the sink and a chorus of crickets sings in the grass outside.
Then Clark says, actually, he does have one more surprise planned for this weekend.
“See, the thing is,” he explains, his voice muffled by the hallway door. “I happen to think it’s pretty unfair that you never got to have a high school sweetheart.”
Bruce looks up from his study of the cluttered bulletin board on the wall of Clark’s childhood bedroom, his eyebrows raised almost to his hairline as he turns in surprise.
“Oh?” he wonders, almost raising his voice to be heard through the door before he remembers otherwise. “Is that so?”
“Uh huh.” Clark’s voice is muted but still clear as a bell. “And I figured tonight would be the perfect chance to make up for some lost time.”
Bruce has been listening raptly since the unzip of the duffel bag, his ears tuned to every subsequent rustle of clothing, his mind running wild with the possibilities. He figures it must be some kind of sports uniform— Clark had to have been interested in sports in high school, right? Would he have been a baseball fan? No, football, it’s got to be football— Bruce rubs his palms on the thighs of the jeans that Clark insisted he put on, paired with a white t-shirt above and scuffed sneakers below, everything a suspiciously perfect fit that made him wonder just how long Clark had been waiting for this exact opportunity to arise.
“It’s, uh— a little late for me, don’t you think?” Bruce clears his throat, his eyes wandering over the room again, marveling at how charming and quaint it now seems after it once felt so empty and forlorn. “Not that I don’t appreciate the thought, it’s just— I’m a hell of a lot closer to sixty than sixteen, Clark.”
“Well,” Clark says, and Bruce can hear his smirk through the wood paneling. “How about you just let me see what I can do about that?”
Bruce has his back turned when the door clicks open, the soft squeak of the hinge followed by a rush of light that spills over him and throws his shadow into sharp relief on the wall over Clark’s bed. It’s funny, but for a second there, it almost does make him feel like a nervous teenager. Pure instinct tamps it down again, old habits urging him to be calm as he prepares himself to turn around and see what Clark has in store for him.
He’s not ready.
“Jesus,” he gasps, one hand compulsively lifted as if to shield his eyes before it drops back to his side, limp and helpless. “Jesus, Clark—”
“What?” Clark furrows his brow and cocks his head, his face the picture of innocence. “You don’t like it?”
Bruce tries to answer, but all at once his chest is so tight that it’s all he can do to draw enough breath to keep from passing out.
The cheerleader uniform is in the Smallville High colors, the bright red pleated skirt trimmed in a sunny goldenrod stripe, the sleeveless crop top cut with diagonals of both. The hem of the skirt doesn’t even make it halfway down Clark’s muscular thighs, leaving his thick, hairy legs bare down to the mid-calf, where a set of striped athletic socks have been pulled up out of a pair of bright white tennis shoes. Meanwhile the skirt’s waistband cuts across the deepest plunge of Clark’s hips, exposing the vast majority of the dense, delicious coat of fur that starts between his legs and spreads up to cover his taut belly, tapering into a dark point above his navel that leaves his sculpted abs as unadorned as Grecian marble. The whole rugged expanse is laid bare up to the breastbone, where the bottom hem of the crop top strains under the immense curve of his ridiculous pectorals. In place of the El crest, Clark now has the SH of Smallville High emblazoned across his chest, the letters crowned by a modest v-neck collar that nonetheless reveals a generous tuft of chest hair at its cusp. When Bruce looks up at his face, he finds Clark biting his lip in expectation, a tangle of curls tossed expertly across his forehead.
“Well?” Clark hedges, fidgeting delicately at the pleated hem with his powerful hands. “What do you think?”
“I think,” Bruce says, his voice hoarse, “you might actually be trying to kill me.”
Clark smiles and swivels the ball of one foot against the floor, the heel swinging back and forth coquettishly behind him. Even the stripes on his white socks are on theme in the school colors, two red bands with one goldenrod between, their hue faintly diluted by the strain of encompassing the fullness of his calves. Bruce can’t stop shaking his head in disbelief, his eyes moving from head to toe and back again, hardly able to take it all in.
“Jesus,” he says again. “How the hell did you even pull this off?”
“Oh, it wasn’t easy,” Clark assures him. “They don’t exactly make high school uniforms for this chest size.” He crosses one leg behind the other and does a full turn for display purposes, his arms at his sides and his palms facing the floor. “Luckily I managed to find the sweetest person on Etsy who was able to make one on commission. She even did the socks so the colors would match.”
“I noticed,” Bruce says reflexively, and Clark laughs.
“Yeah, well,” he chuckles. “I know how you appreciate the little details.” He carefully smoothes the skirt over his hips, his tone turning bright and informative. “I’ll have you know this is the authentic Smallville High squad uniform from the ‘97-’98 cheer season.” He finishes with a wink and a playful flip of the hem. “I sent reference pictures from my senior yearbook.”
“‘98,” Bruce groans. “Jesus Christ.”
“Yep,” Clark smirks, shameless. “Titanic was in theatres. I saw it three times.”
“Of course you did.”
“I cried every time.”
“Of course you did.”
“Did you ever see it?”
“Uh,” Bruce pauses to furrow his brow in consideration. “...no, actually.”
“What?” Clark affects a scandalized expression. “Oh, you are missing out. I don’t know who’s more beautiful in that movie, Kate or Leo. Just… unbelievably gorgeous, the both of them.” His hand drifts up to his mouth, the tip of his index finger caught between his teeth. “You wanna know what my favorite scene was?”
“Mmm…” Bruce wracks his brain for what he’s absorbed of the movie through cultural osmosis. “Draw me like one of your French girls.”
“Close,” Clark concedes instantly, pointing at Bruce for emphasis. “Very close.” His smile turns sly again. “But the best part is when they go down in the cargo hold and hook up in the car.”
Bruce nods, his throat suddenly dry. “Ah.”
Clark brings his hand up to his mouth again, toying at his bottom lip with his thumb. “You ever hook up in a car before, Bruce?”
There’s a flicker of a rueful smile on Bruce’s face. “A few.”
“You ever hook up in your car?”
Bruce’s smile doesn’t change. “A few.”
Clark’s smile gets wider. “Not those cars. Your car.”
Bruce is about to protest that they were all his cars until he realizes that Clark is talking about the only car that’s truly his. Then his smile goes slack and his eyes go wide, his tongue momentarily, completely tied by the idea. He feels an actual shiver up his spine at the low rumble of Clark’s knowing chuckle, his blue eyes bright with a mixture of acknowledgment and anticipation.
“That’s what I thought,” he hums. “I’ll add it to the list.”
Bruce swallows hard, his voice faint. “There’s a list?”
“Mmm hmm,” Clark nods. “But, uh— I’m getting ahead of myself.” He wags an index finger, half to scold, half to tally. “One checkmark at a time.” He tips the finger forward, indicating the space behind Bruce. “In the meantime I think you should probably sit down on the bed.”
“I think you’re probably right.”
It’s funny, but Bruce doesn’t even realize how wobbly his legs are until he actually tries to take a step, at which point he’s obliged to focus all of his concentration on keeping his balance as he teeter-totters back to the edge of the mattress to sit down with a heavy thud. He looks up as Clark quits dawdling by the door and saunters towards him, his bright white tennis shoes coming to a halt in the center of the faded bedroom rug.
“Okay,” Clark says. “I have to be honest with you.” He clasps his hands behind him and swivels his hips in an affectation of penitence. “This uniform isn’t… entirely accurate. I did request one alteration to the original design.”
“Whoa, now,” Bruce protests with a weak laugh. “Don’t go ruining my suspension of disbelief here.”
Clark laughs too, then ducks his head so he can peek up at Bruce with a coy expression.
“It’s just— according to high school uniform regulations, the shell top isn’t supposed to expose the midriff. Crop tops are for college cheer squads only.” Clark thumbs at the waistline of his skirt, pouting in apology. “I hope this is okay.”
“Uh,” Bruce blinks. “No, that’s— that’s fine.” He coughs. “I’ll allow it.”
“Oh, good,” Clark smiles. “What a relief.”
And while Bruce watches in amazement, Clark laces his fingers together, plants his feet, then inverts his hands and extends his arms over his head, stretching his whole body in a long, lazy curve. The pose reveals the thick dark tufts sprouting in his armpits, the crop top riding up to expose the underside of his huge, hairy pecs, the sheer masculinity of his body only emphasized and underlined by the dainty femininity of what he’s wearing. At this point it’s a blessing that Bruce is already sitting down so he doesn’t have to worry about his legs giving out from under him. The only downside is that now his jeans are starting to cut into his erection, his cock butting up against the inside of the zipper and straining for release. He’s rapidly losing the ability to form coherent thought.
“You know,” he says, because he can’t just sit there staring. “I really thought you were going to come in here dressed like a football player.”
Clark actually throws his head back to let out a hearty guffaw, giving his arms one last stretch before he lets them fall to his sides, his face equal parts endeared and amused.
“Come on, really? Have you met me?”
Of course as soon as he says it, Bruce instantly realizes that the only real surprise here is that Clark didn’t come through that door with a matching set of pompoms.
“Besides,” Clark continues, before Bruce can admit his error. “If I was dressed like a football player, then I wouldn’t get to do this.”
In a sudden snap of movement he springs to an alert position, his skirt bouncing as he brings his feet neatly together underneath him and clasps his hands at his chest with a resounding clap.
“Ready?” he grins.
“Oh, Jesus—” Bruce sucks in a sharp inhale.
And with a total reckless abandon that deserves a monument all its own, Clark launches into a series of jumps, kicks, and claps that rattle the picture frames on the walls and make the floorboards creak and groan for mercy.
“We! Are! Dynamite!
The Crows are gonna win tonight!
We! Are! Dynamite!
So light that stick and start that fight!
We! Are! Dynamite!
Get fired up and score all right!
We! Are! Dynamite!
The Crows are gonna win tonight!”
The routine is amateurish, awkward, and so obviously, painstakingly practiced that Bruce is once again fighting just for the ability to draw breath. For all of the times that he’s seen Clark go charging bravely into battle against impossible odds, facing down nuclear bombs and cosmic horrors with equal courage, Bruce isn’t sure if he’s ever seen anything quite so fearless. Clark finishes with a big “goooooo Crows!” that leaves him down on one knee with both arms flung up in the air, hands raised and angled inward to make a goalpost, his mouth hanging open in a giddy, expectant grin. Bruce doesn’t even know where to begin. At a total loss, he blurts out the first thing that pops into his head.
Clark narrows his eyes and sticks out his tongue. “Shut up.” He drops his arms and clambers to his feet, dusting off the knee that was on the floor. “Could’ve been worse. One of our rival teams was the Bennington Beavers.”
“So did it work?” Clark plants his fists on his hips, his chin raised in challenge. “Do you feel like dynamite?”
The clipped sound that Bruce makes is halfway between a laugh and a groan. “I feel like something, all right.”
“Yeah?” Clark raises one fist over his head, then drops it out to three o’clock. “Are you fired up and ready to score?”
Bruce tries to answer, but all at once he’s blindsided by a surge of emotion that almost takes his breath away. Suddenly he’s overwhelmed by the sheer amount of effort that must have gone into this presentation— the time and energy that Clark had to put into commissioning the outfit and learning the routine and somehow finding Bruce a pair of jeans that fit him like he’s been wearing them for the whole damn school year— all that work, all that dedication, and all because Clark wanted to give Bruce just one chance to feel like a lovestruck teenager.
Well. Mission accomplished.
“Baby,” Bruce says, his voice aching with the truth of it. “I’ve never been more ready.”
Clark’s expression flickers, his cheeky smile turning momentarily gentle and fond. “I was hoping you’d say that.” Then the edges sharpen again, his mouth curling up at the corners in impish anticipation. “Because I just got back from cheering at the big homecoming game and I am all kinds of riled up.”
“Oh, god.” There’s that half-laugh, half-groan sound again, Bruce’s heart doing a stutter-step in his chest that he knows Clark can hear all too well. “Go Crows.”
“Would I have seen you there?” Clark wonders. “Did you go to the games in high school?”
“Hmm,” Bruce manages to suppress most of his grimace. “It wasn’t really that kind of high school.”
“Did you play any sports?”
“Not in public, not if I could help it.” Bruce makes a vague, apologetic gesture. “I... didn’t like to draw attention to myself.”
“Well, that’s too bad,” Clark gives a sympathetic cluck of his tongue. “Because people are definitely gonna be talking about you now that you’re dating the hottest cheerleader in school.”
It makes Bruce laugh so abruptly that it takes them both by surprise, Bruce looking up in amazement while Clark looks back at him in total delight, clearly thrilled at the idea of Bruce finding even the slightest bit of joy in the game. Emboldened, Bruce fumbles up a disbelieving scoff and lays a hand over his chest, his tone incredulous.
“What, a weirdo loner like me? How the hell did I manage that?”
Clark has to bite his bottom lip to stay in character, channeling his impulse to grin into a sly wink. “That’s what everybody wants to know.”
With a little shake of his head to toss back his curls, he finally begins his approach, moving towards the bed at an almost unbearably slow saunter, sinking his full weight into every step. At the same time he reaches up to plant the heels of his hands on his chest, his fingers splayed out as he starts to slide them down the length of his body, inch by glorious inch.
“I know what the rumors are,” he murmurs, his eyes locked with Bruce’s as the distance gradually closes between them. “That I’m only with you because of your money. But I think they’re just jealous.” His thumbs pluck teasingly at the waistband of the skirt as his hands move down, down. “Jealous that I chose you over everybody else.”
“Can you blame them?” Bruce croaks feebly, his sweaty palms clutched at the knees of his jeans. “I mean, you are the hottest cheerleader in school.”
“It’s true,” Clark affirms with a long-suffering sigh, his fingers once again dandling at the red pleated hem. “You know at the game tonight that quarterback Paul Waverly wouldn’t leave me alone.”
“Paul Waverly,” Bruce repeats, the name related with such clarity that he’s sure he would find a picture of him in the senior yearbook. “I’ll kick his ass.”
From the way Clark cracks up, Bruce can tell that not only was Paul Waverly a real person, but he would have almost certainly deserved it.
“That is… a very tempting offer,” Clark chuckles. “But I don’t think it’ll be necessary.” He’s so close that Bruce can almost reach out and touch him, his blue eyes half-lidded, his voice a smug purr. “Not after what I told him tonight.”
“Yeah?” Bruce holds his gaze, his own voice low and husky. “What’d you tell him, baby?”
Clark lifts one shoulder in a dainty shrug. “I just told him the truth.”
At that moment he drifts deliberately into range, signalling with his proximity and a nod of his head that he’s ready for Bruce to put his hands on him. It’s a signal that Bruce obeys without a fraction of hesitation, those hands leaping up to take Clark by the hips, drawing him into the space between Bruce’s open legs until Clark’s knees bump against the edge of the bed, leaving Bruce obliged to tip his head back to maintain eye contact. God, that spill of chest hair coming over the v-neck collar is one of the most beautiful things Bruce has ever seen.
“So?” he breathes. “What’s the truth?”
Clark smiles down at him, his forearms settling on Bruce’s shoulders so he can cross his wrists together at the back of Bruce’s neck.
“Well, you see,” he says. “Paul Waverly asked me a question. He asked me, Clark, why are you really going out with Bruce Wayne? Be honest.” Clark shrugs again, utterly guileless. “So I was honest.”
There’s a lurch in the pit of Bruce’s stomach, his face going slack as he realizes that he’s just been tricked into asking Clark to say something nice about him. Already mortified, he scrambles to take cover, his arms sliding around the small of Clark’s back as he sits forward to bury his face in the middle of the SH to hide. He shivers as Clark’s fingers trail up the back of his neck, pushing into his hair to cradle Bruce’s head against that broad, strong chest.
“At first I didn’t know where to start,” Clark murmurs above him. “I could have told him about your incredible, brilliant mind, but I don’t know if he would have been able to understand it.”
“Clark,” Bruce protests weakly, tightening his arms around him.
But Clark just presses a kiss to crown of his head and keeps going. “I could have told him about your gentle, selfless heart, but I don’t know if he would have been able to appreciate it.”
That heart is absolutely pounding out of control right about now, Bruce’s voice muffled by the polyester crop top. “Clark, please.”
There’s a tickle of warm breath as Clark leans down to nuzzle him, his lips brushing at the shell of Bruce’s ear. “I could have told him you were the most beautiful boy in the whole damn school, but I don’t think he would have believed me.”
At this point Bruce knows the back of his neck is as red as Clark’s skirt, the color spreading into his ears as Clark uses the grip in his hair to carefully tilt his head back, one hand brought forward to support Bruce’s chin as their gazes meet.
“Do you want to know what I finally decided on?”
Bruce musters up another faint scoff. “Please tell me you said it was just my money.”
Clark shakes his head, his eyes twinkling. “Nope.”
His hands move to rest on Bruce’s powerful shoulders— not to caress, as Bruce initially assumes, but to steady his balance. In the next instant Clark raises one leg and then the other to come down in a straddle over Bruce’s lap, his knees hugging Bruce’s hips and his shins braced on the edges of the mattress, his ass snuggled purposefully into the cradle between Bruce’s thighs. It’s enough to temporarily blow out just about every conscious circuit in Bruce’s brain, leaving only the unconscious instinct to tighten his arms around the base of Clark’s spine, giving him all the support he needs to lean back and look down, his hands cupped at the sides of Bruce’s neck.
“It had to be something he could understand,” Clark explains, low and intent. “Something he could appreciate. As for whether he believed me, well—” Clark’s smile turns wicked. “That’s entirely up to him. But I said—”
Bruce realizes Clark’s hands have snuck back into his hair right as they tighten into fists, holding Bruce’s head in place so Clark can lean down and whisper directly into his ear.
“Bruce Wayne has the most gorgeous cock I have ever seen and I want to suck it every day for the rest of my life.”
He’s halfway through the sentence when Bruce plows his fingers up into his hair, leaving Clark just enough time to finish the thought before Bruce twists his head around to crush their mouths together in a ravenous, demanding kiss. After that it’s all grasping hands and eager tongues, the two of them tearing into each other like kids on Christmas morning, the long wait over and the gifts finally theirs for the claiming. Bruce notes with satisfaction that Clark isn’t cheating with the gravity, instead giving Bruce his full weight with complete confidence, nearly two hundred pounds of squirming Kryptonian settled squarely in Bruce’s lap like it was made for this exact purpose. And god, isn’t that a thought— that all those decades of brutal training and relentless work were really meant to prepare his body for this singular precious burden, all that strength and all that power finally being put to good use.
Somewhere in the middle of the action Bruce feels Clark’s fingers close around his right wrist, catching his wandering hand to guide it between them and press it against the warm, bare skin of his sternum.
“It’s okay,” Clark breathes against his mouth. “You can put your hand under my shirt if you want.”
He lets out a loud, satisfied moan as Bruce immediately slips his hand up under the crop top to grope at Clark’s chest, palming at the downy curve of the pectoral before his thumb and forefinger find the nipple and give it a sharp, searing twist that makes Clark gasp with pleasure. At the same time he tightens his thighs around Bruce’s waist, rolling his hips to grind his cock against Bruce’s belly, his ass grinding against the tented front of Bruce’s jeans. God, that ass— the next thing Bruce knows he’s got both hands on it, blindly flipping up the skirt behind him to discover, in what really shouldn’t be a surprise, that Clark is wearing a matching set of briefs underneath. Bruce doesn’t even have to look at them to know they’re in the perfect shade of Smallville High red.
“Jesus,” he pants, nuzzling at Clark’s throat while his thumb snaps the elastic of one leg band. “You weren’t kidding about the little details.”
“Go big or go home,” Clark pants back, his fingers carding through Bruce’s hair. “You know what they call these in the official cheer squad lingo?” He flexes his ass, rubbing the polyester blend into Bruce’s palms. “Spankies.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Bruce grits out, just before Clark tips his head back so he can go right on kissing the absolute daylights out of him. That leaves Bruce free to keep his hands right where they are, under the skirt but over the spankies, squeezing and kneading while Clark squirms and grinds against him, the pressure between them gradually cranked up to an intensity that a vertical position can no longer sustain. This time gravity pulls on them both until Bruce can’t hold them up anymore and they topple back onto the mattress in a heaving, tangled heap.
It takes some rearranging, but somehow they manage to work their way onto the bed proper, Bruce’s sneakers pulled up from the floor and turned towards the foot of the bed, his head falling back against the pillows as Clark clambers on top of him, doing everything he can to keep the kiss from breaking. Bruce flinches when the bedframe gives an especially threatening creak under their combined weight, but Clark just laughs, planting one hand on the mattress and using the other to brush the sweaty hair from Bruce’s forehead.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “Most of the furniture in this house was built by Great-Grandpa Kent, and he built it to last. My dad used to jump on this bed with me when I was a kid just to prove it.” He leans down to rub the tip of his nose against Bruce’s. “I think it can stand up to a couple of teenagers fooling around.”
“God,” Bruce groans and tucks an arm across his face, hiding his embarrassment in the crook of his elbow. “I can’t believe this is happening.” He lets his arm fall back to the pillow over his head, looking up at Clark with so much gratitude he can hardly speak. “I can’t believe you really did all this.”
“Believe it, mister,” Clark grins. “Now you better hush up, I’m not supposed to have boys over this late.”
Then they’re both laughing, giddy and warm, Clark ducking down for another kiss in the middle of it only for their teeth to collide with an audible clack! that just makes them laugh harder, their hands meeting in a tangle over Bruce’s mouth as they both reach reflexively to soothe the sting of impact. Bruce catches him there, pressing and keeping Clark’s fingertips against his smiling lips, his head lolling against the pillow as he gazes contentedly up into those Kansas sky blue eyes. Clark smiles back at him, fond and familiar, his expression crowned with the rumpled dark curls that Bruce has tousled into an unruly halo.
“Hey,” Clark says. “You want to know what really made me feel like a teenager again?”
Bruce gets that same lurch in the pit of his stomach, the one that tells him Clark is about to say something that hits him like a heat-seeking missile. He’s already taking Clark’s fingers away from his mouth to voice his protest when Clark leans down to cover Bruce with his body, chest pressed to chest so he can get his lips right next to Bruce’s ear, his voice heavy and heated.
“When I broke that headboard.”
The memory hits Bruce with enough force to make him gasp, his body arching up under Clark’s while his cock jumps painfully in his jeans. They were in Clark’s apartment, their positions not much different than they are now— Bruce on his back with Clark above him— the key differences being, first, a total absence of clothing, and second, Clark’s cock buried up to the hilt in Bruce’s ass. Clark was pounding him hard and fast, hammering away at Bruce’s connection with reality, every thrust pushing him that much farther out of his head and into blissful oblivion. Bruce’s eyes were just starting to roll back in his skull when a sudden, startling crack brought him shooting up from the depths like he’d been fired from a cannon. He didn’t even realize what made the sound at first, dazed and reeling, looking up at Clark only to find Clark looking up, too, his expression equal parts mortified and amazed.
Then Bruce tipped his head back and saw that the solid oak headboard had been split in two, torn asunder like the veil in the temple, the apex of the divide crowned by a compressed point of impact in the unmistakable size and shape of a single clenched hand.
“God, I was so embarrassed,” Clark murmurs, bringing Bruce back to the present in another cannon rush, every word poured directly into the hollow of his ear. “I can’t remember the last time I lost control like that.” He flexes his body over Bruce’s with a rumble of gratification. “Mmm— you just make me feel so good.”
Bruce makes a strained, helpless sound, his legs instinctively attempting to spread open, desperate to get Clark between them as soon as possible. The only trouble is that Clark is still sitting astride him, leaving Bruche’s sneakers to churn in futile slow motion against the blankets like he’s trying to run in a dream, his hips squirming hungrily under Clark’s weight. It takes a conscious effort to focus his attention when Clark lifts his head to meet his gaze— then Bruce sees that all of the performative bravado has been set aside, Clark’s eyes soft and sincere as he brings one hand to rest over Bruce’s heart.
“You do make me feel good, Bruce,” he says, quiet. “You make me feel… like I can be myself. Like I don’t have to hide or hold back. Not anymore.” His mouth quirks in a mumbled aside. “Even at the expense of the occasional headboard.” He sobers again, his eyes intent, his expression keen. “But it means a lot. It means everything. And I’m never going to stop looking for new ways to show you that.” He takes a breath, then abruptly lowers his gaze, struck with sudden shyness. “I just… I wanted to make you feel good, too.”
A moment ago Bruce wouldn’t have been able to say how he felt. He would have said that he didn’t have the words for it, that the words surely couldn’t exist— he would have turned his feelings over and over in his hands like a newly-discovered gem, struggling in vain to catalog every facet, the angles blurring under his fingertips— like peering through a microscopic lens and recoiling in astonishment at the unexpected kaleidoscope on the other side— but now, just when he was at a total loss, Clark came along and gave him exactly what he needed.
“I do,” Bruce whispers, hoarse. “I feel good, Clark. I feel… really good.”
Clark’s eyes soften, then close as he leans down to press a kiss to the center of Bruce’s forehead, tilting his head to touch the same point with his own brow before drawing back to give Bruce a tender smile.
“Good.” He gives a satisfied nod, patting Bruce’s chest as his smile grows wide again. “Now, uh— if it’s okay with you, I would really love to suck that gorgeous cock right about now.”
He’s already starting to shift his weight down the length of Bruce’s body when Bruce fumbles to catch him by the arms, tugging Clark back up towards him before he has a chance to go too far.
“Wait, wait,” Bruce entreats. “Aren’t you— aren’t you tired from cheering at the game?” He reaches up to push the curls back from Clark’s forehead, his fingertips tracing an arc over one ear before coming back to trail along Clark’s jaw. “Let me take care of you first.”
“Mmm, how gallant.” Clark cups Bruce’s hand to his face, one eyebrow raised in a knowing smirk. “You sure you just don’t want to wait your turn?”
“Come on, baby,” Bruce shifts his free hand to the front of Clark’s crop top, squeezing the curve of his chest through the polyester. “I just want to make you feel good.”
Clark bites his lip, hesitating for a beat of consideration before raising both eyebrows in epiphany. “I think I know how to fix this.”
The first thing he does is the last thing Bruce wants— he sits up, taking his weight off of Bruce’s chest and Bruce’s hand off his face, the distance between them turning suddenly vast by comparison. Bruce takes in a breath for an exclamation of disappointment that comes out in a long, stuttering groan as Clark then sits back, deliberately grinding his ass over the front of Bruce’s jeans, bouncing against his hard-on like it’s the end of a goddamn diving board. He waits until Bruce is about to start howling before he makes the jump, shifting his weight to one leg so he can raise the other and swing it off of Bruce’s body in a flawless dismount, landing with his knees on the edge of the mattress and his feet sticking out over the floor. Bruce is left sprawled on his back with the distinct sensation that someone just yanked all the covers off of him in the middle of the night.
“Aw,” he huffs without thinking, prompting Clark to shoot him an sympathetic grin.
“Two shakes,” he assures, meaning two shakes of a lamb’s tail, which Bruce has come to understand is a Midwestern unit of time correlating roughly to not very long.
True to his word, Clark moves quickly, reaching both hands up under his skirt to find the elastic waistband of the spankies and shimmy them off his hips, pushing them down along his thighs and hastily lifting one knee after another to slide them by underneath. It’s almost a clean sweep until the briefs end up snagged over the white tennis shoes, requiring a combined effort from Clark reaching back and Bruce reaching forward to finally wrestle them free and let them hit the floor. As soon as they’re clear Clark keeps moving, pivoting to swing his opposite leg up over Bruce’s body and pull himself right back into a straddle again, this time facing the foot of the bed. He lingers there, perched on his knees, his hands pushed indolently up into his hair as he tosses Bruce a sly glance over his shoulder.
“Thought you might like a chance to enjoy the view.”
He turns his gaze forward again, offering Bruce the full lavish span of his back, his raised arms pulling the crop top high to reveal as much bare skin as possible between the hem of the shell and the waistline of the skirt— a generous expanse that includes everything from the folded wings of his shoulder blades to the inviting hollow at the base of his spine. With his fingers still twined in his dark crown of curls, Clark sets in with a lazy, rolling sway of his hips, the motion rippling up through the whole open ocean of muscle in wave after heavenly wave. It’s all Bruce can do to clutch blindly at Clark’s calves where they’re braced on either side of him, his fingers digging into the striped athletic socks in a convulsive attempt to anchor himself before he completely falls apart. He’s holding on for dear life when Clark gives his hair a resolute tousle and lets his arms fall to his sides, his head cocked over his shoulder to show Bruce his parted lips and heavy, half-lidded eyes.
“Hey, Bruce,” he purrs. “Gimme a B.”
The command is punctuated by a deliberate flounce of the skirt, his hands flicking up the pleated hem to flash his bare ass in Bruce’s face, prompting a garbled, incoherent sound that makes Clark laugh and makes Bruce’s ears turn the perfect shade of Smallville High red.
“Oh, I know you can do better than that,” Clark exhorts with a wink. “Gimme an A.”
He swishes up the hem again, throwing in a little wiggle for good measure, his legs spread wide enough that Bruce can see the underside of his balls between them, along with the goldenrod stripe of at the front of the skirt being raised into an unmistakable pointed arch. At this point Bruce is wheezing for air, his throat so tight that he might as well be sucking his oxygen through a straw.
“I can’t hear you,” Clark cajoles, squeezing his knees around Bruce’s taut, aching body. “C’mon, baby, show me what you got. Gimme a T.”
This time when the curtain rises Bruce is ready for it, his paralyzed hands finally responding to his overloaded brain to spring up and grab as much of Clark’s ass as he can possibly fit in his grasp, his fingers spread wide and dug deep. A moment later and the curtain comes down again, the hem draped over Bruce’s wrists, leaving him to navigate the territory by touch alone. Clark definitely isn’t about to raise that skirt again any time soon— at the first impact of Bruce’s hands he’s rocked by a full-body shudder that leaves him crumpled forward with his own hands braced on Bruce’s hips, his locked arms the only thing keeping him from total collapse.
“God,” he clips out, high and breathless. “There we go, that’s the spirit—”
He shuffles his knees further apart on the mattress, sinking down until he’s almost sitting on Bruce’s chest before he arches the small of his back, pushing his ass insistently into Bruce’s grip. Bruce responds by pouring all of his strength into his hands, first tightening his hold to the absolute limit of his endurance before he switches to a deep, forceful massage, working the muscle so hard he can feel the effort all the way back in his shoulders.
“How’s that?” he checks, pitching his voice forward over Clark’s bowed head. “You like that?”
“Hnh, yeahhh,” Clark whines, his legs now so spread so wide that his cock rubs against Bruce’s stomach, smearing back and forth over the white t-shirt. “Ugh, baby, your hands are so strong.”
Bruce is so concentrated on the action underneath that he barely processes the bobbing motion of the skirt right in front of him, his eyes hazy and unfocused, all of his senses tuned into the palms of his hands and the pads of his fingers. Clark’s ass is fuzzier than a fresh Georgia peach, impervious to bruising yet still yielding with the same supple give when squeezed, a singular tensility that somehow manages to be both soft and firm at the same time. It’s enough to make Bruce’s mouth water, his head instinctively straining up from the pillow only to realize quickly that the angle isn’t quite right, Clark sitting just a little too far forward for Bruce to get close enough to take a bite. Undeterred, he takes his right hand out from under the skirt to jam his thumb between his lips into the waiting reservoir, drenching the digit in a thick coat of saliva before slipping it out and back under again. There he uses the fingers of both hands to spread Clark apart so he can press the slippery pad of his thumb right up against his asshole, giving it a vigorous clockwise swirl that makes Clark sit bolt upright with a strangled yelp of pleasure, his head thrown back and one hand clutched convulsively in his hair.
“Uh huh,” Bruce huffs, his mouth quirked in satisfaction. “That’s what I thought.”
He twists again, wringing out another arched, tremulous cry as Clark shoves both hands up into the thick of his curls, rocking his weight back to rub himself against Bruce’s spit-slick touch. Bruce gives him everything he’s asking for, bracing his fingers so he can scrub his thumb back and forth like he’s polishing a piece of buried treasure, all while the place he unburied it from clenches around him and the treasure itself threatens to pull him all the way in. He might not know the proper name for the Kryptonian equivalent of a prostate, but he does know one thing: Clark loves it when Bruce plays with his ass, inside and out, a discovery they made together the first time Bruce asked one very flustered farmboy if he could roll over and let him at it. Now if Clark would just move a tiny bit closer then Bruce could really get in there with the proper equipment, his tongue already impatiently sticking out between his teeth, his salivary glands still pumping shot after shot of eager lubrication into his mouth. He’s about to urge Clark to scoot backwards when Clark abruptly drops forwards instead, his hands out of sight, his intentions unknown.
The first tug on Bruce’s belt is so forceful that it lifts his hips clean off the bed. Instantly Clark settles him down again, quick and careful, the same way that someone might settle a vase that they’d almost knocked to the floor, making sure that Bruce is steady and secure before he makes another attempt. Bruce can’t see what he’s doing but he can hear the jingle of his buckle coming undone, followed by the muted pop of the button of his fly and the rush of the zipper peeling open, triggering a sigh of relief as it takes the worst of the pressure off his trapped hard-on. There’s nothing left between him and freedom now except for his boxer-briefs— then Clark gets his thumbs under the elastic waistband, joining it with its denim counterpart while Bruce plants his feet and cants up his hips, giving Clark all the clearance he needs to shove the jeans and underwear halfway down Bruce’s thighs. His cock gets tugged down with all the rest until it slips the collar, springing upright into an unsteady wobble like a cartoon drunkard before it topples over onto his belly, already so wet that Bruce can feel the smear of precum that it leaves when it touches down.
“Hah,” Bruce exhales, at the same time Clark draws in a deep breath of anticipation.
“Gorgeous,” he murmurs, then huffs in amusement when Bruce’s cock gives a heavy twitch at the compliment.
“Okay,” Bruce huffs in response, his limit officially reached. “Okay, c’mere. C’mere.”
He keeps his hands under the skirt as he slides them forward over Clark’s hips, clasping at the top of his thighs to give an insistent tug, urging Clark to scoot back along the mattress so Bruce can finally get his mouth on him. Clark yields without question, already moving back before he stops, reconsiders, then sits up on his knees instead, standing in the stirrups so he can throw a look over his shoulder and get one last hit of eye contact before the position changes. Bruce can only imagine what he must look like right now, his chest heaving and his face hot, his eyes so full of exultation that it almost feels like tears. Then he sees that he doesn’t have to imagine it at all— Clark’s expression is a perfect mirror of his own, his eyes bright and his mouth curled into a wobbly smile, his voice a sweet murmur.
Bruce offers a wobbly smile in return. “Hi.”
“I meant what I said, you know.” Clark lets his gaze linger, clearly reluctant to forego the view. “You really are the most beautiful boy in school.”
It’s a close call, but somehow Bruce is able to lightning-rod the sensation that he’s about to literally explode and redirect it into one final contribution at playing along with Clark’s game, his heart lodged so firmly in his throat that the words come out in a feeble rasp.
“Paul Waverly, eat your heart out.”
Clark tips his head back with a loud, elated “Ha!” that rebounds until it tips him all the way forward again, his hands and knees braced on either side of the mattress so he can reverse into a slow, careful shuffle along the length of Bruce’s body. He keeps his feet lifted up and out of the way while he goes, a thoughtful gesture that could backfire on him if he goes too far and ends up without enough room to let them down again. Bruce decides to help him out with a bit of complementary shuffling, wriggling down along the bed to clear a space at the headboard for Clark’s tennis shoes, with the added benefit of bringing the two of them that much closer just that much sooner. The next thing he knows the back hem of the skirt is being drawn over his upturned face, as Clark lifts one knee and then the other to pass them over Bruce’s shoulders, planting them resolutely on either side of his head. Then Bruce is alone under the red pleated canopy with only the splendor of Clark’s cock hanging above him for company.
And Bruce thinks: Hallelujah.
“C’mere, baby,” he breathes, confident that Clark can hear every whispered word. “Let’s take it to third base tonight.”
There’s a soft puff of laughter above him as Bruce gets his hands up under the red and goldenrod to take hold of Clark’s cock and guide him down into the wet heat of his mouth, making a tight sheath of his lips to push the foreskin back from the head before he opens wide to take the rest, his neck straining up as he arches hungrily towards the hilt. At the same time he feels Clark’s weight shift on top of him, angled over to brace one hand on the bed while the other takes hold of Bruce’s cock in return, aiming it straight up so that Clark just has to open his mouth and let gravity do the rest, dropping his head and taking him all the way down in one smooth, effortless motion. It’s almost enough to knock Bruce right back to the bed again, his body cracked like a whip, his hands fumbling out from under the skirt to circle up and around Clark’s haunches to hold on, hugging his face into the cradle of Clark’s hips with a determined grunt.
“Mmm,” Clark hums in answer, his mouth too full to say anything else.
It’s more than enough, his whole throat turned into a vibrator by the sound, the sensation traveling up Bruce’s length in a shockwave as Clark pulls his head back to begin bobbing it up and down, both hands now propped on the bed while his mouth does all the work. Bruce goes to work too, his neck rocking back and forth while his arms pump up and down, using Clark’s hips as a pull-up bar to maximize the depth and duration of every thrust, pushing himself to get his nose right up under Clark’s balls each time. There’s a staggering, salacious thrill to doing all of this under the cover of the skirt— like draping a napkin over his head to eat an ortolan. God, all he can see is red.
He’s not the only one getting into the spirit of things. There’s another seismic shift in weight as Clark slumps forward onto one elbow, his free hand going to the base of Bruce’s cock to hold it steady while he draws up to focus his attention on the head, fastening his lips around it so he can lave at the tip with his able, artful tongue. It’s only a matter of strokes before Bruce’s swift, steady tempo crumbles into disarray, the pumping motion of his neck reduced to an erratic wobble, his breath coming in clumsy gasps as he tries to keep going even while Clark takes him apart. If it weren’t for the anchor of his grip on Clark’s rump he’d be flat on his back by now, his spine turned to jelly and his legs once again intuitively compelled to fall back and open wide under Clark’s touch— which, considering he still has his jeans snared around his thighs, isn’t nearly as wide as he would like it to be.
Clark definitely seems to be in agreement with him on that count. Bruce can feel one hand trying to wriggle down into the cramped space between his legs, fingertips petting and stroking at his balls without quite being able to grab a proper handful. It only makes Bruce struggle even harder to accommodate him, his thighs jolting against their restraints, his hips bouncing and the empty belt buckle jangling with every attempt. There’s an answering tug at the jeans themselves, Clark trying to rearrange the tangle to grant him even just a fraction more space to maneuver. Although Bruce would have said only a moment ago that there was no force on heaven or earth that could induce him to take his mouth off of Clark’s cock before he was finished, he decides now to make one crucial exception, dipping his head back to release Clark with a wet pop of suction.
“Rip it,” he wheezes, jerking his thighs against the denim for emphasis. “Just rip it.”
He gives a ragged hiss of disappointment when Clark takes his mouth off of him to answer, his voice rough and husky.
“Not a chance,” he demurs. “These jeans look way too good on you.”
Instead he stretches out like a puppy asking for play, his ass in the air and his chest pressed down over Bruce’s belly, his arms craning ahead to jam the muddle of clothes past Bruce’s knees and down towards his ankles, where the whole mess gets caught in a chokepoint at the barrier of his sneakers. Instantly Bruce draws his feet up along the bed, his naked legs falling open in a splayed butterfly stretch, his shoes pressed together and his knees as far apart as they can get. He’s so focused on the utilitarian aspect of providing access that it doesn’t even occur to him that he’s made a spectacle of himself in the process, not until Clark groans and says “oh my god,” his weight once again braced over one hand so the other can reach down to skim one reverent palm along the span of Bruce’s bare inner thighs. Bruce can’t stop his shiver in response— sometimes he forgets that he’s not the only one in this relationship who likes to enjoy the view.
He lets Clark look for as long as he can stand it, holding out until a combination of flustered embarrassment and sheer urgent need make it impossible for him to take any more. Then Bruce fumbles one hand under the skirt to steer Clark back into his mouth again, prompting him with a decisive lick that resonates like a touch of heels against his sides, spurring Clark out of his reverie with a jolt that runs through his whole body and makes his cock jump against Bruce’s tongue. In the next breath Clark dives down to plant his elbows on the bed, hugging them close against Bruce’s hips so he can curl his arms up under his thighs, reaching from below to angle Bruce’s cock into his mouth in return. Once that’s done he lets one hand slide back down to cradle Bruce’s balls, the other now free to roam at will in the space between Bruce’s open legs. Bruce manages to get both hands back up over Clark’s hips for leverage, resolved to hold up his end for as long as humanly possible. He has a strong suspicion that isn’t going to be very long at all.
Right away Clark sets in at a swift, agile pace, his head nodding between Bruce’s legs with enough force to echo all the way back into his hips, the twitches small at first but getting stronger with every rebound until Clark is actively thrusting into Bruce’s mouth. The motion is still shallow enough for Bruce to control the full depth of every stroke, which, as far as Bruce is concerned, can never be deep enough. He pulls himself up to meet every approach with all the answering force he can muster, his arms already starting to shake as he strives to match Clark’s vigorous tempo. Down between his legs he can feel Clark tugging and fondling his balls in a counterpoint rhythm to his bobbing head, the one hand a fixed point of contact while the other runs wild, stroking at every part of Bruce’s thighs and belly and ass that he can reach, bound and determined not to leave a single inch untouched or unloved.
Bruce wishes he could let his hands roam in reciprocation, but at this point he can barely manage to keep them clasped at Clark’s hips as his arms inexorably go slack, his head and shoulders sinking down to the bed, too discombobulated to hold them up any longer. All he can do now is lie back and stare up at the skirt bouncing over his face, his jaw working sloppily around the back and forth motion of Clark’s cock, his mind so overwhelmed that he’s barely able to process the signs of his own orgasm bearing down on him. Fortunately Clark is paying much closer attention, throwing himself into one last burst of effort before he suddenly rocks to a halt, his hips going still and his mouth drawn back to once again seal his lips around the head of Bruce’s cock and hold on.
A heartbeat later and Bruce comes, his balls jerking in Clark’s hand and his cock pulsing in his mouth, throb after throb while Clark squeezes and coaxes every last drop out of him. With his own mouth still resolutely fastened onto his prize, any cry of release that Bruce might have made is reduced to a series of stifled grunts, his nose snorting for air and his chin streaked with drool. There’s an unusual warmth around the head of his cock that he can’t quite place— then Bruce realizes that Clark is letting the cum fill up in his mouth, saving as much as he can and waiting for the last faint pulse before he finally gulps it all down in one huge, messy swallow so loud and so obscene that Bruce could swear he actually hears it rolling down the length of his throat. The sound makes Bruce moan with envy, his hands tugging feebly at Clark’s hips, already begging him to start moving again before his own aftershocks have even passed. There’s a noisy slurp as Clark pulls his mouth off of him, his voice a hoarse rumble.
“You ready, baby? You want all of it?”
Bruce whines in affirmation, the sound climbing in pitch as Clark once again spreads his knees apart on the bed, sinking back and tilting Bruce’s head all the way over until he’s looking at the headboard upside down. It’s the exact angle needed to open up his throat into a straight channel, his jaw stretched wide and his hands dropped to his sides to clutch at the blankets beneath him in delirious anticipation. Then Clark starts fucking Bruce’s mouth in earnest, his hips pumping hard and deep, one arm braced on the bed and the other hooked around Bruce’s thigh for leverage. Gone are the days when he used to hold back and meter out his strength in careful doses— now not only does he know exactly how much Bruce can take, but he also knows that he won’t be satisfied with anything less. When Bruce looks back at the headboard, he can see the hem of the skirt flapping at the bottom of his inverted field of vision like a flag in a gale force wind.
“Ah, god—” Clark pants above him. “Bruce— Bruce—”
It isn’t long before Bruce loses sight of the skirt, the headboard, and everything else, his eyes rolling completely back in his skull while Clark humps his face with all the desperation of a horny teenager. The bed frame gives another ominous creak under the onslaught, but it doesn’t even put a dent in Clark’s stride. He just keeps hammering away in a final sprint, his hips snapping and his arm tightening around Bruce’s thigh, pulling himself balls-deep on every thrust.
“Okay—” he says at last, clipped and gasping. “Okay, deep breath— deep breath—”
He withdraws just enough for Bruce to suck in a lungful of oxygen through his nose. Then Clark buries himself to the hilt and comes hard, his cock so far down Bruce’s throat that he won’t even have to swallow when it’s over; Clark is shooting his load directly into his guts, pumping him full while Bruce heaves and bucks underneath him, his sneakers jerking feverishly in the tangle of his jeans. He can hear an ominous creak of his own in the agonizing arch of his neck, his eyes leaking tears and his fists seizing at the blankets as he chokes and gurgles through the barrage, his body strained to the breaking point to take everything from Clark that he can possibly get. He’ll hold on until he passes out if Clark lets him— and sometimes Clark does.
But not this time. This time Clark brings him right to the brink, Bruce’s vision just beginning to explode with stars before his blocked airway suddenly opens in a rush, the fullness of Clark’s cock abruptly replaced by a convulsive surge of oxygen that sends Bruce plummeting back to his senses like a space shuttle on splashdown. Without Clark to hold it open his empty throat rebounds like a rubber band, his neck released from its painful arch to let his exhausted head fall back against the bed in a breathless, reeling daze. He looks up just in time to see Clark lifting one knee for the dismount, pivoting his weight towards the edge of the bed in a motion that sweeps the skirt off of Bruce’s face with a magician’s flourish, instantly flooding him with a wave of cool, fresh air. Bruce blinks up at the ceiling like it’s the first time he’s ever seen the sky. Over in the corner, the outdated model of the solar system has never looked more celestial or sublime, nine perfect plastic planets around one precious yellow sun.
The mattress squeaks and shifts as Clark turns to crawl up along Bruce’s side, looking down at him from his hands and knees with a flushed, affectionate smile. Bruce can feel that his t-shirt is soaked and sticking to him at the collar and armpits, his forehead plastered with sweaty hair while everything between his nose and chin is completely glazed in drool. He reaches up to scrub the back of his wrist against his swollen lips, his voice coming out in a feeble chuckle.
“Okay,” he croaks. “Now I feel like dynamite.”
Clark laughs, his face radiant with contentment. “Go Crows.”
Light as a feather, he leans in to brush a gentle kiss against Bruce’s aching mouth, a whisper of breath passed between them before Clark ducks down to settle his head against Bruce’s chest, snuggling in while Bruce drapes an exhausted arm around his shoulders to hold him close. He noses at the sweet dark curls while Clark reaches across his belly to find Bruce’s other hand and twine their fingers together, his ear pressed against the damp white t-shirt so he can check in on Bruce’s heartbeat the old-fashioned way. It’s still coming down from a gallop, easing into a canter and finally a trot while Clark listens and Bruce catches his breath in cozy, comfortable silence— so comfortable, in fact, that Bruce completely loses track of the time.
It’s been a long while since he let it get away from him like that. In fact, he doesn’t think it’s happened since he was a teenager.
Bruce doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know if anything he says could ever be enough. Then Clark stirs at his side, his thumb rubbing absently at Bruce’s palm between their joined hands, his voice a teasing murmur.
“I still can’t believe you’ve never seen Titanic.” He shakes his head in bemusement against Bruce’s chest. “It’s a classic.”
Bruce chuckles and offers an apologetic shrug.“1998— that was, uh, kind of a busy year for me.”
Clark gives a hum of acknowledgment, using the shrug as an excuse to shift his weight and snuggle closer. “Well, I guess this just means I get to be there for your very first viewing.”
“I guess so.” Bruce ducks his head to press a kiss into the tousled hair. “Still think it’s gonna make you cry?”
The fervent sigh says it all even before Clark confirms it. “Oh, it’s definitely gonna make me cry.”
“I’ll bring the kleenex.”
With a satisfied sigh, Clark shifts his weight again, drawing one leg up to sling it into the space between Bruce’s, settling himself comfortably over Bruce’s hip while the skirt drapes across to cover them both in a spill of bright red pleats. The craftsmanship on the whole ensemble really is quite impressive— Bruce lets his hand wander along Clark’s shoulder until he finds the hem of one armhole, his fingertips grazing back and forth over the crisp, clean edge. Up in the corner of the ceiling, the tiny plastic image of Pluto is still holding on at the outskirts of the solar system, safe in the refuge of a simpler time.
“Thank you,” Bruce murmurs, quiet. “For this.”
He can feel Clark smiling against his chest, the grip on their entwined fingers going tight.
“You’re welcome,” Clark murmurs back. “But, uh, I have to tell you... my motives weren’t entirely selfless.”
Eyebrows raised, Bruce turns to look down at the curly head. “Oh, really?”
“Mmm hmm.” Clark turns to look up at him with an impish smirk. “I always wanted to be a cheerleader.”
Bruce huffs out a laugh. “Of course you did.” He gives Clark a squeeze around the shoulders. “And now look at you— you’re the hottest cheerleader in school.”
Just as he’d hoped, it makes Clark laugh, too, both of them leaning in for a kiss that ends with their mouths set in a pair of matching smiles. Then Bruce’s expression turns serious, his tone solemn.
“I just have one thing I need to ask you, Clark. It’s important.”
Clark’s smile fades, a slight furrow of concern appearing in his brow. “What is it?”
Bruce takes a moment to lower his gaze for dramatic effect, then raises it to meet Clark’s with a bashful grin.
“Will you go to prom with me?”
Between the dazzling burst of laughter and the giddy enthusiasm of the subsequent kiss, Bruce is going to go ahead and take that as a yes.