Work Text:
Bruce must have thought he was stupid.
Sure, there were times where Clark’s intellect failed him. He couldn’t help that the portion of his mind responsible for remembering simple things also happened to be the part that was in charge of remembering the important things.
Yet no matter how many times Clark recalled Bruce’s blood type or his favourite ice-cream flavour, Bruce would never fail to bring up the time Clark told him the time was nineteen o’clock.
Horrifyingly misread watches aside; Clark wasn’t an idiot and he definitely wasn’t falling for whatever fresh bullshit Bruce was trying to pull tonight.
Most nights he slept through till morning. On occasion he’d wake but that was usually because Bruce stole the blankets and would kick Clark’s shin should he even attempt to wrangle them back. On this night however, Bruce wasn’t beside him and what had awoken him instead was the sound of scraping metal and the moment Clark heard it, he knew he couldn’t just go back to sleep.
Clark sat up, taking a deep breath as he did. He slid off the bed and let his hand run over the patch where Bruce had been. It wasn't even warm anymore, meaning whatever bullshit he was hearing has most likely been happening for a while.
He opened the bedroom door and after a quick walk down the corridor he found Bruce crouched in the kitchen, torch in hand as he worked.
“Bruce.” Clark said, causing the flashlight in Bruce’s hand to stutter. “The Hell do you think you’re doing?”
As Bruce turned to face him Clark marvelled at his poker face. It was something Clark often wondered how long it took to perfect. Bruce could be caught doing literally anything and no matter what, his veneer wouldn’t chip in the slightest and this was yet again another display of that surreal phenomenon.
“I’m fixing your oven.” Bruce said easily, as he stood up, turning the flashlight off as he did.
Clark looked at the oven. “The thing is Bruce, that isn’t my oven.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Yeah, my oven is white, has a big ole grease stain on the front window and a yellowed handle.” Clark slowly approached him. “This oven on the other hand, is stainless steel and…” Clark bent down, taking the oven door handle in his hand and yanking it open. “Oh, would you look at that, it hasn’t even been used.”
“I cleaned it, too.”
Clark took a deep breath. “Bruce .”
“What ? Are you saying I can’t fix and clean my boyfriend's oven in the dead of night without it being because of some ulterior motive?”
“Yes, that's exactly what I am saying.”
Bruce shrugged. “Well, that’s where you’re wrong because that’s exactly what I was doing.”
Clark levelled Bruce's stare and once more was greeted by that unerring, stoic expression. Clark however wasn’t going to let this slide. Not when this was the first time he finally caught Bruce in the act. He took a few steps back out of the kitchen doorway and once he was by the front door he opened it. “Then would you care to explain to me why my old oven is right here?”
In the corridor outside his apartment sat his oven, in all its discoloured glory. Its door was partially open as though waving to Clark in mutual acknowledgement.
When he turned to face Bruce, he didn’t display a single shred of shame as he spoke. “That isn’t your oven.”
“Bruce, for the love of God.” Clark muttered before shutting his door once more and returning through the kitchen doorway. “Just admit you brought me a new oven. Just like you brought me a new fridge, a new coffee maker, and a new shower head.”
Bruce frowned. “I didn’t do anything to your shower head.”
“Really? ‘cause the water pressure has been a lot better since you ‘repaired ’ it.”
Bruce rolled his eyes. “I can’t fix the water pressure by just buying you a new shower head. I had to buy your apartment complex for that, Clark.”
Clark stared at Bruce and eventually Bruce's haughty expression fell. “Oh.”
“I knew it.'' Clark muttered. “Is that why my rent has been lowered? Why I never seem to run out of hot water anymore? Because you’re my new landlord?” Bruce’s frown remained and as the silence ticked on, Clark let out a harsh sigh. “Bruce .”
“Hold on.” Bruce said. “I'm just thinking of a good lie.”
Clark sent him a withering stare. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “I told you I didn't want you treating me any differently now that we’re together and what do you end up doing? You try and turn my apartment into a luxury high-rise.”
Bruce made a face. “I wouldn’t exactly call it luxury.”
“It’s more than what I had to begin with, Bruce.'' Clark shot back. “I told you. I don’t mind my cheap appliances, or bad water pressure.”
“Well I do .” Bruce replied. “I didn’t do this entirely for you, Clark, I did it because if I had to make dinner using that thing you called an stove one more time, I was going to throw it out the window.”
“It wasn’t that bad, B.”
Bruce raised a brow. “You had to put a piece of duct tape over the front to keep it shut whilst it was on.”
“It gave it character.”
Bruce rolled his eyes. “Oh, of course, I forgot that kitchen appliances needed to have character instead of serving their actual purpose.”
“You're being sarcastic, but that’s why I like my apartment. Take that novelty bottle opener, Bruce.'' Clark said, gesturing to where it was on the counter. It was a small luchador, whose arms acted as the lever. “It can barely open a bottle but that doesn't matter to me because I like it. Because it's different. Because it has character.” Bruce turned to the opener, as though it too was on the verge of being replaced only for Clark to frown. “You replace him, I will leave you.”
That at least had the intended effect as Bruce's withering stare, softened. “I only do it to the really old stuff...”
“Yeah but Bruce, sometimes the old stuff is still good. Like my mattress, it’s old but it still--”
But Clark cut himself off as Bruce's lips pressed together and his eyes darted to the wall beside him. Clark’s expression grew thoughtful and realization slowly dawned on him. “Last month… it wasn’t just the fabric softener you used. You got me a whole new mattress!”
“In all fairness, I didn't think you’d actually believe me when I told you that. Even the best fabric softener doesn’t magically push mattress springs back into place overnight.”
Clark however was still trying to process the information. “I just… I was in the bed. How did you even do it without waking me?”
“You remember how you said your tea tasted a little strange that night?”
Clark’s lip quirked downward. “Yeah?”
“That’s how.”
“Bruce, I swear to God…”
“Okay, but didn’t you say ever since I started using the new ‘fabric softener’ that you’ve been sleeping better?”
Clark let out a long sigh. “I did.”
“And didn’t you also say now that the showers water pressure isn’t terrible, your back doesn't ache as badly?”
Clark let out an even longer sigh. “I did.”
“So, what I am hearing is…” Bruce trailed off, with a slight smile. “You like my ‘repairs’.”
Clark scowled. “I hate you.”
“Oh, is Mr. ‘it has character ’ annoyed that sometimes ‘new’ and ‘expensive’ is better than ‘old’ and ‘dilapidated’?”
“Why have you got to be such a smart ass about it?” Clark muttered.
“Because you were the one who gave me the three hour lecture when I wanted to replace your threadbare towels. ‘They still work just fine’ you said ‘don’t buy new ones it’s a waste of money’. If you had responded like a normal person might have done with a ‘yes that sounds good’ and a ‘actually Bruce now that you mention it, there are a lot of things in my apartment that need to be replaced’, I wouldn’t have had to drug you so much to bring your apartment into the twenty first century.”
“How many times have you drugged me exactly?”
Bruce waved his hand. “That’s not important, the important part is that everything is now out in the open.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “And I will say I feel a lot better for it.”
Clark’s expression didn’t shift. “And you think I'm just going to let you get away with this?”
“Get away with what?'' Bruce asked, feigning innocence.
“Bruce you drugged me, replaced half of my apartment, and to top it all off became my landlord. You have to admit, this is a lot, even for you.”
Bruce made a face.
Clark rolled his eyes. “Okay, so maybe this is par for the course for you, but by any normal person's standards, this is a lot.”
“Which is why…'' Bruce said, bringing his hands together. “I have a surprise for you. To make up for all the repairs.”
“And the drugging?”
“And the drugging.”
Clark crossed his arms. “What is it?”
Bruce turned around and after opening a cabinet, he pulled a box out from the back and held it up to Clark. “Ta da.”
Clark frowned at it. “What is it?”
“Character.”
Clark peered into the shoe box Bruce was holding and as his eyes trailed over its contents his mouth fall open. “Is this…?”
“I made sure to keep a memento from everything I ‘repaired’. The piece of duct tape from the oven, the portafilter from your coffee maker, and broken ice cube tray from your fridge freezer, spring from the mattress.” Bruce stepped closer, a small smile on his lips. “I know you like to be sentimental and I figured when you inevitably found out what I was doing you were going to be upset, so I decided to be one step ahead.”
Clark pressed his lips together as he examined all the pieces in the box. He took a deep breath and told himself he was not going to cry. Because fuck giving Bruce that satisfaction. He was however unable to prevent the hitch in his voice when he spoke. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Bruce said, setting the box down on the side. “Now, are you still mad at me?”
Clark let out a huff of a laugh. “The box helped, but I'm still mad, yeah.”
“Well, I can't have that now, can I?” Bruce said, pulling in close. He brought his hands up to Clark’s chest and rested them there. “Tell me Clark, what would make you forgive me?”
Clark’s lip curled upward as he reached for Bruce's ass, taking it firmly in his hands. “I can think of a few things…” he murmured, brushing his lips against Bruce's ear.
“Oh?”
“Yeah..." His bit the shell of Bruce's ear. "I want you to make me a grilled cheese.”
Almost immediately, Bruce pulled away from him in disgust. “Really? I brought a new table for us to fuck on and all you can think about is food?”
“You replaced the table, too?” Clark asked, turning to look down at the small kitchen table. He crouched and looked at the legs before noticing they were indeed a different colour than his old ones and a different shape. In fact, this table was nothing like his old one.
Maybe he wasn't as observant as he thought.
“Jesus, Bruce. Just how much of my apartment have you replaced?”
“That’s not important, what is important is that this table can take both our weights and rather than test that out, you want to eat.”
“Hey, I'm hungry.” Clark said, standing back up straight with a shrug. “In case you forgot, you also got me a new stove, and I wanted you to test that out instead.”
Bruce raised a brow. “You seriously want me to make you a grilled cheese?”
“Yeah.” Clark grinned.
Bruce stared him down, though as he did, he opened the cabinet and pulled out the frying pan.
Usually when Bruce cooked, he had an air of elegance about him. He always moved with practiced ease, chopped with expert precision, and not once in all time they had been together had Clark ever seen Bruce rush because something was boiling over, or because something was about to burn. No, Bruce was always in control in the kitchen and oftentimes Clark found himself watching the display in awe, knowing that if he was to try and replicate it something was going to break or burn or explode.
That was probably why Clark was watching with such rapt attention this time around. Bruce wasn’t so much as gliding through the kitchen as trudging, throwing cheese onto two slices of bread instead of placing them, slamming the bread together instead of carefully ensuring the corners were lined up. He was trying to act as though he didn’t care, to make Clark a subpar sandwich due to Clark’s subpar apology request.
The issue was, Bruce was pausing after every step, his hand was twitching with each movement. His body was fighting him, as though every fibre of his being wasn’t so much as telling as screaming at him to stop.
To say Bruce was a perfectionist was an understatement and Clark knew that what he was doing was akin to shoving a knife into his hand for how much it pained him.
“You don’t usually want late night sex.” Clark said conversationally as he leant on the edge of the table. It did indeed hold his weight. “When I've tried in the past, you end up hitting me with your pillow.”
“Because I'm usually tired.” Bruce said, as he haphazardly flipped over the grilled cheese. The bread was on the burnt side of brown and Bruce's eye twitched. Clark’s smile grew.
Clark nodded. “So you're not tired right now?”
“No.”
“Interesting.”
Bruce remained quiet and when he slid the sandwich onto the plate and passed it to Clark, he looked down at it. The cheese was spilling out over the edge and whilst the middle was overly brown slash black, the crust was pale.
Clark made a face. “Wow. This looks terrible.”
“Just eat it.”
Clark reached for it, and after lifting the sandwich up he exclaimed it further, making quiet tuts as he did. He then brought it to his lips and took a bite. It was good, but Clark was never a stern critic.
He also hadn’t finished having fun.
“Bland, burnt and too salty.” He set it down on the plate and shook his head. “Maybe you’re losing your edge.”
Bruce pressed his lips together. “I wasn’t trying.”
“Yeah, but usually, even when you don’t try, your cooking is great. But recently? I didn’t want to tell you, but the chicken soup you made yesterday was a little bland.”
Clark fought back a smile as Bruce's jaw clenched. He wondered how far he could push it, but Bruce quickly answered that for him. “I’ll make another.” He whispered.
“No, no. Bruce.” But Bruce was already back at the counter, this time taking the time to find two slices of bread that were the exact same size. “I was just having a little fun, the sandwich was great.”
“No it wasn’t, it didn’t have the right ratio of cheeses, I didn’t butter the bread evenly, and--”
Clark grabbed Bruce's arm and spun him around. “If I fuck you into the kitchen table will you stop thinking about grilled cheese?”
Bruce pressed his lips together. “Maybe.”
“Okay, then how about this? I'll fuck you into the kitchen table, then you’ll make me the most perfect grilled cheese to ever grace this planet and finally we'll burn the terrible one and pretend it never existed.”
Bruce eyes turned glassy. “That would be perfect.”
“Great.” Clark said, lifting Bruce up with ease and setting him on the edge of the table. “Now, what did you have in mind when you were imaging us on the table?”
“I have to be honest, Clark. It was mostly just you fucking me into the table.”
“I can work with that.” Clark said as he stood up and looked around. “You hide any lube in here when you were replacing everything?”
Bruce raised a brow. “Why would I hide lubricate in the kitchen?”
“Because you’re you?”
Bruce smirked. “Lower cabinet, near the back.”
Clark turned and went to the cabinet, after opening it and moving aside a few errant cans of soup, he found the bottle of lubricant in all its glory. He smiled as he returned to Bruce. “I love how weird you are.”
“It’s not weird to be prepared.”
“Yeah Bruce, that wasn’t only ‘weirdness’ I was referring to.”
“How else am I weird?” Bruce asked, with painful earnestness.
Clark didn’t respond. “Lift up your legs.”
Bruce did as asked and lifted his legs up, allowing Clark to slip off the pair of briefs he wore. His cock sprang to attention and if Clark wasn’t already hard, the sight of Bruce alone would have done it. “You’re too attractive.”
“I’ll try to be more ugly in the future.”
“I mean it.'' Clark said, opening the bottle of lube and pouring some onto his fingers. “You just always look--” he gestured at Bruce before bringing his hand down to his ass.
“I’m sure that gesture meant something very profound.” Bruce said, a sigh of a moan escaping him as Clark slid a finger in and began to glide it back and forth.
“It did actually.” Clark said, with a slight huff. “It meant ‘every time I see you naked I just want to stick my cock in you’.”
“I should think about becoming a nudist, then.”
“My dick would be permanently in you, Bruce.”
“You say that like it's a bad thing.”
“But think about the chaffing.”
“Oh, but I am.”
Clark smirked, his hand twisting as he did. “You always did like a bit of friction .”
“I much prefer dick-tion .”
Clark paused, his hand going slack. “That was awful.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“It really was.”
“So when you make puns you're witty, but when I make them it’s a crime against comedy?”
“Hey, my puns are next level. Don’t be jealous ‘cause you can’t compete.”
“Clark, you said ‘bowl appetit’ when I served the soup yesterday.”
“And it will go down as the best pun I’ve ever made.”
“And it will also go down as the moment I wondered how easy it would be to kill you with a soup ladle.”
Clark huffed at that, though that was all he offered in response as his attention was currently being drawn away from Bruce's words, down to his body, to the plains of his stomach and the the arch of his cock. Clark brought his hand away and after wiping the remainder of the lubricant on his cock, he grabbed Bruce's thighs and gripped them to the point that he knew it began to sting.
Bruce however didn’t object, didn’t try to say anything else as he looked up at Clark, his lip now firmly between his lips. It was a dance they had done plenty of times by now, and Clark was very familiar with it. Bruce would attempt to remain somewhat quiet given their location and Clark would do everything in his power to stop him.
He slid in and almost immediately Bruce shuddered, his lip going white from the sudden pressure from his teeth. He let a shaky breath out through his nose and Clark darted forward, his lips finding Bruce’s as he pushed himself in fully. For a moment, he remained there, feeling Bruce clench around him. He was aware Bruce wanted him to move, but Clark simply pulled back and looked down at Bruce as he laid flat against the table, his arms now up by his face, obscuring it.
Clark however wasn’t going to allow that, and slid his hands from Bruce’s thighs up to his forearms. He took one in each hand and brought them up over Bruce’s head, pinning him in place. “You're so red.” Clark whispered as he kissed Bruce on the flushed skin of his cheek.
“It’s warm in here.” Bruce said indignantly.
“It really isn’t.”
But before Bruce could respond, Clark pulled back and slid back in, causing the words that were going to be said to simply stall in Bruce's mouth and turn into a gasp. Clark grinned at the sound. “What was that Bruce, I didn't quite catch that?”
Bruce frowned, and didn’t attempt to respond as Clark resumed his thrusting. With each push, Bruce's mouth went more slack, his breathing grew more rapid. The gasps though, were still soft, the moans minimal. Whilst Clark was somewhat appreciative of Bruce being quiet when they were at his apartment, a small part of himself relished getting Bruce to be vocal here. Saw it as a challenge. To watch Bruce lose control utterly and completely was simply to alluring of a prospect. Sure it meant judgemental looks from his neighbours the following day, but it also meant seeing Bruce at his most vulnerable, his most beautiful, and Clark wasn’t going to miss that for the world.
He twisted his torso by a fraction of an inch and the effect was near instantaneous, with the first moan to leave Bruce’s lips in its entirety, not blocked by bitten lips or clenched teeth and Clark knew once the first was out the rest would follow easily.
As Clark continued to thrust, Bruce's head lolled back and he moaned. “Fuck, Clark, please--”
Of course Bruce's attractiveness didn't stop at his outward appearance. His voice was just as beautiful, and upon hearing those words, so primal it was as though they had been ripped from his very core, Clark found himself joining the cacophony, arching into Bruce and crying out despite the paper thin walls and nosey neighbours. He was fucking the landlord, his neighbours could shove it for all he cared.
As Bruce came, Clark followed shortly after, pumping into Bruce with quick bursts that culminated in him slumping over his panting form.
Bruce’s arms snaked around Clark’s shoulders, holding him close as he pressed a tender kiss against Clark's sweat coated temple. Clark never admitted it, but Bruce’s tenderness post sex was really the highlight of the whole affair. Seeing Bruce so unabashedly gentle made Clark want to greedily hoard these moments; to allow himself to be swallowed by the feeling that was Bruce stroking his hair and murmuring sweet nothings against his skin. These moments however, wouldn’t last long. Even if Clark wished he could stop time and relish it a little longer.
Bruce tried to sit up and Clark got the hint and pulled back, pulling out from Bruce as he did. The man groaned as he sat up rubbing his ass all the while. “I should have gotten a softer table.”
“I feel like a soft table would negate the whole point of having a table.” Clark replied.
“They should invent something flat and soft to have sex on, then.”
“They have. It's called a bed, Bruce.”
Bruce paused, his face growing thoughtful. “I think I'm more tired than I first realized.”
“Yeah, you don’t say…” Clark murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. “Now come on sleepy head. Bed time.”
“For you maybe, I have to go wash myself before my ass cheeks stick together.”
“What a lovely mental image.”
“I do aim to please.” Bruce smirked.
In the end Clark went to bed alone and fell unconscious the moment his face hit the pillow. He thought he would wake when Bruce slipped in beside him, but he didn't.
Instead he awoke the next morning and saw that where Bruce should have been, there was instead a plate holding the most perfect grilled cheese sandwich imaginable. Clark took a bite, and despite the now cooled cheese and slightly soggy bread he could safely state that it was also the most perfect tasting grilled cheese imaginable.