As if ending it early, earlier, would unmake something, or at least that's how Clark had felt when he'd suggested going back to bed to rest. He thought he wanted to sleep, and he did, but instead found himself waiting for Bruce to sleep, and while he waited he mapped out bruises with his fingers, his mouth, intimate and a little like his suggestion to rest had been bullshit, but some of these little marks he barely remembers laying down.
But that was all. Tenderness, rest, dreamless sleep. He hadn't said I love you out loud, or really formed the words in his mind, but the sentiment itself felt like a warm room on a cold day, and all he has to do is step into it and stay there.
Which he does. He goes back to it all the time.
Here, in this room, there's a window open that lets inside of it the wind off the ocean, and the faint snatches of a livelier world beyond. Clark can ignore this, and prefers to, because it always sounds too busy on the ground. If he's going to listen to the world, he prefers to fly up, to hover beyond the shell of its atmosphere and play satellite in the deep silence of space. You know, normal Superman things.
Here, he blocks that out. He listens to Bruce's breathing and its little hitches and stops and starts. He also sucks his dick until he comes, determined to draw out every little reaction, macro and micro, for his own satisfaction. (And Bruce's, just. Differently.) His own want burns and cinders and simmers all the while and that's fine.
It'd probably be better for them both is if all they wanted was the white hot moments, and gee does he want those too. But it'd be simpler if Clark did not lean into the anticipatory before, and rest in the after, slow to dim, and seek out both just as greedily.
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As if ending it early, earlier, would unmake something, or at least that's how Clark had felt when he'd suggested going back to bed to rest. He thought he wanted to sleep, and he did, but instead found himself waiting for Bruce to sleep, and while he waited he mapped out bruises with his fingers, his mouth, intimate and a little like his suggestion to rest had been bullshit, but some of these little marks he barely remembers laying down.
But that was all. Tenderness, rest, dreamless sleep. He hadn't said I love you out loud, or really formed the words in his mind, but the sentiment itself felt like a warm room on a cold day, and all he has to do is step into it and stay there.
Which he does. He goes back to it all the time.
Here, in this room, there's a window open that lets inside of it the wind off the ocean, and the faint snatches of a livelier world beyond. Clark can ignore this, and prefers to, because it always sounds too busy on the ground. If he's going to listen to the world, he prefers to fly up, to hover beyond the shell of its atmosphere and play satellite in the deep silence of space. You know, normal Superman things.
Here, he blocks that out. He listens to Bruce's breathing and its little hitches and stops and starts. He also sucks his dick until he comes, determined to draw out every little reaction, macro and micro, for his own satisfaction. (And Bruce's, just. Differently.) His own want burns and cinders and simmers all the while and that's fine.
It'd probably be better for them both is if all they wanted was the white hot moments, and gee does he want those too. But it'd be simpler if Clark did not lean into the anticipatory before, and rest in the after, slow to dim, and seek out both just as greedily.