If it's a trust fall, Bruce catches him. The hand between Clark's legs shifts up, splaying his palm over the inside of his thigh, around the gentle dip where it meets his ass, skimming higher and forward to take hold of his hipbone. He is human, far from Kryptonian, but these are hands and arms that fly, building to building. Holding Clark up, giving him something to pull against or push back into, is easy. His thumb rubs a comforting circle.
"Yes."
Of course, sweetheart. He doesn't say that. Frequently, Bruce does not say that, but almost does; a specific word assigned to Clark in his head. The first time he almost said it, the other man had inhaled a barrel of fatal neurotoxin and stumbled through Gotham like a sixteen-year-old after his first margarita. Something in him clenches, seizes. It's too bad Clark can't hear his heart.
(Un)speaking of,
"Only I can hear you, up here."
It's just them. Their own private world, with expensive sound-proof walls, locks, security cameras, and a Do Not Disturb protocol that would only be broken by an emergency page from Alfred. Dryly joking about his socioeconomic authority, Bruce had said once, No one opens a door I've shut. And that is especially true here. Clark can say, shout, anything. Only Bruce will ever hear it. And it's all safe in his head.
Crack. Without warning, another one. Then again. He gives the same initial spot a hard strike, but then moves, painting his ass and the tops of his thighs with a reddening bloom.
no subject
"Yes."
Of course, sweetheart. He doesn't say that. Frequently, Bruce does not say that, but almost does; a specific word assigned to Clark in his head. The first time he almost said it, the other man had inhaled a barrel of fatal neurotoxin and stumbled through Gotham like a sixteen-year-old after his first margarita. Something in him clenches, seizes. It's too bad Clark can't hear his heart.
(Un)speaking of,
"Only I can hear you, up here."
It's just them. Their own private world, with expensive sound-proof walls, locks, security cameras, and a Do Not Disturb protocol that would only be broken by an emergency page from Alfred. Dryly joking about his socioeconomic authority, Bruce had said once, No one opens a door I've shut. And that is especially true here. Clark can say, shout, anything. Only Bruce will ever hear it. And it's all safe in his head.
Crack. Without warning, another one. Then again. He gives the same initial spot a hard strike, but then moves, painting his ass and the tops of his thighs with a reddening bloom.