solarcore: (7)

[personal profile] solarcore 2021-01-05 12:36 pm (UTC)(link)
Clark smiles, but it a subtle variant that manifests more around his eyes. Not surprised in the way Bruce is describing, but close, maybe. "That's sweet," he says, too sincere to be only making fun, if not immune to the fact it's also a call out. He likes the things Bruce's notices. Takes note of.

His arm curls around Bruce's leg, finding a grip beneath his thigh, and with a gentle tug—inasmuch as inevitable strength can be gentle—he pulls Bruce further down the bed by a few inches, as though that were easier and more convenient to do than for him to reposition his sprawl.

Stroking ceases, replaced with a hold and opened-mouth kissing, eyes half-closed, in search of those sensitive spots that elicit response, both voluntary and not. Patient. His own erection he can press into the mattress with the subtle shift of his hips and barely relieve some of the building ache, and he doesn't mind that at all.

He gives a contented hum against sensitive skin the next rake through of Bruce's fingers. What time is it again. What timezone, even. Who knows.
Edited 2021-01-05 12:41 (UTC)
solarcore: (#14572971)

[personal profile] solarcore 2021-01-07 03:41 am (UTC)(link)
The lock he has around Bruce's thigh is almost so casual as to be negligent, and yet as unmoving as set concrete. In reality, nothing is truly negligent, Clark keenly aware of everything, including what he's doing, a thought behind each touch, each point of contact, happy to soak each little detail at his own leisure.

The baritone sigh out of Bruce stirs him, enough that Clark almost echoes it. Pulls Bruce's cock into his mouth, shallow again, and then deeper, sustained teasing and testing traded in for something firmer.

(The tug to his hair doesn't net a reaction, not an obvious one. Certainly not an ow. But if it triggers a memory, a dim and barely conscious sensation of what it had felt like when the indestructible nature of his material body had been compromised enough that he had known the prickle of pain of a hand grasping through his hair, firm enough to lift his head—)

Well, he's busy.
solarcore: (157)

[personal profile] solarcore 2021-01-07 06:24 am (UTC)(link)
Clark's mouth is not kiss-bruised. In fact, his hair is barely out of place. His breathing is level.

Not his heart, though. That's beating faster. His shirt was half off his shoulders by the time they broke apart, having pushed Bruce with just enough effort to force the other man backwards and sitting, only from Clark's perspective, he was as gentle as a regular person would have to be in setting down a china teacup. There's probably gonna be a bruise there tomorrow morning, heart-sized and in the same neighbourhood.

And the itch to do more—more what—has him backing up, hands flat on his thighs as if to stop himself from that more. Doing more would be a line crossed in some direction or another. He is also uncomfortably hard in his jeans. That's another problem.

Well says Bruce. This is where they come to their senses.

"What are you doing," says Clark. Never mind. Maybe his breathing isn't completely level.
solarcore: (#14572977)

[personal profile] solarcore 2021-01-07 07:13 am (UTC)(link)
They only need to specify when it's not that night. That time they fought; no, together, against someone else. That night in Gotham; no, not that one, the other one. Clark's expression stills when it is evoked without qualification, fingers curling defensive into his palm, waiting for—

Not that. Open surprise gentles his features, staring fixed across at Bruce. In some other context, he might have thought this were a diversion, and a cheap one, distracting from the moment they're in now.

But it's not. It seems to snare right up in the now.

He remembers—one of a few times in the course of several wild minutes, having been slammed into concrete and barely moving, laid out on his back, and feeling as much as hearing the reverberating sound of Bruce's heavy metallic footfalls approaching him. He remembers thinking about the man hidden beneath layers of scratched up metal, the dull thump of his heartbeat, steady and reliable.

So he doesn't say, don't be fucking ridiculous, when he probably should.

"So were you," he says, which is only better than a confirmation by a matter of degrees, spoken quietly but not shyly. "As soon as you landed a hit."
solarcore: (#14572974)

[personal profile] solarcore 2021-01-07 08:37 am (UTC)(link)
They should. 'Shame' is not an unfamiliar emotion to Clark Kent, and yet it hasn't quite gotten its claws in over this. Guilt, yes, for losing his temper, for some old wellspring of rage to find something it can beat its head against, for how he had other more important things to do while he was busy throwing Batman through a wall, and for the way it very nearly got himself disastrously killed.

But.

That's well worn ground, paced over and over in the back of his mind. This feels like new territory.

"I don't know what to do about it," he says, opting for honest. Hackles lowering. He'd still been expecting a fight of some kind, and they still could, but Bruce's words are too measured. Inclusive. "But I guess nothing's not working for us."

So. What's left? Talking about it. Sex things aside: they've managed to avoid it altogether.

Clark reaches to tug his shirt back over his shoulder, but doesn't do it up yet. He wants to join Bruce on the bed, but—the distance still feels like a necessary thing. "Was it 'cause I was losing?" he asks, finally.
solarcore: (#14572980)

[personal profile] solarcore 2021-01-07 09:36 am (UTC)(link)
It's not pain free, all of it. Bruce believed some big things about him, back when, but it's nothing Clark is capable of holding over either of them ever since, and given the anvil of a warning he had dropped on Batman in prior evenings, maybe some of it had even been fair.

Still. He feels some late pulse of hurt on Bruce's behalf, and waits patiently.

The answer that comes, in contrast, almost makes Clark laugh—it does make him smile slightly, a twinge of it nested in the corner of his mouth.

Now he moves. He sits in the chair he remembers Bruce's inhabiting when he'd come to from his neurotoxin episode, listed more forwards, elbows to knees. "You had a place to do it in," he says. It's a little more nuanced than guessing at Bruce's own feelings. It is a tentative comparison of notes. More questioning; "An outlet."
solarcore: (163)

[personal profile] solarcore 2021-01-07 10:24 am (UTC)(link)
Clark holds his gaze, but it does take more effort than it normally does. Easy to swivel and talk to the ground or the ceiling or even unfocus and let the entire world and Bruce within it fall away into a confusing overlap of translucent layers and shifting shadows, but he doesn't do those things.

"The first time I swung at you," he says. "After the kryptonite. Which was awful, by the way," he feels moved to say, with a crook of an eyebrow. Let's be clear on that one, about what he is or is not into. Green smoke, nauseating and choking, infecting him with a painful kind of necrotic weakness, his heart fluttering and flinching in his chest. He would care to avoid that sensation again if at all possible.

Brow smooths, and he says. "But. After.

"I was coming up against something that didn't yield to me. Someone. And there were these moments where you could do whatever you wanted." Now he ducks a look away, even if every other sense is keyed into the man sitting a few feet away. "And so could I, without destroying you. That's never happened."

There were the Kryptonians, of course—he hasn't forgotten. But they were trying to kill him and everyone around him and little else, and he barely remembers the lightning speed strikes in the sheer sensory overload that was his first attempt at superheroism. Even in the murkier, hazier moments with Bruce, distinct moments still have a way of simmering up through his subconscious.

"And like you said. I felt more than I'd ever had, before. Literally."
Edited 2021-01-07 10:24 (UTC)
solarcore: (7)

[personal profile] solarcore 2021-01-07 11:05 am (UTC)(link)
Bruce stands up and takes a step towards him, looking the way he does, which is enough for Clark to remember his own cock still pressed against denim, so that's

probably fine

and he sinks back against the chair when pushed. The relief that comes with contact reinitiated—well, what did he expect? That he'd say something that would cause Bruce to reject him, after all this? Well, maybe. A lifetime of not saying anything for exactly that reasons is a hard habit to shake. Sometimes, these moments with Bruce are like taking a step in the dark. He's getting used to always landing well.

So Bruce does touch him and Clark tilts his face up, paying some attention to the way his hair is being gripped so he can bend his neck back with it.

"I want that too," he says.
solarcore: (#14572979)

[personal profile] solarcore 2021-01-08 05:34 am (UTC)(link)
Comfortable, is how Clark would describe the weight of Bruce settling over him. As are the fingers in his hair, the gravity of Bruce's attention. He is caught a little wide eyed in all these things, hands retracting where they'd rested on his thighs. Hips shifting against the chair and Bruce both, just a fraction.

Comfortable is nowhere to go, and comfortable is the practically limitless depths of Bruce's—desire seems like a small word. Love strains at its definitions too.

If the question hedges on slightly too Socratic for him—a querying twinge of his eyebrows, what is he gonna do about it—it's really his own heartbeat that spurs him on. His hands when he slides them up under Bruce's open shirt are achingly warm, and when he grips the edges of his collar and pulls him down unstoppably into a kiss, so is that.
solarcore: (#14572971)

[personal profile] solarcore 2021-01-08 09:27 am (UTC)(link)
The kiss is ungentle. They do plenty of gentle kissing, and this has the heat that they'd shared moments before breaking to talk about it. Clark kisses him like they've gone for much longer without, the harsh scrape of teeth, the dull and damp pressure of need. There is a dull sting by the time they break—on Bruce's side, of course, just the slightest hint of blood.

Clark's hand had landed high on Bruce's leg, the dig of his thumb likely to leave a bruise. He's still thinking it over, what will he do about it, what is he going to, and then it makes an easy flip into what does he want. They both know: something that is too much, and not enough. He swallows just to feel that hold on his neck, blue eyes dark in the dim light, colour sapped from the room—

—a room that is thrown into a blur, for a moment, at least for Bruce. The weight of Clark suddenly lifted beneath him, floor vanishing beneath the foot still balanced against it, a momentary sense of zero gravity, and then he finds his back is pressed to the bed. The only real sense of momentum and inertia being pillowy spring-back of the bed beneath him.

And Clark on him, watching him, knowing too much, hands on his shoulders.
solarcore: <user name="oslo" site="insanejournal.com"> (184)

[personal profile] solarcore 2021-01-08 11:17 am (UTC)(link)
Clark's eyes hood a little, staying perfectly and borderline unnaturally still as Bruce's palms slide down his chest, and tug at his jeans. He breathes out, lifting his hips to allow it, doing little more than relishing the feeling of Bruce's hands working the denim down past his hips, the cooler air against his cock once its freed.

Clark smooths his hands around from shoulders to Bruce's throat, thumb stroking along the line from collar to beneath his chin, a hold that keeps him still so Clark can bend down to kiss him again.

It's different, not pretending. There have been casual hook ups in the past he has spooked from just the little things—forgetting to roll when pushed, or failing to react when someone is rough.

Some of the kinks (as it were) worked out for the first time with Lois. Not all of 'em.

He slides a hand between them as well, fingers smoothing down Bruce's abdomen, fingers dipping inside his pants. There is the sound of seams in stress and a tear of fabric, waistband immediately looser than before as knuckles push past. "Sorry," doesn't sound sorry when it's breathed like that against your neck.
solarcore: (#14572981)

[personal profile] solarcore 2021-01-10 09:02 am (UTC)(link)
A self-satisfied sigh, an arch to his back, but attention still paid to the ring of pressure he has placed tight against Bruce's throat. Clark lifts his head, that slight slack to his mouth a contrast to bright eyes, sharp, focused. The hand that had fumbled into Bruce's pants braces on the bed instead, for the moment.

The next adjustment his subtle, but has him further Bruce by just a fraction, hips pushing forward and into the hand stroking him.

Watching him carefully—the room not so dark that Bruce can't find that small blot of darker pigmentation in blue eyes, that comical gesture to defect—Clark settles his palm a little more firmly in place. A flick of a glance, maybe checking the anatomy beneath the layers, before his fingers squeeze.

Just a little. Just enough, for the next thump of heartbeat, rushing blood through major arteries, is felt deeper.

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