Bruce's breathing shifts, and Clark does that again. Where he has arguably lacked in an extensive amount of experience, he makes up for in attention, in tireless repetition, in the strong desire to please wrapped up in his own very real desire to be pleased back.
And an ability to multitask. He sighs a little as Bruce touches him, and holds his breath when Bruce touches his cock in particular, locking down against the instinct to grind out more satisfaction. Instead, he slowly, gradually works his fingers deeper, palm pressed warm to perineum and thumb digging into the soft flesh of his inner thigh. And he is kissing him by the time he moves his hand, gripping around the base of his own cock. It feels like it's been a long and careful process; it feels like it's been no time at all.
Clark shifts so he can see Bruce when he presses the head of his cock to his ass, and is slow going to sink in, pushing from the hips. He holds onto the other man's leg, pulling knee up and forward even more, that hand still pinning Bruce's arm down. Slow but no effort at all, save to be slow.
Multitasking doesn't quite cover off what his face is doing, mouth half open, eyes hazy.
For a moment, their hands connect. Bruce leaves his loosely over Clark's, around his cock, as he lines up. A small brush of his thumb over his knuckles. And then he has to shift and grab his shoulder, to steady himself by even though he's very much not going anywhere. He slows his breathing, works himself through potential discomfort, and fuck this is a lot. What could he possibly have expected, for any part of Clark's anatomy to be different? He probably doesn't even flinch plucking nose hairs, he thinks, and then nearly laughs at the thought. What the hell.
He has never been so trapped. He has never wanted less to escape.
Clark. Bruce doesn't let himself say it again, not yet.
One heel digs in, lets himself push up against that inescapable force, sending lightning-spikes of sensation through him, up his spine, into his dick, through every joint and nerve. Punching breath out of him, making his vision blur. It's a struggle to keep his eyes open and on Clark's face, locked onto that dreamy mask of concentration, but he refuses to let himself divert anything.
"What are you going to go about it," he demands (again), in a growl.
And nothing else, just his name, breathed out, a response to the feeling of the man beneath him arc up, push back. The hand gipping Bruce's thigh squeezes, an odd feeling, not the desperate grasp of a human person, but what feels like an allowance.
The soft unfocus of his eyes sharpen. The answer to that question is unstoppably: whatever he wants, and the next pump of blood through his body seems to carry electricity, warm where it drains into his groin. Flush against Bruce, inside of Bruce, he is very warm.
Clark lets go of Bruce's leg to clasp his other wrist, and push it down on the mattress as well. There he leans his weight on both, hands almost flat, arms almost straight, back arched to push in deep, and then roll back. He does not press in close enough to provide more relief to Bruce's cock than just an incidental brush.
Fucking him is slow to begin but it doesn't last, eyes locked on his as he picks the tireless pace of his preference.
It's almost too much, which probably means: it is too much, and Bruce Wayne is just too many clicks past normal human to be immediately susceptible. Bruises are already starting to bloom from the earliest moments of hard handling, blanched and tender as all his bloodflow is stubbornly fixed on his cock, and he should be feeling shocky from it. He should be lightheaded and trembling, or at the very least, in too much pain to let any of this continue. Sexual arousal makes everything so much more sensitive. Not like he's dropping into some kind of psychological shelter, no safe envelopment of subspace.
This is not about that. He wants - needs - to be present. To grind all that intensity in between his teeth, or be devoured by it in turn.
And it just feels good. Been ages since he's been fucked, and this is another order of thing entirely from a woman half his size and something silicone, in both sheer physical aliveness and the absolutely unfuckingplayful dynamic.
He's taller than Clark, which means the Kryptonian can stretch out every which way and not have to curb himself. Bruce feels the burn in his extended shoulders, and the compression on his wrists, the strain in his obliques keeping that one leg locked around Clark's body. Because he can't just be fine laying here, he can't just accept, there has to be— he has to—
God, is Clark really not going to touch his fucking cock. Bruce makes a choked sound, louder than he means to, before he can snap his mouth shut to restrain himself.
This feels—safe, oddly, for all that Bruce could consider himself in real danger. On this end of things, there is a safety in having pushed some boundaries, redefined them, in relaxing into them now. He holds Bruce down and he fucks him and it feels incredible, all on account of the slow winding up of tension and patience, rewarded with heat and friction and pressure, but also—
That sound Bruce makes, unbidden, before whatever scrap of lost control that caused it is leashed again. It makes him smile, a little tense and bitey but still a smile, and there is a subtle shift in the way he moves. Slower again, more deliberate, intent on exacting pleasure, more of those sounds, more of those attempts to silence them.
All while keeping a casual, concrete lock on his wrists, though maybe in all the sensory overload, Bruce will also feel the affectionate sweep of Clark's thumbs over the heels of his palms.
Clark slows down and it guts him, does something, and Bruce tries not to, the effort is visible in how every tendon in his neck strains against it, but another sound is wrenched out of him, a moan pulled out in a shudder, his head turning involuntarily. He clenches his jaw so hard after that Clark might be able to fucking hear it.
He faces forward again, panting, restless but unable to do a damn thing about it. He could move his legs, sure, but Clark is an inviolable object between them, and if he shifts any of his own muscle tension now he thinks he's going to go slack completely. Fuckfuckfuck but it feels so good, his cock sliding into him like that, the inescapable pleasure of it, and the denial. He's never been able to come just from penetration, no matter how solid the stimulation to his prostate is, and Clark's not moving fast enough to make him think he could try anyway. He's just pinned here in sex purgatory.
What makes you think this ever would have been over quickly, his own brain queries. He could punch himself. Shut up.
A labored breath. His hands flinch, curl, twitching towards that gentle rub at his palms. It's shocking, that tenderness. It makes him want to pull away as much as he wants to coil towards it, and it's an unbelievable relief to be unable to do either. There's still plenty of room to embarrass himself, but at least there are fewer avenues. Bruce stares up at him. He isn't just obsessed with him. He loves him. It's the worst thing he's ever done to anyone.
If it's any consolation, there is a subtle amount of strain in Clark's voice. A breathlessness, like he's forgotten his own ridiculous lung capacity, breathing at the top of his chest.
He could do this forever and at the same time, he absolutely could not. His own arousal has gotten that dull and desperate ache, and the promise of the dull haze of the physiological mood that comes after is its own lure, even though he also wants to stay just where they are. So Clark maintains this same pace and position for as long as he thinks he can get away with, and then.
Then he simply sinks down, snagging Bruce into a needful kiss with his own reverberating moan, his body a hot and imposing blanket of muscle where they map against one another. His hands loosen from Bruce's wrists, one hand grasping bedsheets and taking his weight and the other finding a place to land on the other man's ribcage, slipping down to grip a handful of ass and squeeze. It is an ill-gotten pause in the moment, a second to breathe.
Clark could get away with it indefinitely. What's Bruce going to do? Flip him? Make him speed up? Jam his heel into his ass and get any kind of reaction besides bruising the back of his fucking heel? Long minutes into that same pace - or is it just a few seconds, or is it an hour - Bruce thinks he hits an edge. One of them. Because he starts to think about his limits in a different way: he wonders how hard he could push up against Clark's hands before Clark would skitter back. How close to breaking his own wrists? If he just wrenched up, strained his own tendons to the point of tearing, didn't stop, didn't flinch, let his own body careen towards serious injury, when would Clark stop him by stopping for him?
Because he would. Bruce is sure of that much. He wouldn't let him snap his wrist in half, like the figure in his nightmares. Would he be shocked, or angry? Turned on, that Bruce would play a kind of sexual suicide baiting?
He realizes his wants to know. Desperately. Watching Clark and that charming predator smile, all-American farmboy and unstoppable god with a probably-invulnerable-as-everything-else dick rammed up his ass. What the fuck am I doing, he wonders absently, even as he begins to tense his shoulder, brain sending the message down through his arm, readying to push up—
Nope. Clark sinks. Bruce's hands shake, circulation zipping back into them, his breath chokes on that kiss, eating the sound he makes, and Bruce makes a sound back into it but it's not a moan, it's like laughing. Harsh and perversely joyful. He grabs at the Kryptonian's hair again, uncoordinated, and groans low against his mouth as he rocks up into everything, his cock, his hand at his ass. No longer forced to hold still he moves, curling up as much as he can, meeting any downward thrusts, goading him on. He knows how to do this. Closer, his erection presses between them, insert also man of steel joke.
"Come on, Kansas, you gonna do this or what. Fuck me."
It could be synthesized, for how low his voice is, control fucked clean out of him already.
Half the joy of that near-collapse is the expectation of Bruce responding; the hands in his hair, the grindy motion of his hips, the lift of his head to meet kiss. Clark soaks it up as gladly as he does sunrays, eyes fluttered closed as he kisses him, as kiss trails off to a vaguer version of itself down Bruce's jaw.
He gives a fluttered, disbelieving laugh. Still giving orders. Still goading. It's a laugh that barely makes it past his throat, though, because it still works, that lowness in Bruce's voice going straight to his cock.
"You always talked," and he has to take a breath, and it doesn't feel put on in the way his other gestures towards human weakness might, "a big game," and Clark rises up again, hand returning to that grip beneath Bruce's knee.
(He'd thought about it too, those last few seconds, imagining what would happen if he didn't let go. Would orders turn into begging? Is that something Bruce is capable of? Is that something Clark would even want to hear?
It's probably weird how he figured choking him out would be okay but not this.)
Clark resist the urge to close his eyes as he begins in earnest to fuck Bruce Wayne, again. Harder, faster, picking up that pace before the torturous slowness had begun. The friction and heat of it finally wipes the smile off his face, brow furrowed as he feels his own sense of control begin to come under strain. He has the dim awareness he should be handling Bruce's dick too, but all at once all he can do is just this, chasing that precipice with a hand now tearing the tips of his fingers though expensive bedsheet and the other one gentler, holding Bruce's leg up and against him.
Less appealing, perhaps, is the kind of oof sound Bruce makes when Clark pushes his knee back, rearranging the angle of both penetration and room in his diaphragm for oxygen. Hard to imagine him begging; he seems like the kind of man who doesn't know how.
(He doesn't. Not like this. Please, unhinged and earnest, is a word that's only been uttered in scenarios far, far away from a lover. Please, bring my parents back. Please, not my son.
Getting choked out is way better.)
He can feel it tightening in the base of his spine, making him tremble, everything burning, and electric. Every time Clark snaps forward he feels himself start to shatter, lance of pleasure shooting through him to ever nerve ending. Now he's moving right to make him think he could try to come, without a hand on him. Still probably can't - he's not twenty, for fuck's sake - but it feels like that, feels like he's about to, every thrust in. Bruce's hands scrabble up to hold Clark's face, sharing that refusal to look away.
Breathless, stupid, he says, "Taking it— just fine—"
Like shut up, honestly.
He could come any second now. He knows it, and he wants it, but he doesn't move a hand down to touch himself. He wants to feel Clark lose it first. Maybe he needs to, at least now. At least this first time going quite so unchecked. Did I do the right thing, forcing this conversation, daring you, do you like it, is it, is it—
If this were earlier, maybe even minutes earlier, it'd be tempting to palm his hand over Bruce's mouth. Stop talking. Interesting thought for another time.
Right now, Clark is—
Closer than he meant to be, probably. He'd been good before now. Happy to take his time. Now this isn't that at all and Bruce's hands warm on his face feel like they could be as unlikely a touch as them like this, tangled together, inside each other, but none of it is, and all of it feels good and correct. His breathing is coming shallow, and there is that instinct to stop, to slam the brakes before he goes careening.
He does not. His whole body suddenly tenses, back arching as his hips push forward deep (with a tremor through his spine and shoulders, leashed, unwilling to harm, unable to fully become untethered) and a choked cry shudders out of him, some of it getting lost and muffled in Bruce's hands as he turns his head against them. Relief burns through him, and the breath he lets out is long.
The hand gripping Bruce's thigh has let go, steadying on the mattress, and then drifting to touch again as Clark refocuses. Has the wherewithal to make a decision—to stay buried in him—as his hand slips between the press of their bodies, fingertips brushing along the length of Bruce's cock, a little clumsily taking him into his hand.
Bruce didn't expect to be so struck by it, even as he was desperate for it. He clutches at the other man, almost harsh and demanding in his acceptance, a kind of greed for his pleasure. For the strength of him. And there is grief, too, at how starkly he can feel Clark holding himself back. It makes him forget to breathe.
"Clark," he gasps, and nothing else. Just Clark.
Adoration and something else. Like an apology. How awful and wretched is it, to want to go back to a time when they were killing each other, because they were both so free of tethers. Of course he doesn't want that, doesn't want to go back to, but if he could just.
Don't tell him you love him, you idiot.
Bruce presses a kiss to his mouth, panting, off-center. Clark is inhumanly warm everywhere. He feels like he could incinerate right here and that would be fine. His hand closes around the other man's at his cock, finding the right pace for him.
But it's good though. After, as tension leaks out of his muscles and he half-sprawls on Bruce and barely lifting his head to centre the kiss. Bruce's hand guiding his is an odd shock of relief that cuts through the stupid haze, that as much as he was certain he hadn't done anything to hurt him, it would still be easy for things to slip somewhere too much otherwise.
Clark kisses him more in earnest, grips him in earnest. His palm is slickish, slick enough, lube and sweat, making the going easier on sensitive skin, palm gliding up the length of him, fingers squeezing beneath Bruce's.
"God, Bruce," he sighs when the kiss breaks. You're incredible doesn't get said. Maybe in a second. Clark leans up on an elbow—feeling abnormally gravity bound in this moment, heavy-limbed and slow—so that he might watch, focus returning to blue eyes. Warmth there too, blinked through.
Nearly, nearly, Clark collapsing on him like that is nearly as gratifying as the inhumanly heated grip on his straining dick. Knowing he's managed to unstring him like that, too fucking old for this by half and looking the way he does, a shattered collection of scars and metal parts and greying hair (to say nothing of all he's done to Clark), curls hot and high in his chest, gripping something intangible. Pride and another kind of ache entirely.
Bruce is tense beneath him, the hand against his face revealing a tremor that's all almost, almost— there's no edge to be worked back to, despite the strange wave of emotions from a moment ago. His arousal is stubbornly reliable. And Clark might as well be re-arranging his insides.
His voice is scraping, would be painful-sounding if not how obviously not in pain he is, "You're so good, do you know how good you are."
When his climax hits it's like something breaking. For a second, nothing, that moment of non-reality in between a slip and the actual fall, because for how preoccupied his biology is with sex, Bruce's mind still doesn't know how to let go on purpose. Clark pulls it out of him. Pushes it out of him. In a way that's like but not like anyone else. A number of things are new, not the least of which is experiencing orgasm still impaled on someone else, or with anyone looking at him like that.
"I—"
Oh, fuck.
He is a mess, then, in more ways than one, all over their joined hands, and tangled bodies, and the hand that was at Clark's face skittering back to wind an arm around his neck, clinging like he might fall away somewhere without that anchor.
The landing's slow. Holding Bruce just like this for a few moments, face half-buried in his hair (he likes the grey, it can't be overstated), gladly folded up into the arm yoked across his shoulders, Bruce's words still simmering warm at the bottom of his brain.
Minor adjustments follow. Clark pulls out, to start with, doing so with the most minimal of movements and so when he resettles he is still on top. He thinks of lions lying tangled under the sun. Thinks of never getting up again. Thinks it'll be a matter of time until the state of them demands they do something about it but maybe not for a minute.
"You're incredible," finally, sighed out, into the over-warm atmosphere of their immediate vicinity. His eyes are closed. He always gives the impression of being able to see anyway.
The sensation of decoupling is a strange one, and the discomfiting sting of it is somehow more of a negative than anything else they've done and have been doing. Perhaps because of the mundane, slightly undignified pain of something so mechanical; still, there's something funny about it, that Bruce's eyebrows can twinge at that sensation, and held fast and painfully aroused while Clark had been shoving and choking him.
A shaking breath in, and out. Bruce's eyes are unfocused, looking up at the ceiling, at the edges of what he can see of the other man, his wild wavy hair, the side of his face. He bets he can see through his own eyelids. How weird is that.
"You," he slides his other hand over the other man's broad back, pressing his palm down, feeling him breathe. "...Are really fucking heavy."
That thinning quality of his voice is not currently all exhaustion. Deadweighted, Superman can crush buildings. Halp.
From here, Bruce can just see Clark's brow crinkle. Protest.
It goes along with the long exhale of complaint which somehow seems to make his warm weight a little weightier, before with great effort, he rolls aside. Taking care not to shift his weight somewhere awkward, mindful of knees and elbows and hips.
Even now, so soon after, both of them in Recovery and sweat drying on bare skin beginning to prickle in the open air, Clark can sense in him a shift of something. He's not sure he will ever really forget that one night, the violence of it, the intensity of it seared into his brain, the only place that seems to pick up scars. But all the same—
New memories. New things to remember and flush warm from. Clark seeks out Bruce's hand and takes it, a clumsy tangling of fingers.
"Now what?" is a little facetious, but his eyebrows are earnest.
This is a good place for clumsy. Bruce, halfway on his side and as tangled with Clark as he's able to be, pulls their joined hands up and presses a kiss to his knuckles. He sort of wishes Clark could stay sprawled out on top of him, but the compression of his internal organs would cease to be sexually attractive after a point.
Now what.
The question of the century. Bruce barely recognizes what it feels like to step forward without a plan in place. Thirty contingency scenarios, escape hatches, exploding letters, smoke bombs, ways out. He watches Clark.
"Figure out how to live with it."
And take a shower, sooner rather than later. Inside which the bruises all over his body begin to flush violet, and the ache of them hits Bruce in a way he hasn't felt since the day after sending Superman's body back to Kansas in an anonymous truck— bought in cash, driven on back roads with the news playing in the front cab, Lois Lane in the covered bed, her hand against the covered figure. Twenty hours straight west.
He'd let Clark fuck him again in there, if he wanted water over them, pressed up against the marble wall. Softer and more careful and controlled and just as crushingly intense, for all that no single careless movement could be made for risk of going, for real this time, too far. Bruce is too resilient sometimes. It seems like everything he wants, even when he knows it's too good for him, is always going to do something to hurt him.
Or not.
Not now. In a luxury rental in the Mediterranean, Clark's mouth on his cock, everything as ordinary and domestic as any interlude in between heroic acts and keeping tabs on strange seafaring terrorism can be. Bruce holds every moment they've had together somewhere sacred in his mind, always turning the memories over with obsessive care, always putting them away greedily. Never letting any wash over him with inattentiveness. The potential for any touch to go further is always there, and they so rarely reach for it. Letting the absence of it ache as much as how bad they want each other.
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.
It had shocked him at first. How much Clark wants his pleasure, like there's no difference between getting this kind of reaction out of him - shattering under his hands, his mouth, his body - and getting another kind of reaction, battered and broken. Bruce struggles to say no. He should deny himself, because indulging in the things he wants never leads anywhere good, but he becomes helpless when faced with Clark. And damn, if helplessness isn't something else he should be rejecting.
He pulls Clark to him and whispers about all the things he'd like to do to him. Close your eyes, just listen; clench your hand as hard as you can. Harder. My hands at your throat, holding you, pinned and safe. Are you going to leave your hands where I tell you? Do you want me to fuck you?
Whatever dynamic they have, Bruce isn't sure what to call it. A surprising reality for someone so traditionally over-experienced.
Bruce wonders if there are other worlds out there. Other times. Where he made different decisions, met Clark earlier, or didn't meet him at all. If Barry can run through time, and beings can visit them from other dimensions, what else is out there? And if there are other versions of themselves, do they have something that's easier to qualify? Or is this the height of what they should be, their spontaneous alchemy that threatens to burn them to ash?
It's a good vacation. If nothing worse falls out of the sky and puts and end to him, Bruce thinks they'll have more.
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And an ability to multitask. He sighs a little as Bruce touches him, and holds his breath when Bruce touches his cock in particular, locking down against the instinct to grind out more satisfaction. Instead, he slowly, gradually works his fingers deeper, palm pressed warm to perineum and thumb digging into the soft flesh of his inner thigh. And he is kissing him by the time he moves his hand, gripping around the base of his own cock. It feels like it's been a long and careful process; it feels like it's been no time at all.
Clark shifts so he can see Bruce when he presses the head of his cock to his ass, and is slow going to sink in, pushing from the hips. He holds onto the other man's leg, pulling knee up and forward even more, that hand still pinning Bruce's arm down. Slow but no effort at all, save to be slow.
Multitasking doesn't quite cover off what his face is doing, mouth half open, eyes hazy.
no subject
He has never been so trapped. He has never wanted less to escape.
Clark. Bruce doesn't let himself say it again, not yet.
One heel digs in, lets himself push up against that inescapable force, sending lightning-spikes of sensation through him, up his spine, into his dick, through every joint and nerve. Punching breath out of him, making his vision blur. It's a struggle to keep his eyes open and on Clark's face, locked onto that dreamy mask of concentration, but he refuses to let himself divert anything.
"What are you going to go about it," he demands (again), in a growl.
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And nothing else, just his name, breathed out, a response to the feeling of the man beneath him arc up, push back. The hand gipping Bruce's thigh squeezes, an odd feeling, not the desperate grasp of a human person, but what feels like an allowance.
The soft unfocus of his eyes sharpen. The answer to that question is unstoppably: whatever he wants, and the next pump of blood through his body seems to carry electricity, warm where it drains into his groin. Flush against Bruce, inside of Bruce, he is very warm.
Clark lets go of Bruce's leg to clasp his other wrist, and push it down on the mattress as well. There he leans his weight on both, hands almost flat, arms almost straight, back arched to push in deep, and then roll back. He does not press in close enough to provide more relief to Bruce's cock than just an incidental brush.
Fucking him is slow to begin but it doesn't last, eyes locked on his as he picks the tireless pace of his preference.
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This is not about that. He wants - needs - to be present. To grind all that intensity in between his teeth, or be devoured by it in turn.
And it just feels good. Been ages since he's been fucked, and this is another order of thing entirely from a woman half his size and something silicone, in both sheer physical aliveness and the absolutely unfuckingplayful dynamic.
He's taller than Clark, which means the Kryptonian can stretch out every which way and not have to curb himself. Bruce feels the burn in his extended shoulders, and the compression on his wrists, the strain in his obliques keeping that one leg locked around Clark's body. Because he can't just be fine laying here, he can't just accept, there has to be— he has to—
God, is Clark really not going to touch his fucking cock. Bruce makes a choked sound, louder than he means to, before he can snap his mouth shut to restrain himself.
no subject
This feels—safe, oddly, for all that Bruce could consider himself in real danger. On this end of things, there is a safety in having pushed some boundaries, redefined them, in relaxing into them now. He holds Bruce down and he fucks him and it feels incredible, all on account of the slow winding up of tension and patience, rewarded with heat and friction and pressure, but also—
That sound Bruce makes, unbidden, before whatever scrap of lost control that caused it is leashed again. It makes him smile, a little tense and bitey but still a smile, and there is a subtle shift in the way he moves. Slower again, more deliberate, intent on exacting pleasure, more of those sounds, more of those attempts to silence them.
All while keeping a casual, concrete lock on his wrists, though maybe in all the sensory overload, Bruce will also feel the affectionate sweep of Clark's thumbs over the heels of his palms.
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He faces forward again, panting, restless but unable to do a damn thing about it. He could move his legs, sure, but Clark is an inviolable object between them, and if he shifts any of his own muscle tension now he thinks he's going to go slack completely. Fuckfuckfuck but it feels so good, his cock sliding into him like that, the inescapable pleasure of it, and the denial. He's never been able to come just from penetration, no matter how solid the stimulation to his prostate is, and Clark's not moving fast enough to make him think he could try anyway. He's just pinned here in sex purgatory.
What makes you think this ever would have been over quickly, his own brain queries. He could punch himself. Shut up.
A labored breath. His hands flinch, curl, twitching towards that gentle rub at his palms. It's shocking, that tenderness. It makes him want to pull away as much as he wants to coil towards it, and it's an unbelievable relief to be unable to do either. There's still plenty of room to embarrass himself, but at least there are fewer avenues. Bruce stares up at him. He isn't just obsessed with him. He loves him. It's the worst thing he's ever done to anyone.
Grates out, "You're an asshole, you know that."
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"That's why you like me so much."
If it's any consolation, there is a subtle amount of strain in Clark's voice. A breathlessness, like he's forgotten his own ridiculous lung capacity, breathing at the top of his chest.
He could do this forever and at the same time, he absolutely could not. His own arousal has gotten that dull and desperate ache, and the promise of the dull haze of the physiological mood that comes after is its own lure, even though he also wants to stay just where they are. So Clark maintains this same pace and position for as long as he thinks he can get away with, and then.
Then he simply sinks down, snagging Bruce into a needful kiss with his own reverberating moan, his body a hot and imposing blanket of muscle where they map against one another. His hands loosen from Bruce's wrists, one hand grasping bedsheets and taking his weight and the other finding a place to land on the other man's ribcage, slipping down to grip a handful of ass and squeeze. It is an ill-gotten pause in the moment, a second to breathe.
no subject
Because he would. Bruce is sure of that much. He wouldn't let him snap his wrist in half, like the figure in his nightmares. Would he be shocked, or angry? Turned on, that Bruce would play a kind of sexual suicide baiting?
He realizes his wants to know. Desperately. Watching Clark and that charming predator smile, all-American farmboy and unstoppable god with a probably-invulnerable-as-everything-else dick rammed up his ass. What the fuck am I doing, he wonders absently, even as he begins to tense his shoulder, brain sending the message down through his arm, readying to push up—
Nope. Clark sinks. Bruce's hands shake, circulation zipping back into them, his breath chokes on that kiss, eating the sound he makes, and Bruce makes a sound back into it but it's not a moan, it's like laughing. Harsh and perversely joyful. He grabs at the Kryptonian's hair again, uncoordinated, and groans low against his mouth as he rocks up into everything, his cock, his hand at his ass. No longer forced to hold still he moves, curling up as much as he can, meeting any downward thrusts, goading him on. He knows how to do this. Closer, his erection presses between them, insert also man of steel joke.
"Come on, Kansas, you gonna do this or what. Fuck me."
It could be synthesized, for how low his voice is, control fucked clean out of him already.
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He gives a fluttered, disbelieving laugh. Still giving orders. Still goading. It's a laugh that barely makes it past his throat, though, because it still works, that lowness in Bruce's voice going straight to his cock.
"You always talked," and he has to take a breath, and it doesn't feel put on in the way his other gestures towards human weakness might, "a big game," and Clark rises up again, hand returning to that grip beneath Bruce's knee.
(He'd thought about it too, those last few seconds, imagining what would happen if he didn't let go. Would orders turn into begging? Is that something Bruce is capable of? Is that something Clark would even want to hear?
It's probably weird how he figured choking him out would be okay but not this.)
Clark resist the urge to close his eyes as he begins in earnest to fuck Bruce Wayne, again. Harder, faster, picking up that pace before the torturous slowness had begun. The friction and heat of it finally wipes the smile off his face, brow furrowed as he feels his own sense of control begin to come under strain. He has the dim awareness he should be handling Bruce's dick too, but all at once all he can do is just this, chasing that precipice with a hand now tearing the tips of his fingers though expensive bedsheet and the other one gentler, holding Bruce's leg up and against him.
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(He doesn't. Not like this. Please, unhinged and earnest, is a word that's only been uttered in scenarios far, far away from a lover. Please, bring my parents back. Please, not my son.
Getting choked out is way better.)
He can feel it tightening in the base of his spine, making him tremble, everything burning, and electric. Every time Clark snaps forward he feels himself start to shatter, lance of pleasure shooting through him to ever nerve ending. Now he's moving right to make him think he could try to come, without a hand on him. Still probably can't - he's not twenty, for fuck's sake - but it feels like that, feels like he's about to, every thrust in. Bruce's hands scrabble up to hold Clark's face, sharing that refusal to look away.
Breathless, stupid, he says, "Taking it— just fine—"
Like shut up, honestly.
He could come any second now. He knows it, and he wants it, but he doesn't move a hand down to touch himself. He wants to feel Clark lose it first. Maybe he needs to, at least now. At least this first time going quite so unchecked. Did I do the right thing, forcing this conversation, daring you, do you like it, is it, is it—
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Right now, Clark is—
Closer than he meant to be, probably. He'd been good before now. Happy to take his time. Now this isn't that at all and Bruce's hands warm on his face feel like they could be as unlikely a touch as them like this, tangled together, inside each other, but none of it is, and all of it feels good and correct. His breathing is coming shallow, and there is that instinct to stop, to slam the brakes before he goes careening.
He does not. His whole body suddenly tenses, back arching as his hips push forward deep (with a tremor through his spine and shoulders, leashed, unwilling to harm, unable to fully become untethered) and a choked cry shudders out of him, some of it getting lost and muffled in Bruce's hands as he turns his head against them. Relief burns through him, and the breath he lets out is long.
The hand gripping Bruce's thigh has let go, steadying on the mattress, and then drifting to touch again as Clark refocuses. Has the wherewithal to make a decision—to stay buried in him—as his hand slips between the press of their bodies, fingertips brushing along the length of Bruce's cock, a little clumsily taking him into his hand.
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"Clark," he gasps, and nothing else. Just Clark.
Adoration and something else. Like an apology. How awful and wretched is it, to want to go back to a time when they were killing each other, because they were both so free of tethers. Of course he doesn't want that, doesn't want to go back to, but if he could just.
Don't tell him you love him, you idiot.
Bruce presses a kiss to his mouth, panting, off-center. Clark is inhumanly warm everywhere. He feels like he could incinerate right here and that would be fine. His hand closes around the other man's at his cock, finding the right pace for him.
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Clark kisses him more in earnest, grips him in earnest. His palm is slickish, slick enough, lube and sweat, making the going easier on sensitive skin, palm gliding up the length of him, fingers squeezing beneath Bruce's.
"God, Bruce," he sighs when the kiss breaks. You're incredible doesn't get said. Maybe in a second. Clark leans up on an elbow—feeling abnormally gravity bound in this moment, heavy-limbed and slow—so that he might watch, focus returning to blue eyes. Warmth there too, blinked through.
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Bruce is tense beneath him, the hand against his face revealing a tremor that's all almost, almost— there's no edge to be worked back to, despite the strange wave of emotions from a moment ago. His arousal is stubbornly reliable. And Clark might as well be re-arranging his insides.
His voice is scraping, would be painful-sounding if not how obviously not in pain he is, "You're so good, do you know how good you are."
When his climax hits it's like something breaking. For a second, nothing, that moment of non-reality in between a slip and the actual fall, because for how preoccupied his biology is with sex, Bruce's mind still doesn't know how to let go on purpose. Clark pulls it out of him. Pushes it out of him. In a way that's like but not like anyone else. A number of things are new, not the least of which is experiencing orgasm still impaled on someone else, or with anyone looking at him like that.
"I—"
Oh, fuck.
He is a mess, then, in more ways than one, all over their joined hands, and tangled bodies, and the hand that was at Clark's face skittering back to wind an arm around his neck, clinging like he might fall away somewhere without that anchor.
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Minor adjustments follow. Clark pulls out, to start with, doing so with the most minimal of movements and so when he resettles he is still on top. He thinks of lions lying tangled under the sun. Thinks of never getting up again. Thinks it'll be a matter of time until the state of them demands they do something about it but maybe not for a minute.
"You're incredible," finally, sighed out, into the over-warm atmosphere of their immediate vicinity. His eyes are closed. He always gives the impression of being able to see anyway.
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A shaking breath in, and out. Bruce's eyes are unfocused, looking up at the ceiling, at the edges of what he can see of the other man, his wild wavy hair, the side of his face. He bets he can see through his own eyelids. How weird is that.
"You," he slides his other hand over the other man's broad back, pressing his palm down, feeling him breathe. "...Are really fucking heavy."
That thinning quality of his voice is not currently all exhaustion. Deadweighted, Superman can crush buildings. Halp.
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It goes along with the long exhale of complaint which somehow seems to make his warm weight a little weightier, before with great effort, he rolls aside. Taking care not to shift his weight somewhere awkward, mindful of knees and elbows and hips.
Even now, so soon after, both of them in Recovery and sweat drying on bare skin beginning to prickle in the open air, Clark can sense in him a shift of something. He's not sure he will ever really forget that one night, the violence of it, the intensity of it seared into his brain, the only place that seems to pick up scars. But all the same—
New memories. New things to remember and flush warm from. Clark seeks out Bruce's hand and takes it, a clumsy tangling of fingers.
"Now what?" is a little facetious, but his eyebrows are earnest.
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Now what.
The question of the century. Bruce barely recognizes what it feels like to step forward without a plan in place. Thirty contingency scenarios, escape hatches, exploding letters, smoke bombs, ways out. He watches Clark.
"Figure out how to live with it."
And take a shower, sooner rather than later. Inside which the bruises all over his body begin to flush violet, and the ache of them hits Bruce in a way he hasn't felt since the day after sending Superman's body back to Kansas in an anonymous truck— bought in cash, driven on back roads with the news playing in the front cab, Lois Lane in the covered bed, her hand against the covered figure. Twenty hours straight west.
He'd let Clark fuck him again in there, if he wanted water over them, pressed up against the marble wall. Softer and more careful and controlled and just as crushingly intense, for all that no single careless movement could be made for risk of going, for real this time, too far. Bruce is too resilient sometimes. It seems like everything he wants, even when he knows it's too good for him, is always going to do something to hurt him.
Or not.
Not now. In a luxury rental in the Mediterranean, Clark's mouth on his cock, everything as ordinary and domestic as any interlude in between heroic acts and keeping tabs on strange seafaring terrorism can be. Bruce holds every moment they've had together somewhere sacred in his mind, always turning the memories over with obsessive care, always putting them away greedily. Never letting any wash over him with inattentiveness. The potential for any touch to go further is always there, and they so rarely reach for it. Letting the absence of it ache as much as how bad they want each other.
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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.
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He pulls Clark to him and whispers about all the things he'd like to do to him. Close your eyes, just listen; clench your hand as hard as you can. Harder. My hands at your throat, holding you, pinned and safe. Are you going to leave your hands where I tell you? Do you want me to fuck you?
Whatever dynamic they have, Bruce isn't sure what to call it. A surprising reality for someone so traditionally over-experienced.
Bruce wonders if there are other worlds out there. Other times. Where he made different decisions, met Clark earlier, or didn't meet him at all. If Barry can run through time, and beings can visit them from other dimensions, what else is out there? And if there are other versions of themselves, do they have something that's easier to qualify? Or is this the height of what they should be, their spontaneous alchemy that threatens to burn them to ash?
It's a good vacation. If nothing worse falls out of the sky and puts and end to him, Bruce thinks they'll have more.