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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
"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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.