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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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.