Clark would not be surprised that, if in the middle of this, he looked up to see Bruce laying there with his hands free, like a magic trick. Probably not even that disappointed. He secures the cuff, and then takes a hold of the one it's attached to, drawing it up and Bruce's arm with it towards the headboard. Testing the give and length of it before he threads it through a little, and secures it.
It leaves Bruce with some give, ability to flex and adjust, but unable to bring his hand much lower than his head. That other hand is free to wander for the minute, and while Clark secures that other end, angles a little to allow it in subtle adjustments that show more in the subtle play of ridiculous muscle and less so his expression.
And the minute is up. The second wrist is caught, secured, and anchored in a mirror of the other.
Settling back down in his straddle, Clark's eyes dart over his work, and then back down at Bruce, which evokes a smile out of him before he goes and artlessly claws his way out of his own shirt, and tosses that aside.
Clark snags his free hand just as he's about to palm lower over the front of his trousers. The look on Bruce's face at the timing is only a little petulant, and a lot only for show. How dare you, he was in the middle of something. Both wrists bound, and Bruce pulls on the chains, testing, the clink of it like chimes in the quiet room -
pausing for a bit as he watches Clark take his shirt off
- but the metallic strain of it against the bar built into the headboard for this very purpose doesn't groan or squeak. Too well-made, on both ends.
"Do I get to make requests, or am I just stuck here?"
'Just', sure. Bruce rubs the side of his foot against Clark's ankle. Too steadily rhythmic to be an attempt at a tease; reassuring him that he wants this, that he's enjoying it, that he loves Clark and wants every facet of this. He trusts him, and the extent of that trust is staggering. Unconditional, probably. He's pretty doomed in that respect.
(It's the lack of weight on his shoulders, he thinks, that doesn't transport him elsewhere. Laying flat, spine supported, Clark gently buckling him in. There's no acidic slither of fear through his stomach.)
If Clark doesn't register that little point of contact against his ankle as reassurance, then he probably still does subconsciously, absorbing that information like all the sensory input of Bruce's biometrics that all make an intuitive kind of sense to him. Accustomed to Bruce's unique set of of biometrics, anyway.
Bruce is good. So is he. Nerves dim down.
He doesn't know enough about certain kinds of dreams to think about countering it with something different. It just is different, from the labradoric exuberance in knocking Bruce down onto the bed to the gentle way he slides a hand up the centre of Bruce's chest, broadly splayed.
The problem - or not problem - about connecting specific incidents in dreams (that he has spared Clark the details of on purpose) with the things they do in the waking world, is that Bruce is not one hundred percent sure they would all be a turn-off. If Clark did string him up, and rip off his clothes, hold his hand (up the centre of Bruce's chest, broadly splayed) over his chest, threaten him—
The Thing Is,
Bruce looks up at him, wholly at his mercy, having put himself here willfully. Perfectly safe and happy to be here, simmering on the edge of blooming arousal. His pulse has been ticking up little by little, sending a warm flush over his shoulders, down his chest.
Charming, sweet, all those things, Clark's smile more around the eyes for once, and he sinks down to oblige him. It's a light kiss, and there's a beat where maybe that's all Bruce will get, before it's echoed in a second, firmer version, teeth and tongue slowly demanding entry while Clark runs his hands up Bruce's arms.
Thumbs feeling a firm path up their undersides, until Clark finds his wrists, and squeezes them through the restraint as they kiss, as he licks into Bruce's mouth. The angle is such that he can press his hips down against Bruce's, can roll them forward in the subtle beginning of something more sexual and friction-y, even if they're only just starting.
The kiss is broken only for Clark to nudge aside Bruce's face with his own face and find a nice spot on his throat to work.
"I should probably mind my manners, huh," he says against Bruce's skin, when that point of contact—a little above collar-line and therefore conspicuous—takes on the start of bruising pressure. His hands squeeze bound wrists again.
He likes being held down (when it's Clark doing the holding, at least), but he also likes touching him when they kiss, and so it always makes moments like this a tortured clash of yes-no. Much better than not kissing at all, though - and of course he pushes up into it when Clark is so light at first, chases it when he pulls away. Ends up with his face pressed behind the younger man's ear, nosing at dark curls.
A heavy sigh escapes him, as he relaxes into the pressure. Clark pressing down into him, Clark chewing a welt onto his neck. He can feel exactly where it is, yes, threatening even his fully buttoned and barred suit collars.
"If you don't, you're stuck with me for a week."
Until it heals enough to take makeup properly, anyway, or to be a funny fading bruise harkening back to his playboy days, and not a garish misstep for someone so old. (Discounting, of course, another kind of suit entirely, which will very much cover it.) Bruce tucks one ankle around Clark's. Looks like they're both trapped now!
Or, whatever. He splays his hands and curls them into fists, flexing his wrists, pushing up against the cuffs and Clark's hands.
Clark remains in place, gently bringing that bruise to the surface. It's a very human point of contact, in contrast to the iron grip of his hands over his wrists. The latter thing gentles, though, easing his touch back so he can hear the creak of pressure through leather and chain instead.
A hum of contentment, and then he moves down, mouth trailing down to kiss against a clavicle, then further down, over the meat of one pectoral, making another mark. Clark runs an open hand down Bruce's side, finding some relatively sensitive spot, and pushing just so. It will hurt, a little, despite the near comical lightness of the touch, like he isn't paying attention.
(Of course he's paying attention.)
Second (third?) mark made, Clark switches sides, using the flat of his tongue to tease a nipple while his other hand strokes down to Bruce's hip. Their lower halves are tangled together, Clark boneless and heavy on top, like he has all day, like he's content to take all the time he wants, not looking at Bruce for approval (while listening keenly) and instead exploring apparently on his own.
Bruce can tolerate quite a lot of stimulation before it actually hurts, as Clark knows. Not only because of sheer strength (and the extent of nerve damage), but for how well maintained everything is; physical therapy and deep tissue massages demolishing mundane sore thoracolumbar fascia, leaving pressure points open and clear for a Kryptonian's just so. One exhale shudders with it, so on the edge of good/hurt. Meanwhile, his cock just fills out further, hardening beneath Clark's very solid weight.
Nothing to do but breathe, and try not to fidget. Sometimes his nipples do nothing for him, sometimes it's very engaging. Apparently being restrained and focused to focus on this alone means it's working very well, and it's all he can do not to make an embarrassing noise. The particularly ghastly tangle of scars high on his chest - telltale of prolonged torture in their uniform texture - usually doesn't feel like anything, but Clark's dedicated attention in the region makes pinpricks of sensation creep in. Good? Bad? Interesting. He shivers, letting out a huff that's almost a moan.
He pulls down on his right restrain a little harder than he means to, and he can feel himself instinctively trying to get out of it. Hmmpph. Bruce wriggles a but under him - as much as he can - and shakes out his wrist, forcing himself to relax.
The tug and shiver of chain does have Clark glancing up, just checking, but he doesn't stop. Little bites, languid kisses, some that leave behind minor red welts, others just patches of shiny saliva and, he hopes, pleasant tingles. Not ignoring scars, not paying particular attention to them either, more pursuing the dips and valleys of Bruce's body as Clark works his way a little further down, pushing his legs apart to make space for himself.
Bruce's manufactured attitude from earlier is not completely baseless. Clark does miss Bruce's hands on him, and not just for the obvious reasons, but in part because they tend to tell him what to do, which is its own comfort. There's something to this, though, free rein, prodding forth those little shivers and near-sounds.
Clark wanders his hand to the front of Bruce's pants, feeling along the stiffening length of his cock. His own arousal, which he's allowed to just build on its own, sparks a little at that alone, and he manipulates Bruce through the fabric, stroking, teasing the tip through layers of cloth with the flat of his thumb. He still has his head down, kissing a stretch of skin just above the waistband of his pants.
"I want to make you feel like you make me feel," Clark says, leaning a shoulder against Bruce's thigh as he strokes him. His voice is low, the natural bass of it well suited to a dark bedroom when he wants it to be. "I think if I got all night, I might come close." His hand squeezes.
His next exhale is not voiceless, sounds more like Oh, hips hitching up into Clark's hand— as much as he can, anyway, which is perhaps not much, with that lean against him. He has that one sensual foot free though, but he doesn't want to move it from where it's tucked around - not Clark's ankle anymore, the positioning has shifted as he's slunk down, but perhaps the back of his knee. Bruce can't tell.
All sub no space is a dumb joke. He doesn't get out of his head, the way that would make him good at being dominated. But he still likes it too much for his own good.
"Have I done a poor job of letting you know how good you make me feel?"
If so, that's a major error. Bruce wants to curl his fingers in Clark's hair. He drags in a breath, paradoxically more keyed up against how slow he knows this'll be going. All night, Clark says, and he can feel his cock leak. Fuck.
"You do things to me I didn't think were possible. I should be furious with you."
A crooked smile, before Clark lowers his head again to touch his mouth against the hardening length of Bruce's cock through the fabric. It's a light touch, barely there, but the warmth of his breath travels easy through cotton, like a grasp without pressure. That teasing touch to the head maintains, thumb rubbing small circles near to where that bead of dampness has formed.
He lifts his head again after a slight nudge of his mouth and chin against the shape of Bruce through his pants, hand now easing back up to slide over Bruce's torso, raking back down te centre with the careful application of blunt nails. Remembering how hard he could press when the red sun lamp had been activated. He bets Bruce remembers too.
"But you can't stay mad?"
He hooks his fingers into the edge of Bruce's waistband, tugging it down some. There's a give of tension where threads in the stitching snap beneath his handling.
Bruce does remember. He'd had a few red welts left on him from Clark's experimenting, allowed to keep them while the Kryptonian's healed. Now, the slightest miscalculation will cave his chest in. (And you took her from me. He hadn't known what to say. Even in the dreams, then, his self-avatar merely furiously waited to die. Now, he never finds himself in quite the same conversation, in that otherworld.)
Clark is so gentle with him, but so pointed, too. Bruce huffs something that could be interpreted as petulant, if one were determined.
"Orgasms help."
He blinks, the faint sound of a tear belatedly registering as what it is. Too busy being distracted by dull nails and Clark's mouth ghosting over him. Stares down at the younger man.
"No," Clark says, shifting so he can more carefully negotiate Bruce's pants down past his waist, all layers of fabric gathered, peeled back, tugged down his thighs. A flash of what could be an apologetic look, but no apology actually leaves him. "But I thought about that. Tying you down at both ends, tearing whatever you were wearing away. I think you'd like that."
He moves out of the way so he can rid Bruce of clothes completely without any more damage than a loosened waistband. An easy fix. Just drop it off at a drycleaners. Long tears through fabric would be more irreparable, easily replaceable when money is no object.
Clark's hands find Bruce's bared thighs, digging in his fingers in a manner that feels, to him, extremely gentle, but feels to Bruce like granite, a jolt of near-painful pressure at each fingertip. "But I want you to be impatient, not me."
The obvious, deliberate stillness, the non-reaction in the face of I think you'd like that betrays more truth than if he'd allowed himself to flinch with jumpy desire. Because he would. Of course. He'd like anything Clark chose to subject him to, but most of all, he likes it when all of his focus is drilled down to just them. And— Christ, well, if all those dreams of being held down and tortured weren't also sometimes erotic, they may have never gotten here in the first place, all things considered.
Bruce lets out a breath in the form of a groaned, "Fuck", somewhat involuntarily elongated. He can feel precisely where there will be a bruise, in a few minutes, as the ring finger on Clark's right hand catches somewhere that's always been an acupuncture hot spot. Sharpgood.
"You know I hypnotize myself to stay awake for a week, right?" he says when he's recovered, only a little bit breathy. "I'm good at patience."
That touch gentles, as it was always going to, Clark laying his palms down against those reddened spots. Warm, soothing. "And I like that," he adds, with a small smile, barely suppressed, while running his hands up and down Bruce's legs, knees to hips, in slow, broad strokes. "I like everything about you."
Concrete plans began and ended in strapping Bruce's wrists into those cuffs. Intention thereafter is stable, but how it manifests is hopefully more trial than error. He turns his hands to grip the inner of Bruce's thighs and carefully, inexorably, pushes them apart, and then pins them in place against the mattress.
Clark settles in, lowering down to resume some of what he'd already begun above Bruce's waist, mouth touching against one of the redder marks where he'd noticed a muscle flinch, and laying a kiss against it, one that turns bitier around that familiar damp sucking pressure.
Leisurely, he switches to the other thigh to do the same, this one closer to the more tender innerside, the scrape of teeth and tongue and lips working against skin to tease.
Someone's going to tag this praise kink on AO3 and Bruce will die of embarrassment. Until then, he squirms a little at that, putting more effort into preventing himself from arguing than in anything else he's done so far. I like everything about you. Shut up. No you don't. That's impossible, even for you.
But is it. Can Superman simply do everything.
He's as hard as he can be, which is impressive considering how little they've technically been doing. Stiff and curved up over his lower abdominals, on display thanks to the way Clark muscles in between his thighs, leaving him so exposed and vulnerable. He pulls on the cuffs, luxuriates in the burn through his shoulders and the way it contrasts with the other man's gentle, but inescapable attention. Aware that he has to choose, now, between digging his heels in (proverbially, but in the literal, he is in fact digging one heel in, so that he can rub his calf against Clark's side) and doing what instinct will always tell him to do. Resist. Defy. And what he wants to do, which is to fold and fall.
What fun is it to let Clark win right away, though. (Because Clark will. Even if Bruce chooses to resist.)
It's long minutes of just this, painting marks that will remain for a couple of minutes through to a couple of days. Quieter long minutes for Bruce, where for Clark, the room is filled with the sounds of their respective heart beats, the scrapes of the chain linking Bruce's wrists to the bed, the friction of Bruce's leg against his side. He eases up his grip, there, to run his palm down the side of that leg, leaving behind another few fading tracks from blunt nails.
Almost enough to distract from the transition from marking up his thighs to Clark's mouth finding some sensitive spot much higher, close to the base of his cock, the mmm mouthed into skin and felt as a warm vibration. He can't know how close Bruce might be to doing more than just buckling down and enduring, and his own cock is now stiff in the pants he's still wearing, but,
it's easier to ignore when he has this one single-minded goal, when he knows what he wants and that he'll get it eventually. With Bruce's leg pressed just so, he can feel when Clark idly shifts his own hips against the mattress, the slightest scratch of an itch. He shifts to lavish attention against that same spot opposite. Maybe Bruce is keyed up enough to feel the motion of that transition against his cock, and nothing else. Maybe, if he looks, there's a moment of eye contact.
Small adjustments. A hand high on Bruce's thigh, a thumb pressing into soft skin. Everything intimate, but scarcely an inch too off the mark to be satisfying.
Clark's eyes are so beautiful. What else is he supposed to look at, the view outside?
Bruce shifts into the hand on his thigh. Pivoting into the pressure of that thumb, deepening a bruise. It's pain but like a deep-tissue massage, good. Something to break up the constant not-quite-enough that Clark is threading through him, and wrapping him up in. Presumably his cheating will not be tolerated for very long, though.
"The problem," oh wow he sounds more out of breath than he had thought he would, dangit, "is that I so fucking love what you're doing."
If Clark wants Bruce to come before he means to, circling back to their surprisingly sweet adventure with the red light, it will be hampered by how much Bruce does in fact like being strung out this way.
"I wish I could see inside to the way your heart beats. Do the same thing to you. Find everything just... ah."
Predictably, Clark's hand gentles where Bruce pushes up into it, easing the dull ache he knows must be there with a warm palm.
He smiles into what he's doing as Bruce speaks, his mouth hovered just over abdominal muscles, and the next touch is a bite, very human in pressure and intent. These little things, the almost rhythmically repeated nail drags, the patterns of bruises all feel a little like—if not new to him, but recontextualised. He knows how they really feel, wants to lay them all over Bruce now that he does.
"You do that just fine," he suggests, and his voice is the very same as if they were talking while waiting in line for coffee. Clark puts his hands on Bruce's waist, and in a far too easy motion for someone as densely made as Batman, he'll find himself pulled down several crucial inches across the mattress. The chains rattle and then are strung taut, forcing Bruce's arms straight.
Possibly too much, at least in the moment. The pliant, padded leather means they don't cut in, but there's a throb of pressure and a tingle at the very tips of his fingers that push it.
"You find out what I want before I even know it," Clark is saying, meanwhile, climbing back up the length of Bruce's body so as to kiss him. Bruce will feel his own cock touch against Clark's abdomen, the fabric of his pants, absent of pressure from above for now.
Bruce's breath catches when Clark pulls him down, always feeling that quick spark of elation when he's manhandled like this; no one else is capable of doing it just like this. He groans a little as his arms are stretched out, the way circulation is interrupted at the apex of it making the blood in his hands pulse, but also rendering the constant ache of damage-induced arthritis fade away into nothingness.
Barely any time to draw breath before Clark is kissing him, but he'd rather have that than oxygen, tipping his face up into it. Takes him a second to muster the presence of mind to hook one leg fully around Clark's hips and push up, rubbing against him, sending a warning shiver up his spine at the almost too-rough texture of scraping his flushed cock against the other man's trousers. But he wants to feel him, and is capable of his own small measures of defying gravity.
"There's almost nothing better," he muses, breathless, "than doing something and watching you realize how much you like it."
What should normally happen, with a partner, including Clark, is the forceful hook around of Bruce's leg should at least encourage some downwards angling. Normally never fails to shepherd in Clark close, even if the aim is to just push upwards. This time there is no give at all, no flexing downwards or even resistance upwards, although Clark does give a soft groan when Bruce pushes up against him, feels the stiff length of him slide against his own, fabric offering more texture than modesty.
Still, warmth aside, it's a little like trying to get something made of granite to relent, Clark smiling against Bruce's neck where he's nuzzled in to lay down some more kisses. Strange, the experience of this without Bruce's hands on him, in his hair, clutching his back.
"Mm," he agrees. "Big fan."
He reaches down, clasping beneath the thigh of the leg lifted around him, pushing until it's lifted, folded higher, which forces Bruce's hips and ass back down against the bed. "You got any more requests?"
Bruce has no choice but to end up flat again, though there's a petulant rub of foot against foot after. He looks at Clark, all dark and smoldering, like he's the one with x-ray vision, and he can see through the other man to every atom, and understand what he needs, and aches for, and is too scared to say he wants.
Also, like he's very horny. Which he is.
"I want you to tell me something you don't want me to find out," he says, calm and demanding, "and then I want you to fuck me until I can't breathe."
The evening would be over quite soon, if they did that, but it'd be very enjoyable, wouldn't it. His gaze doesn't waver. Daring.
Clark's expression flickers, something disarming in this first request (of course Bruce gets two in there—talk about giving an inch) that has him hesitating over it, tripping over the possible answer too quickly to disguise it. Still, he could ignore it. He could do whatever he wants. That's the point in asking the person you're dominating if they'd like something, give or don't give.
Except don't-give feels complicated, all of a sudden, and Clark's mouth presses into a line before he ducks his head to kiss Bruce again, and this time there's a bite to it, sharp against Bruce's bottom lip, only barely shy from not breaking skin.
Once parted, he brings his hand up to touch Bruce's mouth, carefully negotiating two fingers past his teeth. "Suck them," he says, instruction quiet, and he presses against Bruce's tongue regardless, with the focus of getting his fingers damp to the second knuckle. Once satisfied with that, that hand moves down between them, between Bruce's legs, taking his balls against his palm while slick fingers tease that strip of skin just behind them.
Almost too light, then almost too much pressure, then nearly perfect.
Bruce watches him, too knowing. (Hoping that he's thinking about kinks and not something insane!) But it just turns him on more, knowing that he's getting any kind of reaction out of Clark. Briefly, he considers pulling some kind of stunt, trying to get Clark to do what he wants and withhold permission to do anything to him otherwise, but discards the idea. Too mean. He doesn't want that. He just wants to
what, eat his heart? Something like that.
He sucks on his fingers while he can, doing a thorough job, letting his teeth scrape them when Clark withdraws - more than he would on his cock. But Clark could probably take it; question is, would he like it. Bruce drags in a breath and his expression turns slightly disappointed, as if he wanted more of that. More of Clark inside him in any form.
Quickly derailed by his hand, and its talented probing. (Haha alien probe.) He shivers, shifts his weight into it, feeling one arm flinch involuntarily from the stimulation, and the restraints. The chain jingles, bright and happy.
"I think you're keeping me." Mmm, check that out. He rubs his knee against Clark's side. Just going to continue to squirm and paw at him at any opportunity. "I think... I know... I want to feel everything. Down to your atoms."
Maybe Superman's got some insane and unsexy confessions that could be dredged up, who knows, who doesn't, but it's difficult not to immediately think in terms of kink in this particular situation, with Bruce looking at him like that. So it's probably fine.
Still worth hesitating over, somehow, while he teasing another man's perineum and silver chains skitter against bedposts. There's a faint flex of a smile for the first part, and it softens a little more at the next. Like he knows that. Like he's guilty of the same. He runs his other hand up and down Bruce's raised thigh, no hard grasps or nail tracks or fingertip sized bruising this time.
His still damp fingers trace light over Bruce's hole before pushing firmer until there is give, stroke a little ways inside him, the process of asking permission from less voluntary factors.
"Something I thought about," he says, after a few seconds of this, "when we were trying out the red sun lamp. And after."
Both hands on Bruce's thighs now, feeling for his own gratification the hard lines of muscles through them. Up to his hips, then over his abdominals, pectorals, not really seeking out all those little pleasure points he'd been so careful to pay attention to before, but feeling for the sake of it. Appreciative, exploratory. Also gives him something to focus on without really needing focus.
"I wanted more of everything you were doing," Clark says. And then seems to consider that sentence, find it lacking, and corrects himself. "I wanted you to hurt me. Not—badly, but I wanted to feel what that's like, when pain could feel good, too. I wanted to see how far we could push it."
His hands still. The implicit thing being that wanted is sitting in the wrong tense, probably.
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no subject
Clark would not be surprised that, if in the middle of this, he looked up to see Bruce laying there with his hands free, like a magic trick. Probably not even that disappointed. He secures the cuff, and then takes a hold of the one it's attached to, drawing it up and Bruce's arm with it towards the headboard. Testing the give and length of it before he threads it through a little, and secures it.
It leaves Bruce with some give, ability to flex and adjust, but unable to bring his hand much lower than his head. That other hand is free to wander for the minute, and while Clark secures that other end, angles a little to allow it in subtle adjustments that show more in the subtle play of ridiculous muscle and less so his expression.
And the minute is up. The second wrist is caught, secured, and anchored in a mirror of the other.
Settling back down in his straddle, Clark's eyes dart over his work, and then back down at Bruce, which evokes a smile out of him before he goes and artlessly claws his way out of his own shirt, and tosses that aside.
no subject
pausing for a bit as he watches Clark take his shirt off
- but the metallic strain of it against the bar built into the headboard for this very purpose doesn't groan or squeak. Too well-made, on both ends.
"Do I get to make requests, or am I just stuck here?"
'Just', sure. Bruce rubs the side of his foot against Clark's ankle. Too steadily rhythmic to be an attempt at a tease; reassuring him that he wants this, that he's enjoying it, that he loves Clark and wants every facet of this. He trusts him, and the extent of that trust is staggering. Unconditional, probably. He's pretty doomed in that respect.
(It's the lack of weight on his shoulders, he thinks, that doesn't transport him elsewhere. Laying flat, spine supported, Clark gently buckling him in. There's no acidic slither of fear through his stomach.)
no subject
If Clark doesn't register that little point of contact against his ankle as reassurance, then he probably still does subconsciously, absorbing that information like all the sensory input of Bruce's biometrics that all make an intuitive kind of sense to him. Accustomed to Bruce's unique set of of biometrics, anyway.
Bruce is good. So is he. Nerves dim down.
He doesn't know enough about certain kinds of dreams to think about countering it with something different. It just is different, from the labradoric exuberance in knocking Bruce down onto the bed to the gentle way he slides a hand up the centre of Bruce's chest, broadly splayed.
No rush here. "You have something in mind?"
no subject
The Thing Is,
Bruce looks up at him, wholly at his mercy, having put himself here willfully. Perfectly safe and happy to be here, simmering on the edge of blooming arousal. His pulse has been ticking up little by little, sending a warm flush over his shoulders, down his chest.
"Kiss me?"
no subject
Charming, sweet, all those things, Clark's smile more around the eyes for once, and he sinks down to oblige him. It's a light kiss, and there's a beat where maybe that's all Bruce will get, before it's echoed in a second, firmer version, teeth and tongue slowly demanding entry while Clark runs his hands up Bruce's arms.
Thumbs feeling a firm path up their undersides, until Clark finds his wrists, and squeezes them through the restraint as they kiss, as he licks into Bruce's mouth. The angle is such that he can press his hips down against Bruce's, can roll them forward in the subtle beginning of something more sexual and friction-y, even if they're only just starting.
The kiss is broken only for Clark to nudge aside Bruce's face with his own face and find a nice spot on his throat to work.
"I should probably mind my manners, huh," he says against Bruce's skin, when that point of contact—a little above collar-line and therefore conspicuous—takes on the start of bruising pressure. His hands squeeze bound wrists again.
no subject
A heavy sigh escapes him, as he relaxes into the pressure. Clark pressing down into him, Clark chewing a welt onto his neck. He can feel exactly where it is, yes, threatening even his fully buttoned and barred suit collars.
"If you don't, you're stuck with me for a week."
Until it heals enough to take makeup properly, anyway, or to be a funny fading bruise harkening back to his playboy days, and not a garish misstep for someone so old. (Discounting, of course, another kind of suit entirely, which will very much cover it.) Bruce tucks one ankle around Clark's. Looks like they're both trapped now!
Or, whatever. He splays his hands and curls them into fists, flexing his wrists, pushing up against the cuffs and Clark's hands.
no subject
Clark remains in place, gently bringing that bruise to the surface. It's a very human point of contact, in contrast to the iron grip of his hands over his wrists. The latter thing gentles, though, easing his touch back so he can hear the creak of pressure through leather and chain instead.
A hum of contentment, and then he moves down, mouth trailing down to kiss against a clavicle, then further down, over the meat of one pectoral, making another mark. Clark runs an open hand down Bruce's side, finding some relatively sensitive spot, and pushing just so. It will hurt, a little, despite the near comical lightness of the touch, like he isn't paying attention.
(Of course he's paying attention.)
Second (third?) mark made, Clark switches sides, using the flat of his tongue to tease a nipple while his other hand strokes down to Bruce's hip. Their lower halves are tangled together, Clark boneless and heavy on top, like he has all day, like he's content to take all the time he wants, not looking at Bruce for approval (while listening keenly) and instead exploring apparently on his own.
no subject
Nothing to do but breathe, and try not to fidget. Sometimes his nipples do nothing for him, sometimes it's very engaging. Apparently being restrained and focused to focus on this alone means it's working very well, and it's all he can do not to make an embarrassing noise. The particularly ghastly tangle of scars high on his chest - telltale of prolonged torture in their uniform texture - usually doesn't feel like anything, but Clark's dedicated attention in the region makes pinpricks of sensation creep in. Good? Bad? Interesting. He shivers, letting out a huff that's almost a moan.
He pulls down on his right restrain a little harder than he means to, and he can feel himself instinctively trying to get out of it. Hmmpph. Bruce wriggles a but under him - as much as he can - and shakes out his wrist, forcing himself to relax.
no subject
Bruce's manufactured attitude from earlier is not completely baseless. Clark does miss Bruce's hands on him, and not just for the obvious reasons, but in part because they tend to tell him what to do, which is its own comfort. There's something to this, though, free rein, prodding forth those little shivers and near-sounds.
Clark wanders his hand to the front of Bruce's pants, feeling along the stiffening length of his cock. His own arousal, which he's allowed to just build on its own, sparks a little at that alone, and he manipulates Bruce through the fabric, stroking, teasing the tip through layers of cloth with the flat of his thumb. He still has his head down, kissing a stretch of skin just above the waistband of his pants.
"I want to make you feel like you make me feel," Clark says, leaning a shoulder against Bruce's thigh as he strokes him. His voice is low, the natural bass of it well suited to a dark bedroom when he wants it to be. "I think if I got all night, I might come close." His hand squeezes.
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All sub no space is a dumb joke. He doesn't get out of his head, the way that would make him good at being dominated. But he still likes it too much for his own good.
"Have I done a poor job of letting you know how good you make me feel?"
If so, that's a major error. Bruce wants to curl his fingers in Clark's hair. He drags in a breath, paradoxically more keyed up against how slow he knows this'll be going. All night, Clark says, and he can feel his cock leak. Fuck.
"You do things to me I didn't think were possible. I should be furious with you."
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He lifts his head again after a slight nudge of his mouth and chin against the shape of Bruce through his pants, hand now easing back up to slide over Bruce's torso, raking back down te centre with the careful application of blunt nails. Remembering how hard he could press when the red sun lamp had been activated. He bets Bruce remembers too.
"But you can't stay mad?"
He hooks his fingers into the edge of Bruce's waistband, tugging it down some. There's a give of tension where threads in the stitching snap beneath his handling.
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Clark is so gentle with him, but so pointed, too. Bruce huffs something that could be interpreted as petulant, if one were determined.
"Orgasms help."
He blinks, the faint sound of a tear belatedly registering as what it is. Too busy being distracted by dull nails and Clark's mouth ghosting over him. Stares down at the younger man.
"Suddenly impatient?"
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He moves out of the way so he can rid Bruce of clothes completely without any more damage than a loosened waistband. An easy fix. Just drop it off at a drycleaners. Long tears through fabric would be more irreparable, easily replaceable when money is no object.
Clark's hands find Bruce's bared thighs, digging in his fingers in a manner that feels, to him, extremely gentle, but feels to Bruce like granite, a jolt of near-painful pressure at each fingertip. "But I want you to be impatient, not me."
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Bruce lets out a breath in the form of a groaned, "Fuck", somewhat involuntarily elongated. He can feel precisely where there will be a bruise, in a few minutes, as the ring finger on Clark's right hand catches somewhere that's always been an acupuncture hot spot. Sharpgood.
"You know I hypnotize myself to stay awake for a week, right?" he says when he's recovered, only a little bit breathy. "I'm good at patience."
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That touch gentles, as it was always going to, Clark laying his palms down against those reddened spots. Warm, soothing. "And I like that," he adds, with a small smile, barely suppressed, while running his hands up and down Bruce's legs, knees to hips, in slow, broad strokes. "I like everything about you."
Concrete plans began and ended in strapping Bruce's wrists into those cuffs. Intention thereafter is stable, but how it manifests is hopefully more trial than error. He turns his hands to grip the inner of Bruce's thighs and carefully, inexorably, pushes them apart, and then pins them in place against the mattress.
Clark settles in, lowering down to resume some of what he'd already begun above Bruce's waist, mouth touching against one of the redder marks where he'd noticed a muscle flinch, and laying a kiss against it, one that turns bitier around that familiar damp sucking pressure.
Leisurely, he switches to the other thigh to do the same, this one closer to the more tender innerside, the scrape of teeth and tongue and lips working against skin to tease.
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But is it. Can Superman simply do everything.
He's as hard as he can be, which is impressive considering how little they've technically been doing. Stiff and curved up over his lower abdominals, on display thanks to the way Clark muscles in between his thighs, leaving him so exposed and vulnerable. He pulls on the cuffs, luxuriates in the burn through his shoulders and the way it contrasts with the other man's gentle, but inescapable attention. Aware that he has to choose, now, between digging his heels in (proverbially, but in the literal, he is in fact digging one heel in, so that he can rub his calf against Clark's side) and doing what instinct will always tell him to do. Resist. Defy. And what he wants to do, which is to fold and fall.
What fun is it to let Clark win right away, though. (Because Clark will. Even if Bruce chooses to resist.)
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Almost enough to distract from the transition from marking up his thighs to Clark's mouth finding some sensitive spot much higher, close to the base of his cock, the mmm mouthed into skin and felt as a warm vibration. He can't know how close Bruce might be to doing more than just buckling down and enduring, and his own cock is now stiff in the pants he's still wearing, but,
it's easier to ignore when he has this one single-minded goal, when he knows what he wants and that he'll get it eventually. With Bruce's leg pressed just so, he can feel when Clark idly shifts his own hips against the mattress, the slightest scratch of an itch. He shifts to lavish attention against that same spot opposite. Maybe Bruce is keyed up enough to feel the motion of that transition against his cock, and nothing else. Maybe, if he looks, there's a moment of eye contact.
Small adjustments. A hand high on Bruce's thigh, a thumb pressing into soft skin. Everything intimate, but scarcely an inch too off the mark to be satisfying.
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Bruce shifts into the hand on his thigh. Pivoting into the pressure of that thumb, deepening a bruise. It's pain but like a deep-tissue massage, good. Something to break up the constant not-quite-enough that Clark is threading through him, and wrapping him up in. Presumably his cheating will not be tolerated for very long, though.
"The problem," oh wow he sounds more out of breath than he had thought he would, dangit, "is that I so fucking love what you're doing."
If Clark wants Bruce to come before he means to, circling back to their surprisingly sweet adventure with the red light, it will be hampered by how much Bruce does in fact like being strung out this way.
"I wish I could see inside to the way your heart beats. Do the same thing to you. Find everything just... ah."
Just perfect, just like that.
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He smiles into what he's doing as Bruce speaks, his mouth hovered just over abdominal muscles, and the next touch is a bite, very human in pressure and intent. These little things, the almost rhythmically repeated nail drags, the patterns of bruises all feel a little like—if not new to him, but recontextualised. He knows how they really feel, wants to lay them all over Bruce now that he does.
"You do that just fine," he suggests, and his voice is the very same as if they were talking while waiting in line for coffee. Clark puts his hands on Bruce's waist, and in a far too easy motion for someone as densely made as Batman, he'll find himself pulled down several crucial inches across the mattress. The chains rattle and then are strung taut, forcing Bruce's arms straight.
Possibly too much, at least in the moment. The pliant, padded leather means they don't cut in, but there's a throb of pressure and a tingle at the very tips of his fingers that push it.
"You find out what I want before I even know it," Clark is saying, meanwhile, climbing back up the length of Bruce's body so as to kiss him. Bruce will feel his own cock touch against Clark's abdomen, the fabric of his pants, absent of pressure from above for now.
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Barely any time to draw breath before Clark is kissing him, but he'd rather have that than oxygen, tipping his face up into it. Takes him a second to muster the presence of mind to hook one leg fully around Clark's hips and push up, rubbing against him, sending a warning shiver up his spine at the almost too-rough texture of scraping his flushed cock against the other man's trousers. But he wants to feel him, and is capable of his own small measures of defying gravity.
"There's almost nothing better," he muses, breathless, "than doing something and watching you realize how much you like it."
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Still, warmth aside, it's a little like trying to get something made of granite to relent, Clark smiling against Bruce's neck where he's nuzzled in to lay down some more kisses. Strange, the experience of this without Bruce's hands on him, in his hair, clutching his back.
"Mm," he agrees. "Big fan."
He reaches down, clasping beneath the thigh of the leg lifted around him, pushing until it's lifted, folded higher, which forces Bruce's hips and ass back down against the bed. "You got any more requests?"
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Bruce has no choice but to end up flat again, though there's a petulant rub of foot against foot after. He looks at Clark, all dark and smoldering, like he's the one with x-ray vision, and he can see through the other man to every atom, and understand what he needs, and aches for, and is too scared to say he wants.
Also, like he's very horny. Which he is.
"I want you to tell me something you don't want me to find out," he says, calm and demanding, "and then I want you to fuck me until I can't breathe."
The evening would be over quite soon, if they did that, but it'd be very enjoyable, wouldn't it. His gaze doesn't waver. Daring.
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Except don't-give feels complicated, all of a sudden, and Clark's mouth presses into a line before he ducks his head to kiss Bruce again, and this time there's a bite to it, sharp against Bruce's bottom lip, only barely shy from not breaking skin.
Once parted, he brings his hand up to touch Bruce's mouth, carefully negotiating two fingers past his teeth. "Suck them," he says, instruction quiet, and he presses against Bruce's tongue regardless, with the focus of getting his fingers damp to the second knuckle. Once satisfied with that, that hand moves down between them, between Bruce's legs, taking his balls against his palm while slick fingers tease that strip of skin just behind them.
Almost too light, then almost too much pressure, then nearly perfect.
"You think I'm keeping secrets, Wayne?" he asks.
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what, eat his heart? Something like that.
He sucks on his fingers while he can, doing a thorough job, letting his teeth scrape them when Clark withdraws - more than he would on his cock. But Clark could probably take it; question is, would he like it. Bruce drags in a breath and his expression turns slightly disappointed, as if he wanted more of that. More of Clark inside him in any form.
Quickly derailed by his hand, and its talented probing. (Haha alien probe.) He shivers, shifts his weight into it, feeling one arm flinch involuntarily from the stimulation, and the restraints. The chain jingles, bright and happy.
"I think you're keeping me." Mmm, check that out. He rubs his knee against Clark's side. Just going to continue to squirm and paw at him at any opportunity. "I think... I know... I want to feel everything. Down to your atoms."
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Still worth hesitating over, somehow, while he teasing another man's perineum and silver chains skitter against bedposts. There's a faint flex of a smile for the first part, and it softens a little more at the next. Like he knows that. Like he's guilty of the same. He runs his other hand up and down Bruce's raised thigh, no hard grasps or nail tracks or fingertip sized bruising this time.
His still damp fingers trace light over Bruce's hole before pushing firmer until there is give, stroke a little ways inside him, the process of asking permission from less voluntary factors.
"Something I thought about," he says, after a few seconds of this, "when we were trying out the red sun lamp. And after."
Both hands on Bruce's thighs now, feeling for his own gratification the hard lines of muscles through them. Up to his hips, then over his abdominals, pectorals, not really seeking out all those little pleasure points he'd been so careful to pay attention to before, but feeling for the sake of it. Appreciative, exploratory. Also gives him something to focus on without really needing focus.
"I wanted more of everything you were doing," Clark says. And then seems to consider that sentence, find it lacking, and corrects himself. "I wanted you to hurt me. Not—badly, but I wanted to feel what that's like, when pain could feel good, too. I wanted to see how far we could push it."
His hands still. The implicit thing being that wanted is sitting in the wrong tense, probably.
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