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.
Bruce is too much muscle and sinew for how well he can move; enough control to help make getting fucked less of an ordeal, if he can pay attention, but always so firm (hah) as to make getting fucked require some more work, if he can't. Clark's teasing fingers against his rim feel good, make him feel torn between letting go and indulging in the time commitment, and focusing in to get to where he wants him faster.
But then Clark is moving his hands. Bruce watches him again, eyes on his, goosebumps prickling on his arms. The contrast between them - Clark's soft, perfect skin, the prickle of chest chair, the line of it from his navel down, and Bruce scarred and worn, waxed clean to combat the agony of friction burn in armor - always does something extra to him. They should be more alike, two men of their proportions, but sometimes he thinks of it like sun and moon. Which is too gooey to ever say aloud. Fortunately Clark hasn't asked any secrets from him.
Oh, sweetheart.
He doesn't think he can say that aloud, either. Maybe it's there on his face, the way something catches in his chest and aches. A flex of both hands, mourning the inability to reach out to him.
"Every knife edge you want to find, and feel, we'll sink into," Bruce promises him, his voice rough with arousal and something else, too. "You looked so beautiful with that bruise on your throat."
That probably shouldn't be moving. How ridiculous.
But it is, the easy and gentle enthusiastic acceptance of something he'd buried (not deep down, but out of sight anyway), something that felt like it could come close to that ephemeral too much that continues to evade them both. Some latent tension, that had begun to wind as he spoke, loosens. We'll sink into, like there are few places either of them could go that the other won't follow.
Which is a lot, for a sex thing, and yet. Clark absorbs this, feels himself warm to the compliment, and gives a small nod.
Touches one of the bruises he'd raised on Bruce's flesh, down near his hip, and presses his thumb against it, the thrill of watching someone so in control, made the way he is, reacting to something so relatively minor. "Only you could do that to me," he says, voice huskier than before, eyes darker. Leaning back in and over, hand at Bruce's side blindly finding another reddened patch, probing it, making it ache. "And make me want it so much."
His mouth brushes Bruce's, coaxing him into lifting his head to chase the kiss there.
The surface level is easy: Bruce is allowed to like it, so why not Clark? But he knows - he thinks he knows, anyway - what the hesitation might be. The potential for shame, as a being who has entered debates about intelligent design by virtue of existing. If there's anything human he should want, how dare he yearn for what could be harmful. Not the same as the revulsion at a billionaire being unhappy, but perhaps there's some insight. Feels like walking into a trap to admit anything. Trust me with it. Let's go into it together.
And fuck, how could he not want to help him with it. The real embarrassing thing is how unbelievably turned on Bruce is going to be, watching Clark lose it.
His groan is sharp and quick when Clark pushes his thumb against that little bruise. Pulse still steady, but so much faster than usual, exposing his shaken composure. Tilts up into that kiss, making it deeper, harder, as much as Clark will let him. He feels hypersensitive and too slick, some mess of wetness on his abs where his cock's been leaking. Like a teenager. Like no one's been able to do to him since he was a teenager.
"Clark," he pants when they break. That's all. Just his name.
How tempting, to sink right down and rut against him and kiss and share in the mess and the warmth and the need. Clark feels that impulse as blood draining straight to his cock when Bruce pants his name, and he doesn't think anyone in this room would be mad about it, if he did.
"Now I'm gonna fuck you," he says, instead, bitey smile more heard in his voice and felt in the murmured kiss than seen, this close. Now he allows more deliberate contact, lets Bruce's cock line up against his own through his pants, pressed back down against the hard surface of his belly. "For as long as I want."
Clark has only known trust to be like faith. Invisible, ghostly, ready to evaporate. It isn't like that with Lois, and it isn't like that with Bruce. With Bruce, it feels like concrete, steel, a trust fall in the darkness where the darkness itself catches you. Makes you wanna go back up, fall again.
He forces himself away. Snags up the little bottle of lube kept in easy reach (tactical foresight) and returns to kneeling upright in between Bruce's legs. His hand has wandered to his own groin to relieve some of that ache there while opening the bottle, and then pushing Bruce's thighs apart to tip a brief ribbon of the stuff to trickle down between his legs, a hand moving then to guide it, coat his own fingers liberally.
Something like a shiver curls up his spine, but it's harder, and Bruce clamps down on it, making his response to Clark's assertion like a squirm instead. And then he groans, frustrated and wanting, at the second half. For as long as I want. One does not actually need to be the world's greatest detective to figure out Clark's (tactical foreplay) master plan, with that.
"With your pants on?" - is managed, rough and bitten-off, as he's more focused on the way he's being easily moved around. Wrenched a little far apart to be doing anything like hooking an ankle around Clark's, Bruce can only lay there, tense up, relax, breathe, shift restlessly. Again he pulls too hard on one cuff, begins the ninja-instinct process of undoing it, and then makes himself stop. Not like these are doing nothing, and certainly Clark would notice and intervene, but it's just one of those impulses he has to curb now and again. He doesn't want to get out because he feels trapped. He wants to get out so that he can grab Clark, throw him over, and sit on his cock. Slightly different optics.
"Does it hurt at all to deny yourself? To wait like this?"
His fingers are back to stroking Bruce's entrance, slipperier than before, a little cool from the coating of oily substance, but warming. Clark intends to take his time with this process, too, watching Bruce as he feels his way through deepening his touch, a gentle fucking in its own right. The feeling of that alone does things to him, a tension beginning to wind through his body, kneeling up on the bed with effortless ease, but everything a little locked in, from the tip of his head to the strain of thighs keeping Bruce's apart.
Anticipation. And Bruce's questions, nudging at his patience, calling attention to the ache of holding out.
"But it's gonna be worth the wait," he says. "You're so hard already." His free hand touches just the base of Bruce's cock, applying a particular kind of pressure that will make the throb and pulse of bloodrush just a little more pronounced. "I've barely even touched this." It's not a taunt, voice too quiet and gentle and rough at the edges. Pleased, if anything, affected.
He loops one hand around the cuff's chain, giving himself something to grab onto besides air, or dig fingernails into palms. The desire to touch Clark is almost more powerful than the ache between his legs— and that is significant. With some fingers pushing inside of him and some more fingers curling around the root of his cock like a ring put there on purpose. Bruce's knee jerks in a spasm of pure arousal, nerves all overclocked.
You're going to kind of fuck me with your pants on?
is not the q-and-a chain there, but, half delirious, Bruce considers it. Instead he lets out a rough exhaled laugh.
"You've never needed to actually touch me to get me hard." Panted, his knee still hitched up against Clark's side - as much as he's permitted to move. "You could sit on the other side of the room and tell me what you want to do, and I'd be like this. Granted, maybe not as quickly." Haha. Bruce scrubs his head back on the pillow, trying to talk himself out of the impulse to rock back onto Clark's fingers. His cock twitches at the careful, but pointed touch. "You know how bad I always want you. Or you should. You should know that getting off with you occupies a permanent portion of my fucking brain, now. Christ, Clark."
That last, bitterly exasperated, like will you. Move. Already.
Again, there's no room for these words to be smug in some way, just raw and murmured as Clark keeps working him, eyes locked on him, drinking in each involuntary twitch or compulsive squirm. Unceasing, where he works him, locked down in the discipline of being careful, of doing this properly. By now, Clark doesn't think that even in his most desperate state, he'd ever really hurt anyone doing this, but the knife edge of control feels so close to slipping, takes up so much focus, that it never seemed worth it, before.
Until now, anyway, and here he is, pressing right up against it. "I know," he says again, fingers pushing deeper. "'Cause I want you like that too. When you're near me, it's all I can do to keep my hands off you." And technically, Bruce is near him all the time, if such things can be measured in how long it takes to get from A to B.
His hand withdraws, and no, he isn't going to fuck Bruce with his pants on, shoving them down off his waist and kneel-stepping out. A soft sigh of relief, of cool air against his cock, which is shiny where it's been leaking too. He holds himself with his slick hand, a few strokes to distribute run-off lube from root to tip, but more distracted by, far more keyed up by watching Bruce. Enough. At least enough of this, of driving each other slowly insane.
In leaning over, helping him hitch a leg up so that he can press the head of his cock against Bruce's ass. "Okay?" and only waits for the barest of affirmation before, torturously slow but also not stopping, he pushes himself in.
Rasped, "That'd be one way to cause a distraction."
Hasn't happened quite yet, Bruce pulling back the cowl and kissing him, fully uniformed. What does that look like - Batman cornering him, or Superman floating down, meeting him on a ledge, like a romance movie twisted up all strange with armor and billowing capes and scheming villains just off to one side?
Probably just ruin millions of dollars worth of gear peeling it off.
His breath hitches when he sees Clark fully naked, pulling at the cuffs. I want to touch you written all over him, silently screamed. So it's a good thing Clark isn't wasting any time getting inside him. He can't fucking stand it. He breathes steady and even, tangling legs up and around, squeezing him in even though there's nothing he can do to hurry him.
The slow sinking in is perfect as it is. He feels Bruce's legs tug at him, hears chains creak and protest, feels that urgency strung through all parts of Bruce's body, and it feels nearly sadistically glorious to ignore that and move exactly as fast as he wants. It's not really denial when the end result is him buried to the hilt in the other man, anyway.
Clark thinks so.
And he leans in and down once there, a deliberate closeness that traps Bruce's cock between them, elbows against the mattress, hands gentle against Bruce's sides.
He rolls his hips, a relatively small movement that feels like a lot, given current configuration. "God you feel good," is breathed against Bruce's collarbone, followed by another luxurious roll that this time draws a groan out of Clark. And again.
It's overwhelming, like it always is. Bruce has let other people fuck him, but it's never been how it is with Clark; he isn't sure if it's the sheer physical dynamics, or some other inherent, intangible spark between them. This was always on a list of sex acts as 'okay', and now he could be ashamed of himself for how into it he gets. It doesn't matter what they do. Bruce wants it like oxygen.
Not that this specifically isn't extremely good on its own. Because it is. Clark reaching parts of him he, at some nebulous point before their sexual entanglement, frankly did not think could be reached. There is nothing forced about this - even with the handcuffs - and yet the inescapable solidity of him is so uncompromising that he feels pinned, helpless and held so securely at the same time, re-arranged at some animal level.
Whispered this time, "Clark." He wants to kiss him, but he can tug his hair or do much besides breathe and lay there and take it, try to rock up into him, bruise the insides of his thighs clinging to him.
"Will you—" ngh, cut off by some desperate sound, and Bruce straining against the handcuffs. The posts they're looped around don't creak, too well-made for it, but it's a near thing.
"Yeah," Clark says. Whatever that was, yeah, because probably, now, or later.
In this case, it's both hands taking Bruce's face between them, lifting his head to meet Clark for a kiss, one that breaks itself against his mouth, licking in deep and dragging his teeth against Bruce's bottom lip, and then his jaw and then down his neck, his chest, where Clark can move easier, those slow circular motions picking up a little, pulling back further so he can sink in harder.
Need for a new angle, a new pace, after some time spent at this one, has Clark pushing himself up, bracing his hands against Bruce's outstretched arms, fingers curled around straining biceps, a new source of pressure as he pins him there firm enough for chains up at his wrists to slacken.
Faster, harder, but still patient, still relentlessly self-indulgent, apparently—all the while focused on each breath and groan out of Bruce, each tangling flex of chain, muscle twitches of his legs around his waist. On Clark's side, he is borderline meditative as he fucks him, eyes half-hooded, each curl and rise as precise as an inexhaustible workout. The hands braced against Bruce's arms, occasionally, squeeze gently, as more warm shivers begin to work through him.
Clark may feel like he's being self-indulgent, but Bruce feels like he's the one being spoiled. That meditative quality is catching, even as he's driven crazy by the relentless pace. Bruce feels transported, shuddering and leaning his head back, letting his spine and shoulders and arms go slack and just taking it. The kind of lack of self-management usually only seen when he's asleep (and not every time he's asleep, either).
"I meant," it doesn't matter how breathless and quiet he is, Clark will hear him, "Will you keep fucking me if I come."
Doesn't sound like a worry. Sounds nearly like pre-emptive begging; please do that, I'm so close, and I don't want you to stop. Clark said he'd fuck him as long as he wanted, but Clark has a tendency to err on the side of human comfort. This isn't about that. Pleasure is great, having his entire brain erased for an hour is better.
Speaking of pleasure. Bruce is not the best at achieving orgasm purely through penetrative pressure, no matter how much of that is aimed correctly (and Clark is very good at it, to the point where Bruce has wondered in the past if he hasn't used x-ray vision to decide exactly where), but it's been so long as his cock has spent so much of it being rubbed between two sets of abdominal muscles he feels like he could be, and soon. If only Clark will pick up the past just a little.
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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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But then Clark is moving his hands. Bruce watches him again, eyes on his, goosebumps prickling on his arms. The contrast between them - Clark's soft, perfect skin, the prickle of chest chair, the line of it from his navel down, and Bruce scarred and worn, waxed clean to combat the agony of friction burn in armor - always does something extra to him. They should be more alike, two men of their proportions, but sometimes he thinks of it like sun and moon. Which is too gooey to ever say aloud. Fortunately Clark hasn't asked any secrets from him.
Oh, sweetheart.
He doesn't think he can say that aloud, either. Maybe it's there on his face, the way something catches in his chest and aches. A flex of both hands, mourning the inability to reach out to him.
"Every knife edge you want to find, and feel, we'll sink into," Bruce promises him, his voice rough with arousal and something else, too. "You looked so beautiful with that bruise on your throat."
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But it is, the easy and gentle enthusiastic acceptance of something he'd buried (not deep down, but out of sight anyway), something that felt like it could come close to that ephemeral too much that continues to evade them both. Some latent tension, that had begun to wind as he spoke, loosens. We'll sink into, like there are few places either of them could go that the other won't follow.
Which is a lot, for a sex thing, and yet. Clark absorbs this, feels himself warm to the compliment, and gives a small nod.
Touches one of the bruises he'd raised on Bruce's flesh, down near his hip, and presses his thumb against it, the thrill of watching someone so in control, made the way he is, reacting to something so relatively minor. "Only you could do that to me," he says, voice huskier than before, eyes darker. Leaning back in and over, hand at Bruce's side blindly finding another reddened patch, probing it, making it ache. "And make me want it so much."
His mouth brushes Bruce's, coaxing him into lifting his head to chase the kiss there.
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And fuck, how could he not want to help him with it. The real embarrassing thing is how unbelievably turned on Bruce is going to be, watching Clark lose it.
His groan is sharp and quick when Clark pushes his thumb against that little bruise. Pulse still steady, but so much faster than usual, exposing his shaken composure. Tilts up into that kiss, making it deeper, harder, as much as Clark will let him. He feels hypersensitive and too slick, some mess of wetness on his abs where his cock's been leaking. Like a teenager. Like no one's been able to do to him since he was a teenager.
"Clark," he pants when they break. That's all. Just his name.
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"Now I'm gonna fuck you," he says, instead, bitey smile more heard in his voice and felt in the murmured kiss than seen, this close. Now he allows more deliberate contact, lets Bruce's cock line up against his own through his pants, pressed back down against the hard surface of his belly. "For as long as I want."
Clark has only known trust to be like faith. Invisible, ghostly, ready to evaporate. It isn't like that with Lois, and it isn't like that with Bruce. With Bruce, it feels like concrete, steel, a trust fall in the darkness where the darkness itself catches you. Makes you wanna go back up, fall again.
He forces himself away. Snags up the little bottle of lube kept in easy reach (tactical foresight) and returns to kneeling upright in between Bruce's legs. His hand has wandered to his own groin to relieve some of that ache there while opening the bottle, and then pushing Bruce's thighs apart to tip a brief ribbon of the stuff to trickle down between his legs, a hand moving then to guide it, coat his own fingers liberally.
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"With your pants on?" - is managed, rough and bitten-off, as he's more focused on the way he's being easily moved around. Wrenched a little far apart to be doing anything like hooking an ankle around Clark's, Bruce can only lay there, tense up, relax, breathe, shift restlessly. Again he pulls too hard on one cuff, begins the ninja-instinct process of undoing it, and then makes himself stop. Not like these are doing nothing, and certainly Clark would notice and intervene, but it's just one of those impulses he has to curb now and again. He doesn't want to get out because he feels trapped. He wants to get out so that he can grab Clark, throw him over, and sit on his cock. Slightly different optics.
"Does it hurt at all to deny yourself? To wait like this?"
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His fingers are back to stroking Bruce's entrance, slipperier than before, a little cool from the coating of oily substance, but warming. Clark intends to take his time with this process, too, watching Bruce as he feels his way through deepening his touch, a gentle fucking in its own right. The feeling of that alone does things to him, a tension beginning to wind through his body, kneeling up on the bed with effortless ease, but everything a little locked in, from the tip of his head to the strain of thighs keeping Bruce's apart.
Anticipation. And Bruce's questions, nudging at his patience, calling attention to the ache of holding out.
"But it's gonna be worth the wait," he says. "You're so hard already." His free hand touches just the base of Bruce's cock, applying a particular kind of pressure that will make the throb and pulse of bloodrush just a little more pronounced. "I've barely even touched this." It's not a taunt, voice too quiet and gentle and rough at the edges. Pleased, if anything, affected.
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You're going to kind of fuck me with your pants on?
is not the q-and-a chain there, but, half delirious, Bruce considers it. Instead he lets out a rough exhaled laugh.
"You've never needed to actually touch me to get me hard." Panted, his knee still hitched up against Clark's side - as much as he's permitted to move. "You could sit on the other side of the room and tell me what you want to do, and I'd be like this. Granted, maybe not as quickly." Haha. Bruce scrubs his head back on the pillow, trying to talk himself out of the impulse to rock back onto Clark's fingers. His cock twitches at the careful, but pointed touch. "You know how bad I always want you. Or you should. You should know that getting off with you occupies a permanent portion of my fucking brain, now. Christ, Clark."
That last, bitterly exasperated, like will you. Move. Already.
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Again, there's no room for these words to be smug in some way, just raw and murmured as Clark keeps working him, eyes locked on him, drinking in each involuntary twitch or compulsive squirm. Unceasing, where he works him, locked down in the discipline of being careful, of doing this properly. By now, Clark doesn't think that even in his most desperate state, he'd ever really hurt anyone doing this, but the knife edge of control feels so close to slipping, takes up so much focus, that it never seemed worth it, before.
Until now, anyway, and here he is, pressing right up against it. "I know," he says again, fingers pushing deeper. "'Cause I want you like that too. When you're near me, it's all I can do to keep my hands off you." And technically, Bruce is near him all the time, if such things can be measured in how long it takes to get from A to B.
His hand withdraws, and no, he isn't going to fuck Bruce with his pants on, shoving them down off his waist and kneel-stepping out. A soft sigh of relief, of cool air against his cock, which is shiny where it's been leaking too. He holds himself with his slick hand, a few strokes to distribute run-off lube from root to tip, but more distracted by, far more keyed up by watching Bruce. Enough. At least enough of this, of driving each other slowly insane.
In leaning over, helping him hitch a leg up so that he can press the head of his cock against Bruce's ass. "Okay?" and only waits for the barest of affirmation before, torturously slow but also not stopping, he pushes himself in.
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Hasn't happened quite yet, Bruce pulling back the cowl and kissing him, fully uniformed. What does that look like - Batman cornering him, or Superman floating down, meeting him on a ledge, like a romance movie twisted up all strange with armor and billowing capes and scheming villains just off to one side?
Probably just ruin millions of dollars worth of gear peeling it off.
His breath hitches when he sees Clark fully naked, pulling at the cuffs. I want to touch you written all over him, silently screamed. So it's a good thing Clark isn't wasting any time getting inside him. He can't fucking stand it. He breathes steady and even, tangling legs up and around, squeezing him in even though there's nothing he can do to hurry him.
"Yes, fuck."
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Clark thinks so.
And he leans in and down once there, a deliberate closeness that traps Bruce's cock between them, elbows against the mattress, hands gentle against Bruce's sides.
He rolls his hips, a relatively small movement that feels like a lot, given current configuration. "God you feel good," is breathed against Bruce's collarbone, followed by another luxurious roll that this time draws a groan out of Clark. And again.
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Not that this specifically isn't extremely good on its own. Because it is. Clark reaching parts of him he, at some nebulous point before their sexual entanglement, frankly did not think could be reached. There is nothing forced about this - even with the handcuffs - and yet the inescapable solidity of him is so uncompromising that he feels pinned, helpless and held so securely at the same time, re-arranged at some animal level.
Whispered this time, "Clark." He wants to kiss him, but he can tug his hair or do much besides breathe and lay there and take it, try to rock up into him, bruise the insides of his thighs clinging to him.
"Will you—" ngh, cut off by some desperate sound, and Bruce straining against the handcuffs. The posts they're looped around don't creak, too well-made for it, but it's a near thing.
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In this case, it's both hands taking Bruce's face between them, lifting his head to meet Clark for a kiss, one that breaks itself against his mouth, licking in deep and dragging his teeth against Bruce's bottom lip, and then his jaw and then down his neck, his chest, where Clark can move easier, those slow circular motions picking up a little, pulling back further so he can sink in harder.
Need for a new angle, a new pace, after some time spent at this one, has Clark pushing himself up, bracing his hands against Bruce's outstretched arms, fingers curled around straining biceps, a new source of pressure as he pins him there firm enough for chains up at his wrists to slacken.
Faster, harder, but still patient, still relentlessly self-indulgent, apparently—all the while focused on each breath and groan out of Bruce, each tangling flex of chain, muscle twitches of his legs around his waist. On Clark's side, he is borderline meditative as he fucks him, eyes half-hooded, each curl and rise as precise as an inexhaustible workout. The hands braced against Bruce's arms, occasionally, squeeze gently, as more warm shivers begin to work through him.
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"I meant," it doesn't matter how breathless and quiet he is, Clark will hear him, "Will you keep fucking me if I come."
Doesn't sound like a worry. Sounds nearly like pre-emptive begging; please do that, I'm so close, and I don't want you to stop. Clark said he'd fuck him as long as he wanted, but Clark has a tendency to err on the side of human comfort. This isn't about that. Pleasure is great, having his entire brain erased for an hour is better.
Speaking of pleasure. Bruce is not the best at achieving orgasm purely through penetrative pressure, no matter how much of that is aimed correctly (and Clark is very good at it, to the point where Bruce has wondered in the past if he hasn't used x-ray vision to decide exactly where), but it's been so long as his cock has spent so much of it being rubbed between two sets of abdominal muscles he feels like he could be, and soon. If only Clark will pick up the past just a little.
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