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.
And he keeps his hands where they are, stapling Bruce's arms to the bed, letting his centre of gravity become grounded and leaning his weight there. It lets him be near, it lets him take charge of what he's doing and what Bruce is doing, it lets him move the way he wants, and most importantly, it lets him watch. They share each other with different people, some of the same people, and he can't help but wonder, sometimes, if Bruce like this is just for him.
Untethered from his sense of self-possession, which is both sexy in its presence and now its absence. "Oh fuck yes," is maybe another repetition of his answer, half-whispered, mostly groaned, but more likely in response to his own sense of shivery urgency, the slow wind up of eventual release beginning to pull up through his body.
There's really nowhere to go from here but more, harder, faster. Even this very sturdy expensive bed shudders along with them as the pace is picked up, Clark chasing that feeling.
Anyone else would falter, or run out of energy. Clark is beyond human and so there's no worry of that; instead it's the worry of going too far and too fast, of hurting Bruce through means that exceed mundane concerns. Bruce doesn't feel anything like worry. Not remotely. Clark fucks into him like that and he feels like his body isn't his own anymore— it should terrify him. It doesn't. He tries to watch him, but the sensations crashing over him pull control completely away.
Bruce pushes up so hard against Clark's hands that he's bruising himself. He comes against Clark, between them, choking on a sound that's louder than he usually ever lets out, a flinch going through his whole body. Curling up as much as he can beneath the seemingly permanent weight of him, everything against, against, against. Caught, Held. Safe. He can make that noise, he can thrash against him, he can enjoy this. Because it's Clark.
Fuck, fuck. His brain thinks he says something, but it's just a rasped, deflated sound, trembling beneath the other man.
It took a little getting used to, not flinching away from this. To interpret thrashing and bucking for what it is, and what it isn't, i.e., struggle, i.e., stop. Clark holds fast, and doesn't stop. Slows, maybe, where he pushes in deep and holds Bruce through the climax of it, before resuming.
All of it—muscles locking up, spine arcing, guttural needy sounds he hasn't heard before, the hot liquid spatter between them, all of it seems to twist white hot through Clark.
He gets a hand under one of Bruce's legs, pushing it up until he can hook his arm beneath his knee, pushing him down against the bed. (God, he still has to be so careful, but also god, the incremental amount he doesn't have to be as so careful is a space he loves to exist in, for those bright, brilliant moments.)
"Bruce," is raw, out of him, and it's either seconds or minutes of this, of holding Bruce half folded against the bed, one hand locked hard against his leg and the other impossibly gentle on his chest, before Clark comes too, shoving himself off a precipice he's been balancing on for what feels like forever. There's the slightest flash of solar-light that floods out human blue in his eyes, momentary but bright in the dimness, before he flinches his eyes shut and turns his head, a shudder running through him.
He doesn't relax readily, cock still buried deep, hips still making small, borderline involuntary motions as the moment passes. A long sigh out.
Time ceases to exist. Everything is flayed open, his breath caught, his heart going wildly. The kind of orgasm that's as good as it is devastating, leaving a seemingly endless expanse of afterglow. Clark pushes him like that, cracks him open, and Bruce offers no resistance. He doesn't have any. Clark is welcome, perfect, meant to be doing just this
Bruce's eyes are closed or close enough, but he feels the heat from it, sees the flash of white from beyond his eyelids, and knows what happens. He can see it in his mind's eye, because he's seen it properly before. Clark in all his strangeness with that unearthly glow, too much visible with the sun trapped in his skull.
Beautiful, in its nightmarishness.
Floating somewhere still, unwilling to return to Earth, Bruce moves. Slow - and not so deliberate, even while he's intent he's still jackknifed and very much pinned - he digs in the hell of the leg Clark hasn't captured. And pushes up, back onto his cock. Harder. Too hard. It doesn't register as pain. It shoves him further off the ledge in his head.
The pressure on Bruce's arms lessens, his leg eased back into a less fraught position, but Clark only crowds in closer. He doesn't withdraw, laying random kisses against Bruce's throat and shoulders and face, riding afterglow down a river. For the moment, he's practically forgotten about the deadly heat that had just nearly erupted through his eye sockets.
This next thing may not work, he's aware, but he's willing to try, wants it very much, thinks Bruce might too, if he has the presence of mind to want anything more. Slowly, he rocks his hips again against Bruce, a less frantic, far gentler motion than moments ago. He's still hard inside of him, and he could stay that way if he wanted to. He does, though, err on the side of human comfort.
Still. "I love you," he's murmuring against Bruce's jaw, "I want you," between kisses against his throat, "more of you. I want to keep fucking you."
Clark slides his hands up Bruce's outstretched arms.
"Tell me," lifting his head to look at him, eyes dark, hazy.
This is the very thing that Bruce had asked for, and Clark's nearly killed him with heat vision, and he's trapped beneath him, completely at his mercy while the Kryptonian has some out-of-body euphoric experience— and yet there's still something so sweet-natured about him. I love you. Tell me. Bruce even thinks if he said no, Clark would stop, and it'd be fine.
Except, it wouldn't be fine for Bruce.
"I want you to fuck me, Clark."
His voice is steadier than it has any right to be. An important conviction, acting your boyfriend to go beyond safe and sane and getting off on it so powerfully. Bruce is lucky that his libido will let him enjoy it for real, too, even though he's not thinking about that right now. All he's thinking of is Clark. No room for anything else.
"I need you to."
Harder to say the other thing. His fingers curl around Clark's hands as best they can.
It's very sexy of Bruce to say it out loud, or, Clark's body thinks so, given the surge of renewed arousal he experiences. Clark slips his fingers between Bruce's, holding him there, and moving against him, slow and gentle but wantonly sensual, gradually picking up some pace, but mostly staying in this one mode, one of nearness and entanglement and friction. This feels, for the moment, like the easiest thing to do, all he wants to do.
It's a slow grind to completion, this time, but he's non-verbal by the time he's close save for panting groans at each thrust in and drag out, his breath warm against Bruce's cheek and whole body hotter than that, pressed close. His hands slide out of Bruce's, gripping onto the chains above him, and there's a tug, a wrench, a metallic discordant chiming—
The dull pressure that's drawn a taut line all up Bruce's body from his restraints suddenly unravels as chain snaps as easy as anything. Clark's hands get under him, his arms wrap around him. He doesn't ask for it, for Bruce to hold him back, just expects he will get it.
Bruce comes again, but it's secondary to the catharsis of just being here like this with Clark, and accepting the knowledge of what will come after; being bruised and sprained and needing careful attention once it's all wound down. Setting aside ego and pretense and doing nothing more than existing, experiencing, being swept up.
When the chains are snapped, Bruce curls his arms around Clark. His knees have kind of given up at this stage, but they're still as entangled as can be. There's a quiet thunk, jingle; his right cuff completely falling off his wrist, having at some point escaped. Like a magic trick.
He buries his face against Clark's hair and clings to him, finding the strength somewhere. Trembling entirely out of his control, on some wave of psychological release. It'll hurt, and soon, but that doesn't matter; he's used to weathering pain brought on by hate and violence. He's good at it. Getting to shoulder it because of something good, and give this to Clark (and maybe even be punished for the things he's done to him) is euphoric.
They are a tangled mess by the time Clark finishes, the tight circle of his arms around Bruce suddenly going steely rather than applying pressure, a neutral kind of locking up when that second orgasm hits. He is quieter but not quiet, just gasping in at the feeling of pleasure dragged out of him, transported for those long moments. And then relaxing slowly, a more human quality entering into the hold he has on the other man, deadweighty and slack in the joints.
Relaxing enough to feel Bruce shake, and he forces himself not to start worrying. Letting fear in. Trusting them both that they're okay, even if they've fallen over some line in the sand of sanity.
Coming back to earth. The jungle sounds of Gotham outside and far below, though silent to human ears. Breathing, sweaty sheets in a tangle around them, them in a tangle among them. Clark becomes conscious of being collapsed on top and slowly gathers his strength back into himself as he lifts his head, turns it, nuzzles painfully tender at the side of Bruce's face until they sink into alignment for kissing, lazy with it, a hand moving up and down flat high on Bruce's chest.
Going slowly. First, disengaging, reaching between them to do so carefully, to shift only just enough that Bruce can lay his legs down properly, slipping more to lay at his side.
A soft groan creaking out of him as he does so. "God," whispered, an upturn at the corner of his mouth.
No, just me, is always funny, but it goes unvoiced. A hint of it there, in a smug eyebrow quirk, even as Bruce lays there uselessly. And bonelessly (after Clark pulls out! heyyoo). After a few deep, slow breaths, Bruce moves enough to lay on his side, one hand still cuffed, if not actually attached to anything. He raises his escapee hand to Clark's face, stroking over his jaw, holding him, giving him a long look before he tucks in against him. Mmn.
Bruises are already beginning to bloom on his skin, some from deep in the tissue. Mostly noticeably where Clark pinned him down by his arms, but his wrists have some self-inflicted struggle ligature as well, in addition to the various hickeys and finger-marks scattered around his body. He likes them. He likes the inevitable miserable soreness in his inner thighs less - nobody tells you, about getting railed, that it's not actually your asshole that ends up the annoying part, it's where hipbones connect with flesh over and over - but not enough to dislike it, or not have wanted it all wholeheartedly.
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no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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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And he keeps his hands where they are, stapling Bruce's arms to the bed, letting his centre of gravity become grounded and leaning his weight there. It lets him be near, it lets him take charge of what he's doing and what Bruce is doing, it lets him move the way he wants, and most importantly, it lets him watch. They share each other with different people, some of the same people, and he can't help but wonder, sometimes, if Bruce like this is just for him.
Untethered from his sense of self-possession, which is both sexy in its presence and now its absence. "Oh fuck yes," is maybe another repetition of his answer, half-whispered, mostly groaned, but more likely in response to his own sense of shivery urgency, the slow wind up of eventual release beginning to pull up through his body.
There's really nowhere to go from here but more, harder, faster. Even this very sturdy expensive bed shudders along with them as the pace is picked up, Clark chasing that feeling.
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Bruce pushes up so hard against Clark's hands that he's bruising himself. He comes against Clark, between them, choking on a sound that's louder than he usually ever lets out, a flinch going through his whole body. Curling up as much as he can beneath the seemingly permanent weight of him, everything against, against, against. Caught, Held. Safe. He can make that noise, he can thrash against him, he can enjoy this. Because it's Clark.
Fuck, fuck. His brain thinks he says something, but it's just a rasped, deflated sound, trembling beneath the other man.
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All of it—muscles locking up, spine arcing, guttural needy sounds he hasn't heard before, the hot liquid spatter between them, all of it seems to twist white hot through Clark.
He gets a hand under one of Bruce's legs, pushing it up until he can hook his arm beneath his knee, pushing him down against the bed. (God, he still has to be so careful, but also god, the incremental amount he doesn't have to be as so careful is a space he loves to exist in, for those bright, brilliant moments.)
"Bruce," is raw, out of him, and it's either seconds or minutes of this, of holding Bruce half folded against the bed, one hand locked hard against his leg and the other impossibly gentle on his chest, before Clark comes too, shoving himself off a precipice he's been balancing on for what feels like forever. There's the slightest flash of solar-light that floods out human blue in his eyes, momentary but bright in the dimness, before he flinches his eyes shut and turns his head, a shudder running through him.
He doesn't relax readily, cock still buried deep, hips still making small, borderline involuntary motions as the moment passes. A long sigh out.
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Bruce's eyes are closed or close enough, but he feels the heat from it, sees the flash of white from beyond his eyelids, and knows what happens. He can see it in his mind's eye, because he's seen it properly before. Clark in all his strangeness with that unearthly glow, too much visible with the sun trapped in his skull.
Beautiful, in its nightmarishness.
Floating somewhere still, unwilling to return to Earth, Bruce moves. Slow - and not so deliberate, even while he's intent he's still jackknifed and very much pinned - he digs in the hell of the leg Clark hasn't captured. And pushes up, back onto his cock. Harder. Too hard. It doesn't register as pain. It shoves him further off the ledge in his head.
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This next thing may not work, he's aware, but he's willing to try, wants it very much, thinks Bruce might too, if he has the presence of mind to want anything more. Slowly, he rocks his hips again against Bruce, a less frantic, far gentler motion than moments ago. He's still hard inside of him, and he could stay that way if he wanted to. He does, though, err on the side of human comfort.
Still. "I love you," he's murmuring against Bruce's jaw, "I want you," between kisses against his throat, "more of you. I want to keep fucking you."
Clark slides his hands up Bruce's outstretched arms.
"Tell me," lifting his head to look at him, eyes dark, hazy.
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Except, it wouldn't be fine for Bruce.
"I want you to fuck me, Clark."
His voice is steadier than it has any right to be. An important conviction, acting your boyfriend to go beyond safe and sane and getting off on it so powerfully. Bruce is lucky that his libido will let him enjoy it for real, too, even though he's not thinking about that right now. All he's thinking of is Clark. No room for anything else.
"I need you to."
Harder to say the other thing. His fingers curl around Clark's hands as best they can.
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It's very sexy of Bruce to say it out loud, or, Clark's body thinks so, given the surge of renewed arousal he experiences. Clark slips his fingers between Bruce's, holding him there, and moving against him, slow and gentle but wantonly sensual, gradually picking up some pace, but mostly staying in this one mode, one of nearness and entanglement and friction. This feels, for the moment, like the easiest thing to do, all he wants to do.
It's a slow grind to completion, this time, but he's non-verbal by the time he's close save for panting groans at each thrust in and drag out, his breath warm against Bruce's cheek and whole body hotter than that, pressed close. His hands slide out of Bruce's, gripping onto the chains above him, and there's a tug, a wrench, a metallic discordant chiming—
The dull pressure that's drawn a taut line all up Bruce's body from his restraints suddenly unravels as chain snaps as easy as anything. Clark's hands get under him, his arms wrap around him. He doesn't ask for it, for Bruce to hold him back, just expects he will get it.
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When the chains are snapped, Bruce curls his arms around Clark. His knees have kind of given up at this stage, but they're still as entangled as can be. There's a quiet thunk, jingle; his right cuff completely falling off his wrist, having at some point escaped. Like a magic trick.
He buries his face against Clark's hair and clings to him, finding the strength somewhere. Trembling entirely out of his control, on some wave of psychological release. It'll hurt, and soon, but that doesn't matter; he's used to weathering pain brought on by hate and violence. He's good at it. Getting to shoulder it because of something good, and give this to Clark (and maybe even be punished for the things he's done to him) is euphoric.
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Relaxing enough to feel Bruce shake, and he forces himself not to start worrying. Letting fear in. Trusting them both that they're okay, even if they've fallen over some line in the sand of sanity.
Coming back to earth. The jungle sounds of Gotham outside and far below, though silent to human ears. Breathing, sweaty sheets in a tangle around them, them in a tangle among them. Clark becomes conscious of being collapsed on top and slowly gathers his strength back into himself as he lifts his head, turns it, nuzzles painfully tender at the side of Bruce's face until they sink into alignment for kissing, lazy with it, a hand moving up and down flat high on Bruce's chest.
Going slowly. First, disengaging, reaching between them to do so carefully, to shift only just enough that Bruce can lay his legs down properly, slipping more to lay at his side.
A soft groan creaking out of him as he does so. "God," whispered, an upturn at the corner of his mouth.
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Bruises are already beginning to bloom on his skin, some from deep in the tissue. Mostly noticeably where Clark pinned him down by his arms, but his wrists have some self-inflicted struggle ligature as well, in addition to the various hickeys and finger-marks scattered around his body. He likes them. He likes the inevitable miserable soreness in his inner thighs less - nobody tells you, about getting railed, that it's not actually your asshole that ends up the annoying part, it's where hipbones connect with flesh over and over - but not enough to dislike it, or not have wanted it all wholeheartedly.
Into his skin, he murmurs softly, "I love you."
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