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.
Even without the literal feelings of exhaustion and soreness that even someone on top would be feeling, it feels tempting to just sink in place like this, unmoving and uncaring. Clark does, for a few seconds, before he reaches for Bruce's still entangled wrist, carefully unbuckling the cuff, removing it and setting it out of the way as he gently wraps a warm hand around worried skin.
Never as apologetic as he could sound when it comes to property damage, Clark says, "I'll replace those," which would be more of a fun mental image if online shopping didn't exist. Maybe still fun, a little.
He kisses the inside of Bruce's wrist, and then pulls him in close again for some unadulterated cuddling. No pretence at lounging around or something here. "I should probably put you under hot water soon," he says, even so.
Nothing exists for a while, besides satisfaction and distant ache and warmth. They are certainly all kinds of disgusting between more fluids and sweat that's worth describing in polite company, but there are worse things. One worse thing would be moving away from this very content place too soon. Bruce is fine with staying right where he is, being gently moved around, Clark kissing his wrist, holding him, letting him lay there curled in and against.
Eventually, there's a sound. "Mm-mn," like disagreement. Another moment before, muffled, he clarifies: "Cold water. Constricts blood vessels and keeps bruises from swelling up. I'm gonna send you on a convenience store run for ice soon."
'Soon' is very ambiguous. Presumably, Bruce would have to move to allow this. The mental image of Clark just casually putting him in hot water like he's a dish that needs rinsing is kind of hilarious, but he's too wiped out to laugh. Hot water is for tomorrow, when the soreness has set in. Most people skip the ice bath stage, on account of it being sheer torture, but Bruce is a tough cookie, you see.
"Ice and vegan donuts."
Because Clark probably won't pick up any decent ones.
The idea of leaving the bed feels impossible, let alone emerging into the outside world, cleaned up and dressed in clothing and standing on his two feet, but at least such an errand would take like forty seconds upon exiting the room, maybe a minute and change, give or take careful vegan donut selection. Clark consents to this prospect with an affirming grunt.
Yes, soon. Whatever soon looks like.
He shifts their positions, some, rolling back so that Bruce can settle more on, half in the comfort of the mattress while letting gravity do some of the cuddle-work.
Remembers, suddenly, the blinding-surge of solar light that had begun to scorch through his eyeballs, and the hand he has playing with the hair at the nape of Bruce's neck stills. What had he imagined, when he'd thought about manacling Bruce to the bed, seeing how far he could push things? What would he expect, if that's the goal being set?
He absently buries his nose in Bruce's hair, and maybe before Bruce can ask: "How're you feeling?"
'Soon' doesn't actually look very soon, for how little Bruce seems willing to actually let Clark up. Laying halfway on top of him, invulnerable density surprisingly comfortable when, Bruce is as comfortable as can be. He does note that pause, and wonder about it, but it could be so many things. No verbal response right away - he mouths at Clark's collarbone in a kiss that's almost unfocused. Something possessive in it. Useless human teeth, against Kryptonian skin.
"Good," he says, voice low, a deep rumble tangible through his chest, against Clark. "Sort of like I want to suck your cock in the shower."
Just in case there was any doubt about how into this he is. Bruce could have another one in him, if it doesn't require too much in the way of continued pressure on his wrists and shoulders. He's so good at moderation and self-control, until he doesn't have to be, and then he just spins out. It feels so fucking good not to have to check himself at all, with Clark.
Sitting here is also exceptional. A normal, sweet kiss this time, laid gently against his shoulder.
The laugh that gets is not anything but pleased, quiet and low and thus more felt than heard. The hand at Bruce's neck resumes its absent-minded stroking.
(Not a no.)
From here, Clark can lift his head, curl his arm around more to nudge Bruce's jaw up with his knuckles in a kind of comfortable headlock, the sole purpose of which being aligning them for a kiss, and it's all the things it should be in this moment: slow and warm and lazy. Not all the way dialled down, which feels impossible anyway when they are tangled like this and still nasty. Like Clark doesn't want to quite yet leave the moment.
The kiss ambles off, Clark relaxing his embrace more so that Bruce can lounge or move or reposition as needed, hands still on him anyway. "I like doing this with you," Clark says, in that fuzzy tone that indicates there is zero filter between thought and voice, something deeply content in the understatement of it all.
Because he likes doing this with Clark, too. It feels good, and it's gratifying to know he's letting Clark do something he likes in turn, and the experience of it together is more than he has words for. He's certain that there's no one else he'd ever let do this with him - to him - both on principle and because of desire. Their unique trust, and chemistry, and the size of it, this overwhelming feeling, is some kind of alchemy.
How romantic could he be, if he could manage to cough any of it up.
After a while, he murmurs, "It means a lot to me."
Clark's face does the thing it does when someone says or does something that isn't only sweet but revealing, in some way. Almost a frown, not quite, warmer and softer than that, and ultimately irrelevant because it heralds intimacy, such as: another kiss.
"Me too," he says, once he does this, in that too close space they're sharing.
Fingers splayed on warm skin. Everyone's heart rates back to normal, breathing levels. Hilarious detail: there is one (1) curl of his hair out of place, for virtue of the fact that Bruce's hands were prevented from making the usual mess of it.
Tips of noses bumping on accident, as he leans back a little. "Let's clean up," he suggests. "Before you start sending me on errands."
Hm, hm. Maybe his hair is cute, when it's all messed up. Bruce doesn't reach for it, though, and instead busies his hands finding purchase on a broad superchest to shift over and up, pressed close, leveraged with just enough space to leave him looking down at Clark.
"You sure?"
Do you want to get up at all. Sure, they're filthy, but that has its upsides. Bruce kisses him, warm and encouraging, and then moves his mouth to his jaw, and lower, the soft hollow beneath his chin. It's just as slow and sweet as everything in the past long minutes, but there's something tempting in it, too. Because he doesn't want it to be over, be it here or in the shower or sitting in a bath tub full of ice. He wants Clark to know how badly he wants him, and how real that is.
Also this has been very hot, in addition to all the emotions, which are significant.
The sound Clark makes is categorically a groan, but a nuanced groan. A you're killing me kind of sound along with a but it's very sexy of you undercurrent, Clark's head briefly falling back when Bruce journeys kisses down his throat, under his chin. Part of their problem, where one starts something and the other has a hard time not immediately being dragged down.
It's with this knowledge, and shared knowledge at that, that Clark sighs, "Bruce," in protest. Pls. They'll never leave this bed alive, if someone isn't responsible.
But it's not just a matter of slutty Pavlovian physical response, but warmly simmering affection. It's nice to be wanted, and to know that no matter how much you may want in return, it'll always be received. His hand curls through Bruce's hair, just feeling, sweat-damp locks slipping easy through fingers as he answers the question with, "Pretty sure I shouldn't wait til after," because that's clearly what Bruce meant.
Is it actually a problem. Bruce is sucking at his adam's apple, applying teeth, for all that teeth make any bit of difference on Clark. But he relents, hums something appreciative at the hands in his hair, and tips his head into it a little.
"Maybe I don't actually want to send you out anywhere."
Even though he should, for the ice. But there is still a small gossamer thread of No, stay, don't leave me, don't let me leave you. A silly psychological thing after such intensity, even though Bruce would understand even if Clark had to vanish mid-event to scoop a town away from an erupting volcano. Bruce shifts up enough to kiss his mouth, soft, chaste in comparison to everything else.
Clark rolls them both out of bed with only one last kiss, like a reward for them both. The shower is run at a comfortable temperature, neither brilliantly hot as he sometimes like it, nor shockingly cold as might be more practical, but not as fun to drag Bruce under the spray of, and, you know. Kiss him some more. Drink the water running in rivers off his jaw, down his throat.
Reaches past him to collect some soap, and lather his hands with it. Never out of range, always some part of them touching, like a hand on a hip, or an arm bent half around the other. It feels both typical of them both and also oddly heightened, more vigilant in winding around each other than usual even if the behaviour itself feels familiar.
He runs a soapy hand down Bruce's chest, abdomen, palms over his cock in too firm a way to be negligent.
He should shoo Clark's hands away, take a cold shower, put the final nail in the coffin of calming down. But he doesn't, of course; if he's going to be one giant bruise tomorrow he'll earn it to its fullest. Which means push into all those kisses, demand some of his own, and slide his hands all over the other man. Bruce crowds him against the wall of the shower when he gropes him, shoves his tongue in his mouth, kisses him like the dynamic has been opposite the whole night.
"I don't know how to stop wanting you," he says, beneath the sound of rushing water. It is not a complaint. Soap, then, since that's what they're doing, even though there's a spark of intent between them now. Bruce kisses him as he explores skin and sweaty contours and between his legs, nothing coy about it even as, yes, they really should clean up.
There's no pet shampoo. It's all very expensive bottles. Once upon a time, he worked much harder to maintain himself, to appear less rough, to rid himself of visible scars and the callouses on his hands. Better cover. He hardly cares anymore; he's worked himself into an isolated corner in every walk of life. Nothing smells like coconuts. Anyway.
He'd made a threat. (Promise. Voiced a desire.) Bruce skims teeth at Clark's shoulder and then steps back, and down. Knees on marble will not feel great for long, but ask him if he gives a fuck.
This is definitely more responsible than fooling around in a comfortable bed. Ruining kneecaps on hard tile for the sake of cleanliness. Well. He's not complaining either.
Although Clark's hands do flutter up and over Bruce's arms and shoulders as he kneels down, some expression of concern that never makes it further than that. In initiating kisses, in response to them, they'd been just as hungry and bitey as they'd been moments before, and by the time Bruce is on his kneels, blood flow has started to once more redirect cockwards, knowing a stronger pulse of it at the promise of it.
"I don't want you to stop," Clark says.
Now, here, in the shower, or generally, existentially. Not any less than the insatiable way he already does. Clark's hand, skimming across the side of Bruce's face, back up into his hair. Impossibly comfortable standing naked in front of him, already flushed warm from these past moments of kissing. It should feel selfish, and sometimes it does, but it's as though each little moment of contact reaffirms that he can be.
Bruce has spent a lifetime trying to train himself out of being the way he is; wanting with everything in him. Channelling every feeling instead into violence, his mission, his war. Cutting everything else away. But with every degree more, Clark just accepts it— even encourages it, and sometimes even in the midst of feeling guilty for carrying on at all, he thinks Clark might want him to push further, and further. He feels like he's learning how to be himself, piece by piece. Unsteady at times, for fear of selfishness and corruption, but still there. Honest.
He doesn't feel like teasing him. He's too physically exhausted for it, even though he wants to be right here doing this more than anything. Bruce mouths along his hipbone and to the crease of his thigh, and then wastes no time in taking Clark into his mouth, as much of his cock as he can and just holding him there. Letting him get all the way hard, sucking lightly, eyes falling closed and tipping into the feeling of giving himself over to someone else completely. And, you know, concentrating. Just because Clark would survive without injury if he got him with his teeth by accident doesn't mean he shouldn't try to avoid it; Bruce was in no way practiced, before they began their entanglement, and Clark isn't small. He takes meditative breaths through his nose, thinks about how much warmer his mouth is than the middling water, and how much warmer still Clark is, in all his solar-powered alienness.
There's a light thunk where the back of Clark's head connects with the tile behind it, around when Bruce takes him in his mouth as deeply as he does. It feels like the building of tension that somehow also relieves it at the same time, an itch that grows as its scratched. The run off of where water strikes them tickles over skin, seems particularly articulated where rivers choose to run, like individual fingertips tracking over his skin, down his chest, his legs.
His hands move blindly, gently, following the ridge of Bruce's jaw, or tracking through damp hair, or smoothing down from neck to shoulders. It doesn't take him long at all to build towards erection, for his hips to start the gentlest of motions.
"You know I want you just as much," he finds himself saying, all exhale, a subtle string of tension. It helps to keep his eyes closed, let the world diminish to cold tile behind him, Bruce's mouth around him, the white noise created by water spray. "Only reason I could hold out so long to tonight is keeping your hands off me. Glad I did, but even then—"
Something had to give. He could have lasted longer, if they were anyone else, never mind the moment and comment both that motivated revenge.
Bruce could say: I'll teach you how to shut me up for real. To do exactly what I do. The next time I have you under the light of that manufactured Kryptonian sun, I'll tie you down, and drive you crazy, slowly, over and over. Held in my hands, every heartbeat, every breath in, under my control, until you pass out because everything feels too good and too much and there's nothing left but sleeping it off, perfect and completed.
Could. If he wasn't otherwise occupied.
He keeps steady with one hand on Clark's hip, and moves the other to find the mirror of Clark's own hand. Bruce grabs it, laces their fingers in a tangle that should be awkward given their positioning, but manages not to be.
I like my hands on you, too.
Bruce is not elegant at this, but he has a way about him when he applies himself to anything. All that bat-focus on this one thing, his mouth, and Clark.
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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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Even without the literal feelings of exhaustion and soreness that even someone on top would be feeling, it feels tempting to just sink in place like this, unmoving and uncaring. Clark does, for a few seconds, before he reaches for Bruce's still entangled wrist, carefully unbuckling the cuff, removing it and setting it out of the way as he gently wraps a warm hand around worried skin.
Never as apologetic as he could sound when it comes to property damage, Clark says, "I'll replace those," which would be more of a fun mental image if online shopping didn't exist. Maybe still fun, a little.
He kisses the inside of Bruce's wrist, and then pulls him in close again for some unadulterated cuddling. No pretence at lounging around or something here. "I should probably put you under hot water soon," he says, even so.
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Eventually, there's a sound. "Mm-mn," like disagreement. Another moment before, muffled, he clarifies: "Cold water. Constricts blood vessels and keeps bruises from swelling up. I'm gonna send you on a convenience store run for ice soon."
'Soon' is very ambiguous. Presumably, Bruce would have to move to allow this. The mental image of Clark just casually putting him in hot water like he's a dish that needs rinsing is kind of hilarious, but he's too wiped out to laugh. Hot water is for tomorrow, when the soreness has set in. Most people skip the ice bath stage, on account of it being sheer torture, but Bruce is a tough cookie, you see.
"Ice and vegan donuts."
Because Clark probably won't pick up any decent ones.
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Yes, soon. Whatever soon looks like.
He shifts their positions, some, rolling back so that Bruce can settle more on, half in the comfort of the mattress while letting gravity do some of the cuddle-work.
Remembers, suddenly, the blinding-surge of solar light that had begun to scorch through his eyeballs, and the hand he has playing with the hair at the nape of Bruce's neck stills. What had he imagined, when he'd thought about manacling Bruce to the bed, seeing how far he could push things? What would he expect, if that's the goal being set?
He absently buries his nose in Bruce's hair, and maybe before Bruce can ask: "How're you feeling?"
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"Good," he says, voice low, a deep rumble tangible through his chest, against Clark. "Sort of like I want to suck your cock in the shower."
Just in case there was any doubt about how into this he is. Bruce could have another one in him, if it doesn't require too much in the way of continued pressure on his wrists and shoulders. He's so good at moderation and self-control, until he doesn't have to be, and then he just spins out. It feels so fucking good not to have to check himself at all, with Clark.
Sitting here is also exceptional. A normal, sweet kiss this time, laid gently against his shoulder.
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(Not a no.)
From here, Clark can lift his head, curl his arm around more to nudge Bruce's jaw up with his knuckles in a kind of comfortable headlock, the sole purpose of which being aligning them for a kiss, and it's all the things it should be in this moment: slow and warm and lazy. Not all the way dialled down, which feels impossible anyway when they are tangled like this and still nasty. Like Clark doesn't want to quite yet leave the moment.
The kiss ambles off, Clark relaxing his embrace more so that Bruce can lounge or move or reposition as needed, hands still on him anyway. "I like doing this with you," Clark says, in that fuzzy tone that indicates there is zero filter between thought and voice, something deeply content in the understatement of it all.
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Because he likes doing this with Clark, too. It feels good, and it's gratifying to know he's letting Clark do something he likes in turn, and the experience of it together is more than he has words for. He's certain that there's no one else he'd ever let do this with him - to him - both on principle and because of desire. Their unique trust, and chemistry, and the size of it, this overwhelming feeling, is some kind of alchemy.
How romantic could he be, if he could manage to cough any of it up.
After a while, he murmurs, "It means a lot to me."
All of it.
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"Me too," he says, once he does this, in that too close space they're sharing.
Fingers splayed on warm skin. Everyone's heart rates back to normal, breathing levels. Hilarious detail: there is one (1) curl of his hair out of place, for virtue of the fact that Bruce's hands were prevented from making the usual mess of it.
Tips of noses bumping on accident, as he leans back a little. "Let's clean up," he suggests. "Before you start sending me on errands."
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"You sure?"
Do you want to get up at all. Sure, they're filthy, but that has its upsides. Bruce kisses him, warm and encouraging, and then moves his mouth to his jaw, and lower, the soft hollow beneath his chin. It's just as slow and sweet as everything in the past long minutes, but there's something tempting in it, too. Because he doesn't want it to be over, be it here or in the shower or sitting in a bath tub full of ice. He wants Clark to know how badly he wants him, and how real that is.
Also this has been very hot, in addition to all the emotions, which are significant.
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It's with this knowledge, and shared knowledge at that, that Clark sighs, "Bruce," in protest. Pls. They'll never leave this bed alive, if someone isn't responsible.
But it's not just a matter of slutty Pavlovian physical response, but warmly simmering affection. It's nice to be wanted, and to know that no matter how much you may want in return, it'll always be received. His hand curls through Bruce's hair, just feeling, sweat-damp locks slipping easy through fingers as he answers the question with, "Pretty sure I shouldn't wait til after," because that's clearly what Bruce meant.
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"Maybe I don't actually want to send you out anywhere."
Even though he should, for the ice. But there is still a small gossamer thread of No, stay, don't leave me, don't let me leave you. A silly psychological thing after such intensity, even though Bruce would understand even if Clark had to vanish mid-event to scoop a town away from an erupting volcano. Bruce shifts up enough to kiss his mouth, soft, chaste in comparison to everything else.
Alright, alright.
"Shower, then."
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Clark rolls them both out of bed with only one last kiss, like a reward for them both. The shower is run at a comfortable temperature, neither brilliantly hot as he sometimes like it, nor shockingly cold as might be more practical, but not as fun to drag Bruce under the spray of, and, you know. Kiss him some more. Drink the water running in rivers off his jaw, down his throat.
Reaches past him to collect some soap, and lather his hands with it. Never out of range, always some part of them touching, like a hand on a hip, or an arm bent half around the other. It feels both typical of them both and also oddly heightened, more vigilant in winding around each other than usual even if the behaviour itself feels familiar.
He runs a soapy hand down Bruce's chest, abdomen, palms over his cock in too firm a way to be negligent.
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"I don't know how to stop wanting you," he says, beneath the sound of rushing water. It is not a complaint. Soap, then, since that's what they're doing, even though there's a spark of intent between them now. Bruce kisses him as he explores skin and sweaty contours and between his legs, nothing coy about it even as, yes, they really should clean up.
There's no pet shampoo. It's all very expensive bottles. Once upon a time, he worked much harder to maintain himself, to appear less rough, to rid himself of visible scars and the callouses on his hands. Better cover. He hardly cares anymore; he's worked himself into an isolated corner in every walk of life. Nothing smells like coconuts. Anyway.
He'd made a threat. (Promise. Voiced a desire.) Bruce skims teeth at Clark's shoulder and then steps back, and down. Knees on marble will not feel great for long, but ask him if he gives a fuck.
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Although Clark's hands do flutter up and over Bruce's arms and shoulders as he kneels down, some expression of concern that never makes it further than that. In initiating kisses, in response to them, they'd been just as hungry and bitey as they'd been moments before, and by the time Bruce is on his kneels, blood flow has started to once more redirect cockwards, knowing a stronger pulse of it at the promise of it.
"I don't want you to stop," Clark says.
Now, here, in the shower, or generally, existentially. Not any less than the insatiable way he already does. Clark's hand, skimming across the side of Bruce's face, back up into his hair. Impossibly comfortable standing naked in front of him, already flushed warm from these past moments of kissing. It should feel selfish, and sometimes it does, but it's as though each little moment of contact reaffirms that he can be.
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He doesn't feel like teasing him. He's too physically exhausted for it, even though he wants to be right here doing this more than anything. Bruce mouths along his hipbone and to the crease of his thigh, and then wastes no time in taking Clark into his mouth, as much of his cock as he can and just holding him there. Letting him get all the way hard, sucking lightly, eyes falling closed and tipping into the feeling of giving himself over to someone else completely. And, you know, concentrating. Just because Clark would survive without injury if he got him with his teeth by accident doesn't mean he shouldn't try to avoid it; Bruce was in no way practiced, before they began their entanglement, and Clark isn't small. He takes meditative breaths through his nose, thinks about how much warmer his mouth is than the middling water, and how much warmer still Clark is, in all his solar-powered alienness.
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His hands move blindly, gently, following the ridge of Bruce's jaw, or tracking through damp hair, or smoothing down from neck to shoulders. It doesn't take him long at all to build towards erection, for his hips to start the gentlest of motions.
"You know I want you just as much," he finds himself saying, all exhale, a subtle string of tension. It helps to keep his eyes closed, let the world diminish to cold tile behind him, Bruce's mouth around him, the white noise created by water spray. "Only reason I could hold out so long to tonight is keeping your hands off me. Glad I did, but even then—"
Something had to give. He could have lasted longer, if they were anyone else, never mind the moment and comment both that motivated revenge.
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Could. If he wasn't otherwise occupied.
He keeps steady with one hand on Clark's hip, and moves the other to find the mirror of Clark's own hand. Bruce grabs it, laces their fingers in a tangle that should be awkward given their positioning, but manages not to be.
I like my hands on you, too.
Bruce is not elegant at this, but he has a way about him when he applies himself to anything. All that bat-focus on this one thing, his mouth, and Clark.
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