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.
Clark's hand finds its way to the back of Bruce's head, threaded through dark wet locks, only the potential for command in the otherwise gentle touch. Encouraging, appreciative, loving, not really moved to give direction or take anything over in this moment when Bruce is already giving him what he wants, and the freedom and focus of it is wonderful on its own.
His head tips back down, opening his eyes to watch, other hand clasping Bruce's hand back. Bringing it up to touch himself, flattened low on his chest, like he's somehow picked up that thought, wants to exploit it, but not so much that he untangles their hands.
It won't take much, maybe minutes, like everything already feels a little raw. Bruce will feel those subtle movements exaggerate, feel the tension beneath skin of muscles pulling tighter against dense bone. Hear the breathy groans out of Clark, feel them reverberate up through where he has his hands on him. It's the gentle squeeze, more conscious than compulsive, that warns Bruce ahead of it, and also the second thump of skull to tile when orgasm floods through him, heels lifting slightly off the slick floor as he refrains from too much squirming in place.
A louder moan immediately after, like his breath had caught in his chest, all relief and longing.
Bruce wants to asphyxiate, so he lets himself. Blanks everything else out, digs his fingers into Clark's hip where he's grabbing him, lets himself get light-headed taking everything, swallowing and experiencing a purely psychological second-hand high more than any bitterness in his mouth. When he finally pulls back his inhale is rough, ragged, and he leans in to rest his head against Clark's belly after, panting into his wet skin. He's half hard but it doesn't seem to matter.
Nuzzles in, a little. Under a mop of grey-black hair. Affectionate and the tiniest smug. He curls their linked fingers and sighs.
Maybe it will be, maybe it won't be. Clark takes a moment of just this, kind of holding Bruce to him while he recovers from the last of errant muscle twitches and tingles. This is nice, just this, until senses ooze back in through the synapses.
He bends down, arms hooking under Bruce's and lifting him easy to his feet. A slight dizzy pivot has Bruce with his back to the tile to balance against. It doesn't spare him all discomfort as legs and spine straighten out and blood rushes back over kneecaps, but if there is a complaint coming, it's covered in a kiss to his mouth, unmindful of bitter traces or breathing still being recaptured.
Clark tips his head back, looking at him, keeping him held in place. Slightly silly smile, eyelashes clinging together in shower water. "What do you need," he asks.
His pulse must sound funny as his blood pressure adjusts to the sudden change of altitude and folded limbs, Bruce's face all confused and bleary for a second before it's covered in Clark's own face. Mm, better. He allows himself to be held up under the other man's power, and drapes his arms over his shoulders, easy and comfortable and close.
"Your hand," he all but whispers against his mouth, kissing him in between. "Stay with me."
Up here, he means. Stay crowded and pressed in, keep kissing him. Bruce slides his hands around the back of Clark's head, cradling it and messing up his already bath-messed-up hair further, like he's missed doing. It won't take long; he'll kiss him until he has to stop just to drag in air, forehead pressed against Clark's temple instead of thrown back, shivering against him as it creeps up his spine.
Over-sensitive and over-sore now, but he relishes it. Everything is so far past aching that it feels gentle again.
Mmgood is the overall vibe of Clark's response, staying crowded and pressed in, keeping kissing. It starts clumsy, his hand on him, broad palmed rubbing and gripping as if just feeling him, and then more precise. No teasing, either, just steadily working him rigid. His other arm winds up curled up and around Bruce's shoulders when the other man bows in against him.
When kissing is over, Clark just holds in place, near and glad to be so, nosing against Bruce's cheek like they're curled up on the couch on a rainy day instead of one holding the other up, dog-tired in the shower, hand going through repetitive and familiar motions, pressure and friction.
When he feels Bruce start to shake from it, the hand at the back of his neck squeezes.
He kisses Clark's jaw, mouths at it. Just a little teeth. It's sweet, not sharky. Like he still can't get enough, even though he is, demonstrably, about to fall asleep standing up in the shower, squished in between tile and Clark's body. Against him, he murmurs, barely audible (for anyone besides—), "No one else does this to me."
To me, for me.
So.
Also in the bathroom, conservatively the size of some other peoples' entire flats, is a soaking tub that's designed for style but engineered for therapy. It'll take a few minutes to fill - heat off - since no amount of money buys magically faster water. He doesn't bully Clark to go run an errand, and instead sits on the side of the bath and presses his mouth to his palm.
There's no bullying necessary, save for how Clark would prefer to stay here, and so he has to bully himself a little, quietly. They're fine, and this is fine. His fingers flex as Bruce kisses his palm, they starfish out, and then Clark bends over him to push a kiss against the crown of his head. No one else does this to me feels like a piece of something valuable, to be hoarded, admired. Jealously guarded.
It's good, he thinks, to have something between them that's just theirs. Murmured into that kiss, "I'll be back in a minute."
For ordinary things, Clark doesn't all the time tend to fly around at breakneck speeds. He has Uber on his phone. He owns a bicycle. He likes you, know, just walking. And here, he leaves the bathroom at a normal human pace, dries himself and dresses the same, but opts to take to the skies to cut the time spent out in the world down by a substantial measure. He halfway thinks that maybe taking fifteen minutes to walk to the nearest corner store wouldn't be such a bad thing, but also—
The bath has been full for not very long by the time there is the sound of wind rushing through the balcony door. More or less discreet than walking through the lobby with a large bag of ice and a box of very normal vegan donuts? Hard to say.
Bespectacled, all that shower-warmth now cold on his skin, suddenly overdressed as he ducks back into the bathroom, but victorious nonetheless.
Just as well, there are some scrubbing activities best done alone. And Bruce pops a handful of NSAID tablets, too, while the bath fills. He's just finishing the glass of water when Clark returns, pushing it over onto the sink countertop.
Bruce looks at him, tips his head, smiles a little. He does look so different in glasses, but in a funny way; he's different now that Bruce knows he's hiding. Hard to explain. He's not sure he could. The tiny things that change in the way Clark holds himself, when he knows he's in disguise.
"Any vegan jelly?"
Is jelly vegan? Bees. Something's going on with vegans and bees, he thinks.
Ice goes into the bath, and then Bruce goes into the bath, only pulling a slight face. He's used to it, more or less, but the adjustment period is never fun. It's a very different kind of thing, from a man returning to his apartment to find his girlfriend soaking in warm water, all alluring and romantic. Bruce sinks in up to his collarbones, and keeps his breath even, slow. Stinging, freezing, near-pain, but there's a familiar meditative comfort to it. New is Clark's company.
Bruce sinks down into the bath and Clark goes and sits next to it, hooking an elbow at the edge, in his neat clothes and glasses. He would probably be more impressed by this display if he had a real clue at just how stunningly uncomfortable and deadly extreme cold can be, but it's impressive nonetheless, fascinated by the effort going into a meditative heart rate, slow breathing.
Well. The potential problem with jelly is more the possible presence of gelatin and other stabilising agents, but, Clark offers the box. "That one," he indicates. "And this one's pumpkin spice and cinnamon. Maple glaze, uhh, that one's the filled hazelnut and chocolate. Baked apple, raspberry and coconut. If you didn't know they were vegan, you wouldn't," slightly chiding.
He will let Bruce pick first, if he is in the mood to eat while bathing in ice. Clark glances across the pebbled surface of floating cubes, makes a concerted effort not to look concerned as he says, "How long does this go for?"
They can add ice cubes to the list, for next time (of a certain kind).
"Is pumpkin spice not already mostly cinnamon?" murmured from his cold, watery notgrave. Bruce eyes the box, considering. It's very sweet that Clark actually got them. He wonders if it's sweet of him for automatically thinking of this kind of junk food, and not something with animal products. After a moment he sits up, his movements controlled enough that the ice barely sloshes, and lifts one hand up. The shock at the immediate temperature difference makes him pause— that, and not wanting to drip water all over the box.
"As long as I can stand it, or until it's not cold enough anymore."
Instead of reaching over the donuts, he crooks a finger around the edge of Clark's glasses and relieves him of them. Retreats with his thefted item and slides them onto his own face, and up, pushing his hair back out of his face. By now the worst of the excess water has run down his arm, leaving him free to nab a donut.
Bruce will know by now that the glasses do actually have prescription lenses. Nothing strong enough to give him a headache, just some fuzziness in the distance. Clark's face is mostly in focus during that transition, down to the dimples that have materialised in the wake of theft. This is why you get called cute, Gotham City.
He takes the pumpkin spice donut, and its extra cinnamon, which might be located mixed in with the sugary coating that comes off fingertips and mouth corners like glitter. He bites into that, quietly tracking some thought that zigzags through synapses before he says,
"I didn't mean to light up like that," eventually, after a swallowed mouthful of dessert. "With the heat vision."
He keeps expecting his eyesight to go. Everything else does, in starts and stops, but he's managed to hang onto his crisp vision. Hair pinned back so stylishly, Bruce lets himself sink into the cold water, leaving enough of himself and his hand above the surface to wield a pastry.
Ah.
"Has it happened before?"
Curiosity weighs out, before telling Clark that it's alright. It is alright that it happened, but technically only because he only lit up, and nothing more. No donuts or chat about it after, if he'd blasted Bruce's head off. But he hadn't been afraid.
Speaking of unique things. There's an apology he could circle to, but Clark is making an effort not to immediately locate it. Too easy for a conversation about Bruce being in theoretical danger to become about reassuring Clark instead, even if that's something of an inevitable aspect, nor wholly unwelcome.
He pulls some donut apart in his hands, listens to ice clicking together. "Used to be something I could only do when I was angry, but it wasn't—about anger, really. Before I figured out how to do it on command, it was more like something I could do when there was nothing else I could. Overwhelmed," the word identified and landed on late. "It still happens that way, sometimes."
Anyway. Clark darts his attention back to Bruce. Injecting a little more humour into his tone, he adds, "I'd blame you, but I don't think that'd hold up, circumstantially speaking."
Not like that, is at least reassuring that he has never had a near-miss with Lois; the last thing she needs is two bed partners who pose a real unconscious threat. Bruce is bad enough, with his dreams, and the way he sometimes panics upon waking. Better that this potential from Clark be identified with him.
"Mm." An interested noise, that implies A Joke is coming on. He opens his mouth to say something - Sorry officer, dick too bomb - perhaps?
But no. Bruce eats a bite of donut instead. Letting the sugars and carbs equalize whatever his vitals are doing, after that extreme experience. When he finally passes out, at least he won't be too sex hungover.
"Do you worry about slipping, or does it feel like... just something that's going to happen, now and again?"
"I don't worry about slipping," Clark says, after a meditative silence of looking inwards, sorting through the attached feelings. Important, up top, he thinks, to say so. He thinks that Bruce would accept it, the risk, and even the idea of a Superman not in complete control of his superpowers, after all they've been through, but he's not sure it'd be acceptable, himself. "It takes more than that to actually..."
You know. Pew-pew. Good thing Bruce did it himself, or Clark might have been tempted to insert a donut where A Joke might have happened.
"But I think it could happen again, yeah. I just don't want you to think..." He trails off, then, a crooked smile as he says, "I know you trust me."
Still. It's not the cuddliest aspect of his superpowers.
Bruce eats some donut. Makes sure Clark is looking at him.
"I do trust you."
Difficult to get to that place, but here they are. This is not as romantic as rustic porcelain and old taps fitted into Delaware brick, aesthetic and poignant. There are buttons near his elbow, controls for automatic IV attachments, if any were present. Bruce watches him, and mulls over how he feels about it (though he knows already), and more importantly how to explain it.
"If any part of you, even an accidental part, frightened me, I couldn't do this. I realized some time ago it was going to be all or nothing on my end."
Which might actually be more dangers than the risk of his heat vision. But. What he's saying is, he's never going to flinch, and he's never going to believe Clark will give him reason to. Unspoken - and he hopes it stays unspoken, he doesn't want to talk about it, not right now - is the fact that he has dreamed his own death through those means; his brain thinks it knows how it feels to be killed by Superman's eyes. And he still isn't going to flinch. He doesn't have to steel himself against it. He believes in him that completely.
"I don't want you to pretend to not be what you are, when we're together. I don't want to fixate on it either." He gestures a little, with the last bite of his donut.
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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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His head tips back down, opening his eyes to watch, other hand clasping Bruce's hand back. Bringing it up to touch himself, flattened low on his chest, like he's somehow picked up that thought, wants to exploit it, but not so much that he untangles their hands.
It won't take much, maybe minutes, like everything already feels a little raw. Bruce will feel those subtle movements exaggerate, feel the tension beneath skin of muscles pulling tighter against dense bone. Hear the breathy groans out of Clark, feel them reverberate up through where he has his hands on him. It's the gentle squeeze, more conscious than compulsive, that warns Bruce ahead of it, and also the second thump of skull to tile when orgasm floods through him, heels lifting slightly off the slick floor as he refrains from too much squirming in place.
A louder moan immediately after, like his breath had caught in his chest, all relief and longing.
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Nuzzles in, a little. Under a mop of grey-black hair. Affectionate and the tiniest smug. He curls their linked fingers and sighs.
Man, standing up is going to be the worst.
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He bends down, arms hooking under Bruce's and lifting him easy to his feet. A slight dizzy pivot has Bruce with his back to the tile to balance against. It doesn't spare him all discomfort as legs and spine straighten out and blood rushes back over kneecaps, but if there is a complaint coming, it's covered in a kiss to his mouth, unmindful of bitter traces or breathing still being recaptured.
Clark tips his head back, looking at him, keeping him held in place. Slightly silly smile, eyelashes clinging together in shower water. "What do you need," he asks.
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"Your hand," he all but whispers against his mouth, kissing him in between. "Stay with me."
Up here, he means. Stay crowded and pressed in, keep kissing him. Bruce slides his hands around the back of Clark's head, cradling it and messing up his already bath-messed-up hair further, like he's missed doing. It won't take long; he'll kiss him until he has to stop just to drag in air, forehead pressed against Clark's temple instead of thrown back, shivering against him as it creeps up his spine.
Over-sensitive and over-sore now, but he relishes it. Everything is so far past aching that it feels gentle again.
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When kissing is over, Clark just holds in place, near and glad to be so, nosing against Bruce's cheek like they're curled up on the couch on a rainy day instead of one holding the other up, dog-tired in the shower, hand going through repetitive and familiar motions, pressure and friction.
When he feels Bruce start to shake from it, the hand at the back of his neck squeezes.
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To me, for me.
So.
Also in the bathroom, conservatively the size of some other peoples' entire flats, is a soaking tub that's designed for style but engineered for therapy. It'll take a few minutes to fill - heat off - since no amount of money buys magically faster water. He doesn't bully Clark to go run an errand, and instead sits on the side of the bath and presses his mouth to his palm.
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It's good, he thinks, to have something between them that's just theirs. Murmured into that kiss, "I'll be back in a minute."
For ordinary things, Clark doesn't all the time tend to fly around at breakneck speeds. He has Uber on his phone. He owns a bicycle. He likes you, know, just walking. And here, he leaves the bathroom at a normal human pace, dries himself and dresses the same, but opts to take to the skies to cut the time spent out in the world down by a substantial measure. He halfway thinks that maybe taking fifteen minutes to walk to the nearest corner store wouldn't be such a bad thing, but also—
The bath has been full for not very long by the time there is the sound of wind rushing through the balcony door. More or less discreet than walking through the lobby with a large bag of ice and a box of very normal vegan donuts? Hard to say.
Bespectacled, all that shower-warmth now cold on his skin, suddenly overdressed as he ducks back into the bathroom, but victorious nonetheless.
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Bruce looks at him, tips his head, smiles a little. He does look so different in glasses, but in a funny way; he's different now that Bruce knows he's hiding. Hard to explain. He's not sure he could. The tiny things that change in the way Clark holds himself, when he knows he's in disguise.
"Any vegan jelly?"
Is jelly vegan? Bees. Something's going on with vegans and bees, he thinks.
Ice goes into the bath, and then Bruce goes into the bath, only pulling a slight face. He's used to it, more or less, but the adjustment period is never fun. It's a very different kind of thing, from a man returning to his apartment to find his girlfriend soaking in warm water, all alluring and romantic. Bruce sinks in up to his collarbones, and keeps his breath even, slow. Stinging, freezing, near-pain, but there's a familiar meditative comfort to it. New is Clark's company.
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Well. The potential problem with jelly is more the possible presence of gelatin and other stabilising agents, but, Clark offers the box. "That one," he indicates. "And this one's pumpkin spice and cinnamon. Maple glaze, uhh, that one's the filled hazelnut and chocolate. Baked apple, raspberry and coconut. If you didn't know they were vegan, you wouldn't," slightly chiding.
He will let Bruce pick first, if he is in the mood to eat while bathing in ice. Clark glances across the pebbled surface of floating cubes, makes a concerted effort not to look concerned as he says, "How long does this go for?"
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"Is pumpkin spice not already mostly cinnamon?" murmured from his cold, watery notgrave. Bruce eyes the box, considering. It's very sweet that Clark actually got them. He wonders if it's sweet of him for automatically thinking of this kind of junk food, and not something with animal products. After a moment he sits up, his movements controlled enough that the ice barely sloshes, and lifts one hand up. The shock at the immediate temperature difference makes him pause— that, and not wanting to drip water all over the box.
"As long as I can stand it, or until it's not cold enough anymore."
Instead of reaching over the donuts, he crooks a finger around the edge of Clark's glasses and relieves him of them. Retreats with his thefted item and slides them onto his own face, and up, pushing his hair back out of his face. By now the worst of the excess water has run down his arm, leaving him free to nab a donut.
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He takes the pumpkin spice donut, and its extra cinnamon, which might be located mixed in with the sugary coating that comes off fingertips and mouth corners like glitter. He bites into that, quietly tracking some thought that zigzags through synapses before he says,
"I didn't mean to light up like that," eventually, after a swallowed mouthful of dessert. "With the heat vision."
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Ah.
"Has it happened before?"
Curiosity weighs out, before telling Clark that it's alright. It is alright that it happened, but technically only because he only lit up, and nothing more. No donuts or chat about it after, if he'd blasted Bruce's head off. But he hadn't been afraid.
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Speaking of unique things. There's an apology he could circle to, but Clark is making an effort not to immediately locate it. Too easy for a conversation about Bruce being in theoretical danger to become about reassuring Clark instead, even if that's something of an inevitable aspect, nor wholly unwelcome.
He pulls some donut apart in his hands, listens to ice clicking together. "Used to be something I could only do when I was angry, but it wasn't—about anger, really. Before I figured out how to do it on command, it was more like something I could do when there was nothing else I could. Overwhelmed," the word identified and landed on late. "It still happens that way, sometimes."
Anyway. Clark darts his attention back to Bruce. Injecting a little more humour into his tone, he adds, "I'd blame you, but I don't think that'd hold up, circumstantially speaking."
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"Mm." An interested noise, that implies A Joke is coming on. He opens his mouth to say something - Sorry officer, dick too bomb - perhaps?
But no. Bruce eats a bite of donut instead. Letting the sugars and carbs equalize whatever his vitals are doing, after that extreme experience. When he finally passes out, at least he won't be too sex hungover.
"Do you worry about slipping, or does it feel like... just something that's going to happen, now and again?"
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You know. Pew-pew. Good thing Bruce did it himself, or Clark might have been tempted to insert a donut where A Joke might have happened.
"But I think it could happen again, yeah. I just don't want you to think..." He trails off, then, a crooked smile as he says, "I know you trust me."
Still. It's not the cuddliest aspect of his superpowers.
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"I do trust you."
Difficult to get to that place, but here they are. This is not as romantic as rustic porcelain and old taps fitted into Delaware brick, aesthetic and poignant. There are buttons near his elbow, controls for automatic IV attachments, if any were present. Bruce watches him, and mulls over how he feels about it (though he knows already), and more importantly how to explain it.
"If any part of you, even an accidental part, frightened me, I couldn't do this. I realized some time ago it was going to be all or nothing on my end."
Which might actually be more dangers than the risk of his heat vision. But. What he's saying is, he's never going to flinch, and he's never going to believe Clark will give him reason to. Unspoken - and he hopes it stays unspoken, he doesn't want to talk about it, not right now - is the fact that he has dreamed his own death through those means; his brain thinks it knows how it feels to be killed by Superman's eyes. And he still isn't going to flinch. He doesn't have to steel himself against it. He believes in him that completely.
"I don't want you to pretend to not be what you are, when we're together. I don't want to fixate on it either." He gestures a little, with the last bite of his donut.
Just be us.
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