nightlife | maybe in a million miles, on the highway through the skies

Clark relaxes back from that initial tensing up, head back, watching the top of Bruce's head down the length of his nose. His hands come up to ride the other man's shoulders, his back, fingers creeping up the back of his neck and toying with the finer hairs that grow there.

Hums a sound at both this correction—hey, add it to the list of things they have in common—as well as in response to the twinned sensation of that little point of pain and the gentler kisses happening around it. He can trick himself into thinking he will get used to it, at least until Bruce moves over, applies some teeth.

Distracted, and so not paying a lot of attention to his surroundings, even though he really should. (Tactical foreplay.)

"If you're asking 'cause you wanna surprise me with a car," he says, sighed out from the last hitched breath, shifting to gaze up at the ceiling, concentrating on keep still, "you should know by now I can't be bought."

"Do you even have a license?"

Bike riding nerd. Teeth worry more, exert more pressure. When Bruce raises his head and smooths his hand over it, he tugs teasingly at chest hair. Strange, to think about all the tiny things Clark has never experienced discomfort over. Stubbed toes. Hangnails. Catching a finger in a door.

He leaves the pin where it's at, sticking up from his chest attacked to one nipple, and slides both hands down, shifting as he goes, palming over his stomach and the tops of his thighs. Rakes his nails, harder than he'd started with the last time they did this. Clark wants to know how far he can go without tapping out, to understand, but Bruce wants him to enjoy the experience. Even if it only hurts and ends up less pain-and-pleasure, there can be psychological release and intimacy in it.

Bruce lays one broad palm along the inside crest of his hip, forefinger and thumb spread around the base of his cock without touching it. He strokes the soft skin of his inner thigh with the other, keeping part of his attention on Clark's breathing. Finds a patch of delicate skin between groin and knee, clips a clothespin on.

The last time they did this, he'd been quick to start squirming, each minor twinge and discomfort too new to ignore or stoically absorb. This time, Clark's going in with the intention not to be so easy, simply breathing around the little sharp nervy pulses of feeling where teeth are dull-sharp against sensitive skin, where fingers tug at hair, or nails rake skin.

At that question, Clark says, defensively, "Yes," and then, "well," and then, "I did." Shut up, says a minor tug at the hair at the nape of Bruce's neck, before the other man moves out of easy range.

He's already somewhat hard from all the intimacy that led up to this point, but not desperately so, just a calm rerouting of blood flow, an ever present ache that is not as at the forefront of his mind at that passively constant bite of the clip at his nipple. Clark rests a hand on his ribcage, as if to be conscious of his own ability to relieve that pain without giving into the temptation to do so.

The next one gets a soft grunt of discomfort, and also a twitch at his cock. It feels like the kind of minor pain that's meant to be dismissed, like a biting insect brushed away, but instead remains. But, Clark is still. Breathing normal. That both things are deliberate is probably hard to miss, when you're the world's greatest detective.

"Fully electric, ethically sourced products, not even from Tesla," he says, in his seductive voice. Maybe he is going to buy you, with a blue car. One that totally exists.

Clothespins are deceptive. They don't seem like they're going to be a problem, but the pressure doesn't let up, the metal springs don't budge, the wood has no give. (Still, less brutal than the plastic ones. Bruce isn't a monster.) He strokes over Clark's inner thigh and clips on another, then another, creating a nice curved line of spines, which would look more ridiculous if there was time to think about it outside the way sensation is no doubt beginning to radiate and compound.

Bruce rubs one knee, the little dip in cartilage, as he leans in to place kisses at the base of Clark's cock, and the flat of his belly above it. Pins still there. When he sits up, it's to facilitate him shifting his knees wider; as he moves, his skin will stretch, and the pins will hold everything in place.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, leaning over him again. He flicks the clothespin on his nipple.

Maybe he could be bought with a not!Tesla. The rare couple of times he's driven some of Bruce's ridiculous sportscars probably show his hand a little. No confirmation either way, just an exhale like a laugh, a sharp edge of a smile. When you say it like that—

And then Clark just breathes out as carefully, but efficiently, more pins are added, more little points of pinching pressure that all seem to get worse faster, all in close proximity like that, but he only makes a sound when his leg is pushed out, a twitch of muscle up from the back of his knee, through his thigh.

Clark's hands gravitate back to Bruce once he's suddenly there, palms smoothing up against his chest. Some remark is swallowed at that flick, drawing his mind back up from the line of building pain down his thigh. Okay.

"Good," he says, quietly, taking these little check ins for what they are. As he says so, he lift his leg and lets that row of clips bump against Bruce, only gently, quick to rest his thigh back down. No visible flinch, otherwise. "Had a line, forgot it. You would've laughed, I bet."

"You always do get me with those." Does he. Bruce kisses him, then, deep and sensual and heated up a degree past where they were before he started turning Clark into laundry. Lets that go for a while, lets clothespins sway and shift with every breath, pulling on him, making that ache go deeper; lets his cock in its half-hard state brush against Clark's.

When he next moves with intent, it's to capture one of Clark's wrists. With steady ease, he gets a wide leather cuff around him, buckling it and testing for slippage, not wanting to pinch him too much. (That's what the clothespins are for.) The thing about it is: no chain. Just a cuff, with the buckle and a d-ring, on its own. If Clark finally decides to perceive the things spilled out on the bed next to him, he'll see yet more clothespins, another cuff, and a fairly inexplicable length of black fabric neatly tailored into fat strips, like bandages.

Then, the next cuff. Bruce raises his knee to push against Clark's thigh and the line of pins there.

The kisses does something to loosen him up, for the stillness he'd been working on to come a little more naturally, where the meditative press of Bruce's mouth to his own seems to exist in the same space as the determined, orderly grips of clothes pins passively latched to his skin. When it's over, the mood doesn't shift immediately, Clark watching as Bruce buckles the cuff into place.

Then the next one, and he does glance now to see where it came from. The Yet More Clothespins, he has mixed feelings about—not exactly bad, but a slight spark of anticipatory nervousness—and the strips of fabric.

When Bruce nudges the row of pins, it's unexpected, and Clark twitches his leg wider and away with a hiss between his teeth. Quick as it is, it's obviously more startle than pain, and more exaggerated as a result. Up until this point, he'd been doing a pretty good job at pretending he's not wholly unused to it. No accidental cuts from paper edges, no bloody knees, no bug bites or bruises.

Tries not to laugh. Be cool, Kent, at all.

"It was something about," he says, "being hung out to dry."

"I'd have to clean you up, for that." Bruce licks a warm stripe from his jaw to his ear, sets teeth into the delicate lobe. As always finding it easy to be doing two things at once, and keeping his balance the whole time.

He doesn't clip the cuffs together. He leaves Clark's hands 'free', and then moves one of his own down to snatch the clothespin off his nipple. The shock of blood rushing back into it, the scrape of the removal, and then, suddenly, Bruce's fingers clamped over it—

That'll hurt. It comes at the same time as him shifting his hips down, rubbing them together, stroking against his cock. The other pins in Clark's thigh make gentle clackclack sounds as they brush up against each other, twisting his skin, pulling it taught and increasing the sensation of near-burning pressure.

There are definitely spots on his body that whenever Bruce puts his mouth there, they tend to have Clark want to melt into the bed, or wherever they are. High up his neck is one of them, lifting his chin up and aside as teeth set against his earlobe—that, too—and it's enough to distract him, until focus is jerked right back—

And the sound he makes is short and sharp, followed by a more familiar sounding groan as Bruce's fingers pinch back down over sensitised flesh. "God," through gritted teeth—don't say it—as the pins in a row on his thigh all click together and pull and tug, as friction does the same against his cock, slow drags of skin on skin.

Clumsily, he jerks his hips up against Bruce's, one hand clutching to a shoulder and the other having landed further down on his hip, like he might push him away despite everything else he's doing, the way Clark pushes his face against Bruce's face.

"Mmhm."

:)

It's not so bad, all this. But it can be a lot, depending on how long it's done for, and how much it's allowed to ramp up. Bruce is just doing things he likes - a slow build that's almost like denial, torment and support. He nuzzles at Clark's cheek, shares his breath as they're pressed together, and kisses him again. It's prolonged this time, kissing him until his breathless, until he's sure Clark's mouth is almost bruised with it between the pressure of Bruce's lips and biting back against his own teeth. How does it feel, the scrape of his tongue against teeth, his stubble, the catch of a bite on his lip.

Probably not as sharp as the clothespin going back onto his nipple.

But there's little time to dwell on that, as Bruce pulls back and snags his hands. That long ribbonlike fabric is in play now, too, spilling between them as Bruce picks one end (as if by magic) and twists it through the ring on Clark's left cuff.

"It took me a while to get good at this," he says quietly. "It's like meditation."

Clark can't decide if he has a short memory for this stuff or what. Probably that's a little unfair when there is only a fraction's fraction of his existence spent under the influence of the red lamp, but there's always a moment during these few times that he forgets to breathe, sometimes more than once. Maybe that's not even a Clark thing, but a human thing, more interested in deep bruising kisses than getting oxygen into his lungs.

The breath in after is a sharp intake of air when that pin clamps back down. Complain-y noises and near pushes aside, Clark can feel the way there's a duller, deeper pulse of a twitch through his cock, flesh hard and heavy, and again when Bruce grabs his hands, and again at the tickle of the ribbon resting on him as one end is secured to his wrist.

His other wrist kind of hovers in place where it was dragged. Helping, without thinking about it.

"What's getting good at it like?" he asks, once he's sure his breath is properly caught, dragging a look up from watching Bruce's hands, and instead to his face.

"Practice." The wide ribbon goes easily. He draws it quite a ways, wraps it around the cuff, threads it again. Getting a nice base from which to layer on tension, before he brings Clark's other hand up, and repeats the process. "Patience. Learning how not to do real damage, after having spent so long dedicated to only learning how to cause harm."

The more fabric he winds through, the more it unveils things hidden on the bed beside them. Emergency shears. A leather paddle. A tube of aloe vera.

At last, Clark's hands are bound together. But Bruce doesn't affix them to anything, just leaves them over his head. He pushes them back and sits back, as if to admire the way it looks, and then snags another clothespin to, finally, clip onto his other nipple, which has thus far escaped - but by now will presumably be in a more hypersensitive state from arousal, offering a different initial jolt.

"Do you know what it feels like to start to lose circulation?"

They've played some games reminiscent of this, in these respective roles. Delicate string looped around his wrists, his ankles, the clear instruction, the consequence of what happens if it's not followed. It's bondage of another kind, and that had been exciting.

This is different, of course. Tangible, non-negotiable. It's just his wrists but Clark subtly flexes them to feel the lack of give where ribbon winds through the cuffs. If there was no red sun lamp, he would hear the sound of silky fibres snapping, stitches in leather popping free, metal bending and creaking. None of that happens, and his arms are pushed up.

And it occurs to him to feel silly, maybe, between the capture itself and the clothespins sticking off his body, except his dick is hard and the clips in his skin hurt and each jostle, like this latest one, seems to spark heat up through his nerves and then also into his dick (see: fig. 1) and when he imagines Bruce in this same position, it doesn't seem silly at all. His arms stretch, fingers brushing the headboard, and his less abused thigh brushes against Bruce's hip.

"No," he says, very normally.

"It'll start as pins and needles, or jump straight to light numbness. You'll feel like the area is more dense than it should be. Tell me if you notice it."

The process of wrapping Clark's arms up is slow and methodical, as if cultivating the continued ache of the clothespins. He uses more of them, but not to pinch anywhere - leaving them closed and wrapped around in places where the fabric has to twist in a way that might become too slippery of a knot. Otherwise it's left wide and smoothed out, down to his shoulders, then up the opposite arm, leaving him held close.

Pause. Hm. He ties a bow at Clark's wrists.

Cute.

"Should have gotten blue bandages."

Still, he looks very nice like this. Bruce gives him a gentle kiss, and then situates himself between the other man's knees, settling in to work his way down his chest. Mouth and hands, kissing and biting, manipulating the clothespins, worrying a dark red mark on the underside of one pectoral muscle. He lets his cock press up into him, but doesn't pay it any particular attention. Clark can still bring his hands down, if he wants, but it'll pull uncomfortably at the wrapping. Sort of at Bruce's mercy, sort of not. Restricted but given enough slack on the leash to decide, pinging between different sensations. Where does he want to stay?

He lifts his head when kissed, making the most of it while it lasts, relaxing back when it ends.

As Bruce moves, Clark fidgets a little with the way his wrists are positioned. With enough straining, maybe by inducing that cutting off of circulation being described to him, maybe he could get to one of the knots. It'd take more work than that, fingers, teeth, time, and doesn't matter besides—what he expects to be able to do is to simply shred the fabric and snap metal with a twitch, and he can't.

The criss-cross and loop of ribbons down his arms hug and squeeze pleasantly, and do so more when he shifts, flexing down from wrist to shoulder as he adjusts to the position. When Bruce gets between his legs, mouth kissing at and biting at his chest, Clark shifts his arms like he might try to touch. The angle is wrong, as is the bite of ribbon, and he winds up just stretching right back, arms over head.

Contradictions. Pain and pleasure should be exclusive, and they're not. Loving putting his hands on Bruce, either to touch lightly or grip his hair or flip him over isn't exclusive to also enjoying it when the option is taken from him.

Less stillness, now. Little twitches at particularly sharp snags to the clips on his nipples, small squirms when Bruce's mouth draws bruises on his skin. Warm skin gets warmer, pinpricks of sweat raised down the sides of his torso, thighs, between where ribbon lays flat. Eventually, Clark does try to make use of where his cock presses against Bruce, raising his hips to rub skin to skin, even as clips pull and drag when he does.

In turn, Bruce loves it when Clark touches him. But this is another kind of pleasure that's just as potent. Being able to focus on him entirely, his own arousal present but not getting in the proverbial way of the unfiltered intensity of his mission. Which is simply Clark.

He lets him grind up for a moment before taking him by the hips, pushing him down. Hard and heavy and not trying to avoid the biting pressure of hands against hipbones, he looks up at the younger man, watchful and heated in equal measure. Always checking to make sure he's all right, but still proceeding. That Clark seems to like it as much as he does makes him feel all the more keyed up. But of course he does. This thing between them started with violence so much worse than consensual edging.

A whole hand presses down over the line of pins in his thigh, and Bruce presses his face into the vee of his groin, mouth at the base of his cock. Dangerous territory, putting a hickey right there where it meets plateau of his lower abdomen, letting his erection rub against the stubble on his cheek, holding him down and grasping at pinched flesh at the same time.

When Bruce's looks at him, pushing his hips down with his hands, checking in, there's the start of a protest that's already fading; a line at his brows, mouth opened to issue some kind of complaint, articulate or not. Momentary, impulsive, and replaced with a warmer, hazier look, familiar. He's fine. He doesn't quite smile, but it's there around the eyes just before Bruce dips down.

In contrast, then, to the choked groan that comes out of Clark when Bruce presses his hand against the row of clips. About as painful as they've gotten thus far, and he twists a little where he lies, enough that he would have dislodged Bruce if the light in the room was an ordinary white. But without any of the leverage, or the extra-terrestrial superstrength, it's just squirming in place.

Good thing, because he doesn't want to escape the feeling of Bruce's mouth on him, the friction of his cheek against his cock, or even really the burning hot stripe of sensation that refuses to let up from inside his thigh. "Bruce," is groaned out, the hands above his head gripping bedding. Droplets of moisture gathering at the tip of his cock now leaving damp impressions against his belly.

Clark is strong. Even without the benefit of Kryptonian powers, Bruce has to put effort into keeping him still when he moves - which means that in turn, Clark will feel more resistance, more heavy pressure forcing his hips back onto the bed, keeping his legs where they are. One hand grasping his thigh, other arm thrown over him. Continuing his work with his mouth, teeth set into his skin.

For a moment, he pauses. Forehead pressed against the back of his own hand on Clark's hip, taking a breath.

He's really hot is the thing.

"Sometimes," he says, his voice low, "you make it challenging to want to take my time."

Good thing they have all day. Bruce claws at the clothespins in his thigh, ripping most of them off in one motion. He's got the skills to cleanly remove them, but he doesn't take that care. It's rough, pulling at his skin, leaving it raw and scraped. At the same time, he gets his mouth over his cock.

Clark could say something here. He opens his mouth to do so. Probably a recall of the last time they did something like this, but switched.

But he is already keyed up, now, and words don't form up fast enough by the time Bruce rakes his fingers along the row of pins and knocks them free. Clark cries out, guards too lowered to stop himself in time, a second choked sound and harsh breath in when one of the clips knocks awkwardly aside and pinches roughly on its way off. Blood flowing back into previously clamped skin, livening nerves. Eye watering.

The moan that follows when Bruce's mouth wraps around his cock is likewise unguarded, loud and sexual and—well, not relieved, almost pained, but his hips jerk up eagerly in the kind of thoughtless way he would not do normally. Bruce can feel fingers in his hair where Clark has forced his arms down for a moment, like the discomfort of pulling ribbons is worth the anchoring effect of being able to touch him, awkward as it is.

He doesn't come early again, so that's nice, although he hadn't expected to be teetering on the edge again so quickly. Should have, probably.

If he wants to come, he's free to. In fact, Bruce seems to be encouraging just that end, letting Clark buck up into his mouth even though it threatens to choke him. He shoves him back down, still keeping his rough and messy grip on the thigh bruised by clothespins. It's just that he won't be getting away (getting off) (haha) so easy this time, with one round.

Bruce has gotten better at this, determined to excel in all things equally, if he's going to do it. A different learning curve, when Clark doesn't have superpowers to aid in his ability to hold still and withstand stimuli, but he still likes it. The weight of him, the feeling of both overwhelming pressure and the psychological awareness he's essentially controlling it. Both power dynamics at once. He takes him in as deep as he can, pulls back, sucks at just the head of him, goes back until he's as snug at the back of his throat as he can take him.

A deep breath becomes necessary, and he raises his head. At last sparing his thigh in favor of curling fingers around his dick and stroking.

"Nothing losing circulation?" :)

That last shove finally gets him still beneath the strain, muscles lashed tense against bone. Little compulsive twitches beneath skin, abdominals, thighs, the flex of his fingers into fists. He feels very much as though they've been doing this all day already and finally his resistance is giving, except it hasn't been at all, control just unravelling beneath his fingernails.

Except it doesn't matter, because Bruce has that control, both wrested from Clark as well as coaxed as well as freely given it. Clark feels his cock sink in about as deep as it will go, and gives a shuddered groan, breathing high as Bruce drags back, and wraps his hand around him. A different kind of pressure.

"Nn," is probably a 'no', but also patently unreliable. Maybe his fingers are about to fall off. Who cares, when you're this close to climax. There's another twitched pulled up through his body as he starts to come undone. "Oh god, Bruce—"

If he whispers something like God you're beautiful, it's muddled and hidden from absent superhearing. Bruce jerks him roughly and sucks the head of his cock back into his mouth, like he's taking ownership of his climax. He doesn't hold Clark down so hard; lets him move and spasm and curl up into him, only shoving back if there's danger of knocking out the back of his throat.

Something sympathetic lances through him, a sudden reconnection with his own arousal, and the sharp ache of it. Hard-pressed not to grind against the bed, Bruce sets it aside (with effort), and just groans around Clark's cock.

Swallows. Pulls back, an absolute mess, looking up at him.

For a long moment, Clark lies there breathless. Vibing, really, feeling that human-like relaxation wash over him immediately, warm and comforting. Little niggly things rising to the surface, like the urge to soothe the row of red blotches along his thigh, or attend to the twinned sensations of the pins still affixed to his nipples, or—

He looks down at Bruce, feels a twinge that is both a sex thing and a heart thing. A click of insight where Bruce knows that Clark knows how turned on the older man is, and Clark kind of reaches, but the way his wrists are bound make it awkward.

"Come here," he says, instead, voice all warm and low and quiet. It's sweetly querying and not a deliberate ploy to get his way, sometimes that just happens by accident.

Cheat.

Bruce goes, but not before kissing the red marks on his thigh, rising up, crawling over him, between his bound arms. His erection is still very insistent, and it presses there hot and hard against Clark when he settles in to take his mouth in a kiss. There's no urgency in it— despite the fact that Bruce can get off more than once, his ordinary human physiology just stupid like that, he's not going for any records today. Fixated on his lover.

Which is not to say he plans to manfully not get off or something. He cants his hips down and sighs, a low, deep sound, and finishes it with an affectionate scrape of teeth against Clark's jaw. Clothespins go bonk, probably, and he pulls one off, the other having succumbed to his bodily drape.

"Let me see your hands," he says, voice practically a rumble. Staying where he is atop the other man (enjoy that, without Kryptonian resistance), Bruce reaches back and pushes Clark's arms over his head so that he can check everything, refit the wraps so they're comfortable, and so on.

With or without Kryptonian resistance, Clark does enjoy that. Without, there is that sense of gravity, dense bone and slabs of muscle. This close, he doesn't need supersenses to feel the beat of his heart, or measure the warmth of his body. While his arms are still around Bruce, he folds him in firmly, bound wrists caught at the back of his neck as they kiss. He tangles their legs up, indulging in this full bodied contact while it lasts.

Oof. Clark rests his arms up above his head when pushed, letting his head fall back. Stretches his fingers as if it to show they're still in working order.

"Still attached," he says. Then, after a pause, "You know what I was worried about, doing this?"

Maybe a conversation for after, or better yet, before, but sometimes, the things that occur to you don't care about timing. It doesn't sound like a big to slow down or stop, anyway, as Clark shifts (very minimally, given givens) beneath Bruce's weight, like he wants to do something about the feeling of his stiff length pressed against his skin.

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