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.
"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.
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.
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.
Even though they're bound, Bruce finds a way to press their palms together, or close enough. Stretch his fingers out, make sure everything is in working order. Admire him laid there like that, too. But he stays close, grinding slow and heavy into Clark. Nothing between them but sweat and red marks.
"What," Bruce asks, nuzzled against the side of his face, "were you worried about?" Low and warm, able to pick up that Clark isn't slamming his foot on the brake, but fine with slowing enough to chat before he does anything about his arousal, insistent as it is. He skims his hands down Clark's arms, presses thumbs into the tender spaces inside his elbows, palms over a substantial (if wrapped up) gun show. Listens.
Impossible to not start up again, feeling Bruce move against him, his hands smoothing down his arms, voice like that. Arousal is lazy to make a return but making a return it is, stirred coals without spark, just yet. Clark shifts his wrists, a slight creak of leather beneath the snug binds of ribbon and bow.
Tempting to say 'never mind' and get back to the business of luxuriating in the things Bruce feels like doing to him, but he suspects they're a little alike in that there is likewise something appealing in being listened to, in finding some crack in the moment to dig your nails into and control, in slowing things down even while the other man moves against him, harder than he is, for now.
Clark can't quite return the favour save to twist a little in place, sliding the side of his foot down Bruce's leg. Mmf. Bruce's fingers wrapping around his arms maybe finding somewhere borderline tickly in their sensitivity, a twitch coursing through him at the necessarily denied impulse to pull back somehow, before relaxing instead.
"Not hurting," Clark says, trying to put his thoughts in some kind of order. "But I think about the way you came apart under me," and he manages to more firmly rub himself against Bruce, actually engaging in the normal but considerable human strength he has to push back a little, "and I don't wanna flinch away from giving you that."
If it did hurt too much, he knows he could tap out. But if he liked it all too much, and then there was that kill switch in the back of his mind, to lock it all down, for fear of something. Some loss of focus, control. It all sounds very high-minded for a little DIY kink, but never say they don't take fucking each other seriously.
It's strange to feel Clark shift and not immediately be moved upward like he weighs nothing; Bruce hopes it's always strange, even if they continue to make a habit of this. He never wants to find himself expecting Clark to be human, or take for granted the way he is.
Bruce pushes into Clark's lift, grinding, nuzzling at his cheek. Thinking about that. His cock isn't flagging at all, perfectly hard and tuned in, not about to lose interest over just about anything. The ache at the core of him is burning, but pleasant. He doesn't mind drawing it out. Especially not with Clark responding, talking, like this.
"Because you might not like it, and have a hard time accepting my own enjoyment?" Bruce kisses the side of his mouth, staying tucked right there against him, one hand tracing shapes on his shoulder and lower, over his chest. "Because you might like it too much, and lose control knowing just what you're doing to me?"
Being stretched out like this make him deeply aware of his habits. If his hands weren't bound, he would rest them on Bruce's ribcage. He might slide them down his back, grip onto his ass and control the movement between them. Or if he wanted to be tender, he might sweep his fingers through Bruce's hair, rest secure at the nape of his neck, trace a line down his jaw, throat. Better yet, he might force his hand between them, grip onto his cock, watching him brightly for his reaction.
Clark does not consciously think of these things and regret their absence, just feels these instincts as unrealised potential, something physical and instinctive. At the same time, laying beneath Bruce and being kissed, touched, moved against so heavily, when physically he can't do very much more but accept it, sends warm shivers through him.
And also makes it hard to focus. Which is also nice.
"I just have a hard time letting go," he says, almost a sigh, head turning to nuzzle back. Eyes hooded until everything's a comfortable blur. "Even when I want it. But I trust you," feels good to say.
A deep, ardent kiss, then, Bruce wordlessly - and breathlessly - expression his gratitude for that. I trust you. He thinks that might be better than hearing the-l-word, which, while incredible and sometimes unbelievable, does not solve as many problems or cement as many foundations, or leave either so vulnerable. Trust is the real deadly one.
When he breaks it, he has to catch his breath, but that's easy for someone who paces his own heartbeat. Barely any abnormal roughness to his voice (even though he'd been letting Clark knock his tonsils out a minute ago).
"And I trust you. I trust that when you fuck me, you're going to feel too good to talk yourself out of it." Teeth against his jaw, biting harder than simply teasing. Holding for a moment, lingering pressure. "I trust that no matter how much you let go when we're like this, that you'd never hurt me when the light's out."
A little raw and emotional, a little pornographic. Bruce kisses down his throat, finds his adam's apple to suck on, runs his hand over one pec and the abused nipple there. Thumbing over it, drawing around it. Seeing how sore he is from the clothespins, enjoying the raised, warm feeling of his skin.
Clark's hands curl into fists as Bruce sets his teeth against his jaw, leaves its mark, or maybe doesn't leave any impression at all, that's how it feels. He hasn't really figured out the threshold, yet, when something might start to bruise, or even bleed, or fade like it was never there. (Years and years ago, his own teeth set into his forearm to smother the noises, and biting harder, and harder, steel on steel, nothing yielding.) His chin tips up as Bruce's mouth goes down his throat.
A breathed out sound when Bruce's hand touches his chest, pressing reddened skin. It's almost a surprise that he doesn't feel the same snag of the now absent pin.
He doesn't say 'okay', or articulate acceptance, affirmation. Clark just keeps his head back to make room for the things Bruce's mouth is doing, but does gently bring his arms back around to hook them around the back of the other man's shoulders. Moving his hips back up against him, somewhere between teasing at Bruce's arousal and firing up his own.
Clark has not figured out the threshold yet, but Bruce has; his knowledge of a body - a human body - is second to none, in terms of what it can take, and what will result in a bruise, blood, or break. And he has catalogued in his memory every facet of Clark's skin and the muscle and fascia beneath, how it feels in this state, how much pressure it took last time to leave faint impressions of teeth and nails, playful red marks, or more serious purple welts.
There is something almost sweet in the way he takes his time finding a sensitive place on Clark's chest to sink his teeth into. He doesn't move very far down, really only bending slightly, as to keep them locked together below, rubbing and grinding against each other. He's so hard he's leaking with it, spreading sticky precome on the both of them. It's like a key in a lock desperately trying to twist open, tension coiling tighter and tighter. But it's more important that he get this patch of Clark's skin rosy, then darker, feeling thin and hypersensitive. A canine - not as pointy as the Kryptonian's charming shark teeth, but it'll do - catches on the worried flesh.
Not a vampire moment. Just barely.
Bruce raises his head, pushing Clark's arms up and back as he does, pinning them there with one of his hands on his crossed wrists. He pushes the thumb of his other hand into the welt he's made.
It's what Clark means when he speaks about trust. He trusts Bruce knows what he's doing. In a way, he trusts Bruce better with all of this than he trusts himself.
When his mouth locks onto that small patch of skin, it's an excuse for Clark to close his eyes, immerse himself in simple things, like the build of slipperiness and friction between them, the slow build of pressure as he gets hard all over again, the tiny wet sounds from Bruce worrying at his skin, the slow rise of sharpness in the ache forming there. Clark is quiet as this happens, until Bruce lifts away with that last scrape of tooth, at which point he groans, complaint and relief and pleasure all at the same time.
—which is interrupted when Bruce presses his arms up and back and down. Starts new and louder when this latest bruise is pressed, when he says that, looks down at him. Clark has to wonder which part of this, which combination of things, seems to send him over the edge from interested into aroused.
He nods, breathes out 'yeah', a little like he was planning on avoiding talking altogether before deciding he needed to make sure there was no mistake, there.
Bruce leans down and presses a chaste kiss to his mouth. "Good," he says, almost as quiet. Just a gravelly breath of voice.
He sits up, all the back to sit back on his heels. It's a bit of a challenge - drawing away from Clark's body is a regretful exercise in any event - but there's a to-do list here, still. Whether his alien lover is aware or not. Bruce keeps his hands on him, running over his sides and his legs, down to his shins. He coaxes one of Clark's knees up, pushing it towards his abdomen so that he can reposition himself and then nudge at him to roll over onto his stomach.
"C'mon." Gentle. He gives him another kiss, helps him with his bound arms, tugs the sheet beneath him to make sure he's comfortable. One hand slides down his spine, squeezes his ass. "Okay?"
Big breath in as Bruce backs up, the weight of him lifted. Clark relaxes his arms, relaxes his whole self, or tries to, lets himself get manipulated around and shuffles to roll as urged. Swallows back the potential sound he almost makes when his slowly stiffening cock is pressed into the bed beneath him along with every little bruise and scrape. Recognises also that without some determined rolling aside or stress on the criss-crossed bandaging, his arms are half-trapped into a stretch in front of him.
Little adjustments. He has a nice back, which articulates every movement very well, but they still under Bruce's hand. "Uh huh. You?"
It's strange to be in a position where he doesn't get to constantly touch or grab or kiss while they're in bed together. It might nearly be a concern if he wasn't acutely aware of the fun that sometimes is on the other side, as much as he'd been aware of the absence of Bruce's hands on him throughout.
So he adds, now that he has his voice back, "How are you planning on getting off?" and it's not, like, coy or smug or impatient so much as something he can do.
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no subject
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.
no subject
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?"
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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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
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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.
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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?" :)
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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—"
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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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"What," Bruce asks, nuzzled against the side of his face, "were you worried about?" Low and warm, able to pick up that Clark isn't slamming his foot on the brake, but fine with slowing enough to chat before he does anything about his arousal, insistent as it is. He skims his hands down Clark's arms, presses thumbs into the tender spaces inside his elbows, palms over a substantial (if wrapped up) gun show. Listens.
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Tempting to say 'never mind' and get back to the business of luxuriating in the things Bruce feels like doing to him, but he suspects they're a little alike in that there is likewise something appealing in being listened to, in finding some crack in the moment to dig your nails into and control, in slowing things down even while the other man moves against him, harder than he is, for now.
Clark can't quite return the favour save to twist a little in place, sliding the side of his foot down Bruce's leg. Mmf. Bruce's fingers wrapping around his arms maybe finding somewhere borderline tickly in their sensitivity, a twitch coursing through him at the necessarily denied impulse to pull back somehow, before relaxing instead.
"Not hurting," Clark says, trying to put his thoughts in some kind of order. "But I think about the way you came apart under me," and he manages to more firmly rub himself against Bruce, actually engaging in the normal but considerable human strength he has to push back a little, "and I don't wanna flinch away from giving you that."
If it did hurt too much, he knows he could tap out. But if he liked it all too much, and then there was that kill switch in the back of his mind, to lock it all down, for fear of something. Some loss of focus, control. It all sounds very high-minded for a little DIY kink, but never say they don't take fucking each other seriously.
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Bruce pushes into Clark's lift, grinding, nuzzling at his cheek. Thinking about that. His cock isn't flagging at all, perfectly hard and tuned in, not about to lose interest over just about anything. The ache at the core of him is burning, but pleasant. He doesn't mind drawing it out. Especially not with Clark responding, talking, like this.
"Because you might not like it, and have a hard time accepting my own enjoyment?" Bruce kisses the side of his mouth, staying tucked right there against him, one hand tracing shapes on his shoulder and lower, over his chest. "Because you might like it too much, and lose control knowing just what you're doing to me?"
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Clark does not consciously think of these things and regret their absence, just feels these instincts as unrealised potential, something physical and instinctive. At the same time, laying beneath Bruce and being kissed, touched, moved against so heavily, when physically he can't do very much more but accept it, sends warm shivers through him.
And also makes it hard to focus. Which is also nice.
"I just have a hard time letting go," he says, almost a sigh, head turning to nuzzle back. Eyes hooded until everything's a comfortable blur. "Even when I want it. But I trust you," feels good to say.
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When he breaks it, he has to catch his breath, but that's easy for someone who paces his own heartbeat. Barely any abnormal roughness to his voice (even though he'd been letting Clark knock his tonsils out a minute ago).
"And I trust you. I trust that when you fuck me, you're going to feel too good to talk yourself out of it." Teeth against his jaw, biting harder than simply teasing. Holding for a moment, lingering pressure. "I trust that no matter how much you let go when we're like this, that you'd never hurt me when the light's out."
A little raw and emotional, a little pornographic. Bruce kisses down his throat, finds his adam's apple to suck on, runs his hand over one pec and the abused nipple there. Thumbing over it, drawing around it. Seeing how sore he is from the clothespins, enjoying the raised, warm feeling of his skin.
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A breathed out sound when Bruce's hand touches his chest, pressing reddened skin. It's almost a surprise that he doesn't feel the same snag of the now absent pin.
He doesn't say 'okay', or articulate acceptance, affirmation. Clark just keeps his head back to make room for the things Bruce's mouth is doing, but does gently bring his arms back around to hook them around the back of the other man's shoulders. Moving his hips back up against him, somewhere between teasing at Bruce's arousal and firing up his own.
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There is something almost sweet in the way he takes his time finding a sensitive place on Clark's chest to sink his teeth into. He doesn't move very far down, really only bending slightly, as to keep them locked together below, rubbing and grinding against each other. He's so hard he's leaking with it, spreading sticky precome on the both of them. It's like a key in a lock desperately trying to twist open, tension coiling tighter and tighter. But it's more important that he get this patch of Clark's skin rosy, then darker, feeling thin and hypersensitive. A canine - not as pointy as the Kryptonian's charming shark teeth, but it'll do - catches on the worried flesh.
Not a vampire moment. Just barely.
Bruce raises his head, pushing Clark's arms up and back as he does, pinning them there with one of his hands on his crossed wrists. He pushes the thumb of his other hand into the welt he's made.
"Think you'll be able to come again?"
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When his mouth locks onto that small patch of skin, it's an excuse for Clark to close his eyes, immerse himself in simple things, like the build of slipperiness and friction between them, the slow build of pressure as he gets hard all over again, the tiny wet sounds from Bruce worrying at his skin, the slow rise of sharpness in the ache forming there. Clark is quiet as this happens, until Bruce lifts away with that last scrape of tooth, at which point he groans, complaint and relief and pleasure all at the same time.
—which is interrupted when Bruce presses his arms up and back and down. Starts new and louder when this latest bruise is pressed, when he says that, looks down at him. Clark has to wonder which part of this, which combination of things, seems to send him over the edge from interested into aroused.
He nods, breathes out 'yeah', a little like he was planning on avoiding talking altogether before deciding he needed to make sure there was no mistake, there.
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He sits up, all the back to sit back on his heels. It's a bit of a challenge - drawing away from Clark's body is a regretful exercise in any event - but there's a to-do list here, still. Whether his alien lover is aware or not. Bruce keeps his hands on him, running over his sides and his legs, down to his shins. He coaxes one of Clark's knees up, pushing it towards his abdomen so that he can reposition himself and then nudge at him to roll over onto his stomach.
"C'mon." Gentle. He gives him another kiss, helps him with his bound arms, tugs the sheet beneath him to make sure he's comfortable. One hand slides down his spine, squeezes his ass. "Okay?"
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Little adjustments. He has a nice back, which articulates every movement very well, but they still under Bruce's hand. "Uh huh. You?"
It's strange to be in a position where he doesn't get to constantly touch or grab or kiss while they're in bed together. It might nearly be a concern if he wasn't acutely aware of the fun that sometimes is on the other side, as much as he'd been aware of the absence of Bruce's hands on him throughout.
So he adds, now that he has his voice back, "How are you planning on getting off?" and it's not, like, coy or smug or impatient so much as something he can do.
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