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.
And lo, the reason he bound Clark's hands but didn't tie him to the headboard, exposed. Bruce makes sure he can at least bend at his elbows for comfort. Checks the wraps again, mindful of circulation, but not letting him free. It lets him run his hand over his neck, shoulders. Leaning on his butt a little with the other one.
"I've got some options. Why, do you have somewhere else you need to be, at the moment?"
Patience, grasshopper. Something like that.
Bruce moves, making sure to always stay in contact so that Clark doesn't feel like he's vanished, and nudges his knees apart. Getting into the same position as a moment ago, practically, just with the younger man flipped over. He is still very hard, and he lets Clark feel it, leaning in to rub his cock in the cleft of his ass. Which for a mind-numbing second feels like it may be a mistake, his own patience threatening to fray, but he masters it. Leans up, presses both hands on Clark's shoulderblades.
"Tell me if you don't like something."
Pressure. Hard and uncompromising, and his hands moving, along lines of energy and circulation. It draws heat up; not really a massage, but there's no better word for it. For such a serious guy, he sure believes in a lot of hippie chakra crap, but it's hard to argue its validity when applied in a way that, after a few minutes, can feel like an electric shock from a touch to a pressure point.
"No," breathed out, sighed, a subtle lift of his hips when he feels Bruce lean in and rub himself so intimately. Like maybe Clark might play at tempting him into abandoning their plans altogether. But having already come helps patience, and so there's nothing stopping Bruce leaning in and
it feels like being pressed into the bed, the next breath out lets gently coaxed than the last. The next point of pressure Bruce's hands find gets a groan out of Clark, a physical twinge of protest raising his shoulders and bowing his head. No report on not liking it, however, even if he's not sure how to like it just yet.
"But it'll give me something to think about," comes out slightly strained, the second half of that thought and answer.
Does Superman have points of tension? If Bruce pushes in a chiropractic capacity, is there anything to even gently click back into place? A single molecule of misplaced nitrogen lurking in a joint? Doesn't feel like it. Everything under Bruce's hands is in perfect condition, through and through. He thinks Clark would have to put himself through the wringer, in the light of the red lamp, to need to be re-aligned.
Still, there are access points to all kinds of primary nerves here, in the spine and through his hips, and Bruce manipulates that as he strokes. An exorcism of some ghost of exhaustion that only mortal flesh feels.
Their positioning means that Bruce still brushes gainst the exposed curve of his ass when he moves, and an obscene drip lands on his skin. He draws a slow breath, in and out. Then leans in, mouth at the back of Clark's neck. "Is this not holding your attention well enough?"
There is tension thrummed through Clark's body as Bruce works those points, but not tension. No long-knotted muscles or stiff joints, no scar tissue or even formless sensitive areas made so by wear and tear. Physical perfection can be very hot. It can also be very creepy in a way Clark thankfully hasn't thought too much about, but if he did, would be glad Bruce doesn't think so, what with his own knowledge of anatomy.
"This— ah," as the pinch gets a satisfying physical startle out of the Kryptonian, like the sensory sharpness of that is exaggerated from the deeper, blunter kneading efforts of Bruce's hands up until that moment. Bound hands hover up, rest back down, an exhale like a laugh leaving him.
Turns out, Bruce didn't need to answer the question after all, because it's hard not to think about sex, to be keenly aware of the other man's arousal, and his own, pressed into the sheets. His head bows forwards as Clark feels Bruce murmur against the back of his neck, and he shifts a little in place to make use of that nearness, to press his hips back up against him, to twist a leg to nudge his ankle against the side of Bruce's.
"This is where I joke about if I left the stove on," is slightly breathless both by virtue of all this wriggling but also just lying like this, on his front, arms out, the odd strain of it.
One knee presses into the underside of Clark's, pushing it out further, getting his legs wider. It gives Bruce room to press down, slowly rut his hips into Clark as he makes a mark at the base of his neck. On an expanse of skin that is just waiting to become perfect again. Bruce is strong enough to hold this position, hands keeping him balanced just above Clark's back. Thinking about his own a little, at the same time, if he should really be torquing forward like this in such a repetitive motion, but finding himself unable to reel it in. Observing that. Hm.
"Too late."
For the stove. Your apartment has blown up, sorry.
Bruce gets his self-control back under his own thumb, and levers himself up. Hands skimming down Clark's side, looking at the almost-mess he's made of his butt. Plans skew sideways, then, after a silent moment of consideration, during which Bruce enjoys the vicious satisfaction of yanking himself back from the brink. He could come in another minute, he's certain. Just here like this. But there are many feelings to experience, and not all of them have to be an orgasm.
Whatever plan is neatly folded up and discarded (for now) in favor of moving, shifting back across the bedsheets that should probably just give up, at this stage, to the end of the bed. With thumb and forefinger, Bruce tweaks where he'd pinched Clark, a teasing overture before he settles in to get his mouth on him. This is not something he does often - a bit more in the extended foreplay department than he tends to have time for, given his proclivities - but there's no squeamishness or hesitation as he spreads him open and licks in, harsh stubble and calloused hands and all.
For a moment, Clark thinks maybe he was successful in derailing whatever Bruce might have intended to do. Gives a soft sound when his legs are spread opens, when Bruce moves against him like that. It's not that he wants to avoid doing the things they're doing, but how satisfying, to unmake Bruce's plans, even if it results in a simulated fucking that doesn't quite make it all the way to the real thing.
So when he lifts away, it's an opportunity to get a grip, Clark sighing out and forcing himself to relax against the bed. Becomes more aware of himself, but the sense of himself like this, thighs open and cock hard and still with the sense memory of his lover's cock grinding against him, doesn't evoke shame, just serves to make him harder.
And it's that internal processing that Bruce interrupts.
Clark gasps in, hips twitching aimlessly before stilling as he clocks the feeling of Bruce's hands and mouth on him, pressed about as intimately as it gets. It's new enough that both the idea of it is about as stimulating as the sensation itself. Can a person's whole body blush? Maybe. That's sort of what it feels like. The low groan he gives is delivered directly into bedsheets, muffled but not shy, and the next subtle movement of his hips is to lift them a little, making life easier.
The immediate proof of Clark's enjoyment sends heat coursing through him, settling in his core warm and smugly satisfied. A brief spark of thought drifts by, as he runs the fingertips of one hand in small circles over the soft skin of the younger man's perineum, that he should have asked first; funny, the things that he considers permission-worthy, with all the deliberate non-asking they do to rev each other up. Bruce shouldn't be charmed by that, but he is.
He gets a grip in the meat of Clark's ass, pulls him open wider, continues to lick and mouth at his hole. Dragging his tongue over it, tugging at the tight rim, kneading his ass and helping him shift his hips up for more, better, closer. Once the correct angle is settled into it's not even awkward, and Bruce can't help but make a low sound of enjoyment when he breaks for a moment to bite the curve of his ass. Enviable, Clark's perfect anatomical construction. And the way his battle suit is shameless about his entire form. Or it would be, if Bruce didn't have the ability to be doing this to that very form. He swipes his tongue over the blanched marks left by his teeth, and then brings his hand down on his ass, palm flat, motion swift and firm. The crack of it is loud in the bedroom, noise more intense than the force. But not without intent for him to feel it.
Back when they'd first desperately began pulling each other's clothes off, Clark had asked if Bruce had enjoyed their brutal fight because Superman had been losing. No. It was just—
Everything.
And so maybe, Clark might like the weight and heft of impact. Some shape or another of this very thing had been the initial plan, long aforementioned paddle reserved for just-in-case, if it went over too well. But this is good, too. Maybe better. Before Clark has more than a few seconds to process, Bruce resumes licking him open, wet and determined, hand squeezing over his own red palm-mark.
Licking and kissing and kneading and bites all layer on the warmth of Bruce's attention, all earn their respective responses, whether it's just a sharp breath or a more thoughtfully articulated groan, or Clark pushing himself into the necessary positioning, hips lifted enough that only the curve of his cock touches against rumpled bedsheets.
Which is its own tease. There's intensity in Bruce's callused hands and teeth marks and even the texture of his unshaven cheek against sensitive patches of skin, and all of this invites blood to drain into his cock hanging heavy and neglected. It would take a lot more twisting around for Clark to get his hands on himself, bound like this, but he also knows that even if they weren't, he'd probably just be gripping onto the sheets to stop himself anyway.
The smack down onto his ass gets another breath out him, the sharp shock of it one more new thing. It doesn't feel like injury, even if his skin is immediately red beneath Bruce's hand, but sharp enough he knows he wouldn't feel it this way as he would normally. A twitch ripples up the backs of his thighs as Bruce's mouth touches him again, deep and wet.
Breathing harder, suddenly. The ribbons around his arms all strain as he hitches his elbows more inwards, to bear his weight.
"Again," he pants. "Please."
Sometimes he thinks he should be embarrassed, ever, about the places he willingly drags himself to with Bruce, except in the moment, there's just never the room for it, and after—well. Bruce has a way of making everything Clark does feel safe and good and wanted, and there's never room then either.
Please, says Clark, and Bruce's mind does some strange skip, a scanline error tangled in dark want— which he should be ashamed of, and isn't. He drags his hand up over the other man's spine, steadying, and rakes his fingernails when he pulls it back. Looking up, along the strong, straight line of him, to see the back of his head and the way his arms are bound and torqued up, helping him push up into Bruce's efforts. Please, in more than words.
Bruce had promised him: Every knife edge you want to find, and feel, we'll sink into.
He brings his hand down on Clark's ass again, harder this time. He has enough control and precision to get it exactly on the same spot, amplifying the sensation twofold. He runs the knuckles of his other hand between Clark's legs, brushing up against his balls, not quite anything else, back again to stroke his thumb over his hole and the sticky mess he's made of it. Even his own mouth feels a touch raw with friction. Hard fingers dig into the deepening red mark. His voice is harsh,
The groan Clark gives at that is inarticulate complaint. Kind of a rare one, from him, not much of a whiner in general. The harshness of the slap is like a shock to his senses and then comes that gentler touch between his legs that he can't stop himself from bucking back against. He can feel himself starting to drip against the sheets beneath him, speaking of mess, but the race towards an orgasm feels oddly tertiary.
And. He's being quizzed on a complex topic, that being, what does he want more of the most. One of his hands has wrangled a fistful of sheet, just for something to grip, and he lets out a harsh sounding breath as Bruce's fingers dig against him.
"The hitting," comes out harsh, half-whispered. It feels like a trust fall, even now, even after he already asked for this, after they talked about, after it's already started. It's not a bad thing, when you're caught. He swallows, musters up another morsel of courage and breath in his lungs, asks, "Will you do it 'til I say?"
He's not sure if that's how this works, really, but on Clark's side, he's only ever made this up as he goes.
If it's a trust fall, Bruce catches him. The hand between Clark's legs shifts up, splaying his palm over the inside of his thigh, around the gentle dip where it meets his ass, skimming higher and forward to take hold of his hipbone. He is human, far from Kryptonian, but these are hands and arms that fly, building to building. Holding Clark up, giving him something to pull against or push back into, is easy. His thumb rubs a comforting circle.
"Yes."
Of course, sweetheart. He doesn't say that. Frequently, Bruce does not say that, but almost does; a specific word assigned to Clark in his head. The first time he almost said it, the other man had inhaled a barrel of fatal neurotoxin and stumbled through Gotham like a sixteen-year-old after his first margarita. Something in him clenches, seizes. It's too bad Clark can't hear his heart.
(Un)speaking of,
"Only I can hear you, up here."
It's just them. Their own private world, with expensive sound-proof walls, locks, security cameras, and a Do Not Disturb protocol that would only be broken by an emergency page from Alfred. Dryly joking about his socioeconomic authority, Bruce had said once, No one opens a door I've shut. And that is especially true here. Clark can say, shout, anything. Only Bruce will ever hear it. And it's all safe in his head.
Crack. Without warning, another one. Then again. He gives the same initial spot a hard strike, but then moves, painting his ass and the tops of his thighs with a reddening bloom.
What a relief, that touch to his hip, and the smallness of the thumb rub that accompanies it. It is physically impossible to relax, but there's something like it that happens anyway, and he leans into that touch, feeling the solidity of it. The physical assuredness, and the psychic assuredness. When Bruce reminds him of where they are, Clark nods, ironically quiet in conveying his understanding, and senses himself bracing.
Which is also new, in a way, not just for the pain factor, but the absence of superhuman reflexes. If something's coming at him fast, he can watch it, feel it happen, decide what to do next, like a more sophisticated set of responses than a more human flinch-signal through his nervous system. His processing feels slower when he doesn't have the kind of physiology that can respond to anything faster.
Anyway. There's no flinch until after Bruce's hand lands on him, a human-like delay between impact and response, hips jerking forwards some, more if it wasn't for the other man's grip. And again, this time getting a sound out of Clark, a breathless grunt. The next against a new spot is less painful but has him gasping in. His hands close into fists.
Bruce's hand lands somewhere particularly sensitive, some midway point between thigh and ass, a sharper cry startled out of Clark, but he only pushes his hips back up.
There's almost an art to it: the angle of his hand, the speed of the strike, the amount of force. Picking just where to land it. He can create and even shade over Clark's skin, or raise patterns. He can - and does - nudge Clark's knees wider apart, help him shift his hips up higher, switch hands to continue to hold him at the opposite hip. Bruce slaps him hard, right against the cleft of his ass held open just so, knowing it'll collide with the sense-memory of his mouth, and shoot straight up his spine. He grips hard on an area he's worked the most, forcing Clark to feel the continued burn of it, like a long, continuous moment of impact.
This position is somewhat odd for it all. But it avoids any awkward mimicry of role playing punishment; Clark isn't over his knees. Bruce isn't standing up behind him with a whip. It's an introductory that's as organic and almost-accidental as everything else they've stumbled into, and it's shockingly beautiful. Clark and his back exposed and flexing, flinching, his bound arms cross-crossed in black, his ass tipped up into Bruce's hands.
The physical exertion of hitting him has made his erection flag, blood flow directed elsewhere, but arousal is still practically choking him. It's held there in an iron grip, unable to go higher or seek fulfilment. After Clark pushes back, cries out in a particular way, Bruce leans over him to press a kiss against the center of his spine, both hands firmly on him. Approval, not apology.
Clark shifts when shifted, knees spreading, hips lifting, some potent combination that is the state of his own arousal, skin growing warm to the slaps, and the easy confidence that Bruce delivers them with all working to dissolve away the last of that hesitancy, reserve, misplaced shyness. The hard hit right up the centre of him gets a loud groan of mostly-pain, but not all-pain. Back arching with that hard grip, leaning right into that extended ache while also letting it ground him.
The position is also becoming its own source of discomfort, shoulders and hips and back and sides all beginning to burn in ways he's not strictly familiar with. More and more, Bruce will notice the telltale signs of little adjustments in an attempt to relieve some of that pressure, the weight of Clark in the grip he keeps on him. But no bailing out of it, keeping his hips hitched high, and his erection still holding heavy throughout.
There's no words despite the invitation, but it doesn't sound like something is being held back behind the gasps and the near-whines in the wake of certain slaps, just letting it happen. That last groan is shuddered out of him, that near-sobbed sound of mindless sensation, and the sigh out when Bruce leans in to kiss his back is all relief. The hands resting on burning skin feels somehow soothing and also too much, and Clark lowers himself a little, a hummed noise of appreciation as muscles that had been held tense relax by just a fraction.
He forces his fingers to unclench from those fists, one hand flagging up, flopping back down. "When," breathed out, and audible in his tone is the subtle curve of a smile at the edge of his mouth.
Another kiss, a knot of vertebra, and then he's leaning over to one side, fishing something out of the mess of instruments laid out beside them. One hand always kept on Clark. Turns out it's the emergency shears, which he uses to snip him free of the wraps on his arms. They're still spiralled around him, and there's still the cuffs, but he'll be able to almost fully relax in this position.
Incidentally, leading that far over him means Bruce presses up against his recently-abused bum, which might feel a certain way, his cock half-hard and twitching just so with interest as he leans. Oof, Bruce grunts some low sound as he slides his hands over Clark's ribs.
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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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"I've got some options. Why, do you have somewhere else you need to be, at the moment?"
Patience, grasshopper. Something like that.
Bruce moves, making sure to always stay in contact so that Clark doesn't feel like he's vanished, and nudges his knees apart. Getting into the same position as a moment ago, practically, just with the younger man flipped over. He is still very hard, and he lets Clark feel it, leaning in to rub his cock in the cleft of his ass. Which for a mind-numbing second feels like it may be a mistake, his own patience threatening to fray, but he masters it. Leans up, presses both hands on Clark's shoulderblades.
"Tell me if you don't like something."
Pressure. Hard and uncompromising, and his hands moving, along lines of energy and circulation. It draws heat up; not really a massage, but there's no better word for it. For such a serious guy, he sure believes in a lot of hippie chakra crap, but it's hard to argue its validity when applied in a way that, after a few minutes, can feel like an electric shock from a touch to a pressure point.
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it feels like being pressed into the bed, the next breath out lets gently coaxed than the last. The next point of pressure Bruce's hands find gets a groan out of Clark, a physical twinge of protest raising his shoulders and bowing his head. No report on not liking it, however, even if he's not sure how to like it just yet.
"But it'll give me something to think about," comes out slightly strained, the second half of that thought and answer.
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Still, there are access points to all kinds of primary nerves here, in the spine and through his hips, and Bruce manipulates that as he strokes. An exorcism of some ghost of exhaustion that only mortal flesh feels.
Their positioning means that Bruce still brushes gainst the exposed curve of his ass when he moves, and an obscene drip lands on his skin. He draws a slow breath, in and out. Then leans in, mouth at the back of Clark's neck. "Is this not holding your attention well enough?"
One hand sweeps down, pinches his butt.
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"This— ah," as the pinch gets a satisfying physical startle out of the Kryptonian, like the sensory sharpness of that is exaggerated from the deeper, blunter kneading efforts of Bruce's hands up until that moment. Bound hands hover up, rest back down, an exhale like a laugh leaving him.
Turns out, Bruce didn't need to answer the question after all, because it's hard not to think about sex, to be keenly aware of the other man's arousal, and his own, pressed into the sheets. His head bows forwards as Clark feels Bruce murmur against the back of his neck, and he shifts a little in place to make use of that nearness, to press his hips back up against him, to twist a leg to nudge his ankle against the side of Bruce's.
"This is where I joke about if I left the stove on," is slightly breathless both by virtue of all this wriggling but also just lying like this, on his front, arms out, the odd strain of it.
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"Too late."
For the stove. Your apartment has blown up, sorry.
Bruce gets his self-control back under his own thumb, and levers himself up. Hands skimming down Clark's side, looking at the almost-mess he's made of his butt. Plans skew sideways, then, after a silent moment of consideration, during which Bruce enjoys the vicious satisfaction of yanking himself back from the brink. He could come in another minute, he's certain. Just here like this. But there are many feelings to experience, and not all of them have to be an orgasm.
Whatever plan is neatly folded up and discarded (for now) in favor of moving, shifting back across the bedsheets that should probably just give up, at this stage, to the end of the bed. With thumb and forefinger, Bruce tweaks where he'd pinched Clark, a teasing overture before he settles in to get his mouth on him. This is not something he does often - a bit more in the extended foreplay department than he tends to have time for, given his proclivities - but there's no squeamishness or hesitation as he spreads him open and licks in, harsh stubble and calloused hands and all.
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So when he lifts away, it's an opportunity to get a grip, Clark sighing out and forcing himself to relax against the bed. Becomes more aware of himself, but the sense of himself like this, thighs open and cock hard and still with the sense memory of his lover's cock grinding against him, doesn't evoke shame, just serves to make him harder.
And it's that internal processing that Bruce interrupts.
Clark gasps in, hips twitching aimlessly before stilling as he clocks the feeling of Bruce's hands and mouth on him, pressed about as intimately as it gets. It's new enough that both the idea of it is about as stimulating as the sensation itself. Can a person's whole body blush? Maybe. That's sort of what it feels like. The low groan he gives is delivered directly into bedsheets, muffled but not shy, and the next subtle movement of his hips is to lift them a little, making life easier.
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He gets a grip in the meat of Clark's ass, pulls him open wider, continues to lick and mouth at his hole. Dragging his tongue over it, tugging at the tight rim, kneading his ass and helping him shift his hips up for more, better, closer. Once the correct angle is settled into it's not even awkward, and Bruce can't help but make a low sound of enjoyment when he breaks for a moment to bite the curve of his ass. Enviable, Clark's perfect anatomical construction. And the way his battle suit is shameless about his entire form. Or it would be, if Bruce didn't have the ability to be doing this to that very form. He swipes his tongue over the blanched marks left by his teeth, and then brings his hand down on his ass, palm flat, motion swift and firm. The crack of it is loud in the bedroom, noise more intense than the force. But not without intent for him to feel it.
Back when they'd first desperately began pulling each other's clothes off, Clark had asked if Bruce had enjoyed their brutal fight because Superman had been losing. No. It was just—
Everything.
And so maybe, Clark might like the weight and heft of impact. Some shape or another of this very thing had been the initial plan, long aforementioned paddle reserved for just-in-case, if it went over too well. But this is good, too. Maybe better. Before Clark has more than a few seconds to process, Bruce resumes licking him open, wet and determined, hand squeezing over his own red palm-mark.
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Which is its own tease. There's intensity in Bruce's callused hands and teeth marks and even the texture of his unshaven cheek against sensitive patches of skin, and all of this invites blood to drain into his cock hanging heavy and neglected. It would take a lot more twisting around for Clark to get his hands on himself, bound like this, but he also knows that even if they weren't, he'd probably just be gripping onto the sheets to stop himself anyway.
The smack down onto his ass gets another breath out him, the sharp shock of it one more new thing. It doesn't feel like injury, even if his skin is immediately red beneath Bruce's hand, but sharp enough he knows he wouldn't feel it this way as he would normally. A twitch ripples up the backs of his thighs as Bruce's mouth touches him again, deep and wet.
Breathing harder, suddenly. The ribbons around his arms all strain as he hitches his elbows more inwards, to bear his weight.
"Again," he pants. "Please."
Sometimes he thinks he should be embarrassed, ever, about the places he willingly drags himself to with Bruce, except in the moment, there's just never the room for it, and after—well. Bruce has a way of making everything Clark does feel safe and good and wanted, and there's never room then either.
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Bruce had promised him: Every knife edge you want to find, and feel, we'll sink into.
He brings his hand down on Clark's ass again, harder this time. He has enough control and precision to get it exactly on the same spot, amplifying the sensation twofold. He runs the knuckles of his other hand between Clark's legs, brushing up against his balls, not quite anything else, back again to stroke his thumb over his hole and the sticky mess he's made of it. Even his own mouth feels a touch raw with friction. Hard fingers dig into the deepening red mark. His voice is harsh,
"Which do you want more of the most?"
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And. He's being quizzed on a complex topic, that being, what does he want more of the most. One of his hands has wrangled a fistful of sheet, just for something to grip, and he lets out a harsh sounding breath as Bruce's fingers dig against him.
"The hitting," comes out harsh, half-whispered. It feels like a trust fall, even now, even after he already asked for this, after they talked about, after it's already started. It's not a bad thing, when you're caught. He swallows, musters up another morsel of courage and breath in his lungs, asks, "Will you do it 'til I say?"
He's not sure if that's how this works, really, but on Clark's side, he's only ever made this up as he goes.
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"Yes."
Of course, sweetheart. He doesn't say that. Frequently, Bruce does not say that, but almost does; a specific word assigned to Clark in his head. The first time he almost said it, the other man had inhaled a barrel of fatal neurotoxin and stumbled through Gotham like a sixteen-year-old after his first margarita. Something in him clenches, seizes. It's too bad Clark can't hear his heart.
(Un)speaking of,
"Only I can hear you, up here."
It's just them. Their own private world, with expensive sound-proof walls, locks, security cameras, and a Do Not Disturb protocol that would only be broken by an emergency page from Alfred. Dryly joking about his socioeconomic authority, Bruce had said once, No one opens a door I've shut. And that is especially true here. Clark can say, shout, anything. Only Bruce will ever hear it. And it's all safe in his head.
Crack. Without warning, another one. Then again. He gives the same initial spot a hard strike, but then moves, painting his ass and the tops of his thighs with a reddening bloom.
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Which is also new, in a way, not just for the pain factor, but the absence of superhuman reflexes. If something's coming at him fast, he can watch it, feel it happen, decide what to do next, like a more sophisticated set of responses than a more human flinch-signal through his nervous system. His processing feels slower when he doesn't have the kind of physiology that can respond to anything faster.
Anyway. There's no flinch until after Bruce's hand lands on him, a human-like delay between impact and response, hips jerking forwards some, more if it wasn't for the other man's grip. And again, this time getting a sound out of Clark, a breathless grunt. The next against a new spot is less painful but has him gasping in. His hands close into fists.
Bruce's hand lands somewhere particularly sensitive, some midway point between thigh and ass, a sharper cry startled out of Clark, but he only pushes his hips back up.
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This position is somewhat odd for it all. But it avoids any awkward mimicry of role playing punishment; Clark isn't over his knees. Bruce isn't standing up behind him with a whip. It's an introductory that's as organic and almost-accidental as everything else they've stumbled into, and it's shockingly beautiful. Clark and his back exposed and flexing, flinching, his bound arms cross-crossed in black, his ass tipped up into Bruce's hands.
The physical exertion of hitting him has made his erection flag, blood flow directed elsewhere, but arousal is still practically choking him. It's held there in an iron grip, unable to go higher or seek fulfilment. After Clark pushes back, cries out in a particular way, Bruce leans over him to press a kiss against the center of his spine, both hands firmly on him. Approval, not apology.
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The position is also becoming its own source of discomfort, shoulders and hips and back and sides all beginning to burn in ways he's not strictly familiar with. More and more, Bruce will notice the telltale signs of little adjustments in an attempt to relieve some of that pressure, the weight of Clark in the grip he keeps on him. But no bailing out of it, keeping his hips hitched high, and his erection still holding heavy throughout.
There's no words despite the invitation, but it doesn't sound like something is being held back behind the gasps and the near-whines in the wake of certain slaps, just letting it happen. That last groan is shuddered out of him, that near-sobbed sound of mindless sensation, and the sigh out when Bruce leans in to kiss his back is all relief. The hands resting on burning skin feels somehow soothing and also too much, and Clark lowers himself a little, a hummed noise of appreciation as muscles that had been held tense relax by just a fraction.
He forces his fingers to unclench from those fists, one hand flagging up, flopping back down. "When," breathed out, and audible in his tone is the subtle curve of a smile at the edge of his mouth.
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Another kiss, a knot of vertebra, and then he's leaning over to one side, fishing something out of the mess of instruments laid out beside them. One hand always kept on Clark. Turns out it's the emergency shears, which he uses to snip him free of the wraps on his arms. They're still spiralled around him, and there's still the cuffs, but he'll be able to almost fully relax in this position.
Incidentally, leading that far over him means Bruce presses up against his recently-abused bum, which might feel a certain way, his cock half-hard and twitching just so with interest as he leans. Oof, Bruce grunts some low sound as he slides his hands over Clark's ribs.
It's a high for him, too.
"You did that very well."
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