Clark makes a noise, agreement. He can imagine. Rosy skin made rosier in the ambient firelight of the lamp. Being tempted after photos of bruises collaring his throat is one thing, running his fingers over lovebites on his chest, his thighs, while they lay together, but this particular indignity he doesn't feel like he needs to see for himself when his skin is still tingling with the aftershock of it.
And reminded again when that chemical cold hits his skin, jarring before it's soothing. He smiles to himself a little. It's a nice and thoughtful step to bother with, when they both know that he could just revert back to normal with the flick of a switch and a curtain.
But Clark is not naïve to the concept of aftercare. He feels fine. Maybe he'd feel less fine if things skewed differently. Impossible to say.
"That feels nice," he says, another sigh. Content to just lay here and be Tended To, that's fine, his ego and sense of decorum can take it. Then, "All of it did. Even when it was painful." And painful it was, pushing towards that brink. He thinks he might have taken more of it, he thinks he could, curiousity for extremes at war with the more simple directive of having a nice time, but not much of a war. Starting hard, early, negated most of that dithering.
Anyway. Thinking out loud. Fishing for insight. Is this normal. Bruce, resident expert on that, please weigh in.
Aftercare can be fun, too. And between them, and the erections still present in the room, it may not be wholly after just yet. But the pacing has shifted, and Bruce likes this a lot, too. Spreading the cool gel over his still-heated skin, gliding his hands up, beginning to peel away winding ribbons of fabric all the way, unlocking cuffs.
"Pleasure and pain are controlled by the same pathways and neurotransmitters in the brain," Bruce tells him, his voice low and content. This could be a boring talk. He doesn't think so. "When the right factors come together, your mind can lose the ability to determine why one's supposed to be bad, even if it still hurts. And all that's left is the intensity."
He gets goes about helping Clark shift up onto his side, and he slips one arm around to his front. Getting more aloe, stroking it over his chest, and all the marks he left there. Over-pinched nipples and then lower, barely grazing over his cock, to the bruises from clothespins on his thighs. Bruce lets him lean back onto him, tucking his other arm under Clark's head.
"Some people can't ever find the right conditions. Others don't know how to accept pleasure on its own. I think you want... too much. The way I want too much."
Clark relaxes into everything that's happening, draws his arms in once they're free, shifts as Bruce encourages him to shift. The touches to sensitised skin is more soothing than stimulating, but also, not not stimulating. A hummed sound as Bruce's hand moves down to graze his cock and slip over his inner thigh, which he's almost forgotten and probably would have remembered in a worse way in a few minutes than this gentle reminder.
It's not boring, the talk. Even if his physical movements are sleepy, cosy, he's alert, listening. At the very last thing he says, he smiles to himself, turns his head to lay a nuzzled kiss against Bruce's arm, quiet appreciation for
well, framing their weirdness as something human and shared, not just alien.
"I think I like whatever you wanna give me," is more flirtation than factual, but also: factual. His hand has wandered back, touching Bruce's hip, tracing his fingertips down his thigh, up again, soft butterfly tickles of contact.
"What if I want to give you nothing but dry handjobs under the sheets for the rest of my life?" Clearly teasing, but affectionate, in response to that flirting. Nothing dry about the hands (lol) that sweep over Clark's skin, no longer really attending to anything in particular and using the aloe as an excuse to touch and pet him.
Bruce drops a kiss on his shoulder. "Either that. Or have you restrained with your arms over your head, on your knees. Let gravity pull you back onto my cock." Lazy filth. Another small kiss, around the pleasing curve of his acromioclavicular joint. "Mm. What about somewhere sunny, quiet. If I just want to touch you slowly, barely going anywhere with it."
Once, Bruce had stayed at a Holiday Inn on the other side of Smallville near its neighboring town, Coldwater, to deal with some Comanche County Bank nonsense. It was the most ridiculous Bruce Wayne had ever looked, sitting in the taupe and floral particle-board room. But it had large windows looking out into the plains, bright light streaming in. A rattling, barely-functional AC. The bed squeaked. The covered porch at the back of the Kent farmhouse would have been more picturesque, but there'd been other parties to be respectful of. He thinks of it now, strangely, while he guides Clark to lean fully back against him, spooned, his cock snug and aloe-slick against his ass. He pets down the younger man's abdominals and lower, before covering his cock with a wide palm. Doing nothing further, then, just holding him - them - there.
Clark thinks maybe he tricks himself into imagining these encounters as once-offs. Again, but for the last time, things like that, and not for any reason but the fact that so much of how they've interacted up until this point has felt spontaneous. The long-unspoken more popular purpose of the red sun lamp, the natural lead in of ~revenge~ for getting Bruce in handcuffs, and even outside of this: aquarium dates, 'I love you's long after they became true, kisses at Christmas.
But it's nice to not imagine that, to think of a next time, to think more deeply about the things he wants Bruce to do to him, the things he wants to do to Bruce. Maybe it won't ever not be a little about respective hang ups, control issues, alienness, wanting too much, whatever other strange chemical components make up their unique alchemy, but maybe it's just about sex too. How indulgent, he thinks, if not in so many words, while spooning in a penthouse they've dedicated to this in particular.
Clark shifts in place where he's held, but not restlessly or uncomfortably, letting out a sigh as Bruce's hand cups him, everything still feeling interested and sensitive down there. The shifting teases a little at the familiar shape of Bruce pressed against him, remembering the way he rutted into him mere minutes ago with a warm, internal shiver.
Turns out, in addition to having all these dovetailing issues that can only be satisfied with each other, they also enjoy fucking. Together. Imagine. What excruciating ordinariness.
Pressing together like this is not going to encourage Bruce's erection to fade. It's alright. He considers tugging the curtain back, staring out into the city, but that would require moving. It would also take off the table the opportunity for Clark to get fucked feeling so bruised as post-high euphoric, if he so wishes. There's plenty of time to decide.
Bruce manages to get his other hand, with the arm tucked under Clark's head, out to flex his fingers and reach for the other man's free one. C'mere. He circles around where his wrist had been in the cuff, stroking it, pressing his thumb over the pulse point. For no reason other than the pleasure of it, as he settles with his cheek against dark hair.
(I love you. You're becoming everything to me. It's either going to save everything or end the world. Should I wish for it to be meaningless.)
"Feeling alright? Besides that one out of three lurking in the wings."
A little dreamy while his body processes whatever rush of brain chemicals he's been working through, but present. Hand turning a little in the gentle grip to his wrist, body settling into being held like this, which isn't a frequent activity for men of their size, feeling Bruce's heartbeat and breath instead of the usual hearing. There is time to decide.
He could easily let arousal slip away or even out into something comfortable, could slip asleep while his body soaks up ambient solar radiation or maybe prolong that last part so he can drowse like a human, just a little while longer.
Or, you know, that stuff but later.
Because after some comfortable silence, he turns just a little bit, not enough to profoundly disrupt the way they're laying, but he can draw that hand up from resting on Bruce's flank to up and back, touching his hair. "I don't wanna be done yet," he says.
It's nice to drift like this. Just sitting on the edge of something dangerous. Bruce feels like they belong together and that's terrifying, in a way. Terrifying, but his pulse remains as it is, even so private and unobserved for the time being. It slides around in the shadows of the back of his head; will that other world in the future change.
He has to set it aside. He thinks his heart might cave in, if he missed any small moment of this.
Bruce presses a kiss to the back of the other man's head, near his ear. "What do you want to do?"
He still has a hold of Clark's wrist, and he strokes over a barely-visible, blue tinged vein. He lets the fingers of his other hand move just so, petting his cock, and nudges one knee forward into the back of his. Tucking in closer, holding him all over.
Feels like an incorrect choice to do anything that moves this mood along. The gentle handling and the intimacy of it don't feel new, really, they have certainly been gentle and intimate in the past, just oddly raw in the present. Clark sighs, body moving only slightly, restless desire and present contentment all at the same time.
But he doesn't want to wait to get bored, or for someone to get a neck cramp, and end it that way. His fingers spread through Bruce's hair, cradling his skull and letting fingernails bite in, and seeking out those little points he knows feels nice.
"I'd like to fuck," he says, and it's very rare he can get away with That Kind Of Language in this context without a smile, and now is no exception. "And you're not allowed to go too easy on me."
Bruce hitches his knee up more. Tucks them even closer together, his cock pressed against Clark's backside, rocking him just so into the touch that cages him. Much longer like this and his other arm will probably start falling asleep, though he likes having a hold on him. The excuse to move, then, is fortunate—
"Gosh, Kansas."
Awfully forward of you. Bruce kisses the side of his neck, squeezes his wrist slow and steady like he's hugging him, not restraining him. Sinks his teeth in where he'd placed that kiss, as slow and steady as that hold on him. Hard, harder, sucking at it, leaving a lurid red mark that nearly draws blood. Nothing easy about it, despite the lazy pace. A sinking back into the deep waters of that mood, inside of being electrocuted.
Maybe. Let's see. Bruce pulls his hands back, careful, dragging the one that had been around his cock up over his belly and ribs. He fetches the aloe again and gets his fingers wet, nudges Clark a little further over onto his front, and reaches between them to push inside of him.
Lazily paced, a slow sinking, but the transition is less like the slow burn of going from peace to needy to desperate and more like Clark had been closer to being completely submerged in this mood the whole time than he knew about. Bruce bites his neck, works that skin there, and Clark shivers warmly. The hand above the grip to his wrist curls back into a fist.
(There'd been a slight laugh at mock-chastising. Maybe he will ask Bruce to make love to him sometime, see how that goes down.)
He moves as nudged, letting his legs fall further apart again as Bruce touches him. There's an ache there, now, from the positioned he'd sustained minutes ago, muscle fatigue in a way that's new and different and not bad, exactly. An odd and comfortable burn to lean into. He wonders what a bath of ice feels like.
Later, maybe Clark can find out. They planned for this one a bit better, and so, Bruce planned, too, even beyond the absurd cost of the bandages he'd thoughtlessly snipped away; indulgent, special-order vegan food stocked in the kitchen, and a freezer full of bags of ice. A slew of other toys and tools recently taken out, dusted off, returned to easily accessible places in discreet storage around the room. Custom coin cells in the lamp fully charged. UV light box tucked beneath the bed. All manner of potentials.
Bruce pushes slick fingers into him, careful since he knows Clark might be sensitive from stubble-burn and sore from being spanked, but steady, without hesitation. The pause comes once he's in up to his knuckles, letting him get used to it for a moment before he begins to work him open. More than that, though, he fucks him deep with his fingers, and makes a point of pressing against his prostate. Usually when they have sex like this, preparation is just that, maybe some extra playing if they're feeling patient enough for it (which is not the norm), and he hasn't taken such dedicated efforts before.
What's easy? Is it about pain, or,
"Don't come." Pushing there against that gland, relentless.
It's likely that any amount of potential would all get distilled down to the reality that there isn't much in this world that Clark likes more than just Bruce's hands on him. Which doesn't mean it's not fun to deviate, to play with being denied exactly that, but part of what makes the red sun lamp as appealing as it is is the intensity of contact, giving and getting.
He groans out loud when Bruce pushes his fingers in without pause, and again when again. He's already slowly winding up the reins on self-control, a grip that once again threatens the longterm integrity of the nice sheets he's on in a fist, when he recognises the patience and deliberation on Bruce's half.
Instruction contrarily encourages the opposite, a warning pulse of arousal.
There is a breathed okay out of Clark, half-muffled against the bedding. The added sensory layer of overworked skin, sore muscle, nerves on fire, all hum together, discomfort and pleasure itching the same scratch. Probably because of careful treatment than in spite of it, but this doesn't prevent Clark from shifting enough to lift his hips a little off the bed, slightly too beyond the point of being self-conscious.
The next deliberate, probing push against that spot get another groan, another 'Bruce', breathed out, a complaint that isn't.
Clark's reactions are intoxicating. A kind of high that's unique to this sort of thing, but that Bruce still very rarely achieves. (He has investigated and discarded reddit threads about fabled domspace. That is not this; that probably does not exist, for reasons of the way brain chemicals work.) A shockingly clear connection of trust that feels raw and, in some was, scathing; he feels transparent, but unafraid of it.
He could hurt him, but he won't. His mind doesn't recognize the possibility of doing so, nor the possibility that Clark might worry about it.
Bruce kisses his shoulder. Thinks, I love you, doesn't manage to say so.
He hitches forward and changes a few angles, stilling his hand's movement to instead hold right there, barely moving just the tips of his fingers. Puts an ache in his wrist, but it's worth it. He knows Clark can come without a hand on his cock, and that this is dangerous territory. And so, after a torturous moment, he suddenly withdraws.
No time given for any acclimation, Bruce gives him an affectionate almost-slap on one asscheek before he's hauling Clark over onto his front again, but this time, pulling him up onto his knees. He manhandles him so that his thighs are spread wide enough to risk unbalancing him, forcing him to either uncomfortably move forward - which Bruce prevents by pressing down on his shoulders - or lean back. He feels himself on edge, too, but he refuses to acknowledge it. Not yet.
Bruce runs his hand over Clark's spine, up and down, and settles in behind him, position clear and obvious. He leans in, tucked up behind him, lets his cock slide in the cleft of his ass.
Here is where he'd ask, Okay? if not for following Clark's instructions.
The domino spill of impulse goes as such: Bruce's hands on him, moving him wordlessly. Clark instinctively doing so to accommodate the fact he normally can't be moved. His own responses sluggish, distracted, muscle-tired. Bruce moving him anyway. By the time he's on all fours, thighs spread, his breathing is shaky and he feels gravity as a far more aggressive force on his whole self more than usual, particularly the way he rocks backwards, the way his erection feels weighty and dense at his groin.
The sudden withdrawal of Bruce's fingers after all that careful attention means he kind of groans out loud when he feels Bruce's cock slide against him, clenching in sheets as he balances backwards into Bruce's hands, his hips.
There are few people that Clark would trust with any measure of his own bodily autonomy, and fewer still who are capable of doing anything like this with that trust. (It's just Bruce, for as many logistical reasons as there are romantic ones.) Long periods of time have been spent at an odd remove of this, of intimacy, sex or otherwise. He'd told Bruce that he'd only been on the receiving end with other men (if they even ever get this far at all) to ensure no one got hurt, or to ensure no one noticed that he's an alien, and looking back, even those times had been strange, mechanical affairs in comparison to what they do now, at least once they hit a certain point. In those affairs, in that heightened state, a retreat takes place, abandoning not his own feelings and self, but just the opposite—some mental divorce from the vital and messy connection of being like this with another person, instead wholly occupied in self-moderation. In control.
Strange to think that even at those moments, he'd been in some way alone. It hasn't been like that with Lois, and it hasn't been like that with Bruce, both of whom know him completely, but something about being dragged down into a more human physicality, where someone can just take him in their hands, can guide him blindly towards something, casts a light on that difference.
So he pushes back against that warm shape of Bruce's cock, the slippery frictionless ease of it against sensitive skin, answering that question that isn't asked anyway, feeling as much the mark where Bruce had kissed him on his shoulder as he still feels sore from where heavy palms had struck him.
If it weren't for the drawn-out build up, everything they'd be doing, the state Bruce is in might be comical— impossible hard, aching almost past the point of pleasure. His cock twitches against Clark's ass, on edge. He draws in a breath, slow and deep, getting himself back under control even as he stays there, pressed up so close. Bruce rubs at the other man's tailbone, then down over his hipbones with both hands, pulling him back. He rocks there for a long moment, teasing them both; he knows it'll hurt even with the cooling gel, raw skin rubbing against Bruce's.
He's thought about it, too. Mentioned it, in the small spaces they've actually talked about this sort of thing; Clark's default 'preference' in encounters with other men. Having to prioritize keeping himself hidden and protecting his partners over enjoying himself. Bruce doesn't - can't - completely understand, but there's a shade to it that's familiar. Why do you have all those scars, what happened, why are you gone every night, who are you really—
Bruce slips one hand between them so he can press his cock in, but just barely. The head of it pushes against the tight clench of Clark's hole, barely giving him anything before he pulls back again. Savoring it, before finally pushing in, inexorable. He only pauses once it feels tighter, giving him shallow, short thrusts to loosen him up, and pushing in, deeper, hands on his hips again, pulling him back until they're flush together. It feels so good that Bruce goes lightheaded for a moment from the effort to keep himself from something embarrassing, and he tips his head back, staring vacantly at the ceiling. Goddamnit.
And then, like all things, he masters it completely. Hitches forward. Mmn.
Clark gives a low moan at that first hint of penetration, having withstood the teasing up until that point in relative silence—besides the deep breathing, the shift of muscle between tension and relaxing. It feels ridiculous that Bruce could possibly want to go this slowly, and a little like they're sharing the effort, even if there's not much Clark can do about it but let himself get rocked backwards.
And then it happens, and that vague too much feeling that comes with this kind of thing pushes towards a painful point. Not an under-prepared kind of pain, but a muscles locked in an effort against unravelling kind of pain. There is a deep, prolonged internal shiver when he feels that point of connection, of being pulled flush against the other man. Goddamnit, indeed.
Bruce hitches forward, and the sound Clark makes is undignified, and not very much like the taunt around Bruce not going too easy on him at all.
He leans forward, almost pulling himself to do so, just so that he can push backwards. It's barely anything, except from the perspective of tight skin and clenching muscle. "I know," he says, in a tight voice, as if pre-empting something, which is; "I'm breathing."
Clark always threatens to take him right out. Even dampened, he doesn't feel exactly human. Pure sunlight. He flexes back and Bruce groans low in his his chest, though it turns into a huff of laughter. He smooths hands over his slower back then leans in - carefully, the feel of it where they're connected a focal point - just so he can curl over him and press a kiss to his shoulder blade.
Not allowed to go easy, huh. Maybe you'd have tapped out by now, farmboy.
Though this is, as notes, its own kind of barely-tolerable intensity.
When Bruce straightens back up, he pulls Clark against him. Rocks his hips forward, steady and sure. Just like that at first, barely pulling out at all, giving him the whole length of his cock and nothing else, just shifting pressure with nowhere to wiggle away from it. One hand holding at his hip, the other roaming over his backside, down his thigh, up again. A light tap, little more than a ghost of a touch, reminding him he could spank him again so easy from here, all while he's buried deep.
"Anything else I'm not allowed to do?"
Like grind into him, while pulling him back. Snap his hips in, keeping Clark pinned against him. Like so.
That tap and the ensuing grind triggers a ripple of tensing, the start of a groan that gets choked in his throat when Bruce thrusts forward, sharp. The ache in his bones gives Clark the sense they've been doing this for hours, like he's been hard for that long, but desperation doesn't feel urgent, exactly. Like a top just spinning and spinning.
His head dips, bowing, the conflicting urge to thrust backwards or struggle away and neither thing more satisfactory than staying exactly where he is.
An exhale that's not quite a laugh, and he says, "No," breathing out. "Anything you want."
This brand of intensity feels very characteristic, where there's nothing contradictory between Bruce taking the time to contort them so he can kiss Clark's shoulder, and the iron-sure grip pulling him back, the smothering lack of give.
They're on a precipice, because Bruce knows that as soon as he starts fucking him, his self-control will be toast, and the impact on Clark's abused skin will propel him towards real pain. Which is the point, twofold. Those are not bad things. Just things to be aware of, before either of them slip over the edge and find the brakes have been cut.
Bruce rolls into him slow, lazy almost, something without somewhere, little more than enjoying his body, twisting them both around the ache of it.
"Maybe I want to keep you right here forever." He rubs at a point in Clark's hipbone with his thumb. Soothing, or a pressure point. Who can tell. "In this room, in this light. Let everything else about reality fade away, except making you come."
Bruce gets a grip on him, fucks into him. Holds there, not letting him move. And then he does it again. There— he can feel it, the slip of the leash. Enough to make his breath hitch, really give it to him, hands gripping almost too tight.
There's no room for a rejoinder. Not even a breathless sounds good. Maybe there's a tinge of a laugh in the breathy moan out, trying to convince himself that touch to his tailbone is relaxing, and then Bruce moves. Clark holds onto bedsheets, some resistance felt through Bruce's hold of him.
Just to feel it, the certainty of that hold. A push forward barely does anything before the next stroke, and that's as much "fight" as Clark is willing to do by the time Bruce's grip tightens, and he fucks him. And whatever pain is there, when it starts to hurt in an almost mundane kind of way, it's much too late to matter, too far gone to want to stop.
There's no where to hide, either, and each sound out of him is raw and desperate and not quiet. Normally he might say something, first, before all his muscles lash tight to bone and bear down, before the orgasm sweeps through him, drains out of him, but he doesn't, it just happens, and after, he feels raw, over-sensitive, like coming only takes care of one minor thing.
The relief will hit after, but for now he still feels wound up on this, riding it out.
Unbelievable, what it does to him, knowing that he can make Clark climax like this. How frustrating must all those encounters with people who didn't know him been. A high in itself, feeling him have it punched out of him, fucking him through it. There's no distant consideration of this might hurt, all of him is present, oversaturated, cranked up past where he should be. The concern is there, it's just not as loud as the need to keep going.
Bruce gets a fist in Clark's hair, holding him there, forcing him to keep taking this as he spirals. The effect of incidentally edging himself for so long and the almost unbearable intimacy of all this makes him feel like to get there is going to shatter something.
It does.
Curled over him, buried so deep, holding Clark as close as can be. He wraps his other arm around him, palm flat against his chest, up near his throat. Like if they weren't both dizzy and panting he might hold that too and feel his pulse and breath.
Clark's hand goes up to Bruce's, plastering over it. Not an effort to control it, but a grateful clasp for the sake of touching. He wonders if he feels different, to touch. It's a disjointed thought, in the chaotic vacuum of thought, but he can feel his heart hammering and exertion cool on his skin and he thinks he must. But warm, always, burningly.
He hadn't shut up after he'd come and feels the downswing of that almost in rhythm with Bruce's plunge rather than his own. Just breathing, now, deep and relieved. The palm plastered high on his chest has access to that much.
Pressing his fingers between Bruce's, this time when Clark shifts backwards, it's more to use Bruce's strength to balance. Drawing a leg inwards, folding it, a breath of instinct complaint as every muscle protests at literally anything that isn't collapse.
Not yet. Clark drags Bruce's hand up, laying a kiss against the heel of his palm.
It's heady to stay connected like this, everything over-sensitive, exhaustion crashing against adrenaline and euphoric relief. Bruce breathes deep against him, the position miraculously holding itself together despite his lopsided weight and Clark's folding limbs. Bruce controls the collapse down, getting them there, a tangle of body parts. The bed's surface could be on the ceiling for how ordinary it seems.
Does indeed feel like reality's faded away around them.
When he pulls out he keeps a hand pressed against Clark's rear, conscious of the sting of it after such rough treatment. Just staying there, giving him a point of contact instead of immediate abandonment after a sharp withdraw. Sprawled at his back, face against his shoulder, other arm squished beneath him.
There's a complainy sound at the inevitable and necessary point of disconnection, too deep into going boneless on the mattress to muffle it. But it's fine. More than fine, because Bruce is still there, at his back again, only now they really are done rather than balanced on the knife edge of maybe, maybe not.
Good oof. And Clark stays there for several necessary seconds before slowly forcing his limbs to turn himself over and around, feeling heavy and clumsy and awkward compared to the usual ease with which he accomplishes all things. But he faces Bruce and pulls himself in close, not even chasing a post-coitus makeout session when he noses his face against his throat, big dog energy of intruding for the purpose of cuddling.
Once so situated, Clark stays there, hand splayed on Bruce's ribcage. The world is red-lit, sweaty, full of two heart beats, and it can stay that way a little longer.
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no subject
And reminded again when that chemical cold hits his skin, jarring before it's soothing. He smiles to himself a little. It's a nice and thoughtful step to bother with, when they both know that he could just revert back to normal with the flick of a switch and a curtain.
But Clark is not naïve to the concept of aftercare. He feels fine. Maybe he'd feel less fine if things skewed differently. Impossible to say.
"That feels nice," he says, another sigh. Content to just lay here and be Tended To, that's fine, his ego and sense of decorum can take it. Then, "All of it did. Even when it was painful." And painful it was, pushing towards that brink. He thinks he might have taken more of it, he thinks he could, curiousity for extremes at war with the more simple directive of having a nice time, but not much of a war. Starting hard, early, negated most of that dithering.
Anyway. Thinking out loud. Fishing for insight. Is this normal. Bruce, resident expert on that, please weigh in.
no subject
"Pleasure and pain are controlled by the same pathways and neurotransmitters in the brain," Bruce tells him, his voice low and content. This could be a boring talk. He doesn't think so. "When the right factors come together, your mind can lose the ability to determine why one's supposed to be bad, even if it still hurts. And all that's left is the intensity."
He gets goes about helping Clark shift up onto his side, and he slips one arm around to his front. Getting more aloe, stroking it over his chest, and all the marks he left there. Over-pinched nipples and then lower, barely grazing over his cock, to the bruises from clothespins on his thighs. Bruce lets him lean back onto him, tucking his other arm under Clark's head.
"Some people can't ever find the right conditions. Others don't know how to accept pleasure on its own. I think you want... too much. The way I want too much."
no subject
It's not boring, the talk. Even if his physical movements are sleepy, cosy, he's alert, listening. At the very last thing he says, he smiles to himself, turns his head to lay a nuzzled kiss against Bruce's arm, quiet appreciation for
well, framing their weirdness as something human and shared, not just alien.
"I think I like whatever you wanna give me," is more flirtation than factual, but also: factual. His hand has wandered back, touching Bruce's hip, tracing his fingertips down his thigh, up again, soft butterfly tickles of contact.
no subject
Bruce drops a kiss on his shoulder. "Either that. Or have you restrained with your arms over your head, on your knees. Let gravity pull you back onto my cock." Lazy filth. Another small kiss, around the pleasing curve of his acromioclavicular joint. "Mm. What about somewhere sunny, quiet. If I just want to touch you slowly, barely going anywhere with it."
Once, Bruce had stayed at a Holiday Inn on the other side of Smallville near its neighboring town, Coldwater, to deal with some Comanche County Bank nonsense. It was the most ridiculous Bruce Wayne had ever looked, sitting in the taupe and floral particle-board room. But it had large windows looking out into the plains, bright light streaming in. A rattling, barely-functional AC. The bed squeaked. The covered porch at the back of the Kent farmhouse would have been more picturesque, but there'd been other parties to be respectful of. He thinks of it now, strangely, while he guides Clark to lean fully back against him, spooned, his cock snug and aloe-slick against his ass. He pets down the younger man's abdominals and lower, before covering his cock with a wide palm. Doing nothing further, then, just holding him - them - there.
no subject
Clark thinks maybe he tricks himself into imagining these encounters as once-offs. Again, but for the last time, things like that, and not for any reason but the fact that so much of how they've interacted up until this point has felt spontaneous. The long-unspoken more popular purpose of the red sun lamp, the natural lead in of ~revenge~ for getting Bruce in handcuffs, and even outside of this: aquarium dates, 'I love you's long after they became true, kisses at Christmas.
But it's nice to not imagine that, to think of a next time, to think more deeply about the things he wants Bruce to do to him, the things he wants to do to Bruce. Maybe it won't ever not be a little about respective hang ups, control issues, alienness, wanting too much, whatever other strange chemical components make up their unique alchemy, but maybe it's just about sex too. How indulgent, he thinks, if not in so many words, while spooning in a penthouse they've dedicated to this in particular.
Clark shifts in place where he's held, but not restlessly or uncomfortably, letting out a sigh as Bruce's hand cups him, everything still feeling interested and sensitive down there. The shifting teases a little at the familiar shape of Bruce pressed against him, remembering the way he rutted into him mere minutes ago with a warm, internal shiver.
"Pretty good, actually," he corrects himself.
no subject
Pressing together like this is not going to encourage Bruce's erection to fade. It's alright. He considers tugging the curtain back, staring out into the city, but that would require moving. It would also take off the table the opportunity for Clark to get fucked feeling so bruised as post-high euphoric, if he so wishes. There's plenty of time to decide.
Bruce manages to get his other hand, with the arm tucked under Clark's head, out to flex his fingers and reach for the other man's free one. C'mere. He circles around where his wrist had been in the cuff, stroking it, pressing his thumb over the pulse point. For no reason other than the pleasure of it, as he settles with his cheek against dark hair.
(I love you. You're becoming everything to me. It's either going to save everything or end the world. Should I wish for it to be meaningless.)
"Feeling alright? Besides that one out of three lurking in the wings."
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A little dreamy while his body processes whatever rush of brain chemicals he's been working through, but present. Hand turning a little in the gentle grip to his wrist, body settling into being held like this, which isn't a frequent activity for men of their size, feeling Bruce's heartbeat and breath instead of the usual hearing. There is time to decide.
He could easily let arousal slip away or even out into something comfortable, could slip asleep while his body soaks up ambient solar radiation or maybe prolong that last part so he can drowse like a human, just a little while longer.
Or, you know, that stuff but later.
Because after some comfortable silence, he turns just a little bit, not enough to profoundly disrupt the way they're laying, but he can draw that hand up from resting on Bruce's flank to up and back, touching his hair. "I don't wanna be done yet," he says.
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He has to set it aside. He thinks his heart might cave in, if he missed any small moment of this.
Bruce presses a kiss to the back of the other man's head, near his ear. "What do you want to do?"
He still has a hold of Clark's wrist, and he strokes over a barely-visible, blue tinged vein. He lets the fingers of his other hand move just so, petting his cock, and nudges one knee forward into the back of his. Tucking in closer, holding him all over.
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But he doesn't want to wait to get bored, or for someone to get a neck cramp, and end it that way. His fingers spread through Bruce's hair, cradling his skull and letting fingernails bite in, and seeking out those little points he knows feels nice.
"I'd like to fuck," he says, and it's very rare he can get away with That Kind Of Language in this context without a smile, and now is no exception. "And you're not allowed to go too easy on me."
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"Gosh, Kansas."
Awfully forward of you. Bruce kisses the side of his neck, squeezes his wrist slow and steady like he's hugging him, not restraining him. Sinks his teeth in where he'd placed that kiss, as slow and steady as that hold on him. Hard, harder, sucking at it, leaving a lurid red mark that nearly draws blood. Nothing easy about it, despite the lazy pace. A sinking back into the deep waters of that mood, inside of being electrocuted.
Maybe. Let's see. Bruce pulls his hands back, careful, dragging the one that had been around his cock up over his belly and ribs. He fetches the aloe again and gets his fingers wet, nudges Clark a little further over onto his front, and reaches between them to push inside of him.
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(There'd been a slight laugh at mock-chastising. Maybe he will ask Bruce to make love to him sometime, see how that goes down.)
He moves as nudged, letting his legs fall further apart again as Bruce touches him. There's an ache there, now, from the positioned he'd sustained minutes ago, muscle fatigue in a way that's new and different and not bad, exactly. An odd and comfortable burn to lean into. He wonders what a bath of ice feels like.
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Bruce pushes slick fingers into him, careful since he knows Clark might be sensitive from stubble-burn and sore from being spanked, but steady, without hesitation. The pause comes once he's in up to his knuckles, letting him get used to it for a moment before he begins to work him open. More than that, though, he fucks him deep with his fingers, and makes a point of pressing against his prostate. Usually when they have sex like this, preparation is just that, maybe some extra playing if they're feeling patient enough for it (which is not the norm), and he hasn't taken such dedicated efforts before.
What's easy? Is it about pain, or,
"Don't come." Pushing there against that gland, relentless.
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He groans out loud when Bruce pushes his fingers in without pause, and again when again. He's already slowly winding up the reins on self-control, a grip that once again threatens the longterm integrity of the nice sheets he's on in a fist, when he recognises the patience and deliberation on Bruce's half.
Instruction contrarily encourages the opposite, a warning pulse of arousal.
There is a breathed okay out of Clark, half-muffled against the bedding. The added sensory layer of overworked skin, sore muscle, nerves on fire, all hum together, discomfort and pleasure itching the same scratch. Probably because of careful treatment than in spite of it, but this doesn't prevent Clark from shifting enough to lift his hips a little off the bed, slightly too beyond the point of being self-conscious.
The next deliberate, probing push against that spot get another groan, another 'Bruce', breathed out, a complaint that isn't.
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He could hurt him, but he won't. His mind doesn't recognize the possibility of doing so, nor the possibility that Clark might worry about it.
Bruce kisses his shoulder. Thinks, I love you, doesn't manage to say so.
He hitches forward and changes a few angles, stilling his hand's movement to instead hold right there, barely moving just the tips of his fingers. Puts an ache in his wrist, but it's worth it. He knows Clark can come without a hand on his cock, and that this is dangerous territory. And so, after a torturous moment, he suddenly withdraws.
No time given for any acclimation, Bruce gives him an affectionate almost-slap on one asscheek before he's hauling Clark over onto his front again, but this time, pulling him up onto his knees. He manhandles him so that his thighs are spread wide enough to risk unbalancing him, forcing him to either uncomfortably move forward - which Bruce prevents by pressing down on his shoulders - or lean back. He feels himself on edge, too, but he refuses to acknowledge it. Not yet.
Bruce runs his hand over Clark's spine, up and down, and settles in behind him, position clear and obvious. He leans in, tucked up behind him, lets his cock slide in the cleft of his ass.
Here is where he'd ask, Okay? if not for following Clark's instructions.
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The sudden withdrawal of Bruce's fingers after all that careful attention means he kind of groans out loud when he feels Bruce's cock slide against him, clenching in sheets as he balances backwards into Bruce's hands, his hips.
There are few people that Clark would trust with any measure of his own bodily autonomy, and fewer still who are capable of doing anything like this with that trust. (It's just Bruce, for as many logistical reasons as there are romantic ones.) Long periods of time have been spent at an odd remove of this, of intimacy, sex or otherwise. He'd told Bruce that he'd only been on the receiving end with other men (if they even ever get this far at all) to ensure no one got hurt, or to ensure no one noticed that he's an alien, and looking back, even those times had been strange, mechanical affairs in comparison to what they do now, at least once they hit a certain point. In those affairs, in that heightened state, a retreat takes place, abandoning not his own feelings and self, but just the opposite—some mental divorce from the vital and messy connection of being like this with another person, instead wholly occupied in self-moderation. In control.
Strange to think that even at those moments, he'd been in some way alone. It hasn't been like that with Lois, and it hasn't been like that with Bruce, both of whom know him completely, but something about being dragged down into a more human physicality, where someone can just take him in their hands, can guide him blindly towards something, casts a light on that difference.
So he pushes back against that warm shape of Bruce's cock, the slippery frictionless ease of it against sensitive skin, answering that question that isn't asked anyway, feeling as much the mark where Bruce had kissed him on his shoulder as he still feels sore from where heavy palms had struck him.
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He's thought about it, too. Mentioned it, in the small spaces they've actually talked about this sort of thing; Clark's default 'preference' in encounters with other men. Having to prioritize keeping himself hidden and protecting his partners over enjoying himself. Bruce doesn't - can't - completely understand, but there's a shade to it that's familiar. Why do you have all those scars, what happened, why are you gone every night, who are you really—
Bruce slips one hand between them so he can press his cock in, but just barely. The head of it pushes against the tight clench of Clark's hole, barely giving him anything before he pulls back again. Savoring it, before finally pushing in, inexorable. He only pauses once it feels tighter, giving him shallow, short thrusts to loosen him up, and pushing in, deeper, hands on his hips again, pulling him back until they're flush together. It feels so good that Bruce goes lightheaded for a moment from the effort to keep himself from something embarrassing, and he tips his head back, staring vacantly at the ceiling. Goddamnit.
And then, like all things, he masters it completely. Hitches forward. Mmn.
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And then it happens, and that vague too much feeling that comes with this kind of thing pushes towards a painful point. Not an under-prepared kind of pain, but a muscles locked in an effort against unravelling kind of pain. There is a deep, prolonged internal shiver when he feels that point of connection, of being pulled flush against the other man. Goddamnit, indeed.
Bruce hitches forward, and the sound Clark makes is undignified, and not very much like the taunt around Bruce not going too easy on him at all.
He leans forward, almost pulling himself to do so, just so that he can push backwards. It's barely anything, except from the perspective of tight skin and clenching muscle. "I know," he says, in a tight voice, as if pre-empting something, which is; "I'm breathing."
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Not allowed to go easy, huh. Maybe you'd have tapped out by now, farmboy.
Though this is, as notes, its own kind of barely-tolerable intensity.
When Bruce straightens back up, he pulls Clark against him. Rocks his hips forward, steady and sure. Just like that at first, barely pulling out at all, giving him the whole length of his cock and nothing else, just shifting pressure with nowhere to wiggle away from it. One hand holding at his hip, the other roaming over his backside, down his thigh, up again. A light tap, little more than a ghost of a touch, reminding him he could spank him again so easy from here, all while he's buried deep.
"Anything else I'm not allowed to do?"
Like grind into him, while pulling him back. Snap his hips in, keeping Clark pinned against him. Like so.
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His head dips, bowing, the conflicting urge to thrust backwards or struggle away and neither thing more satisfactory than staying exactly where he is.
An exhale that's not quite a laugh, and he says, "No," breathing out. "Anything you want."
This brand of intensity feels very characteristic, where there's nothing contradictory between Bruce taking the time to contort them so he can kiss Clark's shoulder, and the iron-sure grip pulling him back, the smothering lack of give.
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Bruce rolls into him slow, lazy almost, something without somewhere, little more than enjoying his body, twisting them both around the ache of it.
"Maybe I want to keep you right here forever." He rubs at a point in Clark's hipbone with his thumb. Soothing, or a pressure point. Who can tell. "In this room, in this light. Let everything else about reality fade away, except making you come."
Bruce gets a grip on him, fucks into him. Holds there, not letting him move. And then he does it again. There— he can feel it, the slip of the leash. Enough to make his breath hitch, really give it to him, hands gripping almost too tight.
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Just to feel it, the certainty of that hold. A push forward barely does anything before the next stroke, and that's as much "fight" as Clark is willing to do by the time Bruce's grip tightens, and he fucks him. And whatever pain is there, when it starts to hurt in an almost mundane kind of way, it's much too late to matter, too far gone to want to stop.
There's no where to hide, either, and each sound out of him is raw and desperate and not quiet. Normally he might say something, first, before all his muscles lash tight to bone and bear down, before the orgasm sweeps through him, drains out of him, but he doesn't, it just happens, and after, he feels raw, over-sensitive, like coming only takes care of one minor thing.
The relief will hit after, but for now he still feels wound up on this, riding it out.
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Bruce gets a fist in Clark's hair, holding him there, forcing him to keep taking this as he spirals. The effect of incidentally edging himself for so long and the almost unbearable intimacy of all this makes him feel like to get there is going to shatter something.
It does.
Curled over him, buried so deep, holding Clark as close as can be. He wraps his other arm around him, palm flat against his chest, up near his throat. Like if they weren't both dizzy and panting he might hold that too and feel his pulse and breath.
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He hadn't shut up after he'd come and feels the downswing of that almost in rhythm with Bruce's plunge rather than his own. Just breathing, now, deep and relieved. The palm plastered high on his chest has access to that much.
Pressing his fingers between Bruce's, this time when Clark shifts backwards, it's more to use Bruce's strength to balance. Drawing a leg inwards, folding it, a breath of instinct complaint as every muscle protests at literally anything that isn't collapse.
Not yet. Clark drags Bruce's hand up, laying a kiss against the heel of his palm.
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Does indeed feel like reality's faded away around them.
When he pulls out he keeps a hand pressed against Clark's rear, conscious of the sting of it after such rough treatment. Just staying there, giving him a point of contact instead of immediate abandonment after a sharp withdraw. Sprawled at his back, face against his shoulder, other arm squished beneath him.
Oof. (Good oof.)
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Good oof. And Clark stays there for several necessary seconds before slowly forcing his limbs to turn himself over and around, feeling heavy and clumsy and awkward compared to the usual ease with which he accomplishes all things. But he faces Bruce and pulls himself in close, not even chasing a post-coitus makeout session when he noses his face against his throat, big dog energy of intruding for the purpose of cuddling.
Once so situated, Clark stays there, hand splayed on Bruce's ribcage. The world is red-lit, sweaty, full of two heart beats, and it can stay that way a little longer.
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