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.
Clark shuffles over and Bruce wraps his arms around him, letting him tuck in close like a golden retriever wiggling up onto his lap. A sweaty, sticky golden retriever. He presses a very chaste-feeling kiss to the top of his head, and for a long time, is content to leave it at that on the slow spiral down.
When he does move, it's to cradle the back of Clark's head, rub affectionate lines on his scalp through his hair. That he's trusted this way is like no other feeling he's had. After what he's done, but also, simply at all.
Bruce nuzzles against his temple, and murmurs quietly, "I love you."
He always feels it, but sometimes it's too hard to say. He's glad when he's able to.
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no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.)
no subject
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.
no subject
When he does move, it's to cradle the back of Clark's head, rub affectionate lines on his scalp through his hair. That he's trusted this way is like no other feeling he's had. After what he's done, but also, simply at all.
Bruce nuzzles against his temple, and murmurs quietly, "I love you."
He always feels it, but sometimes it's too hard to say. He's glad when he's able to.