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
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.