agoodyarn | for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

Look, he expects literally everyone to be more emotionally attached to things than he is - well, no, he expects literally everyone else to act on it more than he does. Bruce might be able to fool most people he knows into thinking he doesn't feel things, but internally, he feels so much that he tortures himself on an hourly basis. He just doesn't know how Clark will act, and it's in his nature to anticipate the worst from everyone.

"You could do that in ten seconds," Bruce says, "Including travel time." He kneels on the bed and crawls back, slow, laying on his stomach next to Clark. That's not an invitation to go clean his bathroom, it's pointing out that he had the time to do it while Bruce was out cold. Time management, Kent. Too late now.

He draws the fingers of one hand along Clark's shoulder, feeling how soft his skin is, knowing it's impenetrable and covering muscles no force could even dent. Feeling how warm he is. After a moment he drops his hand and looks away, the breath he lets out communicating I don't know what the fuck I'm doing.

Clark is a fabulous actor, really. Or rather, he's got a fabulous act set up wherein most people have absolute no idea how much processing is going on at a given time inside his head, and a good 80% of it is dedicated to parsing the incredible amount of data he actually takes in, finding which pieces Superman could do something about, and then deciding which ones he should do something about. Because he can't be the world's savior. He can't be their magic bullet, not for every problem, not in every situation. Even if he could use every ounce of his speed, refuel himself by flying under the sun, save everyone (and he can't, in his more reasonable moments, he know he can't) it wouldn't be right. Because his job isn't to save everyone and fix everything.

It's just to show them the way and protect them long enough for them to figure things out on their own. It has to be. He's seen what happens in other worlds when it's not. He knows what he can become when even a small chunk of his humanity, when his belief in humanity, gets torn away. It's not good. It's never, ever good.

And because of that, every day, Clark wonders if his decisions, every one of them, are right. Because if he's wrong, he has to live with it. And, of course, he has to live with it when he's right too.

So maybe in that context, maybe for a man who can hear all the pain and joy in the world, maybe for him, a few hours holding onto the person he loves is absolutely worth it whether Bruce is awake or not. Maybe letting the sound of Bruce's heartbeat fill his ears, the marked and scarred skin under his fingers, that scent, sour as it was, real and visceral and his... those things are precious. Clark's. Necessary.

Far more necessary than going to clean his bathroom.

"You realize I still experience cleaning the bathroom the same as you or anyone else," Clark muses with a low snort. "It just doesn't take as much time."

But then Bruce's fingers are on him and his eyes slip closed with a soft smile of delight at the careful, exploratory touches. He opens them again when they disappear, blinking a little at Bruce's distress.

"Touch," and it's neither a command nor a request. It's just an offer. His own hand reached over to rest lightly on Bruce's shoulder. And it said: you can't screw this up, Bruce. Trust me.

Edited (...watch me spend half an hour on the tag and then forget to pick an icon.) 2015-11-09 21:46 (UTC)

It's frustrating. Bruce is not a physically affectionate person, but he is a physical person; in this situation his instinct is to touch him and instigate more. But he doesn't know what to do (emotionally or mechanically), and as Clark is well aware, Bruce hates not knowing what to do.

Bruce does trust him. Maybe more than he should. He turns his head back and looks at Clark's hand, letting the contact smooth away the frazzled bits on his nerves. It's Clark. His best friend. Who he's gone through so much with, hell and hell again, and thinking about it maybe it's actually shocking they haven't fallen together like this sooner. If the way they've operated for over a decade isn't love, what the hell is?

He moves onto his side facing Clark, and takes the hand that was on his shoulder, pressing it against the side of his neck, like he had when they were sitting on his sofa what feels like ages go already. It's gentle, not about anything but feeling him through his heartbeat and breathing.

Clark decides to take the initiative, leaning in and stroking the line of Bruce's jaw with the side of his thumb. He knows it makes Bruce confused, even uncomfortable, but he can't quite help that almost every time he touches the other man in this context, it's clear that he holds Bruce as something precious. It's no different now, though he does his best to distract by leaning in to kiss him.

And it's not nearly as frantic, not nearly as desperate, but all of those emotions from that first night in the kitchen are still there. Slow and sweet and gradually heating until his other hand reaches over to run down Bruce's arm and settles at his hip.

It's a lot. Bruce has been protecting himself from accepting the full impact of how Clark feels, but embracing it is just. A lot. He knows he's a lot, too, and still feels hesitation about pressing in further. Does Clark need all his awful baggage? No.

But all the same, he kisses back. Because he wants this, wants Clark, his mouth on his and his hands on his bare skin. This is the language he can use to push past everything that makes him hesitant, and give the other man a part of him that he can't articulate.

And he'll take it in a heartbeat. Once Bruce is kissing him, once he can feel the rhythm of the kiss between them, he can't help the soft noise of want that slips out, or the way the hand at Bruce's hip shifts around to his back as Clark moves closer.

Good. It feels good, more than he expected even though they've kissed enough times now that he should be used to it - he's not and there's something almost tangible in the energy between them. After a moment or two of that Bruce pushes Clark onto his back and settles partway against his chest. He touches Clark's hair, sweeping it from his face with his fingers, looking at him in the dim light before he presses another kiss to his mouth. The towel is.. somewhere, he's moved a bit since laying back down.

Clark settles on his back with something too quick to be a laugh and too joyful to be a moan. But then Bruce's hand is pushing his hair out of his eyes and Bruce is looking at him and it's his turn not to know what to do because his chest is just heavy and full and somehow Bruce's hands on him somehow make it lighter, the kiss helps him breath again. He needs it, in fact.

He doesn't need oxygen, food, or water, but he absolutely needs Bruce to keep kissing him.

There will be no objection. Bruce kisses him like he's learning him, like it's the most important thing he's ever done; he's slow and burning, the laser-intensity of being the focus of his attention diffused by his pace but no less present. He only stops to sit up, take one of Clark's hands and places it on his side, not satisfied with ghosting touches.

"I learn quick, you know," he tells him, his low voice working for him just as well here in bed as it does growling at criminals. "You'll still have to show me."

That voice is... unfair. He's not complaining, exactly, but it does take a moment to pull his head out of a fog of pure lust as Bruce stumbles headlong into one of his more pleasant fantasies. It doesn't help that he's been the focus of Bruce's considerable attention for the last few minutes. Or, you know, it does help.

"Dammit, Bruce," and Clark's voice isn't rough, just low and thick and deep. He gives Bruce's side a firm squeeze. It's a moment before he's got his head on straight enough to think.

"How far are we going?"

Because he needs to know if he's going to plan the trip, after all.

It would be a lie to say it's not gratifying to know he can do that to Superman.

"Assuming you do actually know what you're doing, I'd like you to fuck me." He makes sure he's looking at Clark when he says it, as intense and dark as ever. Showing no sign of thinking that has anything to do with being psychologically submissive, to boot. (Sure as hell does not.)

After the .01 second wherein his brain actually shorts out at a series of mental images that process faster than the computer downstairs could manage, Clark leans up to shove Bruce's arm and roll his eyes a little. But there was that .01 second, the slightest hitch of his breath, the signs all over him for Bruce to read that say that Clark is extremely interested in pursuing this particular plan.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," he starts before breathing in a little to clear his head. Bad idea. Bruce is clean from the shower, naked on top of him, and turned on enough for his sense of smell to pick up on. Another split second of adjustment before he tilts his head. "I don't suppose you've got anything up here appropriate for smoothing the way?"

It'd only been a couple of weeks since that dinner in the kitchen but it was still Bruce. It was worth asking. He certainly hadn't brought anything. For one, where would he keep it in the suit? For another, he hadn't come here expecting anything like this.

There's the briefest flicker of a smirk before he settles into a generally subdued demeanor, though he's very clearly engaged and interested. And yes, quite turned on. He sits up on one elbow and leaves his other hand on Clark's chest.

"I have lubrication, yes." Bruce chooses not to point out that sex with women is not always naturally lubricated, that he's had plenty of girlfriends who are into anal, that he does occasionally jerk off and doesn't particularly like chafing. But the faint incredulous tone to the statement may suggest it. You're cute, Clark. Bruce kisses him again and bites his lower lip before he sits up properly to get that out of his very expensive nightstand; he holds up a condom with an eyebrow raised in silent question. There's no medical reason to use them, with a Kryptonian, but maybe he prefers it.

Clark almost rolls his eyes again, because the question had less to do with a limited understanding of the uses of lube and more to do with the fact that he'd waited until Bruce didn't seem to be seeing anyone. Such products do have a shelf life. And it was a matter of responsible use of his abilities to make sure he had absolutely no knowledge of Bruce's personal habits.

...but he doesn't object to the kiss. Or the bite. Or the view. He can't help but reach out and splay his fingers against Bruce's chest to touch.

True, there might have been a time when he'd have been so naive. Things had been pretty vanilla between him and Lana, after all. But Lois Lane was another story entirely.

The question of the condom has him pressing his lips together, considering. Generally, he'd left that up to his partner. But Bruce is asking him.

"Your preference?"

Discarded, then. (Enter joke about him obtaining so many kids here.) He thunks the hard plastic tube over at Clark, businesslike with an odd edge that might be playful-- and yes, he's got high end overly expensive hypoallergenic lube that is not on the edge of being expired. Not dating doesn't mean he's not fucking, and besides, Batman is always prepared.

Bruce pushes Clark down again when he returns, and this time he puts his full weight and body on him, chest against his, proof of how turned on he is pressing into Clark's hip, one knee between the other man's legs. "I expect you to be a perfect gentleman," he says, deep and sensual, and doesn't actually sound like he wants Clark to be a perfect gentleman. He sounds like he wants Clark to lose it a little.

Bruce kisses him, he's decided he likes kissing Clark quite a lot, and runs his hands over him, slow but steady. Learning how his body feels, and not being shy about it.

Bruce has had full body scans of Clark, his biometrics, his various capabilities, even the density of his various muscle groups, for years. For some reason, that knowledge only makes Bruce's hands-on exploration that much better. To be with someone who knows him so well, knows his body so well in some ways and is utterly new to it in others. It's a rush all on it's own.

He's content to open the tube of ~~bat~~ lube as Bruce explores, waiting for the right moment, when Bruce is at the perfect angle...

And then Bruce is against the bed being pressed to the mattress as Clark gets a well-slicked hand around him and gives him a firm stroke.

"Call me a skeptic," he murmurs against Bruce's throat in between a couple of hard kisses, "but I don't think you do."

Edited 2015-11-10 04:00 (UTC)

There is no relation between how Bruce touches someone in a medical or scientific capacity and how Bruce touches someone in a sexual way. No relation between how he thinks of it, either, because of course there isn't, he's far too compartmentalized for that. The compartment they're in now is heated and charged and not even a little professional.

Bruce makes a noise that's almost a growl, one hand gripping Clark's hair-- hard. He wasn't lying about being far less kinky than people assume, but that doesn't mean he's not aggressive. He jerks up against Clark, into his hand, already hard just from that. The newness of everything is its own kind of electricity.

"I'll make a detective out of you after all."

He likes the that hand in his hair, enough to make his eyes slip closed for a moment. But only for a moment. Then he's focusing on Bruce, looking him in the eyes, his grip carefully tight as he gives another long, slow stroke.

"Investigative journalist."

An investigative journalist who's interested in what happens when he puts his mouth on a variety of places on Bruce's body. Whether Bruce likes flicks of tongue, nips of teeth, or simple kisses. If a little puff of cold breath makes him suck in a breath of his own. If the vibration of Kryptonese spoken into his skin makes him shiver.

Bruce is responsive to being touched, but quiet, communicating in intakes of air and half-formed words in rough whisper. He doesn't hold still, his calloused palms reaching where he can on the other man, nails dragging down his back, his sides. When Clark pulls too far away he'll sit up and grab him, kiss him, one knee hitched up to shove him where he wants him, so he can feel how hard he is too.

Turns out he's pretty keen on everything. He's split even here; in some ways all the violence he's experienced has left him numb (figuratively and of course literally, nerve damage here and there) and harder pleasures feel more real. On the other hand that same violence leaves him so very susceptible to gentleness and all the small detailed things no one ever touches him with.

You're impossible he thinks, hands clutching against him as a particular kiss makes him twist against the other man for more friction. Bruce doesn't deserve this. Not at all.

He shifts to move with him, only allows him a sliver more of what he wants before letting his hand drop away to slip between Bruce's legs. More lube has somehow found it's way to his fingers, warmed on the surface but still somewhat cool as he reaches down to actually start preparing him.

And it becomes clear almost immediately that Clark does know what he's doing, between being able to kiss Bruce as he does it and the sure, smooth movements he uses to actually get it done.

For all that, his heart is still thundering in his chest, Bruce's thundering in his ears. Because this is happening and he knows that the physical parts will be good. He can't doubt that, between the two of them. But the rest of it, knowing that it's Bruce beneath him, knowing that it's Bruce, feelingsmellingseeing Bruce...

It's all he can do not to shake.

He'll have to ask Clark about his sexual history, seeing as he's only aware of Lois and that girl from high school-- or he'll forget everything else besides how this feels, because his mind is zooming quickly towards blown. Bruce excepted a certain level of weirdness and discomfort, but it turns out that for the first time in his life he's actually underestimated his body. He can tolerate being brutalized and tortured, apparently this is nothing; he can adjust and relax with minimal effort.

It just feels good. Really good, in fact, the confident and yet gentle way Clark touches him doing things to his arousal he didn't anticipate. Fuck.

He lets out a ragged breath that turns into a groan - not holding his breath from tension, but repressing his reaction out of habit. "Your hands are warm," he murmurs, nails digging into Clark's shoulders. Not a complaint.

Bruce needs to breath and he needs to change his angle, which gives him the opportunity to run his teeth down Bruce's throat, flick his tongue on just the right spots. Earlier had, of course, been enjoyable on it's own merits, but he'd also been learning. Mapping. Figuring out the spots that made Bruce react, made his heart jump, his breath huff out in gasps.

And where he could kiss without tipping him too far.

The words make him smile against Bruce's skin and he can't help himself from pressing a few kisses that are pure sweetness. Pure... affection.

"Hope you like warm," is all he has to say to that. "Warm's... a bit of a given."

Bruce pushes up on one elbow, gripping Clark by his hair with his other hand. "Yes, I like warm," he growls against him. "I like how hot you are, the fucking sun under your skin, and how you feel like you're about to snap because of me."

He is incapable of moving him, but that doesn't mean Bruce isn't going to make sure Clark knows he's trying, egging him on to go faster. He holds himself up easily and drags his hands over Clark's shoulders and chest, thumbing over his nipples, leaving invisible lines from his nails across his hips. And he shoves him - unmovable, yes, he knows - with one knee. All the while breathing hard with the occasional hitch.

"Clark."

Edited 2015-11-11 02:52 (UTC)

It wouldn't be Clark if he didn't push back, infuriate with his insistence to do things his way. And his way, right now, means muscles shaking with contained need and fingers working inside of Bruce twisting just a little to give Bruce a taste, a spark of the fire that's burning under Bruce's hands on him.

"Your sun," Clark tells him, and now there's a hint of gravel at the bottom of his register, a sign of how much this is affecting him even if it feels like he's made of stone in some ways. His head tilts back, bending to Bruce's hand in his hair, moving because he wants to move. Giving Bruce the control. Because it's love. It's giving. He's here with Bruce because there is no where else he wants to be, no one else he wants to give that warmth to. No one else he'll bare his throat to like this, in perfect trust.

"Every inch of you is so gorgeous," slips out of him, Kryptonese, as much because his control is tenuous as because he knows Bruce can understand him. The words are secret, safe in this language. His language. Because with Bruce, he is Clark and he is Kal-El and he is Superman and he can be all of those things in this bed, with this man, and all of it fits.

There's hands and mouths and fingers and skin, scars and lines of bone and muscle, and there is also all this and Clark can't help kissing him again as he finishes preparing Bruce, pulls his hand away, and moves his body to move things along.

He swears, sensation knifing through him, feeling good but not enough. And of course Clark's going to have a back-and-forth with him, because it wouldn't be them otherwise, always challenging each other. It's incredible how the other man trusts him like this, makes himself play at being vulnerable, even though Bruce is the one he gave the goddamn Kryptonite to.

They were a part of each other long before this.

If he wasn't already flushed and sweat-slicked he'd have gone a bit red at hearing that. Clark can probably feel it in his heartbeat, elevated as it is. How he can look at a scarred, unpleasant mortal like Bruce and think gorgeous, not just think it but say it to him like that, is something else. Bruce kisses him, fierce at first but it gentles, tongue in his mouth, against his lips, pressing his forehead to Clark's after. He shifts his body where he's positioned, so that it's easier, and when he feels Clark against him he doesn't tense. He trusts him.

for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

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lol that icon

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