agoodyarn | for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

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.

Clark chases Bruce in the kiss, recovering from it just long enough to let his head rest. But then he's dipping forward, his hips shift to press in, and he takes it slow because he might know that Bruce can stand plenty, but this isn't about standing. It's about soaking in the feel of every inch, the tight heat, watching and listening and taking in Bruce's responses.

It's habit to take any amount of tolerable pain without blinking, but instinctively he knows it'll upset Clark. Strangely, it's more effort to breathe slowly and stop pushing past everything in his head, but he decides it's worth it. This time at least. (And it will be at least, because there's no way they aren't doing this - and variations of this - again. Until Clark's inevitably mad at him.)

Bruce only tenses his hands on Clark's shoulders once, finding it harder and harder (hah) as the seconds tick by to not be impatient. Feeling everything like this is its own reward, though, every movement, every heartbeat. But--

"Fuck, Kal," he growls. "Before I get too old for it."

Edited (phrasing again) 2015-11-11 05:09 (UTC)

Clark grunts at the comment, as if he'd roll his eyes if he wasn't in the midst of feeling like he's about to fly apart. He can't even describe how this feels because the emotional is jumbled up with the physical and Bruce's heartbeat is in his ears but also around him and that is the most amazingly perfect thing he's ever experienced. Definitely the hottest.

"It'll take longer if I lose it before we start," Clark got out before sucking in a breath. That's what it takes.

Then he's moving, drawing back and pressing in, tilting his hips to get the right angle before starting a rhythm. Long, rocking, deep thrusts to start, to get them both used to it.

God... because they're going to do this again. Because this is becoming a regular part of his life and oh, that makes it even better.

Edited (Ugh typo.) 2015-11-11 12:38 (UTC)

He's going to say I have faith in your endurance, wry, because Superman but-- yeah, that doesn't happen. The sensation of Clark moving in him is as surreal and strange as it is pleasurable for the first few moments, the look on Bruce's face suggesting he doesn't know what to make of it for a second.

It passes. The instant he gets used to it, the full impact of it washes over him and all his nerve endings; Clark's being so careful and precise, there's really no way it can feel anything but incredible. He exhales in a rush and drops his head back as his spine arches, grinding back against Clark, knee pressing harder against his side. Did he expect it to feel this good? He's not sure. Bruce can barely think and, for once, doesn't want to.

Clark reaches between them, wrapping his fingers around Bruce again with the hand that's still well-lubricated and begins a chain reaction between his hips and his hand, stroking as he reaches the bottom of his thrusts, one sensation feeding into the other. It's absolutely intoxicating, hearing, seeing, smelling the way he can make Bruce feel, knowing it's him doing it, and despite the fact that he knows Bruce has had all manner of escapades sexually, it's thrilling that he's the first one who gets to give him this, bring something new.

God, he loves him. Stupidly stupidly much, that's how much he loves Bruce Wayne and his pace increases subconsciously as he realizes it, looks down at Bruce's face and sees what he's doing.

"If you could see what you look like," because it's enough to make him buck his own rhythm a little, drives him on. Bruce carries so much pain and so much darkness and so much anger and he can give him this.

It's the best power he's ever discovered.

A shudder racks through him when Clark touches his cock, pushed almost to the edge immediately, already teetering on sensation overload with how new this is. New is important, yes, and Bruce would never want it to be anyone but Clark. He tries to bite back a moan and fails, caught between the impulse to rock back and meet him or just fall apart, like he's caught between the feeling of Clark's hardness inside of him pressing and moving and the grip of his hand on him.

Bruce opens his eyes and looks up at Clark, expression absolutely wrecked, eyes blown, lost in this and anchoring himself to Clark at the same time. It's hard to keep his eyes open but he makes himself, because he wants to see him, and remember.

And with that, Bruce makes the decision of how this all will go because nothing in anything he's imagined even comes close to this, every one of his senses on fire, and he almost can't help himself from speeding up, his hand, his hips, carefully controlled strength driving just a little harder, just a little faster as his breath comes in gasps he shouldn't need but Bruce, Bruce, and he's muttering in Kryptonese, the same word, the same word over and over again.

"Mine..." and yet, there's no possession. There's no jealousy. Kryptonese has several words that translate and the one he uses here is not for a thing or even a relationship. It's the word used for a limb, for a wish, for one's soul, something that is an intrinsic part, an integral part of one's self. Part of what makes one who they are, what they are.

He reaches over and takes Bruce's hand with the one he'd been using to hold Bruce there and pulls it up to press Bruce's palm against his own chest, right at the center.

"Yours."

It's almost too much. It'd be easier for Bruce if Clark would care slightly less, if he would curb his inclination for declarations like this to humor him and his dark closed-off heart. If they weren't doing exactly this thing at exactly this moment, it would be too much and Bruce would shutter away.

If, if... hypotheticals. Because it's now and this and Bruce doesn't turn away from it. He looks at Clark and his expression is as pained as it is touched, overwhelmed by the truth of what he's showing him. It's unlike anything he's experienced or believed possible for him.

Of course that's what does it, what pulls him off the edge. He doesn't even resist. Bruce sucks in a breath, almost shocked as his orgasm hits him, grabbing Clark even harder, eyes snapping shut.

If Clark cared less, he wouldn't be Clark. And if he wasn't Clark, he wouldn't know that this is the only place, the only time, he could say such things. And they have to be said. Bruce has to know. Or, more importantly, Bruce has to hear him say it, even if some part of him knew.

Bruce toppling over the edge pulls Clark along too, the pressure irresistible as he darts forward to take Bruce's mouth, kiss him until his release pushes a moan out of him and leaves even his muscles ragged and shaken. Then it's just bracing himself and pressing a dozen soft kisses along Bruce's cheek and throat as he rides the aftershocks and remembers how his limbs work.

The over-stimulation immediately is interesting, though Bruce doesn't twitch away. The way his nerves feel raw makes it real, something to ground him, enjoying every texture and level to this intimate act. He curls his arms around Clark's shoulders and holds him, one hand against the back of his head, gentle and steady this time instead of pulling his hair.

He's slightly dizzy, blood rushing through his body unhindered, and Bruce lets himself lay there with him with no guard up. Completely. It may only last long enough for him to come down off the post-orgasmic high, but he doesn't try to change gears in his head. It's pretty damn rare.

Bruce isn't the only one with all of his barriers down. Clark is utterly pliant in Bruce's arms, nuzzling faintly against him as his lungs pull in breath after breath. Gathering up his brains enough to be mindful and careful, he shifts to pull himself out of Bruce and settled against him, half on top of him but resting his weight on his side instead of the other man.

There's a few more absent kisses over whatever happens to be in reach of his lips before he rests his head again.

Definitely not how he thought this visit would go but there is absolutely no complaints to be found from him.

for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

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