agoodyarn | for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

[continued from here and here]

Clark knew Bruce.

He knew that Bruce was, first and foremost, married to his work. He knew that the man was driven to a point just past healthy. By, you know, a few miles. He knew that Bruce could get focused, and that Bruce was not the sort to put down a mystery just because it seemed impossible to solve.

That said, after a week of hearing nothing out of Gotham (despite more than a couple calls, texts, and emails), Clark's very extensive understanding and patience regarding Bruce's behavior had quite firmly given up the ghost. That was why he was flying into the cave sans invitation (or even pseudo invitation) and looking around to see where--

Aha.

Asleep at the console. At 3pm in the afternoon.

Well, there was the sweet way to do this, which involved kisses and light touches, which was very much not in the cards at the moment. Then there was the slightly dickish way to wake him up, which would require a bullhorn or other loud noise making device; too much work. He could always go for polite, which would just involve a tap to the shoulder. Nope, they were past polite.

Which was why Bruce was summarily put over his shoulder as he started making his way upstairs.

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His pulse is only as loud as Clark's own heartbeat in his ears and it tells him that his words are having exactly the effect he wanted them to have. Looking up to meet Bruce's gaze with his own, he presses the softest of kisses to the tip of Bruce's thumb before nuzzling up to that hand with his cheek and his jaw. He likes the roughness. Just the right amount of sensation.

And he loves Bruce's hands on him.

"Please."

Oh.

Hm.

Superman saying Please and sounding so much like he means it, kneeling at his feet like that is. Well. He'll have to inspect that reaction later.

Bruce slides his errant hand away and back, so that both are in Clark's hair again. In a low rumble, "I want to give everything you want to take."

And it would be an absolute lie to say Clark has no idea what he's doing there. A show of his abilities followed up with by pleading like a supplicant? He knows and it gives him a little thrill to hear the way it made Bruce react. It's fun.

He looks up at Bruce, meets his gaze, and his eyes say he heard that reaction, can hear it in Bruce's voice now, and there's no need for games from either of them.

"I want everything you can give," and his voice is low but firm.

"What are you waiting for, then?"

Because it's not like Clark can miss how this is effecting him, giving their positioning; his Givenchy jeans that cost more than that damn car payment are notably less comfortable than they were while sitting at the diner. Bruce isn't the type to shove him anywhere-- well, yet. Their mutual respect for consent prompts very tiny movements across starting lines, it seems.

Clark looked up past a fringe of dark curls since Bruce had mussed up his hair a bit with those fingers. It really was very simple.

"You've said what you want. But you haven't said I can yet."

A rough bark of laughter, and for a moment the touch in his hair turns purely affectionate in his exasperation. "Yes I did, you idiot, what do you think that meant."

Bruce looks at him, his intense gaze as heated as can be, a little sharp-edged smile on his mouth. "You can suck my cock, Kal-El," he says, his Kryptonese always accented, it being physically impossible for his Earthling tongue to get the alien language just right. But his vocabulary is so very fluent.

Rao only knows where he learned some of it, though. Thanks, Fortress AI?

Those Givenchy jeans are open, pushed out of the way along with whatever overly expensive luxury brand his underwear happens to be and all of that is fast, but so incredibly gentle that it's almost as if he'd used magic.

Impossible, of course, but he was still Superman.

His head dives forward, his mouth wrapping around Bruce, and if he'd sounded genuine in his desire, his actions prove those words true. This is also, apparently, another thing that he knows his way around. And he can finally put the fact that he has neither a need for oxygen nor a gag reflex to proper use.

Holy shit that's sudden. It's one thing to be prepared to be moved somewhere at super-speed, it's another when it's a blowjob happening like a film's jump cut. Not that it's bad. Not at all. He's just going to be retroactively embarrassed about the noise he makes.

Bruce holds Clark's head, neither pushing him to move a certain way nor holding him still - that no breathing no gag reflex thing goes on the list of New Things Experienced Today and he'll need a minute to adjust from normal procedure. If his brain doesn't give up and short circuit from how good it feels, anyway.

Clark's hands slip up behind Bruce, fingers finding his ass and giving a firm squeeze before his focus returns immediately to what he's doing here. He growls again, but at this volume and this angle, Bruce will mostly get it as sensation, vibration rumbling up from his chest to purr around him.

He's going to have to be careful or he'll get addicted to this, the taste of Bruce heavy in his mouth, the way the man reacts to what he's doing, his breath an absolute mess and his heartbeat wild and thundering. He doesn't know if they'll get to Bruce actually using his mouth the way they'd been talking about it, but it's already better than his imagening. And they'd just have to save that for the next time.

Bruce reels with how good it feels for a long minute, his head making a muted thunk noise against the door he's pressed against - too heavy and insulated to be loud. Good. The last thing they need right now is Tim or Alfred to-- Christ. Bruce comes back to himself for long enough to reach out with one arm and lock the goddamn door. It is a less graceful movement than he'd like.

He returns his hand to Clark's hair, finally tightening his grip there, engaging, losing himself.

An engaged Bruce is a damn engaging Bruce and Clark is leaning up into that hand, groaning desperately around him because damn if this isn't incredibly hot and his significantly less expensive pants are feeling a little tight for him as well.

It's a jolt of pleasure almost as good as the vibrations Clark is making to feel him pushing against his hands, to fully realize how much Clark likes his rough handling. Bruce watches, almost dizzy with it-- doesn't try to hold out for an over-long time, it feels too damn good. And, you know, Bruce's stamina is impressive but not inhuman. Doing quite well for round 2, all things considered.

"Incredible," he says in Kal's tongue, voice a harsh whisper, and warns him as he feels himself against the edge.

One of the best parts of this is how much he can feel with Bruce in his mouth, how responsive he is; every twitch and pulse and shift there telling him everything he needs to know. Bruce's words fall over him to give all of that context and it makes him feel simultaneously warm at the center of his chest and sends a shiver of lust through him.

That is when he finally swallows Bruce down, his lips pressing around the base like a kiss, Clark's throat already working around him as the powerful and extremely well-trained muscles that had been put to such uses as 'super-ventriloquy' and shouting across a battlefield were now quite happily serving to stroke Bruce's cock within that tight heat.

His eyes are open, focused up, because he needs to see this. Needs to see Bruce lose himself. It's too gorgeous to miss.

It hits him hard and so intense, some part of him cracking amazingly under such focused pressure. He gasps "Clark" and his knuckles are near-white in his hair; whatever control Bruce normally has, he's given himself permission to let go of it in these few minutes. Something he's never done with anyone else-- can't do with anyone else.

His grip relaxes as he floats through the aftershocks, gaze unfocused but directed down at Clark. What an intoxicating feeling, the impossible intersection of brain chemistry being reset to clarity and being reeling at the same time.

God, Clark is so beautiful.

Clark is not at all disappointed. Just hearing his name like that-- damn.

He swallows, as much from a desire for minimal fuss as because he wants to know exactly what Bruce tastes like. Unique, and Clark wonders if it's the man or the diet required by his activities that does that.

He works him down slow and careful, both hands focused on stabilizing Bruce as he does his best not to overstimulate. He makes sure not to let the vacuum build up before he lets Bruce slip out from between his lips (that awkward 'pop' is not at all appealing to him) and his movements are gentle, delicate, as he fixes Bruce's underwear and then his pants.

Even after he's done, Clark stays on his knees, smiling up at Bruce, and he can't help it. He's more than a little smug.

"Thank you."

Bruce's blinking is a little owlish as he breathes deep, orienting himself, and he lets out a little grunt as Clark redresses him. At 'thank you', he gives him an incredulous half-glower, though the effect is somewhat ruined by the way his skin is still flushed, eyes still over-bright.

He slides his hands to the sides of Clark's face, urging gently. "Come here."

Ruined? Anything but. Sometimes he lives for those incredulous looks. Especially the glowers. Maybe they wouldn't drive each other insane so often if it wasn't so much damn fun. All the same, he goes where he's tugged, standing smoothly and getting his arms around Bruce as he does.

"Yes?"

Bruce lets Clark hold him, resting his hands easily on the other man's shoulders. He gives him a look that's his usual dour expression-- kind of. It's difficult (impossible, really) to hide the strong current of satisfaction and appreciation underneath.

He kisses him, deep and a little boneless, tasting both of them, answering without words.

After a long moment, murmured: "I don't know how to do that." --Not an apology or anything that sounds like an excuse, but simple statement of a fact. He almost sounds annoyed. (Do we remember how easy it is for Bruce to see something as a challenge?)

Clark's happy to lose himself in the kiss for a moment, drawing back when Bruce does. The comment gets a smile out of him and he tucks in again for a little nuzzle against Bruce's temple.

"I'm sure if you put your mind to it--" does he even need to finish? No, he'd end up sounding entirely too smug. Better to leave it there. The encouragement was what it was. If Bruce Wayne wants to learn how to give a blowjob, Clark's definitely not the person to tell him no.

"I'm glad you don't mind me doing it. I happen to enjoy it."

And he actually isn't being smug or sarcastic. Some people have hangups, after all. And Clark really does enjoy doing it. Especially for Bruce. Getting him to lose control... definitely a rush and Clark won't deny that for a moment. He's still hard, but pretty content not to worry about it. The emotional payoff had been good enough.

An eyebrow goes up at that, unseen if they're close enough to count as cuddling, though the particular flavor of Bruce's silence (they are many and varied) suggests it. Again he considers asking but-- then decides, no, he doesn't care that much, at least right now. He's not a fan of absent parties being the focus when he's the one having sex.

Instead, "I noticed." Bruce noses against Clark's cheek, then kisses his cheekbone, not sweet but something else, moving his mouth to his earlobe, employing teeth. "You've thought about doing it before."

Not a question but there is something leading in his tone. One hand moves, low, so Bruce can press his knuckles gently against the front of Clark's trousers, along the seam and the hard length beneath. Not nearly enough pressure to be properly gratifying. On purpose, of course, not him being timid.

'Timid' is up there with 'absentminded' for things that Bruce Wayne clearly never is ever and he can hear the leading, the plan in that tone. He can't help that he twitches to the touch, a soft intake of breath the only other acknowledgment of what Bruce was doing as he tries to see where this might be leading. It's going to be good. That he's sure of. But patience is only occasionally his strong suit.

"I have," he says with a minimum of shyness. "More than a few times."

Bruce holds his position and places slow kisses against Clark's ear, his jaw. His hand strokes up, down, though he doesn't increase pressure even a bit. Drinking in those little reactions, still pleasantly buzzed off his own orgasm.

"I think you should tell me about what you imagined," he murmurs against him. "In fact..." Bruce uses the hand on Clark's shoulder to push him back, the distance created allowing him to meet the other man's eyes, his gaze intent. "..I think you had better." Bruce walks him to the bed, until the back of Clark's legs hit it. "So that I have guidance while I work this out."

Everything feels good, but there's also just the fact that he's the focus of Bruce's attention which, yes, feels really good all it's own. When his knees hit the back of the bed, he lets himself drop back, hands relaxed at his sides, eyes focused on Bruce.

"Sometimes it's soft, slow," Clark explains at an even pace, not moving to remove anything. He's pretty sure Bruce wants to have total control of this process and he's happy to give it to him. "I spend a while running my hand or my mouth over the sensitized places on your skin, the waistline and the hips, inner thighs. Get to feel your reaction to it, breath it in, let it fill my ears."

He breathes out with a sigh.

"I was planning on doing that but you got me too excited. And there's plenty of times where I think of it as fast and hard. Your hand in my hair, tight, while you" and yes, he blushes a little, even here, not from the act but the language the giant hypocrite "while you fuck my mouth. Truth is, there's no... one way about it. It's as much about you as it is what we're doing."

He grinned a little as he peered up at Bruce, his chest moving heavily from the effect this was all having on him and his eyes just a little glassy.

"More details?"

Bruce follows him after a moment, one knee between Clark's legs, prowling over him. He pushes the Kryptonian's shirt up, sliding his hands over defined muscles, taking his time. Watching.

"Yes." His voice is dark, warm, with a quicksand quality to it - drawing him in. "Those are very broad scenarios." Clark's shirt is peeled away, Bruce's hands on him sure and steady. He traces every shape, every plane, drags his blunt nails lightly - he knows Clark can feel it so much more than anyone else, so he goes slow, soft, precise. Coaxing him to focus the whole of his reality down to this room, this bed, being beneath his hands.

He knows what Bruce is doing... and he's a very odd combination of turned on and anxious. Because he wants, more than anything, to let himself do that. Focus down everything to this room, to the hands on him, to Bruce. But he's so used to listening. So terrified of not listening. His mind is so good at reminding him of everything that could happen, at working out a hundred scenarios in the space of a few seconds on how everything could go wrong if he's not paying attention.

But this is Bruce. He's with Bruce and Bruce deserves his full attention. He's with Bruce and he's safe and there's a whole Justice League out there, someone up at the Watchtower on duty, watching out for the world. He can make the world small, really he can. He can boil the world down to himself and Bruce Wayne.

It seemed like it was that small often enough anyway.

That's why he lets himself sink into the bed with a shaky breath out, shuddering like a horse let run too long, tremors slowly fading in the muscles under Bruce's hands as he directs his focus, his full focus, on Bruce. When he speaks, his voice is softer, less sure, more open. Perhaps more open than Bruce has ever heard from him as he looks up and all of that focus is there, on him.

"I want-" he takes a deeper breath, "I want you to explore. I want you to experiment. I want... whatever wild ideas come into your head, I want you to do it. Right then and there, if you can. I want to feel what I inspire in you."

Because Bruce saw him. Bruce understood him. It wasn't a test or even a game. There was just nothing as hot, nothing that effected him as much, as that singular fact. He didn't want his fantasy version of Bruce, no matter how close it might be. He had the real one now. He wanted the real one and whatever he came up with.

for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

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