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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He keeps going for what feels like ages, because of course his patience is infinite for other people, holding out for miles beyond when he'd be irritably barking to hurry things along were their positions reversed. (Almost like he's not comfortable being the focus of such openness for too long. Hah.)

Bruce tastes the juncture of shoulder and arm, the muscled ridges of his sides, his hipbones, the flat space below his navel. Settling there, one palm laid on his hip, thumb stroking rhythmically: "Kal," he says quietly. "Pay attention for a minute."

Kryptonian to appeal to the unearthly state he's in; sometimes Bruce wonders what he'd sound like speaking alongside natives. Probably terrible.

The kiss to the juncture of shoulder and arm makes him melt as do the sides, but the hips enflame. The flat space below his navel... is neither, a strange flip in his stomach rolling through him further than it ever has. But when Bruce says his name--

His eyes immediately focus, shooting towards Bruce in a way that's entirely alien, especially given the color. Right now, given what's going on, they would need to be glowing to be brighter and Kryptonian blue is already pretty otherworldly.

You have his attention, Bruce.

For a long moment Bruce simply meets his eyes, looking, alien blue against his own terran cold water. He moves, achingly slow - and god, if he hadn't just come he'd be hard as hell right now, but there are limits to even Batman's recovery time - so that Clark can see everything, know exactly what he's doing, so that nothing catches him off-guard.

His fingers slide to the base of Clark's erection, circling, not yet gripping. Giving him a moment to understand in the tide of feeling that he's going to actually be doing this now, as he set out to. He's still matching Clark's gaze when he touches his lips to his cock, a kiss just like all the others.

By all rights, he should lose it right there. He's so overloaded, so full of sensation, and there's Bruce with his kiss right there that sends a lightning storm of sensation through him on top of it. Instead, there's an intake of breath and Clark reaches out, can't not reach out, to get his hand on something. On Bruce.

He doesn't hold him, doesn't hold him back. Just squeezes carefully because words aren't possible for him right now and Bruce needs to know. He's feeling so many things and Bruce needs to know before he can focus on Bruce's fingers around his cock or the echo of all those kisses targeted to one place.

Bruce curls his other hand around Clark's at his shoulder, steady and reassuring. Bruce is content, confident - he knows Clark isn't going to hurt him or do something accidental. He won't because Bruce isn't letting him, by sheer force of will. They're on that fine line together, and Bruce isn't letting him fall.

When he finally gets his hand around him, his mouth around him, it's exploratory and slow, learning. Not timid because as correctly noted, he doesn't do timid, but pacing himself. For Clark's benefit, too. It's more of a turn on than he anticipated, and he lets himself concentrate on enjoying it as well as keeping up his quiet control.

Clark keeps utterly still, but there's no mistaking that stillness for anything less than control. Control and need.

He needs keep himself from jumping out of his own skin so he can feel Bruce's mouth on him, because he has to take in every part of this. How Bruce's lips feel against his skin, how warm his mouth is, the pace, the movements of his tongue.

His hands settle at his side, curl in the blankets, fist tight into the material and he feels the stretch of the fabric at the very edge of ripping. He'd never hurt Bruce, he knows how to handle his strength, and he knows Bruce knows he knows how to handle his strength and that keeps everything in order.

Except for that part where his mind is getting blown by the world's most carefully paced blowjob.

His touch is encouraging now, subtle shifts and touches, moving his mouth on him. This is ... very different. He'll have much to think about later-- not now, because now is this, living in only this moment.

Bruce squeezes his hip gently. Let go.

Just a little.

Inch by inch, he starts releasing his hold, lets himself feel every part of the building sensation. Bruce's lips are soft and a little rough, the hands much firmer, both of them perfect just perfect so good--

He let's go and it's hard to tell which direction the wash of pleasure is coming from and where it's going. Usually, his senses white out when he comes, but he's spent the last however long having his senses expanded and refocused and stretched to the limit. That means he feels every part this time, so good and so intense that it's a hair's breath from painful as his hands let go of the covers to stroke Bruce's face, his jaw, his cheeks as if he can't do anything else.

Bruce knows what he's asking for so he isn't startled, though all the immovable nerves in the galaxy won't change the fact that another man climaxing in his mouth for the first time is surreal as hell. But the subtle power in it is sexy, coiling together with the comfort and rightness he feels about being in control in general.

It's not shaky or a total mess, but it's not perfect either. Bruce swallows what he can (not nearly as bad as Tibetan butter tea, and he drank that gladly), and then because he knows Clark is watching, touching his face, he looks up and sweeps up what's left on his mouth with his fingers, and licks it off.

Edited (phrrrassing) 2015-11-16 04:02 (UTC)

Clark is watching and Bruce is staring up at him, those eyes of his positively stunning as always especially when coupled with lips reddened by kissing and the other signs that show that the experience has had an effect on Bruce as well as him. He hadn't expected Bruce to swallow any (should have, challenge, of course) and he'd never thought his own come was particularly sexy but damn if Bruce doesn't make it hot. Or maybe it's that tongue on those hands. He really loves Bruce's hands.

"Get up here." And the Kryptonese is perfect but the voice is rough, raw and gravely. But he wants to hold him. He wants to kiss him, those lips on his again. He got what he wanted, Bruce, all of Bruce, but he still wants more and he can't even be apologetic about it.

Bruce pushes up onto his hands, moving with near inhuman grace until he's level with Clark, resting over him on his elbows, his short dark hair falling almost over his eyes in a way he'd have otherwise always pushed back. He doesn't press himself down, waiting for Clark to pull him, or tell him it's alright - he can see he's not quite so lost now, but he's still being careful. Considerate.

... He finds it kind of hot that Clark is completely naked and he's fully clothed. By the by.

Clark's hand lifts up, slides into Bruce's hair, and tugs him down. It's gentle, he's always gentle, but the implicit pliancy he usually makes sure to put into every gesture is missing. Gentle, but implacable.

He wants a kiss and he wants to bury his face in Bruce's throat and breathe him in deep and he's not sure of anything else he wants after that, or even how to think of 'after that', but those are definitely things he wants.

Given that inch he takes it, tangling with him, pressing his mouth to Clark's in a kiss that speaks - shouts, screams - his passion and affection. Love. Bruce tugs him enough to get one arm around him, the other against his hair, holding him close. Like when they'd been recovering before, his hold is protective.

This is their moment, and the rest of reality can fuck off for a while. Bruce is willing to lay here with him (and enjoy laying here with him) for as long as it takes. It's not a process he's gone through with anyone else, but of course, no one else is Superman. Bruce never forgets what he is, an alien god, and some people think it's cruel of him to never regard Clark as simply human. Idiots. Remembering isn't just Batman being cold hearted and paranoid. It's about respect.

There's a niggling little part of his mind that says he needs to pull up, needs to pull out of this strange hyperaware focus and back into his usual frame of mind. It says 'stop being weird', 'stop being alien', 'why can't you have sex like a NORMAL person?' and he leans back into Bruce's arms, into that protective hold, and soundly tells those voices to fuck off because he feels amazing.

Because Bruce had made goddamn love to him and he'd never felt so good in his entire life.

But that's the beginning of the words really coming back, English and the bed and the room and what's outside the room. He breathes in Bruce, tips his head up, and kisses the pulse point on Bruce's throat before pulling back to look at him with clear eyes. Another kiss, gentle and sweet and pressed to Bruce's lips, and he breathes out.

"Can I say 'thank you' now?"

Bruce looks at him, pushing Clark's hair back from his forehead, that one unruly cowlick that Bruce usually thinks looks dopey on him. This morning it's cute.

"If you want to," he murmurs. He's content, wondering about the cathartic experience of it versus the sexual experience. Not that he's going to put this in a file somewhere about Kryptonians, he just... wonders. If he did the right thing, if it measures up to how Clark's other lovers have treated him. (How would he know that no one's ever engaged this side of him?)

"You don't ever have to."

The thing about Clark Kent was that anyone who knew him, really knew him, knew about both sides of him... knew how much trouble he had with being different, with feeling alone. Those he'd been with before Bruce had combated this by treating him as human as anyone else.

Bruce was the first one to go at the problem from the opposite direction, very firmly acknowledging that Clark was different, felt things differently, required different treatment, but through pure force of will, had normalized those things. He'd said, in no uncertain terms, that Clark was an alien, he did require different care sometimes, but just as certainly, that that was okay. And how could he doubt Batman?

That was why he holds on tight and tips his head back to kiss Bruce's hand, from his fingers down to his palm and finally, the wrist.

"I know I don't have to," he murmurs, "but you should know how much I enjoyed that."

The thing is, Bruce knows what it's like to feel alone. Thanks to his life and the choices he's made, he knows what it's like to be alone. He'll never complain, though; he doesn't complain when people get angry with him for not thinking or reacting like they do, doesn't complain when people hate him for not behaving 'correctly' because they refuse to take into consideration how monumentally different his life is from theirs, how it's impossible for him to go back after all this time. People rage at him, guilt trip him, accuse of him of being deliberately selfish because they can be vigilantes without acting like he does, never once thinking to acknowledge that they all move in the protection of his wake, and that he never had anyone to hold his hand or help him or take his emotions out on. Bruce keeps his mouth shut. He doesn't even consider complaining no matter how isolating it's become-- he chose to do this to himself, and he's human. Clark didn't choose. Worlds of difference.

But still there's ... a degree of understanding.

"I'm glad you did," he says after a while, and there's a slightly odd quality to his voice. If Clark looks he'll see that it's because Bruce has a small smile on his face - not smirking or sharp, but warm, and like all his real smiles, somewhat rusted. It's not an expression his face is used to making without being dishonest about it.

Edited 2015-11-16 16:33 (UTC)

Clark certainly looks. And he can't help lifting a finger to run along the outside of the smile.

"Thank you for that too."

That's the thing about being with Bruce: the man is a gift. An absolute gift. And if he heard anyone saying differently, well... maybe the defensiveness regarding how others treated him wouldn't be new, but it would definitely have new shades to it now.

Bruce makes a little 'ugh' noise that's plainly all for show, pretending it's such a burden Clark is so sentimental and full of feelings and doesn't even have the decency to let Bruce smile like a goofball without poking a finger in his face. He leans in to kiss Clark softly, and makes sure he's in a comfortable position holding him, so they can just settle here for a while.

Bruce's kisses are as multifaceted as the man himself, and this one is no less of a revelation. It's enough to make a man damn glad that he'd finally gotten his shit together and asked him out. He knows that not everyone gets to see even a fraction of the sides that make up the man in his arms, but he can still imagine that what small part they do get is still pretty damn enchanting.

The little 'ugh' noise merely has Clark ignoring it in favor of the gentlest eyeroll the world had ever seen before he was being kissed. That took precedence over-- well, just about anything.

He loves kissing Bruce, loves the firm weight of his body on top of him, actually enjoys the strange sensation of Bruce's clothes on his naked body, and he's quite content to just... kiss the other man for a bit. After all, the likelihood of getting another chance like this any time soon is next to nothing and Clark wasn't about to waste a precious second.

It's almost dreamy like this, slowly making out in the dim morning light. Ah.. ha. Someone opened the curtains a little while they were gone, how great for Bruce to notice Alfred has been in here judging the remnants of what was going on earlier-- at least he didn't have the gall to change the bedsheets.

He drifts, near dozing in some moments; Bruce isn't properly tired, given how much he finally slept, but sexual activity is still taxing in its own way. He can't bitch too much about getting the opportunity to laze around after, especially not when it's like this.

Clark deserves better and Bruce... doesn't deserve anything. But the Kryptonian will live on for centuries still. Bruce won't be wasting that much of his time, all in all. Maybe it's alright for him to be selfish.

A bit of sunlight on his skin is just about the only thing that makes this better and he'd thank Alfred for that if he knew any way of getting through that sentence without blushing himself halfway to the grave.

Bruce seems content to lazily kiss him until something comes up, and Clark is all kinds of all right with this, even if he's a little surprised. He's already gotten so much more of Bruce's time than he ever expected when he came here. And that's fair. Bruce has a massive company to run, let alone the smaller organizations under it that do charitable work, and that's just Bruce Wayne. Batman has even more to do, and if he didn't entirely trust Bruce to know his own needs and limits, he'd be nudging them out of the bed so Bruce wasn't irritated later.

But Clark's feeling uncharacteristically selfish and as long as Bruce let's him, he's going to hold on. Clark can't help running his hands along the lines of those jeans, along the fine material of his shirt as he explores the planes of Bruce's back. He feels a little ridiculous being turned on by the curves and dips of muscle there considering, but he is. Mostly because he knows how hard Bruce works to maintain it and the absolute poetry it allows him to weave in the midst of a battle.

There is no one quite like Batman in a fight.

Eventually, his hand settles on the center of Bruce's back, right over his heart, and stays there. That heartbeat... the world could burn to ash and as long as he still heard it, there'd be hope. They'd figure something out. And that might sound like poetry, but it'd been the case a time or two. Nothing like superheroics to make outrageous declarations yesterday's League reports.

He doesn't know which day it'll be gone, when nothing but silence will ring in his ears. He doesn't know and he can't imagine it. And that's why he's going to just hold on for the moment, kiss the man he loves, and take this morning for what it is.

He knows this kind of touch, this type of intimacy, is important to Clark, and vital to most people. If he indulges like this he can rationalize it as doing something for Clark, and not for himself - he can't get used to it. He just can't. Then he'd end up wanting it, and that can lead to needing it and there's no way that he can permit that to happen.

Stolen moments.

Eventually, he does have to get up. Bruce deliberately cuts this just a little shorter than necessary, reminding himself that as much as he loves it, he doesn't get to accept it as a routine fixture. Gently he extracts himself, careful about being smooth and steady in the event Clark's still drifting deep in sensation.

"Gym," he reminds him, stroking his hair as he kneels beside the other man. "Stay here for a bit. You know where I'll be."

His eyes slip closed at the hand in his hair and a faint smile curls on his lips that he doesn't even realize.

"I always do."

He leans back to settle a little more firmly on the bed.

"Give a whistle if you need someone to hold your towel."

Another one of his trademark half-dismissive grunts, and Bruce is up and out.

Even as he's changing and warming up, Bruce is sure Clark is monitoring him, which is half strange and half comforting, but he lets it slip away from his attention. He has to do this as often as he can manage to keep his mind and body from crumbling in the field.

Form practice that melts into half-waking meditation. Holding positions, slowing his heart rate.

Hundreds of pushups come later.

for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject