Alright porn is porn is porn, but this is way more self-indulgent :D
Water hisses against the tile, white noise like a spring downpour luring Clark into a strange headspace--vivid and delicate, hazy yet fine-grained. He rests against the shining wall, outside of the main force of the shower, soaking in the deflected spray instead. On the other side of the fogged glass, Bruce is shedding his sweatpants. His legs are thick, strong, muscles defined in chiaroscuro and shifting languidly as he moves.
When he joins him the shower, Clark touches his bare hip and then the contour of his thigh, and Bruce looks at him with such raw affection that his chest aches.
Bruce encourages him to step under the spray with quiet words and a gentle hand. Water comes pattering down onto him, shifting points of pressure alongside Bruce's fingers where they're curled against his neck, holding him steady. He leans his forehead against Bruce's shoulder, kisses his wet skin. His hands are a natural fit to Bruce's waist.
He lets Bruce sluice him down, one broad hand moving between them to lather up his chest and his abdomen, foam cascading down his thighs and dissolving under rivulets of water. He's methodical and efficient with it at first, but then turns quickly to long, slow caresses that make Clark arch against him, makes him lift his head and nose into his neck.
The air is humid, thick with steam. He can feel Bruce, firm and hot like a brand, twitching when Clark licks at the edge of his jaw; he tastes clean warm water and salt-sweat, the rough texture of Bruce's stubble. Clark thinks he might like to go to his knees, feel his pulse in his mouth, heavy on his tongue. He wonders if he could make Bruce groan again, if he would need to brace himself on the slick tiles, if his thighs would shake under Clark's hands.
Water collects in the dip of Bruce's collarbone, spills over his chest, bright trails in the valleys of his musculature. When he raises his arms to soap Clark's hair, his topography shifts, sends the water tracking along new paths. Clark wants to follow it down, but Bruce's hands are still in his hair and even his lightest touch keeps Clark in thrall.
He turns his face to Bruce's, a silent request that goes unanswered. He's intent on his task, Clark thinks, but the man won't have missed such an open plea. Bruce tips Clark's head back, rinsing his hair under the spray, and kisses the base of his throat instead.
*
The sun blasts through the lakehouse windows, one of Gotham's muggy heatwaves rolling in across the water. The aircon hums and clicks, its cool air skimming across Clark's back. He wakes to voices, fading in and out of his awareness. When he turns over, the bed next to him is empty, sheets rumpled. His body is lax with a bone-deep satisfaction, but Bruce's absence leaves him vaguely uneasy.
He closes his eyes and listens: faint organic noises, food being prepared; the clink of glassware.
"--not just another poor sod you've convinced that your bottomless well is the one they should toss their penny into." Alfred. He sounds angry. "You can't fob him off when you get tired of him like you do the hopeful young starlets."
No--not just angry. Furious. And Clark can take a wild guess as to who the mystery subject is. His stomach does a slow, nauseating flip.
"I'm warning you, Alfred." Bruce, calm and quiet and also furious. "Drop it."
When Alfred speaks again, the anger is more restrained. "Very well. In that case, I have things that need attending. I trust you can make your own breakfast, Mr. Wayne."
"Alfred--"
"Don't 'Alfred' me. You want to keep him under your thumb, I understand that. And you know fine well that this is an appalling way to go about it. You use people harder than you need to, Bruce, and I'm not looking forward to damage control when it all comes down around your ears this time."
"That's not the plan any more. That's-- Alfred." Bruce takes a sharp, quick breath, fortifying. His heart skips its next beat. "That is not what is happening here. So save the preemptive 'I told you so'."
There's a taut silence. Under his own racing heart, Clark can hear the lap of lakewater against the deck, the rustle of leaves and the distant twittering of birds in the forest. Bruce is holding his breath.
Then comes Alfred's incredulous tut. "Oh, Bruce," he says, with razor-edged affection. "You stupid, stupid man."
Clark stops listening there, goes back over the conversation to make sure he understood it right. It wouldn't be difficult to get the wrong end of the stick, not with Bruce and the way he often says more with his silence than he does with his words, but the more Clark turns it over in his head, the less that seems possible. If anything, it's Alfred's disbelief that cements it.
He sits himself on the edge of the bed and stays there for a while, tries to center himself and maybe stop grinning like a dumb idiot, until he hears the front door open and close. He goes to see which one of them is left.
*
It's Bruce, looking tired as is standard, and a little shell-shocked, which is not so much. He's in a pale blue shirt, sleeves rolled up and an unfastened tie draped around his neck, busy loading the blender with milk and bananas. He looks up as Clark comes into the kitchen; his eyes sharpen, face shifting into something more guarded.
He deliberately hits the button when Clark opens his mouth, even if all he was going to say was good morning, at least to start with. He can be astonishingly petulant. Clark folds his arms and waits for him to get over himself.
Eventually Bruce lays off, once the fruit is pulverized to his satisfaction and it's obvious that Clark isn't just going to go away. "How much did you hear?" he asks, wariness in his narrowed eyes and in the cant of his body.
"Most of it."
His mouth is an impassive line. "How much do you believe?"
Clark shrugs. "Most of it," he says again, and leans back against the countertop. "But especially the part about you being stupid."
Bruce sighs and scrubs at his hair, then leans over on his elbows next to him, shirt stretching over his back. He glances at Clark side-on, face like granite. "You should be more concerned," he says.
"About what--that this was all a plan so you could keep an eye on me?" Clark raises his eyebrows. "That it's some overly-elaborate obedience training? Who would have thought that a hypercompetent micromanager like you would try to push someone around. What a startling revelation. Look, here's my astonished face."
"Jesus. Are you always like this the next morning?"
"Only after the Bruce Wayne Experience," Clark says. "TM."
Bruce turns pale, looks ill, almost. He pushes up off the counter. "That's not funny," he says. "That's not--Clark, last night. That wasn't--"
"I know." That was maybe a lower blow than anticipated. Clark reaches to tug at Bruce's collar, starched fabric playing between his finger and thumb as he flips it up against his neck. "But you're right--I probably should be angry at you, or at least worried about what kind of plans and contingencies you've made to keep me in check, but it's not like it's unprecedented. It's not like I'm surprised."
"I got that," Bruce says, gruff. He thumbs at Clark's chin; the fondness of it makes Clark smile.
"And if I'm not concerned all that much, well." He evens up the ends of Bruce's tie, crosses and folds, knots it into a half-windsor. He folds the collar down again, smooths it over, and looks Bruce in the eye. "Maybe it's because you're not the only one who's stupid."
Bruce's throat works slowly, then he gathers a handful of Clark's hair and leans in, hesitates. Clark can sense the moment he almost backs off--but then he doesn't, this time, and finally, finally, Bruce kisses him.
He's gentle at first, and it's almost dreamlike with the morning light warm against Clark's eyelids and Bruce's heat radiant against his chest. Clark's breath catches, lips parting, drawing him in with soft sounds and his hands on Bruce's shoulders. Bruce just makes his own fierce noise against Clark's open mouth, turns hungry with a dip of his tongue, flicks it against Clark's teeth in a way that weakens his knees and threatens to floor him. When Bruce pulls away it's long and slow, Clark's lower lip drawn between his teeth, more an extension of the kiss than the end of it.
"I was supposed to make sure you couldn't be a weak link," Bruce says, despairing and breathless, pushing Clark against the countertop with his hips. One hand clutches at Clark's waist, bunching the fabric of his shirt. He's shaking, barely discernibly. "All I've done is made us both vulnerable. It's tactically idiotic. The worst idea I've ever had."
"This from a guy who dresses like a giant bat and hurls himself off tall buildings," Clark says, and tilts his head to kiss him again, quick and soft. "I'm almost offended."
"See, this is what I'm talking about. You're incorrigible." He strokes at Clark's hair, twisting the curls through his fingers, the push of his body transmuting into an uncertain embrace, all hard planes under rich cotton, folding against Clark's chest. He takes a deep, steady breath. "I had no chance. God, you smell good."
"I smell like you," Clark says, and pulls him in tight. "Narcissist."
Fill: Whoever Falls First -- Bruce/Clark, sparring (14/probably 18ish)
Water hisses against the tile, white noise like a spring downpour luring Clark into a strange headspace--vivid and delicate, hazy yet fine-grained. He rests against the shining wall, outside of the main force of the shower, soaking in the deflected spray instead. On the other side of the fogged glass, Bruce is shedding his sweatpants. His legs are thick, strong, muscles defined in chiaroscuro and shifting languidly as he moves.
When he joins him the shower, Clark touches his bare hip and then the contour of his thigh, and Bruce looks at him with such raw affection that his chest aches.
Bruce encourages him to step under the spray with quiet words and a gentle hand. Water comes pattering down onto him, shifting points of pressure alongside Bruce's fingers where they're curled against his neck, holding him steady. He leans his forehead against Bruce's shoulder, kisses his wet skin. His hands are a natural fit to Bruce's waist.
He lets Bruce sluice him down, one broad hand moving between them to lather up his chest and his abdomen, foam cascading down his thighs and dissolving under rivulets of water. He's methodical and efficient with it at first, but then turns quickly to long, slow caresses that make Clark arch against him, makes him lift his head and nose into his neck.
The air is humid, thick with steam. He can feel Bruce, firm and hot like a brand, twitching when Clark licks at the edge of his jaw; he tastes clean warm water and salt-sweat, the rough texture of Bruce's stubble. Clark thinks he might like to go to his knees, feel his pulse in his mouth, heavy on his tongue. He wonders if he could make Bruce groan again, if he would need to brace himself on the slick tiles, if his thighs would shake under Clark's hands.
Water collects in the dip of Bruce's collarbone, spills over his chest, bright trails in the valleys of his musculature. When he raises his arms to soap Clark's hair, his topography shifts, sends the water tracking along new paths. Clark wants to follow it down, but Bruce's hands are still in his hair and even his lightest touch keeps Clark in thrall.
He turns his face to Bruce's, a silent request that goes unanswered. He's intent on his task, Clark thinks, but the man won't have missed such an open plea. Bruce tips Clark's head back, rinsing his hair under the spray, and kisses the base of his throat instead.
*
The sun blasts through the lakehouse windows, one of Gotham's muggy heatwaves rolling in across the water. The aircon hums and clicks, its cool air skimming across Clark's back. He wakes to voices, fading in and out of his awareness. When he turns over, the bed next to him is empty, sheets rumpled. His body is lax with a bone-deep satisfaction, but Bruce's absence leaves him vaguely uneasy.
He closes his eyes and listens: faint organic noises, food being prepared; the clink of glassware.
"--not just another poor sod you've convinced that your bottomless well is the one they should toss their penny into." Alfred. He sounds angry. "You can't fob him off when you get tired of him like you do the hopeful young starlets."
No--not just angry. Furious. And Clark can take a wild guess as to who the mystery subject is. His stomach does a slow, nauseating flip.
"I'm warning you, Alfred." Bruce, calm and quiet and also furious. "Drop it."
When Alfred speaks again, the anger is more restrained. "Very well. In that case, I have things that need attending. I trust you can make your own breakfast, Mr. Wayne."
"Alfred--"
"Don't 'Alfred' me. You want to keep him under your thumb, I understand that. And you know fine well that this is an appalling way to go about it. You use people harder than you need to, Bruce, and I'm not looking forward to damage control when it all comes down around your ears this time."
"That's not the plan any more. That's-- Alfred." Bruce takes a sharp, quick breath, fortifying. His heart skips its next beat. "That is not what is happening here. So save the preemptive 'I told you so'."
There's a taut silence. Under his own racing heart, Clark can hear the lap of lakewater against the deck, the rustle of leaves and the distant twittering of birds in the forest. Bruce is holding his breath.
Then comes Alfred's incredulous tut. "Oh, Bruce," he says, with razor-edged affection. "You stupid, stupid man."
Clark stops listening there, goes back over the conversation to make sure he understood it right. It wouldn't be difficult to get the wrong end of the stick, not with Bruce and the way he often says more with his silence than he does with his words, but the more Clark turns it over in his head, the less that seems possible. If anything, it's Alfred's disbelief that cements it.
He sits himself on the edge of the bed and stays there for a while, tries to center himself and maybe stop grinning like a dumb idiot, until he hears the front door open and close. He goes to see which one of them is left.
*
It's Bruce, looking tired as is standard, and a little shell-shocked, which is not so much. He's in a pale blue shirt, sleeves rolled up and an unfastened tie draped around his neck, busy loading the blender with milk and bananas. He looks up as Clark comes into the kitchen; his eyes sharpen, face shifting into something more guarded.
He deliberately hits the button when Clark opens his mouth, even if all he was going to say was good morning, at least to start with. He can be astonishingly petulant. Clark folds his arms and waits for him to get over himself.
Eventually Bruce lays off, once the fruit is pulverized to his satisfaction and it's obvious that Clark isn't just going to go away. "How much did you hear?" he asks, wariness in his narrowed eyes and in the cant of his body.
"Most of it."
His mouth is an impassive line. "How much do you believe?"
Clark shrugs. "Most of it," he says again, and leans back against the countertop. "But especially the part about you being stupid."
Bruce sighs and scrubs at his hair, then leans over on his elbows next to him, shirt stretching over his back. He glances at Clark side-on, face like granite. "You should be more concerned," he says.
"About what--that this was all a plan so you could keep an eye on me?" Clark raises his eyebrows. "That it's some overly-elaborate obedience training? Who would have thought that a hypercompetent micromanager like you would try to push someone around. What a startling revelation. Look, here's my astonished face."
"Jesus. Are you always like this the next morning?"
"Only after the Bruce Wayne Experience," Clark says. "TM."
Bruce turns pale, looks ill, almost. He pushes up off the counter. "That's not funny," he says. "That's not--Clark, last night. That wasn't--"
"I know." That was maybe a lower blow than anticipated. Clark reaches to tug at Bruce's collar, starched fabric playing between his finger and thumb as he flips it up against his neck. "But you're right--I probably should be angry at you, or at least worried about what kind of plans and contingencies you've made to keep me in check, but it's not like it's unprecedented. It's not like I'm surprised."
"I got that," Bruce says, gruff. He thumbs at Clark's chin; the fondness of it makes Clark smile.
"And if I'm not concerned all that much, well." He evens up the ends of Bruce's tie, crosses and folds, knots it into a half-windsor. He folds the collar down again, smooths it over, and looks Bruce in the eye. "Maybe it's because you're not the only one who's stupid."
Bruce's throat works slowly, then he gathers a handful of Clark's hair and leans in, hesitates. Clark can sense the moment he almost backs off--but then he doesn't, this time, and finally, finally, Bruce kisses him.
He's gentle at first, and it's almost dreamlike with the morning light warm against Clark's eyelids and Bruce's heat radiant against his chest. Clark's breath catches, lips parting, drawing him in with soft sounds and his hands on Bruce's shoulders. Bruce just makes his own fierce noise against Clark's open mouth, turns hungry with a dip of his tongue, flicks it against Clark's teeth in a way that weakens his knees and threatens to floor him. When Bruce pulls away it's long and slow, Clark's lower lip drawn between his teeth, more an extension of the kiss than the end of it.
"I was supposed to make sure you couldn't be a weak link," Bruce says, despairing and breathless, pushing Clark against the countertop with his hips. One hand clutches at Clark's waist, bunching the fabric of his shirt. He's shaking, barely discernibly. "All I've done is made us both vulnerable. It's tactically idiotic. The worst idea I've ever had."
"This from a guy who dresses like a giant bat and hurls himself off tall buildings," Clark says, and tilts his head to kiss him again, quick and soft. "I'm almost offended."
"See, this is what I'm talking about. You're incorrigible." He strokes at Clark's hair, twisting the curls through his fingers, the push of his body transmuting into an uncertain embrace, all hard planes under rich cotton, folding against Clark's chest. He takes a deep, steady breath. "I had no chance. God, you smell good."
"I smell like you," Clark says, and pulls him in tight. "Narcissist."
*