Bruce feels his muscles stiffening and the tightness of his skin under the drying sweat, so he rolls out of the bed and heads into the en-suite, ignores the questioning noise Clark makes. He twists the shower on and stands under the initial blast of cold water, riding out the shock of it with his breath held and his eyes squeezed shut. Goosebumps shiver their way down his spine.
When he opens his eyes again, Clark is lingering in the doorway, unabashedly naked but smart enough to wait for Bruce to lift his chin in invitation. The water’s heating up, beating onto Bruce’s shoulders and the back of his neck, steam curling over the mirror and leaving condensation on the tiles. He turns his face into the shower jet and soaps up.
He senses Clark step in behind him, expects it when he reaches his hand around to drag through the lather on Bruce’s stomach. Less so when he runs that hand down Bruce’s back instead of cleaning himself up. Bruce tenses when Clark presses the pad of his thumb over an old bullet wound.
“I never really thought, before,” he says. That’s how he talks about it when he starts these monumentally unwelcome conversations. Always before, and Bruce can feel how deep a gulf that word is carving in him. Before, he was Clark Kent, who had a good job and a decent apartment and who was going to ask Lois Lane to marry him. An unfailingly human life, regardless of where he came from.
It doesn’t matter how empty the casket is. The funeral was observed, the obituary published, the paperwork filed. To the world at large, Clark Kent is irrevocably dead.
Clark struggles with it. Bruce knows he goes to see Lois sometimes (maybe to hear someone who isn’t Bruce call him ‘Clark’, as much as anything else). She seems to understand how unfeasible trying to continue their relationship would be, though. More so than Clark does. He always comes back hurt.
(And if they do eventually manage to figure something out, it won’t be any of Bruce‘s business.)
Clark‘s thumb strokes over the hatch of white scars on Bruce’s abdomen, over his ribs, his sternum, all the old stories on his skin. Bruce knows what’s coming, something about physical pain and how it’s no longer such an abstract, a strange existential hang-up over the fragility of skin and bone.
He’s really not in the mood for it, so he turns under Clark’s hands and leans back, hooks his knee over Clark’s hip.
“Here? Really?” Clark says, but he's lifting Bruce even as he says it, big hands under Bruce's ass, his expression more grateful than taken aback by whatever impracticality he finds in shower sex. Things are still slick; he slides in easily and Bruce bites back a groan, arches his back and braces his shoulders against the wet tile. He pulls Clark in further with his heels, allows himself one arm around Clark’s neck, for balance.
The shower pelts Clark’s hair flat, sleeks it to his skull, and he leans in for a moment to rest his forehead against Bruce’s.
“Step it up,” Bruce murmurs. “Come on--”
Clark hauls him up, practically crushes him against the wall with his first thrust, forcing a grunt out of him. Bruce is pretty sure he’s gonna have tile imprints on his back, but he’s had stranger bruises in more embarrassing places.
“That’s it,” Bruce says, twists his fingers in Clark’s wet hair so he can pull his head back and bite at his throat. Clark’s response is to power into him just the right side of too rough, relentless and thorough and absolutely what Bruce has been craving.
Then Clark staggers, face like he’s been struck by lightning, thighs shaking as he presses into Bruce’s body. Bruce remembers that he’s kept him teetering through two rounds already and should probably have anticipated that. He yanks at his fistful of hair and growls in his ear, “don’t you dare stop.”
Clark shifts his grip, face a touch pink. “Yes, sir,” he breathes, and picks up where he left off, rolling into Bruce with long, hard strokes, hitting him deep enough to make his teeth ache. He keeps it up for a frankly admirable span before he’s soft enough that it becomes impossible. When he finally slips out he keeps Bruce pinned to the wall with a firm kiss and thick fingers pressed inside him, drawing out Bruce’s orgasm with a patient hand.
Bruce‘s head swims; there are smudges in his peripheral vision. Clark’s fingers are still inside him as he’s lowered to the floor, but slide out with gentle ebbs of pleasure as he finds his feet again. “I need you,” he tells Clark, but the coherence of his thought is lost in the endorphin haze. “Lay me out.”
Fill: Fatigue is the Best Pillow (3/?)
When he opens his eyes again, Clark is lingering in the doorway, unabashedly naked but smart enough to wait for Bruce to lift his chin in invitation. The water’s heating up, beating onto Bruce’s shoulders and the back of his neck, steam curling over the mirror and leaving condensation on the tiles. He turns his face into the shower jet and soaps up.
He senses Clark step in behind him, expects it when he reaches his hand around to drag through the lather on Bruce’s stomach. Less so when he runs that hand down Bruce’s back instead of cleaning himself up. Bruce tenses when Clark presses the pad of his thumb over an old bullet wound.
“I never really thought, before,” he says. That’s how he talks about it when he starts these monumentally unwelcome conversations. Always before, and Bruce can feel how deep a gulf that word is carving in him. Before, he was Clark Kent, who had a good job and a decent apartment and who was going to ask Lois Lane to marry him. An unfailingly human life, regardless of where he came from.
It doesn’t matter how empty the casket is. The funeral was observed, the obituary published, the paperwork filed. To the world at large, Clark Kent is irrevocably dead.
Clark struggles with it. Bruce knows he goes to see Lois sometimes (maybe to hear someone who isn’t Bruce call him ‘Clark’, as much as anything else). She seems to understand how unfeasible trying to continue their relationship would be, though. More so than Clark does. He always comes back hurt.
(And if they do eventually manage to figure something out, it won’t be any of Bruce‘s business.)
Clark‘s thumb strokes over the hatch of white scars on Bruce’s abdomen, over his ribs, his sternum, all the old stories on his skin. Bruce knows what’s coming, something about physical pain and how it’s no longer such an abstract, a strange existential hang-up over the fragility of skin and bone.
He’s really not in the mood for it, so he turns under Clark’s hands and leans back, hooks his knee over Clark’s hip.
“Here? Really?” Clark says, but he's lifting Bruce even as he says it, big hands under Bruce's ass, his expression more grateful than taken aback by whatever impracticality he finds in shower sex. Things are still slick; he slides in easily and Bruce bites back a groan, arches his back and braces his shoulders against the wet tile. He pulls Clark in further with his heels, allows himself one arm around Clark’s neck, for balance.
The shower pelts Clark’s hair flat, sleeks it to his skull, and he leans in for a moment to rest his forehead against Bruce’s.
“Step it up,” Bruce murmurs. “Come on--”
Clark hauls him up, practically crushes him against the wall with his first thrust, forcing a grunt out of him. Bruce is pretty sure he’s gonna have tile imprints on his back, but he’s had stranger bruises in more embarrassing places.
“That’s it,” Bruce says, twists his fingers in Clark’s wet hair so he can pull his head back and bite at his throat. Clark’s response is to power into him just the right side of too rough, relentless and thorough and absolutely what Bruce has been craving.
Then Clark staggers, face like he’s been struck by lightning, thighs shaking as he presses into Bruce’s body. Bruce remembers that he’s kept him teetering through two rounds already and should probably have anticipated that. He yanks at his fistful of hair and growls in his ear, “don’t you dare stop.”
Clark shifts his grip, face a touch pink. “Yes, sir,” he breathes, and picks up where he left off, rolling into Bruce with long, hard strokes, hitting him deep enough to make his teeth ache. He keeps it up for a frankly admirable span before he’s soft enough that it becomes impossible. When he finally slips out he keeps Bruce pinned to the wall with a firm kiss and thick fingers pressed inside him, drawing out Bruce’s orgasm with a patient hand.
Bruce‘s head swims; there are smudges in his peripheral vision. Clark’s fingers are still inside him as he’s lowered to the floor, but slide out with gentle ebbs of pleasure as he finds his feet again. “I need you,” he tells Clark, but the coherence of his thought is lost in the endorphin haze. “Lay me out.”
*