~”By holding out advantages to him, he can cause the enemy to approach of his own accord; or, by inflicting damage, he can make it impossible for the enemy to draw near.”~ -Sun Tzu
Bruce never should have kissed him if he ever expected Clark to want less.
Bruce wears scars like constellations across the conditioned map of his body—Clark is endlessly fascinated. This man has lived, and suffered, and is still standing. Bruce has taken hits, and gotten back up. Clark has no scars, not on his back, pressed into the uniform and the bedrock underneath him; not on the bare sculpted planes of his chest where Bruce’s sweat is dripping onto him.
Not that any of those Society Gothamites could take it, but they also don’t get this particular skill-set of brutal efficiency wringing them dry, hour by hour of pleasure until it’s anguish; until even Clark doesn’t know up from down, until Bruce has had enough.
Only Clark gets this. So only Clark gets…well, this; the deliberately vacant lack of focus, the absence of Bruce. Not the Bat, not Bruce Wayne—both and neither—something, someone altogether different. Someone who doesn’t quite exist at day or in the night. Someone who has enough control that they can make even the Man-of-Steel feel pliable and loose, sparks shooting up his spine and reaching out and out and out until it feels as if the entire world is shaking and Bruce is the only solid thing left to cling to.
This is Bruce, protecting himself. It doesn’t take the World’s Greatest Detective to figure out why Bruce would need protection from Clark, of all people. In this situation, of all situations. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who’s to blame.
Bruce is sliding his hand up to Clark’s cock and Clark-
“Nnngh-”
—Clark doesn’t want him to—he wants it just like this, grounding touch and unflinching hands.
Bruce knows, pauses when Clark’s stomach tenses, Bruce always knows; his jaw is taut in resolve and his sweat bathes the backs of Clark’s thighs, and he clasps Clark’s waist instead, and he perseveres, unrelenting.
Which is why Clark moans in shame as much as in pleasure. This is why Clark can’t be proud. This is why Clark never feels less a hero than when he’s trapped oh so willingly under Bruce. Wide-eyed and terrified, because it’s an obscenity, it’s shameful that he doesn’t want to be a hero, when he’s, when Bruce is—
“God, Bruce.” He can’t think.
(’You’re not brave - men are brave’, and Bruce was half-right. Bruce was right, because if Clark had understood what it would cost him, then maybe-)
He wants this too much.
Bruce gives a wordless growl and yanks Clark impossibly closer. Clark feels inevitability kindle up his spine, neurons sparking. He wishes he could bite back that sound, that needy sound pouring out of him, and suddenly it’s a hundred—a thousand times worse, because Bruce is present and aware in a way that he hasn’t been for years. Bruce has shown him disdain; Bruce has shown him contempt; Bruce has let him see the cold calculating rage that burns inside him. Bruce has been patient and Bruce has been gracious, but Bruce has never been kind. Bruce had kept him at a professional length once and even now, Bruce has managed to keep himself at a polite and distant remove from Clark. Even when—no, especially when they were physically intimate. A seemingly aloof remove, an unbearable gulf of distance that made Clark feel sick to his stomach every time and hungry for more. A semblance of detachment, but Clark had forgotten. Clark had let himself actually believe that Bruce, of all people, was inattentive.
Re: FILL: Position Awareness 3/?
Bruce never should have kissed him if he ever expected Clark to want less.
Bruce wears scars like constellations across the conditioned map of his body—Clark is endlessly fascinated. This man has lived, and suffered, and is still standing. Bruce has taken hits, and gotten back up. Clark has no scars, not on his back, pressed into the uniform and the bedrock underneath him; not on the bare sculpted planes of his chest where Bruce’s sweat is dripping onto him.
Not that any of those Society Gothamites could take it, but they also don’t get this particular skill-set of brutal efficiency wringing them dry, hour by hour of pleasure until it’s anguish; until even Clark doesn’t know up from down, until Bruce has had enough.
Only Clark gets this. So only Clark gets…well, this; the deliberately vacant lack of focus, the absence of Bruce. Not the Bat, not Bruce Wayne—both and neither—something, someone altogether different. Someone who doesn’t quite exist at day or in the night. Someone who has enough control that they can make even the Man-of-Steel feel pliable and loose, sparks shooting up his spine and reaching out and out and out until it feels as if the entire world is shaking and Bruce is the only solid thing left to cling to.
This is Bruce, protecting himself. It doesn’t take the World’s Greatest Detective to figure out why Bruce would need protection from Clark, of all people. In this situation, of all situations. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who’s to blame.
Bruce is sliding his hand up to Clark’s cock and Clark-
“Nnngh-”
—Clark doesn’t want him to—he wants it just like this, grounding touch and unflinching hands.
Bruce knows, pauses when Clark’s stomach tenses, Bruce always knows; his jaw is taut in resolve and his sweat bathes the backs of Clark’s thighs, and he clasps Clark’s waist instead, and he perseveres, unrelenting.
Which is why Clark moans in shame as much as in pleasure. This is why Clark can’t be proud. This is why Clark never feels less a hero than when he’s trapped oh so willingly under Bruce. Wide-eyed and terrified, because it’s an obscenity, it’s shameful that he doesn’t want to be a hero, when he’s, when Bruce is—
“God, Bruce.” He can’t think.
(’You’re not brave - men are brave’, and Bruce was half-right. Bruce was right, because if Clark had understood what it would cost him, then maybe-)
He wants this too much.
Bruce gives a wordless growl and yanks Clark impossibly closer. Clark feels inevitability kindle up his spine, neurons sparking. He wishes he could bite back that sound, that needy sound pouring out of him, and suddenly it’s a hundred—a thousand times worse, because Bruce is present and aware in a way that he hasn’t been for years. Bruce has shown him disdain; Bruce has shown him contempt; Bruce has let him see the cold calculating rage that burns inside him. Bruce has been patient and Bruce has been gracious, but Bruce has never been kind. Bruce had kept him at a professional length once and even now, Bruce has managed to keep himself at a polite and distant remove from Clark. Even when—no, especially when they were physically intimate. A seemingly aloof remove, an unbearable gulf of distance that made Clark feel sick to his stomach every time and hungry for more. A semblance of detachment, but Clark had forgotten. Clark had let himself actually believe that Bruce, of all people, was inattentive.