~”Do not repeat the tactics which have gained you one victory, but let your methods be regulated by the infinite variety of circumstances.”~ -Sun Tzu
Bruce is inventive, he has a range of ways to reap the most embarrassing noises from Clark. Take for instance what he’s doing right now, bracing and rolling his hips instead of thrusting, wallowing while his ass probably describes perfect little circles and Clark utterly fails to sound un-fucked. Bruce huffs,
“Yes,” he says, and “better.” A hot stroke of pride lances through Clark and it’s so very good that he can hear himself whimpering on overload.
Clark remembers endless eternities of cold and pain; coming to beneath banks of Waynetech ™ UV lamps, one pair of inscrutable eyes and the sound of ice tinkling in glass. Seven months of rehab in the sharp bones of the Glasshouse by the Lake. Two years of this bleak transitive life hanging in the dusk of what used to be and the cold that is now. Nine months of being liberally doused in enough Eau de Wayne to qualify as a bona fide Gotham attraction all on his own. Clark chokes on his gratitude.
He ’s letting Bruce get to him. Everything gets to him, these days.
Sharper movements now, Bruce’s mouth ravaging his, “That’s it, son—let it out,” bitten out into the shell of his ear in Bruce’s mile-wide Gotham vowels, and Clark quakes wildly, edging another long climb, and “Come on…come on, you want this, let me hear it. Tell me,” Bruce growls, licking and sucking at Clark’s mouth like it’s his personal property. The microscopically smoother glide of Bruce’s grey streak brushes his cheek, and Clark can’t help the tiny abortive head twitches, can’t help the way he twitches all over, moans loud and long. He’s almost there… “Hold that thought.” Bruce says, and pleasure makes Clark squirm inside; stutters hot breaths out that Bruce nips at. He has to work now to stay still, to keep relaxed. He has to let this wash over and through him. “Don’t come,” Bruce suggests calmly, right before he does something with his tongue that makes Clark’s eyes try to roll right back in his head.
Jesus.
The bottom drops out of Clark’s stomach. He’s not even sure what sounds are coming out of his mouth anymore, he’s so focused on that steady heartbeat; slow for any normally conditioned human body—racing, for Bruce.
“What do you want, hmm,” Bruce urges, rotating just so. “You want to stay here? Live here? You want to be my partner? Maybe patrol hand-in-hand?” He’s skating the near edge of vicious, a callous mulishness to his tone; it’s exactly what Clark wants, exactly how he likes it, and it makes everything in Clark want to give—
Wait. The words are new.
Clark’s brow furrows gently. There really isn’t a good way out of this line of inquiry; the more Clark shows how much Bruce hurts him, the deeper Bruce might just cut; that’s how this game works.
“Ah! Bruce…Bruce, please-”, he says, faltering, “No, Bruce—ah—I—don’t—”
“You want to kill me.” Bruce asserts with grim cheer, pace intensifying, and that’s not—
“No, Bruce!” He sobs.
“Oh, I see—you want to watch me die every night? Answer me, son,” and his voice jags low and sharp, while his cock drives in perfectly, pressing right there, and this is the worst timing, the absolute worst timing for this type of shit, in Clark’s opinion. It’s unfortunate that the rest of Clark doesn’t agree; that his body is, in fact, completely on-board with whatever Bruce is doing.
“Bruce…” Clark reaches for the stone and marble floor and gets his hands swatted away. No; Bruce wants him floating, anchor-less.
“Leave it and answer me. What. Do. You. Want. From. Me?” Bruce demands, furiously. Answer, or call time, and Clark has to choose one because those are the Rules.
“You! I—just you, Bruce. Just you. Fuck, just you, I just want to know you, that’s all I want—” he stammers.
“I don’t. Need. A partner.” Three sharp thrusts, and now they’re down to the real fucking. Clark sucks in a breath that feels wobbly and nebulous.
He knows he doesn’t need to breathe, but he needs to breathe.
Clark wants to turn his head aside, but Bruce’s hand is still on his cheek, Bruce’s eyes are still devouring him, and the way Bruce has them tangled up together now, he knows if tries to escape, he’s going to end up hurting Bruce; and no.
“No,no!” Bruce says with deceptive laziness, lavish Gotham accent roughened, “You want to learn, son, you damn well better watch. LOOK at me,” and, “You like this?” he asks conversationally. “You like pain, kid?” He’s genial, even.
Bruce, Bruce, what are you doing? Clark shakes his head frantically. “…what?” Clark’s voice is so faint in the wake of accusations that he can barely hear himself. Bruce pats at his cheek in a faux-friendly way that makes Clark’s cock throb and his heart hurt, and leans in.
“Do. You. Like. This?” There is no accent in these words but crisp autocratic elocution to the harsh rhythm of Bruce’s body.
Clark tries to sound strong, but Bruce—Bruce is piercing him. His eyes, his voice, his mouth, his skin, his cock, his mind and Clark burns so deeply, spiraling, and something, something new wells up from the center of Clark—
“Do you. Want. To get. Fucked. By. Gotham.”
What.
“…what?” Clark says it again, because words still aren’t making sense. It feels like he’s being milked from the inside.
“Come on, Kal—you can answer this one—you’re a smart. Boy. Time’s up.” Another of those terrible pats to the face and Clark is abruptly gulping air, eyes stinging. Each and every consonant is punctuated by Bruce’s hard-driving staccato. Each thrust accompanied by that low, gritty bass. Clark isn’t bleeding, but he feels broken, and Bruce’s fury is a pressure on his chest and acid his throat.
“If you. Don’t. Want to get. Fucked. by Gotham, Kal, then you had best. Pay. Attention. Are you listening? If you aren’t, kiddo-”
He can ’t close his eyes. He can’t breathe. He can’t move. His hands are shaking. He’s hit his limit.
Re: FILL: Position Awareness 6/?
Bruce is inventive, he has a range of ways to reap the most embarrassing noises from Clark. Take for instance what he’s doing right now, bracing and rolling his hips instead of thrusting, wallowing while his ass probably describes perfect little circles and Clark utterly fails to sound un-fucked. Bruce huffs,
“Yes,” he says, and “better.” A hot stroke of pride lances through Clark and it’s so very good that he can hear himself whimpering on overload.
Clark remembers endless eternities of cold and pain; coming to beneath banks of Waynetech ™ UV lamps, one pair of inscrutable eyes and the sound of ice tinkling in glass. Seven months of rehab in the sharp bones of the Glasshouse by the Lake. Two years of this bleak transitive life hanging in the dusk of what used to be and the cold that is now. Nine months of being liberally doused in enough Eau de Wayne to qualify as a bona fide Gotham attraction all on his own. Clark chokes on his gratitude.
He ’s letting Bruce get to him. Everything gets to him, these days.
Sharper movements now, Bruce’s mouth ravaging his, “That’s it, son—let it out,” bitten out into the shell of his ear in Bruce’s mile-wide Gotham vowels, and Clark quakes wildly, edging another long climb, and “Come on…come on, you want this, let me hear it. Tell me,” Bruce growls, licking and sucking at Clark’s mouth like it’s his personal property. The microscopically smoother glide of Bruce’s grey streak brushes his cheek, and Clark can’t help the tiny abortive head twitches, can’t help the way he twitches all over, moans loud and long. He’s almost there… “Hold that thought.” Bruce says, and pleasure makes Clark squirm inside; stutters hot breaths out that Bruce nips at. He has to work now to stay still, to keep relaxed. He has to let this wash over and through him. “Don’t come,” Bruce suggests calmly, right before he does something with his tongue that makes Clark’s eyes try to roll right back in his head.
Jesus.
The bottom drops out of Clark’s stomach. He’s not even sure what sounds are coming out of his mouth anymore, he’s so focused on that steady heartbeat; slow for any normally conditioned human body—racing, for Bruce.
“What do you want, hmm,” Bruce urges, rotating just so. “You want to stay here? Live here? You want to be my partner? Maybe patrol hand-in-hand?” He’s skating the near edge of vicious, a callous mulishness to his tone; it’s exactly what Clark wants, exactly how he likes it, and it makes everything in Clark want to give—
Wait. The words are new.
Clark’s brow furrows gently. There really isn’t a good way out of this line of inquiry; the more Clark shows how much Bruce hurts him, the deeper Bruce might just cut; that’s how this game works.
“Ah! Bruce…Bruce, please-”, he says, faltering, “No, Bruce—ah—I—don’t—”
“You want to kill me.” Bruce asserts with grim cheer, pace intensifying, and that’s not—
“No, Bruce!” He sobs.
“Oh, I see—you want to watch me die every night? Answer me, son,” and his voice jags low and sharp, while his cock drives in perfectly, pressing right there, and this is the worst timing, the absolute worst timing for this type of shit, in Clark’s opinion. It’s unfortunate that the rest of Clark doesn’t agree; that his body is, in fact, completely on-board with whatever Bruce is doing.
“Bruce…” Clark reaches for the stone and marble floor and gets his hands swatted away. No; Bruce wants him floating, anchor-less.
“Leave it and answer me. What. Do. You. Want. From. Me?” Bruce demands, furiously. Answer, or call time, and Clark has to choose one because those are the Rules.
“You! I—just you, Bruce. Just you. Fuck, just you, I just want to know you, that’s all I want—” he stammers.
“I don’t. Need. A partner.” Three sharp thrusts, and now they’re down to the real fucking. Clark sucks in a breath that feels wobbly and nebulous.
He knows he doesn’t need to breathe, but he needs to breathe.
Clark wants to turn his head aside, but Bruce’s hand is still on his cheek, Bruce’s eyes are still devouring him, and the way Bruce has them tangled up together now, he knows if tries to escape, he’s going to end up hurting Bruce; and no.
“No,no!” Bruce says with deceptive laziness, lavish Gotham accent roughened, “You want to learn, son, you damn well better watch. LOOK at me,” and, “You like this?” he asks conversationally. “You like pain, kid?” He’s genial, even.
Bruce, Bruce, what are you doing? Clark shakes his head frantically. “…what?” Clark’s voice is so faint in the wake of accusations that he can barely hear himself. Bruce pats at his cheek in a faux-friendly way that makes Clark’s cock throb and his heart hurt, and leans in.
“Do. You. Like. This?” There is no accent in these words but crisp autocratic elocution to the harsh rhythm of Bruce’s body.
Clark tries to sound strong, but Bruce—Bruce is piercing him. His eyes, his voice, his mouth, his skin, his cock, his mind and Clark burns so deeply, spiraling, and something, something new wells up from the center of Clark—
“Do you. Want. To get. Fucked. By. Gotham.”
What.
“…what?” Clark says it again, because words still aren’t making sense. It feels like he’s being milked from the inside.
“Come on, Kal—you can answer this one—you’re a smart. Boy. Time’s up.” Another of those terrible pats to the face and Clark is abruptly gulping air, eyes stinging. Each and every consonant is punctuated by Bruce’s hard-driving staccato. Each thrust accompanied by that low, gritty bass. Clark isn’t bleeding, but he feels broken, and Bruce’s fury is a pressure on his chest and acid his throat.
“If you. Don’t. Want to get. Fucked. by Gotham, Kal, then you had best. Pay. Attention. Are you listening? If you aren’t, kiddo-”
He can ’t close his eyes. He can’t breathe. He can’t move. His hands are shaking. He’s hit his limit.
“Well, you’d better get used to it, then- ”
No, Bruce—
Clark cries out something that isn’t English.
A plea for mercy.