I hope you like, nonnie! I have only written breathplay once before, and so I apologise for my inaccuracies -- this isn't really how it works anyway, forgive me, I did it for the kink XD
I also just made up a bunch of stuff about Clark's need for breathing etc. and how kryptonite works. I'm also super sorry for typos, I know there must be some, as this is unbetad at the moment :(
Siiiighhh, I want to write mutual choking next XD
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Bruce knows that under ordinary circumstances, Clark doesn't need to breathe. Or if he does, it's far less regularly than any human.
Clark has learned to mimic it – the rise and fall of the chest, the open mouth, that slight movement of the throat. He had to, if he wanted to pretend to be nothing more than the Kansas farm boy come to the big city, and Bruce imagines he took to it with the dedication he takes to everything about his human disguise.
Sometimes, usually when he’s lost in thought but always when it’s just the two of them alone, Clark lapses into an unearthly stillness that, before he even realises what he’s doing, Bruce compares to a corpse (and of course there was the time that Bruce had jerked awake to find Clark still in the bed beside him; he may have said his name, fingers scrabbling after signs of life, until he heard Clark’s preternaturally calm, Bruce? What is it? It was after that that Bruce started leaving the bed – or whatever surface they’d collapsed against – and finding somewhere else to sleep).
This is all under normal circumstances. Bruce doesn’t remember how he discovered it – actually, that’s a damn lie, he knows full well when he first noticed, even if he didn’t put all the pieces together at the time – but when Clark is affected by kryptonite, he needs to breathe.
They’ve been using the collar for a while already. It had been Clark’s idea, and Bruce still remembers the way his eyes had slid away as he suggested it, the colour that rose in his cheeks and the hesitancy in his voice. He hadn’t needed to ask twice, though.
There’s nights when Bruce allows himself to let go, and be taken in any way Clark wants to take him; when he lets himself forget who he is. Clark’s fingers and lips and tongue and cock can make him forget his own name on those nights, which is exactly what he wants.
This isn’t one of these nights, however.
He’s waiting for him, the collar laced through his fingers. He hasn’t taken the cowl off – for this, he wants to leave it on. He’s not Bruce tonight; he’s not smiles and easy debauchery and the kind of sneaky innuendos that would make a mother superior blush and giggle and twirl her habit around her finger. Tonight he’s cold and hard and there’s only one body on the face of the earth that can take what he wants to dish out.
Bruce is the one who chooses when the collar comes out. It’s just one of the things they have come to an unspoken agreement over. It’s a tacitly understanding between them that Clark shouldn’t know when to expect it. He’ll be able to sense it before the full power of the kryptonite hits him, but Bruce has never asked how close he has to be before he realises; if he’d even have the chance to collect himself and fly aware before it can take hold, or if he really doesn’t have any choice but to come crashing down in front of him, his landing awkward and heavy as his powers are sapped.
That’s the first – and only – warning he gets.
“Bruce?”
Clark’s voice echoes through the caverns of the burnt-out remains of Wayne Manor, and Bruce’s fingers tighten on the collar.
Bruce doesn’t like talking – if he ever likes talking – during these times. While Clark is still on his knees on the ground he’ll reach down and pull his head back, wrapping the collar around that long white throat of his. Sometimes there’ll be a boot in the small of his back, forcing his spine in an unnatural curve that, despite his current state, Bruce knows his body can take. But more often he’ll just tug on the leash, forcing Clark to scrabble after him on his hands and knees, slipping on concrete ground and only just managing to keep up.
And Bruce is nothing if not methodical in pursuing his goals. And he’s realised by now that when he has Clark collared and completely at his mercy like this, it’s not the fact that he's feeding him his cock that's making him come so hard. It's not the tightness of Clark’s throat around him, or the sight of his lips stretched around the base.
It's also the small, desperate choking sounds he makes, the ineffectual movements of his head as he tries to either throw him off or swallow him deeper. It’s the short, wheezing gasps he makes when Bruce withdraws briefly, only shove himself back in, forcing himself past the gate of Clark’s lips and teeth. It’s the helpless look in those blue, blue eyes that has him coming harder than he ever has before in his life, before he finally pulls out, for good this time, utterly spent, and leaving ropes of come smeared across Clark’s lips and face.
Fuck. He’s already hard, standing in the darkness, watching as Clark’s shadow grows shorter on the marble floor, his footsteps echoing. He hesitates, and Bruce knows he can feel it now – the kryptonite’s dark pull on his body. He once told Bruce that it felt like someone injecting ice water into his veins and feeling it slowly spread throughout his body, and that’s an image Bruce can work with.
He waits until Clark has passed him in the entrance hall, where he’s waiting behind a pillar.
“Bruce?” Clark says again, and Bruce can see the slight tremble in his shoulders, the clench of his fists as he fights to stay upright. He can’t hear him, can’t detect his presence. Not this close to the collar, with his senses dulled like his.
He doesn’t want to wait. He slips out from where he’s standing, coming up behind Clark and wrapping one hand under his chin, forcing his head up, while the other winds the collar around his throat and snaps it closed.
“Don’t struggle,” Bruce says, voice low in his throat.
Bruce/Clark, breathplay fill - pt 1
I also just made up a bunch of stuff about Clark's need for breathing etc. and how kryptonite works. I'm also super sorry for typos, I know there must be some, as this is unbetad at the moment :(
Siiiighhh, I want to write mutual choking next XD
-----
Bruce knows that under ordinary circumstances, Clark doesn't need to breathe. Or if he does, it's far less regularly than any human.
Clark has learned to mimic it – the rise and fall of the chest, the open mouth, that slight movement of the throat. He had to, if he wanted to pretend to be nothing more than the Kansas farm boy come to the big city, and Bruce imagines he took to it with the dedication he takes to everything about his human disguise.
Sometimes, usually when he’s lost in thought but always when it’s just the two of them alone, Clark lapses into an unearthly stillness that, before he even realises what he’s doing, Bruce compares to a corpse (and of course there was the time that Bruce had jerked awake to find Clark still in the bed beside him; he may have said his name, fingers scrabbling after signs of life, until he heard Clark’s preternaturally calm, Bruce? What is it? It was after that that Bruce started leaving the bed – or whatever surface they’d collapsed against – and finding somewhere else to sleep).
This is all under normal circumstances. Bruce doesn’t remember how he discovered it – actually, that’s a damn lie, he knows full well when he first noticed, even if he didn’t put all the pieces together at the time – but when Clark is affected by kryptonite, he needs to breathe.
They’ve been using the collar for a while already. It had been Clark’s idea, and Bruce still remembers the way his eyes had slid away as he suggested it, the colour that rose in his cheeks and the hesitancy in his voice. He hadn’t needed to ask twice, though.
There’s nights when Bruce allows himself to let go, and be taken in any way Clark wants to take him; when he lets himself forget who he is. Clark’s fingers and lips and tongue and cock can make him forget his own name on those nights, which is exactly what he wants.
This isn’t one of these nights, however.
He’s waiting for him, the collar laced through his fingers. He hasn’t taken the cowl off – for this, he wants to leave it on. He’s not Bruce tonight; he’s not smiles and easy debauchery and the kind of sneaky innuendos that would make a mother superior blush and giggle and twirl her habit around her finger. Tonight he’s cold and hard and there’s only one body on the face of the earth that can take what he wants to dish out.
Bruce is the one who chooses when the collar comes out. It’s just one of the things they have come to an unspoken agreement over. It’s a tacitly understanding between them that Clark shouldn’t know when to expect it. He’ll be able to sense it before the full power of the kryptonite hits him, but Bruce has never asked how close he has to be before he realises; if he’d even have the chance to collect himself and fly aware before it can take hold, or if he really doesn’t have any choice but to come crashing down in front of him, his landing awkward and heavy as his powers are sapped.
That’s the first – and only – warning he gets.
“Bruce?”
Clark’s voice echoes through the caverns of the burnt-out remains of Wayne Manor, and Bruce’s fingers tighten on the collar.
Bruce doesn’t like talking – if he ever likes talking – during these times. While Clark is still on his knees on the ground he’ll reach down and pull his head back, wrapping the collar around that long white throat of his. Sometimes there’ll be a boot in the small of his back, forcing his spine in an unnatural curve that, despite his current state, Bruce knows his body can take. But more often he’ll just tug on the leash, forcing Clark to scrabble after him on his hands and knees, slipping on concrete ground and only just managing to keep up.
And Bruce is nothing if not methodical in pursuing his goals. And he’s realised by now that when he has Clark collared and completely at his mercy like this, it’s not the fact that he's feeding him his cock that's making him come so hard. It's not the tightness of Clark’s throat around him, or the sight of his lips stretched around the base.
It's also the small, desperate choking sounds he makes, the ineffectual movements of his head as he tries to either throw him off or swallow him deeper. It’s the short, wheezing gasps he makes when Bruce withdraws briefly, only shove himself back in, forcing himself past the gate of Clark’s lips and teeth. It’s the helpless look in those blue, blue eyes that has him coming harder than he ever has before in his life, before he finally pulls out, for good this time, utterly spent, and leaving ropes of come smeared across Clark’s lips and face.
Fuck. He’s already hard, standing in the darkness, watching as Clark’s shadow grows shorter on the marble floor, his footsteps echoing. He hesitates, and Bruce knows he can feel it now – the kryptonite’s dark pull on his body. He once told Bruce that it felt like someone injecting ice water into his veins and feeling it slowly spread throughout his body, and that’s an image Bruce can work with.
He waits until Clark has passed him in the entrance hall, where he’s waiting behind a pillar.
“Bruce?” Clark says again, and Bruce can see the slight tremble in his shoulders, the clench of his fists as he fights to stay upright. He can’t hear him, can’t detect his presence. Not this close to the collar, with his senses dulled like his.
He doesn’t want to wait. He slips out from where he’s standing, coming up behind Clark and wrapping one hand under his chin, forcing his head up, while the other winds the collar around his throat and snaps it closed.
“Don’t struggle,” Bruce says, voice low in his throat.