Slow, light touches utterly undo him and hypnosis is not a bad term for what it does. He can feel so much, the lightest stroke of Bruce's bioelectric field against his skin, the grooves of his fingerprints, the barest edge of Bruce's nail on occasion. He's making up letters and words from the random tracing and it all seems to make sense to him in this wonderful half-state.
He can't help but lean in for another few kisses. He's so hungry for them. It's one of the few things he needs. And he chases it accordingly.
Bruce kisses him until his mouth is almost bruised with it, and the rest of him is edging towards being interested in going for another round. Which-- you know, is definitely not the worst though he's ever had. He grazes his teeth lightly against Clark's lower lip, then against his chin. He sighs out something and then rolls, pulling the other man over him, arms winding around his shoulders. They should move and wash up, or he should attend to his laundry, or... or they should stay right. Here.
Definitely stay right there. Mostly because with Bruce beneath him, the light hiting his eyes just so, catching the angle of his features... Clark can't help but start kissing him pretty much wherever his eye ends up landing. Bruce heavily underestimates his physical charms.
When he gets to Bruce's shoulder, though, he looked up and gives him a grin.
"So you pulled on leather pants after a shower... why was that again?"
Being like this beneath him-- it should feel like being shoved into the wall did, in some way, but it doesn't. Bruce has acclimated, and more than that, he's choosing it. He pulled Clark into this position, and knows he could shove him off and the other man would go without hesitation. Part of him recoils away from the feeling of being safe, knowing it's all bullshit, that nothing and nowhere is safe, but another part thinks this might be what he's feeling.
He leans down and presses a few more kisses along Bruce's skin before asking the obvious questions.
"How fast you can turn on a Kryptonian? The rate at which my blood can flow from my brain to between my legs?" Another few kisses. "Am I getting warm?"
"Mm." Why hesitate, when Clark knows? But that mm is only half an agreement. "This Kryptonian," he corrects. They all wear enough armor and leather and skin-tight nonsense at times, and he's never given the time of day to anyone looking at him in his work clothes, so it was something worth considering. (Also he's halfway confident he caught his Victorian monster slayer date checking out his ass in those, so.)
Did you just give me a hickey? Bruce finds it in him not to laugh (surely those are far more common sights, here) and instead runs his hands down Clark's back, lazily continuing the kind of barely-there touches he'd been doing earlier.
"Maybe next time I'm curious about something, I'll give it a go when we're not about to leave... mm." How do you feel so good he wants to ask, but maybe the way he shifts under Clark just slightly, curving into his touch, communicates the sentiment.
Yes, yes he had. It hadn't exactly been part of a plan, per se. But he'd been mixing up the ways he could taste Bruce's skin and he'd sucked and there'd been a mark and now he couldn't quite regret it. It would fade eventually, soon enough really. And he was actually thinking that might be an excuse to do it again. Something touchable, visible. Something like the poem on his fridge.
"That's a sound tactical decision," Clark agrees and yes, Bruce feels so good. Bruce feels amazing. He's not the only one pressing into every point of contact. Clark is impossibly soft skin over yielding flesh and Bruce is hard, solid muscle on top of him with a thousand marks and hairs and scars, as unique as a body could be.
He doesn't exactly hate the feeling (in fact his brain has decided he quite likes it), but he might knee Clark if he tries to do that again over the visible collar of most of his clothes. And that thought is a strangely exciting one, too: knowing he can react, physically, however the hell he wants and doesn't have to worry about holding himself back. He can't accidentally hurt Superman.
Superman can accidentally hurt him, though, which doesn't seem quite fair for Clark. (And that's how his thought process goes, yes-- unfair for Clark, not dangerous for himself.) There's not anything he can do about that one-- unless Clark wants to let Bruce rig up a red sun radiator purely for sex purposes. Huh.
"Well... that's what I do." Tactical decisions. Yes. His brain isn't shorting out slightly at all this, what are you talking about. Shush.
Clark is fine without red sun generators. Because honestly, he's not worried about hurting Bruce. Not when every languid moment together has been so blissfully good.
"For science," he says after a moment of lazy kisses with just a couple of nibbles added in, "the most prevalent reaction to the experiment was a tie between" more kisses "a desire to lick up this one drop of water that'd made it's way down your chest" a kiss to where the path of that water had been, "and a need to take those pants off you with my teeth and... well..."
Bruce threads his fingers in Clark's hair and pulls him up for a harsh kiss that melts back to lazy and warm after a moment. "How can I want you so much," he breathes against him. "I feel like even if we'd done this the first time we met I'd still want you like this today. Fuck, Clark."
He makes a noise into the harsh kiss, surprise and pleasure that settles down into a soft, happy sound as the kiss melted. When Bruce pulls away only as far as necessary to breathe, he tucks himself up close. Close enough to feel every word he says as much as the fingers in his hair.
"That's what makes it so good."
Because it's not a moment. It's this beautiful, amazing thing between them that just keeps growing, deepening, becoming more, pulling them both in and making everything, everything that much better.
Including the sex.
"Bruce."
And his name wasn't so much spoken as exhaled, love and desire and pure joy all mixed in every note.
Bruce clutches him like he can pull them closer together, crest of the slow build over the past half hour having crept up on him-- suddenly he can't get enough of the other man. His breath hitches as Clark presses against him, his hands dragging down his back to knead his ass and urge him closer, more, so they can just rut and rub against each other. "Clark," he breathes against him. "Kal."
"Goddamn, Bruce," but there's no argument there, nothing but a firm, pliant body under his hands, his partner as damn hot for him as he is for Clark. He can't help but slot his hips against Bruce's, grind against him with the same need.
Even if it's inelegant and raw he loves it, and he's halfway shocked at himself being able to get off like this. Or at all, so soon. It takes him a little while but it's no less intense, his hands gripping Clark's shoulders hard enough to bruise anyone else. He wraps his arms around the other man and tells him how hot he is, how good he feels, his voice rough and wrecked.
With Bruce gripping as tight as he does, he can feel each individual finger, the way the muscles within tense and tighten and the shudder that goes through him as Bruce tips over the edge. There are other sensations: slick and warm and friction and scent and musk and a firm, perfect mouth against his own except when words are being whispered into his skin. He takes longer, because it's as much that voice, those words, all of it that send him into white out as it is the pure physical feel of his cock against Bruce. And after the moment of slack weakness, when everything refused to work because every muscle was relaxed with the incredible amount of endorphins flying through his system, he reaches a fluttering hand up into Bruce's hair to tell him a few things back.
Like how good he feels, how loved he is, how his every move is poetry and his every heartbeat music. How his fingers are more elegant than any dancer, and that the weight of his eyes are the sexiest thing he's ever felt in his life. How the line of his nose, broken and twisted as it is, makes him want to trace every line of his features to add just one more memory of his face to Clark's heart. A heart that is full of him and starving for him, all at once. Because to know him was to love him and to love him was to always want more.
All in quiet Kryptonese. All words only for Bruce.
If Bruce wasn't laying beneath Clark, he might have bolted. He stills, a flinch moving through him as those words sink in-- he doesn't feel worth it, and it's almost painful to know how much Clark believes it. His hand moves then stops, like he's thinking of covering the other man's mouth in a fit of emotionally-charged panic, so close to overwhelmed. He ends up just burying his face against Clark's shoulder, a small shake of his head the only response he can come up with.
He's not unhappy, it's just so much - especially after coming so hard he's already dizzy and pliant - and he doesn't have words for it, hell, he doesn't have an emotional reference for it in his head. In all his experience, no one's professed to love him like this, no one's stuck with him through so much. It makes him feel stupid for never saying anything at home (but it also makes him think different universes, he might never feel the same), and it makes something in his chest ache. Some strange thing he can't define.
Clark doesn't say anymore after a point. Instead, his hands run in Bruce's hair and down to his neck and shoulders. His arms hold but he's careful to make sure they hold loosely. He never wants Bruce to feel trapped, just held. Loved and treasured simply for being himself. He wonders how many times Bruce has felt that and decides without asking that the answer is 'not enough'. There's more, there's so much more; in fact, the most important things remain unsaid. But there have been enough words tonight.
So for now, he just lets his fingers card through dark hair and listens to Bruce's heart. Bruce's breath. Bruce, alive and naked and shuddering beneath him, clearly in need of a solar-powered blanket that comes complete with soft kisses.
It would be difficult for him to explain. Things like this don't happen to him. Whatever good will Bruce Wayne had in the universe was used up in the first eight years of his life; he had an idyllic, fairytale childhood, and then his life was severed into two parts, leaving nothing but his mission. His war. Someone treating him like this, speaking to him like this-- it happens in one of two situations. The first is he's hallucinating. (Too many times, magic or mind control or a hundred other things.) The second is there's a knife waiting behind the lie. (He loved Talia, despite it.) It's all manipulation and fantasy, except this is Clark. Bruce knows better than anyone just how honest and just how true all his goodness is; he is possibly the only wholly, honestly good person Bruce has ever known. He's not lying, he's not trying to hurt or manipulate him.
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He can't help but lean in for another few kisses. He's so hungry for them. It's one of the few things he needs. And he chases it accordingly.
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When he gets to Bruce's shoulder, though, he looked up and gives him a grin.
"So you pulled on leather pants after a shower... why was that again?"
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He huffs out a laugh. "Research."
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He leans down and presses a few more kisses along Bruce's skin before asking the obvious questions.
"How fast you can turn on a Kryptonian? The rate at which my blood can flow from my brain to between my legs?" Another few kisses. "Am I getting warm?"
He was, but that was another matter entirely.
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"I like it."
He dips down to start on Bruce's neck, just a little.
"Feel free to try anything you like."
He sucks a little more firmly on the skin there. Leaving his own little mark, even if only temporarily? Maybe.
"Especially if they're like that."
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"Maybe next time I'm curious about something, I'll give it a go when we're not about to leave... mm." How do you feel so good he wants to ask, but maybe the way he shifts under Clark just slightly, curving into his touch, communicates the sentiment.
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"That's a sound tactical decision," Clark agrees and yes, Bruce feels so good. Bruce feels amazing. He's not the only one pressing into every point of contact. Clark is impossibly soft skin over yielding flesh and Bruce is hard, solid muscle on top of him with a thousand marks and hairs and scars, as unique as a body could be.
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Superman can accidentally hurt him, though, which doesn't seem quite fair for Clark. (And that's how his thought process goes, yes-- unfair for Clark, not dangerous for himself.) There's not anything he can do about that one-- unless Clark wants to let Bruce rig up a red sun radiator purely for sex purposes. Huh.
"Well... that's what I do." Tactical decisions. Yes. His brain isn't shorting out slightly at all this, what are you talking about. Shush.
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"For science," he says after a moment of lazy kisses with just a couple of nibbles added in, "the most prevalent reaction to the experiment was a tie between" more kisses "a desire to lick up this one drop of water that'd made it's way down your chest" a kiss to where the path of that water had been, "and a need to take those pants off you with my teeth and... well..."
He looks up.
"You got the rest of that."
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"That's what makes it so good."
Because it's not a moment. It's this beautiful, amazing thing between them that just keeps growing, deepening, becoming more, pulling them both in and making everything, everything that much better.
Including the sex.
"Bruce."
And his name wasn't so much spoken as exhaled, love and desire and pure joy all mixed in every note.
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Like how good he feels, how loved he is, how his every move is poetry and his every heartbeat music. How his fingers are more elegant than any dancer, and that the weight of his eyes are the sexiest thing he's ever felt in his life. How the line of his nose, broken and twisted as it is, makes him want to trace every line of his features to add just one more memory of his face to Clark's heart. A heart that is full of him and starving for him, all at once. Because to know him was to love him and to love him was to always want more.
All in quiet Kryptonese. All words only for Bruce.
Some needed to be spoken, after all.
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He's not unhappy, it's just so much - especially after coming so hard he's already dizzy and pliant - and he doesn't have words for it, hell, he doesn't have an emotional reference for it in his head. In all his experience, no one's professed to love him like this, no one's stuck with him through so much. It makes him feel stupid for never saying anything at home (but it also makes him think different universes, he might never feel the same), and it makes something in his chest ache. Some strange thing he can't define.
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So for now, he just lets his fingers card through dark hair and listens to Bruce's heart. Bruce's breath. Bruce, alive and naked and shuddering beneath him, clearly in need of a solar-powered blanket that comes complete with soft kisses.
No returns.
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For someone like Bruce, it's a lot to process.
He settles, calm in the other man's arms.
Letting himself believe, if just for tonight.