stands_for_hope | for knightbynight: For now and hereafter...

Bruce hadn't mentioned lube. He hadn't kept his mouth shut because he didn't want it, but because he didn't want to put more hurdles between Clark and what he needed than were already there, just in having to get the shower on and Bruce's pants off. It wouldn't have been the first time.

He was still relieved as hell to feel Clark reaching, and hear the clink of the lid hitting the shower floor.

He braced his hands on Clark's shoulders and used that to get himself up a bit. They were similar in height, but there was still some.. lining up to be done and to give Clark the access he needed. HEsitation or reserve now? No.

In fact he actively egged Clark on as best he could, by reaching down when Clark did, opposite side, and wrapping his hand around Clark's cock.

He would have flown out to get the lube, either from a location in the mansion or if need be, what would have been the most confused drug store clerk in the universe if he'd had to. Pain could be good, especially for Bruce, but while Clark was beyond feeling guilt about it, pain to that level was not compatible with what he needed. Because part of what he needed was about Bruce.

Clark made a noise that was as much groan as growl, and while he was certainly doing the job of prepping Bruce with his usual thoroughness, his prep turned into something closer to fucking Bruce with his fingers.

And of all the things Clark had forgotten in that wasteland, the location of Bruce's prostate was not one of them.

Bruce could revel in pain, but the sort of pain that came from being fucked without lube and insufficient prep was much more in the category of things he could take and work around than anything he'd seek out, for sure.

Especially from Clark.

Especially now.

He didn't flinch or grunt or pull away, but he did adjust his position to be more solid, with his back against tile and knees bent up and braced, holding himself up and open. That worked great right up until Clark's fingers found his prostate and was doing more fucking than prep. At that point - well, Clark better be providing at least some stability

Because Bruce was half gone almost immediately. Snarled near silently, bit at Clark and panted against the hot, wet, skin of his throat. Kept his hand wrapped around Clark's cock and stroking for as long as he could, but even that eventually faded away as Clark drove him completely out of his mind.

There was no transition from Bruce holding himself up to Clark holding him up, or at least not one that Bruce would feel. Because as Bruce's body went limp in degrees, Clark's hold became more solid. Because Clark was utterly focused on Bruce. Utterly and completely focused on every twitch and sigh and shift. Because Clark needed, needed to do this. Needed to use his hands to give. Needed to know he was someplace safe enough that he could give, with the one person in the world who still made him feel safe.

It wasn't all he needed, though. Not with Bruce's hand around him. Not as Bruce's grip grew less firm and Clark took that hand to press fervent kisses to the palm, to suck the fingers between his lips. Back and forth, sweetness and sex, need and love. Waves in the vast ocean of everything that was between them, the same in function if not form. Another transition between one thrust and the next, but this one could only be so smooth, and certainly not unnoticed.

Clark's hands on his hips holding him, his cock pressing inside, and if Bruce could notice anything, it would probably be that that while Clark might have used half the tube to make sure everything was slick, he'd left him tight enough for Bruce to feel the difference. Clark kissed him as he pushed in, need from two sides, as his hands braced them, held them against the wall. He dropped from the kiss, overwhelmed, and buried his face in Bruce's throat, pulled him into his lungs, and tried not to fly apart just from this.

Edited 2015-10-01 19:27 (UTC)

The day Bruce couldn't tell the difference between Clark's fingers and his cock, he hoped someone put him out of his misery, because he was clearly brain injured, stupid, or otherwise reduced to a state in which he wouldn't find worth living.

That blunt heat, the press, the burn and slight ache of Clark pressing into him was intense. Intense and perfectly right - the feeling of himself giving away under pressure and strength and mostly just being able to feel the beat of Clark's heart and warmth of his body inside him was beyond anything he'd ever wanted of homecoming with Clark. It felt good, yes, physically and emotionally satisfying and erotic and so, so right.

With both hands free he was able to use the other one to tangle in Clark's hair, still damp from Clark's mouth as much as the heat of water pouring down around them, making the glide of skin on skin easier. He couldn't do a whole hell of a lot in this position to keep things moving, but he sure as hell didn't suddenly turn passive. He turned his head toward Clark and spoke softly, directly into his ear.

"You're home. You have me. I love you. Now fuck me."

I love you.

I love you.

So soft. As if the world hadn't been destroyed and made again in an instant. As if anything would ever be the same again.

It was a damn good thing that Clark processed things faster than most supercomputers. Because if he hadn't, he would have been gaping for at least an hour, trying to come to grips with the fact that he was now living in a world where Bruce Wayne had said he loved him. That he'd been given the most amazing, wondrous, fantastical gift in this or any universe.

Which was why it was only a hitch of breath before he got to the next part, the instructional portion. A hitch of breath, a quick shiver as the news went through the whole of him, and then he was moving. Then he was darting in to sink his teeth into Bruce's shoulder, tasting the blood in his mouth, the truth of it.

Then his hips rolled back enough to position himself just so, just right, before he thrust in again and got down to fucking Bruce the way they both wanted him to.

Edited 2015-10-01 20:26 (UTC)

Bruce had loved Clark for a long, long, time. Clark should probably not expect to hear it a lot, but when the words could have the right sort of impact...

When the situation was big enough to warrant them....

When Clark needed to hear it spoken....

Yeah, Bruce could manage them.

The fact that the response came with that hard bite, the sharp ache and sting of Clark's teeth breaking skin and the ache of Clark moving into him and being angled just right to hit his prostate just made the moment better. Had him crying out exactly once before he turned into Clark and tightened hard around him, trying to drag him deeper.

If Clark been human, his hands and nails would have been leaving marks.

The thing of it was that Clark had never ever doubted that Bruce loved him. He wasn't sure when it happened, what exact day or hour, but once he'd realized it, he had never once doubted it. He'd never doubted the intensity of it, the sincerity, the depths or the lengths which Bruce would go for him.

What he had doubted was his ability to give Bruce the hope that that love would not hurt him, that the world wouldn't twist and rip what was there and shape it into a blade to cut him down. He'd doubted his strength to be there to make sure that even if they tried, the blade would never actually hit. Most of all, he'd doubted often that he'd be worthy of that love, that his stewardship of Bruce's heart would lead to ruin.

To hear the words meant that Bruce's hope, Bruce's need, Bruce's belief, was stronger than his fear. As far as he was concerned, there was no higher gift.

Bruce's blood in his mouth, one hand cradling the back of his head from the recoil of every thrust, the other pressed hard between them wrapped around Bruce--

That came close. Damn close.

Because he was home. Because Bruce was home. Because on top of the tight heat of Bruce's body around him and the perfect tug of Bruce's fingers in his hair, the hard press of Bruce's fingers into his flesh...

Because for the moment, there was nothing else. No one else. And there was nothing better.

Bruce knew, beyond all doubt and reason, that sooner or later this was going to tear one or both of them completely apart. There was a not-small chance that it would go beyond ripping and tearing and breaking to complete and utter destruction of the sort that couldn't be recovered from.

Clark's disappearance and supposed death had shown him, quite clearly, that it was too late to guard against that. That they were far past the point when they could separate to protect either one of them, and that any attempt to do so would be self-defeating.

Maybe that meant he was too damaged for full trust, but he was sure as hell not resisting loving and being loved.. He was holding onto Clark and loving him with everything he had. Every move, every sound, the grip of his body around Clark and the hands in the hair and blood in Clark's mouth.

The hand around him drew a long, low, groan out past his teeth, rough from breathlessness and had him twisting against the wall, finding enough leverage to move a bit, just enough for every thrust into his body to drive him into Clark's fist. He closed his eyes tightly, pressed his face into Clark's hair and-

Came.

Messily, near silently, tension and release and relief and love.

Clark had been near the edge practically since he'd entered Bruce, but the shifting around, something about that sent a spark up his spine and by the time that Bruce came, he was so close that he went off as much from the huff of breath against his ear as from the squeeze of Bruce's body. He came and he held Bruce tight against him, and he could not in his entire life have said that he was more satisfied than in that moment.

Thank goodness for flight as his knees weren't supporting him while he drew away from the wound on Bruce's neck, carefully licked away the blood in the shivering aftermath and started to kiss the uninjured line of Bruce's throat in thanks. In love. He only got a few kisses in before he just pressed his face against the skin and took a moment simply to breathe.

He'd needed that. They'd needed that.

Overwhelming physical sensation aside, he didn't even want to pull out just yet. This was... this was good for the moment. The both of them utterly entwined. Yes. Good.

He was home. He had Bruce. Bruce loved him.

Clark's release stung, but it also soothed. It mirrored and echoed his tongue licking away the blood from the bite mark he'd left in skin, and even the few kisses against the other side of his throat. The steady rise and fall of Clark's breathing, the warmth where they touched....

If this were a normal night (day), he'd get restless, start trying to move on and just move in fairly short order. Lingering with someone inside him wasn't... something he usually did, even with Clark. Today was different. They had needed this. He needed to love Clark and believe he was back.

So today he simply rested, caught his breath, let his pulse slow and let himself be held. Kept Clark in him, and counted the beats of Clark's heart - and felt the rough scratch of his beard, and counted it as one more bit of evidence that Clark was back home.

Eventually the world started again, rusty and slow and reluctant but insistent all the same. Clark withdrew slowly, carefully, but he didn't quite let Bruce down yet. He knew his own legs were shaky, after all. And Bruce didn't have the benefit of being able to float.

Instead, he had the benefit of Clark's arms around him.

He looked sideways at Bruce, then down at the mark on his shoulder, and let out a settled little sigh.

"The question is," Clark said, almost sleepy-sounding in his satisfaction, "one, did Alfred think to put a first aid kit under the sink. And two, do we want to think about it too much if he did."

Bruce was capable of ignoring his weak knees and taking his own weight and did, though there was definitely some shakiness there. Just very, very ruthlessly suppressed shakiness.

"Alfred has been dealing with the evidence of sex induced injuries long before they were inflicted by someone who gave a fuck, much less were someone I'd let stay to ask questions about first aid kits."

There'd be one around, somewhere.

He looked over at Bruce with a low, scraping chuckle and a shake of his head.

"I don't want to think about it, then. Just like you wanted to go to a hotel while we were at the farm."

Weird parental-type THINGS.

"Though I'm definitely sticking around." Which was when he turned his attention to staring around the bathroom with x-ray vi--

"Under the sink. Exactly where they usually are. Damn, he's good." He breathed in and out a few times before tipping his head towards it. "Wash off and I'll grab it. Then I'll wash off while you use it?"

"He raised me." Of course Alfred was good.

"Sure," Bruce agreed, and grabbed for the soap and a cloth almost immediately. It didn't take long for him to be washing, or to be washed off and to be getting out to slap disinfectant on the bite mark. He wasn't worried about it - at all - but just this once he wouldn't argue with Clark about it.

It was easy enough to do. If Clark wanted more than that done, Clark would say something when he came out.

Clark wasn't feeling particularly worried about it. He'd handled his own wounds for the last few weeks with much less than that; he'd mostly wanted to make sure Bruce didn't get annoyed by bleeding on something in the room since he'd been so pleased with it.

...Clark's brain had switched gears just a little the last month or so. It would probably slowly shift back, but at the moment, it was just a little left of his usual center.

Instead, once the kit had been retrieved and handed over, he went to wash himself off. It was a slightly more thorough job than had been done downstairs since he'd mostly just been sloughing off the grime in the cave. This was more of a shower. Once he was done, though, he reached for one of the fluffiest towels he'd ever experienced in his life.

"Towels... so... fluffy..." he noted intelligently as he started ruffling his hair under the towel.

"Absorbant," Bruce replied, dryly.

He would like left of center Clark a bit more, and have a bit less guilt about that if he didn't know the cause of it. As it stood, he guiltily enjoyed it a bit, but was going to at least try not to actively encourage it.

Clark needed help, not enabling, but... damn there were some nice aspects of this.

Meanwhile, Bruce tried to convince his heavy limbs to cooperate (refused to let them not) to pull on the pair of pants he'd been wearing. "I'm going to go raid your closet for a shirt," he said. And no it wasn't really a question.

Edited 2015-10-04 23:01 (UTC)

Clark didn't view it as such. Luckily, he'd find that the closet was stocked in a variety of shirts, all exceptionally soft in fabric and solid in color. While there were a few to choose from, they mostly tended towards reds and blues, a couple of blacks, and one or two other colors tossed in clearly for variety's sake.

...the plaid was in the dresser where it wouldn't offend Master Bruce's sensibilities.

When Clark himself would walk out, it would be in a bathrobe he'd found on the back of the door and a towel on his head. What had taken a moment, however, was that the beard had been somewhat trimmed. The hair remained long, however.

"Need a few supplies before I can deal with this," he admitted with a little smile as he tapped the towel. Then he was going to see if he could find underwear and perhaps a pair of pajama pants in the dresser.

Bruce selected a purple shirt that would look fantastic on Clark but was also not red or blue (he wouldn't - not his colors) , and pulled it on over his head. "What kind of supplies do you need?"

"A piece of crystal. I can grab it from the fortress or my apartment soon enough. But for now, I'm just going to see if I can find a rubber band or something.

He found himself the underwear (oh, the boxers were nice too) and a pair of red flannel pajama pants that were tugged on right after. Then, and only then, did he tug the towel off and hang it over the desk chair to dry off a bit before heading for the bed.

"I feel like I should get dressed for the day and actually do something," Clark admitted as he flopped out on the bed. But he wasn't doing that. Not even remotely. He was staying on the bed.

"I'll feel bad about this soon enough. But I can't even think of what to do." He looked up at Bruce. "I don't suppose you need any help repairing anything? Any heavy lifting?"

"We can find a way to keep your hair out of your eyes later."

Bruce went to the bed and slid in beside Clark, stretched out on his side and put his hand on Clark's chest. Again, right in the very center. It was a common enough gesture for him, but today he needed to feel evidence of Clark being real and live more than usual. Today it was a need.

"I have some planned upgrades to the most recent car. You can help with that, later. I'll find something to keep you busy but that doesn't make too many demands on your time, if you need me to. I think you should take today and spend it sleeping and eating, though."

Clark needed to decompress a little and continue to physically recover. Said Bruce.

Clark might have looked up at Bruce to call out the blatant (supposed) hypocrisy, except that he knew it was different for Bruce to see him like this than for him to see Bruce roughed up. Not just for him, but for Bruce. For all that Bruce could say that most of his love was expressed in money, Clark could see quite a lot of it in the little gestures. The hand over his heart. The way caring for Clark, whether he was out of his mind on silver kryptonite or a little wobbly from a month and a half in a barren wasteland, made some things all right that normally never would be.

More 'left of center' thinking, though closer to the center than the left.

"I'll definitely take you up on eating. I'll see about the sleeping. Multiple hours in a row hasn't really been on the schedule for a bit."

But he seemed content to lay in the bed with Bruce's hand over his heart for the moment. He'd get antsy when Bruce did.

Clark was here. He was alive. He'd come back - battered and a little worse for wear, but he'd come back. He was calling the Manor home, at least for a while.

Bruce felt like he might actually unwind.

And in a minute or three he'd done enough of that to move his hand and sit up. "I'm going to get food. Stay put. I'll bring it back."

He spread his hands and let them fall to his sides in a blatant 'not going anywhere' gesture. Then they were tucked up behind his head as he let his eyes slip closed.

"Give my thanks to Alfred if you see him," was all Clark asked, "I'll pay my compliments in person later, but he should know this is... well, amazing."

Bruce made a noise of assent to let Clark know that he'd heard and would, then padded out of the room on bare feet.

He was gone for maybe, maybe five minutes before Jason was in the room. He didn't knock, at all, just walked in and lounged with deceptive casualness against the doorframe and looked at Clark.

And slowly applauded.

for knightbynight: For now and hereafter...

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