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

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for knightbynight: For now and hereafter...

[some time after the events here]

Superman and Batman were partners in more than a work sense. Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent were an adorable (if mildly ridiculous) couple. Kal-El of Krypton and a man who defied any definition outside of the single letter 'B' made time on weekends, worked around world crises and teenage tempers, and occasionally fell into bed together when the stars aligned. Thankfully, they aligned relatively often.

Wayne Manor received a delivery of organic produce and baked goods once a week from a small, independent farm in the heartland. Lois Lane was a little less likely to agree with snide comments about the uselessness of Bruce Wayne, especially after seeing the utter madness that was Clark's desk after a few weeks. The texting habits of a certain blond teenager in Kansas rose sharply... and in parallel to that of a certain former street punk in Gotham.

Life was... well, it was good, even if it was also Life. Until it wasn't. Until everything changed.

They all had enemies, of course. But the problem with Superman's enemies was that they were coherent enough to decide to team up. And crazy enough to use the kind of weaponry that could make whole cars just vaporize into nothing.

Crazy enough to point that weapon at a somewhat-pinned Batman and a Wonder Woman who was digging him out from the rock. Crazy enough to point that weapon at Batman.

Bruce.

B.

Clark didn't even make the choice. His heart made it for him. The beam shot out of the Toyman's mechanical monstrosity and Clark flew, the pain of the beam itself nothing on the fact that he was leaving Bruce behind. That his vision of them as old men together would never happen. That he was leaving behind a world that needed him.

The guilt that, if it meant saving them, saving him, he didn't regret a thing.

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Clark didn't need much else but what was there: quiet, Bruce, good food to eat, pleasant plans for the future...

They were here for reasons that were complicated around what they were doing here, and they were both still... not entirely okay. But right now, right here, it felt okay. Not like they were covering up or faking or not dealing with it. Just a moment of peace in a terrible situation.

Bruce plated the food, handed Clark his and settled down to eat. After food was gone, he found a low pressure, quiet, movie on television and spent a quiet, relaxing evening with Clark.

That was followed by an early night and Bruce actually waking up at a reasonable hour, still lightly tangled around Clark. Less grump than usual, but also a vague sort of restlessness from having had too much sleep and downtime.

Well, too much by his standards.

Clark was awake as Bruce woke up, and his hands ran over Bruce's shoulders and one hand into his hair.

"I feel..."

His voice was quiet.

"I feel like you need what we originally came here for. Am I wrong?"

Bruce had just woken up, but he was already somewhat tense from the second Clark touched him - before that, even - he woke up somewhat tense.

He tensed up more at the question.

"Is it going to help you?" He had an objective with all of this, even agreeing to... this thing with Clark. It was not to make Clark worse.

He nodded slowly.

Watching Bruce strain himself, watching Bruce stretch himself in a dozen different directions... he could feel it. He could see it. And it was, in a way, a strain on him as well. Being able to grapple with it, dealing with it, being trusted with his strength and his abilities--

"Yes," because he had a feeling Bruce needed to hear him.

Bruce wasn't sure he was capable of saying yes. He had a feeling he needed to be able to verbalize it, so he - made himself in spite of the feeling that he probably couldn't.

But "Yes" was literally all he said, before he leaned in and kissed Clark - hard, and with teeth. Like the instinct was still just to push buttons to try and make it happen, instead of just letting it.

But... he'd made sure first aid supplies came in last night. So he was aware.

Clark kissed him back just as rough, just as hard, but he could recognize the opening volley for what it was.

That was why he turned and started pressing Bruce into the mattress. Taking and taking and taking until he felt it was the right moment.

That was when his hand went around Bruce's throat.

"Now."

Bruce realized in the moment that Clark was pushing him back that he didn't know what he was supposed to do here. When he pushed buttons to make things happen - or when it just happened by unspoken agreement and it wasn't someone he loved - he knew how to do it.

With those new factors in play, he didn't. Did he just fall back? Did he resist? Did he fight with Clark about it? Would that turn Clark off? Would that be the opposite of helping Clark? Those barely scratched the surface of what went on his brain during period between Clark returning the kiss and Bruce's back hitting the mattress.

Ultimately, he was so busy with the gears in his mind turning that he didn't resist at all. When the hand went to his throat he did. Sort of - he reached up and grabbed at Clark's wrist instinctively, and he snarled. Not fear, though, no just arousal and need, tangled up with the instinct to fight anyone who had him in that position.

And he ... was still trying to find answers. Doing would probably provide them but he was watching the hell out of Clark. Not out of mistrust but because he desperately wanted to be helping Clark - or for at least this not to damage him.

For the first time since he'd come back, Clark was utterly calm. He had definite goals, definite rules. There would be no interruptions, nothing unexpected. Nothing he didn't utterly know and understand.

"Struggle if you want."

And his tone made it clear that he wouldn't be moved. The choice to act against him had consequences, his own strength worked against him when put against an immovable object.

"And the kryptonite is in the kitchen cabinet nearest to the entrance to the kitchen, farthest from the stove. It's in a lead box with a simple clasp."

And Bruce was lifted from the bed, braced with his other hand to prevent so much as a bruise.

Clark was answering most of the important questions Bruce had, without Bruce having voiced them.

Bruce also had some pretty clear expectations for how he was supposed to be acting with Clark, and how people were supposed to act when they did this sort of thing, and how he wanted to act and frankly his head was still a tangled up mess, with thoughts splintering off in a dozen directions at once.

That would, probably, fade. Clark giving him some answers cut some of those threads off short, rather than allowing them to continue to spin off into nasty snarls. The rest should smooth out with time, but in the meanwhile there was a lot more going on inside his head than outwardly.

He kept his grip solidly on Clark and he actually didn't struggle any more. Not hard, anyway, though there was a pretty nasty sound when he was lifted off the bed. Once he was up (or down or whatever) though, that was going to change, abruptly. Or maybe just once he really believed Clark was okay. Give him another second or two to keep... shifting gears and believing in this.

Clark waited a moment before carrying him to the other bedroom, holding him as easily as if he was carrying a pillow.

The one thing that Bruce might notice is the calm. The purpose in Clark's eyes, the steadiness of his hands. The absolute control. Here, in this place, for this, he was as self-possessed as he'd ever been.

Bruce was brought to the wall of the second bedroom and there was a blur before both of his arms were held over his head, held to the wall as Clark floated impassively in front of him, considering.

"Do you know when I first touched this part of myself? First realized it was there?"

There it was.

The moment when Clark got Bruce against his wall and his wrists pinned was the moment arousal flooded in with enough force and immediacy to smooth out some of the rougher snarls in his thinking, slow things down. Something about the warmth of Clark's hands on his wrists, the weight and strength and the fact that he could feel his own pulse against Clark's palms combined just perfectly to turn him on and calm him down.

His pupils visibly, abruptly, dilated until there was only a thin, silvery blue ring around all the black. His pulse stuttered, his breath caught, his entire body flushed in a way that made his skin feel both too sensitive and too tight. He dropped his weight against Clark's grip, let his wrists take his own weight and left Clark doing more work.

"I could make guesses. I won't."

"Not red kryptonite," he admitted with a thoughtful tilt of his head. "That was part of the horror of it. That I couldn't pull it out and put it away myself. I knew what it was when the red k pulled it out."

His other hand ran up and down Bruce's side, smooth and easy until he reached the spot just above the hip. There he turned his finger, let his nail catch the skin, left a shallow slice that dotted with blood a moment later. Blood that made his nostrils flair.

"No, it was earlier. The day after my father died. I tried to mourn and my tears were fire and for the first time, it was satisfying. I watched a field burn, knew it was me and me alone who'd caused that, and there was a part of me that felt good."

The other side now, a slightly different angle that actually made it easier. The same spot, the part of his body where he twisted. Bruce would feel it for days, in every step, every turn. He might even open the scabs if he was too quick.

"It wasn't the power. It wasn't the destruction. It was the pain. My pain. My pain given form, leaving a mark somewhere. Does that make sense to you, Bruce?"

Bruce didn't cry out - not at the shallow cuts, not at the slide of blood against his skin. Not because he didn't feel it, but because he did.

It hurt, it burned, it stung, but he was so... cross-wired mentally, that it may as well have been Clark's mouth and tongue on his skin as Clark's nails opening it. It just felt... good. Intense, deep, intimate, solid sensation that he arched into rather than away from, before he twisted and jerked against the hand holding his wrists.

"Yes." He was Batman, of course it made sense, but personally? That answer was more complicated. That was both yes and no. He understood the appeal but he couldn't - wouldn't- turn that outward. Inward, against himself, yes, but not on another target because he couldn't let himself.

"I can't." He stopped, blinked to try and focus his eyes and failed. "I can't cross that line with anyone else."

"I can't either," he admitted quietly. "Because afterwards, came the shame. A whole field, crops lost, for my pain? That wasn't right."

He met Bruce's eyes again.

"But you're Batman. You're Bruce." And those words held so much power when he said them. Those things were almost sacred to him, both of them. "The rest of the world can't handle it, can't handle me. But you understand. You see me."

Another line, this time atop his thighs, right on the line of his pants, where the fabric would pull against it.

"You see exactly what I am, who I am. So I can give it to you. I can give you my pain. You want it. You want to wear my pain on your skin, let it live somewhere. Let it be real. Feel it with me."

A line down Bruce's arm, where the fabric would rub. And this time, he leaned forward to put his mouth to the mark, taste the blood.

"Let it scar somewhere."

There was no singular moment where Bruce's mind stopped fighting what was happening. No individual moment where he stopped feeling guilty and like he was taking advantage of Clark. No instant where he went from simply understanding what was telling him, to truly believing him.

The result was the cumulation of everything Clark told him, everything he truly heard and the heat of Clark's mouth and the heat of his own blood on his skin and the dragging, burning, heat that came with his skin being opened up. It was the ache in his wrists, and the fact that Clark was looking him in the eye.

He was going to have issues with this, worry about Clark, feel overly self-indulgent on some level but he knew now, at least, that he was giving Clark something back and that meant he could stop resisting it and take what was being offered back. He could get his own needs met.

And he would have scars. More scars. Scars left by Clark.

Which meant he stopped trying to engage in coherent conversation, jerked and twisted against Clark's hands, cried out softly and then growled. Pulled hard and strained against the grip. Twitched and arched and fought and took what was fairly coherent and cautious moments and let himself fully feel and respond and seek out what he wanted.

Though he also managed to clash forward far enough to kiss Clark when his head lifted, taste his own blood but mostly just kiss Clark to express his acceptance. He was... on fire, his body was throbbing with his pulse and this was -

Maybe this was okay.

It was sure as hell what he needed, even if he was still worrying a bit in other directions. Focus was narrowing down, finally.

Clark kissed him back, crushed his mouth to Bruce's, but true to his word, as passionate as it was, it wouldn't leave a mark past kiss-bruised lips that would fade.

"See?" he asked while they were still close, as Clark practically nuzzled him. "You understand."

He could hurt Bruce because Bruce was on the same level as he was, an equal. Because Bruce loved him and he loved Bruce and there was no doubt in his mind that Bruce truly wanted this. This was as loving an act as a kiss, as sex. Just as receiving it was.

And maybe his trip to the wasteland had brought the need for it to the fore, but it was just as he'd said: nothing new. Instead, something old. Something usually buried. Something that he'd thought shameful but with Bruce, there was no shame. There was only love and acceptance for the strange twists and turns that made them who they were.

His hand reached down and slapped the first mark on Bruce's side, bringing fresh dots of blood and he knew, fresh sensation. Then he did it again. He looked at his hand and considered the red marks on it, frowning thoughtfully, before licking it from his fingers.

Bruce flinched with that second slap, actually - he didn't cry out but exhaled hard and his stomach tensed, along with his thighs, his breath fell off rhythm and every single bit of the shallow, stinging sensation transmuted into heat. Heat that sank into his bones and lower, made him acutely aware of his pulse - and of his arousal.

HIs eyes closed briefly, while he caught his breath. They opened just in time to see Clark licking blood off his hands and at that he groaned, deeply, dropped his head back against the wall.

"Jesus, Clark."

He couldn't help a faint smile at that.

"I promise I'm not a vampire, Bruce," he said with a faint, low chuckle. "It's just... when I came back, this was how you showed me you were real. And now, every time I taste it... I'm reminded of that."

He looked down at his hand and blew an icy sheen onto his fingers as he reached for the other side. The touch was blisteringly cold against the wound, so cold it would burn.

Bruce had been about to snark back that he didn't think Clark was a vampire, but then Clark's freezing fingers were against his side and in that shallow wound.

And Bruce - screamed - briefly, it choked off after a second, but it was by far the most intense reaction he'd had to anything tonight. Most noise and was accompanied by him jerking away within the confines of how he was being restrained.

It left his heart racing and him panting shallowly, looking - wide-eyed and stunned.

He knew full well Clark could do that, but it wasn't something he'd been prepared for and it was. It was good. It was really, really good but he had definitely been caught off guard.

Clark paused and waited to see if he'd hear a word, if he'd hear anything else, before he smiled and leaned in to kiss Bruce on the lips. There was still a faint touch of chill from the ice breath, a taste of the burning cold lingering in the kiss.

"I know every way a nerve receptor can take in information," he said after a moment. "Did you really think I wouldn't use every tool at my disposal?"

And something red flickered in his eyes.

Bruce wasn't going to safe-word out just because he'd been caught by surprise and discovered that his tolerance for cold was not what he would have expected it to be. Particularly not when the burning cold faded to something even hotter that had been there before, that also picked up a steady throbbing with the beat of his heart.

It took him a second or two to gather his scattered wits to argue Clark, and to take the necessary deep breath to properly steady and trust his voice.

"I really did think you wouldn't." He sounded... dryly depreciating, in spite of everything. Because he was. He was also just a little bit afraid of that flicker of red in Clark's eyes, and more than a little bit intrigued.

God help him, this was... fun.

He didn't answer. Instead, he leaned down and looked at the line on Bruce's leg. After a moment, he started blowing on it; not cold, just normal temperature, but with significant enough force to put pressure on the cut, open it up a little. It would feel like little cuts, the air pulling apart what his skin had tried to start sewing back together. He couldn't have that.

He didn't want to mark Bruce up too much, after all. So he had to take advantage of the wounds he'd made. Which was why he waited until blood was running in a nice sized drop down Bruce's leg before licking it up and--

Burning. The heat was intense, but focused like a laser, a pinpoint that ran from the bottom of the wound slowly up, cauterizing it closed.

Bruce handled the pressure of Clark's breath forcing the cut open pretty well. Oh, it made him harden more, pulse, flush with heat and arousal more, had his hands curling into fists and his breath catching, but he handled it in a fairly Bruce-like way. Quietly, sinking down into his head to process sensation and heat and arousal and desire.

And then the heat became less about desire and more literal and Bruce -

Bruce jerked, hard - against the hands holding him, against the wall. He would have risked seriously injury if he'd been held in place by anything short of Superman, but even so he wasn't jerking away. It was intense. It was way, way more than anyone could ever have called sane or safe.

But it absolutely perfect and unravelled something in Bruce. Pushed him solidly into pure sensation and unfettered arousal, shut his brain down properly, and had him panting, shaking, eyes watering, and a light sheen of sweat on his skin. It was a place where there was nothing but him, Clark, and feeling that was too strong to deny.

Also undeniable: Clark got it. And probably always had.

Clark pressed a few kisses to Bruce's throat, licked at the sweat there before running his teeth along the vein.

"Beautiful. I can see how badly you needed that. The sun in your skin..." He smiled up at Bruce, blue eyes so bright. If Bruce could see, if Bruce could think, he'd know. "I bet you felt that heat down to your bones."

Which was what he'd wanted.

"Do you want more?"

for knightbynight: For now and hereafter...

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