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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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?"

Bruce gradually caught his breath and stared at Clark. Yes, he saw the smile, saw the bright blue of Clarks' eyes and knew, but he- wasn't really thinking. Some track in his brain running on autopilot, processing it and almost recording for further review but there wasn't a whole lot of conscious, deliberated, thought happening in the moment.

He shuddered hard, gulped air and then.

And then he answered the question not verbally or lovingly but in the way he'd been trained to answer it - not trained by Clark, but from his life to this point.

He peeled his lips back away from his teeth in a snarl, and fought. Fought Clark's grip on him, fought away from the wall, fought to get closer and just generally tried to make things happen. Didn't just ask for more or for Clark to come to him but came damned near breaking his own wrists to make that happen for himself.

Clark pulled him away from the wall before slamming him against it, making sure to brace him with a dozen impossibly quick little movements. He wanted the slap of skin but not the impact of bone and his abilities let him give just that.

Once Bruce was against the wall again, he reached down and ran an ice cold finger along the side of the burn, against the unmarked skin just near it as his other fingers held Bruce in place, kept his leg in place. Then he ran it closer to the edge.

"Just a little more..."

Bruce would realize later - not with surprise, mind - that at no point during this was he even remotely afraid of Clark. Not at being held in place, not at being bled, not at the heat or cold or even being slammed into the wall. He simply knew on a level too deep to need him to be able to think coherently, that he was utterly safe.

What Clark was giving him was a lot of intense sensation, a couple of scars, but there was not one iota of risk to his physical safety and Bruce knew that.

He gasped again, lost the breath he'd nearly caught at that single cold touch but he didn't fly back into being frantic. He didn't scream, he groaned. He didn't - exactly stay still against the wall, but it was more a slow, strong, writhe and push and attempt to get Clark to just - get closer. Or, well, the continued attempt to get closer to Clark. Without the violence, at least for the time being.

His hand slipped up then, his body having heated most of the cold away from his finger as he took Bruce in hand, palmed him easily. But it was still strange: one finger of cold amongst four others that were inhumanly warm.

"Soon."

A flutter of fingers and he drew away his hand away, his eyes heating again, looking at his own finger. His body leaned up against Bruce's, holding him by the side to the wall, he smiled as he focused on the pointer before reaching down and running the barest touch of a line down one of the wounds on the other side.

"Very soon. But not yet."

It was a strange sensation and one that left Bruce's response a bit conflicted - did he want more, or less? Push in, pull back? He ended up not quite doing any of it on more than a micro level, before the hand was gone and he had Clark's weight against his side.

The weight and warmth steadied him a bit, even as the faint touch against his side and sting that came with it had Bruce's stomach contracting and his breath catching for a moment.

That bit of steadying was enough to - "What?" And then, because he was fucking Batman: "What are you planning?" Or doing? Hey - look, words.

"I want a scar from when I was gone," he said then, looking down at Bruce's body before his eyes lifted to Bruce's and there was something dark there. Still loving, still so very loving. But there was no sun in those eyes. "Tell me where I can find one."

Bruce was absolutely still not afraid of Clark, though other people could have well found the combination of loving and dark at least disturbing.

That didn't preclude him being ...mildly nervous about the combination of being a little more back in his head and not knowing exactly what was happening.

He was silent for a second, blinking, trying to gather more of his wits and struggle his way back into some sort of self-control, but he never even thought about not answering.

"Back of my left shoulder."

Clark nodded and leaned forward, pressing the softest, sweetest of kisses against his temple.

Even as his free hand reached over to the spot and dug his nails in, biting through the flesh before flexing his hand closed. There was a drag of sensation up to his shoulder, but only the spot of the scar was ripped. Only the scar was remade.

"Every one," he murmured gently against Bruce's hair. "That time is no longer allowed to have even an inch of you. Not even one mark."

Bruce didn't know exactly what was going to happen, but from the second Clark leaned in and pressed his lips against Bruce's temple -

Bruce knew something was going to.

He unconsciously took a breath and braced himself while Clark reached around. He was silent through the pressure, the pain, the feel of skin tearing and then slide of blood against his skin.

He exhaled roughly when Clark spoke, took an unsteady breath in and then. "Okay." His voice sounded slightly strange in his own ears - distant, and oddly ...gentle? Soft, anyway, in spite of some strain.

And then he did. Told Clark where every single mark that had been left in his skin from that period. The minor ones and the major ones, his hands, his forearms, his back, his hip. All told there were probably a half dozen from burns and knives and falls and hits. Mostly small, the one Clark had already handled the worst and one other one on his hip the deepest.

Because he got it and he wanted it.

He smiled, so warm, so dark, and nuzzled into Bruce's hair as he listened, nipping lightly at the tips of his ears when he felt like it. When Bruce was done, he drew back and looked him in the eyes.

"I'll take one. Each time, I'll take one. And don't worry. You know I'll remember."

He kissed his temple again.

"I'll make them all go away."

Bruce grunted in recognition. In truth he had no problem with any of his scars, but if Clark wanted to rework a few and make a plan and goal of it for his own comfort, Bruce had absolutely no objections. It was... nice, in a way, but this particular plan was far more about it pleasing Clark than it pleasing Bruce.

And that alone pleased Bruce, in what was possibly the most contradictory reasoning ever.

He turned his head toward Clark and nipped him very lightly on the lower lip. "I'm not worried." He was glad Clark had a plan. "Give me my hands back."

He braced Bruce carefully with a hand on his abdomen before letting go of his wrists, slowly lowering him back to the ground. Something fluttered in his eyes, the darkness leeching away again as he dipped in and took a kiss. A sweet one.

The intense control slipped away too, leaving a loose-limbed Clark whose hands were warm and who swayed a little with the change.

"I love you," he said, seemingly random. It wasn't random.

Bruce - felt Clark sway and did his level best to support his own weight. That involved locking his knees and putting his hands lightly on Clark rather than grabbing hold or allowing himself to use Clark for support.

He put a hand on the back of Clark's neck, gentle and a little chilled, and returned the sweet kiss with a soft one of his own. He couldn't prevent his hand from being shaky, but he managed to find the willpower to stop it before he ended the kiss.

"I love you, too." That - was a statement of fact and easy because Clark needed to hear it. At least Bruce used that for explaining why it wasn't something he stumbled over.

His back was still sluggishly bleeding from where Clark had clawed through that scar.

"Are you okay?"

"I need to clean and bandage your shoulder," he said mildly before settling himself. Getting his feet under him. Then he helped to support Bruce a little more.

"And yes, Bruce. I'm fine. I'm..." he looked over at Bruce and there was no guilt. "Good."

He leaned in to look at Bruce now.

"How're you?"

Bruce did not cooperate with being supported. He didn't resist it, exactly, but he didn't sag into it. "My shoulder can wait."

He looked Clark over, searched his eyes until he was sure he believed what Clark was saying - or trusted that he wasn't not saying important things, and wasn't hiding them.

How was he? He - was completely unable to answer the question, because he didn't know. He didn't have the slightest idea. He was...shaky and half numb and unsteady and unsure and a bit lost when he decided maybe Clark didn't need him to be doing the supporting.

"I'm fine." He paused and then: "Cold."

Edited 2016-01-04 18:33 (UTC)

Clark nodded and ran warm hands up and down his back, staying clear of the shoulder. He leaned into Bruce a little, showing that his own state was a bit of a show even though he could certainly hold himself up.

He could hold himself up. But he wanted Bruce. He needed to touch him after that.

"Bed?" he asked as he looked at the bed in this room. Then his eye went to the wall, where he was clearly looking at the bed in the other room.

Bruce tightened his muscles both to keep from shivering and to provide something solid for Clark to lean into. He was - completely denying that he was starting to feel the marks Clark had left in his skin and even a mildly growing headache. It was all awareness filtering slowly in, much as realization of being cold had.

"Maybe my shoulder shouldn't wait. Do we need to shower or can you satisfy yourself with slapping a bandage on it?" He didn't want to stick to the sheets.

"Antiseptic and a bandage," he said with a quick nod before leading the way out of the room. "Then bed..."

He looked at Bruce.

"For a while."

Bruce followed, but he made a point of keeping a hand against Clarks' back. Which one of them was he reassuring? Clark, mostly. He was going to have a hell of an endorphine crash, but he had some experience with this that Clark... presumably didn't?

"As long as you need. Have you ever done anything like this before?"

He looked over at Bruce and gave him a faint little smile.

"Like this?" He shook his head a little. "Not really. The closest was probably my times as the Demolisher." Controlled darkness. Very different from something like possession or even red k. He breathed in and out a few times before letting his head droop again. "Though that was very different."

He let his head tip back a little.

"And the first night I went out, I came off of that by jacking off for almost an hour straight."

...which wasn't anything he was proud of, nor really a statement about much of anything. He was being honest because this kind of arrangement required honesty even above and beyond their usual relationship.

"All right."

That was all. He took the information, didn't read in a lot - well did but didn't let it influence his reaction and filed most of it away for later - and fucking escorted Clark to the bed.

"We can decide how you want sex or if you need it now, once we've taken care of this."

Then turned and went to find the first aid kit himself, for himself. He'd had it over to Clark since Clark could reach, but he was taking care of Clark. Badly, as it turned out, but he was trying.

Clark let him.

Clark let him the same way Bruce had let him hurt him. It wasn't about what someone could do. It was about what they let you do. And right now, Bruce needed to do that, so he let him. And when the first aid box was tossed his way, he applied the antiseptic and the bandage expertly but with as much speed as possible. Because he didn't want to break... whatever this was.

"I don't want sex," he admitted as he put the box over on the dresser and collapsed in the bed.

"I want you. That's all I want right now. You. And bed."

Yeah. That was the answer Bruce was afraid of.

Actually, Bruce was afraid of all of this aftermath, because having someone around for it was exactly where his experience stopped and it didn't stop there by accident - it was pure Bruce Wayne design. Getting himself torn up was familiar. Even if someone he loved doing it wasn't, the feelings were known.

Everything beyond that point wasn't and it changed much, much more on that 'someone who loved him/he loved' front than the acts themselves.

He didn't verbalize a single iota of that, just like he hadn't vocalized while having that injury cleaned, but he could. He could make this about Clark and be okay and forestall crashing until.

Until-

Until something. He'd figure it out.

"Then get into bed," he said, pulled the covers back and nudged Clark toward getting in and under and comfortable.

for knightbynight: For now and hereafter...

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