stands_for_hope | for frightening: To Infinity and... just a little beyond that

for frightening: To Infinity and... just a little beyond that

Generally, when it came to interstellar politics, the first name called up among the Justice League (for good or ill) was Green Lantern. And when the request for arbitration came to them from a distant planet, they'd initially suggested the Corps to do the job. That, unfortunately, had started a political fiasco of its own at first, given some less than savory behavior from the Guardians regarding the planet in question in the recent past, but thankfully Diana had been able to smooth the ruffled feathers and propose a solution.

That was why Superman, well known throughout the stars and the last survivor of a planet many considered to have gotten a similarly questionable shake from Oa, had been asked to take on the mission. Given the distance and the unfortunate tendency for situations like this to be a trap of some sort, it had been decided he'd need a partner and Batman had been, in Diana's words, 'the obvious choice.'

Of course, Bruce Wayne's capability to deal with and even carefully handle politicians was well known to her, as was his ability to smell a rat at 100 paces should there be something underhanded afoot. Then there was simply the logistics: Gotham had decent coverage with Batwoman and others, and with Superman off for a week, Diana was needed to handle whatever might happen in Metropolis.

Which was why, after a bit of discussion (just a bit), Clark and Bruce were on their way to Voepra Prime on what was more likely than not going to be a PR vacation.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He never has to say it out loud. Clark hears it, in the thrumming of his heart and the hard breathes he takes. Sees it in those expressive eyes and the even more expressive mouth, the mouth he can't stand to have out of reach. Sometimes he says it, because it's in his heart and there's no stopping it from flooding out. But just as often, he lets the words fall away and does his best to show in other ways. What are words, after all, to laced hands squeezing tight and the tilt of a head utterly enraptured with his pleasure, telling him with every touch and gesture that he is loved?

And it shouldn't be as soul-deep and meaningful every time. Sometimes it's not. Sometimes it's sex because sex feels good and they both have appetites and Clark has a very convincing way of pointing out that endorphins help the body to deal with pain and loosen the muscles. But there's always the echo of this, of moments like, beautiful and rare, where the whole universe focuses down to just the two of them .

Their bodies are moving, there's pleasure mounting, but Clark won't stop looking at Bruce's face, can't pull away from his eyes.

I love you.

This is new and mind-blowing: that soul-deep and meaningful thing. Bruce's sex life has never been slow even during the times he repressed himself, and fucking just because with Clark is the most satisfying and electric he's ever had but still just what it is-- then there's this, every second touching something intangible along with his body. He's never had it before and it puts light in the very core of him and burns. Sometimes it's painful but that never diminishes how brilliant and beautiful it is.

Bruce makes love to him the way he knows best, intense without holding back, without even trying to. No pretense or hesitation, giving Clark everything. Letting himself get lost and never letting go of the alien's hand.

He pulls Bruce in for kisses; that hadn't been an offhand request. He can't help it, can't help the moments when words aren't right but his heart overflows. When Bruce is too beautiful, yes, beautiful and he's too in love and the physical sensations are thundering through him in all directions.

He's close, so close. It's one more kiss that does it, one particular movement and one angle and one last flutter of eyes open at Bruce, seeing him when he arches up, into Bruce, Bruce into him that lets the groan flutter out of him.

"Clark," he gasps when the man below him climaxes, the first thing he's said since they were just rolling around together, almost overwhelmed just watching and feeling him come. Bruce dips his head down to kiss him, messy and desperate, chasing that groan back into him.

It doesn't take long for him to follow, his orgasm almost secondary to knowing he can push Clark to the edge, but no less shattering. (When he was younger he almost resented sex, how intense it was and how much it captured him, too distracting for its own good.) He presses open-mouthed kisses against Clark's skin, breathing labored, the unwind still so intense.

Clark waits until his hands are safe, until they can be as soft and as sweet as he wants them to be before he reaches up to stroke Bruce's back, up and down his side. At first, his head is thrown back, but he pulls it up before nuzzling Bruce in reply, pressing kisses in return, loving and holding and being with.

Bruce is so hypersensitive, caught in the afterglow like an ocean current, and he kisses Clark and rubs gentle against him, sweat-slick and gentle. His low noise is almost a contented purr, nuzzling his forehead against the other man's. He'd fuck him again right now if he could; he licks sweat off Clark's shoulder and then flops down heavily against him. Mm.

Sex is good, and there's a decent likelihood that they might do more before they end up getting to their destination, but this is also good. And holding a warm, contented, wonderfully affectionate Bruce Wayne is a treasure that he appreciates every time he gets it, especially since he gets to show the other man some softness, some much-deserved sweetness. He's glad that he makes Bruce happy. Bruce makes him happy.

...he's still very very high on endorphins but that's okay.

There is no 'decent likelihood'; they are absolutely having sex again before they leave this ship. Bruce will not exhaust himself, but his stamina has applications beyond punching things and fifty hour stake-outs. Bruce continues to nuzzle and kiss him, indulging as best he can - speaking with his body instead of his words. "Why didn't I put a real shower in this thing," he murmurs into Clark's skin after a while. Predictable complaint, really.

"Presumably because you weren't thinking of places I could fuck you when you designed it," purrs out of him, at least half powered by said endorphins and half just Clark being Clark. Clark being Clark was a lot more frank about sex than people usually assumed. "Forgivable but inconvenient."

Another few smudged kisses back before-

"And probably water... things."

There'd been some thought about water being somewhat precious aboard a space ship, that it's properties became a hassle in space, that the plumbing would have been a nightmare to put in such a compact vessel. But there was Bruce to kiss and they both knew those things anyway.

Bruce really does like shower sex. And for once, it's something not connected to any weird repressed issues - he just likes hot water, and getting laid. He makes a grumpy sound of agreement; yeah yeah, water things, that'll be an important thought again in a little while. Right now it's an awful oversight, and Bruce growls lowly into a kiss that involves him sucking on Clark's tongue. His brain could come back online post-orgasm quicker this, but why? They have time. Time and no emergency alerts.

His brain's working just fine right now, after all. There's a Clark there, he's kissing him. Clearly, his decision making skills are in top form. Or so would think Clark if his own decision making skills weren't firmly dedicated to whether he wanted to get his fingers into Bruce's hair or reach down to get a good handful of his ass. It's an important decision, and he goes for the hair as the romantic side wins and has him leaning into that kiss a little more.

"Any other ideas?"

Given the lack of showers.

"Fuck me." Bruce nips his lower lip and then concedes to his humanity: "In a few minutes."

If he gets it out of his system - their systems, apparently - then he'll be able to think of something besides sex. Probably. Maybe? No, he will. They can play virtual scrabble or some other damn thing; Bruce likes those quiet moments with him, and they rarely have time for anything. For now, though, one thing only is clouding his mind.

He can't help but smile just a little at the adjustment and he smudges it against Bruce's cheek, turning it into a couple of kisses.

"That's definitely happening. Any preferences, since the shower is out?"

Their systems. Yes, their systems. Clark is more than a little lost in Bruce, in a Bruce who's focused his full attention on him. It's a rare treat, and he'll enjoy the non-carnal version eventually. But for now-

"You know my preference."

Bruce's face. Bruce's eyes. He loves watching the other man, especially like that.

Bruce is less concerned about the eye contact thing, though of course he appreciates seeing Clark's face - perfect and gorgeous even scrunched up with carnal exertion - but since he knows the other man loves it so much more, he's perfectly willing to go along.

"You're lucky I'm flexible," he murmurs into a kiss. Literal, physical flexibility, handy for spins on the missionary position with matching plumbing. As he's come to discover he's not all that picky when it comes to the other man being on top, he just loves that it's Clark. He considers pinning the Kryptonian beneath him. Pretending to, anyway.

"I'm lucky for a lot of things you can do," Clark notes with yes, a dopey grin on his face. He's in love and he has absolutely no trouble showing it, especially to the man in question. He'd shout it from rooftops if he didn't know it would make Bruce go into an apoplectic fit.

"And the pure poetry that is you."

That came with a hand along Bruce's side. His attraction to Bruce goes so far beyond the physical, but beyond does include. Bruce is stunning from head to toes, his movement entrancing from the smallest gesture to the great sweeping swings of battle. And if there's one thing he wants, it's for Bruce to know he feels that way. That someone who knows him for who and what he is, who's seen every scar, thinks that he's not just handsome or sexy, but beautiful. Poetry. He'd shout that from the rooftops too.

"Sap." Accusatory, but his head is slightly ducked, hiding how touched he feels at Clark telling him flowery things like that. He kisses the other man down his jaw and throat, slow and sensual, not willing to spend any moment of his recovery time doing anything but luxuriating in his lover's skin. They're both a mess but Bruce doesn't twitch away from any of it; he can revert to fastidiousness later, as they aren't done yet.

Bruce spends his time tracing his hands down Clark's chest, slipping himself lower, placing more kisses on his hipbone and lower, his mouth and tongue as teasing as it is erotic. And when he's feeling up (hah) to it, he straddles the other man's hips and instructs him to put his hands over his head and leave them there. It's not permanent-- this is playful, and quite obviously Clark will never actually be restrained, but he'd like to see how long Clark can hold still while Bruce prepares himself and then sinks down onto his cock. He tips his head back. Fuck.

Clark smiles at the accusation, and at the little duck of his head. Then his eyes are closing as leans back to let Bruce kiss him, tease him, love him with a poetry of his own. As Bruce goes lower, he groans, shifting at the intensity of sensation and there is not a power in the universe that could make him move his hands from behind his head. Not when Bruce is being so unrestrained in his affections, not when he has the most gorgeously erotic view he's ever had. And Rao help him, he's almost shaking as Bruce seats himself. He can't hold still, though; Bruce can certainly feel it as his hips rock unconsciously a few moments after Bruce takes him in.

"You feel so good," slips out of him like a moan. His eyes slip open and he gives Bruce a smile. "Lucky for your balance too."

The cot IS small, after all.

Bruce shakes his hair out of his eyes and stretches his spine, settling, sighing at the feeling-- so intense in this position. He looks down at Clark and his expression is almost a smirk. Yes, they're lucky for quite a lot. He's not going to tip off.

Probably.

It's slower this time; Bruce draws it out, teasing reactions, daring Clark silently to move his hands and grab him instead of letting Bruce dictate every moment.

If you asked Clark, he'd say that he'd reached out because he thought that Bruce might, possibly, wobble in the intensity of the sensation. That was entirely why he reached out with one hand and spread his palm against Bruce's abdomen as the other slid up his side, settled at the hip. That was definitely why the touch was reverent and needing and almost desperate and why he actually let out a gasp of relief as he finally got his hand on Bruce's skin. As soon as he can, he answers that almost smirk with a definite grin.

Bruce isn't fooled, but he's too deep in sensation to give a damn. As soon as Clark folds the game is over, and he exhales a low noise that betrays just how much of his composure has been acting. Nothing, no one, has ever felt like Clark. Will ever. Bruce knows he'll never take another lover-- how could he? Even if Clark comes to his senses, even if something happens to one or both of them, he's been ruined for love and sex with anyone else. He can't go back, and doesn't want to. Please never leave me.

The hand on his abdomen curls just a little. The one at his side is molded there, moving with him, not slipping an inch. He can't hear the thoughts in Bruce's head or the desperate plea in his heart. What he can do is feel it, feel that change, that raw honesty thrumming beneath his fingers. And those fingers tighten just the smallest, most significant bit.

Mine.

As a heart beating, as a soul fills a body, as a mind fills with thought and emotion and imagination. Of all the things Clark is, 'fickle' doesn't make the list and his heart least of all. He'd come to Bruce that night with the ingredients for curry in his bag, a pie in a box, and his heart in his hand. And now, here they were.

He couldn't regret any of it.

Oh. God. Bruce ends up pitched forward more, one hand braced beside Clark's head. He lets himself go and it's obvious-- he gives himself over to feeling, experiencing, being with Clark. Bruce loves sex, he really does, and sex with the love of his life is actually mind-blowing. Especially in round two.

After, he's practically puddle.

The hand that'd been at his abdomen turns to wrap around Bruce's cock. The other one slides up to get into his hair, drag him down for a wild, desperate kiss until they're both a damn puddle. Clark's arms wrap around the other man because gravity just happens to be content to leave them alone there and the only real movement from him is a soft nuzzle and a few sweet kisses. Just a few.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

for frightening: To Infinity and... just a little beyond that

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject