This is part of a larger continuity of stories. Please consult my profile for the master reading list if you want to read them in order.
Hello! Welcome back to prompts (and Earth-3)! So, this was an anonymous prompt for Bruce/Clark, in number 11, "Don't you dare throw that snoba- Goddamnit!" Specifically requesting it be in Earth-3. So, here's a way down the line exploration of what Bruce and Clark actually get up to once they're messing around. There is no love here, just so you know. Not in the slightest.
Warnings for: Power play, slight breath play, Dom/sub undertones, and Bruce generally being a controlling son of a bitch. Hope you all enjoy!
I lean against the window frame, watching my boys through the glass as they engage in perhaps one of the more vicious snowball fights that has ever happened. It doesn't help that due to the quietness of the holidays, they've brought in their significant others as well. The Harper boy is here, and so is Kon-El. Dick is holding his own remarkably well for being alone; he seems to have created a temporary alliance with Damian to even the odds.
No one seems badly injured yet, so that's probably the best I can ask for. It's an interesting chance to study their respective tactics, leadership abilities, and team dynamics. Tim and Kon seem to be working together the most smoothly, with Tim using Kon as his physical puppet while he conserves his energy. Harper and Jason don't come far behind them, and Harper's skill with any and all ranged weapons seems no less deadly here. Dick and Damian have the most fractured teamwork, but their sheer skill makes up for it. It's fascinating to watch them change and adjust tactics to take advantage of what they know their brother's weaknesses are.
At least until all of them freeze in place, heads tilting up almost in unison. I glance up as well, to find Ultraman hovering above them, his arms crossed and cape blowing in whatever wind he magically brought with him. He's scowling, but that's his default expression.
I hold back a sigh, and adjust my hands to hold my mug of tea in just one instead of having both curled around it for the warmth. I flip the latch and swing the window in front of me open, and his head turns my direction. I tilt my head to the space at my side, inside the manor. Of course he just sneers for a second, but then his arms uncross and he floats my direction. I resist looking down to see my son's reactions, or the way Kon will be sliding halfway back behind Tim to shield himself from his 'father.' I know they don't approve of the fact that I sometimes entertain Clark as a guest in my bed, but I'm going to continue doing it.
There's something very, very satisfying about having Clark at my mercy, and making him scream for me. Because he certainly does, when I want him to. I've yet to force him to beg, but that's my own choice. I could make him beg, if I wanted to, but he might not forgive me for it. I'll let him become more comfortable with me before I push that.
That thought brings a small smirk to my mouth, and I step just slightly to the side to open up enough space for him to come through the window. He bends to make it, his hand bracing on the top of the frame as he slips through. Of course he doesn't close the window after him, but I leave it open for now. Perhaps he'll actually get fed up and leave this time, and I don't want my window broken if he decides to make a quick exit.
"Clark," I greet, resuming leaning against the frame, and holding my cup with both hands.
"Bruce," he almost snaps back. He's always so defensive when I point out that I know his real name, like he thinks he has to retaliate by reminding me he knows mine too.
I take a sip of my tea, realizing I've let it come all the way down to a soft warmth. Ah well. "Do you have no concept of subtlety?" I ask, watching him over my cup. The look he gives me proves he doesn't, and I raise an eyebrow. "Floating over my house in full costume? All it would take is a lucky photographer and someone asking the wrong questions. You may not know the meaning of caution, but you could try."
Another sneer, and his arms cross again. "If photographers get that close, your security's pretty terrible."
My eyes narrow, but before either of us can say anything more there's a shout from outside, and then a second yell that's just barely audible as words.
"Don't you dare throw that snowba— Goddamnit!"
Jason's voice, naturally. Anger, with a healthy dose of promised revenge. It's enough to make Clark lean sideways, turning his head to look down and out the window. His mouth twists into something displeased, as he watches whatever's going on down there. I resist the urge to look; I trust my boys not to injure each other too badly without warning either Alfred or myself, and anything else I can probably either forgive or ignore.
"Your sidekicks are childish," he almost snarls, before looking back at me.
I take another sip of my tea before I answer. "They're practicing simulated combat, without the ability to badly injure each other. It's a suitable training exercise." Clark does not need to know that my sons do whatever they decide they want to, and I decided to call these events 'training exercises' to make things easier for myself. If it's condoned, I don't have to try to stop them. Dealing with whatever injuries happen is a far easier task than trying to stop my sons from doing what they want to do.
Clark gives me a look that's wholly unbelieving, and I raise one eyebrow in response even before he speaks. "You're kidding. An exercise; really?"
"They've been forbidden from using anything but snow and their own bodies as weapons," I explain. "That includes rocks inside the snow. Large ones, anyway. It allows them to practice strategy, teamwork, and ranged skill without actually killing each other. It's valuable." I reach out, catching the edge of the window and pulling it back in. "I doubt you came by to comment on snow," I point out. I take another sip of my tea, savoring the flavor for a moment before speaking again. "What do you want, Clark?"
The flush that rises to his cheeks tells me everything I need to know, but I keep my expression calm and collected as I watch him. I may know precisely what he wants, and it might stir interest low in my gut that I definitely intend to give it to him, but I'm still going to make him ask. He doesn't get to come here and just get what he desires without speaking a word about it, even though it would probably be fun to back him up against a wall without needing so much as a word. He has to ask, or I won't give. Those are the rules between us, unspoken as they might be.
He glances to the side, out the window, and then — to my amusement — shifts to the side so he's not in direct view of anyone looking up. It's as if he thinks all of my sons don't know precisely what we do together, or perhaps he simply can't stomach admitting to it with his 'son' somewhere below. Though you would think that a Kryptonian like him would understand that no matter how quiet he is, Kon-El inherited more than enough of Clark's super-hearing powers to hear him. In fact, I sometimes wonder how Kon manages to stay in the manor while I play with Clark. My room may be soundproofed, but that wouldn't be enough to stop him hearing. Especially not considering how loud Clark gets.
"I…" He swallows, looks away, and then meets my gaze with something like determination. "You know what I want, Bruce."
"True," I admit, "but that doesn't mean I don't want to hear you say it." He scowls, and I smirk. "Ask, and maybe I'll consider it, Clark."
"When have you ever said 'no'?" he hedges, in what almost sounds like a snarl.
"Never," I admit, "when you've asked nicely. Does it bother you so much to have to ask for what you want?" I know it does — he's so very used to demanding and simply taking — but really, that's half of why I make him do it. It's amusing to watch him have to fight his own pride to ask for what he finds demeaning. Only once or twice has his pride overpowered how much he wants sex with me though. Apparently he just can't replicate how good I make him feel, which I expect is because no one else will take him down and apart like I can.
Diana is strong enough to give him a run for his money, but he'd be a fool to trust her with his vulnerability. He's a fool to trust me with it either, but even if he doesn't believe it, I know I wouldn't kill him. Not without good reason anyway.
Every time I put Clark in his place, it makes him less likely to fight me again. Every time, he comes a little bit more underneath my control. It certainly doesn't hurt that I enjoy what we do as well; he might have very little talent in a bedroom, but his reactions make the fumbling worth it. That, and the simple fact that I have him at my mercy. I've entertained hundreds of thoughts of killing him, or implanting something while I have him weakened to truly put him underneath my control, but I've brushed those aside. An attack dog with no loyalty is only as good as its leash, and Clark's powers are too impressive for me to safely control him even with my best inventions. The chances of him turning on me are too high.
Instead, it's easier to slowly gain his trust and his loyalty through games like these. I doubt I'll ever have him as firmly in hand as Tim has Kon, but I may at least get him to a point where he stops looking for chances to kill me.
I just need to train him that when he does what I want him to, he gets rewarded. We're already well on our way.
"I want…" The flush that hits his cheeks, as he turns his head away, is equal parts shame and anger. I know the differences now. "I want the cuffs." It comes out like some heavy admission, and I swallow the urge to smirk as pride makes itself known.
There's nothing sweeter than making someone want their submission.
"Of course," I answer, dipping my head a bit. I lower my cup, setting my tea down on the windowsill. "As you wish, Clark. Come with me."
I don't give him much of a chance to argue, and he follows at my heels as I turn and head farther into the manor. The study — which gives the best view of the yard outside that my boys are playing in — isn't far from my room. Clark walks more loudly than anyone else that comes by this house. I suspect Tim has been teaching Kon to be quieter, on top of teaching him more advanced combat techniques, because the clone has become surprisingly quiet for his weight and lack of stealth ability. Harper is louder, but he simply has a brighter personality most of the time and makes no attempt to be quieter. When the archer does choose to actually try and be quiet, he's moderately successful. Clark, on the other hand, has no ability nor any apparent desire to be quiet.
I push open the door of my room, and step aside to let him come in. His shoulders are drawn a little bit downwards, and his expression clearly reads wariness, but he doesn't make me order him inside. I shut it behind him, locking the door with the flick of a latch.
As I move across the room, towards my end table, I lean in to whisper in his ear, "Strip."
I don't look back to catch the reaction to my order, but I know he'll obey. We've had the argument over this before; I won. Even just for practicality's sake, it's better if he's at least partially stripped down before we start. I'll admit to myself, though not to him, that it's also empowering and satisfying to still be clothed while he's not. I'm sure it makes him feel vulnerable, and as far as I'm concerned that's just a bonus. I like it when he's vulnerable; it's not that often you can get a Kryptonian at a physical disadvantage.
I open the drawer on the end table, reaching inside to retrieve the two slim, metal cuffs tucked in the back corner. Smooth, with rounded edges and no adornments. Not yet, anyway. I doubt he would accept them if there were loops or links attached that could be used to tie him down. Maybe I'll change that someday, when he's willing to let me press him into it. For now, I'll cater to his comfort level, at least superficially. True, I could have made this in a single cuff, or a bracelet, or something less obtrusive, but he doesn't know that. I've let him believe that both cuffs are a necessity, because I enjoy clasping them around his wrists. I like the way they look on him when he's otherwise naked, and I enjoy making him ask for cuffs.
I turn back around, leaving the drawer open as I head back to him, both cuffs held in one hand. Clark's shrugging out of his costume, peeling the skin tight uniform down his arms, the cape already disconnected and pooled on the ground behind him. I make no effort to hide the sweep of my gaze down the hard lines of his chest, wasting my time as he gets his arms out and lets the suit drop to hang at his hips. It's certainly not a bad view. His attitude aside, Clark is quite attractive.
Maybe that's why I can stomach him in a bed so much more easily than outside of one. Inside a bed, and with these cuffs around his wrists, I can manipulate him to do what I want him to. Plus, I can make him nonvocal. When he's not sneering, snapping, or glaring, he really is very handsome. It's almost been enough to make me consider approaching him instead of making him approach me, but I've discarded that idea a dozen times. He always comes back, and as long as I maintain this dynamic between us it gives me an edge over him.
The other option I've considered is taking Clark and Diana to bed at the same time, but practicality has stopped those thoughts as well. Clark wouldn't allow himself to be restrained around her, and without his powers restrained I have no place in their play. I could coax Diana when he's done with her, make her thrash and writhe, but I couldn't have any real interaction with Clark. I don't trust his control enough to let him touch me without being restrained in one way or another, and he wouldn't let me take him in front of Diana, I'm almost positive of that.
In the end it doesn't matter. Just this is more than enough to eventually bring my plans to fruition. It may take longer than I'd like, but it's not like this situation is without benefit to me.
Clark steps out of the pool of his uniform, leaving him in just dark blue briefs. He takes in a breath, hands clenching into fists for a moment, and I let him have the moment to steel himself. Or at least to try. I wait until he steps forward, making him take the last step to close the distance between us. His movement is a little stilted, but he raises his arms and offers me his wrists, palms up. The muscles in his shoulders are tense, but I ignore the signs of defensiveness.
I hold his gaze as I reach forward. The pattern of movement to lock the first cuff around his right wrist is familiar, and requires no actual attention from me. He winces, and I resist raising an eyebrow even though I want to. These don't hurt him, I made sure of that when I built them with Tim. There's just enough kryptonite laced into the dark metal to weaken him, and to block his powers, but not enough to make him nauseous or cause him pain. Either of those side effects would defeat the point of having him in them. They make him human, more or less.
I click the second cuff into place, and then make a show of lowering my gaze to his wrists, to inspect them. It's certainly a thrill to see the metal contrast against his skin, and I can hear his breathing picking up a touch as I turn his wrists in the careful grip of my fingers, ostensibly making sure that they're secure. I know they are, there's no point in looking, but it sets the stage for later. The sooner he gets used to being under my control, the better.
After a few moments I let go of his right wrist, and slide my fingers up his left arm. He shivers a bit, and I watch goosebumps rise to the surface of his skin as I slide my hand over his shoulder and up to grip a handful of hair near the base of his skull. He swallows, and I allow myself a thin smirk as I raise my free hand to his chest. He sucks in a sharp breath, muscle tensing, as I trace my fingers over his stomach, but stays still. Mostly. I do get him to jerk a little bit when I rub my thumb over his right nipple, and his teeth bare for just a moment as he turns his head.
"Sensitive, Clark?" I mock, as I take the last half step forward to press up against him. That is the problem with invulnerable skin; it tends to cut off a fair amount of sensation. It was a delightful discovery that once I removed that protection, Clark was perhaps the most sensitive person I'd ever been with. So unused to feeling anything that wasn't dulled that when I got my hands on him he was practically hypersensitive.
It's been somewhat of a joy to work with.
"Shut the hell up," he snaps, his right hand grabbing at my shoulder and digging into the fabric of my black turtleneck. Almost too hard, but it hasn't quite crossed that line yet.
I push forward, drawing him into a kiss by my grip in his hair. I take the opportunity to continue my neverending attempt to teach him how to kiss, though really it's a lost cause. Still, I've at least gotten him to stop trying to shove his tongue down my throat, so there's at least that small victory. Instead he just shoves his tongue into my mouth at the first opportunity, his left arm wrapping around my waist and all but trying to crush me into him. In this case to my advantage, because I'm wearing jeans and he doesn't like the sensation of the denim against his bare skin. It makes him give me a few small flinches when I shift my weight.
I close my teeth over his tongue, holding on for just a moment to warn him before I ease up enough to allow him to pull away. He starts to draw back, and I can almost hear the 'what the hell?!' before he even says it, so I don't give him the chance. I press him back towards me, taking possession of the kiss. He gasps when I lightly nip at his bottom lip, and I take the opening to slip my tongue into his mouth in turn. I try and coax his tongue into dancing with mine, and it at least partially works. Not with any skill, but I make up for it. I can feel his hand flex on my shoulder, hear his breathing kick up another notch as he presses his hips into mine almost unconsciously. He's hard, I can feel it.
I let the kiss continue until he gives a strangled moan, his hips rocking against mine like he could reach an orgasm just like this. I don't doubt that he could, with enough time. Maybe someday I'll make him get off with nothing more than a thigh to rock against, and my mouth and hands playing with everything above his waist. It could be fun, and it could prove a few interesting points. For now, I'll table that idea for another day.
Instead I pull away, then tug him towards the bed. He stiffens up just a little, but there's hunger in his eyes and his mouth is slightly parted and red, so it doesn't really come through with the reluctance he probably wants it to. I pull until I can turn and push him down onto the bed, and he resists a little bit but it's nothing I can't overcome. I definitely don't imagine the way he swallows when he hits the bed, or the way he pushes up on his elbows but not any further. He could get up, but however subconsciously, he chooses not to.
I slip onto the bed beside him, kneeling to the left of his waist as I reach out with my far hand. I push him flat against the bed by his right shoulder, and then slide my free hand down his chest. His head falls back a touch at the realization of my obvious target, yielding to the loose pin of my hand to his shoulder. I slip my hand beneath his briefs. His head tilts even farther as I wrap my hand around him, and he makes a face that looks almost pained as he gives a strangled groan. I watch his face as I explore the hard length in my hand, considering weight and the wetness I can feel at the tip of him.
"How long have you been hard, Clark?" I say with a smirk. He scowls, mouth opening, and I cut him off from speaking by gripping tight and stroking up. He arches, teeth showing as he makes a sound only barely too quiet to be called a shout. An exclamation of pleasure that any normal person would only ever give after some fairly good foreplay. "Since you considered coming over? Before that? How long did you try and ignore this before giving in?"
"Don't," he manages to gasp, his hands curling in the sheets and left leg bending up to flatten his foot against the bed for leverage. "God— Fuck you."
"Maybe later," I offer. "Right now you wouldn't last long enough to make it worth the effort." I lean in, lowering my head to mouth at his collarbone. As much as I'd like to use teeth, and leave him a mark to remember me by, he's not far gone enough yet. Later he'll get off on it — though he'll be pissed when he notices — but right now he'll just try and shove me off; spew some useless drivel about how I better keep my teeth to myself. As if he won't end up leaning into the press of my teeth later.
Clark does so love to pretend that he doesn't enjoy this, regardless of how very obvious it is that he does. If he didn't want this he wouldn't ask for it; if he wasn't addicted to the feeling he would leave or take the cuffs off himself. They're not locked; he could. But he doesn't. Over and over, he pretends that he doesn't want every moment of this, and then he puts himself right back into my hands again. The only time I've ever skirted the limits of consent was the first time I put those shackles on his wrists, and even then I offered him the chance to walk away. I may have manipulated him into agreeing — for the sake of his pride — but I didn't touch him sexually until he agreed to it.
I may be comfortable threatening rape, but I'm not comfortable actually going through with it. I always have my partner's consent, however foolish they might realize it was to give it to me after we're done. I make sure that they enjoy every moment under my hands, and if they change their minds later, that's their business.
For now, I content myself with just pressing small kisses to his skin, painting trails across his skin. I keep my hand moving in unhurried, long strokes, and he repays me by all but panting, his teeth gritted together and his head pressed to the side. Eventually, he reaches up and grabs my right shoulder, the flex of his hand proving that he's not far from the edge. So I smirk, and draw back enough to see his face.
"That's it," I praise, with more than a hint of mocking. "Come for me, Clark."
He pries his eyes open, glaring up at me, and the grip of his hand almost hurts, but not quite. "Not. For. You," he grinds out, halting between every word to breathe and push on to the next. I let my smirk curl my mouth a little higher.
"So you'd like to think," I almost whisper. "For me, Clark. Now."
He opens his mouth like he's going to argue, but then he's shuddering, arching, shouting towards the ceiling as his head falls back and his eyes squeeze shut. I stroke him through his orgasm, feeling stray flecks of it hit my wrist and my palm, and knowing the rest is smearing over his skin and the inside of his briefs. His hand tightens on my shoulder, and then goes lax as he does. He's breathing hard, all that powerful muscle loose and relaxed in the wake of his release, and I gentle my touch and pull away. Satisfaction coils low in my gut, and I casually wipe my hand off on the sheets beneath us.
For a moment, he's completely and utterly vulnerable. Eyes closed, hands loose on the sheets, head tilted towards me and his throat bare and open. If I wanted to, it would be absurdly easy to draw the knife tucked in beside my hip and slit his throat. Just a flick of my hand, and he'd bleed out onto my sheets. It would be pitifully easy to hold him down; he doesn't know nearly enough about hand to hand combat to break one of my pins while our strength is at the same level.
But he's useful. Dangerous, that's true, but his strength is under my control for the moment and that makes him more useful to me alive than dead. His power matched with my intelligence keeps the rest of our so called allies in line, and if one of those goes, the Crime Syndicate could fall apart.
I reach forward, letting my knuckles brush over his throat. His eyes open, but he doesn't do much more than shiver a little bit. I can see the wariness in his eyes, and I feel him swallow. Slowly, I uncurl my hand and let my palm fit over the front of his throat. Just rest, no pressure. When he doesn't protest, I put just the smallest amount of strength into my grip, probably just enough for him to feel the slight constriction of my hand over his neck.
"What are you doing?" he asks, clearly on guard even if his muscles are still relaxed. His voice is just a bit rough, and I can feel his Adam's apple bob beneath my hand as he's speaking.
I consider him for a few seconds, and then let myself give into a rare moment of honesty between us. "Seeing how far you'll let me go." He swallows again, and I increase my grip by a fraction. "Do you trust me not to kill you, Clark?"
He shivers harder this time, and the flash of his teeth is almost a snarl. "I'm not just going to let you hurt me," he says, and I think he means it as a warning.
"It won't hurt," I counter, with a tiny smirk. I press my hand down, and I can hear his breath catch.
I know I'm putting pressure on his windpipe, lowering the amount of air he can draw in per breath. His pulse is jumping beneath my fingertips, and I allow myself a small smile. I lean down, pulling my other hand off of his shoulder to slide my fingers beneath his jaw and lift it. I kiss him slowly, softly, coaxing his mouth open with tiny nips and small licks until he lets his lips and teeth part. His hands grab onto my upper arms, but not nearly strong enough to stop me or hurt me. To see what will happen, I flex my hand on his throat. Strong for just a moment, cutting off more than a comfortable amount of air, and then relaxing again in the next second to let him breathe.
He sucks in a sharp breath when I let him, hands flexing on my arms in turn, and then shudders and eases. I give a soft sound of approval into his mouth, stroking the fingers of my other hand down his jaw in gentle counterpoint. When I flex my hand for a second time, I hold the tension. I can feel him choke, feel his hands tighten and his head toss as he breaks the kiss by turning his head. I open my eyes, drawing away a few inches so I can look at the flush on his cheeks and the part of his mouth as he gasps. His throat works against my hand, and I take a moment to appreciate the picture he makes before I relax my grip.
It's only maybe a half a dozen seconds he was without air, but he gasps in a breath like it's his last one. His hands drag handfuls of my turtleneck into them as they curl to fists, and he pries his eyes open to look up at me. There's a bit of anger there, and the wariness, but also more than a little arousal. I let myself give a small smirk in response to the heat of desire in my own gut, right next to the building satisfaction.
I let him go.
Confusion sparks in his eyes, but he releases his grip on me as well and lets me pull away. I move off the bed, watching from the corner of my eye as he pushes himself up on his elbows, his eyes narrowing. I keep him waiting just long enough that he starts to look impatient — taking my time getting to my feet — and then turn my back on him as I stand at the foot of the bed. Just for a second, where I reach down and hook my fingers beneath the bottom of my turtleneck. I turn myself slightly to the side as I draw the fabric up, enough that I can see Clark from the corner of my eye. He doesn't catch that I'm looking; his eyes are following the slow baring of the skin of my low back.
I strip out of the turtleneck, letting it drop to the floor. Then I circle around the bed to the end table and its still open top drawer, as I look over at him. He's turned to watch me, and is busy staring at my torso like he's never seen it before. I think my scars fascinate him; his gaze and fingers always seem to linger on them, though he's never said anything.
"I trust you can get out of those by yourself," I tease, with a flick of my left hand towards his briefs.
His gaze snaps up to mine, and then an embarrassed flush spreads up his neck to his cheeks, and he semi-awkwardly moves to strip out of the briefs. While he's not paying attention, I let my gaze rest on his cock for half a moment. Limp, but impressive enough even like this. He's more than big enough to satisfy, certainly larger than me, and it lends clarity to why Diana puts up with his lack of skill. She does like the flavor of pain mixed in with pleasure, and Clark being as powerful and endowed as he is would definitely give her that. There's one of the reasons that I don't let Clark have me very often; I'm not generally a fan of pain.
I could prepare myself well enough that it wouldn't hurt, but honestly the effort is hardly worth the act. Maybe I'll change my mind later, when I've trained him to be better. It's not like he's very insistent on having me; it seems like the novelty of not being the one to take is a fair amount of why he comes to me. It amuses me to no end that our big, bad, Kryptonian leader has more than a little bit of a side that wants to be taken. It's not against standard psychological patterns — men in dominant work roles often want someone to flip that on them in a bedroom — but the fact that Clark, of all people, would fall to it is always enough to spark a bit of satisfaction that lingers in my chest.
I retrieve the lube from inside my end table, glancing at the condoms and then leaving them inside the drawer as I shut it. Even if Clark were susceptible to our diseases, I'm clean, and he's never pressed for a condom so I've never granted him one. It's an animalistic urge to mark what's become mine, true, but I've never shied away from occasionally giving into urges like those. Who better to treat like another animal than Clark? Diana I have to be too careful around — one mistake while I'm out of my armor and she could seriously hurt me — but in those cuffs Clark is no threat to me. He wouldn't know what to do with tenderness even if I showed it, and it's easier just to blow his mind with skill and then take what I want. Hard, fast, and of course he'll get off — he's too sensitive not to — but it won't be about him. Not at that point.
I start to climb back over Clark, and his teeth grit. "What is it with you and still having clothes on?" he snaps.
I could answer him, I could tell him that it enhances the perceived power difference when I'm still partially clothed and he's naked, but instead I lean down over him, my left hand braced next to his head. "What, don't like it, Clark?"
He tenses a bit, but he doesn't push up or push me away. Oh how easily he yields to me being in a position of power over him. "No, I don't. Why don't you just strip like a normal person?"
I let my mouth curl into a smirk. "Neither of us fit that description," I remind him, but I do pull back. I set the lube aside on the end table, then lower my hands to undo my belt. I pull it all the way out of the loops, just so I can watch him stare at it, and then give the tiniest shudder when I double the end and lt it rest in my hands for a moment. I wonder if he's ever truly fantasized about me hitting him with it, or if it's just the possibilities that make him give that reaction. Clark seems like he'd be too sensitive to pain for any impact play, but he could surprise me. Not today though.
The belt gets dropped down on top of my turtleneck, and then his gaze zeroes in on my crotch as my hands flick the button of my slacks open and then pull the zipper down. It's almost enough to make me scoff, but I hold the noise back as I push both the slacks and my briefs down as one. The cool air against my erection is a relief, however minor, but I don't give any sign of it. It's nothing I can't ignore for now.
I let him look for a moment, watch him swallow and clench his hands to fists, and then pick the lube up again as I move forward. I climb over him, pressing my way between his thighs. He shudders, but when I press my hands to the inside of his thighs and push to spread them he lets me. He's not nearly as flexible as I am, but he can spread them wide enough to let me fit there. I slide my hands underneath his hips, lifting him for a moment so I can shift forward. Of course I'm not going to fuck him, not like this, but the press of my cock against him, and then the slide of it between his cheeks as I rock forward, is enough to make him shudder and give a strangled moan, his head tossing back.
I lean forward, keeping my hips moving in small rocking thrusts as I lower my mouth to his chest. Still no bites — not yet — but I can have fun playing with his reactions. Like the way his thighs are fighting the pressure of my hands, looking to close around my waist, and the way his head is tossed back, throat bared out of pleasure but also so that he doesn't have to look at me. One of my favorites is how he arches up into me when my lips find one of his nipples, and a second later he's tangling one of his hands in my hair and grabbing at my upper arm with the other. Of course, it's nothing compared to how he'll be when I'm inside him, but it's still good enough for now.
I graze my teeth across his skin as I pull back, lifting my head enough that I can tilt it back and look up the line of his throat. The bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows makes me want to slide up his body and hook my teeth around it, but I hold myself back. For now.
His hand flexes in my hair, like he wants to push me down towards his chest. I repress a smirk at the fact that he doesn't. Perhaps my training is actually getting through to him in some small way; that's a gratifying thought. Eventually, I would like the effort I put into this to be rewarded in a real, tangible way. Though the simple enjoyment of the act, and of having him at my mercy, is well worth my time. I could manipulate a hundred people into my bed, but none would be as sweet as having the great Kryptonian Ultraman beneath me. Maybe it should worry me how intoxicating it is to have him like this. How addictive.
I press harder against his thighs for a moment, as I ease myself up a little higher. Clark's neck eases out of the arch, and I banish all thoughts of how addictive he may or may not be as those sky-blue eyes focus on me. His hand slides out of my hair, rests on my shoulder like he's not sure what to do with it. So I tilt my head to the side and nip at his wrist, careful not to hurt him, but enough to make him take in a sharp breath and flinch a little.
"Bruce," he says, and oh it would be so much more threatening of a growl if it wasn't also breathless and heavy with desire.
I smirk, and slide my hands up over his hips, gripping firmly enough that he swallows again. "Clark," I counter. "Did you want something?" His grip tightens on my shoulder and upper arm for a moment, almost to the point of pain, but I ignore it. I give him that moment, watch him tense up in resistance, and then demand that he, "Ask me."
He swallows, shivers. "I—" Another flex of his hands, a flicker of his eyelids, a strain of muscle in his neck and shoulders that tells me how hard this is for him. "I want—" He full on shudders, head twisting away like somehow that frees him from my gaze. I stay still, patient, waiting for him to chip off another piece of his pride with the admission of what he wants from me. His gaze rises back to mine, and his thighs squeeze in against my waist. "Take me," he says, and his tone makes it a plea even if he'll never admit it.
I consider telling him to be more blunt, consider demanding that he ask me to fuck him using just those words, but push it away. Maybe later.
"As you wish."