Music of the Spheres 6: Observations
Pairing: Clark/Bruce
Disclaimer: The boys belong to DC and to each other, but not to me.
Notes: "Music of the Spheres" is a series set in the combined universes of "Batman Begins" and "Superman Returns." Other stories and notes on the series here.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: All of you who thought that camera in Clark's hotel room was there just so Bruce could watch him read the newspaper, raise your hands. Okay, you people with your hands up? I'm sorry, you can't read this story, I'm holding you back to Remedial Slash 101. *grin*
Word Count: 1660
Story Notes: Wah, it's so short. But at least it has smut of a sort! And yes, there's a more obvious title for this story, but I couldn't bring myself to do it, quite. :)
The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history. (Oscar Wilde)
Bruce stepped out of the shower, threw on a robe and slippers, and hurried down to the cave. He quickly started up his computer and opened the window that looked into a seedy hotel room that had become as familiar as his own rooms over the last week. It was hard to believe that tomorrow Kent would be returning to Metropolis and would no longer be in a window on Bruce's computer. Bruce had kind of gotten used to it.
At the moment, Clark Kent was curled up in a fetal position with a pillow over his head. Bruce frowned. The reporter had been acting very oddly this evening. Allergies? A reaction to the noise and chaos of the club?
It seemed to be linked to the dancing...was it possible dancing had some terrible association for Clark Kent in the past, that tonight's events had triggered memories of it? Horrific scenarios ran through Bruce's mind, mostly involving young Clark being taunted, beaten, assaulted for being different. His hands clenched and his stomach rebelled at the idea of anyone hurting Clark, touching that otherworldly, lovely face with anything other than tenderness...he stalked off into a shadowy part of the cave and kicked a practice dummy viciously with his slippered feet for a while, which made him feel better.
He came back to check his computer.
Clark had rolled over onto his back, his arms flung out to his sides. Bruce polished a couple of shuriken.
Back to check the computer.
Clark was definitely asleep now, he was even smiling slightly and looked much better than he had earlier. Relieved, Bruce went off to practice lockpicking for a little while.
Back to the computer.
At this point it seemed easier to just stay at the computer. He pulled out a manual on explosives and started reading.
Eventually, he became aware of a couple of things more or less simultaneously. The first was that he hadn't gotten past the fifth page of the manual and had been, instead, watching Clark sleep.
The second was that under the light cotton sheet, Clark Kent was definitely aroused. And at about the same time Bruce became aware of that, the sheets moved in such a way as to make it clear that the half-asleep reporter was reaching down to stroke himself. The figure on the bed arched his back and murmured something, as the hand under the sheet settled into a steady rhythm.
The book dropped to the ground as Bruce hastily reached for the mouse to close the window. He shouldn't be watching this.
He paused.
He had told Clark he would keep an eye on him. What if the man had some kind of relapse? He decided to compromise and adjusted the camera so that it was tightly focused on Clark's face. That way he couldn't see the details of what Clark's body was doing. That should help.
The screen showed only Clark's face. There were smudges of gold dust on his cheeks, and the night vision of the camera gave the angles of his face an odd luminous look, strange and yet somehow familiar. With his glasses off, he looked more like...like...the Clark that Bruce had seen at the club, fey, almost preternaturally handsome. Bruce could see his eyes moving rapidly behind the delicate lids and he couldn't help but wonder who Clark was seeing in his mind's eye. The dreamy, rapt smile on his face made it clear that whoever it might be was a damn lucky person.
As Bruce watched, the tip of Clark's tongue wetted his lower lip languorously, and then his teeth sank into the lip and his face tightened in ecstacy.
Bruce caught his breath and realized that changing the camera angle had not been a good idea at all. It merely made it possible to see every flicker of desire that passed over that fine-boned face like the northern lights in a starry sky...Jesus God, he should not be watching this. He really shouldn't.
He reached out, but that was most definitely not the computer mouse his hand ended up wrapped around. Pleasure sank its hooks deep into him, and he heard his hissing intake of breath echo through the cave. His eyes narrowed involuntarily, but he kept them open enough to see Clark's face on the monitor. He had to. He couldn't look away, couldn't stop looking at Clark's face, lost in dreams and clouded with lust. God. He shouldn't be...
He didn't care any more.
The reporter groaned and squeezed his eyes more tightly shut. The groan shifted register abruptly in the middle, became a rattling purr that felt like velvet rubbed all over Bruce's body, making him shudder uncontrollably. He found his strokes matching the insistent rhythm of Clark's breathing, as if they were somehow in synch, his own breath becoming more and more short until he was nearly panting. He wondered how Clark would feel under his hand, how Clark's hand would feel, tightly around him, and desire surged through him so strongly that he whimpered. Clark's long eyelashes trembling on his cheeks as he imagined his lover before him, God, oh God, so beautiful.
He should have climaxed by now, quivering and aching on the brink, but he couldn't seem to get over that last edge. It was like his body was waiting for something, some cue or trigger. Clark's hoarse breathing was the metronome his blood was thundering to, Clark's face the only thing in his vision. He could see Clark's features tightening, sharpening in anticipation as he readied for the climax that was about to overcome him. Bruce could hardly bear how good it felt, hovering, waiting. He wanted it to last forever. He couldn't stand it for one more second. He heard himself moan, a desperate whisper: "Please..."
Clark threw his head back, showing his pale throat, gripped by rapture, and he opened his mouth and
he said a name
he said--
said someone's name
and Ah it was like an electric cable applied directly to the base of Bruce's spine and Jesus he whiplashed back into his chair like when the tumbler accelerated at full speed and Clark it raged across him like fire and God, Clark, yes he was annihilated and consumed and remade and he welcomed it.
Eventually he pulled himself together enough to stand up. Clark was fully asleep again, a smile curving his lips gently. Stars and mist moved in front of Bruce's vision as he staggered up the stairs to the apartment in the stables and stumbled into the shower. He turned the water to "scalding" and stripped out of his robe. He stood under the water, still shaking a little.
He wanted to be angry at Clark.
He wanted to be furious at himself.
He wanted to be enraged at the world, at fate, for unceremoniously dropping this in his lap.
But more than any of those things, he wanted to hear that voice of starlight and electricity saying that name again, saying it to him and for him and because of him.
He wanted Clark Kent, body and soul, more than he had wanted anything in a very long time.
He stood with his head under the steaming water, hands braced against the shower wall, and knew there wasn't going to be any putting this away, or even putting it off.
He was Bruce Wayne.
He was used to getting what he wanted.
: : :
Clark Kent was waiting for the train to Metropolis the next morning, back in his gray suit and hat, when Bruce Wayne showed up on the platform. He shrugged at Clark's surprise. "I just wanted to see you off. And check on how you're doing, make sure you're okay. You had me worried there last night."
Clark laughed dismissively. "Oh, no problem, I'm fine. Thanks for getting me back in one piece, though. I did get to sleep eventually."
"Pleasant dreams?" Bruce asked innocently.
Clark smiled guilelessly. "Very."
Bruce bounced up and down on the balls of his feet a bit. The train would be here soon. "Look, Clark, I'll probably be down in Metropolis next week. Luthor wants to show me he's making progress--I know, I know," he added hastily at Clark's expression, "I'll be careful. Anyway, while I'm down there, maybe you'd be willing to show me Metropolis? Your turn to show off your favorite restaurant?"
Clark put out his hand for Bruce to shake. "Sounds good." As Bruce took his hand, the smile on Clark's face turned impish. "Why, Mr. Wayne...are you asking me on a date?" he said. The look on his face was sly, self-deprecating. Check it out, Bruce, I have a sense of humor after all.
Bruce cleared his throat.
"Actually. Um. Yes, I think I am."
The smile was wiped from Clark's face, to be replaced by a startled look, like a wild animal suddenly considering bolting. Bruce held onto the handshake, meeting Clark's stare.
"You 'think?'" said Clark.
"I am," Bruce amended hastily. "I am...asking you on a date." Bruce felt a qualm pass through him at Clark's blank look. That someone's fun to think about while jerking off doesn't mean you enjoy their company, idiot, idiot... Then Clark smiled, a shy, almost delighted smile. Bruce caught his breath, too busy relishing the smile to worry about Clark's answer for a moment.
"All right then. It's a date."
The train whistle broke into the moment and Clark let go of Bruce's hand--just a bit slowly--to pick up his bag. "I'll see you in Metropolis, Bruce."
Bruce watched the train disappear to the south, toward Metropolis. The fall air was crisp and cool and he knew had a ridiculously goofy smile on his face and right now he wasn't even sure he cared.
Disclaimer: The boys belong to DC and to each other, but not to me.
Notes: "Music of the Spheres" is a series set in the combined universes of "Batman Begins" and "Superman Returns." Other stories and notes on the series here.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: All of you who thought that camera in Clark's hotel room was there just so Bruce could watch him read the newspaper, raise your hands. Okay, you people with your hands up? I'm sorry, you can't read this story, I'm holding you back to Remedial Slash 101. *grin*
Word Count: 1660
Story Notes: Wah, it's so short. But at least it has smut of a sort! And yes, there's a more obvious title for this story, but I couldn't bring myself to do it, quite. :)
The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history. (Oscar Wilde)
Bruce stepped out of the shower, threw on a robe and slippers, and hurried down to the cave. He quickly started up his computer and opened the window that looked into a seedy hotel room that had become as familiar as his own rooms over the last week. It was hard to believe that tomorrow Kent would be returning to Metropolis and would no longer be in a window on Bruce's computer. Bruce had kind of gotten used to it.
At the moment, Clark Kent was curled up in a fetal position with a pillow over his head. Bruce frowned. The reporter had been acting very oddly this evening. Allergies? A reaction to the noise and chaos of the club?
It seemed to be linked to the dancing...was it possible dancing had some terrible association for Clark Kent in the past, that tonight's events had triggered memories of it? Horrific scenarios ran through Bruce's mind, mostly involving young Clark being taunted, beaten, assaulted for being different. His hands clenched and his stomach rebelled at the idea of anyone hurting Clark, touching that otherworldly, lovely face with anything other than tenderness...he stalked off into a shadowy part of the cave and kicked a practice dummy viciously with his slippered feet for a while, which made him feel better.
He came back to check his computer.
Clark had rolled over onto his back, his arms flung out to his sides. Bruce polished a couple of shuriken.
Back to check the computer.
Clark was definitely asleep now, he was even smiling slightly and looked much better than he had earlier. Relieved, Bruce went off to practice lockpicking for a little while.
Back to the computer.
At this point it seemed easier to just stay at the computer. He pulled out a manual on explosives and started reading.
Eventually, he became aware of a couple of things more or less simultaneously. The first was that he hadn't gotten past the fifth page of the manual and had been, instead, watching Clark sleep.
The second was that under the light cotton sheet, Clark Kent was definitely aroused. And at about the same time Bruce became aware of that, the sheets moved in such a way as to make it clear that the half-asleep reporter was reaching down to stroke himself. The figure on the bed arched his back and murmured something, as the hand under the sheet settled into a steady rhythm.
The book dropped to the ground as Bruce hastily reached for the mouse to close the window. He shouldn't be watching this.
He paused.
He had told Clark he would keep an eye on him. What if the man had some kind of relapse? He decided to compromise and adjusted the camera so that it was tightly focused on Clark's face. That way he couldn't see the details of what Clark's body was doing. That should help.
The screen showed only Clark's face. There were smudges of gold dust on his cheeks, and the night vision of the camera gave the angles of his face an odd luminous look, strange and yet somehow familiar. With his glasses off, he looked more like...like...the Clark that Bruce had seen at the club, fey, almost preternaturally handsome. Bruce could see his eyes moving rapidly behind the delicate lids and he couldn't help but wonder who Clark was seeing in his mind's eye. The dreamy, rapt smile on his face made it clear that whoever it might be was a damn lucky person.
As Bruce watched, the tip of Clark's tongue wetted his lower lip languorously, and then his teeth sank into the lip and his face tightened in ecstacy.
Bruce caught his breath and realized that changing the camera angle had not been a good idea at all. It merely made it possible to see every flicker of desire that passed over that fine-boned face like the northern lights in a starry sky...Jesus God, he should not be watching this. He really shouldn't.
He reached out, but that was most definitely not the computer mouse his hand ended up wrapped around. Pleasure sank its hooks deep into him, and he heard his hissing intake of breath echo through the cave. His eyes narrowed involuntarily, but he kept them open enough to see Clark's face on the monitor. He had to. He couldn't look away, couldn't stop looking at Clark's face, lost in dreams and clouded with lust. God. He shouldn't be...
He didn't care any more.
The reporter groaned and squeezed his eyes more tightly shut. The groan shifted register abruptly in the middle, became a rattling purr that felt like velvet rubbed all over Bruce's body, making him shudder uncontrollably. He found his strokes matching the insistent rhythm of Clark's breathing, as if they were somehow in synch, his own breath becoming more and more short until he was nearly panting. He wondered how Clark would feel under his hand, how Clark's hand would feel, tightly around him, and desire surged through him so strongly that he whimpered. Clark's long eyelashes trembling on his cheeks as he imagined his lover before him, God, oh God, so beautiful.
He should have climaxed by now, quivering and aching on the brink, but he couldn't seem to get over that last edge. It was like his body was waiting for something, some cue or trigger. Clark's hoarse breathing was the metronome his blood was thundering to, Clark's face the only thing in his vision. He could see Clark's features tightening, sharpening in anticipation as he readied for the climax that was about to overcome him. Bruce could hardly bear how good it felt, hovering, waiting. He wanted it to last forever. He couldn't stand it for one more second. He heard himself moan, a desperate whisper: "Please..."
Clark threw his head back, showing his pale throat, gripped by rapture, and he opened his mouth and
he said a name
he said--
said someone's name
and Ah it was like an electric cable applied directly to the base of Bruce's spine and Jesus he whiplashed back into his chair like when the tumbler accelerated at full speed and Clark it raged across him like fire and God, Clark, yes he was annihilated and consumed and remade and he welcomed it.
Eventually he pulled himself together enough to stand up. Clark was fully asleep again, a smile curving his lips gently. Stars and mist moved in front of Bruce's vision as he staggered up the stairs to the apartment in the stables and stumbled into the shower. He turned the water to "scalding" and stripped out of his robe. He stood under the water, still shaking a little.
He wanted to be angry at Clark.
He wanted to be furious at himself.
He wanted to be enraged at the world, at fate, for unceremoniously dropping this in his lap.
But more than any of those things, he wanted to hear that voice of starlight and electricity saying that name again, saying it to him and for him and because of him.
He wanted Clark Kent, body and soul, more than he had wanted anything in a very long time.
He stood with his head under the steaming water, hands braced against the shower wall, and knew there wasn't going to be any putting this away, or even putting it off.
He was Bruce Wayne.
He was used to getting what he wanted.
: : :
Clark Kent was waiting for the train to Metropolis the next morning, back in his gray suit and hat, when Bruce Wayne showed up on the platform. He shrugged at Clark's surprise. "I just wanted to see you off. And check on how you're doing, make sure you're okay. You had me worried there last night."
Clark laughed dismissively. "Oh, no problem, I'm fine. Thanks for getting me back in one piece, though. I did get to sleep eventually."
"Pleasant dreams?" Bruce asked innocently.
Clark smiled guilelessly. "Very."
Bruce bounced up and down on the balls of his feet a bit. The train would be here soon. "Look, Clark, I'll probably be down in Metropolis next week. Luthor wants to show me he's making progress--I know, I know," he added hastily at Clark's expression, "I'll be careful. Anyway, while I'm down there, maybe you'd be willing to show me Metropolis? Your turn to show off your favorite restaurant?"
Clark put out his hand for Bruce to shake. "Sounds good." As Bruce took his hand, the smile on Clark's face turned impish. "Why, Mr. Wayne...are you asking me on a date?" he said. The look on his face was sly, self-deprecating. Check it out, Bruce, I have a sense of humor after all.
Bruce cleared his throat.
"Actually. Um. Yes, I think I am."
The smile was wiped from Clark's face, to be replaced by a startled look, like a wild animal suddenly considering bolting. Bruce held onto the handshake, meeting Clark's stare.
"You 'think?'" said Clark.
"I am," Bruce amended hastily. "I am...asking you on a date." Bruce felt a qualm pass through him at Clark's blank look. That someone's fun to think about while jerking off doesn't mean you enjoy their company, idiot, idiot... Then Clark smiled, a shy, almost delighted smile. Bruce caught his breath, too busy relishing the smile to worry about Clark's answer for a moment.
"All right then. It's a date."
The train whistle broke into the moment and Clark let go of Bruce's hand--just a bit slowly--to pick up his bag. "I'll see you in Metropolis, Bruce."
Bruce watched the train disappear to the south, toward Metropolis. The fall air was crisp and cool and he knew had a ridiculously goofy smile on his face and right now he wasn't even sure he cared.