Perfection on his Knees

by Talya Firedancer

Richard overtips the cab driver because he can't be bothered to wait for the fumble-fingered counting of change while Clark's fingers are pressing warmly against his wrist. Now Clark leads and he follows into the apartment building, past the crumbling faux-marble of the entryway, into the elevator that gapes open for them obediently and lips are on him, hot and wanting before either of them has even groped for the button that will take them to the right floor. Richard groans and his lips flow open and he's hooking an arm around Clark's waist to drag their bodies together.

"I've been wanting this...ah..." Clark gasps as Richard's lips keep moving over him, mapping uncharted territory from mouth past the jawline to graze a sensitive place beneath the ear meant just for him. "Ahh...Richard, I've been wanting to do this all night, during dinner, in the cab..."

"Me too," Richard avers hoarsely, finding the seam where shirt meets pants and slipping his hands in. By this point he has very little patience and one of Clark's hands is on the back of his neck and the length of his body is molded against his and what little self-control he has is blown away by Clark's lips on the rim of his ear. "All week. Every time I look at you. When I think about you."

Clark is straining against his hands as Richard rides the shirt up and he wants to touch bare skin so badly he can almost feel it but his hands encounter another kind of tactile sensation. "What...?"

"Milliskin," Clark says almost sheepishly, both hands cradling the back of Richard's head. "I..."

"You wore the super suit on our date?" Richard says, not quite able to contain the grin. He's smothered against the wall of the elevator in the next heartbeat as Clark kisses him on the mouth, pressing a chain of urgent kisses on him that Richard can only match, anxious and wanting. He feels up Clark between the suit and the shirt anyhow and it's warm under his fingers, textured and pliably unyielding, not flesh but a second skin and the muscle of his stomach is taut, ridged. Clark dips between his lips with a seeking tongue.

"I have to wear it all the time," Clark pants against his mouth when they break, resting foreheads.

Richard marvels over the simple mechanics of making a superman breathless. "So, I've been wondering...where does the cape go?"

Clark doesn't answer; he tugs at Richard's nape and reels him in and they're kissing, lips meeting and angling in and the press and play of their mouths is riveting as if the two of them have invented it, this new Olympic sport between them. Clark is an enthusiastic but unskilled kisser and Richard delights in slipping his tongue between them and showing him the way, teasing him at first with gentle flicks then grinding his mouth into him with a hint of teeth, forceful.

The elevator resounds with a ding like an eggtimer reaching its limit and Clark is guiding him for the door as if it's the opening move of a dance step but he grates to a halt, clutching at Richard's shoulders and pulling his face away far enough for him to see startled blue.

"Are you boys going down?" a quavery old voice insinuates between them, and they would disentangle if Richard's hands weren't caught up in Clark's shirt.

They scuffle and the most they can manage is turning sidewise, and Richard blinks at the hunched white-haired figure who peers up at them with rhuemy eyes blinkered in coke-bottle glasses.

"Um...Mrs. Fitzwilliams..." Clark ventures, painfully embarrassed by the sound of it but one of his hands is still latched onto the back of Richard's slacks, obdurate.

"Never mind," the old lady demurs, poking at the button on her side with a long black-handled cane. "I think I pressed the wrong button again..."

The doors slide shut and Clark's face is pressing against his neck and from the heat of it he could be blushing, but then Richard senses the curve of his smile and the man is kissing his way up his neck until they meet, mouths exploring. Clark tastes him and Richard sends his tongue chasing back and they share the heat between them until the elevator stops again, this time at the top - they both check with an eye to the strip of floor-lights above the door - and Clark hauls him from the elevator, all but hovering.

"Take it easy," Richard chuckles against his mouth, stumbling as Clark pulls him along the endless corridor, one hand on Richard's belt, the other patting down for keys. He presses his mouth to Clark's moist, full lower lip. "We have all night." He can feel the shiver that courses through the man, and Clark gives him serious eyes as he disengages - all but the hand at Richard's belt - and drifts to a stop against the door.

"What is it?" Richard asks after a moment, heart keeping pace as anxiety rises with that pause, Clark's eyes on him unceasing, so thoughtful.

"I don't want to look away," Clark says softly.

"I'm not going anywhere," Richard assures him, stepping close to him, putting a hand over Clark's. All he needs is touch to erase the distance, he thinks as Clark's eyes kindle.

The door turns under Clark's hand and they tumble inside, tangling together with Clark's fingers riding up his shirt and pinging buttons from it across the room, Richard unclasping Clark's belt and strangling it free of his slacks as their mouths surge together, wanting. Richard manages to kick the door shut with his heel and gasp something against the mouth crushing his and he hopes the other man understands because it's unintelligible even to him. They wind up on the couch, five steps from the door for both and as much as Richard loves the feel of Clark's broad hands stroking up his chest as he presses him into the cushions he in turn is pulling open shirt, pants, and baring pieces of Superman when he wants the man against him. He works his mouth free enough to mutter against the press of Clark's lips, "Just how fast can you get out of that suit?" He cradles Clark's face in his hands and Clark draws back enough to see his eyes, dilated pure blue, and the glisten of his lips in the dimness.

Richard lays back and Clark rears up over him, fingers brushing over his lips in a brief touch and Richard blinks; a breath of wind ruffles over him lighter than the caress of Clark's fingertips. When he opens his eyes Clark is leaning over him, nude as far down as he can see but dress shirt still draped incongruously over his broad shoulders. "Fast enough?" Clark husks, stretching against him for a kiss.

"Wow." Richard blinks again. Clark is still there above him, an expanse of bare skin sprawled above Richard's suddenly too-clad body and the white dress shirt is slipping over one shoulder. "That could be...very convenient." He reaches up and plucks the square black frames from Clark's face and now he's good as naked, looking down at Richard with the planes of his face bare and eyes intent. That's the look that gets him, the one that makes him hard even at moments inconvenient and right now it's making him hotter. He squirms beneath Clark and digs a hand in at the man's nape and runs his other down the curve of muscle from neck to pectorals to taut stomach, lips coming apart with a faint murmur as Clark slants his mouth down on him again.

Despite Clark's earlier hintings of ravishment when next they met, their mouths press close in prolonged exploration for a good deal longer, the density of Clark's weight a welcome sensation atop him as the warmth of urgency builds beyond hotter. They kiss, Richard pressing his mouth harder against Clark's, wanting him to open like a blossom unfurling, reaching a hand between them, pushing against the unyielding. Clark's mouth hovers above him, his kisses firm but something hesitating in him, holding back. Richard begins to realize as Clark lingers at his mouth that they'll be stuck at this step of the dance unless he pushes things further, and whether it's the long solitude or the fact that he really is Clark's first, neither matters. He has the slow thud of the man's heart beneath his hand. He bites down on Clark's lip and shifts his body, his hands pressing against the broad chest until Clark is blinking down at him in confusion, his mouth suffused with tempting red.

He wants to break down the wall of that control, five years' worth of solitude, right now.

"Why don't you lie back against the couch?" Richard suggests, and for an elongated heartbeat Clark stares at him as if he's speaking a foreign language; Richard wonders if they're going to get stalled without any external intervention. Then he's dumped onto his rear on the far cushion as their positions invert suddenly and Clark is sprawling on the couch, the very image of a shy pin-up with eyes averted and one leg tucked to hide the essentials. Richard spares a moment from action to drink in the sight, the naked lines of leg and stripped-down arch of hipbone and the ripple of stomach giving way to ribs and the swell of pectorals and vulnerable throat and before Clark can get restless or reconsider Richard leans in, riveting him in place with a hand on each thigh. The legend is bared before him and he'll take advantage of each golden moment.

Relishing the way the man's head goes back before he's even really touching him, Richard settles himself in place between his knees and simply breathes on him. He maps the raw-blushing intimacy of him between his fingers, cradling the weight of him, attuned to the slightest hitch in Clark's breathing as he marvels that if there's any physiological difference, it's only in the very perfection of him. Despite his dual proclivities he doesn't usually think of the crucial male bits as beautiful, but what's before him now is any aesthete's dream. Now, all his. The skin is velvet beneath his fingers as he pulls a rhythm from Clark, glorying in the arch of those hips to meet him and the roughening pitch of Clark's breath, the way one of those strong hands comes up to brush over his cheekbone, a fleeting touch, then leaves him to grip the arm of the couch. When Richard bends his mouth to worship him, the throttled shout he wrings free of Clark's control is sweeter than any other form of applause.

Hercules drank of the ambrosia of the gods after his titanic efforts, the mythological comparison chases through Richard's head as he draws on desire with lips and tongue and loses himself to the task of giving head. Clark tastes like nothing he's had before. The slide of the ruddy tip over his tongue and back is a sensation far removed from familiar but it's only an instant before it's all he wants. The rhythm comes back to him, natural as the enjoyment he gets from it. Richard closes his eyes and opens his throat and engulfs Clark the way the scent, the taste, the being of this man have swallowed him utterly.

There's a sharp cracking sound from the couch above Richard's head, beyond Clark, and he ignores it in favor of glorying over Clark's undivided attention at last. All the interruptions are behind them, even those of their own making. Clark's flesh is silken-smooth in his hands, full to the touch and when he pulls with his mouth, Clark's head goes back. Richard is hard in his own slacks as he squirms into a better position and suckles Clark into his mouth, swallowing, opening up around him with his eyes closed and the pulse pounding in his ears. The cracking noise is louder this time and because Clark's hands arenít touching him he's sure something on the couch is broken but it doesn't matter because he won't be sleeping here anymore. Clark is murmuring something low and fervent and very sincere and the end of it is an entreaty, his name, it's all tangled together as Richard puts his mouth to good use.

It doesn't seem any length of time at all, not nearly enough to put everything he's feeling and thinking into the connection between them; without words the linking of two bodies can be the most direct form of expression. There's nothing left to understand because this is everything, the world between them. Two heartbeats and the pulse thudding on his tongue. All this and more goes through Richard's head as he catches the last of it and it continues for a long time, enough for him to wonder how long it really has been and Clark is tugging him up with one hand, gentle but firm. Richard settles himself on Clark's thighs and they smile, foreheads pressed together.

"Good?" Richard murmurs, and Clark lets loose a strangled sort of noise, one hand seeking the indentation of Richard's lower back, almost shyly venturing down the curve toward his buttock.

"Oh...good doesn't even begin to describe it," Clark assures him, angling in for a kiss that spreads the taste of him between them.

Richard looks over Clark's shoulder and his eyes widen, comic dismay. "You...the couch..." It's not just broken. The end of the arm is mangled, completely pulverized. There's couch dust on the floor.

"Um. It's been a long time," Clark says sheepishly.

"Yeah, I," He knows that Clark wouldn't hurt him but seeing the breakdown of control is impressive nevertheless. Flattering, maybe, like the thought of making Superman breathless; he's done this to him. But now Clark has bit his lower lip and he's looking serious so Richard wants to do something outrageous like tickle him or pull on his nose. Instead he takes Clark's hand from where it's gone fisted against his side and he pries it open, gentle but firm, exerting inexorable pressure until Clark's hand is warm against his stomach, under the dishevelment of his shirt.

That so-serious look transforms into a smile just this side of wolfish. "Your turn," Clark says.

"Uh-huh," Richard confirms, because he's had the first taste and he's still hard, turned on by touch and the entirety of what's between them.

Clark flips him over with the simple expedient of hands hooked under his thighs, spilling him onto his back full-length on the couch and kneeling over him. His eyes are on Richard and he maintains the eye contact, so intense Richard can't look away, as he bends to return the favor. He rips out Richard's zipper and apologizes like he's broken a bone or something but Richard doesn't care, he just wants Clark to pull his pants down, which he assures him of fervently until Clark actually does it, then broad sensitive hands are on his bare thighs and Richard is settling back into the broken couch. There's a nervous laugh, shared between them like an incredulous smile until Clark manages to get his underwear out of the way without quite ripping it then Clark's mouth is on him.

"God in heaven," Richard gasps out, and it's his turn to clutch for something, anything, and what he reaches for is Clark's naked shoulders and that's fine. All's right with the world.

If this is any kind of first for Clark there's no measure for it. He wraps his mouth around Richard's aching cock and takes him down like it's the most natural thing in the world. He rolls him with tongue and lips and the sure grasp of those long fine-boned fingers, stroking the pleasure out of him in continuous waves and a shudder goes through him, this is how Richard imagined it but so much more, and he looks down at him because it's Clark between his thighs, on his knees, and the meeting of their eyes is another kind of physical shock. He looks because he can and the sight of Clark's mouth stretched around him is the tumbling sweep of another kind of erotic, clear through him.

Clark's eyes don't waver. If asked, Richard would answer without thinking that the kiss was the most supreme intimacy between two people: the open press of two mouths exploring, breath and feeling interchanged. Even more than a mouth on a lover's tender parts, he tends to fixate on the kiss. Here and now, though, with Clark's dark-bright blue eyes on him and the surety of his mouth bringing the tide of sensation to the surface, the fact that he can't look away makes him want to sink into himself. It's too much, too honest, the moment laid bare before him with their eyes locked and his fingernails blunt-scraping over the flesh of Clark's shoulders, and Clark's mouth drawing on him wetly, hot silken shudders chasing through his body now with pleasure lapping at him, inexorable. There's a point past which a man can't contain himself and Clark takes him there, the blue of his eyes a lifeline that breaks only when Richard comes tumbling, his eyes squeezing shut with the resounding thrum of release.

He lies there panting, tangled up in Clark for a long time before he returns to the notion of a separate self. Clark's cheek is pillowed on Richard's stomach and Richard finds he has a hand in Clark's hair.

"Amazing," Richard breathes, finding his other hand where he left it - attached to the end of the limpness that currently substitutes for an arm - and stroking Clark's cheek. He's never spared a worry for sexual compatibility from the moment their lips touched and lightning struck, and that faith is borne out. He's lying here boneless in the remnants of the couch and he's already thinking about suggesting they move to the bed for another go. "Thank you, Clark."

Against his stomach the curve of Clark's smile makes a tangible imprint. "No, Richard, I insist. Thank you," he returns, and his fingers brush over Richard's hip and the sensitive skin there, not seeking, simply touching. The words linger, and he knows that Clark means it. He can sense without being told that in a way this is the very first time -- the only time with someone who knows him and accepts all of what that means.

Somehow they settle themselves entwined on the couch, two large male bodies in an uneasy jigsaw fit and the backing of the couch creaks a protest but for this instant, nothing short of a major earthquake will induce movement from him and Richard hopes that Clark feels the same. He cranes his neck to look down at Clark's face, the fullness of his lips and the peace of long lashes against smooth skin. "You wouldn't touch me," Richard says, faintly reproachful, and he settles his arm over the man's waist as if to lock him into place. "When I was going down on you--"

"Oh..." Clark gives a faint start and looks up into his eyes, skittish. "Well, it had been so long. I mean. You saw what I did to the couch."

"That's true," Richard accedes without a fight, and now he's tempted again to do something silly, to wipe the sudden air of the serious he's called to Clark's long face. "Hey. You're not thinking we're done, are you? I mean, you're Superman. And I got a sitter for the whole night."

Clark shifts, propping himself on one elbow, looking into his eyes with a rakish little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Well. I think that calls for a bed."

"I think so," Richard agrees, and laughs. "We've already done in the couch, let's see what other furniture we can take out. I hope you weren't expecting to get your security deposit back."

"Not a chance," Clark says, and stands, and offers a hand.

Richard takes it, looks down between them at the happy evidence of Clark's renewed interest, and raises his eyebrows at his friend, now lover. "Wow, Clark, are you still in high school, or what?"

"It's been a long time--" Clark begins again, defensive, then catches him out when Richard can't help but wink. "All right, you're going to pay for that."

"In bed," Richard appends, as if Clark has read him his fortune cookie slip, and he beats a strategic hasty retreat that he fully expects to be futile. "You'll have to catch me first!" Clark is laughing behind him, and for that he's glad; then he catches him before they've reached the bedroom and the laughter is gone, only the breathlessness shared between them remains.