That heartbeat of moment between Bruce pliant and dazed beneath him, and then grabbing hands in his hair and biting kiss back, is the kind of memory Clark will earmark for later reference. It feels good, and rare, and he can feel privately pleased with himself, privately smug about it, on his own time.

A later time. Because right now he feels like he's been horny for approximately eighty years and it's a problem.

He turns his head at Bruce's direction, catches his own breath, and moves off of the other man to flop diagonal across the mattress to reach for the stand. It is a possibly necessary moment of pause, not just to slow down a second, but also for Clark to kick his own jeans and underwear off without tearing anything further.

There's the telltale skitter and rustle of the drawer being opened, lube taken out, and then the mattress creaks as Clark closes back in. "I wanna fuck you," he says, mouth grazing against Bruce's shoulder. Low, husky, even if it's not his throat that's been constricted with any consequence lately. "Is that what you want?"

In part, part of the mood, but also, a real question.