nightlife: ( commission / dnt pls ) (0013)
faithful. ([personal profile] nightlife) wrote 2021-01-14 09:43 am (UTC)

For a moment, their hands connect. Bruce leaves his loosely over Clark's, around his cock, as he lines up. A small brush of his thumb over his knuckles. And then he has to shift and grab his shoulder, to steady himself by even though he's very much not going anywhere. He slows his breathing, works himself through potential discomfort, and fuck this is a lot. What could he possibly have expected, for any part of Clark's anatomy to be different? He probably doesn't even flinch plucking nose hairs, he thinks, and then nearly laughs at the thought. What the hell.

He has never been so trapped. He has never wanted less to escape.

Clark. Bruce doesn't let himself say it again, not yet.

One heel digs in, lets himself push up against that inescapable force, sending lightning-spikes of sensation through him, up his spine, into his dick, through every joint and nerve. Punching breath out of him, making his vision blur. It's a struggle to keep his eyes open and on Clark's face, locked onto that dreamy mask of concentration, but he refuses to let himself divert anything.

"What are you going to go about it," he demands (again), in a growl.

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