Half the joy of that near-collapse is the expectation of Bruce responding; the hands in his hair, the grindy motion of his hips, the lift of his head to meet kiss. Clark soaks it up as gladly as he does sunrays, eyes fluttered closed as he kisses him, as kiss trails off to a vaguer version of itself down Bruce's jaw.
He gives a fluttered, disbelieving laugh. Still giving orders. Still goading. It's a laugh that barely makes it past his throat, though, because it still works, that lowness in Bruce's voice going straight to his cock.
"You always talked," and he has to take a breath, and it doesn't feel put on in the way his other gestures towards human weakness might, "a big game," and Clark rises up again, hand returning to that grip beneath Bruce's knee.
(He'd thought about it too, those last few seconds, imagining what would happen if he didn't let go. Would orders turn into begging? Is that something Bruce is capable of? Is that something Clark would even want to hear?
It's probably weird how he figured choking him out would be okay but not this.)
Clark resist the urge to close his eyes as he begins in earnest to fuck Bruce Wayne, again. Harder, faster, picking up that pace before the torturous slowness had begun. The friction and heat of it finally wipes the smile off his face, brow furrowed as he feels his own sense of control begin to come under strain. He has the dim awareness he should be handling Bruce's dick too, but all at once all he can do is just this, chasing that precipice with a hand now tearing the tips of his fingers though expensive bedsheet and the other one gentler, holding Bruce's leg up and against him.
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He gives a fluttered, disbelieving laugh. Still giving orders. Still goading. It's a laugh that barely makes it past his throat, though, because it still works, that lowness in Bruce's voice going straight to his cock.
"You always talked," and he has to take a breath, and it doesn't feel put on in the way his other gestures towards human weakness might, "a big game," and Clark rises up again, hand returning to that grip beneath Bruce's knee.
(He'd thought about it too, those last few seconds, imagining what would happen if he didn't let go. Would orders turn into begging? Is that something Bruce is capable of? Is that something Clark would even want to hear?
It's probably weird how he figured choking him out would be okay but not this.)
Clark resist the urge to close his eyes as he begins in earnest to fuck Bruce Wayne, again. Harder, faster, picking up that pace before the torturous slowness had begun. The friction and heat of it finally wipes the smile off his face, brow furrowed as he feels his own sense of control begin to come under strain. He has the dim awareness he should be handling Bruce's dick too, but all at once all he can do is just this, chasing that precipice with a hand now tearing the tips of his fingers though expensive bedsheet and the other one gentler, holding Bruce's leg up and against him.