That probably shouldn't be moving. How ridiculous.

But it is, the easy and gentle enthusiastic acceptance of something he'd buried (not deep down, but out of sight anyway), something that felt like it could come close to that ephemeral too much that continues to evade them both. Some latent tension, that had begun to wind as he spoke, loosens. We'll sink into, like there are few places either of them could go that the other won't follow.

Which is a lot, for a sex thing, and yet. Clark absorbs this, feels himself warm to the compliment, and gives a small nod.

Touches one of the bruises he'd raised on Bruce's flesh, down near his hip, and presses his thumb against it, the thrill of watching someone so in control, made the way he is, reacting to something so relatively minor. "Only you could do that to me," he says, voice huskier than before, eyes darker. Leaning back in and over, hand at Bruce's side blindly finding another reddened patch, probing it, making it ache. "And make me want it so much."

His mouth brushes Bruce's, coaxing him into lifting his head to chase the kiss there.