How tempting, to sink right down and rut against him and kiss and share in the mess and the warmth and the need. Clark feels that impulse as blood draining straight to his cock when Bruce pants his name, and he doesn't think anyone in this room would be mad about it, if he did.

"Now I'm gonna fuck you," he says, instead, bitey smile more heard in his voice and felt in the murmured kiss than seen, this close. Now he allows more deliberate contact, lets Bruce's cock line up against his own through his pants, pressed back down against the hard surface of his belly. "For as long as I want."

Clark has only known trust to be like faith. Invisible, ghostly, ready to evaporate. It isn't like that with Lois, and it isn't like that with Bruce. With Bruce, it feels like concrete, steel, a trust fall in the darkness where the darkness itself catches you. Makes you wanna go back up, fall again.

He forces himself away. Snags up the little bottle of lube kept in easy reach (tactical foresight) and returns to kneeling upright in between Bruce's legs. His hand has wandered to his own groin to relieve some of that ache there while opening the bottle, and then pushing Bruce's thighs apart to tip a brief ribbon of the stuff to trickle down between his legs, a hand moving then to guide it, coat his own fingers liberally.