The immediate proof of Clark's enjoyment sends heat coursing through him, settling in his core warm and smugly satisfied. A brief spark of thought drifts by, as he runs the fingertips of one hand in small circles over the soft skin of the younger man's perineum, that he should have asked first; funny, the things that he considers permission-worthy, with all the deliberate non-asking they do to rev each other up. Bruce shouldn't be charmed by that, but he is.
He gets a grip in the meat of Clark's ass, pulls him open wider, continues to lick and mouth at his hole. Dragging his tongue over it, tugging at the tight rim, kneading his ass and helping him shift his hips up for more, better, closer. Once the correct angle is settled into it's not even awkward, and Bruce can't help but make a low sound of enjoyment when he breaks for a moment to bite the curve of his ass. Enviable, Clark's perfect anatomical construction. And the way his battle suit is shameless about his entire form. Or it would be, if Bruce didn't have the ability to be doing this to that very form. He swipes his tongue over the blanched marks left by his teeth, and then brings his hand down on his ass, palm flat, motion swift and firm. The crack of it is loud in the bedroom, noise more intense than the force. But not without intent for him to feel it.
Back when they'd first desperately began pulling each other's clothes off, Clark had asked if Bruce had enjoyed their brutal fight because Superman had been losing. No. It was just—
Everything.
And so maybe, Clark might like the weight and heft of impact. Some shape or another of this very thing had been the initial plan, long aforementioned paddle reserved for just-in-case, if it went over too well. But this is good, too. Maybe better. Before Clark has more than a few seconds to process, Bruce resumes licking him open, wet and determined, hand squeezing over his own red palm-mark.
no subject
He gets a grip in the meat of Clark's ass, pulls him open wider, continues to lick and mouth at his hole. Dragging his tongue over it, tugging at the tight rim, kneading his ass and helping him shift his hips up for more, better, closer. Once the correct angle is settled into it's not even awkward, and Bruce can't help but make a low sound of enjoyment when he breaks for a moment to bite the curve of his ass. Enviable, Clark's perfect anatomical construction. And the way his battle suit is shameless about his entire form. Or it would be, if Bruce didn't have the ability to be doing this to that very form. He swipes his tongue over the blanched marks left by his teeth, and then brings his hand down on his ass, palm flat, motion swift and firm. The crack of it is loud in the bedroom, noise more intense than the force. But not without intent for him to feel it.
Back when they'd first desperately began pulling each other's clothes off, Clark had asked if Bruce had enjoyed their brutal fight because Superman had been losing. No. It was just—
Everything.
And so maybe, Clark might like the weight and heft of impact. Some shape or another of this very thing had been the initial plan, long aforementioned paddle reserved for just-in-case, if it went over too well. But this is good, too. Maybe better. Before Clark has more than a few seconds to process, Bruce resumes licking him open, wet and determined, hand squeezing over his own red palm-mark.