If it weren't for the drawn-out build up, everything they'd be doing, the state Bruce is in might be comical— impossible hard, aching almost past the point of pleasure. His cock twitches against Clark's ass, on edge. He draws in a breath, slow and deep, getting himself back under control even as he stays there, pressed up so close. Bruce rubs at the other man's tailbone, then down over his hipbones with both hands, pulling him back. He rocks there for a long moment, teasing them both; he knows it'll hurt even with the cooling gel, raw skin rubbing against Bruce's.
He's thought about it, too. Mentioned it, in the small spaces they've actually talked about this sort of thing; Clark's default 'preference' in encounters with other men. Having to prioritize keeping himself hidden and protecting his partners over enjoying himself. Bruce doesn't - can't - completely understand, but there's a shade to it that's familiar. Why do you have all those scars, what happened, why are you gone every night, who are you really—
Bruce slips one hand between them so he can press his cock in, but just barely. The head of it pushes against the tight clench of Clark's hole, barely giving him anything before he pulls back again. Savoring it, before finally pushing in, inexorable. He only pauses once it feels tighter, giving him shallow, short thrusts to loosen him up, and pushing in, deeper, hands on his hips again, pulling him back until they're flush together. It feels so good that Bruce goes lightheaded for a moment from the effort to keep himself from something embarrassing, and he tips his head back, staring vacantly at the ceiling. Goddamnit.
And then, like all things, he masters it completely. Hitches forward. Mmn.
no subject
He's thought about it, too. Mentioned it, in the small spaces they've actually talked about this sort of thing; Clark's default 'preference' in encounters with other men. Having to prioritize keeping himself hidden and protecting his partners over enjoying himself. Bruce doesn't - can't - completely understand, but there's a shade to it that's familiar. Why do you have all those scars, what happened, why are you gone every night, who are you really—
Bruce slips one hand between them so he can press his cock in, but just barely. The head of it pushes against the tight clench of Clark's hole, barely giving him anything before he pulls back again. Savoring it, before finally pushing in, inexorable. He only pauses once it feels tighter, giving him shallow, short thrusts to loosen him up, and pushing in, deeper, hands on his hips again, pulling him back until they're flush together. It feels so good that Bruce goes lightheaded for a moment from the effort to keep himself from something embarrassing, and he tips his head back, staring vacantly at the ceiling. Goddamnit.
And then, like all things, he masters it completely. Hitches forward. Mmn.