There's no room for a rejoinder. Not even a breathless sounds good. Maybe there's a tinge of a laugh in the breathy moan out, trying to convince himself that touch to his tailbone is relaxing, and then Bruce moves. Clark holds onto bedsheets, some resistance felt through Bruce's hold of him.
Just to feel it, the certainty of that hold. A push forward barely does anything before the next stroke, and that's as much "fight" as Clark is willing to do by the time Bruce's grip tightens, and he fucks him. And whatever pain is there, when it starts to hurt in an almost mundane kind of way, it's much too late to matter, too far gone to want to stop.
There's no where to hide, either, and each sound out of him is raw and desperate and not quiet. Normally he might say something, first, before all his muscles lash tight to bone and bear down, before the orgasm sweeps through him, drains out of him, but he doesn't, it just happens, and after, he feels raw, over-sensitive, like coming only takes care of one minor thing.
The relief will hit after, but for now he still feels wound up on this, riding it out.
Unbelievable, what it does to him, knowing that he can make Clark climax like this. How frustrating must all those encounters with people who didn't know him been. A high in itself, feeling him have it punched out of him, fucking him through it. There's no distant consideration of this might hurt, all of him is present, oversaturated, cranked up past where he should be. The concern is there, it's just not as loud as the need to keep going.
Bruce gets a fist in Clark's hair, holding him there, forcing him to keep taking this as he spirals. The effect of incidentally edging himself for so long and the almost unbearable intimacy of all this makes him feel like to get there is going to shatter something.
It does.
Curled over him, buried so deep, holding Clark as close as can be. He wraps his other arm around him, palm flat against his chest, up near his throat. Like if they weren't both dizzy and panting he might hold that too and feel his pulse and breath.
Clark's hand goes up to Bruce's, plastering over it. Not an effort to control it, but a grateful clasp for the sake of touching. He wonders if he feels different, to touch. It's a disjointed thought, in the chaotic vacuum of thought, but he can feel his heart hammering and exertion cool on his skin and he thinks he must. But warm, always, burningly.
He hadn't shut up after he'd come and feels the downswing of that almost in rhythm with Bruce's plunge rather than his own. Just breathing, now, deep and relieved. The palm plastered high on his chest has access to that much.
Pressing his fingers between Bruce's, this time when Clark shifts backwards, it's more to use Bruce's strength to balance. Drawing a leg inwards, folding it, a breath of instinct complaint as every muscle protests at literally anything that isn't collapse.
Not yet. Clark drags Bruce's hand up, laying a kiss against the heel of his palm.
It's heady to stay connected like this, everything over-sensitive, exhaustion crashing against adrenaline and euphoric relief. Bruce breathes deep against him, the position miraculously holding itself together despite his lopsided weight and Clark's folding limbs. Bruce controls the collapse down, getting them there, a tangle of body parts. The bed's surface could be on the ceiling for how ordinary it seems.
Does indeed feel like reality's faded away around them.
When he pulls out he keeps a hand pressed against Clark's rear, conscious of the sting of it after such rough treatment. Just staying there, giving him a point of contact instead of immediate abandonment after a sharp withdraw. Sprawled at his back, face against his shoulder, other arm squished beneath him.
There's a complainy sound at the inevitable and necessary point of disconnection, too deep into going boneless on the mattress to muffle it. But it's fine. More than fine, because Bruce is still there, at his back again, only now they really are done rather than balanced on the knife edge of maybe, maybe not.
Good oof. And Clark stays there for several necessary seconds before slowly forcing his limbs to turn himself over and around, feeling heavy and clumsy and awkward compared to the usual ease with which he accomplishes all things. But he faces Bruce and pulls himself in close, not even chasing a post-coitus makeout session when he noses his face against his throat, big dog energy of intruding for the purpose of cuddling.
Once so situated, Clark stays there, hand splayed on Bruce's ribcage. The world is red-lit, sweaty, full of two heart beats, and it can stay that way a little longer.
Clark shuffles over and Bruce wraps his arms around him, letting him tuck in close like a golden retriever wiggling up onto his lap. A sweaty, sticky golden retriever. He presses a very chaste-feeling kiss to the top of his head, and for a long time, is content to leave it at that on the slow spiral down.
When he does move, it's to cradle the back of Clark's head, rub affectionate lines on his scalp through his hair. That he's trusted this way is like no other feeling he's had. After what he's done, but also, simply at all.
Bruce nuzzles against his temple, and murmurs quietly, "I love you."
He always feels it, but sometimes it's too hard to say. He's glad when he's able to.
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no subject
Just to feel it, the certainty of that hold. A push forward barely does anything before the next stroke, and that's as much "fight" as Clark is willing to do by the time Bruce's grip tightens, and he fucks him. And whatever pain is there, when it starts to hurt in an almost mundane kind of way, it's much too late to matter, too far gone to want to stop.
There's no where to hide, either, and each sound out of him is raw and desperate and not quiet. Normally he might say something, first, before all his muscles lash tight to bone and bear down, before the orgasm sweeps through him, drains out of him, but he doesn't, it just happens, and after, he feels raw, over-sensitive, like coming only takes care of one minor thing.
The relief will hit after, but for now he still feels wound up on this, riding it out.
no subject
Bruce gets a fist in Clark's hair, holding him there, forcing him to keep taking this as he spirals. The effect of incidentally edging himself for so long and the almost unbearable intimacy of all this makes him feel like to get there is going to shatter something.
It does.
Curled over him, buried so deep, holding Clark as close as can be. He wraps his other arm around him, palm flat against his chest, up near his throat. Like if they weren't both dizzy and panting he might hold that too and feel his pulse and breath.
no subject
He hadn't shut up after he'd come and feels the downswing of that almost in rhythm with Bruce's plunge rather than his own. Just breathing, now, deep and relieved. The palm plastered high on his chest has access to that much.
Pressing his fingers between Bruce's, this time when Clark shifts backwards, it's more to use Bruce's strength to balance. Drawing a leg inwards, folding it, a breath of instinct complaint as every muscle protests at literally anything that isn't collapse.
Not yet. Clark drags Bruce's hand up, laying a kiss against the heel of his palm.
no subject
Does indeed feel like reality's faded away around them.
When he pulls out he keeps a hand pressed against Clark's rear, conscious of the sting of it after such rough treatment. Just staying there, giving him a point of contact instead of immediate abandonment after a sharp withdraw. Sprawled at his back, face against his shoulder, other arm squished beneath him.
Oof. (Good oof.)
no subject
Good oof. And Clark stays there for several necessary seconds before slowly forcing his limbs to turn himself over and around, feeling heavy and clumsy and awkward compared to the usual ease with which he accomplishes all things. But he faces Bruce and pulls himself in close, not even chasing a post-coitus makeout session when he noses his face against his throat, big dog energy of intruding for the purpose of cuddling.
Once so situated, Clark stays there, hand splayed on Bruce's ribcage. The world is red-lit, sweaty, full of two heart beats, and it can stay that way a little longer.
no subject
When he does move, it's to cradle the back of Clark's head, rub affectionate lines on his scalp through his hair. That he's trusted this way is like no other feeling he's had. After what he's done, but also, simply at all.
Bruce nuzzles against his temple, and murmurs quietly, "I love you."
He always feels it, but sometimes it's too hard to say. He's glad when he's able to.