#(almost)

[brucespringsteencomments]

[itsmythang]

💯💯

[grantwilson]

we are discussing our childhood passions on the dash tonight

[puppyms]

[batilenima]

The room is quiet except for the sound of Bruce gasping against Clark's mouth.

He's on his back, half-undressed, black shirt pulled up just enough to show his stomach twitching every time Clark's hips press against his. There's sweat at his hairline, lashes clumped together, mouth red and parted as if he's trying to catch his breath—but he can't.

Clark is above him, eyes glowing low in the dark. His voice is calm "You're okay?"

Bruce doesn't answer, he just grabs at Clark's wrist, the one currently wrapped loosely around his throat. Not to push it off, not to stop him.

Just to feel it.

Clark's thumb brushes along Bruce's jaw, tender even while he squeezes a little harder. Just enough to make Bruce's legs tense and his pupils blow wide.

And then Clark kisses him.

Sloppy, deep, like he's been starving for him. Their mouths don't quite align perfectly—Bruce keeps gasping into it, teeth dragging along Clark's lower lip, a soft desperate noise breaking in the back of his throat every time Clark exhales through his nose and tightens his grip the tiniest bit more.

Bruce is a mess under him.

"Breathe, baby" Clark whispers, lips brushing his cheek now "That's it. You're okay, I've got you"

Bruce shudders, clings to him like he's the only thing anchoring him to the bed.

Another kiss—hot, wet and filthy, their chests pressed tight, Clark's hand still at his throat like he knows Bruce needs the pressure, the control, the edge of danger that only Clark can give without ever hurting him.

"you like this?" Clark breathes, voice rasping against Bruce's lips.

Bruce moans before he can stop himself—low and hoarse and absolutely wrecked, Clark grins like the smuggest bastard alive.

"Yeah, I know you do"

(I'll leave this here and just— 🏃)

[5weetmeat]

whatever

[antiquedeuce]

Lord, please send me an angel 🙏🏼