#bottom!clark

Clark feels like he’s floating, totally reasonable seeing as he is physically able to fly. However, the only reason he knows he actually isn’t—despite the fact that he has never felt lighter—is the weight of Bruce Wayne’s body over him. Pressing his thighs to his abdomen, pushing Clark’s back against the mattress as the frame of the bed creaks dangerously loud, punching the air out of his lungs with each precise stroke of his hips.

The room is spinning. He might be floating both of them a couple inches off the b—oh!

Well…if Clark wasn’t already pinned to the mattress, he definitely is now.

Bruce takes some of his weight off Clark’s thighs. Only long enough to hook his elbows to the back of the other man’s knees, lowering himself until he’s nudging Clark’s nose with his own and effectively trapping him between crisp white sheets and his scarred chest.

Clark kisses Bruce fiercely. Open-mouthed and messy.

“Nghh! gosh, Bruce—” Clark whines against Bruce’s lips, the angle pressing impossibly deep within him. His eyes widen, glassy and positively hypnotic.

Bruce groans, dropping his forehead against Clark’s with an out-of-place tenderness. He’s breathing heavy, his body almost vibrating trying to keep his orgasm at bay.

“I don’t think I’ll be—holy f—” his voice goes up an octave and trails off, Clark’s jaw is slack with pleasure that rises exponentially at the sound of Bruce’s wrecked voice. Clark only nods, understanding exactly what Bruce was trying to say.

“I-I'm close too, baby—” Bruce moans at the nickname and begins to piston his hips at a punishing pace.

The room echoes with the sounds of skin slapping on skin and debauched moaning.

With a calculated snap of his hips, Bruce pushes Clark over the cliff of his orgasm, his release painting both of their chests white.

Clark’s whines turn breathy as Bruce continues his erratic pace. Guttural groans clawing their way out of Bruce’s throat, he is so close. Clark’s trembling hands make their way up to cradle Bruce’s head where it's now burrowed against his neck, fingers pressing into his scalp.

“Give it to me—give me all of it,” Clark’s voice is shaky, it rips a sob out of Bruce.

He loses it, barely pulling out in time to finish all over Clark’s abdomen. Bruce feels like a live wire, every muscle in his body is throbbing, his pulse thrumming under his skin like a war drum. Clark could probably hear it, even without using his enhanced senses.

Clark’s fingertips against his scalp slowly ground him back to reality.

Bruce pulls back slightly, searching for Clark’s gaze, only to find him already looking at him with that disarmingly beautiful smile that he adores so much. Clark stretches his neck forward to reach Bruce’s lips.

The kiss is sweet, though no less passionate. Both of their heartbeats slowly returning to base, their kiss turning lazy as they untangle their limbs to lay down next to each other. Face to face, barely any space between them, sweet nothings murmured against each other’s mouths.

Bruce breaks their embrace—or well, tries to—when Clark’s burly arm throws itself over his chest.

“Where do you think you’re going, mister?” Clark smiles, eyebrows raised slightly. The playful lilt in his voice only makes Bruce want to kiss him again. Repeatedly.

So he does exactly that.

“Bathroom—” kiss. “To get—” kiss. “Something—” kiss. “To wipe—” kiss. “You down,” kiss. Clark hums, eyelids fluttering.

“That can wait,” Clark mutters, flipping Bruce onto his back, “it’s your turn now.” Their mouths meet in another searing kiss.

Bruce Wayne is in for a very long night.