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Sweet Bliss

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They are in Bruce’s penthouse. The roofs of Metropolis shine in the evening sun, casting golden light on their naked skin. It’s serene, quiet, except for the noises breaking out of Clark’s chest.

Slowly, Clark slides down the floor-to-ceiling windows to kneel on the floor, hands and face still pressed to the glass. He’s gasping, seemingly out of breath. Not too long ago, he had shivered when Bruce asked him if he wanted to be naughty today, if he wanted to let the world see him debauched and dirty. He had whimpered at what was about to come as Bruce pressed himself against his back and whispered promises into his ear. Now, he’s shivering again, his nerves still firing signals from all over his body.

Clark is dripping, his hole clenching uncomfortably around the void that’s been created inside of him. He’s sensitive to every little touch and movement around him.

Bruce turns away from the sight he makes, away from the rosy cheeks and the tears glistening in the corners of his bright blue eyes. He pulls away the sheets and lies on the bed, stretches his burning muscles, revels in the sweet bliss of post-orgasm.

After a while, Clark climbs onto the bed and lays himself down on Bruce. The younger man is still hard, achingly so, and Bruce wonders about Clark torturing himself sometimes, holding himself back to the point that it cannot be comfortable anymore. But Clark moves a bit and gasps against his jaw and he looks content as he nibbles at Bruce’s collarbone, leaving kisses around his neck.

“Thank you,” Clark says and Bruce is scarily aware of the erection still pressing into his hip, the wetness sliding down his thigh and pooling on his stomach, but all he does is sling an arm across Clark’s back to pull him in a little closer. If this is all Clark wants, he’ll gladly give it to him. No questions asked and no holds barred.