The day Bruce couldn't tell the difference between Clark's fingers and his cock, he hoped someone put him out of his misery, because he was clearly brain injured, stupid, or otherwise reduced to a state in which he wouldn't find worth living.

That blunt heat, the press, the burn and slight ache of Clark pressing into him was intense. Intense and perfectly right - the feeling of himself giving away under pressure and strength and mostly just being able to feel the beat of Clark's heart and warmth of his body inside him was beyond anything he'd ever wanted of homecoming with Clark. It felt good, yes, physically and emotionally satisfying and erotic and so, so right.

With both hands free he was able to use the other one to tangle in Clark's hair, still damp from Clark's mouth as much as the heat of water pouring down around them, making the glide of skin on skin easier. He couldn't do a whole hell of a lot in this position to keep things moving, but he sure as hell didn't suddenly turn passive. He turned his head toward Clark and spoke softly, directly into his ear.

"You're home. You have me. I love you. Now fuck me."