How sweet, and Bruce grunts at that, a lazy volley back at teasing; he tugs Clark's hair, sharp, but not with any intent to get a reaction. (How could it.) He doesn't tense against the way Clark pulls him, only finding it a little disorienting to be moved with such ease - because it's only a little movement. A different type of creature, he has not yet developed Lois' affinity for being caught mid-air.

But his pulse does tick up, and there's no hiding the way arousal flickers through him. Bruce would never let another man - any other man, not human, not alien - handle him anywhere near roughly, and he would never like it with another man. What are you doing to me, he had asked once, in the early days of sexual contact ramping up past stolen kisses, when Bruce was still entrenched with too much guilt to function with.

Less so, these days. Ever closing in on equilibrium between the two of them. Helps that it isn't one-sided, that Bruce has come to understand why, even if he still sort of thinks Clark's bananas for it.

Just, glass houses. So.

He drags in a breath. His cock twitches. "Fuck," is low and rough.