He could not get away, unless he forced it. But only because if he forced it, Clark would probably acquiesce and allow it. To do anything with Clark, so much as stand next to him, requires a trust so absolute. Whether it's a trust that Clark will bow to his will voluntarily, or a trust that Clark's is what he really wants, Bruce isn't sure—
Clark takes him in like that and Bruce's breath hitches. His hand rakes over his head, through his hair, scraping across his scalp in a way that might be painful for someone else. Might. Maybe it would just be pleasing, on a knife's edge. Depends on the person; Bruce is not over-rough by default, but as a person he is too much, and sometimes it happens. Kryptonian or not.
He doesn't think about the first time he grabbed the other man's hair. He couldn't feel it. He'd had that gauntlet on, the only thing keeping his bones intact as he slammed his fist into Superman's face over and over. He hadn't done it again with his bare hands until later, later, when,
Bruce remembers:
They were in his house, in his bedroom. A cloudy unremarkable night, letting little light inside the glass walls, and they had been going back and forth. Kissing each other and pulling at garments, raised voices now and again (mostly Bruce), lowered now and again (mostly Clark), neither of them able to decide what kind of tension was taking over. The urge to fuck or fight. And the way those tensions were beginning to become one indistinguishable thing.
Beginning to?
Bruce sits at the edge of his bed, shirt open, mouth kiss-bruised, breathing harshly and watching Clark. Something dangerous about it. He's not afraid - he should be, probably, but he isn't, arousal obvious between his legs, hands at his sides itching to do something besides hold still, which he's forcing himself. Instead of grabbing at him harder than he means to, even though he knows full well (does he) that he can't hurt Clark (can't he).
"Well," he says, thick and grating, but nothing else comes after that.
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Clark takes him in like that and Bruce's breath hitches. His hand rakes over his head, through his hair, scraping across his scalp in a way that might be painful for someone else. Might. Maybe it would just be pleasing, on a knife's edge. Depends on the person; Bruce is not over-rough by default, but as a person he is too much, and sometimes it happens. Kryptonian or not.
He doesn't think about the first time he grabbed the other man's hair. He couldn't feel it. He'd had that gauntlet on, the only thing keeping his bones intact as he slammed his fist into Superman's face over and over. He hadn't done it again with his bare hands until later, later, when,
Bruce remembers:
They were in his house, in his bedroom. A cloudy unremarkable night, letting little light inside the glass walls, and they had been going back and forth. Kissing each other and pulling at garments, raised voices now and again (mostly Bruce), lowered now and again (mostly Clark), neither of them able to decide what kind of tension was taking over. The urge to fuck or fight. And the way those tensions were beginning to become one indistinguishable thing.
Beginning to?
Bruce sits at the edge of his bed, shirt open, mouth kiss-bruised, breathing harshly and watching Clark. Something dangerous about it. He's not afraid - he should be, probably, but he isn't, arousal obvious between his legs, hands at his sides itching to do something besides hold still, which he's forcing himself. Instead of grabbing at him harder than he means to, even though he knows full well (does he) that he can't hurt Clark (can't he).
"Well," he says, thick and grating, but nothing else comes after that.