Clark's mouth is not kiss-bruised. In fact, his hair is barely out of place. His breathing is level.
Not his heart, though. That's beating faster. His shirt was half off his shoulders by the time they broke apart, having pushed Bruce with just enough effort to force the other man backwards and sitting, only from Clark's perspective, he was as gentle as a regular person would have to be in setting down a china teacup. There's probably gonna be a bruise there tomorrow morning, heart-sized and in the same neighbourhood.
And the itch to do more—more what—has him backing up, hands flat on his thighs as if to stop himself from that more. Doing more would be a line crossed in some direction or another. He is also uncomfortably hard in his jeans. That's another problem.
Well says Bruce. This is where they come to their senses.
"What are you doing," says Clark. Never mind. Maybe his breathing isn't completely level.
no subject
Not his heart, though. That's beating faster. His shirt was half off his shoulders by the time they broke apart, having pushed Bruce with just enough effort to force the other man backwards and sitting, only from Clark's perspective, he was as gentle as a regular person would have to be in setting down a china teacup. There's probably gonna be a bruise there tomorrow morning, heart-sized and in the same neighbourhood.
And the itch to do more—more what—has him backing up, hands flat on his thighs as if to stop himself from that more. Doing more would be a line crossed in some direction or another. He is also uncomfortably hard in his jeans. That's another problem.
Well says Bruce. This is where they come to their senses.
"What are you doing," says Clark. Never mind. Maybe his breathing isn't completely level.