Air fills his lungs again, and the sudden contrast is dizzying— the concept of erotic asphyxiation is not an unknown one, to him, and maybe he's been in the shallow end of the pool before, but nothing like this. Nothing like how much it was, or how sensation seems to slam back into him now, everything his brain had quit paying attention to in favor of keeping him alive flooding over him.
Between that and Clark's hand on his cock he's stupid for a moment, dazed, melted uselessness between him with a look in his eyes that betrays having briefly been in some other dimension.
"Fuck," he grates, into that kiss. Brain clicking back online, hands in Clark's hair again. Gives as good as he's given, and that's another dizzying contrast, like shoving his head into hot water after cold. (What the hell is Alfred going to think, if he glimpses bruises from hands around his throat. Maybe he'll just hide for a week.) Still with edges of twilight clinging to him, Bruce removes a hand and stretches it towards the bedside stand, though he can't quite reach it while pinned. An ocean of a bed, for someone his height, and company. So he says, "Grab that," in a voice that doesn't sound used to a lack of compliance, despite all of this. Because the way he pushes up, grinding hard against hard, is all tangled in shredded fabric and the cold metal closure of a denim zip, and there's lube in the drawer.
(Along with some prescription bottles and other assorted sins, but he's been training himself out of the impulse to hide that sort of shit in a lead box. Clark knows. It's a whatever.)
no subject
Between that and Clark's hand on his cock he's stupid for a moment, dazed, melted uselessness between him with a look in his eyes that betrays having briefly been in some other dimension.
"Fuck," he grates, into that kiss. Brain clicking back online, hands in Clark's hair again. Gives as good as he's given, and that's another dizzying contrast, like shoving his head into hot water after cold. (What the hell is Alfred going to think, if he glimpses bruises from hands around his throat. Maybe he'll just hide for a week.) Still with edges of twilight clinging to him, Bruce removes a hand and stretches it towards the bedside stand, though he can't quite reach it while pinned. An ocean of a bed, for someone his height, and company. So he says, "Grab that," in a voice that doesn't sound used to a lack of compliance, despite all of this. Because the way he pushes up, grinding hard against hard, is all tangled in shredded fabric and the cold metal closure of a denim zip, and there's lube in the drawer.
(Along with some prescription bottles and other assorted sins, but he's been training himself out of the impulse to hide that sort of shit in a lead box. Clark knows. It's a whatever.)