Oof. Being flattened like that makes his cock twitch; he wonders if Clark can feel it. Brushing together barely-there, Bruce isn't sure he has the sensitivity to feel things that move so little when they aren't touching fully. He hums into that kiss, the sound of it cut short when Clark pulls back to not-order him.
"Clark," is an exhale, as warm as he'd been harsh, a moment ago. He flexes his captured wrist, as delicate as moth wings beneath his alien grip. Of course I will. His touch shifts up at first, over his chest, through so-human hair and tracing unreal contours, to drag his fingertips over the circle of one nipple, featherlight as he sighs out, grounds himself past any potential discomfort. Bruce noticed - that Clark did not ask if he's done this before. Trusting him to say if it was going to be a problem. (It isn't. It's been a while, and never with a man, and if Clark wants to twist himself in knots the mental image of a woman fucking him, he can ask later. But it isn't a problem.) When he skims back down and takes him in hand, it's gentle, exploratory, mapping and memorizing the feel of him. The shape and weight and heat of him, knowing Clark's going to fuck him with that in a minute—
He has not let himself think of the dangers of doing this face to face. How terrifying it'll be. It makes him ball his pinned hand into a fist out of reflex, but he masters it in a heartbeat and relaxes. Clark's fingers in him feel good, around when it just feels strange. He's too adept at managing his own body for anything as pedestrian as stretching a muscle to really bother him.
Bruce kisses him, though it's more like just tilting his head up as much as he can, pressing his mouth off-center to Clark's. Sweet while it can be. Another back-and-forth contrast. His breath hitches, when an angle nears correct.
no subject
"Clark," is an exhale, as warm as he'd been harsh, a moment ago. He flexes his captured wrist, as delicate as moth wings beneath his alien grip. Of course I will. His touch shifts up at first, over his chest, through so-human hair and tracing unreal contours, to drag his fingertips over the circle of one nipple, featherlight as he sighs out, grounds himself past any potential discomfort. Bruce noticed - that Clark did not ask if he's done this before. Trusting him to say if it was going to be a problem. (It isn't. It's been a while, and never with a man, and if Clark wants to twist himself in knots the mental image of a woman fucking him, he can ask later. But it isn't a problem.) When he skims back down and takes him in hand, it's gentle, exploratory, mapping and memorizing the feel of him. The shape and weight and heat of him, knowing Clark's going to fuck him with that in a minute—
He has not let himself think of the dangers of doing this face to face. How terrifying it'll be. It makes him ball his pinned hand into a fist out of reflex, but he masters it in a heartbeat and relaxes. Clark's fingers in him feel good, around when it just feels strange. He's too adept at managing his own body for anything as pedestrian as stretching a muscle to really bother him.
Bruce kisses him, though it's more like just tilting his head up as much as he can, pressing his mouth off-center to Clark's. Sweet while it can be. Another back-and-forth contrast. His breath hitches, when an angle nears correct.