What Clark remembers most clearly from sparring are the gentle touches and adjustments, the mock-strike taps to his ribcage or back or face; Bruce's focus on him, his attention, finely detailed; and of course, but also only after that, Bruce beneath him, and the fact that he does not, did not, feel guilt in extracting some amount of pleasure from all of it. Clark had figured it would be like
well, just that. Walled off, disguised, stolen.
This is better than that, certainly.
(He is dimly aware of Shelby, now up on the porch and out of the ice, and absolutely not aware of Martha Kent checking out the curtain that neither man froze to death at any point, eyebrows going up, mouth pinched into a half-smile and very carefully letting lacy hangings back into place. Alright then.)
His hands, unmanicured and rugged and manful, find places to be on Bruce's ribcage, curled high against his shoulder, only just resisting the temptation to press his palm over that resting heart rate. Warmth radiates mainly from the torso outwards, stifling in their close contact, but spread through his skin, his hands, and between them in open mouthed kissing, the slightly clumsy bump of teeth and lips as Clark figures out this somewhat new angle. Maybe it's an illusion in the chill.
Clark opens his eyes on a slight delay when there is a moment's break, eventually, a slightly anxious flick of his eyes as he reads Bruce's, left to right. But a smile upticks the corner of his mouth, anxiety not being thr right word, probably.
Shelby puts her cold nose at the back of Bruce's leg.
"You're welcome," because it's definitely about the socks.
no subject
well, just that. Walled off, disguised, stolen.
This is better than that, certainly.
(He is dimly aware of Shelby, now up on the porch and out of the ice, and absolutely not aware of Martha Kent checking out the curtain that neither man froze to death at any point, eyebrows going up, mouth pinched into a half-smile and very carefully letting lacy hangings back into place. Alright then.)
His hands, unmanicured and rugged and manful, find places to be on Bruce's ribcage, curled high against his shoulder, only just resisting the temptation to press his palm over that resting heart rate. Warmth radiates mainly from the torso outwards, stifling in their close contact, but spread through his skin, his hands, and between them in open mouthed kissing, the slightly clumsy bump of teeth and lips as Clark figures out this somewhat new angle. Maybe it's an illusion in the chill.
Clark opens his eyes on a slight delay when there is a moment's break, eventually, a slightly anxious flick of his eyes as he reads Bruce's, left to right. But a smile upticks the corner of his mouth, anxiety not being thr right word, probably.
Shelby puts her cold nose at the back of Bruce's leg.
"You're welcome," because it's definitely about the socks.