"Mmhm." Disbelief, for that sorriness, but apparently not so much that he objects to connected mouths and bumping knees. Bruce has one hand on Clark's bicep, his other between them, the backs of his curled fingers resting against the other man's chest. Which he is doing a remarkable job of not thinking of, given their proximity and activities therein.
Bruce knows better than to put any stock in hormones, and yet there's an animal part of his brain that's saying this will work because this is working, because laying here making out with Clark feels good, and safe, and like he could do it forever. He's on a knife-edge and whatever way he falls - settling to sleep this way, pressed together but not too close - pushing Clark down and pressing the length of their forms together heedless of creaky springs and sleeping mothers - will be just as good as the other.
Clark shouldn't fit so comfortably and feel so electric; Bruce would resent it, if he didn't like it so much. He wonders if the skin at the base of his throat is just as warm, he wonders if the curves over his chest and along his belly is sweat-salted, he
is going to stop thinking about that now, because the last thing anybody needs while sneaking around like high schoolers is a boner. (Romance, again.) He's going to end up with a line on his face from creases in the pillowcase, and bruised lips from kissing-- and that's fine. That's great, even, if the alternative is not having those things. His arm is probably going to fall asleep. Also fine. Bruce shifts the hand on his bicep higher, against his neck, thumb rubbing absently against his jaw. Another hour, two hours, another fucking week of this, would be all right.
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Bruce knows better than to put any stock in hormones, and yet there's an animal part of his brain that's saying this will work because this is working, because laying here making out with Clark feels good, and safe, and like he could do it forever. He's on a knife-edge and whatever way he falls - settling to sleep this way, pressed together but not too close - pushing Clark down and pressing the length of their forms together heedless of creaky springs and sleeping mothers - will be just as good as the other.
Clark shouldn't fit so comfortably and feel so electric; Bruce would resent it, if he didn't like it so much. He wonders if the skin at the base of his throat is just as warm, he wonders if the curves over his chest and along his belly is sweat-salted, he
is going to stop thinking about that now, because the last thing anybody needs while sneaking around like high schoolers is a boner. (Romance, again.) He's going to end up with a line on his face from creases in the pillowcase, and bruised lips from kissing-- and that's fine. That's great, even, if the alternative is not having those things. His arm is probably going to fall asleep. Also fine. Bruce shifts the hand on his bicep higher, against his neck, thumb rubbing absently against his jaw. Another hour, two hours, another fucking week of this, would be all right.