Inside of his mouth cut on his teeth. Bruises on his skin. Breath nearly knocked out of him, the shift so quick - just about fast enough to disorient him, only clawing to awareness because he is who he is. Beneath Clark, arms beside his head, staring up at him. He rolls his shoulders just to feel the way the other man doesn't budge; someone human would at least flex from it, even if they were putting their full weight onto the hold. He knows Clark isn't even trying.

He's never thought before, specifically, I want to be held down. This isn't that. This is just how to get the other thing, that there isn't a name for, caught in the back of his throat. That's been there for two fucking years.

Bruce gets a knee at the side of Clark's keep, pressed up, grinding against him, the rough feeling of denim against his slacks hardly noticeable for what it is - too focused on Clark himself, every point of contact. He gets a hand between them and scraps down his chest, undoing the closure of the other man's jeans, tugging down for as much as the pin is giving him room for. Not much. Shocked at himself, how hard he is, and he'd be embarrassed about it if there was anything left to be embarrassed about, between them.

Looks at him the whole time. Like he might say something.