"Mmhm." Sure you are. He wonders how often Clark has wanted to tear clothes off someone. If it's frustrating to not be able to hurry anything along for fear of shredding garments beyond repair with barely any effort. Bruce pushes up into the hand at his throat, forcing Clark to press down against his windpipe or pull his hand back. He drags in a breath, so that he can feel it, the ragged effort it takes, the way his pulse hammers faster.

One hand goes around Clark's wrist, at his own throat, and he lets the other move more idly - ignoring his own torn trousers to touch Clark, rub at his stiff cock and slide his fingers around it. A slow contrast to the unhinged stops and starts of the rest of their contact. The sexuality of it, at least this part, seems secondary to whatever else they're doing to each other.

Not that he doesn't want to get off. He's predictable like that.