Less appealing, perhaps, is the kind of oof sound Bruce makes when Clark pushes his knee back, rearranging the angle of both penetration and room in his diaphragm for oxygen. Hard to imagine him begging; he seems like the kind of man who doesn't know how.

(He doesn't. Not like this. Please, unhinged and earnest, is a word that's only been uttered in scenarios far, far away from a lover. Please, bring my parents back. Please, not my son.

Getting choked out is way better.)

He can feel it tightening in the base of his spine, making him tremble, everything burning, and electric. Every time Clark snaps forward he feels himself start to shatter, lance of pleasure shooting through him to ever nerve ending. Now he's moving right to make him think he could try to come, without a hand on him. Still probably can't - he's not twenty, for fuck's sake - but it feels like that, feels like he's about to, every thrust in. Bruce's hands scrabble up to hold Clark's face, sharing that refusal to look away.

Breathless, stupid, he says, "Taking it— just fine—"

Like shut up, honestly.

He could come any second now. He knows it, and he wants it, but he doesn't move a hand down to touch himself. He wants to feel Clark lose it first. Maybe he needs to, at least now. At least this first time going quite so unchecked. Did I do the right thing, forcing this conversation, daring you, do you like it, is it, is it—