The tug and shiver of chain does have Clark glancing up, just checking, but he doesn't stop. Little bites, languid kisses, some that leave behind minor red welts, others just patches of shiny saliva and, he hopes, pleasant tingles. Not ignoring scars, not paying particular attention to them either, more pursuing the dips and valleys of Bruce's body as Clark works his way a little further down, pushing his legs apart to make space for himself.

Bruce's manufactured attitude from earlier is not completely baseless. Clark does miss Bruce's hands on him, and not just for the obvious reasons, but in part because they tend to tell him what to do, which is its own comfort. There's something to this, though, free rein, prodding forth those little shivers and near-sounds.

Clark wanders his hand to the front of Bruce's pants, feeling along the stiffening length of his cock. His own arousal, which he's allowed to just build on its own, sparks a little at that alone, and he manipulates Bruce through the fabric, stroking, teasing the tip through layers of cloth with the flat of his thumb. He still has his head down, kissing a stretch of skin just above the waistband of his pants.

"I want to make you feel like you make me feel," Clark says, leaning a shoulder against Bruce's thigh as he strokes him. His voice is low, the natural bass of it well suited to a dark bedroom when he wants it to be. "I think if I got all night, I might come close." His hand squeezes.