It's long minutes of just this, painting marks that will remain for a couple of minutes through to a couple of days. Quieter long minutes for Bruce, where for Clark, the room is filled with the sounds of their respective heart beats, the scrapes of the chain linking Bruce's wrists to the bed, the friction of Bruce's leg against his side. He eases up his grip, there, to run his palm down the side of that leg, leaving behind another few fading tracks from blunt nails.

Almost enough to distract from the transition from marking up his thighs to Clark's mouth finding some sensitive spot much higher, close to the base of his cock, the mmm mouthed into skin and felt as a warm vibration. He can't know how close Bruce might be to doing more than just buckling down and enduring, and his own cock is now stiff in the pants he's still wearing, but,

it's easier to ignore when he has this one single-minded goal, when he knows what he wants and that he'll get it eventually. With Bruce's leg pressed just so, he can feel when Clark idly shifts his own hips against the mattress, the slightest scratch of an itch. He shifts to lavish attention against that same spot opposite. Maybe Bruce is keyed up enough to feel the motion of that transition against his cock, and nothing else. Maybe, if he looks, there's a moment of eye contact.

Small adjustments. A hand high on Bruce's thigh, a thumb pressing into soft skin. Everything intimate, but scarcely an inch too off the mark to be satisfying.