Bruce is too much muscle and sinew for how well he can move; enough control to help make getting fucked less of an ordeal, if he can pay attention, but always so firm (hah) as to make getting fucked require some more work, if he can't. Clark's teasing fingers against his rim feel good, make him feel torn between letting go and indulging in the time commitment, and focusing in to get to where he wants him faster.

But then Clark is moving his hands. Bruce watches him again, eyes on his, goosebumps prickling on his arms. The contrast between them - Clark's soft, perfect skin, the prickle of chest chair, the line of it from his navel down, and Bruce scarred and worn, waxed clean to combat the agony of friction burn in armor - always does something extra to him. They should be more alike, two men of their proportions, but sometimes he thinks of it like sun and moon. Which is too gooey to ever say aloud. Fortunately Clark hasn't asked any secrets from him.

Oh, sweetheart.

He doesn't think he can say that aloud, either. Maybe it's there on his face, the way something catches in his chest and aches. A flex of both hands, mourning the inability to reach out to him.

"Every knife edge you want to find, and feel, we'll sink into," Bruce promises him, his voice rough with arousal and something else, too. "You looked so beautiful with that bruise on your throat."