It's overwhelming, like it always is. Bruce has let other people fuck him, but it's never been how it is with Clark; he isn't sure if it's the sheer physical dynamics, or some other inherent, intangible spark between them. This was always on a list of sex acts as 'okay', and now he could be ashamed of himself for how into it he gets. It doesn't matter what they do. Bruce wants it like oxygen.

Not that this specifically isn't extremely good on its own. Because it is. Clark reaching parts of him he, at some nebulous point before their sexual entanglement, frankly did not think could be reached. There is nothing forced about this - even with the handcuffs - and yet the inescapable solidity of him is so uncompromising that he feels pinned, helpless and held so securely at the same time, re-arranged at some animal level.

Whispered this time, "Clark." He wants to kiss him, but he can tug his hair or do much besides breathe and lay there and take it, try to rock up into him, bruise the insides of his thighs clinging to him.

"Will you—" ngh, cut off by some desperate sound, and Bruce straining against the handcuffs. The posts they're looped around don't creak, too well-made for it, but it's a near thing.