There's a light thunk where the back of Clark's head connects with the tile behind it, around when Bruce takes him in his mouth as deeply as he does. It feels like the building of tension that somehow also relieves it at the same time, an itch that grows as its scratched. The run off of where water strikes them tickles over skin, seems particularly articulated where rivers choose to run, like individual fingertips tracking over his skin, down his chest, his legs.

His hands move blindly, gently, following the ridge of Bruce's jaw, or tracking through damp hair, or smoothing down from neck to shoulders. It doesn't take him long at all to build towards erection, for his hips to start the gentlest of motions.

"You know I want you just as much," he finds himself saying, all exhale, a subtle string of tension. It helps to keep his eyes closed, let the world diminish to cold tile behind him, Bruce's mouth around him, the white noise created by water spray. "Only reason I could hold out so long to tonight is keeping your hands off me. Glad I did, but even then—"

Something had to give. He could have lasted longer, if they were anyone else, never mind the moment and comment both that motivated revenge.