Clark's hand finds its way to the back of Bruce's head, threaded through dark wet locks, only the potential for command in the otherwise gentle touch. Encouraging, appreciative, loving, not really moved to give direction or take anything over in this moment when Bruce is already giving him what he wants, and the freedom and focus of it is wonderful on its own.

His head tips back down, opening his eyes to watch, other hand clasping Bruce's hand back. Bringing it up to touch himself, flattened low on his chest, like he's somehow picked up that thought, wants to exploit it, but not so much that he untangles their hands.

It won't take much, maybe minutes, like everything already feels a little raw. Bruce will feel those subtle movements exaggerate, feel the tension beneath skin of muscles pulling tighter against dense bone. Hear the breathy groans out of Clark, feel them reverberate up through where he has his hands on him. It's the gentle squeeze, more conscious than compulsive, that warns Bruce ahead of it, and also the second thump of skull to tile when orgasm floods through him, heels lifting slightly off the slick floor as he refrains from too much squirming in place.

A louder moan immediately after, like his breath had caught in his chest, all relief and longing.