The last time they did this, he'd been quick to start squirming, each minor twinge and discomfort too new to ignore or stoically absorb. This time, Clark's going in with the intention not to be so easy, simply breathing around the little sharp nervy pulses of feeling where teeth are dull-sharp against sensitive skin, where fingers tug at hair, or nails rake skin.

At that question, Clark says, defensively, "Yes," and then, "well," and then, "I did." Shut up, says a minor tug at the hair at the nape of Bruce's neck, before the other man moves out of easy range.

He's already somewhat hard from all the intimacy that led up to this point, but not desperately so, just a calm rerouting of blood flow, an ever present ache that is not as at the forefront of his mind at that passively constant bite of the clip at his nipple. Clark rests a hand on his ribcage, as if to be conscious of his own ability to relieve that pain without giving into the temptation to do so.

The next one gets a soft grunt of discomfort, and also a twitch at his cock. It feels like the kind of minor pain that's meant to be dismissed, like a biting insect brushed away, but instead remains. But, Clark is still. Breathing normal. That both things are deliberate is probably hard to miss, when you're the world's greatest detective.