There are definitely spots on his body that whenever Bruce puts his mouth there, they tend to have Clark want to melt into the bed, or wherever they are. High up his neck is one of them, lifting his chin up and aside as teeth set against his earlobe—that, too—and it's enough to distract him, until focus is jerked right back—

And the sound he makes is short and sharp, followed by a more familiar sounding groan as Bruce's fingers pinch back down over sensitised flesh. "God," through gritted teeth—don't say it—as the pins in a row on his thigh all click together and pull and tug, as friction does the same against his cock, slow drags of skin on skin.

Clumsily, he jerks his hips up against Bruce's, one hand clutching to a shoulder and the other having landed further down on his hip, like he might push him away despite everything else he's doing, the way Clark pushes his face against Bruce's face.