Clark's hands curl into fists as Bruce sets his teeth against his jaw, leaves its mark, or maybe doesn't leave any impression at all, that's how it feels. He hasn't really figured out the threshold, yet, when something might start to bruise, or even bleed, or fade like it was never there. (Years and years ago, his own teeth set into his forearm to smother the noises, and biting harder, and harder, steel on steel, nothing yielding.) His chin tips up as Bruce's mouth goes down his throat.

A breathed out sound when Bruce's hand touches his chest, pressing reddened skin. It's almost a surprise that he doesn't feel the same snag of the now absent pin.

He doesn't say 'okay', or articulate acceptance, affirmation. Clark just keeps his head back to make room for the things Bruce's mouth is doing, but does gently bring his arms back around to hook them around the back of the other man's shoulders. Moving his hips back up against him, somewhere between teasing at Bruce's arousal and firing up his own.