Please, says Clark, and Bruce's mind does some strange skip, a scanline error tangled in dark want— which he should be ashamed of, and isn't. He drags his hand up over the other man's spine, steadying, and rakes his fingernails when he pulls it back. Looking up, along the strong, straight line of him, to see the back of his head and the way his arms are bound and torqued up, helping him push up into Bruce's efforts. Please, in more than words.

Bruce had promised him: Every knife edge you want to find, and feel, we'll sink into.

He brings his hand down on Clark's ass again, harder this time. He has enough control and precision to get it exactly on the same spot, amplifying the sensation twofold. He runs the knuckles of his other hand between Clark's legs, brushing up against his balls, not quite anything else, back again to stroke his thumb over his hole and the sticky mess he's made of it. Even his own mouth feels a touch raw with friction. Hard fingers dig into the deepening red mark. His voice is harsh,

"Which do you want more of the most?"