That tap and the ensuing grind triggers a ripple of tensing, the start of a groan that gets choked in his throat when Bruce thrusts forward, sharp. The ache in his bones gives Clark the sense they've been doing this for hours, like he's been hard for that long, but desperation doesn't feel urgent, exactly. Like a top just spinning and spinning.

His head dips, bowing, the conflicting urge to thrust backwards or struggle away and neither thing more satisfactory than staying exactly where he is.

An exhale that's not quite a laugh, and he says, "No," breathing out. "Anything you want."

This brand of intensity feels very characteristic, where there's nothing contradictory between Bruce taking the time to contort them so he can kiss Clark's shoulder, and the iron-sure grip pulling him back, the smothering lack of give.