There's no room for a rejoinder. Not even a breathless sounds good. Maybe there's a tinge of a laugh in the breathy moan out, trying to convince himself that touch to his tailbone is relaxing, and then Bruce moves. Clark holds onto bedsheets, some resistance felt through Bruce's hold of him.

Just to feel it, the certainty of that hold. A push forward barely does anything before the next stroke, and that's as much "fight" as Clark is willing to do by the time Bruce's grip tightens, and he fucks him. And whatever pain is there, when it starts to hurt in an almost mundane kind of way, it's much too late to matter, too far gone to want to stop.

There's no where to hide, either, and each sound out of him is raw and desperate and not quiet. Normally he might say something, first, before all his muscles lash tight to bone and bear down, before the orgasm sweeps through him, drains out of him, but he doesn't, it just happens, and after, he feels raw, over-sensitive, like coming only takes care of one minor thing.

The relief will hit after, but for now he still feels wound up on this, riding it out.