With Bruce gripping as tight as he does, he can feel each individual finger, the way the muscles within tense and tighten and the shudder that goes through him as Bruce tips over the edge. There are other sensations: slick and warm and friction and scent and musk and a firm, perfect mouth against his own except when words are being whispered into his skin. He takes longer, because it's as much that voice, those words, all of it that send him into white out as it is the pure physical feel of his cock against Bruce. And after the moment of slack weakness, when everything refused to work because every muscle was relaxed with the incredible amount of endorphins flying through his system, he reaches a fluttering hand up into Bruce's hair to tell him a few things back.

Like how good he feels, how loved he is, how his every move is poetry and his every heartbeat music. How his fingers are more elegant than any dancer, and that the weight of his eyes are the sexiest thing he's ever felt in his life. How the line of his nose, broken and twisted as it is, makes him want to trace every line of his features to add just one more memory of his face to Clark's heart. A heart that is full of him and starving for him, all at once. Because to know him was to love him and to love him was to always want more.

All in quiet Kryptonese. All words only for Bruce.

Some needed to be spoken, after all.