It's almost too much, which probably means: it is too much, and Bruce Wayne is just too many clicks past normal human to be immediately susceptible. Bruises are already starting to bloom from the earliest moments of hard handling, blanched and tender as all his bloodflow is stubbornly fixed on his cock, and he should be feeling shocky from it. He should be lightheaded and trembling, or at the very least, in too much pain to let any of this continue. Sexual arousal makes everything so much more sensitive. Not like he's dropping into some kind of psychological shelter, no safe envelopment of subspace.

This is not about that. He wants - needs - to be present. To grind all that intensity in between his teeth, or be devoured by it in turn.

And it just feels good. Been ages since he's been fucked, and this is another order of thing entirely from a woman half his size and something silicone, in both sheer physical aliveness and the absolutely unfuckingplayful dynamic.

He's taller than Clark, which means the Kryptonian can stretch out every which way and not have to curb himself. Bruce feels the burn in his extended shoulders, and the compression on his wrists, the strain in his obliques keeping that one leg locked around Clark's body. Because he can't just be fine laying here, he can't just accept, there has to be— he has to—

God, is Clark really not going to touch his fucking cock. Bruce makes a choked sound, louder than he means to, before he can snap his mouth shut to restrain himself.