No, just me, is always funny, but it goes unvoiced. A hint of it there, in a smug eyebrow quirk, even as Bruce lays there uselessly. And bonelessly (after Clark pulls out! heyyoo). After a few deep, slow breaths, Bruce moves enough to lay on his side, one hand still cuffed, if not actually attached to anything. He raises his escapee hand to Clark's face, stroking over his jaw, holding him, giving him a long look before he tucks in against him. Mmn.

Bruises are already beginning to bloom on his skin, some from deep in the tissue. Mostly noticeably where Clark pinned him down by his arms, but his wrists have some self-inflicted struggle ligature as well, in addition to the various hickeys and finger-marks scattered around his body. He likes them. He likes the inevitable miserable soreness in his inner thighs less - nobody tells you, about getting railed, that it's not actually your asshole that ends up the annoying part, it's where hipbones connect with flesh over and over - but not enough to dislike it, or not have wanted it all wholeheartedly.

Into his skin, he murmurs softly, "I love you."