Bruce could say: I'll teach you how to shut me up for real. To do exactly what I do. The next time I have you under the light of that manufactured Kryptonian sun, I'll tie you down, and drive you crazy, slowly, over and over. Held in my hands, every heartbeat, every breath in, under my control, until you pass out because everything feels too good and too much and there's nothing left but sleeping it off, perfect and completed.

Could. If he wasn't otherwise occupied.

He keeps steady with one hand on Clark's hip, and moves the other to find the mirror of Clark's own hand. Bruce grabs it, laces their fingers in a tangle that should be awkward given their positioning, but manages not to be.

I like my hands on you, too.

Bruce is not elegant at this, but he has a way about him when he applies himself to anything. All that bat-focus on this one thing, his mouth, and Clark.