There is tension thrummed through Clark's body as Bruce works those points, but not tension. No long-knotted muscles or stiff joints, no scar tissue or even formless sensitive areas made so by wear and tear. Physical perfection can be very hot. It can also be very creepy in a way Clark thankfully hasn't thought too much about, but if he did, would be glad Bruce doesn't think so, what with his own knowledge of anatomy.

"This— ah," as the pinch gets a satisfying physical startle out of the Kryptonian, like the sensory sharpness of that is exaggerated from the deeper, blunter kneading efforts of Bruce's hands up until that moment. Bound hands hover up, rest back down, an exhale like a laugh leaving him.

Turns out, Bruce didn't need to answer the question after all, because it's hard not to think about sex, to be keenly aware of the other man's arousal, and his own, pressed into the sheets. His head bows forwards as Clark feels Bruce murmur against the back of his neck, and he shifts a little in place to make use of that nearness, to press his hips back up against him, to twist a leg to nudge his ankle against the side of Bruce's.

"This is where I joke about if I left the stove on," is slightly breathless both by virtue of all this wriggling but also just lying like this, on his front, arms out, the odd strain of it.