There are many things more suspicious on the human(oid) body than butts, currently asked-after hands included, but Bruce has that habit of asking about those small things instead of big ones.

(Once in early days, a particularly embarrassing tabloid incident in a hotel - not for him, not really, but for the shame and torment it had brought his date. Alfred's cold rebuke still prickles him now and again, decades later; You may not have any respect for the act but your partners should be treated with dignity. If you were at all a gentleman about it you'd have brought her home, at least.

Should I, do you mind if we, should we—

Manners. For these little personal things. Mind-reading for hitting each other.)

"Mm." Bruce doesn't particularly want to move, either. He leans forward, almost draped over Clark's back except for how he can still hold himself up at such an angle, stroking over his shoulder and closer to show him one hand, palm up. A little reddened, but: "Not as bad as you."

Some of us are used to hitting things without superpowers. Bruce thumbs his chin, playful, before he turns his head and uses his other hand to pick something else up. The tube of aloe. Click, pop. Cold gel, suddenly, on Clark's skin.