But it's good though. After, as tension leaks out of his muscles and he half-sprawls on Bruce and barely lifting his head to centre the kiss. Bruce's hand guiding his is an odd shock of relief that cuts through the stupid haze, that as much as he was certain he hadn't done anything to hurt him, it would still be easy for things to slip somewhere too much otherwise.

Clark kisses him more in earnest, grips him in earnest. His palm is slickish, slick enough, lube and sweat, making the going easier on sensitive skin, palm gliding up the length of him, fingers squeezing beneath Bruce's.

"God, Bruce," he sighs when the kiss breaks. You're incredible doesn't get said. Maybe in a second. Clark leans up on an elbow—feeling abnormally gravity bound in this moment, heavy-limbed and slow—so that he might watch, focus returning to blue eyes. Warmth there too, blinked through.