Anyone else would falter, or run out of energy. Clark is beyond human and so there's no worry of that; instead it's the worry of going too far and too fast, of hurting Bruce through means that exceed mundane concerns. Bruce doesn't feel anything like worry. Not remotely. Clark fucks into him like that and he feels like his body isn't his own anymore— it should terrify him. It doesn't. He tries to watch him, but the sensations crashing over him pull control completely away.

Bruce pushes up so hard against Clark's hands that he's bruising himself. He comes against Clark, between them, choking on a sound that's louder than he usually ever lets out, a flinch going through his whole body. Curling up as much as he can beneath the seemingly permanent weight of him, everything against, against, against. Caught, Held. Safe. He can make that noise, he can thrash against him, he can enjoy this. Because it's Clark.

Fuck, fuck. His brain thinks he says something, but it's just a rasped, deflated sound, trembling beneath the other man.