It took a little getting used to, not flinching away from this. To interpret thrashing and bucking for what it is, and what it isn't, i.e., struggle, i.e., stop. Clark holds fast, and doesn't stop. Slows, maybe, where he pushes in deep and holds Bruce through the climax of it, before resuming.

All of it—muscles locking up, spine arcing, guttural needy sounds he hasn't heard before, the hot liquid spatter between them, all of it seems to twist white hot through Clark.

He gets a hand under one of Bruce's legs, pushing it up until he can hook his arm beneath his knee, pushing him down against the bed. (God, he still has to be so careful, but also god, the incremental amount he doesn't have to be as so careful is a space he loves to exist in, for those bright, brilliant moments.)

"Bruce," is raw, out of him, and it's either seconds or minutes of this, of holding Bruce half folded against the bed, one hand locked hard against his leg and the other impossibly gentle on his chest, before Clark comes too, shoving himself off a precipice he's been balancing on for what feels like forever. There's the slightest flash of solar-light that floods out human blue in his eyes, momentary but bright in the dimness, before he flinches his eyes shut and turns his head, a shudder running through him.

He doesn't relax readily, cock still buried deep, hips still making small, borderline involuntary motions as the moment passes. A long sigh out.