The pressure on Bruce's arms lessens, his leg eased back into a less fraught position, but Clark only crowds in closer. He doesn't withdraw, laying random kisses against Bruce's throat and shoulders and face, riding afterglow down a river. For the moment, he's practically forgotten about the deadly heat that had just nearly erupted through his eye sockets.

This next thing may not work, he's aware, but he's willing to try, wants it very much, thinks Bruce might too, if he has the presence of mind to want anything more. Slowly, he rocks his hips again against Bruce, a less frantic, far gentler motion than moments ago. He's still hard inside of him, and he could stay that way if he wanted to. He does, though, err on the side of human comfort.

Still. "I love you," he's murmuring against Bruce's jaw, "I want you," between kisses against his throat, "more of you. I want to keep fucking you."

Clark slides his hands up Bruce's outstretched arms.

"Tell me," lifting his head to look at him, eyes dark, hazy.