Clark's hand goes up to Bruce's, plastering over it. Not an effort to control it, but a grateful clasp for the sake of touching. He wonders if he feels different, to touch. It's a disjointed thought, in the chaotic vacuum of thought, but he can feel his heart hammering and exertion cool on his skin and he thinks he must. But warm, always, burningly.
He hadn't shut up after he'd come and feels the downswing of that almost in rhythm with Bruce's plunge rather than his own. Just breathing, now, deep and relieved. The palm plastered high on his chest has access to that much.
Pressing his fingers between Bruce's, this time when Clark shifts backwards, it's more to use Bruce's strength to balance. Drawing a leg inwards, folding it, a breath of instinct complaint as every muscle protests at literally anything that isn't collapse.
Not yet. Clark drags Bruce's hand up, laying a kiss against the heel of his palm.
It's heady to stay connected like this, everything over-sensitive, exhaustion crashing against adrenaline and euphoric relief. Bruce breathes deep against him, the position miraculously holding itself together despite his lopsided weight and Clark's folding limbs. Bruce controls the collapse down, getting them there, a tangle of body parts. The bed's surface could be on the ceiling for how ordinary it seems.
Does indeed feel like reality's faded away around them.
When he pulls out he keeps a hand pressed against Clark's rear, conscious of the sting of it after such rough treatment. Just staying there, giving him a point of contact instead of immediate abandonment after a sharp withdraw. Sprawled at his back, face against his shoulder, other arm squished beneath him.
There's a complainy sound at the inevitable and necessary point of disconnection, too deep into going boneless on the mattress to muffle it. But it's fine. More than fine, because Bruce is still there, at his back again, only now they really are done rather than balanced on the knife edge of maybe, maybe not.
Good oof. And Clark stays there for several necessary seconds before slowly forcing his limbs to turn himself over and around, feeling heavy and clumsy and awkward compared to the usual ease with which he accomplishes all things. But he faces Bruce and pulls himself in close, not even chasing a post-coitus makeout session when he noses his face against his throat, big dog energy of intruding for the purpose of cuddling.
Once so situated, Clark stays there, hand splayed on Bruce's ribcage. The world is red-lit, sweaty, full of two heart beats, and it can stay that way a little longer.
Clark shuffles over and Bruce wraps his arms around him, letting him tuck in close like a golden retriever wiggling up onto his lap. A sweaty, sticky golden retriever. He presses a very chaste-feeling kiss to the top of his head, and for a long time, is content to leave it at that on the slow spiral down.
When he does move, it's to cradle the back of Clark's head, rub affectionate lines on his scalp through his hair. That he's trusted this way is like no other feeling he's had. After what he's done, but also, simply at all.
Bruce nuzzles against his temple, and murmurs quietly, "I love you."
He always feels it, but sometimes it's too hard to say. He's glad when he's able to.
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He hadn't shut up after he'd come and feels the downswing of that almost in rhythm with Bruce's plunge rather than his own. Just breathing, now, deep and relieved. The palm plastered high on his chest has access to that much.
Pressing his fingers between Bruce's, this time when Clark shifts backwards, it's more to use Bruce's strength to balance. Drawing a leg inwards, folding it, a breath of instinct complaint as every muscle protests at literally anything that isn't collapse.
Not yet. Clark drags Bruce's hand up, laying a kiss against the heel of his palm.
no subject
Does indeed feel like reality's faded away around them.
When he pulls out he keeps a hand pressed against Clark's rear, conscious of the sting of it after such rough treatment. Just staying there, giving him a point of contact instead of immediate abandonment after a sharp withdraw. Sprawled at his back, face against his shoulder, other arm squished beneath him.
Oof. (Good oof.)
no subject
Good oof. And Clark stays there for several necessary seconds before slowly forcing his limbs to turn himself over and around, feeling heavy and clumsy and awkward compared to the usual ease with which he accomplishes all things. But he faces Bruce and pulls himself in close, not even chasing a post-coitus makeout session when he noses his face against his throat, big dog energy of intruding for the purpose of cuddling.
Once so situated, Clark stays there, hand splayed on Bruce's ribcage. The world is red-lit, sweaty, full of two heart beats, and it can stay that way a little longer.
no subject
When he does move, it's to cradle the back of Clark's head, rub affectionate lines on his scalp through his hair. That he's trusted this way is like no other feeling he's had. After what he's done, but also, simply at all.
Bruce nuzzles against his temple, and murmurs quietly, "I love you."
He always feels it, but sometimes it's too hard to say. He's glad when he's able to.