There was no transition from Bruce holding himself up to Clark holding him up, or at least not one that Bruce would feel. Because as Bruce's body went limp in degrees, Clark's hold became more solid. Because Clark was utterly focused on Bruce. Utterly and completely focused on every twitch and sigh and shift. Because Clark needed, needed to do this. Needed to use his hands to give. Needed to know he was someplace safe enough that he could give, with the one person in the world who still made him feel safe.

It wasn't all he needed, though. Not with Bruce's hand around him. Not as Bruce's grip grew less firm and Clark took that hand to press fervent kisses to the palm, to suck the fingers between his lips. Back and forth, sweetness and sex, need and love. Waves in the vast ocean of everything that was between them, the same in function if not form. Another transition between one thrust and the next, but this one could only be so smooth, and certainly not unnoticed.

Clark's hands on his hips holding him, his cock pressing inside, and if Bruce could notice anything, it would probably be that that while Clark might have used half the tube to make sure everything was slick, he'd left him tight enough for Bruce to feel the difference. Clark kissed him as he pushed in, need from two sides, as his hands braced them, held them against the wall. He dropped from the kiss, overwhelmed, and buried his face in Bruce's throat, pulled him into his lungs, and tried not to fly apart just from this.