Bruce knew, beyond all doubt and reason, that sooner or later this was going to tear one or both of them completely apart. There was a not-small chance that it would go beyond ripping and tearing and breaking to complete and utter destruction of the sort that couldn't be recovered from.

Clark's disappearance and supposed death had shown him, quite clearly, that it was too late to guard against that. That they were far past the point when they could separate to protect either one of them, and that any attempt to do so would be self-defeating.

Maybe that meant he was too damaged for full trust, but he was sure as hell not resisting loving and being loved.. He was holding onto Clark and loving him with everything he had. Every move, every sound, the grip of his body around Clark and the hands in the hair and blood in Clark's mouth.

The hand around him drew a long, low, groan out past his teeth, rough from breathlessness and had him twisting against the wall, finding enough leverage to move a bit, just enough for every thrust into his body to drive him into Clark's fist. He closed his eyes tightly, pressed his face into Clark's hair and-

Came.

Messily, near silently, tension and release and relief and love.