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“Arrghh! ” Bruce goes tumbling over himself, flipping backwards onto his feet and landing in a crouch, sliding through the churned-up asphalt until he comes to a stop. His ears are ringing from the blow, the alien still advancing on him. It clicks the pincers that serve as its mouth, saliva dripping off the pointed mandible. Bruce grimaces, pushing to his feet and retreating backwards, considering a strategy.
The creature has segmented limbs, similar to those of an insect. A good blow to what serves as its knees would probably dismember it. Too bad he lost his Bo staff while trying to combat the pods these things arrived in. He could go for the tackle, but that puts him in close range of the pincers. Calculated risk.
He takes it.
Charging forward, he ducks under the strong, swinging, preying mantis-like arms that knocked him back before and throws his body weight into his shoulders, right at the intersection of the alien's lower limbs.
With a wet, crackling pop and an ear-piercing shriek, the alien falls. Bruce rolls through his forward momentum, smearing slimy, mucousy green blood over the front of his armor from the severed legs. Not far from him, the creature writhes and screams, digging its jagged arms into the street, trying to crawl towards him. Bruce darts away out of its reach.
There are more of the things, swarming down the streets of central Metropolis from where the pods landed. The invasion happened quickly—the first pod had barely come to a stop from where it impacted hard, crunching up the street and sidewalks, before more followed. Bruce and the rest of the League were luckily close by, and had spent several minutes trying to dislodge and remove the seemingly harmless but evidently indestructible pods. Then they had opened, and these things crawled out. And promptly began trying to bite people’s heads off.
Bruce touches his comm. “Go for their legs,” he advises, then turns to assess an oncoming group of three. Damn. He could really use his staff about now. The Batarangs won’t generate enough force to take out more than one at a time, if that. He can’t exactly tackle all of them.
Pulling his grappling line from his belt, he skirts around the group that has now locked onto him. These things are fast, but not very agile, he’s assessed. They don’t turn well. Coming at them from the side, he whips the line in a wide arc, wrapping around all three of their legs. He pulls hard, the wire yanking taut. It pulls through two of them completely, but gets caught on the third. The first two go down with more shrieking. The last rears back, and Bruce grunts as the force of it drags him forward. He digs his heels in and throws his weight backwards.
With a sickening crunch, the joints separate. Bruce falls backward as the tension breaks. He quickly gets to his feet and reels the line back in, surveying the battleground. The four he’s incapacitated are frothing at the mouth, dragging themselves around with their arms, and leaving trails of green blood.
“ Help!”
Bruce’s head whips around at the desperate cry. He takes off in a sprint toward the sound, darting through an alley and emerging on another street. There, down a ways, one of the aliens holds a small child squeezed in its razor-like arms, the pincers of its mouth wide and snapping.
He’s running before the Batarang has even left his hand. His aim is true, the point of it piercing the softer shell of one of the insectoid eyes. The creature screams, throwing its head back, and Bruce lunges for its legs.
Snap!
More thick blood pours over him. He twists as he falls, snagging the little girl around the waist, yanking her free of the creature's hold, and tucking her close to his chest as he rolls away. She’s crying loudly, clutching at his cape and burying her head in his shoulder.
He carries her away from the hissing alien, sweeping for more as he runs away from the impact site. It’s quiet. Too quiet.
Bruce grunts as a hard blow catches him in the shoulder. He goes flying, curling himself around the little girl. He hits the ground and skids, breathing hard as he scrambles to his feet and whirls around. An alien is hanging off the side of a building, waving its long arms and clicking rapidly. The little girl in his arms whimpers.
“Shh, it’s gonna be alright,” Bruce consoles her, placing a hand on the back of her head to keep her from looking at the advancing creature. Judging by what he’s seen so far, he can’t outrun it in a straight shot. He’ll have to get creative. “I’ll keep you safe.”
He shifts the girl into one arm to retrieve his grappling line again. Eyeing the angle to the opposite rooftop, he takes the shot.
The line flings them into the air, whooshing past the imposing alien. It’s close—they skim within inches of its reaching arms.
“ Arrhhhg!”
Bruce jerks back abruptly, pain shooting through his foot as something sharp clamps down on his boot with a staggering amount of force. He glances down, still holding the line, dangling. The creature has caught his left foot in its pincers, and the reinforced leather and steel are smoking .
“Heads up,” Barry’s voice crackles in his ear. “Their spit is acidic.”
“You couldn't have said something earlier?” Bruce gripes under his breath, twisting around and kicking the thing in the face with his other foot. It yelps, but doesn’t let go, shaking its head and trying to dislodge him.
Flexing his free ankle, he slides the blade out of the toe of his boot, and kicks it hard into the creature's eye. It opens its pincers to scream, and Bruce uses its face as a launching pad, letting the grappling line zip them away to the top of the building.
His left foot is pretty well protected, but even still, he can feel the burning as the acid works its way through his boot. And he’s limping—pretty sure something is broken. Still, he hurries to the opposite edge of the rooftop, aiming at a taller building and swinging them further away.
When he stumbles onto that roof, he hooks the grappling line into his belt and touches his comm. “I’ve got a civilian that needs further extraction,” he barks into the receiver. He scans the building around him. “The northeast corner of twenty-third and Grand.” He hesitates. Swallows his pride. “I’m compromised.”
There’s a gust of wind, and then Clark is there, touching down on the stone with a concerned look pinching those thick brows together. Bruce glares at him.
“Are you okay?” Is the first thing out of his mouth.
“Get her to safety,” Bruce says, handing over the little girl.
Clark takes her gingerly, one broad palm on her back as she sniffles and cries against his chest. His blue eyes flick up and down Bruce’s body, stopping at his foot, which is still smoking. “ Jesus , B—Batman. We need to get you out of that boot.”
“I’ll handle it,” Bruce growls. “Now go. And don’t come back for me,” he threatens as Clark takes one step off the edge of the roof. “Finish the mission.”
He watches as Clark wavers. In his arms, the little girl lets out a sob. The focus that clears Clark’s features is almost fascinating. He spares one more glance at Bruce, but Bruce can see he’s already back in the game, probably listening for anyone missing a child. And then he’s gone.
Sighing, Bruce sets to work on getting his boot off without touching the sizzling acid. He manages to get the latches undone without contamination, and then braces his clean foot on the heel of his boot and wrenches it off. He grits his teeth as the abrupt movement grinds the bones of his foot against each other. Definitely broken.
Small holes in his sock are smoking, so he peels that off too. Luckily, none of the acid has reached his skin. His boot is in a sorry state, though, and his foot is already bruising, a deep, angry purple spreading across the top and sides. He shifts his weight on it experimentally. It’s a lot more painful without the stabilization of the boot, but not so much that he couldn’t handle it.
He looks south, where the pods had landed and released the aliens. He’s fought with worse than a broken foot before. He’s going back in.
His comm crackles just as he’s getting ready to grapple across the street. It’s Diana’s voice. “Batman, Flash, stay where you are. Hold the perimeter. We have it contained near the impact site, but there may be stragglers. And be careful—that spit is also venomous.”
Bruce glances at his dissolving boot. Yeah. Real lucky.
Clark is going to be a nightmare about this.
*******
“Bruce, just, let me look, please.”
Bruce covers Clark’s hands with his own, where they’re resting at his waist, pushing them away. “I’m fine , Clark. It’s just a break. There was no contact with the venom.”
Clark is looking at him with that glaze in his eyes that means he’s using his X-ray vision. Bruce fits his bare palm over Clark’s face, his gloves and gauntlets already discarded. “Stop it.”
“I can still see through your hand,” Clark reminds him.
“Then stop,” Bruce commands, a hint of growl coming into his voice.
His cowl is off, but he’s still in the suit, the armor heavy and secure across his body. He keeps most of his weight in his right foot, but pretends he’s not, to keep Clark from worrying. Well, worrying more.
They’re in the small bathroom of Clark’s apartment, because Clark insisted they both rinse the blood off their costumes just in case, even though it showed no signs of sharing the same properties as the spit. So here he is, both of them dripping all over the floor, still dressed in their suits. Minus one boot.
Clark takes his hand and pulls it away from his eyes, but doesn’t let go. The look on his face is one of admonishing disbelief. “Two of your metatarsals are broken, one in multiple places! You need medical attention!”
Bruce closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “Clark, please. Not now. I’ll be okay for a while longer, and then Alfred will wrap it for me. Alright?”
He opens his eyes, meeting Clark’s earnest, near-desperate look. Clark squeezes his fingers, bringing their hands up to kiss the back of Bruce’s palm. Bruce keeps his expression neutral, breathing evenly.
“Let me wrap it. Please.”
Bruce raises his brows.
“It probably won’t be as good as Alfred’s,” Clark demurs. “But I did learn how to wrap breaks when I was younger.”
A hint of a smile tugs at Bruce’s lips. “My little Boy Scout,” he teases softly.
With his free hand, Clark salutes him with two fingers, smiling softly as well. Then that smile melts into something tender and serious, and he searches Bruce’s face, rubbing his thumb along Bruce’s knuckles. “Please.”
Worn down, Bruce nods his assent. He observes as Clark lets his hand drop, fingers tickling along Bruce’s ribs to find the hidden latches in his armor. He pops them deftly, shifting the heavy Kevlar up and away from Bruce’s body. The arm plates come next, each part carefully removed and set aside, leaving him in the thin, long-sleeved undershirt. It’s almost cold without all his gear on, and Bruce suppresses a shiver, deliberately keeping his arms relaxed at his sides once Clark has released them.
His breathing ticks up slightly when Clark sinks slowly to his knees, eyes locked on Bruce’s own. He gazes up at him unwaveringly as he undoes the armor covering Bruce’s thighs, his knees, his shins. Finally, he gingerly pulls Bruce’s remaining boot off, careful not to let Bruce put too much weight on his injured foot, and sets it off to the side with the rest.
Bruce is left in his shirt and leggings, one sock still on. He watches with half-lidded eyes as Clark smooths his large, hot palms up Bruce’s thighs, from his knees to his hips, a trail of teasing warmth. His mouth drops open slightly in surprise when Clark’s hands close firmly around his hips and hoist him up as Clark stands, setting him down against the bathroom counter.
“Stay right here for a minute,” he says quietly, their faces close together.
Bruce meets his eyes, startlingly blue and clear, framed by thick lashes. His black hair is drying in curls across his forehead, enticing Bruce to run his hands through it. Clark closes his eyes when he does, leaning into the touch. Bruce rakes his fingers through the curls, then lets one hand drift to the emblem on Clark’s chest. He presses at it, a sequence he’s watched Clark complete countless times. The suit shivers, then retracts into the shield. The cape flutters to the ground, and Bruce keeps the emblem pressed against Clark’s bare chest.
Sighing lowly, Clark tips their foreheads together, their noses brushing. Standing in just his boxer briefs, it’s an impressive display of bare skin for Bruce to roam his eyes over. Beneath his hand, the shield shrinks until it’s a small pendant, a gold chain snaking out from the top. Tilting back, Bruce holds it in his palm, looking at it consideringly. Then he lifts the chain and settles it over Clark’s head, pressing it against his heart.
Clark smiles at him, then kisses his cheek, a soft brush of lips against his skin. Bruce’s hand falls away as Clark steps back, opening the cupboard and returning with a first aid kit.
“You keep a first aid kit in your apartment?” Bruce asks skeptically.
“I have human friends, you know,” Clark snarks back. “And sometimes they get injured.” He looks pointedly down at Bruce’s swollen foot.
“You have friends?”
“Shut up,” Clark says with a smile, once again taking a knee at Bruce’s feet. Bruce holds still, watching as Clark pops the kit open on the tile floor and takes out a roll of white bandages. Gently, he cups Bruce’s heel and brings his left foot forward, setting it on his muscular thigh. His fingers tenderly skim over the purple, bruised skin, and Bruce can tell he’s scanning him again, checking the alignment of the bones. He startles a bit when Clark leans down and presses the softest of kisses to the top of his foot, right where the bruising is worst.
Bruce leans on his hands on the edge of the counter, eyes sweeping over Clark as the other man starts to wrap his foot with a single-minded attentiveness. He looks too broad, kneeling in the small bathroom. He takes up so much space, even when he’s trying to be small. The fluorescent lighting shines on his black hair, making it look almost blue, and makes his skin shine, his muscles rippling with quiet strength. Bruce swallows hard.
Working his way up the arch of Bruce’s foot, Clark’s handiwork is nothing short of perfect. The injury is throbbing, but already the gentle pressure of the bandage is helping alleviate the ache. Clark’s fingers skim over the delicate bone of his ankle, bringing the wrap up a bit before tying it off securely. Bruce carefully flexes his toes.
“Don’t,” Clark chastises, pinching the offending phalanges and looking sharply up at Bruce. Bruce looks coolly back at him, blowing a stray strand of hair out of his eyes. Clark looks so…pretty, even with his scowling eyebrows and the twist in his mouth. Bruce’s heart thrills a little when Clark carefully lets his foot fall back against the cabinets and shifts into both his knees. He stays there, scowling up at Bruce with his hands in his lap.
Bruce takes a deep breath and leans forward further, reaching one hand out to slide his fingers into Clark’s dark curls. The disgruntled expression on Clark’s face slowly melts away as Bruce tightens his grip, pulling back slightly. Bruce knows he could never make Clark do something he doesn’t want to do, so the way he surrenders to Bruce’s grip, lets his head be yanked back and his throat exposed isn’t lost on Bruce. His eyes stay locked on Bruce’s, a soft, open look gracing his features. Bruce flicks his gaze over all of it, the most powerful man in the world knelt at his feet, watching him, waiting.
“Bruce,” he breathes, his palms lightly touching the outside of Bruce’s ankles. “What do you want?”
He lets the quiet stretch between them, just breathing. He releases his tight grip in Clark’s hair, smoothing his fingers through the thick locks. For once in his life, his mind is blank.
“I don’t know,” he finally says, meeting Clark’s eyes once more. Clark’s thumbs are stroking the soft skin in the hollow beneath the jut of his ankle. He roves his gaze over Clark’s bare chest, the width of his shoulders, the soft-looking circles of his nipples. His legs are tucked close together, his white boxer briefs stretched over the thick of his thighs, his hips. Bruce licks his lips. “I want to touch you,” he says finally. “I want you to touch me.”
Clark’s small, boyish smile is radiant, like looking directly at the sun. He tilts his head and juts out his chin, lowering his lashes. “You first.”
Bruce raises one eyebrow. “Clarify.”
Clark huffs an amused sound, shuffling closer and pushing himself up taller on his knees. His hands trail up the back of Bruce’s calves, and he kisses Bruce’s knee over his leggings. “I’m going to touch you first. That okay?”
Bruce's brow creases, his mind flicking through their previous encounters, recognizing a pattern. Clark always tends to Bruce first, pushing aside his own pleasure to focus on Bruce. The thought makes Bruce flush with hot shame. He’d always thought of himself as a generous partner. “You don’t have to—
“I want to,” Clark cuts him off. He kisses Bruce’s other knee, rubs his hands up and down Bruce’s shins. “I like to, okay? There’s nothing more…more satisfying to me than seeing you like that. And to know I did that, I made you feel that good? Bruce, if that’s the only thing I got out of this, it would be enough.”
Bruce bites the inside of his cheek, his heart rate picking up and his embarrassed flush morphing into a different kind of heat, something that pulses lower in his body. Clark’s attention is heady, his blue eyes unwavering on Bruce’s face. There’s an earnestness in his expression that implores Bruce to believe what he’s saying is true. But how could he deserve it? How could he deserve someone as unselfish and devoted as Clark?
“Why?” He whispers.
“Why not?” Clark shrugs, as if it’s that simple. He settles his hands on the tops of Bruce’s thighs, cocking his head with an inviting smile. “Can I take you to bed?”
Bruce gives him a small smile in return, mulling over Clark’s words in his head. “By all means.”
Clark stands fully, and Bruce shifts his weight forward, but before he can get to his feet, he’s being scooped up into Clark’s arms bridal style. His bare skin is hot where it’s pressed up against Bruce’s clothes. “I can walk,” he protests as Clark maneuvers them out of the bathroom and across the small hallway to the bedroom.
“But you shouldn’t,” Clark argues back. Then he sighs, kissing the side of Bruce’s head as he nudges his bedroom door open and walks inside. “I know you’re not fragile. You’ve been through a lot worse. But I can’t stand to see you in pain, not when I can prevent it.”
Bruce is quiet, one hand curled around Clark’s neck. “And if I wanted it? The pain?”
He feels Clark’s sharp intake of breath. “Not like this,” he says with finality, then sets Bruce down on the bed.
Bruce gazes up at him, pushing up onto his hands. He doesn’t understand Clark. ‘Why not’ isn’t good enough for him. He’s got a pretty good approximation of the answer, but this is something Bruce can’t settle for trusting his own conclusions with. The inexplicable draw between them is what brought them together. But there’s got to be something more.
Does he want there to be?
Clark talked about mating. They could create a child, together, a little bit of the two of them. Is that just a fantasy, or could they one day, maybe…? Nearly unconsciously, Bruce touches his stomach, the hard planes of it, and an image flits through his mind, of what it would be like. He’d have to give up the Bat, at least for a while. Could he do that?
Clark’s hands are on his shoulders, the man sitting beside him on the bed, his legs tucked up near Bruce’s hips, and his feet hanging to the floor. He’s looking at Bruce with wide, soft eyes, a little wrinkle between his brows. “Are you alright?”
Bruce lifts his head. “Fine,” he says, deliberately pouting to lure Clark in for a kiss. It works. His foot is throbbing, but he pushes that to the back of his mind, an easy thing to ignore when faced with Clark’s soft, plush lips. Bruce sighs, opening his mouth a little to let Clark in as Clark gets his hands under Bruce’s shirt and quickly draws it over his head. Clark’s tongue slides against his own, licking at the sensitive palate before drawing back. Bruce doesn’t want him to go; chases after him to bring their lips together once more.
Clark cups his neck, his thumb on Bruce’s cheek, and gently parts them, deaf to Bruce’s whining protest. With his other hand at the small of Bruce’s back, he lowers Bruce until he’s lying against the pillows. The hand on his back coaxes his spine into an arch, and Clark bows his head like a supplicant in prayer to press hot, wet kisses to his sternum, his ribs, the top of his belly. Bruce’s hands alight on the top of Clark’s shoulders, and he can’t help the low hum he lets out when Clark drags his tongue along a thick scar that crosses his stomach, his breath trembling.
Fingers slip down his spine and stomach, mirrors to each other, and Bruce gasps, throwing his head back when Clark sucks hard at the hollow of his hip. Heat floods in him, a restlessness, and he needs to touch Clark now.
“I changed my mind,” he says breathlessly, stroking at Clark’s shoulders, trying to urge him away from the spot where he’s dutifully leaving a red-wet mark. “You first.”
Clark rumbles in his chest, detaching from Bruce’s skin with a pop and kissing the blooming bruise chastely. He looks up at Bruce, and his eyes are a thin ring of blue around black. He smiles, and Bruce feels like he’s falling, falling without a wire, falling into the inky black sky.
“Let me prop your foot up first,” Clark says, hands on Bruce’s hips.
“What?”
“You need to elevate it.”
“Clark,” Bruce huffs. “Just—get up here. I’ll prop it up. Please.”
Clark eyes him skeptically.
“ Please. ”
He sees Clark shiver, and then the man is floating up to lie beside him, lying on his side and brushing Bruce’s hair back from his forehead. Bruce puts his hands on his shoulders again, pushing him onto his back. Clark goes, eyes flicking to Bruce’s foot as he rearranges them. Bruce cups his cheek, turns his gaze back toward him.
“I’m going to. Promise.”
“Okay,” Clark nods.
“Now take these off,” he orders, plucking at the waist of Clark’s underwear.
Clark obeys, slipping the fabric down his legs and tossing them onto the floor. Bruce shifts himself slowly until he settles on his stomach between Clark’s spread thighs. He raises both his feet up in the air behind him, quirking an eyebrow at Clark as if daring him to challenge his definition of propping up. Clark does not. He touches the side of Bruce’s face.
“What are you doing?” He asks, confusion coloring his voice.
Bruce kisses his thigh, then the crease of his groin, moving steadily closer to the sheath that Clark’s anatomy is already starting to emerge from. It’s not the first time he’s seen it, this stage that precedes full arousal, but it is the first time he’s been this close up. There’s a musky, earthy smell that he breathes in greedily. “I want to get my mouth on you,” he answers. “We haven’t done that yet.”
Clark sounds pained when he says, “I don’t know what will happen. I’ve never—
“Never?” Bruce questions, eager curiosity licking at his senses. He touches his tongue to the slightly parted folds, and Clark groans, his thighs tensing under Bruce’s hands. The tips of a few tendrils wriggle outwards to meet him, and he cautiously licks at them. “Ow.” The shallow barbs that make them feel sticky to the touch aren’t exactly pleasant against his tongue.
“Bruce, don’t, don’t hurt yourself,” Clark insists, trying to scramble away.
Bruce stays where he is, hands on Clark’s thighs, thinking. “Let them out,” he says. “Then I can suck you.”
Clark shakes his head. “What if they wrap around your head? You’ll suffocate.”
Bruce strokes his fingers along the juncture of Clark’s hips, an idea formulating in his mind. “Then I’ll give them something to do.” He looks devilishly up at Clark, who’s watching him warily. “Trust me.”
Clark’s stomach flexes with his breath. “I do.”
Bruce breathes deeply at the admission, kissing Clark’s thigh once more.
Bringing one hand around, he drags two of his fingers through the opening sheath. Clark’s tentacles react to his touch, sliding out as the primary shaft slowly everts from Clark’s body. The tendrils, flushed pink, wriggle and wind around Bruce’s hand. Bruce coaxes them out further, then shifts his other hand to the front as well, offering up his wrists to the writhing appendages.
He smirks when they do exactly as he wants, wrapping around and around his wrists and drawing his hands tight against Clark’s body, leaving his pulsing dick exposed to the air. Bruce eyes the pink skin hungrily, swallowing and licking his lips.
“How,” Clark starts breathlessly, hips twitching and making his cock sway enticingly. “How did you know they would do that?”
“Lucky guess,” Bruce murmurs lowly. He flexes his fingers, testing the strength of the hold. Not too tight, but tight enough.
Edging forward, he kisses the side of Clark’s shaft open-mouthed, right at the sensitive bulge of the egg pouch. Clark sucks in a breath, going tense at the touch. Bruce hides his pleased smile against hot skin, laving his tongue over the pouch and dragging it up to the tip, to the rounded hole that will stretch wide to let Clark’s egg through. Bruce points his tongue and dips it past the slit. Clark yelps, his hand flying to the back of Bruce’s head and just as quickly darting away.
Bruce swipes his tongue a few more times over the head before drawing back, looking up at Clark. Clark, who is red-faced and gazing at him with a look of amazement, his hands bunched into fists at his sides. Bruce smooths his fingertips over the little skin he can reach, soothing. “You can touch me,” he says, dipping his head to mouth against Clark’s cock once more. “I don’t mind.”
“You sure?” Clark asks, his legs shifting on either side of Bruce. He lifts one hand, hovering over Bruce’s head.
Bruce nods, pinches Clark’s hip. “Yes. I’ll pinch you if I want you to let go.” He pinches him again, just because.
Clark huffs an amused sound. “Okay. Yeah.”
Bruce promptly fits his mouth over the head and slides down the heated shaft.
“ Shit!”
Clark’s hand settles over his head, a gentle touch, not holding him down. Bruce hums and cups the bulge of the egg pouch with his tongue, his jaw stretching wide to accommodate. Clark leaks in his mouth, a thick, slippery slick that forces him to swallow again and again. The taste is both familiar and alien, musky, with a hint of alluring sweetness.
“ Bruce,” Clark moans, voice low and brassy. “Bruce, oh . How are you so perfect?”
Bruce’s chest swells at the praise, and he slowly picks up a rhythm, pulling back and sliding down again, being careful with his teeth as he has to open wider around the egg pouch. It pulses hotly against his tongue, and swallowing the slippery-sweet pre-egg fluid is making him lightheaded and hazy.
“Bruce, Bruce, baby . Oh, oh!” Clark whines, his hips rolling carefully into Bruce’s welcoming mouth. Bruce takes it, wishing Clark would push his head down and hold him there against him. He bobs his head more urgently at the thought, heat coursing through his core. Taking a deep breath through his nose, he slides that little bit further, past the egg pouch, until the head settles in his throat and nearly gags him. Clark is panting above him, and Bruce swallows and swallows, eyes watering.
When his vision starts to swim, he pulls back to breathe shakily, his lips and chin wet with spit and slick. Clark’s fingers are still gentle in his hair, scratching at his scalp. Bruce shudders involuntarily, pressing his hard cock against the mattress and stretching his fingers out, pulling slightly at the tendrils. They hold him fast, a few of their ends tickling at his palms. He lets his head drop against the soft skin of Clark’s inner thigh, kisses him there lazily.
Clark’s big hand strokes through his hair, traces a thumb down his cheek. “This—you’re amazing, baby. You’re making me feel so good, I can’t even—like—uhhhh I can’t form the words,” Clark says, voice ragged and shot through with pleasure.
Bruce whines softly, nudging at Clark’s hand with his head and giving soft, kitten licks to the tip of his cock. Clark trembles, his fingers tightening in Bruce’s hair. Yes. Bruce hums his approval, puckering his lips over the tip and suckling at the sticky fluid there. He dips his tongue inside again, heart racing at the sounds it pulls out of Clark, the pressure on his skull keeping him still. He licks and sucks at the twitching slit, then gulps down his length again.
Clark cries out, a high, startled sound, when Bruce works at the egg pouch with his tongue, massaging it, and swallowing repeatedly when it pushes up against his hard palate. Clark’s thighs squeeze around his shoulders, his tendrils writhing and tightening around Bruce’s wrists. Bruce cups his tongue, feels something shift , and then a flood of slick fills his mouth, and he has to pull back, spluttering and coughing wretchedly. Fluid drips from his open, heaving mouth, smearing sticky along his arms, Clark’s thighs, and the sheets below them.
Clark is twitching and trembling, the muscles in his stomach and legs bunching and releasing as his hips buck up into the open air. The egg has moved slightly, bulging towards the head of his dick. He’s close. In a daze, Bruce tucks the throbbing shaft back into his mouth and focuses on rubbing his tongue relentlessly against the swell of the egg, urging it forward.
“ Uhhhh!! ”
Clark’s hand in his hair yanks hard , trying to pull him off, but Bruce fights against it, feeling the egg slip a little bit more. He drags his tongue up to the tip, where the slit is beginning to stretch, and thrusts inside.
“Bruce, Bruce!” Clark pants urgently, pulling on Bruce’s hair again. “You gotta—stop, you’re gonna choke!”
Bruce swallows greedily over the egg, his mouth forced open wide. He feels it slide forward a bit more under his tongue, a thin stream of pre-egg fluid dripping into his mouth. He moans, digging his fingertips into the skin of Clark’s hips.
He’s yanked off harshly, a gasp falling from his swollen mouth as Clark tugs his head back, straining his neck and forcing him off Clark’s dick. He watches with half-lidded eyes, chest heaving, as Clark uses his other hand to squeeze at his cock. His whole body seems to vibrate, and then the egg pops free of his dick. A long sigh of ecstasy falls from Clark’s lips. He releases Bruce’s hair, his hand gently falling against Bruce’s neck as he continues to tremble through his high.
The egg has fallen against his belly, sliding across the shivering skin to nudge against Bruce’s hand. It’s slimy, a slightly ruddy purple, and hot to the touch when he turns his hand to palm it. It fits neatly there, about the size of a small kiwi. Bruce squeezes it lightly, and it gives a little, the membrane soft and pliable, the inside almost jelly-like.
His brain is trying to keep up with the intake of information, but he feels dizzy and drunk, his limbs heavy and tingling. He lets his cheek fall against Clark’s hip, idly nudging the egg with his fingers. His belly is warm, his leggings too tight against his sensitive, throbbing cock. He wants to come. Lazily, he grinds his hips against the mattress.
A hand slides softly into his hair, petting at the tangled locks. Bruce forces himself to look up, his lids heavy. Clark is gazing back at him, dark hair falling into his flushed face, and smiling like Bruce is the best thing in the world. “Hey baby,” he says, voice quiet.
Bruce leans into his hand, closing his eyes. “Hey,” he answers, just as quietly. He hums. “Was I—was that good?” His words trip out of him, thick like honey.
“You were so good,” Clark says warmly. There’s a touch against his hand, and the tendrils begin to loosen. Bruce whimpers, mourning their loss. “The best. My good boy.”
Bruce shudders at that, rolling his hips against the bed. Clark has freed his hands and is slowly rubbing at his wrists, his palms, combating the tingling sensation that pools there. Bruce can’t keep his head up, lets it fall, kissing sloppily at the base of Clark’s dick.
“C’mere, baby.” Clark’s hands close around his upper arms, urging him up towards the head of the bed and turning him over onto his back. Bruce stretches his arms over his head and closes his eyes as those warm hands trail over his shoulders, down his chest and belly, tucking into his leggings and beginning to draw them off. He just lies there and lets it happen, not even stopping to wonder what Clark has done with the egg. His dick slaps wetly against his belly once Clark has gotten his leggings down his thighs, and Bruce hisses when Clark pauses to stroke at it once, twice, before letting go.
Clark carefully extricates Bruce’s broken foot from the last of his clothing, and Bruce cracks his eyes open to watch as Clark piles up a few pillows and gingerly sets his ankle on them. Bruce smiles, pressing his face into his arm and huffing lightly. “M’ boy scout,” he mumbles.
Clark kisses the ankle of his uninjured foot, bracing Bruce’s leg in the air and grinning shyly at him. Bruce sighs when Clark’s mouth trails up his calf, his lips finding the soft inside of his knee and pausing to suck. He moans, legs twitching and cock blurting out sticky precome against the short hairs on his belly. He wants Clark to touch him.
“Clark,” he calls, shifting his hips. Clark continues to suck at his skin, moving up from his knee to the tender expanse of his inner thigh. Bruce whimpers, tears prickling in his eyes. “ Clark. ”
“Shh, shh, almost,” Clark whispers. He smooths one hand over Bruce’s stomach, his wrist bumping against the angry red head of his dick. Bruce arches his back, letting out a soft cry when Clakr’s mouth finds a particularly sensitive spot.
Bruce’s breath comes short and fast. “ Please ,” he whimpers. “Please, please, please, please .”
At the first touch of Clark’s tongue against the underside of his cock, Bruce comes. Tears spill over his cheeks as he spurts hot and wet against his belly. “Good boy,” Clark murmurs, and Bruce sobs, his limbs shaking and his ears ringing. Clark’s hands rub soothingly at his sides, working him through the come-down.
“That’s it, that’s it,” Clark says, voice even, with an unmistakable note of pride coloring his tone. “That was amazing, Bruce, you have no idea. Oh, baby, you were so good.”
Bruce throws his head to one side, breathing hard as tears continue to leak down the side of his face, wetting his hair. Clark’s voice is like a balm, his palms warm. Bruce whimpers when they leave his body, but then Clark is covering him with his own, and the tremors that were wracking Bruce’s frame settle with the comforting pressure.
Clark kisses his face, wiping his tears away. He brings their lips together, the touch lingering. When he pulls back, his eyes search Bruce’s face. “Are you okay?”
“ Clark ,” is all Bruce can say, voice wavering. His head is swimming, and everything is so heavy , the world outside the two of them melting away into darkness and stars. He manages to wrap his arms around Clark’s strong back, align their mouth clumsily and suck at Clark’s lower lip.
Clark gentles him, stroking his fingers through Bruce’s hair and kissing him sweetly. “You’re an angel,” he says, like he believes it.
“I love you,” Bruce answers, voice raw.
“ Bruce .” Clark buries his head in Bruce’s neck, kisses him there, again, again. Bruce shivers, clutching Clark tighter. He’s so tired, but he can’t hold this in anymore. It’s filling him up, spilling out of him like liquid gold, staining the space between their bodies, their hearts.
“I love—I love you,” he gasps. His mouth tastes like Clark, and Clark is everywhere, Clark is everything .
“I love you too,” Clark whispers fiercely, and their eyes meet, hazel on blue. “I love you, Bruce. More than anything.”
He’s drunk on pre-egg fluid. He wants to remember this. “Will you tell me again?” He begs. “Tomorrow?”
Clark kisses one cheek, then the other, and finally, his mouth. “I will tell you every day for the rest of forever,” he promises.
Bruce smiles. He tries to fight it, tries to stay awake, but the pull is too much, and he feels safe and warm, pressed beneath Clark’s body. He clutches Clark close to him and drifts off to sleep.