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They make it back to Gotham in the twilight hours, blazing orange sunlight bleeding across the horizon. Clark turns his face towards the car window, eyes closed as he soaks it in. He’s relished every moment of sunlight in the last four days, feeling his strength returning to him slowly but surely. It’s like a breath of fresh air after being inside for so long, a cold drink on a hot day. Like kissing Bruce Wayne in the dim light of a motel room, touching him, and more.
Clark looks over at him, sitting in the driver's seat of the inconspicuous truck they’ve been traveling in. Bruce told him he ditched the Batmobile the first day, sending it back to the Cave with the homing beacon. Too risky on a long journey where they needed to travel by daylight. Clark felt bad, taking some unsuspecting person’s car, but Bruce reassured him he had it taken care of. Clark probably doesn’t even want to know how much money Bruce left the guy.
The sunlight puts him in profile now, his hair a soft auburn where it falls loosely in his face. He has one hand on the wheel, the other on the stick. His civilian clothes, a long-sleeved shirt, jacket, and jeans, make him look so normal , the Batman suit carefully folded and hidden beneath the seats. Clark watches his thigh flex as he moves his foot on the gas, the irritated toss of his head to get his hair out of his eyes.
Reaching over, because that’s something he can do now, he brushes Bruce’s hair back, combing his fingers through it until it stays. Bruce doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even look over at Clark, but when Clark lets his hand sweep down to the nape of his neck and squeeze, he sighs softly. Clark’s stomach twists with something unnameable, his chest lighter than air, and he can’t help the smile that spreads over his face.
It’s been a week since Clark was taken, and two days since everything that was building between them reached its peak. And Clark’s been feeling like this ever since. Like that magnetism he’s always felt around Bruce has been dialled up to a hundred, and all he wants to do is touch him, be near him. To just look at him, even. Bruce is just so, so…so Bruce .
They turn onto the road that will take them to Wayne Manor, and Clark feels Bruce relax minutely beneath his hand. Home. He still carries a tension in him, though, always, and Clark’s determined to work it out of him, those coiled muscles tight under his touch. Clark wants to see him as relaxed as he was that night…
The sun sets fully as they pull into the long drive that winds around to the back of the Manor. Hardly any of the lights are on, so the grand house stands tall and dark against the black sky. Clark lets his hand slip from Bruce’s neck, squeezing his shoulder before pulling away to undo his seatbelt. The night is quiet when Bruce shuts the engine down, their breathing the only sound in the cab.
Bruce finally looks at him, dropping the keys into the center console. Clark looks back, his hands in his lap. They itch to touch, where Bruce’s hair has fallen in his face again, the softness of his cheek. Clark wants to kiss him again.
“You’re coming in.”
It’s not a question, but Clark answers anyway. “Of course I am.”
They get out of the truck, Bruce hauling the batsuit from under the seat. Clark steps up to his side as they enter through the side door in the kitchen.
“You hungry?” Bruce asks, flipping the light on.
Clark stops on one side of the giant island, leaning his palms on the cool granite and watching Bruce set the suit on the table, take his jacket off. “I could eat,” he says, not because he’s actually hungry, but because he knows it’s been about seven hours since Bruce had anything to eat. Bruce opens a cupboard, and Clark starts forward. “What can I do?”
Bruce emerges with a skillet, and raises one expressive eyebrow at Clark’s over-eager tone. Clark flushes, but doesn’t look away. Bruce’s eyes flick toward the fridge. “Omelettes okay?”
“Perfect,” Clark answers with a smile, crossing to the fridge and carefully retrieving the carton of eggs. Bruce asks for the shredded cheese and peppers as well, and Clark dutifully gathers each ingredient for him.
He tries to help, but Bruce levels him with a glare and tells him to “Get out of my way,” so Clark sits on one of the barstools and tries not to be obvious about how much he likes watching Bruce cook. He does it with the same focused precision as everything else, cracking the eggs with one hand and chopping the peppers into tiny, even bits. It’s kind of impressive, actually. And a skill Clark didn’t know Bruce possessed. It seems oddly…domestic. The two of them in the kitchen as the world outside falls asleep, Bruce cooking for him because he can, because he wants to. It’s nice.
Bruce must be aware of Clark’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t show it. He’s as unflappable as ever. Though Clark does catch the edge of a smile when he audibly reacts to Bruce flipping the omelet in the air and catching it in the pan.
“Show off,” Clark says with a grin.
Bruce turns his back on him to reach for a plate, and Clark wonders if he’s hiding a smile from him. Clark wishes he wouldn’t. He loves Bruce’s smile.
Sliding the plate over, Bruce gets to work on the second omelet, and Clark finds a fork before Bruce can think to give him one, absent-mindedly pressing a kiss to Bruce’s cheek as he passes him. Bruce twitches at the touch, turning his head just slightly, like he’s going to morph it into a full-on kiss, but Clark dances out of his way and back toward the island. He knows if they start now, they won’t stop, not until their clothes have come off and they’re both sweaty and satisfied. Bruce needs to eat, so Clark will be the responsible one.
But it’s nice. To know that he’s enough to drive Bruce to distraction.
They eat side by side. Clark doesn’t bother to hide a beaming smile when Bruce’s foot nudges against his own, then hooks around his ankle. “Classic move, Wayne,” he says, bumping their shoulders together. “Didn’t take you for an old-fashioned romantic.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Kent,” Bruce says cooly, his sharp eyes meeting Clark’s. The green in them seems to sparkle, drawing Clark in. His gaze flicks from those eyes to that mouth, the almost pout that Clark used to think meant I’m better than you, and we all know it. Now, now he knows it really means I think you’re amusing, but I don’t want to show it. At least, when directed at him, it does. Clark leans his forearm on the countertop, turning himself in towards Bruce, who’s propped on his elbows with his shoulders hunched close to his ears. He pinches the cuff of Bruce’s sleeve, rubs the fabric between his fingers, and listens to the rhythms of Bruce’s body.
His heartbeat is steady, his breathing even. He’s looking at Clark like he’s seeing something new, something that puzzles him, something he can’t stay away from. The weight of that gaze is heady, starting a fire in Clark’s blood.
Their plates are empty.
“Mr. Kent,” Bruce says, and he sounds so official, Clark has to press the back of his wrist to his mouth to keep from laughing.
He struggles to force his expression into something serious, taking his hand away and nodding gravely. “Mr. Wayne?”
Bruce’s heel kicks against his calf lightly. “I believe there’s something you agreed to show me.”
“Oh, is there?” Clark raises his brows, leaning even further into Bruce’s space.
Hazel eyes flick to his mouth, then meet his own, a challenge sparking behind them. “Yes,” he says decisively. “And I want it now.”
Clark cups the back of Bruce’s neck, drawing him closer, until there’s hardly any space between them. Bruce’s breath is warm against his cheek, his heart rate picking up just a smidge. Clark brushes his thumb against the hot skin of Bruce’s throat, his stomach flipping over itself when Bruce’s lashes flutter. “You’re very demanding, Mr. Wayne,” he says softly.
“Do you like that?” Bruce asks, just as quietly, and his tone has lost all its teasing. In fact, it sounds painfully earnest, like he’s not completely sure who Clark wants him to be. That crack in his mask is enough to make Clark’s heart swell in his chest, and he tips forward just that last bit, pressing their mouths together with a soft caress of lips. Bruce’s hand comes up to circle his wrist, holding lightly.
“I like everything about you,” Clark says when he pulls back, catching Bruce’s eye so he knows he means it. “Whatever feels good to you, I like it.”
Bruce searches his face for another moment before nodding sharply. “My room,” he says.
Clark follows behind him in the dark, leaving their plates in the sink and turning the light in the kitchen off. They climb the grand staircase in the center of the house, and Clark keeps one hand on the small of Bruce’s back, even though he’s the one being guided to their destination.
Once inside the doors to Bruce’s rooms, Clark finds himself with his back pushed against the wall and Bruce’s hands in his hair, his mouth hot and insistent against Clark’s. Clark lets out an involuntary moan, winding one arm around Bruce’s shoulders and the other around his waist to draw him tightly against his body. He shudders and swallows the gasp that falls from Bruce’s lips as his half-hard cock pushes up against Clark’s hip.
Bruce nips at his lower lip and Clark jerks, fisting his hand in the back of Bruce’s shirt and drawing him away just a bit. Bruce breathes heavily, hands linking around Clark’s neck. He scratches at the short hairs there, presses his thumb hard against the jugular vein. Bruce leans forward to kiss him again, and Clark makes a low sound against his lips.
“We should—mmm—we should shower.” Bruce captures his mouth again, one hand sliding down to Clark’s chest, groping at his pec. Clark covers his hand with his own, giving in to the urge to arch into the touch. “Bruce.”
“After,” Bruce promises, or maybe demands. “Take your clothes off.” Demands, then.
Clark chuckles, knocking his head back against the wall as a zing of heat floods through his body. “Bruce,” he murmurs, his voice threaded through with desire. He watches Bruce through slitted eyes; the quick rise and fall of his chest, and beneath his clothes, the flexing of his stomach and the staccato beat of his heart. Clark tips forward, cups his palm around Bruce’s cheek, and touches their foreheads together. His other hand squeezes around Bruce’s, tugging it away from his chest and letting it go to reach for the hem of Bruce’s shirt.
“There’s something…I want,” Clark says haltingly, brushing their lips together between the words. He slides his fingers under Bruce’s shirt, skimming over the hot skin of his stomach. “Can you be patient?”
He hears Bruce swallow hard, waits him out as he analyses the situation, the trust he’d be giving up. He doesn’t even know what Clark is asking of him.
“You can say no, anytime,” Clark reminds him.
“I know that,” Bruce answers. Another silence, and a deep breath. Then, “I trust you, Clark.”
Sunshine bursts in his chest, the feeling so much that it almost lifts Clark off his feet. To hear those words, it’s nothing short of a miracle. A gift. And something precious that Clark has to protect.
He smudges his lips against the rise of Bruce’s cheekbone. “It’s nothing crazy, promise.”
Bruce turns his head until their mouths meet, sweeping his tongue over Clark’s lips until he opens to let him in. Clark moans at the contact, the slick slide of their tongues. Bruce lets out a small noise in response, and Clark breaks the kiss to carefully lift the shirt over his head, drawing the sleeves down his toned arms. “You don’t have to hold back,” he whispers, letting Bruce divest him of his own shirt. “Your sounds, I mean. Be as loud or as quiet as you want. I don’t mind.”
“You’re something else, Kent.” Bruce shakes his head slightly, cupping his palms over Clark’s chest and brushing his thumbs over his sensitive nipples. Clark shudders, pressing closer into the touch. He moans quietly when Bruce shifts to pinch the raised buds between his fingers, rubbing back and forth harshly. Clark’s hips twitch forward, grinding against Bruce, shifting until he can get a leg between Bruce’s thighs and both hands on his hips, dragging them closer together.
Bruce is hard against him, hard and hot and pulsing. Clark’s own dick has slid free of his body, the tentacles pushing fruitlessly against the restraints of his pants and underwear. It’s not exactly a comfortable sensation.
Like reading his mind, Bruce’s hands release his nipples and find the button of his pants, shucking them and his underwear off in one go. Bruce steps back as Clark kicks his shoes off, then the rest, and stands naked under Bruce’s scrutiny.
“Beautiful,” Bruce murmurs, hands at the waist of his jeans. “You’re amazing, Clark.” His eyes shift up to meet Clark’s, the tiniest crinkle in the corners that makes Clark smile. Clark crosses the few steps between them, snatching Bruce’s hands away from his waist and replacing them with his own, getting Bruce’s jeans open and slipping one hand inside to cup Bruce’s hard cock. Bruce’s breath hitches nearly imperceptibly.
“Bed?” Clark suggests.
Bruce nods. “Bed.”
Clark gets Bruce out of the rest of his clothes before following him to the massive bed. Bruce walks backward, hand around Clark’s neck to keep their mouths connected.
He looks ethereal when he falls back against the mattress, the bed done up in rich purples that, by contrast, make Bruce’s skin look dusted in gold. He leans back on his hands, his impressive chest on display, and his pink dick tucked in the crease of his thigh, shiny at the tip. Clark sets a knee on one side of his hips, leaning down to kiss him again. He never wants to stop kissing him.
One of Bruce’s hands trails up his arm, the other settling on his hip, once again pressing his thumb hard against the artery there in the hollow. “What do you want?” He asks when they break apart, and he sounds like he’s in a dream, his eyes sleepy.
This , Clark thinks. You, relaxed and vulnerable, just for me .
“Turn on your stomach?” He says.
Bruce does that almost-pout, giving Clark’s dick and writhing tendrils a significant look. Clark smiles indulgently.
“I promise, you’ll get that explanation you wanted.”
Bruce makes a sound that could be a huff, then moves further up the bed and obediently settles on his stomach. Clark watches the rise and fall of his chest, counts out the beats until his heart settles from the thrum of anxiety back into pleasant anticipation. Bruce looks over his shoulder, his eyes smouldering. “Well?”
Clark climbs onto the bed after him, straddling Bruce’s hips and bending to press a kiss to the nape of his neck. “Just relax,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”
Sitting up, he smooths his hands over the wings of Bruce’s shoulder blades, sweeping in large circles and applying gentle pressure. He does this all down Bruce’s back, mapping out the thick, ropy scars that cross over his skin, the thinner ones hidden between them. He trails them with his fingertips, his touch light and grazing. Then he brings his hands back up to Bruce’s shoulders, and digs in with the tips of his fingers.
Bruce makes a choking noise, his body tensing up beneath Clark’s. His hands, previously lying still on the comforter, bunch the fabric into his fists. Clark presses and rubs at the knotted muscle, coaxing it to release. Bruce gives another short gasp, and Clark slowly rolls his hips down against Bruce’s ass. “It’s okay, just relax. Try to breathe.”
“This isn’t exactly,” Bruce says tightly, the breath whooshing out of him when Clark lets up the pressure. “Where I thought this was going.”
Clark smirks, moving to another spot along Bruce’s spine. “We’ll get there.”
Clark works methodically at Bruce’s back, keeping up a slow, torturous grind of his dick against Bruce’s ass. He’s careful about the bruises littering Bruce’s skin, occasionally bending to plant kisses there. The noises Bruce lets out steadily grow in both volume and desperation, until he sounds practically wanton when Clark presses his fingers to either side of his lower spine.
“Ah, ah! Holy…ah, ow, fuck.” He whines, face pressed into the pillows. “Hurts,” he admits, and Clark nearly stops completely in amazement at the confession.
He manages to keep hold of himself. “Feels good though, doesn’t it?”
Bruce just nods silently, his body steadily going pliant as Clark continues to work him over. When Clark has managed to get all of his muscles to release, at least partially, he rubs his palms gently across Bruce’s back, kisses one shoulder, then the other.
Bruce’s ass and thighs are wet with Clark’s slick, the tentacles wrapped loosely around his legs. Clark reaches down to untangle them with one hand, keeping his mouth against the knobs of Bruce’s spine. Bruce is still and quiet, his face tucked into the crook of one elbow.
“Bruce, baby,” Clark says, gently tucking a lock of Bruce’s hair behind his ear. “You with me?”
“Yeah,” Bruce answers wryly, nigh breathless. “You—what have you done to me?”
Clark chuckles, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the length of Bruce’s back as he slowly retreats downward. “Relaxed you, hopefully.” He nudges Bruce’s legs apart to make room for himself, then settles down on his stomach, his hands on Bruce’s asscheeks. His feet hang off the edge of the bed. “And now I’ll hopefully do it some more.”
Bruce’s groan turns into a high, soft keen at the first swipe of Clark’s tongue against his hole. The muscle clenches, but Clark just kneads his asscheeks and rubs his tongue against the furled entrance, licking wet and sloppy. It tastes like himself, where his dick has dripped all over Bruce’s skin. Bruce’s hips make aborted thrusting movements, trying to get more, trying to pull away, but Clark steadies him with his grip, forcing him to lie there and take it.
“Just relax,” he coaxes and goes back to licking Bruce out like his life depends on it.
Slowly but surely, Bruce’s body gives in to the gentle stimulation, growing heavy. He only trembles slightly each time Clark touches his tongue to his softened rim after pulling away. Clark hums against his skin, carefully pointing his tongue and pushing past the loosened entrance.
“ Clark, ” Bruce moans, the sound like music to Clark’s ears, honey sweet and pure. He’s breathless, finally relaxed like Clark wants him to be. Clark licks into him softly, drinking down the sounds Bruce can’t seem to keep in. “ Clark.”
Deftly, Clark gets one hand under Bruce’s hips to cup his cock, dragging it backwards so he can dip his head and lick at the leaking tip for a while. Bruce whimpers quietly, gasping every time Clark returns to his hole to flick his tongue across it, delving inside. Everything is so wet, and Clark’s egg pouch is throbbing, his tendrils wrapping around his own legs, desperate for something to hold onto.
Bruce sighs when Clark sinks the first finger into him, kissing the bruises left on Bruce’s thighs from the last time. His body relaxes even further, welcoming the intrusion readily. Clark lets out a satisfied hum, pumping his finger back and forth. Bruce is loose from his ministrations, his hole hot and silky beneath Clark’s fingers. Clark doesn’t hesitate to add a second when Bruce asks for it.
Drawing in close once more, Clark scissors his fingers apart, leaning in to lick between them. Bruce keens, pushing his hips feebly back into the touch. Clark forces them back down, licking languidly, then pulling back to push his tongue against Bruce’s soft perineum, pressing down with his fingers inside at the same time. Bruce gasps and chokes, trembling in Clark’s hold.
“G’nna come,” he stutters out, voice thin.
Clark hurriedly dips to take the tip of Bruce’s dick into his mouth, slurping at the swollen head and rubbing his fingers harshly against Bruce’s prostate.
“ Oh ,” Bruce moans, the sound almost a sigh, and he gushes into Clark’s mouth. Clark swallows, swirling his tongue over and over the sensitive head, not letting a drop spill. Bruce breathes out shakily, huffing, and goes limp.
Clark presses his smile against the skin of Bruce’s thigh, drawing his fingers out for a moment to gather slick from himself before pressing back in, three this time. Bruce hardly acknowledges it, only making a soft sound and rubbing his face back and forth on the pillows. Clark kisses the dimples on his lower spine, slowly working his fingers in and out of Bruce’s pliant body.
“Bruce.”
Quiet, trembling breaths. Then, “Yes?”
Clark curls his fingers rhythmically, enjoying the way Bruce shivers in overstimulation, his cock slowly filling once more. His eyes move from Bruce’s flushed, stretched rim to the side of his head. He can see that Bruce’s eyes are closed, his mouth slightly open. “How do you want me?”
Buce shifts, stretching his arms over his head and clenching tightly around Clark’s fingers. When he speaks, his voice has that inquisitive edge again. “Which way is best for your demonstration?”
Clark stalls, carefully getting his knees underneath him without pulling his fingers loose from Bruce’s body. “You don’t actually want me to…inside you, right? I don’t. I don’t think I’m ready for that. For a baby.” Their…whatever it is between them is still new and fragile. Even saying it out loud, the possibility of them having a child together, is enough to send anxiety trembling through his chest.
“Clark,” Bruce says. Clark looks up to see Bruce watching him over his shoulder. “I just want you to explain it to me,” he adds softly. “That’s all.”
Clark raises an eyebrow.
“While inside me,” Bruce amends. “I want you to explain it to me while you’re inside me.”
Shaking his head in disbelief, Clark starts pumping his fingers again. Bruce’s dick twitches between his legs, steadily growing redder at the tip. “Knowing things turns you on.”
“Got it in one,” Bruce sighs, the sound turning into a high whine when Clark rubs his fingertips over his prostate once more. “ Please, ” he begs, voice barely above a whisper.
Clark slips his fingers out, moving slowly until his body blankets Bruce’s, his mouth at Bruce’s ear. “You okay to stay like this?”
Bruce nods, turning his head to catch Clark’s lips with his own. The kiss is sweet, softly reassuring. Bruce hums contentedly, pouting when Clark pulls away. Clark kisses that pout quickly, then shifts his legs to spread over Bruce’s, using one hand to guide the tip of his dick against Bruce’s rim.
He watches Bruce’s face with naked adoration as he pushes in. Bruce’s mouth drops open slightly, his eyelids fluttering closed, and his head drooping into the pillows. Clark kisses his cheek, the side of his neck, the sweeping arc of his strong shoulder. Like last time, Bruce’s body is welcoming, hot, and slick, and tight. Clark whines lowly as he presses in, in, in, stopping when he reaches the bulge of his egg pouch. His tendrils have already wrapped around Bruce’s thighs, the spare two stroking lovingly at the bit of his dick accessable to them.
Clark rubs his palm against Bruce’s side, kissing a freckle on the back of his shoulder. “You ready?” He asks.
“Mmhmm,” Bruce hums. Clark nudges the back of his head. “Yes.”
Clark can tell there’s something else. He waits him out.
“Will you hold my hands?” Bruce finally asks.
Clark kisses his cheek. “Anything you want, baby.”
Lacing their fingers together on the mattress, Clark carefully settles his weight, enough for Bruce to feel it but not to hurt him. Bruce sighs beneath him, tilting his hips backward to meet Clark’s. Clark takes his cue, edging his hips forward. Bruce sucks in a breath and holds it at the pressure of the egg pouch against his rim.
“Breathe,” Clark reminds him, squeezing Bruce’s fingers. Bruce breathes out unsteadily, then huffs in another breath. “You’re doing so well.”
He presses in further, his ears ringing with the sound of Bruce’s breathy moans, his whimpers as the bulk of the egg pouch pops through his sensitive rim. Bruce sags beneath him, panting.
Clark litters his shoulders with kisses, slowly sliding in the rest of the way and stilling. “That’s so good, Bruce. You’re so good.”
“It’s so much,” Bruce chokes out. “I thought it would be easier, the second time.”
“I’m sorry,” Clark murmurs.
“No,” Bruce protests with as much energy as he can muster. “I want it.”
Clark can’t help the tender noise that seeps out of him. He blankets Bruce’s body completely with his own, squeezing his hands. “You’re amazing.” He kisses Bruce’s cheek, the shell of his ear, his neck.
“Move,” Bruce demands. And when Clark doesn’t immediately comply, “ please. ”
Clark draws his hips back a little, then pushes forward. “I would have done it,” he says, a smile on his lips.
“Not fast enough,” Bruce snarks back. “Besides. I don’t mind begging. Not when it’s you.”
Clark shudders at that, pressing his hips in deep and starting up a slow, shallow rhythm. Bruce sighs, flexing his hips back to meet Clark’s thrusts. Clark tucks their faces close together, nuzzling Bruce’s cheek. “I can release multiple eggs inside you before fertilizing them,” he begins.
Bruce breathes in sharply, going still as he hones in on Clark’s words. Clark does the work for both of them, angling his thrusts to bump against Bruce’s sweet spot.
“At least three, maybe more. I’ve never tried.”
Bruce whimpers when Clark pulls back further, the width of the egg pouch stretching him wide before Clark tucks it back inside again. He clenches down tightly around Clark’s dick, making Clark’s breath stutter.
“My tendrils will keep us tethered together afterwards, the pre-egg fluid lulling you into a contented languor.”
“ Huhgnn ,” Bruce moans when the two spare tendrils start to prod at his entrance. His thighs shake in the hold of the others, his chest heaving beneath Clark’s. Clark pumps his hips back and forth, driving Bruce’s neglected cock against the covers. Bruce cries out when the tendrils slide inside him, moving slickly against his taut rim.
Clark kisses Bruce’s ear, huffing for breath as the tendrils wind around his egg pouch. “The next part—the next part would be extremely laborious for you. I…I don’t want to hurt you.”
Bruce sighs and shudders beneath him. “Tell me,” he gasps out, cheeks flushed a pretty pink.
“The primary shaft retracts,” Clark says, voice thin. He closes his eyes, resting his forehead against Bruce’s shoulder as his tentacles work at the egg, pushing it further along, bringing him closer to that precipice. Fluid gushes out of the tip of his cock, sticky and hot as it fills Bruce up. “A secondary one takes its place, the fertilizer. Oh, god. ”
His hips stutter forward, pressing as deep as he can as the egg pops free of his dick. He moans long and low, gripping Bruce’s hands in a careful squeeze. Bruce lets out his own moan in answer, a throaty thing that trembles through his whole body.
“ Uh. Uhh. Fuck, Clark . Keep going.”
Clark shakes and sighs, thrusting once more. The head of his dick ruts up against the released egg, nudging it further into Bruce’s body. His blood thrills at the idea, the thought of putting another egg into Bruce fills his mind.
“The fertilizer is responsible for finding a suitable DNA sample and implantation site for the egg,” Clark murmurs, voice rough with pleasure. “It would–it would probably hurt. Cramping. Maybe a sharp pain. The pre-egg fluid is supposed to help dampen that.”
He lets go of Bruce’s hands, ignoring Bruce’s whimper, to roll them onto their sides. He slides his hand down Bruce’s sweaty chest, pausing with his palm resting over the slight swell of Bruce’s stomach. He strokes the skin adoringly, then reaches further down to circle Bruce’s leaking dick in his fist. He tucks his other arm around Bruce’s chest, holding him close. Bruce’s hands come up to grab his forearm, gripping tight while Clark steadily jacks his cock.
Clark kisses Bruce’s neck again, grazes his teeth along the delicate skin. “After that,” he says softly, rubbing his thumb harshly over the tip of Bruce’s dick and listening to him gasp repeatedly. “I’d continue to hold you. And we’d just have to wait to see if it took. Kyptonians don’t tend to have a great success rate, from what I understand.”
“Hence the,” gasp, “multiple deposits,” gasp , “of viable,” gasp , “genetic material.”
“Exactly,” Clark whispers, kissing Bruce’s temple. Inside, his two tendrils wriggle against Bruce’s prostate, helping him along. Clark can feel his egg pouch swelling once more, a second egg sliding into place. He groans, tucking his face against the side of Bruce’s throat.
“Clark, Clark, please, please, please ,” Bruce nearly wails, nails trying to dig into Clark’s arm.
Clark licks at the vein on Bruce’s neck, stroking tightly at his heated shaft. “I’ve got another egg coming,” he says, jerking when his tendrils abruptly double back to start working at the second egg. More fluid gushes out, a tease of release. He understands what Bruce means by it’s so much .
“Oh fuck,” Bruce whimpers lowly as he spills wetly over Clark’s fist, shaking in his arms. “I don’t know if I can,” he starts deliriously, chest heaving, and changes course halfway through the sentence, decisive, “I want you to–yes, another. Yeah, I want that.”
Clark holds Bruce tighter against him. “I don’t deserve you,” he confesses, spreading his palm wide over Bruce’s belly as the second egg slides free of his body and bliss washes over him in a wave.
He shakes himself out of it a moment later, his limbs feeling full of light and air. Bruce is warm in his arms, breathing hard, and squirming. Clark lifts his head slightly, taking stock of Bruce’s body. He opens his mouth to ask if he’s alright, but Bruce beats him to it.
“You gotta—it’s too much, I need you to— move, Clark, please, move them.”
Clark startles at the edge of tears in Bruce’s voice. “Move them? What’s, Bruce what’s wrong? Am I hurting you?” He’s already reaching for the tendrils to disentangle them.
“No!” Bruce all but shouts, covering Clark’s hand with his own. “Don’t go! They’re pressing right on my prostate, fuck , it’s too much, move them, please.”
“O-oh!”
Keeping one hand on Bruce’s belly, Clark shifts his hips back and forth until the eggs slide away from Bruce’s abused prostate, and the other man relaxes in his arms. Clark kisses his hair. “Better?”
Significantly calmer than before, Bruce nods, cuddling back into Clark’s chest. “I’ve got that drunk feeling again.”
Clark rubs his stomach, fingers feeling out the trembling muscle beneath the scarred skin. “You can sleep if you want. I promise to pull out before the fertilizing process starts.”
“I don’t want to sleep,” Bruce says, the words slurring slightly. “I have questions.”
Clark chuckles lightly. “Of course you do. But let me take care of you, okay? Your body wants you to rest.”
“Mmkay,” Bruce breathes. “I’m not going to sleep,” he swears.
“It’d be okay if you did, baby. It’s what the pre-egg fluid is supposed to do to you.”
“One more,” he whispers.
“What?” Clark answers softly.
“I feel so good,” Bruce says sleepily, his eyes mostly closed and his limbs lax against the bed. His head, propped on Clark’s arm, is heavy. “Won’t you give me one more?”
Clark doesn’t give him another egg, his own body settling down into the waiting period between cycles. But he does give him another orgasm, a soft, lazy thing. Bruce is too tired, too affected by the fluid, to hold back his sweet, pleasured sounds. Clark’s chest swells with each one, until he feels so full of this emotion for Bruce that he could burst into a million tiny Clark pieces.
“Mmmm,” Bruce hums, sated and on the edge of the sleep he swore off.
Clark hides his smile in Bruce’s hair. He rubs at Bruce’s chest, the slight distortion of his stomach, bigger than last time. He trails his fingers over the tendrils wrapped around Bruce’s thighs. They’ll bruise more. Clark will have to make sure they heal before they do this again.
“Clark,” Bruce says, his voice barely a whisper, barely a breath.
“Yeah, baby?”
But Bruce is already asleep, breath soft and sure in Clark’s ears.