Archive of Our Own

Clark

Clark really hadn’t ever been going to tell him, was the thing. 

Even after Bruce had found out about Clark’s… tentacular little problem (as Bruce now refers to it, because apparently British levels of understatement and nerdy references are how Batman copes with finding out that his teammate is some kind of… space hexacontapus), even after they’d slept together the first time, Clark had really thought he’d be able to keep the most disturbing parts of his biology a secret. He’d somehow foolishly assumed that Bruce would be like Lois, when she found out, and let him mostly share things at his own pace. Even if, with Bruce, for some things, that pace ends up being not at all.

(Which is not to say that Lois isn’t just as relentless and curious as Bruce. Quite the opposite, in fact. Clark has a type. But she is, perhaps, just a bit better at respecting boundaries.

See? Clark can be sarcastic and understated, too.)

And while Clark respects Bruce’s right to know what he’s getting into… Well. He’d long ago decided that his mouth was one thing no one was getting into ever again. So it didn’t matter if Bruce knew or not, and… Look. Bruce's immediate reaction to finding out that a being as powerful as Superman existed had been a big giant murder plot. So maybe Clark wasn’t in a huge hurry for him to find out just how dangerous getting close to a Kryptonian could be. 

But he hadn’t reckoned with Bruce’s insatiable need to understand, to fill in all the puzzle pieces, to make his world make sense. Or the unscrupulous and reckless ways in which he would apply that particular trait. 

Really, it was all one hundred percent Bruce’s idea and initiative that caused it all. Clark was just along for the ride. It wasn’t his fault. 

Right?

Bruce

It wasn’t that Bruce was unsympathetic to Clark’s discomfort with discussing his biology. 

It’s just… Look, was he supposed to just ignore the fact that there was a living and breathing extraterrestrial walking in and out of his house almost every day? That with one cell from Clark’s body, Bruce could upend at least five disciplines of modern science? That Clark knows practically nothing about his own bodily functions and abilities?

No. He couldn’t. Hell, even laying aside the potential lifesaving scientific discoveries that his investigations might uncover, what happens the next time Clark is injured or compromised? They can’t count on having a motherbox laying around to heal him every time. Understanding how he works is an urgent necessity. 

But he did appreciate the reasons behind Clark’s discomfort. Knew that he grew up terrified of being discovered and ending up in a government lab somewhere, or getting pitchforked out of town by terrified villagers. Or possibly both. Bruce doing whatever he could to alleviate that discomfort was the responsible, ethical thing to do. So, when it turned out that the place that Clark found it most easy to probe into his differences was in the bedroom (okay, that was a bad choice of words, but the point stands), well, that wasn’t Bruce’s fault, was it?

(Despite Clark’s insistence, Smallville is not a town, not even a small one. It has less than 1,000 residents, so by definition, it’s a village. Bruce won’t compromise on that.) 

And it’s not like Bruce set out to manipulate Clark with sex. He didn’t fake anything, he’s not a fetishist. Or, well… Anyway, he was attracted to Clark long before the revelation that he's a mass of shapeshifting tentacles masquerading as a humanoid. He wasn’t doing anything he wouldn’t have otherwise chosen to do. 

Hell, he should have gotten a Nobel out of it all.

Clark

“Well, this doesn’t seem that weird.” Bruce stroked a hand along the smooth side of Clark’s left hectocotylus arm, then gently cupped and fingered the tip, sending shivers of sensation throughout Clark’s decentralized nervous system. 

“Really,” Clark said skeptically. (He’s tried to keep his anterior mantle “face-shaped” during most of their encounters—it’s just plain easier when he can communicate with words rather than color changes and sign language. Plus, while Bruce has been remarkably sanguine about everything so far, Clark figures giving him a mostly recognizable face to kiss is the least he can do. And he likes kissing.) 

“Well, it’s an unusual shape, obviously—”

“It’s a tentacle—” 

“I think technically it’s a modified arm, since the suckers are just on the underside, and don’t extend all the way to the end.”

Clark rolled his eyes. Bruce’s eyes widened a bit, and Clark realized he might have wheeled his pupils a bit more dramatically than humans could manage. God, he’s already losing it, just with Bruce’s hand on him. This is why he usually has sex in human form. Being camouflaged provides a physical remove, a control factor. 

“But it’s within the ballpark as far as girth. If anything, on the thin side, but that is not a bad thing. And the shape isn’t dramatically different. Now, the length could definitely be interesting. Do you have the same level of sensation all the way along? How do the suckers change things?”

Bruce hefted the member measuringly, sliding his hand up and down the slightly damp, too-smooth skin. Overcome, Clark groaned and thrust forward involuntarily into the gripping hand. He buried his face in the crook of Bruce’s neck, and all of his limbs flexed convulsively around Bruce’s body, rippling against him. Bruce moaned and his heart rate, already fast, increased further. His hand sped up, rubbing up and down Clark’s hectocotylus, and it stiffened and swelled as the ligula at the end became engorged—not to the same extent that a human penis would, but very noticeably. 

“The suckers, um, they’re less sensitive to touch but they—they can taste,” Clark managed. “And, uh—the tip is the most sensitive, but the whole thing is—it feels different. Than just another arm.” He couldn’t help it, he rearranged Bruce’s limbs, pulling and adjusting until he was splayed beneath Clark’s mantle, legs spread wide and each held down by two tentacles. Once in position, he paused, his whole body heaving, panting through every skin cell, trying to get a grip. Make sure he was still in control. 

(Clark has four tentacles, in addition to a couple dozen arms. It’s perhaps overly tempting to equate them to human legs and arms—there are any number of differences—but the tentacles are longer, stronger, and have fewer fine motor skills than the arms, so the comparison isn’t out of the blue.)

“God, Clark, yes,” Bruce moaned. With his free hand—Clark has the other pinned down—he pulled Clark toward his ass. “Put it in me, already.” 

“Uh—” Clark trembled slightly, realizing that this somehow hadn’t come up yet. “I—I actually have two of them.”

“Really.” Bruce, predictably, looked delighted. Then his expression changed, twisting with uncharacteristic indecision. “Should we do one in my mouth to start, or do you want both in my ass?” 

Bruce

Bruce threw back his head, just barely holding back a scream, overwhelmed in the most delicious of ways. They'd done this several times now, but he still hadn’t gotten used to the intensity of it, the way Clark could and would stimulate every part of his body simultaneously. Couldn’t grasp how Clark could somehow pay independent, detailed attention to thirteen different erogenous zones at the same time. Wasn't accustomed to Clark getting him right up to the knife’s edge and just leaving him there, a quivering mass of sensation.  

Clark’s hectocotyli moved independently within him, twining around each other, slowly working their way in and out, massaging and rubbing his inner walls. After an hour—or more, Bruce had long since lost track of time—Clark had just gotten deep enough that the “regular” part of his mating arms were starting to thrust in, and both of them gasped at the occasional brush of a sucker past Bruce’s most sensitive flesh. 

(They’d extensively discussed the question of protection. Clark and Lois have always used it, it turns out, and it’s not that Bruce is competitive, it’s just that… well, “winning” at a polyamorous relationship is a thing that’s normal to want and possible to achieve, right?

Eventually, Bruce had pointed out that no barrier system is foolproof, especially when dealing with super strength, and if they have to do the testing to make sure Clark's emissions are safe anyway, they might as well take advantage of that.

Apparently Lois had started going without shortly after learning that Bruce was, so at least he has the comfort of knowing that he’s not alone in indulging in moderately unhealthy relationship dynamics.) 

“How… how do I taste?” Bruce panted. 

There wasn’t an answer, and with a heave of effort, Bruce craned his head up, pressing against the mass of arms slipping in and out of his mouth. His lover hissed and pushed him back down, and Bruce moaned to see that Clark was losing hold on his shape, his “face” melting back into the near-featureless, pebbled skin of his natural mantle. Mating patterns, scattered black stripes and spots, flashed on and off across the otherwise mottled grayish-beige surface. 

Bruce glanced down and around, looking for anything else he didn't recognize—he knew Clark was still holding back, being careful with him for some reason. But he couldn’t see anything else beyond a mass of arms twining around his body, flattening him against the mattress, moving in independent, restless patterns, holding his limbs down and apart, open and helpless as Clark—

“Jesus fuck,” Bruce groaned as Clark went deeper than he’d ever had anything inside of him. 

(Although that likely won’t be true much longer, since he’s nearing that age, and why the fuck is he thinking about routine medical testing right now, when Clark is—) 

“Please,” and he whimpered around his mouthful of tendrils, as Clark worked the tip of a third arm in beside the two hectocotyli, pressed it gently but inexorably against Bruce’s prostate. Mortified at the sound that had escaped his lips, he pulled uselessly against the tentacles holding his wrists down, trying desperately to reach his cock. After Bruce’s first orgasm, Clark had carefully avoided it, refusing to let him come again, building him up higher and higher on a mountain of sensation. “Clark, please, just fucking touch me, you bastard.” 

A pulse of red, shot out radially from Clark’s core and contrasting brightly against the light and dark patterns, showed what he thought of that idea. Bruce groaned again, deep and heartfelt, still writhing helplessly against Clark’s inescapable hold. 

Clark began working another arm in, spreading his rim wide, and the hectocotyli were deep enough now that the suckers were everywhere, catching constantly at Bruce’s rim and inner walls. It was overtaking him now, he couldn’t—he couldn’t do anything but feel and there were tears seeping out of the corners of his eyes, his entire body was shaking, this wasn’t—this was supposed to be about Clark, but he—he had reduced Bruce to a weeping, shivering mess. 

There wasn’t even one individual moment of climax—Clark just kept that arm pressed against Bruce’s prostate, vibrating slightly, his hectocotyli thrusting ruthlessly, until Bruce’s cock gave up the fight, spilled over untouched, in a constant dribbling orgasm that echoed through his entire form. Even then, his alien lover didn’t relent, continued to milk him until he was coming dry, seizing up in a full body clench that was almost painful. 

They lay together for a long time after, Clark still curled around and inside Bruce. Bruce couldn’t speak for long minutes, his body shivering with reaction, muscles trembling, the occasional tear still escaping him. Despite his current lack of human features, Clark practically exuded smugness, his arms curling and rippling over Bruce’s limbs with pleased possessiveness. Bruce wasn’t even sure if Clark had come this time (not that it's easy to tell at the best of times—which is yet another thing he hasn't gotten Clark to talk much about). He’d lost track of everything by the end. 

It was unacceptable. 

Clark

“Wait.” Bruce pushed Clark back as he went for the by-now-familiar wrist and ankle holds, having already made short work of getting their clothing off. “I thought we might do something different today.” 

Clark cocked his head, feeling suddenly uncertain, off-kilter. “I thought you liked what we’ve been doing so far…” 

“Oh, absolutely,” Bruce purred, leaning forward for a kiss. Clark returned it eagerly, reassured. “But I don’t want to be selfish. So I was wondering… is penetrative sex a possibility for you? I mean, we’ve done oral—I think? But what about anal? As the receiver, I mean, you’ve already proved yourself excellent at the other way.” Bruce leered.

“Bruce!” Clark lifted his arms off Bruce, twining them around each other and over his body, trying to hide himself in his embarrassment. Bruce chuckled and pulled them aside to stroke his mantle, and Clark couldn’t help but preen under the attention, his arms slowly relaxing and allowing access. 

“Well, pretty much all forms of life we know have some method of waste excretion, and in most that orifice is usually fairly sensitive. Of course, we don’t really know whether it is one way or the other for invertebrates, but—” 

“I mean, yeah, it’s sensitive, but not—”

“Not an orifice?”

“No, it is—I, um.”

“I just want to understand how to help bring you pleasure, Clark. So far most of what we’ve done has seemed to be for me.”

“Bruce, no, I love fucking you, it’s amazing—” 

“Then you can understand why I’d like to return the favor. If you have something I can fuck.” 

Clark’s arms rippled nervously. “I mean… I do have a, uh, I guess you would call it a… siphon.” 

The ubiquitous tablet came out of Bruce’s bedside table. “Hmm. So, does that mean you can shoot ink?”

Clark threw some arms back over his eyes as the squirmy-hot embarrassment returned and grew more intense. “No. But… I can, uh, shoot out anything I’ve ingested. Or breathed in. It’s—that’s how I do the whole ice breath thing.”

Bruce looked him over, and seemed to decide it was time to be merciful and change gears. “Okay—so, sensitive in a good or bad way? As far as physical manipulation?”

“I’ve never tried—”

“Well, nothing ventured…” 

(Manipulation of Clark’s siphon is very not sexy, as it turns out. It’s a small and not very stretchy hole, and penetrating it feels very like how humans describe sticking a finger up their nose.)

Bruce

“I’m so sorry.” Clark’s mantle was a dull, unmitigated gray with unhappiness, and Bruce felt horrible. This was what came of his hubris, his inability to let someone else have the power for once. He gathered his lover’s scattered limbs and core mass into his lap and petted him gently, making sure each of the tentacles and most of the arms got its fair share. 

“Clark, it’s fine, I’m not even bruised. I’m sorry I didn’t realize you weren’t enjoying it!” Bruce castigated himself. It isn’t like Clark is hard to read—he’s literally color coded, for god’s sake. It had just been so tight, the siphon hot and wet and gripping him firmly, and Clark’s arms and tentacles writhing around him, and he’d shut his eyes, just for a second, he’d thought, and thrust and—and Clark had had to throw him halfway across the room. 

“It just… I didn’t realize how much I use it to expel air I’m taking in. I also respire out through my skin, but not as much as I thought, I think. It felt like… I could breathe in, but it wouldn’t go out. I just… I panicked! I’m sorry!” 

“Clark, it’s okay, you did the right thing. We just need to work on making sure you say something earlier, as soon as it’s not feeling good for you.”

Clark’s color began fading back into his usual splotches, and his arms shriveled back, curled around the top of his mantle, hiding his face. Bruce sighed with relief. Embarrassment, he’d learned how to deal with. 

“I couldn’t say anything. You were in my siphon!” 

“I was—wait. You talk through the siphon?”

“Oh. Um. Yeah. It’s—well, it’s located closer to my eyes, so it’s easier to make it seem like the sound is coming from the right place? And I already expel air from there. The, um, the muscles that close and open it can work similar to a diaphragm. And then I can use the smaller arms as tongue and lips to manipulate the sound.” Clark was back to his normal pattern now, if still a bit pale with shame, and Bruce decided to dare a joke. 

“So, just to be clear. You’re telling me that you literally talk out of your ass?”

Clark

“The other day, you said something about the siphon being located closer to your eyes. Closer than what? You have an actual mouth analog, right? Can you speak from it, too?”

Clark groaned inwardly. He’d really thought that he’d successfully got Bruce off that line of questioning. 

“I—I’m not… Well, it… What does it matter?” He twined an optimistic arm up toward Bruce’s mouth.

Bruce gave him a reproving glance and pushed it away. “Clark. I need to know when you can and can’t speak verbally, so that I can be watching for other types of communication.” 

“Oh. Right.” 

“So, can you talk through your mouth? Or whatever you have.” 

Clark wrestled with himself for a moment. He didn’t want to lie, but—

“I—no. I—not during sex, I can’t—I shouldn’t.” Darn it, that had come out exactly wrong for getting Bruce to drop it. It was just—deceit like this was hard. Until he’d started spending more time in his natural form, he hadn’t realized how much he based his normal masquerades on the shape he was wearing—when he was Superman-shaped, he was Superman and when he was Clark Kent-shaped, he was Clark. It was hard to remember what he was supposed to be, whose story he was supposed to tell, when he was in this in-between state. He aimed his eyes upward. Sure enough, Bruce looked both a little annoyed and very curious. 

“Which one, Clark? Can’t, or shouldn’t?” 

“God, Bruce, will you just leave it?” Bright red, Clark squirmed off the bed and moved rapidly toward the bedroom door, reforming himself into a human-shaped body as he went. 

“Clark, wait! Please, stop—” Bruce grabbed at his arm as he reached the door. Clark let him do that. An unpowered human, no matter how extraordinary, couldn’t possibly have caught him unless he’d allowed it. Why was he letting him do that? Unless… unless the very thought of Bruce touching his mouth, his real mouth… 

Clark slumped against the door frame, hiding his face. “Clark,” Bruce said in a quiet, entreating voice. “Nothing you tell me is going to turn me against you, you know that, right?” 

“It’s not that…” 

“Then what is it?” Bruce cupped his face, applied gentle pressure to turn him until their eyes met. Clark caught his breath at the deep compassion and affection he saw there. Bruce leaned in, kissed him tenderly. 

“Talk to me, baby,” Bruce whispered. “What’s scaring you?”

Clark struggled with himself. There was… there was a reason he didn’t want to explain this. It was just… so hard to remember when Bruce was kissing him like that, light and soft and fast like he couldn’t get enough. When his mind was full of giving kisses like that… 

“I—it’s—my mouth, I can’t—” 

“You can’t speak through your mouth?” The words themselves were curt, interrogatory, relentless. But they were delivered in a soft, coaxing, seductive tone, and Bruce’s hand was thrust between his reformed legs, where Clark kept his hectocotyli tucked up in an imitation of a cock and balls, and his lips were still moving rapidly across what Clark had left of a face, and Clark’s head was swimming. 

“No, I can—” 

“But you shouldn’t.” 

“Not—not when someone is close—” 

“Why not, Clark?” 

“It’s—dangerous. Shouldn’t—mmm.” 

“Why is it dangerous?” 

“P—oh. Um. Poison… I think—?”

Bruce’s hand stilled for a second, then resumed its movement. Clark was having trouble staying upright, his lower body losing cohesion. 

“You produce poison?” 

“Mmmm, my—my saliva—” 

“Hmm, that makes sense—most cephalopods are venomous. Can I get a sample?” 

That question cut through the haze of arousal for a second, and Clark jerked away from the doorframe, stumbled backward. But Bruce was with him, half pushing, half lifting him onto his desk.

“Shhh, sweetheart, it’s okay, I’ll be careful, I promise, you won’t hurt me.” Bruce stroked Clark’s arms and mantle, wrapped Clark’s arms around his body, then knelt in front of the desk and sucked one of Clark’s hectocotyli into his mouth, his tongue swirling mind-bendingly around it. Clark was barely aware of his partner slowly opening a desk drawer and pulling out a test swab, and only then because some of his hypersensitized skin receptors caught a glimpse of it. “Won’t you show me? Please?” 

And… and Clark shouldn’t have, he knew he shouldn’t, but he wanted, his mouth was already wet for it, his beak was aching for touch, to latch on and bite. Slowly, hesitantly, he hitched up his arms, twined some onto Bruce’s head and shoulders for balance, spread them up and apart, until he could reveal the now-gaping, dripping opening on the underside of his mantle, at the base where all the arms and tentacles met. 

Bruce gasped quietly, his heartbeat skyrocketing, his hands fumbling on the testing materials. In hindsight, who knew how much—if any—of Bruce’s reaction was actually desire and how much was fear. Or horror. But in the moment, flooded with hormones, overtaken by biological impulse, all Clark knew was that his mate was kneeling before him, flushed with arousal, mouth open and wet, ready for him. His seed was spurting inside, his hectocotyli already twitching with the need to transfer it to his mate. Instinct took over. 

He squirted.

Bruce

Bruce should have been prepared, should have been ready for it. He should have been fast enough to get out of the way. But the power was making his head swim. Clark was doing this just for him, surrendering despite his clear reservations, clearly intoxicated with arousal, driven just as crazy as he makes Bruce… it got to him. His reaction time was slowed just enough, that even though he threw himself backward as fast as his considerable speed allowed, Clark’s saliva still splattered across his face and neck… and in his mouth, which he’d left open in that idiotic, reckless, unforgivable gasp. 

He landed in a modified crab plank, knees and elbows planted firmly on the stone slab floor. He scuttled backward, then flipped over onto hands and knees, mind already racing ahead. Clark wouldn’t have been so reticent if the venom wasn’t strong enough to impact humans, but this small amount might not be enough to have too bad an effect. Surely, if it could be fatal, Clark wouldn’t have leaned back and let Bruce get that close. 

Unless it had grown stronger, along with his powers, since the last time a human had been exposed to it. Unless Bruce really had gotten him that aroused, that out of his head. Unless his instincts, which always seemed stronger when he was in his natural form, had taken over… 

Okay, so don’t swallow, don’t close his mouth. Gargle and wash it off, first and foremost, a decontamination shower, take some charcoal if he couldn’t keep himself from swallowing. Send Clark for the antivenom supplies in the Cave—an intubation kit for the most likely scenario, coagulants, epinephrine… 

His face was tingling. He managed to get out perhaps half of a curse word, slurred and incoherent, before his lips and tongue were gone, unresponsive. He got less than two feet before his arms collapsed. His legs worked another few seconds, and then they stilled as well. He was limp now, face planted on the stone slab floor. He heard Clark let out an anxious-sounding warble behind him—his voice sounded different. Was it that he was finally speaking through his real mouth, or was the poison affecting Bruce’s hearing, too?

(Bruce had already considered this as a serious possibility, when he speculated on what else Clark might be hiding. The vast majority of cephalopods were venomous, after all, and while there was almost certainly no direct connection between Earth invertebrates and Kryptonians, there were too many similarities, clear signs of convergent evolution, to disregard it entirely. But he never—he didn’t think it would be this fast, had assumed that in the case of accidental exposure he’d have time to explain his precautions, to go for supplies.)

He was unable to move, his entire body limp and unresponsive, utterly and completely helpless as Clark swarmed over him, turned him over, pressed slick arms to his throat and mouth and wrists, checking for pulse and breathing. He focused on not panicking—that was about all he could do. Try to stay calm, at least keep himself from dying by a heart attack. He was still breathing—and that in and of itself was a mystery. There was no venom, no paralytic agent on earth, that could paralyze the face and all the major limbs this fast but not cause respiratory paralysis. Perhaps… something that attacked the spine? But then his face wouldn’t be affected. He hummed experimentally, and although he couldn’t move his lips and tongue to form words, his vocal cords worked well enough to make speechless sounds.

Unless it just hadn’t reached his diaphragm yet, and any moment now, he was going to find himself unable to breathe, slowly suffocating to death while completely, pitilessly conscious of every second of it… 

Calm down. Relax. It was going to be fine. Clark was checking him now, he would call Alfred in a minute. Which would be horrifically embarrassing, yes, but it would hardly be the first time. Alfred knew where all of the antivenom supplies were, they would figure it out, they would fix him. Clark was perfectly capable of monitoring his breathing for a couple of minutes until Alfred arrived. He could do CPR if necessary. Bruce was going to be fine. Clark would take care of him. Clark would—

Clark was taking his clothes off. 

His eyelids still worked (more mysteries, why his eyelids and not his lips? Unless it was just where the venom had splattered. It had to somehow be a dual-action agent—a mild paralytic that penetrated only the surface levels, combined with something that went straight to the spine once it got into his bloodstream), and he blinked rapidly, trying to communicate with morse code. Why, no, Clark, get help. The alien rapidly shredding his clothes took no notice. He whimpered, he moaned, he tried desperately to communicate that Clark should stop, should get Alfred. The arms and tentacles just kept rippling and swirling over his body. He couldn’t even shiver in response. 

Clark lifted himself into a hover over Bruce’s nude body and paused for a moment, rotating slowly around his own center, as if planning the best line of attack. Bruce could see, with pitiless clarity, the maw at the intersection of Clark’s dozens of arms, the beak opening and closing slowly. A single line of saliva dangled from the purplish-brown and white opening, drawing slowly closer to Bruce’s defenseless skin. A thick, whitish, moist object, lined with some kind of tiny thorny teeth, poked out from within the black beak, and oh fuck, that was Clark’s tongue. 

Bruce could do nothing as the beak descended, dragged itself up and down his body from neck to navel, biting down every few inches with lazy, affectionate nips. Nips for a Kryptonian, that was—they hurt like hell, but he didn’t think they were actually tearing into his flesh. Much. The tongue was busy as well, sliding abrasively across Bruce’s skin in the wake of the bites. (It was called a radula when it was serrated like that, his mind unhelpfully reminded him.) Bruce was fairly positive he was bleeding, at this point. He couldn’t tell for sure, his head and neck fully relaxed, stuck in a position that only let him see the ceiling and about forty-five degrees down. 

Couldn’t do anything as Clark finally reached his cock and balls, and plunged in enthusiastically, beak-first. And, well, whatever the venom was doing, either it wasn’t interfering in the sacral plexus, or (more likely) it was somehow blocking voluntary motor functions while allowing pain and other, more pleasant sensations, because he could feel himself harden—even more than he’d already been, because Bruce’s mind was fucked up—as Clark’s mouth swiped up and down his dick. 

Fuck his entire life. What the hell had he done, how much could the universe possibly hate him this much, how utterly screwed was his brain, to bring him to this point, to being paralyzed and mauled by a space octopus and getting off on it. 

Clark managed to fit all of Bruce into his mouth, his beak pushing sharply into Bruce’s mons and balls. Bruce couldn’t help but let out a muffled moan as he was encased in hot wet warmth and squeezed. A second later, he screamed, the sound garbled against frozen lips, as Clark pulled off and his radula swirled agonizingly around Bruce’s cock. 

The pain didn’t seem to have any effect on his erection. It would have been nice if he could have convinced himself that that was because of the venom, too. 

Clark

Clark was lost in pleasure. 

His arms moved in restless, semi-aware patterns across his mate’s loose limbs, and his hectocotyli were full and heavy, already thrust deep into his lover’s mantle cavity, in perfect position to implant his seed. But his main focus was on his beak and radula, moving blissfully across his lover’s skin, feeling and tasting as he went. It was just so good. 

He wanted to draw it out, wanted to prolong the unimaginable ecstasy, but it was too much, he couldn't stand the overstimulation any longer. The flavors were too sharp in his mouth, the sensations too intense. He bit down one last time, the rich taste of mingled blood and sweat exploding in his mouth, and thrust farther into his mate’s mantle cavity, planting his seed as deep as possible, where no other partner could scoop it out. His mate’s muscles convulsed around him, and he shuddered with the pleasure of it as he slowly withdrew, leaving just the tips of his hectocotyli in his lover’s cavity, rubbing to encourage it to close around his seed. He allowed himself to float down and collapse with satiated drowsiness across his lover’s body, still clutching him possessively. 

Reality slowly, painfully, heartbreakingly seeped in. 

He pulled his hectocotyli the rest of the way out of Bruce’s mouth and pushed himself up, reforming arms and legs as he went, his heart pounding with guilt and horror. 

“Oh god, Bruce,” he panted. “Oh god, Bruce, what did I do?” 

Bruce’s heart was beating. His heart was beating, and he was breathing, and his heart rate, while definitely elevated, wasn’t completely outside of his established baselines for an intense sexual encounter. There were red bruises, weals, and abrasions all over his body, marks from Clark’s suckers and radula and beak that made Clark cringe to see them (except for the part of him that preened smugly, and oh god, he was a monster), and Bruce was bleeding very slightly from a couple of them, but they all looked fairly superficial. He was going to be okay. Physically. 

Clark didn’t dare to wonder about Bruce’s emotional or mental wellbeing, not right now. He leaned down over his head. 

“Can you hear me? One blink for yes, two for no.” 

One blink. Thank god. 

“Can you move?”

Two blinks, then an eye roll. Clark melted just a little bit more with relief. 

“Okay, there’s no need to be sarcastic, that was a control question.” 

Bruce started blinking rapidly. 

“Uh—I don’t know what that means. Are you okay?” 

Another eye roll. More rapid blinks. 

“Bruce, I’m sure that means something, but I don’t speak whatever code you’re using. You gotta stick to yes or no.” 

Eye roll. 

“I’m sorry! Look, I don’t know how long it will take the venom to wear off—last time it was about a day, but that was twenty years ago, it might have gotten stronger since then. What—is there anything I can do to help?” 

One blink.

“Okay. Okay. Um—something in this room?"

Two blinks.

“In the Cave?” 

One blink. 

“I should carry you down there?”

Two blinks.

“No? Uh… I don’t think you can tell me what it is with yes and no questions—”

Two blinks. Clark thought hard for a minute. Oh god. He was an idiot. 

“You want me to call someone else to help? Alfred?” 

One blink. A deliberate pause, Bruce’s eyes fixed intently on Clark’s, then another. 

“Right, okay.” 

Relieved of any immediate worry for Bruce’s life, Clark took the time to scramble into his clothes. He paused then, considering, but eventually carried Bruce to the bed and covered him with a sheet rather than dress him, careful to avoid aggravating his injuries. The wounds would need care, and Alfred had undoubtedly seen it all, anyway. 

Listening intently, he tracked Alfred down in the Manor, supervising a construction team rebuilding the west wing. 

This was going to be… such an awkward conversation. But it was no more than he deserved.

“Ah, Mr. Kent. What can I do for you?”

Eyes closed. It was for Bruce, he reminded himself. 

“I—Bruce needs help,” he whispered. “He’s—he’ll be okay, no immediate danger but—you need to come. To the lake house. With, uh—antivenom, or something else. That would stop paralysis. And he has some cuts and bruises.” 

A slow blink. Like butler, like boss, apparently. Not that that was an honest depiction of their relationship, Clark knew, but there was something to be said for brevity and alliteration. 

“Of course, Mr. Kent,” Alfred said smoothly, recovering with astonishing rapidity and grace. “Give me just a moment.”

The older man gave a couple of quick orders to the work crew, then led Clark to the Cave, taking the Manor entrance that had been the first thing Bruce had rebuilt. 

“Do you mind if I take a sample to test for the antivenom,” Alfred said conversationally. It wasn't a question, despite how it was phrased. 

Clark furrowed his brow. It had occurred to him that he could lie, say that the injuries and paralysis were from fighting some kind of new monster, but he’d dismissed the temptation. He hoped. He’d been looking forward to the inevitable confession with a kind of sick dread, taking his deserved punishment. But… Alfred’s question seemed to imply that he knew. How could he…?

Alfred glanced back at him as he stopped to lay his hand on the doorplate to get access to the main Cave. “My apologies if I overstepped, Mr. Kent. Master Wayne rarely manages to successfully keep things hidden from me. The change in your relationship, and the nature of the prophylactic supplies he laid in, were unmistakable.”

Clark felt a slight stirring of anger disrupt the morass of guilt, shame, and self-hatred he’d been wallowing in. He’d thought Bruce was just reacting in the moment, following his curiosity. That he couldn’t possibly have suspected what he was risking, what he was pushing Clark to do. But—if he’d known…  

He let Alfred take a sample—whatever else was going on, Clark obviously still had to help fix what he’d done. At the butler’s request, he ran back up to the lake house, carried Bruce’s prone form down the stairs to the Cave, and helped Alfred work up a profile—the butler berating his charge all the while—and dress his wounds. 

Four hours later, Bruce finally started twitching his fingers as the fourth antiparalytic concoction that Alfred had formulated had an effect. Clark quietly let himself out the back door. 

Bruce

“Mr. Wayne?”

“Yes, Therese?” 

“There’s a Ms. Lane here to see you. I—she doesn’t have an appointment, sir, but she said you’d make time for her. She seemed very certain, but I can—”

Bruce sighed. “It’s fine, Therese, send her in.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” 

He hadn’t been wrong. He hadn’t. Clark couldn’t expect to suit up as a hero, as the savior of earth, as its frontline protector, without knowing or sharing the basic 101 details of his biology. Here he’d been, swanning around with venomous saliva, not telling anyone—for all he knew, he might be leaving microdoses everywhere he went! And he certainly hadn’t figured out how to use it offensively. Hell if Bruce was going to apologize for pushing Clark to protect people better!

Lois smiled sympathetically at him as she walked in. Reached out to shake his hand as he stood to greet her. And then slapped him hard across the face. 

He rocked with it, stepping hard on his temper. 

“You fucking bastard. How dare you?” 

“Lois—” 

“Do you know how many people he’s shared that with? Do you know how many people he’s truly trusted?” 

“Until you walked in here, I wasn’t sure if there was more than one. Or did he only tell you to tattle on me?” 

She slapped him again, in the same place, with no subterfuge this time. She’d probably expected him to block it. He let it land. He’d earned that one. 

“After everything—you tried to murder him, you got him killed, and he forgave you. Forgave you enough to fall for you. And you couldn’t take that second chance and learn from it. No, you had to break him all over again, with your ‘the ends justify the means’ bullshit.”

Bruce sat down heavily. “Jesus, Lane. You go right for the jugular, don’t you?”

“He’s been crying in my arms for days—when he’ll come near me at all—so no, I’m not pulling my fucking punches.” 

“I—I didn’t know, I thought he was just shy—” 

“That’s why you talk about things instead of manipulating people, why you look for enthusiastic consent instead of refusing to give someone the space to say no, you… you walnut. So you don’t accidentally punch someone right in their trauma! Did you never learn to be a person?” 

Bruce passed a hand shakily across his eyes. “No. I never did, I’m afraid.” 

Lois crossed her arms. “Don’t even think about trying to make me feel sorry for you.” 

“Look, what do you want from me?” Bruce asked, crossing his arms. “I haven’t tried to get him to forgive me, and I don’t intend to. I’m out of the picture, okay?” 

Lois squinted at him. “What?”

Bruce lifted his right shoulder. “It’s obviously smart of him not to want anything else to do with me. We’ll need to interact occasionally for the League, of course, but apart from that, I can give him a clean break.” 

“Bruce.” Lois massaged her forehead. “You moron. You utter nincompoop. You self-hating, self-involved, self-deluding jackass.” 

Bruce sighed. “I don’t disagree, but do you have a particular point to make besides berating me?” 

“You think he’s mad at you. That he’s breaking up with you because he’s angry.” 

Bruce frowned at her, completely lost. “Are you saying he’s not angry?” 

“Oh, sure,” Lois admitted. “Enough to paint a clear enough picture of what happened that I’m furious. But mainly, he’s wallowing in guilt.” 

“What? It wasn’t his fault.” 

“Yeah? Well, that’s a surprise, because according to Clark, he sexually assaulted you. If he could figure out how to explain it, I think he would have turned himself into the cops by now. I’ve been talking him down all week.” 

Bruce’s chair went flying backward as he leapt to his feet. “What?!”  

Clark

Clark stared out at the beautiful Metropolis skyline. From his favorite pylon on the Metro-Narrows bridge, you couldn’t see any of the ugliness or evil, nothing but the bright lights and soaring towers.

But that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. 

Batman landed behind him with a soft thump and light susurrus as his cape swept across the steel. 

“I’m only listening because Lois made me,” Clark said. He groaned inwardly at how petulant-sounding it had come out, like a five-year-old boy doing something because his mother had forced him to. 

Fortunately, Bruce didn’t take the bait. “I’m glad,” he said simply, walking slowly forward to stare out at the city, shoulder-to-shoulder with Clark. Under the cowl, he looked tired, the bags under his eyes deeper and grayer than usual. Clark hated that he knew what Bruce’s face normally looked like. He hated that he still cared. 

“Well, all I agreed to do was listen, so you’d better start talking.” 

Bruce nodded slowly. “I’m sorry.” 

Clark waited. Bruce didn’t say anything else, just looked him steadily in the eyes. 

“That’s all?” Clark demanded, disbelieving. He’d… he’d prepped himself for Bruce’s slick rhetoric, for him to somehow take all the blame onto himself, and then excuse it away with a hundred reasonable-sounding justifications. Turn white into black and vice versa. Talk and talk until suddenly, without knowing quite how it happened, Clark was doing things he’d never, ever do. 

Bruce walked forward, his gaze level and steady, his dark eyes clear and transparent for once. “It’s all that matters,” he said simply. “I broke your trust, and my reasons, my excuses, aren’t relevant.” 

Clark looked at Bruce. Bruce looked back at him like he was slowly bleeding out. Clark sighed. He felt his anger slowly run out, like someone had pulled a plug. Drain away until there was nothing left. 

“Dammit, Bruce,” he said. He sat down at the edge of the pylon, letting his legs dangle into empty air. A second later, Bruce joined him. 

“Lois said you were blaming yourself,” Bruce said. 

“I can do both,” Clark snapped. “I contain multitudes.”

Clark winced as soon as the words had come out of his mouth. He kept his face stubbornly forward, staring out at the city, until a weird clicking sound broke through his resolve. He turned his head and saw that Bruce was desperately trying to smother paroxysms of mirth, so violent that his vocal cords were spasming with his efforts to remain silent. 

“Oh, fuck you.” Clark griped. 

“I’m—sorry—” Bruce gasped. “I just—” he cleared his throat and wiped his streaming eyes, regaining his composure. “Contain multitudes…” 

Clark crossed his arms over his chest, debating whether he could just leave at this point. He’d given it the old college try. Bruce clearly didn’t care all that much. Lois had probably threatened him with an exposé or something to even get him to come.  

“I’m sorry,” Bruce apologized again, once he'd gotten himself under control. “Seriously, Clark, I just—I’m relieved. I came here expecting to have to talk you down from the ledge.” 

Clark snorted. “I would never do that to my parents or Lois—let alone everyone else on earth who depends on me.” 

“You’re a better man than I am,” Bruce said softly.  

“I’m not so sure about that,” Clark replied, staring down at his knees. 

“Clark,” Bruce said, sounding genuinely alarmed, “You can’t let this take away all the good you’ve done.” 

“You can’t say that, like this was some kind of well-meaning accident, Bruce!” Clark yelled. “Not when I—when I—”

“You did what I provoked you into,” Bruce insisted. “I manipulated you into a place where your instincts took over. Clark, it wasn’t your fault.” 

Clark shook his head determinedly. “If I have no control over myself during a sexual situation, I have no business being in a sexual relationship. No matter what you did, I let it happen, when I knew perfectly well what could result. And I didn’t warn you when I damn well should have.”

Bruce sighed. “Okay. You screwed up, too. But you have to give yourself a break, now and then. It’s got to be exhausting, being in control every second of every day, making sure you don’t hurt someone. You deserve to have a space where you can let that go. I promised to give that to you. I pushed you as hard as I could to get you to lose that control, because I wanted to see you without it. You don’t have to feel guilty for giving me what I asked for.” 

And Clark—Clark stopped for a second, because that wasn’t at all what he was expecting. He’d thought—Bruce hadn’t made his interest in Clark’s exobiology a secret or anything. But Clark had hoped, had tremulously believed, that that interest was secondary to Bruce’s feelings for him. Perhaps was even motivated by Bruce’s feelings for him. And the biggest part of what had hurt about this whole thing was being wrong. Was knowing that whatever Bruce’s feelings were, when it came down to it, they hadn’t been as important to him as finding out the truth, as uncovering one more of Clark’s secrets. But now he seemed to be saying—

“What do you mean, you wanted to see me without it?” Clark found himself asking, and marveled at how steady his voice was. “Without what? The mask, the facade? You—you mean you wanted to see the beak, to know about the venom—”

“No,” Bruce said, and it sounded like—like genuine surprise, like defensiveness, in his voice. “I mean, sure, I wanted to see it, I wanted to know. But it was more about—” He scrubbed his hands across his face, and his voice took on a sheepish note. “You were driving me out of my mind, the best sex I’ve ever had in my life, and I didn’t—I couldn’t seem to do that for you. You were always so in control. I wanted—I wanted to see you out of your head with pleasure, wrecked, like you wrecked me.” 

Bruce sounded like he was confessing some vile sin, and Clark supposed he should be angry that Bruce had deliberately set out to make him lose control like that, especially given what resulted. But “best sex in my life” and “you wrecked me” kept replaying in a loop in his head, and he couldn’t stop his lips from curling up. Bruce turned away, but not before Clark saw a small, smug smile appear on his face in return. 

“You’re such an asshole,” Clark said, and shuffled closer so he could bump him playfully, shoulder to shoulder. 

“I’ll never push you like that again,” Bruce promised, and leaned back, pressing their bodies together. “I’ll let you go at your own pace, show me things—or not—as you choose.” 

Clark snorted with laughter. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Bruce.” 

Bruce looked like he’d swallowed a lemon, but he didn’t say anything, just stared out at the black sky. Clark laughed harder. Eventually, however, the slightly hysterical humor waned, and he sighed. 

“It wasn’t that you asked questions that was the problem,” Clark said quietly. “I’ll never mind you pushing me to grow, to be better, to get out of my comfort zone. I want that. It was the manipulation, Bruce. It was using my trust in you against me.” 

Bruce nodded morosely. Clark would never tell him, but he looked hilarious when he did that, the cute little ears on his cowl bobbing up and down.

“I know,” Bruce acknowledged quietly. “I—I was afraid that if you just associated me with uncomfortable questions, you’d never want to spend time with me. I thought—I guess I thought it would be easier for you if I made a game of it.”

“It’s not a game unless both people know what they’re playing, Bruce.” 

Bruce

Bruce took a deep breath before walking into the League’s kitchen.  

“Hey, Clark,” he said, as casually as he could manage. 

“Bruce,” Clark answered with a cool smile. 

Bruce bit back a sigh. Channeling Alfred, he turned on the electric kettle and pulled mugs down from the rack. “Want some tea?” he asked. Then, struck by a sudden thought— “Wait, I didn’t… can you drink? In public, I me—shit. I’m sorry, don’t answer that. I’m not prying.” 

Clark let out a laugh—small, but genuine, and Bruce felt a few clenched muscles between his shoulder blades suddenly release. 

 “It’s fine, Bruce. Yeah, I can mime normal eating fairly well, just like kissing—I just use some of my smaller arms, move the food around under the top layer of arms until it gets to the right place. Chamomile, please.” 

“Ah.” A silence fell as Bruce prepared the tea. It was at least… slightly less awkward than the silence between them had been of late. 

Bruce brought Clark his tea. He sat down at the table catty-corner from Clark, and handed him the hot mug. 

“Thanks,” Clark murmured. Bruce nodded awkwardly. They sat. They sipped their tea. This had been a stupid idea. 

“Bruce,” Clark said suddenly. “Have you been acting like this because you're trying not to ask me any more questions?”

Bruce groped for words for a second, trying to figure out what answer would leave more of his dignity intact. “That's not… the only reason?” he finally ventured. 

Clark buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. Bruce felt his face freeze with alarm, and he hurriedly wrapped an arm around the other man. 

“Wh—Clark. What’s wrong.” 

Clark raised his head, and Bruce realized he was laughing. He thumped back into his own seat, letting out a relieved—it didn’t sound annoyed at all—grunt. 

“Don’t be like that,” Clark said. “I’ve been walking around thinking you were too afraid to look at me. And trying to hide it. Don’t know where I got that idea, it’s not like you have a martyr complex the size of the Grand Canyon or anything.”

“Afraid,” Bruce said, indignant. 

“Oh, don’t give me that. I paralyzed you, Bruce. It’s okay to admit to being afraid, you know.” 

“Hnh,” Bruce managed, not wanting to admit (yet, at least), that fear wasn’t exactly the dominant emotion he felt when thinking about that particular event.

"I mean, I honestly can't believe you can stand to be in the same room as me, after—"

"Clark, no—we've talked about that. It wasn't—"

Bruce shut his mouth as Clark waved his hands in the air, acknowledging the point. 

“Anyway, Bruce, I told you I didn’t mind you asking questions! Go ahead. I know you’ve got to have some stored up by now.”

Bruce paused for a moment, indecisive, but couldn't help himself in the end. “How did you know about the effects of your venom? Has it always been that way? Did it get stronger as you aged? Did—”

“Okay, okay,” Clark laughed. “Hold on. Yes, I was always at least a little venomous—or, at least, Ma always says that it would make her skin tingle, when I was a baby.”

“Were you humanoid when they found you?” Bruce asked, intensely curious. That had been one of the questions he’d found difficult to bring up during sex. 

Clark nodded. “Apparently camouflage is instinctive in my species—and I’m guessing maybe my biological parents did something to encourage it—’cause I looked human for the first year or two. Ma said the first time she saw—them—was when I started escaping my crib at night and climbing in with her and Pa.”

Bruce desperately tried not to let the way his brain melted at that adorable mental picture show on his face. From the look Clark gave him, he’d failed. 

He cleared his throat. “Okay. So it got stronger as you aged.” 

Clark nodded again. “My parents didn’t think much of it when I was a kid—it was just a tingle—but they mostly kept me away from other humans until I’d learned to keep everything under wraps, and of course, by that time I’d also learned that it’s not polite to lick or bite people.” 

“Well, at least not without asking first,” Bruce murmured. 

Clark playfully shoved him. “Right. So it didn’t come up again, until I’d gotten old enough for some consensual licking.” 

“Lana?” Bruce asked, knowing at least this much of Clark’s teenage history. “Or Pete?” 

“Both at the same time,” Clark said. He flashed Bruce a wink and a grin. “I come by my sluttishness honestly.” 

Surprised, Bruce barked out a genuine laugh. 

“Anyway. It wasn’t like I was all that popular in Smallville before—I was Jonathan and Martha’s ‘special’ child, who they didn’t let ‘round normal folk until kindergarten, the kid who was always acting odd and keeping to himself.” 

Bruce winced. And he thought he’d had the monopoly on miserable childhoods. Somehow, he’d always pictured a young Clark, bathed in sunlight, walking through amber waves of grain without a care in the world. Failure of imagination, that. 

“So you can imagine, I was even less so after I’d gotten Lana, their perfect golden girl, involved in some kind of drug-fueled orgy that left her in a coma for a day. Oh, and also that Ross kid, not that anyone cared as much about him. Or at least, that was how they all looked at it.” Clark shrugged awkwardly. “Anyway. That was part of why Pa was so set on me not showing my powers—I was already on notice. It wasn’t long after that, though, that he died, and I moved away.” 

Buying the entire village of Smallville and turning it into an industrial park would not gain Bruce any points with Clark, he reminded himself.

“It wasn’t—like it was with you, though,” Clark said, squirming bashfully. “I don’t know if—well, I’d already, um. Teenage hair trigger, you know? Or maybe it was how I was so afraid at what was going on, or I didn’t have all the adult mating instincts, but. I’ve never completely lost control like that before.” 

(Bruce did not feel smugly aroused at the idea that he, in particular, drove Clark crazy.)

“Look, you weren’t entirely wrong in your approach,” Clark admitted. “I spent a decade and half hiding from myself and my abilities after that double whammy. Ignoring anything I didn’t want to admit was true became a habit. It’s long past time I started learning more about my biology. I’d just like to do it consensually, if you don’t mind.”

“Well,” Bruce said, perking up. “That I can definitely help you with.” 

Clark looked at him, his eyes dark with suspicion. “Oh god,” he said. “You want to experiment, don’t you?”

Clark

“Lois and I have been talking.” 

“Oh no,” Clark said, only half-jokingly. Bruce shoved him playfully in the hip with a socked foot. 

“I’ve analyzed your saliva, and the first good news is that it’s not at all corrosive or acidic, and it’s not porous enough to penetrate through a vinyl or latex barrier.”

Clark pursed his lips. “So, you’re saying—”

“Lois and I already visited a local maker I’ve worked with before, and put in an order for a suit.” 

Clark felt a heady rush as he imagined Lois and Bruce in matching bodysuits, black and—maybe red?—latex clinging to them like second skins, gleaming liquidly in the light, safe and ready for him and—wait. 

“A suit? Don’t you mean two?” 

Bruce shifted uncomfortably. “Well—that’s the other good news.” Clark looked a question at him. “Based on my tests, I’m fairly confident that as long as your venom doesn’t get ingested or enter through an open wound, it will have a much more limited, surface effect. And there don’t appear to be any long-term worries, although of course we have limited longitudinal data…” 

“What are you—” 

“It means I’ll still be able to talk, move around. Well, depending on where you apply it.” Bruce was blushing now, his face pinkly splotchy, and Clark wanted to comment on that, but he was still stuck on—

“You want me to paralyze you again.”

“Well, only partially. To start.” 

“Bruce, I can’t control—” 

“I know. But I think part of that may have just been the newness—you may be able to get a better grasp on yourself with practice—”

“Practice paralyzing you—”

“I liked it!” Bruce blurted out. Clark stilled, staring at him. 

Bruce was all over pink now, almost glowing, but he persevered. “I was a little terrified that I was going to stop breathing at any moment, but it was still… and not just because of getting to see you like that, although I want that, too. I’d like to try it again, now that I know I’m not going to die, and you can bring me out of it at any point.” 

“But what if I don’t?” Clark demanded. “What if you get fully paralyzed again, and you want me to stop, and I’m so lost in instinct that I ignore you? I don’t—I don’t understand how you’re willing to even touch me again, after last time. Much less that you want to put yourself in that position again.”

Bruce sighed. “Well. Lois has offered to be present. Monitor me, make sure I’m okay, and take action if I safeword. But Clark—it wasn’t that bad. Even if I knew it was going to be exactly like last time—I’d want to try it again.”

Clark shook his head, unable to believe it. “But, I could start thinking of her as a rival, or you, I could get out of control—”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen, but I can have some kryptonite on standby if you want, just in case. Give her a panic button.”

“And… and you really want—”

Bruce looked him steadily in the eyes. “I really do. But only if it’s something you want.” 

Clark shuddered all over. As if he hadn’t spent every day since thinking about it, about how good Bruce had tasted, not filtered through his skin receptors but fresh and immediate, the flavor blooming in his mouth. As if he could ever stop wanting it again. 

Bruce

 Okay. Here’s Bruce Wayne. Doing something really stupid. 

Lois looked divine, reclining on the bed in her royal blue bodysuit, tight enough that Bruce could count her ribs, featureless except for the filter over her mouth, the pouch where the latex dipped into her cunt, and the two transparent ovals over her eyes. Despite the near-impossibility of making any kind of expression, she managed to communicate a reciprocal admiration at Bruce’s nude form, looking him up and down lingeringly as he neared the bed. 

Bruce trembled slightly as he joined her. 

“Not too late to back out of this,” Lois murmured to him. 

“Bite your tongue, he’ll hear you,” he whispered back. 

“Did hear you,” Clark said, walking out of the bathroom, and jesus. Even knowing that it’s all a facade, Clark human-shaped and naked was a fucking revelation. Bruce’s mouth watered at the acres of gleaming muscles and perfect skin. Clark walked over, bent over Bruce, holding him down, and his features were just beginning to melt together, and Bruce was shaking openly now, so hungry for it. 

“It’s not too late to back out, Bruce,” Clark said. 

“Oh god, just fucking do it already,” Bruce moaned, tilting his head back in invitation and surrender. 

Clark’s face dissolved into the near-featureless skin of his mantle. A second later, he tilted the mantle back, rested his weight on Bruce’s legs, and folded back his arms and tentacles, spreading them wide to reveal his beak. Lois gasped, and even then, despite it all, Bruce couldn’t help but feel a slight thrill of victory that he had been the first one to see this. 

(Clark and Lois don’t in a million years deserve to be saddled with him and all his issues. But if they don’t realize it, he’s not going to disillusion them.)

Clark’s beak descended tantalizingly slowly, giving him plenty of time to anticipate it. He still wasn’t ready for the first cool, moist touch against his chest, the rasp of the radula as it traced a path—so gently!—across his skin. 

“Yes,” he whispered, arching under it. Next to him, Lois made a sharp, eager sound. 

He was right—without that vital amount of venom actually entering his mouth, the effect was much more limited. Wherever Clark’s mouth traced, his muscles went limp in reaction, but it was scarcely more than skin-deep. He couldn’t twitch his belly under Clark’s wandering beak, but he could still move his torso up to meet him. He traced a hand across Clark’s surface, poked his fingers into that wide mouth, and the fingers went dead, but he could still pull his hand away. 

And it was good, so good, but he already wanted more. 

“Kiss me,” he said. 

Clark flashed red, then green, then red again, and Bruce chuckled. “I mean it. I want it. Kiss me.”  

Clark rippled in indecision, aimed three eyes over at Lois, bobbing confusedly, while keeping the rest on Bruce. 

(Bruce will never tell him, but—he’s awfully cute like this.)

“Go ahead, Clark,” she encouraged. “I got you both.” 

Clark squirmed up toward Bruce’s head—Bruce shuddered as impossible strong muscles and clinging suckers curled and coiled over his body—and tentatively touched his beak to Bruce’s mouth. Bruce opened his lips eagerly (while he still could) and welcomed him in. Clark pressed in, more confident now, swirled his radula around Bruce’s tongue like he owned it, so gentle that the tiny serrated teeth lining the muscle just pricked slightly. 

The paralysis seemed to set in slower this time, but maybe it was just the lack of panic, the acceptance, as his muscles went slack, he stopped kissing Clark back, and his head fell back against the pillow. Clark continued kissing him eagerly, his arms and tentacles moving possessively around Bruce’s limp body. 

“Shhh, shh, come on, let me see,” Lois said in a low voice. She pushed enough of Clark out of the way to get to Bruce’s face, and her eyes were blown wide behind the transparent lenses of her suit. “You okay in there, Bruce?” 

He blinked. 

“You wanna try what we discussed?” 

Another blink. Yes.

Lois manhandled Clark out of the way, pushed him up higher Bruce’s chest, so that she could straddle Bruce’s body and sink down on his cock. He groaned as she used him like a sex toy, deep and muffled against closed lips, and she moaned in response. Clark quivered between them, arms moving eagerly, surface rippling, first one way then the other, as if he couldn’t decide which one of them he wanted more. 

“You don’t have to choose, baby,” Lois laughed. “You can have everything you want.” 

Clark

You can have everything you want.

It echoed through him. Because if there was one thing that had been true all his life, it was that he never got everything he wanted, not without paying a price. 

But now—now it was all spread out before him. Bruce, with his amazing courage, his fierce determination, his boundless strength, turning it all over, giving it all up, surrendering utterly, and for Clark. And Lois, passionate, vibrant, beautiful Lois, cramming herself into that ridiculously sexy bodysuit so that she could give them this, be their safety net. Lois, who months ago looked Clark in the eyes and said in a low tone, “You’re in love with him.” And then cut off his guilty defensive words and told him that he should go for it.

He might have felt bad about letting her do this, except that she was so very obviously into it, riding Bruce’s unresponsive body, feeding off his muffled grunts, watching with bright eyes as Clark tasted and enveloped him. And nestled between them, held safe by their beloved bodies, Clark could finally just… let go.