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Working this late down at the cave might be pushing it, in his current state. He hasn’t slept in over forty hours and the images on the computer screen are beginning to blur around the edges, but this is a crucial case that’s been left unsolved for a month now.

People have gone missing and Bruce is not about to let it go on any longer. So far he’s managed to tie the recent kidnappings of young men and women to a rising drug ring, one which he believes is actually a front for illegal human experimentation. The worst always comes to Gotham.

Locating the base of operations has proven difficult, even with witness accounts and criminal interrogations. They've led him in circles around the city, uncovering empty holes and abandoned safe houses. There must be something he’s missing, something in the reports he’s ignoring unwittingly.

As he rubs his tired, bloodshot eyes, Bruce feels the whisper of a hand over the back of his skull, slipping around the frayed ends of his consciousness. He repels the sensation, a clump of his immediate thoughts feeding back—Not Now Busy Work Need Important—before the whisper returns, this time gently prying his attention away with a soft-spoken, You need to eat and rest sometimes, Bruce, echoing inside his head.

He sighs, knowing that J’onn won’t stop fretting until Bruce has taken care of himself, or at least taken a couple hours of sleep.

He saves the files and stands up with a groan. One of these days he’s going to get bedsores from sitting so long in the batsuit.

As he climbs the stairs to the house, Bruce feels J’onn’s distant barrage of pleasant tittering like a wave of water lapping against his ears. He doesn’t hear the Martian laugh, but Bruce can just feel how amused J’onn is, wherever he is. For a split-second, right as he steps into the dark kitchen, the reflection of J’onn staring out into space in the Watchtower overlaps with his vision and he wavers, dizzy and disoriented. The sight fades just as it came, a soft apology given soon after.

The strength of the telepathic bond they have still catches Bruce off-guard sometimes, flickering between a too-new sensation and the comfort of J'onn's bare mind wrapped over his own like a blanket. It's been months, seven months and twenty days to the date.

He needs a drink.

 


 

Bruce can’t quite pin down when it happened. When he started expecting J’onn's occasional use of telepathy. When it became a normal thing between them. Maybe it was the simplicity that came with it, to know J’onn could just scan the bare surface of his mind and understand, past the barrier of words and expressions. It was hard, trusting someone to that extent with something so private. But as time passed, something like a bond developed.

And Bruce, he couldn’t bring himself to deny his green friend anything anymore. Not his alien telepathic nature, and especially not since he found J’onn stumbling in the halls of the Watchtower reaching blindly for something sturdy and slamming his consciousness into Bruce’s head. They both had a massive headache afterwards, but J’onn looked much better as he relaxed into the grip Bruce had on him, both physically and mentally.

He’d asked what was wrong, expecting something physiological, like an alien flu, but instead got a long-winded apology because Martians were made for intra-personal communication—a fancy word for psychic bonds—and being disconnected, isolated in his own head, it took a great level of restraint. Bruce inferred it must be a painful amount.

“You’re an idiot, J’onzz. You don’t have to suffer alone because of us clueless humans.”

So Bruce gave J’onn what he needed: a mind to connect with. His mind.

‘Clueless human’ certainly fit him in those first few days of the bond. Everything felt inexplicably different. His whole body heavy-light with…with something, as if all the oxygen in his body had been replaced with helium. And then there was J’onn, always there, miles and miles away and still there. Just a micro-thought way.

And it wasn’t just his thoughts that were enclosed in the link, but his emotions—their emotions, the flicker of memories and nonsense babble that worked between the solid structures of his—their brains. He could feel when a cloud of loneliness swept over J’onn and how it clung to Bruce’s mental stratosphere. They could breathe in each other’s joy—discomfort—anger—fear like smoke, heating their lungs almost to a bruising extent. Leaving the inside of their chests raw.

Bruce struggled under the onslaught of J’onn’s mind, in the beginning, suddenly his skin pulled too tight around his body and his stomach queasy whenever the Martian tilted in the air or fazed through walls. But the good outweighed the bad. J’onn prized such little things, such ordinary moments. The complexity of an insect’s wing highlighted in sunlight. How water pebbled the ground when it rained. Bruce could feel J’onn’s simple delight with these things, how it flooded the hollow spaces in his head with Good—Happy—Pretty—Love—Bright—Happy.

He’s never felt so good, and yet Bruce can’t help but be terrified. Something fills his chest when he thinks J’onn, when he thinks about how much that word means to him now. When he goes to sleep and hears the faint rasp of J’onn’s echoing Good night and he suddenly can’t breathe because that’s J’onn wishing him good night. It’s too much and not enough, he’s going to ruin this somehow and when he does, he’s going to shatter.

 


 

A week later Bruce is still nowhere near solving the kidnapper case. Gordon’s starting to feel the pressure from the press, pressure which trickles over to Batman. The police can’t do anything beyond patrolling high-interest areas, but there’s not enough manpower to cover each one at all times. And Batman can’t simultaneously supervise seven blocks when he’s downtown handling a bank heist.

Bruce is just about ready to punch the nearest wall until it caves when the familiar tickle behind his eyes undoes the knots of anger before they spiral into blind rage, tucks it into the back of his mind.

I can feel how stressed you are.

Bruce takes a moment to just breathe in the calm washing over him before the urgency of the matter bubbles back to the surface. J’onn, he thinks, doesn’t need to experience every one of his breakdowns. It isn’t fair to him. That’s not what this link is for.

Bruce. He can feel the cogs turning in J’onn’s head, the twinge of worry and concern wrapped around the fringes of the vigilante's thoughts. Please, let me help. Let me come to you.

Bruce wants to say no, to deny his offered hand and finish this by himself. Because he can disassemble the drug trade and the subsequent kidnappings, on his own terms. He doesn’t need help, doesn’t need a telepath to make his job easy.

Bruce knows he’s being irrational, but this is his city, and he’s not about to let the fact that he’s only human become a weakness.

I will not consider you weak for asking for help, J’onn cuts in and Bruce feels something like a hot needle drive into his spine, painlessly, the skin under the suit breaking into sweat. He shuts J’onn out before the Martian can dig any deeper and reels from the sharp, pulsing headache that comes after.

Bruce actually staggers to a stand-still and gasps when he hears nothing, everything that was being looped inside the mental link gone and shuddered quiet. Then the tiniest of gaps opens again and Bruce breathes, immediately regretting what he’s done to himself, to J’onn.

I am sorry.

J’onn sounds so small to his ears, it kills whatever excuse Bruce was half-formulating. But, he is, he’s not ready for that yet. Their unconscious needling in each other’s heads that they do all the time? That’s something he’s come to enjoy. But what J’onn tried to carry out was more clinical, deliberate. The kind of prying he and the League have asked the Martian to do on uncooperative enemies. And—well, perhaps it’s not as bad as that. It wasn’t invasive, but intimate. And intimate is too much.

He has to righten this before it spirals out of control.

J’onn, Bruce thinks loud, almost lets the word spill through his lips too. J’onn wait. Don’t—I . . . I admit I am not doing anything down here to make a difference. He swallows dryly and does his best to roll up his pride into a tiny ball. Not by myself.

Something cool slithers against his skull as Bruce relaxes his barriers and he sighs when J’onn slips in carefully, then he feels the Martian's guilt hit the back of his throat and it chokes him as it curls with his own.

It simmers between them for minute while Bruce, half-aware of the time passing and what little work he’s gotten done tonight.

You don’t have to work yourself half to death every day. . .I understand your drive, but I cannot. . .I do not want you to disregard your wellbeing. You do not have to do this alone. Bruce, please.

The guilt blends with something honey-thick, pouring warmth into his head like soup and it spreads and spreads until Bruce is all but swallowed whole, completely enveloped in tender—soft—adoration—caresses leaving him breathless, newly exposed but in a different way. A good way. He feels his eyes water and thinks, God, this is what he’s been missing all his life.

Okay.

 


 

They meet up on top of the Wayne Enterprise tower the next day, when the sun’s passed the horizon but the sky is still highlighted in purple streaks. Bruce’s heart stutters and plummets when he lays eyes on J’onn’s approaching form and swears under his breath. This is no time for frivolous reactions—or the embarrassment that J’onn must feel creeping up his face, so he squares up and ignores the questioning thought bubble.

Bruce gets to business quickly and explains the most relevant details of the investigation, the places and buildings they have marked for activity. He knows that if J’onn plans to open his mind to scrape at every surface thought in the vicinity, it will drain him within the hour, maybe less. A city as full and as agonizing as Gotham is bound to push his telepathic capacities.

“I can manage quite fine.” J’onn quirks his head as if to say how unimpressed he is with Bruce’s line of thought. He can feel his face burning up, as J’onn clasps his shoulder and adds very solemnly, “We will find those missing people."

The Bat considers for a moment if he’s willing to risk it, J’onn’s wellbeing for the lives of a few individuals he’s not even sure are still alive. But he doesn’t sense any hesitation or doubt out of the Martian, so they move across the city toward their best bet, the Bowery in East End. He’s given the buildings there a full sweep, no crack left uncovered, but either the thugs are smarter than they seem at hiding or there’s really nothing there besides a common mugger and the unnamed gangs that rise up every couple of years.

J’onn hovers over the center of the district, giving Bruce a reassuring look over a shoulder. He separates their link with an apology—I do not wish to trouble you with the process—and lets his mind unravel.

 


 

“You are doing it again."

Bruce slides back from the console, swiveling in the chair to face his company.

“Doing what?"

Working, when you should be resting.

He scoffs, taking a small sip of the tea Alfred prepared for his return from patrol. “Well, someone has to investigate why Venom was being used as a super soldier test formula by an unknown agency, right here in Gotham."

“The paperwork can wait until tomorrow,” J’onn insists, but Bruce turns back to the computer anyway and continues writing down possible culprits, the scientists involved, any government that has shown interest in getting their own perfected human weapons. He gets to type as many as three lines before someone—J’onn—swivels his chair around and pulls him away from the console.

He frowns up at J’onn’s face tinted blue in the dim lighting and projects Displeasure.

Bruce, he feels the cool, slippery touch of J’onn’s mind around him and his eyelids flutter without permission. It is late. The police is handling the crime scene. All eight of the victims are hospitalized, safe and being looked after. They will recuperate in time, after the drug is flushed out of their system. You, on the other hand, Bruce jerks backwards when J’onn’s actual hand lands on his left shoulder, thumb square on his neck, you need to sleep more than four hours.

Then the pressure of J’onn's hand moves from shoulder to nape, curling his fingers around Bruce’s sweaty hair and he swears J’onn’s hand isn’t supposed to feel that hot. Martians run cooler than room temperature.

His heart beats faster, just a fraction of a second, but it does, and he’s trying very hard not to think about how close J’onn is standing or the way he’s unconsciously angled his thighs apart to make room.

Bruce.

Bruce really doesn’t want to ruin what they have already by mixing it with unnecessary human reactions, so he stops. He stops the most minuscule thought before it even starts. His head is wonderfully empty for once. Empty of worry and stress and pesky impulses.

Bruce, look at me.

He does, and then there’s that warm honey-feeling pooling in his chest and that’s J’onn, his heart swelling with—

“Bruce."

He stops breathing for a second because that can’t possibly be right. “I,” his voice breaks halfway and turns into a cough.

“It’s okay, Bruce.” J’onn is smiling at him and he feels it, light airy wordlessness floating in his head. It burrows deeper into his neck and chest until all of him is covered in that singular bubble of amusement.

“This is…” Bruce can’t finish the sentence because J’onn takes that precise moment to flood his nerves with another kind of sensation, something he is much more familiar with. A gasp falls from his lips, hands coming up to J’onn’s sides and he sees—hears—senses how the muscles underneath jump, the thrumming energy building at the base of his—J’onn’s?—spine.

“Okay,” Bruce inhales sharply and tries to reign in his control, fingers twitching on the Martian’s form. It gives him sensory vertigo when fingers seem to twitch on his own sides, but no, that’s J’onn feeding back the sensation along with how pleased he is with himself to reduce Bruce’s higher mental processes to a couple of syllables.

Bruce looks up to J’onn’s bright, smiling face and thinks, damn, that might need some getting used to.

Then he blurts out flatly, “I would like to have sex with you,” and holds back from bemoaning himself because that has to be the clumsiest proposal he’s ever given.

It makes J’onn smile wider.

 


 

They take their time going up the mansion, mostly because Bruce is debating with himself if crashing through a window is a viable means of escape. It’s not that he doesn’t want this...whatever they have between them to culminate in sex. There is, in fact, a growing part of him that is quite thrilled with the development. But there are so many ways where this can go wrong, where he can go wrong, and Bruce is not sure if this is all genuine, what with their minds being connected.

He comes to a halt in front of his bedroom door when J’onn begins to hover, the subtle hint of a question making Bruce turn around.

He sees J’onn raise a hand to grasp one of Bruce's, and the blush that spreads through his face is ridiculous. He’s not some teenager on the cusp of puberty. It makes J’onn chuckle, which in turn makes Bruce blush even harder. He can’t even stay mad through the haze of Amusement his brain is receiving.

“Please,” is all J’onn says, as the hot touch of a prying mind curls around his nape, not pushing like before. Just as a suggestion, to deepen the link.

“I…J’onn if, you want to."

I’m asking you if you want to.

And before he comes to regret it the next second, Bruce gives a tentative nod. He feels the press of overwhelming heat again, creeping up his spine and into his skull and he moans because that, he feels—he’s in J’onn’s head and his blood is boiling in his skin, someone whispering my God, finally, everything fits again, and Bruce isn’t quite sure where his limbs are anymore. Where is body is.

Bruce opens his eyes—when did he close them?—and finds himself pressed against the door, half-sitting, with J’onn trembling on top of him.

He hears the slow drone of how much J’onn wants this, over and over with a pleading voice, and it flips a switch in him, something primal taking over, happy to oblige. Bruce hurries the both of them inside and starts to strip naked, the tight fit of his undersuit peeling off with difficulty.

“Let me,” J’onn interrupts his struggle and frees Bruce of all clothes in two seconds flat.

“That’s—impressive.”

He has another second to watch as J’onn shifts away the layer of cloth—skin, it has always been his wonderful skin—before he’s got an armful of Martian green hands pushing him, kissing him backwards to fall on the bed.

And, oh, that’s a strange sensation, underneath J’onn and on top of him—self?—being kissed—kissing? touching?—as cool hands run over his face. J’onn nudges him with a question, and Bruce has a second to appreciate the purple freckle-like blush on J’onn’s cheeks.

“Mm, what is it?"

Bruce can hear the jumble of half-formed words, a barely audible noise from J’onn’s side of the mental link. There’s some Hesitation there, bumping lightly against Bruce’s melting brain. It’s beautiful, and he knows J’onn hears it when the rest of his face purples.

“I, admit…I do not know how human pleasure works. Beyond theory."

“'Beyond theory'? Well,” Bruce stretches under J’onn’s weight, a comfortable weight, and groans when he feels J’onn’s hand knead his arms.“You seem to be doing good in my book."

J’onn kneads a little harder. Bruce. . .

Anything You Do Will Work, he thinks bold and clear, the little massage J’onn is performing desired on other, more sensitive places.

Anything?  J'onn ponders as he presses deeper into Bruce's headspace and it sends a hot lick of arousal up his spine, cock twitching against the Martian’s unfeatured crotch. He can pinpoint where J’onn is fidgeting with his mental fingers and it makes his eyes roll back in his head. There’s no nerves there, no possible explanation as to why it feels so good, but it does, god, it does and he wants so badly for J’onn to do that with the rest of him.

Then J’onn slides his body just a little and Bruce thrusts as his whole being lights up, gasping from the sweet friction he’s been given.

He catches J’onn’s inquisitive gaze, almost feels it, when the Martian hums and moves his hands to knead at Bruce’s pecs.

“Ah—shi-it,” he croons as J'onn rubs his rough thumbs over his nipples and he is not that sensitive but fuck if he cares right now. His hands are grounded on green hips and he wishes he could see the flush of purple there but J’onn tilts his head back, peppering his throat with kisses and happy sounds as he runs his warming palms across Bruce’s furred chest, pushing the relaxed, bulging muscles together, down, apart, together again. Bruce is left helplessly trying to catch his breath as J’onn trails his mouth downwards, sucking a bruise into the skin above his right nipple.

Is this good?  J’onn supplies as he wraps the perked bud between his tongue and teeth and Bruce almost keens because that is a tease and he didn’t know J’onn could be cocky like that.

Then he feels the hot press of something thick against his stomach and he strangles out a laugh. Oh, his J'onn is cocky alright.

I am pleased to see you find me humorous.

“‘Humorous' is the least of it right now.” Bruce pushes his hips to J’onn’s and grunts, the intwined parts of their minds flaring hot thick bliss. J’onn doesn’t stop licking and kneading his chest and Bruce could die like this, right now, gripping the Martian for dear life.

Like this, I know exactly what you want. Wonder colors J’onn’s thought, so innocently amazed with how deep he can look, with how deep he is permitted to look. I can see down to the smallest, most contrived desire you’ve ever had.

Bruce grins sluggishly and counters with a bold, “I don’t believe you."

J’onn mirrors his grin as green morphs into black lines and shades, a glistening inky layer of tight muscle settling over his skin, all except for a pale pink jaw and Bruce’s heart picks up. His eyes widen when his own eyes stare back at him, delighted by his reaction.

“That’s not, I don’t,” he starts to protest when J’onn pins him on the bed, wrists on the pillow above them and Bruce clamps his mouth shut before he moans from the texture of the gauntlets rubbing against his exposed skin.

“I apologize, you were about to say you do not…?"

Jesus, that’s his voice coming out of J’onn’s...his…mouth. Batman’s mouth.

“For the record,” Bruce says, voice rough and dry all of a sudden, “I would like to state I had no idea this was something I wanted."

Duly noted.

Bruce has an instant to register the thought before J’onn is kissing him again, while wearing his face, and he’s so hard he’s aching.

“Tell me what to do,” J’onn says between kisses in that voice and Bruce wants to fuck that mouth—his mouth, god—it telegraphs with a picturesque image of them, twisted around as the Batman figure swallows him—

Bruce is gasping hard as J’onn crawls down his body, his wrists released and somewhat cramped, the rest of him not at all prepared for the hot swipe of tongue over the head of his cock.

“Ah! J-J’onnn,” he cries pitifully as J’onn replays the image, running his lips from root to tip. Gauntleted fists keep Bruce still even as he tries and fails to thrust up into the warm enveloping heat, whimpering when J’onn mouths just under the slit. “J’onn, please.”  He is painfully aware of the bead of precum starting to leak and how J’onn is eyeing it like a new discovery.

I do not intent to ‘tease’. This, he licks a stripe over the tip and Bruce is losing his damned mind slowly. This is a novel. . .experience. The current structure of my cells pick out a curious taste.

“Can—you experience faster for me.”

He has a second to breathe before J’onn swallows him whole, punching the air out of him and leaving him gasping again. It’s tight, the dry texture of J’onn’s mouth an unearthly sensation. He forgets that Martian biology doesn’t produce as much saliva, only enough to leave a bare trace and sweet friction.

And J’onn knows this. He’s tucked all of Bruce’s cock against his rough tongue and gives it a suck, using the shape of his mouth to give this beautiful panting human what he hopes and understands is an enjoyable experience.

But Bruce, Bruce is too busy trying not to come from the tight press of J’onn swallowing around him. He’s thrusting wildly up into that welcoming heat, watches that cowled face take his whole cock so easily and if it wasn’t for the hands holding his hips down with their inhuman strength, he’d be finished.

“J’onn. J’onn,” he motions with his hand shakily. “Come here, let me—“ he can’t speak right then because J’onn starts bobbing his head, a minute gesture that makes his spine bend, leaves him breathless and, holy shit he’s so close, not yet slowstop.

J’onn freezes, sensing the demand and looks up to Bruce’s face with sweeping black eyelashes. Bruce swallows and finally breathes, sending half-jointed thoughts and images of what he wants, those kevlar-lined thighs around his head as he takes J’onn’s readied cock.

It will not feel as natural to myself, is all J’onn replies with, pressing his thumbs harder on Bruce’s skin and leaving red prints. It makes him squirm.

I don’t care.

The deep moan that vibrates through his cock momentarily blinds him. He feels the bed shift, a black mass shielding his eyes and then, through the haze, Bruce recognizes his belt.

And the fat cock hovering just over his lips.

He lifts his hands tearing at the bedsheets and latches onto J’onn’s hips, pulling him down enough to suck. And even though that is his dick he’s licking stripes at, there’s no distinguishable smell or the usual salty taste. Even running his tongue around the head, the only thing he catches is a faint speck of soap.

His brain stutters when J’onn gives him a long suck and settles his weight on top of Bruce—his cock in Bruce’s open mouth, the thickness of it stretching his jaw wide and testing his gag reflex. He swallows compulsively, fingers tightening their grip on J’onn’s hip, before patting one thigh, UpIn.

J’onn takes it to mean thrust in and Bruce isn’t quite sure if that is what he meant or some other convoluted craving he wasn’t aware of but he’s got his lips wrapped around J’onn’s—his—length and his own cock jabbed against J’onn’s clenching throat and it makes his chest warm and his gut feel tight. But he wants more, more of him taken, more pleasure, more of J’onn.

Something in his brain must alert his partner because soon something slips into his ass and he whines. It’s not slick enough but the burn of the intrusion isn’t exactly bad, pressing in with the same rhythm as J’onn’s careful sucking.

Bruce lets J’onn fuck his mouth open with slow thrusts as drool starts to trickle from the side of his lips, easing the next thrust, then the next, letting more of that cock in until his nose is digging into J’onn’s underside and he can’t physically take any more.

His eyes roll into his skull when the rhythm speeds up and the single digit shoves into his ass with more force.

Lube. Lube, Bruce projects as he groans, jerking his naked thighs apart and searching for the bottle he knows is under the biggest pillow. The finger leaves his ass for a moment and he groans louder, receiving a blanket of Patience—Comfort that makes him writhe.

Soon enough, the digit returns slicked and he pants, nuzzling his nose in the crook of J’onn’s hip.

It plunges deeper with ease, down to the last knuckle and that’s when Bruce realizes J’onn is fucking him with the gloves, the segmented splits on the back of it giving the finger a rough texture and if he was panting before, now he’s choking, his hard cock twitching against J’onn’s throat as his own mouth is kept full. He's given barely enough time to get used to the intrusion before another finger joins the first, liberally greased, stretching him wider.

Fuck—yes—more, his mind cracks on repeat as J’onn's fingers spread him and his thick cock fucks harder into Bruce’s face.

The pace becomes near-unbearable. Every part of him feels rubbed raw, chest bursting with each shaky breath as the rest of him is held still. J’onn’s hand keeps him pressed to the bed and Bruce turns his face to the pillow there, cock slipping free mid-thrust from his swollen, spit-wet lips and he keens when the fingers find his prostate. They stop to stroke the sensitive nerves in long, firm circles.

Yes.” His voice sounds torn and used, lagging on the final ’s’. He can feel the pressure building in his spine, hot, delicious pleasure curling at the base of his cock with each unyielding sweep of the rough glove against his prostate, milking him. It’s almost too much and all of a sudden, he’s panting, sweating, so close to coming undone.

Bruce is all but begging, jerking his hips but unable to budge an inch, and, god, that sends another flare of heat into his crotch, he’s—Wait—stop—notyet—

J’onn lifts his hand from Bruce’s hip lightning quick and wraps his fingers hard on the base of Bruce’s weeping cock.

“Fuck—!” And his hips do come up from the bed now, stuttering uselessly in the air as his orgasm is kept at bay by the tight ring of J’onn’s making.

What is it, Bruce? The thought invades his narrowed world.

Bruce struggles to piece together a coherent string of words, his release still so close, but no. Not yet. He manages a weak, “Want you…to fuck me first."

He’s enveloped in a fog of Warm—Happy before the shadow looming over him fades and the a face he would otherwise greet in the mirror replaces it.

Bruce offers droopy half-cocked smile and raises his hips in response, his dick an angry red and the rest of him too buzzed to care.

J’onn releases his grip slowly, petting Bruce’s quivering thigh once he knows it won’t affect the man. He leaves an inquiring thought bubble in Bruce’s mind and receives a clotted message of Need, Want—urgent Hurry so strong it overwhelms him. This, this incredible sensation that thrums Bruce’s whole body, is so intense. Just grazing the surface of it is enough to leave him as breathless as Bruce looks.

He wants to give Bruce everything, everything the man craves in that instant. His own pleasure is of a different design, a complicated matter compared to human biology, but providing it will be just as gratifying. Yes, yes Bruce, please let me. It is so easy to share in Bruce’s pleasure.

Bruce groans when J’onn seizes his legs and pushes them apart, groans even louder when the belt brushes against his cock as J’onn starts to sink into him. The blunt head breaches him with ease and he squirms when the rest of J'onn slides in with a single push, slick and oddly…slender. He wonders for second why that is, when J’onn draws back and pushes in again, startled when he feels how his muscles strain slightly this time, more and more with each thrust until his jaw falls open because J’onn is stretching him wide, swelling his cock past fullness and he can’t possibly take more, but he does.

“God—J’onn,“ Bruce chokes out and blinks through fresh tears. He can’t help but clench around the plumped length and push back, bottoming out and shouting when J’onn rams into his prostate. His toes curl on J’onn’s covered thighs. There’s nothing he can do except take, his own cock bobbing with each push and leaking onto his stomach. He’s already so close again, panting and shaking from the effort of holding back the orgasm as best he can. But J’onn knows before he even finishes processing the thought, freeing one of Bruce’s legs and twisting his fingers at the base of Bruce’s cock again, gentler this time.

An endless string of pleas spills from Bruce’s lips, jumbled and incoherent and it doesn’t really matter because J’onn can feel what he wants to say, can see how his body tenses up and shudders when he can’t come. His sensitive mind is drowning under the onslaught of pure sensation, and right there is Bruce, struggling under every pitch of his hips, mouth open in a silent scream.

He coils their minds together again and loses his grip on everything.

Bruce recoils from the sudden flood of heat, honey-thick crashing into his mind. J’onn shifts out of focus above him, black to green to red, still driving deep into him with abandon. The hand still wrapped around his cock slackens and takes purchase somewhere else, Bruce’s hip, his thigh, his arm. J’onn can’t seem to decide what he wants as Bruce thrashes against him violently, gasping, chest convulsing as his release slams into him with so much force, he screams, hot spurts of come landing on his stomach and turning it into a glossy mess.

They both shudder weakly and pause, laying boneless on each other and just breathing. Little aftershocks of pleasure shoot up Bruce’s spine, but exhaustion has finally won out. J’onn’s weight settles over him fully and his thick cock slowly eases out, fading back into a soft, flat crotch.

He sighs heavily. J’onn is a comforting weight over him, stretched out to his natural form. It covers all of him and keeps him warm. The long, stem fingers of his right hand graze Bruce's cheek in a sweet manner. He feels fucked out and loved.

Now that a comfortable silence has fallen between them, Bruce can’t bring himself to interrupt it despite the drying sticky state of sweat and come his torso must be in. Oh, but his ass is only slick with lube. A small part of him is grateful for Martian physiology, and another, much quieter part squirms wondering how it would have felt to be stuffed full of alien semen.

How is it possible, J’onn cuts in lazily, that you are still thinking about sex?

“We humans are resilient.” He winces hearing how embarrassingly hoarse his voice sounds to his ears.

I  like how you sound.

Bruce schools his face and says, “Get out of my head, you,” but a smile betrays him. He can’t fool J’onn anyhow, with his thoughts colored in playfulness as they are.

Only after you’ve fallen asleep. I can get a towel—

“No, no,” he stops J’onn before the Martian can float into the joined bathroom. “It’s fine. I can just—here.” He works the corner of a thin bed sheet between their bodies and cleans up with hurried swipes.

Bruce, that is hardly effective. J’onn smiles up at him, however. He is quite happy to remain where he is.

And maybe, Bruce thinks as he links his arms together behind J’onn’s back, maybe it isn’t so bad to admit that he is happy too. That this is exactly how he wants to fall asleep every day, with this big, beautiful green man. Holding him.

J’onn extends a hand to the bedding at the foot of the bed and covers them both with it, all the while nestled against Bruce. His body temperature is already cooling, which is not exactly a problem for him, but he can’t have Bruce catching a chill.

He pauses, for not half a second, and curls his own arms around Bruce.

Sleep now. The words echo slightly in his head and Bruce can feel it, his own content—leisure—joy looping back to him along with something else, something distinctly J’onn. And, god, his heart is breaking but not for the reasons it has done before. It’s swollen too big and it hurts when he breathes, when he stares up into J’onn’s ruddy eyes and sees the adoration. There’s so much in there he doesn’t believe he deserves.

Bruce. That is all J’onn thinks, all he needs to.

Bruce closes his eyes and presses his lips to a soft cheekbone.

Never get out of my head, J'onn.

Falling asleep had never been so easy.