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Superman has the strangest feeling that Batman is upset.
He's standing straight up, posture formal if not a bit rigid, and his gaze is steady as he shakes hands with the Lestian official.
Ambassador Safo'r of Lestos. She was a short, graceful woman with a very kind smile.
Although Lestos had closed borders, she had been nothing but kind to every member of the Justice League for the three short days they'd been welcomed into the country. Wonder Woman had nothing but good things to say about the ambassador, and Superman couldn't help but agree.
He wonders if Batman, then, picked up a strange vibe from the woman that was making him wary.
To anyone else, he was simply his natural, stoic self. Polite enough to say hello and goodbye, but not enough to insert himself in unnecessary conversation. Entirely normal.
Superman, though, could see that he was tense. His brow was furrowed, wrinkling his cowl a bit around the forehead though it was concealed by the strong leather. His jaw, too, was taut as he bit down on his back molars, his natural frown more like a barely-there scowl.
And he kept staring at Superman with a gaze that went from cool and collected one moment, to pointed and acerbic the next.
Superman couldn't pinpoint any pattern of when those expressions, except that Ambassador Safo'r had been in the vicinity each time.
"Hey," Superman greets softly, floating casually to Batman's side as the rest of the Justice League gathered in various pairs.
Despite the strange way Batman had been acting, the diplomatic talks had gone swimmingly, and everyone was pleased to be able to head home with nothing but optimism under their belts. In fact, Batman had been the leading voice in those talks, had been the one to convince Lestos to aid the League in any feature endeavors.
Maybe… he was just tired? Being a diplomat was hard work.
"Mm." Batman tilts his head in acknowledgement, tapping at a screen on his wrist as he runs a standard, pre-flight diagnostic of the Batwing, preparing to leave Lestos.
"Almost ready to head out?"
All of the League members that came to the mission this time could fly, except Batman, so they would be pairing off and heading back to their own homebases. He'd heard Hawkgirl and Green Lantern making plans to meet up at a barbecue shop in a few hours. Superman would pair with Batman, flying beside the 'wing.
Batman had cornered him, the night before, and basically ordered Superman to ride back with him, in the plane. That, too, had been another strange gesture from Batman.
Superman, obviously, could fly. But maybe Batman wanted to have a private conversation and didn't want to do it over comms. Or, maybe he wanted Superman to pilot for him while he took a nap?
Either way, Superman was happy to spend any extra time near Batman and had simply nodded with an eager smile at Batman's order/request.
"Yes," Batman responds, after a minute. "Head inside."
Superman hums, glancing over his shoulder to wave goodbye to Diana and Safo'r, who were standing nearby talking animatedly about something he hadn't caught.
"See you back home!" He calls, and Diana waves distractedly, if not merrily, back.
Safo'r regards him with her full attention, briefly. "Thank you for your assistance, Superman. Lestos looks forward to being graced with your awe-inspiring presence in the future."
Aw, shucks. He could blush.
Batman makes a noise halfway between an annoyed grunt and a sigh as he walks around Superman and into the plane, before Safo'r can extend any well wishes to him as well.
Concerned, Superman scurries after him without anything further said.
They're silent as Batman begins his pre-flight checklist with prompt efficiency. Superman watches as the dashboard lights up, flickering in a slow pattern as Batman flips knobs, clicks buttons, and lets his thumbprint get scanned.
He's brooding, and Superman chooses to let him. Atleast until they get in the air.
So he sweeps his cape behind him, carefully taking the co-pilot seat. He glances over skittishly, but Batman doesn't glance back.
"This is Batman, pre-flight check complete. Superman and I are ready for take-off," B says into the open comms with the rest of the League. There are a few affirmatives that Batman doesn't bother responding to, instead reaching up to flick a switch and allow the cargo ramp to lift shut. It kicks up a brief breeze in the cockpit, but the fresh air quickly gets filtered out through the vents.
Although Batman had hurried through the takeoff preparations, they wouldn't be able to officially fly until the rest of the League was in position.
Even though they'd all be eventually veering off from one another, taking off together gave them all less of a chance of something going wrong between leaving Lestos and getting home. GL had gotten kidnapped like that, once, staying behind to sign autographs. Luckily, nothing bad had happened—but the very next mission had the new, additional safety-check in place courtesy of Batman.
Which gives Superman time to figure out what's going on.
He looks over once more, eyes trailing over Batman's handsome side profile. His strong jawline has relaxed, no longer tensed so fiercely. But his lips were set in a straight frown, which really only made them look pouty and soft.
Superman chooses not to say as much right now, leaning over the cushioned arm rest to lay his hand delicately against Batman's bulletproof shoulder.
B makes a quiet noise at the touch, just a soft exhale from his lungs. But he does, finally, turn to regard Superman, who smiles at him in a way that he hopes is comforting.
"Everything okay?" He probes gently. "Y'seem a little tense. Anything happen?"
Batman frowns, before he carefully schools his face into something more neutral.
"I'm not tense," Batman says coolly. "Nothing happened."
"Ah. Right."
By his tone, Superman should not probe further.
With nothing else to do with himself, Superman sits back down. His cape gets caught under his boot and he awkwardly lifts himself to tug it free before plopping back in the chair. Batman watches him the entire time with an indifferent air—which means something is definitely bothering him. It isn't often he's so… muted, especially not when it's just the two of them.
Sure, he could come off as gruff or sharp or curt, but Superman has known him long enough that it's simply a way of avoiding pointless small talk. As Batman, working fast was the best way to get results. Having to go through pleasantries and exchanging polite smiles before getting to business didn't exactly scream 'vengeance' either.
So to be so carefully neutral was… a bit worrying.
Despite his lover's tone, Superman probes.
"… Did I do something?" Superman asks quietly, after a moment. They've only been ready for take-off for one minute and twenty-six seconds, but he'd rather not spend the next few hours in such tense silence. Especially if it was because of something he didn't realize he'd messed up.
Batman looks at him again, but this time it's like he's actually looking at him and not whatever it is that disturbed him.
Slowly, B's shoulders drop, relaxed. He sighs, audibly, and leans back against the seat. The autopilot was already on, so there was no need for him to monitor the controls so closely; there were even proximity alerts installed just in case.
Right now, all he had to do was focus fully on Clark.
"No. No, you didn't do anything, Superman."
"Are you having second thoughts about Lestos, then? It's fine if you are, you know we always trust your instincts."
Batman gives him a look as if he's an idiot, and it makes Superman laugh.
"No, I expect our new relations with the country will be very beneficial in the future. Especially if Luthor will be attempting to branch out this way as expected."
Superman grumbles a bit at the mention of Lex, and Batman relaxes further, leaning back in his seat until his perfect posture is a bit more natural.
"No, I have no problem with Lestos." Batman presses his fingertips together, and suddenly he looks a little bit like a villain. His eyes get shadowed dark as he tips his head down, and his mouth goes downturned again.
"But…?"
Batman frowns deeper, somehow.
"Did you have to let her hang off of you like that?"
"Huh?" Superman looks over his shoulder, as if someone had snuck on the plane with them. But, no, it was just him and Batman and the empty air of the plane between them. "Who?"
Batman has gotten up in that half second that Superman loses concentration, and he's stood to his full height right in front of Superman's chair. With him sitting, Superman only comes up to his chest, and he tilts his head almost all the way back to look him in the eye again.
A gloved hand reaches out, cupping his cheek against a warm palm. He closes his eye as Batman caresses him high enough to brush his lashes, and ends up chuckling when the touch tickles him. Batman stays silent for a moment, just to touch him and look him in the eyes.
His own eyes, shrouded just slightly by the cowl, look so beautifully arcane. The blue of his irises are more grey, like this, and no less piercing. Just a look, a tilt of his brow, a blink of his eye, and he could have Superman pinned down for eternity.
Superman leans into the touch and, when B doesn't nudge him back in place, nuzzles against the curved fingers. His nose presses against the jut of Batman's thumb, and he leaves an idle kiss against the calloused tip of it.
Already, he'd forgotten the conversation at hand. In his defense, he was very easily distracted when Batman allowed him to be clingy.
Especially in full costume.
This is probably why he's so surprised when Batman leans down, teeth bared, and snarls in his ear, "You're mine."
A euphoric thrill pierces through his heart at the assertive claim. He can't help his soft moan, nodding entirely reflexively.
"Yeah?"
"Mine," Batman repeats, an unflinching confirmation. He allows the hand petting Superman's cheek to slide across the smooth skin, until he thumbs at the juncture of his neck. If Superman wasn't so invincible, it would almost be like a pinch as Batman bares down on it, tugging Superman forward by that grip until they're pressed chest to chest.
"… and she was looking at you like meat. Like you aren't spoken for," B growls, the noise as menacing as an unseen wolf's snarl would be in a dark forest.
As he speaks, he slides smoothly into Superman's grip, thighs finding easy purchase on either side of Superman's until they were squished into one very undersized seat. Their capes together at Superman's feet. His natural heat soaks against Superman's groin and makes him stammer.
"Wait, I… am so confused," Superman helplessly confesses, hands grappling easily onto the heft of Batman's thigh to keep him from slipping. "Who was?"
Batman doesn't bother with responding. Instead, he rubs his other hand fully across Superman's chest, tracing the S-shaped insignia with his fingertip just once. His irate expression stays steady on his face even as he stakes his claim across Superman's front with his fingers, surely intimately aware of how much it affects him.
Superman wants to ask more, figure out who exactly had been so touchy with him that Batman was angry—and how on earth Superman missed it.
His memories blink through his brain in quick succession, like flicking through a camera album, pinpointing various moments strangers had touched him. It… had been a lot, sure, but people liked to touch Superman. Liked to feel him to know he was real, a brush against his hand in lieu of a handshake, a finger tracing against the edge of his flowing cape. Nothing inappropriate, not even close.
Batman has just begun to kiss him, lips passing together briefly like the spark of a lighter, when, in the quiet, there's a faint click as the communicator connects with the rest of the Justice League.
"Everyone is paired off and ready to fly," Wonder Woman says cheerfully, and a faint chatter echoes behind her voice as the rest of the League sets their comms up as well.
The batplane has windows so dark that they were almost one-way, so Superman is able to see how Wonder Woman floats up a bit to wave at them. Luckily, she isn't privy to how Superman is currently palming the full curve of Batman's ass where he's gathered fully in Superman's lap.
Batman doesn't respond. He's moved lower leaving steady lines of possessive kisses across his cheek, his neck, his chin, until Superman has to suppress another moan.
He leans over, fingers slapping across the console until he finds the right button. One hand curves across Batman's back so that he doesn't topple completely out of his lap with the new position, but it just exposes another inch of skin for Batman to nip at, when Superman's suit shifts downwards.
"Batwing ready for takeoff," Superman's voice trembles out of his chest. He has to bite his tongue not to moan right in everyone's ear when Batman's hand, where it was curved against his shoulder, slips downward to press directly against the padded part of his chest. His nipple twitches alert, aching for more immediately.
Very belatedly, Superman adds, "Have a good flight, team."
He flops backwards all at once, and breathes out a soft sigh as he looks down at the roguish smirk Batman is showing him.
"I'm still so confused," Superman murmurs, but Batman is quick to shush him.
He sneaks off of his lap, spilling like ink out of Superman's hands.
When he stands, he doesn't look a bit like the siren he'd been half a second before. Instead, he's entirely business, adjusting the strap of his wrist buckle. "Help me with something, Superman."
"Uh—yeah, sure."
Flustered, Superman shifts until his erection isn't so painfully pressed against his suit. When he stands, he has to adjust again, but Batman is patient as he waits for Superman to obediently toddle over.
Both of his hands end up gathered in Batman's grip, squeezed tight. He walks backwards like that, leading Clark to what may certainly be his doom. Superman follows adoringly, like a shade following the king of the underworld.
Batman doesn't stop touching him with every step. It isn't a far trek, no matter what part of the plane Batman was leading him to, but every motion is used efficiently. One lift of his foot, and Batman is slipping his fingers below Superman's waistband. The next, his gauntlet is slipping beneath the fabric, leather-clad fingers circling the base of his cock. Superman stammers little nothings, and Batman only has to shush him once to keep him quiet.
Like this, Batman drags him towards the back end of the plane, situating them in the quietest corner.
They're layered in shadows all at once, Batman's element, and it makes a pleasant shiver skitter up and down Superman's spine.
In an instant, Superman finds himself huddled before his lover, back to Batman's chest as he breathes heavily. One hand trapped in Batman's tight grip, the other hanging uselessly in the air as Batman jerked him off with a quick, tight grip. He gasps at how sudden the grip is, but he surely welcomes it as soon as it registers. His cock, already leaking pre, reacts with a twitch as the tepid air reacts to his superheated skin as if it's a frigid breeze.
Immediately, it's too much. He can't keep quiet, not when Batman is touching him like this.
"B," he whispers, trembling. He can feel every steady, deep breath Batman takes and it's driving him crazy, his chest moving instinctively in time. Though Batman is shorter, just barely, Superman has curled in on himself enough, trying to escape the pleasure; knees so weakened by his teasing, that Batman was currently a head taller.
"Superman," his lover responds, casually. The tone makes his chest rumble pleasantly against Superman's back. "You have to be quiet. The comms stay open until we leave the country."
It's mean, but Superman knows that Batman isn't lying.
It was a safety measure that B himself had implemented, in case of sudden discovered stowaways on a League mission. The comms stayed open, and there would be an alert if no one typed in a specific code after the first twenty minutes of flight.
So Superman had atleast fifteen minutes of torture in his future.
The rest of the Justice League was saying one last, long goodbye to the Lestians as they hovered, and then the plane would take off with the rest of the League.
Batman would use every single second of every minute well.
"Understand?" Batman asks, almost breathlessly.
Superman shakes his head desperately, the little curl omnipresent near the apex of his forehead bouncing charmingly. It'll be too much. He's probably scared of the underlying threat in Batman's tone.
But he swallows down all of his noises obediently, nodding with a soft, "Yeah."
Clark was always helpless to anything Bruce gave him, welcoming each torturous, blessed moment with all that he had.
Batman rewards him with a quick press of his lips to the shell of his ear.
He releases Superman's wrist, which stays in place as if he hadn't noticed. Batman's lips turn with a smug smile, before he's wrapping his other gloved hand around Superman's cock.
He strokes with that dual grip, just once, and Superman's entire chest goes stiff with the unremitting urge to be good, to stay deathly quiet as Batman commanded of him.
Their bodies end up curled over one another, Batman across Superman's back as he shudders and quakes, barely keeping control of himself. Batman has to stand on his toes, almost, and he hides his pleased grin against Superman's back as he plays with him like he's a toy.
"Good boy," Batman murmurs. "Just be quiet and take it, just for a few more minutes. I don't want to share you with anyone. This cock belongs to me. You belong to me."
Clark—just Clark, as he's fallen deep into a headspace where Superman has gone quiet—nods his head desperately, mouth falling open and eyes rolling back. Batman cups the tip of his dick with his palm, rubbing the hypersensitive head with no mercy. The leather glove is slick with Clark's arousal, drips of it already spilling between his fingers. His poor alpha was much too sensitive for his own good.
Clark rocks against the sharp stimulation, so aggressively that Batman almost loses his grip.
He clicks his tongue, admonishing, and repeats the motion until Superman is arching into it instead of away from it.
The titillating noises that spill from him are anything but quiet. Batman glances up, indifferently noting the speaker device above their heads.
There were about a dozen others throughout the ceiling of the Batwing, but this one was a decoy. It could record sound, sure, but it could also explode, spill out sedative gas, or be yanked out to turn into an emergency grapple hook in case the plane went down. Very multi-functional.
But it wouldn't be able to pick up sound and actually send it to their communicators. And as long as Clark stayed relatively quiet, the other microphones wouldn't be able to pick him up in the little dead zone that Batman had purposefully dragged him to.
Which meant Batman could tease him just a bit more before he broke.
"Mm, you feel that?" Batman takes a deep breath, and Clark shakily mimics him. "You fall apart so pretty for me, Superman. You're just so addicted to my touch even when I'm being so mean, hm? Don't be loud, I don't wanna share those pretty noises with anyone else—you're just for me right now."
Clark nods, lost in the rough, deep sonorous rumble of Batman's voice.
Batman grips his cock tighter, maybe even painfully so. But it allows his slick fingers to tighten into a nice, tight hole for Clark to keep humping into it.
"You like it when I'm mean to you, baby?"
"Yes," Clark whines. "I love it, love you so much, hnnng—please…!"
He licks his lips, his excited heart pattering against his ribcage.
"Beg me for it. Ask me to be mean."
"Please be mean to me!" Clark cries out, immediate and desperate. "Please use m-my cock like a sex toy until I can't take it anymore, break my brain until I'm just your—y-your useless alpha who can't think past getting—nngh—g-getting off…!"
Bruce's own cock throbs needily where it's still thoroughly hidden beneath his suit.
He grinds forward, just once, to ease some of the pressure. Clark's entire body wobbles with the motion, nothing more than putty in Batman's hands.
"Always so good for me," Bruce whispers. "Taking everything I give you just like the good alpha you are. Just a handjob and you're ready to give me anything."
"Always." His voice, though shaky, strengthens resolutely with the promise. "I'll give you everything, I promise."
"Keep breathing with me. Just like that." Batman urges him on by taking a deep, slow breath in. Clark shakes, again, as he follows the motion, but it seems that taking in a lungful of air, feeling Batman's natural heat bleeding into him, just made him feel it that much more on his sensitive nerves.
Clark's precious little expression drops into something more sinful, his eyes rolled back and unseeing as he lets Batman take and take and take, speeding up his rhythm.
Yeah. He wanted to break him.
Batman bites down on Clark's shoulder. It doesn't do a thing to the unbreakable skin, but it makes Clark cry out again at the feeling of his omega's teeth trying to mark him.
"Can I cum?" Clark asks him, breathlessly, all at once. "Please can I cum, B-Bruce…?"
His voice is louder than he means it to be, almost breaking as he forces each breathy word out of his lungs, trying to stay as quiet as possible. Batman glances up instinctively, over to the dashboard of the plane, but nobody is hailing them privately to ask what the hell was going on. Good.
Batman shakes his head, and he knows Clark can feel it because he whines lowly, like a chastised dog.
"Shh, baby," Batman comforts him. "Let me get my fill of you."
And Clark, his poor, obedient alpha, has no choice but to hold his orgasm right where it is.
Bruce had researched it, before, and Clark was a bit of a… special case.
Apparently his alphan instincts were too strong. Though every alpha wanted nothing more to please their omega, Clark exceptionally wanted to do it more. Wanted it with his whole being, to the point where it was an unconscious obsession.
Bruce hypothesizes that it was because of the way he'd presented, those many months ago, and the Fortress robots had tentatively agreed after a bit of research. It wasn't dangerous, it just meant that Clark was a bit more… dependent on Bruce as his omega than was strictly normal.
In layman's terms: every time Clark wanted to cum, Bruce had to give him explicit permission.
Even if he was alone, he'd either need Bruce to call him and allow him to, or he'd simply have to hold it in.
It was a lot of power. Part of Bruce felt guilty, of having tied Superman so intricately, so indomitably to him, that the other man needed him to satisfy his base desires.
The larger part of him (the part that Clark agreed with loudly, when Bruce had expressed his concern), was elated. Pleased, like a king that has been offered a new kingdom to play with. He'd treat his Clark well, of course.
But… nobody ever said Bruce wasn't a little bit of a sadist, too.
And having Clark, having Superman, be so needy and whiny and dependent on him stroked Bruce's ego in an all-consuming kind of way. Clark who could crush anyone into dust, who so gently held Bruce in his hands like he was pure, precious gold. Clark, who could just take what he wanted from Bruce—who would still ardently give up all of himself if Clark asked or demanded it—begging Bruce for mere crumbs, just to make Bruce happy.
His precious alpha.
Batman kisses the nape of Superman's neck, a silent praise for his obedience.
They were running out of time, though. If Batman's mental clock was correct, and it always was, they only had about three minutes before he had to type in his password lest someone like Green Lantern burst through the reinforced shell of the plane and caught them in the act. They'd never hear the end of it.
And Batman wasn't lying. He was not going to be sharing these endearing, whorish expressions Clark was gifting him.
They belonged only, in all of their entirety, to Bruce.
"I'll give you permission," Batman says. "You'll get to cum, but it'll be a ruined one."
Immediately, Clark is shaking his head so fiercely that his entire body rocks with the motion. Batman, still firmly glued to his back, rocks too.
"Nnoo, please Bruce—y-you said I was a good boy, please—" His ragged voice breaks as Batman strokes him off impossibly faster.
Already his unbidden orgasm was clawing its way to the surface at Batman's threat, his promise.
The body was willing; the mind, petrified at the though of not alleviating the immeasurable amounts of pleasure brewing inside of him since Batman began his torture.
His body would get to cum, and that's all that mattered to his instincts. Even if it broke his pretty little brain.
"You're so good for me, my love," Bruce praises. "Look at how you're humping my fist. So greedy for it even though I just told you I'm going to ruin it. I felt your cock twitch, you desperate little thing."
An embarrassed whine from Clark makes him grin.
"I am going to ruin it, Clark. Y'know?" Batman licks a long, wet line up Clark's neck, tasting his sweaty skin and the Krypton-made fibers of his suit all in one. "I'm going to let go of your cock right when I give you permission, and I'm going to watch all of your cum desperately leak out of you as you whine and beg for me to grab you again."
Batman leaves one palm rutting against the slicked, twitching head of Clark's cock. With the other he continues to briskly stroke him off as Clark whines and mewls.
"And you're just gonna fall apart for me, hm? Gonna break right in my hands. Aren't you so happy?"
"Yy-yeahhnn… n-no…?" Clark's confused moans spill out of him almost as eagerly as his precum. So lost, but so trusting to let Batman drag him to hell. "I'm… 'm g-gonna…!"
"You can cum," Batman says, letting go of his cock all at once.
Just as he promised.
"Nnooo, pl-please…! Ahhn, god Bruce, oh—fuckk…!"
Batman watches like he's watching a god bless the earth, his heart speeding up excitedly. Superman would definitely be able to hear it.
But he's a bit distracted, his orgasm climbing and climbing and climbing now that he's been ordered to give in, to allow his body release.
"Oh, fuck— it's comingg, hnn—Bruce!" Clark can't stop whining, his moans more like overwhelmed sobs. Syllables get caught together, the words slurring together as he drools, begging his omega to keep touching. "B-brucee, ahh, 'mmcumming, 'm cum-mmh—nghh!"
And, gorgeously, Clark cums without Batman touching him a single second more. His mouth parts as he desperately mewls into the air, and Batman has to hurry a hand over those bitten-red lips to quiet his pleading. Clark shakes his head again, eyes squeezing shut when that touch, not even meant to be sensual, just makes his orgasm hit harder.
Drooling all over himself. Nearly crying.
He's never looked so pretty.
Ruined, all because of Bruce.
Batman moans, softly, as Clark pleads and pleads with a wordless sob. He nearly falls to his knees, but Batman fits his thigh firmly between Clark's to keep him steady. If he fell, he'd crush Batman, and instinctively Superman would never let that happen.
So he's stuck, left standing on trembling heels, cock bobbing fiercely in the air as he spills his seed across the Batwing's floor.
Greedily, Batman memorizes it all, wraps the mental picture he takes in a bow and sticks it in the deepest recesses of his mind to remember in the dark of night.
"You're s-so mean," Clark gasps, leaning back firmly. Batman gets shifted again, his weight like nothing more than paper. But the impact of his back hitting the plane's curved wall is entirely gentle, as Superman slowly catches his breath.
"Mm," Batman agrees, placing his hand against Clark's belly. It goes taut and tense, but Batman doesn't do anything more than touch. For now.
Yes, for now Batman simply pets his lover with a gentle touch and feels how the aftershocks shiver through him. Superman wipes at a line of drool down his chin, his cheeks flamed red even as he has to blink back his overwhelmed tears.
About a minute left.
Batman hates to rush him, but… the playtime wasn't over yet in the slightest.
"Come here?" He murmurs, soft and kind. He nudges Clark forward by his hips, until he's freed from being pinned backwards against the wall.
He doesn't let go of Clark, though, keeping that gentle hand on his belly to walk them backwards towards the pilot's seat. Clark still quivers a bit, his big, blue eyes looking at Batman like he'd made the moon and hung it in the night sky just for him to admire. As if Batman hadn't just snuffed the heat in his gut with a cruel grin.
Batman swallows heavily, wanting nothing more than to allow a brief recess so that he can lathe his Superman in praises and sweet affection.
They only had about thirty seconds left, though, so he simply lets his hands drop from his torso, lifting his fingers to tap, once, atop Clark's heart, before he turns to the console.
Batman enters the code in fastidiously, the password long and annoyingly convoluted. Harder for someone to memorize, if they weren't Batman.
Once he finishes, there's a pleasant chime confirming receipt, and he hears Superman sigh in relief.
When Batman glances over at him, Superman is still standing on wobbly feet. He's begun to stuff himself back into his suit, presumably thinking that Batman was done with him. His cock is still hard and leaking, cum clinging messily to the tip.
His cheeks are still ruddy pink, eyes down turned as he forcibly steadies his breath with inhuman precision. Exactly four seconds in, exactly four out.
Batman gives him the moment, briefly checking in to see if the rest of the team is still in position or if they were parting ways yet.
They'd only just crossed the border out of Lestos. As expected, most of their flock (for lack of a better term) had disbanded, which meant their comms had also been disconnected from the core connection.
Batman hums, pleased.
"Superman?"
"Nnh?" He's still mildly dazed, but his eyes finally pick up from the floor and regard Batman with a bit more clarity.
Batman breaks the gaze to look down himself, this time.
Superman's cock is actually still throbbing, not that Batman was expecting any less. Even if he hadn't been edged and ruined, Clark needed approximately three rounds before he was physically satisfied enough to go soft.
When he looks up again, Superman is mid-gulp, fingers tangled together nervously.
He has no idea what micro-expression must have shown on his face, because he hadn't allowed himself to smirk, but whatever it was let Superman know instantly that they were not done.
To be known on such a molecular level, only by his superhuman fiancé, makes a pleasant feeling thrum through Bruce's body. He relaxes his shoulders, standing up from where he'd leaned against the console.
"You were so good for me," Batman praises belatedly.
If Superman had dog ears, they would have perked up into sharp little points. A tail would have been sent wagging in a wide circle. His eyes widen, mouth squiggling into an embarrassed, joyous little smile.
"I, um—" Superman swallows heavily, and he reaches out a hesitant hand as if Batman would ever refuse a touch from him. "Really?"
"Yes," Batman steps forward into his reach and allows himself to be pulled into a gentle embrace. "But can you take a little more? I'm not done with you yet."
"I can," Superman murmurs, so softly that it was like a sigh. Like he's melted in Batman's palms, blissful to simply let Batman play with him as he desires.
"… I love you," Batman can't help but whisper back.
He tries not to use the phrase during sex like this, so that Clark won't get wires crossed in his brain and assume Bruce only wants him when he's let his alpha instincts come out. Bruce loves every part of him that he can greedily get.
But he can't help himself, sometimes, especially when Clark lets Bruce possessively squeeze everything out of him that he has to give.
"I love you too." Their cheeks press together, until Clark is able to give his face a full, unabashed nuzzle. Physically sharing his heat with Batman, another alpha thing. A way of silently reassuring while simultaneously encouraging his omega onwards.
"Mm."
The sweet phrase, four short words, has Bruce liquefying into a creature of pure desire, and he doesn't hold himself back any longer.
He steps forward and Clark, obediently, steps back. When he twists, Clark does the same, until he's ushered exactly where he wants him: in front of the pilot's chair.
With a quick touch to his shoulder, Batman shoves him down. Clark, of course, goes easily. Then, in the same motion, he twists the chair with his foot until it locks perpendicular to the plane console.
Giving him plenty of room to drop to his knees between Superman's legs.
"I'm going to ruin your orgasm one more time," Batman threatens him, eyes locked onto Clark's. "You can fuck my throat if you want, but you can't cum down it this time."
It wasn't because Batman was worried about the mess. He'd be covered in spit and copious amounts of precum regardless.
No, he just wanted Superman to cry. Wanted his throat to be the reason that he felt like his cock was breaking, unable to crest that edge of pleasure.
"You're—gonna kill me one of these days," Clark says as his only argument. He lifts his hand and gently places it against the Batman cowl, fingering at the stiff, pointed ear with a fond gaze.
But he nods resolutely, and Batman smiles at him. A soft, demure little thing until he juts his lips out and kisses him right where his tip met shaft.
"Oh, and… make noise for me, love. I want to hear you even if I pass out with your cock in my throat."
A startled groan erupts from Clark, and it has Batman grinning all over again. He even laughs, the tickle of his breath brushing across Clark's sensitive skin, but he doesn't tease any longer.
Batman sticks his tongue out, letting the full of it curve gently along the heft of Clark's girth. His cock is wet and dripping, and the taste isn't like anything Batman can accurately describe, not even if he'd sampled every bit of Earth's delicacies in his lifetime.
It's so thick that it hurts his throat, every time. Not so much that Batman will ever give up sucking it while Clark writhed above him, but enough to take note of.
He looks forward to it, right now, the sharp feeling of his throat stretching to its very limit.
Batman kisses it one last time, licking the shiny precum that has built in excess off of his lips. Clark watches him the entire time, lids halfway fallen over his eyes. It's as if his heat vision was activated, the way Batman's skin scorches as Clark sensuously looks him over. Batman takes the tip in his mouth, to distract them both.
The spongy tip twitches, always eager against Batman's tongue. He laves his tongue across it, feeling how the slit minutely dilates. A fresh dollop of Kryptonian precum lights across Batman's tastebuds, and he moans needily, hungry for it.
"Bruce," Clark moans with him.
Batman slowly breathes in deep, through his nose. A flood of Clark's scent fills his lungs as he does, and it makes his brain tickle gleefully. The smell makes him ravenous, wanting his belly full of it already. He lets his lips part further, taking more of Clark's dick past them until the girth itself stretches them further.
It knocks against his tonsils much too soon. He doesn't gag, not yet, but he does pause just to feel how his throat tickles, already expecting the ache. Maybe Clark wasn't the only masochist here.
"Your mouth is so hot," Clark mumbles, entranced. "You were made for this."
Batman's entire body quakes at the words. God… to be made to take Superman's cock, to slurp and choke on it in lieu of getting a breath of air. It was always so arousing when he allowed himself to be nothing more than a cockslut, especially when Clark unexpectedly encouraged it, lost in the haze of heat in his mind.
So he lets himself fall. Just for a moment.
He nods his head wantonly, until Clark hooks his palm across the back of Batman's skull and tugs him forward. There's a soft, slurping sound as Batman stops himself from drooling, but the suction just encourages Clark to fuck into his mouth. His hips tilt, knocking upwards as he feeds the full length of himself past Batman's esophagus.
"Yesss," Clark hisses. "G-god, B… I don't know how you're able to take it every time, how your throat doesn't break."
A noise vibrates from Batman, unbidden, and it sends Clark into a spiral of pleasure.
His head falls back so heavily that the chair squeaks in protest, cracking under the weight. Batman has to plant his hands on Clark's thighs, to steady himself as the chair tries to swing.
Clark digs his heels down hard, surely leaving a hairline fracture in the steel floor. But the chair steadies itself, and Batman is able to take another few inches into the silky confines of his throat uninterrupted.
The position is hard. It'd be easier if Batman were on his back, his gullet fully opened so that Clark could simply fuck into it like the empty, hungry hole that it was. It was Bruce's favorite position, especially when Clark would just slightly lose control and wrap his hand around Bruce's neck, trying to jerk himself off desperately even buried balls deep inside of his lover.
Bruce loved when Clark lost control.
But hands-and-knees was the most convenient position right now. He could fantasize about Clark's balls slapping against his face later. For now, all Batman needed to do was use his well-trained throat to milk Clark until he ruined another orgasm.
He drops his hands, shoulders following the motion until he's lifting the weight of Clark's thighs atop them. He moans, a low gurgle from the bottom of his throat, at the pressure.
Clark humps up into the vibration, a slow, almost-gentle slide if not for how fucking thick his cock was. He could be moving millimeters at a time and Bruce's throat would still be ruined.
He encourages it, opening his mouth just that much wider, as far as it'll go without it feeling like it'll dislocate.
Already he can't breathe. His vision blurs and he assumes it's from lack of oxygen until he tugs his head back, breathing raggedly around the thick of the cock prying him open. When the bleariness doesn't fade, he realizes he'd gagged so hard he'd made himself cry.
Clark's voice is a constant stream of praise, heated words that don't exactly reach Bruce's brain but the tone is enough to have him sinking back down the length, faster this time.
With that, he picks up a quick, sharp rhythm. The heated flesh parting his lips twitches almost in time with the throatfucking. Bruce can feel his throat bulge when his lips meet the base, straining to accommodate the almost foot long length of it. He gags again, hard enough that it shoves a few inches back out of his throat.
Clark encourages him right back down, before Bruce is even able to calm his spasming stomach, and Bruce can only snort in an overwhelmed breath through his nose before he's suffocating once more.
"Nngh, god—"
Batman can't even suck, like this. His throat is just a useless hole suctioned along the pulsing length of Clark's dick. It tries in vain, instinctually, to shove him out again, but Clark doesn't give his throat a break. He keeps his hand steady at the back of Batman's skull like an unforgiving wall.
His own cock is so hard, pulsing with its own need. He would touch himself to take the edge off but he really can't move, head trapped between Clark's legs. If he lifts himself off-center by even an inch, he's sure he'll pass out.
God, he kind of wants to.
A gentle, massive hand thumbs at Batman's eyes. It startles him, a bit, and Clark shushes him so lovingly that he melts back into nothing.
His throat convulses, desperately trying to expel the cock suffocating him again. He feels the hot tears beading up and dripping down his face, half of it drenching him beneath the cowl and the other drops spilling messily over the reinforced-leather until it surely shines.
Clark's thumb is wet with it.
"You feel so good, sweetheart," Clark praises him, voice so low it was like the distant rumble of thunder. Batman chokes, the noise cacophonous in comparison, but Clark nods encouragingly. "Yeah, just like that…"
Then his head is shoved lower. His lips meet the soft hair coating Clark's pubic bone, and Bruce's eyes roll uselessly in his skull before he's able to make out the shape of Clark's face past the build-up of tears on his lashes. His back arches upwards as his lungs protest, but neither of them try to pull away to let him breathe.
It starts to go dark again. Clark is humping his face, grinding the tip of his cock so deep it feels like he's trying to penetrate Batman's stomach from the top down. Batman's hand trembles as he scrambles for purchase, suddenly, fingers tangling themselves on the soft edge of Superman's cape.
"Bruce, mmm, oh god y-yesss."
Superman's personal communicator pings.
The pleasant noise is more like static in Batman's ear. He honestly doesn't register it at first, past the rush of blood he hears, not until Clark cuts off his sounds and drops his legs wide open, freeing Batman from the shadow of them.
It beeps again, after ten seconds, and Clark swears beneath his breath, eyes flashing darkly as he forces himself calm.
It takes a considerable effort for Bruce to yank himself off of his lover's cock. Spit rushes out after, messily, dripping off of his chin.
Clark looks like he wants to slurp it all clean.
"Superman?" Wonder Woman's voice pierces through the sound of them panting together. "Everything alright?"
Clark's hands shake as he reaches for the communicator, but Batman beats him to the punch. Smoothly untangling himself from Clark's legs, he snatches it up, pressing down on the mic so hard that the thing would have broken if it wasn't built to withstand explosions.
Batman's voice is thick and breathless as he responds, "He's here. Status report?"
If Wonder Woman is confused at Batman answering, she doesn't mention it. "Oh, there's no emergency. The ambassador had simply mentioned that she'd like to introduce Superman to some other diplomats in her home country."
Batman frowns. Clark has a hand shoved against his mouth to stop any sounds that might spill out of him unsolicited.
Batman catches his breath in record time, shaking off the final wisps of unconsciousness. The stars that flutter behind his eyelids turn to sharp daggers, and he turns that pointed look up to his lover. The sight of Clark makes his chest yawn open, wanting to swallow him whole.
The fucking ambassador.
Batman tightens his fist around Superman's cock. It throbs steadily, wantonly, but he allows himself to be cruel as he stares impassively at the drooling line of precum dribbling off of it. Clark nearly moans, or cries out maybe, but he holds it in. Good boy.
Wonder Woman continues, oblivious to the plight that Batman is putting Superman through.
"It might be advantageous to have more reputable contacts, especially outside of the United States. But I wanted to clear it with him before passing along his information."
"Hm."
Maybe he could put a collar on him. A subtle one, woven into his suit to declare Superman as having an owner. It could have a little bat on it, a cute one whose design would make Clark smile goofily. He can't imagine putting him in something sharper, even if it would be much more effective to give him something spiked and leather. Dangerous.
"… Unless you see a reason not to," Wonder Woman continues after the silence. "If there's something you found that should make us apprehensive of further contact, I am welcome to—"
"No." Batman licks across Clark's dick, eyes sharp beneath his cowl to keep him pinned in place. He swallows thickly, and Clark digs his fingers into his jaw so tight that it would have shattered a lesser man into pieces. "I will get in contact with Ambassador Safo'r in the next few days. Thank you for the update, Wonder Woman."
"… Of course," she responds, her voice now, perhaps, a bit perplexed. "Wonder Woman, out."
The comms click off with a near-inaudible sound, and they are left in silence. Bruce allows his chest to heave, breath shaking out of him as he forces lungs to obediently relax. Clark is also still trembling, but his eyes don't leave Batman's face as a pink, sinful tongue balances out past his lips to gather some of Superman's slick on it.
The sudden reminder of his jealousy… his ire has Batman acting cruel all over again. He slows the movement of his hand until he's doing nothing more than little ups-and-downs.
Until Clark is humping into him, trying to reclaim that feeling of intense pleasure, like a desperate mutt.
Bruce scoffs. "So needy. Sometimes I wonder how you get anything done when your brain is in your cock."
Clark whimpers, an apology already on his lips. Bruce shuts him up, gripping the base of his cock tight. It has the other man shouting, the sensitive skin punished for reasons that Clark isn't privy to just yet.
Batman breathes heavily against Clark's length. With his grip still stringently tight, he s l o w l y slides his hand back up, to the very tip of Clark's dick.
The head weeps with enough precum to rival a full orgasm. Bruce lets it drip directly onto his tongue, only missing a few drops that instead end up coating the tops of his suit-covered thighs.
"Maybe I should let her see," Bruce sneers. Clark makes a lost, confused sound, as if he's about to ask who. "… Let everyone see how good you are for me. They'll learn how desperate I can make you, just with my tongue."
"No," Superman whines. For a moment, Batman thinks he's arguing from embarrassment, until a steady hand hovers against the side of his face, hiding him from the closed ramp of the Batwing, the only de facto entry point. "Y-you're mine."
Batman grins, like a devil that has chained an angel.
"Prove it."
He opens his mouth wide, a target for Clark's burning arousal.
Immediately upon being given permission, Clark goes wild. He yanks Bruce down, hard, until the entirety of his cock is wrapped in the velvety heat of Bruce's throat. Once again, buried where it belongs, his cock throbs with need.
Clark fucks into it, Bruce's throat, the same way he fucks Bruce's ass, when he wants to fuck him pregnant. When he's snarling possessive words at Bruce's back, shoving Bruce against the bed and thrusting deep. Hands holding Bruce down so all he can do is fucking take it.
His throat might break.
God, Bruce kind of wants it to, as proof that only he can get Superman so out of his mind like this. His alpha, so enraptured by his omega that he's fucking into his holes until both of their minds break from the pleasure.
As if he can hear his thoughts, or maybe it's just the glazed over look in Bruce's eyes, Clark grits his teeth and hisses out,
"G-gonna…!"
Batman doesn't need to remind him to edge—to ruin. Clark is so good for him that he does it himself.
He thrusts once—twice. Then he wails, lifting his hand off of Bruce all at once so he can freely fist his fingers into a steel-like grip. He goes rigid and unyielding all over, his body forced still by the frayed edges of his own willpower.
He doesn't cum.
Batman swallows, reflexively, and Clark wheezes as if he'd been shot. His hand drops again, palm red from the force of holding himself back, and cradles gently if not resolutely against the back of Bruce's head.
He presses down, with just an iota of his strength, and a soft glurk escapes from Bruce's overstuffed throat, no more room left inside.
Clark's entire cock spasms with need. If he'd been allowed, he'd be shooting ropes directly against Bruce's soft palate, letting the sticky strands mark him inside out. He'd be breeding Bruce's throat like he meant it, filling him up until it filled up his stomach and left him pleasantly, warmly, full.
But he can't. All his cock can do is twitch and jolt and leak precum.
"Pleaaasee…!" Clark strains, but the denial has already been ordered. He holds Bruce down desperately, rutting in as deep as possible, though they both know it's entirely hopeless. All the act does is force Batman to nearly black out on his cock, his vision going out all over again.
He squeezes his fingers, once, around the mass of Clark's strong thighs. The skin barely gives, and the touch definitely doesn't hurt him.
But it makes Clark gasp as if electrocuted, and he abruptly shoves Bruce off of his cock, hand gripping solidly around the back of Bruce's neck.
For a second, Bruce doesn't breathe. His throat forgets its purpose, too used to being Clark's own personal fucktoy, until the buzzing in Bruce's ear fades and he hears Clark whimpering for him.
A ragged cough shakes its way out of him, and Batman squeezes his eyes shut as it makes his sore throat ache. It feels so fucking good that he nearly takes Clark right back inside, but his head has gone too light and empty.
All he can do is sway, still on his knees, until his head lands against Clark's thigh and stays there.
He has to swallow a few dozen times until his voice starts working again, his throat stuffed too full of Clark's weeping pre. It's thick and silky and so delicious that Batman allows himself to savor it for longer than necessary.
When he lifts his head, Clark has both of his palms shoved hard against his eyes, trying to ground himself. His cock has flopped to one side, curved against Clark's hip to leak down the bare skin and soak against the leather seats instead of Bruce.
He definitely does not pout at the loss.
Batman shifts his knees beneath himself, ignoring the light ache from being in a less-than-comfortable position for so long.
"Clark," he exhales. "Christ."
"Sorry," his lover responds. Denied, and he's the one apologizing. "I… almost lost control, sorry. 'm so sorry."
"It was good. You were good, my love." Batman's voice is rough, and he coughs briefly to try to clear the noise. "So good, using my throat just like I told you to."
Gentle fingers nudge at the seam of his cowl. When he looks up, Clark has sunk down in the seat a bit, slouched. But his eyes, filled with almost as many tears as Bruce's were, are delirious with desire.
The only time he's looked at Bruce like that was in the throes of his rut, fucking Bruce completely out of his mind until he passed out.
"Put me in your lap," Batman orders, lifting himself up unsteadily. Clark gathers him, lifting the entirety of his weight with a single palm to gather Bruce up in his lap like nothing.
No, like something precious and soft.
"B," Clark murmurs softly. "Love you so much."
Between them, pressed groin to groin, Batman feels how Clark's denied cock continuously twitches. Surely the sensation must be breaking his brain, Bruce as close to him as he can get without stripping fully.
If it is, though, Clark seems content just to let Bruce steal his fill, to use him over and over. God, Bruce couldn't save enough lives to deserve this, not even if he were immortal.
Still, the jealousy lashing at him like a fire-soaked whip makes him frown. Christ—jealous.
He grabs Clark by the edge of his suit, yanking at it until Clark shrugs it off for him. It rolls up uncomfortably the further down it goes, doused in sweat that is usually not present.
"… Can I ask what this is about yet, honey?" Clark asks quietly, like he's asking for something classified.
Another reminder.
A wave of possessiveness claws at Bruce like a wild animal. He opens his mouth, meaning to explain, but he ends up gnawing at Superman's chest trying to bite until the suit ripped (it never would). Clark cradles the back of his head gently, lifting him before Bruce can hurt his teeth, so that he can kiss him instead.
His fingers stay clenched in the wrinkled material of the Superman suit, right above the insignia.
Clark kisses him sweetly, like they're about to go on a first date. He doesn't open his mouth wide, content in letting their lips slide together and tasting the aftermath of Bruce's blowjob.
Bruce deepens the kiss, briefly, slurping across Clark's full tongue before he pulls back. They're connected by a thick line of drool that breaks and drips down between them, lost where Bruce presses the full of his chest against Clark's.
He ignores the prior question.
"You still wanna cum, baby?"
"Yes, Bruce." The words would be exasperated if Clark weren't so lost in the ebb and flow of Bruce's tide. "Please?"
"Mm."
Batman reaches between them to fist Clark's dick again. The Batman suit was starting to get away now, his gauntlets preventing him from feeling the full heft of his heavy cock, or the stickiness of his precum.
He'd strip in a minute.
Right now, he needed to mark Superman. And if he couldn't do it with hickeys and bites, he'd do it in a way that no one would be able to deny—by making Superman become so out of his mind with desire that he wouldn't look at anyone but Bruce again.
Clark ruts against him, simply happy to not immediately be told he'd have to hold his orgasm again.
Bruce lifts a gloved hand, only just barely still dripping with Superman's drying precum, and begins to unfasten his cowl with those same fingers.
"I should let them—everyone—see us like this," he mutters. He doesn't mean to leave such a hint for Clark to latch onto, surely connecting the dots of Bruce's inane jealousy. But he can't stop thinking about… about— "Superman humping at my thighs, begging to cum, because I'm the only one who can give it to you. You belong to me, don't you?"
"Yes." Clark agrees immediately. "'m yours, only yours. Only want to worship you, d-don't make me share, B—"
Bruce would never.
"Good boy."
It's cruel to use that phrase against him now, when he's already so out of his mind, but it makes pleasant heat pool in Bruce's stomach as Clark convulses beneath him, humping his hips forward to grind soundly against Bruce's ass.
Bruce finishes his ministrations, fingers finally yanking the sturdy leather from his neck and exposing the heated skin to the cooled, sterile air of the batplane.
"Kiss me again."
His cowl, tugged off, hangs limply around his neck as Clark is, finally, allowed to taste him. "Nnh, Bruce… my Bruce."
Just Bruce, outside of the cowl.
His large hand cups across Bruce's jaw, tilting his head close so that he can gently brush their lips together. It's chaste, in a way, just a simple brushing of sensitive skin against sensitive skin.
Then, he allows his lips to part, his breath to tickle across Clark's pouty mouth, and he's soon being kissed silly.
"Your omega, right?" Bruce gasps against his lips, pleased as Clark's hands explore him up and down even as Clark tries to curl their tongues together. Fingers catch at the divots of his batsuit, but Clark seems to be happy just to be able to touch him at all. He always got so euphoric when Bruce affirmed his status as Clark's omega, and Bruce was happy to do so when he was always so good for him.
"Mine," Clark agrees, voice low. "I won't let them see you like this, nobody but me."
Bruce nips at Clark's lower lip, though he probably could have bit it with all his might and Clark would have just groaned pleasantly at the painless pressure.
He likes to balance some of the sweet with the spice, though. So Bruce kisses him sweetly, allowing his eyes to flutter shut as Clark breathes with him, just barely ghosting the tips of their tongues together. His poor needy alpha was always so happy with anything, even this heartless teasing. If he was a dog he'd be wagging his tail like a dumb little mutt, excited just for the attention.
Finally, he's able to slip the suit far enough down. It's rolled uselessly against Clark's waist, the sleeves waving idly where they fall across the arm rest.
Clark's chest lifts and falls, panting in a slow rolling motion. Like a breeze kicking up across a field.
His nipples twitch, as the cool air hits them.
Bruce needs them in his mouth. Right now.
"God, you're so needy right here," Bruce moans, hovering his lips over Clark's sensitive nipples so that the heat of his breath could tease him. The poor things looked so lonely, the left one hardened where Bruce had barely pressed it nearly half an hour ago by now.
Clark groans, low in his throat, and knocks his head back against the pilot's seat with a dull sound. His chest is covered in a healthy pink, blood rushed to the sensitive skin of his pecs. His pretty blush covered him from cheek almost all the way down to his belly. Bruce idly wonders how many people could say that they knew Superman was a full-body blusher.
Bruce kisses one of his precious buds, and smiles when Clark whimpers helplessly.
"Too much?" Bruce teases. "Just a kiss and you're overwhelmed?"
It was hardly just a kiss by now. Bruce's throat is still dully aching.
But Clark, his beloved, nods his head dumbly in easy assent. He was blinking his eyes quickly, clearing them of the stubborn, overstimulated tears that threatened to spill over his lashes. He'd sucked his lower lip between his teeth, grinding on it intently as he watched Bruce tease him, not a single complaint to be found.
Bruce wanted to devour him from top to bottom.
"You can have another one then," Bruce concedes. "Since it feels so good."
He kisses the other nipple, and the reaction is electric. Clark arcs his back, leaning his chest into Bruce's mouth to eagerly accept his reward. He spreads his legs, his groin knocking directly against Bruce's upper thigh as he slips a few inches down down down the chair. Bruce catches him with a single pat to his knee, tutting gently.
"Stay still, love. I can't taste you if you keep wiggling."
Clark gasps heavily, just once, before he bites his lip again and nods. "Mm-hnn… 'kay."
And even though the position surely must be uncomfortable, warily balanced on his heels with his hips jutted upwards, Clark stills himself. His hands squeeze tightly around the arm rest of the chair, the material creaking ominously, but Bruce doesn't mind. They'd be easy to replace.
The sight of Clark losing his mind, entirely by Bruce's hand? Absolutely priceless.
Bruce drops to his knees so that he can lay himself across Clark more comfortably. He plants his palms against the tops of Clark's thighs, digging into the sturdy material of his bunched up uniform for purchase. His chest lays against the firm of Clark's abs, and he allows himself to shiver pleasurably as the pure heat of Superman soaks into him immediately.
Then he presses his cheek against Clark's chest, right above his heart to hear it thump wildly beneath the surface. A few strands of hair tickle across Clark's sensitive skin, which sends the other man reeling as he rocks his head back again.
"Bruce," Clark pleads.
"Mm."
Bruce opens his mouth, pantingly purposefully loud against Clark's body until, finally, he allows his tongue to fall past his lips and lick a long, wet stripe across the sensitive nipple below him.
Clark stays still, somehow. Barely. His entire body goes rigid, neck straining with the force he puts on his lungs as he holds his breath. Every noise spilling out of him stops all at once, and Bruce is sure if he were to lift his head, frazzled tears would be spilling freely from Clark's squeezed shut eyes. Always so hypersensitive.
Bruce laps at his nipple again, once more, before he closes his mouth around the full circle of his areola and suckles gently. The skin is sinfully soft, and fits pleasantly against his lips. It isn't the first time he'd tasted the skin there, of course—Bruce had fully catalogued all of Clark's erogenous zones the second time they'd had sex—but it was always so fascinating.
If Clark had asked why Bruce seemed to like it so much, he would simply say he was amused how easily a little nipple sucking got Clark so breathless.
Truthfully, though, it was because Clark was mesmerizing when he fell apart from just a touch, every time, and Bruce wanted him like this for the rest of his life. Caught between agony and bliss, all thanks to Bruce.
"Love," he purrs.
"Guh—" Clark responds, obediently.
Bruce slurps on his nipple purposefully loud. He lets the spit build up before it spills messily down Clark's chest. But he doesn't forget about the other bud, oh no, Bruce quickly gathers up some of that mess and spreads it across the lonely little pressure point until Clark is unable to escape the pleasure.
If he could have, Bruce would have left bite marks in the thick, tender flesh. He would suck so hard that dark bruises in the shape of Bruce's mouth would decorate the skin, and he would keep at it for days after, in the hopes the mark would never fade.
Mine, Bruce growls in his own headspace. God, he wanted to claim Clark so badly. Is that how it had felt when Clark was in rut? Bruce can't imagine having to live with such a dark desire in his brain for longer than a few moments of a time.
He has to forcibly calm himself down again, now. He stops himself from biting down, and instead leaves softer, gentler kisses all over the curve of Clark's pectorals. It has the same effect, in the end, Clark squirming and writhing for more.
"You're driving me crazy," Bruce gasps, despite himself. "I'm going to find a way to mark you, baby. I want to see the indent of my teeth in you."
"Gooolly," Clark wheezes, head tilting to one side as Bruce trails his kisses, his sucking, upwards until he finds the jut of Clark's collarbone. "I-I… I want that too. I want you to bite me like that."
"I'll find a way," Bruce promises, his mouth not leaving Clark's skin. "Just be patient for me, love."
"Baby," Clark murmurs back, positively enamored. Something giddy builds in his expression, past the dazed overstimulation, and Bruce can't help but feel excited in turn. God, Clark spoils him too much.
He sucks Clark's other nipple into his mouth, pleased. The other one tastes just as good, of Clark's sweat. God, the saltiness is so rare on Clark's skin that satisfaction wreaths in his gut like lava in a building volcano. Another way Clark belonged only to him, no one else would see Clark sweat.
"Fuck." Bruce overwhelms himself with the thought, mortifyingly. He didn't know he had a sweat kink. Or maybe it's simply just a 'everything Clark' kink.
Meanly, he pinches Clark's nipple between two fingers, rolling the tiny little bundle of nerves against his calloused thumb.
"Yeah," Clark urges him on. "H-harder."
He pinches harder, eyes devouring the vision of Clark nudging his chest into the insisting pressure. He doesn't hurt, can't hurt, but he feels it anyway, and Bruce is happy to be the one doing it.
"… how would you feel about getting these pierced?" He whispers, idly.
"Bruce." Clark actually whines, petulantly. "T-that… it would show through my suit."
"Mm."
It's not a no. (And besides, they both know Bruce would figure out a good padding alternative so it didn't look obvious.)
Bruce hides his smirk, leaning his head in again as he eases his fingers off of Clark's little nipple. He kisses it again, his lips glancing across the pebbled skin. God, he could suck on these for the next four hours of their flight. Clark would let him.
For now, though, he has a pressing need in his gut that only Clark can alleviate.
He lifts himself off of his lover's lap, just briefly. Bruce's knees fit uncomfortably around Clark's thighs, the seat still too small to fit both of them despite how far they're pushing the limits of it. Next time, Bruce will have to make the seats larger, sturdier, to accommodate. He's sure Clark won't mind.
For now, he just balances precariously and begins to unlatch his suit, blinking coyly when Clark's hands circle back to cup his ass.
"I can't get naked if you're in the way."
Clark blinks up at him distractedly, watching how Bruce's hands work deftly, quickly pressing into latches and tugging off straps. He doesn't respond for a while, the words probably not even registering as Bruce's chest comes into his line of sight. The kevlar stays stiff even as he tugs it over his head, and he grunts softly when it gets tangled in his hair, tugging his head back.
"Oh—let me help," Clark murmurs, unsnarling Bruce's messy locks from the vicious pull. He licks his lips, letting his fingers stay tangled in Bruce's hair for longer than strictly necessary, but pulls away when Bruce grins at him, lifting his hips higher to begin on the bottom half.
Clark won't let him off of his lap. His hands clasp Bruce's hips, fingers grazing against the bottom curve of his ass unrepentantly. There's even a soft squeeze or two, when Bruce huffs at him.
Fine, then. Bruce unzips one side, so that his thighs have more room, and he lets his belt fall.
Finally, his suit (which had been only slightly easier to take off compared to Clark's even when sweaty) falls in a pile at their feet. They don't bother yanking his pants down further than the curve of his ass, Clark won't let them.
Besides, once his hole is exposed they both lose patience.
Clark is still half naked, his cock hidden just because his suit had ended up in a pile in his lap. A quick twist of his hip, and a gust of wind where his hand moved so fast it was like the flickering of a light, and the suit was firmly shoved out of the way, off to the side. Eager.
His cock seems to angle itself up, pointing towards Bruce's hole like a homing beacon. Ready to share the heat of it.
With a shiver, Bruce leans forward, the full weight of himself steadied on top of Clark. He reaches his hand behind, feeling his hole until it opens up at the insistent touch.
With a quick swipe of his fingers across Clark's cock, stealing the lube coating it, Bruce makes quick work of opening himself up.
It's efficient, a simple act of spreading the precum across the rim, messily taking more directly from Clark's tip, and then shoving a finger inside. It slips in easily, and he only prods for a few moments before he's easing a second one in too.
There's a slight twinge of pain as he rushes it, and he must twitch because Clark coos at him softly, eyes flickering up and down Bruce's body as he waits oh so patiently for his treat.
Bruce moans for him, low and sultry, and Clark's eyes flutter shut as the sound seems to arouse him further.
Bruce cursorily shoves a third finger inside while his lover isn't looking, gritting his teeth before he lets his lips drop open with a soft grunt.
But he feels himself relaxing around the intrusion. His fingers aren't as thick as Clark's, unfortunately, nor do they go as deep. But it's enough to relax and soften up his rim, so Bruce can't complain.
Besides, Bruce doesn't mind. Having a little rushed sex because they both were so eager for Clark to dip inside and use him just made the entire scenario more arousing. Bruce squirms, just once, and Clark nods encouragingly.
"H-how many fingers?" He sweet talks, coaxing Bruce to make more noises.
With a huff, Bruce grunts, "Three, now."
Clark's chest lifts and falls with a shaky breath, and Bruce's entire body lifts with it.
He licks his lips, planting his free hand on Clark's chest to keep himself from squirming more. He crooks his fingers inside, tugging insistently on his rim to try to hurry his body up. He wants his alpha's dick in him now.
"Not as big as yours," Bruce laments whorishly. "I'd already be cumming if they were yours. You finger me so deep, love. Always reminding me that it doesn't feel as good if it's not you."
The words are crooned like a sweet lullaby, and Clark is helpless to the siren song. He nods uselessly, fingers crawling across Bruce's skin to eagerly take over.
But if they did that, it'd be another hour before his cock would be in him. Clark always got so distracted, wanting to wring out an orgasm or two from Bruce before he gets inside.
Bruce can't wait that long.
He lifts himself out of Clark's reach, and Clark whines like an admonished pet. Obediently, he gets his fingers back into place, tugging Bruce's ass cheeks apart and squeezing down.
Bruce slips his fingers out of his hole, the resulting noise wet and lewd.
It's barely prepped enough. He'll feel every inch, hours after they're done.
When they land, he'll feel a jolt of pleasure as his empty hole gapes and leaks. He'll feel the heat of Clark's bruising hold on his skin. He'll have the taste of his alpha still swirling across his tongue like wine.
"Kal," Bruce murmurs, tenderly. "Fuck me."
Clark grips him by his hips so tightly that it hurts.
Neither of them will last long. Bruce has no desire to drag this out further anymore. His hole was achingly empty, his tongue heavy with the aftertaste of Clark. He wanted him inside now, and he wanted to be filled with his spunk until it leaked out in lazy little dribbles.
"Nngh, yeah—" Bruce encourages, leaning into the pain. Fuck, he wanted there to be dark bruises left over. "C'mon, in me."
Clark angles his hips just so, until he's nearly spilling out of the chair and Bruce is gathered up in his lap, having to plant his hand against the crooked headrest, where Clark had broken it earlier. He digs his fingertips in with a moan as the tip catches, and then quiets as it pushes in.
Clark feeds his cock in with a single, smooth motion. Not fast. Not slow. It's almost militaristic in its precision, and all Bruce can do is shudder through it as his insides are opened all the way, accepting Clark inside.
His cock is so wet with slick that it goes in easy. Even though Bruce hadn't been stretched open nearly enough, it doesn't hurt. His rim just stretches taut, as if it were made to take Kryptonian cock. Clark's, only.
"Hnngh," Bruce groans, hiding his face against Clark's shoulder. Clark lifts his hips, pressing deeper inside until Bruce repeats that embarrassing noise.
"Use my name again," Clark pleads.
"Kal," he gasps readily. "Kal-El—fuck me."
"Bruce…!"
Clark… Kal fucks him hard. He doesn't wait until he's gone all the way in, gently stretching Bruce as deep inside as possible. He thrusts upwards, spearing Bruce with the entirety of it before he's yanking back out. Then he uses Bruce by that hold he has on his hips, jerking him up and down the length of his cock at a terrible, rough, perfect pace.
Bruce can't speak as the onslaught of pleasure leaves him breathless. He can only hold on for the ride as Kal makes him take every inch like a fleshlight, a toy made only to take cock. Like Bruce was made special for it—for him.
The roughness of it quenches that burning insecurity in his gut. He has no need for it when Kal is claiming him inside out, focused only on getting them both off. His eyes only have room to look devoutly at him, mouth only opened to praise and plead with Bruce for more.
"Omega," Kal groans aloud, unashamed. "My omega feels so good."
Pleasure flutters around Bruce like a tornado, and he steadies himself by touching Kal. He grunts encouragingly, limbs shaking until he leans himself fully into Kal's grip, finally able to find purchase with his elbows against the armrest. It's a tight squeeze, and makes his rim tighten because Kal's hips stutter for just a second before he's fucking him just as hard.
He licks up an influx of sweat on Kal's collarbone, panting heavily. He presses the pads of his fingers across his strong deltoids, feeling how they flex with the motion of lifting and dropping Bruce by his waist, up and down his cock.
"Don't look at anyone else," Bruce orders him, his thumb lifting to press on the swell of Kal's throat. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows thickly, but he's already nodding his assent, and Bruce leans down to kiss him roughly.
Kal's mouth moves with him, huffing out little words that Bruce swallows down greedily. When he breaks the kiss, Kal surges upwards to steal his lips back, immediately.
They rock together, Kal's hips pistoning upwards in a steady rhythm. The sound of their skin unwaveringly smacking together makes Bruce moan, especially when he feels the pinch of the bruises on his hips getting jolted by the jolting cadence of their fucking.
"I don't," Kal-El gasps, breaking the kiss when Bruce tightens around him like a sinful vice. "I o-only look at you, B. I only imagine your body against mine, your lips on me. God, I just wanna be inside of you forever, breeding you full."
"Yeah? Gonna claim my insides with your cum?"
"Yes, nng—please, I wanna pump you so full Bruce. You know I do."
Bruce grinds his hips in little circles, ruining Kal's rhythm cruelly. "Haah… I don't know if I should let you. Maybe you aren't dedicated to me enough."
"I'll prove it," Kal-El snarls at him, yanking Bruce back into stillness. His hands fit right back against the bruised fingerprints already staining Bruce's skin. "Tell me what you need, Bruce—what you want. Don't care what it is, I'll spoil you rotten. No one else can get you like this, not when you're my omega. I won't let them. You're mine."
Bruce's toes curl, and his moans stutter as Kal ruts directly against his prostate, purposefully passing the sensitive spot over and over until Bruce trembles.
"Fuu—yeah, just like that baby. Just like that. Feel how deep I am in you? You told me no one can fuck you like this, can get you so out of your mind that you beg for it. You love my cock so much, don't you?"
"Clark—Kal, I…!"
"Right there," Kal groans, pushing Bruce down to meet him with a particularly deep thrust. It steals the breath right out of Bruce's lungs, leaving him reeling as he feels Kal twitch inside of him. He grinds their hips together, until Bruce stammers nonsense. "Feel that?"
Bruce nods, unable to get the words out beyond little gasping noises.
"No one has touched you so deep inside, sweetheart. Just me. That's my cock spearing you open, right—" A thrust. "There." Another, and Bruce cries out. "It's just so deep in your little hole, it's breaking your brain. Isn't it?"
"Uhhuh—" Bruce whines. "D-deep."
"You like it?" Kal grunts. "Wish I could get deeper, right in your tummy. Wanna cum right there and get you nice and full and pregnant for me, sweetheart. You'd take it so well."
God, the pregnancy talk gets him too good. Clark doesn't mention it outside of intense sex, he's too embarrassed by it, but it drives Bruce wild. He can almost imagine the feeling of having a womb, and having it filled up over and over again as Clark ruthlessly pounded him. No rest, until his cervix was ruined and he was leaking cum from the deepest parts of him.
"Nngh, C-Clark—love you," Bruce ends up muttering helplessly. "Cum in me."
"Can I, baby?" Kal asks, soft. "W-Wanna make it catch this time, I promise I will. Gonna get you so full of me that you can't move, can only take it as I cum in you over 'n over… Won't even pull out so that you don't spill a drop. All you have to do is take it, omega. Just let me—p-please, nngh…!"
Bruce can only nod, desperately. He wants it so bad, for his belly to be pumped full of that warmth. He yanks Kal-El impossibly closer, folding his arms beneath his neck to hug him, and to hide his face. It felt too good, and he couldn't control himself any more.
The fluttering of his tear-moistened lashes against Kal's skin makes the other man purr at him. Another alpha thing, a full body rumble of pleasure that he only produces when he has his omega stuffed and satisfied in his hold. He holds the noise for a long time, until Bruce can't tell where he ends and Kal-El begins, he only feels.
"I'm close," he gasps out. "Yy-ohh, mmfh, you're… making me c-cum…!"
Kal's mouth slots itself against Bruce's shoulder, a reflex. He always loved to bite when he came. "Go ahead, sweetheart. Cum all over me, let me feel you clench down on me. I won't stop, I promise. I just want you to feel all of it—all of me. Right here, remember?"
He presses in balls deep, as deep as possible until Bruce can't breathe again. His thrusts slow, just a bit, but stay deep, pumping him inside with such erotically wet, obscene noises that Bruce blushes.
He gasps raggedly, trying to hold off. For what reason, he has no clue. Stubbornness, perhaps. Or maybe he just wanted Kal to cum with him. Either way, he didn't have the vocabulary to express himself.
He just shakes his head, squeezing tighter. If it were anyone else, the body beneath him would have been choked out by the thick arms wrapped around his neck. Kal, though, his one and only, takes it like the superhuman he is and keeps fucking him.
"C'mon, honey—god I feel you getting close. Y'know that, baby? I can feel every time a wave of it hits you, you can't control your muscles this deep inside. Not when I'm fucking you open so deep. Ggh—ahh, god, B…!"
Bruce shakes his head again, frantic, but he can't stop it. He cums hard, Kal's voice cresting him right over the edge and throwing him into a deluge of white-hot pleasure. He moans, too loud too wanton, directly in Kal's ear, but it just encourages the other man to keep going, to keep fucking him even as Bruce loses his fucking mind.
His cock spills its load all across Kal's stomach, where it had been endlessly rutting against the rigid musculature there like a natural grinding post. It spills messily on either side of his abdomen, squelching noisily when it gets displaced as Bruce is still jolted up and down.
"Kal… nngh, Kal-El…!"
Kal's pace doesn't stop, just like he promised. He fucks Bruce right through his orgasm, only slowing to a pace less overwhelming when Bruce spasms in his hold. Even the Batman couldn't take so much at once, not when it was a pleasure so divine that it felt like sin.
"'m gonna cum in you," Kal swears, panting against the curve of Bruce's shoulder. "Gonna breed you, j-just hold on, fuck, 'm almost there baby. 'm right fuckin' th-aahhg, there!"
Bruce doesn't get the chance to brace himself, his mind moving sluggishly in the aftershocks after his violent orgasm. He just holds his breath as Kal hilts himself inside. He's lifted, just an inch, as Kal tries to press them together so closely that they become one. It makes him go impossibly deeper as his spine straightens, and Bruce can only croak out a soft, weak gasp as a flood of cum fills him right up.
He can never get used to the sensation. It's hot, almost burning, as it paints his insides, claiming him. The thick spurts of it shoot powerfully against his sensitive inner walls, each one enthusiastic in its mission to actually get Bruce pregnant.
Bruce clings to Kal uselessly as he's stuffed full, unable to do anything more than take it.
"Alpha," he breathes, turning his head to squish their cheeks together in a mimicry of Kal's usual nuzzling. "'m so full."
Kal grunts, over and over, as he keeps humping Bruce. "I know, baby—Bruce. So good for me."
The praise is what finally makes Bruce go limp. He drops bonelessly against his lover, only breathing in deep and silent as Kal-El, blessedly, pumps him full of cum with three more, poignant thrusts.
Then he, too, collapses, exhaustion in the aftermath claiming both of them.
They breathe together, one after the other like asteroids caught in each other's gravitational pull. Kal's hands slide across Bruce's sweat-sticky skin until he's able to find a comfortable spot for them. He can't hug him as close with the armrest in the way, but it's still close enough that Bruce can feel the throb of his heartbeat above his own.
He moans softly, meaning to say something like 'Good boy', or maybe 'I love you', but he's still catching his breath.
Kal chirps in response, an honest to god chirp like a bird, and it sends Bruce into a delirious, ridiculous giggle spell. As if he's not a fully grown man.
With a snicker of his own, Kal readjusts them so that they're both more comfortable. Finally he gives his legs a break and sits properly in the chair, rolling a barely-there ache out of his shoulder with a quick stretch. He lifts Bruce with one hand, keeping him steadily cradled to his chest like he's a swaddled baby. When he relaxes, he doesn't bother letting go. With his cock still deep inside of Bruce, Kal twists him around so that his legs are slung over the chair's arms, giving him more room to stretch himself like a lazy cat. The sudden pleasure has Bruce shuddering all over, but Kal shushes him with a soft kiss to his forehead.
Like that, cuddled up together, Kal slowly softens inside of him. But, even soft, he's so thick that not a drop of his cum spills out until they finally catch their breath.
Bruce is half asleep, actually, when Kal finally pulls out. He whispers sweet nothings against Bruce's hairline as he shifts him upwards, and Bruce lets out a soft sigh as the heat inside of him spills out of him sloppily.
Bruce doesn't force the spend out, instead letting it pleasurably leak out of him until the excessive deluge slows to a trickle.
When he glances up, eyes blinking sleepily, his soft, shy, bashful Clark is red in the face and can't look him in the eye.
"Sorry it's, um… so much," Clark murmurs, sheepishly.
The sound aroused him then, obvious by the way he shifts as his cock impossibly starts to harden again. Bruce doesn't hold back his pleased grin in the slightest, which only makes Clark more embarrassed.
"I don't need your apology, love. You filled me up just like you promised."
"I just… can never seem to hold myself back when it comes to you," Clark confesses, so dulcetly sweet that it makes Bruce hide his face.
"… sap."
Clark laughs, a full-chested noise, which makes Bruce's entire body shake with the noise. The ache in his backside builds suddenly at the motion, his rim hot and swollen. Bruce snorts, ignoring it, but there must be a pained look on his face because Clark, concerned, rubs a hand up and down his back.
"God, sorry B. Does it hurt? I should have… p-prepped you more. I wasn't even thinking—"
"I know," Bruce says smugly. Clark hides his embarrassed expression by ducking his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "Don't worry, Kal. Clark. I wanted it that way."
Clark pauses at the use of his Kryptonian name, a pleased look crossing his face. Still, he clears his throat, and says,
"Next time we have to—"
"Oh, so there will be a next time?"
"B," Clark whines, exasperated. "You know what I mean."
Bruce grants him mercy, shrugging one shoulder noncommittally. If, in the future, he wants Clark's dick inside of him so badly that he doesn't even bother with a finger or two, that was his own business. But he would work on finding a hidden pocket in his suit for lube.
As much as he loved the raw feeling of Clark's dick spreading him open lubed with nothing more than his natural precum and dried patches of Bruce's spit, it really would ease some of the ache.
Bruce savors the dull throb now, though, like a cat that has greedily gulped down too much cream. He's much too satisfied to regret a single drop.
"Fine," he rumbles. "I'm fine. Just put your arms around me. It's cold in here."
"You never get cold," Clark teases. His strong, cannon-like arms wrap around Bruce's back gently, cuddling him forward until they are chest to chest. Always such a steady, warm temperature, Bruce melts into the hug with a pleased sigh.
Gentle fingers rub up and down the small of his back, Clark rolling his shoulder until they fit more comfortably together in the tiny chair. Bruce will have to do a lot of calf stretches before they land, but he's too fucked-tired to care right now. He nuzzles himself against Clark's chest with another soft, chuffing sound.
Clark laughs at him, an equally quiet noise, but his hand comes to pet Bruce's head delightedly. He brushes through the thick, snarling tangles until it looks less like a thicket of thorns have sprouted from Bruce's skull. Then he leaves a gentle kiss in the natural part of his hair, lips smacking together with an obnoxiously cute 'mwah'.
"Better?"
"Hnn."
Clark's hardened cock knocks against the underside of his thigh, briefly. Bruce will handle it later, right after he's gotten his fill of Clark holding him like this.
It doesn't seem like Clark minds waiting, even if it takes all night. He idly hums a wordless song, glancing over at the dashboard to check on their flight path. Everything, of course, was perfectly fine. No groups of geese to dodge, no sudden villains hurtling their way in the airspace to attack them.
Just Clark, Bruce, and the warmth shared between them.
Bruce has just let out a pleased sigh, listening to Clark steadily breathe beneath his ear, when Clark purposefully clears his throat.
"So. Um."
Bruce's sigh is less pleased, this time. He blinks his eyes back open, cutting them upwards to watch the way Clark tries to breach the subject gently, yet firmly. Bruce supposed he deserved to know what that sudden possessiveness was all about, then.
With a groggy huff, Bruce hoists himself in Clark's lap until they are face to face.
"Yes, Clark?"
"What was that even about?" Clark asks innocently.
Despite the fact Clark deserves to know… Bruce still has to force the words out through a grimace.
"The… ambassador."
"Safo'r?"
Bruce grunts, almost pouting. "She kept. Touching you."
"Huh?" Clark fully startles at the unexpected confession. His eyes glaze over as he goes through his photographic memory, before he blinks back to clarity. "Oh, I guess. She said the S reminded her of her wife's birthmark, actually."
Oh.
"Oh," Bruce says, idiotically.
Clark pauses, eyebrows furrowing.
"She… Didn't she only touch me once? The whole time?" he asks incredulously.
Bruce pointedly does not respond.
Clark takes it as the answer it is, looking all fond. Bruce frowns up, nose scrunching.
"… Were you jealous?"
"… Yes." he growls, teeth grinding together in a similar manner to the way a train's wheel sparks when the brakes are hit.
Clark grins.
"You know you can touch my chest any time you want."
"I know," Bruce says primly. "I just proved it."
Clark laughs again, and Bruce takes the opportunity to actually sulk. It feels strange, to allow himself to do something so pettily, but Clark doesn't seem to mind the little indulgences. He lets Bruce pout, accepting it as readily as he accepted everything else from Bruce.
"Don't worry, B. I promise not to let anyone touch my chest anymore. I didn't realize it would bother you, but now that I do, it won't happen anymore. Okay?"
"A promise isn't necessary," Bruce says with a roll of his eyes.
Then, softer, and a bit petulantly, he adds: "I'll just have to remind you of your place again if they do. You're mine."
Clark smiles so wide that it's like looking directly into the sun.
"I am. And you're mine, too."
He presses a smooch to Bruce's cheek, and then another to his mouth when Bruce parts his lips to reprimand him. Bruce accepts the kiss begrudgingly, but a small, equally sappy smile can't help but make itself known on his face too.
In the future Bruce maybe will talk about it, before he lets a single touch from a stranger get to him. It's not likely, but he'll try.
Regardless, he has a feeling Clark won't mind a repeat if he… has a lapse in judgment a few more times. Bruce was quite a possessive person, after all.