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Bruce didn’t fear Clark ever leaving him or losing interest. Truly, it wasn’t something he had ever been concerned about. Clark was very visibly smitten with him, and took every available opportunity to shower Bruce with affection verbally, physically, and sexually. The man was so lovestruck that Bruce was certain he had proven the concept of ‘love languages’ to be bullshit, because he received all acts of affection with the enthusiasm of a starving man at a five-star buffet, and gave love like he’d die if he didn’t. The man just oozed love in every way, both the selfless kind that drove him to protect the world and the romantic kind that had him setting up a thousand different nauseating scented candles for date nights with Bruce.
But recently Bruce had begun to fear that Clark was never going to fuck him again.
The lengths Bruce was having to go to just to entice his boyfriend sexually were ridiculous- and he had yet to succeed! Him, failing. It was a foreign concept, especially in matters of seducing his normally absurdly eager alpha. But no amount of sluttily cropped workout shirts or innuendos were working, and although Bruce knew why, he couldn’t help but be frustrated (and not just in the sexual sense).
It had been two months since his ill-fated mission in the now collapsed office building. Two months since Bruce had nearly died- and since he and Clark had fucked beneath the rubble to help guide Bruce’s soul back into his body. Outstanding sex it remained, but now Clark bore the shame of it like a scarlet letter. When they had gotten back to the manor, Bruce now lightheaded from blood loss rather than existential dread, Alfred had chastised both of them for no less than two hours. He kept up his tirade even as he laid Bruce over the medical table in the batcave and stitched up the wound that ended up being much more severe than Bruce had first thought, and Clark had taken the lecture like a guilty child, hands twisted behind his back and nodding in apology. Bruce would have told Alfred to lighten up if he hadn’t been drugged to the gills with pain medication, so there was nothing he could do to stop the scolding that Clark received for both delaying medical intervention and committing the grave crime of having sexual intercourse.
When Bruce woke up- aching like he had been run over by twelve consecutive semi trucks- Clark had still been the doting boyfriend. He sat by Bruce’s bedside and helped him eat a light breakfast and changed his wound dressings while he did, and everything felt fine between them. Bruce was too busy recovering (and then too busy beating Gotham’s crime rates back into submission after a one-week absence) to notice anything up with their relationship, so it wasn’t until the end of the first month that Bruce first noticed that Clark hadn’t been nearly as, well… needy. The man still wanted kisses and lunch dates and cuddles, but he wasn’t as needy sexually anymore.
Before the accident Bruce could expect to be bent over anywhere between five to eight different surfaces in his house per month for a ‘quickie’ while Clark quickly flew in from Metropolis, and an additional few times in a slower and more romantic capacity in his large california king bed that had to be repaired twice a month. But now Clark was the one to break off every chaste kiss before Bruce could deepen it into something filthier, and he flew off after every date before Bruce could try and climb into his lap. It was infuriating! It did admittedly take Bruce some time to realize that this was the manifestation of some kind of guilt Clark had over fucking Bruce in the rubble instead of taking him straight home to get medical treatment, but that was hardly Clark’s fault. Bruce had been the one to (whorishly) beg for it, and he had been very insistent. Clark was merely a coerced participant, so why was his saintlike consciousness now barring him from fucking of any kind? Being Batman was a stressful job, and Gotham’s criminals were gonna start being in serious danger if Bruce didn’t get off soon. Lonely jerk-off sessions in the bathroom didn’t do the trick now that he had gotten used to being plowed into the mattress.
Bruce was lamenting that problem now as he oversaw the installation of Wayne manor’s gigantic Christmas tree. It was something he’d typically do earlier in the month, but recovering his health and Gotham’s crime rates had him delayed to now, merely ten days before Christmas. He always chose his trees from some small, family farm and paid an exuberant price for them, and the elaborately decorated tree was placed in front of the gigantic windows of the front of the manor so the festive decoration could be seen by passersby that would assume Brucie Wayne was having a jolly holiday. He leaned against the parlor’s doorway, frowning as the small army of workers struggled to get it upright without risking it falling through the window. Normally he didn’t like anyone but the two or three highly trusted maids coming into the manor, but it couldn’t be helped. Besides, the gossip they would spread about Bruce Wayne’s lavish decorations and generous tips was worth it.
Bruce turned his head when heard Alfred clear his throat, and he looked over his shoulder to see the butler primly standing nearby.
“Mr. Kent is in the kitchen,” he informs Bruce.
Bruce frowns, looking at the clock on the wall. It was noon on a Monday. Clark usually had lunch with Jimmy and Lois on Mondays.
“Something about a Christmas cookie party,” Alfred elaborated unhelpfully, “he says he has the afternoon off to plan.”
Bruce nearly rolled his eyes. The Daily Planet always had elaborate holiday parties that Clark put entirely too much effort into. Bruce would like to tag along with him to one, if only to watch him cutely fret, but their relationship would draw too much attention to both of them. Maybe if they ever met by ‘coincidence’ at a gala they could try and work something out, but it was firmly out of the picture for now.
“I’ll talk to him,” he says, and Alfred takes his place at the door to oversee the tree installation.
Bruce quickly walks through the massive manor toward the kitchens, but he slows right before he reaches the door. Right now he had some free time, and Alfred would be preoccupied with supervising the tree, and if Clark had the rest of the day off…
Time to strike.
Bruce hurriedly musses up his hair more than it already had been (he had been playing the ‘hungover party boy’ angle for the movers,) and pulls his sweatpants down his hips until they ride low enough to show his little back dimples. He was in a cheesy Christmas-themed pajama shirt, but he’s desperate enough to knot it at his waist so it shows a sliver of his well-defined abs and back. He catches a glimpse of himself as he continues down the hall in the reflection of a glass-covered painting, seeing his reflection.
“No,” he mutters to himself, “I can do better.”
Tugging the shirt off and over his head, Bruce decides that bare-chested was the move. He was getting pretty desperate, so nothing really felt off the table.
Sauntering into the kitchen, Bruce sees Clark with his back to the door, fretting over a variety of groceries on the kitchen island. His button-up shirt had the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and Bruce could just barely see the way Clark’s hand was playing with his tie.
Good grief, Bruce thought, that’s just indulgent.
“Everything alright, handsome?” Bruce asks, hoping his voice sounds as sexy as he’s attempting to make it.
“Hm? Yeah, yeah, just this darn recipe,” Clark sighs, straightening up and glancing over his shoulder. Bruce watches as the tips of his ears go pink at the sight of him. “Were you sleeping?”
“Just got up,” Bruce lies, coming further into the kitchen. He turned to lean his back against the kitchen island, and Clark kept one hand on the cool marble as he looked over Bruce, cheeks pink in addition to his ears.
“Yeah?” Clark’s voice is a little wobbly, and the hand on the marble inches closer to where Bruce is leaned.
Got him. Bruce leans closer to him, tilting his head as he playfully says, “yeah, late night. I was missing you.”
“I’m sorry,” Clark’s apology is more of a nervous laugh, and Bruce almost frowns. This wasn’t sexy.
“You could make it up to me,” trying to get things back on track, Bruce lowers his voice into a purr, trailing one hand forward to rest on his alpha’s shoulder as he suggestively wiggles his brows, “I have some free time, and-”
“And I don’t!” Clark’s nervously chipper voice is the last thing Bruce hears before suddenly, he’s standing by himself with one hand up. He lets his hand drop and looks behind him to see Clark there with a handful of papers, face bright red and voice going a thousand words per minute. “I have all these cookies to bake! Jimmy said he’s busy, so I have to make his and mine and I need to bring six different types! I’ll be baking all night, and then I need to package them, and then the party is the next day and then I promised Lois I’d help at the shelter…”
Bruce nearly frowns at the monologue his boyfriend broke off into. The sexy mood had been extinguished entirely, and now he was just cold. Clark flits around the kitchen pulling down bowls and different ingredients, talking all the while about how he was just so busy. It’s nearly enough to make Bruce wonder if he’s suddenly become hideous, but then he notices the way Clark’s eyes keep darting to the thick scar just above his waistline.
Frustration boiled beneath Bruce’s skin as Clark continued to pretend he was only concerned with the damn cookies. It had been over two months and Clark was still acting like he had committed some kind of an unforgivable sin. At this rate, Bruce may never get off again! Whatever mental block this was needed to be dealt with soon.
But what could help? Bruce may be the world’s greatest detective, but the sexual frustration is making it difficult for him to brainstorm, especially when his greatest strategy (walking in looking sexy) had failed miserably already. Bruce considers direct attack, I.E just jumping his bones, but then again, Clark was faster and clearly willing to use his superspeed to escape.
There was one thing Bruce could do, but it was…. It was a lot. He wasn’t entirely sure it was worth it.
Clark, while babbling, spills a little water from his cup onto his shirt.
“Whoops,” he chuckles, still blushing, “sorry, just…distracted.”
He pops the first three buttons on his collar and loosens his tie, exposing just a tease of his chest.
Fuck, it was worth it.
“Hey, Clark,” Bruce says, his boyfriend looking back over attentively, “wanna spend Christmas eve together? I know you’re spending the holidays with your parents, but maybe you could just stop by for some dinner?”
“Sure, Bruce, of course,” Clark smiled at him sunnily, dimples and everything. “Do you wanna do gifts then, too?”
Clark had forbidden Bruce from purchasing him anything as a Christmas gift that ‘couldn’t be bought at a normal department store,’ whatever that meant. Bruce had been intending on just getting him as nice a watch as he could under that criteria, but now he had a much better idea. And it could be purchased at a normal department store, too.
“Absolutely,” Bruce smiled, and either Clark didn’t notice how predatory his smile turned or he was purposefully ignoring it.
Now that he had a plan brewing, it was much easier for him to pretend that he cared about these cookies. He could bake a few batches of snickerdoodle with his doting boyfriend before his scheme started.
___
The next ten days passed quickly, Bruce pulling overtime as the caped crusader to make sure Gotham’s criminals would be too terrified on Christmas to even think about doing something that might require Bruce to abandon his evening plan. Really, he’s lucky it’s the wintertime or there wouldn’t be enough darkness in the day to get it all done. But he’s nothing if not efficient, and by the morning of Christmas Eve he’s at home and ready to begin his plan.
He starts with what was undoubtedly the stupidest part of this plan. The suppressor nullifying shot.
Bruce had a lot to deal with, and biology was something he simply didn’t have time for. The heat and scent suppressants he was on were damn military grade- he hadn’t had a heat for over eight years, and his scent was similarly nonexistent. Obviously there was some minor smell to him if you really stuck your nose into his neck (or if you were Clark,) but even that was dimmed and fading. Not to mention whatever was left was often overpowered by the fake scent Bruce applied for social appearances- or the fake alpha scent he wore as Batman. But even with all of that, Clark still seemed to seek out his scent. He’d linger on his neck when covering Bruce with kisses, and he had a habit of stealing Bruce’s scarves around the winter for a few days. Bruce knew the effect the smell had on him, so he figured that one night with his scent at full potency would be just the thing to get his alpha going.
(But he’s not an idiot, the shot only lasts 24 hours and wasn’t enough to let his heat break through. That would have to be reserved for an anniversary gift or something.)
So, scent. He injects himself in the meaty part of his thigh first thing in the morning so it would take full effect by evening, and then he spends the day preparing. Although he wasn’t normally overly concerned with his own grooming outside of social appearances, he takes his time in the shower. The shower alone was an hour long, and then he spent another hour using lotions and moisturizers and all of the other bullshit he was normally too exhausted to bother with.
He smells like a field of flowers by the time it’s lunch, though he hardly has more than a quick sandwich. There was too much to do to be worrying about something like lunch, though he does make sure to have several snacks throughout the day, since he had no intention of actually having dinner with Clark.
Right after lunch he’s overseeing the repairmen installing steel supports to his bed frame because it was honestly becoming a pain repairing it over and over again, and Clark always got ridiculously guilty and pouty whenever he broke it. Once they clear out Bruce changes the sheets so they’re nice and clean (a pointless endeavor given how he plans to abuse them.) He then fills the room with a variety of candles and, because he’s a completionist, installs another small christmas tree in the corner of the room with glowy multicolored lights. Clark always talked about how he preferred those to white lights.
Bruce checked the clock once everything was perfect. Seven-thirty. Perfect. Clark would be over at eight once he had finished up at Lois’s Christmas party, and Bruce knew he’d fill up on party treats. It may have annoyed him had he actually planned on making dinner, but as is, he’s just glad that hunger pains won’t be distracting him during the seduction.
Now that everything was aligned, it was time for Bruce to get dressed.
Thankfully he was a billionaire who could hire personal shoppers, because even with all of his acting skills he might have gotten a little embarrassed purchasing something like this. Awaiting him in the bathroom and hidden in the linen closet was the bright red, holiday themed lingerie. The babydoll had silky satin cups that clung tightly to his pecs, sheer fabric hanging down and helpfully obscuring the scar from the accident. There was a white fur trim over the cups and two white fur pom-poms hanging off of the black bow that sat in between the cups. It was the kind of thing he formerly would have mocked and called ridiculous, but it was seeming very necessary with the current state of his sex life.
The panties were red as well, and although the thin straps on his hips were annoying the fabric was the same silky soft as the babydoll, so he didn’t even mind the bow on the back and the stupid slogan on the ass. ‘Jingle My Bells’ or ‘Dick The Halls’ or whatever.
It may be a little ridiculous, but it looked damn good. Bruce takes a long second to examine himself in the mirror, adjusting the cups so they clung better. Call him narcissistic, but it was kind of turning him on. Well, the thought of Clark railing him in it was turning him on. Preemptive arousal was a better plea than vanity, anyways.
“Bruce?” Clark’s curious voice comes from down the hall, and a shiver travels down Bruce’s spine. Time to go.
He walks out of the bathroom hurriedly, nearly diving toward the bed in his haste to get on it. Tastefully arranging himself on top of the brocade crimson duvet, Bruce waits until he can hear Clark’s footsteps down the hall.
“Bruce? I thought we were having dinner?” Clark is near the door now, that dark floral scent close enough to taste.
“I thought we’d skip straight to dessert, if that’s okay with you,” Bruce says in a dark purr, watching with a seductive smile as Clark opens the door.
Instantly, Clark goes red. From the tips of his ears down to his neck before it’s covered by his festive Christmas sweater, his tanned skin goes bright red. Bruce would laugh at how cute it was if he wasn’t trying to be so damn sexy. Clark drops the cutely wrapped gift in his hands in surprise, stammering as he stares at Bruce.
“I- you.. I thought… presents?” It’s not very eloquent, and ends with the word presents being practically squeaked.
“I am the present,” Bruce says, gesturing to himself, “or more specifically, the lingerie. It was bought in a mall, so it follows your little rules.”
Bruce shifts from laying on his side to sitting up on his knees, and he crawls to the end of the Alaskan king bed on hands and knees, stopping at the footboard and holding one hand out to Clark and gesturing with one finger to come here.
Clark stumbles forward, none of the grace or prowess he possessed as Superman present in his wobbly gait. When he approaches the side of the bed, Bruce can see that his fingers are twitching and his eyes are dilated so much that Bruce can only see the pitch-dark of his pupils. He stops a step away from the bed’s edge, licking his lips so that they’re shiny and spit-slick.
“Do you like it?” Bruce prompts, suspicious that Clark is too horny for intelligent thought. He’s very aware of the fact that his aroused scent is cloyingly thick around the room, yet it was still doing nothing to disguise the scent of the slick that had begun to soak the bottom of the lingerie.
“Yeah,” Clark says, one hand tugging at the collar of his reindeer-themed Christmas sweater.
His eyes are all over Bruce, taking in every little piece of lace and fur that decorated his battle-toned body. Once upon a time Bruce had thought that no Alpha would want an omega with his physique, but Clark seemed addicted to it. Even now his eyes were trailing down Bruce’s torso, examining closely around his ribcage beneath the lingerie where- oh, goddamnit, he was looking for the scar.
To hell with seduction. This idiot clearly couldn’t be given time to back out.
Bruce fluidly slides off of the bed, the motion nearly startling Clark as his omega got to his knees in front of him. Bruce quickly slides his hands up un-ironed khakis, delighting in the little shiver Clark gives. He wastes no time when he gets to the fly of Clark’s pants, unzipping them and unbuckling the belt at near lightning speed.
“Wait, Bruce” Clark says, voice unsure, “you’re still, I don’t want to irritate your wounds-”
“The wound has been closed up for a month,” Bruce says firmly, “and I’ve been slick for weeks. Come on, alpha, I think we’re ready to ease back into things.”
He has to sit up a little further on his knees than what’s comfortable for this, but Bruce doesn’t mind. He pulls Clark’s cock out of his (once again, holiday-themed) boxers and nearly moans at just the sight of it. Kryptonian biology was a blessing, with all of the anatomy of a human and all the size of an overly-indulgent dildo.
Clark is trying to say something else about checking with a doctor first when Bruce interrupts him by licking a long, wet stripe up the underside of his cock. Instantly, Clark’s hand flies to Bruce’s tousled hair, carding his fingers through the dark locks as Bruce drags his tongue along a prominent vein, looking up at Bruce with half-lidded eyes.
“Bruce,” he groans, free hand gripping the bedpost behind Bruce, “you don’t have to-”
“I want to,” Bruce says sharply.
He settles both hands on Clark’s hips as he opens his mouth wide and takes the head of his cock into his mouth, the weight of it making Bruce’s mind go fuzzy. There’s no thought spared in Bruce’s mind for temperance or teasing, and he instantly is trying to slide down further on the cock, balling up his left fist and tucking his thumb in tight as it starts to nudge the back of his throat before it’s even halfway in.
One of Bruce’s favorite things about his alpha is how responsive he is to every little sensation. Even now he was red-faced, panting loudly and letting out delicious little groans with every brush of Bruce’s tongue. The hand wound in Bruce’s hair stays there, petting but not gripping or pulling.
Bruce closes his eyes as he carefully lets the cock slide into the back of his throat, the soft muscles spasming and making Clark choke on a breath, hissing between clenched teeth as the hand in Bruce’s hair tugs ever so slightly. It urges Bruce on further to let Clark slide in another few inches, and he feels a wicked sense of pride as he’s deep enough to nose at the curly hair at the base of Clark’s dick.
Gently he lifts a hand up to feel at his throat, pressing his fingers in until his throat spasms again. Clark moans, and there’s the distinct sound of creaking wood behind him that Bruce is sure is the bedpost beginning to break.
The slick sound of Bruce pulling off of Clark’s cock is obscene, and Bruce gasps noisily once it’s out of his throat, spit trailing down to his chin as he looks up at Clark with teary eyes.
“You can move,” he says, nearly patronizingly sweet as he looks up at Clark’s flushed face and his bitten lip, “I’m not going to break.”
Bruce is about to get back to deep throating when suddenly there’s hands under his arms, and the world spins for a second before he lands on the bed, bouncing with the impact. He barely gets a moment to get his elbows underneath him when he’s yanked again to the edge of the bed, and he yelps as he’s pulled so his legs and the bottom of his ass are hanging off the side of the bed. He doesn’t have to worry long, though, because quickly his thighs are supported on either of Clark’s shoulders, and he cranes his neck to see Clark nosing between his thighs.
“You’re so mean, Bruce,” Clark said, pressing his nose up against the slick-soaked panties and inhaling, moaning at the scent of it. It’s dirty, a raunchy kind of action that makes Bruce’s stomach clench up in desire. “I’m just trying to take care of you…”
“You could start byyyy- oh my god.”
Bruce’s voice breaks off into a moan as Clark begins to drag his tongue up his pussy from over the panties, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses over his clothed entrance. The wet fabric drags too good against his swollen folds, and he bucks his hips up without meaning to. Clark’s hands instantly pin him down on either side of his hips, keeping him still as he licks the panties until they’re soaking wet.
“Please, Clark,” He groans, uselessly trying to twist his hips to chase that sensation.
Clark doesn’t respond, as patient as a saint as he targets his clit over the fabric, dragging it in circles with cruelty so sweet it had to be intentional. All Bruce can do is writhe against the duvet, hands clenched in the fabric as he tries to catch his breath. Normally he wasn’t reduced to such a state so quickly, but it had been weeks. He was practically having withdrawals.
“Please,” he begs again, debased enough for desperation.
“Use your words,” Clark says, poking at Bruce’s fabric-covered entrance until the tip of his tongue is just barely pressing in.
“Please, Clark. Fuck me, eat me out, anything.” Bruce groans, “I need you, Alpha.”
Clark doesn’t move very quickly, moving one hand from Bruce’s hip to trail down his body, short nails dragging lightly against the skin of Bruce’s side just to watch the muscles there jump. They trail over the sensitive skin of his lower stomach, and Bruce nearly wept for joy when Clark tears the flimsy sides of the panties, tossing them somewhere behind him.
Once there’s nothing blocking him, Clark dives right in. He hefts Bruce’s legs further onto his shoulders and licks up his wet pussy with a nearly pornographic noise that rivals Bruce’s moan. He wraps his lips around Bruce’s swollen clit and sucks noisily, the heady sensation of it eliciting a sharp keen.
Bruce tries in vain to roll his hips into Clark’s face, but the hand not clutching at his ass has now moved to put his left forearm straight over Bruce’s pelvis like an iron bar, pinning him to the mattress as he pointed his tongue and short, firm licks to the sensitive underside of his clit.
Stars burst behind Bruce’s eyes as Clark dragged his tongue down to play at the flushed entrance of his pussy, licking broad strokes around it. Bruce’s hands move from the sheets to Clark’s hair, tugging on it tightly as he babbles out pleas. Clark doesn’t give any verbal affirmation but doubles his enthusiasm, reaching his tongue in as far as it can go and nosing against Bruce’s overly sensitive clit. He licks up the slick like a dying man, trying to drink straight from the source as he lets out a muffled groan.
Clark kept going even as Bruce began to sob out that he was close, fucking his tongue in and out of that clenching channel until one last brush of his nose against Bruce’s swollen clit has the omega squirting sick all over his face. Clark kept licking and sucking until he had lapped up most of the come, and even then he moved up to leave one last wet kiss against the omega’s twitching clit.
“Clark,” Bruce moans brokenly, “Clark, please-”
The begging is enough for Clark to stand up, planting one knee on the bed beside Bruce’s hip as he leans over and covers Bruce’s body with his. The alpha leans down to kiss Bruce, and forces Bruce to taste his own sweet slick.
“Bruce, please,” the alpha sounds nearly as debauched as Bruce does, kissing the side of Bruce’s mouth in between his begging, “I want you so much, I’ll be so gentle…”
Still concerned about hurting him. Stupidly sweet, caring alpha. He wraps Bruce up in his arms as he continues to kiss over his face, shimmying down so he could nose at the omega’s neck. He leans in close to the scent gland, nipping at the silky skin there.
“You smell good,” he compliments, sounding delirious.
“That’s part of your present,” Bruce moans as the alpha bites down lightly, just teasing the idea of a mating bite. Bruce drags his hands along Clark’s bare- now when did he undress?- back, smelling the clean smell of the alpha’s shampoo. It paired nicely with the floral scent, and Bruce takes a long, deep breath before he pulls back.
“Alpha,” he says, just loudly enough to get Clark to stop leaving hickies at the top of his neck, “I want to ride you.”
Clark must like that idea, because he flips them over quickly. Dizzied by the speed, Bruce finds them at the head of the bed, Clark propped up by the pillows as Bruce straddled his large thighs. In front of him was the alpha’s rock-hard arousal. His was cock now slick with spit and precum, straining and red and nearly too large to stand up on its own. Bruce reaches forward to wrap his hand around it, jerking it in smooth, long strokes that make Clark tilt his head back, eyes clenched shut and brows furrowed adorably.
“Lube?” he questions, voice strained.
“Don’t need it,” Bruce assured. Between his own slick and Clark’s spit, the use of it would be excessive.
Bruce released Clark’s cock, smirking at his little whimper, to shimmy up further. He rises up further on his knees as he positions himself over the cock, one hand under himself to line it up at his entrance. It nudges against his orgasm-loosened pussy, just teasing the strain of it against the tiny channel. Bruce probably should have fingered himself a little before this, but he always liked a bit of a burn. He wanted to be able to feel the alpha for days after he left.
Clark rests his hands on Bruce’s hips, not nudging him down or begging. He pants with the effort of his restraint, biting his lip as he looks at Bruce and waits for permission.
Bruce takes mercy. He widens his knees and slides down, both of them moaning as his dick sank into the tight heat of his pussy. Bruce’s eyes nearly rolled into the back of his head from the stretch, and it just kept going. It felt like an eternity he sank down onto that cock before it began to feel like too much, the head of it bumping against something deep inside of him that makes the omega clench up, muffling his moan through clenched teeth. Just as Bruce is sure they’ve gone too far he’s stopped by Clark’s hips, fully seated on his alpha’s cock.
“Fuck…” he moans, taking a moment to sit there with his eyes closed as he focuses on the feeling of his spasming pussy and the smell of Clark around him. This was what he had been missing.
“Bruce, baby, omega, please,” Bruce belatedly realizes that Clark has been begging beneath him, hands still solid on his hips and digging bruises into Bruce’s skin. “Please, I’ll be so good. Just let me take care of you, please…”
Clark reaches one hand from his hip to Bruce’s pussy, rubbing his calloused fingers over his clit. The moan Bruce lets out is wounded, and he nearly doubles over. He has to catch himself with both hands on Clark’s chest, trying to escape the delicious overstimulation of his clit by lifting his hips up, but that causes the cock inside of him to drag against something that makes him clench up like a vice. Clark’s eyes fly shut and his remaining hand tightens further on Bruce’s hip. The alpha bucks up his hips just a fraction of an inch, but the tight drag inside of Bruce’s pussy is enough.
“Fuck me, Clark!” Bruce demands more than begs.
Clark readjusts so his knees are up and his feet are flat on the bed, both hands settling back on Bruce’s hips. The pace he sets is immediately brutal, holding the omega in place as he fucks up into him at a sharp, steady pace that makes Bruce sob, trying his best to grind his hips down into every bump of that cock against that deep spot inside of him. He bounces up and down, pussy rhythmically clenching on every drag out to milk Clark’s cock.
“So pretty,” Clark pants, forehead beaded in sweat. “So pretty and so… so smart and sexy. Perfect omega.”
The messy praise makes Bruce increase the rapid rocking of his hips, and he takes Clark’s hands off his hips so he can hold them in front of him, using them as leverage as he rides the alpha within an inch of his life. The room feels hot and is soaked in both of their scents, and Clark looks nearly ethereal under the glow of the tree lights. Despite how nasty this all is- how downright pornographic, Bruce takes a moment to be grateful. Grateful he survived that damn explosion- grateful he survived being Batman at all, really, and grateful that he’s here with Clark. The perfect alpha. The perfect hero.
“I love you, Clark,” Bruce says, smiling as he grinds down.
Clark moans so loudly it’s nearly deafening, hands clutching Bruce’s even tighter as he sits up to crush his mouth against Bruce. It’s an inefficient kiss given that Bruce can’t stop his moans with every hard thrust of Clark inside of him, but Clark doesn’t care. He licks and kisses against his omega’s open mouth, babbling praise.
“I love you,” he moans, bouncing Bruce even further. He releases one of Bruce’s hands and brings it to his clit again, rubbing in tight little circles that make Bruce scream. “Please, I love you. I love you, please cum.”
Bruce comes so hard he nearly blacks out, pussy squeezing in tight contractions and he squirts enough slick to soak Clark’s lap and the bed beneath them. His entire body is taut and trembling as he rides out his orgasm, Clark still rutting up inside of him before he finishes with a moan muffled into Bruce’s neck, knot swelling and keeping everything inside.
They sit there together, both panting like they’ve just run a marathon. Sweat and slick has ruined the lingerie, and Bruce reaches behind his back to unclasp the babydoll. He fumbles with it for a moment before Clark gets his bearings and unclasps it for him, helping his boyfriend throw it somewhere off the bed. Once he’s free from the scratchy tulle Clark guides him down so they’re laying chest-to-chest on the bed, still connected.
Bruce is nearly lulled to sleep by the heat of his alpha against him and the comforting feeling of being filled, but he feels Clark’s hand slowly stroking the skin of his ribs, thumbing at the scar there.
“It doesn’t hurt,” he says on instinct, “it really is all better.”
“I know,” Clark murmurs, “I was just worried about… I didn’t want to make it worse again.”
“You could never make anything worse,” Bruce says, and he reaches one hand up to tangle in Clark’s hair to guide him into a kiss. It’s languid, lazy and indulgent to an insane degree, and when they finally part Clark is smiling at him.
“I liked my gift,” he says shyly.
Bruce smiles, “I’ll have to get it for you again sometime, then.”
“Soon?”
“Soon,” Bruce nods, “Merry Christmas, Clark.”
“Merry Christmas, Bruce,” Clark repeats, and the slow roll of his hips promises Bruce a very long, very happy Christmas Eve.