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Heated whispers in his ear sound more like static than words, head foggy and skin tingling where they meet. It was easy to spot him in the crowd with a press badge around his neck, but it was hard to restrain from taking him aside and hanging him off his arm like another covergirl.
More accurately, with his knees bent and cheek smushed into the cold wall, he feels more like he’d be the girl on Clark’s arm.
Pretenses of an interview, an active tape recorder in one hand now discarded, and a vague threat of bad publicity for this stunt led them to this moment: pants pulled down to their thighs, suits partially on, and only spit and overproduced slick to ease the slide inside of him. It’s sweaty, humid in the small space, and his hands— pushed into the wall for balance— are held by the other alpha behind him. It’s sweet, dirty, and with how clearheaded he is, it’s right.
The aftermath of his rut was delicious, and every time he gets a taste of this— a thick cock inside of him, knot catching with a stretch that aches in the best way possible— he feels more himself than when he’s the billionaire Bruce Wayne or even Gotham’s Batman. He feels like his, and he wants to choke on the feeling, go lax with it, and wake up with the release that’s more like exoneration than self-absolution.
It’s dirty, he thinks, a palm over his hand now moving to muffle the low mewls seeping from his throat. But it’s real, and it’s him, and he can’t feel anything other than belonging—
And arousal, both his and Clark’s. It’s overwhelming.
Another hand snakes around his front, his own now alone against the wall, and it teasingly pets around his balls before slickly sliding up and down his length. Clark squeezes a little too hard around him, but it’s only pleasuring, drool covering Clark’s hand and eyes shining. His black hair, once slicked back, hangs over his forehead, eyes just barely open enough to see that hand work him over. His legs are shaking, and sweat sticks his clothes to his skin. Dirty, still, but the mess made of him is equivalent to art from the way Clark’s masterfully stroking him.
Hips move back against his will, need quickly taking control. With ease, the other pushes him flat against the wall, hand moving from his cock to his waist. It’s a solid, heavy grip, familiar when pushing into the fingerprints left behind a month prior. It tingles, much like the rest of him. The tip of his cock smears against the wall, the friction enough for him to bite his tongue.
“Could stick my whole fist up you,” Clark pants into his ear, the side of his head knocking against his temple. His hot breath tickles his neck. It’s mild compared to the weight in him, suffocating him from the inside out.
“I would still get off.” He groans, a hitch in his breath at a jerky thrust. “Cover you with my cum until anyone who scents you can only smell me.”
Bruce nods, motion restricted by Clark’s head and hand over his mouth. With only an inch difference between them, it’s a strain to toss his head back against his shoulder. But it’s nothing when cerulean eyes meet his own stormy blues. He can’t stop the shudder running through him, tightening up when a ball of heat starts building in his gut.
Clark’s thrusts get sloppier, speeding up when he peers down at him, the pink of his cheeks pathetic compared to the flush covering Bruce’s face and neck.
“But you’d still beg for my knot, wouldn’t you?” he asks the Bat, unoccupied hand slithering back to his cock. His voice shakes, cheek nuzzling his neck, and his hand leaves his mouth to cup his throat.
Bruce moans in agreement, eyes slamming shut as Clark pushes his chin up, noises unrestrained and freely flowing from his mouth. He never begged with him— he never had to. But it’s with a shameful flutter in his chest that he collapses into the body behind him, soundless pleas escaping from his lips, hands curling into fists against the wall.
And the heat encompassing his neck, not a bite but a nip of skin, it has his hips stutter, tip of his cock painting the wall white where he spills over, balls drawn and tight. Heaving, he squirms, knees like jelly and Clark, ever attentive, drops a hand to his waist, the other squeezing his free, inflated knot.
“God,” Bruce mutters, the other’s relentless pace overwhelming him. He tries to lean against the wall, to ease the pressure inside of him, but Clark doesn’t allow it.
An arm wraps around his shoulders, another pushing into his abdomen, and a cry is broken from his throat, toes curling in dress shoes. It’s hard, both Clark and standing up. He wants to rip their patches off, mingle their scents together and form a cocoon inside of the room. The alpha behind him hugs him in a dirty mimicry of his want, and his legs won’t stop shaking. His eyes are blurry, overstimulation mixing with an odd feeling. His hand seeks the others arm, gripping it, nails tearing the cheap fabric of his suit jacket.
“So good, B.” Clark harshly slams his hips against his ass before pulling halfway out, knot kissing his rim. The pour inside of him isn’t new, neither is the splatter of slicked cum rolling down the wall, but it’s surprising every single time— Bruce cannot believe that he’s his right now.
He isn’t knotting him, and he knows the little closet they’re in is too public for such an act, but it makes him a little mad, a little possessive, and a lot feral.
“Clark,” he tries to growl, but his voice comes out closer to a whimper. His chin drops to his chest, poking at the covered arm wrapped around him, and he could tear him apart with his teeth if his grip wasn’t so unmovable.
“Yeah?” Clark’s panting in his ear, warm puffs of breath mocking where a bond bite could be.
“Go in,” Bruce demands, reaching behind him to grip the other’s waist.
Of course, it’s impossible to guide him forward, and it ignites a rage inside of him.
“Would need lube,” Clark responds, kissing his clothed shoulder. He loosens his grip, letting Bruce slump forward the slightest bit. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”
It’s a nice sentiment, and he’s right, but—
“You won’t,” he says anyway, craving it to the point of disregard.
“I will.” A short, small thrust, the spread of an alpha’s inflated knot pushing against him… it does have an unpleasant feeling. Bruce would appreciate a little more, though, anything that he can give.
In a risky move, he quickly reaches up behind him, gripping Clark’s neck in a mimicry of choking. It’s an awkward position, and somewhat embarrassing the way his elbow hits the wall, but it has the desired effect.
A growl rips from Clark’s throat, hands moving to his bruised waist and shoving him forward with a harsh thrust and God, it hurts, it hurts but the first tear falling from his eye feels like he’s taken off into space, head growing fuzzy. The broken breath from his lips is soundless, hand falling, and body rendered limp where a set of teeth bit down into his nape.
It’s dominating, something that would be humiliating if it were anyone else, but he wants to belong here beneath him. A hiss, an apologizing tongue over torn skin, and the gentle arms now embracing him, keeping him upright— it’s all he wants.
“Sorry,” he hears Clark mutter against his skin, hips jerking against his ass. “Sorry.”
Bruce shakes his head, the dopey, hidden grin on his lips contrasting with the tears rolling down his cheeks. His forehead rests against the cold, humid wall.
“Sorry,” Clark repeats, kissing the red on his neck, and Bruce forgets he can’t see him, can’t smell the scent of happiness on him, but can hear the pounding of his heart, his shuddering breaths, and the salty tears rolling down his face.
“‘S fine,” he slurs, the want inside of him calming down when Clark tightens his hold around him. “I did it.”
Things were not weird, awkward, or even slightly tense. They’ve existed as they had prior to his rut fuck-a-thon. Bruce never noticed if they would sneak glances at each other before, or a brief side eye when they’re in League meetings, or a slip of fingertips against a waist or shoulder when passing through the hall. It felt natural, and when he caught himself starting to smile in response to a joke Superman made— dork humor, the man was raised in Kansas and has a journalism degree— he felt nasty with recognition.
It’s not obsession, admiration, or idolization. It’s from the pit of his stomach, straight to his chest, and it’s the very thing that always dumbs his brain down to his most basic instincts:
It’s adoration.
Never had he felt hatred of his best friend, but for a moment, listening to him talk to Diana, he felt something bad erupt inside of him.
If Clark was his, in writing or verbalization, there would be something he can’t have.
Selina was on and off, unavailable and avoidant. Khoa was— is… Khoa. Bruce never had a romantic or sexual relationship with Tommy Elliot, but his downfall is similar to Harvey’s, and there’s definitely a trend for people he gets close to.
It couldn’t work out. He’s an alpha, and even though it’s not wrong or even that taboo for two alphas to mate, it might be a thing Clark isn’t in for the long run. He won’t be able to biologically pursue pregnancy with him, and as one of the last of his species, it may be a dealbreaker.
A shame, familiar and foreboding, sinks into his gut.
“Superman,” J’onn greets, interrupting his conversation with Diana. Bruce’s eyes shift, watching the trio with rapt focus.
“Oh, hey J’onn,” Clark welcomes.
“I require your assistance in the monitor room.”
Bruce’s eyes zero in on J’onn, the Martian not a threat, but he can’t help but take him as one. When Clark gets up, red cape trailing behind him, it’s a herculean effort to stay still. His fists are clenched at his sides, white lenses narrowed, lips thinned, and to his own embarrassment, a rumble lowly sounds from his chest. It’s an error of his self-control, and it’s no surprise Diana calls him out on it by saying, “Batman, he’s just going to help J’onn.”
“Hnn,” he vocalizes, eyes sliding away from the door to stare impudently at the wall.
“A battle is different than an affair, Bruce.”
An affair? Caught off guard, he looks at her, growl dying off.
But her raised eyebrow, hands on her hips, gaze sharp and on him— he’s confused. “Affair?” he questions.
“Catwoman?”
Bruce feels an ache travel to his chest. “We’re not seeing each other.”
“Then your issue is with J’onn.”
“No,” Bruce responds, frowning at her observation. He’s never mad at J’onn.
“What did Clark do?” she asks, mining at the source of his problem. And Bruce knows this, but the question sets him off anyway.
“Nothing,” he snaps, biting his tongue when a snarl threatens his outward composure. Clark didn’t do anything, and that’s half the issue.
Diana looks him up and down, unimpressed, but her resolve fades quickly. “You will find what you search for, Bruce. Don’t hold yourself back out of fear.”
As a symbol of fear himself, he knows that he contrasts heavily with hope— they shouldn’t have been a thing since the beginning. Though, meeting that look in her eyes, he knows this: Clark would never purposefully afflict him.
Maybe that’s what stopping him.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred calls his attention, a hand behind his back and a tray atop the other. “I’ve got you an omelette.”
“I’m not interested right now, Alfred,” Bruce responds plainly, tapping his fingers against the desk. His eyes trace over the same lines of a report, the contents as upsetting as they are confusing. His sponge-like brain is soaked, and a brutal wringing would do him right.
He can feel the butler lean over, hear the tray being set down on top of his desk, but he can’t tear his eyes off the lines of the paper. Printed, as the computer screen hurt his head this early in the day. Another sleepless night was spent terrorizing criminals on rooftops, and now he’s in his home office. If he were in the cave, the reminder of Clark holding him against his desk would be too much.
He may not be edging a rut now, but he craves him all the same.
“Hm. Master Kent and Jones?”
Bruce’s fingers curl the edges of the paper, looking up to glare at the wall ahead of him. “Hnn.”
“I assume this… mission interrupted a play date?” Alfred asks, standing up tall. “I can mark it in the calendar if you need to reschedule.”
A play date. As if stakeouts, prison breakouts, and galactic diplomatic relations were child’s play. Superman and Batman work incredibly well together. It’s a matter of life or death, and with Clark in deep space… Who knows what tragedy could strike. The Super has to come back soon. The ball of want inside of him demands attention, and he’ll have to crash something at Wayne Enterprises so Clark will have to write about him when he comes back. Then, he’ll know he had thought of him, too.
“No,” he answers, stewing in his confusingly bad mood. “There was no play date.”
“Hm,” Alfred hums, occupying himself by taking the plate off its tray, fork and knife set parallel to the dish. “Do you need to contact them, then?”
Need. As if he needs anyone. Since he was eight years old, he had been by himself living in a lonely mansion with only Alfred by his side. He’ll be just fine. “No.”
“Your blood sugar must be low. Eat.” He’s unafraid to speak so demandingly to Bruce, who is technically his boss, and the thought irks the alpha.
He glances at the plate, the fluffy, yellow egg perfectly formed into a delicious fold. He pays him for this.
No response, only an action: his fingertips running over the paper in front of him. He doesn’t pay Clark to stick around, but he doesn’t not help him out time to time. It can’t be transactional, but…
He owns the Daily Planet.
The butler sighs, reaching over Bruce’s shoulder to take the paper, balling it up and stepping out of the way of the resulting outstretched arm.
“Alfred,” he warns, hackles rising.
“What business you three have, it will have to wait until they are back.” First and foremost, Bruce was Alfred’s priority.
“Eat,” he continues, his hand lightly squeezing at the base of the alpha’s neck. There’s a bruise there from Clark’s teeth. It’s confusing, his ease at being handled like this. “Then go to bed.“
The omelette was left untouched at his desk.
He’s sick and swaddled up in his bed and tired, but sleep isn’t a remedy. No, he feels miserable, pathetically horny, and lost at the lack of the other alpha by his side. A day had not passed and he’s sick from his absence. What’s worse is the sheets were cleaned long ago, and all he has left of Clark is a pillow he rested on a month ago. A guilty pleasure, that fluffy thing hidden beneath his bed is at every waking moment, but it’s something of his he wants, and he can’t let it be taken away from him.
Older now, yet he still can’t let go of these little things.
The ache in his ass that was so pleasantly and embarrassingly there has gone, and with it, his enjoyment. He could do something here, jerk off until he’s empty, and then he could sleep. But, he wouldn’t have what he wants, and he’s not so interested in fucking himself when he had a taste of the real thing. It doesn’t compare.
Imagining that it would be his fingers instead of his own opens the door for having, and Clark isn’t necessarily his. The bite doesn’t stick, and he hadn’t bit a claim on him since his rut.
When he gets back, he could do something about it. Like when they dragged each other to an empty hallway without explicitly saying why, and ended up inside a closet so small, he couldn’t depart from him. It would be at the watchtower if— when Superman comes back. In their private quarters, scent patches off and suits torn apart. Then, he could have his way with him, push Clark against the bed and mark him up.
But Clark, he’s noticed, is very reactive. A direct challenge of his secondary sex has him demand obedience, though not by words. It sparked a new addiction for the Bat. A hand too close to his neck, a snarl and shove, or even a stupid, silly threat will make Clark start alpha posturing, and Bruce can’t get enough of it.
As someone who trained some of those instinctual reactions down long ago, it’s amusing to see it in a man who doesn’t seem like he’d have them.
Possessively, Bruce wants those displays of primal instinct to be caused by him. Clark isn’t here, hasn’t been here, and it shouldn’t be messing him up so much.
It was an urgent matter. Bruce shouldn’t be making it about himself.
Angrily, he rolls over, blanket rumpled and hair a mess. It’s not right being alone, bed plain and lacking another body. Turning his head, he shoves his face into the Clark Kent scented pillow. It’s faded, but the faint blend of them in the fabric is calming.
He’d been fucked seven different ways in a week on this bed, and the guy wasn’t even here.
Without any thought, he kicks his legs out, stretching his thighs and glutes with a burn. Rolling over, he sits up on his knees, pushing his blanket aside.
Clark should’ve said something, should’ve sent a message or had, at the least, done anything before he left. He was gone without a word.
Grumbling, he fists the sheets, pulling them back to create a barrier at the sides of the bed. The pillow at his headboard seems too small in the empty space, the mattress too large, and the blankets too wide. Irritated, he yanks the pillow into his hold, shoving his face into the crease of the cover.
It’s otherworldly, Clark’s scent. Something indescribable, and something Bruce was privy to. A growl escapes his mouth, teeth catching on the fabric with a harsh nibble.
He had his own face shoved in this pillow once, too. When Clark held him by his neck, forcing his back into an arch, ass in the air while his hips worked magic against his thighs. It was a blur, memories lost in a haze, but Bruce enjoyed it a lot. Then, when he rolled away, back on the bed and eyes toward the ceiling, Clark laid down on it, fell asleep with it by breathing in his scent. Had he dreamt of him?
He had, sometimes, dreamt of Clark. Of being with him, walking the dogs with him, of trekking through the snow and eating rations that were shit, but their conversations were distracting enough that they didn’t pay it much mind.
Shoving the pillow down and straddling it between his legs with a tight grip, body flushed, he realizes it now:
He misses him.
His eyebrows furrow, anger crossing over dangerously to arousal.
Clark would wiggle away, find some way to gain the upper hand, and Bruce would let him— that’s how his rut went. But, as a self-respecting alpha, he can fight back. And he’ll prove it next time.
He’s not easy.
The Super could lay beneath him, hands holding his waist while his legs are stretched to straddle him. Bruce has been on top a lot, and most of his relationships were adventurous, so it’s not like it would be new. His fingers dig into the mattress, hips grinding down against the pillow, eyes shutting as the details build together.
He could threaten him, tell him he’d leave if he gets up or moves an inch, and he knows Clark well enough that he wouldn’t move at that. But, being held down beneath another alpha that can rival him, it will make him feel defiant in some sort of way. Hopefully, he’d let him. Clark would try to disregard those instincts, be kind enough to let Bruce have his way until he has to give in. Maybe he’d hold his hips tight and set the pace, take back a small bit of control until Bruce snaps at him. Though, he would bite back, and just the thought makes him leak through his boxers, thighs squeezing around the pillow as he ruts up against it.
With a shudder, he drops his upper body down against the bed, lip pulled up in a snarl. His cheek rubs against the soft fitted sheet, eyes tracing the stray blanket forming a nest at the edges of his bed— a nest.
Unknowingly, out of his own discomfort, lust, and annoyance, he’d nested at the thought of another alpha. An alpha— him— nesting.
The shame curling in his gut is smothered by the heat growing with each grind of his hips. It has him shut his eyes, thoughts running rampant, his lips parted as his breathing gets heavier.
Would Clark like this, the act of wanting so much that he’s behaving uncharacteristically? He’d preen at his approval, a nuzzle against the scent gland near his neck, a bite against the one at his wrist. It would heal fast, but he’d make more.
Another grind, and the growl in his chest blends into a soft moan, nails tearing at the sheet. Clark would have him like this, flat on his stomach and face down. Like an omega, like he’s presenting in heat and desperate for a knot. He’s not, he knows this, but the thought of it, the idea that he could be his at the most compatible point… it has him squirming, stomach pushing into the pillow, his trapped cock rubbing fervently into it.
He’ll cum like this, in his boxers that leak into the pillowcase because for some reason, he’s reactive in his need. Clark likes that— has to when it’s sometimes all they had. Bruce can play his omega. He’ll be so good at it, especially since he’s already halfway there.
Locked on his knot, cock pumping with little thrusts of his hips, the stretch of his hole to mold into a shape that makes him feel so inexplicably full…
It’s not the first time he came without a hand around his cock, knot heavy and balls pulsing. But it’s the first he’d made a nest, humped the pillow Clark slept on a month ago, and the situation at hand is embarrassingly filthy.
His stomach clenches, legs twitching and eyes slamming shut. There’s an emptiness there, body adjusted to having the suitable alpha claiming him. Shame runs through him, a low groan escaping from the depths of his chest, and it’s with an aborted thrust that he feels the shadow of tiredness blanket him.
Clark will pay for this when he’s back.
“It’s unusual for you to be in here during the day, Master Bruce,” Alfred says, watching his ward stare into the fridge. “I don’t think I have seen you cook since… well, ever.”
“It’s essential to know how to cook, Alfred. You of all people know that.”
Bruce has been… snappier. Batman managed to clean up the streets for a few days, his frustration a driving factor of his fierceness. The free time on his hands was spent thinking of Superman, and the domestic urge to take care of him is overwhelming. He’s not an omega; this proves it.
When Clark returns, he’ll be fed, and then he’ll have a pitiful— he’s not an omega, so it’s quite plain— nest to scent up and sink into. While not fond of Metropolis, Bruce will go there if Clark decides not to come to the manor.
Despite what some may believe, Bruce is accommodating.
“Yes, but by now you’re either brooding in the cave, brooding in your office, or brooding in space.” Alfred steps beside him, peering into the fridge. “You’re letting the cold out.”
Bruce shuts the fridge, crossing his arms and glaring at the magnets covering the door. There’s a family picture there, a photo taken on Alfred’s birthday three years ago. He doesn’t remember if Clark had anything sentimental on his fridge. Bruce never stayed in his kitchen except to make coffee, and even then, it was years ago.
“I have to prepare dinner, sir,” Alfred tells him.
“I’ll take care of it.”
A pause, and Bruce has to turn his head to face Alfred’s silence. His flat expression reveals nothing on that wrinkled face.
“What? I’ll make dinner,” he says, nails digging into his palms. It’s more like a hug, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Given your… proclivities, I.. Are you sure?”
Alfred’s uncertainty makes him look away, eyes on the fridge, on the photo of the boys, Alfred, and himself. Never one to be engaging in hobbies outside of crime or mystery, he can see why his butler is so unsure. Still, it annoys him.
“Yes,” he answers, eyebrows furrowing. “I know how to cook.”
“Of course.” Alfred reaches over, opening the fridge door and pointing. “This meat has been thawing. Use it. I’ll be in the doorway.”
“Take some time off, Alfred,” Bruce urges, not wanting to be watched. He picks up the cold pack of chicken breasts. “I’ll manage this.”
Bruce eyes the chicken, thumb digging into the packaging. With a huff, he sets it back inside the fridge, reaching for the carton of eggs instead. Protein is important, something Clark should have when he comes back to Earth.
“Given the way you’ve wasted your omelette, I hope you do not make another,” Alfred says with a long sigh, turning around and leaving him be.
An omelette would be excellent for Clark. Something that’s light, fulfilling, and packed with proteins and vitamins. It would be rejuvenating, a show of his appreciation, and a good meal back from eating powdered and dehydrated rations.
He sets the eggs on the counter, popping his knuckles before cataloguing ingredients in his head.
Finally, he feels a little bit useful.
Sat in front of the bat-computer, he watches the screen, heart rate picking up in anticipation. Clark is coming back soon with an ETA of three hours.
The omelette in the refrigerator is cold, but not yet spoiled. His bedroom door has been locked, and he doesn’t even want to show that mess to the alpha, but he really wants him in it. It’s a confusing mix of feelings, and he is not going to unravel them.
“I take it you’ve moved on from Miss Kyle, then?” Alfred asks from behind him.
Bruce doesn’t turn around, doesn’t move in his chair, but instead just stares blankly at the screen.
“Master Kent or Jones?” his butler continues.
Again, Bruce doesn’t respond. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, gritting his teeth lest he snap at him.
“An alien is better than a criminal, I suppose.”
“You approved of Selina,” Bruce finally replies, voice low and unamused.
“I had, sir. She was good for you.”
“Clark’s committed crimes before, too.” It comes with the job.
“Of course. A common theme amongst your—“
“Alfred.”
Alfred clears his throat, recollecting his composure. It was amusing to see his typically calm-and-collected ward be this level of obsessed over anything other than an investigation. It’s something he lacked during his teenage years— no crushes on his peers, as he was often followed by the ghost of his parents— and although a late bloomer, this is a comforting show of his development.
“He’s good, too,” Bruce says after a minute of silence, shifting in his seat.
A spread of surprise, warmth, and pity forms a pit in Alfred’s chest, the beta familiar with this display of conflict. Bruce ducks his head, and although his back is facing Alfred, the tension in his shoulders shows what his face can’t.
“My boy,” Alfred starts, eyeing the computer screen. “I worried for your safety the moment you put on that ridiculous armor. If you think I would not approve of the one man who can catch you when you fall, you are sorely mistaken.”
Expectedly, Bruce is silent, but there’s an upward tilt of his head, chair singing a creak as he turns to face him. Still sat, he looks up, meeting the gaze of his butler.
The signs of age he held now seems minuscule in his moment of need, the question on his tongue coming out quietly in a tone Alfred hadn’t heard since he became the Bat. “It doesn’t matter to you, two alpha’s bonding?”
Shaking his head, Alfred responds, “Should it, if it makes you both happy?”
“I don’t know if he’d be happy with me.” Bruce glances away, lips thinned.
“You are the world’s greatest detective, Master Bruce. You know.”
The alpha drops his head, clasping his fingers together. Defeat of some sort fills his lungs, his exhale akin to acceptance.
Knowing is different than believing.
As a detective, one thing is a constant: he needs proof.
Superman is back.
He’s handing off his tablet to J’onn while Batman and Wonder Woman are side-by-side a few feet away.
He’s smiling, a tired glint in his eyes as he shrugs at whatever the Martian says. It’s entirely him to be so responsive and humble. The Super definitely tossed a few space boulders triple the weight of a car in an act of heroism; yet, he stands still, claiming calmness instead of bathing in his victory.
His nose crinkles with the soft curvature of his lips, curls disarray when he turns his head, meeting Bruce’s watchful gaze.
Clark is back.
“Hey, Batman,” he greets, stepping away from the pair. “Di.”
“Clark,” Diana responds warmly, the ends of her lips tilting upward. “It’s been a long week without you here. We’re glad you’re back.”
“Yeah?” Clark tilts his head, crossing his arms.
“Some more than others.” She puts a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, drawing his attention to her with a shake. She’s looking at Clark, watching as his eyes drop to their point of contact, and now Bruce catches the dilation of his pupils, the shift of his weight onto one blue-booted foot.
It’s an impatience he recognizes, having been in a similar position himself lately.
Diana drops her hand, stepping aside. “You two have to a lot to catch up on.”
“Yeah,” Clark agrees, mumbling a bye when she turns to leave.
They’re in a public (private— it’s the watchtower) area, but it doesn’t stop Clark from getting into his personal space, chests touching, his hands coming up to hold his biceps. Always ungloved, his bare thumbs rub softly over the kevlar of his armor. Automatically, Bruce’s hands drop to his waist, leather crinkling at how tightly he holds onto him.
They could have hugged. This’ll do, though.
“Hi,” Clark says quietly, looking past white lenses.
“Hnn,” Bruce grunts, tilting his head slightly to the side without thinking. His heart is pounding, sight set on the alpha he’d been craving.
Clark’s eyes drift, catching on his covered neck, and he leans in as if he could get a whiff of his scent. He’s not wearing patches, so he might just be able to. “Your place or mine?”
Desperately wanting a piece of him in his space, Bruce replies, “Mine.”
Then, a split second of thinking of the locked door and messy bed, the cum-covered pillow knocked onto the floor, he corrects, “Yours?”
Clark’s hands slither down to his wrists, over his gauntlets. Almost knowingly—though he doesn’t know, he’s just that perceptive of the Bat— he asks, “Anything happen while I was gone?”
Shaking his head, Bruce bites his tongue, eyes narrowing. “Here,” he decides, not letting him change the subject.
Their quarters are private. Often left unused, there’s not going to be a potent scent of either of them in their space, but it presents an opportunity to tangle them together, scents blended while limbs interlock.
Despite the air filters, they can make it last.
“Well, mine or yours?” Clark asks again, hands at his wrists now on his hands, gently prying them off the waist of his suit. It’s so similar to before they entered the small closet a week ago, press badge ripped off and tape recorder tossed in the corner, that he growls lowly, eyes flashing.
“Mine.”
Clark belongs there in his room, in his clothes, underneath his blanket and beside him in bed.
Bruce turns, dislodging his grip as he leads them to his private quarters.
The click of the door as it slides shut is nothing new in the watchtower, but for Bruce, it’s precisely the moment his cock stirs— a definitive signal to pounce.
He shoves Clark back by his shoulder, hand digging into hard muscle, his touch hard enough to bruise if he were human. His leather-clad palms seek home on his smooth cheeks, cowled nose knocking against his at the rough motion of leaning in, chapped lips meeting the soft, plump pink of Clark’s.
Without waiting, the other alpha huffs into his mouth, teeth knocking painfully against the Bat’s. He wraps an arm around him, warm and solid, reacting with fervor up until they depart, a line of spit connecting them as their warm breaths tangle into one exhale.
Bruce nudges them back in a haste, shoving the other alpha down onto the small bed until he’s on his back. Quickly, he straddles him, leaning down with his hands planted at the sides of the Super’s head. It’s starting to heat up, the poor insulation of his suit doing him no favors. His knees dig into the red cape, his own black one blanketing them from the room.
Clark plays along, of course, the softness of his gaze contrasting with the predatory tilt of his lips. As always, Bruce knows him, and he will let him have this moment until he bites back, sharp teeth attacking him in an act that’s more of a kiss than a fight.
“You look better from here,” Bruce says, finding his tongue. “Big, dumb alpha with only enough brainpower to use his knot as a—“
He’s cut off by a hand gripping the back of his neck, forehead colliding with Clark’s. It would hurt if not for the cowl’s protective padding.
Good foresight, Bruce thinks giddily. Impressive how Clark took control of it.
“I’ll use it, all right,” Clark retorts, pulling Bruce back as he sits them up. He presses a chaste kiss to his covered nose, hands moving to grip his shoulders.
The heated look in Clark’s eyes and a gentle push down directs Bruce to the floor, kneepads a blessing to his joints. He shifts, adjusting himself when something catches his eye.
White lenses divert to see scuff marks on blue boots. It’s a reminder of his absence, the ache he left him without an explanation—
It’s in the past now.
He blinks harshly, ignoring the reminder, and as a rich, spoiled boy at heart, he can’t help but comment, “You should polish those.”
The Super regards him with furrowed eyebrows, gaze dropping to his boots, and with a huff of laughter through his nose, he says, “Don’t give me any ideas.”
Clark’s affected, his voice harboring a small tremble in a testament of his self-control.
“You don’t seem to have a lot of them.” Bruce licks his lips, mouth starting to water.
Sprouting in his head is a vision: hips working hurriedly against his clothed shin, the overwhelming need to cum but the shame of doing it in such a degrading position… He could never imagine getting off on another person’s leg, but he can’t quite seem to mind if it was Clark’s.
His boot is visibly dirty, though, and Bruce Wayne does have class.
Looking up grants him a better sight: the alpha’s mouth pressed tight, the crease of his brows, the pink dusting his cheeks. He can try hold back his smile, but the crinkle of his eyes betrays him.
Angry, he can play, but Clark was never good at staying mad at him— acting or not.
The calculating gleam the other alpha has is a warning, one of which Bruce will happily disregard. “What, can’t think of anything to say? That’s disappointing for a reporter.”
“I’d let you keep talking to see what else that smart, beautiful head of yours could come up with.” A tug at the cowls ears pushes him forward, chin colliding with the blue fabric of his crotch. It’s a shock, the soft scrape of it against his freshly shaved chin. “But I think how you look when you’re choking for it makes a better impression of you.”
Inhaling grants him nothing. The fabric stretched across the tent in his suit is a taunt, and without further guidance, he sticks his spit-coated tongue out, feeling the tasteless Kryptonian threads.
It’s a dirty trick, how he tilts his head back, the tip of his tongue running over his covered crotch. Although the cowl obscures his eyes, Clark peers down at him anyway, making contact through white lenses. It’s no surprise his grip tightens on his ears, pulling him back so he can take off the suit.
It’s almost unfair how he can easily get it off within a second, and Bruce is envious. Annoyed, too, at the cold chill his speed creates.
But exposing that big knot, the slightly curved length and leaky, ruddy tip… he can’t be bothered anymore. His gloved hands rest on Clark’s bare thighs while he scoots forward, all so those immovable knees can box him in place. Almost immediately, Clark’s lower body squeezes his, warm skin digging into kevlar, and the weight makes Bruce hiss through his teeth, head darting forward to nip the soft skin inside of his thighs. It’s sharp, his scent protruding from here, and it’s dizzying how tame his heartache feels.
He mouths his balls, wetting them with his tongue, and breathing in his scent that washes over him like a hit of ecstasy. Hardened, his cock rests on his face, laying on the cowl. He’s here in front of him, on him, and with a spike of leftover irritation, he catches the soft skin between his teeth, inhaling the velvet skin at the base.
“Oh—“ Clark pulls him back by his ears, mouth parted at the strange sensation. “Rao, you are feral.”
To prove his point, Bruce growls lowly, snarling as he looks up at him. Being dragged around by his cowl was something he’d thought of before, but the fact it’s happening somehow pisses him off. Aggression is an instinct he won’t suppress with the other alpha.
Clark removes one hand from his head to hold his cock, jerking it twice right in front of Bruce just to draw his attention. He thumbs the head, breath stuttering in his chest before he directs it to Bruce’s cheek, tapping it against both sides to leave behind a smear, and sliding it across his lips and its with a gleeful flip in his gut that Bruce realizes he’s scent marking him.
“My legs are a good enough cage for you,” Clark shares quietly, pushing his tip between the closed space of Bruce’s mouth. He’d have to ask for him to open up— he is not easy. “I’d keep you right here with your favorite toy right in front of you.”
Just as a little treat for himself— not because he wants Clark to handle him— he swipes his tongue across the head, the slit salty and mildly sweet. He savors it, licking his lips. A preview, because they both want it.
“You always open up so well for me,” Clark tells him before guiding his head forward.
Easily, without a second thought, Bruce parts his lips, welcoming the thick cock in his mouth with nothing else but a wet tongue. Aside from the taste of skin, there’s a faint otherworldly undertone, something he could choke himself on out of obsession.
Clark says something, words lost on Bruce’s ears. Shutting his eyes, he ventures down further, swallowing around the tip at the entrance of his throat, and tonguing over veins that thump steadily with his heart. Sweetly, he hollows his cheeks, desperate for him to make another mark in him.
But the other guides him back, tightening his grip around both ears just to impale him again with a hard push.
Unexpectedly, he moans around the intrusion in his mouth, body shuddering at the treatment. Hard in the confines of his suit, he’s trapped, held in place, and it’s maddeningly— ragingly arousing. Clark said it before: he’s made to take him. Here, fingers digging into the others thighs as he fucks into his mouth, he can’t disagree.
Drool inches down his length, spit frothing from his sealed lips to his sack. It’s messy, but far from disgusting when he manages to crack his eyes open, meeting Clark’s heavy gaze despite the blurriness of his vision.
“Could gag you on me, knot you right now like this.” Clark’s voice is barely above a whisper, grip tight where he controls Bruce’s head. “Hide that deep little voice from everyone but me.”
He doesn’t have a gag reflex, but he leads himself further down anyway to at least try. The deflated, hard skin of his knot kisses his lips.
“I can hear you anyway, you know. Every whimper, groan, and grunt you try to hide. I hear you every time.”
It’s filthy, the way he’s pulled off Clark with a pop. His chin is drenched, mouth a pooled, tasteful mess. Quickly, despite being taken off his cock, he wraps his covered hands around him, jerking him off in front of his face. It’s gorgeous, his hard length in his hands. It’s beautiful, and all his to play with.
“I can hear the blood pumping in your body, how hard you get for me, because of me,” Clark continues, voice shaky in his want. “Everything I do, go through, it’s all worth it.”
Bruce leans forward to take him into his mouth again, but Clark holds him back, shaking Bruce’s head by the bat ears. It’s annoying, being handled like this, but at the same time, it’s invigorating.
“Wouldn’t trade anything to not have you here with me, on your knees or back, or on your stomach. It’s addicting, how you make me feel.”
The Bat looks up, squeezing the base of his cock when he asks with a rough, broken voice, “Is it?”
The Super nods, sliding his hands down Bruce’s head to his neck. “I thought of you everyday while I was out there. Come here.”
He uses one hand to push himself up, armored knees digging into the mattress as he sits on Clark’s unclothed, warm thighs. His other hand still remains wrapped around his cock, and as he settles, he slides his hand up, squeezing around the head to wrangle a moan out of Clark.
“I thought of you too,” he replies, clearing his throat and watching the minuscule twitches of Clark’s face, the pleasure and awe, and the aggressive lust he can’t lock away. “Of us in my bed, outside in the snow, in the kitchen.”
It’s not a lie, but the context isn’t giving him the truth. Sex is good, but so is talking, cuddling, eating, and sleeping together to wake up to a good morning kiss. But Clark gave him this, so he’ll take it.
All of it.
Clark’s hands venture to his yellow belt, opening one of the pockets with a click to grab a small pack of lube. It’s proven reliable in many moments, but these ones of pure want grew to be his favorite.
“Take off your cowl, I wanna see you.” He carelessly tosses the packet aside to take off the other’s black cape, hands landing on his waist after when it drops to the floor.
“Ask nicely,” Bruce tells him, rolling his hips while tilting his head down. It’s mildly pleasuring, the feel of his trapped cock receiving an ounce of pressure.
Having to look up, Clark knocks their foreheads together, his eyes darting from his dirtied mouth to his white lenses. “Please?” he asks lowly, breath hot against the exposed lower half of his face.
Bruce can feel the heat inside of him spread, almost burning him up from the inside out. For a moment, his mind blanks. It’s gratifying how weightless he feels in his lap, and with a smile surfacing, he tilts his head so he can lock their lips together, the spit staining his own rubbing off onto him, and he wonders if Clark can taste himself on his skin.
“Want you to fuck me,” he says into his mouth, words a heated whisper. “Want your scent in me, around me, on me.”
A small, quiet moan escapes from the Super, and it spurs Bruce into action. He removes his hands from Clark, clicking the latch of his crotch-plate open and tossing aside his belt, the protective cup, and armor. He remains partially clothed, upper half still on, and armor below the thighs still intact. But it’s quick how his scent pollutes the air, and it’s his slick that causes it. Although it’s nothing new, it makes him embarrassed in front of the other alpha, a snarl on his face when Clark taps his own cock against the wet tent of his boxers.
“No under-suit?” Clark asks, eyeing the bare skin where his boxers ride up. The kindness in his tone borders on mocking. It’s a sweet condescension, something that always riles Bruce up.
“Old suit. Doesn’t need it,” Bruce explains, uncontrollably rocking his hips in a small motion. Arousal swirls in his gut, eyes drawn to the last remaining piece on Clark: scent patches. “Only one of us is fully nude. Doesn’t make me the whore.”
With a speed unseen, Clark grabs his cock through his boxers, grinding his heel down, and Bruce shudders, covered fingers digging into his bare shoulders. The other alpha’s hand searches, digging into cloth until it chafes against his perineum. Without warning, his legs tense and jerk, eyes slamming shut at the overwhelming sensation slithering up his spine. His hand must be soaked with his pre-cum. A faucet he is, but soft he is not.
“Huh. Well you sure moan like one. If I didn’t know you like I do, I’d think you’re a service omega.”
Fury isn’t quite what he feels, but contested is a good word to start with.
Threatening for its volume, Bruce’s growl reaches each corner of the room. He pushes Clark down, wrapping an arm around his back before brutally biting into the scent patch on his shoulder. It’s resistant to tearing, but he tries anyway, teeth digging into hard threading, and he tastes blood on his tongue. Metallic, consuming, and marked as a victorious battle in a foolish war. He’s primal, a pure-blooded alpha— the opposite of an omega.
He can hear the resulting rough inhale, feel it against his armored chest, and when he’s pulled off his neck, he feels caught in the sights of a predator.
Clark’s watching him, lips pulled back in a snarl, eyes flashing dangerously. He’s holding him by his nape, cowl not stopping him, and Bruce swears it cracks.
Growing up, Bruce was taught not to poke the bear; at least, not before you know its weakness. Kryptonite is too easy, too cruel, and too boring.
Bruce wants to be fucked, to be held and knotted up, to fall asleep and wake up next to him in the morning. Today won’t feel like yesterday— he’ll still dream about him. It’ll feel like an encapsulation of forever.
Clark, he knows, wants some variation of that.
In a show of submission, he bares his neck, averting his gaze even though it doesn’t show through his lenses. He’ll get it anyway, somehow sense it in their proximity. Or, maybe he’s using his x-ray vision, making himself privy to the human behind Batman. As dressed up as he is, it’s striking to feel so naked.
He’s manhandled, the air whipping around his body before his back meets Clark’s chest. His black boots are an arm’s length away from the low footboard, Clark’s feet brushing against them. It’s unexpected, but it proves the other alpha as capable and competent so much so that Bruce feels like he’s bursting at the seams. A suitable, perfect mate right behind him, holding him, and wanting him too.
Wrapped around his front is an arm to hold him in place. He tests it, pushing himself forward, and butterflies erupt in his stomach at the solidity of his confinement. He reaches up, nimble fingers working at the latches of his cowl, throwing it aside awkwardly when the restraint blocks fluidity in his movements. A rip, and his boxers are torn open, the cool air nipping at slicked, scented skin.
“Finally,” Clark growls, maneuvering his hand around to tear off his scent patches.
The first inhale through his nose, the sparks felt in his head— it’s euphoric. A drug no other could replicate, the effects indescribable and inhibiting. He’s gone limp, he realizes, head foggy with elation.
Cold lube is spread onto his twitching rim, legs held open by Clark’s and distantly, he thinks the Super lost his composure, speed his only ally.
The burn of the first finger prodding inside of him is nonexistent, hole lax for the other to take. He can hear himself panting, chin dropping onto the arm over his chest, and the sweat beading down his forehead is not dissimilar to static on his skin.
“So easy when you give in,” Clark says into his ear, circling his finger around inside him. “Smell’s sweeter when you do. Makes me wanna tear you apart to build you back together into mine.”
His hips jerk up, tightening around his finger, and another pushes inside at his resistance. Instinctively, he’s growling, the rumble in his chest a warning. Hands come up to hold the arm around him, fingers sweating beneath gauntlets.
“Don’t act like that,” Clark scolds, a touch of condescension blending into his voice. “I like you all loose and lax for me. You wanna feel good, don’t you?”
He’s nodding before he can process his words, hair tickling Clark’s cheek. Uncontrollably, he’s pushing down, seeking more of those thick fingers in him, pushing and prodding.
“Gonna get you ready for my knot. Not gonna let you leave me, not when I’ve been missing you for a week straight.”
An aching need in his chest has him turn his head, leaning it back on his shoulder so his breath is hot on Clark’s chin. His curls are still messy, and he wonders if he’d been running his hand through his hair during his mission, stress building up with no proper release. Had he thought of him, his knot heavy and locked when he eventually came? Had he even touched himself, or had he been deprived until now, when he has got the real thing in his arms?
“You missed me?” Bruce asks, throat still scratchy and voice thready.
The fingers in him part, gaping his hole with a burn, and it’s so disorienting that he gasps, back arching and chest pushing into the arm holding him close.
“It’s routine, waking up with you before work,” Clark tells him, peering down at his flushed face. “Doesn’t feel right without you next to me anymore.”
His heart skips a beat, cock twitching and eyes burning. “It doesn’t,” he agrees, voice shaking when he confesses, “I need you.”
Clark’s bare arm brushes against his chest plate, hand cupping his cheek and he’s free now. He could bolt, could bend over on the bed and demand, or he could stay here where he wants to be, in the bubble of the other alpha’s space. The fingers in him search, and at the press down against that spongey, pleasurable spot in him, he shoves his face into his neck, breathing in his scent as his stomach rolls in waves of lust.
Burrowed here in his cocoon, he’s meant to stay, the thought solidified by the press of lips against his head.
His cock is leaking against the plating of his abdomen. It’s a mess he’ll clean up later by himself, when he’s too embarrassed to have someone in the room because there’s proof of his desire. An omega can get knotted, be the upmost content with it and feel bred and claimed. An alpha can’t, and will never be bred, but Bruce wants to try. He can play Clark’s omega despite the useless knot on him.
“Need to be in you right now,” Clark tells him hurriedly, words spoken against his cheek. He nods in response, shifting around against him to calm himself, to ease the overwhelming pressure encasing him. The removal of fingers is rude, ruddy cock left untouched and straining.
He can feel the press of Clark’s hips against his lower back, the slow grind of his cock against the suit. He lifts the Bat up by the backs of his thighs, adjusting him so he can sit directly on top his lap, the Super’s back against the headboard. His painfully hard cock rests between his legs, wetting his own sack with the other alpha’s pre-cum.
Without thinking, he tries to close his legs, to give him more skin to mark his scent, but Clark holds them open while rumbling lowly in his ear. He looks down, watches how his length bobs against his own abdomen messily. It’s a sight, a delectable sight that makes him mutter a plea, heartbeat rapid enough to drown his voice.
Clark reaches around, grabbing ahold of his own cock, and squeezes his deflated knot before tapping the head against Bruce’s wet rim. It’s jostling when he thrusts upward, teasing his entrance, and when Bruce opens his mouth to spur him on, he slips inside, stretching him open with the heat of his aching desire.
His gauntlet-covered fingers dig into the blanket beneath them, a bare arm wrapping around his front once more to hold him in place, his back to his chest when he squirms, thighs squeezing together and causing his hole to tighten around the other. Clark’s other hand holds his waist tightly, rendering him immobile.
A strangled moan in his ear coupled with an aborted thrust has him sob, the intrusion lacking pain but harboring a hit strong enough to crumble his composure. The burn in his eyes flows over, tears coating his cheeks, and the haze in his head turns into veneration. The past falls apart, nonexistent in this place of desire, and Clark was right: everything he does, what he’s been through— it’s all worth it.
He feels owned while held, being breached with what should make him bare his teeth and fight back. But those hands of his are no threat, and when they meet, his touch isn’t anything provoking or even bullying. It’s a claim, a promise, and a reassurance all at once.
Bruised markings are a trophy, and he wants more.
Here he is, bat-suit partially on, yet falling apart as the very thing he’d been born as. The veins and solid hardness of his cock carve out a mold inside of him, rewiring his brain to want. He can feel a stray palm petting his stomach, a click of a latch exposing his skin, and the air is cool against his sweaty, matted hair, granting him a chill.
“Should’ve taken this all off.” Clark’s hips move in a slow pace, opening him up and hissing at how tight he is. Bruce would spread his thighs back open if they weren’t trembling, the feeling inside of him making him breathless with each sheath. “Gonna be thinking of this— you— next time we’re on a stakeout.”
They’ve spent more time bonding on the job rather than staying silent, something that used to be their normal a couple years back. Bruce thinks he’d look at Clark, suit or not, and want to hold him in his mouth, bite down until he feels pushback, and only then will he back off and bare his neck for him to bite. He’d like that, a bonding bite to tether them together.
“Bite me?” Bruce suggests with a gasp, a burning shame running through him at his openness. Clark roughly thrusts upward, spearing him open on the growing size of his knot, and it has him lewdly moan, head lolling on the bare shoulder behind him.
A ball of pleasure in his gut builds up with each push inward, each pull out, and each brush against his twitchy walls. Clark quickens his pace, eyes half-lidded and watching as the other alpha’s cock bobs uselessly against his thigh. Dropping his hand from his waist, he grabs the back of his leg, spreading him open for a clearer sight. A clench around him, and Clark’s tilting his head back to bite down on Bruce’s bare neck, just below his nape and just above the suit, marking him on the outside with what little space he’s given.
The Gothamite hisses, feeling branded. He’s rendered limp in his lap, and he’d squirm if he could, Clark knows. A slippery minx.
It’s not that loud, the press of skin with each pounding thrust, but it’s like a drum playing alongside his heartbeat. The slick slide in, the slick pull out— it’s becoming routine.
Clark adjusts his legs, bending his knees to keep Bruce’s spread wide. Bypassing his aching, leaking, and abandoned cock, his hand travels up his stomach, arm stretching to tear off the final upper-half piece of his armor with disregard. The raw show of strength has Bruce arch his back, trying to fuck himself on him despite the restraint of Clark’s hold and his own uncoordinated, loose limbs. A control he doesn’t have, and he doesn’t want it back— not with him.
A mean flick of his dusky nipple curls his gut into knots, making him flinch. He can hear Clark shushing him, slowing down his thrusts, and he grunts confusedly.
That hand is on his face, fingers coated in his tears and dried spit.
“You okay?” Clark asks, licking over blood, bite deep and hopefully one to scar. He feels reborn with the impermanent bond brewing within him.
It would’ve been better on his shoulder if it were not covered by armor. It’s meant to protect him, but now it feels more like a hindrance. Clark is safe; he doesn’t need the Bat when he’s with him.
“Yeah,” Bruce replies with a choked-off sob, the sound contrasting with the tremble of his body and the small rocking motions of his hips. It hurts, how hard he is, and he reaches a hand down, the glide of his gauntlet over his wet length making him shiver.
“Wait, wait,” Clark interrupts, cock twitching inside of him. It’s a tease, a taunt, and it’s mean when he removes his hand from his face to grab the one over his cock, redirecting it into his own hand.
The loss of contact stings, and he chokes out another sob, feeling crazed with unattended arousal.
“Are you okay?” he asks again, squeezing his hand.
Bruce nods, chest rapid in its continuous rise and fall.
“Too much?” he pries, seeking the source of his problem.
Another nod, this time accompanied by a response of, “In a good way— a very good way.”
“You’re okay?” He angles his hips just slightly, and Bruce is seeing stars, stomach clenching.
“Yes! Just get on with it, Clark, I swear—“
A loud, humiliating, and pornographic noise erupts from his mouth as Clark picks up momentum, driving him toward the edge of pleasure. He tries to let go of his hand, to hold his cock and stroke himself off, but Clark’s grip is immovable, and his other hand is tightly held to the arm wrapped around him.
“Please, please, please,” he mutters rapidly, eyes surely red with tears, and throat sure to be sore later. “Please, please, Clark, please.”
He can feel the vibration of Clark’s chest in his back when the alpha growls, knot locking in him, and the stretch is wide and so familiar, it feels like home.
“Look so pretty crying on my cock— need you to cum, all wet and hard for it. Come on, Bruce,” Clark nearly begs, kissing at the bitten skin on his neck.
“Touch me, please,” Bruce continues, bearing down on the weight inside of him. “Please, please…”
It’s odd, the embrace he’d been wrapped in disappearing. But when those strong hands hold onto his hips to lift him the slightest bit up, nerves alight with the stretch of a knot gaping his hole, he doesn’t feel loss. Without warning, he’s dropped down onto his cock, the continued stretch somehow reaching into his lungs and choking him. Untouched, he spills over, balls drawn up, knot swelling and cock pulsating against his will.
For a moment, the room drifts away, mind blank and body weightless. But then, in the split of a second, static buzzes under his skin.
“God,” Bruce croaks, unable to keep quiet. “God, Clark.”
His hands are shaking as he takes off his gauntlets. Although sweaty and weak, they find Clark’s with a squeeze.
“So gorgeous when you’re coming apart like that,” the alpha says against his neck, inhaling his scent. His breath humidly mixes in with his sweat. “So beautiful, B. I love you.”
The beat of his heart doesn’t pick up, the endorphins already pleasantly calming him down. But the declaration said so simply and easily has him sluggishly grin, salty tears seeping into his lips.
“I love you too,” he responds, turning his head to breathe him in.
As always, his scent is otherworldly, but the blend of his own mingling within it is proof: Clark is happy with him.
Later, he’ll give him his omelette, welcome him home into his bed and the embarrassingly empty nest. For now, he’ll sit on his cock, keep his knot warm and play as his lover for a little while longer.
Maybe, he hopes, for forever.